L. Stowell and Madeline Rose Williams
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Laura Germano
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At the maker’s fair I am drawn to the stuff for infants: small felt people, knitted mermaids, foxes, onesies made with organic fabric, collage art of small girls on boats under a half moon. I feel such a longing to buy one of these that I cannot help but think perhaps you choose your spouse or child. I wonder who I will choose. I cannot help but think that when your baby is born, and if you love it truly, there is no need to love your spouse, and no need to be loved by him. Perhaps you choose the baby and that is all you will need, and the craft baby goods too. Peter Grieser
That Independence Day, when I was in 5th grade, my dad had acquired a surplus of bees. A week or two before every Fourth, almost unfailingly a rainy day, we (my father, my mother, my sisters, and myself) would drive to the nearest Native American reservation (a sad, dusty locale with a smokeshop, a couple restaurants, some farms, and this particular fireworks stand) and buy in bulk cheap, illegal explosives. Firework transactions in those days were a sort of barter capitalism that seemed to me to belong to a John Wayne movie. My father would attempt to bring the price of his total loot down, while the firework salesperson would add more explosives to the deal at a small cost—surely a steal for my father. The Native American man working the stand proposed to add four boxes of a new model of bees to my dad’s cart for an extra $25. My dad, largely out of curiosity for how these supposedly “new and improved” bees would operate, approved. On the evening of the Fourth, having fired off most of the “small ones,” my father had two options—either begin to set off the larger fireworks before it was dark enough to truly appreciate their splendor, or experiment with the bees. Pulling the first package out of the large cardboard box he used to store his stash, my father grinned and said to the family, “let’s see what these do.” He walked to one end of the driveway, which looped like a horseshoe to connect with the cul-de-sac road twice, and placed the bee on the gravel. He crouched down as far as he could, and took his long, proboscis-like lighter out. The lighter stuck out its flame tongue and licked the fuse, and my dad bolted up the driveway into the garage, where the whole family stood in anticipation. The fuse hissed for ten or fifteen seconds. Suddenly, I could no longer see the sparks from the fuse. Then the hissing got louder; the bee lifted up into the air. For a quick moment, it was a straight liftoff, like a helicopter. But then the firework’s insect instincts kicked in and it buzzed piercingly as it veered harshly left. Instead of detonating in the air, the bee continued to buzz as it fell to the ground. It landed in the garden, between the two edges of the horseshoe driveway, in between some small shrubs. In that moment, I feared the worst: the bee would manage to light the shrubbery on fire, which would ignite the entire garden, and, unable to quench the flames, my father would have to call the fire station, and having learned of his illegal activities, the authorities would send my father to prison. Instead, the bee hissed even more angrily when it landed, but only for a moment until it exploded uneventfully. No shrubs were harmed in its detonation, and my father was safe from the long arm of the law unless the neighbors decided to send a tip to the police. However, I was shaking in the aftermath of the bee’s wayward life, reliving the awful hiss and the startling POP of the bee’s final moments. Finally, my father turned around and noticed my blank stare and the sweat accumulating on my forehead. He stopped laughing, gave a smile and asked, “What’s wrong?” “These fireworks are awful,” I replied, and I hoped he’d leave me alone after that. Of course, he didn’t, and his line of questioning got more invasive. “What do you mean?” “I don’t like the loud noises. And I want to go inside.” “Well, you can go inside if you want, but you’ll miss the fireworks. You’re not a little kid anymore, and I was hoping you could help me set some of these off?” My dad ended with a question of his own, hoping I’d be persuaded to stay with him and the family to perform such essential tasks. It worked. My dad set to work on the second bee. Because the previous one had taken such an unexpected left turn, my dad re-calibrated by placing the second bee much further to the right of the launch site of the first. Again, my father did his launch routine, this time complete with a countdown from a song I had heard many times from one of his CDs. I couldn’t help but laugh a little bit. Even so, sweat began to collect in the wrinkles of my forehead, and my neck tensed up. I rolled my shoulders a bit. As