RED CEDAR REVIEW RED CEDAR REVIEW Red Cedar Review Volume Nineteen, No. 1 Summer 1987 by Red Cedar Press copyright 1987 RED CEDAR REVIEW Red Cedar Review 325 Morrill Hall Michigan State University East Lansing, MI 48824 TABLE OF CONTENTS Duncan Moran The Moon to the East, the Sun to the West ...................7 Celebration .............................................................................8 Rod Murphy Accepting the Weight ..........................................................9 Ute Through the Window .....................................................10 Ann Dunn Still Life....................................................................................11 Veteran ..................................................................................11 Ralph Heibutzki Blue is the Color of Love ..................................................12 Freefall.......................................................................................13 Richard Todd Julius Our House ...............................................................................14 Lifeboat.....................................................................................17 Lyn Lifshin My Mother and the Toaster.................................................18 For the Man Who’s Always On ............................................20 The Visit...................................................................................21 Thomas Webster Look .........................................................................................22 Craig Cotter Muscles .....................................................................................24 untitled poems ............................................ 24 Edward Gold Letting the Cat out of the Bag............................................26 Marc J. Sheehan Waterlilies ..........................................................................28 Richard Vance Chance Perfume.................................................................29 Fritz Hamilton Just Because.........................................................................30 The Glass Ball......................................................................32 Alison Swan Saturday ................................................................................33 Mike Cesaro Art Loves Raising Pigs in the City................................35 Richard Holinger Only Girl .............................................................................36 Way Back In .......................................................................37 Jim Marks Charlie’s Blue Sedan .......................................................38 Tom Molloy In Season ...........................................................................46 Duncan Moran THE MOON TO THE EAST, THE SUN TO THE WEST Fed up with his existence a man decides to change his environment. With a can of peacock blue spraypaint he coats his appliances. Now he has a blue Proctor-Silex Toaster Oven and a blue Kenmore Dishwasher, a blue Sony Television and a Blue Toro Yardmaster Lawnmower. Life, however, is no different; the sky still seems unsettling, distant, and the trees mock him, whistling Fool Fool as he rakes the leaves. The man rents a hand truck and hauls his appliances outside, first his refrigerator, then the stove. Soon he has arranged his entire house under the sky, the moon to the east, the sun to the west. This he feels is what it’s all about: a trim yard with a tidy arrangement of peacock blue furniture and appliances. Yet as night falls and the vast black expanse of space gapes above him he is chilled-will it never end, he thinks. That night he suffers his first insomnia; turning in bed he wraps himself in the sheet; when morning comes he is wrapped immobile; the sun stares at him and never blinks. This is what he gets for filling space with life’s possessions. Tied in a white sheet he watches the appliances molt, soon they are back to their true natures, white enamel, then they rust. The stove and refrigerator are carted away by trash collectors, the microwave and tv; finally all he has is a thin mattress and his white sheet, the night sky and a small peace. 7 Duncan Moran CELEBRATION On the coldest day of the year old men gather in the square in the center of town. They unfold their lawn chairs and sit side by side as the frost cracks in the sycamores above them, waiting for the first cries of the new borns pushed into the world on this day. And when the cries come, like bird calls among the high branches of the old trees, the old men turn to their left and to their right shaking the hands of their neighbors. They’ve waited the whole year for this, they’ve kept their lawnchairs by the doors of their small apartments, they’ve kept their long underwear folded by their small beds, they’ve listened to the weather report each night to hear when high pressure would bear cold down on them. And the cold’s here, and the old men huddle in the park, cocking their ears to hear those first faint cries. They’re here the oldest shouts, and the others applaud the mothers’ pushing, the fathers’ crying, they applaud the babies swaddled and bundled against the cold, they applaud because they are the next to die. Then the old men go home, back to their small apartments and their small beds, back to their dreams of death, to their long cold silences. 8 Rod Murphy ACCEPTING THE WEIGHT (for Whitney Balliett) They rise with first frost, slip out of their woolly sleep; my Alpha Wolf, my caracara, uncurling her talons. At first meal I am joined by a baby cheetah, small-skulled and poised, wary of the way I coddle my badger, our flat-nosed tablemate. On winter patrol, Walter and Jingles, sibling samoyeds, dust through snowbanks in search of fieldmice, racalcitrant criminals, lost travelers, bridges out. Only in the exhaustion of evening, ottered safely into their bunkbeds, do my children accept the weight of their sleepy human forms. Figure without caption. Rod Murphy UTE THROUGH THE WINDOW I was the one who wanted to drive up the coast. You wanted Interstate 5, more direct, more sensible. At Laguna Beach, our compromise point, You swung eastward putting an oceanscape in the rearview mirror. The children slept straight through it all. My can of soda rattled out of my hands and Soaked my knees—when it happened. Stopped at a light, we watched a bone white truck Vault the median, slam down atop our subcompact’s hood. Before we knew no harm would come to us, before glass shattered, “Jesus, help us!” came out of your mouth and from mine Came only a question lost in childhood forty years before. “Wo ist der Grossvater?” “Komm mal hier, du Armste, Dein Grossvater hat dich durch das Fenster geworfen. Du lebst, er nicht. Du lebst, er nicht.” The cellar. A potato bin. The weak smell of ersatz coffee. My grandfather mouthing a cigarette butt from his pocket. Knee to knee in the darkness. That nightmare noise outside again. In old Cologne, Silvan-Strasse. A plaster-wall flat. We and the Bohms in the cellar. Frau Bohm with a sheen of lard on her hands. My grandfather with an unlit cigarette butt. “Jetzt geht’s los,”my widowed mother said. Grandfather gave her his hand. Frau Bohm sang “Hier ist der Daumen, er pflickt die Plaumen,” While I showed my thumb and fingers one by one. “Wo ist der Grossvater?” I had asked. As the block of flats collapsed, Grandfather Had lifted me up, rushed with me to the wall, Shoved me out the one window to safety. In Costa Mesa, sitting alongside the road, I watched Paramedics in firefighter helmets palpating our daughter’s abdomen, Felt on my own shoulders the hand of a stranger coming to help, A woman saying, “Come here, little one. Your Grandfather...” Ann Dunn STILL LIFE The calico heirloom chokes in a mildewed gingham bow the turquoise hand-embroidered shawl blushes and buries a blood stain in one fold the lavender open-weave evening bag hangs forgetfully on a door its swollen tongue makes rude gestures books go crazy crazier up and down a wall black and white photos of children in various stages smell like formaldehyde sweet-grass baskets groan with grease paint from hastily packed in productions oak boards are littered with used poems a crumpled map tossed in the corner exaggerates plans gone wrong and finds in retrospect someone to blame dust balls shuffle a mystery prove the air has been busy this year I don’t remember doing a thing the black rose grows feathers and rhinestones prepares for bash after bash a wood fire snaps at ice on my ankles the