Volume IV – Winter 2014 – Audio

Editor’s note

Dear Readers,

When I founded this journal four years ago, I did not have a magic 8 ball to ask whether or not this venture might be successful, how successful, or even whether it would still be here, five years down the road. I still don’t know. But what I do know is this: Thanks to readers like you, contributors like the ones featured in this issue, and our dedicated staff, we are still here. Thank you for that.

As the years have passed, my own role with the Inlandia Institute has grown from merely an Advisory Council member to the Executive Director. I love the people of Inlandia and am proud to call this place home.

A few announcements: Because of my own limited resources (time & otherwise) this journal will now be an annual, rather than quarterly, publication. This is both a fait accompli, in that it has taken me an entire year to get this new issue up, and a necessity, so that going forward we can set reasonable and relatively firm goals for publication. Thanks for your understanding.

Also, when we began this journal, we could not have anticipated that we would be partnering with the local newspaper to form a new a project, Inlandia Literary Journeys. This project includes a weekly column every Tuesday in the Press-Enterprise, an affiliated blog, and a video interview series. The videos are currently on hold as the Press gets settled into its new location, but we are planning on filming more interviews on location this coming year. To see what we’ve been up to, visit: http://localauthors.pe.com

Another thing: The Inlandia Literary Laureate has become an integral program of the Inlandia Institute, and I am thrilled to say that nominations are once again being accepted. To see who qualifies and for a link to the nominations form, go here.

Also, just up this week is a fun interview with me in The Review Review. As these things go, it takes a little while for interviews to go live, and already some of the information is out of date, but it should give you some insight into what we’re doing here.

Congratulations to all of the contributors in this issue, and thank you to everyone for stopping by.

Cati Porter

Laura King

The Bathing Suit
1988

“Like this.” Across the poolhouse murk, hands float
a less-loved Body Glove, manhandle me,
and drift away. I stand between a bloat
of spandex and its riding burn, Kelly
Muirshin (B.F.F.) presiding with her cloak-
and-dagger look. “That’s how it goes, I swear,”
she hoaxes. Still the lacquered eye, the smoke-
and-mirrors eye that really glints (the glare
of sunlight on the pool reflected there),
the eye the face holds candidly, the way
magicians hold productive hats. Some pair
we two girls made—the fingers and the clay,
the hot wind and the wave, the weather and
the vane, the devil and the saint she trained.

__

Laura King’s childhood memories are backdropped by swimming pools in some of the sunniest places in the Southland, including Riverside, where her parents still live. Her poetry has appeared in 14 by 14, Goblin Fruit, Lucid Rhythms, and the 2013 Dwarf Stars anthology.

Michael Cooper

the rubbed tooth 

(lines composed in honor of Beirut’s “Elephant Gun” video)

Oh dear young man throb on lap dance seat
this hot seat rock back and forth
holding your knees to the sound of the horn’s glare

o release me to my drink
Damocles between her fine stocking needs
release me to shrink among these the ambitious

shriek to what escape
this business this business looped
town        my job was

to see and cry among the ones unable to monetize
a self-scrutinized oh what was I don’t
you see something is trying to fight

its way off this page to reach you?
behind the blue: the cobalt the aqua in
digo ribbons dance seductively don’t you

see this poem is clawing out
for you    the vertebra makes
a submissive circle is this what you wanted
system-mama?      I
will suckle my thumb around this
town where the milk winds

down  they ring around you halo
aureole a mania
in the crowd        skeletal kiss
shroud shroud throng in
thralled how we
rush to greet you.
Michael Cooper is a MFA student at CSUSB who is fascinated by the fragmentation of language. He gigs and does spoken word all over the inland empire. His work plays with diction and polyphony in an attempt to shock us back into a critical awareness of how frail we are. He feels we are at our most beautiful at our point of failure: orchids in the same vase of water.

Robert Louis Covington

the mountain

epic mountain, holy artistry
divine bounty and epiphany

calming beauty and mystery
circling valleys with majesty

stoutly standing, enfolding
exquisite, stately, enduring

a lovely view to bespeak
snow beds on rangy peaks

steeply still, raising spirits
beckoning to holy summits

from eons ago till this day
wanting ones ascend to pray

vital to a world that spins
unbowed by battering winds

alpine, green, hues of gold
dazzling spectacle, ages old

Robert Louis Covington’s professional career was as a writer and manager for the United States Treasury Department in Washington, D.C. After 36 years of government service, including four years with the United States Airforce, he now resides in Fontana, California. As an Active Member of the Inland Empire California Writers Club, he writes poetry and other articles for the club’s monthly magazine and for other publications.

