Spring 2009

Congratulations to Susan McNally, Mary Paynter Sherwin, Marianne Weltmann and Judith Gille, whose work was chosen from the Hugo Writing Classes spring end-of-term reading. Each quarter, we highlight the work of several of our talented students.

Susan McNally wrote this short story in Anna Balint's class "Making Your Stories Sing."  The story evolved out of her experience with a terrarium as a child--though hers had no carnivorous plants.  She worked on this story throughout Anna's class, editing it with a concentration on language. 

Venus

They were alone in his room.  He took the cover off of the terrarium, kicking a pair of underpants under the bed.  But he needn't have worried.  She only had eyes for the flytrap. 

"Oooh," she said it like someone who has finally found what they were looking for.  Through her eyes the flytrap did evoke awe:  six great clams on stalks, blood red on the inside, spring green on the outside, menacing, fleshy, with long sharp spikes held aloft.

"Feed it," Alice commanded.

Peter grabbed an icepack from his mini refrigerator and chilled the jar until the fly slowed down.  He emptied the stunned bug into the jaws of a trap.  The fly sat still for awhile, then rubbed its feet together.  Alice watched silently.  After a moment the fly began to explore the plump red cushion. It hopped and winged its way around slowly and just when it seemed nothing would happen, the clam shell shut, swift and deadly, the spikes interlocking like hands in prayer.  This was the part Peter could not watch.  But Alice did, long after the struggling head of the fly could no longer be seen through the tiny scallops between the spikes.  When it was over, Alice sat on the bed.

"Can I stay here tonight?"

All kinds of things flew through Peter's mind: the bunny sheets, his mother, the police, Mr. Morrison's quiz tomorrow for which he had to study, her belly button ring, the fact that since his father's death he needed a sound machine to sleep.

"Your parents will go crazy worrying."

"Yeah, right.  Well, can I?"

"I guess.  We'll have to wait for my mom to go to bed."

"Cool.  Let's go."  Alice swung her streaked hair out of her eyes and headed for the door.   "We'll need some booze."

"Oh sure.  Have to find a stooge to get it for us."  In PE he'd heard Mark Halston telling his pals about getting stuff. 

"Let's go through the woods," she touched his arm lightly and it buzzed him like that experiment with the paperclip and the lemon. 

The woods stood on the brink of bursting into bloom.  The trees above remained skeletal but the shrubs had gone full spring.  The leaves of the Indian Plum dripped with white bells.  Alice stopped abruptly and pointed to the forest floor with a smile. 

"Slug."

Peter eased the victim into his jar, worried it might be too large for the plant to digest.

"How often do they eat?"

"About once a week for each trap, so six times."

"So we can feed the slug tonight?"  Alice plucked a leaf and opened the jar.  "Fatten him up for the kill," she laughed.  It was the first time he heard her laugh.  It made her seem much younger, a little girl. 

They followed the creek at the bottom of the ravine.  Peter heard a rush of wings and stopped, pointing to a great blue heron swooping through the trees like a pterodactyl.   Alice gasped and grabbed his arm.  The heron lit on a tree and they edged forward for a view.  They were so close they could see the tattered fringe around the neck and his black beanie.  Alice held his arm as the bird looked piercingly in their direction, then rose in the air again, its great wings bent in half.  Peter knew he would always remember the bird, the spring woods, the pressure of her hand.

They emerged from the woods at a mini mall with a nail salon, teriyaki restaurant and liquor store. 

"Wait here," Alice pointed to a bench.  She threw back her hair and stood by the liquor store, out of view of the checkout clerks.  Two young men, one short and solid, the other tall and lean, emerged from the store and when they passed her, Alice called out to them.  Peter watched the pantomime, Alice smiling, the men cocking their heads, then laughing.  The short one went back inside while the tall one stayed with Alice.  He pointed to her belly button ring and she smiled.  He leaned forward to examine it more closely.  Peter's heart beat fast.  He stood up.  Alice stepped back with a laugh.  The other man emerged with a bottle in a bag.  He handed it to Alice.  She reached in her pocket for cash and the tall one took it.  Alice started away and the men called to her, offering something.  Alice smiled and shook her head.  The men shrugged and laughed.  Alice disappeared behind the teriyaki joint and Peter ran to meet her. 