desk tilts sickly under the weight of words all my words run downhill VETERAN She writes this afternoon with ink fast before it dries she fears the sound of dead twigs etching not much into last light amputees scratching absent limbs an empty crystal wine glass cut with grape vines cuts the low sun makes a colored basket on her white cloth for crumbs she remembers scribbling this morning across the yellow legal page in pencil erasing mistakes and making them again seasonally she knew then the blank spot would grow full now she doesn’t know what she knows surely something soon will fall and stay felled she itches in weird distant places 11 Ralph Heibutzki BLUE IS THE COLOR OF LOVE Blue is the color of love Nudging aside bluenoses blue laws blue Meanies tugging us shoving us limb from limb when we breathed skin on skin Cheeks brushing against fingertips Twin sunrises scaling the same heights Looking down your eyes, they Never stab mine No more “good morning, heartache’’ Lip-synching to Lady Day in a mirror Finally free no more games Flushing death’s own taxman down the drain Blue is the color of love exploding across your mouth I trace your name on my lips in the middle of a kiss Hang your shadow over my window Hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, My world inside your thighs Igniting another smile You my blazing red tracer bullet Spitting trails across tonight Life backflips you down too many flights of stares Blue is the color of love The past has ways of flinging its bricks against your face But we turn back the sideshow’s undertow, Ignore its hungering billboards And plaster clowns donning saint’s faces Spitting away a thousand glass shards, Tomorrow’s smithereens Best left for dead Wrap yesterday inside my trench coat No longer refugees No more scars we can breathe Finally free blue is— 12 Ralph Heibutzki FREEFALL Taking my lifetime chance parachuting A goodwill wave down her mind’s eye Acting only her midnight signals Tumbling heels over head end over end World without end blue green Waves wink unblinking Land ho! Fighting storm squalls 50-knot gales (Maybe I’ll sink, all hands aboard) My full flight still holds she unleashed my ripcord, I Spin twist kick dodging Flying Dutchmen lost in 1956 Land ho, Mr. Reagan! Knifing past Yankee clippers, sliding away from their shipwreck of the mind Dodging cutters married to thin ice my eyes swallow another cloud canopy yawning before me Soaring along each wave’s crest Taking the tiger by the head Tucking another gift under my wing End over end, world without end Because we both know I am only a willing plunger into the maelstrom, Lone skydiver locked in endless freefall— grey 13 Richard Todd Julius OUR HOUSE In the morning we stalk the halls like minotaurs, tying ties and slurping cold coffee at the doorway. If it weren’t for keys we would barely raise our heart rates above a clocktick, searching for that glint of steel among the particles and crumbs of last night’s libations and burnt offerings. The mailbox still includes the names of former and mythical tenants, whose artifacts clutter basement and hallway, occasionally striking at our ankles, resentful of abandonment and the grey fur which grows like fingernails in the dark and damp. An escaped rainbow boa lives, we think in the couch; the cat hesitates to confirm this despite the fact that all the mice have vanished. last night we heard her howl, but when we arrived she only bowed, shyly inscrutable, and flicked her tail. Our roof falls slowly compared with the neighbor’s, and we feel safe and superior as priests or chemists. Sitting on the porch we smoke pipes, nod sagely, and compete at being Freud but manage only a hypnotic suggestion of beards. In the evening electric voices murmur on the set we never watch, though it lends a soothing sense of reality by being there. Returning to our cells we cultivate passions like broccoli or beans: the memory of harvest fills us in the scarcity of fall. 14 Figure without caption. 15 Figure without caption. Richard Todd Julius LIFEBOAT I sat baking on the deck thinking always women first, watching angels with bare thighs, halos forgotten in their cabins, dancing around the pool counting shark teeth from the bottom of their daquiris. A storm is coming, she said. I looked bewildered at blue sky and never felt the pressure drop. She disappeared while I was at the bar, so I waited spitting ice cubes at the gale. I wrote a poem while the salt rain ran the ink and a wind I’d breathed before screamed at my density. A woman saw her later, dancing in the orange light of a stormdrowned sun. She said the lights of Tokyo are like this, wakarimasu-ka ? By then the call had come and the boats were filling up. I felt obliged to drink the Captain’s health and stole a bottle from the now abandoned bar. I found him on the quarterdeck explaining to the passers-by: “...with the ship? That’s really just a romantic notion. Besides, there are boats enough for all.” 17 Lyn Lifshin MY MOTHER AND THE TOASTER in the morning as she’s packing I unplug it wincing thinking suddenly what it would be to pull out some life support system. My mother has to have toast and doesn’t understand why I don’t like leaving the chrome square up on the counter, why I don’t want an electric can opener use the ironing board she gave me, except for manuscripts. I used to vacuum 12 times a day when she came, as if I could suck the smoke up, or the guilt. She swats the clay jars, translucent soap and peach and chocolate candles from the back of the toilet tank, yearn ing for what’s practical: real soap and space and light, wants to nail white fire alarms to my redwood. Like the woman who interpreted squares and circles, triangles and wavy lines, said I cared too much for appear ances, my mother says I ought to put up thick drapes and eat. I say the house is like me: unusual, not practical but whoever wants it wants it real bad, is com pulsive has to have it. She says she always liked the ranch house we wouldn’t even call the realtor about it as I suck in my waist, sure, with all these meals every day since she’s come is by now enormous. You can do anything you want to she says, rechecking to see if I’ve locked the door. I wrap the cord around the toaster too tight as if I’m strangling something I see reflected in the chrome, leave more room for the old blue jars, stained glass that twists light, turns the kitchen into something mysterious, as unlike what you’d expect as what the words here try to touch 19 Lyn Lifshin FOR THE MAN WHO’S ALWAYS ON Listen, I’m not used to being an audience, floating in a glow of transformed light I didn’t concoct like shards of stained glass becoming blue lilacs. Under leather clothes my thighs lock like hands in prayer a volcano buries. Don’t play to my side, your lips leaking lies. Don’t gargle with bullets just for me or wrap your penis in medals. Don’t wrap me in stories you’ve swiped coast to coast or the muscles you’ve grown to fit in side them don’t flash your crutch or malaria pills to suck me in to your room of books on holocausts and Hitlers your mother’s Spanish combs don’t dawdle near my shoulders whisper your lies in my hair then blurt out more jokes like some crashing curtain don’t spit words like shrapnel, light up thunder with small bombs on my skin, masks exploding revealing a new one in side it like painted shells of old Russian eggs just graze me once in the rain sheets with the look so rarely seen before you’re on Lyn Lifshin THE VISIT I shouldn’t have given you your bed room furniture you’ve ruined it with plants and I need drawer space so desperately You know you shouldn’t leave matches out of a tin, mice will gnaw them start a fire use the screecher honey I got you too, and the way you dress. I don’t know how you can’t like that nice blonde, prefer murderers and creeps who are I bet probably married I don’t understand why you put that basket over where I try to sleep or put the suitcase where its so hard for me to see I know you could go to law school honey you can you know do anything 21 Thomas Webster LOOK I wrote “look”. The paint dripped down from each letter just above where it said “capacity” on the side, and I walked away some and saw the whole boxcar and my white word on the brown and the “o’s” like wheels and the sun came out to dry the paint. Later the switch engine came, took five dropped two carried ten took eight railroad cars through the switchyard, the puzzle tree, and made up a train. That night, “look” left town. I imagined it lost in the web of another city, thrown away. I had nothing to do with it, running more quickly somewhere: a hundred cars, then a single word, and nothing. Later I made a different new word and another on the wide rusting brown and the switch engine came to each always in the evening to make up the night’s train. Each word I made seemed to be falling away, like spilling soup or burning wood collapsing, the puff of sparks. Each word orphaned and leaving town just the sound, the rhythm and clock logic, to Manitowoc, Oconomowoc, every picket fence town in Wisconsin. 