Inverted Syntax
Online Issue Two
A Peek Into Print Issue Two
The Bright
Lauren Davis
He is a stranger here, opening his strange bakery in a town where fresh bread is an extravagance. But it smells like mothers, like winter after a rain, like waking up midday. And the smell fastens to him, so that when he turns the corner, and I see him in the frail morning light, I am brought to memories once gone and memories to come. I stare, ask him his name.
Andy, he says. It is a simple name, and its simplicity is a lie.
Are you the one that opened the bakery? I ask.
Yes, he says. And my front bulb just fizzled. Excuse me. I’m on my way to get a replacement. It’s too dark in there. Please come in and say hi sometime.
There is also the fact of his green eyes. His black hair. His tweed jacket over slight shoulders.
Come in and say hi. Come and say hi. He does not know what he has done with those words.
Moses is not a town that can afford luxuries — daily loaves made in an oven, thrown into a dumpster after 3a.m. if it has not passed hands. I am telling the ghost about Andy, as I tell the ghost about everything, and though I cannot see the ghost or hear the ghost I know the ghost agrees. Imprudent. Real ridiculous.
I can’t afford much of the bread. My disability check is meager. But I will eat bread, no matter the cost, because there is a memory in the smell.
I do not go back to see Andy today. I have other things to do — bathe in milk, bathe in salts, write to my dead brother.
I was not always allergic to the sun. Then my family burned in the fire, and all light now hurts me. I live in dusk, in layers. The town of Moses greets me in the dawn, and then I am back to my home, drawing the blinds. Each day I swallow one Plaquenil pill with milk. I think it bleaches my hair, but who knows. The doctor wants me to try phototherapy, but I refuse. He does not push it. He knows what has happened to me, or he knows the story the rest of the town knows.
I sit down with the ghost to play chess. I tap my fingers on the wooden table. Sometimes the ghost is slow with its choices. I nod and reach over and move its rook. My king is vulnerable. I move the king to the right and fake a yawn. The ghost calls my bluff. Checkmate.
In the morning I dress in a wide brim hat and sunglasses, in a long sleeve tee. I count my dollars and then recount them. The Olympic Peninsula’s sun is slow to rise these fall mornings.
I am Andy’s first customer. I know this, because I stand across the street until he unlocks the door, flips over the open sign on the door’s slim window.
He smiles, says Hello. Then I take off my sunglasses and he says, You. I remember you. Welcome. What can I do you for?
His teeth are stained. His fingers look a little raw. I watch them wipe down his small red counter with a small damp rag. He does not have an accent, at least one I can place.
Where are you from? I ask. As soon as I say it, I realize my tone is urgent, not casual, friendly the way I mean to be.
His hand pauses.
The San Juans, just a few hours north. Born and raised, he says.
Those islands are so beautiful. Why would you ever leave?
I look at his loaves, lined up behind bowed glass. They sit on red and white checkered tissue paper. He’s put out two of each type, has limited himself to three recipes — wheat, white, and pumpernickel. This restraint I admire.
Why would I ever stay? He laughs. I was just ready for something new.
A bell behind me rings. The door opens, a woman walks in. She is not wrapped in many layers like me. I see the top of her cleavage, feel an odd resentment. Her ears sparkle and she smells of jasmine.
Hi Andy, she says, walking past me. I’ll take the pumpernickel.
I watch him. His eyes soften. He smiles like he knows a secret. When she pays and leaves, the secret smileleaves.
So what can I do you for? he asks me again.
Pumpernickel, I say. I hate pumpernickel. Even the word catches in my throat.
I walk out with the loaf in the crook of my arm, as if it’s a baby. The bell chimes when I exit, and the weak sun hits my cheeks. I walk across the street and turn to look once more at the bakery. It’s small, the width of an alleyway. It sits between the boarded-up movie theatre and the town’s one Mexican restaurant. There’s no real sign yet. Andy, or someone, has handwritten the words Sunrise Breads on a piece of poster board, taped it to the window. The way the light strikes the glass, I can’t see inside, so I don’t know if he’s watching me. I spin to leave, but before I do, I wave, the morning light assaulting my hand pale as a lamb.
Andy, he says. It is a simple name, and its simplicity is a lie.
