Great Writers - W
Wayne Hankins lives in Corpus Christi, Texas. He studied creative writing, painting, architecture, computer science; he worked 25 years as a systems & software engineer in flight simulation trainers.
Seventy Years
Seventy laps around the sun seemed enough when younger.
Now done, I’ve become greedy and want many more:
because I still find all of this intensely interesting.
Everything about it still fascinates me:
the art of everything, culture, food/drink, life forms,
the vast universe with all its celestial bodies and our small planet,
science, math, life, living,
humans
with our amazing minds, hearts, souls.
These Rainier cherries are small
my enjoyment of them large.
Drinking coffee may seem a small thing
I assure you it is not.
Birthday wishes may also seem a small thing
but were not received that way at all.
Savor your days
and the people that have been in them.
Wes Jamison is the author of the Quill Prose Award-winning essay collection Carrion (Red Hen Press, 2024) and the chapbook and Melancholia (Essay Press, 2016). WEBSITE
Excerpt from Carrion
A cat could not have done it, not in such a manner: she’d have had plumes stuck between her pointy, yellowed, newly-rounded teeth and bird matter matted to her yellow fur and paws. Her claws would have penetrated the bird too deeply and too frequently, from trying desperately to hold onto this thing she loved. Instead of holding, drowning—suffocating. Her curved sewing needle nails would have eviscerated, making a mess of all this. This, however, was too clean of an operation.
*
The wings were somehow seemingly preserved. They were intact and pulled taught, choreographed to mimic life, flight—stick-straight and childlike. But they were beautiful, opalescent and changing color enough to signify movement, as if they could have been attached to something still, albeit something made immobile. Concrete-filled. Iron and wood and carbon. Trojan.
They were unsurprising, those wings, lying on the sidewalk. They were exactly what I would have thought of—indeed, what I likely have thought of—when I imagine bodiless wings. Except for those two bulbous protrusions, those cartilageless balls. Wings are clipped, and they are flat. When I think of the anatomy of a bird, I do not think of joints or sockets: the bird is always either whole or already completely ravaged.
*
But I imagine that ripping off the arms of an animal would be like pulling out a tooth. Your own, a loose one, only a little gum partially adhered; only sinew and skin keeping it in that socket, covered in feathers. Perhaps frightening, especially that first time, if you do it yourself and it doesn’t just fall out, but at some point, you gather the strength to just do it. Then the rubies are exposed, moist and round and polluted with the fiber and tissue that did not separate. And you salivate and tongue the wound.
William Henneberger is the publisher, “editor”, graphic designer, salesperson, and writer for The Vent Daily: A Monthly Publication.
PRISON CAMP PLAYLIST TRACK 14 Werewolves of London – Warren Zevon
I love Tom Cruise. So what if he’s nuts or part of some religion crazier than all the other crazy religions? When I look at Mr. Cruise I see a go-getter, a winner who conquered dyslexia and Katie Holmes. Say what you will about the zealous movie star, but I will always be a fan, and not just because of my family’s odd connection to that charming man.
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If I had to praise one thing about this Federal Prison camp it would be the individual showers, but if I had to praise two things, the second would be the Recreation Department. Some long-time guests of the Federal Bureau of Prisons say that Rec is better behind the fence at the larger, low-security prison down the street or even at other camps, but for a short-timer like myself it’s hard to complain. Sure, the Trivial Pursuit set was from 1995, but any later edition might put those who have been ‘down’ (incarcerated) for the last 20 years at a disadvantage.
My favorite leisure activity on the inside was playing pool, which accounts for my early purchase of this 1980’s hit by Warren Zevon. There is no Google in prison so I’m operating by memory alone, but in my mind Werewolves of London was part of the Color of Money soundtrack. Specifically, played over one of several Scorsesian montages of pool-hustler Vincent (played by, yes, Tommy Cruise) doing his thing. His thing being sinking shot after shot and swinging his pool-cue around like a certain reptilian-martial-artist-inventor. I listen to Werewolves of London on repeat through my headphones while I play the sport of criminals. Now if I could only make a shot.
++++
According to my mom, once upon a time my old man was a fairly successful pool hustler. She speaks fondly of the times she would head out of the bar just before a game concluded to position the car for a quick getaway. I remember my dad first introducing me to this geometric art in the bar owned by his mother. During an early 80's Christmas visit to my Depression-era Grandparents double-wide trailer home, dad and I walked the fifty yards to Penny's Place where I stood on a crate to reach the velvety green plane. My old man gave me my first English lesson before the professional drunks arrived. The novelty of this adorable scene must have worn thin because I don’t recall playing much pool with my dad as I grew older. If he was trying to avoid his misspent youth, he could have at least given me some pointers in that too.
In the month between finding out my prison date and turning myself in, my top priority was to spend as much time as I could with my children, especially my 8-year-old daughter. We watched all 6 Star Wars movies (my picks) plus Ponyo, Spirited Away and Annie (hers). We practiced pitching for kickball and I took her to her first Pool Hall. I'm sure it is the prison-time talking but one thing I’ve decided in here is that when I get out I'm going to turn my daughter into a billiards prodigy. She seemed to enjoy the game and took to it well. I’m also pretty sure I’m the only idiot father sending her letters from prison, explaining the rules of 9-ball. I can already imagine the Color of Money reboot with Tom in Paul Newman’s role and introducing Suri Cruise as Lillian, the young pool shark hustling for enough cash to bail her dead-beat-dad out of the slammer. You’re welcome Hollywood.
In 1985 my dad was an extra in Top Gun. The Tony Scott adrenaline rush was filmed in part, at Miramar Base near San Diego, CA, where we were stationed for the greater part of the 80’s. Toward the end of the movie when the crew of the Aircraft Carrier surrounds Maverick to celebrate whatever vague mission he had accomplished, one of those unidentifiable sailors is the man who squirted me out 30-some odd years ago. The background role was no big deal, certainly unpaid and nothing that would qualify him for S.A.G. membership, but dad did bring home an autographed photo of the actor. That leads me to believe that under the right circumstances he might actually express some appreciation for the Arts, specifically if his dead-beat son was to ever write a book or maybe a Top Gun remake starring Suri Cruise as a young hotshot fighter pilot, taking on the rogue nation that has her daddy locked up (I'm in a very particular headspace these days).
Most likely, my apparent daddy issues are part of the reason I've always wished to excel in the art of sticks and balls. On the outside my allotted billiards time diminished, due to the distractions of everyday life. I never practiced enough to get great. I could win 7 out of 10 games when I played anyone in my circle and I was content with what my dad might call mediocrity. Surely he can still easily put me in my place over that green felt, if he ever took the time to try… (one tear).
