First Place

An Easter Good-bye

Linda Chubbuck

West Palm Beach, FL

The family didn’t know Gramps the way I did.  As he left the table, he looked at me long and sad, like he was saying good-bye in the only way he knew how.  The family hardly noticed he left over their Easter-catch-up-stories.  I tried to get up, but his hand motioned me down and stay seated, so Easter dinner went on without a hitch.

I watched the door close as he left the room and my stomach knotted.  The sweet, sour smell of champagne hung in the air around the table and added queasy to my stomach knot.

I fidgeted, rolling the corner of the tablecloth into a white fabric tube and let it go, watching it open up slowly.  And when I could fidget no more, I got up from the table exposing the sweet potato stain down the front of my pink pinafore and I knew my life would be worthless when mom discovered it. 

I entered a makeshift library with rows of musty smelling books with curled corners and fragile pages and holding my breath out of reverence to such places, I moved inside.  From the dining room I heard glasses tinkling and the deep rich laughter of Uncle Raymond whose voice drowned the tiny laugh of Aunt Julia as they swapped stories and family jokes.  I didn’t want to be here, there was something cold and fearful in the library today.

Gramps was sick, I already knew that but today when I took his hand to go to the table, it was cold and clammy, like the fish we left too long on the stringer before we let it go.  The gnawing in my stomach told me that Gramps was somewhere in this room of dying things and I just hadn’t found him yet.

My steps were sluggish and uneven as I moved forward and the patent leather Sunday shoes I wore, squeaked with each step.  My eyes adjusted to the dimness of drawn curtains but my nose savored the smell of cherry pipe tobacco.  It clung to the fabric of his overstuffed chair.  I squeak-stepped to it and sat back into the seat, a thing I had never done before.

The arm rest was worn thin where his hands must have rested through a thousand books and the seat sunk in heavily, simulating his bottom.  My eyes stung with wanting to spill tears but I rose quickly to continue my search.  I breathed deeply now trying to think adult thoughts and then I knew  somehow that he came here to his favorite place to leave us.  Even the shadows here in Gramp’s library knew more than I did.

My horrible shoes continued to squeak in their absurd cadence as I moved in between the book cases.  I hated wearing “Easter dresses” and the patent leather shoes with anklets, it made me feel like a circus monkey.  But now the smell of cherry tobacco was strong and I knew he must be near.  Towards the last bookcase, I saw a mound of crumpled grey suit that held my Gramps.

My mouth dried and my knees shook out of control.  Of course my first thought was to run and scream to mother.  But I didn’t.  We would be missed soon enough and these would be my last moments along with Charlie Harris.  I needed to say good-bye alone.  The adults would come giving directions and pushing us kids to a “better area” of the house leaving the grown-ups to deal with the realities of Gramp’s death.

Slowly and with quiet squeaks, I walked respectfully to Gramps.  He lay on his side and reminded me of the baby whale he and I had seen the day we fished out by the sound.  It simply lay on its side moving gently in the surf, dead.  While Gramps wasn’t moving he had shared the same fate.

I kneeled down and I heard my knees crack loudly.  Gramps use to always say I’d never be a good Indian Scout because my knees were too loud. Then I leaned over his back and pulled the still lit pipe from his fingers curled around the bowl and set it on the marble ash tray by the bookcase.  When I took his hand, it was still warm, but it was different somehow than ever before.  No squeeze, no little token tucked into his sleeve, just a hand with rough calluses and fingernails nicked from being in the garden.

I lifted his hand to my cheek the way he had done a hundred times before and held it, waiting for what I don’t know.  And it was then the tears came hot but with memories of him telling me to “stop blubbering.”  I begged him not to go where I couldn’t find him as I knew it meant the fishing trips were over, the whittling animals, done and the comfort of the bear hug that no one could equal, gone forever.

My screaming hit a high pitch and alerted the family as they bombarded the little library and found me and Gramps.  Their voices bumped into each other as useless directions and sobbing began.  The lights flooded the room with a wash of bright white, and my moment with Gramps was gone.

