Jazzed by Marty Shanks

I was mesmerized. Nothing like it had ever happened to me before. Is this love? Mere infatuation? It’s hard to believe that I, who have always been the soul of reason, am the one who can’t get a man out of her head, and yet here he is, ingrained in my mind like a raisin in a plum cake. But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me tell it from the beginning.

María Roldan has been my best friend since high school. People have never understood our friendship; we are as unlikely a pair as any you will meet. María, though brunette, was a bit of what, back in high school, we called “a Barbie”. I’m exaggerating perhaps, but she was (and is) one of those people who always looks put together. You know the type: petite and pretty, not a hair out of place, good skin, the dress, the shoes, the stylish handbag, the seamless makeup, the accessories. I prefer being comfortable and don’t have time for primping. It’s not my style. Just give me a roomy sports shirt and jeans and sneakers and I’m ready for anything. María wanted to wax my eyebrows once. I gave her a look. She never suggested it again. 

Closer than sisters, we have been through everything together: high school graduation, college gradation, failed relationships (mainly hers as I had few), the passing of our grandparents, and never ending jobs woes. Finally, at twenty-five, I landed a job in the Institut de Recerca Científica de Catalunya, an important Catalan research center in Barcelona. I love it. María was, at the time, working in the editor’s office of a local newspaper and thought it an important stepping stone in her literary career. 

That year, María met José. He thinks it’s sweet that she calls him Joe. After four years they are still crazy about each other. He is a lawyer and was the first in his family to graduate from university. His humble upbringing shows in his attitude and in the slump of his shoulders. But he is kind and hardworking and good to María. I roll my eyes when they get sappy with each other which makes María laugh. 

“Just wait until you find someone who makes your heart sing, Eva. Then I’ll roll my eyes at you!” she laughs.

María was hired by a French publishing house doing what was supposed to be a six month stint in the editing department. They liked her and one of the staff went out on maternity leave so she’s been there a year already. Hey, it’s Paris. Who can blame the girl? Last week María came back to Spain on vacation and she and José, invited me to a club I’d never been to before. I wasn’t much in the mood but María and I rarely spend time together with her working in Paris and me here in Spain, so I didn’t want to say no. It meant a lot that she’d asked, since José also lives here and their quality time together is brief and precious. Anyway, we went to this club and Dani showed up, also invited by my girl and her man. Dani is a friend of José’s. I know they do it so I won’t feel like a third wheel, but Dani? Seriously? He thinks he’s the smooth, casual type women swoon over, but, well, he isn’t. Every time I see him he asks me out; I always say no. Truth is, we only see each other when María and José bring us together for social events, so maybe he just pretends to make an effort with me for José’s sake. I suggested as much to José one day but he swore Dani told him he was into me. At any rate, not gonna happen. 

     After having something to eat the lights dimmed and the show started. María leaned over to me and whispered, “You’re gonna love this guy! Marty is the best!” I like jazz as much as anybody, so I relaxed and tried to get into the mood. Martin Shanks, I was told by my friend, was an up and coming trumpet player who was starting to build up a following with his four-man jazz band. He was tall and slender, with dark short hair parted on the side. He was attractive in an ordinary kind of way. But there was nothing ordinary about his music. When he lifted the instrument to his lips and started to play, I swear my heart stopped in my chest.  During the 20 minutes or so his set lasted, I was transported to where there was nothing in the room but him, his trumpet, and me. With every note he was in my blood. When the music stopped and the applause roared in my ears, reality came rushing back into my consciousness, unwanted. People started getting up to meet the members of the band during the intermission and María pulled at me to go up with her. Still stunned, I didn’t answer so she grabbed me by the arm and I let her pull me behind her. We were getting closer and María yelled over the crowd, “Marty! Over here!” He looked over at María and waved, his face breaking into a smile of recognition. Keeping me at her side, María began to elbow people out of the way to get us nearer the stage.  Up close, he was better looking. A lot better. His eyes were blue and intense and it made me stare. Suddenly, María was holding out her hand saying she had just come from Paris and how wonderful it was to see him again and how she’d brought a friend to hear him play… “Eva?” Oops, I was being spoken to. “Eva, this is Marty. Marty, my dear friend Eva.” I mumbled something incomprehensible about liking the show. He shook my hand saying something I couldn’t hear because at that moment there was an announcement asking everyone to return to their seats for the next set.   

