cover photograph by Jeff Blyth

Volume VI, Number 3 September, 1968

Red Cedar Review is a quarterly magazine of the arts published at Michigan 
State University. Manuscripts may be submitted to 325 Morrill Hall, Michigan 
State, E. Lansing, Michigan 48823. Please include return address and biographical 
information for Contributors Notes.

Subscription rates: $3.50 per year. Single copies, $1.00. Libraries and educational 
institutions may subscribe for $3.00 a year.

Copyright by Red Cedar Review, September, 1968. Permission to reprint material herein 
must be obtained from the authors. We request that Red Cedar Review be cited as place of 
first publication on any reprinted material.

Poems by Mel Bucholtz reprinted with permission from Night Animals, © 1968 Mel Bucholtz, 
Toad Press, Melrose, Mass.


CONTENTS

POETRY

3

W. Allen Taylor

Miami Beach: A Tittilating Intimation . . .

The Seer

Arlington: Wound en Monument

6

John Stevens Wade

Morning

Trees seen from a train 
Afternoon in Medan

20

Melvyn S. Bucholtz

First Freeze

Free Weekend,

Old Man reading James Fennimore Cooper

24

Gary Gildner

Watching “Une Femme Mariee” . . .

Driving to Ankeny

On a certain Sweet Delicious . . .

31

Mark McKeon

Dream Against the City

32

Jerry Parrott

On Seeing a Picture in Life . . .

33

Ottone M. Riccio

Walking on the Beach 
Exodus

The Attack

Witchcraft

A final Discovery

38

William A. Roecker

The Instructor sees John Calvin . . .

40

Harvey Tucker

At One O'Clock

48

Joe Dionne

Ankara, and other Places

64

My Mother in the Morning Stepped

54

R. Wm. Bryan

Pistols

Early Spring, 6 a.m.

66

Stuart Ouwinga

Sestina, for myself, perhaps

PROSE

9

Joe Dionne

The Great Ten Day Legume War

27

Stephan Hathaway

The Revival Meeting

41

Alan Shratter

II. Scherzo

57

Barbara Drake

Night Out


Figure without caption.
Justin Kestenbaum


W. Allen Taylor

Miami Beach: A Tittilating 
Intimation of the Unkept Promises 
In this Censored World.

A teddybear cries itself 
to sleep, 
as presidents discover 
freedoms bent 
and in the aura 
of Miami sea, 
bare legs writhe wilderness 
upon the beach.

There is no separate day 
among the sands. Aged poets 
watch the oceans roll away 
and suns go down — who have 
so many thoughts

they can’t define, 
so many memories

that don’t make sense.

Out of the palm trees 
as an emerald hand, 
fingers stretch to catch 
the early moon — 
while solitary lovers 
stroll the sand, 
in search of teddybears 
and presidents.

red cedar review/3


The Seer

Each time

I have learned things 
and things have come to me 
in this dark night:

A soup

An argument of stone

A spoon

And dust to polish my apparel

Once,

I will study nothing 
anymore. I will rest 
and let the world turn legend.

Among offices of earth,

I will seal envelopes 
on words others have written 
for my pay.

4/red cedar review


Arlington: Wound en Monument

The scars 
stand 
pale as bone 
white 
and glaring in the 
endless sun — 
row by row, 
stone by stone, 
bleeding silence 
upon wars 
long won.

red cedar review/5

Figure without caption.

John Stevens Wade

Morning

From the Dutch of Willem Brandt

To wake with the early morning 
rinsing through the honeycomb shutters, 
to dive, light as water, watertight, 
in the water-white morning spring.

Boys and birds have been up earlier, 
chattering they have flown into the mangoes;

also the girls, flower-slender, bending downwards, 
pounding sambal in their coconut shells.

Smell of black coffee and white rice 
keep the house still in intimate spheres.

White day, white heart, bleach-white clothes, — 
until the sun again points to zenith.

After the morning there comes a sadder tune; 
if one could only wake so as to sleep.

Girls, birds and the play of boys 
are of a premature paradise.

6/red cedar review


Trees seen from a train

From the Dutch of Guillaume van der Graft

Feathers of birds that

flew over the land in autumn

Pens dipped in the gall of the earth

with which one unexpectedly 
writes two or three words from warmer places

Hands of mother killers

sticking above the ground

The thin and hairy legs of almost invisible 
gods

or perhaps

Feathers of winged 
angels who

flew over the land in spring.

red cedar review/7


Afternoon in Medan

From the Dutch of Willem Brandt

The white houses on the green farms 
sleeping in the arms of the sun, 
a vine that spun some blue flowers 
on roofs glistening like broken glass.

Smoke-gray oxen rock slow carts 
over the loneliness of the street;

a thousand year old tree stands 
and tangles up his hair in boredom.

The world sleeps, one hears the breathing 
behind the eyelids of the sunshades.

The grass has stretched out over the fields 
under the shadow of the mango lane.

One is so tired; if only it were for always: 
to remain listening to one’s breathing 
and the thin clatter of wooden sandals.

One restlessly drives the vagabond blood.

8/red cedar review


the great ten day 
legume war of 
henri manteau

Joe Dionne

Henri Manteau, age thirty-seven, single, and slightly fat around the waist, knees 
and muscle joints, sat navel deep in the oily water of his porcelain tub and pushed 
a plastic soap-dish around the edge with his big toe. With his back pressed lightly 
against the cold recliner of the tub, he could see out the opened bathroom door, 
through the hall, and into his father’s bedroom, where the old man had lain for 
seven solid months without moving, and where three days ago Henri had taken 
him up his breakfast of pablum, strained rhubarb and root juice and found that 
he was indeed, after all, quite dead.

Now, after twenty-some odd years of scraping roots off potatoes, washing 
mushrooms and mustard greens, sticking his thumb through tomatoes to prove 
a point and generally feeling quite nasty about the whole thing, the empire was 
all his. Seventeen push carts, one large display table for in front of the building 
and a ’47 Dodge pick-up truck, would all undergo the sad paint job which 
signifies the passing of an empire from father to son. “Manteau And Son” had 
ceased to exist; crushed from the face of the city as sure as Henri’s heel sank the 
plastic soap-dish with one fatal swoop, sending oily water splashing over the 
tub, on the walls, mirror and wadded up clothes lying on the floor. Henri made 
a resolution to have Simple Tony repaint all of the signs first thing in the morning. 
“Henri Manteau, Fancy Fruit, Greens and Legumes.” He could see it in 
his mind already, the bright green paint staining the side of the old wooden push 
carts and the pick-up.

red cedar review/9


He was whistling softly when he stepped tenderly out of the tub and began 
drying himself with the chafing towel which left his pink flesh deep red and 
bristling. In the mirror he watched the rivulets of water wind their way through 
the coarse hair on his chest and down his body until the towel, wrapped tightly 
around his waist, trapped them and held them there like a giant sponge. He 
held his breath for a moment, swelling up his chest, and then in a burst of imprisoned 
air, opened up his mouth and let his belly sag under the weight of its 
own momentum.

The funeral went well, he thought. All seventeen push cart routes were represented 
except the Regents Drive route of Saragato Bondini, who had called yesterday 
and explained that his wife was in jail again and he would have to go and bail 
her out if he could borrow the money from an uncle, who lived on the North 
end somewhere. Henri had not minded Saragato’s absence, he even secretly 
elated at his bit of news since this would leave sixteen carts, an even number, 
and would thereby be much better suited to his plan.

And this morning when the hearse had wound its way through the crowded 
streets, past Duke George’s Park and into the brass gates of the 39th Street 
cemetery, Henri had viewed with quiet anticipation and a pang of creative 
happiness the sixteen vegetable carts, eight on each side which formed a wooden 
honor guard, tipped up on their front sides with their handles pointed towards 
the sky on forty-five degree angles, between which Henri, two uncles in the dry- 
cleaning business, and three of the elder Manteau’s friends had carried the corpse 
and laid it in the bright green ground as if it were a turnip bulb.

He remembered too, as he slowly dressed before the mirror, taking great 
pains to fasten the black band of mourning around his jacket sleeve, the last 
conversation he had had with his father, before the elder Manteau had refused 
to utter another word to his son five months ago. It was two months after his 
father had taken to his bed, never to arise from it again, and almost a year since 
the death of his mother. When his mother had died that cold morning in November, 
the elder Manteau had ceased all pretense of good health and had contacted 
Lumbago, Rheumatism, Emphysema and Cataracts in both eyes in rapid succession. 
He soon became a hopeless invalid and took to his bed where he quite 
crankily tried to run the business while Henri did all of the work. Their greatest 
difference concerned the “Marbury St. Maulers,” a gang of perhaps forty youths 
between ten and sixteen years old, who had been terrorizing “Manteau and Son” 
for the past year or so. The elder Manteau’s policy had been one of appeasement, 
sending out each day two push carts laden with ripe fruit into the heart of the 
“Mauler’s” territory where they were quickly ransacked of their goodies, and the 
route men returning with an empty cart and tales of unbelievable torture and 
harassment. In this way, the elder Manteau reasoned at least fifteen of the carts 
could go safely about their business without fear of piracy or threat to human life.

Henri, however, thought of himself as a member of the new breed. He was 
convinced that the “Mauler’s” were being paid for their services by the owners 
of the “Open Air Market” at the corner of Canton and 37th Street, just four blocks 
up Canton St. from “Manteau and Son’s.” This, to him, was a direct slap in the 

10/red cedar review


face of the American Way and free competition—with this in mind he quite 
naturally advocated a declaration of war, and a complete annihilation of the 
enemy—which to him was the open air market.

“We could poison their fish.” He told his father on the morning of their last 
conversation.

“You’re an ass.” His father answered, not moving a single aching muscle 
except his lips.

“Why don’t we arm our route men?”

“Anarchy.”

“Tear gas?”

“Geneva Convention.”

Henri had paused in the dying man’s room, calling up all of his courage and 
will power before asking the question he had been asking himself since his father 
had took to bed.

“Why don’t you let me run the business?”

His father had lain quietly for a full minute, not seeming to breathe, before 
he finally answered his son’s question.

“Get out.” He said quietly.

“You’re dying.”

“Out.”

“I could sell more fruit and vegetables in the next year, then you’ve sold all 
your life.”

“Not til I’m dead you won’t.”

“I could finish the “Maulers” in one fatal swoop.”

“Ha!”

“I could.”

“Get out.”

“You’ll see.” Said Henri, his conviction making his voice crack.

“No I won’t. I’ll be dead.” His father groaned with the effort that the conversation 
was taking of him.

“I’ll piss on your grave.” Said Henri, and thereby ended the last conversation 
between “Manteau and Son.”

For the next five months Henri had followed his father’s policy of appeasement 
with the “Marbury St. Mauler’s.” Each morning sending out the two decoy carts, 
filled with fruit and vegetables, to be offered as sacrifice to the “Maulers.” His 
father grew increasingly worse, as the time passed, losing all muscle co-ordination 
in his body and finally growing blind in both eyes. Each day, morning and night, 
Henri would fix a tray of strained food and juices and take them up to his father, 
who lay unseeing as Henri poured them down his throat—often a little rougher 
than necessary, and sometimes a little hotter than was good for the old man. 
When this happened Henri would stand smilingly by and watch the tears form 
in the corner of the useless eyes and wait eagerly for his dying father to curse at 
him. But with nothing left working but his dignity, the elder Manteau maintained 
a supreme silence between his son and himself, until the night before he died. 
On this occasion the strained lettuce and leeks had been too hot to even swallow, 

red cedar review/11


and in a final burst of defiance the old man had sprayed the mouthful all over 
Henri’s suit and muttered, “bastard.”

