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Linda Sands’s We’re Not Waving, We’re Drowning, is a haunting, multi-generational commercial southern women’s novel set in Savannah between 1894 and the present. It’s not a mystery, even though a man disappears. And it’s not a romance, even though the three protagonists—each living in a different era—do fall in love. Rather it’s a big, meaty meal of a novel about women searching for family and discovering strength and loss and identity in a changing world and at particularly transitional times of their lives. It’s The Hours in Savannah .

And the symbol of this novel is the Statue of the Waving Girl, which stands to this day by the river. It is a representation of Flora Martus—one of Sands’s heroines—who actually lived in Savannah in the first half of the 20th century. The daughter of the lighthouse keeper, Flora spent much of her life as a recluse on Cockspur Island, reachable from Savannah by boat, largely alone with her brother, George. But she was known by everyone who approached Savannah by water, since she greeted every vessel with a wave of her handkerchief. Flora became the mascot of the city, but that lonely woman waving to the ships was hiding many secrets. Flora’s story in many ways is the core of this novel, as the other protagonists—the modern Philadelphian Maggie, looking for her husband who disappeared off the coast of Savannah on a boat carrying his own secrets; and the turn-of-the-20th-century Bobbie, who makes her own luck and choices—either directly or indirectly come into contact with her.

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This version of the award-winning story was well received by the fans and readers of espressofiction.com.

Roxie and her pals will continue their story in a new novel: 3 Women Walk into a Bar.

Under a full moon, thousands of people line the most popular beaches of Southern California, in anticipation of a grunion run. The race to pick up the fish that have come ashore to spawn provides an exhilarating experience for young and old.

You sit at a small, tiled table in a dark coffeehouse in San Diego, sip cappuccino and fold your napkin into origami shapes that only you understand. Ignoring the blinking cell phone message from your boss, you choose instead to eavesdrop on the conversation behind you.

The man’s voice is low, falsely tender when he says, “Maybe it would be better if we didn’t see each other for a while.”

“Jerk,” you whisper.

The woman hesitates then answers, forcing air through a tight throat, “But John, how are we going to work this out if… Oh.”

You open Cosmo and flip quietly, pausing at the cologne samples. There is no scent in the world to mask rejection.

“Kelly, It’s not–”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish. The glass door slaps closed behind her, a cowbell good-bye.

You think she deserves better, until you turn around. As a little girl, you dreamed of a man who would sweep you off your feet. You never once imagined his car, job or voice, but when you dreamed of Prince Charming, he looked like—this guy in the chair behind you at the Cuppa Joe in San Diego.

Grunion are small slender fish with bluish-green backs and silvery sides and bellies. In their unique spawning behavior, they leave the ocean to lay their eggs in the wet sand, making these excursions only on  particular nights. Their arrival can be predicted a year in advance and shortly after high tide, sections of California beaches are covered with thousands of grunion.

Three Fridays later, you’re squeezed in at the bar between Michelle and Claire eating greasy Happy Hour food and working on your second Coors. Michelle yells over the music, “How’s John?”

You want to tell her you’d rather be with him instead of here with two lonely women hoping to score, but they’re your friends, so you grin and sip your light beer.

“Come on, Roxie. We want details.” Claire re-applies her lipstick. Sometimes one layer is not enough, especially in a dark bar.

You know you won’t get out of it so you try to remain vague, not wanting to jinx a thing. You’re good at vague, having done it for years.

“He’s great. You guys should meet him. You’d love him.”

“Does he have any brothers?” Michelle always asks the same thing.

“Nope.” You tell the truth. “Just sisters.”

Disappointment hangs in the air until Rusty rings the big-tipper bell. You cheer and he struts over, chest puffed importantly, rag in one hand.

“Ladies! How we doing tonight? Can I get anyone another beer? How ‘bout you, Roxie? Ready for some shooters?”

He remembers your drinks, who gets the lemon, who eats the cherry. He serves you with slick promises and a toothy grin, wipes your spills, listens to your conversations more than you know, makes you feel special. You wonder if they teach all that at Bartender School, then you wonder if Rusty has a girlfriend, or two.

“Ohmigod. Look at that slut.” Michelle points to a petite bleached-blonde with the largest breasts you have ever seen in person. She’s wearing a shirt made of three bandanas. You do the math and figure she should have used four. The girl dances by herself, perched on silver heels she probably borrowed from an older sister.

In a few hours, the club will clear the happy hour food from the dance floor. They’ll roll away the draped tables and store the Sterno. In a few hours, someone will dim the lights, turn up the bass and charge admission to a fresh crowd of young, tan, sexy bodies—but the girl in the bandana top doesn’t know that—or maybe she does.

Everyone has turned to watch her dance. She’s lipsynching  “Ride the White Horse” as she flings her hair, grinds her hips and shakes her huge breasts. You feel sad for her, embarrassed for her, humiliated for her.

Men howl and whistle.

“Oh, yeah.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!”

“Go Baby!”

Your friends watch—mouths agape—unable to look away.  They’d never admit it, but they’ve wanted to do that for years.  Flattening their asses on these bar stools Friday after Friday— for what? They want to scream, “Look at me! Here I am! I have breasts, too!”

You excuse yourself. Halfway to the restroom you hear a crash and turn to watch the bandana girl fall into the banquet table. Servers rush to help her as heavy silver dishes crash to the floor, chicken wings and broccoli florets roll into corners.

She rises on Rusty’s arm. Red clam sauce runs down her leg, a pendulous breast escapes her makeshift shirt. You hear your friends laughing. Claire’s applause is deafening.

Early Spanish settlers called this fish “grunion”, which means grunter, as they are known to make a faint squeaking noise while spawning. The grunion belongs to the family, Atherinidae, commonly known as silversides.

You’ve been spending the night at John’s for a month. Not every night—just weekends, with the occasional too-tired-to-drive-home excuse. Your friends are starting to complain and your cat has begun to ignore his litter box.

