Folio 26

Folio 2,6

TENEOR VOTIS I am bound to give of myself because I have received.

Folio 26 The Folio is a belles-lettres publication of contemporary artistic expres­ sion. The journal, though student generated, encompasses in words and graphics the combined talent of the Holy Family College Commu­ nity. Submissions, however, are welcome from contributors beyond the College Community and forwarded to the following address: Folio, School of Arts and Humanities, Holy Family College, Grant and Frankford Avenues, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19114.

Printed by R.W. STRINGER PUBLISHING ©2001 Holy Family College, Philadelphia, PA All Rights Reserved.

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Chief Editorial Assistants

Meredith Kahn William H. Smigiel Joseph M. Klein III Readers

Corinne Ebinger Jamie Rosenburg April Thompson Graphic Design Katherine Rogalski

Moderator

Thomas Francis Lombardi, Ph.D. Professor Humanities Division Special thanks to Mrs. Victoria P. Lombardi for her valuable input and expert proofreading.

And to Sr. Johanna Gedaka, SSJ, Ph.D., whose support was pivotal in the publication of Folio 26.

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COldeld6 As I doze off at night .............................................................................. 36 Can you see them? .................................................................................. 52 Common Ground .................................................................................... 53 Cries in the Night .................................................................................... 12 Easter ................................¡...................................................................... 29 epitaph .............................................................................................'....... 20 Ever This Day ........................................................................................... 4 Flannery Unrefracted .............................................................................. 21 Hostnlaker's Prayer ................................................................................. 20 In Depth .................................................................................................. 32 on the passing of an age .......................................................................... 19 Ravioli .................................................................................................... 38 Saving Grace ........................................................................................... 47 Still life ................................................ :.................................................. 30 Strangers in a Box .................................................................................. 37 Sudden Death-Sudden Life .................................................................. 5 5 The Tragedy of Ms. Fosters .................................................................... 42 Two More Weeks .................................................................................... 22

3

Ever This Day

He watched her as she slept. Her body was perfectly still, with only the slightest movement from her breathing. She slept peacefully. He alone knew that sleep provided her only escape from the pain, a pain that he could not take away.

He sat on the edge of the bed and turned his gaze away from her. To足 morrow, he thought, tomorrow we will see the doctor, and he'll help her.

He'll prescribe some pills or something. Everything will be o kay. He turned to face her again and smiled sadly. Her fair complexion appeared flawless and beautiful in the pale moonlight, which shone through the win足 dow. Her golden hair spread out around her head like a radiant halo. She looks like an angel, he thought, just like the night I met her. He climbed into bed and leaned over to place a kiss on her temple. She stiffened and looked at him with her blue tear-filled eyes, which told him that her slum足 ber had not eased her pain. He pulled her into his arms and rocked her slightly as the tears spilled down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Gabi. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay, David. It's not your fault," she whispered in a voice full of tears.

"I hate to see you in pain. You need your sleep. It's just .. .I was thinking about-" he choked back a sob.

"What? Tell me what you were thinking."

"I was thinking about the night we met, about how beautiful you were."

"I remember that night so well. Tell me that story, David. I want to fall asleep to it, so that I have good dreams," she murmured weakly.

"I swear, Gabi, you were the prettiest girl in the bar that night. I re足 member when you walked in. Your blond hair was damp .. . remember, it was drizzling that night? Anyway, you walked in, and I could have sworn you smiled right at me. I couldn't believe you had smiled at me. I sent you a drink, remember? I don't know where I got the courage to do that, but, God, I'm so glad I did. You looked down the bar at me and waved. That's what gave me the courage to talk to you, but I was so nervous. I had no idea what to say to you. You were so pretty. I used some corny come-on line about angels. What was it again? Oh, yeah . . . 'Where are you hiding your wings? 'Cause you must be an angel.' As soon as I said that, I knew how corny I sounded, but you just smiled and blushed a little. We talked for hours after that. I knew you were special. Not just beautiful, but smart and funny. And I was stunned when you agreed to go out with me. Going to the bar that night was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me."

Gabi was fast asleep by the time David finished recounting the experience.

4

David kissed her softly and turned off the light by the bed. He held her throughout the night, and when morning broke, they both awoke with trepi­ dation. Gabi had scheduled her appointment with Dr. Thomas at nine-thirty in the morning. They dressed quickly and quietly and drove to the doctor's office.

As the young couple waited for the doctor to give them a diagnosis, they sat with their hands clasped together tightly. Gabi dropped her head on David's shoulder as he wrapped his arm around her waist. David didn't want to admit to anyone, least of all himself, how scared he felt. Dr. Thomas had run many tests on Gabi. Too many, he thought. Something must be wrong. He hugged Gabi a little tighter as these thoughts flashed in his mind.

"Oh, David, I'm scared. Where is the doctor? Why isn't he telling us anything? I don't think my headaches are just severe migraines."

"Don't jump to conclusions, Gabi. Maybe the doctor is busy with an­ other patient."

Just then, Dr. Thomas interrupted. He entered the room briskly, clos­ ing the door quietly behind him. He sat behind his mahogany desk, glanced at Gabi's file and test results, and sighed deeply before beginning.

"Mr. and Mrs. DeAngelis, I'm afraid it's not good news. Mrs. DeAngelis, you have a tumor growing on your brain. It's not cancerous, but short of very risky surgery, there is nothing I can do. I'm sorry. The tumor is growing; that's the cause of your blinding headaches. I will pre­ scribe painkillers for that. If it continues to grow, you could suffer memory loss, lack of muscle control, and eventually, you could slip into a coma.

However, the tumor may stop growing and lie dormant for years. There's no way of knowing. Again, I'm very sorry. My nurse will give you the prescription and some material for you to look over."

The couple left the office, shaken and stunned: Neither said a word until they returned home, and even then, it had nothing to do with the diag­ nosis. Later that night, as Gabi sat in the bathtub, allowing her own salty tears to mix with the fragranced bathwater, David paced the living room, blinking back his own tears. This can't be happening. Not to Gabi! The tests were wrong. It just can't be true.

"David?"

He spun around to face Gabi, wrapped in her white terrycloth robe. He rubbed at his eyes to dry the tears that flowed faster now.

"Oh, David. What are we going to do?" Gabi sobbed.

"We'll get through this. You heard the doctor. This doesn't mean you are going to die!"

5

us."

"David, we're all alone. It doesn't feel like anyone is watching out for

"That's not true, Gabi. Remember your guardian angel? When we started dating, you told me all about how you used to pray as a little girl. You prayed for angels to watch over you. How did that prayer go? 'Angel of God ...?' Come on, Gabi, how did it go?" David pleaded.

"Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God's love commits me here. Ever this day, be at my side, to light, to guard, to rule and guide.

Amen."

Gabi smiled weakly. "I can't believe you remembered that."

"I remembered. Gabi, listen to me. You're a strong person. You say that prayer whenever you feel sad or desperate. You know that I'm not a religious person, but I believe that God and all His angels are going to watch over you and protect you. You 're my angel and I love you. We will make it through this." David kissed his wife of nine months.

Later that night, David sat at his desk in his home office. Gabi had decided to go to bed. The day had drained her emotionally, and tiredness had set in early. He could hear Gabi reciting her guardian angel prayer in the next room, over and over, as if a mantra to ward off her pain. David tried to concentrate on his work, but the silver-framed picture perched on his desk kept drawing his attention away from the paperwork in front of him. Sighing, he leaned back in his leather chair and stared at the smiling couple in the picture. They had been photographed outside, despite the chill in the January air. Gabi had chosen the fountain in Griffin Park as the setting. Three marble angels stood in the middle of the fountain, each hold­ ing a different musical instrument from which water spouted in the sum­ mertime. "They are rejoicing for us, David, for our wedding day," Gabi had remarked that afternoon. She had sat on the edge of the fountain, with her head tilted up slightly, facing him. The sun illuminated her face and reflected off the small pearl beads sewn onto her veil. He had knelt on one knee next to her and held her satin gloved hands in his. As they gazed lovingly into each other's eyes, they had forgotten that the photographer stood ten feet away, hurriedly snapping pictures.

David stared more intently at the photograph he now held. The image became blurred by his tears. He returned the frame to his desk, closed his eyes, and massaged the back of his neck with his left hand. Memories of their wedding day flooded his mind - the vows they had exchanged, their first kiss as husband and wife, their first dance. David could hear the re­ frain of their wedding song in his mind. "I guess this is how it feels, when you finally find something real; my angel in the night - you are the love, 6

the love of my life," David sang softly before burying his face in his hands, sobbing.

The following days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months.

David and Gabi tried to resume their everyday lives. David went to work every day, and Gabi swallowed two orange pills daily in order to ease her headaches. Three months after their world had come crashing down in Dr. Thomas' office, David and Gabi celebrated their one-year wedding anni­ versary with a quiet, candle-lit dinner at home.

"David, do you believe in miracles?" Gabi asked as she poured wine into David's glass and sparkling water into her own: "Of course, I do. I got you, didn't I?" David replied.

Gabi lowered her eyelids and a rosy hue colored her cheeks. David found it amusing that she still blushed at his compliments, even after a year.

"I haven't had a headache in two weeks, David. I think the tumor has stopped growing," Gabi said excitedly.

"That's great, Gabi. Maybe we should make an appointment with Dr. Thomas. He can run some tests and tell us for sure."

Gabi reached across the table for David's hand and smiled. "Thank you for loving me, for being my support and my comfort."

"I love you, Gabi. You're my wife. You mean everything to me and­ " David broke off suddenly when he heard Gabi gasp. She gripped the edge of the table so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She squeezed her eyelids shut, and her face contorted with pain. "Gabi, what's wrong? What's happening?"

David lunged for the phone that was mounted to the wall in the kitchen.

He quickly dialed 911, yelling the address and the reason for the call into the receiver before slamming it down. Just then, Gabi moaned and slumped to the floor.

The next few minutes raced by. The ambulance arrived and transported Gabi to St. Peter's Hospital. David held her hand throughout the entire ride, begging her to regain consciousness. The trip, lasting seven unbear­ able minutes, ended abruptly as the paramedics pulled up to the emergency room entrance and pushed Gabi's gurney into the hospital.

A nurse ushered David into the waiting room as the doctors tended to his unconscious wife. Forty-five minutes later, a middle-aged doctor with a stethoscope hanging around his neck entered the waiting room.

"Mr. DeAngelis?"

"Yes. Yes, Doctor. How is she? How's my wife? Will she be okay?"

David fired these questions at the doctor without waiting for the answers.