As father pulled me from Gramp’s side, my knees cracked again and when he rocked me in his arms he told me I’d never make a good Indian scout.  I laughed through tears as he squeezed me in his arms with what felt like a pretty good bear hug and I was relieved to turn Gramps over to family who loved him as much as I did.

Second Place

The Long Wait

Laura T. Jensen

Pittsboro, NC

The outpatient surgery occurs on Thursday and requires only local anesthesia. We are introduced to the surgeon minutes before he begins the procedure. Handsome, he is tall, lean and young. His speech reflects a soft southern accent, a large dimple dents his chin, and his eyes are almost as blue as yours. I can tell your apprehension is high by the way your face pinches and your eyes dart around. The doctor’s calm voice and confident manner is reassuring and takes the edge off my rising panic. The nurse helps you remove your shirt while the surgeon explains where he’ll make the incision.

Several light-blue clad young men enter the room and are introduced. One is a medical student, one an intern, and the third carries the tray containing the needle with which he will numb the site. You sit quietly and then lie back on the narrow table as instructed. We kiss. I fixate on your worried eyes and squeeze your hand. You squeeze back.

I take the smell of the procedure room with me down the hall as a nurse escorts me to the same place where you and I sat moments ago. I peek at the clock, then at the TV, then the clock again and back to the TV. I twist the tissue clutched in my hands until it is shredded. A fleeting glance around the waiting area tells me I am not alone – others wait as I do. Each of us has our own waiting ritual with the clock as the focal point.

Your surgery takes place on the top floor of a building named Gravely. Located to the right of the pedestrian walkover from the parking deck, this small structure sits huddled in front of the main hospital. We are new to North Carolina and we don’t know the significance of the facility. At first, I mispronounce the name – Grave lee. I think taking a word representing something found in a cemetery and attaching it to a building at a medical center is an unfortu­nate choice.

When the surgery is over and you are stitched up you appear fine, even exchange jokes with the surgeon.

“You did well,” he says as he pats your shoulder and smiles at me. “Go home and take things easy; you may feel some discomfort when the anesthetic wears off,” he adds.

A bandage covers your right armpit. A drop of blood is visible and a nurse dabs it as she helps you on with your shirt. She hands me a brown paper bag in which there is a stack of 4X6 gauze pads, surgical tape, a tube of antiseptic salve, and an enve­lope containing four pills.

“Change the dressing once a day, spread a small amount of ointment along the incision and don’t get the wound wet. One or two pills every four to six hours for pain,” she says as she hands me a prescription for more pain pills.  A discharge nurse standing in the door­way pipes up,  “Come back on Monday. We’ll take out the stitches. The pathology should be completed, and we’ll be able to give you the results.”

She hands me post-op instructions and smiles as she ushers us down the hall. “Have a lovely weekend but don’t forget to call us if you experience any problems,” she says.

You and I glance at each other. It seems to have slipped everyone’s mind that this is the Memorial Day holiday so Monday is in reality Tuesday.

I drive and you chatter away, obviously glad the cutting is behind you. When we arrive home we both fall into bed and sleep soundly, you with the help of a pain pill, me under the influence of a tranquilizer. Upon awakening, you are loopy but I feed you a yogurt shake and you drift off again.

The long holiday weekend stretches before us. The days inch by. You are sore but not uncomfortable. I play Nurse Nancy and you cooperate by eating what I put in front of you. We try to do normal things and even go to a picnic to celebrate the traditional beginning of summer. To the outside world we appear to be ourselves. We don’t say a word to anyone about what you’re going through. To the few who are aware of the day-surgery we convey a hopeful message – “All’s well, thank you for asking.”

At night we lay down along side each other holding hands, lost in our own thoughts. No longer in need of pain medication, you slip into to fitful sleep and I listen to your breathing. I am wide-eyed and stare at the ceiling where the streetlight splays a leaf pattern from the maple tree. I swallow my sobs and begin to hiccup. Steady streams of tears trickle across my temples, run down my hairline and pool in my ears. I don’t bother to wipe them away. Sleep eludes me. As dawn nears and exhaustion overtakes me, I drift off. We repeat this pattern for five nights. I am bone weary; you are subdued.

