Crack the Spine Literary Magazine

crack the spine FEBRUARY 4, 2021| ISSUE no 267 Literary Magazine Poetry J. D. Nelson Stephanie Kaplan Cohen Short Fiction Mehreen Chawla A. T. Yano Cover Art Keith Moul ISSN 2474-9095 Creative Non-Fiction Alexandra Michaud Micro Fiction Rich Giptar Flash Fiction Robert P. Kaye Kara Mae Brown The Ligation of Bargaining Christine believes Noah looks like his father. The resemblance is visible in the folds of skin crumpled at the corners of his umber eyes when he cries from nightly terrors, or when he smiles weakly in relief when she scoops him into her arms. His pure distress morphs into hesitant ease after burrowing his head into her protective embrace. Christine is his shelter. However, nothing of reward is simple. On Saturday mornings, she swathes Noah’s tiny toddler body in a puffy Thomas-the-Tank-Engine coat and galoshes while he stands on the cracked linoleum, arms patiently outstretched. She secures his home-sewn, fleece cap over his small ears. An extra packet of tissues fits into his chest pocket. Noah watches expectantly with almond-shaped eyes. When he holds out his hands, a pair of woolen mittens must clothe them within a minute or two before his little face contorted into a preamble of tears. Noah needs routine. A sense of security. He hardly speaks even at age five. This is perfectly normal, Christine tells herself. There are plenty of children who prefer different methods of communication. Perhaps it made him smarter, like a real Einstein baby ready to blossom in his own time—the cure to menstrual pains, intraventricular hemorrhaging, and heartache locked somewhere beneath his head of raven locks. Noah uses his own language to convey his needs, wants, and fears. Only time and safety can coax him into verbal dialogue. Surely. An overcast February sky threatens to sprinkle the day’s first snow as Christine walks Noah down to the park six blocks from the apartment for his hour of play. A tiny, gloved index finger hooks about her own, just tight enough for reassurance. She resists enveloping his hand in hers, to offer more than a fragment of herself. To pull him near. He remains distant, like a raft in the middle of the ocean. But her closeness requires temperance, as though her desire to be beside Noah could become the current carrying him further to sea. Christine fights her maternal instincts to maintain the space. Better a fragment of Noah than nothing at all. Halifax Common Park is dotted with sparse clusters of dog-walkers and couples. No children; Noah has the entire playground to himself. He trots eagerly to the trio of animal spring-riders anchored into a patch of frozen bark chips. He stands beside the one shaped like an orange cat and spreads his arms. Christine bends down, lifts him by the waist, and sits him into the groove of the cat’s back. With a firm push to the shoulders, she gives him the momentum to rock to and fro while the rusty metal springs squeal sharply in protest. Christine retreats to a vinyl-covered bench beneath a skeletal birch. The squeaking of the grinding metal assures her of Noah’s diverted attention while in the depths of her woolen coat, a crumpled sticky-note toys anxiously between her fingers. It had long lost its adhesive quality and the familiar, meticulous writing in graphite pencil nearly faded entirely. Her life in Pasadena was completely organized through notes, labels, planners, e-mails, computer folders, and RE-plica lab memos; they reminded her of things both special and mundane, freeing her from the burden of committing anything to memory. Now, Christine vowed to remember everything—from the texture of the chipped flamingo-pink tile in her apartment kitchenette to the slight curve of Noah’s forehead which mirrored her own, to the waxy trails of Crayola crayon cutting across the pages of his coloring books. She would never forget anything after starting over. She couldn’t. However, this one sticky-note, and the one who had left it taped to her front door, wanted to remind her, insistently, of that structured life. Footsteps crunch the frosted grass behind Christine. She braces as Levi cautiously settles at the other end of the bench. He fidgets, leaning forward in an attempt to catch her eye.“Christine?” “Dr. Rao,” she replies shortly. A sharp intake of breath follows.“You look…good.” The sticky note in her pocket rolls into a ball between her finger and thumb, the one covered in his delicate handwriting.“How did you find me?” Levi throws another nervous glance about their surroundings; the nearest couple plays fetch with a Golden Retriever seventy yards away.“Cold weather suits you.“ Christine scoffs. She knows the true answer.“Where’s your P.I.?” His pause confirms her suspicions.“I’m here alone.” She hears the truth here—Levi may need help finding her, but he’d put this task on himself. His face looks exhausted, but she sees faint traces of triumph. Overall, he appears the same: bright eyes, long hands defined through precise movements, and mocha skin contrasting the bleakness of their surroundings. They had met at the lab—he a self-conscious but tenacious new post-doc, brimming with a conviction for his career and later about his hopes as a family man. She read him as easily as the perfect lettering of his freehand and found his certainty dull. His naïveté reinforced his textbook ethics. Beliefs draw battle lines in the end. RE-plica’s work is infinitely more complex, she’d snorted to herself. Perhaps seeing so many failures during her employment had soured her outlook. This pup of a man wasn’t likely to change that. Ironically, like an egg that refused to crack, Christine soon relished his challenges. Soy over creamer? Carpooling to save her the hour bus-ride commute? A woman’s natural right to motherhood? His answers never faltered. Christine clenches her arms tighter to her body through her coat. She refuses to give him any sign of joy or relief or comfort. Levi cups his restless hands to his mouth to warm them.“Can’t we go somewhere private? Like back to your place?” “You’ll say whatever you came to say right here.” “I didn’t come here to start a war. I’m here to help.” His eyes drift to the small figure swaying back and forth on the metallic cat. “You and your son.” He pauses, mouth falling slightly ajar. “He’s so big now…” “His name is Noah. And that’s what children do—they grow.” “I-I didn’t mean…” His voice trails away. He exhales like a wind catching Noah’s ocean raft. “I’m working for a new lab now in San Diego. They’re small—privately-owned—actually it’s several buddies from MIT. Really good people. They helped me with…finding you.” “Get to the point.” He hesitates. He’s choosing words carefully. “They’re experts—they basically shut down RE-plica after you left. I told them about Noah—our Noah—and about him.” He gestured to the boy. “They’re all very interested and they just want to help you two.” Christine bristles, wanting to abandon Levi on this park bench. She doesn’t move. “I don’t want their help. Noah and I are doing just fine. And even if I wanted to, I can’t go back to the States. I wouldn’t make it past the border.” “That’s the thing.” He shifts his body to face her, voice tight. “We’ve hired a legal team.” The corners of his eyes crease as a hopeful smile splits his lips. “I’m going to make sure you can come home.” Christine stares long into his expectant face, remembering the expression he wore when she had agreed to their second dinner, when he had picked her up on her front steps, and when he had barged into her office, exhilarated, waving the results for their life’s work: the first complete human genetic replica has survived ligation. She vividly recalls her own piece of news and the pregnancy stick wrapped in paper towels tucked into her purse. Christine stands, stretching.“Thanks, but I’m not going to hand him over just to return to sunny SoCal with you.” Hurt cuts his stricken face.“I didn’t say to hand him over—.” “But that’s what you meant, right?” Across from them, Noah slips off the metal cat’s back and looks blankly to his mother. “Safe travels. And don’t come back, for Noah’s sake.” She extends a hand out to the child who registers his mother’s meaning and trundles forward with his index finger outstretched. Linked once again, she turns away to the open road, the path back to the rundown apartment with the flamingo-pink tile. “Our Noah is not here, Christine. You won’t even pay your respects for his sake?” When she looks back, Levi is already setting off across the grass, face obscured and agile hands buried deep in the pockets of his long coat. He stops to pet the Golden Retriever along the way. Christine’s stomach churns when she realized how much the two were alike. Forever in the act of chasing. It’s in their DNA. ~ ~ ~ In the safe confines of her bedroom, Christine lays Noah down for his afternoon nap. He snuggles into the thickness of her bed-comforter, and she layers a second knitted blanket to guard him against the cold. The overdue power bill still sits on the second-hand dresser. She lays beside him, using her warmth to calm his shivers. He quickly falls asleep—moist breath smelling slightly of animal crackers tickles her cheeks. In the dim lighting from the closed window curtains, Christine gazes into the melded complexion of Levi’s dominant features and faint traces of her presence but smaller, childish, and innocent. His unblemished, coppery skin suspends between her snowy pigment and Levi’s darker shade. The day of Noah’s birth arrived with dread. Christine doubted her readiness to be a mother until the moment she held his tiny premature body, absorbing all the tiny hints and shapes of his being. The precious weight of his black head of hair rested against the crook of her shoulder, and his umber eyes squinted up to catch a better view of his father. Levi cried then. Despite