7

"I'm Dr. Kilcher. Your wife has regained consciousness and is asking for you. I'm going to admit her. The tumor that your wife has is pressing against her cerebellum, which is what caused her to pass out. Unfortu­ nately, this will keep happening with increasing frequency if we don't op­ erate. Your wife has already agreed to the surgery. I would like to do it as soon as possible. I've scheduled it for Febmary 7. Come with me, Mr. DeAngelis. I'll take you to your wife."

David followed the doctor mutely. He couldn't believe this had hap­ pened so soon after Gabi had felt as if the tumor had stopped growing. As he numbly walked down the corridor to the curtained area his wife occu­ pied, he thanked God that Gabi had pulled through and asked for the cour­ age to deal with her upcoming surgery.

David pulled back the curtain separating him from his wife. Nothing could have prepared him for how she looked. Her skin appeared sallow, and needles stuck in her arm. "Hi, sweetie. You gave me quite a scare," he whispered.

"David," she began to weep, "I've agreed to have the surgery. I'm so scared, though."

"It's extremely risky, honey. Are you sure you want to go through with it?"

"Yes. I hate... having this thing grow... in my head. It makes me sick. I can't live... like·that" Gabi had difficulty speaking, as if it pained her to form the words.

"Okay, don't talk anymore. Get some sleep. The doctor is going to admit you and keep you for observation until your surgery. I'll be here everyday, Gabi. I love you. Happy anniversary." But Gabi didn't hear him; she had fallen asleep.

The next two weeks passed in a haze for David. He went to the hospital every day and sat by Gabi's side. On the night before the surgery, the doc­ tor met with the couple to prepare them for the following day. After he had departed the room, Gabi reached for David. He sat on the edge of her ster­ ile hospital bed, careful not to jostle her arm or the numerous needles in it.

"Still believe in miracles, David?" Gabi questioned.

"I have no doubt that you will make it through this surgery, Gabi," David replied.

"I vowed to love you until death do us part. I never dreamed that we would only have a year together. I do, David. I love you, and I will continue to love you even if tomorrow doesn't go well." Gabi began to cry. The tears slipped down her cheeks, and David reached up to wipe them away. He had begun to cry as well.

8

"Gabi, don't talk like that. You're going to make it through this sur­ gery. We're going to have lots of kids and grow old together."

"David, I can't pretend like I may not die tomorrow. I need you to know that I love you. You are my love, my life, my world. I am the luckiest woman on Earth to have been loved by you, to have been your wife." The tears spilled from her blue eyes once more, and her bottom lip quivered.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly before beginning again. "David, if I don't make it tomorrow, I want you to love again."

"No. No! Gabi, I won't love anyone.but you!"

"You're only twenty-five, David. You can't possibly mourn me for the rest of your life. That's not fair. You'll find someone else eventually, and I want you to know that you can love her without feeling guilty."

"Let's not talk about fair, Gabi," David shouted. "You're only twenty­ four! Is it fair that this is happening to you? Is it?" David swept the maga­ zines off her bedside tray in an angry swoop. He stalked over to the win­ dow and pressed his forehead against the cold glass. He stayed in that po­ sition for a few seconds, his breathing labored and rapid. Then, without warning, he whirled around and slammed his fist into the light green wall.

"Oh, David," Gabi wept. "Please, please don't!"

David crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Gabi. "I can't lose you. I can't. I'll die without you, Gabi."

They clung to each other, crying over their threatened future. Finally, David departed the hospital with the promise to return before Gabi's sur­ gery. Gabi received a sedative to help her get much-needed sleep. David wished repose would come as easily to him, but he spent the night in a fitful rest, tossing, turning, and agonizing that she wasn't in bed next to him.

The next day dawned, gray and coW. David arrived at the hospital as two orderlies pushed Gabi's gurney down the immaculate hallway to the operating room. Gabi lay on the crisp white sheet in a drugged state of mind. Her eyelids fluttered slightly as she fought unconsciousness for David.

She reached for his hand as he flew down the hall to be at her side.

"Gabi. Gabi, I'm here. I'll be here when you wake up. I love you, an­ gel."

"I'll always be your angel, David. Always," Gabi whispered.

A nurse directed David to the waiting room. The television and maga­ zines offered no distraction as he paced the small area. It's so cold in here, he thought as he rubbed his hands together briskly. The black coffee which the nurse had brought him two hours ago had been rancid and provided no warmth. Suddenly, tired of pacing, David slowly walked to the hospital's 9

chapel. He stood at the door, peering into the small stained-glass window, debating whether to enter. He sought comfort and solace; however, anger rose in his throat whenever he pictured Gabi in the operating room, bleed­ ing on the sterile tiled floor. David hesitantly opened the chapel's door and slipped into the room. Candles glowed in the front, their dancing flames casting dim light on the crucifix and the few rows of oak benches. David dropped down into the first pew and placed his face in his hands. Why, God? Why is this happening to her and not me? I would gladly take her place. Is she in pain right now? Does she know how much I love her? Will she live? Will You let her live? David rubbed his fingertips into his eyes to stop tears from forming. Will You take care of her, God? David numbly walked back to the waiting room. He resumed pacing within the four white walls which seemed to have gotten smaller and colder since his stop at the chapel. Shrugging into his coat for warmth, he stood by the window. The world outside held no sign of life. The leaves had long since fallen from the trees, and frozen snow covered the hard ground. I hate this room. It's so cold. Why is it so cold in here? Haven't they ever heard of heat? A noise from the doorway captured David's attention, stop­ ping his angry thoughts. The doctor motioned for David to accompany him into the hall. David's heart skipped a beat as he glanced at the clock on the wall. Then, he slowly made his way out of the room to receive the news he had waited five hours and twenty-two minutes to hear.

A week had passed since Gabi's surgery. David had visited Gabi every day, but today he wanted to arrive earlier. That place is so cold. I wonder how long these roses will last there, he thought as he drove.

"Hello, angel. Happy Valentine's Day!" David remained and talked with Gabi for another hour. "I will always love you, Gabi," David said as he stooped down and placed the dozen red roses at the base of the head­ stone, which read:

GABRliELLA lDeANGELIS 1'976-2000 AT HOME WliTH GOJD'§ ANGEL§.

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-Tina Duffy

11

Cries in the Night

Donna turned on the television. As the set slowly came into focus, the weatherman hysterically gave his report in the attire of an Eskimo.

"It will be warmer at the North Pole today than it will be in Philadel足 phia with a wind chill factor of -17 degrees. Get out the snowmobiles and skis because it will be impossible for any cars to drive in the tons of snow that we'll be getting, at least a foot. Stock up your basement with as much food as possible because you don't want to be forced to revert to cannibal足 ism and eat a family member all because you weren't prepared!"

Donna did not need to hear anymore of the weather report; she imme足 diately picked up the telephone receiver. Donna knew her mother, Betty, would be afraid to be alone in this kind of weather, considering she had asthma. She decided to invite her mother over before the snow fell, so her husband, Arnold, would not have to pick up his mother-in-law in such harsh conditions. The telephone rang twice before her mother answered.

"Hello," answered the elderly woman.

"Hi, mom. It's me, Donna," said the young woman as she twirled the phone cord around her finger. Donna had a habit of playing with anything she could get her hands on when she was upset.

"Hi, Don-Don. How ya holding up?" Betty sat down at her kitchen table. She was expecting her daughter to call. Donna called her everyday, but when disastrous weather was on the horizon, she made it a point to ensure her mother would be fine. Betty truly loyed the relationship she had with her daughter.

"Mom, I'm 40 years old. Why do you still call me Don-Don?" in足 quired the young woman.

"Because that's your name," stated Betty matter-of-factly. ,-.

Donna decided not to argue. She would never win, so she changed the topic to the weather, her original intention. "Mom, I was thinking. The weatherman keeps calling for heavy snow tonight. Do you want me to send Arnold up to getcha?" asked Donna. She wanted to avoid a panic in the morning that would end in sending her husband out in blizzard-like conditions. "It really wouldn't be a problem."

"No, dear. You don't have to worry 'bout me. I've got plenty of soup, and I'm O.K. on medicine. I'll be fine." Betty loved her daughter, but she did not want to be a burden. Donna had children of her own that she had to worry about. Betty did not want her daughter to add her to her long list of womes.

"I'm just worried that it will snow so hard that we won't be able to get to you," whined Donna. She imagined a previous snowfall when they waited 12

until it was too late. An ambulance had to pick her mother up that time.

"Don-Don, you worry too much. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself." Betty, slightly nervous about the weather, did her best not to let her daughter know.

"I know, mom, but you know how the cold bothers your breathing."

"I already told you that I have plenty of medicine. That includes the stuff for my breathing treatments. Hon, I'll be O.K. It almost sounds like you need a breathing treatment," laughed Betty.

"Very funny, mom." Donna knew her mother attempted to make her feel better, but she had a hunch that her mother concealed the fact that she nervously awaited the storm. She had heard all the excuses when her fa­ ther died.

"I'm serious. I'll be fine. Plus, I don't want to be any trouble." Betty got up to make herself a cup of coffee, which always helped her to breathe easier. As she balanced the phone on her shoulder, Betty reached for her small tin pot that she always boiled her water in. She filled the pot with water and placed it on the stove.

"You know it wouldn't be a problem. We love it when you come over.

I only want what's best for you," replied Donna. By now, Donna was thoroughly frustrated, and her finger was turning purple from the telephone cord wrapped around it. She unwound her finger and continued to play with the cord.

"I think it's best for me to stay where I am." Betty did not want to lose any of her independence. If she constantly stayed at her.daughter's house, Betty felt like she would not have a home of her own anymore. The next step would be moving into one of her children's homes. She reached for the jar of Folgers instant coffee on the second shelf of the cabinet.

"Mom, as long as you're sure-" started Donna.

"I'm positive," answered Betty, her voice becoming louder with anxi­ ety. She slammed the jar of coffee on the table.

"O.K., mom. Stay safe. Don't wait 'til the last minute to call an ambu­ lance if your breathing gets bad. I know you hate going to the hospital, just in case-" Donna realized she had struck a nerve, but she had to make sure her mother was safe.

"Don-Don; I won't need to go to the hospital," answered Betty, slightly irritated. Betty hated going to the hospital. That was the last place on Earth that she wanted to be.

"I said just in case...," said Donna, hoping she had not annoyed her mother.

"I know. I'll talk to you tomorrow, Don-Don. Take care." Betty knew 13

her daughter was right, and she began to calm down, as she sipped her coffee.

"You, too, mom. Bye." "Bye bye, Don-Don." As Donna hung up the telephone, her ten-year old son Ben entered the kitchen with his boots on, dragging a red plastic sled behind him.

"Mom, I found my boots in the closet down the basement. They were right next to the sled," said the blond-haired, freckle-faced child excitedly.