22 Figure without caption. In the eggshell morning if the morning was actually breaking, a train would float through the green leaves of corn1 one word, or two, and a hundred boxcars. One day I came to the wide yard and found it empty, the last abject diesels smoking away. The switchyard roared in the summer light. It was possible... to walk down the tracks forever on the sticky tarred railroad ties. It began to be September. I said the odd word “look”. Look, a picture of a small girl, lemon hair and a chalk-blue dress, and a dog running. And the word “look” beneath them on the page, two “o’s” like wheels and a curious “k”. A fine word. “Look.” “See spot run.” The pastel page. The first words, running. 23 Craig Cotter THE MUSCLES As a pattern the muscles of your face- don’t let me think about it too long. The muscles of your face move your lips, etc. a female laugh, then the quick deep male tones of a young voice responding 2 words I can’t hear through the floor— 24 I don’t know how long it will take me to get used to this diet of being responsible for my own life. I’m still dying from it, slamming the cold pizza into the freezer for lunch Sunday. Isn’t she a mystery I can’t even picture her legs through her jeans. 25 Edward Gold LETTING THE CAT OUT OF THE BAG He wouldn’t, so the cat got his tongue, which got his goat. The loss of the goat was a relief, but the tongue he needed. (See diagram.) What would waggle the breath into words? What would clip off the ends of the notes? He gave up. He let it out. His tongue was returned to him, unharmed. The goat wandered in later. The three of them spent the rest of the day getting into the bag and getting out of it. 26 Figure without caption. 27 Marc J. Sheehan WATERLILIES Listening to how a woman out bird-watching became interested in the pattern of lilypads and bent to photograph them missed seven great blue herons which flew over her makes me think of how stubborn their roots are as a child I used to try to clear the boat-launch of them, pulled the long, wrist-thick and tapering roots out of muck and threw them to dry on shore and how it’s true, Monet’s waterlilies do not solve the world’s problems. In August they’re first to turn brown, dying days before trees blaze into September then why do I remember them still green and frozen into the ice? How stubborn their roots are as a child! that later one’s impression of them is colored by their turning brown just before history again turns into a book and a pile of pencil shavings payed out from a pen-knife and blurred by tears the way I’ve always thought Monet saw as if having seen so much even lilypads still alive could make a man cry for their death and pale flowers which bloom on their rubbery, tenacious stalks are painted by leaving small moments of the canvas blank. 28 Richard Vance CHANCE PERFUME I know the way night wounds the traveler, the road where years ago a woman hooked her arm through mine before the gate with its powdery iron. Inside were gifts, brick paths winding amid trellises and trees, stone sculptures like old friends dignified in silence, a dog dozing on its back. She said we were a duet of blossoms, chance perfume. The moon leaned over our shoulders, dancing its silvery waltz with the wind, a whirl of light and shadow. A decade since my wife walked with me. The chemotherapy and slow nights breathing creation as if each cell of our beings were a lung, each breath our last. I lifted her when the end drew near. I carried her through the gate, her face tucked against my neck—the weightlessness of fickle flesh. My Smalltalk ran in circles of fear, unheard. She was beyond me, a feather in an updraft, nothing between her and the ghost moon but snow geese. Tonight the sculptures are aloof, the moon sliced pale in a mackerel sky. I finger the gate, move toward my car. For a moment headlights reveal raccoon eyes, a wine bottle in a bush, the old shoes I wear for this occasion. A gnarled leaf swirls earthward, its ballet of passage almost an injury. Against my palms the steering wheel stings cold. My eyes stare into night, watching a star bleed to gray from blazing bright then vanish in darkness. Clues emerge: rotating planets, the seasons. In the whisper of dawn, two finches harmonize to the distant staccato of a woodpecker. Her voice floats like a whiff of perfume, descends as if nudging. By noon I am ready to travel. 29 Fritz Hamilton JUST BECAUSE (for Tim) True a 50-yr-old man (even in excellent shape fresh from doing 100 pushups) is a bit insane on Ocean Beach seeing the young runner easily leap from one side to the other of this stream when I’m carrying my bag of groceries from Safeway & I too have to get to the other side of the stream & anyway I know those two young studs are watching this operation from their seat in the sand several ft away but they don’t know I came in 3rd in the broadjump in the all-school intramural competition of little Grinnell College in 1956 so I step back a little with my bag of groceries & paw the ground with my sneaker like a wild horse & take off catapulting off my strong right leg (cause the left is a little game) but I don’t quite make it hitting the edge of the far bank with the power of Tank Younger & over I go on my face breaking the fall with my steel left arm (which dislocates as surely as my groceries take flight all over the beach) & 30 Figure without caption. I lie there on the beach contemplating the fate of my aching shoulder moving it ever so gently to discover it’s popped back into place & slowly pick myself up like the monster fresh from being thrown by Ajax & collecting my fallen army of fruit & Wheaties & big can of honey while brushing sand from my face & heaving belly I observe the two young studs still sitting in the sand staring out to sea like nothing happened & ain’t that a crock when they see some wasted old hero splashed all over the beach & don’t care to do nothing just because I’m a little more mature ! 31 Fritz Hamilton THE GLASS BALL dangling from its thread from the arm of my ancient bronze floor lamp swings quietly back & forth propelled, I do suspect, by air currents (always a scientific reason for such phenomena) but my attempts to shield it from the currents (with my hands & then a book) come to naught for the solid glass ball continues with its swinging then the morning light starts to flow through it casting reds blues yellows ... in dancing patterns on my rocker, the rug, my backpack & my broken down sneakers ... refracting the colors of the spectrum through the glass (always a scientific explanation for such phenomena) but then a tiny elf climbs out of the ball to sit on it holding the two threads while kicking his feet to make it swing & his girlfriend inside the glass lights a multicolored fire that casts all the colors reds blues yellows ... out into my room while warming the pants of her man who swings then 32 she climbs out of the glass to kiss & make love to her man right in front of me (which I’m sure has its scientific explanation also but I’m too busy shinnying up the lamp to join the little creatures in love and play to reduce this moment ) Alison Swan SATURDAY stretches before me like a smooth, black-topped road through a spruce and fir stand. I climb down the blue spruce outside my window into the coniferous forests of Alberta, a spot where red indian paintbrush and blue harebells merge into a purple that becomes the night sky. I lie down and listen to the surf of wind through needles and the bugle of bull elks. 33 Figure without caption. 