The Red Cedar
Review ,

# N

 

volume 30 number (13 9/


 

 

 


 


 


The Red Cedar
Review

issue thirty, number two

 

2

17c Morrill Hall, Department of English, Michigan
State University, East Lansing, Michigan, 48823

May, 1994


 


Introduction

 

This issue features the work of poets and fiction
writers from all over the United States and England along
with contest winners from Michigan State University. We are
happy to display a wide variety of publishing experience ——
mixing up-and—coming writers with those who are more
established. We received hundreds of manuscripts; it was
challenging to choose from so many stories and poems in so
many different styles. Rather than choosing pieces that
reflected our own tastes we searched out those that stood
apart. This issue does not have a unifying theme, but is
bound together with works of strength and character — a
group of individuals.

The Red Cedar Review has been a student-run organi-
zation on the campus of MSU for over thirty years. An early
goal of the RC R was to publish MSU students. In recent years
there have been few or no students published in the maga-
zine because many were not aware of the literary magazine
on their own campus. In an attempt to remedy this, we
decided to hold fiction and poetry contests open only to MSU
students. In this issue we are proud to publish nine of MSU’s
writers.

We held two fiction contests and two poetry contests.
The contests included: The Jim Cash Poetry, The Jim Cash
Fiction, The Richard Benvenuto Poetry, and The Glendon
Swarthout Fiction. All of the contests had first, second, and
third place winners except the Benvenuto, which had only
one winner. With the help of Diane Wakoski we recruited Ed
Sanders to judge the contests. All entries were sent to Ed
Sanders in Woodstock, New York, where he lives.

On April 12, 1994 Ed Sanders came to the MSU
campus to do a reading of his poetry and to announce the
winners of the contests. He read from his up-coming book,
Chekov: A Biography in Verse and from his most recent book


Hymn to the Rebel Cafe. Combining his voice and verse he
entertained a crowd of over two-hundred. Following the
reading there was a small reception where students and
faculty could meet and talk with Ed Sanders;

We had to leave the party early, for a late, Mountain-
Dew, editing night — filled with snacks and twenty-one
pound cats that lie on lay-outs and the clicking of keys and
attempts at using the mouse, reading everything aloud in-
cluding: line breaks, commas, smart quotes, and em-dashes
—- with the end result of a table covered in boxes, manuscripts,
a dictionary, a PageMaker manual, paper clips, empty cans,
books, lots of cat hair, and hopefully a book with no mistakes.

——-Laura Klynstra & Erin McCarty
(editors)

ii


Table of Contents

 

POETRY 8: FICTION

Myles Gordon

Swan’s Neck .................................... 3
William Feustle

Spot of Blue ..................................... 4
Jamie Hysjulien

Stain ........................................... 7
Thomas L. Vaultonburg

Endnotes ....................................... 8
Bart E. Baxter

A Far Cry ...................................... 9
Tom Frey .

Karaoke at the Cove Bar and Grill ................ 12
Joanne M. Marinelli

The Jawbone of A Jackass ........................ 29
Norman Nathan

Faces of Love .................................. 30
Linda V. Russo

Other Women .................................. 31
Rose Marie Hunold

City of Brides .................................. 32
Ruth McLaughlin

Brothers ....................................... 34
Howard Weinberg

CBI‘S .............................. '. ........... 40
Richard King Perkins II

Diary of a Sensitive Youth ....................... 42

CONTEST WINNERS

Iim Cash Poetry Contest
first place: Timothy Lane

Flint .......................................... 47
second place: Ruth Mowry

Flying to Uncle Iimmie’s Funeral ................. 49
third place: Julie Jacobs

Panchero’s Poets ............................... 51

Iim Cash Fiction Contest


first place: Anna M Harrington

The Last Waltz ................................. 52
second place: Erin McCarty

Spirit Horse ................................... 61
third place: Timothy Lane

Laid-off, Laid-back, Laid ........................ 67
Richard Benvenuto Poetry Contest
Laura Klynstra

goldfisch ...................................... 73

The Gardener .................................. 74

Night Cafe, the Bookstore, & the Bad Ass Poet ...... 76

Gendon Swarthout Fiction Contest
first place: Katherine Alamo

A Gift ......................................... 78
second place: Anna M. Harrington

The Last Waltz ................................. 52
third place: Tom Bissell

Bars ........................................... 82

POETRY 8: FICTION

Ken Harvey

What to Keep .................................. 89
Jonathan Levent

tamara underinger was ......................... 102
Heather A. Smith

Fishing ....................................... 103
Mark Lewandowski .

The Prince of Kodiak ........................... 104
Richard Jones

History of Art ................................. 118
Katherine Alamo

The Dock ..................................... 120
Dawn Diez Willis

Jesse James: A Meditation ....................... 122
Julie Parker

Harvesting Elderberries. . . . -. ................... 124
Lyn Lifshin

In Photographs of My Mother

in the Forties, Fifties, and Sixties ................. 125

iv


Linda V. Russo '
Under a Night Sky With My Sister, On a Hillside. . . .125

BIOGRAPHIES, STAFF, 8: THANKS...

Biographies. ................................... 131
Staff ........................................... 136
With Special Thanks ............................. 137

Final Note ..................................... 139


 


 

 

 


 


Swan ’3 Neck

 

Myles Gordon

The plant you left on the speaker
when you left
hunches further for lack of water,

yellowing leaves curling
like arthritic hands
aching for your return.

I imagine them shriveling to bone.

Here, you’d plead with me to water the plant,
urge me to the faucet,

wish me full glass in hand,

to the stem we both marveled at:

a swan’s neck curled

to drink from the darkening puddle.

You should have stayed home.


A Spot of Blue

William Feustle

 

I haven’t been well. Now, don’t get upset, not that you would
anyway, I am getting better. Igained five pounds last week alone,
and if I can just gain 15 more, I’ll be up to the weight where I was
when we got married (30 pounds more and I’ll be where I was when
we got divorced). For exercise, I walk every day and I started back
to work last week.

It was Bob — you remember Bob, my boss?— anyway, it was
Bob who finally convinced me to go to the doctor. He was worried
about the weight I was losing, the dark circles under my eyes, and
the bruises on my arms and legs. And when the doctor said I needed
a medical leave of absence for treatment, Bob didn’t bat an eye, he
just filled out the paperwork and I was on my way.

I already knew by that point what was wrong with me, of
course. I even had the doctor convinced. But then blood test after
blood test came back negative. No virus, no HIV. Then he ran every
test known to man: no cancer, no digestive problem, no heart
problem. I had fluid taken out of or shot into every part of my body.
I kept telling them it was AIDS. I told them. I told all the specialists.
I told them that the man I had been married to for eight years had
been screwing every woman in sight since who knew when.

I had photographic proof -- pornographic proof -— that in the
last four months of our ”marriage,” you, my loving husband (key
word loving), had affairs with no fewer than four women. Good
shots too. Eight by ten glossies. The detective did a good job, but
then he should have for 400 dollars a day. Remember your reaction
when I showed you the pictures? You denied it. You, in varying
states of undress, being satisfied one way or another by one Woman
or another right there on genuine Kodak paper. I wanted to ask you
how you kept them all straight.

I wondered how the detective got such close-ups, especially
that one of you with your you know in the red head’s mouth.
”Windows,” he said. ”People never really realize how much you
can see in their windows."

Of course, when you realized denying it wouldn’t work, you
convinced me that I was a lousy wife, a lousy lover, and that I had
driven you to this. When I was in the mood, which was rarely, I was
inept, unimaginative, prudish.

4


 

Afterwards, I looked at those pictures again and again. I lost
my appetite, couldn’t sleep. I went for a blood test after reading an
article on the rising rate of heterosexual HIV transmission but the
technician said that it can sometime take six months or longer for
the virus antibodies (that’s what they check for) to reach a detect-
able level.

People at work said how good I looked —— makeup could cover
the dark circles — and what kind of diet was Ion. Then, when I kept
getting thinner and stopped wearing makeup, people stopped
talking and started whispering. I read everything I could about
HIV, ARC, AIDS. I was convinced that you had killed me. I
bumped my leg on a chair, just brushed against it really, and got this
huge bruise. Unexplained dark spots under the skin. Karposi
sarcoma. I kept poking at it and twisting my leg to get a better look
at it and watched it turn purple and fade to yellow over several
weeks. But by then I had started testing myself, hitting my thigh
with my fist to see if it would bruise, and if so, how severely. I poked
at every shadow on my skin to see if it was a bruise. To see if it hurt.
Weight kept dropping off.

I didn’t bother with doctors anymore. I knew what it was. I
wasn’t going to transmit it to anyone. I had lost so much weight that
even my clockwork periods had stopped. And sex, well, that was
out. Ijust wanted to die in peace. Bob, of course, I already told you,
made me go to the doctor and then I was in intensive therapy for a
while, every day for two months. "Lost the will to live,” my
therapist said. That’s quaint, isn’t it. Like something out of a
romance novel. I’m down to once a week now, for an hour, and a
group session on Wednesday nights, and homework, like these
stupid letters I never get to mail.

Anyway, I sleep now, I eat, I walk. A little further each day. It’s
late spring but I still wear my winter coat (which is at least two sizes
too big), no fat to keep me warm. I can’t imagine what people think
when they see me, wrapped in my giant wool coat, my hair, thin,
pulled back and flat to my head, my gait slow.

Until I went back to work I could walk in the mornings when
not too many pe0ple were around. Just a few mothers who had
bundled up their babies and ventured out around the block after a
winter inside.


 

Now, I walk when I get home. Joggers and walkers are more
plentiful. I take the same route everyday, the same time. You end
up passing the same people more often than not. Some nod and say
”hi,” some are lost in their thoughts or their radios. There is one guy,
though, that I pass everyday. We walk in opposite directions and
sometimes he’s on my side of the street or sometimes the other, but
he always says ”hello.” I can’t imagine what he thinks of me, a frail
wrapped-up woman, moving at half his speed, a third, me in my
long dark wool coat and him, sometimes a sweat shirt or maybe a
jacket. And a hat. The same baseball cap, all sweat—stained and
dirty, except for a wonderfully clean and brilliant spot of blue where
some sort of patch must have been. What was it? Why did he cut
it off? I really must ask him.


Stain

 

Jamie Hysjulien

You may forget

But let me tell

you this: someone in

some future time

will think of us
—Sappho

you track your body

a dead language

with dictionaries and grammars

with the pegs and rods of a machine
denatured silence

a band playing behind a screen
reinventing your sexual love

the scene and its afterburn

the lake shore and the birches

extended beyond the dancing and the talk
the stain of the evening remains

the weight still gathering forces

and measured with instruments of glass
you still want its consistency

you still want to be read


Endnotes

 

Thomas L. Vaultonburg

Her life unfolds like an Arabian prayer book.
A sudden breeze
Brings a crescendo of memories:
Slow Rachmaninoff afternoons and
Explosions of pigeon wings in the park,
The only color in a gray,
Windscarred youth;
A lonely kiss nervously proffered to
Ensure a young soldier’s return,
The same ill-fated kiss sending away
Sons into fate’s bulging stomach,
And daughters into hells of birthing,
Waiting,
And weeping.

A defiant face furrowed with sorrow
And longing, demanding respect for
A lifetime of cruelty and deceit survived.
A life of subtitles and turbulent
Boat odysseys,
But mostly a life of slow train rides,

Waiting

And weeping.

A sudden still,
And the book slams closed,
Leaving a dry heat
And a park bench inhabited by only
A fading spectre.


A Far Cry

 

Bart E. Baxter

I.

It is a far cry from the headwaters, high in the Selkirks,
colder than a bad stare from Twisted Hair and his wives,
from the unravelled rivers gnawing at the nape '

of the Canadian Rockies, where the Kicking Horse River
falls fifty feet or more every mile, from the Kettle Falls
fishermen with their nets, made of roots of young

spruce trees, where their willow weirs, like gill nets, blanch
and foam in the coaming of sheer rock and loam,

from the gravelly shallows in the Okanagan where the tule
and dog spawn, where coolies once worked the bare bars
of the Clark Fork for gold, where the sunrises rust

over snow dusted meadows, red as the backs of the cohos
or calico salmon that come from the strange cold range

of the ocean to the Grand Coulee, thin skin full of roe,

past the broad fenced sections of sage hens and mounted
young men and coyotes and hot winds, where carpenters
and coopers and tinners laid out their dirt streets

for their own spawning, from Clearwater to the Snake.

It is a far cry from the locks at Lake Union to the green water
breaks near the logging camps and mines in the foothills

of the Cascades. Before the bullcocks beat on the long gong,
before the steam donkey’s whistle, before the fallers

and buckers have finished their first cup of coffee,

the dog and silver in the yellow fog, have leaped and plunged
against the rock, beat against the current,

with powerful yearning, some spent in the journey,

their fulsome remains in the sunshine or the shadows

at the green fallow bank of the river.

It is a far cry from here to the fish ladders and long-liners,
and the purse-seiners catch, to the blue open water,

to the last fasting shivers of male and female, each fulfilling
their timeless, lasting purpose in the gravelly shallows.


 

II.

It is a far cry

from the long spring days on the North Slope, where the sun
etches new lines, signs of the new horizons and long shadows,
slender as a summer night, or light through baleen, or crossing
unspoken meridians, the way of wind-burn, ice in the eyebrows,
mustachioed rime, your own red skin, blistering in the wind,

but the sow loves the weather and the water, great white hull
of wet fur heaving herself up on the ice, up on the run,

wind blown, crossing short pitches of saxifrage, bounding
playfully in the dry blowing snow, alone over rafted ice,
slapping a fat water vole, now clipping an arctic char

with a large white paw. It is a spring dance she does,
spinning and wetly shaking off winter, cuffing her twin cubs
lapping and slipping on the wet floes. They look up and around,
waving at the bright sky, pawing at the high pitch of turbines.
And the sky full of dovekies and murres, orange and blue,

is a far cry from the brown downtown and the concrete pool
and the simulated boulders at the Woodland Park Zoo.

It is a far cry.

III.

A small golden mother macaque wrestles with a rotted plum, _
turning it over and over in the pouch of her cheek.

She nervously closes and opens her monkey paws,

pawing her face and wiping her pate in the full light

of science and flourescence, watching her offspring

spinning and playing on the stainless steel table.

An old female gibbon wrestles with her own memories.

There the year old male sits on his tail, playing with the large
gold university ring on the hand of the man in the lab coat,
turning it over and over, a game of sorts, and his sister, as if
rehearsing for a short, depressing one-act play, chatters quietly,
head held back, dignified, pacing the room with her big eyes.

10


 

Newspaper and day old bananas line the cage of the mother
macaque, like a black and yellow sequence of horrible dreams.
She sees the old gibbon begin jumping and shouting,

crying insults and epithets, hiding her eyes,

curling herself in a small hard knot like a coffee bean.

It is a far cry

from the dense forest canOpy, walking almost upright

on the highest thin branches, falling and flying,

swinging, playing, searching, and screeching

at the neighborhood, nibbling fruit where it hangs,

picking insects in the short hair of her own children,

there where the sun, where the moon, where the rain

soaks. straight through to her long golden hair,

there where the jaguar lies down and the cockatiel flies,

a boatswain peers out of a small hole in the breast

of a tamarind tree. Arboreal conversations rattle

in the loops of dark viridian lianas, and she remembers

her first nursing. There where the great broadleaf
evergreen fronds shade the small circle of her family,

far from the smell of benzine and atropine

or closeted animals wet with their own urine,

her memory leaps back, a far cry from the flickering

purple flourescents and the man’s hand

with the stainless steel blade and the large university ring.
With incisive precision he takes off the head of her first child,
. and then her second,

and the mother macaque reaches out, wrenching

at the cage, flinching and contorting uncontrollably.

It is a far cry from here to the tall trees and the turquoise
mist of the tropical forest. It is a far cry.

It is a far, far cry.

11


Karaoke at The Cove Bar and Grill

Tom‘Frey

 

An old Rickie Lee Jones tape hissed on the car stereo as Jeff
watched the lights of the Mackinac Bridge disappear in his rear-
view mirror. The drive west along US-Z had once been peaceful for
Jeff — a familiar journey home. During those long summer days,
the waves of Lake Michigan reached up the sandy shore just a few
feet from the two-lane highway. Seagulls rode gentle, unseen wind
currents before an endless blue horizon. Sunlight reflected off the
lake—making even that battered, old highway seem fresh and new.
On that chilly September night, however, the 140—rnile stretch of
road between St. Ignace to Escanaba was not so calming.

The Great Lakes are somehow more dangerous, less forgiving,
in darkness. That old highway too was unforgiving and dangerous.
Its sleepy straightaways and sudden curves snuffed out young lives
' without remorse. A cold mist crept up the shore and carried with
it the ghosts of a thousand tired, lost travelers. Jeff drove west
toward Escanaba, his headlights reflecting against a light fog that
hung just above the road. On that night, the strong, ancient lake was
blanketed by an even more powerful sea of darkness. The head-
lights lit the forest’s edge to Jeff’s right and the beach to his left —
but the lights could not illuminate that unknown blackness in the
distance. Even Rickie Lee Jones left him lonely. The tape ended and
silence filled the car.

”Dammit!” Jeff hated making the long drive down US-2 at
night. He should have left Detroit earlier and pulled up to the old
house in Escanaba as the sun set. Katie wanted him with her. She
needed him there. Something, somewhere had gone wrong be-
tween them. Neither of them knew exactly when they had begun
to drift apart, but they both knew that their momentum, or inertia,
had settled them further from each other than they’d ever been
before.

Jeff had become a stone-mason of sorts recently. Building a
strange, thick, unscalable wall between the two of them. Something
drove him to build, every day and every night. The wall grew taller.
Katie fell further out of reach. As much as he wanted her near,
something within him kept pushing her away. Jeff was slowly
allowing himself to realize the painful truth that he, and he alone,
was responsible for the distance between them. Katie had realized

12


 

it long ago.

Katie’s little sister was to be married in Escanaba on Saturday.
Katie had suddenly decided to leave for the Upper Penninsula
Tuesday night, three days early. They had planned on driving up
together on Friday, but Jeff was not surprised by her abrupt change
of plans. In less than a half an hour, she’d called work, asked for a
few days off, packed her bag and headed off to her family and
Escanaba. Katie had never been one to mull over decisions for very
long. She always seemed to know exactly what she had to do, and
she did it without hesitation. Miraculously, it seemed to Jeff, what
Katie had to do was usually what she wanted to do anyway. So, Katie
had gone on ahead of Jeff because she knew what she wanted; some
time alone, or rather, some time away from Jeff.

She threw a faded duffel-bag in the trunk of her car late
Tuesday night. He handed her an old aluminum Thermos of black
coffee. Jeff tried to break through the awkward tension that bound
their movements. ”I can’t believe you have to wear a pink dress
Saturday,” he said.

”Yeah, I hate pink,” she groaned. ”Almost as much as big
weddings!”

Jeff wasn’t fond of large weddings either. He and Katie had
gracefully side-stepped her mother’s plans for a large, church
wedding in Escanaba. Instead, they quietly slipped out of town,
drove to Las Vegas and were married in the Silver Bell Wedding
Chapel. They giggled through the entire service as plastic silver
bells twinkled around the alter. Nearly six years later, Katie’s
mother would finally get the opportunity to plan a big wedding;
her youngest child would be married in a real church and have a
Chicken Kiev dinner reception at the local VFW post.

“I’ll see you Friday night, Kate,” Jeff told her.

”You know, Jeff,” she said softly. One last attempt. ”You could
come up with me tonight. We could stop to get some smokes, throw
a Stooges tape in the radio and hit the open road!”

Jeff thought for a moment about the old days. It had been a long
time since they’d taken off on a road trip late, late at night.

”I don’t know, Kate...” his hesitation was all she needed to
hear.

”I know, Jeff,” she replied. ”Work. The grass needs cutting. A

13


 

dentist appointment.”

”C’mon, Katie, I’ve really got a busy week going at school.
Carter needs me to cover his classes Thursday.”

Katie looked silently at Jeff. Tears, or anger, maybe both, welled
up in her eyes.

”Okay, okay, I’ll ask if they can get a substitute teacher to cover
for me on F riday.” Jeff answered her silence. ”I promise, I’ll do my
best to get up there Thursday night, alright?”

”Oh, tell me another story, Jeff” Katie replied coldly as she
slipped into the car and slammed the door behind her.

3(- i- 86'

He threw his cigarette out the car window. Orange fireworks
exploded on the rough pavement behind him. The highway
narrowed quickly as Jeff drove over the Cut River Bridge. A tiny
river trickled into Lake Michigan 250 feet below him. The monu-
mental patience of time and that little creek had cut a deep ravine
as dazzling as any national landmark created by a raging river in
Arizona. Jeff knew the ravine got deeper and deeper with every
passing moment. He resented the fact that he couldn’t actually see
it getting deeper. '

His headlights lit the gray iron rails on either side of the road,
but in that deep darkness, there was little other indication that he
was crossing a bridge. Katie and he had made love under that
bridge — near that tiny river —- when they were only 18 years old.
It was one of the countless, wonderfully youthful memories they
had made together.

Jeff reached up and flipped down the sun visor. An old photo
was tucked under a rubber band on the back. A much younger
Katie and a long-haired kid who Jeff scarcely recognized as himself
smiled back at him. They were in love, maybe a little drunk, too.
Katie held the camera with her right hand and Jeff held it with his
left. They were sitting on a vintage Harley Davidson-1965. They
aimed the lens, counted to three and snapped the shutter. Nearly
half of his head was cut out of the photo. A copper-ore freight sat
high on the lake behind them. Blue waves gently rolled into shore
as Katie laughed at some long forgotten joke.

14


 

The road veered away from the lake and the night grew even
darker. Walls of thick brush, tall Pine and Poplar trees rose up on
either side of the road. A vision of Katie’s blonde mohawk crunched
under a paint-chipped helmet leapt up from somewhere in Jeff’s
brain. He was behind her, holding her waist as she splashed
through a deep mud puddle and lost control of the Harley. They
nearly hit a cragged old Oak tree — both of them screaming in fear
and exhilaration as Katie swerved out of the way and rode even
faster. As Jeff sat behind the wheel of his four-door Ford and
headed west into the night, he faintly heard himself and Katie
laughing somewhere far off in the distance.

The image was clear, but clearer still were a few more recent
visions. Katie and Jeff were sprawled out on the broad porch of
their old, wooden house. She lay on her stomach — her feet in his
lap. A warm, summer breeze and the green of their lawn sur-
rounded them as Katie hummed some beautifully unknown tune
and Jeff graded 10th grade papers.

Another image darted past. Katie — in her business suit —
with her long blonde hair pulled back. She kissed him on the cheek
as she hopped in her Toyota Camry and drove off to work. Jeff
stood in the driveway and silently watched her disappear down the
tree-lined street. Jeff loved Katie -— he had always loved her — he
would always love her. But at that moment, driving alone, down
the dark road west, he loved the girl in the photograph a little bit
more.

The digital clock in the dashboard threw a green glow over
Jeff’s face. It was only 10:57 pm. but an 18-hour day and the
repetitive yellow lines on the road were beginning to touch his
eyelids. With a few hours left to drive, he was sure Katie would be
asleep by the time he pulled the car up the driveway in Escanaba.

A young deer dashed on to the road. Car headlights have
always been an endless source of curiosity to whitetail deer. The
fawn froze in the middle of the highway —- staring at the white
lights quickly bearing down on him. Brakes squealed. Gravel burst
up behind the car as Jeff missed the deer by no more than a foot. His

15


 

heart raced as he quickly looked in the rear~view mirror. The deer
leapt over a rusty barbed-wire fence and into the woods.

Jeff looked down to his hands trembling on the steering wheel.
It was time to get off the road. He turned off the highway and into
an old rest area. Jeff sat in the car for a moment, resting his head
against the seat. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Clean,
fresh air. Pine needles. The lake. Jeff had never been able to figure
out why the air smelled so much better above the Mackinac Bridge.
It made you appreciate breathing, tempted you into early evening
naps. Somehow, it always smelled, tasted, best after the long drive
up from Detroit.

He opened his eyes and looked up to the dark, wavering trees
outside. Jeff got out of the car and took a few steps before turning
back and reaching in through the open window. He slipped the
photo of two young lovers from under the rubber band on the visor
and stuffed it in his chest pocket.

A light breeze rustled through tree branches like the breath of
the darkened woods. Jeff bumped and stumbled his way down a
narrow path to the lake. Beach grass grew in clumps over the sand.
A large rock offered Jeff a seat overlooking the quiet waves. His
lighter momentarily illuminated the shore as Jeff took a deep drag
off a Marlboro Light. He was struck by an odd feeling that he was
not alone. The kind of disturbing feeling that wakes you out of
sleep, certain that someone is in the room, watching you through
the darkness. Jeff looked behind him, over his shoulder and then up
to the car. No one was there. Only moonlight reflected off the
windshield and down through the trees.