"Wonderful, Ben, but there's one problem. It's not snowing yet. Did you make a mess while you were looking for your boots?" Donna asked with concern as she washed the lunch dishes. She did not want any more work than she already had.

"Well, kinda. The basement's not that bad," said the child as he looked at his feet.

"Go get Anne and tell her that she has to help you straighten up the mess you made, and you should straighten up the living room, too. Nan will probably be coming over because of the snow. We need enough room for her downstairs so she cai., sleep," said Donna in an authoritative tone as she put away her last dish.

"Anne, mom wants you to help me clean up the house! Nan's coming over 'cause of the snow!" shouted the little boy as he ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his sister's room. Ben's boots thumped on the steps as the small boy ran. Donna could hear her 14-year old daughter's bedroom door open and her ever-so emphatic reply of "Oh, alright."

Donna shook her head and began to prepare dinner as she normally did on a Friday afternoon. Dinner was always a chore in itself because of the size of the family. Everybody liked something different, so she found her­ self cooking several different things most nights. Donna had too much on her mind tonight to cater to her children's likes and dislikes, so she threw some baked potatoes in the oven. Everyone liked them.

Just as Donna began to serve dinner, her husband Arnold walked in the door from work. He had snowflakes in his hair.

"I guess the weatherman wasn't kiddin'. It's really coming down out there. The flakes are really tiny, and you know when snow is smaller the storm is gonna last a while," said the broad-shouldered man as he entered the kitchen to kiss his wife. "So how is everything, honey?"

"Oh, Arnold, not so good. I talked to mom this afternoon to see if she wanted to come over because of the snow. Of course, she said 'no.' She is so stubborn like that. I figured it would be easier if she came over now before the storm hits. I just have a feeling that with her breathing and all it 14

would be better for everyone," sighed Donna shaking her head.

"Oh, Donna, you know how your mother is. She'll be fine," consoled Arnold as he put his arms around his wife's waist. "Can I help you put the food out?"

"Sure. Here you go." Donna handed her husband a platter of chicken and the bowl of mixed vegetables.

The family sat down together and began to eat. Halfway through the meal, the telephone rang. Anne jumped up and reached for the receiver, hoping it would be for her.

"Hello," answered the young girl. "Oh, hi, Nan, how are you? Oh, I see. Hold on. Let me get mom for you." Anne, wearing a worried look on her face; immediately handed the receiver to her mother. Donna took the receiver from her daughter, hoping everything was fine.

"Hi, mom. What's wrong?" Donna asked anxiously.

"Don-Don, could ...you ...come...get me?" the older woman asked her daughter, struggling to talk because she was having difficulty breathing.

"Hold on, I have to use my spray." There was a silence at the other end of the phone and then heavy breathing. "I know I said I didn't want to be a problem, but I'm having trouble breathing. I'm afraid to stay here by my足 self like this with the snow and all. I don't ....want ....to ...go ....to the ...hospital," wheezed Betty.

"O.K., mom. You don't have to go to the hospital. Me and Arnold will come up to getcha. Do the best you can to get stuff together. If you can't, don't worry. When we get up there, I'll help you get everything together.

We should be there in a half an hour. You'll be fine, mom," Donna reas足 sured her mother the best she could.

"Thanks, Don-Don. I love you," replied the older woman with sincer足 ity and relief. She sat on her sofa surrounded with pill bottles, inhalers, an oxygen tank, and a nebulizer unit, all things to help her breathe. "See ya soon. Bye." "Bye, mom." Donna hung up the telephone and began to run around trying to get ready. "Anne, could you do the dishes? Ben, help your sister.

Me and dad have to pick up Nan. She's having a hard time breathing, so she's gonna spend the night."

Arnold and Donna put on their jackets and boots, and the two rushed out into the snow that continued to fall on the few inches that had already accumulated on the ground. Arnold cleared the snow off the windshield, and they got into the car. The streets, still not-treacherous, had been cov足 ered with a light dusting of powdery snow. After twenty minutes, Donna and Arnold arrived at Betty's house. Once at the house, Donna got out her 15

house key to unlock her mother's door.

"Mom, we're here," Donna said as she knocked on the door. Donna and Arnold entered the house. Betty had a suitcase and other items by the door. She sat in a chair at the dining room table engaged in a breathing treatment. When she saw the two come up the steps, Betty turned off the machine to welcome them.

"Hi," said the older woman. She hugged and kissed her daughter and her son-in-law. "I have everything ready. All that has to be packed away is my breathing machine. Don't forget to take off the tubing when you put it away."

Donna removed the tube from the machine and placed it into the box.

She unplugged the unit and wound the cord around it. Donna and Arnold proceeded to pack the car with a suitcase, an oxygen tank, the nebulizer unit, and a bag containing pills. Donna then took her mother by the arm and helped her navigate the snow-covered walkway and on into the car.

Betty covered her mouth with a scarf because the cold bothered her breath足 ing. She used her inhaler once in the car, which helped immensely.

On the car ride home, Betty remained silent. She felt incredibly guilty for troubling her daughter. Relieved her mother was safe, Donna gazed out the car window at the snow. KYW kept Arnold updated on road condi足 tions. The ride lasted thirty minutes.

The car pulled in front of Donna and Arnold's house. Arnold honked the horn, and Anne and Ben, without coats, ran from the house to help their father with their grandmother's luggage. Donna, too, began to help her mother out of the car.

"Guys, are you crazy? It's freezin' out here. Where are your coats?"

Arnold asked, slightly annoyed. He began to hand the children the suitcase and bag of pills that he retrieved from the trunk.

"Well, I didn't have to go that far, and I'm not gonna be out here that long," whined Anne as she took the suitcase.

"Don't talk back. You could get sick. Get in the house," Arnold said, authoritatively. By now all of the luggage was in the house, and Donna continued to assist Betty up the front steps. Anne held the door as her mother and grandmother went inside.

Donna set up the breathing machine to treat her mother who was strug足 gling to breathe. Betty sat in the rocking chair with the kazoo-like mouth足 piece in her mouth. The mouthpiece, filled with medicine, was attached to the machine with clear, plastic tubing. The machine would make a loud humming noise, and smoke poured from the mouthpiece. In a way, it acted like a constant inhaler.

16

When Betty finished the treatment, her grandchildren gave her a big hug and a kiss. They loved when she visited because the three of them always had fun. Betty always carried several kazoos for the children. They would play the kazoo, and she would sing. After an elaborate kazoo con­ cert, Donna began to send the children to bed.

"O.K., guys, it's gettin' late. It's time for bed. Don't forget to scrub your teeth." The children, disappointed, dragged their feet as they went upstairs. "Mom, are you O.K.? Do you need anything? What lights do you want me to leave on?" Donna asked her mother.

"I'm fine, Don-Don. Could you get me a glass of water and my transis­ tor radio? You can leave the light on over the kitchen sink. I should be O.K.," replied Betty with a smile.

"Are you sure, mom?" Donna asked with concern.

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, Don-Don. I love you," Betty replied with a smile as she gave her daughter a hug and a kiss goodnight.

"Goodnight, mom. I love you, too." Donna climbed the stairs to bed with relief. Her mother slept safely in a house full of people instead of alone during the snowstorm. Donna fell asleep easily that night.

Near midnight, a noise disturbed Donna's slumber. It was a human voice.

"Help me! Help me!" moaned a strange male voice. Donna got out of bed and looked out of her bedroom window in search of someone outside.

She saw no one. The snow continued to fall, and not a soul could be seen on the street. Donna dismissed the noise as a dream and returned to bed.

No sooner had she closed her eyes, then she heard the same voice, and the radiator pipes began to bang. This time Donna awakened Arnold.

"Arnold, do you hear someone calling for help?" she asked her half­ asleep husband.

"No, I don't," he replied as he rolled over in bed.

"Well, do you at least hear the radiator pipes banging?" Donna asked with frustration.

"Yeah. Go back to sleep, Donna. Everything's fine," said Arnold in an attempt to get more sleep.

"I'm gonna go check on mom." Donna got out of bed and called to her mother, leaning over the railing.

"Mom, are you O.K.?" she yelled, hoping for the best.

"No!" Donna immediately ran downstairs to investigate the problem.

"The tubing ...came off ... the breathing ... machine, and I. .. can't find my spray," wheezed the old woman, struggling to speak.

17

Donna fitted the tubing back on the machine for her mother, and Betty started a treatment. She then searched for her mother's inhaler, putting her hands down and under the sides ·of the sofa. Her search was successful. It had fallen down the side of the sofa. After Betty had finished her breathing treatment, she returned to bed.

The following morning, as the family ate breakfast, Donna had to ask her mother about the night before.

"Mom, when the tubing came off your breathing machine last night, were you calling for help?" inquired Donna, trying to explain the cries she had heard last night.

"No. I kept saying 'Oh, my God, I'm gonna die'," replied Betty matter­ of-factly.

Donna, confused by her mother's response, ate her breakfast as her mind raced wildly. What really woke me last night? The storm? No, a male voice. The wind? How could I explain the noise the radiator pipes made? Radiator pipes always bang in winter when the heat turns on. I woke up just in time to help mom. Had I not been awake, she would have died. Was it celestial intervention? A guardian angel or even God Him­ self? Who had criedfor help? Where did the cries in the night come from?

Donna never discovered the truth of that night. Whatever happened had helped her to save her mother in time-the only thing that mattered.

-�----�··--�-

-Meredith Kahn

epitaph what do old poets do, when their throats run dry in the morning dew? complications that shoot past your physician; a mystical magical window religion. a tiger's claw through a paper cranium, ripping at the insides of an ocean within; tell me, drowning wind. pier past sail float sky, running in sin, biding some time; for the next spmt of ahab's fate, what do old poets do in the morning wake?

-Frank Nicoletti 18

on the passing of an age recognizing the gods the suppliants and the dead we prepare the kylix as over our heads ascends the sun through the triforium mulsum and turriculae is poured for the ceremonial consumption spiced with myrrh and honey balsam or pepper or wormwood earthenware and saltwater satisfy the eternal craving although our winery lies in near ruins we estimate mortal whereabouts opposite the ken of the sacred pantheon . we uncork vitis vinifera amphora becomes amphorae and then we face the weight of our apprehension-Jesus -W.H. Smigiel

19

Hostmaker's Prayer These fragile fragments that I bake With loving heart for Jesus' sake His sacramental garments make And here, the word of sense belied The Son of Man will someday hide The Son of God will truly bide And in it will His Name be praised

By Whom, as leaven, it is raised And by Whose sweetness it is glazed.

Within these limits will be pressed The Body Mary's arms caressed And in the manger laid to rest And here His Flesh will be contained Who with His Precious Blood was stained That by us heaven might be gained.

0 Lord in these poor garments clad In having Thee we all have had The only reason to be glad.

Thy goodness who could ever plumb Who make so precious every crumb?

