Monday 30 April 2018

It Had Been Going on For Years

by Devon Balwit

The novel’s protagonist, a mid-level bank clerk,
begins to experiment with the family pets,
putting the guinea pigs on glass-top tables,
spinning them on record players, subjecting them
to poking, to prodding, to weasels, to cats,
this and that in escalating increments, to see
what will happen, to assert himself,
an analogy easy enough to decipher yet
gauzy enough to hide behind should the State
take an interest, perhaps not so different
from the couple recently in the news,
who called their house a school and created
an innovative curriculum of chaining their children
to beds, starving them, limiting their play,
their contact with the outside world, to see
what would happen, to have control
over something. In both cases, the guinea pigs
looked into the abyss and wondered
in their small-pig way if this was how life was
for everyone—a brief, bitter swallow.

(after Ludvík Vaculík’s, The Guinea Pigs)

* * * * *

Devon Balwit teaches in Portland, OR. She has six chapbooks and three collections out, among them: We are Procession, Seismograph (Nixes Mate Books), Risk Being/Complicated (A collaboration with Canadian artist Lorette C. Luzajic); Where You Were Going Never Was (Grey Borders); and Motes at Play in the Halls of Light (Kelsay Books). Her individual poems can be found here as well as in The Cincinnati Review, The Carolina Quarterly, Fifth Wednesday, the Aeolian Harp Folio, Red Earth Review, Queen's College Quarterly, The Fourth River, The Free State Review, Red Paint Hill, and more.

Sunday 29 April 2018

The twenty-second Moon Prize on this lovely spring full moon goes to Marguerite Guzmán Bouvard's poem "The Music of Our Daily Lives," posted on Writing In A Woman's Voice on April 2, 2018. This poem asks our souls to sing.


by Marguerite Guzmán Bouvard

The leaves on the birch tree
are singing in the wind, a melody
with its own rise and fall of notes,

and in the distance a child's voice at play
reminds us to live in the moment.
There are so many different melodies

in our lives, the lies that are tailored
to divert attention and turn our minds
to smoke, with right and wrong

continually changing their notes,
without any transparency of words
in speeches. There are so many different

melodies in our lives, a mother's reassuring,
voice, the harsh words that wound us,
for we all carry wounds, like the Somali boy

who was threatened with deportation
and trekked for days to Canada, carrying
the voices of his parents who were

slaughtered in Somali, his fatigue making him
collapse on the frozen ground,
until a Canadian border guard lifted him

up in his arms, and assured him that he could stay
-- the music in the cosmos of our hearts,
that uplifts us, and cannot be silenced.

* * * * *

Marguerite Guzmán Bouvard is the author of 9 poetry books two of which have won awards, as well as a number of non-fiction books on women and human rights, (Revolutionizing Motherhood; the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo) human rights, social justice, illness and grief. She is a former professor of Political Science and Poetry, and currently a Visiting Scholar at the Environmental Studies Program Brandeis U. 

Saturday 28 April 2018

Three Windows And An Endearment

by Judy Katz-Levine


There are houses with huge eyes. The
Church spires, the lights on in some.
White cars pass slowly and I look
Down - they are trying to get a glimpse
Of me, they ease themselves to a place
Right under my window, and I move away.
The black cars are good - I hear the words
“We like you, hang in there, you saved our
Mothers.” I say “bueno” barely perceptible
Utterance of my lips.


This window holds a red cross, a sign
That I am in a hospital. I can see a
Waiting room, the chairs, the little computer.
In the indigo twilight I do tai chi by the
Window, the houses with lights in their
Windows, a chain of wind-lights like
A daisy chain. White pick-ups pull
Up to the stop sign - Nazis inside.
The branches of the trees like bare arms
Of the oppressed. Souls like
Blue flames.


This is the window of mountains.
Nameless mountains which are olive and
Purple, the solidity of their presence.
Radio towers blink - an intensity of starlight.
The gas station with red neon, the
Abstract painting in the office and
The lights on within. There’s a Christmas tree
All lit up. The mountains preside.

I am so vulnerable and hurt and
My hidden wife will take my hand and raise it
To her lips.  We will climb these
Mountains, again, again, again.

* * * * *

Judy Katz-Levine,, is an internationally published poet whose two full-length collections include "Ocarina" and "When The Arms Of Our Dreams Embrace".  Her chapbook, "When Performers Swim, The Dice Are Cast", was published in 2009 by Ahadada.  A new full-length collection, "The Everything Saint", will be published by WordTech in August of 2018.  Her poems have appeared recently in "Salamander", "Blue Unicorn", "Constellations", "Peacock Anthology", "River Poets Journal", "Event Horizon", "Miriam's Well", "Unlikely Stories Mark V", and many other journals.  Also a jazz flutist, she performs on occasion and writes spiritual melodies for flute and voice.

