FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 4, Number 2 March-April, 1997 EDITOR'S NOTE: FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis. The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits and publishes material from the public. To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-mail a brief request to ngwazi@clark.net To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same address, with the ms in ASCII format, if possible included as part of the message itself, rather than as an attachment. 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William Ramsay, Editor ================================================= CONTENTS Editor's Note Contributors "Garden Work," a poem Jean Bower "Berkshire Wedding," a short story Judith Greenwood "Miami Squeeze," an excerpt (chapter 1) from the novel "Ay, chucho!" William Ramsay "Pride," a scene (#6) from the play, "Act of God" Otho Eskin ================================================= CONTRIBUTORS JEAN BOWER is a Washington attorney, founder of a program for legal assistance in child neglect cases, and a poet. JUDITH GREENWOOD writes fiction and is an international interior/garden designer and a West Virginia farmer, herpetophobe, and close observer of local specimens of _Felis_ _concolor_. She is the founder of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC. OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington, notably “Act of God.” His play “Duet” has been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library in Washington, and is being performed with some regularity in theaters in the United States, Europe, and Australia. WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the Northwest Fiction Group. “Sorry About the Cat,” an evening of his and Otho Eskin’s short comic plays, was presented last fall at the Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland. ================================================= GARDEN WORK by Jean Bower Tear up the chicory, lambs' tongue clover, dandelion, grass, those humble gifts that winter brought: here's a new floribunda rose. Over loam, spread carpets of cocoa shells -- the chocolate scent will rise with aromas of the roses, peonies, violets, lilies of the valley so all the senses of delight surround, and all above, around, beneath us, beetles, worms, bees, aphids, butterflies eat the earth alive. =========================================== Berkshire Wedding by Judith Greenwood Sun beamed through the oily glass of the church windows and heated the women who stood before the preacher in their woolen dresses. Emma didn’t seem to notice, but Miranda saw wet stains had gathered under Emma’s arms and that her cheeks were ruddy. The men gently strained against their neckcloths, too, and seemed doomed to undo their careful tying. Emma would not wed in black, but she could not wed in her favorite red. Her best dress for the next many years would, therefore, be the deep violet of half mourning, a color that the women of the Berkshire County had concurred would not be offensive on the hurried bride of a newly orphaned bridegroom. Perhaps next year Emma could replace the violet braids and piping with a jolly plaid, Miranda thought, and be more pleased with her wedding gown. And have a bonnet trimmed in the cheerful colors of the new trims. Pastor Bridge went on in his clipped nasal tones, admonishing the young couple to take care of not only their own good characters, but to act against sin in the church community so as to ensure that the moral fiber of all would shine whitely in this dark world. So much sin he found, Miranda thought. Where did he find it? She knew no one who would dare to do any of the ugly things called sin in the Bible, except perhaps coveting. Coveting was quiet and private, not open to the censure and ostracism that come from other sins. Of course many of the other sins arose from covetousness. Theft, adultery, dishonoring a parent, swearing and blaspheming, even murder might result from unbridled coveting, she supposed. And, she knew, even she was open to a little coveting if Sara Brice or Mildred Thorne had a new bonnet or were planning a trip to a faraway place like Poughkeepsie or Boston. There was nothing in this church that she coveted this day. She would never covet solid, good Tom, and she was years from wanting a marriage. She did not want a wedding dress in any color, nor a wedding feast of stewed hens with preserved and dried vegetables because it was too early in the season for the lovely new fruits that July would bring. So for today, she was safe from sin. Safe from the opportunity to sin, but apt to the fault of curiosity. Where did Pastor Bridge find sin in this congregation? What whispered confessions did he hear in the parlors of the county? What subtle signs of depravity did he see with those eyes trained to see blots on souls? When did the hardworking denizens of Berkshire County have time to break the Commandments? Where would their tired bodies find the vigor to expend on unnecessary activity? Surely it was far easier and less tiring to be decent than to be evil and then to conceal it? The pastor wound down, seemed to struggle for something to add, and then gave it up and proceeded to marry Emma and Tom. Emma wavered a little on her feet when it was her turn to respond, but recovered herself and made herself heard to at least the first two or three rows of guests, thus making a wife of herself before God and his congregation. Miranda was not sure whether God would keep an eye on the new Mrs. Adams, but she was sure that the congregation would. The guests rose to greet and surround the new couple as they turned toward the door, but happily, it was a hot day and the congregation did not delay their leaving by much. Miranda hung back to allow the aisle to clear and to enjoy the brief cooling current of air that came through the open doors. Yesterday she and Emma had tied fern fronds to the pews, but they were limp now and would soon shatter in the heat. The restrictions of a severe church tradition had badly cramped the girls’ longings to create a flowery paradise such as they read of in ladies’ magazines, but they had spent their desires on Emma’s home, where spirea and late white lilac hung over and crowded the food-laden table. The flowers, they had teased Emma’s mother into allowing. They had not dared to ask for the dancing they longed for, and in truth the barn was too busy a place to clear in this season. Miranda moved slowly down the aisle, imagining that she was the bride, but it didn’t feel right and she could not picture the man, a tall man in black, who would wait at the altar for her. The dim foyer was cool