1981-Vol18-No1

A Magazine of Poetry & Fiction School of General Studies · Columbia University

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QUARTO

Volume E i g h t e e n

Number One

The Magazine of Poetry and Fiction Columbia University School of General Studies

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TIES THEY ROVE IN QUIET (poem) LADLING THE SKY (poem) HIP TRENDS CONTEMPLATION (poem) THE UNFORTUNATE LAND OF THE TYROL (poem) FOR MAIDA (poem) AUNT CLARIS AND ECK FLORENCE (poem) HAVING OLD FRIENDS TO DINNER CAROLINA (poem) THE MAGICIAN'S KNIFE COMMENCEMENT (poem) CAUSTIC POWDER (poem) PALM SPRINGS STILL LIFE OF GRANNY SMITH (poem) STARS OVER ALASKA Copyright 1981 by QUARTO

James Kelvin Hattie Myers Theresa Maier Sally Smith Thomas Mailer Thomas Haller Thomas Haller Marilyn Greenberg Song Jook Choi Charles Wesley Joy Allen Shelby Berryman Bill Christopherson Theresa Maier Erin Matthews Theresa Maier Barbara Milton

Office of Publication and Editorial Office.

School of General Studies, Lewisohn Hall, Columbia University, New York, New York 10G27. Manuscripts will not be returned unless accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope.

No material in this magazine "lay be reprinted without permission of the Publishers. cover illustration by Patricia Volk Blitzer

TIES

James Kelvin

STAFF

Executive Editor

Mark E. P. Roberts

Poetry Editor

Linda Cohen

Art Editor

Lynda Greenberg

Fiction Editor

Evan Margetson

Business Manager

Gregory H. Johnson

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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The staff of QUARTO wishes to acknowledge the assistance of Barbara Harrah who served as an Advisory Editor for this issue.

In addition, we thank Peter Rand, Faculty Advisor, for , his encouragement and support. Finally, we applaud Patricia Volk Blitzer for her cover illustration. ,' I

I MET A man in the joint.

He was from Trinidad and was totally crazy. But he was also harmless and we all took care of him.

He was a gentleman philosopher and honest like sunshine.

Trinee had a saying for every situation.

You listened to him and you'd think that he was a hundred years old. But he was as young as any one of us. Once I heard him say that when Lion gets old, common Dog fucks him. I cracked up when he said it to make a point in a funny story.

But there's sense in Trinee's nonsense. I never want to grow old so feeble. Not unless things change in this town.

I went to the joint because I wanted to live the American Dream.

Not much, or too fancy.

Just the ordinary American Dream featuring food, good appliances, some fine clothes, and a steady income. No cars; they're not for me. I will always pay the taxi-man. I'd even take the trains rather than have sanitation trucks, dogs and damn fools make my car ugly. All I wanted was an average portion of the apple pie, minus the car. Thing is, nobody ever showed me how to get it except my brother Stone. And he was a hard man.

My Mama had named him Winston Shaka Jones. But his real name was Stone. He was six years older than I. Yet when I was born he had the name already. He never talked much about anything. That doesn't mean he was a thinker. Neither does it say that he was stupid. Stone did what someone told him.

It had to be the right someone, of course. Mama used to tell Stone to make something of himself because his father had made him a ravager. She always told him that "Your father made you a ravager."

It was as though she liked the sound of it.

Stone never said anything back. You ever heard a rock talk?

Stone's father had raped Mama when she was sixteen. He was her father's good friend and used to visit the house when Graraps was away. He raped her twice in one week. When she told her mother, and Gramma told Gramps, he said that somebody had to do her the favor sometime. But then he was a no-good dummy anyhow. Once when Ma was upset, she told Stone some of the mean things she thought of his father. Stone asked her then to let him find the brute and kill him.

He was very Serious.

He was about fifteen years old and already a man.

Rut that night the tears were running as he asked her. She 3

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looked a t him a long time b e f o r e she s a i d , "No, s o n . " She h a r d l y ever used t o c a l l us " s o n . " Then she went over t o him and held h i s face in her bosom. Mama was c r y i n g t o o .

Stone was my man.

From s i n c e I was in k i n d e r g a r t e n , he was who I wanted to b e .

He was t h e n e a r e s t t h i n g to Superman t h a t I knew.

He always got t h e job done, whatever t h e j o b .

When I was about t w e l v e Stone took me under h i s wing.

I was v e r y c a r e f u l t o be cool about i t .

But I was as happy as a soap b u b b l e in summer.

He t a u g h t me to p l a y b a l l , t o f i g h t d i r t y , t o s t e a l and r o b , and to h u s t l e and con p e o p l e .

Even though i t was much h a r d e r than s c h o o l s t u f f , I learned everything.

Stone d i d n ' t l i k e to t e a c h t h e same t h i n g t w i c e .

Soon I f e l t t h a t I could do some t h i n g s b e t t e r than h e .

But we had no h a s s l e s .

We had a good l i f e t h e n ; a t l e a s t for a w h i l e . Then Stone decided to make a s o l d i e r of h i m s e l f .

So he j o i n e d t h e Army t o see t h e w o r l d , and t h e y showed him Vietnam .

Sometimes in the j o i n t time g e t s l o n g .

T h a t ' s when you s i t a l o t and t h i n k about t h i n g s .

I c a l l i t monking because you could become r e a l l y i n s p i r e d t h e n .

After monking you get angry in a s t r a n g e way.

Every time you remember a wrong done t o you, you f e e l a c h i l l r i g h t t h r o u g h your body.

And your b e l l y m u s c l e s go a l i t t l e t i g h t e r p e r m a n e n t l y .

I ' d say t h a t i f you make a check of t h e b r o t h e r s in j a i l , t h o s e who look s t r o n g and l e a n are e i t h e r h a t i n g or mad, i f t h e r e ' s a difference.

Whenever I t h o u g h t about Stone I used t o read a book about s o m e t h i n g .

I read a good b i t .

I suppose t h a t I have a s o r t of angry p r i s o n e d u c a t i o n .

I admired Stone more t h a n anyone e l s e in c r e a t i o n .

Yet he l i v e d and died c l o s e to me and I never knew him. Maybe i t i s t h a t I loved him because I d i d n ' t know him.

Maybe Stone was a mean guy.

I d o n ' t know.

I d o n ' t know i f Stone had a s e n s e of humour.

I d o n ' t know what he l i k e d in women.

I never knew i f he had a f a v o r i t e beer .

So now I g e t mad t h i n k i n g of S t o n e .

Somehow somebody s t o l e ray b r o t h e r ' s p e r s o n a l i t y from me. But t h e n , I m i g h t ' v e been c a r e l e s s with it.

So I am c o o l .

Seven y e a r s in the j o i n t t a u g h t me one or two t r i c k s .

One good one i s how t o be p a t i e n t in a n g e r .

I learned p a t i e n c e from being bored working in t h e p r i s o n l i b r a r y .

In a few y e a r s I had p a t i e n t l y read every book t h e y had.

That way I picked up a l i b e r a l e d u c a t i o n t o o .

Otherwise I o o u l d ' v e been a r e l u c t a n t b o o k k e e p e r .

T h a t ' s what t h e a u t h o r i t i e s in t h e j o i n t had decided to t e a c h me to b e .

I t h i n k t h e y were t r y i n g to show me the path t o upward s o c i a l m o b i l i t y .

But I d i d n ' t apply myself t o i t .

I f i g u r e d t h a t i f i t was so h o t , why w e r e n ' t t h e y a l l in i t ?

They a l l wanted r i c h e s .

And on t h e o t h e r s i d e , I d i d n ' t e x p e c t anyone'd be eager to h i r e a bookkeeper with a r e c o r d .

Watching the power of J u s t i c e was a n o t h e r t r i c k I learned.

Up on t h e edge of C e n t r a l Park West, t h e r e i s a g r e a t mass of b l a c k s t o n e .

I t j u s t s i t s t h e r e , looking like l a y e r s and l a y e r s of s t u b b o r n n e s s .

I always t h i n k of i t when I t h i n k of t h e J u s t i c e System in t h i s town. Being i n v o l v e d in t h a t system i s l i k e b e i n g s t u c k in t h e middle of t h a t u n f e e l ing mass of h a r d n e s s .

T h a t ' s i f you d o n ' t have power. And to f o l k s l i k e me, power comes in d i f f e r e n t g u i s e s , and i t ' s not easy to r e c o g n i z e .

I have seen guys pray t o t h e j a i l h o u s e lawyer as though

he was God. J u s t b e c a u s e h e , a p r i s o n e r l i k e them, could comprehend t h a t u n n a t u r a l l e g a l t h i n k i n g : of laws made from t r a d i t i o n s t h a t changing t i m e s now make look f o o l i s h .

So t h e J a i l h o u s e lawyer i s a g r e a t man. Guys would beg him p l e a s e t o l i s t e n to t h e i r c a s e .

They'd approach him as though i t i s Judgment Day, and they have a f i f t y - f i f t y chance of g e t t i n g i n . When t h e y get r e v e r e n t s o , "them common c r i m i n a l s " become j u s t l i k e humans. You find t h e y a r e men who could t e l l a good joke.

Or movie b u f f s who want a good e d u c a t i o n for t h e i r kids.

And t h e p r i s o n lawyer has t h e power to change them s o .

To many a b r o t h e r in j a i l he i s t h e l a s t and b e s t h o p e .

This God of promise was no h e l p to me t h o u g h .

I had an open and shut c a s e : a c c e s s o r y to murder of an officer, a t t e m p t e d r o b b e r y , a s s a u l t of a l l t h e o f f i c e r s who t r i e d to k i l l me a f t e r t h e y ' d handcuffed me, and a few misdemeanors t h a t t h e y l e f t out when t h e w r i t i n g space ran o u t .

The t r i a l d i d n ' t t a k e l o n g . The p r o s e c u t o r mentioned my a d d r e s s and t h e judge became red in the f a c e .

Then h i s l i p s c l o s e d up t i g h t like a disturbed oyster.

My l e g a l aid d e f e n s e was l i k e a l i t t l e boy on a big s e a s h o r e ; you h a r d l y n o t i c e d he was t h e r e .

What saved me was t h a t I was a m i n o r .

I q u a l i f i e d as j u v e n i l e , u n a b l e to u n d e r s t a n d t h e b e s t ways to p r o g r e s s in regular society.

So I got l i f e , meaning t h r e e - t o - t e n .

I d i d n ' t do so bad.

I t k e p t me o u t of t r o u b l e and t h e war.

When Stone came back from the w a r s , we'd s t a r t e d some serious hustling.

The d i f f e r e n c e from b e f o r e was S t o n e .

He had become a magic mechanic with a gun in h i s hand.

If i t d i d n ' t sound funny I ' d say he moved with i n c r e d i b l e s p e e d .

That was h i s Vietnam t r a i n i n g .

People who saw him armed knew he was d a n g e r o u s .

They did what he s a i d .

Which was very n i c e , s i n c e we stopped mugging poor f o l k s and s t u c k with the l i t t l e s t o r e s and such l i k e .

I t was q u i c k e r money, l e s s time on t h e s t r e e t s , and e a s i e r on e v e r y o n e . We never h u r t a s o u l .

Stone s p e n t a l o t of money on Mama. He gave her a good time in t h e fancy l i f e .

I s o r t of l e t him.

They had t h e i r s p e c i a l t h i n g t h a t I s t a y e d out of.

He bought her a f i n e mink coat.

Mrs. S a u n d e r s , who had an eye for s t y l e , s a i d t h a t Mama wore i t l i k e she was born to mink.

And Mama s t a r t e d to believe that too.

You w o u l d n ' t b e l i e v e her g r a o i o u s n e s s when Stone and I took her to t h o s e big fancy-named r e s t a u r a n t s .

I t h i n k Mama went to every Caribbean c o u n t r y with a h o t e l and an airport.

She enjoyed her l i t t l e s e l f .

She knew t h a t Stone was t r y i n g to make up for h i s b i r t h r i g h t .

J u s t as she knew t h a t we were r o b b i n g and s t e a l i n g .

But we never spoke about such t h i n g s .

What was t h e r e to say?

I got the idea for t h e numbers j o i n t t a k e - o f f by accident.

I t came on a cool f a l l day.

Angel and I had been p l a y i n g b a l l in the park in s t r e e t c l o t h e s .

He wore d u n g a r e e c o v e r a l l s , I wore j e a n s .

He was going to show me the m i g h t i e s t dunk s h o t ever by a s i x - f o o t - o n e , unknown h i g h - s c h o o l player.

He s t a r t e d f i f t e e n f e e t from the hoop, d r i v i n g in powerfully from an a n g l e .

Then he leaped and made a mighty miss.

The b a l l took off, r i c o c h e t t i n g over the fence and i n t o the s t r e e t .

Then a t e l e p h o n e r e p a i r m a n ran out from behind a f e p a i r t r u c k and t o s s e d t h e b a l l back t o u s . The f r e a k y t h i n g was t h a t t h e guy, even down to h i s c o v e r a l l s , was A n g e l ' s d o u b l e . We t a l k e d about i t for a w h i l e and agreed t h a t i t was some-kinda-thing.

Then when t h e game ended, we s t a r t e d for

the store to get something to cool down over. As we passed the telephone repair van, Angel said he'd play the van's license plate number.

And he went into a little doorway almost blocked by the repair van.

Half an hour later Stone was satisfied with my answers.

I had told him that yes, there was a fresh-dug open trench between the curb and the truck. And that yes, the numbers man with the gun sat inside the numbers joint as he didn't want to be conspicuous to the repairmen.

Then Stone agreed to go shopping with me. We bought apparatus that telephone repairmen wore; some yellow hats and some colored wire. And we were ready.

Next day there were no newspaper stories about the stick-up of a numbers joint. To street people that meant that no one died, so the police were staying out of it. But the street also had it that the numbers people had lost about one hundred thousand dollars worth of very spendable money. They had no idea who took them off. The two robbers had entered saying they were from the telephone company.

Every man, woman, and child who heard the news wished that they'd been the heroes.

About three hours after that non-stick-up, two quietly dressed young men stepped into a small hardware store on the East Side. If anything was remarkable about them, it was that they were so circumspect in their deportment.

They were actually treading softly.

The younger, more out going one asked the storekeeper for some rubber bands.

He was very courteous and spoke nicely.

The other young man stood very silently.

He remained a little bit inside the door.

He carried in his hand a large, filled shopping bag. There was something magnetic about his silence.

He seemed charged, poised, alert and set like a rattleless viper. The quiet one was looking at the only other occupant of the store: a middle-aged looking woman who looked like somebody's maid.

She was in the store's phone booth occupied at frowning as she concentrated on her conversation.

While he was bagging the rubber bands, the shopkeeper glanced over to the watchful young man.

He didn't like the boy's quiet, but he wasn't threatened by it. His gesture was more of curiosity than caution.

But by now the transaction was completed and the young men turned to leave.

Then the door opened and a new customer entered. Instantly, the quiet one fastened his gaze on the new man. And right then came a moment when time paused on the brink, before the events of its smooth flow jumbled on together. Some things went so fast it had to be recalled to memory. And some things happened too slow for ever forgetting.

The new man wrenched 'round to face the intense stare.

Then he spread his legs and put his back to the door defending it against the boys' exit.

His reassuring voice announced, "All right everybody, take it easy."

The take charge tone identified him.

He was a well-trained plainclothes officer who knew trouble when he saw it. The nice young man was quick in his response. "No trouble, officer," he said, "No trouble at all.

Ask the man."

And the boy looked over to the shopkeeper.

The shopkeeper was smiling nervously.

He didn't want trouble in his store.

Meanwhile, the nice young man leaned privately on the hard one. He urged in a whisper, "Let's go,

jjan.

Chill out, chill out!"

The defiant one responded reluctantly, like a rook shifted by great effort. But he was moving. The nice one reached for the door handle. He was trying hard to be casual.

The new man was slightly embarrassed by his own over-reaction, and relented the door slowly.

The nice one moved aside for the other to leave ahead of him.

But as the boy passed, the suspicious man reached over to poke in the bag. He demanded, "What you got in there?" And the hard boy flowed into action.

Stone released the bag almost gently.

With no other motion, and before the bag had hit the floor; he was holding the poking hand. He turned it somehow and the officer's face was jerked down to collide with Stone's rapidly rising knee.

At the same time Stone's other hand was reaching for the man's hair. He grabbed it and twisted violently. And I heard the muffled, crunching sound with which life deserted the bewildered man.

It was all done, faster than I could say it happened .

I was fascinated. I couldn't speak and tears rushed to my eyes. I'd never seen physical action so perfect. He had performed the brutal act of killing with a graceful finesse that was wonderful.

He must've felt my emotion, for he glanced oddly at me; his face set proud. Then as our eyes met I saw him flinch and go dead. Then I heard the shot.

A big hole splattered out the top of his chest.

It went from a quick jagged white to a brown flowing red. I spun around to see the shopkeeper with the shotgun still in his hands.

He was trembling very badly and spitting white froth from the side of his mouth.

He looked older than he did before, and shook his head from side to side as though violently negating something.

His glasses were being dislodged by all this violence. He tried to right them. He left the wavering shotgun to one hand and snatched at his glasses.

After two tries he only succeeded in completely knocking them off.

Then bullets must've hit him somewhere in the trunk region.

For I saw no holes or bloody spots appear on his face.

He just seemed to brace unsuccessfully against some invisible whiplash. Then he crumpled down from the sting and died making a gargling sound.

I felt Stone pulling at my pants-cuff.

My eyes were rivers and snot was running in between my open lips. I looked for something to blow my nose and wipe my face with. Stone kept tugging at my pants-cuff. Impatient by the irritation, I blew out my nose onto the bloody floor. Then I dried my face with my jacket's sleeves. And I looked to attend my man.

Stone's left shoulder and arm were almost blown away.

The thick blood was surging out of him and onto the floorboards. It seemed so much. Stone wanted something from me.

He was trying to tell me what but all I heard was a gurgle.

His face showed a lot of damage too. But mainly it looked dirty. Then he looked at my hand and I understood. He wanted the gun. So I put it on his shoulder and let some blood run over it. Then I pulled up his good hand to hold it there, making him look like some macabre marksman at rest after firing. Then he did the one thing that could break my heart.

Stone cried .

The tears were seeping through his half-closed eyes and •"unning down the side of his face into his ears.

I thought that it must feel uncomfortable to him. But I was at a loss for what to do. I was unable to move or comfort him. All my

life he had taught me to take care of business. But I didn't know how to comfort someone when they were dead. I just sat there in his sticky blood, crying and feeling protective.

He was trying to talk again, but couldn't because the blood was in his throat. After a while he began to cough and cough. I was concerned that his shoulder couldn't take such a jarring. Then he said something. It sounded like, "I ain't no rapist."

But it was a wheezing rasp of a whisper. What was clear in it, though, was the righteousness of the innocent. Then Stone died. I never told Mama about that part. I didn't want her to know what he was thinking last. For nobody loved her more than Stone. I didn't.

I never found out what happened to Stone's body. I was in the hospital recovering from the arresting officers for a month after he died. Mama lasted about two years more. When I got to jail, she used to come to see me once every month.

But we didn't have much to talk about. She really wanted to know more about Stone. She was asking me something I couldn't tell her.

After she passed, they took me once to see her grave.

Her neighbors in the building had buried her. They had also petitioned for my pass to visit the cemetery. At the grave site no sadness came to me.

