Folio 28

FOLIO

28

Fluehr Park feel the winter air harken me closer, snow desert of frozen ice, trampled steps. driven there by a need for black and wrnte photo prayer. my cheeks and toes are numbed by the elements of nature's brisk band. her body, a deep dark church of smoldered coal bricks; boarded up stained glass eyes. construction exit signsacred tabernacle foyer-cross. an edifice which gazes down upon me, casting shadows of eclipsed light.

I pay my respects in return visits, her coal c1ystalline wings enclose around me. a short time spent walking the grounds in a circular path, a brush of paranoia keeps me from staying too long. boots falling down the lane of crooked trees, her prowling eyes give me a swift push from bernnd. watchful, whispering beware good-byes.

I've captured her in a still life of poetry, in black and white assassin vision.

-Frank Nicoletti

Contents Fluehr Park, Frank Nicoletti ............................................................. Cover Hauntings on the Moors of Haworth, William H. Smigiel ....................... 2 Band of Sacrifice, Susan Roussel ............................................................. 6 Through the Eyes of Kim Han-mee, Diane Shams-Guarnieri ............... 10 Birthmark, Rachel McCain ..................................................................... 11 The Storm, Freda Terrell ........................................................................ 16 Not Again, Marianne Marasheski .......................................................... 17 Dark Night of Butterflies, Douglas Robinson ........................................ 24 Graduation Day, Arthur Hill ................................................................... 34 The Blurbs, Douglas Robinson ............................................................... 36 Puddles, Christopher Mote ..................................................................... 38 Yuletide Song (estranged return), William H. Smigiel ............................ 43 An Experience in Bath, Regina Frey ...................................................... 44 Brief Candle, Freda Terrell .................................................................... 50

Folio 28 The Folio is a be//es-/ettres publication of contemporary artistic expres­ sion. The journal, though student generated, encompasses in words and graphics the combined talent of the Holy Family University Com­ munity. Submissions, however, are welcome from contributors beyond the University Community and fo1warded to the following address: Fo­ lio, School of Arts and Sciences, Holy Family University, Grant and Frankford Avenues, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19114.

Printed by

R.W. STRINGER PUBLISHING ©2003 Holy Family University, Philadelphia, PA All Rights Reserved.

1

Hauntings on the Moors of Haworth About 196 miles north of London, the Pennine Chain of mountains begin their ascent into the clouds at Cross Fell (2930 ft.) before vanishing into the gray mists of Scotland beyond. Rising in Staffordshire and Derbyshire, the southern exposure of the Pennines rolls gently along motorway M4. There we made our way to the moorlands of East Riding where the Brontes wrought their artistic creations. To the casual Pennsylvanian travelling through these picturesque English shires, the galloping landscape seemed uncannily similar to the rural farmlands of our own state. Barns and dovecotes, sheep and cattle dot the verdant countryside in a romantic, rustic atmosphere reminiscent of Bucks County.

In East Riding, we climbed steadily higher until we arrived at the little village of Haworth, which is 1000 feet above sea level. Disembarking the touring coach, Phillip, our guide for the afternoon, greeted us in the manner typical of an English gentleman: bowler hat, handy umbrella, and charming demeanor. As a "blue badge" tour guide, Phillip was the local expert not only on the history of Haworth but also on the Bronte family.

Residing, in this isolated village, Emily Bronte wrote a single volume of carefully guarded poems and, in the stormy desolation of her domineering father's rectory, she poured the secret thoughts of her tormented soul into her masterpiece Wuthering Heights.

Inside St. Michael and All Angels, the Bronte family chapel, the visitor senses deep despair and agony. Beside the altar, in a lonely alcove, can be found her crypt inscribed with words so thematic of her life: 0 death, where is thy sting? 0 grave, where Is thy victory?

The sting of death is sin; and the strength Of sin is the law.

But thanks be to God, which giveth us the Victory through our Lord Jesus Christ (I Cor XV; 55-57) And on a similar score in Wuthering Heights, Catherine dashes Heathcliff's heart upon similar stones as she rages, I wish I could hold you 'till we both were dead! I shouldn't care what you suffered. I care nothing for your sufferings. Why shouldn't you suffer? I do. Will you forget me? Will you be happy when I am in the ea1th?

Reflecting on these lines, we wondered about the source of Emily Bronte's secret suffering.

2

3

In Haworth village, we sated our ravenous appetites on such traditional English dishes as Yorkshire pudding, and for the first time I endeavored to taste steak and kidney pie. At the White Lion public house where we dined, this hearty meal a1Tived at our cozy table in a seemingly bottomless tureen with a pint of the finest local ale and served as an appropriate accompaniment to a damp, drizzling day upon the forlorn moors.

After lunch, we strolled slowly along the na1Tow cobbled streets (designed in crosswise "setts" of local stone) lined with smallish, slate­ roofed houses, many of which had been weavers' cottages in by-gone times.

During these periods of hard living and with simple commodities like clothing and dear possessions, the cottages housed families of ten to twelve.

Living in these spartan-like communal conditions gave rise to an amusing English adage: "First up, best dressed."

Turning out of one of the folds (a square of randomly placed houses enclosed by a gate-posh quarters in the Bronte's era because they were equipped with a privy-undaunted by the cold rainish weather, our contingent hiked up the well-trodden path worn into the timeless moor.

Beneath the darkening nimbus clouds that hung in the forlorn sky, one perceived with a shiver what was, perhaps, the ghost of Heathcliff wandering this desolate place of dry stone walls. Here, we recalled not only Emily Bronte's words but also those of the great American poet Robert Frost, writing of New England: He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not exactly elves, and I'd rather He said it for himself.

We descended the moorlands mindful of the sheep and haunted by the walled out shadow of Heathcliff. We passed again by the cramped graveyard of St. Michael's and All Angels, unsettled by the forty thousand walled in souls supposedly buried there. Haworth seemed haunted by the pervasive secret spirit of the Brontes.

4

Back on the touring coach, my travelling companions and I remained in silent contemplation for a long while troubled by the disquieting hilltop village and its strange literary inhabitants.

Upon returning from Bronte country in the dales of the Pennine hills, my travelling companions and I encountered a sun shower. It was early in the evening, and the sun still burned brightly like an incandescent disk above the western horizon immediately over our shoulders. Quite suddenly, a rainbow appeared over the rolling hedgerows of the Midlands that we then passed through, the rainbow's arch incredibly spanning the roadway before us. As we continued to drive east, the rainbow-surviving for an impossible quarter of an hour or so-transmuted into an elusive tunnel drawing us onward and homeward. This sensual experience became one of those ineffable, metaphysical moments, one of those rarified moments that become divine memory.

Finally, with the sun setting in radiant shafts of orange light, the rainbow vanished, and we were borne home in the quiet, purple dusk contemplating those immortal words of William Wordsworth, "My heatt leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky."

We were to return to our English digs late that night forever changed by a few simple elements: clouds, light, water, and the majestic landscape of the English countryside.

-William H. Smigiel

5

Band of Sacrifice I sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen and surveyed the cluttered mess leftover from my surprise party. From my vantage point, I could see the entire house, every inch covered in garbage. I lit a cigarette and took a long, deep drag. "I don't even want to begin thinking about cleaning this mess," I said as I exhaled a thick stream of smoke.

Jimmy walked into the kitchen and leaned his elbows on the edge of the counter, propping up his chin. "Then don't," he said. "It's your birthday. You shouldn't do the cleaning. I'll do it."

It made me laugh to look at Jimmy and hear him say such gentlemanly words. First impressions of Jimmy are usually that of intimidation or fear. He stood about six-foot-three and weighed a little over two hundred pounds. He was, indeed, a big guy, but that wasn't why he seemed so unapproachable. The most frightening thing about Jimmy was his style of dress and his whole demeanor, his whole being: the epitome of a true "metal-head." He wore black leather most of the time, and when he didn't wear leather, he wore jeans. He had shaved his platinum blond hair around the back and sides but let the top grow long and flowing, long enough to pull together into a ponytail that fell almost to his waist. The sight of the two of us together seemed peculiar to most people because I looked so "normal" and Jimmy looked so "hard core." No matter to me. I loved him deeply.

I looked over at him with a sly smile. "Fine by me. You don't have to tell me twice."

He mimicked my smile. "That doesn't mean I'm gonna do it right this second," he said.

"Okay, whatever." I was too tired to care. I spun my chair so I was facing him. "It really was a great party, though. And thanks for my present."

He came over and squatted on the linoleum kitchen floor in front of me, close to my feet, the chains from his wallet jingling as he moved.

"Did you really like it?" he asked. "I tried to pick one I knew you'd like."

"Of course, I did!" I exclaimed. "I've always wanted a biker jacket for as long as I can remember."

"I'm glad. Hey, if you're gonna be the girlfriend of a famous bass player in a chart-topping heavy metal band, you've gotta look the part," he stated sarcastically.

6

"Hey! I'm no one's groupie," I joked back. "But, yeah, I guess you're right." I had my doubts about Jimmy and his friends' plans to start a band, especially because of the kind of drinking-and-drugging people his friends seemed to be, but I kept my fears quiet. Besides, Jimmy had too much going for him to get involved in all of that.

"So, all in all, did you have a good birthday?" he asked.

"The best," I said. "I've always wanted a surprise pa11y."

"Yeah." Jimmy looked slightly anxious. He shifted his weight onto his right leg and dropped his knee to the floor.

I didn't notice his movement as I spun back around toward the counter �nd pulled the crystal ashtray over to ground out my cigarette.

"Kristi ... " he began, his voice trailing a little.

"Yes?" I asked, still snuffing the butt out.

"You know I love you, right?"

"Sure I do," I said, without hesitation. "Why?" "Well...um ...it's just that I've been thinking. You know, I'm starting this band and planning for the future, and ... um..."

"Jim, it's really mean to break up with someone on their birthday," I joked. No response came from behind me. I quickly spun around, laughing. 'Tm just kidd-" What I saw at my feet stopped my laughter in its tracks. "Oh, my God ... " Jimmy was down on one knee holding out a black velvet box that contained the most beautiful diamond ring I had ever seen in my life. My eyes widened and I drew back from him a little. He stared back at me with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his lips. I put the ring on my finger and watched as it glittered from the lights above. *

*

*

Two years later, as the sun shone through the windshield of my beat-up old Chevy and onto my hand resting on the steering wheel, I noticed that the ring still glittered in the shining rays. The thundering sounds of Metallica's bass guitar and the deep throaty voice of James Hetfield on the radio seemed to soothe me as I drove down the street: Do you bu1y me when I'm gone?

Do you teach me while I'm here?

Just as soon as I belong Then its time I disappear I pulled into a parking space and got out of the car, briefly glancing at the run-down, old row home as I did so. Before I made my way up the concrete steps,I begrudgingly hefted the cardboard box out of the backseat 7

of my car. Upon my arrival at the front door, I could hear loud heavy metal music coming from inside the house. After pounding on the door with no result, I turned the knob and opened the door with little effort-after all, they had torn the lock off the thing months ago. The sickening stench of marijuana smacked me in the face. Several people crowding the so-called "living room" turned to look at me. My defenses went up. "Jimmy here?"

I asked, trying to sound tough.

"Heyyyy!" A familiar voice drifted through the crowd as Jimmy's friend Mike, a.k.a. "Doobie," came to greet me. He wore pants that a man weighing four hundred pounds could fit into, and his eyes were bloodshot.

"Jimmy here?" I repeated.

