Friday, April 2, 2010
Trailhead - Jennifer Baljko
I’m ones of those people, one of the few that actually stops at the trailhead and reads all the signs posted by the park service. There’s ton of information right there for the taking, just waiting to be absorbed. Mostly, I usually want to know what animals might be lurking out there in the bush, which plants will give me a deadly rash, and which insects may want to try to crawl up my pants. By taking a few minutes, I have learned how to protect myself against bobcats and wild pigs at Sawyer Camp Trail in California’s Bay Area. And, how to prevent being mauled by a black bear in the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area on the NJ-Pa. border. And, how to make sure pumas don’t mistake me for dinner in Argentina’s El Chalten park. See, all useful information for people who like playing the worse-case scenario.
Trailhead - Judy Radin
We leave from the trailhead on the Eel River side of the parking lot. It’s early spring and the streams are flowing fast and heavy. The trail is lined with giant redwood trees, the kind that only grow in Humboldt County. They tower above, forming a rooftop that protects us and the river from the scorching sun.
For the first time in over ten years I am on vacation and nothing hurts. Even after several four- hour stretches in the car on twisty, bumpy roads my body is relaxed and pain free. At the last minute Jason runs back to the car to get my walking stick. I protest. I hate using that thing. But he’s right. With my two artificial hips and several herniated disks, my stick frequently comes in handy.
The park is deserted. We can hear the river flowing even when we can’t see it. The sound of trickling water is hypnotic. The trail goes up and down the riverbank. After forty minutes I’m still not tired. Usually my knees or hips ache when I walk up hill. Today, though, my boots and walking stick are keeping me steady my feet. I only have to reach for Jason a few times, when the ground is uneven or slippery. The air is clear and crisp and the sun glistens through the trees. Birds chirp in the distance. It’s a perfect day.
We arrive at one of the park’s campgrounds in about an hour. It looks like a construction site. We were hoping to be able to check it out for a subsequent trip but it’s all boarded up. We sit on a boulder and cool off under the shadow of a scrub oak before heading back.
Jason stares at the trail map, looking for ways to get back to the car. I’m accustomed to watching him pour over maps. Whether we’re in Chicago, Cuzco, London or Paris, he always tries to find alternate ways to get us from one destination to another. You see more that way.
“Feeling adventurous?”
I hesitate. “Kind of …”
Jason shows me the map. “We can cross to this other trail here and then cross back over there.”
He points out the parking lot.
“How do we cross?”
“It says there’s a footbridge.”
“Sounds good. Lead the way.”
We pack up our water bottles and head across the river. The path is a raised sand bed, wide, flat and easy to navigate. On the other side the trail. This trail is narrower than the first trail, with more twists and uneven ground. It reminds me of Muir Woods, where one side of the valley is at water level while the other side is up near the tree tops. It’s an adjustment at first, getting used to the more rugged terrain, but I hardly have to reach for Jason to help me with balance.
“Glad I have my stick.” We both laugh. I always say that.
After about an hour we arrive at our destination. The river is much wider here than where we crossed earlier. And it looks deep enough for swimming. I see the parking lot just across the way. It looks so close. We search for the footbridge but all we see is a big log, connecting the two riverbanks. That can’t be it.
Jason goes to the water, to check out the log.
I walk around the bend. No bridge there, either. It’s just a beautiful, majestic, northern California river, meandering along its path. I walk back to tell Jason.
“Looks like we’re trapped!” I hear my words, but for some reason I’m not worried or scared.
“Didn’t you do the balance beam in high school?”
“Yes, but that was a long time ago – and I had real hips.”
“Want to see if you can walk on the log?”
“No way!”
“Just check it out. If you don’t feel safe we’ll figure something else out.”
I slide down the damp, slippery hillside, using my stick like a ski pole. In the ten years since my two hip replacements I’ve been avoiding doing things like sliding down hillsides. One slip and my hips could pop out. But I arrive safely on the sandy bank with a plop. Jason looks at me with wide eyes.
“You did that very well.”
“Thanks – now where’s that log?”
I try to balance myself, but the fear of falling over and cracking my hips – not to mention my skull – keeps throwing me off. I wobble and shake. I tighten my abs and my butt but I just can’t balance myself.
“Maybe I can crawl.”
I try getting down on all fours, but the lumpy bark hurts my knees.
