Albany Road

The Literary Magazine of Deerfield Academy | 2010

A L B A N Y R O A D

D E E R F I E L D

AL

BA

NY

RO

AD

20

10

The thread that you weavequite skillfully isno light matter. Rather,it is the substance of yourunbecoming, to me, and bearsinfinite gravity, and Iboundless remorse.My frustration mountsalways near rage, thoughin my way, neverreaching that one,tiny, precise pointof unbridled fervor.For what it is worthyou always makethe most beautiful things.

—Drew Eident

W I N T ER 2010

DEER F I E L D, MASSACHUSE T T S

AlbanyRoad

The Literary & Art Magazineof DeerfieldAcademy

EDITOR-IN-CHIEFHannahFlato

LITERARY EDITORSCeceliaBuerkleDrewEidentAmandaMinoffEliot Taft

ART EDITORJenMulrow

LAYOUT EDITORAlexanderHeller

FACULTY ADVISORSAndrea& Robert Moorhead

2 | ALBA NY ROAD

THESE FIFTY-SIX PAGES TAKE A BITE OUT OF DEERFIELD. Reading it, skimming it,enjoyingthepictures—you’ll absorbthehiccups of onestudent’s li fe, anotherstudent’ssenseof humor,another’s loveof nature,another’sconcernfor thelegacyof theIraqWar.

Weareusedto looking throughthelensof schoolmeetingandseeingacommunity composedof familiar faces,coats,ties,andcardigans.Sonow openAlbanyRoadandventureinto thethoughtsbehindthoserowsof faces.Playwiththedynamicsnapshots;discoverthedynamicundercurrentsof our school.Wesitin class-dressedrows, absorbedin a common,sharedmoment,but throughthisissue,youcanpeekintowheresomeof usarecomingfrom,whatothersseein theirsurroundings,andwhereothersareheaded.Enjoy.

HannahFlato, Editor-in-Chief

fromtheeditors—

WINTER 2010 | 3

I SCRUNCHEDUPMY NOSEAS IT MET THEWINTER BREEZE, briskandsharpwhisperingroarsinto my ear.Winter bringstheprecariouspilesof snow,theshortdaysandlingeringdarks,andagrowingdreadof walkingoutsidefrombuildingto building.I continuedpastthedimly lit dininghall, pastthemodestHitchcockHouseandabustlingJohnWilliams until I finally reachedmy destination.Circulatingacalm,constantwarmth,theMemorialBuilding Art Studiois its own safehaven,linedwith drawings,paintings,andphotographsall created by the handsof our veryown hereat DeerfieldAcademy.For manyincludingmyself, theArt Studiois aplace to loseall senseof time, anescapefrom theoutside world evenjust for amoment.I hopeasyou readthroughthis issueof AlbanyRoadyou canuseit asyour ownescape,from thetrialsof school,from thestressof work, fromthebriskwinterbreezewhisperingroarsinto yourownears.

JenMulrow,Art Editor

Prose

KaylaCorcoran TheLake,a Fascination 10

Eliot Taft Overflow 20

KatieRegan Notestowardsa Historyof Pictures 27

AmandaMinoff Reflections 32

Henry Michaels Poundmelter4500Pill 39

Alec Strandberg Peter 46

MorganMarks Indecency 53

Poetry

AmandaMinoff FogandRawhide 7

VeronicaHouk Marriage 18

DrewEident § 25

JulianGonzález SteepedLooseRecollections 30

DrewEident § 37

MahSotoudeh Mother 44

Willem Molenaar PastandFuture,DayandLife 52

Contents

4 | ALBA NY ROAD

Visual Art

Kyle Wieczorek KnottedDrapery cover

HannahDancer TwoHighways,OneWay 6

Ariel Beauregard-BretonSelf-Portrait 9

Ariel Beauregard-BretonTwoNudes 17

Estelle Kim Deerwith Antlers 19

Lizzy Gregory Katrina 24

SarahOh GeorgeWashingtonBridge 26

AnneMosley Censored 29

JenMulrow Tools 36

RebeccaLevy EvenGreeksGods 38

KyleWieczorek Girl Smoking 43

CameronOvery Head 45

WINTER 2010 | 5

6 | ALBA NY ROAD

HannahDancer

TwoHighways,OneWayDigital Photograph,8x11

WINTER 2010 | 7

AmandaMinoff

FogandRawhide

1.

Here,theyair-conditioncafesWith thecoolblueof counterculture.Here,

Thestreetwalks arePastedwith mossypavementAnd tasteof chewed gumandtacky footprint.

And here,also,therearewomen(deeplike coffeeAnd asstrong)whoComeandgoComeandgo.

Theystickburnishedbootsoff filth-licked cementAnd don’t everbreakfor abowingof aheadOr thesilly unionof two palms—

2.

Down thecrusted,cobbledroadThere’sahousefor theages:

Brow composedof creakingbricks,And tongueastern,burly plankOf crackedcedar.

Throughabreakin therooftopThesmokestill stacksandcataracts—DescendsLike adustcloudpuffedfrom thepagesOf anold paperbackBible.

It sweepsroundthedogwoodsdampenedblack,Crossthegreen-tintedstorefrontsboastingshoe-soles,Thenmeetstheleather handshakeOf awoman(coffeein palmandDrapedin deepred).

3.

Sherolls thesmogroundoncein her mouth,And,whenthesignalsounds,Trudgesherfeetout crosstheground.

8 | ALBA NY ROAD

Ariel Beauregard-Breton

Self-PortraitOil Rub-out,10x12

WI NTER 2010 | 9

KaylaCorcoran

TheLake,aFascination

THEDOMINANT LIGHTSAREA PULSATING BLUE, breathingontheirown,whirling aroundin overlappingspheres.Orangestreetlightsmovethesky above the waterfrom deepdark to a greypurple, a shade

thatfeelsunsatisfying,emptylike ayawnwithout purpose.This nocturneof sortsbreathesaliveness:inhaling thenexhalingto theloudsirenscreamsandthebarefingerstappingonbareknees.Histhumbtracespatternsonmyhand,on my knee,on thestonewall near thewater,near the cold metalbarrierwhich restsonly to separateusfrom therakish waves.Wearrivedhereby chance,buteverysurface,every newtexture,beckonedusto stay.Wewatch a crowdgather,mashtogether,andthenrecoil in heatandlossof interest.

“Canyouevenimagine?”I ask.His handsaresweatyin thesummernightair. “How longdoyou think…” my voicetrails into thespacebetweenthesky, thatvastvoid betweennightandday.

“Why wouldyouwant to?Imagine?He’salreadygone,nomatterhowlongit takes,” hesaysmatter-of-factly, but thensoftly, sympathetically, asks,“why areweevenhere,blueeyes?It’sgettinglate.”

I suck in adeepbreath. I amfeelingpensiveandthereis everythingto thinkabout:thelakeanditspoisonousseaweed;ground-upashesin thedirt; thesquealsof tireson thegreypavementthatis split by amill ion li ttlelinesjustlike thepalmsof myhands;andthesteadythrummingof fire engines,onethrumafteranother.In thecomingdayswhenI readthenewspapersoverand over, searchingfor information, this is themoment I wil l attempttore-imagine. Themomentof whentheseaweedis sothick, I canseeit float-ing onthewater’s surface,quietandgnarled.Themomentof whichtakingapictureis impossiblebecauseit can only beseen,not felt.

10 | ALB ANY ROAD

Thepeoplearoundussmokein deepdrags,holdingtheir cigarettesin onehandandabeerin theother.Thebeeris servedin plastic cups.It makesmewantto vomit.

“This oneguy told methathewaswith somebodyelse,or someonewhoknewhim wasat thebarandsawhim fall over,” hesays.I press ontomytoes,searching the crowd for the distressed facesof family. He laughsbecausehe is still taller thanme.But theonly faceswe see staring backareonesof feignedconcern: Neighborswith frizzy hairanddroopinggreypants,girls in black denimandboyswith earrings,drunkswearingt-shirtswith thenamesof bandslost to thegenerations.Theenergyof indifferencesucksthemall intoonecrowd,amassof ambivalentfaces, indistinguishablefrom oneanother.

“I alsoheard that someoneat thebarsawanemptyboat,sotheycalledthepolice,” I tell him. In thecrowdof old towniesandkidswhorunby laughingtoo loudly, I like to imaginethatI amtheonly onesearchingout thetruth.Wehavebeen here for almosttwo hours, waiting,watchingthepolicesetuptheroadblock, watchingthediveteamsscourthesurface,watchingtheothersgossip.