The sky was clear and he could see the distant lighthouse on
Garden Island. Twenty million stars lit up the night sky. He hadn’t
noticed the stars from the road, but on the beach, Jeff remembered
lying in the sand with Katie, staring up at the summer sky. They’d
often imagined what life was like in those other worlds. Katie had
educated Jeff about hundreds of planets where the most intelligent
life-forms just floated — without a care -— forever washed in warm
oceans. Looking up at that sky —- that window to other worlds - Jeff
was sure it had been years since he’d seen a single star in the skies
above Detroit.

The light from the small fishing-town of Naubinway glim-

16


 

mered just beyond Pointe Aux Chenes. The town was just a few
miles down the road. Jeff had planned on driving straight through
to Escanaba, but something in the unexplainable warmth of those
flickering lights drew him toward the town. He buried his cigarette
in the sand and slowly felt his way back up the dark path.

3" Il- 3!-

Naubinway was just as he remembered it. Fast food chains and
automatic bank machines hadn’t yet found the more remote parts of
the Upper Penninsula. A single, blinking yellow—light marked the
entrance to town. He turned left at Valier’s General Store and drove
toward the lake and The Cove Bar 8: Grill.

Naubinway was built on commercial fishing. During the
summer and fall months, the smell of pine needles and dead
Whitefish hung heavily over the town. Visitors usually found the
odor disgusting, but to the townspeople of Naubinway, that smell
was beautiful. What was disgusting to those hearty people was the
absence of that smell. Without that smell the town, and those
people, did not exist.

Jeff parked the car in a gravel lot across the street from the bar.
Voices and muffled music spilled out of The Cove and floated far
across the lake. He walked in the door and was immediately lost in
an unfamiliar crowd. He made his way toward the bar and counted
the memorial life-preservers on the wall as he walked. Twenty-
eight of them. Four more than the last time he was there. Four more
Naubinway fishing-boats sitting somewhere at the bottom of that
cold lake. Two Chippewa Indians wearing flannel shirts and
bloody, rubber boots leaned against the memorial wall. They
exchanged toasts, clanked beer mugs and burst into laughter.

”Hey, man!” Ieff called to the big bartender wearing a U of M
sweatshirt. ”How’s it going?”

”Pretty good,” the bartender replied. ”Stick around. We got
The Karaoke Man here tonight. What’ll ya have?”

”You got Rolling Rock?”

”What?”

"Budweiser, please.” .

The bartender clicked Open a can of Bud and poured it in a half-

17


 

frosted mug. Jeff pushed two dollars across the bar and turned
toward the jukebox. The cash register rang out and the big man
slapped three quarters on the bar.

”It’s yours, brother," Jeff told the bartender as he walked
toward the jukebox.

”Don’t go putting money in that machine.” the bartender
called out. "We got live entertainment tonight. The Karaoke Man’s
here, remember?”

”Well,” Jeff smiled as he walked back toward the bar. "I almost
forgot! That’s the whole reason I’m here!”

The bartender laughed and stuck out a wide hand. ”I’m Eldin."

”Jeff Holden," he replied, shaking the bartender’s hand. ”I
don't remember you having karaoke here before, but I guess it’s
been a long time since I’ve been around. Jeff motioned toward the
karaoke stage and a tall, old man with a rough, gray beard. ”Is he
from around here?”

”The Karaoke Man?” Eldin asked. ”Well, I’ve always thought
he came down from Canada, but come to think of it, I don’t know
where he’s from.”

Eldin looked confused for a moment before letting the question
drift out of his mind. ”He just shows up every now and then and
we’re always happy to see the old guy.”

Eldin picked up an unshelled peanut and walked t0ward a
group of men sitting quietly at the other end of the bar. Without
even a glance in his direction, Eldin tossed the peanut at an
unshaven man in a worn leather jacket. The peanut gracefully
bounced off the man’s forehead and into his beer.

”Two points!” Eldin bellowed as he threw his arms in the air.

”Thanks, E1,” the man said before he fished the nut from his
beer and popped it —- shell and all —-— into his mouth.

31' 3P 3G

A beautiful, young woman with deep auburn hair looked up to
Jeff as he slipped a dollar bill into the cigarette machine. They
smiled at each other before the striking woman turned her eyes
toward The Karaoke Man. He was an unusually tall and thick old
man with a voice nearly as large as his body. A bright stage lamp

18


 

behind him outlined his sturdy frame with smoky light.

”Let’ s hear a big, big round of applause for Betty,” The Karaoke
Man said as he adjusted his dirty baseball cap.

A few polite souls nearest him clapped as a weathered old
woman picked up the microphone and began reading, and then
singing, the words to ”Close To You.” Jeff felt a little more
comfortable with some nicotine in his blood and a mug of beer on
his stomach. He was back at the bar, pretending to be interested in
Betty’s song. Eldin brought him another Bud without even asking.
Jeff liked him already.

A sappy chorus of strings filled the Cove.

‘ ”Just like me / They long to be/ Close To You.”

Another glance toward the beautiful girl. She was smiling at
Jeff again. This time she didn’t turn away quickly. She looked
directly and intently at him and continued to smile. It was an
invitation . Jeff smiled as he took his beer with him to the bathroom.

He carefully placed his mug on a chipped, marble shelf and
read the wall above the urinal. ”Chrissy is a whore -— but so am I.”
”There is no Hank Williams Jr!” Jeff’s favorite was the faded
scribbling simply stating, ”YOU ARE HERE...BUT WHY?” Jeff
laughed out loud when he read that last bit of graffiti wisdom. He
buttoned up his jeans, flushed the toilet and walked back into the
smoky bar. He looked to the girl’s empty seat as he heard The
Karaoke Man welcome Rachel to the stage.

”Alright now, put those hands together for Rachel!” The
Karaoke Man’s encouragement was unnecessary -—- every man in
the bar was screaming for this gorgeous woman. Jeff took his place
back at the bar and didn’t need to feign interest in this singer. Jeff
was certain that she was staring — over the karaoke television
monitor and across the bar —— at him.

Three familiar guitar chords pounded out Rachel’s introduc-
tion. He’d never really liked the song, but he tapped his foot with
the beat anyway.

"I love rock n’ roll/ So put another dime in the
jukebox, baby /
I love rock n’ roll/ So come and take a chance and _,
dance with me.”
The mostly male crowd went wild as Rachel belted out the

19


 

song. Her friends at the table were cheering louder than anyone.
She looked over at them, stuck out her tongue and laughed during
the guitar solo. It was one of the most wonderful laughs Jeff had
ever seen.

He was on his third beer and was thoroughly enjoying the
show. Rachel wore baggy, faded jeans, black boots and a tiny white
shirt that ended where her belly-button began. She had a small
earring in her nose, another in her navel. Rachel possessed an
exotic, almost cat-like, quality that seemed completely out of place
in The Cove.

Years earlier, Katie’s mohawk-spiked hair and Jeff’s loud mo-
torcycle had attracted attention in dusty, backwoods towns like
Naubinway. Jeff remembered how he and Katie, once, must have
seemed completely out-of-place in their little, Upper Penninsula
burg. '

The Karaoke Man again needlessly encouraged cheers for
Rachel as she left the rickety stage built on old milk crates. She
stopped for a moment to ask The Karaoke Man something, and then
quickly spun around on her boot heel and walked directly toward
Jeff. She cut through the stares of enamored men and jealous
women and squeezed between Jeff and the unshaven man. Rachel
stood at the bar and waved a twenty-dollar bill at Eldin. The big
bartender brought her a beer as she leaned toward Jeff and smiled.

”Hi there, stranger!" she spoke with an obvious confidence.

”Hello,” Jeff was taken a bit off guard and he fumbled for his
next words. ”My name is Jeff.”

”I’m Rachel,” she said. ”I haven’t seen you here before. I know
all of these guys, but you, I’ve never seen.”

”Well, ” Jeff took a sip of beer and laughed. ”I've never seen you
before either!”

”Well then, now we’ve seen each other!” she smiled as she took
his hand and led him to her table. ”And I’m glad we did!”

One of the Chippewa fishermen with the rubber boots was
sitting at the table. He looked up as Rachel and Jeff approached.

"Hey, there!” he said. "Who’s your friend?”

”Everyone, this is Jef ,” she replied turning to Jeff. ”Jeff, this is
everyone.” ‘

Rachel looked at Jeff and squeezed his hand as they sat down

20


 

at the table together. She lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled a stream
of smoke through lightly painted lips. A sip of beer and a sidelong
glance at Jeff through sea-green eyes. Her glance fell to the table as
she set her beer down and smiled tentatively, as though she’d been
caught in a lie. Rachel now had two, nearly full, ice-cold beers sitting
in front of her. Jeff pretended he didn’t notice the spare beer and
smiled back at her.

Ed, Suzy, Jill and someone the group only referred to as "Con”
were drinking shots of vodka before the introductions were com-
plete. Jeff called over a gruff waitress and ordered a round of shots
for everyone. Jeff learned that Ed was a ”net-man” on a Naubinway
fishing boat. He’d worked the boats since he was nine years old.
Suzy and Jill worked at the little diner near Junction 1 17 and Rachel
was a cocktail waitress on Mackinac Island. Con seemed to make a
career out of giving dirty looks.

The waitress brought out six Budweisers with a shot of root beer
schnapps sitting at the bottom of each. The entire table studied the
unknown drink and carefully watched Jeff slam the concoction
down. He lifted the shot glass out of the mug with his teeth and
gently placed it on the table. Ed laughed as Jeff wiped his mouth
dry.

'-’Cheers, eh?” Ed exclaimed.

Everyone at the table tipped their mugs. Rachel finished first
and casually looked over to Jeff.

”So, what song are you singing tonight?” she asked.

"I think I’ll do us all a favor and do what I do best — just listen.”

Betty shuffled slowly to the stage. The Karaoke Man watched
her with gentle, soulful eyes. He put out his hand and helped the
woman up the steps.

”Well, then,” Rachel asked. ”Do you dance, or do you just
watch?”

”A little of both,” Jeff answered.

Rachel leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Jeff was still
pondering the ease with which she’d kissed him when he realized
he was on the dance floor, holding her by the waist. Her hair smelled

21


 

like pine trees and her neck like Patchouli oil. She pressed herself
against him as they slowly moved back and forth to the karaoke
musrc.

The drinks were taking over —— making everything too easy.
"Do you always dance with handsome strangers?” Jeff laughed in
her ear.

Rachel didn’t miss a beat. ”Sometimes, but not tonight.”

The dance floor and been christened. A few other couples
' joined Rachel and Jeff under the green glow of a homemade billiard
lamp. Ed held Suzy’s hand as he led her to the floor. The fisherman
slapped Jeff’s back just before he lifted Suzy three feet off the
ground and pressed his lips against hers. An old couple celebrating
their 60th wedding anniversary cautiously turned round and
round. . .round and round.

”Alright folks,” The Karaoke Man said as he shot a magical
smile at the old woman slowly leaving the stage. ”Let’s hear some
clapping for Betty!”

The liquored dancers obeyed, applauding the singer. Ed even
let loose with a powerful howl of approval. The Karaoke Man
looked on as Betty received a standing ovation for the first time in
her long life. She glowed as she drew up her dress and curtseyed.

3! 3|- 3!-

Obvious, clear answers, camouflaged by liquor, sometimes go
unseen. In the dim light of The Cove Bar and Grill, Jeff wondered
why he had met Rachel that night. Why am I so attracted to this
young girl? He took another long drink. I hardly know her! Where
did she come from anyway? Why? Jeff smiled at Rachel across the
table as red and blue lights began to flash across her face. Almost
everyone in the bar turned toward the finger-print covered window
and a Mackinac County Sheriff’s Deputy cruiser parked outside.
The lights reminded Jeff of another encounter with the Mackinac
County police. Jeff met Katie at a beachfire not far from Naubinway
— back in 1979. They must have been only 17 or 18 years old. After
the beachfire, they roared off on Jeff’s motorcycle just as a police car
with flashing lights turned off US-Z. The deputy chased after the
motorcycle for nearly 15 minutes before Jeff even thought about

22


 

stopping. He started to slow down — to let the cop catch them.
Trespassing...maybe resisting arrest. A night in the Mackinac
County Jail couldn’t be that bad. But, as Jeff’s hand eased off the
throttle, Katie wrapped her arms firmly around his waist —— urging
him to push the Harley faster.

Jeff finally lost the cop by racing down a dirt road and ditching
the bike in a patch of tall grass near the Millicouquins River. Jeff
grabbed Katie’s hand and ran with her toward the water. They
jumped off the fifteen foot river-bank just as the police car fish-
tai'led around the corner. The young couple poked their heads up
through the water as red and blue lights disappeared down the
narrow, forest road.

Katie shrieked in excitement as water dripped off her nose.
”That was great! What do you say we find another cop and do it
- again?”

”Alright,” Jeff replied as he pulled Katie toward the river-bank.
”But, this time you’re driving! ”

a} at- 4-

Rachel and Suzy were sitting at the table when Jeff walked up
and casually leaned against the back of a chair.

”So, what’s the plan?” Rachel asked looking up at Jeff.

”I’m not really much for plans, Rachel.” Jeff lied.

”Good,” she replied. "Lets all go to the beach and just see what
happens!”

"Yeah!” Ed joined the conversation. ”Let’s go to the beach.”

Jeff’s mind wandered for a moment. Those words were so
familiar — so simple. ”Let’s go to the beach.” A million images
were scattered about his mind ——- images of the beach and bonfires,
volleyball and skinny-dipping, motorcycles and long nights. Jeff
even fell in love on the beach. He’d lived a lifetime with that cool
sand between his toes. He loved the memories those words evoked.
”Let’s go to the beach.” He missed the simple feelings those words
had created.

“Sounds good,” Jeff answered. ”Just let me run to the bath-
room first.”

Jeff moved toward the bathroom, against a current of people

23


 

leaving the bar. They washed around him like water around a rock
in a stream.

Jeff stood at the urinal and let his eyes wander around the room.
”YOU ARE HERE. . .BUT WHY?” the message on the wall de-
manded. He was trying to imagine what the message meant and
who had written it when he turned around and walked directly into
The Karaoke Man’s broad chest.

”Hold on, son!” The Karaoke Man laughed. ”You’re gonna
hurt yourself if you don’t watch what you’re doing!”

”Oh, sorry! ” Jeff apologized looking up to the enormous man’s
wrinkled face.

”You’re a long way from home, huh?" The Karaoke Man asked
casually as he stood in front of the other urinal.

”Well,” Jeff replied looking at the old man’s broad back. ”Ac-
tually, I grew up around here. But, it’s been a few years.”

”Coming to an old, familiar place like this is always a bit of a trip
down memory lane, eh?” The Karaoke Man asked, looking over his
shoulder, his smile radiating kindness.

”Yeah,” Jeff replied slowly, thoughtfully. "I guess it is.” An
uncommon simplicity in this old creature overwhelmed Jeff. Im-
mediately, he could tell this man had been wounded and worn, but
not beaten, by life. Despite his age, there was a strength, vitality, to
him. Somehow, his strength was comforting to Jeff. Not at all
threatening. Jeff struggled to identify this unknown quality glow-
ing within The Karaoke Man. The only word that flowed up to his
brain; Peace.

”1 tell you, I’ve been in bars from here to heaven, but there’s
always something special about a place you’ve been away from for
athfl

”It’s sort of funny, though," The Karaoke Man continued. ”You
come back to a place after all these years, and you always expect it
to be exactly the same as it was before. Of course, it never is.
Something’s always different.” The Karaoke Man slowly zipped up
his trousers and turned toward Jeff. ”It’s kind of like a snapshot you
take in your brain, you know? I mean, you take a picture of
something, and ten or twenty years later you find yourself looking
at that photo, remembering the good old days. It’s sort of sad
really.”

24


 

Jeff listened intently to the warm old man. ”Take this bar, I used
to come in here fifty, sixty years ago. They had this big, back porch
then. Me and all the folks used to sit out there, drink our beers and
just watch the freighters cut through the lake. Now that porch is
gone and the back is all walled up. All those old friends are...well,
most of ‘em are dead. Most of the freighters are gone too. That
porch was nice back then, really nice. But, I don’t think I really
appreciated all those friends —- all the fun times I had sitting out
there on that porch -—— until they ripped it down and built up that
wall.”

The Karaoke Man was quiet for a moment. He took a deep,
slightly wheezy breath and continued. ”Of course, now they’ve got
the pool tables in here where the porch used to be. That’s nice too,
’cause I like to play pool.” '

The two men smiled at each other. The Karaoke Man looked
deep into Jeff, still smiling. What seemed like hours passed in only
a few seconds.

”You see what happens when you get an old man talking! He
just goes on and on ’til tomorrow!” The Karaoke Man laughed and
gave Jeff a sly, friendly wink. ”I better let you get back to your little
friend out there, eh?”

”Well, I guess.” Jeff said to The Karaoke Man. "It was good
talking to you,” and he meant it.

”Oh, one more thing,” The Karaoke Man let his hand fall from
the door knob and reached into his shirt pocket. He gently pulled
out an old snapshot and handed it to Jeff. "I found this a little earlier
tonight.”

Jeff quickly felt his chest pocket. The photo was missing. He
must have lost it somewhere, sometime. He hadn’t even realized
it was gone.

”I don’t think you want to lose this, do you, son?” the man
asked.

Jeff wiped a few grains of beach sand off the edges of the
snapshot. Two young lovers smiled up at him. He pulled out his
wallet and carefully placed the photo between his driver’s license
and a Visa card.

25


 

A swarm of giant mosquitoes bounced around the yellow
street-lamp outside the entrance of The Cove. The screen door
slammed behind Jeff as Rachel pressed herself against him.

”It’s getting late,” Rachel said softly. ”Let’s forget the beach,
okay?”

Jeff’s mouth was just an inch or two from Rachel’s. He smiled
at her and looked deep into her eyes.

”Come home with me, Jeff,” Rachel asked. ”I’m staying at that
little place just across the street.”

It had been a wonderful night, an unexpectedly wonderful
night. Rachel was a quick wit — a beautiful, wild, sweet-smelling,
young woman with a very quick wit. The Karaoke Man’s words
and a thousand images rattled around Jeff’s skull. ”I never really
appreciated it until they ripped it down and built up that wall.”
”YOU ARE HERE. . .BUT WHY?” He thought. ”You wouldn’t want
to loose this, would you?"

Rachel put her hands on Jeff’s hips and pulled him closer to her.
A tangle of auburn hair fell over her eye and tOuched his lip.

”No thanks, Rachel,” Jeff said quietly.

She looked quizzically at him and then began to smile. "Are
you sure?” the question lingered for a moment on her parted lips.

”Yes,” Jeff replied. ”I’m sure. I really had fun tonight, Rachel.”

”Yeah," her smile grew. She took her hands off his hips. "Me
too!” .
Jeff gently touched Rachel’s cheek and smiled before he began
walking toward the car. The street-lamp threw a tall shadow in
front of him. The shadow grew as Jeff walked further from the bar.

The night air had grown cold. As he walked toward the car, Jeff
could think only of Katie, curled up in bed, asleep under a warm
down-filled quilt. He would slip under the quilt and spoon up
behind her warm body. He felt a heavy, warm sensation deep
inside his chest as he imagined drifting off to sleep with his cheek
gently pressed against her bare neck. Desperation gripped him. He
hoped'it wasn’t too late. A hazy cloud of dust rose up behind the
car as he pulled out of the gravel parking lot and drove toward her.

The Karaoke Man sat alone in the darkened cab of an old, rusty
pickup truck. He smiled to himself as he turned the key in the

26


 

ignition — twice before it started —— and drove off toward the dark
woods. ’

Naubinway was a lonesome town at three o’clock in the mom-
ing. The broken pavement of Main Street led Jeff to the highway.
He turned the car west onto US-2, cocked his head to the left and
looked up toward the night sky. Jeff smiled as he watched twenty
million stars shine down on the long road ahead. Driving west ——
into the healing light of those stars —— he didn’t even notice the
flickering, neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign disappearing in his rear—
view mirror.

27


The jawbone of A Jackass

 

Joanne M. Marinelli

Withstood thousands at your cave, trot trottle

a bumble at the bump, the swish and sway silent

the clop trop platter of hooves and sand blasted winds in swaith
a sheet, the backdrop a blanket of blood where the

swirls a white pinpoint bone, the centre

vision seers

outskirts around the people

a few cents for baladi of the Giza Plateau

man doth starve his bread

a slow and steady pace, and not alone,
rubble ditches Chepren where Rome trundled
Caesar to Caesar in a woman’s legs

(Valley of the Queens to simper)

and waverly, candy wrappers in the stones by squatters
Toyota tires to ban at least a mile, in the chitters

the chitterlings and stool pigeons,

America the spacious beer belly singes while Cheops
crusty tears of sea

lime the tomb

Sphinx bubbles to weal and waffles the scaffold

woe to tumble the wisp of Alexander’s march and conquest
and cut, the

seam of a blade through the knot may all be ferral

the dust of clenched lashes

Nefertari to Amenhotep 3rd for third grades on

the children will see projector slides, the

Nile a twenty-four frame a second where the

Temple of Luxor across will but sleep the barge in an
M1-16, the battle of the Sinai to Kadesh a

failure to a fade to our sight in sealant

preserve us, the oracleedeaf of Oasis

marjeh-ye taqlid

28


 

Worthy One to be esteemed send to their deaths oh
ayatollah the youth the deserts, and on Deir al-Bahri
a smile yet in the layers acumen, dent their skulls
the government supports to toddle

Presidents of peace to assassin, from Cario
embrasures he waves a corpse to the

passions of Koran and the stricture to forms —

watch it with those circles.

What comes around, what goes, the feast of gods on themselves
Isis to birth from Osiris again

Ra to be piecemeal the sky

rats to scurry the carnage, though we,

the gods may not forget,

laughter in the incense once we pass,

lost to the echoes of a braying beast.

29


Faces of Love

 

Norman Nathan

In the crowded cafeteria i found

the last empty table; then i saw her,

book under arm, carrying a heavy tray

and looking for a place to sit alone;

caught by the disappointment in her eyes,

i motioned toward the vacant seat

that faced me; she glared and turned away,
then glancing back, with a wry grin

and a nod of thanks, she joined me;

we munched in silence till i said

”did you think...?” ”i did,” she interrupted,
"but i was wrong;” ”not totally,”

i said; ”but there’s no harm if we talk;”

so i met jessica over bowls of soup;
exchanging names, we met and met again,
and walked and talked, then lived together,
found mystery and loved each other

while strangers; we worried lest details,
revealed, might soon defuse the power,

the witchery that made our space the world;
but our jagged bits and pieces merged,
excitements buried doubts; i shared

her joys and problems, could repeat them;
yet all my thoughts were on her lips,

her shape, the thrill of her voice,

the fragrance of her near me;

close to the end of novelty, we married;
now caught in the daily ebb and flow
how often i remember and can’t find
that once compelling stranger.

30


Other Women

Linda V. Russo
For Angela

 

Of all the people I want to glimpse again
today, sitting in this cafe, you come closest.

I see your motion pressing through the body
of another woman, dressing her in your love
for clunky earrings and lace-up boots;

even your temperament features —-

in her messy twists of hair

and the way she bends her head to study
her notes —- until she looks up.

You have been forsaken

so many times in the gestures of other women.
And the problem is it’s not impossible.

It had been over a year

when you passed through this city, unaware
that it was my new home.

You saw my back and knew the way I moved
down a busy street; when you stopped me
there were no words

to describe our separation and the residue

of our spoiled friendship

lay its bitter coat on my tongue.

I keep searching the faces of these
other women.

I repay for the loss of you

with every failed meeting.

I look for your eyes but my sight falls
just short of reconciliation.

