Creative Nonfiction: "Vicki" by Pam Munter

She was in her first year of teaching English and Social Studies at Emerson Junior
High in West Los Angeles. It was 1954; I was 11 and feeling lost in my new
surroundings. The school resembled an institution, dark, crowded and filled with the
noise of kids yelling at each other. I felt anxiety nearly every day and even stopped eating
breakfast due to an iffy stomach. The school seemed at least twice the size of my
elementary school and I had to take a crowded bus for a half hour each way. The bus
stopped at the corner of my street each morning at 7:20, taking us down the landscaped
and winding Sunset Boulevard, past million dollar homes before dumping us in the
apartment-littered landscape of West Los Angeles where Emerson was located.
It was my first experience moving from class to class seven times over the course
of the day and I lived in daily fear I would forget where to go. I had the whole schedule
written on the front of my notebook. Miss Cottle’s classes were my first of the day after
homeroom and I found them and her somehow reassuring. With her short stature and
youthful appearance, she didn’t seem all that much older than I was. She wore her light
brown hair short, didn’t seemed to wear much makeup and dressed in tailored clothing. I
also wore my hair short, hadn’t yet discovered makeup and dressed very simply. She
didn’t smile a lot but there was something about her that told me she cared about the
students. I didn’t get that feeling from many of the other teachers I had that year. At the
time, I had no idea this was her first year in a classroom and that she was probably as
anxious as I was.

     Some time early in the semester, I had been chasing my brother around the
kitchen table, caught my little toe on the corner and fractured it in two pieces. Miss Cottle
advised me to stay in during the nutrition break between her classes, to spare the risk of
someone stomping on it, which often happened on the bus between home and school. It
was during those breaks, just the two of us in her classroom, that we bonded, really over
chit-chat.

     “Did you see ‘Perry Mason’ last night?” she asked.

     “Yeah. I knew right off who did it.”

     “Me, too. But it’s like the Sherlock Holmes book I’ve assigned, isn’t it? It’s the
thrill of the chase and the uncovering of the villain that keeps you interested.”

     This kind of conversation drew me in very quickly. She talked to me as she would
an adult. She had a wiry build with a head like a triangle, making her eyes appear large
and penetrating. She used this to her advantage in controlling students. Her interventions
in class were always just a little barbed. If no one volunteered an answer to her question
quickly enough, she would ask, “Did anyone turn off the TV and read the assignment last
night?” Or if someone looked like he wasn’t paying attention, she might say, “Are we
disturbing your nap, Mr. Johnston?”

     During my first year at Emerson, a new school had been built, closer to home. It
still required a bus ride but it wasn’t as long. I looked forward to going to Paul Revere
Junior High. It had to be better than the oppressive and dark Emerson halls. The many
buildings were all one story, each identified by a letter of the alphabet. Though spread out
over a wide area, all the classrooms were easy to find and were clean and bright. The
buildings were connected by breezeways and the lockers were outside, instead of being
located on the second floor of a distant decrepit building. I had signed up to take Drama
One as one of my eighth grade electives, finally tip-toeing into an area I had found too
daunting before. When I walked into the classroom that first day, there was Miss Cottle.
Only now she was the married Mrs. Nagel. Better still, she had married an actor! I could
feel myself getting excited about the possibilities. It was good to see her again.

     As a 13-year-old, I was terrified of embarrassing myself in any way, great or
small. While I sensed an unspecified kinship in Mrs. Nagel, I knew her to be caustic if
not downright sarcastic in class. She had the power to bring down my world with a
glance, a comment or even a written criticism. On one paper, I had inserted several
unfilled pages in the back of a report to make it look longer. Her comment scrawled
diagonally on one of the pages came back: “Blank pages won’t help your grade, my little
friend.”

     Over the course of the school year, I made it through the usual theater exercises,
from pantomimes to improvisations. During an assigned pantomime on stage, I was
supposed to be a burglar, sneaking into a house. She didn’t think I was concentrating hard
enough, so she picked up an empty metal pitcher from her desk and threw it across the
entire classroom onto the stage behind me. The reverberation caused the students to gasp
but I didn’t flinch. That wasn’t good. If I had been truly in the scene, the noise should
have startled me. But even by then, there was very little that threw me off emotionally.
In an improvisation that same semester, Mrs. Nagel whispered to each of us on
stage a secret that we had to communicate to the other actor. My scene partner told me
she was dying of cancer. I was supposed to react to that, as part of the dramatic exercise
and play the scene. I went over and sat down next to her, asking her questions about how
she was feeling. Later, when one student in class critiqued me because I didn’t cry, Mrs.
Nagel stood up for me. 

     “I know Pam well enough to know that what you saw was her natural reaction," she said. "Nothing phony about it at all.”

     I went on to Drama Two the following year. In spite of my nervousness, I loved
being on stage, risking myself that way. The adrenalin rush was almost intoxicating but I
was crushed if I made a mistake or forgot a line. And while Mrs. Nagel often provided a
painful critique, I trusted she knew what she was doing. I was hooked, both on theater
and on Mrs. Nagel. I didn’t realize it at the time, but she gave me the gift of a passion that
would last me my whole life.

     One morning I caught a glimpse of her arriving in her car when the bus dropped
us off. I memorized her license plate number – JNY362 - and started leaving little gifts
and cards in her car from time to time. This was long before dress codes were abandoned
and teachers and students casually hugged each other, mind you. The boundaries between
teacher and student were formal and very tightly drawn. I was willing to risk it a bit to get
closer to this powerful person. I figured if I had stepped over a line, she would have been
quick to tell me so. She was not at all shy about telling people what she thought. When
she thanked me or commented on one of my “gifts,” I felt as if I had pleased her in some
small way.

     She had something I wanted, though I wasn’t sure what it was at the time. Perhaps
it was her iconoclastic flair and proficiency with words. On one occasion, she was
lecturing about one of Shakespeare’s plays. She caught me rolling my eyes. 

     “I know you’d rather be starring in an MGM musical, Pam, but you really need to learn about all
forms of drama, especially Shakespeare.” 

     Before long, she had assigned me a scene from Twelfth Night, much to my dismay. I slogged through it, but developed an aversion to The Bard that remains today.

     Most of the adults in my life had been out of a Sinclair Lewis novel, conforming
and stereotypical. Mediocrity was not as feared as violating consensual social rules.
Material success was what counted, not intellectual stimulation or educational
achievement. Male and female roles seemed assigned by some invisible force, violated at
your own peril. I had nightmares about dressing inappropriately for school. This was the
mid-1950s, after all, and women who broke the rules or spoke their minds were rare.
Vicki was intense and direct and I wanted some of that. I liked her confrontational style,
though it often terrified me.

     By the time I graduated from the ninth grade, I had appeared in small parts in
several bland and forgettable school productions and was the regular announcer for the
morning news on the school’s PA system, often impersonating the powerful Hollywood
columnist, Louella Parsons. I loved speaking in her nasal, sing-song voice to give life to
the boring school announcements. In fact, I had become a habitual impersonator of many
of my teachers, but never Mrs. Nagel. I wanted to emulate her but I could not
impersonate her. It would have felt disloyal.

     I was sad to leave junior high. Those last two years at Revere were to be the best
years of my school career, thanks to a large extent to Mrs. Nagel. I had a genuine ally, an
adult I trusted, a new experience for me. Over the course of the final year, I had turned in
movie and TV reviews and a lengthy history of motion pictures, “From Meg to Mic.” She
gave me an A on all of them, making constructive and encouraging comments on each
one. Part of me was still afraid of her, giving an adrenalin-fueled hyper-reality to our
relationship. Yet, under her influence, I blossomed like a cultivated flower. I made the
honor roll and habitually began taking riskier steps outside my prescribed world. I started
to think about writing reviews, perhaps in high school or college – or even for a living.
For perhaps the only time in all my academic years, I felt like I belonged there. I had
been a chubby, four-eyed nerdy iconoclast in those early adolescent years. At a time
when girls weren’t supposed to be smart, I was something of an outcast. And I was past
the age where I could get away with being my habitual athletic self. Girls were marshaled
into the prescribed housewifey feminine model by adolescence. None of this seemed to
matter to Mrs. Nagel, though. It wasn’t anything she said or did, but someone I respected,
respected me back.

