The Stories, The Poems, and The Prose of Nadine Sellers

   No one seemed to notice his presence, much less his absence. Joe was little more than an appendage hanging loosely at the side of the family, to be stroked only once all the other chaotica had fulfilled its purpose. No one cared to remember Joe until, and unless, each deputy scapegoat had failed in his or her mission on behalf of the menage-a-many.

   Joe had inherited his peripheral duties from his long dead brother-in-law, de facto: it was now his turn at whatever was not seen but rather heard in the midst of chronic complaints, or at the end of decaying conversations. He was small of stature, yet large of ego, not unlike some little dog of mixed heritage might be - frequently jumping up for attention, performing tricks that startled their captive audience before disappearing in a fog of soporific vegetation, like some dormant moss in a rain forest, perking up for a drink whenever the occasion arose.

   That morning Joe awoke early, no doubt stirred by pressing needs. His oily locks clinging to bare shoulders. The sound of his steps muffled in multiple layers of odd carpet remnants. Suddenly he broke into a dance, peppered with staccato expletives "shit-shit-shit!" and three Lhasa Apsos exploded out of the bedcovers in furry outrage. Fearful growls frothing out of pivoting heads watched every knee jerk and arm flaying as if this were the first show they had been witness to.

"Shit-shit-shit!"

   And Sweetie, the adorable female, ventured out of the relative safety of the grey and white camouflage within a warm synthetic world of printed doggies and furry toys. As always Sweetie led the charge, followed by her overgrown pup, Starchy. None of the household above came to the rescue, not even Scratchy the male, referred to as Daddy Dog by various members of the household. Scratchy was content in thundering from beneath the folds of hairy blankets and darting his eyes from the resident madman to the dawning day at the window. Joe was midrage when he decided to promptly attend to his biological task. Stomping hard on the way to the damp and moldy closet they called a bathroom, he hollered "I'm tired of this crap! You hear me?"

   This set the canines to active motion, the little man wrinkled his mouth as he kicked at those long-haired furballs that were by now yipping about his scrawny shins. The dogs ebbed and lurched to the rhythm of his strained steps in a desperate perennial morning ritual. Having finally unloaded a night of pisspoor drinking from his kidneys, Joe slowed his demeanor to a resigned wipe and walk refrain. "Where's that damn brush? And where's that damn rag?"

   Between mumbles and fumbles he managed to get the coffee pot ready for his mind-clearing dark brew. Joe pensively scratched the stubbles around the determinate curve of his chin and Snatch, the cat, braided a figure eight about his legs, dogs now quiet. Joe's toes still wet from the more or less thorough washing he submitted them to, each and every time they haphazardly discovered afresh doggy deposit, unavoidably midway to wherever he stumbled: it was after all, his duty to spare the rest of the house people the unpleasantness of cohabitation with the animal kingdom.

   Joe knew it was easier to clean up than to fight. It was his lot to find the grit in the clam dip, the rock in the beans and the bone in the chicken soup. He found it all and the others ridiculed him with such pleasure he had come to visualize himself as clown on duty. Fighting was not his forte, he'd had a scrape with the boys next door while still in high school and that had cured him of any confrontational urges forever, or so he thought. Besides, today was his wife's birthday ... or was it her anniversary? Her anniversary? might as well be, he got nothing from it by now.

   Joe petted Snatch absentmindedly, what do you give to a woman who has so much that it would take three yard sales to profit from it all? Before the second cup of house brand coffee and heavy sugar joe had duteously opened three cans of precious kitty kind of cat food for the three little beggars on the floor, he had conscientiously turned into a cooing chef and mixed in a whole can of people corned beef, for it was Tuesday and god knows that you can't buy cat food with food stamps. Snatch's belly was wriggling with unannounced extra life as she fed it voraciously from her bowl duly set on the newspaper, on the kitchen table, please. So, Joe! What comes next? Could be the look that semi permanently imbued his face. He crawled back in bed to resume the now familiar pattern, eat-feed-sleep, oh! Yes and drink, damn, I forgot to refill the gas bottle for the stove, damn, I'll be blamed for that too!

   He shook his head. The cat curled herself into a hat shape around his bald spot. Scratchy groaned and farted loudly as Joe slothfully rolled onto his little fat dog body. This, was what the rest of life looked like. It didn't smell much better either, no coins in the laundry basket to go do the wash, fuck! That bitch went to get cigarettes with my money, again. Curled up into a fetal ball, Joe stroked his loneliness and felt the squirmy little body of his nephew, Mat, crawling eagerly against him, between all the live and stuffed animals. Now isn't that a perfect world? He bitterly pondered the question. A tear sank onto the dried urine spot on the flowery pillow.

   Martha drove up mid-morning, squeaky wheels on gravel, a rickety slam and unsteady heels on the porch, he knew his wife was high on something, god! here we go.

"hello, honey."