Instead, I found myself wondering what had become of the mink coat and all the jewelry that Stone had bought her.

mail call.

I'd do it gradually, a day at a time, holding myself in check when I felt the anticipation rise in me.

After a while, I liked the thrill itself, minus the gratification. There were times when I suspended pleasure until I could pick up two letters at a time. Once I did three.

The letters always got to me looking old.

They were always in cream-colored six-by-three envelopes. Regardless of their origin, the return address was always one word, "Harlem." I liked that. I read it as a defiant touch. They were addressed with liquid black ink using an old-fashioned nib pen dipped in an ink-pot.

Fine lines were impressed on the envelope so that the writing was neat and straight. Yet the handwriting was nervous and unpracticed .

One letter was formed at a time and Joined by a flourish to the other. But these letters were a constant comfort that showed time and concern in their production.

They always began, "My Dear Son Othello."

They always ended with, "A Prayer For Those Awaiting Deliverance."

I never said the prayer, but I respected it.

The letters themselves didn't give anything much in the form of news. I usually flushed them down the toilet just after reading. But I kept the stamps. These I dated and kept under my mattress in a prison envelope, my treasury.

What these letters unspokenly said was that the old cleaning lady was keeping up her end .

Jail was good to me. I was educated there. When I went in, I was like that officer Stone destroyed, just an average dummy with minimal education and a lot of good instincts. But I learned to think in the joint. I came to understand that time is friendly if you keep yourself ready. I will never go to jail again. Nobody repeats high school. Still there are some things that I missed . I never became close to anyone again.

My love affairs were all with paper women and brief dreams. And of course, I never went anywhere. But I had one joy. It was a pleasure that I fought with every day. Y'see, I didn't want to become dependent on it. For I had no control over it. It was the letter I got every two weeks.

Men in Jail become pathetic in their dependencies.

Without consciousness they make themselves into puppets.

They're manipulated by everybody: other prisoners, guards, officials, by chaplains, by entertainers, by their children and their women, and most of all by their hopes.

This can cause some strange changes. I've seen lover-men become weird.

From men who played many women on the outside, they become love-sick and foolish for the favors of repulsive, prison-yard queens. For salvation from prison, men have been born again; lost themselves in hobbies; developed new philosophies; become militants, or criminal mental defectives. Sometimes they seek death with rash cunning, smiling all the while.

Sometimes they just go mad. But they never realize they're dancing for an uninterested puppeteer named Hope.

In prison salvation is not your own to find. They've no saviours there. When you go to the joint, the best thing you learn is how to hate your oppressor with patience.

It also teaches that there is very little a man needs to live contentedly. So it's a good time to study the weaknesses of your oppressor.

For when you are in his power, that is when he relaxes.

Sometimes when I knew my letter was due, I would begin to avoid mail call. I learned to enjoy the pain of avoiding

After Old Man Death had walked away with his full bag, the shop knew a moment of relief.

That was just a feeling though. The facts were that I was sad and very frightened.

There was blood and dead people all around. One of them was the law. There was also a shopping bag containing three long balloons, two towels and one hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars. It was a very bad spot to be in under the circumstances. I knew that I should get out of there, but I was too listless to move. Moreover, there was blood all over me. And X really didn't want to leave my man.

But I didn't either want to face those officers who were rapidly approaching.

As from a distance, I heard my Mama's voice saying softly, "You'd better get away from all this trouble soon, son."

I almost died in fear.

For a moment, terrifying thoughts of angels and the supernatural overwhelmed me.

I actually gasped for breath. But immediately I knew that she wouldn't have said that, or in just those tones. So then I was only surprised. I looked around to see the old lady who was in the phone booth.

She was walking carefully to avoid the spots of blood and disorder. And she was heading directly towards the shut door. She was obviously leaving, intent on minding her own business. In the confusion I also knew that there was nothing that I was going to do about it.

Suddenly without thought I told her to take the bag.

"Please Ma'am. Use whatever you want. Please. Keep the rest safe for me. Anyhow you want. Here! These keys are to safe deposit boxes. This is all my I.D. Please, Ma'am, hold it for me. I love my brother. I have to suffer for him. His name was Stone. Please." I was moving all the while, rushing things to her; handing the bag to her; explaining, pleading and crying again. Sniffling like a baby. At last she said, "OK son, OK. I'll take care of your business for you. Just as you ask. But now I need a change of air."

She had been peering at me still half-facing the door

8

and l o o k i n g u n c e r t a i n .

Then when she said "Okay," she smiled a t me and winked.

I t as an o k a y - l e t ' s - d o - i t wink.

And with t h a t she gained my a b s o l u t e t r u s t .

Then she took t h e l o o t and walked out t h e d o o r , s t i l l b e i n g c a r e f u l t o avoid t h e g o r e .

The o n l y t h i n g s I knew about her were her v o i c e , t h e red s c a r f she wore around her neck, and t h a t she had an a c c e n t from t h e Caribbean.

Leaving t h e j o i n t i s an e m o t i o n a l e x p e r i e n c e .

Some men can h a r d l y even t a k e i t .

They ask t h e i r p e o p l e t o come and meet them t o h e l p them go t h r o u g h t h e g a t e s .

You're glad to l e a v e of c o u r s e .

But i f y o u ' v e been in for a w h i l e , y o u ' r e l e a v i n g old f r i e n d s .

Sometimes t h e y ' r e your o n l y f r i e n d s .

And t h e y a r e glad t o see you go t o o .

But t h e y a l s o wish i t was them l e a v i n g .

So in t h e morning or t h e n i g h t b e f o r e , when you t e l l them goodbye, you f e e l the c o l d n e s s of t h e i r envy of you.

But you i g n o r e i t .

You're t o o glad t h a t y o u ' r e g e t t i n g away from t h a t cage of anger and d e s p a i r .

And you know t o o , t h a t t h e y ' r e r e a l l y glad for you.

There i s j u s t no way t h e y could show i t .

But t h a t ' s not the hard p a r t of r e g a i n i n g your freedom.

I t i s t h e most d i f f i c u l t to s t e p i n t o t h a t s t r a n g e , s p a c i o u s , sunny world a g a i n .

You're l i k e a young c o u n t r y boy walking into a s l i c k , b i g - c i t y night club.

You f e e l everyone i s l o o k i n g at you.

And you know t h a t t h e y a l l t h i n k y o u ' r e a p i e c e of s h i t .

And you have t o be c o o l .

In a d d i t i o n to the u s u a l " H a r l e m , " t h e r e was a r e a l a d d r e s s on t h e back of t h e l a s t two l e t t e r s .

I t was near Marcus Garvey P a r k .

And t h i s i s where I headed t o when I h i t the c i t y .

That a f t e r n o o n i t was t h e only c e r t a i n p l a c e in t h i s w o r l d . Everywhere e l s e was j u s t a b l u r r e d u n d e r s t a n d i n g .

I headed t h e r e e x p r e s s , no s t o p s nowhere.

J u s t having t h a t p l a c e to go to made me f o r e v e r owe t h e o l d l a d y .

The l a g n i a p p e was t h a t she l e t me come o u t on my own.

The house was a f o u r - s t o r i e d b r o w n s t o n e .

I t looked s o l i d and s e c u r e .

As T r i n e e would s a y , " a s though i t was t h e r e s i n c e h a t c h e t was hammer."

I rang the s u p e r ' s b e l l as i n s t r u c t e d in t h e l e t t e r .

When he showed, he was e x p e c t i n g me.

He a s k e d , "You O t h e l l o J o n e s ? " I d i d n ' t answer r i g h t away. After such a long t i m e , the sound of my name was p r e t t y music.

I loved i t s c a d e n c e s , " l a - l a - l a l a a , " I enjoyed i t s song.

"Yes S i r , " I t o l d him, " I ' m O t h e l l o J o n e s . " The man smiled a t me, "Well man, your a p a r t m e n t i s on t h e top f l o o r .

Mrs. Dean s a i d I must see t h a t y ' h a v e e v e r y t h i n g . . . e v e n the fatted c a l f . " He chuckled a t h i s r e f e r e n c e .

I smiled t o o .

I d i d n ' t c a r e what he s a i d . " . . . s h e said t h a t y o u ' d see her two weeks from tomorrow.

She l e f t t h o s e t h i n g s for you.

I t looks l i k e s h e ' s . . . " And he kept on t a l k i n g , t r e a t i n g me l i k e f a m i l y , and making me welcome.

THEY ROVE IN QUIET

Hattie Myers

They rove in gangs and keep to each other Like the pigeons on 102nd Whose wings Strap hearts in a feathery case Whose wings keep them walking and warm. They rove in gangs.

They keep to each other Like rats. Like audience.

They rove and keep secrets.

They rove and keep strong.

These boys are city birds born between a sun and river equal distance from the moon.

They rove in death. They store Their ash in volumes Stacked in open stacks Stitched with theory of thread.

They rove in historicity.

They rove in words. They sing In silent rooms The woman behind Donne's mirror Is dawn and day begins (and ends) with them.

They sing in a silent city.

They rove in numbers. They measure Justice in fairness Fairness in love Love in eternity.

To know time is to know Quantum physics They determine; given a star and a river They could rove a moon.

They rove in madness. Tossed Between reality and truth Between youth and age They reach for each other and revel In a sweet commonality. They rove Alone.

Th.ey r o v e in q u i e t .

10 11

LADLING THE SKY HIP TRENDS Sally Smith Theresa Maier

Tonight the rain becomes mist and clings to the bars across the windows.

I walk beside gutted brownstones where only cats live. I hear my soles suck the sidewalk puddles and notice how the street narrows; all lines carry down to the river. The roofs, the windows, the doorsteps, the curbs-all merge into the current.

Before turning the corner I smell his tobacco and know he'll be standing there the way the folks would sit on the porch waiting for neighbors to pass as they walked the dog or mailed a letter.

"Oughta prune that dogwood. Hank."

"Grass is taking well after the rain."

I remember the simple talk about gardens or weather, the words I knew and could recognize; the dogwood, dandelions, blue jay, grass seed, I remember a woman and her children arriving at an open expanse of sky one night. "I see the Big Dipper," she said, and traced the stars down the handle into the spoon. It ladled their sky.

I turn the corner. His pipe rests between his lips. Clouds move away from the moon.

It is full and a church steeple begins to eclipse its light. My neighbor lifts the pipe from his mouth, "It'll be a good night, rain's cooled off the streets."

He clenches the pipe with his teeth and puffs the smoke away from his face.

I LOST MY virginity to a hoodlum in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I stayed a virgin for the longest time on the trip with Bob. We'd been gone for almost a year. We'd gone around the world practically and were headed back to Europe for the second time, hitching up the east coast to work a boat going across.

We did it all. Bob and I. We bummed through Europe and lived under a tree in the Black Forest. I let the hair grow out on my legs. I married an Egyptian as a favor to get him into America; we later lost him at a music festival in Boulder.

I took flute lessons and bought the Whole Earth Catalogue in San Francisco, where Bob took it and made a wardrobe for me from old burlap sacks. If we ever used deodorant it was apple stick; if we ever used toothpaste it was fennel.

Bob and I had just hit Myrtle Beach. We were walking down the beach road, penniless, and looking for help. It was late afternoon and Bob wanted to go to the Meher Baba center.

I was cranky and didn't think that was a good idea at all.

"Come on Clay. I'm tired and sore and hungry and horny.

Let's find those Baba people. There'll be lots of kids there and they'll put us up and fuck us if we're lucky."

"No way, Jose! I'm sick to death of all that strung out spiritual gop."

"Have you got any good ideas then Missy?"

Then we heard, "Bob Blue!

Hey Bob over here."

We turned around and saw a figure across the street on the corner. I couldn't see his face but he cast a thirty-foot shadow. It trailed across the street and stopped near our feet.

I didn't recognize him at first, but as we got closer I realized it was David Oliawsky.

I remembered his last name but not where we'd met him in our travels.

He was just someone from a bar somewhere along the road.

Bob started screaming and hopping around in the street when he recognized him. David stood in front of us and said, "Glad to see me Bob?" "Like a mirage, you are," said Bob. The three of us walked down by the ocean where they got stoned and David sang these crazy songs he made up. David was from Atlanta, hanging out in Myrtle Beach during the off season. It was almost summer again. I sat between 13

12

the boys on the beach. I dug my feet deep into the sand and watched David roll a joint. He was tan already, and lanky; i didn't remember him as being so pretty around the eyes, but he was and I wondered why I hadn't noticed it before.

"Wasn't it that bar in Big Sur, David?

Where we met you?" I asked.

He nodded but didn't speak.

"God, you know Bob, it could have been Paris, or one of those army boys in Germany, for all I know. My memory is shot to hell; it's just all blended together."

"Oh, I remember precisely," said Bob. Dav id David raised his eyes to Bob and they smiled, handed me the joint, but as usual I passed it to Bob. "Look at that," said David.

"Some of our first tourists. Suppose I'll have to be leaving town soon."

Down the beach we saw an old couple spreading their things out on the sand. The man was pot bellied with baggy trunks and the woman wore white sunglasses and a straw hat that went all the way out past the ends of her shoulders.

"They probably just checked into their hotel and came out for a quick afternoon swim before the sun goes down," said David with some kind of authority. I thought it was sexy the way he' always saw into things.

"So little Clay, how've you been? I thought I'd never see you two again."

I nodded and smiled at Bob. David started singing one of his songs, something about a virgin hippy.

He'd start laughing in the middle of some of his lyrics, then Bob joined in and sang some of the background.

I was embarrassed but tried not to show it. As I look back on it now, I realize they were laughing at me.

They finished and giggled.

Then David asked, "How's your love life, Clay? I wrote that song after Big Sur. You said, didn't you Bob, that you thought little Clay was still a virgin ."

"Bob Blue! you d i d n ' t ! " I t u r n e d on him and Bob was stunned.

"Oh, I f o r g o t I s a i d t h a t , David Oli — w h a t e v e r your l a s t name i s .

I ' l l never t e l l you a n o t h e r s e c r e t a s long as I live."

"And I ' l l never t a l k t o you a g a i n . Bob B l u e , as long as I l i v e , " I said.

They s t a r t e d t o g i g g l e a g a i n .

I said, "Okay, l i s t e n you two s m a r t i e p a n t s .

You're wrong, Bob, and I d o n ' t know why you s a i d such a t h i n g , and you, David Oliawsky, d o n ' t know a n y t h i n g about me."

I l i e d with a s t r a i g h t f a c e , " I ' m an old h a n d . " David looked s t r a i g h t a t me, and I t u r n e d t o w a r d s the ocean.

I watched t h e old couple wade knee deep i n t o the waves, and snuck peeks a t D a v i d ' s f e e t h a l f dug i n t o t h e s a n d .

They were bony and tan l i k e t h e r e s t of him.

Bob was t a l k i n g about t h a t a r t i s t in Big S u r .

We'd a l l s t a y e d t h e n i g h t with him.

Bob had s i n c e mailed him a c o u p l e of p o s t c a r d s , but David s a i d t h a t he h a d n ' t kept in t o u c h .

Bob s a i d , "That guy was i n c r e d i b l e .

We were s i t t i n g with him when you came in and s a t down a t the b a r , David.

Anyway, he was c r u i s i n g and what h e ' d do was look at p e o p l e ' s fingers.

He s a i d h e ' d g o t t e n i t down to a s c i e n c e and could t e l l t h e e x a c t s i z e and shape of a man's p e n i s by s e e i n g h i s fingers.

We were t r y i n g t o g e t a look a t y o u r s , David, b e f o r e you came over and s a t down with u s , but you were t o o f a r away 14

and had them wrapped around your g l a s s . " "Oh h u s h , " I s a i d , and t h e y g i g g l e d a g a i n . " I c o u l d n ' t b e l i e v e you j u s t t r o t t e d over and s a t with us when we were t r y i n g t o f i g u r e o u t a way t o s t a r t t a l k i n g t o y o u , " s a i d Bob. "Why'd you, how'd you know?" " I know a f r e e p l a c e to s t a y when I see o n e , " s a i d David . " Y e a h , " Bob nodded h i s h e a d , " I g u e s s you d e v e l o p an i n s t i n c t for i t when you t r a v e l l i k e we d o . " The o l d c o u p l e had swum out a ways and I had my eye on them.

Then t h e old l a d y s t a r t e d screaming bloody murder and f l o u n d e r i n g in t h e water l i k e she was t r y i n g t o r u n .

I jumped u p . God, I d i d n ' t know i f she was d r o w n i n g , or g e t t i n g e a t e n by a s h a r k , or w h a t .

I had no i d e a , not u n t i l I saw a n o t h e r woman o u t of t h e c o r n e r of my e y e .

I t u r n e d around and saw her s q u a t t i n g by t h e old p e o p l e ' s t h i n g s on t h e b e a c h .

The woman was f a t with b l e a c h e d blonde h a i r and b l a c k r o o t s two i n c h e s l o n g , dark enough for me to see from a d i s t a n c e .

She grabbed t h e woman's p u r s e and h o t - f o o t e d away.

She had t r o u b l e r u n n i n g b e c a u s e her t h i g h s were so f a t t h e y k e p t bumping i n t o each o t h e r .

But she made i t to t h e beach road and d i s a p p e a r e d i n t o town b e f o r e t h e c o u p l e got out of t h e water.

David s a i d , " S i t down. Clay, be c o o l . " So I d i d .

The woman in t h e water k e p t s c r e a m i n g , "Do s o m e t h i n g ! " for t h e l o n g e s t t i m e .

F i n a l l y she got out of t h e water and ran t o w a r d s u s . "Did you see t h a t ? Can you b e l i e v e i t ? " David nodded h i s head s a d l y , and s a i d , " S o r r y , f o l k s , i t ' s too b a d , but i t happens a l l t h e time h e r e .

I wish I ' d n o t i c e d you l e f t your t h i n g s t h e r e .

I would have warned y o u . " The woman was b r e a t h i n g h e a v i l y and waving her h a t a r o u n d , but she seemed t o l i k e David a t once and calmed down t o l i s t e n t o him.

She s a i d t h a t she was going to the p o l i c e , but David s a i d , "Yeah, you r e a l l y s h o u l d , but I w o u l d n ' t waste my t i m e .

T h e y ' l l keep you t h e r e in t h e s t a t i o n for t w e l v e h o u r s .

Y o u ' l l waste your whole v a c a t i o n and n o t h i n g w i l l g e t d o n e .

I ' v e seen i t a l o t .

They n e v e r c a t c h t h e s e k i d s , d o n ' t even try to.

Oh y e a h , when i t g e t s r e a l bad t h e y ' l l send a c o u p l e of p a t r o l m e n down in t h i s a r e a but t h a t ' s i t .

B e l i e v e me, I know.

My g i r l f r i e n d had t h a t happen to her l a s t y e a r .

They d i d n ' t do a t h i n g .

I t ' s a shame, but y e a h , go r e p o r t i t , i t ' s t h e r i g h t t h i n g t o d o . Maybe i t ' l l h e l p t h i s t i m e , but when I t h i n k of t h e days she s p e n t in t h a t p r e c i n c t , and for what?

For n o t h i n g . " They thanked us and l e f t .

You could see t h e y w e r e n ' t going t o t h e p o l i c e .

When t h e y were out of e a r s h o t , David s a i d , "Bunch of i d i o t s .

Can you imagine t a k i n g a v a c a t i o n in Myrtle Beach? What a j o k e . " David put us up w h i l e we were t h e r e , and Bob and I took j o b s c l e a n i n g rooms in a d i n g y beach f r o n t h o t e l .

