31?, HHHHI H H H g: T_HS .05? It This is to certify that the thesis entitled ABAI NST A UJI NTER SKY presented by Elizabeth Bennett has been accepted towards fulfillment of the requirements for MAS IER '5 degree iniflflLLSJZL WWW/Mag Major professor Date 2M Octolwx NWO 0-7639 OVERDUE FINES: 25¢ per day per item RETURNIM LIBRARY MATERIALS: Place in book return to remove charge from circulation records AGAINST A WINTER SKY By Elizabeth Bennett A THESIS Submitted to michigan State University in partial Fulfillment of the requirements For the degree of MASTER OF ARTS Department at English 1980 ABSTRACT AGAINST A WINTER SKY By Elizabeth Bennett Against a Winter Sky is the author's First book of poetry. The included poems are not intended to reveal a unified theme. Rather, they present several Facets 0F the writer's liFe in an attempt to examine a variety of themes to be eXplored more thoroughly in Future poems by the writer. For Larry ii TABLE OF CONTENTS FOR COUSIN BETSY ON HER WEDDING DAY 0 O D C O O C O C O i—i A MATTER OF EQUILIBRIUM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 DEFEAT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 THE AUGUST SUN AT 28 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 INTRODUCTION TO SUBURBAN LIVING . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1? THE PREPARATION OF SHRIMP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ZD OUTLAW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 FOOD FOR THOUGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 LAUNDROMAT,. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 AUGUST HAZE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 STITCHING UP THE KITTEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34 ADVENT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3? A CHILD'S METHODOLOGY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39 AN APDLDGY FOR MELANIE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . AA MIXING METAPHORS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 TO A NINTH GRADE CLASS OF 33 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 SEEING BACKNARDS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 DIAGNOSIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 FIRST SNOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 DEBAUCH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 PEANUT BRITTLE SEASON I O I C I I O I O I O O O O O I O I .61 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS “An Apology For Melanie” and "First Show" have been accepted For publication by the ENGLISH JOURNAL and will appear in a Forthcoming edition. iii 1 FOR COUSIN BETSY ON HER WEDDING DAY Elizabeth. Elizabeth. We, who are wide—hipped, sisters who are sisterless, stand here stout before these men ---I the bridesmaid you the bride--- to give your name away. Great Great Grandma Delilah Lower did it wide-hipped, and her sister Elizabeth too: gave away their names, that is, 120 years ago just before the War. Delilah married Enoch Robbins December 14, 1861, was with him six days only before he leFt to join the Union Army. In November she wrote Elizabeth oF her nine-week-son-near-deathz ”IF it survives the Cough and my husband comes home safe I'll call it Enoch.” She did, and was practical, unpoetic like that, potent, gave birth to Minnie later, who gave her name to James Ferrell, and who, wide-hipped and resolute, gave birth to Susan gave her name to Herbert Booth, mothered our mothers, wide-hipped and stubborn. And Susan's daughters have given their names to our Fathers, but their wide hips and "Elizabeth" back to us. So we, who are sisterless, are Delilah's sisters: Elizabeth Lower Bobbins Ferrell Booth Bradley Becker Bennett--- Greenwood--- we, who have descended through a Family oF stubborn-hipped women have given our names to men! But we know, like Delilah, that names are only practical, unpoetic matters, and that it is these wide hips this stoutness that will bear our Elizabeths, our sisters, our poetry through our granddaughters back to us. A MATTER OF EQUILIBRIUM Standing, my legs spread sturdy in the bottom oF the boat so as not to rock it, I strained, pulled my arm back, snapped it Forward, Flicked my Finger on the line just right, and then with a whir cast FiFteen whirlpools For my Father that day, craving his approval, and he, in a cigar-clenched grin, acclaimed, "All a matter oF equilibrium.” Growing bored with my game and sleepy, my stomach crammed with pancakes Dad had made For me, 1, nine, peered over the boat that cool six A.M. in July. My arms hugged around me holding in the luscious warmth that this moment was only I-~- selF