Folio 29

FOLIO 29@50

HOLY FAMILY UNIVERSITY

Contributors: Elizabeth Nestel Senior English concentrator and first-time contributor.

William H. Smigiel Graduate, former editor and contributor.

Dorothy Oczkowski Continuing Education student interested in writing.

Daniel Picker SAS instructor.

Karen Steward Senior English concentrator and first time contributor.

Rachel McClain Senior English concentrator and former contributor.

Matthew Gremo English concentrator and first-time contributor.

Christopher Smith Senior English concentrator and first-time contributor.

Diane Sahms-Guarniere Graduate, currently teaching in Council Rock School District.

Christopher Mote Senior English concentrator and former contributor.

Freda M. Terrell Graduate, teacher, former editor and contributor.

Andrew Romano First-time contributor.

Regina Frey Arcadia student and former contributor.

Douglas Robinson Graduate, English concentrator and former contributor.

Frank Nicoletti Graduate and former contributor.

Tanya Kosabutski Senior English concentrator and first-time contributor.

Jennifer C. Lee Senior and former graphics contributor.

Nicholas Niedosik Senior English concentrator and first-time contributor.

Contents Everything is Bigger in Texas , Elizabeth Nestel .... ... ........ .... .. ....... ........ 2 Be Still the Wheel, William. H. Smigiel .................................................. 8 Working Out the Past, Dorothy Oczkowski ................................... .. ....... 9 Blackbird, Daniel Picker ..... ... .. ... ..................... ......... ....... ..... .. ........... .. 19 Remotely Possible, Karen Steward .... ............ ... ... ......... .. ................... .... 20 The Hands in the Sky, Rachel McClain ...................... .. ........................ 23 Valentine's Day, Matthew Grem.o ........... .............. .... ..... .... ... ...... ...... .... .24 Promised Land of Life and Loss, Christopher Smith ........................... .34 Snowman, Diane Sahms-Guarnieri ................ ........ .................. ..... ..... . .42 A Different Shade of Gold, Christopher Mote ............................. ........ .44 winter things, Freda M. Terrell ...... ... .... ............. ............... .............. ... .... 55 The Perfect Escape Hole, Andrew Romano .......................................... 56 At My Door, Regina Frey .. ................ .... ..................................... ........... 64 Honey & Vinegar, Douglas Robinson ....................... ... ........................ 65 A Breath, Rachel McClain .............................................................. .. .... 78 Ballad of Billy Howe, Frank Nicoletti .................................................. 79 Words to Live By, Tanya Kosabutski .................................................... 81 Dad's Nightmare, Frank Nicoletti .. .. .................. .... ........................ ...... 86 What Faith Knows, Jennifer Lee ................................................ .......... 87 Let's Make a Deal, Nicholas Niedosik ........ .......................... ................ 92 Sweeping, Rachel McClain ... ... ......................... ..... ............. ......... .. .... 100 Something About Life, Douglas Robinson ............ ... ........................... 103

Folio 29 The Folio is a belles-lettres publication of contemporary artistic expression. The Journal, thou gh student generated, encompasses in words and graphics the combined talent of the Holy Farn.ily University Community. Submissions, however, are welcome from contributors beyond the University Community and forwarded to the following address: Folio , School of Arts and Sciences, Holy Family University, Grant and Frankford Avenues, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 19114 Š 2004 Holy Farn.ily University, Philadelphia, PA ~

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Everything is Bigger in Texas The Alamo. I chuckled at my unusual wit and idly swung my legs over the edge of the trampoline. Only in Texas would they make such a big deal out of a defeat. Everything is bigger in Texas- even losing. The mid-afternoon sun tinted my fair skin with oddly-shaped streaks of pink, to which I fruitlessly reapplied sunscreen. Sighing in defeat, I tossed the bottle aside and wiped my now-sticky hands on my shorts.

The screen door banged, and six pairs of young feet barreled down the wood steps of the porch, elbows and pigtails flying. I sat up and braced for the onslaught. My back protested as the girls pushed past me to tumble head over heels onto the slick surface of the caged trampoline.

The three boys shrugged in momentary disgust at being outmaneuvered by mere girls but recovered quickly and raced away to check on the progress of our imminent boat departure. I unsteadily climbed to my feet, grasping a handful of net as I did so. Silently questioning my sanity, I nodded my agreement to the girls' demand that we play "crack the egg."

My oldest daughter, Abby, immediately volunteered to be the first egg.

She curled her compact almost-12-year-old body into the fetal position smack in the center of what I privately dubbed the slippery black plastic from hell. Jumping up and down in unison with my eight-year-old daughter Emily and almost-ll-year old niece Colleen, we bounced as hard and as high as we could in an attempt to bounce Abby out of her self-imposed arm-lock. Despite my misgivings at possibly crushing my sweet and easygoing middle child, I laughed aloud with my children at the pleasure and the absurdity of our game. Abby was a tough egg to crack, but my superior strategy, i.e. my weight, invariably won out. Since I had explained the previous day why I was unable to "be the egg"-age combined with fear-Emily quickly took her sister's place in the center, and our game began anew. Emily's tiny little body flew so far up in the air that I had time to roll underneath her before gravity reclaimed her once again. Emily cracked, and we all flopped down to rest before Colleen 's turn.

The sound of a car's motor interrupted our momentary stillness. My husband Tom and his cousin Ginger had returned with a towable. Oh, 2

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goody. For the uninitiated, a towable in Texas refers to a large raft for one or two people to ride in while being towed behind a boat, hence the name.

I shuddered as images of yesterday's immortal ride in the towable flitted through my mind. Normal people ride along placidly in their nice comfy raft. But we were on vacation in Texas, and in Texas, "y'all" must know that placid is for sissy "Naw-thaaaa-ners." Unaccustomed to being labeled a sissy, I smugly took my place in their so-called towable, secure in the knowledge that neither speed nor sharp turns nor crashing through another boat's heavy wake would dislodge me. As an added precaution, I grasped the handles on each side from underneath and curled my fingers tightly. I smiled and laughed and gave my best imitation of a red-carpet wave as the boat accelerated through the choppy water. I feigned a yawn and stretched with apparent boredom to incite the skipper, Ginger's husband Mike, to go faster. My son, Tommy, screamed with delight as my puny raft began to bounce through the cold spray. At thirteen, he stood straight and tall in the back of the boat, waiting for his mother to make a fool out of herself. Unfortunately, it did not take me long to oblige him. My flimsy transportation skittered through a monstrous wave that upended the towable. My fingers regrettably remained curled firmly around its handles. I did not even have time to scream as I smacked the cement-like water face first. If not for the mandatory life vest, I would still be at the bottom of that lake. Nevertheless, I eventually bobbed to the surface and immediately checked to ensure that my arms were still attached to my body. With a single glance back at the boat, I saw the entire crew convulsed with laughter and pointing at me. Fortunately for my bruised ego and crushed vertebrae, their insults becam~ lost in the din of the boat's motor. Even from a distance, however, I could see the concern etched on my husband's face. I smiled grimly to myself because I knew that if I broke my fool neck he would never forgive me for leaving him with the three kids! I waved gamely and climbed back into the towable. After my second unceremonious ejection, I pseudo-reluctantly relinquished my watery throne.

I was jolted back to reality by the sound of my son's voice, lowered to an unaccustomed whisper. Immediately suspicious, I shamelessly eavesdropped. I smiled as I caught the gist of their conversation.

"Abby-isn't this the greatest?"

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I leaned in a little closer to better hear Abby 's response. She had mastered the art of whispering whereas Tommy was a novice. ''I'm having an awesome time, Tommy. This is the best vacation we 've ever gone on! " I grinned, contented that my darlings were so happy, but then Abby continued.

"Of course, we hardly go anywhere."

My face fell, and Emily piped up.

"Uh-huh. We go up the mountains and down the shore and to the neighbor's pool! " "Oh , Emily," Tommy scoffed. "You 're such a baby. You don ' t know anything."

"Do, too!"

"Em, we can go up the mountains and down the shore because we have family that lives there. We don ' t take any real vacations. We're only here now because Daddy is related somehow to the Quinns."

"We went to Disney World," Abby inteljected.

Hallelujah-thank you , Abby, for sticking up for us, I thought.

"Yeah, but that was two years ago. Besides, I'm coming back here by myself next year." Although thirteen, Tommy 's voice had not yet begun to change, so he struggled to sound grown-up and important. ''I'm going to be rich after I graduate from eighth grade, and I want to come to Texas again next year. If I could, I wouldn't go home with you guys next week-so there! " "Tommy," Abby 's voice was aghast, echoing my own dismay. "How can you say that? Wouldn ' t you nliss Monuny and Daddy?"

"Not a bit," Tommy asserted importantly. "We could e-mail. It's way more fun here than it is at home. Aunt Ginger and Uncle Mike live in a really cool house, and their T.Y. is the best. Mike has every game system, and I just have that old Play Station 2."

Tommy was turning combative, so I stepped into the breach before things turned nasty. I felt a bit surly myself, so my voice grew sharper than I had intended as I broke up their little tete-a-tete.

Later that evening, I recounted their conversation to Tom. "Tommy 's getting a little big for his britches," he commented.

"Well, you know Texas," I sighed. "Everything is bigger in Texas."

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The following morning, Tommy informed me that day two 's festivities on the lake awaited me. When asked if 1 wished to give the towable another go, 1 magnanimously deferred to the children 's pleasure.

However, 1 accepted Tom 's invitation to ride with him on a Sea-Doo. A Sea-Doo is akin to a snowmobile on water. As we skimmed lightly over the clear lake and jumped the churning waves, 1 cherished the joy of the moment. 1 reverted back to my youth, pressed LIp against Tom's strong back with my anns wrapped snugly around his waist. Nevertheless, 1 could not ignore the insidious frisson of fear that crept up my back and through my body. At twenty, 1 had vowed to always remain a thrillseeker-to eternally ride roller-coasters , towables and Sea-Doos, regardless of advancing age. At forty, 1 questioned the wisdom of keeping promises made at twenty! This unaccustomed fear was all the more galling because Tom loved our wild ride. Tom never rode roller-coasters.

Tom declined to defy death and defend our East Coast honor by taking a turn in the terrible towable. His theory of participation dictates that if he cannot drive it, he refuses to ride it. Since he was actually driving the Sea-Doo, 1 guessed it made sense that he was not afraid. Still, his unabashed delight in our wild ride made that small clutch in my stomach all the more startling. Once again, everything is bigger in Texas-even my growing fears.

Conversely, Abby climbed on the Sea-Doo between us and immediately exhorted her father, "Faster, Daddy, faster! " The faster Tom drove through the relentless waves, the higher Tom, Abby and 1 bounced.

The higher we bounced, the more tightly 1 clenched my bare thighs around the saddle. Unfortunately, each time we flew up in the air, 1 donated a layer of souvenir skin to the seat. After several involuntary skin grafts without benefit of anesthesia, 1 prudently (I thought) moistened my thighs with lake water to prevent a reoccurrence. Suddenly, concern for retaining all of the skin on my legs became secondary to keeping my body in one piece. My now pre-moistened thighs provided absolutely no assistance in keeping me aboard. My only protection against another dunking in what 1 already knew to be a concrete lake consisted of holding on to Abby and praying that her thighs remained dry. While I mentally calculated the recovery time for a broken bone, Tommy flashed by, driving (driving!) his own Sea-Doo with his older cousin, Gina, as his

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passenger. They cut through the crashing waves with youthful abandon , heedless to what I perceived to be imminent disaster. My heart lodged painfully in my throat, but Tommy and Gina waved briefly and roared past. No frissons of fear for them! A flash on the horizon caught my eye.

Emily, silhouetted against the bright Texas sky, took her turn in the towable. I vacillated between irritation and pride, watching as my featherweight youngest managed to avoid copying my graceless separation from the towable. In fact , she had the nerve to make it look easy!

I returned to the trampoline that night, except this time I was alone.

Slapping at burro-sized mosquitoes, I reflected sourly that Texans were carrying this "everythin g is bigger theme" a little too far. I tipped my head back and rested it against the cool mesh netting. The heat of the day had abated; the temperature had probably lowered to a chilly 93 or 94 degrees after a high of 106. The black plastic trampoline retained the heat of the day, but it conveyed warmth as opposed to oppression. Grateful for the brief solitude and unusual silence, I consciously attempted to store the memories of our rapidly dwindling vacation days. My children were having the time of their lives, and I knew it. Although I mourned my diminished unfettered enthusiasm, I rejoiced in my children 's joie de vivre. I accepted the bittersweet knowledge that as I wrestled with feelings of fragility, physical limitation, and mortality, my children were reveling in youth, power, and invincibility. They were growing and changing and spreading their wings , even faster, it seemed, than usual.

The circle of life was alive and well in Texas.

The fading orange sun winked at me one last time before he finally slipped over the edge of the lake and went to bed. I rose to my feet, intending to follow his lead, when a sudden brightness caught my eye. A huge silver moon emerged in the deepening twilight. I blinked and looked again. I had never seen a bigger or more brilliant orb. The sun had masqueraded as a quick-change artist, ducking down just long enough to don his silver disguise and rise once more. Even Mother Nature becomes complicit in Texas, genuflecting to their state pride by hanging her biggest moon right smack dab over our host's appropriately large Texan lake house. I threw up my hands in surrender, and reluctantly conceded that Everything is indeed Bigger in Texas. Tom emerged from the 7

darkness and escorted me back to the house. The screen door slammed behind us, and we turned back for one final look. Now a convert, I raised my arm and gave a respectful salute. Remember the Alamo!

--Elizabeth Nestel

Be Still the Wheel You stand in the house and listen to the silent sounds tick, tick, tick then above, a gentle thud a leap from a countertop time to feed the cat, feed the cat You work in the house and make real the living sounds tick, tick, tick finger and sandpaper 3 inch brush upon the wood carven my hand, carven my hand You delve into the house and listen .. .Listen! tick, tick, tock a lime, another beer two nudes upon the stairs hush your mouth, hush your mouth You wait in this house for water to boil and baby cries tock, tock, tick another day, another year and be still the wheel rock back and forth, back and forth -William H. Smigiel 8

Working Out the Past Not a cloud in the sky, thought Jane, as she looked out at a beautiful heaven of azure blue. Too nice a day to be sitting inside peddling a bike to nowhere. I should be taking a walk outdoors. Today is the kind of day one can imagine good things happening. Depression is lifted and impending divorce doesn ' t look so bad after all.

Jane looked around the fitness center. She saw the dancers, the prancers , the spacemen and the comets . These were the names she gave to the types of men she saw here regularly. The dancers sit down at a weight machine, do a few reps , then stand up and pace around a little while shaking out their arms and legs , then sit down again and repeat the process. Prancers lift up their heads and shoulders and strut about with their butts sticking out like proud peacocks. The spacemen walk the stair climbers or run the treadmill with earphones on their heads and walkmen strapped around their waists, oblivious to the world around them. The serious muscle builders, whose bodies are the center of their universe, Jane named the comets . She didn ' t name the women. They all fit under one category - competition, she thought, with some bitterness left from her husband 's affair with the bitch he met on the Internet.

Jane eyed the row of bikers where she sat. Although she could see only his profile, the man three bikes down looked familiar to her, as if she had known him at an earlier time in life when he was younger. Maybe he just looked like someone she had seen on TV. A few minutes passed and suddenly the man stopped peddling, stood up and faced Jane's direction. Even if she hadn ' t seen his face, his tall stature provided the missing clue. Larry Sarducci stood at least six feet five inches tall, and his dark curly hair, now peppered with gray, only added to his attractiveness. He was still a hunk. No wonder Jane's best friend Maggie fell for him in high school. If only things had turned out differently, Jane thought. Maybe Maggie should have told Larry about the baby even if he had a new girlfriend at college. At least Eric might have had his real father in his life. Eric was 25 now and would be getting married on December 30th.

With his l1'Wther and stepfather gone, would he be happy to have his

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real father at his wedding? But what if Larry didn't want to be bothered with him? Rejection at a til1'le like this would be more upsetting than not having a father. Why did I have to see Larry here? Should I talk to hbn ?

After the accident Eric asked 111e if I knew anything about his father's whereabouts, but I didn't. Should I mind my own business or get involved? I hate decisions like this. What would Maggie want Ine to do?

We should have discussed this. But who knew she would go so quickly at such a young age, only 35.

Lan-y's huge brown eyes glanced at Jane as he walked by, without an ounce of recognition. Of course, he wouldn't remember me, Jane laughed to herself. Back when they doubled for the Junior Prom, Jane was 16, wore braces on her huge teeth and large glasses on her long oval face covered with teen-age acne, topped by a French twist of mousy brown hair. Her tall skeleton, weighing only 108 pounds, resembled that of Popeye's girlfriend Olive Oyl. Thank God, he didn't remember me, she thought. Now, with the help of contact lenses, newly crowned straight white teeth, a mane of frosted blonde tresses and an added 30 pounds, Jane was quite attractive, looking years younger than 42.

Jane decided it might be best to leave the past behind. Eric would be starting a new life in less than two months, and he didn't need a father to complicate things. Jane watched as Larry sauntered over to the Pec Deck.

She slowly dismounted her bike and casually positioned herself on a hip abducter in the next aisle, as far away from Larry as she could get.

Content that she had completed her workout without him seeing her again, Jane turned to walk toward the treadmills just as Larry approached the biangular rower. The two collided throwing Jane off balance, landing her lopsided on the padded roller of the leg curl.

"Excuse me," Larry crooned in his deep sexy voice, extending a hand to help her up. ''I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

"I, I'm fine, Larry," stuttered Jane as she perceived the shocked look on Larry's face.

"You know my name. Do I know you? You do look sort of familiar.

I'm sorry my memory isn't all that good, lately. I've been through a lot of stress. I'm in the process of taking a new job, moving back to the Philadelphia area and starting a new life. Did you know my wife, Tracy?

Did you know she passed away last year? The MS finally hit her lungs."

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"No, I didn ' t know. I mean I didn 't know your wife. I didn ' t even know you had a wife. Actually I haven ' t seen you since we were in high school. I was Maggie Clark 's best friend. She asked you to our Senior Prom at St. Mary's Academy, and I took your friend Tommy. How is Tom? Are you still friends?"

"We keep in touch during the holidays and occasionally with phone calls. You see, I work for the government and I've been living in San Diego the past ten years. Tom lives in Aleron, Ohio. By the way, I'm sorry but I've forgotten your name. Is it something like Joan or Joanne?"

"You're close. It's Jane, Jane Wagner, I mean Kowalski . Well, actually it's still Wagner until my divorce is final. Then I'm changing it back to Kowalski."

"Jane Kowalski. Yes, now I remember. You've changed quite a bit.

For the better, I might add. So how is Maggie?" ''I' m SOlTY to tell you she was killed in a car accident with her husband seven years ago. It was quite a shock. They left behind a son and a daughter."

"Wow! Looks like we've all had our share of tragedy." Larry continued, "I have one daughter and she's starting college at the University of Penn. Tracy and I were planning to have more kids, but then she got sick and the doctor advised against her getting pregnant again.

I'm happy I at least have Cheryl, and I want to stay close to her. I may be moving back to the old neighborhood or at least to the city. Right now I'm staying at my mother's house, but I'll need to get a place of my own so Cheryl can join me during school breaks. Maybe you could fill me in on a good place to settle."

"Oh, I don't know," Jane remarked, trying to discourage any further conversation.

Larry did not get the message. "Listen, I plan to have lunch at Carmen's Cafe after my workout. I heard they have great roast pork sandwiches. Would you like to join me?"

"Sure," Jane blurted out before she had time to think. Oh, why did I say that? Didn 't I just tell myself to leave the past alone? How can I go to lunch with the man who broke Maggie's heart ?

"I'll meet you at the front door in half an hour, if that's okay?"

"Sure," Jane repeated, feeling as if she had sold out her best friend.

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Twenty-five minutes later Jane was sitting on a bench by the glass front door waiting for Larry. Maybe I should sneak out. Or I could tell him I just remembered that I have to pick up my son at the video store.

Larry sauntered over to Jane as she sat smiling numbly. Five minutes later she was cruising down Broad Street in Larry 's rented white Lincoln Town car. "Not bad for a rental car," she commented. "I wouldn ' t mind having a car like this myself. I've got a small Honda Accord."

"I have a Cougar at home, but I may sell it and buy a new car when I settle here." It was only a six-mjl e drive to Carmen 's, and the parking lot was more than half empty. Larry dropped Jane off at the door and parked.

It was after 2 PM. so the lunch crowd had dwindled to two couples sitting at opposite ends of the restaurant. Larry fo und a small booth in the west corner of the room , and they sat down and waited for their waitress. A short redhead, in her early thirties, emerged shortly wearing black tight shorts and a white blouse open at the neck.

"Hi, I'm Katie, and I'll be your server today. What can I get you folks to drink?" Larry ordered a Bud Light and Jane asked for a White Zinfandel. When Kate returned with the drinks, she took their order for two roast pork sandwiches with provolone on a soft bun.

"So tell me about you and Maggie. What happened after high school?