The following morning, Henri found him dead.

Henri finished tying his tie and walked boldly into his father’s room, noticing 
that for the first time the air did not smell of rotting organs and the soupy substances 
which filled the plastic sacks which he had faithfully tied around his 
father’s groin for seven months. He rummaged around the old mahogany chest 
for a while until he found the diamond stick-pin his father had brought with him 
from France sixty-odd years ago, with his young pretty wife, a heart filled with 
dreams and a philosophy of live and let live. He fastened the pin on his chest, 
put on his jacket, and glancing at the empty bed, smiled and said aloud, “You’ll 
see.” And then whistling loudly, rubbing his hands in anticipation of the coming 
battle, went out to get gloriously drunk at his father’s wake.

The rising of the sun, the next morning, found Henri Manteau, slightly pale, 
with a bad taste in his mouth, helping Simple Tony set up the vegetable and 
fruit display in front of the building which housed the carts and the crates full 
of fresh fruit, vegetables and assorted greens. When the truck had pulled into 
the alley in back of the building, an hour and a half ago, to unload the wooden 
crates of produce products, Henri had been quick to inform the fat old German 
from the Central Produce Warehouse that He, Henri Manteau, was now running 
the business and that he refused to be cheated in the same manner as his father.

“I’ll give you a hundred and twenty for the lot.” He said.

“You vill give me ein hoondred und vorty dolla or you vill go to hell.” The 
fat German said while eating one of Henri’s apples.

And after giving the German a check for a hundred and forty dollars, Henri 
and Simple Tony set to work in repainting the seventeen push carts.

It was surprising, Henri thought, how everybody liked to take advantage of 
an honest Frenchman. Even Simple Tony, who was as Henri often said, “the 
dumbest dago since Nero,” betrayed the trust which Henri and his father had 
shown him in giving him a chance to do odd jobs and cart repair, by every afternoon 
falling asleep on the onion bin while waiting until the carts returned.

“It’s all out war.” Henri told the men as they assembled to collect their carts 
for their day’s selling. And with this thought stirring in their morning heads, he 
passed out wooden clubs which he had patiently whittled from oak wood during 
his father’s long illness in hopes and secret anticipation of this day. The appeasement 
policy was over, he told the men, the two decoy carts would no longer be 
sent into the heart of the “Mauler’s” territory, but would instead skirt the outside 
and carry out business as usual. Any assault on body or vegetables was to be 
met with force and instant retaliation. To the two or three new men, who had 
gathered in hopes of a peaceful job, and making a silent living among the tenement 
and apartment houses of the lower west side of the city, selling vegetables, 
fruits and legumes, he explained the need of arming themselves and gave a capsule 
summary of the so far one-sided battle between the Manteaus and their enemy, the 
open air market. He asked if there were any questions, one of the new men walked 
out, and one of them said, “What the hell’s a legoom?”

12/red cedar review


When the men had left on their routes, Henri took a plain white sheet of paper 
and scratched out in simple hand-writing:

Open Air Market,

Corner, Canton & 37th St.

Gentlemen:

BEWARE.

signed it H. Manteau, of “Henri Manteau, Fancy Fruits, Greens and Legumes,” 
and gave it to Simple Tony to deliver. With his mind rising through the alcohol 
fog to the glory and spoils of war, he then set himself to sweeping up the loose 
lettuce leaves, potato roots and string beans.

The afternoon passed without incident, the “Maulers” perhaps caught off 
guard by the absence of the two decoy carts. Simple Tony brought back an 
answer from the manager of the Open Air Market, which read simply: “Do I 
know You?” “Ha.” Said Henri, with vivid expectations of the next day.

Henri’s expectations were not to be disappointed either, for the following 
afternoon the Woolton Ave. route man returned with minor lacerations and 
several bruises minus the cart which he had abandoned in lieu of his life.

“Coward.” Said Henri and dismissed the man on the spot.

“Fascist.” Said the shaken man and informed Henri that he had already quit.

Henri dispatched Simple Tony to retrieve the cart, and the man left protesting 
vigorously, armed with two clubs, but returned later with the cart with no further 
incident. Henri’s next thoughts were on an ample battle plan. It seemed that 
clubs were not the answer, the Maulers had descended on the Woolton Ave. route 
man with such superior numbers that not even the flaying club had much effect, 
indeed it only angered the gang to seek revenge of a more physical nature than 
just stealing the produce.

The next morning found a smiling Henri watching the route men leave, their 
carts laden with produce, and today’s special, parsley sprigs—a nickel a piece, 
and in each of their pockets a mail-order tear-gas cartridge, disguised as a fountain 
pen, which Henri had purchased months ago and hidden under a crate of 
cabbage hearts in preparation for the war. When the last cart had left, Henri 
had Simple Tony deliver another note to the Open Air Market, which read:

Open Air Market,

Corner, Canton & 37th St.

Gentlemen:

The Pen is mightier than the club.

H. Manteau

red cedar review/13


When Simple Tony came back with an answer, he was munching on an avocado, 
which Henri knew he had got from the Open Air Market and to him was a sure 
sign of treason, but his fears were belayed by the answering message which read: 
“Are you as crazy as your messenger?”

The afternoon was hot, muggy and filled with the little surprises that make 
modern warfare a thing of beauty. Giovanni deLancio, of the West Washington 
St. route, called in early in the afternoon from the 33rd St. Hospital and Veterinary 
Clinic, where he was undergoing treatment for toxic poisoning after gassing himself 
on his lunch-break while trying to write his uncle Vicento a letter with the 
new pen Henri had given him. And later the 16th Police Precinct, on Boulder 
Dam Drive telephoned Henri and told him they were holding a Guisseppi Papa 
for malicious attack on an eight year old boy who, while trying to buy his crippled 
mother some celery, without provocation, the same Guisseppi Papa, had taken a 
vile of tear gas and let the youth have it flush in his startled little face. The cops 
told Henri that Guisseppi P. had said that he was acting on Henri’s orders, to 
which Henri answered that he didn’t know any Guisseppi P. and would the 
police be so kind as to hold the push cart at the station, while Henri would send 
over a man to retrieve it, since it had more than likely been stolen by this infamous 
Guisseppi P. “Stupid Dagos” Henri muttered.

The afternoon was not without its victories though. The enemy, in the person 
of the Mercenary “Marbury St. Maulers,” had been contacted on Century St., 
35th St., by the river, and on 38th St. near Duke George’s Park. There were reports 
of wholesale confusion due to the gas attack on the part of the enemy, and 
also alas, a few innocent bystanders had received a blast or two, but Henri 
rationalized this by remembering that civilian casualties are to be expected. 
Although the tear gas took its toll on the enemy, and Henri mentally danced a 
slight jig at the thought of the “Maulers” crying and wailing like babes from the 
gas, it was decided that the gas was to be discontinued, owing to the fact that 
once released, the gas was uncontrollable and a crying route man can’t sell many 
onions, not to mention legumes.

If the Open Air Market thought Henri’s gas attack cowardly and against the 
accepted conventions of warfare, they did not give Henri the satisfaction of this 
knowledge. For in answer to Henri’s note the next morning, which read in full: 
“I am preparing to CLEAN OUT your nest.” was another inept ruse from the 
Market which read: “Have you escaped from somewhere?”

And “Clean out” was exactly what Henri did. After the fat old German had 
delivered the morning’s produce, with his usual neighborly greeting and friendly 
banter: “You vill gift me ein hoodredt und vorty-vive dolla or I vill poot mein 
boot up your aschlope.” Henri and Simple Tony had taken all of the fruit and 
produce which the “maulers” were most likely to steal and had soaked them in 
boiling, oily, soapy water—letting them soak long enough for the oil and soap to 
penetrate the fruit like a sponge. After this they had taken the fruit and put them 
into the cold storage bin to harden them up so that one could not tell they had 
been “spiked.” When the men came for the carts, Henri passed out the little 
“gifts” to two or three of the routes which had been most often hit in the past by 

14/red cedar review


the “Maulers,” and when the men had left, settled back in his makeshift office 
cackling and giggling like a man with witch-craft on his mind.

This was by far Henri’s most subtle and ingenious thrust in the three day 
old war, and Henri congratulated himself abundantly for his resourcefulness and 
craft in the face of superior numbers. That afternoon when the men returned, 
Henri found out that all had gone as planned; the carts with the “spiked” fruit 
had been ransacked with unusual vigor by the “Maulers,” who Henri supposed, 
were trying a new offensive to retaliate for the gas attack of yesterday. Of course, 
some of the fruit had fallen into the hands of civilians who bought them, but this 
was inevitable in order not to arouse suspicion.

“It’s almost poetic,” thought Henri Manteau before going to bed that night.

The effects were immediate, it was a sure victory for Henri, a small one to be 
sure, and one which would not last, but at least it would serve to warn the enemy 
command post at the Open Air Market that they were dealing with a foe of no 
small cunning. So sure of himself, was Henri, that he sent his route men out 
the next morning, the fourth day of battle, unarmed and unaided to carry on a 
normal day’s business. And when the men returned that afternoon, Henri found 
that, as he had expected, there had been no incidents, not one single cart had 
been bothered. The “Marbury St. Maulers” were nowhere in evidence, except 
perhaps one or two sitting on tenement steps looking very pale and weak. The 
afternoon paper confirmed the results of Henri’s brilliant coup by devoting a 
small column on the back page which told of an outbreak of dysentery and 
diarrhea in the lower West end of the city, perhaps due to oil and soap in the 
West End Water Reservoir, or some other unknown factor. The snarl of the 
victor was on Henri’s firm jaw as he took pen and scribbled a note to the Open 
Air Market; “Gentlemen: Do I detect a weakening in the very Bowels of the 
enemy forces?” And when Simple Tony returned a half-hour before Henri was to 
close the shop, on this day of glory, with blood dripping from his already pug 
nose and a very perplexed look on his face, with a verbal message from the 
Hierarchy at the Open Air Market, which was in full: “SHIT,” Henri knew that 
while the battle was his, the war had just begun.

Henri Manteau spent most of the weekend, sitting in the porcelain tub, navel 
deep in oily water, pushing the soap dish around the edge with his toe and contemplating 
the first week of the war—and speculating on the week to come.

He was sure the “Maulers” would recover sufficiently to resume their attacks 
on the push carts, since the diarrhea could only be expected to last three days at 
the most. Henri was positive that the second week of the war would see increased 
contact with the enemy. He was also sure that the war could not be won by 
isolated victories over the “Marbury St. Maulers,” they were only pawns in the 
general scheme of things which found the Open Air Market as the real enemy. 
If the war was to be decided finally and decisively in Henri’s favor, then the 
Open Air Market must be the final battlefield. As Saturday grew into Sunday 
and the water in the tub grew colder and quite noticeably oilier, Henri formulated 
the plan which would insure final victory and bring the Open Air Market begging 
to the bargaining table. For the time being, though, he would be content to sit 

red cedar review/15


tight and watch the general drift of events.