In thesummerheat,theelusivenessof thelakeappealsto usall. Weareatoncerootedto thecementroadthatsplitsthelakein two, theroadflankedon eithersideby ceaselesswinks of grey-green.Wearestuckin our owndreamsandtheinky depthsof their horrors. “I betDeathisn’t asworseastheworst imagination,” I sigh. He looksat mewith furrowedbrows ofconfusion.Biting my lip, I say,“I mean,whatdoyousupposewill happennow?If theycan’t find hisbody?”

His thumbstopsmovingfor amoment,pausedonmykneein eitherannoy-anceor nervousness.I canunderstand it, though.Deathhasa habit ofmaking people nervous.When I think about it, it seemsimpossible to

WINTER 2010 | 11

comprehend.How canonejustdisappear?Floataway?End?

By nowthepinknessof theskyhasbeenfoldedandtuckedawayfor a fewhours. I haveseenthelakeonethousandtimes,andI canneverquite decidewhatto think.But tonightit is themostbeautiful,perhapsbecause it is themostoverwhelming.Thelightsareall I cansee.All I canhear.All over,onthebeigestuccowallsof thebar,theblackpolesof thepatio, thepalefacesof fadedearly-summertans.

“I don’t know,” hefinally answers, andI turnmy faceto his.

“What if theydon’t find him?” I whisperagain. “What if theyneverfindhim? Will theyjust leavehim in there?”

Acrossthewater,therearemorelights: red,orange,white,extendingintolongcolumnsthatbendandgrab like fingers. I closemyeyesfor amoment,imaginingthedrift into nothingness,hisdrift. Everythingis screaming,butI’m not listening.Foramoment,everything fades.And thenI’m slipping,slippingslowly intodarkness.

Cesious.Blue andblackandclammygreenribbonsof seaweed.Knottedlike thesnakesof Medusa’s hair.Moonlight white handsandpearlescentwhitefeet,tangledin thegreenropes, roughonsuchsmoothskin, wetwiththewaterandthemud andthesweet tastingsweatof panic.Theend.Thisis the end of rose pinks and the deepbloodorangeevenings.Of coral-flushed peachcolorsanddewyyellowsof morning. No morelips stainedwith theredsof life, only white fingernailscrackedlike brokenshells.Bynow thegritty sandhaserasedall the lineson his palms.Wrinkles andcreaseswill wearsmoothuntil they’refinally gone.Eyeswide,hauntinglyswollenandopen, gazinginto theabyssof foreverness. Emotionlessasmarble.

“He’s already gone. It wouldn’t mattereitherway,” hewhispers in my ear.

12 | ALB ANY ROAD

I tell him that I know, that I don’t care.I want to stay until they find hisbody.I don’t evenknowhim, but I feel like I do.Or, I feel like I want toknowhim.ThatI needto knowhim to befully envelopedinto thesurreal-ism. Otherwise, it feels like some ridiculous absurdity,standinghere,among thesepeople—thiscrowd thatI amapartof, thiscrowd fromwhichI amapart.

The lake isn’t deep, but it’ s wide. By now, the red lighted trucks haveassembledto cast larger, whitelightsontotheblackdarkness. Themosqui-toesgatherby it like thepeoplegatheredoutsidethebar,comparingtheoriesandpresentingtheiropinionsfor thenewsnetworks.Frominside,themusicis loudenoughto reachtheothersideof thelake,I imagine.Thewordsaretoo insignificantto distinguishonefrom theother. Only the thrumming,thrumming, thrummingof thejukeboxcanbefelt, canbeseenin thesmall-estvibrationsof air, quivering. Or maybeI just don’t care. I only want tothink aboutthedrowning,but I amafraid to sayit out loud.My thoughtsare a waterymass, sloshing aroundin the safetyof my mind. Speakingthemmeansgiving up control, leavingmyself at themercyof what theymayturn into.

I rememberdriving on this road,once.An early, misty morningthat mademethink of postcardsandDebussy. Of travelingandof old booksfrom thelibrary. And of beginnings,which seemso easyto contemplate andsodifficult to understand.It is mucheasierto imaginethingsasI wantthemto bethenastheymight havebeen.This lake,beforetheroadwasmade.This man, beforehedrowned.Thereis somethingthat wantsto be saidaboutsuchbeginnings,eventhoughit maynotbetrue.

“Truth is relative,anyways,” I say,thinking out loud.

“Huh?” heasks.

I laugh.“Sorry, I wasjust thinking…” I pausefor amomentto imaginehis

WI NTER 2010 | 13

thoughts.Surely,theyaremoreconcretethanmine.Forhim, it isabouttheadventure.It is alwaysabouttheadventure.Some dreamedglory of hisfeted discoveryof thedrowned man’sbody, the town clamoring for hisstory, thehalf-grin thatwil l creepontohisfaceasheretells it. A grin onmyownfacebetraysmy imaginings.“How doyouthink this lakegothere?” Iflush, trying to hidemy thoughtsof him.

“Hmm… it rained a lot?” hesuggests.

“No!” I laugh.“Seriously.”

“Fine, you tell me.”And thenhesmirksbecauseheknowsI will.

I takea deep breathand begin to tell thebeginning for which I’ve beensearching. Somewhere,alongtheouter edges of my thoughts,floats thedeadmanwith hisperpetualstatuarygaze.

“They saythere’sastonewall in themiddleof it,” I begin. “Connectsthefar-rightshoreto theroad.Longtimeagobeforethelakewasmade,it wasa field, and thewall separatedonepasturefrom another. Whoever madethelakeneverbotheredto removethestones.”

“Interesting,”hepretendsto ponderdeeply.“What’s sospecialaboutthiswall?Werethesestonesmadeof gold?”hejokes.

I gentlysmack himonthearm.“Hardly.Anyways,every morningthisonemanwould walk acrossthewall, throughthewaterandfog, to reachtheroad.An old teacherat theschool.Nameof Nutting. Kind of ironic,if youaskme.Guyhadayoungdaughter, abouttenor so,hisonly child, realwellknownin town.”

“Ah, yes.His only daughter. Definitely a bright girl, frecklednose, blueeyes,just likeyours,”hepinchesmy nose.I ignorehim.

14 | ALB ANY ROAD

“Earlyonemorning—theysay it wasthemistiestmorning youcould imag-ine, a hazeas thick astheseaweed—daughterrunsoff, triesto get to theothersideof the lake for somereason.Disappears.Nobodycanfind her.Thefatherswearshecanhearhercallingfor him,hertiny voicethrough thefog. Naturally,he’s sick with worry, tries to find her, but no one canseeanything.Theysearchfor weeks, but nothing.Fathertriesto persuadethepeopleto keep looking for her,but eventuallytheyhadto give up.Therewasnothing elsetheycoulddo.” I swallowhard.Wasthis what it wouldcometo for thedrownedman?An endemptyof answers?I swallow againandforcemyself to keepimagining. “Anyways,thefathercracksup.Keepsyellingateveryonehowhehearsher everymorning,knowsshe’s outthere.Hestopsteaching,stopsgoinganywhere.Becomesabit of a recluse.Justsitsaround,yelling bitsandpiecesof delusion,saying thathecanhearhersinging to him from across the lakeevery morning. For him, time stopsmovingby.There’sstill enoughof it to find her,to saveher.”

“What did it soundlike?Her song,I mean?”heasksslowly, asif feelingeachwordseparatelyonhis tongue.

“Like Debussy,” I say.It is thefirst thingthatcomestomymind.“Clair deLune.”

Henodsfor meto continue.

“And then one day, he just disappears.Walks off into the lake. Theysearchedfor thebodyanddidn’t find anything.Nothing.Guy just disap-pears.Somepeoplethink hewent crazy, otherswho knewhim swearhemust’veknownwhathewasdoing.No onereallyeverknew,I guess.

“Peopleassumed hedrowned,just like his daughter, but theyneverfoundanyevidence. No bodyeverturnedup, sameasthegirl’s. Endedup thattheynamedthelakeafterthebothof them:Nutting’sLake.”

WI NTER 2010 | 15

Wearebothquietfor amoment.

“So that’sit, then. Theend?”hemurmurs.

I nod. “Or thebeginning…it’s horrible, isn’t it?” I whisper.

What’s horribleis thatwecannever reallyknowanything.I can’tsaywhythelitt le girl ranaway acrossthelake,andit’s my own imagination.Howcanweknow real life if wecan’t even knowmade-upstories?How couldanyoneknowwhy theyoungmanwhodrownedtonightwasoutalone?Orwhetherhisdeathwasintentional?Ormaybeit wasanaccident?Did any-onehearthewatersplasharoundhis bodyasit brokethesurface?Did heevenmakeanynoise?Canheknowthepainof hiswhitefingernailscrackedlike brokenshells?Of hiswrinklesandcreaseswornsmooth?Of hiseyesswollenopen,hard,hauntinglyalive?

