Star Apples *Honorable Mention In Fiction National League of American Pen Women Alone in his quarters, Colonel Alejandro Montemayor of the Queen's cavalry bent over his ledger and sighed. His finger trailed down a column until it rested on a name. He checked and double checked the name in the ledger against what he called "the butcher's bill," crossed through it, and wrote in the margin, "Killed in action, April 15, 1839. Valencia." Alejandro slammed his ledger shut and ran his hand through his hair. After six years of civil war, it had come to this--an ever-growing list of the dead and no end in sight. "For once in my life, I'd like to add a name instead of always marking them out." In the courtyard, Sergeant Brull's deep voice boomed out orders to captured soldiers being readied for the long march to prison camp. While Alejandro waited for the sergeant to escort the last enemy officer to his quarters to sign a letter of capitulation, he gazed through the open window to the battlefield where old women, hunched over in their black shawls, stripped corpses and picked over the spoils of war. Battle in the morning meant an afternoon spent burying the dead and an evening dedicated to bringing his ledger up-to-date, along with his least favorite duty--writing letters of condolence to widows and orphans. The butcher's bill had been high, claiming fifty of his men. For most of his thirty-two years, Alejandro had lived in army barracks. He had "graduated" from the orphanage to the army. In the twilight of Spanish glory, with the colonies lost and a civil war raging on his native soil, he found himself fighting a war that pitted brother against brother. "Sir! Sir!" Alejandro pivoted around, more surprised than annoyed that his top sergeant, a stickler for military protocol, had burst into the room without first knocking. "You two could be twins, sir. When I saw him, it was damned near all I could do to keep from saluting. He's right outside. You gotta see it to believe it." "Show him in." An enemy captain, his visored military cap tucked under his arm, stepped into the middle of the room and halted before his desk. He wore a much-patched blue jacket and knee breeches, once gloriously white, tucked in mud-splattered boots. Alejandro studied the slender man standing before him. They had the same straight black hair, the same height--5'3", the same brooding expression, but the captain's eyes were blue whereas his were black. The captain returned Alejandro's long, curious gaze, as if he also found the similarities astounding. Sergeant Brull, standing at ease nearby, seemed to be puzzling over the matter too. Thoughts rushed into Alejandro's mind, like soldiers charging through a breach in a wall. Why did he and the captain look so much alike? Alejandro gave him a curt nod. He forced calmness into his voice. "I am Colonel Montemayor." The enemy officer acknowledged him with an equally curt nod. "I am Captain De Mina." Alejandro placed a blue-tinted page on the desk and handed the prisoner a quill. "If you will give your word of honor that you will not try to escape--" "I am well versed in the conventions of war, but I will sign nothing until you guarantee the safety of my men." "They will be treated with dignity, as befits their rank. You have my word of honor." "Then you have mine too, Colonel." Alejandro handed him the standard document embossed at the top with the queen's coat of arms. Captain de Mina accepted it and read every word. "We've captured the enemy's lawyer," Alejandro remarked to Sergeant Brull. Captain de Mina's eyes danced up from the paper. "Correct. Never sign anything without reading it first." He half smiled. "I usually charge for my legal advice. In this case, it's free." He squared his shoulders, bent over the written promise not to bear arms until he was exchanged during a truce, and signed. "I appreciate your cooperation." Alejandro studied the signature. Captain de Mina had abbreviated his first name to 'D' and Alejandro wondered what the 'D' stood for. "I have a few questions." Captain de Mina stiffened. His eyebrows melded into a frown. "Where are you from?" His frown deepened. "It's an easy enough question." Alejandro rocked the ink blotter over the captain's signature. After a studied pause, Captain de Mina replied, "Avilés." "Where's that?" "Asturias." "You're from Asturias? You're the darkest Asturian I ever saw. I thought you people were pale, blond, blue-eyed. Who was your father?" "Pedro de Mina." "Admiral de Mina? He died at Trafalgar, didn't he?" "Yes." "Sorry." "Thank you," the captain said, his voice betraying his surprise. A nighttime breeze carried the aroma of garlic frying in olive oil. The smell of death traveled with it. Alejandro recalled the day, many years ago, when he was playing on the kitchen floor while his mother prepared dinner. Napoleon's three-inch high chasseurs were attacking Wellington's redcoats when Alejandro noticed blood streaming down his mother's leg. It puddled around her bare feet. A moment later, she collapsed. Garlic and blood. The smell of death. "Tell me about your mother," Alejandro said quickly to erase the vision. "Why all the personal questions?" Alejandro shrugged. "Idle curiosity." Still, the captain hesitated. "I know very little about her. She died when I was born." Old memories forced their way into Alejandro's mind, memories of his mother's death in childbirth when he was five years old. He recalled the parish