Phoenix - Spring 1981

PHOENIX FINE ARTS MAGAZINE

VOL23/SPRING1

Marjorie Horne

PHOENIX

FINE ARTS MAGAZINE

VOL23/SPRING 1981

FEATURES Ada Louise Huxable_____ A Life in the Theatre_____ Summer Storm_______ Judith Crist____________ Last Glance

P-2 P-6

p.12 p.14 p.32

FIC TIO N Plucked_____________ The Bell Boy

p.18 p. 28

PHO TO G R APH Y p.8

POETFY p. 14

APT p. 16

Editor and Design Director Managing Editor Associate Editor Photography Editor Art Editor Poetry Editor

Dane Swindell Reid Leitner Mary Clark McClendon Karen Jack Chuck Rose Pamela Wilson

We will consider unsolicited articles, manuscripts, art and photos at the beginning of each quarter. Copyright 1981 by the University of Tennessee. All rights retained by the individual contributors. Send to Phoenix, 11 Communications Building, 1340 Circle Park Drive, Knoxville, TN 37916.

Pulitasr Prize W inner fo r D istirguished C riticism

Ada Louise Huxtable

Central Park—early 1900’s

Dr. Lawrence Wodehouse

In 1963, the New York Times established a full time position for an architectural critic, the first position of its kind created by an American newspaper.

Because of her writings, exhibi­ tion work, and her biography.

Pier Luigi Nervi, Ada Louise Huxtable was offered the posi­ tion and has since then become a member of the Times editorial board.

Over an eighteen-year period, Mrs. Huxtable has written ap­ proximately 900 criticisms, plus many unsigned editorials. Her writings have influenced legislators at national, state and local levels, including mayors of New York City, city planning commissions, and architects in­ volved in both the public and private sectors. Above all, her clear writing style has educated the layman on environmental issues.

In 1970 Mrs. Huxtable com­ peted with critics from many fields and was awarded the

Pulizter Prize for distinguished criticism—a just recognition of her valuable contributions.

Born on the west side of Cen­ tral Park in New York, Mrs. Hux­ table has always been in love with the metropolis. She enter­ tained herself by discovering museums and libraries as places of genuine joy. At Hunter Col­ lege, she specialized in the fine arts, was elected Phi Beta Kappa and graduated magna cum iaude. While working at Bloomingdale’s Department Store, she met L. Garth Huxtable, an in­ dustrial designer, and ever since they have continued to make the city their home— “except on parade days!” They have col­ laborated on product design, of which the most notable are the serving pieces for Philip Johnson’s Four Seasons Restaurant in the Seagram Building. Eighteen of the pieces were acquired by the New York Museum of Modern Art. During her lecture “Architec­

ture and the Daily Press,” delivered at the University of Tennessee, Mrs. Huxtable sug­ gested that news items produc­ ed under pressure are not necessarily well-researched scholarly discussions. In a newspaper office, there are days when one has little time to think and the proof of one’s existence as a critic is judged by one’s most current writings.

Mrs. Huxtable cites as her ma­ jor achievements articles which have resulted in changed at­ titudes. For example, Salem, Massachusetts, almost lost its historic heritage because of the crass commercialism perpetuated in order to retain its tax base. But the “Witch of Salem” (Mrs. Huxtable) objected to the proposed rape of the town, and ten years later an about-face attitude resulted in positive rebuilding and preserva­ tion of the monuments and of the vernacular infrastructure.

Regarding the United States

Derby House, 1761, Salem Massachusetts

Capitol Building in Washington, D.C., a hard fight had to be mounted to preserve the only re­ maining visible external portion of the west front.

Likewise, Stanford White’s historic Villard houses in New York City have been retained, although Harry Helmsiey’s Palace Hotel rises fifty stories above the Villard roofline.

Helmsiey had stated that he would have to be carried into the

4 p h o e n ix

building “kicking and scream­ ing’’ before he would submit to preservation, and apparently he was! Ultimately Mrs. Huxtable raised a glass to Mr. Helmsiey.

Central Park is, by Mrs. Huxtable’s admittance, a war that will never be won and whose bat­ tles will continue long after she is gone. The Park was originally conceived as a piece of natural countryside existing within the city as a lung or breathing space

for the ever-expanding Manhat­ tan, and that’s what Mrs. Hux­ table and like-minded in­ dividuals wish to perpetuate. Un­ fortunately, numerous crimes have been committed against the Park by the public. Few seem willing to appreciate the grass, foliage, and open space as a foil to urban development.

Mrs. Huxtable is also concern­ ed with real estate values. New York’s cross-town streets and the fresh air above the streets could, with a sleight of hand, be converted by the city into short­ term economic gains. “There’s nothing so imaginative as greed and economic need’’ — by real estate speculators along with a near-bankrupt city administra­ tion, Mrs. Huxtable says.

Mrs. Huxtable’s writings have also Influenced Mayor John V. Lindsey to abandon the Lower Manhatten and Cross Bronx Ex­ pressways.

The Cast-Iron District in the Bronx was thereby preserved intact, preventing “white man’s roads from pass­ ing through black man’s bedrooms’’.

These are just a sampling of the Huxtable successes, but the work must continue. Already she is planning her next major attack upon the city administration, which is in the process of reinterpreting its air rights zon­ ing code.

Originally passed with the aim of preserving historic structures by selling off the air above buildings to owners of adjoining new highrises, it is now being reinterpreted to include the fresh air above streets and open spaces.

The consolation of such war­ fare is, as Mrs. Huxtable admit­ ted in concluding her talk, that “the newspaper is always on the front line, and victory is only one day away.’’

Dr. Lawrence Wodehouse, a registered architect, has prepared an an­ notated bibliography about Ada Louise Huxtable which will be published later this year by Garland Publishing Com­ pany, Inc., of New York.

' 'I*..'

*■“ *■*

Central Park, New York City Photographs by Dr. Larry Wodehouse

A Life jn the THEATRE Reid Leitner

Three Men On a Horse

The Caretaker

6

PHCENiX

Joe Stewardson

Charisma, compassion, com­ mand. These are essential qualities that distinguish the superb theatrical player. They can hardly be taught, nor do they come from a critic’s column.

Yet, an audience knows when an exceptional performer is onstage.

David Sexton is this kind of actor. His distinctive perfor­ mances argue a complete dedication to his art.

“Acting is what I’m going to do...I decided that a long time ago. There’s nothing else for me to do.”

A native Virginian, he possesses an unaffected air of savvy and wit—with a dash of ar­ rogance.

Disliking preten­ tiousness, he prides himself on his sincerity, a quality which cer­ tainly enhances his talent on the stage.

David began acting in com­ munity theatre during his early teens. Since coming to Knoxville to study theatre in 1977, he has appeared in numerous produc­ tions with both the Clarence Brown and the University Com­ pany. Most recently he played the leading role as the incorrigi­ ble Chauncey DeVille in Dracula—A Musical Nightmare, which followed his gripping por­ trayal of Macbeth in the Laboratory Theatre production

of Shakespeare’s timely tragedy.

