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New Hope

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A Short Story by Janet Burns

The Remnant A Short Story by Mary Jansen Illustration by Diane Schoeniger

Mother and Child Ink and Color by Eva Kielarska

The Old Man A Short Story by Margaret Sexton Illlutration by Eva Kielarska

You Do Not Understand A Short Story by Florence McGuckin

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Love's Partner A Short Story by Joanne Baumann

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The EI A Short Story by Ann Singlar

Teneor Votis Holy Family College,

Torresdale, Philadelphia 14, Pennsylvania

Spring - 1960

New Hope Janet Burns [Major in English -

Class of 1960]

OW MANY mornings had she tossed and turned restlessly until she had been forced to seek peace from herself in the cold air outside? It had been this way ever since she had arrived in New Hope. She began to think that this was the only time of day when she really had a chance to see the town-and it was such a lovely town, quaint and homey, a real college town. This morning Joyce found herself at the bottom of the great stone steps leading up to what she was sure was the most incongruous building in the town, the Catholic Church. It stuck out like the Arc de Triomphe surrounded by little shops and rambling white houses. "It's a beautiful building though," she thought. It stood there majestic in its massive stone frame and subtle stainedglass windows-almost like a French Cathedral, Americanized. "What a shame it's a Church." An icy wind wrapped itself around her and she pulled her fur coat closer, hands already buried deep in her pockets. As she drew one hand out to remove a misplaced strand of her blond pageboy from her eyes, her fingers brushed against a small square of cardboard-a forgotten cleaner's ticket, a final remembrance of its former owner. Father had always told her to be sweet to the old aunt, so that she'd be remembered in her will. The day the telegram came he had exclaimed, "That's what I call timing. Now that fur coat of hers can be put to some use. After all, a fur is a necessity if you want to make a good impression in a small college town like New Hope." The gray wind roared past her again and she turned from the Church to continue her walk. Through the wind, she caught the sound of the shuffle of feet and the steady

thumping of a cane. She turned, startled to think that anyone else might be out at this hour of the morning. An elderly woman, bent and wrinkled, emerged from the grayness and approached the steps. As Joyce moved to allow the woman to pass, she noticed the worn poverty of her sagging black coat and fringed bandana. She glanced down at her own fur and frowned. The wind drew a sneeze from Joyce and the old woman turned sharply toward her. Through the misty gloom, the girl was enchanted to see the wrinkles of the aged face multiply and divide into a lovely smile-a smile that appeared to concentrate in a pair of piercing dark eyes. Had she imagined the swift glance of the woman's eyes? Joyce watched as the woman continued her laborious way up the Church steps. I've never seen such eyes, Joyce thought. They seemed to be all-seeing, to convey complete understanding of the world and peace in that understanding. They appeared to penetrate into the very soul. But perhaps it was a trick of the half-light and her distressed thought .... The screeching of brakes at the curb drew Joyce's attention from the woman. A tall middle-aged man in a dark cashmere coat and round white collar struggled out of a long black car and swept past her up the steps toward the woman at the top. Instead of stopping, however, he hurried past, pausing only at the door to remove his beret. The door swung shut with a heavy thud in the face of the old woman. "How inconsiderate these religious are," Joyce muttered to herself as she hurried up the steps after the woman. "Let me," she said. Pulling the heavy door open, she remembered the many times she had seen her hometown pastor rush to aid old Mr. Dolan, the wealthiest man in their parish, down the aisle to the front pew in their Church. The little woman fumbled with her cane and then passed through the opening into the dark interior, and before Joyce realized it, she too was inside. "I don't want to come in here," she thought, but as she turned to leave, her eyes caught the beckoning smile of the old woman who had paused on her way to the pews. Fascinated, Joyce followed her, walking slowly on tiptoe to drown the hollow rings of her heels on the cold marble floor. "Odd

to see compassion in a stranger's face," Joyce said to herself. "Why she seems to be saying, 'I know you as you truly are; as no one has ever tried to know you. I can see your very thoughts and dreams.''' Joyce tore her gaze from the woman who now continued on her way up to the very front of the Church, and concentrated on the blazing white and gold of altar with its heavy satin backdrop and huge crucifix. Just now the immense rose window at the back of the Church was beginning to cast warm reds and blues upon the sanctuary-a mere shadow of the beauty which would emanate from it when the sun rose fully. A cough in the shadows made her aware of several silent parishioners awaiting confession. Early Mass, of course, she realized, and these people were preparing themselves. How many times in her youth her father had called her into his study to hear her confess that she once again had refused to go to ballet classes. Each time the punishment was the same. 11