"Yeah, he's upstairs," Doobie replied. "But before you go up, can I offer you a little, shall we say, pick-me-up?" Doobie held out a joint and wiggled it a little, as if to entice me to smoke it with him.

I felt like a character in a poorly written after-school special. "No. I actually use all of my brain cells," I retorted, my voice dripping with disdain.

"Hey, whatever, baby," said Doobie. "I was just trying to be a good friend. A decent host, if you will."

"Yeah. Good friend." I stalked angrily past Doobie through the crowd and started up the stairs.

"Yo, tell Jimmy we're starting practice," Doobie yelled after me.

I walked through a cloud of pot smoke down the dark narrow hallway to Jimmy's room and flung the door open to see Jimmy sitting on his bed, shirtless, exposing a myriad of tattoos, smoking a marijuana pipe, a freakishly thin young girl with frizzy blond hair and black patent-leather pants sidled up next to him smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer.

"Hey," he said, momentarily putting the bong aside.

I made no reply. Instead I fixed my stare on the girl, my green eyes boring a hole into her face until she quietly stood up and left the room. I shut the door behind her. "Brought your stuff," I said, chucking the box onto the bed.

"Oh, hey, thanks," Jimmy said weakly. He started rummaging through the box. "All my Stephen King books here?"

"Yep." "Hey! I remember this!" He pulled out a green tie with little white shamrocks on it. "I wore this last Saint Patty's Day to that party at Bennigan's. And remember? I gave it to you 'cause..."

8

"I wasn't wearing anything green but my eyes," I finished. "Yes, I remember." I had softened a bit at the memory but quickly resumed my tough fa9ade. "Anyway, everything's here."

"Yeah. Then I guess this is it, huh," Jim looked up at me with sad eyes.

"Guess so." I hated this house. The drugs. The people. The fact that this moment had to come. "Just one last thing." I pulled the shimmering diamond off my finger and gently placed it on the bed. "I believe this is yours."

Jimmy's gray eyes grew dark. "I'm sorry, hon. I really do love you, ya know."

I looked at this person who had become my life and who also, over the past two years, had slowly been fading away from me, spending more and more time with the band, staying out all night, not calling for days at a time, sounding intoxicated when he did call. "No. I don't know that you loved me. But I do know that you tried." I tried to hold back tears, but, all at once, we both broke down and hugged each other like two parting lovers often do in these moments. "Please," I begged. "Quit the band. Come home. This isn't good for you. These people don't give a shit about you. I love you."

"I know," he said brokenly. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore.

I never did drugs. But you 're wrong about the people, Kris. They do care.

They're like my family. And I love our music."

I stood up and wiped my eyes. "Well, then. I guess your mind's made up." I gazed at him a moment longer before running out of the room and down the stairs. "Good luck."

As I pushed my way through the congested living room, tears streaming down my face, I heard Doobie beckoning to me. "Hey, baby, I thought you were gonna stay for a set," he drawled. He took a look at my face and said, "Jeez, everybody gets so upset about these things. People should just be chill, like me."

I ran out the door and slammed it behind me to shut out Doobie's little philosophies and flew down the cement steps to my car. As I opened the door, I turned to look at the house one last time. Jimmy stood on the porch.

"Wait," he said.

-Sue Roussel

9

Through the Eyes of Kim Han-mee* Giggling as mother's gentle hands brush my baby-fine hair, parting loose ends, gathering small shafts like bundles of wheat into pigtails that she decorates with pink, orange and white porn-porns.

Mother's eyes swim into mine,_._ swell like th� river after the rain, as she wraps her �arm ·arms around me, lifting my body, carrying me to a place with high walls and fences: Father and uncle run like gazelles past strangers in green.pant, black shoes.

I watch with paralyzed eye_s as a hungry, yellow-striped tiger · pounces on mother's back, clawing at her.

I pray to my ancestors in the sky' for the raging waters to stop, foi:._ a large, wingec;i bird to swallow my family whole, fly us across deep waters to a Lady, who stands with a raised torch, lifting light, a beacon of hope in.a harbor far away from here. .. , ..

,:,Diane Sahms-Guarnieri

*On the fronf page of the Philadelphia Inquirer (5/15/02), there was a photograph of rn,,o-year-Qld Kim Han-mee, watching her mother being captured by two Chinese policemen, as the North Koreans sought refuge in the Japanese Consulate in Shenyang, China. Her father and. uncle made a safe run, but Kim Han-mee, her mother and grandmother didn't niake it. This poem is told through the eyes of the child, as the look on her i.µtiocent face captured the world's attention.

10

Birthmark "So, I was watchin' this show last night, one of those law or cop shows or whatever. There was this inmate who escaped from a prison, two of 'em actually, and they were running through the woods, to hide, I guess.

Anyhow, so the woods lead them to a backyard in this neighborhood where a couple kids were playin'. And there was this one little girl, couldn't have been wiser than five years old ... " she trailed off and her mind wandered out the window. As the trees breathed she watched the leaves break free and fly until they disappeared past the streetlight.

"What about the little girl?" he asked.

Her boyfriend reached for her hand, squeezing it and intertwining their fingers until they were one strong being, indestructible. With his other hand, he stroked her soft face, pushed her flax strands and troubled mind aside to expose a vast dark chocolate stare. Her pupils appeared darker and wider than most and seemed to have overthrown what little color was left existing and flickering. Tears collected at the rims of her eyelids, but none fell; rather, they bonded together, holding on for dear life, afraid to let go. She didn't blink and her mouth hung open perfectly round, almost in shock. Though she had more to say, she refused to speak on the verge of tears because she despised choking and stumbling over words. Whenever she became overwhelmed, she ceased speaking until she was able to control the intensity.

"It's okay, Babe." He never let his impatience or short fuse loose from the protective cage in which he sheltered them from her. Instead he merely waited, his fixated intentions and focus never faltering or leaving her.

She swallowed and breathed deeply. Her candy-coated eyes h¡aveled down from the window to the air vents on the dashboard. Tracing the tip of the finger along the lines of each, she aligned the slides together.

She pushed each passageway back and forth, then switched the conh¡ols side-to-side.

"She had a yellow sweater on." She cleared her throat. "The little girl, that is. And that guy, the inmate, peeked through the h¡ees at her and said, 'Oooh, yellow, my favorite color.' And then he smiled this sick grin."

At that moment her once united tears separated and streamed down her face, soaking her neck and through her skin. Every so often she would sniffle and dissolve the tears on the end of her sleeve but otherwise cried silently.

11

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f'

..,.

12

"How did that make you feel?"

"I dunno. It just bothered me, struck a nerve. I guess you know what I mean? I find that happening a lot lately. She was just a little girl! It made me mad, you know?"

"Is that a question or an answer," he asked. She was indecisive, more so than most he had seen and frequently would doubt what she said or how she felt, second-guessing their clarity.

"It made me angry," she stated this time. "I mean, what a pervert, you know." She looked down and straightening her skirt, discovered a birthmark on her leg. She licked her finger and rubbed it diligently. Tears streamed upon the stubborn blemish, but it never wavered. She scratched it in consistency with her breathing, which grew heavier. Damn birthmark, she thought. Why do we have them? They' re so pointless; they don't even do anything besides drive people nuts.

"You're born with that, you know. No matter how hard you try, you can't make it disappear. Less, of course, you're Superman."

She knew his enthusiasm about the superhero, but she also knew his intent, so she smiled. His shelter bewildered her, and when he held her she didn't understand how one person's arms could be so strong and yet so gentle and warm. She liked talking to him because everywhere else she felt numb and indifferent to others. She looked up at his dancing turquoise glance. If angel's eyes were visible to humans in this world, they would possess the same compassion his did. She saw God in his gaze and a savior in his stare.

"I am Superman, you know." He plucked at his shirt and shifted his shoulders side to side as if to pose for her.

"I feel it my obligation as an honest man and a true superhero to tell you so. I have a birthmark, too, you know; it's in the shape of an S. They modeled the Superman symbol after it."

"Really? I'd love to see it." She smiled almost chuckling.

"Well, I'd show you, but I'd have to kill you." At this she exploded into laughter. He felt at ease. "Superman can do anything," he went on."If there was something you needed or wanted, he'd do it. He can save anyone and he does." He spoke the words proudly, universal truths that as if saying them made them unbreakable.

"Well, then ...save me," she said, glaring at him intently realizing his attempt. He sat dumbfounded and immobile across from her. He opened his mouth to speak, but he found no words. Helplessness frustrated him to his very core.

13

"You can't," she informed him. "No one can, although they all try. Everyone calTies me around my house like this glass doll. They watch me, waiting. Don't say the wrong thing and upset her or she'll crack.

Don't drop her, she'll break. They're so blind. They're trying so hard to protect me, but who carries a glass doll around wearing a blindfold? They just don't get it."

"Get what, Babe."

"I'm already broken."

Uncomfortably, he struggled in his seat while she flipped through the radio stations. He picked at his skin, bit his nails and looked out the windshield, to her, then back out the window. She started to hum, then eventually began singing but more to herself than to him. Her mind meandered back out the window, this time to the dark night. She'd journey outside the smothering atmosphere if she could. She'd climb the clouds, rest with the angels, and step on stars to keep the moon company.

"You ever walk around life and feel like it was all a dream? And you just keep telling yourself that at any moment you'll wake up from a nap on a Tuesday afternoon with your face in a grade school English textbook. Sometimes I'm more comfortable in my dreams than reality.

You ever feel that way?"

"Sure, sure, I do. I think everybody does, like every once in a while, you know, if you're havin' a bad day or something." He couldn't figure out if he was trying to convince her or himself more.

"I had that dream again, the one where a plane crashes in my neighborhood. Only this time there was more than one, and I was running with my mom, trying to get to the victims to help them, to save them, to humans, but a tree appeared in front of me, you know, like the one in my front yard with one of five branches uprooted out of the ground, blocking my way, and it separated me and my mom. I think it's just 'cuz of September ll11', you know?"

"I dunno..." he said, knowing as well as she did of the alternative meanings of the dream, but she interrupted him.

"My mom went to the shrine of Saint Theresa of the Little Flower and said a prayer for me. She said if I see or smell a rose it's St. Theresa's sign that she heard my prayer, and she's going to help me."

"Maybe you should talk to somebody."

"I talk to you," she said, beaming a smart grin.

"No, you know what I mean."

"Eh, I don't like doctors. They're always tellin' you what's wrong with you."

14

"But they can help you."

"I don't need help. I need ...bug spray!" She jumped back from the window and tried to climb over her passenger seat into the back of his car.

"Bug spray? What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"Get it off, get it off! Don't you see it! The spider on your windshield. Oh, I hate spiders!"

"Babe, I don't see it. I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about. There's no spider on the windshield. I'm looking right at it, and there's nothing there."

"God, I hate spiders and cockroaches. That's the thing about bugs; you can push 'em into cracks, sweep 'em under the carpet, you can even try to kill 'em, but they always come back. That's the thing about repression."

Unable to take any more, he switched the gear into drive.

"You ready to go, Babe?"

"No, I don't want to go in," she said, pleading with him, almost frightened.

"I know, you don't want to go home. You never do. I meant wanna go for a drive, nice long ride? I get restless sittin' here. We'll go nowhere, anywhere, wherever you want."

"Really? But you hate just driving around, though. To the moon?

Past the horizon to forever?"

"Sure."

As he drove through the darkness until they met the light at dawn, she fell into a light sleep, breathing softly. She awoke to a tall marble gate lined with gold. A guard cloaked in white addressed the car, and the gate opened. Her face brightened and she pressed her hands to the window as if to touch the enmmous life-like statues, graceful fountains and surrounding flowers.