31


City of Brides

 

Rose Marie Hunold

A Poppy Crop

viewed they are red hued Vixens
dusky delights early

pancake powdered visions set
with coal lined black eyes
downcast and locked into stare
gazes like blossoms

directioned over garnet red lips
pressed into an upturn of

the happy of the ten

lined up the winner would

prize herself, the youngest, she
the most sought after she
provider of ease she

wearing the orange the red

the brown the beige highly
prized threads of the child
coveted would now to grace her own
matrimonal at the crossed roads
of canefields and poppies and
sacred tombs

To Be Chosen

the wedding halls of brokers

tests with impune pinches the velvetness
soft skin of those soft eyes

rounded rivers rising unspoken as
the abundance of girls

and the desire to harvest

converge with the bouncing

gild of sweet fragrances lacings

of black gold pacing bracelets

and reams of saffron cloth purchased
to make the newly bought

32


 

salient in submission or obscure
or their ability to disappear

as the bird that is blown

into the sun’s view

orange red brown a fiery crack
filled in tiding circles of blue

After Sleep

the creasy skin of the moneyed
plumps his hands as he

imagines the lineless skin

of a child beauty calling

whom he will win here

in this season of abundant rooms

of accord and choosings

proviso of all priviliges including
rich slices of oil battered bread
dissolution of sugar double spooned
into tepid sweetness

the gift of extra pillows allowing

her to shade her painted eyes
against daylight and tea mornings
served from handled brass and amber
decorated trays permission to suck from
whatever he has leftover unchewed
a life made through wrists

tied hemp circles relaced with

wide hoops that speak in jangles
about the wrists a life sign the petal
of metal of her moves

33


Brothers
Ruth McLaughlin

 

Her middle son fell out. That was how she thought of it, the
death that the older and younger boys —— Jeff had called them his
bookend brothers — had seemed to accept. Jean stood in her
kitchen listening for them. After breakfast they had gone outside;
she’d watched them roaming their lots at the edge of the woods. She
thought the two would begin a version of baseball: just a week past
the death she had discovered them in the side yard, one of them
throwing sly pitches. Lots of yelling — Jean unable to tell if they
were fighting or at play: either one offending her.

She reminded herself that all her boys had offended her, even
Jeff. She began to carry dishes toward the sink. Once Jeff ——at about
eleven —-— had walked away muttering a curse after a reprimand.
She hadn’t been ready for it, hadn’t seen it building in the mild
brown eyes. Or perhaps it had been Brian, she now thought — her
too-close—together boys sometimes blurring in her mind.

She squinted to the side yard where Brian and Timmy had yet
to appear. Jeff had fought with them there, she remembered; even
this last year as teens they had fought horribly. Yet within hours
they would appear together outside again. A game would begin
without anyone speaking; as if it had arranged itself.

She piled eggy dishes into the sink —— trying not to see the stack
as one—third less. Then she heard them— a shout, raucous laughter;
she looked outside to see a ball hurtling past. She leaned to spy on
them; she wanted to catch them at their grief. Any grief, something,
she wanted to shout to them through the glass. She saw Brian toss
the baseball high for Timmy to catch. It was safely beyond the
windows, a sure high toss: Brian, her oldest, the deliberate one.
Timmy, red-haired and slender, seemed to tense — but he would
catch the ball, she knew. She watched the ball’s pure arc; the
hesitation at its peak as if snagged by air.

She pushed her hands into suds. Half her life, she thought, she
had stood at this window admiring her athletic sons. Spying on
them — what parent wasn’t afraid to show her child the naked love
for him? When the three boys had at last been able to play catch
together — Timmy reaching a little far with his big glove -——— she had
watched from her window with tears streaming down her face.
They had all seemed so perfect, their lives unfouled; she had

34


 

thought she would burst.

Timmy had chased a ball to the far end of the lot, and now he
came into sight. Jean watched as he swung his arm back in a long
looping throw. At fifteen Timmy, though ganglier, had reached
Brian’s height, and the ball traveled toward him with force. Jean
watched as Brian’s arm rose, placing his mitt where he somehow
knew the ball would land; she squinted, trying to see the scene how
it was instead of something crippled —

But it was crippled! Stung, she realized the oddity of Brian’s
catch: The game had switched to batting, and his right hand, as the
left reached for the ball, still clung to the bat. Of course it was in
order of things (she reminded herself for the hundredth time!), but
how could she not resent Brian’s rush to pick up his glove and
replace the absent brother as catcher! The ball slapped into the
glove. Now Jeff would be shouting, ”You're out!” There would be
a tussle, real or in play, she could not understand where their lines
were drawn. But she would watch their fighting or pretend-
fighting through the window over dishes, the three of them filling
her life up —

Now one was gone and another avoided her. Last week she
had fought with Brian. Over nothing, she thought —— a shirt. But
it had been everything: She had suddenly from the kitchen heard
a door opening; it was someone in Jeff’s closet, she knew, she
recognized the sound of the door. She had been caught off guard
— a tiny hope had sprung ——-— she had felt herself ceaselessly beating
it back as she strode down the hall. There she had crashed into
Brian.

He was holding a dress shirt of Jeff’s —— limp on a finger in front
of him as if it were any shirt. She stood close to him in the cramped
hallway, Brian taller than she: ”How could you?” she said.

He had stared back at her. He seemed bewildered. ”He hardly
wore it, Mom,” he said.

Jeff had worn it only once, she thought, searching for summer
jobs before he was killed. And it was big for him, better fitting the
husky older brother ——

”But you just took it!” she said. She had entered Jeff’s room
twice since his death, wading slowly through pain.

”I miss him, too,” Brian said. He was frowning. She saw him

35


 

glance at the shirt again; an ordinary glance, she thought, as if he did
not see Jeff in it.

She had hissed: ”Then act like it!”

He had turned on his heel and slammed into his room.

Now she was rinsing the last of the dishes and studying Brian
and Tim; they had abandoned their game but milled outside in her
sight. Brian snatched up the ball, and as she watched hurled it
toward Tim; high enough to disappear, the air swallowing it; then
magically it dropped into Tim’s glove.

Brian’s throws began to lengthen, moving Timmy backward —
deliberately? she wondered. She saw Timmy stumble where the
woods began — stepping back against a large, wind-broken limb:
What was Brian doing? She suddenly felt seized with anger
towards him: Brian, her oldest, her rock. The one she had hoped to
lean on after Jeff's death, but he eluded her: filling day after summer
day with baseball -—— as if the brothers were still complete.

She leaned to see something had happened to Tim at the edge
of the woods. He stood panting, chest heaving, color rising up into
his cheeks. Always his brothers had made fun of him for how he
wore his emotions. As she watched he turned and ran into the
woods, Brian following. He zig-zagged through fallen branches,
around limbs; at last leaping over a stand of baby firs. Jean watched
as Brian, heavier, crashed across the firs: some of the trees, she saw,
would not recover.

She stared where Brian had disappeared. What had he done
following the death? She tried to remember. She had expected him
to sit, numbed, on the couch beside her, but had seemed restless,
roaming the house: at last going out to play baseball.

Suddenly the boys appeared before her. Something had hap-
pened; they seemed about to fight. Brian’s face was full of fury. This
is it, she thought. She dried her hands to storm outside. Their
brother dead two months and they stood: Tim trembling, Brian
squared against him. She felt hatred for Brian wash over her -—
where was his grief? How could he have loved his brother? He
spent his days playing baseball as any summer before; and worse
than before bullying Tim.

But she saw she did not have to go outside -— Brian had turned

36


 

and walked away. Then she saw trailing, as if tugged by a leash,
Timmy —— still wearing a beaten look.

Brian was striding forcefully across the lawn to the house. Jean
braced herself: there would have to be a collision. She did not, she
thought, have to see tears. But she had to see the hole in him. .

Brian stepped into the house, passing her to drop into a kitchen
chair. His chair, she noticed, though Jeff’s was closer to him -— he
at least remembered that.

Timmy seemed to be hanging outside; she turned to Brian. She
stared at him, a more intense version of Jeff ——- dark hair curlier,
shoulders blockier, even the brown eyes -— now she saw Brian’s
eyes were smoldering, as if spoiling fora fight: Wasn’t picking on Tim
enough?

She did not know where to start with her anger: ”I just hate the
baseball,” she heard herself say.

She blurted out the other thing: “And beating on the brother
you’ve got left!”

Brian turned away. He looked outside. He wanted to avoid her,
Jean thought; avoid the thoughts of Jeff.

But then he turned toward her; narrowing his eyes as if she
deserved blame. “Look what you do,” he shot out. ”Just sit inside!”

She blinked at him.

”You used to sit outside in summer,” he said. ”You used to
watch us.” He turned away again, frowning outdoors at something
she couldn’t see.

"It isn’t the same,” she whispered.

He shot up from his chair. Once she had seen him standing like
this defending Jeff. He had been half his size. He had stood with his
fists clenched glaring at older boys, bullies who had drifted onto
their property from the woods. They had surprised Jeff at play,
scaring him; Brian had faced them off.

Now he Was glaring at her: "You think he was just yours!” He
turned and bolted outside.

She heard low voices, the rattle of equipment gathered; Timmy
must have been hanging near.

She felt herself plunged down -— how many sons had she lost?
She heard their voices begin to rise — cheerful-sounding as any
summer, punctuated by the slap of ball into glove.

37


 

Then she heard a shout. An explosion of anger —- wearily she
crossed to watch from the window; did she care who was to blame
or who might be hurt? Let them kill each other.

From her distance she watched as Brian, uttering a curse,
lunged across the yard toward Timmy, who though he tried to step
nimbly aside was caught, thrown to the ground. She saw Brian’s
bulk pin Timmy, who writhed beneath, eyes popped.

Jean closed her eyes; when she opened them the boys lay still.
They had separated, lying apart on their backs. Timmy, closest to
her, was lying very still but not dead. He was hugging his glove to
him; and squinting at his face, Jean could see he was fighting tears.

Jean could see that Brian beyond him, staring upward into the
sky was blinking also; affected by something that had passed
between them.

Jean was reminded of the times she had glanced out to see the
boys like this, exhausted on the lawn after play, always arranging
themselves (accidentally by age) with easygoing Jeff in the middle;
a buffer between stubborn Brian and fiery Timmy, whose temper
seemed often aimed at Brian. Sometimes as she watched she would
even see Timmy — unable to calm down after a run-in with Brian
—— aim a fist across Jeff at his older brother; and falling short, punch
innocent Jeff instead.

She watched the boys, still silent apart on the lawn. They had
not only fought and played their games all summer, but had lain
here like this. Then she saw it --— a Jeff sized space between them.
They lay on the lawn exactly as if he were in the middle of them.

They lay studying upward; Timmy still hugging his glove to his
chest, Brian with hands clasped. Jean roused herself; she felt greedy
to go outside and share the moment with them, all of them feeling
the loss. As she stepped to the door she saw — as if in the old days
when she couldn’t understand it, couldn’t see how the boys could
be that tired and still carry on some rivalry — Timmy’s arm flick
over in a loose fist toward Brian; falling short, banging the ground
where Jeff would lie. Brian’s arm rose in the instinctive response,
to pop Timmy back — but the fist remained in the air; hesitating a
moment before sinking down. Jean thought she saw it touch
Timmy’s on the ground where it lay.

Then in another moment they were gone —- in a burst of motion

38


 

Timmy had suddenly arose and snatched the ball Brian had tucked
beneath him. Brian was on his feet, and as she watched, hurtled
himself towards Timmy.

Then the boys were gone, vanishing around the corner of the
house. Jean stood at her window; outside the yard was calm. The
bookend brothers off together.

39


Cars

 

Howard Weinberg

I wish I had my

big blue chevy

back the one with the

air so strong you could
cruise the steamy streets
all night long, cool as
winter and twice as kind.

And also I wish

I had my little

red B, it was so

hot, too hot, it burst

into flames in a

parking lot, firemen
doused it with white foam.

When I picked you up

in my black Prelude

I could tell you were
pleased, but you would not
say so. That’s not why

we fought, pouting till

rage found its thick tongue.

2

Now we climb into

the dented Ford. Its
old body aches, but the
big dog sticks his head
out the window. He’s
golden and proud in
the rushing air. Here
the daughter also sits,
queen of the tape deck,
commanding our love.

Who is at the wheel?

40


 

Is it me? Is it

you? No matter. We
are going down the
black top anyway,
wheels of memory
and desire pulling us
by the big heartbeat
into the green grass
and the yellow sun.

41


Diary of a Sensitive Youth

 

Richard King Perkins II

In Cody

I remember the woman with no teeth who was crying.
I wanted to give her a couple of cigarettes

Or maybe even the whole pack

But then I wouldn’t have any, so I kept them,
And I moved on.

In Spokane

I was living at the park with the other homeless people.
Me and my friend were showing off

To the college girls that passed by

But I got tired of that

So I climbed a cliff about thirty feet high

And when I stood on top I could see the whole city
And when I looked down I saw a kid about my age
Wearing black Converse shoes

His body covered by a ripped orange tarp.

His hands were on his stomach, cradling his severed head
And I thought, well, at least you can’t feel anything-—
But I wasn’t sure who I was talking to.

I couldn’t speak for a couple of days after that,

And one night, by the fire,

I saw that I was wearing black Converse shoes,
Wrapped in a salmon-colored poncho

And knew that I would never talk again

If I stayed here, so I got up,

And I moved on.

Outside Spokane ’

I gave a woman my last five dollars because she looked like
The woman in Cody who I wanted to give cigarettes to.

But even after she had the money,

People still turned their heads from her in shame

And I thought, what difference does this really make?

Five dollars might last half-a-day,

And then she’ll still be the same anyway.

I was totally broke now, and I wished

42


 

I hadn’t given away all my money, so I made a note,
And I moved on.

In Denver

I was sleeping at a friend’s place

When I heard gunfire and jumped up and remembered,
Oh yeah, this is Denver, and went back to sleep

Not too bothered by the drive-by-shooting.

In the morning

I heard that a little boy had been shot in the cross fire.
I was sad in a way

And wanted to do something to help.

Three weeks later, I was still there,

Unable to think of any way to help, but I heard

He had gotten better anyway and I felt better,

So I lit-up a found, half-cigarette, inhaled,

And began moving on.

43


 


 

 

 


 


tht

Jim Cash Poetry -—first place

 

Timothy Lane

In the bruised aftermath

of an industrial sunset,
beneath the vapid summer heat,
while the radio antennas
blinked in overgrown commercial lots
above abandoned billboards
of the Silky Black Velvet Lady
and the Marlboro Man;

while new cars

gleamed in the parking lots
beside the river

under the sterile

factory lights;

while beer cans rusted

and bottles sank

in the mire of

tire ruts;

while the retarded deer
bumped heads along the fence
at the old tank plant,

we blotted out the sirens

and the labor of freight trains
with our stereos.

Far from apathetic,

we drank our fair share

of beer to boost

the economy. We purchased
lottery tickets even

though we were young with
promise —

a future writer,

an actor,

a rock star,

a teenage cult figure.

Our fathers were tradesmen;
our mothers were nurses.

Our graffiti crisscrossed the musty,

47


Jim Cash Poetry ~first place

 

crumbling stairwells of parking ramps,
the plywood windows of boarded warehouses —-
defiant strokes of spray paint

like Egyptian hieroglyphics.

We were the oldest,

the educated,

the first to enroll

in college.

In the winter,

we wrapped their expectations

like presents and set

them under the Christmas tree.

Our heads were full of scripts;

our eyes full of cameras.

Cracking cynical jokes

when we drank,

we contemplated

the curves and underpasses

on the expressways,

as if we might crash;

the sidewalks below

the gooey rooftops

of buildings,

as if we might jump;

never veering,

nor jumping,

angst-ridden martyrs,

melancholy and drunk.

Amid the billowing smoke

of factories and

junkyard fires -——

the massage parlors, the palm readers,
the bars, GM’s displaced —

we wanted to be immortal,

to live fast

and die tragically.

We wanted to be

remembered for more than spark plugs
and automobiles.

48


Jim Cash Poetry --— second place

Flying to Uncle [immie’s Funeral
Ruth Mowry

 

He was not magnetic in life;

we did not gather to him like birds

around a sunrise,

airplanes on the tarmac around the hub of gates,
garden club seniors around flowering dogwoods,
doctors around the bed of a dying man

or mourners around a coffin.

He was not central.

He was adjacent;

reflective of someone else’s glory,

like the moon outside my cabin window;
or the pond reflecting the moon

in the farmer’s field below —

a point of interest along the route

under a plane flying somewhere else;
the man in the moon, slightly off center
shy of looking at you full-faced.

More accurately, he was adjacent

and translucent, the man in the moon

in daylight,

a filmy petal at the side of the sky,
delicately agreeing with the sun,

drawing little attention to himself,
allowing other light, not only to take credit,
but also to define him,

so simply lucid he was.

Still, he was light,
undeniably brighter and warmer than the space
to which he was adjacent
now that I have looked long enough to study him;
I don’t recall that a shadow
ever eclipsed his face even a sliver;
somehow, miraculously staying full
throughout the dark losses
of his life.
49


Jim Cash Poetry — second place

 

Now, he lies in Richmond in a casket,
waiting at the center of all our routes,
my parents, my brother and I from Michigan,
my sisters from California,

Chicago, Atlanta,

and those in Virginia -—

his sister from Bridgewater,

his ancient friends from Fredericksburg,
Harrisonburg, Charlottseville;

he is the hub of our spokes,

a magnet guiding our courses,

the point to which we aspire,

the focus of every thought.

I imagine the man in the moon, contained
in a closed box

that can’t accommodate the rays,

like his fragile body that condensed power
and couldn’t keep it from spilling out,
despite his efforts;

beams overflowing,

having the life of a respirator tube,

the beauty of a dogwood branch

and the attraction of

a simple white line on the edge

of the runway that turns out

to be an arrow.

50


Jim Cash Poetry —- third place

Panchero’s Poets

 

Julie Anne Jacobs

They’ll call us the Panchero’s Poets

When they quote us,

Discuss us,

Analyze, dissect, assign us.

Romantic, Victorian, Nee-Classical, Beat, or
Two-pound-burrito-eating
My-god-I’m-on-fire

Flatulence-saluting

Barely-adult maniacs.

‘ We can sing and write,

Compose chords of all or no meaning;
Brush each other’s hair

Until it crackles with the electric

Scent of ozone static.

We can make the drunks our theater,
Play games with the intoxicated,

Verbally assault the stray Rasta-man in the comer,
Perpetually proclaiming the same vocal riff.
They’ll call us the Panchero’s Poets

When they discern us,

Display, portray, return us.

Fuck the coffee house and its

Wild Wilde—quoting

Pretentious espresso-sipping

Caffeine junkies,

Hunched over volumes in smoky corners!
All we need is root beer,

A napkin to sop the grease

Or fall prey to poet scrawls.

And they’ll call us the Panchero’s Poets
When they love us,

Hate us, ignore us, deny us.

We live icy nights of Satchmo,

P-funk, and men in geriatric jumpsuits,
Their old—school muzak

Hallucinations from hell

Reaching even Copland up in heaven.

51


Jim Cash Fiction ~first place

The Last ‘Waltz
Anna M. Harrington

 

Ah, Daddy’s Victrola. .. it still sounded so sweet, just like those
little birds that piped from the tree outside her bedroom window.
When was the last time she heard —— oh, yes, when that nice young
man from the museum came to look at her things. Antiques, he
called them. Antiques! Silly boy.

The thick record crackled and snapped as it slowly turned on
the black phonograph. It was warped with age and covered with
static. A layer of dust smeared the words on the label, making the
song titles nearly illegible, but she knew what they were. Of course,
she knew what they all were -—- how many times had Daddy read
the names of the songs off to her when she was a little girl, then sang
them to her on winter evenings when it was too cold to sit out on the
porch? And hadn’t she even bought one of the records herself, the
one all the girls were sighing over the summer the war started? I'll
dream of you, until we meet again, until we kiss again, my dear...
but that wasn’t the record now slowly circling in front of her. That
one disappeared a long time ago.

Her wrinkled hand slowly turned the brass handle on the side
of the Victrola. The soprano’s voice rose above the snapping static
to fill the old house on Primrose Street, and as she listened to the rise
and fall of the voice, she bummed softly with the melody. She knew
the tune, it was engraved on her mind, but she couldn’t quite
remember the words. Her memory wasn’t like it used to be. Ah,
well, no use crying over spilt milk, Mother used to say.

She closed her eyes and smiled. Wrinkles and lines reached like
fingers across her face, framing the sunken eyes and thin lips,
disappearing into the white and silver-gray hair. But the smile
stretched tight the loose skin across her chin. And when she
brushed her fingers across it, her face felt smooth, just like it did
when she was young.

The woman’s voice brought back memories she thought she
had forgOtten long ago, memories buried beneath fifty years of dust
and stale air. Names blurred to fit clear faces and faces blurred to
fit remembered names, like her friend Margaret who died of
tuberculosis when she was twelve, or that nice young banker who
lived in the house beside them. And Captain Jenkins, his face
hidden somewhere in her memory, who came to David’s house the

52


Jim Cash Fiction ~fi7‘st place

 

day of the funeral. Pictures flashed through her mind of picnics by
the river, volunteer days for Red Cross drives, Daddy’s smile, and
the day David taught her to drive and yelled at her because she kept
confusing the brake and the clutch, even though the two pedals
were very close together and it was so easy to do...

She forced herself to remember everything, straining over each
small detail until the memories flooded back to her of those glorious
years when the boys were dying in Europe. Those years were so
frightening, so electric, and everyone was stunned into feeling alive
and living every second as if it were the last, because down deep
they knew that it might be just that. The future was terrifying, and
people grabbed on to whatever they could, just to keep themselves
from somehow floating away. But if you held on too tightly, you
risked losing yourself in whatever it was, or whoever it was —

She felt as if David were standing next to her again, touching
her skin, sending electricity through her arm. She laughed. Fifty
years suddenly didn’t seem so far away, and she felt almost young
again. She wanted to laugh, and to sing, and to dance!

Her gnarled hands clutched at the skirt of her white dress.
Surprisingly, it still fit after all these years, even hanging loose on
her old bones. The last time she had worn it she was not quite
eighteen, just a few days until her birthday. Then again, she had
always been plump as a teenager... fat, David pointed out to her
several times —-— but for her own good, of course. It wasn’t healthy
to be overweight, and what man in his right mind would want to
marry her if she looked like that?

The dress was still beautiful, even though the seams were weak
and the white lace was now yellow. The fabric had thinned and
permanently wrinkled, and the silver pin on the collar, sculpted in
the shape of a heart, had tarnished black. It smelled like cedar from
being shut inside her hope chest, but she sprayed lilac perfume and
drowned the disagreeable scent. Her hair, once soft and dark
brown, was pulled up into a little knot with stray strands falling
down around her face. When she was young, she always wore it
that way. That was how Daddy liked it.

And her hair, just like everything else, had to be the way it was
when she was young. Exactly the way it had been because David
was coming back. Her dear, handsome David! He was finally
coming back to her, just like he promised, and everything had to be

53


Jim Cash Fiction ~first place

 

perfect.

Where was that trunk? She knew it was somewhere in the back
of the attic, wedged in among unwanted pieces of furniture and
souvenirs of places she didn’t remember visiting. She hadn’t seen
it in years, but she hadn’t forgotten what it looked like. After all, she
was the one who secretly packed it full of David’s belongings the
night of his funeral. She had to wait until after midnight, then sneak
upstairs with a dying candle that dripped burning wax onto her
hand. If anyone saw they would call the doctors again, and this
time they would send her away.

There it was! The small trunk was covered with layers of dust
that lay like a bridal veil. Only Mother and Aunt Jane knew about
the trunk, and they had been dead twenty years. They were buried
alongside Daddy in Kingsgate Cemetery, leaving one last burial
place for her.

The clock chimed in the downstairs hall. Only thirty-one more
minutes.

She looked at the watch she wore on a chain around her neck,
her shaking hands raising it up close to her eyes. She refused to
wear her bifocals. Not tonight—he might think she was old. The
thin hands were stopped at the exact time they told her David was
dead. Nine-thirty-one. She had stopped it herself, her fingers
crushing the crystal against the hands. The shards of glass pierced
her fingertips and she bled, so much that Daddy sent for Doctor
Maxwell, but she didn’t feel anything even though she screamed
so loud that her throat went raw. It was all right, just shock at
hearing the news.

They told her that he died fighting in France, died fighting
when the Germans shelled them and overran their lines. But she
knew better. Not David, he wouldn’t die that way. They were all
wrong, and she had proof. They never found his body. How could
he be dead if they never found a body? Didn’t anyone else realize
this?

She knew David was still alive, and she told everyone so. She
told them he was alive at the funeral, even while Reverend Baker
said a prayer for his soul over an empty coffin. She told them he was
alive at the burial in Kingsgate when she screamed it at his family
and stomped their red and white flowers into the muddy ground.
Daddy dragged her home, clawing at the ground and still scream-

54


Jim Cash Fiction ~first place

 

ing that he was alive. They locked her in her room and sent for the
doctor. But she forgave them for locking her away, forgave them
for thinking he was dead— it was an honest mistake, after all—and
sat down that day to wait for him. David gave her his word that he
would return to her, and he never broke a promise. Never.

Her bony fingers tugged at the lock on the trunk. It had always
been hard to open, but if the lock was jiggled just so... the lid
snapped open with a loud pop. A strong scent of must drifted up
to her nose. It smelled terrible, just like rotting wood or cloth, and
she coughed roughly. Her chest tightened as her breath grew short
for just a moment. Only a moment, nothing to worry about. She
had been feeling very tired lately, but she blamed it on the damp
weather.