It proved to be the last set and the band didn’t hang around. As we left and began walking back to José’s car, María went on and on about how she’d discovered Marty in Paris a few months earlier and how thrilled she was to know he’d be playing in Barcelona just when she’d be home.

“A bunch of us would hang around after the show and sometimes he’d have a drink with us. I just knew we had to come!” she gushed. “He’s just amazing! Don’t you think so Dani?” 

“Yeah, it was cool, I guess,” he answered, donning his this-is-all-so-slightly-boring act. What else was new?

“You’ve been quiet, Eva, what did you think?” María asked me.

“Great show.” I played it cool. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything quite like that. Will he be playing here long?”

“Only tomorrow night, if I’m not mistaken. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if we came back?” 

I had to see him again. 

“What a great idea!” Oh, God, had I said that out loud? My three companions started laughing hysterically. I laughed too, realizing they all thought I was kidding, but I had decided. I was coming back to see Marty Shanks play. 

When the laughter died down I realized we had stopped in front of a store window. I looked at our reflections. I looked at María’s and mine. She looked lovely, as always, in a floral print dress that outlined her perfect figure. She was lightly but perfectly made up, her dark thick hair tucked up into a chignon. Her manicured hands were holding her clutch which matched her shoes. I looked as I always do, oversized sports t-shirt, baggy jeans, white running shoes, bushy brows, and air-dried hair. But I wanted Marty Shanks to look at me and at that moment, my reflection almost made me cry.

Museum of Fine Arts: Seville

Museo de las bellas artes de Sevilla

1. One of four inner courtyards which the museum is built around.

2. Immaculate Conception of the Choir, Bartolomé Esteban Murillo

3. The Lamentation of Christ, Pedro Millán

4. Portrait of the artist’s son, El Greco

5. Detail of Altarpieces of the Church of St. Benedict of Calatrava, Seville

6. The Cavalry-Triptych, Frans Francken I

7. Detail of Altarpieces of the Church of St. Benedict of Calatrava, Seville

8. Hall

9. St. Jerome, penitent, Pietro Torrigiano

Mayte-Prologue

Prologue

Beneïu, Senyor, aquests aliments 

que de les teves mans rebrem. Amen.

After the prayer had been said over supper, fourteen-year-old Mayte Forta raised her eyes from her folded hands and pushed up her horn-rimmed glasses with the tip of her finger. Her own family never said grace the way the Figueres family did, but when in Rome… Of course, Olga and her family were members of the Opus Dei. Hipercatòlics, Mayte’s mother used to call them in jest. Before she died six months earlier, that was. She had made the Christmas escudella the day before the car accident that ended her life and her husband’s. It was Mayte’s favorite soup. She had helped her mother by making the pilota, a giant meatball that simmered in the broth to be divided among the diners on Christmas Day and they always made it a day or two early because it tasted better once the flavors had a chance to marry. However, last Christmas had been spent in the hospital, and Sant Esteve, the day after, in the funeral home. The escudella went untouched as they couldn’t bear to eat it, and Mayte’s grandmother, l’avia Cristina, dumped the whole thing down the toilet in batches, crying the whole time. A bump to Mayte’s arm shook her out of the memory. Olga Figueres gave her a look of concern.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Mayte nodded. Though she had passed the period in which she had spent whole days crying, she still thought about her parents all the time, particularly her mother. Mayte put on a schooled, cheerful expression and looked around the table. Olga’s parents smiled at her and began to eat. Olga’s brother, Rafel, who was sixteen, was already lost in his dish and Asha Palau, the third member of Mayte’s tight little circle of friends, kept looking over at him while picking at her food. 

After the meal, Asha and Mayte offered to help with the dishes but the Figueres summer home had staff who did that, so the girls were free to wander around the grounds until it was time for bed.