+++++
In prison camp I spent 2-3 hours a day playing pool. The winner held the table so a good portion of these hours consisted of waiting for my next game. To get in line you knock on the table and find out who is last in line. There are two worn-out but functional tables and about twenty inmates who played regularly (ten who played daily). I learned in my skateboarding days that if you want to get good at something it's best to practice with people who are better than you. With this in mind I had no problem getting destroyed by a big black inmate named Ross. (I’m still talking about pool, sicko). I could beat Ross about twenty percent of the time but my dormant geometric skills were awakening, and he could see that I was no joke. He started to give advice at a ratio of one tip for every three insults. Ross was a good friend and while we ended up here through very different criminal ventures, we had a lot in common, like watching independent films, political views, and misguided intelligence. A couple of months into my sentence, Ross broke his arm, yet continued to run the table on me regularly.
If prison pool isn't your preference there are plenty of other options from board games to ball games to leather play, I mean leather craft, even spinning. The recreation department for someone with a relatively short sentence seems bottomless, but I understand how these activities could stale over the years.
Sedentary time killers include Trivial Pursuit, Scrabble and my personal favorite, Risk. No Monopoly—I heard that was because the money could be used as some form of prison currency. No game of Life, probably since we've already lost at life—no need to rub it in. Just remember when you check out a game, those dice better be in the box upon return. The recreation boss cop does not take kindly to bathroom corner crap games. There are also some random 1000 piece puzzles. You can assemble the one of cute little kittens and get a sorry excuse for a YouTube fix.
Dominoes, chess sets and playing cards can be purchased through commissary. Pinochle cards can also be brought at the store but since I don't have the slightest idea what pinochle is, I'm not going to mention it any further. Table games are only allowed after four pm. By 6:30 it's almost impossible to find a flat surface not being used for some kind of play. If a locker is empty, turn that baby on its side and shuffle up. After some new friends taught me how to play Gin Rummy and spades, among several other games, I realized how quickly you could burn through four or five hours. Anything you can learn to eat up the month/year is very much appreciated in Prison camp.
Health conscious prisoners have an even greater selection of activities to maintain weight and physical condition. The track and exercise equipment are available all day long. If your prison camp job only takes an hour or two you can take advantage of your free time. Most of us, however, work until three p.m., which is when the Rec Yard explodes like an inmate at a conjugal. (Sorry that was uncalled for. Conjugal visits don't even exist anymore; that was just gratuitous sexual imagery. I have a problem.)
Prisoners look at you strangely if you opt to stay indoors in the afternoons or weekends. Even the guys who don't participate in team sport will at least go walk the track once in a while. Then you have the guys who really walk the track— ten to fifteen miles a day. However, much like in the Old West, not many people run for fun. With hours and days and months and years of exercise time, it's common knowledge to go for a low impact routine.
+++++
Another link in the Tom Cruise connection chain: my younger brother was an extra in the War of the Worlds reboot. He was in a group of background actors who, along with Tom and a Fanning progeny, were running through a field to escape death by alien laser-beam. I don't want to infringe on a story that isn't mine, but you get the point: my family must be cosmically bound to the greatest actor of most Tom Cruise movies.
+++++
Aside from walking/running you can also pick from a variety of sports according to the season. Basketball is mostly six on six pick-up while football, volleyball, softball, and futbol are more organized. With only 200 campers, the sport leagues usually consist of about four teams who go 'round and 'round with one another. Handball is the most popular sport, basically racquetball without the racquets and against only one wall. I tried it a few times but wasn't willing to callous the palms of my prissy little creative-class hands. There were racquets available but getting by in prison requires one to fine tune the art of minimalism.
If you prefer a little less cardio you can demonstrate your hand-eye coordination at the horseshoe court(?) field(?) sandbox(?). I'm going with sandbox. If tossing footwear still stresses your heart rate, you might need to take it easier and roll some bocce ball, the only game with benches incorporated into the court. Not to brag, but those benched ballers say I'm a natural, a real bocce phenom.
For anyone who hasn't yet given up on his bodies, working out is a big deal. Some campers build their entire routine around their regimen. I get it; if you’re losing years of your life inside, you want to make the most of the time you will have in the free world. Staying healthy and living longer is the only way some inmates can gain back the five, ten, or twenty years some guys have paid for their crimes. I'm lucky enough to have dropped weight simply from the lack of fast food. Either that or the couple of times I went to softball practice really paid off.
I've never been in a Tom Cruise film, but I’m darn sure going to try and keep this odd new tradition going, and hopefully even pass it along to my son. Still, if missing Maverick is my lot in life, maybe getting Goose is a good enough consolation for this gander. When I was 11 years old, watching one of my dad’s softball games on Naval Air Station Kingsville, one of the young sailors next to me asked if I had seen Top Gun. Of course I had. He informed me that Goose from the movie happened to be in the stands, spectating. Amazed, I scrambled for pen and paper and politely approached him for an autograph. He signed my scratch piece of paper. I was ecstatic. What were the odds of Goose being in Texas and at my father’s softball game? I gave it about as much thought as any kid with just over a decade of Earth residency would. Cut to, one divorce and two custody battles later I was almost an adult, properly jaded and much more cynical about life and all of its serendipitous celebrity sightings. I found myself wondering about this bizarre encounter and figured I now had the where-with-all to find out if that really was Maverick’s co-pilot and Meg Ryan's beau or if 11-year-old me was just being pranked by a couple of trashcans. It didn't take much detective work. I dug the autograph out of the bottom of a drawer and immediately felt my first ever dose of mortification as I read on the torn-edged slip of paper, not the signature of actor Anthony Edwards, but instead the printed word; “GOOSE”.
William j. Chriss is an attorney, historian, and political scientist who has taught American history, Texas history, constitutional law, and political theory at Texas A&M -- Corpus Christi.
Blasting Off to Blasingames
World War II changed the world and Corpus Christi forever. Locally, the big changes were obvious: the military presence in Corpus Christi, gas rationing, post-war prosperity. There were also smaller, subtler byproducts.
The large influx of military and support personnel (and their families) and a shortage of civilian teachers put quite a burden on the Corpus Christi Independent School District. Eventually, some public schools were forced to run "half sessions." Half of the students in each class attended in the morning and the other half in the afternoon, with the teacher pulling long hours and "double duty."
Many worried about how this stopgap necessity would affect the education of children, particularly younger ones. One local educator did something about it and thus unwittingly founded an institution many local residents fondly remember.
When she married and moved to Corpus Christi, Dorothy Blasingame thought she had left teaching behind and become a homemaker. She had no intention of running Corpus Christi's only non-parochial private school for two decades, nor did she realize in the 1940s that soon her kindergarten would provide hundreds of children with their only "headstart" in the days when there was no Headstart program. All she wanted was to be sure her own children and their friends got the fullest education possible at a time when teachers and equipment were in short supply.
So, she decided to end her retirement and start her own school. She and her husband Charles, who was a principal at Wynn Seale Junior High and later at Austin Elementary, lived in a one-story house on Austin Street near Incarnate Word Academy. When he got home from school, Mr. Blasingame worked on filling in the backyard with sand for a playground, and later he added a second story to the home. Meanwhile, Mrs. Blasingame began teaching a few neighborhood kids in her living room during the day. Soon, unexpected demand created the need for more expansion. A kindergarten room was added to the back of the house, and a first-grade classroom was added behind the detached garage (with Mr. B. doing most of the work himself). By the late 1950s, the Blasingame home had three classroom additions, one for 1st grade, one for kindergarten, and one for pre-kinder. They housed two full-time teachers besides Mrs. B. and a part-time teacher of music and Spanish (which were both mandatory). The kids just kept coming.