You know, I really liked Maggie, but by the time I came home from Dartmouth on Christmas break, I heard she was married and having a baby, so I thought it best not to try and contact her."

"We heard you had a new girlfriend in college, so Maggie didn ' t want to bother you."

"Well , that was later. In my first semester I was just too busy for girls.

I was on a basketball scholarship, and I had to keep up my grades or lose it."

Jane gasped inwardly. He didn 'f have a girlfriend. If only Maggie had told him about the baby, her whole life might have been different. Maggie !night still be alive.

Larry continued, "I really wanted to contact Maggie, but time got away from me, and then I was afraid she 'd just brush me off. You know how it is when you're yo ung. No confidence so you pass up a lot of opportunities. Maggie was a real sweet girl. Who did she marry?"

"Her brother's best friend , Jerry Donovan. He always had a crush on 13

Maggie. They were corning home from a weekend at Trump Castle, celebrating their wedding anniversary. A tractor-trailer sideswiped them on the Atlantic City Expressway and forced them off the road into a tree.

It was terrible."

"So what happened to their kids?" LaiTY wondered aloud.

"Maggie's mother took them, but it was hard for her. She was so depressed after losing Maggie. I tried to help her as much as I could, but I had three kids to take care of, and I was devastated by the loss of Maggie, too. I think it even affected my marriage."

"Is that what happened? You said you were in the process of getting a divorce."

"Maybe it started there," Jane related. "But it all came to a head about six months ago. I caught myoId man cheating on me. He met some girl on the Internet, then went to New York to meet her. He tried to tell me nothing happened. Yeah, right! I'm supposed to believe that? I threw him out about three months ago, and last month I filed for divorce." Just then the sandwiches arrived and the aroma of garlic and herbs awakened a monstrous hunger in Jane.

"So, you have three children?" Larry asked.

"Yes, I have three sons, two in college and one in high school. I hope the breakup of my marriage doesn ' t have any bad effects on them. Right now, they're all pretty mad at their father," she said as she bit off a huge chunk of roast pork. It was delicious, spiced just right. For a few minutes they ate in silence, then made small talk between bites. Larry finished eating first and started talking about the new job he was going to have in Philadelphia. Jane enjoyed the conversation as much as the food and started feeling guilty. How could she enjoy being in the company of the person who had so deeply hurt her best friend? Furthermore, how could she sit here smiling at Larry and not tell him that he had a twenty-five year old son? Guilt and confusion began to give Jane a sour taste in her mouth, destroying the tangy herbal flavor left from the pork. She tried to wash it away with a hefty swig of her White ZinJandel.

"Is anything wrong?" Larry asked.

"No," Jane lied. "I think I ate a little too fast. It was so good."

"Would you like some dessert?" questioned their waitress Katie.

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"Yes," answered Larry at the same time that Jane replied,"No!" Larry ordered a slice of New York Cheesecake and a cup of black coffee, and Jane settled for just coffee with cream. Larry talked about the fast pace of life in California, while Jane mentally devi sed a solution to the problem she was facing. She fantasized Eric walking into the cafe and, upon meeting Larry, he immediately notices the resemblance and asks if thi s is hi s real father? Of course, Jane would have to say, Yes, and the father and son would tearfully embrace, forming a bond that would last forever. If only it were that simple.'

Larry finished his cheesecake after offering Jane a taste, which she reluctantly declined. Jane wanted to share the bill with Larry, but he wouldn't hear of it. He left a $5 .00 bill on the table and sauntered up to the cashier. Jane followed.

On the way back to the fitness center parking lot, Jane sat pensive while Larry discussed his future plans. He would be in California for the next three weeks, pack his belongings, give the house keys to the real estate agent and sell his car. In the parking lot, Jane and Larry exchanged business cards . Larry hugged Jane and gave her a peck on the cheek.

"I' ll call you when I get back to Philly," he said with a smile. "Then you can repay me for lunch by helping me find an apartment," he joked.

"So you did have an ulterior motive for feeding me," Jane replied , laughing. "And I thought you just liked my company."

"I can't deny that, Jane. I' m sure glad I decided to exercise today."

Jane snilled, silently thinking, I hope 1 can say the sante some day.

Jane pulled out of the parking lot still wondering if she should tell Eric that she had found his father or if she should have told Larry that he had a son. Jane occupied the remainder of the day with grocery shopping and housework. Saturday night she sat in front of the TV while paying her bills for the month. Without Bob's income, the checkbook balance decreased fast. She wondered how well she was go ing to make it on her own.

After church on Sunday, Jane picked up a family meal at Boston Market to share with her youngest son Greg when he came home from his soccer game. She stopped in Blockbuster to rent a couple of movies for the week. Yesterday'S encounter with Larry was just a vague memory.

Jane had at least three weeks to decide whether or not to unite the father 15

and son.

Monday was just another day at the office until a delivery man arrived at Jane 's desk with a beautiful crystal vase enveloping a dozen gorgeous crimson roses, so deep in color they could have been velvet. Boy, Jane thought, 1 must have really made an impression on Larry. She reached for the tiny envelope pinned to the green crinkled tissue paper and pulled out a heartshaped pink card. "Happy Sweetest Day! Can we start over again?

I love you," signed "Bob." "Wow," Jane muttered aloud. Bob remembered the date, October 17th, when he had proposed to me on his knee with a three-quarter carat pear-shaped diamond solitaire ring in his hand. Only he could have found a holiday that nobody but Hallmark celebrated - Sweetest Day! He was so romantic back then, twenty-two years ago. Tears filled Jane's eyes as she recalled that happy moment when Bob declared his undying love for her. Did he deserve another chance? Jane's hard heart began melting like a snowball in a microwave. She grabbed the desk phone and pressed the speed dial for Bob's office.

"Human Resources, Bob Wagner speaking."

"Hi, Bob. It's Jane. Thank you so much for the roses. They're beautiful."

"You 're welcome. How about dinner tonight at our favorite restaurant, Davinci' s?"

"Okay," agreed Jane. "Shall I meet you about 6:30?"

"Sounds good to me," Bob answered. "See you then."

Jane hung up the phone and sat mesmerized for a few seconds.

What's happening here ? First Larry, now Bob. How did my life get so complicated in just three days?

When Jane arrived at Davinci's Restaurant at 6:25 PM. , Bob was already waiting in the lobby. Mondays were not very busy, so they got seated within five minutes. As soon as they gave their drink orders to the waiter, Jane blurted out the whole story of meeting LatTy and her dilemma. Since Jane and Bob were both Eric's godparents, Bob offered to be the one to tell Eric of his father, if Jane would talk to LatTy. She agreed. Somehow the whole thing seemed a little easier now that she had shared the problem with Bob. With that decision made, Jane relaxed and enjoyed dinner with her soon-to-be or not to be ex-husband. There was 16

still plenty of time to call off the divorce, and the choice was hers at this point.

The next day Jane decided she would tell Larry about his son in a letter. She wanted to be sure she got in all the details and wanted to give him a chance to absorb the shock before hearing his response. Her letter was in the five o ' clock mail that evening. Wednesday Bob took Eric to dinner and told him about Jane runnin g into his real father. By the weekend Jane still had not heard from Larry. ''1' m worried," Jane told Bob on Sunday afternoon. "Larry should have gotten my letter at least by Thursday. Maybe he doesn' t believe me or he doesn ' t care. What if 1 never hear from him again?"

"Oh, God," said Bob on the other end of the line. "I hope not. Eric is so psyched to meet his natural father. Maybe 1 shouldn ' t have told him until after you heard from Larry."

"Well, it's too late now. We both agreed to the decision so don ' t blame yourself. We ' ll just have to pray and wait. Let me go. There's my other line. It might be my mother. I'm supposed to take her shopping."

Jane clicked over to call waiting, and the voice at the other end was Larry 's. "Jane, I'm so glad 1 caught you. 1 was so busy all week that 1 never opened my mail till last night. 1 was dumbfounded. 1 didn ' t sleep all night. 1 never dreamed that 1 had gotten Maggie pregnant. It was just that one time when 1 was going off to college. We sort of got carried away. 1 wish she had told me. 1 was the one feeling rejected when 1 heard she married somebody else and was going to have a baby. 1 feel so guilty now. 1 can't believe 1 have a son. 1 really want to meet him," Larry shouted, genuinely excited.

"1 have conference calling," Jane remembered. "Let me see if 1 can hook you up right now. Eric really wants to meet you, too . Bob told him about you on Wednesday."

Jane nervously dialed Eric 's number but was elated when he answered . "Aunt Jane has a big surprise for you, Eric. Hang on a sec."

(Click.) "Eric, say hello to your father. Larry, here is your son. I'll let you two chat in private for a few minutes." Jane laid the phone down on the kitchen table and burst into tears. This was an overwhelming moment flooding her with emotions. She felt gratitude, joy and elation, as well as sorrow for all the lost years and for the loss of her best friend Maggie.

17

After composing herself, Jane picked up the phone and chimed in.

"How 's it goin ' guys?" she blurted. Larry and Eric had exchanged numbers and would talk more later. Jane said "Goodbye" to both of them and quickly dialed Bob to tell him the happy news.

The next few weeks whizzed by in a blur. Larry and Eric talked on the phone everyday, getting to know each other. Eric would meet Larry at the airport on Monday. Bob called Jane daily and they went on a few more dates, dining and dancing. Jane felt like she was in a movie that was running on super fast speed. Next Thursday would be Thanksgiving, and she had invited everyone to her house for dinner. Larry and his daughter Cheryl would be there, Eric and his fiance Brittany, Eric 's sister Danielle, Jane's mother and father, Jane 's three sons and her husband Bob. Thanksgiving dawned brisk and clear. It was perfect football weather.

Jane, Bob and the boys went to the annual Thanksgiving football game between Greg's Catholic High School and its public school rival. Jane's parents "babysat" the turkey in the oven. The football fans arrived home at 3: 15 P.M., cold and hungry but happy because Greg's team had won.

Larry and Cheryl came shortly after, having enjoyed the Annual Thanksgiving Day Parade from ringside seats in front of the Art Museum.

They brought wine and flowers. At 3:45 P.M. Eric and Brittany entered with two freshly baked pumpkin pies that Brittany had made that morning. She was introduced to her future father-in-law, who was impressed by her culinary ability.

At 4:30 P.M. the happy pilgrims started taking their seats while Bob carved the huge golden brown turkey, carefully laying each slice neatly on a platter next to the raisin stuffing and candied sweet potatoes. Green beans almandine, breaded cauliflower and a tossed salad already stood in places on the table waiting annihilation by the famished family.

Jane 's father, Stanley, sat at the head of the table and said grace.

"Thank you, God for all this delicious food and bless all those who are about to partake of this feast. Thank you for bringing Eric together with his father and for the sweet girl he is about to marry next month. And thank you God for my wonderful wife, Helen , my daughter Jane, her husband Bob and my grandsons Matthew, Andrew and Greg. Amen."

"Amen," everyone responded.

"Dig in," shouted Helen.

18

But Jane banged on her coffee cup with a spoon , calling for silence.

"Before we eat, I would like to make a toast. To my husband: Bob will be moving back in with us tomorrow. May our marriage come back to life and live forever." Everyone applauded. Bob donned a big smile and Jane's mother brushed away a few tears.

"That's great," Greg stated, "but when do we eat? I'm starved."

Laughter filled the room, as the diners reached for bowls of vittles to be passed around the table. After stuffing themselves for more than a half hour, everyone proclaimed that they were full to the brim. With a big smile on her face, Jane confessed, "Boy, am I going to need a good workout tomorrow."

-Dorothy Oczkowski

Blackbird Sitting beside there then you matched your tweed sleeve to mine, yours thatched black and white hatched gray, mine greenblue and black. Yo u asked, "What are yo u reading?"

"Patrick Kavanagh," I said before your reciting: "Clay is the word and clay is the flesh where the potato-gatherers like mechanized scarecrows move ..." I fell silent after "The Great Hunger." Then back to my poem "Moss Hollow" : "That gray graveled muddy road I walked down . .. past gurgling gutter streams of the soft shoulders ." Then at the heart you boxed in that broken line and proffered, "The flint wing of a blackbird."

-Daniel Picker

19

Remotely Possible "OK, now that's it! I've had enough! I want the remote control back!"

I screamed. For three days, I searched for the remote control for the television. I moved the sofa, the loveseat, removed all the cushions, and even looked behind the television-stereo-DVD combination. I checked all of the bedrooms, the kitchen, the kitchen cabinets, and the bathroom. The remote was gone.

I left the house wondering whether my plea would be answered. I never attempted communication with the spirits or requested favors before, but it couldn't hurt. This may sound crazy, but my house is haunted. Items have been misplaced, but they have always turned up.

Where do these things go? The television remote disappeared sometime Thursday night, December 19, 2002. On Monday, it still had not reappeared. No hardship: a missing remote. Changing channels isn't necessary for life or liberty, but in our house, the remote control rhymes with the pursuit of happiness. We felt desperate and deprived. Clicking through twenty channels in thirty seconds qualified as an aerobic activity in the house.

I started the car and proceeded out of the neighborhood. I had never heard any of our neighbors complain about missing things . Concerns about the kids, property values, or groundhogs living too close to the fence line seemed to have taken priority in conversations. Everyone tittered nervously when I mentioned the goings-on in our home. No one challenged my claims about a haunted house, yet no one seemed to believe me either. The "missing objects" discussion caused more than a few lifted eyebrows, and some nervous laughter, but never any exclamations of, "Oh, my God, me, too!"

At first, I just thought I was crazy : hearing things, catching glimpses of movement from time to time. My husband, Andy, failed to notice the spooky surroundings at first. He described my reaction as the behavior of an hysterical woman. After several months, the noises changed from a vague something to a definite sound: footsteps running up and down the hallway and doorknobs jiggling. The occasional mutterings of a small child became a weekly occurrence. The sing-song squeak kept a nursery 20

rhyme cadence. Andy admitted he heard something, but hesitated to name it. But, then, the images sharpened. Shadows took shape, not into any recognizable human form , but they appeared more distinct on the walls. Lights became visible in our digital photos. Unexplained orbs of bright white appeared in settings with no natural light.

My first encounter with the friendly spirits occurred during a storm.

I was alone and afraid and so sure of someone's presence in the house.

How poetic. Ijudged the storm had knocked a branch loose, and the wind kept brushing it against the house. I accepted this explanation until I walked down the hall. I realized that a tree limb could not make such a sound. At that moment, a light turned on in my bedroom farther down the hall. I raced to the telephone and called Andy, who was nearby. I knew that no one had entered the house through the front or back door, and I couldn' t understand why the dog had not barked. My dog may not be the brightest animal, but she usually barks at everything. After three minutes, Andy rushed in and searched the farthest reaches of the bedrooms and closets and shouted at me, "Worry-wart." My knight in shining armour, carrying a pipe-wrench.

The next time I heard the noises, I was more prepared. And no matter what happened, I would not call for backup. I sat, watching a repeat of "Friends," in the living room on the worn, hand-me-down couch.

Suddenly, my large green parrot, Mikey, started talking. He usually talks when someone enters or leaves the house or when the telephone rings.

Mikey greeted a shadow enthusiastically. He answered the typical welcoming questions and asked a few of his own. The lights flickered once and then Mikey stopped talking. Bingo started growling at the wall where the shadow had been. The footsteps followed . It sounded like someone running down the hall. Each step was distinct. It sounded like a muted, barefoot type of noise, not high heels. And then it was gone.

I began to understand that the house contained something not quite human but not imaginary, either. I wrote down the incidents carefully, looking for connections and patterns. Did the events occur when I was alone? Could I actually be going crazy or getting paranoid? Did anyone else in the house hear anything? I realized that the haunting episodes had no discernable pattern, daytime or nighttime, rain or shine, alone or with the family. When my step-daughter, Nichole, announced her firsthand 21

knowledge of the occurrences, I felt relief. I had never been a hysterical person, and the idea that I was becoming one disheartened me.

Andy, ever the cynic, finally believed me when the proof was in the photo. At my son 's 10th birthday party, we snapped a few pictures with our new digital camera. Once I had downloaded the pictures onto the computer, white spots appeared. I thought, "Maybe the specks are reflections of the sunlight from a window." On more careful examination, the dots appeared in the wrong places to show a reflection. And they seemed to be carefully arranged around the people in the frames. One photo revealed a halo-like aura around my friend 's head. Jennifer really needed an angel. Her husband, ravaged by mUltiple sclerosis, made life a constant struggle for her. The picture gave me a sense of peace.

These ghosts, or spirits, never hurt anyone. They actually seemed somewhat playful, running up and down the hallway, jiggling doorknobs, and turning lights on. If they wanted to appear in photographs occasionally, I would accept that. My newfound belief in our haunted household brought new and interesting occurrences. It wasn ' t just the lights in the house anymore; it was the stereo, or the television.

Sometimes, objects moved of their own volition. Not while we were home, but upon returning, pens would be on the opposite side of the table; papers would be flipped over. Again, nothing major. Nothing wisked us across the room or levitated us, but small pieces of household clutter ended up in other areas of the house.

All of these occurrences bring me back to my trip out of the house. I didn't want to see where the remote came from. I didn't want to watch whatever spirit might bring it back. I wasn ' t sure if pleading to the mischievous imps, elves, or poltergeists would help. Maybe I had sounded confident enough for my entreaty to be answered. Or maybe my request would be denied because demands could not be answered. Do spirits take orders from mere humans? Ijust knew that peace in my house depended on the return of the remote control. I had gone out for a drive and hoped.

I waited an hour before returning. I crossed my fingers as I opened the door, and what to my wondering eyes should appear: one remote control stranded in the middle of the living room floor.

-Karen Steward

22

The Hands in the Sky The claws that pulled me from Heaven Burned like fire in these wounds and scars I am reaching for the clouds I am falling Feels like I will fall forever Until I land Upon what seems like a cloud A bed of flowers SLmounded by books A voice tells me to escape And so I read But I fall again after the first story Smacked from my haven By the awakening hand of reality I am reaching I am falling Watching my escape fade Appearing like a hand in the sky When another hand catches me A voice tells me to use my own voice And so I listen to the music And I sing But when my song is over I fall again Reaching Falling And the voice rings out through the clouds "If ever you should fall My hands will catch you" Voices , words, music, love To fall back upon Another hand catches me Pen placed in my hand 23

And the voice says , "Use your hands" -Rachel McClain

Valentine's Day A teacher of mine once told me that life is full of adventures. Going to the store, walking your . love can be an adventure.

We might not reco . thing we do leads us to something than first these words to heart u y bitter day in Febru a day that reminded that they are single as they watch 0 This day ¡ ¡ is Valentine's Day. I have always """Lr" ll"~ me every time I got close to it. I . find true love, I would not let it escape me . .,. at the mall one October day with my friend Eric, and ctre:a'illS walked over to say hello to him. Apparently they ,. When I saw her, my mouth became dry, and my brain After she fini shed talking to Eric , he introduced me , this is Natalie. She goes to school with us," Eric "''', UI'-'U out my hand to shake hers. Her hand was very warm ; . e. I stared into her eyes and became hopelessly lost in ... , . nice to meet you. You know I'm actually in your Spanish s~d. _ ... ' really? Yeah, I thi

"Well, I will see you in , Scott! " she added as "r ..d ,M '-"V ,

I have to get Spanish," she said I 24

she walked away.

"Hey, I know what that means , at least! " I shouted to her, but she just kept walking. I felt like an idiot, but, hey, that 's what love does to a guy.

I hopelessly pined for Natalie as the months went by. I finally decided to tell her how I felt. It was February so I determined Valentine's Day would be the day. My plan was uncomplicated. All I had to do was pick up some flowers , drive to her house, knock on her door, and profess my love. I figured that should work because women love that romantic stuff.

Each time I ran it through my head, it sounded more insane than romantic. Before I did anything, though, I consulted my dearest friend Eric for guidance since he knew her better than 1.

"So do you think it will work?" I asked Eric over the phone. "Like I don ' t want her to think I'm some kind of crazed psycho."

"Oh, I'm sure it'll be fine . I still think you should just straight up ask her out, though. The worst thing that can happen is that she says no and that she doesn' t like you, and that will be that. When you do show up at her door, just don't tell her you love her 'cause that intimidates a girl," Eric insisted. "She was tellin ' me that she 's lookin ' for a guy who isn't afraid to show up at her door with flowers."

"Yeah, I know. You told me that. That's where I got this stupid idea," I replied. "I would love to just ask her out rather than go through all of this trouble, but I was never good with telling a girl I liked them.

Sometimes I still feel like I'm in first grade."

"Well, to her it will be romantic and all that jazz, so it isn't that stupid," Eric responded . "So are you definitely going through with this tomorrow?" " Yeah, I got to. If I don ' t, I'll end up regretting it. You never know if this works out she could be my wife," I responded jokingly.

"That would be great. Seriously, though, I don ' t even know why you like her so much. A lot of people think she's a bitch. I have known her all my life, and I even think so. She's only nice to people when she wants to be."

"Well, I don ' t know. She always seems nice to me. I'm a ' love at first sight ' kinda guy, so personality doesn' t always come first to me," I replied.