possessed, secure--- glass lake, Dad, resplendent sky. On the bottom oF the immobile lake I saw dead birch branches, rocks, paralyzed weeds; even our silver anchor concealed the niche where the small-mouth lived. But I scouted Further For my Father, conFidently, my equilibrium newly assured. And then I saw him. Suspended silent, wise, the cool, green bass Flicked his dorsal Fin. He circled the bottom, never changing depths, selF possessed, SECUIB o Under the Fin, under the spine, a swim bladder, gaseous and sensitive to unnatural pressures, ---soFt-white--- expands in shallow water contracts in deep to guarantee the equilibrium oF the small-mouth. Suddenly. to the right, my small-mouth darted under the boat I heard the inevitable whir oF my Father's reel I saw the jerk: the hook was set. And now my Fish Fought pressure to the leFt. Clickety, clickety, up he came down went his head the hook tore his lip his caudal Fin crippled in a drunken lunge. Under the Fin, under the spine, gas molecules pressed to a new volume in the swim bladder 8 and bounced against the wall oF the tightening soFt-white SEC- ”Let's let him play!" my Father called, and down, down, down he swam, playing his deFt game. But now my small-mouth, eking out his equilibrium, was suddenly, gullible, Foolish, and I saw, in my own ephemeral buoyancy, the cruel trickery oF our innocence. throbbing deception: the gray-green blur lunged once, and then in a lurid glaze, ascended pressureless, emerged in a bloody whirlpool, a blob oF soFt—white tissue spewing From his mouth. ID DEFEAT ”The human Foot,” the orthOpod droned, ”is a magniFicent mesh oF seven, small arches. Five oF yours, my dear, are undeniably, irrevocably Fallen.” He prescribed a pair oF black velvet oxFords that I clumped in For Five years. They were huge: nine at nine, and I hid them in dusty shame, ball oF right on toes oF leFt, under St. Gregory's desks as Margaret McCraney giggled in black patent leathers. With enameled red toes on the beach in July, ll Margaret kicked sand at her rapt entourage, and they, tantalized, groped her minikin toes, threw her to the perch, her humping little Frame kicking in delight. I dug my great slabs oF Flesh into the dirt and Feigned interest in Jane Eyre. At seventeen I listened to my Father tearing at his disFigured toenails with pliers, the thick yellow rubble clacking in a metal waste basket. I contested my chromosone damage with bottles oF Pretty Feet, lengthy pedicures, hours in the bathtub, imitating Margaret's neat water Flicks, my Herculean plops creating huge tidal waves. And now, mornings at seven, I still remember Margaret, 12 imagine her stilted in her Candies, tittering over daiquiris, as I crash along in dusty blue Adidas scaring cottontails away. 13 ’ THE AUGUST SUN AT 28 It is August by the blue pool and the hazy, hot sky hangs over the sun bathers rolling back to belly belly to back under the sun. I. in my gingham bathing suit, am a part oF the scene, my legs swaddled in terry cloth: the thighs swollen, the knees Flabby, the Feet thick. I am as alone at 28 in the green plastic webbing oF my chaise lounge reading, as I was at 16 Feigning interest in Jane Eyre, while Margaret McCraney's enameled red toes captivated her entourage. I am not built For the August sun. Margaret McCraney is. Well, — "— “‘." "‘.’ ~-'-‘"-"'""-;- §“"‘."1fi‘ 'mg’cmm‘ ;. 5-”: 14 I have accepted this aFter 12 years, but the August sun at 28 gloriFies not Margaret, but a Flamboyant woman 0F 90, cool somehow, minikin, lilting in a deck chair overlooking the blue pool and the hazy hot sky. In a Chartreuse sun dress she too captivates an entourage, her laughter trilling From behind her jeweled teeth. She is an enchantress, some ancient songbird luring them From the sea--- the old, Fat men and the young ones strutting, the big-bellied ladies and their daughters and granddaughters in teal bikinis [like Margaret's) are drawn to her irresistibly. She speaks to them in melody, lS laughing, chirping along in Yiddish-English, her brown eyes snapping to the music above the Finch-beaked nose. Her tiny arms Flap about as she talks, beating out her words. They are enamored by her, as am I, and the entourage lingers throughout the aFternoon to laugh to listen, seduced by her song. Margaret McCraney never was as enticing or as bright or as musical or as beautiFul as this Chartreuse songbird, even even even as she hurries along with us, her tiny arms tucking under a green-webbed chaise lounge that brays and scrapes against the deck cement, 16 her bright-eyed-beaked smile turned earthward, as she hobbies along hunchbacked, retreating From the aFternoon