The Cove 3 – A Kellys Cove Press Magazine

The Douser
Jude Pitman

Lisa Summers

Firecats

Tell me again about your cat –
the one you evacuated
during the wildfires
how you searched for her
under beds, in the black widow lairs
in the woods and splintery barns, and
how you caught her in a pillowcase
to take her to your sister’s house in Marin
where she yowled through the night
complained bitterly about the company
then shredded the sofa and
peed on the Berber rugs before she
shat in your brother-in-law’s shoe.

Tell me again about her dementia
how you raced back past the barriers
through the burning trees
to get her medication
and her favorite pillowTell me again about your cat –
the one you evacuated
during the wildfires
how you searched for her
under beds, in the black widow lairs
in the woods and splintery barns, and
how you caught her in a pillowcase
to take her to your sister’s house in Marin
where she yowled through the night
complained bitterly about the company
then shredded the sofa and
peed on the Berber rugs before she
shat in your brother-in-law’s shoe.

Tell me again about her dementia
how you raced back past the barriers
through the burning trees
to get her medication
and her favorite pillow
and how she abandoned you
for a house not yet aflame
for a family with no children, no dogs
and 700 shopping network channelsand how she abandoned you
for a house not yet aflame
for a family with no children, no dogs
and 700 shopping network channels

wet food from a can
and how, when you were choking in smoke
marooned in a distant town,
you cared only for your cat
left behind in a rain of
cinders and ashes.

Then tell me of your dog
how he comforted you
and licked your tears
and stayed with the sheep
and never left the house
or left and then came back
across the wasteland
the scorch earth, the burning roads
with singed whiskers
and blistered paws
and begged for forgiveness.

Tell me how he never complainedand how she abandoned you
for a house not yet aflame
for a family with no children, no dogs
and 700 shopping network channels
wet food from a can
and how, when you were choking in smoke
marooned in a distant town,
you cared only for your cat
left behind in a rain of
cinders and ashes.

Then tell me of your dog
how he comforted you
and licked your tears
and stayed with the sheep
and never left the house
or left and then came back
across the wasteland
the scorch earth, the burning roads
with singed whiskers
and blistered paws
and begged for forgiveness.

Tell me how he never complained
how he knew it was coming
and warned you, and how he –how he knew it was coming
and warned you, and how he –
how he lost his favorite sock
his favorite buried bone
but dug a little hole in the sandhow he lost his favorite sock
his favorite buried bone
but dug a little hole in the sand

on the beach at Goat Rock
where you went to breath
and he stared quietly at the sea
with his gentle paw upon your hand
and promised to be forever
at your side
wherever home might be next.

Then tell me again
how it was your cat
who embodied home and hearth
when you feared all was lost
and how you were rewarded
for all your worry and despair
with a sphincter in the face
a little cat scratch fever
or, at best, her cold indifference –

And I will tell you that
I have nothing left to say
about the strange animal
in the human heart.how he knew it was coming
and warned you, and how he –
how he lost his favorite sock
his favorite buried bone
but dug a little hole in the sand
on the beach at Goat Rock
where you went to breath
and he stared quietly at the sea
with his gentle paw upon your hand
and promised to be forever
at your side
wherever home might be next.

Then tell me again
how it was your cat
who embodied home and hearth
when you feared all was lost
and how you were rewarded
for all your worry and despair
with a sphincter in the face
a little cat scratch fever
or, at best, her cold indifference –

And I will tell you that
I have nothing left to say
about the strange animal
in the human heart.