"A lady learns to behave," he would say and then he'd make her sit perfectly still for two hours. The study was also the scene of her father's weekly financial meetings with the pastor. It always amazed Joyce how the two men ever got along in the first place, but then father always had the ability to spot a person's weakness and turn it to his own advantage. The priest certainly liked expensive things like the Cadillac that he bought from father when he first arrived in town, but he didn't like to collect money. So when father had offered to make the parish collections for him, their friendship was sealed. How many times had she known the little priest to follow father into the study for a rundown of the parish finances. There the priest would sit in the great leather chair as her father paced the floor before him. Anyone entering the room would have seen only the blustering great-faced man bellowing to "invisible spirits." Eventually her father would emerge in a radiant glow as if he had received absoÂˇ lution. The priest, money in hand, would trail after him.

Mother had told her that she was only imagining things when Joyce had voiced the opinion that the priest was money hungry. Suddenly she realized that she was standing in the middle of the aisle; with reflex action she genuflected and slid into the nearest pew. Viewing the altar and the sacristy, she frowned as she noticed the bare chipped spots on the "solid gold" candle holders, and the evidence of wear in the "luxurious" satin backdrop. Things never are what they appear to be and neither are people, she thought. Everyone has always misjudged me. Why can't they understand me when I find it so easy to understand them. Why that old woman seems to understand me better at a glance than my parents have all my life. A thin bell tinkled and two blond altarboys led a priest out-the same priest she had observed earlier. She turned to search for the old woman and discovered her in a pew directly across the aisle. The priest tripped as he ascended the steps to the tabernacle, apparently over the heavy lace of his alb. Mother had always said that lace was the most aristocratic material. Therefore it was only natural that when they started looking for a gown for Mary Elizabeth's coming-out party, mother should have her heart set on lace. Mary Elizabeth had been Joyce's roommate at the Academy and her parents were very wealthy. When mother and she finally located the perfect gown, father had said, "money is no obstacle. If she likes it and it's expensive-looking, get it. After all, this is the climax of all our scrimping and saving. Here's her chance to meet the right people." Mary Elizabeth and Joyce had been the best of friends all through school, even after all the others had discovered that Joyce's father wasn't a banker or a descendant of the Pilgrims. They had laughed together through Speech classes and scoured the library for examples of Renaissance art; they had even learned how to play Chess when Mary Elizabeth's father had called it the game of the intellectually rich. Now that Mary Elizabeth was to make her debut she had arranged for Joyce to come escorted by her cousin Toddy

Davies III. The night of the horrible reception, after they had passed through the line, Joyce had waited for Mary Elizabeth to come and share her excitement with her; but not only was she completely forgotten but she was outrightly snubbed by everyone including her date. Of course Mary Elizabeth is probably too busy, she had tried to convince herself, but the explanation didn't hold. Humiliation drove her to seek refuge as far away as possible, and a wrong turn landed her in the arms of a young waiter who promptly dropped the tray of drinks which he was carrying. After the first shock, the ridiculousness of the situation set them laughing. A chance meeting but celtainly the luckiest of her life. His name was Bob, and as he walked her home she poured out her misery to him. "People are horrible and mean," she cried. "No," Bob had stated, "people are just blind. They judge everything on appearances, never looking any further for the true meaning or real worth of a thing. They live behind a veil of hypocrisy and self-determination, always positive that what they think is right. But, if once, just once, they're shocked into reality, into seeing things as they really exist, then they are never the same." The light was on in her father's study when they arrived and a note of apprehension shook her as they made a date for the following evening. Once inside the house, her father called for an explanation. The ranting and raging continued for hours. "I dress you up for the biggest night of your life and you toss it away for a waiter." "But father, it's only temporary. He's returning to school . . . . " Don't answer me back. Have a little respect for your father and obey me once in a while." Sleep came to none of them that night. Mother sat and glared, only seconding father's words. III

A man appeared from the darkness and thrust a tin offering plate in front of her. Joyce reached quickly for a