the fuse was eaten up by the spark—“4…3…”—I worried that the bee would fly into the garage; I worried that the bee would fly into the neighbor’s yard and spark their brown, neglected grass; I worried that the noise would startle me like the sound of a ghost appearing in a mirror while an unsuspecting young woman washes up. “2…1…Liftoff!” The bee droned as it shot into the sky. It veered left, and then right, then forward, then right again, as if it were avoiding a swatter. Then, about as soon as it had found a stable course, it exploded with a whimpering report, and its corpse fell to the gravel. I flinched at the sound of the bee’s death, and began walking toward the door that connected the garage to the interior of the house. My father ran up to me, and lightly grabbed my shoulder. “If you’re scared of the sound, if you’re afraid while you are waiting for the explosion, don’t look at the fuse. Instead, look up at the sky. I don’t want you to miss the bigger fireworks because you’re scared—” “I’m not scared!” I protested. “I just think they’re stupid. These fireworks are stupid.” “Well,” my dad had a look in his eye that was sympathetic. “If you want to see the big fireworks we have tonight, don’t look at the fuse. Look at the stars and enjoy the explosions. You won’t be afraid of the sound if you don’t know that it is coming.” That night, my father set to work lighting the big mortars he had purchased. I craned my neck, no longer facing my father’s launch pad. I tried to focus on a particular star in the sky. It was brighter than the rest, and it pulsed its bright light at a rate that mirrored my heartbeat. In my meditative state, I must have missed my dad’s lighting ritual, because I was awakened by a thunderous BOOM that was much louder than anything the bees could produce. I jumped slightly, but was soon awestruck by the rain of champagne sparks that fell from the hole in the sky where the explosion occurred. I continued staring at my calming star, focused on the void above me, and the small crystals that illuminate it, as the fireworks continued. I could no longer hear my family talk and laugh and shout. Fixated on the sky, I witnessed the chandeliers of light spread and then fall, but each BOOM fell quieter, and I flinched less and less. The sky got blindingly bright, then inky black, alternating in a hypnotic rhythm. I kept focusing on my star, my spot in the vastness. *** Fifteen years later, I lived in a bigger city, in a smaller house, by myself. This Fourth of July, however, was to be spent at my friend’s house. She was throwing a barbecue, and though I generally avoided the sorts of get-togethers that required social drinking and bantering, some of my closest friends would be in attendance, and I wanted to see the firework haul that had been acquired for the party. In fact, in terms of size and overall quality, her explosive purchases often rivaled those of my father’s. So, perhaps with a bit of nostalgia, I agreed to attend this party. The day was especially arid; it had a crunchy, stale feeling. I set out to walk to my friend’s house in the late stages of the afternoon. The sky was losing its bright, soft blue hue in exchange for a hazy, bloody orange. The maple-and-fir-lined streets were unusually quiet; I ran into few fellow pedestrians during my fifteen-minute journey to my friend’s home. I heard almost no noise at all, except the occasional shriek of a child, typically preceded by a smaller POP or CRACK. In the bigger cities, it’s hard to get away with setting off large fireworks, not to mention much more dangerous, and it seems that city kids have to be satisfied with smaller explosions than country folk like myself. Once or twice, a car would pass me, usually operated by a lost soul searching for Adams St., though Adams St. was actually a couple blocks in the other direction, and now they were on Spruce. Other than the small cracks of “Pop-its” (tiny seeds that could be thrown at the ground and would release the least threatening of reports ever created by humanity), and the one or two lost upper-middle-class suburbanites, the streets were entirely calm, and an eerie silence enveloped my walk. At the barbecue, my friend was standing on her porch, beer in one hand and her husband’s shoulder beneath the other. They waved me over and led me to the backyard, where the show would soon start. I circled the yard, making sure to say hi to each old buddy before heading back to the safety of Friend and Husband. Friend and Husband were always very kind about allowing me to orbit them, anchored by their calming collective presence. Every now and then, Husband would ask if I wanted a beer, because he had 8 different kinds available that night including the IPA he knew I loved from the brewery across town, and I would politely decline, making up some small fib or another. The sweltering