Rosemary Donahue

Love Triangle With The Moon

          I wait here patiently for you all the time. Sometimes it feels like I’ll always be here and it certainly feels like you think I will be. You come and go as you please; sometimes calmly and with warmth, sometimes thrashing about and white with anger. You leave little bits of trash strewn about when you come to visit, they’re little reminders that you’ve been here and that you’ll be here again and at least it’s something for me to look at until you return. It’s taken me a while to figure out, but I think there’s a pattern to your visits. I don’t know where you go when you’re gone but lately I can sense when you’re coming back and I realize my exterior has hardened in your absence; maybe I’m just trying not to crumble.
         I miss you when you’re gone. Isn’t that such a silly little thing to say? I tried to think of a way to say it that would dress it up a bit. Sometimes when I’m waiting for you and sitting here alone with my thoughts I begin to feel like I don’t have enough depth for you, like you’re going to swallow me whole the next time you come. You’ve been slowly taking pieces of me with you and I worry that one of these days you’ll look at these tiny bits you’ve carried away and wonder what I could possibly have left to give – I want you to know that there is more. But right now I’m tired and I think I’m dehydrated and I can’t think of a better way to say it – so, I miss you when you’re gone.
         I’ve seen my reflection in your eyes lately when you visit at night and I can’t say I’ve been pleased. There are lines on my face where there once were none and my body is dull and round where it used to be sharp. I know these things happen naturally over time but I think my being close to you has accelerated the process; still, I cannot seem to move and some days I think nothing short of a natural disaster will rip me from you. I’ve grown used to your comings and goings and it’s all become a comforting sort of white noise, even when you’re at your most violent.
         I’ve come to realize that you might not be fully in control of what you’re doing to me, of whether you gently caress my cheek or spit on my face as a greeting. Though it’s true that you are a force to be reckoned with, I don’t think that the source of your power comes from within. I think it comes from her, from her closeness or her distance. From whether she’s hiding or showing her light. Recently I’ve noticed you gazing up at her in adoration, and I suppose I can’t fault you for that.
         She is beautiful – glowing, even. I’d be stupid not to acknowledge that fact, though she is completely unaware of my existence and it feels unfair that I should have to. Sometimes I feel like you compare the two of us and see my imperfections in her light; it’s then that you crash into me the hardest, that you take the most of me with you when you leave. Afterwards I’m left here alone to recover, where I’ve always been and maybe where I’ll always be. I wonder if she knows about the effect she has on you, the push and pull her spinning creates; does she know you’re looking?
It’s strange; she’s so far away from us both, yet you’re frothing at the mouth and my face is salty and wet.

Rosemary Donahue was born and raised in Southern California and is currently working on a BA in English at Cal State San Bernardino. She is most interested in personal essays and creative nonfiction, and is inspired by the unseen forces that can both bring people together and make them fall apart.