"Ok, whatever. If you do get married, though, remember who helped

2S

you out," replied Eric.

"Don ' t worry. If we have kids, I'll name one of them after you," I said. "Ok, well , I gotta go. I need my rest. Tomorrow 's a big day."

"Ok, Scott, I'll talk to you later. Good luck," Eric said before he hung up.

I hung up my phone and changed for bed. I couldn ' t believe I was going to tell Natalie that I had feelings for her. I kept telling myself that the worst thing that could happen was rejection.

When I awoke the following day, I felt like going back to sleep. Panic surged throughout my body, and I didn ' t want to go through with what I was about to do . If only I didn ' t have school. Since it was Friday, I didn ' t have Spanish, so I wouldn ' t see Natalie, which was why I planned to visit her house to tell her what was on my mind. Before leaving for school, I checked the news for the weather, and the temperature was supposed to plunge into the low forties, with a slight chance of snow, and so, I donned my suede jacket and headed out the door. I planned to see her after school, so as each class went by, I became increasingly panicky. The good thing about going to college is that classes do not end at the same time everyday. On that day I finished at 12:05 in the afternoon, so when the time came, I went to my car and drove towards Natalie 's house. She lived some distance away, so I figured it might take me about an hour or two to reach her. She once told me that in order for her to get to school she needed to take a train because she didn't drive. Thank God, I do .

As I drove along, I realized that I only had thirty-five dollars in my wallet. I stopped off at the bank to withdraw fifty dollars because I figured if everything worked out as planned, I might end up taking Natalie to dinner or something. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I passed a parked police car. When I entered the street, I noticed that the cop was behind me. Thinking nothing of it, I continued on my way. After I passed the first traffic light, I saw the lights of the cop car flashing.

"Is he signaling me?" I asked myself aloud. I pulled over and the cop stopped right behind me, stepping out of his car. I rolled my window down and greeted him. "License and registration, please," the cop insisted, as he looked me over. This was not good because for one thing, at that moment my license was three weeks expired, and, two, I had no idea where the hell I had put my car registration.

26

"Yeah, hold on a sec," I said as I frantically searched for my registration. I couldn ' t find my registration, so Ijust gave him my license.

Once he had it, he walked back to his car. "It sure would have been nice of him to tell me what I did wrong exactly," I said to myself. After ten minutes the officer still had not returned with my information. With a sudden jolt, I suddenly remembered that my registration was in my sock drawer at home. I became irritated and felt like getting out and asking him what was taking so long. Had I done that, though , he might have thought I was trying to run away, and he would have to tackle me to the ground. I also thought about my cell phone, that I might call my parents, but he might think I was pulling out a gun or something and that wouldn't have been good either. I turned it on , but I didn ' t get a signal , of course, so I placed it on the passenger side seat. After another ten minutes, the officer finally came back.

"You have three tickets tonight, sir," the officer stated. "The first is for having an expired license, the second 's for not having your registration form, and the third's for having an outdated inspection sticker," the officer explained. "The sticker is why I pulled you over," the officer added.

This cop sure did have a good eye, I thought. I took the tickets and looked them over.

"According to the Live Stop Program, we must tow away your vehicle," the officer said suddenly as I looked up at him in shock. "Please, step out of the car," he demanded. Just then , a tow truck pulled up in front of my car.

"You have to be joking," I said as I got out of my car and watched them tow my car away, and when it was gone, the officer handed me a paper that explained how I could get it back.

"Where are you heading?" asked the officer.

"To a frie nd 's house in Mount Airy," I replied.

"Well, I can either drop you off at the nearest train station , or I can take you to my precinct, and you can call for someone," the officer told me.

"You can just take me to the train station ," I replied . The consideration of calling home and telling my parents that my car had been impounded did not cross my mind , but the fact that I still wanted to 27

tell Natalie I loved her did . I stepped into the backseat of the cop car, and he drove me to the nearest train station. He dropped me off a few blocks away because he was needed el sewhere. As I made my way to the station , I checked my pockets and suddenly remembered that I had left my cell phone inside my car. I slapped myself in the head but continued on my way.

I noticed a middle-aged man selling flowers across the street. I decided to buy Natalie some roses at a flow er shop, but without my car, I was unable to do that. I approached the man and asked him how much the flowers cost.

"It's six dollars for three roses but ten dollars for six," he told me as I took money from my wallet.

"I' ll take six roses, please," I said as I handed the man the money. The street vendor looked around and then back at me.

"Scratch that. Make that all of your money for six roses," he said in a threatening voice.

"Excuse meT I asked. I stepped back a bit, but the man took out a switchblade.

"You heard me, kid. Give me your money," he demanded .

In a state of fear, I handed over my wallet. "And your jacket too," he added.

"B ut it's freezing out! There's snow on the ground! " I shouted back.

"Why do you think I want it? Plus, better your coat than your life, kid," he said as he swayed the knife side-to-side.

I removed my jacket and gave it to him. "Here you can have these flowers ," he said, handing me six partially dead roses. He then took everything he had and stepped into his car across the street and drove off shouting, "Happy Valentine's Day!" "That son-of-a-bitch," I said in disbelief. "This is a very bad day.

These are probably omens telling me to go home and not see Natalie.

Either that or this is all a test of my love," I said with self-ass urance. I continued to walk towards the train station, and thoughts of Natalie comforted me and caused me to forget my troubles.

I finally arrived at the station, and I checked the time to see which train would take me closest to Natalie's house. As I sat waiting for the train to pull in, it started to snow. I huddled up to keep myself warm, but

28

it wasn ' t working. Just when I thought I was about to die from hypothernua, the train finally arrived. I boarded it immediately and took a seat next to the window. As the train began to move, I could feel myself warming up. I then heard a voice boom over the aisle.

"Tickets! Tickets, please! " shouted a man walking up the aisle. I had no idea what to do. I had no money. I didn ' t know if he would believe my story and let me slide or if he wouldn't care and make me get off at the next stop. He walked over to my seat and asked me for my ticket.

"Ticket, sir?" asked the conductor impatiently as I imagined him throwing me off the train.

"Well, the thing is sir, urn, I don ' t know how to say this, but I got pulled over by a cop, and he towed my car away, and he dropped me off here, but then a guy robbed me when I was going to buy some flowers off of him," I said in one breath.

"So you don't have a ticket?" he asked me with a bit of hostility in his voice. "I'm afraid you have to get off at the next stop."

"Ok. .." I said looking down at my eighty dollar flowers.

"Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt, but I will pay for his ticket," said a voice from behind me. I turned around and saw a lovely sight. She wore some kind of hospital uniform but appeared to be my age, so, I guessed that she had to be a volunteer at a hospital somewhere. She had the cutest face. Her golden blonde hair fell down to her shoulders, and it shone like the sun. Her eyes burned into my soul, and at once, I forgot about Natalie.

"Is it all right with you if I paid for your ticket?" she asked me.

I just nodded my head up and down. The conductor rolled his eyes as he accepted her money and gave me a ticket.

"Thanks , a lot. After the day I've had, I needed that," I said as I gazed into her eyes. "My name is Scott, by the way," I said, stretching out my hand .

"My name is Lynn. Nice to meet you ," she said as she shook my hand. "So, not having a good day, are you?" she asked.

"No, not really. I was on my way to tell this girl that I like her, but I got pulled over by a cop, and he had my car towed with my cell phone still inside it. If things couldn't get any worse, a street vendor robbed me when I was buying some roses from him. He even took my jacket! " I

29

said.

"Wow," Lynn said.

"But, hey, he gave me these, so it's not all that bad," 1 said, showing her the flowers.

She giggled at my last remark, and 1 thought she had the greatest laugh. "That sure is a bad day. Good thing 1 was here to buy your ticket, or you 'd be stuck again," Lynn said. "So where does this girl live?"

"Mount Airy," 1 replied.

With an uneasy look on her face, she asked, "You do know that we are heading in the opposite direction of Mount Airy, right?"

My mouth dropped.

"You better get off at the next stop. You got the right train. It's just going in the opposite direction. All you need to do is cross the tracks and get on the other side."

"Ok, thanks," 1 said as the train began to slow down.

"Wait, here is some money for another train ticket," she said as she handed me some money.

"You don't have to. I'm sure 1 can find a way on," 1 told her, but she gave me a look that seemed to say: haven't you learned your lesson yet.

"Thanks a lot. If 1 ever see you again , remind me to pay you back."

"I will. Bye, Scott! Good luck with everything!" Lynn shouted as 1 got off the train.

1 saw her wave goodbye from the window, and I waved back. For some reason I wished that I had stayed on that train with her. 1 tried to think about Natalie, but Lynn's image kept popping up in my head as 1 rushed over to the opposite platform. When the train finally arrived, I checked to make sure it was going to take me to Mount Airy. After 1 did, 1 boarded and paid for my ticket.

1 arrived at the Mount Airy Train Station, and 1 was the only one to disembark. The day was late and the sun began to set. 1 had to walk up a large set of stairs to get to the street. Once 1 reached the top, I noticed a man selling flowers on the sidewalk. The guy looked familiar and seemed to be wearing my coat. I then realized that he was the guy who had robbed me. Overcome with anger 1 walked up to him.

"Hey, remember me?" I stated angrily.

"What? Holy God, where did you come from? What did you do?

30

Follow me?" he asked, panic-stricken.

"No, I didn ' t follow you, but if you don ' t give me back my wallet and my jacket, I am going to call the cops," I said staring him in the eyes. I didn ' t have my phone, but he didn ' t know that. Hopefully, he wouldn't call my bluff.

"What? You didn ' t call them already?" he asked.

"Yeah, I called them, but if you don ' t give me my money back, I will call them again, and this time I'll give them your license plate number," I said as I glanced at the back of his car. He stared at me and then pulled out his knife.

"Crap. I forgot about the knife," I said staring at his blade. Just then , a train roared by and let people off at the stop below the stairs. This time a large number of people stepped off and came up the steps. A sense of relief washed over me when the train came because the man had no choice except to put his knife away. I pointed out a police officer who stepped off of the train to the street vendor and instructed him to give me back my money and jacket - or else. When the officer reached the top of the stairs, I backed off and shouted to him that the street vendor had threatened me with a knife. The vendor, of course, denied it, but I explained my story to the cop. The officer patted him down and discovered the knife and my wallet. The cop handed back to me my things, and I checked my wallet, with about thirty dollars missing. I didn ' t care, though. I was content getting my jacket back because I was freezing. After I had given the cop all of my information, I continued on my way to Natalie 's house, which was only a few blocks away.

It was beginning to snow even heavier and getting hard to see. All I had to do was cross a busy street, and then I would be home free. My hands were numb , and I couldn't feel the flowers that I held. I looked in each direction before I crossed, but I didn ' t see a thing. I assumed that it was clear to cross because I did not see any cars. As I did, I suddenly heard an earsplitting horn. I turned my head to the right, and the last thing I saw were two bright headlights approaching towards me, and then everything went black.

I felt as if I was waking up from a dream. I didn ' t know where I was or what had happened to me. As my wits came back, I noticed that I was in a hospital room with the worst headache I had ever had in my life. I 31

took my hands and felt my head, and I could feel that it was wrapped in a bandage. I then remembered the headlights and knew at once that a car struck me. I leaned back and let out a great sigh. I turned my head to the side and saw that the lifeless roses I had with me were placed inside a vase. I laughed weakly and could not believe that I still had them. A nurse then walked into my room with a smile on her face.

"Glad to see that you're finally awake," the nurse said in a kind voice.

"You gave us quite a scare last night. We didn' t think you 'd make it," she said as she checked my blood pressure. "Well yo u seem to be doing very well. We found your ID in your wallet and notified your parents on what happened. They are actually outside in the waiting room right now," she informed me.

"Ok. Thanks," I replied.

Before the nurse left to retrieve my parents, she pointed to a chair in the corner and said, "Oh, by the way, a pretty yo ung lady has been watching over you all night." As the nurse made her way out of the room, I heard her say, "Happy Valentine's Day." I did not respond because I now loathed Valentine's Day with a passion. I looked over to where the nurse had pointed, and I couldn't see the girl 's face because a blanket covered her. I thought it had to be Natalie. The accident happened so close to her house that she had to have known what happened to me. Just then, the covers began to shift, and I saw the person underneath. It was not who I anticipated. Instead, it was the girl Lynn, the person whom I had met on the train. She was still wearing her uniform, which was wrinkled, and her hair was a mess. She looked so adorable, but I couldn't believe she was here.

"Morning," she said underneath a loud yawn. "How are you feeling?" she asked me with a worried look.

"I'm just fine," I said sarcastically. She gave me a look as though she knew she had asked a dumb question. "What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I work here. Hence, the outfit," she said standing up and showing off her wrinkled clothes.

"Wow, what is the chance of that?" I asked. I was so glad to see her even though I knew nothing about her except her first name. "So you were here all night?" I asked.

32

"Yeah. I saw you being wheeled in, and I had to make sure you were all right. I didn't want you to get out of paying me back my money," she said with a smile. "So were you able to get in contact with that girl before your accident?"

"No. I was so close, too, but I ended up getting hit by a stupid car," I said unhappily.

"I'm sony Scott. She will probably love you for going through hell for her," Lynn said seeming envious. "I was scared to death when I found out you were unconcious. Thank goodness it was only a concussion."

"I had a concussion?" I said in disbelief. Wow, this day couldn't have gone any smoother.

"Yeah, the nun that hit you feels absolutely tenible," Lynn replied.

"Almost killed by a nun. I guess God did want me dead," I said, shaking my head slightly. Just then, a police officer, an elderly nun, and my parents walked into the room. My parents hugged me and told me they loved me and asked if I was ok. I reassured them that I was fine, even though I clearly wasn ' t.

"Would you like to press any charges, sir?" asked the officer. I looked over at the nun, and she was staring at me with these puppy dog eyes as she held a rosary.

"I've had a very tenible day. I don't want to top it off by sentencing myself to Hell because I pressed charges against a nun," I said to the officer.

"Oh, God bless you, sir!" the nun said, clutching her rosaries. "I will pray for your swift recovery. I am so SOlTy. May God bless you," she continued saying. The officer then escorted her out of the room, and my parents went with them.

I looked over at Lynn and suddenly realized something astounding. If I hadn't been pulled over, robbed, and then nearly killed by a nun, I wouldn't have met her at all. Even the littlest things that happened caused me to meet her. Lynn caught me staring at her, and she instantly began to blush. She had a smile so perfect that it took away all of the pain I felt. I didn't really know what love was before meeting Lynn, but I realized that love is not something you can be ready for. It is unanticipated and happens at the unlikeliest times. For me, it was a series of misadventures that led me to my true love. I don ' t know if it was luck, destiny, or divine 33

intervention that brought Lynn and me together, but I know that I have found what I'm looking for, and I will not let it escape me.

-Matthew Gremo

Promised Land of Life and Loss Something very ironic exposed itself in the name Promised Land. The tornado that stripped part of the area of its wooded haven left areas exposed and quite honestly littered with broken promises. The suburban families with two point five children and the urbanites packing up two seat coupes in vain attempts to commune with nature found the name suitable for two weeks of roughing it in dilapidated cabins that came with cable and indoor plumbing. For others, Promised Land remained a destination to truly understand the idea of self and the concept of family.

Barry and Dylan used the time spent in Promised Land as a way to connect, to finally fulfill the link between father and son. The winter still had the northeastern part of the state at full submission to its potential for calarnity. The wind still bit the flesh with a vengeance and the snow still fell without hesitation. The rolling landscape that boasted sinewy lines and curves from trees rioting with leaves of every kind stood batTen. In its place lay twisting lines of white fury. The wind would swallow up the top layers and spit it in the faces of those exposed to the remorseless wind.

Barry stood at the front of the cabin for a moment while numb digits fingered through the ring of keys barren of any discernable markings that would have showed the key that opened the door. Dylan sat inside the car watching as Old Man Winter fought valiantly against Old Man Smoyer.

The battle ended in a draw. The blistering cold hugged the frame of the cabin while the inside filled with artificial heat.

Snow crunched under foot as Dylan traversed up the rickety front steps. Condensation lined the windows as hot and cold clashed at the pane. Dylan knew the trip to Promised Land meant much more to his 34

father than to him. He agreed to go because he realized that his last moments of boyhood into manhood came at a great expense to the relationship with his father. The offering came in terms of a peace offering but also as a chance to possibly learn about a man whom he loved dearly but truly knew little about.

"I told you it wouldn ' t be that cold ," Barry said bluntly.

Dylan looked up at him from the counter as the coffee he tended percolated at an excruciatingly slow pace. The extreme cold from the fifteen foot trip made from the car to the cabin still remained in Dylan's joints. The thought of being nearly twenty five years younger than Bany convinced him to keep the petty gripe to himself.

3S

"So, how are things? Are you and Kim almost done with the wedding planning?" asked Barry. The question came out with a tinge of sarcasm considering Barry knew that planning would end about the same time the wedding would.

"You know, Dad, I realized that in deference to my future wife and my training as a good husband, I have grown fond of nodding my head often and never saying no. Therefore, if I say little, I escape blame and future arguments."

Barry smiled. He always smiled when he looked at his son. A lifetime of triumphs and defeats shone in his eyes whenever he smiled. The past should remain there, but for Barry it proved impossible not to pity his son for all of the pain that Barry inflicted on him and his mother. The boy who reared a sick mother and accepted stories of a father in rehabilitation for his back grew up to be a fine man. This man that grew from a boy far ahead of his time still looked like and acted like his father. The idea often scared Barry. The addiction came at a price that he never prepared himself to pay, a lifetime of doubting that he could ever produce anything of worth. The little boy stood in rehab stairwells looking at his father, who was unable to hug him, to tell him how much pride he had for his young boy, and it ate at him.

"Sugar and cream, Dad? I think I forgot to grab the Nutrasweet."

The question brought Barry back into the present. Barry waved him over, not caring what was in the coffee but craved the heat of the liquid to vanquish the same chill that clung inside of him. Dylan sat in the same rocker he climbed into at night during the summer vacations and listened to the adults talk about the past as though they lived the greatest lives.

That always struck Dylan as peculiar. Not until recently had Dylan understood that although life leaves men weary and disenchanted, there is no way to change the past. The two options for tackling the past are to dwell upon the unchangeable or embrace the smallest of triumphs. Dylan looked at his father and smiled. He knew now that the stories of rehab for his father 's back were concocted solely to protect him, and he appreciated the concern. He knew the pain and guilt that his father harbored still exposed itself when the two were alone. An indirect apology would always surface when the two engaged in the conversations children yearn to have with their parents.

36

"That's some hot coffee, isn' t it? Hey, I said that' s some hot coffee isn' t it?" questioned Barry.

Dylan nodded in agreement. Mesmerized by the rocker as it started its slow methodic back and forth rhythm, Dylan curled his large frame into the sides of the oak arm rests. Snow began to fall just as it usually did in the late afternoon. The howling wind provided a cadence for the snow to fall. An abundance of flake s dropped heavily outside, covering the windshield of the car and the footprints of the duo .

The two sat in welcomed silence. Idle chat monopolized the car ride up to Promised Land. The two never experienced awkward silence. If something needed to be said, they would say it. For nearly two hours the wind and snow did the majority of the talking. The conversation of nature sounded a great deal like the conversations the two men shared in the past. Idle howling, explosive gusts, apologetic whisperings of wind mirrored the complacent conversations, heated arguments , and remorseful endings of tirades shared between the two. Dylan thought that perhaps life does not imitate art: it is life that imitates nature.

The internal dialogues grew jaded and perhaps too philosophical for such a surreal moment. The two self-appointed captives sat and smiled as the mere presence of each other provided enough entertainment until the evening settled in. A deck of cards found its way out of an attache case and into the nimble fingers of Barry. The aged cards flashed pink hearts and diamonds while grey spades and clovers peeked out while shuffled.

"You up for your Old Man beating you in a game of five hundred rummy?" goaded Barry.

Dylan looked up at his father who stood over him wearing a face of competitiveness. Dylan slid out of the rocker and pulled up a steel foldup chair to the kitchen table. Barry shuffled the cards furiously as Dylan noticed in awe how the two men looked so much alike. Even down to his father 's fingers that slid long and thick from out of his hand. The knuckles creased and wrinkled like the lines around a set of elderly eyes.

Taking notice of the subtleties the two men shared, Dylan understood something that bothered him for much of hi s life. The endless lectures of accountability, respectability and pure ability came from the fact that the two men were one in the same. The constant reminder of the perils of drugs and addiction came from Barry 's realization that since Dylan 37

looked and acted so much like him that he could have easily fallen into the same traps that Barry spent much of his life fighting to escape.

Dylan played his first hand of rummy to perfection. The ace of spaoe." the lone card that still remained black finished off a brilliant hand. The ace stood out amongst all of the cards. The card that signified death had in fact killed any chance of redemption for Barry. Dylan ended the game in five rounds. As midnight approached steadily, the two retired for the evening. The snow fell with reckless abandon, and the wind tore angrily at the structure. The two drifted off to sleep in the very manner that the snow had drifted casually against the walls of the clumsy structure.