"What is this place? Is this heaven?" she asked naively. He didn't answer. "Are we going to live here?" she attempted again, but he said nothing. He came to a stop at the immense white door of a brick mansion.

An awkward man, wearing a white jacket, walked crookedly down the steps to the car.

"Who's that?" Her boyfriend didn't speak. He got out of the car and walked around to her door. Confused, she watched his every move.

He exchanged words with the guard at the door, then pulled her out of the car. He led her to the man waiting at the large white door.

"Where are we going?" No answer. "What is this place? Where have you taken me?"

15

"Right this way to your room," the attendant said.

"My room? No! No! Please don't do this to me," she cried.

"Why have you taken me here? Why are you doing this to me?"

Her boyfriend stood at the door. He never set foot into the building, only watched her and mouthed "I love you" as she continued to scream down the hall.

"You think I'm crazy! I'm not crazy! Please don't leave me here!"

His figure in the shadows of the doorway haunted her into a deep sleep.

"Babe, Babe ... " She opened her eyes to a yellow room, and the man in the curious white coat perched in front of her with a nosy clipboard. On the table to the right of her bed, a single rose bloomed in a slender clear vase. The card read: "Babe, I love you. Love, Superman."

"Please do go on," the doctor said. "You were talking about some TV show and a little girl playin' in a backyard, about five years old. What about her?"

She looked around the room, at the doctor, then down at the birthmark on her leg. As she traced the mark with her finger, she continued, "She had a yellow sweater on ..."

-Rachel McClain

The Storm ominous clouds roll in and take the sunlight hostage thunder echoes like evil laughter lightning flares and a blinding flash illuminates the world for a split second erasing my shadow then -darknessand the rain falls like a tear for a lost soul -Freda M. Terrell 16

Not Again Opening her datebook, the square marked 2 indignantly stared up at her, bringing with it the same anxiety that had burdened Gail for the past twelve years. The knots grew tighter irt her stomach. Chills ran up her spine, her knees trembled, and her hands shook. She hoped the frigid air conditioning had caused these shivers within her, instead of her intuition.

Gail chuckled to herself. Look at me. I'm a mess. My body has gone ballistic on me, all because of this damn date ...and I haven't the slightest idea why.

"Mrs. Carmichael?" inten-upted the receptionist. "Excuse me, Mrs. Carmichael?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry. I'm a little out of it today," Gail said, startled back to reality.

"Well, good thing you're here then," joked the Betty White look­ a-like behind the desk.

Gail, preoccupied in her anxiety over the date, had totally forgotten the purpose for her visit to see a psychiatrist...until the receptionist called her name.

"Dr. Scott is ready to see you now," added the elderly secretary.

"Thank you," replied Gail. She felt the woman's eyes follow her as she walked across the vacant waiting room. Gail turned her head slightly as the secretary jolted her head back to the computer screen. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Oh, no, Hon-nothing at all, except ... " she pondered for a moment, eyes intent on Gail. "It's just that, well, Mrs. Carmichael," resumed the older woman, "I swear that I know you from somewhere."

Relieved by the lack of seriousness her paranoia had wan-anted, Gail laughed. "Oh, that's not possible. My husband and I just moved here from Denver. We've only been in Baltimore for three days."

"Hmmm. Well, sorry to disturb you, dear. You just look so familiar.

Maybe you were in one of my dreams once," said the receptionist.

A dream-that, in particular, caused Gail's husband to make an emergency appointment for her with Dr. Scott. She forced a smile and proceeded into the doctor's office. A handsome man in his early thirties sat adjacent to a reclined leather seat. Here we go, thought Gail.

"Mrs. Carmichael, please, come in, sit," said the doctor. Gail lowered herself into her own personal electric chair. "How are you?" he asked.

17

"You're not really asking me that, are you? Not to be rude, but why else would I be here unless I wasn't doing well," she retorted.

Dr. Scott smiled. "Well, now that we got that out of the way, why don't we get started?" He readied his pen and notepad in hand and raised his head. Gail breathed deeply and nodded, pushing herself into the leather chair. "Okay, Mrs. Carmichael-Would you mind if I referred to you by your first name? The whole formality issue tends to become rather tedious in a session such as this."

"Oh," replied Gail, "sure. Go ahead."

"The thing is, Mrs. Carmichael. . . I'm confused. When you filled out the paper work, you wrote 'Gail' as your first name. But your signature at the bottom of the form was signed 'A. Caimichael. "' Gail's face turned white, as her heart pounded in her ears. "What?" she exclaimed. "Oh, I'm sorry. My 'G's' do tend to appear somewhat disfigured. My name is Gail, Doctor," she insisted.

"Thank you for that clarification." Dr. Scott flipped a page in his notebook. "So, Gail, you've been having nightmares?"

"Yes," she answered.

"For how long?"

"Three days-ever since my husband and I moved here to Baltimore."

The psychiatrist tilted his head to the right and squinted his eyes.

"Okay," he said with a raised intonation. "Do you have any prior connection to the city?"

She hesitated a moment. "No, not directly."

Dr. Scott's questioning eyes coerced her to continue.

"My husband lived here when he was a teenager, but after high school, he moved away to college. This has been the first time he's been back since then and my first time altogether."

The doctor finished scribbling her last few words, an encircled question mark beside it.

"Back to your dream, Gail. Where does it take place?"

"On a roof," she responded, her body now as tense as a cadaver's.

"Do you know where it is?"

She sighed heavily. "I've been there many times-in my dreams.

This place is my home. The roof is over the front porch of my house.

We'd climb through our bedroom window to get to it."

"Who's 'we,' Gail? Is someone else there with you?"

Smiling, she nodded, "Anna's with me."

The psychiatrist looked intently at his patient. "Who is Anna?"

18

"In my dream, she's my best friend-almost like my sister. I don't know her personally. I have no idea where she came from or why I even know her name."

Dr. Scott readjusted himself in his chair. "Tell me about her."

"From what I gathered in the dream," she began, "I lived with her and her family because my parents had supposedly died when I was ve1y young.'"

"Interesting," commented the doctor. "Continue.''

"So, Anna's family took me in."

He nodded, signaling for her to go on.

"Anyway, Anna's very shy and speaks ve1y softly. I suppose she's pretty, but very ordinary. And," she paused, "she's sixteen."

The doctor abruptly ended the life of his pen. He stared at Gail.

"How do you know her exact age?"

"I honestly have no idea," laughed the patient, simultaneously pondering her answer. Gail watched the doctor's series of facial expressions.

"And," he started, "how old are you in the dream?"

"That's the weird part," she responded. "I'm the same age as I am right now-twenty-eight."

"Okay. If you 're ready, I would like you to tell me step-by-step what happened. What was said?"

Gail took another deep breath. She locked her hands together in order to stop them from shaking.

"I took Anna out on the roof with me. That's where we'd go to (among other things) talk. I had to break it to her about A.J. and me-that we had been dating...but I was so nervous.''

The psychiatrist raised a finger. "And A.J. is ...? I thought you and Anna were the only two in the dream?"

"A.J. lived next door to us and was my boyfriend.''

Gail's face seemed to glow as she talked about the boy.

"But Anna had such a huge crush on him. I didn't want to hurt her, so we kept our dating a secret from her. Despite that, she drove me crazy, constantly confessing her love for him and pretending that it was mutual. They never even talked to each other!" She slammed her fist into the leather chair. "I had to tell her, so I brought her to 'our spot' (the roof) and I..."

"What happened next, Gail?"

Gail sat up, pulled her knees into her chest, and began to rock while staring into space.

19

"Anna was my best friend. Her family took me in and cared for me as if I were one of their own."

The psychiatrist leaned toward his patient.

"I told her that I loved her and apologized for what I had to tell her. Then, I did it," exclaimed Gail, digging her manicured nails into her legs as she clutched them ever more tightly.

"I explained to her that I never meant for it to happen, but A.J. and I were a couple, and we were going to be together."

Her body trembled as tears streamed down her face.

"Please, continue, if you can," the doctor urged.

The patient nodded. "Before I could even apologize again, she ... " Gail stopped and lowered her head. "Anna pushed me off of the roof," she said, her voice strained and exhausted.

"Oh, my God," muttered Dr. Scott. He rose and walked over to his desk.

"What's wrong, Doctor? I know it's scary and unsettling, but, after all, it is just a bad dream."

"No, Gail. It's not," the psychiatrist replied.

Her eyes grew large, and her lips quivered, "What are you saying, Doctor?"

"This really did happen, about twelve years ago," he said. "A girl died from being pushed off a roof by her best friend. Poor Annabel, she was only," he paused, "sixteen."

Overwhelmed by the surge of emotions that ushered in the past, Gail jumped up off of the chair, slowly backing away towards the door.

"No one has seen her best friend, Abby Prescott, since then," he continued.

Her face immediately drained of its color. Gail peered at the psychiatrist.

"You look as if you've seen a ghost," Dr. Scott said, stepping closer to her. "You didn't know her, did you? Abby, I mean?"

"N-no, 1-1... " she stuttered, unable to complete her answer.

The doctor's eyes fell on her paperwork. "A. Carmichael. It is an A. A-Abby-Abigail? That's it!" he exclaimed, looking at Gail as if seeing her for the first time. "Abigail Prescott!"

With that, the patient rushed out of the office, her past chasing after her.

*

*

20

*

Gail found herself curled up in a ball on her living room sofa.

"How did I get here?" she asked herself aloud, the sound of her frenzied voice startling her. "How did I get home?"

Frightened by her visit to the psychiatrist, she wondered why her body trembled and why her mind seemed to rob itself of the past hour. But Gail did not need to wonder-she knew. She knew why she held endless anxiety, why she always feared August the second.

Attempting to drown the unearthed truth, Gail stumbled into the kitchen, poured herself some wine as the glass shook in her hand. Once in her bedroom, she pushed in the "Power" button on the stereo, tuned it to Jazz JOO, and turned up the volume almost all the way. Walking across the bedroom to the master bathroom, she mumbled, "I just need to relax and forget everything that happened today."

Opening the bathroom cabinet, Gail smiled at the sight before her: every shelf lined with prescription bottles of Valium. She grabbed the closest one to her, ripped off the lid, and swallowed the pill with a gulp of her Chardonnay.¡ "There, that's better."

Setting her glass down on the sink, she turned on the bathtub faucet, added her lavender aromatherapy bubble bath, and undressed. Gail took one last sip of her wine while moving her robe from the back of the door to beside the tub. She stepped in and retreated into the bubbles. Closing her eyes, her anxiety and fears now drifted away beneath the white foam shield of the Valium and wine.

Suddenly, she heard the clamor of the radio changing stations.

Gail's eyes shot open as she gripped the sides of the bathtub.

"Anthony?" she called over the stereo. "Is that you, Hon?" Then, the cacophony ceased, and from the speakers came f01th the voice of Cyndi Lauper and her song Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. Gail sprung up in terror, hearing her and her deceased best friend's favorite song.

"Oh, my God, no!" she whispered.

Not allowing her gaze to falter from the doorway from the bathroom to the bedroom, Gail reached for her robe. With a deep breath, she stepped out of the tub, put on her robe, and tiptoed towards her bedroom. Gail's knees shook more than ever, and her blood surged through her veins like a wild river.

As she entered her room, she noticed the opened double doors to her balcony. Gail stood frozen, her body paralyzed with fear. Slowly, she turned her head from left to right.

21

"Anthony!" she cried. Oh, God, please let it be him, she pleaded.

Then, out of terror and panic, she darted towards the doors to shut them.