Jason comes over to help me up and gives me a hug. “We’ll figure something out.”
We have two choices. We can walk back to where the two trails split and return to the car on the original trail, or we can somehow wade across. Neither choice appeals to me. Walking back will add two hours to our hike and I am already so tired and hungry. All I can think about is the leftover turkey sandwich from the café in Garberville that’s waiting in the car. Boy do I want that sandwich.
“I guess we’re going to have to wade across.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I’m not at all sure I can make it across but I won’t tell him that – not until I try. I have my stick, my Gore-tex hiking boots, and an improved set of hip and leg muscles thanks to Mike, my new trainer. How hard can it be? I can hold onto Jason if I have to.
I stand up, roll up my pants, and plant my stick in the sand. “Let’s go.”
Jason follows me. “Don’t forget you can grab me.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
Jason finds a shallow spot for us to cross. The water comes up to the middle of my leg, just below my knee. The textured bottoms of my boots hold me in place. Jason leads the way.
The water isn’t too cold. I was expecting it to be like ice water. My boots fill up like balloons. I hear and feel a slosh with every step. It’s like walking on a water bed, and like a wet foot massage. Slosh, step, slosh, step. One foot at a time, one step at a time.
“I’m doing it!”
The current is strong. I grip my stick and Jason’s hand. I think of Mike and how proud he will be when I tell him what I’ve accomplished. I take it slow, letting myself feel the full force of the river.
For the first time in over ten years I am on vacation and nothing hurts. Even after several four- hour stretches in the car on twisty, bumpy roads my body is relaxed and pain free. At the last minute Jason runs back to the car to get my walking stick. I protest. I hate using that thing. But he’s right. With my two artificial hips and several herniated disks, my stick frequently comes in handy.
The park is deserted. We can hear the river flowing even when we can’t see it. The sound of trickling water is hypnotic. The trail goes up and down the riverbank. After forty minutes I’m still not tired. Usually my knees or hips ache when I walk up hill. Today, though, my boots and walking stick are keeping me steady my feet. I only have to reach for Jason a few times, when the ground is uneven or slippery. The air is clear and crisp and the sun glistens through the trees. Birds chirp in the distance. It’s a perfect day.
We arrive at one of the park’s campgrounds in about an hour. It looks like a construction site. We were hoping to be able to check it out for a subsequent trip but it’s all boarded up. We sit on a boulder and cool off under the shadow of a scrub oak before heading back.
Jason stares at the trail map, looking for ways to get back to the car. I’m accustomed to watching him pour over maps. Whether we’re in Chicago, Cuzco, London or Paris, he always tries to find alternate ways to get us from one destination to another. You see more that way.
“Feeling adventurous?”
I hesitate. “Kind of …”
Jason shows me the map. “We can cross to this other trail here and then cross back over there.”
He points out the parking lot.
“How do we cross?”
“It says there’s a footbridge.”
“Sounds good. Lead the way.”
We pack up our water bottles and head across the river. The path is a raised sand bed, wide, flat and easy to navigate. On the other side the trail. This trail is narrower than the first trail, with more twists and uneven ground. It reminds me of Muir Woods, where one side of the valley is at water level while the other side is up near the tree tops. It’s an adjustment at first, getting used to the more rugged terrain, but I hardly have to reach for Jason to help me with balance.
“Glad I have my stick.” We both laugh. I always say that.
After about an hour we arrive at our destination. The river is much wider here than where we crossed earlier. And it looks deep enough for swimming. I see the parking lot just across the way. It looks so close. We search for the footbridge but all we see is a big log, connecting the two riverbanks. That can’t be it.
Jason goes to the water, to check out the log.
I walk around the bend. No bridge there, either. It’s just a beautiful, majestic, northern California river, meandering along its path. I walk back to tell Jason.
“Looks like we’re trapped!” I hear my words, but for some reason I’m not worried or scared.
“Didn’t you do the balance beam in high school?”
“Yes, but that was a long time ago – and I had real hips.”
“Want to see if you can walk on the log?”
“No way!”
“Just check it out. If you don’t feel safe we’ll figure something else out.”
I slide down the damp, slippery hillside, using my stick like a ski pole. In the ten years since my two hip replacements I’ve been avoiding doing things like sliding down hillsides. One slip and my hips could pop out. But I arrive safely on the sandy bank with a plop. Jason looks at me with wide eyes.
