are their seeds hardy things?

Prickly pears! It was prickly pears that they must have snuck into her shoes. Or in her socks, yes more likely her socks, just as she was reaching over the bed for the other one, after she had wrestled the first onto her ankle, just before leaving for the factory that morning. Prickly pears!

Or maybe burrs or brambles, from the bushes from around the house, back in Raleigh. Maybe those. Or the silvery bitey spindles from that jack and ball game that they liked to play. Janny's children had slipped a little thing like that into her shoes, just as a silly little prank, just that morning before she had left for work, and that was what was making them hurt so bad.

Janny laughed a little to herself at the thought, and almost dropped the screw she was screwing into the third-to-last hole on the eggbeater handle. Prickly pears! Where had they even found them here? A fruit stand? There weren't many of those. Some, but not many. Absolutely no trees at all though, none zero zip, unless you counted the Christmas trees that they put up in some of the nicer shopping places. Janny hadn't seen trees in months because this was not the sort of place for them. They would take up room. They wouldn't fit. Even if Janny had smuggled along a seed from Raleigh, maybe an apple seed, or a peach pit (the kind of seed changed each time she thought about it, just for a little change, one time she even thought of dragonfruit) even if she had smuggled one along and stowed it away (in the lining of her Sunday blouse, her best blouse, her favorite, the one that was clean and bright and sweet as weddingcake) (the one she had traded last week for socks that would fit) even if she had smuggled along a peach pit or a cherry stone from Raleigh and then planted it here somewhere somewhere not too hard somewhere not too gray or gritty or full of garbage then even then it would not stay. It would not plant. It would not ever be there to begin with really. It would die of thirst, and would shrivel up, and tumble away into the pigslop trough of the street gutter with the rest of the rat turds, it would never have left Raleigh to begin with, it would just sit sad for a little while and then shrink up into a little raisin of itself (oh, oh, but raisins, but what if Janny had smuggled along raisins? raisins were grapes weren't they? they had seeds didn't they? surely they had seeds, grapes had seeds, and raisins were nothing more than thirsty grapes, and just how well did grapes grow? were their seeds hardy things?)

"I could learn to make wine," Janny said, dreamily, somewhere under the locust swarm of the machinery. The thought made her wiggle her toes even though it ached her. Her feet were bloated sickened campfire logs, were ready to burst out of her new old socks.

And yes it ached her but then reminded her of the children, and their little prank, and how clever it was of them to pull off such a thing while they were still asleep.

"Why - I could make wine from the prickly pears, I'll bet!"

The thought crumbled Janny out into a smile.

The girl next in line looked up and around, snagging her hand bandages on the eggbeater. She could have sworn she had heard something.

From Martin, with Love

Little cuz-

Hey! :) I have run off to work to pick up my check and make sure my coworkers are not dicking around too bad (hahaha) so I am just writing you this quick little note (I hope you are like me and check the kitchen table first thing hahaha) for when you get back from school. I think they let you out at 3 or I think 4? Its been a while for me (hahaha) but if you are hungry I brought back some Indian food from Tessa's place. You remember my girl Tessa. You and her built houses with sugar packets at the Chucky Cheese when you were little at one of your birthdays. It is some kind of chicken ticki something and some kind of vegetable pancakes with no wheat (how the hell did those camel jockeys do that?) (hahaha) So go a head and grab some out of the fridge if your hungry. It is Tessa's weird health food shit but it actually tastes not so bad if you tell yourself it is just breakfast bbq or something like that (hahaha) Maybe a little of that Heineken will help it go down better hahaha? (just kidding you should not be drinking at your age)

This is just a quick note but I want you to know this whole thing with your mom and dad will blow over. Trust me. It is good sense on there part to send you over here. You should be able to count on your other family when these kinds of stuff come up and it is hard on the kid, I know (remember when I had all the same stuff a few years a while a go with your aunt and uncle. trust me.) I know its tough stuff but you know you can always count on me for advice if you are confused about something or just want to talk. You have always been very mature and understanding for your age and that is a damned zippy thing to have in this world let me tell you something.