A faint groan escaped over her thin lips as she lowered herself
stiffly onto her knees in front of the trunk. Funny, she remembered
the trunk being much bigger, much higher. But her mind played
tricks on her sometimes, like forgetting where she put something in
the kitchen cabinets, or the voices she sometimes heard at night and
when she rose from bed no one was there —- Daddy’s trunk, filled
with David’s belongings. The two men she had loved most in her
life, the only two men she had ever loved. Sometimes, when she
tried to remember a specific event, they blurred together into one
person. Sometimes, it was David who tucked her into bed, who
sent her boxes of chocolate Valentines when the boys made fun of
her, who let her crawl up onto his lap when he read the evening
paper. Sometimes, it was Daddy who shipped out to Europe. Oh,
the things she had put in this trunk! She clapped her hands together
and laughed like a child.

The picture in the silver frame lay on top. Her handsome
David. Tears fell down her cheeks as she touched his face. He was
frozen in time, an image trapped within the tarnished frame. Still
so young and confident, so strong... he hadn’t aged at all. Not one
minute from the last time she saw him, when she had said goodbye.
The smooth lines of his face and the smoothness of his skin had not
changed, and his hair was just as thick, just as dark. She could
clearly see his Lieutenant’s insignia. He loved that emblem and
said so each time he wore it. He’d worked very hard to get it, he told
her. So handsome in his uniform! She was lucky to have him, all
the girls told her so. But David was still incredibly handsome, and

55


Jim Cash Fiction -—first place

 

time hadn’t dulled the cold gleam in his eyes —

The cold gleam in his eyes... funny, she had never noticed it
before.

She didn’t remember seeing it when she was young. All she
remembered was how dark and handsome his eyes were. But the
cold gleam was there in the picture. It was piercing and real, and
it sent chills up her spine. Why would David look at her so coldly?
Why did he look at her as if he were alive, as if he would be warm
when she touched — then stare at her with so much hatred? She
hadn’t done anything to him. After all, she was the only one who
knew the truth. And she had kept his things in the trunk for him,
knowing he’d want them. But that look in his eyes — she shook her
head. Slowly she looked down at the picture, then sighed. The
coldness was gone. His eyes were exactly as she had remembered.

And even if he did have a coldness in his eyes, it didn’t matter.
She’d forgive him for that. She would forgive him for everything.
After all, he was going to be separated from her for only a few more
minutes. Fifty years wasn’t so long to wait for him. Not for a man
like David. She was so lucky that he loved her. Of course, he had
never told her that. Not really. But she knew he did. Would he have
promised to come back if he didn’t?

And he was coming back. She was certain.

His leather jacket —— she pulled it out of the trunk and pressed
it against her bosom, cradling it almost like a baby. It was stiff and
cracked from age, but the silk lining was still soft, so very soft
beneath her fingers as she slowly stroked it. The faint smell of his
cologne reached her nose, and she breathed it in deeply.

”Oh, David!” She buried her face in the heavy brown leather.
”I miss you so much. I’ve waited so long and we —”

She raised her head and wiped at her eyes. Voices floated up
to her from the livingroom. Those voices again. She always heard
them at night. Faint, not able to make out the words, and always
when she went downstairs, no one was there. Sometimes she heard
people running out of the house, or diving into the closets and then
she'd have to check in all the rooms and closets to make certain no
one was hiding there. But no one was ever there. For a moment, she
thought she heard David, laughing the way he always did. The
voices changed into singing, into the chorus of men’s voices and the
twang of a beer hall piano. She could be so silly sometimes! It

56


Jim Cash Fiction — first place

 

wasn’t time for David to be back yet. He still had seventeen minutes.

The beer hall piano. . .how many memories it brought back!
Most of the men in the chorus were dead now. Boys who died in the
war, men who died naturally. The people she watched at the cinema
matinees were all dead now, too. But they were all still young in the
movies, and the men still sang every time she played that record.

What a beautiful tune. That same song was playing the night
David said goodbye to her in the garden behind her parents’ house.
Don’t weep for me my sweetheart, I’ll come back to you my love, my
one and only sweetheart. . . And David was leaving. He was leaving
the next morning for Europe. Shipping out, he called it. A strange
fear gnawed at her stomach, making her sick. Other boys had
shipped out before —— boys she knew from school, boys she knew
through David and his friends —— none of them had come back.

Daddy was playing the Victrola because it was too chilly to be
outside. Don’tweep for me my sweetheart. I’ll come back to you my
love... the music drifted across the lawn from the big, old house and
found them in the darkness. The air was cold, but there was a new
moon in the sky. A blue moon, he told her, that made it special.
There was no wind, no crickets, no fireflies to dot the darkness. Dew
covered the ground and shined in the distance under the light of the
moon. But where they stood, beneath the willow tree at the comer
of the yard, the moonlight didn’t reach and the lightening bugs
hovered so very far away. There was no sound, except for the
distant music, and the whole world seemed to be holding its breath.

- Don’t weep for me my sweetheart... She shivered in her white

dress.

”Do you want to know something, Helen?” His voice was cool.

She tried to stop the chattering of her teeth. If he thought she
was too cold, he might take her back inside. ”Yes, what? Tell me.”

“We’re like the song. You’re my one and only sweetheart."

She began to rush into his arms. She wanted to feel the warmth
and strength of him, just to make certain that he was real before they
took him away from her. She had decided to give herself to him
tonight, to open herself to him like a flower, like all the poets
described. All he had to do was take her in.

He put up his hands and stepped back. ”If you’re cold, take my
jacket."

He helped her into it, forcing her arms back into the sleeves, but

57


Jim Cash Fiction ~first place

 

she barely noticed. She was numb. The cold had finally gotten to
her. But she didn’t want him to know that. Her eyes grew hot and
itched, her face flushed. He made her want to cry again, but she
refused to cry in front of him. Not again, not tonight.

The music paused. Daddy wound the phonograph and started
the record again. Don’t weep for me my sweetheart, I’ll come back
to you my love...

She leaned back against the twisted tree trunk and looked up at
him through the dark shadows. David was a beautiful man. What’s
a man like me doing with a nice girl like you? —— he always asked her
that. Just teasing, he said. Sometimes she wasn’t so certain.

She touched his arm, the way the actresses did in the pictures he
took her to see. When he stepped toward her, she had to tilt her head
back far to look up at him.

She smiled at him. ”I told Daddy how I felt about you.”

He stiffened. ”Oh?”

"Yes.” She pulled playfully at his tie. ”I told him all about us,
about how much we love each other —”

He pushed her hands away from him and stepped back. He
swore, loud and clear... I’ll come back to you my love, my one and
only sweetheart... The moon vanished behind a cloud.

"You shouldn’t have told him that."

She bit her lip until it hurt. Tears were dangerously close to
falling. Don’t weep for me my darling, be brave and sweet and
true... ”Why not?”

”Its just that--—— well —”

"I love you, David.” Whisper a prayer for me each evening, and
I’ll return to you... "And you love me, too, don’t you?”

”Helen —”

She kissed him before he could stop her. If only he would ask
her, she would unfold —— like a flower! But he didn’t. He was cold
and stiff, and he didn’t return the kiss. So cold... but it was the air,
and the damp night, and the fear. Always that horrible fear of the
war, always that. She walked away, then leaned against the tree
with her back toward him.

”What’s a man like me doing with a nice girl like you?” He came
up behind her and pulled her back against him as he encircled her
in his cold arms.

”Why do you think? She whispered silently.

58


Jim Cash Fiction ~first place

 

”Hmm?” He nuzzled the side of her face. ”What was that?”

”Nothing important." She shook her head. ”I'm afraid for
you.”
”You’re being silly. I’ll be fine."

”David, promise me that you’ll come back safely."
”Don’t be stupid.” His hands tightened on her arms. ”I’ll be all
right. You’ll see.”

”I want you to promise me.”

”I promise to come back to you,” he laughed, ”even if it takes me
fifty years!”

The record ended. The needle skipped on the disc.

She grasped the sides of the trunk and struggled to her feet. Her
knees were stiff from kneeling too long. Each time she rose or
lowered herself lately, it took more effort than before. But this time,
there was a slight pain in her left arm that she had not noticed before.
Strange. Whisper a prayer for me each evening, and I’ll return to
you. . . the tune played over and over in her mind as she slowly made
her way back downstairs. He might not find her if she stayed in the
attic.

The clock in the hall chimed.

She stopped. Her heart pounded, faster and faster. One more
minute. Her fingers sought the watch on the chain, and she looked
at the hands she had stopped fifty years ago.

It was almost time! Only a few more moments, and he would
return. Her beautiful David, her darling David — her fingers
fumbled as they hurried to replay the song... their song. Only a few
more moments and she would be with him. She would again be his
one and only sweetheart, just as she had been before he left. The
music began to play, slow and distorted. She hadn’t wound the old
Victrola enough. But there wasn’t time to worry about that now.
Only a few more moments ~—

She heard a noise behind her. The door... was that the door
opening? But she couldn’t turn around. Not yet. She had waited
so long for him, keeping her life from changing as much as possible,
keeping everything from changing for him when he returned. Her
hair, the dress, the music —- everything had to be perfect for him.
She could almost feel him now as he came closer. It was just like
before, when she was young and strong. When her whole life was
ahead of her, a life she was going to share with him. Only a few more

59


Jim Cash Fiction — first place

 

moments, and he would step into the room with her. And every-
thing would be exactly like before.

She heard a steady rhythm of soft noises in the foyer. Footsteps!
His footsteps were coming toward her, closer and closer with each
pounding heartbeat. David was coming! She sniffed the stale air.
Could it be...? The smell of his cologne reached her. Thank you,
God, for bringing him back to me. Thank you, thank you, thank
you!

Only a few more moments, and he would sweep her into his
arms. He would hold her, kiss her, love her... unfold her like a
flower. Only a few more —-—

A blinding pain shot up her left arm. The finger-like wrinkles
deepened and distorted her face as she pursed her lips together.
Darkness fell across her eyes.

No! Not now. This couldn’t be happening to her now, not after
she had waited so long. Not now, not when he was finally coming
back to her. He was so close now, she could feel him. David, I’m
here waiting for you!

Her chest tightened as an invisible hand squeezed her heart in
its fist. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs gasped but the air wouldn’t
come. She was drowning and the darkness was swallowing her up,
pulling her down into its blackness. Her heart pounded wildly like
a hammer in time with his approaching steps.

David! David, where are you? Pound, pound, pound... she
couldn't hear his steps anymore. Why won’t you come to me? I’m
here, I’ve always been right here. Right where you left me...

She stretched out her hand toward the door and tried to feel her
way through the painful darkness. But he wasn’t there. Her breath
escaped from her lungs and her frail body fell onto the flower-print
carpet.

With one last effort, her dying hands tore at her chest and neck,
and the watch chain broke beneath her clawing fingers. The watch,
smashed so long ago, fell tumbling into the darkness and out of her
reach. It shattered against the side of the phonograph. The crystal
flew from the watch-face, and the hands began to move for the first
time in half a century. The Victrola dragged to a stop in the middle
of the song. In the deep silence, the watch ticked softly, free from
the broken glass that had imprisoned it.

60


Jim Cash Fiction - second place

Spirit Horse
Erin McCarty

 

My best friend when I was growing up was my cousin Lexie.
We were always together. My dad called us Mutt and Jeff, and my
mom said we were two peas in a pod, but Lexie’s mom, my dad’s
sister, called us wild and was constantly trying to get Lexie to play
with ”some nice little girls.” What my aunt never understood was
that Lexie didn’t like nice little girls anymore than niCe little girls
liked Lexie.

Lexie was different from other girls. For one thing, she couldn’t
talk. When she was just a baby she had some sort of infection in her
throat that ruined her vocal cords and voice box. I don’t know the
technical terms, but it was really rare and all the doctors she saw had
different opinions. Some said she would never talk, and others said
she could if she tried hard enough. Those were the doctors that
Lexie’s mom listened closest to. I think that she really believed Lexie
wouldn’t talk on purpose, just to spite her because there was talk
that my aunt’s smoking had caused the infection.

Not being able to talk didn’t seem to bother Lexie. Lots of
people thought she was deaf too, and would talk to her real loud, but
most of the time she could hear them fine, she just wasn’t listening.
She didn’t hold much stock in what most people had to say. She
could communicate with me just fine. We were the same age and
grew up together since we were babies so we developed a kind of
secret language before we could even read or write. It was made up
of noises, hand signals and gestures. Sometimes I would pretend
that I couldn’t talk either and I’d spend the whole day in Lexie’s
world. It drove her mom crazy. She’d say, "Brett, you stop that right
now. You’re just feeding her stubborn streak. She’ll talk when she
wants to bad enough. If the only way she could talk to you was like
a normal person, I can bet you she would quick enough.”

The funny think about talking with Lexie was that we had to
learn to read lips. With deaf people its the other way around. Lexie
could mouth words, but she couldn’t make the right sounds. My
parents and her mom and I were real good at it. So were a handful
of other people. When she had to she’d use a pen and paper but
she’d only communicate with who she wanted to when she wanted
to. She was as strong willed as the come.

We lived in the suburbs just north of Chicago and our neighbor-

61


Jim Cash Fiction - second place

 

hood was old enough to have lots of good sized trees and some
patches of empty land. We even had a dry ravine running through
our subdivision. When Lexie wasn’t climbing trees or exploring the
ravine with me she was probably doing it by herself. I guess she was
what people called a tomboy. She wore her long chestnut hair in a
ponytail or single braid and dressed pretty much the same way I
did up until high school. And she was constantly running. She
wouldn’t walk places, she’d gallop. Sometimes she’d slow to a nice
trot but that girl was always in motion. She liked to run just for the
sheer joy of feeling the breeze on her face and the strength in her
legs.

Lexie didn’t have any close friends besides me. When she was
little other kids teased her because of the funny noises she made
when she was trying to express herself. I was big for my age and
had a reputation for being tough, mostly from leaping to Lexie’s
defense at the slightest sign of trouble. Consequently I had more
enemies than friends. There was a group of guys that I played
sports with, but until high school I spent most of my time with
Lexie. I bloodied many a nose on her behalf from the time we were
about five, but by age eight she could pretty much defend herself.
I sure wouldn’t have wanted to tangle with her. She had developed
a fiery temper that blazed either in defense of herself or on behalf
of any type of animal.

Looking back, I think Lexie was a pretty girl, though I never
thought much about it at the time. She had long coltish legs that she
eventually grew into and had a very athletic build for a kid. Her
long hair was almost always tied back but when it wasn’t I picture
it rippling and flowing over her shoulders. Her large brown eyes
were very expressive and she had a smile that could be either
angelic or down right devilish. That smile would dare you to do the
impossible and I almost always took the dare. I could refuse Lexie
nothing. I absolutely adored her. I think I understood her better
than anyone though even I never knew what she was thinking all
the time. There were a few times when Lexie would be trying to tell
me something and I just couldn’t get it. The more frustrated she got
the harder it would be for me to understand her. She’d toss her
head, trying to get the right sounds, or mouth the words slowly and
carefully. A lot of times I knew what words she was using but it was
up to me to get the context right. When I couldn’t get it she’d stamp

62


Jim Cash Fiction -~ second place

 

her feet like a child throwing a tantrum. Seeing her upset always
agitated me, but I would hold her hands and talk softly to her and
when she calmed down we’d try again. She would only use pen
and paper if she absolutely had to and she would hate it.

Lexie and I shared a love for the outdoors that a lot of suburban
kids don’t have. But Lexie had something that even I didn’t have.
She had a gift with animals. She seemed to have some sort of bond
with them like she could communicate with them in some primitive
way. It was like they shared some secret that the rest of us would
never know. All dogs and cats took to Lexie, no matter how mean
or omery they were to other people. She would scratch their ears
and stare into their eyes and make this weird kind of humming
sound and pretty soon she’d made a friend for life. Once when we
were ten she almost bolted out into heavy traffic to save some mutt.
If I hadn’t grabbed her by the hood of her sweatshirt and yanked her
back she would have been smeared along that road just like the dog
was. She cried all day.

Although Lexie loved all animals she had a special affinity for
horses. I don’t know where it came from. We didn’t own any or
know anyone who did. I think it started the summer we were on
vacation at a resort in Wisconsin. Lexie and I were about twelve at
the time. My dad had paid for us all to go horseback riding for the
day. Lexie and I were excited because we had never been that close
to a horse. When we got to the barn suddenly Lexie shied away
from the idea. She asked if she could ride it without the saddle and
bridle. The manager laughed and said absolutely not. Lexie
refused to ride, she thought it was cruel. The manager tried to
reason with her. He said the horses didn’t mind the harness, they
kind of liked it. Lexie snorted derisively and threw him a withering
glare. Since the horses were already paid for and there were no
refunds our pa rents rode out and Lexie and I watched as our horses
galloped in a large meadow, bareback and harness free.

They were beautiful. Their manes rippled and flowed on their
necks and their tails streamed out behind them. They tossed their
heads and snorted as they made graceful turns around the pasture.
I had been looking forward to riding them, but giving that up was
a small price to pay for the look on Lexie’s face as she watched the
horses run. It is something I’ll never forget. It was a look of great
pleasure, of wild abandonment. A warm breeze blew her hair away

63


Jim Cash Fiction -— second place

 

from her face and she looked at me, her eyes dancing. She opened
her mouth, and I swear to God I truly believed she was going to
speak to me right then and there. I think I actually held my breath.
But she turned away and looked back at the horses, a little wistful
this time, and I suddenly felt very sad.

After that day, weird things happened when Lexie was around
horses. The summer we were fourteen we took the L-train into the
city to walk along the lake and watch the boats. We were sitting on
a bench enjoying the sunshine when suddenly Lexie started to cry.
I looked to where she pointed and saw one of those horse drawn
carriages that pull people around the streets. The horse was
buckled in with shiny straps and harnesses. He was wearing big
black blinders and a ridiculous top hat. His head hung low as he
strained and plodded along while traffic whizzed by. He looked
old and tired. I looked back at Lexie, not knowing what to say. As
she cried she repeated our sign for ”Bad.” ”You’re right Lex,” I told
her, ”it just isn’t right." She looked up at me then, so grateful I had
understood what she meant.

The next time I was with Lexie around horses we were about
sixteen and things went a little differently. Our families were at the
Renaissance fair. Lexie and I separated ourselves from the others
as quickly as possible and went exploring. We were checking out
”Ye Olde Marketplace” when we heard a horse whinny. Lexie’s
radar took us right to it. There was a large shed a couple of yards
away and behind it a man with his back to us was trying to tie a
horse up to a cart. The horse kept rearing up and kicking his legs
and generally moving in every direction except where the man
wanted him to go. The man was sweating profusely and obviously
very angry. He grabbed a long handled leather crop off the ca rt and
started whacking the horse with it. I instinctively grabbed for Lexie
without even looking her way but I was too slow. Shrieking like a
mad furie she leaped onto the man’s back, grabbed the crop out of
his hand and started beating him about the head with it. I was
completely mortified. ”Lexie! For Christ’s Sake!” I yelled as I
yanked her off his back. She was still screaming. When the guy saw
that his assailant was just a mere slip of a girl he was furious. I let
go of Lexie so I could step between them. I thought he was going
to go for her. I was as tall as him but he out weighed be by about
50 pounds. If this got ugly I was going to be in trouble. I was ready

64


Jim Cash Fiction —-— second place

 

to explain about my ”schizophrenic sister” but there was no need.
The man was completely entranced by Lexie. She was moving
slowly towards the skittish horse doing her humming thing. The
horse tossed his head and pranced around a bit. "Watch out miss”
the guy said. ”He’s a mean bastard." Lexie was practically under
the horse’s nose. She reached up, grasped his harness and the horse
leaned his head down so Lexie could rub his nose. She stared into
his big brown eyes and they exchanged their secrets. The man was
completely amazed.

”That girl’s got some spirit.”

I laughed. ”You have no idea.”

It’s with that fire and spirit that I remember Lexie. I never
witnessed first hand what come later. The summer after Lexie and
I graduated high school my dad was transferred to California and
had to take a huge pay cut. I accepted a scholarship to UCLA to help
ease the financial burden of college. Lexie was devastated. Her
grades were never very good and she had no desire to go to college.
I don’t even know what she planned to do. She had always hated
talking to me with pen and paper and swore she’d never write. She
never did. I wrote to her every week, then twice a month. Once in
a while she’d send me something in return, a pressed flower or leaf,
some photos or a picture she liked. My parents said they heard
from my aunt that she spent most of her time alone, either in the
woods or out running. I guess she ran for miles and miles every
day. Then they said she was going to take classes to teach the
hearing impaired. She certainly knows what it is like to have
trouble communicating, they said. They thought it would be ”good
for her.”

I had been gone a year when we got the horrible news. Lexie
had been in a car accident. She was permanently paralyzed from
the neck down. The thought of her lying in bed, unable to move
drove me crazy. Without the use of her hands she could only
communicate with those who could read lips. But my aunt said she
wouldn’t, not even to her. She was completely withdrawn. I made
plans to fly back as soon as she was out of the hospital and settled
at home. We got the call two days before I was to leave. Lexie was
gone. The doctors had on explanation. She just slipped away, they
said. Maybe delayed shock syndrome, the said. We’re looking into

65


Jim Cash Fiction — second place

 

it they said. My aunt was a wreck. I was numb.

Later that night I remembered a movie I had seen. In it a young
Native American was fatally wounded. As he died the Spirit Horse
came out of the sky to carry him away. I hoped that whatever Great
Spirit is in charge knew Lexie like I did and sent that Spirit Horse
to get her.

Three days later I got her postcard. There was no message and
no return address but I knew it was from Lexie. On the front was
a beautiful chestnut horse captured in glorious fluid motion. I
imagined it running just for the sheer joy of it. For the freedom. It
was all the explanation I needed.

66


Jim Casi Fiction -- third place

Laid-off, Laid-back, Laid

Timothy Lane

 

When I made the mistake of telling my father that I thought he was
about as narrow-minded as white trash, he would ’ve killed me if my
mother hadn’t been there. I can’t remember what we were eating,
but it was more than likely a dried-out chicken, a few dried potatoes,
a can of com. I hadn’t really spoken to him in a day or two, but when
the words dropped to my plate like a mouthful of charcoal, surpris-
ing the both of us, he covered the distance between the ends of the
table before I was barely able to knock my chair backwards.

”Go ahead, hit me!” I yelled.

My mother’s work-worn hand restrained him, her other hand
fluttering at her bony chest like a fragile, broken-winged pigeon
while I braced myself for the blow that would end my life, but it
didn’t happen. The blunt finger that my mother knew so well met
the tip of my nose.

"You apologize and take that back, or you take everything you
got and get out of this house.”

The room seemed distant. I backed through the screen door,
slammed it, stormed across the lawn, my sisters gasping, returning
from the depths of my father’s anger, their eyes the size of golfballs.

Later, the youngest would tell me how he lowered himself to his
seat at the head of the table, leaning on sunburnt elbows, toyed with
his food for a minute, turned, said, ”I shoulda hit ’im.”

He gazed out the front windows, mechanically cleaning my
sister’s drumstick which she had timidly set on his plate.

”I think I’ll kick his ass,” he said, as if the thought had just
occurred to him.

He jumped up, rattling his silverware, grabbed his keys, strode
down the driveway like he was late for a ball game. He loves to
remind me of this episode. While we’re sitting around watching a
game, or driving up to the store for cigarettes, he says, "Remember
that time when Ialmost whupped ya, and ya tried to run away from
home?”

I was sixteen when this happened. The truth of the matter is that
I marched around the block, returned to the house and packed a
suitcase while my little sister sat on the edge of my bed and sucked
her thumb. I threw the suitcase into my closet and came downstairs
and apologized as soon as he walked through the door. But I

67


J im Casi Fiction —- third place

 

continued to see Bonita.

Now that I’m older, I’m amazed that this incident at the dinner
table didn’t damage our relationship. Since then I have fought with
several friends and never spoken to them again. I broke up with
Bonita just before we graduated from high school.

One night while we were waiting for her little brother to go to
bed, she kissed my hand and put it between her thighs. The flashers
of a cruiser out in the parking lot of the complex flashed across the
walls of her apartment. I was paralyzed. We were watching TV.
Someone was bouncing a ball above us. I reached over and turned
out the light. When her brother finally fell asleep, I carried him to
his bed, and then I returned to Bonita without a word and dry-
humped her on the couch until I came because I was afraid to go any
further. We turned the lights back on and held each other for
awhile, and then we played cards. We could hear somebody’s
stereo, but I couldn’t catch the lyrics. I was incredibly dissatisfied
with coming in my shorts, which was more complicated and messy
than the bathroom routine, but I felt light and happy. The hand
between her thighs was undoubtedly a promise.

