Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Terrorist Review of God's Gym Review of Cherry Blossoms in Twilight Creative Nonfiction Ain't Is A Word By Marcie Hollowell & Kristen Munch Love Under the Big Top By Andy Martello Revival By Brenda G. Wooley Poetry Letting Go Wish By Antoinette Brim Pam Farwick By G. David Schwartz Confession While Dining By Mary Lou Taylor Homeschooling Adventures By Beth Happel Fiction Ike Experiences Vanity By Sidney Kidd What Keeps Me Alive By Paul Brittain Minor Damage By Jane Hammons How To Cook for Your In-Laws By Ricky Ginsburg About the Contributors © 2006, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Bill Mausteller Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Sen. Fiction Editor - Patti Kurtz Sen. Poetry Editor - Neeldhara Misra Sen. Creative Nonfiction Editor - Brenda Coxe Contributing Editor - Robert Dittman Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch.

Minor Damage By Jane Hammons “It’s almost time.” Carla approaches her daughter, Billie, with caution. Billie stands in front of the bathroom mirror, examining the newly exposed scalp on one side of her head. From the other protrudes a gelled spike of hair she has recently dyed black. “For what?” Billie asks, knowing exactly what time it is. She gives her spike a nervous tug. “Can you help your brothers get their stuff together?” Involve the whole family. Make the transition smooth. Carla is mindful of her therapist’s advice. “Half-brothers,” Billie snaps. “Nate and Petey,” Carla says their names. “Dan will be here soon.” “I don’t want him coming here,” Billie yells. But Carla knows exactly what Billie wants: for Dan, her ex-step-father, to come here. Home. To stay. What Carla fears is that Billie wishes Dan would take her along when he comes for Nate and Petey. “He has to pick them up, Billie. I’ve explained this to you. It’s part of the custody agreement.” Billie snorts. “You can’t drive them in the car until you’ve proved you’re sober, but nobody cares whether I get in a car with you.” “These are Dan’s restrictions, Billie. He’s their father. He doesn’t have any say over your life.” “Yeah, I get that,” says Billie. She sits down on the toilet seat and begins to unlace her heavy boots. “I’m going to take a shower.” “Now? When the boys are leaving?” “I told them good-bye already.” Billie stands and kicks her boots and torn black leggings aside. Carla notes a new tatoo—a small spider—on Billie’s ankle. Billie opens the shower curtain and turns the water on. “Can I get some privacy?” Alone, Carla goes downstairs to get Nate and Petey. She fights the sadness that comes with Sunday evenings. The boys gone for another six days, until their one overnight a week comes back on the calendar. Twenty-four out of the 168 hours in seven days of their lives, that is all she is allowed their company. “We’re ready,” Nate says, meeting her at the bottom of the stairs. “I checked off everything on my list.” “Your list?” Carla takes a piece of paper from Nate’s hand. She reads over the list of clothing, toys and toiletries the boys brought with them. The handwriting is meticulous, unfamiliar. “Millithent makesth listhts,” says Petey. Since the divorce, his lisp has grown more pronounced. Both his kindergarten teacher and Carla’s therapist say not to worry. It will fade as he adjusts to the changes in his life. Carla grabs Petey and holds him close. But Nate sprints up the stairs away from her grasp when they hear a car honk twice from the driveway. “See you next week,” Carla calls as Nate bangs out the kitchen door. Petey trudges up the stairs behind her. At the door, Petey buries his face in her skirt. “Come on, sweetie,” she says, helping Petey with his backpack as his father honks again—two short, impatient bursts. “I’ll talk to you tonight before bedtime.” Petey bites his lip and shuffles towards the van. Cardan Textiles is painted in Santa Fe blue across the desert mural Carla designed to decorate the company van. Nate makes room for Petey in the backseat then slides the door shut. Carla waves as they drive away and then crumples Nate’s list and throws it into the trash can. She can understand Dan’s attraction to Millicent with her with chores and checklists—the flip side of Carla. For a long time Dan hadn’t minded the mess—sketchpads, paints and pencils; diapers, toys and dirty dishes—the clutter of Carla’s work-at-home life. But the more Carla drank, the more dangerous the mess became. Petey forgotten at childcare. Nate dropped off for a soccer game on Sunday that had been played on Saturday. Billie piercing and tattooing and dying herself. The fire. It starts this way. It is cold outside and dark, clouds heavy with snow. Nate is busy building a Lego space station, dutifully following the directions spread out before him. Petey is napping on the couch, a throw rug tucked tightly around him. The rug is her design, one of their biggest sellers. Green and red holiday bows, symmetrical Santas peeking here and there. She detests it. She hates designs. She wants to paint. She pours another drink and sets up the easel. Then she builds a fire. Once the piñon logs are snapping brightly, she opens the paint thinner and begins to mix the oils on her palette. She tells herself that she is making a mess. Then she reminds herself that she is painting. She is a painter. She drinks more bourbon and moves the screen away from the fireplace to stoke the fire. The chimney does not draw as well as it should. So that she won’t have to keep moving the screen back and forth, she leaves it off to one side. Coals sizzle. She sips from her tumbler of bourbon and stares at the blank canvas. Mommy Nate is yelling. An ember pops