Sometimeafter they find theman’sbody,theywill learnthathis nameisRoman,anArmenian,roughlytwenty-nineyearsold.Thedrowning is tooinsignificant for the major newsstations. Insteadthereareonly cyclesof weather,murder,weather,murder, robbery, weather,sports. I will keepreadingthenewspaper,hoping to findanswersto thequestionsthat journal-ists never seem to ask. The ones that seemobviousare the ones mostdifficult to answer. Thecauseof death will beapparent, butnoonewill beable to explainexactly whathappened.No onewill everknow,andtherewill beno family to wantanautopsy of theremains.Someof his friendswill try to scrapetogether enough money to sendhis body backto theUkraine.Thedive teamwill beexhaustedfrom their strenuoussearching,all night, all day.Theywill beglad to be rid of themurky wetnessthatlingersin theirhair, ontheir minds.Thedrunksandtheold-facedneighborsoutsidethebar will talk of otherthings;too busy chattering to hearthosefaint murmurs,inklingsof asoft songthatcansometimesbeheardacrossthelakeonearly, mistymorningsif you listenhard enough.

16 | ALB ANY ROAD

Ariel Beauregard-Breton

TwoNudesEbonyPencil,16x20

WI NTER 2010 | 17

Veronica Houk

Marriage

Theyarebuildinga fencein thebackyard—An unfriendlysteel barrier because theirwivesDo notgetalong.Themen,they’re theonesOutside,sun-tannedandsweaty,workingAt eachendof theyard,but theyareonly concernedWith sleepingin thebedroomtonight. Pickyourbattles,Theyfigure.They tryTo remainsilentastheywork, but their eyesflitTo eachother’s baldfacesandcasualobservationsShootout their lips like nailsfrom agun.Qualitymetalhere,onemurmurs,realsturdy.Nicepolish,too, theotheradds.Theirwivescreepbehind thick crimsoncurtains,Patternedwith heavyplantsandornaterootSystems,beadyeyesbehindswollen lids,Sawinganinvisiblepathfrom sweatybacktoSweatyback.Theyalmost could notDistinguishwhichhusbandbelongedto themIf not for theobviousobsidianstakesDividing thepropertylines.

18 | ALB ANY ROAD

EstelleKim

Deerwith AntlersEbonyPencil,12x8

WI NTER 2010 | 19

Eliot Taft

Overflow

I SPILLED INTO THE EDDY wherethecurrentflowsaroundit in lit tle electricfoldsandwrinklesalongtheriver’ssurface,wherestillnessfoldsbackinto movement.Augustnevermakessense.On thefirst coldmorning

of thesummer,sweat,glisteningin thesun,rolledin asalty tandemoff mylegsandinto theslow circling flow of therapid’sgentle sidepool.Thebiggreenkayak lookedawkward.It wasfloatingin theeddy,not againstandnotwith theflow of theriver,its back fi lledwith thethingsI neededfor mycourseupriver,onthatadventureI toldmyselfto takeafter aslowsummerof readingtoomanyadventurebooks.

Therewasa thunderstormlastnight.TheDeerfieldRiver cooledto sixty ninedegrees,andtherainwaterflowedoff thecornfieldsandcreeksandinto the river, brownandfreshlike apple cider. Rolling off the hilltowns and small folds of mountains replete with deciduous greenAppalachia,autumnexhaledits first chilled presence,tumblinggusts andzephyrs,into the river valley.Waterwasn’t the only body flowing in anaturalcoursedownandagainstthe river bankwhereI stoodwaiting tobegin.SoI setout. I dugmy paddleinto theriver surfaceandit brokelikeglass.Thelight gleanedagainstthebig clearcrushandupinto theresplen-dentemeraldleavesshininglike morningconstellationsagainstabluewhiteporcelain sky, openandendless, sore after a night of thunderheadsandlightningcracking thedarklike a fissuredegg.

Thehardestparts seemedto bedraggingthekayakupagainstthepressingflow of theactual rapids.Therestwaseasy.Wherevertheriver did-n’t requiremeto jumpoutof theboatandpull it upriver with astringtiedto thenoseof thegreen kayak, I couldeasily glideup thewaterway in analmostnaturalpace.The river didn’t have a pace. When sometimesitflowedsoftandeasy,it couldquickly tumbleinto ashallowrockycurrent,flowing fast likebloodpoundingthroughavein.

20 | ALB ANY ROAD

Aroundthefirst largebend in theriver, a fly fisherman’ssporadiccast wove in irregular patternsagainst the nitric green backdrop of theJapaneseknotweedon shore.He stoodstill, unmovingin thecurrentasitpickedup speedaround his anklesand swiftly gushedpast the boulderwhoseeddyI satin, relaxed.Therapidsstrengthenedandon theoppositeshoreI detachedmyself fromtheboatandpulledit along.Theriverflowedpastandin betweenus, pullingalongthestillnessof ourbodiesetchedintoour respective sides.

“Any bites?”“Nothing, I’m off today.”TheStillwater Bridgesatasmy lastreminderof familiar civiliza-

tion. Underit, brown trout swamwith their iron dark backsanddinosaurfins.Theytwistedbeneaththewaterin edgelesscurls,asphantomsbeforesinking into thedeepbrown.Beyond thebridgestoodan island locallyrumoredto haveonce forged coins in the revolutionary era. The sunsmolderedin anoontimehaze,like awelder’s torchalit throughsmokeandsteam.Thebridgesteadilydisintegrated behindtheleafy,gnarledwicker-work of the treesand the river aheadmoved in the new wildernessuntouchedby toomanyhands.

Nothingwaseasy. I wasin themoreruggedfoothills of WesternMassachusetts.Roadsandcarsdidn’t runparallel to theriver anymore,andfears and failure flowed throughmy head.I knew only the river frompreviousdownstreamtrips, thesurrounding woodssatin a formless, viri-descentcastshroudedby thegraniticboulderspockedin anashenimpastoalongthebank.Thedayitself shaped into theshapelessstretchof minutesin hourspulled by the slow evenflow of the thinning stream.The skyexpiredinto the laterafternoonandreflectedon the river’s earlyeveningsurface.It pulled thesky into thewater.It pulled,andthenflowed.

Thefirstdangerousrapid surgedundertheBardswell FerryBridge.Its red iron girders stood rusty and dry like scabbedblood.The bridgeloomed over the skeletalripples churning like thin stew. I had never

WI NTER 2010 | 21

exploredtheriver beyondthis point.Themetallicbodyovermy headsetlike awindow beyondwhich theincunabulardesign of unknownterritorystretchedin a boundlessinfinity. The river flow rushed,inconsistentbutfast andheavy,onward,and I maneuvered thekayakupstreamalongtheshoresidewith shortsprint paddlesup thecurrentandrestsin theeddies.

Everythingwascurrent.Currentandruin. Railroadtowersanddarkarchwaysemergedamongtheold growth foreston bothsides,andsmallcreeks toppled into the cannibalistic flow of the Deerfield River. Mythoughtsconsumedeachother.As thesunflickeredlowerandlower likeacandle in a burntblack foundrywindow, I panickedoverwhereto sleep.Unsure,andwith theoncomingdusk beginningto cerementthehillsides,I pushedaround thecorner andhit animpassiblerapid.Classthreeat least.Steepbouldersoneitherside,theriverpoundedalongin avitriolic flow. Isathelplessin thecalmwaterydaisat theendof thecurrent, roiling in itsownglossyeveningdelirium.It wastheend,thestream-like courseof mysummerfinished with this final white-cappedcataract.