I t seemed I could n e v e r , no m a t t e r how long I s w e p t , g e t a l l t h e sand out of t h o s e rooms.

We got two d o l l a r s and f i f t y c e n t s an h o u r .

I saved up f i f t e e n d o l l a r s and s t a s h e d i t in t h e bottom of my pack. We s p e n t t h e r e s t .

The house was f u l l of p e o p l e ; t h e r e was always a p a r t y going on.

Most of us s l e p t on the f l o o r .

We found our way around town and got to know a l l the o t h e r s t r e e t p e o p l e .

They i d e n t i f i e d us as D a v i d ' s f r i e n d s .

When we walked down t h e s i d e w a l k , I n o t i c e d t h a t everybody seemed to r e c o g n i z e him 15

even when he d i d n ' t s t o p t o t a l k t o them.

Bob and I s n i t c h e d some l e f t o v e r b u r g e r s and s t u f f from t h e m o t e l k i t c h e n and b r o u g h t i t home for d i n n e r .

David s a t with us a t the t a b l e .

Bob and I s t a r t e d to e a t .

"Wait! Wait! Check your b u r g e r s , " David s a i d .

"The cook over t h e r e t o l d me h e ' d s p i t b i g l u g g e r s on them for k i c k s .

He s a i d he l i k e d to see how long i t took the c u s t o m e r s to n o t i c e , if at a l l . " Bob s t a r t e d screaming and ran o u t of the room.

I pushed my b u r g e r away and a t e the f r i e s .

David opened each bun, took t h e meat o u t , and a t e i t .

About t h a t t i m e , the s c r e e n door banged open and in flew t h a t blonde from the b e a c h .

She had two p u r s e s t i g h t under her arm.

She charged p a s t us i n t o t h e room where Bob was.

I heard him s q u e a l b e f o r e he came running o u t .

"What the f u c k , " Bob s t a r t e d , but David r a i s e d h i s hand sharply.

He was l o o k i n g over h i s s h o u l d e r a t two young cops s t a n d i n g by t h e doorway.

They came in and David o f f e r e d them coffee.

They d e c l i n e d and asked us i f we'd seen a n y t h i n g .

No, David s a i d , h e ' d seen a b l o n d e run by o u t s i d e but t h a t was it.

David walked t h e o f f i c e r s to t h e door and stood t h e r e watching them as t h e y made t h e i r way down the s t r e e t .

After a few m i n u t e s , he c a l l e d , "You can come out now, T r a c y . " She t i p t o e d out of t h e back room and k i s s e d David on the mouth.

I could see her mouth open and her tongue shove i n t o h i s mouth.

I t g r o s s e d me o u t .

I m u t t e r e d , "Hog," under my b r e a t h to Bob. Tracy made a l o t of f r i e n d l y , s e x y , s i c k e n i n g n o i s e with David, and ignored us a l t o g e t h e r .

"You can hide out here for a w h i l e , T r a c e , but it w o u l d n ' t be smart to s t a y l o n g .

This p l a c e i s h o t , i f you know what I mean." I glanced at Bob. He looked d i s t r a c t e d .

Tracy s t a r t e d jumping up and down.

"You! David O l i awsky, you —" She wore c u t - o f f s t h a t rode up in her c r o t c h and her t h i g h s were d i m p l e d . " I s h o u l d ' v e known i t was you t h a t worked t h a t Texaco t h i s morning.

Damn your h i d e .

You s h o u l d ' v e had me h e l p you.

I'm ready to blow town anyway."

I reached under the t a b l e and grabbed B o b ' s l e g .

He d i d n ' t move.

David took Tracy t o the back room and Bob s a i d , "Come on, l e t ' s g e t out of h e r e .

Go for a walk or s o m e t h i n g .

I have t o — I need to g e t some a i r or s o m e t h i n g . " "No, Bob, we c a n ' t .

I d o n ' t want t o l e a v e her here with a l l of our t h i n g s and we c a n ' t j u s t pack up and l e a v e . " "Fuck our t h i n g s — , " Bob s a i d , c u t t i n g h i m s e l f off as t h e y came back o u t . " L i s t e n , I'm going out for a walk.

Coming, C l a y ? " "No, Bob. I ' l l s t a y h e r e . " "Okay, s u i t y o u r s e l f .

I ' l l be back s h o r t l y . " I wish I ' d gone with him.

I t was t h e l a s t time I would see Bob for n e a r l y two y e a r s .

David paced the room, went to t h e r e f r i g e r a t o r , and opened a b e e r .

Tracy slopped over to the t a b l e and s p i l l e d her s t o l e n bags on top of i t .

She t o s s e d t h e t h i n g s around l i k e a p i l e of l a u n d r y and gave me a c o u p l e of n i c e b l o u s e s that obviously wouldn't f i t her.

David l e f t to g e t some b e e r from t h e s t o r e , so i t was j u s t t h e two of u s .

I c o u l d n ' t find a n y t h i n g t o say t o h e r .

She took t h e s t a c k of s t o l e n t h i n g s and headed for t h e back room to put them away.

I almost followed her back t h e r e to keep an eye on my s t u f f , but I was a f r a i d t h a t I ' d be too o b v i o u s .

I was s i t t i n g at t h e t a b l e w i s h i n g David would g e t back when a c o u p l e of policemen walked in w i t h o u t k n o c k i n g . One of

them grabbed me by my upper arm and led me to t h e back room.

They nodded to each o t h e r when t h e y saw T r a c y , s a t down on the bed, and s t a r t e d to s e a r c h my pack.

Tracy was s a y i n g , "Honest, o f f i c e r , I j u s t dropped by to see a pal and h e ' s not here."

The o f f i c e r s were young and g o o d - l o o k i n g b u t n o t flirtatious.

Boy, I t h o u g h t , t h e y ' d g i v e me a chance if I d i d n ' t look l i k e some kind of h i p p y .

One of t h e o f f i c e r s p u l l e d the s t o l e n b l o u s e s out of my pack.

He must have r e c o g n i z e d them from a d e s c r i p t i o n .

I was shocked.

Tracy must have put them in t h e r e .

I looked a t h e r .

She s t a r e d s t r a i g h t a h e a d .

"Vi'here'd you g e t t h e s e d a r l i n g b l o u s e s , T o o t s ? " one of the o f f i c e r s s a i d as he dangled t h e b l o u s e s in f r o n t of me.

"Toots?" I s a i d . " I ' m no T o o t s . My d a d d y ' s a lawyer in M i s s i s s i p p i and I'm t r y i n g t o g e t home."

"Oh yeah? Y o u ' r e going in t h e wrong d i r e c t i o n . " I felt i l l .

He turned my pack over, and the fifteen dollars fell out on the bed.

Tracy laughed and said, "Holding out on your friends, huh? Telling them you're broke and living off them."

I almost told the cops all about her then, but I bit my lip because I knew it'd do no good at all. So I just said, "I save that for emergencies."

The officer unzipped the side pocket of my pack and pulled out a wallet I'd never seen before.

It had nine hundred dollars in it.

"I'd call this an emergency. Toots," he said and elbowed his partner.

"Looks that way," Tracy said, and then laughed.

"You too, Blondie!" said the cop.

"You happen to fit the description . " Tracy broke out of the room and ran into the street.

One of the cops was right behind her. I started to cry, but the remaining officer told me to shutup.

He pulled the dresser drawers out and threw them on the floor.

In an old sock, he found a plastic bag full of white powder. I'd never seen anything like that so it didn't alarm me, but when he said heroin with a straight face, I raced for the bathroom.

About half way there, I bent over and threw up.

"I suppose you don't know anything about the Texaco either," he said, walking into the other room.

I started grabbing my things. When I heard him talking on the phone I crawled out the back window and ran through the back yard. I got around to the neighborhood store, and saw David walking out the front door. I was still sobbing and he grabbed me and pulled me inside.

The man behind the counter must have thought we were having a lover's quarrel because I couldn't stop crying. I had my head on David's shoulder trying to whisper what had happened. When I mentioned the heroin, David grabbed my chin and told me to be still. Then he took a moment to think; he told me to stay there; he left.

I stayed inside for a few "linutes.

The counter man walked over by the phone looking disturbed. I got nervous and ran out the front door.

I saw David down the block looking in the window of a green GTO with hiked-up back wheels. I ran up, startling him.

He didn't say anything. He just shoved me in the front seat snd slid into the driver's seat. He found the keys behind the Visor, started the car, and sped away.

16 17

When we got down t h e beach r o a d , he s a i d , "Okay, now t e l l me e v e r y t h i n g t h a t h a p p e n e d . " "Bob! We've got to find Bob." We were almost out of town . " D o n ' t be s t u p i d .

W e ' l l c a t c h him l a t e r .

Right now we have to g e t c l e a r of t h i s p l a c e .

Now t e l l me what the h e l l happened back t h e r e . " " I d o n ' t want to l e a v e Bob." I started crying.

"I c a n ' t go w i t h o u t him."

"Look, do you want out h e r e ?

'Cause I'm not going to jail."

He slowed down and looked a t me. I j u s t hung my head.

He drove on .

I t was dark now and I was nodding out in t h e f r o n t s e a t .

My head was l e a n i n g on my window and, as I opened my e y e s , I saw t h e p a r k i n g l o t of t h e Dixie Land M o t e l .

I d o n ' t know how f a r we'd d r i v e n up t h e r o a d , but we d e f i n i t e l y w e r e n ' t on a c o n g e s t e d s t r i p of the b e a c h .

David p u l l e d the GTO around b a c k , and we walked up t h e metal s t a i r s to a room on t h e second f l o o r .

All the d o o r s on t h e motel were b r i g h t primary colors.

We opened a yellow door and went i n .

There was one bed with a f l e s h - c o l o r e d c h e n i l l e b e d s p r e a d .

The f u r n i t u r e was formica and v i n y l .

The a i r - c o n d i t i o n e r was a window model.

The room smelled s a l t y and damp.

David t u r n e d on the a i r conditioner.

I took my pack t o t h e bathroom and kicked off my boots.

When I came o u t , David was a t t h e d o o r .

He s a i d , "I'm going to p i c k us up something to e a t b e f o r e I g e t t o o t i r e d .

Any p r e f e r e n c e s ?

Any a l l e r g i e s ? " "No, a n y t h i n g ' l l d o .

I'm s t a r v e d . " I stood t h e r e c u r l i n g my b a r e f e e t on t h e r u g .

I f e l t sand under ray f e e t and looked down a t the green i n d o o r - o u t d o o r c a r p e t .

I shook my head and moved towards the bathroom t h i n k i n g t h a t no one could ever g e t a l l the sand out of t h e s e motel rooms.

I ran a d o u b l e - h o t b a t h , but c o u l d n ' t find any s o a p .

I r i f l e d t h r o u g h my pack.

I t h o u g h t , on a long s h o t , t h a t t h e r e j u s t might be a s l i v e r of soap abandoned in t h e r e somewhere.

I r e a l i z e d t h a t I had l e f t an awful l o t of my t h i n g s in Myrtle Beach, but what t h e h e l l .

Then I saw t h a t s t o l e n w a l l e t .

I h a d n ' t meant to pick i t up, but t h e r e i t was.

I f e l t like it was f o l l o w i n g me around.

The nine hundred d o l l a r s was s t i l l inside .

I put the w a l l e t on t h e c o u n t e r .

I t u r n e d off the bathtub water.

I went and looked a t the w a l l e t a g a i n .

I went t o the m i r r o r and brushed my h a i r .

I went back and looked at the wallet again.

I t u r n e d on the t e l e v i s i o n , checked the t e m p e r a t u r e of the w a t e r , then went over and looked at the wallet again.

T h i s time I picked i t u p , and took t h e n i n e hundred d o l l a r s , and folded i t t i g h t l y , and put i t in the toe of my b o o t .

I took t h e empty w a l l e t d o w n s t a i r s where I b u r i e d i t in a g i g a n t i c green m e t a l g a r b a g e b i n next to t h e i c e m a c h i n e .

I r e t u r n e d to t h e room and took ray hot b a t h .

I heard David come in and poked my head out of the bathroom d o o r , "Hey! how'd i t go?" " C h i c k e n , " he s a i d .

He took out six q u a r t s of b o t t l e d b e e r and t h r e e boxes of f r i e d c h i c k e n and spread them on the bed.

I put on a T - s h i r t and p a n t i e s and j o i n e d him in f r o n t of t h e T.V. I was a l i t t l e embarrassed walking o u t in my p a n t i e s l i k e t h a t , even though I ' d been skinny d i p p i n g and t r o t t i n g around nude a t a l l 18

t h o s e music f e s t i v a l s .

I t j u s t seemed a l i t t l e odd in a motel room, but David d i d n ' t even b l i n k .

He j u s t chewed on h i s chicken and passed me a b o t t l e of b e e r .

I g r i n n e d and s a t c r o s s - l e g g e d in t h e m i d d l e of t h e bed with one of t h e p i l l o w s a c r o s s my l a p . " D o n ' t go g e t t i n g my p i l l o w g r e a s y now, l i t t l e C l a y , " he said and s p r e a d a c o u p l e of n a p k i n s on t h e p i l l o w .

Then he grabbed one of t h e n a p k i n s and tucked i t under my c h i n .

We both c r a c k e d u p .

He was s i l l y l i k e t h a t .

When we f i n i s h e d e a t i n g , he led me over to the s i n k and washed my hands for me.

We were e x h a u s t e d and got i n t o b e d .

We passed t h e b o t t l e and argued about whether to watch Tina Turner on the Tonight Show or an old B e t t e Davis movie.

He won; we watched Tina T u r n e r .

I was d r i f t i n g off to s l e e p while Tina Turner t h r a s h e d around on t h e s e t .

David was l y i n g s t i l l b e s i d e me, watching her.

I ' d r o l l e d over with my back to him, hugging my p i l l o w .

During a c o m m e r c i a l , David r o l l e d over and p r e s s e d h i s b e l l y up a g a i n s t my b a c k .

I f r o z e and squeezed my e y e l i d s s h u t , p r e t e n d i n g t o be a s l e e p .

He put h i s arm around my w a i s t and s c r a t c h e d my stomach s l o w l y .

He b r o u g h t h i s hand up to my breasts.

I opened my e y e s , but s t i l l d i d n ' t move.

I was too embarrassed to t u r n to him.

I wanted t o , and then I d i d n ' t .

I d i d n ' t know what to do n e x t .

I did not want him to know t h a t I d i d n ' t know what to d o .

I t was a l t o g e t h e r clumsy and humiliating.

He took my s h o u l d e r and t u r n e d me o v e r .

I squinted, The b e d s i d e l i g h t was g l a r i n g in my e y e s .

"Can we t u r n t h a t off p l e a s e ? " "No, l i t t l e Clay, I l i k e to s e e . " I c l o s e d my e y e s and l i s t e n e d t o him w i g g l i n g out of h i s clothes.

I b i t my lower l i p when I c o u l d n ' t hear him move anymore.

I knew he was s i t t i n g l o o k i n g a t me.

He reached over and p u l l e d down my p a n t i e s .

I winced and caught my breath.

"Are you a f r a i d , l i t t l e g i r l ? " "No," I s a i d , t r y i n g t o a c t sexy with my l i p s p a r t e d and ny e y e s h a l f o p e n .

I h a t e t o t h i n k what he must have t h o u g h t of me .

He f i n g e r e d me, sucked my b r e a s t , and whispered in my e a r , "Touch me."

I reached for h i s p e n i s .

I t was the f i r s t one I ' d ever r e a l l y touched and I was s c a r e d of h u r t i n g him.

I ' d read somewhere t h a t i t was the most s e n s i t i v e p a r t of a man and you had to be very g e n t l e with i t .

W e l l , I was.

I was so g e n t l e , and fondled i t with such a l i g h t t o u c h , t h a t he s a i d , " I c a n ' t even f e e l t h a t . " Then he guided my hand in Swift s t r o n g movements. I was c o m p l e t e l y c o n f u s e d .

He t r i e d to push my head down t h e r e , but I b a l k e d , r e a c h i n g up t o k i s s him.

He grabbed my b u t t o c k s with both hands and shoved his penis i n s i d e of me.

I w a s n ' t r e a d y for t h a t .

I screamed and shoved my f i s t in my mouth.

He paused for _, a moment ,, then went on pushing and pushing u n t i l I c o u l d n ' t b r e a t h e anymore I c o u l d n ' t b r e a t h e , and I c o u l d n ' t open my e y e s , and I C o u l d n ' t b e l i e v e i t when i t was o v e r .

David r o l l e d onto h i s back and s a i d , "You w e r e , w e r e n ' t you? A v i r g i n , huh?" " W e l l , s o r t o f , " I s a i d and c u r l e d up a g a i n s t him.

He k i s s e d me on the forehead and almost s a i d s o m e t h i n g .

"What?" I asked .

19

1 "What what?" he said.

"What were you about to say?"

He was silent.

"David, I'm in love with you."

"You're sweet," he said and kissed me on my cheeks and the end of my nose. I fell asleep wrapped around him. When I woke up, he was gone.

I didn't rush around looking for him.

I just knew he was gone, and why, and it all made sense. I got out of bed and pulled back the curtain.

The green GTO was gone.

I didn't even check to see if his clothes were gone.

I knew they were.

My backpack was open. The fifteen dollars was gone. I turned over ray boot and nothing came out. I reached my hand down in the toe. The nine hundred dollars was also gone. I felt stupid.

I buttoned my blouse all wrong trying to get dressed, then unbuttoned it and left it hanging open. The panties I'd had on the night before were nasty and, when I went through my pack, I saw that I'd left the others in Myrtle Beach. What was I supposed to do for panties?

I washed my face and saw that David left me four five dollar bills by the sink.

I zipped them in my back pack.

I tried to figure a way to find Bob again, but I wasn't even sure where I was. I heard footsteps outside the door and my heart jumped up in my throat.

I was sure it was the police. I peeked out from behind the curtains and saw it was only an old couple. I closed my eyes and remembered Tracy, with her black roots, running on the beach, grabbing purses, and racing away with her thighs flapping.

It was mid-morning. I decided it'd be best to be on my way as quickly as possible. I gathered my things and buttoned my blouse. When I picked up my pack, I saw in the mirror that I'd buttoned it all wrong again. I threw my pack down at my feet and yelled.

I grabbed the shirt and yanked.

All the buttons popped.

I walked around the room in circles.

I looked in the mirror five times.

Then I picked up the telephone, and called Mama, and asked her for a plane ticket home.

CONTEMPLATION

Thomas Haller

a sun-shower

declared the

memory of summer heat gone the haze washed out of the street the drops golden in the city I attempted a child's vision of things

FRANZ MARC'S THE UNFORTUNATE LAND OF THE TYROL

Thomas Haller

A rainbow choked off in midflight, the vulture spreads wing on bare branch.

In the foreground two horses, black touch their bent heads together.

In the background black crosses poke out from a blood-colored hill — everywhere the lines of roads, of houses, ruins of old battlements are sucked up by the crazy angles of mountains that merge above the frame—only the horses, dumbly, communicative, are weighted to the ground.

20

21

1 AUNT CLARIS AND ECK FOR MAIDA

Thomas Haller

You with the braided hair, dressed in purple and green, who loves to hang whole sculptures from her ears, listen to me, you of the two huge eyes, I have something to say!