coin in her pocket. The man waited impatiently, shaking the plate as if he wanted to shake her. That all these Church people were alike was apparent. "Give them some money and they'll do anything for you," she thought. Joyce glanced around again at the little old woman whose eyes seemed now fixed reverently on the great crucifix suspended above the altar. "She's alone too," Joyce thought, and the loneliness which she had been nursing all these weeks suddenly welled up in her. Bob and she had realized that her parents were watching their every move with disdain. They agreed that something had to be done and the answer seemed to be a family meeting. Her parents had accepted their request on the condition that they would allow the pastor to act as mediator. The night of the inquisition, Joyce had shown Bob into the library, and the three sullen faces watched him sit down stiffly in the leather chair. She had sat beside him, feeling very much like a pawn in a game of chess. Her father, the Black Knight, quizzed them for several hours with questions calculated to make them realize their stupidity and youth. When a draw was reached, the priest, the Red Bishop, was asked to rule. How foolish they had been to think that they would be cornered by the knight; the kill came from the bishop. "Go away to college and if you still feel the same way after you graduate, then you can marry," he had said. "Four years? You want me to leave Bob for four years?" she cried. "When your mind is occupied with studies, the time will fly," the priest had added, and Bob repeated these words when he had placed her on the train to New Hope. It seemed to her that he wanted to get rid of her, too, just like her parents. She couldn't understand him when he tried to convince her that her father was within his rights and that perhaps after all, this might be the best thing for them both. She never would agree; there was hardly the smallest shred of a doubt in her mind. But why had Bob suddenly changed his attitude?

From the departing train window, she watched him wave until the tears and the distance absorbed him. Loneliness crept in to share her memory of him, and she harbored it just as she harbored his presence. When she arrived in New Hope, she refused to move into one of the dorms, instead choosing a private room in one of those impersonal little rooming houses where everyone knows each other well enough to comment on the weather but on nothing else. In school she had kept herself aloof-not becoming atÂˇ tached to any of the other students. She had no intention of getting into a position where she could be hurt again. As it stood now, the fur coat and her private residence made her intriguing, but her triumph was bittersweet. IV

The thin bells sounded again, this time announcing Communion. Recipients began trailing up to the altar. She wanted to join them but what good would it do? The priest who was now serving them was a hypocrite and so was she. How could she find peace in him? She stared hard at the priest. Suddenly she became aware of a slow series of dull thuds; the old woman was painfully making her way toward the railng. Joyce watched her every step; each was more of an effort than the one before it and kneeling took more energy than she possessed. The cane slid from her hand and landed with a resounding clatter on the step beside her. Joyce jumped out of the pew to rescue the cane, but before she -Âˇ could reach it, the priest stooped down and reached through the bars of the railing to the handle. Gently he handed it to the still smiling old woman. Feeling rather foolish standing in the middle of the aisle, Joyce moved to return to the pew, but her eyes caught the glance of the priest who was smiling at her. The old woman turned toward Joyce, following the priest's smile and Joyce looked down directly into her face. That instant the sun blazed through the rose window, sending a shock of light into the woman's face. Joyce stared at her eyes-unÂˇ blinking in the blinding light-eyes partially covered with

the haze of the blind. Unseeing, vacant, totally indifferent eyes and a totally indifferent smile. As she knelt beside the old woman Joyce felt the warmth of the sun's rays across her own face. She caught her breath-Bob's words were in her mind again-and the faint, reluctant stirring of a strange understanding.

The Remnant Mary Jansen [Major in English -

Class 0/ 1960]

HE LITTLE bell over the glass door tinkled, and Franny looked up as the woman came in, darkening the narrow, flourescent-lit shop. The woman moved in shadow, past the boarded-up window where the new shelves had been hung, and crossed to a wooden table in the center of the room, carelessly piled with bolts of material. As the woman fingered the pieces of cloth, Franny studied her dainty movements, so incongruous with her big-boned, broad-shouldered frame. A velvet hat drooped over her tightly-rolled, precisely arranged curls, and the girl thought of her mother's long golden hair which had so casually flattered her. The woman raised her head just then, and Franny had a moment of panic, wondering if she had spoken her thoughts aloud. Then -"she smiled, the empty, painted smile of one of the dolls still lying in her room, almost tangibly slipping into the friendly manner her aunt had taught her to use in dealing with customers. Yet she wondered at her ridiculous fright. The woman pulled a swatch of silk from her leather handbag. "Could you help me match this shade of lavender?" she asked. The material was faintly scented with gardenia sachet, and a feeling of revulsion, unaccountable to the girl, almost

choked her. She thought of the long lavender silk dress, her mother's favorite gown, which was so often in her thoughts now. It seemed to have a new significance which she could not quite determine. Quickly she dragged the footstool from underneath the counter and climbed up on it, taking bolts of lavender silk from the shelves. Franny watched as the woman meticulously compaTed each bolt of cloth with her sample. It would appear that they matched for a moment, but then the swatch she held in her hand seemed to fade beside the new material. After the woman had examined all the lavender silk in the store, she shook her head, with such a look of regret on her face that Franny wondered how anyone could grieve over a sorrow so small among all the great ones that life could hold. The woman thanked her and walked to the door with long, determined strides. The girl watched her leave, then began to roll up the bolts of silk, thinking of the morning she had last seen her mother, when she sailed for Europe only a few weeks ago. Franny and her aunt had given her a Bon Voyage party the night before, and the girl knew she would never forget how beautiful her mother had looked in the lavender gown. The woman had paused outside the shop for a moment, shading her eyes, then she threaded her way across the street, and walked off towards the center of the village. Franny's mother was as tall as this woman, tall enough to attract attention, but her mother carried herself with the grace of a dancer, whereas the woman bounced along on her feet just like that toy kangaroo that she used to play with when she was little. The mailman came to pick up the letters from the box in front of the store and FTanny glanced at the clock to make sure that it was 4:30. She locked the cash register, switched off the lights in the back, and walked toward the door. A wave of elation rushed over her whole body at the sight of a woman who had paused to look into a shop window across the street. Then the woman walked on and the girl shivered as she recognized her as the same one who had come into the shop that morning. She realized that she had