     I don’t remember how it happened, but we reconnected when I was in high
school. By this time, I was the managing editor of the school paper, writing movie
reviews every week. The glasses had been replaced by contact lenses, though I still
struggled with weight. I had opted out of school dramatics (no time in my schedule) and,
with a friend, had written and was starring in a musical comedy revue off campus, to
which I had invited the Nagels. Once Vicki was back in my life, my parents invited Don
and Vicki over to our house for dinner. Kids didn’t invite teachers – even ex-teachers -
home then, so this was a major event in my young life.

     Shortly after they arrived, dressed for dinner, I timidly invited her into my
bedroom, my sanctuary. It was like allowing her entrance into my private, inner world.
Two walls in my room were lined with books and record albums. A few years before, I
had started a subscription to the Fireside Theatre book club in which I received a new
play every month. The record shelves were lined with popular music LPs – Doris Day,
Eydie Gorme, Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra along with Broadway and Hollywood
musicals and a smattering of classical albums. I had designed a lazy Susan bookcase that
dominated one corner of the room, floor-to- ceiling. There was a TV on a small stand near
one wall. My bed was a white naugahyde couch I made up each night. I thought it looked
more sophisticated than just a conventional bed and overlooked the discomfort. When I
shepherded her into my bedroom with all the autographed movie star photos on the walls
and the plays in the bookcase, I think she was surprised. We sat down on my couch and
talked for a while.

     She looked at the titles. “All those plays. Have you read them all?”

     “Yes, I have. I prefer the musicals and the comedies but I try to read whatever the
book club offers that month.”

     “Do you have a favorite?”

     “I’ve been reading William Inge and Arthur Miller. I’d sure like to see them
performed. I’ve seen the movies but it must be more vital on the stage.”

     I don’t remember how it started, but quickly I found myself trusting her with my
observations about classmates, about school and about my future. She was invariably
supportive, yet challenging as she had always been with me. My high school ambition
was to become Darryl F. Zanuck, the head of a major motion picture studio, since I was
too timid to admit my real performing fantasies, even to her. When I told her I didn’t plan
to go to college, she confronted me.

     “I just want to go out and get a job at a studio,” I declared.

     “You can always do that,” she countered. “But college will give you things you
don’t know you need yet.”

     I hated school by then, defending my position by telling her that none of the
powerful movie moguls had gone to college. Most had not even made it through high
school. Our dialogues were spirited and straightforward.

     Once, I asked her, “What do you think I will do with my life?” 

     She paused.

     “What do you want to do?” I didn’t know, but I knew it had to be about show
business somehow. So her first answer surprised me. “I think you’d be a good social critic. Your powers of observation are very good for someone your age.”

     Social critic? What was that? I knew I was developing the same kind of acerbic
style I had heard coming from her, but I didn’t know I could make a career out of being
an articulate curmudgeon.

     “Or,” she continued, “you could write for Daily Variety. Your reviews seem to
have taken on that style.”

     I hadn’t told her that I had already started subscribing to that trade paper a year or
two earlier, a reading habit I continued for nearly fifty years when it stopped publication.
“You’d also make a darned good teacher.”

     I bristled and quickly countered, “I would never do that.” At that point, I just
wanted to finish school and get as far away from it as possible. And the thought of being
stuck with students like me would make me want to run from the room. Ironically, I did
teach several different academic subjects at the university level – but not theater.

     During one of the Sundays around the pool, she mentioned that she would be
starring in a student TV production of Witness to Murder, which had been a recent film
starring Barbara Stanwyck. It’s a one-woman drama in which a bedridden woman
overhears her own murder being planned through an accidentally overheard phone call. I
had seen the movie and begged my parents to take me so I could see her do it. I had
hoped to actually be on set, but instead I sat with my mother in a dark room at UCLA,
watching Vicki on a television screen as she played the demanding, suspenseful role in
this thriller. I had never seen her perform and I was totally agog. When we met briefly
afterward, I gushed like a real fan. I knew then that she was as talented an actor as she
was a teacher and wondered why she hadn’t pursued it professionally.

     Over the next few years, the Nagels were frequent guests. On many occasions,
Vicki would call and indirectly wangle an invitation for that day. We had a pool and they
came to swim and join us in a barbeque. At first, my parents found it strange there were
never any invitations coming the other way. I thought perhaps they didn’t have the
money to entertain. As an actor, Don wasn’t often employed and took other part-time
jobs. But I had no complaints. I enjoyed what had become our private talks in my room.
It was like therapy for me. Here was an adult in whom I could confide and who
understood my passion for show business.

     But I was well aware of the uncomfortably one-sided situation about which my
parents complained more frequently. They had joked with me about how self-absorbed
Don was and complained about being stuck with those conversations with him while
Vicki and I talked in my room. They didn’t understand why Don didn’t have a “real” job
and thought he was living off his wife, a scathing indictment for the times. As time went
on, the resentment seemed to escalate. My mother referred to them as “deadbeats” and
“freeloaders” and laughed about them behind their backs. I began to see their point. Soon,
they stopped issuing the invitations and the relationship faded. When Vicki called and
asked what we were doing, I had to lie and say we were going out. After a few of those
calls, she got the picture and stopped calling. I felt terrible being in the middle but I had
to let it go. I would end every deceptive phone call with my heart racing and an
indeterminate sense of loss.

     We met from time to time over the following decades, often at one of the plays
she was directing for a local community college. She had invited me to see her
production of “Born Yesterday” done in the round. Though she had directed it, she sat on
the other side of the stage in the audience, opposite me. Afterwards, she told me, “I only
had to watch your face to see how the production was going. It was like getting a
review.”

     Now an adult, I became more aware of her occasionally tense relationships with
others as well as her narrow-mindedness on social and political issues. She and Don had
sometimes made bigoted references about minorities, nonconformists and gay people.

     There was one dinner on our backyard patio in which we were discussing who might be
gay in Hollywood. At the mention of each candidate, Don or Vicki would hold out their
hand limply and lisp the name. “Oh, he’th tho thweet, ithn’t he?” It was clear gay was not
a good thing to be. I sat there, taking it all in, enjoying being “in” on what others did not
know but also not understanding the reasons for my squirming..

     At one point, Vicki proudly announced she was a Republican and had supported a
statewide political initiative that required a loyalty oath for all teachers. She was adamant
in her opposition to any federal government “interference” in education. These comments
didn’t matter to me when I was in junior high and, in fact, echoed my parents’ political
and social biases as well. It was one of the few topics upon which all four of them
seemed to agree. But by the time I hit late adolescence and my early 20s, I had become a
politically-aware liberal Democrat and an articulate feminist and was appalled and
disappointed by her attitudes. I never confronted her but I found myself retreating in
discomfort and disappointment.

     In those later years, she seemed more closed off and defensive than I had
remembered. We had one baffling encounter following an expensive dinner in which her
husband picked up the check. We had not seen one another in at least ten years, the last
time being at my wedding. At the beginning of the evening, I thought I had picked up
some tension from her and surmised she and Don had exchanged harsh words before their
arrival. When the elevator door opened and they stepped out, I was stunned. Vicki had
not aged well. Her hair was white and very short, almost sheared, and she looked gaunt
and tense. That she was shorter than I was took me by surprise. In my youth, she had
seemed outsized and formidable. I was disappointed to receive a less-than-warm greeting
from her as I gave her a big hug. I wasn’t all that surprised when she opted not to sit next
to me at the restaurant, still not understanding what was going on. I had brought my son
and he and Vicki seemed to hit it off. I loved it that she got to know and enjoy him, a
continuation of our historical connection; however, a week or so later, she wrote me a terse letter 
with an angry, almost irrational tone, suggesting I should have taken care of the bill, “after all your feminist talk.” Confused, I sent her a check for what I thought might have covered our part,
apologizing for any misunderstanding. It came back in little pieces, with more insulting
comments. She declared I should put the check “where the sun don’t shine.” It seemed
that something was happening in her life. It didn’t feel as if it had anything to do with me
at all but I felt immobilized by her words. After that startling event, I stopped all contact
for more than 25 years.

