Bellerive, Issue 6: Problems with Infinity

Problems with Infinity

Pierre Laclede Honors College

University of Missouri-St. Louis

13,ditor:r

r_;,diling Committee

Lqyout Committee

A rt Committee

Biograp~/ Publicity Committee

Iacuity /ldvisor

Jason Ac chtoldt

Nathan Hunton

Shannon Pendleton

Missy Ycarian

Nathan Hunton, chair

Angela Benoist

Chelsey Butts

Michael Gibson

Myron McNeill

Bobby Meile

Justi Montague

Caleb True

Shannon Pendleton, co-chair

Missy Yearian, co-chair

Angela Brooks, layout asst.

Jason Bechtoldt, chair

Julie Creech

Kate Drolet, chair

Shawn Cooley

Nichol Harrison

Erin Jordan

Amanda Reinert

Jennifer Wynn

Nancy Gleason

AII memb ers of th e staff participated in th e sclc crion pro cess .

Nathan Hunton, . Committee Chair: Edinng blem with infinity is that it takes so long. It's easy to run out of One pro · d Th B n · d . d \:vhen you have eterruty to spen . e euenve e 1t1ng things to o . has traditionally faced the opposite problem-a lot to do and comnuttee tl • m· which to do it-and this year was no exception. However, lit e nme er one faced the challenge and persevered, confronting such horrors as ::niused apostrophes and dubious hyphenation while still having a blast throughout the semester. It has been a great pleasure to work with these people and a real honor to work on this terrific issue of Bellerive as well. We hope you enjoy it.

Shannon Pendleton, Layout Committee Co-chair:

This year's Bellerive has been an amazing experience. I am especially impressed with the level of commitment shown by everyone on the staff throughout the selection process. The task is never easy, but this year was especially difficult for a number of reasons. I applaud everyone for the patience they displayed and for their willingness to listen and compromise. For the layout team, most of the real work doesn't start until the other committees have finished. I want to say thank you to my committee members, Angie and !vlissy, who continued to work hard long after everyone else's winter break had begun, and I want to thank Nancy for all of the support she gave me, both in and out of class.

Missy Yearian, Layout Committee Co-Chair:

this _ marks my second year on the staff of Bellen·ve. I went into this publication · th di · . expecttng the same experience I'd had on e e ttng cbomrruttee the previous year. This was certainly not the case. This year rought a h 1 1 w O e new set of challenges. As co-chair of the ayout committee I · cl , came to learn of the real pressure that falls on our comnnttee urmg fin al k · · d d b . ' s wee and after The rest of the layout commntee 1s owe a e t. Wuh h · · · k hi bli . out t e patience of Shannon and Angie, I thm t s pu cation may not have h · N r GI appened The same g oes for our adv isor, anq eason.

·d ce and composure were invaluable in tight spots with the final Her gl.11 an .c. r the lavout committee. This has truly been a great experience for stages 10 1 d I would like to both thank them for their hard work as well as me, an congratulate them on a job well done.

Jason Bechtoldt,

Art Committee Chair: As Art Editor of this issue of Bellerive, one of my favorite aspects of the class was the concept of decision-making. It made good sense for the class to decide what cover art to use and then select the color, style, and font ultimately forging the overall design. While that process took some time, it encouraged me because we all are a part of the publication and its cover; I listened to the ideas of the class and incorporated them into presentations of cover options. The same is true of the art selections in the book. We had some long discussions about art without knowing who the artists were. And in the end, the class decided what to include. I want to thank all of the art contributors and the staff of this year's issue of Bellerive, and the opportunity to serve as Art Editor.

Faculty Advisor's Note

\\., }come to the SL'X. th issue o f BelleriYe the third . . we ' is sue that 1s the f an hono rs seminar class. Every issue of th bli . rodu ct o . · e pu canon has P •que development stage with struggles an d challe i: th had a uni nges 1o r e d di cors all members o f the sta ff, and yes fo r me a th f ul sru ent e , . , , s e ac n . This year has been n o different fr o m p ast vears e _ · th ad\1sor. . , xcepr to sav at me d to have more challenges than ev er be fo re A i:e\" of h · we see · 1' ,v t ose are th Oting here for our readers. wo r n

This year we received an av erage number of sub mission s from acro ss campus but an above-av erage number o f submissions comina fr o m fewer writers and artists. This meant th at we we re choosing fro m absmaller number of people. The submissions are "blind" submissions fo r the student readers so many times, without knowing it, they selected large numbers of works from single authors. Later in the pro cess, we had to limit the number of works b y a single author to six An other factor is that many of the submissions came from our class members, m o re than the usual number. Again, "vith blind submissions, the class did not know this during the selection process. This caused many things; namely, the stud ents debated the works of their peers with their peers present. I would like to congratulate those in the class for "enduring" endless dis cussio ns of their works; frequently, they had to listen to criticism that was di fficult to hear.

We attempted to make all of the decisions utilizing a consensus approach. This proved to be difficult because of very cfu-erse tastes in literature. Frustration set in during many of our discussions, but the result is a very wide representation of writings and art. Members of the staff will tell you that there are pieces they like and pieces they did not want published. Their sense of "audience" has certainly b een examined and revised as part of our process-something I consider to be goo d . Fo r readers, I believe there is something for all tastes in literature an d art, an d I hope you will find your favorites.

Thank you for supporting this issue of Bellerive. I ho pe yo u enjoy it. Anci for my students I hope this issue serves as a reminder of the semester-long experien~e you have gained through your frank discuss ions and spirited • . I would like to offer . comnutment to the publication process. spec1al thanks to my four editors-Shannon, Missy, Nathan and Jas on. I believe the final stages of Bellerive proved to be very challenging. I am

grateful for their patience "-ith the process, an old computer, one another I have learned from m y editors and all of the studen ts 1!1 this year's seminar. I will take that kn owledge with me to future classes and issues of Bellerive.

N an cy Gleaso n

Jeanie Mryer

Second H an d Smoke

I didn't realize I had a childh ood h ero un til I be came an adult. In th at is how I ~ew I was an adult-s ~d d~ nly, I was aware o f some fa ct, . y upbringing, someone who peno d 1eally enters m y mind and figure in m . there long enough for me to wonder wh at they are doing n ow. It is lingers . thin littl . . . th I start remembenng gs , e things tha t garn unmediate then at . . .6 ce And almost compulsively, I start looking for p attern s for 51gn1 can · . . . _ _ , . .d ts with mearung. Or else I as sign mearung to th e madent s labeling ' th Ood or bad or strange. I start to see things that I was unable to see emg as a child, because I was a child. And I start to see things th at might no t be there, and then I ask m yself: Did that really hap pen? I play th os e scenes over and over again , rewinding them until they are no longer distinguishable, until I can no longer sleep, and I call my sister, h alf asleep and cursing above her breath. At these times an adult's imagination is not to be crusted, especially when it comes to her own childhoo d But des pite all the unanswered questions and a fictitious memory, the recollection o f this certain figure and her present-day entitlement of hero som eh ow becomes a rite of passage within m y own life.

I had a hero who, judging by the usual heroic standards o f the average American girl, was anything but heroic. Being th e late eighties, the idols of most middle-class girls were derived in vanity: glittery pop stars, breast-implanted celebrities, skinny g ymnasts. Mine was local, down-toearth, palpable: she was an obese chain smoke r with a great fo ndnes s for wine. Her name was Linda Swansee, and she was my mo ther's best friend in high school, but not as an adult. As a child , I saw Linda twice a year, maybe three times at most. I saw her as much as my moth er saw her maid-of-honor and former best friend: o n an annual visit to Linda's apartment in the city, and on Thanksgiving.

After years of cities and suburbs, m y father moved us out to the country, closer to our roots and to his disillusioned dream of becoming his own hero, the author and naturalist Louis Broomfield, whom my fa ther had once k d r fulfill thi d f wor e 1or when he was not yet a man. To s ream, my ather bou h b k · dil 'd d . g t ac the family property equipped with a apt ate winery and dead · ' b ' which w vm~yard, lost decades ago. There was a century-ol~ log ~a m

W d e built a house around a farm house We filled it with annques, a oo -b ' . d

urning stove, hardwood floors, an old piano and quilts-lots an

lots of quilts. My mo~er put magazines on the cof~ee table with houses that looked like ours with red barns and ~w~s and willow trees and lakes. And when it was done, we put ourselves 1ns1de the house and called ourselves a family. We were five children with two parents who had separate rooms and separate lives. . .

Inside the house, there was a distinct smell that follows me today when I let myself, on rare occasions, be sentimental. It is the scent of a large family in an old house made new, a balance of warmth and dysfunction that made our house perfect for seasonal holidays such as Thanksgiving, when my mother invited everyone to see how Midwestern and wholesome we could be. Thanksgiving was one time when we, as a family, rose to the occasion, for the sake of our guests and our grandparents-my mother's parents-who knew better but graciously played along. But, most of all, we did it for ourselves because we wanted to believe that things could be good.

Our place was in a valley and accessible only by "the hill," said always at the end of sentences and with the raising of eyebrows. It was something to be conquered every day. "The hill" was the reason for our cabin fever during the slightest of snowfalls and for our oversized calf muscles. For much of the winter, we climbed to the top where our cars waited, covered in snow. There at the peak my mother chastised my father for not getting a four-wheel drive vehicle, or even a tractor. And in the spring she did the same when the heavy rainfalls, coupled with the destruction of my teenage siblings' learning to drive, fashioned "the hill" with pits and canyons and rivers. Every morning in grammar school I climbed this beast walking to the bus stop, and at the end of the day when I-it was always me for some reason-was sent to gather the mail. And then I came back down again, into the valley where it was only our family. (fhis was before the area became a developer's dream, populated by city folks, who brought with them high property value, fences, and paved driveways).

Each Thanksgiving began the same, with me staring out the window that looked out towards "the hill," as if glued to my favorite television show. When I saw Linda's car descend, I ran outside to greet her. Linda always arrived slightly early to the event. She had nowhere else to go fo r the holidays-no family, save for a brother. But he was far away, somewhere tropical and exo tic, and when I asked her about him she told me that they never talked, that they didn't get along. I nodded my head. I was a child- th e baby of the family, as I am still called today-but I ~ nderstood. At eight years old, I had yet to see my own parents hug, much ess ackn owledge each o th er's prese nce o n a daily basis. ·

kn w my mother was watching us from th ki . I e . k e tchen Wlnd g up from the sm , as I opened the c d ow, rn conun ar oor for Lind Th stea Buick, big and comfortable with seats like d k . a. e ar was a h d ar satm that warmed c certain button was pus e . There were ll kind 0 u when a k · 1 . a s of buttons in Y . as her very own coc pit. mda handed m th the car; it w d h e e Wlne or . . ,, as she would say, an er overstuffed purse A d h 1 ''spmts, bb. . · n s e s owly lifted lf out of the seat, gra mg onto the sides of the car and lli herse h fi ll ro ng lf c rward. When s e was ma y on her feet in h 6 • h herse 10 , er eige s oes made for her feet only, she was nearly out of breath. Just below her, the plush seat was deflated from the contours of her massive figure.

Upon hearin~ me anno_unc~ her arrival to the house, my father would come out of his study, his hair gray and unkempt, like that of a symphony compos~r. He greeted L~da with large eyes. She was a figure from the past, a reliable reference pomt of how things once were. He graciously took the wine and proceeded to fmd a corkscrew. My mother hugged Linda and served the usual questions: How was the drive? Was there any traffic? Will you have a seat? And Linda did, disassembling a fold-out chair that traveled everywhere with her, kept conveniently in her trunk. It spread out like a webbed hand that was made especially for larger persons, keeping their needs and comfort in mind. She strategically positioned herself near the head of the table, where all the food and therefore friends and family migrated. Once Linda sat down, she was down for good, or at least until she needed a cigarette. The only time she got up was when she went outside to smoke, where I would always follow her. There was no smoking inside the house. It was one of the few rules my mother actually enforced.

"Hand me my purse, kid," she would say to me, her smile stained and beautiful.

I handed Linda her purse, knowing what she needed. My mother looked down at me in disapproval as if it was my fault that Linda was opening the first of the two packs of cigarettes she would finish by the en~ of the day. I averted my eyes, and instead I watched Linda who was domg something I had never seen done before not in our house and defmitely not while my mother was watching: Linda lit a cigarette and blew it into th · · e air as if she owned it. lik This is where my memory begins. Up until this point, the day was e all the oth Th · · ·d k1i d 1 . er anksgivmg holidays like a firesi e crac ng an g owmg with 1 ' · ·f£ £ · t d peop e gathering around ignoring their di erences or JUS a ay. But now th d · ' b k h.

P · e ay ls singular now as an adult I go ac to t is arucular tim d , I 1 k £ answ . _e an try to figure out what really happened. 00 or ers Within clues because that is what adults do with their childhoods:

They tr y to figure out what went wrong.

The phone finall y rang it was alw . . . ' ays rmgmg, and It w l m y mother. Usually, she would tell me to get .t b as a ways for 1 , ut not today was watchmg Lmda smoke. 1'fy mother had t f ' not While I o go out o the kitch where the gravy and other mysterious liqw·ds • en, were simmermg and • hallway to answer the phone. Being slightly primiti f: '. Into the ve, my amily had et get a cordless, or even a remote for the television. So the h Y_ to · bil d · . P one rema111ed 1mmo e, an conversations were never pnvate Lm · d d I li . a an stened to my mother talking, who was suddenly happier than before Sh . . • e was good at pretending nothmg was wrong· she did 1t every day Wl.th f: th ' my a er. We found out that a family member would be late. We won't start without you, it's okay,_ no ru~h. And do you have any aluminum foil? Sure, plenty, have all you like. Lmda and I smiled at each other.

"Do you have a match, kid?" she asked me, as she handed me her lighter.

Last year on a visit to Linda's apartment, she had taught me how to use the lighter while my mother was in the bathroom. We could hear her shuffling around, moving from toilet to sink. By the time my mother was washing her hands, I had a flame. The toilet was still rumbling and Linda's cigarette was lit.

"You're a fast learner, kid," she said. And I felt smart, confident. We visited Linda no more than twice a year. Always when she entered Linda's apartment, my mother complained about the smoke, but not in front of Linda. Instead, my mother coughed and made a funny face, pinching her nose without using her hands. I didn't notice the smoke. I thought it smelled good, like cookies, the cookies Linda wrapped loosely on a paper plate for our long ride home.

"I just bought a new filter," Linda told us in that voice of hers~ the one that if heard today would make my head turn. Only now do I realize how sultry her sound was, how full-bodied and breathy. As a child I was,, told Linda worked at "the phone company." As an adult, this "company has a different connotation.

"It cleans the air. Real state-of-art," Linda said with exaggeration, as if she was reading off of the box that the filter came in. And then she winked at me, as if we shared a secret.

Whenever my mother went to visit Linda, I always came along. was a buffer between the two women. For a child 1 was a good s I · d Id B t · bo ve all l wa. conversationalist, "a good talker," as ,tn a wou say. u '1 ' ' a distraction-so meone r:o talk 10, som ething to talk about. Th ere was . ore They only had rlieir very little the two women had in common an ym · · past, a past I knew nothing about.

I emember once pretending to fall asleep on the h f r . way ome rom . movie ,vith my mother and Lmda. We saw Drivino M D . cl see111g a . 0 zss azsy, an ther loved it. Miss Daisy reminded her of her own m oth • 1 rny rno er-m- aw, Ythe one whom I would never know. It was 1 ·ust 11 b rny grann , . as we ecause in the car that night my mother told Lmda that my granny was a "genuine bitch." I had never heard m y mother cuss before. Linda responded with a full-body laugh , rapturous enough for both women to turn around to make sure I was still asleep. I closed my eyes quickly, and they continued to talk. Apparently, Linda had had t~e "pleasure" of meeting my granny before she died. My granny never liked my mother, whose background was to o Catholic-although by this point my mother rarely associated herself with the church-and too common to be marrying her youngest son. This was before my mother converted to her present faith , the one that reinvented her, the one my father ardently denied . For her, born-again Christianity was a faith based, not only on forgiving, but especially on forgetting. So that in the present day it is difficult to envision my mother as an ything else, as if she has no past, at least not one worth speaking of.

I flicked the lighter a couple of times, holding it away from myself and pressing the thumb tab like Linda taught me only months before. My mother was still on the phone, talking about how she dressed the turkey and what she did differently to the stuffmg-cranberries instead of raisins this year. And no onions. Uncle Mitch is allergic to onions, we had discovered last Thanksgiving. I had plenty of time to light the cigarette, Linda's second since her arrival. For a chain smoker Linda was patient; she knew I would get it again. And I did, clumsily holding the flame to the end of her cigarette, slim and feminine.

Along with glasses of wine, my father brought in one of his old ashtrays from when he used to smoke cigars, the gas station cigars my mother threw away when he wasn't looking. What irked my mother mo st , besides my father's complete disregard for her non-denominational religion, was smoking, namely second hand smoke. My father set th e a~htray down in front of Linda like a plate of food. He then offered me a sip of his wine.

"S bli 11 "The hill" told omeone's here " I heard one of my s1 ngs ye · · them so. ' 0 b

dow n into the ne- y-o ne car s made their slow, cautious way va lley S . h · od o n rh e long

· ome peo ple parked at the top balancrng t eir O 1 '1 I walk do , , . d "the hill " or r i ey 1a c wn. f hey were either new to the famil y an ·',. . k. · ,· , a new . d . To us, Than sgt, mg car, making th em less likely to take such a ive. · Was a J · cl r I ,s because we d )ig ea!, superior to all oth er cold weather ho tc_a) '. from rh e rna e lt I hin g tr awa yso. t was the h o lida y that we claim ed , snatc ·

ho were allowed Christmas, the Christian holiday that made us in-laws, w · B · f h h f the thought of 1t. ouncmg rom ouse to ouse, rom one dinyawn athte next in order to appease both the blood family and the one you ner to . . ried into, was strictly prohibited. Once you were here, you stayed. The mar " as isolated enough, "the hill" intimidating enough, to make this house \;v "ble The food could be found at any house across America, the possl • . . read extensive and colorful. The company looked similar to that of ;ther households: women in kitchen, chit-chatting; men in living room, drinking, muffling comments every now and then; children in yard, various balls at their disposal. Then there was Linda and I, sitting at the dining room table. She smoking cigarettes, I drinking my first of many sodas for the occasion. Someone-a saint-always brought soda. It certainly wasn't my mother, not with five kids, most of whom were under hormonal reconstruction.

The day proceeded into night. At our house, Thanksgiving was an all-day affair. It began in the kitchen, then led into the dining room and then the living room, and finally back into the kitchen again where the leftovers received a fair amount of attention, as did our belt buckles. My father, with his hermitesque tendencies, had long ago retired to his study, equipped with a television that barely flushed out the sounds of people trying too hard to make good memories. He only came out of his study- where he also slept-to stoke the fire and get another glass of wine to go with the entire pie that he had snuck into his room. By this time everyone had migrated into the living room again, their pants tighter than earlier that day. We played Uno on the floor, every last one of us, even Linda who was still in the kitchen. She had not moved from her throne all day. I could see her at the head of the table, smiling with a cigarette in one hand and wine in the other. Even from a distance she was still a part of the game. She was on my team, and we were winning.

It happened while I was preoccupied with the game or maybe when I got up to go the bathroom. This is what I replay in my mind: my mother quitting the game, nonchalantly throwing her cards in, and us proceeding without her. My mother going into the kitchen where it is just she and Linda, and then while the game is exciting or while I am flushing the toilet, she has a talk with Linda. What she says is enough for Linda to not come back the next year or any of the following years. It is enough for her to not bring me to Linda's apartment anymore. She told Linda to quit smoking in the house.

Sometime after that Thanksgiving, when I was considered an adult in the biological sense, I remember sifting through one of our most prized antiques, which held all the family photos yet to be entered int o an album.

They were neglected memories, haphazardly tossed into a newly finished f drawers with shapely legs and carved edges Th i::. • chest o • e rnrmture was Renaissance, but insi~e the memories were nearly dead. The pictures sat year after year, orga~ed ahnost chronologically by default. The older pictures, most of which were black and white, were kept in the bottom shelf. In the next dr~wer were faded color photos, the pre-five-children and early marriage pictures. Some of these memories were still in frames taken down at one point and then never put back up. During one of the' many moves my family ~ade, from state to state, from apartment to ranch house to farmhouse, children accumulating like dust with each transition the pictures were sto~ed away~ deliberately forgotten about. They were p~t in the back of the mmd and m the bottom of archaic furniture. There wasn't enough room amongst all the antiques and regionalist paintings for pictures of my parents' wedding day. More than anything, the walls were filled with us-the five kids, growing up, becoming who we were and then who we are.

It was in that second-to-last drawer that I found my parents as two people I didn't recognize: a happy couple cutting wedding cake. I had to look closely to make sure that it was them, but there was no mistake My father had an arm around my mother who was gazing up at him. They looked like they were about to kiss, which is hard for me to imagine even with evidence. There were other people in the photo, the wedding party, people who knew my parents' past, who could tell embarrassing stories and make toasts. By my mother I saw a lady, beautiful in every way. She was classy, the picture told me so. She was glowing. I looked closely at the smile, the golden hair, the thin figure. It was Linda Swansee.

Seeing Linda in the past, as a fair maiden, shattered the image I had preserved of her. She was no longer the person I remembered, the one at the kitchen table. At that very moment, I had grown older, susceptible to an adult-like awareness. As a child, Linda was my hero because she was herself-stained, overindulgent, addicted, flawed. To me, she was real, perhaps the realest thing in my life which up to that point was lived amongst adults in perpetual denial. The beauty of childh~od is not th at imperfections are overlooked; it is that they are translated mto beauty, ~he making of a hero. As an adult, these flaws are overanalyzed and then Justified to fit our perception of the world. Heroes of the past become villa;... f h uld b vill 1·n became a hero. Lus O t e present. But in my case, a wo - e a

f God were a cat

I uld prowl around the house on silent pa He wo ws; ing every now and then to trap stoPP . some unseen evil in His jaws.

