ࡱ> cebU Gbjbjnn 4taa? j j 824&t&&&&&&&$(+b*&*&?&'''&'&''V"@#4>"# %U&0&.#x,|,##&,#$'*&*&'&,j B : JUNE DROP By Jordan Carter 2020 West Virginia Fiction Competition, 1st-Place Winner Selected by Dorothy Allison Dorothy Allison wrote the following about this superb prize winning story: These days, stories seem more important to me than ever. They anchor us in so many way, reminding us what we treasure, what we fear, and how we can, even in the midst of terrible times, reach out to each other. I loved what you accomplished with June Drop which is simply a beautifully inspired piece. On my first read, however, I was unhappy with the phrase the babies come and gone assuming it was another of those "southernisms" that I so abhor. The mix of tense and the play on the emotions of death and loss broke up the narrative for me. Surely, I thought it is just an awkward turn of phrase, not intentional, and if intentional then it needs to be rethought. I still think it needs some attention though I am no longer so immediately dismissive of the phrase. Sometimes a phrase that bothers us actually pulls us in to a narrative and there is a little bit of that working here for me.The difficulty is that in any story we need to trust the voice of the writer (which is to say the narrative stance) as well as the dialogue of the characters. And frankly trust is difficult to realize when you are a young writer. "Go with me here," you are saying. "Listen to my people," which of course means you are short-circuiting the resistance of the reader and reaching for that acceptance of both the narrative voice, which in your story is quite strong and seductive, and the spoken voices of these people whom we truly want to hear echoing in our own nervous system. You get there for me with the description of the cicadas and the terrible details of how they live and die. Only the males scream stopped me utterly. The glory of a beautiful narrative is accumulative, that voice pulling us forward, and now and then stopping us with the resonance of an utterly true phrase. Air sweet as peaches, sun-bleached exoskeletons, babies that don't catch, buttermilk slurry, and cicada shells crunching under the glider's rockers. By the time the story closes out on Sunday remembering Skips words"I think they scream when theyre scared, tooI am fully with you, the narrative and Sunday and his mama, and all those babies gone. Just beautiful work, fully deserving of our attention and praise. Dorothy Allison June 1960 The night the babies came and went, the air was sweet and soft like peaches. It hung thick and downy around the porch, just enough to muffle the drone of the cicadas. Theyd come silently, split their skin, and nested in the maples and oaks in the yard. A hundred sun-bleached exoskeletons hung from the trailers siding. Only the males make that sound, Sunday said. Thats all talk, Ma said. She leaned back in the glider and clasped her hands across her pregnant belly. No, it aint, Sunday said. Remember when I saw the two-headed cicada, the one with eyes pointing both ways? Ma nodded. She pulled a stick of gum from her housecoat pocket, tore it in half, and stuck out the smaller half for Sunday. You told me they were just looking out for each other, Sunday said, but they were fucking. The glider stopped mid-crunch over cicada skins. Sunday couldnt read Mas face in the dark. Well, I wish they would fuck somewhere else, Ma said. She cracked her gum between her teeth. Sunday picked an exoskeleton from the vinyl and flicked it at Ma. She hung it from her earlobe like an earring. You know, the babies, Ma said. They aint nothing like you. How do you mean? Sunday said. They dont fly. Sunday bent down to pet Bama who lay panting at his feet, her teats long and drained, plopped hard on the cool wooden porch boards. A neighbor dog had come sniffing around her pen and put its pups inside her. Sunday had only been able to feel them once, lined up in a row like rosary beads, and hed never been able to feel Mas. -* * * Sunday found the two-headed cicada in the rotting wood of grape arbor, in the shade where he liked to cool off. He pinched it between his fingers and inspected it, his eyes squinted against the sun. Hey, Skip! Sunday shouted. Skip sat in the backyards overgrown grass and thumbed through a pack of baseball cards. Anything good? Sunday asked. Just a bunch of crummy, no good no-names, Skip said. He shook his head and fanned the cards out in front of Sunday before tossing them to the ground. Sunday shrugged. Look what I got, he said. He uncupped his hands. You ever seen a two-headed cicada? Not one with two heads at either end, Skip said. Looks like fucking to me. Fucking? Sunday said. Yeah, fucking. Skip said dismissively. Dad says theyre a sign of the end times, on account of a Catholic running for president. Sunday saw the point at which the cicadas were entangled and carefully pulled them apart. He gave Skip the larger of the two and pocketed the other. The boys opened its paper-thin wings and held one each, the shape of hard tack and the color of resin. They pressed their faces close, flushed and sweaty, keeping their eyes trained on two membranes, like popcorn skins, that vibrated within the cicadas shell. They took turns rubbing their fingertips across those half-buried kernel parts. Only the males scream, and