priest's late-night visit, his father's weeping, the incense-laden room where his mother lay dying. "When were you born?" Alejandro asked. "November 17, 1805." Sergeant Brull turned toward Alejandro expectantly. "Sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant. We are not twins separated at birth. I was born in 1807." "We are not related," Captain de Mina exclaimed indignantly. "How can you be so sure? You've noticed the similarities between us. I can see it on your face. How do you account for them?" "Coincidence. For every person, a double exists somewhere in the world. We have simply happened upon our doubles." "Coincidence? Doubles?" Alejandro shook his head. "I doubt it." Alejandro knew little about his parents' backgrounds and had only vague recollections of his father wearing a sparkling white uniform with gold epaulets. But he remembered that his mother was gypsy dark. Just like him. Just like the man across from him. A knock at the door wrenched Alejandro away from his musings. "Come!" An orderly entered bearing a tray of food. He deposited it on the sideboard and fussed over the table. Alejandro had not asked for dinner and he suspected it was Sergeant Brull's doing. The captain's eyes swept to the left, to the orderly arranging a setting for one. Alejandro silently cursed his ill manners. Anxiety before a battle always destroyed his appetite. The groans of the wounded and dying on the battlefield killed any urge for food afterwards. Alejandro assumed that his guest hadn't eaten since breakfast. "Captain, I'd be pleased if you would share dinner with me." He hesitated. "My men--" "Have been fed, I assure you." "In that case, I'd be honored." The orderly set another place and left, followed by Sergeant Brull. Over a meal of chicken and rice, Captain de Mina relaxed somewhat and regaled him with amusing anecdotes about his home in Asturias, his wife and three children, his aunt and uncle, until Alejandro could picture each member of the de Mina family. Alejandro envied him that family and sat brooding over the unfairness of life. He ran his index finger around a gold-lipped goblet and recalled his father throwing a glass object into the fireplace in an uncharacteristic moment of rage when the physician pronounced his mother dead. His father attempted to pick up shards of glass from the hearth and cut a deep gash on his wrist. By the next morning, he had bled to death. Only years later did Alejandro realize that grief had driven his father to commit suicide. "Tell me more about your father, Captain." "So you still think we're related?" he inquired between sips of wine. "Just making polite conversation." "He was the Count of Avilés and he died at Trafalgar a month before I was born. He's buried in the Cathedral of Oviedo next to my mother. It's all properly documented." A hint of a smile played around the edges of his mouth. "Who was your mother?" "If my father was the Count, it follows that she was the Countess." Alejandro laughed. It was the kind of answer he would have given had someone asked him such a ridiculous question. "Did she have a name?" "Doña Gertrudis de Mina." Alejandro's insides shook. "My mother's name was Gertrudis." The men sat in silence, blinking at each other. "That's some coincidence," Captain de Mina said after a long moment. "Tell me about your family." "My parents died when I was five. I went to an orphanage but when I was eleven I ran away and joined the army as a drummer boy. I worked my way up through the ranks." "I envy you," Captain de Mina remarked. "Why?" "You had your parents for five years. I had no one except an aunt and uncle. At least you saw your parents, you talked to them, have memories of them." That was a thought. Alejandro had never quite considered it that way. The fragrance of orange blossoms rode the breeze through the open window from the orcharded countryside and Alejandro, suddenly hungry, reached into the fruit bowl and selected a burnished apple. He cut the apple in two, but instead of slicing it from the stem to the bottom, he cut it around the middle. He placed one half on a saucer and pushed it toward his guest. The captain stared at the apple, his eyes wide. "Star apples." His voice was scarcely above a whisper. Alejandro sat up straight. He swallowed hard. "My mother called them star apples too. She always cut them that way so I could see the star inside." "Was your mother Asturian?" "No." "Did she spend any time in Asturias?" "Not that I know of. Why?" "I've never seen anyone cut an apple that way except members of my family." They shared a long look. For the first time, a memory Alejandro harbored from long ago made sense. Unable to bear the tension any longer, Alejandro asked, "Is your first name Dionysius?" The captain drew back in surprise. "Yes. How could you possibly know that?" "I sat on the edge of my mother's bed and held her hand when she drew her last breath. At the end, she was delirious. She called repeatedly for someone named Pedro and begged his forgiveness. And then she said, 'I was too weak to fight them. I should never have let them take Dionysius away.'" "We had the same mother?" Captain de Mina ventured. "I saw my mother die but you're acting on blind faith alone that your mother died when you were born." At that moment, Sergeant Brull knocked on the door. "Sorry to interrupt, sir. We're ready to move the prisoners out." "Very well." Captain de Mina stood, his eyes riveted on Alejandro. Alejandro