And God could be a cat, for it seems as though a cat is always there; keeping nightly vigil by the hearth or from beneath every chair.

Yes, God could be a cat if God would bend all creatures to His will with no more than a knowing glance, then gaze ahead gentle still.

Maybe God is a cat. When I watch my kitten pounce upon a string, I see my life beneath her claws, a small diversion. Everything.

If God is a cat (and the nature of Divinity is doubt), He is a fierce and lonely hunter and the Devil 15 a mouse.

Claire Jacques

Chaz Crabtree

Year 3

You will never be alone, as long as I breathe. If we should part for reasons I cannot fix, keep your glow. It led me through to you. Keep your bright eyes and fair, radiant skin.

Light the wicks of the thousand dead souls that you pass everyday. We do not deserve you. We are ignorant of how to handle the illumination. Only my heart's fiery embers will roar, no matter where I go.

As long as you keep moving, I will breathe. I will gladly walk behind you, as you light the way

Julie Creech

The Loaded Gun

1 wish I could wear _a cloak made out of the country sky. Then when the moon 1s full I would be so bright and beautiful that no one could deny my worth, and when the moon waned or hid behind dark clouds no one would see me, to comment on my wasteful moods.

I wish I could have hair like emptiness like the space between my eyes and the stars I sometimes feel it pressing on my face as I stare up and wonder how far I must jump to pass through it, and then when my head lay flat on a lover's chest he would feel my soul, he would see my mind and still wonder what it meant.

I wish I could write words that explain what it is like to sit on a cracked cement step to smoke a glowing orange fire and contemplate the rustlings of cattle out in the darkness. To give a sense of that smell only farms seem to possess the mix of life and death, the energy, still passing, from beagles chasing rabbits in the sun, and the fading buzz of wasps and bumblebees taking care of whatever business they are about.

But I don't think I can.

I'm just a city girl after all, and my sight when I open eyes into that vaS t void of what is known as nature, · . • · n lungs

15 too Jaded by the thick exhaust still lingering m w~r ' d h · s O f night, an my ears are so crowded by t e siren the murmurs of crabby children, and th e footsteps of strangers, 1 h the wooc . t at I cannot hear the dreams of coyotes 10

I'm just a city girl. I cannot hear chat far.

Our War

Simpletons in suits sipping espresso and living each day as though it were the last, crowding onto busses, longing for the past, shoving past each other to get into an already full bar, to get to work, to get home, to get in bed, to praise the newest star, punching in and clocking out, feeding the tape, putting food on the table, turning out the lights, getting out, breathing fresher air, running away, trying to find new sights, laughing at the new shows, sighing the passing seasons, buying the hottest Harlequin romance, crying themselves to sleep because they must wake to find another day, possessed by the phantom of finance, feeding a never-ending deficit economy they have never understood, being paid with blood money, speaking of the common good, the common wealth, the common man cowering in fear and fighting one another, when they aren't seeking their escape and scheming at the expense of their brother, retreating to religion to find the churches hollow and filled with empty people spawning faithless children, blinded by consumption's evil, living out each day of darkness scarred, terrified, alone, confused,

and full of an unorganized and ill-conceived rage, told to be happy with the life they have_ chosen but never distinctly remembering a choice, pacing themselves into a walking sleep with nothing to stir their heart

d n e to lead them in this spiritual war an no o . . hypnotic roadune usmg them as a part against a . , ,..,,.e chat they are prisoner s of a war that did not reqmr · 1 unaWtue a s 1ot. I say, wake up! _ . Live as though you were free ; die fighung because you are not.

F lying Solo

Under most circumstan ces, if I found myself shooting thro h the srrato~phere at SO? miles p er hour next to a complete stranger, I;ould cling to him for dear life. So m eh ow, the presence of an airplane around u changes th e situatio n, and I hesitate to share the armrest. Those who cans afford the luxury of air travel form a culture of their own. Frequent fliers accustomed to atmospheric transportation, treat the experience like a ' commute to work: all of them sit in their respective vehicles and avoid eye contact. Only in the case of air travel, everyone sits inside of a giant hunk of aluminum with wings and breathes re cycled sneeze particles.

My most recent encounter with this isolated, humorless group began at the check-in counter. The airline culture prefers minimal human interaction, and the convenient new "E-Ticketing" system makes this dream possible. I stepped up to the self-operated machine and swiped my credit card. A digital airplane flew across the screen while the computer located m y information.

''No information available," red letters flashed . I looked aro und. Nobody else seemed to be having a problem. This was th e United counter. Where was my United ticket? I waved at the zombie-esque man standing behind the nearby counter.

''I can't find my flight information. I'm going to Philadelphia ," I told him.

He fo cused o n a hidden computer screen, which cast a grayish glow acro ss his already pallid face .

' 'You're fl ying US Airways "

I looked dow n at m y E- ticket: United . I looked up, eyes questioning.

"We're partners." He turned to speak with another worker.

I shifted the backpack straps on my shoulders and tugged on the suitcase handle. Fifteen minutes later, I found m yself in front of another glib checker. Air travel, as it has grown more affordable and popular among those with wanderlust, has bred some bizarre habits. We pay hundreds of dollars to board a giant hunk of aluminum, breathe recycled sneezes and enjoy a "complimentary" drink service. .

"Did you pack your own bags, ma'am?" the bored-sounding woman inquired .

I'm 20years old W ho else wouldpack my underwear?

"Does your luggage con~~~ anything flammable, explosive, liquid, otentially harmful.

therWlse P or O 1h nntialm and my goldfish, thanks.

Just i, e "".r

"Have you left your ba_gs unattended since you packed them?"

Unattended? No, the shifty-ryed gentleman in a lumpy trench coat o.ffered to h while J went to redo my makeup. watch t em f . .

After a barrage o mane questions and a lack of eye contact, I d d to security. The line stretched roughly the length of a small procee e . airfield, with a scant tw~ of the fifteen sec~ty stations open. Thanks to the enius that thought 1t would be appropnate to hide razor blades in his sho:s, I had to shuffle through the line in my mismatched socks. The stoic businessman next to me did his best to remain poised, but his professional image lost something when the patent leather shoes came off. Once I emptied the nickel, gum wrapper, and piece of lint from my pockets and into a gray bin, the security guard, eyes intent on the sensor light on top of the metal detector, motioned for me to move through the frame. A highpitched series of beeps screeched to those still waiting in line, "SHE'S DANGEROUS!" The guard, unfazed, told me to remove my studded belt. Feeling like a criminal being strip-searched, I stepped back through the sensor. The shrill alarm sounded again, and the guard told me to step aside for further examination.

Shoeless, I attempted to gather a few scraps of dignity. A woman with short silver hair, a stern mouth, and a name tag that read "Doris" instructed me to stand with my arms out and my legs spread. She brandished a black wand and waved it across my body. It let out a squawk as it passed my bellybutton.

Oh, sil!J me, I felt like remarking, that must be my Uzi. I forgot to leave it at home todqy. At least she would look at me.

"It's your button," Doris said, her eyes on the metal disk holding my jeans together. Cleared of suspicion, I waited for my book bag to pass th rough the X-ray and wondered how many crocheting hooks they confiscate from little old ladies. f

The trek to gate C57 left me winded, and I arrived at the end o the termi 1 . • c making me late. U na gasping for breath and cursing security ior nable t k . f my pocket and h O spea , I pulled a crumpled boarding pass rom d anded · th indow: relieve to see lt to the attendant at the gate. I looked out e w ' a large plane Ir . pu mg into the gate area. . t j sorting "W lk d . f " he inst.rue .eu,th a own the steps and to the a1rcra t, s . d rough a il 1 oint I nottce s . P e of papers. Down the stairs? At nat P ' · t ·ide Otneth111 b the concrete ou ~. Not w arely the size of a school bus s1tttng on than ten people, anting to think about how the plane would fit more ' Bel/e,fre

I hurried outside and up the collapsible set of · . stairs mto the • red -faced, sweaty man blocked the aisle trvin . aircraft. A ffl b . ' , ...g lt1 vam to shove an stuffed du e ag mto an overhead compartrne t 1 c over. n . iound seat 12D settled m next to the wmdow. Mr. Cool Businessm f and d an rom the securi , line sat next to me an turned on his BlackBerry car full . t) , e y avoiding contact. eye

"Hello everyone, my name is Melanie and I'll b fli e your ght attendant today." A cheerful voice squawked from the inte M . . rcom. elan1e s~o od on the other s1d~ of the swea_ty man, who had resorted to stuffing his bag under the seat m front of him. "I'll take this time to remind that all US Airways flights are non-smoking, and federal aviation you regulations prohibit tampering with or disabling any smoke detectors! The captain has closed the cabin door, so at this time I'll ask you to turn off all electronic devices. Once we reach cruising altitude, you may use approved electronic devices. This does not include cell phones!"

BlackBerry disabled his cell phone and slid it into the briefcase that matched his shoes. Morbid curiosity implored me to leave my phone on. After all, passengers could make $10-per-minute calls from the seatback phones. I didn't recall seeing any news reports about cellular service causing major plane accidents. Though an experiment could be fun I didn't want to risk it. I turned it off.

' "Your seat cushion can be used in the event of a water landing!" s· l Melanie continued. "Life vests are also located under your seats. 1mp Y place them over your head and blow into the tubes to inflate! Do not . f I" inflate while onboard the aircra t. uld

I pictured this scene taking place at 35,000 feet. .BlackBerry wo . fid bl ing up his life vest with proper maintain an air of con 1 ence, ow . flying d t ard the sea. Then again, we were . decorum as we plummete ?w . d of a water landing was slim- from St. Louis to Philadelphia. The likelihoo

Why didn't Melanie just tell us the truth? hi h that we will all 1 ding chances are g .

"In the event of a water an ' d down, it . "If oxygen masks rop . perish!" I imagined her announcmg. h d e are plummetmg d . king too muc an w means the pilot has been rm . , di" d gninst n1) toward the groun • . f the seat back that butte a. ' d

I pulled the magazme out o h , Who reads something ode •1r . lied Attac e. . th ese, knees. The magazme was ca Ri' l t I pushed it back mto . t'fel.•- h d Oh . . g 1 - • · \ ' (\co

ntertaining materia s. td . d for any ot er e I our o pouch and looke msi e ' d After half an 1 , ful . 'k M ff would have to o. uall y u~ e stained copy of S a ssories and other eq d · . · garden acce

A ttache? Mr. Cool coug e . h

010 ve • examining dog 1umpsu1ts, . 1 The pl ane had no t h azme bac { appliances, I put t e m_ . ~ag=-----------

1k Sorry for the delay, but the water truck is behind schedule," " Fo 5 , . formed us. 'We need it so the lavatory works!"

Melanie ~ y bladder started to f~el the weight of m y venti cappuccino. I

1 s and looked enviously at the planes taking off and landing. 5sed my eg ·

cro Half an hour later, the capta1n cr~ckled over the intercom. "Since fli ht will only last an hour and 53 ffilnutes, we will go ahead without thls g ,, he said. "Flight attendants, please prepare for take off." the water, . 1 . trapped herself 1n, and the Jet eng1nes f1nally roared to life. The Me antes . .d f my ears turned into a vacuum as the wheels left the runway. The ins1 e o

ling city stretched across the face of the earth. We climbed higher spraw . . . ' and it reminded me of a Petri dish with bactena growing on it. The arasitic analogy made me slightly queasy, so I pulled out A ttache and iorced myself to read the advertisements.

I skipped over the pages with slim, metallic gadgets for sale and stopped at the ad promoting travel-convenience products.

"Sharper Image's new earplugs and a sleep mask block out the interruptions caused b y the strangers that surround you on flights," the copy read. Technology, I realized, helps us tune each other out. Does man think that since he can afford the luxuries of advanced technology, he need not interact with regular peons? The peons who surround me need no personal attention when I have the ability to fly. This culture, this airline population, took elitism to a new level. When airline travellers rise above the ground, earth becomes "beneath" them. I glanced at BlackBerry. He sat stiffly, hands folded in his lap. His mouth hung open, and a sleep mask covered his eyes. A whistle escaped his nose as he drifted into sleep. The man could snore in front of me, but he couldn't manage a smile.

I leaned my forehead against the slightly greasy plastic. The world stretched out below me. An hour later, we descended back to the level of normal people. Maybe now other passengers would give humanity a glance

. A sharp gust of cold air entered my lungs and stung my face as I gtnger~y walked down the collapsible stairs. Mr. Cool passed me, earpiece ~tuc~ 111 his head and cell phone in his breast pocket. I followed the urr1ed str f . d . .

eam O passengers into the terminal and regame sensatio n 111 my nose as · d fi ul , cl we entered the main gate area We had 1·ust surV1ve a ive-n e es cent · d like n h~ractically coming down from outer space, and they walke awa y unwu~ ing h a~ happened . Tired of trying to make contac t wi th th e

res ig n e~ myself to s tare at th e ground as I wal~ed . ., . . looked ey,_ wha ts so exciting o n th e fl o o r ?" m y bro th ers voice 1o ked. T smiling.up, relieved to see tha t m y famil y s too d w aitin g fo r m e, all ey es

(}aire Jacqttes

Who I<nows?

What would happen if a little Suppose Curo.ningly clad in a Maybe's clothes

Inched up, and crept up, and tipped on its toes And sat down at the end of one of the rows Of stiff-necked and straitlaced Yes's and No's?

Night 15 at the ~Iotel 8

This is a place that won't he do\\--n, a place that doesn 't know the me aning o f bo tto m. Here, we aren't afforded the hnairies of humming through our faith , our earnest belief that the day will be as good or as bad as the weather, that the night will bring us dreams swollen with every comfort. Once we have the key in the lock, that first hard click gone with the first real breath, something new will be behind the door this time. Even the last one down the hall, with that god-awful smell that predates any memory we might have. Opening the door, tonight could be the Big Night in the Big City; the night when she found our room before we did, and is waiting with all the promises of tomorrow or at least an arm's length of tonight. We'll take it, considering what we've been through.

But maybe when we step over this night's threshold, all we'll find are our nightmares, plopped down on the quarter-slot bed, watching the tube, laid out for our inevitable return: They know where we've been, They always do.

So, when we can't wake up to a clean sheet of our life, when we remember we're in the wrong town for that, at least we have the Possibility.

k ers in our hands, jingling that familiar tune

·kn ow th ere's som ething bigger ' ' something unmistakable, rhar says this song was written just for us.

Sundays

Sunday was me and Rick's da~. He w ent on business tnps 1 . _ . ear y \ 1 dav mornings, but he lett his w1fe and kids Sundav afternoon · h. _ on . • , ng t after church . I'd usually wake up around noon to the smells of alcohol . fr S d . h ' al and lefto,-er aruacnon om aru.r ay rug ts m e conquest. After I offered him cab fare, I'd eat breakfast, run on the treadmill for an hour, clean up the apartment and take a shower.

EYery Sunday afternoon I'd find myself surrounded by paper. Bills that needed to be paid, homework that needed to be finished ' homework that needed to be started-all piled high on the kitchen table. Gene·rn always came in and out of the apartment on Sundays. She usuallr emerged from her room around noon, hair disheveled and the remains of last night's face in smears under her eyes. Sometimes she'd make breakfast after Saturday night's man had showered and left.

I'd make smoothies for lunch, run errands, and wash the evening's delicates until five o'clock, when I took a cab to the Sheraton on Lincoln and Fifth, right by the airport. I'd go up to the twenty-first floor, room 861. Sometimes Rick was already there, waiting. I'd knock on the door, four light taps and two hard. If he was there, he'd open up and let me in. Sometimes we talked, but mostly we had sex first. Afterwards, we'd order room service. I'd pretend we were a honeymooning couple while we shared conversation over champagne.

After we shared smoothies (her breakfast, m y lunch), she'd run errands, visit the gym or tune out the world with an iPod and her treadmill to "work off last night," as she always said. I'd do some research for class or write the paper due Monday.

d get lose

Sometimes we wouldn't talk at all. He'd smoke a cigar an . 1 in his own troubled head . It was then I knew he was talking to his wif~h d h ym· h , !\.t the nine , ate er. Once he told me I was ever mg s e wasn t. 1 ro k . . . . th h I beaan too it as a compliment. During those silent everungs, oug ' \ · · ld 1 rowdY. · 0 see 1t as something else. I was great m bed, he to me, rea. : r l-k h . .... l lus re a.lm - t at meant she wasn't wild. I was his fanta~y. So s 1e was · · 1 beg,in tll and I were a hurricane together. She was his calm afternoon .

. th t m)· prowess made me nothing more th hi S . •eali ze a . an s unday rught r The other six days of the week, he lived in aw ld .th hin 5ro rrn. . or w1 suns e d ft breeze. When he smoked in silence I didn't b an so ' want to e a . ne an ymore. I looked forward to Sunday all w k Af f hurnca . . ee . ter a ew th s Rick and I did less talking and more smoking p; ... ll 1 d .d d 1 mon , . • 1.ua y, ec1 e d more than iust Sunday wante

Geneva always brought a well-needed break Aft h k . er er wor out she brought home raisin bagels and fat-free cream cheese. After she , counted carbs and I counted how much work I had left, she'd head out to run errands or meet friends or her "hurricane lover," as she referred to him with a sly smile. I stayed home and finished my bills.

I tapped on 861 on a particularly stormy Sunday. Rick opened the door and I could immediately tell that it would be a cigar evening. He looked worn out. The dark half-moons under his eyes gave away sleepless nights He almost looked afraid. I stepped in and shut the door, my mind made up. Did he need more than Sunday too?

Usually we tore off each other's clothes, consumed in passion. We would collapse, out of breath, whenever we finished. Tonight would be different. I led him quietly to the king-sized bed, determined to give him that sunshine and soft breeze I knew he was thinking about. He closed his eyes tight and kept them shut, his face pained. We finished and he rolled away from me, his body tense I kissed his shoulder.

''We can't do this anymore, Geneva," he said sharply. My throat tightened. He wouldn't look at me.

''Abby's pregnant."

That was our last Sunday.

Un Cafe au.x Champs -Elysees. P~1ris

Julie Creech

Dusty Debutante

Moonlight Verbena . . or w . 1 . as 1t emon;:>

"Something delightful to hide · your common stench of humanity."

I've searched, perhaps for years, to find this Godsend . This potion which might lift me up out of the arms of familiari ty and allow me to become something pure.

Rose petals work well, I hear, but the delicate snap of crushing their velvet between my thick, unladylike fingers sometimes makes me feel like a murderer . .. Roses bleed too. Eventually I just drift into despair.

I can no longer dream to lose my stench.

I've been touched too lightly and too often to any longer be a child, and no amount of water from some French powder room will make me smell young again.

Stacie Pope

The Journey of a Strong Woman

His hand descends again and again, connecting with my bruised and blackened face. How can I stop this pain?

Of me, I'm sure there will be left no trace. The beauty in him I see, where no one else dares look. The lost, helpless little baby that grows deep inside my nook. I will bring her forth with a kiss, give her m y undying love, and I will persist, persist, persist; since, she is m y young dove. Never, will she be discouraged of trying something new, or terrified of dying.

Matthew R Trost

Wall of Bluebirds

there is loveliness, child, but your heart will always shriek for ugliness.

Jeanie ivlryer and Mis.ry Yearian

Carpet

I r ew up on th e staircase. I put leggings on and lid d g s own each on my butt, grunung each tune I plopped d f the steps b k own onto the ne xt

o On its shelves, I kept oo s and decapitated Barbies and pill I ne • 11 th ows

o d odern art on its wa wi m y crayons and marker d fi create rn d s an inger . I ot into fights there an lost. paints g . .

'fhe stairs were protected by a beige banister and covered with Carpeting. The wallpaper stayed the same the entire tun. li d • rnauve . e we ve 1n the house: Ugly. It was a dirty beige with tiny blue flowers that had b een choked by years of chain smokers, namely my mother. There were fourteen carpeted steps, each one weathered by perpetual traffic. The firs t ten, then a sharp turn to the left and four more. The pivo t was a th reefoot square that my sister and I referred to as the landing.

On the landing, I played and read books and was punished when my sneakers tripped someone on their way to the bathro om in the middle of the night. My older sister broke her ankle on the landing while chasing after me with my forgotten shoe. Every Christmas, I sat on the landing clutching the spokes of the banister and watching my father put presents under the tree. My mother was already asleep-I could see the TV lights pulsing from underneath her door.

One Christmas, I sneezed

"Get to bed!" my father yelled, shaking a wrapped gift.

I ran to bed, stumbling over the carpet. When I was young, I didn't take any chances.

My father and I argued on the stairs. He moved forward cursing me. I moved backwards dodging him . When we reached the landing, I could see my mother in the living room, sitting on her chair, staring at a black television screen I cried out for her- it must have been som e sort of reflex, like the first thing you want after waking from a nightmare. 1 wasn't thinking.

She lit another cigarette and turned the T V on.