But before her hand could reach the doorknobs, someone pushed Gail onto the balcony. The double doors slammed behind her.

"Aaabbeee," breathed the ghost into Gail's right ear.

Gail began to sob for her past, her present, and her diminishing future. She grasped the railing in front of her for support.

"Can you hear that?" whispered the ghost. "I made a special request.".

She could still hear the stereo through the closed doors, and the DJ's announcement. "This next song goes out to Abby-from her best from Anna. And Abby," the DJ's voice continued, as That's What Friends Are For began to play, "Anna's going to show you exactly what friends are for."

"An', I'm sorry," cried Gail. "You know I never meant to-" "Don't you dare. Not with me," retorted her dead friend. "You wanted A.J.! You just couldn't believe that he liked me. Not you-me!

For the first time ever, Miss Popularity, the adored Abby Prescott, lost a competition. And I, the most unpopular girl in the school, in the town-I won him."

Carefully, Gail turned around, still gripping the railing with one white-knuckled hand. But to her surprise, no one could be seen. "Anna," she called into the air.

"You were my best friend, Ab, like my sister," resumed the ethereal being. "I'11 always be grateful to your parents for taking me in as they did, but I'll never forgive them for drugging you with Valium to make you forget what you did. Did they really think that moving away and medicating their cruel daughter could erase what you did ... erase the fact that you pushed me off of the roof and killed your best friend?"

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry."

"C'mon, Abby, you know you're not really sorry ... because you won him. A.J., or Anthony, as you prefer to call him," the ghost sarcastically stated.

Gail buried her head in her hands, now drenched with tears.

"Isn't it ironic that you couldn't even get him to notice you back then? But after he met you (Gail, as you like to call yourself) back in Denver, he became infatuated with you. And only after you dyed your blonde hair brunette and stopped weaiing makeup did he even notice you­ or, should I say, your version of me."

22

"Anna," Gail pleaded through her sobs. "Please tell ine what I can do. What can I do to have you forgive me?"

"Sing with me, Ab," replied the ghost. , "What?" excl_aimed <:iaiL ' ( "Keep smilin', keep shinin', Q�ing you can always count qn � - ,_-.... me ... " the spirit sang in her raspy voic'e.

Gail-;xtended her arms \IVo1 th'r rmpfy·space in fiJont of her, cryi1tg /1. ...... hysterically. ,I '-'

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G -..::.:.-- 23

I

Dark Night of Butterflies Julie. I'm wondering where she is now, what she's doing. The last time I saw her she was standing on the comer of Freeman, asking me if I'd go with her. I said no, I couldn't. It wasn't my fault, really; she was asking a lot, and I had something else to do. But should that have bothered me, should that have been allowed to weigh on my mind as if her troubles were my own? I didn't think so. But then again, I didn't know. I can only think of this from my POV. How about that! Is that a fault, seeing things only my way? Well, let me explain how it happened, and we'll see. We'll see together.

The night she asked me to go started out as every night around here does in April, with rain. It wasn't much at first, just a sputter. But once the full cloak of darkness replaced twilight, the skies seemed to open up, sousing us. Since we'd been standing on the comer, we had to duck inside the Texaco's Mini-Mart. It wasn't idyllic, the shift kid not really liking us to be loitering (neither outside nor in, for that matter), but there wouldn't be a confrontation. He had tried that once before, and it didn't take. It's unfortunate what happened to the shift kid that night, the night he tried to take a stand against Harpy, but, hey, you play with fire, you're apt to get burned. Anyway, that's not my problem; it's the shift kid's. My problem came in a few minutes later. Julie. Walked in the Mini-Tex as if there wasn't anything happening outside, no less the Biblical 40 and 40.

Her nonchalance made even me tum to see if it had indeed stopped raining while I wasn't paying attention.

Nope, still pouring.

I glanced again at her but didn't have to look far-she was headed directly toward us. It was Harpy she was coming for; I could see it in her eyes. But it was really me she was looking for; I could also see that in her eyes. Harpy was just the cover she needed to wear so as to make me feel my conscience had been the ultimate decisive factor in heading out of here with her later. Little did she know what else I had going for the night. And I've got to say, in all fairness, it wasn't Julie on my mind that night. Not Julie, not her p1:oblems at home. I remember wondering at that time, had Julie known about Chris, would she still have played it the way she did?

Or would she have really made the plea to Harpy, knowing but not knowing what that would get her? After twenty years that moment of wondering has long since passed. The time of forgetting, however, hasn't even yet begun.

24

But first, that night at the Mini-Tex. Julie, coatless, hatless, hair finger-combed back with rain, her white sleeveless shirt shrink-wrapped to her, ironed taut across taut stomach.

"Hey, Ben," she said. "Hey, Harpy."

"Hey," I said back. Harpy, a gutturalization.

There was a pause. Traditionally this was where one or the other party would ask what was going on. Neither she nor we said anything.

That's when I knew whatever she'd come for was going to be trouble. I'm not sure if Harpy saw it that way, but I sure did. Maybe he just thought she could see what was going on with us, forced to stand around the uncomfortably humid store by the rain, and didn't care one way or the other what was on her mind. So I waited, pretending to be more interested in what the shift kid was doing behind the register than Julie.

Finally, it was her that said, "I need some cash."

Against my better wishes, my head whirled around to see if it was me she was addressing. I offered up a small prayer that it wasn't her gray eyes focused upward at Harpy's blue ones. For the record, mine are the color of roiled mud, that milk-chocolaty hue they say the Mississippi is.

"For what?" Harpy asked.

It was a logical question, of course, and one everyone ever propositioned to float a loan has probably asked, but it was ultimately irrelevant in our case. We had no money. No jobs meant no money. That's how the economy seemed to work.

You have to remember, we were young then, un-ambitious and without responsibilities other than feeding ourselves and keeping a close eye on where the next beer was going to come from. Don't get me wrong, it's not that we didn't want things; it's just that, when the time of need arose, there always seemed to be a way to meet the cost. At first, I guessed this was the reason Julie came to us, to Harpy.

"I need to get out of here," she said. "Escape."

"You mean push-off?" Harpy asked. I can't fault him for the accusing tone, either-it was the first thought came to my mind, too. Dmgs.

For everything Harpy and me and our other acquaintances found ourselves knee-deep in, that was one thing we never played with. And if Julie was here looking for a quick fix for a monkey, then she was outta luck before she even walked in the door.

A wry smile came to her mouth as she batted those pretty eyes of hers. The need was there but not in the way we suspected. "C'mon, Harp, you know me better than that, know I'm not a junkie."

"Then what the money for?"

25

"I told you, man. I need to get out of here for a while."_ Both Harpy and I nodded, catching her drift now. She had to ditch the city, skip town for a period. If that was the case, it was big money she was talking. For starters, there were the transportation fares to whatever the destination was. Then there were the establishing fees to set her up in a place to stay, if the next stop wasn't someplace she had family or friends.

Finally, there were the nagging little expenses that had to be met, like bread and water, until she found a job. Like I said, she was talking big money, money it would be impossible for us to come up with lawfully.

I'm not saying it couldn't be done. In fact, we'd done just what she was asking once before. There was this guy we knew, whose name I'll withhold, who had to jet in an instant. Nice kid, really, straight as an a1rnw.

Was going to the university, played football there. His position was listed as guard, but he'd never seen any minutes in his three years. The point is, though, he was a team player. Kept his nose clean, maintained the grades, wanted to be a lawyer. Unfortunately, he had a taste for drink. This ultimately landed him in trouble with the law. A slight media sensation erupted over some of his actions, and somehow Harpy and me and another guy by the name of Tangelo found ourselves right in the mix. When this heretofore "quality" kid approached us, having heard we could do something about his situation, we took heart and helped him on his way.

How' d we do it? Unimportant. All I can say is the kid is living a decent life (not the one he would've had, mind you, if he'd kept his nose clean) enjoying the jumbo shrimp indigenous to the Gulf of Mexico.

So, like I said, it can be done. But there has to be a real good reason. If Julie was here now, in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain, presumably she had such a reason.

To this end, Harpy said, "Why you need to leave so quick?"

She took a deep breath, her wet shirt clinging even tighter. "I'd rather not say ifl don't have to."

"I understand," Harpy said. "But then you have to understand my position when I say we can't help you. A man's gotta know what he's getting involved in, if he's going to get involved."

For the first time, her eyes shifted my way when Harpy denied her. She caught me off guard, too, wide-eyed and staring right at her. She knew that her feminine prowess may not have any effect on the big man, but it does the trick on me-she had caught me looking. Plus there was that little matter of history.

Just as I was wondering what was going to happen now, was she going to forget the ploy with Harpy, saunter out, and then approach me 26

later, when I was alone, see ifl could help her with no questions asked, she said, "Murder."

It came out as a mumble, barely audible, but it was the one word out of all the other words in this cobbled hybrid of a language that was sure to catch the breath of anyone involved. Harpy, as well as I, knew exactly what the meaning of that word was, and, even on just the outside suspicion that we may not have heard her correctly, we had enough savvy ("class" isn't the right word, but it's the one I originally wanted) to not make her repeat herself. From here on, we would make like the situation was as grim as it co.uld be.

Harpy said, "Alright then, you have my attention."

For my part, I took a glance over at the shift kid to see if she also had his attention. It seemed as though she didn't. The Mini-Tex employee seemed to be preoccupied with something under the counter. My guess, he had a TV stashed under there. Judging by the acne and the glasses, tuned to a Star Trek rerun.

Anyhow, here's Julie, dripping wet in the middle of the night, talking murder.

Harpy said, "Has it happened already?"

"No." "Do you know when?"

"Yeah."

"How sure are you?"

"Exact date, almost exact time."

"Pretty sure then," he said. Then: "Important question here. Is it supposed to happen to you or by you?"

"By me."

Harpy's eyebrows shot up. Apparently, this wasn't something he was expecting. "No kidding," he said.

"No kidding," she agreed.

"Fine. Then you're probably right, we have to move you. What's the time frame like?"

"I have to leave right now."

He shook his head once. "Impossible."

"Why?" "We don't have loot like that on hand. Where'm I supposed to get enough to fund such a vacation instantaneously?"

As soon as the question was out of his mouth, I knew what Julie was going to say, so I was the only one of the three of us who didn't tum to look when she said, "There."

27

It was the shift kid, of course. Or more specifically, the Texaco Mini-Mart's cash register he manned. She wanted us to lmock over our own hangout.

"Uh-uh, no way," Harpy said immediately. "We ain't taking the till here."

"Why not?" '"Cause we ain't that stupid. There's cameras all over the place, and that kid lmows us by name. Hell, everyone work here lmows us by name!"

"I didn't mean to hit it right this minute," she said, trying to use that same beguiling flash of smile/sly of eyes. "I meant come back later, when it gets nearer morning. That way you'll still be able to be anonymous, and the drawer will be full of the night's take."

Harpy was shaking her off again. "Sorry, sweetheart, still can't do it."

"Why?" she asked for the second time, as if that simple question would be enough to change the big man's mind. "'Cause I don't want to."

"You don't want to help me? But I thought-" "Did I say I don't wanna help? No. Just said I won't hit that register."

"Why not?" hoping the third time was the cha1m. "What makes that one so special?"

"The kid working it."

Even I was taken aback by that one. For the brief span we'd been in the store, I found myself looking at the shift kid an inordinate number of times. Nothing had changed. Still the same ¡acne, still the same glasses, still the same preoccupation with whatever was under the counter. But Harpy saw something different. He had to. Otherwise, what difference did it make if we took the Mini-Tex's loot or someone else's?

