Migratory Fortunes and Other Stories

By Susan Rivera

Here's what some readers have to say about the collection:

"It was good to visit with your characters...some bursting free, some melancholy, and some consciously creating happiness for themselves and the ones they love right where they are.

Migration can take many forms--many places to go to in the heart and mind, as well as through time and space."

- Sandy Marshall, author of "Life and Death in the Time of Pancho Villa"

Thank you, thank you, for your lovely book! My favorites were about the acceptance letter and the injured bird: one because it was really funny and the other because it was so tender. But the whole collection is so well written."

- Ann C. Sellemi, author of "A Good Read!"

"I just finished this book and loved it...very well written as it could be read again and again to reveal all the nuances."

- Bill Moelich, Chef par excellence, Somellier, and author of "A Good Eats"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Rivera
• Release date: May 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781735689616

Book preview

Migratory Fortunes

and Other Stories

by

Susan A. Rivera

Migratory Fortunes

and Other Stories

Copyright © 2020 by Susan A. Rivera

All rights reserved.

Neither this book, nor any part of it may be reproduced in any form, electronic or mechanical, including the use of information storage and retrieval systems without permission from the author.

Susan A. Rivera

P.O. Box 435

Fairacres, NM 88033-0435

ISBN 978-1-7356896-1-6

Cover design by

Susan Rivera

Cover Photograph by

Vivienne Sokol

Prowler, copyright Susan A. Rivera, first appeared in Desert Exposure, vol. 24, no. 10, October 2019

Solitude, copyright Susan A. Rivera, first appeared in Desert Exposure, vol.23, no.10, October 2018

For

My mother, Bobbye, so many untold stories

Table of Contents

Chance

Compensation

Love Shard

Migratory Fortunes

Prowler

Raft

Solitude

The Case for the Ambiguous Acceptance Letter

You Never Can Tell

Acknowledgements

Chance

Brenda Budlevy has lived in the same building on Norfolk Street so long that the old marble stairs now bear evidence of her climb to the fourth floor, to the dark and stale apartment she shares with her aged mother. Each morning for the past five years, when her mother shuffles over to the kitchen table, teapot in hand, Brenda’s murderous thoughts arise. Why can’t the old, bent, prison warden ever die?

She has fantasies:

She will arise, go to wake her mother, find her blissfully beaming in death.

Or, she will hesitate just so as her mother falls against the iron tub before the evening bath Brenda administers.

Last night she restrained her fingers so eager to pinch mother's tight shrinking belly. The thin skin that hangs from her wrinkling body both repulses and terrifies her. Those blue veins lacing the aging woman's legs, arms, temples call to her, pulsing, just pull one of us hard enough and everything will drain with this tepid bath.

And finally, in her favorite, she places a pillow loosely over her mother's face and waits patiently.

Brenda leaves for work at the busy accountant’s office each day hoping to return to a dead mother, the death that will release her life and allow her to clean and paint and install lighting. She will live in a room of her own. Brenda wants to be alone, not alone with company.

She is now 58; her mother 86. She, the only daughter, is stuck with the heavy obligation of tending the mother. Brenda can't remember how it even came about, except that suddenly she was alone. Mother was alone. She'd lived with her parents waiting to marry Alex. And then, no Alex. She took her only job and moved with mother into this apartment 22 years ago. Walking to work made life easier. Brenda shudders; easier yes, but the move had narrowed her life even more dramatically. Back and forth she goes on foot from home to office to the occasional market or errand. At least in the family home in Queens, before papa had died, she had taken the subways into Manhattan for shopping, to meet Alex, to dine with him. She had sat rubbing shoulders with strangers, envying mothers with children, making plans for that promised life with Alex. Brenda's hopes and joys had snaked their way through those dirty tunnels, and she had felt alive.

Now, resigned, she can barely muster envy toward her sister-in-law Sylvia's carefree life. A wealthy husband has its benefits, but Sylvia doesn't seem happy either. Arnold is too busy; does Sylvia cheat? Once Arnold had pressed mother to move into an elevator building, but the stubborn Budlevy tendency produced only the bitter dictum, walking upstairs is good for your sister! Brenda had muttered under her breath, falling down them would be easier. Mother can’t leave the apartment without help. And forget walking back up. Arnold must be summoned on these days, usually for the doctor or a rare trip to his house. He carries her like the baby she is. Now, Brenda shuts down her thoughts and deep desires as she hears a key enter the lock. Then, Mrs. Gonzalez opens the only door to the place.

Ah, good morning Mrs. Budlevy! Mrs. Gonzalez too cheerfully greets them. It is always Mrs. Budlevy, not Estelle, or Miss Budlevy, reminding Brenda of her loss and her place. Mrs. Gonzalez, the home attendant who comes five days a week for the eight hours Brenda is away, is allowed to clean, shop, and cook, but only Brenda is allowed to wash Mrs. Budlevy.

Morning, Brenda mutters and retreats to the bathroom to finish her makeup. There she quickly applies her lipstick, an inexpensive, drug-store, deep plum-red. She has worn this color ever since Alex had noticed how it compliments her olive skin and dark eyes. Brenda dashes from the tiny bathroom, grabs her coat, pecks at