Monday found the “Henri Manteau, Fancy Fruit, Greens and Legumes” route 
men venturing out for the day’s business unarmed and without ploy. Monday 
afternoon found the route men returning with battered carts, bloody heads and 
wounded dignity. The “Maulers” were indeed recuperated from their bouts with 
dysentery and ripe for the fray. They had descended upon four or five of the 
routes with wrecking bars, clubs and curses, dismantling carts, bruising chins, 
and slandering ancestors—and in two separate instances dumping containers of 
substances over the route men and their carts which hinted slightly at the last 
correspondence from the Open Air Market to Henri.

Tuesday and Wednesday brought further destruction and havoc, and the route 
men were clammering for Henri to either do something or sue for peace. The 
time had come, thought Henri, the “Maulers” showed no sign of letting up, they 
were attacking with seeming impunity more and more routes, and it was getting 
harder to keep the men on the job. The crowning blow, however, came Wednesday 
afternoon when a message was delivered to Henri, by a sinister looking fellow 
who rode by on a bicycle and threw a wrinkled scrawl, wrapped around a spoiled 
grapefruit, into the opened door and splattering on the newly swept floor. The 
message was of course from the Open Air Market and read: “Surrender now, 
you have nought to lose save your legumes.” “Ha!” Said Henri Manteau, “the 
time has come H. Manteau says/to speak of many things/of silent shoes/of burping 
fish/and who’s the cabbage king.”

Wednesday night, the ninth day of the war, Henri Manteau and Simple Tony 
worked far into the morning. The one hundred and fifty fresh fish that Henri 
had ordered in preparation for the plan were brought out of the cold storage and 
laid in a neat row on the display table, which Henri and Simple Tony had brought 
in after the shop had closed its doors to the usual day’s business. From under a 
pile of Rutabegs, Henri brought out a large wooden box filled with three-hundred 
Mexican Cherry Bombs, which he had quite illegally acquired. And then with 
Simple Tony making slight slits, with a long knife, under the jaw bone of each 
fish, Henri stretched the mouth open with his fingers and rammed two Cherry 
Bombs down the throat with a screw driver. When this was finished after several 
hours of work, intermittently broken up with long peals of fiendish laughter on 
Henri’s part, and worried looks on Simple Tony’s, they loaded the crates of 
loaded fish onto the bed of the ’47 Dodge pick-up, along with three five gallon 
cans of colorless, odorless, but very inflammable Methane Gas, and sat back 
to wait.

At Four in the morning, while it was still dark, Henri Manteau, dressed in 
black from head to toe, and looking very much the part of an international spy, 
woke up Simple Tony from his onion bin bed, slipped into a blackened pair of 
tennis shoes, and the two men started out for the Open Air Market.

They parked the pick-up in back of the Market in an alley off 39th St. and 
watched as the workers in the market made the final preparations for the day’s 
business. Henri was rubbing his sweating hands in preparation as he watched 
some tired looking men put the last fish in the display bins towards the rear of 

16/red cedar review


the market. When the men had finished and had moved off towards the other 
side to begin arranging vegetables and fruit, Henri poked Simple Tony awake, 
and the last stage of the last battle was started.

One by one they carried the crates of loaded fish to the market’s fish bins, 
and after pulling the plug in the bottom of the bin and letting out the water, 
began substituting the market’s fish for their “peace” offerings. Being very careful 
to work swiftly and silently, they were not detected by the men at the other 
end of the market. When the last fish had been substituted and they had carried 
the crates of the market’s good fish back to the truck, they took the three cans of 
Methane Gas and poured them into the bins. When they were finished and the 
truck loaded with the empty gas cans, Henri took a last look at the bins filled 
with his loaded fish and thought to himself, that “it would, indeed, be a festive 
morning.”

When the route men had gathered to pick up their carts for the day’s work, 
they found a happy Henri Manteau, rubbing his belly and glowing with the 
thought of the errand he was to run later in the morning. After the usual protestations 
of the route men at being sent out unarmed and without benefit of 
subtle ruse to ward off the attacks of the “Maulers,” Henri laughed secretly and 
went about the business of sweeping up the fallen radishes, spinach leaves and 
bits of celery stalks—on sale today at 34 cents.

At 10:30 a.m. it was time. He woke Simple Tony up, and together they got 
into the pick-up and drove the four blocks down Canton St. to the Open Air 
Market. He had timed it perfectly, the market was filled with a capacity crowd, 
mostly older women with printed scarves and flowery house dresses. They sat 
for a moment and watched the flourishing market place until Henri told Simple 
Tony that it was time. After a minute or two of useless protesting as to why he 
should be the one to do it, Simple Tony got out of the truck, walked across the 
street and was soon lost in the market crowd. Henri gave Simple Tony enough 
time to drop the match into the bin, and when nothing seemed to be happening, 
thought for a moment if perhaps he should go and see what was wrong. All of 
a sudden, there was a faint scream, followed by several louder screams, and 
Henri gleefully saw a cloud of dark smoke rising from the fish bin area. He 
watched the people at first shrink back, and then press forward to see how it was 
that a fish bin had caught fire—and then the first fish exploded.

It was funny, Henri thought, the tears of laughter streaming down his face, 
how people panic when faced with a minor problem. The people were making 
shambles out of the market, as the fish continued to erupt, sending pieces of 
scales, guts, meat and fish heads flying in hundred foot radii, they were knocking 
over cabbage bins, stamping on bushels of tomatoes, throwing one another into 
grapefruit shelves, and just generally making a pretty sticky mess. Pandemonium 
reigned supreme as Henri Manteau doubled himself over the steering column, 
unable to control his fits of laughter. Bits of fish were raining out of the sky in 
great oozing lumps and the shoppers were having difficulty maintaining their 
footing. As the crescendo of the exploding fish reached its zenith and then 
dwindled down to minor bursts and sporadic popping, Henri saw the first poorly 

red cedar review/17


organized rescue crew winding its way through the squashed cantaloupe, kicking 
aside the isolated heaps of cauliflowers, groping onward through the red mire 
of a thousand mutilated tomatoes and red beets to finally reach their objective 
of a group of women who had either fainted after being felled with a fish head 
or had been trampled in the following surge of flower print dresses and printed 
scarves with entrails dripping from them. He sat for a while longer and then 
turning on the windshield wipers to clear the windows of eyes and scales, drove 
around the corner and out of sight of the disaster area. The last thing that 
Henri Manteau saw as he rounded the corner at 39th St. was a grown man sitting 
amidst the drippings and red squeezings of an overturned watermelon display, 
his face turned towards the sky as if asking for some sort of supplication, 
and crying like a baby.

When Henri brought the pick-up around back in the alley of his shop, and 
went inside for a pail and water to begin wiping the fish smell off the old blue 
Dodge, he found Simple Tony breathing heavy with an obvious look of fear 
and dread covering his face.

“Is theyma come get me?” Simple Tony asked like a child.

“Theyma no come get you,” said Henri, “the enemy is kaput.”

At two-thirty five that afternoon, the same sinister looking messenger came 
peddling his bike up to the front of Henri’s shop, and instead of the indignity of 
throwing a message tied to a rotting grape-fruit, left the bicycle in front of the 
shop and personally delivered a note to Henri Manteau. This was the moment, 
Henri thought, after the months of appeasement, and the humiliation suffered 
at the hands of the “Marbury St. Maulers.” The moment of truth had finally 
come. Henri drew himself up to his full height, which was five foot nine inches, 
and drawing a deep breath read:

H. Manteau

Henri Manteau, Fancy Fruits, Greens and Legumes 
Canton St.

Sir:

We have been devastated by an inhuman weapon, 
we have no choice save honorable surrender. Trusting 
in your humanity, we therefore sue for peace under 
your conditions. Awaiting your answer.

Yours in Defeat,

Open Air Market,

Corner of Canton and 37th St.

18/red cedar review


That afternoon saw a proud and majestic Henri Manteau stroll victoriously into 
the office of the Open Air Market. The surroundings were one of untold destruction 
and bedlam, and in the middle of it all was the man Henri had seen sitting amidst 
the sad, broken watermelons, looking very much sad and broken himself. With 
the Armistice thus procured and an agreement in words from the manager to 
call off the mercenary “Maulers,” and also not to sell artichokes at less than 39 
cents a half dozen, Henri Manteau walked out of the Open Air Market, carefully 
stepping over scattered parts of fish, mushmelon and some peas in a pod, and 
into the sunlight which he rightfully claimed as belonging to him.

And that same night, Henri Manteau, age thirty-seven, single, and slightly fat 
around the waist, knees and muscle joints, stood spread eagle over his father’s 
ten day old grave, thinking of the short war and the decisive victory that was 
his, the twenty some odd years of scraping roots off potatoes, washing mushrooms 
and mustard greens, sticking his thumb through tomatoes to prove a point, the 
agony of the seven months spent emptying vicious smelling plastic sacks, and 
of the last conversation with his late lamented father. He stood for another 
moment, watching the moon drift under some heavy clouds and the shadow 
passing over the grave-stone, listening to the sound of the liquid splashing onto 
the bright green soil and slowly seep into the earth, and then slowly zipped up 
his trousers, looked down at the grave for the last time, said “You see,” and then 
turned and walked out of the 39th St. cemetery, never to return.

red cedar review/19

Figure without caption.

Melvyn S. Bucholtz

First Freeze

My turned boat stuck,

A dark maple hung

Fast in thin river ice.

The early grey lifted

Through the olive marsh

Shivering grass; the dull wind

Breathed bass

Over the brown gelatin water, stuck logs 
Gasped air bubbles

Morning unstilled frozen teeth

Along drying rock juts, beginning 
Water again.

A great blue crane

Hugged his way

Up the cove, all day I tried

Making his passing

Sound beating air over river 
Ice, with my mouth.

20/red cedar review


Figure without caption.
Mel Bucholtz

red cedar review/21


Free Weekend

Days in and out fell

Into last week

by paycheck; she and I grew 
Accepting the unevenness of being 
Together loving by telegram 
A refrigerator’s assorted chills;

Hope wolfing down spare minutes 
Slow looking at her undoing

Boots in the hallway, loping

Into the kitchen’s hundred watts, and 
We ended that insanity Friday 
Horsing all the way around 
To Sunday.

22/red cedar review


Old Man reading James Fennimore Cooper

A dark coat

Wraps the dreaming man

Into his chair’s walnut cradle;

Making pictures

Clear from words

Bright air dazzling

The river’s back

Before

Presence of black nyloned girls 
Whispering legs

Scraping heels across the room, 
He coughs phlegm

In a handkerchief stuffed

To his mouth, stutter fingering 
His glasses back

Up his nose; lips

Reading into a dark

Lightness of his mind.

red cedar review/23


Gary Gildner

Watching “Une Femme Mariee” Commit Adultry 
in the basement of the Episcopal Church

& suddenly the folded chairs 
won’t work. It’s pure French, 
this smooth maneuvering 
by the movie club, & heads

are blocking the language 
of love. We want more 
than just her thighs 
filling up the screen, her

staring eyes — we need 
to see, underneath the meeting 
of their hands, the translation. 
The lucky ones in front,

they sit still as silhouettes — 
but we can’t jockey 
fast enough. Again 
the reel takes the phrase

too soon — what did he say? —

& her lips 
like private worship 
only whisper . . .

