Published by Bonhomme Press
Copyright © 2019 Bonhomme Press
Previously published by Velvet Morning Press in 2015.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Some works in this anthology are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Vicki Lesage and Ellen Meyer
A Note from the Editor
Legacy… So much more than simply the title of this anthology, the mere notion of “legacy” is anchored in our daily lives from our first breath to well beyond our last. Present in our collective memories, it is inevitable.
In this anthology, authors with diverse backgrounds and writing styles share their take on the idea of legacy. The word “legacy” has a heaviness to it, perhaps due to its sense of finality: This is what you leave behind. In the tales they weave, our contributors show us that legacy, indeed, can mean sadness, but it can just as easily mean happiness.
Within these pages, there is laughter, pride and hope. There is romance and rock and roll. Certain messages are eerie, while others bestow a sense of peace. The collection, through the discerning lens of each writer, runs the gamut of the human experience. Many of the stories are fiction, and some are nonfiction.
These Legacy authors don’t aim to answer a question, but instead, to generate more questions in their own minds and in the minds of the reader. To contemplate, to explore. It is a quest, and as writer and reader, we embark upon it together.
To readers, for making our words withstand the test of time
Table of Contents
Preface
Family Bonds
Gracie’s Gift, Piper Punches
Four Days Forever, J. J. Hensley
Petite Flambée, Adria J. Cimino
Bound by Water, Maureen Foley
Romantic Ties
The Heist, Adriana Tourinho
O Trabalho (Portuguese Version), Adriana Tourinho
Kisses When I Get Home, Richard E. Klein
Stop Looking and You’ll Find It, Vicki Lesage
A Distant Memory
The Uraniums, Kristopher Jansma
Forget Me Not, Stephanie Carroll
The Monument, Marissa Stapley
Sonny’s Wall, Paula Young Lee
Glimpse into the Past
Apfelstrudel, Vicki Lesage
Nagasaki, David Whitehouse
Letters of the Night: Adeline and Augustin, Didier Quémener
Les lettres de la nuit: Adeline et Augustin (French Version), Didier Quémener
Hope for the Future
A Forever Home, Regina Calcaterra
Two Kinds of Legacy, Jenny Milchman
A.E., Didier Quémener
A.E. (French Version), Didier Quémener
Hope, Adria J. Cimino
About the Authors
Acknowledgements
A Note to the Reader
Preface
Allison Hiltz
My love of reading started long before I picked up my first book. Both of my parents are readers, and there isn’t a time in my life that I can remember not having a book within arm’s reach. That said, as much as I attribute my love of books to my parents, I must thank my grandmother for passing on the handy skill of completely tuning out the world when absorbed in a good book. In other words, she taught me the importance of selective hearing.
I can pinpoint two moments in my life that have made me who I am as a reader. When I was six, I read Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White in one day. I can’t say I fully appreciated the experience at the time, but I remember the elation I felt after finishing the story. The second book is Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls, which I read when I was nine. This one stands alone at the pinnacle of my proverbial book pyramid as “the reason” I am a reader. It is the first book I remember re-reading and is why I have dogs.
Given my insatiable appetite for books, it doesn’t surprise many people that I have a book blog. It might, however, surprise them to learn that I had no intention of ever starting one, and, instead, started out blogging about my hip surgeries. As it turns out, there’s only so much you can say about that particular topic. So as I recovered in early 2012, I began reviewing books under the influence of some heavy medication, accidentally bought a domain and managed to become a book blogger. As I look back on that moment, I think to myself, Wow, I got lucky! (but I also think, My poor husband!)
I say “lucky” because The Book Wheel (named as such because my world revolves around books and books make the world go round) has had some incredible successes. It won several awards and is now associated with this wonderful anthology you’re reading today. It’s also allowed me to break into the writing community and make friends with some excellent authors, one of whom sparked the idea for the original #30Authors event. Jenny Milchman (a.k.a. Superstar) asked me to brainstorm how to connect authors and readers in a fun and unique way. Being the overachiever that I am, I came up with the idea for #30Authors: Have 30 authors review their favorite recent read on 30 different blogs. The month-long event was a huge success, and I couldn’t have done it without the help of some truly terrific and supportive bloggers and authors.
To make things even more exciting, #30Authors contributor Adria J. Cimino and author Vicki Lesage approached me about turning the event into an anthology. Thus, Legacy was born. We chose the theme of “legacy” because it is such an integral part of writing. Words remain. So why not ask the contributors to explore this theme that is the essence of their craft? We asked each author to imagine him or herself locked away in a castle and to write either a short fiction or nonfiction piece about what legacy means to them.
To keep true to the original goal of #30Authors, which was to connect readers and authors, contributors live-tweeted their writing experiences for one month. During this time, ideas were shared, but more importantly, relationships were built. The ensuing chapters are the culmination of these interconnected, yet independent, writers.
Allison Hiltz
The Book Wheel
Family Bonds
“I had an inheritance from my father,
It was the moon and the sun.
And though I roam all over the world,
The spending of it’s never done.”