"I respect that kid," Harpy said, by way of answering my mental question. "One night, not so long ago, he tried to stand up against me, against us. You lmow, he didn't want us to be hanging around the shop.

Came over, politely stated his case, and I just as politely told him to pound sand. Then he became insistent, kinda persistent like. I had to hit him.

Brought it on himself, really. Caught him right where the nose meets the eye. You know, Ben, you saw it."

I nodded. I knew.

"Blood squirted everywhere. His nose broke, gash opened across his brow. But you lmow what, never called the cops. Got back up, cleaned 28

himself off, and went right on workin' the register as if nothing happened."

Harpy frowned with approval. I know that sounds contradictory, but if you knew Harpy, you'd understand. "Next day," he continued, "the guy shows up with stitches in his skull and keeps on tapping those keys, ringing up Yoo-Hoos and Twinkies and stuff.

"I showed up that night, you know, like I'm wont to do. The kid notices, but doesn't say anything, just nods his concession to having been bested." Here Harpy points a finger at Julie to let her know that this is why he won't roll the Tex. "That kid had the guts to take his beating and keep working. It wasn't that he had anything against us in particular; it was just that he had to say something 'cause it was his job. I will always respect a man-any man-who does his job, no matter how bad it may be. Now, as I said, that respect is due anybody. But this kid, when he nodded to me, I seen in his eyes that he took what I had doled, but let me step outta line with any his customers and he'd be right back in my face, no matter what ended up happening to him.

"And that right there is the difference between that register and any other one in the city."

Julie had kept a respectful silence during his monologue (as rightfully she should've, being the one on her knees begging), but when she knew he was finished, she said, "That's just great, Harp. Here I am talking life and death, and you're spouting some rhetoric about respecting a guy working for the man whose business this is. Insured business, I might add. Apparently, you aren't grasping the severity of the situation here. Ifl don't leave like right now, when I can, I won't be leaving as the same person I am at this moment. I'm going to be a murderer."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but again I can't help you. The time restraint is too short, the funds're too short. You're gonna have to sort this one out yourself."

"I see," she said, but I could see that she didn't. Even with her face still damp from the rain, I could see her eyes were welling up. One sob escaped her before she choked it back. She ran a finger underneath an eye, to stave off a tear trying to slip free and gave a ghost of a smile. "I see," she repeated and did what I was fully expecting her to do-she looked me right in the face. I knew the whole time that eventually this play was going to come, but I still didn't know why. Damn Harpy. Looking at her beauty, her need, how could he side with some minimum wage clerk over her?

After the full look at me, she turned to go. I watched her push open the door, the sound of falling rain echoing off the Mini-Tex's tiled 29

floor. When the door swung closed, I could see the cloudy outline the heat of her palm left on the glass.

As I felt the muscles in my legs tense up, about to propel me forward, Harpy said, "Don't do it, Ben. Don't go."

I hadn't even realized yet that I was going to run out after her, but somehow this big galoot had. How was that possible?

"Why not?" I asked, speaking my first words since the "Hey" I greeted Julie with. "Why shouldn't I go after her?"

"Because, I guarantee, it's something you don't want to get involved in."

"You don't understand, man. I'm already involved."

"Oh, I understand, alright. I know where you been, what you been <loin'. I may look ignorant, but I see things. And I'm tellin' you, whatever she's holding back, it's something you don't want to hear."

Maybe it was true, maybe the big man did know some things, but he didn't know everything. Without saying another word, I walked out of the Tex without looking back.

Turned out I didn't have to go far to find her, standing on the bus stop at the comer of Freeman next to a slatted bench, its dingy gray planks weather-warped by the years. I jogged across the street, splashing through new-formed puddles. "Julie," I called, needlessly, since I was the only other person outside in the deluge, and she had seen me.

She was standing there, watching me approach, waiting for a bus that would or wouldn't come to carry her out of here. She had hair the amber color of beer, but when it was wet and matted to her head, like it was now, she looked brunette. Despite the coldness of the rain, her arms hung limp at her sides. She was drenched already, and probably so heated at Harpy that hugging her body tight wouldn't do any good. God, how I wished I could be the one to change her mind on that.

She didn't say anything as I drew close, as I had expected her to, pleading her case, or at least cussing Harpy and his misbegotten lineage. I realized only later that this stoic silence was probably all part of her plan.

She'd been the one holding the trump card, so there was no reason to waste words chasing down an alley she herself had set up to be a blind one. So it was me who opened the conversation.

"What's all this about murderin' someone?"

"It's true, Ben." There was no way I could believe it, no way I'd want to believe it, regardless of the rain chilling my bones. "Why would you want to kill someone?"

30

"It's not me who wants it to happen."

"Who then?"

"It's my daddy. He's forcing it on me. Planned it out himself and everything."

"No way," I said. "That can't be. I know your dad; he's not into anything like that. He's a floor tiler, for cryin' out loud!"

"You know what you know, Ben? Nothing. You don't know anything."

I smirked, disbelieving, the rain running in my eyes. "Who is it then? Who're you supposed to kill?"

"You," she said.

Incredulously, "Me?" "Yep. My daddy said, either I do this, or he's gonna to do it himself."

She paused to bite the bottom of her lip. "He found out about us, knows about our relationship and ...what we did."

Now it was starting to make a little sense. Even in this day and age of lax morality, fathers still protect their daughters. This is true not just for most normal people but is especially true in Julie's case. You see, Julie had two sisters before her. Had. One died at three from spinal meningitis and the other at eleven at the hands of a drunken driver. No one mentions that that driver had been her own mother, coming home from work one Friday evening in June after spending some time unwinding at happy hour with her fellow salt-of-the-earth types. The long summer night kept the light later, and Julie's sister, who'd been three years older than Julie at the time, had been coloring the driveway with chalk when her mother pulled in.

As we stood on Freeman that night, Julie's mother had been residing in a long-term psychiatric hospital for eight years. That's a long time, man, that's a long time. All the while, Julie's father had been left to raise his only remaining daughter. And now he'd found out I'd been with her intimately. As I said, it was starting to make a little sense.

"Look, I'm s01Ty about that, about what I did," I said, even though there was nothing further from the truth. I was not sorry then, standing on that corner in that downpour, for having been with Julie Adell. But I am now. Oh, God, I am now. "But this is all a little ridiculous. Don't listen to your old man; he's just angry. It'll pass. I'll stay outta his sight, take care of myself. Just as long as you don't do anything rash."

"You don't get it, Ben. I can't live there, in his house. Not how he wants me to, not how I want to. Things are not as steady there as they should be, not as steady as we would need them to be."

31

How right she was saying that I didn't get it. I had no way of knowing then, without her telling me, and she was being so cryptic. I remember thinking that maybe she could use a little time on the inside with mom. Man, that was mean, wasn't it?

"I want you to come with me," she said, and there it was, just like that, the real reason she had come into the Mini-Tex, done the pantomime with Harpy. The whole time I knew it'd been me she was really talking to, pleading her case to. She wanted me to take off with her. That's why she'd come up with the insane idea of knocking over the Tex. It was win-win for her. If we proved crazy enough to hit our own hangout, then I would've needed to take to my heels till things cooled down around here, which meant I probably would've accepted her offer to hightail it with her and her recent influx of cash. On the other hand, if Harpy frowned on her idea, as he had, and knowing our history together, she figured that I'd be precisely where I was, standing on a bus stop in the pouring rain, her offer drying up before me.

I gotta say I was tempted. In a way, maybe this was some kind of third millennium marriage proposal. Pre-historic man had his wooden clubs, tribal man had his matchmaking elders, civilized man had his bank accounts, what did that leave for the modern man but veiled threats of murder scantily wrapped in the adrenaline raising promise of love on the run? The world turns, the inhabitants dizzy with the spin.

"Please say you'll come with me, Ben." I sighed deep, taking one last gander at her. As with Harpy, she knew it was coming before I even knew I was going to say it. At that point in my life, when she "proposed" to me on the corner of Freeman, in the falling rain, I was young, and, as I've already said, un-ambitious­ responsibility was for others.

Plus, there was Chris. Christina, actually. And, as a waitress in one of those clubby-kind of restaurants, she was getting off work at two­ thirty. I was going to meet her an hour from now. That's what else I had going for the night.

I mean, with the rain coming down so hard, I could feel the drops plunking my skin right through my sodden clothes, a promise of a nice evening with Chris awaiting, and Julie telling me her old man wanted me dead! How could I take any of this seriously?

I ask, would you have?

"Julie," I began.

"Ben, take a minute and think here. We're talking life and death."

32

And just then, of course, like the man put on the spot I was, a spotlight shown on me, illuminating my body in the darkness pressing around me. I turned and gazed right into the oncoming headlights of the bus that had just come lumbering up the hill but was still three blocks away. Looking back at Julie, she too had noticed the arrival of the bus. It was time to decide-an incalculable amount of time on the run with Julie, or a predictable new fling with Chris.

As quick as I could, I said, "Jules, you know I'd like to go, but I can't."

She nodded, that same wry smile from the store on her face. "I expected as much." The from you was left unspoken, if not unheard.

"What do you want me to say? My family is here; my friends are here. Hell, my life is here."

Two blocks down, we both heard the pssst of air breaks as the bus stopped to discharge some other unfortunate into the miserable night.

"Your friends and family might be here," she said, "but you're wrong about the life part. Your life is going elsewhere, and I just hope that you'll be able to look back on this night and remember the choice you made."

The bus continued its advance.

Summoning the courage to make the separation from this city­ her home till now-as well as from me, she breathed in deeply and scooped up the tangles of her hair. Molding it all together, she wrung it out as best she could. When she let go, it hung thick and straight, down between her shoulder blades, like the tail of a snake.

The bus was on top of us now. "Have a nice life, Ben," she said, as the doors opened, bathing the watm inside, with its drying passengers, in a harsh florescent white.

Wrapping one fist----one steady fist-around the steel raining, Julie Adell pulled herself into the shelter of the bus. She had no belongings, no money and no future, as far as I could see, but she stood proud as she turned to say, "Give Chris our love, won't you." At that last moment, before the bus door closed with a hiss, she reached up, not to wave, but to rest her hand on her stomach.

And I knew. Right then, I knew.

-Douglas Robinson

33

Graduation Day Gloom hung like a gray blanket over everything the student did.

His grades were good and his future promising except that he hadn't crossed the goal line, he hadn't scored, he needed a big win-earning his pilot wings. In the sixth week of training, he was still flying with an instructor in the rear seat of an open-cockpit World War II training plane with dual controls. Communication was one way, from the instructor to the student through a speaking tube. The student could not speak but could only respond by shaking his head or nodding. To emphasize a point or punish a mistake, the instructor slammed the control stick right and left to beat the student's knees, an accepted practice between instructor and student, but it hurt like hell. The student assumed that he was failing and about to wash out of the class.

"Get that nose on the horizon. You're losing altitude," the instructor's voice boomed through the voice tube.

Its sitting right on the horizon. Why is he bugging me? Here comes that stick again. The student's knees ached from being drummed mercilessly with the control stick.

I'm not going to make it, ¡he thought to himself. Nothing that I do pleases him. I'd like to beat his knees, but ifI did, he'd wash me out. He sensed the plane slipping right and made the co1Tection.

"Ease up on that right rudder. You're slipping out of the pattern," the instructor shouted as he beat with the control stick again. The student's knees were swollen and discolored from the continuous beatings with the stick. He decreased the pressure on the right pedal, checked the nose position, and continued in the now familiar landing pattern.