Spence Snyder

acrylic on canvas

Followers

The Edge of Midnight
2017
Oil on Canvas

Olga Zilberbourg

Four short shorts

A Wish

The child, whose birthday it was, spent most of the party in her room, standing in front of a daybed, head resting on the pillow. When the time came to cut the cake, several adults, in turn, came to get her. The answer was, No, she didn’t want to have cake. No, she didn’t want to blow out the candles, the four trick candles that would relight after she blew on them so that every child at her party could have a go. No, she didn’t want to make wishes which could not come true because the candles wouldn’t go out. No, she didn’t want to have the Happy Birthday song sung to her, the way it was always sung for all birthdays, happy or not. No, she didn’t want to smile and feel special like everyone who had that song sung to them was supposed to do. No, she didn’t want to have her picture taken, especially if it meant that the trick candles would have to be relit. No, she didn’t want to help her mother slice the cake, decorated with a wise owl that would have to be cut into pieces. No, she didn’t want to eat the cake that would leave her feeling thirsty and then wanting more cake though she was only allowed one slice. No, she didn’t want any of this, and worst of all was the knowledge that she would have to go through all of this, because it happened to be her birthday and all the kids and adults were there to witness how she would do.
Her mother came and prodded her to the living room.
Was it really that bad? she was asked after the song was over.
Yes, she answered seriously, unable to look away from her mother’s hand that was slicing through the owl’s body.
Yes, she thought later, after the cake was cut and the pictures taken, and she was back in her room, standing by the daybed, thinking her thoughts. She collected her favorite things—a hairless doll, a notebook with stickers gifted to her on a previous birthday, a broken watch that showed stopped time—on her pillow and she hugged that pillow and made a wish that she was certain would come true because it was secret and nobody could trick her out of it.
A Wish
The child, whose birthday it was, spent most of the party in her room, standing in front of a daybed, head resting on the pillow. When the time came to cut the cake, several adults, in turn, came to get her. The answer was, No, she didn’t want to have cake. No, she didn’t want to blow out the candles, the four trick candles that would relight after she blew on them so that every child at her party could have a go. No, she didn’t want to make wishes which could not come true because the candles wouldn’t go out. No, she didn’t want to have the Happy Birthday song sung to her, the way it was always sung for all birthdays, happy or not. No, she didn’t want to smile and feel special like everyone who had that song sung to them was supposed to do. No, she didn’t want to have her picture taken, especially if it meant that the trick candles would have to be relit. No, she didn’t want to help her mother slice the cake, decorated with a wise owl that would have to be cut into pieces. No, she didn’t want to eat the cake that would leave her feeling thirsty and then wanting more cake though she was only allowed one slice. No, she didn’t want any of this, and worst of all was the knowledge that she would have to go through all of this, because it happened to be her birthday and all the kids and adults were there to witness how she would do.
Her mother came and prodded her to the living room.
Was it really that bad? she was asked after the song was over.
Yes, she answered seriously, unable to look away from her mother’s hand that was slicing through the owl’s body.
Yes, she thought later, after the cake was cut and the pictures taken, and she was back in her room, standing by the daybed, thinking her thoughts. She collected her favorite things—a hairless doll, a notebook with stickers gifted to her on a previous birthday, a broken watch that showed stopped time—on her pillow and she hugged that pillow and made a wish that she was certain would come true because it was secret and nobody could trick her out of it.

