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Locker room

I took Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat to the community pool in my hometown (where we're staying for two weeks). The pool is new since I lived here, but it's connected to my old high school.

After swimming and splashing around for a while, we went in the locker room to change.

I didn't really expect to see anything familiar. The whole structure, I thought, was original.

I was startled to recognize these:

So many unhappy teenage hours spent here. (Back then, I wouldn't have been surprised to find fire or poisonous gas shooting out of these spouts).

The same showers we used for PE. The same basic locker room footprint and the dreaded door to my PE teacher's office. The office where her favorites would congregate after class.

Needless to say, I was not a favorite. I hated PE. I wrung my hands over it. I worried about my lack of coordination. I hated getting slapped in the gut with a rubber ball thrown hard by a particular brutish girl. I detested that my teacher couldn't do most of the ridiculous physical tasks she set us to.

I hated it and I vowed that if a PE teacher ever concocted cruel games or forced my children to twist their bodies into shapes (while the entire ninth grade watched) that humiliated them, I would step in.

I'm going to keep my word.

A desirous Green

The first part of this story, Greener Grass, can be found in my right sidebar, under I Like To Write.

*****

The hallway light clicked off and Dave glanced up from his computer.

Megan appeared in the doorway of the den. "I think they're all asleep," she said. "Eli took some extra time. He was worried about a Harvester?"

The movie Cars. He had to remember to hide that damn DVD. "Thanks, Megan," he said. "I really appreciate your staying extra hours today. This pump station..." he let his voice trail. A girl Megan's age didn't want to hear about his boring work. Hell, he couldn't even get his own wife interested in most of it. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head.

"It's okay," she said. "I like your kids. They're sweet."

"No, I mean, I'm sorry about starting in on my job. Like you care, right?" he chuckled.

The sun was low in the sky now, but still bright enough that he hadn't had to turn on lights. An orange glow burned through the den's two west-facing windows (an architectural flaw, in his opinion--why not put one window on the north wall to catch some of the midday rays?).

Megan said, quietly, "I care."

With those two words, Dave's entire blood supply sunk to his groin and he felt dizzy. He gripped the edge of his desk. I care. Hadn't that been all he'd ever wanted to hear from Tamara? That she cared? And here he was, getting it from this girl. This girl with amazing breasts and a super flat stomach and a perfect ass. A girl so springy and young he could've bounced flower petals off her.

He pressed his palms to his cheeks, rough from not having shaved in two days, and managed to say, "Your money's on the kitchen counter."

"Thanks, Mr. Marks," she said and turned.

Mr. Marks. Jesus.

Her formal salutation allowed him to focus his eyes again, to let go of the desk, his brain to stabilize.

He still thought he should go out there, draw out the conversation, let the house darken around them as they talked, offer her a beer. Illegal. Illegal. All of what he was thinking was illegal. And wrong. But, fuck, he wanted to do it. He wanted her company a little longer.

He heard a zipper, the chime of her cell phone.

Standing, he went into the hallway, then pivoted and strode back to his desk. Close the door, he told himself. Close the mother-fucking door and sit down at your screen. Your boring, asshole of a screen, and get back to the pump station. Answer some emails. Initiate a game of Mafia Wars if you have to. Just, stay where you are.

Something dropped in the kitchen, clattering to the floor and scuttling across aging ash boards.

That was all Dave needed. He burst from the den and found Megan still in the kitchen, of course, on her hands and knees, peering under the refrigerator.

"I just knocked my iPod under there," she said.

He got down and looked too. He could smell her shampoo again. He cleared his throat hard, willing himself to stay focused.

"Jeez," he said, noting how disgusting and dusty it was under there, feeling faintly embarrassed and annoyed at Tamara. "I don't see it anywhere." He grabbed the broom and reached it along the sides of the hulking fridge. "We're gonna have to move it out," he said.

"Oh," Megan said. "It's okay. I can get it next time I come over." She leaned against the counter, looking a little stricken.