M hi h fo o tball field betwee n th h Y gh school graduation was held on t e .· . N ne see med e ome and away bleachers and under a chance o f ram. . o <~\ rl, c1·i· to noti l . cks wtl , i

P r ce the dark clouds . Mothers were fannm g t 1etr nep , d1 ers were ograms whil h . th . d wy palms. ' tl , di e stas mg Kleenexes m eir e . I lin e wh ere a stracted h h th e fifry-yat c ' wit t eir camcorders, focusing up o n

1

luft $rage had be e n assembl ed . m,u;es I ,ffoided lookin g into the ble ac h ers as much as p ossi ble. Ea rli er

_ k I ._aid nothing as I placed th e c o mmen ce m e nt in vitatio n und er a th.1 r " ee. . . . . , refriaerator m agnet. Telev1s100 1111gles cam e 111 from th e livmg room as 1 arcl;d the da te with a pen thre e times . Later th a t eve ning when I hea rd nn- fa ther pull into the driveway, I ran to th e fridge and threw the invitation in~o the tras h and then ran back upstairs again, locking th e do o r behind me. If I staye d there the rest of the night , there would be n o co nfrontation. By m y senior year, we had learned how to deal with each o ther : I a,-oided him. Just m y presence alone was enough to instigate a duel. Eye contact was out of the question, as was speaking o ut loud . \'\/e ·were ne,-er found in the same rooms. But sometimes even that didn't work.

Gowned and capped, m y classmates and I created a ripped seam on the track, just as we had practiced during home room. We paired off nvo-by-t:\.vo with the mate of our choice or a choice that was assigned to us b~ default. That night, even the loners had best friends. And everyone was posing for pictures. No one seemed to mind the long dresses of purple and gold. Instead they talked in loud voices, as if quoting from the yearbook. They made promises that were meant to be broken and exchanged phone numbers that would never be dialed. In just a few short hours they would be adults, and they would be drunk, throwing their arms around each other and saying they'd always remember these times. In truth, they wanted to forget.

I was no different from the rest of them: I wanted to get the hell out of this town, too. My senior year was one of college applications and sch olarship essays. I skipped class to go on campus tours and talk to professors. And every day, like a small yappy dog, I waited for our pos tman to deliver my way out: an interview, an acceptance letter, a check, an ything. I let myself believe that this was it-a chance to improve my P(JSture and expand my vocabulary.

As I sat in a fold-up chair near the end zone, I tried listening to tht comm encement speeches. There was the Val Victorian and the prin cipal and th e n some guest speaker, an alumnus who had done well <:: nnugh in life, who was making enough money to buy his pare nts a new Buj ck and to p enc il -in a high school graduation speech. Ever y speaker USeJ the sa me word s: p ers iste nce , succes s, vision, prioriries. whare, ·er. 1 wam e<l t<> believe them with all my heart. I wanted to tak e thos e \\'()rds an cJ appl y them to my li fe lik e an addict do es with a twe lye --step prngrn 111 · At. that momen t the wo rld was full o f p eo ple who wa nted to shake nw haoci firml y and rea d my n am e tag: " Hello. N{y nam e is Sarah.'' lr was

but for once I didn' t mind the pep talk. grotesque, 1 s...-iates on the other hand, had other g

1 My C as u~ ' oa s m nund

LI N eekbrace," I heard a whisper in the back d th ·

"rJ.ey, . , b th an en there d 1 ghter. I didn t o er to turn around It 1 uffle au . was on y one was rn they were all the same. N eckbrace was the ni kn th on but . c ame ey gave pers ' legacy. Throughout high school I wore turtl k . it was rny enec s, even m me, ths And even to m y after-school 1· ob at the gro · h hot rnon · onung s op a the 'd backroom of wet dogs and college dropouts. At the shop they ' hurJll d an"·thing; they were left to assume. But at school my £ hi never sal Y u.~- as on lack thereof, was an easy target. sense, or .

"N eekbrace," someone called out again. This time it was a girl, one whose popularity could be credited to her wardrobe. She didn't have to wear turtlenecks or heavy make-up to cover the bruises.

"Why don't you show us your love bites, N eckbrace?"

The rumor around school was that I sp ent most of my time in the back of parked vehicles with strange boys w ho had fangs for teeth. I let them think that; it sounded nicer than the truth.

Empty nest has strange effects on parents. Some grow a green thumb or start remodeling the kitchen. Oth er s join clubs and take RV 's to Arizona. Then there are the rest who don't know what to do with themselves. Suddenly, there is no one to tell what to d o, no one to complain about to their co-workers, no footst eps to listen for sneaking away during the night. No one to blame for everything that goes wrong inside a day.

After a year of empty nest, my parents realized that those people w~o had been living inside their h o use all those years were actually their children. So when I came home after a year of state school, I did my best to evade them. It was easy to do with my father-we never spoke an ymore. As for my mother, it was harder. When we talked, we avoided all real t · h 1 b opics. We talked about the news. We talked about t e peop e we 1 . o . ' or at least knew of. It seemed like there were o n y tragic ev ents ccurnng in th li uld 't 6 d e ves of o thers. Incidents the lo cal n ewsp ap er co n in room£ d b. or amongst all the engag ement an n o uncem en ts an ° ituane s On d kin Paper £ e ay, my m o ther called m e at th e lib ra r y. I was wor g on a or a class h " at t e lo cal junior co lleg e . . off and 1!:ra~ , yo u'll n ever guess wh at I h eard. Billy McC l.in e's w ife took With him ~un fo r ano th er man . Reme mber yo u used to go to sc h ool me all th .' T hey had a kid toget h er On ly one year o ld . Billy's m o m told c ts to da d · · b k · wit h h e r ~an You b • y own at the store. Sh e said h e's movrn g ac · 111 ' · elieve that?"

"I don't care, Mom. I don't know these pe 1 . . op e anymore " I whispered loudly. The libranans were stabbing me with th • ' etr eyes

"I know, I know. I Just thought you should kno th , · . . w, at s all . ,, There was that familiar pause, a slight change of breath I h il · · . n er s ence I heard the real reason she called. I knew that if I waited ·t uld '

" . , 1 wo go awa What time are you commg home tonight?" she finall aske y.

"I d 't kn I " · · y d. on ow- gotta go. The libranans were shufflin f g rorn behind the counter, ready to pounce.

"Okay, well, call if you're gonna miss dinner."

I hung_up and set th~ phone down on the table and went back to my paper, no~g I was passionate about. It was a research assignrnent for my composition class at the community college, the oversized Lego block where ~alf of m! graduating class attended. Basically, it was high school, but with smoking. For me it was high school without the turtlenecks.

The year before, I had gone to a university on the other side of the state. I went to class and gained only five pounds. I got drunk on weekdays, and never returned phone calls from home. For a freshman, I was doing well. But it was also the year that the parties shifted in the government, and so did the education system. Programs and gray-haired professors were being cut. Tuition soared. They blamed it on the economy, they called it a recession. Everyone on campus was fuming. Students made T-shirts and signed petitions. There were lectures in giant halls and daily rantings on the Quad next to overflowing ashtrays and drains littered with flyers-most of the custodians had lost their jobs.

At the end of my freshman year, I got a letter in the mail, the one that everyone was receiving: My grant was not being renewed. Then I got another one: My loan application was denied. I had no credit, the letter said, my parents needed to co-sign for a loan. I returned home instead of being denied my father's signature.

That evening I hung around the library until it closed. The . . ' . h n't that librarians gladly locked the double-doors behmd me. T e paper was hard to write. I was using the same words for some other paper I had . . thi h l· the art Written before. There were two thmgs I learned from s sc 00 · 1 . h fi t place. t o f cutting and pasting and why I left my hometown mt e irs · ' h" dently th an was eno ugh to motivate m e to apply for scholars 1ps more ar before. I' bts . l . E ven porch ig

Somehow I forgot h ow b ormg t u s to wn was. ·11es d d someu1 were asleep by sundown . In high sch ool, we drove aroun an c d . I lling at her 10und something to lo o k at-a three -legge cat, a gir ye few boyfriend, an old drunk. E ven if I h ad a curfew, there were ver y

th getting in trouble for. Sometimes kid I s wor 1 ' h s gathered . th P ace t of somebody e se s ouse. It was alwa s th . . m e basementh ones we didn't mind if they came d y e kid with the cool nts e ownstairs and alk d pare ' kid had skipped town, too t e to us. I3ut that 'th

I sat in myk cdar Wll :ra papker a~ ~ompany At times like this I . d that I smo e . t wo ma e s1tt1.ng in a c 1 wishe ak k ar a one more valid t d . lik it does for bre s at wor . It would also h 1 a e ' iust e . d . e P ease my hunger

. For hours, I me to ignore my stomach which . d pains. c 1 lik . remin ed me of the . . l0·00 PM. I 1e t ea service announcement£ b orne. . or a sent-minded ts· I was that child they were bemg reminded of th paren , , e one whose h r eabouts were unknown. I started my car-basic n d h w e ee s ave a way of making one desperate.

When I got home, there was a note on the table. The words were dressed carefully in their loopy letters.

Sarah,

Dinner is in the oven. Call next time.

Love, Mom.

I pulled out the plate. Meatloaf.

"Sarah." I froze. It was my mother assuming her position: at the top of the stairs, her door slightly open. E ven with her TV on, she heard mecomem.

"Sarah, is that you?"

"It's me," I fmally answered, carefully scraping the meatloaf into the trashcan.

"The grooming shop called this afternoon." Her voice had become closer. I imagined her at the t o p of the staircase, hesitant to come down and join me. She was waiting for an invitation.

"OK." I was still hovering over the trashcan, empty plate in hand. Silence.

"Well . . . goodnight," she said.

Seconds went by, maybe minutes. I didn't hear her bedroom door close but I k . ' new 1t was safe to move.

I grabbed the ice cream from the freezer.

EI didn't addre ss it d very month, I slipped a check into an envelop e. rents ' ' an I did , li t under my pa ' bedro n t ck any stamps. The envelope wen k d for ren t m on ey, 0 rn door h h . .d Th never as e and w en t ey weren't ms1 e. ey neither did h . . h check. k t ey ever mention rece1vmg t e e my job bac . It took I could afford to do it. The groomin g shop gave msip. So-n-So on} fi k lace gos. · . had ftnall Y ive minutes to catch up on th e wo r P t fire d for nipping rh e y gotten a divorce and What's-His-Face go

' Bellen·ve

dle's tail intentionallv. Nothing had changed and in a way th • of a poo ' · . at op c ting The customers were all the same: finick y and compuls' was com1or . . iv-e.

11 the long-haired-dog customers were, the ones with small dog

At least a . s d ft er dead actresses-even 1f the dog was a male. The collies lab name a . ' s, and mutts had more tolerable owners, more hud back, less coffee consumption. . ,

I was in charge of shampoomg, so there wasn t much to screw up, except for not rinsing Audrey's coat clean. Otherwise, it wa~ mindless, and my hands were perpetually cracked no matter how much lotion I used. It was just like old times, except that I worked more than I used to. In fact, I worked all the time. I even lingered there after closing, sweeping the floors thoroughly. I swept so well I received a raise-and I promised my boss I wouldn't tell my co-workers who had been there longer than I.

Every night when I got home, I walked past the living room where the TV was turned loud and my father was on mute. I tried to get up the stairs before my mother caught me, before her quick footsteps came down the hallway and reached the bottom of the steps. Most nights I was lucky to reach the landing.

"Sarah," she said. I was almost to my room, but she was fast. I stopped out of courtesy but didn't turn around.

"Sarah, did you hear about that boy down the street?"

"Yes, Mom ." It didn't matter what I said, she would tell me anyhow.

"Didja' know that poor boy took eighteen sleeping pills last night? Eighteen. And he's still alive. He's down at St. Mary's, they pumped his stomach," she continued. "Those pills were his mother's ... she must feel horrible."

I held onto the banister for support.

"Sarah."

I turned around and looked down at her. She seemed smaller than I remembered. She played with her wedding band, moving it from her joint to her knuckle. It was her nervous habit.

"I fixed dinner. It's pasta ... maybe we can all sit down?"

"I had a long day, Mom." I paused. At that moment, anything passed as an excuse. "I'm going to bed."

l turn ed around and went to my room, locking the door behi nd me out of habit

. My bo ss at the grooming shop offered me }\n apprenticeship. said I ca l h . . to n earn ow to shave dogs and get my foot m the door, so speak. My recent dedication to the job prompted her to think I was

. bout the dog grooming business .f . seoaus a lik . ' as 1 lt Was wh I grow up, e an astronaut or scientist I h at I wanted to b when 'f I d . ad to k e he asked me 1 wante to purchase m eep from laughin vhen s . y own s t f g ' 5 as a future mvestment. e o shearing scissor . b . " I

"I'll think a out 1t, told her imm di 1 ' e ate y regrettin th . ·r a second thought. I saw myself in ten g at I'd even given 1 years· I had • baby fat and I was still living at home I · wrmkles and more ' . ' . was so scared at th th ht of it that I didn t even hear the phone nn· e oug . ging.

"Sarah," my boss said, handing me the cordless "I ' c · ts ior you"

No one calls me at work, especially my mom w , k · place I was safe from her. · wor was the one

"Mom, I'm at work. You're not supposed to call me here."

"I know, I know. But I needed to tell you something ... "

I waited, but not for long.

''What is it? I'm in the middle of a shampoo." That was a lie. It was a slow afternoon, so slow that my co-workers had gone home.

"Can you pick up some bread? There's none in the house. I forgot to get some at the store today, but then I saw one of your old teachers, the English teacher, what's his name?"

"Mr. Letty." He was my favorite teacher.

"Yes, that's him. Anyways he asked how you are and I told him you were back in town and working at the shop again and going to school here. He said that he would love to see you, that you were one of his star pupils, so I invited him to dinner tonight and he said yes. Isn't that nice? So can you pick up some bread?"

.

"Mom," I began, trying not to raise my voice. "I can't come to dl!lner tonight. I'm working late." . ,,

"C ' D. on't start 'til seven. an t they let you go a little early? mner w .

"No, I can't ... "I paused awkwardly. She waited for me to begm again. "I gotta go."

"Sarah."

"I'll see yo u l t " M a er. back to be recharged. ·rhe y boss looked up at me as I put the phone 'T' " that I roo111 w "take a 1 en, ' needed as too quiet. I told her I was gomg to . I 1 eeded a bad to start ki d . e Now , habit th smo ng and now was a goo ttm · 1 f ·• 10re th . h' sol e t. /\ h an anything. She didn't say anyt mg, · I'd 'r inrcrr11pt me r t om . I . g she c I n . . in 1ny . e, my mother didn't say anyt im · · . . , If. lisrr ntn g for h- Way upst . . d · 1ped mre ' . ' . er footst . .airs. f reached th e lan chng an st0 1 1 1 ,. 11 d nw fa rh et \\t ' eps th n o uc , " · as on at never came Below. the 'l'V was o 111ute ' . , I . r 1ed the continue . om. When . opet d up the steps and into my ro /3ellm·//f

doo r there was an envelope on the floor-it was fr om the uru· , . . . vers1ty. Thev were givmg me a scholarship I had applied for months b c ; . . e10re. Alon with the money I had saved liV1ng at home, I could return to scho 1 g o 111 the fall.

~at~r that night, I woke up. hungry. Avoiding my mother made rne into a rrudrught snacker. Past rmdrught was the only time I could eat without her lingering nearby, behind corners, on the stairwell. Just listening to me warm up leftovers.

I slipped out of my room and felt my way to the banister. I knew the way by heart, especially in the dark. Growing up, the only safe time to leave my room was after hours, when my father had gone to bed.

I walked down the first four steps, rubbing my eyes. Upon reaching the landing, my naked feet stopped. My mother was sitting there The dim light coming from the windows below showed her head leaning against the wall, an unlit cigarette between her fingers.

"Mom," I said.

I waited.

"I was just thinking that I could tear down this wallpaper," she started, not even looking up at me. "We've had it for so long. I could paint the wall, maybe a light sage-color or something. And these stairs ... your father and I put this carpet down so you kids wouldn't get hurt. Maybe it's time for it to come up too."

"Mom."

Her eyelids closed slowly, and then opened again. Downstairs, the TV was off. I sat down next to her, looking at the wall. It had been a while since I looked at the wall. It was hard to imagine it as anything else, even in the dark.

"I think an off-white would look nice."

Jeffrey William Pechmann

Proselytized

'j'he i.st tiJ!l' you brought God

house I watched mtO

cabinet implode

sending mYgrandmother's Wedgwood ghost high. And if yau didn't mean to hurt me why

did you pierce rny phobic ear with the pane's translucent shard?

. Escher builr a d o llh o use. The y sa~ , _ • st whar you d expect. It was JU . 1

nes were com·oluted , Its pa . Its mathematics pamfully correct.

That Escher was a strange one, As his dollhouse stood to prove; For those who peered inside the door Would find that they were gazing fr o m the roof.

The house had inside-our pavilions, Twisted terraces, and here: A kind of sideways cour tyard

On the upper middle subterranean tier.

Its layered roofs turn ed into ceilings, Which melted into tiled floors Staircases that led nowhere Led to half-windows and disjointed doors.

Yes, Escher built a wonder With a floor plan like a maze, And tilted walls and winding halls That seemed to waver and move in impossible ways.

He even drew his trademark tessellations On the paper on the walls. Yes, old M C. thought of everythingExcept the dolls.

J11Jdll

My shelves are bare, .My closets clean, My bags are packed At th e door.

I'm writing to Resign my position As maid, Governess, And whore.

I apologize For the short notice, But my life

Is tired of waiting. Just forward any Unwanted mail To 6071 Layton. Hang The help wanted poster And place Your classified ad. Goodbye! Ta ta!

Toodles!

It really isn't That bad.

The key is under The flowerpot

To new adventures

Unknowing. Mycah

Is idling restlessly, I really must Be going.

Ode to My Laptop

und 4 a.tn., my breath stopped. Aro b ds formed on my forehead. sweat ea . tapping her slick, I kept WER'fY-lined Q with the rips of my fingers, keys pounding on [ENTER,

Olivia "'1J,es the space bar, lsdlammmcaewwlkaol!&*#(!((*@kjeaoiuaowf)owl*(*S . yqwooe1oonanooo]

but nothing appeared except the blank metronomic blinks of the cursor. Damn, this cannot be good for our relationship, already strained by my relentless taps and double clicks from dusk until dawn.

I was journaling and talking to her, compressing these past few days into a couple of pages like a zip file I will one day extract when nothing is highlighted under my scheduled tasks, when I'm not eating symposium abstracts or regurgitating fifty words a mini-minute.

Listening to my secret thoughts and filing everything

else in iconic folders ' ~he wants

nothing

Just as long as I dust her off and keep her protected from bugs. She chimes to remind me of our dates, th0ugh she knows that I'm a few hours and half-a-day behind. Sh · · htl lit els patient, screen always brig Y '

~mi~ng at m e. She stream s m elo di es un ti l che brink o f daylight, just as th e bird s join_in an~ sunbeams break th ro ugh the vmyl blinds.

Some days when I spend more hours with her than sleeping, I he ar her fan hum nonstop. She shuts down when she can't cool down, telling me to get some sleep, too, go eat real food and chew slowly.

Now, at 4 a.m. on the fifth straight night I have not let her sleep, I think she has had it

No more touching her face with the tips of my fingers. No more dings or bright blue smiles. No more daybreak tunes or rhythmic hums.

Damn, I miss her already.

Jeffrey William Pechmann

behind your pendular ass of the cat's tail reminds rne swinging in front of our television's glass-l c hyp notizes me wi th rer uns

Claire Jacques

Magnetic Poetry: The Fridge III

* * * television rusts the iron in my blood and I come away with a need to sleep

* * * in the end who can you trust but yourself

* * * you are warm peaches and milk in the morning forest leaves after a rain to me

you will always be beautiful

* * *

sometimes in dreams I swim through diamond waters under a purple moon

* * *

the earth came home today and cried elaborate rears when she saw her gown like gardens <l e1icate with years

beneath this skin

petals hard en in to rock

Old Shoes

Ashell 0 { a goddess

sirs in your chair

i\ confident strut replaced by a slower pace, less swagger

You trampled hearts m your razor-edged heels

They sit in your closet now

Blood-crusted from wrecking lives.

Seiling Liquor to Tobacco Lawyers

£ her Arthur Rose, was proud to wear a . . My at , hil . suu and sit down to . l 11Vers. He was a c d of public school te h with av, 1 , ac ers and a diflner f the Labor movement. And he d be godd . dchild o amned if that didn't gran ~i..;.., sorneuw•g. hi mean fl orked as a salesman , s whole adult life fi 1 . e w . , or a p 1armaceut1cal . the davs before people believed that drugs s 1 d . any 1D 1 0 ve everyth1ng comP ' 00d· he would smile and speak kindly to tired women wh ul.d He was g ' . .th . . o wo hun private audiences wt their white-coated miracle work I rant th ers. g h w he did it. It was e way he wooed my mother when h kfloW o e was at ,,; th himself. But because h e wasn't a doctor himself or a · 1 peace \vi , soc1a worker, or a union la_wyer, he di~ not feel that his existence was meaningful and he felt unappreciated, sometlmes, God help him, even by my mother.

At the end of each quarter, when my dad got his bonus, he'd come home and proclaim at the dinner table that we were all a bunch of lab rats, anyway, so what did it matter tha t the company stole his bonuses. Then he'd retire to the den and drink beer from the can, sitting in his recliner as if on a throne. But unlike other boys' fathers, he never got drunk and disorderly and he never hit anyone, because the Roses fought with words, not fists, just like the lawyers. Of course, like the lawyers, my father died full of rage.