Gradually, Mr. and Mrs. Blasingames' little home turned into an entire junior academy. There were trees to climb and swings and slides to play on in a sandbox as big as your backyard, and there were midmorning snacks and orange juice from Mrs. B.'s kitchen.
It was here that many of us learned colors and letters and numbers. It was here that we made our first friends and had our first experiences as pupils. In fact, the first time I ever had my picture in the paper was when a Caller-Times photographer came and took photos of my little kindergarten class climbing trees in Mrs. Blasingames's backyard/sandbox. I was five years old.
I'm not even sure that schools like this were "accredited" in those days. I do know that there was never a problem transferring to public school after completing the course of studies at "Mrs. Blasingame's." CCISD Superintendent Dana Williams and most of the school board members were quite familiar with the quality of the school. With its small class size, its mandatory Spanish and music programs, and its high-quality teachers, Mrs. Blasingame's was ahead of its time. It wasn't expensive, and it wasn't exclusive. It was just a good school where everybody cared and where you could always get an emergency hug or peanut butter and jelly sandwich if you needed one.
Mr. and Mrs. Blasingame have passed on now, but the house remains. The sand is gone, but the trees are still there, silent witnesses to the childhood follies and foibles of some local adults you probably know, adults who, in quiet moments of memory, see themselves in an old station wagon, carpooling to school. As we thought of the recesses and the orange juice to come, gleefully we sang our silly little anthem: "We're blasting off to Blasingames!"
Sirens
I can’t sleep. Sirens whine and pulses of light flash red on the walls of this dingy hotel. There are only ten channels on the television and no wifi, and I’m stuck another night. All the flights home had departed by the time those New York lawyers finished interrogating the witness. Their hourly rates are higher than mine; certainly their cost of living is, so I understand. It’s a long time since our firm, too, had more than enough work, a long time since the days when practicing law was an adventure and billings were mere bookkeepers’ annoyances. I remember trying ten or fifteen cases a year with files only two inches thick – comp cases, fender benders, divorces, DWIs, and occasionally the more complex civil case or white-collar crime.
But maybe more than the law practice has been transformed. Maybe I was different then, too. Maybe I’m just growing old, inexorable change befuddling my calcifying brain. Maybe everything was wrong. Maybe I just took the wrong path. Maybe I’ll never rest, never feel that I can go up to my house justified, never, like the prodigal son, come to myself and return where I belong. Maybe that place where I belonged is gone.
This kind of racing inner monologue keeps me awake more and more these days. The last in a long string of failed relationships ended two years ago when Jennifer stopped taking my calls or acknowledging my texts. We started out well enough, but like several before her, she eventually came to pity my failure to conquer the world. I used to be afraid to die alone. Now living, and even dying, alone is the only liberation I know of or hope for. I have grown used to the idea. I pronounce it good. What choice do I have? I’m tired of being hurt.
I must finally have dozed off. Awakening to find a grey dawn peeking through the curtains, I figure my partners won’t begrudge me a long trip back. And maybe the client won’t flyspeck the travel time charged for this deposition on the next invoice. I should be able to drop by the museum before heading to the airport and still get back to North Padre by dark. I’m not crazy about museums, but Michael told me of a painting here. In my current state of mind, any suggestion might bring an epiphany, so I shower, shave, and set out into the icy morning.
The museum down the street is small and old. Most of the art is uninteresting. “Where is the painting of Odysseus?” I ask an usher in a silly red coat.
“In the next gallery to the left.”
And there indeed it is, surrounded by a heavy wood frame with a small brass plaque reading: “Odysseus and the Sirens by Herbert James Draper, 1909.” I am struck by the image of Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship, straining against the ropes, head thrust forward in anguished longing for the evanescent female beings flitting along the rails of the boat. They are singing, chanting, moaning, songs of home.
“It speaks to one, does it not?” The accented voice startles me from behind. French? Austrian? I turn to see its owner, a bearded man in oddly formal attire.
“I guess,” I mutter.
“Yes, well, I would judge that you are old enough to have been taught such stories in school before they were deemed irrelevant. It must have been quite a test for poor Odysseus, don’t you think? Ten years of war at Troy; ten years of wandering after; cursed by the gods; far from home; captured by the Cyclops; seduced and enchanted by Circe and Calypso; drugged by the lotus eaters; and yet somehow never losing the desire to return home… home to his long suffering wife Penelope. And so when he entered the waters inhabited by these lovely nude creatures, as Draper depicts them, isn’t it strange that he did what he did?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, “And I’m not sure there ever was a Penelope, then or now.”
“Yes, but think on this part of the story. Odysseus knew the siren song was irresistible, that …ah…it had lured all the ships before him onto the rocks, and so he tells his men to fill their ears with wax and to row for their lives no matter what they see. But here is the interesting part: he needs to hear the song himself; ah…he accords to himself the privilege of hearing the song, and so he does not plug his own ears. Instead he has the men tie him to the mast so he can do nothing to stop the progress of the ship. He is the hero, the adventurer, but he is also the wise man. He thinks ahead to protect the crew…and himself...from his need for mystical experience. Without the wisdom, the experience will ruin him; he will never get home.”
“Whatever that might mean.”
“Yes,” the old man says, “whatever that might mean, and I suppose it acquires a more difficult meaning when one gets to be Odysseus’s age, about the same age as Hemingway when he died, and, I would think, perhaps about the same age as you.”
I turn my attention back to the painting. Odysseus’ eyes are agape, almost crazy. The sirens appear pale, ghostlike, mesmerizing. They hover close to Odysseus’s oarsmen, who are looking directly at them without expression, apparently oblivious. Is the crew blind as well as deaf? Or are the sirens somehow personal to Odysseus? When I turn back to ask the old art critic, he is gone.
The ride home is uneventful: the TSA lines, the usual change of planes in Houston. My little Lexus waits where I parked it at the Corpus Christi airport, and the drive over the causeway is, as always, an exercise in decompression. My little first floor condo is undisturbed and I toss my stuff onto the bed, change into my shorts, and throw a woven Mexican “drug rug” hoodie over my shirt. I slip into my “aloha slap” sandals and step out toward the beach for a walk, locking the door behind me. It’s chilly, but not frigid like it was in New York.
I like winter at home: no surfers; no Spring Breakers; few humans – mostly old snowbirds from Illinois or Minnesota who claim to be fishing, but who are, in reality, worrying over their various ailments and wishing they had the money to be in Palm Beach or Fort Lauderdale. And hardly anyone walks the beach at dusk this time of year. Most of the tourists have gone inside to warm up by now.