“You did that very well.”
“Thanks – now where’s that log?”
I try to balance myself, but the fear of falling over and cracking my hips – not to mention my skull – keeps throwing me off. I wobble and shake. I tighten my abs and my butt but I just can’t balance myself.
“Maybe I can crawl.”
I try getting down on all fours, but the lumpy bark hurts my knees.
Jason comes over to help me up and gives me a hug. “We’ll figure something out.”
We have two choices. We can walk back to where the two trails split and return to the car on the original trail, or we can somehow wade across. Neither choice appeals to me. Walking back will add two hours to our hike and I am already so tired and hungry. All I can think about is the leftover turkey sandwich from the café in Garberville that’s waiting in the car. Boy do I want that sandwich.
“I guess we’re going to have to wade across.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I’m not at all sure I can make it across but I won’t tell him that – not until I try. I have my stick, my Gore-tex hiking boots, and an improved set of hip and leg muscles thanks to Mike, my new trainer. How hard can it be? I can hold onto Jason if I have to.
I stand up, roll up my pants, and plant my stick in the sand. “Let’s go.”
Jason follows me. “Don’t forget you can grab me.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
Jason finds a shallow spot for us to cross. The water comes up to the middle of my leg, just below my knee. The textured bottoms of my boots hold me in place. Jason leads the way.
The water isn’t too cold. I was expecting it to be like ice water. My boots fill up like balloons. I hear and feel a slosh with every step. It’s like walking on a water bed, and like a wet foot massage. Slosh, step, slosh, step. One foot at a time, one step at a time.
“I’m doing it!”
The current is strong. I grip my stick and Jason’s hand. I think of Mike and how proud he will be when I tell him what I’ve accomplished. I take it slow, letting myself feel the full force of the river.
A Death in Kitchiwank - Karen Oliver
Kitchiwank looked like a picture book town. Big oak and maple trees lined the street, the mailman was known by everyone and he knew every dog, There was only one cop and his deputy. When they found the body, everyone knew in five minutes. Down by the river, it was a man, no, a woman. Murdered, no drowned. Eaten by animals or not or mutilated or not. Lots of officiousness on River St., yellow tape and flashing lights and serious expressions as half the town waited and watched.
When they came out with the body of a huge buck, killed by a lion, we all smiled ruefully at our silly conjectures.
When they came out with the body of a huge buck, killed by a lion, we all smiled ruefully at our silly conjectures.
A Death - Rebecca Link
Gary my husband had returned to Atlanta for business while my daughters, the dogs, and I stayed in Naples, Florida. It was a handful without Gary because the backyard wasn’t fenced in and the dogs would have to take their potty breaks on a leash. We had two dogs, Josie a black lab that we had rescued, and Samantha a dark red golden retriever. My daughters were only four years old at the time. Behind our house was a retention pond that was home for a nine-foot alligator. We called animal control about it and they said they knew about the alligator but it was only nine feet long and they don’t remove the alligators until they are ten feet long. I guess that extra foot makes all the difference.
Samantha had not been feeling well. She was only ten years old and up till now had been very healthy. She started heaving and throwing up bile in the corners of our living room. Her food would be left untouched in her ceramic doggie dish with bones painted on the side. She would lay on the cool white tiles in the living room and pant. I called the vet and he told me to take her water up and not to feed her for twenty-four hours. Around 2:00 in the morning she came beside my bed. Her legs were shaking and she was having trouble standing. I turned on a brighter light to see her more clearly. I took my pastel printed quilt from my bed and put it and my lavender pillow on the carpet beside her. I laid awake the rest of the night gently petting her back and softly singing to her.
I got the girls up early in the morning. I made them breakfast and got them dressed for preschool. I told them we had to take Samantha to the doctor first. They wanted to know what was wrong. I started to cry. From the time Samantha was one year old if I started to cry she would come running, bark and start licking me until I would stop. She tried to come from my bedroom into the kitchen where we were standing. Her feet separated as if she were doing the splits as she collapsed. I carried her and carefully laid her into the back of the car on top of three soft blankets.
I carried her into the vet’s office with both my daughters starting to cry as they followed me. I would continually reassure them she would be all right, but in my heart I knew it wasn’t so. I felt something was very wrong. I left her on the floor in one of the examining rooms while I dropped the girls off at preschool. When I returned to the doctor’s office Samantha was panting heavily and laying on her side in the same room that I had left her.
