Aside from the story collection, MILK TEETH, Tim Jeffrey has published other stories in magazines over the years. We present a selection of these that will periodically be added to and substracted from. Though two of these are from the collection, one - “Habits of Contact” - was first published in the anthology of best Michigan fiction writers, THE THIRD COAST, through Wayne State Universtity Press and has not been published since in any other form.

New stories will be posted on a regular basis. Feel free to comment.

By Themselves
Blackstone Massacre
Habits of Contact

BY THEMSELVES (back to top)

She lives at the time in a misery flat with a utility kitchen. Coffee table plants rest on opposing smoked glass insets. All around, chubby bear novelties, macrame, style magazines and a conventionally silver-framed Mardi Gras poster. Having had other changes in circumstances, she keeps boxes in storage.
The drapes are pulled. Out of doors, rain falls. That morning, a clock radio blares music. The man singing has long been accustomed to failure in matters of love, and has had the bad fortune to see history repeat itself. He may give up. If someone does not talk him out of it, that is exactly what he will do.
She touches a switch, returning the room to sepulchral quiet. Sits up on the side of the bed in her nightgown - an aureole of white cotton floating near his face where his head lies on the pillow.

Then he must have dozed: when he opens his eyes again, he is facing the other way. The dresser light illuminates a small midway teddy in a red vest propped against the mirror, china pin cups, a brush.
On the edge of his vision, her small foot points delicately out, toes poised to enter a slender dark pump. Sheathed in nylon, the leg crossed over and extended, her familiar small-boned ankle and foot. Their articulation rondured to fit inside the soft aromatic leather.
Privately appraising, the small pads of her lithe fingertips smooth.
Starting above the ankle in the silken under-calf, moving down, appreciative. As he might do for her. Touching herself.
Then up, massage. Glide and probe.
The exploration lasts only seconds. Using three fingers now, trace the curve of calf with deliberation, back up... down again.

Finally, the foot returns to the carpet. With a reflective sigh - another day of work - she begins dressing. Touching the vanity to balance and her hair, long flows over the shoulder, slips from its tuck.
Closing his eyes when he feels her sense him.
What her eyes contemplate in his sleeping face, what thoughts must swim through her, will be concealed from him.
As he had in a game as a child, holds his breath. Makes for her a face of innocent unconscious.
Opens his eyes again.
She is gone.

BLACKSTONE MASSACRE (back to top)
© Timothy Jeffrey


Aside from a minor fascination at times with the sound of her own voice, Mary Lou Pentwater would have you know she had several other characteristics that quite outweighed that failing. She was a model listener, for one; if a person needed to "vent" (she had begun using this word after her first semester back in school) Mary Lou would open her oblong hazel eyes and utter concentrative, intentionally subliminal encouragements that meant she embraced whatever message you most desired she should receive.
And if growing up on a farm was not the most intellectually complimentary characteristics one could carry into company, she was at least aware of her limitations enough not to push herself on people. She would not have said so --unless someone asked-- but Mary Lou sensed when a soul need to talk and when they needed to be alone. She was drawn to sadness, specifically; she had an uncanny sense of desperation. To "interesting" people, actually - which was not to say "peculiar," exactly, though you might. She quite expected to write a book someday that would collect --for a much more deserving and without a doubt more stimulating segment of humanity then she had the unfortunate opportunity to know in this town-- conversations she had held with human beings. She was going to call it "Human Beings" and leave the reader to draw her own conclusions. She reminded herself again now to buy the notebook she would need, writing this on a matchbook and depositing it with others she would have to soon organize in her knapsack. Self-consciously, she slid the bag further under her stool.
The reason for remembering was her proximity to someone --clearly a stranger -- who occupied the seat two over at the Blackstone Bar, where most of her "significant experiences", as she would refer to them in her book, had taken place. He was not well off, evidently, having to make do with an outdated, block- checkered jacket like one of those ancient Arizona retirees would, with white shoes. Broke her heart to see how he put on to distract from that, holding his drink with purpose, staring all alone at the bottles on the back bar, carrying this endearing air of belonging. He must have his stories. However her one beer might have muddied the apparatus, it wasn't sadness she intuited in this fellow. Desperation, maybe, but it wasn't bothering him any. Not invitation, because he was not the type to take chances, she decided. Not a conversationalist, but in need of information without knowing how to ask, regarding his surroundings.