I campedalongthecurrentin thedarkof thewoodsin anopeningin thetrees like agrotto,its shadowy mouthtonguedwith pebblesanditsbordersfell into theblack.My campfire cookedmymeal, and thenreducedto cinders on thesand.The trees stood old andrachitic, below thenightfestoonedwith bulbouswhite starsamongthevenomdark. As I tried tosleep,I couldonly heartheriver. It flowed in a riotoussurgein thenight,alongwhich I sweatedandfelt my heartbeating,finally, with themomen-touscourseof thepoundingstream.In my fearof thenight, I movedwiththeflow of theriver, theoverflow. Everythingnowwasover,andamong theoncomingautumn nightnothingwasstill anymore.A trainon theridgeofthefar bankslid eastward, crashingthroughthedarkwith onebrightwhiteorb chewingalongin theamorphousshade.Flowingwith thetrain in thedarkof thenight, the ceaselesscurrentbounced, tolling in its everness,diminishedamong the blood and shadesof thoughts flowing in theircerebralcourse,heavyandneverendingin mymind.My headflowedand

22 | ALB ANY ROAD

overflowedin everydirectionandI fell asleep.Thesunrosein theeastandI paddledeastdownriveratmy own

stroke, at whateverpacethe river took me.Moving againstor with, orbeside or above theDeerfield River, things flowed alongthearrhythmicbounceof thecurrents.Pouringdownstream,I passedundertheBardswellFerryBridge,throughthelongstraightjumpingrapidsandinto Stillwateragain, finally back in thefieldtownscloserto home. I flowedalongslowly,in my head.Summerwasburning awayinto anashy fall. After the fastrapids,around the bendin the river, I saw the samefly fisherman rollcasting hissamecast.

“Any Bites?”I said.“Nothing, I’m off today.”

WI NTER 2010 | 23

KatrinaPastel& CharcoalPencil,13x10

Lizzy Gregory

24 | ALB ANY ROAD

DrewEident

§

Thethreadthatyouweavequiteskillfully isno light matter. Rather,it is thesubstanceof yourunbecoming,to me,andbearsinfinite gravity,andIboundlessremorse.My frustrationmountsalwaysnearrage, thoughin my way,neverreachingthatone,tiny, precisepointof unbridledfervor.Forwhatit is worthyoualwaysmakethemostbeautiful things.

WI NTER 2010 | 25

SarahOh

GeorgeWashingtonBridgeWire, 35x15x10

26 | ALB ANY ROAD

KatieRegan

NotestowardsaHistoryof Pictures

I. Whenarecircumstancesfixedasopposedto fluid?Canamomentbefrozenin time,or is thatjustanexpression?Therearemoments thatareworth freezingin time,butcan’t be.TherearemomentsthatI wishI couldjustcapturebehindthelensof aPolaroid,shakevigorously,catchaglimpseof, andthensendtumbling into thetrash-canalongwith all theothers thatdidn’t quitecomeoutright.Maybeit wasthelighting.Polaroidphotoshavethetendencyof comingoutall grainyandfuzzyanyway.Forsomereasonthoseare the onesthat last the longest. They march on monotonouslytowardoblivion,suffocatingyou,eachgrainy centimeterchokingyouandblockingyour noseandthroatlike sand. After awhile, those grainspresssohardandsosharply, thatyoudesperatelywant themto stop. But then thecircumstanceis frozen,it’s thewayit is.Andwill be.Thecircumstancesastheyare; a stateof affairs,situation.

II. How canamental picturebea framework of understandingwhenthepictureis something I don’t understandatall?My big toetracesinvis-ible shapeson the sand-paperyceiling. The skin becomeswarmer andwarmerwith abrasivefrictionandinvisiblepictures. I can’t evenseewhatI’m tracing. I can’t really seeanythingexceptfor liquid silver moonlightoozingthrough theconstrictedcracksleft in theblinds.I can’t seetheemptywalls.Or therug rolledup tightly in thecorner.As if it’s all temporary.

Thegasolinemakesoily rainbowsin thepuddle by themailbox.That puddle alwayssticksaround the longest after it rains.Unlike thecar that left thegasoline.Picturesswirl, explode,retractin thewateratasickeninglylethargic pace.ThetanandmaroonSubaruOutbackappearsin thedrivewayonly occasionally now, just like theebb andflow of thepicturesin thewater. It is neverparkedin thegarageanymore.Sometimes

WINTER 2010 | 27

noteven in thedriveway.As if it doesn’thaveapermanentplace.Amentalimage,an impression or ideacreatedin themind; thesumof impressionsapprehendedmentally; anintellectualmodelor frameworkof understand-ing.

III . Whatabouta particularmomentin time givespeopletheurgetocaptureit foreverandprint it on a four by six rectangle of paper?Whatmakesonesplit secondasopposedto thenext,or thenext,worth holdingin your hand? I fl ip through the family photoalbums,absorbing eachpicture in its entirety before allowingmy eyesto stray to thenext.Eachpicturecaptivatesme. Every single one is there for a reason, andeverysingle onehasamemoryattached.Maybeit’s theway our cheeks,rosywith summer, seemgluedtogether,andthat it is themosthilariousthingthathaseverhappenedto us.My sisterhasthebiggestgrin of thethreeofus, probably becauseher faceis being squishedthehardest,sandwichedbetweenmy mom andme.She is smiling with her babyteeth and lookslike shecouldsmile like that forever, in herspecialwhite dresswith palepink roseson it. Maybeit’s thewaymy sisterandI aresitting in thegreenlawn chair with our kneesdrawn to our chests, CareBearnight gownsstretchedoverour knees. My sister andI aresitting soclosetogetherthatyou can’t tell whosearmsarewhose,andit doesn’t matter.Or maybeit’sthewaythereareonly four pink candlesonthe“Happy BirthdayMommy”cake becausemy sister andI couldn’t countmuchhigherat thetime.Mymomhasboth of usin herarmsandwe look like a trio from thecircusinourpink,purple,andbluepartyhatswith yellowstarsonthem.Apainting,drawing,photograph,or othervisual representationona surface.

*Italics arequotesfromtheOEDdefinition for picture

28 | ALB ANY ROAD

CensoredEbony& WhitePencil,18x24

WI NTER 2010 | 29

AnneMosley

JulianGonzález

I’m fromthedustuponold bookshelves.I’m dirt underneathcrackedfingernails,Fromscratchedglasses.I’m fromthescreechingtrainwheels,Urbandecadence.Thepursuitof simplicity.I’m fromsepia-colouredphotosfrom yesterday,Legendin themaking.

I’m fromsharkteethandmosquitoesin amber,Colourful graffiti onbrick-facedwalls.Cathair andlizardskins.I’m fromquillandadventure-in-mystery,fantasticalhats.Thesnicker-snack of fireworksin thesummersky.I’m from latenights,sleeplessnessandlewd thoughts,Rowingonashallow,man-madelake.

I’m fromthemindof Leonardoandtheescapadesof Casanova

Thedaysof ta’anit (Kippurfor thebadthings),brachotwith kippah,tefillin & tallitotourstatementof faith in Him.I’m from late-nightfilms andcomedicvideoswith buds.Romanticist humanismin poetry,Nature’sgreenmattressI’m theGo-Gurtin thefreezer,A poolof bloodon thestairs.

I’m valourandhonouroutside thearmour,A compositionof timeslong-lost(Is it nostalgiafrom a life longpast?).I’m from fears,Deathandhypodermics,Fadingmemoriesthatreturnrefreshed.I’m fromAlzheimer’smemoriesof Spanishwarsandnear-deathexperience,Primalmemoriesofembryonicexistenceoutside thewomb.

I’m fromwishfulthinkingandidleness,

30 | ALB ANY ROAD

SteepedLooseRecollections

Foolish undertakingsAnd overwhelmingodds.Chocolatesandcheeses,Bohemian(or hippie/Yippie?)in abravenewworld.I’m fromteaandeccentricities(theWilde in me),Tree-falling,cliff-jumps andOgling in wonder.

I’m fromwhimsicalrandomness,Friendshipin perpetuity.I’m fromundertherock you fail to notice,theinnerpersonthatyou fearto be.I’m frommyselfandhow I wantto be,mementoscollectedincrinkly-brownleavesandtiedwith twime.

WI NTER 2010 | 31

32 | ALB ANY ROAD

AmandaMinoff

Reflections

AND SHEALWAYS HAD THESELITTLE BITS OF GOLD hangingoff herskin—scintillating,grinning,anddancingaround,theyputthedimfluorescentsof thekitchento shame. Themetal fragmentsof the

chains,danglingoff herwrist, seemedto shriekoutagainsttheagespotsonherarmandflood theshallowcontoursof herskin with a luminousliquid.Thechainswouldclankagainsteachother,thefriction amountinguntil—suddenly—a cacophony of lights would tearviolently aroundthe wholekitchen andleakinto theliving room.

