“Funeral for a Stooge”, Chapter. 5a, Excerpt 12, Archangel.

Finally, the aloneness of the hallway. I hurried down the steps and out to the street and the icy rain. Al would understand. She always did. Outside our gate, I turned in the direction of her house on 115th Street and 109th Avenue.

After walking the nine blocks from my apartment, I stood at the corner across from Al’s giant brown house where she lived with her father Andy. The house always looked huge to me on the corner of the short block it dominated, with its gables and pillared porch that ran all the way around to the chain-link fence along the street. They never used the front door that faced the avenue. You had to walk up the street around the side, under the line of giant maples now bare of leaves, to the low gate that led to Al’s small yard, with its little patches of frosted grass and frozen rosebushes, perfectly aligned along the side of the garage that faced the street.

Andy was an engineer. He liked things neat. Perpendicular, Al said. Al was the opposite. Her room was a collage of books, papers, unusual pets, the bed never made. Maybe that was why they got along so well, like Michael and me. Michael would throw his shirt in one direction, his pants in another. I kept after it, though I didn’t mind. It was better than listening to Teresa yell at him about it, even though I could never nail down a memory of Teresa cleaning anything.

Al and I were the only ones I knew who called our parents by their first names. Well, Al called her father Andy but had called her mother Mother until her mother was killed by a car on her way to the store one day.

I knocked on the glass windowpane of the back door. Al’s bicycle was there leaning against the wall. Seeing it always reminded me of when Michael used to ride me on the handlebars of his bike when I was little. I knocked on the inside door, then opened it and snuck into the kitchen. The house was quiet.

“Al?” I called. “Are you here?” I could hear Bob Dylan whining out “The Times They Are A-Changin’”. I crept in a bit farther, into the darkened kitchen where the only light seeped in through the orange curtains, then into the living room with Andy’s shadowy big chair and his desk full of books and papers in neat piles.

“Alison?” I called a little more loudly.

“Come up here, Daniel.”

I jumped, but was relieved to hear her usual voice of authority. Bossy, the kids at school had

called her, and stuck-up and conceited. I headed up the long, wooden staircase.

“How come it took you so long to answer me, Al?” I called. “You shouldn’t leave the door unlocked when you’re upstairs.”

No answer.

“Some maniac could’ve walked right in,” I said and waited for one of her usual wisecracks like, You’re right, one just did.

I pushed the partly-open bedroom door. The thick, teal-colored wall darkened the room. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her head tilted down, looking at her cupped hands. Her thick, dark hair hung forward, covering her face. She had on her favorite bellbottom jeans and navy-blue sweatshirt.

“I have failed,” she said.

“Failed?” I asked. “You?”

“Yes, Daniel. Me. I failed. He’s dead,” she said. “I tried to save him but I was too late.”

“What? Who?” Not Andy!

“Larry,” she said.

“Who?”

“Larry. The last survivor.”

“Survivor?”

“Of the Stooges,” she said. “The Three Stooges, Daniel. Don’t you remember?”

“Um.” I looked around. Al’s bed was strewn with books and papers.

“First, it was Moe,” she was saying. “Then, Curly went last month. Don’t you remember?”

I stared at her.

“My frogs, Daniel. The Three Stooges?”

“Oh, right.” I tried to sound as if I remembered. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. When I looked in the tank, Larry was struggling to breathe.”

“What’d you do, give him mouth to mouth resuscitation?”

She shot me a look. “Don’t you even care?”

“Oh, sure, Al. I care,” I said, feeling guilty for my sarcasm. “Sorry. Where is Larry. Did you flush him?”

“Of course I didn’t flush him!”

“Oh,” I said.

“I’m going to bury him in the backyard next to Moe and Curly under the white rosebush.”

“Oh, right. He’ll like that,” I said.

She shot me another look.

“What’s with you, Daniel?” she said. “You’re usually more sympathetic.”

“Oh, no, Al. I’m sorry, and sympathetic, too.” I made a sad face and hers softened.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen to Chow Mein now,” she said. “He’s sad.”

“Geez,” I said. She had named the catfish Chow Mein because he was supposed to be a Chinese fish and Chow Mein was her favorite dish at our local Chinese restaurant. The frogs (when they were alive) were black and tiny, about a third the size of Chow Mein. Larry the frog, when he was still with us, had been seen hanging around at the bottom of the tank with one of his little black, leathery arms around Chow Mein’s “shoulders”.