Are you the one that opened the bakery? I ask.
Yes, he says. And my front bulb just fizzled. Excuse me. I’m on my way to get a replacement. It’s too dark in there. Please come in and say hi sometime.
There is also the fact of his green eyes. His black hair. His tweed jacket over slight shoulders.
Come in and say hi. Come and say hi. He does not know what he has done with those words.
Moses is not a town that can afford luxuries — daily loaves made in an oven, thrown into a dumpster after 3a.m. if it has not passed hands. I am telling the ghost about Andy, as I tell the ghost about everything, and though I cannot see the ghost or hear the ghost I know the ghost agrees. Imprudent. Real ridiculous.
I can’t afford much of the bread. My disability check is meager. But I will eat bread, no matter the cost, because there is a memory in the smell.
I do not go back to see Andy today. I have other things to do — bathe in milk, bathe in salts, write to my dead brother.
I was not always allergic to the sun. Then my family burned in the fire, and all light now hurts me. I live in dusk, in layers. The town of Moses greets me in the dawn, and then I am back to my home, drawing the blinds. Each day I swallow one Plaquenil pill with milk. I think it bleaches my hair, but who knows. The doctor wants me to try phototherapy, but I refuse. He does not push it. He knows what has happened to me, or he knows the story the rest of the town knows.
I sit down with the ghost to play chess. I tap my fingers on the wooden table. Sometimes the ghost is slow with its choices. I nod and reach over and move its rook. My king is vulnerable. I move the king to the right and fake a yawn. The ghost calls my bluff. Checkmate.
In the morning I dress in a wide brim hat and sunglasses, in a long sleeve tee. I count my dollars and then recount them. The Olympic Peninsula’s sun is slow to rise these fall mornings.
I am Andy’s first customer. I know this, because I stand across the street until he unlocks the door, flips over the open sign on the door’s slim window.
He smiles, says Hello. Then I take off my sunglasses and he says, You. I remember you. Welcome. What can I do you for?
His teeth are stained. His fingers look a little raw. I watch them wipe down his small red counter with a small damp rag. He does not have an accent, at least one I can place.
Where are you from? I ask. As soon as I say it, I realize my tone is urgent, not casual, friendly the way I mean to be.
His hand pauses.
The San Juans, just a few hours north. Born and raised, he says.
Those islands are so beautiful. Why would you ever leave?
I look at his loaves, lined up behind bowed glass. They sit on red and white checkered tissue paper. He’s put out two of each type, has limited himself to three recipes — wheat, white, and pumpernickel. This restraint I admire.
Why would I ever stay? He laughs. I was just ready for something new.
A bell behind me rings. The door opens, a woman walks in. She is not wrapped in many layers like me. I see the top of her cleavage, feel an odd resentment. Her ears sparkle and she smells of jasmine.
Hi Andy, she says, walking past me. I’ll take the pumpernickel.
I watch him. His eyes soften. He smiles like he knows a secret. When she pays and leaves, the secret smileleaves.
So what can I do you for? he asks me again.
Pumpernickel, I say. I hate pumpernickel. Even the word catches in my throat.
I walk out with the loaf in the crook of my arm, as if it’s a baby. The bell chimes when I exit, and the weak sun hits my cheeks. I walk across the street and turn to look once more at the bakery. It’s small, the width of an alleyway. It sits between the boarded-up movie theatre and the town’s one Mexican restaurant. There’s no real sign yet. Andy, or someone, has handwritten the words Sunrise Breads on a piece of poster board, taped it to the window. The way the light strikes the glass, I can’t see inside, so I don’t know if he’s watching me. I spin to leave, but before I do, I wave, the morning light assaulting my hand pale as a lamb.
" In my monthly bath of milk, I am Cleopatra. The wallpaper in the bathroom does not flake, does not smell of rot. The lightbulb above the chipped sink is not bare. The cracking linoleum is marble. Honey and rose sit in the air. I never dilute the milk. It is pure and heavy on my skin." |
At home the ghost is restless. It wants a name.
Two years. Two years and now you want a name? I ask. Then I realize the cruelty in my voice. Yes, I will give you a name. What kind of name do you want?
Silence, and then more silence.
Well, do you have a sex? Are you a boy or girl?