After graduating this spring, David hopes to head for The Big Apple, which is still considered the heart of American theatre.

“You know, I could probably do alright around here, but I have to try. I’m not crazy about New York, but I just gotta give it a shot.”

Although New York is necessary, David has a very high regard for theatre in the South and is quite optimistic about its future.

“The South is going through a transformation...Atlanta is an in­ credibly cosmopolitan city, the Actor’s Theatre in Louisville is one of the hottest spots in the country, the Aslow Theatre down in Florida is an excellent regional theatre. New Orleans is gettin’ to be a very good theatre town, and Texas. You know, there’s lots of good stuff going on down here...I just think that this is the place where it’s going to happen, soon.”

And Knoxville?

“Actually, it’s amazing the way Knoxville supports theatre.

Like the Lab, the audience we play to is so different and so eclectic and so loyal. We haven’t played to an empty house up there for a long time— it’s a very loyal audience. It’s probably got one of the best reputations of

Karen Jack

any theatre around here, just because it is so different, in a lot of ways.”

But in spite of his faith in the promise of American theatre, David frankly assesses the state of the art as somewhat stagnant. ‘‘Nobody’s writing very much...the big problem with theatre in America is that we don’t have much tradition. In England it stretches back for centuries, so the new

playwrights have somepiace to come from...I think what is most important and lasting about Tennesse Wiiliams, Authur Miller, Eugene O’Neil, and people like that is that they’ve begun a tradi­ tion. You’ve got to start somewhere.”

American theatre, of course, has had to adjust considerably since the advent of Hollywood.

The mass popularity of movies and especialiy the ease with

which a teievision can be swit­ ched on are difficult to compete with, culturaily as well as com­ mercially, even for big-time Broadway productions. Elec­ tronic media have also changed the ways in which drama is presented and perceived. The challenge, therefore, falls upon the shoulders of innovative ac­ tors, directors, and writers who must redefine the role and means of theatre in modern, mass media-oriented society.

In this regard, David Sexton is right on target. He refiects the American spirit of adventure at its best in that, although he knows and respects the tradi­ tions of the theatre, he refuses to be bound by them. He stiil considers Shakespeare to be “supreme, an invaluabie help”; but his favorite roles include Bernie Litko in Sexual Perversity in Chicago and John in A Life in the Theatre, both of which were written by David Mamet,the pro­ gressive young American playwright.

“I think it’s good to play as many different things as you can, any kind of different style.”

David has also done some directing and has written a cou­ ple of plays, but these interests wili have to come later: “I don’t want to draw that kind of energy away from my acting,” he explains.

What about movies?

“Sure. I’d love to do film.”

But no matter what the role, no matter what the medium, David’s tastes will always de­ mand quality.

“Listen, if you’ve got integrity, you’ve got integrity, i don’t feel obnoxiously puristic, but you can retain a sense of artistry and craftsmanship about what you’re doing. I mean, I don’t know theatre enough to speak in terms of me trying to act ar­ tistically— I just do the best I can.”

Integrity. That’s the word. And with stylists like David Sexton defining the traditions of American theatre, the art of the theatre, no matter how ancient, will never become archaic.

8 PHOENIX

photography

J. Steven Anderson

10

PmENlX

Karen Jack

A summer storm is (^oming.

It must on days like this: The heat a weight to carry, The air so heavywet You could, spongelike, squeeze the moisture out; An enervating stillness, people and things moving, if at all.

In movie frames slowed down.

Dr. Jack Reese

I

Then the trouble starts; Vague gusts of wind, A piling up of— not puffy white clouds to see faces i n But roiled black mountains in the sky.

All at once, it’s dark And the wind whips through the trees Billowing and folding them; The lightning speeds in.

Until the yard explodes in light, A jagged brilliant flash; Another bolt cracks the roof.

And I can see, feel the current popping along Wires and pipes and conduits Networking, propping up the house; And the thunder booms, shakes.

Rattles not just lamps and windows But floors, walls, ceiling, the chair I inch further in.

And the rain so thick, all that wet let go.

There are no single drops But a sea, a solid mass, a wave swept in This far ashore.

No fury like this can last.

However pent up, however overdue.

A hint of peace: I can see now and then The road striping the top of the hill.

The rain comes in slabs scudding across the yard; The noise and light move away.

And remembering what I learned as a child I count the time between flash and thunder—one second one mile— And I am relieved at that westward motion.

In a while, it’s quiet.

And I step outside to breathe cool air again.

Grateful for that and other signs of current peace.

But my God what carnage in the yard.

The aftermath of nature’s internecine war; Flowers beaten down.

Gullies in carefully-tended spots.

Leaves everywhere, branches littered, one huge oak limb sliced in two Sliding toward the ground.

Too much to repair, too much to mend, it seems.

But I begin to pick up a bit.

Healing wounds that can be healed.

Remembering the callouses, the pleasant tiredness Dedicated to putting things in order: The grass, trees, shrubs, flowers just so.

Neatness says put back as best I can.

And I will try, though some things are by now Washed down culverts miles away; And maybe, just maybe, not all was bad: Some old branches, diseased at the core (though I loved them) needed to go, And that raging rain could bring shoots of green If I tend them right.

I I need to start clearing away. '

12

PHOENIX J . S te v e n Anderson

FILM CRITIC

Judith Crist David D. Duncan Film critics in America are treated like celebities, according to ace movie reviewer Judith Crist, and that makes her angry.

She believes that the average film viewer should make the ultimate decision whether a film is good or bad and not rely en­ tirely upon a critic’s knowledgeable but arbitrary opinion.

Crist began reviewing cinema about 20 years ago. The first film she criticized was Sodom and Gomorrah which she saw “at 10:30 A.M., which was like hav­ ing a chocolate sundae and a Coca-Cola for breakfast. ” Since then, she has amassed a for­ midable popular reputation. She worked for ten years as film and drama critic for the Today Show (1963-73); published two books: The Private Eye, The Cowboy, and The Very Naked Girl: Movies from Cleo to Clyde and Judith Crist’s TV Guide to the Movies; and she is currently a resident film buff at TV Guide, Saturday

Karen Jack

Review and Fifty Plus, the magazine for “America’s fastest growing generation."

It is no surprise, then that Crist is somewhat cynical when discussing the movie industry.

From her perspective, Hollywood is a factory, &nd the entire movie-making machinery is a “business trapped within a business with 90 percent of all films being trash.” Still, she does not underestimate the power of cinema. She sees films having the impact of “reflecting morals and viewpoints and mir­ roring times of change.”

A friendly and articulate per­ son, Crist lives in a geodesic dome in Woodstock, New York, with her husband, William. She has a son, Steven Gordon, a Har­ vard graduate who is a working journalist. Last year, Crist was named by a Gallup poll as “the most influential film critic in the United States.” Her three favorite films are Nashville, Tom Jones, and All About Eve.

1 6 PHOENIX

Phoenix: in reviewing films that

Crist: Because I’m teaching one

have been adapted from books, do you ever make an effort to try and make a comparison bet­ ween the two?