* * *

So this woman says it can't get much hotter outside that it wouldn't kill largely two thirds of walking humanity and he, Borden Creel, surprised a tad at the forwardness of her, just stirred his drink. He observed for her benefit then as how it certainly was one hellacious worm-burner, at the height of the afternoon well over 93° and shimmering off what slice of street he could see through the door cracked open. He stayed dressed good with his jacket because even farmers knew you meant business when you were got up snazzy, and besides he had new sweat stains on his shirt.
Not to seem unsocial or nothing toward this woman, but he was feeling a touch neon anyway with the company emblem on the pocket there, having noticed driving into town the college students all around - even a couple in here, which, really, you'd have to wonder why they weren't in school. He kind of thought, to judge from all the smatterings of dog-kept shacks and scrub farms on the perimeter, that he was coming to see some half-breed sharecropper as he was pulling off the expressway. Indian women in braids with their greasy, squashy tennis-shoes and them urchins in loose drawers making out along the road there. He hoped not. The tribal elders evidently weren't sharing the new casino wealth too awful much.
It had been a long trip and Christian Brewster better be some potential business lead who was wanting for some equipment. With his three percent cut, it had better be a shitload of farm vehicle or tooling. Borden was losing enough confidence without he'd driven all this way for some Indian. He looked to his watch and, Chinese checkers, you knew one thing about Mr. Brewster straight off: he was not punctual.
"Pressing appointment, eh?" Mary Lou Pentwater once again attempted congenial dialogue. "I know what you mean. I've got about three hours of studying waiting for me when I get home." She consciously did not say "back at the farm".
Borden sold farm equipment. For two months he had. Two saleless months. He had called Brewster about a meeting here in town and was beginning to think he'd got the wrong place. Maybe go back to fixing school buses.
"I 'member that," was all he said about the woman's studying. He remembered no such thing. Borden's father used to say the only thing between covers Border had ever cracked got pregnant and had a sorry ending. Borden didn't follow up with nothing witty at the present time, as he usually had to get a little more under the belt for the jibs to loosen.
"Well," she said, evidently about her homework. "Whatever."
Didn't look like no college kid. He looked at his watch.
"Our two dash eight-five Field Boss sounds the right ticket," Borden had said over the phone. "Believe me, Chris, I got some proper hog nose sweet corn coming up my damn self." Too chummy, probably that was it. Truth to tell, he had about 14 stubby ears dying on paper dry stalks and some weedy chard. But there's a conversational trick to this selling, Borden Creel knew. He had an overlarge vegetable patch which his horse toothed, seesaw-hipped wife was supposed to tend, fallen on hard times by now, no doubt, what with his absence. She was a useless thing. Part of the reason he was glad to not be a mechanic no more was the travel.
"College town, huh?" Borden felt somewhat idiotic, but it was his contention that nothing much ever happened in a college town so he was being at least as boring as his subject.
Mary Lou, thinking he had mumbled something about her being a student, interpreted this as a green light and regaled Borden with the history of the university, which the accreditation people had recently - about time - renamed. She went from country normal school to the girl's field hockey team's second place finish two years ago and it the foot rail hadn't been there to balance him, Borden might have fainted dead away out of boredom.
As the guy appeared to politely listen, she talked about the anthropology class, but not her book yet. She was a hefty and still available thirty-two but her hair was long and straight and she was complimented that he might have taken her for part of the campus population she always felt like a foreigner around. Except of course that these kids had no manners anymore. Not that it bothered them.
"Anthropology," Borden Creel said as if mulling it.
"The study of people," she said. And: "Ethnicity," not for any further enlightenment but because she liked the sound.
"That's like," he wasn't going to say niggers if he could help it, "groups a people. Right?" He said he'd seen some Indians. "You study Indian type a people?"
She laughed to herself. "I ought to. There's plenty at hand and I've got one paper left to do. I grew up around here so I know enough about them. Even a couple were my friends, or we knew each other." He took this in. He might not like them. She panicked a little at this, desiring the company. "Sure, ask any question and I'll tell you my life story. Even if you didn't ask."
He said that was all right.
"It's really interesting," Mary Lou said. "This whole area was, or I should say still is, a Chippewa reservation."
"No shit."
"The town lives off federal and state grants, a university, old folks complex, the medical facility and the mental institution north of town..."
He'd seen it. Tall and square and shiny as a glass brick.
Borden said, "Thought you already mentioned the university." Caught her off enough to get a big whoop laugh. Happy lady. Teeth weren't too bad... iron-water dulled; the wells in these parts.
She mentioned the town people didn't care much for the university either, did their shopping downtown, where fewer of the kids came. But the J. C. Penny's had moved to the little mall out by the dorms. They didn't like Indians, though Mary Lou left herself out of that debate.
"Well, I like it better, a place like this," Borden said. And though she had taken this to promise more was following, he was silent then. Actually, it was just conversation to Borden, who knew bars back home where the bricks had been kicked out and dust sat on everything, not like this where the bricks seemed sent out for, custom-made chipped and put back in just crooked enough. Then they go and hang up hundred year-old pictures of the town when there was a general store and a porch and one barrel. And always two guys with a couple mustaches they were extra proud of, like the college kids probably wished they were back there, living then. This gal here would of been a beauty queen. Not much competition.
"It'll be filling up the next hour or so," Mary Lou Pentwater said by way, again, of supplying local interest. Borden bought a round.
He asked for a name.