My family was experiencing rough times during that summer
when Bonita and I eventually got around to fooling in each other’s
shorts. My father had been unemployed for weeks.

”How many lawns ya cuttin’?” he asked as I slurped a bowl of
cereal for breakfast.

"Three,” I replied. ”Four countin’ ours.”

He nodded.

I could hear the washing machine churning in the laundry
room. The kitchen floor was drying. Someone’s lawnmower
droned like a passing airplane. He lit a cigarette, stared out the back
window. Before the paper arrived and the evening new began, he
would vacuum the car, scrub toilets, trim the bushes. At dinner
he’d bitch about how he did all the work around this place.

”I’m thinking about painting the house,” He said. This was an
old one. He thought about painting the house whenever he was
laid-off.

68


Jim Casf Fiction -- third place

 

Outside the kitchen door, my sisters were filling up their
Flintstone’s swimming pool. He hollered at them for wasting
water.

When I was five, he went out to Wyoming for six months. I
made a scrapbook of the postcards. I helped him load his buddy’s
Suburban, stood on the porch with my mother and watched them
drive away.

”How ya feeling?” she asked.

”Fine,” I said.

We were into the house. She sat down on the stairs beside my
sister and began to braid her hair. I came over and put my head in
her lap and bawled for what seemed like an hour but was really
about five or six minutes.

She rubbed my back.

”I know,” she said. ”I know, I know —-”

Bonita and I drove over to Pierce Golf Course one night and
parked behind the clubhouse.

”I’m sixteen,” she had said on the phone. ”This is a big step.”
We’d been dating for six months.

We kissed for a bit, and then I slipped my hand under her
blouse. I grappled with her bra for awhile, and then I finally asked
her if she would unhook it herself. we were right below the
expressway. The swipe of passing cars and trucks was soothing. I
was filled with electricity of the tall weeds which were alive with
insects. The parking lot glittered with broken glass. She gasped as
I began to unzip her cut-offs.

"I can’t," she said.

”What’s up?” I whispered feverishly. My forehead was
beaded with perspiration.

"I don’ wanna do it in a car, you know —”

She hesitated.

"I feel kinda cheap.”

This was fair, I thought, cradling her head against my slick
shoulder. I could vaguely remember thinking before we had
parked that I didn’t really want to do it in a car, myself, but
apparently the thought had been lost during the struggle with the

69


Jim Casf Fiction -— third place

 

impenetrable lock on her silky brassiere. She was a wonderful girl.
We kissed awhile longer, and then we went to Angelo’s for shakes.

When I got home, I found my mother ironing underwear at two
in the morning, which meant that something was wrong.

”What’s goin’ on?" I asked.

”Your father’s thinking about leaving,” she said. I hugged her.

I went into the bathroom and washed my hands and face, and
then I brushed my teeth. I needed a shower, but I was tired.

“I thought for sure the house was gonna get painted,” I said.

She smiled. She was wearing a flimsy, wilted negligee. When-
ever I think of my mother, the most beautiful woman that I have
ever known in my life, I think of dish rags. She works so hard. She
doesn’t have many dresses.

”Where’s he goin’? I asked.

She shrugged. ”A couple of guys are talking about a nuclear
power plant out in New Hampshire.” He’d worked on those
before. There was always the risk of contamination, but the pay
was good. I kissed her forehead and left her in the laundry room.
I was thinking of Bonita. Normally, on hot nights, when distrac-
tions and philosophical conversations interrupted our petting,
while trains and sirens inserted themselves through the drone of
my fan, I had to get up and relieve myself in the bathroom before
I could get any sleep. But Bonita had ta ken care of that on the couch
in the darkness of her apartment without even unzipping her cut-
offs. She was a wonderful girl.

The incident which occurred several weeks before my father
left for New Hampshire for two years was a funny sort of revela-
tion. I was coming out of a pizza place in a strip mall on the south
side of the city with some friends when one of them grabbed my
baseball cap and sprinted across the parking lot. We’d been
celebrating the end of an 0 and 9 baseball season.

As I chased my friend around the cars, he suddenly slowed,
held my cap back, cut between a van and a truck and vanished.

Someone was shouting. I turned around to discover that I was
being chased by men in sport jackets and ties. The lead pursuer

7O


Jim Casl Fiction —~ third place

 

never sopped, as if the state championship depended upon this
tackle. He plowed into me like a linebacker on an adrenaline rage,
lifting me off my feet, pinning my back to the asphalt. They were
salesmen from the furniture store.

”You sonofabitch,” he yelled as he climbed on top of my chest,
pinning my arms with his knees.

They thought that they had finally caught one of the punks who
had been smashing headlights and vandalizing their cars over the
summer.

When the police arrived, the driver, a hefty woman with broad
forehead, perfect teeth, and what looked like a flake from a glazed
donut stuck to the corner of her mouth, gave me a form, told me to
stay out of trouble.

I glanced up at the stars, watched the passing traffic. A light
breeze ruffled my hair. There was gravel in my elbow.

”Bitch,” I mumbled. I could see my assailants behind the large
panes of glass of the furniture store.

The pretty boys met us at the door, but my father brushed them
aside with a compact forearm. He headed for the counter. The
manager tried to head us off, his face twisted with a panicky
expression, but my father strode forward. It was impossible to
impede his progress.

"I'd like to see you step outside,” he said.

The man hiding behind the cash register looked to the other
men. The other men froze.

”Boy, how old are you?" he asked.-

"Twenty-three.”

”You got some goddam nerve beating up a teenager. I’d like to
see you step outside. Hell, you’re bigger than me, buddy! C’mon,
let’s settle this shit."

N 0 one budged. My father was in his face, and his finger never
looked more menacing. '

”NOBODY FUCKS WITH MY BOY! he roared.

The showroom echoed.

”We’re pressing charges, ya goddam coward, and if the cops
don’t do anything, you can bet your ass that I’ll be back.”

He tapped me on the back of the head as we passed through the

71


Jim Casf Fiction —— third place

 

glass doors, saying. ”What the hell ya doin’ on this sorry-ass side
of town -——”

My friends fell in behind us as I struggled to compose and
contain my emotions. I wanted to climb on his back. I wanted the
guys to pile on top of us. I wanted to carry him on our shoulders.
I wanted to call him Mike, or old man, because some of my friends
were like that, but I realized that it wasn’t right, that it was
disrespectful. And for a long time this experience became the
happiest moment of my life. That is until I got laid, which is the
reason that I eventually broke up with Bonita, but that was a long
time after my father had left.

72


Richard Benvenuto Poetry

goldfisch

 

Laura L. Klynstra

I’ve decided I’ve had enough

with my fingernails; I’m going to
grow green leaves there instead,

sit in the sun and live off the light
making bright the orange glow

of my goldfish hair, swaying

with the blue ribbons and strings

of white lights entwined. I will

suck water from the ground through
my feet to feed my wide body—

ivory with chains of gold bark running
through. I will lift my limbs to

run my fingers through my hair

and my green leaves will turn to gold,
and when I clip my fingernails

the gold will rain to the ground

like autumn leaves, brightly
reflecting the lights in my hair.

73


Richard Benvenuto Poetry

The Gardener

 

Laura L. Klynstra
for [an Kesel

She told me she wore black because she was getting old,

with a fake smirk of bitter-anger, without even a little regret
or wistfulness; it wasn’t even worth it for me to tell her

that she didn’t know what she was talking about. Age for her
is beauty 8: it’s wrapped itself around her

softly, not quite touching her, like a cloud repelled

to the perfect point where like two magnets,

they waver off from each other.

I think that’s what puts red poppies in her

cheeks & makes daffodils grow in her

living room in winter. & she did always pick up a sort of look
like someone flipping through an album

of wonderful old photographs of gardens

from old houses, when she was done with a sarcastic remark.
& I didn’t know what to say to convince her of the garden
she is living in now, but I was even more sure of it

when we talked about a story by Margaret Atwood,

and how everything she told me in the story

happened to both of us,

8: the way that I told her that I stopped

believing that all things were good

sometime soon after all of those stories that Atwood told

of cruel girls in elementary school ended for me.

I felt sure then that we could both look at that

with no difference in distance and pick the dandelions like they
were daffodils —-— believing with no naiveté.

I’ve always been quite sure that she was a lot like a flower
with wistful petals like clean sheets

blowing in the wind on the clothesline,

that she grew gardens all around her 8:

made flowers bloom in the cheeks of everyone she met

that she could look through her life like a cartoon flip book
where the characters move & it would look more

like a million Monets flashing by in perfect order,

some at night and some at morning.

I knew that she was born to have dirt under her nails,

74


Richard Benvenuto Poetry

 

& that she’d really worn black because

she secretly knew that she was like a poppy
with red petals of age not quite touching her
making her the most beautiful flower

in all of the gardens she had ever grown.

75


Richard Benvcnuto Poetry

Night Cafe’, the Book Store,
8 the Bad Ass Poet

 

Laura Klynstra

The café attached to the book store

had stools with green coverings and

we went there after my German class

some nights. We caught the book store

just before it closed at 10:00 PM always filling
our credit cards with debt for all of the

little worlds we’d find in the books.

My friend had a rule, that she never had

to feel guilty about spending money

on Charles Bukowski; so if she found

a volume of his fiction or poetry, she always

bought it, no matter how many times she

had promised herself that she’d stop charging things.

And then we’d go into the café next door

and scrounge for whatever change we

could find to buy a caramel cappuccino;

we always got one each, even though

she hated coffee. The froth and whipped cream were rich
and nothing like night coffee

with little yellow-brown lines stretching across the
whiteness. We’d take the white cups to our green stools
and sit looking at night out into the parking lot.

I think we talked about Charles Bukowski every night,
especially the night we went after her trip to

Rochester, where she met (as she described it)

one of the greatest horn players living. For her horn
playing it was like meeting Charles Bukowski would

be to her writing. She told me (for the fourth time) that
she met Bukowski in a dream and

couldn’t think of what to say to him

and so she just told him that he was a bad ass

and he thanked her saying that was

the nicest thing he’d been told all day.

76


Richard Benvenuto Poetry

 

She’d laugh then saying over, ”I told him he was a bad ass"
as if she couldn’t believe she’d said it.
And there would be a sugary taste on my lips, rich and brown.

Then we’d go out into the white light reflecting from the lamps
to the snow, to climb into my car

with an armful of books each and go

home. She called me up just hours ago and I didn’t know that
he died last week, and I think of the sweet taste, the piles of
books, and the difference in her voice as I stared out at the
parking lot, listening to her dream, and

the voice, as I closed my eyes, listening to the phone.

77


Glendon Swarthout Fiction ~fiTst place

A Gift

Katherine Alamo
for my Dad — Fred Kobler

 

Pete rinsed the lettuce leaves. Salads were great, but a pain to
make. He was running late, and Mom was due home any minute.
The leaves dripped dry as he flew to set the table.

He heard the car pull up the gravel path that served as drive-
way. “Damn,” erupted, and a guilt look followed. Mom didn’t like
him cussing.

She didn’t seem to like much of anything. He’d seen pictures of
her smiling, but couldn’t remember her ever doing it.

The trailer door opened and Mom entered. Nodding in Pete’s
direction, she scanned the day’s mail. Without speaking, she
retreated to her bedroom, eyes never leaving the junk mail in her
hand.

“Mom! Dinner’s ready. It’s already 5:30 — you don’t wanna be
late, ” Pete dreaded saying that. He knew how tired she was. But he
also knew working two jobs wasn’t an option, it was survival.
Angie’s medical bills would take years to pay off.

Eating dinner in the silence of past dreams, the food tasted of
paste.

Changing from one waitress uniform to another before leaving,
Mom spoke a total of two sentences to Pete in her time in the trailer:
”Did anyone call?” and ”I’ll be late, please make sure I don’t
oversleep tomorrow.”

While cleaning up, Pete wondered if Mom knew it was Christ-
mas Eve. He was used to her avoiding Christmas, but expected her
to at least mention it. Shrugging with feigned indifference, he went
out. He knew Mom didn’t like him out at night, but his love of
walking through the park outweighed the possibility of getting
caught

There was a real neighborhood on the other side, and all the
Christmas decorations were out. He walked slowly, looked at the
sparkling lights, and listened to the Christmas bells coming from the
church at the end of the block. He loved Christmas. It didn’t matter
they hadn’t celebrated one in four years.

His memories danced — Angie’s last Christmas was neat. Dad
was still around and they had the house. Angie was strong enough
to be up, and they sang carols around the tree. It was glorious.

78


Glendon Swarthout Fiction -— first place

 

Nobody thought about sickness. Nobody thought about money.
Nobody thought about tomorrow. Pete couldn’t remember the
gifts he’d gotten, but he never forgot that day.

Angie was gone before Easter. Dad left right after.

By the time school started, Mom sold the house. Things never
got right again.

He only saw Mom cry once. It was Angie’s funeral. She kept
talking about, ”My little Angel. Oh God, why my little Angel." Pete
thought her tears would fill the hole they dug. But she never cried
again. Through everything that followed, she never cried.

Pete spent most days, and nights, alone. He attempted to fill his
boredom. He failed.

In September, one day when he finished washing the dishes, he
began playing with a knife. Visions of camping trips and fishing
kept Dad near, while the knife was maneuvered in his hands.

He looked up, a small piece of wood had broken off a cabinet
shelf. Without thinking, Pete had wood in one hand and knife in the
other. An hour, he had a perfectly carved little fish.

Afraid Mom would be angry for putzing around and not doing
homework, he never showed her. He took it to school, liking the
feel of it in his hands. Mrs. Grayson, his science teacher, saw it. She
fussed over it so much Pete was uncomfortable until she offered to
supply him with wood to carve characters for her. Claimed she
could sell them at the church bazaar.

Before the semester was over, Pete was carving three to four
animals a month, and Mrs. Grayson paid him ten bucks a piece. He
was rich. The richest twelve-year old alive.

He knew he couldn’t tell Mom. First she’d be angry he was
spending time sitting alone. She wanted him to be out finding
friends — forgetting the trailer park was filled with the grandpar-
ents of other kids. Then she’d be angry cause he kept it a secret.

He figured out what to do. Every time he got money from Mrs.
Grayson he hid it. First he put a ten-dollar bill in Mom’s wallet, then
he put one in the glove compartment. After that, he got creative. He
found hiding places in her jean’s pocket and her uniform apron.
Once, while grocery shopping, he put one in the child seat of the
basket. How did he know she’d turn it in to the manager as lost and
found?

But, every other time she found the money, she said, ”We have

79


Glendon Swanhout Fiction —first place

 

a little angel looking out for us.” Once she even took him to the
movies with the money. It felt good.

Pete stopped in front of his favorite house. It had a red brick
front and a perfect tree filled the enormous bay window. The tree
stand rotated, and every side of the tree was decorated. Each
ornament was hand made, wood carved and painted. The lights
flickered sporadically, in different colors, giving him pleasure with
every color shade. Strings of popcorn, like the ones he and Angie
made, floated between the branches.

Sighing, Pete turned for home. He knew Mom would be there
in a few hours and still had work to do.

Their trailer was the smallest and poorest lit. Up the row and in
the back it didn’t look like the holidays. It looked like it did every
day. Even the few cards old friends sent didn’t help, Mom just
threw them away.

He hadn’t received a Christmas present since Angie. He never
bought Mom one.

This year, he decided, would be different. Going inside, he
picked up the knife. The gift only needed finishing touches, and
he’d deliberately saved them for tonight. He turned the TV on and
found a station showing ”It’s a Wonderful Life.”

With Jimmy Stewart in the background, hot chocolate on the
table, and his wonderful tools in hand, he was happy. Blind, for his
eyes were viewing a distant picture, his fingers handled the wood
with grace. The hours flew by.

At midnight, he wrapped his gift in paper towels, and made a
bow from an old shoe lace.

Hearing the gravel rumble, he scurried to bed.

*fi-fl-fi-fl-

Marci Kendall entered her trailer after working fifteen hours. It
was worth it, she mused. People were generous tippers on Christ-
mas Eve. They felt sorry for the poor idiots that had to work. She
smelled coffee and knew Pete had brewed some decaf for her. He
always did.

A cup poured by the light from the fridge kept her fingers warm
while she kicked off her white work shoes and sat. Finally, she
noticed the package.

80


Glendon Swart hout Fiction —- first place

 

Memories assaulted her. She flashed to Angie’s last Christmas.
Pete was only eight, but he wrapped everyone’s gift himself. He
was so proud. No one told him to use tape instead of glue -— but it
didn’t matter. Angie said he was the perfect brother, the best.

She picked up the gift, unwrapped it with care, and gasped.
Her head fell into her hands as her shoulders wracked with sobs.

3PSI-3I-3I'3t-

Pete stood in the doorway of his room and watched his mother
cry. He waited in silence until she finished. Then he watched her
take her coat from the hook and leave.

Christmas morning he awoke with puffy eyes. He knew he had
to get breakfast going or Mom would be late. Stumbling, he found
the door.

Scuffing his way to the kitchen, he smelled bacon. His eyes
opened wide —— Mom was up. She looked tall in her red flannel
robe.

She whispered, ”Good morning, Pete. Decided it was my turn
to make breakfast. ”

Pete remained shocked still. What was Mom doing? She’d be
late for work.

But she never looked prettier. He watched her quivering smile
spread as she crossed the room to envelop him.

"Things are gonna be different, Pete. I promise. ”

Just able to rest his chin on Mom’s shoulder, he murmured,
”Merry Christmas, Mama,” as his eyes fell to the kitchen table.

There, between the plates and mugs, rested a Christmas tree no
more than two feet high. Crumpled around the bottom, making a
miniature skirt, was a red paper napkin from the restaurant. But,
at the top, her gentle, peaceful smile lighting the room, was the
carved wooden angel.

81


Glendon Swanhout Fiction — third place

Bars

 

Torn Bissell

And I’m forever talking to the girl near the playground, that part
always stays the same, is always there to greet me when I close my

eyes, no matter how strongly I’ve convinced myself I’ve forgotten.
' Her name was Alison, is Alison, and in my dream she’s dressed
as she was the day I talked to her: an unwrapped red scarf the same
color as her hair hanging over her shoulders; a white turtleneck
sweater pulled up snugly to her sharp chin, sprinkled with pink
girlish pimples; a gold chain outside her shirt dull in the light of the
day — a sun-faint glow behind gray clouds; the wind forever
tugging at the curly red hair around her ears, that lovely hair
spilling down onto her young, sparrow-like breasts; and the same
tweed coat that comes down to her knees, her legs covered by faded
blue jeans, a stringy hole on her thigh.

And in my dream I always ask her the same question:

”What’s your name?”

”Alison,” she always tells me, always shyly looking down as
she says it, always gently dragging her Keds in the playground dirt.
She knows I’m flirting with her. I know it, too. I should have been
watching him. I always think, even in my dream, I should be
watching him.

And then I hear my son call to me, "Daddy! Daddy!” I turn
half-heartedly and wave, kind of a limp salute, and watch my son
standing on the monkey bars, his hands out, his tiny chubby fingers
splayed open —— He should have his mittens on, I think —— his feet
awkwardly balancing on the dirty gray monkey bars. ”I’m Spider-
man, Daddy! Look at me! I’m Spider-Man!”

Alison says to me, "Maybe you should go over there.” She flips
her head at my son, pulls the hair away from her forehead. ”He
might fall.”

"He’s fine,” I always say.

She reflects on that, looks at him. I look at her, at the child’s
mitten-covered hand she’s holding. ”He’s cute,” she says of my son
and smirks.

I smile. "He gets that from his mother,” I say, to let her know,
to remind me, of my wife, how much I loved her, love her, and how
this is just playing, how I don’t mean anything by talking to her.
Alison isn't any more than sixteen, and I’m twenty-nine, I’ll always

82


Glendon Swarthout Fiction —- third place

 

be twenty-nine in my dream, just like she’s always sixteen, and the
car keys chattering in her pocket tell me, remind me, of that.

And I look one last time at my son on the monkey bars, and that
last, terrible step he takes, how his foot bends slightly on the bars.

’I- 1* il-

Last night, I was looking at my wife lying next to me. We were in
bed, facing each other, listening to the wet car tires on the wet streets
outside, the headlights flashing into our bedroom, making shad-
ows go long on the walls.

"He’s not getting better,” she said. Her hand found mine, and
I squeezed it. .

"I know,” I said. ”They told us that.” I let go of her hand.

She sniffled. ”I know. Ijust always hoped."

”I know,” I echoed, touched my palm to her hair. She had just
gotten her hair cut short that day, almost to her scalp, and her hair
felt clean, feathery. The headlights came into the room and I could
see her face for a moment, the pink bags her eyes, her puffy, cracked
lips and her red nose, and I thought of how beautiful she is, not then,
but that the promise of a task in the morning—touching lipstick to
her mouth, swabbing blue eye shadow along her lid, rinsing her
face with the expensive yellow soap she buys—would make her
beautiful again.

We heard our son talking from his room about how thirsty he
was, how he wanted a drink of water. And we looked at each other,
knowing he can never get the water for himself, how we’ll always
have to get it for him, and how we’ll then have to help him to the
bathroom, flip on the impossibly bright white light, aim his tiny
fleshy penis toward the baby blue water in the toilet bowl below
him, and then send the clear urine he’ll never feel leave him
spiraling down, mixed together with the clean blue water, out of
our sight and into the pipes. And after I push down on the shiny
lever he always looks at my wife and me—we always do this
together, we make sure we do this together— he smiles sweetly.
while my wife gently buttons his pajamas and helps him back into
his wheelchair, and through the hole where his front teeth used to
be I watch his tiny and shiny-wet tongue move as he says, ”All gone,
Mommy. All gone, Daddy.”

83


Glendon Swarthout Fiction -- third place

 

The day we were driving to get his wheelchair my son asked me
what my favorite movie was.

I smiled at him in the rear view mirror, at my wife sitting next
to him. The steel brace around his neck would come off next week,
the doctor told us. His little head was caged, immobile. ”Why do
you ask that?” I said, smiling at him.

”I watched E. T. at the hospital," he said, and my wife moved his
hands into his lap, stroked his wispy blond hair, kissed his fore-
head. His knees bounced with childish glee as we rolled over the
bumps in the road. His younger brother, Timmy, my other son,
sleepily yawned in the front seat, next to me.

”Did you like it?” I asked, hitting my blinker to turn on the
street where the doctor told us to go.

”I liked it when they flew,” he said happily, looking straight
ahead at the buildings lining the street.

”Look,” Timmy said, pointing out the window, pressing his
face and hands against the glass. "Look at the blind man and his
dog! ” He turned to me and smiled, the ghostly imprint of his hands
and breath lingering on the window. There was a blind man
outside of a movie theater, a golden retriever leading him, the
man’s cane tucked under his arm. My wife looked and nodded, yes,
yes, there he is, and I looked at my son in the back seat, at his brave
smile, how his eyes went slick with tears, knowing he couldn’t turn
his head and see the blind man, how he was stuck at seeing only the
things in front of him.

And I closed my eyes at the realization that the things in front
of me were now all I could see, too.

The man at the store asked us if there was any particular style of
wheelchair we wanted, my son wanted. My son said he wanted one
that could fly, and my wife pretended to read a pamphlet in the
corner of the store while she closed her eyes and bit down on her lip.

And I remember the day in the hospital, the doctor’s basset hound
face as he put his hand on my shoulder with businessman-like
gravity.

”You should sit down,” he told me, and I did, next to a little girl
in a frilly pink party dress holding an ice pack to her forehead with
one hand, and a beat-up teddy bear in the other. She was staring at

84


Glendon Swartliout Fiction —— third place

 

the ceiling, singing something to herself.

”Is he okay?” I asked. ”Is he all right?”

The doctor frowned, sighed heavily. He padded his pocket for
something and looked around.

”What?” I asked. "What is it?”

He squinted and sort of half-smiled. ”Your wife hasn’t gotten
here yet, has she?"

”No,” I said, shaking my head, rubbing my knees anxiously. I’d
called her when I got to the hospital. There was a special dinner
planned for that night when we got back from the playground, a
dinner for Timmy because of his report card—five A’s and a B-
minus in math. When I said her name over the telephone she
quickly told me the cake was almost frosted, that Timmy was
frosting it himself—was she looking proudly at Timmy when she
said that, a bowl of frosting tucked under her arm, the phone
pinched between her cheek and shoulder? Then I told her what
happened, and she said My God, my God, she’d be right there.

Seconds after the doctor had asked about my wife, she turned
the corner of the bright hospital hallway, holding Timmy’s small
hand, Timmy loping behind her trying to keep up, his cowlicked
head seaming the white ceiling and hallway, cautiously watching
the doctors and nurses rushing by.

She let go of Timmy’s hand and ran to me, her jacket billowing
behind her like a cape, her then-long hair flowing and shiny under
the light. We met half-way and embraced, leaving the doctor
behind me still trying to find the words, and Timmy behind her, his
hands jammed defiantly into his pockets, kicking at things only he
could see on the clean hospital floor.