Crist: I think you owe it to your readers, especially with a best­ seller. Usually because I think the critic should be a citizen of the world. How could one not have picked up Jaws by Peter Benchly as you were getting on a commuter train or subway? So I think frequently, you have to read it.

Phoenix: How integral is music to film?

Crist: The minute you hear the music, the movie has fallen apart. The minute you say, “Gee, that’s a very interesting score,” then something is wrong.

Because the movie has fallen to pieces when you’re directing your attention to the music. I fre­ quently see rough cuts of films and often the music has not been added. And then you see the film with the music and you realize what a skillful weave it is.

But I do cherish a lot of film scores. Anything that Quincy Jones does, and “The Ipcress File” (1965). I rarely run a cocktail party that I don’t put on “The Ipcress File,” because it’s such a good score.

Phoenix: Do you think that we’ll ever see a return to the higher cinematic form of silent film?

Crist: Interestingly, a French filmmaker was working on a con­ temporary silent film. Would you attempt a painting using only red and yellow 'and not blue when all your life you’ve used all the primary colors? It’s a totally different art. When you watch one of the great silent films like Abel Gance’s “Napoleon” (1925), you suddenly have to realize that you’re not hearing people talk. You realize the elo­ quence of everything the actors are doing—their faces and ac­ tions, it’s just marvelous. They have far more character. You really appreciate the performances.

Phoenix: How often are you on the lecture circuit?

day a week at Columbia, I restrict myself. I suppose I do about 25 to 30 speaking engagements a year. I used to go abroad, mainly to England to see screenings of new Stanley Kubrick films, but I don’t travel much anymore.

Phoenix: Have you ever made any cameo appearances in films?

Crist: One, in Woody Allen’s “Stardust Memories” (1980). He approached me with a scene in the film that took place at a film weekend run by a critic. It gradually evolved into a scene with three other actors and my line became, “The boy’s a genius! Really remarkable. I’ve never seen anything like it.” It was extremely interesting. I’ve known how movies are made for a long time, but when you’re in­ volved it’s a different ex­ perience. Often boring, but still fascinating. And it was great watching Woody and his cinematographer, Gordon Willis working at their art.

Phoenix: Did you feel that “Or­ dinary People” (1980) was deser­ ving of all of the Academy Awards it won?

Crist: “Ordinary People” was extraordinary, I think, because the pacing made it a beautifully directed film. It has such integri­ ty in taking its time. Yes, it was about twenty minutes too long, but it took its time to get you in­ side every one of these people and into their community—both as a household and within their social sphere. Most importantly, it offered the portrait of the beautiful All-American matron who’s all together but she doesn’t have a heart. It touched very closely the bone of experience.

Phoenix: What about “Raging Bull” (1980)?

Crist: I think it was a brilliant film, technically. But what it told you was that here was a swinish person who lived like a swine and is still living like a swine.

And that may be something that not many people know.

Phoenix: How does the

Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences ultimately decide the Oscar winners?

Crist: As far as the Academy goes, and I’m afraid it’s also true with the Critics’ Choice Awards, the nomination is the profes­ sional accolade because you are chosen by your peers. And everyone knows that it doesn’t matter that your parents think you’re great—what really counts is that your peers in life think that. Therefore, the nomination is meaningful, but the final choice of the best is a double popularity kind of thing.

Twenty years from now, which movie are we going to be more interested in— “Rocky” or “Net­ work” (both 1976)? Obviously “Network,” but “Rocky” was a helluva lot more popular. And “Ordinary People,” because each one of us has been a parent or a child at some point in our lives, and it’s not alien to us.

And that’s why it won so many coveted Oscars. We tend to take the Academy Awards so serious­ ly, and it really is an industry thing.

Phoenix: Can sex and violence ever be justifiable In film?

Crist: There are fantastic justifications for sex and violence. My classic example is “Bonnie and Clyde” (1967). I think that was a Sunday school morality play and it taught a basic, important lesson. Not just that those who live by the gun will die by the gun, but that once you go outside your community, life is not good. When you go against society, nothing is good.

Look at that movie—they had a rotten life, they had nowhere to go, their sex life was rotten, everything about their life was rotten. To me, everything in that movie pointed to a very specific lesson.

The trouble with most of the sex and violence is that it serves no purpose except “Hey, folks, let’s watch some sex and now, what the hell, folks, let’s watch some violence.” It’s not only ef­ fective when used to say, “Look, here’s what happens.” The in­ troduction of violence helped us

to see death as It really is. W e’ve been brought up watching movies with “Bang!” and the person drops dead and falls out of the frame because you couldn’t look at dead people.

And that was that. Wasn’t is nice to go “Bang, Bang, Bang?”

Since then, a few movies have taken the time to show you what it’s like. It is a very slow and painful process. It’s horrible. It’s not nice. It’s not like you see in movies where someone always says something beautiful like “I will love you forever,” ’ then Zonk! and the eyes close. So the violence has to tell you something or it’s indecent.

Phoenix: Does a good film have to move both the individual and the critic?

Crist: I don’t think you can ever go to a movie with anything but anticipation. Your hope is that it’s going to take you and hold you and then drop you out. And that’s what really happens when you see something good. The or­ dinary movie-goer can walk out and say, “Oh, wow!” but the critic has to take that “Oh, wow” and put it into 800 words. That’s our burden. That’s the price critics pay for seeing everything for nothing. And it’s only

Karen Jack

retrospectively that I develop my criteria.

Phoenix: Why aren’t film goers contributing more input toward the companies in letting them know what they do and don’t want to see?

Crist: I have lived long enough to feel that it’s cyclical. We’re kind of back into a ’50’s mentali­ ty. The amount of involvement varies from generation to generation. I don’t know on what level people can really con­ tribute, but you have to keep a fire in yourself and keep getting mad about things. You ought to be mad as hell. There are things all around us that make us mad.

I’m the terrible-tempered Mrs. Magoo or something, but I think you have to get mad. I get mad at everything, and I think that’s the stimulus.

And it’s too bad that today, people are saying, “Oh, well, what can you do about it. That’s the way it is.” By that, I don’t mean that people should go around burning buildings down.

That does not correct “the way it is.”

The world is your oyster—and you have to open it and start seasoning the oyster if you don’t like the way it tastes.

Michael T. Halsey

Wolverine stood in the shadows of the doorway, his massive frame silhouetted by the light behind him. Blood dripped slowly from the bullet wound in his left arm. “You’d best drop it, bub,” Wolverine muttered. “You may have a gun, and there may be ten or so feet separating us, but ten feet isn’t much for me, and I’m awful hard to kill. Besides, I don’t think you want a closer look at these.”

Claws popped out of the back of his hands. “I’m a genetic mutant, bub. I was born with these, and I’m not afraid to use ’em.” The gunman tried to control his shaking hand, but his eyes bled terror. There was never any doubt as to what he would do. The gun dropped noisily to the floor. “Smart move, bub,” said Wolverine.

Suddenly, a lead pipe cracked across the back of Wolverine’s head, and he slumped to the floor unconscious. The last panel was colored black.