his sensitivity, she’d never seen him shed tears until their son nestled beside them for the first time. He was flawless. Perfect. Twenty hours and fifty-two minutes later, they discovered the internal bleeding. Too late. All that remained were seven strands of raven hair clinging to her hospital gown to remind her that their son had indeed lived in the world—had breathed its air. For all the grief that followed, it had not been Levi, but Christine, who had made something out of it. She hadn’t given up on their son when he, so entrenched in his war of righteousness, had failed to take her side. He had made no attempts to deny the reports of her actions to the RE-plica’s board of directors whose accusations of theft, misconduct, larceny, and forgery had chased her and the new growing fetus to Canada. He gave up on their son, the one physical being which could tie them closer together than all cells, than the quantum fabric of the cosmos. And that felt more like a betrayal as if he had caused Noah’s death himself. Evening arrives. Noah wakes and tugs at her sleeve: his sign for hunger. He rejects each piece of bread, cup of juice, and carrot stick in the fridge. With a resigned sigh, Christine re-dresses him for the cold. A trip to the store is necessary. They take the bus. She helps Noah into her lap, using her arms to seat-belt him into place. He presses his nose against the window, little breaths fogging the glass. Halfway to their stop, an elderly woman dodders across the bus aisle, adoring eyes alight. Christine instinctively prepares for judgment. “Why, hello there,” the lady croons, occupying the empty spot beside Christine. “Who is this handsome little fellow?” She reluctantly turns Noah to meet the stranger’s kind face. “This is Noah. He’s my son.” “But of course darling, look, he’s got your little forehead.” Wrinkled fingers brush past his ear. “Look at how cute you are. Your father must also be quite the exotic gentleman just like you.” Christine feels nausea spike through her stomach but forces a smile.“Something like that.” “How old are you?” “He’s five,” she answers. “Almost ready for school. You’re so grown up.” Fear crawls beneath her skin like the apartment cold. Christine wonders how long until she discovers the truth that Noah has been on this Earth for much longer—nearly seven years now with only a month or two missing in between. How much longer before this old lady realizes this child had a different destiny, a different life ruthlessly stolen from him. At the next stop, she hugs Noah close to her chest, mutters a quick goodbye, and scrambles off the bus. She walks the next four blocks to the supermarket, cradling Noah despite his wriggling protests. Up and down the rows she wanders, pulling items off shelves, showing them to Noah for approval—or lack of response. She tosses the boxes and cans into a shopping basket anyway. She can’t hold them both and Christine sets him down to shake the deadened feeling from her arms. Noah flounders about anxiously until he spots the packaged applesauce cups on the low shelf beside him. Christine turns her back for an instant to pick up the full basket to find a man crouched beside Noah. Christine groans.“What are you doing here?” Levi straightens, a hand resting upon Noah’s shoulder. “I can’t just walk away from this.” He leads the boy to her side. “Try to chase me away, but I at least deserve more of your time.” He adds, “And his.” She can’t answer. He gently takes the basket from her and adds the applesauce. Christine follows after Levi, sputtering irritably under her breath, barely noting the looks of several concerned shoppers. He pays for everything.“Where to next?” He asks. “I can give you a ride.” The bus will have more strangers. More chances for scrutiny.“Just take us home,” Christine says sharply, picking up Noah and pulling him out of Levi’s hand. She ignores his pained expression, but he nods. At the apartment door, Christine lets Noah inside and turns to blockade Levi from bringing in the groceries.“Leave the bags outside the door.” “Can’t I come in?” “Just go, Levi.” “Come on, it’s been years.” “You’ll scare Noah. Give me the bags and go.” There was a time when he would’ve obeyed her without question. However, loss either changes a person or makes them stronger in the worst ways possible. “No,” he says. “Unless you have other plans, I’m the only way he eats tonight.” On cue, Noah tugs at Christine’s sleeve in the entryway. Levi takes advantage of her distraction and brushes her aside to enter the apartment. “I promise, I won’t be long.” She wants so dearly to hurt him as much as he’d hurt her by putting Noah’s cold body in the earth. But her child is watching. She busied herself by restocking the barren kitchen, keeping a cautious eye on the pair. Levi sits the boy on one of the folding chairs at the thrift store card-table in the living room. He sits beside him, placing his jacket on the table and observing the child. Levi’s eyes shine with burning curiosity and uncertainty. “So, Noah, would you like pudding? Or applesauce?” His voice quakes the way RE-plica’s machines rattle away creating new samples. Noah blinks. A small finger points to the pink counter where the two boxes perched. Levi reaches for both.“Which one do you want?” Two fingers now follow both boxes. “He can have both,” Christine calls stiffly from the kitchen. Levi frowns.“That’s unhealthy.” “It’s what he wants.” Christine readies to argue, but one of Noah’s fingers drops to his side: he chooses the applesauce. As Levi peels open the plastic lid, his umber eyes squint pensively as though working through a complex problem with no proper answer.“Do you like stories, Noah? There’s a story about a man named Mr. Schrödinger. He tried to have two things at once too.” Christine freezes. “Mr. Schrödinger had a cat. He loved his cat, but at times it would bring dead animals into his home. Rodents and other pests that made his house a bad place to live. Sometimes he secretly wished his cat was gone.” Levi offers a spoonful of applesauce. Noah’s mouth clamps enthusiastically over the end, swallowing the treat. “One day, Mr. Schrödinger had an idea. He put the cat in a box. This way, the cat would still be with him and gone at the same time. He could have both of his wishes at once.” Noah stares inquisitively but then opens his mouth for another spoonful. Levi obliges.“Only when Mr. Schrödinger opened the box was his cat was truly there.” “Levi, that’s enough.” Christine lifts Noah from the chair, turning down the hall. “It’s his bedtime.” Clad in fleece pajamas and thick socks, Christine tucks Noah into the bed sheets. A small lamp shines in the corner to protect him from the dark. “I love you, sweetie,” she whispers into his ear, pressing her lips to the crown of his head. Noah stares at the wall behind her until he closes his brown eyes. An arm brushes past her shoulder as Levi’s careful hand hovers over the child’s hair. He doesn’t reach to touch. Longing marks his face, his breath quickens near her ear. She wants to believe they are back in the maternity ward, the world has fallen into place. But Levi pulls away and leaves the room. A precious moment never to be again. Christine shuts the bedroom door behind them. Levi stands silently in the kitchen, hands fiddling the spoon he used to feed Noah.“Where do we go from here, Christine?” “We’re not coming back with you.” “I know that.” “Then, why are you still here?” “Don’t you want some sort of closure? Anything?” “I had my closure, Levi. I had it with me.”Christine’s voice rises. “Now you want to blow things wide open—wanting different answers rather than the ones I’ve built a new life with.” “You’re not being fair.” “It wasn’t fair when you left me. You left Noah.” Levi’s voice trembles. He looks as if he could cry right there. “Whoever that boy is you’re raising…there’s no way we can know who he really is without help. That child needs proper care.” She can’t hear him. “Noah’s here. He’s right down that hallway. Even now you can’t even say goodnight to your son.” Her nails break the skin of her palms. “All you want is to bring back a new research experiment for your fucking lab-mates, so don’t leave me fucking notes, or stalk me to the fucking store pretending that you’re here for us. You’re not better than me.” It wasn’t true, but the more she spoke, the more she believed. “What you’re doing is not right.” Levi sways where he stands. The corners of eyes crease in anguish and his lids closed. His heavy breathing swells in the silence, laboring as though she shot him in the chest. A long moment passes before he looks up, two streams of tears running down the length of his jaw. She had done it. She had cut herself out of his life. “Okay.” Levi strides past her to retrieve up his jacket. He’s at the front door, hand resting atop the handle. “You’re his mother.” The open door fills the apartment with a frigid wind. He looks back, tears beginning to dry. “Take care, Christine.” ~ ~ ~ The next morning, Christine wakes to Noah pulling on her nightshirt. In his small fists are his mittens and cap.“Cat,” he bleats hoarsely. “Cat.” Wiping the sleep from her eyes, Christine sits up.“What do you mean? Cat?” Noah waves his arms vigorously back and forth.