and she was tempted to stay and not to step out into the brilliant afternoon. As she stepped onto the porch, a tall man in black stepped to her side and she jumped in surprise. “Oh, Pastor Bridge! I was woolgathering and you startled me.” “Do you dream of your wedding day perhaps?” Miranda shrugged. “It is not time for me, sir.” “But it cannot surely be so many years until you will wed. Do you think Emma is too young for marriage?” “I believe that for Emma this is the right time, but that it is not for me.” “What age is a good one for a girl to marry, then? When will you be opening your eyes to the hopeful young men?” “Is there an age for this? I think there is not. I believe that a girl must satisfy her curiosity for learning, understand what she is capable of, and feel sure that she is prepared to take on the many duties and serious responsibilities that may come with marriage. It was not so many years ago that a girl was required only to do what she saw her mother do when she married, but in the modern world there are so many possibilities.” “And what is possible for a woman who does not marry?” “I did not say that I would not marry, but a woman does not cease to breathe if she does not. She might teach, or in a city she would find other respectable work. Think how many women in our own town stay at home to care for their parents and finally run a farm. That surely is not a shameful life.” “But I do not believe you will choose any of those roads. I do not believe that you will be allowed by the young men to live in that fashion. Nor do I believe that you will choose to live so.” Miranda pondered this. If he could see hidden sins, could he also see hidden longings? Was he suggesting impropriety in her demeanor, or only a natural bent? “I think to marry one day when I shall know how I wish to spend my life. For now, I am very taken up by my studies, my determination to see something of this world, and my heartfelt belief that I am not yet grown enough to be what I must be to a husband. I should be reading when I ought to be cooking and dreaming when I ought to be cleaning. A man would have every reason to hate this in me, would he not?” “Some men might forgive all of that for your sunny nature, but if you feel that you are not ready for marriage, it is wise in you to avoid it. Joy postponed is joy, nonetheless.” “I see my mother has waited for me, Pastor. Shall we not join her and walk to Emma’s party?” Nedella Fairing stood like a tall shadow under the roadside elms, waiting for her daughter. She did not move toward them as they approached, but stood, unmoving, waiting for them to cover every step of the space between them. “Good afternoon, Mistress Fairing. Have you not enjoyed this cheerful occasion after a spring filled with so much sadness?” “As you say, Pastor Bridge. It is a relief to wish them well, when pity has been the topic of so many meetings in this church. As it must be a relief for you to set young people on a righteous path instead of burying them.” The young minister blinked at the somber, black-clad woman. “Yes. Shall we go and make such celebration as we may be allowed in the circumstances?” He offered his arm to Mrs. Fairing, and they proceeded at a stately pace. Miranda dropped back to follow her mother, as seemed proper. She itched to run on ahead, as she might have done a few years earlier, but knew her impatience would only reward her with a lecture on temperate behavior when they went home. “Miranda, you must want to join your friend,” Nedella said, “why do you not run on ahead? I’m sure the pastor will not mind keeping me company to the house. May I depend on your arm, sir?” “Yes, of course, please depend on me. I quite forgot that Miranda is the maid of honor and must be needed at Emma’s home. Do go on, Miranda.” Miranda ducked her head, hardly believing what she heard, and then set off quickly to cover the half mile or so left to Emma’s house and the wedding feast. She exchanged a dozen cheerful greetings with guests who had sought shade on the porch, as she passed through and into the party. It was her assigned duty to oversee the display of gifts in the first floor chamber which had been cleared for the purpose. She could appreciate the thought behind the practical and the exuberance behind the frivolous. Although Emma would have everything left by Tom’s parents, it would be a pity if she hadn’t the wherewithal to make her home her own. There were embroideries, spools of tatted lace, crocheted edgings that Emma could use to trim objects of her own making, and a glorious entire bolt of printed cotton with a tiny cherry in Emma’s favorite red. This last was the inspired gift of a group of ladies who had understood the difficulty of a young woman moving into a house of mourning. But there were also hams and preserves, new muslin sheets and a tiny iron spider that was just the size for one or two eggs. Altogether it was a wonderful display, and surprising in its sensitivity to Emma’s position. Miranda was relieved of her charge in order to get a plate of dinner. Although the stewed hen was not as delicate and pretty as young roasted fowl would have been, she had to admit that its flavor was far richer and more savory. And the precious preserved cranberries that Emma’s Mamma had pulled out of her end-of-the-winter cellar were supreme with it and allowed Miranda to forgive the awful mashed Hubbard squash. There was a small salad of the first lettuce leaves, but so little of it that the girls had agreed not to take any of it, although they loved it so. The wedding cake was a triumph, because Emma’s family had ordered currants and candied citrus peels from Boston, and Emma had always had a light hand with a cake. She claimed it was because she had haying muscles left over each year, and wasn’t afraid to use them to beat a batter until it screamed to be baked. Almost a half-year’s sugar was pummeled to an unparalleled fineness to make the icing, and the butter and buttermilk had been beaten into it even harder than the batter. The result was a creamy frost that resembled a new snow. Altogether, they had much to be proud of. It was a relief to feel that they had made something that satisfied Emma with its festivity and had not, so far, offended any of the old biddies who could trouble Emma with their gossip and harsh judgment. She saw her mother lean to speak softly into Emma’s ear. Two wives now; one newly made and one widowed for four years and still looking as if she were dyed black nearly to her skin. Emma’s mother stood just behind her daughter. It was the sight of the three of them that startled Miranda into the discovery that her mother was not old. She blushed at the