Dave flung out the word, "No!" Then, immediately, followed with, "No worries. It's on these felt pads that make it easy to pull away from the wall."

After a few minutes of tugging and cursing, the felt pads not working as well as the package claimed they would, he had the refrigerator yanked back and a pink iPod in his hand. He blew lint from its screen and said, "I hope it still works."

"It will," Megan said, jamming it into her bag. "It's been through worse."

"Don't you want to...test it or something?" Dave asked.

"Nah, it's fine."

Straightening, he said, "What kinds of songs are you kids listening to these days?" He sounded like he was seventy-two. You kids? Christ.

She shrugged, lowered her eyes, then looked at a Matisse print on the wall. It was Tamara's. Something left over from a house she'd lived in in college. "My favorite playlist right now is, like, Moby and Chemical Brothers and Cibo Matto. But they're totally old school."

Dave laughed and said, "No, old school is Van Halen and ZZ Top. Stuff I used to listen to."

"You don't anymore?"

He grabbed a Sprite out of the cockeyed refrigerator and offered her one which, to his surprise, she accepted. "No, thankfully. On my way to work, it's Talk, mostly. Talk radio. Which is sad. God, you know, I used to be so into music." It was true. Maybe he hadn't had the best taste in the world, but he loved what he loved and he didn't know how that passion had drifted away.

She sat down on a stool, her bag still slung over her shoulder, her body hunched slightly inward. She slurped from her can and quietly belched. She probably thought she was doing a good deed, keeping the lonely, old dude company.

"You don't have to stay," he said. "You can take your Sprite on the road. I mean, you're welcome to stay as long as you want. But don't feel like it's a requirement for employment."

"You want to hear a song?" she asked, retrieving her iPod again and plugging massive black headphones into its jack.

He took them and listened, liking the thumping beat, knowing it was nothing he'd choose on his own, but appreciating her taste nonetheless. "Wow," he said.

"Good, huh? It makes me feel like I can get about a million things done."

It made Dave want to smoke a joint and have sex, but he wouldn't,  of course, say this. As he handed her iPod back, his hand grazed her denim-clad thigh. It was warm and taut and he didn't think he'd meant to do it, but her leg felt outrageously good under the pads of his fingers.

He concentrated on his pop. What spewed from his mouth next both startled him and filled him with a bizarre, misplaced pride. "Do you have a boyfriend, Megan?"

"Uh uh," she said. "For a while I did, but..."

"Didn't work out?"

"No, he...I'm pretty sure he was gay."

Dave guffawed and, in the midst of his laughter, caught the nape of Megan's neck and turned her head so she was forced to look him in the face. "Don't ever settle," he said. "For gay, or anything else. Anything that doesn't feel 100% right and nurturing and sexy and wonderful."

Her brown eyes warmed (liked, he thought, just baked chocolate brownies). She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and in an instant, Dave was nudging those lips with his own, trying to tease her into relaxing. She made a small mewling sound in the back of her throat and this spurred him. He was on his knees, kissing her gently at first and then, as she relented, going in farther, scratching her face all to shit with his whiskers, he was sure. And he was sorry. But not very.

He tried to think of the rainbows and unicorns and prom pictures that probably decorated her room, the stuffed bunny she maybe slept with, the way she hugged her mom goodnight before bed, but he couldn't conjure the teenage fantasy again. She kissed like someone twice her age and Dave was sucked in. Sucked like a flailing cricket down a drainpipe.

DirtGrassSizzle

We flew out to Michigan on Tuesday--Fruit Bat, Kitty Cat and I. We cruised uneventfully over cumulus formations that rose up into the sky like small, cloud cities. 

It was the easiest trip I've taken with them yet, letting me believe we can be a real traveling family someday, that I won't have to suffer the clench in my gut each time a jaunt approaches.

I like being here, in the place where I grew up. Especially in summer when the breezes are warm and the bay sparkles and the grass is aggressively green.

