Still Life, by carole jardins

slice o' life

staff o' life

life n' death

LESS

by betsy aaron

-My health food store raised the price of roasted free-range chickens from $6.99 to $9.50 but they put canned organic beans on sale: 3 for $4.

-I found a delish Spanish wine, Tochuelo, a blend of garnacha and tempranillo for $6.99. It goes really well with rice and beans.

Malden Ave., from Houses+Hunger Stories

by Betsy Aaron

Jerry

Why do change-of-address forms require residents to fill in the blank with a permanent address? This is not a riddle; I am a government employee and I don’t have the answer. In my experience, people don’t stay in one place, houses do. And now, even that’s not true. I’m out walking the streets every day except weekends but the changes don’t happen then, they happen so close to the front of your face that you don’t notice: there’s morning fog and next thing you know, it’s lifted. First, the Honey Bucket arrives, then the construction crew. Last summer right here on Malden, 1515-A, 1515-B, 1515-C and 1515-D went up in the space where 1515 stood alone since the start of last century. That’s four times the amount of mail to deliver.

If you were looking for streets to stroll on, you wouldn’t head this way unless you were scouting for properties to snag. First, there’s the burnt-out corner lot where the Gundersen house stood until last Christmas Eve. Of course the next day was a federal holiday, so by the time I arrived on the scene, even though you could still see tiny geysers of smoke from beneath the charred remains of living room, it seemed to me like the entire family had been erased. When I uncovered a soggy gift with the toe of my hiking boot, and found a one-eyed doll in need of last rites, I felt like a detective, not a letter carrier. I’m told that their mail now gets barged to a San Juan island so maybe they’re not coming back. No goodbyes. They’ve probably sold their lot to one of the condo developers. Before spider season ends, I wouldn’t be surprised if another two-tone four-unit townhouse sprouts up in place of the perennials. If I re-built the Gundersen house, I’d paint it green for the one blue spruce that’s left to shade the space that used to be porch.

Then there’s Althea Morton’s eyesore. My supervisor tells me she’s living in the house she was born in. Unusual. If you peek in—not that I do, unless the mail piles up for more than a couple of days and then I check for signs of life– you’ll see the hand-cranked laundry tub that her mother bought new, the peeling kitchen linoleum with the sun-dial pattern in the center, and the flowered wallpaper that probably got water-stained before my grandparents came over from Macao. Lots of residents don’t receive a cable bill—people who aren’t engineers or computer geeks need to practice thrift in this town– but Althea doesn’t even get the catalogues. And, she uses an icebox. I know because when I was first assigned this route, she tried to hand off a Swiss chard casserole as a Christmas tip.

Free, from Houses+Hunger Stories

by Betsy Aaron

Ever since my wife Dori died, I can’t stop myself cleaning so I’ll just say it: thank God I’ve been robbed. The Deputy said it looks like the work of Don Ainsley’s twins over on the north side of Crescent Lake. Word is they’ve been cleaning out the weekenders’ cabins mid-week since early spring. Those boys got the weed-whacker and the VCR we bought on sale at Price Club just this January, my La-Z-boy, the washer/dryer, our dinette set including table and four matching chairs. They got the mattress, the boxspring, the emergency twenties we hid underneath, the inflatable raft, they even took Dori’s brown paper bags filled with marigold seeds from last year’s garden. Nothing beats the bugs out of tomatoes better than marigolds.

Dori and I spent happy afternoons here at the lake. We didn’t always talk the day away; sometimes we’d just dangle our legs overboard and let the perch nibble our toes. Dori could really fish. They took the tackle box and fishing gear but left me the rowboat and oars. They cleaned out the last of Dori right down to the soft hairbrush that stroked her fine white curls. Didn’t leave a single strand, and I’m grateful. I won’t get out here again until well past Memorial Day. My daughter Candra wants me over in Livingston for a visit. I plan to take the long way home. Always wanted to visit Lake Ponchartrain just so I could say it out loud: Lake Ponchartrain.

I scoured out the whole Lake Forest house myself. Tried to give everything away in a garage sale but the neighbors wouldn’t take a thing for free. Not the waffle iron, not the cut-glass punch bowl still boxed in straw with the toy-sized dangling cups, not the water -resistant recipe cards for corn relish and pickled okra, not the sardine cans Dori used to mold handyman-sized soap. I couldn’t see myself selling her pink slip, soft in my sandpaper mitts like the inside of your cheek.

Road Trip, from Houses+Hunger Stories

by Betsy Aaron

Before Harlan took off in the yellow morning, we fell into a spontaneous dance to the slow rhythm of us. His embrace met me like home after a dried-up day. He felt sturdy, like an alligator juniper tree. He smelled of gasoline and leather and his own warm blood. He smelled like Harlan Davis, the man I met in Vegas last week. Before I could put the brakes on, I slapped him full in the face with an anger that seemed like it lived inside someone else. I’d rather be on the road headed anywhere than find myself alone, waiting in a motel room.

“Sugar plum, I’ve stored up every second of us together. That’s the movie I’ll be watching through my windshield, but if I don’t head up to Albuquerque right now I’ll never make it back tonight in time for our next dance.” He beamed at me full-strength.

“You’re not running out on me, are you Harlan?” I know first-hand about being the one who leaves without regret.

“I told you Jacquie, there’s nothing for me in Pahrump, if that’s what you’re working yourself up to. Virginia and me are through. I have some business that’s all.” He palmed the crown of my head.

“I believe that you believe what you’re saying Harlan, but one week out is not enough for me to bank on. I’ll need more by way of deposit than that empty pack of cigarettes you plan on leaving by what’s now your side of the bed.”

“Somebody’s sure done a number on you. Jacquie, I’m asking you- where’s your sense of trust?” Any possible answer melted in a tiny swallow before we kissed.

That’s how it went. One week out and Harlan plunks his moonstone and platinum pinkie ring down on my side of the bed and hits the road. Says he fell off the wagon in Vegas and now he’s back to counting ninety days of sobriety. Says he wants to clean up and fly right. He’s in a fragile way so I give him his space, but I take the ring for something to hold on to.

I’ve been sitting in this motel room since we got to town yesterday. I’ve been facing the bed Harlan barely slept in. I’ve been sweating it out on this scratchy chair, next to this greasy window fan that blocks out the bottom part of the day. The framed sky hangs over me, blue as a bruise. I never thought that when I opened the door, I’d be face to face with the New Mexico State Police.