Christie Hall

Wanda and Mildred

          Wanda and her mother, Mildred, first came to my yoga studio in downtown Riverside in 2003, perhaps 2002.
         The sprawling space sat downstairs in what had been the Aurea Vista Hotel and then a furniture store. We had 1,800 square feet of antique wooden floor, no heating, no air conditioning and west-facing windows that showed the parking lot across the street, pedestrians and the occasional homeless wanderer. In the afternoons and evenings, the space resounded with the sounds of young would-be ballerinas thudding onto the ballet studio floor, which comprised the same boards as my ceiling.
         Wanda brought her mother to the slow-paced class, so named to encourage seniors and those with physical problems.
         Wanda did tai chi, got acupuncture for neck problems and sought whole health. She had other physical issues she didn’t talk about much. I learned about these when she reassured other students struggling with similar problems, telling them how much yoga had helped her.
         Mildred had stiff hips, hamstrings and tight ankles. Mostly, though, she dealt with asthma in class. Any pose that involved lying on the floor left her gasping.
         They both stood about 5 feet tall and had boxy builds. They loved great jewelry and getting bargains on stylish eyeglass frames in LA. Wanda had short, dark hair. Mildred had soft, white hair. They loved their family and they constantly extended that family as a way of helping others. When they met someone in need, they literally opened their doors, whether a car door to help someone get around town or, in Wanda’s case, opening her home to a teenager who needed a place where he could just let down his guard.
         The first time they came to class, Wanda brought her mother, and yet smiled and detached herself from the outcome.  Everyone who brings a friend or loved one to yoga knows that’s all you can do. After that, either the yoga works for someone or it doesn’t. Wanda knew that no amount of pushing would work.  She loved yoga and hoped her mother would, too.
         Mildred gave me looks I came to know well, a kind of “we’ll see”, her eyebrows flicking upward, accompanied with a shrug of her shoulders and a smile so slight I almost missed it. The poses I teach don’t look particularly hard, but I ask students to question their own inner workings, and that’s where the challenge comes. For someone like Mildred, I hoped to improve her posture enough that her breath might come more easily. It’s no simple thing to change a lifetime of habits.  If you’ve spent six or more decades letting your shoulders weigh heavily on you, when a teacher asks you to do something that might release your shoulder blades back on the rib cage, “we’ll see” is normal response.
          I thought in those first few classes Mildred had been pretty much dragged there by Wanda. Over time I learned that Mildred couldn’t be dragged anywhere, but she was willing to try, often repeatedly, something that might help make life better. A few weeks after she started, she showed up with her own tiger-stripe patterned mat. Several weeks later, pneumonia kept Wanda from class for several sessions, but Mildred came on her own.
          She tried every thing I could think of to get her into some kind of inversion that might help her asthma. I tried many versions of a supported bridge pose. In one, she would come lying flat, knees bent, and lift her hips so I could slide a block under her pelvis. In another approach, she sat on a narrow stack of blankets, folded about 6 inches wide and two feet long. She lay back with the support under her spine and then let her shoulders slide off the blankets until they touched the floor. Every attempt ended with her struggling for breath.
          Even the most restful position I knew, what some of my students called “day-at-the-spa” pose, left Mildred breathless unless I built up the support. Called supine bound angle pose, it involves sitting on the floor and then lying back on a narrow stack of two blankets, with the head supported. The knees are folded outward and the soles of the feet rest against each other, with the outer thighs supported. Most students find the gentle chest opening and the hip opening deeply relaxing. She could manage it, but not enjoy it, once she was sitting up at almost 60 degrees instead of the usual 30.
          One day Mildred complained about how difficult her outing had been at an outlet mall. Her feet and ankles had hurt so much that she couldn’t walk much. I showed her how to do virasana, hero pose, while sitting in a chair. One leg at a time, she folded first one knee and then the other behind, stretching out the front of the ankle, then the back of the heel. About a month later, she reported that she was back in full shopping form, able to traverse the length of the Cabazon outlet stores.
          For some years, we stopped having her try supine poses. Then about 10 years later, she just got herself down on the floor, and lying on her back, lifted her hips up into bridge pose. She would do corpse pose lying flat, although sometimes she spent more time lying on her side.
          She had tight hamstrings and getting up and down off the floor was tough. Still, she did it, most days. Some days she didn’t, and I knew that if she could, she would. I would ask her, is this day for getting down on the floor? If not, I would set her up in the resting pose reclined in a chair. One other determining factor was the one-inch long rotator cuff tear that made it hard for her to push up off a chair.  Doctors had wanted to repair it surgically. She refused and went to physical therapy. She continued with her yoga. Eventually, she dropped the physical therapy because, she said, she hurt worse afterward.
          I watched over the years as she kept trying the poses that challenged her asthma, her hamstrings, her shoulder.
          Finally, she could keep her breathing soft and easy while taking part in supine big toe pose, a full series done lying on her back with different positioning of the legs. Her hamstrings never became what anyone else would call flexible, but the standing forward bend that had felt like torture to her hamstrings evolved until she could rest her head on the back of a chair and find some mental quiet. The rotator cuff tear ceased to be an issue as she became able to raise both her arms skyward, where once the injured shoulder prevented her from even raising that arm parallel to the floor. In a version of down dog done seated, with the arms above her head, supported by the wall, she could reach evenly through both arms.
          In the last few years, she could do it all.
Throughout the process, Wanda stayed close, protective in the way a mother might be toward an adult child who might not welcome the help. She had the same quiet smile as her mother. When they started attending class, to Mildred’s soft white hair, Wanda’s was a deep brown.
          Wanda showed up in class one day with a gray buzz cut. She had gone gray when she was 18 and had decided: Enough hours had been spent dying her hair brown. She looked beautiful with half-inch long hair. She had as many or more health issues as her mother, but I didn’t hear about any except when she needed help modifying a pose, primarily to deal with neck pain.
          More often I heard from her when something was going right: “Thanks to you. Thanks to yoga” she would tell me. I always contradicted her: “No. Thanks to you and yoga.”
          After a while, Mildred was the one bringing people to my class, some with minimal problems such as a dowager’s hump and tight shoulders, another one with Parkinson’s. She would make sure to tell me when the woman with Parkinson’s was having a particularly bad balance day or if she had fallen and been injured. Mildred would help out with bringing chairs, bolsters or wooden blocks to her friend. Usually, these things were ready to hand because Wanda had brought them over, making it easier for her mother to help her friend.
          Once after I had been gone for a couple of weeks, I started a class by saying “next we’ll do” and Mildred filled in the pause with an answer: “jumping jacks!” I learned how she had faced down a substitute teacher when he was teaching the class to jump their feet apart for wide-leg standing poses. After asking his age, she told me, she had said, “Well, you’re 28 and I’m 83, and I’m not jumping.”
          I burst out laughing and said, “Good. If you don’t take care of yourself, who will?” And I turned it into a lesson for the day: that yoga is done by cultivating discriminative intelligence, according to the Yoga Sutras, the earliest writings on the subject.
          Mildred was what I want from all my students: to be a discriminating student of yoga. She questioned, prodded, experimented. She never gave up. She was attending class until just a few months before she died of cancer. She was 86.
          At the Riverside National Cemetery, dozens of family, friends and her fellow church members gathered on a day swept clear by Santa Ana winds, mallard ducks and black coots floating on a nearby pond. The minister talked about Mildred’s family and the things she loved to do. I was surprised to learn she had been a teacher. I had known only that she had been knowledgeable about gems. She had left her native Puerto Rico to go to college in the Midwest and there she had met her husband, who was in the Air Force. Given how acutely Mildred tested me, maybe I should have known she had been a teacher herself.
          The minister said Mildred loved good cooking, particularly when someone else was doing it. We laughed. Then he said she loved yoga and dancing. My guard dropped, and I cried.
          It was a few months after that before Wanda came back to class. She had stopped coming before her mother died, she told me, because she couldn’t stop crying at the end of class when she was in corpse pose.
          When Wanda did return, it was to encourage another friend to come to yoga. This woman arrives in a Dial-a-Ride bus. The driver gets out and opens the back door and lowers the wheelchair platform so Lesley can roll up the wheelchair ramp . The bus is usually late, so Wanda leaps up and goes to open the door and to greet her friend, who suffered brain damage in a terrible car accident years earlier. Lesley rolls in with a sad smile, but always sharply dressed, sometimes with a sparkly hat and silver arm band. She was struggling with depression and Wanda thought yoga might help. Lesley says it has, she told me, partly because she feels she belongs.
          Wanda still sits at the back of the class, along the wall where students go who are not so strong or who have balance problems. Now someone else sits next to her in Mildred’s spot. Wanda finds new students to help, most recently assisting a gentle woman with Alzheimer’s who became easily confused and needed constant small reminders on what was happening.
          At first, Wanda would do an alternate pose at the end of class, but now she can do corpse pose again without crying.
          The slow-paced class has a wide range of ages and abilities. Some people sit on chairs instead of the floor for the beginning seated pose; some use a cane to negotiate the studio; some people grab straps and blocks for others.
          The slow-paced class is always packed, but even so, there’s an empty place there along the back wall near Wanda.