“Cat,” he repeats with more urgency. She understands and pats his head with a smile. They dress. Noah yanks her the entire way down to the park with two fingers instead of one. The behavior raises questions but Christine feeds off his excitement. They cross the grass to the metal spring animals and stop at the edge of the patch of bark chips. The animals are covered in green spray-paint graffiti, keyed marks leaving trails down the frames like white incision scars. On the frosted grass, the orange cat lays broken off its rusted spring, caked in mud and pieces of bark, discarded and forgotten. short fiction by A. T. Yano Wild Huckleberries flash fiction by Robert P. Kaye The trail to the alpine lake proved slippery in the light drizzle. Flexible work hours allowed me to avoid weekend crowds, but I hadn’t ventured into the woods all summer, the season escaping unhiked. Wild huckleberries fruited thick, blue-purple bear scat dotting the steep slope like undigested cobbler. I did not pause to sample the berries, in a rush to get back for an afternoon video conference. The navigation app on my phone steered me straight instead of switching back, pitching me over an abrupt drop-off. A lucky grab arrested my plunge, my boots framing a view of jagged granite. While dangling, my eyes fell on a phone wallet tucked into a cavity in the cliff face, like a letter in a mailbox. I stuffed it into a pocket with my free hand and turned to self-rescue, glad of no witnesses. Later, I muted the idiotic video conference to have a look at the wallet, containing a dead phone, cash, two credit cards, an alarming number of coffee shop punch cards and the delaminating driver’s license of a startled man with a salt and pepper beard like my own. Google exhumed a three year old news story containing his name headlined ‘Hiker Killed in Fall.’ His elegant widow opened the door of an equally elegant house with a water view when I knocked. “I’ve been expecting you,” she said. “Please, come in and have some tea.” She looked familiar, but I couldn’t say why. Probably some charity auction or grocery store encounter. “How is it you walked off the side of a cliff?” she said as we sat at the kitchen table, the wallet resting between us. “They should install a guardrail there,” I said, embarrassed by my lack of perspective. She smiled in sad amusement. “Let me guess. You followed your navigation app, the way some drivers follow their GPSs into rivers. My husband was too far ahead for me to see or hear anything. I hiked up to the lake thinking he’d tired of waiting for me and gone on further. I had lunch on that enormous rock that slopes down to the water. You know the one?” “Sure,” I said, though I had no memory of such a rock, or the lake. “The sun warmed the rock, the air so fresh after the rain and the berries so sweet. I fell asleep for a while and awoke feeling— well, liberated. I met the rescue team on the way down.” “That must have been awful,” I said, hoping for some expression of horror. “Yes and no,” she said. “He always drove too fast, changed lanes constantly, racing the universe. I think he forgot I was with him most of the time.” I gulped my tea, and made some excuse about an appointment. “You should keep this.” She pushed the wallet to my side of the table. “I— I don’t think I could.” I stammered. She stepped to the kitchen and tossed the wallet into the trash— phone, credit cards, cash, ID, everything. Then turned and produced the oddest smile. “Would you like to have sex right here?” she said resting her hand on the countertop. “It might be a sort of completion.” The granite counter forced me to envision impact at velocity. Not an aphrodisiac. It seemed like I’d gone through my entire life missing the obvious. I wondered if others did the same. “You’re right,” she said, with the melancholy smile. “That would be silly. Thank you for returning the wallet. Perhaps I’ll see you again next year.” “Perhaps,” I said, glancing at my watch and assuming she meant out on a hike or at the grocery store or at that auction I couldn’t place. The next day I found myself on the deserted trail, the rocks made treacherous by scattered snow. I located the tangent intersecting the drop-off. Lowered myself with a numb hand around the base of the huckleberry bush, its roots straining to remain engaged in the scant soil accumulated between fractures. The niche below the rock contained a tattered spider web constellated with snowflakes. I extracted my wallet, containing phone, credit cards, cash, coffee shop punch cards and ID and placed it in the cavity. I hung there like some kind of hibernating bat, thinking surely I was missing something. All the wild huckleberries were gone. Moon Moon poetry by J. D. Nelson in the forest of the continuation: see the moon winking it is a thing to do too many of the clown nights in that head weird nothing all day the famous cloud the moment of the cheddar eye a formal goon with the roof goodies earth is a language machine plaque rex the chain ghost was a worrier set the sun to stun the yes of paper plate man waxwing staunch reeble moon ghost now a heart in the daylight micro fiction by Rich Giptar Pink gumball of my head bobbing as I run. Flowers pass in a kaleidoscopic hurry. Then halt quick as a deadened bell to watch the fish-shadows scudding in the river. I don’t like fishing, though the sky is as blue as a bay. A delirious 2am blue. I pick up a cherry and a cherry and a flower and a rock, until I’m tired. So I pound the buttons to darkness, ignore the crumbs that grit the controller like it’s ready to be deep-fried, and rise. Outside the night sky clusters around the concrete blocks of flats. Play The Mullah's Daughter short fiction by Mehreen Chawla Asia reached Sea View beach as the sun was about to set. She and Wafi, the boy she’d danced with at her college concert the previous week, had planned to meet there. She waited for him alone, in her father’s old Corolla, watching bits of clouds scatter across the orange sky, like badly pinched cotton. Usually, Asia wouldn’t approach any man on her own. Her fair skin and honey coloured hair, a sporadic sight in Pakistan, resulted in subsequent male attention from her peers. Wafi, too, had approached Asia himself at the concert, shimmied with his knees spread apart and fists punching the air. His body against hers had felt open and inviting. After the show ended, he lit himself a cigarette, asking her to stay with him. Sadly she couldn’t, Asia told him. A friend had promised to drop her home, and it was past twelve. She didn’t tell him she’d snuck out without telling her father, who forbade concerts and disapproved of late night events at school, for whom even her talking to Wafi would be considered sinful. Instead, while exchanging numbers, she mentioned they would coordinate a proper meeting. She’d enjoyed dancing with him, she said, tilting so her hair could better frame her cheekbones. “Sure. Me too.” Wafi’s expression was obscured by heavy cigarette smoke. He reached Sea View in a black Hilux which he drove himself; three armed guards filling its open trunk. Security must be necessary for him, Asia realized. Following Wafi on Instagram, she’d discovered him to be the son of Shehzad Khan, a textile businessman renowned for his wealth and charitable ventures. He emerged from the car in plain black shalwar kameez and loafers, his wrists bare, but Asia knew he owned expensive things; his Rolex and diamond cuff links were conspicuously visible in the pictures he’d posted online. She figured that his wearing them in the open, away from the security of his home, would attract unwanted attention. The two of them strolled wordlessly on the darkening beach, their feet dipping into crashing waves, scraping against periwinkle shells. Waiting for Wafi to say something, Asia focused on the sky as the call to evening prayer sounded. She thought of her exes, of her limit for physical interactions with them to be light, butterfly kisses on the cheek. Of course, they had wanted more. When they did, she broke off the relationship, marveling at their reactions—confusion, anger, resentment, indifference—with detached stoicism. Like all women in her conservative family, Asia knew that she, too, would have to marry early, by arrangement. She trusted her father, Baba, to find a decent man from their community for her, as her uncles had done for her cousins. Why did she have ex-boyfriends, then, or wish to meet Wafi at the beach? For starters, Asia told herself, the consistent male attention was flattering. More importantly, dating provided a welcome distraction from her lackluster home life, mostly spent in her loitering outside Baba’s locked study, inside where he either signed business documents and cheques, or sat on the prayer mat with his palms fixed in supplication. Although Baba refused to discuss earlier times, their relatives had mentioned that he’d been different before Mama’s death. To Asia, it showed, in that framed picture of them in his study, taken on their last trip together, fifteen years ago. They were atop the Piazza de Spagna, surrounded by umbrella-like bunches of lilac azaleas. Baba was clean-shaven except for a thick moustache, laughing openly in blue shorts and a rhinestone-studded belt, resembling Freddie Mercury, whose songs were the rage then, and whose glossy vinyls Asia had discovered stowed away in Baba’s cupboard. Baba’s arm was around Mama’s bare shoulder, his fingers almost cupping her chin. On the contrary, Asia didn’t remember Baba ever putting his arm around her.At dinner time, she waited alone at the oak-paneled dining table for him to ask her about her day, her life. When they were in the same room, she willed his attention by deliberately scrolling through her exes’ sexts, hoping his eyes would avert from the television screen or prayer book, and he’d catch her, reprimand her, show some honest, unrestrained feeling towards her. But he didn’t notice and Asia’s defiance grew: promiscuous messages turned into promiscuous pictures; calls into physical kisses. Then there was the pleasure of Asia dating as many men as she could, of enjoying a limited, hedonistic lifestyle behind Baba’s back, knowing she wouldn’t allow herself to feel deeply for anyone. She wasn’t sleeping around, that validated her actions. And a husband, whenever he would enter her life, seemed more of a concept than an actual person. She had a vague, faceless image of the man Baba would