onto his booklet and burns black holes in the blue and yellow pages. Carla turns and knocks the paint thinner onto the floor. Thin rivulets of fire run across the rug, up to the couch where Petey is napping and around Nate at his space station. From outside Billie sees small shoots of orange and yellow flame flickering in the front room. When she storms into the house, the fire kicks up around them in the rush of fresh air. Billie drags Petey out into the yard. Nate scrambling along behind, his white socks singed. Petey is not hurt just groggy sitting in the yard wrapped like a gift. It is Nate who is terrified and screaming and a little bit burned. The neighbors are coming and taking the boys away. Carla brushes at the flame. It is only a small fire licking the hem of her long skirt. You fucking drunk, Billie yells at her. Billie is beating the flames with pillows. Drop and roll, Carla thinks. But she is drunk. Fucking drunk is what she hears over and over above the panicked voices and the sirens moving now up the street. She melts to the floor. Minor damage is the way the fire is reported in the Albuquerque Journal. The furniture has to be replaced and the walls repainted. In rehab Carla is served with divorce papers and restraining orders. And when she gets out, sober and full of shame, Dan is gone and Nate and Petey are gone. But Billie is at the house with Grandma. Always there is Billie. Carla hears her daughter banging through the kitchen. Billie rushes into the living room wearing Dan’s old bathrobe—that color he loves, a yellowish shade of brown. Ocher, she thinks as she bends to pick up the crayons Nate spilled onto the floor next to the couch. Burnt Sienna. “There’s nothing to eat,” Billie yells at her mother and begins to cry. “Come here,” Carla whispers, pulling Billie toward the couch. Billie collapses next to her. “I didn’t make French toast for Petey this weekend. I forgot,” she sobs. “I promised him.” Carla takes Billie cautiously into her arms. Her daughter is warm from the shower. The stubble on the shaved side of Billie’s head is as soft as baby hair. “You can make it for him next time,” Carla whispers, “and next time and next time.” Carla buries her face in the robe that had once smelled of Dan and is now filled with Billie’s sweet herbal fragrance. “I want Petey every day. And Nate every night,” Billie cries. “I’ll get them back,” Carla says. “We’ll never have them every day. I’ve been sober for almost a year. I’ll get as much of them as I can the next time we’re in court.” “Promise?” “I promise to try.” “I remember when we didn’t have Nate and Petey,” says Billie. “When it was you and me and Dan. I hardly remember when it was only you and me.” “You were just a baby,” says Carla, making ringlets with her forefinger in the hair on the unshaved side of Billie’s head. “We lived in that cabin on the lake for three years.” “Grandma and Grandpa came to see us almost every weekend. In the summer we waded in the lake and in winter we made snowmen.” Billie recites the familiar seasonal activities. “And collected colored leaves in the fall and picked wildflowers in the spring,” Carla adds “And then there was Dan.” “And then there was Dan,” says Carla. “But never my father.” “Never your father.” Every Sunday after her brothers leave, Billie craves the chronology that has brought the two of them to this time and place. “He didn’t love me,” says Billie. “He never knew you,” says Carla. “Why not?” Because he didn’t want to, Carla thinks, but says, “Times were different then, Billie.” She sighs. “You know, the sexual revolution. People, uh we,” her therapist has told her to take responsibility for her actions, “didn’t handle that freedom so well, sometimes, I guess.” “You were promiscuous?” “Not promiscuous,” says Carla. “Unprotected. You know, it was before AIDS and people, we, I had sex more, well, freely, I guess you could say.” And I was probably drunk or high at the time, she says to herself. “Did you consider having an abortion?” “No,” Carla lies. This is the first time Billie has asked this question, but Carla does not hesitate in her response. In 1975 abortion became legal. In 1976 as a 20-year-old, single, college student she could not help but contemplate it. “Did you ever think about giving me away?” “Absolutely not,” says Carla. This is true. Once she decided to have the baby, she knew she would keep it. “Dan was your teacher.” “Yes. When you were a baby, I took a class in textile design from him. I had this little girl to support, you see.” She holds Billie tighter. “And I thought I should put my talents to practical use.” “Dan turned the cabin into a factory,” says Billie, remembering Dan walking through her room with a clipboard. “All those boxes and order sheets. Every room was like an office. Cardan Textiles. Is that still going to be the name for the business—your name smooshed together with his?” Carla sighs. “I’m not sure what we’re doing with the business. But it’s why we moved here. Warehouse space was cheap. I could stay home and paint and do the graphics for the business,” she adds quietly, “take care of you and Nate. Then Petey.” Every year more business. Another baby. Schools and daycare. The space around her filled with Barbie dolls, soccer balls, backpacks and diaper bags. Bourbon her only relief. “Did you love him?” Carla can not answer because she thinks Billie is referring to Dan. “My father,” Billie says, reading her mother’s silence. “Would you have married him if he had asked you?” “It wouldn’t have been a good idea,” says Carla. “We liked each other a lot, but I can’t say, honestly, that we were in love. When I told him I was pregnant, he didn’t have much to say.” Carla