Finally Tuesday arrives. No alarm is necessary; we’re both out of bed before the sun has broken the horizon. After a breakfast of untouched food, we make the short drive to UNC-CH Memorial Hospital. The road, Highway 15/501, snakes through rural Chatham County but hums with commuters making their way to jobs in Chapel Hill and beyond. The radio, tuned to WCPE, keeps us company as we dodge orange barrels in the construction zones that pepper our route.

This appointment will not only result in the removal of eight stitches but answers will come our way, and we desperately them. Days of Internet searches have produced more questions, less direction. What is it they say about a little knowledge?

The waiting room is crowded but we manage to find two seats next to each other. We sit silently staring at the TV on the wall, our fingers intertwined. A woman appears in the doorway. She announces your name and guides us along a long wide hall all the while chattering about the lovely summer weather.

The windowless room, square in shape, is white. So bright white in fact I long for my sunglasses. A table, wrapped in white tissue-like paper, sits in the middle of the room with the back propped up making it look like a chair. White cabinets studded with chrome handles and knobs, line two walls. A straight-backed metal chair perches beside the table and a huge globe emitting harsh glaring light, hangs from the ceiling. Sterile, that’s a good word for this room. It is utilitarian, totally without character and warmth. The room screeches cold and screams fear. No one would be at ease here.

The counter tops are neatly lined with bottles and boxes each splashed with large black letters, probably the instructions for their use. Metal imprinted labels are stuck to the drawers and cabinets, their contents behind locks. On one wall hangs a plastic container half filled with needles, the red top the only relief on the stark white walls. You sit on the examining table. I sit in the “visitors” chair and we wait again. Our bodies are slumped, good posture forgotten. My mind whirls and with difficulty I swallow around the lump in my throat.

The straight-backed metal chair makes a clunking sound on the tile floor as I shift my body, crossing first my legs, then my feet. No position is comfortable. The paper crinkles as you squirm on the table. The whoosh of air from the A/C vent in the ceiling penetrates the silence. Even under the glare of the hot light it is cold enough in this room to cause goose bumps. I rub my upper arms and wish I had a sweater.

On the other side of the closed door, voices murmur and then fade away. You glance at me but say nothing. I stare at you to see if I can read your face, view behind your eyes. I desperately want to know what your thoughts are and whether they match mine but I don’t ask. You lower your head and appear to study your hands, turning them over and over again. I reach out and gently lift your face so we can look directly at each other. You smile, a small sad smile that I struggle to return. I inhale deeply and slowly exhale but the breath does not calm me. You take my hand and curl your fingers around mine and squeeze. You raise my fingertips to your lips and plant a soft kiss. Your closed eyes suddenly flip open.

We gaze at each other for a moment -- our noses are almost touching. “I bet he can see my heart pounding,” I think. I withdraw my fingers from your grasp and rub my hands together; they are wet and shake. I glance at the clock. The dials appear to be where they were before. Can time really be standing still?

Finally, we hear a soft knock on the door and it swings open. The doorway is filled with two large white clad forms, doctors in lab coats. These are men who look like boys of fourteen too young to shave; they both carry papers. Each smiles a greeting but these smiles do not reach their eyes. Their faces convey the message before they open their mouths. My heart sinks to my toes; your head collapses into your hands.

Third Place

Concrete Light

Barbara Olic-Hamilton

Boise, ID

I spent most of the summer between first and second grade under our house.  While the other neighborhood kids rode bikes, played statues, or traded marbles after high stakes games on the cracked sidewalk along our street, I helped my step-dad dig out dirt from under our house so a concrete foundation could be added. I got used to the damp soil, cobwebs, and flashlight shadows. I got used to dirt smudged on my pale skin and cobwebs tangled in my long, blonde hair.

But this time it was different.  This time I was afraid.

“Why, Joe, why? “ Mom protested when my step-dad suggested it.  “She’s too little. She’ll get scared.”