“John?”

You want to say, “Sweetheart?” or “Babe?” But it’s too soon and you’re afraid those words might scare him or that you’ll sound dumb. Instead, you snuggle into his body, spooning yourself into the perfect fit that only lovers have.

“What do you want to do today?”

“Stay here,” he says. “All day.” He moves his hands over you and you want to agree. But why doesn’t he ever take you anywhere? Why is it always, “Come over here, we’ll do pizza and a movie.” And then you end up in the bedroom making the sounds lovers make and sometimes showering afterward.

So you ask. And a few hours and a trip to Trader Joe’s later, you’re sitting on the beach sharing wine from organically grown grapes, a chunk of cheese and warm crusty bread.

After lunch he holds your hands, gazes into your eyes, and says, “I love you, Roxie.”

The day could not be more perfect.

Grunion spawn three nights after the highest tide of each full moon.  A single male swims in with a wave and strands himself on the beach. Gradually,  the beach is covered with grunion.  When the tide drops, the run slackens then stops as suddenly as it started. No more fish will appear until the next night or series of runs.

You’ve surfed and swum all afternoon. The wine is gone; the beach is almost deserted. A few pathetic tourists in oversized sunglasses and billowing cover-ups raise their cameras, determined to take a piece of this day home with them. A San Diego sunset is not easily forgotten.

John pulls you closer.  With his lips on your neck he murmurs “Roxie.” You sigh and lean into him. The nest you have made is comforting—cooler headboard, ocean footboard, piles of clothing and damp towels for walls.

When the sun goes down, you celebrate with a joint he smuggled out of Tijuana two days ago. It burns, but feels good to hold the smoke in your lungs then exhale, “Ahhh,” to the rising moon. You share the last beer and in a moment, you step into the ocean to pee, without saying that’s what you’re doing. The water is warmer than the air and you don’t want to get out—until you remember Jaws—then you come barreling from the surf, spraying sand as you fall onto the blanket—wet, drunk, and happy. Far up the strand you see a bonfire. Every few seconds, a voice carries down the beach, a slice of conversation out of context.

John falls asleep. You whisper, “I love you, too”, cover him with a sweatshirt and wander down to the water’s edge where a fish flips, his silver belly glinting in the moonlight.

Observing grunion is more interesting than catching them. Females ride a wave accompanied by as many as eight males.  She swims far up on the beach and drills herself into the semifluid sand, until she is buried up to the pectoral fins. The males curve around her on top of the sand, as the female continues to twist, emitting her eggs below. Males discharge their milt onto the sand near the female then immediately leave for the water.  The female frees herself from the sand with a violent jerking motion and returns to the sea. This entire process takes about thirty seconds, but females may remain on the beach for several minutes.

You hum a song to the fish as you poke it with a stick, the tune timed to the slap and curse of the breakers. You never hear the men come up behind you.

The hands that grab you are not John’s—not soft or slim or tender. You scream as they drag you across the beach. The sack they shove in your mouth tastes of rotten fish and makes you gag. They laugh. You kick at their slippery bodies, slap at shadows. They rip off your bathing suit top, use it to tie your wrists, then yank down the bottoms—not quite far enough. You feel the spandex cauterizing stripes into your sunburned thighs as they try to spread your legs, sand everywhere.

You think there are eight of them but probably only three. Some go twice. At one point you hate yourself, your body betraying you as this man is less brutal than the one before. He whispers in your ear Spanish words like beautiful poetry. If only you could twist your head around. You want to see the face of a man who can speak so sweetly while hurting someone so much. All you can think is, “Where’s John?” And, “Why me?”

The cries of the circling gulls wake you. The morning is overcast, but this is San Diego, there will be burn-off by noon.  You can’t feel your legs, then look down and realize why; the lower half of you is buried under sand and fly-ridden kelp. A crab scuttles away as you push yourself up, the torn bikini top dangles from your wrist. You twist to wrench yourself free, crying out as pain bullets through you, a slash across your eyes. Then you dig yourself out, slowly. One blood-stained thigh at a time, moaning at the rasp of sand on your bruised body, at two legs that refuse to work.  You spit sand and fish scales, taste blood and disgust in your swollen mouth. You drag yourself across the churned-up beach, past the stinking sack they left behind, and down to the water’s edge.

The grunion has been known to Southern Californians for more than 70 years, yet some are still skeptical of its existence. To be invited out in the middle of the night to go fishing with only a gunny sack and light does sound a little ridiculous, but in reality this is the most popular method.

Years later, when your children ask you about San Diego, you spin tales of fantastic weather, friendly people, beautiful sunsets and majestic palm trees. Their eyes widen at the mention of moonlit grunion runs and the crowds of people who flock to the beaches hoping to scoop up a slippery silver fish and save her—only to bring her home, roll her in flour and cook her in a frying pan.

Excerpts based on a CA Department of Fish and Game brochure.

My mom used to say I had a “come hither” look that invited trouble. I think it’s more of a “come tell me anything” look that invites stories.

People tell me their most personal problems, thoughts and feelings. They relate stories about their jobs, their neighbors, their Scottish childhoods, and I stand there nodding and wondering why these complete strangers feel compelled to confide in me.

Personal journal pundits claim it’s cathartic to write things down. Just “get it out.” Then burn it. Compose a ten-page, soul-wrenching letter to Mr. Perfect who dumped you in 1989—then throw it away. You’ll be cleared of your unfortunate past, freed from the rusty bonds of rejection, open to life’s possibilities.

That sounds too easy.

What if you had to say it aloud? To a stranger. Or better yet, to a stranger who doesn’t speak your language. I’ve seen it done in the movies. The sad British chap confesses his failures to the toothless Italian grandmother shelling peas in a shadowy doorway. She says nothing as he concludes he’s been a jerk and realizes he should be telling all of this to his hot European lover. He rushes back to his life, leaving the toothless woman with her peas wondering what just happened.