The next morning Barry woke to the smell of burnt bacon and undercooked pancakes. The valiant attempt of culinary perfection amounted to an enjoyable breakfast nonetheless. The food disappeared before the hot vittles could be ruined by their turning warm. The cold, even with the industrial heater beating a steady seventy-five degrees on sparsely exposed flesh , could not defeat the bitter drafts of cold air infiltrating the cracks around the windows and doors.

"What do you say we head down to the lower lake to see how thick the ice is," Barry suggested.

Dylan looked up at his father to see if he had lost his mind. The miniscule gusts of wind that permeated through the thin walls kept the men wrapped in layers of clothing. How could he suggest the two brave the unbearable cold that waited for them outside?

Dylan looked up at his father and saw an eagerness to escape the confines of the cabin. "Yeah, why not? But if you think it's cold in here, what do you think we 're in for out there?"

The two men, in their shared resemblance of physical features and thoughts, began to reminisce. When Dylan was three years old, a blizzard had snowed the family in at their farm in Chester Springs. Barry always told the story of how Dylan walked out from the front porch and fell into a four foot snowbank. The snow grew so deep during the storm that it took Barry an hour to retrieve him from the wintry sarcophagus. Dylan remembered next to nothing of the incident. However, he heard the story so often growing up that the story became a small triumph in the face of a perilous situation. Dylan hoped that some day his children would

38

reminisce about their youth and recall such simple stories and hold them with the same regard.

"Do you remember the blizzard when we lived on the farm? I wrapped you up in your blue snow suit, topped off with the wool hat you complained itched your head."

Dylan looked at his father. He wanted desperately to ask him questions about life, about being a husband, about what it's really like to be a father. The thought burned a little, but the warmth of anything stirring inside his frozen chest came with a show of gratitude.

"Dad, can I ask you a question? When you were at rehab and trying to kick the drugs , what made you want to do it most?"

BatTy averted his attention from Dylan's face. A deep breath took in the icy air strong arming its way through the open door. His large shoulders slumped, and his hand reached for the door to the cabin. "Let's take this walk and we can talk about it."

The question came without warning, and the silence for the first ten minutes of the trek to the frozen lower lake grew, exasperating Dylan.

"Dad, you ever gonna answer me?"

The two men waddled for another hundred yards when they realized they were standing on the frozen lake. With frozen cheeks and what amounted to a face full of frozen tears, Barry turned to Dylan. Barry stood constricted in his five layers of clothing, desperately seeking the right words or the right answer to Dylan 's question.

"After my fourth attempt at rehab, I had a counselor take me aside and basically called me out. He asked me if I had any reason to live because if I had I needed to focus on that, or I was going to end up dead.

I thought of you . I thought of your mother. I thought about whether I had anything to live for because of all the pain I inflicted on the two of you.

The counselor didn ' t push me anymore that day but told me to think about it. Then, in a moment of divine intervention, I experienced the true grace of God. Up until that point I succeeded in only two things: marrying your mother and having you.

Dylan crept closer to his father. The boy who had grown into a man suddenly felt like that seven year old standing in the stairwell of the rehab, pushing past his mother, wanting desperately to have his father hold him. The memories of not being able to tell his father as he wrapped 39

his large arms around him that he loved him more than any boy could have ever loved a Daddy tore at him still.

"I received in the mail a letter from your mom and in that letter was a hand drawn card that you had made me. I keep it in my drawer at work and look at it everyday before I deal with any of my clients. It said on the front, "Dear Daddy, I miss you very much. I can't wait until you are better so you can play baseball with me." The inside read, "You show those doctors that you are gonna get better very soon because you need to go home to your son." I crumbled in my room when I read that. I realized that I still had so much more to give you than a legacy of a father who appeared and disappeared from your life every several months. So, when you asked me what made me want to quit the drugs for good, it was you."

Dylan grew up containing himself. He contained his disappointment when his father had to stay in rehab for another month or when his mother grew so ill she couldn't get out of bed to take him to visit his father. Containment became a facet of the past. In a single motion Dylan wrapped his father up in his arms and never wanted to let him go. He wanted his father to know that the legacy that he built for Dylan would be one that Barry would grow to be quite proud of. The two stood in the middle of Promised Land and fed from personal salvation. The frozen lake that fed the nearby streams in the winter had come back to life in the middle of a season rampaging from the obliteration of a beautiful autumn.

The trip to Promised Land sparked off a rebirth in a relationship that Barry and Dylan respected, understood, and prepared to nurture. The conversation during the ride home seemed less arbitrary and frivolous as the ride to the cabin. When Barry dropped Dylan off that night, he took Dylan in his anns the same way Dylan had taken him into his only a day earlier. He leaned into his son and offered a hug that neither had ever experienced. In a barely audible voice, Barry leaned forward and whispered into Dylan's ear, "I love you, son. You have and always will be the greatest source of joy in my life. Your mother and I are so lucky to have produced a man that will grow into a wonderful husband. I am proud of you."

Barry finished his profession with a very tender kiss on his son's

40

cheek. He looked at him once more and thanked him for spending time with his'¡old man." Dylan drove home that night thinking not of the proclamation made by Barry but his goodbye. Dylan realized how powerful a father and son relationship can be when cared for and nurtured by both parties. They had listened to each other and shared their thoughts.

For nearly two weeks after that inspiring weekend, Dylan lived his life with pride and understanding. He slept at night with a sense of resolve and a conclusion that family, especially the relationships with parents, can become a wonderful facet of someone's life. The seventeenth of February came like every other day. It crept from the darkness of midnight and opened the day with the decadence of a winter sun blasting light across covered fields and lawns consumed with snow. The phone rang rather early for a Sunday morning. Dylan's voice, deeper than usual from sleep, answered the line with exhausted apprehension .

"Dylan, it's your Aunt Shirley."

The words after that came in muted grumblings of disbelief and a sick joke gone terribly wrong. Dylan's heart sank into his chest, and the world around him spun from under his feet. The beauty of that morning sun sank faster than time could understand. The warmth of a man who opened his soul for his son to experience the journey from desperation to salvation ended before it ever truly began. Somewhere en route to a medicinal vault was the lifeless body of Barry. The man that should have died years ago from purging his system with filth and had overcome the savagery of addiction had died in his sleep. Life slipped from him without hesitation, and there, in a typical row home cast along another street in Philadelphia, Dylan wept.

The tears, maliciously burning his eyes and cheeks, drained along his hollow face. The spectacle of life, the shimmering moment of bursting through the door of adult anonymity surfaced determinedly back into Dylan's mind. The frozen lake that should have cracked under the weight of the world resting on Dylan 's shoulders that blustery afternoon in Promised Land preserved its strength. Now, so did Dylan 's.

Dylan cycled through the motions of preparing for a funeral. The coffin, the suit his father would wear, the number of people that would come for the viewing, the tender souls of two small sisters thrown into 41

death 's oblivion, and a mother, a wife, a silhouette of twenty two years of malTiage lost between a dream and a final breath lay in the wake of death's miserable storm.

Dylan, in a request to be alone with his father, closed the giant oak doors to the funeral home and pulled a chair beside his father's coffin.

The child that stirs desperately in the core of most adults crept willingly out of Dylan that night. The superhero that all boys turn their fathers into turned lifeless and void of expression. Dylan ached terribly in his heart, the clenched knot of despair and angry fits of rage chewed savagely through his body. Promised Land, the wintry escape still buried under snow wept convincingly that night, too. Dylan slid his hand under the fingers of Barry. He felt the cold palm and pressed deeply into the pale flesh of his father's fingers. There rose strange warmth in that moment of death's decree. The cool fingers of Barry's hand brought a sense of relief to Dylan. It seems, in the face of death and loss, the true spirit of Barry that burst passionately on that frozen lake tucked away in the woods, found life before he found death. The cool fingers became a testament that perhaps Old Man Winter had won that epic fight that took place on the porch of the aging cabin. Old Man Winter, Dylan thought, might have won the fight with Barry, but spring, in its rebirth of seasons, would have to fight valiantly to take the fire of life that burned undaunted in Dylan's heart.

-Christopher Smith

Snowman We giggle as you dip the tip of a paintbrush into canisters of colors painting three white circles a green top-hat, black dots for buttons a tinge of cherry-red, swirly nose lips brushed upward, a frozen grin and frosted blue eyes that see through both sides 42

of the storm window.

The snowman reads mom's angry lips Don 't stop at the bar! watches you walk to work.

Three squirming bodies dress in hues of velvet blues parade to church where the Holy Family lives.

Onward Christian soldiers march homeward baby Jesus nesting in our hearts.

The snowman's eyes dripping blue see you slipping and sliding in dark slush under the Christmas Star staggering up porch steps crashing onto the wooden floor.

Our splintered smiles fragile hearts hanging like empty stockings waiting to be filled with joy as we keep watch passing through silent night.

On Christmas day mom hoses your art away melting the snowman liquid as milk into the petrified garden.

-Diane Sahms-Guarnieri 43

A Different Shade of Gold The child lies in a straight and stiff position on the pallid cot at the far end of the ward. His back faces the window, the only gateway to a world that seems so much more attractive, so less gray, while he is turned to the tense mix of physicians and spectators. A tinted mask covers the portion of the face below his heavy eyes, which survey the room with timid streaks, deftly pleading for someone to take the thing off. A thick rubber tube extends from the mask to a small bucket below the cot. The nurse examines the mask to make sure it is attached correctly. "He'll be all right," she insists to the onlookers, but they are not consoled. The area that draws them in is the child 's stomach region, which has somehow been transformed into a pinball machine. Austere pipes, complex mechanisms running everywhere, the whole contraption looks like something the gulags could have utilized well. Most of the people standing about have only their flowers and balloons to offer, but they will not be present when the operation occurs. The boy, if he remains conscious, will.

In one corner of the room an older man, casually dressed, half concerned but half minding his business, paces impatiently. " It had to take place," he tells the observers, "or else the kid would've been screwed for life. And I know, it's a shame, he won't be able to ~at anything solid for a few weeks, they tell me. But he 's gotta learn. You learn something from everything."

Some of the visitors think he 's kidding. They timidly keep their distance and look away from him when he speaks. Nevertheless , the man asserts himself, hands behind back, keeping his bulky posture straight, peering past the cream-colored curtains and out the window, wearing a look of demand. He has the face of a war general who can smell victory and wants to tell his troops, "Let's get on with it already !" There is no discernible trace of pity on it, but he accosts me in such a way that shows he needs to talk to someone. "Our boy 's hanging on," he says. "I think he 's gonna pull through."

I decide to ask what in particular will be done to the boy.

"The little guy swallowed a penny," he says. "Didn ' t go down right.

44

That thing on his belly's a pump. They're going to force him to regurgitate his stomach contentS so it comes out in one piece."

I say, the poor child must be terrified.

"Yeah, well...like I said, there's not much else to do. It had to happen.

Besides," he tells me, "it's good character building. We had some options, but Paula and I were pushing for this one. Gastric lavage, they call it. You try to eat coins, you pay the price. But it toughens you." .

What if it only sickens you?

"Him, sickened? Don't even suggest that!" he says. "If he can't take it, he's worthless. I didn't raise him to be a coward. If he is, then he'd better get used to throwing up sooner or later. He'll be doing it plenty in a few years, when he's at the bar trying to drink his childhood away."

Perhaps, in a way, William Tanslet is your typical father. He is a man of tough love that every child would like to have as a parent. Honesty is a virtue that he exhibits on the long sleeves of his sweater. With arms folded, he suggests an authoritative figure who won't abandon his son in trying times. At the moment, though, he appears more concerned about my expression than the hidden face of the privileged boy.

"You look woozy. You're probably wondering why we couldn't do something else, like make him pass the penny into the john," he guesses.

I don' t give him a straight answer, waiting only for an elaboration. He gathers me aside, though he can find little personal space. "Look," he says, in a quieter voice but with a heightened tone: "it's not just any penny scraping his intestines!" The hospital feels like the setting of a drama on prime-time television. The steady beeps you are hearing are the cadence of the heart of the story's suspense. "That penny is sixty years old. Worth nothing then, it's worth a fortune now. They didn't always used to make them out of copper."

So he offers his story, the same story his father told him, about how they needed copper for the war, but they had plenty of steel, so for that single year they made the pennies out of steel, but after we won the war the copper pennies came back. "That steel penny, that little token of what makes this country so great, was all I had. It's priceless."

Why do you talk with such insistency? I ask.

"Because I don ' t want anyone misreading me. They'll never say that Bill Tanslet was a dishonest man. My father served in that war, and he 45

taught me everything about honesty from his experiences."

That's very laudable, I say. Did you serve your time as well?

He shakes his head. "Unfortunately they wouldn ' t take me," he says, "but we don't need to get into that."

No, we don ' t. Surely you 've done enough to show your courage in life.

He looks irritated. "What are you getting at?"

Nothing, I tell him. I'm just affirming you in your honesty. You appear to be a healthy individual. I don ' t doubt, for instance, that you would have any trouble enduring such a procedure if you were the one lying on the cot?

At that question he is immediately stricken with ire. "Eat my dust, you miserable puke!" he barks, and storms out of the room, leaving a trail of scorched earth behind him. Okay, maybe that last question was a little unfair.

'" '" *

"What?"

Mark was shocked by the word, as if he had been shot out of a dream and had landed in consciousness. The mental transition did not come smoothly.

"What do you know about foot odor?" said the nurse to him in a challenging manner.

Mark replied, "Nothing. What did I say?"

"He wasn't talking to you, Jean," said Laura, the other nurse in the room.

"Did I say something out loud?"

"Yeah," said Jean. "You said, 'Okay, that was a little unfair.' If you smelled my husband 's feet, you'd know I'm not exaggerating."

"He's like that a lot," Laura said.

Mark explained. "It was just a remark on my article. Devil 's criticism."

"Oh," said Jean. "So you're a reporter."

"That's right," said Mark. "A reporter, as opposed to a podiatrist."

"Oh, I know you! Was he kicked out for loitering?"

Mark observed the contrast between the women. Laura's blond hair

46

and blue eyes alleviated her plumpness but still she was more attractive than the taller Jean , with brown curls and more wrinkles. The switch in address of the latter began to annoy him, making him feel like he had turned invisible.

"He doesn't loiter," said Laura. "He has a press pass and all. Great piece corning up for the Picayune , right Mark?"

"You bet."

"Again. Well, finish up inventory," she said to Jean. "I have to send the reports to Dr. Howell. Hope your husband perks up."

In Mark's opinion, she was the wrong one to leave. The room suddenly became quiet, a rare break from the perpetual ins-and-outs of patients and physicians. The distant sounds from outside the room-the shouts, screams, rings and beeps-had become background music, and even the nearby chatter had been easy to tolerate when it wasn't directed at himself. Mark stared at the yellow pad on his wobbly desk, hoping that he could write again and avoid having to talk to the remaining nurse.

"So what's unfair?" she said, ten seconds later.

Mark sighed. "Just the way I portrayed the last scene. I have enough discipline to recognize when I go over the edge."

She looked unimpressed. "I have to see your press pass if you want to stay in here."

Rolling his eyes, he pulled it out and displayed it for her. "MnllTIhmm. 'Mark Doolan, Northeast Picayune,'" she read. "I haven ' t seen you in there before."

"Have you actually read the Picayune?"

"Here and there."

"Then you would know the doldrums it's been in recently," he said.

"My articles are going to be part of a turnaround. I'm looking for the perfect story that will give it new life."

"A new era?"

"A renaissance," he proclaimed.

"So how long will you be in here?"

"I guess until the editors call me."

"Fine," Jean said. She closed the cabinets and added, in a singing tone, "Just make sure you don' t slander the equipment room! " "You mean libel?"

47

"Whatever! " And she was gone.

She was not impressed, but the uninitiated never were. If they knew the labors involved in the business they would at least try to be more helpful. Mark tried to glance over what he had written before the interruption. It no longer looked right. With Laura's help, he had gotten a spot secured in the equipment room every week. After gathering research, he went inside to write his articles , and every week the criticism kept him from advancing. In this instance, the mood was not apparent enough in the context, which would mean no success, no credibility, no persuading the reader. He didn't need to be so inquisitive, after all. With enough time, the people's motives would present themselves. But the article still needed another perspective, someone to clarify the motives .

An idea tapped at his head.

This is a very sad day for all of us, he heard.

And he was off running again.

* * * "It grieves me to look at him. I can' t even tell who he is anymore."

In this other corner, grief is a typical reaction, but for Paula Tanslet, maybe "grief' does not fit the setting properly.

"Hard-nosed, isn' t he ?"

Beg pardon?

"Poor Mister Man will have you think he can take it, and then at the next stroke he 's a coward hiding from himself." Apparently she's no longer talking about her son. She's a short woman who keeps her almond hair tightly wound in the back, keeps her head still while she speaks, and looks at you through thick glasses determinedly. Just like a bank teller, which also happens to be her profession. She tells me how she hopes I didn't listen to her estranged husband while he was present. .

"The truth is, Bill-" saying his name with trickling scorn, "-has always been over-protective of his pride and dignity. He won ' t even give you the right idea of how it happened."

How was it, then?

"Our child didn ' t want to swallow that coin ," Paula says, very angry but perfectly contained. "I can ' t even say our child. He's turned into an autocrat, and the family has gone awfully wrong."

48

But how do you mean, if you don ' t mind my asking?

"My son was never a bad kid. He never got into fights or threw rocks at the old houses, never did the things troublemakers do. If he ever fell into trouble, it happened because he didn ' t know better. And then-" Her lips are quivering; she's looking at the floor. "And then, one day, he came home with a big stash of coins that we had never seen before. We never gave him much money, so it was probably stolen. But Bill was relentless with him. He kept saying, 'Tell me where you got this money or that'll be the end of you! Tell me where you got it!' My God! He was so frightened, but he wouldn't say a word. I could tell by looking at the pile that he had stolen a lot of it, and the coins were very rare."

Your banking experience helped, I imagine.

"Oh, God!" she says, more nervous than angry. It isn ' t that I made the wrong remark: her husband has just reentered the room. He has a straight look initially, but it sours sternly when he sees her.

"Paula, step away, please," Bill commands.

"I have to tell him-" "No, you're not talking to him any longer! " "I'll talk to whoever I want to! " "You're gonna scare him, I mean scare the boy-" " I will! " Paula shouts. She is unyielding but has lost her self-control.

An attendee in the room, noticing the outbursts, makes a general announcement that the visitor who cannot retain a normal speaking level will be asked to leave.

At that, Bill grabs my attention like one mugs a camera. "She can ' t stand the wait, I'm afraid," he says to me, as if the previous encounter between us were history. "You must remember that we had an agreement to go through with this. She consented, I consented."

"Wrong, Bill," Paula snaps. "You made me go through with it. You forced my consent, just like you forced the issue down our son's throat! " She is approaching hysteria. What is she talking about?

"I mean he made him swallow the penny! It was his punishment! " Everyone in the ward is bewildered. Before they realize it, she has disappeared.

"Five minutes," calls the nurse.

* * * 49

Mark knew he had more than a straightforward assignment possessing him. In the articles for the Picayune, he always came across another view of things, another shade of gold, another hue of an untouchable mystery that prevented him from finishing. The real mystery was how the pros could finish and start again, how they could keep grasping it. Did they ever stop to look at how many stories existed within the one at hand? He had plenty of time to look over the pages before knowing for certain he needed a break. He couldn ' t have it in silence, though, because newer sounds of panic were coming in from the hall.

"Back again," Jean said, hurrying to a cabinet. "How's it coming?"

"Good enough."

"Good enough?" she appealed.

"Yeah . It would be great if I didn't get distracted every other minute."

"You're a strange guy," she remarked . "That Laura's had so much to say about you. I would suspect you had a hidden motive for being here every week."

"Hidden?" He didn' t see it at first. "Oh, no, not that. Laura's already taken."

"Is she?"

"I think so. I can't date hospital people, anyway; it 's paper policy."

"Is it policy for you to hang around all the time?"

"This place is worthy of coverage," Mark said, too flatteringly.

"Don't you have a job to do?"

Jean closed the cabinet after she had taken out several plastic devices.

"I' m a little hectic," she said. "It gets to you around here after a while."

"Working to get all the details right," Mark suggested.

She didn't ponder it. "Yeah, sure," she said, leaving again. "You should try it. Good luck."

She returned to the bedlam coming from the hall, but Mark did not ignore the sound. He thought that, for the first time, maybe he was truly sympathizing with it. Other people with stories to tell, leading to more people and more stories in return. Imagine, he thought, what they really have to get through while they stay here. Where is the patient? asks the emergency doctor. Where is my child? demands the grieving mother.

The refrain echoed for his pen to follow.

Where is the child?

50

Where is the child?

Where is the child ?

The day grows longer with every breath the patients take. Sometimes the breath is collective, and everyone draws in the same stuffy hospital air at once, but normally the pell-mell is too divisive, and instead they inhale mentally. So when the doctor enters and announces the results, only fifteen minutes until the operation, and so on, the moment becomes a marker for those prisoners, a marker of progress. You can see the hope in their eyes as they think maybe it really is closer until the time when their name is called, their problem diagnosed and fixed, their worries left at the front counter.

