THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE
10.1 Spring 1998
_-aill
THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE volume 10.1, Spring 1998
_JIIIL-
Editors-In-Chief Dana Goodyear Chandra Speeth Managing Editors Kamran Javadizadeh Darby Saxbe Publisher John M. Siciliano Art Editors Laura Kleger Lucy Schaeffer Photography Editor Sarah Kunstler Designer Prem Krishnamurthy
Staff Molly Ball, Jennie Chu, Chinnie Ding, Meredith Gordon, Alexis Jones, Farrah Karapetian, Rebecca Onion, Gerard Passannante, Karen Rosenberg, Eric Rosenthal, Dominique Hara Sherman, Siddhartha Shukla, Greg Tigani, Callie Wright
The contents of The Yale Literary Magazine are Š1998. Copyrights remain the property of individual contributors. The editors reserve the right to edit all interview material. No portion of the contents may be reprinted without permission. All rights are reserved. The Yale Literary Magazine is a non-profit, registered undergraduate organization at Yale University. The views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily those of the editors or staff members. Yale University is not responsible for the contents of the magazine. The contest for the Francis Bergen Memorial Prize for Poetry was judged by Langdon Hammer. Subscriptions to The Yale Literary Magazine are available for $15 (individuals) and $30 (Institutions). Please make checks payable to the YLM Publishing Fund and send to: The Yale Literary Magazine P.O. Box 209087 New Haven, CT 06520
Library of Congress catalog number 7-19863-4
4
Works 7 Max Dana,American Sonnets [1] 8 Cathy Braasch,Sierpinski[2] lo William Coker, Odes[3] ii Lori Cantu,Airplanes [4] 12 Gabriel Brandt, Untitled [5] 13 Katherine Newbegin, Untitled [6] 13 Julia Kots,Kimmy[7] 14 Caleb 0. Fey, Untitled [a] 15 Nicky Beer,Snakeless [5] 16 Alec Hanley Bemis,Da [to] 18 Hiroko Nagao, Untitled [11] 24 Dan Kellum, The Leaves Outside the Bathroom Window [12] 25 Briana Babani, Untitled [13] 26 Matt Ducklo, Untitled [14] 27 John M.Siciliano, Temperance [is] 28 Morgan McDonald,Noah's Ark [161 31 Zina Deretsky,Ant Lion [17] 34 Alexis Jones,Places with Wind and Without he]
I
Acknowledgements The editors of The Yale Literary Magazine wish to extend our gratitude to those institutions and individuals whose support makes the magazine possible. The generosity of Paul Mellon, William Curtis Carroll Davis, and Francis Bergen enables us to publish biannually. Philip Greene's good guidance keeps us from doing so triannually. We appreciate the assistance of Harvey Goldblatt and the Pierson College Sudler Fund, as well as the advice given by Langdon Hammer, John Gambell, J.D. McClatchy, Susan Bianconi, Jenny Ludwig, and Walter Hyder at Yale Printing and Graphics Services. Thank you all.
A
i The Artiste 0,Naked City, womb unto my flat, Can you please condescend to answer why My nine-months'genius tragically begat Rejection-letter mountains nine feet high? My work,Moot Pointe,they mocked with witless spite That harped upon my cutting-edge techniques. Can neofuturemodernists not fight Against such empty,ignorant critiques? I've followed all the rules for making art: Dropped out of school, proceeded to NewYork, And, most important, played the pauper's part At Jimmy's Diner,washing knife and fork. Where I was led awry I cannot say. Perhaps if I told people I was gay...
1 Max Dana, b. 1976 "The Artiste," "The Suburbanite," and "The Weirdo" from American Sonnets lines: 14 each
SPRING 1998
wiNNII.
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2 Cathy Braasch, b. 1977 Sierpinski drypoint etching 6 1/2 x 5 / 1 4 in. (16.5 x 13 cm)
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II
The Suburbanite When florid, carefree spring days brought with pride The yearly banquet of the PTA, In Martha Stewart Living I espied A recipe for Peanut Lamb PâtÊ. I scoured and searched through all the warehouse clubs To find a bargain-basement mutton chop, While seven-gallon peanut butter tubs Were 2-for-I at Super Stop 'n'Shop. How blissful is the thrifty life's delight, To scrimp and save my pennies ever more. My coupons clipped, a shopping list I write. 0,Ford Explorer, whisk me to the store! For though it may Frugality offend, To save so much,your motto must be Spend! III
The Weirdo The Freemasonic symbols do relate That Denver Airport is the secret place Where government and spacemen will create Their plans to subjugate the human race. The Heaven's Gate affair was only part Of this, their xenocidal tourniquet. Such fearsome apparitions bade me start A UFO site on the Internet. My astrally projected intellect Has incognito cracked their mystic code: In June they'll harvest humans to dissect, Just like on last week's X-Files episode. And though my doctors batter me with pills, I know a cosmic force controls their wills.