34 Michael J. Cesaro ART LOVES RAISING PIGS IN THE CITY The hogs are in the basement. Art’s wife, Estelle, doesn’t like them— never has. “What do you want?” Art asks her. “I don’t womanize. I’m home every night.” Something from below snorts. He has named each after a star. Polaris, Canopus, Vega wade through the black slop. The constellation Orion is off to the side, where Rigel gnaws on browned apple core and Betelgeuse urinates. Aldebaran loiters by the sump pump. The cellar, damp and smelly, gyrates with fat, hairy, slick heavenly bodies. Art’s universe is downstairs. Switch the lights off and pig eyes shine. “Star light, star bright,” Art chants, “First star I see tonight...” He wishes he may, he wishes he might. Estelle deviously imagines breakfast sausage. For Art, things come true. 35 Richard Holinger THE ONLY GIRL “Oh, your father so wanted a little girl!” -My mother to me. The first time they left me without nanny or cook I pulled twenty-three shades and unplugged six phones till the apartment was silent and dark as tomorrow. The sweaters in her bottom drawer were warm as baptismal water. The lubricated purses, brown, blue, black, smelled rich as money. In the next drawer a navy leather jewelry box nested among flesh-colored negligees. To keep the rings from falling off, I made small half-fists. A string of pearls hung to my belt. The last large drawer held stacked girdles, hard and tight as rust, and brassieres cupped like bowls of velvet cream. Silk scarves, soft as broken rainbows, puffed like scented handkerchiefs; I floated one around my neck, tied it loose and low. I fingered gold cylinders housing lipstick red as lust and perfume sweet as age. Inside the mirrored closet, shoes cuddled three rows thick. High heels kept me balancing, pushed my toes until they hurt; I slipped a green sequin dress over my underwear. 36 I stumbled into the living room where from a silver box I took one of sixty cigarettes, held it finger-tipped, unlit, crossed my legs and spoke of getting my hair done. Later, at her desk, I scribbled notes on a pad while talking into the phone like a cradled violin. At the sound of bedroom bickering, I stormed back and gave those boys a piece of my mind: “Wait till your father gets home,” I cried, and shook my head. I took time to put her back before she got home from the symphony. That night when my father came home, not being his daughter, I kissed him like a man. Richard Holinger A WAY BACK IN Withered leaves hang like shredded chamois as the dusk darkens snow to stone, the creek to ink. Rising over my way back in the moon is framed by two slate trees and I, standing at the edge of woods, am like some ancient mathematician bedazzled to discover his Stonehenge, by some outrageous miracle, has worked. 37 Jim Marks CHARLIE’S BLUE SEDAN Maybe his day ended earlier than it used to, but he was not so old as to overlook a woman sitting alone on a Saturday afternoon. He paused in the doorway of the coffeeshop, pushed his hair straight back, trapped it beneath a faded red baseball cap, and proceeded inside. With a smile and a nod he sat two green vinyl stools down from her at the counter. The woman smiled and nodded in return. “Cup of coffee,” he said to the waitress across the counter. She produced a white porcelain cup and filled it from a clear glass pot. “There you go, Charles.” The small room echoed tinnily when she set the pot back onto the coffee maker. “Thanks.” Through dry, pursed lips he directed a stream of air at the hot coffee. The liquid rippled, disrupting an oil-swirl of rainbow color on the surface. He blew again at the coffee and a trickle jumped the lip of the cup and ambled down the side, channelled by invisible perturbations in the porcelain. He recalled a day spent distributing L-shaped pipes into irrigation ditches, another broken wire and downed fence line day. And in the nearly vacant coffeeshop sat a blonde irregularity in that day, stark and new against the regular backdrop of green vinyl booths and paint-by-number oil reprints of barns and mountains. He blew again at the coffee, and coughed lightly. The woman had turned away, affording him a chance to observe her covertly. She appeared perhaps fifteen years younger than his sixty-two. Hair blonde as margarine and almost certainly not its original color lay loose between her protruding shoulder blades. On spindly, vein-crossed hands hung four dull, bulky rings; the left ring finger was unoccupied. Her dark clothing, shiny and synthetic, rustled when she shifted; it covered a slight excess of flesh which did not make her unattractive. She turned to the counter and drank from a cup of tea. On the white marbled formica the teabag was wrapped tight against the spoon by its string like a prisoner. “Don’t see too many new faces in Nampa,” he ventured, gazing on her teacup. She inclined her head toward him. “I’m on my way to visit my sister.” She spoke staring at the counter, then looked suddenly and directly into his eyes. “She lives in Boise. Problem is, my car’s broken down.” 38 “Too bad. What’s the matter?” “I don’t know; it just quit on me. The mechanic over at the Shell station told me it ‘threw a rod’, whatever that means.” She frowned at the shake of his head. “Yeah, he told me it’s real bad. My sister’s gonna wire me some money so’s I can get another car.’’ “This just happen?” She nodded. “Yeah, this afternoon.” “Well, seems to me like you might want to take a bus on into Boise and shop around for a good car.” He sipped at his coffee, decided it had cooled enough, and took an enormous swallow. “No, I just want to get it taken care of. ’ ’ The tone of her reply intimated that money was not an overriding concern. “You know, I just might be able to help you out.” He offered a thick, calloused hand. “Name’s Berry, Charles Berry.” “Roxanne. Roxanne Petick.” Her grip was loose, the slow withdrawal of her hand perhaps significant. “And how might you be able to help me, Charles?” Her voice was cigarette-cracked although she wasn’t smoking. He moved to the stool between them. “More tea?” When she nodded he said to the waitress, “Another tea for Mrs. Petick.” “That’s Miss Petick, or just Roxanne, if you prefer.” The woman’s smile revealed moderately crooked teeth the color of newsprint. “Thank you for the tea.” “So you’re not from around here?” he asked. “Well, no. I’m from Coeur d’ Alene.” She gestured out the window at the front of the coffeeshop. He nodded. “Got a sister in St. Maries, and we go to the mall in Couer d’ Alene every once in a while." They were quiet a moment and he took another impossibly large draught of coffee. “Anyways,” he continued, “I got this car. ’75 Ford Galaxy 500. Rebuilt the motor myself year before last. Now she might not be quite up to your style, but she runs real good. Even got a new paint job. My daughter used to drive it, but now she’s got my wife’s car, and it’s just taking up space.” The woman appeared interested, but didn’t ask about the car. “What does your wife drive, then?” “Nothin’. She died. Two years ago. Cancer.” “I’m very sorry.” “Thanks. Happens.” After a pause, she asked, “Remarried?” “Nope. How ’bout you?” “Divorced.” He gave a rough cough and finished the coffee in a single voluminous swallow. “So, what do you think about the car?” “Well, sounds like it could be just the kind of thing I’m look 39 ing for. ’ ’ She placed her elbows on her wide knees and, pressing her forearms together, dug a pointy chin into her palms. Shaking several strands of blonde hair out of her eyes she reestablished direct eye contact that galvanized a heretofore subtle desperation in his voice. “Well, you c’n come out to the place and have a look if you’d like.” His suggestion was clipped, brittle. ‘‘I’d like that, Charles.” She leaned closer to him. “I’d like that very much.” Fifteen minutes of small talk later, Charles paid the waitress and helped Roxanne put on her light jacket; together they left the coffeeshop just as the giant pink neon coffeecup sprang to life overhead. The only vehicle in the parking lot was a dusty, late- model pickup. Charles opened the unlocked passenger’s side door for the woman and circled to the driver’s side. The truck shuddered to life on the third turn of the key and bounced into the thick August evening. The small talk continued as the truck hummed down the T- square-straight road. Twilight, normally around 9 pm in August, was being ushered in early by an expanse of heavy, jagged clouds from the north. A persistent wind had developed from that direction, and it filled the air with Idaho topsoil. Irrigation had brought people to this flat, arid part of the Snake River Valley in the late 1800’s. They transformed the plain with rectangular geometry, irrigation ditches and rows of enormous cottonwoods defining the limit of one property and the beginning of another. But there had been too many farms and ditches and too few trees. The land, burdened under successive monocrop plantings, was being