24/red cedar review


Driving to Ankeny

She was naked — straight ahead 
and smack between the cornstalks 
closing in. So I slowed down, 
reached over, and stroked her 
on the knee — exactly where 
the sun had touched it rouge! 
Warmed up, I had to stop 
of course, and then my nerve expanded 
quietly and quietly I found her fur.

You know how a trout will hold 
so still, just before you dip 
your finger in the pool? Her eyes — 
I mean they didn’t move, and yet 
they had killdeer braking down 
for miles around, screaming 
I am here I am here 
and there I was! All skin & bones 
and on the verge of everything if 
only she would move 
or make a sound. Love, 
I said, we know each other. Look! 
I am here here

It didn’t work. In fact her face 
just lay there like the land’s.

Well, there was nowhere else to go 
but Ankeny and so

I shifted into first 
and drove that way. Oh now and then 
you turn and catch a cow 
in pure relief, a sow 
scratching her belly . . .

But it’s not enough 
to keep you from dreaming.

red cedar review/25


On a Certain Sweet Delicious After-Napping Noon

of creamy

luscious pink, a lady 
waking wished 
to get plucked up

like a rose — like a long, long 
lonely oh so absolutely 
perfectly cozy rose

by a water fall, by a tall tall tall! 
European water fall —

but (thrusting

up, up, straight up to the sky 
her bare white happy afternapping 
arms & cooing big, bigger, biggest

blue eyes at her sassy little 
kitty Mister Fu Man

Chu) not

too, too hard.

26/red cedar review


THE

REVIVAL 
MEETING

Stephan Hathaway

We couldn’t go over to Art’s house on certain days. His father, Reverend 
Hewitt, was the pastor of the Baptist church in our town and if we went to play 
basketball on Sunday, his mother would say, “Arthur, ask Clarence and Dave 
if they want to go to the meeting with you tonight.” We didn’t see much sense 
in that, especially if we’d been to church in the morning. It just didn’t seem 
natural to go to church twice in one day so we didn’t go over there on Sunday. 
We didn’t go much on Wednesdays, either. They had Baptist Youth Meetings 
on Wednesday. We went once. They had refreshments, but everybody prayed 
over them so much that we didn’t want them by the time we got to eat them. 
Art had a swell basketball net on his garage. We went on most of the other 
days. We liked Art.

One Thursday we were playing HORSE. In HORSE everybody has to 
make a shot that someone chooses. You take turns, and if you miss the shot 
you get a letter until it spells HORSE and then you’re out. Art’s mother came 
out and asked us if we wanted to go to the Youth Revival that night. We didn’t 
want to go, but there she was. We looked at the basketball net and said we’d go.

They came to get me first. When we went to Clarence’s house he wasn’t 
ready so we had to wait. Art’s father had a splendid new church with new red 
carpets and loud speakers so everybody could hear the sermon. And it had big 
windows but you couldn’t see out of them because they were made out of 
colored glass. They didn’t have pictures; just designs. It seemed funny to have 
such big windows and not be able to see out of them. Everything considered, 
is was a pretty nice church.

red cedar review/27


We got there early because Reverend Hewitt had to greet everybody when 
they came in the door. We went in and found good seats on the right side 
near the front. Art and Clarence played tic-tac-toe on the cards that were stuck 
on the back of the seat in front of us. I looked at the people. When they came 
in they usually looked around to see who was there, or they prayed for a while, 
or they looked at the windows. They didn’t look at the windows too much because 
they couldn’t see anything. It was night and the sun wasn’t shining. 
Those windows aren’t much when the sun isn’t shining. Mostly, the people 
looked around and tried to get their children to be quiet. Since is was the 
children’s revival there were a lot of little kids all over trying to get saved. 
Clarence asked me what they had to be saved for and I told him I didn’t know, 
and I didn’t. But it seemed all right. One lady told her little boy that if he 
didn’t stop squirming around he would have to go home and wouldn’t get saved. 
I think she would have done it, too, but he quieted down.

Art’s father couldn’t see us too well from the pulpit. I guess that’s why we 
picked the seats we did. We could see all right and didn’t have to worry about 
Art’s father watching us. Pretty soon, he came in with a guest minister and 
went up to the front and looked at the altar for a little while. He made out like 
he was praying, but I knew he was just doing that so people would think he 
was doing a good job. I’ve seen him do that lots of times. After that he looked 
around at the people there and we guessed it was all right to begin the meeting 
because he started right away. First, he had everyone sing “Rock of Ages” 
and it sounded pretty bad but he said it was fine. Clarence and I knew he 
was lying, but we didn’t say anything to Art. We just snickered a little but 
didn’t let on that we thought the singing was bad. Next, Reverend Hewitt made 
everybody turn around and get acquainted with the people behind and in front 
of them. We talked to the people behind us and they said they were happy to 
see three such fine-looking Christians. We said we were happy to see them, too. 
Next, we sang another song and passed a plate around. Clarence and I 
fumbled around a little and then put in a dime each. Art put in a quarter. 
But he got it from his dad. And his dad got it from another collection. So his 
money didn’t count, really.

After that, Art’s father introduced Reverend Morrisen, who was the guest 
minister and who was going to deliver the sermon. Since it was the night of 
the children’s revival, he started talking about how hard it was to be a good 
Christian in this day and age, what with the terrible influences that were 
always present. He insulted the Devil a good deal, but he said that he could 
see that the children in the audience were good and wouldn’t give in to Lucifer. 
We guessed he wasn’t looking at Gloria Watkins. He also said that youth, he 
called children youth, should look to the simple joys of life. Reverend Morrisen 
claimed that the best time he ever had was when he took a bunch of youth 
from his church roller skating on Saturday night. We didn’t believe him one 
bit and we couldn’t see how he could even get a bunch of youth to go roller 
skating on Saturday night. Clarence and I had a good snicker over that. 
Pretty soon he finished and announced that we were a fine group of Christians 

28/red cedar review


and if everybody was like us, there wouldn’t be any juvenile delinquents.

Next, Art’s father got up and said it was time for testimonials. It sounded 
like a good idea, but nobody would volunteer. He scanned the audience until 
he found Art and then he looked at him and we knew that Art was going to give 
a testimonial. He said he knew the Lord through his works and mentioned 
how lovely nature was. When he sat down again, he looked at the floor so 
nobody could see his face. Pretty scon, another man stood up and said he 
discovered Jesus when his wife had a baby. After that, there were hands all 
over and it seemed like each person had discovered Jesus in a better way than 
the last person. I figured that they needed Art to get them started. After the 
testimonials, Reverend Hewitt announced that it was time for the salvation of 
all the youth in the congregation.

He said we would sing “Gathering In The Sheaves” for awhile and that the 
children should come up whenever the mood struck them. We sang “Gathering 
In The Sheaves” for about three verses and nobody had got up to be saved yet. 
Reverend Hewitt stopped the song and told how bad Hell was and how nice 
Heaven was and that the youth who got saved that night would go straight to 
Heaven. He didn’t say anything about the youth who didn’t get saved, but we 
had a pretty fair idea of what to expect if we didn’t. He started the song all 
over again, but we decided that nobody wanted to be the first to have to go 
up to the front and get saved.

Clarence and I could see that Reverend Hewitt was in a bad spot. We knew 
that the youth in the congregation were just aching to get saved that night, but 
no one wanted to go first. We looked at each other and decided what to do. We 
couldn’t let Reverend Hewitt be embarrassed in front of Reverend Morrisen 
like that so we stood up and started to walk to the front to get saved. Art 
tried to stop us, but it was too late. When we got to the front, Reverend Hewitt 
was glad to see us because we didn’t go to his church. He probably thought he 
converted us. He asked Clarence if he was for the Lord and Clarence said he 
was. He asked me, too, and I told him I was for the Lord.

It was just like we thought. As soon as we went and got saved, the other 
youth got the notion and pretty soon you couldn’t even move because of all the 
youth seeking salvation. Reverend Hewitt said it was about the best revival he 
had ever seen and decided to save the adults that night too. They came up and 
then everybody started crying because it was so lovely to see everyone get 
saved like that. Art’s father decided to sing the last song in a big group in the 
front of the church. Everyone was glad when he picked an easy one that they 
all knew. After the song, we all went into the recreation room and drank punch 
and ate cookies and talked about how grand it was that all the people had got 
saved in one night. After that, Art’s mother drove us home and I said I was 
tired and went to bed.

But I couldn’t sleep. I kept wondering what would have happened if 
Clarence and I hadn’t gone up to get saved first. I thought about that a long 
time and I was still thinking about it when I fell asleep.

red cedar review/29


Figure without caption.
Microscope

Coleen Lee


Dream against the City

Mark McKeon

The soul dreams against the city

Grasses separate pavements,

And willows grow up in the glass eyes of dime stores.

A flight of sparrows drive half the cars off a bluff in Iowa, 
Tonight the hills of Kentucky will march north in shadows 
To take the small cities of Michigan at dawn.

The city spreads on populations of crushed glass and hubcaps, 
And makes us drowse in glass buildings in currents of cool air. 
In Illinois the glass fronts of Clark stations dry up the corn 
And drive darkness into Wisconsin.

We are like small animals we catch in our headlights, 
Fascinated by what will destroy them.

Soon only those who have fled to the mountains will be saved.

There is a clear vision of Rheims!

And we fall asleep like man freezing to death:

Bricks come out of walls talking politics with black men.

They agree to destroy all buildings with glass doors.

When we wake we have dreamt of the prairie,

A party of Sioux fording the Missouri with all their belongings. 
Headed into Canada, their ponies leave a track

On the deep grass.

red cedar review/31


On Seeing a Picture in Life of a Child

Gone Hungry in Biafra

Jerry Parrott

I thought the child 
was merely fat—

puffy about the 
wrists and ankles—

until I saw the gaunt 
grey cage of his chest

gone weak,

attempting

to stop the constant 
growing in upon himself

which threatened always 
to make him vanish

into slogans:

a kola nut for pennies 
kills hunger 
for twenty-four hours.

32/red cedar review


Ottone M. Riccio

Walking on the Beach

crunching sand

kicking shells

I wonder where she’s resting 
her impulse for living

sea rush of night

bring relief

who is current

in her burst of loving

waves smash light

to sparkling beads

wake me from my darkness 
rout the doubt that hounds me

beach sand wind

slide to sleep

whose burning lips

pressing pressing

red cedar review/33


Exodus

Easter Sunday 
people step carefully over me

I’m lying on the dining-room floor facing the kitchen 
looking frantically around 
all the faces are different

it’s my mother’s house 
my father brother sister wife are lost some time in the future 
the door to the kitchen swings shut

a solid glass pane

ten thousand brilliantly colored toothpicks 
spread rapidly over the glass blotting out the kitchen 
I study the myriad colors

your outline sketches itself against roomsounds 
you reach in the darkness to feel my scattered face 
the end of make believe whoring has drained 
our passion’s veins and we are white 
against the memory of ourselves

the slice of morning cuts through the windows 
they give us food at noon as though 
this is an ordinary day our bodies 
ignore the promise of three o’clock 
and even laugh as the cork plops out 
as we sip the last of this wine

metal sounds outside compose a violent dirge

in the shadows spreading geometrically 
under the afternoon he raises his ritual glove 
and signals the neat hunters 
the sentence leaps angularly across space 
to pin us sweating against the wall 
the whip of bullets cracks our sullen faces 
we slump as if the day has filled its coat

my mother glides through the door 
juggling the magnetized tapered splinters 
“get up” she whispers “we have guests 
try to act normal for once in your life” 
cursing under my breath I get up 
put on my coat 
and walk out to the street.