"Jim Beam.  I asked for Jack Daniels."  She unscrewed the top and took a swig, grimacing.  She handed the bottle to Peter and he imitated her.  The whiskey stung all the way down and trickled around the tuna casserole he'd eaten in the cafeteria.  School seemed an eternity away. Just this afternoon he ate tuna casserole and didn't know Alice.

By the time they got back to Peter's house, a third of the whiskey was gone.  The house seemed small and crooked, foreign. Peter's feet had trouble judging the distances between the back steps.  Alice giggled. 

"Ssssh!"  He led her to his room and put the bottle with the slug next to the terrarium.

"I have to take my Mom some food.  Why don't you feed it to the biggest trap?"

"You don't want to watch?"  Alice took a swig.

"That's okay; I watch it all the time," Peter felt queasy looking at the slug. 

Downstairs the house was dark.  Peanut butter, knife, bread.  Peter talked to himself through the fog of the whiskey.  He had to stop and steady himself on the refrigerator. There was a girl in his room, in his room.  He carried the plate and a glass of milk slowly up the stairs, lurching backwards twice.  He knocked on the door.

"Petie?"  His mother was half asleep in a flannel nightgown with a book upside down on her chest.

"Thank you.  You are such a good boy.  Sit with me, honey.  I'm so sorry," she started to cry quietly.

Peter sat on the side of the bed and she fumbled for his hand. 

"I dreamt we were in the hospital and he took off running with all those tubes and monitors dragging after him down the hallway and I couldn't keep up, I just couldn't."  Peter squeezed her hand.

"It's okay, Mom."

"Did you have fun with that girl?"  Her hair was all matted against her wet face.

"Sure."

"Is she in your class?  She seemed awfully mature."  The way she said mature meant she didn't like the midriff shirt. 

"She's a year ahead.  I met her up at the water tower collecting bugs.  Mom, I have a quiz tomorrow."  All Dad's things were still hanging in the closet, suit jackets and shirts and trousers.  The trap had probably engulfed the slug by now.  Peter stood up.

"You should eat."

His mother just looked at the sandwich.

"I'll be better tomorrow."   She meant it, but she wouldn't be.

Back in his room, Alice lay on her back with the whiskey bottle in one hand, her eyes closed.

"Alice?"  Peter said softly, "Alice?"  Then he tried again, louder.  "Alice!"

Peter grabbed the bottle from her hand and she woke up.

"Oh.  I fed the slug.  I think it was delicious," she giggled.  "I dreamt I made it a grilled cheese. Gimme."  She reached for the bottle. 

"Shouldn't you eat something first, Alice?"

"I hate that name.  Call me Venus."

"I'll make you a sandwich, Venus."

"No, no, listen.  Thanks for letting me stay," she swigged.  "You are a nice person, Peter.  Very, very nice.  Nicer than my whole family put together.  But there's one thing...."

"What?"  Peter felt short of breath.

"I won't be able to talk to you in school.  I'm sorry about that, but it's true."

"Yeah, I know," Peter took the bottle again because she had set it cockeyed on the bed.

"Really, really sorry," she lay back again and shut her eyes, her whole mid-section exposed.

The flytrap was swollen with the slug.  It would take days for it to digest.  The house was silent.  He would fail the quiz.  Once, a caterpillar ate its way out of the trap.  Dad took it outside, said it deserved to live. 

Hamburger was easier, but Mr. Morrison said hamburger would make it rot.  Dad wouldn't want it to rot.  He would see her in the hall and she would look away.  Venus.  But maybe she would come now and then to watch it eat. 