0 Bread of Life, Lord Jesus, come!

-Brother Gregory Conant, OSB

20

Flannery Unrefracted Ice-shocks pierced heated veins; the black hole yet deeper sinks: A sick sense of belonging to the wrong crowd.

Severed souls and sinews: Wholesomeness subverted in righteous bias of insidious, country-simple certainty.

Running from ourselves: hunted, haunted men.

The past will catch up soon or late--I'm tired on the lam.

As mazes through the psyche snake, souls of innocence slog on, masked in madness macabre, north-north-west.

Hopeless existences, circadian climaxes in faith's struggles: Triumphant evil takes no pleasure.

No pleasure.

Composite poem written by: Denise D'Aulerio Patricia Engle Paul Lamothe Maureen Swiss Kimberly Trinacria

21

Two More Weeks

"It will just be for a little while longer," he said, as he smoothed his hand across her cheek. "They just want to make sure you're okay."

"Okay? What do you mean? I'm fine. You know I'm fine, so why do I need to be here, Daniel? I don't want to be here anymore." Diana surveyed her living space. It gave her the creeps. The small wooden desk and chair, bed, closet, and chest of drawers did not make the room look any more like home. On top of that, she loathed the pale yellow walls and hardwood floor. They made the room look so impersonal.

"It's just temporary until I get back. I promise it won't be much longer.

You can deal with that, can't you? Just a little longer?" Daniel looked in­ quisitively at his wife. Refusing to meet his gaze, she dropped her head down and stared at the wooden panels on the floor. Her long blond hair fell forward into gentle waves around her face.

"Daniel, this place is for crazy people. Do you think I'm crazy?" Tears started to drop from her eyes, making tiny pools of water at her feet.

"Of course, I don't! And this place is not for crazy people. It's for people who need help dealing with things that happen in their lives. These people can help you right now. I can't. They will help you. Diana, look at me." He lifted her head up until her tear-filled eyes met his. "They will help you. I promise."

He kissed her forehead and pulled her closer. She wanted to stay like that with him forever. However, Daniel, late for a meeting, kissed her goodbye one last time and promised to return for her. "March 17-my birthday-that's when I'll be back," he said as he gently closed her door.

Through her sobbing, Diana heard the soft click of the lock. She fell onto the bed and cried until exhaustion finally replaced her tears. She gave in to a much-needed sleep that provided an escape from a reality she hated and feared.

When she woke up, dusk had fallen onto her little yellow room. Blurred shadows began to form making strange shapes on the desktop and the walls were lined with giant silhouetted bars. If this place isn't for crazy people, then why do they have bars on the windows? Diana thought as she moved to sit up. She felt a dull pounding in her head. Oh, great! All I need is another headache. That would make my day just perfect! She put her hands on her head and gently massaged her temples. Slowly the room came into focus. The digital calendar, which also served as a clock, read March 3rd.

Two more weeks, she thought to herself. Two more weeks and I'll be going home just in time to start enjoying the nicer weather. I wish it would come faster. She moved off of the bed and over to the window. She pressed her 22

bead onto the cold tempered glass. Not real glass. No, of course not. I might try to break it and escape. Diana laughed to herself sarcastically as she closed her eyes and allowed the cold window to help numb her aching head.

Diana opened her eyes and looked at the people below. Most of them were visitors on their way home after spending time with their friends and relatives. She watched a short plump man with a hat and cane. He smoked a pipe as he strolled leisurely down the cement walkway.that led to the wrought iron gates marking the entrance: "Wedgewood Friends Hospital."

He opened the gates and walked a short distance more before stopping next to a black Ford Taurus parked in the street. That's the same kind of car my Daniel drives; Diana thought to herself. Soon that car will be taking me home. The man fumbled around in his pocket and retrieved a silver key ring. He unlocked the driver's side door and lifted his short legs to get in.

The door closed and Diana could see his hand turning the key in the igni­ tion. He began to pull out into the street when Diana saw the truck. A large tractor trailer came barreling towards the Taurus head on. Why didn't it stop? Couldn't the driver see the car? Diana began pounding on the win­ dow with her fists shouting, "No! No! Stop! There's a car there! You're going to kill him! He's going to die! No! No!" Now hysterical, she watched as the truck moved closer and closer to the car. With a huge crash the truck plowed into the front of the Taurus pushing it up onto the sidewalk and into a tree. The driver moved around inside the car like a bloodied rag doll as his head snapped from front to back, bouncing in between the windshield and headrest.

Oh, my God! He doesn't have his seat belt on. I have to get help! That man needs help! Diana thought as she rushed to her door and pounded on it with all her might. "Help! Help! I need_help!" she screamed. In the dimly lit room, she felt for the red emergency button near the door and pushed it.

Immediately two nurses appeared at the other side of the door and hur­ riedly unlocked it.

"What happened? What's the matter, Diana?" the taller nurse asked, her face twisted with worry. She entered the room and looked around.

"That man ... the man... he's hurt. He's going to die!" She grabbed the nurse's arm and pulled her to the window. Tears staited to stream down her cheeks. "Look. The truck.. .it came and smashed his car. He's going to die!"

Diana's face, now completely wet with tears, reddened as she frantically pointed out the window.

The nurse looked out and then calmly turned to Diana, "Okay. It's okay, Diana," she said. She gently placed her arm around Diana's shoulders. "Do you want me to get Dr. Evans for you? I think it would do you some good 23

to talk to Dr. Evans."

"Dr. Evans? What are you talking about?" Diana's eyes stared wildly at the nurse. "That man needs help. He needs an ambulance. You can't let him die! He can't die!" Her heart pounded.

"Diana, it's all right. There was no accident. That man's okay. He's not hurt." The nurse tried to steer Diana over to the bed away from the win足 dow. She motioned to the other nurse in the room and mouthed something to her. The other nurse nodded and quickly left the room.

"Let go of me! I know what I saw! I'm not crazy!" Diana yelled.

"I know, dear," the nurse said as she nudged Diana closer to the bed.

"I said, let go of me!" Diana flailed her arm backwards in order to break the nurse's grip. She knew what she had seen, and that man needed help. She turned to look out the window again, but the nurse grabbed her arm and turned her around roughly.

"Lay down on the bed, Diana," the nurse said between clenched teeth.

Just then the other nurse reappeared with a needle in hand.

"No! No!" Diana angrily protested when she saw the sharp needle. She quickly escaped the nurse's hold on her and ran to the small wooden desk.

She stood with her back turned to the nurses. Her hands moved quickly.

She didn't want the nurses to see. Two more weeks! Two more weeks! she thought.

"Quickly, Sandy. She's going to fight," the first nurse uttered under her breath. Diana only felt a stinging pinch before she fell into a deep drugged sleep that lasted until morning.

Diana stared at the desk calendar as thoughts raced through her mind.

March 17. Two weeks had passed since she witnessed that horrible acci足 dent. The doctors all told her the same thing. She had to learn to deal with things-to accept things that had happened in her life. What things? she wondered. These doctors had no idea what they were talking about. She felt lonely and afraid. She knew what she had seen, but they didn't believe her. The doctors and nurses wanted her to be crazy. They needed her to be crazy so that they would have someone to "help." She didn't want to see anymore doctors. She wanted to be left alone. She wanted to go home. She wanted Daniel. God, how she missed him.

The afternoon sun streamed in through the barred window. He said he would come back in two weeks. He should be here today. The thought of seeing Daniel and maybe even going home with him helped to brighten Diana's spirits. Last year, she and Daniel had gone into the city to cel足 ebrate, not only St. Patrick's Day, but Daniel's birthday, as well. She al足 ways joked with Daniel about being so Irish that even his birthday fell on St. Patrick's Day. Deep in thought, Diana hardly heard her door open.

24

"Hello, Diana," a familiar voice said.

"Daniel! Oh! I'm so glad to see you! I have so much to tell you." Diana jumped up from the desk chair and ran to her husband, arms outstretched.

She wrapped herself around him tightly. His arms remained limp.

"What's wrong, Daniel? Why won't you hug me back?"

"They told me about what happened, Diana."

She moved back a step and searched Daniel's face. Her bare feet seemed frozen to the wooden floor. "You don't believe them, do you?" Her eyes widened in fear.

"I don't know what to think. I ... I just don't know what to think," Daniel exhaled loudly and threw his hands into the air. "You can't do this, Diana. If you want to leave this place, you can't make a scene like that.

Now you have to stay at least another two weeks, if not more, until they think you' re stable enough to leave. That means you can't come home until March 31st now, if you're lucky."

"But...I saw it. I really saw that man get hurt. I wanted to help him," she uttered quietly.

"I know, I know. Listen-I can't stay. I just came to make sure that you were okay after that whole ordeal. I have to go." He glanced at his watch.

"I'm running late. I promise I'll be back on the 31st." He moved towards the door and said, "Please, Diana, don't make another scene."

"Wait! Daniel, don't go!" Diana pleaded. Without turning back Daniel closed and locked the door behind him. "I didn't get to wish you a happy birthday! Come back!" Diana screamed at the back of the door. The door reopened and a rosy cheeked nurse entered with a cart. Diana quickly brushed past the nurse and ran into the hallway. "Daniel! Daniel! Where are you? Come back! I didn't wish you a happy birthday," she shouted as she ran down the corridor. Her bare feet echoed with each stride, and her pink cotton nightgown and long blond ponytail trailed behind her.

"Get her! Somebody get that girl!" the nurse shouted from the end of the hall. Two orderlies appeared and started running after Diana. She heard them getting closer and ran faster.

Where did he go? How did he disappear so quickly? Oh! The other set of stairs. He must have used the back stairs, Diana thought as she spun around in mid-step. She felt a sharp pain travel up her leg. Her ankle twisted underneath her weight, failing to hold her up. Diana crashed to the floor.

Her head hit the tile and bounced back up before hitting a second time and finally coming to rest on the cold ceramic floor. She remembered seeing the faces of the two orderlies staring down at her, and then she remembered nothing else but the comforting blackness that followed. She woke up in her bed. She tried to tum her head, but it felt so heavy. She forced her 25

through," the young nurse said. "At least that lump on her head from the accident is starting to heal. It's been a month, hasn't it?"

"A little over a month, actually. She must remember something about the accident because she got hysterical when she saw that black Taums out front three days ago. That car must have triggered something in her memory for her to insist that there was an accident. Nurse Higgins said when she looked out the window that day all she saw was the Taurus parked in the street and an old man smoking a pipe." The doctor's eyes shifted down the hallway and then back to the nurse. "Then Diana made up that story about falling in the hallway, when she never even got out of the room that day.