Mom was trying to protect me from this last job under the house, but when she described me as “little” I spoke without thinking. “I won’t get scared. I’m in second grade.”

“Going into second grade,” she corrected.

My step-dad didn’t care about feelings; he looked at it simply, pragmatically.

“She has to go, Lola, cause I’m too big. Ruthie’s too young. Barbara’s old enough to know better and small enough to fit.”

“I know. I know, but—“

“Before we fasten the furnace in place and turn it on, that vent has to be cleaned. Any loose pieces of concrete left there could get sucked up later and break the furnace fan. I don’t know any other way to do it.”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Okay. I guess she’ll be all right.” Mom said. “We’ll be right here.”

“Do what?”

“We can talk to her the entire time.” Daddy Joe said.

“Do what?”

“Go down in the furnace tunnel and sweep it clean before we connect the furnace.” He replied.

I looked down the square opening in the floor of the closet. It was about eighteen inches wide. All I could see was a smooth tunnel with concrete walls that went straight down then bent at a right angle and continued into the darkness.

“How far does it go?” I asked.

“All the way to the back of the house,” Daddy Joe said. “That’s where the heat from the furnace will go to heat you and Ruthie’s new bedroom.”

It didn’t look that scary.

“It’s just going under there like you did all summer except this time you don’t have to carry no heavy buckets.”

“And it’s not muddy.”

“No. It’s dry. It’s cement for a while and then it turns into sheet metal. All you have to do is crawl along and sweep with this whiskbroom into the dustpan before you dump it into the bucket. Then we’ll haul up the bucket and you.”

“How many buckets?”

“One—maybe two. And they’ll be light. Dirt don’t weigh heavy like cement.”

I knew I’d have to do it anyway so I said, “Okay.” Saying that I agreed always seemed to make them happier and prouder of me.

“That’s my good girl!” Daddy Joe beamed. “Ready?”

I nodded, and he grabbed me under my armpits and lowered me down into the cement hole. 

“Get ready to drop,” he said. Then he let go, and I fell the last foot or so to the floor. “Here’s your tools.” He lay on the floor and stretched his long arm towards me. I stood on my tiptoes and took the whiskbroom, dustpan and bucket from his outstretched hand.

“We’ll be here.”

“Okay.”

“Wait. I forgot.” Daddy Joe disappeared for a moment and returned with a flashlight. He handed it down to me. “You’ll need it in a bit.”

I nodded before turning toward the opening I could see down by my knees. I squatted, put the broom and flashlight in the bucket, and stuck the dustpan in the waistband in the back of my jeans. Then I dropped to all fours and started crawling.  

I wasn’t scared at first because I could hear Mom and Daddy Joe’s voices. Besides, I could see the light cascading down the opening in the floor that our new furnace would soon cover.  I was six and Daddy Joe’s best helper, better even than a boy. He told me so. I trusted him no matter what. And I had my flashlight.

I swept and picked up dirt and moved deeper into the tunnel. Their voices became a thick, peanut butter hum in the background. The walls brushed my shoulders. Daddy Joe was right; he couldn’t fit here. Neither could Mom. I couldn’t sit up straight, so I balanced on both knees and one arm while I swept with my other arm.  If I arched my back like a cat while I crawled along I could touch the ceiling with my back. I stopped sweeping and listened. I heard dripping water, faint scurrying sounds, and my stomach growling. Nothing frightening. Then I realized what I did NOT hear—voices—the voices of Mom and Daddy Joe. I tried to turn around to look and realized there wasn’t enough room. I’d have to crawl backwards to get out of here. I put the flashlight on the floor in front of me next to my bucket and pointed it back the way I’d come. Looking through my legs I saw the walls of the tunnel receding from light to fainter light to lighter dark to total blackness. I had no idea how far I’d come or how far away they were. The waterfall of light had disappeared. To make sure, I turned off my flashlight. Darkness stuffed itself around me like packing material in a box. I froze. There was no light behind me and no light ahead of me.

Picking up my flashlight, I peered ahead. I could see where the concrete walls turned to metal a few yards in front of me, but I was stuck. My knees hurt. The palms of my hands hurt. My eyes hurt.  I lay down flat on the concrete.