decides not to tell Billie that he offered to pay for an abortion. The clumsy discussion she’d had with Billie’s father isn’t one Billie needs to hear. “He considered decisions about the baby—you—to be mine.” “The same as Dan!” cries Billie. “For twelve years he was my father and then suddenly I’m just your daughter!” “I’m so sorry that you don’t have, ” Carla struggles to name what she is apologizing for. “That you don’t have the father you want, or a family that is in tact,” she uses her therapist’s term. “But you do have a family. You have me. And Nate and Petey. And Grandma and Grandpa in Minnesota.” Carla holds Billie tightly. She feels her daughter tense and knows that in a moment she will pull away. “He shouldn’t have taken Nate and Petey. I was putting the fire out. He didn’t have to get restraining orders against us.” “Me,” says Carla firmly, “Against me. Not us.” “Petey wants to live here.” “Billie,” says Carla gently, “don’t talk about that with him. For now we need to get used to things the way they are.” “Who can get used to this!” Billie shoves Carla aside and heads down the stairs. “And don’t tell me what to talk about with my brothers.” Carla waits a beat for Billie to correct herself. “Half-brothers,” she yells over her shoulder. Dan is not her step-father not her father. He is the father of Nate and Petey, the ex-husband of Carla. Millicent’s partner. Nothing to her. Carla curls up on the couch. She wants to sleep. She wants a drink. Don’t brood, she hears her therapist’s advice. She decides to fix dinner and goes into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and the cabinets. Left over turkey chili. Hot dogs. Smacks and Pops and Captain Crunch. Nate and Petey’s favorite foods. There isn’t anything for dinner. Billie is right. Thinking they might go out to dinner, she calls down the stairway into the large basement where the children’s bedrooms are. “Do you have homework?” “I’m doing it,” Billie snaps back at her mother. Carla ventures down the stairs into Billie’s room. She steps over Ninja Turtles and Nerf guns—boy things that neither she nor Billie can bear to put away. “What in the hell are you doing?” Carla asks Billie who appears to be stroking a banana that protrudes from between her knees. “Homework,” Billie snaps. “Homework?” “Sex Ed. I have to do a demonstration tomorrow in class.” “What exactly will you be demonstrating?” Slowly Carla approaches Billie’s bed. “Safe sex. Do you know how to do it?” “Do it?” “Put a condom on a guy,” says Billie. “Well, you just kind of roll it on, right?” Billie wants to stay mad at her mother, but Carla’s dark brown eyes are wide in amazement, and her freckled nose is scrunched up the way it is in all the pictures Grandma has of her mother when she was a little girl. “You’ve never done it, have you?” Billie smiles. “Have you?” Carla asks. “No. But at least I know how if I want to. Here, “ she says, handing Carla the banana and an unopened condom. “I’m not putting a condom on a banana!” “Mom,” Billie says, shaking the banana at Carla. “You better learn how to do this. You have to be careful now, you know.” “Don’t point your banana at me, young lady.” Carla laughs. She takes the banana from Billie. “I always used the pill. And after Petey, I had an IUD.” “You trusted Dan, didn’t you?” says Billie. “I did.” “Have you had blood tests? He was probably sleeping with Millicent when you guys were married.” “I’m sure he was,” says Carla, remembering the business trips that kept him in Aspen for longer and longer periods of time. “But I can’t imagine Millicent having a sexually transmitted disease, can you?” laughs Carla. “No,” says Billie. “Her pussy is probably full of disinfectants!” “Billie!” Carla shrieks, but she can’t help laughing. “They really teach this in school?” “You have to get permission from your parents to take this class.” “Permission?” Carla doesn’t remember signing a form that said her daughter could be taught to put condoms on bananas. “Grandma signed it last year when I had to make out my schedule for this year,” says Billie. “You were in rehab.” “Right,” says Carla, trying to picture the scene in which 14-year-old Billie comes home from school, walks through the back door, puts her books down on the kitchen table and asks Grandma to sign for the Sex Ed class. “You signed it yourself, didn’t you?” She splits the condom with her fingernail. Billie ignores the question and hands her mother another condom. “Be more careful when you roll it down. Hold it at the tip because you have to leave a little room at the end for, you know.” “You know?” Carla teases Billie. “Ejaculation? Sperm?” “Cum. Jizz. Gism." “Okay, okay. Stop.” Carla holds her hands up in defeat. She takes the condom by the tip and rolls it down the banana. “Voila!” She proudly waves the banana in the air. “You get an A,” says Billie. “What’s for dinner?” “Well, we have safe-sex bananas. And hot dogs. And left over chili.” “I’m a vegetarian, in case you have forgotten,” Billie says indignantly. “Then let’s go out,” says Carla. “You mean like to a restaurant? Just us?” “Just us,” says Carla. For the past few months, she and Billie have planned all their special outings with Nate and Petey in mind. “Let’s go to the vegan place over by the university,” Billie says eagerly. “Okay, I think I can choke down some eggplant tofu bean curd lasagna.” “You need to choke down a lot, Mom. You’re too skinny.” “All right,” says Carla. In rehab the women in her unit replaced alcohol with food and gained weight. But Carla still can not eat. She continues to lose and lose. “Three plates of lasagna. Should we call to see if it’s open?” “It is. A guy in my Chemistry class busses tables on