Mary Paynter Sherwin wrote "at the beginning of myself in you" in Paul Nelson's The Personal Mythology of Organic Poetry. The poem came from the "John Ashbery Poem" exercise, a twenty-minute free write where you take a line from another work as the title for your own poem-- be it a soda can, a newspaper, another poem.  Then you go outside to write the poem.  Spontaneity is the key.  The title is a line from Homero Aridjis' "The Amazement of Time."
 

at the beginning of myself in you

I would happily trade for
waffles coffee grape soda all the forbidden
foods from being ten the joy of fried everything

the excess later forbade again
               in the sway of gay hips the grapevine of Broadway tunes
the piccolo chatter when wine brings up mothers from Ohio

it's all fabulous now how sand gets stuck under your toenails
the ocean will never evaporate there are more nets to bring in
               thousands to fatten waste and bury

               it is death I know better than recipes better than hot dogs
and rollercoasters we nod across the room like drinking partners
insurance salesmen children's eyes on the tightrope

               wives listen for the ship's bell hibiscus from the south corner
how they pulled her up from the local's beach
blue baby with swollen cheeks

a keel balances between pitched and progressing
               spilling beads of water in reverse champagne
all the pieces of all the fortune cookies we never ate

the trapeze swings because of momentum
not sequins
you've not been gone long enough for physics to have changed

               now we say eat because they might not bring more
dance like everyone's on cocaine
drum a march on the purple colonizing rot up your arms

every season the horror of the shark attack
the suddenness of teeth and sinking how we forget
in the face of manta rays and angelfish
that they are always awake

Marianne Weltmann's story was generated while in Anna Balint's class "Making Your Stories Sing." The story sprung from a free write where students were asked to write a piece and "dress it up in the language of others" or "write in the style of" a well-known author. Marianne chose Edward P. Jones.

Dressing Up Mrs. Double- U Like Edward P. Jones' "Marie"

Every once in a while, to break up the monotony of Mrs. Double-U's one-way-street life, an official-sounding phone call or a written summons would swoop down like a flock of Canada geese. Even now after 13 years, she receives mail addressed to her deceased son Michael, mostly a one-time-only offer on folded paper held together by bits of sticky tape.

"NO LONGER AT THIS ADDRESS,"  she answers in  black marker, bends its back under the mailbox lid to wing its way home to the Dead Letter Office.

Shortly past dawn, she practices the rituals that drive her through the day, her 24-hour GPS:  light the 50-cent votive candles on the window-sill, feed the critters (3 cats and 2 dogs; in that order) before tossing down the resurrected Holy Ghost of yesterday's coffee from the microwave. Then she wriggles into ten- pounds- lighter tights and top, fills the work-out waterbottle.

"Once you have the costume on, you're half-way on stage."

Today is special, the second Wednesday of the month, when the Social Security check posts to her savings account at the Credit Union. 

"Yes, ma'am, and an extra one-time-only bonus of $250 from the Feds to help the economy." 

Mrs. D had been helping her daughter Crystal and that deadbeat she eloped with to Vegas instead of getting her GED pay some bill or other almost every month, while fielding phone calls from their wake of creditors. She had taken care of Kendrick Junior for over a week, priding herself at almost 79 in nocturnal diaper changes, formula feedings and soft lullabies. Now they have whisked her grandson away to Wasilla, taken up again with the abusers, Crystal's birth parents. After 7 years of foster care and adoption out of "the System" by Mrs. Double-U, Crystal texted her sister::

"I don't want HER in my life any more.  Hope you have a good one..."

No, this time she isn't sending the $250 on. Finally, Mrs. D has learned that taking in lame ducks gets you trapped in their webbed feet.  No, sir, this time she's getting herself a parrot.

Judith Gille began the following chapter in Waverly Fitzgerald's "Deep Revision," a class geared towards prose writers looking to revise existing work.
 
Chapter XXI: The Wedding Dress

Our trip to Celaya to search for Lupe's wedding dress begins rather inauspiciously when I look down at Cholo, who is squeezed between Sebastian and me in the front seat, and discover we have a problem. Unlike my kids who, at age five, whined and whimpered long before actually getting sick, Cholo has quietly puked into the lap of his soccer shorts. He sits staring at the pool of orange vomit in his lap as if it were a living creature.

Apparently his affliction isn't anything more serious than a little car sickness. After cleaning him up with pockets-full of Kleenex and removing his vomit-soaked shorts, I ask what he wants to do in Celaya and he tells me "Come nieve" (eat ice cream).

