Kathleen Alcott - The Dangers of Proximal Alphabets

I asked to sleep in his room. Julia kept insisting that if I even slightly did not feel up to going through my father’s things that she would of course keep them safe. It was unspoken, but Julia wanted to go on fingering his neatly hung sweaters and alphabetized books, imagining the names of people in boxes of photographs she’d never seen before, and so when I said that yes, I might like to wait, she beamed and squeezed my shoulder. And so I resolved to leave all the proof for future perusal, mine the memories later. I found myself more interested in the utilitarian or recent objects he’d left behind, anyway: the razor that still held his hair, the keys he had turned in the sticky lock not four days ago, the Post-it he had placed on his bedroom mirror that read, inexplicably: AND WHERE WERE THE ALLIGATORS?! a private joke with himself I would never understand.

I sat on his carefully made bed, feeling the firmness my father had slept on, looked at the ceiling he’d memorized with years of insomnia. On his bedside table was his wallet, the same he’d used for years. I found his most recent video store receipt, noted how well-worn his library card, removed the store of photos from their bulging plastic envelopes. My mother covered in yellow paint in our kitchen, grinning and holding the roller as if it was a trophy; Jackson and me as toddlers naked in a bathtub with bubble beards; his mother and father in 1940s church attire; James and his Godzilla in our front yard, looking ominous and not interested in the camera; every school photograph I’d ever taken. Hidden away in the folds were even more pictures: friends dead for decades, a face I recognized as a Frenchwoman he’d had a torturous affair with by the name on the back. I looked at every business card and unfolded every piece of paper. One, a scrap of a legal pad that I took at first for another private reference or corner of his brain, featured a bullet list with accompanying value symbols, names, and email addresses, and I understood quickly that these were the identities of the people who’d bid on Jackson’s work. I returned everything else hastily and entered the living room, where James was sleeping with Jackson on the small futon. I nearly woke them to share my discovery, but instead I got in between their bodies and waited, stiffly, to understand what had changed with the departure of my father. As if feeling my warmth through their dreams, they made small adjustments, turned to me in increments that were small until they weren’t— it isn’t until it is —until both had draped their limbs around mine so intricately that I couldn’t move if I tried and I fought off sleep vehemently, determined to appreciate what they gave me without my even asking.

I must first give thanks to the memory of my father, a writer who always encouraged me to find the right words. I wish to also acknowledge professors Logan Esdale and James Blaylock of Chapman University, for giving light and time to the tiniest saplings of this; my mother, for carrying laughter and wisdom in her purse, and Ben Marsh, for sharing the weight; James Pittmann, for gifting me an escape and an anonymous space in which to write; the community of Fayetteville, Arkansas, for receiving me with such kindness; Brent Hoff, for helping these characters find their way home; my agent, Victoria Marini, for finding me and fighting for me; Jerry Delacruz, champion of the late-night heart-to-heart; my editor, Corinna Barsan, for breathing grace onto these pages; Isaac Fitzgerald, an unyielding cheerleader from the first; Olivia Harrison, a reliable source of laughter and love since preschool; Lucius Bono, who came to the rescue more times than I can count and composed missives that fed me; Jessica Brownell, for adopting me and holding my hand; Gabriel Magaña, the kindest of cowboys; my sister, Vanessa Penn, whose dance upon my life is immeasurable; the town of Petaluma, a place impossible to forget; and the city of San Francisco, which generously lends itself to stories.

Born and raised in northern California, Kathleen Alcott studied in southern California, lived in San Francisco, and presently resides in Brooklyn, New York. Her work has appeared in American Short Fiction; Slice; Explosion-Proof ; The Rumpus.net; Rumpus Women, Volume 1 , an anthology of personal essays; and elsewhere. She is currently at work on her second novel, a work that traces the lives of four tenants of an apartment building in New York City.