Sundays.” “Does this account for your interest in vegan cuisine?” “No, it does not,” Billie says in huff. “Does it account for the banana?” “No, Mom. I swear to god. It’s homework.” “Would you tell me if you were having sex?” “I doubt it.” Billie tries to always tell the truth. She stands and drops the robe to the floor. Her back is strong and muscular. Since the divorce, Billie has begun lifting weights at the gym after school and runs for miles and miles around the track. She kickboxes and takes Tai-Chi. With every movement, muscles flex beneath the surface of her translucent skin. Carla longs to paint her. Billie digs through her bureau drawer. She pulls on a cotton undershirt and panties. Carla smiles as she watches her daughter decide which black garment to match with another black garment, searching for the perfect ensemble. Finally she decides on a black t-shirt, black tights, her boots, and then quickly switches from the black skirt to one of Carla’s favorite designs: tiny orchids and fuchsias on a chartreuse background. No gel. No makeup. She runs a brush quickly through her hair. “How’s this?” Billie asks. She screws a gold stud into her left nostril. “Perfect,” says Carla. Up the stairs they go, hand in hand. It is early evening and still warm, the sun just beginning to set. Wispy white horsetails whip through the turquoise sky. As Carla and Billie walk to the front of the house, Carla goes to the picture window and tugs at the ivy. She’d let it grow over the years so that now it blocks almost all light from the front room. “Next Saturday,” she says, “lets get the boys to help us trim this back. I’ll need more light if I’m going to start painting again.” Billie flushes pink with pleasure. Sure-footed and full of grace, she bends forward at the waist and slightly at the knees, pressing her hands together. She raises one hand and pushes the other slowly down in front of her, as if parting an invisible substance that has bound her hands. She turns slowly to the left, sweeping with one hand. The other rises above her, an outstretched wing. For a moment Carla believes that her daughter will take flight. She feels her own spirit lift and holds her breath while Billie finishes the movement, pivots and stands upright, hands parallel in front of her face. “What is that?” Carla asks. “Tai Chi,” Billie says. “White Crane Spreads Wings. Let me show you something easy.” She moves behind her mother and puts her hands on Carla’s slender hips. Carla is tense and stiff. “You have to bend a little, Mom,” she says gently. “When I lift your right arm, you lift your left leg. Higher,” she instructs her mother who barely lifts her foot off the ground. “And then you alternate.” Billie guides her mother’s movements. “Cloud Steps. Feel good?“ Carla takes off on her own, awkwardly at first, but then more smoothly. She does feel good. “Yes,” she says. Billie catches up with her and soon they are Cloud Stepping across the park. When they get to Juan’s Place the waitress greets Billie from across the café. Billie waves cheerfully and chooses a table near the window, close to the kitchen. She reads aloud to Carla from the menu and recommends a salad with tofu and garbanzo beans. And the lasagna. A young woman with Violet stitched on the bib of her apron comes to their table. “Hi Vi,” Billie says. “This is Carla, my Mom. Violet.” She introduces the waitress. “Nice to meet you,” Carla says to Violet. “You, too.” Violet’s voice is barely a whisper. “Tea?” “Yes. Thanks,” says Billie. “Two tofu and lasagna.” “You come here a lot?” Carla asks, noting her daughter’s familiarity with the menu and the people. “After school,” says Billie. “I like to study here.” Carla is uncomfortable knowing that Billie comes to the University District after school but wonders how she can express her disapproval of her daughter hanging around a vegan cafe. "Don’t girls your age go to the mall?” She decides to make a joke. “You want me to go to the mall?” “No. Not really.” “Then why did you say that?” “I was joking. Kind of. I don’t know. Tai chi, vegan diet, spiked hair, nose studs. It’s confusing,” says Carla. “I don’t know what you are telling me.” “I’m not telling you anything,” Billie yells. A few people turn to look at them, but Billie does not lower her voice. “It’s not about you, Mom. Not everything is. It’s about what I like.” “Okay. Sorry,” Carla whispers and hopes Billie will keep her voice down. She does not want their special evening to be ruined, so she says no more. They sit in an uncomfortable silence until Violet puts their food and glasses of iced tea down in front of them. “Anything else?” Violet asks. “No, thank you,” Carla says glumly, trying to think of a way to rescue the dinner date. Billie stabs angrily at her food. Carla stares out the window. Central Avenue, one of the few neighborhoods in Albuquerque not given over entirely to franchise clothing stores and fast food, is filled with people. Some, dressed all in black, are tattooed and smoking thin cigarettes. Young hippies—bra-less and wearing tie-dye—frolic to the tunes of the street musicians. Older ones—gray braids and beards—sell candles and read tarot cards. Fit athletic types of all ages in skimpy sports gear display firm biceps, abs and thighs. Don Pancho’s Art Theater is showing Truffaut’s Small Change. And Eli’s Coffee House advertises open mike poetry readings on a banner above the front window. “I see why you like it over here,” Carla tries again. “Do many kids from the high school come here?” Billie does not respond, but smiles brightly as a young man approaches their table. “Hi, Armando,” says Billie, “this is my mother, Carla.” “Hello, Armando.” Carla sticks out her hand