I leave my slaps at the edge of the pavement, my bare feet hitting the cold sand. Waves roll in like muffled thunder. The falling sun streaks orange trails to the west, and a yellow moon rises over the ocean as I trudge on. I like to walk in the wet no-man’s land between the ebbing and waxing waves. Here the starfish and sand dollars live and die and the tiny subterranean bivalve crustaceans filter their food from water they suck down the little chimneys they blow in the sand.
The beach feels almost deserted; just a few oldsters with ice chests or chairs ready to be packed up. I wave as I pass.
The next stranger is farther distant. The sun is almost gone and reveals only the outline of a lawn chair occupied by a figure with one knee crossed over the other: male or female? The top leg kicks in the air, a burnished silhouette of arched foot, pointed toe, slender ankle, and long calf. The form and the motion betray the truth even at this distance. I’ll probably keep my head down. No point in making conversation. But at fifty paces the woman waves a greeting, and for reasons that are still unclear to me I veer up the sloping sand toward her. Maybe it just made sense to approach any sign of welcome.
I open with, “Do you like watching the sunset?”
“Yes it’s beautiful.”
“But you’re facing the water. The sun’s behind you.”
“Doesn’t matter; it’s still beautiful,” she says. “How about a beer?”
I haven’t had an invitation like this in a while and I’m leery, but “sure,” I say, even though I’m not crazy about beer. And when she hands me the bottle I tell her the half-truth that I am a writer. “I collect stories,” I claim. “Tell me yours.”
She introduces herself and shakes my hand, then invites me to sit in front of the shallow pit she has dug where a few small logs burn. The sand is cold, but soon the fire envelops us in warm pungent smoke.
“Where did you get the wood?” I ask.
“I bought it down the road. I try to think ahead.”
She is plain and fortyish but not unattractive, visiting from Wisconsin, half German and half Japanese by ancestry she say, with short dark hair and almond shaped eyes. Two hours later, I feel I know her. Both her parents died young and she cries about that. She says she is happily married with three sons. By then we are lying face-up in the sand on opposite sides of the fire, gazing at stars in the indigo dark, and she has come to know me, too.
“Can’t you relax?” she asks after I have finished both the beer and my complaints about life.
Am I shaking from the chill or my anxiety, or both? She downs her third glass of wine and moves closer. “Why are you so jittery? It’s a beautiful night, and I’m not coming on to you,” she promises, even as she reaches out and touches my shoulder ambiguously.
“I’m sorry; I’m afraid of everyone,” I admit. “I don’t trust anyone anymore.”
“You aren’t afraid of me, are you? We’ll never see each other again.”
“Yes,” I say, “I am.”
The full moon, now silver, hangs directly above us, encircled by a halo of cloud that expands outward in a spiral. My heartbeat and breathing begin to slow.
“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” I whisper. “It’s incredible…dome-like…makes me feel like I’m in a church.”
“Hey,” she responds, “pick a star, any star. Pick a star and make a wish.”
I do, and we talk about it, and about our respective wishes and dreams, as the fire slowly burns out.
At some point the smoke begins to dissipate and I realize we have been here for hours, alone in the dark. Fear, an old friend, rises again within me. What if she has some scheme to entrap me or accuse me of something? How can I explain what we are doing here, even though it’s totally innocent? What would I say if cross-examined by her husband? What would I advise a client in this situation?
I stand. “It’s time for me to go.”
She rises in response and I reach out to shake her hand again, this time in parting.
“Let’s do one of these instead,” she suggests, laying her arms around my neck and leaning her torso into me. I glimpse an inquiry or invitation in her eyes, one I ignore. Instead I hug her closer to hide my face behind her shoulder, but she pulls back and kisses my temple chastely. “I hope you find what you are looking for,” she says.
“Goodbye,” I reply, already walking away toward my empty room. As the building’s outline grows in the moonlight and I near the sidewalk, I can just hear music coming from the bar down the beach, Steely Dan:
Well, the danger on the rocks is surely past.
Still I remain tied to the mast.
Could it be that I have found my home at last?
Home at last?
Six Constitutions Over Texas by William Chriss is available.
SIX CONSTITUTIONS OVER TEXAS: TEXAS’ POLITICAL IDENTITY, 1830-1900
(Published by Texas A&M University Press)
(text reprinted with permission of the author and publisher)
Introduction: POLITICAL IDENTITY AND CONSTITUTIONAL MOMENTS
... This book examines Texas’s six constitutions as windows into the changing political ideologies of the Texans that adopted them. Its approach to these events is amalgamated from two schools of historical criticism: the theories of “otherness” (alterite’) and of comparative constitutionalism. Scholars of “otherness” study the process by which societal elites define themselves by marginalizing, subordinating, and dominating competing minority groups as outlandish antagonists that must be suppressed to protect good social order. Comparative constitutionalists believe that constitutions reflect the ideologies and identities of those who produced them. Flashpoints of radical political and social change are usually “constitutional moments.” Because identities mutate over time, combining these two perspectives allows one to see how law, the ultimate tool of social control, solidifies a culture’s dominant self-conception by othering minorities.
Using this perspective, the chapters that follow analyze Texas’s constitutional moments. First, I argue that constitutions should be understood in the English tradition, literally those various legal and political arrangements that combine to “constitute” a society or state, of which a written constitutional document is only one, albeit an important one. Second, this book sees Texas as an imagined community, an identity produced by ideological consensus among economic, cultural, and legal elites. Third, its overarching perspective is that one important way in which Texan identity was imagined and held together was by defining those who were not members. To cite just one example, economic and political exigencies of the 1830s and 1840s quickly amalgamated slaves, Indians, and Mexicans as dangerously savage and interconnected enemies within Anglo-Texian consciousness. No historical account of nineteenth century Texas should ignore this fundamental psychological and ideological reality ....
With respect to Mexicans and Tejanos, this book begins by discussing their Spanish heritage, their encounters with Anglo colonists, and the Mexican government’s initiatives to limit Anglo immigration and abolish slavery in Texas. In the case of slavery, the personal correspondence of influential Texians like Stephen F. Austin, William Barret Travis, and Ben Milam makes clear that, practically speaking, the protection of a slave economy was an important part of what they were fighting for. This is not to deny that Texian leaders, some more than others, truly believed the abstract republican ideology permeating their anti-Mexican pronouncements and policies, but they believed it only for white males and largely theoretically. It is also not to deny that simple rejection of greater central control by Mexico was an important factor in the Texian revolt. But at the most visceral level, the Texians’ deepest fear was that the newly centralized Mexican government would emancipate the thousands of slaves already in Texas, and if resisted by Anglo settlers, would ally with Tejanos, blacks, and Indians to expel them. Escaped slaves already had a long history of cooperation in maroon communities in Florida and the lower South, and Indian attacks on the Anglo settlements remained a real threat well into the 1840s and beyond. History, it must be remembered, is human, contingent, and complex. The truth of the past is elusive and usually multifaceted, involving a myriad of perspectives, causes, and effects. Even at its simplest level, each individual actor has conscious, subconscious, and often facially contradictory motivations. History does not lend itself to oversimplification or all-encompassing theories.