Nothing.
Something genderless then?
I look over the titles of my books, seeking inspiration. It’s been awhile since I’ve read. My neighbors, George and Sandy, let me borrow their cable. I turn the TV on and lie down, pat the sofa so the ghost will sit beside me. A newsman talks about mortgage prices, or at least I think that’s the story. His tie is too skinny, so I have a hard time concentrating.
The ghost is unhappy with me.
I am taking you seriously, I say. I just don’t know yet. Give me a moment. Let my brain relax.
Then there’s a show about making your own pasta. And then another about undersea dives.
I turn off the TV and look to the ghost. How about Ash? I say. And Ash likes it. And the rest of the evening we play Scrabble. Ash wins some, but I win more. It is unusual for me to have any success, but I refrain from gloating. At 11 a.m. I turn into bed, letting the sun peak and fall without me.
In my monthly bath of milk, I am Cleopatra. The wallpaper in the bathroom does not flake, does not smell of rot. The lightbulb above the chipped sink is not bare. The cracking linoleum is marble. Honey and rose sit in the air.
I never dilute the milk. It is pure and heavy on my skin. Expensive, but necessary. The cashiers at the corner store no longer bat an eye when I clean out their tidy rows of jugs.
I lie in white and chat with Ash. I recite the story of Patty the Milkmaid, who goes along with a pail of milk balanced on her crown, considering what to buy, wondering aloud. I like to think she has her own ghost she tells these things to. She’ll get some fowls from Farmer Brown. Which will lay eggs, which will be sold to the parson’s wife. With the money, Patty dreams of buying a new frock and hat. Young men will speak to her at the market. Polly Shaw, whoever that is, will be jealous. Patty, flush in new fashions, shall toss her head just so. And as she shows this hair toss to her ghost, the milk balanced on her crown tumbles. She now has nothing with which to entice the young men to speak to her.
I splash my bath. I no longer like this tale, I say to Ash. We need a new tale.
I see that Ash agrees.
Maybe I should start reading again, I say. Find something else.
A sliver of light creeps through the black curtain. I suck in a big breath, shut my eyes, lower my face beneath the milk. Parting my lips, I drink.
Today I buy a white loaf. I pass Andy the money, and my fingers brush his. His hand has a heat not unlike sunshine, not unlike a hearth once the fire has gone to bed. I am so thrown by this touch that I fumble the change, and coins clank. A penny rolls off, and I watch it travel on its slender rim clear beneath the countertop. Andy is saying something. He is smiling. Red fills my face, and I stutter an apology, scoop up the warm little loaf, leave half the money lying there.
I am home before I realize that his touch is the first touch I have felt in nearly two years.
I wait three weeks before I return to Sunrise Breads. Still, in those weeks, I circle the block many times, catching glimpses of Andy readying the shop each morning. He is always so early. At each 3 a.m., I note the first sliver of light behind his counter.
It is a Thursday, 6 a.m., when I open his door, the bell making a too loud chime.
Hello again, he says.
Hello, I say. Clear my throat.
Can I interest you in some bread? He’s in a plaid button down. Behind him, his tweed jacket hangs on a hook. I wonder if the smell of yeast clings to the lining.
Yes, please.
He moves the two small steps towards the skinny bakery case, then his hand hesitates on the sliding glass door.
You know my name. What’s yours? he asks.
Rebecca.
That’s my daughter’s name, he says.
It is? I say.
No, he says. Sorry.
We both stare at each other. I click my tongue behind my teeth.
How about a loaf on the house, huh? he says. It’s a Thursday, and Thursday is my favorite day.
No one has ever offered me a free thing without wanting another thing. I can pay, I say.
No, no. White, you like white, right? Don’t pretend to like pumpernickel.
I laugh, and he laughs, too.
Rebecca, tell me. Where are you from?
Here, sort of. We lived further out in the woods. My family and me.
You live here with your family? he asks.
No. I twist in place, drum my fingers against my thigh. The sun is rising, I say.
Excuse me? he says.
I have to go, I say.
Of course. Here is your loaf.
And he asks no more questions, and I offer no more answers.
Ash, I call out when I return to the little house. You won’t believe it. He asked about me. Asked me questions.