I am the grandmother in the doorway.

Last month, I was in the back room of a day spa getting my lip waxed and the technician starts with a story of a beautiful young blond virgin who comes in requesting a Brazilian bikini wax. I know, it sounds like the beginning of a great joke.

But she wasn’t kidding. The technician said this born-again Christian virgin wanted the radical procedure done for her honeymoon. I’m thinking, how does she even know about Brazilian bikini waxes? Then the waxer said, “Wait. There’s more.” The girl was a “talker.” A look-me-in-the-eye kind of talker. The waxer admitted the whole thing made her uncomfortable. (Apparently it’s difficult to maintain eye contact and chat nonchalantly about the weather while ripping hair from the intimate areas of a kneeling stranger.)

How did she think I felt listening to the story? Especially when she demonstrated the on-all-fours waxing position and how the virgin had said through her legs, “Maybe I should be walking down the aisle to you.”

Later, I wondered if the girl had been taking the technician for a ride. What if she wasn’t a virgin or a bride-to-be at all? What if it had been a practical joke? Maybe the waxer made the whole thing up. There are so many ways to interpret a story and just as many ways to repeat it.

Which of course, I did. Because stories are meant to be told. It starts with a simple tale and like the game of “telephone,” each storyteller adds his own spice, a side dish of that’s-nothing-when-I… and by the time it comes back around—you have an urban legend, or a novel.

Therapists, bartenders, hairdressers, priests, manicurists, even gynecologists are all in the confession profession. As a writer, I listen because it might be important. I listen because I can’t afford not to.

There are stories everywhere. Material for the taking. Usually it’s right in front of me spitting on my chin, like the grandfather at the wine tasting who was seriously contemplating hiring a hitman, the mother of four on a Punta Cana beach who confessed she’d never experienced an orgasm, the crying, cheating redhead in the Waffle House bathroom who should have been telling her husband the stuff she was telling me, and the black man selling magazine subscriptions who sat in my garage in the rain and told me of a life in the country cut short, a city that swallowed him like quicksand.

Why did these storytellers choose me? Was I the first person they came across on the day they needed to purge a memory, divulge that secret, share a quirky story? Or do they sense something that says; she’s a writer. She’ll understand about hitmen and orgasms and cheating and quicksand. Whatever the reason, I now hold a part of them, their stories.

And their secrets aren’t safe with me.

A version of this story appears in the 2004 edition of Oh Georgia! A Collection of Georgia’s Newest & Most Promising Writers.

A Private Play

Kimber: Light and Possibilities

I had been scrubbing Edith Turner’s toilets for eleven years. Not that it’s important, but that’s what I was thinking as I backed my ’65 Ford down the long gravel drive. The pickup was loaded with mop, broom, Oreck and magic solutions of vinegar and lemon rind, and her rusted-out side panels announced my profession in a fancy curly-q design compliments of my ex, Jason, the artist/lumberjack I’d dated for two years. Never mind that he used the letter “K” from my name Kimber to also spell Klean. I hadn’t been dating him for his large vocabulary.

Thursday was cleaning day at the Turner’s, and the last week of the month was “special chore day”. Usually, Miss Edith assigned something like wiping the baseboards or cleaning out the refrigerator, but this week she said it would be something different and that she’d show me once I got there.

When I started my business I had a really weird Monday client—a crazy witch lady up in the woods. One Spring, she insisted on re-stuffing her goose down pillows with hair from her pink-dyed poodle, Bob. Another time the old bat had me play Chimney Sweep in all three fireplaces. I didn’t bring anybody any luck, and I sure didn’t kiss her, but I blew black snot for a week. Not that Miss Edith was anything like that lady in the woods—I’m just telling you about the joys of my job.

Miss Edith was waiting on her front porch when I turned the corner. I could tell she was excited by the way she jiggled around up there, like when she won the John Deere X595 tractor for Mr. T., God rest his soul.

She wore an Aunt Jemima kerchief around her head and red gingham garden gloves—though planting season was at least five weeks away. Miss Edith didn’t look bad for sixty—even up close. She had a little extra around her middle, but was trim by New Hampshire standards, and she had all her teeth. She stood still long enough to wave to me, then went back inside. I unloaded the Oreck, pulled my hair back and tugged on my $2.79 yellow gloves from Tru-Value.

This was the part I liked the most. The moment just before the cleaning. There was something inside me that craved order—a gleaming, spacious countertop, a tidy living room with the magazines forming a perfect fan and the remote sitting just so. I secretly adored the smell of bleach and used little blue toilet fresheners as sachets in my underwear drawer. But I wasn’t one of those crazy people who have plastic on their furniture and silly doilies everywhere. No, I believe in using what you got and keeping it nice. I once saw a TV show where the lady wanted to see vacuum tracks in her living room. No one was allowed in there, like it was some kind of Ethan Allen museum or something.

I stepped into Miss Edith’s kitchen and almost fainted. The big, white-tiled, farmhouse dinette was gone. A shiny glass table with two black iron chairs sat in its place. I wondered how that would hold up to the banging of the grand-kids when they visited, and where she had stashed the old table, because if she didn’t want it— well, I sure could think of a few uses for it at my place.

See, that was the thing with these folks who didn’t clean their own houses, they didn’t know squat about recycling, either.

“Miss Edith! What have you done?”

The beautiful honey oak cabinets had been painted a shiny latex white that hurt my eyes.

“Do you like it? I’m redecorating!”

The simple brass pulls were now chunky silver things that looked like pickles and dog bones.

“Uh-huh. I can see that.”

“I was watching those TV programs, and I figured if those pea-brained Southerners could do it, well, so could I. Besides, it was time for a change.”