She's making excuses for that lump. She doesn't want to remember what happened." The doctor flipped another page on the clipboard and then ran his hand through his hair. "Ah, well," he sighed: "So what are you doing for St. Patrick's Day?" he asked the nurse.

"I'm not sure yet. I thought maybe the Irish Festival downtown or some­ thing," replied the nurse as she and the doctor walked slowly down the hallway.

In her room, Diana had just finished saying goodbye to Daniel. He couldn't take her home today, after all. He had a very important business trip and didn't want Diana to be at the house alone. Diana, disappointed and saddened, put her things back into her drawers. She didn't know how much longer she could wait to go home. Although he promised to be back in two weeks on April 28th, she wanted to see him sooner. She missed Daniel so much.

Diana decided that a nap would help ease her mind. After cleaning up her room, she changed into her nightgown and turned down the bed sheets.

She carefully braided her long blond hair at the base of her neck. Daniel likes a braid, she thought as she twisted the shining strands together. She fastened the bottom of her hair with a silver barrette and made her way over to the desk calendar. She pushed the small round button marked "day" and held it down until it reached April 28th. There, she thought. When I wake up, it will be April 28th, and my husband will come to take me home.

-Christina Jankowski

28

Easter Gray benumbed desert dead wasteland bereft of sun holding back the night so that not one carat star can glow in the light of a constellation or rejoin other stars with flickers of hope.

As dawn invades a cactus flower in the dead desert, dawn overpowers not with bombastic onslaught nor the tenifying tread of tanks.

Dawn invades with a hush on a pink-orange horizon with a lovely Daystar, who embraces creation and fires the smoldering embers of our hearts everglowing neverending.

-Cecilia Johnson

29

Still life Hung face death-watch white eating through flesh lips pale pink eyes shallow pools of storm-tossed blue shadowing gray eyelashes, eyebrows, hair and stubble - worried white strays of forgotten brown nostrils pinched by prongs of tubing connected to a breathing machine ear canals--flooded with tick, tock, tick tock circling minute hand sentencing, menacing, tolling arms, tired-blue tattoos one cancer lesion oozing age--spotted hands--dark freckle brown wedding ring, gold fingernails, splintering bone beer belly ball inflated under

30

fraying T-shirt and underwear thinning yellow with traces of worn white dachau legs flesh tones stretched inflated ankles soft smfacing skin An invisible stake driven through a man pinned to a thin mattress without a box spring a wooden frame feet overlapping time three years living still life breathing dammed like a river My father's voice fading--clear, "Diane, this is Hell."

-Diane Sahms

31

32

In Depth Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot...

As his sore and bleeding knuckles rapped against the metal for the umpteenth time, he realized he could no longer hear the droning repetition of it. Though he could physically see his hand making contact with the wall, his ears told him no sound emanated from the collision of flesh on steel. He grimaced but continued his near-solitary activity of the past two days undaunted. After all, it made no difference whether or not he could hear the tapping, so long as someone else did.

He coughed a bit-:--the air thin and stale. He wondered if he could still smell, but decided it best if he did not find out. After all, nothing there would carry with it a fair fragrance. He almost turned his head, to view the men who had shared the cramped confines with him for more than forty足 eight hours. Almost. He thought better of it, knowing he would see noth足 ing new. Furthermore he reasoned why gaze upon death when it seemed so soon in making a personal appearance to him. He continued rapping.

Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot...

Unthinkingly, he glanced over at his fallen comrades: the ten men, hunkered in a room too small for their bulk, lay upon one another in a messy heap of appendages. Some had died of bums, others of blood loss.

The most recent had either asphyxiated or become so catatonic as to mirror death itself. He could discern so little in the red, flickering glow of the emergency lighting. He had been fortunate enough to be next to the wall, thus being able to take a sitting position and assume the duties of "rapper."

They had considered themselves lucky, at first. They had escaped the initial catastrophe. The telegraphing had begun almost immediately. Their first goal: to discover if others had survived. After several hours, they determined that of 118 men, any other survivors either did not exist or had become trapped too far away to be heard. Having made their determina足 tion, they implemented the second goal of attracting attention so as to be rescued-saved from a protracted suffering. Thus far, the second goal had proven as fruitless as the first.

Two days and nothing. Two days? Or was it more, now? he ques足 tioned himself. The man next to him, a close friend and the last of the group he could remember to have spoken, wore a watch. While he could have easily checked his departed friend's watch to determine the exact amount of time that had passed, he chose not to. Partially because he felt too weak to take the actions necessary to view the watch, partially because the dim lighting of the room would make the watch face difficult to read, and partially because he knew it did not matter. He continued rapping.

33

Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot...

He considered his loss of hearing a blessing, now. No longer would he have to endure the screeching moans of the metal as it slowly gave way under the pressure. No longer would the sloshing of water beneath men's weight taunt him. No longer would he verge on madness from the dull, incessant rhythm of bone against iron. No longer would the pain-stricken moans and whispered prayers of comrades pervade and intensify his own fearsHe caught himself. The last of his "blessings" had ended some time before the gift of deafness. Panic gripped him then, more powerfully than at any other time heretofore. A scream built in his throat and tears threat­ ened to pour from his eyes (adding to the considerable puddle that already lined the floor of the room). His body would tremble in unbridled terror as the hopelessness of the situation claimed the last vestiges of sanity that had thus far availed him. A mere nanosecond away from suffering a complete nervous breakdown, his oxygen-deprived blood caused his over-stimulated brain to shut down. He passed out and lay back, submerging his head in a watery carpet.

The cold liquid snapped him awake as he sat forward again, coughing and sputtering. He blinked away the stinging fluid and instinctively re­ turned to his rapping.

Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot...

The feelings of panic forgotten, he tried to count how many times that had happened lately. He counted at least two times previous that he had awoke to a fish's view of the world. He attributed his loss of conscious­ ness to sleep-deprivation-perhaps early stage malnutrition or dehydra­ tion. His cloudy mind, having suffered many lapses as of late, neglected to add a lack of fresh air to the list.

His tenth wind fueling him, he reached up and wiped his mouth. As his hand passed his nose, he felt the scratch of dried blood against his flesh.

He gazed at the back of his hand but could not make out the small flecks of crystallized crimson that rested there. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, having thought his sense of touch had abandoned him along with its com­ patriots. Certainly, the injury that had elicited the blood had long since been numbed.

He spent several long minutes trying to remember the circumstances of the wound. He had finished dressing for his duty shift when a thunder­ clap echoed down the corridors and the deck had flung itself towards his face. He impacted with the floor nose-first. Blood gushed from both nos­ trils as alarm sirens resonated throughout the vessel. He had staggered to 34

his feet and begun to make his way towards his post. Then...

His eyebrows knitted together. He could not remember what had hap­ pened after that. He could only vaguely recall a massive explosion that resounded throughout the entire ship and a wall of water chasing him and ten others into this room. The ship had lurched several times until finally settling itself into position at the muddy bottom of the ocean. He gave up on the missing pieces of time, contenting himself with what little he had been able to bring forth regarding his injured nose. He continued rapping.

Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot...

He gazed into the cold, dark water that enveloped his feet and much of his lower torso. He had loved the ocean, once: it was the reason he had chosen to join the navy in the first place. He had been a naval officer for most of his adult life. The high point in his career had been the day he had been accepted into the ranks of the submariners. How proud he had been on that day. And how much things had changed, since then.

His country underwent a change of government, causing the once great military and economic power to collapse under its own weight. The navy he had known to be the finest in the world fell into staggering decline.

Morale, training, and equipment-all horrifically substandard by the norms of but a decade before. He would have probably quit if not for his respon­ sibilities to his family, to his wife and daughter. They needed money, he knew nothing else but the nautical life, and no other job offered nearly the kind of pay he received as an officer (though even that had badly dwindled in recent years, as well).

He debated, but knew his destiny lay in the sea. He felt relatively safe.

After all, the threat of war no longer loomed as in the old days, and the vessel he set out with had been one of the most modern in the fleet. What a fool fate had made of him. His return to the sea would end in an iron coffin, covered by untold metric-tons of water, with the deceased never even knowing what he had died for. Equipment failure? Human error?

Certainly not for God or country. A vain death. A vain death and a watery grave.

He shook himself. Thoughts like that would do him no good, now. He had to stay focused. Concentrate. He continued rapping.

Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot...

His thoughts drifted-guided by the rumbling in his stomach. He licked his lips but, tasting only salt water, he spit. His mind had been anticipating the warm filling of cherry pie: his wife's cherry pie. Katrina sure knew how to cook... and not just in the kitchen, he chuckled to himself.

How he loved her. Since the first day they had met, he being taken by 35

her perfect smile and dazzling figure just as she had been taken with his winning charms and the stout build that lined his uniform, they had known the perfect love that had eluded them until that point. They had married in less than a year and had Tatiana a year after that. How glorious their life together had been. Even during the decline of the past decade, the deterio­ ration of the only world they had ever known, they had found solace in each other's embrace.

And Tatiana's smile. That also brought solace to the middle-aged couple. A smile they had worked hard to preserve. No easy task, but he and Katrina possessed greater parenting skills than either of them could have imagined. Despite the decay of their society, they had done a good job of rearing Tatiana. He was convinced of that much, at least. The intensity of the love he and Katrina had for each other necessitated it be shared with others-and who better than their only child,- to act as recipi­ ent for such affections.

His mind drifted back to the first time he and Katrina had made love.

In a secluded grotto in the wooded park of Kiev, they had lain together for some time: holding hands, talking, and kissing. He could remember every detail of the day. A day in July, the sun toasting the region to an agreeable temperature. Hidden from view, birds chirped, rabbits frolicked, and, nearby, children played. A mild breeze gave sway to the leaves on the trees and tussled the hair of his beloved.

He could also recall every detail of Katrina from that day. The smell of her perfume, the feel of her hair in his hand and her body pressed against his, the sound of her laughter, and the taste of her lips. The look in her eyes and the same, resplendent smile that had bewitched him the first time she had flashed it his way.

He swore he could hear her then, calling to him. Whispering to him sweetly.

Dot dot dot, dash... dash ... dash. ..

Even though dehydration would make such impossible, he knew he felt tears streaming down his face-tears of joy.

Dot...

He could see her. See her smiling a t him and walking towards him. He laughed. . Dot...

He could smell her perfume, vividly as ever before, feel her hand in his, taste her lips.

"Katrina," he muttered • lovingly.

Dot. 36

He lay back. .. into a bed of grass, the sun shining above, a serenade of life playing about him, and a simple wind whisping amid the locks of his beloved, who lay beside him. He heard the voice of Tatiana, as well, play­ ing nearby with some of the other children. How wonderful! he thought.

To be here with those I love!

He knew that though his bodily senses seemed to have failed him the only sense that truly mattered had not.

