WORDWRIGHTS #22 • March-April 2001 • Selections
BACK
EMPLOYEE ASSISTANCE
I am President of the United States. During my inauguration speech I pause dramatically, looking out over the crowd assembled on the Capitol grounds. The American People are watching me. I love the American People. Clouds of steam rise from their mouths as they shiver on cold metal chairs. They rub their hands together, wrap thick scarves around their faces. I smooth the copy of my speech against the lectern. I feel the blast of space heaters arrayed on the podium, all aimed in my direction. At precisely this moment, I decide not to run for a second term.
This takes all the pressure off.
The first thing I do is buy a horse. I name him Eduardo. There’s something about owning a horse that signifies class, something the American People can identify with. I build a stable on the White House helicopter pad. “But the White House needs a helicopter pad,” my chief of staff tells me. “Surely a man of your importance,” he says, “must know that a helicopter befits your presidency.”
“Not this President,” I say. “People get killed in those things all the time.”
Personal safety would be the hallmark of my Presidency.
I am very lonely, being President. I want to meet people. I stand under a glistening chandelier, greeting long lines of citizens. “Hello there, I’m the President,” I say, squeezing each hand. My eyes are glassy. I sway on the balls of my feet and dream of a smooth pond reflecting sunlight. Crickets chirping at dusk. My father and I sit in a rowboat, and he compliments me on the volume, mass, and circumference of a fish I’ve just caught. He dissects it with his Swiss army knife and shows me the miracle of life. From his shirt pocket he takes a vial and pours liquid cortisone into the chest cavity. The heart starts beating. Mr. President? Mr. President? whispers my chief of staff, the Honorable Herman Black. His eyes widen in panic. What’s the matter with you? Outside, the American People are sitting on the White House steps, looking at their watches. They peel adhesive name tags off their suit jackets.
Criticism of my administration mounts.
I hold a press conference and look the American People in the eye. “What’s the matter, you aren’t happy with your lives?” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “You probably shouldn’t vote for me next time. It’s okay, I won’t be mad or anything.”
The White House press corp goes into a frenzy. “Mr. President, Mr. President!” they shout, waving their hands madly.
Story concluded in WordWrights #22
LEN KRUGER
HER ACCOUNTING
Afterwards, he loosens the ties
that hold her wrists to the bedposts,
kisses her head and says
he loves the way she makes him feel.
He steps into linen trousers
which had been folded across the faded red chair
and dollars float
and coins fall
on to the carpet.
She slips from bed,
washes off his shadow,
smooths the creases from her face.
Tomorrow
dark patterns will blossom
on her body once again
and she will remember
that she is a wealthy lady
because for twenty nine months
and thirteen days
she has saved
and invested
his anger.
RAFAELLA DEL BOURGO
FAIRY STONES
Frank took a gun and blew Big Ann’s brains out the side of her head. She had her baby in her lap and when the gun boomed, Little Ann jumped and got stiff, her tiny hands and feet spread out like she was falling. I thought sure the bullet went out Big Ann’s head and came back through her slumped body and shot the baby somehow, but after a minute the baby’s limbs sprung out and she drew up red and started screaming. Reaching down, Frank lifted Little Ann up into his arms, Big Ann’s arms falling slack. I thought he might shoot the baby too, the way he held her out from him in his hands, his arms straight, the gun squeezed up under his arm, her little legs dangling, her heavy diaper hanging low. We saw him, Jimmy and me, look once again down at Big Ann and then cross to the other room where the crib was. When he came out with the gun cradled in the crook of his arm and we heard her let out a cry, we both breathed out again.
He came out to the porch where we were crouched spying and if he saw us he didn’t let on. We huddled against each other in the dark behind a metal rocker chair. Jimmy had his elbows pressed tight to his sides and his fist up by his shoulders and shook from head to toe. Since he could walk, Jimmy would put his hands up like that when he got scared. I tried to tell him to scootch down and stop twitching and act like a real spy, but the words got stuck in my throat and balled up in my mouth. Frank sat down in the chair in front of us, his legs flexed and still, his knees almost touching our chair. I could hear his breath move short and deep, in and out through his nose, in and out, see his chest bones rise and fall. His eyes were on the chair but his mind wasn’t. I can still feel the cold metal of that chair in my hands as he took up the gun, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, bit the barrel and pulled the trigger.
We screamed. In the fading echo of the boom I yelled, “Go” and jumped over the low balcony in one leap, landing on the other side to our porch. Jimmy didn’t get up. Blood poured out of the flat hole in Frank’s head. It ran like a river around the chair rockers and pooled around Jimmy’s knees. He sat frozen legged, screaming and crying with his fist trembling in the air, staring at the back of Frank’s skull glued to the wall. The air smelled of sweaty pennies and burnt hair. I had to become a queen on the spot to get him to move.
I went back over the balcony and touched him on one quivering shoulder. “I’m the queen of Rocky Mount,” I talked soft in his ear. Jimmy stopped screaming. “I banished Lena for bringing you here.” Jimmy slowly turned his heavy sobbing face and watery eyes up to mine. Frank was gone and Jimmy believed I was gone too. The queen held out her hand for him to kiss. “Follow me,” she said. Her hand trembled. She had the sniffles. Jimmy took it. She hooked him under his elbow and pulled him over the short wall that separated our two apartments, to Mama next door.
Story concluded in WordWrights #22
BONNIE ROOP BOWLES