thunderstorm. I? INTRODUCTION TO SUBURBAN LIVING I like my white kitchen in the quiet oF SzOO A.M. I am not alone, my cupboards lined in uneven rows with tomatoes stocked, glistening in Mason jars, potatoes in a brown sack still clinging with earth From the Farm. I hum, my curtains pulled tight across the windows, as I chop up the carrots in chunks For my vegetable soup. But at 7:00, my soup simmering, I draw my curtains on a world paved in high—rise apartments, economy cars and joggers racing along, and my legs, two limp celery stalks, retreat to my bedroom closet 18 to practice the art oF suburban living. There I strap on my new spiked sandals and imagine myselF Flitting about in a city garden among hybrid rose bushes, a daiquiri in my hand looking svelte, selF possessed, nibbling on a scalloped carrot stick. But these celery stalks, are large, taperless , limp at the ankles and wobble about insecurely in the shag carpeting and I thirfl< that I'll [never ascend to these rmuu heighths graceFully stumbling about in spiked sandals in my closet, my vegetable soup, rolling hot and succulent, spilling over on the stove. 19 20 THE PREPARATION OF SHRIMP They are a delicacy, yDLJ know, ancl I buy them in a Five pound box, unsshelled and plump, theeir black eyes beaded like unground pepper staring back at me Fron1 the Freezer case. I bring them thrangh the check-out lane. The cashier is rude, cracking her Bazooka in their Frozen but I ignore her, bag the shrimp myselF, shield them, saFeguarded at the bottom oF a brown sack. At home I pick them one by one From the Frozen block With a thirikniFe, tapping. Faces, 21 prying at them just so as not to degrade them. I Feel as iF these shrimp must have some dignity too, and so I am Fastidious, making sure that each and every prawn is intact; I am proud that all possess their twenty-two legs and arching snouts because oF me and my careFul kniFe, and I drop them methodically undeFiled, into the pot oF boiling water. I set the stove timer For three minutes and bide patiently, like a Father pacing out his First born, wondering how I shall succeed with all this tangy pink Flesh 22 I smell, see bubbling to the surFace. I am vigilant and retrieve my shrimp pot precisely at the buzz. l pour the contents, Foamy, pungent, in the waiting strainer. I turn the Faucet careFully: water streams through to cool my prawns, and Flushes the debris away. I scrub my thin kniFe and then, meticulous as beFore, slit their bellies From throat to crotch eXposing their pink Flesh, discard their exoskeletons, integrity intact with twenty-two legs and carve a prudent line along their backs, Flick away the brown aortas arching snouts, 23 rinse them and at last array them on a white enamel dish. At the bottom oF the strainer, nestled among the last Few shrimp, I Find it, legless, antennaeless, pincerless, its halF carapace cracked, skewing the eyes laughing there at me, who stares with clever kniFe in hand, disbelieving, injured: How can this be? I have been Fastidious with my shrimp, perFectionistic, and now this cock-eyed-halF~a-crab dares to mock me in my eFForts. I will not accept it. I will 24 not. I study him, smirking, the deFiler oF my shrimp, perched on my palm, and suddenly, suddenly I see the absurdity oF this position. This cock-eyed smile is not mockery but whimsy From the ocean: how some daFt crab hangs about with prawns all day, lives sideways, evades the Fisherman the packager the grocer me in our conception oF things and sits here now demented and unpredictable, this cockamamie halF-a-crab crazed among my shrimp. 25 OUTLAW A brown squirrel, scampering the chimney For an errant nut, miscalculates his step and plops into my in-laws' living room. His bright eyes snap, dart the room, Find the mantel crammed with ceramic sculpture. Up he leaps, clawing at the antique woodwork, smashing the knic-knacs, the twenty—FiFth wedding anniversary vase, in his path. Now he clasps the gold-ballad drapes. He rips, slits, tears a 26 cock- eyed path across them, gold balls dancing madly, jouncing to the Floor. He scampers the kitchen tile, leaps to the counter, smashing cocktails in his prance, ice cubes clashing, glasses crashing, daiquiris splashing in our laps. He Frisks up the clanking china cabinet, this outlaw, scratching the woodwork with his nails, until suddenly, he poises motionless atOp his perch oF rocking glass, his bright eyes snapping at our world. 