Clark stared at the panel for a long moment. Underneath it was written, “continued next month.” He carefully closed the comic book. The Uncanny XMen, and placed it on a huge pile of curly red hair and released a sigh through almost non­ existent lips. “Boy, that was

18

PHOENIX

Greg Case

great!” he told his roommate.

“You’re beyond hope,” Chris told him. “Anybody who reads those literary rags at twenty-six has something wrong with them.”

“I’m a collector. I’ve got some comics that are worth a lot of money. Why, did you know that the first issue of Superman is worth. . . .”

“Yea, I know, twelve thousand dollars. Anybody who’d pay for that is a fool. The dog pees on it or somebody uses it for a

coaster, and then what do you have? That collector junk is just an excuse for reading them, and anybody who believes comic books is beyond hope.”

Clark moved to the dresser silently. He wasn’t really hurt by the ridicule; he was used to it.

He thought back to high school, sneaking around the drug store, trying to get his comics and get out before anyone he knew saw him. Why did those metal comic racks always squeak when you turned them? With his mind

immersed in these thoughts, Clark dressed for work.

Clark worked at Chicken-in-aBasket. His outfit consisted of a blue shirt and pants with red chickens on them, and a hat with a very realistic, if slightly small, chicken on a spring on top. He was an assistant manager, so he got to wear a tie with a drumstick on it. While he dressed, he kept thinking about that comic rack, “Squeek!

Squeeeek!” Then he realized he had been making the noises out loud. He turned to look at his roommate, the chicken on his hat bobbing frantically.

Chris put down the People magazine he was reading, and stared at Clark. “Great, of all the people in Miami, I room with Captain Chicken.”

The walk to work was a short one for Clark. Unfortunately, the easiest way was down the beach. He hated the beach, with all of its bronzed demi-gods and nymphs running rampant. He walked stiffly with his head down, his shoes filling up with sand. The chicken on his hat dipped chivalrously to everyone he passed. Some gorgeous blonde’s dalmatlon noticed the fowl, leaped for it, and chased Clark down the beach.

Clark arrived at work earlier than usual because of the dog.

He always got there early. He wanted to get ahead. His father had always told him “A man can do anything he sets his mind to,” but Clark didn’t really believe it anymore. He had spent two years trying to become manager at the Chicken-in-aBasket and all he had gotten from It was the drumstick tie.

Mary was waiting for him behind the building. She was down from New Jersey for the summer, and was dressed just like Clark except for the tie.

“Everybody says you’re planning on asking me out today. Is that true?” Clark stared at her dumbifounded. “Well, normally,” she continued, “I would rather sit at home and watch “The Dukes of Hazzard” than be seen

with you, but I haven’t had a date all summer. Pick me up at eight on Wednesday, and we’d better go some place nice.” Clark didn’t answer, but his chicken nodded approval.

The day passed fairly normally. Northern tourists filed in by the dozens—sporting Bermuda shorts, red-peeling skin, and three or four cameras apiece. They giggled at Clark when he spoke and tried to imitate his accent. “Hey, you’se guys, did you hear how he said ‘Y’air?” They would say with an air of superiority.

Clark explained to one particularly obnoxious group: “The personal pronoun ‘you’ changes form only to indicate the possessive, ‘your.’

Otherwise it remains ‘you’ in the subjective and objective case forms, and more importantly in both the singular and plural.

This is unfunctional and, personally, I consider it a blunder, or at least a lack of insight, in the make-up of the English language. To indicate whether one is addressing an individual or an assemblage, the Southerner says ‘Y’all,’ where as a Northerner says ‘You’se guys,’ usually preceeded by a ‘Hey.’ The former sounds rather uneducated. The latter reminds one of a homosexual with a bad iisp.” The Northerners left slightly confused, very angry, and a lot more red-faced than when they had entered. “Y’all come back, now!” Clark yelled after them.

Stan, a friend of Clark’s, and Mary’s had been standing behind Clark listening. “Funny how everybody thinks they’re right,” said Stan, “especially those Yankee tourists. I wonder which way of saying it is the best?”

“That’s iike asking which comes first, the chicken or the egg,” Clark replied.

“Most likely the rooster,” Mary suggested as she looked Clark over, obviously having second thoughts about their date.

Clark was having second thoughts about himself as he drove to pick up Mary. She wasn’t exactly what he looked for in a woman, but he couldn’t be too picky. It had been a year or so since he had had a date. He had washed his car, a new Mustang with all the extras, and he looked pretty good, except for the pimple on the end of his nose.

Mary wasn’t ready, of course, but eventually she decided she had troweiled on enough make­ up. She climbed into the car and changed the radio station without saying a word. “Where are we going?” she yelled over the racket.

“I figured Captain Apollo’s,” he yelled back, his voice breaking, “for dinner and some drinks.” This seemed to please her (and her smile threatened to crack her makeup.)

Clark pulled his car into the parking lot, hardly able to concentrate on his driving because of the radio. As he wheeled into an empty spot, he bumped the car in front of him ever so slightly. The safety-bag inflated from under the dash, pinning them to the seat for about twenty seconds whiie a small crowd gathered. When it deflated, Clark got out and opened Mary’s door for her, acting as if nothing had happened, and led her through the crowd to the restaurant.

The dinner was good, although the conversation was nonexistent. They retired to the bar for drinks, still silent. They hadn’t been there long when a couple of drunks staggered over to their table. “Probably pro linebackers or sumo wrestlers,” Clark thought when he saw them.

“Hey, babe, how’s about we go to a party?” said the drunker of the two. He grabbed her arm and she didn’t try to resist.

“Come on, we’re gonna have us a real good time,” he whispered.

“Duh. . . huh, huh, huh,” said his friend.

“Let her go, punk,” spat Clark.

He tried his best to look mean, coming to his feet and kicking the chair out of the way.

“That’s a nice chandelier,” thought Clark. “Good carpeting, too.” He climbed to his feet, and wiped the blood from his nose.

“I guess I’ve seen too many Clint Eastwood movies.”

Mary was being pulled out the door, but she did manage to hold back long enough to wave goodbye. “Thanks for dinner!” she called back to him.

Clark staggered into his apartment with dried blood on his face and splattered on his clothes. Chris glanced away from “The Dukes of Hazzard” to look him over. “Have a good time?” he asked. Clark didn’t answer, but plopped down and picked up a “Captain America” comic he hadn’t read.

“You don’t stand a chance,” Baron Blood hissed. “My sonic disrupter will vibrate Washington into dust.”

“I’ll stop you,” said Captain America. “No matter what the odds. I’ll stop you. A man can do anything he puts his mind to.”

Clark was deeply disturbed by this last line, and read it over several times. He had heard it from his father so often. He wondered if the reason he was bothered was because he found himself believing Captain America when he had doubted his father. “No,” he thought, “that’s not what’s bothering me.

The fact is that it doesn’t worry me at all that I believe Captain America over my father. Now that bothers me. How did I let myself get to the point where fantasy is more real to me than reality?”