The lush farms of the Arkansas countryside glowed that autumn morning as they awaited harvesting. Golden wheat and straw-colored com showed like a patch quilt painting the landscape. Often, without warning, the instructor would tum off the power switch and shout, "Forced landing."

The student then instantly assumed a shallow glide and turned upwind as he selected a com or wheat field for a safe emergency landing. As he prepared for the emergency landing, the instructor suddenly turned the switch back on, and the plane roared back into the blue, with the sound of the wind piercing the student's eardrums through his leather helmet.

No forced landing today. This is our third go round. Half of the class has already soloed, and I'm still doing practice landings. I'll bet he 34

washes me out today. God, I want to fly, but he keeps telling me how bad I am. He turned to clear his area and banked onto his downwind leg "Steady those wings and ease back on the throttle. Keep that nose up and start your glide path," the instructor intoned through the one-way speaking tube. The intensity of the wind lowered as he throttled back and started his glide. Hold the wings steady, flaps down, throttle full back, let her ease into a smooth touchdown, he thought. I may wash out, but this is going to be one first class landing The grass field appeared to rise below the prop, and he could feel all three wheels touch at the same time in a perfect three-point landing. He released the flaps as he heard, "OK, now, taxi over to the right at the end of the runway." Here it comes. Hes going to tell me I'm finished. I'll probably get sent back to the infantry.

As the plane slowed, he wheeled it into a forty-five degree tum and braked to a stop, well off the runway. The instructor stood in his cockpit and stepped over the side onto the field, his parachute pack hanging behind him. He stood beside the plane for a moment with the prop wash blowing his flight jacket and looked at the student. He slid up his goggles, and his face opened into a cautious smile. "Ok, take her up alone, Mister." He slapped the side of the plane with his palm as if to say, "Go- what are you waiting for?"

The student cleared the area and taxied the plane to the stati position on the runway. He lined up for takeoff and pushed the throttle to full as the plane leaped forward. He was operating solo, but he could recall every word of the instructor, as if he were still in the rear seat. Twenty degrees flaps, keep the nose straight ahead, ease back on the stick and let her start to climb. As he began to climb, he released the flaps. The plane picked up airspeed, and he brought its nose down to the horizon. Turning into the landing pattern, he continued on just as if the instructor sat in back waiting to beat his knees. In his mind he could hear every word the instructor used.

He started his glide, put on ten degrees of flaps, held her wings level, and throttled back into a "one small bounce" landing, then gave her full throttle to go around again as he saw the instructor wave him on.

After the third landing, a perfect touchdown, he taxied to where the instructor stood, with his face bearing a broad smile. The instructor climbed into the rear cockpit, leaned forward with his hand squeezing the students shoulder, and shouted over the noise of the propeller, "Good job, now take me home - pilot. " - Arthur Hill 35

The Blurbs He was a great man­ Or so that stone says­ But who really knows When one can only go With what is engraved, And thus outofreach.

Left to toil Beneath the soil, The man who wrote tomes Is now entombed His heart-black while aliveBlacker still Than oil,.

And thus a sunovabitch.

Nasty and dastardly He wrote Of things that bump And hump In the night­ Wretched, vile Without denial, But oh, what a thrill Were his chills.

When asked why he chose To write of the darkest night He stroked his cockEr spaniel with a smile, And said: "So I don't have to fear the day."

A work in progress Always began with A drink to think: 36

What fun, what larks What lurks before What light breaks Through yonNow then, now dead The thoughts of his head Are best read By the light of candle While safe in bed­ Sputtering, fluttering Flickering.

And thus, bytheby, Buy the book Because you'll want to see What thought a mind In a man so unkind Based on the hmrnrs Of stan-ed reviews Of a man no one wished they knew.

And in epitaph: Why are people So ready to accept What strangers say is true, Rather than that spoken By the loved and cherished Of the perished?

But no matter The final wink n' nod­ Had from the shadeWhat better measuring stick Than the immortality Of posthumous fame Was the wealth to claim during life?

-Douglas Robinson 37

Puddles The setting: a bar, late Friday night. No, it's more like Saturday morning. I've been out all night trying to find my assigned contact with the heavy rain drenching my clothes and soiling my new loafers, and I've lost track of time. My loins are really tight. Alcohol everywhere. God, I have it worse than the Ancient Mariner ever did. I need just one sip of that refreshing liquid to pacify my desires. But I resist the feeling, not wanting to get in trouble too soon.

I feel like I am wearing plastic sunglasses and a fake mustache tonight. And a brown derby, also probably soiled by the rain. Are the crowds this oblivious to my existence? The people must mind their own businesses around here because no one is making any attempt to start a new conversation or flirt or get his date loaded. Only the bartender appears to be interested in what's happening, but ifl talk to her, I'll feel the urge to order something strong. Everyone else must still be at that damned presen­ tation; they all fell asleep and got locked in the hall. Pity for them, but not me.

It is becoming difficult for me to look around. People might think I'm suspicious or plotting something. Nope, still nothing intriguing hap­ pening besides some bubble-gum music blaring from someplace in the room, and that says something. Dammit, I have to order now.

"How are you doing tonight?" asks the bartender suddenly.

I look up and see her standing there. I'm stunned, at a loss for words. "Fine, thanks," I lie, "not much going on. I'm just waiting for someone."

"You look like you were thrown into a septic tank," she remarks.

I half-smile. "Does it look that obvious?" The derby and glasses are off. "I was trying to forget about the whole matter, thank you."

She seems to realize the intended sarcasm. "That's all right," she tells me. "I see you were sitting by yourself for a while there. That's all."

"Well, you know, you could have always raised concerns sooner," I reply.

She maintains her semi-interested poise and says, "Hold on to that thought. I can take care of your jacket if you'd like."

"Don't worry about it," I insist, perhaps too strongly.

Nevertheless she presently disappears to help someone else. I ex­ pand my view of the place now to see if anyone is watching me with any caution. At the other end of the bar are a man with curly blond hair, a few 38

middle-aged women, another young guy and his date harmlessly watching infomercials, and a big man out cold with his head on the counter. I can't really tell who is with whom, so I keep my business to myself, wondering what the hell happened to my contact, Greg. This seat is getting too sweaty for me, as if the thunderstorm weren't enough.

I decide to take more notice of the woman behind the counter. Her hair is ebony, in a pigtail with a white bow. She has a smooth face, a short stature, light skin, very young. And her eyes-she looks at me suddenly, and I forget what I was thinking.

Spontaneously I blurt out, "Gee, I hope I don't get charged extra for tracking in all this rain just because I'm sober."

She smiles. My heart sinks for some reason. "So you won't be drinking tonight?" she asks.

"I never said that," I reply, at which point I can no longer resist.

"In fact, I think I'11 have a little something while I'm waiting. I can forget about the rain then."

"Okay, fair enough. What'll it be?"

"Make it a gin and tonic, um ... I'm sorry, your name again?"

"Oh, it's Karen," she says.

"Hi, I'm Vince," I tell her.

"Nice to meet you, Vince."

She says it with a touch of earnestness. I haven't heard a woman say my name like that in ages.

"There you go, to your health," she says as she returns with the drink.

"To yours, too," I reply and complete the toast. Its effects can't take form soon enough.

"You sure you're okay with your jacket?" she inquires again.

I nod. "I'11 only be here for a few minutes," I say and doubt it, tired of hoping against hope that my contact will ever show his face again. "Be­ sides, I've been in a lot of messes worse than this."

"I'm actually kind of glad that we finally got some of these storms," she tells me. "The drought's been a killer."

"Yeah, I can imagine," I remark and add another sip.

"You from around here?" she asks.

"Not quite," I say. "I live a couple hours away, but if you mean this part of the country, then, yeah, I guess I haven't taken the time to notice the apparent lack of flooding in these parts."

"So what brings you here tonight?" she inquires, her expression ever rapt.

39

I have to think about that one for a second. "Well, I could say the flooding dragged me down here, but that's only half-true," I joke. She laughs heartily, her bosom shaking. I have to stare at the counter for a moment to contain myself. I hope I don't sound overly flirtatious, but­ oh, hell, at this point I don't care.

"Actually," I continue, before my right hand inte1rnpts me to bring the remaining liquid to my attention. I resolve the matter and proceed.

"Actually, I was in town tonight for an extended business convention. Boring stuff. I had to attend a lecture slash presentation slash hypnosis meeting, slash anything else involving listening and dozing off, know what I mean?"

For some reason, she's looking somewhere else. There's another guy at the other end of the bar that seems to have her attention. She sud­ denly retµrns and says, "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"A lecture presentation, you know-ohhhhh, funny." We both laugh. Maybe she's a smart aleck. I take it this means we are in the same boat now. "Believe me, I'll put anyone to sleep when I'm drunk."

"I've heard plenty of those before," she shares. Then I hear her cautiously sigh, "Ahh, business," perhaps referring to hers, perhaps mine.

Perhaps both.

"It's not what you might think," I impatiently insist. "Not like I have enough...well, I'm not exactly at the top of the ladder, you know.

That's why I have little free time on Friday."

"You mean Saturday?"

"That, too," I chuckle. "I must be in the right place after all. One more, please." I push the empty glass towards her after I finish. She obliges, and for once I have the confidence to get up to brush the mess off of the stool.

She returns again with another gin. No one else that I can recog­ nize is in sight yet. Maybe it's time for me to have a little fun after all the hockey I've been put through today. So what should I do? Ask for her sign? Pretend to do business with her so I can leave my card? Take a peep at her cleavage when she's cleaning the counter? Or do I just play it safe?

Enough questions. "Last one," I observe, holding the drink. "How many times have you heard that one, huh?"

"Oh, don't get me started," says she, seemingly overwhelmed.

"But you can honest-to-God trust me on this one. I would never want too many drinks to get in the way of a meaningful conversation."

Something I haven't had in a few months, now that I think of it.

"Haven't been in a bar in a while, I'm guessing?"

"Well...yeah, it has been a while," I answer. "I've been trying to 40

stay away from the drink so it doesn't mess with my work." I know it's true when I say it, because I find myself starting to regret that I insisted on this drink being the last. But then again, she has heard it all before.

"Trust me, I'm no stranger to that," she says, and with her work in mind it makes sense. "So how are you getting home tonight?"

At this point I remember Greg, and I figure there's no way getting around him. "I'll probably call a cab when my guy gets here," I say, curs­ ing his name in my mind and saving myself from rudely invoking the glass again, gathering myself first. I'm about to add, "Unless you can help me out," with a double-wink, but then the guy at the other end motions to her, and she leaves again. So I continue to consume the beverage. My right hand caresses the glass like a work of art. I wonder if this woman really isn't drawn to me. I wonder if I've given away too much information or too little. That guy who passed out on the bar might really be eavesdrop­ ping. Nah. I forget about life and plunge deeper into the enchantment of my liquid.

"Just let me know if you need anything else," Karen the bartender offers, returning.

"Where is everyone tonight?" I, the hopeless romantic, inquire desperately, remotely refe1Ting to Greg. "Surely bars haven't declined in business since I was last at one."

She smiles and suddenly she is mine again. "Well, this is pretty much average for a night during the summer," she informs me. "People come and go in the summer time. And it is getting near to last call, so there's more going than coming now. Are you expecting your friend soon?"

"Uh, he's not really a friend," I say. "I've actually never met-uh, seen him in a while. Again, it's a business thing." I smile helplessly. "An informal lower-level business thing, of course. Don't wony about me."

"Oh, it's not that," she says. "I just want to make sure everyone has a place to go tonight so I can get the responsibility off my shoulders.