Friday 27 April 2018

Sweet Night Song   

by Judy Katz-Levine

Never to leave the plum tree and always to
breathe the stark chill of autumn night.
Because I will live until 110 ride an
intense wave of glory. An ocean wave of
aqua and strands of red seaweed. I became
sober. Became stern as in the way
we see a film of a war scene and don't
tell anyone. There's this woman who
is saving my life over and over again.
The flutes dance in a room where
Neruda swears and drinks Chilean red
wine. I am not to be undone. Am
to wear stark white, and stark
black and shirts flowering with
coleus. Never to leave this earth.
A piñata of clouds will
burst, raining down blessings of a 
sweet night song.

* * * * *

Judy Katz-Levine,, is an internationally published poet whose two full-length collections include Ocarina and When The Arms Of Our Dreams Embrace. Her chapbook, When Performers Swim, The Dice Are Cast, was published in 2009 by Ahadada. A new full-length collection, The Everything Saint, will be published by WordTech in August of 2018. Her poems have appeared recently in Salamander, Blue Unicorn, Constellations, Peacock Anthology, River Poets Journal, Event Horizon, Miriam's Well, Unlikely Stories Mark V, and many other journals. Also a jazz flutist, she performs on occasion and writes spiritual melodies for flute and voice.

Thursday 26 April 2018

The Serial Killer Next Door

by Holly Day

He spends more time watching television than reading
books on philosophy
drives a pick-up truck.

Most of his decisions are
made in 30 seconds or less.
He wears his baseball cap turned backwards.

* * * * *

Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Big MuddyThe Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle, and her published books include Walking Twin Cities, Music Theory for Dummies, Ugly Girl, and The Yellow Dot of a Daisy. She has been a featured presenter at Write On, Door County (WI), North Coast Redwoods Writers' Conference (CA), and the Spirit Lake Poetry Series (MN). Her newest poetry collections, A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press) and I'm in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.) will be out late 2018.

Wednesday 25 April 2018

Going First

by Holly Day

“I want to” she cuts the lengths of rope
“I want to” four for them and one for her
“This is for you” would be so easy to do it
there is a letter in the hallway addressed to you:
a list of how you could stop this.

So long as she only creeps down the hall
and makes no sound as she enters their rooms
and makes no sound as she ties the knots tight
nobody will know until it’s too late.

* * * * *

Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Big MuddyThe Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle, and her published books include Walking Twin Cities, Music Theory for Dummies, Ugly Girl, and The Yellow Dot of a Daisy. She has been a featured presenter at Write On, Door County (WI), North Coast Redwoods Writers' Conference (CA), and the Spirit Lake Poetry Series (MN). Her newest poetry collections, A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press) and I'm in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.) will be out late 2018.

Tuesday 24 April 2018


by Marguerite Guzmán Bouvard

We are surrounded by a cold fog,
not just in the mountains,
but in our country where the facts
are turned upside down, where ordinary

citizens become scapegoats and a woman
in a restaurant screams at a woman
on another table for wearing a headscarf.
The fog obliterates our vision, shelters

anger and the man who waves his wand
everywhere like a magician pulling
tricks out of his hat and the crowd that
applauds for he will provide jobs

for everyone, make our country
strong, provide security, and bypass
institutions the crowds believe no longer
serve us while the political parties

disagree among and within themselves
and like Weimar the crowds believe
the magician will push aside the “elite”
and solve all of their problems.

* * * * *

Marguerite Guzmán Bouvard is the author of 9 poetry books, two of which have won awards, as well as a number of non-fiction books on women and human rights, (Revolutionizing Motherhood; the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo) human rights, social justice, illness and grief. She is a former professor of Political Science and Poetry, and currently a Visiting Scholar at the Environmental Studies Program Brandeis U. Her latest collection of poems is The Flame of Life (Human Error Publishing, 2018).

Monday 23 April 2018


by Marguerite Guzmán Bouvard

At the airport, a megalopolis crowd churns by,
each person or family intent on their destination,
the minutes and hours guiding their steps.
A woman pushes my wheelchair to the gate.
She is quiet, steady in her task, her face taut,
withdrawn, but I ask her where she is from
because the cloud of her hair and her accent
speaks of a distant world. “I am from Africa “
she states. “Where in Africa?” I continue.
“Kenya, why did you ask?” she queries
with suspicion. As we go through security,
the chair is examined by an irritable guard
with an electric wand, and she is criticized.
I watch her shrug her shoulders
as if she were casting off the dailiness
of her trials. Then on the ramp to the plane,
I tell her I didn’t mean to be rude
with my questions, believing that everyone
is a story. She leans over and whispers,
“My name is Pesira. What is yours?”
“Marguerite,” I reply, seeing her face pulse
with an inner light that follows me
with its glow as we hold each other
across so many boundaries,
redeeming ourselves from invisibility.