“I’m really worried about Chow Mein,” she said.

Chow Mein was frozen in place at the bottom of the tank; Larry, about one inch all around, was stiffly sprawled in the center of Al’s palm in a paper towel. She gathered up Larry’s tiny body with the miniature fishnet.

“Come on, Daniel, help me bury Larry.”

“Oh, sure,” I said. Attending a minuscule frog’s burial seemed fitting. Larry’s sudden death somehow put my problems into perspective. I followed Al in slow funeral procession down the staircase, through the living room and kitchen, and out into the backyard. She stopped short on the back stoop with me tripping up the backs of her shoes. Al remained unfazed. I waited.

She appraised the line of ice-covered rosebushes perpendicular to the garage.

“I need a box,” she said.

“A box?”

“Yes, Daniel, a box. I need a box to put him in.” She turned around and, for the first time since I’d arrived, looked at me.

“Al, are you okay?”

“Daniel, I’m really glad you’re here.”

“Oh, thanks, Al. So am I, but ….”

“Can you please find me a box?”

I was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. I had problems that I needed to tell Al about.

“Where should I look for a box?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. She looked down at Larry splayed across the palm of her hand. A tear dripped down her cheek, over her upper lip, and down onto her sweatshirt. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Al cry, not even with the passing of Moe or Curly, and not since the passing of her mother. I moved closer to her and touched her arm.

“Al? Are you okay?” I said. “I know you’re sad about Larry, but I wouldn’t think it would hit you this hard.”

She stood there staring down at poor Larry who seemed to be getting stiffer by the minute. Another tear dropped, landing on Larry’s belly, soaking into his black, leathery skin.

She looked up at me again. “Why does everything have to die?”

Life and death questions. I was itching to tell Al my problem, but….

“Um, Al, where should I look for a box?”

“Go in the kitchen,” she said. “There’s a box of matches by the stove. Dump the matches and we’ll use the box.”

Back to giving orders. A good sign. I had somehow missed Moe’s and Curly’s funerals and wondered what kind of boxes they were lying in under the frozen ground, but didn’t dare ask. I headed back inside the house and found the match box. It was full. I looked around for something to dump the matches into. There was a big red bowl on the counter with a speckled banana and a brown-spotted apple in it. I picked it up and slapped the foot pedal of the steel garbage pail with my foot, turned the fruit bowl upside down over it, then dropped the matches into the bowl.

I ran back to Al and stopped. Her eyes were closed, as if she were in a trance. I wanted to laugh but knew better. Her right arm was lowering slightly, and Larry was tilting dangerously toward the linoleum floor.

“Al?”

“Yes, Daniel,” she said dreamily.

“Larry.”

“Larry?”

“Yeah, Al. Larry. He’s sliding.”

She opened her eyes and lifted her hand.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t let him fall.”

“Okay,” I said. “Here’s the box.”

“Hold it open,” she said and placed Larry’s stiff little body into the box. I thought of Al’s mother’s funeral just a few months earlier, and the long, wooden box they had lowered into the coffin-shaped hole in the ground. Al’s mother had been struck down by a cab crossing the street one day when she was shopping and never came out of her coma. Al had asked me to stay with her that day. I did, and through that night, without sleep. Andy had seemed lost, keeping to himself, which he still continued to do.

“Al? Are you okay?”

A tear slid down her cheek. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s go bury him.”

The Archangel of Hamilton Beach       ebook 99 cents

 

“The Queen Of Ugly”, Ch. 4b, Excerpt 11, Archangel

“Danny, what’s wrong with you? Did something happen?” he asked, with a glare in Teresa’s direction. She responded by picking up the remote control, turning on the TV and changing channels until she came to a movie, I Want to Live, with Susan Hayward on the witness stand, crying to the courtroom, “Have you ever been desperate? Do you know what it’s like?”

I studied the green reel on my fishing pole.

“Danny, what’s wrong?” Michael repeated.

“Frances,” I said through runny nose and salty lips.

“Frances? For cryin’ out loud, it’s always something with her.” He shook his head. “What’d she do this time?”

I didn’t know what else to do. It was better if he heard it from me and not from Frances or, God forbid, Linda. My stomach had gotten closer up to my throat.

“It’s my diary,” I whispered, gripping my fishing pole and its red wrapping paper.

“What?”

“My diary. It’s my diary.”

“You have a diary?” He smiled and shook his head. “Goofy.”