34/red cedar review


The Attack

crouched in the alley holed in the city

frozen eyes point at the street

a maker of patterns 
high-heeled 
in sultry exclusions 
warm hips 
thrusting forward

to meet

movements

from knees

passing through neon patches of sound 
gobbled by the shadows’ maws

torn coat bare head stuck in collar sidle in front of her

she stops

and screams without a voice the hand across her mouth sweaty and 
demanding her arms and fists flail air her teeth can’t find the 
edge of the stinking palm

gravel

stones

roll under her back

another hand reaches under her skirt

dimly then and now

an unwashed head

coarse cloth pressing her cheek 
rough stickfingers snagging her nylons 
voiceless screams wasted fists

and vivid

fall thrust swirling currents whirlpool sucking her down 
dirty watersuds swishing in her ears 
soaked feathers clinging to her thighs 
dissonant music pounding her heart

the involuntary reach of her arms around a hairy neck

red cedar review/35


Witchcraft

you sneak up onto my table 
change the soup to blood 
I drink but not until

I’m sure I’m alone

yesterday you turned my shavingbrush 
into a spray of orchids

I tried to write my message 
on the bathroom mirror 
the labella blurred the words

this morning my shoes were snakes 
I couldn’t force them on my feet 
I tried to cut their heads 
the knife became a feather 
tickling their skins

tomorrow will you 
with your playfullness 
mutate my favorite pipe 
into a deadly gun

36/red cedar review


A Final Discovery 

deliberate minutes 
hallucinate the thoughts I had 
lost now among the switches and buttons 
that stare at me

the radio still blares an indifferent music 
the left wheel two feet from the ground spins swiftly 
blood spurts from my nose and mouth

the deliberate minutes strut 
before my eyes 
the early morning ignores the crashed car

if I could move my arms and hands

I’d smash the radio

that refuses the silence due me

if I could move my eyes

I’d look at the early morning moving away from me 
if I could move my lips

I’d shout at the deliberate minutes 
that pushed me into high gear 
racing into the early morning 
that waited impartially 
for my decision

red cedar review/37


The Instructor sees John Calvin 
on a coed’s Shoulder

William A. Roecker

ho John, old acquaintance 
so the ride took you centuries 
and even to Oregon

a pretty one all right 
dressed for tennis 
knows her lessons too 
shot me down with a look 
lacking the humor of yours

her butt wobbles off to the courts 
I watch her go and you 
leering at us both

God bless, John

I’m off to class

38/red cedar review


Dependance
Dependance


Coleen Lee


At One O’clock

Harvey Tucker

You turn in a mask of midnight’s melting 
and tell me the heat in your toes 
has no beginning. . .

How softly we speak in our nearness.

The flesh of my body wears pajamas and thinks 
about poems. Your palms hang on your belly’s 
breathing like leaves entering summer.

It is taken for granted, the sometimes ridiculous 
poses of love.

But only we who have slept so close can hear 
the feather falling through thunder 
and know how much it weighs.

40/red cedar review


from Who

Greased 
the Spit 
Valve ?

Alan Shratter

II. Scherzo

The Giuseppe Verdi New Renaissance Blast Glass Variables always wrap up a 
night with a free-form version of Duke Ellington’s “Harlem Nocturne.”

“Last one,” I announced to our singular audience and turned to the boys. 
“I’ll start it off. Joe, you have the theme. Jeff, take the first ride.”

I turned my attention back to the piano, letting my fingers brush lightly over 
the keys, and investigated the fragmentary jumble of music passing through my 
mind. I looked up and caught the eyes of the boys — stocky Norm Skinner with 
his cigar directly across from me; Joe, Jeff, and Rusty in between — and gave 
them the nod.

My right hand found the correct position and then haltingly, almost reflectively, 
pressed out the opening notes to The Flying Dutchman. My left hand 
joined in and began building louder and louder, Jeff added his clarinet, Rusty’s 
trumpet blared and coming up to the first big blast we hit it, hard — Norm threw 
in a drumroll and we held that note, loud and long, with a dizzy balance and 
CHOP!

Echo in my piano. Joe Lakowski, tall man with a cool trombone, lifted the 
instrument to his lips and breathed into it. The Nocturne began. Three people 
were left in the semi-dark night club besides us. One grooved with the music, 
hunched over, tapping his fingers on the table, keeping time with the drummer’s 
brushstrokes. Of the two others, one counted the day’s profit while the second 
stacked chairs on empty tables and mopped the floor.

Joe played it straight, soft and slow, two choruses. He eased into the last of 

red cedar review/41


his solo, glided way down for a smooth pedal tone b-flat and then, suddenly, he 
slipped it, bit down, tensing it out low and mean.

“Yeah!” said Norm, jacking up his beat. Jeff Harris came in with some dissonent, 
atonal shenanigans from Wozzek — wild music, no melody, no harmony, 
no rhythm. Gradually he modified it, bounced the notes around, changed and 
twisted them into a slippery pattern of sound, an almost fluid flow that finally 
caught and matched the accelerating tempo. Rusty poked his trumpet through, 
dialogued with Jeff, all nervous valves and hard brass. Norm shifted to his tom- 
toms, alternating from 6/8 to 5/4 to 3/2 to 6/8, Jeff cut out and Rusty took his 
ride, free and easy, loud and clear and wide open, open all the way, and Norm 
slapped back to his snare — 4/4 — Rusty pulled in his loose ends, tightened up 
and increased his intensity, fingers blurring, moving so fast it sounded like 
double stops. Strict time, now. A scat Bach harpsichord fugue. I took up the 
bass line, left-handed it in.

“Counterpoint, counterpoint,” grinning I chanted. Rusty slipped out and 
I dug my way down about a second or two and gave it away to the little round 
man over there with the drums. Running he snatched it, left and right, dodging 
and twisting, his cigar wagging — belting his bass, snare and tom-toms, a bash 
of cymbal — 2/3 — 6/4 — 13/10 — God knows. Low trombone from Rigoletto, 
“Questa o quella,” a fast half measure, Joe spitting it out — and then Rusty, a 
different tune — perky and impetuous. We all joined in, one by one, wail and 
staccato and around it all my piano weaving a fast-fingered run of clinks and 
dives that accented, pointed up, and pushed everyone forward up, up, an octave 
or more, blasting out — wham! wham! the drummer man pounded his side snare 
and we rocked, stepped out together like a sure-footed cat, stepped out together 
throwing it around, rounded that corner throwing it around while Norm raced 
and put on his brakes and slipped and slidded and finally collided — smack! — 
mashed all together, flinging and flying we all soared up and we all stomped 
down on

POP!

goes

the wea

sel

The kid looked up from his pail. “Hey, that sounds famliiar.”

“Mop your floor, Larry,” said Norm.

I closed the piano and jerked a nod to the man at the door. He flipped back 
a salute and went out. I got up, yawning, and stretched. “Man, it’s time to go 
to bed. Ten hours.”

“God damn,” said Rusty, half way to the bar, “a health addict. How’re 
things down on the yogurt farm?”

42/red cedar review


“Not too good — ever try to milk a horse?”

“I tried that once,” said Jeff, waving his hand at Rusty, then springing to his 
feet and lunging to one side and down to snag the lighter just before it hit the 
floor.

“All right,” said Norm. “A natural athlete.”

“Yeah, Daddy. I got rhythm.” He lit up. “Want to see me tap dance?”

“God spare us all,” said Rusty, pouring himself a drink. Jeff snapped his 
clarinet case shut. The owner walked out of his office and handed me three 
keys on a chain.

“Lock up, huh Max?”

“Sure. How was the take?”

“Lousy. Everyone’s over at that Festival thing.” He looked around. “Aren’t 
you ready to go yet, Larry? I haven’t got all night.”

“Just a second, Pop.” He lifted the last two chairs onto the table and swabbed 
the mop around. When he finished he stuck the mop into the pail and took 
them both into the back room. He reappeared a moment later, apron off, and 
walked out the door with his father.

Norm tightened the covers on his skins. “A couple more weeks like this and 
he might have to sell one of his Cadillacs.”

“Yeah, things are tough all over.”

“Life’s a bitch.”

“Damn right.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Joe, adjusting his glasses on his nose. “I propose 
a toast.”

“All right!” said Norm, laying aside his big green cigar and waddling over 
to the bar. He never drinks hard stuff, just beer — by the tank.

“Everybody ready?” Norm lifted his pitcher, Jeff his gin, Joe his highball, 
Rusty his Singapore Sling, and I searched around underneath the bar.

“There’s always someone.”

“Where the hell’s the ginger ale?” I asked.

“Here,” said Joe, passing it to me.

“Jesus Christ,” said Rusty, “doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, gets ten hours of 
sleep a night — the world may end tomorrow.”

“Where was I?”

I filled my glass. “You were proposing a toast.”

“Oh, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I propose a toast.”

“Come on, you long drink of water,” said Norm. “I’m getting thirsty.”

“A toast. To Miss Maria Gruner-hegge: may her future be prosperous, her 
fame secure, and her demise momentary.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Cheers.”

“Yeah, what’s the story here? — when do I get to take my horn and bash her 
head in with it?”

“Rusty, Rusty, I’m surprised at you,” said Joe. “Why can’t you be like Max 
over there — nice, easy going, happily married — ”

red cedar review/43


and drugged,” I finished.

“Rusty’s trouble,” said Jeff, “is he keeps getting his trumpets and his strumpets 
mixed up.”

“Well listen to Booker T. Harris over there — wit of the Western hemisphere. 
I hope everybody’s taking notes.”

Really now, Rusty is not at all unusual. For a trumpet player. I thought I 
was doing him and Jeff a big favor when I offered to rescue them from the 
Rhode House — a quietly notorious Rhode Island strip joint that puts on illegal 
shows and pays non-union rates. Turns out that they were there by choice, not 
by accident, and while Joe and Norm sat on the deal down here — stalling, making 
excuses and phone calls, sending telegrams (GIVE HER A HUNDRED 
FRANCS AND A TICKET BACK TO PARIS - LOVE AND KISSES) - I reasoned, 
cajoled, pleaded, begged, and threatened in that order. Blackmail was 
next on the list, but they wised up, said yes, and the G.V.N.R.B.G.V. more or less 
made the scene.

We have a pretty sweet deal here — permanent work, but two two-month 
vacations a year when we tour and do a little recording. The pay should be higher 
and the working conditions could be better, but we have an unlimited bar tab 
that makes up for a lot. For the others, anyway. Long ago it had become painfully 
evident that I could, but shouldn’t chug the alky. I have been known to 
get high on an over-ripe banana. I watched the boys slug it down, nursed my 
ginger ale, and after about half an hour we all made our way as best we could 
out to Joe’s car — it was his week.

“Sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“Naw, that’s alright, I’m fine.” He started it up and Jeff, adjusting his shades, 
launched into a parody of a local radio commercial.

“And now — for all of you — who come down right now — we have — this — 
deluxe bedroom suite — that — includes — a double bed — a dresser — a mirror — 
a nine by twelve — rug — an autographed — six foot high statue of — Sweet Daddy 
Grace — and — two — chests of drawers — all— for the fabulous price of — thirty 
dollars — ninety cents — and — in addition — this fabulous — clock radio — worth — 
seven and one half — food stamps — and — ”

“God, will you listen to that,” said Rusty. “He ought to be on T.V.”