Timmy and I played Frisbee on the hospital lawn the next day,
waiting for some test results, while my wife was inside reading a
paperback. There was nothing else we could do.

I flipped the neon orange disc to him, and he clumsily lunged
after it. I watched how his young legs moved in his wrinkled, too-
big Levi’s, how he’d position himself beneath the spinning Frisbee,
gently step back and forth, try to get a read on it, his shaky hands
while he fumbled and tried to catch it, and how he fell on his bottom
and smiled at me, used his strong, tiny legs to stand again, and
knock the yellowed, dusty, fragile fall grass from his jeans.

85


Glendon Swanhout Fiction — third place

 

He laughed and flipped his hand, sent the gently spinning disc
back to me, so he could try to catch it again.

The ambulance bounced up the curb, killed its siren. I was holding
my son’s hand, telling him he’d be all right. I’d covered his legs with
my jacket; he was shivering, his teeth were chattering.

Alison stood above me, waving the paramedics over. Children
removed their hands from their ears now that the siren was silent,
and looked on with quiet awe at the important-looking men as they
climbed from the ambulance and steered the stretcher toward us.
The stiff grass blew tautly in the chilly breeze.

The red and blue lights were sterile in the day time, somber, not
at all like they are at night, when they suddenly flash in your eyes
and frighten you, make you wary. The red and blue lights bounced
and reflected off the paint of the white rocket slide that towered next
to the monkey bars. Children formed a circle around us now, and
my son started to cry. “Daddy?” he said to the sky.

I brought his hand to my mouth and kissed it. ”It’s okay,” I
said. ”We’re just going for a little ride, that’s all. I’m here. I love you.
I’m here.”

I squeezed his hand, but felt no pressure back—just the cold,
dry skin of my son’s white hand.

I slipped his red, green-striped mitten over his hand and looked
up at the monkey bars. Too high, I thought. They’re much too high
for kids to play on.

And against the gray sky that day,.the bars were silhouetted
black, and I looked up at them, let the paramedics hover over my son
and thought of how much the bars resembled a skeleton, a cage,
against the sky.

And I dream:

My son’s foot bends on the bars, and he falls, the mittens tied to
his jacket sleeve by yarn twirl in the air. His foot catches on the metal
bars, and he hangs there for a moment, his flailing arms pointed at
the cold, hard autumn ground below him, waiting to break his fall.

I start to run to him. ‘

I roughly push a little girl jumping rope out of my way, leap
over the seesaw. My son says my name, Daddy, and I yell some-

86


Glendon Swanhout Fiction — third place

 

thing back that I can’t make out, some panicky grunt that doesn’t
mean anything.

His foot comes untangled and he falls head-first, seems to look
at the ground peacefully, he seems to know what awaits him: not
the cold, hard grass, but the soft rubber of a trampoline, the
cushiony fluff of a pillow, the bouncy mattress of his bed with
Spider-Man sheets, the strong arms of his father.

And I jump at him, even though I know I’m too far to reach him,
there’s no way Ican get there —— yet I leap with all the strength my
legs can muster. I feel the tendons in my legs pinch tightly, the
grainy dirt in my mouth as I hit the ground.

I reach out my arms to catch him.

87


 


What to Keep

Ken Harvey

 

ONE HOT NTGHT in June, 1969, my mother threw a brand new
Smith Corona typewriter out our dining room window. It landed
in the shrubs two floors down, right by Mr. and Mrs. Pokrovsky’s
bedroom. Mr. and Mrs. Pokrovsky used to live in Moscow and had
somehow escaped to find a better place to live. They were doing
well in the United States. They opened a fast food restaurant on
Boston Street where they sold soft-serve ice cream, fooblong hot—
dogs and fried seafood in white cardboard boxes. We used to go
there sometimes — my mother, my father and I — especially when
my mother was going through one of her blue periods, or when the
pills she took to keep her out of the psychiatric hospital left her too
tired to cook.

”Donna?” Mrs. Pokrovsky called up to me that night. I could
see her in the light from the street that spilled into the ya rd. She was
in her bathrobe and yellow plastic thongs. "Did you —-— um —— lose
something down here?” Mrs. Pokrovsky was learning English on
record albums, and spoke in a slow, overly careful way so as not to
offend anyone by using the wrong word.

”You mean the typewriter?” I said. ”Oh, that’s nothing. Thanks
for telling us.” I waved through the torn screen. ”Hello down there,
Mr. Pokrovsky.” Mr. Pokrovsky was standing in back of his wife.
He was a short, round man with a neatly trimmed mustache. He
whispered something to Mrs. Pokrovsky who was stooped over the
typewriter, picking out twigs from the keys. '

”Is your mother at home, Donna?” Mrs. Pokrovsky asked.

My mother was at the kitchen table taking her pills. She had
lined them up in front of her on a napkin, and was now drinking
from a plastic tumbler to wash them down. She looked up when she
heard Mrs. Pokrovsky call for her. I waved my hand at my mother
to get her to the window.

"Oh, we are so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Ayres," Mrs. Pokrovsky
said when she saw my mother.

Mr. Pokrovsky stepped forward. He shook his head and spoke
for the first time. ”We were watching Johnny Carson and a
typewriter flew by our window. We are not used to this.”

”No,” said Mrs. Pokrovsky. ”But these things happen.”

”You see, everything is fine," I said. ”Good night, now."

89


 

”Good night,” Mrs. Pokrovsky said.

My mother didn’t answer. She leaned against the side of the
window and closed her eyes. A moth came through the hole in the
screen. It was a big, gray moth, the type you’d expect to find eating
old clothes in musty attics. It bounced off the light that hung over
the table, then swooped down and made quick little circles around
my mother’s head.

The typewriter was a gift to my mother from my father and me. We
gave it to her the night she was sworn in as the first Methodist
recording secretary of a Catholic women’s group called the Our
Lady of Fatima. After the ceremony I sat with my mother at the
dining room table. She wanted me to help her type the minutes of
the brief business meeting that followed her induction. She was
afraid the women in the group would have second thoughts about
appointing somebody who wasn’t Catholic and couldn’t spell to
such a high office, so I proofread everything she wrote. When my
mother got to typing the financial figures the loops of the nines and
sixes were blackened in with ink. I imagined those two numbers
were sperm blown up on the paper, the Wiggly little tails I’d seen in
the medical book now stiff and curved.

I took the sight of those numbers as a signal to start telling her
I was going to have the baby. I really didn’t have a choice since I was
showing now. My mother missed the earlier mornings when I
threw up in the bathroom and my face got a pasty look of sickness
to it, but my getting bigger was something she’d notice. Still, I knew
this wasn’t a good time for my mother. Lately I’d heard her crying
in bed at night and a few weeks earlier she was caught stealing
Uneta biscuits and clinged peaches from the A 8: P.

”Mom,” I said. Her bifocals were at the end of her nose.

“Yup,” my mother said. She kept her eyes over the top of the
typewriter. PatherMartino said a prayer for the good of starving children
everywhere.

Shit.

“Remember Roz’s cousin who came to visit a few months ago?”

My mother went on typing, but slower this time. It was moved
that we organize a canned goods drive for hungry children.

I started to have my doubts about telling. It was bad enough

90


 

that I was pregnant, but to top the whole thing off I had to tell her
that the father was a guy I hardly knew who left the day after we
made love for Quantico, Virginia so hecould learn how to fight in
Vietnam. I cried for days after he left, not because I missed him but
because I had a feeling I was pregnant and already missed the life
I had before we met.

”Roz’s cousin’s a nice guy, don’t you think?” I said.

”I guess.”

”Well, I thought he was a real nice guy, too.”

Nothing from Mom. Father Marina said there’s a contest now to see
how many canned goods each Fatima chapter can collect. The Boston
chapter has the record so far. Cans to date: 9,966.

Seeing those nines and sixes made my uterus jump.

”Well, we went out on a date, did I tell you that?”

My mother stopped typing. She touched the sides of her hair.
When she was younger, my mother was a redhead but in her
twenties and thirties she’d taken to dyeing her hair light blond. She
hadn’t dyed her hair since her last breakdown, though, and now
there were streaks of white around her temples.

"LikeI said, we went outon this date. I’m sorryIdidn’t tell you.
It was such a clear night we went to the Causeway.”

I pressed my hands on my abdomen. When I started stroking
myself my mother knew. Her lips quivered like she was mumbling
a language neither of us understood. Even though she wouldn’t
make it back to the mental hospital for a while, I think he both knew
she’d gone back over the top right then because she stared at me
with these awful pleading eyes, eyes with life I didn’t see very often
since the doctors put her on the drugs that gave her a distant,
glazed-over look.

My mother stood up. She slid her hands under the typewriter
and rested it on her hip. She walked the length of the table and
waited for a while at the window. Then, as if to tell me I’d ruined
all her hopes that she might recover from her breakdowns and
make something of herself with a group as respectable as the
Fatima ladies, she took a deep breath, swung the typewriter back
and threw it out the dining room window.

The first of my mother’s breakdowns lacked the drama of that night

91


 

in June. She did lots of crying and went for rides by herself, but it
was understandable her acting this way. My brother William had
drowned in Sluice Pond. We all went through hell over his death.
My father and I hardly slept a whole night for a year. But my mother
was even worse. I don’t think she snapped out of her grief even for
an hour or two.

My father did his best to help my mother through her mourn-
ing. He brought her flowers and Dean Martin records, but when she
opened them up she just sat with the gifts on her lap like they were
stuck to her legs. I got the feeling she couldn’t think hard enough
to figure out where to put them.

My father was a large man with smooth baby skin who had
lovers. He wanted to be a country western singer, but because we
lived in the Northeast where there was little demand for CW music,
he ended up being a dental technician. This meant that instead of
playing the guitar for a living, he’d resigned himself to fixing
broken dentures. After William died, my mother needed most of
her time to herself, so my father picked me up from school and we’d
drive around Lynn and Swampscott dropping off his repairs to
dentists. He delivered the teeth in bags of clear plastic that he piled
up between us in the front seat.

"Angel, now you wait here, okay?” We were in front of Dr.
Lombara’s office, which was across the street from Lynn Beach.
Before he got out of the car, my father reached in the back seat for
a box of chocolates to give Dr. Lombara’s nurse. He was in love with
her about this time, and slipped her little presents whenever he
made a delivery. He left the car running with the radio on the only
country western station around, something we could pick up from
New Hampshire. He was in the doctor’s office for three or four
songs.

"Let’s go for a stroll, doll,” my father said when he came back.
He was alway calling me things like doll, honey, and angel, words
I think he picked up from his CW albums. Over the years I swear
he developed a twang. My father put his hand through the window
to take the keys out of the ignition, then walked around the Car to
open the door for me.

We walked down to a bench that looked over the waves. When
my father started to speak to me he had to yell over the water

92


 

crashing against the rocks below.

”You know, sweets, your mother’s a sick woman,” he said.

”What do you mean?” I asked. I wriggled on the bench.

”She’s sick, that’s all,” he said. For a moment everything on my
father’s face seemed to sag, his eyes drooping like William’s used
to. His hair was thinning at the top, but he still combed it all the
time. There were light pink streaks across his scalp from combing
so much.

”Your mother needs to leave us a bit,” he said. ”She’s been
crying too long.” He dropped his elbows on his knees and rubbed
his hands together between his legs.

"You don’t know what you’re talking about." I got up from the
bench and ran down the stone steps to the edge of the water. The
steps were crumbling from years of salty high tides, and rusty iron
pipes that once held the stairway together stuck out of the cement.
My father tripped on one of the pipes when he chased after me. I
stopped and walked to him. When he got up, he left smooth
markings in the wet sand, the shape of bowls.

”What are you telling me?” I asked. ”Are you telling me that
Ma is crazy? Is that what you’re saying? Are you going to send her
to Danvers?” Danvers was something I couldn’t bear. Everybody
knew if you were sick in Danvers you were nuts.

”Honey,” my father said. He reached for me and pulled me
close to him. He wrapped his long arms around me. I could hear
him crying. I turned to open myself up to the air.

”Doll,” my father said. He took out a red bandanna and dabbed
the sweat off his forehead. ”Doll, she’ll be back."

He took me by the hand and lead me back up the steps. His
hands were soft. He opened the car door for me. I rolled down the
window and sat next to the pile of teeth.

”Look at that, angel,” he said. "Take a look at Mrs. O’Malley’s
pearly whites.” He lifted a bag and juggled it in front of me. My
father liked to do strange things to get people laughing, but as usual
it didn’t work for me. My mind cut right away to a picture of a poor
Mrs. O’Malley missing her teeth, her lips with no support. It was
just like me to see the flip side of things, the parts nobody else
thought about. Whenever I pictured William drowning, I didn’t see
it from an outsider's point of view, looking off the boat at splashing

93


 

arms. I was right there in the pond, seeing things as William would,
my nose and ea rs filling with water. Sometimes, right before I went
to sleep, the picture would come to me and my mother would be
there, too, underwater with me. She’s reach for me, wanting to help.
But in my mind she’d always pull me deeper, and I’d have to take
her hands off my arms, then push her away.

By the middle of my pregnancy my mother was back in the
psychiatric hospital, and I tried hard to convince myself I wasn’t the
one who put her there. I blamed a girl named Missy, a psychology
student from the local community college my father had hired to
tutor me until I had the baby. Missy was tiny with frizzy blond hair
and a face that scrunched up like a baby’s or one of those troll dolls.
She wore peasant skirts and leather sandals and her earrings were
made of feathers or small colorful beads. I caught her crying once
when she found a small vericose vein in her left leg.

In hiring Missy I think my father thought he was giving me a
girl who could coach me in algebra and also be a sort of therapist.
Missy was training to be a social worker. After we went over
algebraic formulas Missy would lean back and ask me questions. ”I
knew a man,” she once said to me,” “who ate a whole bowl of oven
cleaner. You know — the kind that comes out of the can like fluffy
white foam? His wife said he thought it was Reddi Whip but we all
knew he was trying to kill himself. Tell me, Donna, how would you
kill yourself if you wanted to?“

I hated Missy and hardly said a word to her but she kept coming
to our house anyway. I got to sneaking into my mother’s pill drawer
and taking some of her tranquilizers before Missy and I had our
sessions. I’d taken the pills weeks before to get rid of my queasiness
but now they helped tone Missy down for me. The pills also helped
calm me. Some days the baby was something I could look forward
to but lately I’d been getting nervous about how hard it would be
to get a life away from home. Now all of a sudden it was up to me
to leave for the both of us.

The medication helped me sleep at night, too. Sometimes I got
down on the hardwood floor where it was cooler and rolled over
and over until I found a comfortable position. I listened to Mr. and
Mrs. Pokrovsky downstairs when they got back from the Russian

94


 

Take—Out, their fast food restaurant. After work Mr. and Mrs.
Pokrovsky would sit in their living room and listen to records that
helped you learn English the Modern Way. They repeated dialogs
with the records which were also designed to teach foreigners about
American culture. Elvis Presley plays the guitar very well, don’t you
think? Or: Norma Jean is dead because she took prescription drugs without
appropriate medical supervision. This is dangerous and un-American.

Next morning, still on the floor, I’d wake up with Mr. and Mrs.
Pokrovsky's voices floating in my head. My mother would find me
there and help me up. Most days my mother wouldn’t so much as
say hello to me, but sometimes her mood would swing the other
way and she’d take me shopping to buy some large, airy blouses so
I’d feel comfortable in the heat. Mrs. Pokrovsky stopped us at the
stairway when we got home one afternoon.

”Filene’s Basement,” Mrs. Pokrovsky said. She pointed to my
bag and nodded her head nervously. "Many bargains there.”

Mrs. Pokrovsky was buying a new wardrobe of pastel sun
dresses at Filene’s. Mr. and Mrs. Pokrovsky loved to shop. I used
to watch them come home from the grocery store on Thursday
nights, brown pa per bags stuffed with packaged food, so American.
Devil Dogs. Swanson TV dinners. Sugar Free Diet Pepsi. Lavender
toilet tissue you could buy eight rolls at a time.

”In Russia my life was for the dogs. Or was it for the birds? So
many animals in your sayings. Sometimes I do not understand for
beans. Yes, I think it is good here. Next week we will buy a new
pickup truck. A red one.”

My mother and I started up the stairs.

”Do you want tea?” Mrs. Pokrovsky asked.

”No, thank you,” my mother said.

l’Are you certain? I’ll make you iced tea.”

We said good—bye. Mrs. Pokrov sky opened her mouth, but then
sighed and looked up the stairs, shaking her head. She hurried
quickly into her apartment and slammed the door. At the top of the
stairs we heard a guitar strumming. My mother put her finger up
to her lips for me to be quiet. I followed her down the hall to my
mother and father’s bedroom. My mother turned the doorknob
slowly, then pushed open the door.

”Oh, my God,” she said.

95


 

My father and Missy were sitting on the bed naked except for
a cowboy hat Missy was wearing. Missy was between my father’s
legs, her back against his chest. My father’s guitar strap looped over
both their necks and covered one of Missy’s breasts. His arms were
around Missy so he could play. When my mother came in, Missy
leaned forward over the guitar, pulling my father with her. His chin
was tight against her shoulder.

”Now doll,” my father squeaked from not getting any air down
his throat. ”I was just showing Missy here how to strum.”

He wriggled his way out of the guitar strap. He took the
cowboy hat off Missy to cover himself. It really didn’t matter. My
father was such a large man you could hardly see the patch of hair
between his legs when he didn’t have his clothes on.

Missy wrapped the sheet around her and fell to her side in tears.
The bed shook, and a bag of teeth my father carelessly put on the bed
boa rd for delivery that afternoon came down on her. Missy pressed
her face into the pillow and howled.

“This is really it this time,” my mother screamed. She banged
her fists hard against the bedroom door. ”God dammit, dammit,
dammit! How could you, with Donna in her state?”

My mother never called me pregnant. I think she believed I had
this bad fever that might get worse and kill me in a month or else it
would break and everything would be okay. The idea there might
be a real baby to deal with hadn’t sunk in yet. Her thinking this way
was just fine by me.

Three days later, Mrs. Pokrovsky drove my mother and me to
the psych hospital. I tried to convince my mother that Missy was
just a pop tart who didn’t mean anything to Dad but she wouldn’t
hear it. She wouldn’t even let my father come with us to the
hospital. To make the ride nice Mrs. Pokrovsky brought boxes of
fried clams from the Russian Take Out.

”I hate the bellies," I said. ”They’re too soft and salty.” I said
this on purpose just to see how bad my mother really was. You
never criticized charity in front of her, especially if somebody
who’d given you something was right there with you. My mother
didn’t even turn around to give me one of her looks.

”I knew it,” Mrs. Pokrovsky said. ”I should have brought
scallops. I told Vladmir that scallops were better but he said just

96


 

think of the expression, why don’t you? No one is happy as a
scallop. Americans are happy as a clam. You want the ride to be
nice, you bring clams. Happy as a clam.”

”Or as a pig in shit,” I said.

My mother kept staring out the window.

”Now that one I have not heard,” Mrs. Pokrovsky said.

The nurse in the hospital showed my mother the common room
at the end of the hallway where the patients were watching TV and
playing Monopoly. A woman in a nightgown sat on the windowsill
holding lilies. She offered me a flower, but I told her I was allergic.
She walked across the room to my mother.

”No, Ma,” I said. ”I’ll get you flowers. Ma, don’t. You don’t
need hers.”

I was afraid that once she took something from a crazy lady it’d
be all over. There’d be no turning back. I tried to save her. Really,
I did. Iwas ready to grab her by the elbow and bring her to her room
but I was too late. My mother had already taken two lilies. She was
smelling one, and the other she was putting in her hair.

My water broke one morning while my mother was still in the
hospital. I was on my bed with my legs spread out, making these
pa-pa-pa-pa sounds to regulate my breathing. I’d been feeling
some pain but I didn’t want it to be anything serious so I decided
to make it a practice for when the baby really came. I took off my
clothes and sat naked on my bedroom floor up against the wall.
Push, Donna. Pa-pa-pa-pa. We’re just going to shave you now. Pa-pa-
pa-pa. You’re going to feel something cold while we try to widen the canal.
Pa-pa-pa-pa. Push.

All of a sudden I felt something trickle inside my legs like warm
pee. Then a gush of water came out of me and made a puddle on
the hardwood floor.

”Mrs. Pokrovsky? I think it’s time.” I was talking on the
telephone in the kitchen, fixing the collar on my mother’s shift I’d
put on. ”My father’s out making deliveries. Could you bring me,
please?” Actually, my father was out with Missy. They continued
seeing each other even after my mother ended up in the psych
hospital. Missy stopped tutoring me, though. She was working at
a small shop in Central Square that sold massage oils and incense.

97


 

She no longer shaved her legs and had changed her name to Wind.

”Of course we will bring you!” Mrs. Pokrovsky said. ”Won’t
we, Vladmir? We will open the store later. You wait right there and
I will help you down. Mr. Pokrovsky will make the pickup truck
nice and comfortable for your ride, okay?”

Mr. Pokrovsky put a mattress in the back of the pickup. He
lined the sides with pillows and put a bowl with water and face
cloths near the end. Mrs. Pokrovsky sat in the back with me. She
put wet face cloths on my forehead. She covered me with a wool
blanket to keep me warm in the November air.

Mr. Pokrovsky started the truck. I stared at the trees and clouds
going by me as we crossed the line out of Lynn. I promised my
mother I’d have the baby in Wakefield. Somebody in the Our Lady
of Fatima was a nurse at Lynn Hospital, and my mother thought I
might jeopardize her standing in the group if they found out. She
said it would be hard enough after her own leave of absence in the
psych hospital.

”Are you comfy, Donna?” Mrs. Pokrovsky asked. Comfy was a
word she’d recently learned in her English class.

”I really don’t feel like having the baby now," I said.

”Honey, honey," Mrs. Pokrovsky said. She held my hand tight.
”You just relax. Scream if you have to. It helps. Would you like
some music?” Mrs. Pokrovsky tapped the back window. ”Vladmir,
we need some music back here.”

Mr. Pokrovsky turned the radio on loud. The Beatles Were
singing ”Hey Jude.”

“We heard this in our American cultures class,” Mrs. Pokrovsky
said. "Didn’t we, Vladmir?"

I felt a contraction and yelled.

”Yes, that’s it,” Mrs. Pokrovsky said. "Scream.” She seemed to
be getting a little nervous herself because she took a wet face cloth
and wiped her own forehead. ”Scream to the music, Donna.
Scream to 'Hey Judy’ if you want." Mrs. Pokrovsky started singing
the na-na-na—na-na-na-na section of the song. She hit the back
window. ”Vladmir,” she yelled. ”Don’t go Route 128. It will make
her nervous, all that speed.”

The contraction pain let up and I loosened my grip on Mrs.
Pokrovsky’s hand. I looked at Mrs. Pokrovsky in her Salem

98


 

Willows sweatshirt. Her hair was stylish, tinted with henna. I
thought of the day she and Mr. Pokrovsky moved in. She was in a
heavy gray dress and wore a kerchief. She didn’t speak any English
then. I wanted her to be like that again, foreign enough so I could
imagine there were people outside Lynn who had nothing in
common with my mother or father or me.

"Speak Russian, you two,” I said. ”I like it when you guys
speak Russian. It makes me feel like I’m not all here.”

”What?” Mrs. Pokrovsky said. ”You are crazy, girl. You are
having a baby. You sound like your mother, going off somewhere
else.” She pointed to her head and made circles with her index
finger to show my mother was nuts. Then she realized what she
had done and put more face cloths on my head. ”I don’t want to
speak bad of your mother. But you need to be careful. The crazy
mind, it runs in families, Donna."

We made it to the hospital on time. I think Mrs. Pokrovsky was
disappointed because she wanted me to have the baby in her new
shiny red pickup truck. I named the baby ”Judy” with Mrs.
Pokrovsky in mind. Sometimes Mrs. Pokrovsky sang her to sleep
with ”Hey Judy.” Then she let loose with her na—na-na-na—’s until
Mr. Pokrovsky gave her a look to make her st0p.

When I was back home and feeling better I visited the Pokrovskys
at their restaurant. Mrs. Pokrovsky brought me some scallops and
sat with me in a booth by the wind ow. It was right after Thanksgiv-
ing and it was cold, but the sun beat down warm against the glass.
Mrs. Pokrovsky was holding Judy.

”Did you see our new sign?” Mrs. Pokrovsky asked. ”No more
Russian Take Out. Too many people come in here confused, asking
for blintzes. Now we are the Rush-In Take Out.” She wrote "Rush-
In” on a napkin with her free hand. She laughed, afraid I wouldn’t
get the pun. Judy cried. Mrs. Pokrovsky rocked her gently. ”You
beautiful, beautiful baby.”