Once the US-Mexican War of 1846-1848 defused political or military threats from south of the border, northerners soon replaced Mexicans and Tejanos as the feared agitators of racial insurrection. This situation continued through Reconstruction and culminated during the period from the end of Reconstruction in 1873-1874 to the early twentieth century when class consciousness began to overlay racial fears. In the crucible of industrialization, urbanization, and social upheaval, cooperation between African-Americans and poor whites became the reigning cultural and political nightmare of the Anglo elite. The successful legal and political segregation of these two groups in the early twentieth century established a new dominant identity: conservative Anglo progressivism. That worldview, or elements of it, proved robust. Some aspects of this view have been dubbed “exclusive nationalism,” “jingoism,” or even “machismo,” and some scholars use other names. It is here often referred to as “conservative modern Texas.” It is an ideology characterized by a view of the world that includes belief in: 1. American national uniqueness and superiority; 2. Texan uniqueness and superiority as the ultimate expression of true Americanism; 3. Anglo-American cultural superiority; and 4. government regulation of domestic profit-seeking activity only to the extent necessary to promote growth and forestall significant redistribution of wealth or power within society ...
This book deals with how Anglo Texans went about creating their political identity over three quarters of a century, and the impact of those decisions. Six Constitutions over Texas moves through the nineteenth century in segments that tie historical events to their contemporary constitutions and political ideologies. The prologue gives an overview of the constitutional history of Spanish and Mexican Texas prior to independence. Chapter 1 deals with the Texas Revolution and Constitution of 1836. Chapter 2 covers the Constitution of 1845 and the period from 1837 to the Secession crisis of the 1850s. Chapters 3 and 4 discuss Secession and Reconstruction, and their respective constitutions. Chapters 5 and 6 cover Redemption, the Constitution of 1876, and the emergence of modern Texas at the turn of the twentieth century. Like many other new perspectives, looking at history and political identity through a constitutional lens tends to complicate the conventional view of Texas history...
One of this book’s central questions is: how does republicanism coexist with a bigoted political or cultural identity? Finding an answer requires an exercise in “historical anthropology,” that is, an effort to reconstruct the thought-worlds of historical actors, and thus both their self-images and the myths and stories that resonated well enough with their contemporaries to make a difference. This is an approach associated with G.W. Hegel among others. This approach argues that understanding societies involves analyzing their dominant ideologies and how they mutate over time. Hegel argued that change is characterized by a dialectic process where the dominant ideology of a time is challenged by an opposing view, and that this conflict produces a synthesis of the two, which then provokes a new opposing view, and so on through time.
The eventual victory of the modern conservative idea of Texas, one that melded South and West, and that favored pro-growth capitalism over civil rights or agrarian radicalism, was a result of a long period of what Hegel would call dialectics. In nineteenth century Texas, the process was encapsulated in the fifty-year career of O.M. Roberts. Seldom, if ever, has a historical figure been so instrumental both in creating a socio-political reality, and then in formulating the mythology that would summarize that reality for future generations. But, this twin feat is precisely what Oran Milo Roberts managed to accomplish as Texas’s paradigmatic nineteenth century prosecutor, politician, judge, orator, rebel, senator, “redeemer,” governor, chief justice, university founder, and finally, its historian. Indeed, part of Six Constitutions is a meta-history, the history of how a history (or a mythology) came about, and how it came to be so resilient.
From 1855 to his death in 1895, Roberts was “present at the creation” of every major political act of hegemony in Texas, or else defined it after the fact, or both. One vignette of the many at hand illustrates his influence. After chairing the Texas Secession Convention and raising a regiment to fight in the Civil War, Roberts was elected to the US Senate by Texas’s first post-war legislature. However, when he travelled to Washington in 1866 to take his seat in the Senate, he was met by the old Texas unionist Andrew Jackson Hamilton in the halls of Congress, who explained to Roberts that he had made his journey in vain. Hamilton warned that, like the other members of the Texas delegation, Roberts would never be seated as a Congressman because of his unreconstructed ex-Confederate views. Roberts’s indignant reply was, “Jack, let me just tell you something! Me and my sort will in the near future control the destiny of Texas.” He was right. As the reporter of this incident, Texas Supreme Court Clerk Alexander Terrell, observed: “(i)n 1874, after the white race had, by the election of Governor (Richard) Coke, resumed control of the State Government, Judge Roberts was appointed Chief Justice of the Supreme Court,” and a mere four years later, he was elected governor.
Terrell’s identification of Roberts with the political victory of the “white race” after Reconstruction was apt. Earlier in the same year that he was ineffectually elected a senator, Roberts had been an influential member of Texas’s post-war constitutional convention where he stated his avowed purpose to be the formation of “a white man’s…Gov[ernment]t’ that will ‘keep Sambo from the polls.” In the twelve short years from 1866 to 1878, O.M. Roberts rose from disenfranchised secessionist pariah to governor of the state. By the 1890s, he had become its pre-eminent historian, founding the Texas State Historical Association. And his history of Texas, and those of his associates, dominated the 20th century imagination as much as his actions had dominated the politics of the century before.
But the victory of men like Roberts did not create a static political order. Challenged by the new ideologies of populism and progressivism, Democrats’ reassertion of control over Texas culminated in the rise of James Stephen Hogg in 1890 and of his friend, kingmaker E.M. House. House and his cohorts helped elect a string of pro-business, pro-segregation, but “progressive” governors from 1898 to 1906. Hogg won acclaim as an anti-railroad champion of the common man but soon accommodated domestic business interests. After the Democrat-Populist fusion of 1896, the Democratic Party found a formula for lasting hegemony, one learned from the cooption of populism into progressivism: first, adopt a platform of moderate economic reform for poor whites, delivering the minimum required to maintain their allegiance to the Democratic Party; second, continue to subsidize railroads, urbanization, and industrialization; and third, play upon fears of blacks, Hispanics, and northerners to galvanize a ruling consensus among whites of all economic classes.
The six constitutions of Texas from 1836 to 1900 mark the watershed moments in this process. They epitomize the political and intellectual currents of their times.
William Walton grew up on a ranch in the Texas Hill Country. He graduated from Bandera Texas High School, then from Yale University. His collected fiction is available in Madmen and Fellow Travelers.
Or Even What Kind of Ship It Was
Casey was very drunk. He leaned his forearms on the cold, sticky stern rail and hung his head over the side. The sea was rough, and every time the ship rolled so did his stomach. His drink sloshed over, soaking his wrist and sleeve, but none of this distracted him from the memory of stone-faced mortuary people, condolences from friends, his wife in a body bag, nights alone, and whiskey—lots of whiskey.
Casey stared down into the dark turbulence of the ship’s prop wash, its trailing wake beckoning him. It would be so easy…
Shaken by his dark impulse, he jerked upright and gripped the railing hard with his free hand. He struggled to gather himself, to erase all memory, all thought.
As the ship plowed through the night roiling Casey’s stomach, the lights of another ship came into view. Casey felt strangely warmed by the lights of this passing vessel, even though the night was too dark and it was too far away to tell its name or even what kind of ship it was.