SPRING 1998
9
Odes Return me to the altar that once was mine: The purple-blossomed tree with its many boughs. The pink flush in the cloud at dusk,the Wandering sky in its evening stillness. The shadows on the window,the tumbling weed, And flowers that bloom by darkness—the patient seed And all the trees that rise in mist and Stand in a row in the still of morning. All that is theirs is ours. On the broad-brimmed sea The sailor floats and watches the ripening waves And driftwood, and the sea itself, and Stars, and the burgeoning light of morning.
3 William Coker, b. 1978 Odes lines: 12
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4 Lori Cantu, b. 1977 Airplanes softground print 5/ 1 2 x 8 in.(14 x 20.5 cm)
SPRING 1998
11
5 Gabriel Brandt, b.1968 Untitled silver-gelatin print 7 l/2 x 91/2 in.(19 x 24 cm)
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THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE
6 Katherine Newbegin, b.1976 Untitled silver-gelatin print 9 X 13 in.(23 x 33 cm)
7 Julia Kots, b.1979 Kimmy sliver-gelatin print 9 x 13 / 1 2 in.(23 x 34 cm)
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8 Caleb 0. Fey, b. 1968 Untitled Caleb 0. Fey-o-Graph" based on Print 81996.06-04-01 Reg. US Pat. Off. (t) 13 x 19 in.(33 x 47.5 cm)
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The fragile web ofswamp grass slowly collapses inward, torn through by a thoughtless, thrusting head. The roots are sore, and burrow to evade skin. Already the flies are settling. 4
Snakeless The swollen earth bursts forth a few gruesome hills. Loam slides off into the fat-lipped stream, tinting the current with brick. In a sky where the light fails
Those sickly marsh roses breed sexless along the shore, the old white flowers dead. (Tired of all their quarrels, the heads and bodies simply dropped apart. One cannot find the death in either half.)
come the leather wings and the tiny mouths.
What comes after this will be incontrovertibly,irrevocably After; creeping, anarchic weeds and
This stream has not yet learned to weep, not while its shoulders
tidy anthills realizing the word.
are unstooped with
How right it is for the earth
heavy soles, dead cook-fires,
to be indifferent:
thy-stripped fish bones,
sorrow denied its easy bed
the whole of its flesh
is the path to strength.
too wet for trees. Clutching the remainder Though song attends nothing,
on the dripping bank,
and the air is too supine to be rattled,
neck knotted thick and feathery,
the cricket thinks better
the dirty swan stretches.
of squeaking in the rushes.
And its body shall be inconsequential.
The predators have quit
And the swath of the reap shall remain.
this nerved terrain, where
And nothing beautiful or sad
even the wind is a laser.
shall come of any of this.
9 Nicky Beer, b.1976 Snakeless lines: 51
SPRING 1998
15
Da "How's home, David?" Joanne shouted from the front porch. Bobby half-walked, half-dragged his feet across the gravel driveway in front of the Billingham family split-level. His forward momentum was kept up by the insistent tug of Mrs. Thomas, the neighbor who ferried little Bobby's body from his mother's outpost at the front door to his father's outpost at the rickety red mailbox. "Home's alright," David said."It's alright." 'What's that?" asked Joanne, encouraging her husband to do more than mumble. "It's alright, Jo," he said. "It works at least." He said this in his fortissimo voice, so Joanne could tell he was trying extra hard to get the words out. David thought that bringing intensity to such unimportant words could make a difference,that yelling itself granted his every action clarity and purpose. People were often rubbed the wrong way by David's fortissimo voice. Through all this Mrs. Thomas was struggling across the judicially-mandated thirty feet of gravel drive, trying to get Bobby from Joanne's porch to David's mailbox. Although two years old, Bobby still walked with halting, inchworm steps. But he always smiled.Young, happy. 10 Alec Hanley Bemis, b.1975 Da 3643 words
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THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE
"Remember, David," Joanne told her husband, "Bobby has to be at my door at 5 PM. And you're re-
that the word should be pronounced that way. What do you think of that?" David paused. "It's
sponsible for the hand-off monitor on the way
kind of a load, huh? I'm not sure if people like
back. No more 'I couldn't find anyone' bullshit.
saying it that way because it makes them feel like
I'm not wasting my time on the phone, searching
they have a leg up on other people or if it just
for neighbors to drag my kid across my driveway."
makes them feel less bad about what some pilgrim
"Screw off, Jo," said David as Mrs. Thomas
did." David himself was divided on the issue.
completed the hand-off. Obscene words always provided a climax to the Billingham's conversa-
knew quite what to fancy himself. At times, he
tions. Bobby's hand gripped his father's tightly,
wore hand-tailored clothes and disguised himself
and David's palm surrounded Bobby's small pink
as a sophisticate. With pomade shaping his dirty-
fingers. "Fuck you very much, James," Joanne said in
David was,in general, a divided man. He never
blonde locks and his mustache waxed to points, he imagined himself an ambassador for hire. For
parting.