2? How is it we see him--- my mother-in-law, Larry and me jolted rudely From our aFternoon cocktail by his transgressions, his miscalculated step--- how is it we see him? The bright eyes snap with terror at us, at Larry's arm drawn back, his hand gripped about the stone ashtray. He Flings it Forward, aimed just above the rocking glass at this outlaw, suddenly chastened and contrite, his histrionics ceased to stop the rocking oF our He poises motionless to shoulder Larry's hurl, his contrition, our compunction: world. 28 there is the inevitable thud, the liFeless plunge, the bright eyes obliterated, brown Fur bloodied against the cold tile. 29 FOOD FOR THOUGHT I am sugar-slashed and dull today, lethargic: white ripples hanging about my knees, thick slabs oF pecan pie sleeping in my thighs. II. I am a bulging ten pound can oF Mexican peppers, botulistic, pressing out my scalloped tin; sticky black blood oozes From my thighs bubbling, drooling, smelling sweet-sour, my poison thick and viscuous. 3O LAUNDROMAT, a Titan whirlpool, sucking in liFe like Charybdis, its vortex tight with angry sailors. A dimple bottomed platoon oF limey stretch pants spotted with grease squeaks across the whirling wet deck, scowling with irritation, young parrots squawking at its heels. Trapped in the eddy oF their weekly odyssey, this oily, sweat-curled battalion oF housewives Flap their sheets angrily, the security oF their mobile homes nestled in a trailer court behind the castle in Ithaca. Furious with Odyssean strength, they heave their soggy gray underwear through the port holes with a scowl, batten the hatch, slap their squawking parrots 31 and snap crack their ragged towels into Folded piles. It is the Fury oF these sweaty housewives I do not understand. They have been hexed by Poseidon in this hot vortex, which sucks their Flabby hips, their lives into passionate hate, leaving even bright-eyed Athene muttering and conFused. 32 AUGUST HAZE My Father-in-law, having grown Furious in the August haze, has blackened Wanda's eyes again, and sits mesmerized in his shorts, eating bologna and Nabisco crackers, watching a sticky T.V. Wanda, inured to the heat, clucks away my help, Fries her Sunday chicken, scrubs sweet puppy excrement From the pantry Floor, and chatters her Fury away with National Enquirer news. I, clucked away and drowsy-eyed, sugar the lemonade. In the Field, stripped to their waists, Larry and Brian sweat away their Fury, carrying hot rocks in the sun. Black Flies chew at their ankles. I sweeten their load with cold, wet glasses; they smile energized, wise, and wave away my sleepy aid. 33 I liFt my heat-heavy Feet to the barn, and oFFer MoraFF a sugar cube in appeasement. He shakes his mane tangled head. A hot breeze slaps my Face as I turn rejected From the silent, gray barn. A black rooster spurs at my legs, but I, muscle-weary and conFused, am Furyless. I turn alone back to the smug—hot house, seeking sleep, release oF its stingy secret that has sweltered in Fury For thirty years, while the willow, ant-inFested, in the brown grass outside, scratches desperately at the hot, clean windows. 34 STITCHING UP THE KITTEN It takes three oF us to hold the bleeding kitten down, three oF us, to master the writhing, three oF us crouching on the kitchen Floor as Larry takes the stitches in the gaping chest. The kitten, sobbing like a betrayed child, claws at us savagely, and astonishes us with his strength. The eye the dog has torn into his chest stares back at us gawking, heaving blood. It was April sometime when the kittens were born in the loFt in the old barn, For I saw them, small as mice suckling at their mother. I chose the gray one SS even then For he was Fattest, Feistiest, sucking at the Fullest teat. And on a day oF whiFFing spring winds and clouds quFing along a May sky, I stole him From the sagging barn, giggling at his attacks, his minuscule nails clean and scratching at my chest. I emptied him into the kitchen, and he skipped along the linoleum, tore over the table and Found his perch atop the best chair, he, the new house cat, snagging at the Fabric. Each time I returned to the Farm the gray kitten leaped to scratch at my chest. I laughed at the mock savagery, l‘ II III“ 1“ 36 For his attacks were less intense, tolerant somehow by August. It is brilliant October today. We have experienced the First Frost. And this Indian summer reminds me oF the day I stole the kitten From the barn: the wind, the clouds, the sky, but only the savagery is real now the writhing the clawing the sobbing the heaving, gawking chest intense, intolerant oF our stitching up mortality on the kitchen Floor. ll 4.4114] 1 37 ADVENT Those cold December mornings when I was eight, I carried to Mass, in a green lunch box, my scummy hot chocolate and soggy toast. Our heads, capped in those crazy red beanies, bobbed aFter Communion