choose for her, not imagining what he would look like—whether they would get along or not, or be open to each other’s experiences and ambitions or not, or even fall in love. Her cousins seemed happily married; naturally, she assumed she would be too. A squeeze of Asia’s hand brought her back to the present. She was with Wafi, on a rocky edge that overlooked the now-black sea. They’d spoken, awkwardly, about new restaurants in Karachi, moved to a dead-end and were now silent. Resting onto her elbows, Asia asked him about upcoming movies he wanted to watch. That revived the conversation. They moved onto college life, schoolteachers that they liked and hated. Wafi’s legs dangled above the waves when Asia told him she was a Literature major. “You want to write a novel?” Asia shrugged. “I might go for journalism. Or maybe work in Baba’s textile business.” “Textile’s viable,” Wafi said. “My dad says if you establish your business in Karachi’s economy, you’ve made it.” “Hmm.” Baba’s business, which supplied raw cotton to manufacturers, earned well, but Asia knew his profits were pittance compared to that of Wafi’s dad’s ten spinning mills. Lights from nearby buildings loomed over them, like fireflies in the dark. Wafi’s phone had started to buzz. He mouthed something before walking off to talk, straying nearby, so Asia caught bits of the conversation. He’d be home, he said, his voice low, submissive. He’d covered his mouth, but was still audible. Yes, he had the guards around. Sure, he’d call on his way back. There was no need to worry. Listening to Wafi’s implorations, Asia felt a sharp pang of jealousy. Baba would be home, too. She wanted him to pester her with frantic, worried calls the way Wafi’s family was doing, instead of busying himself in his study. But she knew he would never do that. Zero chance. As Wafi returned, Asia grabbed his hand. “Why are we here?”she said, feeling a sudden thrill in delaying his return home. After all, he was in her company. His family should learn to wait. “I don’t know,” he said, looking distractedly at his watch. “I guess I—you seem like a fun girl.” Asia squinted in the dark. “Life is fun,” she said, thinking. “But it’s hard too, really. When you don’t have a mother.” Wafi looked like he’d been forced to eat raw meat. “I’m sorry,” he said, pocketing his phone. Asia took off her shoes and relaxed; the rocks felt jagged under her bare feet. She told Wafi how her mother was on her way home from her grandmother’s when it happened. “And the driver?” “He died too.” Asia shrugged. “Both on the spot. They were hit by a water tanker. I was barely four, so I don’t have any memories of her. I wish I did, though.” “What about your father? Is he O.K.?” “What do you mean?” Asia said, alarmed at the uneasiness of her tone. “Of course he is. We’re both fine.” Wafi deviated the conversation, switching to tales of himself on trips abroad. He’d traveled well, to Germany and Switzerland and Maldives—places Asia had only seen pictures of. He had a way of adding animation to his voice, to shift his tone depending on the content of his stories. “Let’s just say the thieves who stole my suitcase outside the Collosseum didn’t see it coming,” he said, mock-punching the air as Asia laughed. “I guess I should go,” he said, as his phone began to ring again. Asia grimaced. “I guess you should.” Wafi sighed, fiddling with his shirt collar. “You’re a fun girl,” he repeated. Then he leaned over and kissed her. Not the light, butterfly pecks that Asia was used to offering, but deep, probing kisses that made her feel like he owned her. Asia tried to breathe as his tongue scraped her teeth. ~ ~ ~ They continued their talks and smoked together over the weeks. Wafi was usually diffident and impersonal, speaking about the latest music and movies. In return, Asia told Wafi about her friends at college, how she’d snuck into a rave with them once, only to smoke up and almost drown in the host’s pool, surrounded by marble balloons instead of people. While sharing a joint at another time, Asia gathered the courage to tell Wafi about her cousins’ marriages, of her being expected to do the same. Wafi threw his leftover apple into the waves below; a crow swooped down and caught it. “Early marriages,” he said, as if it were the sourest thing he’d ever eaten. “Ugh. It’s in my family too.” Asia ignored the burn in her thighs as Wafi’s hand grazed her fingers. “But I say it’s the 21st century. Live and let your child liveth. Is that right, Literature major?” “I—I don’t know,” Asia ended shakily. “I guess I want to fulfill Baba’s expectations.” She took another puff, throwing the remaining joint off the cliff’s edge. She didn’t ask him about his own parents’ wishes, thinking instead how, with her increasing attachment to Wafi, she’d begun to think of a potential arranged husband as a real, live man—a person she would have to live with forever. The uncertainty of the future made her sweat. “Life’s great,” she said, telling herself she would focus on the now. “It’s great,” she repeated, louder. They kissed again, over and over until Wafi’s phone rang and he had to leave. He always left first. At home after their meetups, Asia felt a strange urge to laugh, to run, to do something wild. This confidence radiated around her like an iridescent silver bubble. While getting ready for a dinner at her grandmother’s one evening, she especially liked how her lashes were propped up by heavy mascara, how unusually taut her stomach seemed over silk panties. She covered her chest with straightened hair, enough so a single, rosy nipple showed, and took a picture on her phone. Holding her breath, she sent it to Wafi. His response, a series of erotic emojis, was instant. Throughout the dinner, peeping over her phone in between their messages, Asia noticed for the first time a lack of coordination between her older cousins and their arranged husbands, in their forced smiles and dutiful exchanges. One husband, carrying a sulky faced child, plopped her down next to Mirha, Asia’s eldest cousin. “She’s crying,” the husband said, exchanging the baby for a bowl of mango ice cream. “Take care of it.” Was there no romance between them? Afterwards at home, Asia hummed her way into Baba’s study with a tray of green tea for their weekend ritual, tea and news in his office. Baba’s desk was empty, his fountain pen uncapped atop the cheques he’d been signing. It was Wafi’s birthday next week. Asia had planned a cozy dinner, just them at a restaurant, but he’d spoiled her surprise by mentioning a small party with friends at his house. Now she had to ask Baba for permission. She hated lying to him, but the thought of not being with Wafi, of him enjoying his special day without her made her feel like—there was no other way a nineteen-year-old could put it—like she’d die. Baba emerged from the bathroom, his greying beard dripping with ablution. At the dinner, he’d talked quietly with Asia’s grandmother, their spoons dipping in sync into their desserts. He settled himself on the leather sofa and switched the television on, motioning for Asia to pass the tea. She did, sitting next to him. First she hesitated, seeing how absorbed Baba was in the news, then, knowing she couldn’t bear to wait further, she turned towards him. She told him the birthday was at a friend’s house, and she’d only attend for a while, trying to sound as obedient as possible. Like an offender not ready to plead guilty. Still glued to the news, Baba sipped his tea. “Which friend?” “Sara. You know, the one who lives in Defence.” There was a silence as Baba stared at the television screen. Slowly, he nodded, telling her he had something to say after the headlines. Asia exhaled. Baba was usually so guarded, so fussy and mistrustful over her meeting friends. She’d already begun to plan ways to sneak out; the sudden permission was almost a miracle. When the news ended, Baba turned towards Asia, fully conscious, as if seeing her for the first time. “At the dinner, your grandmother said a woman wants to see you for her son.” Now it made sense. He was allowing Asia freedom, knowing she had limited time until an eventual arranged marriage. They’d both known it wouldn’t be much longer, judging by how her cousins had married before twenty-one. Asia was already nineteen. Yet, she noticed her hands getting clammy, her voice becoming high pitched. “Baba, I’m too young for marriage.” “You’ve never said this before.” She hadn’t. They’d discussed it, a year ago, the three of them. “A proposal would be difficult for a girl without a mother,” Asia’s grandmother had concluded, more informative than bitter. “But we have to hope.” Asia stared at the beige study curtains; her phone buzzing with Wafi’s unread messages. She noticed Baba’s attention shifting. He looked disappointed, like he knew what was going on but had chosen to ignore it. Struggling to pour herself green tea, Asia decided to discuss her situation with Wafi at his birthday party—surely, he’d be able to help. She’d told him about her family’s expectations, and of course, she didn’t expect to marry him, at least in their current state, but imagining him as a potential husband had the effect of a tranquiliser. He’d said his family married early too; that calmed her down further. Chewing on a grape, Asia told herself that anyway, most ladies who came to see girls simply ended up not being interested. ~ ~ ~ Wafi’s house was a palatial bungalow surrounded by barbed wires, barely a walk away from Sea View. The guard, after asking Asia’s name, led her through the driveway where a shining Mercedes was parked next to the Hilux Wafi drove. Asia crossed a giant oak door surrounded by overgrown creepers and entered a back door into an empty kitchen, where there was no sign of a servant or cook, or someone who might guide her towards the party. Loud music from upstairs seemed