I offer up this story to show you how generics and early experience made me, in my turn, a rage-filled pacifist. It's kept me straight, of course. Whenever I get angry I start talking, throwing in any of my father's favorite bits that I can recall. For moral authority he turned to The NewRepublic and Samuel Gompers. And I can guote them widely although I never read them myself

. But when I'm angry-like now-and I want to mourn_ ~e loss of fnenclship and the waste of energy and the public graceless flailin~ and th e !ad golf performed when your head's just not in the game-_I do like my ~d tau~ht me. I talk. I explain. I throw words into the void of . .fnend ship l , D d ·d· throw words lik e . os t. Thats what a gentleman does, a sat · d •d rocks lnt h . . . mies don't ec t e 0 t e void of friendship lost and hope your ene . to surround . d d b r unfeeJin o- stones. A d you because you'll end up surroun e ) . 0 1 b + n you'd 1

·I the fri ends ,1p ac ,, becau a so better ho pe yo u never come to w1s, .f th eir ,vi,Ts se two h f .t ) t1 C e,,en ' w I uman tnen can't m ove two ton ° s c ' ou d let them.

You are old-fashioned I told him. ' llr/k,iw

c n your side, he told me.

, vour w1 Le o . . h

f~c ep .r Alwa s. Jane. She makes me eat m y sptnac . That's ·h , has bee n . y

\nd s t

, I 1 · l tell people.

\\' 1;1

· ff track What I wanted to talk about was Bill Hur I'm ge tting o , . . h . · · l • we came to be fnends and w at ended it.

J ( ' l )bn and m e- 1ow

;\110 '

C li 10 the #4 elevator. He jangled his car keys and spoke l met o n . . , . . 1 f Mag01e, his yellow Labrador, who waited m the parking

mcrssnnry,o o ~ . d f f: b r~-110

r. · l · His voice was the low rone o a at ee on a Llll ower. r:tJilge LO[ 111TI. .

g ._ h I knew him better I realized that this was the first tune and t ,;1 ter, w en ' . I . · tlll\t I ever saw him rushed. He'd had to talk to his broker, who nn v ome " · . .

1 b .ter learned was married to his cousm, and something about office buildings a.nd elevators made him nervous. Unlike other men forged during the Donald Trump eighties, Colin didn't feel comfortable in any morn that was higher than the third floor and that didn't clisplay at least one oriental carpet and one decorative egg.

Colin invited me to meet Maggie. She nuzzled me through the cracked window of Colin's Land !lover. The next night we met for dinner with our wives at a local pub, and from then on Colin and I were friends, ge nerall y-buddies-in any common sense of the word: we talked on the tel ephon e at leas t once a week, had lunch every Thursday, and subbed in eac h o ther's foursomes. I can't remember seeing him in long pants more than twice. He wore golf shorts and kept his shirt tucked with the aid of a bear -up lea ther belt that girded him loose as a dog collar. To look at him, ~'ou'd never know he was loaded. It was money that went back. My wife once remarked both that Colin was rich and that he took forever in the bathroom-as if these traits sat on the same short stretch of chromosome.

Bill could not have been more different: he was a flamboyant in an indu str y o f b 1 1 • . ores, a natura sa esman tn an mdustry of three-year warehrn1 se c t LJ lik d

hc>d un -~n .racts. .- e e to say he believed in service. Truth was : .

P'JJ p P hi s w1.fe to make a buck. Colin told me a story once about how ' 1 offered r • d h ' · .

\l _ • , 0 sen ls wife, nak ed, into the hot tub with Colin. They

' eve n in A, . , . . I' , a.

I rl, i ' spcn o r Ln so mesu ch place. Maybe lt was South Caro 11 11 1 reme mb e r.

" Tl '

" ia t s a wcir<l fantasy, Colin ," l told him.

N<J, n.: all y," ~.1 id ( :nlin .

"'I'hen it W'ts , · I ( ) h

B , . ' · ,t I" (C. r c was drunk , ma ybe."

L ru nk t J . ,..., as 1 · to :-; ugtrest we both knew Htl ut ec 1

I ut ( ,,.,lin shruu- g·c<l f . I , I,'r bl'

() ( ) ' t ti 1·k . b · ' nn g 1 c that .

fi sr rnet Bill through business whe h I 1f H ll ' n e tried to . arehouses. e ca ed on me and I h rent me space in f }11s w d .c ad to ex I . 0 oe O ny I worke 1or owned its own wa h P ain that the pet d cornPa re ouse and th [oo I as the human resources manager H . atv- w . e Smiled d aD},wa1 f his cologne, which lingered for da an nodded. fhe scent o. ys, made me consider a fume policy.

per A few weeks after that, he showed up at th d h d d e courts; he wore a bl shirt an e sweate an grunted and ll d bright ue h k h ca e the far court

. My wife Jane, s oo er head. "He mus 1 th baseline, . c es e ball."

So I disnussed Bill as an ass and promptly fo h . rgot e extsted until I . him at a party. It was a fund-raiser. ran IDto .

Around half. past rune Bill took the mike and introduced the candidate who he claimed to have known from knee-height, then he introduced himself and sat down at the host's piano. He played "Auld Lang Syne" and "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" and ended by crying. It was eccentric, yes-clearly. But he seemed sincere, and I was young enough to find that refreshing. The candidate seemed flattered, if surprised.

My wife, who is (no question) smarter than I, whispered in my ear, "Where there's a Jekyll, there's a Hyde."

She repeated this every time Bill did something she didn't like. He was large and gruff and over-the-top and he drank too much.

"I understand," I told Jane. "He makes you uncomfortable."

"No," she said. "I just see him for what he is."

"He's a bit unusual," I said. "No question."

She shrugged.

"He's a guy's guy," I said.

"There are women like him too," she said, shivering with distaste. I should tell you: there's a history to her dislike. A few years back, Jane ~as talking to Bill at a wedding reception, answering his question-his gues~on-she reiterated, when he turned away, mid-sentence, without excusmg himself She watched him greet Bick Casey from Casey Foods and nev · d " I I er turn back. I made excuses for him. "He gets over-excite , to dJane.

''N ,, 0 , she said.

"B e Was drunk" "So?"

ever had~~ you, who've never met him, are probably wondering why I

D· Goodman as a friend. . id I tell . · bars where his you that he learned to play the piano 111 '

th waited tables, that he practically raised himself in a trailer th mo er . . . . at e d f a dirt road m D1.rtsville, that he finished school pledged Si en o ' gtna N u th he met hi s wife when she was a stranger he saved from being ' at mugged d ·aped that he owns a lot o f real estate, and that he occasionall an r , . Y cuts his dock-workers a break by lettmg them leave early on Fridays? Jane sa . "He keep s the b ooze companies in business." ys. That much is true. That was part of the plan, in fact.

It was a Tuesday, I think. After work, Colin and I met Bill for drinks. He took us to a swank club for CEOs and Vice Presidents and wannabes and their wives. I'd been there before maybe twice in my life. Bill strode, he smiled, he waved, he squeezed hands like a boa. "Hi, how are ya?!"

Bill commandeered a lux pit group and a low table, and he brought us our drinks himself. Over the sofa hung a modernist painting of Jimmy Connor stretching for an overhead. He regaled us with his latest round of ne-GO-tiations and we almost rolled off our chairs, choking on our drinks, and then Bill finished, "So then I had him by the shorts." Bill knew who drank what Scotch; he was a heavy hitter. Gold bracelet gleaming, drink poised at his lips, Bill's eyes followed two made-up women in tennis skirts. They bounced by; he growled to clear his throat, and took a sip. Then Bill glanced at Colin and chuckled. "Now," he said. "Let's get down to busines s." Bill wanted to become a distributor of domestic liquor products.

"That's a tough business," I said. I had heard this from relatives who lived in Kentucky, the front lines of the action since prohibition. But I didn't know anything, really.

"I like Kentucky," said Colin, who followed basketball and horseracmg.

''Well I don't mean whisky," said Bill. "I was thinking more along the lines of wine. A consortium of small, northwest vineyards. Startups. Silicon Valley sidelines.

"Pretty regulated, isn't it?" said Colin. Bill snorted.

We, none of us, knew diddly-squat about the business.

"We go in under the radar. See?" said Bill, gesturing, his pinkie _ and thumb the wings. He explained his theory: we target those restaurant~ that had begun popping up in the fashionable parts of town. The ones wnh sidewalk tables and green and pink canopies with fringe. The one~ opened as sidelines by investment bankers or tobacco settlement la"vyers, men who are always lo o king to ride the next wave and alwa ys looking for a

al

We'd sell them good, small vinta de . ges-"lik J;~ rds with cute names they'd never h e J..UIUted ed· . vineya Gourmand,,, said Bill " eard of (and lllons"-from '''Lily Pad ' · Whatever" H We hadn't eith ) al We get 'em to stock up." · e paused. "\V, er · de 5· . we give 'em I was amused. I admit it. I figu d re wew I ts of suckers. And, as a grandson of the 1 b ere srnart and there o . lik d th 'd . a or rnove were filled pacifist, ! e e 1 ea of getting rich by stickin ~ent and a rageof the professional classes. g 1t to the dilettantes

Colin suggested, ''We could sell it ov h

. "F f: er t e Intern t"

Bill said, ace-to- ace. Got to be £ e · ace-to-face Wi really good salespeople and a professional lookin b · e need two · th . g rochure." o ul handle the terrttory nor of the Missouri and b d ne wo d th th h uld eyon the outerbelt to the west and sou ' e ot er wo sell to the rest of h M . . . . F th ' t e etro area west of the Miss1ss1pp1. rom ere we d branch out along th Mi . . . . e ss1ss1pp1 Valley then into the greater Midwest. ,

"Where will we find anybody that stupid?" I asked.

"Brave," said Bill, sternly.

"Foolhardy," I said.

"Brave," said Bill again, more sternly.

"Whatever," I said.

"No. Not 'whatever,"' said Bill. "You've got to believe " He laid his hand on my forearm and squeezed.

"I believe," said Colin .

Bill let go, leaned back, and regarded me, silently. "Well, Pete. Do you believe?"

"It's an idea with potential," I lied. "I'm just not there yet."

"What would it take," Bill asked, "for you to co-sign a loan for the seed capital?"

"I don't know," I said. h. He sighed. He rocked back, closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of ~~eop dhi d lkin ' ene s eyes leaned forward and starte ta g. d I liS tened. And ~fter a while visions of Ted Roney, son of a actor and ' . d fl h rn y b an art professor, the childhood tormentor who trte to us oy scout s f d th boy who grew up to b car and badges after gym class, an e . tco111.e a f T d R ey drmkmg swill a d orthopedic surgeon in Ladue, visions O e on d · n pay d ·d "So h ow o we YUalify th tng early danced in my head. "Okay," I sal · · e suckers? "

Bil.I bark d

,, u . e _ o ut a laugh. .

ahfying questi o ns?" said Co lin, clearing his thr ~at. cc ,\ d l Ina O You k . ;:i " said Bill. n n 1O W ny cork s now how to u se your corkscrew . · ' l<l d crews do yo u need for five waitresses?" Bill chuc e .

To keep Bill co mp any, Colin and I laugh ed, too.

Bill bought Build A \\ finning Busines s Plan software and spent rwo days choosing the right words to fill in the blanks. He had his secretary bind five color copies and stamp them " Confidential."

I didn't ·want to seem like a naysayer, but I didn't want to put in more than three percent, personally, and maybe co-sign a small loan. So I agreed to put in a good word for him \vi.th my friend , Simon, at the bank. Simon worked in commercial lending. His business card said Vice President. Simon had a ready smile that decayed the longer you talked (and he listened), but that never went away entirely. It was a sign of optimism, I thought. My wife, Jane, who is sharp (no question), believes that Simon possesses too few brains (literally) to hold up the skin on the sides of his face.

Bill hired two guys fresh out of State to be the salesmen: Bud and Dave. They had business degrees, big dreams, and bad prospects otherwise. Bill thought they were perfect; they were willing to work purely on commission, without benefits, to get the experience. He introduced them, "These are the killers I've hired." This time we sat beneath a painting of Rod Carew. "These guys can run with it," Bill told Colin and me. "Really run with it." Bud and Dave grinned, themselves half-believing the bullshit.

Bill mapped his sales strategy for us on a stack of napkins. Bill's big picture looked like an archery target with a bull's-eye; arrows shot outward and inward through the concentric circles. The innermost ring said: Create list of prospects. Next was: Qualify. Third was: Sell. The outermost ring was: Get them to stock up! On the next napkin, Bill drew a Venn diagram that showed a small circle nearly engulfed by a larger circle. This was our Unique Selling Proposition: We sold small vintages"limited editions "-giving our customers the opportunity to corner the market, to not just ride the next wave, but to own it (as he said) if they bought o ur en tire inventor y.

"We'll ask 'em: you can't make more room for m o re mo ney?" said Bud. "A full ce llar is as goo d as a full b ank ac co unt." He chuckl ed, th en sno r ted. B uel was takin g lesso n s fr o m Bill.

Dave was a n ex-co ll ege h ock ey p layer w h o sp o rted a goa ree. '.'Shave it," BiU comm anJ ell "You loo k ligh t in th e loa fer s." D ave smiled: It was crooked, a gri n1acc.

BiJl fl ew to Seattle and Po rtl and and Sac ram en to. H e sai d he nego tiated co nt racts wir h th<.'. v ineya rd ow n e rs, but I think h e was jusr Bellc:ri,,e

. P cases. He used empty spac b ylflg u e In his u chern cold. Warehouse t keep He stamped the bottles like th O st0 re them and . ey Were lith like you could turn a velvet Elvis into a V ographs-"#33 - d tion. And then he lied about the an Gogh by lirn.itin of 412" pro uc d 1 . number of b g erirnes, as I learne ater, Bill doctored th ottles corked S0111 ill . f . e labels t . · ated an usion o scarcity. Unfortu o .unprove th J-Ie ere nately, he did , e year. k n t keep careful rrac •

Every other Tuesday, Colin and I met Bill . h .c at his dub fi d · Bill had given up scotc 1or vodka martinis. H lid or nnks. f d · k . e s an envelope ·th check under each o our rm s, as if he were afraid th 'd w1 a · .c l ey blow away Then Bill gave us an 1n1orma report on the busine h h · . • . ss as e c ewed on h1s toothpick and sucked on his olive. He did not draw O kin H . 11 nap s. e did not prepare financials.

The boys had divided the Metro area west of the river, as planned. Bud covered St. Charles, Chesterfield, and the outer reaches, Dave the inner suburbs and downtown. North St. Louis and Maplewood had not proved profitable. Clayton and Chesterfield were showing returns. Bud and Dave were good in front of customers. "Solid" was how Bill put it.

The return was modest, but regular. I guessed we would not break even until August. But I felt glee, I admit it, with every small check.

Things went well for a while: the wine was drinkable, the labels pretty, and everyone seemed to be buying everything that spring-new houses, white SUVs, purple silk ties-not just wine. Everyone was euphoric; the city stayed cool, the skies clear, and the town was awash m cash.

d Dave went on their way . Then the three of them-Bill, Bud, an - al · g of the to kill h ' ·ust the term lab 1 t e goose that laid the golden egg. It wasn t J th were and started Paded~· Bud and Dave acted like the novice salesmen. hei ttles purportedly b ktng their T&Es and stocking their own cellars wit O tld be certain to en. I h' . . but I never cot beca t ink Bill started outright skimm1ng, use he bl ·11 , arned it on Bud and Dave. tall , until Bi Co li . ble none a fired B n and I, we had no inkling of trou ' d d sued us tor ud and D d aroun an cornin.i s .. ave, and Bud and Dave turne s1ons th . I I've ey said hadn't been paid. to kn ow nat taken ca'fhe day I was served Bill called. "l want yo Ldl to setcle. They'll · re of · " ' . gree · withdraw . tt, he said. "Bud and Dave have a theirs uu tomorrow."

"

1 \.ns h I'd kn mvn rhere was a p ro blem,'' 1 told him.

'' H ow woul d that h aYe h elped?'

I co uldn 't ans\.Ye r. I imagined him muscling his ph o ne at the other end.

" Look. It's taken care of. \~farer under the bridge Les son s learned." Bill belted out his excuses like Sinatra edged out the horns. I held the handset away from my ear. His Yoice sounded faint. He paused. "Let's move on."

I took a deep breath and said something I thought Jane would endorse. I told him, "I think we should have hired guys with more experience. I think that was a mistake."

"Can you recommend anyone with sales experience?" he asked me. "Lots of people, Bill. Lots of people. But none of them will be willing to work for us."

Bill was silent for a moment, which is probably the closest he ever comes to thoughtful.

"It's just come to me," said Bill. "I've got a vision. Do any of these salesmen have kids?"

I knew that Bill did not believe in the power of heredity. It was the power of capital and the power of parental love; Bill wanted children whose parents were able and willing to invest in their dubious futures. His new idea was to build a 'network' of distributors. We'd create smaller territories, hire clean-cut boys to go door-to-door in residential areas during their summer vacations selling the makings of suburban ,vine tastings. (''Amway and Tl!lpperware combined," remarked my droll and smart wife, Jane, later.)

"This is my best idea yet," proclaimed Bill, his usual self.

"How is this not a pyramid scheme?" I asked.

"I'm sensing negativity," said Bill. "You need to believe."

"S Bill" ure, .

"Then acknowledge my brilliance and shut up," said Bill.

I laughed.

He didn't.

So Colin and I recruited at the country c u . we pa1 t ,e .., _. 1 ll e student.. to post fliers in the locker room: Wanted. Entrepreneuna co eg k ,v1 1 ber but no over 21 for well-paid summer wor . we gave a p ,one numl B h ldn't rather names. It was t·he lure of liquor, I thm <. ecause w O wou · I · -. N _ -r dung play eighteen holes of golf? Something worked, m an y case. c'\_. 1 ·1 . f the new knew, Colin was hostin g a boor camp cum coc .:::tat party o1. 1ir\' . . I f ti oJJportut - recruits, whose fath ers each had p o n1cd up six gt anc ot _,c -

1 b ,v1 ·a l steward

I ,,,as bard to get a caddie that s,1 .......

t w th ......Jltner ,r {ather, Ar ur Rose, was, in all . ·

1v1Y d senousn e who tol me to marry someon ess, a font of . d

J-Ie s ,, I think he put 1t. and she's k an myself "M

sma ' d vben she asn t, lt s ecause I did ' Ji aig t for the m

' d1e on . I did e stnarter th w1s om.

j\11 \: n t ste ost pa.rt. S why did Jane let me get mixed up . n and I should hav

.rte! h ' . ' b ept tne str . h . uch

o did ' kn in all of th. e.

T uth was: she n t ow about it Bill is. .r . d · d · asked . bis W1fe an m or er to keep it a us to keep it a ret from . . secret frotn hi . sec d to keep our W1ves m the dark also A d s wife, Colin

dI ha · n after kee · . an d k for so long, we were reluctant to let th . ping our wives

· the ar etn In on th· h

lfl_ .ren't looking so good. Truth is: I was d 1 . _J.ngs w en t11111gs we uld h e a}'lng the J.nevit bl uld be angry. I wo ave to eat my spin h a e. Jane wo ac .

So Bill and Colin and I trained our well-heel d . b e soon-to-be college . rs They sold the W1fle a ottle at a time to their fri d d sen10 · . en s an case-bycase along the leafy streets of_ the1r _parents' toney suburban neighborhoods. Yes, ~ey h~d names like Tnp and Winston. I imagine them going door-to-door m the1t d~an polos and pres~ed khakis with two open sample bottles, the laces on therr boat shoes slappmg their ankles and the matrons resisting an impulse to tie them.

Bill encouraged the boys to host tastings whenever a new vintage arrived. We gave them price lists and marketing materials and wished them luck. They did well. Our best sales boy sported a jazz rip, but he wore socks and had impeccable manners and a voice that sounded two parts bourbon and one part milk. His mother boasted a wide social circle.

Bill said he was proud of them. Truth is: we didn't much care how they did after their fathers had bought in to our little enterprise. But some of the boys bought in to the fiction of the business, of course, and ro rhe fiction of themselves as gainfully employed. They did truly believe. One called Bill on the phone to thank him for the opportunity.

1i d

As fate would have it one of our sales boys-a sandy-haired thirdgenerationJ J '

1 oe- oe (son of Joe-Joe grandson of Joe-Joe)- ve on .rescent L ' J iv, ane five doors down from a prominent local attorney, erry werss wh 'd On d ' 0 made his first six million as part of a tobacco settlement.

e ay, wb · Mi ] · himself en Joe-Joe knocked on Jerry's door expectmg the ssus, en y

6? answered J J . l b tl numbered 32i of 303 · oe- oe offered Jerry a specia on ot es borcies id. ~t Was a srnall domestic label. Port. Jerry remembered that h· ent1call h · ceUar of isrestaurant y numbered and labeled were stored in t e wm e .

1canonly , La Grande Vache I do not know what, precisely, wa s said. testa speculate B . . . . to ride to the Urant in Je , · Ut Joe-Joe accepted Jerry's mv1tatwn . rrys Porsche. I think Jerry offered the kid a cigarette. Bellmi1e

eu arrived, Joe-Joe was rumpl ed but still g rinnin g.

cJ e restaurant carrying a bottl e and came out carr ym g two b ottl es U1to 1 , identic al down to the number: Clarissa's Port, C h ateau G o o d H a rb o r, IlJlJ lJ , #4 1 o f 303

Jerr y called a meeting.

·of course, Bill was in Aspen, high -altinid e skiing.

Colin and I did not call him-out of fear, I think, tha t ht:'d tell us to do something stupid and we'd do it.

We handled it as best we could. We made o ur apologie s to Jerr y Weiss. Colin paid them to keep quiet-both Jerry and th e kid. Colin paid them in C-notes like it was no big deal, but he was gritting his tee th, I knew it. And we let the business die.

And it did die. The kids took vacations. Th e weath e r g ot to o ho t to drink wine Bill stayed in Colorado.

When Bill returned, we met him for dinner at the r estaurant at the top of my office building. Bill was tanned from the slopes. He talked about skiing. A helicopter, hovering above the snow, had dropped him at the top of a glacier. He and two buddies skiied down to a meadow and radioed for pickup. He had photographs.