     Decades later, as I approached my senior years, I reflected on the people who had
influenced me to be the person I became. She was most certainly close to the top of the
list. It amused me when I realized I had adopted her cynicism, sarcasm and world-
weariness in my own life. It seemed to fit me like a glove. Most of all, though, she was
there when I needed her to be with those talks in my room, her willingness to befriend
and nurture me. In some ways, she was a provocateur, always cajoling me to do better, to
go for what I wanted, to hone my skills, fulfill my fantasies. These were things I would
remember all my life. She encouraged me as a performer and as a writer, the only person
in my world to support and appreciate my investment in both of those pursuits. It
happened that I was still actively engaging in both those activities, which I thought would
please her. I wrote and thanked her for who she had been for me and she wrote back
immediately, expressing surprise, gratified to get the note.

     There were a few more letters over the next two years. By then, I was singing and
performing in several bands. She asked me to send her a schedule, saying that she would
try to drive the two hours to see me perform. I was afraid of her judgment at a vulnerable
time in my life and never followed through.

     Then I received a card announcing her death, sent by a former student, “her”
Billie Dawn in Born Yesterday. Don had died a few years before that and there was
apparently no family except this ex student who saw Vicki as her surrogate mom and had
become her family. In the little memorial booklet was a picture of her smiling. Funny, but
when I thought of her in my mind, she was never smiling. It almost didn’t look like her. I
wondered what I had missed.

     I emailed the surrogate daughter, asking what had happened to Vicki. What came
back, though, was a possible explanation for what had transpired that evening in the
restaurant so many years ago. Around that time, Don had been diagnosed with a fatal
disease, which would cause him to waste away over the next few years. I thought it was
possible they could have recently gotten the news and didn’t want to share it with us. It
couldn’t help but color her experience there and everywhere else. I felt a sense of relief at
this likelihood but I’m not sure what more could have been done at the time.
I went to the internet and Googled her. Buried deep in the entries was an article
she had written in tribute to the public library just a few years before her death. Born in
the early years of the Great Depression, she described a childhood of intermittent
homelessness, driving around in an old car with her mother and whatever man was in her
mother’s life, looking for work and a place to sleep. When they found it, they would send
Vicki to the public library to get rid of her when she wasn’t in school. She had developed
few social skills driving around in a car and didn’t read well, either. At the library, she
was treated as a real person for the first time and given responsibilities. It changed her
life.

     I was stunned by the article. I had no idea. She never shared her early life with
me. This was a person I wanted to know better, to hear how she had extricated herself
from this life of poverty and despair. How had she created such a dynamic person out of
the rubble? Of course, it was too late. No wonder she wanted to spend time with my
stable middle-class family. And I understood now why she spent all those hours with me
in my room. She must have seen some of herself in this intense, driven, nonconforming
kid who didn’t fit in, either. She wanted to pass it on. And so she did. One of the best
things I ever did was to thank her for that.

Creative Nonfiction: "Seconds..." by Marilyn June Janson

I stare at the knobs on the stovetop. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...” Counting to 60 is my
self-imposed limit. The stove is off. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...” It’s not on. All of the
switches are in off the off position. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...” Enough. Stop it. Eddie is
waiting. We have to go. If I watch the stove for one minute and it doesn’t explode, it’s
not on.

     Trying to relieve the stress and anxiety I take in deep breaths of the stuffy air and exhale. It’s
going to be fine. I stare at the knobs. All I have to do is touch the stovetop to feel if it is
hot. But what if I touch it and it is hot? I would not be able to leave. I could turn the stove
on just by touching it. And one of the switches is off center, not completely in the off
position.

     The oven could be on. If I move the knob I could turn it on. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...”

     Someone whispers in my ear, “While you’re on the flight, your house is going to explode. The
fire will spread to your neighbors’ houses. People will die. That dust mop you call a cat is going
to be barbecued. And it will be your fault. When you’re in the air there’s nothing you can do
about it! You’ll be trapped. Every second that you are on the flight, you’ll wonder if the cops are
waiting at the gate to arrest you. When they hunt you down, they will haul your ass off to jail and
put you away for the rest of your useless life.”

     Dad, stop it! Leave me alone. Get out of my head.

     “Remember when the lamb chops caught on fire?”

     How could I forget?

***

I was four years old when it happened. While Dad sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper,
I played on the floor with my toy oven. Mom tended to the lamp chops cooking in the gas
broiler. The meat snapped and sizzled. The greasy smell of the fatty food made me hungry.
Then I heard a swooshing sound. My face flushed with heat. I looked up and saw the angry red
and blue flames reach out to me like octopus tentacles. Puffs of smoke hung over the kitchen.

     “Oh no!” Quickly, Mom grabbed a bucket and filled it with water from the sink. She tossed the
water into the broiler.

     Then she swiftly scooped me up and brought me into the family room. She hurried back into the
kitchen.

     In the cramped house I heard Dad yell to Mom, “You are such an idiot! You can’t put out a
grease fire with water.”

     “If you know so much, then you do something!” she screamed.

     Then, I heard a slamming sound.

     Dad said, “You’re supposed to suffocate the fire by shutting the oven door.”
Silence.

     He came into the family room. Dad said, “Everything’s okay, Linny (his nickname for me). Your
mom isn’t too smart. She could have burned down the damn house.” Dad went to the wet bar and
poured himself a drink.

***

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...” The oven is off. I haven’t turned on the stove since we moved
in 10 years ago.

     “You’re to blame, when the house burns down, Linny,” Dad says.

     Go away! You’ve been dead for 23 years. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...”

     I try to tear my eyes away from the stove. The sound of Eddie’s feet shuffling in the hallway
makes me feel jittery.

     So much pressure to leave the house and I have so much more to check. Maybe I
should come back to the stove after checking everything else in the house.

     I struggle to peel my fingers off the SATURDAY VACATION CHECKLIST that I am holding
in my fist. My pen lingers over the space next to STOVE OFF. But, I cannot bring myself to put
a check mark next to this item.

     Before going to bed last night, I used my FRIDAY NIGHT VACATION CHECKLIST and put
marks beside the spaces next to MICROWAVE UNPLUGGED and OFF, DVD UNPLUGGED
and OFF, ED’S LAMP UNPLUGGED and OFF, ED’S CLOCK RADIO UNPLUGGED and
OFF, TV. UNPLUGGED and OFF, PATIO DOOR LOCKED, FRONT DOOR LOCKED,
COMPUTER OFF and UNPLUGGED, PRINTER UNPLUGGED, ELECTRIC PENCIL
SHARPENER UNPLUGGED, and COPY MACHINE UNPLUGGED.

     Again, I try to check off the blank space next to STOVE OFF. “1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10...”
I take in some shallow breaths. The apartment feels as if a vacuum cleaner is siphoning up the
air. Exhausted and thirsty from all of this stress I pick up a bottle from the counter and gulp
down some water.

     The bottle of water was open. I could have tipped it over and the water could have
spilled into the electrical outlet. That might cause a fire. Couldn’t it?
I decide to come back to the stove after checking off everything else on the list. Moving on to the
kitchen faucet handle, I remember that several times my husband had neglected to turn it off
completely.

     Every day before leaving the house I take the strainers out of the drains in both sinks and push
down the faucet handle. Or else we could have had a flood. “1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10...”

     From behind, I feel Eddie’s eyes boring into me.

     “It’s time to go,” he snarls.

     It is only 6:00 AM, but the summer Arizona heat is baking the roof of the upstairs apartment.
I can see through his soaked tee shirt.

     Eddie peels the shirt from his skin and then pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket. He mops the
perspiration from his forehead.