thought, caught in her own prejudice. She quickly added her own age, sixteen, to her mother’s age when she was born. Her mother was thirty-five and nearly as slender and graceful at that age as Emma. She resembled, in fact, the bride much more than she resembled the mother of the bride. It was something, she promised herself, to ponder tonight when she lay in bed before sleep. A fresh thought was always worth turning over to see what one could make of it. Late that night, with the whippoorwill calling from the fence line and a cooler air current welcome over her arms, Miranda couldn’t decide whether to think about the wedding or her mother. But there were thoughts connected to the wedding that were apt to require more energy than the day past had left to her, so she decided on her mother as subject to these nighttime meanderings. She thought about how hard her mother worked, not only overseeing the farm with one hired hand and extras at haying and harvest, but joining the crews and quite able to do anything other than the moving of great weights. She was better at driving the teams of draft hoses than any of the men, offering only the gentlest spoken suggestions to them and getting instant attention and obedience. She surely needed Miranda much more than she got her, but insisted that in their family women were educated to the limit of their abilities, and that Miranda’s work was to excel in her studies at normal school during term. She accepted Miranda’s help as a matter of course during vacations and holidays, and made sure that Miranda understood each of the farm and house chores, so that her skills grew each year and one day could be hoped to equal her mother’s. Miranda was never as good with the horses as her mother, but no one else she had ever seen was so skillful with creatures, either. Ewes lambing under Nedella’s care were not so foolish and panicky and they rarely died or lost their lambs. Cows didn’t kick their milkers when Nedella was around, although they might be as fractious as any other stock when she was absent. She had her own language of humming and cluckings that animals seemed to understand, and yet it did not sound so much like talk as to make her seem foolish Miranda also felt a connection with the creatures in the farmyard, but had not her mother’s skill, nor did she expect ever to get it. On the other hand, although Nedella was a good cook, Miranda was better. And although Nedella spun and wove and sewed competently, Miranda always knew exactly what would turn a garment or a curtain from a very nice thing into an enviably excellent thing. Miranda had every hope that someday she would be as good a woman as her mother, but different from her, too. Someday, that was, when she should conquer her restless mind and soul. For now, it was enough to have a mother she could trust absolutely, and whose strength and wisdom and determination to form Miranda could be relied upon when Miranda’s own inclinations were toward the unachievably romantic or ambitious. It was for those reasons that Miranda was ashamed that she had presumed that her mother was an old woman whose life and whose expectations had only to do with her children. It would be another twenty-five years or so, God willing, before her mother might have difficulty going on as she had done for the past four. By then, she would have men for sons, and with the clearing of more acreage, it was possible that all three boys might stay on and make their lives on the farm. But there would be no place for Miranda, That had been explained when she left the village school. “Your education will be your inheritance. During the time that you continue to attend school, we will not expand the farm, but will use what we earn to educate you. Then one day you will marry and enter your husband’s life. The farm will be for the boys,” her mother said. “If one of the boys decides to pursue a profession, I will make the same arrangement for him. Miranda never felt that she belonged on the farm after that day. And now there was something new to add to her feelings. Her mother was still young, vigorous and really quite handsome. If she lived where there were more people, she might very well find another husband, and even have more children. Or perhaps a local man would become widowed, and it could happen even here. But upon thinking hard, Miranda could not come up with a man she would like for her mother, even if he were unmarried. With a sigh, she admitted that it was unlikely that most girls could see a husband for her mother in any array of ordinary men. She put away the sleepy thoughts with resolve to remember from now on that her mother was a woman in her own right, and not merely somebody’s mother. She woke with a sense of extraordinary well-being. It was wonderful to actually live at home in the summer, so much better than unpacking and repacking almost every week when school was in term. She liked returning, she loved the familiarity of how the dawning sun lay across the quilt on her bed. She loved the sound Hiram made when he opened the creaking barn door every morning, thus signaling that the day had begun. She loved the smell of the house when she opened the door each Friday evening. It was a smell as familiar as her own scent on her petticoats as she pulled them over her head and her nightgown when she folded it to put it under her pillow. Her own scent was impossible to unravel, but she could say exactly what made up the scent of her mother’s house. The first part was whatever might be cooking. Then there was the smell of the beeswax on the wide floor boards, the painted woodwork and the furniture. There was always a hint of pennyroyal that was hidden behind and under things to keep out ants and other insects. Now, in the summer, the open windows added a whiff of manure from the cows and horses, and a changing note of flowers, grass or hay, depending on whether it was blooming time, cutting time or gathering time. In the winter, there was sometimes a hint of woodsmoke if the wind blew the wrong way. Her friends lived in houses that were almost identical to Nedella Fairing’s house, but when she spent the night with one of them, Miranda knew the instant she woke up that she was not at home because the smell was entirely different. Most of the time she knew she no longer belonged there, but on the rare occasion she found herself rooted and inseparable from the place, she quickly reminded herself that she was now a visitor. She did that now. It only required a mental shake to set herself right, because her dreams of her future did not include staying on the farm or even in Berkshire County, but in some unnamed but wonderful place, like