years, in fact, David had frequented a bar down
James David Billingham hated it when she called him James. It reminded him that he was
the block from the United Nations. He liked to
James Billingham, Sr.'s son—the son of a father, a father to a son. It made him feel small, part of
connections," as David put it. Somehow he became close personal friends with the Saudi Ara-
something old, something from which he could
bian royal family. Once he and Jo ate with them at
not escape.
the consulate. They sat on an oriental rug and
blend in with the foreign nationals, or "make
gnawed at spit-roasted pig. But David's enthusiDavid drove down Mahopac's winding streets,
asm cooled when international relations soured
staring through the windshield of his powder blue
after the violence at the Munich Olympics in '7a.
jeep. The town had a certain backwoods grace. All
At other times David slipped into backwoods
the front yards were concealed by overgrown
comfort. In the past year, these times had become
tree-tops and unpruned shrubs. These ungroom-
all-the-time. His hair flipped and curlicued ac-
ed front lawns grew wild in a town where un-
cording to its own devices. His overgrown must-
groomed lawns were quite alright.
ache poked at his lower lip. He slept nine hours
Mahopac was Westchester's country cousin, a
each day, yet his eyelids held onto the night. He
feral child returned to a county in a higher tax
settled into Mahopac, wore plaids rather than
bracket. Mahopac was rural suburbia, a place
checks,slipped off his loafers,tromped around in
where weekend hunters too afraid of the back-
work boots, and kept a shotgun in his back trunk.
woods moved after their retirement from broker-
You never knew when you might be called upon to
ing stocks. It was a place that a farmer might call
begin the hunt. The size of Mahopac allowed for
home if he could no longer endure barns and dirt
this type of rural eccentricity.
roads. It was a halfway-house for those stuck be-
The smallness of the place, however, made en-
tween the country and the city. Expectations were
tertaining a child a difficult task. What to do, what
low; it was a place just to get by. Some people
to do. There were no first-run theaters with ani-
moved away as soon as they got the chance. Many
mated films, no public parks, no under-five fan-
never left.
tasy lands with ball-crawls and clowns and other
"You know," David said to Bobby,"Dr. Fishkin
things a son might enjoy. A McDonald's was
thinks that Mahopac should be pronounced Muh -
scheduled to open in the early autumn. That
Hoe-Pack—like the Indians would've said it.
would provide some semblance of a good time,
There's a lot of old men and young kids who agree
but it would do neither David nor Bobby any good SPRING 1998
17
efits
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18
THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE
for another four Saturday visits. What Bobby obviously needed as much as David did was a good fish—a rod, a reel, a bucket of worms, a six-pack, plus whatever would fit in the Coleman cooler after a ham sandwich and Granny Smith apple lunch. Three hours on the lake: dodging summer's last speedboats and jet skis, bonding with q"'14k41., " . " 6144k.
the ancestral pond. .1.. .1
"Bobby, how's 'bout we go down to the lake?" David said. His son looked at him. Was there even
-Ito,
a dim awareness of his father's fall from grace, his parents' recent troubles? "Just say 'da' and I'll know you're on my side on this one,tiger." "Da," said Bobby. "Alright then." David decided that, first things first, he should return to his apartment to refuel his engines before introducing Bobby to the joy of angling and the great outdoors. David's jeep made a sharp left
PP°
at St. Joseph's Roman Catholic Church and Sunday school, and turned onto Piedmont Drive, the
714? , 0 01P0 414
center of Mahopac's business district. As far as David was concerned, Piedmont Drive was the
vt, .16
center of everything. It was the site of Lake Mahopac, of David's month-old apartment, of the 474 , 4 , • 4,;41.4‘ ft$V ;.• ; OV , /:,
9 IA
nascent McDonald's a stone's throw from his front door, and—right below his new home—of 1 ' vir-4
Dr. Fishldn's Line and Lure Tackle Shoppe. For David, being on Piedmont was like waking
04;1;
up. Late afternoons spent walking the street gave him a chance to stare himself down in storefront
r'1.4
windows. Looking at his half-image in the reflective dusk glass made him realize that he was only halfway in the world. From his strategic location at the center of town, David sought to reassemble
11 Hiroko Nagao, b. 1976 Untitled lithograph 1 2 in.(28 x 21.5 cm) 11 x 8 /
SPRING 1998
19
his life into something recognizable as a continuing endeavor, something that would satisfy the
nodded off to sleep.
plans drawn up by him, his lawyer, and the family
David returned to the jeep after five minutes with his cooler, a tin can filled with fresh earth-
court judge for Putnam County.
worms, and half a six-pack. The first three had
"Da," said Bobby. David turned his jeep off Piedmont and into the small lot behind the mini-mall which contained his apartment. "Damn," he said. The damn Italians from Narcisco's Pastry had taken David's spot. He parked behind Dr. Fishldn's shop. Fishlcin would understand. "Just wait here," David said to Bobby, opening the door and touching his boots to the oil-stained
been drunk that morning. David's fishing rod was already propped up against the back seat. The Billingham family was ready to fish. David drove the half-mile to the dock filled with excitement. What is excitement? During his younger years David associated good times with youth. Excitement was inexorably linked to the words good, alive, and right. A good
pavement. "I'll be right back. I just have to run an errand or two up at the place. S'alright, Bobby?"
life was one of excitement. It was right.