“So, still crushing on Rafel, I see,” said Olga. Asha shrugged and looked down. The three were sitting on a rattan couch on the stone porch in the back of the house, their feet huddled under a blanket. Even in summer, it was cold at night in the sierra. 

Mayte would have bet that Asha was blushing under her dark skin. “Don’t worry,” she said. “When he sees how pretty you look at church this Sunday, he’ll come around.”

“Maybe he’s just not into black girls,” said Asha.

“These days, the only thing he’s into is his horse,” said Olga, making the other girls laugh. As if to give truth to the statement, Rafel came out of the house with an apple in each hand, ignored the three of them as usual, and headed toward the stables. He was followed by peels of laughter, mostly from his sister and Mayte. 

“It was really nice of your parents to invite us up for the summer,” said Mayte, gazing up into the clear sky. Most of the lights were off and the stars shone bright above them. “It’s beautiful here.”

“Well, they’ve been worried about you since…” Olga took Mayte’s hand. “Well, you know.”

“How are you holding up?” asked Asha, giving Mayte a squeeze. Mayte loved the smell of coconut hair shine that was a part of her friend.

“I’m okay most of the time, I guess,” she said. “I’ve accepted that it’s happened, but there are moments when it doesn’t seem real. It’s really hard when I hear my grandmother crying when she thinks I’m asleep. I think I’m the only reason she doesn’t die of sadness.”

“We’re here for you,” said Olga. Asha nodded in the darkness. They chatted about the upcoming school year until they saw Rafel returning to the house.

“So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” asked Mayte.

“Horseback riding,” said Olga. The three began giggling again as Rafel walked past them toward the door, shaking his head. 

***

Mayte lay in the rollaway bed that had been wheeled into Olga’s room four weeks earlier. She listened to the quiet snoring of her best friends. Reaching under the bed, she found her glasses, put them on and looked about the room trying to sear every detail into her memory. 

Asha and she were going back to Barcelona the next day, their holiday with Olga and her family having ended with a splendid barbecue on the grounds behind the house. One of Olga’s uncles had come with his wife and children to spend the weekend and there had been games and jokes with some of Olga’s cousins. It all left Mayte in a fog of mixed emotions, glad she had been invited to spend part of the summer in a place her parents could never have afforded, and heartbroken that the reason she was here was because her parents were dead and Olga’s had wanted to help her through her grief. 

She would always remember this year for its many changes. While her parents’ death took center stage, it was also the year she had gotten braces, started wearing glasses, and experienced her menarche.  Adolescent trifecta. She looked over at Olga, with her long, black hair and large blue eyes. Always cracking jokes and trying to break the rules. Her parents would be furious if they ever found out that she had paid the doorman of their luxury apartment in Barcelona to pretend he did not know that she snuck up to the rooftop to smoke at night. She had her finger on the pulse of all the juiciest gossip at school and was always ready for an adventure. It was Olga who always found reasons to pull the other two away from their studies to visit the Corte Inglés department store to try on clothes, hats, and sample colognes and makeup which they scrupulously removed before returning home. Olga was horribly spoiled, according to Mayte’s mother, but instead of being snobbish, as other girls in her position could be, she was always so happy to share her experiences with Mayte and Asha, that it was hard to ever be mad at her for very long even when she got them into trouble. 

Asha was curled up under a light blanket on the other rollaway bed, her halo of frizzy hair, a soft mound on the pillow behind her. It slowly rose and settled as she breathed, her face indistinguishable from her hair in the shadows created by the moonlight. Catalan of Senegalese descent, Asha was tall and willowy with high cheekbones under smooth dark brown skin. She was the quietest of the three but had the sharpest intellect in Mayte’s opinion. She worked the hardest at school and earned top grades no matter what else was going on around her. Asha had told her once that because her mother had been raised in poverty, she had instilled in Asha the importance of excelling in her studies. She never wanted Asha to have to do without as she had before marrying Asha’s father and moving to Barcelona. Of all the people Mayte knew at school, Asha was the one who never minded giving up social events if she had studying to do. Mayte herself had sometimes had to do the same before an exam, but she had certainly minded. She had a healthy envy of her friend’s drive and her wisdom. Asha somehow knew how to navigate the line between having fun and keeping her compass facing true North. Mayte smiled, watching her friend sleep. She had no doubt Asha would succeed at whatever she set her mind to when they got older. 

