Thing is, you gotta get out of town. Go someplace nobody knows you. See, say you’re at the park reading James Joyce. Uncle Frank or some asshole from high school strolls by, wants to know what you’re doing sat on your ass reading a book, who the hell are you trying to fool? The gig’s up. 

College towns. I got them pinned to the map in my mind with colored tacks—yellow, blue, green, red, like the crayons that come with the kiddie menu. Half an hour to Ithaca, one to Syracuse, two to Rochester, three to Buffalo. I rotate. That way nobody gets to know me, wonder why I’m never in class, never give out my number. Piece of shit cell would give me away for sure. They’ll be expecting an iPhone, something sleek that Daddy pays for on the family plan. I say, “Don’t have one. I’m above it, like Christopher Nolan.”

* * *

Before heading out, I check her oxygen. Change it, just in case. Her eyelids quiver in sleep, blue-veined mothwings, lashless. Her sweat smells like Campbell’s chicken soup. I’ll bathe her later. It’s a raw fucking deal. To see the body that made you carved up like that, breasts puckered at the scars, pubic hair all fallen out. Nobody should have to see their mom naked, sponge bathe her bald armpits, or change her dirty panties. That’s the thing about love though, what James Baldwin said: it’s a battle, a war, a growing up. All I know is, it hurts.

I kiss her cheek. Don’t know if she feels, but I’ve gotta get going before he gets in. Sun’s coming up. 

It’s a kind of lonely I can live with, the sound of tires on an open road at dawn. Chasing the bruise of night over the creek, I crack the window. There’s a Citgo in town, but I run the needle down to empty. By then I’m basically in Ithaca, so that’s where I’ll spend the day. Hit the golden arches first for coffee and a Sausage Egg McMuffin that I wolf in the parking lot, then hide the evidence in an overflowing trashcan. I grab my spare toothbrush from the glove compartment, head for the bathroom, scour the taste from my tongue. The cracked mirror reflects my chipped teeth. Ithaca students have retainers and whitening strips. They go to the dentist twice every year. I think I’ll be a poet today: unsmiling.

In Syracuse, I’m English and Textual Studies. At UB, just English. I read Clarice Lispector and Ada Limón. I think Julian Barnes’ The Sense of an Ending is a perfect novel, but I prefer imperfect prose. I run a monthly book club that highlights experimental authors writing through the lens of the diaspora. Which one, you ask? Take your pick. Give me your email, I’ll shoot you an invite. 

I have no goddam clue what I’m doing.

* * *

“The Cantos. Impressive.”

I look up sideways, squinting. The late morning light is liquid gold, like the aspen leaves behind her, the miniscule D nestled in the u-shaped hollow of her throat. I’m cross-legged on the concrete retaining wall of a fountain the size of a swimming pool. A big one, for doing laps. Though I’m pretty sure they’d arrest you for swimming here. At least, they’d arrest me. This girl would probably get off with a demerit. Is that the word? She grabs the underside of her backpack straps, winging her elbows. 

“You like Pound?”

“Sure,” I say.

“He’s a fascist.”

“Let the Gods forgive what I / have made / Let those I love try to forgive / what I have made.” 

I memorized that on purpose. The only people who care about you reading the Cantos are the ones who want to argue that Pound was an asshole. Which he was. But an asshole who could write.

“You think Nazi sympathizers deserve forgiveness?”

“I think complicated people are interesting. I think if an idea scares you, you ought to learn about it.”

She tilts her head then sits. “Dahlia.”

“Reese.”

“As in Witherspoon?”

“As in it’s nice to meet you, Dahlia.”

She smiles. Perfect teeth. We move on from Pound to H.D. Waxing poetic on the power of the image, Dahlia’s green eyes light, a color so fresh I smell tomato vines. I’ll write about her later, about these thoughts that carry weight without seeming to, about the leaves floating into the fountain, the possibilities of the color green. I could spend my whole life doing this shit. 

When Dahlia gets hungry, I say I forgot my ID in my dorm. Cut out for the parking lot instead and know I’ll be haunted by her smile, all those perfect smiles I couldn’t return. Or wouldn’t. Stupid. There’s gotta be someone at this school who’s scared of dentists, whose parents thought orthodontia was a crock. 

* * *

I make it home with an hour to spare. 

Where the hell you been? He leans back in the La-Z-Boy, watching The Five. She pissed the bed.

I gather the empties. Say, I’ll change the sheets.

The bedroom’s dark, but I leave the light off. Leave the blinds shut. Her eyes stay closed, leaking. I’m sorry, baby.

Let’s get you cleaned up. 

 I’m sorry… 

* * *

I stuff her sheets in a trash bag, take them to the laundromat on my way to work. Channon says she’ll watch them, move them over for me. This place. I can see the sign from the parking lot of the mini mart, on the edge of town. Cobalt blue between graying wood posts—WELCOME TO THE VILLAGE OF CANDOR. I looked it up in the dictionary. Noun. The state or quality of being open or frank in speech or expression; freedom from bias; obsolete: purity; obsolete: kindliness. 

I stuff the Cantos in my pocket to read under the counter, like it’s porn. Wave Carl off for the night. Pull on the vest with my real name. Help myself to a leathery hot dog. Log into the register. I scrawl my wasted genius on rolls of thermal paper that I stuff in a shoebox at the end of my shift. Someday I’ll dedicate my first collection to the Dandy, for letting me steal all that goddam paper. The door opens with a cheerful chime. I ask before looking up: How’s it going?

About the Author:

Bethany Hudson (she/her) is a writer, actor, and scholar based in Rochester, NY. She received her MFA in Creative Writing & Poetics from the University of Washington, Bothell where her thesis blended forms to explore the gap between documentation and memory. Bethany is a member of AWP and ASAP. You can follow her work at http://bethanyhudson.com. Connect on Instagram and Twitter @bethanykhudson.

Feature image by Steve Johnson on Unsplash