been holding her breath, so she let it out slowly as she locked the door behind her and hurried to her aunt's house. Franny and her mother had often walked to the beach together before dinner, and she hoped to have time to go down there today before it got dark and her aunt came lookÂˇ ing for her again. She ran up the back stairs to her room and changed into old clothes. A faint mist had stealthily spread itself close to the land while she dressed, but she could tell that it would not last long. The sidewalk felt cool and solid to her feet, while the sharp outlines of houses and snack bars, even the needlelike points of telephone poles were softened by the salty haze. She tip-toed lightly over the narrow boardwalk so as not to get a splinter, and clambered to the top of a dune, though the coarse grass scratched her ankles. She could see the tall figure of a woman standing alone on the beach, as though waiting for her, and she ran down the other side of the sand-hill in a rush of joy, her arms outflung to embrace her. "Hello there," the woman called out, and the girl stiffened as a cold chill ran through her body. Then she followed the woman's motion to sit down beside her. "You know, I'm so disappointed that I can't find some lavender silk to match that piece I showed you. I'm in the midst of making a dress to wear to a party next week," she said. "I've found a beautiful pattern. The dress is long, and gathered at the waist," she began. The girl felt as though she were shrouded in a cocoon of lavender silk as the woman poured forth her description of the dress. She was wrapped like a mummy, stifled, while eons of time seemed to pass. The woman continued to sing the virtues of every new stitch and seam. As she neared the crucial moment of setting-in the sleeves, the girl struggled to interrupt, but could not pierce the layers of words which bound her. Mentally finishing her dress at last, the woman turned and asked, "Won't your mother be wondering where you are?" "Yes," Fralmy answered, "Yes, Yes." A mighty wave seemed to crash on the beach and send

its gardenia.scented spray splashing over her, but what she really heard was the noise of the lavender cocoon around her breaking its silken threads. She turned and ran, away from the woman, the shells biting into her feet, her mouth dry except for the salty tears running down her cheeks which she didn't bother to wipe away. She saw her aunt come towards her across the beach, her arms outstretched, looking like a big black cross. She knew she could nUl that far now because the cocoon had broken away and she felt so light without it. Then she tripped and fell over a piece of driftwood, and everything was black. The woman came up. "Is she alright?" "Yes," her aunt replied. "Thank God, she's finally crying."

Illustrated by

Diane Schoeniger [Major in Biology-Class of 1960]

....,

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100

......

Her aunt came towa rds her across the beach, her arms outstretched, looking like a big blaclc cross .

Eva Kielarska [Major ;11 Art-Class of 1960]

The Old Man Margaret Sexton [Major in English -

Class 0/ 1960]

T WAS a warm day, too warm for that time of year, and the lake was sprinkled with rowboats. A number of people in the picnic grove were enjoying lunch too much to notice an old man stumbling from bench to bench in search of a shady resting place. He finally eased down on one end of the newly painted bench across from the sign marked "Keep Off The Grass" and watched the circular movement of the boats. He reached up, wiped his damp forehead, and then wrapped the soiled handkerchief around his neck. His lips were dry and crackÂˇ ing. His tongue touched their rough surface in an attempt to moisten them. Laughter and shouts of children wading in the lake floated over to him. The old man squinted at the clear water mirroring an overhanging tree. For a second he was soothed by the sight of the rebellious ripples marring the smooth surface. He peered down at his two shabby shoes, remembering the time he could see a reflection in them too. The old man leaned over, and carefully dusted off their tips with a hand gnarled by age and exposure. For a moment the dullness was gone and they appeared polished bright again. His mouth curved slightly downward at the corners as he thought of days full of shiny shoes. A tall policeman strolled by nonchalantly swinging his nightstick. The old man imagined a momentary breeze as the policeman passed. The children waved and splashed at him and the tall fellow grinned back. The old man's eyes brightened and he raised a shaky hand to greet the policeman, but he didn't seem to notice. The tall policeman continued on, tipping his hat to a wellÂˇdressed young woman who had just seated herself on the opposite bench. The noise of the children came closer and he dabbed at his neck again, longing to become a wading child, if only