** * * *

Marguerite Guzmán Bouvard is the author of 9 poetry books, two of which have won awards, as well as a number of non-fiction books on women and human rights, (Revolutionizing Motherhood; the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo) human rights, social justice, illness and grief. She is a former professor of Political Science and Poetry, and currently a Visiting Scholar at the Environmental Studies Program Brandeis U. Her latest collection of poems is The Flame of Life (Human Error Publishing, 2018).

Sunday 22 April 2018

by Sheena Pillai Singh

Looking through
my mental microscope
wiping out
tears of doubt,
I see
millions of germs,
build illness within...

lift my anger,
my being clingy…
my fear within,

Stress rooted
of self-doubt…
let me clean
the lens of my intellect,
help me hear
the silence within…

time for
soul searching,
my illness within…
like a laser:
cease germs!

Saturday 21 April 2018

by DC Diamondopolous

I first saw Teresa out my kitchen window back in 1928. Her father, a widower, had moved into our neighborhood. I was kneading dough when I looked up and watched the child glide her sled down a snowbank and slam into a tree. I ran across the street. “Are you hurt?”
She scowled. “Mind your own beeswax.”
I ignored her sass and asked if she would like a nice piece of hot homemade bread. She rubbed her bump with a snow-crusted mitten and shook her head. Teresa repeated the stunt and sailed free all the way to the sidewalk. I clapped my doughy hands. The little one smiled. “Can my pop have one too?”
The next year the stock market crashed, and we plunged into the Depression. 
I’d see Teresa walk home from school, alone, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. We all wore threadbare clothes, but her charity hand-me-downs never fit her growing body.
One day, I invited her to see Shirley Temple in Bright Eyes. Coming out of the theatre, she reached for my hand, such sweetness in her grasp. From then on I became her cheerleader, my pompoms the crocheted scarves and sweaters I made for her.
From the end of the Depression to another War, changes occurred every minute—and right here, in Farmingdale, New York.
In the winter of ‘42, Teresa got a job at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. I’d be at my window at six o'clock making dinner as she arrived home in a car full of girls. She ran with newfound joy up the steps to the front door, turn, wave to her friends and then to me. Her smile brought riches not even Rockefeller could buy.
Teresa had every other Sunday off and we’d have lunch on my back porch. “Oh Aunt Lena, I never knew working with my hands could be so much fun. There’s a lot of us gals, cutting and soldering, doing everything the men did. But our paychecks are nothing compared to what they earned.”
“Well, of course not. Men have families to care for.” My comment hung in the air like a barrage balloon.
Why, I never questioned my pay working in the factory during the First World War. It would’ve been unpatriotic—but this, I kept to myself. Now we could vote. Women smoked. Teresa wore overalls at work—so much had changed.
On a spring day in ‘43, she told me about her promotion. “I work on submarines, welding.” She put down her fork.
“What’s wrong, dear?”
“They’re cramped quarters. My boss rubs up against me. When I told him to stop, he put me out in the rain to weld, knowing I’d get electrical shocks.”
“Can’t you go to his boss?”
She shook her head. “It’s always the girls’ fault.”
I worried that after the war, young women like Teresa, who built our ships, tanks and planes would question traditions. Men wouldn’t stand for it. If I went to work, Roy would raise Cain, though he did let me sell war bonds.
In ‘44, Teresa made management, and our lovely Sunday lunchtimes came to an end. Her new boss, a decent man, depended on her. She worked twelve-hour days, seven days a week and took care of her ailing father.
I helped out by sitting with Pop. One night when she returned late I expressed concern for her coming home alone in the dark.
She laughed. “With the boys gone, we girls can walk anywhere day or night and feel safe. Even Central Park.”
Her breezy comment gave me chills. I saw thunderclouds on the horizon. “You respect our boys who are fighting for our freedom, don’t you?”
“Oh Aunt Lena.” She put her arm around my shoulder. “Of course, I do. But women are fighting for freedom too. Just not on battlefields.”
The war in Europe ended May 8, 1945, but it dragged on in the Pacific.
Teresa’s final promotion came in early June. She oversaw seventy-five women in the construction department. I couldn’t have been prouder of her.
On August 15, the radio blared, “Official! Truman announces Japanese  surrender.”
“Aunt Lena, Uncle Roy!”
We all had tears in our eyes as I opened the door.
“I’m going to Times Square, then on to the shipyard. Can you look in on Pop?”
“Of course, dear.” A car waited for her. The girls waved flags. I held up two fingers making a V for Victory. “Do tell me everything that happens.”
Roy and I went back to the radio. We heard about the thousands of people who turned out in cities across America. I imagined the red, white and blue rippling and waving, confetti and ribbons, wet eyes and cheering—if only our beloved FDR had lived to see it.
That night we grew anxious as the hours passed and no word from Teresa.
The next morning I recall burning myself on the skillet. My mind filled with worry about our girl. Then from my kitchen window I saw her come out the front door. She wore slacks and a blouse and marched down the walkway to the car. Rigid—with dark smudges beneath her eyes.
I ran across the street. “What’s the matter?”
“We wouldn’t quit, so they fired us.”
A girl in the car said, “With the boys coming home, we got canned.”
“Of course. They’ll need their jobs back.”
Teresa glared at me. “My boss told me to get married and have babies.”
“What did you expect?”
Teresa opened the car door. “I expected more from my country.”
Back then I didn’t understand the full impact of the war and what its aftermath meant to our daughters.
Now with Roy gone and Teresa out west, I think about those days and the car full of girls who worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. I know now as I watched them drive off to gather and speak up for their rights that what I saw was the future.

