By Richard Ross

Jessica was the name of the woman Daniel Cohen picked up at a bar Monday night on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Immediately after arriving at her apartment, she and Daniel had a fit together on the floor. This was not uncomplicated to carry out, since the apartment was only slightly larger than a shot glass.

At the moment of the new relationship’s consummation, police were investigating the suicide of a man in whose pants pocket they had found Daniel’s prescription bottle of Vicodin. Having easily discovered his address through pharmaceutical records, they found the door to his apartment open. Among their discoveries were an ounce of marijuana, an empty year-old prescription bottle of Vicodin in a medicine cabinet behind a package of anal suppositories, and, under several cloth placemats in a kitchen cabinet, a ten-pill foil seal of 60 mg. extended-release morphine sulfate.

There were no pills in the seal and nobody in the apartment.  

“Turns out you’re alive after all, Cohen,” one of the detectives said. “So who’s dead?”

Daniel Cohen had found himself waking around nine next morning in the apartment of his latest sex partner. 

Fuck, he said to himself when he saw the time. Tuesday. Work. 

Jessica was still sleeping. He was hungry but felt too grubby to eat. And showering in her bathroom would mean getting into last night’s clothes afterwards. No, he’d shower in his own apartment. 

Where, he soon discovered, two detectives were waiting to welcome him.He was too shaken, sitting at his kitchen table, to notice how extraordinarily alike the men across from him looked. And how unremarkable. 

“We thought you might be a dead guy,” Detective #1 said.

“Someone who’s dead left behind a bottle of your pills,” Detective #2 said. “Did you give anybody a bottle of your Vicodins?” 

“What?”

“Vicodins. The prescription you have.” The detectives stared at Daniel.

“My Vicodin… oh shit. A guy I know was here drunk last night. Stan Johnson. I left 

him here, he was too drunk to go out, He likes to get fucked up.” 

“Looks like he came to the right place,” said Detective #1. 

“How did you know him?” Detective #2 asked, writing in a small notebook 

“From the bars. Jesus, he’s really dead? How?”

“Do you know any of his family? Friends?”

“I’ve met his sister. Her name’s Juanita.”

Detective #2 was writing. Detective #1 said: “Johnson?”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“No.”

“So what was he doing with your pills?”

“I left them here when I went out. He must have gone through my drawers and found the bottle.”

“Where’d you keep it?”

“Under my sweaters.” 

Detective #2 looked up from his notebook. “I guess you don’t trust your friends. What were the pills for?”

“Dental work.”

“What kind of dental work?”

“I had a root canal.”

“I’ve had a couple of those,” said Detective #1. “My dentist tells me to take Advil.”

“This yours?” Detective #2 asked.

Daniel Cohen’s eyes opened wider. “I’m not going to get in trouble here, am I? It’s only a little marijuana.”

“No, we’re just going to write you a summons,” Detective #1 said. “We won’t field test the pot, no doubt they’ll dismiss the summons. But don’t forget to show up in court. Otherwise they issue a warrant.”

“The legal advice is free,” Detective #2 said.

“Where did you go when you left here?” asked Detective #1.

Daniel named the bar. “I left there with a woman I met. Spent the night at her place. Her name’s Jessica. You’re not going to interview her, are you? I don’t know her that well.” 

“Really,” said Detective #1. 

“Where does she live?” asked Detective #2, writing again.

“I don’t know. I know the building, it’s on Eighty-First between First and Second. In the middle of the block. I’m not sure of the address.”

“Do you know anything else about this Juanita person, the sister? Where she works? Anything?”

“Uh, not really, sorry.”

“Okay, thanks,” Detective #2 said, putting away his notebook. “Glad to find you alive. Too bad about the other guy.”

“I feel really bad about this. I mean, dead. God.”

“More free legal advice,” Detective #1 said. “Giving someone your prescription medicine is a crime.”

“But I didn’t––” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Detective #2 said. “We believe you, don’t we, Mike?”

“Whatever you say, Marty. Have a good day, Mr. Cohen.” 

*  *   *

Richard Ross is a retired New York City Family Court judge. His publications include works on family court judging, as well as poetry in a variety of journals. As a Very Old Guy he is trying his hand at fiction.

   

                                                        

                               

 

 

 

                                           

By Jacob Butlett

I’m having an affair with Zeeb, my garden gnome. One moment I was having a long, boring conversation about God knows what with Gordo, my husband, then the next, while I was alone cleaning the kitchen, wondering what compelled me to marry Gordo last year, I looked up from my mop bucket. Zeeb stood on the counter in emerald overalls and a pointy red cap. 

“You’re beautiful, Ella,” he said in the warmest voice I’d ever heard. 

I screamed in terror. Passed out. When I came to, I was in bed. What the hell happened? I wondered. Then I looked behind me and on Gordo’s half of the bed stood Zeeb, barely two feet tall. I was about to scream again until Zeeb bent down to brush a coil of hair out of my face. His sapphire eyes sparkled in morning light streaming through the window. While Gordo was at work, Zeeb convinced me he wasn’t dangerous. We still don’t know how he came to life three months ago. Doesn’t matter anyhow. In bed that morning, Zeeb didn’t talk about himself much. Just listened to me talk about my life, never interrupting me. Never judging me. 

