R J Hembree - Writers' Village University

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22 over her shoulders. *** After a month on the new medication, Jake was better. It seemed like a miracle. Miriam helped him settle into a place in Campburg and found him a decent used car for a reasonable price. The money she’d been saving for her trip to Florida was just enough to buy it. His book agent gave him an old laptop so he could write again. *** Tears burned Miriam’s eyes. She clutched her purse as if it would keep her from falling apart. Jake’s car was parked amid broken daisies and squashed petunias in front of his apartment. She’d hoped that it would work out in this place. He’d promised to stay on his new medication. She’d prayed that this time he would. The apartment manager stalked out of his office and over to her, barely containing his anger, “Get him out of here. Clean the apartment, write me a check for the flowers, new carpeting and paint, and I won’t call the police.” He followed Miriam to the front door. She went in. He stayed outside. Her nose stung from the smell of rotting food and cedar incense. Jake sat, eyes closed, on the bed in the middle of the studio apartment. He swayed back and forth. Wax from the candles surrounding him pooled into congealed blobs on the blanket. She remembered the words of the psychiatrist, “If you keep solving the problems he creates, he’ll never take responsibility for his own mental health.” But he was her son. How could she abandon him? “Jake?” He didn’t respond. Stacks of books, magazines and newspapers lay everywhere. She picked her way into the room. The walls were covered with pictures of Dylan Thomas. A sticky amber substance dripped from under each photo. She touched it. Honey. Open newspapers covered the floor by the kitchenette counter. When she stepped on them, eggshells crumbled beneath her feet. She walked to the bed and blew out the candles. Jake’s eyes popped open. “What are you doing, Mom?” Miriam met his gaze, but he looked away. “What are you doing, Jake?” “I’m contacting Dylan Thomas. You’ve ruined everything.” He swept the candles off the bed. “Why are there newspapers covering eggs on the floor?” Perspiration formed on her underarms. Fatigue draped itself over her shoulders. “I dropped them, but I didn’t have time to clean up, so I covered the floor with paper so I could walk in there.” He pulled a piece of soft wax from the bed and kneaded it.
“Have you been taking your medication?” She knew he hadn’t taken it for weeks. Overturned wine bottles littered the sink and counter. “Have you been taking yours?” Miriam grimaced. “I don’t need medication, but you know you do.” “I don’t need it. I won’t ever take it. Why do you want to poison me? Are you trying to kill me?” He added more wax to the ball in his hand. She tried to put her arms around him. He flinched away, still gripping the wax. “Get out of here.” She backed off. “Let me help you clean up.” She started peeling pictures off the wall. “No!” He leapt off the bed. “You’ll disconnect me. Don’t touch it. Get out.” Lurching out of control, he slammed against the wall. The sheetrock exploded with a crash. Dust filled the room. The manager stormed in. “What’s going on in here?” Jake stumbled toward him, covered with white powder, a gaping hole in the wall behind him. “You’re a crook. You caused the AIDs epidemic. You’re evil.” Miriam interrupted, “Don’t say that. Please, come with me. I’ll take you home.” He turned to her, “You are his assistant. You’re as evil as he is. Why are you poisoning my water?” The voice of the psychiatrist swirled in her head. “You enable him to stay sick. You can’t keep rescuing him.” She took a long breath. “Please, come home with me.” Jake picked up a bottle and smashed it against the wall. Red wine dripped down, staining the ragged hole. The pictures of Thomas looked as if they were splattered with blood. The apartment manager glared. “Get him out of here or I’ll call the police.” Jake screamed at him. “Good! Then they can come and get you and this drug dealer too. She’s trying to kill me.” He turned to Miriam, “Get out. Get out of my house.” His words fell like mortar shells. She thought, how can I go on like this? Her chest tightened as if her lungs had shrunk. In a strangled voice, she said, “Call the police.” When the police arrived, she gave them her contact information. She sat in her car and watched as they dragged Jake from the apartment. He fought and flailed. They forced him to the ground and handcuffed him. She gripped the steering wheel to keep from leaping out of the car to help him. Her head pounded with guilt and fear. Jake screamed as they put him in the squad car, “Why are you doing this to me? Don’t let them take me away. Please.” 23
Page 2 and 3: RJ Hembree - Publisher & Editor-In-
Page 4 and 5: 4 She glides slowly at first, this
Page 7 and 8: I am trying to write, to work. I dr
Page 9 and 10: Chicano at a private school in New
Page 11 and 12: give a damn what anyone else thinks
Page 13 and 14: them to some internal revelation wh
Page 15 and 16: Sergio Troncoso, philosopher, econo
Page 17 and 18: ties years ago. It was a scandal, a
Page 19 and 20: disciplines. Do you feel it's a nat
Page 21: up.” “I’m cleaning! It’s sp
Page 25 and 26: was there? “You can’t live a no
Page 27 and 28: In his modest wooden stall Pir Gul
Page 29 and 30: When he was done with the vest, he
Page 31 and 32: On the outskirts of the farming vil
Page 33 and 34: down at him as he walked through th
Page 35 and 36: ight on you.” She still held his
Page 37 and 38: Dear M, I wanted to let you know I
Page 39 and 40: I hope you’re doing well. --K Dea
Page 41 and 42: Dad cried. He sat at his desk, crie
Page 43 and 44: of her jeans. She glanced at the be
Page 45 and 46: the lacquer finish dulled as the wa
Page 47 and 48: “Do you think it just gave up and
Page 49 and 50: “Unlock the doors,” Bill ordere
Page 51 and 52: When I was asked to write an articl
Page 53 and 54: are important. You’ve only got to
Page 55: If you want to earn some serious mo

R J Hembree - Writers' Village University

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