I slice the bread, spread the last sliver of butter on a piece.
Ash, I holler. Get in here. Are you listening?
I put down my plate. Everything feels very still.
Not funny, I say. Where are you? I move through the small space, all six hundred square feet. One bedroom, one bath. Fine, I say, sit down, turn on the TV. I devour the bread as if I am underfed. I leave no crumbs on my plate, slide a licked finger across my mother’s old china. It is not until I set up the Scrabble board that Ash returns.
Seriously, poppycock. That’s an amazing word, I say, laughing, slapping my knee. Got me again, Ash. My turn.
I revisit Sunrise Breads on a Thursday, because it is Andy’s favorite day, so now it is my favorite day.
Rebecca, he says, when the little bell chimes.
Andy, I say.
How have you been? he asks. It is a simple question, would be a simple question, if I were not spending each night moving through my few rooms, telling Ash about Andy, about his touch. I’ve brushed my hair and worn it down. I spin a small umbrella, though outside there will be no rain today. My sunglasses rest in the deep pocket of my long sleeve dress.
I say, I’m good. How are you?
Excellent, he says.
And we have run out of things to say to one another. And yet, I leave with free bread so fresh it yields a little to my touch, and again, when he hands me the loaf, I feel the warmth of his fingers. Briefly.
Brother,
I am writing again to tell you I am sorry. And I am sorry for feeling anything but grief. Sometimes all I experience is heat. All I smell is melting plastic. I hear only sirens. But today I felt something like hope, and I am sorry. Please forgive me. I never meant to feel anything but fault for these things I have done, have not done, the thing I did not do.
Love,
Rebecca
Two years. Two years and now you want a name? I ask. Then I realize the cruelty in my voice. Yes, I will give you a name. What kind of name do you want?
Silence, and then more silence.
Well, do you have a sex? Are you a boy or girl?
Nothing.
Something genderless then?
I look over the titles of my books, seeking inspiration. It’s been awhile since I’ve read. My neighbors, George and Sandy, let me borrow their cable. I turn the TV on and lie down, pat the sofa so the ghost will sit beside me. A newsman talks about mortgage prices, or at least I think that’s the story. His tie is too skinny, so I have a hard time concentrating.
The ghost is unhappy with me.
I am taking you seriously, I say. I just don’t know yet. Give me a moment. Let my brain relax.
Then there’s a show about making your own pasta. And then another about undersea dives.
I turn off the TV and look to the ghost. How about Ash? I say. And Ash likes it. And the rest of the evening we play Scrabble. Ash wins some, but I win more. It is unusual for me to have any success, but I refrain from gloating. At 11 a.m. I turn into bed, letting the sun peak and fall without me.
In my monthly bath of milk, I am Cleopatra. The wallpaper in the bathroom does not flake, does not smell of rot. The lightbulb above the chipped sink is not bare. The cracking linoleum is marble. Honey and rose sit in the air.
I never dilute the milk. It is pure and heavy on my skin. Expensive, but necessary. The cashiers at the corner store no longer bat an eye when I clean out their tidy rows of jugs.
I lie in white and chat with Ash. I recite the story of Patty the Milkmaid, who goes along with a pail of milk balanced on her crown, considering what to buy, wondering aloud. I like to think she has her own ghost she tells these things to. She’ll get some fowls from Farmer Brown. Which will lay eggs, which will be sold to the parson’s wife. With the money, Patty dreams of buying a new frock and hat. Young men will speak to her at the market. Polly Shaw, whoever that is, will be jealous. Patty, flush in new fashions, shall toss her head just so. And as she shows this hair toss to her ghost, the milk balanced on her crown tumbles. She now has nothing with which to entice the young men to speak to her.
I splash my bath. I no longer like this tale, I say to Ash. We need a new tale.
I see that Ash agrees.
Maybe I should start reading again, I say. Find something else.
A sliver of light creeps through the black curtain. I suck in a big breath, shut my eyes, lower my face beneath the milk. Parting my lips, I drink.
Today I buy a white loaf. I pass Andy the money, and my fingers brush his. His hand has a heat not unlike sunshine, not unlike a hearth once the fire has gone to bed. I am so thrown by this touch that I fumble the change, and coins clank. A penny rolls off, and I watch it travel on its slender rim clear beneath the countertop. Andy is saying something. He is smiling. Red fills my face, and I stutter an apology, scoop up the warm little loaf, leave half the money lying there.