It may have been the tone in her voice, or the way she ran her eyes over me, but I knew she was talking about more than new paint and a kitchen set. I looked at my reflection in her shiny new Frigidaire. Did she mean I should change my “Bikers for Christ” t-shirt or the blue suede Earth shoes I‘d rescued from the dump? Maybe she meant I should throw out my maple veneer banquette with under-the-seat-storage.

“Let me show you what I want to do in here.”

Miss Edith led the way, her heels tip-tapping down a newly-bare hallway. What did she do with that nice shag carpeting? And where did she get those red and black ladybug shoes?

“This.”

‘This’ had always been “the family wall”. You know, every house has one, a place to hang that $50 picture of little Jimmy in his nicest shirt, his hair combed with spit and Dippity-doo. Why do Moms send their kids off on picture day looking nothing like they do the other 364 days of the year? It’s like putting a suit on Grandpa in his coffin when we all know he only wore baggy pants and stained undershirts.

At least the wall was still the light blue I remembered, except there was a lot more of it and about a million holes where a million hooks had held thirty years of memories— along with a foot-long scrape where the couch used to be. On the other side of the room were three pieces of new furniture wrapped in thick plastic. Someone had torn a corner and I could see swatches of purple, yellow and red. I’d never seen those colors put together before, except in a kindergarten finger painting by Rory O’Doul. And everybody knew Rory wasn’t quite right in the head.

Now that the room was empty, I noticed a new smell, with something funky underneath, like cat piss and old-man breath. There was a black stain on the hardwood floor from something that must have seeped through the wall-to-wall carpet a long time ago. Miss Edith handed me a sledgehammer and snapped a pair of goggles over her eyes.

“Well?”

I held up my yellow-gloved safety cop hand, and checked behind the wall. Damn, she was serious. The living room was empty, too. Certain spots on the floral wallpaper were brighter than the rest; I could see the outlines of her past. I ran my fingers over the shapes, remembering the dusty eucalyptus swag, the chipped oval mirror and the fake Monet in its swanky gold frame.

I walked back around in time to see Miss Edith raise her sledgehammer. She looked like Martha Stewart on acid—some kind of maniacal Miss Fix-it, I don’t know what—but she pretty much creeped me out. Here I was standing in an empty room holding a sledgehammer, with full permission from the owner to swing away, so what did I do? I knocked the whole damned thing down. And it was fun, too. We hooted and hollered, even yelled a few names while we bashed through drywall and framing. The wall wasn’t supporting anything, and once it was down we had a hard time figuring out why the hell anyone would have put one there in the first place. Now the room was perfect. Just like this. Well, it would be, once we got rid of the debris. And then it would be one big, long, open room full of light and possibilities. I brushed off my sledgehammer and set it down lovingly.

It was probably another week after that before I heard Miss Edith mention Don. That was after she told me to call her, Eddie. Eddie! Can you imagine? This sweet old lady who reminded me of my own Ma, and here I am calling her a name better suited for a refrigerator repairman or a dog.

Bujnowski: Fire and Favorable Chance

I told Sandy she ought to go down the road to see what Vicki and the kids was up to, cause the men were coming and it was gonna be a long one. She’d given me a peck on the cheek and a little shake of the finger telling me to behave, then blew me a kiss over her shoulder like she’d seen them do on the Dating Game years ago. I watched her leave and figured I still loved her, though I hardly told her anymore, then I dragged the cooler of beer out to the field, popped one open and waited for the boys.

Joe was the last to show up, and since he had the burn permit and the whiskey, we waited on him. Our talk grew as dry as our mouths and we slipped into gossip like a bunch of crows around a tire-tracked opossum.

I said, “She came to the store last week looking for a side of beef. Usually it’s chicken breasts, just the breast, no rib, you know? But last week, she wants half a darn cow.”

“Darn? Did you say, ‘darn,’ Budge?”

The guys around the fire yukked it up, repeating, “Darn,” and “Gosh darn it.” And “Golly gee.”

“Yes, Joe, I said, ‘darn.’ I told Sandy I’d try to stop cursing. It ain’t easy, ya know.” I added an armload of branches to the burning Goodyear radial.

“Fuck it ain’t,” Whitey said. This set them off on a bout of knee-slapping laughter, and inspired curses.

I shook my head and took a long pull on the whiskey before I passed it to Whitey. It was a great night for a burn. The rain had soaked the ground and surrounding trees, so fire hazards weren’t an issue. Besides, as the only male members of the Rindge Volunteer Fire Department, we were properly trained to aim hoses and stamp out stray fires.

“Gimme a hand, here.” Joe pulled a small sapling into the clearing. Its branches swept the ground behind him like a huge broom. We had half an acre of brush to burn before sunrise. Me and Whitey helped Joe throw the hemlock on the fire. It went in spitting and sparking with most of the smoke going up into the sky. Course, we’d all smell of it. Never could wash that fire smell out. And a real man wouldn’t want to.

That was what New Hampshire was about. Men being men, and women being, well, it was true the ladies around here weren’t much to look at, but they were handy in the kitchen and I didn’t know one that couldn’t skin a deer, gut a fish or snow-blow a driveway. Shoot, Dave’s wife even laid tile and ran wire. Yeah, it was good up here. Just one thing had been bothering me, and that was the old lady buying a whole side of beef.

“Why would she want that?”

“Who?”

“Want what?”

“The beef,” I reminded them. “Miss Edith.”

“You mean, Eddie, don’t ya?” Richie said.

I looked over at the squirrelly guy in the shadows. Richie was wearing his orange hunting cap, and had the flaps hanging down. With those bags under his eyes and that droopy mouth, he looked like a fluorescent coonhound.

He said, “She sent me all the way to Nashua just to get paint.”

When Richie told one of his stories, it could take days. You’d get the beginning of it one morning at the gas station, another part the next night when he stopped by for a cold one, and if you remembered to ask, you’d hear the ending on Sunday in the church parking lot. Usually by then, you’d forgotten the whole point, and even if you had bothered to remember—it wouldn’t be too funny anyway. The man wouldn’t know a punch line if someone served it to him on a silver platter with a sign saying, “This is the punch line.”