Wrong. I have nothing to say.

All I have is the way that I say it and that is a type of a song.

Let's get down to specifics: you assume the song's existence as given, a safe subterfuge, ghost of nature swelling with affect yet an artifice for all that, the singer's careful construction.

Then think about this one: when the singer stops does the song stop too?

Once created why wouldn't it always flit through the air of some summer evening if someone is there to remember?

So let's agree that I love you for the purpose of the song, and you will always be loved in the song

Marilyn Greenberg

SLOWLY, AUNT CLARIS drove home sitting on the mail: the insurance checks from her dead grandsons, a letter from Peggy Ann and them along with five dollars, and a card from her other son-in-law. He couldn't take care of young Claris any more and here was the address of the nursing home.

Well.

Like her father, she thought. A short lifeline. She made the hard turn to the bare patch of ground between the road and her front door. Slowly, conscious of her skeleton, of the twinging hip, and of the tender protrusions on her collarbone, Aunt Claris got out of the car. She groaned, "I don't complain, Lord," she said aloud. She scattered an armload of hay and goat droppings around her unregistered car to discourage anyone from looking too closely at it. Without that car, what?

Some young one look after her, do for her? It hadn't happened yet in this life.

Her boarder. Eck, let her into the house. "I nailed up the front door for you, and the windows on the ocean side," he said . The narrow opening in back was enough for her , and the animals, through the winter. "And I got you some groceries," he said. "Oh, Aunt Claris," he suddenly mourned. "What are you going to do without me here?

How will you manage?" He looked concerned, but she knew it was just bragging. Worrying about her made him feel good. A man without a family. Still, even Eck would have been a help when the boys died. She had been alone in deep winter when the telegrams came, one for each of them .

"Why Eck, I can't do without you," she answered like some young belle, but the truth was something different.

Fifty dollars. Eck paid her the first summer he boarded.

That was back when it meant shoes for the both grandboys so they could start school on time. And it meant flour and lard and maybe a pinch of something for Christmas. He still gave her fifty dollars but she didn't mind him. A painter, he was.

He came for the light, he said. Its special quality here, he called it.

She liked the light, too. The grave was dark.

But she'd never pay any fifty dollars for it.

People were different.

And when he spread those great cloths on her floor? He hurled down handfuls of paint and acted like it was work.

23

22

Needed to rest after. One day the cats ran across the canvas and tracked it up. He came in from the beach, gave her the eye, and saw how frightened she was, and started to laugh, roared , and lay down himself, all sandy and rolled in the sticky paint. Then he got up and brought in the goat. People sure were different.

He cleaned up every bit of that floor and tried to kiss her. He was in some kind of state. She hit him lightly with a piece of stove wood. He turned to the boys to kiss them, but they ran out. Soon, he was out there with them playing ball. She never had but one boarder, and it had to be Eck. It wasn't important. Eck leaving again.

She'd had a husband and then young Claris' father.

She had mothered children and grandchildren.

Dead?

Her daughter Alma was dead; Alma's twins, her grandboys, were dead; and Aunt Claris wasn't stopped yet.

"Dear Commandant," she had Merle, who ran the Post Office write for her. "I am too old to come on up to Marine Camp.

If you could bury them together is my only wish, as they was twins, though to me they never was identical. I am trusting in God and my Uncle Sam like I always have."

The wound left by their mother's death pained Aunt Claris once more and then closed over for good. She was free.

"I'm coming to you soon, boys." she said.

"What?" said Eck. "Oh. I said you'll be coming back soon. Eck." She recalled where she was. "Summer'11 be here before you know it."

"I brought in your firewood," he said anxiously.

"It might not be enough."

"Now Eck," she said. "You go along. Me and the cats know how to do fine, and the goat."

She was eager for her solitude.

She had to read her store of old newspapers and catch up on all she had missed.

The news went to the junkman fast when the boys were with her, always so hungry and growing out of their shoes. They needed shoes, boots, shoes for football, and there were two of them.

But all that was done with. The boys took care of Granny now with their insurance, and she had all winter for her papers, if only Eck would get up and go.

All of them could go: that cluttered the road and the beach, that left diapers and contraceptives in the dune grass, and smashed bottles in the sand .

She daily limped to the shore, pulling the boy's wagon as she had for fifty years, to bring home what God might have sent by water: tinned butter from Denmark, or a single waterlogged shoe, small driftwood, rusting cans without labels. But now they took her picture.

It was time to see them leave.

After Eck left, sometime between then and Christmas, she took sick. It was like crows were perching on her shoulders, reading the old news along with her and jeering; the world was a stupid place. They dug their claws into her and laughed.

Her hearing became unreliable. Now she heard songbirds, now she heard bells.

She spoke aloud to herself and heard nothing.

But it might be her voice giving out and not her ears.

She started remembering Alma, a sure sign. She knew she was going down. The crows chuckled at the blood oozing from the remaining nipple as Alma lay there jerking her head back and forth.

Aunt Claris asked the doctor.

"Does this breast have to go, too?"

He sighed and said, "No, let's just keep her happy."

24

Happy!

Sewed over like a lumpy quilt and turning her head ceaselessly on the pillow.

"Please turn off the radio.

Turn it off!"

They couldn't quiet her. "Turn it off. Please. Please! Please turn it off." It was her last thing to say to them.

"I did, Alma," said Aunt Claris from her rocking chair, perspiring, the crows pulling her hair.

"Did you know it.

Alma? I tried my best. Alma." The crows laughed.

Alma's husband showed up for the funeral, looked at his sons across the grave, and did his crying. Then he walked off and was still walking for all she knew. William and Wilbur understood they were abandoned.

Aunt Claris never admitted it.

Her face looked blue now in the kitchen mirror and her neck hurt. Well. She let it roll on over her. The oats and the goat knew how to keep house without her. She only needed to lay out her quilts near the pump in the kitchen to be ready. She lay burning and drinking for however long it took, listening to the birds and foghorns in her head.

Fidel Castro helped her to drink.

"I thank you for your kindness," she said.

"I want every man and woman to eat and drink," he said, taking a sip.

"How about shoes?" she asked from her place on the floor. "Poor people have a hard time paying for shoes."

"Si, Senora," he said, lighting a stogie.

"In due time . " "You look like a good man to me," she said, flattering him. He could be her grandson, beard and all. But they liked to be called men. "Tell me, you still have the ten commandments down there?"

"Si," he puffed.

"Because I been reading in my papers," she said cautiously, "about killing down there."

"How many meals you cooked, Granny?" he asked, suddenly snotty and fresh. "You ought to know you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs," he said, pompous as a stuffed pig.

"But Mr. Fiddle," she argued.

"It says plain as day窶年o!

Thou shalt not kill!

No offense," she added hastily.

"Basta, Senora!" he shouted, all in a rage. "Enough!"

He stabbed her with his cigar and stubbed out its fire six times across her chest. The pain went clear through to her back; she rolled and writhed in her blankets on the floor, and vomited .

"Alma," she whimpered.

"Help me across, little Alma.

It think it's my time."

She imagined she was back crouching in the strawberry fields, bucking and shying like a horse, afraid of the snakes in the strawberry runners. The sun boiled her head and made her eyes run as she watched the boys play at the edge of the field. The boss hired women, mothers and grandmothers. . Theﾂｷ children could come along and even could eat the culls as they packed in the shed. She got fifty cents a day an* herrteﾂｫ.

But her legs ached, and her eyes and shoulders burned. % "Lord," she said, face down to the berries and the ground.

"Oh, Lord."

That's all. He knew what she meant.

And then she saw a white hem near her eyes and felt a coolness coming from it, a healing.. .She looked up and it was Rose Kennedy, standing there in that old field, clean, white as a newspaper.

25

"Aunt C l a r i s , " she s a i d , "You do know how t o work, I ' l l say t h a t for you."

"Yes , Ma'am , " Aunt C l a r i s r e p l i e d , r e s p e c t f u l , but "Did you meet William and s t i l l , she knew what was t r u e .

Wilbur?"

Rose Kennedy got a faraway l o o k , " F i n e b o y s , Aunt Claris, fine."

"You did a wonderful j o b , said. t o o , " Aunt C l a r i s "Everybody s a y s s o . " Rose Kennedy s a i d , "We know, d o n ' t we, Aunt C l a r i s ?

You're wiping t h e i r b e h i n d s one d a y , and i t seems l i k e t h e n e x t , t h e r e you a r e , p l a n t i n g a r o s e bush in t h e g r a v e y a r d . " "Yes, Ma'am," agreed Aunt C l a r i s , t h e r e on her knees in t h e cold e a r t h .

"So t r u e . " She gave Rose Kennedy a n i c e q u a r t of b e r r i e s and put two broad green l e a v e s on t o p .

"Keep them cool t i l l you r e a c h home," she s a i d .

And then she was w e l l and in h e r own home.

She looked up i n t o the white face of her good g o a t .

"We're a l l r i g h t , a i n ' t we?" she asked the g o a t . She took her q u i l t s o u t t o the sun. " S t i l l a l l r i g h t . " But her h e a r i n g was g o n e .

Unexpecte d l y , t h e sound in her e a r s would come on l i k e a broken r a d i o t h a t s u d d e n l y l i g h t s up, but she must be d e a f now. W e l l . She had heard enough.

And she s t i l l had her two good e y e s , and a l l t h e newspapers in t h e world t o study i n .

I t must have come C h r i s t m a s , b e c a u s e t h e r e a t h e r door was M e r l e ' s annual b a s k e t of a p p l e s and p o t a t o e s .

He made her a g i f t every year from what he grew over behind t h e Post Office.

She burrowed in for t h e s e a s o n .

No good t r y i n g t h e car in w i n t e r .

Merle would keep her i n s u r a n c e checks t i l l spring.

She cooked a l i t t l e a p p l e s a u c e .

She k n i t t e d a sock.

She swept up now and then and fed her s t o v e .

Young P a t r i c k Kennedy was b o r n , but he c o u l d n ' t b r e a t h e .

They l o s t him.

Well.

There i s a p l a n , though we d o n ' t u n d e r s t a n d i t .

She s t i l l d i d n ' t even know why t h e s e a s o n s would c h a n g e , or what kept t h e ocean pounding away l i k e t h a t , year a f t e r y e a r , with never a b r e a k .

She baked an a p p l e .

One n i g h t , when she was r e a d i n g up on t h e i n a u g u r a t i o n , she f e l t a hand on her s h o u l d e r .

"Why E c k , " she s a i d , l o o k i n g up in s u r p r i s e . " I s i t summer a l r e a d y and I d o n ' t know i t ? " " D o n ' t you r e a l i z e I had to come h e r e on a snow plow?" he s h o u t e d .

He was e n r a g e d .

"They w o u l d n ' t look in on you over from the Post O f f i c e .

I c a l l e d them.

They w o u l d n ' t .

Anything could have happened to you.

I t ' s t h e w o r l d ' s worst b l i z z a r d out t h e r e . " "Eck, d o n ' t look so mad now."

She h a d n ' t heard most of what he s a i d .

"Take off t h a t wet s t u f f .

Come on over by my fire."

On t o p of t h e i r o n s t o v e , d r i e d p e a s soaked in a p o t ; a huge p o t a t o baked in t h e wood c o a l s ; her socks d r i e d on a slim green b r a n c h wedged i n t o a c r e v i c e on t h e s i d e .

"See how cozy I am, and a l l t h e c a t s ? " The c a t s n e s t e d in staples m( firewood t h a t f i l l e d t h e room.

She could l a s t •iai w i n t e r .

-T^e b i g g e s t c a t , an old b l a c k t h i n g , r e s t e d in frer l a p under her n e w s p a p e r .

She glanced down at the Kennedy . Insug^urAtienc^Or another moment. She knew what came l a t e r and hÂťd thrown out t h o s e p a p e r s .

Eck stamped h i s f e e t and swung h i s arms.

She looked at h i s moving l i p s with some I n t e r e s t , but she d i d n ' t need to hear him. Maybe he was h u n g r y . That made a man a n g r y .

"Eck, you put on W i l b u r ' s sheep s h o e s , t h a t ' s what you n e e d , and go g e t something t o e a t .

The p a n t r y ' s f u l l of a l l 25

t h a t good food you l e f t me.

Take some s t r a w b e r r y j a m , " she said s h y l y .

Never again would she t a s t e a s t r a w b e r r y , not in this l i f e .

Her s h e l v e s h e l d E o k ' s i d e a s of n e c e s s i t i e s ; d i s g u s t i n g ground meats in c a n s , which she gave t o t h e o a t s ; and b o t t l e d p e a c h e s in b r a n d y .

"Help y o u r s e l f . Eck," she s a i d generously.

"Take a n y t h i n g you w a n t . " He s t a r e d a t the old l a d y in f u r y .

She could be dead here in t h i s t h i n beach s h a c k , and why was he t h e only one t o care?

Who l e f t her t o r o t in an a n c i e n t c h e n i l l e r o b e and camouflage j a c k e t ?

Where were her p e o p l e ?

Her f l e e c e - l i n e d shoes were a m a n ' s and so big and old t h a t t h e y c u r l e d up a t the t o e , l i k e a j e s t e r ' s .

Most l i k e l y out of her mind, t o o ; senile.

S i t t i n g here in a b l i z z a r d r e a d i n g yellowed newspapers.

He b e n t t o put h i s face d i r e c t l y in f r o n t of h e r s .

"You do know Kennedy's d e a d , d o n ' t you?" V i c i o u s l y , he a d d e d , "Years ago. D i d n ' t you know i t ? " She p u l l e d back from h i s whiskey b r e a t h .

Why was he so excited?

Maybe i t was h i s mind.

Maybe he w a s n ' t r i g h t .

All that drinking .

"Why Eck," she s o o t h e d . " I know everybody who's d e a d . " He looked about to c r y .

"Now Eck, y o u ' r e h u n g r y .

Do l i k e I say. " The p i c t u r e of t h e young P r e s i d e n t r e s t e d on her l a p on top of t h e c a t .

The newspaper r o s e and f e l l with t h e o a t ' s slow b r e a t h i n g .

She admired them, t h a t young man and h i s young w i f e .

Look a t t h e i r abundant h a i r , t h e i r t e e t h .

The young p e o p l e gleamed as t h e y walked in t h e b r i g h t snow, walking t o h i s i n a u g u r a t i o n .

She wished them w e l l .

E o k ' s mouth was s t i l l moving.

He s t i l l w a s n ' t s a t i s fied.

P e o p l e g e t angry b e c a u s e i t ' s w i n t e r , or b e c a u s e i t ' s summer, she never could u n d e r s t a n d i t .

He walked away, and she hoped he was l e a v i n g , J u l y and August were time enough for him. She w a s n ' t h i s n a t u r a l m o t h e r .

She had her t h i n k i n g to do and her newspapers t o s t u d y .

But h e r e he was a g a i n .

She c o u l d n ' t see him so c l e a r l y .

She s a t back in her r o c k e r t o l e t her e y e s f o c u s .

She f e l t a s t i n g i n g in her a r m p i t s .

Her face went damp.

She c o u l d n ' t see t h e man c l e a r l y .

A cloud on h i s f a c e .

The f r o t h of b o i l i n g milk between them.

Had she l e t a pan of g o a t ' s milk b o i l over?

She saw h i s hand extended t o h e r .

Now she knew.

She r a i s e d her v o i c e .

"You, William and W i l b u r , " she o r d e r e d .

"You b o y s .

Get on in h e r e and meet John F. Kennedy t h a t ' s come t o c a l l . " There was h i s hand.

She wanted to t a k e t h a t warm and v i t a l palm in her own s p o t t e d hand.

She r e a c h e d .

She f e l t the fur on the o a t ' s back stand up.

Eck t r i e d to r a i s e h e r , to r e s c u e h e r .

All t h e c a t s were h i s s i n g .

27

FLORENCE

Song Jook Choi I stare at the playful faces of ancient mythology among creeping vine painted on the ceiling of my room.

The dry texture of the paint tells me it may be Etruscan or of the Medici.

I think of friends back home like someone in the quiet afternoon solitude who wonders at the elusive faces in his dream. In a week they have traveled far into the distance of my memory.

The red and blue cloak of a gilded madonna on the wall vibrates in the sunlight, its pigment fresher than kodachrome of my recent picture.

Down the obscure steps and winding corridors, past the hall where faded coat-of-arms and velvet chairs sleep in the odor of the past I come to the kitchen for tea.

I made some friends on the first day at the university, had friendly chats with new and old students in the grand hall of the Medici, drinking strong coffee Leonardo said that he worked at the medieval hospital built by Beatrice's father.

Jim (from California) told me that he found a place to stay, next door to Michelangelo's house; he smelled fresh paints and turpentine.

Last night there was an annual town meeting, torches were burning in the old place; thousands of the town's people gathered in the piazza where their ancestors ^ once prepared a pyre for Savanarola Turning into the alley, I drop by Dante's house, squeak past the front door, go up the steps, and opening the door to an empty room I say, "Good afternoon." I must stop by the bakery down the block.

I hear Giotto's bell ringing from t h e Duomo. I t must be four o ' c l o c k .

28

HAVING OLD FRIENDS TO DINNER

Charles Wesley

"THE TAYLORS WILL be coming to dinner on Sunday," father said excitedly as if he were pleasantly surprising us.

Mother and father and I sat at the table eating dinner.

It was just after six in the evening.

Father invariably returned home from a day's work around this time.

After driving up the driveway and parking the car in the garage, he would come in the back door.

Mother, who was there making final dinner preparations, would greet him in the kitchen. We would sit down immediately to eat—father did not like to wait for dinner.

"How did you know?"

The casual tone of mother's question reflected the slow plodding of her mind. She had not become aware, as I already had, of the paradox implied in my father's knowledge of Sunday's appointment.

She would probably categorize it under psychic phenomena, or mystical experiences, after recalling that she had only hours ago invited the Taylors to dinner.

She was sure she had not informed her husband of this.

"Because I invited them. Mr. Taylor called me at work today and I asked them to come." Father replied with exasperation. He suspected that my mother was not listening to him, and was just asking thoughtless questions. On the other hand, he realized that the question was too direct to be merely thoughtless.

I alone understood what had happened.

It was a mere coincidence.

Mrs. Taylor had called my mother, while Mr. Taylor had called my father, and both my parents had extended similar invitations.

"How strange."

With obvious strain, my mother was attempting to solve the mystery.

She was squinting.

"But Mrs. Taylor called me. They called you? I invited them on Sunday just this afternoon over the phone. How strange."

Father now understood what had happened. He smiled and looked at me. "They're probably up to their old tricks again.

We talk to them for the first time in ten years and already they are trying to get themselves invited to dinner twice.

Though directed at me, it was not with me that my father was joking, for I knew nothing about the Taylors' old tricks.

My parents had at one time been very close to the Taylors, but 29

I was only a child then. Still, ray father realized that my mother did not yet understand what had happened, so he spoke away from her, not wanting needlessly to distract her.

"How strange," mother said. "Do you suppose they really were?"

"Really were what?" Father seemed disappointed that she had not continued to contemplate on her own—that she had been distracted .

Now mother was upset. She pursed her lips and fiercely stared down at her fork. She suspected that my father did not respect her intelligence. "REALLY WERE trying to get invited to dinner twice.

That was what you said, wasn't it?" She looked at me, "Didn't he just say that?"

I decided to avert an argument by reducing myself to her state of misunderstanding.