* * * * *
DC Diamondopolous website:

Friday 20 April 2018

by Embe Charpentier

Brookhaven, an Atlanta suburb, June, 1970
     “Never set foot in this house again!” The satisfying slam of an oak door and the shudder of stained glass ended the eviction of Dr. Mason Philips.
     “I’m in the right,” Ivy whispered.
     After she heard his oxfords pound the last step, she sunk into the wing chair. Twins Andrew and Abigail wailed like fire engines.  Their howling forced Ivy into the formal dining room. She noticed the small tears in the wallpaper that Mason had made when he had hammered the crown molding in place. She picked Mason’s bourbon bottle from the sideboard and poured the contents of the bottle into the kitchen sink.
      Andrew skidded across the kitchen floor. His shoes were wedged over his hands. He pounded her legs with their hard soles.
      Ivy ignored him.
     “Pawpaw’s never coming home!” Abigail stomped her feet. “If you go, he can come back. Go, Mommy. Go get him, and he can get Jewel, and then it’ll be alright again!”
      “It’ll be just fine, you’ll see.” Ivy pointed to the oven.  “And look, dinner’s almost done.”
     Andrew stood up. “I don’t wanna eat! Pawpaw didn’t do anything wrong! He tells the truth, all the time. And you’re mean.”
     Ivy scooped one twin under each arm and brought them to the living room. She commanded Andrew to sit in the corner. “Stay there until you calm down. You’re almost six. Act your age.”
     Abigail pulled on her honey-colored braids as her face reddened. She sat next to Andrew, huffing and snuffling until snot ran onto her top lip.  “I love you, Andrew.” She patted her brother’s back as his chest heaved. “Pawpaw has no home. Why? You slapped him! I heard you do it. You be in the corner.”
     “That was disrespectful, Abigail. And, as for you, Andrew, when I allow you out of the corner, you will not hit me again.” Ivy directed her slit-eyes stare at Andrew’s hands.
     She returned to her white kitchen and placed the kettle on the stove. In the oven, pork chops dried into shoe leather. When the kettle whistled, she forgot to slip on an oven mitt, grasped the handle of the kettle, and branded her hand. She screamed in pain.
     The truth was not for children.
May, 1970
     “Sir, may I speak to you?” Jewel, their maid, asked Mason after tucking the children into bed. Ivy could not hear the question over the pastor’s wife’s prattling on the phone, but witnessed Jewel’s proximity to her husband’s ear.  She ended their conversation as she saw the furtive way he scrutinized the kitchen before leaving by the back door. To obtain the right vantage point, Ivy ran up the stairs.
     Out in the yard, partially hidden by the azaleas and the arbor’s arch, Mason and Jewel spoke. From her surveillance post in their bedroom, Ivy heard only the barest whisper. She saw her husband embrace the young housekeeper. She gasped. Down the stairs she tumbled reckless as a blind cyclist.
      When he returned to the living room, he turned on the TV just in time for Marcus Welby, M.D. Ivy stood in his path, right in front of his recliner. “What’s the matter, honey?”
    “Why were you outside with that Negro?” Ivy planted her feet, hands on her hips.
     “She just needed money, that’s all.” Mason walked by, almost bumping her as he sat down. “Now I want to watch this fake doctor pretend to be me. I suppose the writers must have surgeons and general practitioners advising them…”
     Ivy marched to the TV and turned it off. “We pay her. She’s plenty well-fed. Did you give her anything?”
     “No. Now I want to watch my show. Remember Ephesians 5:22 – wives, obey your husbands, etcetera.” He wagged his finger and a smile slipped across his lips. He got up from his chair, but before he arrived at the dial, Ivy turned the TV back on.
    “I’m going to listen to the revival preacher on my radio.” Ivy retreated upstairs.
    As Ivy took off her clothes, she looked for flaws in her petite figure, but found none. She turned on the radio, then brushed out her hair. The preacher spoke for some time before his sermon about David’s sins drew her attention.