Our awayness, too, allows J. to work around the clock rather than knocking off after 12 to 14 hours of briefs and conference calls and document review. (Not that I'm allowing myself to resent his work. Too Much. On a good day.)

I've watched bees trying to pollinate my mom's floral deck cushions. I've run my fingers through a pile of deer fur left along a trail behind my parents' house. I've listened intently to the hollow, flutey coo of mourning doves and the constant chirp of crickets.

I've watched the kids frolic in the garden with their grandpa, getting horrifyingly, wonderfully filthy.

I've enjoyed our first few days and am looking forward to another week and a half, hoping for some fireflies and beach time and sizzling, orange sparklers.

MS seeks AGT

Sexy, quiet, genuine, quirky, occasionally funny and sometimes meandering manuscript seeks agent with strong convictions who is not afraid to take risks.

Or... supportive publisher that appreciates creative turns of phrase and satisfying story line for long term relationship.

Deal breakers are over-interest in appealing to mass market and no sense of adventure.

Inquire within.

An untitled post

The tip of my grandpa's finger was gone. He lost it, I think, in a lawn mower. A tall, handsome, imposing man, he was missing other things too. The ability to convey his emotions, for one. He was the most stoic, least communicative guy I've ever known.

Though I loved him, I don't know how my grandma stood him.

My dad, thankfully, has lived down his father's legacy. And I think he would not like my telling you this, but he, my dad, becomes more effusive with each passing year. He leaves absolutely no room for doubt that he loves my sister and I, loves and values time with our kids too.

He's one of those people everyone likes. Fair. Kind. Confident. Funny. Humble.

And, I get to be his oldest daughter. Me.

I marvel at my good luck.

Sentimental

I'm not a person who generally mourns her children passing from one stage to the next. I welcome new phases and ages.

Tomorrow is Fruit Bat's last day of Kindergarten. On his first day, back in September, I did find myself the slightest bit weepy. But I didn't expect much emotion to come at the end.

Then, tonight, I pulled these from his backpack. 

The box of crayons he's used (and used and used) all year. 

And my throat closed in on itself.

Esther

The first fiction piece I ever had published was a short-short. A sliver of a story that ran in Phoebe. Since then, I've written mostly regular short stories (more than 500 words) and, you know, novel-length manuscripts that remain destitute and homeless.

Lately, though, I've been rediscovering the beauty of the short-short.

Here's one I wrote today:

Esther had long, red hair that was thick and shiny. She had a straight, freckled nose and milky skin and dark brown eyes as big as walnuts. She had a small waist and hips that flared just enough, but not too much, under her cut-offs. 

Her hands, however, were asymmetrical. She had only one thumb.

The other had been lost to the engine of her green pick-up truck eight years before. It was a stupid mistake–involving a flywheel–she should've known better than to make.

Rick stared at her right hand that lay on the seat between them. "God almighty," he said. "That hurt?"

"What?"

"That...missing thumb? Do you get them phantom pains you sometimes hear about?"

"Nah," she said, shifting into third gear, liking the clouds of dust she could see in her rearview mirror. "Not after the first few months."

Rick propped his elbow in the open window. His jeans were filthy from working calves all day, cutting off their balls, at a ranch a few miles back.

He asked, "Can you...I bet you can't give a decent hand job with no thumb."

She smacked his chest and yelled, "That's what the other hand is for, you retard. Do you want a ride or not? Because if you do, you best shut the heck up."

This was her first time meeting Rick and she was driving him between the cattle ranch and her dad's dairy farm as a favor. But she would've been happy to kick him into the rye fields, watching him throw his hat to the ground and seeing his lips form around long curses.

He said, "So, when'd you do it? When you were a kid?"

"I was sixteen." It happened long enough ago to prevent her from forming any illusions that she was beautiful or perfect.

"Shit," he said. It came out like shee-it.

"It's okay," she said. "Keeps me humble."