“Who, me?” asked Jeff.

“No, the wooden Indian in the corner.” He took a drag. “Tell you what. I’ll 
talk a guy I know into giving you a break — he’s looking for a janitor.”

“Why, that’s awful white of you, Rusty.”

WHUMP ------ ScreeeeeeeeEECHH!

“I think you hit something, Joe.”

“Well now, let’s not jump to conclusions.”

He and I got out — we were in the front seat — and walked back behind the 
car. There laying in the road was one of those four-foot long yellow road barricades. 
The kind that have CAUTION painted on them in black, and have two 
perpetually blinking yellow lights. It was all bent up and smashed, the metal 
twisted, but the lights were still working. The others left the car and walked 
up to us.

44/red cedar review


“Well Joe, not being one to do anything half way, I see you’ve demolished it 
beyond all possible recognition. At least they can’t track you down this way.”

“I don’t recall that being there before,” he said.

“It wasn’t. It used to be standing in the road.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. It all comes back now.”

“What are we going to do with that thing?”

“Bury it.”

“Hell, let Joe run over it again. Once more ought to finish the job.”

Jeff cleared his throat. “Knowing the Highway Department as I do — ”

“ — he used to live in a ditch — ”

“ — they are going to view this action with a certain degree of disfavor.”

“Like how?”

“They goin’ t’send out the dawgs.”

“Weighing all alternatives,” I said, “it’s obvious that there is only one course 
of action open to us — we take it with us.”

We carried it to the car and crammed the thing in. The only way it would 
fit was to have it hanging over the front seat, and that was hell on driving since 
the metal legs stuck out all over the place. I hit the thru-town expressway and 
slipped into the passing lane. I was in a hurry to get home. Norm began slapping 
the seat, beating out a shuffling kind of rhythm, and Jeff started whistling “Sweet 
Georgia Brown.”

“What’s with this?” said Rusty. “God, after that Schoenberg bit tonight I 
thought you were going to pack up your prayer book and take a pilgrimage to 
Beirut. Worship at the grave of the Lord.”

“Oh? And where you planning to go after what you did to 'Work Song’?”

“You mean ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’? I cleared that last Sunday.”

“Yeah,” said Norm, “but in D major?”

“So what’s wrong with that?”

“It’s too easy,” said Joe. “Like filming a rape.”

“Alright everyone, cool it.” I had spotted a familiar blue and white flash 
up ahead and began slowing down. “Can’t you shut those blinkers off?”

“They don’t work that way, Daddy.”

“Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.”

“Into the valley of death. . . .”

The cop was parked on the median, and suddenly pulled out when I was 
almost on top of him. I swerved to the right, tires squealing, and just missed him.

“Oh God, passing on the right. They’ll hang your ass higher than the 
Washington Monument.”

“Ok gang, we play it by ear. It was his fault — take it easy and no sweat.” 
I pulled over to the side and the police car stopped behind me. There were two 
in the car and they both came out. The first walked up to the window.

“Hate to bother you, sir. May I see your driver’s license?”

Sure.

Rusty reached out and handed him a quarter.

“What’s this for?”

red cedar review/45


“Well aren’t you from the Salvation Army?”

“Officer,” I said, opening the door and getting out, “ah, we’ve all been to 
this party, see. They’re all pretty smashed — you know. I haven’t been drinking 
at all myself; you want to make any kind of test on me, that’s fine.”

Cop number two was looking into the car. “Hey, what’s that in there?” He 
saw Joe draped over the front seat, vainly trying to cover up the road barricade 
with his lanky frame.

“All right, all of you, get out,” said the first cop. “And bring that thing 
with you.”

TABLEAU: The Giuseppe Verdi New Renaissance Blast Glass Variables, 
two officers of the law, a smashed up hunk of metal, and two blinking yellow 
lights.

“Where did you get that?”

“Found it in the road,” mumbled Joe.

“We were taking it to the Highway Department.”

“\Jh-huh. Mind if I take a look in the trunk?”

“Do we have a choice?” I asked.

“Well, we can take you all down to the station.”

“Joe, which key is it?”

“The silver one. No, wait a minute, that’s the car key. ’Course, the trunk’s in 
the car . . . no, it’s one of the brass ones. It’s kind of round on the top of it — 
got a hole in it — ridges along the side.”

I handed him his keys. “Which one?”

“Oh, well this one — no, that’s not it. It’s been so long. Maybe, I think, — ”

“Do you mind if I open it up?” asked the first cop.

“No. Not at all.”

He took the keys and said to his partner, “Call the license in. Have them 
check it out.” He opened the trunk and ran his flashlight beam over it. The 
trunk contained nothing but Joe’s worm colony, a two by three wooden box 
covered with burlap. “What’s in the box?”

“Dirt.”

The cop lifted the cover from the box and lowered his hand gingerly down 
into it. When his hand touched the moist earth he raked at it with his fingers 
and poked around. After a few moments of this he took his hand out and wiped 
it on his trousers saying, “Ok, what do you keep a box of dirt in your trunk for?”

“So the worms will breed faster.” Joe reached in and dug out a big fat red 
one. “See?” He put it back and replaced the burlap cover. The policeman 
cleared Joe out of the way and closed the lid, giving the keys back to me.

“Over to the car, please, gentlemen. I want to get your names.”

We walked the few steps over the gravel, and when we got there he reached 
inside and brought out his clip-board. He pointed to Rusty. “All right, you first.”

“What?”

“Your name.”

“Oh. Howard Miller.”

“Have any identification?”

46/red cedar review


“Why certainly, officer. You want to see my social security card or my union 
membership.”

“Your driver’s license.”

“Certainly. Always love to help out the police department. Here,” and he 
handed him his library card. The cop took it and wrote something down. A 
loud burst of static came from the radio.

“It’s not stolen,” said the second cop. The first nodded, handed Rusty’s 
library card back, and looked us over. He noticed Jeff and his shades for the 
first time.

“What’s the matter — the light hurt your eyes?”

“Yeah man, I’m a dope addict.”

Oh boy.

“I think we’ll all take a little trip down to the station.”

“Officer, that really won’t be necessary. I’m sure — ”

“You, button up.” He turned to his partner. “Chuck, you take that one and 
that one — ” he pointed to me and Joe — “in the other car. I’ll take care of 
these clowns.”

When we got to the station the others were taken away, and I was left in a 
cramped, blue-painted room full of desks, chairs, partitions, telephones, and 
four policemen.

“This,” I said, commenting on the general situation, “really blows.” I walked 
to one of the desks.

“Hey, you. Sit down.”

I picked up the phone and began dialing. One of the policemen slammed it 
out of my hands and said with a great deal of irritation, “Sit down and don’t 
cause no trouble — we’ll let you know when you can make a call.”

“Look, officer,” I tried to stare him down. “I’m entitled to one phone call. 
I’m going to take it now, so if you don’t mind would you kindly quit breathing 
in my ear?”

“You’ll sit down or get tossed into the can.”

“For what? I haven’t even been charged with anything yet. Nor has anyone 
else, for that matter. Which is merely against the Bill of Rights, an obscure little 
document — you may not have heard of it.”

“One more word out of you, Buddy, and you get locked up right now.”

“Yeah? Well I’m going to make this phone call see, and if” and they grabbed 
me and carted me off to a cell.

A very special cell, it was. Seven by five I’d say. Hard cement all around. 
There was a bench about a foot and a half wide that ran the length of one wall. 
This, I suppose, was what I was to sleep on. You bet. Especially since screwed 
into the ceiling, and in perfect working order, was this five thousand watt light 
bulb. The floor had a drain in the middle, but was still wet. I mean wet — not 
just damp.

Fine, fine, I thought. Everyone else yuks it up, has a gay old time in the 
drunk tank, while I cool my heels in this meat freezer.

red cedar review/47


Ankara

and 
other 
places

Joe Dionne

Outside the city, along the tops 
of thorny green hills, grey 
fabled sand, foolishly groping 
and prodding with a withered 
half stick — a mountain 
shepherd picks and kicks 
cursing skinny goats. They stare 
unmoving 
fascinated 
by the smell of distant Ankara,

angel 
roasting berries 
in the distance of her mosques.

At home in the hillocks

the mountain shepherd’s wife is hanging 
their hides greyly in the sun — 
but only in her mind.

48/red cedar review


Part I — Brussels — an uncle

In the shallow brown shadows

of the Parc de la Eglise Notre Dame du Sablon, 
nestled sensually in the belly 
of Brussels, young Claude laughed 
and romped, squashing captured 
butterflies in raptured delight, 
wiping entrails on his bare 
legs, while his mother, young 
and widowed and deeply dark 
in eyes, sat 
ever so lush on benches of quite 
new Belgian stone. And waited 
and waited 
and failed to hear 
the laughter while she waited.

And one is stopped 
dead 
by the absence of fish nets 
in Ankara.

How strange it is to think

of my uncle, who they say lusted

in his sickness

in the oily hospital which smelled 
of spoiling chestnuts, as he lay dying 
narrowly between virgin sheets 
with the little beasts eating 
his potency to life.

He once held me frightened 
on his knee and in peals 
of reddish laughter 
told me

that

it is not hot,

not cold in hell

but you can’t grow apples there.

Later I found he was right, 
but then he lusted 
in his sickness.

How innocently orange 
and bright 
tonight is Ankara,

angel

eating berries

in the distance of her mosques.

red cedar review/49


Part II — New Mexico — a father

Mesquite, Black Chaparral, Thorny Oak — peoples 
of the Sangre de Christo flow 
vapor-like in the new Spanish sun, 
like some mad St. Remy 
Van Gogh vision. Rows of young 
pilgrims sweat and wind up 
the mountain south of Taos, 
to view the final pyre, the bluish 
urn where-in enshrined 
in final rest is Lawrence

untroubled 
by the framed French fingers pointing 
in a wondrous vertigo of dates 
how he through off his ghost, was 
inhumed, exhumed, consumed, 
packaged, crated, shipped, 
posted, checked and finally 
strapped on a lazy ass up 
the winding mountain to be displayed 
in shrouded portals 
of white adobe 
all in ashes

like the words he wrote.

You can buy the Rubaiyat 
for soft silver 
and lira in Ankara.

Yesterday my father was as old as the Persian trade winds — 
today they are his judge.

What perfect timing death has, 
like mild milk-weed follicles, 
drifting and puffing their lamb 
wool tenacles in the sun, only 
to plummet and root 
on the most perfect of timeless days. 
Prophet of my manhood, he was 
the color of serenity 
with the visage of the purple mirror 
where I would stand in a chair 
in delicate balance 
to see in my face 
my father’s eyes.

What perfect timing death has —

unless you stand 
timeless in Ankara,

angel

roasting berries

in the distance of her mosques.

50/red cedar review


Part III — Royan — a sister

Another unturned belly 
for the god’s laughter on the beach, 
only a tired jellyfish — 
its color and shape like 
a thousand puddles after 
the rain in the streets of Royan.

The old children prod it with long 
sticks to secure the amazing 
certainty of its remarkable death, then 
one by one wriggle their toes 
into its viscous groin with squeals 
of delight 
and revulsion, 
while above on crags and cliffs 
proper young men court 
well mannered young women 
to woo them as it were

into the dark corners 
with such a proper air 
of propagation.