Where is the child?

But then the doctor disappears, the dinner trays get served, and they are bound to forget again. They think about the ailments they have to entertain because unconditional surrender will not make them vanish.

Errors are not like breathing. They cannot all be forgiven at once.

Bill Tanslet looks at his child. He has turned his head that way before but never studied how the kid looked. He does so now at the edge of a chair, reflecting quietly. "I imagine she's told you everything," he says.

"Probably more than what really happened. I'm afraid she has a scratchy memory. Do you really think I'd shove something into someone's mouth?

He did it on his own, and if he did it for one reason, it was because he despised me, he wanted to humiliate me. But-" He collects himself with prudence, and struggles to continue. "I also know that I'm not completely free from blame. In a way, this is my fault. I want to have a stronger relationship . I don't want to have to terrorize him, and I don ' t want him to have to hate me. But the thing is ..." his hands clench, " ... we can improve with this. Things can get better after this is all through." He frowns. "I know, I know, you couldn ' t figure it out for yourself as long as you tried. There's no telling what you want to believe."

The ward has become rather tranquil, due in part to the evacuation of the onlookers and well-wishers, and Bill is not speaking with the same insistency as he had about the procedure. Carefully I search for a question. "Sir," I say, "I realize that your situation is a very personal one.

I won' t write about any of this if you prefer it." He remains silent, not looking over at me. "Would you ... like me to leave?"

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"Oh, don't worry about it," Bill says. "You're not the problem here.

Why else did you come out if no one hired you to do it? I sure didn't."

"No. I did." The wife steps in with her glasses fogged and her eyes squinting at him. "I wanted you to see for yourself what nonsense you've gotten everyone into."

"Don't go mad again, Paula."

"The boy is suffering. Now you've gone and made him worse."

"Just a minute!" He doesn't rise, he springs, out of his chair. "You had to start talking and making me look like a tyrant while you're just using the media for your own selfish agenda?"

"And you aren't more concerned about a penny that you think is yours?"

"Forget that! It's a done deal! We have an agreement."

She looks away. "But we don ' t have each other."

He looks away too. Momentarily he stares at the landscape beyond the window, walking with hands behind his back. "All right, Paula, you have a point. If you 're so badly concerned, let's not go through with it."

"You're not serious," she says.

"He's yours , Paula. If you want to deprive him, go ahead. All you have to do is take off the mask."

The mask, tinted, hiding the boy 's expression, the culmination of all his thought a mystery in the presence of his squabbling parents. The father spreads his hands, waiting for her to take action. She, the mother, does not budge, wants to, but cannot take a step.

"He's got his money where no one can get it," he continues to say.

"When they have to go in there and pull it out, what are you gonna do?

Yank all that medical doohickey off of him if he means that much to you."

She twitches. "Are you being silly, William?"

"Take off the mask or leave it!" he says.

"I don ' t understand you. Why would we pay for all of this if we didn 't-" "Oh!" Bill says, a combination of accusation and annoyance. "Is that what it's all about? Money?"

"The lavage is non-refundable."

"And we're gonna go terribly broke after this is done, is that right?"

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She remains frozen .

"I'm sure that's all that matters. Come on, hon , you're the silly one now. You never talk like this. Be reasonable."

While speaking, he walks closer to her. Instead of moving forward , she takes a step towards the door. "I," she utters, "just want to ... " "What is it?" He tries to give her room, tries not to force the answer out of her.

"I just want ... to have ... " "What?"

But she cannot go any further. When the physicians approach the operating cot, she knows it is too late. Her consent is official. She waves a weak hand to the end of the ward, where they are drawing a yellow curtain around the cot. "Well . .. goodbye son!" she cries. "Mommy loves you! It won't be for too long!" But she is gone too soon for a wOlTied mother.

The father, in the meanwhile, looks as semi-ilTitated as he did in the beginning, just as much in the need of a mood change. So, I ask, what are you thinking about now as your child goes through with this?

"Well," he says, "I guess he must be scared." He stops himself, then speaks almost in a whisper. "More scared than I've been in a while."

The nurse approaches and asks for us to exit until the procedure is complete. In the final seconds to the countdown, Bill can only look at the ceiling. "My God," he says, "What that brat did was downright honorable. A metal in the stomach? I never so much as got a bullet. I never had the chance to show it. ..." He is on his way out, and he does not bother to explain the epiphany that has overcome him. Now the stage is set for the boy, whose physical agony, if not his whole agony, will soon be relieved.

But where is the child? He lies in a stiff and straight position on an operating cot, which is lost behind the yellow curtains.

* * *

Mark stopped the sentence just when the vibrator shook him. No doubt it was the Picayune calling him to report back at the office. The nearest clock showed four-thirty, but it couldn't have been that late. Something remained unwritten, but he had come the closest yet to discovering it.

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And the incessant phone, which he checked and silenced , confirming that the paper was requesting him, reminded him of the difficulty he would have in selling them the story.

Unassumingly, he left the room, refreshed from the circulation returning to his limbs. The doors along the walls of the hospital cOlTidor blurred past him, though he was in no hurry, except maybe to relieve himself. He became one with the daily scene of the halls until he alTived at a doorway on the second floor where he found Laura tending to patients. She came to the entrance when she recognized him.

"Finished?" she asked.

Mark wasn't sure, but nodded anyway. "Hey, thanks for getting me that room again," he said.

"Any time," she said. "I just hope we'll see you in there someday."

They both smiled. Mark replied, " It won't be too long. Maybe you'll see yourself."

"Nah, I don ' t do quotes," she said.

"Sure you can. I'll make them look better. Normal quotes look so boring."

"You don' t wanna twist the facts. I don ' t wanna tell them we have some hack journalist coming in every week."

"Well," Mark said, looking for the rejoinder, "there's always a bigger story hiding in the facts." ''I'm sure there is."

"Hey." He was becoming tenser looking at her, so he turned to look around the room. He came to the face of a sleeping young patient. "I was wondering," he said, feeling his veins quicken.

"Yeah?"

"Do you .. .know if he has any parents?" He quickly pointed to the sleeping child, who appeared familiar in some odd way.

"HIllin," she thought. "I would imagine. Everyone has parents."

"Okay," he said.

She laughed. "What does that matter?"

"It 's nothing. I have to get back to the office. See you next week?"

"Let's hope."

"Alright, see you later," he said, and hurried away. Briefly the article did not matter so much to him. What had gotten to him that he had to

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make a clumsy exit? He had gone in hoping to get away from writing and he had come out with a new character to ponder. The resemblances in the child's face had disrupted his thought and made him think of other possibilities. It could tarnish his career if he went too far, if he stared at life for too long. Perfect matters to think about while he was in the restroom, at a time when no thought was often preferable to any thought.

But just before he left the room, a temporary haven from the havoc sUlTounding it, just before he passed through and out of the havoc to return to his employer, a strange sound caught his ears. From the periphery of his vision, he saw a man with a strong build holding a small, shiny object in his hand. Mark peeked at him as the man faced the minor, obscuring the object and raising his head. A moment later, after Mark washed and dried his hands, he heard what sounded like a painful gulp.

-Christopher Mote

winter things sunrise was cancelled this morning. as gray light filtered through grayer clouds, a harsh, cold wind shook off sleep and whipped through the streets, looking to steal the breath of anyone it passed, but today the streets are empty, deserted. powdery flakes pirouette down from the stark skies, dancing on the wind in a whirling ballet without music and then settling lazily into drifts on the ground to sleep, perchance to dream of winter things -Freda M . Tenell

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The Perfect Escape Hole Mike sat on his back porch smoking a cigarette. The dew still remained, clinging to the grass on this pleasant June morning. Mike 's mind raced with thoughts of the week ahead. Nothing in his life, regardless of how trivial , passed by without an overwhelming amount of contemplation. Every thought seemed to carry the weight of his world on it. Anxiety had Mike almost immobile. Lately, his world seemed to be crashing in on him. Mike longed for an escape.

Suddenly, a soothing thought came to his mind; today was an excellent day to go fishing. After extinguishing his cigarette, he entered his home . Mike tossed on his fishing attire, an old pair of ratty shorts, shoes, and a T-shirt. He prepared a cooler with three chilled bottles of spring water. Leaving his home, Mike carried the cooler and his precious black crate. The crate held all the essential tools Mike utilized to conduct his art. He loaded everything into his old beat up Chevy Nova and departed.

The road trip took him on a route that remained engraved in his mind.

Mike traveled roads that took him northward, winding through the country. This particular route developed out of his desire to avoid the congested roads. As the sun rose in the sky, light wispy clouds developed life. The open windows allowed a heated breeze to blow the sweet smell of ripe vegetation through the Nova. Mike 's clumsy polarized glasses allowed his eyes to adjust to the world that belonged to him for the remainder of the day. The only thoughts that entered his mind related to the matter at hand.

He pulled into his supply store, the tackle shop , Main Stream Outfitters. Jake, the owner, worked on Saturdays. Mike entered the store on a mission, to find a new leader for his line. Jake attended to three customers, two young boys and their father. They inquired about the right type of line to use for small mouth bass fishing. Mike thought to himself, it seems like just yesterday I was fishing for bass, what a juvenile task!

Walking over to the line rack, Mike grabbed a pack of fifteen foot 7X, 2.5 lb. tapered leaders. He wandered around the shop wasting time until Jake finished with the customers.

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57

Finally, Jake had a moment to speak, "Hey, Mike, how 's it going?"

"Great. It's a great day to hit up the hole," Mike replied.

"How has the fishing been up there?" Jake was always interested in fishing conditions.

Mike was eager to share his expertise, "Not too bad, they 're hitting on Sulfur Duns, Humpies, Tan Caddis, and Griffith 's Gnats. Average size about eight to ten inches. They 're active in riffles in the afternoon. The old men are sipping midges off the pools. Spooky is an understatement.

Lay into one of them and you 're on."

Jake, thankful for the information, replied, "Sounds like you 've been doing all right! " "Yeah. How 's business been?"

"Good, a lot of people been out the past few weeks. The weather's been cooperating. Finally!" Jake had a look of gratification on his face .

Mike replied, "Yeah all that rain really tore up the stream. It was running high for a good three weeks. A lot of debris got hung up. I'm glad it's calmed down! It's been a long stretch for me with no fishing."

He placed the leader on the counter.

Jake got down to business, "Is that all for today?"

"Yeah. Just the long leader."

"That will be five-fifty, Mike."

Mike reached into his pocket, pulled of the exact change, and handed it to Jake.

"Alright, Jake. Take it easy." Mike took his leader and began exiting the store.

Jake replied, "Good luck, Mike, I'll see you later."

Upon exiting the store Mike nodded with a smile in recognition of Jake's statement. Mike entered his Nova and proceeded northward toward his destination. Time flew past as he traveled down country road after country road. Along the way, Mike thought of all the times he had traveled this route. All the sights he was accustomed to seeing passed by, and every sight conjured up the same thought each time he passed it. The familiarity of the trip brought peacefulness to his mind.

Arriving at the stream, Mike's car pulled into his usual parking spot.

He stepped out of the car to begin his ritualistic transformation. Every thought related to daily living instantly vanished from his mind. From

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that point on, he became one with the elusive limestone spring wild brown trout. Mike loved to fish for only this particular species. Brown trout are the most cover-oriented fish . The slightest mistake in approach or presentation assured his failure.

Walking a few steps to a footbridge, Mike stood there and began to make his observations. Mike cupped his hands around the sides of his glasses and hat to block out the sun. A clear picture into the trout's world resulted. Every boulder, stone, and pebble exposed. Still, it took him several moments to notice the flash of a trout as it rolled down to pick off a passing insect. As quick as it appeared, it vanished from view. Mike trained his eyes to move several feet down stream to relocate the fish. It lay in a dip of the streambed where it preserved its energy from the rushing CUlTent above. He stood there for several minutes watching the feeding pattern of the fish. Mike focused on the surface of the water.

Floating down stream, an emerging Sulfur Dun struggled to release itself from its skin. Emergence is one of the most vulnerable moments in a mayfly's life. This particular fly had little chance of survival. Once it approached the three-foot window of the drift feeding trout, the trout rose and sucked it off the surface. At that, Mike returned to his car.

Mike grabbed his precious black crate from his car. He removed his rod from its case. Assembling the rod he stared down the eyes of the rod to assure each of the four sections was perfectly aligned. Mike added his reel to the rod and fed the line thru the eyes. He added his new leader to the end of his line. To this he added a two-foot section of 1.5 lb. tippet with a blood knot. The last essential piece was the fly, a Tan Caddis, Mike's reliable searching pattern. Using a clinch knot, he fastened the fly to the line. Lacing up his felt bottom boots and tossing on his fly vest, Mike added two bottles of water to his back. Now he had everything he needed to spend the day at the stream.

Mike departed on his quest to catch an old man, a trout over twenty inches. He stopped at the bridge again to analyze a spider web. Spiders told Mike what food was present on the surface of the water. He saw midges, sulfurs, and tan caddis in the web. This reassured him, he had an accurate selection of flies. Mike began his hike several miles up stream.

Along the way he studied the water. It followed the typical stream pattern, riffle, run, and pool. The water ran over medium gradient 59

limestone bedrock and emerged bubbling from springs within the rock.

This left the water with a blue-green tinge. The resulting insect life surpassed that of any other type of stream. Trout in this stream had the right to be picky about what they ate. Mike became eager to test his mastery at this art once again. Each new day at the stream brought on a new challenge.

A footpath through an abundant forest led him winding lip the stream several miles to where he normally fished . Something inside Mike urged him to travel even farther upstream. Another two miles ahead a lush meadow emerged from forest. The beauty of the area far surpassed any section of the stream thus far. Bowing down to the stream, a whitetail deer quenched its thirst. Mike watched the deer as it proceeded across the stream, passing out of view. Following suit, he rested on a decaying log in the tall meadow grass and drank a semi-cool bottle of water.

Mike hiked a few hundred yards upstream in order to fish the riffle, run, and pool progression. This allowed him to test all possibilities of fly selection. Mentally prepared, Mike made his approach to the water.

Navigating through the mountain laurel, he reached the waters edge, slipping slowly into the riffle. Water submerged his boots, soothing his entire body. This riffle allowed Mike the opportunity to present his highly visible Tan Caddis to possible trout. He worked his line out with each cast. The Caddis bobbed on the riffles from upstream to downstream in an arch around him. On the far side of the stream, Mike saw a trout flash in the water. He made three casts upstream of the flash to no avail. On the fourth cast Mike saw the fish quickly rise to the caddis, and he set the hook. Realizing it was rather small, he played it by stripping the fly line 111.

Dipping his hand in the water first to moisten it, Mike grasped the eight-inch trout with his hand. Mike knew that if he touched the trout with his dry hands he would damage the protective mucus layer on the trout's skin. A deadly disease would result. The wild brown trout's beauty never failed to amaze him. A rainbow of colors dusted the fish. Spots tinged with white, black, blue, purple, red, orange, and yellow marked the sides of the trout. Mike removed the hook and released his grasp on the fish. The fish darted out of his hand, vanishing from view.

Mike exited the stream and changed his flies, replacing the Tan

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Caddis with his Sulfur Dun. He moved down stream to fish the run.

Again, he slipped into the stream this time at the end of the run. Working the fly from upstream to downstream in an arch , each cast took the fly in a larger arch around Mike. He hooked a ten-inch trout in the middle of the run, striping the line slowly as he carefully maneuvered his rod.

Landing the fish, he removed the hook and released it.

Changing the flies again, Mike replaced the Sulfur Dun with his Yellow Humpy. This pattern represented a terrestrial insect. He tried his luck with the Humpy to no avail. Satisfied with his numerous attempts, Mike exited the stream. Locating the same decaying log, he sat idle.

There was something special about this meadow. Midges swarmed the area. The lrudge, similar to a gnat, is represented by a Griffith's Gnat pattern. Mike replaced his Yellow Humpy with his Griffith's Gnat pattern. The minute fly took numerous attempts to fasten. If there were large trout in the area, this pool held them .

Approaching the pool from the rear, he slipped into the stream. The cool water rose quickly to saturate his ratty shorts, a moment of comfort.

Mike's heart began to race as he laid eyes on six trout aligned in their standard order of dOlrunance. They sat suspended six inches under the surface of the water. Sheltered under shadows cast by tall airy meadow grass, depth allowed them added protection. The wise old trout stood strong at the front, warding off any competitors. The younger trout knew their place in the order, as they challenged for the prized feeding positions and failed . Mike watched as they fed constantly off the surface, which swarmed with prey. The meal came to them almost effortlessly.

This type of feeding kept these trout plump.

Mike had attempted to catch trout in these same conditions before and failed. In these conditions, trout defeated countless masters. Mike thought of the old saying, they don ' t get big by being dumb. The moment had arrived, the true test of his angling ability. Mike, afraid of spooking the whole pool, chose to test the second trout. He let line out onto the water and began to make a false cast. Line flowed rhythrrucally through the air, hypnotizing Mike. On the third false cast he flawlessly laid his minute fly on the water. It landed softly on a pillow of air, three feet up stream of the trout. Mike became the trout for that moment as he waited in suspended motion for the slightest reaction. The trout in slow motion

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turned toward him and gulped the fly into his mouth. Mike waited that crucial split second for him to turn back with it before setting the hook with a slight twitch of the rod tip . Immediately, the trout ran the line out of his hand and began taking line off the reel. The reel sang as line streamed from it. Mike let the trout run on the 1.S lb. line. His heart beat like he had found love. Mike played the fish back and forth, as gently as possible until he could net him . He did not want the lovely trout to tire to exhaustion; this would leave him vulnerable to prey.

Once in reach, Mike netted the trout and removed the minute hook with tweezers. It was the biggest trout Mike had caught. The trout measured to the nineteen-inch mark on his rod. Mike marveled at the beauty of the fish, holding it with both of his hands. Returning the trout to the water, he nursed it back to health. The magnificent trout swam away with a whip of its tail.

Now Mike felt that he had a chance at laying into the old man. Owner of the pool, the trout held poised in position at the head. Slowly creeping upstream, Mike stood hunched over. Nearly submerged to his chest fifteen yards downstream of the trout, he put his rod in motion. Mike's ann flowed with the rod attached at the hand. Thumb and pointer released the line with timed pinches. The line glided gracefully through the eyes of the rod. Mike's body and mjnd synchronized with the rod and reel.

Each pause allowed the line to catch up with itself. On the eighth pause, the Griffith's Gnat fluttered through the air like a natural, as the loop of line caught itself. Its flight ended twelve inches upstream of the trout.

Mike paused motionless. The fly met flush with the trout's broad nose as it rose straight up and engulfed the minute fly. Mike waited that crucial moment for the trout to drop and gently set the hook with a tug of the rod tip.

Feeling life, he braced for battle. Instantly the slacked line was nonexistent as the trout darted to the depths . The line screamed in pain as it tore off the reel. This was it! Mike palmed the reel just enough to guide the line. Mike's heart pounded as the line far surpassed its limit. He had to finesse this old man . Working the rod, the trout left the water, the dance of all dances. They battled back and forth . Darting to all reaches of the pool and leaping out of the water repeatedly, this old man put on a show.

Mil~e understood why the old man ruled the pool. Playing the game,

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Mike showed the trout all the love he possessed.

Mike's net met the trout head to tail as he netted it from upstream.

The trout dwarfed his net. Realizing he had done it, he raised the net.

Mike's heart raced with joy, and the smile tore at his cheeks. He removed the hook from the trout with tweezers. The male trout's hooked jaw studded itself with hundreds of teeth. Mike laid the trout up to his rod in the soft grass. The old man measured two feet. He held the prize out in front of himself to admire it. This picture instantly engraved itself into Mike's mind. Natural beauty at its fullest, a two foot long limestone spring wild brown trout. Mike placed the old man in the water and nursed him slowly back to health. With a large whip of his tail, the old man swam away to become someone else's prize.

-Andrew Romano

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At My Door In times Of duties and deadlines, I ignore The knocking at my door.

In flashes Of anger and bickering, I cannot hear The knocking at my door.

In moments Of grief and despair, I turn away from The knocking at my door.

Every passing second of every passing day In good times, and in bad times Is the sound of My Lord Knocking, Knocking, And waiting Always waiting-for meAt my door.

-Regina Frey

For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me ...Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for the least of my brothers, you did for me (Mt 26: 35, 40).

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Honey & Vinegar Have you ever risked your life-I mean, really risked your life-to do something you knew absolutely, positively had to be done? Driving at a hair above seventy-five miles an hour during the opening moments of the second snowstorm in two days would probably qualify as one of those times. But what could 1 do? It was a do-or-die situation, literally. 1 couldn't just leave her like that.

How did 1 constantly manage to get myself into these predicaments?

Jan always said 1 created my own problems because 1 have no followthrough. Little did she know how ironic her saying would turn out to be.