Up ahead, a cow stood in the road, just hung out there, looking straight ahead.

Esther hit the brakes. She and Rick hopped out of the truck and tried to prod the cow forward. But the cow wouldn't look at them, wouldn't budge.

"C'mon, you bitch," Rick said, pushing one shoulder against her haunches.

She lowed–a long and mournful sound.

"Leave her," Esther said. "I'll drive around."

"The hell you will. You'll get stuck. Besides, it's the principle. She needs to git."

Esther went to get back in the cab, but Rick grabbed her left arm, his fingers pressing white half moons into her skin.

Her thumbless hand grabbed his and tried to pry him away. She couldn't get a grip. 

He laughed at how her small, pale stump wiggled.

She kneed him in the groin, thinking, there, how do you like that you calf castrator. 

He doubled over.

Esther slid behind the giant steering wheel and tore an arc around the cow, startling her, finally, into movement.

She didn't wait around to watch the cow meander off toward the horizon, though. She sped away, smirking at the sight of Rick, still hunched over in the middle of the road.

My boy

Another tooth...gone.

Kindergarten...almost over.

Empathy...maybe, possibly developing.

Reading...melts my heart into puddles.

Beatboxing...getting good.

Hiking...loves it more than anything...takes after his dad.

My oldest kid...lucky mom.

That old place again

Yesterday I was in this amazing place. And by place, I mean an open emotional dwelling where I saw dandelions as flowers and crows as intelligent birds and my children as funny, lovely little creatures and the world as a wonderful thing.

First of all: our garbage collector. He waited for me. 

It was morning and the sun was shining and I was taking some trash to the street where our can already was. Not so much because the plastic QFC bag (knotted neatly) needed to be whisked from our house right that instant, but more so I could feel the warmth on my arms and listen to the robins.

And as our automatic garage door opened, I saw him. Our garbage collector. He stood there, halfway down our driveway, with one arm outstretched. His truck idled nearby.

I handed him my bag. And, for some reason, this tiny exchange touched me.

Then later, right after we dropped Fruit Bat at school and Kitty Cat and I were getting into our car, another mom came over and hunched, scanned the dirt around our tires. "I'm looking for something," she said.

"What is it?" I asked.

"A little black rocket thing. I don't think it's even here. But I promised my son..."

I laughed. I'd done many similar duties. Performing small favors that are mostly senseless to us adults, but vitally important to our kids. I felt, in that moment, kinship.

And several hours after that, driving with two small girls, the three of us singing in unison, "I'm bringing home a baby bumblebee" as a salty sea wind blew through our open windows.

But we had a rough night, with both kids getting up and my insomnia flaring its ugly nostrils. I'm tired today. I'm quiet and only slightly observant.

I'm nervous about the impending summer and our loss of routine and that J. is going to keep working 70+ hour weeks through August. 

A little unsettled again, hoping tomorrow brings more peace.

A sweltering green

If you'd like to read the beginning of this story, Greener Grass, it can be found in my right sidebar under I Like To Write.

*****

It was one of those Wisconsin summer days when the temperature hovered around ninety and the humidity hit 100 percent.  It was one of those Wisconsin summer days when Craig couldn't motivate himself to sit in front of his sticky keyboard at the kitchen table or prod the kids off the couch. It was one of those days when he wished Jacquelyn would just take some time off, already and stay home with the family.

But she was in St. Louis at a trade show, in an air conditioned convention center wearing her suit and heels. 

And he was trying to entertain the kids and get three posts up by five pm.

He leaned back in his chair and looked out the window toward Angel's house. Her car, oddly, was still parked in the driveway. Her back door was open to the yard, though. If he stared long enough, he figured he might catch her in shorts and flip flops, watering plants or sitting on a lawn chair with her face pointed to the sun.

He found himself thinking about her more, now that Tamara was gone, wondering who she was, really. Imagining her naked. Constructing elaborate fantasies in which they were thrown together somehow (Electrical storm? Flood? Bat loose in her house and an extreme fear of flying rodents? Desperate need for a cup of sugar?)