Boston or Baltimore, New York or New Orleans. The house she wanted, the social occasions she dreamt to give or to attend, the mysterious man in black she would marry, all of these were of a scope that would not fit into the farm or even Pittsfield or North Adams or Williamsport or Lenox. She had never been to a place that would hold her dreams, but she knew that the place existed, it would only require that she live a life that might take her there. ========================================== MIAMI SQUEEZE by William Ramsay (Note: this is an excerpt, Chapter 1, from the novel "Ay, Chucho!") This story is about me—and my mistakes, and how I’m lucky to be alive after my “vacation” in Cuba. But people are impressed by big names, so I’m happy to mention that Fidel Castro plays an important role in what happened to me in Havana. You may think you know about him—revolutionary turned ruthless dictator, world-class speechmaker, hero to the Cuban proletariat. But boy, I tell you, it’s one thing to read about him and another to sit face to face with him and to experience his overwhelming charisma while, at the same time, you shake in your boots wondering if those lustrous brown eyes of his are sizing you up for the firing squad at the nearest _paredon_! Me, I’m no Fidel, I’m merely Jesus (“Chucho”) Revueltos Olivera, “your servant,” as we say in Spanish. To my _americano_ friends I’m just plain vanilla Jesse Revueltos. I’ve been to college, South Dade Community, where I majored in baseball, soccer, and playing electronic keyboard weekends for “Enriquito’s Hot Rockers”—and also the University of Miami, where I got more serious, learned calculus and differential equations, and got my master’s in E.E. (Electrical Engineering). My family has been over here from the Island since 1969, so, since it’s now 1991 as I write this memoir and I’m thirty, that _should_ mean I’m considerably more American than Cuban. But I’m Cuban enough that Fidel could never have been a hero to me. In the Miami I grew up in, there were only three political views that it was safe for a Cuban to have: (1) right- wing, (2) very right-wing, and (3) crazy-out-of-your mind extremism in the cause of LIBERTY _for_ Cuba and _from_ that monster, Fidel Castro Ruz. My heroes came from the movies. Errol Flynn, now that’s somebody I would like to have been. Remember “The Dawn Patrol,” when Errol Flynn salutes as he goes down in flames, and then the German ace comes over the English air field and drops Errol Flynn’s boots and goggles over the side? I have a video library that takes up most of the hall closet and a long bookshelf besides, and it’s full of those old movies from my father’s time. And take Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. One of the last films I saw in Havana before our family left Havana was “The Prisoner of Zenda”— and American oldies are still common in Cuba, where they don’t get the new films. Every time I see “Zenda” now on the VCR I remember that first time and how I fidgeted in my seat trying to help Ronald Colman escape from the castle. But at the same time, I wanted Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., Count Rupert Hentzau, to win too—he was magnificent, swinging from ropes, lashing out with his saber, he was too _alive_ to die. Staying alive brings me to my own problem and how I got mixed up with Fidel in person. I’m talking now about last year, in the spring of 1990, about the start of the baseball and mosquito seasons in Florida. The basic problem that I got into that spring was like Ronald Colman’s in the movie—how to stay alive or at least out of jail. You see, I owed this money. Well, owing money is normal, it’s part of the American dream—in my part of Miami, the Cuban- American dream. That’s especially so for a small businessman like me. See, I own a good-sized electronics sales and service shop in Little Havana, just a couple of blocks off the famous Calle Ocho, the Cuban main drag. I say “own,” and I was—am—the owner, all 1500 square feet of bulletin-board style shelving and red-tag sale stickers. But it isn’t easy getting started in business. My mother helped me out a little— but she’s always had most of her money tied up in real estate investments. In fact, she’s always been a little chary of both her money and her time—she couldn’t manage to get to my college graduation because of a closing on the sale of a shopping center. But she did gift me with a violet tie with the Miami skyline superimposed in orange for the occasion, so I’m not complaining. I mean, understanding everyone’s limitations is what you have to do in life, right? Anyway, I needed more capital to buy the lease and the equipment for my new business. The banks weren’t much help. So it was either taking a chance on some “unconventional” financing, or else reconciling myself to my job as a salesman pounding the pavements for some slavedriver like Ace Electronics Wholesalers. Anyway, I went ahead and took a loan from some big men in what they call along Calle Ocho “the Association.” Consequently I ended up with a group of silent partners who held a substantial “mortgage” on the store. Anyway, by last spring I was already big into VCR’s, and recently I had started into cellular phone sales and franchising too. Yes, well there was the problem. The phone business requires a whopping big investment, which really ate into my working capital, and then I unexpectedly lost out on the award of a sub-franchise. Hell, suddenly I couldn’t pay the phone bill, so how could I keep up payments on the “mortgage”? All at once my silent partners were not so tongue-tied. They wanted their money. _Now_. I can get the money, I told them. So get it, they said. As my mother’s boy friend, “Uncle Paco,” told me, “They’re plain men, they only understand demand accounts.” ‘Demand’—spelled N-O-W. That’s how I got into the Fidel business. My money troubles. Just because business is tricky and the laws discourage initiative in young entrepreneurs—Christ, and I do vote Republican, you know—would you think that somebody like me deserved to have my life get completely screwed up? Would you imagine that I’d have to meet the Monster in person, to shake his big, figuratively bloody paw? That I’d find myself stuck as a one-man audience, my brain alternating between terror and boredom, as the great Orator spouted off about this and that and the other thing! _Ay ay ay_! “Fidel, Fidel!” “Comandante!” I can still recall the shouts of adulation that I used to hear as a boy in Havana, in the midst of the crowds gathered around the TV set at the local CDR club—me, a little shrimp with big eyes and bigger ears. But by 1990, when I was twenty-nine, it had been years