"Yes, he did, but it sounds ridiculous to me. Perhaps they were talking about old times one evening and mentioned you and father. Then, perhaps, by chance, they each, individually, got the idea to call you in order to get together again. Then, also, by chance, both you and father invited them to dinner on the same day."

Mother thought about my explanation. "Yes, that must be it."

She looked at my father and scowled, thinking that it was now evident that she was not the stupid one.

Father felt the full force of her newly adopted attitude. "But I was only kidding," he complained to me, as if I were to blame.

"I know you were," I told him, purposely contradicting the apparent attitude of my previous behavior. I saw no way out of this, considering the way both of them felt, the way both of them looked at things so differently. Neither of them seemed to notice this paradox; both were now satisfied that they were understood, and they began to eat peacefully and in quiet.

II Standing in the kitchen, I watched my mother tearing some freshly washed lettuce.

"Just this salad and I'm finished."

She occasionally spoke aloud sentences meant only for herself in an attempt to show that she could still carry on a conversation while doing something else. Even these asides often led her to a loss of concentration, resulting in the absence of some major incredient in a recipe, or an addition of foreign objects., I heard a car drive up the driveway. "It's too late," I said, "I think they're here."

Mother trotted over to the door.

"Yes, it's them," I heard her say excitedly. She stood in the vestibule, hidden from my view.

The noise of heavy footsteps on the hollow wooden porch filtered into the kitchen. Then, like a storm, cries of happiness and admiration broke forth.

Mother came back into the kitchen, followed by Mrs. Taylor and then Mr. Taylor.

After coming through the door, Mrs. Taylor embraced my mother without saying anything, a look of happy serenity on her face. Mr. Taylor stood staring at me, soon his wife began to stare too, but my mother for quite an awkward while longer, continued to look at Mrs. Taylor.

"Oh, excuse me," my mother finally realized. "You remember my son, William.

William, this is Mrs. and Mrs. 30

1 Taylor.

I shook Mr. Taylor's hand, and went to shake his wife's.

But, instead, she embraced me in a show of affection. I stood there feeling embarrassed and somewhat appalled, for I really did not know her at all. On my mother's face was a smile of blissful contentment, as if everything were now as it should be.

Politely extricating myself from her grip, I stood away from them watching as they talked.

The Taylors were quite peculiar looking.

She was short and fragile, yet very dominating.

When speaking to my mother, she enunciated with gestures which I thought silly and overly dramatic. I knew my mother took this for an intense sincerity, and probably thought it was Mrs. Taylor's best quality.

Mr. Taylor was overweight and balding.

He listened intently to the conversation between his wife and my mother, though, occasionally, he would glance over at me with a knowledgeable smile. He was trying, I believe, to acknowledge our common innate skepticism as men in the face of frivolous conversation. For my part, I was sure that our differences would overcome any accidental similarities bestowed on us by nature. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. This awoke a recollection of him from my childhood memory.

I saw him then: younger, thinner, with more hair on his head, and a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips.

Mr. Taylor was a notorious chain smoker. As I watched him put a cigarette into his mouth so that it hung precariously and bounced alarmingly every time he spoke, I felt as if he were more familiar, remembering, as I did, all of these gestures.

Even the fear that the cigarette would fall and burn a hole in his clothes or scorch the furniture or the rug was not really a fear, for it was a memory and, as such, something to grasp onto tightly.

"Why don't you take the Taylors' coats, William?" My mother finally became aware of further social necessities.

Mr. Taylor took off his jacket and, after taking his cigarettes out of his pocket, handed it to me. My mother, having helped Mrs. Taylor off with her coat, gently draped it over my arm.

Mrs. Taylor took off her hat and handed it to me ceremoniously.

They immediately resumed talking.

I stood there, holding the attractive hat in my hand, examining it. Looking at its underside, I could see that the hat was constructed on a bowl-shaped base made of stiff woven fibers, somewhat like a basket, and that this is what fit snugly to Mrs. Taylor's head.

On top of this base, the rest of the hat was constructed, the visible part. It was made of light maroon silk and shaped like a cornucopia, the peak a little further back than center. It was as if the silk material had been cut into strips, and somehow stuffed, and then sewn back together.

These strips were puffed out, giving the hat a quilted appearance.

They spiraled up towards the peak of the hat suggesting tornado-like energy and motion.

I was completely fascinated by this odd-looking hat. I slid my fingers along the spiraling crevices, as I turned the hat.

I wanted so badly to put it on my head, but I knew my mother would become furious.

"William, why don't you go hang up those coats?' my mother asked.

All three of them were watching me.

I 31

embarrassed, feeling as if they had caught me wearing the hat.

Only Mrs. Taylor appeared sympathetic, tilting her head inquisitively, but gently. Caressing her hat, I wondered if she realized how much I liked her. Staring into her small, pink-rimmed eyes, eyes framed by wrinkled and discolored skin, I suddenly realized that these eyes were completely unfamiliar to me. I had never seen them before. This made me remember that Mrs. Taylor had always worn sunglasses. She wore those oat's-eyes sunglasses that had two small rhinestones near the edge of the frame where the rims jut out beyond the forehead.

Mrs. Taylor became something I recognized, but at the same time, something diminished—much less intense and unusual than she had been when I was a child.

"Where are your glasses, Mrs. Taylor?" I asked.

She smiled and closed her eyes. My mother's face grew tight with annoyance. "William, what are you talking about?" But Mrs. Taylor, by placing her hand on my mother's back, assured her and calmed her .

"I dropped them; they've broken."

At Mrs. Taylor's words, my mother grew weary and sad.

Even for her and Mrs. Taylor things could not forever remain the same.

Things broke, were lost, faded.

"How awful — they were beautiful."

Mother spoke with more pity for herself than for Mrs. Taylor.

Leaving the kitchen, I went to hang up the coats. I kept looking back at them while walking through the dining room to the living room.

Not moving at all from where they stood they continued to talk.

The coat closet was off to the right of the living room.

I looked once more at the Taylors before leaving the room.

Mrs. Taylor looked up at me, saw me watching her, and smiled.

While hanging up the coats, I heard someone walking on the front porch. The doorbell rang. From upstairs, my father shouted, "I'll get it."

He walked down the staircase above the coat closet. I could hear each of his footsteps, every creaking of the old stepboards under his weight, clearly and distinctly in the closet.

I hung up the last coat and stepped out of the closet just as my father was opening the front door.

At the door were the Taylors. They bustled into the foyer, shaking hands briskly with my father and laughing lightly.

"You haven't changed a bit," my father told them, "and you, Ted, you look better than ever."

Mr. Taylor rubbed his hands up and down his stomach and chest. "I feel great. I gave up smoking about eight months ago. Haven't touched a cigarette since. It was the smartest thing I've ever done. Never felt better in my life."

Mrs. Taylor began taking off her hat. It was the same maroon funnel-shaped had that I had seen in the kitchen, that I had just put in the closet. This Mrs. Taylor, however, was wearing her cat's-eyes sunglasses. They had black frames with very dark lenses so that one could not see her eyes.

She listened intently to the conversation between my father and her husband. Mr. Taylor often looked at her for confirmation or approval of something he had said. Nothing seemed valid until she had given it her blessing.

"How's business?" my father asked.

Mrs. Taylor looked at Mr. Taylor slyly, until her expression broke into that of comprehension.

She aggressively put her arm around my father's waist, pulling him closer to 32

her and her husband.

"Listen, Bill," she said as she parodied whispering, with her loud, hoarse voice. "Business is booming. We've got some real tips for you."

Curious about what was going on in the kitchen, I moved into the living room where I could see, to my dismay, that my mother and the Taylors had Just entered the dining room and were only about thirty feet away. Looking to my left, I saw my father listening carefully while both Mr. and Mrs. Taylor spoke.

Everyone seemed completely unaware of the oncoming disaster.

CAROLINA

Joy Allen

Yams? Did somebody say yams? Now that is a very strange kind of food to find in a depot.

Heat is early.

Light is fey.

Cool settles over Black Mountain, There is music in the trees, sweat in the coolness.

It is verging fullness.

It is art. There and forever.

Baby sweat soaks wool flowers and in my hair there is hope.

The cloohe-faoed bus lady. The poor white lady told me a story.

"It was a hot night.

I turned out the lights and fell asleep. Then awoke with the bulb in my eye.

'Beai , ' I said , 'Beai? is that you?'

But it wasn't...."

I saw her whole life then.

33

THE MAGICIAN'S KNIFE

[ne how t o fold and f i t myself i n t o h i s t r u n k .

I t was b l a c k with a s h i n y gold l o c k , and was l i n e d with b l u e flowered cloth.

After she c l o s e d the l i d on me, she t a l k e d to me through t h e l i t t l e h o l e s in t h e t r u n k .

She t o l d me how t o choose a h o l e by c o v e r i n g i t b r i e f l y with my f i n g e r so the magician could see t h e pink t i p wink at t h e h o l e b e f o r e I removed the f i n g e r .

And she t o l d me how t o avoid with my body when t h e m a g i c i a n threw h i s k n i f e the h o l e into its assigned s l o t .

"How f a s t i s the m a g i c i a n ' s k n i f e ? " I a s k e d . " F a s t e r than a t a l l b u i l d i n g , " she l a u g h e d .

"That reminds me of a n u r s e r y r h y m e , " I s a i d , " t h e one about t h e w i t c h ' s k n i f e . " And I r e c i t e d what I could remember :

Shelby Berryraan How s h a r p i s t h e w i t c h ' ' s k n i f e witch's knife, witch's knife Sharp enough to s p l i t a h a r e .

Try i t on your w i f e .

IT'S NOT BAD actually, kind of like spending a lot of time in bed cuddled under heavy covers pretending I'm somebody else, another body, another place. I thought of going away for a while, but I know that even if I stayed out of the trunk for a whole month, when I climbed back in, it would seem as if I had never been away—so what's the difference.

Inside the trunk it is kind of limited though, not much to do or see through the little holes. For some reason, the magician can't seem to fit his fingers through the little holes, even with his magic.

One thing about being in the trunk is that I get to do a lot of thinking. Mainly I think about magic. Or I wonder about the outside — the other side.

When I first got this job, I was looking for freedom and excitement. I had this skill with my body, so it seemed like a perfect match. In the beginning, it was. I saw a lot of places; I only had to get in the trunk in the afternoon. Myra did the night show.

Myra hired me.

My first day she took me into her trailer to show me where to put my things, but I didn't have any.

So she said, "All you've got is that long body."

I nodded eagerly and she smiled. "Let's see what I can find for you," she said and opened her trunk.

I sucked the straw in my soda and watched Myra while she pulled costumes out of her trunk. One by one, she held up the costumes and told me the story of each.

My favorite was covered with pink sequins.

When Myra had first worn it in Baton Rouge, someone threw a gold watch to her. Later, the man came to claim the watch, but he changed his mind and let her keep it, and he continued to visit her in her trailer every night until the magician found out.

Myra's costumes sparkled both in and out of her trunk. The ring on her finger glittered so regularly that, after watching it a while, 1 fell into a trance and tried to keep ray mouth from falling open.

When she finished, Myra tucked me into the bunk that was mine.

I listened to her jangly bracelets and watched her pale fluffy head float around the trailer for the few minutes it took me to fall asleep.

The next day Myra took me to the magician's tent to show

Can i t t a k e a s l i c e of l i f e s l i c e of l i f e , s l i c e of l i f e c u t t h e g l a r e and s l a s h t h e f a r e Try t h e w i t c h ' s k n i f e .

P e r f e c t for a b i t of s t r i f e b i t of s t r i f e , b i t of s t r i f e touch of mayhem, s t i r r i n g s c a r e Try i t on your w i f e . " I never heard t h a t o n e , " she s a i d s m i l i n g , and she gave me t h e pink sequined costume for my own because she s a i d i t made her f e e l s a d . " B e s i d e s , " she s a i d , " i t matches your hair ."

I wore i t for my f i r s t p e r f o r m a n c e .

The magician held my hand t h a t a f t e r n o o n as I stepped i n t o t h e t r u n k , and c l o s e d the l i d , and we each did our work. When he had thrown a l l h i s k n i v e s , t h e m a g i c i a n l i f t e d t h e l i d and held my hand again a s , u n s c r a t c h e d , I s t e p p e d out to wild c l a p p i n g .

I saw t h e t r u n k studded with k n i v e s , each one in t h e hole I had c h o s e n .

I bowed t o t h e a u d i e n c e with my long body and they never guessed how I could t w i s t m y s e l f around to avoid t h e m a g i c i a n ' s knives.

Sometimes he threw two a t o n c e .

I t h o u g h t him handsome and d a r k , but he never spoke t o me. I r a r e l y saw him e x c e p t when he touched my f i n g e r s b e f o r e and a f t e r the performance each a f t e r n o o n .

Whenever I t h o u g h t he was l o o k i n g a t me, I b l u s h e d and was calmed only when he touched my fingers.

I was proud each time I s t e p p e d from t h e t r u n k u n s c a t h e d , a t r i b u t e to h i s m a g i c .

I g u e s s e d he s t a y e d in h i s t e n t most of t h e t i m e , a n d , when Myra w a s n ' t with me, I f i g u r e d she was in h i s t e n t with him.

Every n i g h t I watched t h e i r show.

I hoped he t h o u g h t t h a t I looked as b e a u t i f u l as Myra d i d , when he opened t h e t r u n k and she stepped o u t .

When I w a s n ' t watching Myra and the m a g i c i a n , I watched the o t h e r a c t s .

I made f r i e n d s with t h e p e r f o r m e r s and l e a r n e d to h e l p them o u t .

I handed Lloyd t h e flaming sword for him to swallow, and Sam t a u g h t me how to t r a n s f o r m h i s face i n t o E l i z a b e t h T a y l o r ' s b e a u t y , or Abraham L i n c o l n ' s s o r r o w . On Sam's face I b u i l t up l a y e r s of t h e new face with

34 35

-m^ putty which I painted and bewigged.

When I finished, Sam would look in the mirror and guess who he was. Often I went to visit the fat lady. I wondered who she was beneath all her putty. She fed me candy, and I matched her, fudge for fudge, while she told me that she used to look just like me.

With the exception of the magician, we all took care of each other, sharing what we had, mainly smiles of one size or another. I never saw the magician smile at Lloyd, or Sam, or the fat lady, or even stop to drop a few words.

I thought that he must be lonely, but Myra said he just didn't like talking to people. When Myra was sad, 1 scrambled eggs for her. She liked the fluffy way I made them. I wanted to feed the magician, too, but Myra told me he didn't care about eating.

All that year we toured the country.

Myra and I alternated stints in the trunk, and ate scrambled eggs in our trailer. While she ate, I watched Myra's ring with the pink stone glitter back and forth to her mouth.

The places we passed through became just names after a while, and I stopped looking out the window when we travelled.

At Christmas it was warm. We were in Mobile. Myra gave each of us a present wrapped in blue paper decorated with little child angels dressed in white triangles.

I saw the magician's hand tremble as he untied his ribbon and opened the little box. He pulled out the gold watch and, suddenly, his face looked a lot like Sam being Abraham Lincoln, instead of full of Christmas cheer the way it should have been. His face weighed me down. I thought that, if only I had Sam's putty and paint, I would change the magician into Danny Kaye .

My present from Myra was her ring with the stone that glittered like a pink sequin. Τ was thrilled but it seemed to me that the magician looked at me and shook his head.

I blushed as usual. The ring was a little tight, and I haven't been able to get it off since, not that I really want to.

When we got to Baton Rouge, Myra was gone.

No one seemed surprised, although the magician looked less dark than usual. I cried, but the fat lady patted me and said to let her have her chance, to let her try the other side.

I wondered why the magician didn't bring Myra back, pull her out of his hat. But I didn't dare ask him, I wonder if Myra found someone to make scrambled eggs as good as mine.

In Natchez, the magician asked me to stay in the tent after the show so we could discuss my work.

While the audience dwindled away, I waited for the magician behind the curtain. There were a lot of blond wigs lying about, but no bed, and I wondered where he slept.

Soon he appeared.

"Would you care for gootay?" he asked. I didn't know what this gootay was. I thought it must be some kind of pig Latin, but I couldn't make sense of it, not even backwards. I have since learned that it means having tea, in French, but that afternoon I had soda and cookies.

The magician ate nothing. He told me I was doing a fine job and said he would like me to do the night show too. "For the night show," he said, "I would like you to wear this blond wig."

He placed it on my head.

"No," he said, "this one won't do." He tried another wig.

While he tucked my hair into the wigs, his fingers passed regularly over my cheeks and neck, and his words ran on softly. I couldn't understand what he said, but in my trance I didn't mind. When he was satisfied with the fit of the 36

f l u f f i e s t , p a l e s t w i g , he led me t o the t r u n k and removed one of t h e k n i v e s .

"Get i n , " he s a i d , "and l e t ' s see how you f i t now."

I folded myself i n t o the t r u n k the same as usua] .

"Good," he s a i d , "some of the s i l v e r h a i r s are s t i c k i n g out this hole.

When the k n i f e e n t e r s the h o l e i t w i l l s e v e r the h a i r s and they w i l l f a l l l i g h t l y to t h e f l o o r — a subtle touch."

I began to unfold m y s e l f . " W a i t ! " he s a i d , " I have a new idea for our a c t .

Put on t h i s s i l v e r c o s t u m e . " He t h r u s t i t a t me and, c l o s i n g t h e l i d over me, c o n t i n u e d s p e a k i n g . " I f you can change a t the same time as you a r e a v o i d i n g the k n i v e s , you w i l l appear to t h e a u d i e n c e to be two p e o p l e .

A pink g i r l w i l l e n t e r the t r u n k , and, a f t e r t h e k n i v e s , a s i l v e r g i r l w i l l emerge — b e f o r e and after."

After much e f f o r t in the t r u n k , I was r e a d y , and I knocked on t h e l i d .

He l i f t e d t h e l i d q u i c k l y and looked i n . " T h a t ' s f i n e , " he s a i d , ' b u t y o u ' l l have to p r a c t i c e and do i t faster."

He c l o s e d t h e l i d .

Again I knocked when I was r e a d y , and again he s a i d f a s t e r .

I s t r u g g l e d in and out of the costumes f a s t e r and f a s t e r .

"You a r e making p r o g r e s s , " he s a i d , "but you need some h i n t s . " I followed h i s i n s t r u c t i o n s and took h e a r t from h i s e n c o u r a g e m e n t .

I t r i e d to keep t r a c k of which c o l o r I wore, pink or s i l v e r , but I l o s t t r a c k .

I c a l l e d o u t , "Why d o n ' t you j u s t change me with some magic words?"

"No," he s a i d k i n d l y .

"You must do your own work f a s t e r and t a k e p r i d e in i t .

But now you need r e s t . " Then he opened the l i d .

My how you glow and g l i s t e n , " he s a i d , and I looked down and saw t h a t I was a l l s i l v e r , not j u s t m y s e l f .

We p r a c t i c e d for s e v e r a l d a y s , but s t i l l he s a i d f a s t e r , faster.

On the t h i r d day, I was having t r o u b l e with a particular strap.

"Use your f o o t , " he i n s t r u c t e d t h r o u g h a hole.

"No, not t h a t f o o t , " he s a i d . " I w i l l have to show you."

Then he opened the l i d and climbed in the t r u n k .

He climbed in t h e t r u n k with me f a s t e r and f a s t e r .

He climbed in the t r u n k with h i s m a g i c .

