Samsnorted a short laugh. “He’s been lost for a long time.”
“Ifound him, didn’t I?”
He nodded. But he’d found his own way back. The ghost of aboy back from the Never Never.
Scrying Through
Torn Screens
Patricia Gomes
In an old house on Court Street, browncraft paper covers the windows of the sun porch. The paper is folk art hearts,laurel wreaths, and doves cut to disguise neglect.
I see spectral womenquilting on the other side. Cloaked in tan light, they’re whip-stitching jaggedteeth and baby hair to bamboo mats. My father-in-law, four years in his grave,visits here; they treat him well.
Uncomfortable and tense, Isit cross-legged on the drafty floor reading wills and final testaments. Thesun porch is unheated, but there you are in just an undershirt thirty yearsbefore my baptism. I would bring you sweet cold wine if I’d be allowed to kiss
the stain from your lips.
The stingy light comingthrough the Amish hearts is barely sufficient for a game of anagrams. Home isbetter far better than this.
They,Too, Want to be Remembered
KH Vaughan
The horses are screaming. They struggleto stand, but the more they twist and thrash, the worse it gets. Their nosesand throats clog with something thick and viscous. Suffocating. It’s forcingits way into their lungs. It bubbles from their noses until it gets too thickand they grow still, eyes rolled back, moving only with the sluggish, spreadingtide. I wake up in a cold sweat, hyperventilating, a cloying taste in my mouth.
The nightmares have been coming morefrequently. Night-mares. It would be funny if it wasn’t terrifying. Ineed an Ativan to calm down enough to get ready for work, and I’ll need anextra-large Dunkin to make sure I don’t fall asleep on the T.
I change for work: jeans, thermal-shirtand flannel, and a heavy Carhartt jacket. The ground is usually frozen solid inJanuary, but this year hasn’t been so bad, at least until this weekend. Todaywill be frigging freezing. I stuff cigarettes and leather gloves in my pocketon the way out the door. It is dark as I walk to the Red Line and the footingis treacherous after the snow over the weekend. People in Boston will fightover the parking spaces they cleared, but their sidewalks? Screw you, buddy.Grow a pair or move to Florida. My breath trails away in the light wind and Iturn my collar up. The tips of the corners cover my peripheral vision. A gustcatches me as I enter the Porter Square Station. It will be more comfortablebelow ground.
Even at this hour, the station is busy.Working people, suits, and all the service people that have to be there forthem. They say construction is a rough gig, but I couldn’t do restaurant ordelivery. Those people work hard and don’t get much back. I guess we’re allinvisible to the investment bankers and brokers up in their office towers. Ihear an incoming train. The squeal of brakes and the rattle of the wheels onthe rails echo down the tunnel and against the high tiled ceiling of thestation, and it reminds me of my dreams again. Fuck. I focus on my coffee andthe chill and the battered sneakers of the woman in the skirt and jacket acrossthe aisle. No doubt she will trade them for heels when she gets to work, unlessshe’s in one of those offices where they won’t allow her to walk in withoutproper dress. They slip on shoes at the top of the escalator or hop awkwardlyon the sidewalk around the corner from their work so their manager doesn’t see.
By North Station the train is crowded. Icould have gotten a ride with one of the other guys, but I’d rather take thesubway. Trapped in the cab of someone’s truck you have to make small talk. Onthe train, people leave you alone. It’s short walk down Causeway to Commercialand the park. Light flakes of snow drift in the air. Langone Park is right onthe water at the mouth of the Charles between Puopoulo field and the skatingrink. A ball field, playground, and some benches. All of it has about sixinches of heavy packed snow. There’s tons of history around this place. Acrossthe water is Bunker Hill, and behind us, just a little over, is the churchwhere they hung the lanterns for Paul Revere, and the old Copp’s Hill Cemetery.When we dig, we find debris from the last dig. Some places, you find old, oldstuff, but we aren’t going to here. This land is fill, like a lot of the city.They built out between the piers with salt mud, coal ash, gravel, and garbage.No history like there is across the street. When the next crew has to do a jobhere, they’ll find the same shit we did, plus whatever new trash we leavebehind in the trench.
* * *
I’m early on the site. The foreman,O’Brien, is already there. He’s Irish from Southie. Likes to throw in MattDamon quotes in an exaggerated accent. He nods his chin at me and throws me anorange safety vest.
“Hey, Gomes. You want to start on thebackhoe or down in the trench?” he says.
“You giving me a choice?” I say.
“Well, I’m feeling generous today andthat little shit Parker ain’t here yet, so you get to choose.”
“I’ll start on the backhoe then.”
“All right, then. You watch the gamesthis weekend?”
“A little. Wildcards are usually uneven,you know? It’s the divisional games where it starts to get competitive.Besides, the Pats… I don’t know. They’re playing with a grudge this year, butthat defense…”
“They’re gonna jam that Lombardi rightup Goodell’s ass.”
“Maybe. Pittsburgh’s tough and I don’tthink we can hang with Atlanta.”
We go back and forth and in a fewminutes Parker pulls up in his pickup with Reeve and Biggs. O’Brien waits forthem to get out of the cab and stamps out his cigarette.
“Hey, Pahkah!” he yells. “You’re in thehole. How d’ya like dem apples!”
* * *
We tear up the asphalt in the rectanglewe’d cut with a concrete saw last week, careful to avoid the communicationlines underneath. Com