The snow swirled in front of the windshield now. Not that powdery stuff, either. Big heavy drops slopped against the glass, the sticking wipers having a hard time keeping up. Bloated and wet, this new snow was destined to stick. Add that to the previous half-foot dumped on us yesterday and traveling was apt to get hairy. 1 drove on, wanting to put a little more pressure on the gas pedal, but resisting.

Running late as usual , 1 hadn ' t even gotten changed, yet when the phone rang, 1 was tempted to let it ring on unanswered, never being one who enjoyed talking into the handset, preferring to have my conversations face-to-face. But my mother, the strange provider of wisdom that she had been throughout my childhood, had always been adamant about answering a ringing phone-especially if it was the dead of night, as it was now.

"Someone might be in trouble," she used to say. That was before the mouth cancer spread enough to take her. Who knows? Maybe she got that cancer from talking on the phone in the first place.

"Hello?" 1 said, not hastily, but placidly. Even under duress 1 have the ability to keep cool. Some panic under pressure; some don't. I'm one of the latter.

"David?" a weak voice asked.

1 didn't know who 1 was expecting it to be on the other end at such an hour, but 1 definitely didn't expect it to be her. "Jan?" 1 said.

"Y-yes. David . .. 1 need your help. I'm in trouble here," she said, her words turning my dead mother into a prophet.

6S

"What is it?"

"I'm hurt. .. bleeding really bad." There was a cough , followed by a gurgling sound. "I think I might be dying, David. Both my wrists are slit."

That's how she said it, no exclamation , no emphasis , just: "Both my wrists are slit."

Christ, I thought, now I'm going to have to go all the way over there.

In typical cucumber fashion , I said calmly into the phone, "Okay, Jan, don ' t panic. I'm on my way. Don ' t do anything rash, and don ' t move around a lot. I'll be there as quick as I can. Shouldn ' t be more than ten minutes, if the snow holds off. Wait for me, okay, honey? I'll be there."

"David ... hurry," she said, before the line hummed vacantly.

But, of course, the snow didn 't hold off. It started tumbling out of the heavily laden night sky as soon as I stepped out of the brownstone. The trip across town was not going to be an easy one. If nothing else, it would be time consurning, and I had a plane to catch. But Jan had called, and I had to go, as I have every time since I moved out from under my mother's oppressive thumb and crawled under Jan's.

And I still hadn ' t gotten changed yet. Leave it to Jan to botch everything up.

Even now, more than a year after the divorce, she was still the one in control of my life. Not me, her. It had been tiresome for the four years we stuck it out after the honeymoon, and it was even more tiresome now. Jan with her petty little contrivances, always needing to be pitied, always needing to be the martyr. You have to understand, for Jan , suicide was a habitual thing. Almost a ritual, really. Approximately twice a year, every year, she'd broach the subject-once whenever the notion struck her, and once again right around now, when the holidays were imminent. Because of this , among other things , she'd been seeing a psychiatrist for all the years I've known her. Finally, it got to be too much ; I had to wash my hands of her. Who could blame me? The constant yammering, the neverending nagging; I just couldn ' t take it anymore. So I did what I had to do .. .or so I'd thought. Yet here I was, once again rushing off at her call like I was still a lovelorn puppy in high school-and in the middle of a blizzard, no less.

The snow was earlier than usual this year, but it seemed to be serious.

Although the streets had been cleared of yesterday 's accumulation, a

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fresh coating was quickly forming. The only positive was that traffic was almost nonexistent, this time of night. If I drove fast enough, I should be able to get to the old house before the snow really began to hinder the car's mobility. I nudged the accelerator just a little more.

And what did I suppose I'd find when I got there, to the house I'd bought with the money I'd earned only to end up having to give it to her?

Exactly what I'd expect to find-Jan with her wrists raggedly torn open, her pallid, satiny nightgown bloodied. Perhaps she'd be sprawled across the floor, near the phone; or quite possibly she'd still be sitting upright in the unbelievably expensive chair she had made me buy from Ethan Allen, having said then that it would be "perfect for receiving," meaning answering incoming calls. She was one of those big, doublewide, overstuffed ones, which, I'll admit, was comfortable to sink into while I lived there. The chair that is, not Jan. So, because of Jan 's resolve to live through this night, I now found myself hurdling at an unwise speed through slushy snow that probably harbored treacherous patches of black ice beneath its fluffy veneer, instead of heading in the opposite direction, away from the city and toward the airport, where a six a.m. flight waited to carry me to a more palatable climate.

Again, how did I get myself into these predicaments?

The answer to that question was simple, really, as Jan would be sure to point out if she were here right now. I do things half-assed. It's true, I always have. I won't argue the fact. It's the biggest fault I have, and probably the one that drove the fi nal wedge between Jan and me. I can't deny it. It's something inbred, passed down from other generations. My father was the same way, or so I was told . And both my brothers are, too, which I know from my own experiences . Call it a Davidson family trait, something encoded in our DNA. The Davidson boys are well-knownmaybe even world-renowned-for having started things and not finishing them. For example, I once decided (after having attended an Art Nouveau exhibit, granted) that I wanted to be an artist. It was a whim, of course. I have no talent for painting. But neither did I have any talent for playing the guitar, riding a horse, piloting a helicopter, scuba diving or, God save us, gardening. None of which stopped me from trying each and everyone of them, only to quit in disgust at my own ineptness shortly after

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commencing the given activity. The world needs quitters, too, some wits out there might argue, but does it reall y? I can ' t quite see the reason why.

Anyway, the point is, if I ever were to follow-through with anything, I might find that I do have what it takes to be good at something.

You think I' rn kidding, over-exaggerating a bit? I'm not. How 's this for pathetic: I didn ' t even manage to follow through with my wife, for crying out loud! How's that for being a quitter? You can ' t get any more half-assed than that, can you? To up and leave someone like I left Jan? Well, we'll see. It's not all over yet. And, Lord knows, I'm working hard to try and change my evil ways. Yes, sir, I am.

* * * Damn, I've got to say that I could've done without the self-criticism at a time like this. It's negative thinking like that that compounds a situation. Now not only was I in a rush, I was surly over my own shortcomings. Getting pissed-off at yourself like that hampers COnUYIOnSense, causes lapses in the thought process. I guess that's why I didn ' t see the accident coming before it OCCUlTed. I didn' t even realize anything had happened, until I lifted my head off the steering wheel and leaned back in the seat. When I opened my eyes, a red and black haze obscured my vision. I blinked rapidly many times , which dissipated the blackness but left the red. Reaching up, I felt a tackiness on my forehead-I was bleeding, and the blood had run into my eyes. Pulling down the rem¡view mirror, I visually assessed the damage. It didn ' t look like much, only a laceration a couple of inches in length stretching across two worry lines on my brow. Even though there was blood, the laceration wasn't so big that it could be classified as a full-fledged cut. It looked more like a malicious Indian burn, which had been given too unjustly.

But, be all that as it may, it wasn't the film of blood that frightened me.

It was the momentary black haze that had accompanied it. I feared that I rnight've lost consciousness. If that had happened, then I could've lost time, and, if you hadn ' t noticed, time was of the essence here, people.

I looked at my watch. A slender crack, almost a filament thin, spanned the face. The watch must' ve had a run-in with something unforgiving on the dashboard when my forehead held its consultation with the steering wheel. The hands said that I hadn ' t lost even a minute,

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but that damning crack rendered the timepiece untrustworthy. What if the impact had knocked it unconscious for a while, too? Putting it to my ear, I heard the tick, tick, tick of its pulse, but it didn't reassure me-lives were hanging in the balance if I didn ' t get to Jan ASA-friggin-P. I knobbed on the radio. The strains of Jimi Hendrix 's guitar ripped into the stillness of the car. The ghost of the dead axe-master was running through "Fire," which was probably some goofy "wubba, wubba, wubba" disc jockey's idea of satire on this, a most wintry night. I silenced Jimi as the grave itself hadn't been able to by dialing the all-news station, where they did time checks almost every minute. The overnight woman's voice confirmed the information my watch had proposed-I hadn ' t lost any time. I clicked the radio back off, preferring the eerie silence in which the snow fell.

Next, the car. It was still running and seemed to be idling smoothly. I swiveled my head to see where I ended up and almost shrieked when I saw the face looking back at me. There, standing sentinel at the peak of a plowed snow mound was a man-sized snowman. You 'll have to forgive me-my mind was stressed-out and working in overdrive at the moment, plus I'd just been in an accident-but, for a second, I thought the snowman looking in my car was an actual man.

It had no arms to speak of, but it did have a bright orange carrot for a nose and two shiny objects where its eyes should've been, which, in the diluted light of the streetlamp filtering through the falling snow, looked to be a pair of cufflinks.

I tittered a laugh that didn ' t sound exactly sane to my ears.

"You scared me, fella," I said to the snowman. "Didn ' t expect to see anyone else out here." Then something occurred to me. Voicing my curiosity to my newfound friend, I asked, "Say, how exactly did you get out here anyway, by the side of the interstate? Some kids come along and put you up there? Or'd some schmuck stuck in traffic hop out and build you? Huh, that it? Are you the ironic self-portrait of an Everyman going nowhere or just the harmless artwork of passing children? Come on, fess up. Which is it?"

Naturally, without a mouth, he couldn't answer, only looked on with those shiny accusing eyes. It was a curious thing for either adult or child to choose the interstate as a site to make a snowman, but if I were a

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gambling man, my money 'd be on the guy killing time while waiting for the rush hour traffic, made even more congested by the constraints of the snow all over the place, to break up. The cufflinks were what gave me that feeling , the carrot probably from the guy 's sack lunch. But however either of us got here was irrelevant. What was relevant was that I had to be somewhere else. Not only was Mr. Snowman stuck in the snow hill, but my car's front end was, too-not to mention facing the wrong direction, having spun around on the slick blacktop before thumping into the mound.

Not good.

In the early morning darkness, I strained to see if the car had sustained any cosmetic damage, but the bluish-white snow was acting like camouflage on my also-blue car, making it difficult to distinguish between shadows and dents.

I could smell exhaust, and I could smell gasoline. Either line could 've gotten a hole in it somewhere, but I didn't have the time to get out and check. I had an urgent, pressing need to get moving toward myoId house, where my first (and most likely last) wife lived. Any mechanical problems the car might 've sustained from my attention lapse would have to wait to be taken care of.

As I've said, life and death hung on my ability to get to Jan as quickly as I could.

Even though I didn ' t have my foot on the brake, the car was still in gear, the snow holding me snugly in place. I shifted into reverse. Pressing down on the gas, the wheels spun , but there was no movement. The car was a front wheel drive, and naturally it was the front end that had buried itself in the snow. I tried turning the steering wheel to find better purchase, but it wouldn't budge. Jan was near dead and I was stuck on an empty stretch of Interstate 93. Desperation wanted to sneak in and take over.

"Hey, Mr. Snowman," I said, "how ' bout a little help here, huh? Think you can give me a push? Oh, right, sorry. Forgot about the arms." I laughed again.

Centering myself, I began to rock back-and-forth while stamping down on the gas. I wasn ' t really expecting anything, but each time my pendular body hit the rear of the seat, the car inched out of the snow a 70

little more, until, in a great rush, the tires caught and the car rocketed backward. Without braking, I swung it in a tight circle. In a moment, and with only minimal skidding, I was once again racing northerly up 1-93.

In case of an emergency, I kept a cell phone in the glove box. Jan barely clinging to life could be categorized as such an emergency-even from both perspectives. I never used it, as I've already mentioned my distaste for phones , but I took it in every Saturday (that would be into the brownstone-the house I don't own, but have to rent, because the restraining order says I can't live in the house I do own) and charged it.

Flipping the phone open, I pushed a button and the display lit up phosphorous green. I scrolled numbers in the memory. When I got to the one I wanted, I pushed another button and the phone dialed my-sony, Jan's-number. Funny how, after you got divorced, you even got stripped of the little things in life, like your phone number.

Fearing that I would get a busy signal from the phone being left off the hook when she called me, I was surprised when the call went through. Somehow, through the pain, Jan had had the presence of mind to replace the receiver, amazing but true. On the other end I heard ring, ring, ring. Seven times in total before she picked it up. I was beginning to wonder if she hadn ' t finally succumbed, when her voice croaked in my ear.

"Hello," she said, sounding even weaker than when I'd talked to her, what, a mere eight minutes ago. Could it really have only been that short a span of time?

"Janet, it's me, David. I'm almost there now. You still holding on?"

"Yea-" Her voice cracked. Then: "Yeah, I'm still here. But it hurts so much."

I bet it does, I thought. To her, I said, "Listen to me. This is very important, honey." Some information: I use the word "honey" at times when what I really would like to say is: bitch, slut, whore, harlot, devil and bitch. I know I've mentioned that last one twice, but, hey, you gotta call 'em like you see 'em. I even have a select group of spicy little adjectives to go along with that list of nouns, but this is neither the time nor the place for a dissertation. So, instead of speaking my mind, I held my tongue. The old adage advises that it's easier to catch a bee with honey than with vll1egar. So honey it was. Then, having used the 71

sugarcoated word, I was free to ask the pertinent question: "Did you call anyone, Janet?"

"I called you."

"I know that. But did you call anyone else?"

"I don ' t know anyone else in this city. I'm from out West. .. didn ' t move here till ... married you." Her breath was getting ragged. She sounded like she was looking death right square in the eye. But one couldn ' t assume anything ; I still had to get to her.

"I don' t mean any friends or anything," I said. "I mean, did you call the police, or an ambulance. Did you dial 911 ?"

There was a pause in which both of us held bated breath. Finally, "No." "All right," I said, sighing with dread worry, but still maintaining, still keeping it together-being the cucumber.

In a rush, she said, ''I'm sorry, David. I didn't think of calling them.

I only thought of yo u. I knew you'd come."

That touched me.

"It's all right," I said again, reassuring her. "It's okay. I will come. I am coming. Matter of fact, I'm just about there now. I can see your street.

Just a few more minutes and I'll get to you. I'm turning the corner. I can see the house. It 's dark. You didn ' t turn on any lights?"

"No .. .came straight down to the phone."

So, she was on the first floor, then. "I see," I said. "I' m pulling up now."

Beep, chirp, click, and I cut the phone off. Tossing it back into the glove box, I pulled out a small flashlight-one can never be too prepared.

I turned it on and off to check the batteries. They worked. Everything else I needed was still in my pocket. Checking my watch, I saw that there was still time to make it to the airport, if I hurried. I got out of the car, leaving it running. The smell of gas was stronger out here, but the odor of exhaust was primarily inside the cab. The windshield wipers were still flapping , doing their best to keep the fat flakes at bay. Standing on the pavement, the new snow damn near came to my ankles already. Man, it was coming on fast.

I took a quick look up and down the street. No one else was around to help Jan. The street slept on, silently oblivious.

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Dashing through the falling wetness, I bounded up the three risers to the door. I extracted the key to the house-my house-from my pocket, and entered. Closing the door on the snow behind me, I flicked on the flashlight, the beam of light coming to life and bobbing around the foyer.

Icons of Americana could be seen everywhere: an antique umbrella stand and matching coat rack positioned by the door; an ornate minor hung atop a small table, where ingoing and outgoing mail waited on a doily for hands to scoop it up ; several pictures of dearly departed relatives decorated the walls, beneath stenciled flowers.

A calico cat emerged from somewhere and loped by. His name was , of all things , Gravy-don't ask. We'd bought him for the therapeutic value pets were supposed to provide. Take my word for it, it's only a myth created by pet store owners looking to move livestock while it's still small and cute enough to tug heartstrings.

After glancing at me, Gravy pranced off toward the rear of the house, where the steps to the second floor were tastefully hidden from public display. The alcove below those steps was where the Ethan Allen chair resided, beside the phone.

"Janet?" I called, but she didn ' t respond. I followed the beam of light deeper into a house I would know the layout of blind I've walked it so many times before. The flashlight was not for direction; it was for any surprises that might be waiting. And besides, who wanted to stumble over a dead body in the dark? BnT, it gave me the shivers just thinking about it. With such a pleasant thought in mind, I called out again, "Janet?"

Nothing.

I proceeded deeper into the house, the darkness swallowing me up behind the flashlight. Two more twists and I'd be able to see her. I mopped at my brow. Sweat and the wet snow from my quick shuttle between car and house had made the tacky blood there runny.

When I shone the light into the family room, toward the alcove, it was the overstuffed chair it lit on first. Empty. Slowly lowering the beam to the floor, I saw movement-it was Gravy, his oval eyes shining back at me with that intelligent inner light cats seem to possess. He was looking at me but was uninterested, concentrating more on using a sandpapery tongue to lick around his mouth where something dark was matted in the white patch of fur below his chin. I lowered the light even further, and it 73

reflected off a pool of blackness that could only be blood. The cat had been lapping at Janet's blood while it was still warm.

"Scat," I hissed. With mewed protest, he ran off, trailing bloody pawprints across the hardwood flooring.

Then I saw my ex-wife.

Lying on the floor, her nightgown was bunched up around her waist, revealing white cotton panties that were quickly turning pink. Sitting next to her-and covered with drying red fingerprints-was the phone. She had hung it up again, after I called from the car, the sweet dear.

"Jan," I said, not really expecting an answer.

"David," she coughed , "is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"I can't see anything."

"It's dark in here."

"It's not just that. .. I. . .I think I'm dying."

I walked to where she lay, careful-like, so as not to step in the puddle swelling out around her- I didn ' t want to track prints like the cat did. I ran the light over her and saw that her legs were ashen. A little further up , I could see the ragged tears in both wrists, right where I expected to see them. Both marks were made an inch or so up her arm from where those bracelets of lines meet the palms. The cut on the left was longer and deeper than the other one-a sure sign that the incisions had been made by a right-handed person. I noticed, for some odd reason, that her fingernails were painted a pale blue, like the color of the virgin snow falling outside.

All in all, Janet looked tired and used-abused-but she was still very much alive. In fact, it seemed as if the blood had ceased seeping from the openings altogether, coagulated. As bad as things looked, she would probably live through this. It was good I got here when I did.

But, in order to do this right, I'd have to get down there, to where she was, which meant close to the spilled blood. I flashed the light around the floor, gauging the amount of wetness surrounding her. It wasn't as much as I had first thought, upon finding her lying on the floor in the supinate position-flat on her back, palms up . What there was had come out of her wrists-which she had kept at her sides-and puddled around her rump.

Still though, I wasn't going to be able to get to her without getting a little 74

messy. Then I remembered that I hadn ' t gotten changed for the jaunt out of the city yet, and it really didn ' t matter if I were to get any blood on me.

I checked my watch again. There should be plenty of time to make a quick stop at the brownstone to throw on something else <:J before continuing on to the airport. If the snow cooperated, that was.

I sank down to my knees, immediately feeling her blood soak Into the thin fabric of the suit I'd donned earlier in the evening, before going out for drinks. The second bout of snow had only been forecasted then, not actually seen.

"David, thank God you've come."

"I was thinking that very same thing."

"1. . .I don 't know what happened. I can't remember anything."

"You tried to kill yourself, honey." This time the word sounded more acidic, giving a little vocalization to the true meaning lying beneath.

"Can't you see that?"

"No . . .I would never. .. actually do that to myself."

"Really ? You wouldn't?" I asked facetiously. "But it's so well documented that you would do such a thing. Don't you remember going to your psychiatrist all those years and telling her about how you always felt like committing suicide, felt like offing yourself? Don't you remember telling the judge that it was /11,e who made you feel that way?"

"Yeah ... but that was only a ploy ... a tactic to ... to .. .I don ' t know what, now."

You know very well vvhat, I thought. To screw Ine is what. But I didn't say that. Instead, I shrugged. "Unfortunately, honey, those patient records containing your suicidal tendencies will long outlive you."

"No ... no matter what I said to the doctor. . .I still wouldn't do ... this!"

After all that, all that I've said, she still didn ' t get it. Maybe it was the trauma of the long night clouding her mind. "I know you wouldn't," I commented. Using the two fingers on my right hand, I felt for the pulse in her neck. It was thready but still pumping.

"Then how did I get like this?"

"Well, what do you remember?" I asked, tucking the flashlight under my arm so that it would still shine on her, but leave my hands free .

"I remember. .. going out for drinks ... with you ... trying to reconcile .. . again. Then I remember coming back home."

7S

H0111.e, she said, as ifshe were the one who bought this house. "Yeah , and?" I prompted, reaching into my pocket.

"We fooled around a little bit before maki ng our way upstairs .. . then you poured ... me some wine .. . but it tasted funny. You said that it had probably settled , turned to vinegar. Then I don ' t remember anything . .. until I woke up in intense pain and called yo u."

"I see," I said, and perhaps I did. Kneeling there beside her, it became clear to me that the old adage was wrong . Honey might work to catch a typical bee-a drone, say, if you were wary of the stinger-but if you were going for the queen, as clearly in this case I was, it would take equal parts honey and vinegar to get the job done. You see, queens are more resilient, more suspecting, and just downright meaner than drones. It's not as easy to lure one of those babies into a trap using plain old honey; you have to add a kicker. Hence the vinegar. Or, in this case, laced wine.