He looked down at the blood on his shirt. Beside him on the sofa sat his chicken hat and drumstick tie, and his mind skimmed over his life. He knew why. There really wasn’t any mystery, and somewhere in that realization the seed must have been planted. Deep in his subconscious he must have realized what he had to do to survive in this world, to keep his

20

PHOENIX

sanity, because the next night he crept to the bathroom, ever so quietly, and dyed his longjohns a deep midnight blue.

Clark called in sick to work the following day and went to KMart. He purchased some roller skates, a few yards of black cloth, a grappling hook with a long nylon rope, and a couple of police-band radios. On his way out, there was a blue-light special on crossbows.

He fought his way through the vicious old ladies and got one of the last ones left. He picked up a couple of dozen arrows just before a stockboy marked them up. The special was moved to another part of the store and the old bags scampered off after it.

Clark spent the rest of the day working intensely. He took the rollers off the skates and attached them to some hiking boots with some hinges.

Normally they would stay up against the side of the boot, but could be flipped down if needed.

After much deliberation, he hammered the points off the arrows and dipped the now blunt tips several times in rubber cement, turning them into soft round balls. The cloth was sewn into a cowl with long pointy ears, and Clark removed the guts of one of the radios and fit it into the right ear. The first time the radio would only make clucking noises, but on the second try he was much more careful and got it to work. Some more of the cloth was sewn onto the longjohns to make pouches and loops for the crossbow, arrows and grappling hook. Finally, he used the remainder of the cloth to make a long black cape.

Clark’s hands were sweaty and he was trembling as he slid into his costume. He stared at the mirror in awe. “This is fantastic,” he thought as he whirled the cape around and tried several poses.

Chris walked in from work about a half hour early. He looked Clark over for a long moment. “Get a new job?” he asked. Clark tried to explain, but

Chris wouldn’t listen. He walked back out the door, but as he left Clark heard him mumble, “Of all the people in Miami. . . .”

That night Clark raised the kitchen window and climbed out into the darkness. The breeze from the ocean tingled his skin as he slinked through the city.

He climbed the stairs to an old tenement and emerged off the roof. Readjusting his longjohns, he looked over the city lights.

Somewhere he heard a siren and he clicked on the police-band radio in the ear of his mask. “A 9-14 is in progress at 1216 Joe Johnston,” said the voice. Clark had no idea what a 9-14 was, or even where Joe Johnston was, so he cut the radio off so he could be alone with his thoughts.

“Why am I doing this?” he wondered. He had been trying to figure that out since the whole thing began. Over the last couple of days the answer had been forming in his mind. Very slowly, reasons had formed from the impulses that had driven him. “My life has been hell, a merging of humiliation and pain that made reality not worth living. I couldn’t have survived like that. All I had was the fantasy, and I couldn’t live with my nose in a comic book all my life. That just wasn’t enough.

No, this was my only choice.

Reality had to mold to my fantasy, because I sure was lousy at molding to reality.”

Clark’s thoughts were interrupted by a middle-aged woman who started screaming at him from a window in the adjoining building. “What do you think you’re doing? You don’t live around here. Get off that building, you bum.” Clark took a few pot shots at her with his crossbow and whipped out his grappling hook, trying to throw it over the ledge of the next building and swing to the fire escape. After several misses he decided just to walk back down the steps and return home.

The next few days Clark felt better than he had in years.

When things started getting him down, he would take a peek at his outfit, which he had started carrying with him in a backpack.

He was just waiting for the moment to come when he would need it. He had no idea it would be so soon.

It was ten minutes till closing on a Thursday night. There hadn’t been any customers for nearly a half hour, and the “Chicken-in-a-Basket” was gearing down for closing. The grease pits were being drained and counters wiped. Three men walked in and stood back from the counter, looking around nervously. Perhaps they were broke and needed money for food or drugs. More likely, they were just greedy. It really didn’t matter either way, for the ugliest of them pulled a gun and pointed it at Clark’s head. “I think you know what I want,” he hissed.

“All white meat?” suggested Clark.

The gunman blew the head off the chicken on Clark’s hat.

Feathers floated lazily around Clark and the headless chicken bobbed spasmodically on its spring. “Open the register,” the crook said.

Clark obeyed, silently.

The three men filled their sack quietly and started for the door.

“Wait a second,” said one of them who had been silent so far.

“While we’re here we might as well steal a little fun.” He motioned toward Mary and the other two men grinned their approval. He threw her across his shoulder and followed his cohorts.

Mary reached out, pleading to the nearest person, “Help me!”

Then she realized it was Clark.

“Oh, never mind.”

Stan walked up to the counter beside Clark. “That was wild, you’d better call the police, Clark. . . Clark?” Behind the building, Clark was donning his costume. He rushed around the building in time to see a black Camaro speed off down the road with Mary’s face pressed

against the back window. He kicked down the skates and tore out after them. After he had gone about a block, they were well out of sight, but Clark pushed on, his cape flapping behind him impressively. After several minutes he realized it was hopeless and turned on the police radio. “. . . stolen Camaro, black, license number ACT642 has been sighted parked on Joe Johnston,” said the voice.

“Damn,” said Clark.

He coasted into a filling station and purchased a map for fifty cents, and he was off again. He had a hard time skating, dodging cars, and trying to read the map, and he never did get it folded back right, but ten minutes later he was standing by a black Camaro in the worst part of town.

“What now?” thought Clark as he carefully surveyed his surroundings. From somewhere above him came a very soft whimper. It was a girl’s voice and Clark flipped up the skates and ran up the stairs of the nearest building. He emerged on the roof and heard voices coming from over the edge.

Peering over the ledge down onto the roof of an adjoining building, he saw two of the robbers holding down a now nude Mary. Several feet closer to him stood the third crook, unbuckling his pants.

Clark loaded his crossbow and leaped into the abyss, separating them. In the air he kicked down the skates and drove them into the back of the nearest man. They crumpled to the gravel and tar roof. Clark’s hand tore open on the pebbles and his longjohns ripped up the rear. “That never seemed to happen to Spiderman,” he thought. He rolled off the unconscious man and, crossbow in hand, skated toward the other two, who had now drawn guns. The skate caught on the gravel and sent Clark sprawling on the roof just as the men fired. The bullets whistled harmlessly over his

head, and his crossbow went off as he hit. The arrow struck one of the robbers in the pit of the stomach, driving the air from his lungs and sending his gun clattering across the roof.

Clark rose slowly to his feet, staring into the eyes and gun barrel of his remaining foe, the ugly one. “You’d better drop it, bub,” Clark said.

“No way,” said the gunman.

“There’s a 7-12 in progress on 3rd Street,” said Clark’s right ear.

“You’re living in a fantasy, punk,” the man snarled.

“No, this is reality,” Clark said, sounding quite sure of himself. “There may be ten or so feet between us, but that’s not much for me, and Tm awful hard to kill. I’ll stop you. A man can do anything he puts his mind to.”

The ugly man’s eyes showed no fear, and his hand didn’t shake one bit. He slowly drew back the trigger. Suddenly the butt of a gun cracked across the back of his head and he fell beside his friend, who was still gasping for breath.

Mary stood over them with the gun pointed in their direction.