They were sitting down to a booth later when the fight started. The place was terrible narrow and the fight started up front by the lone pool table. Borden had put his jacket off on the booth seat; he reached out of reflex to put his hand in the pocket for the watch he had also taken off. He had all but forgotten his appointment and was doing something with his third martini to deaden whatever plain guilt smoldered about it. He had always been one to put off useless thinking.
Though drink hadn't dislodged the continual rehearsal inside his head that released itself incessantly, unspooling like ribbon, just in case: ...a windrower with folding tine augur to match crop conditions, stripper plates. The two Eighty-five has vertical and radial rotation of the header.. Angle turns? Borden would have slanted one eye, a wise guy salesman.
You kiddin me, Christian? You tell me what you need good buddy and we'll get you fixed up.
Borden was no longer watching for Christian Brewster to appear in the doorway. he couldn't even see it no more.The crowd probably contributed to the boys getting all up, everyone pressed together. Guy who started the fight was this hippie-looking bugger, blond hair. But big, thick, drill rigger paws. A little old to be a student. The other, smaller but a little tighter was hollow-cheeked with hot black pupils. Looked mean, Eye-talian mean, or Arab, Indian. Something on the order of a minority of the world in this college book. Indians being stolen from or no, it was truth unquestionable that they had poor maintenance of themselves for anger and on alcohol, clear out. Black hair and no expression except them eyes; maybe Indian all right. And you'd a thought so, quick as he got the feisty shot in there, hurt the blonde guy right off. Moved him back. You couldn't tell, there was a lot of pushing in the few seconds; they'd plowed, the two of them, into the Miller's sign and brought it, and a couple beers, down in a confusion of chairs and shouting. The blond didn't mind. He even smiled, Borden noticed. When he landed full with a punch on the poor little fella what cheek there was broke with the sound of a cue ball jumping on hard tile. That was that. Someone helped the wounded one out. The blond had vanished.
"Students?" Borden said.
"Those aren't students." She was going to apologize for her tone, but she decided to leave it. She poured herself a beer from the pitcher. "They aren't anything."