And with h i s magic he took me to a far p l a c e where i t d i d n ' t m a t t e r what c o l o r I was, or whether k n i v e s were s h a r p .

Day a f t e r day we went to the magic p l a c e .

I d i d n ' t go so o f t e n t o see t h e f a t l a d y anymore.

I stopped handing Lloyd h i s flaming sword, and Sam had to make h i s f a c e s by h i m s e l f .

One way or a n o t h e r , I was always in t h e m a g i c i a n ' s t r u n k and I never wanted t o l e a v e i t .

Same old s t o r y , I g u e s s , e x c e p t i t was new t o me t h e n , e s p e c i a l l y t h e p a r t with t h e k n i v e s .

I had to wear makeup on my body d u r i n g t h e shows; t h e m a g i c i a n said t h e s c r a t c h e s I got w h i l e we were in t h e t r u n k t o g e t h e r were bad for b u s i n e s s . " L e t ' s g e t r i d of t h e s e k n i v e s , " I s a i d t o him one day when we were in t h e t r u n k . " I t ' s too crowded with them in here . " " I ' m s o r r y , " he s a i d f i r m l y , "but we need my k n i v e s . My magic i s in my k n i v e s . " "You and your m a g i c , " I s a i d , "why d o n ' t you t u r n y o u r s e l f i n t o Danny Kaye.

Or why c a n ' t you swallow your k n i v e s l i k e Lloyd d o e s - - I never got cut on L l o y d ' s s w o r d . " At t h i s the magician paled. " I d o n ' t want you to g e t c u t , " he s a i d , "but i t ' s t h e only way."

Another day I p l e a d e d a g a i n .

"At l e a s t t a k e some of t h e k n i v e s o u t , " I s a i d , " e l e v e n or twelve p e r h a p s . " He a g r e e d , 37

in part, and removing six knives, held the lid open for me.

But when the lid closed on us all the knives were back in place.

We argued over the knives daily. The surface of my body progressed from a few lacerations to a plaid. After Lloyd cut his mouth on his sword I had nightmares about the knives. I told all this to the fat lady.

She shook her head sadly.

After that, the rest of the folks avoided me the same way they avoided the magician.

The magician grew thinner, and his darkness seemed to seep away, leaving hollows and dents in his face. I noticed this with a concerned eye, and kept my other eye on his knives.

I had to take steps to save us . I waited until one day when the magician went behind the curtain after the show.

Quickly, I removed all the knives from their holds, and locked myself in the trunk with them.

I heard him walking around, looking for me. He called to me but I didn't answer. Then it was quiet for a long time, and I fell asleep in the blue flowered lining of the trunk with the knives. I awoke to his voice.

"What are you doing in there," he said.

"Keeping your knives warm," I answered.

There was a pause while he noticed the knives missing from their holes.

"You must come out," he instructed.

"I won't," I said.

"I will make you come out," he said.

I saw the light, which came through the holes, flicker on the blue flowers as he tried to push his dark fingers through the holes. I watched the blue flowers dance about for quite a while. He did not give up.

I wanted to let him in.

"I will make a bargain with you," I said. Then all the holes became light once more. "I will trade you for your knives," I said. "You can come in if the knives go out." There was silence.

The light remained constant.

I opened the lid, and dumped the knives on the floor. The pale magician climbed into the trunk with me. The lid closed over us, and I waited. I waited quite a while but we didn't go anyplace. Finally, he turned to me in the dark trunk.

"You see," he said, "I cannot be separated from my knives."

I burst from the trunk, ran to my trailer, and locked the door.

But he came after me, and, making a hole in the trailer with one of his knives, he reached in and touched me with his fingers—I had to open the door.

He led me back to the empty trunk which bristled once more with his knives.

We folded ourselves together.

We closed the lid, and the wind whistled in our ears.

I wasn't sure we would come back at all, but we did, and when the magician opened the lid and saw me he hid his face in his hands. When he uncovered his face the dents and hollows were filled with water.

He helped me to the fat lady's trailer and left me at her door.

"Poor thing," she said^ "what a brute." Then she took care of me for several tfays ana I didn't go into the trunk. Once, I thought the magician came to see rae, but it was only Sam wearing the magician's face.

I got bored with the fat lady's fudge. One morning I went back to my trailer. At showtime I went to the magician's tent and found him throwing knives into the empty trunk. A few people were watching and snickering in the audience. Some 38

of the darkness came back into the magician's face when he saw me, and he lifted my hand gently as I stepped into the trunk.

After the first performance, more people came in. This time I got in the trunk pink and I came out silver.

The audience cheered as I got in once more and the magician threw his knives.

I lay there, waiting for him to open the lid.

I heard him fiddling with the lock.

The audience began to murmur. The show is over, I heard the magician announce. The grumbling grew louder.

As I lay among the sharp points I twisted my pink ring round and round. I wondered why he didn't let me out although I must admit the idea of staying in the trunk appealed to me.

Perhaps I could seal myself in, and plug up the holes with Sam's putty. Foolish dream. As if soft putty could withstand the magician's knives.

And then I lost my ring.

After fiddling with it all that time, it had come off and fallen to the bottom.

It was somewhere in the trunk with me, and the sharp points, but I couldn't find it.

I touched the sharp points of the knives, and I wondered if they could be turned aginst the magician. The next time he threw the knives, I could fail to avoid the holes. Then, when he lifts the lid, I will by lying in pieces, and he will be ruined.

The audience was silent, and the magician opened the lid. He helped me out and I saw that the people had all left.

"Where is your ring?" he asked quickly.

"I lost it in the trunk — why wouldn't you let me out?"

"I don't know. I'm tired of this work and I'm tired of this trouble. Let's get in the trunk and find your ring."

I saw that he was tired. I saw my chance to escape his magic. I saw I had a choice to make. "I'm thirsty," I said to him. "Please give me a drink." And while I sucked on the straw, the magician sat quietly beside me, his dark eyes closed. It told him I was ready. He smiled and took my hand.

"You're tired," I said.

"You go first and I will hold the lid for you.

He folded himself down into the trunk. I closed the lid with a ferocious bang. Like lightning, I pulled out all the knives and all his magic. Then I fled before I could let him out again.

Mow I have the knives and he doesn't. I have lost his fingers, and Myra's ring, but I keep telling myself that this is my chance to try the other side.

39

CAUSTIC POWDER

Theresa Maier

COMMENCEMENT

ĂŽill Christophersen

Does all this symmetry mean something terrible is to happen?

Is something required? a platform? candidate? does one mimosa lag behind? The seasons trespass less here, it's true, but weather is weather, and time zones away the gun's gone off. You have no more excuses.

Why

each breath is lightly drawn.

To breathe deeply is to scar the lungs not that cracked tiles, crumbling plaster, worn carpets or chipping paint could cause this pain It is the stale dust stirred by her feet that chokes each breath is lightly drawn.

Her lips part slightly and from her pasty mouth sour air escapes dissipates about her body: It is her pain cramping her intestines as she opens the door soft waste pushing through her bowels Her swollen feet slide across the carpet in a hallway too long she is midway between her room and the toilet Her hands press against the walls down her leg warm and moist The roaches will feed on her waste tonight She will feed on a sleep that feigns death and recalls the haunting sweetness when her legs wrapped and held the bodies of young men when her hand lifted each breast to the mouths of infants not this hand now that reaches to touch this leg each breath she takes alters the air.

To breathe deeply is to swallow her darkness and grope in the hallways of a forgotten hotel.

40 41

PALM SPRINGS

It is somewhat warm, but not warm enough.

Near-dawn races across the windshield, tickling Kevin's face with soft air. He counts palm trees. Monterey Country Club is encircled by a ten-foot cream-colored wall—a security guard lets through • '' them "' •• • an ultrasonic gate, They are locked up with Peter.

Six months ago, Peter, the third musketeer, was relegated to Palm Springs because he almost died two years ago.

He had cancer. Now he is in remission, and alone, waiting for his lungs to heal, missing New York City. Now the three of them are reunited; approaching a tearful welcome, they tip-toe around each other like heartbreaking new friends.

The conversation runs:

Erin Matthews

IT IS GREEN, almost m o r n i n g .

S o u t h e a s t of Los A n g e l e s , San Diego Freeway, Route 10, a white-winged C h e v r o l e t C a p r i c e c o a s t s a t a c o n s t a n t s i x t y t h r e e m i l e s per h o u r .

There a r e a few c a r s on t h e r o a d .

To t h e l e f t , Los Angeles s p a r k l e s e n d l e s s l y .

The p h o s p h o r e s c e n t orange speedometer waves t o c h o c o l a t e CHIPS on brown H a r l e y - D a v i d s o n m o t o r c y c l e s .

Palm t r e e s sway s i l e n t l y in p a c i f i c n e s s a t the edge of t h e r o a d .

The r a d i o b l u r t s a heavy b e a t — New Wave or D i s c o — i t d o e s n ' t seem to m a t t e r which, as long as i t i s l o u d .

I t keeps Kevin, a t t h e wheel, awake.

Bob, h i s companion, s n o r e s out t h e window.

"Yeah, s l e e p now, M i l e s .

After a l l t h a t t r o u b l e you gave the s t e w a r d e s s — " t h o u g h t Kevin.

"How, when i s something going to happen? I ' v e been in C a l i f o r n i a about an hour - - " The road i s s t r a i g h t and u n e v e n t f u l .

He does not see a n y t h i n g l i k e an expected P a t t y H e a r s t , or a Hollywood s t a r , or a b e a u t i f u l model; not even a f u g i t i v e Chicano or a m i l i t a n t farm w o r k e r .

J u s t f l a t , b o r i n g pavement.

A sudden o n s l a u g h t of l i g h t s t a r t l e s them b o t h : they s e e M i c h e l a n g e l o ' s David b r i l l i a n t l y l i t in f r o n t of a cemetery.

Kevin makes a c l o v e r - l e a f t o S a n d y ' s ; Bob grumbles for food in the s e a t b e s i d e him.

Tacos and p i n e a p p l e j u i c e , a v o c a d o - c h i c k e n e n c h i l a d a s , and papaya s h a k e .

The dime.

Cling, c l i n g , clung.

947-2046.

Click, cluck.

"Hello, Peter, we're h e r e . " "Jezuz!

Where have you guys been?

You'd b e t t e r get here f a s t .

I had some k a m i k a z e s , and then I took some b e n z i e s by m i s t a k e , and now t h e room i s jumping and s p i n n i n g .

I think I'm s e e i n g t h i n g s , or at l e a s t t h e y ' r e s e e i n g me.

Uh—hurry up. Where are you?"

Red neon I n d i a n words b l i n k by the pay p h o n e .

"At some t r a i l e r park in Palm S p r i n g s I t h i n k , P e t e r . " "All r i g h t .

You're about f i v e m i l e s away.

Take a l e f t a t Roy R o g e r ' s Chicken, a l e f t at Ramada I n n , a n o t h e r l e f t , and a n o t h e r l e f t .

Got i t ?

42

You? Fine .

Fine Flight?

Bad. Worse, Fine .

Family?

Queer, Crazy, Who? Friends?

Who? Crazy Women?

Bob and Kevin give each other I-know-you're-worrieddon ' t-kid-me-you-fool looks.

Peter looks pale and heavier.

Kevin has left school, and the cold, and the friends three thousand miles away.

Bob has left joblessness and disappointment. They are here to forget.

They cajole each other as they move toward the Jacuzzi.

Generic beer in hand, Bob mentions "old bags who croak in these things, all luded-out."

Kevin is lost, reaching into himself; he never wants to get up ever again.

The sun hangs a red-orange circle from behind the mountains.

Kevin looks across the golf course, and the trimmed grass, and the slow hills by the sand traps, through thousands of palm trees, toward Peter's condo, and watches the sun brighten the cubist mountains ten miles away.

He has watched enough television to imagine this.

They wake up in Fairyland; their dreamless minds as thin as the blue sky. It is the Oz of yellow air, cloudless lawns, and radiating highways: A large, climate-controlled room; several million feet wide and long; a breezeless eighty-five to ninety degrees.

Kevin, sticky with sweat, mumbles in half-sleep.

He smells Coppertone (Coney Island?), and chlorine (Miami?), and out grass (suburbia, New Jersey?).

"Heaven must be this bright," he thinks, stretching his arms toward the sun.

From the patio, they hear Donna Summer's "Bad Girls".

Peter dances in a purple velour bathrobe, clapping his hands.

"Well, good afternoon. It's about time. Let's see—you guys want some champagne? I got some stuff. Remember Terry?

The barmaid I told you about from Ceciles? You know—the good lay with the seven-year-old kid?

That kid loved me—fucking did," he pauses as if to wonder. "No champagne?

You sure?

You both want MILK?" Peter laughs.

Bob and Kevin laugh, too.

No one plays golf on the course about one hundred feet from the country club. From a window, while they eat steak 43

and french fries and drink Mexican beer, they see only the Mexicans, bent, pushing lawn mowers, clipping grass.

Persistent Mexicans and lined palm trees hum under the blistering sun .

Peter sips a Perrier.

"Lock at that ridiculous sun, that stupid son of a bitch would turn the grass and bushes brown within a week if it weren't for those Mexicans."

"What else would they do?" asks Bob. "They eat their lunch under palm trees," Peter continues, "they don't get any shade from the trees.

It's so sad. It would make you cry."

Private jets occasionally block the sun. They saturate the airport with mega-executives and mega-celebrities in mega-buck limousines heading to the golf courses.

"Look at that," said Peter, pointing. "Every day. Every day they play golf.

Every day.

You know, these biggies revolve around the Bob Hope Desert Classic. Did you see that big hospital complex on your way here?

"The five buildings in the middle of nowhere?" asks Kevin .

"Yeah, those. Typical isn't it? Hope built it with the proceeds from the Classic. Best medical talent in the state of California, yep, it has an alkie dry-out clinic for all the VIPs' wives.

You can probably see it from here."

Peter gestures vaguely. "It's real close. Real close."

Kevin wriggles, slightly uncomfortable.

"Close enough so no one has to worry about going too unexpectedly.

Miracle workers, really, maybe give you five years. Five years to play golf, and complain, and sit in the sun, and vote Republican." He pauses, "Yeah, well..."

"Have you ever thought about Heaven, Kevin?" asks Peter suddenly, not waiting for an answer.

"In Heaven they have butter, yes they do, they have buttered popcorn — not much butter — and they sit around and watch Charles Grodin movies.

In Purgatory there is no butter, no movies.

Just dry popcorn . " Kevin laughs, not knowing what else to do.

Peter grins, "Yessir," he says, "Yessir. Palm Springs has everything you can think of. It has everything."

Kevin looks at Peter, then looks outside the window. He feels very removed from this, alone.

It is a spotless, quiet town, a community of stucco walls. The ubiquitous palm trees hang over the edge. There are multitudinous real estate offices.

There are apparently many others who would like to be included in the dream, others who need to hide. Names among the money, the thousands with the millions.

Here, in the desert, they are sleeping, away from daily America.

Los Angeles and San Diego are two hours away.

The Tiimes is a daily intrusion, but, if it is not picked up in the morning, the sprinklers drench it before noon, when the bushes by the doorstep are glazed with the soft halo of the rain machines.

"It has not rained.

It never rains in Coachella Valley," says Peter, jarring Kevin's reverie with his usual, almost psychic ability.

"Look, it's late in the afternoon, let's DO something. I promised you guys a great time, didn't I? Let's see. Do you want to tour the paper? I know it is only a weekly, but some of the old fellows down there really know their stuff. And they're not half-bad to you as long aS you keep your mouth shut. No? Well, what do you want to do?"

44

"We're kind off tired, Peter. How about just lying by the pool for a while?" asks Kevin distractedly.

"Okay. I guess.

You guys do need a tan before you get back to New York.

New York. Kevin hadn't thought about it for a while, and sitting in Peter's powder-blue Buick Regal, it seemed like another world, far away. Only yesterday, he was in the cold gray subway.

And this—so clean it is here, how perfect.

Everything maintained in blues and pinks and greens. Kevin closes his eyes, lays back on the Bill Blass upholstery, and doesn't say anything for awhile.

For the rest of the week, they fry by the pool again and again, doing nothing again and again. The sun burns in the sky, doing the same again and again, burning. They don't read, they don't talk; they cultivate brown evenly tanned bodies.

Quiet. Near-dead. But sunny. HOT. And from cold, wet New York City rain, it reads paradise. Threes and threes and threes of mornings, mid-mornings, and afternoons drift by with idle conversations, deep memories, and no mention of cancer.

Everything is controlled and comfortable until the last day.

The night before. Peter and Kevin and Bob head for the discos in the twilight pink and purple of the desert.

They are Immediately surrounded by a time warp of middle-aged clientele dancing for heart attacks. The make-up is thick; the hair is thin.

With Budweiser, Gallo red and white, marijuana and cocaine, valium, pink and yellow pills—a little here, a little there — a look at him, a look at her, they cruelly comment. After the cocaine. Bob is dancing with the waitress with the fat legs.

After the valium, Kevin slumps on a barstool. They are numb.

The next morning, Peter is quiet, and he says a cordial good-bye, but little else, as they pack to go home.

"Well, home to The City," states Peter as he loads his oar. "Yeah..."

On the way to the airport, Kevin watches Rancho Mirage whiz by as he thinks about New York. They careen past Gerald Ford's three-million-dollar home sitting next to a golf course. They make a screaming right at Spiro Agnew's Rancho Rico.

The cruise down Frank Sinatra Avenue, slightly lost inside two rows of quiet palm trees.

"No," Kevin thinks as he gets into the plane, "this is not New York. Not The City. The Nightmare City where there are classes, and shes, and scums. He looks down to Peter, an image in the window, waving good-bye energetically. "I can't think about it now," he realizes, returning the farewell.

In a few minutes their jet juts into the desert, cutting the just-blue, never-changing sky. In a few hours, they land home in The City—the next day like a bad dream.

The next afternoon, Kevin rouses himself, in his small apartment, for some black coffee. Well, he is back. This is New York, so real — too real, he told himself. It is all too dirty and cold to comprehend right away. He needs time. He needs a vacation.

But Jeez, he had just returned from a Vacation.

"Let's see I 'm hungry.

What have I got laying around?"

An Oreo cookie.

The phone rings An end of bread 45

"Peter? What the...what's the matter?"

Peter's voice is hysterical.

"You're coming home? Again? This time for good? But Peter, I thought ..."

Screams—about isolation tanks and plasticarci paranoia and taxicabs and Christmas with the family and snow—gush, blubbery, out of the phone receiver and into the kitchen.

"Well, Peter if you really think you ought...! guess you know...have you asked the doot...you don't care? But. Okay, okay, you want me to meet you? When? Okay, okay, yes, I'll be there...I'11 be there... Peter , get some control of yourself, for Chrissakes."

The kitchen is silent, the window lined with ice.

"Peter?

You still there? You okay? Okay. You sure about this now? Dead sure. Peter, that's not funny, Stop laughing. What's going on? You on drugs or something? This isn't very funny, you know — " "I'm coming home, Kevin." The voice is quiet, steady.

"Well, I'll meet you Peter," Kevin laughs. "Yes, what?

I said I will, yes, yes.

Good-bye.

See you soon, um, I guess."

Kevin hangs up, shaking his head and continues his search for something to eat. "Yeah, New York. I'm here. The City, and I'm here." He finds some spaghetti, "Yup, New York has just about everything."

He heats some water, and waits.