welcome; it led Asia into a large hallway where around a dozen boys and girls, none of them from her college, were dancing. The girls all had heavy makeup on and wore short, glittery dresses above towering stilettos. Asia’s muscles tensed under her yellow sweater. She hovered anxiously in the background, looking for Wafi, for some semblance of familiarity. He was on the sofa, oozing confidence with a cigarette in hand as he chatted with two couquettishly attractive girls. She greeted him; to her surprise, he stood up and hugged her with a tight-lipped smile, scraping her cheek against his cotton shirt. No indication of them being anything more than school-friends. Still, Asia could sense the other girls giving her derisive looks. Confused, and desperate to talk to him, she settled into a corner chair and scrolled through her phone, noticing the way Wafi mixed with the crowd, how he made the guests laugh. The girls thronged round him, giggling and whispering. One of them massaged his back and neck as he stood upright, sipping his drink. Swallowing bile, Asia made her way towards a table filled with snacks. There was an open cardboard box underneath, next to a small bedroom fridge. The fridge was empty except for some bottles of Johnny Walker. All the guests held a glass in hand with the same brownish whiskey sloshing inside. Asia had tried alcohol before, at a friend’s party, but not much. She poured some out for herself, adding a few ice cubes for good measure, returning to her seat in silence as she felt a headache coming on. Wafi was entertaining everyone except her. Wasn’tshehis girlfriend? Livid, she sipped the liquid, wincing as it burned her throat. Baba had said Islam forbade alcohol, but Asia couldn’t think straight amidst the loud music and the dancing. She went for a refill. Guilt, like bubbly foam, did arise after a few sips, but she drowned it by downing more whiskey—feeling relaxed, more assured of herself. Now the situation became clearer. The other girls were playthings, meant for casual flirtation. Wafi was merely teasing her with his apparent inattention. Wasn’t she the golden haired girl that every man asked out? The girl who could make or break a guy’s heart at will? Any man would be a fool to ignore her. Joining the crowd, Asia walked unsteadily towards Wafi and wrapped her arms around his neck. Wafi’s laugh was like velvet—the other girls had moved apart. His hands rested on Asia’s hips as they danced; her body twisting of its own accord and her heels clacking the marble floor, if she’d been dancing all her life. Still swaying, Asia followed him, into what looked like a bedroom. Lacquered wood lined the floor, covered by a massive sheepskin rug. On the left was a glossy table with an equally glossy iMac atop. A king-sized bed rested in the middle. They sat on the bed and began to kiss. “I’m lucky to have you,” Wafi said, taking off his shirt. “You’re the best.” His hands were on his belt buckle. “You’re the best,” he repeated, his voice thin and cold. Asia stared at the scraggly hairs on Wafi’s chest and told herself she loved him. Drunk but surprisingly calm, she followed his movements, more a detached observer than an active participant, not resisting when he took off his underwear. She lay on her back with her hand on her stomach, her breathing cold and rugged, trying to imagine Wafi as her future husband. She had to talk to him. About what? Vaguely, she remembered that a woman was about to see her for her son. As Wafi tore open a small plastic packet, Asia remembered with detached interest a Keats’ verse she’d read at school: into her dream he melted. She felt a sudden, sharp pain in her groin and became aware of Wafi entering her. Their actions were real after all, with real consequences. It took Asia a second to comprehend their severity. If Baba found out—he’d be so disappointed. A woman was about to see her for her son! Shaking all over, she pushed Wafi away. “Asia what-the-fuck?” He’d moved to the red study chair, staring at Asia in disgust while he lit a joint. After a puff he calmed down, busying himself in forming ringlets that dissipated as soon as they met air. Trying to steady herself, Asia called out his name. “Hmm?” “Wafi, I need you to marry me.” That wasn’t how she’d planned their conversation to turn out. Wafi laughed, as if they’d shared a good joke. “Sure,” he said, in between puffs. “No, you must understand.” Music still blared through the walls; in between track changes, Asia overheard someone say that they could drink and dance till whenever they wanted; Wafi’s parents were in London. She remembered how nervous he’d looked on their dates, whenever his parents interrupted with a call or message. “Things at home are serious,” In a low voice, Asia told Wafi about Baba, the woman who was coming to see her. To her exasperation, Wafi’s eyes were red, his breathing thick, ragged. “You didn’t even let me come,” he said. ~ ~ ~ The morning after, Asia gazed at Baba across her at breakfast—quiet, careful, distant Baba, ladling out cereal for himself or poring over news updates on his cellphone. He hadn’t said anything when she’d arrived home late, pointing at the table instead where a cold steak awaited her. Surprisingly, she’d hidden her inebriation well—she’d thanked him as soberly as possible, told him the party had started late, that she’d had fun. After breakfast, and a brief phone call with someone—Asia assumed it was her grandmother—Baba told Asia that the woman would come in two weeks. A brightness illuminated his face, like sunshine. “We’ll order new clothes and shoes online for you, from my card,” he said, as if he’d transformed into his destined role as her fairy godmother. “I’ll help you choose.” Slowly, Asia nodded. Despite having Baba’s full attention, which she’d wanted all her life, her mind was weary, her thoughts incoherent. In a panic, she called Wafi every hour. No response. Her messages hadn’t been received either. She remembered his cold smile, his excessive flattery. “I’m lucky to have you,” he’d said. Had he even used a condom? She remembered the packet—he had. Thank God. Over the next two weeks, her calls still unattended, Asia waited outside every college lecture that she knew Wafi took. Amongst the students who shuffled outside, bagpacks slung around their shoulders, Wafi’s cropped hair and black Nike bag weren’t visible. It was ridiculous, as if he’d dropped out, or never attended college in the first place. Asia’s friends had no information about Wafi’s disappearance. The college “friends” he’d been with had no clue about his whereabouts either. There were no new posts on his Instagram account, no Check-in on Facebook to indicate what he was up to. Asia’s friends, concerned at her weight loss, her dark circles, her sudden deviation in class performance, reminded her that she used to be a top student. “Don’t waste your future over someone who isn’t worth it,” they said. “His parents were in London, right? He’s probably joined them and not told anyone. Assholes do these sort of things.” They took Asia out for mani-pedis, treated her to chocolate lava cakes and strawberry tarts topped with whipped cream. It didn’t work, didn’t offer Asia the closure she desperately wanted. She lay at night, her body alien to her, with the knowledge of it having been used—too easily, too carelessly. She thought of her grandmother’s saying: Good men married virgins. Good men divorced sluts. All those times she’d broken her exes’ hearts, they’d called and messaged her until she’d blocked them, never the other way around. Her own heart now felt like an anchor, pulling her throat into her chest. She kept calling Wafi, till two days before the woman was supposed to see her. Still not available. In bed, her mind raced with desperate plans: she’d somehow contact Wafi’s father, tell him everything. No, she’d park her car outside his house and yell it out, for the neighbours to hear. That would show him. But it wouldn’t solve anything. Instead, Baba would find out what she’d done. And he’d be so disappointed. The thought tensed her already-sore muscles, and as she ran to the bathroom for another round of anxiety-induced vomiting, Asia realized that for her own sake, she had to do something. The next afternoon, she drove Baba’s Corolla to Wafi’s house. Everything was the same; the stone horses were still in mid-capriole at the main entrance. The guard, recognizing Asia, let her in through the back gate. She ran up the stairs, stood in the marble floored hallway where everyone had been dancing almost two weeks ago. She’d felt unwelcome then, and she felt it even more now. She shivered as she took her shoes off outside Wafi’s bedroom.Briefly hesitating, she opened the door to find him alone, in his underwear, watching a movie on his laptop. His face whitened when he saw her, as if he expected instant death. Before Asia could say anything, he’d rushed inside the bathroom. She heard the faint tumbling of clothes from inside. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come.” Shaking his head once he was fully clothed, Wafi locked the bedroom door, disheveled and weary, more a middle aged man than a boy. “You weren’t picking up my calls.” An embarrassed grin spread across Wafi’s face. “I broke my phone.” “And you haven’t been coming to college, either.” Wafi walked over to the open window, defiant. “I didn’t feel like it. That’s all there is to it. Is there anything else that you’d like me to explain?” Sunlight shone through the curtains, forming indiscernible, shadowy shapes on the wall ahead. They dimmed and brightened under the moving clouds, making Asia feel dizzy. She moved towards Wafi again, blurting out the impossible. “The woman’s coming tomorrow. I need you to marry me.” After the party, he’d clearly been expecting this. “No way, no way. Fuck, Asia. What are you, crazy?” “Wafi, you knew.” He did, didn’t he? She’d told him about her future arranged marriage. Despite knowing, he’d used her. She thought she noticed guilt in the corners of his wry smile, in the slight shake of his hand as he fiddled with his shirt collar. She hated herself for loving him, more than he’d ever reciprocated. “Asia,” Wafi said, slowly. “After the concert, you said we’d meet at Sea View. You shared personal stuff by telling me about your mother. You sent me nudes.You danced with me at the party. Remember?” “How does any of that mean sex?” “You could have said no.” The room became a kaleidoscope. Bed and bookshelf, cupboard and study table, all conjugated and blurred, changed shape. The anxiety bubbled up within Asia’s chest, like the foam of an epileptic patient. It was true—she hadn’t refused. She walked around the room, her mind teeming with uncertainty, stopping at a series of photos on Wafi’s bookshelf. The photos were from visits to London. In most of them, Wafi was sandwiched, tight-lipped and formal, between his parents. Asia recognized his father, Shehzad Khan, from the many times she’d seen him on TV. He was clean-shaven and fully suited in the pictures. She noticed his hand, hairy and large, in the way he displayed it in his possessive grasp of Wafi’s shoulder. Anyone could tell the family had money—the designer logos were clearly visible in their brightly coloured scarves, their belts and shoes. The last photo caught Asia’s attention. In it, Wafi stood with his parents outside Harrods. Next to Shehzad Khan stood a man with similar grey hair, thick sunglasses, a French beard under his hawk-like nose. His arm, also large and hairy, was around a girl Asia’s own age. The girl wasn’t conventionally pretty, but her hair was thick and lush, and her smile was carefree and relaxed, unlike Wafi’s. An oversized Chanel bag was strung almost carelessly across her shoulder. Asia touched the picture, feeling a tinge of envy. Who was this girl? She turned towards Wafi. “You never told me you had a sister.” “I don’t.” “Then who is this girl? Who is she?” Wafi said nothing. Instead, he laughed sadly, more at himself than her, as if he were the trapped one, the one with more to lose. A cigarette hovered in his hand, unlit, virginal. The photo, put back with a shaky hand, quivered as a breeze blew through the open window. Black clouds had begun to coat the sky. A thunderstorm was forecasted for that evening; Asia needed to be home before the roads became slippery. She turned to Wafi, who lay on the bed, rolling the unlit cigarette. Unflinching. Unaffected. “Why?” Asia was surprised by her sudden loudness, the uncontrolledness of her outburst. “Why did you fuck me? Why did you fuck me? Why?” Wafi’s voice was soft. “You wanted it.” Silence descended upon them again, vicious as a bomb. Outside, the first sign of movement. Servants lugged heavy furniture around while a man shouted orders—clean the table, wipe the chandelier with a dry cloth. There were guests coming that night, from London, he said. Wafi bhai’s special guests. When his parents returned with them, which would be anytime now, the house must be spotless. “I think you’d better leave,” Wafi said. He looked tired. “There’s nothing here for you.” ~ ~ ~ The only memory Asia had of her mother was from a home video recorded months before the accident. A graceful woman with black hair till her hips, she danced the kathak with one hand above her head and the other dramatically swung behind her gold-embroidered dress. Baba’s recorded laugh was jovial, almost contagious, as Mama teased him with her child-like jumps and twirls. When the woman and her son came to visit, Asia wore her mother’s gold embroidered dress and trousers. She’d already betrayed Baba once; she couldn’t bear to disappoint him again, even if he hardly knew what she’d done. Asia completed her look with a cream coloured shawl, antique hoop earrings and red lipstick. Baba exhaled when he saw her. “You resemble her, a lot,” he said, his glasses coated with misty emotion. He put his arm around Asia, leading her into the formal drawing room, where Asia’s grandmother served chicken patties to the guests, who were already seated on the plush velvet sofas. The chandelier above shone brilliantly; Asia realized it had been specially cleaned for the occasion. Her grandmother, too, had rimmed her eyes with kohl—an act she reserved only for exclusive events. Feeling nauseous and small, she sat down next to Baba, crossing her feet. She couldn’t bear to look up at the woman across, as if her sins were printed on her forehead, visible for everyone to judge. But she looked up eventually, surprised to discover how young the woman was herself. She was dressed well, with subtle makeup on. Her son, for whom Asia was being seen as a potential partner, was dressed in a stiff cotton shirt and trousers. As was societal custom, he spoke mainly to Baba, but Asia smiled to see him glancing at her in between pauses. “Well,” said Asia’s grandmother, sounding impatient. Five of her granddaughters had been married this way. “Let’s get on with it.” The woman smiled. Stuttering a little, she mentioned her name, Kanwal. She was a homemaker. The son, Zain, was twenty-four, a businessman who had studied at UC Berkeley. His and his father’s factories were spread across Pakistan, producing tubes and bottles, mainly for toothpaste companies and hospitals. They’d been told of Asia through their neighbor, whose daughter studied with Asia at her college. Both families were from the same community, and if all went well, the children might be a good match for each other. Asia’s grandmother nodded, signaling to Baba with her eyes. While Asia’s grandmother and Kanwal spoke, Asia glanced at the pink bougainvilleas planted outside. She and Wafi hadn’t been official; they’d always met alone, first at Sea View, then at his birthday party which no one else from college had attended.No one could have known about them. “Is it true?” Baba was saying next to her. “That Shahzeb Khan’s son is engaged to Qasim Nadeem’s daughter?” Zain nodded, sipping fresh orange juice from one of Dadi’s favourite wineglasses. Baba whistled. “That’s quite a business deal. The kids are very young though—I’ve heard.” “Perhaps—I don’t know them. But I’ve heard through the business circle, that they are family friends, both attending the same university in London this year, so they shouldn’t have a problem adjusting.” “Hmm.” The call to prayer had sounded outside, but Baba didn’t move. Asia felt herself turning hot. “Excuse me for a minute,” she said, getting up. She turned her back to Baba and her grandmother’s disapproving looks, and stumbled outside, towards Baba’s study, breathing heavily. An image of Wafi sitting in Zain’s position, making subtle eye contact with the girl from the picture flashed in Asia’s mind. The same Wafi who’d told her she was the best, while taking off his underwear. Who hadn’t been official with her, but everyone knew about the girl from the picture. How many other girls had he had sex with, before settling with a wife? Asia splashed cold water onto her face, breathing profusely. A red vase, filled with Hibiscus flowers, was on the side of the study. Imagining it to contain Wafi’s soul, Asia picked it up and threw it on the ground, as hard as she could. Water splotched the rug beneath Baba’s table; flower petals were strewn about amongst the shards of glass. She sank slowly into the leather armchair, fiddling with her nose pin. “I was meeting a boy,” she said loudly, to the empty room. “He said I was a fun girl. And we had sex.” A shard of glass lay beneath Asia’s bare foot. It hadn’t affected her; there was no cut. She picked it up. There was a soft knock on the study door. It was Baba, looking more distressed than she’d ever seen him to be. “What happened here?” Asia put her hand behind her back, holding the shard, the sharpened part of which she pressed into the flesh of her thumb. It hurt; the pain was hers, and hers alone. She told Baba she was fine, that she’d felt scared of meeting a potential husband for the first time, only to fall over the vase in her nervousness. As Baba left, shaking his head, Asia looked out the study window. The gardener was mowing the grass; the clouds were pinkish, despite it being midday. If she waited in the study long enough, the guests would finish their chicken patties, talk amongst themselves and leave. She sat cross legged on Baba’s chair, thinking. Maybe they’d decide her fate with Baba, leaving her out of the equation. She thought of that guy—Zain, how his eyes had met hers across the room. She didn’t know if they’d be a good match or not. He didn’t seem like the judgmental type. Asia got up and threw the shard away. As she reentered the drawing room, with all eyes following her, she nodded directly at Zain and sat where Baba had earlier. Her mind brimmed with questions to ask him. She’d decided it was time for a change. On the day Californians voted to approve marijuana for recreational use, Christine turned 52-years-old. 37 years earlier she took her first drag off a dubiously rolled doobie with her cousin Greg. They crouched behind the tool shed in her backyard, coughing as their limbs filled with helium. Christine’s father was a serious man, but when he came around the corner and saw they were puffing and not kissing, he just laughed. He turned on the raised heel of his cowboy boot, digging a trench in the red Alabama clay. Three years had passed and Southern California was no more morally bankrupt than it had always been. The homeless still required homes; traffic was still backed up on the 405; pretty girls from the South and Midwest still flocked to Hollywood, were still taken advantage of by men in houses teetering on chaparral hills. Every year, the coast eroded into a rising, warming Pacific Ocean. Only now, the citizens of the California bore these burdens buoyed by a tide of THC. Three years and 33 days after legal weed, Christine was 55-years-old, standing outside a smart-looking boutique dispensary staffed by young men with beards and tall women with waterfall hair and thigh gaps. It was 13 days until Christmas and six months and 24 days since she learned that Lewy bodies had nothing to do with Donald Duck’s nephew and everything to do with her father’s disintegrating memory. As Christine fumbled in her purse for her ID under the too bright, nothing-to-see-here lights of the dispensary, her father slept fitfully in a Hospice ward downtown. He was 78-years-old. His wife had been dead for 15 years, 4 months, and 7 days. Not that he remembered his wife. He’d been in the Golden State for nearly four months, though his state was anything but in these golden years. His days passed in a phantasmic state of visions of faces half-remembered, places sensed but not occupied. Christine extracted her state ID and handed it to the man with bio -uminescent skin. She smoothed her shirt over her midsection, brushed her hair away from her face. “Ma’am.” Christine bristled. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but your license is expired.” He handed the ID back to Christine. Christine examined the card. Indeed, it had expired 33 days earlier, on her birthday. “But clearly I’m old enough,” she said. “Ma’am.” (Did she need anymore evidence that she was old enough?) “Ma’am, we simply cannot sell to anyone without a valid license.” Somewhere in the hills above the city, the man Christine had dated right after her divorce, which was finalized 27 years, 7 months, and 18 days ago, plugged a pre-lit, scraggy Christmas tree into the wall. He sank into his leather sofa, arms draped over the back, and looked down at the lights of the town he had lived in for his entire 60 years. A person can be both utterly alone and completely at home. The man Christine dated after the divorce was always holding. Christine took out her phone and whirred through her contacts, paused over his name. Earlier that day, Christine’s father, in a fit of unremembering, had screamed at her to get out of his room. When he rose to push her away, he fell. His head hitting the tile cracked like an ancient code. Christine typed a message, pressed send. Waited. Started walking back toward her car.Her screen lit up. “Sure,” it said. “Come over.” The man Christine dated after her divorce missed Christine, her wit, her candor. When she arrived on his doorstep he handed her the joint. She inhaled with the force of sundowner winds. She came inside. “Your tree is bare,” Christine said. “It is,” he said. He saw. His heart running like canyons in September--dry. They sank into the couch, the joint like a sacrament. With each inhale Christine remembered--the red clay, her father’s muddy boots by the garage door, Greg’s Pontiac Firebird nested in the tree off 21st Street, the sweet scent of decay on her mother’s breath, the way her husband sometimes groaned in the middle of the night. And with each exhale she thought: This. This is what I needed. This forgetting. Remember to the Day flash fiction by Kara Mae Brown The newspapers and the television speak of the horror, the tragedy of dying alone. I remember many years ago I sat in temple listening to a sermon given by Rabbi Jack Stern talking about death. He said that people have two things they must do alone. Dying Alone poetry by Stephanie Kaplan Cohen creative non-fiction by Alexandra Michaud It is the 22nd of July, and tomorrow, the long-period, split-tail comet NEOWISE will be closer to Earth than it ever has been or will be again. Like most comets, it is named for its discoverer: the Near-Earth Object Wide-field Infrared Survey Explorer. Unlike most comets, it is visible to the naked eye. The comet can be seen along the northwestern horizon just after sunset. It will be found most easily through binoculars trained midway between the Big Dipper and the red star Arcturus. It is the brightest comet in the Northern sky since the Hale-Bopp comet appeared in 1997. The comet’s path is parabolic. Astronomers say that it is not a great comet. I I left New York two days ago. We hope to reach St. Louis by nightfall, but we won’t. I admire Appalachia, because it does not beckon: this is a matter of principle. West Virginia’s most famous tourist was a sandhill crane. Her eyes flashed scarlet in greeting when she landed in a cemetery near the town of Clendenin in 1966. Her wings spanned seven feet and she stood as tall as a man. Over the following year, spooked residents blamed her for such variegated tragedies as damaged cars, a missing dog, and the collapse of the Silver Bridge. She is better known as Mothman. Today, she is hailed as a hero of the working class, according to a widely circulated online petition that calls for her image to replace all monuments to the Confederacy in West Virginia. We do not visit the life-sized replica of Noah’s Ark in Williamstown, Kentucky. After an indeterminate number of hours we find ourselves at the front desk of a motel in Louisville, where the young man informs us that the swimming pool is open. The Care-Free Food Court is not located in Carefree, Indiana. It can instead be found adjacent to a truck stop in Leavenworth, Indiana, with which it shares a gas pump and a partially paved parking lot. The truck stop requires masks upon entry, but I don’t know that so I walk into the mask-free Care-Free Food Court and wish I weren’t wearing a mask that says “SHUT UP,” which I ordered from a Korean website two years ago after I caught the flu twice in one January from riding the subway. I try to breathe gently and head for the bathroom, following the trail of dead flies. I buy a pack of cigarettes for $6.96 and leave. It is possible to drive across the entire state of Missouri on I-70 without noticing. Eventually the interstate happens upon a city, but if you don’t stop there you’ll find yourself in Kansas. In Kansas I think about Grant Wood and the color yellow. I think that there is no thumping of clogs on hardwood now and that the cornfields won’t feed anyone. The cloudless prairie sky is too big to look at anymore. The sun sets for a long time. We stop in Hays and get Tex-Mex takeout from a girl in a hazmat suit and drink vodka in a chain motel until we fall asleep. In the morning I remember the comet. Spencer says that in Kansas the death penalty is legal but hasn’t been used since 1965. Much of Colorado could also be Kansas. I expect the earth to take a cinematic turn when we cross the state line, but it does not. At some point the corn becomes creosote. We need gasoline again. I open a map on my phone, pan upward into the plains, and find a gas station three miles ahead. I tap its tiny icon to see if any recent reviews would indicate that the place is still operating. Two months ago, Paco Nomad wrote the following: This is a five star review not of the store or restaurant but of their pizza. It is absolutely the best pizza I have ever had. A Supreme loaded with toppings. Surprisingly they don’t even feature their pizzas. Defiantly worth a stop if you are traveling thru. II The creosote fades as the horizon falters and gives way to the Rocky Mountains. Anything can happen now. We stop in Crested Butte, Colorado and meet a woman named Barbara, who is a cousin of the subject of my father’s latest book. She lives in a tidy cabin on a vast range, where she raises cattle at 9,000 feet above sea level. I have asked to accompany her on her chores today. Barb says that spending considerable time around cattle will convince you of their intelligence. Having spent considerable time around cattle myself, I am convinced of the opposite. But it is best not to argue with cowboys. I nod and think about the sky. Barb offers me a rain slick that smells like sweat and evergreen. The wind is bracing as we step out of her cabin, and I remember my mask, dangling from one ear, which I tuck into the shaft of my boot. She indicates a sensible bay mare. She tells me that she used to own the horse’s dam, and that when that one died she traded two paintings for the daughter. Irma stands about 15 hands high and is half Thoroughbred. Per Barbara, Quarter Horse blood has lent her rough gaits but a sound mind. I approach the mare. Her face is delicate, for a cowhorse, but when I reach to stroke her neck in greeting, she merely dips her head in expectation of the bridle. Irma is a lost Puritan. Barbara’s cattle are greedy: they have drifted down the mountainside to enjoy the rich summer grass by the river, a meal that’s meant for later in the year. As autumn takes hold of the peaks, frost will creep down the slopes too, until the river valley is just a green fold and then a pale crease to be ironed out by snow. It is only July. She must push the cattle back up the mountain. Barbara didn’t ask for my help but she didn’t refuse it either. She does this every day. We ride for a long time along the valley floor, and I don’t think she minds the company. She points out where she has harvested the bones of fallen beasts for her collection. Skulls and antlers, mostly. She tells me how she monitored the decomposition of her favorite mule and how the skiers and tourists have ruined the nearby town. She doesn’t go there anymore. A local cowboy, an acquaintance, was once approached on his ranch by an ad man. He agreed to be photographed for a cigarette advertisement. One thing led to another and the cowboy found himself famous across America, then across the sea, where Chinese teenagers bought knock-off smokes emblazoned with his face and coughed themselves to death. The rancher didn’t smoke. He quit modeling and returned to his ranch, where he died last year. We find the herd grazing about ten miles from the cabin. They