As the evening progressed, the place filled with students who all seemed to know each other. Not a one of them appeared to have been unhappy with anything ever. Borden kept up a pace of drinking and charming, he thought. He folded his wire rim glasses. He had been told his eyes were nice and clear and green. The glasses might impede. Couldn't recall who'd said it. He could hear some of them talking about sailing they'd done. Damn spoiled brats. He set the glasses on the table.
Mary Lou had already skipped her class, third time, but this was for the book. Everybody any more was so self-possessed and ironic but this person, despite his unfortunate name, was genuinely unconcerned by all appearances with looking smart. She would have to remember to ask him later about his parents. They continued talking about movies. That Mary Lou saw more first runs allowed her to expound, which he seemed to like. She quite appreciated his encouragement.
The patrons were pushing each other around familiarly. Made Borden a mite nervous. A lot of the boys wore these greasy baseball hats, like grease monkeys --when you knew not a one of them ever had an honest job. Let alone get dirty.
For a moment he wondered what he would do if he kept not selling anything and had to go back to fixing cars. He smiled at whatever her name was, but this time with a trace of thankfulness. Her quizzical expression rushed him into a retreat for an old standard:
"So where you from? Here, I mean...where was you born?"
Mary Lou, remembering her artistic mission, instead gave him as diversion the name of where she always expected to go someday.
"Chicago? That right?" Borden smiled.
Mary Lou liked him, he knew one thing. You could tell right off about these things. City girl. Better slow down the drinking before all the dumb came out of him too fast and fussed up his deal, possibly.
"You ain't true," he said because she didn't want to talk about it. Like: Ain't you cute?
"I'm serious."
"Tell me something."
"What?"
"Where you from?"
Mary Lou did not like being dickered with, but she had a need at the moment for staying put, and keeping Borden with her in case the one she feared came back. "Are you playing with me?" she said.
"Now," Borden felt them getting along nice, "Would I do a thing like that?"
The waitress came with his next drink.
"Don't mind me, I'm just crazy." He gave the scrawny, stoic girl waiting on her money a good hard grin. "Just ask this waitress. Ain't I?"
"Four twenty," the waitress said as if she hadn't heard.
"Well I think we can handle that," Borden said, and when she had gone with his money: "She's a regular 'Miss Friendship', wunt she?"
But Mary Lou's reason for staying put had emerged now, as she expected he would, from the crowd milling in and out the Blackstone's open front door. She gave Borden a flat smile.
Borden didn't pick it up, only saw the blond fella looking over once curiously, like he had a question. They hadn't kicked him out. Loose place. College town.
When Borden turned, Mary Lou stalled, just roused out of a stare. Then asked him quickly: "What?"
"Nothing in the world." He clicked her glass. "They let that boy back in."
She said Oh, but that had been who she was looking at all right.
First, when the sliver of ice hit the table, Borden jumped, thinking it was the blond kid for some reason. Hadn't known he was nervous. He merely assumed then that the crush of students, which was giving him a needle pointed headache anyway, had caused someone to spill. For a while Mary Lou went on about school and such. He half liked her. A chunk of ice shattered against the pitcher.
Now he felt obliged to react. He was sure it was the blond fella.
"Would someone mind telling me..." Borden swung around.
In sweat-stuck flannel shirt and suspendered trousers, the old Chip, road apple-shade skin standing out among the unruly students, smack in the middle of them, blunt old bloodhound face looking their way. With thick, old pig skinned fingers, he took the ice from his glass of booze. He flicked, and his ice hit lamps, winged drinkers on the hands and shoulders. No one seemed to know where it was coming from.
"Do a study on him," Borden suggested. "How he stays alive doing that."
A woman rode a fella's shoulders in. Another woman came in her wheelchair, wearing a cowboy hat and bright lipstick and a dead huge giant tree branch which several had to help her fit through the door. "Long Branch Saloon," somebody shouted and Borden thought of all the Indians he had seen and that he'd overheard someone in town as he was walking from his car call it Indian Summer as he passed, referring to a corner with a bunch of them. Borden thought it good for retelling but probably not with her.
Beer cans and potato chip bags were hung on the branch; righted, it was set into the corner, awaiting presents.
"You do this every night here?" Borden was going for some laughs.
Mary Lou was not paying attention.