I am home before I realize that his touch is the first touch I have felt in nearly two years.
I wait three weeks before I return to Sunrise Breads. Still, in those weeks, I circle the block many times, catching glimpses of Andy readying the shop each morning. He is always so early. At each 3 a.m., I note the first sliver of light behind his counter.
It is a Thursday, 6 a.m., when I open his door, the bell making a too loud chime.
Hello again, he says.
Hello, I say. Clear my throat.
Can I interest you in some bread? He’s in a plaid button down. Behind him, his tweed jacket hangs on a hook. I wonder if the smell of yeast clings to the lining.
Yes, please.
He moves the two small steps towards the skinny bakery case, then his hand hesitates on the sliding glass door.
You know my name. What’s yours? he asks.
Rebecca.
That’s my daughter’s name, he says.
It is? I say.
No, he says. Sorry.
We both stare at each other. I click my tongue behind my teeth.
How about a loaf on the house, huh? he says. It’s a Thursday, and Thursday is my favorite day.
No one has ever offered me a free thing without wanting another thing. I can pay, I say.
No, no. White, you like white, right? Don’t pretend to like pumpernickel.
I laugh, and he laughs, too.
Rebecca, tell me. Where are you from?
Here, sort of. We lived further out in the woods. My family and me.
You live here with your family? he asks.
No. I twist in place, drum my fingers against my thigh. The sun is rising, I say.
Excuse me? he says.
I have to go, I say.
Of course. Here is your loaf.
And he asks no more questions, and I offer no more answers.
Ash, I call out when I return to the little house. You won’t believe it. He asked about me. Asked me questions.
I slice the bread, spread the last sliver of butter on a piece.
Ash, I holler. Get in here. Are you listening?
I put down my plate. Everything feels very still.
Not funny, I say. Where are you? I move through the small space, all six hundred square feet. One bedroom, one bath. Fine, I say, sit down, turn on the TV. I devour the bread as if I am underfed. I leave no crumbs on my plate, slide a licked finger across my mother’s old china. It is not until I set up the Scrabble board that Ash returns.
Seriously, poppycock. That’s an amazing word, I say, laughing, slapping my knee. Got me again, Ash. My turn.
I revisit Sunrise Breads on a Thursday, because it is Andy’s favorite day, so now it is my favorite day.
Rebecca, he says, when the little bell chimes.
Andy, I say.
How have you been? he asks. It is a simple question, would be a simple question, if I were not spending each night moving through my few rooms, telling Ash about Andy, about his touch. I’ve brushed my hair and worn it down. I spin a small umbrella, though outside there will be no rain today. My sunglasses rest in the deep pocket of my long sleeve dress.
I say, I’m good. How are you?
Excellent, he says.
And we have run out of things to say to one another. And yet, I leave with free bread so fresh it yields a little to my touch, and again, when he hands me the loaf, I feel the warmth of his fingers. Briefly.
Brother,
I am writing again to tell you I am sorry. And I am sorry for feeling anything but grief. Sometimes all I experience is heat. All I smell is melting plastic. I hear only sirens. But today I felt something like hope, and I am sorry. Please forgive me. I never meant to feel anything but fault for these things I have done, have not done, the thing I did not do.
Love,
Rebecca
He spins to his left a little, opens his arms to gesture at a door. Here we are, he says, tapping on the wood. I can feel cold seeping out of the gaps. Brown paint peels at the edges. Above is a plastic sign with the words NOT AN EXIT printed in bold. Are you ready? he asks. |
I don’t doubt it is Andy’s touch, short-lived as it always is, that has loosened something inside me. This deep night, before I dress for the bakery, I dance unclothed through my rooms to music only Ash and I hear. In the full-length mirror, propped against the wall beside my mattress, I see my body pale and bright as daisy petals. I see now that I am beautiful, and I wonder how long I have been beautiful.
Then the secret melody stops, and I freeze. I cannot be a beautiful thing.
It is Thursday, and today, I will do without bread. I am dirty, frayed. I run a bath of salts, create a little scorching sea.