Evasion

The growth spurts came every few years and pushed our bodies exponentially upward and out. As children we moved from our cozily canopied cribs to well-padded toddler beds to twins to futons and plain mattresses on the floor (unless our families were wealthy enough to provide the modular ever-expanding bedframes) and then, as we grew on and on, we continued to move houses. Condos in the city were advertised, “Perfect for thirty-somethings with children.”
The forty-year olds required higher ceilings, taller furniture. An occasional forty-year old, nostalgic for her childhood, tried dating a twenty-something, but the romance was physically difficult to sustain. She had to crouch down to him, and he could not, on his own, open the door to her fridge and take out the pot of beans. There were, of course, young people who prided themselves on their early maturity.
The fifty-year olds moved out to the farms, where they could shrug off the sense of being forever cramped, straighten their shoulders, and occupy themselves with tending to corn and sunflowers, apples and walnuts. At eighty, their parents grew so large and inert that talking to them was like trying to reach the top of a mountain. The eighty year olds were no longer heard, not even by their peers. Each of them was a heap of solitude, better able to commune with the clouds than with their fellow humans. Tending to these elderly was a challenge, for even the discovery of all the nooks and crannies where they hurt required of the younger generations long and arduous journeys. The sixty-year olds were best suited for this work. The sixty-year olds were still agile enough to really get in there, and the abounding apprehension of their own growth to come gentled their touch.
Seventy-seven, one woman decided, was a good age to die. She could still see her grandchildren, and she was heard when she asked her son to bring them closer, though already she was afraid to pick them up for the fear of accidentally crushing them. An apple tree could hear an oak, but to an oak the words of a giant sequoia sounded like rustling. This woman scribbled a note in the smallest handwriting she could muster, “The journey is over. Love to all.” Then she took sleeping pills and wrapped her head in plastic. Evasion
The growth spurts came every few years and pushed our bodies exponentially upward and out. As children we moved from our cozily canopied cribs to well-padded toddler beds to twins to futons and plain mattresses on the floor (unless our families were wealthy enough to provide the modular ever-expanding bedframes) and then, as we grew on and on, we continued to move houses. Condos in the city were advertised, “Perfect for thirty-somethings with children.”
The forty-year olds required higher ceilings, taller furniture. An occasional forty-year old, nostalgic for her childhood, tried dating a twenty-something, but the romance was physically difficult to sustain. She had to crouch down to him, and he could not, on his own, open the door to her fridge and take out the pot of beans. There were, of course, young people who prided themselves on their early maturity.
The fifty-year olds moved out to the farms, where they could shrug off the sense of being forever cramped, straighten their shoulders, and occupy themselves with tending to corn and sunflowers, apples and walnuts. At eighty, their parents grew so large and inert that talking to them was like trying to reach the top of a mountain. The eighty year olds were no longer heard, not even by their peers. Each of them was a heap of solitude, better able to commune with the clouds than with their fellow humans. Tending to these elderly was a challenge, for even the discovery of all the nooks and crannies where they hurt required of the younger generations long and arduous journeys. The sixty-year olds were best suited for this work. The sixty-year olds were still agile enough to really get in there, and the abounding apprehension of their own growth to come gentled their touch.
Seventy-seven, one woman decided, was a good age to die. She could still see her grandchildren, and she was heard when she asked her son to bring them closer, though already she was afraid to pick them up for the fear of accidentally crushing them. An apple tree could hear an oak, but to an oak the words of a giant sequoia sounded like rustling. This woman scribbled a note in the smallest handwriting she could muster, “The journey is over. Love to all.” Then she took sleeping pills and wrapped her head in plastic.