I know you are not the type to take things the wrong way and that is also a good thing to have. misunderstandings can really shit things up in work home and even in traffic. You are very mature for your age and so i know you do not take things the wrong way. Like the other day when your teacher called and you thought you were in trouble. But you just left something back in the class. We had a good laugh over that didnt we? (hahaha) or like when I came in the other night when you were asleep in the couch and I had a little bit too much (hahahaha) you know I sometimes crash on the couch when that happens and sometimes Tessa is with me. and I was just a litle confused is all that it was. my hands get away from me sometimes you know (you remember watching my baseball games right) (I got piss poor say over my hands you know?) (hahaha) You have always been the real quiet independant type sharp to boot. I know your sharp enough to know your mom and dad do not need any more stress now then they got and any way we both know it was just an accident right? I know you are a smart kid and these sort of things are no problem for you to understand.

just a quick note

All my love Big cuz Marty

Horse sense

Eddy wanted to kick himself underneath the desk when he looked from the side of his eye and saw that Barbara girl still standing by the doorway. She was looking dead at him. She was watching his broad brown hands, watching his stern booming mouth, watching him circle and scrawl around everything that the Wilkes boy had fucked over on his essay. Eddy should have called out the names.

If Eddy had called out the names, he could still talk to the list of kids who were failing or cheating or coming to class all blitzed to shit, could help them untangle the christmaslights of ink around their eraser skidmarks, could talk to them. If he had made out a list of them. Then when he didn't call out Barbara's name, and she hung around at the door anyway instead of catching the bus, then the other kids would give her Looks and then maybe she would be tugged out the door by her own little strings.

Eddy hadn't, though. Next time he would.

"Where you get this essay done?" Eddy aimed the question at the Wilkes boy's paper, and only then did he look at him. He didn't talk and look at the same time. Eddy had a strong voice, and if he talked and looked at the kids at the same time it seemed to scare them. He never really looked them in the eye, either, "In the library? In your room?" for the same reason.

The Wilkes boy let his hands wiggle in his pockets. He was trying not to lick his lips. He was sweating, under his coat. "Kitchen table." He smelled like a restaurant booth.

Eddy could smell him, and he smelled like a restaurant booth. An infant mash of food and musketeer tang of silverware and nicotine and fake red leather. The Wilkes boy probably worked, probably bussing tables on top of school. Had lied and said he was eighteen, had thirty hours a week on top of school. Had probably pulled this essay out of his ass on his smoke break.

Eddy glanced up at the Barbara girl by the door. She could hear every word they were saying.

"Kitchen table?"

"Yesser."

"At home?"

"Yesser."

Eddy looked at him again. He didn't say anything. After a moment, the Wilkes boy rattled his throat and licked his lips, and only then did Eddy look away.

"Try it again. One more time. Look here - at the notes I got written down for you." Eddy found a free margin, and used his inkpen to matador a loopy red DON'T BULLSHIT ME. Then showed it to the Wilkes boy. "Alright?"

He licked his lips again. Then again. He was sweating, under his coat. "Ye-- uh, yesser."

"Freetime on the weekends?"

"A little, yesser."

"Try to get it to me on Monday."

The Wilkes boy nodded a few times at the floor. He had a sadly handsome face. The broad jaw and eyebrows of a redboned black boy. Redboned was what they called it. Or maybe it was just regular handsomeness, and Eddy was making it up to be sad all in his head, because of the circumstance and all.

Maybe, even, Eddy was just making the Wilkes boy up to be handsome, just so that Eddy could make it up to be sad. Eddy didn't like spinning his wheels over things like that though, so he let the thought slip out the door along with the boy. He was gone with a dry chuckleshuffle of his clearance sale coat. The restaurant smell, that took a little longer.

Eddy almost started talking to the Barbara girl, almost asked her what it was she wanted, but he didn't. Eddy ignored her. He knew what she wanted, anyway, just like he knew how she would lie about it. He began packing up his folders and his lunchbox into his tortoisebrown suitcase and ignored her.

"Mr. Burcher?"

He didn't say and kept packing his things, but he looked up. She was still over by the door. She was dressed up very fine, like a diningroom table, and she was holding herself like a torch, and she was looking at Eddy like he was the last cookie in the box. She wanted to come up on him hard and Eddy knew he was in trouble.

He wouldn't have, if last week, Barbara hadn't asked him over for dinner. To meet her parents. Her mama made a mean everything she told him, showing off her teeth. They were neat and her gums were berrypink. Everything. What did he like the most? Her parents would love to meet him.

It sounded like an alright idea, until she started rubbing his thigh with hers.

And though Eddy was a rational human being, with a conscience, and a will, and self-control, Eddy was also a human being, and goddamn if the girl didn't give him a taxing of nature. She wasn't quite pretty but they never needed to be. She was young and vibrant, and showed her teeth, and she was firm in the right places and soft in others, and she smelled like something that Eddy couldn't remember but knew was good.