”Mrs. Pokrovsky,” I said. ”What did you mean that day about
craziness running in families?”

Mrs. Pokrovsky looked at me. She reached across the table and
touched my hand. ”Mr. Pokrovsky and I— we talk about you,” she
said. ”We worry. Your mother has many problems. You take her

99


 

pills and we hear you cry sometimes at night. We don’t want you
to slip like your mother. It’s an easy thing to do.”

”How do I stop from slipping?”

“ Let me tell you something. It is hard for Mr. Pokrovsky and me
here. For months we talked about all the things we did not like,
things we wanted to keep out of our lives -—— the hurrying, the sweet
cereal, Carol Channing. We thought we made a big mistake coming
here. Our English teacher said we must take in the culture. But then
one day Vladmir said what did we leave for if we can’t pick and
choose how we want to be like Americans? We decide. It’s like that,
Donna. You pick and choose how you want to be like your mother.
You like that she sews, then sew. You like that she is nice to people,
then keep that part, you be nice, too.” Mrs. Pokrovsky squeezed my
hand hard and leaned into me. ”But don’t keep all of her, Donna.”

Later that day, I asked Mrs. Pokrovsky to bring Judy and me to
the psych hospital. I wanted to see what my mother would do when
she saw her granddaughter for the first time. I thought maybe the
love and shock of seeing her might get rid of some of the craziness
Mrs. Pokrovsky was talking about.

Mrs. Pokrovsky waited for me in her pickup. My mother was
at the indoor pool. One of her daily activities was to watch the
children swim. She gave them dry towels if they needed them.
Now and then she checked the temperature and chlorine level of the
water. Her doctor said this gave her confidence.

I sat in a plastic orange chair in front of the-long observation
window by the pool. Two lifeguards were giving swimming
lessons to children who were mentally retarded and blind. Some
kids were sitting of the side or the pool splashing their feet to feel the
spray. I realized that many of the kids weren’t only blind. Some
were deaf, too, and others had coordination trouble. Their arms and
legs moved in a jerky, exaggerated way. A blind and deaf girl leapt
out of the pool and started to run. The lifeguard went after her. He
stood in front of her and waved his arm up and down with a huge
sweep, as if directing an airplane on a runway, so she could pick up
his shadows and stop. He sat her down by the window.

My mother was at the other end of the pool near the diving
board. She wore powder blue shorts and a halter top instead of a
bathing suit. Her body was stiff and she hardly moved. When a

100


 

child screamed in the water, my mother closed her eyes. She didn’t
see Judy and me at first because so many children were in front of
the window where we sat. When at last there was an opening at the
window Iheld Judy above me for my mother to see. She smiled and
put the towels down on the diving board. Her arms were straight
at her side as she started towards us. She looked scared working her
way through the crowd of children. She didn’t let the kids touch her.
They reached out but she was quick and missed their open hands
just in time.

My mother stood at the window, the blind children behind her
now. When she looked at Judy she let her head drop back and
smiled. She brought her hands up towards the window. She didn’t
seem to understand the baby was too small to respond. She blew
kisses and tapped, then blew and tapped some more.

I wanted to love my mother very much that day, or at least
wanted to love parts of her. But I would need time to follow Mrs.
Pokrovsky’s advice because right then I didn’t know what I wanted
to keep from my mother. I only knew what I was scared to keep, so
when my mother started knocking at the window with her fists,
pounding, harder and harder then reaching out again as if she
expected me to pass Judy magically through the glass by the pool,
I steadied myself and gently pulled my baby away.

101


tamam underinger was

 

Jonathan Levant

the italian i loved 12 years ago

despite the german name and the

middle name We now forgotten

she moved like one of sophia loren’s breasts

i know the famous speak to each other
of their fame until they get used to it

i know my wife dyes her hair with

a paid dyer’s hand anthracite and scarlet
i’d fall fortresses of real hue

we’d be role rehersals for our infants
only a woman with 2 daughters never in love
is doing something drastically wrong

i’d tell her to read nietzsche to prepare
for freud; both men had silly ideas
about women but then all men do

she wouldn’t love me i wouldn’t love her
but i’d lay my lust in lumps at her feet
aphrodite! ambergris! girdle gist!

i’d hang her from a lamppost &: lick her feet
my wife would slam off the light & cut her down
but the children would lift us and rally to us
recognizing a child’s crusade renewed again

102


Fishing

Heather A Smith
for Michael Delp

 

Pushing through the tangled walls of the woods in summer,
I would hook my curveless child body

into the thick, vine-like branches of the trees,

curl into the pointed bark,

my feet and arms dangling heavy to the soil ground,
close my eyes, and begin to swing high into the air,
rippling the surface of matted leaves,

trying to reach the heated sun that sat /
piercing the sky like the eye of a distant fish.

Over and over I swung into the air,

over and over curving back into the earth,

arching alone, somehow only half

and incomplete, until the moon

suddenly pushed and rolled into the sky

like a flashy pearl, exhausting me,

and so I walk and I sit behind the glass window

of my bedroom, and I reach up toward the sun

that flashes, caught like a fish

in an ethereal netting of clouds,

become fascinated by the curve

of my finger, the hinge of my elbow,

by the arch into my shoulder

and the height of my arm cast into the air

where the sun bends in all directions,

and I feel the need to swing through the glass

and pierce the clouds,

to loop around the hot stream of the sun

and swim in the cold current of the sky.

103


The Prince of Kodiak

Mark Lewandowski

 

Ten days before he picked Charlie Connel up by the belt loop
and flannel collar and tossed him through the front window of the
Salty Dawg Saloon, Alfred was slinging halibut on case-up crew
and beginning to wonder if he was gay after all. He and Steven
Parker were in back of a semi-trailer with a basket full of one
hundred pounders and up, all gutted and frozen, and ready for
shipment to the Lower Forty-Eight. The fish had to be stacked in the
trailer like bricks, but front to tail so that they remained balanced,
until there was a sturdy enough wall to hold in the halibut that
Alfred and Steven heaved over and behind it. Alfred had just lifted
a hundred and fifty pounder from the basket when something
began to turn and twist in his gut.

At first, Alfred wondered if he was having a heart attack.
Steven had been going on about the miracles in the New Testament,
saying how Joseph Campbell was wrong when he assumed that the
Holy Virgin’s ascension into heaven was simply metaphor. Alfred,
an Aluet Native, had no idea of what he was talking about, so while
he lifted fish from the basket, tossed them over his shoulder and
behind the halibut wall, he ignored Steven by looking down the
long, dark tunnel of the trailer to where the rest of case-up crew was
framed in a square of yellow light, bagging the smaller halibut for
fresh shipment.

The pain hit Alfred when Anneke walked into the square of
yellow to talk to the forklift driver. Like all the Russian women
working at the plant, she wore a long, printed skirt, a white blouse
with puffed sleeves, and a bandanna to keep her hair pulled back
tight behind her ears. Alfred held his burning chest and examined
her white skin, her sharp cheek bones, and the eyes that looked too
big for her face. She was small and delicate, and the way her skirt
sashayed against her rubber boots when she walked made Alfred ’8
face burn and his whole body ache.

When Alfred believed that his mind couldn’t cope with what
was going on in front of him, or even inside of him, he tended to
resort to tossing his whole body into the situation, hoping that his
sheer physical size would do the talking for him. So he dropped the
fish he was holding and shuffled through the rest until he found the
biggest one. He lifted the whole two hundred pounds of it above his

104


 

head, his mind and straining muscles momentarily becoming one
and, with all his might, threw the fish into the back of the trailer. It
crashed into the wall and sent a clap of thunder, like tearing metal,
past him and Steven and into the plant. The rest of the case-up crew,
including Anneke, looked up curiously, then went back to stuffing
halibut into plastic bags.

”Take it easy there, big guy,” Steven said.

With his small black eyes, and from his six foot six height,
Alfred peered down at Steven, flexed his steel muscles and grunted.

”The disciples were fishermen," Steven said. "In Christ’s day,
the fishermen were the strongest, the wrestlers of the first century.
Even Saviors need bodyguards. Christ knew what he was doing.
You, Alfred, could be such a fisherman.”

"You talk with riddles,” Alfred said.

He reached down for another fish. Anneke was fluttering in the
distance. The pain shot back into his gut. He remained motionless,
his body bent into the metal basket.

Instead of thinking his decisions through, Alfred tended to
react to situations. But as he hung over the basket, something
Steven had said to him hours before came back to him. He eased
himself prone and backed against the side wall of the trailer. Even
though he never smoked, he suddenly had the taste for a cigarette.
Detectives in movies, he recalled, always seemed to smoke as they
leaned against a rain-soaked building, the clues in their minds
beginning to unscramble towards a logical motive.

”In old book,” Alfred said. "Jews are chosen people. In new
book, Christians are chosen peOple.”

"Yes,” Steven said. "Please continue.”

”Why is this?” Alfred asked.

”Very interesting question, Alfred.” Steven took off his Red
Sox cap and combed back his hair with his fingers. ”Because
Alfred,” he said, pointing two fingers at him like a pair of six
shooters. ”Because God made a mistake."

”God make mistake?”

”In ways, He is just like us.”

Back in the plant, Anneke was at her station, diligently bagging
halibut. The wrenching came back swiftly, but now, maybe be-
cause Alfred was used to it, the sting didn’t seem so painful.

105


 

Alfred never actually thought of being gay, just accepted it as
a way of life after he felt compelled to hump a fifteen year old boy
on Kodiak Island while he was guiding hunters for Grizzlies. The
boy’s grandfather had caught him in the act and shot Alfred in the
arm. Alfred left the island— his family, his Aleut heritage—to start
a new life in Homer, but whatever had possessed him to advance on
the boy seemed to be gone; he hadn’t felt attracted to anyone since.

Alfred looked again at Anneke, then scratched his ear. He
pictured himself hopping over the basket of fish, scooping her
fragile body up into his calloused hands, and holding her to the
sunlight as if she were a porcelain doll.

”God make mistake,” he said.

During the next ten days, Alfred could think only of Anneke. He
pushed Charlie Connel and his two year old war with him far back
into his mind. But during those ten days, Alfred never said a word
to Anneke. He simply positioned himself near her at every possi-
bility. When break was called, he jumped over the basket in the
trailer and followed her up to the break room. When they ate, he sat
at the table opposite her, in plain view so she could see his expres-
sionless face. When it was time to go home, he clocked out before
she did so he could be at the door, casually skipping stones on the
gravel parking lot, as she and Rachel, the friend she rode with, went
to their red Jeep.

Alfred, after thinking about it for a while, wondered if her
friend wasn’t the Rachel, the Russian woman who was found
wandering around the beach drunk one early morning the summer
before, her bright skirt and blouse matted wit mud, hair tangled and
clotted with small sea shells. Over her shoulder, she carried the
twenty pound King salmon she had supposedly dragged out of the
Kachemak Bay shallows with her bare hands and beat dead with a
piece of drift wood. That had caused quite a stir in Red’kin, the
Russian Orthodox village north of Homer.

Sometimes, late into the nights of those ten days, Alfred thought
he had seen that same red Jeep weaving around the buildings of
Homer Spit. He fantasized that Anneke was looking for him. Like
Rachel, maybe she didn’t care much for all the rules of her village.

At first, however, Anneke didn’t seem to notice Alfred’s atten-

106


 

tions. But on the fifth day, as they walked up to the break room, she
turned on Alfred and sneered. The sneering continued for two
days. Then for two more days she simply looked at him with the
same expressionless face he had for her. On the tenth day, Anneke
and Rachel paused in the parking lot. They watched Alfred skip
stones for a moment, then piled into the Jeep giggling.

Alfred doubled over and held the newest knot in his chest.

The halibut season was over, and the Salty Dawg Saloon was
packed with Spit Rats from Seward Fisheries and fishermen getting
their last few good drunks in before the salmon season hit hard.
Alfred shuffled through the sawdust and squeezed in at the bar.
Bart the barman set him up with his usual shot of tequila and
nodded towards the end of the bar. Charlie was there, leaning over
with a bottle of Chinook ale in his hand, trying to get a fix on Alfred.

”Step easy, son, ” Bart said. ”For some damn reason ole Charlie’s
got quite a lot of support around here.”

The problem was, Alfred never knew who was against him and
who was indifferent. He once let it be known, through lips numb
with tequila, what had happened back on Kodiak. Most of the men
who were at the Salty Dawg that night probably didn’t remember
the confession in the morning. But others, who in their new-found,
alcoholic camaraderie with Alfred, shrugged, and said. "Hell,
everyone has their hobbies. Now pass that bottle,” woke up the
next day- to the sobering rays of the morning sun and recalled that
Alfred wasn’t exactly ”normal.” At least that’s the way Alfred
heard it. There weren’t many secrets in a small town like Homer.
He learned that quickly.

Since Alfred first stepped into the Salty Dawg, Charlie Connel
shied away from him. Alfred could tell when someone was
threatened by hi size. The night after Alfred’s confession, Charlie
was in a corner of the saloon, buying rounds for some of the same
men Alfred had drunk with. They sat at the table whispering,
shooting glances at Alfred, who was across the saloon nursing a
tequila. .
To make matters worse, Alfred and Larry Bond, a migrant
worker from Idaho, had once stolen Charlie’s peacock from its cage
in his back yard. They gave it to a work-mate who was laid up in

107


 

the hospital. Alfred didn’t know it was Charlie’s. He wished Larry
. was with him now. He had been the closest thing to a friend Alfred
had in Homer, but he’d gone back to Pocatello in search of the
family he had deserted there.

”Bart,” Alfred said. ”Another ale for Charlie.”

The men beside Alfred turned their heads sharply and squinted
their eyes. Bart stopped in front of Alfred and poured him another
shot.

”You up to something I should know, son?”

”An ale for Charlie," Alfred said.

Bart raised his eyebrows and popped open a bottle of Chinook.

Alfred didn’t look down the bar for Charlie’s response, just
drank his tequila and imagined him first ignoring the bottle when
he found out who sent it, then grabbing it like it was a trophy, as if
Alfred was giving up the fight. And he would be right. Over the
past ten days, Alfred felt something inside begin to soften. His
desire for Anneke opened his eyes towards the rest of Homer. Not
only did he want to be accepted by Anneke, he wanted the pe0ple
of Homer to respect him as well, including Charlie. People thought
that because Alfred was quiet he was mean. But actually, Alfred felt
ashamed because he wasn’t book smart, hadn’t even graduated
from high school, felt too uncomfortable to talk much. Maybe if he
could convince Charlie he was no threat, others in Homer would fall
into place.

“What’s the big idea?”

Alfred turned and looked down at the man he had been fighting
with for the past two years. Charlie strained his neck to meet
Alfred’s eyes, then took a quick drink of his Chinook and wiped his
brow. At the nearest tables, men and their dates watched carefully.
The serious drinkers at the bar kept their bodies straight, but bent
their necks to keep an eye out for action.

“What’s this?” Charlie asked, holding up his bottle. He spit
when he talked. Every time a woman dumped on Charlie, Bart
made it a point to slip on his rain slicker, more for effect than
defense, as Charlie always got pissed drunk during those times,
and, as custom demanded, spilled his guts at the bar, and his saliva
on Bart. Charlie never did seem to see the bright yellow coat as a
sign of ridicule; instead, between the breaths of his monologues, his

108


 

eyes darted towards the ceiling in expectation, Alfred supposed, of
dripping leaks.

”Free ale,” Alfred said.

”What the hell for,” Charlie said. “We ain’t friends.” His lips
curled, baring teeth yellowed with hand-rolled cigarettes. Others
were so black that Alfred couldn’t see them at all in the darkness of
the Salty Dawg.

"No more fighting,” Alfred said.

"Is that a fact,” Charlie said. "Who says?”

Alfred waved Bart over and tipped his head towards Charlie.
Bart placed another sweating bottle of Chinook on the bar.

”Look," Charlie said. He held up his hand and downed the rest
of his beer. ”This ain’t going to cut it.” He placed the empty on the
bar and picked up the other bottle.

"First we quit fighting for no damn reason,” Charlie said. “Then
you start buying me beers? Hell, you’re, well, you know, one of
them.” He chugged his beer and slammed the empty bottle on the
bar.

”I got a reputation to uphold,” Charlie said, turning to walk
away.

Alfred’s hand clamped down on Charlie’s shoulder. The saloon
fell silent.

”Easy, son,” Bart said.

Charlie had never actually confronted Alfred physically, and
even when Charlie could swing men over to his side with a free
drink they never put themselves in front of Alfred. They did their
fighting by whispering behind Alfred’s back and spreading rumors
about him. They always made themselves scarce when it looked as
though something was about to erupt.

Charlie’s stiffened shoulder suddenly relaxed under Alfred’s
grasp.

"Well, what about my damn peacock?" Charlie said loudly
enough for the whole saloon to hear.

Alfred scratched his ear.

”You got fancy chicken back.” Alfred let go of his grip.

Charlie popped his neck and straightened the collar of his
flame] shirt.

”What the hell does that ma tter,” he said loudly. ”She ain’t been

109


 

the same since you stole her. Always screaming.”

Alfred had nothing to say. He turned back to the bar.

“You ruined that poor thing’s life,” Charlie said. ”Never be the
same. Never.”

"Go on back to your place, Charlie,” Bart said. ”Here, son.” He
poured Alfred another shot. ”You tried, and that takes a big man.
But some just can’t be pleased.”

Alfred drank his tequila and looked around the saloon. In the
crowd, towards the back, he swore he saw Steven Parker. For a
moment, he felt more comfortable, knowing there was another
friendly face, besides Bart’s, in the saloon. But he couldn’t find him
again. Besides, Steven had never been in the saloon before. Why
would he show up now and not be home with his wife?

Meanwhile, Charlie had sat down at the table near the Kiss
pinball machine.

"Another ale,” Alfred said.

Bart leaned across the bar.

”Son, you know what you’re doing?” The men next to Alfred
eased closer to the conversation. ”Mind your own beeswax,” Bart
told them.

“Another ale,” Alfred said.

Ba rt sighed and popped open another bottle.

”You got nothing to prove,” he said.

Two other men were sitting at Charlie’s table. When Alfred
approached, they shoved their chairs back and got out of the way.
Charlie was preoccupied with a girl playing the pinball machine.
His head was swinging back and forth in time with her hips. He had
a reputation for grabbing any curve that walked past his bar stool.
Even after being knocked unconscious by Judith, a tall redhead
from Holland who challenged all to matches of arm wrestling—a
shot of vodka for the winner—Charlie continued his groping, just
stayed with the underage girls who snuck in to play pinball.

”Would you lookie there,” he said.

Alfred placed the bottle on the table. Charlie didn’t turn around
until a sudden silence dropped on the saloon. Alfred sat down, the
chair creaked beneath his weight.

"What the hell do you want from me,” Charlie said. ”Can’t you
see I’m busy?”

110


 

”No more fighting,” Alfred said.

Charlie took a drink of his beer. ”What the hell’s the matter with
you, anyway?” He looked again at the swinging hips. ”Look at that
move. Hell, why would you care.”

Alfred had to hold his hands beneath his legs to keep from
tearing his own hair out. The right words wouldn’t form in his
mouth. In his old village, all disputes could be settled with a beer,
or the lending of a helping hand to repair a broken fence or roof.
Charlie was different, however, and all Alfred could think to do was
to keep feeding him liquor, to find the companionship that was
sometimes found at the bottom of an empty bottle.

"Another ale?” Alfred asked.

”Nah.”

The girl playing pinball kicked the machine, then walked away.

”Where you going, honey?” Charlie called after her.

She was quickly replaced by another girl. Alfred blinked. For
a moment, he thought she was Anneke. She was the same height
and had the same sharp cheekbones. He looked quickly towards the
front window, wondering if the red Ieep was parked outside.

”Now, we’re talking.” Charlie shifted to the edge of his seat,
bringing him just inches away from the girl’s backside. She was too
involved in her game to notice.

A small alarm went off in Alfred’s chest. He knew the girl was
not Anneke,but the resemblance was startling. Besides, she couldn’t
have been older than sixteen.

”I’m sorry about fancy chicken,” he announced.

Charlie cocked his head and looked at him. "Yeah,” he said.
”Well, maybe you could spring for a peacock psychiatrist, eh?” He
laughed and slapped the table.

Heat rose to Alfred’s cheeks. He felt the eyes in the Salty Dawg
boring in on him. He didn’t know what was so funny.

Charlie stood up and moved behind the girl. Before that night,
Alfred had never even looked twice when Charlie moved in on the
girls, yet tonight Alfred’s heart began to beat faster and beads of
sweat rolled down his neck.

”No,” he murmured, too faintly for anyone to hear.

Charlie was right up on the girl now, close enough to where Ba rt
wouldn’t be able to see what he was about to do. The girl didn’t

111


 

notice until Charlie’s hand was between her legs. Then he squeezed.

Speechless, the girl jumped. She backed away from Charlie
slowly, her nostrils flaring, the color drained from her face. Tears
had pooled in the corner of her wide eyes, her arms were trembling.

Alfred’s chest heaved, and his breath burned his nostrils. He
clenched his fists and placed them quietly on the table.

When Charlie began to laugh, the girl sprang towards the door.
The laughter was thin and tinny in Alfred’s ears. He saw Bart
moving to the end of the bar.

But Alfred reached Charlie first. He grabbed the man by his belt
and collar, and, as if Alfred was back in the trailer slinging halibut,
he lifted Charlie over his head, took five steps towards the front
window and heaved him forward. Charlie flew through a shower
of glass shards and wooden splinters, and landed in the gravel
outside; the impact threw up a thick cloud of gray dust.

The ocean wind immediately blasted into the Salty Dan,
blowing Alfred’s long black hair behind him. The exertion had
settled his heart. He turned around and met fifty astonished faces.
And sure enough, Steven’s was among them. Alfred wanted to step
towards him, wanted some kind of reassurance, but he couldn’t
read the other man’s blank expression.

Alfred looked towards the bar. Ba rt was leaning against it. His
face was down. He didn’t meet Alfred’s eyes.

Still silent, the patrons raised their chins, trying to glance out
the window. Nothing stirred out there. Alfred was about to look
out, but was suddenly afraid. What about the girl? he wanted to ask.

He fumbled in his pockets for his drink money and laid a
twenty dollar bill on the bar.

"Sorry,” he mumbled, then ducked out of the Salty Dawg.

More than usual, the Spit Rats, the fair weather clam hunters,
fishermen, both professional and amateur, sourdough bakers and
assorted transients sped up their pace when Alfred walked by,
dropped their gazes to the road, stepped into a bait shop or corner
store.

Alfred was used to being avoided. Because he was a Native, he
wasn’t trusted. He was probably the only person in town who
could never hitch a ride on or off five mile long Homer Spit. He was

112


 

used to that, and didn’t really mind waking up two hours before
starting time to walk from his one room cabin behind the McDonald’s
to Seward Fisheries at the tip of the Spit. Never before, however,
did the citizens of Homer go to such lengths to avoid him.

Luckily, Alfred’s supervisor didn’t care about what happened
outside the plant. Salmon season had begun, and Alfred became an
Ice Pilot. He no longer worked with Steven. But as an Ice Pilot, he
was able to stretch his muscles by shoveling ten or twelve tons of ice
every two hours, and there was plenty of lag time for him to sit back
and watch Anneke, over on the Slime Line, cleaning fish not more
than twenty feet away. As he watched her work now, however, he
set the frightened face of the girl Charlie had squeezed right next to
Anneke’s and checked for resemblances. He discovered a common
frailty, and it became important to place her on a pedestal, to keep
her high and away from the Charlies in the world, while he stood
guard underneath.

Four days after the Salty Dawg incident, Alfred said the hell
with it and sat down across from Anneke during dinner break. He
heard a chair scrape in front of him, saw a departing shadow, but
he kept himself engrossed with the halibut and steak in front of him,
too nervous to even look at the eyes he had already met with his
own many times before in the last two weeks, and reluctant to find
out she had left as soon as he sat down.

”You are a big, silly son of bitch.” Anneke’s accent was strong.
”Bitch” sounded like ”beech.” Alfredlooked up slowly. Rachel
was the one who had left the table.

”You are pretty dresser.” He didn’t know what else to say.

She frowned.

”I don’t like this,” she said. She looked down at her skirt. "Me,
I like jeans. Like yours. In village, they tell us, do this, do that. No
jeans.” She sighed.

Alfred nodded, doing little justice to the leaps his heart was
making in his chest.

After work, Alfred spent an hour in a cold drizzle across the street
from the Salty Dawg. The red Jeep had passed him four times, once
slowing down in front of him. When he saw the Jeep, and imagined
who was in it, Homer and its people did not seem important. But

113


 

the feeling didn’t last when he thought about the many hours he
had spent under the saloon’s rotting beams, leaning back against
walls carved with names, stick figures and silent wishes. The Salty
Dawg was the place of closest contact between him and the rest of
Homer. Rejected there, work or not, he would be rejected com-
pletely from the town. Accepted there, maybe Anneke would take
even greater notice of him, see he was not threatening in the least.