Christie Hall finally found herself rooted to the Inland area by her years of teaching yoga, first at a gym in Lake Arrowhead, then at her own studio in Riverside, at Riverside City College and Moreno Valley College and lately for another studio in Riverside. It’s an unlikely profession for someone who dreamed of being a foreign correspondent while attending Chaffey High School in Ontario and Pomona College in Claremont (where she earned a bachelor’s in international relations). Her journalism career had nothing at all foreign about it: She spent more than 20 years as an editor for the newspapers in Riverside and San Bernardino.

Elisha Holt

The Clear Light

The vibration of molecules
in the empty space
of a bucket
in a cupboard below the kitchen sink.
Air spills over the brim
as drops of water leak from a loose pipe.
Each drop of water, a red thought,
a needle in the arm
of a man dying in a white room.
In between each drop, the air is unstirred.
In between each thought, the man rests in stillness.

Geology

For Virginia Holt Martin and Walt Pratt

In ’97
a flash flood
washed out a section of the highway
in Red Rock Canyon,
collapsed the pavement
into a flow of grey slush.

I thought of this
as I waited in the doctor’s office.
Stared at the vermillion carpet
as she told me the cancer
had spread to my bones.

I thought of how the wind
scoured a hole straight through
the red center of a boulder.
The photo I took of my son
smiling back at me through that rock window
the time we went hiking
along those oxidized sandstone cliffs.

I thought of my wife,
the slight dimple in her left cheek,
her hair that shined like obsidian
and flowed down the full length of her back.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell them,
said I feel like going to the beach.
I stood knee deep in the water with my boy,
let a handful of sand slip through my fingers
to be pulled into the receding tide.
I told him, flesh is like this.

Waking

You wake in the night remembering
that your father is dead,
as if the news was only just told
to you. And in the absence of light you vision
a flat land, Joshua trees
like contorted shadows,
tumbleweed giving texture to the dark.
You remember the time when you met in the hall
and his surprise when he stood
within a foot of you. You knew then
that he could no longer see.
And now you
are going blind,
each year growing dimmer, the past
growing brighter in your mind
until waking in the night to visions
of what’s passed
is all that sight has left to you.

Elisha Holt is a poet of the desert’s edge. He was born in San Bernardino and raised in the rural Palo Verde Valley, on the Colorado River, in the shadow of the Big Maria Mountains. He currently resides in the cresting winds of Hesperia, California. His work is forthcoming in Badlands and The Pacific Review.