retransformed by wind and rain erosion into desert, and Charles’ farm was gradually becoming worthless. Roxanne worked at a bank, she said, and claimed to be well acquainted with the concerns of farming. But she steered the conversation to the television programs she’d seen and stories about her sister and anecdotes about cars. And as the end of the seven- mile drive approached, a soft tension filled the cab of the pickup, a tension part sexual and part imminent rain. “Wonder why the clouds haven’t broke yet,” Charles said as he turned the truck onto a long, gravel driveway. A wrought iron scaffold held a white, wooden sign over the entrance to the driveway, high for farm machinery to pass underneath. “Berry,” it said in green script, and it rasped in the wind. The driveway ended in a dirt semicircle cut into the dry yellow weeds that blanketed every area not under cultivation. A mobile home defined the flat side of the semicircle, a large mobile home 40 distinguishable from a house only by its strict rectangular shape. White aluminum siding, white window shutters, white roof tile— a white sign hung from the gutter over the white front door by two hook-and-eyes. It read “Berry,” and it also squeaked as it moved between the forces of wind and gravity. “Why, this is a nice place you got here, Charles,” Roxanne commented as she climbed out of the truck. They walked to the porch, where he opened the unlocked door and motioned her inside. A living room materialized from the light of a single lamp. It smelled of humus and overripe vegetables. A low green couch, an imitation leather recliner, and several folding chairs were arranged to face the commanding feature of the room, an immense cabinet-style television set. “Car’s out back.” He ushered her through the living room and adjoining dining room to the back porch. They stood at the sliding glass door, watching their montage images in the glass, different pieces of machinery interspersed with Roxanne’s mysterious reflection and Charles’ tired one. He slid the door open and they walked to the car, which cowered dirty and unused under the oppressive clouds. “Looks okay,” Roxanne said cautiously. “Yeah, well, it c’d use a good cleaning, but just listen how she runs.” He opened the door, sat in the driver’s seat, and turned a key already in the ignition. The engine strained and flopped. On the second turn of the key it merely clicked. “Damn,” Charles said evenly, “battery’s dead.” He climbed back out of the car. “I’m sorry about this. I’ve got a charger in the shed, and by tomorrow she’ll start up fine. If you could just come back then....” Roxanne was silent, and after a moment he went on. “Look, as a way of apologizing for dragging you all the way out here on a wild goose chase, how ’bout some supper? I got some chicken and mashed potatoes if you’re interested. My daughter-in-law made’em, and she’s a fine cook.” The woman smiled. “Well, Charles, let’s have that dinner, and then I can go back to town and get a motel room and we’ll see if it starts tomorrow.” “Fine, fine.” Charles looked down and was surprised to find that he had been kicking the tire of the sedan. They ate a long meal amid adulterated versions of their lives. Roxanne was a bank teller, with eighteen years at Idaho First Federal. Her divorce had been bitter; “just thankful we never had kids.” She visited her sister every year at this time. She had known that the car probably wouldn’t make the three hundred-plus miles 41 from Coeur d’ Alene, but attempted the trip anyway because “things just always seem to work out for me.” Two thighs, a drumstick, two pieces of bread, and a starch mountain of mashed potatoes fueled her autobiography. Charles’ self-description revolved around his family and profession. Moved to Idaho from Oklahoma just before Pearl Harbor, he recounted, came home and married after the War, five children (three farmer sons, a farmer’s wife daughter, and another daughter in college), a thirty-six year marriage. He farmed mostly alfalfa, and had “done all right'home’s paid for, equipment mostly so.” His briefer story ran on only a breast and a small ear of corn. Charles seemed increasingly nervous as the evening proceeded. He drew the meal out with many questions, and during an awkward lull in the conversation came to an inner decision. “Hate to see you stay at Rat Central,” he said in reference to Nampa’s one motel, “you c’n take the spare bedroom if you like.” “Why, Charles, that’s so kind of you!” Roxanne squeezed his arm. “You don’t know if I’ll steal you blind in the middle of the night or what!” “Got to be pretty good at judgin’ people’s characters.” He suppressed a grin. “Well, I think I’ll take you up on your kind offer.” She squeezed his arm again. “Fair enough. Now I’ll go put the battery on the charger and you can get ready to turn in. Bedroom’s over there.” He directed her attention to the hallway leading past the living room. “Fair enough!” Roxanne chirped as he rose from the table and left her alone in the kitchen with the rhythmic wind and the blue light on the microwave oven, blinking 10:27. When he returned from the shed she was in the bathroom. He half-expected that the dishes would be washed, but they weren’t so he cleaned the plates, and just as he was wiping off the table she joined him. “Oh, Charlie, I was going to do that!” she said, still brushing her hair. “S’okay. You’re a guest.” They stared a long moment. Under the fluorescent light Charles was gaunt, but sturdy. Roxanne seemed older, perhaps due to the removal of make-up he hadn’t before noticed. The wind rasped outside, relieving some of the tension. “Oh, Charles, I’m so tired.” She yawned and rubbed her eyes with her forefingers, then asked, “Raining yet?” “Nope, not yet.” Somewhere a gate slammed in the wind. 42 “Well, goodnight.” “ ‘Night.” Hope the room’s okay.” “Oh, it’s just fine. Thank you so much.” She opened her mouth again but closed it without speaking. “ ‘Night,” he repeated, and began to walk down the hall. “Oh, Charles?” He turned back to face her. “I wish I wasn’t so tired.” As echoes of her bedtime preparations played out, he lapsed into an insomnia of sexual tension and absent rain. He convinced himself that he was lucky she hadn’t come to his door with some excuse, some “where can I find a handtowel?” which could precipitate lovemaking on his old bed. Not now, with everything set the way it is, he thought. Don’t need that kind of complication. No sir. Still the rain stayed in the matted, swollen clouds. The wind agitated the topsoil and pushed at the mobile home and finally, somehow, Charles fell asleep, only to wake up a half hour later with the first erection he’d had since watching “Lolita” on television several months before. Charles woke again to burned French toast, whispered curses from the kitchen, and an obscenely swollen sky. Soon he was back into the Levi’s, plaid cotton shirt, workboots and baseball cap he’d worn the previous day. From the hallway he watched her in the kitchen, scraping black crust from toast and maneuvering a pan of bacon on the stove to keep from being spattered by the hot grease. She smiled when their eyes met. “Haven’t done much cooking lately,” she explained. “Here, let me give you a hand.” He threw the burned toast into the garbage can under the sink and began digging in the refrigerator. “How ’bout an omlette?” “Sounds good to me.” The preparation of the meal was a slow dance around the small kitchen. They brushed against one another at every available occasion. She diced green peppers and he made toast and side by side they stood at the stove as he layered strips of cheese over giggling eggs. “Hand me a spatula, will you?” he asked, and when she did so their hands touched for a long, tense moment. “There you go, Charlie,” she murmured. “There you go.” Midway through the meal they came to the collective realization that she would be unable to wire for money on a Sunday. “Well, you c’n stay another night if you like.” He detected 43 a yearning in his voice, and quickly continued, “On Monday you c’n either get my car, get another’n, or catch a bus on into Boise.” Roxanne did not hesitate. “Why, thank you so much, Charlie!” She squeezed his hand. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.” After they’d cleaned the dishes and talked through a pot of coffee, he led her once more to the back door. She watched as he went to the shed, returned with the battery and some tools, and put the battery in the car, which started on the second try. The sedan gleamed weakly in the dark daylight, a blue four-door with the hint of a crease across the right front fender. She circled it silently, nodding as he rattled off specifications and points of interest. “Like I said, she may not be quite up to what you’re used to, but she’s dependable, and I can let you have her cheap.” “Well, my last car was a Buick, but it didn’t get me too far on its good looks.” She sat behind the wheel, pushing pedals and pulling knobs, making concerned noises. “I like the interior.” “Yup, she’s mighty attractive for her age.” Within fifteen minutes it was decided: Roxanne would purchase the car for $450. ‘‘ ‘Bout time I started clearing up this clutter,” Charles said as he signed the title to the car and put it into the glove compartment. They spent the rest of the morning cleaning the car. She peeled the “University of Idaho” sticker off of the rear window. “I don’t want to give the impression I’ve got a college-aged daughter.” After a chicken salad lunch and another pot of coffee, he announced abruptly, “Got to secure some things before this storm breaks. Back in half an hour.” He drove the blue car into the garage next to the shed and closed the garage door. As he climbed into his pickup she kissed her palm and blew on it to him from the back porch window. In his pickup and alone, Charles’ mind whirred. If it was gonna happen, it would’ve happened last night, he reasoned. Or maybe not. If she really was tired.... He recalled Helen Berry, five children, and thirty-six years. The sky raged over the farm. He remembered making love to his young wife in the rain in these fields. His dead wife. “Am I all loved out, Helen?” Thunder sounded, close by. Glad I remembered to put the car in the garage, he mused, and was reminded that the tools needed for the work he had planned were back with the blue car, left there after replacing the battery. 44 “Damn.” He swung the truck around. The wind had picked up since the previous evening, and it lashed at the truck. Dust filled the air and Charles shut the windows and vents to prevent the cab of the truck from filling with it. “Knew I shouldn’t’ve spent the whole morning dilly-dallying around.” The mobile home was a white blur in the dust. Clouds changed shape overhead and thunder rattled as if inside the cab. Charles slowed the truck as he neared the garage, and noticed that the garage door was open. “What the hell? I’m sure I remember closing1” Then he saw it, the blue car, being driven down the long driveway, fast, toward the road. “Son of a bitch!” Charles choked and jammed the truck back into gear, turning it in the direction the car had taken. Blood bounced in his ears and armpits and in the fleshy part of his nose. Got to be a reasonable explanation, he told himself, but he knew there wasn’t. Rain and dust limited his vision to about ten yards. Wind jostled the truck like an impatient crowd. Charles rounded a corner just before the driveway met the main road and slid the pickup to a halt. The turn was sharp and Roxanne, unfamiliar with the road and blinded by the weather, had missed it and plowed the blue sedan into an irrigation ditch. Charles got out of the truck and as if on cue the sky split open. Rain mixed with dust and the sky spit mud, which cracked like papier mache against the back of his neck. He ran to the front of the car and stood with his hands on the hood. Roxanne had the gears in reverse and was racing the motor, but the wheels were spinning hopelessly in the dirt. Through the windshield he could make out her shadow. She was shaking as if wracked by sobs1or fits of laughter. “What in god’s name do you think you’re doing?” he yelled over the storm. Lightning flashed and he glimpsed the yellow hair and teeth and eyes of the woman who was trying to steal his car. “Why?” Charles screamed. Roxanne turned the windshield wipers on and obscured herself behind a curtain of mud. 45 Tom Molloy IN SEASON Ms. Jarvey sat at her desk with her nail file among her fingers and the phone to her ear. Tall, blonde, heavy-set, abrupt, you could not help but notice Ms. Jarvey. Imposing was the word most people used to describe her. This Tuesday morning in September Ms. Jarvey was not at all happy, and her boyfriend was the reason. He may have gone to college, she told her girl friend on the phone. He may be real smart, and real good looking, she said. But he don’t understand what a lady needs. Sometimes, she sniffed, he don’t even act like he knows I’m a lady at all. Ms. Jarvey had a lot more to say, but stopped when she saw Mr. Mahoney coming through the door. Her eyes and nose crinckled at the sight of his uncertain gait, as if the accountant was sorry to bother Schaefer, Butler and Snead with his presence. “Here comes Creep-o” Ms. Jarvey told her girlfriend, “I gotta hang up.’’ In the neighborhood of fifty, Peter Francis Mahoney cleared his throat and said what he said every morning to the receptionist. “Anything for me today, Ms. Jarvey?” Ms. Jarvey stared at the little man before her, regarding his deep set brown eyes, his thin nose with its odd wide nostrils that seemed to sniff a room before he entered it. She observed his high forehead with its little furrows and tiny scars. She noted the clothes that hung on him like curtains draped over a hat rack. At least he wasn’t fat though, she’d grant him that. He seemed in pretty good shape for an old guy. Mr. Mahoney did not seem to hear her reply, as if he already knew what it would be. “Nope, no mail for you, Mr. M.” The receptionist crinckled her nose anew when she spotted the evenly spaced scratches on the back of Mr. Mahoney’s hands. There were three sets of them, all loudly announced by mercurochrome. One cut between his left thumb and forefinger was covered with a bandage, the edges of which were saturated with the rust colored disinfectant. “In the roses again, huh?” Mr. Mahoney cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Yes, its a passion really. But without the thorns, the rose is not sweet.” Ms. Jarvey popped the sugarless gum she’d been chewing. Mr. Mahoney talked about roses the way other guys talked about football. Roses, cats, and his wife Milly. That, thought Ms. Jarvey, 46 is Creep-o’s whole world. She thought that once when she was at a disco. She was there with the lights and the people, and all of a sudden she had a flash of Creep-o and Milly sitting in their house talking about cats. She had felt sorry for Mr. Mahoney almost all evening. Despite herself, Ms. Jarvey watched the accountant pad across the floor and go to his desk. He was polite, hard working, uncomplaining, and didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Ms. Jarvey popped her sugarless gum and nodded her head. And because of all that, she thought, Peter Francis Mahoney was going nowhere fast at Shaefer, Butler, and Snead. On schedule, the other employees flowed through the door, parading by Ms. Jarvey, who liked to think of herself as a general reviewing the troops. Mr. Jennings in sales and Leo the janitor, both kidded Mr. Mahoney about his hands. Mr. Jennings made some risque remarks that left Mr. Mahoney flushed and limp. Ms. Jarvey was always telling her girlfriends that Mr. Jennings was a real card. When Mr. Jennings and the janitor stopped laughing, the office settled down to its daily routine. Phones buzzed or rang, depending on whom they were summoning. Human and machine sounds mixed in a pleasant way, a way that said Schaefer, Butler, and Snead meant business. It was sort of a slow day, a day like the recently installed off- lighting in the office. Safe, blurred, but adequate. A day to catch up, a day with lots of time to plan. At lunch the gang all filed out except Mr. Mahoney, who brown-bagged it at his desk. He ate his egg salad sandwich on rye quickly, with deft movements of hands and mouth. If anyone had looked closely, he could have seen that Mr. Mahoney chewed the sandwich from left to right in even bites. When he finished the sandwich, he briskly crunched the bag into a ball and arched it across the room. It landed with a light thud in Mr. Jennings’ metal waste basket. If anyone had looked closely, he would have seen the corners of Mr. Mahoney’s mouth lift upwards, in what almost became a smile. When the gang all filed back from lunch, giggling mixed with their footsteps and banter, Mr. Mahoney believed they were laughing at him. And he was right. Ms. Jarvey and Mr. Schaefer’s secretary knew he was in Mr. Schaefer’s personal doghouse, and the knowledge was making their day. It was