"I didn't really understand the assignment today, Mr. Burcher." He felt her seizing him up: tracing the curtness of the ass in his slacks, the liquid anger of the posture of his spine, the pulleys in his neck. "You thought about dinner, any? You think you could help me out with it over dinner?"

Quickly she added "With my parents. They'd love to meet you." Her teeth were neat and her gums were berrypink.

Smiles weren't smiles for Eddy, though. They didn't put him at ease with people. Smiles were just bared teeth, smiles were a display of weaponry, and that was because of his grandaddy's horses. They smiled, too. They smiled when their manes and tails were tugged too hard.

Eddy remembered watching them, the redandwhite pintos and piebalds on his grandpa's little sharecropper slice of land, in Georgia maybe. He remembered ducking under the gate, remembered his nose stung by the horse smell and hay smell and also dirt. He would sit back and wait for the horses to see him. And they would turn their big fire engine bodies broadside, would flip their ears and watch, would twitch their skins while Eddy came up on them to play a devil with their manes and tails.

One of the big mares though, a swaggery, jittery, kidneycolored nag, she turned to face him head-on. He was maybe eight. And even though Eddy had never seen a horse turn head-on like that, had only seen them turn broadside or else saunter away and leave him be, something small and quiet yanked Eddy's wires to make him stop dead and back away. Once he was far enough the mare went back to grazing.

His grandaddy and a friend had been watching by the gate. They were gossiping and sucking on sugarcubes because they had used up the cigarettes. When Eddy stopped dead and backed away, the friend laughed, loud, one time, and slapped his thigh.

"You see that?" The friend pointed a finger that wouldn't quite straighten. "That, right there? That boy got a good head."

"Good common sense." Eddy's grandaddy never smiled much when he talked. He waved Eddy over and scrubbed his head. "Where they teach you horse sense in the city, huh?"

Eddy didn't know what to say to that. He asked for a sugarcube.

"Little man with horse sense deserves a sugarcube, I think." The friend grinned and offered one. Eddy ate it slowly. "You get a boy with good horse sense, he do alright."

Then the men watched the mare for a little while. Eddy wasn't sure what they meant, or what the mare had done, but the sugarcube tasted nice.

He tried to make like that mare, just then. In the classroom. He turned his body full-on at the girl and looked at her hard. His jaw swelled. His spine unfurled and his shoulders appeared, and his nostrils flared and his chin rose up to show the Roman column of his throat, and Eddy tried very very hard to make himself into a bigger thing.

She was coming up on him and maybe if he said something she would have stopped. He didn't, though. Next time he would.

"If you could explain," she told the buttons on his shirt. Her hand was cooking him, was burning holes in his slacks. "I just didn't really understand, is all." She smelled like something that Eddy couldn't remember.

I could never be vegetarian

because I would begin to salivate like a stormdrain each time I passed a mirror. I would stain my shirt. I would turn cannibal. My friends and family and lovers would be sat in the center of their own crosshairs, made by the shallow crux of their collarbones and sternums and the gumdrop hollows of their throats, and my tablemanners are shameful to begin with. Life must end somewhere. If not on my plate, by my hands and by my mouth, then by someone else's. Blame must end somewhere. And if my plate and my hands and my mouth were left empty for too long, with no friends and no family and no lovers handy, then the weaselcolored penitentiary of my teeth would turn on its own tongue and then I would be not only a murderer but a mute. I suppose words, too, must end somewhere.

In school they told us A place for everything, and everything in its place and I have always liked that. The phrase is smooth, smooth and even, even in its weight and its sound and its dishonesty, a creamy tincan cobra, and I have always liked that. That a pale child slick with illness or a grating scraping bank account or a working father's shattered spine, or the would-be moral lighthouse on the corner of everystreet, whose soapbox has left with a mouthful of foam and a voice like a 21-gun Salute, or crows, or malaria - I have always liked the idea that these things have a place. That they can be neatly sorted, and shelved, like books in a library. I am almost certain that words must end somewhere.

They taught poorly with their freshwatervoices while we perched like canaries in our tumblefurnace classrooms, but I learned. Am still learning.

I am learning that even confidence is a kind of resignation

((I'm pretty sure this is some sort of quasi-sequel to the wannabe Parisian from a few months back. Stuff like "I suppose" and "salivate" aren't things that I use a whole lot.

It's weird, tapping into a voice more than once!))