What would they remember about her? Mayte’s looks were almost stereotypically Mediterranean. Of average height with brown hair, light brown eyes, and a body shaped like a Spanish guitar, meaning all hips and butt, she knew there was nothing arresting about her appearance as was the case with Asha and Olga. She was more straight-laced than Olga would have preferred, the “good girl” of the group, always more comfortable with following the rules than she was ever tempted to break them. Asha once called her a setciències, a know-it-all, while acknowledging that Mayte was often right. When Olga wanted to get out of doing homework and take them on more adventurous pursuits, they all knew that Mayte was the one whom it took the longest to convince. 

Mayte sighed. The next day, she and Asha would be home again, and in two weeks, school would start. Where she used to look forward to the first days of school, this year she’d be coming back every day to her avia’s house where the sadness was tangible. It still didn’t quite feel like home. At night, Mayte stayed awake listening to her avia quietly weep through the cardboard-thin walls of the apartment. Mayte would have given anything to have one more night of her mother coming into her bedroom to kiss her goodnight, however much she had complained about being too old for it. A tear slid down her cheek. She pulled a small lined notebook and a pen out from under the bed. She opened it to the first available blank page and wrote the date. She had started a journal when her parent’s died on the advice of a student counselor at the high school but found she was only able to write short sentences in it. Mayte would begin writing and a lump would form in her throat that threatened to choke her. She centered her pen on the page:

Nothing will ever be the same again.

The book, the pen, and her glasses went back under the bed. Mayte prayed that sleep would come quickly. 

Jonathan-Prologue

Standing on her front porch under the moonlight, Laia looked up into Jonathan’s eyes. He had just brought her home from the tiny Italian restaurant where they had been wined and dined by Pete and Maria, the owners, who were in their sixties. They had eaten there before, but tonight, everything was special. Pete had pulled out all the stops, waiting on them himself, bringing various samples from the kitchen, and hovering over them for a reaction to each one. He even served them a better bottle of wine than the one they had ordered. 

Maria, who usually waited the six tables in the restaurant, made several subtle attempts to pull Pete back into the kitchen. 

“But-ah I wanna do dis, Maria. It’s-ah love!” he said, putting the fingertips of his hand together as he gesticulated. “You no remembah?” Pete suggestively raised an eyebrow.

Maria blushed and went toward the kitchen. She turned to look at her husband and after a moment, he cleared his throat and excused himself to follow. Laia was charmed by the dynamic between them. That was what she wanted for herself. Love that traversed time, with Jonathan. On this magical night, everything seemed possible.

As a private joke, Jonathan had taken on the role of a ‘gentleman caller’ and what they had was closer to a formal courtship than to dating. Laia quickly warmed to the chivalrous approach, enjoying the tease of their growing desire for each other, but getting to know him and his personal values over the last six weeks had been the greatest benefit. The grave undertones of Jonathan’s humor and intellect gave a new dimension to this ruggedly handsome construction worker she had intense feelings for.

They had held hands during the long, pleasant walk from Pete & Maria’s to her house on this mild evening, and now, here they were at her doorstep. On their last date, Jonathan had finally kissed her, leaving them both wanting more and though her knees had been trembling, she had politely said goodnight and went into the house. 

Now here they were on the porch holding hands. His touch was electric and she hoped he wouldn’t notice the dampness of her palms. They’d been quiet during most of the walk; she wondered what he was thinking. He would surely kiss her again. What should she do? Should she let her feelings guide her? Should she remain aloof? He had started their dynamic, after all. 

Laia’s anticipation turned to confusion when he guided her to sit on the steps leading to her front door. He sat down next to her and took her hands in his. He looked uncomfortable. Upset? Resigned? Something was wrong, horribly wrong. In that instant, realization dawned on her. Oh, dear God, he was going to break it off. 