Dana Jacoby

Oasis

          When I heard about the housesitting job in Twentynine Palms I thought it was the perfect opportunity for flight disguised as paying work. The desert was just far enough from L.A. and sufficiently exotic to be the vacation I tried to convince my daughter it would be. Ruby gave me that bottled-under-pressure look of hers when I told her. She said nothing but the holes in the long division worksheet she brought home from school, the spots where she had erased her mistakes clean through the paper, told me enough: she did not want to spend three weeks in a strange house in the Mojave Desert.
         I remained stubbornly sanguine about it all, weaving what I hoped were beguiling tales of a place I’d never been before. I told her we could relax, watch movies, play board games, visit places like Joshua Tree and the Mara Oasis. Those were the results when I googled Twentynine Palms attractions, that and pictures of “spas” that looked more like cement bunkers in the mountains of Afghanistan. The house was palatial by local standards, a Spanish-style ranch at the end of a cul-de-sac with a pool and hot tub and high stucco walls punctuated by intricate wrought iron panels which allowed the occupants a view without compromising privacy. I jumped on the whole idea of it like a bird on a worm.
         I was between semesters of a PhD program in biomedical physics at UCLA. My dissertation lurked like a mugger around the next corner. Truth told I hadn’t been happy in the program for a while. Every hour I spent in the lab, in my office, sitting with my colleagues reviewing undergrad papers or unwinding over a beer, I wore an inscrutable professional mask. I was just pretending to belong there. In company over the past few months I’d become aware of a tic that bore down on me with the exactitude of God’s accusing finger: a pallid cough just before I spoke about something of which I should have confidence but of which I had absolutely none. And I was coughing constantly. These days every cough felt like the tell of a failing con.
         Ruby and I met the homeowners face-to-face for the first time on the day they embarked on their vacation. Trina, my research assistant, had contacted the couple, who were friends of her parents, to vouch for me when I had expressed interest in the job. Up until my knock on their door, communication had been carried out via email with one phone call to deepen the trust factor. Mick and ‘Renda (her real name was Brenda but apparently the effort of pronouncing the blend of b and r had worn her down) were a robust couple devoid of ornamentation. They matched the denuded wisteria vines I had seen above their patio when we approached the house:  gnarled and monochromatic.
         “Come on in!” Mick said immediately upon opening the door.
         He was wearing one of those Mexican wedding shirts with white-on-white embroidery and little peekaboo holes up each side of the buttons to provide decorative ventilation. His skin was tanned and wrinkled and quite slick with moisturizer.  ‘Renda was much smaller though sinewy and firmly planted where she stood. I would not have wanted to arm wrestle her, even though I topped her by a good ten inches. She had very blond hair that hung on both sides of her face in a wispy curtain. The initial effect was the equivalent of Mick’s shirt, brown skin against white, a startling contrast.
         ‘Renda gestured us in. Ruby, who had insisted on wearing her earbuds, even though I had confiscated her music player, preceded me through the door.
         “Wow, is that your dog?” my daughter asked.
         Mick and ‘Renda and I turned in unison, following Ruby’s gaze to a painting on the opposite wall. It was of a brown Chihuahua with huge eyes sitting on a chair, its head in a quizzical tilt. The popped eyes gazed in sweet bafflement at something unseen.  I noticed a tiny dog collar hanging from one corner of the picture frame.
         “That” said ‘Renda, “is Habbi, our baby.”
         “Where is she? Can I see her?”
         “He,” Mick corrected. “He’s gone now. A rattler got him when he was out back of the house just before Christmas. Poor little guy.” Mick looked over at ‘Renda who matched his sad eyes.
         “Mom?” Ruby jerked her head toward me, her anxiety immediately communicated to all of us.
         “Oh, don’t be afraid of the critters here, little one!” Mick boomed. “Habbi was wandering where he shouldn’t have, out beyond the walls. The worst you’ll see on the patio out back are little brown desert lizards.”
         I offered Ruby a reassuring shoulder squeeze though I knew that Mick’s innocent attempt at minimizing the area’s predatory dangers had effectively ensured Ruby would not venture beyond the hacienda’s walls during our stay.
         After Mick and ‘Renda’s taxi fetched them, I went out to grab our suitcases from the car. We weren’t in a neighborhood as much as a settlement on the edge of semi-civilization. There were just four homes around the U of the cul-de-sac with an expanse of scrub and hardpan, the open range as it were, between and beyond them. The architecture had no rhyme or reason in that ad hoc way of places purchased more for the land than for any structure built on it. The landscape was as flat as a cement pad in all directions with the occasional yucca tree and its attendant scrub and sage brush scattered here and there.
         As I hefted the bags out of the trunk I noticed someone leaning against the house next door which was nothing more than a ramshackle double-wide mobile home located a hundred feet away. The guy was smoking in the shade of a window awning. He was tall and skeletal, wearing basketball shorts and a tight sleeveless t-shirt. He watched me, one foot hiked up behind him with the heel wedged in an indent in the aluminum siding.  I gave him a little wave and smile to be neighborly.  He squinted as if the sun had suddenly blinded him. He flicked his cigarette butt into the no-man’s land of scrub and sand between his place and mine. His upraised arm lingered in the air for a moment and he opened his palm in the classic “stop” gesture of a traffic cop. Then he turned and went inside.  Odd. Ruby sticking to the compound might not be such a bad thing after all.