David gave his son a look of masculine complicity, a wry smile. The good times ahead of them would
sensation ceased to be a regular occurrence. He
arise out of mischief. Bobby could do nothing about this. Faced with such an opportunity, there
grasped at the other things he associated with
was nothing for him to say. He would accept. He would be overwhelmed with joy, honored. Now that David wasn't around every day he had to accelerate his son's maturation process. Somehow Bobby had to be taught what it was to be a man. David was passing on his legacy to a boy of two. David left the jeep,slammed his door shut, and went through the back entrance of Dr. Fishicin's
But when he hit the age of twenty-three, this tried to hold onto his younger years. David youth: noontime wake-ups, fumbled conversation, unpreparedness. Within a few years, however, the vitreous stuff that produced excitement stopped flowing in his blood. Accretion of the elemental sap which led to outbursts of laughter and car races and late nights with the boys and girls was no longer a calculable event. The stuff waxed and waned of its own accord. Fun was no longer a natural bodily process.
shop. He passed through the place as he always did, picking tip some worms and a new lure, chat-
Adulthood beckoned.
ting with Dr. Fishldn about how they were biting and how went the algae count. He left Dr. Fish-
The Billinghams pushed off the side of Lake Ma-
kin's and went next door to his apartment to pick up his gear. Bobby awaited his father's return. He made gurgling sounds and darted his eyes from the rear-view mirror to the dashboard to the passenger-side mirror. For a few moments he struggled against the constraints of his seatbelt, scared, as if he would never see an adult again, as if he were locked away forever inside his father's jeep. But he soon settled into indifference. Bobby was getting used to being left alone. He grinned dumbly, drooped into the beige plush of the car seat, and 20 THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE
hopac at ii o'clock. David sat at the back of the rowboat, slicing hollow plastic oars through the water, his eyes on the shore. The small outboard motor had burned out two weeks before, but David didn't see any sense in getting it fixed as long as he had the strength to paddle himself out. Bobby was nestled behind him at the prow of the boat, cushioned by the pillowy softness of his toddler clothing. David worried slightly because this meant he couldn't keep a close eye on his son during the trip, but Bobby, still drowsy from the morning, was not likely to stir. The slow, bobbing motion of the boat only encouraged his rest.
"Good times," David said when the boat got out
flowed from one end to the other and back again.
to the middle of the lake. He stopped paddling
Bobby flapped his arms and knocked at the alu-
and shifted the oars so the water ran flush against
minum shell. He smiled and tried to flop his body
each oar. The boat slowed and David took in the
onto all fours. David smirked and shook his head.
day. The sky was clear, but a strong breeze blew
For five minutes David sat with his line loose in
over the water, keeping leisure-seekers and jet
the water. About once each minute he would give
skis off the lake and necessitating thick flannel
"With most sports you go around swinging and
plaid and Bobby's was red. With coats on, they
kicking and throwing this and that around but it
found the day nice enough to fish.
all adds up to nothing more than distraction.
. Being out during the early half of the day was
Fishing's not about that. You don't go knocking
good. David locked the oars in place and turned
around dimpled balls into little cups. You start
around to face his son. He smiled at him. Bobby
and you wait. It's kind of a different thing from
wore a green and blue wool-knit cap like those
real life, Bobby, but I think it's something you
worn by the Chilean sheep herders of Tierra del
should learn about."
Fuego. Joanne had bought it for Bobby at a craft
Thirty minutes and three beers passed. Bobby
fair after seeing one in an issue of National Geo-
was restless, but the warmth of the noontime sun
graphic. David could not loosen the memories of
and the bulk of his jacket kept him in place.
his wife and son on nice days from the fabric of
"I never do catch much out here anymore,
this nice day. How things came together, how time
Bobby. Dr. Fishkin says it's acid rain but I think
passed, and how things changed seemed an un-
it's these fucking jet skis." With this he gave his
fathomable mystery. On the lake, at least, there
son a knowing look, as if foul language could forge
was the certainty of floating. It was a definite kind
a bond between them. "It's probably both. There
of thing: below the water, above the water. David
can be more than one reason for bad things."
reached over the Coleman for the fishing rod
David felt a tug at the end of his line. It was a
which rested diagonally across the middle seat of
substantial pull. It was a fish. He stood up both for
the boat. Bobby awoke from his nap.
leverage and to get a look. His legs failed him and
David prepared his hook for the first cast.