and the young man takes it politely. “You and Billie have Chemistry together?” she asks, thinking he looks too old to be in high school. Billie groans. “Not me,” Armando says. “Ronny is in Billie’s class. Hey, Ronny,” he calls. “Billie’s here with her Mom. Come say hello.” Ronny shuffles over to the table and nods awkwardly at Billie. When she says hi he blushes a deep red. “Nice to meet you, Ronny,” says Carla, thinking she should be able to say I’ve heard so much about you or Billie talks about you all the time upon meeting Billie’s friends. But the truth is, she’s never heard Billie mention any of these people. “You’re in Billie’s Chemistry class, I hear.” “Yes. We have a quiz on Wednesday,” he says to Billie. Billie nods, barely glancing in his direction. “Maybe you guys could study together,” says Armando, slapping Ronny on the back. Billie remains silent and pokes at her salad. “Well, better get back to work,” says Ronny. “Me, too,” says Armando. “I’ve got a couple of orders to fill before I’m off for the evening. Enjoy.” “I’ll be right back.” Billie follows Armando into the kitchen. Exasperated, Carla puts her fork down on the table. She spots their waitress out on the porch smoking a cigarette. Violet stretches an arm over her head, closes her eyes and exhales. Carla says, “May I?” to a student doing math problems at the next table and takes one of the sharp pencils he has lined up neatly across a page covered with problems he intends to solve. Carla sketches Violet’s sleek line on a napkin. Light hatching suggests the open muslin weave of the apron. She arcs the line of Violet’s small breasts and quickly moves on to the girl’s face. Her cheekbones are high and the hollows beneath her eyes deep. Carla dwells too long there and makes a smudge. She hurries to get Violet’s hair before the breeze dies down. It is curly and short but long enough to blow in soft wisps about her face. Then she adds the angles. Elbow on hip, cigarette between middle finger and pointer. A zigzag for the deep purple scar on Violet’s wrist. VEGAN/VIOLET 10/91 Carla writes at the bottom of the napkin. Carla puts the pencil down. Billie returns and says breathlessly, “I’m walking home with Armando.” She picks up the napkin and waves Violet to the table before Carla has a chance to say anything. “Wow, look at you, Vi.” Violet brings the check and takes the napkin from Billie. She stares at the sketch and touches Carla lightly on the shoulder. “Billie said you were an artist. But she didn’t say how good.” “Thanks. You are a good subject.” Carla smiles tenderly at the girl and purposely does not look more closely at the scar. “Keep it, if you like,” she says half-hoping Violet will refuse. “Thank you.” Violet places the napkin carefully into the pocket of her apron. Billie is headed out the door with Armando, who turns and motions to Ronny. The boy slips quickly out of the white apron he has been wearing and hurries to catch up with them. Billie turns to wave. Carla wants to call her back, to deny her daughter the permission she has not asked for. But instead she puts money on the table, returns the pencil to the math student and scoots her chair back. “’Bye,” she calls to Violet who smiles. Carla walks slowly down Central Avenue, peering into the windows of book shops and clothing stores, fingering the bracelets and leather bags of the street merchants who have not yet packed up for the evening. She goes into Natural Vibe, a music store crowded with records, tapes and CD’s—new, used, rock, jazz, world beat, rhythm and blues—so many things to choose from. “Closed,” a young man yells at her. She is startled by his snarling face covered with pimples, red and angry. “I’m sorry,” she says and points to the door. “It says open.” “Five minutes,” he barks. “Carla,” someone calls her name and she turns to see a man whose name she thinks is Jeremy. “Carla, Nate’s mom?” “Yes,” she laughs, “I’m Carla Natesmom.” “Jeremy,” he says, smiling. “Father of Allison.” “I thought you looked familiar. Allie. Haven’t seen her in a while. Soccer, right?” She remembers his daughter from Nate’s co-ed soccer team. “Right,” he says. “How are things going?” In the sympathetic tone of his question, Carla hears that he knows all the things that are going in the mess of her life. Dan and Millicent. The fire. The legal entanglement over the business. Divorce. Custody. “Good.” She decides this will be the answer to that question. “Something in particular you are looking for?” Carla remembers the stack of record albums and tapes melted together in a stinking, plastic clump. “Not really,” she says, turning her attention to a row of CDs, flipping through them and hoping he will go away. “Just trying to rebuild my music collection a little at a time.” She lets the CDs fall back into line and sees that she has been flipping through MC Hammer and Mac Dre. Jeremy laughs. “Maybe you are in the wrong section?” “I guess so.” Carla smiles shyly. “Anyway, I guess you’re closed.” “Nope,” he says. “We’re open.” He calls to the pimple-faced boy, “I’ll close up.” The boy turns off The Clash playing in the background and slams out the front door. “Let me choose something for you.” Jeremy thinks for a moment then motions for Carla to follow him to the next aisle. He hands her a copy of Joni Mitchell’s Blue. “God, I love this,” says Carla and she begins to hum Little Green. “There’ll be icicles and birthday clothes And sometimes there’ll be sorrow,” Jeremy sings softly. “That’s it,” says Carla. “I couldn’t remember the words. You know how you can hear music but not quite all the way. Lyrics, I mean. Like a memory that’s not quite in focus.” She sees herself sitting on the Indian-print covered