almost two o’clock when the black phone on Mr. Mahoney’s desk gave a long wavering ring. The tone rose and fell almost like a wind instrument, and Mr. Mahoney was told to report to Mr. Schaefer. After drumming his fingers on the black 47 phone, Mr. Mahoney reached into his desk drawers and pulled out a camel’s hair brush, the wooden handle of which was worn smooth from use. Although his dark brown hair was very short, he was quite concerned with its appearance. He nervously touched the modest sidebums he’d recently grown, then he ran the brush several times through his hair. Watching this, Ms. Jarvey managed not to giggle aloud. Mr. Schaefer was not in his office, but was waiting in his outer office where his secretary sat. Without greeting, Mr. Schaefer lit right into Mr. Mahoney. An independent auditor had found several problems with the books. Nothing serious, mind you, but little things added up. There could be difficulty in finding certain figures for the tax people. Some columns were smudged and hard to read, the Auditing Department could do better. Mr. Schaefer paused and looked at his secretary. “A damned sight better”, he concluded. Mr. Mahoney was told to return to his desk. When he passed Ms. Jarvey, a little giggle escaped her lips. At the end of the day the gang all got ready to leave. It was then that Mr. Mahoney padded over to where Ms. Jarvey sat. She frowned at him until he produced a crackling white bag with the name of a fancy downtown store on it. He held out the open bag, and its pungent sweetness permeated the reception area. “Bon-bons,” said Mr. Mahoney. “Candy?” asked Ms. Jarvey, peeling back the white paper and peering inside. When she saw the contents of the crisp white bag, the fluids inside Ms. Jarvey’s mouth gushed in joyful anticipation. “Candy,” she crooned, as her hand burrowed into the sweets. She did not hear Mr. Mahoney’s correction. “Bon-bons.” Mr. Mahoney made a slight bow and left her. Carefully sealing the top of the bag, he put it back in his desk and left the office. . . . The green shingled house at the comer of Lake and Pearl had a yellow light on its screened-in porch. The porch looked out on a wide yard, the circular boundaries of which were set off by rose bushes. In the middle of the yard was a Japanese Elm that sheltered several pieces of white lawn furniture with its drooping crimson leaves. The house had a basement, and on the first floor were a kitchen, pantry, and a wide parlor. On the second floor were a bedroom, a guest room with a sofa-bed, and a comfortable den. 48 The second floor also held the house’s only unusual feature, because on that floor were a number of cats that had been stuffed and mounted. Mr. Mahoney was a self-taught taxidermist. He stuffed the animals in his basement workshop. He strangled them in yards, alleys, and on sidewalks all over town. He had been using the same piece of piano wire for years now. It was seventeen inches long and on each end the wire was secured to a stained pine handle. The handles fit Mr. Mahoney’s hands perfectly. When he wasn’t using the wire he kept it carefully wrapped around the pine handles. He kept the handles in the inside breast pocket of his sports coat. Now as he sat in his favorite chair, he absently ran his fingers through his hair, still feeling exhausted from the encounter with Mr. Schaefer. Milly, a few months older than Mr. Mahoney, came into the room bearing a tray with two martinis. She was wearing a maroon housecoat made of Japanese silk. It was tied at the waist in an overhand knot. Milly had an Oriental aura which was enhanced by the fact that she always wore sandals. These were tied most elaborately at the ankles. Milly kissed Mr. Mahoney on the top of his head and took the chair opposite his. Milly was a small woman, but as Mr. Mahoney liked to say, she had presence. She filled a room when she entered it. Her fair complexion and ash blonde hair complemented Mr. Mahoney’s features very nicely. Milly sat perfectly still in the chair as Mr. Mahoney related the day’s events. At the end of his recitation, Milly sighed and shifted in the chair, moisture spreading in her eyes, causing them to hold the room’s light. “Jerks”, said Milly. “Ummmm” Mr. Mahoney replied. They sipped their drinks in a silence broken only by the soft tolling of the parlor clock and the brittle swirl of ice cubes. Patting the corners of her mouth with a napkin, Milly put down her drink and said, “I saw the Angora today.” Mr. Mahoney gave a start and sat upright, clutching the stem of his martini glass in one hand. “Where?” Milly smiled at him. “Same place, the lot behind the Richardson house.” Mr. Mahoney had been after the Angora for some time. There were only three weeks left until October, when he would have to stop the pursuit until spring. Mr. Mahoney grew silent, holding the drink in his hand and weighing options in his mind. Watching him carefully, Milly slipped out of her chair and took his hand in both of hers. She kissed the hand with its scratches and pressed the wounded flesh to her cheek. She then stood 49 and gently tugged Mr. Mahoney’s arm. “Come, and tell me what you have in mind.” She led him across the parlor and up the stairs to the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bedspread that was the color of her robe, she worked at the sandal straps. Mr. Mahoney stood by the bureau explaining how he hoped to get the Angora. Unbuttoning his pale green shirt, he spoke of cutting up fresh sardines and placing them among certain bushes. Milly nodded her approval, for the planning was her favorite part. When she had finished with the ankle straps, she lay back, her hair wide on the pillow, and loosened her robe. Her skin was made even creamier by the robe and she lay back breathing through her mouth. Her lips formed silent words as Mr. Mahoney approached her, still quietly explaining his plan. She swallowed several times as he came to her, whispering that he expected a real struggle with the Angora. The hands that would get the Angora massaged her shoulders and pressed her neck. No gloves would be worn. Mr, Mahoney never wore gloves, because he believed in fairness and in the art he performed. In the growing darkness he told her of the Caribbean and its lore, and she made him tell her all about the flying fish. Later the room filled with the sound of their pleasure and afterward only the chiming of the clock broke the silence. It rained that night and the night after that. Mr. Mahoney did not catch sight of the Angora until almost dawn of the second night. It was over quickly. The animal caught the scent of sardines off of Mr. Mahoney and hopped right to him. He moved with his usual celerity, but the animal sunk its teeth into the flesh at the base of his left thumb. He almost cried out from the pain, but held on until the animal went limp. The pain shot up his arm and throbbed at his elbow as he carried the Angora across the vacant lot and hurried before daylight, to the house surrounded by roses. Milly helped him off with his sweater and scarf, tears filling her eyes when she saw his wound. When she had dressed it, she held his head to her chest. His face had gone white from the pain, and he told her perhaps the nerve in his thumb had been damaged. She cried and told him she loved him and he nodded his head that he understood. Then he took the Angora to the basement and Milly prepared their breakfast. Though quite painful, the wound was small and only required a tiny bandage. No one, not even Ms. Jarvey, noticed it, and none of them caught the pain-induced tightness of Mr. Mahoney’s face. Two days later, just before lunch, he presented Ms. Jarvey with another offering of bon-bons, these a fine mixture of 50 chocolate, fruits and nuts. Her expression softened and she even smiled, as if she meant it. “Gee, thanks” said Ms. Jarvey. “You’re quite welcome”, Mr. Mahoney replied. As the week drew to a close, Ms. Jarvey found herself looking forward to bon-bons before lunch. By Friday she even confided to Mr. Mahoney that her relationship with her boyfriend was not all it could be. He patted her on the shoulder and told her life was full of ups and downs. Then he presented her with a crisp white quarter pound bag of Butterscotch, imported from Glasgow. By closing time, Ms. Jarvey found herself glancing quite often at Schaefer, Butler and Snead’s accountant. * * * Two weeks later, the last Saturday afternoon of September found Mr. Mahoney in a bathtub filled to the top with water, soap and foam. Milly was