     “David, though he was God’s chosen, stole Uriah’s wife… and then David took Uriah’s life for he craved Bathsheba for himself. And we know that he sinned! But God’s favor rested on David nonetheless. Yea, brothers and sisters, God knows who he has called! David’s son Absalom turned upon his father and was slain. If David had not taken Uriah’s wife to his bed, Solomon the wise, who controlled the demons themselves, would not have been born. Such are the Lord’s mysterious ways.”
    Ivy had asked Pastor Mark a question in Sunday school. “Why do some sinners dwell in God’s favor?”
     She hadn’t received an answer, just a platitude. “The rain falls on the just and the unjust,” he’d said, then turned to answer a simpler question from a snooty high school principal.
    After Marcus Welby dispensed his weekly wisdom, Mason strolled into the bedroom. By then, Ivy had decided the excessive size of Solomon’s harem made him nearly as sinful as David.
     As Mason undressed, Ivy spread her hair across the pillow.
    “Do you think all men want more than one woman?” Her eyelashes fluttered.
     Mason gave her a look reserved for his more peculiar diagnoses and pulled his tie over his head. “Why do you ask that, darlin’? I can’t speak for every man.”
     Ivy luxuriated on pink satin. “Come to bed, honey,” she cooed.
     And after the most cursory encounter, lacking in intimacy, with no “I love you” at its conclusion, Ivy laid awake. Did Mason think of her or the harem?
     The next day, Ivy observed Jewel readying Andrew for school. “C’mon, l’il man.” Jewel knelt down to tie Andrew’s shiny shoe. He giggled when she tied it in a double knot.
      “Hurry him along.” Ivy said. “You’ve got cleaning to do.”
      That day, Jewel took down the winter curtains. She hand-washed each curtain in a washtub before putting it on the line. After a few hours, Ivy observed the young woman’s movements slow. Jewel’s molasses-toned skin glistened with water and sweat. Ivy wondered how much money Mason had given her.
     As she finished the last of the curtains, a fine, cool sprinkle, little more than dew, grew into a spittle of alligator tears. General Hospital held Ivy’s attention until the commercial break. The annoying tones of the “emergency broadcast system” drove Ivy into the kitchen. She supervised Jewel from the window above the sink.
      Ivy looked on as Jewel dragged two wet curtains onto the screened-in back porch. As water droplets trickled through the screen, Abigail rested her baby doll into her carriage; Andrew ran his fire truck against the wooden wall. The children both stopped to help Jewel lay the drapes atop the benches.
     “You don’t need to do that, babies,” Jewel said. “I’d hug y’all, but I’d get you wet. You want some lemonade?”
     Both children nodded.
    “Get you some soon as I’m dry.”
     The screen door slammed as Jewel entered the kitchen.
     “Why didn’t you pick the first ones you washed to bring in?” Ivy’s glare burned its way from the tiny pearls of water that lay on Jewel’s short hair to those that decorated her breasts.
     “Sorry, Miss Philips. None of’em was dry anyways.”
     “Get a towel. I can see the edges of your brassiere, and that won’t do.”
    After Jewel skittered off, Ivy brought the children their lemonade. Andrew bumped his truck along the floorboards until it banged into the base of the baby doll’s bassinet.
    “Wah-wah. Oops, baby’s cryin,” Abigail said. “Gotta go pick’er up.”
    “She’ll go back to sleep. You don’t pick babies up the minute they cry. Finish your drink.” Ivy observed Andrew as he created a multi-car collision with his Hot Wheels. His foot knocked his half- glass of lemonade over. The liquid spilled across the porch. Andrew sat in the puddle, then stood up. He bent over and pointed to the stain.
     “I peed my pants!” Andrew pointed to his bottom. Abigail laughed as she patted her doll’s back.
     “That’s not funny!” Ivy’s face burned red. “Bad boys wet their pants. You wanna be a bad boy?”
     Andrew shook his head. “No, Mommy.”
     “Well then, you better act your age.” Ivy picked up the glasses as Abigail again made the crying noise.
    “You woke li’l baby Jewel up.” Abigail alternated between crying and a lullaby as she bounced the baby. She stopped Little Jewel’s crying altogether to finish singing. 
Paint and Bay,
Sorrel and gray,
All the pretty little ponies.
So hush-a-by, don't you cry,
Go to sleep, little baby.