He moved forward to get a better look at the shiny piece of metal.

for a moment. His whole mouth felt dry now, and his eyes searched for a fountain. There was a spigot, but a sign over it spelled "Out of Order." His gaze wandered to the lake again, and again his tongue ran over his lips. He put his sleeve to his forehead, taking away some of the moisture. Somewhere in the distance came the tinkling of a bell. The children's shouts answered the jingling. The old man's eyes followed the tree's shady outline on the ground as if trying to expand the width of the coolness. Chattering children approached, leading the way for the bell ringing ice-cream man. The children shouted between bites of popsicles and licks of custard. Cool drops of ice cream sizzled on the hot ground, as they dripped from the wafer cones. Laughing children danced around the cart waiting for their turn. One dirty-faced little boy stood in line, impatiently kicking his bare foot against the big rubber wheel. "Gimme a choklate!" he ordered loudly, two or three times, and proudly handed over a large brown button. The ice-cream man pushed his starched white cap back on his head and opened his mouth wide, as if in preparation for a long discourse. The little boy whispered a timid "Please" and the ice-cream man resignedly accepted the coin in return for a cone. The old man grew warmer. He mopped his forehead futilely with the soaked handkerchief. His parched lips stuck together and his throat felt tight. He looked longingly at the snow-white wagon. He slid his sweaty hand into his pocket, and groped around in its rough recess, as though expecting a miracle to occur. But his hand closed around nothing at all. He rubbed his sleeve across his mouth, then stared at the ground. The sun had shifted, moving the shade across the lawn. He felt the hot cement through his soleless shoe. Illustrated by

Eva Kielarska [Major in Art-Class of 1960]

Suddenly his eye lit on something shiny. He moved forward to get a better look at the shiny piece of metal. His head rang with the clanging bell. The man with the white cart was leaving. "Stop! Wait!" The old man scrambled to his feet, calling after the bell. The ice-cream man stopped and waited, while the old man stooped over to pick up the bright silver button gleaming in the sunlight. He held out his hand eagerly displaying his find. A cloud passed over, momentarily darkening the park and the old man looked first at his palm and then at the quiet staring children. He slowly witthdrew his hand and turned toward the lake. He stood for a minute watching the children and then silently shuffled away.

You Do Not Understand Florence McGuckin [Major in English -

Class of 1960']

E REACHED for his pipe, and the sleeve of his coarse, peasant shirt brushed an old volume of Schiller. It was one of the few books on the carelessly arranged shelf. He turned away from their musty dampness and reached for the carved book end. It had been one of those odd afterthoughts picked up at the outset of the hurried fleeing from that other, very different world. He shuffled to the rude bench by the table in the center of the room and passed the seed flats portioned off in the earthen floor. The young shoots were dying. As he sat down his fingers twisted the book end with its wooden figures of Anchises and Aeneas; the movements revealed the jerkiness of his thoughts. At the sound of the opening door his hand came to rest on the head of Aeneas. Stmlight outlined the figure at the door and his eyes blinked at the sudden brightness. The book end fell to the floor. He pulled himself to his feet. As the mo-

tion of the door slowly obscured the light, his visitor moved into the room. He was about twenty, with an old face and clothes th at were not quite beggarly. "Do you wish to see someone?" " Good afternoon, Professor." To the older man, his old title sounded incongruous and frightening in the small, dark hut. The young man tried again for some response: "I am Yan Liesetz, the son of your fonner colleague at the University." As the professor turned away his foot spun the book end. He waited several moments before retrieving it and laying it on the stool by the fire: "It is a long journey from here to the University. Perhaps a hot drink after your trip." He swung the kettle over the fire bed, pumped the old bellows to fan the embers, and added wood to feed the flames. He laid black bread and goat's cheese on the table. He was impelled to apologize, "We have only pnnlltlve fare here." There was that collective pronoun; youth always brought out his classroom tendencies. Yan put his rucksack on the floor by the stool and began to cut bread and cheese into precise pieces. Waiting for the tea to brew, he moved to the stool and fingered the intricately carved book end. He bent to the canvas sack and removed a highly polished mate to the carving. As he placed it on the shelf, with the meagre array of books, he said, "I found this in your rooms on the campus." Again, the reminder of the old life. "Come, come, Yan, your tea will be cold." "Professor, why did you leave?" A click of spoon against cup, a deep breath ... "My work was finished." The boy was surprised, "But you are a teacher; students still attend the University. Your work is not finished." "I am a teacher. But they are not my students, not the students- the young men and women I taught to think and judge for themselves, to whom I showed freedom which was to be gained in perseverance after truth of spirit." The youth' s eyes brightened, " Those students fought