At least it has a destination, he thought. That’s worth something.
His sickness and despair eased, and all night he gazed into the blackness hoping to see the lights of still another ship that, if sighted, would pass from view just as surely and swiftly as the one before.
Embracing his solitude, Casey was soothed by the sound of the water rushing below.
Just before dawn, an over-friendly passenger found him, very hung over, still at the railing, the warm remnants of his drink in his hand.
“Up a bit early aren’t you?” asked the passenger, a big, imposing man.
“No, actually I'm up late,” replied Casey, looking up at him.
“Howdy. My name is—”
“I don't care what your name is.” Casey turned his gaze back to the water.
“Let's try again. What's your damned name?”
“Casey to my friends, but you’re not one of them.”
“Friendly son of a bitch, aren't you?”
“Yeah, well, you got it half right.”
“Hey, listen. We got off on the wrong foot. How about we start over? This is my first cruise. How about you?”
“Please just leave me—”
“My wife, Molly, and I think it's great. Our favorite spot so far is Cozumel. We plan to go back and learn to dive. Molly always says—”
“Look, I don't want to talk, okay? I'm looking for ships.”
“I don't see any ships.”
“There aren't any right now, but there will be.”
“I think you’re wasting your time.”
Casey turned and faced the man. “No, you are wasting my time.”
“And you are really being an asshole,” the man replied, his eyes narrowing.
“You know, you’re absolutely right. How would you like to go down to C deck and have some breakfast?”
“Fine idea,” the man replied, relaxing.
“Good. Why don't you go have some then” Casey suggested, “and leave me the hell alone.”
“No. I think I’ll kick your scrawny ass instead.”
“Look, why don't we just play a nice friendly game of 'toss 'em into the sea'?”
“And just what is that?” The man asked, balling his fists.
“I think it's self-explanatory. We try to toss each other over the rail and into the water. One of us goes for a swim and the other goes for a drink. My drink could use replenishing. So could I. Works out for me either way.”
“You’re one crazy son of a bitch. Good thing I’m in a good mood or your ass would be shark bait. I'm going to give you a pass. Consider yourself damned fortunate.”
“Not playing isn’t an option. I just hope I don't spill what's left of my drink,” Casey replied, stepping back slightly, turning sideways toward the man.
“You're a nut case. This is over nothing.”
“No it's not. I am looking for a ship. It's over everything.”
“I'm having no part of this, you sick son of a bitch.” The man's fists un-balled and he moved back a step.
“Okay. I'm going to give you a pass,” said Casey. “Consider yourself damned lucky. Turns out the game is optional after all.”
Maybe for me as well, he thought.
The man moved quickly away. Just as he disappeared from sight Casey shouted after him, “Say hello to Molly for me.” The man did not reply. And do it for yourself, man, thought Casey, every chance you get.
Casey remained at the rail until full daylight, hoping to see another ship. None came into view.
The next night found him standing at the railing again, but this time on the side deck of the ship, not at the stern. The moon, which the night before had been shrouded by clouds, tonight cast a silvery glow to the sea.
If only I could see a ship tonight, he wished.
He did not see a ship that night. There are, however, nights when Casey does see ships. He lives for those nights.
The Book of Jake
Jake sat on the shaded porch of his Texas Hill Country home well into his second six-pack of the afternoon. The porch overlooked a lush green pasture, backed by a thick grove of trees where half a dozen cows grazed lazily in the shade. Putting his feet up on the rail, he leaned his rocking chair as far back as it would go, crushing one of several empty cans strewn about the porch floor.
“Hey, Ellie!” he shouted. “How about bringing me a cold beer? I'm almost out.”
“Oh no, not out of beer. Anything but that,” Ellie answered from the kitchen. “I'll bring you one when I've finished what I'm doing. Or you could just get it yourself if you can still walk.”
“Okay, fine, just bring it after you do whatever is so damned important.”
“I'm preparing your dinner. Is that important enough for you?”
Great, but why do you have to give me such a hard time about bringing me a friggin' beer? He took another swig.
Turning his attention back to the field, Jake noticed a white light, distinct even in broad daylight, emerging from the trees. The cows began milling around, bellowing fitfully. As the light drew closer, their commotion ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The cows, lowing quietly, seemed drawn into its glow. Docilely, almost in formation, they kept pace as it continued its slow, steady movement toward the house, expanding as it came.
When the light moved so close it obscured everything else from view, Jake saw a figure standing in its midst. He closed his eyes and tried to compose his thoughts, focusing on the smells coming from Ellie's kitchen.
Crap, I've had way, way too much to drink.
When he opened his eyes, he fully expected to find the vision to be gone, but instead it appeared nearer, much too close for comfort.
The figure wore a white robe, which merged with the surrounding light. Its face was that of an older man, but one whose posture was very erect. His long hair and beard were shaggy and unkempt, and he wore a straw hat with its wide brim turned down in front. In his hand he held a gnarled staff with what appeared to be a Harley-Davidson logo on the handle. Despite the almost four foot elevation of the porch, the figure towered head and shoulders above Jake.
“Howdy,” said the apparition.
Jake sprang to his feet.
“No, don't get up,” said the figure, thrusting his arm forward, the palm of his hand toward Jake. Jake sat back down.
“Who...?” he asked incredulously, his hand trembling so badly he was barely able to hold onto his beer. “Who or what are you?”
“I'm God. Who else?”
“You look more like an over-sized Willie Nelson to me.” Jake immediately regretted his remark, hoping he hadn't angered the apparition.
“How'd you get to be such an expert on how I'm supposed to look?” the figure replied. “Besides, now that I think about it, you look a lot like John Belushi. Hey, just joking with you, fella.”
“Yeah, very funny. And why should I believe you're God? You could be the friggin' Wizard of Oz as far as I know.”
“Well, for openers, who else could appear before you bathed in a bright light? Not your Aunt Emma I'll bet. You ever see a light brighter than this?”
“Okay, yeah, I'll grant you it is pretty damned impressive,” Jake said, regaining his composure. “Great special effects. Got any other miracles up your sleeve?”
“Well, it just so happens I have a few. Here's a very minor one, just for illustrative purposes. Better put your beer down.”
“Why?”
“Just take my word for it.”
Jake set his can down on the table next to his chair. The chair began to vibrate, slightly at first, then more roughly.
“Well, Jake, what do you think about that? Not so good on the old hemorrhoids, eh? Yeah, I know you've got them.”
Jake burst out laughing.
“Who put you up to this crap?” he said, looking under the chair. “Okay, I don't see any wires. I'm curious how do you do it, but it doesn't really knock my socks off.”
Suddenly the chair started rocking so violently Jake had to grip its arms with all his might to keep from being thrown out.
“Yippee! Ride that sucker!” the apparition shouted.
Just when Jake was losing his grip, it stopped.
“I call that my 'Rodeo Cowboy Deluxe,' simple, but effective. Not feeling so skeptical now, are you?”
“N.., no,” replied Jake, struggling to catch his breath.