He knew then, that he was saved. *Dedicated to the memory of the crew of the Kursk.

May their souls find peace and their families find solace.

-Joseph Klein

As I doze off at night As I doze off at night my nocturnal sun begins to rise yes, all can see despite sight not all of our vision is in our eyes Floating through worlds of illusion I wish the world of reality were the same Wonderful, if the worlds were in fusion then again, if identical, then, a shame In this one sphere is search for balance To which we ponder in the grand scheme We wonder if we could possess all desired talents To make it a virtue never to dream -Ryan Todt 37

Strangers in a Box Sunday evening, eight o'clock; a fraulein's second night in America.

Adult voices echo from the living room, some -- unrecognizable.

Who are these strangers?

They weren't in the room at dusk.

She crawls on her hands and knees, then peers around the corner.

Her eyes widen with wonder.

Positioned in the corner, a box -with people moving around inside of it.

A gracious man welcomes all to his show.

An entire band is in this box. Guitars, trumpet and bass, along with someone singing something about a dog.

-Iris Ann Zook

38

Ravioli "Yes, right... next week, so...I'm really going to do it," said Ann and tears trickled down her cheeks. She kept the phone tightly in her grasp.

"Ok, I'll be ready. Ten o'clock. We have to finish ...my mom is com­ ing, so ...thank you for helping me, Kate, bye, bye. Ok, next Monday, bye," Ann abruptly ended the conversation and slammed down the phone in a hurry. She took a deep breath and returned to the kitchen. Her hands shook. She took one more deep breath and put her hand in the middle of the dough. She started to kneac;l it in preparation of a dinner for her family.

Michael, her husband, now at work, anq. their four boys gathered every day around the table for dinner at 5 o'clock.

"Hi, Ann. Anything new down your way?" Ann's mother said from the door. She removed her wet coat and put it in the closet. She changed her shoes so that her feet would dry. Ann's mother loved to visit and help her daughter with the housework. She loved Ann's sµiall home-always warm, always clean and welcoming.

"Hi, mom," Ann said from the kitchen. Though only 3 p.m., she gave the impression of being rushed as she worked nervously with the dough.

"How do you feel today? This weather can make you tired. One day we have beautiful sun, the next day-heavy rain. However, I like rain.

What about you, Ann?" said her mother, coming close to Ann. "You don't look well, Ann. You look sad. Are things getting you down?" she said looking straight at Ann's face.

Ann kept quiet and didn't look at her mother.

"Where are the children?" her mother asked, trying to avoid the thoughts so uneasy to her. She knew that things _were not going well for Ann. She would have to talk to Ann about her problem.

"They're playing in Mark's room. Charles, the neighbor's son, is with them," answered Ann, looking intently at the dough, kneading it, trying to avoid her mother's eyes.

"Charles, you mean the lovely ten-year-old boy from down the street?

He's an only child. His parents can't have any more children, so he loves to play with your boys," said her mother as she placed her bag on the chair.

She moved slowly toward Ann. "My dear, how are you today?" she asked, looking at Ann's white face.

Ann kept her eyes on her hands, working inor\;\ hlten�ely with the dough.

"I'm fine, mom. I'm fine, and I hope everything will be fine." Ann shook the flour from her hand. "I am fine," she added with a quivering voice.

"So, we'll have ravioli today. The children like it a lot. I'll help you," 39

her mother said putting on the apron.

"Thank you, mom. You're always here at the right time. Michael's coming from work, and I'm not ready with dinner. This morning I was with Tony at the doctor's, just to check his arm." Ann tried to calm her voice.

"And what?" asked her mother, bringing the bowls with the ravioli filling to the table.

"Everything seems to be ok," answered Ann as she filled the first ravioli.

"See, you were so worried. I told you he would be ok. I'm so glad that we're having ravioli. I'm so hungry, Ann ...and the soup smells wonder足 ful! Ann, I'm so proud of you. You're such a good mom and wife," she said, looking at Ann. She stopped her work.

Ann paled. Her hands were shaking again.

"Yes. Mom. No. I'm not," she said, and her eyes filled again with tears.

"Ann, I really don't know how to tell you this... but I washed your coat...and I know that you'll need me.... Would you mind telling me what you want to do Monday?"

"Mom, what do you mean?" Ann turned her face and looked at her mother with fear-her large eyes fixed in panic on her mother's face.

"Ann, I was going to wash your coat yesterday, but before I did it, I checked its pockets, and I found a small doctor's note about your Monday appointment. I know you wouldn't go. Ann, you cannot. I love you. This isn't the kind of thing we should be doing, Ann." Her voice sounded en足 couraging. Her mother's arms embraced her, but Ann stepped away.

"You don't want to do it, for it will haunt you for the rest of your life.

Am I 1ight, Ann? Will you be able to handle it?" Her mother's voice betrayed a deep concern. She was more than aware of the difficult situa足 tion. Finding the note with the doctor's appointment on it flustered her, but she decided to talk to Ann without pushing her into a worse situation.

"Mom, I can't believe what you said. I don't need to hear it. Some things are better left unsaid." Ann closed her eyes and sat on the kitchen chair. She tried to calm herself. "Do you understand? No! You don't!

You don't know. Michael doesn't want this child. He wouldn't under足 stand. I love him, and I love my children. But I don't want any more. We don't want any more ... That's the way it's going to be." Her face turned red. She cried. Her eyes hardly saw the next ravioli she struggled to make.

"Are you really going to do something silly? Do you expect me to believe this? I guess not," her mother said.

"Besides, things are looking bad for us financially. Don't you know?

40

Don't you understand the situation? Do you realize what I have to do? I'm really tired of all this." Ann seemed to say the last words to herself.

"Don't become anxious. Everything will be all right." Ann's mother tried to comfort Ann; however, her own words seemed empty and power­ less.

The door opened and Michael appeared.

"Hi, ladies. Mom, nice to see you! I finally got here. What weather!

I'm starving and something smells good!" said Michael, entering the warm kitchen. He approached Ann and touched her shoulders, his face bent down meeting Ann's face.

"When do we eat?" said Michael with his joyful, welcoming voice.

He felt Ann's tears. She turned her face and started weeping again.

"Ann, what happened? Why are you crying? What's wrong? You look just terrible." He was completely ignorant of the situation.

Ann remained silent. She felt her heart beating wildly in her chest.

She tried to control herself.

"I'm too busy to talk to you now, Michael," said Ann, but her voice betrayed her hesitation.

"Mom, can you tell me?" Michael asked.

"You two should talk," her mother answered and left the kitchen.

"No, no, no," Ann clenched the dough between her fingers.

"Ann, tell me, please!" Michael looked at her eyes. "Tell me, my dear."

"Michael, I'm pregnant."

He closed his eyes for a moment as if relieved. After a while, Ann, embraced by Michael, felt bis heart beating next to hers.

"My dearest Ann ... don't cry...you'll just have to make a few more ravioli."

-Sister Edith Gardas

41

42

The Tragedy of Ms. Fosters

"Damn it!"

"See, Eddie, it's not going to fit. All these buildings have the same revolving doors. They think it gives the place class. I guess the rich never expect us to be at their doorstep someday."

"But, Charlie, it fit all right comin' in."

"That's because it was empty then. It was all folded up."

"Oh." As Eddie digested this pivotal piece of information, he carelessly lifted up the white sheet that Charlie had so meticulously draped over the "it" in question, namely, the gurney that the two paramedics were charged with removing from the premises and peered at its contents: the earthly remains of one Margaret Fosters.

"Eddie! W hat are you doing that here for? People see something like that and-" "I don't know. I just can't believe that we have somebody famous here," exclaimed Eddie, with the enthusiasm capable of only a 26-year-old on his third day on the job. "I was just reading an article about her in the paper last week. So young, and nothing even wrong with her, and she had every­ thing! I mean look at this place!" he mused as he gazed admiringly at the visual fairyland that served as the lobby of one of New York's "higher end"-read "All the Comforts of Home if Home Happens to be a Gilded, Jewel-Encrusted, Servant-Riddled Palace" apartment buildings, complete with a view of Central Park. "I'm just wondering about things, you know?"

Charlie did know, but after 17 years of being bombarded daily with the most inexplicable and senseless of tragedies, he would be damned if he would admit to questioning the motives of He whom Charlie occasionally believed Giveth and Taketh Away. Still, Charlie had to admit, it was kind of suspicious-a rich, famous 32-year-old keels over one day, no known cause of death, no sign of foul play...

"Well, stop wondering and start pushing again. We'll have to head out the back entrance. I' 11 just ask the concierge that let us in how we can get out," Charlie interrupted himself in a matter-of-fact tone.

As he guided the gurney back into the plush thicket of the immense lobby, complete with enormous potted palms, Chariie silently thanked God for the room's current lack of human presence. Painfully non-confronta­ tional by nature, Charlie would do anything to avoid the morbid curiosity or outright disgust that cargo such as theirs would elicit from people. So he avoided contact with other humans at all costs.

"Me and my girlfriend-er, my ex-girlfriend-saw a Barbara Walters 43

interview with her a couple months ago-with this lady here, I mean. Did you see it, Charlie? They called her an 'Overnight Sensation.' Three years ago, she writes this novel, see, and comes here to New York to promote it.

Pretty normal stuff, but the thing is-she never leaves! She immediately got signed on with a big publisher. Three studios were fighting to tum it into a movie...Miramax got the deal, of course. It's opening next week, in fact, starring Michael Caine and Mery11 Streep. But you knew all this, right, Charlie? Big entertainment buff, like me, right?"

Charlie's head was beginning to throb; his kids chattered less than this guy! Despite the concierge's previously frosty reception, Charlie was glad when they reached his desk, artfully obscured from view by one of the larger palm plants.

"Excuse me, but we're having a problem getting out your main en­ trance. We'll have to use the back entrance."

"Our back entrance is closed off for today. We're getting cement work done," he flatly replied in a tone (and accent) markedly different than that which he used with the coddled residents of the building. "But if there's anything else that I can do for you?"

Charlie shook his head in negation. The perverse smirk on the thus far, unaccommodating concierge's face, combined with his subsequent flight to the "Employees Only" back room area, decided once and for all for Charlie that further appeals to him for help would be equally fruitless.

This situation was something new even for the seasoned Charlie. Re­ turning to Eddie and their burdensome, unresponsive third party, Charlie glared at his partner as though he were sizing up a particularly unsatisfac­ tory cut of meat and heaved a resigned sigh.

"We'll have to get the stretcher if we're going to use the revolving doors. It's smaller and we can maneuver it better. How about if you go back to the ambulance and get it while I wait here with the-Shit! Somebody must have spilled!"