“Yeah, so?” I said, to keep him talking.

“So? It was white house paint.” He downed his Bud, pitched the can in the fire, scratched himself, then continued, “I had to paint the shutters red. Eddie said it’s some kinda Chinese fungus thing.”

“Betty?” Whitey said.

“No, ya dumb f-”

“Hey!” I cut Joe off and turned to the old man. “He said, ‘Eddie.’ Where’s your hearing aid, Whitey?”

“Must of left it at home, but I’ll tell ya, there’s something I didn’t forget.”

“What’s that, old man?” Joe said. “Your diaper?”

We all laughed at that one and then Whitey said, “No, this.” And he leaned over, raised his right butt cheek off the patio chair cushion and let one rip.

“Holy Mary, Mother of—that’s disgusting!” Joe waved his hand in front of his nose. “You been eating that venison jerky again?”

Whitey smiled.

I took this opportunity to drain my lizard. Standing there under the pines, hearing the frogs peeping and the crickets chirping, all was well with the world. In the morning, the wives would send down bed-headed kids with thermoses of coffee and foil-wrapped cinnamon buns to check on us and the smoldering embers. Some mornings you’d see ducks fly in over the pond, and if you were real lucky, you’d catch a glimpse of a young bald eagle or a blue heron. Rindge was a nice place to raise a family, though times were changing, what with people moving in from California with their fancy foreign cars and girls starting to wear make-up and low-cut dresses they ordered from some secret catalog.

Changing, like that lady, Edith—I mean—Eddie. She used to be one of my favorite customers, always placing the same order, and waiting real quiet, so you’d hardly know she was there. Guess her husband was a good enough sort. Never ran into him much, them being Catholics and all. But, I’d see them every Fall at the big meat auction and a few times out to dinner in Peterborough. Back then, when Turner was alive and Eddie was still Edith, she dressed regular in jeans and button-down shirts or skirts and brown dresses. And she had real hair, like my wife, Sandy. You know, bangs in the front and a little past the ears. Normal.

Not anymore. Now, Eddie looked like something you’d see on that MTV. Her hair was shorter than mine, and kind of whitish-purple, and all of her clothes were tighter than before and bright as a neon bar sign, so you could see her from real far away, like she was trying to keep from getting lost in a crowd.

I was still thinking about that when I came back to the fire. The boys had loaded on three big logs and were rolling a stump down a ramp they’d made out of tires and branches.

“Okay, let it go,” Joe said, and the guys jumped back as the stump crashed into the bonfire, sending flames and sparks seven feet in the air. The fire was really cooking now, so we moved our chairs back another four feet, keeping the cooler of beer safe behind us.

I looked deep into that fire and figured I had a favorable chance of keeping my wife away from crew-cuts, hot pink pantsuits and Chinese fungus. The Bujnowskis were a hardy bunch, and stubborn, too. You wouldn’t catch our women wearing make-up and push-your-tits-to-your-chin brassieres. No sir, not while I had something to say about it.

Teena: The Glow of Well-Grounded Hope

All us girls were still trying to figure out who this Don guy was. I mean, if there was a new young stud in town, I would know. Not that I’m looking for anyone right now, but I am plugged into my community. Not only as Head Beautician at The House of Beauty, but also as the Treasurer of The Rindge Women’s Club, a Score-Keeper at Methodists Do Bridge, a founding member of EIOL, (English is the Only Language), and a Pampered Chef Consultant. Yes sir, I had all the bases covered. Honey, if walls could talk, they’d say, “Hi, I’m Teena.”

Tonight’s Pampered Chef party at The House of Beauty was just a glorified gabfest. One that involved food, kitchen products, and ladies wearing clothes considered inappropriate for canning, planting, or changing the oil in the Buick. Of course, you were expected to buy something, and the more White Zinfandel I served, the more reasonable it seemed to shell out forty-five bucks for a gel-filled, potato salad bowl with a snap-tight lid. Five more of those would put me in the running for the PC Winter Retreat in Panama City. Get it? PC goes to PC.

“Teena, love, is this the potato masher or the egg slicer?” Marsha Banks said, in her put-on British accent.

They’d left London when she was three, but Marsha still had England in her heart—and on PBS. She’s the kind of woman I hoped to never become, one who uses lipstick like a crayon and fights age by denying herself prescription lenses, dentures and hearing aids, so she goes around with her bad teeth and painted mouth asking lampposts to repeat themselves. Laverne said last Christmas Marsha gave her a box of #9 spaghetti wrapped in birthday paper, with a Hanukkah card addressed to Darling Myron. I hate to think what Myron got.

“Actually, that’s a hair crimper, Marsha. Why don’t you join us over here for the demonstration? Tonight we’re making Lite Meatloaf Extraordinaire with this package of low-fat crescent rolls.”

The ladies were sitting in a semi-circle in front of the pink House of Beauty hair dryers, balancing order forms and appetizers on their knees, holding half-full plastic cups of wine and checking out each other’s footwear.

Jane Bauman said, “I heard she met him at Bingo Night,” then pointed to Kitty’s shoes, “Are those Mootsie Tootsies?”

Kitty nodded and raised her foot to better admire the pink-stiched moc, and said, “Kimber says she’s got Mr. T’s old workshop turned into a beer storage room. Must have ten or twelve cases of imported beer down there.”

“Imported?” Marsha held her cup out for a refill. “Oh, my.”

“Yeah, and in bottles, too,” Alice Reinhart added.

“My Budgie says she’s got the Old-Timer’s.”

“Too much tin foil,” Jane said, which made all the ladies nod and tsk-tsk, as if they knew exactly what Jane was talking about.

“I believe she’s too young for that,” Marsha said, “Perhaps it’s the change.”

“The change, Marsha? Edith went through that ten years ago! Remember? You two are the same age.”