Colin said that that sounded like fun.

I distracted myself with the menu.

The drinks came.

Colin smiled faintly.

Then the time came. Colin and I tried to explain what had happ en ed . While we talked, Bill drank two vodka shots. He did not order us a seco nd round. I couldn't have stomached it anyway.

Bill leaned forward. He put his elbows on the table. "I left you in charge," h e said, slowly, softly. His voice was one of the lowest, deepest V <Ji ces in nature. "And you blew it."

Colin and I looked at each other.

" We' ve always b ee n the silent partners," said Colin.

"S om e tim es you got to ste p up to the plate," said Bill, his voice ri sin g, hi s ton e fr ank , co nve rsational. "lt was on your watch. Yo u Io st .my monty."

'' II was t h e b a nk 's mon ey and we saved your ass," 1 to ld him .

' ' You save d your a ss you mean,' ' said Bill.

"' I 'h e re's rh e m o ney l g av e yo u to inve st ;' l sa.id.

" You gave m e n ot hin g," sai d Bm, almo st yellin g.

J And it 1 fdt m yse lf fl us h . 1 kn e w ex ac tly how mu c h I'd in ve steu . wasn' r no thjn g.

,,1 should have known you'd blow . ,, "F th b It, he . . .ring Colin. ram e eginnin said, look . me, 1go 0,,r.1e did believe," said Colin. "w~' yallou ~dn't believin,~ Sttaight at ri we did,, e. did " I 'd "I

''I never , sa.1 · was 1·ust · . . pretendin 'd From the begmrung. From the very be01n . g. I knew it was a h' 1 ea. d • • rrh , b 44 ntng ,, A s ttty t wanted to a mit it. , ... at s happen d . nd I had kn but no e to you b own, Bill stared at me. He clutched his c k efore, I bet) i.or and kni . . r He looked like he could devour thr p fe, hands tremblin 111 a.oge · . ee orterh g h wouldn't stab me. I waited for him to ouses. I was pretty sure e get up and I h didn't. Bill sat and he looked large sittin A eave the table. But e . g. nd wh hi he began to eat like he hadn't eaten ind 1 . en s steak came ays, s urpin hi .th sesames so quickly that I thought he might ch k g s green beans W1 thin o e.

There was no g more to be said. The truth evident. I felt free, light, light-headed. was suddenly self-

"Could you wrap mine up to go?" Colin whi d . " ,, . , spere to the waiter.

Me too, I said. I wasn t about to leave Bill my steak.

Colin and I clutched our doggie bags and avoi'ded h th , . eac o er s eyes while we waited for the elevator.

"I can't believe that just happened," said Colin.

"I can," I told him. After all, Jane had warned me about Bill.

Five minutes later, the elevator came.

"I thought we'd never get out of there," said Colin.

I didn't know what to say.

I still don't. My wife Jane found out about the business when we made the gossip column in the local paper. The whole thing was long past the middle, by then.

Bill defaulted on his loans. He is, finally, universally hated in these parts and so spends even more of his time skiing in Aspen. I hope he is ~o his ~yeballs in slush. Maybe you wonder, as I ~o, h_ow someone like ' ~ho ls hardly a serious person, can do such senous ill and suffer no harm in return.

Colin has hired a lawyer and is suing Bill to return his stake. Colin and I do n 1k d d We were

,;J . ot ta , lunch or gal£ We have erred an sttaye ·

tier than h ' . f my forefath ers :

th s eep. I have disappointed the memones O

and t lk ' I h disappomte

re uctant salesman and my grandfat er, a . . d

l h true believer, w 10

w·i a ed and peddled the labor movement. ave

I e--a wom

1

1 b her intellect.

I h an whose passion is equaled on Y Y ope h · D s e is reading this. earest Jane?

. [fend pe o ple w ith s tyle

''Nerer o . can offend them with s ub sta nc e" when you .

,.., Sain Brown d *** ffi .

once I read the gra ltl

Some f+'**er scribbled on the wall

While I tried to rake a s* **

In a( ***** bathroom stall .

F*** cl1at! What if it could offend

Some poor f* ** out there?

No one f+'**ing needs to read That d*** c*** everywhere.

So it's my new g****** mission

Each time I f***ing see Obscene s*** in print or on the airI'll make that b**** rated G.

Susan Crowe

Second Shift

Black mothers trudge home

With shopping bags full

Of tonight's dinner

Hanging from their arms.

Their muscles aching

From a hard day's work. Their heads bowed

Too tired to be proud

Waiting at the bus stop.

Black mothers breathe

A sigh of relief

As sore feet

Give way to cushion seats.

Unkempt heads hidden

Under paisley scarves

Nod forward

Eyes temporarily closed

Resting while they can.

Black mothers arriving

Home at last!

Getting ready

For the second shift.

In the kitchen ' Frying chicken, Feeding hungry children, Washing dirty dishes.

Black mothers exhausted '

Praying for a moment's rest

In between jobs.

Bellerive

the hill

other night, o any uld h 0 to rny room wo ave taken the way driver an hour 'th a grunung wi d tests rny unscheduled stop. who e

this crisp night, on £ • ele ss and warm 1or January breez ' i choose to walk across train tracks and strangers' glares.

unsure if shadows with drunken lust will follow while i pass, i trample through unmowed grass and gravel caked with mud, gripping my sharpened pencil ready for puncture.

i look up, the full moon hides behind black clouds, but i continue down the hill of a closed-off street, lined with naked branches, bushes full of beer cans and condoms and a broken bicycle chain.

i had noticed it one blue morning when shadows harm less Walking up the hill ' ' reco · ·

gniz1t1g the aqua plastic around the chain that tnat h d c e my stolen 10-speed. the str li eet ght fli k castin t . s c er, th g hin shadows at follow i see the b ?1~ down the hill.

uilding now,

intense light shining for safety.

my shadows disappear, and i search for the moon again. it punctures the clouds, a dark blue radiance with its own shadow.

Trains

'\[/e have a history \Vi.th train s. Th ey ha\-e b een a part of fan1.il y legend for as long as I ca~ remember. \X 'hen I was a little girl, l spent large parts of every summer with m y grandparents w ho live d an h o ur away Every night my grandma and I \Vould watch musicals while my grandp a sa t in another room doing whatever it is that grandpas d o. 1 wo uld walk clow n the hall of my grandparents' house and find my grandpa, Archie, fiddling \vi.th model trains and smoking a fat cigar. He'd be leaning over a plywoo d table he'd made himself. Trains would chug and whistle b y as 1 opened the door. He always stubbed out his cigar and waved away the smoke my grandma pretended not to notice. He'd look up at me, and all 1 could focus on would be the shining model trains that whizzed b y looking like they were fresh from the box. He painted and repaired th em , and th ey never looked anything like the trains that ran through my hometown . I never quite connected them to the reality that I saw at home everyday. I saw this scene of my grandpa tinkering with trains every night of every summer for more than a decade before I knew where his fascination came from.

My grandma tucked me in at night and told me stories. She sat on my bed and told me a different story every night. Every once in a while, I asked her to tell me something true. She sat and told me stories about her childhood during the Depression. She told me about growing up in an old depot on Rentchler Station Road. The trains rarely ran there , so she and her nine siblings would run down the hill and swim in the trenches beside the tracks after the rains came down heavily. \"'\,'hen their father would go into a rage, they hid in the trenches waiting for their mother to fend him off. My grandma shared her memories of the trains fondly She seemed nostalgic and got teary-eyed as all grandmas do when recalling a yo uth that seems so distant. She never told me those stories in front of my grandpa. She waited until I went to bed and curled up under the quilts she'd made herself. I suppose she knew that the models were his way of dealing with things.

My great-grandparents started it. Archie's father died leaving l~im to accept a stepfather when he was still yow1g. We all heard this story 10 pieces over the years. Archie was married when his stepfather too k lu,s . f .d T'l '. t· l - n sat 111 rh e mother, .Alma, and another woman o r an e. 1c tnree o t 1e 1 , fro nt seat of his car and h ea ded out. No o ne in o ur fam:Lly was eyer qwtt

. ,.ere gorn g, but we knew thev ne . e rh e} . , . , Ver got th ere.

,,vrc O t e \,• J t y a tt· . Th ., 11 -; -~l v legend. Wliat \V e heard is th all atu. e resr ff of t,uLW ,. . at they found f

, \\,.11e.r h , ·ay· co th eJI destlnaoon, then were hi 6

c,h e sCU ....., w-ith her purse still attached to it N . 0 JS her afu,. · o one kne I

, q~ "v~s · . 0 was but it has been said that she w , l· w w 10

r ~ woma ' . as sow aod preve t ~d

r}ie 0the! dmother from escapmg the car and the o . . n e ac-gratl , . ncom1.ng tram mf gre O Jong ago, m y s1s ter dtd an internet sear h · . Not to . · c · o n our family.

th . she found was an article about the train a 'd I . onlY 111g ' . . cc1 enc. t turned

1be ·rong. There wasn t Just this one other worn I . we were w an. t was a out Th all rode m the car and traveled to their favo~t fi h , 00 le. ey . . _ Ll e 1s mg spot. c P . 1 calked about the spea.fics. This was in the early sixties and ~~e . ' . alism had not abandoned sensationalism. It described ·th 1: rint ,ourn . e cusp c.. m the car the bodies were thrown. The really peculiar thing wa~ ranees u.o . . the money. In Alma's purse was a sugar sack ~okling $927 and several rings. At first no one knew why she was carrymg so much money. After an investigation they found out that Alma was carrying her and her husband's burial money. They traveled to their deaths with the fees for their burial sitting in a sugar sack in their laps.

The trains maintained a certain presence in our lives from then on. Myfamily moved to Shattuc from Belleville when I was four years old. We moved into a large, reformed plantation house on the main street in town. The white, two-story house sat across the street from a set of railroad tracks hidden by a large, grassy hill. While the tracks themselves were only visible when the grass my father refused to cut was low, the trains could be seen at least seven times a day. They shook the walls of my childhood home, knocked pictures off the walls and made it impossible to hear the television Th . , th , . · e trams ran through .fights I had with my parents at JUSt e nght tune st · ' ~ppmg me from saying things I would later regret. With My sisters and I were three of very few children in the town. fatni] no one else to choose from my sisters and I befriended the l\tiuench

Ydown the ' · Th Muench f: . . street. This choice made everyone a little uneasy. e ).-1orrn 0 anii]~ Was considered beneath the rest of us. They were ns While · ff cri.lll.tnu , everyo ne else was Catholic or Baptist. The closed-a h ~ ~ th h _s ouJc.1.n ,t be, Th e.rn apart. They were meant to be an example of w at we fhe Muen ch ey had thirteen children and a small two-bedroom h o use. Mue es dro d tl t richnlobil ve a 70s Dodge van that everyone re ferre to as 1e 'wtacks tow.atd e. Th ey'd pack all d1e kid s into the van and drive acro ss th e ate}, :. ne,ohb . · h · h '1.UJ.g and o oring towns· d I .. would fil e our of t eir ouses sbaJtii . . , an peop e fvfy sisters . 1 g t.h e1r heads in disapproval. and I thought the .Muench es were nice, so we spent a Bel/m'tlf

f rime w-irh them. \X'e'd build snow forts in the fields in the winter

!rdoplay baseball~ the front yard of the Baptist church in t~e summer. Th W ere three girls nght around the ages of me and mv sisters. Sarah ere · , Kathryn, and Izzy were some of our best friends at that age. Every night we came home from school and dropped our bags on the living room floor. We ran out the door and grabbed our bikes. ~1y sisters and I rode to the Muenches' house, and they followed us to the tracks. \Y./e rode bikes together until the streetlights came on and we were told to come in and do our homework. We loved summers because the sun went down later, and we could ride longer into the night.

Izzy rode alone a lot more than the rest of us. She was too young for the town-wide baseball game, and we could be mean. \Y/e told her she was too little to be with us. We were growing up and wanted to separate from those we felt held us back. Her family had seen her ride off alone so much that no one thought anything when she left for the last time.

She rode Kathryn's bike up the street, passed our house and came to the railroad tracks a hundred feet from our door. I can't be sure what happened next. I was told she got her shoelace wrapped around the pedal and the bike tire caught in the tracks, although that all seems a little too convenient. It doesn't really matter. It was only a few minutes before a train came and took Izzy away.

My mom, my sisters, and I came home to a train stopped on the tracks. We couldn't get across town to our house. The lady who worked at the post office stopped to tell us what had happened. Of course, I didn't hear this. She'd pulled my mom out of the car, and I walked up to the tracks while the lady was talking. I walked up to the tracks and saw why we were stopped. I saw Izzy's body. I was standing on the hill above the tracks and saw her body lying on its side. From the front she looked perfectly normal, but the back half of her body was missing. I only looked for a second before my mom realized I'd run off and snatched me up.

The train was stuck that way for hours while various people cleaned up the scene. We all drove over to our neighbors' house. \X!hen we showed up, the whole town was there. Well, at least the half that happened to be on that side of the tracks. We all waited for the tracks to clear an<l everyone to go home. l sat on the floor in our neighbors' livi~g room pe tting their cat and overhearing town comme ntar y on tfa.· lives of the Mr,rmon s that let th eir daughter get hit hy a trnjn _ I heard people sayin g that i-h c: y we re ob viousl y bad parents tn le t som e thing lik e rhis happen. Anoth er woman vow ed to c tlJ t.h c Dcpa r tnwnt of Children 1111d Famil S · , · If ' I'I , 1r-ked pn Y, er v1ces. People GJJeJ Lh etn we ,11T pare nts . H ' Vrt rn , · th em having thirt ee n children . All of thi s was 1111 <: rsp c rscd wit:h rh ,it

Be!!enve

. possible to get it out of my head B

I was 1111 b d I . etween th . . ge- t I saw her o y. saw the track I e Judgments 1J11a · bbors, s. could ' f J11Yneig didn't want to cross town.

n t wait to get looJ1le, but I afraid of the tracks . I couldn't or Would , 1 I was d f n t cross th 1 .,,1n wou1 come out o nowhere and kill , em. tl · k a me I kn h didn't 1111 system worked. I had an overwhelmin c ·. ew ow hole traUl k I did ' g 1eeling that Izzy thew . those rrac s. n t want her ghost to hallflt1Ilg th get me. For months was ry time I came near em, I froze up I g t Id ll that eve · 0 co a over and after . h back to my house. I barrelled through the d . stra1g t oor, up the stairs ran . d myself under the covers. My mother said nothin . h d burte . . g, s e assumed an . rny grief making me act so weird. ·r was iust 1 I went to school and everyone was talking. It was fourth grade for d K athryn. She was out for the funeral and such. J went to l me an . . c ass and heard people talking a~~ut her beh1~d her back. Kids said things like, "I heard she was actually nd1ng !<Cathryn s bike" and "I bet she feels like it's her fault." Mostly older kids showed sympathy; kids in our grade made fun of Kathryn. She was weird enough without this to add to it. I never said anything. I just listened. I was sort of an outcast anyway. After all, I saw her body.

After a while people started to ask me questions. "What did it look like?" "Was it gross?" I usually just ignored them. I wasn' t up for the retrieval of the memories I was trying so hard to forget. I waited for Kathryn to get back, so I could sit in silence with her. But she never came back. I waited the rest of the school year. I sat in the hallway and in the playground alone. Kathryn showed up at school the next year. She was held back. Kathryn and I parted ways, and Izzy was rarely the topic of conversation.

I haven't seen Kathryn Sarah or any of their siblings for more than five ' · cl · h · h years. We all went our separate ways somettme urmg ig school, and I haven't heard anything about them. Rumor has it that Sarah Went to Brioh till Ii · · th me hou • "b am Young University and Kathryn is s vmg m e sa se 1n Shattu · ' · · gi·ne her Walki . c with her brothers and sisters. I can JUS t ima ng to those k trac s again and again.

fi As for . th gh T rid e o ne ive day8 me, I am still a little afraid of trams even ou k l1'J. a Week rw · • fi

e neatl y a ice a day. I ride a train into th

¾s,· . n hour t

stssippi n : 0 travel fro m my home on

to

rid ~se securi·ty my scho o l o n

h to sch s m o re presen t

ave n Ool Ir d

0 batt · ' ea and liste n to musk

guard m e fro m th

gless or uncomfortable conversatitms. l ride this trnn kn o win g th.n

01ea11111 -• ' 1 , more power than 1 do. B ecaus e of this, I tear n l d o n ot te mpt \t

tt 1.1s

·,· ,,..., ,, t·he orhers d o, others who do not know irs history

t 1e \ V (L • 0

· Most people l know hate the t rnins n.nd the delay-s th ey c.:ms e , People don't respect them. T'he y cross the tracks as the h a.rs go down n.nd ph1y that game, the one wh ere ,you park your c u 0~1 the trncks, and n ghost is supposed to move 1t. I d o n t do these thm~. \Vhen l :un with so m eon(' who does, I smack and kick unttl th ey put the car in mori o n . 1\ -t' see n people sitting n ext to them or walking alongside their tracks not kn owi ng rhat they could easily be pulled underneath. They acr like th ey ~re just ;mother machine like the millions of others that invade our lives everyday. I still live near railroad tracks. My family has moYed four time s since we lived in that house in Shattuc. And everv time w e h :n -e mm·ed I near railroad tracks. I can't seem to get aw,1y from the m lt's ha.rd for me to sleep without the sound of trllils running through the hous e. 1 guess it's a little morbid, but 1 am glad. I like to know what's coming. lid/nir•c

Jeffrey William Pechmann

A Memory for Mrs. Neal

uld like to have heard your faithful prayer I WO th h ' th b as I turned e menora s six lue bulb on that night I believed such moments transformational.

Love Appointment

We're penciled in for 3:30

Li fe can sit in the waiting room

And read old magazines

It can wait

Let's not peer through the glass and watch it

We 'll lock the door.

s u1n1ner / summer undresses a culture

for w ind, the body o f us h as c ntrcat·cd the summer w ith sweat-obliging us it fastens a gleam to our skin like m oo nlight in wineglasses: our stink is on ly a penance for having galloped (though there is no sin in it and o ur sweat wants nothing and we give our sweat to it)

the hot can flower a spring; summer it is listening like a dog beside our lovemakingit is jealous of our blood which loves us

breathe vapors of tea while i press fingers 00 your temple. clockwise, then counter. lay gray burdens down and wrap me around your memones. veiled deep, still pounding. close almond eyelids and melt into heat of slow friction. deeper, yet silent. speak through open lips While silence whispers vapors of time. clockwise ' Still counting.

Ha!}t1stin Price Carlisle

Flotando*

Esroy aqui perdido, donde me dejaste

En medio de olas y torrentes, De bajo de! sol que me esr-,1 quemando.

Sigo aqui tlorondo, donde me dejaste Con los pedazos fracturados del amor Que compartiamos, y los agarro, Apretandolos a mi pecho.

Era tu cnamorado, Ahora abandonado, Luchando para respira.r, Suspirando, cayendo, A.I fin quit.ado

Del deseo de vivir.

cD6nde escis ahora?

i:Duennes tambien sola?

Quiero oir la musica de ru voz, Pero no permito que me mires asi, Vestido de tristeza

En la sombra de la perdicion

Del alma.

Deiame solo una vez, No me vuelvas a ver, No me vuelvas a amar, Porque la primera vez

Mc cost6 dema siado Mc doli6 clemasia<lo:

Prefi err, luchar con las olas

0ue ',e1,11,1ir enarnorado contigo. ~,go ar.1u1 flor.ando

Dcmdc me dcjas rc.

•'Tl · · · s , ,,11 1~ 1.e xtatf of Bellerive deci dtd to include Flotando onl y in · !·,hn dP ocit the auth · J p, rhnst '" f t·r or tntenc cd it to be rend m that languaJ.!;C . or · 1 -:" 11ish i11 kn ow Sr>, · ' h .

• I crn 1n ~ng I ·

I ,. r anis > we ha vt includ ed a summn.ry of ti e po I u:1gc. t it t 1e au rh · ' l ' . · h 1hc nng 1Jr s >iography. Due to layout constrntnts wH font st11le j d' ff. _ . , 8 1 erenr for this poem.

Htlltrive

Kate Drolet

Hurricane

The storm was rough with rain that fell like lead and wind that gasped and stuttered so harshly But the lake grew still and serene the air now fresh and clear the grass lies calm, no longer ruffled the dirt, though battered, refreshed

My good cry has passed.

LoYe Song of the Spanish Inquisition

1 k,w )"L)U witl1 d1e might and main 11rnr sinks the greatest ships;

I lc)\-e mu with the mortal pain

Th :u parrs the rightest lips~

I lon: you with the desperate force

That marks a dying hour;

All loYe is torture and remorseIt shall my soul devour.

Julie Creech

Death and the Personal Pronoun

Before he left e me a poem composed of every form he could find of himself hegav and I knew at once he would never return.

For was it not he who had lately explained the significance of personal pronouns in poetry? Each slashing 'I' a declaration of despair and 'me' the lament of the lost.

So like him to leave a suicide note that no one else would understand.

}Iis letters survive, Aged and yello~ed, to tell us

These several thmgs:

At school and college he learned Classics:

Well enough for allusions about virtue;

And Shakespeare: Well enough for quotations about fate;

And Scott:

Well enough to know who he was fighting, When the civil war came.

But he learned more from the "Spirit of the Age."

In 1857 "a lady of St. Louis" came to his college and "showed that woman,

Possessing the same powers, the same qualities, As man, Longed for individuality."

She should have it.

So he for himself when, the next year, "The temperance fever rages with the greatest violence."

Emersonian from the first, he wouldn't sign up. . "Is my virtue," he asked his sister Mary, "only to be secured by an association?"