Laia’s face burned as she watched Jonathan’s mouth make incomprehensible sounds. She knew her face was growing redder as he spoke. Here and there, words and phrases stood out punctuated like drops of blood on fresh snow: “…hope you can understand…” “…can’t continue…” “…my brother…” “want us to be friends…”.  After a while, she just stopped listening and tried not to blink free the tears filling the corners of her eyes. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead and got up and walked to his car which he’d left in her driveway. 

In a daze, Laia watched him pull away. Inside, she changed into a short nightie, put her hair up into a sloppy bun and went into the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, applied moisturizer, and caught her own eye in the mirror. The tears began to flow and a moment later she was on the bed sobbing incessantly. She cried until it felt like she had no more tears to shed and then she cried some more.

It was nearly dawn when Laia thought of the road that had brought them here. It had all started with his brother Andy.

Potaje de Vigilia Recipe

Lenten Potaje

Ingredients:

·      1 jar of chickpeas rinsed well

·      1 bag of pre-washed fresh spinach

·      4 large pieces of desalted cod, cut into bite-sized pieces

·      1 thin slice of French bread (about as wide as your pinkie)

·      1 onion, chopped fine

·      2 cloves of garlic, peeled and halved

·      2 hard-boiled eggs

·      1 tsp sweet paprika

·      Olive oil

·      Salt

How to:

1.     Heat a couple of tablespoons of oil in a medium to large pot. Fry up the slice of bread and the garlic cloves. Brown well. Remove from the pot and reserve.

2.     In the leftover oil, poach the onion over low heat. When translucent, mix in the paprika well. Keep the heat low to prevent burning.

3.     Add the chickpeas and add water to cover by an inch. Bring to a boil, then lower heat.

4.     Simmer for 10 minutes. During this time, crush the bread and garlic into a paste using a mortar and pestle. You may also use a spice mill. Add to the pot. You may add a spoonful of the cooking broth to the mortar or spice mill to get out every last tasty bit.

5.     Add the cod and then the spinach one handful at a time as it wilts and makes room in the pot. Bring to a simmer again and cook for 10 minutes. Taste and add salt if necessary.

6.     Just before serving, peel and coarsely chop the eggs. Add to the pot, let them heat through and serve.

7.     Enjoy!

Sora James interview: Daniel Janssen

Sora James interview: Daniel Janssen 

Unable to complete my story arc for Unravel a Dream, I decided to spend time with my leading man to see what I could find out about him. No sitting room on the metro today as I carry on with my morning commute. I see him standing next to me, tall and rugged, his presence larger than life. He is half a head taller than the tallest man I can see, his longish ash-blond hair a controlled shaggy arrangement that doesn't quite touch his shoulders. He is wearing a light blue button-down shirt over a pair of straight-leg jeans. Brown leather loafers gleam under the fluorescent lights. I want to touch the scar under his right eye and make him smile. He looks perfect, and I could get lost just looking at him and his glacial stare. I created him. I know what is under the gruff surface, under all that masculine show of strength. There is warmth, passion, a fierce intellect, a being who is afraid to love. I need answers. 

It's too noisy to talk on the metro so we go to a nearby café. It’s a cute place, all small marble tabletops poised on cast iron legs. He has his long legs crossed into the space between our table and the next. His hand dwarfs the espresso cup he holds by the top edge between his long finger and thumb. His is a presence that is domineering and a bit arrogant. He is taking up space people need to use to get through to the other side and yet no one begs his pardon to walk past. If he were anyone else, I would see looks of annoyance from people for having to carry their coffees the long way around to find a table. But he is so beautiful, the people flow around him as if to say, "Don't worry. I'll move around you as long as I can look at you." 

I still need answers. 

"Daniel, what's the problem with you and Sandra?" He puts down his tiny cup and looks over at me as if just registering that he isn't sitting here alone.

"Problem?" he asks. 

"No," I say. "No business negotiation tactics. I need to give a good reason in my novel as to why you and Sandra aren't an item when you are clearly in love with each other."