At 8:30 p.m., I hear the doorbell. It takes me a second to recognize the sound. I turn on the porchlight and peek through the curtain. My neighbors George and Sandy are standing hand in hand, smiling.
Rebecca, they say in unison when I open the door.
I do not know what to do next. No one has been inside my home since I moved in. I have not considered what it must look like to another. After George set up my cable a couple years back, I’ve only spoken to them when we pass on the tight sidewalk outside our homes, always in dim light.
I turn from them and run my eyes over my belongings. The Scrabble board lays propped up on the wooden table. The chess set is stashed beside a neat line of books on a tall shelf.
Would you like to come in? I ask.
I hope it’s okay we stopped over, George says.
Of course. Though I am not sure if this is true.
Beneath my three bulbs — instead of the usual weak light of the streetlamps — they seem new to me. They are older than I assumed. Sandy’s hair is dyed a soft black, and George has tattoos on his exposed forearms with ink that’s bled like parting clouds.
What a beautiful place, Sandy says. I’m not sure what she’s referring to. The longer they stand here, the longer I see my home through their eyes — basic and neat, sterile.
George moves towards my table. I love Scrabble, he says. Looks like someone is winning.
Yes, I say. His tattoos must have once been words. Can I get you anything? I ask.
That would be lovely, Sandy says. I see a quick look pass between George and her.
While I busy myself in the exposed kitchen, I hear George’s heavy footsteps as he lumbers over to my bookcase. I hum to cut the silence.
We just came over to share some mixed news with you, he says.
Yes, I say. I pour three glasses of milk and carry them to the table. My humming grows louder. I set out three plates, each with a slice of bread.
Let’s sit, I say. They do, and I flush with what must be maternal feelings, though they are more than twice my age.
Sandy runs a finger over the crust of her bread. George got a new job out of town, she says. We’re putting the house on the market.
He chews slowly, stares at his plate like his neck is stuck.
We wanted you to be one of the first to know, she says. Since there will be a lot of activity outside, potentially.
We’ll miss being your neighbors, George says to his plate.
I nod and keep on nodding, not sure what to do. I take small bites and chew so I won’t have to respond. I hear Sandy’s stomach grumble, though she does not raise the bread to her lips. When George pushes his chair back a little, the sound is so loud both of us look to him. He is still staring down.
Sandy looks directly at me. The realtor said it’s best if potential buyers don’t meet any neighbors. If they instead focus on the house. We thought that was an odd thing to say, but who knows. She gives a short little laugh.
I sleep through the day anyhow, I say.
They both sigh, as if satisfied. When they exit, they make weak waves at the door. Their glasses of milk remain untouched. I allow a few breaths to pass, then I pick up Sandy’s tumbler and shatter it against the wall. I turn George’s over in my hands, smash it against the table, cutting my palm. I walk to the bathroom sink, fingers dripping blood and milk. I trickle scalding water over the wound.
I want to show you something, Andy says. It is an hour before opening and the bread is already in the case.
He touches my shoulder to signal for me to follow. Through the kitchen, still pristine. The large kettle gleams as if on display. Somehow, it’s slighter here than in the storefront. Cabinets two feet deep, made of old stained wood, swallow up the right side of the room in the back. There’s a door straight ahead, I assume leading to the alleyway where he says a raccoon family lives.
Real sweet, he says. Two big ones and a few little ones. One of the big ones has three legs, loves bread.
He spins to his left a little, opens his arms to gesture at a door. Here we are, he says, tapping on the wood. I can feel cold seeping out of the gaps. Brown paint peels at the edges. Above is a plastic sign with the words NOT AN EXIT printed in bold. Are you ready? he asks.
For what? I ask.
But he doesn’t answer. He takes me hand, twists the knob, and the cold and black are damp as a cave.
Don’t worry, he says. Just follow me. It’s worth it. I won’t let you trip.
He stands in front and I put both of my hands on his shoulders. He walks forward so carefully into the dark that I feel as if we move through water. Something odd happens to time. It simultaneously speeds up and slows down, my heart hammering and my movements like a body in quicksand.
You doing okay? he asks.