STILL LIFE OF GRANNY SMITH

Theresa Maier

in the middle of the table in the kitchen Granny Smith sits, sat there for weeks now.

She' s

When I bought her she was crisp.

My hand rumbled through the pile of fruit until I felt her skin.

My fingers balanced and rotated her body.

My fingertips pressed her firm sides.

Then my fingernail broke her skin: foamy juice from her core circled around my nail, dripped down my finger into my palm.

Now her green skin folds and pulls away from her drying meat, smaller than when I first placed her in the basket. The sun hits the center of the table in the afternoon when I iron.

46

She's

STARS OVER ALASKA

Barbara Milton

IT IS ST. PATRICK'S DAY in Miami. Bryn Corley is looking in the mirror and deciding whether or not to curl her hair. When she curls it, it comes out tight and blonde and emphatic like Harlow's; when she sleeks it back off her face the Grace Kelly comes forward.

How she looks tonight is very important.

She and Pat Kiernan have been invited to dine at the home of a very rich and well-connected old lady.

It is not inconceivable that Robert Mitchum will be there. Bryn thinks she will curl her hair .

This could be her big break. She has an idea that if she walked into an office—any office, even in Hollywood—with a good tan, they would offer her a job.

And she very much wants to be offered a job. For three years she has been out of the market and out of the country. But even in Europe the women she knew had interesting Jobs and were making good salaries .

"I wonder if it's too late to get in as a starlet?" she asks herself.

"I may be thirty one but I've never been prettier. I'm thin and I'm tan and I speak French fluently."

She knocks over a warm bottle of Sassoon Hair Oil and turns quickly to see if Pat stirred. He's napping after a day of department stores. He's sixty-five years old and likes to buy her things.

Out of the room she tiptoes with her tape recorder.

Quietly she shuts the door to the bedroom.

Slipping across the living room and into the kitchen she picks up a bottle of vitamin B-15.

Bryn has been told it can keep you young forever but only if you pop about eight at a time. She tosses 12 into her mouth and washes them down with six M&Ms. Then she opens the refrigerator for a swig of lite beer.

Beside the beer, in an almost empty refrigerator, stands a bottle of tonic water and an ancient alarm clock.

Pat has six new Tangled time-tellers around the apartment, but this is the only one Bryn allows him to wind. He is obsessed by time but Bryn can't stand the ticking.

"Really," she thinks.

"I have no concept of time at all." When her brother came down she asked him what month it «7

was.

"Oh, come on," he said condescendingly.

"It's St. Patrick's Day," she snaps her fingers.

"I wish I had something green to wear.

As her memory reaches out for the color of her hair ribbons, her fingers stroke the tape recorder. One pushes the play button, another rolls back the volume. Wherever she goes (except out to dinner) the tape recorder is with her and her fingers can govern it like an accountant's, a calculator.

"Uh Uh Uh Uh Staying Alive" Bryn plays disco music when she is free to dance and country and western when stillness is called for. But now the disco and vitamins fill her with boogie. Her teeth press in over her lower lip and her chin and shoulders harmonize in a series of small jerks. She has seen the movie "Saturday Night Fever" three times and John Travolta is her latest unrequited love.

"I need love to keep warm I've been kicked around since I was born" Out on the terrace she leans over the railing smiling at the sun and her own good fortune.

Seven stories below, million-dollar yachts bob in the sun-still marina.

"Mother hated the people who owned these yachts and yet she came down for a week and stayed for three."

It had been embarrassing having her mother around.

Every night she'd get drunk and ask people their ages. One night someone asked her her age.

She giggled, became flustered and threw her arms around Bryn. "Guess! How old do you think I am to have such a young-looking daughter?"

Pat couldn't stand her. The night after she stayed out late with a captain, Pat humiliated her at the dinner table.

Thirteen guests were present as witnesses. Bryn thought she should have said something, tried to spare the woman, but she didn't want to. What had her mother ever done for her? For years she had been calling Bryn a whore, but she came down.

They all called her a whore, but they all came down.

"I've really got to get a job," thinks Bryn. "I'd like to do something really well and get paid a lot of money for it.

I suppose I do this well." She imagines the word "concubine" spanning three years on a resume. "But I don't want to do this anymore."

Still, she doesn't regret it. She has done things and gone places that she would never have done or gone to otherwise.

These three months with Pat; a year and a half with a French count. The count was also a set designer. They went all over on the search for locations. She had been to Switzerland, the Seychelles, Morocco.

She had dipped artichoke leaves with Belmondo and played gin rummy with Pacino.

"I want to be a star!" thinks Bryn with the enthusiasm of a first thought.

But she has already told Pat that she wants a career and preferably one that takes place in L.A. He said he would ask Maggie Biokle.

Maggie knows everyone, especially in Hollywood.

"Is she really very rich?"

"Yes, she's very rich."

Bryn decides to brush back her hair.

Out into the pink and gray twilight that hangs heavily over the concrete strips of Miami's super highways, Bryn pulls 48

Pat's Cadillac. Pat is sitting to her right in his blue and white seersucker, pressing an invisible brake with his loafer.

"Right here.

Slow down to 50.

Better get into the outer lane. Take this exit."

Though Bryn's gut twists over taking directions, she needs him tonight and will humor him with obedience.

"Who did you say she used to be married to?"

"Jay Guthrie."

"Who's he?"

"I don't know. Some son of a Robber Baron."

"Like the Rockefellers?"

"The Rockefellers and the Astors..."

"The Whitneys and the Vanderbilts?"

"The Reids..."

"The Guthries?"

"All that crap."

"Which husband is this?"

"Four."

"Is he somebody?"

"No one particular. Maggie was a beautiful woman, but difficult.

Like most women, she became less beautiful and more difficult.

By the time she was sixty she had to take what she could get."

Bryn glances at herself in the rearview mirror just as the car passes under a street lamp.

It's horrible what fluorescent lighting can do.

You're driving along feeling your Grace Kelly bone structure and you check into the mirror to be sure that it's true and what the mirror gives back to you with the aid of the lighting is the yellowing criss-cross of age by your eyes. Bryn looks at Pat. Except for his eyes, he's in pretty good shape.

A tall, thin, angular man, Pat is caught in the vortex between elegant and grotesque. The way that he dresses—the Jacket, the polo shirt, gray straight-legged trousers—is elegant.

How he signals waiters, turns his ear only when spoken to, says nothing when he has nothing to say — all this is elegant.

But his disease: they call it moon-eyes in horses. Moon-eyes mean horses will eventually go blind. Pat has a year and a half of sight to go. After that, the white half moons that are invading the irises will rise up completely and block out the light. Even now Pat can't see at night.

Even now there is something terrifying in his look.

Bryn has seen children refuse to approach him. But Pat is no martyr, he stays away from children. He keeps company instead with horses and women and prefers horses because they don't have any pity. That's why he likes Bryn — because she doesn't either.

He has often told her that she reminds him of his favorite mare who happens to be barren yet full of herself. he says she is feisty and quirky and lusty.

No good for breeding but excellent for display.

Bryn parks the Cadillac at the dead end of one of the more dilapidated streets, across from a high stucco wall that is covered with kudzu.

As she and Pat approach the gate, three fierce white dogs hurl themselves against the bars. The dry black skin around their teeth wrinkles up into the shiny wetness of their pink and freckled gums.

"Hoopla!" shouts a man who is standing in the doorway.

A uniformed houseboy rushes from the Spanish mansion to Restrain the other two.

"Don't worry," says the Colonel.

"They only bite 49

delivery boys."

Colonel Bickle, known as Bic , looks like a Kentucky colonel. His hair is white-yellow, his large face is bright red, his nose looks swollen and he has no beard.

"Shake the hand of the owner of the winner at today's races." He is friendly and gracious and wears a soft Hawaiian shirt.

"Who won it?" asks Pat. "Big Duke."

Bryn shakes his hand and enters the high, beamed living room. From the mantel up, the room looks like a church. Down below it is more like a store-room for different periods of antique Junk. In the Victorian cluster, plopped against the gold velvet of a Queen Anne's chair, sits Maggie Bickle. She doesn't notice Bryn at first. She seems lost, far away, in her own meditation. Her face is still handsome; her profile is noble; one gray strand falls loose from her rider's knot.

Bound up inside the sheen of a green and purple pantsuit, her large body is rigid, she can barely move her neck.

Bryn notices immediately Maggie's disdain for convention in the half-zipped zipper at the nape of her neck.

And she seems angry.

Glancing back at Bic who is getting credit for her race horse; pulling at the bottom of the blouse she didn't choose; clutching at the belly from which the pancreas has been removed and finally looking up at Bryn who is beautiful and young.

"Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm Bryn Corley.

What a marvelous room this is.

I've heard so much about you."

Maggie doesn't answer but turns her head like a periscope until her sight catches Pat. He hurries toward her and stoops to embrace her while Bryn makes herself comfortable and spreads her skirt across the settee.

On the coffee table stands an unopened box of toy-shaped corn chips.

"May I have a bugle?" Bryn asks cheerfully.

"Help yourself" is Maggie's answer.

Her tone is surprised.

Dinner is to be served aboard a mahogany yacht.

Mr. Mitchum will not be there. Bic leads the way across the back lawn through the azaleas and the gardenias and the aloe plants, past the grand old cedars dripping globs of Spanish moss, along the cockled sea wall to the mahogany yacht. It gleams like Bryn's mother's own dining room table.

Pat stays behind with Maggie. Both of them are horsebreeders and they have things to discuss.

There is an epidemic of gonorrhea among the horses in Maryland where both Pat and Maggie maintain their large farms. Bryn has noticed how edgy Pat has been lately. He starts drinking at noon and can't fall asleep until dawn.

For Maggie horses are horses and breeding is a hobby, but all of Pat's money is tied up in the business and most of his thoughts are tied up in his stallions.

Bryn crosses the gangplank ahead of Bic. She is startled at the expanse and dryness of the deck, She always assumed that in spite of massive exteriors, yachts were just boats; damp and claustrophobic inside.

Not this yacht. This yacht is a Trumpie. The Trumpie is the Rolls Royce of yachts. This is no fragile, floating thing subject to the wind or the current in the water. This

yacht is a vault. Every room is carpeted and curtained. The furniture is ample; the living room is wide.

There is an organ, a television, a desk and an easy chair.

Over the dining room table is a crystal chandelier.

And built into the wall along the staircase leading to the sleeping quarters below, are bookshelves filled with first editions and leather-bound books. In the master bedroom a color T.V. sits on a shelf over the foot of a double bed.

Smaller T.V, sets are placed between twin beds in two of the three other guest rooms. Even the bathroom is a normal-sized bathroom, but with luxurious trimmings. Bryn sits down on the mahogany toilet seat, pulls out and reads astrological messages written in series of twelve on the toilet paper.

Later, she reaches for a cord that's not there and then notices a brass pedal on the floor at her feet.

A gentle swish of fragrant blue water circles and cleans and refills the bowl .

"The best thing about it," says Bic who has been waiting by the staircase, "is that if you don't like your neighbors you can pick up and leave."

"It's better than fences!" Jokes Bryn. She likes their exchange and will store it for her memoirs: "To pick up and leave can be better than fences."

While they wait on the deck for their more businessminded partners, Allan, the cook, comes to take orders for drinks.

Bryn listens politely to Bic go on about his children, Maggie's step-children, but she would rather be inside listening to Maggie. Bic mentions he was a pilot once and an engineer in Central America.

"You lived in Central America?" Bryn asks, "So did my grandfather. He worked for IT&T. When he moved States he bought the Gatsby house on Long Island, back to the You know. the big pink house? I lived there myself."

When it appears as though Bic has never heard of Gatsby, the two sit in silence and listen to a speedboat. The sound reminds Bio of something he forgot to remember.

His mouth falls open, he straightens his back, he moves right up to the edge of his chair.

"It was the most horrible thing I ever saw and it happened right out here in the harbor." His voice fills with the terror of a child telling a ghost story for the fiftyfirst time.

"Out of the clear blue came this speedboat, a sharp, skinny thing—I think they're called cigarettes.

It buzzed right in front of us, practically splashing us, then it headed straight for a yellow yacht less than a hundred yards away.

"A big gray-haired woman was sitting in a deck chair, I think she was fishing, I can't remember for sure.

The cigarette jumped over her, landing on the other side.

We couldn't believe it! And then we saw that the propeller had cut her legs off Just above the knees." The colonel's eyes were wide open with guilt, begging Bryn not to hold witnesses responsible.

"We gave her our blankets. And all Us. We phoned ahead for the Coast Guard. the ice we had with What else could we do?"

"How old was she?"

"Around my age."

"Sixty-five?"

"Well, closer to sixty."

"Did she go into shock?"

50 51

"Of course she went into shook!"

"Is she alive?"

"Last I heard."

"I can't imagine a person of that age surviving a thing like that."

At Just this moment Maggie is crossing the gangplank on the arms of the nurse and the shoulders of Pat. Bic and Bryn watch as the trio slides forward, then stoops and disappears into the yacht. But neither move; they are too wrapped up in their vision.

"The best teaser I ever saw had a crooked penis," says Maggie.

"What's a whore?" asks Bryn.

"A whore is a mare who is always in heat but never gets pregnant. " "Why call her a 'whore'?"

"Because she loves it, that's why."

"Why not call her a teaser too?"

"No, the mares are called testers. When a stallion has Just come down from the racetracks, he's either a virgin or hasn't screwed in six months.

His first load of __ _,—... sperm .„ is going to be stale. You don't want to put it into a good mare, so you bring the test mare in and the stallion unloads into her. Otherwise, it's Just a waste." He turns his palms up, then returns them to his lap where he picks up his napkin and wipes his hands off.

The telephone rings.

This startles Bryn so much she drops her artichoke heart into the butter bowl. Allan answers it and calls Bic to the phone. It is the lawyer of a woman who is suing the Bickles. Bic listens a while, then speaks with a raised voice.

"Tell her she doesn't have a leg to stand on."

Maggie looks surprised. "I've never heard him talk like this!" she turns her head slowly to the right, to the left, including both Pat and Bryn in her sweep of astonishment.

"It's about time!"

"And furthermore," Bic says as much to his wife as to the lawyer, "If she persists in this tomfoolery, we intend to countersue."

"He's on our side," says Bic returning to the stable.

"Wait a minute," asks Byrn. "If he's her lawyer how can he be on your side?"

"He's in love with her."

"And she's out screwing some German veterinarian," adds Maggie.

"Who we introduced her to in Europe."

"Sounds like a plot for a movie," says Bryn.

"You love movies, don't you," states Maggie. "Somehow I knew you loved movies."

The roast beef arrives in very thin slices, scattered with mushroom sauce on individual plates. A wedge of tomato sits like a rose to the side.

"Iggy?" calls Maggie to an ugly yellow dog who is sleeping on a chair in the corner. "Come over here, Iggy."

The dog Jumps to the floor and crawls under the table where Maggie delivers several slices of beef.

Bryn watches hungrily.

"You should have seen him in the hospital," says Maggie to Pat. "They smuggled him in in a blanket. I thought I was going to die and I wanted to say goodbye to him.

I was kissing him one last time when the Duke called. I was crying so hard I couldn't talk to the Duke. He said, 'That's okay Maggie. I understand. I'll call you tomorrow.' I love that man. He's got cancer."

As Allan comes out with a fresh bottle of wine, Bryn asks Maggie if she is going to eat her mushrooms.

"No," huffs Maggie. "I don't like mushrooms."

"Do you think I could have them?

Unless, of course, Iggy wants them. Perhaps I could share them with Iggy."

"Iggy doesn't like mushrooms either."

"Dinner is ready," Allan announces politely.

"Get in here," yells Maggie. "We want to eat."

Maggie is plunked sourly at the head of the table on a red leather bench that's built into the wall. She waits for the others to decide on their places and after they do, she waits for dinner. Like a child or a patient, she is always waiting for the next thing.

The first course is pompano.

Bryn is very fond of pompano and her appetite is not curbed when Maggie talks of gonorrhea .

"It all started in the Queen's stables."

"Did the Queen know?" Bryn asks.

"No, but her manager did."

"Why didn't he tell her?"

"He was too polite," says Pat. "How did i t g e t to America?"

"A French stallion brought it."

"Those French stallions!" says Bryn who spent two years in Paris.

After the pompano Allan brings out the artichokes: four whole artichokes and two different sauces.

"I can't eat all that!" snaps Maggie.

Allan removes her plate and brings it back with half an artichoke. He then refills the wine glasses and returns to the kitchen.

"Wonderful little fellow," says Bic. "We could never replace him."

"Remember Sonny?" asks Maggie.

"That little pony we found in our front yard?"

"Sonny?" asks Bic. "Oh, I g u e s s t h a t w a s n ' t you. We found t h i s pony in our f r o n t yard and nobody ever claimed him.

We k e p t him around— he made a g r e a t l i t t l e t e a s e r . " "What's a teaser?" Bryn asks.

"A teaser," says Pat putting his elbows on the table.

He coughs and clears his throat and wipes his mouth with a napkin. His cloudy blue eyes which are generally half closed are wide open now in the presence of Maggie. "It's like this.

You don't want to get your stallion's balls kicked off by some bitch mare who's not in heat.

So you get another, smaller horse—or maybe a pony—to tease her. You tie her down by all but one leg then you mount the tease on her.

If she's in heat, she'll take him. Just as he's about to come you have a couple of men ready to yank his penis out and twist it to the side. " "The poor teaser!" says Bryn.

"Oh, well. We give them a whore a couple times a year."

52

à

53

After Bryn has finished Maggie's mushrooms and the roast beef left on Pat's plate, she glances at the beef still sit­ ting on Bic's plate. But Maggie, having already noticed it, stares and continues to stare at Bic until Allan has safely removed all the plates.

"Do you have some coffee?" grunts Pat. "Yes, sir. And would you care for dessert?"

"What do you have?"

"Fruit salad, sir."

Maggie points to a large basket of fancy fruit. "Robert Mitchum sent us that. He was here last night."

"He was?" moans Bryn. Then she quickly turns to Allan, "Do you have any ice cream?"

"I have chocolate ice cream."

"Ummmm ,rayfavorite."

"You do like to eat," observes Maggie. "How do you stay so slim?"

I'm getting pretty good, "I play a lot of tennis, wouldn't you say, Pat?" Pat holds out his hand and tips it back and forth.

When Allan comes back with dessert, Pat clears his throat again. He is a three-pack-a-day man and has to do this often. His head gives an involuntary shake and he leans back in his seat. "I want to ask you something," he announces to no one in particular.

"Sir?" asks Allan.

"Not you. I'm not talking to you."

"Can I get you anything else, sir?"

"No, nothing." Pat sulks. No one can figure out what he wants.

"Would you like me to disappear, sir?"

"Oh," says Bryn brightly. "Can you do that too?" But when nobody laughs she shrugs her shoulders, "Well, he can do everything else."

Allan quickly removes himself.

"I want to ask a favor!" It is very difficult for Pat to ask people favors.

"What is it, sweetheart?" asks Maggie, covering his fist with her hand .

"Bryn wants to go to Hollywood. She wants to get a job there "What kind of job?"

"Something to do with the movies."

"You want to be an actress?" Maggie asks in such a way as to lead Bryn to answer.

"No, no, I don't want to be an actress. I want to work in the production end of things.

Maybe with an agent or something ."

"An agent! What do you want to work with an agent for?"

"I know it's the armpit of the industry, but you've got to start somewhere."