Is
his line a tug, add more slack, peer into the lake.
coats for both father and son. David's was green
he took one step back in the boat to steady himself
"Good times," he said. "It's almost like an in
and prevent himself from falling in. The boat was
verted golf swing, Bobby," he announced before
too small for such a sudden shift in weight. As
letting his line fly off into the deep. "Only the
David's head leaned just past the stern, he
motions are smaller, less ostentatious and more
dropped his rod and his hopes for a fish. The front
refined. I'd say more specific. Never play golf,
end of the rowboat rose from the water and began
Bobby. It's for soft men." His intention was to in-
an arc leading from the skin of Lake Mahopac
struct Bobby as much as it was to enjoy himself.
to David's forehead. The boat seemed to pull the
David thought golf was a sport that could not be
lake up with it. Water spilled off the hull in cas-
trusted. It was impure, tainted by associations
cading sheets. The arc seemed perfect, elegant,
with commerce and society. "Fishing is real.
ridiculous.
Nothing ever happens for the most part. Many
David's left foot was the first thing to sink into
days there's little in the way of results, but that's
the water. He fell backwards toward the lake. He
matched by the lack of false hope. Other games
whipped his body backwards into the water and
are dirty with false hope."
deftly avoided having his head smashed by the
Bobby's eyes followed intently the small pool of
end of the boat and the hurtling,tightly-swaddled
water which had collected inside the boat. It
figure of his child, wedged at the front of the SPRING 1998
21
before and the water was so brown he could not
aluminum craft like a scared kitten. David was struck by the coolness of the water and the recog-
see past the surface.
nition that his boots were not as waterproof as the manufacturer guaranteed. There was an unpleas-
"Your hand,Bobby," David said. He slipped the oar under the raised handle of the cooler and
ant squish of liquid between his toes and socks. He could taste a teaspoon-sized bit of his lunch at
nudged it toward the green tassel, imagining the bright orange Coleman as a magnet for his child.
the back of his throat and then splash. The scratched and dented aluminum of the
David thought back to the names the children were given at the YMCA after their swimming tests. Older kids and experienced swimmers were
boat's hull reflected the sun's rays like the wet back of a bored porpoise at a deep-sea theme park. The empty Coleman cooler bobbed next to
sharks; small children were guppies; babies were tadpoles, or were they protozoa? Amoebas?
it, a sad imitation of a life buoy. David emerged from under the capsized boat and shimmied to
"Be a guppy. Be a fucking guppy," he said. David's movements were furious and automatic.
the top, chest flush with the hull, clutching one of the oars in his hand:
He pushed the cooler from side to side, hoping to awaken something in the water. Bobby's
"Where?" he said, spitting water and scanning the surface of the lake. Time slowed. Seconds
fingertips broke through the surface of the lake for a moment, but missed the cooler by a narrow
passed like hours, going slower still in David's head than they would in the dramatic finale of an action movie. The wisdom of the drink returned
margin.
to David. He was filled with the energy and foresight which allowed the besotted, 3 AM David to have a convincing conversation with Joanne, to
into the chilly, late-August waters. He made his way to the cooler, clenching its handle with one
stick to the thin yellow divider line of the Merritt Parkway for miles until home, to make friends with all the right cops, to get through days on the job by bending paperclips into minimalist sculp-
David let out a grunt, dropped the oar, and half-slid, half-dove from his aluminum life raft
hand, his son's damp, darkened jacket with the other. David felt wet and brilliant as he pulled his son from the water. He shook him until Bobby grabbed at his back. He chopped madly at the water, dog-paddling the two of them back to the overturned boat.
ture, to drink water to stifle the dehydration headaches,to keep his wife's name separate from those of girlfriends and past lovers, to find joy in
"Home by five," he said, breathing hard, "I'm sick of this." David tried to remember the Heim-
squalor, to convince everyone he led a steady life, to buy goodwill with a round of drinks. His mind
lich maneuver, CPR, how to tell if someone was alive; but as he lay chest down on the boat, with
was flooded with a full understanding of the common lessons of strategy, instinct, and improvisation. Everything from that moment on would turn
Bobby on his back, he felt his baby shift and cough. His son gripped his back and David
out alright. "OK," he said. He gripped the one remaining oar tight like a lifeline and dipped it into Lake Mahopac, baptizing the waters with the fruit of his inebriated genius. Where is my son? he thought. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the winding end of a long, green tassel slithering at the surface of the lake like a waterlogged lure. It had rained the night 22 THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE
smiled. "Home by five," he said. David dipped his arms past the edge of the boat, his hands barely touching the water, a parody of the wooden figureheads which decorate the prows of old ships. The Billingham boys were drenched and wheezing,two humps on the hull of the silvery boat. David moved his arms in and out of the water, gaining speed. He was separated from the water by his mighty, tin ship. It took
thirty minutes to reach the shore. The trip had been drained of wonder after fifteen, and five minutes from the beach David actually began to laugh quietly to himself. At wading distance, David slipped off the boat with Bobby still clinging tightly to his back. David's feet were unsure. Exhausted, cold, hacking, he fell into the water. Bobby's noiseless sobbing grew into a howl of sadness, then into tears as he too hit the surface. His cap drooped awkwardly on his head, covering one eye. He screamed out with new breath. David crouched, then stood straight up, taking Bobby in his arms, pulling him tight to his chest. "You're not lost," David said, rocking Bobby back and forth. "You're right here. I'm right here. It's alright. It's alright." David set Bobby down as soon as he touched the beach and stripped the soaked layers of wool and flannel from his child's shivering skin. He pressed his lips to his son's belly and said two words again and again, hoping they would take. "I'm trying." Bobby returned home sleepy, his skin blanched white and dotted with irregular, red spots. He was damp from the scruff of his flannel jacket to the surface of his skin. David stood at his end of the driveway, holding Bobby's hand. He yelled to his wife that she'd better call Mrs. Thomas on the phone to ferry their boy across the thirty feet of gravel, that he had no one to take care of the hand-off, and that besides, Joanne really didn't want Bobby exposed to any of David's friends anyway. Joanne saw the condition of her son: pale, tired, beset with small shivers. She ran out to the mailbox, screaming at her husband until her voice cracked, swearing to him that he had just had his last chance.