     My husband is also on the list. On Friday night, he was required to take a shower so that I can
make sure that the faucet is not dripping. Also, he had to push up the lever on the
air-conditioning unit to 80 degrees to save on electricity. He could have turned it off, but we
would have suffocated. Locking the windows the night before we leave the house is also on the
list.

     He picks up an indoor temperature gage that is sitting on a table. “It’s a friggin' 90 degrees in
here,” Eddie says, his voice rising to a squeaky pitch, warning me that he is going to lose it.
Our cat, Dakota, creeps into the kitchen.

     Carefully I move out of the kitchen to avoid bumping up against the dishwasher (and
inadvertently turning the knob to the on position). I go into the family room.

     Dakota lets out a meow.

     “Come here, boy,” I say.

     The cat comes to me. After picking him up I place my hand on the smooth skin under his front
legs. Feeling the strong thump of his heart and listening to his soft purr is comforting.

     “Why bother going away if leaving the house is so tough for you?” Eddie says.

     I look up at my husband. “I can’t let my OCD win. I want to go places and see things. And I’ll
never forget when you went to Europe without me.”

     “Could you blame me? I had to get away.”

     Dakota squirms and jumps out of my arms.

     “I’m better now. With the meds at least I can drive and leave the house.”

     Eddie bends down and opens the cooler that is sitting on the floor. He takes out a can of soda.
Last night he was required to take the sodas and ice packs out of the refrigerator and put them in
the cooler.

     After we go to sleep the refrigerator is off limits. I worry that if the refrigerator were not closed,
Dakota would jump inside and get stuck if the door slammed shut behind him.

     My husband pops the top of the can. When he takes a drink his lips curl into a frown as if it
tastes like oil from a car engine.

     “Warm?” I say.

     “Yeah.”

     Dakota jumps and meows.

     “I wish that I could take you with me, boy,” I tell the cat and give him a hug.

     “We’ve got to go, now.”

     “Okay, okay. I’m almost finished.”

     Dakota rubs his head against my eyeglasses.

     “Goodbye, boy.” Reluctantly, I let go of the cat.

     Krista, our pet sitter, takes care of Dakota when we are away. I will call her every day. She will
tell me if the house is still standing.

     Eddie picks up the cooler, takes the soda, and goes into the mudroom. “I’ll be in the garage.”
“But you have to watch me shut the door to the mudroom,” I call after him.

     On any other day, Eddie would have dumped the warm soda into the sink and tossed the can into
the recyclable bin located outside the front door to the house. But this morning he is not allowed
to open that door.

     Last night he took out the trash, newspapers, and soda containers so that I could check off
GARBAGE OUT, CANS OUT, NEWSPAPERS OUT, and FRONT DOOR LOCKED on the
list.

     I go through the house and check off the last items. Dakota is also on the list. Last night I
filled the cat’s bowls with water and put food in his dish.

     I stuff the VACATION CHECKLIST into my humongous handbag crammed with meds, tissues,
cell phone, pens, mints, gum, money, extra eyeglasses, I-POD, a small notebook, and the bottle
of water.

     After entering the mudroom, I open the door leading to the garage and yell, “Eddie, you can
come back in now.”

     He comes out from behind the trunk of the car and looks at me wearily with his huge, tired,
brown eyes.

     “Come in here,” I command.

     He follows me through the mudroom and into the family room.

     I point to the cat. “Dakota is in here, right?” I want to make sure that he does not follow me out
to the garage and escape.

     Eddie says, “Goodbye, boy.”

     We leave the cat and head out to the car.

     “Watch me lock the door.” I close the door and turn the lock.

     “It’s locked,” he says as if repeating a mantra.

     Eddie opens the door leading to the garage. He pushes the remote and the garage door makes a
scraping sound as it moves along its hinges.

     “Come back here. You have to watch me lock the door that connects to the garage.”
He turns and sighs.

     The sunlight feels good against my face. I take in deep breaths of the cool, refreshing air.

     I insert the key into the top lock and turn it. I do the same in the bottom one.

     “The door is locked, isn’t it?” I say.

     He reaches toward the doorknob.

     “No! Don’t do that.” If he touches the knob the lock might open.

     Therapists have told me that I use these repetitive behaviors as a way to avoid facing my fears.

     I am stressed out about going on every flight. Not even the meds help. I suffer from panic attacks
when there is turbulence. The plane is going to crash. I am sure of it.

     We get into the car and shut the doors. But we are not finished yet.

     Eddie backs the vehicle out and presses the garage door remote.

     I watch as the beige colored door reaches the ground.

     Eddie steers the car toward the gate.

     Turning my head, I squint to catch a glimpse of the garage door. It appears closed, but maybe I
am wrong.

     I bend over and plant a kiss on my husband’s cheek.

     “I’ll take another spin around,” he says.

     “You are the best husband that I ever had.”

     He grins. “I’m the only husband that you ever had.”

     When we reach our house, he slows down and stops.

     “Is it…”

     “It’s closed.” He drives back to the gate. It opens and we are on our way to the airport.

     After years of cognitive therapy, I am stable. Learning to recognize and change the negative
thought processes that occur during panic attacks to positive ones, helps me to cope with my fear
of dogs, new situations, and places.

     Today, I am 62-years-old. Still, OCD continues to challenge my self-confidence and reality. I
compile exhausting lists, check and recheck locks to the house, and the garage door.

     I don’t feel comfortable outdoors, visiting friend’s homes, going to new places, and flying. Yet, I
do them anyway, working toward living a full and happy life.

     I pet therapy dogs, walk on the beach, travel, drive, and own a small business.

     To learn more about OCD, log onto the Obsessive Compulsive Foundation at
http://www.ocfoundation.org and the Anxiety and Depression Association of America @
http://www.adaa.org.

Creative Non-Fiction: "How to Lose Your Sugar" by Emma Comery

Stage One: Death of the Sugar Addiction

To start with, you want to be healthier. Or maybe you're trying to ditch those last pesky

pounds, or you're thinking about bikini season. Maybe you feel tired all the time. These are all

great reasons to cut out sweets. Or maybe you look at photos of yourself and recoil at the way

your jawline reminds you of raw dough. You can't remember a single day since you were twelve

when you haven't wondered why you've been allowed to walk the earth. Sure, your bones are

beautiful, but you've never been able to see them. Besides the feel of cool sheets on your bare

skin, you think food is the most delicious thing in the world. Lemon poppy seed muffins combat

school stress; Raisinettes keep you company on Friday nights. Red velvet cake with cream

cheese frosting is your soul mate. You hide empty bags of Twizzlers in your bottom desk drawer.

Your special talent becomes devouring eight servings of Kroger bakery cookies in two days. Ice

cream is a palate cleanser, not a treat. Your father says things like, “Have you been running?”

and “Start taking care of that double chin, cutie!” Your mother pretends not to see, not to hear,

but you forgive her. She's got so much on her plate right now. And your father—you tell yourself

he's a jerk but you start wearing sweatpants and extra large t-shirts again. Begin to eat your

feelings. Eat so many sweets that they stop tasting good. Eat them anyways. You're always tired,

but you never sleep through the night.

     At a party one weekend, a friend tells you he's gone almost 365 days without eating dessert. Note

the way his shoulder bones stick out like Appalachian mountain ridges. Make up excuses to put your

hand on his shoulder.

     Go home for Christmas. It's the first time you've seen your mother since her mastectomy

in September. This one was trickier than the first surgery fifteen years ago. This time there was

an infection, multiple surgeries, four extra days in the hospital. All semester you've called her

and she's great; she's recovering; the surgery worked; everything's peachy keen, girly girl. You

have believed her. But now you're home and she says, “I have an appointment at a wig shop next

Tuesday. Would you like to come with me?”

     Think No, what I'd like to do is flip this table over and scream at you for lying!

     Drive your cat to the vet the next day. Your father discovered a lump the size of an Easter

egg on her underside three days before you came home. “Mammary tumor,” the vet says. “She

has six months with or without surgery.” On the drive home, take your eyes off the road to text

your friend from school: "Breast cancer has waged war on my family." She won't reply.