Graduate School

The English department had a stench to it. It was the morning after Spring break, and Sonya had put off grading the essays far too long. She sat down in the faculty reading room, where people could see her at work, and pulled out a green pen. Her comments would be generous, insightful, plainly phrased. But the essays were awful. One eighteen-year old argued that people who didn’t believe in God were inviting misery and suffering into their lives. Another, a young man, wrote, “Thus, school uniforms are necessary to protect women from dressing however they want for their own good.” Sonya lifted her head. The reading room was empty.
That afternoon a biohazard truck obstructed the exit from the Humanities building. Sonya went home to drink wine and read her email. She’d been collecting rejection letters from the PhD programs she’d applied to; waiting in her inbox was the last of the bunch. A PhD in literature was likely to land her, six years later, in the same job, grading the same essays. The only difference would be that a PhD made her eligible for a tenure-track position. She would never see the end to grading. Perhaps these rejections were a blessing in disguise: it was time to get out of teaching. She once had held a position in market research. Returning to that work, she could quadruple her income while regaining her nights and weekends. She could.
She opened the email. It was an acceptance. Sonya had been accepted to a comparative literature program. Full funding for two years. A rural town across the country, known for heavy snowstorms. Star faculty. Small program that encouraged cross-departmental collaboration. Opportunity to apply for funding to study abroad. We were impressed with your writing sample and would love to have you.
The last email in Sonya’s inbox was from the president of the university where she was an adjunct. He was saddened to inform the dear campus community that a faculty member had been found dead in her office in the Humanities building. Jane Polk, sixty-two years old, had contributed to the university’s success for the past nineteen years and her body had stayed rotting behind the closed door of her office through the Spring break. Nobody, not a student, not a janitor, not a fellow faculty member, had approached the door of her office in that time. The university police chief said that although the cause of death had not yet been determined, it appeared to have been the result of natural causes. Jane had no immediate family. Short-term counseling was available for employees, including adjunct instructors, through Life Matters, the university’s employee assistance program. A one-eight hundred number was provided.
Sonya went for that bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. Jane Polk’s death was Jane Polk’s death, and was it so bad? Lots of people died doing their jobs, the jobs that they loved. Sonya’s life was Sonya’s life. She and Jane Polk had little in common.Graduate School
The English department had a stench to it. It was the morning after Spring break, and Sonya had put off grading the essays far too long. She sat down in the faculty reading room, where people could see her at work, and pulled out a green pen. Her comments would be generous, insightful, plainly phrased. But the essays were awful. One eighteen-year old argued that people who didn’t believe in God were inviting misery and suffering into their lives. Another, a young man, wrote, “Thus, school uniforms are necessary to protect women from dressing however they want for their own good.” Sonya lifted her head. The reading room was empty.
That afternoon a biohazard truck obstructed the exit from the Humanities building. Sonya went home to drink wine and read her email. She’d been collecting rejection letters from the PhD programs she’d applied to; waiting in her inbox was the last of the bunch. A PhD in literature was likely to land her, six years later, in the same job, grading the same essays. The only difference would be that a PhD made her eligible for a tenure-track position. She would never see the end to grading. Perhaps these rejections were a blessing in disguise: it was time to get out of teaching. She once had held a position in market research. Returning to that work, she could quadruple her income while regaining her nights and weekends. She could.
She opened the email. It was an acceptance. Sonya had been accepted to a comparative literature program. Full funding for two years. A rural town across the country, known for heavy snowstorms. Star faculty. Small program that encouraged cross-departmental collaboration. Opportunity to apply for funding to study abroad. We were impressed with your writing sample and would love to have you.
The last email in Sonya’s inbox was from the president of the university where she was an adjunct. He was saddened to inform the dear campus community that a faculty member had been found dead in her office in the Humanities building. Jane Polk, sixty-two years old, had contributed to the university’s success for the past nineteen years and her body had stayed rotting behind the closed door of her office through the Spring break. Nobody, not a student, not a janitor, not a fellow faculty member, had approached the door of her office in that time. The university police chief said that although the cause of death had not yet been determined, it appeared to have been the result of natural causes. Jane had no immediate family. Short-term counseling was available for employees, including adjunct instructors, through Life Matters, the university’s employee assistance program. A one-eight hundred number was provided.
Sonya went for that bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. Jane Polk’s death was Jane Polk’s death, and was it so bad? Lots of people died doing their jobs, the jobs that they loved. Sonya’s life was Sonya’s life. She and Jane Polk had little in common.