for freedom." "Yes, they fought with steel weapons rather than with minds and wills of iron. I gave them nothing of any use in their kind of battle." "But, Professor, you don't understand ... " The old man remembered the cry, he had used it himself, often, many years ago. " ... you can give them the instrument for their fight but you can't govern the way they use it." "But I did want to govern ... ," his eyes roved over the peasant hut with its empty book shelf. "Their rash judgment has cost me much." Yan's eyes followed his. "They found your collection of books and were sure that you were dead or in prison. They thought that you would take your books with you if you fled." "It was impossible. Immediately after the uprising I was warned that I would be implicated. I had no time to gather belongings." "Professor, you spoke what the students felt. Come back. There is less danger, and our private meetings are held in secret." The older man answered, tiredly, "We met in secret, too, but, nothing is a secret and no man can speak truly for others. We are fallible, I am fallible. There is no reason to return." "But, Professor, the students ... " "The students, the students. That group with so much to offer. Where are they now? Dead. Strewn over the city with no monument to their sacrifice." The young man was impatient, "They are III our thoughts. They are dead but they live, as models for our ideals." He turned away with his thoughts. Older people were so blind to the needs of those who were just beginning to live what they themselves had lived. The professor sighed. "They live in my thoughts, too. They live as an utter waste. They tried to improve before they were proven." It was still true, the young couldn't take the advice of those who had once been their age. The sudden, backward movement of his bench raised dust which 20

gradually settled like the sea after a storm. He stood at the fire with his back to the room. "Professor, my father believed as you did. He spoke of your theories often. He agreed that the mind should rule our fight. He died the night you left, helping us to build a barricade against the soldiers. He realized that while the mind governs, it is the heart which gives us the power to go on. And while the actions prompted by our hearts do not always lead to freedom of body, they do keep us free in spirit. Professor, please remember him. And remember us, the new students, who feel as he did." The silence overpowered the boy as his emotions had while he was speaking. After several minutes he rose reo signedly, started toward the door, then stopped: "Professor, if you wish, I can arrange to have your books brought here." The professor half-turned from the fire. "That would be fine. And, Yan, I won't forget your father. Good-bye." "Good-bye, Professor." The door opened and did not quite close. The shaft of light fell on the stool where the book end lay. The professor picked it up and began twisting the figures. The body of Anchises broke in his hand. Sparks flew as he dropped the pieces into the fire. He placed the book end, with its lone figure, on the shelf by its still intact mate. As he turned away he noticed the seed flats. Perhaps a few of the young shoots could be nurtured and in time grow strong and flower. But they too would die in season. He shuffled to the door, closed it tightly, and let the latch fall into place.

Love's Partner Joanne Baumann [Major in Eng/ish -

Class

1960]

UTSIDE A pelting rain had just begun. Nance closed the door behind her feeling Bob's eyes giving her a quick appraisal. She squeezed the cold brass knob, but it remained immovable beneath her trembling hand. "Glad you got home in time. Looks bad tonight," Nance's father mumbled his greeting from beneath his evenIng paper. Bob offered her his seat and leaned himself against the stove. The constant tapping of his finger on the edge was his only visible sign of nervousness. He wore the outfit that Nance always liked so much, oxford grey flannels, white shilt, and the pale blue nylon sweater that Nance had knit for him. As her mother poured her coffee she wondered if he had told them yet. The steady drip of the hot water faucet tapped loudly in Nance's ears. She hissed softly hoping to make it stop as she had always done. The steaming coffee tasted good to her after the dampness and chill of the ride home. The only thing that seemed at home in the whole room tonight was the nicked sugar bowl in the center of the table. Nance could never remember a time when it wasn't there, and she knew that it had some special meaning for her mother. "See the game on Saturday, Mr. Bates?" Her father looked up once again from the paper. "Hm? . .. no! ... good game I hear ... should have seen it." Nance was bothered for the first time at the short sentences that were typical of her father and always annoyed her mother so much. "Better get the anti-freeze in . . . can snow anytime," her father went on, unheeding or unhearing Mrs. Bates loudly clearing her throat in protest as she wiped the amber colored crucifix beside the door. Nance knew that it was time for her mother and father to have their yearly quarrel:

Mr. Bates insisting that the anti-freeze should not go in until the first snow ("then you know winter's here"), and her mother arguing that it should go in on the fifteenth of September (Nance's birthday) even though the temperature was still in the seventies. The wind whistled through the leafless autumn trees and the rain came harder imposing its unsteady rhythm on the roof over their heads. Her father was always going to add the second story to this portion of the house, but something had always interfered - his illness, her mother's operation, her sister's operation, her college plans. That annoying drip from the faucet was swallowed up by the heavy rain. Mr. Bates gave up reading his newspaper for another cup of coffee his wife offered him. Bob pulled up a chair and also accepted Mrs. Bates' offer. Nance slowly sipped her coffee and thought of the many times she had run into this room crying after some childish hurt - the time she had cut open her hand, or when the boy down the street rode off with her bicycle, or all the skinned hands and knees. Her mother had always been there to comfort her, to kiss the sore and make it better. Dimly Nance heard the patter of the voices, indistinguishable in the confusion of her mind. She thought how unknowingly they all had sought safety around the kitchen table which for so long had been the family's dining table - waiting for the storm to reach its fury and then subside. "I'd better go out and close the cellar windows before we have a flood," her father half-asked, half-stated for her mother's benefit. Mrs. Bates quietly said she had closed them in the afternoon. "Bob, has Nance told you about my slides ... great hobby ... you and Nance should get yourselves a camera." Nance could see the muscle in Bob's neck twitch as it always did when he was upset, and could feel herself burning. "Mr. and Mrs. Bates," Bob quietly said, "I'm going into the seminary." Her father sharply drew in his breath. Angrily he threw his newspaper on the cabinet beside the sink. His eyes traveled up and down Bob's six foot frame until his eyes icily met the young man's "Why you can't ... I've worked

all my life ... you damned fool ... the priesthood." Mr. Bates continued unleashing such a volley of words that Nance was jarred. Her father's wellÂˇcontrolled, but sharp, crisp tone frightened her. Nance hissed and gnawed on her lip. Looking at her mother she was startled by the look of resentment in her eyes. Bob's hands were clenched white around an empty coffee cup. He shrugged his shoulders in answer to the question that had not been phrased. "It's people like you ... good job ... roof over your head ... want more out of life ... spoil it for everyone." Shaking with anger, Nance threw back her chair and faced her father. "Dad, stop it!" Everything was happening so rapidly. She heard Bob's muttered "Thanks, Nancy," and the motor of his car sputter and catch on. She swiftly glanced out of the steamed window, but saw nothing other than the heavily falling rain. She wanted to shout at her father, but a look from her mother restrained her. Her father was staring out the rain spattered window . . . "probably thinking of a good job, camera slides, anti-freeze," Nance thought pathetically. He seemed to her now like the empty coffee cup in front of him. She walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulder, "maybe someday, dad ... don't be too harsh on him." Mr. Bates looked oddly at Nance who darted from the room. She turned at the doorway to pick up a fallen glove, and saw her mother sitting beside her father, her hand moving half-way cross the table towards her husband's and stopping. She toyed with the inexpensive sugar bowl that had been her engagement gift. Nance looked at her father, and for the first time noticed the deep folds of his skin, the brawny tan look of the outdoors, and his big, powerful hands. The rose-flowered sugar bowl came under her scrutiny. It was all her father had been able to afford for their engagement. Delivering papers, emptying trash or painting houses - he had been glad of any job to get the money her grandmother needed to take care of him, and his younger brothers and sisters. Nance remembered how her mother had told her almost with a touch of hatred in her voice how the other boys in the neighborhood had chided him about his drunken father "coming home late again last

night," and taunting him about his shabby clothing until he would no longer go to church. Suddenly Nance too hated them for their cruel way of stating the truth. She saw that the good income, security, good home were his retaliation. Her father got up from the table and turned without noticing her, to rinse the cups and saucers. "Guess I'll have to get a plumber," he said in answer to the dripping faucet. "I'll put the trash out," he said, opening the cellar door and throwing on the light switch that clacked a little too loudly. Nance's eyes remained fastened on the cellar door that closed behind him. She wanted to go help him, but her mother's loud sigh caught her attention. Nance silently crossed behind her mother and sat in Bob's chair. Before she realized what was happening her mother poured her another cup of coffee.

The EI Ann Singlar [Major in English -

Class

0/ 1960]

HE DAY was so hot that a vapor of steam was rising from the concrete floor of the el station and the approaching train seemed closed in a haze as it screeched to a stop. As if heaving a great yawn, its doors noisily banged open to admit the passengers. The girl moved gracefully, almost fluidly-settled herself, and, after crossing one slim, tanned leg over the other, consciously reached a manicured hand to her hair. "Dam this heat," she thought, and her eyes, under mascarraed lashes, searched the car. Across from her sat a little man with mud-colored eyes and a cruel puckered scar extending from the left side of his nose across the dough -like skin of his beard -stubbled cheek. The little man's left hand twitched convulsively. Fascinated, her eyes strayed back to his face, his hair.