"I hope yo u' ll forgive me, Janet," I continued, "because I fibbed a little. There was nothing wrong with the wine. That vinegary taste, it was half a dozen sleeping pills I bought at the pharmacy."

"Sleeping pills?" ''Yeah , sleeping pills. But don ' t worry. I paid cash for them. Again, I' m sorry to have to tell you I lied and so soon after the compliment yo u just gave me a few minutes ago on the phone. It kind of spoils the moment. I've got to say, though , it warms my heart to know that, even with all we've been through, you still had enough faith in me that I'd be the one you 'd call to come save your life." I shook my head at the wonder of it all. "When instead, irony of ironies, it's going to actually end up being you who saved my life tonight by calling.

"It's like you 've always said: I have no follow-through. I do things half-assed. It seems you were ri ght all along. Well, no more. I'd just like you to know before you go that all those years of hammering the point home to me has finally paid off! I've officially learned my lesson, and all thanks to you! I almost screwed things up big time, leaving you alone tonight. Imagine if I'd left this particular job half-finished, who knows what you would 've told the cops once the pills wore off? Nothing good, that's for sure!

"B ut, because of your unwavering persistency in reminding me of my flaws , nagging me, I've decided to change. I've turned the corner now,

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thanks to this whole messy experience, and tonight is but the first step on the new path. Janet, you can rest assured knowing that it's all because of you I am the man I am today! " Grinning savagely, I grabbed her wrist and held up what had been the largest shard of glass from the wine bottle I broke earlier for this exact purpose-you know, the one she complained had the vinegary taste . It had been a nice Medot before I mixed in the pills-a smooth 1973 red , full of body-but leave it to Jan to only accentuate the negatives.

After I did it, I hadn ' t wanted to leave the shard behind with my fingerprints on it, so I tucked it in the front pocket of my suit jacket with my keys when I left the first time, figuring I'd properly dispose of it later.

Who could 've known that I'd be needing it again? Well, no matter, I still had it, and that was all that counted.

Not that it was a pleasant task at hand, mind you, but one I intended to see all the way though to the very end, anyway. I can at least take solace that, because of Jan's predilection to call me, I hadn ' t had the time to change-any fresh bloodstains that might get on my clothes would only blend in with the ones from before. The suit was already beyond salvageable anyhow.

The glow of the flashlight glinted off the raised piece of green glass , if possible, making the shard's point look even sharper than it was, as I momentarily reminisced about the evening 's events. I thought of Mr. Snowman with his dead, flat eyes, armless and without a mouth, standing alone by the side of the road. Someone else in society had created him to fit a specific image. Whether he was a joke, or a more serious Pygmalionlike commentary on human nature, it was his flaws that stuck out prominently in my mind-flaws gave character.

Suddenly ready to be done with the whole thing, I arced my hand quickly downward, the piece of glass descending with it.

Still lying on the floor in a cooling puddle of her own blood, Janet screamed.

This time I sliced longwise, I had a plane to catch .

-Douglas Robinson

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A Breath The moments creep by slowly past like snails Or have they come and gone so soon, so fast that I've mjssed the times I've longed to see Like waiting for a comet, an eclipse or a tree to grow old and gray So many wait whole lives for mere seconds In anticipating we fail to see life happening while we're waiting And the anxiousness often is more exciting Time has stripped me of my rose-colored glasses Unveiled my child Unmasked me Open to the truth and reality that Christmas never really feels like Christmas anymore But what does Or is this how it really is And all before was a dream It comes and goes with the hours like summer Or snow The sun so warm it feels like eternity, until the cold returns again And snow so white and pure, so soft resting on the ground Sleeping only a catnap, then just as soon melted away by the rain And only lasting wet for minutes The times I wished were over last longer and play over again in my head But the times I wish to bathe and bask in, to grasp and hold onto every detail every part Disappear like the snap of a finger Like teardrops in rain Like bsses Like smjles melt away Like moments A breath For isn't life a mere moment -Rachel McClain 78

Ballad of Billy Howe dark rooms where rain water filled: prisoners for life on mud island. billy got wounded, a 3 month spell, laid up in bed , the army held his pay. and when billy asked for what he was due, big brother shrugged his shoulder, said he'd take care of it. so when his leg healed, billy went awol, back to his wife and kids near allentown. but general hodgepodge couldn't let it be. " no one leaves the an11y ... you see!" a few soldiers were sent to get old billy boy and bring him back. but a family 's love cuts deeper than the will to serve a villainous military. so when they confronted billy a scuffle ensued, and cinder was turned to ash. back to fort mifflin they brought that treacherous billy howe. he was sentenced by a military court to the gallows . down those dark, damp, chilled stone corridors the bayonets marched. they took poor billy to the platform in the courtyard. they asked him if he had any last words.

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billy said, "i' m innocent, and i can prove it!" the crowd shook their heads and hooded him. with a motion the trapdoor swung open, billy swung till hi s body was a pendulum of a corpse. every now and again , visitors to the fort describe a faceless soldier haunting the dark pri son in which billy still asks:

"HOW?" -Frank Nicoletti

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Words To live By "Ugh! What is that noise?" In a half-asleep, half-awake state, I realize it is the ringing of the telephone. Scrambling, I unravel myself out from my warm blankets and jump up to answer the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, did I wake you?"

"No," I answer in a groggy but polite tone. "I was just getting up."

"Listen, I wanted to remind you to pick up the calTy-on from mom for our trip on Friday. It will cut down our time at the airport."

"I know, Vera. I'm going over to mom's house today to pick it up."

"Oh, great! I'm so excited to go! I've written everything that I need down so I won't forget anything. You should think about doing that."

"That's a good idea, Vera. Maybe I will. Listen, why don ' t I call you later, so we can go over the final details."

"Okay, I should be home after 9:00. I have a private client tonight."

"Okay, I'll call you then."

"Bye, I love you."

"I love you, too."

As I hung up the phone, I felt a bit ilTitated. Maybe it was because I hadn't had my tea yet, or perhaps it was my sister's insistence or reminding me to pick up the calTy-on. Mumbling, I look at my cat and say, "I'm not 10. I think I am competent enough to remember to pick up the carry-on."

In the kitchen, I fill up the kettle with water to make my tea and thoughts about seeing my mom float in my head. The last time I saw or spoke to her was about a month ago at my grandmother's funeral. I didn ' t understand why she attended my father's mother's funeral. They have been divorced for over 12 years, and she despised the woman.

I barely knew my grandmother myself. I had no special name for her like Grams, or Nana, like my friends had for theirs. She didn't, refused really, to speak English. The last time I saw her, she had told my father, in her peasant Russian that she didn't remember who I was. He laughed as he said it, and I realized I was as foreign to her as her language was to me. It had been twelve years since I had last seen her, but I couldn't 81

imagine myself looking drastically different. Maybe she never really gave me a good look. 1 didn't cry at the funeral.

As we were growing up, my mother could never properly call us by our cOlTect names. Granted there were six of us, but it was always comical to me that she would rattle off a list of names. She would start off with the oldest and go straight down to the youngest, inevitably omitting your name until in a conscious moment she recognized who you were. Not exactly recognized. She did know who we were; she simply had trouble matching the "right" name to the "right" face. Today her naming faux pas remains and somehow has infiltrated my sisters' psyches. We all become our mothers and fathers. Right? Fortunate enough to evade this particular affliction, unfortunately, others have been difficult to dodge.

Driving down 1-95, 1 alternate between NPR and a few other radio stations. Thoughts about the strained conversation about to take place at my mom's house enter. She doesn't know how to communicate. She never had it from her mother. You know she loves you. She has a hard tim~ expressing it. 1 have to accept her for who she is, not who 1 always wanted her to be. 1 tune out and focus on a different thought, what it must be like to be a famous musician. How amazing it would be to have 70,000 people screaming your name in unison because somehow you spoke to their soul through your music, your words.

1 used to believe and put so much faith in that elementary school proverb: Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me. The older 1 become, the more 1 believe that innocent phrase originated from a two-year old because of its absurdity. Words contain great power. For a long time 1 fooled myself into thinking that words could never hurt me, that they imply nothing, but now, spoken or unspoken, 1 believe they absolutely reveal everything.

As 1 make the right turn onto Midwood Lane, a memory of walking to the bus stop pierces my mind. 1 notice the lack of trees on people's properties as 1 recollect the apple tree that once stood in front of our yard.

Maneuvering into my mother's driveway somehow comforts me. Her property proudly displays absolutely beautiful flowers and shrubs. She bestows extreme care over her flowers, plants, and trees.

She used to have this African Violet collection that reminded me of a

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museum of sorts. The special care she took in ensuring their well being was excessive to me, but maybe I didn't understand their unique needs.

African Violets require the right amount of light, humidity, and food to thrive. She went out of her way to ensure their livelihood.

I don't knock on the door being the house I grew up in, yet not knocking feels impolite. Having lived here for 19 years, do I really need to knock?

"Mom? Mom?" I say a little louder. I take a breath and step inside.

"Mom? Where are you?"

"Oh, hi, Janie! How are you doing?" ''I'm good, good. How are you doing?" I put my arms around her shoulders and give her a quick hug. She's colored her hair a mahogany color that clashes with her fair skin.

"I'm okay," she perfunctorily says. "What brings you here?"

"Oh, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind me borrowing your carry-on for my trip."

"Not at all . Where are you going?"

"I'm going to Key West. It's my thirtieth birthday present to myself.

I can't wait to go. I'm so excited!" I wonder how many kids she had when she was thirty.

"Oh, that's a nice present. Who are you going with?"

"With Vera. Mom, how old again were you when you had your first kid?"

"Urn, let me see now, I was 19. Yes, I was 19." A moment of silence passes as I think about my own life. What a nightmare if I had five kids right now. "Jesus, I can' t even imagine having five kids at this age. How did you do it?"

"I just did it. I don't think I had much of a choice."

I nodded and shook my head as if I understood her, but I didn' t.

"So, what's new, mom? What have you been up to?"

"Not much, you know work and stuff."

"You've colored your hair," I say in a way that won't make her ask me the inevitable. I don' t want to lie to her.

"Oh, yeah! Do you like it? I wanted something different. I was tired of the blond."

"Urn, yeah, it's definitely different for you ." I glance around the

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kitchen and notice my mother's half-finished projects. "So, mom, what do you plan to do with the walls in here?"

"Well, I think I want to paint now. I'm tired of the wall paper."

"What color do you want to paint them?"

"I haven't decided yet. I have a couple of paint chips from the paint store, but I can't decide between sand and dusty yellow. What do you think?"

She rises from the table to grab the paint chips out of her newly purchased Salvation Army hutch and hands them to me. "I like the yellow, mom. I think it would look really good in here."

"Really, I was leaning more towards the sand color."

I wonder why she even bothers to ask me. "Well, sand would look nice too. It's your kitchen. You have to look at it everyday."

"So, Janie, what's new with you?"

"You know," shrugging my shoulders,"same old stuff, going to school and working. I'm a lot less stressed this semester. I actually like some of my classes, and I am making some friends ."

"That's nice, honey. Would you like some water or some tea?"

"Mom," I say in my adult voice. "You don't have to wait on me. I know where the tea and water are." I guiltily add, "But thanks, I will have some tea." I wonder if she will ask more about my life or if I should keep talking as if she did.

She adjusts her glasses and rises from her chair. At the stove, she picks up the kettle and fills it with water. She appears heavier. Once comforting, her plump stomach that I used to lay my head on and listen to the noises it made seems fuller. A creeping smile comes across my face as I notice her clothing. A fuchsia tee shirt, blue cropped pants and white sneakers. She always had an interesting color choice. We, my sisters and I, used to call her freaky lady. It all started with a bright pink outfit she used to wear that was a little too bold for such a little lady. Trying to get her attention at the mall, my sister Cynthia screamed, "Hey, freaky lady!"

My mother happened to tum around to see who was yelling, and from then on, the name stuck. We were cruel sometimes.

"How many sugars do you want?"

"Two, please," I reply, "you know how I like my tea sweet." She does, doesn't she?

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"So have you talked to your sister Cynthia lately?"

As if I didn't know she was my sister, I reply dryly, "Yeah, I spoke to her yesterday. She and Matt are doing well. They're putting a new solarium on their house. The old one is in bad shape."

"What about Vera?" my mother asks. "Have you spoken to her? Is she doing all right?" Becoming irritated, I respond, "I spoke to her this morning actually. I have to call her back tonight to go over the final details of our trip."

She always does this. If she wants to know how you are doing, it isn't you who she asks but everyone else.

I finish my tea and softly say, "Alright, mom. I have a few errands to run before I go home, and I have a ton of homework, so I should leave."

"Oh, okay, honey. I'll follow you out."

As I walk down the picture-laden hallway, I pause and turn to her.

"Mom, you know you can always give me a call."

Startled and puzzled, she looks at me and responds, "You can always call me, too."

We both smile, knowing the dance is futile.

At the doorway, I hug my mother goodbye with a bit more firmness than when I first arrived. Squeezing her, I tell her how much I love her, and she relays the same. She watches me as I open the door to my Honda.

I lift my head to make certain of this . I smile tersely and secure myself in the driver's seat. I back out of the driveway and wave goodbye. She doesn't move from the doorway until I am halfway up the street.

I turn on the radio to avoid the replay of our conversation. It's useless.

Why can't the conversation simply flow between us? Why is there such heaviness between the words we speak to each other? Why doesn't she feel like my mother sometimes?

In moments of crisis in my life, I sometimes close my eyes and pretend I am eight years old, my head on her belly and begging her to scratch my back. Twenty years later and I still wish that. That's the mother I know.

As I approach a red light, I catch my reflection in the real"view mirror.

What if mirrors didn't actually reflect what you see? How would you ever know? Why doesn't the mirror reflect that which somebody else sees within you when you don't? I study my nose and lips, which are from my 85

father, and I glimpse at the subtle lines beginning to form at the corners of my eyes. My eyes, like my mother's , have the same cool blue hue. My mother's eyes exude a loving innocence despite the scalTing from her traumatic childhood.

The light turns green and her words, "I love you, too, honey," echo within my mind.

- Tanya Kosabutski

Ded;'s Nightmare dead en\!i:al leyson the run

:,::rhe,y caught up to me this time!"

v,:::::{,

fists flyinig{:c::t dropping;. tlÂĽ~mi

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"But they keg~ on getting up!" :'/ wolfish hUl1,linoids with clawed hands, dripping sapva, canine fangs. .:

"I usually gyt away, but this time, 4 they caught t~ m~."

up

~:::::':::'::::t.

chase scene deja vu.

"Wa~J

stilTing in my sleep?"

.frP

germinated sarcopbagus.

"No, but your fists were ,clenched. ' --Frank Nicoletti 86

What Faith Knows I see my Faith through a scratched Plexiglas window insic;~ a locked room behind the metallic bars of a reflective cage. Pressing an 01- ~n hand to the cool sheet of translucent plastic, rising up between us, OUi eyes meet and a feeling of urgency clutches my heart. Her countenance, wi. ;le beseeching, holds no sign of franticness. She remains disturbingly caIn. as the clock on the plain white wall ticks ever closer to her fate. I whisper to no one, "Does she even know?" The silver knob of a once ignored door turns slowly; my pulse quickens as it begins to slide open. His footsteps echo slightly as he forebodingly enters her sterile chamber; the threat is not in his carriage but in the unspoken purpose of his sudden appearance.

I look to Faith with desperation in my glance, but her quiet figure offers no acknowledgement of her immediate peril. The faceless man stops in front of her tiny prison and, with a touch of reluctance, turns towards her.

The latch screeches open in protest, and the feeble aluminum door quivers against his tug. Drawing Faith forth, he, almost protectively, clutches her to his body. His back faces me as I begin to slam on the window violently. Resting her head on her captor's shoulder, she shares a final look with me. She appears neither afraid nor angry, her eyes filled with confidence and acceptance. As the door clicks closed behind the pair, I begin to wonder what does Faith know.

Lying open-eyed in the darkness, my mind reaches out to the images of the rapidly fading dream., Forcing the tension from my body, I take a deep breath as I struggle to quiet the anxiety brought on by the disturbing visions. My mind begins to whirl as reality floods back in. My joints seem to ache from this process of "rebooting," which, in turn, causes me to change positions on the bed. Giving my pillow a satisfying punch, I gaze over at the digital clock; its amber numbers read 3 a.m. Feeling the chill of early morning touch my exposed limbs, I greedily pull the blanket over my shoulders and make a concerted effort to reestablish sleep. As the endless minutes roll by, listening to the hum of the air conditioner downstairs and the random creaks of the house settling, I realize the hope for a REM cycle is improbable. My brain is wide-awake, and it wants to ponder, weigh, and worry. The thoughts that come are not

87

88

profound: a list of things to do today, what to write in an e-mail, the gas level in the car and so on. It's more an itinerary of responsibilities and second-guesses than a quiet, contemplative moment. The dream has wrought nervousness, anxiety and fear. I am only awake because of the dream, and in my exhausted state, I return to my attempts at its interpretation. "Just what was that dream?" Faith. Faith was in that dream. Drifting away I lazily follow my balTage of muddled thoughts to somewhere else.

Faith resides among the rolling hills of central Bucks County, somewhere past Newtown, off of #413. Rescued from dire circumstances, she has come to know a life of peace in a place that seems as far removed from the world as one can be without leaving the planet.

She has no worries or responsibilities . Faith walks the fields contemplating nothing more than the wonder of the universe and the new possibilities everyday brings.

Five days a week I journey to this natural haven out of time. Before most of the world awakens, I leave my little house in the suburbs and travel west. As I zoom aong at 45 mph, the shopping center with the great pizza place and "almost" a dollar store passes by unnoticed. The neon Acme sign seems to tremble with the need for a replacement bulb, and the dim lights of the Getty on the point make an example of the station's emptiness. Stoplight after stoplight brings me closer to my destination and just as the sun begins to rise and the signs of civilization start to melt away, the pinnacle of human consumerism appears on the horizon: the mall, complete with a ten screen movie theater. It would be nice to say I was above all that, but it wouldn't be the truth. I smile at my own hypocrisy and move on when the light turns green.

Past endless rows of condominiums and cookie-cutter houses, onward through the old towns made new, and even beyond the now "retro" farmer's markets, my dinky blue economy car drives on. Into the country we go with the windows rolled down and the weather station on the radio. Finally, turning off the main road, I pass over two single lane bridges: the first with no incidents and at the second an Agway feed truck flashes its headlights at me, signifying that I should go first. With a courteous wave returned by a simple nod, I continue on. At the second driveway on the left, marked by a black mailbox, surrounded by wild

89

tiger lilies, I turn in. Easing to a stop behind the ancient white bank barn, I turn the engine off and hurriedly exit the car.

Taking a deep breath, I check the air for a hint of rain; looking to the sky, I grimace at the grey clouds in the distance, "They might become a problem." Shaking my head I hear her complaining little voice, and all thoughts of weather vanish. Dashing up to me she cries out in a way that suggests she knows I'm late. Weaving herself between my legs, she demands to be picked up. Feeling guilty at my overdue arrival, I, of course, oblige and promise her something a little extra today. Slinging Faith over my shoulder, I wish Gordon a good morning as he comes sauntering in from the fields, then heads into the barn without further delay.

As I lazily weave my way through the crowd of horses loitering by the broken gate, held upright by a single rusty hinge, I call for Faith to join me. Without hesitation she leaps down from her perch on the sawdust bales stacked just inside the barn door. Gordy, seemingly annoyed by her "mindless" obedience, gives her an irritated swipe as she passes by, then, having missed, casually returns to the grooming of his massive black and white underbelly.

I, now a good ten paces from the gate, stop to wait with feigned exasperation, when I hear Faith's anxious cry. Calmly sitting just outside the fence, she surveys the meandering herd tentatively. With an encouraging wave, I call to her again; I know she's in no real danger, having seen her navigate this particular "peril" a hundred times before, but her theatrics are as much a part of the game we playas Gordy's aggravation and my impatience. Suddenly, she makes a mad dash around the forest of moving horse legs. As if in a race for her life, she feverishly darts past me, then realizing she is alone stops abruptly. Glancing over her shoulder at my approach, she coolly plops down and begins cleaning her muddy gray feet.

Without pausing I walk past her matter-of-fact figure whispering her name only once as I go, "Faithy." Faith, more like a loyal hunting dog than a reluctant barn cat, bounds after me. As she prances along beside me, I notice an urgency to her gait and a sense of need in her gaze. She wants to do it all before our walk is through, but we never have enough time for everything that Faith wants to accomplish.

90

The views are usually the same, and the paths we take through the field vary only slightly, but Faith doesn't require "different" to be sustained or find fulfillment. She takes what I have to offer, no matter how small or fleeting , with love and acceptance. And though our time together may be brief or long, feast or famine, she is content and never seeks to abandon or chastise me for my selfish shortcomings.