mattress smoking pot and drinking cheap wine with the man who would become Billie’s father. She struggles to say what she means, but can’t find the words, so she says, “You have a really nice voice.” “Thanks. Used to sing in a band.” Jeremy points to a series of postcards from the Fillmore in San Francisco that he has framed and mounted on the wall. He motions her closer. “See down there in the small print—Psychedelic Earthquake—opening act. That was my band.” “Very 70s,” Carla laughs. “Now a record store. Makes sense.” “Well, we all had to grow up.” “We did,” says Carla. She looks up at the section sign that says OLDIES and laughs. “I still play music,” says Jeremy. “Kind of a jazz rock fusion sound now.” He hands her a flyer with Nightshade printed across the top. “Why don’t you come see me play?” Carla looks more closely at the flyer and sees that it is next Saturday night at Eli’s. “Can I bring the kids?” she asks. “Sure,” says Jeremy. “I take Allie to Eli’s on the weekends she’s with me if I have a gig there.” Carla hears that he is divorced. “Okay,” says Carla. “We’ll try to make it.” “So it’s a date?” “A date?” Carla blushes. “Well, yeah,” he says. “Look, this is awkward. I know about the fire and stuff. It was in the papers. People talk. I don’t know what to say. Except that I’ve always found you attractive and interesting and we’re both, well, available.” He smiles. “I have to go,” says Carla. “Billie’s headed home with a couple of boys—Armando and Ronny—who I don’t even know.” “They’re nice kids. I eat at Juan’s Place pretty often, see Billie there a lot.” “Armando’s older though, I think,” says Carla. “Older than Billie.” “He’s out of high school. His girlfriend is a student at the university. They have a baby. Ronny’s still in high school.” “Yes, he has a class with Billie. It’s Armando I’m concerned about. I think there is something going on between him and Billie.” Jeremy shrugs. “Seems unlikely. Juan is really strict with him. He was Armando’s guardian until he turned 18. Juan’s Place is hooked up with one of those work-rehab places. You know, to keep kids clean and off the street.” “Addicts and runaways,” says Carla. “Those are my daughter’s friends.” “Recovering addicts and runaways,” says Jeremy. “Juan wouldn’t hire them if they weren’t clean and sober.” “What do I owe you,” she says stiffly holding onto Blue. Seeing herself through Jeremy’s eyes—available, sober, recovering—she wants nothing more than to be at home, inside her house, behind the ivy. She resists adding a tumbler of bourbon to her desire. Jeremy puts his hand on hers. “On the house,” he says. “Oh, no. I have to pay, I . . .” Carla remembers the way Violet accepted the sketch with a gracious brush of her hand and understands that this is a gift. “Thank you,” she says and moves toward the door. “See you Saturday night?” “I’ll try,” says Carla. “I look forward to it,” says Jeremy. He holds the door for her as she leaves. It is dark now and the street is filled with the scent of pot and incense—sage and patchouli. Carla turns off Central Avenue and takes Avenida Mañana, the street that leads into the residential neighborhood where she lives. She walks along the brightly-lit sidewalk, avoiding the dark park. She smells piñon burning in fireplaces. From a distance she can see Billie shooting baskets in the driveway with Ronny and Armando. The rhythmic bounce of the basketball echoes throughout the neighborhood. As she approaches, Armando passes Carla the ball. She shoots and misses. “Lame,” Billie calls out, retrieving her mother’s rebound and making a perfect lay-up. “Twenty minutes,” Carla calls to Billie as she goes into the kitchen. “School tomorrow.” School tomorrow Armando echoes her words, teasing Billie as she closes the kitchen door behind her. Carla watches the clock for 20 minutes and lets another 5 pass. She goes to the kitchen door to call Billie in and sees Armando give Billie a quick hug and Ronny a slap on the back before he heads down the street back towards Central Ave. Ronny lingers awkwardly, tossing the basketball from one hand to the other. She hears him mumble something about Chemistry class. Billie shrugs and takes the ball from him. “See you tomorrow,” says Ronny. Then he jogs off across the park. Billie takes one last shot before she goes into the house. The ball swirls around the rim and then falls into the basket. “Yes!” Billie congratulates herself and gives a high five to the air in front of her before she joins Carla in the kitchen. “Hey where were you, anyway?” Billie asks. “I thought you were right behind us.” “I stopped off and got a CD, just looked around a little. Hadn’t been down there in a while.” “So what do you think?” Billie asks. “It’s pretty much the same as always. Except for those kids in black velvet. What’s that all about?” “I don’t mean the U district. I mean Armando.” Billie says his name as a long sigh. “He seems very nice. And Ronny, too.” “Ronny? Yeah, he’s a nice kid.” “You’re a nice kid, too, Billie.” Carla takes Billie’s hand. “Armando’s a nice young man with a girlfriend and a baby.” “So?” “So I think you might be misreading his, uh, attention.” “I’m not going to stop seeing him.” “You’re seeing him?” “Well, not exactly,” says Billie shyly. “Just at the café. Tonight was our first date. Kind of date, you know.” “Date?” Carla repeats the word and understands that Billie is referring to the walk home. Carla folds her arms across her chest as if to shield herself from Billie’s inevitable heartache. “Well, it could have been a date if stupid Ronny hadn’t tagged along.” “I think,” Carla begins cautiously, “that Armando was helping Ronny out. You know, setting the two of you up.” “That’s