     During the holidays, you gorge yourself. You have less than a month than to eat all the sugar

you want. Shovel in the pizzelles and the trays of homemade Christmas cookies. Draft your

game plan. You'll start on New Years Day 2016 and stop at midnight just before 2017. When you

return to campus, you will take all the empty candy wrappers and the stash of Reese's under

your bed and throw them out. You think it's best not to set too many rules for this no-sugar

challenge.

     Historically, you have a tendency to break the rules you set for yourself. You outline the following

policy:

— No sweets, soda, or syrups

— If something doesn't fit into any of the above categories, ask yourself, "Will eating this

make me feel guilty?" If the answer is yes, walk away.


Stage Two: Hangry Hell

Start on the first day of the new year. Hurt your mother's feelings when you say you can't

eat the leftover tiramisu she made for the holidays. She'll hear "I won't." Stare too long at the

patches of bald skin on her head. Waver in your resolve. Slowly and deliberately peel a

clementine instead. The juice of the fruit will sting the paper cut on your finger. Your mother will

pick at her food and go to bed early. Something has begun to stretch between you and your

mother, something like a drought. Food has always been her love language, and you no longer

speak it. The next evening, she offers you a small bowl of vanilla frozen yogurt. She will tell you

that cold foods are easier for her to taste, and she jokes that at least some of her taste buds are

standing up to chemo. Capitulate. Fold the froyo with your spoon, watch the stickiness clump

and slide. When it touches your tongue, it tastes like the sour flesh that hangs off your hips. To

make up for your sin, pledge to tack on two extra days to your challenge. When you go to bed that

night, lock the door. Your father will rattle the knob and yell, “Open door policy!” Turn on your

clock radio. Loud. Drown him out. You have been his property long enough. Undress in front of the

mirror. Your breasts stare back at you. Go ahead, cry.

     Back at school, concentrate on counting the thousands of freckles on the arm of the boy

across from you when your professor brings a box of fresh doughnuts to class. Be angry at food.

Give up coffee almost entirely. It tastes like acid sludge without your normal two packets of

sweetener. Opt for tea instead. Sip slowly, bleary-eyed. Go to class but don't actually wake up

until lunchtime. On Friday nights, fall asleep on the couch. By ten. Your life is a never-ending

sugar crash. Dream about John Krasinski hand-feeding you bite-sized pieces of carrot cake. In

bed, he re-enacts scenes from The Office, kisses your palm, and tucks your hair behind your ear

over a plate of every cake imaginable. Vow never to tell anyone about this dream.

    When you tell your friends of your resolution, one says, “You're kidding, right?” Another scoffs, “I

give it a week.”

     Their betrayal feels like a belt cinching too tightly. Recall how impressed they were when

you gave up meat, how supportive (for the most part) they were about minimizing alcohol. Tell

them it's their duty to hold you accountable. Tell them to stop offering you sweets. At school, at

restaurants, treat the dessert bar like an ex-boyfriend. The conversation was flavorless and the

sex hadn't been worth it. Fill yourself with healthy alternatives: baby carrots, edamame, raw

almonds, all those expensive snacks you can't afford as a college student but decide are a priority.

Drink water with lemon juice. The tang will pique your taste buds. Drink so much that it goes in

faintly yellow and comes out clear. Horde fresh fruit – build a tower of apples and oranges on

your kitchen table. Pillage the frozen fruit aisle at the grocery store. Fall in love with vegetables.

Take pride in your grocery lists and freezer full of smoothie-ready strawberries and spinach. Talk

about Benefiber like it's your prodigal first-born.

     Tell yourself it's not that you can't eat sweets, it's that you don't.

     Tell yourself this approximately eighty-nine times a day.


Stage Three: The Weight of Waiting

After three weeks, you stop dreaming about John Krasinski but you don't lose any weight.

You continue attending classes, continue stuffing baby carrots into your cheeks, continue avoiding

your father's phone calls, continue sending overly-cheery emails to your mother: "64 degrees and

sunny here in KY! Enjoy your Zumba class and have a fantabulous night!" Your father has begun

calling more frequently, often while you are in class or at the gym. You never want to answer, but

you always imagine the worst: your mother has fainted from her anti-estrogen drugs, your cat has

died, a special forces team of cancer cells has infiltrated your mother's chest, unsatisfied with her

breasts and demanding her heart at gunpoint. You assume, always, that everything is wrong. So

you always answer the call.

     “You and Mom have been sending emails to each other like rapid-fire,” your father says. Envy

drips through the phone. No surprise that he asks what you've been eating.

     “Salad,” you reply, your voice like limp lettuce.

     Your article on feminist literature has been accepted by a journal. Now your school wants

to publish a short web article on you. They have an impressive ability to make exploitation sound

like an honor. A photographer takes a head shot. Your whole body feels heavier at the sight of

yourself. Without your friends knowing, manage to conduct a week-long cleanse (fruits and

veggies only). They would only yell at you. Lose approximately zero pounds. You are moody,

quick to snap.

     Nothing has changed, and you don't understand why. You've done this thing – this

extreme dietary alteration that is so foreign to everyone who knows you. You've dedicated

yourself to your health. You lift weights. You can squat your roommate now. You'd do anything

to know when the smell of chocolate will stop tasting like opium.


Stage Four: Happy, Healthy, Heavenly

By the end of the first month, you can bear to touch your stomach without flinching. Your

waiting has paid off. Say goodbye to regular bloating! Even when Aunt Flo visits, she doesn't

bring her usual army of lower abdomen pain. PMS no longer includes vomiting, dizziness, or

fainting. You stop hating your uterus. You can't even remember when started hating it. It's

amazing how much a lack of bloating affects your daily life. Your posture improves; you feel

more comfortable wearing flattering clothes. Your friends (all but one) applaud your new

confidence. They like to brag about you to other friends. (All but that one.) Your skin clears up.

Your hair gets shinier; you don't have to wash it as often. When you do wash it, the longer

shower is like a stop in time. The feel of water on your scalp is a new pleasure. You fall asleep faster

and stay asleep more often. After a good night's rest, you're ready to go the next morning. The

moment you stop feeling bloated, you become a new person. This new version of you doesn't

want to whittle herself away. This you is powerful. You eat up the campus sidewalks with jungle

strides.

     It is springtime now, and when your father flips you the bird over webcam, call him out

on it. Hear him stomp away and shriek like a child. Your mother's face twists like a lemon. You

regret throwing a live grenade into her life, but you refuse to replace the pin. She can humor him

all she wants, but you don't deserve anyone's disrespect.

     You discover that confidence is not a constant line. It ebbs and flows. When your bras start to

feel tighter around your upper ribs, you see fat everywhere. Your hips, your shoulders, your

wrists. You are hyper-aware of your breasts. You talk to your friends, your workout buddy, your

mother. There is unanimous conviction that a tighter bra does not mean a fatter girl.

     “Your back has gotten so much stronger,” your buddy points out. “It's all muscle.”

     At the gym, two guys compliment you on your squat. Over dinner, a friend tells you, “The first

time I met you I was sexually intimidated.”

     You don't know what to do with any of this.

     Some days, it feels like all there is between your breastbone and your hips is air. You

don't know how you feel about this, this constant sense of lessening yourself.

     When someone offers you a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, stare at the crinkly orange

wrapper like you've never seen it before. The grit of sugar between your teeth is a distant

nightmare.

     You smile at your classmates more. Strike up conversations with acquaintances. Stop letting

shyness and insecurity prevent you from being the person you've always wanted in your life.

Develop your own brand of aggressive compassion. When your roommate says she loves you,

shake her shoulders and yell, “No, I love you more!” When she throws markers at your head,

they hit you like butterfly kisses. Participate in a retreat about the power of language. Learn that

it's okay to think your father is a jerk when he calls your gay friend “flamboyant” and says your

feminism is “hostile.” Listen to the Hamilton soundtrack on repeat for months. Take a class in

poetry. Learn about sestinas and trochaic tetrameter. Write lots of poetry about loving your body

and the new woman you feel breaking through your skin. Try to build palaces out of paragraphs.