“We are not. I’m only fifty-seven.”

“Fifty-seven, my patoot,” Mrs. Johnson muttered over her Joyful Jambalaya.

The teasing was good-natured, as if by doing that we could avoid saying what we were really feeling—something between “good for her!” and “why not me?” I guess we all had a little of that under our skin that night, and when Edith—the new Eddie—came in the door ten minutes later, we must have looked like deer in the headlights of an eighteen wheeler.

Never in all my days at the salon had I seen someone so gorgeous, even after they left my chair, and I have done some wonders with the ladies of Rindge, let me tell you. Forget about winter, it was too cold to care about how you looked. Customers need me most in the summer. They come in suffering from sunburns, black fly and mosquito bites, sporting green pool hair or the local well water mineral deposit head of orange. Shoot, half of us end up looking like Bozo the Clown. I figure there are only about sixty days of the year I can safely look in the mirror and think, Hey, not bad.

But Eddie, now she was something. To me, she looked like one of those mature models in the Spiegel catalog. The kind who’s lounging on a sailboat, with one hand on the head of a freshly-groomed golden retriever and the other waving at you in her striped boatneck tee and white flat-front capris, her legs tucked perfectly beneath her. She looked just like the Mom you’d be proud to have pick you up at school, would have even hung back and let her park and get out, walk up the sidewalk with that model’s gait, those steely blue eyes and big wide smile. All the boys would look—even Principal Tate—and everyone would think, Teena’s going to be a knock-out, just like her mom.

But life wasn’t like that. Life was more like running through the line-up of cars to jump in the backseat of an old station wagon, then cringing as the car rattled past the cutest guy in school, with Mom in her stained Gold’s Gym t-shirt and black leggings, tapping her chubby fingers on the wheel and singing all the wrong words to “Having my Baby.”

“Hello-oo,” Eddie called.

Her smile showed teeth whiter than I remembered and she smelled great. Not just great, but curly-headed-clean-baby great. We were drawn to her like moths to a lantern, some of us bumping up against her, like maybe the good luck would rub off and we would be as gorgeous, happy, and in love as Eddie. Then everything would be all right, orange hair and all.

She stayed for a while, trying the samples and laughing at my jokes. She made us feel good about ourselves, the way she would ask about family or if the boat was in the water and she even invited me to tour her re-decorated house when I came by with her PC order in four weeks.

“Will Don be there?” I asked.

The whole room went quiet.

“Well sure, Sweetie. Sure he will.”

She dropped her check and order form on the table then waggled her fingers at the open-mouthed ladies of Rindge. “Bye now.”

We watched her drive away in the brand new car, a topless silver Japanese jellybean with two shiny balls hanging from the rearview, swinging in the breeze.

Edith/Eddie: Enlightened by Choice

It all began eight months ago at a Christmas Open House in Peterborough. The snow fell outside in a country postcard way while people inside filled themselves with Hot Toddies and good cheer. She stood alone on the widow/ugly girl side of the room, wondering why she had bothered to come and wishing she were dead, or at least living in San Francisco.

Edith had never been there, but imagined it a place where you could be whomever you wanted to be, live however you wanted to live and cloak yourself in fog twice a day. And then she saw him bend over to pick up a piece of cracker that had fallen out of his mouth and landed on Marsha Banks’ authentic Royal Monarch tapestry. Whether it was the broadness of his back or the way the tips of his ears turned red, he reminded Edith of a boy in a backseat long ago. A boy who had kissed her and told her to call him, Don.

And when he glanced around the room to see if anyone had witnessed his faux-pas, Edith looked right at him and winked. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d winked. But damn it—it felt right—and something might have happened then. He might have smiled at her, or winked back. He might have even walked across that room, thrown down his cracker and taken Edith in his arms, kissing her again just like that night in the backseat of his father’s Chevrolet. Somedays, Edith remembers it that way.

Looking back now, she guessed it was the kind of relationship one would categorize as “adoration from afar”. Not like a teenage girl kissing a poster of Leonardo DiCaprio every night, sliding under the covers naked with his eyes on her, and only her, even though anybody could buy him for three bucks at the Wal-Mart.

No, it was more like a private play. One she, as Eddie, was performing for the people of Rindge. As if Edith had been handed the script, and shown where exactly out of the ashes of the second act, she would emerge. Eddie—born of a wink, nurtured on fantasy, sustained by faith.

Of course, she knew that the man across the room was someone’s husband. She knew he would never leave his wife and marry her, never sit in the living room Eddie had designed for him, never drink the cases of Heineken in the basement. She understood completely that clearing out the garage to make room for his truck was unnecessary, and buying season tickets for two to the Boston Pops was frivolous and foolish, but she also knew he was a part of her.

He was there behind her eyelids when she went to sleep at night, and if she squinted her eyes and pulled at the corners of them a bit, she could see his face in the swirls of the ceiling. He was the part of Edith that took chances. He was the Eddie that got on a plane to San Francisco and never looked back.

I imagine my day. I’ll drink real coffee, while it’s still warm, wear real clothes with real shoes on my feet. I might actually be able to go to the bathroom with the door shut, and not have to explain to anyone what I am doing in there.

If I were my husband I could eat an entire nutrition-filled grown-up lunch, sitting down. Hello expense account. I could have long-winded uninterrupted conversations with real people who are over three feet tall. These conversations would have a beginning, an end, and actually include some words with two or three syllables.

During this day of swapping, something terribly exciting will happen. I will complete a task. Complete a task! Just the thought of this warms me more than a tray of tequila shooters on Ladies Night Out. Wow. I might stand back and admire that task. I may even accept praise from one of my many intelligent and articulate co-workers as they admire my well-done task. I may even work late. Why rush home? I’ll hold a meeting at Hop’s to discuss important office matters, such as the cost efficiency of paper towels versus cloth for the employee bathroom.