Thismetallicballet, this orchestraof light beams—itwasalmosttoo muchfor five-year-old eyesto bear.But asshe finishedhangingthehouseplantsanddescendedfrom thekitchenstepstool, herscentfi lledmynoseandtheflashesdashedawayfrommypupils.As shecameinto focus,I reachedout for herarmandranmy fingersovertheloose,wrinkledflesh.I fiddledwith thebraceletsandaskedherwhatthedashesetchedinto thesilver banglemeant.Shespokesomethingof yearsandlove andanniver-saries, but mostly of love becauselove wasthemost important—moreimportantthanfoodor moneyor anythinghardandshiny.ShepointedtotheHebrewlettersscrawledinto thependantaroundherneck. Ani l’dodiv’dodi li . I amto my belovedasmy belovedis to me.But just asshewastellingmeaboutherbelovedandhowshefoundhimwhenshehadnoneofthisfoodormoneyor shinythings, hervoicefadedoff aslight beamsfromall thosebraceletsandnecklacesswallowedherwords, oneby one,untilfinally all I couldhearwasthedeeppulseof flashes.

ThoughwhenI wasfive yearsold hergoldenmagendavidneck-lacesandjewel-besetringsoccupiedeveryinchof my fieldof vision,by thetime I wassevenor eight the parametersof my eyeshadexpandedtoencompassthebrillianceof somethinggreater. My sisterandI calledthe

WINTER 2010 | 33

bathroomthe Black Bath becauseit wasdifferent—darker thanall theothersin thehouse. Thiswasnottheordinary kindof bathroomwith whitetiled floors partial to grime, with frumpishtowelshanging looselyovermetalbars.Thiswasherbathroomandhersalone, andso it wascleanandpristine, theedgesof everycornerperfectly sharp.Thecountersweremadeof black granite andthe walls weremirrors andthere werethoseli ttle,circular lights over the sink—three in a row which reminded me of aHollywood actress’sdressingroom. Sometimes thesheenof thegraniteandthemirrorsandlights would all align to produce themostprofoundsort of gleam. We would sometimeswander into her bedroomandhopethatthebathroomdoorwouldbecrackedopenasliverso thatwecouldseeinside.

I rememberonce,I wanderedin aloneandmyeyesfoundtheedgeof thebathtubwherethreelittle goldenBuddhaswerebalanced. Suddenly,I wasovercomewith animage.I saw ayoungerversionof her, with thickerhair andstrongerbones, floatingsomewhereoverIndiaandswoopingdownto retrievetheseartifactsandbringthembacktoMiami, to theplaceshehadcreated.

It seemedonly fair thattheyshouldbelonghere.Thiswastheplacethatshehadrestoredwhenthereseemedto benothingleft of her. Thiswaswhereshehadarrivedwith her belovedandtogetherthey had filled theshelveswith ceramicfiguresandlaid Persiancarpetsacrossthefloorsandbuilt thepool on thebackterrace.And sotheBuddhasseemedlike aniceaddition, tomeanyway.And theglow thattheygaveoff! Thegoldvarnishmixing with thegraniteand thelights andthemirror…Themirror! Thereshewas again.Reflectedacross theglasspanes, shewasolder thanI hadbeenimagining. Slenderlegsandhipsandthosearmswith thegoldchainspresentedthemselvesbeforemy eyesand it seemedlike minutesbeforeIfoundherfaceandsawthat herlips werecurvedin asmile. Sheaskedmeif I liked lookingattheBuddhasandwentonto tell menotjustaboutIndia,but aboutHollandandTurkeyandIsraelaswell. I remembersmiling and

noddingandgazingpurposefullyinto her dark,stony eyesandthegleamof gold thatwasreflectedin them.Shesquinteda bit asshelaughedandtold me, “They’renot real gold, you know. Just shinypaint overplaster.But I like themall thesame.Don’t you like them?”

I turnedback to theBuddhas. But why couldn’t shebuy realgoldnow that she could afford it? I wassuddenly overcomeby the urge—anurgeto givehersomethingexpensive.Somethingrealthatshecould hangaround herneckwith everythingelsethatwasimportant.

TheBuddhaswerebright andprettyandI liked thesmilesacrosstheir faces,but it didn’t seemfair thattheywerejustplaster.I lookedcloserandsawli ttle noduleson thesurface.And thecloserI lookedthedeeperthesecontoursbecameandthesheenon theoutsidegrewdimmer.I don’tknow howlong I stayedthere,in thatmoment of disappointment, butwhenI glancedbackup to themirror, I sawshewasgoneagain.

As shegrewolderover thenext fewyears, sheseemedto also beapproachingsomething. Closerandclosershegrew andI realizedI couldseeher moreclearly. I didn’t loseher sooften in mirrors anymore, andwhenshesaton thecouchwatchingAnimal Planet, I foundI couldmakemy wayunderherarmwithout beingscratchedby thesharpedgesof herjewelry. Theoverbearingdazzleof it all hadsubsidedto amodestglimmerasage-spotsstretchedfurtheracrossherskinanddeepenedin color.

But asshespreadthatbutteryknife acrossherbreakfastcracker,theknife strokesdirected towardsherself,I sawthatshewasstill brilliant—brilliant, but verymuchalone. To beoneor theotherisn’t muchof apity,but I rememberthinkingthatthecombinationof thetwo, to besostunningandhavenooneto showoneself to, wasjust thesaddestthingof all. I bitmyowncrackerandthecrumbsdisintegratedonmy tongue.Sheaskedmeif I liked thecrackersandI told hertheyweregood andaskedwhere theywere from. Sheclickedhernails on themetalcracker tin andpointed totheDutch label. “M y sister,your greatauntElisabeth, sendsthemto me

34 | ALB ANY ROAD

fromAmsterdam.I’ve eatenthemfor breakfast sinceI waslittle. I justcan’tkeepdownthoseAmericancereals.Too sweet! Too sweet!”Shelaughedandthesoundwashighandloudandsharp, butflowing too,like honey.Herteethshonebright and strongin the light, andI imaginedtheymusthavebeenthestrongestbonesin herbodyin orderto resonateagainst herlaughtheway thattheydid.

Shetold meoncethattheywerestrongbecausesheusedto chewonwallsto getcalciumwhentheyhadnoothersourcesof thevitamin.ThiswasaHolocaust story—well, at leasttheclosestshecameto tellingaHolo-cauststory—andsoshehadspedthroughit andskippedoverthedetailsinorderto get to themoral,which, in thatparticular case, wasto getmetodrink my milk. I neverdid overcomemy aversion to milk, but every sooftenI seeherhardlittl eteethgnawingonthechalkyexterior of awall, andabitter tasteformsin mymouth.

Shehadalwaysbeenfragile,butthejewelsandthegoldenBuddhasandthecrackertin andthePersiancarpetsandtheheavyscentof Shalimarperfume—eventhesanguineringing of her laughhadendowedherwithanimmeasurableweight.All that shedidn’t sayseemedtohangoff herandsurroundherandenvelopherbrittle core.Soperhapsthis iswhy I couldn’timaginehowthatplain,woodenboxcould holdall of herentirely. Strippedof all herthings,shemustbecold, I imagined. But alsoatpeace,yesverypeacefulindeed. And whenthey loweredherdown, just at thatmoment,thesunshiftedbehindacloudso thatthesmallestamountof light seepedthrough.A mutedbuzzingechoed in myearsandleakedintomy head,andthenI heardit. Therewashervoiceagain,resoundingthroughtheporesinthewood. It wasn’t sharp,brilliant laughter,butaquiethum. “YerushaliyimShelZahav.” I hadforgottenhowsoftandsweetshecouldmakethewordssoundall thetimesthatshehadsungit aroundthehouse.

Tearspooled in my eyes, and through them the image of myBubbiecameinto focus,andI noticed, for thefirst time,thathereyeswerebuta reflectionof my own.

WI NTER 2010 | 35

ToolsMarkerInk, 20x16

36 | ALB ANY ROAD

JenMulrow

DrewEident

§

Thereis somethingto besaidabouttheway thelightreflectsoff thetableandon to theemptywall.Thewayuntruthunfoldsinto somethingmuchmorethanjustyour tired throne,or thebrownfoldsbeneathmymantel.Like anythingelse,shecriesfor my solitude,andfor asmallbit of decency.

WI NTER 2010 | 37

38 | ALB ANY ROAD

RebeccaLevy

EvenGreekGodsWishTheyWereUsain BoltStamp& Ink, 20x16

HenryMichaels

Poundmelter4500Pill

Intro to Poundmelter4500.Weseeamanin a suit (ChuckDavis).He is a well dressedandappearsin shape.Hewalkstowardsamanin a doctor’s coatwith slickedbackhair (Dr. JoeyBertonali),asif hegothismedschooldegreein a backalley. Theystandsidebyside;themanin thesuit speaks.

Chuck DavisHi, for thoseof yousittingathome,I am televisionpersonality ChuckDavis.

Dr. JoeyBertonaliAnd don’t you darelookme in theeye.