"I · h th

f being considt is ard to refuse for a person must do so at e pnce 0 ered odd and self righteous."

Quite so. . h nee chided hi s Mary, already fevered wit tempera , pos t · unng with lines from Burns: In her hand: th jfrie gic us

"O would some power e g ,, thers see us . To see ourselves as o . . In his:

History ga\-e s tron g

d _ the river and at rhe war. er 1unts, own

G d riddance \.\-as hi~ reflecuon o n secess H>n. dn' first go. oo "

He \\-oul t at " \ n 1 . h is that 1 had a braYer heart. diffidenth-, ,i.ll "°15- - Later, · . 1 emulated the old tanauc fo r who~e memo rv Soon he self-conscious y. · . _ .

1 - ba,-onets m the same cause are movmg rnuthward

"A million g eammg .1 , singing as they tread _ _ John Brown's body li~s a mouldenng 111 the graYe But his soul is marching on. Trul, the world moYes."

Truly the world moved him. At war, seeking a lieutenancy, he disc owrecl the ambition of his life:

"A tirade may become a small politician but no man can build a lasting game on such windy words. For my own part I am in m y heart an earnest man and l think l will live to be an eloquent man, yet that is hoping a great deal. To be eloquent a man must be pure and noble, great in intellect, combining a lively imagination with a warm heart. I think it is true. How can a man utter burning words of indignation against crime unless he has a high appreciation of virtue? I will not pander to a depraved taste by uttering words in public which I know are not worth listening to."

He learned a terse eloquence from battle. \"'Vhen his friend's ramrod stuck he helped loosen it. They advanced two paces and the other fell dead, "shot through the neck." Couldn't be simpler than that. " It is strange one takes a delight in rushing on against roaring cannon and against a storm of balls bur it is the case. I believe war is my element and I will only come home if proY - idence smiles on me "

H f d . .

1 "F ir entire regt · e oun vtrtue 111 retreat, from a battle generals ost. Ol -r d · the 1.11° ~ ments and several fragments came in with banners flying an m ·i\11111 the 9th I · 1 • perfect order. Thev were led bv a little red haired colonel of . n ttr ) ) l 1g to u who had fought his way seventy miles and what was most hunU. tandi 1 0 ~ 0 11 h:1J 1 expe negro denouncers the negro regun · ents the only two on t 1e ". ·t e, Jn1- f tl boghtet- - J protected the rear and fought the rebels back. Some O 1 e ' e'- l, oi~rc \)le f h · d The negro · - l n· s O ero1sm recorded in history were presente · ... . r nt L :i . . d thern ou . . th eu wounded companions on their shoulders and carne -eel 1he cnort , . c·) _ b · l legs walk . 11~1 g~~-- _ ~e who _was shot ~rough the calves . ~ t.. 0 .~ 1 e \Jo~ rou.nd h1 \:~1 11 d1s tance with hts gun on his sho ulder and h1~ carmdg . :i lark ,ilrl . ·c d l · --. . , , . 111 errv as · 1 , , l11'-- an 11s great h eart tnumphing over p ain h e W,l$ a~ · · ., 0 11Cc r 1L · , I •o r h es d \ - h' · - e o f m an \ . ai 1e was powerful sore. But t 1s 1s o n · ·

.

•udice was silenced b y the logic of f: of pre) . f . acts. And th the champions o an idea enjoyed ose of been . " a tnutnph greater th us Who had rerial victory. an the g 111a reatest

''The idea" was modern:

,,1desire this union to exist in the hearts of th 1 f e people and th· done by deve opment o more national soci 1 Id is can only be d 1 a eas. The U . rnade the grandest eve opment of the social p . . 1 nion may be nncip e the world ever saw."

For the slaves and for him, too. At war's end h . ' e was l!1 Montgo th "birthplace" of the great rebellion. mery, e

"I remarked ironically to Lt. Hay as he was speaking in tr . s ong terms agamst rreatmg rebels better than our own soldiers 'That it was a part of h Pl ili . , S .d h 'I t e an of Reconc atlon. a1 e want them to reconcile me a whil , s 1 - e. o say so says all the army, and the leader who does not recognize and act on that demand might as well dig his own grave. The great lesson the south must learn is the equality of men."

In Montgomery, this new politician was elected orator for his division's July 4th celebration. But first "the Declaration of Independence was read. The negroes had been excluded from the Inclosure and I felt as if the words of the Grand Declaration were a mockery here where the haters of human equality are our rulers when Just as the reader reached the words 'we hold these truths to be self evident that all men are created equal' the gates by · I felt as if a load were some means were opened and the black mass came m. taken from my heart."

.

b R bbie Burns's spawn, His father, who by age and origin might have een a th the had, for n li b t the son wrote a ever embraced emancipation or equa ty, u "When I get home I fr~ed slaves both south and north, and the vote, :~ave uphill business fo~· will have to be on the liberal side although t~ey w 1865 coming- out ktte1. some time." It was penned like a confess10n, an " T . . d "Negroes. Wice he crossed out "slaves" and sub st1tute d oves

The worl m ..

tnatter as much as wars. Things change. , .. nf . ., 11crre1:--scve1,1

rw, . . arks are tak en fr om .t at rc1-: endrce Lwords and passages 10 quotatio n tn , a stud en ,, \untc crl

D h he wa~ 1· 1s 0

aniel Kerr 1836-1916 written w en . h 117th II 1110 • ' ' dier u1 t e

C o llege and a sol

oe11e 111 ''

Kale Drolet

Self Portrait

Lighcning bugs are shooting stars in my Missouri summer sk

Clouds are painted on with loving strokes, a picture of scatt/red fi .

My night smells like grass and sweat and leftover rain per ection

I he,u- myself in the yard, buzzing a chirping rhythm

The frogs and crickets and even mosquito bites are color on .

my self-portra.It

The night is a farewell, the end of four years

But I'll always know what home feels like.

Shannon Pendleton

The Other Side of the p ence

Weeds have consumed the fishing hole-th b . h e ench wh dp a and I used to sit as been swallowed up b ere my gran . Y nature and 1 dp a had built that bench for us because it w th neg ect. up out of the mud. I remember how the sunshin h d Yto keep me il , e a bleached th d to the same s ver as Grandpa s hair. I used t e woo . . o run my fingers u d down the grey pathways m the gram and he would P an . ' warn me to be careful of splinters.

Grandpa and I spent many evenings together on that b h fi h b . enc , W,,;ting for the cat 1s to lte. We would watch the shado 1 th a,. • • ws eng en as the sun la~ down to rest behind the hills. We'd listen to the crickets singing, accomparued by the deep bass rhythm of the bullfrogs. Occasionally, a splash would s~und from across the lake-a fish turning, maybe, or a frog deciding to swim on over to the next stump. Whoever talked about the stillness of the night never spent an hour in the evening sitting beside a fishing hole. Nature has her own cacophony of sounds-the crickets and frogs; the raccoons stirring up the leaves at the edge of the woods; the mournful mooing from our old cow, Della, who was too stupid or too stubborn to come to the barn at feeding time. Grandpa and I just let the sounds wash over us, sweeping away the troubles of our day.

I didn't hear any crickets now. The bench was gone, reclaimed by nature after years of disuse. And there was no Grandpa, either, to help me tie my hook or to console me like he used to, saying, "Don't you worry, curly-girlie, there's always another fish."

The first fat drops of rain escaped from the clouds overhead and landed in my hair, forcing me to turn my wandering thoughts back to the present. My daughter Gemma was already halfway down the hill. , "Mom! It's starting to rain. We better hurry up. Great-grandmas go1ng to yell at us if we stay outside in the rain."

Sh . d th a no-nonsense

e was right, of course. My gran mo er was 'ddl wom Sh di out m the nu e

an. e wouldn't understand why we were stan ng of wh . D Now JJI have to stt at was qwckly turning into a gully-washer. amn. znszde d /;'

an " zsten to the old bat all efternoon. hill "I'll be You go on in Gemma " I called back down th e · 1.. d)' comin . ' ' h use Her auea g right behind you " Gemma raced toward th e O · I sogg . · . . p srrmgs. w ponytail was sticking to her neck, resembling wet m~ · legs spread ate ed her as she ran. She had a lithe, quick grace. Her ong

l 'd bro ugh t her h ere ro the farm because I h oped tt

the ,va\· H h ad hel p ed m e when m y p arents split. I r wa~ h .uJ

udge how sh e ,vas d o mg- sh e \\ o ul d n t eYer exac t!Y o pen un

Ge mm a didn 't g e t ve r y em o n o n al a b o ut things. She see med tL> be h. eve rvthing o kay, taking eYe ry thin g in s t.rid e. Sh e n eYer comphu1 ·d ·

· t'

even now, w h en I'd man age d ro drag h e r o ur of the h o use and ger her snKk in the middle o f a d ownp o ur. Ir co uldn' t be h er ide,l of a fun afternoo n

I rook m y time stro lling down th e hill, en jonng th e feel o t· rh . . · e t,l U\ sliding down m y neck and under the collar o f m y shin Grnndp a u~e d tu love the rain. He 'd spend the afternoon in his too l sh ed, wo rking o n one of his inventions. Getting 011! ~ l the ho11se. a}l)qyfrom her naggi,{g.

"There's a towel and a robe for you in th e mudr oo m,'' m~· grandma called as soon as I opened the screen door. "Go ah ea d and lay your clothes in the sink out there. No sense in dripping all th e way through the house, you know. Gemma's up in her room putting o n something dry."

That was m y grandmother, always practical. \X!hy clean up a mess if you could avoid making one in the first place? It w as one of rh e ways l took after her, and it drove Gemma crazy. Like when I'd tell h er chat if she'd pick out an outfit for school the night before, she wo uldn't end up leaving her clothes scattered all over her bed when she changed three times in the mornings. "I know, Mom," she'd say, then roll her eyes at me and flounce up the steps in the way that twelve-year olds do . Th e next day would always bring the same result-Gemma's ro o m res embling th e debris field from a twister and me shaking my head in di sb elie[

I propped my two old fishing poles in the corn er behind the door. Maybe we'd have a chance to use them later on-Grandpa and I alway s had good luck fishing in the calm after a storm. I changed out of my dripping clothes and tossed them on top of Gemma's, then picked up rhe soggy picnic blanket she'd dropped on the floor and put it in the sink a~ well. I remembered when Grandpa added the mudroom to th e back the house; Grandma had insisted there was no reason to have a big unltty s~k out here when she had a perfectly good sink right in h er kitchen . .1 Grandpa h d Ii d d h jnst:illel. a stene to her argument nodded his head an t en ' · d the sink a N ' ' h ' I ever ·0 . nyway. ow I bet Grandma couldn' t imagine what s e c \vtthout it. Not that she'd ever admit it.

I was nine years old the spring that Grandpa built th e mudro om, and 1 was mo st of the reason he ' d built it. I'd com e to live w1.rb my Belle,ive

andparents the year before, the year m y parents separated. gr My parents had never really wanted kids. It w , . asn t really a . when they split up, and 1t was even less of a surp h surprise nse w en the d rne off on m y grandparents. Mom was going to S F . Y dt.UilPe . an ranc1sco to flowers in her halt. I guess no one had told her the wh 1 wear 0 e peace-and.1.;,.,g was over. Dad was high-tailing 1t north with his 1 t love uuii a est project, Janet, in tow. Neither one of them wanted a kid along-that would be a drag.

First my mom tned her parents, but her dad told her she needed to own up to her actions and. face ~e consequences-namely me. Trying to convince her parents was like trying to row up -stream in a leaky canoe 50 she called my dad's parents and poured on the waterworks. She begg:d them to take me, just for a few months until she could get on her feet. Then she tried her best sugar-and-spice voice, telling them how she'd always loved them even more than her own parents. It was a load of hooey, and my grandparents knew it.

I remember standing by the pay phone outside the diner, holding my breath and praying my grandparents would say "yes." No way did I want to get on a bus with my mother-and I wasn't too sure she'd take me, anyway. I was only eight, but I had a keen sense that if my grandparents said "no," my mother was likely to leave me in a gas station restroom somewhere. Lucky for me, they never even hesitated. As soon as they could slip a word in between all my mother's jabber, they said " yes." An hour later I was waving goodbye to my mother from the front seat of Grandpa's rusty old Ford truck. That's when my real childhood began.

Grandpa spent my whole f1rst month on the farm teaching me all about fishing. Grandma used to remind him that I was a girl, for goodness' sake. She hated when I'd come in from the fishing hole, halfcovered in mud and smelling like bait. She used to complain bitterly about rne tracking mud through the house across her wood floors, so the foll ·· build th owmg spring Grandpa announced that he was going to e mudroom so she wouldn't have anything to complain about. Not that she ever ran out of things to complain about. She'd had Grandpa and me, hadn't she?

I shook off the memory as I headed into the kitchen to make myself a 1 b in the world , f ll cup o f tea. Grandma made the best herba tea ags u of dri d . d .th h er own secret bl e tea leaves from Hansen's Market m1Xe wi end of d · d t1 · better for ftgh rte herbs and flowers. I'd never found any 1mg l:!ng off a chill.

«Th , . . ,, , 11 d from th e front roo n... e Waters already s1mmermg Grandm ,t ca e lk ''! ''Ma , . 'd like to ta. , to ke yo urself a cup and then com e o n ID h ere. I

" . , t to talk toy ou? I thoughr ro m ys elf as I g you. ,f; ;r I don 't wan . . . ·. ' or Well, w.'Jat 1.J d I'd been avoiding this conversanon since f the cup boar . I . ' l d mug out o t y three days ago t tsn t oar. to figure out w.L a I h d come to s a uat Gemma and a t that}ake and I were a7!J of her business, but when dd

t d to talk about-no z shewane

that ever stop her? d f Grandma's special bags out of the canisrer and I grabbe one o . . th oured simmenng water over it. I warched for a . . my mug en p put it 10 b, color oozed out of the bag and spread through the moment as the rown

cu like oil spreading on water. .

p "Do you want a cup?" I asked, poking m y head around the the front room. Grandma glanced up from her needlepoint doorway to

d d me Over the rim of her glasses.

an eye . · "I've already got some," she answered, nodding her head toward the end table as she said it. "Thank you, though."

I went back to the kitchen and tossed my wet tea bag in the garbage under the sink, then added a dollop of honey to m y cup and grabbed a spoon. I was stalling and I knew it. I just needed a little time to figure out how I was going to explain everything to m y grandmother. I hadn't wanted to come back here like this , with m y whole life a mess, and I didn't know how to start explaining what had happened. Mostly, I jusr didn't want to hear "I told you so." And I could do without a'!)' of herpatented advice, too.

Grandma was the type of woman that never put any stock in nonsense. She was a virtual self-help book of common sense advice. People in church used to wait around after Sunday service not to shake hands with the preacher, but to search out my grandma and ask for her opinion. She'd sit in her pew next to the center aisle after the last hymn was sung, smiling and waving as people shuffled toward the door. Every Sund ay wi thout fail, she'd sit patiently and wait for one of her brothers or sisters in Christ to slip sideways into the pew in front of her and start talking in 1 · uld . a ow voice about some problem or other. Grandma wo liScen and nod and tut-tut through the tale of woe then tell the person exa~tly what she would do in the same situation. When .Grandma gave advice she al k . th t Brother ' ways spo e with the same dignity and authortty a John used wh d li • . · I used to . . en e vermg his sermons. Back when I was nllle, sit and listen to h · th martest . er In awe and think my granny must be e s woman In the w ld B k on the · . or · Y the time she was done gi·ving her ta e hy situation th d · d ring w h h ' e a vice-seeker was left nodding her head and won e . s e adn't thought f th . . f cheat1Jlg sp O at. From busmess to babies- rotn . 5wgle ·o uses to ve t bl f, evetY ge a e gardens-my grandma had a solution or Bellerive

. life. She wa s the D ear A bby of the First Bapti . bJeJ11111 1 G dm st congregaao Pro F 11-un or prob ems ran a could spout an e . 1 . n. or " nq c opedia full of . rerbs and plat:1.rudes The grass was always gr ,, . !es ~pro, eener accordin t1se · ..1 a and God was always closing doors and openin - d g 0 GraDUJ." ' c d g wm ows. r As I got older, I 1oun 1~yself wondering why she couldn't fix all , problems with the same effict~ncy._ Every time I ever asked my

!11} dn a for advice I was left feeling like I'd just been handed h ran 1

a c eesy g cookie. Trouble with geometry? Confucius says "Thos . h [orcune , e w o d , more and da ydream less understand the Pythagorean theorem." ~:yiriend rroubles? Grandma says, '~Girls who spend too much time worrying about boys never end up with anything in life but babies." Eventually, I'd just stopped asking for her advice. It was different with Grandpa . I could tell him anything. He would just listen and nod, then tell me that he knew I'd figure it out. I wished that he were here to for me to talk to. At least one ef us missesyou, Grandpa. It was hard to figure, when I was growing up, just what it was that kept my grandparents together. They never seemed to have that much in common. Grandma could worry a subject to death, while Grandpa believed that things had a way of working themselves out. While Grandpa saw the glass as half-full, Grandma worried about refilling the glass.

I remember the first time my grandparents met Gemma's father, Jake. It was a scene right out of a bad teen movie. Grandma and I were in the garden when Jake came riding up the driveway on his motorcycle, spitting gravel from his back tire and sounding like the end of the world on two wheels. She'd taken one look at my face and told me in no uncertain terms, "No ma'am. Don't you even get the idea in your head. You are not going anywhere with that boy." I didn't tell her that I'd already been seeing him every weekend for the last three weeks. I'd already told Grandpa.

My grandfather had poked his head out of his workshop. "Can I help you, young man?"

"Yes, sir I mean, I'm here to talk to you about Sara, sir."

"Well, then . You'd better just come on in."

rd Watched Grandpa and Jake disappear into the shed. My hearu]t Was pou ,J;

B h Creek in late J Y ·

"Wh ' ing to pull th at are you waiting for? These weeds aren t go eniselve ,, G s, randma snapped at me. h

nUJ11g and m y throat was about as dry as ranc

T • · 'd rged from t e sh d Wenry minutes had gone by before th ey eme d e . I tri d d . the ground an shufflin to catch J ake's eye, but he was stu ymg

g his feet n ervously. Belle1iuc

"H 1,, Grandpa said, "this yo ung man here is named J k aze , th , ac son .· . d him to supper. I'm sure ere 11 be plenty of fo d .: , d I've 111v1te , . 0 1or 0 an d ' t mind. I expect we 11 be heanng a lot about i..:_~ f ne more if yo u on J.UIU rorn ' dd hter so we may as well get to know him ourselves " Th our gran aug ' d . · at tl bout Grandpa-he never ma ea Judgment about was the ung a , anyone until he'd given them a chance to prov~ themselves: Id already told hirn

J k th e last time we'd gone fishing. I told him there was a bo I about a e Y

ll lik d that he was smart and funny and rode a motorcycle and I rea y e , , was G dma would have a cow when she found out about him Gr d sure ran . · an pa had suggested that I invite Jake out to meet them and things would work

Supper that night was an awkward affair. Jake practically tripped over himself trying to win my grandma's approval. He'd complimented her cooking, her hair, and her home. She'd pretended to ignore him, but she whispered to me as we cleared the table to beware of a silver-tongued devil.

Grandpa was easier to win over. He recognized the look in my eye whenever I talked about Jake. I guess he just figured that trying to stop the two of us from being together would be about as effective as trying to dam up a stream with a single bag of sand. Anyway, Jake and I were inseparable by that fall; Grandpa had accepted the situation with good humor. Grandpa and I didn't fish quite as often, and sometimes when we fished Jake came along. Grandpa never acted like he minded, but I could tell sometimes he missed having time for just the two of us.

My grandmother never cared for Jake and never had a problem telling me so. His name was never Jake when she talked about him-he was that no-account boy, that hoodlum, that mangy-headed devil. On my wedding day, I'd smiled at Grandma in the mirror as she fixed my veil. She'd kissed my cheek and smiled at me, and I thought maybe everything would be okay. Then I'd overheard her in the hallway talking to her friend May.

"Honestly, I don't know what that girl is thinking, throwing her life away for a boy who doesn't have the common sense God gave him. I guess she'll juS t have to learn this lesson the hard way."

1 ~ow here I was, standing in my grandma's kitchen thirteen years _at~r,htry in g to figu _ re out a way to tell her she'd been right all along. A nd zsn ts e;ust r. : Ii . f, G'ra d · going to ,ove hearing it? As if she hasn't alreacjy got itfigured ottf-JiJt/..7 n tpa gone there wou!i I 't b d ther choice It · ,_,.k ,c.n e a'!Y reason for me to come here unless I ha no O zsn t tz e the two 0 r , . fi .•a virzt.

"S 'J us got atong well enough for me to;ust come 01 · ara , dear are y k . in here, would yo u?" ' ou O ay? Is your tea ready yet? Come on

cl Ught for a moment about making some I 10 excuse. I could t dressed and JUSt not come back down 1 go · 5 to ge · t was a tern · upstal! . tead I squared my shoulders and pulled m b Pt1ng but ws , k I' h. Y ro e a little ti h idea, For goodness sa e, m t zrry-oneyears old I th h g ter und me. . ' oug t to myself ar0 what she thinks? · lf ho cares . " I d I . k

"I'm coming, answere , as pie ed up my tea.

Grandma laid her needlework aside as I settled m lf yse on the end fa I'd always hated this couch. When I was littl I 1 of the so . . e a ways felt like d to climb up on 1t. Even now, as an adult my feet barel h d I ha ' Yreac e the 1 curled my legs up underneath of me and pulled the d f floor. e ge o my be down over my toes. ro "Jake called," Grandma said.