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The Leaves Outside the Bathroom Window Puddled themselves,looking like the helms of crag-sclaffed schooners beached beneath the line of oaks. It had rained for four days in succession,long enough that the backyard had turned into a pitch swamp,the town around it a cooling bog of dank suet. Forecasting wool and Cream of Wheat, they landed then lay there. The wind brickled, shattering them to shards as they fell. The leaves were as stiff as old boats,tumbling onto unforeseen beaches,rocky in the night, with their crews staring because oftheir new home's meatlessness — not even coconuts dropping fortuitously from God. The cartographer that everybody trusted drew the island, but forgot to paint it green out of confusion,so that little unnamed somethings appeared for the sailors on the horizon. "Ahoy!" they must have shouted as they crashed on one of these breaks in the flat, undifferentiated water.
12 Dan Kellum, b. 1976 The Leaves Outside the Bathroom Window lines: 19
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THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE
13 Briana Babani, b. 1977 Untitled drypoint etching 4/ 1 4 x 10 3/8 in. (10.5 x 26.5 cm)
14 Matt Ducklo, b.1974 Untitled silver-gelatin print 2 x 14/4 in.(39 x 37.5 cm) / 151
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Temperance At luncheon parties before the war, perhaps, She'd slink by,loyal to the teacup tilted On her knuckle,and pinch it level So it might keep clear liquid for her to sip. Nibbling the rim,she'd inscribe anxiety In porcelain, glazed dove like the clouds that shroud Its flight and the mist, diffuse,that dissolves Its descent, and the fog that envelops its cry. China blunts the tooth. Tea softens the nerve, Dilutes the punch,braces the knuckle, And steeps dissent in reticence.
15 John M. Siciliano, b. 1976 Temperance lines: 11
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dr.E.11
Noah's Ark From behind the windshield, the structure he approached seemed anachronistic and absurd. Jepeth saw it like an illustration, an intaglioed half-circle breaking the intersection of sky- and land-planes, slanted dashes patterning the framed page. But the raindrops indicated depth and when he got out he saw someone moving on the bottom deck. The water pounded everything, and only the high pitch ofthe voice reached him.Jepeth walked almost blindly,looking down,from his car toward the construction and the voice; each time he looked up, the three oversized, outsized decks, one above the other, seemed higher and higher. Suddenly the rain stopped. He was under the bottom deck, which extended out beyond its intersection with the hull. Before him was the grand, planed underbelly. He wondered if his family, dry on the other side, could even hear the rain. It was an ark,this coffer or casket with his family inside. Something hit Jepeth from behind. He turned around. A rope ladder swung from above, settling into place with the water's weight. He walked around it, back into the rain, and lifted his face upwards, squinting to see; but the rain was too 16 Morgan McDonald, b.1975 Noah's Ark 2023 words
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THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE
heavy and the deck was too high. Jepeth grasped
"Is business good, though?" Shem asked.
the rung in front of him; the fibers were swollen
Jepeth nodded and stood up and walked toward
and thick. The ladder was almost still as he climb -
the bathroom. Less than five minutes later, he
ed, face down, until he reached up and it wasn't
came back and sat down.
there. Someone grabbed his hand. He looked up to Shem, who pulled him onto the deck then looked down the ladder. Seeing no one else, Shem
"I just talked with Dad," Jepeth said. "Where?" Shem asked, sitting up and looking around him,even to the wall behind them.
stared, in a moment, at Jepeth. The rain seemed to be talking. Shem turned and ran, slipping to-
"On the phone."
ward the porthole, and Jepeth followed him down.
Jepeth took a sip of his wine.
Shem looked toward the bathroom. Shem stared at him.