Chuck DavisDr. Bertonali , we’re talking to thegoodpeoplesitting athome.Theycan’t hearaboutthegreatdealswe’reoffer-ing themwithout lookingat you.

Dr. JoeyBertonaliYeah?!Well it still don’t feel right to me. Anyways, whatwegot for yahere is somerealrevolutionary stuff. We’retalkingaboutyounotbeingsucha fatty anymore.Youwannalook goodlike Dr. JoeyovehereonyaTV, youbetterlistenup—(cutoff byChuck)

Chuck DavisOkDr. Bertonali, I think weshouldexplain to thegoodpeoplewatchingathomewhat exactly thisproductis.Well first of all, it’s calledthePoundMelter4500Pill.

Dr. JoeyBertonaliAnd I knowwhatyou tubbynerdsathomearethinkin.You’re thinkin, heyDr. Joey,doesthis reallywork?Of

WINTER 2010 | 39

courseit does.You think JoeyBertonaliwould lie toyou?You think I canbeboughtby 200dollarsworthofXTC?Getthehell outahere!

Chuck DavisYes,well, yousee,what Joeyis trying to say is thatyes,thePoundMelter4500Pill really doeswork. It doesexactly asit says, it melts thepoundsright off! Isn’t thatamazing?Justasimplepill thatcanchangeyour lif e,andput you in thebestshapeof your life, andjust intime for beachseasonI mightadd.Justto clarify, nodietor exerciseis required.JusttakethePoundMelter4500daily, andyou’ll seeresultsright away.It comeswithourownpatentedPoundMelter4500scaleto help youmeasureyourweight loss.

Dr. JoeyBertonaliYeah,what themanin thebig fancysuit said. Heain’tmessin’around.Thispill reallyworks. It’ll makeyourgirl hotenough for herto leaveyou for Dr. Joey.

Chuck DavisRealresults,andyoudon’t haveto wait for weekstoseethem.Not evendays.Hell, theresultsarealmostimmediate.Stepon thescaleaftertakingyour first day’sdosage,and you’ll noticeyoualreadyweighlessthanyoudid before.Goodbyeshy, awkwardyou,hellobeach-readysexyyou! Don’t payattentionif you don’t seechangesin thewayyou look andfeel,becausethePoundMelter4500is simply turningall thatugly fat intotonedmuscle. Just payattentionto whatourscalesaysandwatchthepoundsjust fly off.

40 | ALB ANY ROAD

Int. interviewroom.Chuckinterviewsusers.ChuckDavissitsin a chair oppositea fat person.Therewill bemultiplefat people.A two-shotcanbeusedfor this,with theoccasional closeupon thefat people.

Chuck DavisNow I’m sittinghereright nowwith PoundMelter4500userAnthonyMaxwell. NowAnthony, howmuchdidyouweighbeforeyoustartedusingPoundMelter4500?

AnthonyMaxwell(In thickWisconsinaccent)Well, yaseehereChuck,Iweighedabout300poundsbeforeusing thePound-Melter4500here,andlet mesayit haschangedmy life.

Shothereof Anthony’s beforeandafterpictures.Theylookexactly thesame,onlya differentt-shirt.

My wife andI haveamuchbettersexlife now,andI amjusthappierwhenI wakeupandmoreeager to start theday.I feel like anewperson.

Chuck DavisAnd according to thePoundMelter4500scale,howmuchdoyouweighnow?

AnthonyMaxwellI weighabout180poundsnow.And I feelgreat.I neverthoughtI wouldbeableto lose120poundsin justamonth.I wasamazedat theresultsI wasgetting.

Chucknowstandsalone.

WINTER 2010 | 41

Chuck DavisThatis just incredible.Justto think, losing 100poundsin amonth?But, evenif youdon’t want to losequite thatmuch,but youstill areinterestedin thePound-Melter4500,just tell our specialistshowmuchweightyouwould like to loseand in whattimeperiod, andwecanguaranteethatyou losetheweight. Call now to orderyourmonth’ssubscriptionof PoundMelter4500,for only4 paymentsof $19.99.We throw in thescalefor free.Peoplesaythis pill workslike magic,andthat’stheonlyexplanationwehavefor it. I ampersonallybaffled by theresultspeoplegetfrom thissimplepill. And asDr.Bertonalicanattest,it is veryhealthy.

Dr. JoeyBertonaliwalks to whereChuckstands.

Dr. JoeyBertonaliThispill works, like it goesinto yourstomach,andgetsall ya fat andmakesit into guns.You got stomachgunsgoinon,butt cheekgunsgoinon,andif ya luckyenough,yamaybeevengotDr. Joeygunsgoinon.Butprobablynot.Keepdreaminfatty. Thispill reallyworks.Sodon’t bedumb.GetPoundMelter4500andmelt thatfat off.

Chuck DavisThereyouhaveit! Ordernowandgetfreeshipping.PoundMelter4500,it’s sogood,you’ll bethetalk of thetownbeforeyouknow it.

42 | ALB ANY ROAD

Girl SmokingWhiteCharcoal,8x14

WI NTER 2010 | 43

KyleWieczorek

MahSotoudeh

Mother

Fromthegrassoncollegeyard sprouthairbrushedinkblotsspreadingdully acrossthin, filigreedpapyrusSomewherein asplit-levelin Pelham,you sharea filmy roomandindulgein clawingparanoia,in bedsideknifepointdepositions,in four-wheeledlonelinessandsolitarydesperation.It hadto bereal, becauseat fifty,youstill have thescarsto proveit.At seventeen,I confrontthenakedsensibilities,Stripmyselfto avoidtheclutchingtruth:It will bemy turn,next.

44 | ALB ANY ROAD

HeadWire, 18x12

WINTER 2010 | 45

CameronOvery

AlecStrandberg

Peter

AS HE LAY ON HIS BACK AND STARED UP AT THE CEILING, Peterwonderedasheoftendid whetherheeverreally hadcome backhome. Heknewthatanairplanehadtakenoff, flown over anocean

for awhile, andlandedagain.Heknewthathewasbackin SantaMonica,thathewasliving in thesamehousehe’d lived in beforehis tour of duty.Yet healsoknewthatthehandhehadleft backin theDeserthadneverlethim truly leave.It wasstill there,clenchinga fistful of redsand,andevennowthathewas thousandsof milesaway,it still wouldnot let go.

Peter knewthathislife shouldhavechangednow. EversinceKevinhadtold him that hewasbeing awarded a Purple Heartand being senthome,everyonein thesquadron hadbeentelling him that hewasa luckybastard,thathewasdonebeingasoldierandcouldgobackhomefor good.Nowall Petercouldthink of wasthatsomeonemusthaveforgottento takehisnameoff of theActiveDuty Roster.Howelsecouldhestill beasoldier,aftersomanymonthsathome?Howelsedid hestil l catchhimselflookingfor I.E.Dsashedrovetowork in themorning,or find himself staring upattherooftopstomakesuretherewerenoinsurgentswithAK-47swaitingforhis patrol to let their guard down?Peterknewthat theonly dangers backin SantaMonicaweresunburnandtheoccasionalmugging,andyeteverydayhestil l felt thesand in hisshoesandknewthathewasstill in theDesert.

The sun was beating down on his head and the inside of thehumveewasheatinguplikeanoven. Theonlywayto cool down theinsidewasto roll thewindowsdown,but eversincefive soldiershaddiedwhenaninsurgent managedto getagrenadeinsideoneof theopenwindowsona patrolling humvee, no onewasaboutto complain about keeping thewindowsclosed.Peter scannedthe roadaheadfor thesignshehadbeentaughtto watchfor, wiping his brow to clearthesweatoff. A stoppedcaron thesideof the roadmadehis heart beatfast,but he justput thepedal

46 | ALB ANY ROAD

downharderandlookedahead.His mindwentblankfor a split secondashecountedin his head.Three…Two…One. Nothing.He breathed a sighof relief, relaxing his foot off thepedalandturninghisgazeto thesideoftheroad oncemore.A deadcamelwas rotting there,flies buzzingaroundits headlike somesort of repulsivecrown.His foot presseddownonthegasoncemore.Three…Two…

Peter’seyessnappedopenafewsecondsbeforehisalarmwentoff.Hesimplylay in bedfor amoment, trying to figureoutif hehadjustwokenfrom adreamor driftedinto one.Sitting up,heglanceddownathiswife.Hewantedto reachdownandtouchherface,butreaching intootherworldswasnot somethingcasuallydone.Insteadhesilencedthealarm andmadehis way to thebathroom.He turnedon the faucetandbeganto rinse,hisstump first, thenhisleft hand.It tookhimamoment to realizethat it wasn’twatercomingfrom thesink,butatrickle of sand.Peterjustshookhisheadandsteppedback.Thesandhadn’tappearedsincehisfirst weekback.Whyhadit comeback?He put his handunderthe faucetand beganwashingagain,closinghiseyesandtelling himself it waswater.It wasKevin’sfault.The realization struck him suddenlyandhe withdrew his arm, leaningagainstthecounter.Kevinwascoming to seehim todayandhehadbroughttheDesert backwith him.Peterdecidedhewasfinishedwashingandturnedthesink off, but thesand continuedto trickle out. Insteadof pressing theissue,heturnedaroundandwalkedout thedoor.