“She took it.”

“Whadyu mean? She’s so freaking stupid.”

“Watch the way you talk about your sister,” chimed in Teresa, as if she had some high respect for Frances that nobody knew about. “And what do you mean you’re keeping a diary. What do you have in there?”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” I said.

“You watch your mouth,” she said and turned back to Susan Hayward.

“She took it to Linda’s,” I told Michael.

He shook his head again. “What’d she do that for?” he said.

“To show Linda.”

“Show Linda your diary? What for?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably because it says things in there that she thinks are funny.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, watching the TV.

“Yes,” I said.

“So, who cares? What kind of things?”

“I don’t know. About you,” I said.

“Me?”

“I wrote about you in my diary.”

“Geez, Danny, you’re such a goofball.” He half-laughed, still watching the movie.

“Oh, he’s worse than that,” said Teresa, her eyes still on the television.

“I wasn’t talkin’ to you,” Michael told her.

“You watch it, Mister,” she said, flicking ashes, ignoring that she’d missed the ashtray.

Michael turned back to me.

“I guess she wants Linda to hate me more than she already does,” I said.

“Linda doesn’t hate you,” he said. “She just gets weird sometimes. But why would she care about what you write in your diary, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just said stuff about how much I, you know, like, wish we could live together and stuff like that.”

“Like I said, You’re a real goofball. So, where’s the big deal?” He shook his head. He seemed to have become more interested in Susan Hayward.

“I don’t know.” That’s not the only entry in my diary Frances will enjoy showing Linda, I thought with a cringe, remembering some of the things I’d written about Al.

“Besides, we already live together,” Michael was saying, his eyes still on the television.

“I know, but I mean like, you know, like later, like whenever we get to leave this place.” Teresa shot me a look just as my stomach arrived in my mouth. I ran into the bathroom, slammed the door, smashed down the latch, and raced to the toilet, leaning over it while my insides came up and out. I hadn’t realized it, but I was still gripping my fishing pole inside its box which had become a part of my body. Then there was banging on the door.

“Danny, what are you doing?” Michael was yelling. “Have you gone crazy or something? Danny, open the door, will ya?”

I held on to the toilet, wishing it would end.

I stayed in the bathroom a long time, sitting on the closed toilet cover now, holding my fishing pole, rocking back and forth, keeping a rhythm. One-two on the forward bend, three-four on the backward. One-two, three-four. One-two, three-four.

Michael finally gave up and stopped banging. The hexagon-shaped white floor tiles moved in and out as I rocked. The tears were dry on my face and tingled. I opened my mouth wide to relieve the itchy tightness of my cheeks. Then I heard voices, coming from the living room. Michael’s, then Linda’s, then Frances’s fat mouth. I didn’t want to hear what they were saying. Holding the fishing pole against my body with my elbow, I slapped my hands up to my ears and moved them in and out to block the voices but then jumped at the new loud banging on the door.

“Hey, Danny! Are you in there?”

Frances.

“Come out here, right now, you little queer!” She cackled. “Don’t you want your little diary back, honey, or should I bring it to your little dream girl?” And that laugh again.

Could I ever hate anyone more? I didn’t want to leave the safe bathroom, pulsating tiles notwithstanding, but I had to get that diary, even though it was already too late. Michael knew about it by now. And Linda. Oh, no. But I had to go out there.

More banging, and the sing-song voice, “Better get out here if you want your precious diary.”

I slid off the top of the toilet. The hexagon tiles swayed with me, as I moved toward the door. I struggled with the latch, then forced it up. The door flew open, and The Thing gripped the knob then filled the doorway, my black and white diary in her puffy hand.

“If you want it, come and get it!” She ran back through the living room and into the kitchen, cackling.

I followed after her cautiously, still clutching my fishing pole. I heard Michael and Linda’s voices in the kitchen. I didn’t want to know what they were saying, I just wanted my diary back, though it didn’t seem to matter anymore. The couch was empty, Teresa back in bed, no doubt. The room still reeked of cigarettes; the television was off. I made my way into the kitchen.

Michael was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette, looking more serious than usual, with Linda next to him. Her long, blonde hair flowed past her shoulders. She wore a pink miniskirt and large, gold hoop earrings. It always surprised me how beautiful she was, in sharp contrast to Frances, her so-called best friend. Linda looked at me, shaking her head, lips pursed, eyes squinting. I looked away. Frances stood by the sink, swaying like an idiot.