         Ruby walked onto the patio with one of her jumbo PBJs in hand, sat opposite me on the other chaise lounge, and our ritual began. She pillared her feet on the painted cement, knees slightly apart, and held the sandwich in both hands, bending over it solemnly as if it was a communion wafer.
         I observed my eleven-year-old daughter from behind the Ray-Bans I paid too much for, the ones I chose because my eyes were completely obscured.  First, the jam overflow was licked from all four sides. Her tongue ran the trough between the bread slices with the industry and vigor of a backhoe. Next came her scan of every corner of the bread before selecting one to bite down upon—even though she bit down on the same corner. Upper right. Always.
         The swamp cooler, fighting a battle with the morning heat, rumbled on the roof of what I had taken to calling “our hacienda”.  I turned my face away, toward the gentle gurgle of the pool filter, and tried to extricate its sound from the factory churn of the cooler. I looked again at the outdoor thermometer hanging above the potted bougainvillea:  98 degrees Fahrenheit. It was 9:00 am.
         When I was a kid my mother kept a wall calendar. She marked it with specific events. Not birthdays or appointments but little house maintenance concerns like the expiration date of the milk and projected to-do’s such as when the toilet paper roll would need replacing. The calendar was her organizational bible, referred to daily, each task lined out as it was completed. But if an event did not occur or was missed—if the toilet paper roll had to be replaced before that date on the calendar—she would have an anxiety implosion. Sometimes it was dramatic and loud. But mostly she’d be quieter, sometimes just sitting alone at the kitchen table muttering things to herself like, “How am I supposed to function like this?”  Mom had other triggers, the normal whitewater patches in the currents of life. But when she hit them, they usually pulled her under.
         I spent much of my childhood on sentry duty, watching her for signs of an approaching episode. I can’t describe the relief I felt upon realizing I had been spared the mental incarceration my mother suffered all those years. Then I had Ruby. It had not occurred to me that it might simply skip a generation.