“Good. Unless you want to experience another of my little attention-getters, and believe me I've got some doozies, maybe we can get down to business.”
“What do you want from me? Am I in some kind of trouble? Oh, crap, I'm not dying, am I?”
“No, you are not dying, Jake. And you are not in any kind of trouble, unless you've done something I don't know about. Oh, wait a second, I know everything, don't I?”
“Then why would you appear before me?” Jake asked, oblivious to the joke. “I'm nobody special.”
“Quite the contrary, you are very special. I have chosen you to demonstrate a love for me, a faith in me, so absolute it shall be spoken of with reverence until the end of time.”
“Until the end of time? You gotta be kidding.”
“No, not at all. The Book of Jake, your book, will be the first one in the Third Testament of my Holy Bible.”
“Book of Jake, my ass. Now I know you're messing with me,” Jake said, relaxing slightly. “How are you doing this white light thing anyway? And why aren't you doing it in Vegas for big bucks instead of out here in the boonies? You're every bit as good as that ventriloquist guy who won America's Got Talent. Better maybe. You really had me going there.”
“Oh, you think so, do you?” The apparition, without warning, tossed Jake his staff. Jake grabbed at it, lost his grip and fumbled it, but it remained in his hand as if affixed by glue. Jake tried to shake it loose, but could not.
“What the— how the hell did you do that?” Jake asked. The handle of the staff had transformed into the image of a snake's head, turned up with its mouth opened wide. The roof of its mouth was as white as the surrounding light.
“Never mind. Just toss it down on the ground.”
“Uh, okay.” To Jake's surprise, it fell easily from his hand onto the grass where it turned into a living snake, a very big one. He didn't know what kind it was, but it moved menacingly toward him. Its tail vibrated so rapidly that it made a rustling sound in the leaves. It appeared fully capable of climbing the porch steps. He leapt to his feet.
“It's a water moccasin,” the apparition told him. “Cottonmouth. Every bit as poisonous as a rattler.”
“Holy friggin' shit, that's...No, I mean, crap, that's one big mother snake.”
The apparition chuckled. “That might actually be an understatement.” he said.
“Sorry. I was just caught by surprise.”
“Forget it. I had to do this with Moses when he doubted his ability to lead his people out of Egypt at my command. Believe me, it got his attention. Have I got yours?”
“Freaking-A, I mean, uh, darned right you have!”
“Good, now grab its tail, pick it up, and toss it back to me.” The snake's tail started vibrating again.
“Pick it up? It's a friggin' snake for God's, sake!” Jake caught himself, realizing he had taken the Lord's name in vain. “I'm sorry, I, I didn't mean to blaspheme.”
“That's okay. Almost everyone blasphemes when asked to pick up a snake.”
Jake smiled feebly. “But you're kidding, right? About picking it up?”
“No, not in the least,” the apparition replied. “I’m deadly serious.”
“Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of.”
“Jake, I command you to pick it up now! I don't think I can put it much more plainly than that. Now!” The air became warmer.
Heart pounding, Jake descended the steps, grabbed the snake by the tail, and it immediately reverted into the rough-hewn wooden staff. He lobbed it back to the apparition who, he was beginning to believe, might indeed be God. Weak-kneed, he stumbled up the steps, and sank into his chair. He gulped down the remnants of his beer, and dropped the can to the floor.
“Ellie,” he shouted, turning his head toward the door. “How about bringing me that beer now? Please!” Not only did he badly need one, but he hoped her presence would wake him from this delusion, if that's what it was.
“For God's sake, Jake, I'm trying to fix dinner,” Ellie hollered from the kitchen. “Why don't you get off your butt and go fetch it yourself? Not that you haven't already had enough to drink.”
“Damn it, Ellie, I don't need you ragging on me right now!”
Ellie came and stood in the doorway. “I'm not ragging on you. I'm working my tail off cooking your meal.” Without taking any notice of the apparition, she stepped onto the porch, picked up several beer cans, then walked back into the house.
“Okay, don't get all bent out of shape,” Jake shouted after her. “I'll get it myself. Sorry for asking.” He didn't know whether to be heartened or shaken that she didn't see the apparition.
Jake reached down, picked up his can, and turned toward the visage. “I gotta go get myself a beer. I suppose I'll have to get you one, too.”
“That won't be necessary,” the apparition replied, waving his staff. Jake's beer can was instantly full. The unexpected increase in weight startled him, almost causing him to drop it.
“Nice recovery, Jake. Didn't spill a drop. Pretty good reflexes you've got there.”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”
“Don't mention it. I've been filling your beers for years. Haven't you noticed how long it takes you to get through them sometimes? And how you drink better quality beer than you used to?”
“I thought my taste in beer had just evolved. I suppose you were teaching me?”
“Yes, and I am still teaching you. Now maybe we can get down to my business.”
“Okay, but first tell me if Moses led his people out of Egypt. I think the Bible says he did, but I'm not sure.”
“He did as I instructed. And even when my chosen people strayed and worshipped a false god, I forgave them and delivered them to the promised land. You, too, shall do my will.”
“What are you asking of me? I don't have anything in common with Moses,” replied Jake, confused.
“You are being way too literal. I only related Moses’s story to make a point about certainty of faith. So before I tell you what I require of you, we need to talk about the strength of yours.”
“It's pretty strong, I think. I believe in God, I mean you I guess, and all.”
“And do you believe that God would ever ask you to do anything wrong?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Suppose I asked you to steal food from a convenience store to feed some starving homeless people living under a freeway?”
“Then, I guess I would do as you tell me. But what about the Commandment 'Thou Shalt Not Steal?'”
“I see things that you don't, Jake. You would just have to trust me. Do you think you could do that?”
“I think so, but I wouldn't be comfortable with it. Is that what you want me to do, steal to feed homeless people?” Jake shifted in his seat uneasily.
“No, Jake, but I do require you to demonstrate that your faith in me is absolute.”
“Why me?”
“I don't have to explain myself to you. I'm God. Just trust me. Now, are you ready to demonstrate your faith?”
“How?” Jake asked, warily.
“I command you to sacrifice your wife, Ellie.”
Jake bolted upright from his chair.
“Holy shit! You want me to what? What do you mean, sacrifice?”
“I want you to slay her.”
“Slay? You mean kill her?” Jake began trembling uncontrollably.
The apparition waved his staff and a large knife appeared on the table next to Jake's chair. Jake flinched.
“Yes. Do it now. You can use that knife right there.” Jake recoiled from it, backing away several steps.
“Why, in God's name, would I do that?” he asked, wide-eyed.
“To demonstrate the absoluteness of your faith and that your love for me is limitless, as mine is for you.”
“I just said I have faith. I never claimed it was like Moses and all those big Bible guys. I'm just a regular person.”
“Not anymore. Your testament of faith, as inscribed in the Book of Jake, will be remembered and venerated for all time.”
“I don't want to be vener..., venerated.”
“Well, you shall be, Jake. Just do as I require of you.”
“Please don't ask me to do this!”
“Ask? Did I say ask?” The air got warmer again.