Then, I’ll zip home in my shiny, expensive sports car to my shiny, wonderful family, honk in the driveway, burst through the door and dump my briefcase in the hall. “Honey, I’m home!” I’ll toss my coat near a chair, whip my tie over the railing and twirl my daughter until she is dizzy and bumping into furniture, then rile up the dog, ignore those cries of “Helllp!” from the backyard and head upstairs for an long, uninterrupted, steaming-hot shower.

After my pampering, I will appear downstairs, expecting all to be well, or—yell loudly until it is. Still full from snacks at the bar, I’ll sip my chilled Ketel One martini, pick at my gourmet meal and leave the plate where the dog is sure to find it.

Time for television. My remote. My recliner.

“Kids? Could you go somewhere— Hon, isn’t it their bath time?”

Ah. Peace, quiet, and sports.

“Psst. The dog needs to go out. Yeah, I heard him barking.”

And finally, after my unbelievably long, challenging day, I’m alone with my spouse. I’ll listen half-heartedly to the events of the day—something about a water heater and the mailman’s leg. I’ll nod, offering the occasional sympathetic grunt as I surf through 800 channels thinking, Man! That was nothing compared to my day. They just don’t understand what it takes to be out there, do they?

Then I’ll scratch myself and wink at him. “Come over here and give me some lovin’, Sugar. What do you mean you’re tired and want to go to bed?”

originally published Gwinnett Daily Post humor column, Lifestyle section, October 25, 2003

(as it appeared in venuszine, August 2005)

Susie Carmichael might have continued like this for years; if she hadn’t gone looking for the dildo her sister Anna had sent her last Christmas. If she hadn’t stood on the boxes in the closet. If she hadn’t fallen into Richard’s suits. If she hadn’t found the red satin panties peeking from the breast pocket of his gray worsted wool blazer.

But the truth hit her. It was as obvious as Chrissy Stein’s boob job. Richard Peter Carmichael was a lying, cheating, no-good asshole who deserved to die. And not in a sudden, violent way but in a deliberate, long-suffering way similar to their marriage.

They met fifteen years ago, on the evening of the Butter Queen Ball. Susie stood alone in her shiny new tiara and custom-tailored blue velvet dress thinking about the lumps in cottage cheese and believing in romance when he stuck out his hand and said, “Hello Sweetness, I’m Richard Peter Carmichael.”

His name should have been clue number one, a guy named after a penis. Twice. But Susie thought Richard was handsome and liked how he called her “Sweetness” and how he held the door and steered her with his large palm on the small of her back.

Susie wore the tiara again a year later when she and Richard were married in a tasteful ceremony at the Elks Lodge. And when they returned from their honeymoon in Pompeii, Susie embarked on a new life as obedient housewife, complying bed partner, dutiful weekend gardener, diligent shopper, wrapper and sender of good cheer.

She understood some men didn’t want to be with a woman who was smarter than them. They didn’t realize this might be an asset when there were questions to be answered, decisions to be made, money to be invested. Richard was one of these men.

On weekends, between ironing his boxers and perfecting her six layer chocolate cake recipe, Susie would ask him stupid questions like, “Which way do you screw in a nut to tighten a washer?”

Richard would smile and chuck her under the chin with a slim, baby-soft finger, then slam her up against the wall and ram his hips at her like a jackrabbit in heat.

“Did you say screw, Sweetness?”

Susie would lift her skirt and stare over his hunched shoulder, mentally drafting plans for a fully-automated solar septic system that would service the state of Arizona.

“You’re the best, Richard.”

Last Sunday, Susie left the crossword puzzle out by the toilet with the easy clues erased. Richard finished the puzzle in a few days. The joy the success gave him was worth sacrificing her ego—until he started to gloat—then Susie waited until he was asleep and she leaned over, whispered in his hairy ear, “I did it. I did the whole fucking thing, you moron.” That night she slept well.

And so it went, until this morning–until a stranger’s underwear forced Susie to look a little deeper. Susie slumped to the closet floor crying, holding her delicate face in her hands and rocking, remembering Uncle Bob and how he’d smile that crooked grin when she did things for him. She’d fold his laundry, trim his hedges, suck the dirt from under his refrigerator on her hands and knees, just to please him. And when Uncle Bob passed away and the Will was read, Susie was richly rewarded for the pleasure she gave, and in time she forgot about the midnight visits and the smell of rubber.

Susie pulled herself up, wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and did the two things that made her happy. She wore her tiara and went to mow the lawn.

It was easy to think out here in the yard with the rest of the world drowned out by the hum and buzz of the lawnmower’s souped-up engine. Maybe it was the tiara with its sparkling rhinestones. Maybe it was the way the combs dug into the side of her head reminding her who she was. Or maybe it was the rumble and shimmy of the powerful tractor beneath her, sharp titanium blades spinning four times the speed originally intended, spewing debris over two acres with a satisfying chunk and whirr.

Whatever it was, Susie felt at peace. She would handle this thing, just like she’d handled everything else. Richard Peter Carmichael might be an asshole, but he was her asshole.

Susie smiled, shifted the tractor into third and headed for a large pile of pine cones in a copse of trees. She ducked under the low hanging branches, and remembered—too late—the tiara sitting seven and three quarter inches tall on top of her head.

Filigree and rhinestones, sterling silver and white gold proved no match for titanium. The blades of the tractor made mulch of Susie’s 1989 Cobb County Butter Queen tiara, adding a sparkle to the chewed-up bark and pine cones under the fir.

Three hours later, Susie was talking to Madison Sutherbee, damn glad not every household had a video phone by the year 2000, because if the reflection in the toaster was any indication, she looked like hell. And not more than seven minutes ago she’d been sitting on the toilet taking a shit and lying to Madison, telling her the mayonnaise jar was giving her trouble.

“Are you making tuna?”

“Yeah,” Susie answered, remembering last night’s menu.