since I had heard the name said with anything but a sneer. In 1990, especially, everybody along Calle Ocho was gung-ho for perestroika, hoping that the Cuban communists would get perestroika’d out on their ass. Those crazy right-wing bastards in the Alpha-66 group and the 2506 Brigade—the Bay of Pigs leftovers—were still chafing at the bit to turn Cuba upside down again and save _la Nacion_ for democracy. If they could have pulled something like that off last spring, those crazy jerks, they would at least have done my family—and especially me, as it turned out—a good turn. Specifically, they would have saved my father’s ass. You see, my father didn’t escape with us. We left shortly after he had been arrested, and by 1990, he had been undergoing “reeducation” in one or another of Fidel’s prisons for over twenty years. Anyway, I was going quietly out of my mind worrying about my business, my debts, and the impatience of the Association, trying to think of who I could borrow from, or where I could run to. Meanwhile, my girl friend Amelia kept telling me I should go to the police about the money and the threats. “Be firm, Jesus, stand up for yourself.” That’s your typical lawyer for you! “Lie down and _die_ for yourself,” she might as well have said. Police are fine in their place, I’m all for them, but bringing them into my case would have been like poking a stick in a hornet’s nest. The Cuban mafia, the Association—“The Men”—isn’t a real mafia, they are much more genteel than the Sicilian kind—at least judging from the _italiano_ version I see in films like “The Godfather.” But they _are_ men of a firm and opinionated character. When they want something, they want it, especially their money—in this case, God help me, my money: Uncle Paco: Jesus, the Men trust you, they’re your friends, they’re not upset. But you know, they say they’re concerned about their money. They told me you should have a plan. Me: But I can work my way out of this, Paco. Paco twirled at his gold chains, letting them clink about and slap around on his oily brown chest: “Gee,” he said, “you better not let it slide too long, though.” Me: How long? Paco (forehead wrinkled): Pretty damned soon, I guess. Me: Oh God. # Amelia always knows how to dress, you’ve got to say that for hershe’s a great girl, even if she’s always telling me I should do this and that and a couple of other things that I may not want to do. Peering out through the convex peephole in the door to my apartment one day last spring, I saw the distorted mop of curly brown hair ballooning over the elegantly clothed torso that it couldn’t be anybody but her. As I opened the door, there she stood, one thin black eyebrow slightly raised, one foot pointed sideways like a model’s, the smile beginning and then growing like an alley cat’s grin. "Hey!" I said. "How are you!" “I’m O.K. But _you_, Chucho, you could be in better shape.” Always a wiseass—I like that in a woman. It turned out that she was talking about, not really me, but my mother and _her_ troubles. “Everybody does it,” _mamacita_ always said to me, talking about cocaine snorting at her poker parties in friends’ houses in Coral Gables and Coconut Grove. “Everybody does it,” but it was my mother who had just recently gotten caught. At one of the “Tuesday Tootsies” ladies’ get-togethers, Lidia Gomez’ estranged husband woke up out of an alcoholic semi-coma and started taking swipes with his gold Knights of Columbus ceremonial sword at the family photos and the china and any furniture that happened to be in the way. The police came, and in the melee the shit—the coke—hit that fan you _gringos_ always talk about. And as a result, _mamacita_ was now out on bail, thanks to Amelia, and facing arraignment on misdemeanor possession. “I could get her off with six months and $500,” said Amelia. “Shit!” "It was a bad break." “It’s your brother’s fault,” I said. “Uncle Paco” wasn’t a real uncle, he was Amelia’s older brother, and he was keeping steady company with my mother, even though he was only thirty-seven and she was forty-five. Amelia scrunched up her nose and eyes as if someone had just let a fart in an crowded elevator. “Paco doesn’t use cocaine.” "No, he only supplies it." “He does not. He’s in waste disposal.” On the last two words, her alto voice rose weakly into a pained warble. “He hangs out with garbage, that’s for sure!” Amelia looked thoughtful. I knew that she too worried about her older brother, the pleats over his pockets that were all stretched out of shape by wads of hundred dollar bills—and all his stylishly idle friends, their over-bright eyes, and their red, peeling nostrils. “How is _mamacita_ taking it?” “The police are being very unreasonable. Elena _told_ them she was just celebrating selling a big commercial property.” “And I suppose she shot the commission on that new red slacks outfit and a couple of ounces of white lady.” “If only your father were here.” “Yeah.” We were sitting on the brand new black leather and chrome sofa, and she put her soft little hand on the back of my neck. Warm shivers. “My father. I guess,” I said. I had never been confident that I understood my father. I hadn’t seen him of course since I was eight, and I remembered mostly things like his wire-rim glasses, always staring past my head instead of looking into my eyes. The few letters we’d gotten from him from Fidel’s prisons read like a textbook example of how to write a formal family letter—except at the end there were always some spooky phrases about the future of Socialist Man. You see, the odd thing was, my father wasn’t any right-wing _gusano_, he was a loyal communist, at least in theory—it was just in practice he hadn’t always been able to get along with Fidel. He believed in Marx instead of only in Castro. Poor, naive _papacito_! Amelia’s hand stroking the soft hair at the back of my neck felt better and better. I tried to insert my own hand into the small gap between her starchy, close-fitting bodice and the smoothness of the skin between her small plump breasts. She looked at me, surprised, and gripped my fingers, halting me. She undid the buttons on her blouse and guided my fingers all the way around her left breast, the underside moist on my fingers. “Oh,” she said in a loud whisper. “Yes, ‘oh!’” I said. “Is there time?” “There’s always time.” Amelia is a sound thinker on the things that really count in life. The air conditioning felt cold on the backs of my arms as I got undressed and into bed. But once I got myself positioned over her, I had to reach back and struggle to pull the damned sheet off my legs— the sweat was in pools on my back and especially on my butt, dripping down along the thick body hairs