“Well, aren’t you going to come and get it, Danny?” she sang.

“Frances, give him the book already, will you?” Michael said.

“I’ll give it to him when he comes and gets it,” she said. “Here, little Danny. Here’s your precious diary.”

“Frances! Give it to him right now!” Michael stood up to make his point.

She flung the notebook at me. It hit me in the stomach and dropped to the floor.

“There’s your precious diary,” she said.

I bent down and grabbed it. Then, her voice switched to mean.

“Now, go write some more about how you’re in love with your big brother or is it your little smart girlfriend, you sick little weirdo!” She stuck out her puckered mouth and made loud kissing noises. The queen of ugly.

“Okay, Danny, get rid of that freaking book now, will you please?” said Michael. “Go put it away somewhere or burn it or something. Geez.” He shook his head while Linda glared at me.

With my diary and fishing pole box, I headed for the bedroom. I sat on the bed and opened the notebook to see what The Thing had done to it but found nothing except my own words—one small bit of relief, though little consolation. I closed the notebook and shoved it in deep, back into the tight space between the mattress and box-spring where I kept it. I’d need a new hiding place. Not that it mattered now. But I couldn’t think. I had to get out of there.

I slid open the closet door, stood my fishing pole still in its box into the back corner, and threw an old blanket over it, praying The Thing wouldn’t get her fat hands on it.

The thought of going back into the kitchen brought my stomach back up my throat. I would have to pass all three of them to get out the door. Still a little dizzy, I pushed myself through the living room and past Michael and Linda at the kitchen table. Frances was still at the counter. I didn’t look at Linda again but sensed her staring. Her presence embarrassed me. The words from my diary screamed in my head. I moved straight for the door and turned the latch.

“Where you goin’, Danny?” asked Michael.

“To Al’s,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. “Be careful.”

“Yeah, be careful,” said The Thing. “You never know what you could pick up from your little girlfriend.”

I wanted to hit her. “Drop dead!” I yelled and stormed out to the staircase.

As I slammed the door behind me, I heard Michael say, “Frances, what is your problem?”

END OF CHAPTER 4.

The Archangel of Hamilton Beach

 

“Escape to Hamilton Beach”, Ch. 2b, Excerpt 7, Archangel

ARCHANGEL PIC SaintMichaelArcAngel----archangel-michael[1]“Hey, you,” she yelled. “The doctor’s here.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Silent tears slid down my cheeks and onto my lips. I could hear him coming into the apartment. I peeked out the open door of my bedroom and watched as Teresa hushed the fat doctor in and pointed to her bedroom. I had never seen him before. He was new. I got confused because he looked like a priest. He had on one of those black dresses they always wore when they were walking around the rectory next to the church, near the school.

I could hear them talking and laughing in her room. Then, they came back out, and the priest-doctor had put on and was buttoning up the same dingy white coat with the brown stain that I had found on the floor of Teresa’s closet. She carried the doctor’s black bag for him. The doctor, a smile on his sweaty face, shook his head. He gave her a handful of paper money, which she put into the pocket of her robe. Then she handed him the black leather bag.

“He’s in there,” she said, pointing to my room with the fingers holding her cigarette. “Come on in. He’s all yours.”

I grabbed Michael’s flannel shirt, ran under the bed, and curled myself into a ball with the shirt wrapped around me. I shoved my head under the headboard up against the wall. Please, Archangel, no more. Please, I prayed. My mother’s black and gold slippers sloshed into the bedroom and stopped next to the bed. The doctor-priest’s black shoes stopped, too.

“Come out of there, you,” she yelled. “Don’t waste the doctor’s time. Or mine, either.”

I clutched Michael’s shirt, digging my fingernails into my arms until it hurt. If I just thought about the pain from my fingernails cutting into my skin, I wouldn’t have to think about the rest of it. Teresa’s bathrobed form knelt down on the dusty floor beside the bed. Her hands appeared, then her face, now turning red.

“Come on, now, you,” she said. “The doctor’s a busy man and doesn’t have time to argue with sissy little boys like you. Do you hear me?”

“No more, Ma, please, no more,” I begged.

She bent down lower, her face straining and redder. “Now, you listen to me, you filthy little thing,” she said. “It’s not my fault you were born with this evil in you. It’s God’s punishment. That’s why you need your treatments. They’ll help you. I told you that.”