― Ernest Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls
Gracie’s Gift
Piper Punches
Our hands work in sync—up and down, up and down—the thin sliver of the quilting needles poking down and through the layers of fabric and then back up to repeat the process. The tops of my hands are knotty, my veins bulging up against my thinning skin. Hers are young and plump. They make me envious and taunt me with their youthful vigor. Mine shake too much from the medicine.
“Ouch!” The word hits my tongue sharply. A tiny drop of blood spreads out onto the cloth, turning the cotton candy colored fabric into a deep shade of red.
Gracelyn stands up quickly. Her chair clatters to the floor making Bernie, my 10-year-old Golden Retriever, momentarily glance up from his lazy slumber in the sunshine. “Let me get the peroxide. Maybe we can dab it out.”
“Sit down, Gracie,” I instruct. “There’s a better way.” I lower my lips to the fabric, and using the tip of my tongue, I lap at the blood stain until it disappears. Bernie l
ooks at me curiously for a few seconds, then figures my lunacy isn’t worth interrupting his nap time. But Gracelyn sits rooted in her chair. Her upper lip pulled back from her teeth and her eyes pinched together in disbelief.
“That is the grossest thing ever, GiGi,” she exclaims.
“It worked. Didn’t it?”
Gracelyn composes herself and shrugs. “It’s still gross. Are you going to tell Mrs. Winters you licked her quilt?”
I cock my head and smile playfully. “You think I should?”
My granddaughter giggles, an 8-year-old giggle that is overflowing with playfulness and sprightliness. “No way. Our secret.”
We work together in silence for another half hour. I glance at the clock and realize I should have started supper more than an hour ago, but I don’t want to break the magic. Once I tell Gracelyn it is time to put the quilt away, the fragile fibers that connect us for this moment in time will instantly fray and break. She’ll bound away from the quilting frame, grab her iPad and start Facetiming friends from school. She’ll get lost in her television programs and pout when I tell her to start on her homework. It is the daily cycle of two different generations living together; me, so desperately trying to hold on to what is left, and her, ready to break free from my grip. Little does she know how soon that will be.
~~~~
The tumor is inoperable.
“We can try to shrink it, Amelia,” Allan told me in his office just a week earlier. He walked around his enormous desk, which seemed too exaggerated in such a tiny space. He pushed his glasses far up on the bridge of his nose. The lenses old, scratched from the time when he left them sitting in the sand at the beach, while we ignored the world and let the waves conceal our thoughtlessness and indiscretion. Was that really more than six years ago? He should have gotten rid of those glasses; bought new ones he could actually see out of instead of being cheap. Or maybe Allan wasn’t being cheap. Maybe he, too, was holding on to the past.
What would his wife say? What did I care?
On that day, he was Dr. Patton, resting against the edge of the desk in front of me and talking about time. “If we can shrink the tumor with the medicine, maybe you’ll have another good year.”
So that was that. In a year or less, I would be dead. And what would become of Gracelyn?
As if reading my mind, Allan cleared his throat and broached the topic. “Have you told her yet?”
I shook my head and stared out the window. Why didn’t he have a large window that overlooked the gardens? Shouldn’t the primary oncologist at one of the most prestigious cancer centers on the Georgia coast be given a room with a view so his patients could catch a glimpse of Eden instead of the garbage truck pulling up to the dumpster when they were given their death sentence?
“Amelia,” he scolded softly.
I turned back to face him. “What? How do I tell her? Would you want to have that conversation with an eight-year-old girl who has no one left in the world?”
“She has a father.”
“No she doesn’t,” I said bitterly.
“It may be time to put aside your feelings and let him into her life.”
“Gregory? Why would he be anything good for Gracie? He is the reason Lila is dead.”
Allan stared down at his shoes. I followed his gaze. There were holes in the soles, and they needed to be polished. The nostalgia wafted out of my chest. Allan wasn’t holding onto those glasses for sentiment. He really was just cheap. Accepting this renewed my sense of self, reminding me that counting on anyone in life was a waste of time.
“Merrie says her sister sees him at the First Baptist Church on Mansfield.”
“Does she? Well, he must be preparing his résumé of good deeds for when he stands in front of those pearly white gates someday. But it doesn’t bring Lila back.”
“She says he sponsors several men at the AA meeting that meets in the basement.”
“I think your wife should mind her own business, Allan. I know about alcoholics.”
Just thinking about this last conversation with Allan makes me reach for the bottle of Jack Daniels that sits underneath the kitchen sink, lodged discreetly behind the Pine-Sol and Windex. I pause to listen for the sound of the television before pulling it out. The last time I opened it was six years ago—the day after Lila’s funeral. Before then it sat undisturbed under the sink for nearly 12 years.
I should have gotten rid of it. Just two sips the day after I buried my only child didn’t do anything to kill the pain, and I knew from past experience that chugging the entire bottle wouldn’t help much either.
I learned how to hide liquor when I was around Gracie’s age. First I hid it for my father when he came into my room after a night at See-Jay’s Pub. “Take it, Amelia. Just put it behind your ponies on your shelf. This is our secret. Don’t tell your mother.” Like she didn’t know.