“Who are you, a superhero? I didn’t think they existed,” she said in obvious awe. She was trembling and so Clark removed his cape and put it around her shoulders, trying to remain professional and not stare at her nakedness too much. “What do you call yourself?” she asked.

“Beyond hope,” answered Clark with a smile that conjured up several dimples. Sirens were audible in the distance, and coming closer. “I trust you can watch them till the police arrive,” he commented. Mary nodded. He strolled over to the ledge and tossed the grappling hook half-heartedly at a nearby flagpole. It made a perfect arch and hooked on firmly. Clark stood for a moment staring in disbelief, then noticed Mary was still watching him. He quickly switched to an expression he hoped was nonchalant and swung off into the night.

SATURDAY AT THE BARBERSHOP

Saturday at the Barbershop The old black shoe-shine man dozed in his highchair, his feet upon upside down iron soles, his dream intact.

The barber’s breath on the back of my neck smelled of Sen-Sen (his customers knew he drank) and the clippers stank of electricity.

I sat on the kid-slat, the footrest marked KOCHEN and the ads for Lucky Tiger hair oil teaching me to read.

My dad talked with his buddies, each waiting their turn, about the war and who was lucky and who was dead: a Lucky Strike dangled in each lip and a pawn ticket was in each billfold.

Talc covered the back of my neck like the fragrant dandruff and the barber’s brush with stiff bristles left little hairs to remind me I’d been clipped.

I looked at the hair on the floor, mine mingled with dad’s and everybody else’s, while the old black man swept it up for burning.

Alan B. Johns

FOETBY FASHION Your new found fashion Suits you well A cloak of complacency Draw it around you With a fit most constricting The fabric cut for Absolute comfort You begin to nod off Complete in slumber lifestyle Dream perfect dreams Of a perfect slumber lifestyle.

Jeff Callahan

Driving home at midnight Highway 73 leans a dusty italic across the landscape Roadside creature’s nocturnal eyes glint Red, faceless, in the flash of a second.

Dashboard lights cast a moon-white glow As the night gathers round me So close, so clear, that 1 might be really alone With no one else, with no self.

The emptiness like a song inside; 1 had wanted to share it with you.

1 drink coffee, play the radio.

Recite Shakespeare Wishing 1 could drive forever As a falling star swept clean the sky And burned away R. Coppenger

The sky is grey today Along the rain-beaten street The houses perch on sodden ground Their painted faces already crack Showing toneless flecks beneath Inside, my brain is grey Sullen clouds well up all night Refusing to burst into storm In class we were given a flower to dissect And 1 sat staring at its brightness Like a child drawn to flame Until 1 tore it apart Couples walking together.

Voices at the next table, A thousand borrowed conversations in buses and bars Any one of them might have been me. . .

I am tired of looking for the colors

R.P. Coppenger III

•

APT Intaglio Prints by Byron McKeeby

1. Adolescence

2/15

I hope that my work is dealing with contemporary pictorial concerns. I’m interested in the illusion of space and the relationship between that which oc­ cupies the implied space. Objects and images interest me. It probably contains a “message” but I’m not sure that I could put it into words. I hope that it doesn’t preach. It may be concerned with a “social state­ ment,” but not necessarily serious, but one that has an element of humor about it. Hopefully it raises ques­ tions and transcends the words and the visually decorative.

2. Untitled

1/15

2 6 PHOENIX

4.8 Ball

The Bell Boy Linda Bush It was in April that the small town of Arcadia really came into it’s own. Like an elfin being, the month darted into town, surprising everyone with lilacs and honeyed morning dew. The prickly yellowish grass, doormat of so many bootsoles, soon stood as erect as hundreds of tiny wooden soldiers dressed in evergreen. Gardens that had only a month before lain a mass of twisted brambles were abruptly dappled with the artist’s palette, as if the colors had been randomly flung abroad.

And the houses, unexpectedly relieved of winter’s lurid dinginess, suddenly sparkled diamondwhite under the flitting sun.

Here and there a window opened, halting as winter’s grit clogged its pulleys. A young girl was singing as she walked down the back steps to her clothesline: her hair, canary-gold and swaying in the breeze, was like a windy, sunlit wheat field.

And somewhere further down the street echoed the Craaacck! and giggle of tomorrow’s major leaguer.

Some said it was Arcadia’s shortest, narrowest street—only a few blocks long and about five houses wide. But it was paved.

In fact, the day the town had finally paved it and put up a street sign some five years ago, everyone had camped on their porches nearly all day to watch.

The ladies had shelled butterbeans or picked out pecans, but they had all perked

2 8 PHOENIX

up when the piece of wood reading “Paradise Street” had gone in the ground. They had, after all, been waiting a long time for an address.

And, somehow, having an address created a change in the residents of Paradise Street. The Whetstones, for example, who lived on the north end, had painted their Victorian house and it was now nearly the finest in town. The Jordans, who were across the street from them, had joined in the coloration soon afterward, but they had surprised everyone by not painting their house white.

Theirs became the only yellow bungalow in the county. The Davis couple, who had no children, had added a white picket fence outside their old, one-story farmhouse. And when they got sidewalks, both the Jessups and the Franklins on the south end lined theirs with daisies and pansies. Paradise Street had arrived.

And so had the War. Billy Butler was excited; in fact, he’d even forgotten and had been nice to his sister. He’d given her his catcher’s mitt without even thinking. It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t be using it this spring; what mattered was the danger involved in being nice to a sister. He sighed loudly as he stood in the center of his bedroom remembering the incident.

“Oh, well,” he told himself out loud, “I’m too busy to worry about any stupid girl—or playing

baseball. I’ve got a job to worry about now, more important things to do.”

He looked in the mirror over his dresser, recalling for an instant when they hadn’t been able to afford a mirror. He stood on his tiptoes in front of it; he knew he still wasn’t as tall as most twelve year olds. He tried to smooth some of the wrinkles out of his white shirt, and then he put on the black necktie his mother had given him that morning. There. He stared back into the glass.

Light brown hair slicked back over roundish mahogany eyes stared back at him. He leaned in closer to the mirror, checking once again for whiskers. Then he frowned, trying to make the dimple on his left cheek disappear. It clung to his face stubbornly, like bubble gum plastered on a school desk. So he straightened his shoulders and tried to look serious. But he still felt he looked like a boy going off to his first after-school job.

By the time he got downtown though, Billy no longer cared about his appearance. Not after he saw the bicycle.

“You see, son, with the war getting so big, we have more and more telegrams to deliver every day. The boy before you, Jim Walker, he went off to fight, you know. Well, Jim used to deliver on foot. Why, he could run clear across town in thirty minutes.

But I thought you might move quicker on this. Ordered it

myself, from a store down in Charleston. Ain’t it a doozy?”

Billy never heard old man Stevens. Instead, the boy walked over to the bicycle and stood before it, trance-like. Finally he reached out and touched the handlebars. They were cold and slick. He ran his hand across the shiny metal, touching it more assertively as he went along. He kneeled down to look at the leather seat, the pedals, and the fenders. It was the reddest, shiniest thing he'd ever seen.