• Jepeth sat at a small, round table in the upper section of CafÊ Luna. His back was to the corner. In the smoke and low light he watched men settle down for lunch. He had been drinking the same glass of wine since noon. His older brother, Shem, came at two and sat down, and lit a cigar-
Jepeth waited. Shem looked at his drink, framing the glass with both palms and turning it, watching the ice. "Did he talk to you?" Shem asked. "Yes," Jepeth said. The waitress brought their food and they ate,
ette with his coat still on. He smoked it quickly, and Jepeth watched the calm it brought. His brother lowered himself into a chair. He was
Jepeth watching Shem and Shem looking down at
more beside than across from Jepeth, both of them looking out at the other people.
Dad at four," Shem said, reaching back then
the tables below them. "Well, I have to go. Ham and I are meeting with noticing his jacket was still on.
"How's the store?" Shem asked.
"OK," Jepeth said.
"It's good," Jepeth said."Lauren and I drove to
"We'll see you and Lauren tonight," Shem said.
Wellington on Friday, to an auction. I think we'll
Jepeth looked at him. Shem turned and
buy five or six Afghans and two old prayer rugs." Shem put out his cigarette. He ordered a scotch-and-soda. "How's Lauren?" he asked.
stepped down onto the main floor, and walked out. Jepeth watched him go through the door and then stop shoulders up and head down against the wind,to light a cigarette.
"She's well," Jepeth said. "Are you coming from the office?" Shem saw the outline of an old man's back. "Yes," he said. Jepeth nodded. Shem sat up in his chair and called to the waitress."My drink?" he asked, pointing at the table.
The shop was quiet on Mondays. When Jepeth returned Dmitri was sitting on a rug-pile in the back,reading a magazine. "Nobody been in since you left," he said standing up. "Thank you, Dmitri," Jepeth said. Dmitri went
The waitress nodded.
down to the storeroom and Jepeth walked the
"I told Dad we were having lunch together. He
space as slowly as when he'd considered buying it.
wants you to call him," Shem said.
Now rugs lay in piles and hung on racks. Each
Jepeth nodded."OK."
family had a certain pattern, passed through gen-
Shem slid back into the chair and lit another
erations, that its members painted onto the lat-
cigarette. He smoked it more slowly than the first.
tice of the warp and weft. In the planning and
The waitress came with Shem's drink and they
painting and execution, some followed the direc-
ordered sandwiches.
tions intently, stopping to measure proportions; SPRING 1998
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29
others worked less consciously, using the pattern as something to go on from,the wool running fast through their hands. Either way,the rugs, perfect, were derivatives with untraceable functions. The sun unclouded and warmed the store, changing the colors of the floorboards and rugs for a moment before settling for the night behind the office building across the street. Jepeth sat at his desk and opened the electricity bill. He wrote the figures on a check; the lines blurred when he tried to sign his name.Jepeth stood up. "Dmitri," he called. Jepeth usually walked downstairs and spoke quietly. Dmitri ran up the steps. "What's wrong? Dmitri asked. "I'm leaving now," Jepeth said. "Here are the keys to the front two locks. You've seen me set the alarm. It's two-four-two-eight." "Something wrong?" Dmitri asked. "I'm going to Wellington. If anyone calls, say that I'll be in in the morning. If Lauren calls, please tell her I'll be home by seven. You can finish taking pictures of the new shipment." Dmitri looked at Jepeth. He was small and balding, and his glasses were too big. "You OK?" Dmitri asked. "Yes, thank you, Dmitri. You can leave whenever you finish. Goodbye," Jepeth said,and he left the store and walked to the parking garage. Jepeth drove north out of the city on Tecumseh Parkway. To his left, the sun was still brilliant and full. It was rush hour, but the traffic was moving fast. He turned off at the Wellington exit and drove a few streets to Ocean Boulevard, the coast of the town. On the right were blocks of bushtrees, separated by wooden walkways laid over thistled tumbleweed and sand. After them came the beach and the ocean. The town was low-laid and ramshackled; the sun set on the horizon. A woman emerged from the trees, holding a child on her hip and dragging a green canvas beach chair and a long shadow behind her. Jepeth
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.E.
17 Zina Deretsky, b.1975 Ant Lion (full view) pen and ink drawing 10/ 1 2 x 6 in.(26.5 x 15.5 cm)
SPRING 1998
31
stopped for her to cross. A few minutes later, he
said, opening his eyes wider. "That's where I got
parked near the entrance to a walkway. Jepeth had been driving with his windows up.
her,see. I was her social work,see."
He opened the door to a concentrate of air, a saturate of salt and orange, and walked up the wooden stairs and saw the wide ocean. He went toward it, and at the end of the pathway sat to take off his shoes and socks. He had never been to the
"She moved down south now. She got a new job, see. Where's your wife, brother?" Jepeth looked at his watch. "She's at home now," he said. "You go get home, brother. You can't keep your
beach in autumn, nor ever by himself. Jepeth saw no one, and the expansive light of dusk felt ulti -
woman waitin', see, or she leave you. Go on now." Jepeth turned around and, imagining the
mate, stronger than a thief. He tucked his shoes beneath the bottom stair, keys in the toe of one
ocean-sized man behind him, stopped thinking. He seemed to arrive almost immediately at his
and socks stuffed in the other. Jepeth walked far
shoes. He put them on in the car and drove to
from the water, past the high tide's deposit—shell bits, seaweed, unique fragments of bone. The city
Salectet.