Just look at Mister Unconscious over there. I wish he were the least of my problems tonight."

"Problems. Who doesn't have them?" I remark. I notice her eyes; they're hazel. "My, you're lovely," I say without any care. "It's been a long time since I saw such a fresh face while having a drink. You must be very young."

Her cheeks begin to flush. "You are too kind. I've been bartending for a little over a year now, if you must know. It's a part-time situation while I'm in the middle of my studies."

I nod and compliment, "To me, you represent the future of 41

tomonow's bartenders. You're worthy of more than a bunch of drunken pigs every night."

"Like yourself?" she fires back. We both laugh this time. I'm held at a conversational stalemate for a while, unable to go any further without sounding abrasive or tipsy, before she goes back to attending to other cus足 tomers.

I decide that I'll get myself one more and then get out of here, right after I go to the men's room; then I'll have it made. So I make the trip and temporarily leave her presence. My clothes are starting to dry; I think about running them through the hand dryer when no one is looking. But while relieving myself, all of a sudden I become reminded of my agony from the person in the stall next to me.

"You hold your liquor like it's the smooth hand of an exotic woman," he says.

I immediately know who it is. "Steve!" I exclaim in surprise and clouded furor as I remember the real world. "Damn you, what's been go足 ing on?"

"I should have guessed you'd wind up here after the presentation.

I just came in, heard what you were saying. You disappoint me, Vinny," Steve says in a manner half-serious.

I am as perturbed as someone who has had a couple of drinks can get. "Oh, please. It was just a little harmless flirting," I say.

"And you needed to do it with alcohol? The bottle was what de足 stroyed your maniage. How soon you forget."

I find myself grimacing. "I thought it was my work that did me in," I manage, with some denial. "You can't have both, you know. But, c 'mon, I tried to resist the urges, but nobody showed up. And where the devil is this Greg guy I was supposed to meet?"

"Oh, it's a long story. I'll explain later. Come on, it's almost clos足 ing time. Let's go."

Well, at least one matter is resolved, but I have to leave another behind. I signal to the bartender, pay up and tip her graciously.

"Have a good night," she says. "It was nice meeting you ... Vince.

Best of luck with your business."

For one last time, I have to smile. "Good luck with yours, too," I offer, partly embanassed because I can't remember her name. And with that, the night is over. I make my exit, follow Steve out the door, and inadvertently step into the largest puddle known to mankind. Cursing the sidewalk, I fling the mess from my loafers and grudgingly follow Steve around the comer to his car, desperately anticipating a drier place and time.

-Christopher Mote 42

Yuletide Song (estranged return) The dusty flakes gather in the footpath quietly Indolent for want of fascination and footprint Dutifully over the rise it brings the visitor first thing To the noble shut-in across the cobbled way Not to this green-wreathed door where the thought Of young men in despair hid away like eclipsed stars Who burnished once above the unadorned pines of December Twinkle dwarfish in an asylum of broken zeniths Where dire dove Paraclete perches on a pierced heart Thorny wrapped heart cardinal in the alpine snows Alone, Alone it blows the names committed to eternity On peaks in crags in crevasses that complete our abyss Echoes of solitude waiting for the ring of desolate bells: noel Soon the footpath unmanned by eggshell monochrome Retracts its natural course in deference to bitter wind Nature Address the unknown with the gloomy faith of isobar prediction And in the snow new patterns emerge white na"ive and innocent Breath upon visible breath of certain distant suns we return Sounding cymbals in the dark whistling May through November We return lost in time where even the days have no names -William H. Smigiel

43

An Experience at Bath: A Jane Austen-style Story Early in the morning one late summer's day, a coach set off from London with a destination set for the city of Bath, can-ying tlu·ee people, one of whom, though despairing from the misery of recent events and having, for a time, lodgings in a bustling city, was filled with excitement and eagerness at the prospect of staying at the most fashionable resort in the country. No place in dear England could fulfill such a description more enthusiastically than Bath-indeed, it was a sentiment not only shared by Miss Christina Williams, who hao never in her eighteen years been in such high society, but also her companions Mr. and Mrs. Wainmont, the latter always impressed by the city's fashions and many shops, the fmmer relieved to be seeking the well-known h·eatments of the Roman baths for his ailments. Miss Williams' eyes continually focused on the green that colored the counh·yside, in hopes of catching first glimpse of the fair resort. Heli efforts were not in vain; in a sl!ldden moment, the rolling hills and plunging valleys revealed fine stone buildings amid the greene1-y of trees and shrubs, a river of the bluest blue imaginable that gently ".arved out a place in those valleys, .and, then, a sprawling area enclosed by tall, graceful columns, finely paved streets and, here and there, a finely dressed citizen. Bath had fully displayed itself to Christina, and she was spellbound. She had neveli seen anything so lovely - except perhaps for the fine hmase she recently; left behind.

Within moments the caniage stopped in front of the Wainmonts' stylish lodgings on Gay Street. Though wanting to be settled after the long journey, Mrs. Wainmont ushered Miss Williams around the well-furnished rooms, aclding, "Our home is a prime location-both the Assembly Rooms and the Ciircus are up the street. I heartily delight in these lodgings, for the walks that you and I will take will be quite short. I detest too much walking, but I have always delighted in your company, dear." Flashing a smile at the i, ntrigued girl, she left the spaeious drawing room. Alone, Christina stood by the window and eagerly watched the fashionable people move on the sh·eet, but it was not long before her mind drifted back to the sadness that has plagued her £or some time.

Miss Williams' recent unfortunate circumstances must now be mentioned. Many years ago, !Miss Mary Kinley, without any substantial fortune, had the good opportunity of man-ying Mr. George Williams, a man of twenty thousand pounds who was the retainer of Huntingdon, the small yet lovely estate in Wiltshire. No couple to be found could be more 44

delightful-he of quick intelligence, handsomeness, and easy temper, she of an affectionate heart and sensibility. As time passed, many joys abounded in their marriage with the addition of three loving daughters. The substantial income they possessed would prove fruitful when, in one year, the two eldest daughters, Charlotte and Margaret, entered into excellent marriages at the same time to men of equal fortune-Charlotte to a Mr. Percy, Margaret to a Mr. Worthy. But, soon, disaster-Mr. Williams passed away, abruptly transforming his loving wife into a grieving widow. Her good heart became troubled, not only for the loss of her dear companion, but for the income; once wealthy, she now possessed lesser fortune, which had dire consequences for the future marriage of her youngest daughter Christina.

Unable to sustain her countenance amid this difficult time, the poor widow Williams quietly rendered her spirit to the Almighty, quite soon after the death of her husband.

Poor Christina! An eighteen-year-old girl suffering from the loss of both parents and the loneliness of separation from her two elder sisters!

Distraught herself, she accepted the comforts of her late parents' close friends, the Wainmonts. A childless couple, they were always kind and friendly, particularly toward the youngest Williams girl; they appreciated, as many did, her prettyness, her good heait, and her curiosity, but it dismayed them that she lacked good sense. Without any debate, they became, in name, the protectors of Miss Williams, for her elder sisters, Mrs. Percy and Mrs. Worthy, lived too far away and far too occupied with their own domestic lives to take in their young sister. Thus, soon after the funeral, Huntingdon was sold, and the Wainmonts took Miss Williams with them to London, a city that Christina never found favorable - she longed to be back at her childhood home. She instantly branded London as "too noisy and too dirty-not enough to lift my spirits." Coincidentally, Mr. Wainmont shared this impression, whose business affairs had to be conducted in London but whose health affairs-he constantly suffered from shortness of breath-needed to be conducted elsewhere. Within two months, Mrs. Wainmont suggested a return to their lodgings in Bath in hopes that Mr. Wainmont-and perhaps a downcast Christina-could benefit from the healing waters. Soon, the three were in a carriage to Bath, and Christina, though still despairing, grew eager at the prospect of seeing such elegance and wealth.

On their first night in Bath, Mrs. Wainmont wanted nothing more than to show Christina the Assembly Rooms. She readily agreed, dressed in her finest, and joined Mrs. Wainmont in the carriage that would take them to the Upper Rooms. When they arrived, Miss Williams gasped in 45

delight at the sight of the fine, limestone building with its pedimented windows and tall columns surrounding the single-story Doric portico.

Seeing the girl so transfixed, Mrs. Wainmont smiled to herself, shook her head, then gave the girl a gentle nudge as a warning to enter the Rooms.

They moved down the hallway and into the Ballroom, with its teal-colored walls decorated with white Corinthian columns and ornate swags; five cut-glass chandeliers suspended from the ceiling illuminated the fashionable dancers - the colors from feathers, gleaming jewels, and buckled shoes coalesced as couples swirled around the room in intricate dance steps.

Miss Williams was astounded.

Mrs. Wainmont met many of her acquaintances in the Ballroom, promptly introducing them to Christina. She smiled politely, and when she realized that these strangers weren't paying any attention to her, she let her eyes wander around the¡ room at the sheer opulence. Her eyes suddenly caught the gaze of a young gentlemen staring back at her. He smiled and made a motion for her to join him. Taking leave of Mrs. Wainmont, she walked over and was introduced not only to the young gentleman, Mr. Philip Holyton, but also his sister Miss Elizabeth Holyton and his close acquaintance Mr. Henry Walcot. As conversation passed between the four, Miss Williams could not help blush and be charmed by the dazzling smile and good humor of Mr. Walcot, as she endured both Miss Holyton's inconsequential babble of fashions and flirtations and Mr. Holyton's quiet, steady gaze directed toward Christina.

Their conversation was inten-upted when the orchestra struck up a new tune; Mr. Holyton quickly offered himself as Christina's partner, though she had hoped that the charming Mr. Walcot would have done so first. The two danced for quite some time, then entered the Octagon Room and sat down for pleasant conversation over cards, where they both learned their common interest in walking and fine reading. He was so an agreeable, good-natured gentleman of seven-and-twenty that she felt quite comfortable conversing with him, even as he discussed his recent an-ival in Bath with his sister, even as he offered his sympathies over the recent loss of her parents; such kindness helped dispel some of the despair she had been feeling for quite some time. Soon, however, Mr. Walcot came over to them, politely interrupted, asked Miss Williams to be his partner in the next dance, and led her away. Dazzled by his chann, his exceeding handsomeness for a man of nine-and-twenty, and his smile, she enjoyed the many dances they shared that evening, replacing her comfort with Mr. Holyton with her immeasurable joy with Mr. Walcot. Truly, she reflected during the night, it was wonder to be at the Assembly Rooms!

46

The sun shone brightly the next morning. Christina, in such a happy mood, could not be bothered at the breakfast table, much to the dismay of the Wainmonts. Pleasant conversation passed between the three, but Christina, lost in thought, basked in the pleasure of having danced with the handsome Mr. Henry Walcot. In her mind, nothing could rouse her from the memories of the ball at the Rooms. Mrs. Wainmont, observing such behavior, believed Miss Williams to be restless from so much excitement and suggested to her that the two of them visit the Pump Room. "Oh, that would be delightful!" cried Christina. "Perhaps Henry will be there," she mused. "For certainly every fashionable person in Bath visits the Pump Room!" With this thought in mind, Miss Williams set out quite cheerfully alongside Mrs. Wainmont, politely responding to, but not completely focused on, her idle conversation, as they walked from Gay Street to the Pump Room.