"Que buena idea!" his dad Sebastian says. "Then you can throw that up on the way home!"

The drab working class city of Celaya where we're headed has little to recommend it to tourists. The streets are crowded and not very clean. It's only popular with Americans for the familiar box stores, like Walmart, Costco and Home Depot, that line the highway from San Miguel. The San Miguelenses come here to attend technical schools or find work or buy things at prices significantly cheaper than in San Miguel. Which is exactly why we're here.

It's after four in the afternoon by the time we reach the town's tree-lined central plaza where Lupe, with Gisella in her arms, Gracia and I jump from the car and walk a few blocks to the Calle de las Novias (loosely translated as Bridal Boulevard), a street lined with shops filled with all the accoutrements needed to celebrate the blissful occasion.

Not having had a formal wedding myself and being that my daughter is not yet of marriageable age, I've never seen many of the items sold in these Mexican bridal shops. There's head gear worthy of Las Vegas showgirls, faux floral arrangements in every hue, little silver trays with coins, piles of nuptial paraphernalia I can't imagine a possible use for.

The shops themselves consist of the old-fashioned, floor-to-ceiling display windows I remember from my Midwest childhood, with narrow walkways in between. They brim with headless, armless mannequins sporting beaded bodices, sequined sleeves, trains of taffeta, flounces of chiffon, great sweeps of satin. Strapless, spaghetti strapped or cap-sleeved costumes, stitched in pearls, seed beads or sequins. Full-skirted fantasies. A Mexican bride's sueno come true. 

In the first shop we enter we're greeted by a Gloria Estefan wanna-be with blonde-streaked hair, cut-off jeans and 3" heels (and I was concerned that I might not be properly dressed for our bridal-boutique outing.) Gloria, a bit pushy, quickly sizes up Lupe, grabs a dress from the back and shoves it at her. I can tell by the face she's making that Lupe doesn't like the dress. But that doesn't dissuade Gloria who insists she try it on.

"What have you got to lose, just try it!"

After a few minutes of hassling with Gloria, Lupe extricates herself gracefully, telling her that we've only started looking and we are off to the next bridal Fantasyland.

We wander past a series of store fronts overflowing with fitted, strapless bodices and ample skirts made from yards of cheap, white polyester.   

But Lupe wants an ivory-colored dress with cap sleeves and I'm hoping we can find a dress made of better quality fabric than the cheesy polyester blends on display here.

At a place called Isabel's, in the middle of Bridal Boulevard, we find the largest selection--a squadron of faceless brides in fancy dresses fill four display windows. The three of us discuss  the attributes of the ones we like, then Lupe tentatively selects one to try. The dress is ivory satin with the cap sleeves she wants. It has a tailored bodice with a tasteful design embroidered on it that is repeated at the bottom of the very full skirt. We all agree, it's a pretty dress.

The saleswoman helping us goes to the back and after a few minutes brings out the dress for Lupe to try. It's an ordeal getting Lupe into the dress since there's more fabric in a Mexican wedding dress than in the sails of the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria put together.

Great effort is made to close the back of the dress which laces up. But the bodice of the dress is too small. It might have fit the Lupe I knew at 16 but she's put on weight since Gisella was born. She grimaces in dismay as the saleswoman struggles to lace it up and kneads her stomach as if that might make the newly acquired adipose tissue disappear. When she turns around to show us the back I note that her t-shirt shows through the tightly-stretched laces. Once again, we all agree--the dress is too small. While the saleswoman goes in search of the next larger size, Gracia and I struggle to extract Lupe from acres of crinoline underskirts.

The saleswoman returns with the same dress in a larger size but it's pure white, not ivory. Lupe tries it on and it fits. We ooh and aah our approval. But she frowns and shakes her head.

"I don't want a white dress," she says, a plaintive look darkens her face.

Gracia insists that she likes the white dress. I do, too, as a matter of fact. The white satin nicely shows off Lupe's cappuccino-colored skin. I tell her I think the white dress looks pretty on her.