Startled by Charlie's sudden outburst, Eddie followed his gaze to the exterior of the buiiding. Through the elaborate wrought-iron grate work that encased the aforementioned revolving doors, he could see a tall man holding a camera and a professional-looking young woman clutching a notebook, both determinedly gesturing towards the doorman.

"Are they the reporters that you were telling me about yesterday?"

"Yeah. 'Famous Writer, 32, Dies, Cause of Death Unknown'_:_they're sure as hell going to be all over this one-and us, if they catch us. And we're stuck in here as long as we can't get this thing out," Charlie re­ sponded, more to himself than to Eddie. "Or at least out of sight!" he sud­ denly added, as he desperately began to push the burdensome gurney-and 44

with it the equally burdensome Eddie-as much behind a frond as pos­ sible.

Having sufficiently concealed Eddie and Ms. Fosters, Charlie then re­ tuned to the battlefield in the quest for a way-any way-out. He obeyed his first instinct to pound on the "Employees Only" door that the concierge had disappeared into but to no avail. Damn it, I-know you're in there!

Charlie silently screamed. Logic shot down his second solution-hiding the gurney behind the concierge's vacant desk; on close inspection, it was obviously too narrow for this purpose and would, as such, probably only attract more attention.

Suddenly understanding the phrase "trapped like rats," Charlie made a desperate lunge for the "Up" elevator button, frantically motioning to Eddie to bring the gurney-and himself-along for the ride. In this mad attempt to elude a single reporter, Charlie failed to recall that what goes up must first come down and may bring with it a veritable gaggle of people, the very thing that Charlie sought to avoid.

Secure in his all-too-hastily conceived plan that they wait on an upper floor until the reporter went away, Charlie relaxed as he saw the dial above the elevator doors charting the elevator's progressive sweep down to "L." He felt considerably less so, however, when the doors opened, and they were brought face-to-face with an entire family of the Great Leisure Class out for a walk in the Park, complete with their dog, two children, nanny, and Great Aunt Aloysius.

Regaining his composure, Charlie gracefully stepped aside to allow the family to exit and coyly pushed the large gurney behind himself in a vain attempt to hide its presence. Unfortunately, it was much too little much too late.

Upon being so unceremoniously greeted by strangers, the dog, a par­ ticularly irritating little wretch of a Pomeranian, began to bark uncontrolla­ bly as the nanny valiantly tried to distract the attention of the children and Great Aunt Aloysius while simultaneously sustaining her entirely ineffec­ tive chorus of, "Muffin, be quiet!" Meanwhile, the parents, who still hadn't exited the elevator, looked first at the two paramedics, then at their family, then at the gurney.

Finally, the father, obviously thinking himself exceedingly witty, slowly remarked in a condescending, buttery British accent, "Oh, I say! What the devil-aren't you going the wrong way with that, old chaps? You're sup­ posed to bring that sort of thing out of the building, last I heard."

His wife, apparently also intent on keeping up the British reputation for droll humor, remarked in an equally condescending, equally English accent, "Quite right, Winston. Well, who's gone to the Grand Cricket Match 45

in the sky today?"

The fact that Charlie had no intention of answering this query was of little import, seeing as how Muffin, unnoticed until now, had finally suc­ ceeded in playfully tugging off the white sheet that previously concealed the identity of the stretcher's inhabitant.

"Ah, yes, Ms. Fosters, the writer from 307 !" thoughtfully replied Win­ ston, as though he had just now retrieved this answer from the deep re­ cesses of his mind, instead of having it revealed to him by the family pet.

"Rather strange, isn't it? She being so young and all?" mused his wife, as she ferreted in her purse for her glasses, hoping that a closer look might somehow reveal the thus far elusive cause of death.

Unfortunately, the rest of the family did not harbor the same casual attitude towards ultimate demise. To the hon-or of the two paramedics, the two children began to scream at the top of their small lungs. Great Aunt Aloysius, on the other hand, did not utter a sound as she sank into a deep swoon, prompting the children to scream at a decibel level even more shrill than previously imagined.

Just as the two paramedics dropped to the ground to aid the uncon­ scious woman, the doorman, attracted by the children's screams, came bounding inside to investigate. Unfortunately, however, seizing advantage of the situation, so did the reporter and cameraman, who, upon entry, im­ mediately began throwing out questions concerning the cause of Ms. Fos­ ters' sudden demise (which the entirely uninformed English patriarch and matriarch immediately began answering) and obtrusively snapping pictures of the scene. In fact, among all of the participants, only the dog, gleefully chewing away at his hard-won white sheet, and the stoic Ms. Fosters, seemed to be contented.

And from across the street, lurking in the outskirts of Central Park, now misty with the mixture of impending twilight and smog, stood an im­ peccably well-dressed middle-aged man wearing head-to-foot black, a know­ ing look, and a mischievous smile. A firm believer in the old saying "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," he had had his fun-had outdone himself, in fact-but now it was time to return to the task at hand.

Enjoy it though he may have, throughout all of the ensuing melee, he had not once taken his eyes off of the gurney; after all, he liked to keep an eye on what was his. He had kept up his part of the bargain; she had at­ tained what she asked for. And now it was simply time for him to collect what was owed him, for he had other things to attend to in the city that night.

-Amanda Neiley 46

Saving Grace "Merry Christmas 2000, everybody!" exclaimed Grace. She had just arrived at work, with her brown paper lunch bag in hand and I.D. badge pinned to her immaculate white uniform.

"Hey, Grace. You're here early," responded Rachel, busy completing a patient's chart. "It's only 6:30 pm. You're not due in 'till 7 pm."

"I know, but my neighbor needed to drop me off early tonight. She has plans at 8:00 pm." Grace hurriedly entered the nurses' station, frazzled and rushed.

I'm here again. I'm always here. Life is work, sleep, eat, work, sleep, eat. I'm so tired, tired of everything, she thought.

Twelve hours later, as Grace prepared to leave for home, she could hear some of the other nurses talking in the break room. Without entering, she slipped her timecard into the outdated machine that would guarantee her a paycheck next week.

"Let's go to Catherine's for breakfast," said Bonnie, sitting on a bench, massaging her aching feet.

"No. I think the Clubhouse offers some kind of special, like eggs, toast, and coffee for like three bucks," countered Lorraine, primping and picking her frosted hair while peering into her locker mirror.

Kim, a young nurse fresh from college, picked up her purse and casu­ ally threw it over her shoulder. "Let's go soon. I'm starvin' to death."

"Did somebody ask Grace to go, too?" asked Rachel, gazing at the other three ladies dressed in the same white uniform that she wore.

Outside the door, Grace heard her name and ceased moving toward the exit. She knew the girls conversed with one another freely, unaware that she stood not three feet from the wall separating them. She attentively lis­ tened for her name again.

"Nah. Let's go, just us four. How old is she, anyway?" asked Kim. Grace gathered her things and made a dash for the exit, trying to avoid a confrontation with her coworkers. Driving home, her thoughts continu­ ously returned to what Kim had said: How old is she anyway? Grace thought to herself. I'm only 55. I've always been nice to them, haven't I? Why wouldn't they want to have breakfast with me? I guess they don't want to be seen with an over the hill and boring thing like me. Tears welled up in Grace's eyes as she carefully tried to steer her car off to the shoulder of the road. Her tears made it nearly impossible for her to focus on driving. As they sped by her immobile Chevy Lumina, cars were blurs of browns, blacks, and reds to Grace. I'm alone, always alone. After a few minutes dedicated to tears of self-pity, Grace composed herself. I just have to get home.

47

Grace arrived home in time to catch the end of the Today Show. She hurried to her black armless chair covered in gray cat hair and crumbs from last week's potato chips. T hank God, no work tonight, she thought to her­ self.

Sitting back in her chair, Grace turned off the television. She sat and stared at the cold, dark, gray room that surrounded her. Resting as still as she could, Grace could feel her own heart beating a depressed melody. She had lived in this small three-bedroom rancher for nearly twenty-four years.

Since the children had left the nest, Grace had little to look forward to but her shows on A & E and a grueling work schedule. The same lifeless cur­ tains hung in the front picture window, giving view to seemingly endless rows of identical homes. Looking through that same smokestained win­ dow, Grace could see the neighbor's two children playing with a soccer ball in the street. Immediately she recalled the days when her own son, at that age, play ed soccer for hours in that same street. That time in her life had passed, however; her son was now 25 and preparing for his nuptials.

Where did it all go? At least when Michael and Jewel were small, I had a purpose, Grace thought to herself.

Grace wondered, Life hasn't always been like this. She had been mar­ ried, unhappily, bore two children, and was now alone. Middleaged and post-menopausal, she felt as though she had little left to offer the world.

For weeks, she hadn't even the energy to keep the house clean or linens washed.

She glanced at the dusty, wooden framed photo of her daughter, Jewel, who had not visited for weeks. Spending time with her daughter revived Grace and instilled within her a renewed zest for life. Despite her constant phone calls, she never managed to contact her daughter. Jewel. My angel, my bestfriend. I miss her, Grace thought. Forlornly, she reached for the telephone, knocking her fat cat from her lap. Dialing slowly, Grace silently whispered a prayer that she would reach Jewel.

"Hello," answered a crisp feminine voice.

"Hi, baby," responded Grace. "What have you been up to? Where have you been?" Grace paced the living room nervously. I hope she's O.K., and nothin's been wrong. She wouldn't tell me, anyway.

"Mom, get off my back, O.K.?" retorted Jewel, agitated.

'Tm sorry. Let's just talk like no1mal people. What's new?" inquired Grace, interested in prolonging the conversation. "How's work?"

"The kids drive me up a wall. Why didn't you steer me toward a differ­ ent profession. Teaching just ain't my thing," laughed Jewel.

"You're really that unhappy?" asked Grace. She continued to pace the 48

living room.

"Maybe I just enjoy complaining."

"Well, don't be like me...stuck," said Grace. Instantly she regretted this last comment. Grace knew that she constantly placed the weight of her pathetic life on Jewel's shoulders and realized that this statement would eventually take its toll on their relationship. Silence greeted this remark.

"Jewel, ya there?" inquired Grace, unsure of Jewel's feelings.

"Mom, how have you been? I know you're lonely. I can tell by your voice. How many times have I told you that you deserve more out of life.

Like romance, happiness, fulfillment. I don't know."

"Do you think that you could meet me for something to eat?" asked Grace. "I don't think I could eat another meal by myself."

Jewel hesitated for a moment, while Grace waited.

"Umm, O.K. I guess I could get away for a little while," answered Jewel.

Surprised and excited, Grace replaced the telephone on the receiver.

