Williamwent into the bedroom where he sat on the bed with Justine and the babe. Evenwith the door closed and the wind howling outside they could hear Manda callingto him . . . “William, William,” . . . as she circled the house lookingfor a way in. Justine sobbed and the babe wailed with each haunting cry.
“Goaway,” he finally screamed when he could bear it no more.
* * *
Mandaignored the terrified bleating of the sacrificial ewe tied to the sac-pole. Shehungered for more than animal blood. What was it, compared to the life of theman who had scorned her? She would have him or nothing. Time after time shecircled the cottage, looking for any crack or crevice which might afford herentry. She was finally forced back to the sea when the storms fury started towane and the sun threatened to break through the cloud-filled sky. “William,”she screamed one final time before retreating to the cold embrace of thesea.
Everyyear, Manda came with the first storm. William waited in the cottage whileJustine and the children sheltered with her Da and Ma. He would listen to hercall his name as she endlessly circled the cabin. He could not escape theisland, but he finally escaped Manda when death claimed him in hiseighty-second year and he was buried in the welcoming arms of the island’srocky soil.
Turn UpThe Old Victrola
Tom Deady
Inever liked yard sales. It felt like buying someone else’s trash. What made mestop that day, I’ll never know. But I did stop, that’s the point of the story.
Letme back up, it started before the yard sale. The real beginning was when myuncle died. Billy was always the “cool uncle” that every kid has. The one thatteaches you the shit your parents try to shield from you. The one that swearsin front of you when you’re too young, and later buys you cigarettes or beersor condoms. Anyway, Uncle Billy was the guy that introduced me to music. I’d goover to his house and we’d sit and listen to everything from the Beatles andthe Stones to Miles Davis and John Coltrane. Always on vinyl. Even when therest of the world moved on to cassettes and eventually compact discs, UncleBilly played records.
Whenhe passed away last year – sclerosis of the liver, even the coolest unclescan’t defy the evils of alcohol – he left me his record collection. Over threehundred albums, some of them over fifty years old with covers so faded youcould barely make them out. The problem was, he’d sold his kick-ass stereoequipment to pay his medical bills. Water, water, everywhere, and not a dropto drink. Sure, you could get used equipment, but could you get theneedles? So, the records stayed in storage for a while.
Thenthe hipsters brought back vinyl. It was retro. Record players hit themarket again, what’s old became new. The next shoe to drop could be the returnof bell bottoms, God help us if that happens. So, I picked up a system and dugBilly’s records out of storage and let the nostalgia roll over me.
I’llnever really understand why vinyl came back. The quality sucks! It’s allscratchy and the records skip. Listening to records when you could have digitalquality is like washing clothes by hand in the river when you own a washingmachine. It’s pretty fucked up when you think about it. So, the collection sat,right next to my overpriced “retro” sound system.
Theother thing I learned from Uncle Billy was the joy ride. He’d pick me up andwe’d drive along country roads, music cranked (cassettes then) and end upwherever we ended up. That’s how I ended up lost on some back road in a townwhose sole claim to fame was probably having a Blockbuster video store.
Irounded a hairpin curve and had to slow. Ahead, flashing yellow lights andcones signaled a delay. Probably some redneck ran his confederate-flag-adornedpickup into a tree. I approached, and realized I was mistaken. A tree was downacross the road. A big tree. The crew was furiously working to clear theblock, saws buzzing in the late-morning sun, but it would be a while.
Iwas about to make a U-turn when I noticed a tattered sign tacked to a tree justahead: Yard Sale. I needed directions anyway, so I eased the car over tothe shoulder and got out. The yard was crowded with the usual yard saledetritus; old toys, out-of-style clothes, rusty tools, and knick-knacks thatseem to gather in every elderly person’s home. I could purchase most of thestuff brand new for less money at any Christmas Tree Shop or Job Lot.
Iambled across the grass, spying an old couple by the weathered cape-stylehouse. I wondered if they were selling everything to move to a condo, maybe inFlorida. They appeared to be arguing, then the man brushed by her and into thehouse. I turned away, and my eyes fell on the Victrola. It was old, much likethe one in that RCA ad with the dog. It looked to be in pretty good shape and Ithought of the collection of vinyl back at my place.
Unableto find a price tag, I walked towards the old woman. “Hi, I was wondering whatyou wanted for the old Victrola?”
Hereyes narrowed and she took a step backwards, but didn’t answer.
“Youknow, the old-fashioned record player?” I motioned toward it.
Hereyes widened and her hand reached up to her forehead. I swear she was about tomake the sign of the cross. “It’s not for sale,” she whispered.
Iopened my mouth to reply but realized I had nothing to say. The screen doorscreeched open and the old man reappeared. He looked angry, like he was aboutto lay into his wife, but he saw me and managed a smile. “What can we do foryou, young man?”
“Well,uh, I was asking about the Victrola, but your...she said it wasn’t for sale.” Irealized there was a resemblance between the man and