Her Turn

In 1992, when the boy Oksana loved abandoned her and their five month old daughter, Oksana’s mother shipped her off to America. Through a brand-new agency, her mother found Oksana a husband in California. Her mother wouldn’t let Oksana take her newborn with her. No man, her mother lectured, wanted to raise another man’s child. Oksana weaned the girl and left her in the grandmother’s charge.
Twenty four years later, the boy Oksana once loved, her daughter’s father, turns up in San Francisco. Here’s how Californian Oksana has become: she meets him for coffee. They sit on bar stools in one of San Francisco’s public parklets and chat about the global trends that brought him, a programmer, to the Silicon Valley. He took a pay cut and a step down the career ladder to get out of Russia. His is an immigrant’s story: trying to figure out his housing situation, a job for his wife, schools for his two pre-teen kids, the clauses in his auto insurance to get some money back after a highway accident he caused took out his bumper. He looks out of place in this café of hip entrepreneurs. He wears a suit and his forehead is creased with worry.
Looking at him, listening to the stories of his woes, hearing him order a cappuccino in barely comprehensible English, Oksana plays with her flip flop, sliding it off her foot and picking it back up with her toes. She can’t help but admire her latest pedicure, the mauve nail polish that’s holding for several days without a single chip.
Toward the end of the hour, the man asks, “How’s your daughter?” He’s looking at her sideways as he tentatively speaks the girl’s name. How do you think she is? Oksana wants to ask him. The girl had grown up without her parents, and when she finally came to the United States to go to high school, she learned English in a month and took to pretending that she could no longer understand anything her mother and her grandmother had to say.
“She lives in Alaska and works at a fishery.” Oksana has practiced giving this information in the way that emphasizes the pride. Nevertheless, she’s glad when he pales. She steps into her flip flops and picks up her guitar, that same guitar that twenty-four years earlier, not wishing to seem destitute, she’d brought with her on the plane from Russia. She’s off to a music class for toddlers that she teaches twice a week, just for fun. The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round. She has a toddler of her own, an almost four-year old who’s been going to a Montessori preschool.
Oksana’s main gig, the one she’d worked up to for twenty years and can now run independently, working out of her home office while taking care of a toddler, is headhunting. She helps large businesses recruit high-level executives. Leaving the café, she shakes the man’s hand and promises to keep his resume on file. Her Turn
In 1992, when the boy Oksana loved abandoned her and their five month old daughter, Oksana’s mother shipped her off to America. Through a brand-new agency, her mother found Oksana a husband in California. Her mother wouldn’t let Oksana take her newborn with her. No man, her mother lectured, wanted to raise another man’s child. Oksana weaned the girl and left her in the grandmother’s charge.
Twenty four years later, the boy Oksana once loved, her daughter’s father, turns up in San Francisco. Here’s how Californian Oksana has become: she meets him for coffee. They sit on bar stools in one of San Francisco’s public parklets and chat about the global trends that brought him, a programmer, to the Silicon Valley. He took a pay cut and a step down the career ladder to get out of Russia. His is an immigrant’s story: trying to figure out his housing situation, a job for his wife, schools for his two pre-teen kids, the clauses in his auto insurance to get some money back after a highway accident he caused took out his bumper. He looks out of place in this café of hip entrepreneurs. He wears a suit and his forehead is creased with worry.
Looking at him, listening to the stories of his woes, hearing him order a cappuccino in barely comprehensible English, Oksana plays with her flip flop, sliding it off her foot and picking it back up with her toes. She can’t help but admire her latest pedicure, the mauve nail polish that’s holding for several days without a single chip.
Toward the end of the hour, the man asks, “How’s your daughter?” He’s looking at her sideways as he tentatively speaks the girl’s name. How do you think she is? Oksana wants to ask him. The girl had grown up without her parents, and when she finally came to the United States to go to high school, she learned English in a month and took to pretending that she could no longer understand anything her mother and her grandmother had to say.
“She lives in Alaska and works at a fishery.” Oksana has practiced giving this information in the way that emphasizes the pride. Nevertheless, she’s glad when he pales. She steps into her flip flops and picks up her guitar, that same guitar that twenty-four years earlier, not wishing to seem destitute, she’d brought with her on the plane from Russia. She’s off to a music class for toddlers that she teaches twice a week, just for fun. The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round. She has a toddler of her own, an almost four-year old who’s been going to a Montessori preschool.
Oksana’s main gig, the one she’d worked up to for twenty years and can now run independently, working out of her home office while taking care of a toddler, is headhunting. She helps large businesses recruit high-level executives. Leaving the café, she shakes the man’s hand and promises to keep his resume on file.