At last he looked back up at the old man. “You got a rag, Mr. Stevens?”

“Sure, son, in the back room.

Whatcha need it for?”

“I got fingerprints on it.”

“Boy, it’s gonna get a lot dirtier than that soon! You know how to ride it?”

“I can learn! Really I can! It won’t take no time at all.”

“Okay, okay, slow down. Y cmj can take it home today and practice. You be back here Monday after school ready to work, you hear? This is serious business, boy, and I gotta have somebody I can depend on — not somebody that just wants to show off on any fool bicycle.”

“I’ll be good. I promise, Mr. Stevens, really I will!”

“Okay, son. Git on home now.” Mr. Stevens grinned and gave Billy a slight push toward the bicycle. “On your way home, deliver these last two for me, will ya?” He handed the boy two brown envelopes.

Billy took them and grabbed the bicycle by its handlebars.

Slowly he began to guide it forward, carefully avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk. As he prepared to mount it, he suddenly turned and said over his shoulder, “Hey, Mr. Stevens, did ya see, it’s got a bell on it!”

Betty Whetstone had been in her kitchen nearly all day, making lime pies for Sunday’s church picnic. She had opened the windows over the white ceramic sink and the fluttering breeze inflated the curtains and

dispersed the baking smells all over the house. With the children and John both gone, she found the room so quiet that she could hear the pie crust forming inside the old stove.

Using two potholders, Betty leaned inside the stove and drew out two trays of cup-cake size pies. The smoke billowed out behind her and again she remembered John’s pleas about a new stove. She closed the door again and looked at the stove for a moment. “There’s just no stove like Mama’s,” she whispered to herself.

After depositing the new pies to cool on the table that stood in the center of the room, Betty sat down. Reminding herself again that she owed her son a letter, she picked up the flimsy, battered Air Mail envelope that lay beside the pies. He never had been able to make his “T’s” right.

Betty pressed the envelope to her cheek and wondered how far away from South Carolina France was.

“Dear son,” she began on the old paper she’d found in John’s desk. “We received your last letter and were very glad to find out that you are still at the same base. We hope that you are comfortable there. We are fine. I got you some new shoes with my stamps; I know you said the Army gave you some, but I.was afraid that they might not fit as well as these I’m sending.”

Betty stopped.

From somewhere she heard a funny noise. Kind of like an alarm clock a bell, she thought.

She gazed toward the open windows for a moment, remembering her excursion to the shoe store the day before.

And as she watched the wind rifle through the pines outside, her mind drifted back to another visit to the shoe store, a visit made years before.

“I’m telling you. Mother, they just don’t fit. They feel loose.”

He had looked up at her intently, blue-satin eyes deadly serious.

“But, Johnny, that’s what you’ve always worn.”

He’d shaken his dark curls determinedly. “Can’t help it. My feet musta grown different.”

“Forgive me for interfering, Mrs. Whetstone,” Mr. Cook, who owned the store, had interceded.

“But maybe Johnny’s feet have gotten narrower now that he’s lost so much baby fat.” And he handed the boy a different box.

“Just right. I got narrow feet.

Mother, see?”

“Don’t find many boys— uuh, men, I should say—with narrow feet these days. Too much going barefoot in the South, makes your foot spread out. Guess that makes you kinda special, eh Johnny?” Mr. Cook had clapped Johnny on the back.

“Yeah,” was all that Johnny had said. But his eyes had glittered; he’d known even then that it was more than narrow feet that made him special. Maybe that was why, Betty remembered, he’d always called her Mother— never Mommy, never Mama, never Ma. It was a little thing, a small link in a very strong chain.

Betty came to abruptly and looked down again at the halfbegun letter. A big ink spot was now in the middle of the page, blotting out half her words.

Disgusted, she balled the page up and walked over to the trash can.

Crossing to the sink, Betty glanced into the square mirror she’d hung in front of one of the windows. She looked into her flat reflection. Would he know her when he got home? Would she look old to him? She had asked herself these questions a thousand times since he’d gone.

Nervously, she licked her fingertip and dabbed at the flour spot on her cheek. Her speckled gray hair, arranged in rows of waves fanning backward from her face, framed the same seethrough blue eyes she’d passed on to her son. But where his face had always been a flushed pink, hers was more of a warm beige with little creases that tic-tactoed across her forehead.

There it was again. Betty

stopped and listened this time.

That same noise. A kind of jingle. Like sleigh bells in the old days. Only faster. Betty thought for a minute. Maybe the delivery boy from Davis Grocery has put a bell on his wagon, she guessed as she peered out the window.

She watched the squirrels playing in the old oak tree. One seemed to hide from the other, then he would expose himself and leap precariously to a very slender branch, stopping now and again to look back to see if his pursuer was near. If the second squirrel was close, the first would repeat the entire process, always with an eye backward to gauge the effectiveness of his ruse. Finally the second one caught up; in one swift move, he bit the otrer squirrel and took off in the other direction.

“What am I doing?” Betty nearly giggled. “Shall I tell John I spent Saturday watching squirrels? No wonder he wanted to go fishing; this weather sure does make you feel restless.”

But before she walked back over to the table, she saw a young boy go whizzing by on a red bicycle. He’d nearly knocked over one of the Jordans’ setting hens that had somehow gotten loose and escaped Into the street. As she watched the chicken prance away indignantly, Betty realized that she’d also heard that strange noise again.

Sitting down once more, Betty worked intently on her letter for an hour. Then she sealed it up and took it out front to the mailbox. She knew that Henry, who ran Arcadia’s only post office singlehandedly, would be by before sundown; the only time he’d ever failed to show up had been when his youngest boy had had scarlet fever.

Outside Betty saw Laurette Jordan across the street; the fair, plump woman was beating her rugs against the bannister rail of her front porch. Betty sighed; she’d tried more than

3 0 PHOENIX

once to hint to her neighbor that rug beating was a chore best done on one’s back porch where the dust might drift toward the railroad tracks instead of toward a neighbor’s house.

Laurette called out boisterously, “Betty, come on over and help!”

“No, thanks. You’re raising enough dust for all of us.

Where’s your family today? I haven’t heard a sound from over there all morning.” Betty edged out into the street, avoiding the direction the wind seemed to be taking.

“They’re off fishing again.

How about yours?”

“Same thing. I’ve been making pies for the picnic and writing Johnny.”

“I’m gonna write William tonight. Want some coffee? It’s such a nice day. I’ll bring some out here on the porch.”

As Laurette walked back inside her house, Betty crossed over into her neighbor’s yard and settled into a green rocker on the porch, as far away as possible from the musty rugs.

Laurette returned within minutes, bearing a tray. “I made these ladyfingers this morning.

Have one.”

Betty took the proffered cup and one of the sugar-floured cookies. After plopping it into her mouth, she asked, “Laurette, did you hear some sort of funny noise around here this morning?

Sort of like a bell or something?”

“That’s the new boy who took over for Jim Walker. Delivering the War Department telegrams.

His family lives on the edge of town.”