kneeling at the edge of the tub, holding a thick yellow sponge over her husband’s head. She squeezed the sponge and warm water ran through Mr. Mahoney’s close-cropped brown hair. Milly soaped his neck and back as he related lore of the Caribbean, There was a story of lost treasure, and one of a coastal town that had slid into the sea. There was Columbus and his ship stuck on a reef. There was Black Magic and strong men with deep, deep voices. There were voodoo rites late at night concerning women and chickens. There was rum with your breakfast. All of this was wonderful to hear, but what excited Milly were the flying fish. As he stepped out of the tub and into the towel that she held open, Milly made Mr. Mahoney tell her again about the flying fish. She rubbed him dry from head to toe and took his aftershave lotion in her hands. She smoothed it onto his neck and with one finger traced a line of it along his jawbone. “They certainly have it all over the other fish”, she said. Mr. Mahoney chuckled as the last of the water in the tub gurgled away. “Can’t beat evolution”, he said. His wardrobe was laid out neatly and took up the whole bed. She dressed him in silence, his new suit and crisp white shirt cutting a very handsome figure indeed. Ms. Jarvey thought so too, and after the ballet, insisted on changing into something more comfortable. She told him to turn on the stereo, and when he fumbled with it, she pranced out of the bedroom and slapped his hand in mock anger. The zipper of her dress was open all the way to the small of her back as she 51 pranced back into the bedroom. Mr. Mahoney swallowed when she reappeared in a french blue nightgown that trailed behind her, silent as a Nantucket fog. Her eyes were transfixed on him as she came to the couch where he sat and touched his nose playfully with her index finger. “Who’d have imagined?” she said. He smiled as her perfumed overwhelmed his aftershave, and her nightgown slid lower as she reached for him. Her grip was strong and he ran his hands along her shoulders. He was pleased with their firmness, and felt too the sinewy challenge of her arms. She made a contented low sound in her throat and lightly took his ear in her teeth. His hand moved from the strap of her nightgown to his jacket pocket. He couldn’t get over how excited his Milly was about the flying fish. 52 Figure without caption. 53 CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES MIKE CESARO is a student at MSU. CRAIG COTTER’s hobbies include sailing, baseball, American arts and crafts, and package design for outdated Beatle memorabilia. ANN DUNN is a choreographer/writer living in Asheville, N.C. with her potter husband and four children. She has performed her programs of poetry and dance for many people and has been published in POETRY NOW and PEMBROKE, among others. EDWARD GOLD is surely a very nice person but nobody in the office will admit to losing his bio. We’d make something up but it could never be as exciting as his life probably is. FRITZ HAMILTON has had recent poetry placements in PULPSMITH, KANSAS QUARTERLY, and THE FIDDLEHEAD, among others. He has subsisted on general assistance, food stamps, and whatever the underground economy will allow in San Francisco since 1980. RALPH HEIBUTZKI is an MSU journalism major living in East Lansing. He has written for the LANSING BEAT, JEWISH VOICE and WIRING DEPT. and plans to launch an alternative newspaper soon. RICHARD L. HOLINGER teaches English and Creative Writing at Marmion Academy. His poetry has been published in many anthologies and magazines including POETRY REVIEW and the RCR. RICHARD TODD JULIUS lives in Ann Arbor where he publishes CUTTING EDGE QUARTERLY. He is working on an MFA in Creative Writing at the that OTHER school in Ann Arbor (U of M.) LYN LIFSHIN is an internationally known poet and editor with over 70 books and chapbooks now published. She has edited a series of books on women’s writing and has been in the RCR. JIM MARKS is a student at MSU. 54 MICHELLE MELIS was born at a very early age in Toledo, Ohio, the daughter of an art professor and high school teacher. Her photos have appeared in the 1986 BEST OF COLLEGE PHOTOGRAPHY, PHOTOGRAPHERS FORUM, MSU STATE NEWS. TOM MOLLOY has worked as a journalist in Northern Ireland and El Salvador. He is married to writer Rita J. Doucette whom he met when they were published in STORY QUARTERLY. DUNCAN MORAN has lived in Michigan five years. He has written poetry since childhood and only recently has begun submitting. His work has appeared in PASSAGES NORTH and THE SUN. ROD MURPHY is in the Creative Writing Master’s program at MSU. He would like to become a Heinrich Boll scholar, he loves the Delaware seashore, and his favorite veggie is the artichoke. MARK J. SHEEHAN teaches freshman composition and has poems forthcoming in WILMINGTON REVIEW, FINE MADNESS, PENNSYLVANIA REVIEW and, ECLIPSE. ALISON SWAN has had poetry published in the RCR and will soon in the BURNING WORLD. She is currently grading papers and fighting traffic in South Florida and is looking forward to returning to the snowy north. RICHARD VANCE lives in a log home in the mountains of northern Lancaster County, Penn. He is Vice President of sales and marketing for a food corporation. He’s been published in POETRY TODAY, MIDWEST POETRY REVIEW, and EARTHWISE, and more. THOMAS C. WEBSTER is an entomologist at the University of California at Davis. He has recently published poems in CALIFORNIA QUARTERLY. 55 RED CEDAR REVIEW Editor-in-Chief Anne Marie Carey Managing Editor Amy Smereck Associate Editor Carol Bracewell Graphic Editor Sally Aalderink Photographer Michelle S. Melis Staff Editors Karen Appleton Matt Rowe Karen Steinberger Our thanks to Al Drake, Victor Paananen, Sharon Tyree, Shirley Kirkland, Doug Lawder, Gary Gildner, and Jim Cash of the MSU English Department; Barbara King and Dean Edie of the College of Arts and Letters; Cathy Merta, Donald Lammers, and Paula Koppisch of the Honors College; and Rizwan Nasar of Market Media. Red Cedar Review is a student-run biannual magazine of the literary arts published at Michigan State University. Submissions may be sent to 325 Morrill Hall, Michigan State University, East Lansing, Michigan, 48824. Include S.A.S.E. Typesetting and keylining by Aalderink, Bracewell, Carey, and Smereck. Printing by Thomson-Shore, Inc. of Dexter, Mich. Red Cedar Review is partially funded by the MSU College of Arts and Letters, MSU Honors College, MSU English Department, and the ASMSU Funding Board. Current issue............................$3.50 Year subscription........................$7.00 Back issue.................................$2.00 Books by RED CEDAR PRESS: Postcard Mysteries fiction by Albert Drake..........$2.50 Love at the Egyptian Theatre poetry by Barbara Drake..........$2.50 Editor(s): I’ll do all of us a favor and skip the usual bullshit about how I like your magazine and all, because none of us really have the time, do we? If you do accept my stuff, make up something for a bio. All I ask is that it is interesting. My poetry captures the essence of contemporary American ideology, especially with the youth. Don’t worry about sending them ba ck to me. I have copies, but I better not see these in print under another name or there’s going to be shit to pay. Don’t think that I’ve got an axe to grind, it’s just that I've been ripped off before and it hurts. De Nada, Jesus Cruz c/o Fisher Body Jesus Hector Cruz Fisher Body Assembly Division Red Cedar Review Morrill Hall MSU Editors: I got your message at the plant some time ago but I needed time to think. It was kind of a blow that you didn’t want my poems, just my cover letter, but I guess I got over it. Sorry for yu having to call teh factory, but I don’t got a phone or a mailbox out where I live, and I’m usually here anyway. It’s not that I want any of those things, or need them, so save your tears for somebody else. This is one hombre that don’t have no regrets. Go ahead and use whatever the hell you want. You might as well because like the gringo says, something’s better than nothing. I’m hip. My words on the cover of a magazine are good enough for me so go ahead. Oye como va, Jesus H. Cruz INCLUDED IN THIS ISSUE Poems by: Mike Cesaro Craig Cotter Ann Dunn Edward Gold Fritz Hamilton Ralph Heibutzki Richard Holinger Richard Todd Julius Lyn Lifshin Duncan Moran Rod Murphy Marc J. Sheehan Alison Swan Richard Vance Thomas Webster Fiction by: Jim Marks Tom Molloy Photography by: Michelle S. Melis Cover art by: Michelle S. Melis