dumb. What do you know about Armando?” “Nothing, really. It’s just a feeling I got. And Jeremy said that . . .” “Jeremy?” Billie interrupts her mother. “That guy at the music store? What does he have to do with anything?” “Nothing. He seems to know Juan and Armando. And we were just talking.” Carla understands that nothing she says about Armando or Ronny is going to change the way Billie feels about either of them. She hopes that she is right about what was going on this evening and that Armando has no interest in her 15-year-old daughter. “Anyway, he’s playing over at Eli’s on Saturday. He invited us to come hear him.” “Us? You are taking your kids on a date?” “It’s not a date. It’s just kind of getting together. He’ll be on the stage playing music.” “It’s okay for you to have a date, Mom. You should have fun. Now that you know how to use condoms.” “Please,” says Carla. “Can we talk about something else?” “Sure,” says Billie. “What CD did you get?” She takes Blue from her mother’s bag. “Pretty cover.” “I love it. Used to listen to it in college. Jeremy gave it to me. He’s Allie’s father. Remember her from Nate’s soccer team?” “Yes.” “Is Nate still friends with her? Does he ever talk about her?” “In case you haven’t noticed, Nate doesn’t talk about anything,” says Billie. She goes into the living room and pulls Nate’s sketchpad from under the couch. It is a large 2 x 4 pad and cracks loudly when Billie slaps it down on the dining room table. “He’s like you,” she says. “He does this instead.” Billie opens the sketchpad. “Is that bad?” Carla asks, hearing a hint of accusation in Billie’s voice. “That he’s like me?” “Not bad,” says Billie. “Just difficult. Sometimes.” “I’ll try to make it easier,” says Carla. “I’m trying.” “I know, Mom,” Billie says as she heads down the stairs to her room. “I’ve got 50 pages of Jane Eyre to read before tomorrow.” Soon Nirvana rushes up from the vent. Come as you are as you were As I want you to be As a friend as a friend as an old enemy. Carla starts to suggest that Jane Eyre might be more meaningful without Kurt Cobain’s accompaniment, but she makes a cup of tea instead. Carla holds the warm mug, sits down at the dining room table and flips through Nate’s sketch pad. Page after page covered with weapons shooting fire from the tips of long elaborate spears and from the blunt barrels of detailed guns. She traces the flames of Nate’s explosions with her finger and longs to obliterate the burn. The blazing barrage. His anger. She can not erase it. She goes to the closet in the hallway where she has stored her artwork and pulls the toolbox containing her charcoal and pastels out from under jackets and sweaters and puts it on the kitchen table. She takes a page from Nate’s pad. It begins with a deep purple zig a dark blue zag. She works the line over and over until the pastel crumbles and creates the texture she is after. Flames sharp and black surround the scar. A red spray of anticipation. The lonely sound of a basketball thumping against pavement. Shards of gray. Disappointment. Carla recognizes nothing but emotion. She has never worked this way, but she does not falter. When she finishes, she clips the piece to the small easel Nate uses for watercolors. As if at a gallery, she paces back and forth in front of it. Then she gets the telephone book from on top of the refrigerator and goes into her bedroom. She closes the door and sits on her bed, thumbing through the Business section until she finds Natural Vibe. The store has been closed for hours. She thinks it will be safe to call. As the phone rings and rings, she practices saying into the receiver, “Hi Jeremy, this is Carla.” She uses a cheerful voice, one belonging to the person she plans to be next weekend. At Eli’s Carla sits with Nate and Petey, who have been restless and noisy throughout the performance. “What are we waiting for?” Nate asks impatiently. “Jeremy,” Carla responds simply. “Who’s that?” ask Nate. “My friend,” says Carla. “He was in the group playing music.” “I didn’t like it,” says Nate. Carla sighs. Choose your battles. He’s still getting used to the changes. Her therapist has helped her learn not to engage with every negative comment Nate makes. Carla becomes impatient waiting for Jeremy. They are the only customers left in the coffeehouse. Waitresses are finished clearing the tables, and from the kitchen in the back, Carla can hear dishes clattering. Nate has Petey in a headlock. They bump and jostle the table. “Boys,” Carla begins to scold just as Jeremy appears. “Like a couple of puppies,” he says laughing at Nate and Petey. “Ready to go?” “Sure,” says Carla. ”We walked. Do you mind walking?” She doesn’t bother to explain the custody restrictions. “Not a bit,” says Jeremy, thumping his chest with a fist. “Cold air is good for the lungs.” Nate laughs and thumps his chest, mocking Jeremy. “Let’s go, boys,” says Carla, grabbing her purse and coat. She squats in front of Petey and helps him zip his jacket. “Race ya!” Nate shouts, and he and Petey head out the door. “Stop at the corner,” Carla calls after them. Jeremy helps her on with her coat. “I really enjoyed the music. Soothing and intense at the same time. Interesting,” she says, thinking about the music for the first time. While she was listening she was distracted, worried that Nate would spill his hot chocolate, reminding Petey to keep his voice down while he told his brother knock-knock jokes. They go out the door and walk briskly up Central Avenue, joining Nate and Petey at the corner. “Can we walk by ourselves?” asks Nate. “Yes,” says Carla, “but stay in my sight, okay?” The two boys cross the street, pushing and pulling at each other, ducking