When the furrow deepens on her brow, it suddenly occurs to me what's troubling her. She's reticent to wear a white dress, not because she doesn't like white (when she was younger she wore black and white clothing almost exclusively) but because it's virginal. Being devoutly Catholic, the white wedding dress represents a purity that she feels she can no longer claim. With the manifestation of her sins toddling around the bridal reception in a pink tulle party dress, it would be hard for Lupe not to feel like a hypocrite.  

But Gracia persists in promoting the white dress. Evidently she doesn't share Lupe's sense of hypocrisy. While Gracia is not one to break rules, especially those of the church, she's definitely one who bends them to suit her purpose. They both look at me. They want to know what I think.

Being thrust into the role of moral arbitrator between mother and daughter is not something I signed on for. I only agreed, as her madrina, to pay for Lupe's wedding dress. While I search for the right thing to say, I'm reminded of a moment I shared with Gracia last summer.

We're standing in her bedroom in front of the bureau. She's looking for something, just what I can no longer remember. She pulls out a box of old photos and mixed among tattered black and white ones and a few color school photos of her children, is one of her own wedding.

The cracked and faded color snapshot shows a doe-eyed, pale-skinned Gracia in white dress that fits tightly to her slim twenty-year-old waist. Sebastian, who is standing next to her, decked out in bell bottoms, a beige shirt with an oversized collar and a vintage Beatle's hairdo, looks nervous. When I turn the photograph over and read the date, I realize that Gracia and I have one more thing in common. Both of our first-born children were conceived out-of-wedlock, at a time when it was significantly less acceptable than it is today. Especially in San Miguel or Prairie Village, Kansas, where I grew up.  Remembering the battle that ensued between my mother and me when I confessed that I was pregnant and not planning on marrying--she threatened to cut me out of her will, I defiantly told her I didn't give a damn--I wonder if Gracia suffered when she confessed her "delicate" state to her parents. And did she ever experience qualms over whether or not she should wear white?

I look back at her and Lupe who are still awaiting my opinion. 

"It's Lupe's wedding and I think she should have the dress she wants. Let's ask if we can order it in ivory."

It turns out we can order the dress in ivory but the 10% Easter week discount will not apply. Gracia thinks the $3500 peso price is ridiculous and begins dickering with the saleswoman.

Lupe beseeches me not to intervene, knowing that Mexicans pad prices for Americans. If we are going to get a discount, I'll have to stay out of it.

Gracia goes back and forth with the saleswoman who claims she must consult the owner and disappears. We wait for a while, wander down the street, buy water and cookies for Gisella who's getting fussy. Finally the woman returns.

"Sorry, but if we have to order the dress, the price is $3500."

Deflated, we leave the shop and return to the first one, where Gloria is still lurking in the rear. She stuffs Lupe into an ivory dress that is too short and too tight. Lupe looks miserable under the flickering fluorescent light of the cramped dressing room. But Gracia likes the fact that at $2800, it's $700 pesos cheaper. I begin to wish I could wave a magic wand, like another, more illustrious, godmother once did, and make everybody happy. Then I get an idea.

I leave the shop without a word and return to Isabel's where I find the saleswoman in conversation with the manager. The saleswoman is still clutching the white dress.

"Cual es la major precio para este vestido en beige?" I say, pointing to the dress and asking the manager what's her best price for the dress in ivory. Having only withdrawn $3000 pesos from my Lloyd's account that morning, I'm in a real jam; I'm not bargaining for fun. 

"I can't give you a discount if we have to order it," she explains in Spanish. "The underskirts alone are worth $175 pesos. Then there's the veil and the train we're throwing in for free."

We parlay back and forth for a minute, me using my broken, present-tense Spanish, her looking down her fine Spanish nose at me. Finally, I look her directly in the eye and switch to English.

"Listen. Do you want to make this sale or not?" I give her a moment to reflect but keep my gaze fixed on her. Though she doesn't speak English, I know she gets my drift.

"Esta bien, senora, but I'll need half down to place the order," she replies. 

I whip out $1500 pesos and lay it on the counter just as Gracia and Lupe return with Gisella, our pink-tulle flower girl, in tow.