that I hate but that Amelia seems to like. “Oh, Chucho,” she said, gripping what a Romance novelist would call my manhood. No, stop!” I said. “It feels so good.” “For God’s sake, stop!” “Ohhh.” Dammit, before I could do anything else, I came, all over her nice white belly. “Oh—Chucho.” “Yeah, oh.” I collapsed, feeling myself falling into a coma-like drowse. But then I felt my shoulder being shaken. “Shiiiit, Chucho!” Amelia screeched out, “What?” I said articulately. “Don’t you dare leave me this way.” I groaned. Insult to injury. My eyes not even open, I pulled myself down, head between her legs, my tongue straining to its roots. “Oh, that mustache of yours!” she cried, groaning. Sweat was pouring down my forehead. It can be hard work being the perfect lover. Then that sweet ‘take-me’ aroma of hers began to rouse me, and I felt myself getting ready to give it another go, when she suddenly stopped groaning and made three little yelps. “Oh, God,” she said. “Yeah,” I said. I subtly began pressing my modest new hard-on into the flesh of her thigh. She wrinkled her nose again, pushed my dong away, lifted her thigh away from me, pulled up the sheet, and lay there thinking. “Am I going to get paid?” Her face looked quite solemn and I smiled. “Why sure you are!” I said. “You _earned_ it, darling. But suppose I’m the one that deserves the fee?” Some girls would have hit me with something. It’s more Amelia’s style just to look at me and make a face to show that she knows it’s a joke, that I’m teasing her because she’s always dutifully looking out for financial interests of “the firm.” And especially those of her boss, the senior senior partner, old fatass O’Sullivan. Turning serious, I said that of course she’d get paid back for my mother’s bail bond and that she’d also get her fee—eventually. My little hard-on was beginning to feel lonely and literally depressed. “You know, I wouldn’t care, but Mr. O’Sullivan...” My girlfriend, as she was then, is a terrible idealist, for a lawyer to make money seems to her to be almost a miscarriage of justice. Except that somehow if someday she didn’t get to be a senior partner herself, that would be the worst miscarriage of all. I told her that if I didn’t get some money somewhere, to pay her and especially to pay _them_, I wouldn’t have much of anything to worry about—at least in this life. As I said this I could feel that what Amelia calls her “little puppy dog” had slipped back into its lonesome kennel. “Too bad you can’t get at your father’s money.” “Yes, it sure is.” An anomaly of my father’s position was that in ‘62, right after the Bay of Pigs (in Miami, we call it “Playa Giron”), when he was on the staff at the Cuban delegation to the U.N. in New York, he converted most of the foreign securities holdings of the family into bearer bonds. The old man was scared shitless that the counter-revolutionaries and the C.I.A. might soon succeed in taking over Cuba, so he stuck the bonds in a safety deposit box in Manhattan and prepaid the rent for fifty years, guarding them for “future generations of free, socialist Cubans.” The bonds were still there. So there was “money in the family,” all right. But Father had squirreled away the only key somewhere and he himself was under lock and key in La Cabana prison in Havana. So for my purposes, the money might as well have been sitting on the moon, waiting for Neil Armstrong to drop back for a replay. Just the night before, I had dropped off to sleep thinking about the bearer bonds. The old man had been on the ball to keep the money so liquid and easily transferable. Not his fault that it turned out that _he_ wasn’t quite transferable enough. Anyway, I dreamed that my mother had given birth to a very fat seagull, and that all the money was going to go to the bird. For the birds is right. Then I woke up having to go to the bathroom, thinking about the “mortgage,” and wishing for thirty seconds that I could go back to sleep and never wake up again. So I didn’t care much for Amelia’s reminding me of the bonds. Mystic millions, I called them. As she was getting out of the shower, I was lying there feeling abandoned by her and by everyone. “I just hope to hell you can represent _me_ on spec too,” I said finally. “Not ‘spec,’ ‘contingency,’ my curly-headed boy,” she said and went on to ask me why I would need representation. I reminded her how critical my financial embarrassments with her brother’s friends had become. She asked whether they were going to break my legs. I told her maybe, but more likely they’d do something like setting me up, framing me with drugs or hot money and letting the cops think up a suitable penalty for me. That way, I’m not injured, and I still have all my faculties—if not necessarily my freedom. And with the continuing ability to someday, somehow, get together the funds to pay back their loan—plus interest. Failing that, they could simply ask me to pay with my worthless hide. “I wish Paco would get a steady job,” she said. “Paco! How about a steady job for me—preferably in some unobtrusive place like Timbuktu?” I said. She leaned over to look in the mirror on the wall and worked to smooth out her hair with the flattened palms of her hands. “Some of the people Paquito hangs around do have bad reputations. People around the courthouse talk. It’s getting to be a problem, all right.” “Yeah, but how about me and my problem?” Amelia gave me one of her frowning, earnest looks. “You know what you need?” “No”—I bit. “What do I need?” “Your father,” she said. “You need his money—and your mother needs him.” “I’ll call up Fidel and arrange it—what the hell is his number again?” “My cousin says that Elena was never like this in the old days in Havana.” It was true, I knew Mother needed a man to settle down with, not a pea- brained playboy like Uncle Paco. And what better man than the family hero, her martyred husband, my revered father? Amelia started to put on her brassiere. Women in brassieres always turn me on. “Don’t leave yet!” I said. Fabricio was watching the shop, I wouldn’t have to get back there until six. “Got to go, briefs to file.” “I’ll volunteer to do some brief-filing of the third kind if you’ll stay and play some more.” “It would be wonderful,” she said, pulling on her gray panty hose. “Sure, let’s give it another go.” “Oh Jesse, we’ve done that for today. I mean it would be wonderful if we could only get your father out! How about Amnesty International?” As she picked up her handbag and started to leave, I told her we have already tried that. It hadn’t helped that Father was a left-winger -- somehow people seemed to prefer rescuing rightists from leftist jails and vice versa, not like from like. I