      As Abigail placed her little Jewel doll back down, Ivy patted her daughter’s head. “You’re a good mama. Now tell me why you named that white baby Jewel?”
     “Cause I love her like I love Jewel,” Abigail trilled. “Andrew and Daddy love her, too. Don’t you?”
     Ivy nodded and returned to watch the end of her soap opera. As nurse Gail Brewer cried over her cheating husband, a tear trickled down Ivy’s face.
      Jewel fried catfish for dinner and put the children to bed before leaving at eight. At five past eight, Mason rose, cigarette in hand. He ambled out the front door, but didn’t stay on the porch. Ivy peered out the window to watch him make his way south toward Dresden Drive.  He didn’t return until after nine.
    In the fifty-five minute interim, Ivy breathed a thousand times. She tidied the already-neat kitchen, vacuumed the clean carpet, and finally went upstairs to listen to the preacher again.
     Tonight, he spoke of the Beatitudes. “And I tell you, brothers and sisters, they are be-attitudes! Do you understand that the meek and the peacemakers are to be blessed? And that those who hunger for justice will receive it?”
     Ivy’s hands shook as she turned the radio off. She picked up the Ladies Home Journal from the nightstand. The magazine fell open to the end of the “Can this marriage be saved?” feature. She read the scandalous story of a woman who had confronted her philandering husband in a motel. The couple had gone to marriage counseling. “Phyllis has become a more loving wife, and has learned to trust Harvey again,” the author claimed.
    No, Mason wasn’t cheating. She wouldn’t allow it.
     Ivy pinned up her hair, then bathed in bubbles and rosewater. Though the water grew tepid, she remained in the bath. Mason entered the master bath to find her laying back against the wall of the claw foot tub. She laid barely submerged among the suds.
     Mason leaned his lanky frame in the doorway. “Is my lovely mermaid ready to emerge from the sea foam?”
     Jewel’s clothing had still been damp when she left. Ivy checked Mason’s cream-colored shirt for moist stains between the chest and navel, but found none.
     His head pulled back slightly and his smile drifted away. “You’re starin’ at my shirt. Why? Is it dirty?”
     “Maybe. Somebody might be getting lazy with the laundry.” Ivy emerged from the tub, stretching her body before his eyes to reach for a towel. His hands nearly spanned her slim waist.
     “Let me dry your back.” After he toweled her off, Mason massaged her warm muscles. She turned toward him and unbuttoned his shirt with a playful giggle.
     Mason struggled to smile. “Ivy, I’m a little worried about something tonight. Mind giving me a rain check?”
     “Sure, honey.” She laid awake for over an hour, watching him breathe. Finally, she took a Valium and found dreamless sleep.
     On Saturday, Mason had no surgeries scheduled; he left late for his nine o’clock tee time. After he came back from the golf course, he took the twins to the park for hours. Ivy phoned other doctors’ wives and agreed to host a luncheon. From her damask-covered fainting couch in the master bedroom, she heard Mason counsel Abigail.
     “Now, don’t bother your mother. I have a call to make… for work. Go watch your brother, honey.”
     Abigail ran off to the back porch. Ivy’s silent tiptoe down the front stairs got her as close to the living room phone as she could without being discovered.
    “Yes, Wednesday morning. Thank you for delivering the message.”
     Ivy’s wild imaginings flourished.
     Their day of rest began with Sunday school and dire warnings. The heat built, but by the afternoon, the sheer curtains breezed in on a west wind to fan the formal dining room. The Bartlett pear tree bent with the force of the gusts before the first flash of lightning. Andrew ran upstairs to hide under his bed. Mason coaxed his son to come out by squeezing into the cramped space beside him.
     Ivy looked down upon them both. “Mason, you’re a good father.”
     On Tuesday, Ivy busied herself by reminding Jewel how to properly clean the kitchen. After Jewel scrubbed the stove top with steel wool for fifteen minutes, she asked Ivy for Wednesday off.
    “My momma needs me.” Jewel stood stock-still, eyes lowered, fingers red and throbbing.
    “Well, I suppose that’s alright.” Ivy ripped off her rubber gloves.
     That night at dinner, Ivy’s suspicions left her with little to say. When the hospital called Mason to perform an emergency surgery, he left right away. He didn’t return until after ten.
       On Wednesday morning, Mason woke early and left. Every hour, the grandfather clock chimed later and later. When Mason returned home, Ivy held her tongue, obeying the biblical admonition to be subject to her husband. She served him baked chicken, spoke to him little, and went to bed as he read the children “Little Red Riding Hood”. 
     Ivy suspected the wolf wasn’t the only one who hid in plain sight.
      On Thursday, Jewel returned to work, but didn’t pick the children up when they whined. By mid-afternoon, a blood stain grew on the back of her dress. “Oh, you are on the cotton?” Ivy left, returned with a menstrual pad, but Jewel had never used one.
     “We use a piece of rag, ma’am.” Jewel retreated after accepting the pad. “But thank you so much.”
      “This bleeding… it’s extreme, isn’t it?”
     Jewel gave a tiny nod and thanked Ivy again as she ran to the restroom.