“Mom. Daddy Joe. Mom. Daddy Joe.” I whispered then said. I shouted then wailed. Only the sounds of dripping water and scurrying rodents were clear. Maybe there was a hum from behind me, but I wasn’t sure. Maybe I just wanted the noise to be them. If only they could hear me. If only they knew I was stuck here in the middle of the tunnel, frozen in my fear. If only . . .

But they were too big.

The width of the tunnel was filled with the width of my six-year-old shoulders and I knew no one would come—no one could come—to pull me out. They were all too big. If they tried to send Ruthie, she’d be even more scared. She was only four. I’d worked underneath the house all summer and knew what it felt like to have my horizon narrowed to a band of light a few inches above my prone, crawling body. Ruthie didn’t. What good would it do if both of us girls got stuck down here?

I could maybe crawl a little farther forward. Or better yet, I could crawl backwards and get to the light sooner. But they’d ask me if I’d swept the whole tunnel and they’d know I hadn’t. How could they check? They’re too big to get into it themselves. But I’d know. I’d know and they’d see it on my face. They’d send me down here again. Twice in the darkness with the walls wrapping me like a UPS package. Twice would be too terrible to bear. Once is bad enough. Maybe if I scream they’ll hear me. So what? They can’t fit down this tunnel. It’s not going to get any bigger just so they can come down and save me. And he’d spank me for causing the fuss. He’s spanked us for less. He told me to sweep this tunnel or the furnace won’t work this winter and we’ll all be cold. He’d spank me. He’d call me a girl. A fraidy cat girl. He wouldn’t be proud of me any more. Mom would be upset because he’d be upset.  She’d cry again. The concrete’s cold. What if the batteries give out? I’d have to feel along the walls in the dark. I couldn’t see the dirt to sweep up.

He wouldn’t like that.

I pushed myself up and started crawling forward again. My movements reverberated around me as the concrete turned to metal. I kept my gaze on the small scope of flooring that my flashlight illuminated as I moved myself forward and whisked dirt into my dustpan and then into my bucket.  Time suspended itself between the close walls as I swept and cried and swept forward.  I swung my bucket and it hit something. Aiming my flashlight ahead I saw the back foundation of the house.  All I had to do was crawl backwards, and I’d find the light and my parents. So I crawled.

When I finally emerged in the space below the furnace opening, the light hurt my eyes. I stood and looked up at Daddy Joe. He smiled at me. I stretched upwards and handed him the bucket.

“I got all of it I think.”

“Lola,” he yelled into the other room. “She’s back. Quit your fussing. I told you she’d be all right.” He looked down at me. “Your mother was worried.”

“Why?”

“You were gone a long time.”

“Oh,” I nodded. He stretched his arms to me, and I stretched mine up to him. He pulled me up into the lighted room where the walls were far from my shoulders and the ceiling was far above my head.

“You did good.” Daddy Joe looked at my three-quarters full bucket. “You did real good. This would of been lots of trouble in the furnace.”

I nodded again. “And you were too big.”

“Huh?”

“Too big to clean it.”

“Yep. Too big. You were just the right size.”

“Just barely. I was almost too big too.”

“But you weren’t,” he said.

Where he saw a confirmation that he’d been right, I saw something I could do that he couldn’t. I felt strong, self-assured.

In the tightness of that tunnel, I’d learned to take care of myself instead of waiting for rescue. No princess in a tower, I’d been rescued by myself, not by a knight or my trusted stepdad. I carried that lesson into my adulthood.

I also carried with me the image of being stuck in that furnace vent.  During the dark times in the middle years of my life, I often felt depressed because I spent my days doing things I didn’t enjoy, vainly trying to please other people. On the worst of those days, I would suddenly see the room darkening. The ceiling lowered slowly to right above my head and the walls slowly moved inward until they were next to my shoulders. Wedged between walls as cold, gray and immobile as concrete, I closed my eyes to the darkness and gathered the strength to search for the light.

And I always found it.