The room was dark as night. Again, the thunder cracked, and I jumped and bumped my head up into the bottom of the bed. Then, my body froze.

Teresa screamed at me, “Come out here right now!”

Blood, from where my fingernails were digging deeper and deeper, ran down my arm and beaded up on top of the dust on the floor. Lightning sliced the room with a flash of light. “Archangel, is that you?” I whispered.

Black pants and the stained white jacket appeared. Two hairy hands touched the floorboards. “Come on, little Danny baby,” said the man. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m here to help you, just like your mama says.”

His breath smelled like Teresa’s—scotch and cigarettes. The sweat from the fat man’s face dripped onto the floor, making a ball of wetness on the dust.

“You little brat! You come out of there right now,” she screamed, “or I’ll tell your brother. Do you hear me? And if he leaves…. Well, don’t blame me, Mister. Now, get out here and get your treatment or that’s just what’s going to happen. I’m giving you one more chance. Or you can kiss your precious brother goodbye.”

“No!” I cried. “I’m coming out. I’m coming right now. I’ll get my treatment. I promise. I’ll be good. Please don’t tell Michael about me.”

“Then get out here, right now!” she yelled.

I didn’t want her to hit me. I let go of my arms full of bloody marks dug in with my fingernails. I slid slowly across the dusty wooden floor, one leg at a time, toward the edge of the bed frame. The doctor stood up. Teresa reached down and squeezed my arm right where it was bleeding. I yelled and she shook me, pulling me to my feet. When she let go of my arm, it stung like needles. I still gripped Michael’s shirt in one hand.

“Now you do whatever the doctor here tells you, you hear me. You’ve already wasted too much of his time. And mine, too!”

I nodded and watched her leave the room, slamming the door behind her so hard the wall shook. The man in the stained white jacket smiled. Sweat dotted his face.

“Now,” he said, “how are we feeling today?”

His strong smell turned my stomach. “Not too good,” I mumbled.

The rain pounded the fire escape outside the bedroom window, and thunder rumbled from far away.

“Sit here,” he said, pointing to the bed.

I sat down, crying and bleeding.

He opened the black bag and pulled out a small, brown bottle of pink and yellow capsules. He put one of the giant-sized pills into my hand.

“Take this. It’ll make you feel better.” Then, he poured some of Teresa’s scotch into a small glass and said, ”Here, drink this. It’ll make it go down easier.” After all the doctor visits, it had never gotten easier.

I put the pill on my tongue and drank the awful-tasting liquid, fire burning my throat, up to my head which got instantly fuzzy. My temples clamped up as if in a vice, and my stomach turned immediately.

“Okay,” said the priest in the stained white doctor coat. “Take off your clothes.”

I unbuttoned my good yellow shirt, remembering when I’d put it on that morning for my first day of kindergarten, before I met Alison. Somehow, having met her made the doctor treatments worse. I pulled off my pants and bent down to take off my shoes.

“Come on,” said the doctor. “Hurry up. Everything. Take off everything. Your underwear, too.”

I crunched my eyes shut and pulled off my underwear. Archangel, where are you? I thought. The rain outside kept pounding. The thunder kept rumbling. The doctor, smiling through his sweat, pushed me up onto the bed, and tore back the covers.

“Lay on your stomach,” he said, “so I can give you your treatment.” He laughed and reached over and turned on Michael’s radio on the nightstand. Sam Cooke was singing about what a wonderful world this would be…. It was one of Michael’s favorites, because, he said, he also didn’t know much about history or geography, like the song said.

I crawled onto the bed. The room had gotten hot and stifling, and I could barely catch my breath. I watched the doctor pull one of his cold, hard instruments out of the black bag. I felt his big, hot hand on me and then the icy steel of his instrument. I groped around for Michael’s shirt and smothered my face into it, swallowing my screams and gripping his shirt as I inhaled Michael’s smell.

“Here, Goofy,” my brother said, laughing, “let me show you how to rig a pole.”

The orange sun shone down into the gently moving dark water at Hamilton Beach. The sunlight twinkled on the ripples in the water as the weight from Michael’s line plopped down where he’d hurled it.

“Get me one of those weights,” Michael said, pointing to his tackle box. “A small one.” I picked the smallest weight in the box. He was sitting on the sand. I placed the fishing weight into his hand. He grabbed it.