"Don't you honey me! Where you been? He spat. She did not bless him with an answer.

   She plunked down on top of the bedful, disregarding muffled sounds and whimpers. Mat shook his tiny body out of the wrinkled sheets and scampered upstairs silently. The boy's spine formed a ribbed design on the right of his trunk and sunk into fleshiness on the left, his ducky jammies floated down his emaciated lower half exposing a deep red crack. Breakfast would come late, he could tell, for his nine years - he had the experience of ten. Ten men, he knew! Martha's laughter awakened the dead above, she was holding a joint in her fat fingers, her breasts dancing loosely in a nest of purple faux cashmere. Happiness cohabiting with slovenliness under the heavenly sweater.

"I can do anything I want to! You aint the boss here. She pouted, although she knew that would not be effective anymore.

   She curled up on top of the pile of laundry, it did not smell any better than she, the dogs liked this homey comfort apparently as they joined her in holy communing. Soon, the whole houseful was pouring downstairs - Ma, regally wrapped in her magenta crushed velvet robe, closely, very closely, followed by Uncle Charley, former pastor of the Faith Baptist, or was it the Grace Divine? Some such configuration of the holy somebody. Ma had played the piano for him and he was devoted to her. Ma's grandson Junior and his older friend rushed past so fast as to knock her off balance and the preacher had a hard time rectifying equilibrium on the top stairs.

"Watch where you goin', young man!" Charley said in his ever curseless baritone. "You old man!" Junior bravely spat with a look askance. He slowed down enough to check if his playmate had noticed his righteous defiance. The unnamed mischief partner was glowingly impressed, Ma wasn't. "You shall not talk that talk in my house!" Her screechy voice rose to awaken yet another houseguest.

   Rufus, the friend's, friend's dog, hairy at a cool eighty red pounds, was making a dash for the front door and no earthly matter was stopping that. Paws and claws scratching at his tail with much commotion behind. Just another day thought Joe from the sanctum sanctorum of his nest.

"Why don't you get a job instead of hassling me!" Martha whined and inhaled.

"Why don't you go ask your boyfriend to buy your smokes?" he retorted wearily. The words didn't change, the order varied. A door slammed somewhere, and it was noon.

   Dismissing the cacophony outside his room junior's older brother Jake turned up the volume on his antiquated portable head set. He would not come down to hear the birds sing or to chant the Lord's praises with the semi-palatable pastor; nor would he break bread with the faithful. He'd starve first! Dog hair and cat poop were not his cup of tea, not today, not any day, not ever! Jake locked the inward padlock on the attic and ruminated to the rhythm of an obsolete worn-out tape. His jaw so taught the tendons rose out of his chest, up his neck and through the temples to dark greasy plaits. Jake's name was seldom heard. He only remembered who he was by the letterheads on his stationary, compliments of an obscure publication who desperately wanted his business or needed his mother's monies. When Ma was finished cooking the eggs with her special lard recipe, she called out to the bunch,

"ain't you hungry? Come on, I got breakfast ready!" she whined. No one answered.

   Martha sat up, surly in her shorts at the foot of the bed, one dog comfortably nestled under her sweater, pretending to be cold, another scratching at some invisible itch, throwing fur to hell and the bedspread, the third mustering the strength to jump up on the bed despite her thick bottom. Joe closed one eye, Junior's cries could be heard through the wind outside.

   Ma dourly slung what was left of breakfast into the trash and went on to finish her makeup makeover, as she liked to call that quotidian ceremony, no matter the time or the weather; she was gonna be decent, she hurried into the restroom, that's what she called it, though she hardly rested in there! Pastor Charley dutifully washed the dishes, his and hers. No one else ever ate, it seemed. He turned on the TV to catch the latest on that abortion clinic bomber's trial. In the midst of this chaotic nucleus, he wanted to be sure to call forth society to go straight and multiply the misery.

"Look at them sinners! Will you? They know not what they do, oh Lord!" He was referring to people holding placards that claimed legal rights for all women who cannot, or will not carry one more fetus to term. Soon Charley was snoring so loudly that he did not hear the bathroom door open onto little Ma in all her majestic makeup, the scent of her house brand perfume rising hotly to his nostrils and jerking him into a fitful sneeze.

"Well, now you're awake, let's go shopping!"

   Ma was waving his Social Security check way up high, stirring wafts of miscellaneous odors like litter box and the acrid fumes of burnt lard. Charley wiped a tiny dribble of snot from his tie and frantically brushed his pants where some stubborn white and grey fur had implanted itself in the woof or the warp of the valuable fabric. Nearing three in the afternoon now and the Supercenter would be full of shoppers. Ma was pale and stiff. Junior sensed the opportunity and pounced on the ongoing frenzy to exact his dole.