She coughed to hide the flush and heard from Madison’s end, the pop of a cork, a gurgle of wine, as Madison went on to the next subject; her darling son, Hunter. Hunter-who-could-do-no-wrong-Sutherbee.

Susie couldn’t have children and didn’t want to take in somebody else’s leftovers, so she often ignored her friends when they asked, “When are you and Dick-”

“His name’s Richard.”

“-going to have kids? Don’t you want to leave a legacy?”

Sure, Susie wanted to leave a legacy. A neat, quiet legacy of this is mine and that is mine and oh by the way, that’s mine too. Not that she was greedy—she just had a thing about her stuff, her space. Uncle Bob called it nesting. She called it organized.

Susie switched the phone to her other ear, waiting for Madison to take a sip of her Chardonnay so she could say, “The year before I was crowned Butter Queen, I went to Algiers, did I ever tell you that?”

“Algiers, huh? Don’t they eat dogs there?”

Susie looked out the window, saw the dismantled tractor, the sun glinting off stray chunks of gold in the grass. She ran her fingers over the larger pieces of the tiara she’d been able to save—pieces she was gluing together.

She said, “I used to snowboard, before it was the rage—even heli-skied in British Columbia with a guy who played back-up guitar with Neil Young.”

Madison said, “Was he hot?”

Susie laughed, remembering the guy’s dick was the size of a junior tampon, which reminded her of the time she thought she’d lost one inside herself¾a tampon, not a dick. She’d squatted over the toilet, fingers fishing around knuckle deep, before she thought to look in the bowl and saw it under the toilet paper, sunk to the bottom like a red, waterlogged canoe.

Susie turned the reconstructed tiara in her hands. It was perfect–for a baby or a cat.

“Yeah,” she said. “He was hot. You know, he gave me Mr. Fuzzy Balls.”

Madison squealed, “Ooh, Mr. Fuzzy Balls? I loved him! You should get another cat, Susie. You could adopt one from the shelter….”

That was just what Susie needed, something else she’d have to fix. She grabbed a pair of scissors and left the kitchen, half-listening to Madison’s familiar rant about unwanted animals and her desire to save every dog in Idaho. She still couldn’t understand why a woman who believed in the glory of animal heaven would be so reluctant to send any there.

In her bedroom, Susie draped Richard’s blazer across the bed and arranged the sleeves so it looked like he was still inside. She held the scissors like a butcher’s knife, raised her arm, then carefully snipped off all the buttons and cut holes in every pocket.

There was a pause on Madison’s end, the zip of a lighter, a deep inhale. Susie dropped the scissors and buttons into the night stand drawer and told Madison, “My brother says there’s a feral pack of Chihuahuas roaming the hills of Los Angeles.”

“Really? Someone should save them.”

“They come out at night, drink from swimming pools and eat people’s cats.”

“Oh, the poor kitties….”

Susie sat next to the blazer, thinking about how you can’t save everything. She pulled the panties from the pocket. They weren’t satin, after all, but a synthetic blend designed to emulate satin, as if your ass would know the difference, or the fat sweaty palm of a cheating husband would really fucking care.

She remembered how easy it had been to snap the neck of Mr. Fuzzy Balls when he’d been sick, too sick to rise out of the shit that dribbled nonstop from his furry behind, too sick to close that milky cataract eye. But Richard was a big man, thick in the neck.

Susie stuffed the panties back in the pocket. She’d never understood the whole lingerie thing anyway. You put on some expensive, itchy, lacy thing so your husband/boyfriend/lover would say, “Wow. Take it off.” Susie would rather invest her money on Wall Street. From the size of the red undies, it looked like Panty Girl would rather invest her money at Krispy Kreme.

Besides, Susie looked great naked. Richard always told her so. But now she wondered who else he was asking to strip for him, who else he was calling, “Sweetness,” and where he was touching her when he said it.

Susie adjusted her grip on the phone, carried the blazer to the closet and hung it back where she’d found it.

“Say, Madison? Whatever happened to the chemistry kit we gave Hunter last year?”

The next morning, Susie waved to Richard as he drove off. She liked how quiet the house was without him nattering around. She made anagrams with the Latin names of East Coast ferns and played computer chess with Czechoslovakian lesbians while sipping Chai tea. She researched the blood flow from brain to penis in a two hundred pound man then cooked up a big batch of saltpeter and a suburban version of Viagra with Hunter Sutherbee’s chemistry set.

According to the twelve-year-old on the internet, a breakfast of sodium nitrate and PDE-5 would quell Richard’s desire for donuts and in the evening, a combination of vardenafil and dopamine would increase Richard’s nitric oxide level to yield an instant and long-lasting erection–whether he wanted one or not.

“Watch out, dude,” the kid wrote. “If you’re not careful, his Johnson could explode.” The warning was followed by a exploding smiley face and the words, “Peace, out.”

That night, Susie served Richard a gourmet meal, complete with a warm cherry pie. Richard thought the pie tasted a little bitter, but the strong coffee seemed to make him feel better, better than he’d felt all day.

Like always, Richard figured it was something about him—but when he carried his wife into the bedroom, still confused yet proud of his youthful vigor, he had a moment of clarity—he had never felt this way with another woman.

Susie woke before him and slipped down to the kitchen. She listened for the shower, the flush, the creaking stairs, then met Richard at the door, his briefcase and commuter mug in her hands.

She said, “Have a wonderful day.”

Richard stood there in his gray worsted wool blazer with the buttons sewn on crooked and took the coffee. He reached for his briefcase, brushed his hand over Susie’s breast and grinned.

“Sweetness, you’re the best.”

Susie watched him walk gingerly to his car.

She said, “Don’t you forget it,” almost loud enough for him to hear and when he blew her a kiss as he drove away, she added, “Dick,” then closed the door and went back to her chess match. Hajek had just mounted the Najdorf Sicilian Defense and Susie had the perfect reply.