The doctor said I could stay while they ran tests on her. I sat beside her on the floor and petted her telling her how much I loved her. They told me to let her rest and they would call me with the results. The nurse hugged me and said they would take great care of her.
I couldn’t bear to leave her. It pulled at my heart to walk away.
I cried all day. My thoughts went back when I found her so small and afraid at the pet store in Dallas. She was Gary’s birthday present. She was with me through everything. All of my miscarriages she slept beside me and gave me such love. I told her everything and she would stare into my eyes as if she understood. When we brought the girls home from Russia she greeted them and licked them. They were her babies too. She was my friend and my life was better because of her.
Gary flew home that night. I was so happy to have him home. The nurse called the next morning and said Samantha had gotten up and walked outside on her own to potty. It gave me hope. The doctor called a half an hour later and said she wasn’t doing well and that it was her heart. The third call I answered and when the doctor paused I started crying
Samantha had not been feeling well. She was only ten years old and up till now had been very healthy. She started heaving and throwing up bile in the corners of our living room. Her food would be left untouched in her ceramic doggie dish with bones painted on the side. She would lay on the cool white tiles in the living room and pant. I called the vet and he told me to take her water up and not to feed her for twenty-four hours. Around 2:00 in the morning she came beside my bed. Her legs were shaking and she was having trouble standing. I turned on a brighter light to see her more clearly. I took my pastel printed quilt from my bed and put it and my lavender pillow on the carpet beside her. I laid awake the rest of the night gently petting her back and softly singing to her.
I got the girls up early in the morning. I made them breakfast and got them dressed for preschool. I told them we had to take Samantha to the doctor first. They wanted to know what was wrong. I started to cry. From the time Samantha was one year old if I started to cry she would come running, bark and start licking me until I would stop. She tried to come from my bedroom into the kitchen where we were standing. Her feet separated as if she were doing the splits as she collapsed. I carried her and carefully laid her into the back of the car on top of three soft blankets.
I carried her into the vet’s office with both my daughters starting to cry as they followed me. I would continually reassure them she would be all right, but in my heart I knew it wasn’t so. I felt something was very wrong. I left her on the floor in one of the examining rooms while I dropped the girls off at preschool. When I returned to the doctor’s office Samantha was panting heavily and laying on her side in the same room that I had left her.
The doctor said I could stay while they ran tests on her. I sat beside her on the floor and petted her telling her how much I loved her. They told me to let her rest and they would call me with the results. The nurse hugged me and said they would take great care of her.
I couldn’t bear to leave her. It pulled at my heart to walk away.
I cried all day. My thoughts went back when I found her so small and afraid at the pet store in Dallas. She was Gary’s birthday present. She was with me through everything. All of my miscarriages she slept beside me and gave me such love. I told her everything and she would stare into my eyes as if she understood. When we brought the girls home from Russia she greeted them and licked them. They were her babies too. She was my friend and my life was better because of her.
Gary flew home that night. I was so happy to have him home. The nurse called the next morning and said Samantha had gotten up and walked outside on her own to potty. It gave me hope. The doctor called a half an hour later and said she wasn’t doing well and that it was her heart. The third call I answered and when the doctor paused I started crying
A Death - Anne Wright
Will walked behind the casket as the pallbearers led him to the front of the church. He walked as though he were moving through cold water, pulling his legs forward, his body following their lead. His head was down. His shoulders curled forward like a defeated animal. As he passed by our pew I wanted to stretch my arm out to help him, but John, sitting next to me tightened his grip on my hand.
I think the funeral went on a little too long. One after another of Diana’s friends, then her brother read rambling remembrances, choking and crying, then laughing, a few feeble caws to hide their grief. I tried to pay attention but I sat as still as I could, eyes closed, not even wanting to swallow, until my saliva went down my throat in a gulp so loud I imagined the organ player could hear it. Behind my closed eyelids my mind rested in a spotty grey fog and waited for it all to be over. When I felt John nudge my arm I awoke from like from the dream; I wasn’t asleep but I felt fuzzy all over. I opened my eyes. The church was dim, we were all dressed in dark colors hoping to be diminished in the shadows, and we all stood up stiffly when it was over.