I have not been alone with a man like this ever. The light from the kitchen behind us now feels obscenely distant, though it is only a few feet away. I sense his body turning and now we are going down a different hallway, the light leaving us. He stops short. The muscles of his shoulders shift as his hands search in the black. Then I hear another knob twist, a door open. I hear his hand brushing against a wall and then the flip of the switch, the light from a bulb above us flickering and then settling into a soft glow, illuminating framed posters and purple carpet.
Can I take you to the movies? he asks.
For weeks Andy sneaks me into the movie theatre at 10 p.m. He’s adjusted to my schedule, or at least I assume he has. Either that, or he never sleeps. We finish The Lion King and return to his little kitchen.
Tell me about Rebecca, I say.
He laughs. You’re Rebecca, he says.
It’s 5 a.m., an hour before opening. He sits on a small stool in the corner.
You know what I mean, I say.
Something moves across his face. He looks past me. Her name wasn’t Rebecca. It was Becca. She was my daughter. Almost.
I stay silent.
His lips tighten. I’ve never told anyone this, he says.
I want to stop him. I am no one.
Andy, I start to say.
I lost both of them, he says.
I don’t speak. If the death of my family has taught me anything, it is that grief demands silence. It refuses questions from others. I move towards him, stand at his side for a long while.
Let’s open, he says, claps his hands together. I notice the deep smell of the bread for the first time. I can’t imagine how dark the loaves must look sitting in his two tiny ovens.
Andy, I say.
Rebecca, no. The sun is coming.
It is the cruelest thing anyone has said to me lately, though it’s true few have spoken to me these past years.
I need to tell you something, Andy says. He holds both of my hands in his. I am not who I seem to be.
Past the street, night is ending and a deep purple is filling the sky. He has forgiven me for asking questions last week. Or has forced himself to.
I hear the twittering of a bird I can’t name.
He says, I am everything I have told you I am. Except one big untruth. His eyes water. I didn’t know how to tell you. I still don’t. He lets go of my hands, walks to the cabinets in the back of the kitchen, opens up one of the doors. I don’t know how to bake bread. I use mixes.
I count the boxes in their neat little row.
He says, I have no skills other than fishing, and I can’t go near the water again. Please understand. Understand I didn’t want to lie to you.
This puzzle of him and water, it has never been uttered. I ask nothing. I say nothing. He sits on the countertop, the gleaming metal, and waits. His loneliness is sharp-scented.
From the other side of this cramped kitchen, I note for the first time the fine lines at his eyes, the stubble under his chin. I study his posture, the way his shoulders slump forward, the trivial curve at the back of his neck.
I’ll teach you, I finally say.
What?
I’ll teach you how to bake bread.
The making of bread. The thing that killed my family.
To love a man and not know him — this is a freedom. I never wonder about secrets, because the fact of his secrets is obvious, naked. The day my family died, an improbable amount of smoke rose into the pines. It blocked the sun until a large gust of wind came, and the sun showed her face, mocking and too large.
I heard sounds — my family’s screams — and I could not tell my brother’s from my mother’s from my father’s. All that existed was sun, smoke, fire.
Only Ash knows my shortcomings that day. And now Ash is gone, so my secret is wholly mine.
Andy drapes his arm around me, and I note the specks of flour beneath his nails. My cheek rests on his shoulder. In our movie theatre, the walls are black and thick. Nothing can know we are here, warmed under three blankets. We watch Groundhog Day, and when it ends, Andy gets up, puts on Jurassic Park.
Outside, the sun is elsewhere. One day, I will meet the light again, but for now, I rest in the flickering dark, in a stranger’s arms. A hero runs from something offscreen. I glance over at Andy, who has fallen asleep.
Lauren Davis is the author of the chapbook Each Wild Thing’s Consent (Poetry Wolf Press), and she holds an MFA from the Bennington College Writing Seminars. Davis teaches at The Writers’ Workshoppe and Imprint Books, and she is a former Editor in Residence at The Puritan’s Town Crier. Her poetry, essays, stories, and fairy tales can be found in publications such as Prairie Schooner, Hobart, and Ninth Letter. Davis lives on the Olympic Peninsula in a Victorian seaport community. She's grateful for the room of her own that this last year has granted her.