was twenty miles away, and the waves were invisible. The sky was more red now, and his shadow
Jepeth pulled into his parking space and turned off the engine. He felt like he was flying. He
turned into the ocean.
looked up. The kitchen lights were off. He got out and ran up the stairs and opened the apartment
Jepeth heard a sudden low hum and looked around him. A man in a black, zippered sweatshirt was sitting on the steps to a walkway; he must have been watching Jepeth for a hundred yards at
and turned on the kitchen light. There was a note on the counter from Lauren,saying she was at the
least. When the man saw Jepeth notice him, he stood up and stumbled onto the beach.
pool. Jepeth ran back down and out of the building and across the parking lot. He stopped. The pool was inside, but the walls were glass, and
"Hey hey," the man said, now in front of him. Jepeth tried to figure how far along he'd walked,
he recognized the colors of Lauren's bathing suit, and her strength. He loved her. She was the only
but the lighthouse still looked miniature, and the
person there.
walkways nondescript.
Jepeth ran to the door and opened it, then raced to the pool and jumped in as Lauren almost
"Where's.your wife, brother. It's dinner time," the man said, turning to the ocean. "It's dinner time," he shouted. Jepeth stood with his hands at his sides. The man turned back. "Seriously, brother. What you doin'down here?"
reached the wall. She stopped suddenly and lifted her face from the water, then stood up. He stood next to her, his shirt translucent,stuck against his thin frame, his hair haphazard, his glasses and his face streaming. Lauren took off her goggles. She
"I'm going for a walk," Jepeth said.
was taller than he was.
"Where you from?" he asked.
"I love you," he said, his arms down, his hands resting below the water. The fluorescent lights
"Salectet," Jepeth said. He wanted to be gone, but he didn't want the man at his back.
caught every shift of the pool. Lauren laughed
"Rich man's land," the man said, facing the ocean with his arms in the air. Then he turned and
loudly.
stepped toward Jepeth. Jepeth could taste his
As she jumped through the water toward him, Jepeth pushed to the side. She landed on the surface and he pressed down on her back, then
breath. "My wife, she was a social worker," the man
32
Jepeth nodded.
THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE
"Me too," she said.
moved one hand to her head. At first he thought he could hear her laughing. He put a leg over her and sat, pressing her neck and head down with both hands. Her body tried different ways to get free. His tears were slow and burning. She stopped trying,then shook suddenly,then floated up against and around him. Jepeth stopped crying. He walked her to the side of the pool, then got out and pulled her out. He wanted to take her to the apartment, but there Would be the risk of witnesses, and complications, and loss of time. He picked her up and carried her over his arms to the last pool chair, in the corner, and placed her there. He took a towel from the cart and laid it over her body,up to her neck,then knelt and took off his glasses, and kissed her face. He wiped the lenses on the towel and put his glasses back on. He looked at her, then stood, dripping, and walked evenly and quickly to the parking lot and got into his car. Jepeth followed the directions his father had given him. When he arrived it was already pouring. •
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33
•••11
Places with Wind and Without
I must not know the wind. There is no wind in.my dreams; There are no spaces, no shadows. The tangerines are only painted globes And smell of nothing. Nightly. Free of any friction of a breeze, The points of view proliferate Until I cannot be sure what Eyes I see through,or if I am Some invisible distracted lens, Or perhaps God. It is never Alarming;there is no fixed Point to be shaken. Everything slips. I have been in the backseat of a car, Scrambling through red silt that lay knee-deep on the roadside. I did not find it exceptional.
18 Alexis Jones, b.1978 Places with Wind and Without lines: 40 Winner of the Francis Bergen Memorial Prize for Poetry
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2. I still have nightmares from
my one-time anesthesia;
Awake,like a spark,in the late August heat To a body that pools around,heavy as mercury And as strange. My senses constrict Past even my lungs'sigh-and-heave And I awake, dispossessed, unsure Where my limbs begin and leave off, Whispering along the paths Of molecules borrowed and sloughed, Half-dreaming the failure of the ion pumps When the world in its laziness will let settle Another acre of its province. There is a breeze. The covers are off. The awareness Of breeze is from skin to quick, pins me through. I get up for a glass of water.
3 In paintings,the thin varnish of air lets Outlines bulk against it. Between words Come breaths. You can feel these spaces between things. Maybe the candlestick knows itself As the silhouetted gap Between faces almost kissing. Maybe bare trees in December make the most sense to themselves As things that hold together, briefly rattled, obstructing the wind.
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35
The Yale Literary Magazine, volume io.i, is set in Filosofia, designed by Zuzana Licko, and Interstate, designed by Tobias Frere-Jones. The cover stock is Warren
LOE
Gloss 8o#; the text
pages are Mohawk Vellum Warm White 8o#. Printed by The William J. Mack Company, North Haven,Connecticut.
JMI