         Ruby’s initial anxiety at being in a place with such potentially deadly surroundings lasted just a few days. Or it seemed that way to me. As was our custom she was very good at hiding things and I was very good at collusion. But now she had a purpose and was needed.  She rose to the occasion. There were some chickens to feed, a couple of Persian cats that hung out indoors but still needed frequent grooming and an ancient yellow Pomeranian named Bear that Ruby took to immediately. Ruby was the zookeeper and dedicated companion for this menagerie and spent long hours each day tending them.  The structured days accumulated into a semblance of comfort for her. She would sometimes hum to herself as she went about her work, little tunes I couldn’t quite make out though I tried.
         Meanwhile the initial release of escape burned off me imperceptibly like sunscreen until one day I went to bed feeling parenthetical and disconnected and woke up the next with the same condition. And the days lined up in similar fashion after that. The novel and journal articles I had brought languished on the night table. My laptop sat closed in its case unless I zoned out with some TV show. I had a leaden center in me that kept me glued to the chaise on the patio, occasionally moving into the sun and back to the shade again. I watched the middle and far distance of the scrubby, monochromatic desert beyond our walls. It reposed like some mighty personage, surrounding our little compound with unassailable supremacy. You didn’t question; you didn’t push back. And yet it was always out there. You just narrowed your eyes against what was, kept quiet, and laid low.
         Ruby slowly took on my chores without asking. She did them all: the watering, tidying the house, even the food preparation. Anything she prepared, I ate, including PBJs. We sat in silence, side-by-side on the patio like two cruise line passengers who didn’t know each other.
         I did venture out the front door to grab mail and the paper. Often the next-door neighbor would be outside in front of his sagging double-wide. Sometimes he’d be sitting on a lawn chair smoking, sometimes monitoring a hose that snaked through his front window and ended in the gutter. He watched me but we never exchanged greetings. One morning he had hooked the hose to the outside water spigot and was holding it high over his head, giving himself a driveway shower, fully dressed. I suspected his mobile home was quite possibly a meth lab.
         It was on the day of our Mara Oasis visit that the dog escaped.  I was hoping to go early enough so the heat wouldn’t cook us. I got Ruby up and helped her with the animals so we could leave before 9 am. Ruby insisted on bringing the dog along. I couldn’t say no to my daughter after all the work she had shouldered during our stay.  Ruby leashed him and headed out before I could grab my purse. Maybe the leash clasp was broken but whatever the cause, the dog shot away from Ruby as soon as he was outside and, in a flash, Ruby was standing on the front stoop alone, the unattached leash still in her hand.
         “Mom!” she wailed. “Bear ran away!”
         I ran outside and knelt down to face my sobbing daughter. “Calm down, Ruby. Take a breath. Where did he go?”
         “Out there!” She gestured wildly.  “The snakes’ll get him!”
         We ran together toward the perimeter of the property and around the back. There was no sign of the dog.
         “Bear! Bear!” Ruby called out. Her nose was running like a spigot. She stumbled against me and coughed on her phlegm. I stopped and caught her by her shoulders, endeavoring to make eye contact with her once more.
         “Sweetie, look at me. Please calm down. It will help to find Bear if you can try to be calm.”
         Ruby’s face tightened in a tense pucker as she tried to stop crying.  I had gone into an automatic state of calm, my demeanor modeling what I wanted to draw out of Ruby. After years of mothering my mom and then Ruby, disengaging from the chaos came easily. Yet I thought how useless it would be to conduct a lost dog search in this place of few telephone poles on which to post flyers. Even then, who was crazy enough to walk the streets here with the daytime temps in the triple digits? And then there was Habbi and what had happened to him. But I pushed those thoughts away.
         “I’m going to grab some dog treats from the house and then we’ll hop in the car and look for him, OK?”
         Ruby nodded, her eyes moving back and forth across the landscape. “We’ll find him, honey. You just go to the car and wait for me.”
         But when I came out a minute later with the bag of doggie bon bons Ruby had disappeared as well. Maybe she had seen the dog and gone after him. I ran around the side yard and the back of the house–nothing but the god-damned desert, empty and endless. Ruby’s panic became my panic, too. What was out there, sleeping in the shade or down a burrow, ready to pounce? And knowing my daughter was somewhere she feared, I could feel my calm disintegrating.
         When I came around the front of the house I stopped and viewed the empty street and listened to my panting breath, willing myself to slow my breathing down as I sometimes coached Ruby to do. But there was a dread rising up from my gut, jutting through the adrenalin vibrating through my body.
         “Ruby!” My voice wasn’t mine; yet it sounded familiar. It had a keening desperation to it, a head-in-hand powerlessness.
         I turned to run back in the house, uncertain what I’d do once I got there, when I saw my daughter emerging from behind the neighbor’s house, the dog in her arms, walking toward me. The neighbor was following her, the leash in his hand.
         “Oh my God, Ruby! I was calling you!” I cried as I ran to her.
         “The man found Bear. He caught him. We need a new leash, mom.”
         Up close, the grey stubble on his chin and cheeks and the creases around his mouth made him look much older than he had seemed from across the way.
         “I was telling your little girl I heard the dog snuffling around in the rat food I put out back,” the neighbor said. “I caught him by the collar before he could bolt.”
         Ruby had been out of my sight with the neighbor for just a minute or two but the neighbor went from rescuer to suspect in my mind. I looked for signs of anything out of the ordinary. Ruby seemed fine though her cheeks were flushed and she had a bit of a fevered glint in her eye, the kind she got when she was starting to get overwhelmed. I just wanted to get her out of the heat and settled down.
         “Mom, he has a bunch of rock piles in his yard. They’re really cool!”
         “Oh?” I put my hand protectively on her head and she shook me off. “Mom, can we stay home and swim instead of going out? Bear’s thirsty and it’s hot.”
         “Sure. Can you take the dog inside and give him some water? I’ll be there in a minute.”
         “Thanks for catching him,” I said to the neighbor when Ruby had gone inside. “I don’t know how we could have found him if he’d gotten any farther.”
         “I’m not surprised he made a run for it when he got the first chance. They never take that dog out. And this leash is shot.” He held it up. His arms were bruised and discolored as if he had been in a bar fight—or maybe he was shooting up the stuff he manufactured. But there was something else in him now that I was standing feet from him; he had a shyness that was almost childlike. His head tilted quizzically and his eyes had a guileless, soft earnestness that struck me as more wistful than threatening.
         Despite my protestations he insisted it would just take a couple of minutes to fix the leash.
         “It would be good to take that dog out for a proper walk.”
         I followed him to the toolshed behind his place. His yard was strewn with an array of junk–broken clay and plastic pots, old machinery, a rusting bicycle. Yet here and there amongst the discards were the rock piles that Ruby had mentioned, extraordinary sculpture-like pillars of stone–one precariously balanced upon another–in uncanny and seemingly impossibly haphazard configurations. Some piles were a foot or so high, others taller than Ruby.  Rocks that were no bigger than a marble held ones that were as large as watermelons. The variety of shapes at crazy angles, all reaching up tenuously yet holding fast had the overall effect of a playful and fantastical stone garden. I thought of the illustrations of enchanted woods in a fairy tale book I had pored over for hours on end as a child. Logic said  they should topple rather than stand. Yet there they stood. The overall effect was a place that contained erratic, hopeful magic and rusting detritus.
         “Those rock piles—are they glued together?”
         “No.”
         “But how can you do that? They can’t stay that way for long.”
         “They actually want to balance, stones do. But that don’t mean they can’t fall. They do–all the time. Like this.”
         He pushed the nearest pile over with a flick of his wrist, hitting a smaller stone that had been anchoring a number of larger ones above it. The entire tower crashed to the ground, joining the rest of the clutter strewn around. I couldn’t help gasping at the suddenness of the destruction of something so whimsical, so hopeful somehow. I looked at him to see what was in his face, destroying something like that. He was peering up and squinting into the sun then he turned to me. He was smiling.
         “It’s kinda like karma; you just start all over again.”