are scattered by the river and up the slope. Their hundred pairs of hides are chestnut, their lazy eyes dark and unfocused. A few of them low softly at our approach. I think that it is good to be a cow, until I remember that it is not. One time something frightened her cattle. Lightning, maybe. A snowstorm. A detachment came down the wrong side of the mountain and vanished. Barbara was at a loss. Days later the cows were found huddled inside a snowed-in cabin near Aspen, thirty miles away. She is still bitter that the weather prevented her from retrieving her flock. There was a story in the local paper. After the Forest Service found and removed their frozen bodies, the cabin was left to deteriorate on its own. We must consolidate the cattle. Barb rides up the west wall of the valley to gather the stragglers, while I am to start moving the rest of the herd north, toward another slope. I look down at seventy pairs of blank faces, searching for signs of impending revolt. I find none, because there are none, and I bring Irma to a brisk trot and aim her at a small cow. I give the mare her head, and she lunges toward a different cow. The animal flinches, abides, and her fellows follow suit. Barb sends the other column of cattle crashing through the shallow river. I quail a bit in their path, but Irma holds her ground. The cattle emerge from a wall of foam and veer away from us to join their sisters shuffling along the riverbank. Their hides are wet, dull, and greyed by the dust. III Along the highway, the Navajo Nation is closed for business. I see crossed-out advertisements for fry bread, abandoned houses, and four Appaloosa horses. IV Sedona, Arizona is an officially recognized International Dark Sky Community. Tonight I will see the comet. The website has this further to say about Sedona: Sedona's visitors often hear talk of vortexes – cyclones of energy that come directly from the earth that can be felt by those in their presence. These vortexes are represented by the uniquely shaped rock formations believed to emit energy. Although all of Sedona is believed to be a vortex, there are four primary vortexes in the city, each radiating its own particular energy. Vortexes are categorized as either "feminine" (energy entering the earth) or "masculine" (energy leaving the earth). The Airport Vortex, along Route 89A [...] is said to produce a masculine energy, strengthening one's self-confidence and motivation. Meanwhile, the Cathedral Rock Vortex near Red Rock State Park fosters feminine aspects like goodness, patience and compassion. I read and laugh and decide that we should have our energy drained by a female rock. The hike to the foot of the rock is too far, but we find the church above. Gregorian chants play softly from hidden speakers on a loop. A few backpackers rest in the pews. One man prays at the altar, and tourists take turns stepping around him to snap photographs. I also take a photograph and think about the Navajo. Above the altar is an enormous crucifix. Jesus Christ is dwarfed by the Martian landscape. I sweat in the dark and read more about the vortex. The phenomenon was popularized by a Sedona resident named Page Bryant, who learned of their existence from her guru, a man known as Sun Bear. Sun Bear was born Vincent LaDuke to the Ojibwe on the White Earth Indian Reservation, Minnesota. After LaDuke left the Ojibwe, he founded his own tribe and styled himself “Medicine Chief Sun Bear.” Tribal membership cost $500 and included spiritual weekend retreats. Sun Bear was denounced by the American Indian Movement as a “plastic medicine man.” Page Bryant was a mark. Now we’re in Utah. The first Spaniard to set foot here was a conquistador named Francisco Vazquez de Coronado. He was also a mark. In 1540, Coronado was on the hunt for the Seven Cities of Gold, heading north from Compostela on the advice of the Franciscan friar Marcos de Niza. Along the way, he mistook the Zuni town of Hawikuh for the Golden City Quivira. His men attacked and looted the town for nothing. During a sequel campaign, a fast-talking man whom Coronado called “The Turk” (probably from the Pawnee or Wichita) convinced him to turn east. Coronado wandered the Great Plains for more than a month before returning to Nueva Galicia, where he promptly fell off his horse and declared bankruptcy. When the first Spaniard stumbled upon what is now known as Bryce Canyon, he must have thought he’d found Gomorrah. Here is a rock formation called the Silent City. It is composed of thousands of twisted pillars of bloodred calcium. At sunrise they are capped with frost. I am not a Spaniard but I, too, am afraid to linger. We drive along the northern edge of Death Valley until we reach the other side. Spindly black shadows creep in the waning sun. We stop in Beatty, Nevada, where the black shadows reveal themselves to be feral burros. The first motel we find is attached to a casino. The only open restaurant in town is a chain diner which is also attached to the casino. My father hands me a room key and two sheets of paper. The first is a flyer that welcomes us to the “Gateway to Death Valley” and recommends an excursion to its famous subterranean Amargosa River. The second describes the lives and deaths of the signers of the Declaration of Independence and reminds us that freedom isn’t free. My father and I make our way to the belly of the casino to find the diner. The air is thick with smoke and disease. The girl at the cash register is wearing a crescent moon pendant and informs us that the feral burros are really a nuisance. They raid garbage cans, and tourists stop their cars in traffic to watch the burros eat the garbage. She says that the river isn’t much to look at. While we wait, we spelunk back through the casino to the bar and drink boxed wine from polystyrene cups. I drink two more and go outside to look for the comet. The palm trees in the parking lot are wrapped in blinding, bluish light. V It is July 30th. Having singed the paws of Ursa Major, the comet NEOWISE will enter Berenice’s Hair today at 144,000 miles per hour and will no longer be visible to the naked eye. The comet will return in 7,000 years. The oldest living thing on Earth is a bristlecone pine tree in California’s Inyo Forest. It has stood there for 4,852 years. Methuselah is not marked and can only be found by an expert who has been shown the way. I know only that it is somewhere here, on the north face of a nameless peak, 10,000 feet above the sea. Bristlecone pines can also grow in more hospitable conditions, but the coddling of fertile soil and rain spoils their longevity — it is a sin for the tree to be alive all at once. The most vigorous specimens look petrified; only one thin vein of living bark will betray that the plant is not a fossil. The bristlecone grows so slowly that sometimes it takes two or more years to gain a ring. We hike, haltingly, up the trail and try to breathe gently. Stone eaves and gnarled, bare branches offer sparse relief from the sun. The mountain’s face has no color. I pause before a particularly wretched individual and lay my palm on the antediluvian wood. The Comet Contributors Kara Mae Brown Kara Mae Brown is a writer and Assistant Teaching Professor in the College of Creative Studies at the University of California Santa Barbara. Word Riot, Summerset Review, Santa Clara Review and others have published her work. She has been awarded the Flint Hills Review Prize and the Green Briar Review Prize for nonfiction. Mehreen Chawla Mehreen’s writing has appeared locally in DAWN and The Express Tribune, and internationally, in The Establishment. She is also an alumni of the Tin House summer writing workshop. Stephanie Kaplan Cohen Stephanie Kaplan Cohen poetry has appeared repeatedly in The New York Times, and has appeared or is forthcoming in 96 Inc., Aura/Literary Arts Review, The Coachella Review, Columbia Journal, Confluence, CQ (California Quarterly), Crack the Spine, Door Is A Jar, Folly, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Iconoclast, Pearl, Poet’s Page, Ship of Fools, Sierra Nevada College Review, Slant, Spillway, and Talking River Review. Her prose has appeared or is forthcoming in Amherst Review. Rich Giptar Rich Giptar lives in the southern UK. They read a lot of everything and write book reviews atrichgiptar.wordpress.com. They are a new writer and have poetry upcoming in Perhappened magazine. They tweet @RichGiptar Robert P. Kaye Robert P. Kaye’s recent stories have appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Gulf Stream, Dr. T. J. Eckleburg Review, Jersey Devil Press, and Penn Review .Details on past publications can be found a twww.RobertPKaye.com. He hosts the Works In Progress open mic at Hugo House in Seattle and is an editor with Pacifica Literary Review. Alexandra Michaud Alexandra Michaud is a graduate student at the University of California, Berkeley. Her translation of Marina Tsvetaeva’s “To Alya” can be found in the journal Sui Generis. Keith Moul Keith’s photos are digital, striving for high contrast and saturation, which makes his vision colorful (or weak, requiring enhancement). His grayscale photos are digital, often striving for a charcoal drawing look and mood. J. D. Nelson J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. More than 1,500 of his poems have appeared in many small press publications, in print and online. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including “Cinderella City” (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Visit www.MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado. A. T. Yano A.T. Yano is an LA-based artist and a staff writer for The American Genius. She earned a BFA in Applied Visual Arts and Minor in Writing from Oregon State University, and an MFA in Fine Art from Pratt Institute. WWW.CRACKTHESPINE.COM CRACK THE SPINE LITERARY MAGAZINE