I think the funeral went on a little too long. One after another of Diana’s friends, then her brother read rambling remembrances, choking and crying, then laughing, a few feeble caws to hide their grief. I tried to pay attention but I sat as still as I could, eyes closed, not even wanting to swallow, until my saliva went down my throat in a gulp so loud I imagined the organ player could hear it. Behind my closed eyelids my mind rested in a spotty grey fog and waited for it all to be over. When I felt John nudge my arm I awoke from like from the dream; I wasn’t asleep but I felt fuzzy all over. I opened my eyes. The church was dim, we were all dressed in dark colors hoping to be diminished in the shadows, and we all stood up stiffly when it was over.
The Knocking - Darcy Vebber
At the beginning of so many screenplays, a person is asleep. Sometimes there is a dream, sometimes just an alarm clock. Digital numbers flash. The main character awakens, confused. If there is a spouse, the spouse raises up on one elbow and asks, What is it?
Lisa was asleep on the couch, sitting up with a sleeping bag draped over her legs and one of Bobby's meditation books in her lap. The fabric of the sleeping bag made a disturbing slithering sound when she moved and then it slithered off her legs to the floor. No spouse, no digital clock. Stillness all around her.
Someone was knocking.
She was so tired, and at that place in the sleep cycle where the sense of self is lost. Who she was only came back slowly to her. The place, a cabin in the Berkshires, late in spring, far from her apartment in L.A. settled around her, waiting for her to guess. She knew there was someone at the cabin door. That simple imperative, the calling of a person outside the door, was clear. Come. Her heart was pounding when she got up.
Bobby was there, thin and also a little frightened. Tendrils of his wild, dark hair fell across his pale forehead. He wore running shorts and a high school sweatshirt and moved his feet in his running shoes as if to keep his legs from cramping.
The two of them looked at each other for a long moment as if they had each been startled out of sleep.
"You locked me out."
Her legs were trembling. Only this morning, she had been in L.A. waking up in the dark there to a call from a taxi service. She was certain then that she hadn't really been asleep. It had been days since she had really slept. Even on the plane she was awake, painfully aware of it, shoulders, neck, knees. "I was asleep."
"I see that."
There was a moment then when she might have said the things she had planned on the wakeful flight from L.A. to Boston and in the car, deep in to the mountains but she couldn't get the words in order. Before she saw him, it had seemed very important to her to say certain things, to tell him all about his place in her life. In a screenplay, it would be a nice speech. There would be cutaways to his grateful response. In life, in the oddly lit room, chill night air coming in the open door, it made no sense at all. Of course he was important to her. Otherwise, what would she be doing here?
"Did you bring food?" he finally asked.
Lisa was asleep on the couch, sitting up with a sleeping bag draped over her legs and one of Bobby's meditation books in her lap. The fabric of the sleeping bag made a disturbing slithering sound when she moved and then it slithered off her legs to the floor. No spouse, no digital clock. Stillness all around her.
Someone was knocking.
She was so tired, and at that place in the sleep cycle where the sense of self is lost. Who she was only came back slowly to her. The place, a cabin in the Berkshires, late in spring, far from her apartment in L.A. settled around her, waiting for her to guess. She knew there was someone at the cabin door. That simple imperative, the calling of a person outside the door, was clear. Come. Her heart was pounding when she got up.
Bobby was there, thin and also a little frightened. Tendrils of his wild, dark hair fell across his pale forehead. He wore running shorts and a high school sweatshirt and moved his feet in his running shoes as if to keep his legs from cramping.
The two of them looked at each other for a long moment as if they had each been startled out of sleep.
"You locked me out."
Her legs were trembling. Only this morning, she had been in L.A. waking up in the dark there to a call from a taxi service. She was certain then that she hadn't really been asleep. It had been days since she had really slept. Even on the plane she was awake, painfully aware of it, shoulders, neck, knees. "I was asleep."
"I see that."
There was a moment then when she might have said the things she had planned on the wakeful flight from L.A. to Boston and in the car, deep in to the mountains but she couldn't get the words in order. Before she saw him, it had seemed very important to her to say certain things, to tell him all about his place in her life. In a screenplay, it would be a nice speech. There would be cutaways to his grateful response. In life, in the oddly lit room, chill night air coming in the open door, it made no sense at all. Of course he was important to her. Otherwise, what would she be doing here?