As the women drew close to the Room, Christina was filled with anticipation. Though she did not see Mr. Walcot anywhere outside, she reasoned that he would be inside. When they entered, she scanned the room but was interrupted when Mrs. Wainmont noticed a former acquaintance in the room and struck up a conversation with her. She, again, listened with politeness to the conversation, but at the same time continued her search. When finished her disappointment ran deep-she did not see him anywhere inside. Though the picture of composure alongside Mrs. Wainmont, her thoughts were troubled. Where could he be? Why would he not be here? Surely any gentleman would like to be seen in a fashionable place as the Pump Room! A melancholy sigh escaped her lips, loud enough for Mrs. Wainmont to overhear. "My dear, are you feeling ill?" asked Mrs. Wainmont, turning toward Miss Williams. "No-yes-a bit," Christina admitted reluctantly, her eyes low. Looking at her face and pondering for a moment, Mrs. Wainmont said, "Why don't you sample the waters, dear.

They will refresh you instantly," then turned her attention back to her acquaintance. Obediently, Christina quietly moved over to the waters, but rather than taste it, she came close to shedding tears into it.

"Is something the matter?" a voice said behind her. Startled, she turned around to see Mr. Holyton standing behind her, a picture of elegance in his fine clothing. His face was etched with concern, but she couldn't help but notice something new about him - a subtle trace of bitterness in his eyes.

"Yes-no-" she stammered, not really knowing what to say under his gentle gaze.

"Are you feeling well? Your face is rather pale," he said.

47

"Oh! No-no, I am well. Thank you for your concern," she said quietly. She suddenly became aware that he was alone. Her eyes quickly darted around the room, but Mr. Walcot was still nowhere to be found. She then looked into Mr. Holyton 's eyes, and summoning courage, dared to ask, "Please-there is something I must ask-about your friend, Mr. Walcot-" "Oh, him," Philip scoffed, "please, Miss Williams, do no ask me about him. Do not even mention his name to me! I loathe him immensely for what a disgrace he has just caused."

"Disgrace!" exclaimed Christina. "What-what sort of disgrace?"

Mr. Holyton fell silent for a moment, then offered Miss Williams his aim and escorted her to a less populated area in the Room. In a low voice, he began the story thus, "Last night, in the Ballroom, I could see how cha1med you were by my friend. I suppose, then, you ought to know what has occmTed. During the evening, sometime after you had left, Henry struck up a conversation of a flirtatious nature with my sister and continued to do so under my watchful gaze. I was deeply concerned, for her sake, of her being recently introduced to Bath society. She has, as you saw, a mind that is more concerned with fashion than such, but she is my sister, my only family, and I love her dearly. It was quite a shock for me to suddenly discover Henry in Bath on the same day we arrived. Eliza and he immediately took an interest in each other, so rapidly that I gave many words of caution to her not to be too flirtatious. It seems, however, that my words were ineffective. I am sony to displease you, for I could see that you were quite fond of Henry, but I must info1m you that Mr. Walcot and my sister are-" here he paused, then quietly continued, "-are engaged."

"Engaged?" cried Christina. "But this-it cannot be! How-" "It was quite sudden. One moment they were sitting together at tea, then the next they had disappeared. I searched at length for her, finally discovering her alone but shining with such happiness. I asked her where she had gone off to, and she said, 'Never mind that, I have more important news - I am engaged to Henry!' It was shocking news; my own dear sister, to be engaged, when she is but sixteen? But she confirmed it immensely.

Needless to say, I was rather stunned."

Indeed, so was Christina. She did not think Remy Walcot was capable of such behavior-but, perhaps that smile of his which charmed her hid much more than she knew. Then something dawned on her. "But, you said you kept close watch on your sister," she said, confused.

Mr. Holyton's face suddenly changed color. "Ah, yes-I was-or rather, I had-I must admit, I wasn't entirely focused on my sister's welfare 48

that entire evening. My mind was-preoccupied, for you see-" his voice dropped lower-"forgive me, Miss Williams, but I must tell you that-I am in love with you."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, blushing. Then, not knowing what else to say, asked quietly, "When?"

"Last night, when I first saw you. When we danced and talked, I was certain. I loved you in an instant. I believe that such an affection in your heart cannot be found in anyone, your intelligence and curiosity as none that anyone could possess. Please, forgive me for speaking so unexpectedly, but I must say this now, or I may never say it again."

Christina was overwhelmed. Rendered speechless, her mind became dizzy with the realization that, as soon as his quick speech had ended, she was strongly attached to him as well. In the midst of her happiness with Henry Walcot at the ball, she remembered how comfortable she felt with Philip, how easily they conversed over cards, how delighted she felt in discovering their many similarities, and how happy he made her feel amid all her recent difficulties. As soon as she recovered her powers of speech, she humbly admitted her feelings of him, of being blind to such goodness; at this declaration, his face instantly registered his happiness, the bitterness in his eyes quickly removed, and all his woes forgotten. In that moment, no greater joy could be found than in the Pump Room, even as the pair laughed over their follies. Such radiance as evident to all inside, even to Mrs. Wainmont, who finally pulled herself away from her acquaintance long enough to observe to Miss Williams, "I see the waters have done you well, my dear. Is not Bath a wonderful place?"

Looking at Philip, Christina remarked with a smile, "Indeed it is."

Despite the sad state of affairs due to Miss Holyton's abrupt engagement, Philip Holyton was, from that day onward, of an easy temper and joyful countenance. Miss Williams continued her stay with the Wainmonts in Bath for two months, having been informed of Mr. Holyton's affection towards their late friend's daughter. The end of those two months witnessed the engagement of Christina Williams to Philip Holyton.During this time, he informed her that her future lodgings were located in Wiltshire, at an estate that he recently purchased and repaired. Upon the mentioning of Wiltshire, she questioned him of whom had he purchased the estate. He answered that he did not know, but proceeded to describe the house to her; as he did so, a thought occurred to her - could it be? It would not be until after the wedding that she discovered the answer, much to her delight. Her new home was, in fact, her cherished childhood home-Huntingdon. And nowhere in England could a happier girl be found.

-Regina Frey 49

Brief Candle "Dammit, Trudy, would you put that book down and listen to me," he shouted angrily.

Trudy lowered her book far enough to see her husband. "No," she replied, knowing that he hated one-word answers.

Her husband glared at her. "You don't do a thing in this house anymore. You always got your nose stuck in some book," he said. "I asked you to pick me up some matches and candles at the store today, and you forgot! One simple en-and and you forgot it. You lazy little-" "It was a mistake, Lennie," Trudy shouted, rising form her chair.

"It was all a mistake! This man-iage was a mistake; you were a mistake!"

"What'd you call me?" he asked.

Trudy crossed her arms over her chest and remained silent.

Lennie moved closer to her, and she backed away. "You're the one that just made a mistake, girl," he said viciously. * * * Later that night, as Trudy lay sleeping on the sofa, Lennie crept into the living room, an empty beer bottle in one hand and a pair of shears in the other. Satisfied that Trudy was asleep, he slowly walked toward her.

Setting the bottle down, he picked up her book from the floor next to the sofa and closed the shears on it, cutting out the pages.

Trudy awoke to the metallic snip of the rusty shears. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded, watching the pages of her book drift to the floor.

Lennie answered with a nasty grin. "Now you don't have no excuses for ignoring me. Forget that stupid book and come to bed." He turned and went up the stairs to the bedroom.

"I'm not the ignorant one," Trudy said under her breath as she got down on the floor to gather up the loose pages of her copy of Fahrenheit 451. As she did, her eyes fell on one particular line, and she picked up the page. lfyou hide your ignorance, no one will hit you, and you'll never learn, she read thoughtfully.

A malicious smile crossed her face. "Oh, he'll learn," she said.

"He hides it, but he will learn."

Trudy let the remains of her book on the floor and ran to the kitchen.

Searching the drawers, she found a candle. Upstairs, she could hear the 50

old bed creak as Lennie sat on it. Renewed anger welled up inside, and she raced upstairs with the candle, lighting it at the top of the steps.

Opening the door, she found Lennie lying on the bed, watching television. She held the candle out to him. "There were candles downstairs," Trudy told him. "So you must not have looked before you told me to buy them."

"Sorry," slurred Lennie insincerely. "I'll check next time."

"There won't be a next time, Lennie!" said Trudy. She picked up the shears from the dresser where he had left them and threw them through the television screen.

Lennie lunged at her in a drunken rage, cursing. "I'll kill you! I swear I'11 kill you!"

Trudy snatched one of the empty beer bottles from the dresser and broke it against the doorjamb. Excited to malicious fury, she stabbed Lennie in the stomach and ran for the door. Slamming it, she shoved a chair under the knob. She could still hear Lennie bowling in pain and rage on the other side of the door. Trudy waited until he became hoarse, then deliberately dropped the candle on the carpet in the hall and walked out of the house.

Once in the yard, Trudy turned around to look at the house. She saw Lennie stagger to the third floor window and wave his bloodied hands at heďż˝ frantically. Then he opened the window.

"Trudy! You get back here! Open this door!" he shouted.

Trudy paid no attention to him. "Life's but a walking shadow," she said to herself as she walked away.

"Trudy!" Lennie screamed.

"A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more."

"Trudy, please." Lennie begged.

"It is a tale, told by an idiot-" "Trudy! Open the door!" Lennie pleaded.

"Full of sound and fury-" "Trudy!"

"Signifying nothing."

-Freda M. Terrell

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Folio 28 - Contributors Regina Frey, currently a Junior at Arcadia University majoring in History.

Having journeyed to England three times, she finds each trip sparked a greater fascination with British history and literature. Her favorite author is Jane Austin.

Diane Sahms-Guarnieri, currently a graduate student at Holy Family University, a previous contributor to Folio, and poet whose work has appeared in limited Editions and Poets Review.

Arthur Hill, student, Holy Family University and first-time contributor to Folio.

Jennifer Lee, currently a Senior at Holy Family University concentrating in English-Literature; she holds an associates degree in Art. Elizabeth Lehman, student, Holy Family University.

Marianne Marasheski, cmTently a Senior at Holy Family University majoring in English Literature; a member of the senior editorial staff.

Rachel McClain, currently a Junior at Holy Family University majoring in English Literature; a previous conh·ibutor to Folio.

Christopher Mote, currently a Junior at Holy Family University majoring in English; a first-time conh·ibutor to Folio.

Frank Nicoletti, a Holy Family graduate, previous contributor to Folio, and poet whose privately published work includes Doors in Walls.

Douglas Robinson, an English Literature major with a passion for writing and a hobby of collecting rejection notices; a collection of sh01t stories, Moribund in Paper, is among his privately published work.

Sue Roussel, cmTently a Junior at Holy Family University majoring in Psychology; a first-time conh·ibutor to Folio.

William Smigiel, cmTently a Senior at Holy Family University and poet whose privately published work includes First Questions of Man. Freda Terrell, a graduate of Holy Family University and fo1mer chief editor of Folio; presently teaching in the Philadelphia Archdiocesan School System.

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Staff Editors Editor-in-Chief: William H. Smigiel Assistant Editor-in-Chief: Douglas Robinson Editorial Assistants Marianne Marasheski Rachel McClain Kristine Weise Laura Mancuso Christopher Mote Diane Sahms-Guamieri Arthur Hill Corinne Ebinger Graphics Jennifer Lee Elizabeth A. Lehman Advisor Thomas Francis Lombardi, Ph.D. Professor, School of Arts and Sciences Special thanks to Mrs. Victoria P. Lombardi, M.A., for her valuable input and expert proofreading And to Sr. Johanna Gedaka, S.S.J, Ph.D., Dean, School of Arts and Sciences, for her support

HOLY FAMILY UNIVERSITY