As I stroll through the meadows of our rented farmette with Faith sedately draped over my shoulders, the poetry of Wordsworth and Colelidge spring to mind. Sitting "Indian-style" amongst the buttercups, in the high grass of a green hill in the middle of nowhere particular, their words begin to mean something. With my back to the world of modern man and my eyes fixed on the tree-lined horizon, I start to see the spirit of nature and the miracle of God's creation. In that moment my mind is not filled with thoughts of "me" and my problems; I am an insignificant speck stealing a glimpse of an infinite, and otherwise, unfathomable universe. And then I see my Faith.

This is where Faith lives. She spends her every day, her every moment, in a reality devoid of human certainty. Some may consider Faith's life small and insignificant, but the simplicity of her sage-like wisdom and her innocent belief that all things are inherently good inspires and uplifts; her example offers a glimmer of hope to a world drowning in negativity. The uncorrupted Faith never questions her place in the world or whether her existence even matters; she finds contentment in just "being" and aspires "to be" nothing more than at peace.

Faith, my paradigm, and my teacher, is the little voice calling me back from the brink. She knows where my talent lies and my creativity hides. Her gentle eyes and quiet demeanor show me how to silence my mind and unlock the door to the world within. But, for me, this transcendental state must end. With regret I turn away from the trees. Trudging back to the reality that is my life, I yearn to stay forever in her world of wild imagination and unrestrained bliss. Watching Faith leap with unhindered joy in a futile attempt to catch a white meadow moth, I smile wistfully as a desperate thought seizes my mind, "I wish I knew what Faith knows."

-Jennifer C. Lee 91

let's Make a Deal Stories. They are the vessels that prove our existence from the most fantastic cave murals to the earliest griots, from parables to fairy tales, and novellas to celluloid. They prove that we were here. We carry them around with us. We share them. We are never truly finished if we have at least one left and someone to listen to it.

Most of us are never happy with our own stories. We need new stories to block out the old ones and the ones before those. That is nothing new.

But what about the people who do not exist, those stories no one cares to hear or cares to know. Well, this is the story of one such man. He is nameless to the world, but we will call him Hobbs for narrative's sake.

He has a past and yet does not. And like you and I, he is looking for that new story that will tell us who he is. This is the story of. . .

Vhoom.

Click.

Vhoom.

Click.

Vhoom.

Click.

A shapely nurse walks towards the hospital sliding doors. Oh, and by shapely, I mean Volkswagen. EXIT ONLY. Her shoes are too tight. Her walk lets us know every step reminds her of it. She approaches our man, waving a pen in the air. The fat under her arm a pendulum.

"You have to stop that," she says. "You have to go ."

Our man steps outside with the help of crutches. His left leg is bandaged. He sticks out his foot towards the doors one more time before leaving.

Vhoom It's been five minutes. Lunch is served. Ever notice how every back alley looks the same? Why wouldn't they?

Hobbs finishes off a sandwich he did not initially start. Finders keepers. These daily scavenger hunts for meals-they're like a nine-tofive themselves . The bitch of the bunch is not finding something to eat but rather something to drink.

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The guy you see begging for change is usually thirsty. Our man needs his poison, but today, clean water will do.

Tonight on "News at 11." He relaxes behind an old church. He's tired.

From what? All he did today was a little surviving. Existing can drain the soul for some.

He watches a rat scurry past. It lingers for a moment and stares blankly.

Hobbs sits on an old box and fiddles with his long, graying beard. At night, he has all the time in the world for thought. This life he lives, does he live it at all?

He sits quietly, his face masked with sobriety. The chill in the air needs company, and it has found our man. His eyes are shut as he rubs his hands together.

Freeze frame this image and we have a man at prayer. Hobbs digs into a black trash bag, which lies next to him. He pulls out a half-used pack of matches. Rising from his cardboard throne, he strikes the match and sets ablaze the contents of a small trash can. It is much smaller than the other ones that line the church alley wall. Waiting a few moments, it's clear the flames leave much to be desired. Our man searches through garbage for more urban firewood. His weight is on his good leg, or shall I say, his better leg. Always searching, never finding. He comes across some newspapers and quickly looks over them for curiosity's sake.

Words. Words. Stories. News. Pictures. Everyone understands pictures.

People. Places. Things.

He stands over the trash can and warms his hands. He then reaches for more garbage: a piece of wood, some more paper, even a kid-sized shoe. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a small, leather-bound black book. It quickly finds its way into the can. Tomorrow 's another day, yet it's usually the same.

Rise and shine. A loud hissing sound wakes up our hero. He wipes his eyes and slowly comes to clarity. He stares up at the inverted bowl we call a sky. There are some clouds, but they won't bother anyone.

The source of all the noise rolls towards the entrance of the alleyway.

It is a large municipal trash truck. A short man wearing a remarkably clean standard blue uniform and cap hangs off the side as the truck comes to a stop. He jumps off the rig and walks towards Hobbs. He stops to look 93

through some cans. Two larger workers come along and wheel a dumpster towards the truck.

The first worker continues rummaging. Hobbs grabs a crutch and pulls himself up. He adjusts his coat and folds his two blankets before stuffing them into an old duffel bag that has doubled as a pillow for quite some time. Nature calls and it's for our man. He stares at the workers as he urinates on the brick wall nearby.

The two workers on dumpster duty leave the alley. The third does not.

Hobbs gathers himself. He looks inside the trash can from last night and notices the black book still on top of the ashen pile. He reaches in and grabs it. It appears unscathed, save for a little soot smeared on the spine.

He tries to open it, and with a little effort, it gives.

"Excuse me," yells the trash man.

Hobbs immediately closes the book and places it inside his coat. He eyes the man suspiciously as he approaches. The stranger seems familiar for some reason. For our viewers at home, if Jimmy Carter and Napoleon had a kid. Does that work for a visual ?

"Excuse me," he says to Hobbs. "I was wondering if ya might be able to give me a hand with something."

Our man looks down at his leg as he tries to put more weight on it.

The trash man sees the bandages.

"I'm just looking for something and was wondering if you saw it," the stranger continues.

"What's in it for me?" asks Hobbs.

"Nothing. That is, if you can help me but won't."

"It's early and I didn't eat nothing." Hobbs turns around and packs his things together.

"What, do you want me to get you a sandwich?" The trash man walks closer to our man.

"No ... something hot. I want to be inside. Coffee. Cigarettes."

The two men stare at each other as they silently debate.

"How's about I take you down the street to that corner coffee shop.

Will that do?" The trash man waits for an answer.

Hobbs nods. He slowly heads to exit the alley. He seems to struggle a bit with the crutches, but he manages. The stranger follows, eyeing every step Hobbs takes.

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"I need to know whether or not you actually can help me."

"What help ya need?" asks Hobbs.

"I lost a book." The man gestures with his hands as he explains. "It's not too big ... black. See something like that around, maybe?"

"Coffee shop on the corner, you said?"

The trash man grinds his teeth but forces a smile.

Table for two. In the coffee shop, the two men are led by the hostess to a small table in the middle of the shop. She wears dark sunglasses. The place is rather crowded. Hobbs has not bathed in a week, but it seems no one pays him any mind in this place. Two years behind the same church, you would have thought he'd have noticed this place. What a surprise it is that so much of memory is built around the things unnoticed at the time.

A waitress pours the two men a cup of coffee, offering Hobbs a brilliant smile. Her name tag is blank.

Let's fast-forward. Dishes pepper the table. Hobbs leans back and pats his stomach, smiling. Look up the word "contentment."

The trash man sips a glass of water.

"Now can you help me?" he asks .

Hobbs picks his teeth with his finger. He downs his cup of coffee. The waitress walks over immediately and refills it. Hobbes reaches into his coat and pulls out the book. The trash man sees it and smiles. He stands to reach over and grab it. Hobbs pulls back slightly, and the other man freezes before sitting back down.

Our man slowly opens the book. The lights in the coffee shop dim for a moment. He flips through it quickly as the trash man watches impatiently. Hobbs looks up as the flipping continues. The trash man actually looks angry now.

Hobbs stops and stares at the first page. Then the second. The third.

Names. Signatures. A mass of labels and identities. "Confusion" should only be a few pages before "contentment."

"What kind of a book is this?"

"It's nothing. I just need it back." He says, "I'll want that back now.

I gave you a meal."

"Well, I don't think it's nothing. You're acting funny over there," Hobbs says.

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"It's like a phone book, okay. Can I please have it back?"

Hobbs stares at the pages. He flips towards the back of the book, which is full of blank pages. "How come I don't see any numbers then?"

The trash man takes another sip from his glass. "I said it was like a phone book." He waves the waitress over with two fingers. "We're done now. Check." He glares at Hobbs.

"Look, I don't know you, man. You don't know me. But you aren't getting this book back if you keep giving me that dirty look."

The other man stands up. He walks over towards another booth where an elderly couple sit. They do not even notice when he grabs the old man's cane and walks back over to Hobbs. He raises the cane. Hobbs flinches.

Whack!

The man hits Hobbs bandaged leg several times. Hobbs screams in agony and drops the book. Not a single person in the coffee shop even cocks an eyebrow. The trash man grabs it and turns to run towards the door. He travels a few feet before he cries out loud. He stops running and lowers his head.

The entire storefront is now just a giant brick wall. The man turns back around and heads back to the table. He calms down. In all his screaming and moaning, Hobbs did not notice until now that there was no pain at all. How our minds are trained to have a pre-determined reaction to certain stimuli. He quiets down and examines his leg. No pain at all. He quickly looks up at the other man, hoping for an explanation.

The trash man sits down and slides the book across the table.

"Can you please give me back my book," he asks Hobbs.

Hobbs quickly grabs the book. He holds it up. "Just take it," he commands.

The trash man finishes his glass of water. "I can't."

"Go on. Take it from me." Hobbs is the one who is angry now.

"You have to give it to me."

Hobbs stares at the book and holds it tightly. "What is this?"

"It's a list."

Hobbs does not break his stare. "What kind of a list?"

The trash man sits back and crosses his arms. Hobbs begins flipping through the book again . The other man points to the book. "Those are

96

names in there. Let's say I've done all those people a big favor or two, and I keep that list so I know who owes me."

Hobbs stares at the blank pages. The trash man continues, "When I do someone a favor, I ask them to sign their name. They sign their name; I do them the favor. I do them the favor...they pay me back. Go on. Read.

You'll see some pretty famous people 's names in there, too."

Hobbs looks up. "What is it that they give you?" Everyone in the coffee shop stands up and leaves at the same time. Literally, everyone.

Short-order cooks. Waitresses. Patrons. Hobbs looks around, a mix of fear and excitement on his face. He watches everyone line-up in a singlefile line and head out the door. They are all shackled together at their ankles .

The trash man looks proud. He opens his hand and gestures towards the people as they leave. "THAT is what they give me." He smiles.

Hobbs asks, "But you can't just take this away from me?"

The smile fades from the trash man's face . "Right."

Hobbs holds his leg. He removes the bandages. Some dried blood has soaked through them. With wrappings removed, he sees nothing wrong with his leg.

The other man says, "The bereaved soul craves nourishment, a nourishment more tangible than prayers. You are nothing. Your existence is just a technicality." He points upwards . "Do you think He cares?"

"You're-" says Hobbs.

The man quickly interjects, "That's right. I am who you think I am."

Hobbs looks around the empty coffee shop. The trash man adjusts his uniform.

"So, just give me the book. You ' ve had your fill. Now I just need that book back."

Hobbs jumps to his feet. He stares at the book and then stares at a stove behind the counter. A pot of water still boils. Hobbs eyes the flame beneath it.

The trash man rips off his uniform and exposes a black jump suit under it. He takes the cap off and there is a small star tattooed on each temple. He slowly follows Hobbs ' gaze. "You can't just destroy it. Think back to this morning. Why didn't it burn when you threw it in the fire last night?" he says sternly.

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"Because, if you could, then you would mess up everything," he quips. "Without one extreme, there cannot be the other. Without servitude, there is no free will."

Hobbs sits back down. The trash man asks, "What is it that you want?

Wealth?" Instantly, the two men are inside a bank vault, sunounded by stacks of money.

He adds, "Women?"

Gorgeous women enter the bank vault. They caress Hobbs and kiss him. He is barely able to keep up with all of this. The other man looks on.

"FaIne?" Hobbs is suddenly"no longer in his street clothes. He is freshly shaven and wears an Armani suit. Not bad at all. Reporters and photographers rush into the bank vault. They all blurt out questions and snap away pictures. Snap. Who? Click. What? Snap. Why? Hobbs puts his hand over his eyes to shield them from the lights. He still hugs one of the women with the other arm.

And, just like that, the two are back in the coffee shop. However, Hobbs is still in the suit.

The stranger asks, "So, what do you want for that book?"

Hobbs thinks for a minute. He stares at his suit. The entire world at his fingertips and all he can wonder about is how he got it.

Jumping right to a court room across the country. A lawyer is making opening remarks in a trial. "Your Honor, the defendant-," he stops and stares at his outfit. He wears the street clothes that Hobbs has been wearing until now. He wears a disgusted look on his face as the rustle of voices can be heaI¡d from the gallery behind him. "What the fu-" Back in the coffee shop, Hobbs looks down at the book and then slowly raises the stare to the other man. He says, "The way I see it is ..."

He opens the book and tears out the first page. The other man is stunned.

"No! What are you doing?"

Hobbs hands him the page. "Seeing as you need this, and I can't exactly destroy it-" "Yes ?" " I will give you a page a day."

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"No. Hobbs raises his voice. "I'll give you a page a day, and you gotta give me one wish for each. One page for you. One wish for me."

The trash man is furious. "And when the pages are all mine again?"

"Then you got yourself the whole book then."

The trash man mulls over the idea. Hobbs extends his hand. "We will shake on the deal."

The man adds, " ... And you will sign your name when it is over?"

Hobbs waits a moment before answering, "Yeah."

The man smiles. His teeth are now jagged. He firmly shakes Hobbs' hand.

"Deal," Hobbs says.

"Deal," the other man agrees.

Hobbs adjusts his tie. He puts the book inside the breast of his coat and turns to leave. As he opens the door, the other man's voice yells to him, "By the way, what is your first wish? You did give me a page, after all ."

Hobbs smiles. The trash man cautiously smiles back.

There's not an adjective that can describe the grin on Hobbs' face. He answers , "Those names in your book there ... they're just letters to me. I ain't ever been able to read or write. And I sure as hell don't know how to sign my own name. My first wish is to keep it that way. I'll be seeing you tomorrow." Hobbs leaves.

-Nicholas Niedosik

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Sweeping The rancid stench of vomit crawled along Laura's skin, squeezing its way through her clenched fingertips, pinching her nostrils shut. Nausea overwhelmed her, making her lightheaded, dizzy. She scrubbed the spot as best she could, but the stain remained. She glanced her mother's way, who was gathering crumbs and pieces of broken glass, sweeping the pile under a corner of the carpet, which had been ripped up for such a purpose.

A year ago her brother had turned towards the bottle and further away from the family. It was his mess. Laura and her mother were cleaning, covering over his stains. The night before, he barely stumbled his way home, crashing into the wall and smashing the bottle his fingers and mind still clung to into pieces as he had his family. Creeping along, hanging onto every step, he hardly made it up the stairs the way he went through life. Their father had to clean the mess in the bathroom and throw him into a cold shower at four a.m. on a school night.

"Laura, make sure you move the couch to cover that spot. Don ' t want the rest of the family or any of the neighbors to see. No one wants to see the stains on our carpets or the mess under our feet," her mother lectured.

As if covering over the stains meant that they were not there. Being unable to see faults does not make them nonexistent. Blindness only means choosing not to think about our problems.

Laura stared at her father as he lay napping on the couch, breathing the stale air in, then exhaling with a puff from his lips, like smoke from the spout of a train as it makes its way along the rail. She wondered what dreams were playing in his mind. Did he realize what was happening around his slumbering body ? Had the actions become so routine? Was he reminiscing about last night's festivities, his son, his own flesh and blood, drowning himself while his family struggled to remain afloat, cleaning after him and trying to put the pieces back together? Her brother had already disappeared for the night. Laura found herself wishing she were asleep, but her mother called for dinner, waking her father from his peaceful escape.

In the kitchen, seated at the table, Laura gazed from her father's solemn expression to her mother's forced, practiced smile and through 100

averted conversation. The fine wooden cabinets and the smooth countertop were more pleasant to hear about. Renovation was her mother's habit and her forte. Laura wondered what the walls (filled with cockroaches) would say had they not been covered and smothered over so many times with fancy, fake details.

Forgetting about the sickeningly bright wallpaper and curtains , Laura attempted to eat her dinner, but the screaming silence in the room was deafening. She could not get the clinking of rings against glasses, glasses against ice, out of her head, as her parents drank quietly. The scraping of knives and forks on plates resembled nails on a chalkboard. No one spoke a word. Laura's guilt choked her. She held contempt for her brother and her parents, who refused to take action. Looking at her mother's foggy gray eyes , the same color as their carpets, Laura could only see her own cloudy reflection. She wondered what other secrets lie hidden behind those eyes . Without an excuse, she dropped her utensils and rose from the table. Throwing her body into the couch that she had just used to cover her brother's stains , she slid it into the wall , revealing his faults. She ripped up the carpet, pulling the strip back into the corner, unveiling all the piles of dirt that her mother had covered over the years. Laura walked out the front door, grabbing the car keys as she moved.

Rushing over the concrete blacktop, Laura glided on a patch of black ice, slipping, almost falling onto the cold hard ground. Black ice, she thought. You can't see it, but it's there, and you'll fall flat on your face if you pretend it's not. She looked down at the frozen puddle, finding a cockroach immobile underneath. She stomped the heel of her shoe repeatedly, until the ice broke open like shattered glass, setting the cochoach free, but it was already dead, unable to help itself.

Before entering the car, Laura noticed the silence of the darkness, as if not even the stars existed unless a person looked up . No air, no wind, just emptiness, like the sound of nothing before snow comes.

Driving through the silence, like pushing a boat against the wind into waves, Laura took in the sights of Christmas at the neighboring houses.

Multicolored string lights , wreaths, scenes of Christmas signs , snowflakes, candy canes , and trees. She wondered what really went on inside these houses. Which homes held the happy families? In which were the children, parents , animals, babies, late night feedings , 101

workaholics, alcoholics , and obsessive-compulsives? Laura smiled to herself, knowing that you couldn ' t see what really went on behind the bricks aild the Christmas decorations . As if a plastic Santa or Rudolph could make up for whatever happened behind the scenes.

Adjusting the reat¡view milTor, Laura caught a glimpse of her own house, the brightest on the entire street, its lawn covered with Christmas ornaments, with the curtains drawn closed, the windows shut, and doors locked to keep the fresh air out. Her house even bore an American flag.

She wondered when the last time anyone in her family had voted or if they knew anything about America's history.

Snowflakes began to press their faces against the windshield, like a cat's paw prints. Suddenly she knew what being frozen felt like. Fish under an icy lake, deep down, their world still thriving while they appeared dead and dormant. As she drove al0l1g, everything moved in slow motion, as if her car were at the bottom of the ocean, like some greater force pushing and pulling the car. The ice and sleet were clinging to the car so quickly and heavily. Laura pulled over to clean the car off, got out, wiping away the piles of snow. A dark figure caught her eye, lying in the middle of the street. The powdery dust was collecting on the dark strands of hair, spilled on the ground like dewdrops in a spider's web.

Laura stared at her brother, unconscious on the pavement. She shuffled her foot slightly against the ground, slapping her brother's face with a pinch of snow. She kicked her foot again and again, ruining his flawless appearance with snow and dirt. Throwing her hands into the mix, she clawed at the earth, grabbing for anything lying in her path to throw at her brother. She watched as flake after flake covered every inch, layering, sweeping him into the darkness, the empty silence of a hollow death. She knew she could leave him there ; the snow, falling heavier still, would bury him, and no one would ever know.

Kneeling down beside him, Laura wiped away the snow to reveal his hair, lashes and face . She grabbed his arm, dragging him into the car, taking him back home to Christmas. She had pulled him out of the snow, which was sucking him under like quicksand.

-Rachel McClain

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Something About life Burst the day 's dawn Lawn oiJtside ripe with life Wife rises after a kiss Missed because chimes Time the hours Our lives pass Fast the pacing Hustle-bustle Racing heart speeds To work Receiving A thought from Halter: "Your personal decisions reflect On your professional decisions As they both originate from the same mind" The mendacity of the man The hushed pall of evening Smell of the newborn 's head As she lay silent in bed Taste of honeysuckle Warmth of heart's desire Embers in the banked fire Cozy cuddles of sleep And yet There's something about life That makes you want To stop living it -Douglas Robinson

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Folio 29 Staff Chief Editor Rachel McClain

Associate Editor Douglas Robinson

Editorial Staff Jennifer C. Lee Christopher Mote Elizabeth Nestel Mary Ann Gimbel Matthew Gremo Nicholas Niedosik Christopher Smith Jennifer Becker Jessica Press Bridget Link

Graphics Jennifer C. Lee

Advisor Thomas Francis Lombardi, Ph.D.

Professor, School of Arts and Sciences Thanks to Mrs. Victoria P Lombardi for her valuable input and assistance.

HOLY E\MILY UNIVER..<;ITY