when Sister clacked out the Final genuFlection. Solemnly, we Filed From God's House three and a halF tile squares apart, and crossed ourselves with Holy Water that dripped down our Flat little chests. Then, in a sudden babble oF virgin tongues, we squish-squeaked oFF to our classroom in Fur-topped rubber boots, to savor our cocoa and the advent oF our Christmas poetry booklets. They were lavish creations, that Sister Lucien Marie valued over multiplication tables and phonics, and we Fevered over them, 38 sent our mothers to the hall closet For scissors, to the attic For Christmas cards, their winter nights and manger scenes redeemed and treasured From years beFore, to the Soo, sixty miles and back, searching For Ideals. We gorged on Fir green Frosting and divinity, pampered ourselves with hours oF Christmas music, straining From our scratched 78's, and read proliFically From wonderFul poets, Sophie Jewett, Christina G. Rossetti, Lydia Avery Coonley Ward. And then we Flowed the richness oF their poems with the vermillion oF our pens, agonizing on white sheets, our straddled legs wrapped round the rungs oF wooden chairs. Sweaty with ecstacy, we swaddled our creations in holly scrawls and bits oF ragged Christmas cards. But only then could we rest, our Fingers clutching the moist beads oF our rosaries, as we collapsed in warm beds those Fine December nights. 39 A CHILD'S METHODOLOGY 1. When her babies dirtied themselves, my mother treated it all with patient methodology: extracted the dirty diapers, rinsed them, soaked them, washed them, stirred them with a wooden spoon to boiled sterility, hung them in methodical rows white as baby rabbits' Feet, Flapping in the snow oF a equally sky. My mother methodized us: monogrammed our names in Buster Brown's, wove them into Christmas stockings, carved them in silver baby cups, planned our birthdays around the seasons and the cycle oF her Fertility. II. That's why 40 we never understood why she did it--- had Beeg when she was 40, that is. Well, we hated the methodology and smell oF diaper pails, besides we were into hocus-pocus than 0 So we called him Houdini, because we wanted him to think he was magic. Houdini Man Beeg, with the knot in his carotid that bulged huge and blue iF he cried too hard. He came with that hex. III. We enchanted him, 41 Houdini Man Beeg: bound him in handchFs [and leFt him the key), tied him in twine (that could easily break), gagged him and leFt him (in slip knots he slid). At two, he was bewildered by our charms and bewitched by his own. He thought he was magic, so we knew it was time For his initiation into Tartarus to which demonology (we knew) could never apply. IV. It was one oF those monstrous couches nubbed brown that pulled up and out and into a bed huge enough For Uncle Hi. This was Tartarus, about which we primed our Houdini Man Beeg: taught him how 42 to hold his breath to lie silently to conserve his air in order to survive. And so we Folded him up (He begged For handchFs too, but we said that that would come next.) and down. V. At First there was nothing, aisilent lump oF upholstery. Then we heard the deadened sobs, stared at the writhing lump oF Furniture and laughed in horror at each other, and I saw the sorceress standing, stirring the wooden spoon, saw that we could never exorcise all our badness, and I, his mother, pulled him wet-hot gasping blue From his Tartarus, 43 kissing the carotid, throbbing, throbbing, throbbing, and I knew that just as there had been method in our magic, that there was magic in her method, and that there always would be that black and Flapping against a winter sky. 44 AN APDLDGY FOR MELANIE Your padded hips pleated in Flannel gray betray your yellow braids and schF-toed shoes, negate your adolescence, and bloom like the woman that you are. I know the indecision behind those violet eyes, I know the hesitant clops and their clash with clapping lockers, I know the laugh that snorts with teenage restroom giggles, and disappears at Frigid stares, I Feel the humiliation each time your scarlet cheeks undress your heart. The other day when you conFided in me that you, "kinda like Forest“, I teased you Flippantly like I do the rest, because I, the woman, did not know what else to do. And For that I apologize, For there is nothing quite so terriFying as being in love 45 . n e e t r .1 h t t a 46 MIXING METAPHORS Like imperFect metaphors, they screech their rubber soles at my desk, as iF to brake themselves--- but then are oFF! This time racers oF chariots, gushing blood, gouging Flesh Flaps at their bare heels. And I teach them poetry, these barbaric chariot racers oF thirteen, these