"Did you bring food?" he finally asked.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Phone Rang - Darcy Vebber
The phone had been ringing all morning. In her pocket, on the dresser, next to the stove. It started before she even made coffee. She let the messages pile up.
The day was spectacular. The wind from the desert had cleared the air, made L.A. smell of sage instead of car exhaust, brightened the light, sharpened the shadows. Lisa opened the windows at her kitchen sink and looked out over Hollywood, feeling, briefly at least, like the master of her world. If only life were more like a board game and she would be allowed to stay where she was, no slipping back down the track. That would be ideal. Keep the apartment, they would say. Keep the lovely espresso machine and the coffee that is delivered every month from a cooperative in Mexico. Keep the view, the day, the weather, the comfort of knowing where everything is and what is to be done.
Begin again from there.
The phone was like an insect, buzzing crazily where ever she put it down. The vibrations actually made it move, as if it could not contain its news. She was glad she’d resisted the Blackberry. The avalanche of emails was piling up in her computer. As long as she didn’t turn it on, they would stay there, behind the screen.
None of the calls, none of the emails would be from Helen asking her back. This was something she let herself know for an instant or two at a time, as the water heated in the espresso maker, when the light clicked on, watching the milk bubble in the steamer. The job, which was like a relationship in so many odd ways, was not working out. The position was evolving, the needs changing. It was time, really for Lisa to move on. It was for the best. Or better anyway, for both of them. Helen had fixed Lisa with one of her strange dark eyed, truth seeking gazes and said you don’t want to be here.
Most of the calls were from people in her phone book, names and photos appearing on the caller ID like some kind of cartoon of life flashing before her eyes. Here are all the people who know you and care about you, in Hollywood anyway. It was nice that there were so many. She admitted that to herself. Nice, too, that so many were outraged. She had sampled enough of the messages to know that.
She poured the frothed hot milk from its metal pitcher into the wide mouthed cup she had bought when she bought them machine. It was sky blue and there had been two of them until her sister broke one. They’d been fighting and Kate insisted on doing the dishes, insisted she was not so drunk, so unreliable as Lisa claimed. Lisa unsnapped the coffee holder from the machine and tapped the little brick of used espresso into its bin.
She took the cup and the phone to the kitchen table and sat, sipping and watching the screen.
The day was spectacular. The wind from the desert had cleared the air, made L.A. smell of sage instead of car exhaust, brightened the light, sharpened the shadows. Lisa opened the windows at her kitchen sink and looked out over Hollywood, feeling, briefly at least, like the master of her world. If only life were more like a board game and she would be allowed to stay where she was, no slipping back down the track. That would be ideal. Keep the apartment, they would say. Keep the lovely espresso machine and the coffee that is delivered every month from a cooperative in Mexico. Keep the view, the day, the weather, the comfort of knowing where everything is and what is to be done.
Begin again from there.
The phone was like an insect, buzzing crazily where ever she put it down. The vibrations actually made it move, as if it could not contain its news. She was glad she’d resisted the Blackberry. The avalanche of emails was piling up in her computer. As long as she didn’t turn it on, they would stay there, behind the screen.
None of the calls, none of the emails would be from Helen asking her back. This was something she let herself know for an instant or two at a time, as the water heated in the espresso maker, when the light clicked on, watching the milk bubble in the steamer. The job, which was like a relationship in so many odd ways, was not working out. The position was evolving, the needs changing. It was time, really for Lisa to move on. It was for the best. Or better anyway, for both of them. Helen had fixed Lisa with one of her strange dark eyed, truth seeking gazes and said you don’t want to be here.
Most of the calls were from people in her phone book, names and photos appearing on the caller ID like some kind of cartoon of life flashing before her eyes. Here are all the people who know you and care about you, in Hollywood anyway. It was nice that there were so many. She admitted that to herself. Nice, too, that so many were outraged. She had sampled enough of the messages to know that.
She poured the frothed hot milk from its metal pitcher into the wide mouthed cup she had bought when she bought them machine. It was sky blue and there had been two of them until her sister broke one. They’d been fighting and Kate insisted on doing the dishes, insisted she was not so drunk, so unreliable as Lisa claimed. Lisa unsnapped the coffee holder from the machine and tapped the little brick of used espresso into its bin.
She took the cup and the phone to the kitchen table and sat, sipping and watching the screen.
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