heat forced me to guzzle water constantly. I must have looked like a magician’s unsuspecting helper, constantly disappearing and reappearing, seemingly without any say in the matter. The majority of the night I spent on their backyard porch, my back up against the wall of Friend’s house. I would nod respectfully and dutifully to all who made eye contact with me, and would even engage in some light cocktail party banter with those who had the misfortune of thinking I might be interesting. Friend came over and punched me playfully in the shoulder. “Whatcha doin’?” “Oh, just chillin’,” I replied. “Hey, thanks for coming, I know you don’t love this sort of thing.” “It’s not that I don’t like it,” I lightly protested. “It’s very nice to be here with you, with everyone. Thank you.” “Anytime, dude. Now go have some fun! Go talk to Riley, he’s been dying to see you; he hasn’t seen you since college!” I walked down the porch steps, and mingled with the crowd in the grass below. Most of the people were unfamiliar, friends of Friend’s and Husband’s, but some were old buddies from college and high school. I was looking at the different shades of green the grass displayed in various lights when Friend shook me from my trance. She told me that the fireworks would begin soon and that I should find a place on her back porch to watch while Husband set them off. It must have been past 10:30pm, because it was nearly pitch black outside. I positioned myself near the back of the small crowd and looked up at the dusky heavens. I smiled as the sky lit up in colors of orange and green and silver. I know there were conversations around me, but I could not understand them; they were whispers and echoes of a foreign language. After about a half hour, the fireworks were mostly detonated. I decided to head back home, so I said my thanks and goodbyes to everyone, and hugged Friend and Husband. Husband asked if I wanted a ride back home, but I told him that walking was fine, and that it was the only exercise I got anyway. The walk back was even quieter than the walk to Friend’s house, save for the loud BOOMs of mortars, and slightly quieter POPs of firecrackers. Sometimes, I would hear a drunken scream or shout, but it was quickly silenced. It was past most children’s bedtimes, so there were no innocent laughs or high-pitched squeals. I was nearly halfway home when suddenly my feet stopped moving. Sweat accumulated on the dip of my back, along the vertebrae, slowly dripping down. I shivered in the complete silence. Then, loud barks pierced through the night sky. They were louder than any fireworks, and I knew they were coming from nearby. I began to walk faster, hoping that the sound would soon go away, that the beast would either find something else to hunt or would be pacified by its owner. Again, complete silence. Suddenly, a shot cried out. The sky lit up. Another mortar. Then, I heard a completely foreign sound. I had heard it only a few times before a child, when playing in the mystical Washington rainforest alone. It was the sound of wood snapping. The barking started up again. Then I heard the sound of something bounding in my direction, picking up speed. I bolted as fast as I could. Home was less than ten minutes away. I could make it. But, for some reason, by some sick operation in my brain, I was only able to sprint a couple blocks. I froze. The intermittent POPs and BOOMs got quieter and quieter, but I still could not move. All I could hear was the muffled sound of grunts and growls heading toward me, though they were not getting louder. Whispers of foreign languages spiraled around me, and I felt dizzy. I felt sharp stings below my knee. I folded to the ground, nearly instantly, the sidewalk pavement doing nothing to cushion my fall. The pain in my leg, in nearly every single part of my body, seemed to wake me up. I got up rapidly and started to run. Or at least, I wanted to run. But, my leg was not working the same way. I hobbled as fast as I could, but I still heard the muffled sounds of barks and growls and BOOMs and POPs and drunken screams. I tried my own vocalization, but it failed in my state of shock. Again, I felt pain, this time further up on my leg. I began to sink to the ground, my hands clasped together. I was on my knees, and suddenly almost everything went silent. I could hear not a single sound, except my heart beating. I was on my knees, and I could no longer move. My legs would not work. I craned my neck as best I could, and looked up at the shiny, obsidian night sky. There, barely, I could see my star, as bright as anything I’d ever seen before. My vision went white momentarily, and a shower of red stars fell to the ground. I focused on my star; I could see it again as the sky fell dark. I stared above as the star pulsed faster and faster. |
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