50 much for beating around the bush. I stared down at the hardwood floor and waited.

"I told him you were fine, that you and Gemma were outside. I cold him you would call him when you came in."

"Sure. I'll call him later, after supper. I'd rather wait until Gemma is in bed."

"If you think that's best ... "

No, I don't think that's best-I think the best thing would be if I never had to speak to Jake again. "It's just easier that way. I'm sure we'll say things that Gemma doesn't need to hear."

"Gemma's not nai:ve. She'll have a lot of questions."

"Gemma already has a lot of questions, and none of them are ones I have the answers to just yet."

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I turned and looked out the window. The rain was sliding down the glass, giving the world outside a wavy appearance

"Grandpa loved days like this-he loved the rain."

"Yes he did "

Gra~dma s~ed up at the picture on the mantle. Gra ndPa smiled back at her, and she studied him for a moment.

''Y . t he could wast e our grandfather loved the rain because 1t mean . away an f . . k . on this or th at. N a ternoon o ut in that workshop of his, till enng one of th . " at stuff ever amounted to anythmg. . 1 _. I 1 I h Sh rett)' mu c 1 , tg ' l t o ught about that for a moment. e was P · . I a)<iut one h. . . ·h li ed it. He'd lll\' L'ntt:c a Pol h t ing- (7 randp a love d to tmker, as s e ca d _ le ._ 0 vo11 e old e h I fj I ing ro s s1mp , . . did , r t at mad e ca rryin g two o r t iree .ts, , I v 1 ,nad c nt have t - · r\ •d up C,nllH I • our b O worry about getting your Im es rnng c · .· 0 11 when ench h , 11s cd to 11 \Ve fi h out there in hi s w o rk s h o p - the b e n c we · 1, r du g dnwn ls ed. H 'd , . h e r ua rd c n t 1,1 e mad e Gra ndm a a tool ro use 10 r-, Jltf/r,it'I'

in to the ear th an d pull ed dandelio ns up with their lo ng ta proot attached.

"I wo uldn't say none o f that stu~f am ounted to anything. He made you that dan delio n cool, remembe r ~ And our pole tote? He mad that. He made a lo t o f things ou t there tha t we used ."

"I guess he di d. And th at dan delio?, digger sure cam e in handy, didn't it? We had a lo t les s weeds afte r that.

''Yep, and a lot les s dandelion wine, roo."

It was an old joke between the three of us. Grandpa always joked how he was trying to grow enough dandelio ns th at we could harves t them for a cash crop and bottle our own wine out of them. H e'd e--,-en tried to make some wine once, but even after month s and months o f aging in the fruit cellar, the brew never tasted drinkable . T he n ext spring he'd inYented the dandelion digger.

Grandma smiled, th en shook her head at th e memory. We en joyed a comfortable silence, each of us lost in our own th oughts.

"Sara, do you want to talk to me about wha t's happened between you and Jake? I'd like to help you."

"What's to tell? You were right, marrying Jake was a mistake. I was young and I thought I knew what I was doing. As it turns out, you were smarter than I gave you credit for." There-I've said ivhat she 1vants to hear. Let hergloat andget it over w#h.

"You were young and in love. You had a baby on the way. You did what you thought was best."

I stared at my grandmother, waiting for her to drop the other shoe.

"I guess you were expecting 'I told you so?"' Sh e looked at me over the rim of her cup, then set the tea aside and reached for her needlepoint.

"You and Jake were meant to be. I believe that because Gemma is proof. However the two of you end up, you came together in the first place because you loved each other. I never doubted that."

''You're right, we did love each other. And when we got married I th~ught we were always going to love each other. We were going to be ~lissfully happy-a perfect, happy family. We were going to have a cute little house, with a perfect little yard and daisies that bloomed in the summer iust like yours do. I just thought that Jake and I would be toge ther forever."

"Y 1

. ou a ways did have your head in the clouds and your feet six inches off the g d h

, a . . roun w ere Jake was concerned. Sara, marriage 1sn t lways d~1s1es and sunshine and happy days."

1 know that, Grandmother. I've been married for thirteen

I have managed to learn th at m uch in ail thi . ears- s tun e " : "G ood. Then you 've learned half o f what lit . · d k e is all abo t "

I rolled my eyes an pie ed up m y tea Thi u · d · s wa s more lik · . the "I told you so" I' been anticipating but e H-not gwte , a sermon non th 1

"Sara, do you remember the first time your df e e es s. . gran ath er and I d to let Jake take you out on his motorc ycle;>" agree •

"I sure do. You pitched a fit , too. I recall that ·t 1 was Grandpa wh o tually agreed to 1t. You Just stood 1n the corner shakin h · ac , . g your ead telling the three of us that wed regret it." ,

"Well, I was worried, I'll admit that. But do you rem ember how your grandfather got me to agree?"

"Ho:v could I forget'. I've never seen anything so funny in my life-Jake riding down the driveway and heading down the bluff road with Grandpa on the back! He said he'd check things out first and make sure Jake knew what he was doing and drove safely before I could go riding with him. Do you remember the look on Jake's face when Grandpa put on the extra helmet?"

'1ake looked like he'd eaten something that didn't agree with him-he turned red, then purple, then green . Only a young man in love would suffer carting an old coot like your grandfather around in order to earn the right to take his girlfriend for a ride ."

"I guess you're right about that. It certainly wasn't what Jake expected when Grandpa said he'd get you to agree to let me ride that thing."

"Well, it's exactly what I would have expected. Your grandfather always did want a motorcycle."

I looked over at my grandmother with one brow raised.

"I can't imagine Grandpa with a motorcycle." .

"Me neither, but he always wanted one. It just about broke his heart when Jake sold his and bought that old truck instead."

I took a sip of my tea and contemplated an image of my granclfather roaring down Main Street with m y grandmother on rhe back of a bike I couldn't even think about it without laughing out l~u~.

"You and Grandpa would have made quite th e biker ~alt- . ll "V dp a in l11 s overa s. B re s, mdeed-me m m y apron and your g ran ad t h b h. " 0 t e one, right? No wond er you're laug mg . . sid e I . h om Tht s was a f studied my grandmother from acro ss t e ro · 1 d 't bee n o her th t I'd d . d why she 1a n th · a never r eally see n b efor e. I wo n ere k d at me wi th 1s easy t lk · Sh e Joo e 0 ta to all th ose ye ars I was g ro wm g up. L a sad srnile.

''It's nice, isn't it, being able t o talk like this?"

th i: a moment. "I'm a little surprised, that's all."

I sidered at ior • con d und the room uncomfortably, trymg not to We both glance aro . . ' It had been a long tune smce wed talked together h other's eyes. ' meet eac . ot to say anything to break our uneasy truce.

d were both rrymg n ·th · an we b the buffer between us, and W1 out him we G d a had always een ran P_ 1 tal Grandma finally cleared her throat and glanced grated like meta on me .

over at m 5 e. u sure you and Jake are over? What happened?"

" ara, are yo . . .

"I don't know. I guess things have been piling up-Just one thing f th er We've always fought, about money, about Gemma, on top o ano • b ything w'e'd fight then we'd make up. Then we'd fight again a out ever • w, , and make up. The~ one day he ju~t quit ta~g at all. That should_ have been my clue that things were ending, but I JUSt figured he was as ttred of the fighting as I was. It was such a relief not to argue anymore. I was so stupid-I didn't even see the end coming! Wednesday evening he called and said he didn't think he'd be coming home anymore, that he thought we needed a break."

"I had no idea the two of you were in so much trouble."

"Well, don't sound so surprised about it. You said this would happen right on my wedding day! You never rooted for me and Jake-you wanted us to fail! You always said we'd never make it, and you were right."

Once the words were started, thirteen years of resentment came pouring out. lf she wants the truth, I 'IIgive it to her.

My grandmother turned white and shrank back in her chair as though she were ducking a blow. Her hand trembled as she reached for her needlepoint.

"I had no idea you thought that of me. You're right; I wasn't ever v~ry, supportive of you and Jake. But it wasn't because I didn't love you or didn t want the two of you to make things work. I just didn't want you to make the same mistakes I'd made."

.

She looked up at the photo of my grandfather again, then contlnued "Sar h I fi · a, w en was 1fteen I met the most wonderful boy. He made me laugh Wh h ki · en e ssed me I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. I was head h 1 · 1 . over ee s m love, and we got married when I was on Y sixteen When I . 1 nl w d. was a gir we didn't worry so much about school, we O Y

an te to get married d h b . grandf: th · an ave ab1es and husbands. I married yo ur a er, and I was ab I I . b together d . so ute Y sure that w e were aJways going to e

, an in love and h S

"B ' · · appy. ounds fanuliar, doesn't it?"

ut you and G I 1 red yo u." ranc p a 111ere always together, and he always o,

"'71.es, that's true. I I had · a ways loved your gra ndfather, and I never '

to doubt that he loved me. But vou aren't th re,1::-on . - e o nh- o ne h . ed o f holding eYerything together. Yo ur grand · o eYer got nr " pa and Jake had a lot . common.

ID 1 got up fr o m the couch and walked over t th 0 e mantle ~1 dp aren ts ' fo r rv-fifth anruversarv portrai t sat in fr · Y gran .. . . a ame 1Il the center On the le ft was ID) g radua uon pho to. O n the n ght was a .. ddin d T h picture ot Jake d me on o ur we g ay. e two photos o f m e h cl b an . . . a een taken onh· three weeks apart. In m y wedding picture my grandfa th er and J k . d 1 a e are nding close together an aughing at the cam era. I'm ~: 1:_ sta . Su.w.mg up at Jake with my heart m m y eyes, and m y gran dmother do ur as e,·er · 1 kin. ' , l S 00 g at me with an expres sio n o f co ncern o n he r face.

"If you were unhapp y all those years with Grandpa, why did you ~"stay.

"Because I couldn't imagine my life without him being part of it."

"T hen why are yo u trying to make things sound so bad now that , ~" hes gone.

She stood u p and walked toward me. "That's not what I'm trying to do. I loved your grandfather."

''You loved him? My God! All you ever did was nag him. He couldn't please you if he'd jumped through hoops of fire . Neither one of us could ever do an ything right around you. The way you acted, some- times I wonder if yo u ever loved us at all!"

The m oment I said it I knew I'd pushed her too far. I wanted to lasso the words an d pull them back, but it was too late. Her face turned as red as a child's b alloon, and she shook with indignation.

"Don't you dare stand here in my home and say that to me. I loved your grandfather! But you only know what he was like with yo~you don't know him the way I did! He wasn't always an easy man to live with. We had problems, just like everybody else We fought an~ ma~e up more times than I care to think abo u t! Your grandpa got to be JU~t lik~ Jake-he didn't argue anymore. He didn't argue, h e juS t st0PPed lis~erung to me at all. It hurt that he quit trym·g to talk things out, tbat he'd 1~st · ' · 1k him ignore me! But I stayed with him, and I ju st kept trying to ta t~ A' d even h I d b se I loved him! n w en knew he wasn't listerung. I staye ecau d as £

·f I'd never love or you-you wouldn't have this place to call hom e 1 you."

S

fl d I wanted to go to h he sat down in the chair, suddenly de ate · . th er, to tell h d h there m my mou ' er that I was sorry The w o r s ung trernbled on m y lips. I swallowed.

''Grandma I ,, " ' . . .

d " D o n't . . She shook her head at me and wave d h er h an ·

I stood there, feeling sick to my stomach-feelin lik . h I h I 'd b g e I had th t1111e w en was rune, w en een careless and dropped G e . , . randma' favonte crystal vase. I knew Id Just broken something fragil b s e etween and I wanted desperately to fix it. I walked over to the window us, a~kwardly-I wishe~ I could just sink between the floorboards and disappear from her sight. I had to say something before it wa

" . . ' s too ate

What did you mean when you said Jake and Grandpa h d

common?,,

"I meant that both of them were dreamers-good at ide b as ut not at doing. How many projects did your grandfather start and then never get around to finishing?"

I thought about it for a while. "He finished the mudroom," I told her, as if to prove her wrong. I hadn't wanted to say it, but it was true.

''Actually, I asked Brother Frank and his son from church to come out and help your grandfather with that because it was the only way I could be sure that we wouldn't end up with half a room on the back of the house. I did some housework for them while Sister Pat recovered from that back surgery, remember? It was a fair trade."

I dug my hands down into the pockets of my robe and waited. I could sense that she was just getting started. I wasn't sure if I was going to get a sermon, but I was pretty sure I'd be getting some of her patented advice, at the very least. At least she} still talking to me.

I leaned against the window sill and looked outside. The downpour had stopped just as suddenly as it had started, leaving the petals of grandma's daisies, dressed in rain droplets that shined like sequins.

''You know, I always envied your mother."

I jerked upright and spun around to face my grandmother. Of all the things I'd expected to hear, that was definitely not on the list. My mother didn't care one damned bit about me and the old lacfy knew it. I opened my mouth to tell her to go to hell, but she went on before I cou!d spe~k. our

"I did envy your mother. She had an unhappy marriage Wl th Y dad. He was just like your grandpa, flitting from one thing to the next as something caught his attention. Your mother just didn't have a firm th t , ur father a enough grasp on him to make him buckle down. It wasn t yo 1 I' 1 resp ected 1er. filed for divorce, it was your mother. For that, ve a ways ·h found She did a lot o f things wrong, but she wasn't happ y, and at lea 5 r 5 e p h ' rilling to g:ivc u a way out. She loved your father a lot, but s e wasn t \: . ~ , h. . lf . d t be with h1111. everyt mg she'd dreamed o f for herse rn or er O

"O f, . h I ·1 ' b ]i eve )'ou wou L r or me, ett er, apparent y. ca n t e . her to me!" t her for d 1 d ' t respec

"I know your mother abandoned you, an o n ·

•ncon cei\-able to me that she could leave th

· Irs 1 e way sh di

I[ u J do n't think I'll ever forgiv e h er for y k e d and nor ate , o . ' our sa e 0

..

c. . e\-en th o ugh he was m y son. I know you think . r yo ur father etch er, th the y nev l b r they gave you e best the y knew how-th er oved

ro u. u I ey gave you l

· P where you were oved-where you wouldn' b a P ace to grow u t e shuffled . ,, around all (he c:une.

Tears filled m y eyes. I knew she was right b · di ' ut It dn't make it hurt any less.

"Your grandpa and I made our fair share of · ak . d c mist es with you bur you never wante 1or anything that really mattered." '

She was right. I hadn't had everything I want d • . . , e groWJng up, but I'd had the most unportant things. Id had two people wh 1 d 0 ove me and did their best to bnng me up nght. I thought about Gemma I d th . . . • wante e same thing for my little gu-1. I Just wasn't sure I could still give it to herJake and I had grown so far apart, I wasn't sure we had an y common ground left, aside from Gemma.

"I can't tell you what to do about Jake. You have to decide for yourself whether to fish or cut bait. But you're not going to settle anything if you don't at least talk to him. And if it's really over, then you need to decide that pretty soon. Otherwise, you're not being fair to Gemma."

She gave me a moment to digest that before she went on.

''You said you'd learned some things in thirteen years of marriage. You learned that things aren't always sunshine and daisies. That's true enough, but there's more to it than that. It's a lot like fishing. You just never know if all your effort will be rewarded."

"Grandpa used to tell me not to worry, there were always more fish."

"That's true enough-even if you've caught a keeper. Remember, half the fun of fishing is in the not knowing what to expect, and the oth er half is in the fight. But you don't get any of the fun at all if you never even fish."

G · d d t her hand on my randma walked over to the wm ow an pu . d ,, should " , Wh t er you decide to 0 · er. I ll help you however I can, Sara. a ev w, .th her hand on my we stood together like that for a moment, Wl h s~oulder. She leaned over and kissed m y cheek, then looked out t e WJndow and smiled.

"Grandma, I'm sorry. I had no right · · ·" · 't it?''

"N °, you didn't. But it's water under the bridge_ 0 ~~,:sng me to let Sh 'd ·t as 1f w.LU.J.n it be. e looked me right in the eye as she sat 1 ' h turned back I h . c- . ess but s e es1tated, wanting to ask for her 1orgiven ' Belletive

roward the ,vindo~t before I could say anythmg.

•~'elL now, it looks like a beau tiful aftern oon for starting the garden The groun~ shoul? be n~ce a~d soft after that s~ower, Maybe l'll take Gemma out with me. 1f that s alright wuh you? A little frt~sh air might be good for her." She patted my arm, then walked toward the hallwav · calling upstairs to my daughter. A few minutes later I watched out th~ window as the two of them headed across the lawn, Gemma Wlth a ~ho\rcl in her hand, and Grandma with a tray of tomato plants.

I waited until they disappeared together around the side of the tool shed, then I headed upstairs. I was halfway to my old room when I heard the phone ring.

Bellerive would like to congratulate th e winners of the Pierre Laclede Honors College

A\vards for E,xcellence in Writing

2004 - 2005

Bobby Meile for "Reciprocal Inquiry''

Submitted in Robert Bliss's Symposium

J.B. Carroll for "Chemistry of General Education"

Submitted in Robert Bliss's Symposium

Zach Meyer for "City of Storms"

Sub1nitted in Birgit N oil's Seminar

Jeanie Meyer for "Second Hand Smoke"

SubmJ.tte d in Nancy Gleason's Independent Study

Reciprocal Inquiry

Mathematics and_ P~osophy-~o branches of learning that be polar opposites in both their form and function Su h ear to . . • c a apP d-white relationship does not exist, though. The challenge li · black-an . es in din the relevance and connection between them. Such a study needs a fin g Thi will b .d backdrop to work upon. s e provi ed_by s~owing my . troduction into these fields and how my previous instructors have :fluenced my thinking on these subjects. Then it is possible to see how not just my education, but General Education, affects the interplay between math and philosophy. At this point, a serious look at how these disciplines interact can commence.

Mathematics is the subject that I gravitate towards most naturally. Therefore, my high school math teachers were important factors for my success in the subject. I had the talent and the desire to understand. They renewed, focused, inspired, sharpened, and guided this raw ability t o my current level of knowledge, skill, and intuition. All five of my high school math instructors made it a social subject, both with group work in class and with an intimate relationship with the formulas , equatio n s, and theorems. In The Math Gene, Keith Devlin asserts that a go o d mathematician is one who forms an intimate understanding o f the relationships between symbols (261 -262). My personal interests, coupled with the activities given to me by my instructors, created this crucial bond between symbols that allows my familiarity with mathematics. This dos · · · d 1 eness is vital to a deep and insightful study of mathematics an a so to a stud f · · YO 1t 1n relation to other subjects.

Knowing the relationships between mathematical ideas , however, is not enough · 11 · · 1 · th . , especia y when studying mathematics m re anon to o er subj ects I · • · · · · h' an · t is necessary to yearn for familianty with those relations ips d to gras p h . . A wh< t e implications generated by these co nn ectio n s. nyon_e . al , J de sires to study deep into mathematic s must b eco m e immerse d 111 tt s )stract 1 l

I at B, w~ r d. I n my ess ay "My Le arning," I n oted , "To get in to Calcu m dl ev11l e W . h • , re fo ur Ptere . . est, yo u n ee d to b e fairl y d edicated , b ecau se t ere a ~u1s1te c d' · - triathe i o ur ses to e n te r th e clas s" (1). H e n ce, my d e icatto n ro l nat1cs wa , · . · h ~h \ r riculum. dev 0 s partially created by m y extens ive htg sc oo c u ted a lot f · li d t co nonlle dee p . 0 Ume to m ath e m a tical stu dy, so I feel o b g ate 0 itset f w: r l11 to the s ubj ec t m at te r. Or I w ould feel o blig a ted if th e_ stud y s not en1· bl . h intrigued my oya e. H ow eve r, my exte nd ed exp os ure as

:-c ho ladr interest. The more I kn ow, the m o re I want to kn . . . . ow. This teedmg cunosity gives me an advantage 1n m,- pursuit o f 1 se lf. . . re ating math phil osophv. I look for connecuon s b ecaus e I am mte rested - th and · mere~ · transfo r mations to bo th fie lds o f srud r ung Senior year seems like a la te start when it comes to th d _ . . . . _ e sru '" of Phil oso phv and cnncal thinking. H owe, er, this was when I was · _ · . · . gi, en a formal 1ntro duct1on to these perspecn,·es. It als o was a premature intro ducti o n to consilient knowledge , because ffi)' philosophical cour se wa s Wo rld Hi story. Throughout the year the instructor, Mrs. Hedden s a philoso phy major with over ten years of teaching experience, paid ,s pecial attention to the great thinkers of each time period . The emphasis was on Socrates, Confucius, and the Enlightenment rather than on da tes, locations, and trivia. This class is still m y chief philosophical influence. It weaved moral paradoxes and intellectual dilemmas with major historical events around the world. Its consilient nature enriched both the history and the philosophy involved and opened the door into further speculation between other subjects.

My high school experiences in mathematics and history typify the goals of General Education as a whole, even at a college level. These courses seek to enrich specific areas of study while strengthening, although sometimes inconspicuously, the ties between disciplines. In particular, man y classes tr y to impart what E. D. Hirsch calls cultural literacy. That is "the network of information that all competent readers possess" (2). Although Hirsch focuses on cultural literacy in reading, it also plays a vital role in every other sphere of learning. In mathematics, for example, the most basic forms of this type of literacy are the symbols for numbers, addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, along with their . applications. Without these core components as a form of cultural literacy, it is impossible to talk about mathematics as a precise method.