Wives, husbands and children—you can’t hide the stench of Jack Daniels from anyone. He permeated the skin and the hair, and oozed out of the pores. He stuck around like a shadow, refusing to leave even when the sun wandered behind a cloud. He was the love affair you wanted to end but couldn’t resist. The only person you were fooling was yourself. But I hid the bottle for him anyway. I hid it in the toilet tank. I hid it underneath the loose floorboards on the sun porch. I hid it in the tire well of his mustard yellow 1960 Chevy Impala.
Two weeks after my 13th birthday, Mom left in the middle of the night. No note and no intentions of coming back. I hated her for leaving me with a man who cared more about his bottles of booze than making things right with his daughter. That’s when I started finding better hiding places. Places for his booze that even he couldn’t find. It wasn’t long before it didn’t matter if he found the hidden bottles because there would be nothing left. Not a drop. My daddy taught me well.
~~~~
The sunlight warms my nose and makes it difficult for me to unwrap myself from the covers. My house is a couple of miles from the shoreline, but the ocean scent still drifts through the open window. Normally I welcome the sea’s fragrance, but today all it does is make my stomach roll like fast and furious waves.
There is a soft knock on my bedroom door. “GiGi?”
I sit up and wrap the knotted pink and purple fleece throw around my upper body. It is the first blanket Gracie made. She was probably five or six at the time. I can’t remember, but I smile, thankful I can remember how her little forehead wrinkled in concentration as she double-knotted each cut of fabric; the way her face lit up with satisfaction and confidence when she tied the last two pieces of fabric together and saw what her perseverance had created.
“GiGi,” her tiny voice whispers against the door.
“Good morning, Gracie.” I open the door and kiss the top of her head. Her hair is raven black, her skin pale and translucent. We go through so much sunscreen to keep her skin from burning. The hair is a gift from her father, but her green eyes are entirely Lila’s. “Are you hungry for breakfast?”
“I already ate breakfast. It’s almost noon.”
“What?”
“School called again.”
“Shit!” I cover my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry, Gracie.”
“It’s OK. I’d rather be here with you. We can work on Mrs. Winter’s quilt.” Gracie smiled wide with a mouth full of missing teeth.
“No, it’s not OK, Gracelyn. I’m sorry. You should be in school. Go get dressed. Quickly.”
This is the fourth time in less than three weeks that I slept through my alarm. Hell, maybe I forgot to turn it on. I climb into my yoga pants and throw on a thin t-shirt. I know Allan is right. I need to make plans.
I run a comb through my thinning hair and avoid the mirror. I can’t stand seeing the stranger who stares back at me. I look so old. Too old. Damn tumor is robbing me of everything: my memory, my appearance, my right to love and take care of Gracelyn like she is my own. People are starting to guess correctly that I am the grandmother instead of autom
atically assuming I am the mom, although I could be her mom. I had Lila when I was 16. Way too young to have a baby.
“If you aren’t going to marry the bastard that knocked you up, then you may as well go to that clinic and take care of it,” Daddy had said. His words were a tangled mess of long vowels and sloppy consonants. He tossed a pile of bills at me and staggered out of the room with Mr. Daniels swinging gleefully at his side, leaving me with a decision to make.
I never regretted one moment of being my daughter’s mother. It was hard, and her father wanted nothing to do with her or me. And, honestly, why would he? He was a foreman at the pulp mill, 10 years older than me with a wife and two children who looked like they were bred just to be on Christmas cards. The entirety of the situation was wrong, but having Lila felt right.
Pulling my hair into a pathetic ponytail, I walk into the living room. Gracelyn is sitting by the sliding door that leads out to the patio, petting Bernie and singing in his ear. I worried when she came to live with me that Bernie wouldn’t be too happy to have a toddler around, a little person who required my constant attention. But that damn dog surprised me. He loved her like she was his own pup. It is good they have each other, but a dog can’t take care of a child.
“Are you ready, Gracie?” I ask, grabbing my purse from alongside the couch.
Gracelyn sighed. “Oh, I guess. Can we work on the quilt when I get home?”
I nod. “If you don’t have too much homework, OK, pickle?”
She smiled that toothless smile again. “OK, hamburger.”
~~~~
School doesn’t give me too much grief over Gracie’s tardiness. Although I did notice Emogene Landry, the school’s lunch secretary, giving me a sideways glance as I shuffled out of the office after signing Gracie in. Well, Emogene can kiss my ass. Ever since high school she always thought she was better than me with her picture-perfect family, her straight-As and perfect attendance. She still thinks she’s better than me, but I know her little secret. Hell, half of Brunswick knows her secret. They know that handsome, clever husband of hers may be an actuary by day for several financial firms near Savannah, but at night he unrolls his fishnet tights, pulls on a short skirt and wanders along the dodgier section of town. But what do I care? I can’t waste what little time I have left worrying about anyone but Gracie and me.
Legacy- an Anthology Page 1