“No. No, I won't!” Tears welled in Jake's eyes.
“You would defy me?” The apparition's tone was now quiet and menacing. It got still warmer, and Jake began to sweat profusely.
“I don't want to disobey you, but I can't do this.”
“Yes, you can, Jake. Have faith that God would never lead you astray.”
“No, I can't. I'm not killing anybody, and Ellie is the last one on earth that I would harm,” Jake said, his eyes narrowing. “The Bible is supposed to be your word, and it says 'Thou Shalt Not Kill.'”
“Yes, and it says 'Thou Shalt Not Steal' too, but you were willing to do that. You either have absolute faith in me or you have none at all.”
“Then I have none. No, that's not true, I do have faith, but I don't believe you are God,” Jake said. “God would never ask such an awful thing of me.” He took several gulps of beer, then set down the can.
“Haven't you read your Old Testament, Jake? When I asked a similar sacrifice of Abraham, the life of his only beloved son, Isaac, he did not refuse. He did not hesitate. He was certain in his faith.”
“I don't give a rat's ass what Abraham did. You're not God. I don't know whether you're Satan or just voices in my head, but you sure as hell aren't God. And, if it's voices in my head, I'm not crazy enough to listen to them.”
“Abraham had the faith to do as he was told. Now, you shall do the same!”
“No, I won't do it!”
“Jake, obey me now! Your life depends on it. Your eternal one as well.” The heat became so intense Jake's shirt was instantly soaked.
Although the sky was perfectly clear, a bolt of lightning struck the ground a few yards from the porch, followed immediately by a tremendous clap of thunder. The pungent smell of smoke filled the air. It was then that Jake had his epiphany.
I'd never do that. I'd rather die than kill Ellie.
Immediately, his fear was lessened to the point that he was almost unaffected by the lightning strike.
“No way,” Jake said, picking up his beer. “Get off my property. Now!” Without realizing it, he'd squeezed the can so hard he’d crushed it.
“Defy me at your peril,” the apparition said in a quiet, ominous tone.
“Obey you at my peril, you mean, for I would surely rot in hell, or at least state prison, if I did as you command.”
“I'm going to say it one last time.” The apparition paused. “Trust me,” he urged in a less threatening tone.
“No!”
“Well, then, you have determined your own fate, Jake.”
The apparition put on his hat and began walking away. A few yards from the porch, he stopped, turned back, and tipped his hat to Jake.
“Know I shall always love you, Jake,” he said in a gentle, almost sad, tone, then resumed walking toward the woods, the light receding with him as he went, until he disappeared.
The light continued to fade until it, too, was completely gone, the air cooled, and Jake could see his surroundings again. The cows grazed contentedly, the sun was low in the treetops, and the sky was beginning to pick up the colors of the immanent sunset. He was relieved to see the knife was gone.
Jake needed, really needed, another beer. He stared at the ground where the apparition had stood.
“Okay,” he said, picking an empty beer can off the floor and hoisting it. “Make it a Guinness this time.”
Nothing happened. Jake realized he'd have to get it himself, that he probably wouldn't get any more freebees. He was fine with that, and got up on wobbly legs to fetch his own. As he opened the front door, Ellie called out to him.
“Honey,” she shouted, “dinner is ready. We're having my mother’s chicken stew, your favorite.”
“Okay, that's great. I'm coming.” He struggled to control his trembling as he made his way into the dining room.
“Dinner looks, uh, really good,” he said. He held on to the edge of the table, steadying himself for a moment, then, sat down.
Ellie sat down, unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap. “Do you want to say grace, Jake?”
“No, not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“I just don't want to tonight.”
“Are you drunk again?”
“I don't know, but that's not it. I just don't want to. I can't.”
“Honey, what's wrong?” she asked, her brow furrowing. Jake noticed her eyes were glistening and regretted his earlier unkind remarks had hurt her.
“Nothing I can talk about right now. Just bear with me. I'll explain later.”
Jake knew he wouldn't explain later, but with the passage of time he'd be able to say grace again because he didn't believe the apparition had been God. His was a loving and forgiving God. But it might take him awhile. He also knew he would do what he had to if what he experienced had been voices in his head. If they returned, he'd get his shotgun, go into the woods, and shut them up for good. Nothing was ever going to hurt Ellie. Not on his watch. A wave of tenderness washed over him, and he looked across the table at her as though for the first time.
You are the only grace I will ever need, Ellie.
Jake gingerly took his first small bite of her special chicken stew, but his encounter with the apparition had left him with little appetite.
You, Ellie, not any damned chicken stew, are my real favorite dish.
He had hurt her feelings enough today. Things were going to be different from now on.
Jake took a few more bites, pretending to relish them, when he noticed tears running down Ellie's cheeks.
“Ellie, sweetheart, what, what's the matter? Are you, are you...all right?”
“Jake, I...”
Jake felt a sudden tightness in his chest. He struggled, gasping, to catch his breath.
“Ellie, something is, is...very...wrong. I...” Jake stumbled over each word.
He couldn't breathe. The tightness in his chest became a searing pain. His fork fell from his hand, clinked onto his plate, and bounced to the floor. He tried to reach down to pick it up but couldn't move.
“Ellie…help me…please.”
“Oh, Jake, I'm so, so sorry,” Ellie whispered, wiping at her tears with her napkin. “Please forgive me. I had no choice. God commanded me.”
The colored rays of the sunset streamed through the dining room windows and reflected against the opposite wall. The colors seemed first to envelop him, then fill him, and his breathing became less labored. He closed his eyes, a calm came over him, and the image of Ellie's face filled his consciousness.
It’s, it’s okay, Ellie. I forgive...
THUS ENDED THE BOOK OF JAKE.
ZER was born and raised in Corpus Christi. Their work has been featured in the Switchgrass Review, Sink Hollow, the Sagebrush Review, and elsewhere.
Tangled Roots
We are under the trellis of Nueva Vita, a garden that murmurs with heaves of impatiens. From somewhere, the scream of autos tears at the plum of gingersnaps. They coil and fold their leaves into boats. I hold your hand while leaning, watching passerines blowing kisses to one another. This is just as you like though we are not llamas gemelas; we are the stems of an allium shooting off in diverging directions, never to touch but always close, borne from the same fruits. We swell from the heat of that glowing suspension and the sun is singing. It singes your skin into milky champurrado. Liberated winds hold their shining ends as if a vessel. And hummingbirds bait and stick us as we turn to sap all over the tree scenery. An SUV bares its teeth across the way to remind us that we are machinery. You cup your hands into buds and hold them over these ears. Your words are soil to me with my ligaments of buzzing bees and veins rippling with honey. “Suelo bueno, tomar este corazón y comerlo.” The cherub fountains of flushed marble cry themselves onto the floor. Brown translucence melts into creases between planets, with our shoes dripping into softness, wasted pollen stolen on fingertips. Now, we no longer stand but float atop the white and scarred swing, still creaking back and forth like the hands on a clock. Usted toma estas flores picante como el suyo en su boca. I give you my roots and you give me your flowers.