heard the door latch click behind Amelia and that’s all I heard for a while. I slept on, dreaming of a tiny fish leaping high out of the Inland Waterway and landing gasping on the MacArthur Causeway. The phone woke me up. A loud hoarse voice said hello and my name. A shiver abruptly went over me—“The Association”! But it wasn’t, it was just a stockbroker I didn’t know. He wanted me to invest my excess funds in a stock in an offshore investment company in the Cayman Islands that was going to go public in London on Monday and would surely triple in price by the end of the month. Come on—get serious! Later, on my way over to the shop, I stopped for a newspaper. Some guy in a _guayabera_ shirt was leaning against the front of the cafe next door, smoking. I hate smoking, I always have. As I glanced at him, his brown eyes stared at me. I averted my gaze. When I looked back, he rolled his eyes upward—I could see that they were more green than brown. Then he stared again. I tried to stare him down, but his eyes wouldn’t leave mine alone. Finally I nodded at him. He cast his eyes down and smiled, flicking his cigarette like Peter Lorre in “Casablanca.” I suddenly felt I had to pee like mad. That night, at about 9:20, on the way back from the store after closing out the cash registers and pulling the barred shutters over the display windows, a car’s lights swung into my rear view mirror. They hung on and on, around every turn. Finally I stopped in the middle of a block. The lights stopped far behind me. I started up again. The lights resumed following. At the next intersection, I stopped and the car with the lights pulled up beside me. A man in a wide-brimmed Panama hat leaned out of the window and motioned to me with one long index finger. I opened the window. In the yellowish glow from the sodium vapor street lights I could see that his teeth were gold-capped under the mustached lip. “Do you know the way to Hialeah?” “No,” I said. “Too bad, I like to know which way I’m headed.” “What?” “You know how it is, don’t you? Yeah, I can tell you do, Mr. Revueltos.” I stared at him, he smiled, closed the window, and the car drove off, his tail lights red, fading in and out inside the faint yellow tents under the lamp posts, then reappearing bright in the receding darkness. The next day, I had a note (misspelled) from Uncle Paco saying I’d better “regularise” my financial situation as soon as possible—the Association had emphasized that they were anticipating a severe cash crunch. My cooperation would be greatly appreciated. I had to do something. I didn’t know what. But something. It was desperation city! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ PRIDE by Otho Eskin (Note: This is scene 6 from the full-length play "Act of God") Cast of Characters JOHN An unemployed actor weak, shallow and self-absorbed. SATAN DAMIEN A priest. AT RISE: JOHN is alone in his New York apartment. JOHN Now I ask you, can things get any worse than this? You bet they can. I'm going to have to take strong action. (The doorbell rings. JOHN opens the door. Standing at the door is FATHER DAMIEN. DAMIEN is a dignified, elderly man, wearing a black topcoat and a homburg hat and carrying a black satchel.) DAMIEN Good evening. I am Father Damien. JOHN I'm John. Please come in. (DAMIEN shivers as if suddenly very cold.) DAMIEN It's awfully cold here. (DAMIEN pulls his collar close.) You said on the phone you were in trouble. How may I help you, my son? JOHN Your ad in the Yellow Pages said you were a qualified exorcist. DAMIEN One of the few still practicing in the United States. JOHN Thank heavens I've finally found someone who can do something. DAMIEN What is your problem? JOHN Satan is here in my apartment. I conjured him... DAMIEN You did what? JOHN Father, you're my last hope. Can you help me get rid of Satan? DAMIEN Oh, dear, I hope you aren't counting on me too much. I mean, these things are a bit tricky, you know. JOHN But you do know how to do it? DAMIEN That depends on how The Great Tempter has manifested himself. Tell me, what are the signs? How does he...? How does he appear to you? JOHN Actually, he looks a little like my brother-in-law from my first marriage. He seems to appear differently to different people. DAMIEN Oh, my goodness, how exciting. JOHN It's not exciting at all. It's terrible. This thing is ruining my life. I want you to get rid of him. DAMIEN I'll certainly give it a shot. JOHN (Doubtfully) You have done this before? DAMIEN Of course. Many times. JOHN And you have seen the Devil? I mean, in person? DAMIEN Not exactly seen him. He's very sly. JOHN You do believe in the Devil? I suppose if you believe in God, then it's easy to believe in the Devil. DAMIEN Actually, it's the other way around. It's the God bit I've always had trouble with. In fact, it's only my conviction that Satan must exist that has kept my faith alive. If it weren't for the Devil I would be in despair. And to be honest, recently I've even had doubts about him. JOHN I think I've made a very serious mistake. DAMIEN This always happens. Every time. Please let me try. JOHN It's too dangerous. DAMIEN I know all about how it's done. I know all the rituals. I know all the words. Please let me. I've been practicing all my life. JOHN OK. I'll give you a chance. DAMIEN Thank you. Thank you. Now where is he? JOHN Last time I saw him he was in the kitchen fixing a tuna melt. DAMIEN You must leave. Now. You'll be in the way here. Leave this to the professionals. JOHN I suppose I could stay in the bedroom. (DAMIEN pushes JOHN through the bedroom door.) DAMIEN Go! Quickly! (JOHN stops at the door to the bedroom.) JOHN If you need me, just call. (JOHN exits. FATHER DAMIEN removes his coat and hat. HE wears a clerical collar and a black cassock. DAMIEN opens his satchel and takes out two candles, a bell, and a cross. HE places them on the table. Turning toward the kitchen door, HE raises his arms.) DAMIEN Come Satan, Spirit of Darkness, I cast thee out. (The door to the kitchen opens and SATAN appears, dressed in a white laboratory smock, wearing glasses and a red, plastic eye-shade and carrying a clipboard. DAMIEN staggers back as if struck by a force and covers his face with his hands. Slowly HE lowers his hands and looks at SATAN.) DAMIEN At last we meet face to face. (DAMIEN picks up the cross, then drops it as if it burned his hand.) SATAN Put away your toys, old man. DAMIEN I shall destroy you! SATAN Your weapons are useless against my power. (DAMIEN raises the candlesticks, drops them.) SATAN You cannot harm me. You have only the powers of magic and ritual and faith in an age which has forgotten magic and trivializes ritual and has no faith. Against