drivers oF Porsches, metallic cherries a mountain pass at 90, all 90, skewing in their seats to win control. But I am the pedagogue who has prepared: a lecture on onomatopoeia, zooming down a counting game beating out the hum oF dactylic hexameter, and FiFteen impressive piles oF poetry worksheets, crisscrossed neatly, stacked on the Formica table top. 47 My hands are slit with paper cuts, purpled with the blood oF PerFecopy Duplicator Fluid. We meet at some ancient arena, on some treacherous mountain pass, in a windowless white room postered with Frost. Here we study poetry. I, the poet who cannot mix her metaphors, extoll the virtue oF Homer From the lectern and give them ambrosia. And they, the mixers oF metaphors, are unaFFected, unappeased by my gods and kneel down at their wheels to plunge their arms into a huge black vat oF thick oil, pull them back, slicked smooth and unctuous to the elbow. And then, blood at the heels, wet tongues uncontained at the corners oF mouths, appeased, they get down to the poetry oF greasing their axles. 48 TO A NINTH GRADE CLASS OF 33 It's Thursday morning and I've no poem For tonight and there you sit cracking your Bubble Yum, carving, “Langwige Arts Sucks," on the desk ahead oF you. "Can I borrow a pencil?” “I Forgot my book." ”What page did you say?“ "I would have brought the assignment, Mrs. Bennett, but my dog was sick last night and threw up all over it and all I could wipe oFF were the big chunks. It was gross.” I'd level with you, and you would acquiesce, stiFling your giggles, tiptoeing to the pencil sharpener, turning the pages oF your books surreptitiously. But I could never concentrate, knowing that I had muted the ragtime oF your raucous Farts. 49 SEEING BACKWARDS I. They come to me vibrant From dinner guests, K-Mart Blue Light Special Days, my next door neighbor who rattles with senility. Their little sprouts shoot green youth, but I give them age spots turn their livers bad with jaundice, drown them, starve them, kill them all. It is not that I do not care about my plants. I do. I give them my time--- water them diligently, read volumes about their care, ask advice From the checkout girl at Kroger, whose Boston Fern is lush in February--- but still I kill them. SO 11. You should see Paul, an Eagle Scout, stout and Firmly planted. His mother could overmilk his smile For seven years straight, but I know Paul. He'd still be springing circles into class, crashing into lockers, all two hundred and Five pounds pumped Full with smiles and gallons oF good blood. But Paul sees backwards, his brain trick ing words, and we (his teachers, parents, psychologists, counselors) have meetings concerning his dyslexia, worry about his selF concept, and agonize over methods that would allow him to see straight. 51 Paul still sees backwards, still pumps a smile oF good blood, still springs circles through lockers to class around us still spraymist our redwood. III. So when I discover my rubber plant has coughed up but another yellowed leaF, I think oF Paul, shooting into class to Find his work all circled bloody. I think oF Paul, 52 watering orchids, making metaphors with his resilience. 53 DIAGNOSIS Trapped, he scratches his dirty neck, licks his Field oF cold sores and snorts his snot back in. I read the test instructions: "Be sure to make heavy black marks, Filling the entire oval. Questions? Turn the page and begin." He snorts again. His angular Face glistens with pus. The skin pulls tight across the jig saw teeth. He turns the page and scrawls an ”O". Raw boned elbows jut out to hold the trollish Face. Hard brown eyes pierce the clock and Lisa, pretty and petite. 54 Teachers in September, with greatest sensitivity, diagnose deFiance, and shake their heads at teacher Failures in the past. I know the rebellious slouching now, and vow that I can cure the cause by June. I stoop by his desk, and the bulging brown eyes roll down. The smell oF dirty underwear and cigarettes irritates me. I ask iF I can help and notice that the cold sores drool down his Face. The clock ticks. He shakes his head, picks a grease packed Fingernail, and snot creeps oFF his jutting lip. I retreat, my mouth pulled to a smile, knowing that there are some who will always rebel and knowing too that June, oF course, is only a winter away. 55 56 FIRST SNOW They say you were blasting through some subdivision at 70, and the giggling, beer-Filled Fourteen-year-old next to you, her breasts up tight against your elbow, jerked the wheel through your hands. And so you died that night bleeding in your souped up Camaro. I never had any hope For you. You walked into class, a two-time repeater, in an axle-grease-stained denim jacket lined sheepskin, your hair hanging in oily clumps, rectangular wire rims oF thick glass sagging on your pimply nose. But there was no belligerence, in imitation no cocky Five-minute-late saunter across the room, no chair scraping thud into your seat. You always slipped in secretly beFore the bell, sitting inconspicuous and politely bored, in that axle-grease-stained denim jacket lined in imitation sheepskin. 