thats on account of them trying to find a mate, Skip told Sunday. The thing screamed in between their pinched fingers, a sound like it was buckling all its ribs at once. I aint no mate, Sunday said. He tore the wing from between Skips fingers and pinned the cicada between his own until the cicada crunched and stopped screaming. Skip looked up at Sunday. II think they scream when theyre scared, too, he said. July 1952 The Inn at Shingle Creek promised ten channels, air conditioning, and an ice machine. Daddy combed the TVs static signal while Ma fluffed her dress in front of the air conditioner, letting the air ride up her legs. It hummed and clattered, and the faded pink ribbons taped to its air vents flapped weakly and then faltered. The unit kicked off and blew hot air. Ma sighed and sweated. She sat on the edge of the bed and tapped her foot. She kicked off her shoes, slipped her nylons down to her toes, and kicked those off, too. Want to get some ice? Ma said. She leaned back on her elbows and fanned herself. Daddy adjusted the rabbit ear antenna, and when the picture didnt change, he smacked the side of the TV and cursed under his breath. He looked at Ma. She flipped onto her stomach, rested her chin on her fist, and yawned. She hummed a lazy version of the wedding march and pedaled her bare feet in time in the air. Daddy leaned against the wood-paneled walls, arms crossed. Ma grabbed the ice bucket from the dresser and thrust it toward Daddy. He took it and smoothed the clear plastic liner around the rim. You like it? He gestured at the room with the ice bucket, its metal handle clanking against metal. Ma kept her eyes on the ring she twisted around her finger. She looked up only when she heard the door slam shut against the deadbolt. From the hall, she heard him crack a can of dip and pack it, then the sound of ice clattering into the bottom of the plastic-lined bucket. When he returned, she sat up cross-legged, reaching childishly for the ice. She set the bucket between her thighs and scooped out ice cubes with her fingers, sucking on each one until it melted. Never know how they get them all the same size, Daddy said. He picked up an ice cube and inspected it. He closed one eyes and moved the ice cube in and out of focus. He ran his finger around its ridge before crunching it between his teeth. Ma set the half-full ice bucket on the carpet, and as she turned, Daddy caught glimpses of white in her black hair. Hold still, he said, and reached for the coil of hair at the back of her head. She put her hands to her head. Dont mess my chignon, she said. But the word came out sounding like chig non instead of the delicate way shed once heard it pronounced. She blushed and covered her ears. Daddy sat on the bed behind her and plucked grains of rice from her hair. Turn on the light, will you? Ma pulled the chain on the reading lamp, illuminated a coin box on the bedside table. We got one of them Magic Fingers beds! Ma said. Daddy brushed grains of rice from his palm to the floor before checking his pockets. He smiled when he felt the cool metal there and rose to pull the curtains. He fed the bed twenty-five cents every fifteen minutes so Ma could feel those Magic Fingers. When the TV finally cut on, it was The Hunchback of Notre Dame, drowned out by the beds motor. Sunday was made as the last of Daddys twenty-five cents shook out and the fine lines printed on the bedsheets came back into focus. Daddy and Ma heard just the end of the films score, a brass symphony orchestra rendition of Hallelujah, the timpani, timpani, timpani beating along with their hearts. The program cut to the National Anthem and then turned to static. Mas chignon had fallen and the ice in the bucket had melted. 1959 For seven years after that, the babies just wouldnt catch. Mas blood came with every full moon. Sunday watched her wash her underwear in the kitchen sink, chaffing the fabric with a vegetable scrubber. She wore nothing but one of Daddys t-shirts, breathing hard but wouldnt cry, and smoothed sweat-matted hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist. On afternoons when Daddy went into the mines, she lay on her back in bed with her legs in the air and her feet pressed against the headboard. Sunday would lay that way, too, and they watched the ceiling fan slowly oscillate, its blades yellowed and tethered by cobwebs. Sunday, Ma said. Remember when Boggs sold his bitch cause she couldnt have any more pups? Ma said. Sunday nodded and rolled to look at Ma. She stuck and unstuck her feet from the headboard and set her jaw so she wouldnt cry, her eyes already half-wet. He laid his hand on her shoulder. We aint gonna sell you, Ma, he said. And they werent, but he hoped those babies would catch soon. * * * Ma made her buckwheat cakes thin and crispy and rolled them like crepes. She sieved flour, salt, and baking powder into a big metal bowl and whisked until a powder cloud formed in the air. She cracked two eggs and fished pieces of their shell from the bowl before licking her fingers clean. Sweat streaked the flour on her cheeks, and when she opened the fridge, the cool air cut the heat of the kitchen, if only for a moment. She pulled out a carton of buttermilk and swung the door shut with her hip. She bent back the cardboard lip of the carton and the smell of the