Maggie turns to Pat. "She knows what I think of the idea," says Pat. "She knows that I think tthat it's foolish and futile.

But she wants to go anyway. Is there anything you can do for her?"

"You want my advice, honey?" Maggie says To Bryn, "I have a feeling you're going to give it to me."

"Stay away from it.

There is no worse place in the world than Hollywoood and I've known some lousy places. Look at the horse business!

But let me tell you, you. the horse 5η

business is nothing compared to Hollywood I ought to know.

I was up for Scarlet."

"You were up for Scarlet!" Bryn sprays chocolate ice cream all over the table.

"And they damn near took me, too. But they put me on this train with David Selznik and he tried to get me to do something all the way from New York to Los Angeles. Can you imagine that? Listen, honey, you know what you have to do in order to make it in Hollywood? You have to sleep with Jews, You wouldn't want to do that."

"I'd like to enjoy my own mistakes."

Maggie shakes her head. "Where's Liza?" she asks Bic. "Liza would take her around."

Bryn lifts the bowl and scoops out the last spoonful of ice cream, all the while keeping her eyes on Maggie. Then she puts the bowl down, wipes off her chin, and becomes serious.

Her voice loses its girlish impressionability.

"Look, I love the movies. It's been the one thing I've been interested in all my life. When I lived in New York, i saw ten, sometimes twenty movies a week.

A couple double features in an afternoon were nothing to me. I stood in line for two hours in the pouring rain to see the seven A.M. showing of "The Godfather" and I had already seen it the night before.

"And I've been in several movies.

One in Switzerland with Al Pacino and a couple of others.

And I write, too.

I've been writing my memoirs every day for a year.

That's what I really want to be. I want to be a writer."

"Oh, phoo," says Pat. "She can't write."

Bryn puts her chin In one hand and without looking at Pat flicks her lighter at his unlit cigarette. He takes her hand and brings the flame forward.

"Well," admits Maggie.

"It shouldn't be too hard to find a job for a girl as smart and attractive as you are.

Bic, let's call Chuck Heywood. He can get her a job. Maybe a small one at first."

"Oh, I don't mind," says Bryn, full of hope.

"When are you ready to start?"

"Well, I have to go back to Paris.

And, umm, maybe sublet my apartment there. I had sort of thought that I might go to Greece. God," she muses out loud. "I hate to work in the summer. Maybe at the end of August?

Or the beginning of September?" job,

"Forget

it, baby," shoots Maggie.

"You don't want a

Bryn lowers her eyes and Pat leans back in his chair.

"We'll see what we can do for you," says Bio sweetly.

So the answer is "no" .

One minute they have her climbing out of limousines with Liza Minelli, the next minute those limousines have four locked doors.

Bryn sits on some imaginary curb feeling a rush of aloneness which is surpris­ ingly pleasant and not unfamiliar.

There is something so definite about "no". It squeezes all of the hope out of you.

For a moment you can slow down, stop looking for the rainbows.

You'd have to be stupid to want what you can't have and Bryn feels the peace and the quiet of not wanting. She feels small again and in control of that smallness and glancing around at all the big people at the table, she draws consolation from the fact she's not them.

"Maybe we ought to go," she says. "You've been ill and 55

^

we s h o u l d n ' t keep you u p . " "Oh, h e l l .

I d o n ' t s l e e p anyway.

I s l e p t four h o u r s a f t e r t h e o p e r a t i o n and t h a t was i t .

Haven't s l e p t s i n c e . " "Take p i l l s , " s u g g e s t s B y r n .

"Don't take p i l l s , " orders Pat. "I'd rather not "I never take pills," says Maggie, sleep than take pills."

"So would I," says Pat. "At least I'm doing something. I know that I'm alive."

Bryn takes a cigarette from Pat's pack.

He lights it for her as Maggie looks on contemptuously.

Maggie turns to Bic .

"Let's call the Duke."

"We could do that."

"Better yet, let's send him the trophy.

We'll have it engraved: 'To Duke from Big Duke.'

He'll love that. He's not going to last long. One lung and he's still smoking. Now it's his heart."

"How old is he?" asks Bryn.

"Seventy one."

"How old are you?"

"Seventy one." Maggie looks at Bryn as if to dismiss her and then turns to Pat. "He's got one of those breathers."

"He probably has pneumonia," says Bryn lightly.

"When you get old, pneumonia gets you."

Maggie winces and reaches for Pat's hand.

He looks at her with sad affection and nods for Byrn to pass the cigarettes .

"I guess we'll have to go." "They're all gone," she says.

"Just stop smoking cigar"Don't go," says Maggie, ettes."

"It's just a habit." you .

"Get another habit. One that's good for "But I like smoking.

I Just took it up.

"Call the Bio , "Humph," says Maggie and turns to Captain ."

"It's too late to call the Captain."

"Go a h e a d , c a l l h i m . " "You w o n ' t have t h e C a p t a i n for long i f you c a l l him at t h i s hour." " I w o n ' t have you for long i f you d o n ' t . " Bio i g n o r e s h e r .

She makes a f a c e .

You'd feel like " A r e you o k a y ? " asks B r y n . insides taken out.

But I "No. I'm not o k a y .

I f e e l hole l i k e in s h imy t , side where a bag s h i t t o o i f y o u ' d had h a l f your c o n s i d e r myself lucky.

There's a used t o b e . " "You c o n s i d e r y o u r s e l f l u c k y ? " Bryn s t i c k s her neck out to d i s b e l i e f .

"Hell, yes.

I d o n ' t have t h e b a g ! " Maggie moves back and f o r t h on t h e bench and t r i e s t o b o o s t h e r s e l f u p .

"I've got t o go d o w n s t a i r s , " she s a y s in a v o i c e t h a t ' s n o t p l e a d i n g but w o u l d n ' t mind h e l p . to do it herBic s i t s s t i l l ; Pat p u l l s o u t t h e t a b l e . " D o n ' t h e l p h e r , " warns B i c .

"She h a s It's the only way that self." " S h i t h e e l , " growls Maggie. " T h a t ' s what t h e d o c t o r s a i d s h e ' l l g e t any b e t t e r . " 56

"Oh, go to hell," says Maggie.

But slowly, step by step, she makes her way to the staircase.

Once there, she braces her shoulder against the wall.

Sliding her hand along the railing she pauses at each step to catch up with her breath.

"The doctor gave her six months without the operation," says Bic. "She was resisting it. She didn't want to go to the hospital."

"Knucklehead ! " comes Maggie's voice up from below.

Soon she is back in her seat Just as feisty as ever and it is she who hears the footsteps walking around in the kitchen.

"Is that you. Captain?"

A young male voice says that it is.

"What happened?

Find anything?"

"Maggie!" reprimands Bic. "He doesn't care. He loves the young girls."

The Captain comes into the living room.

He is tall, blonde and movie-star handsome.

"Oh," says Bryn, brightening.

"I bet you smoke Marlboros . " "He doesn't smoke," says Maggie coldly.

The Captain smiles.

"Well, I Just happen to have some cigarettes with me," and he tosses a pack of Marlboros on the table in front of Bryn.

"Thanks," smiles Bryn as she reaches for the cigarettes, but Pat is there before her and she withdraws her hand.

He puts two in his mouth, lights both, and gives her one.

"We couldn't keep him if we didn't let him bring his beautiful mates on board," says Maggie.

"They stay a few days, then he starts flirting with the other girls. The first ones get mad and before you know it they're gone."

"Test mares," laughs Bryn, flashing her blue eyes at the Captain, who smiles and bows and says goodnight for the evening .

"Don't you mind?" asks Pat indignantly the minute the Captain has left the room.

"Mind?" asks Bryn.

"She's a breeder by profession."

She tosses this off with the slip of her smile, but something inside her is stirring and tightening.

The Captain reminds her of another world where everyone is young and the partners are rotating; where romance itself is the core of life's work and no one has money and everyone gets by.

For a while.

Until the next season and the next season and the next season and the next.

Then even the test mares ,are put out to pasture. "Not me," thinks Bryn. "I loathe the country."

She will stay in New York and buy a senior membership and spend her afternoons at the Museum of Modern Art. There along with dozens of other old movie fans she will slump into the suede seats in the Roy and Niuta Titus Auditorium.

She will watch Dick Powell re-runs and avant-garde films and wait with the rest of them for the rumble of subways to vibrate the floor and the soles of their feet. She notices the impatient tapping of Maggie's feet on the carpet.

Her thin heels are crushing the backs of her slippers.

At two o'clock in the morning, Bic is out of champagne.

Pat is out of cigarettes and Bryn is low on illusions.

Only Maggie wiggles about in her seat, straightening her back and lifting her chin. Only Maggie is willing to keep going.

Bryn 57

turns to Pat, "It's time to go home."

They stop off at the bar of the Palm Court Club. piano player shifts tunes as Bryn walks through the door.

The

"You are my lucky star I saw you from afar" "He always plays that song for me," thinks Bryn.

Usually she smiles and sings the first couple of lines with him, but tonight all she can manage is a brave little smile.

She orders an ouzo; Pat orders a beer. After a second round, the Captain walks in, and Bryn asks the piano player if he'd mind playing their song again. The Captain nods once to Pat and sits down next to Bryn. In five minutes she is as happy as if she's never been sad. At least not this evening. The Captain shares her passion for archaic singers and catchy song titles and has even heard of the memorable Dorothy Shay. Pat sits by idly scribbling water with a straw.

When the younger man goes off to the men's room, Bryn turns to Pat, "This must be awfully boring for you." But it's her turn and she wants it. He shrugs his shoulders, "It's okay this once ."

She goes to the ladies, room and on the way back, spots the Captain standing alone next to the Jukebox. She crosses the room without thinking or checking to see if Pat's looking.

"Kiss me, I'm Irish." " I ' m s o r r y , I'm n o t . " But he o f f e r s her a c i g a r e t t e and the l a s t selection for h i s q u a r t e r s and she p r e s s e s t h e b u t t o n s for " I J u s t Told Daddy Goodbye."

They l e a n i n t o t h e neon glow from t h e j u k e b o x .

Looking up a t the same moment, t h e y are amazed at each o t h e r ' s b e a u t y .

Then Bryn f e e l s t h e g r i p of P a t ' s hand on her elbow.

She h a t e s i t when he does t h a t , when he t a k e s her by t h e elbow.

He l e a d s her away from t h e Captain and t h e J u k e b o x , p a s t t h e b a r , p a s t t h e l a d i e s ' room, t h r o u g h t h e g l a s s s l i d i n g door .

"You were t a l k i n g t o him for a h a l f - a n - h o u r ! " " I was t a l k i n g to him for t h r e e m i n u t e s ! " "You have no sense of p r o p r i e t y ! " He d r a g s her t o t h e condominium and when she t r i e s t o b i t e h i s f i n g e r s he throws her a g a i n s t the r e f r i g e r a t o r and she s c r a p e s her head a c r o s s t h e door h a n d l e .

Bryn w a i t s in t h e k i t c h e n for Pat to t u r n off the television.

Her plan i s for him t o go t o bed so t h a t she can s l e e p on t h e c o u c h . She s t a n d s t h e r e for a long t i m e d r i n k i n g t o n i c and h o l d i n g t h e alarm c l o c k , but f i n a l l y she g e t s t i r e d and c a n ' t wait anymore.

Pat i s s i t t i n g on t h e edge of t h e s o f a .

He has been t h i n k i n g and f e e l s compelled to s h a r e h i s t h o u g h t s . " Y o u ' l l n e v e r find a Job because y o u ' v e n e v e r s t a y e d with one t h i n g long enough to pick up any s k i l l s .

And i f yu t h i n k y o u ' l l find a h u s b a n d , you can f o r g e t t h a t t o o .

You've no i n t e r e s t in h o u s e k e e p i n g and you d o n ' t know how to cook.

No man wants a wife who d o e s n ' t know how t o cook.

The o n l y t h i n g y o u ' r e any good at i s b e i n g some m a n ' s m i s t r e s s .

And i f you want my o p i n i o n y o u ' r e not v e r y good at t h a t . " She throws t h e alarm c l o c k at him. I t r i c o c h e t s off h i s forehead i n t o a p i c t u r e of h i s f a v o r i t e s t a l l i o n .

The g l a s s

cracks, the stand collapses and the picture slaps flat to the surface of the table. There is a scratch on Pat's head.

"I'm sorry!" Bryn cries. She's afraid he's going to hit her. "I'm really sorry Pat. Let's not fight anymore."

"If only you'd touch me--show some sign of affection."

It's as hard for Pat to say this as it is to ask a favor.

The words get caught in his throat and he looks down at his hands.

Bryn moves forward and sets the picture straight and offers to have the glass replaced tomorrow.

That night, for the first time in their three months together, Bryn falls asleep in Pat's arms. He holds her very gently and is careful not to apply the least bit of pressure.

She feels so safe that when she falls asleep she dreams he is holding her.

Then he too nods off and rolls over onto her shoulder. She wakes from the pressure of the iron weight of his arm.

"Pat," she repeats in a low speaking voice until he turns over and away from her, leaving her once more alone.

She can't sleep. She takes a couple of sleeping pills out of the drawer and turns on the Merle Haggard tape just below Pat's hearing level. He begins to snore.

She takes a pen light and shines it on the back of his neck. A thousand lines crack the skin like a parched Mojave desert. The white hairs, sparse as cactus's, stand up straight and short and stubbly.

At least he doesn't smell like an old man, like somebody dying. Still, when she turns the light off she can shut her eyes and see his neck.

Miami between four and five in the morning is jet gray.

The pollution from the planes and the cars on the highways jells with the light from the forthcoming dawn. Bryn drives Pat's Cadillac off an exit ramp toward the ocean. She needs some time, away. Just to think.

The thick, black ocean rolls in like sleep. Bryn lays on her side, her sore head in her hand.

"Think," she commands, but it doesn't come easy. All she knows is that if she leaves Pat she will have to get a job.

She should have had a job by now. All of that travelling and all those celebrities. All of those people who were going to do things for her. She has been in one movie: one.

Playing a girl with a broken arm. Every morning they spent 45 minutes putting the cast on. Before lunch, they took It off: after lunch, they put it on again. Not once was it ever seen in the movie. All that was seen was the back of her head.

She got the part by doing a tap dance. Imagine that.

Doing a tap dance to play the part of a cripple.

Bryn falls asleep on the edge of the shoreline. When she wakes up her knees are floating in water.

The tide deposits a conch shell beside her and quickly draws back leaving a long wrinkled wake.

Then something happens. Something Bryn has never seen before. There's a catch in the water; a moment's hesitation, a definite shift. The next wave doesn't quite reach the foam from the last one and the one after that laps to a lower mark still .

"First it was coming in and now it's going out. I just saw the exact moment the tide changed!

It must mean something."

She sits up in full lotus position waiting for the sun to rise and tucking in her chin.

The vague mauves and the pale pinks soon give way to the orange red of something solid:

58 59

f something so fiery that it bursts out of its shape. Hot red orange melts the blue line of horizon.

"I'll do it," decides Bryn. "I'll do it all by myself."

And she thinks about all the jobs for which she needs no skills or connections. She could be a waitress, a secretary or even a stewardess. "That's what I'll be," she bites her lip in determination. "If anyone asks me, I'm a Pan American stewardess."

All around her the waves rush up hopefully and even more quickly are sucked back to sea.

Byrn is sitting on the terrace when Pat gets up, drinking tea with three tablespoons of honey and reading the National Inquirer.

"Oh," she grabs her stomach. "Jackie Wilson died. That really saddens me."

"Who's Jackie Wilson?"

"He sang 'Tears on My Pillow'."

Pat sits down and takes her hand and looks at her tenderly. She can tell by the look that he's thinking of how they fell asleep.

"Do you remember?" he asks.

"Remember what?" She doesn't want to hurt him but she can't stand it when he moons this way. Besides she's going to be a stewardess and she's got to get away.

"You know, Pat, I was thinking, I really have to earn some money."

"I'll give you money."

"No, I mean I have to earn my own."

"Well?"

"What do you think about my becoming a stewardess?"

"A stewardess! That's just a waitress in the sky."

"That's just it. I'd be up in the sky."

"Why not a pilot?"

"I hate responsibility."

"Well then travel around with me, I have to go to Europe at the end of May." "Pat, really, I have to get out on my own. I have no identity here. I'm tired of being a Pat Kiernan girl."

"You think you're going to find your identity serving coffee, tea and milk?"

"Listen. I love travelling and I love serving people.

My very favorite job involved serving people."

"What was that?"

"I sold ice cream from a truck when I was sixteen."

"Look. I was thinking about going to Alaska."

"Alaska! I've always wanted to go to Alaska."

"I want to go this summer."

"But it's just March!" Bryn groans.

"It's too damn cold to go up there in March."

"Alaska," Bryn sighs. It's becoming a mantra.

"Well think about it and let me know what you're thinking . " Bryn thinks about it through her tennis lesson and afterwards she stops off at the bar.

"Ice tea," she tells the bartender. "Have you ever been to Alaska?"

"No, but someone left a note here for you."

"For me? A note?" It is a crisp white perfectly folded note and even before she opens it she knows it's from the Captain. It says, "B 21 If I Can't Have You." 60

"He likes me!" says Bryn. "I knew that he liked me."

She crosses the dance floor to the jukebox, languidly placing one foot in front of the other. .She thinks back on Maggie and her eternal climb down the staircase and how Bic kept repeating that she must do it herself. "If she's going to get any better, she has to learn to do it herself."

She presses the white cube for Î’ and red for 21.

"Maybe the Captain would like to go to Alaska."' She has a burning desire to go to Alaska.

"Or maybe I'll take a Greyhound and go all by myself."

61

CONTRIBUTORS

JOY ALLEN graduated from the Columbia Graduate School of Journalism in 1976. She is on the staff of a major newspaper.

Ms. Allen has been enrolled in General Studies writing courses. This is her first publication.

SHELBY BERRYMAN is a General Studies student.

This is her first appearance in QUARTO. She is currently at work on a novel.

PATRICIA VOLK BLITZER was formally Art Director at "Seventeen Magazine" and at "Harper's Bazaar."

SONG JOOK CHOI is a General Studies Special Student. attended New York University where she majored in Art. is her first publication.

She This

MARILYN GREENBERG is a two time Doubleday Award winner. She is currently living in the wilds of Long Island. This is her third appearance in QUARTO. THOMAS HALLER works full-time in the Psychology Department at Columbia. He is a part-time General Studies student. This is his second publication in QUARTO. JAMES KELVIN is from Trinidad, West Indies and now lives in Harlem, where he feels quite at home. He is the winner of a General Studies Doubleday Award and now writes full time.

This is his first appearance in QUARTO. THERESA MAIER graduated from the School of General Studies in 1981. She is currently a student at City College where she is working toward her Master's degree in Poetry.

She has also published in "Philadelphia Preview" and "Phoenix" .

ERIN MATTHEWS is a General Studies student, publication in QUARTO.

This is her first

BARBARA MILTON is a student in General Studies. first publication.

HATTIE MYERS is pursuing a Master's in Columbia. This is her first publication.

This is her

Social

Work

at

SALLY SMITH is a pseudonym for a General Studies student working towards a law degree. She was last seen headed for Bahrain, to learn Arabic, but is expected back for school in the Fall.

CHARLES WESLEY has been a student in General Studies. This is his first publication. He is currently living in Berkeley, California where he is hard at work on his first novel.