And he tried to figure out what she saw when she looked at him. If she looked at him. Boring stay-at-home dad with two rug rats and wife who didn't like him enough to hang around? Or, caring man who loved his children and was married to a heartless woman only concerned with her career?

Did she notice his burgeoning belly under his t-shirts? Did she see the retaining wall he'd put out front that spring and recognize how thoughtfully the rocks had been placed? How carefully he'd leveled it all?

Then, there she was, standing in her doorway, holding a bowl and lifting a spoon to her mouth. She wore a flowy white skirt and a bikini top and Craig lost his breath for a moment. Why wasn't she working? Was she home sick? But sick women didn't look like that, like an ad for Special K.

He jumped up and slammed his laptop shut. He shoved his feet into his Tevas and was just about to jog across their yards and talk to her about...something. The heat, or the new traffic circles on the next street over or Tamara, when Jessica wandered into the kitchen asking for a popsicle and a trip to the pool.

"In a while," Craig barked.

"Noooo," she whined. "I'm hot."

"Well, then, get yourself an Otter Pop and we'll go to the pool in a half hour." He could always sit off to the side and work while the kids splashed around.

The Otter Pop suggestion shut her up and she rummaged through the freezer while Craig took off.

Angel, however, had disappeared and shut her door.

"Shit," he said, slowing as he reached the property line. He had nothing important enough to say to knock on her door. Which, somehow, was more intrusive than going up to her while she stood half outside. "Shit."

He spun around, went back in, and ate three grape popsicles while packing up towels, goggles, swimsuits and his computer. Off to the fucking pool, he thought, as he loaded the kids up in the car. The thrilling, fucking pool.

*****

When Jacquelyn called that night, something she didn't do every evening, but just often enough to convey that she sort of cared what the family was up to, the conversation went as smoothly as spreading mortar over glass shards.

Each exchange caught Craig and Jacquelyn on its sharp edges. They had to backtrack, go around it, try an equally unsuccessful path.

Her voice was gravely with exhaustion. Yet, Craig felt no sympathy for her. She was in St. Louis, basically partying it up. He was in Milwaukee, as usual, taking care of their two kids.

"I can't get into this now," she was saying. "I only get five hours sleep tonight and then I have to be up."

"All I'm asking is when your flight comes in on Wednesday," he said.

"Well, but I have to look it up and my Blackberry's not on and I'm freaking tired, Craig. Do you have any idea what my day was like?"

He pictured her in her hotel room, heels off, feet propped on an upholstered chair. Her make up and bra would be gone. Her short, dark hair would be tucked behind her ears and the bags that had started swelling, in the last few years, under her eyes, would be pronounced.

Thinking of her that way, sleepy and vulnerable at the end of the day, should've filled him with some sort of affection. Should've, at least, spurred a sense of compassion. But it didn't. All he felt was annoyance. He wanted to punch her, actually.

"How would I have any idea what your day was like?" he said. "I've been here. In Wisconsin. Trying to keep our kids from getting heat stroke."

"Thank you, Saint Craig," she said.

"You wouldn't even care if we left them with a nanny, I know. But I do. Mack did a dive today. For the first time."

There was a moment of silence, then her voice softened. "They went swimming?"

"Yeah," he said. "And they did great. Both of them."

He could almost see her straightening up, snapping herself out of her mom-interest.

She said, "I'll email you the itinerary tomorrow."  But her words, this time, wavered. 

They weren't glutted with tears. But they hinted at a weeping jag that might be let loose after they hung up, or, more likely, whisked away and replaced with the deep sleep into which Jacquelyn always seemed able to fall.

Field trip

I chaperoned a field trip today. It was fun and tiring and dull and interesting.

Fruit Bat and his friend held hands as we walked. And, of course, I wondered, how much longer two little boys will feel comfortable doing this?

