Literary Supplement

It’s often difficult, amidst the duties and routines of daily life, to find the time to indulge in the more subtle pleasures of literature. Life just happens; events intervene; the days run away like wild horses over the hills, as Bukowski wrote. In between driving the kids to karate, making dinner, watching TV, entertaining visiting relatives—books go unread, forming small mountain ranges on the nightstand, as magazines stare up from the coffee table unopened, silently questioning why you bothered subscribing to them in the first place.
At Chronogram, it’s sort of like that too. We know there are many wonderful short story writers and poets in our region, yet we’re often so involved in covering the pressing issues of the day—the Hudson River PCB remediation, the election, local cultural coverage—that we only have room for one poetry page in our magazine, and no room for fiction. Our Literary Supplement seeks to address that deficiency. Herein, you’ll find two short stories and five poems, one of them a longer piece, “Hiking Giant Ledge,” by Chris Ketcham, that we don’t normally have the space to run, plus a few book reviews of works by local authors. We hope you like what you see—it was exciting to watch it come together from an amorphous idea into a physical being, our Literary Supplement. And we hereby give notice to all poetistas and fictionistas in our region—send us your stories, your poems, your huddled masterpieces yearning to breathe free. Chronogram is committed to its community, and its community of writers—this is your magazine, and my thanks to all who contributed to this fine section. A special note of thanks as well to our poetry editor, Lee Anne Albritton, who was kind enough to allow us to fold Poetica into the Literary Supplement this month and who worked very closely with me in making this a reality. —Brian K. Mahoney

THE SISTERS
by Betty Ann Damms

Ellen anxiously anticipated her sister’s visit. Although they had spoken on the phone, they had not seen each other for several years. So, she was totally unprepared for the elegant stranger who came to call, and she was in awe of her sibling’s youthful appearance. Ellen experienced a stab of jealousy, as well as an awareness of how dowdy she looked in the oversized tunic and sweat pants with which she attempted to hide her ever expanding figure. In contrast, her willowy sister sat cross legged in a bright blue miniskirt. Any blemishes on her shapely legs were concealed by the unnatural whiteness of her hose. Perched like a canary on one of the two, stiff-backed wooden chairs in the tiny kitchenette in Ellen’s small but cozy one-bedroom apartment, Marguerite’s finely manicured left hand held an ebony cigarette holder. “I never light it, Honey. It’s only for show,” Marguerite soothingly consoled her sister, whose eyes nervously darted from her face to the cigarette holder that hovered in the air.
Touching the beginnings of a wattle on her throat, Ellen curiously looked for any signs of aging on her sister’s face. Tiny crow’s-feet at the corners of Marguerite’s eyes were the only thing that hinted at her coming half century. Only one year separated them, but the distinct, downtrodden feeling of lost youth was accelerated when Ellen compared herself to her older sister. Although not beautiful, Marguerite’s sculpted facial features were classically handsome. Her skin, bearing only foundation and blush, was alabaster smooth.
Acutely aware that the chasm that yawned between them was more than mere appearance, Ellen felt a twinge of regret over her life course. After winning her hard earned teaching certificate decades ago, she was still teaching first grade in the same school she and her sister had attended. And she had never married. Conversely, her glamorous sister and her successful husband lived a wonderful life of the nouveau riche. Ellen had the sudden and uncomfortable feeling that her career and independent life was only a stagnant pool of memories.
With a hand that trembled ever so slightly, Marguerite took a sip of tea, leaving a smudge of red on the edge of the cup. She pressed her lips together and hoarsely drawled, “Oh thank you, Honey. I really needed that after the drive up here. The traffic from the city was horrendous!”
Ellen smiled timidly and said, “I can’t believe you’re finally here! I’m just so happy to see you.” She took a swallow of tea and asked, “How is Harold?”
Marguerite carelessly indicated the glistening white Mercedes sitting next to Ellen’s faded Buick Century. The tiny wiper blades that rested on the headlights looked like false eyelashes; and like its owner, the car exuded graceful refinement. “As you can see, he’s doing well. Making lots of money selling stocks and bonds for his clients,” Marguerite replied, boredom scrawled all over her face.
Despite knowing it would leave her dissatisfied with her own late model car, Ellen said eagerly, “you’ll have to take me for a ride.”
Marguerite nodded and, with a nostalgic smile, said, “Do you remember when Johnny bought his car ‘way back in the ‘dark ages,’ and we couldn’t wait to be invited for a ride?”
The teenage sisters had been gaga over their good-looking neighbor, who at twenty, had seemed so mature and debonair. Freedom exonerated had been theirs when they had ridden in his brand new, red convertible Mustang in the long ago year of 1969. Ellen had shown her thanks by giving him a peck on the cheek and delivering a batch of home made chocolate chip cookies a few days later. When she learned that her sister had expressed her gratitude in the back seat of Johnny’s new car, she had been appalled and repulsed.
But romance had blossomed between the two young people. That is, until Harold Atwater the Third, if you please, had appeared on the scene. At her clerk’s job at the Granite Hotel, the fanciest resort for miles around, Marguerite had rounded a corner and bumped into one of the guests. Papers had flown everywhere. Both had furiously apologized as they bent to pick them up. As he had handed her a pile of letters, the handsome, mature man had gently laid his hand on hers. With smiling, crystal clear, blue eyes, he had said in a deep, throaty tone, “please accept my invitation to dine with me to make up for this confusion.” So the next evening, Marguerite had dined at her employer’s table and played the demure sophisticate. Charmed and amazed that such a delightfully elegant flower had been cultivated in “the country,” Harold had proposed before returning to the city and his retinue of clients. Swept off her feet by the promise of wealth and glitz, Marguerite had calmly and coolly dumped Johnny and plunged into plans for a sumptuous wedding, the like of which the little Catskill Mountain village of Kerhonkson had never seen. Without so much as a backward glance, she had deserted her family and friends, and whole-heartedly embraced the hustle and bustle of New York’s busy life.
After mooning about for two weeks, Johnny had asked the daughter of the police chief for a date, and they were happily married to this day.
“How is dahling Johnny and his dahling family?” Marguerite inquired, examining a fingernail as if disinterested.
“They’re fine,” Ellen said. “His daughter just presented him with his second grandchild.”
“My my, the boy has been busy, hasn’t he?” Marguerite sighed, flicking a piece of lint from the front of her silk blouse. “Things would have been different if Harold hadn’t come onto the scene, wouldn’t they?” Marguerite said and gazed out the window, a far-off look in her eyes. Ellen frowned.
Clenching her unlit cigarette holder between her teeth, Marguerite leaned back on the unforgiving chair and said, “Know what I could go for right now?”
Ellen leaned forward anxiously, wondering if the Cornish hens waiting in the refrigerator would be fancy enough for her highfalutin sister. “What?” she said breathlessly.
“A good hump,” Marguerite sighed, stretching her lithe body like a cat. “Johnny was good, I’ll give him that.”
“What?!”
Marguerite examined her sister’s finely lined face and austerely pulled back, graying hair through half closed eyes. She touched her tongue to her lips and said, “You know. A hump. A man.”
“What?!”
“Harold and I haven’t slept together in over ten years,” Marguerite said. “Separate rooms, you know, Honey.”
“What?!”
“Tsk tsk! Watt! Watt! Watt! Are you a light bulb?” Marguerite teased good-naturedly, then stared at the ceiling, which desperately needed new paint. “Harold’s impotent, you know,” she said.
Ellen’s mouth went slack and dropped open.
“Oh, Honey, don’t look so surprised,” Marguerite said with a laugh. “He’s sixty-three, you know. And after almost thirty years, there’s no Harold Atwater the fourth to carry on.” She waved her hand and shrugged. “I suppose it would have been nice, but children are such a bother.” Smoothing her auburn tresses, lackluster from constant coloring in an attempt to maintain an aura of youth, Marguerite said matter of factly, “It’s been very trialsome keeping my tête-à-têtes from him.”
Ellen swallowed the disgust that swelled up in her throat and picked up the teapot. “More tea?” she asked nervously.
With an imperial wave of her hand, Marguerite said, “Honey, I want to treat you to dinner. Is there someplace nice we can go?” She raised her eyebrows in recognition of their differing moral codes and said, “It’s the least I can do for your hospitality.”