stood too. "I'll write your wife and tell her where you are." "Thank you." Captain de Mina extended his hand. Alejandro gave it a firm shake. The captain smiled. "You never told me your first name." "It's Alejandro." "Alejandro," he said softly. "That was my grandfather's name. On my mother's side." The captain hesitated. "When this war is over, we really must . . ." He trailed off. Alejandro nodded. "Yes. I'd like that." After the captain left, Alejandro reopened his ledger, turned to the inside back cover, and added the names of Dionysius de Mina and his family. He smiled at the words he had written. And no longer felt alone. * * * The following short story is based on a real event: I Killed Santa's Reindeer Grown-ups have no sense of humor. If they did, I wouldn't be sitting here in lunch detention. So far, I've served two months. Just one more to go. Here comes the assistant principal to stand guard over me. They say she has a glass eye. The way she looks at me every day, I expect her to jerk it from its socket and throw it at me. I don't deserve this. I didn't commit murder. Well, I did kill Santa's reindeer but I swear I didn't mean to. It all started when some genius decided we fifth graders would help the little kids write letters to Santa. So one day we visited the Kindergarten classes. I was assigned to a little girl with a wish list that would fill the phone book. I was supposed to help her write a letter to Santa Claus. But she went on and on and on. My hand started to cramp. As soon as we got back to our own classroom, we wrote a letter from Santa to our little pal in Kindergarten. My hand was still aching, so naturally my reply was short and to the point. This is what I wrote: Dear Little Girl with the Long Wish List: Due to technical difficulties Santa can't deliver any presents this year. All his reindeer died. His elves went on strike. There was a blizzard at the North Pole so we're snowed in until spring. Merry Christmas, The Head Elf I stuck my letter in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote the little girl's name on it. I even decorated it with drawings of Christmas trees. My teacher collected our work and sent it on to Kindergarten. I don't know why I did it. But I've thought about it lots of times and if I had it to do over, I'd do it again. Lunch detention will be over just before Easter. Hmm . . . Easter. I wonder if my class will help the little kids write letters to the Easter Bunny. IN PERPETUITY The oncoming car wouldn't stop. Didn't the driver see me standing in the middle of the road? At any moment, I kept telling myself, he would notice me and swerve. But he didn't. Closer and closer came the headlights. My eyes squeezed shut to block out the glare. I refused to jump out of the way, just like that night in 1952 when I died. I waited for the chrome to tear into my flesh. I waited for the inevitable pain, searing and white hot. I waited . . . Brakes squealed like pigs being slaughtered. A second passed before I slowly, cautiously, opened my eyes. The car bumper brushed my skirt, my favorite skirt, the one with the poodle on it. Ashen, mouth agape, the driver stared at me, then banged his head softly on the steering wheel, over and over. He unclenched his hands and stepped out of the car. "Are you all right?" Words stuck in my throat. The best I could do was nod. He took my elbow and led me to the curb. We sat down together, our gaze locked on his '73 Omega's white vinyl top. "I stopped in time," he said, his tone awe-filled. He swiveled toward me. "Does that mean the cycle is broken?" There was a glimmer of hope in the driver's chocolate-colored eyes. Before I could respond, murmurs of approval drew our attention to the dark top of the stadium where spectators rated our performance. "Purification #1155629 to commence in three minutes," a bored-sounding voice announced over the loudspeaker. The driver slammed his hands under his armpits and rocked forward. "I won't do this again. Haven't I suffered enough? It was an accident, for God's sake." "No. It was hit and run," I gently reminded him. "You were drunk when you ran over that little boy." "But I stopped this time," the driver insisted. "That should count for something." "I'm sure it will be credited to your account." After a studied pause, I added, "But I didn't get out of the way this time either. Small wonder they paired us together. You refuse to admit guilt. I refuse to show remorse." In my head, I heard the Judge boom out my sin. Suicide and Murder. You stood in the middle of the road at three o'clock in the morning and killed yourself and your unborn baby. But it was 1952, I had protested. With no husband and no prospects of finding one, death was better than living in shame. Other paths existed. Perhaps some day you will see that. The Judge paused, as if he expected me to say something. I didn't. He banged his gavel. You will suffer vehicular homicide in perpetuity. "Match #1155629," the stadium loudspeaker droned, pulling me back to my present purgatory. "Penitents, take your places." "Come on." I took the driver by the sleeve. "Let's get this over." He looked at me, his expression tortured. "Will it ever be over?" "For you, yes, some day it will be." It would take much longer to burn away my sins. A minute later, I stood in the middle of the road. At the other end of a ribbon of asphalt, he revved his motor and started toward me. The oncoming car wouldn't stop . . . |