Kevinbroughtthecartoastopin front of Peter’shouse.Hesteppedonto thesidewalk, adjusting his glassesamomentandpausingbeforeheknockedon thedoor. He haddone visits like this before,of course,butneverwith someonefrom hisownsquad.Hehadbeenhesitantat first, butwhenHelenhadcalled him shehadbeenfrantic.Hedidn’t knowwhoshewaswhenshefi rsttalkedtohim, but aftersheexplained thatshewasPeter’swife and that she’d found Kevin’s numberat the localVA, heagreedtocomedown. It wasn’t a uniqueproblem.Plenty of veteranshadtroubleadjustingto civilian life. Therewerea lot of namesfor it. Post Traumatic

WI NTER 2010 | 47

StressDisorder. Gulf War Syndrome.All Kevin knewwas that he hadsworntoneverleaveamanbehind,andthatpromisedidn’t endjustbecausethewarwasthousandsof milesaway.

Andyetsomehowhefelt nervousknockingonthedoor. Hehadn’tspokentoPetermuchatall sincethenight JonathanhaddiedandPeterhadlost his hand. Partof him didn’t want to seea fellow soldier,someonewhomhe’dtrustedhislife to,struggling like this.He’d seensoldierswho’doncebeentrustedto fly million dollar helicoptersreducedto beggingforchangeonstreetcorners.Yet knowing thatthissoldierin particularwasonehehimselfhadfrequentlytrustedwith his life, thebitter irony washarderto ignore.Heglanced downat thenewspaperclipping in his hand.Hellenhadsentit to him. It waswritten by Peter andtalkedaboutthenight he’dlost his hand. How he’d beenhunchedover next to a burning humvee,reachinginsidedesperately to pull Jonathanout beforethetanksexploded.How he’d failed. Forcing a smile to his face,Kevin raisedhis handandknockedon thedoor.

Petersatdown in oneof theliving roomchairsandpointedlydidnot look at thestreamof sandthatwasnow comingfrom underneaththebedroomdoor and flowing out from betweenthe floorboards. It wasacknowledging it that gaveit thepower. Partof him knew this hadbeeninevitable.Just becausehehadgotten onaplaneandflown overanoceandidn’t mean thathe’d left theDesertbehind.Hemight behalfway acrosstheworld, buthecouldstill feelhisright handclutchingredgrainsof sand,unableto let go. It wasn’t contentwith bringing him backto theDeserteverytimehiseyesclosed.Now it wasgoing to bring thedesert to him.

Peter suddenly realized Jonathan was sitting next to him. ThehumveewentoverabumpandshookPeteroutof histhoughts.A songwasplayingon the radionow, andthesunwasgoingdown.Their patrol wasalmostover.JusttenmoremilestobaseandPeterwouldn’t havetoholdhisbreathandcountdownagain for anotherfew days.Off on theside of theroadwasasmolderingpile of twistedmetal.It mighthaveoncebeenacar,

48 | ALB ANY ROAD

but therewasnoknowingfor surenow.Peterforcedhimself to look aheadandcountdown.Three…Two…One…

Theknockingon thedoorbroughthim backto SantaMonica.Heopenedthedoorbeforeheeven realizedthathe’dstoodupandstoodasideto letKevin inside.Kevin stoppedfor amoment,staringdownat thefloor-boardsand the sand that was flowing up. The whole floor wasalmostcoverednow, and an arid wind was blowing through the room. Peterwonderedwhereit camefrom andsuddenlyrealizedthatoneof thewallswasgone,openingup to a vast,endlessexpanseof desertandanequallyvastblueskythatwasonly brokenupby theplumesof smokefromburningoil rigs dottingthehorizon.Thesunwaslow andgetting lowerastheskyturnedadull orange.

Kevin let wantedto takeastepback,butheforcedhimself to standfirm, feetplantedin thesand.“Peter.” It wasall hecouldsay at fi rst, stilltrying to get his bearings.It wasn’t thestrangeness of the landscapethatconfusedhim, it wasthefamiliarity. “Helencalledme.She’sworriedaboutyou.”

Peternodded.Heknewthatshewasafraidfor him, butalsoof him.It had all crystallizedtwo weeksagowhenhehadbeenholedup in thestudyandhadheardherbreathingon theothersideof thedoor.He’d beenwriting his article, butstoppedto listen to theloudandterriblesoundof herstandingatthedoorway tooafraid toevenknock.Fortenminutestheybothremainedstockstill onopposite sidesof thedoorbeforePeterputhisheadbackdownandbegantypingagain.Hehadn’tevenheardherfootstepsasshepacedaway.

“I know you haven’tgonein to theVA sinceyou returned,Peter.Not evenfor physical therapy.I knowit canbehard,butyou’renottheonlyonegoing through this.” Kevin continued, tuckinghis handsbehind hisback.“I still wakeup from nightmaresaboutthenight Jonathandied.”

Theroof wasgonenowandthesunset hadturnedthesky a vividorangehue.Only two walls were left standing.The floor wasn’t even

WINTER 2010 | 49

visible anymore beneath the dunes.Peter turned to face the last tworemainingwalls, puttingthedesertat hisback.Kevin placedahandonhisshoulder. “Peter?You’re not alone.We soldiers stick together.We wentthrougheverything togetherin Iraqandwe’ll gothroughit all togetherhereaswell.”

All thewallsweregonenow.Peterstrainedto hearKevin, but thesoundof theradioandtheenginemadeit difficult to focuson thewords.In front of themwasaburningwreckandto their left, ahumveewasdrivingtowardsthem. Kevin recognized thesceneevenbeforePeter did. “Whatyoudid that nightwasn’tyourown fault.No oneis blamingyou.But youcan’t let thisdictateyourwholelife. You can’t—”

As thehumveereachedtheburningpile, it explodedoutward.Theforceshookthegroundandsentthehumveerolling, finally settlingupsidedown,it’s wheels spinninguselessly straight up in theair. Screamscamefrom within and Kevin watched himself crawling out from under thewreckedvehicle,coughingupsmokeandspinningwildly to seeif anyoneelsehadmadeit out yet. But on the othersideof the car a scene wasunfolding thathehadn’t seenall thosenightsago. Peterwastrying to crawlout,hishandsgrippingat thebloodsoakedsandashestrainedto pull him-self free.Somethingwasholdinghimback, trying to keepin thecar.Kevinleanedforward to seewhatit wasonly to realizein amomentof horrorthatit wasJonathan,clutchingPeter’slegandscreamingfor help.Peterkickedonce,twice, three times,andfinally Jonathanlet go.Peter pulledhimselffreeandturnedaroundjustasthefirereachedthegasolinetanksandturnedthehumveeinto aball of flames.

Kevin watched the wholesceneunfold, takinga stepback ashesawPeterfight his way free.Peterdidn’t saya singleword, just staredstraightaheadandrubbedthestumpwherehis handwas.Kevin couldn’tspeakfor a longmoment,but thentook Peter’sleft handandpulledhimback.

“We all did what we neededto do to survive.We all did things

50 | ALB ANY ROAD

we’renotproudof.You haveto let it go,Peter.”Peter staredstraight ahead for a long moment, thenturned and

lookedatKevin. Hehadbeenafraidof whatwouldhappen if his friendshadknown the truth. What they would havesaidif theyhadfiguredout thatinsteadof trying to pull hiscomradeoutof thewreck,hehadfoughttoothandclaw to escapeandsavehimself.But Kevin hadbeenthere.He knewtheterriblethingswardid.Heknewwhatit madepeopledo,andsomehowhehadlived with that fact. If Kevin coulddo that,Peterthought, perhapshecouldto.

Thousandsof milesaway in theDesert,his handreleasedit gripandlet thesandflow out from betweenthe fingers. Theyweresitting inPeter’s living roomonceagain,andKevin wassitting therenext to him.Nothinghadchanged.His handwasstill missing.He wasstil l tired.Hiswife wasstill afraidof him.But nowthesandwasgoneandhecouldfocusonmovingbackhome.