"Just for a hamburger at the Arches," he whined, while grabbing something out of her purse and in one swift motion flowing through the door with friend in tow. Martha arose from her stupor and gave a fat fingered stroke to the shocked ex- holy man. She liked to see that little man squirm in the static fabric of his expensive attire. He gasped and suppressed a grin in the presence of ladies. Ma moved away brusquely.

"You're not gonna mess my makeup again!" she warned her daughter.

"Ma, I just want to borrow a little till I get my food stamps, okay?"

"Just get yourself away from me, and don't ask again, What will reverendCharley think?"

"Who d'you think you're foolin?"

   Martha was sneering and grabbing at her mother's purse. Ma hastened outside, invoking God, dragging Charley and cursing all children who resist authority and desist from family. The car door slammed with the dull thud of money, the new sedan plush and roomy, Ma gesticulating wildly, the Preacher raising dust on the gravel, the dogs barking incessantly, and Joe awake again. It was four o'clock on a fall afternoon, and nothing but change was the same. It was dusk when the big Buick pulled into the driveway.

   Charley painfully exited from the driver's side, grabbed onto the hood and limped over to open Ma's door. she cooed some thanks to him and he pulled up a spare smile for her. The trunk was filled to the hinges with packages. Uncle Charley groaned as he unloaded item by item, till all of it stood on the cement porch like the great burden of materialism.

"Martha's car's not in the drive," Ma frowned inquisitively. An owl flew above them, unheard by either man or beast.

"Why don't they turn the porch light on for us?" Ma insisted. Charley merely cleared his throat and shrugged as he pushed the door open. It was cold, inside as well as out, and the smell of iron permeated the air like the ethers off an oxide pond. Ma walked in fuming about the lack of courtesy at home, the nerve of that waitress at the restaurant, the darn wind that was going to ruin her hair for church and . . .

   It hit her. Yes, hit! She grabbed her coat at plexus level and stood firmly in the center of the kitchen. "There's no noise," she whispered. Her companion cranked his neck to hear what she was saying. He finagled awkwardly with his hearing aid and cocked his good ear to her face, never looking away from her lips as he read the swelling distress.

   Ma silently raised her chin. She clutched her purse more tightly under her arm and backed out, leaving all her newfound wealth of food and fashion on the floor. Charley followed wordlessly.

   As soon as the cozy pair had reached the street, Martha had returned to the mall for another pack of cigarettes and more of that cold medicine she liked so much. Tired and fidgety, she had slipped away leaving man and animals to wonder where the warmth had gone. Jake, impervious to hunger by habit, had played and replayed the droning mantra in his brain. The folds of his plush blanket inextricably bound about his legs, he had rocked to the rhythm fed by his earphones, the lone bald spot on the back of his head marking a greasy imprint on the gypsum wall board; Kafka had glared from a wrinkled page under his pale fingers. As usual Jake had felt nurtured by the swallowed words of muteness, he had craved the shelter of isolation, safe and inviolable under lock and key of his own will.

   Mat had crept into the kitchen to scavenge the eggs from the trash. This time he had found a bonus of toast and one half sausage with little teeth marks upon it. The cat had begged her take out of that too and the dogs had sniffed a little treat. He had cut some more for them and all had reveled in a party of uninterrupted innocence, right there on the floor where Ma's good knife lay. Afterwards, they had crept into the big bed all together with Joe, as always. Then, in one swift and silent moment the boy had locked years of secrets in the wide eyes of three dogs and a single cat. Flies which have escaped the first frost buzz about the drying blood, rust upon grey and white folds of fabric; a faint stir under the spread reveals the presence of Scratch as he licks his snout softly, silently, blankly. There by his paw rests a gaping throat to which long oily black locks cling irreverently. In the front room, a telephone hums with an insistent dial tone.

   An ambulance pulls quietly into the driveway, then two rescue trucks. Two police cars flank the sidewalk and hushed voices, slow and deliberate, invade the now eery yard where headlights and flashlights rape the darkness soundlessly. Neighbors begin to converge in a flood of grey zombies arm leaning upon arm in feigned sympathy. Anonymous uniforms course the periphery to secure their ground and their job.

   Martha sits in an office somewhere. A strange social worker asks uneasily where the boy could have gone. Where will Martha go after the investigation? Are there any relatives to notify? Martha stares through the potted ferns, she claws at her nostrils as if an odious odor had sneaked into the pot-pourri on the desk. Her shorts hang loosely upon the flaccid flesh of her thighs and she weaves her hands into complicated patterns, tormenting her digits into fascinating forms that captivate whatever is left of her attention. Martha slides into the waiting arms of a male nurse. She rubs her cashmere clad abundance against him like a needy kitten; she climbs slowly upon an ambulance platform and someone closes the doors quietly.

   Back on B Street Scratch growls a throaty rumble to keep the intruders at bay. In an upstairs bedroom, a faint meow brakes the silence; two mute dogs watch on as Snatch's first progeny arrives into this world, along with three dogs and a cat, all full to bursting with an unquestioning sense of the future.