Page 57 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #10

my hands off a dusty recliner.
The only problem is, the heat’s unbear- able in the mobile home save for an electric fan near where I play, and Su- per Man’s red cape—which is so silky soft and glitters in the sunlight slanting through the window blinds—suddenly detaches from his plastic shoulders in my sweaty fingers and falls between the fan’s shield to get caught in the blur of its purring blades. My face is hot. My eyes water. I’m anxious to pluck the glistening cape from those spinning propeller-style blades but fearful my fingers will get sliced off.
At the same time, I dare not ask this strange woman for any help.
My third and final memory consists of me standing on a golf course in the swel- tering heat, the same woman (I think) holding my right hand. My father stands before us at a distance of maybe twenty yards. Sunlight beats off his dark blue div- ing suit—a luminous white sheen engulfs the neoprene. He is diving for golf balls,
I know this somehow, although I can’t remember why; and I learned later from my mother—when I shared this memory with her—that this became his profes- sion after all his run-ins with the law fizzled out his golfing career.
My father glances in my direction, sili- cone mask pulled low and completely hiding his face. A snorkel is clasped be- tween his teeth, and he waves just before he dives, the significance of this gesture lost to me now—quite naturally, as al- ways—whether hello or goodbye.
The Saint
batik on bed sheets 93” x 55”
By Fernanda Vargas
Khan was the recipient of the 2012 Bambi Holmes Award for Fiction.
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