WINTER 2010 | 51

Past and Future, Day and Life.

Thereis ashadowin thepeacefulmorning.Whenthehot sunof thedayhadnot yetScorchedthedew off theyoungandgrowingbladesof grass,Hadnot yet illuminatedthewearingtypewriters.Loosekeys,worn from frenziedtapping,maintenanceforgotten.

Before theworld woke,In thelingering shadowof thenight,In theidle timewhennothingis producedbut thefoundation.

Overtheswampandhills, thebird fl its in thatmorning.Its movementsdirectedhereandthere,not in oneplacefor long,Becominglessdeliberatewith theday.

Hewatchedabird downby theriver.Like him andthebird with thedull blueslatefeathersthatshadowis.Like thatscenein which thebird left himwatchingin thewaningsun.Left himsittingin thesnowonafrozensandy bank,pondering, remembering.Lookingoverthepool thatlay in thepathgaugedinto thebankby

thefloodedriver, enclosedwith leaflessbrush.

A cold roomynesthiddenfrom theroad,At theendof winter,andtheduskof thatdayTurning into night, leadingto realization, awayfromsubstitution.

Thisquickwalk pushedinto anick in theschedule.A poorsubstitute for thatactualtime

(whenit is asubstituteandnot itself)

Whatthebird hadleft by thetime it flew away,Thelighteningshadowtakeswith it asdaybreaks.You justhave to look for shadeleft in thesun.

Willem Molenaar

52 | ALB ANY ROAD

Indecency

THE LADIES WEREPERCHED AT THE EDGEof cushionedwhitewhickerchairswhile thegentlemenstoodonthegrass.Theladiesworewhitelinendressesandclutchedlacy parasols.Acrossthelawn,agameof

croquettookplace,buthere,conversationheldtheattentionof theparty.Asamanspoke,theladiesleanedtowardshim, their facesproperlyinterested.At theendof a line, boutsof chirping laughterdelicatelyeruptedfrom theladies.As theconversationplayedon, the laughterof theparty rose andfaded,andsmilesreplacedappropriately solemnfaces,whichwerereplacedby facesof disbelief andamusement.At acrescendo,amanburst out, “Thatslut ranoff andgotherselfpregnant!”As if theconductorhaddroppedhiswand,thefacesof thepartydrainedof all expression.As soonasthepausehad come, it was gone. The ladies’ faces picked up an injured air,the gentlemenassumed a careful inexpressiveness, and tentatively theconversationcontinued.

***

Froma darkgreenpaintedparkbench,a youngmanwatchedacurlingballoonstringslip from thehandof a fat manstandingjust withintheparkgates.Theballoon,a bluea shadedarkerthanthesky, jostled itswayup from insidetheoverwhelmingrainbowbouquet,squeakingall theway out. Untethered,it spiraledupwards,venturing slightly north in thebreeze.Theyoungobserverturnedto facethecenterof thepark,his sightfollowing thecementpaththat guidedchildren and adults from theparkentrancewith theballoon-bearingusherthrough thegrassy square, linedwith boothsandfood stands, and crowdedwith people. A youngcouplewalkedby, sippinglemonadethroughstrawsandholdinghands. Thepathwasblockedatapoint by alineof children, waitingandwatchingthetable

MorganMarks

WINTER 2010 | 53

where a womanbentovera seated, brown-haired,pig-tailedgirl . With apaintbrush,thewomansmeared colorson thegirl’s cheeks,makingstickybutterflies.Thetent awningoverthetablestirredwith aslightgustof wind.Theobservingmanshiveredasthebreezesweptoverhisnakedbody.

***

Thelongtable,coveredwith anegg-shell linentablecloth,hadtenplaces,eachpreciselyset with egg-shelllinennapkins,gold-rimmedchina,crystal water goblets, and monogram-engraved silver. In the center, abouquetof flowers,preciselyarrangedin acrystalvase,addedcolor to theshinydisplay.Ten peoplesat,handsin laps,all but onewatchingoneheadof the table, anold lady wearinga fri lly high-necked silk blouse, high-waisted skirts,andacameopendantsetin goldonafinegoldchain.Hold-ing her saladfork, herhandwaspoisedaboveherplateasif to eat,but itstayedstiffly suspendedasshegazedto themiddleof thetableat aman,wearingablue,collared,button-downshirt andabrownblazer.Whetherheworea tie or not shedid not know, for onecornerof his napkinhadbeenstuffedinto his collar. He too helda fork—his dessertfork,—andhewasusingit to stab at thechina,attemptingto skeweranotherforkful of salad,for onewasalready beingemulsifi edby his vigorousjaws.Everyone’sheadsturnedto facetheman.Unaware,hesmiledandnoddedatthewomanacrossfrom him.Shesniffed andlookedaway.

54 | ALB ANY ROAD

Contributors

WINTER 2010 | 55

Ariel Beauregard-Breton is fromMontréal, Québec. She lovesto give a littledarkanddeepsenseto all herart projects.Kayla Corcoran thoughtit might be fun to write her Contributor’s Note in theform of a telegramSTOP.Hannah Dancer is ajunior fromDeerfield,Massachusetts.Shehaslived in Deer-field herwholelife andonedayhopesshecantraveltheworld takingpicturesforNational GeographicMagazine.Julian Gonzálezestasjudo sefardikiu aklamasel Novjork-Urbo; naskigita enBrooklyn,log enReginoj, deziraske li povuslog enManhattan.Li estaslingvanola angla, Hispana,Franca,iuj Germanakaj Hebreakaj Esperanto.Li estaslaesperanto.DrewEident lives in astateof dreamsof becoming.Li zzyGregory is a junior fromNewYork City. Shehasoftenstatedthatshewillattain hertattooing licensebeforeshegetsherdriver’s license.ShehasacatnamedMr. Wiggles,andshelikes to scribble.Veronica Houk is a sophomorefrom a rural town in upstateNewYork. Herfavorite time of day is in themorningbeforeanyoneis awake,andif shecouldlive anywherein theworld it wouldbeRaglan,NewZealand.EstelleKim is a junior from Seoul,Korea.Sheenjoysdrawing assomethingshelovesdoingduringhersparetime.Maybethis is becauseshehadbeendrawingalloverthewallsof herhousefrom ayoungage.Becky Levy is from Kingston,Jamaica.Although her accent makesit almostimpossiblefor herto askfor 'water'at theGreer andbeunderstood,sheis still veryworthyof herheritage.Morgan Marks grew up in Charleston,SC,whereshewent to elementaryandmiddleschool.ShehasattendedDeerfieldsinceninthgrade;sheenjoysvolleyball,snowboarding,andphysics.Henry Michaelscanhandlethespiciness.Amanda Minoff is a senior from Northampton,MA. Sheoften catchesherselfstill writing “2004” asthedate(why thisyear—shedoesn’tknow).It’s notsomuchthat she’snostalgic—she’sjustabit spaceysometimes.

ˆˆ ˆ ˆ

WillemMolenaar livesonafarmin Deerfield. Hebelievesthereis awayto farmsustainably andthat it is simple,low inputfarming,for ex.mob-stockgrazing(seesaladbarbeef,Polyface,Inc.) andorganicno til l (RodaleInstitute).AnneMosley doesn’t know how to describeherselfin a sentence(she is fromConnecticutwhereshecanbefoundpaint-spatteredandsmiling under14 layersof clothing,plusacoat?).JenMulrow still choosesnot to acknowledgewinter’s “Dress-DownFridays.”SarahOh is aseniorfromNJ, living in herfourteenthhouse.She'sabeastatWiiSuperMario Bros.Brawl.Cameron Overy is a seniorfromWilliamsburg, Virginia, andco-captainof theswim team.Hehopes to pursuearchitecturein college.Katie Reganhasa fascinationwith glow-sticksandlovesthesoundof rain.Mah Sotoudehhasneverbeenmud-tubingbefore,but sheplansto conquerthemountain this year.AlecStrandberg is asenior fromSanFrancisco.Heenjoysbad80sactionmoviesand,being from California andfailing to disprove the cliche, surfing.Also, heoccasionallywritesthings.Eliot Taft is a junior from Deerfield,Massachusettsandspendsa lot of time inVermont.Heisaco-founderof ZASC,theDeerfieldAcademyZombieApocalypseSurvival Club.KyleWieczorek is aseniorlooking forwardto spring.

P R I N T E D I N T H E

U N I T E D S T A T E S O F A M E R I C A

T I G E R P R E S S

N O R T H A M P T O N M A S S A C H U S E T T S

F E B R U A R Y 2 0 1 0