Cultural literacy becomes even more important ill scuss . between subjects. As I said earlier, philosophy and history ~t~rconnect: man y vital ways. Philosophers did not live in a vacuum; their ideas shap and were shaped by events that occurred around them. For example,. E . . .th their ideas, __,uropea n philosophers helped start the French Revolution Wl b hil ut m any French philosophers also died because of the P osop ex pressed. Science also defin es pieces of history. If science playe d noth . h . . h ment e part In 1sto ry, there wo uld b e no explanation for the Enlig ten ' ld I d . ·, 1 . . h t th e wor . n US t na Revolut.1on, or the expansion of humaruty throug ou Th . h e no cause, e important eve nts and eras across time would seem to av to becaus d · ·d · nece ss ar y -e an un erstandmg o f scientific advances and 1 eas is und erstand their influence. Knowing the history of science shows hoW

Bel/en·ve

· di ions

c ors like religion, either facilitated or hindered tech 1 side iact ' . no ogical our In various disciplines common ground must be found b c ogress. . b . . e1ore pr understanding can e gamed. Cultural literacy in on i:: Jere , e 1orm or cornP eates the bridges that connect knowledge on their· difr: another, er 1erem P aths of study. . . . . b .

General Education, sm~e 1t 1~ ~ed with cultural literacy, des concrete examples of mterdisc1plinary connections. These proVlections and their guiding principles are gateways into even more conn b f . c lex and relevant we s o m10rmat1on and causation. Humanity's comp . . wa upon the environment is a complex relationship mvolving large 5 oyunts of alternate studies. Political decisions, economic attitudes am , ecology, biology, environmentalism, and history all have a say in how current and future actions and events form and impact everything around them. Another example of General Education's influence comes from Keith Devlin's The Math Gene. To explain the genetic, biologicai and evolutionary origins of mathematical ability, he utilizes the fields of linguistics, genetics, biology, evolutionary theory, history, animal studies, and mathematics. The evidence crosses across discipline boundaries and strengthens the argument as a whole. This generally happens when multiple areas of expertise overlap and justify a theory (Wilson 58). With General Education, it is possible for many educated people to eventually understand such complex issues, despite the number of relationships involved. This is why newspapers are a viable source of information. Since all of these different problems involving these different specialties can be understood connected and solved then it should not be too ' ' ' difficult to join the forces of mathematics with those of philosophy. Now a serious look at the correlation between mathematics and P~osophy can begin. This is not a one-way relationship. Therefore, it will be helpful to look at each trend separately. Philosophy offers several merh?ds and ideas to mathematical thought often speculates on the queSt:1ons that the more concrete sciences may not have answered.

A~th0ugh this ruminative questioning is generally directed at the physical sciences ' it gives a needed boost to all areas of learnmg.

b . Knowledge and understanding are scant when considering the as1s for th . f·-11 d th • e usefulness of mathematics. This basis, for now, aus un er e Junsdi · · k ·

rn ction of philosophy. Mathematics works, but why it wor s ts a Ystery Th· · · · 11 b t no

clea · is question may eventually be answered empmca Y, u

r soluu · · · 11

Phil on is currently available. This absence of msight a ows osophy t · ·th little restr · 0 speculate upon the foundations of mathematics wi

b aint. It is · . thematics ma y

e pr 0 unportant to note that this does not mean ma Ven unfo d d . h hown that un e . Experiments and observat10ns aves

ful cool in describing the real world. It is the . th most power . hil h . math 1s e . f " hy'' that is illusive. P osop y can p rovide

· uesuon o w

· naggmg q til ething m o re accurate 1s found . t least un som

. answers, a .f th ·ason o f its effectivenes s is unknown, it is obvious Even 1 ere . . . 1 • nces are drenched m m athem aucs. Several subJ· ec ts that the phys1ca scie . . ' ' . uld not be credible sciences at all without mathematics like physics, wo . · f h S t complex systems and ideas are exp re ssed Some o t e mo . th · all A few people hope to find equations that can explain ma ematlc Y· . h l·cal law known. With such lofty aspirations to consider every p ys . . ' mathematics sometimes needs philosophy to ac t as a gmde when numbers and variables alone do not suffice.

The most illustrative example in mathematics is the concep t of infinity and its applications. The very idea of a symbol without end or measure does not seem to fit in with the rest of mathematics, at leas t when it is first introduced. In "Intimations of Infmity," seven different typ es of problems concerning the never-ending are showcased. They cover infinitely small differences, the leap of faith between numbers an d complex concepts, infinite processes, and other questions posed by infinity. Each solution follows a different view about how infmity functions (Weller et al. 741-750). With so many ways to look at infmity and since so me o f the viewpoints seemingly contradict each other, it becomes difficult to divine what goes where with which problem and why. Since infinity is a cognitive process, it is not expressed as explicitly as other processes in mathematics. However, regarding it with the right philosophy can provide insight into how the many difficulties may be solved. Philosophy can be the driving force behind abstract ideas that math cannot account for alone.

With this philosophical analysis of mathematical ideas comes another benefit. Complex ideas that are originally expressed as special symbols can be clarified and justified by using philosophical thought and wording. Philosophy is a word-oriented endeavor. With careful phrasing, it is possible to rework a mathematical procedure into written language. ~n fact, no mathematical idea can be considered complete, or even true, until it has been transformed into a formal written proof. Combining mathematical logic and logical argument creates this powerful proof . t (D evlin 270). Although the initial logic of the equations may seem ~viden or true, this cannot be rightfully determined until all of the justificatwns are given. This vital and rigorous process is carried out with the he~p of philosophy. It brings the proof from the abstractions of mathematical . . . hil ophy to notation to the abstractions of the written word. Without P os . t c li ble sub) ec periorm this process, mathematics would not be the stable, re a it is now.

I am more than willing to admit tha t my correlati . . f ons going fr o m h to rnathemaucs are o ten tenuous . I do not £ 1 th . }lilosop Y •th th •d ee at this is p d b any problem Wl e i ea itself, but rather a la k f kn use Y M hil c O owledge ca erience on my part. y p osophical training has b hi d exp een a gh an 1history class and my pnvate musmgs, so it is understand bl th cho 0 th · · a e at my 5 nding of ma emaucs is greater than that of phil h understa . . . . . osop y My d f the relauonship mfluencmg philosophy through m th stu YO a emat1cs shall c re present my case with greater clanty. there10

Mathem~ucs, as_ a structured field of study, gives philosophy something to philosophize about. Hao Wang, a noted philosopher and mathematician, claims that "we should pay sufficient attention to the data on which wear~ to_ refle~t and not to philosophize over thin air" (S). Mathematics, with its vaned assortment of information, provides a substantial basis for philosophy to work upon. Philosophy unrestricted is philosophy astray. Much like theoretical mathematics, unfocused philosophy has no real connection to the real world; it can speak about all possible worlds. To give philosophy relevance, it must connect with other subjects to be guided. Mathematical concepts, such as set theory and infinity, serve as inspiration and guidance for philosophy. The results of this inspired search may then reciprocate back to math, and thus cause this process to begin again.

Philosophy: the land of words and thoughts. Mathematics: the land of analyses and relationships. Words and thoughts can be analyzed. Words and thoughts have relationships. Hmmm ... Perhaps mathematics can be used to regard some ideas in philosophy. What can be gained from such an inspection? Expressing qualitative ideas in a quantitative form gives them a new perspective. Words and mathematical symbols can, as I said earlier, both express the same concept but in different ways. Seeing a philosophical proposal in terms of mathematics makes the similarities and dif lin with ferences between the subjects more apparent smce they are dea g th e same object. This creates clarity and consilience by showing th e connections between disciplines. .

The best way to illustrate this connecting concept is to give a sunpl hil h ' 1question I wish e example and analyze the results. The p osop ica to consid ·

• f Th Case for Faith by L er lt1 mathematical terms is derived rom e . th ee Str b 1 . d not contradict e

· 0 e · He 1s attempting to show that science oes Idea of G

• · hilosopher, h od working miracles. William Craig, a Cht1St1an P · w en asked ·f • · 1 · possible, says: 1 scientific evidence makes mirac es 1ffi uld O

· I Then I wo nly if you believe that God does not eXlS t · ··

agre e-the miraculous would be absurd.. But i~ there is a Cre_ator who designed and brought the universe mto bemg, wh o sustains its existence moment by m o ment, who is re sponsib le fo r the very natural laws that govern the physical world, then certainly it's rational to believe that the miraculous is po ssible (qtd. in Strobel 35-36)

This brief argument seems like an oversimplification at best. The conflict between science and religion has existed for centuries. The logic for powering this explanation seems circular and self-reliant, but the actual nature of this potential flaw is illusive. This is where mathematics can play a role.

Religion, being the touchy subject that it is, could use some of the distance afforded by a mathematical perspective. In math, variables represent unknown quantities that we wish to learn more about. For this example, the two main propositions that Strobel's argument hinges upon can be stated as thus: 1) Does God exist? 2) Are miracles fea sible? I will label these questions 'a' and 'b' respectively. Craig concedes that without a belief in God miracles are impossible. Once God's existence is established, though, miracles are easily explained. Using the variable notation that has been established, the following relationships are formed: 1) a-b=0 2) ba=0. These equations represent the statements that God's existence hinges on being able to show miracles are possible, and that the validity of miracles depends on God existing to make them happen. If one is not true, the other proposal falls through: subtraction at work.

A simple manipulation of each equation gives the definition a=b (a-b+b=+b or b-a+a=+a). Since a= b, 'a' may be substituted for 'b' (a=a). By subtracting 'a' from both sides of the equation, all variables are removed and 0=0. It seems clear that some form of a conclusion has surfaced from the mathematical manipulations. How does it relate to the original philosophical question? The search for an answer took the form of two variables. Since the variables are still unknown, no defmite conclusions can be reached.

This form of questioning must be used very carefully. It is easy to misread the outcome of the computations. In this case it showed the philosopher's circular logic. The problem's solution was based upon unfair assumptions. It does not say that this proves or disproves anything concerning the existence of God or miracles. Just because zeros appeared does not mean God is immediately challenged and usurped! It demonstrates that some part of the questioning process, on either tl~e mathematical or philosophical side, went awry. The technique of using

c roulations to analyze qualitative problems must be em 1 d . ove ior . f 11 p oye qua11t1ta ti.on because of the pit a s of thought that accompany it eat cau d . f~-1 . \vith gr !though this metho 1s use w, 1t should only be used on fore, a .d . 1 . '[here . le ideas to avo1 potent1a errors 1n thought. It is most . ely sunP 1 d . relat1V treated as a supp ement an a gmde to more traditional ful when . . helP f. uiry. This new perspective 1s a complement to philosoph des o inq Y, (11.0 eplacement.

not a r Mathematics and philosophy are connected in their searches for One subject can be loosely translated into the language of the other. cru th • ections that have been established also help illustrate another The conn . . . . t" J•oining different disciplines together produces concepts that cross concep · . h . . . Th undaries and establish trut m many s1tuat1ons. e study of different bo hil h f subjects, like math and p osop y, may at ttmes seem a ragmented quest for answers. In the end, however, individual thoughts come together to form knowledge that establishes itself as fundamental and inspiring. The study of connecting disciplines enriches this understanding and broadens it to encompass all of humanity and the w orld.

. H ow ~larhemarical Thinking Ih e ~fa rh Gene.

Oedin, Keith . _ b \ -e T :1 -e G o ssin . Great B ritain: \XbY N um ers _--u. r £ yoh-ed and v

Weidenfeld and Nicols on , 2000 .

Hirsch, E. D. Jr.

Cultural Literaq-: \'( 'hat E \-e rY -\merican ~ eeds to 1'.now.

N ew York: Random House, 1988.

i\Ieile, Robert. "My Learning". Scho ol E ssay. 19 Aug. 2004

Strobel, Lee. The Case fo r Faith. London: Running P re ss, 2000 .

\Vang, Hao. From Mathematics to Philosophy. N ew York: Humanities Press, 1974.

Weller, Kirk, Anne Brown, Ed Dubinsky, :Michael M cD onald, and Cynthia

Stenger. "Intimations of Infinity." N otices of the A...1.\IS . 51.7

(2004): 741-750. N o tices o f the AMS Am.erican ~Iathematical Society (AMS) Full Text Journals. UMSL Lib., St. Louis. 12 Oct.

2004 <http:/ /www.umsl.edu:2124/ notices/200407 / fea dubinsky.pdf>.

Wils on, Edward 0. Consilience: The U nit_y of Knowledge. New York: Vintage Books, 1998 .

J(elli Allen is a senior ~d English major w~o is inspired to write by ch. except orgaruzed sports, econorrucs, and rodeos Kelli ll every Ulg , . . rea y earing floor-length velvet capes and never mtends to grow up Sh enjoys w . . . e .b herself 10 three words as bellibone, ephetic and quodlibet · desert es . " . , anan. Her favorite quote is by D_Ylan ~homas: I looked mto the abyss and the abyss looked into me. Neither liked what he saw." Kelli advises: "Art should only be offered responsibly. Everywhere you go, there you are-be careful how you represent yourself."

Olivia Ayes, a first semester graduate student working on an M.F.A. in creative writing, says writing is "my attempt to connect the randomness floating around my head." A little known fact: Olivia used to have pet spiders as a kid, but she is now petrified of them. In three words, Olivia describes herself as alive, imperfect, and perfectionist. She has been published in Bellerive and Litmag. Olivia loves a quote by Phillip Bailey: "poets are all who love, who feel great truths, and tell them; and the truth of truths is love."

Robert M. Bliss goes by both Robert M. Bliss and Bob Bliss. Academic marks: B.A. in History (1965), M.A. (American History, 1967), and a PhD (American history with American literature, 1983). As an historian and academic administrator, he admits that inspiration comes from "things I see or read which (seem to me to) require re-iteration or comment." Little known facts? By his own admission, he enjoys tying flies, cooking curries, kicking cats, and he aspires to be a novelist when he grows up. Robert uses "tired and emotional" to describe himself, and he has been previously published in Bellerive. Additional important information: "I Go Pogo."

C~a~ Crabtree is currently pursuing a Bachelor's of Science Degree i~ Cr11n.1nal Justice and a minor in Psychology. He is a member of the Pierre Laclede Honors College and plans to graduate in 2006.

Julie Creech is working on a Bachelor of General Studies with an . ernphas1· · C • p L "I am a semi- s in reative Writing and Photography- re aw. ' . profes•· l . . t" e philosopher Siona photographer specializing in Fashion, a part- tm . . f. , spec1alizi . . .· Ii.zing m sugar - ree R ng in nonsense, and an occasional dnver specta . "I edBull"B , . " J rewilltellus. d , · ecause she refuses to reveal any secrets,. ul . ·k of on t kno h . . . . . t r creative wor w ow it is for most writers, but mspirauon °

. bit of a tricky thing. So metimes in sp iratio n ' kind for me, is a peeks an) ' d t for no reason at all, at other runes she vi.sits b h thereal hea ou . ecause er e _ li . becomes unbearable, almost as tf she wo uld like t cl am of vmg o 1 e P ( mind me co feed m y cat) , and she occas ionally ap comfort me or re . pears I, encountered some amazmg geruus or beauty that wakes 11 because ve er d h in a playful mood. When she comes, tho ugh Writin up an puts er . ' g or h Phy or painting etc. ..becomes a thing that I must do rather th p otogra . an h 1 have to make. It is difficult, but not 1mposs1ble, for me to dr a c 01ce aw her out when I need her to help me complete some assignment, but it is a delicate process that must not be pushed or rushed. My inspiration is something of a flaky little bitch."

Susan Crowe is a senior majoring in Art History. She explains: "Writing is my way of processing information. It helps me to clarify and communicate my thoughts and ideas." One weird/ unknown fact about Susan: "people think I am a liberal, but I am actually a conservative." Creative, flexible, and organized is how she describes herself, and she has been published in the Brentwood High School newspaper, The Eaglet, and the newspaper at St. Louis Community College at Meramec, The Montage. Susan's favorite quote is from Aesop: "Slow and steady wins the race " She also believes that Murphy's law is always in effect.

Zachariah Edward Crow, a junior studying anthropology, is inspired by many things. He believes all good writing stems from emotion. Zach aspires to work as a professor or English teacher in a foreign country someday. Words with which he would describe himself include "ever hungry, ever tired, and sedated." He warns that the world is coming to an end, and advises Bellerive readers to prepare themselves.

Hal Justin Price Carlisle, a junior majoring in Spanish, says "sudden . waves of feeling; good or bad" inspire him to write. Hal was an apprennce electrician for almost two years, used to own a ferret and several snakes, a d. d h t Hal n is now a vegan, though he grew up on a farm and use to un · war "A li d ' h ve to get ns: po ce state is coming. If you stay ready, you on t a . ready. Don't take the bird flu shot: it will be your best chance of getnng 1 ·· k " H H . h Sch0 0

Slc · ·al has been published in Brain Stew and the Waterloo ig newspaper, and when he grows up, he wants to be at peace.

1n the po "Fl . ,, 11 . desperau · em oattng, the narrator attempts to contra us d yet lostn his 1 . ht be, an g over. fhe persona questions where the lover mtg · 'fh e at the same ti d . r to reUfllte- me, oes not want to see the person again °

Bellerive

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f floating in or on water continue thro ughout the poem . unages o . . . hi , and 1t .th the persona mamtairung s preference to struggle with th closes W1 e of his loss. waves

Drolet plans to become a mother, graphic designer, travel writ il J(ate th er, o . ter J azz singer, commuruty eatre actress, newspaper cop y editor pain ' A . ' ' outdoor adventure seeker, menca s n~xt top model, pro-soccer player, and natural blonde by age 25. She believes her mass communications degree from UMSL and two years on the Bellerive staff will facilitate these goals. Sensory experiences inspire h_er, and _Kate has a~ unnatural adoration for words. She loves randomness, list-making, her socially unacceptable friends and, above all, her goofy family.

Claire Jacques, a member of the Pierre Laclede Honors College, is currently seeking a Bachelor's of Fine Art degree in Studio Art at Ul\1-St. Louis. Claire is also minoring in Art History. She plans to graduate in 2006.

Bobby Meile is a sophomore and his major is A Secret. Assignments, he says, inspire him to write and he intends to be a professional student. Bobby in a few words? Reclusive and amnesic thinker. He quotes Edward 0. Wilson: "No shaman's spell or fast upon a sacred mountain can summon the electromagnetic spectrum." His bit of randomness: "Zombie Colonel Sanders and aliens from within the sun will soon join forces to invade Rhode Island."

Jeanie Meyer is a senior majoring in English working toward supplemental certificates in Writing and Honors. The Bellerive staff would like to note that "Second Hand Smoke" was not only selected for the publication, but it also won The Pierre Laclede Honors College Award for Excellence in Writing. Jeanie would like to add that the story "Carpet" is a product of Shelly Fredman's Collaborative Writing Class.

Sarah Middendorf is pursuing her Master's in Business Administtation _ aucl exercised patience with our staff regarding her photographs of Pans We had to ask for duplicate copies of her submissions due to a clerical error, an cl while we received the second copies near the end of our subnussi 1 d fi this issue of ~ns process, both of her photographs were se ecte or Bellerive.

Jeffery W'lli · h h rows up. 1 am Pechmann wants to be comfortable w en e g

. d . ribes him.self as ' Ill a t ea se,' ' and he ~-d . ·h cl wnter es c . ur1 s This publis e . . rn erines s. His fa,-onte quote comes fr om D . · pl!ano n 111 ° , . . c milli.• anuan literary ms hild scaring, ' Ir 1s as eas) io r a o n peopl cl DeRoths c ' e to be Alex.an er . ,, JeffeF ,-alues Bellenve r eaders en o ugh to un · · 1s for one 1 , Parr wrong as 1t him elf- his ankles d o n t ma rch . this odd fact about s .

dleton is a se nior. She is m a joring in English and rnino . Shannon en .b h lf . nng . h She says she canno t descn e erse 10 three words in Philosop Y · · · d · ' th :vords would be constantly ch angmg epending on her mood because e \ · d c · · uld like to thank her sweetheart, Ricar o, ior making sure she She wo · ·th h re . f the house eve ry morrung w1 er co 1ee and her sanin· makes 1t out o . .

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Stacie Pope is currently pursuing a B.A. in German an d is a member of the Pierre Laclede Honors College.

Kate Stein is getting a PhD in Molecular and Cellular Biology and an M.S. She holds graduate degrees in English and Writing. She is previously published in American Short Fiction, Black Warrior Review, and Delmar. Kate in three words: "serious, happy, reliable." She says: "I think writing gives me a better understanding of m yself and other people. And I lm-e language; words well-wrought can make me swoon or wretch." She also loves to talk about the weather. Of wise and interesting things sh e has heard, her favorite is from a Hebrew song: "The whole world is a very narrow bridge. The most important thing is never be afraid."

Matthew R. Trost graduated with a B.A. in English, a \Xlriting Certificate, and a Pierre Laclede Honors College Certificate in 2005 . He is currently w?rking on a musical play/ political thriller en titled, "How to Get People to 11st ~n to_ Your Problems," featuring anthropomorphic fast food products. He lives 1n New York City. (Really.)

Missy Yearian · h • 11 til he dies. ls tee ruca y a senior but she'll be at UMSL un s Currently seekin 1 . ' h nts to . g severa certificates and an English degree, s e wa wnte when she gr S To quote Joan D d. ows up. he also wants to visit art museums. 1 ion "I · ·d She h ' write to figure out what I'm thinking" Missy sal · ates peas and h b . ' 111 traffic to .d ar ors a vomit-phobia. She also jumps out of c_ars d avo1 wasps and b . 11 onvate ' addicted d bl ees. Self-descnbed as politica Y rn . she ' an unt Mi d - R blican- warns Belli - ' ssy a vises the masses not to vote epu like ro enve readers ab h . . . ld also note that "Car et" . out t e evils of capitalism. She wou Writ:Ulg class. P ls a product of Shelly Fredman's Collaboranve