Betty was silent for a few minutes. She tilted back her cup and let the clayish liquid run down her throat. It was so hot it burned, and she felt beads of sweat forming on her upper lip.

“Nice spring day, isn’t it?”

Lauretta’s soft voice broke the silence.

“But, Laurette, what’s that noise?”

“What noise?”

“That the boy delivering

telegrams makes.”

“Oh, old man Stevens bought him a bicycle and it’s got a bell on it.”

But Jim Walker used to walk.”

“I know. I reckon they • got more and more telegrams these days—what with the war now in France and all.” Laurette looked down, instantly realizing her blunder.

“Well, I think it’s disgraceful!”

“What is?”

“That boy riding around on a bicycle with a bell on it, a horn or whatever it is. Like he’s in some parade or something.” Betty stopped abruptly, then went on.

“Laurette, don’t you see?

Everytime that boy rides by, everytime he stops, it means another one of our boys is dead.

That bell is like a constant death rattle.”

Walking home later, Betty noticed that a light rain had begun to fall. Yet the sun shone as fiercely as ever through the drizzle, casting a violet hue on the leaves of the oak tree. The muffled brightness created shadows in her path, and the wet air reminded her of the taste of the first spring lettuce.

Taking refuge on the porch that encircled three sides of her house, Betty plumped the pillows of the old glider and straightened the edges of the rocking chairs, so that the legs of each one were angled exactly the same. Then she untangled the knots in the swing chain; she knew the kids had been turning the swing upside down again.

The rain subsided a little, lapsing into only an occasional drip. So Betty took the shears from behind the glider, went down the steep brick steps again, and began to prune the climbing roses that grew on both sides of the porch.

Absorbed, she noticed that the first buds were beginning to open. Like butter on a hot griddle, the raindrops danced across the velvety yellow blossoms. Betty watched the rain, which had suddenly sped

up again, fall upon em. With each drop the half-opened buds spread wider and wider, almost as if they were advancing toward Betty from a distance and growing larger as they got closer. And as they opened further, the airy, almost toosweet odor burst forth, invading the air around Betty and assaulting her senses.

“Prring—prring— prring— prriiing.” , Where was it conning from? It had to be that child on that bicycle, she told herself and moved toward the edge of her yard and peered down the street.

She saw nothing, except Laurette’s frozen face framed in her kitchen window across the street.

“Prring—prring.”

Betty turned and strode back toward the rose trellis. She picked up the shears and grasped them tightly. But she didn’t move.

She stood motionless, listening. Then she noticed the yellow petals all over the ground beneath her feet. The new bud she’d just admired now stood barren, entirely bereft of its foilage, the apparent victim of the now vicious rain.

With a startled look, Betty began to prune the roses, unaware that the rain was falling harder. But the more it rained, the more intent she became, a tireless master inflicting discipline upon her charges. Her motions, as seen through the still-sunny rain, were as fluid as the revolutions of a spinning wheel, her concentration that of a somnambulist.

Then, abruptly, she stopped.

She listened again. The ringing had stopped. Satisfied, she turned back to the trellis. With horror, she saw that all that remained of the yellow rosebush was two brown trunks, nakedly protruding but ten inches above the ground.

Inside some hours later, Betty wound the mantel clock for the second time. She wondered why John and the boys hadn’t come

back yet; it was nearly five o’clock and the rain had been getting worse all afternoon.

She stoked the fire she’d made in the living room.

Between the rain and the gradual disappearance of the sun, the waning spring day was becoming more wintery by the hour. She’d even closed all the kitchen windows but one: she hated to shut out the fresh, moist air entirely.

She wandered into the kitchen and took out the skillet and the scaling knife. Best be prepared for them, she thought as she got down the bag of cornmeal from the shelf over the stove. When everything was set out, she returned to the fire, stopping along the way to turn on a few lights in defiance of the late afternoon gloominess.

Once settled on the couch in front of the fire, Betty took up her knitting and worked on the sweater she was planning to send to Johnny for his birthday.

Despite herself, she murmered, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he could be home by then.”

Suddenly Betty looked up.

“What was that?” The firelight was flickering on the wall across from her. She looked around nervously. But not seeing or hearing anything, she settled back against the couch. “This is ridiculous. Just a dark afternoon and lots of wind.” Looking at her knitting again, she stretched out the sleeve she was working on, measuring its length against her arm. Yes, she thought, it would have to be about five inches at least.

“Prring.”

Betty dropped the sleeve.

Then she reprimanded herself.

“It’s only that infernal bicycle again. Must be miles away.”

The rain had increased to a steady drumbeat on the tin roof, like so many stick pins cascading into a metal bucket.

Betty laughed shakily. Maybe the ringing was only the rain.

She went over and threw a few more lumps of coal onto the fire and looked at the clock again.

“That John! Keeping those kids out this late. Hope none of ’em gets a. . . .”

“Prring—prring —prring.”

Where is that coming from, she asked herself again silently.

It wasn’t the rain this time, she was sure of that now. She laid down her knitting and walked back toward the kitchen. As she got closer to it, the sound got louder.

“Prring—prring. Prrriiing!”

Pausing at the kitchen door, Betty listened again. She heard only the rain now. Slowly she moved toward the sink. “Why am I tiptoing?” she asked aloud.

She stared out the middle window over the sink and noticed that the rain was lapping in onto the window sill. But looking out, she saw nothing.

Only the rain.

She nearly laughed with relief.

Then she turned back toward the door.

“Prring—prring — prring.”

She was back at the window in one swift movement. “Wham!”

The window came down with a clatter.

She listened again, scarcely breathing at all. Nothing. She sighed and began to creep out, smiling.

“Prring— prring.”

The smile faded. Betty didn’t move. “Prring—prring— prring— prring— prring.”

Betty was at the window before the sound faded completely away. Nervously she cried aloud, “Why do they let that child out in this weather?”

“Because people have to be told,” she heard herself echo back woodenly.

Again peering out the window, Betty suddenly let out a sharp cry, the mutilated, inarticulate screech of a decimated animal.

She had just seen a red bicycle round the corner in front of her house.

Betty’s legs folded beneath her and she fell to the floor. She covered her ears with her hands.

“No. God, please! Noooo! I just sent him some new shoes.”

“Prring—prring.”

Charles Brooks

Thomas Rhinehart

32

PHOENIX

lASTGlANCE

Charles Brooks

the chance... to dance...

Poetic images moving silently across empty stages in search of choreographed cohesion, the oniy audible sounds being supple leather slipppers brushing against barren boards. The bodies, minds and spirits dedicated to discipline are bondaged in a battle between artistic imagery and physical reali­ ty. But the pain, perception and perspiration slow l/m eld into fluid motion. En pointe, stretching rnuscles tautly beyond ordinary iimitations, the language crystalizes in pristine performance.

A life unfolds as individual ex­ periences merge into a unique uni­ ty frozen in a singular movement.

Deeply personal, highly expressive and abundantly energetic, all a dancer ever needs is the music, the moment and the chance. . . to Ancil Davis Burns B. Hovey

Coordinated by Jo Ann Floyd

On the Cover: Color Pencil by Marjorie Horne