5? All I ever wanted you to see was that Santiago typiFied a Hemingway Hero. And you, in your axle-grease-stained denim jacket lined in imitation sheepskin, would write, ” . . . he caut that big Fish and woud'nt leve it For nuthin and he kept saling and saling and so that Fish dyed and got all ate up but would Santago leve him no cuz he was so prod and he stoke with him even when that Fish was know good he woud have dyed For that Fish." But, God, you drew beautiFul carburetors in the margins, lovely curving maniFolds, always a souped up Camaro parked under your name. Today my classes squirm all giggly and slush-happy with the innocence oF the First snow, and the chalk squeaks, and the Fourteen-year-olds chatter about their red velvet pants For Christmas parties, and you lie under this snow cold in a corduroy suit, your Face smashed against the ridiculous pink satin, and nobody even cares, Mat, that in dying that night you bled in your souped up Camaro. 58 DEBAUCH Blood-red and gaudy, cheap crushed velvet curtains lop at the cigarette stained windows oF the Marine Bar. A group called Savannah sings For the backs oF the patrons, leaning on plastic table tops with red meshed candles, lost in a pool game at the back oF the pine panelled room. I do not enjoy pool or the paltriness oF the Marine Bar in scarlet October. Six years ago on the hill, above the lake Flung cold and clean with brisk October winds, my cancer-ridden Father huddled close to the brick chipped chimney, clutched by a scarlet vine. In his Final venture across the lake, the brain tumor, the black patch on his eye, 59 the limp right leg, the scarlet October wind pushed him down the hill in a jaunty, drunken gait to the rocking boat. Three times he Fell, swearing lavishly: a drunken sailor, staggering home From a whiskey spree. On the third lunge he spat brilliant pools oF scarlet blood into the dying earth. Suddenly, From the men's room oF the Marine Bar, roll two greasy boys slurring lusty ultimatums at each other. They are a cocky network oF arms and legs, now jolting the pool table to a precarious list, the pulsing cords at their necks throbbing with young blood. In an extravagant Fury the boy with the torn T-shirt and the bulging chest rocks to his Feet. In a spasm oF convulsive lunges his arm lashes out 6D to clutch then shatter a pitcher sloshing with beer. His great chest swelling, his arm thrust out, throbbing with rage, he stands square-Footed, victorious, heaving over the pool table, spitting scarlet liFe onto the green Felt. 61 PEANUT BRITTLE SEASON When duck hunting brought Dad home smelling oF cigars and Hershey Kisses, and red drenched maple leaves splashed across his boots, you could be sure peanut brittle season had begun. Those nights until Christmas my mother, cold, loveless, in the basement sorted clothes, but Dad and I consorted in the lush oak oF his den, laughing, exchanging Christmas secrets, Hershey Kisses, shucking peanuts into a great, two gallon potato chip tin. Mother never shared her secrets or her kisses, 62 her hair pulled back in a tight French roll; she went to bed between our giggles and whispers, without our ever knowing. But mornings at 5:00 she'd tease her sleeping Family with the smell oF roasting peanuts and the slap oF bubbling gold against buttered marble. Then came the scratching oF two Furious Forks, stretching the candy beFore it set. The metallic clank against marble signalled the abandonment oF the Forks, and we knew her own buttered Fingers caressed the hot gold now, sumptuous, lush, thick with snapping peanuts. This was her secret-~- the Ferrell Family recipe she inherited with her genes, Christmas For acquaintances: the barber and the newsboy, Five pounds oF choicest gold to the nuns 63 and Father Joe. At 7:00 when we awoke, tantalized by the smell oF her sweet secret, we descended the cold stairs, with dreams oF sucking, savoring a golden mound beFore breakFast. We Found the kitchen empty: mother in the basement sorting clothes, her secret horded away somewhere, somewhere. A stingy white sauce dish held the solitary trace oF her horde, her oFFering to us: scant threads oF translucent sugar sticking to its sides.