“Hey, good job, Shorty. That’s perfect,” he said, smiling and squinting up at me with the sun in his eyes. “There might be hope for you yet, little brother.” He laughed. “Hey, you wanna learn how to cast a line?” He smiled at me and stood up. “Here, let me show you.”

My face tingled from the hot sun, as I watched Michael cast his line over and over, smiling and squinting at me all the while.

 

“Go wash yourself!” Teresa’s voice stabbed in, and Hamilton Beach disappeared. I didn’t know how much time had passed.

“Your brother will be home any minute,” she was yelling. She kept pushing my leg hard, over and over. “It stopped raining,” she said. “Go hang the laundry out, before it starts again.” Then she left the room.

The bedsheet was sticky, and there was a reddish-brown stain on it like the one on the doctor’s jacket. My blood. When I moved my head, the pain moved with it, heavy, pounding. I tried to sit up. The dresser, the windows, the Archangel picture on the wall, all moved to one side, then back again. The priest-doctor was gone. I fell back on the bed.

“Get up! You hear me?” Teresa yelled in from the living room. “Don’t make me come in there!”

I sat up again, slowly. I held onto the blanket. My body shook in cold shivers. I threw up on the floor in front of the bed.

“What are you doing in there?” she yelled again. “Get moving now, and go hang out that laundry.”

“Okay,” I mumbled but doubted she had heard me over the music on the television, and a man’s voice saying, “This has been As the World Turns, brought to you by Friskies cat food….”

I stepped over the mess I’d made on the floor and, holding on to the nightstand, and then the dresser, moved toward the door. As I passed the mirror, my face looked back at me, pale with dirty tears that had dried on my cheeks. I slid past the dresser and out the door, into the living room.

“Would you hurry up, you dummy. What’s the matter with you?” She was sitting on the couch, remote control in one hand, glass in the other.

“I threw up,” I said, holding onto the wall and looking down at the big faded flowers on the living room rug.

“You’re so pathetic,” she said. “Well, get it cleaned up. Don’t think I’m going around cleaning up after you.”

“I’ll clean it,” I said.

“Well, do it now, before you make me sick. And take that sheet off the bed, and put on a clean one.”

I knew if I tried to walk to the bathroom, I’d fall. So I got down on my hands and knees and crawled across the dusty pink and red rug. I heard the sound of ice rattling as Teresa poured more whiskey into her glass.

“Now what are you doing?”

“I’m dizzy,” I said, still looking at the rug.

“Well, don’t block the television,” she said. “Hurry up.”

I made it into the bathroom and locked the door. Then I crawled into the bathtub, turned on the hot water, and stuck the rubber plug in the drain, relieved to be alone. With the soap and washcloth, I washed the stickiness and dried blood, and scrubbed my face, then lay back in the tub. As I tried to feel better, the little white tiles on the wall began to move in and out, then out and in.

When I closed my eyes, I could still see the tiles, except now they were black instead of white. I lay there for a while, letting the hot water soak into me. I leaned my head back into the water. It drifted into my ears so that I couldn’t hear anything, not the voices on the TV, not the ice clinking in Teresa’s glass, only the water in and out of my ears. It was cool now at Hamilton Beach. Michael was rigging my fishing rod.

I didn’t know how long I stayed there. After I got out of the tub and dried myself, I brushed my teeth a hundred times with tons of toothpaste. I thought of how much Michael liked it when I brushed my teeth.

Then, I remembered the throw-up I still had to clean up and the stained sheet I had to change. My body felt weak, as if I could slump to the floor and sleep there forever. The tiles were still moving and blurring in and out like little blank white stop-signs. I didn’t know how I would get the mess cleaned up, change the sheets, and get the wet clothes from the basement hung outside. I wondered if, when I reached out to the clothesline attached outside Teresa’s bedroom window, I’d fall out.

END OF EXCERPT 7, CHAPTER 2

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The Archangel of Hamilton Beach

“The Razor Blades of Queens”, Ch. 1e, Excerpt 5, The Archangel of Hamilton Beach (formerly Two Shores), a novel

The Archangel of Hamilton Beach, formerly Two Shores, Excerpt 5, Chapter 1

Link to Title-Change for my novel

The Archangel of Hamilton Beach: a novel by [Serrano, Valerie]I’ve recently decided after much deliberation to revert my novel Two Shores back to its original title The Archangel of Hamilton Beach.

To avoid duplicate posting, which I hear The Mighty Google frowns upon, here’s the link to my post on my novel’s separate site:

Title-Change for my novel