Worry more about words than weight.


Stage Five: The Sweet Afterlife

Apply to graduate programs and jobs. You want to live near the coast. Washington, North

Carolina, someplace you can run down long roads, open your bedroom window to the sea air,

and write poems, a romance novel, essays about giving up sweets, and letters to your mother that

say you love her, you miss her, you have always wanted to be her friend.

     Dream you are in bed with the boy with the shoulders. There is sunlight, bare shoulders,

blue panties. This is about you and the clench of muscles beneath the curve of your belly. The

boy is the least important part. Your skin doesn't roll like dough. It snaps, live like wires. For the

first time in your memory, you are completely unashamed of your body.

     It has only been four months since you last ate sugar. People ask if you miss it. They ask

if you will eat it again at the end of the year. Shrug. “I'm not sure.” At night, splay your fingers

across your belly. The soft rise makes your blood pump steady and slow, at peace.

     Imagine yourself after graduation. Maybe teaching, maybe working on a farm or at an

animal shelter. Any job that requires your heart to pump faster. Your mother will fly cross-

country to see you. She will come alone, her hair growing back in. Hug her big. The two of you

explore the hiking paths and small towns of coastal Washington. Talk about everything and

anything. She likes your apartment and asks to read your poems. One afternoon, find a bakery

named Cafe Demeter and sit at one of the metal patio tables on the front porch. Your mother

orders a hot tea for you and a small decaf coffee for herself. She reads the cafe menu. “They have

tiramisu!” She is smiling. “Are you interested in splitting a piece, Em?” You sip your tea. It

tastes clean and real, like an herb from your mother's garden. You know what you will do.

Creative Non-Fiction: "I Wish I Were As Skinny As You" by m.nicole.r.wildhood

There’s someone in my life, a fellow woman, who has told me twice now, in a

way that feels accusing to me that she wishes she were as skinny as I am. The first time, I

stuttered a compliment that included a deprecating remark toward myself, which left me

resentful for days. Resentful of her for “putting me in that position,” but more resentful of

myself that my knee jerk reaction was to put down what I (have to) work hard to

maintain.

     It’s not my weight I’m talking about. I’ve been thin my whole life. What I have to

work so hard to maintain is my health. I have a rare and chronic condition called Ehlers-

Danlos Syndrome; I have lived with the pain and others’ disbelief of this pain my whole

life. Even when there are vague outward signs of it—thin, lanky limbs (check), scoliosis

(check), stretchy skin (check), typically an injured joint wrapped or slung (check)—most

people wouldn’t put all that together and go, “Ah yes, EDS.” Most people wouldn’t put it

all together: scoliosis is its own thing; carpal tunnel syndrome is its own thing; flat feet,

stretched-out looking arms and legs, not feeling the pull during muscle stretches enduring

track practice, all their own things. And why you’re always icing a shoulder or Ace

Bandaging a knee is because you’re clumsy. Why the tendons in your ankle wrap it in

pain if you step ever so slightly “wrong” (whatever that means), especially when it’s cold

out, your doctors don’t know, but it’s probably “just” because you’ve sprained that ankle

before, “running (the rest of the two-mile) through the pain” at a track meet where you

couldn’t let your team down because middle school girls are vicious.

     So the second time she says, “I wish I was as skinny as you,” a large part of me

wants to reply, "Yes, since skinniness is all that matters; let's switch bodies. Then you can

deal with being in pain all the time and nothing you do relieves it completely. You can

deal with insomnia brought on by the intractable pain of hyper-mobile joints, over-

elasticized ligaments and the injuries those last two cause. You can deal with falling and

breaking a finger or a wrist just walking down the freaking street because your joints are

basically JELL-O. You can deal with appearing to be completely healthy to a world

indifferent to depth and therefore being expected to do all the things actually healthy

people can do even though, all the time, you are in pain and so tired you have walked all

the way to the bus stop on wet concrete before you realized you hadn’t put shoes on.”

But, because of thin privilege, I am not allowed to complain about anything physical at

all ever.

     A large part of me wants to say, "On the one hand, I didn't have to work to be

skinny. I have been skinny my whole life—so skinny, in fact, that people have worried I

was anorexic in high school even though I ate like a horse. So skinny that I didn’t start

my period until I was 16 because that’s when I reached 100 pounds and14 years later, I

still have never had a regular cycle. On the other hand, I also don't eat very much sugar,

any meat, or processed crap because I cook for myself all the damn time—when I'm not

too anxious or depressed to eat. I don't drink alcohol and I walk everywhere. I have a

devil of a time developing muscle but lifestyle does play a role in how I maintain my

thinness as aging slows my metabolism. Just like it's not my "fault" for being skinny, I

can't say it's your "fault" for being overweight (I want no part in fat shaming at all), but

you can't expect to be healthy, which could mean "overweight"—especially by society's

standards—with no effort.

     All this is true. But, while I resented her for her comment and myself for attempting to

deflect or appease or reassure by putting myself down, she and I both learned to have our

respective desires from this culture. And so what I resent the most is this society that

berates women into hating themselves so that the myriad facets of the beauty industry can

get fat with profit. It’s the same one that implicitly and almost from the moment of our

arrival into the world, sets women up to compete with one another for every last thing—

men, jobs, friends, appearance—because, it tells us, we are nothing as we are. We need an

appendage or a status or a subtraction. So a large part of me wanted to say just that, to

say,  “Don't play into those petty constrictions, don’t let white, Euro-centric notions of

beauty, which, by the way, used to dictate that heavier was beautiful because it indicated

you could afford to eat a lot, which indicated status, infect your idea of beauty. Norms

will change, shallow attachment to (mass) approval doesn’t seem to.

     But here’s what I said the second time instead: “I can confirm what bariatric surgery

patient, Lisa, says: 'Your problems follow you.'" She means they followed her down from

several hundred pounds to about one and a half hundred. I mean that I’m in the middle of

my second separation from my husband of four years (we’ve lived separately longer than

we’ve lived together); I still don’t have a clue what I want to do with my life (aimlessness

is a lot more crushing than it’s made out to be); I’m often so lonely that it’s difficult to

breathe (no, shortness of breath is not a symptom of EDS. The isolation might be, though:

one of the side effects of hard-to-manage pain and fatigue can be pushing-people-away-itis.);

and I often think my thighs are too fat. But I’m just as skinny as you wish to be.

Creative Non-Fiction: "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and the Old Man" by Christina Fulton

“YOU don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain't no matter.  That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly.  There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.  That is nothing.  I never seen anybody but lied one time or another…”

I find that starting with these lines is appropriate for three reasons. First, the day I selected the eldest of my two current dogs there was something so Twainian about him that I had to bestow upon him this literary rascal’s famous nomenclature. Second, I started with these lines, in particular, because I have written about my father’s unique relationship with animals before in an essay called “Cats and Drag Queens” published in The Gravel, so the familiarity that resonates in the young narrator’s tone will mesh nicely. Finally, Twain’s Huck has some rather loose notions about human nature and the “truth” that I feel I may be guilty of.  

My mother always said not telling the whole story and neglecting certain details is tantamount to lying. In my last pet essay, at least in my mother’s eyes, I was being deceitful. I did not include my father’s relationship with one of my current canines in residence, Huckleberry Finn. I did it on purpose. There is no excuse. I was so revolted by my father’s life and death that I didn’t want any of it to remain karmically attached in print to any of my dogs that are not currently residing in a decorative urn. I thought that would be inviting in all sorts of canine misfortune, and a part of me is still a little fearful, but as Twain once said, “Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.”   

When my mother bought Huck from Pet Land I was in some very precarious predicaments from both a familial standpoint and academically speaking. I had somehow managed to change my master’s degree from an MA in Literature to an MFA in Fiction. It took a lot of sacrificial paperwork, writing sample offerings, and kneeling before Zod-like department heads to let this transmogrification occur. Even though I got in, I could tell it was under much scrutiny. I would have to prove myself worthy of the degree, and that I wasn’t just some MA who washed out and washed up on their prestigious shores. No pressure there.  