"Don't say that," he says, his voice low. His expression is neutral but his eyes have gone deep. He doesn't want to let me in. 

"Why not?"

"It's not..." He wants to say that it isn't important, but he knows that it isn't true. 

"Talk to me, Daniel. Why don't you want to acknowledge love?"

He takes a long, drawn-out sip of his espresso before answering. Maybe if he takes long enough, my question will go away. Not happening. "Because when you love people, they don't stay."

"Do you think Sandra would leave?"

"She might not want to, but that is what would happen, eventually."

"Why would she leave if she doesn't want to? That sounds ridiculous."

"My parents didn't want to leave. Celine didn't want to leave."

"Daniel, they didn't die because you loved them."

"Yes, yes, I know," he says. He crosses his long legs the other way as people look over in appreciation. "But I loved them, and they died."

Riverheart Retreat Writing Exercises

The prompt for this exercise was that it had to include: a fanatic sailor, a roller-skate, and a swimming pool

  Dr. Spears approached the mansion on a sunny day. The building was massive and solid, made of cement-stuccoed block which made it look more like a cluster of warehouses than a family dwelling. Appropriate, since his new patient’s family had left him after his delusions had nearly drowned the youngest child.

            The front door opened as he neared it, creaking loudly, to reveal a short, balding young man wearing shirts and a t-shirt. He offered his hand to Spears, the one that wasn’t holding the rusted roller-skate.

            “Dr. Spears?” They shook hands. “Welcome. First visit, sir?”

            “Indeed,” said the doctor, mopping his forehead dry with a large cotton handkerchief. He began looking through his notes.

            “Joseph Farmouth. I’m the nurse’s aide.”

            “Has the patient been medicated today?”

            “He has, sir,” said Joseph. “but it doesn’t help much. That’s why nurse Finney asked that you come to see him.”

            “Okay,” said Spears, still reading his notes. “James Kilmer, 42. Classic PTSD. He served as a younger man, didn’t he?”

            “Navy, sir, in the last war. His ship went down and he lost all his men but one, other than himself. He’s sort of…well, never stopped serving, sir.”

            “What do you mean by that?” The answer came in the form of a bellow. Spears looked out the back where there was a swimming pool in the center of which was a small inflatable boat, a child’s toy. James Kilmer bellowed again from inside it.

            “Helper Joe! Hoist the mainsail!”

            “Coming, Captain,” Joseph yelled back. He gave Spears an apologetic glance. “It’s easier to just go along with it,” he said.

            “Helper Joe! Report!”

            Spears watched Joseph walk toward the pool and leave his flip-flops on the side. “Dare I ask what the roller-skate is for?” the doctor asked Joseph’s back.

            “Sextant, sir,” the aide said, jumping into the water.

***

Here, the writing prompt was: ‘We held hands’

  The jeep was unsalvageable after the crash. Jessica despaired. They were never going to make it on time. If they didn’t get the straw crown to the king of the Silone tribe by sunup, her sister would be sacrificed to ensure the benevolence of the god the Silone prayed to.

            “We’ll never make it,” she said.

            “We must try,” said Derek putting out his hand. She looked at his face, now encouraging when he’d done nothing but complain about having to guide her through the jungle during the rainy season.

            She wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. They were lucky to be alive. She put her hand in his, concentrating on the contraction of the muscles of his forearm as he pulled her out of the ravine. One of her sandals got stuck in the mud and she stepped out of it. Derek reached down for it and handed it to her; her face was a sea of tears.

            “We’ll get there,” he said.

            “How can you be so sure?” Jessica was starting to lose it. She was grasping the ridiculous crown of straw in her free hand. This piece of garbage was what her sister’s life depended on. She didn’t know how long they had until dawn and she didn’t want to know.

            “I’m sure,” said Derek, “because you’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever known.” He was raising his voice. “You’ve been a pain in the ass every step of the way. I never would have brought you here otherwise. Through the jungle. In tribal territory. In a rainstorm. But you made me do it through your refusal to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

            Jessica stared at him.

            “Now, let’s go get your sister,” he said pulling her forward.