Motherhood

is mixed with sand 
in Ankara.

My pale sister was of the type who 
stumbled nakedly into life like 
some frail moth wrapped 
choking in the prison of 
an outgrown cocoon.

I often thought 
she would grow to be a saint 
but she fooled us all and died 
when she was ten.

they sixly bore her three by three 
and propped her in the sun.

Poor sad finger 
of the Turkish moon 
in Ankara.

Angel

eating berries

in the distance of her mosques.

red cedar review/51


Part IV -- Revelations

Today is such a dead time 
seen through frosted glass.

What a waste it is to be in that 
body in the mirror —

I see

my hair is October, Yet I 
am a Wednesday child 
under the sign of the fish.

I wish I was sand and could feel 
the sandled foot and hear 
the sandy voices 
crying out 
the resur


rection

of stillness

and the godness of breath.

But I am an undried squalling 
thing of pink and have not 
lost my memory — 
so I’ll wait —

For I have been to Ankara, 
and my footprints mirror 
the shadows 
of my walking away legs.

At home in the hillocks

the mountain shepherd’s wife of Ankara 
has hung the hides of the goats 
her husband is prodding home.

But only in her mind.

52/red cedar review


Bob Hill

Figure without caption.

R. Wm. Bryan

Pistols

Our silver inlaid weapons

Our duel

Shatter the afternoon shade.

A shadow struggle

In lengthening darkness,

Our clash

Our injuries

Force us into dusk

grass blades

Bent in the attack

Close around counted steps

And are crushed 
Bleeding their greenness, 
A fragrant, exploded novelty.

54/red cedar review


Early Spring, 6 a.m.

Even the flowers are cold, 
Their petals

Clench with frozen dew.

We hesitate

In the calm sun

Questioning their survival

the thaw 
We chance to take.

red cedar review/55

Figure without caption.

Figure without caption.
Charcoal drawing

Dave Pickering


Night Out

Barbara Drake

Nelda had been listening to Dan McIntyre, glowing drunk, telling her how he 
secretly manipulated people to gain his own ends, and wondering if she should 
say he was more Walter Mitty than Machiavelli, when Jack came between them 
and said, “The Kittredges are fighting again.”

“Where?” said Nelda turning a half circle to look around the crowded room. 
Her beer sloshed over onto her hand. “I knew we shouldn’t invite them. Dottie 
will be so upset.”

“Not so loud,” said Jack. “There, in the corner by the bathroom. Michael 
wants to go home and Sally’s putting up a fuss. If Michael wins then everything 
will be all right.”

“Michael never wins,” said Dan. “I think we should all cheer for Michael’s 
side.”

“What’s the matter?” asked little Dennis Carter. “Are Jack and Dan having 
a fight?” He tried to step between them but only managed to bump into Nelda, 
spilling the rest of her beer.

“Oh stop it, Dennis,” said Nelda.

"We’re all going to cheer for Michael,” said Dan. “He wants to take his 
wife home.”

“But I like his wife,” said Dennis.

“Dennis Carter!” said Mary Carter.

“It’s all right, Mary,” said Dan. “We’re just choosing sides before the fight 
begins.”

“There isn’t going to be a fight,” said Jack. “You see. They’re putting on 
their coats. I think I’ll go tell them goodbye.” He followed the Kittredges to the 
door. “Goodbye Michael. Goodbye Sally. Be seeing you,” he said, but the

red cedar review/57


Kittredges were gone without farewells.

“The hell with them,” said Jack. He went to the kitchen where the beer was.

Nelda decided to move before Dan McIntyre could start on himself again. 
Everyone else seemed engrossed in conversation, so she moved to the potato chip 
table and lit a cigarette.

The hostess, Dottie, sat on a chair in one corner. She was seven months pregnant 
and sat talking in low tones to Helen McIntyre who had a six week old 
baby. Helen hadn’t got her shape back yet, Nelda noticed. And she’d probably 
be pregnant again before she did; everyone knew what Dan was like, unless, of 
course, he was just all talk.

It was a housewarming party for Dottie and Clyde. Of course it wasn’t really 
a house; it was a downstairs apartment in the married students’ project. Clyde 
had just recently started going full time, so that they were eligible for low-cost 
school housing. Just so he could keep his grades up, and there was some doubt 
about that. It was a tiny apartment, furnished with regulation furniture, the 
same green dinette set and office-type wooden chairs, that everyone else had; 
but Dottie had made a plaid cover for the army cot they used for a davenport, 
and Clyde had painted a mural on one wall, blue and yellow trees alternating, 
“to give it character,” he said. Except for such differences, the party would have 
looked about the same at Dan and Helen’s, or the Carters’ or the Faleys’; same 
front room, same “efficiency-size” kitchen, same little hallway with the bathroom 
through one door and the bedroom through the other; same people, same home 
brew and potato chips with onion soup dip, the bookshelves made from boards 
and concrete blocks, topped by a ceramic pot full of dried weeds.

They were all either students or students’ wives, and only Nelda and Jack, 
the Kittredges, and the sociology instructor with the yellow beard who had 
been talking to Clyde all evening about hunting wild boars in South America, 
lived outside the project.

The Faleys lived right over Dottie and Clyde. Bill Faley was a psych major 
and didn’t believe in coddling children, so the two Faley children ran all over 
the project without any pants; Dottie told Nelda that their continual crying at 
mealtimes made her sick to her stomach, but she had invited them because, 
upstairs, they were practically there anyway.

The other people were a tall, greyish couple Dottie and Clyde played bridge 
with once a week and who had brought their four year old boy — they always 
took him everywhere they went. He was sitting sleepily in the corner eating 
potato chips. The husband member of this group came up to Nelda just as she 
was wondering whether she should go to the kitchen and see if Jack had 
passed out.

“Hello there,” he said. “Don’t stand there with an empty glass. My name’s 
Mills. Let me get you something to drink.”

“Well, I was just going to look for my husband, and there’s probably beer 
wherever he is,” said Nelda.

“Isn’t that your husband?” he said, pointing to Dennis Carter who was now 
standing with his arm around his wife.

58/red cedar review


“No,” said Nelda. “That’s her husband.”

“I don’t believe it,” said the tall, greyish husband.

“Oh yes,” said Nelda. “They’re a very nice couple.”

“Next you’ll say they’re very much in love.”

“It’s true,” she said.

“Marriage is popular because it combines the maximum of temptation with 
the maximum of opportunity,” he said.

“I think you memorize things so you’ll have something to say at parties,” said 
Nelda. She went toward the kitchenette.

Jack was there with Dan McIntyre. “Listen Nelda,” said Jack. “Dan is just 
telling me a fascinating story about how he secretly manipulates people to gain 
his own ends.”

“You can laugh, if you want to,” said Dan, “but in knowledge there is power. 
I know you. I know all of you. I’m on to all you guys and your lousy jokes.”

Nelda saw that Dan had reached the point, as he always did at parties, 
where he was looking for someone to insult. Along with telling everyone how 
much beer he drank, he also told everyone how he insulted people when he got 
roaring drunk.

“I’m a wild man at parties,” he said, although he also claimed never to remember 
a thing. It was one of his wife’s duties to remember what he said and did 
so she could tell him about it the next morning.

But Dan didn’t have a chance, that night, because they heard the front door 
slam and Dennis Carter hollered, “It’s the Kittredges back.”

“Goddammit, she won again,” muttered Dan.

They went into the next room. Everyone had stopped talking to watch the 
Kittredges, except Mrs. Faley who was saying in a loud voice, “We know the 
children are considerably above average because they started making raspberry 
noises a good two months before Wally’s psych book says they should.”

Jack leaned over and made a raspberry in Nelda’s ear. “I’m a genius,” he 
whispered.

“Oh, goody,” whispered Nelda. “Michael Kittredge came back with half a 
gallon of wine. He’s going to get crocked.”

“I’m glad you came back, Mike,” said Dottie from her corner chair. “I was 
just telling Helen we never get to see you since you left the project.”

Michael Kittredge glanced at Dottie and then turned to his wife. He said 
loudly, “Well, here we are. I hope you’re satisfied.” Sally blushed and walked 
across the room to Dottie.

“You’ve really done a lot with this place,” she said. “I love Clyde’s mural.”

Michael went to a chair by the potato chip table and poured wine into a 
large jelly glass. He sat on one of the dinette chairs, crossed his legs, and drank 
half his glassful.

“Oh Michael. Stop it,” said Sally.

He gave her an icy look and finished the glass. She came to sit beside him. 
Everyone else started talking then, and the Kittredges continued to talk in 
whispers.

red cedar review/59


“That’s a handsome dog you have, Jack. I saw him over at school with you 
the other day,” said Dennis Carter. “What kind is he?”

“I don’t know. What kind is he, Nelda?”

“Part shepherd, part husky, and part labrador,” said Nelda. “We thought 
we’d write the kennel club and try to establish him as a new breed.”

“You should have seen the dogs we used to hunt wild boars with,” said the 
yellow-bearded sociologist. “Magnificent, simply magnificent animals.”

“We’d thought of getting our dog a wild boar for a pet,” said Nelda.

“That’s the only thing I don’t like about the project,” said Clyde. “No animals 
allowed. I think children ought to have pets.”

“Why don’t you get your dog a baby for a pet, Nelda,” said Mr. Faley.

“Are yours for sale?” asked Jack.

“Let us in on the conversation, Michael,” said Dan McIntyre. The Kittredges 
were now carrying on a highly animated, though whispered, argument. Michael 
said something to Sally and gnashed his teeth, and she replied by rolling her eyes 
and making a kind of chewing motion. “I say,” continued Dan. “What’s up?”

“Not that it’s any of your goddam business,” said Michael, “but my dear wife 
now wants to go home.”

“I just said it didn’t matter to me,” said Sally. “Once we’d left I didn’t want 
to come back. But you’re set on making an ass of yourself.”

“Let’s both make asses of ourselves, shall we? Here Sally, you’re not drinking.” 
He drained his own glass and poured more wine for both of them.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” said Sally.

“Don’t pay any attention to me. What do you mean? Listen, Dan. Would 
you like to know what she said when we left?”

“Oh, shut up Michael. You never drink and you don’t know how,” said Sally.

“She said, 'Michael, just when I’m having fun you always have to be such 
a sonofabitch and make us go home’.”

“Let’s play charades,” said Dennis Carter.

Dottie, looking pale and holding onto her big middle, said, “Oh, don’t fight,” 
but no one heard her. Dottie could not understand why some husbands and 
wives fought; she and Clyde got along so wonderfully, except for the time she 
burnt the expensive lamb chops. But when she cried in the bedroom Clyde 
came in and said he was sorry, that she was his own little lamb chop.

“And then,” continued Michael, “She said Dan McIntyre just adores his wife, 
and Jack and Nelda . . .”

“Two can play that game,” screamed Sally.

“Did you make that expression up, Sally?” said Dan McIntyre.

“You know what he said about you, Dan?” said Sally.

“No, but I’m interested.”

“He said he can always tell when you’re at a party because the minute he 
walks in he smells gas.”

“I’ll be the first to admit that,” said Dan, jovially. “A bit of the common 
about me, there is.”

60/red cedar review


“And he said Jack and Nelda’s house smells like dog crap.”