He was up by the pool table again and his eyes held on her, long enough. He waited until Mary Lou's own eyes gave up the dodge and fell on him. She made herself weary, crooked her mouth down on the one side, unimpressed with him. His mouth, and it must have been a minute coming, instead turned up, knowingly.
"Someone's gonna knock that old boy's block off," Borden was saying, referring to the Indian, taken by all the sights, and just turning back. "This place is somethin', I'll tell you right now!"
Sometimes she thought her life might end up being this, the Blackstone and its carnival Fridays --an endless round of predawn feedings around the yard, seasonal cannings and classes to break the monotony... then the Blackstone. Year after year. Apparently this Borden person saw her expression.
"Don't you be sad," Borden said. "After all, you got me." Which when you heard yourself say it, was the kind of thing that could wind up back in your face, so he made his pinched pout that was his smile to keep her at bay. The book he learned it from said it was another winning way to convey to buyers his deep interest in their well being. Though he felt himself sound on that count, had even sent out Memorial Day cards just to keep the touch on, he’d as yet to sell a shovel, and the more he drank, the more wrong that seemed.
Peculiar smile or no, men weren't usually this perceptive, Mary Lou knew, and she was thankful for his kindness. Paying attention. Not trying to get something out of her. She touched his hand to thank him, which made the guy jump a little. No reason to bring that up. They don't like that, men. That’s all right. He just needed someone to listen. Mary Lou could listen, too.
Stand out in the aisle and the passing rivers of people - into one another, calling for their drinks with a wave not getting their arms back down without the accommodation of someone else - would literally lift you along toward the bathrooms and the exit through the kitchen in the back, or the pool table and the front door the other way. The Indian was oblivious, however, and the drawn-back cue struck him just above the waist. The kid studied his shot. The Indian stopped throwing ice to watch him. His eyes were rheumy, half-mast.
"Cut it off the twelve."
Playing for money, the kid concentrated the advice.
"Draw it slow off the cushion. Hit it right, you're in behind him."
The boy started to do this, and had to stop because of the Indian. "Excuse me." Second time he hit him, but the Indian just looked. "I've got a shot, could you look out?"
The Indian fished out a cube. It arced and disappeared half way down the line of people massing toward the bathroom.
"Move out a the man's way, Tonto." The big solid imposing hippie interceded. His long blond sweep of hair might be needing of a head band to put it out of the way. His skin was real white, especially that close to the Indian's.
The old man said something back, deepening concentric creases around the black stones of his eyes with the movement of his slow mouth. He stepped aside, but seemed to want some help in pursuing redress from others around the table, as though grave insult had been done them as well.
The twelve ball came to rest against another ball blocking it from the pocket.
"Goddamn Indian asshole, " said the one making the shot.
The Indian wore a cold Buster Keaton blankness now.
Even when the failed shooter came up in his face: "Duhhh..Yeah, you. You're out past curfew, Cochise."
"Look at that zeb, man, he don't know what you're saying."
"See," Borden said to Mary Lou. "That ain't right."
She had seen the blond and the other boys in this town do this so often she didn't notice all of the exchange. She was meant for bigger times. She would maybe get computer skills.


His hair had been greasy then, but that just made it more yellow. He had been kind of handsome and nobody thought the drinking would age you so much. He said he wanted to be a tradesman. She was good at listening. He loved her for it. He'd even used that word.
He was doing the same thing now, acting like he had in those teenage midnight raids on the reservation. Injun-bopping. Called himself a "Buffalo soldier." Jump them at the roadsides. Ask them for directions and then drag them into the car. You could live a whole summer on one story. He was still at war. Maybe she was thirty-two, but there was still school, doing something with her life.