They carefully avoided any further mention of Marguerite’s lack of marital bliss and steered their conversation to reminiscing about the good old days of their youthful ignorance. At the restaurant, they shared a bottle of bubbly Spumante and giggled like two school girls.
Later, as they carefully tucked clean sheets around the sofa bed’s mattress, Marguerite insisted she would sleep there. “I’ll not put you out of your bed, Honey,” she said, then wistfully added, “do you remember when I would have nightmares and you would take me into your bed and hug me until I fell back to sleep?” She took her sister’s rough hands in her primped ones. “I never told you how much I appreciated you. And I want you to know that I love you very, very much and I’m so very, very proud of you.”
“Oh, I love you, too,” Ellen said. “and I’m so glad you came to visit.” They fell into each other’s arms and patted each other affectionately on the back. Ellen felt a rush of fondness for her erratic sibling. Despite her faults, Marguerite was her sister, and nothing could change that. And nothing could take away the camaraderie they had shared as children. “I wish you could stay two nights,” she said as they broke from their embrace.
“It’s been divine, but Honey, I really do have to go back in the morning. You’ll just have to come for a visit. We could go to a play, visit the Guggenheim, go shopping,” Marguerite said expansively, a genuine smile on her face.
“We’ll see,” Ellen said. “By the way, I put a night light in the bathroom for you.”
“Oh you dahling!” Marguerite gushed. “You remembered I don’t like the dark.” She blinked rapidly. “I do love the lights in the city, and I love the noise that drifts up to the penthouse. It’s much too quiet here.”
Ellen glanced at her watch and tried to stifle a yawn. Eleven-thirty! She grinned sleepily and said, “I’ll be honest with you, I don’t generally sit up this late.”
Marguerite kicked off her spike heeled shoes and peeled off her pantyhose. “I’m not going to sleep this early, but you go on to bed,” she said. “I’ll probably watch a little TV, if you don’t mind. I’ll keep it low; you won’t hear a peep.”
They broke into laughter when they simultaneously recited, “sleep tight and don’t let the bed bugs bite.” Marguerite threw her sister a kiss and settled on the sofa bed with the television remote in her hand.
After softly closing her bedroom door, Ellen undressed and eyed her image in the full length mirror with dismay. She was one year younger than her sister, but she looked like what she was -- a frumpy, old maid school marm. She sighed in resignation and drew on her plain flannel nightgown and nestled under the warm flannel sheets. Listening to the katydids’ songs that wafted through her window, which was open to invite the crisp September night in, she soon drifted off to sleep.

At four AM, Ellen stiffened in fright as a weight touched her bed, the covers were gently lifted, and a small, bony body snuggled close to her. Ellen sighed in relief and lay very still until Marguerite’s breathing indicated she had wandered back to dreamland.
Sometime tomorrow, Marguerite would leave and return to her husband and deceptive lifestyle. Bright and early the following morning, Ellen would walk into a classroom filled with freshly washed, expectant faces. Although never bearing her own, these would become her children as she lovingly taught and encouraged this new generation that was placed in her competent hands.
Ellen pulled her sleeping sister’s frail body to her ample bosom and sighed with satisfaction. With a contented smile on her face, she soon drifted back to sleep.