Not much.

But the moment. The moment I had today, watching them trek unselfconsciously up the path. I think I'll remember it forever.

Fire starter

Your daughter is most afraid of fire right now.

Will this start a fire? she asks, about most everything. If I touch this doll to that chair, will it start a fire?

She's trying to figure it out. She's mixed up on her spontaneous combustion.

So you try to explain. No, a spoon against a rug will not cause flames to leap forth. No, not the book on the dresser either.

Maybe a hot stovetop or an electrical outlet or a mother who simmers on medium-low.

But none of the other things. 

She fears fire like you fear disease. Like you fear loss of control. Like you fear invisibility.

And her list of concerns will grow throughout her life. They'll morph and fade and rear up again.

For now, though, it's just fire.

Feline love

It was a year ago today that my sweet, sweet cat Ollie died. I wrote about it ad nauseum on this blog. I'll spare you the details now.

It's enough to say that I still miss him. A lot.

A light green

The first part of this story, Greener Grass, can be found in my right sidebar under I Like To Write.

*****

Brad, once he got started, was all too happy to divulge the details of his firing. Which had to do with a buggy website and security breaches and a supervisor he didn't get along with personally.

Tamara ate cereal while he talked and, later, lay on the couch half asleep, listening to him tinker with his laptop, verbally planning how he could submerge the whole agency with a few bits of code.

"Don't do it," she mumbled. "Just take the high road. You'll find something else in no time."

"Ha!" Brad said. "In this economy? Ha!"

Tamara thought about Dave and his always unfailing optimism that he'd be able to support himself and the family, whatever catastrophes the world presented him with. If he had to, he said, he'd go back to being a pastry chef for a few months.

Which was why, she supposed, he was cool with buying boats and motorcycles and expensive tennis shoes without consulting her.

She remembered one especially maddening episode when they'd lain in bed, Tamara lamenting how hard it was not earning money, not contributing, not bolstering her identity in that way.

"It's okay," Dave had said. "We'll get by."

"But the heater needs to be fixed and we're late on Caitlyn's preschool tuition and you just bought that leather jacket."

His voice shot into the darkness, "If you're so worried, get a damn job."

"And pay for full time care for three children? There's no job I could get that would be worth it."

"You did pretty well selling ads."

She rolled over onto her side, facing away from him. "I can't go back."

"Why not?"

Because, she'd thought. Because. I cannot imagine cowtowing to clients all day long the way I cowtow to you and the kids. I cannot take on more bosses. I cannot trade my soul like that again.

"It was okay when I was younger," she said and sighed. "It was okay when I didn't know better. But, holy shit, Dave, I can't convince companies to spend tons of money on four-color spreads while the kids are in daycare."

"But you don't seem all that happy staying home with them," he said. And his voice was accusatory.

"Well, I mean, there are good days and bad. But, I think I hide it well, enough." She meant her resentfulness. Her misery.

Dave said, "Not from me you don't."

The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Over the baby monitor that sat on her night stand, Tamara heard Eli moan in his sleep. "Maybe I'll go buy myself a four-hundred-dollar leather jacket. Maybe that will help."

He rose halfway, pounded his pillows into new shapes and flopped back down onto them. His teeth were clenched as he said, "I work my fucking ass off. I deserve to treat myself once in a while."

"Right," she said. "You deserve your treats."

She waited until he'd fallen asleep, then got up, padded into the kitchen and made herself a vodka tonic. She took it to the deck, where she sat in the dark, her knees tucked under her chin, her nightgown grazing her ankles, and sipped.

Brad said, "I could fuck them over so hard." He laughed gleefully, following some path through his laptop that could lead to the fucking over.

"Don't," Tamara mumbled. "Keep your bridges intact. I'm serious."

His head snapped up from his computer. He pushed his glasses back on his head and looked at her. Looked, sort of, into her. "You're shitting me, right?"

She blinked at him.