At the same time, my father was in the final act of his life and tail spinning brilliantly into a fade-to-black scenario. When my grandmother, his mother and psychological anchor, died, my father believed he was above reproach, the law, and common sense. He had stopped hiding his mistress and his money. Both were out and proud, and he didn’t care about the damage it would do to me, my mother, and his bank accountants. He was investing in everything from a marina at Atlantic City, a movie that promised to be the next High School Musical, and he even installed a recording studio in his big, new expensive home, you know, just so his “band” would be enticed to “hang out” with him. He was in his fifties, by the way.  

Yes, Huck arrived at quite a calamitous period in my life. If you were expecting him to ease my anxiety you couldn’t be more wrong. From the moment I picked him up, he was nothing but a whirling dervish of running, nipping, and hurting himself. After my toy poodle, The Late, Great Sherlock Holmes, died due to heart complications my mother decided that my life was too complicated not to have a furry/lovable presence in it. And, yes, I was living at home during graduate school. But, before you judge, so was practically the rest of The Great Recession Undergraduate Class of 2008.

I had researched alternative small breeds because I just couldn’t look at a poodle without crying. I came across the Boston terrier and thought the breed would be a refreshing change; website after website had nothing but positive things to say about them. We called some local pet stores and pounds, but only one place had a Boston pup. When I first saw him, I was shocked to discover that the breed came in other color variations besides the classic black tuxedo suit. He was brown, and I imagined him wearing an academic tweed instead. Also, his juniper colored eyes took up a large portion of his face.

“Um, are you sure you want… this one?” My mother asked, watching him chew on everything but his toys. He wouldn’t let anyone pet him without salutation nips. I really don’t know why I wanted him. There was something about this dog that seemed to match my current diet of disillusionment with the world.

“Yes, I think I love him,” I sighed while engaging in our first snuggle. He bit my ear, as a way to seal our pact of love in the pandemonium.

Huck was two times the size of a normal Boston terrier puppy for his age range. When I took him to his first vet visit every one of the vets in the office came in to get a look at what they were calling “the mutant.”

“He is going to be a seriously big boy,” the older vet laughed.

“Let me guess, his papers say that he’s a purebred,” another younger one added.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I replied.

“The problem with these brownies is that sometimes the breeders will ‘accidently’ let cousins make dozens in order to get the rare and pricey coloring,” the older one added with a chuckle.     

“You mean he could be a product of incest?”

“Perhaps. That would explain his unusual size and googly eyes,” the younger one hypothesized.

At that point, I was mad, but not at the pet store or the creepy and greedy breeders; I was mad at the vets. Both of these men sounded like my father whenever he would pick on me for my pedantic ways and say, “You won’t last one minute out in the real world.”   

“Isn’t that what studying is for? Preparing you for the real world?” This was my usual retort.

He would laugh and reply, “There are some things you just can’t learn from books! You need real life experience.”

Then he would go on to try and persuade me to go to more parties and break up with my longtime boyfriend because I was too young, and, I am quoting him here, “to have it on lock.”   

“Right. Is there anything I should look out for?” I asked the vet.

“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see,” he said, as Huck peed on the exam table. On the way out, the receptionist cried, “Oh, what a cute Boston terrorist!”

“What?!”

“My mother loves them! That’s what her vet calls them because they can be little terrors.” I didn’t say anything as I paid her. After that, I just picked him up, let him nip at my nose, and walked to the car.

Over the next two years, not-so-little Huck watched as my mother and I adjusted to living in her new condo. After my grandmother’s funeral, my mother couldn’t look at our old house without seeing my father’s mistress introducing herself to everyone as his girlfriend at the wake.  The scene played out in the couch that he picked, the color scheme that was to his liking, and all the furniture that he had bought her as “birthday gifts.” I came home from my senior year in college to find my mother curled up in the kitten position, crying into the crevices of the bathroom tile. My father wouldn’t consent to a divorce that didn't involve every lawyer and threat he could make or pay for, but he did see that my mother needed her own living space and time away from him or she would turn into the woman trapped inside Charlotte Gilman’s urine-colored nightmare.

And speaking of urine, Huck tried to paint her new wallpaper with steamy streams of that same nefarious yellow hue, along with masterfully masticating all her new furniture. But my mother wasn’t mad because this dog was just a puppy, and the other one in her life was supposed to be housebroken by now.

The first time I took Huck to meet my father at our old house he bit him. This wasn’t symbolic or anything; Huck bit everyone. His teething stage was so intense we would just sit for hours and hold a bone for him while he gnawed and cried. We never found any of his puppy teeth like we did our previous dogs. My mother thinks Huck ate them. The ground was his proverbial buffet. His favorite things were bird poop and my shoes. As an overworked graduate student, I thought he was trying to tell me to eat shit, keep on walking, and learn to fly.   

“Wow, he’s not going to chew up the furniture, is he?” my father said as Huck took another bite of his hand.

“No, I brought plenty of chewy bones and his crate.” Although I secretly hoped that he would chew up everything, but I promised my mother I wouldn’t use Huck in any of my revenge tactics, like the time my father's mistress left all her stuff on the boat and a few of her items mysteriously ended up at the bottom of the ocean. Like any woman except a mermaid really needs five different types of waterproof mascara anyway. You’re welcome, Ariel!

My father quickly found out that Huck was capable of way more than just chewing, like farting in your face, peeing everywhere but outside and then licking it up, and sneaking up behind you and biting you in the ass. All life lessons that I thought my father could use.

By the end of their first encounter, something quite curious had happened. My OCD daddy and my Chaos Theory terrier were now buddies. I found this out after returning home from graduate school one evening and discovering his crate empty and the back door open. I had strictly instructed my father not to let Huck out, except for designated pee times on a leash, while I was gone. Of course, my father and Huck had matching short attention spans so I only had myself to blame. I ran out into the backyard screaming for Huck. I almost jumped into the intercostal waterway, fully prepared to smell like salty garbage for my pup. It certainly couldn’t have been any more uncomfortable than a fiction workshop where the whole class didn’t see the point of your piece, and you just sat there wondering if everything in your life was just as pointless.

I saw my father meticulously cleaning his boat — otherwise known as “my little brother” — and I screamed frantically at him,        

“Where the fuck is Huck? I told you not to let him out without a leash. He could be dead!”

“He’s fine!” My father laughed pointing to the corner of the yard where Huck was hiding behind a bush and contemplating whether or not to pee outside, just to see if it was as fun as peeing on the furniture.

“He could have gotten out of the yard and hit by car or jumped into the water and drowned! The last time he got away from me he ran for two blocks before I could catch him.”

“Relax, Chris, he’s fine. I took him out around five with a leash, like you said, but your little Huckleberry Hound Dog was having so much fun I just let him roam the range where the deer and the antelope play,” he said in a sing-song manner.

“Well, dad, here are some discouraging words. One, did you even check to see if he could fit under the front fence? I did when I first arrived and the answer is yes he can. Second, his name is Huckleberry Finn. I didn’t name him after one of Hanna and Barbera’s folksy cartoon love children and—”

“Relax. Every time he went over there I just squirted him with the hose,” my dad interrupted, spraying me. “You see…just like that.”

“Nice. I’m sure that will have no psychological repercussions come his next bath time,” I snapped. I looked back over to find Huck gorging himself on a dead gecko.

“No, no, no, nooooooooooooo,” I screamed, running over to him, plunging my fingers into his mouth, and sweeping the drool-covered carcass out. “God, only knows what he’s eaten today. He’s so going to have the green apple splatters tomorrow,” I said, glaring at my father.

My father wasn’t there to witness all the times we had rushed Huck to the vet as he vomited up flecks and flakes of blood, or the time my boyfriend was walking him and he jumped up, did a mid-air barrel roll, and detonated doggie liquids, ever so gracefully, out of both ends. It took three vets to figure out that he had severe food allergies.