“I deny that,” said Jack. “Otto’s been housebroken for months now.”

“Michael must have a very sensitive nose,” said Nelda.

“I think we’d better be going,” said the wife member of the greyish people. 
“Tommy’s getting sleepy.”

“Don’t you want to hear what he had to say about you and your Tommy?” 
said Sally, starting to giggle.

“I really think we’d better go. Come Tommy. Thank so much Dottie, Clyde. 
We’ll see you bridge night.” They went out carrying their coats.

“Now, Sally,” said Clyde in a soothing tone. “You two don’t really mean this. 
Why don’t you talk it out instead of eating each other alive this way. You know,” 
he said seriously. “Chewing your husband out in public this way is a form of 
emasculation.”

But Sally had got started now. Her cheeks were red and she kept running 
her fingers back through her black curly hair. “He said you don’t know the 
meaning of half the words you use, Clyde. Remember earlier you said ‘conspishus’ 
when you meant conspicuous?”

“Well, Sally. That’s not a kind way to talk, but that doesn’t mean you should 
blabber it all over. He is your husband,” said Clyde.

“I am your husband,” said Michael. “Lucky, lucky me.”

“That does it,” snarled Sally. “When I said, why didn’t he like to come over 
here to visit, he said, Visit that big prick and his cow?’ ”

“Listen,” said Clyde. “You can make all the goddam snotty remarks about 
me you want, but leave my wife alone.”

“Oh, Clyde,” cried Dottie. “Don’t get mad, Clyde.”

When Michael wiped the back of his hand over his eyes and got up and went 
into the bathroom, they all realized he was crying. Everyone sat silently looking 
at Sally. She glared back at them. She took a swallow of wine and looked at 
the ceiling.

“Michael,” she shouted. “Why do you always have to make me play the 
heavy?”

Michael came red-eyed from the bathroom and picked up his jacket. “Are 
you ready now?” he asked.

“No,” said Sally.

He turned and left.

“Well, you’ve done it now, Sally,” said Dan McIntyre.

She put her face in her hands. “Oh God, I know it. I’m afraid to go home.”

They heard Michael’s car start once, die, and then start again. It jerked across 
gravel as Michael let the clutch out. Then they heard the crash.

“Michael!” Sally was the first one out the door.

Michael had run the car into the telephone pole by the driveway. He sat 
behind the wheel with his hands to his face. Blood ran through his fingers.

“His glasses,” screamed Sally. “His eyes. Oh God, Michael, your eyes.”

“Not my eyes,” mumbled Michael. “Just a little cut on the forehead.”

“Just a cut on the head,” said Clyde. “Here. Let me see it.”

red cedar review/61


“Apply a tourniquet,” said Dan McIntyre.

“Oh, be quiet, Dan,” said his wife.

But the Kittredges ignored the rest of the party standing awkwardly around 
the car. “Shall I call a doctor?” whispered Dottie.

“Oh, Michael, I’m so sorry,” blubbered Sally. She was crying now. “Move 
over.” She got in behind the wheel.

“Here, let me try to start it,” said Clyde.

“Get out of here,” said Sally. “Everybody get out of the way.” She started 
the car and backed it up. It drove all right except that the left front wheel scraped 
the fender. Michael put his head on her shoulder and they drove off, the fender 
making a scraping sound loud on the still night.

“What a nice couple,” said Dan McIntyre. “They deserve each other.”

“Maybe they’re unhappy,” said Dottie. “Everybody has bad moods sometimes. 
I remember the time I burnt the lamb chops, don’t you Clyde?”

“Oh, honey. That wasn’t anything,” said Clyde, kissing the top of her head.

“He works his ass off,” said Jack. “All he ever does is sit around and make 
bibliographies. I thought it would do them good to get out, but I’m sorry I 
suggested it.”

“Well, sometimes students’ wives get tired too,” said Helen McIntyre, going 
into the house.

“I’d rather hunt wild boars,” said the yellow-bearded sociologist.

“I’m going to get roaring drunk,” said Dan McIntyre. He went back into the 
apartment and everyone followed him except Jack and Nelda.

Although it was late, there were single lights on in many of the married 
students’ apartments. Across the drive a young man sat at a desk, before the 
window. He rubbed his forehead continually as his eyes moved across his book.

Diapers hung on a line in front of the building, bluish-white in the moonlight. 
The drive was lined with old cars, tricycles, wagons.

“Oh, look,” said Nelda. “Dottie’s little lilac bush is starting to bloom.”

“I can’t wait to get out of this stinking place,” said Jack.

“You mean here?”

“I mean this whole place,” he said. “The school, the town, the house.”

“But it’s such a nice house, Jack.”

“Better than this place, but not much.”

“Well, we’ll be done in a couple of months,” she said.

“Thank God.”

“What’ll it be like, Jack?”

“In the first place, we’ll have money. No more home brew. No more living 
on government surplus food. And we’ll be really doing something, instead of 
always getting ready to.”

“They’ll be out there, too,” whispered Nelda.

“Who?”

“Oh, the Kittredges, and everybody else.”

“It’ll be different,” said Jack. “Think of all the good things that are going to 
happen to us.”

62/red cedar review


After Degas
After Degas


Susan Budny


My Mother in the Morning Stepped

Joe Dionne

My mother in the morning stepped 
outside to hang her yellow veil 
to dry. And I 
walking in the mirrored hall 
in the summer of my fourteenth year 
wanted my face to clear up 
the White Sox to win the pennant 
Wolf Larson not to kiss anybody 
and the sun to shine 
on my mother’s yellow veil.

“Zeby” Gibson, fabled short stop 
of our sandlot afternoons, wanted 
my bike, 
to whistle down 
the river hill, past the 
trucks and trees and baby carriages 
so we would think him as daring 
as Phil D.’s dad 
who once killed a dirty Japanese, 
while I

in the shame of my room

at night, where my windows 
gave me the street below 
and the radio Cincinnati, 
when the teeth were 
all brushed 
and the turtles fed, 
wanted his sister.

and the moon to whisper 
its cleansing light 
on my mother’s yellow veil.

64/red cedar review


Last year Louis R. batted .321 and had

78 R.B.I.’s. Is acne caused 
from masturbation or 
the handling of turtles on 
rainy Thursdays? What does it 
matter then to stand 
in the mirrored hall waiting 
for the veil to dry? I could’ve 
run breathless to Oregon 
and become a high-climber, sent 
for Annie Gibson

to hang my red-flannel 
shirts to dry by her veil 
pour me the maple on 
my woody breakfast 
and lift her sad skirts 
to show me the secret. And I did too. 
When the radio was off and the teeth 
all brushed.

St. Willy Freeman, third base wizard 
negro, and patron saint of the fourteenth 
year, venerable object 
of the two-dollar pilgrimages 
to the sacred shrine 
of Comiski Park, pray 
for the thighs 
which held my eyes 
shaded 
shamefully in my turtle room; and 
in the sweet willows of Sunday mornings 
when the world sings with 
rocking chair boards of white paint porches, 
and the ovens filled with goose 
gather in the city, 
the scent of dinner waiting — 
I will cry 
for the man who 
wanted his face to clear up, 
“Zeby” Gibson’s sister, 
and for the sun shining 
on my mother’s yellow veil.

red cedar review/65


Sestina, for myself, perhaps

Stuart Ouwinga

Sometimes there is no song. Do not suppose 
because your fifty sonnets caught the fire 
of aching intellect, now you can take 
a form indigenous to no one’s dream 
and pour your blood all through it. Ancient molds 
resist your novel speech. They cannot hold it.

Now as the world goes green, take time to catch it 
off guard, in some chartreuse aspect. Suppose 
you glimpse one morning how the bright air molds 
each crackling bush into an emerald fire.

Sometimes there is no song but this. The dream 
for words wakes to the music words would take.

I fear my words are more than you should take — 
you, who are here to sing, and fancy it 
the antidote to grief. But in my dream 
for your fulfillment, sometimes I suppose 
you come too easy to a phrase of fire 
then cool it quick within these chilling molds.

66/red cedar review


Look to the sky. See how the moonlight molds 
each cloud into a creature you may take 
for some fantastic symbol ringed with fire.

And all the songs that radiate from it 
contain a novel note. If you suppose 
this is not true, go back, young man, and dream.

And still I fear I have not filled my dream 
with what I do not dare to say. These molds 
have kept me, closed me from what I suppose 
are ecstasies I cannot give or take.

And so I give advice and answer it 
in icy theories that fight your fire.

We two are one in something — perhaps fire; 
or possibly, the distance of our dream 
has pushed us close and we cannot endure it.

I will go on selecting proper molds 
to fill with proper blood, and you will take 
the formless world for more than words suppose.

Sometimes there is no song. The dream of fire 
molds all our music to the form we take.

May I suppose you’ll be the one to break it?

red cedar review/67


NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

W. ALLEN TAYLOR sends poems to us from a San Francisco APO address. 
He remains a mystery.

JOHN STEVENS WADE has published in many small magazines: Prairie 
Schooner, The Nation, New Mexico Quarterly, Cambridge Review, and others. 
Ten poems will appear in an Anthology, 31 New American Poets, due soon from 
Hill and Wang. He recently moved from Co. Galway, Ireland, to Malta.

JOE DIONNE is the first place winner in fiction, and second in poetry of the 
1968 Creative Writing Contest at MSU. The winning material is printed here.

MELVYN BUCHOLTZ has previously appeared in RCR. He published his first 
volume of poems and drawings last year, Night Animals, from Toad Press, Melrose, 
Mass. He will be teaching this fall at two colleges in Boston.

GARY GILDNER is at the Writers Workshop in Iowa. He has previously 
appeared in RCR and will be reading poetry around Michigan this fall.

STEPHAN HATHAWAY is a former Associate Editor of Zeitgeist. He was 
recently with the Peace Corps in Trinidad.

MARK McKEON won first place in the 1968 Creative Writing Contest at MSU. 
He is presently a student.

JERRY PARROTT edits South Florida Poetry Journal in Tampa. He has had 
poems in recent issues of Poet Lore, Ann Arbor Review, and Poetry Review.

OTTONE M. RICCIO is the Editor of Premiere in Belmont, Mass. His poems 
appear in recent issues of Trace, Ann Arbor Review, Poetry Review, Quartet 
and others.

WILLIAM A. ROECKER is Assistant Editor of Northwest Review.

HARVEY TUCKER is Editor of Black Sun Magazine and has published in 
Georgia Review, Prairie Schooner, Southern Poetry Review, Carolina Quarterly 
and others. He has also published 11 books of poetry.

ALAN SHRATTER is an engineering student at Michigan State from Alabama.

R. WM. BRYAN recently returned from a summer with STEP in Mississippi and 
the Creative Writing Conference in Colorado with James Dickey. His poems 
have appeared in Zeitgeist, Voices International, and others.

BARBARA DRAKE has published poems and fiction in Northwest Review, North 
American Review, Colorado Quarterly, Epoch and others. She received an MFA 
at the University of Oregon and is presently revising a book of poetry.

STUART OUWINGA is a graduate student in Music at Michigan State who is 
trying to revitalize classical verse forms.


STAFF

Editor Peggy Case

Associate Editor Etta Abrahams

Poetry Editor Jim Tipton

Fiction Editor Peter Fiore

Art and Graphics Sue Budny, Editor

Dave Pickering