"Where are your bridges, Miss Milwaukee? They look awfully singed and rickety to me."

"They are."

Slowly, he closed his computer. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

She tried to sit, but felt a sharp pain in her abdomen and lowered herself back down. "I wish I knew," she said. "Looking for my other life?"

*****

Paul never came in that night.

Tamara barely slept, could only doze. And in the twenty minute snatches of sleep she did get, she dreamed--crazy tableaus where she had orange, clownish hair and wore sequined one-piece leotards and patent leather platform boots and carried a boom box around on her shoulder listening to Chairlift. She had no children, no husband. She lived in a studio apartment with two transvestites and watched them shooting heroin.

She woke up panting, sweating so much she changed clothes twice.

And the next morning, she had to do laundry in the dank basement of Brad's building, plucking quarters from a roll she got at the smoke shop a few doors down.

When Paul and Cornelia finally did arrive, late in the afternoon, their faces were flushed, moony. 

Tamara had a hard time looking at them head on. She glanced at Paul, then down into her lap, then sidelong at Cornelia. Then at Brad. Who was fidgety himself.

Well, here I am, she thought. Here I fucking am. This is what I'm choosing to do with my freedom. What a damn fine idea this was.

She'd been in New York almost a week. The time had come to move forward or go home.

But her feet and her ass and her head felt like they'd been tarred to Brad's sofa and the thought of potty training and baking cupcakes and arguing with Dave about money still made her retch. Worse was her family's smug assumption that she'd always be there to do those things. 

Six days wasn't enough time. It was a blip. If she went back now, they'd soon forget this little trip had ever happened and she'd be right back in her kitchen. Right back in their small bathroom. Right back in bed next to Dave, who she wasn't even sure she liked anymore.

She might have been interrupting a conversation. She would've known for sure if she hadn't been so lost in her thoughts. But she looked right into Cornelia's scrubbed, dewy face anyway and asked, "Is there someplace around here that offers free classes?"

"Like what?" Cornelia asked. "Business courses? Spanish?" her voice was sumptuous and low, fringed, ever-so-slightly, in sarcasm. No wonder Paul couldn't resist her.

"No," Tamara said. The three of them had opened beers and she could smell the hoppy miasma floating just above her head. She closed her eyes, wishing you could block out aromas like you could sights or sounds. "I don't know. Pottery or painting or creative writing."

Brad said, "How about HTML?"

She only shook her head at him.

Cornelia thought for a minute, then said, "There are places. Let me see what I can find out and get back to you."

And, for the first time in a while, Tamara felt a lightness in her chest, across the tops of her shoulders. 

A lightness that, if she wasn't careful, could carry her away.

Barnacle heart

Accusations flew around our house yesterday like silver-winged birds. Or that was how it felt. I knew I needed to reach out and catch the small birds, to release them outside.

But, largely, I failed. I was clumsy and I was not open-hearted and I was grumpy.

We took it, the unease, to the beach, where we usually have a good time. Where the tide was ridiculously low. But I ended up striking out on my own, walking over rocks and sea glass, peering into the tiny caves of barnacles. 

The barnacles' beaks were at rest: straight, wise lines that seemed like they, if a topic struck them as worthy, would speak to me.

The kids did not get the best of either J. or I. But then, it's impossible to sustain for days on end, the devotion and attention they crave.

Fruit Bat has a big, exciting field trip today (to the beach again), but can only think about a play date tomorrow where he'll pretend to be teacher to three girls (the students). When he talks about it, his eyes gleam and he bares his new, jagged teeth.

Playing teacher, I think, is his way of exerting control over his world.

This morning I dropped Kitty Cat off at preschool and she opened the metal double doors herself and insisted that I not walk her in (this is new, as before she insisted I accompany her to the very back of the room). She stood in the door's opening, smiled, waved, said, "I love you, mom."

And my heart flew open.

I'm trying to prop it with toothpicks and drift wood and wadded blankets and quiet moments, so it will stay that way.