My mom found the whole thing to be extremely ironic because as a child I had to be rushed off for emergency care almost on a bi-monthly basis. She became a pro at NASCAR level speeding and the hospital hundred-yard dash, all while balancing a screaming child and purse. I put her through two broken arms, near-drowning, stitches, multiple bouts of various illnesses, and, of course, severe food allergies. Besides our inability to stomach certain foods, Huck and I shared another sad medical commonality: a lack of fatherly involvement.   

“Relax, Chris, one of my buddy's dogs ate a cement brick and was fine. Plus, just look at how happy he is. A few rocks and lizards are worth that smile. It will all come out fine in the end,” he laughed, squirting Huck in the rectum.

“That’s not funny!” I said picking Huck up and heading inside. That night, Huck found my favorite plastic heart bracelet, and by found I mean he tore a hole in my bag and stole it. Before I could get it out of his mouth, I could have sworn I saw him swallow one of the yellow hearts. I immediately started to go into full-blown helicopter mom mode and hover and fly in panic-driven circles. My father came into the room just I was looking up 24-hour emergency vet clinics on my laptop.   

“What’s going on? I heard you screaming from outside.”

“Huck swallowed one of the hearts on this bracelet, and I have to get him to the vet!” My father took the bracelet from me and examined it carefully.

“How do you know? I don’t see any missing.”

“I saw him swallow it,” I shrieked.

“Relax! I think you’re overreacting. We’ll just keep an eye on him. Back in my day, we didn’t take a pet to the vet unless it was bleeding, birthing, or about to lose his or her fun bits.” After about a half-hour of arguing, I conceded. Huck’s recent vet bills had slipped into the thousands range, and I called my mother and she concurred with my father's “wait and see” methodology.

“Why do you believe her when she says it?” My father growled.

“Because she has a stronger track record in parenting and more experience than you.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” I said, leaving the room to grab Huck’s kennel. I stayed up all night just watching him sleep and cut little dreamy farts.

A month later, as I was stressing over a Queer Theory paper on the paranormal homosexual peccadillos prowling around in Late Victorian Gothic literature, Huck predicted the future in quite the literal fashion. He shit out my heart. I screamed and my mother came running into the living room of her condo.

“Holy crap, he really did eat your heart!” She laughed.

“Should we take him to the vet? Who knows what kind of damage it has done to his gastrointestinal system,” I cried. She looked at his butt and pet him gently. She stood up and then delivered her medical opinion.  

“He hasn’t had any diarrhea or vomiting. Plus, he doesn’t have a temperature. Has he been acting strange lately?”

“Beside his refusal to accept the fact that a closed sliding glass door is not a magical portal to the outside, then no,” I replied, holding him close to my chest.

In the end, my mother delivered the same holding pattern advice. A few days passed and nothing happened. I wrote a poem about the whole event that was met with just as much splendid disgust and celebratory anxiety in a poetry workshop. Even after all the mixed feedback, I couldn’t help but question if Huck wasn’t just delivering surreal imagery, like my professor had said, but very real and frightening foreshadowing.

My question was answered when my father was indicted by the IRS and suddenly facing prison time. As a result, he quickly sold our old house and neutral meeting place in an effort to financially appease and please them. My mother informed me that my father would be staying at the condo when he visited.

“He’s not going to sleep in your room, is he?”

“No, that part of our lives is long over. Even though we are separated, a part of me will always love him, and he will always be your father. But he will be sleeping with Huck in the living room.”

“The couch is too good for him. Why does he have to come down here at all? He’s been MIA for the past few months,” I hissed.

“Chris, I think he’s coming because he needs to escape all the legal chaos up north, and even though you guys have had your differences, I think you might be an emotional tether for him now.” I wasn’t as trusting as her. Back then, I suspected he was somehow using us as another possible roll towards a literal Get Out Of Jail Free Card; however, the only bonus was that my dog piece would have a new shoe to chew on, and my father's battleship broad up north was probably throwing a blitzkrieg level fit over him sharing a roof with my mother again.  

When my father came to visit us, I noticed that he was starting to revert emotionally back to a preadolescent stage. He had always acted like a teenager, but this regression was more severe. He started to cry at everything, like sentimental commercials featuring fathers actually being fathers, and we could forget watching anything about prison because that would lead to major squirt works. He would go on to ramble about how this was all President Obama’s fault and if D.C. wasn’t so full of dirty democrats and libs the IRS wouldn’t have been so hard on him.

“This would have never happened if McCain was in the White House,” he would snap whenever a conversation dared drift into his legal danger zone, a place we were never really privy to in the first place, either out of shame or to prevent us from testifying.  

“So you’re blaming your crimes on someone else. What are you, ten?” I would calmly reply.

“No, I’m just saying that there are people who have done way worse than me and are not facing as much time and ridiculous fines as I am. And if you checked their wallets 5 to 1 they’re card carrying members of the Jackass Party.”

“Again, this is the type of argument a ten year old would make. You got caught breaking the rules and now you’re throwing a tantrum on the way to time out.” I would chuckle and then go back to focusing on my latest fiction piece.  

Besides the emotional tilt-a-whirl of tantrums, there was something else that had him looking more like a child as his trial date grew closer in the early months of 2011. His relationship with Huck had become a slice of stale Americana. He was now just a boy who loved a dog. His relationships with our previous dogs were more immature and pubescent, but this felt more genuine and — in a raw sense — desperate.   

I would wake up in the morning to find that during the night my father had released Huck from his kennel and they were sleeping Big Spoon/Little Spoon Style on the couch. I never had to walk Huck when my dad came to visit. My father would eagerly volunteer, like a little kid who just grew old enough to hold the leash and wipe himself.

One day he returned from one of their walks puzzled and asked, “Every time I take Huckleberry Hound out he always tries to turn right when we get out of the garage. Why is that?”

“Well, I always take him that way,” I replied.

“Always?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, that’s just boring! No wonder he was so excited when I took him outside the gates of the condo complex.”

“You took him outside onto the main roads? He could have gotten away from you and hit by a car.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t let that happen to my Huckleberry Hound. Plus, he liked it. New things to piss on, new scents, and even a few new butts to sniff.  He got to experience life!”

“For the last time, his name is Huckleberry Finn! And next time, stay inside the complex.”

Of course, my father gave me the usual “okay mom” look, and continued to take Huck on adventures all around the outside neighborhoods when I was away at graduate school. It's only now that I realize why those walks outside the walls with Huck were so important to him. Like all animals, my father needed to feel that the outside world would always be waiting for him every time a cage closed or a door locked. Unfortunately, his time wandering the suburban wilderness with Huck wouldn’t be enough for him. It would never be enough him. And I think he knew that without his financial and physical freedom, and precious sense of control, he wouldn’t know how to keep breathing and blinking.

At the end of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn the titular character says his farewell in a manner that resonates with the way my father did:

“I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she’s going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can’t stand it.”

Twain’s Huck couldn’t endure the loss of his freedom and neither could my father; however, while Twain's character went west, my character went as far south as a person could possibly go.

“He killed himself,” I said, out loud for the first time. It was after we returned home from the funeral in New Jersey and I was picking up my Huckleberry Finn from the boarding facility. I don’t know why I told him. Then I asked him something just as equally confusing because 1) he’s a dog and cannot speak, and 2) if he could, would he have told me the truth that day?

“Did dad ever tell you he was planning to do this?” Huck just looked at me with those googly green eyes and then proceeded to chew on the back of my seat. I think that was the best answer the universe and Huck were willing to give me.

It has been five years since my father committed suicide. My Huckleberry Finn is now eight years old and Twain’s is 103.  I somehow managed to get through my thesis defense, which was two weeks after my father’s death, and every one of the characters my panel liked had different coats of my father mixed in with cruel poetic glitter. I let Huckleberry tear up one of my graduation invitations and I never tried to train or harness him in any way. It just didn’t feel right. And now that we have his younger brother —Tom Sawyer — my father’s death has a new sense of finality to it. Because Tom will always come back to me if he gets off his leash, while Huckleberry Finn will keep on running, just like the old man.