     Mason joined Jewel as she put the children to bed. He patted the young woman on the back and thanked her. He told her he would walk her to the bus stop. Ivy turned her radio not to the preacher, but to music. Though Elvis Presley’s gyrations were crude, his version of Anything that’s Part of You forced a knot to rise within Ivy’s throat.
     Ivy’s melancholia lasted days. Finally, Mason knelt beside her bed and took her hand.
    “What has you feelin’ so blue, Sugar?” he asked.
     Yet the words did not come. While she lay in bed alone, dark thoughts held sway. She was sorely tempted to speak her mind despite the wifely obedience the Bible demanded.
     The next morning, she rose, then dressed in her bed jacket. For the first time, she saw that her house neither looked nor smelled clean. She had taken what few meals she could in the confines of her bedroom. Fried chicken grease spattered the stove top. The carpet had not been vacuumed. The children had brought their toys in from the back porch. Andrew rolled his muddy Matchbox car under the couch. Abigail stood on a stool, searching for a snack within the butler’s pantry.
     “Jewel!” Ivy shouted.
     Jewel emerged from the bathroom, her body bent over, her face contorted in agony. Yet Ivy’s anger exploded. “What has become of my house?”
    “Sorry, ma’am.” Jewel rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “I’m doin’ the best I can. I know I must keep my eye upon the children. But I’m not well. I couldn’t stay home to care for myself, especially while you’re sick and all.”
     The corners of Ivy’s mouth fell. “Tell me what happened to you a week ago Wednesday, or I swear I will fire you this very moment.”
     “I can’t say, ma’am. It’s personal to me,” she whispered.
     “But you’re caring for my babies!” Ivy protested. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, and won’t say why.”
     Jewel’s hand covered her heart. “I lost a child. I can say no more than that.”
     Ivy’s hands balled into fists as the children cringed. “You have no husband. God took your child because you acted against His law.” Ivy’s words grew still louder. “1 Thessalonians 4:3! I cannot allow my children to hear the words, but you know them! You know what the Bible says!”
    A tear ran down Jewel’s face. “I know what the Bible says. I can say no more than what I have said, Miss Ivy. Now please…”
     Ivy grabbed Jewel’s forearm. “You will come with me.” After commanding the children to go to their rooms, she took her out onto the back porch.
    “You don’t want to speak because… you seduced Mason. My husband fell into your wicked trap, didn’t he?” She grasped Jewel by the shoulders. “You, competing with a lady like me. Did you teach him your disgusting ways, you homewrecker?”
     “No, ma’am! Not at all. The doctor’s been kind to me. I wouldn’t even think of such a thing!” Jewel’s hands tented into a prayerful clasp.
     Ivy’s command boomed loud enough for the children, poised on the steps, to hear. “Then tell me who fathered your child. You will give me a name.”
    “Why?” Jewel cried. “The name will mean nothin’ to you. I know much about your life, but you know little about mine. That’s how it should be for a hired woman…”
     Ivy pushed Jewel back a step. “Say his name!”
     “Esau West." Jewel gestured, palms open. "I didn’t want him! I went dancin’ at a joint in Bedford Pine, so maybe I was wrong to be doin’ such a thing. But he took me outside. I can’t say exactly what happened ‘cause I don’t recall. But he just got outta the prison farm, ma’am. How could I want a child from such a man?”
    “So you did not want this child?”
    “No, Miss Ivy.”
     “And so God took it from you? How fortunate-” and Ivy’s mind began to spin a worse tale, one she was afraid to entertain. “Why did you discuss this with my husband?”
     “Cause the crampin’ started and I didn’t know what to do. Please ma’am. God has chastised me. I’m never goin’ to the joint again!” She shuddered. “I need my job.”
     “But you are a liar,” Ivy said. She crossed her arms over her chest. “The day before this bleedin’ began, you said you were caring for your mama. But that was a deception, wasn’t it?”
     “Yes, ma’am. I want to keep my business private. I’m sorry I lied. Please forgive me.”
     “I am through discussing this.” Ivy closed her eyes and turned her face from Jewel’s. “I will speak to my husband about this tonight. And I swear upon the soul of my grandparents that I will fire you if you have lied to me even once more. Go home. Get out of my sight.”
    As Jewel shut the door on her way out, the children scampered upstairs. Ivy turned on the television to the national news. A woman named Gloria Steinem was speaking about the right of a woman to speak her mind and choose if and when to have a child. Ivy considered Mason’s betrayal of her trust and the teachings of the Bible about adulterers over a glass of sweet tea.
    “My silence has given him power,” she muttered as she cooked ham steaks and potatoes. Mason arrived and kissed her as she sweated over the hot stove. She didn’t speak to him until she’d put Abigail and Andrew to bed.
     “Say your prayers, honey.” The pretty child knelt, and spoke the words of the petition by heart.
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep:
If I die before I wake I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take. Amen.