         My mother took me to a therapist when I was thirteen. She said she was worried about me, that I seemed depressed and angry. Even at that age I knew there was nothing wrong with me that getting through to the other side of puberty wouldn’t cure. But when mom insisted on the visit to Dr. Trefeldt’s office, I was terrified that I might have contracted what my mother suffered from. Everything my mother did was excruciatingly shameful to me and had been for a while. She was certifiably crazy, as far as I was concerned. The irony that she wanted me to see a shrink was not lost on me.
         Dr. Trefeldt was a middle-aged woman in an oversized sweater and peasant skirt. She invited me to sit in an armchair. As she positioned herself in a loveseat opposite me her skirt billowed like a picture book shepherdess. There were dolls and stuffed animals on a play table and a sand tray with plastic shovels and cups and funnels.  I wondered if she saw grown-ups and if they played with the toys. I spent the session, the only one I ever had with her, pouring sand from one cup to another, answering questions like did I ever want to hurt myself.  My mother told me later that Dr. Trefeldt informed her I was a normal adolescent with, if anything, a heightened sense of anxiety. “There’s no reason for that,” my mother said to me. “You’re a kid. Be a kid.”
         When I got pregnant at eighteen, I succeeded in my plan to escape my mother and what I believed by then was the toxic pull of her. Ruby’s father and I were married and moved into our own place. But my rage didn’t end until Ruby was born and I saw in her the child that I had been. I vowed to be someone my daughter wouldn’t be repelled by. But then the marriage went sour. I felt, after my divorce, that my life had come full circle: I was a single mom barely getting by, in a low-grade state of fear over whether we would be OK.
         I brought Ruby occasionally to visit her grandmother but I wouldn’t let the two of them be alone together for any length of time. I was sentry still, protecting my daughter from the unpredictable behavior I had experienced in my mother. One evening while we were visiting her sad apartment, I walked into the kitchen and there was mom, sitting on the kitchen chair, slumping forward with her chin in her hand. Ruby, six years old, was standing behind her on tiptoe crooning a nonsense song while she braided my mother’s hair. I could never recall being that loving with my mother when I was a girl and I watched with some envy as my little daughter cosseted my mother.  They looked so serene, like nothing bad had ever happened or ever would. Maybe there had been times like that between my mother and me but I just didn’t have a memory of it. The memories, bad and good, had been blown away in the backdraft of my flight from home, all of it caught up and dispersed like the smoke of a snuffed candle. A year later my mother was dead of a stroke and I was able to fund a house for us and my education with her life insurance. My sense of new possibilities burgeoned into an industriousness and productivity, a careening energy that swept Ruby and me into our new life. Yet not long after that Ruby began insisting that the doors be left open at a certain tilt and that the chair in her room face a particular direction or she couldn’t sleep.  Sometimes I wondered if her grandmother’s very embrace had had contagion in it.

         The last full day at our hacienda dawned like all the ones before it, hot and dry and dull. But there was something else, a faint scorched scent to the still air. A plume of mud-colored smoke lifted from the horizon. There was a fire somewhere. In spite of the blasted environment of the Mojave there apparently was still just enough vegetation to combust. Ruby had fed the animals, brushed both cats and played a game of catch with Bear but she was anxious, I could tell. I watched from my place on the chaise while she watered the container plants. Ruby went to the gate and stretched up on her toes, looking at the smoke as if its origin could be seen as easily as an errant cup might be fetched from the back of a cupboard.
         “How far away do you think that fire is from us, mom?”
         “Don’t know. Check the TV.” Ruby’s question resonated with one that bubbled up from the mush of my thoughts. I had a sudden need to know, too, where before I hadn’t cared.
         “Would you do that, sweetie? Check the TV and find out?”
         While Ruby was inside the house I got up and walked to the gate where my daughter had stood to scan the horizon. God, the desert was ugly. I took off my sunglasses and squinted out at the unobstructed view, the open expanse of sand and tumbleweed and the occasional lonely fence. With all that space and nothing in it, why a fence? To keep in, to keep out, what? It seemed so pointless.
I looked at the smoke column. I could not see it move at all if I looked very, very hard at it. But if I turned away from it and looked back, there it was, changed. The smoke on the horizon was flattening and broadening into a mushroom top and the cloudy folds of it were smudging to a brown fog.
         When I retreated inside the house I saw Ruby sitting on the floor before the TV. Bear lounged on her lap, panting as he got his ears scratched. On the screen a reporter in a windbreaker finished his news report from the field, projecting an expression of concerned professional detachment. The camera cut to a couple of firefighters in yellow suits and helmets, spraying an outbuilding. The news anchor appeared on the screen and announced a quick break in the report but assured that they were keeping an eye on the developing situation. He advised to stay tuned. Ruby turned and looked up at me. The dog’s little rib cage heaved rhythmically, a contented bellows under her caresses.
         “Mom? We’re going to be OK, aren’t we . . .”
         I heard something in Ruby’s voice for the first time. It was not fear. And it hit me that she wasn’t asking me a question. She was speaking something that didn’t as much need to be reaffirmed as declared. It was like her quiet, self-contained songs, the ones she sang to herself when I wondered where she was in her head, songs that I tried so hard to identify. What I heard from Ruby sitting in this house of strangers surrounded by so much that was unknown, was certainty—a limitless faith—in all the good that was bound to come.

Dana Jacoby grew up in Orange County. Her father was a steel salesman whose territory included the Inland Empire. She will always associate Twenty-Nine Palms with the garnet jars of prickly pear jelly he brought home from his sales trips. A life and executive coach and organization development consultant, she has an MA in Psychology from Sonoma State University. Sonoma County Wine Country has been home since 1975. Her work has appeared in ByLine.