Alfred slowly crossed the street. The Salty Dawg was actually
an old lighthouse and still sent its circling beam across Kachemak
Bay. Alfred stopped at the boarded up window, looked up at the
rain dropping through the searchlight, then stepped into the bar.

Because there was no window, the saloon was even darker than
usual, but the patrons immediately recognized Alfred and ceased
talking long enough for him to lumber up to the bar.

”Son,” Bart said shaking his head. ”This is a bad idea.”

”I must pay for window,” Alfred dropped three one hundred
dollar bills on the bar.

"Now, son. You know I like you." Bart hesitated before
scooping up the money. ”You’re a good customer, never have tabs
like some of these jokers in here. And that body of yours will stop
just about any type of fight getting ready to fire up, but people have
been talking. A lot are afraid of you these days.”

”No more fighting.” Alfred dropped two dollars on the bar.

“Just one.” Bart poured Alfred his tequila. ”Then you get lost
for a while. Let things cool down.” '

”Well, look who’s here.” Charlie had come up behind Alfred.

”Hell, Connel,” Bart said. ”I thought you were gone for the
night. ”

”An ale,” Alfred said to Bart.

"I don’t want your ale,” Charlie said. ”I want your faggot ass
out of town.”

"You want trouble, Connel,” Bart said. "Take it outside.”

Alfred turned around. Charlie was holding both his hands up
in the air, as if he couldn’t move them. Both were wrapped up to the
shoulder with white bandages. His left forearm was much thicker
than the right. Alfred wondered if there was a cast beneath the
wrappings. Smaller strips of bandages crisscrossed his face and
neck, and one eye was black.

114


 

"What you call me?” Alfred asked.

"I said I want you out of this town. You ain’t wanted here.”
Charlie looked over his shoulder. Two men Alfred had never seen
before were standing, with their arms crossed, on either side of the
pinball machine. Alfred thought about the girl who, just a few
nights earlier, had stood in the place between the two men. Again,
anger came into his throat.

Alfred stared down the two men.

”Are you leaving?” Charlie asked him.

Alfred puffed out his large chest and squinted. One of the two
men shuffled his feet and turned towards the pinball machine, but
the other took a step forward.

”Hell, Charlie,” he said. ”He ain’t so big."

”Bullshit,” said a familiar voice from a dark corner of the Salty
Dawg. A moment later, Steven stepped forward into the gloomy
light and nodded to Alfred.

”God bless you,” Steven said.

The voice seemed to have a magical effect on the crowd; all took
their attention away from what they were doing and rested their
eyes on the man who had stepped out of the darkness to bless
Alfred.

”Thank you,” Alfred replied.

The people in the saloon murmured and looked around at one
another, then towards Alfred, then Steven, and finally, they all
brought their gazes back- to Charlie.

”You hear me?” Charlie asked Alfred, his voice cracking on the
last word.

The men sitting in the center of the saloon cleared a circle by
pushing their tables and chairs back.

”That ain’t going to be necessary!” Bart said. ”I’m pleading
with you, son,” he told Alfred.

”No more fighting!” Alfred shouted, his fists clenched, the
anger beginning to boil in his stomach.

"All you got to do is leave,” Charlie said.

Alfred was ready to. Even though it seemed as if the people of
Homer were giving him plenty of room to fight it out with Charlie,
he was ready to leave that saloon forever, to get rid of the hatred that
would not let his soul rest, to leave it behind in the sawdust, the

115


 

sticky spills and the fishy smells of the Salty Dawg. He would have
if, at the moment Charlie was taking his stand, Anneke and Rachel,
with nervous smiles and dancing eyes, had not wandered into the
doorway of the saloon. All Charlie did was look in their direction,
a simple glance anyone would have given a sneeze during a speech,
or to a moose on the side of the road, to any momentary distraction.

Alfred looked quickly from the girls, to Charlie, and then to
Steven. His work-mate raised an eyebrow, pointed two fingers at
him, and mouthed the word ”bodyguard.”

That’s all it took for Alfred. The anger snapped in his mouth.
He grabbed hold of Charlie Come] by belt loop and collar, raised
him above his head, took three steps forward and slammed the
screaming man into the plywood holding back the ocean wind.
Charlie bounced off the boards, landed squarely on a table, bursting
it into kindling, sending its occupants crashing into the people
seated next to them, beer, ice and whiskey flying through the air.
One glass shattered into a storm of slivers right in front of the man
who had stepped forward from the pinball machine; he eased back
into the shadows.

“He’s crazy!” Charlie said, face red and wet, and holding his
arm. ”Absolutely crazy!” He lay crumpled on the floor, sur-
rounded by unraveling bandages and white chunks and dust from
his cracked open cast.

”I like girls,” Alfred said. ”You don’t.” He turned towards the
door, but Anneke and Rachel were gone. He wondered if they had
really been there.

”What the hell does that mean? You’re nuts!” Charlie looked
for his support near the pinball machine, but it was long gone.

N 0 one moved. Alfred watched Charlie search the faces around
him imploringly, but all he saw were downcast eyes, expressions of
sadness and pity, looking down at the broken statue of a man in
front of them.

After he left the Salty Dawg that night, Alfred stopped first at his
cabin for his newest looking pair of jeans, then walked for three
hours to the Russian village. By then, dawn was about to break and
the village was fast asleep. Huddling against a tree for warmth, he
slept a little, and waited for the red Jeep to pull away from the white,

116


 

wooden houses, their sculptured trim flaring in bright greens and
yellows.

At 7:30, the Jeep appeared on the dirt road leading to Homer.
Alfred sprang up and tore through the trees. When he reached the
woods’ edge, he leapt into the road. The Jeep swerved away from
him and nearly slid into the ditch on the side of the road.

Anneke rolled down her window, anger creasing her face.

"You big silly son of bitch,” she said. "Always crashing and
smashing."

”Sorry," Alfred said. ”Long walk to work.”

He held the jeans in front of him.

Anneke’s mouth opened in an ”0”. She hopped out of the Jeep.

”Yes,” Rachel said from behind the steering wheel. ”Who ca res
if we are late?”

Anneke took the jeans and held them against herself; they came
up to her chin.

”Big and silly," she said. "Lots of room, yes?” Still holding the
jeans with one hand, she pushed back the front seat.

, "Okay, crazy person,” she said. ”Get in.”
Alfred grinned, then climbed into the back seat.

117


History of Art

 

Richard Jones

For me to understand,

I must say good-bye to the abstract expressionists.

I must say farewell to mad Franz Kline

and bid adieu to sweet Sam Francis.

I must say good-bye to the suicide Rothko,

swim back in time through his paintings,

back through the black monoliths and blue meditations,
back through the burning red and blinding yellow.

I must go back through his death

to his melancholy,

back through his passion

to his innocence.

I’ll watch Pollack’s chaos resolve itself

in the pure storm of untouched virgin canvas,

sail down the hall past Van Dongen and Bonnard,
past weird Max Beckman and delicate Mary Cassatt
washing the chubby feet of her small round children.
I’ll say arrivaderci to the surrealists

with their watches and nails and clouds,

and tearfully kiss

the Impressionists

in case I never see them again.

Then I’ll turn and search for Rembrandt

and stare into his eyes,

searching the darkness around his glowing face.

I’ll sit at the feet of Caravaggio’s scholar,

listen to the scratch of quill on parchment.

To understand, I’ll have to study

the human skull,

the scholar’s memento mori

sitting on the desk by the inkwell.

I’ll have to study the bald head

of the scholar himself,

how it catches light as he bends to his work,

how the world falls away behind him and his candle,
collapsing into nothingness of shadows, end of time.

118


 

Then I must decide
whether to keep going, whether to go back
before perspective, before the concept of motion,
before the stiff, gilded wings of angels
trembled in the eyes of the first believers.
I’ll have to crawl through-centuries of blood,
down roads of broken bodies,
through collapsing empires, burning flags.
I’ll see slaves quarry marble,
hauling stone to the first temples.
I’ll see men turning themselves into gods,
gods turning themselves into animals.
I’ll cover my body with animal skins,
braid my hair with feathers,
adorn myself with a necklace of bones,
sharpen a stone into a deadly point,
and bow as I enter the cave.

All this I must do

before the hunt,

before following scent and tracks

to kill,

before I return to the world of the cave
with an insatiable hunger

to describe

the prey, the chase and slaughter,
before I paint,

with sticks and brushes of animal hair,
crushed berries and flowers,

blood and dung and spit,

a scene in honor of the earth and the body
here on the walls of the cave,

a painting in which death is sacred
and enlightens the living

gathered around a fire,

an art illuminated by flames

licking the meat that will feed us.

119


The Dock

Katherine Alamo

 

The wooden planks seared the bottom of her feet. Hopping one
foot to the other gave a twisted version of some ancient ceremonial
dance. She threw the towel down -—- no time to arrange it — and
flung on her back. It wasn’t the entrance she planned.

Gail Jackson sighed, pulled the radio out of her bag, and tuned
it in. The cheap paperback remained there; it was just a prop.

“Okay, babe. Get it right,” she muttered. Her left leg lay
straight. She bent her right knee, and let her arm droop over the
edge of the dock until her fingertips penetrated the water. The arch
in her back kept her chest angled up. ”That’s better.”

Every afternoon she came to the dock. The dock with the
peeling paint. Alone. No one to compete with, and only seen by
passing boats. She knew she was enticing from a distance, having
practiced the posed position until it was perfection.

Gail never used tanning lotion. She preferred her body shim-
mer from her natural sweat. It took longer to get the right sheen. but
the feel of each developing drop on her sultry skin gave her power.
It is possible to control the body.

A motor approached. With a gentle shake, her hair flips back.
Today it’s blonde. A quick glance at the legs, yep, flawless. Hand
back in the water, she’s ready.

The rowdy laughs and yells were exhilarating, as she inter-
preted them, but it was just a moment before they were gone.

The rippling water from the boat’s wake reached the dock. It'
pulsated. Smiling, she felt her nipples harden.

"This is why I come,” she said to her only audience, a lone sea
gull scavenging the weed’s at water’s edge. ”They can’t resist me.”
Propped on an elbow she giggled, ”I’m the dock goddess.”

A squawk was the gull’s reply. He flew away.

Another boat approached. Gail resumed her pose. This time
the laughter was louder. She focused on its meaning and decided
they liked what they saw. It was easier. Her hand came out of the
water and dripped its contents on her flat belly. She trailed her
fingers through the wet and made small circles, creating an invisible
work from the glowing droplets. A tremor cascaded down her
back.

”It doesn't get any better than this.”

120


 

The screen door on her mother’s mobile home banged shut.
”Damn,” ruptured through Gail’s vasalined lips. ”She’s gonna ruin
this.”

”Gail!” Her mother screeched, ”Gail, s’that you down there?”

Gail ignored her. Maybe she’ll go away. Nope. The huffing
from her mother’s round body announced her presence.

”What the hell you doin’? Good thing I got home early. Get
back up t’the house. You don’t want nobody seein’ you like this.
Move, girl.” .

”Yes, Mama. I’ll be up as soon as this song’s over,” Gail replied,
suddenly noticing the music. ”You know, Mama, sometimes you
forget I’m twenty~six years old.”

”You act three. Didja forget Doc said stay in bed? Jesus, Baby,
cover yourself before you walk anywhere.” She turned and grunted
back inside.

The song, a moumful lament to some lost love, finished. Gail
stood. The wood didn’t seem as hot. As she gathered her stuff she
saw her murky image in the lake.

The skeleton stared back. Bald head, breastless chest, and
sunken eyes were all there. A sob escaped.

She left the beloved boards.

12]


Jesse James: A Meditation

 

by Dawn Diez Willis

Your name rings like a spur, like a loose bit,

and I think about the woman, the waiting woman

in a lonely house on a wide and blowing piece of land.
All her possessions pulled from strangers’ pockets

on a cold train, in a cold bank,

with the o of a'gun in a stranger’s face.

Fear shot out of those eyes like electricity,

a bright blue bolt cutting deep into frozen passengers
praying for you and your boys to ride off out of there.
Fear of it all ending right there. And for some it did.
Turning your back to someone with their brains spilling,
duster catching air and swirling like some crazy dance,
your conscience not even involved,

or involved but not stopping a thing.

A gentleman, right? A backwater hero

with a clean mustache and a starched shirt.

And that woman, your woman, what did she think of it?
She was waiting until waiting was like breathing,
something you do whether you like it or not,

something second nature. Because someday

you were coming home and picking up your identity

as a gentleman farmer, like a forgotten suit,

and the babies would be born, supper hot on the table
everynight while you said Grace from the father’sseat.
But until then, the Iameses and the Youngers rode hard
into the mouth of trouble, Pinkertons like skinny, brainless
devils, and the hills full of neighbors and cousins

who wanted to see you all live to steal

Yankee money one more time. No good Yankees.
Meddling Pinkertons. No one talked about the dead men
whose blood made people slip on the floors of trains,
the faces or chests exploded off of sweating bank tellers,
or who had to tell their families. Another tribe. Another
country. Oh your back was a wide target even when

122


 

you didn’t know it. The smallest gesture shook with
danger and there was a sword running through all
your days. You could feel it, wanting to be near you,
wanting a souvenir of skin, wanting to make you well
like a doctor with a jar of leeches, like God Himself.

123


Harvesting Elderberries

 

by Julie Parker

I want to lie down under a tree.
This is the only duty that is not death.
This is the everlasting happiness
of small winds.

—]ames Wright

Father had my blood on his knuckles.
Hands sent me out the screen door

into the fields of my backyard.

Crouching behind green leaves

I saw an old man plucking

stems from a purple bush.

His large boots were soaking

in the heavy, wet mud.

Gentle fingers, gray hair sprouting

from soft skin. They juggled each bundle,
squeezing spirits of tiny seeds and thick juice,
before lowering them into his basket.

His round face sunk deep

behind low eyes, receding hairline

glazed with sweat.

The passing sun glimmered off

his spectacles, and I recognized this man.
I reached to wipe the red dripping-

from my nose, when he swiped his upper lip,
streaking a thin line

a dark juice across his skin.

124


In Photographs of my Mother in the
Thirties, Parties, Fifties, Sixties

 

Lyn Lifshin

Her teeth are still
white, a killer
smile tho a dentist
warned they were
beauties, but

too soft. You can
always find a
cigarette dangling
off to the side.

She probably took
a puff before

the click. Halo

of smoke above my
sister and my hair,
smoke in the bath
room, near beds
we’d start, by

the seventies to
drive back and
check to see she’d
put out. ”It’s

good for me,”
she’d grin even

in the late eighties
when she was losing
weight and had
trouble swallowing
until by 1990
finally she knew

it wasn’t

125


Under a Night Sky With My Sister,
On a Hillside

 

Linda V. Russo

I almost hated my lucid skin

how it held me from floating

out of myself as my sister and I lay

face to face with the sky,

her head so near mine we saw the same angle.

I could name just the Dippers

and Orion’s Belt but when she pointed
stars coiled near her fingers

in clusters. They glistened

around her wrists like gems

and she named them in mock-Latin.

When she laid her hand back on the earth

I felt her fingers near mine,

how heavy they were with wish.

And her constellations, like my own shadow
earlier that day, stretched

the boundary of my small body

till I was inexact. Soaked with their light
I was no longer the little sister

lost in a swell of grass:

I was growing, fitting myself

to a new coat of mislaid stars.

126


 


 


 

 

 


 


Biography Sketches

 

Katherine Alamo is balancing between wife, mother, student, and
job —- writing is the beam on which she stands.

Bart E Baxter’ 3 recent work has appeared in Ergo, The Seattle Review,
and A Fine Madness. He has performed hi poetry at the Greenmill
Tavern in Chicago, The Nuyorican in New York, and on the MTV
Spoken Word Tour. He recently won the Proctor Award of the
Washington Poets Association.

Tom Bissell is from Northern Michigan. He is a sophomore at
Michigan State University, majoring in English, with plans to
attend the University of Michigan for graduate school. ”Bars” is his
first piece to be published. He is at work on his second novel.

William Feustle, formerly of Baltimore, Maryland, now lives in
Chester, England where he is completing his first novel. His work
has previously appeared in Potpourri and Djinni.

Tom Frey is a graduate of the Michigan State University School of
Journalism. He has worked in radio and newspaper journalism
and currently owns a public relations agency in Detriot. He lives in
Royal Oak, Michigan with his dog, KoKo.

Myles Gordon is a poet from Newton, Massachusetts. His credits
include the 1992 Grolier Poetry Prize; publication in several literary
magazines, and two New England Emmy Awards for his television
production work.

Anna M. Harrington is from Mary, Indiana. She received her BA.
from Ashland University and is currently working for her MA. in
English at Michigan State University. She plans to pursue a PhD.
in composition and would like to teach or be a technical writer.

Kenneth R. Harvey is a recipient of a $9500 Artists Fellowship in
Fiction. His recent publication credits include Kingfisher (Margaret
Atwood, consulting editor), The Laurel Review (Missouri State Uni-
versity), The Amherst Review, Green Mountain Review, and North
Atlantic Review. He has work forthcoming in Gulf Stream.

131


 

Rose Marie Hunold performed her poetry before she was pub-
lished. Most notably with Hazel Bryant’s Afro-American Theatre
Workshop, Rich Bartee’s Potential Unlimited Poetry Theatre / Lib-
erated Libra Productions of Harlem and Napps Feminist Theatre
Collective. A graduate of The New School For Social Research and
a holder of a certificate in Peer Counseling, Rose Marie Hunold has
worked as a counselor and free-lance writer. She says her poem
"’City of Brides’ is an allegory of oppression’s continuance, its
beginnings —— with a crop of new creations, the spring flowers, to
the heavy saddling of traditional periods of initiation with their
coercive styles of coming of age. Then it is the daily repetition of
roles that we find ourselves assigned into. Unless we hope. It is the
lesson of the bridled to look for freedom, even if that freedom can
only be held as a comfort within the soul.”

Jamie Hysjulien grew in Northern Minnesota. He has an MA in
history from the University of Carolina-Cha pel Hill and a doctorate
in literature and cultural theory from Duke University. He teaches
at the University of North Carolina-Greensboro and is completeing
his first novel. He lives in Durham with his wife and three children.

Majoring in music at Michigan State University, Julie Jacobs writes
poetry on the side, whenever she is able. She plays the French Horn
in MSU’s Orchestra and will be going to Europe this summer on a
scholarship from Blue Lake Arts camp. Her past five summers have
been spent at Interlochen either as a camper or' most recently as a
counselor.

Richard Jones currently lives in Chicago, Illinois; we were unable
to obtain further biographical information.

Laura Klynstra is an Undergraduate at Michigan State University,
majoring in English and Studio Art. She has mentored for the
University of Michigan’s International Poetry Guild, currently
edits The Red Cedar Review, and loves to paint. She hopes to get her
Masters degree in Publishing.

132


 

Timothy Lane is in the Creative Writing M.A. program at Michigan
State University and is a native of Flint, Michigan.

Jonathan Levant has two in-the—image-of-God children to whom
he is teaching all the poetry he finds beautiful, true, or useful. He
says this will take a lot longer than 17 or 18 years.

Mark Lewandowski has just recently returned from Poland, where
he was a Peace Corps Volunteer. Currently he is the Visiting
Instructor of English at the University of Cincinnati /Clermont
College. He earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Wichita State
University in 1991.

Lyn Lifshin has written more than eighty books and edited three
anthologies of women writers. Her poems have appeared in most
poetry and literary magazines in this country, and her work has
been included in many major anthologies of recent writing by
women. Lyn has given more than seven hundred readings across
the country and has appeared at Dartmouth and Skidmore col-
leges, Cornell University, the Shakespeare Library, Whitney Mu-
seum, and Hu tington Library. She has also taught poetry and prose
writing for many years at universities, colleges, and high schools
throughout the Northeast and has been Poet in Residence at the
University of Rochester, Antioch, and Colorado Mountain College.
Winner of numerous awards including the Jack Kerouac Award for
her book, Kiss the.Skin Ofi', Lyn is the subject of the documentary
film, Lyn Lifshin: Not Made of Glass. A companion volume to the
film: Not Made of Glass/Lyn Lifshin Poems 1968—1989 is among Lyn’s
publications.

Joanne M. Marinelli received her BA. in English from Temple
University; since 1984 she has appeared in over 70 little magazines
— most recently appearing in Pendragon, Parnassus Literary Re-
view, and Poetalk. She currently serves as an advocate for persons
with disabilities under the auspices of Matrix Research Institute.

Erin McCarty will be recieving her Bachelor’s Degree in English on

May 6, 1994, from Michigan State University. She is currently
editing for The Red Cedar Review. Originally from the Chicago

133


 

area, she plans to move back there this summer, where she would
like to get a job in publishing. -

Ruth McLaughlin has been published in small magazines. In 1979
her story appearing in California Quarterly was selected for inclu-
sion in Best American Short Stories. Most recently, she has had a
story chosen for an anthology of Western women writers to be
published by Viking during this year.

Ruth Mowry is a junior at Michigan State University, attending
classes part time and working on campus full time. She is a
returning student, working on completing her undergraduate de-
gree in English, which she began twenty years ago. She and her
husband are raising two children in East Lansing, Michigan.

Norman Nathan has had over 20 short stories published in journals
such as Contemporary American Satire 1, University Review,
Canadian Forum... He has had over 450 poems published in
journals such as Mindscapes, Ladies’ Home Ioumal, Southern
Poetry Review, New York Times, New York Herald Tribune... He
is currently living in Boca Raton, Florida.

Julie Parker is a two—time graduate of Interlochen Center for the
Arts, as a senior and post-graduate work with a major in Creative
Writing. She currently lives in Traverse City, Michigan.

Richard King Perkin II has been submiting material for only six
months but has managed to get over one—hundred poems in vari-
ous publications; some of these publications include: Mind Matters
Review, Crazy Quilt Quarterly, International Poetry Review, and Art
Times. He is currently employed as a private tutor for learning '
disabled children.

Linda V. Russo’s poems appear most recently in the Spoon River
Poetry Review. She has been a fellow at the Millay Colony for the
Arts and the Ragdale Foundation, and currently reviews books of
poetry for the Harvard Review. ‘

134


 

Heather A. Smith is originally from Cla rkston, Michigan. She will
be graduating in May of this year from Michigan State University,
with a BA. in English and Telecommunications. She plans to write
for television and continue writing poetry.

Thomas L. Vaultonburg is twenty-four and a psychology student
at Rockford College. His poems have appeared in Exquisite Corpse,
Caliban, Chiron Review, Karamu, and others. His first book of poems,
Concave Buddha, appeared in 1991.

Howard Weinberg practices clinical psychology and acoustic gui—
tar in Iowa City, Iowa. His poems have appeared in The North
American Review, Cosmos, and On the WELL, where he won an On-
Line Writing Award in 1992. He is married and has a daughter who
is, in fact, queen of the tape deck.

Dawn Diez Willis was the recipient of a 1994 Vallecitors Scholar-
ship and will be featured reader in The Valley Contemporary
Poetry Series. Her work has appeared in various journals including
The Southern Poetry Review and Tar River Poetry.

135


S tafi‘

 

editors

readers

contest judge

136

Laura L. Klynstra
Erin McCarty

Clayton Bill

Zachary Chartkoff
Julie A. Jacobs

Kristin Knippenberg
Matthew Q. Thorburn

Ed Sanders


With Special Thanks...

 

to Joyce Klynstra for typing in most of the short stories

to Ed Sanders for his wonderful reading and for judging
our contests

to Sidney for lying on our lay-outs and making us take
that one extra break

—-—-L.K. & EM.

137


 


 

 


 


 


 


 

 

 

 

 


The Red Cedar Review has been
published on the campus of Michi-
gan State University for over thirty
years, making it one of the longest
running literary magazines in the
United States. The RCR has been
proud to publish established writ-
ers such as Margaret Atwood, Jim
Cash, Stuart Dybeck, Jim Harrison,
‘ and Diane Wakoski. The RCR has
also been proud to publish many
before-unknown writers of fiction
and poetry. In this issue, volume
30, number one, we feature the
poetry and short fiction of both
well-known and up-and-coming
writers. The Michigan State Stu-
dents are re-introduced in this is-
sue — winners of The Jim Cash
Fiction and Poetry contests, the
Glendon “Swarthout Fiction con-
test, and the RiChard Benvenuto
Poetry contest are featured in this
issue. The contests were open
only to Michigan State University
students, and the previously stu-
dent-free magazine is again
sprinkled with student writingzgi;~