She quickly darted into the bathroom. Dismay soon replaced her newfangled elation once she glanced into the mirror. Her reflection betrayed her true emotions. Her bloodshot eyes appeared tired and weary, and prominent wrinkles surrounded her mouth, giving her face a permanent frown. Noth足 ing a little lipstick can't fix, right? Grace asked herself. Laughing to her足 self, Grace retrieved from her purse a tube of Revlon's Love That Pink, a color she purloined from her own mother nearly forty years ago. She could now think of nothing but her daughter and the restaurant.

As dusk fell, the restaurant filled with smoke and idle chatter. At the side booth Jewel sat impatiently, smoking and nervously consulting her watch. The furrow in her brow could suggest to a bystander that a young man had jilted her, leaving her without plans for the evening. Jewel's exas足 perated expression and scowl could confirm this bystander's supposition.

No, a tardy mother had spawned this impatient attitude and defensive pos足 ture. A short older, larger version of Jewel approached hurriedly, waving her arms dramatically, dashing any possibility that a man had caused her fidgeting.

"Honey, I am so sorry. Traffic was nuts! How long have you been here?

Did you order anything?" shouted Grace, competing with the loud pop music that played in the restaurant's bar.

Her silence indicated that Jewel obviously knew that her mother did not expect answers to the questions that lingered in the air surrounding the two females. A waitress appeared from behind her and offered a menu to the frenzied older female. After the women had ordered the drinks, Grace 49

took out a tissue from her purse. "Your lipstick is smeared on the top."

Jewel, quickly taking the tissue, responded with a curt, "Thanks."

"Tell me what's new?" asked Grace.

"Nothin,' I guess. Bill has been in rare form lately. He goes out with Joe, like every night, and doesn't giveďż˝ shit about what I want, but you know all of that."

"I told you what to do, and you think that my years of experience mean nothing." Grace stared at the young girl, her daughter, across the table from her. She hadn't noticed that her Diet Coke, with ice and a lemon wedge sat in front of her until that moment. She sipped the glass. "You are so pretty and deserve better than that louse. Why can't you see it?"

"May I take your order?" the waitress asked with a plastered smile and exhausted eyes.

"I'll have Prime Rib, rare, baked potato with sour cream, and does that come with any other vegetables?" Grace quizzed the waitress.

"Yes, green beans."

"O.K." She sat back satisfied with her choices.

"What would you like?" asked the waitress.

"Margarita, on the rocks, no salt," responded Jewel, smiling smugly, as satisfied as her companion.

"Why don't you eat something? You know I'm paying. He doesn't take care of you. You look like the walking dead," chastised the older dining companion.

"I'11 have the pasta with marinara."

The waitress took her leave, and Grace began fiddling in her purse. "I have somethin' to show you." Grace attacked her handbag, in searching desperation. "Where is it? Here. These are the AAA brochures for honey­ moons. Have you talked to your brother?" She peered at her daughter.

"Yeah. Work's been killing him. He'd like to see these. I have to go over there tomorrow. I'll drop them off, if you want."

Grace's smile faded. "All right, God knows he doesn't want to see me." She looked visibly saddened by the course the conversation had taken.

"You know that's not true, Miss Sensitive. He's just been busy," said Jewel, aiming to comfort her mother.

"Too busy for me. That's all."

Their meals arrived.

"Margarita?" asked Jewel, annoyed by the waitress' apparent amnesia.

"Oh, yeah, I'm sorry," sighed the waitress.

The women ate in silence. Once their plates were cleared of food, both women relaxed.

50

"What are you doing this weekend?" asked Grace.

"Why?" "Never mind. Sorry I asked." Grace's face flushed with anger.

"Nothing. Bill will have plans, which I'll be no part of, so I am not doing anything," "Come over and watch a movie," pleaded Grace.

"O.K. Call me tomorrow when you get up," Jewel said, rising to her feet.

"Honey, I love you." Now standing, she kissed her daughter's pale cheek.

"Me, too. I love you, Mom," called Jewel, as she led the way to the cashier.

"Do you want to come over and play Scrabble?" inquired Grace, reach­ ing for her daughter's arm. The two women strolled to their cars, arms threaded through each other's.

"Mom, I have some planning to do for my lessons tomorrow, but..."

Jewel stopped walking and turned to her mother. "You know I love ya, right?"

Grace silently nodded.

"And I want you to be happy?" asked Jewel, smiling, trying to meet her mother's eyes.

Once again, Grace nodded weakly and stared over her daughter's shoul­ der toward her car. She knew what would follow this line of questioning, but her answers would be different this time.

"Mom, I was thinking. I am not very happy with my home life. And I have a proposition to make you. We are both unhappy with our living sih1ations." Jewel took a step back from her mother. Her expressionless face betrayed her feelings of trepidation and. pensiveness.

Grace, intrigued, appeared shocked by the evening's turn of events.

"OK, let's hear it."

Jewel hesitated for a moment, before she said, "I'm gonna leave him. I haven't been happy for some time, and I know you haven't, either. I intend to move out at the end of this week. I was wondering if I could come home, for a little while, until I get my feet on the ground." Jewel waited for a response.

Grace stood before her daughter, jaw dropped and eyes wide. "Of course.

Come home," exclaimed Grace, hugging Jewel.

"Mom, thanks so much. I don't know what I'd do without you." Tears of relief rolled down her cheeks, but deep down she pondered whether she was only exchanging Bill for her mother.

51

The two women bid each other goodbye, each walking to her own car.

Before Grace opened her car door, she called to her daughter walking through the parking lot, "You know, Roomy, you better not crimp my lifestyle. As my new roommate, you should be aware that I party hard and often and that strangers will be frequenting our house at all hours."

Jewel shook her head and laughed as she entered her car.

-Jamie Rosenburg

Can you see them?

Can you see them?

See them there?

They float so lightly, They walk on air.

Dance so lqyely, Entrance my soul, Soon these visions, Take their toll.

I've given up, I hardly care But can you see them?

See them there?

-Jim Paul

52

Common Ground The boy pushed his way onto the crowded bus. He forced himself past screaming children and tired passengers, edging over to the only unoccu­ pied seat in the· back. After settling down, he tried to concentrate on his Spanish homework, but the buzz from idle chatter and muffled walkmans drowned out his thoughts. He barely even noticed when the well-dressed man sitting next to him exited the bus. Looking up, he made eye contact with a pretty girl about his age, gripping the rail for support.

"Here's a seat, right here." He almost didn't get the words out.

The girl blushed, gathered her school bag and jacket, and plopped her­ self down in the seat next to him. "Thank you," she whispered.

The boy grinned. She's really pretty, he told himself. You might as well talk to her. You have nothing to lose. "So, what school do you go to?" he stammered.

"Oh, I go to Edison High."

"I go there, too. I'm a sophomore," he explained with a knot in his stomach.

"Yeah? I just moved here from New Jersey, so I don't know many people, yet." The girl examined the boy seated next to her. He's cute, she thought. "I'm from Trenton," she added.

"No way! I just moved here from Trenton a few months ago!"

"Wow, that's weird."

The boy and the girl sat quietly for a few minutes, reflecting on the coincidence. They liked each other.

Afraid of an awkward silence, the boy continued. "My dad works at Drexel University, and he got tired of the commute, so we moved." The boy shifted in his seat and twisted his Flyers cap so that it was backwards.

"Oh, that's like me. My dad's a professor at Temple, so we moved here to be closer to his work." The girl, amazed that they had so much in com­ mon, giggled. "I bet your favorite color is red, just like me."

"Well, yeah, as a matter of fact," the boy replied, raising his eyebrows.

"We must be soul mates," the girl half-joked.

The boy chuckled. "Maybe."

"So ... what do you like to do?" she smiled sweetly at him.

"Oh, you know, just kinda hang out and stuff. I play piano and I'm in the orchestra at school." He hoped he didn't sound like a dork.

The girl's eyes brightened. "See, I knew we were soul mates! I play piano, too! Wow. Let me guess. Your favorite movie is Titanic, and your favorite food is lasagna, right?"

53

"Are you kidding? I hated Titanic. It was the worst movie I ever saw.

You actually liked that?" The boy rolled his eyes.

"I thought it was so romantic. How could you not like it?" The girl was annoyed that he didn't even like her favorite movie.

"Only lasagna-eating losers liked that movie."

"Well, at least I don't like the Flyers!" she argued, pointing at his cap.

The boy looked up at her. "What's wrong with the Flyers? They're my favorite team! What could you possibly have against them?"

"Nothing, they're just corny is all."

The bus turned onto Market Street.

"What's that supposed to mean?" the boy grunted at her.

"This is my stop. I'll be getting off now," she said through clenched teeth. She jumped from her seat and exited the bus. From the street, she tried to smile at him, but he wasn't looking at her.

The boy scowled at the seat in front of him. As the bus began to pull away, he turned to smile at her, but she was gone.

-Laura Baj

Sudden Death-Sudden Life Rodeo-man bucking, impaled at midday Upon horns of Old Johnny Death, devilish Submerged in daylilies, laughing.

Later, at funeraltide, Sister Carmel called to me From childhood: Grade 1, Floor 1, Room 4.

Our legs too short to climb.

I peered into the time warp her voice etched.

And saw again-a lively walk, car coat, Black flats on slightly swollen feet.

Singer-sewn shopping bag her carryall­ Lunch for three, six trips daily, rainsnowshine.

Image living. Funeral receding, surreal.

"The Holy Spirit sent me," she smiled.

-Victoria Lombardi 54

Folio 26 - Contributors Laura Baj, English concentrator, Holy Family College Gregory Conant, OSB, religious poet, St. Benedict's Abbey, Still River, Massachusetts Denise D' Aulerio, student, Holy Family College Tina Duffy, student, Holy Family College Edith Gardas, CSFN, English concentrator, Holy Family College Patricia Engle, Lecturer, Holy Family College Christina Jankowski, student, Holy Family College Cecilia Johnson, former student, Holy Family College, previous contributor, novelist, and poet Meredith Kahn, English concentrator, senior editor of Folio Holy Family College Joseph M. Klein Ill, English Communicatiop.s concentrator, senior editor of Folio and previous contributor Paul Lamothe, student, Holy Family College Victoria Lombardi, Lecturer, proofreader of Folio and previous contributor, Holy Family College Amanda Neiley, English concentrator, Holy Family College Frank Nicoletti, Holy Family graduate, poet, and former contributor to Folio Jim Paul, student, Harry S. Truman High School, Levittown, Pennsylvania Jamie Rosenberg, English concentrator, Folio reader, Holy Family College Diane Sahms, Holy Family College student, poet, whose poetry has been read on Philadelphia radio WXPN W.H. Smigiel, English concentrator, senior editor of Folio and previous contributor, Holy Family College Maureen Swiss, student, Holy Family College Ryan Todt, English concentrator, Holy Family College Kimberly Trinacria, student, Holy Family College Iris Ann Zook, student, Holy Family College College 55

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