When I turned eighteen, I moved to Florida for college. In my senior year, I met Gordo. We dated for only eight months before we tied the knot. We had sex a lot when we were dating, leaving little time for conversations. Had we spent more time talking about ourselves, I don’t think we would’ve gotten married. In college, Gordo used to be interesting, spending most of his free time weightlifting and swimming laps at the YMCA. Now he spends most of his time watching the weather channel. Do you love me? I asked him one day, while he was watching a man in a boxy gray suit ramble on about expected downpours. Gordo glanced at me with a smile as if that would be enough to reassure me that our marriage would last forever. We both knew better.

I’ve kept Zeeb a secret from Gordo all this time. Keeping the secret has been easy since Gordo doesn’t talk much to me anymore. As a homemaker, I thought I’d spend the rest of my days cleaning our house and waiting to conceive a child. Gordo and I keep the house clean anyway. We haven’t had sex in almost a year. Zeeb says I should divorce Gordo so that we can spend the rest of our lives together. But I’m afraid what others might think if I leave Gordo for Zeeb.

I take Zeeb on dates every week. We visit local parks and go to the town’s only movie theater. Out of fear of being judged or questioned, I sneak him into museums and libraries, hiding him in a beach bag Gordo bought me for our first wedding anniversary. Zeeb gladly does anything I say, so he doesn’t mind the bag.

Sex with Zeeb is lackluster, but I don’t care. I need intimacy. Zeeb’s hard plastic body is warm whenever I hold him or whenever he holds me while I cry about my disgrace of a marriage. 

Is there a way I can save my marriage? I asked on a whim last week. The sun filtered through the bedroom window. While my clothes lay on the floor, Zeeb lay on top of me. His tiny hands stroked my sweaty skin. I waited for an answer, but he didn’t need to reply. My marriage has run its course.

Last night, something happened. 

I was smoking a cigarette on the front porch while the setting sun bled scarlet light across tawny clouds. Zeeb sat next to me as we watched the neighborhood darken into twilight. A breeze passed by like a ghostly murmur. Then the air went silent. I thought about marrying Zeeb but laughed. Out of the question. Ludicrous. Every month for the last three months, Zeeb has asked me for my hand in marriage, and each time I say, Maybe one day…

While stars freckled the indigo sky last night, I gazed at the sun. A question rose to the top of my brain like a hoisted anchor: How long will this last?

The question puzzled me. I thought, of course I’ll leave Gordo. Someday. But when? 

I turned to Zeeb, his plastic face like stone in the harsh summer light. I touched his wrist. No pulse.

“Are you hollow?” I asked. “If I break you, would nothing pour out? “

“You can fill me with anything,” he said. “If it makes you happy, you can break me.”

You’re a walking, talking shell, aren’t you?

Zeeb had no knowledge of his existence before he came to life.

Look at the sun until I tell you to stop, I told him.

“It is lovely tonight,” he said. “But not as lovely as you, Ella.”

His blissfully ignorant smile made me want to weep with envy.

When I heard Gordo pull into the driveway on his return from work, I stood up, surprised to find tears on my face. I tamped down my cigarette just as Gordo stepped out of his car. I walked over to him. Before he could walk around me, not bothering to say hello, I wrapped my arms around him for dear life, as if we were drowning in sunlight and shadows. I pressed my left ear against his chest, full of rapid heartbeats.

How long can this last? I whispered. One more week? One more month? We don’t really know each other. It’s been over for a long, long time.

As he nodded somberly, I forced back sobs.

He wrapped his arms around me. Our first embrace in months.

Meanwhile, Zeeb watched the sun, as I had commanded him to do. He, too, was silent. Transfixed on the beauty of day’s dying light.

*   *   *

Jacob Butlett is the Head Poetry Editor at Blue Earth Review. Jacob’s creative works have been published in many journals, including Colorado Review, The Hollins Critic, Crab Orchard Review, and Lunch Ticket. Jacob received an Honorable Mention for the Academy of American Poets Prize (Graduate Prize) at Southern Illinois University at Carbondale (SIUC), sponsored by the Academy of American Poets. Aldrich Press published Jacob’s debut book of poems, Stars Burning Night’s Quiet Rhapsody.

By S.E. Wilson

Carl’s son Teddy is staying home from daycare. He has an ear infection and is teething, so he isn’t feeling well and is fussy, especially at night. Things only seem to get worse at night. Carl’s wife Beth has taken time off of work to care for Teddy. It’s cold outside so they have been spending their time inside, mostly around the TV. 

Saturday is especially cold. The sun is out and the sky is blue but a brisk breeze blows. They all sit in the living room, watching some show about people with autism falling in love. Teddy sits in Beth’s lap, nursing. Even though he is nineteen months old he still relies on his mother’s milk. It’s the only thing in the world that soothes him during his recurring ear infections. Carl sits alone on the couch.