slurry made vomit rise hot at the back of her throat. She dropped the carton, and clutching the edge of the kitchen sink, threw up down the drain as buttermilk splattered. She lowered herself to the floor weakly and rested her face against the cool linoleum, eyes closed. Buttermilk coated strands of hair. Then her eyes shot open and her legs shot open and she checked for blood right there on the kitchen floor. The full moon was rising, and there was none. * * * Ma wore cut-off jeans unbuttoned below her bump and only a bra when she worked in the garden. She tilled soil and Sunday broke apart the clumps with his fingers. Bama loped through waist-high Queen Annes Lace, tiny white florets dotting the fur between her eyes and down her snout. Sunday and Ma stopped for shade under one of the yards flagged oak trees. Ma took off her gardening gloves and fanned herself with her sun hat before she laid on her back in the grass. She reached to the base of her neck and unclasped the chain on which she wore her wedding ring. She held it like a pendulum over her bump. When I let go, if the ring swings in a circle, we got us a girl, she said. If it swings side to side, boy. Sunday propped his head on his hand and looked at her incredulously. Worked for you, she shrugged. Sunday held his face close to Mas belly. The ring made a clean circle clockwise, then counterclockwise. Youre doing that! Sunday said. Am not. Ma thrust the ring and chain into his palm. You try. Again, the ring swept in two perfect and opposite circles. Sunday looked away from the swinging ring and up at Ma. This means we got us a girl? Two. She smiled. In that moment, something about Ma felt a little wild, like Bama out there catching flies in the tall grass. Mashed be having a litter, too. * * * Street always worked the front counter at Streets Store. Heard you was having a baby, he said. Sunday could hear the smile in his voice. Ma was smiling, too, and nodded, placing her hand on her belly. A baby? Two women wearing goulashes rounded the corner. How far along? one said. Seven, eight months, I think, Ma said. I got a good doctor up Marmot. Delivered both my boys, the other said. They twins? Ma asked. Oh heavens, never. I aint ever seen a set where they both turn out good, she said. Now, thats ugly talk, the other woman whispered and jabbed her in the ribs. Sunday, Ma said. There was something urgent in her voice. Come up here and tell Mr. Street what youre looking for. Sunday couldnt quite see over the high lacquered counter, so Street leaned down over its edge and cupped his hand around his ear. Street was oldancient, Sunday guessedand the creases in his face were filled with wood dust. Whatcha need, boy? Street mimed tipping a hat as if to say at your service. Were looking for pumpkin seeds, he said. To plant for the babies. The babies you say? he said. Babies. Street hung onto the word like something sweet and raised his eyebrows at Ma. Well, hold on, now. Let me see what Ive got for you, he said. He pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket and unfurled one corner to reveal slick white pumpkin seeds. Street took Sundays hand and pressed the handkerchief into his palm. Soak em in warm water before ya plant em, he said, and tell your Daddy I says Hi. Ma reached for her pocketbook. Street put his hands up and said, No charge from me. Ma thanked him and stepped to the side, out of the way of the women in goulashes, who lifted cans of paint onto the counter. Street pulled a sign from behind the register: Out to Lunch. Street picked up a book and whistled. Mister? one of the women said. Street licked his finger and flipped a page. June 1960 The night the babies came and went, the trees had shed their fruit and the ground was littered with rotting apples. Ma stood from the glider and fastened her housecoat. See you in the morning, Sunday. She bent to kiss Sundays forehead, her dark hair grazing his cheeks. Sunday heard a pop and watched a stream of water run down Mas legs and onto his bare feet. Ma sunk back onto her hips and groaned. Sunday jumped up to steady her. Should I get someone? Sunday could hardly hear his own voice over the rush of blood in his ears. Ma shook her head and gritted her teeth. Theyre coming, she moaned. Sweat sprung up around her hairline, her face red and boiling. She slung her arm around Sundays shoulder and they made it as far as the grape arbor before Ma could go no more. Thats where Daddy built a doghouse for Bama to nurse in, and thats where Ma crawled, up to her waist in with the straw, whimpering like Bama had. Then the blood came, slick and dark like river mud on Mas thighs. She clutched at the hem of her nightgown and let her legs fall open, bent at the knee. Her insides, like waterlogged wood, swelled and swelled until they pushed out the crown of a peach fuzz head. Keep pushing, Sunday pleaded. Sweat rolled down his brow. Ma pushed her hands beneath the straw and came up with two fists full of dirt, clutched so tightly they turned to mud. Sunday couldnt see what happened next, just felt his hands working, everything all warm and wet and bloody. Ma pushed air across her teeth and the last of the cicadas screamed in the trees like they knew they would die soon. Skips words circled in Sundays head. 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