you I summon the invincible forces of the modern world the forces of science and reason. DAMIEN I exorcise thee, unclean Spirit... SATAN I deny thee with the powers of number... DAMIEN Tremble, O Satan... SATAN Take heed of the forces of relativity... DAMIEN ...thou enemy of faith... SATAN ...denier of electromagnetic mass... DAMIEN ...thou foe of mankind... SATAN ...blasphemer against particle-wave duality... DAMIEN ...who has brought death into the world... SATAN ...thou enemy of gluons and quarks... DAMIEN (His voice beginning to weaken) ...thou root of evil... SATAN ...intermediate vector bosons... DAMIEN ...the source of discord... SATAN ...unified field theory... DAMIEN ...envy... SATAN (Triumphant) ...space-time, null class. (DAMIEN slumps into a chair.) SATAN (Bowing graciously) My respects, Father Damien. DAMIEN You know me? SATAN I was present at your birth at Carney Hospital. I was your companion at school. I was there at every temptation of the flesh. At every anguish of the soul. At every moment of doubt. I have been with you always. DAMIEN I recognize you now. Weren't you on the faculty at the seminary? You taught homiletics and coached basketball. SATAN We are old friends, you and I. DAMIEN Then I am lost. SATAN No, Father, you are not yet lost. Your weapons are not entirely without effect. I wonder whether the Church realizes that. I understand the Archdiocese is embarrassed by your activities as an exorcist. DAMIEN Father Flaherty has on several occasions suggested I discontinue the practice. SATAN And why was that? DAMIEN He said exorcism is outmoded. He called it mumbo-jumbo. He thinks the whole idea of the Devil is childish and should not be encouraged. SATAN Father Flaherty said that? DAMIEN He is a Jesuit and knows about these things. He says the concept of the Devil should be treated as a metaphor for spiritual anomie and human depersonalization in modern society. SATAN (Offended) I'm a metaphor? I must have a talk with Bob Flaherty one day soon. DAMIEN What do you want of me? SATAN What do you want of me? DAMIEN Nothing, cursed being. SATAN Tell me, how are things at St. Matt's? I couldn't help noticing last time I was there things looked a little run down. DAMIEN The congregation is not wealthy. They have little to share. SATAN It would be a shame to close St. Matt's down. DAMIEN What do you mean? SATAN The Archbishopric has a lot of doubt about the value of these inner-city facilities. DAMIEN What can I do? SATAN You must cut costs and increase income. DAMIEN I don't know how. SATAN I will teach you, Father. I will show you how to use modern technology. You need a personal computer to put your church on a sound business footing. DAMIEN Oh dear. SATAN We'll need state of the art applications software. I have a full range of attractive options designed to fit every possible need. (Refers to clipboard) Here's a very popular number: Ecuservice. (Reflects) No. On second thought I don't suppose that program would do at St. Matt's. But it's a very hot item in some of the trendier suburbs. (Glances again at his clipboard.) Here's one that would be perfect for you: Romamode. DAMIEN I can't afford these things. SATAN Don't worry about that. We'll work out a delayed payment plan. Your credit's good with me, Father. DAMIEN This doesn't sound right. SATAN With a high-speed modem, we can tie you into Internet so you can access one of the many church bulletin boards. I recommend Compugod. DAMIEN I don't think I need anything like that... SATAN Yes, you do. I'll create a World Wide Website for your church. DAMIEN Website? SATAN How do you think I do my business? You've got to put this church into the black. Find your market niche and expand. Look at the demographics. You need young people. DAMIEN Young people aren't interested in religion. SATAN Make them interested. Put video games in the vestry. Stereo speakers throughout the nave. Rap concerts in Newman Hall. A head shop in the rectory. Get the kids off the street and into church and you increase your profit margin a thousand percent. With my help, you'll pack them in. Just ask me and you can save St. Matt's. Who knows, it may not be too late to think about a purple biretta for you. (DAMIEN shrinks away from SATAN.) DAMIEN I want nothing for myself. SATAN Then think of your flock. Help them. It's right here for the asking. DAMIEN (Crying out in despair) No! No! (JOHN enters) JOHN What's going on here? SATAN (To DAMIEN) Father, do you want to feed the poor? I can give you all the food you want. Do you want to cure the sick? I will provide you with medicines. Do you want better schools? The end of crime? They are yours for the asking. You need have nothing to fear. You are a good man, Father. Surely God would not condemn you for that. Surely God will save you. Bow down, Father, and worship me and I will give you all these things. (DAMIEN sinks to his knees and covers his head with his hands. JOHN (To SATAN) How come you're still here? SATAN Get out of here. We're busy. JOHN (To DAMIEN) Did something go wrong? SATAN Would you mind coming back another time? DAMIEN What have I done!? SATAN (To JOHN) Get out! Get out! You're ruining everything JOHN I don't understand... DAMIEN I almost succumbed. SATAN All right no more Mr. Nice Guy. (FATHER DAMIEN rushes to the door.) JOHN I wish someone would tell me what's going on. SATAN You're getting to be a real pain. (DAMIEN opens the door, stops and looks back one final time as if reconsidering.) SATAN (Hopefully) Yes, Father? DAMIEN I want to thank you. You have given me back my faith. Bless you. (SATAN staggers back as if struck) SATAN Get out of here! DAMIEN Bless you. Bless you. (DAMIEN leaves. SATAN slumps onto he couch.) SATAN I was that close. I hope you're satisfied. You want to spend the rest of your life in this fucking apartment? JOHN Of course not. SATAN Do you want to stay here with me forever? Never being able to go out with your friends. Never being able to do what you want to. Never to be alone. We might as well be married. JOHN I want to get out of here as much as you do. I'd do anything to break the spell. SATAN Anything? There's one way. Only one way. (JOHN backs away from SATAN, shaking his head.) JOHN You mean...? SATAN It would be good for everyone. I'd get Maggie's soul. You'd get her body. And we'd both be out of here. JOHN But what about Maggie? SATAN She'd get something too. She'd get something she prizes above all else something only I can offer. (SATAN picks up the phone and offers it to JOHN.) SATAN Everyone wins. You'll see. Salvation is only a phone call away. BLACKOUT ================================================ ================================================