Teddy finishes and slides off his mother and sits cross-legged on the rug, playing with some wooden blocks. He stacks them high with a delicate touch. 

“He seems to be feeling better,” Carl says.

Their dog barks and Carl looks out the window.

“Mail’s here,” he says. “Frank always knows.”

“I’ll get it,” Beth says.

She puts on her jacket and leaves the house in her slippers. Teddy doesn’t notice. He’s too busy with his blocks. It’s like he’s a little architect. 

Carl continues watching TV.

Their dog barks again and Beth opens the front door and enters with the mail.

“Anything good?” Carl asks.

“Just bills and junk.”

She walks through the living room and into the kitchen, dropping the envelopes and advertisements on the table. On top is their credit card statement. She picks it up and opens it, standing with her back to Carl. She looks down and stays that way for some time.

“What are you looking at?” Carl asks.

She turns around with the creased paper in her hand.

“Our credit card bill. There’s over two thousand dollars here.”

Carl swallows. His throat is dry. He watches her eyes scan the statement.

“What is this eight hundred dollars at Dicks?”

Carl swallows again and rubs the back of his neck. It has gotten hot. 

“Yeah, I meant to tell you.”

“What the hell did you buy?”

Her voice is raised. Teddy looks up from his blocks. 

“Can we talk about this later?”

“No. We can talk about it now. You know we need the money for Teddy’s procedure.”

Teddy needs ear tubes to help prevent his frequent infections and to better his hearing. But their deductible is high and it’s the beginning of a new year, so it isn’t going to be cheap. Their bills only seem to be getting bigger, their debt deeper. Things are tight.

“I know I know.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“What did you buy for eight-hundred dollars?”

He sits forward, looking down at the ground, then at Teddy. He doesn’t want to look at Beth. He’s always good at disappointing people, but he’s never good at dealing with the people who he has disappointed. 

“What does it matter? It’s already been done.”

“Well can’t you return whatever you bought?”

“What if I don’t want to?”

This was something he shouldn’t have said and he regrets it immediately. Beth’s eyes fill with fire and her face reddens

“Are you kidding me?”

“Jesus Beth, you’re acting like it was the last of our money. Aren’t I allowed to spend the money I make?”

“Not like this, Carl. I don’t spend the money I make like this. This is selfish.”

Carl stands and walks around the coffee table, around Teddy. He kicks some loose blocks but doesn’t notice.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought I told you.”

“Told me what?”

“That I was getting new golf clubs.”

“Golf clubs? You never told me that. And you have golf clubs. Why do you need new ones?”

Carl shakes his head, trying to find the words to explain. 

He grew up playing golf. He played it with his parents, his grandparents. Countless afternoons were spent beneath the warm sun and on the soft grasses of fairways and greens. There was laughter and clapping and moments of affirmation from his father, which were rare and seemed to only happen on the golf course, usually after a three foot putt for birdie. Once Carl moved out of his parents’ house and started on his own, he quit playing golf, but still lugged his clubs from one house to the next, putting them in the corners of closets and garages to collect dust. 

Then in October his father passed away and the memories swirled and surfaced, making him long for those times again. But his clubs have gotten old and hitting them felt like hitting rocks. So he bought some new ones. Afterward he couldn’t wait until he and his own son could make the same cherished memories. Great shot, he will say, patting him on the butt. Let’s get some hot dogs at the turn, he will say. And Teddy will smile and Carl will smile and everything that came before will momentarily be much more than a memory. 

This is what he is after.

“Why did you need new golf clubs?” Beth asks again.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“That may very well be the worst answer imaginable,” she says. “Unbelievable.”

She raises her hands in the air. 

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he says.

“I want you to return them.”

“Fine.”

He turns to walk out of the living room and kicks over a tower of blocks. When he looks down, he doesn’t see Teddy.

“Where’s Teddy?” he asks. “Teddy!”

There is no response.

Carl looks in the nursery and Beth looks in the kitchen.

“Is he there?”

“No!”

Teddy had recently been sneaking out the back door, so they look in the backyard, but he isn’t there either. The wind blows dead leaves across the brown Bermuda lawn. The only sound. 

“Teddy!”

They go back inside, going from room to room, looking in closets and behind beds. Fear sets in. Their hearts beat hard and their blood moves fast. They feel dizzy and short of breath, the world spins around them.  

Then they feel a slight draft and notice the front door is ajar. 

They rush outside calling for him. Beth goes to the side yard and Carl goes down the driveway. A car speeds through the nearby intersection. Inside their dog barks. Somewhere in the distance sirens wail. It is cold.

“Teddy! Teddy!”

They shout his name.

Carl begins to run. 

Soon it will be dark.

*  *  *

S.E. Wilson lives in North Carolina. His work has appeared in Chiron Review, Streetlight Magazine, The Louisville Review, and New World Writing Quarterly.