"Why, he's wearing a toupee!" she thought, and the realization made her smile. It was incredible that anyone could look like that. To convince herself that more favored creatures existed, she opened her purse, pulled out a small mirror, fluffed her hair, patted a curl into place, then pulled back her lips in a distorted smile to check that there were no lipstick marks. Being reassured, she put the mirror away, reluctantly parting with her own image. The little man sat unaware of her. Fascinated by his ugliness she stared at him and recrossed her legs. Her movement made the man quickly look up; then, unconcerned he blinked his eyes and glanced away. The heat grew heavy, and the smell of hot perspiring bodies filled the train. The girl shifted uncomfortably. From her purse she drew a handkerchief with a sweet clinging odor. Carefully she pressed the absorbent cloth against the moist flesh of her upper lip. His eyes looked beyond her. The train squeeled along, lurched, and stopped. A young man stepped in, sat down, and grinned appreciatively at the girl. His look took in the pretty face, the high heels, the proportioned figure. Feeling his gaze and smiling under it, the girl lifted the cool handkerchief to her neck, and the strength of the scent reached over to him. From the corner of her eye, she saw the scarred man wrinkle his nose distastefully at the aroma and squint at the small white hands of her admirer. The blue sapphire on the little finger seemed to bring a snicker from him. His mouth twisted and the girl watched the scar smooth. She narrowed her eyes looking at him, and thought, "A lot of nerve he has. Reminds me of a gorilla I saw in the zoo when I was a kid." She continued to stare at the pucker from cheek to chin, but he brushed past her gaze, and watched the young man give the girl a last look, stand up, and wait for the door to open-to lose himself in the oncoming stream of pushing passengers. The two boys charged in, leading their father, who pushed them into the seat vacated by the young man. The

boys poked each other with their elbows. Turning to them, the father pressed his lips together, and the boys settled. Twisting her crossed legs sideways, the girl saw the powerful arms of the man, the chiseled features. The creases in his well-tailored slacks held up under the moist tugs of his giggling boys. She raised her head and saw the little man silently laughing at her. She sensed his noiseless voice, rising in louder and louder peals of scorn. Her face felt scarlet, humiliation adding to the heat of the day. "Damn him, damn him," she thought. The little man unmercifully kept her in his focus. Smugly satisfied, he shifted his gaze and seemed to watch the father, seeing the firm muscled virility of the man, the eyes lighting on the calloused, blunt fingers. "Hey Dad," one of the restless boys piped, "don't that lady have hair the color Mom had?" The boy was hushed by a narrowing of eyes and a look of disapproval. With his head lowered, the father shyly, almost stealthily, snatched a glance that almost caressed the honey hair. His eyes clouded and he gruffly quieted his sons again. The girl flushed, and saw the little man watch the father's movements. The little man's face contorted, the muscles jumped in his forehead. His eyes flashed and the scar-pulled mouth molded into a leer. She saw him press his palms together as if congratulating himself on figuring a winning pool. Two moist scarlet lips parted, and recognition clicked under the loose blonde hair. "I know that ugly guy-that's why he's been laughing at me! That poor sucker with the two kids. If only ... ah, he's a big boy-he's over twentyone." The boys clambered from their seats and with gentle shoves were prodded to the door. The train halted and they stepped out. The little man brushed past the girl, stepped down, and followed them. Their steps sounded hollowly on the concrete ramp, and the ugly man quickened his pace. With a quick, determined movement, she uncrossed her legs, collected her handbag, and sprang for the door before it slammed. The stocky figure before her swung around, and the

tap of her steel heels died. "My God," she said, looking at the twisted mouth, "with that scar-that toupee-I hardly recognized ... " His heavy eyes glinted and his lips spread. "Long time no see, Julie." Cocking his head to one side he raised his arm and jerked his thumb in the direction of the exit. "Hey, know that big guy you were looking at? Think you could get him to listen to a proposition of mine? I'd make it worth your while." The girl's eyes widened. "Why you ... no, I'm through with it." Lifting her handbag she clutched it to her. Her voice grew harsh and shook slightly. "I told you three years ago-you and your dilty business could . . . " With a sneer on his disfigured face the man turned away and his stout legs hurriedly carried him down the concourse. She watched the retreating figures, the squat body gaining on the taller, coming alongside, and finally appearing to cover what was now only a dark blur. Shrugging her shoulders, she tossed her hair. "Oh, hell, why should 1 care?" Then, noticing a close.cropped head leaning toward her she reverted her gaze and smiled.

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