About the work: "I have always been drawn to characters who live in a slightly separate reality. Rebecca is a part of me. I've known this social isolation, this obsessive personality, this rage boiling just under the surface. I came to care about her as I would any friend."
About the work: "I have always been drawn to characters who live in a slightly separate reality. Rebecca is a part of me. I've known this social isolation, this obsessive personality, this rage boiling just under the surface. I came to care about her as I would any friend."
The Art
Plato’s Cave With Aliens, Downtown,
Unconscious
Dubuque, 2019,
06-10-2019ZNDF,
by Christopher Brown,
24.6” X 35.1”,
pigmented archival
inkjet prints on
Hahnemuhle Art Canvas,
2019
Christopher Paul Brown's photography career dates back to 1978 and he has been active in improvised experimental music and video since 1974. His first photography sale was to the collection of the Standard Oil Company of Indiana (now part of British Petroleum) and his video You Define Single File was nominated for the Golden Gate Award at the 47th San Francisco International Film Festival in 2004. In 2019 his photography will appear in the 7th International Photography Annual Publication of Manifest Gallery, and he was a finalist in Circle Foundation for the Arts’ 2018 Artist of the Year Competition. In 2018 he exhibited at LOOSENART MODULES, Millepiani Exhibition Space, Rome, Italy and was featured in the Click! Billboard Exhibition Writ Large in Raleigh, NC. His work appeared in five other juried exhibitions and he received several awards. In 2017 he was exhibited at Arte Borgo Gallery, Rome, Italy in the finalist exhibition for Art FOMENAR and was awarded the Cash Jury Prize for Art FOMENAR. He also exhibited at the gallery Bartcelona Concept in Belgrade, Serbia and had ten works from his series Obscure Reveal at the Ormond Memorial Art Museum in Florida, USA. He appeared in the magazines Average Art, WOTISART and the British A5 and was Photomanipulation Nominee for the 4th edition of the Fine Art Photography Awards. Brown participated in the Big Picture Street Art Project by the Artwork Network in Denver, CO and numerous other exhibitions in the USA and received several awards. In 2016 he was one of three winners of the 1st Annual Competition for Images on Elevator Doors at the Cultural Center of Cape Cod in Yarmouth, MA. He also exhibited at six other competitions that year. Brown earned a BA in Film from Columbia College Chicago in 1980. He was born in Dubuque, Iowa, USA and now resides in Buncombe County, North Carolina.
The image here was created using a Canon camera, Sigma lens and Photoshop. It is a pigmented archival inkjet print on Hahnemuhle Art Canvas Smooth, stretched with wood and steel bracing, varnished and framed like a painting. A 1.5” to 2.5” inch border of naked canvas surrounds the image. The frame is called a black floater. The UV protecting varnish removes the need for glazing. Discover more here https://www.channel33.com/index.php
Brown writes, "For me, a strong image offers a vision beyond the surface. It has a multi-dimensionality that offers depth and richness; such images can tell different stories to different people. With my work, these are never linear stories. Rather, they are subterranean and unconscious, like wordless shards that are the remains of dreams upon awakening. I view myself primarily as an alchemist. The mundane surface of things interests me as fodder, as a means or lever, for revealing the deeper, inner energy of that which holds my emotional interest. Manipulation allows me ready access to the subjects hidden aspects. The act is a partial disrobing; it is a process only the audience may complete."
The image here was created using a Canon camera, Sigma lens and Photoshop. It is a pigmented archival inkjet print on Hahnemuhle Art Canvas Smooth, stretched with wood and steel bracing, varnished and framed like a painting. A 1.5” to 2.5” inch border of naked canvas surrounds the image. The frame is called a black floater. The UV protecting varnish removes the need for glazing. Discover more here https://www.channel33.com/index.php
Brown writes, "For me, a strong image offers a vision beyond the surface. It has a multi-dimensionality that offers depth and richness; such images can tell different stories to different people. With my work, these are never linear stories. Rather, they are subterranean and unconscious, like wordless shards that are the remains of dreams upon awakening. I view myself primarily as an alchemist. The mundane surface of things interests me as fodder, as a means or lever, for revealing the deeper, inner energy of that which holds my emotional interest. Manipulation allows me ready access to the subjects hidden aspects. The act is a partial disrobing; it is a process only the audience may complete."