    After coming down the stairs, Mason asked her to go outside on the back porch. “Why is Jewel absent? And why didn’t you speak to me tonight?” he whispered.
     “You know why.” She paused for effect. “That trollop was expecting a child, but you said nothing to me. Why?”
      Mason’s voice came soft and slow. “She asked me to keep it to myself.”
      The stammered question stumbled and fell. “Have you slept with her?”
      “No! Absolutely not!” Mason’s eyes met her own. He stood stiff and tall. “She needed understanding, and I provided it.”
       As voices grew louder, the children crept down the stairs. Abigail covered her face with her hands. Andrew stuck his fingers in his ears.
      But the news broadcast had created new questions within her heart. “You provided more than understanding, didn’t you?”
      “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mason pulled at the knot of his tie.
     “You… you aborted her baby. You cut it from her womb, you murderer.” Ivy began to cry. Her face burned crimson.
     Mason hesitated between words.  “She didn’t want it. She said she could never love it. She couldn’t afford to care for it.”
      Ivy’s hand struck her husband with the force of a judge’s gavel. His head snapped backward. Though her palm stung, she hit him a second time.
     He grabbed her wrist. “Stop it! Do not hit me a third time, Ivy.”
    Abigail wretched, then tiptoed up the stairs to the bathroom. Andrew followed, tears dripping down his chin. 
    “You butcher! You criminal! By tomorrow, you will leave this house. I’m going to file for divorce.” Ragged pulls of breath shook her.
     His face fell and his eyes filled with tears.  “You can’t take my home and my children from me. Not now, not ever. My family is my whole life.”
     “I haven’t called the police on you. But I could if I wanted to. Tonight, you will sleep on the couch. Leave by the end of the day tomorrow.”
     As Ivy stormed up the stairs, she thought she heard Abigail sniffle. She closed and locked her door. Mason had ripped God’s protection from their family. They had dwelled beneath the security of angel wings. Ivy cried on the feather pillow.
      By the mandate of her church, the only grounds for divorce was adultery. Such a lie was better than the truth.
     When Ivy fired Jewel, she told her that begging would never excuse her lie. “You started my husband along this path. Now he’s going to Hell. If you hadn’t gone to a juke joint, my marriage wouldn’t be over.”
     “Please don’t hurt Mason. He loves his babies, just like I do.”
      Ivy gave Jewel Green five minutes to bid the children goodbye.
      Mason’s departure for the Country Club was marked by chaos and the children’s hate. By Thursday, Ivy had spoken to a lawyer for a divorce. Her parents agreed that adultery with a Negro was sufficient grounds according to God's law. 
     On the Sunday after Mason’s departure, Ivy and the children sat in their usual pew. She recognized him from across the church. After the rest of the congregation left, Mason still knelt on the cold tile floor.  Pastor Mark rushed to Ivy’s side as she asked a member of the Ladies’ Guild for a ride home.
    “You must seek counseling, Mrs. Philips. What God has joined let no man put asunder.” Pastor Mark’s soft tone sought her understanding.
     “My husband deserves his fate,” she answered. She dragged both children from the church as they begged her to allow them to stay.
     She found a new nanny through recommendations. Marla Parks, a thick-bodied, light-skinned black woman, cooked well. The first few weeks went uneventfully; the forty year-old did her job in a slow, competent fashion. Yet the children dissolved into tears at the slightest provocation.
    “Marla’s not like Jewel.” Abigail clutched baby doll Jewel to her chest.
     "Just a trip to the park, Mama. I need to see Pawpaw," Andrew pled. 
     “Not today. But it’s all going to be alright.” Every night, Ivy planned a future like a gambler played gin rummy - not seeing the next card, believing life random.  
    Weeks passed. Finally, Ivy agreed to a counseling session. The pastor took them to his office. Mason’s cowed body slumped into an armchair. As she faced his haggard countenance, she took the divorce papers from her purse and laid them upon his lap.
     “I agreed to this counseling session for one reason.” She paused and extended her hand toward him. He grasped it as a drowning man holds a life preserver. “I’m expecting your child, Mason.”
      Mason sobbed from deep within his chest. “Do you forgive me, Ivy?”
     “Do you think I should?” Ivy bristled. But then, she was not alone. “Pastor Mark, I’d like to talk to my husband alone.”
      They compromised in the quiet of the priory, until all that was left was discretion.
      They would protect the children.
     A week later, Jewel Green returned to the Philips residence. Abigail ran to her side with a delighted yelp. Andrew grabbed her leg. “Don’t leave us again!”
     Jewel’s eyes remained lowered, her voice silenced.
     “The children certainly are glad to see you.” Ivy struggled to control the bile that rose in her throat.
    “Mama’s going to have a baby.” Abigail held up her baby Jewel doll. “You can help us take care of her.”
     “Go to the porch,” Ivy told the children. “We’ll be there soon.”
     As the children ran off, Ivy handed Jewel a list of chores. Her throat tightened with every word she spoke. “This is what needs to be done today.”
      She didn’t wait for a reply. She walked past Jewel, into the front hall, where just weeks before, she’d commanded Mason to leave. During their negotiations, she’d promised she’d try to forgive him. They both knew the implication of her words. Ivy stared at the red stained glass panel in the door. Mason deserved nothing. Jewel deserved the same.
     “I’ll always be in the right,” Ivy whispered.  

* * * * *
Embe Charpentier has two novellas published by Kellan books in 2015 and 2016. Thirty of her short stories have been featured in diverse literary magazines such as The Quotable and Polychrome