Honorable Mention

Novel Beginnings

Gail Gallifant Collins

Houston, TX

This is the story of a story and why it came to be.

It’s the story of a quiet, fatherless girl growing up in Germany during World War II. She was bombed twice and walked for three weeks with her mother, following the rail lines to locate relatives and shelter. Some harrowing things happened to her before and after that, but she likes to remember the kindnesses people showed to her.

It took the girl a long time to tell me any of this though. She is old, and I am growing old. When finally she shared it with me, she said, “It wasn’t a beautiful life.”

I’d waited all of mine to hear it and said, “Your life wasn’t perfect, but your courage in the face of it is beautiful to me.” That girl is my mother.

The story also involves a boy, as the best ones do. He was the youngest male of six siblings and was evacuated from London before, and again during, the Blitz. Such a life is insecure and tumultuous, and as someone said to me recently, not beautiful. And it unflinchingly shapes a child. Instead of clamming up like the girl, this boy acted up.

“A scamp,” said those charmed by the boy’s smile and dancing blue eyes.

“A hellion,” said others who tried to tame him. That boy was my father.

My parents' story is one I hoped to pen ten years ago, but I was not yet the writer I needed to be. Since then, history has proven it is not captive of who we are or learned to be. And death can shatter ingrained habits.

My father was set to spin his childhood saga for me when he died. He had the recorder, the tapes and a memory laced with imagination. There were plenty of anecdotes – like his walking three miles to his London home from Regent Street on Victory in Europe Day wearing a flag as a cape, only to be flogged upside the head by his mother, fearing for his safety with Italian colors wrapped around him. Yes, he told me some wonderful stories, but with Dad’s last heartbeat, I’d missed the opportunity to pin down some facts. I prayed I’d know how to begin, and if I still should.

I grieved the loss of my dad and his heritage, but his death offered an opportunity – the release of my mother’s tongue and heart. As the life of the party, my father took up so much room with his humor, songs and verve that there was little place left for her. Instead, my mother stood at the sink washing dishes while all around her surged and sang. With my father gone, there bloomed the breathing space for Mom to finally talk. And with someone to hear her, I prayed she wouldn’t stop.

It has been a bittersweet conversation at times. “I don’t want to tell you about those days,” Mom says, but she can’t stop herself.

I listen, and sometimes, I ask too many questions. Who she was offers a slick of grace for who we are – mother and daughter – and I reassure her, “Your motives for love are clear to me.”

So, armed with faith and some holey, fatherly history, I began to write their story. God said it was time. Suddenly, a hand reached back from the grave and startled me. Our unusual surname had caught a stranger’s attention from Little Gadesden, England. As a volunteer for Dacorum Heritage Trust, she’d run across letters to London City Council concerning my father as a child. She offered information on him, but she also had questions.

“What happened to the evacuated boy who caused so much trouble in 1941? Did he live a happy life?” the volunteer wrote in an email. And she apologized, “I have no right to ask. It strains against my nature, yet I want to know.”

Tentatively I answered, and in return, she directed me to documents and searches. The stranger became my British research arm. The irony is – if my father had not been a scamp, there would be no records for this woman to wonder over.

The other night in a dream, my father turned to me, crinkles around smiling eyes as blue as the deepest depths and raven hair rakishly falling over his forehead. Vibrancy surrounded him. I gasped and said, “I can’t believe it. How can you be here? You’re dead.”

He said broadly, “Believe it,” and he hugged me as I cried. Deliriously happy, I awoke inspired. He’d come to cheer me on.

Novel Beginnings

There is no doubt my mother has become my novel’s muse and soul – her childish, hay-colored braids tickle me from early morning slumbers to write – but my father dances and entertains within the pages just as he always adored.

A year after my father died, my mother asked in all seriousness over a cup of coffee, “Why did I marry him?”

“I’m eternally grateful that you did,” I said, equally serious.

 You see, theirs is not a story of great love, but of something more enduring – devotion. Capturing my parents’ life and choices on paper will answer Mom’s question. Silly me for thinking I waited too long to write. That notion was dead wrong.