behind bushes and lampposts along the way, shooting and whistling explosive noises at each other. “They’re close, aren’t they?” Jeremy asks. “They are,” says Carla. “They really need each other. Sometimes I wish they didn’t, you know, need each other so much.” “Well,” says Jeremy, “I wish Allie had a brother or sister. But she doesn’t.” He shrugs. “They got what they got.” He puts an arm around Carla’s shoulder and pulls her closer. “That doesn’t mean it can’t be better,” says Carla. She watches Nate pull out the strap where he wears the keys to both of his houses around his neck. He charges through the living room, leaving the door wide open. Petey dashes in after him. Framed by the open doorway, Billie and Armando are stretched out on the living room floor. As she gets closer, Carla can see that Armando is caressing Billie’s face. Between them a baby is playing on a blanket. When Carla and Jeremy come through the door, Armando scoots into a sitting position. “Ola,” he says to them. Nate and Petey are in the hallway, shedding coats, hats and scarves. “We’re going downstairs.” Nate drags Petey along behind them. “Bed time in an hour,” Carla calls after them. “Could you make some tea?” she asks Jeremy. “The stuff is on the counter in the kitchen.” “No problem,” says Jeremy, squeezing Carla’s hand. Carla sits on the floor with Billie and Armando and scoops the baby into her lap. “She’s beautiful, Armando. What’s her name?” “Yessenia,” he says. “After her abuela.” “Grandmother,” Billie translates. “I know what abuela means.” Carla caresses the baby’s curly black hair. “Listen, Armando,” she begins. “I want to talk to you. Parent to parent.” “Okay,” Armando says uneasily, reaching for Yessenia who claps her hands on his cheeks and smiles. “I know that you want only the best for your daughter. When they are little like this, you get to make all of her choices for them—what they wear, what they eat, who takes care of them. It’s hard to imagine her getting pimples and her period . . .” “Mom, that’s gross.” Billie crawls away from Carla and Armando and onto the couch. “Just stop.” “No,” says Armando. “It’s okay.” “I don’t want you seeing Billie. Like this,” she says awkwardly, surveying the blanket strewn with baby toys. She doesn’t know how to characterize their relationship. “You’re a man. A father. Billie is a girl. Not a child, I know,” she hurries to cut off Billie’s protest. “But she just turned 15. You have a baby. You have a girlfriend. And . . . ” “This isn’t any of your business,” Billie interrupts sullenly. “It is her business. She’s your mother.” Armando balances Yessenia on his lap as he begins to gather her toys and stuff them into the diaper bag. “And she’s right. It’s not fair to you.” He pats Billie on the knee. “I’ll see you at Juan’s and, you know, around.” He folds Yessenia into an orange padded snowsuit, and puts a bright knit cap on her head. Billie hands him the baby carrier from the side of the couch as he stands. He puts it around his neck and expertly slides his daughter into place. He shoulders the diaper bag and walks out the door, Yessenia bobbing happily from around his neck. Carla takes a deep breath, anticipating Billie’s explosion. “Billie,” she begins, “I told you that I didn’t want you seeing Armando. I . . .” “Don’t worry about it,” Billie cuts her mother off, tears welling in her eyes. “I thought we were going to go out somewhere, you know. That we had a date. And then he shows up with his baby.” Her bottom lip trembles. “He’s her father,” says Carla. “That’s what parents do.” She gets up from the floor and sits next to Billie on the couch. “When the sitter cancels or the mother doesn’t want to babysit while you go on a date with your girlfriend.” Billie snuggles next to her mother. Carla hears Jeremy in the kitchen assembling the teapot and cups on the tray. “There will be other boys, Billie. You have good instincts. Armando is really nice and respectful—a little confused maybe—but if he were younger and . . .” “Not sort of married or whatever and didn’t have a baby,” Billie completes her mother’s sentence and rests her head on her mother’s shoulder. When Billie sees Jeremy walk into the living room with the tea tray she starts to get up and leave her mother and Jeremy to themselves. But when she sees that he has brought three cups along with the pot of tea she smiles and settles back onto the couch. “Tea?” Jeremy asks, looking directly at Billie. He puts the tray on the coffee table and sits next to her on the couch. “Thanks,” says Billie, taking a cup. “Just a sip. I promised Petey and Nate I’d read to them before they went to bed.” “What are you reading?” Jeremy asks. “James and the Giant Peach.” “That’s a great one,” says Jeremy. “Have you read The Phantom Toll Booth?” “I have,” says Billie, “but I don’t think they have. I’ll put it on our list.” Carla takes a warm mug of tea from Jeremy, placing her hand tenderly over his, “Thank you,” she says, “so much.” “Geez, Mom, it’s just a cup of tea,” says Billie, setting her mug down on the table as she prepares to leave the room. “Just your cup of tea,” she laughs and winks at her mother, as she jogs to the kitchen and down the stairs. Jeremy smiles and clinks his mug against Carla’s in a toast to Billie’s observation. “Do you want some help with that?” he asks, observing the ragged ivy that Carla and her children have begun to trim away from the living room window. “No. But thanks.” Carla is warmed by the palette of her next piece: Yessenia’s bronze skin; steam rising from earthenware mugs; the golden glow of the harvest moon shining through the opening in the ivy. She slides closer to Jeremy on the couch. “We need to do it ourselves.”