WINTER, 1975 $1.00

RED 
CEDAR 
REVIEW

Volume 9 Number 2

Copyright by Red Cedar Review, March, 1975

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RED

CEDAR 
REVIEW


Each year the Department of English at Michigan State University sponsors the 
Creative Writing Contest. The writing in this issue is a selection from the winning entries 
of the 1974 Contest. David Madden, a Louisiana novelist and author of Bijou, judged 
the fiction. The poetry was judged by Diane Wakowski, whose latest books of poetry 
are Dancing on the Grave of a Son of a Bitch and Trilogy.

RED CEDAR REVIEW STAFF

Editors: neal villhauer

louis reinwasser 
patricia polach

Business Manager: mark fenske

Staff: jeanice dagher

kim delmar

alison hedlund

Graphic Design: amy r. miller 
terry dedecker 
elizabeth drake 
robin l. roach

Advisors: albert drake

doug lawder

Very special thanks to joe kuszai.


CONTENTS

michael schulze

One Day Last Month Iggy Christmas Found God

debbie wiitala

Hardening

Michigan Driving Poem

Indigo

Whale Poem

My Bones

Blood

john hohlt

Night Watch

Untitled, parts I and II

phyllis eyer

The Fragrance of Flowers

richard koch

Hero of the Pacific

Fire Children

patricia polach

Levels


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michael schulze

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debbie wiitala

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john hohlt


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patricia polach

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richard koch

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phyllis eyer


ONE DAY LAST MONTH

IGGY CHRISTMAS FOUND GOD

michael schulze

Look: Iggy Christmas was reading a Stag magazine in this drugstore in Peoria.

Iggy flipped quickly through the pages looking at the pictures. One picture showed a 
naked Brazilian lady. Another showed a man shoving nails into another man’s face. As 
he studied the pictures Iggy Christmas’s eyes were bright as stars.

He was skinny. Big thick-lensed glasses perched on the end of his skinny nose. Big 
spider-like hands fumbled with page corners and a Timex on his wrist went tick tick tick. 
His legs were long as broomsticks and his face looked like two eyes set in the middle of a 
dinner plate. And he had a real hard-on from the picture of that naked Brazilian lady.

Then Voice spoke from inside Iggy’s head and Iggy’s neck snapped back and his eyes 
glazed. “Hello, Iggy,” said Voice.

“Hello,” Iggy whispered to the ceiling.

“Drop the Stag magazine, Iggy,” said Voice.

Iggy dropped the Stag magazine.

“Now, Iggy,” said Voice, “I want you to go over to the counter, buy a Mars candy bar, 
and waste the cash register man.”

Iggy walked over to the drugstore counter but his eyes were still riveted to the ceiling 
so he kept tripping over things. The cash register man’s name was Old Joe and he looked 
at Iggy Christmas suspiciously. He was an old man with white hair and buck teeth.

Iggy paid no mind. He tripped over a stack of Mad magazines and fell on his face.

Old Joe tottered over to Iggy and crouched by him. “Hey, son,” he muttered. “Quite 
a fall you took there. You OK?”

“Sure,” said Iggy. He grabbed Joe by the head and smashed it against the floor until it 
broke open. It broke open like a mango.

Then he got up and walked to the counter, picked up a Mars candy bar, put it in his 
pocket. Carefully, almost daintily, he placed a dime on the cash register.

He stepped over Old Joe and walked out of the drugstore.

“Act like nothing happened, Iggy,” said Voice.

Iggy acted like nothing had happened.

Once Iggy’s kid brother had asked him a question. This was. about two weeks after 
Iggy had returned from Viet Nam and they were eating breakfast in the kitchen when 
Iggy’s kid brother said,

“Iggy, how are babies made?”

Iggy chewed on his cereal a bit, took his glasses off and wiped them clean. Then he 
did it again just in case he’d missed something. He stared at his reflection in the kitchen 
table and made a funny sound in his throat.

“You find them,” he said. “Under rocks.”

Iggy’s kid brother thought about that awhile. Then he said,

“Iggy, why are babies made?”

Iggy’s eyes clenched because suddenly a sound screamed through his head and it was 
an air raid siren eating at his head and making it hurt real bad. He gripped the table and 
shook his head to make it go away and looked at his kid brother.

9


He shrugged. “Why are babies made?”

“Because,” he said.

Once Iggy actually did find a baby under a rock. It was dead.

In army parlance, it was wasted.

Iggy stared at the baby for awhile. Half of it was gone but at least the ears were still 
there. In Viet Nam you count bodies by counting the number of ears in a field after an 
attack and dividing by two.

Iggy carefully counted the ears under the rock. “One, two,” he said. Then he divided 
two by two and got one. “One,” he said. He chalked down a slash for “one” in his logbook. 
The slashes in his logbook looked like this.

Figure without caption.
Thirteen, he thought, was a very unlucky number. He hoped he’d find another wasted 
slope before the sun went down.

But Iggy wasn’t thinking about that right now. He was thinking about getting the hell 
out of Peoria. He had his thumb out, walking fast along I-66 on the outskirts. His head 
was back to normal now and so were his eyes which at the moment were alive with 
dignity.

His shoulders were thrust back and his chin held high.

Iggy Christmas was on a quest.

For just as he had killed Old Joe, Voice had given Iggy two things to do. Iggy’s brain 
buzzed with the details of his task.

1. He had to find the naked Brazilian lady in Stag magazine and give her a message, 
and


2. He had to find God and ask him a question.




Over and over again Iggy pondered the two things he had to say.

A car whizzed by and a couple inside waved. Iggy waved back. A bumper sticker on 
the back of the car had a Happy Face on it. “SMILE!” it said.

Iggy smiled.

The first time Voice spoke to him had been sometime in October. He’d been an 
officer in the Americal Division, 1st Cavalry, a little south of Danang. The idea was to 
drive the slopes out of their hooches into the Secure Hamlets so the enemy would be easy 
to spot.

Iggy was walking through a burned village in a mopping up operation when he saw a 
flicker of movement. It was a water buffalo. Voice spoke then for the first time.

“Shoot the water buffalo, Iggy,” said Voice.

Iggy shot the water buffalo.

Then he saw a dog. “Shoot the dog, Iggy,” said Voice.

Iggy shot the dog.

A Vietnamese girl rounded the corner and froze, her eyes wide. “Shoot the slope, 
Iggy,” said Voice.

Iggy shot the slope.

And I really do know a guy who shot a slope once. His name is John Ferguson and he 
lives in a two story stucco in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He is big and fat and laughs a lot. 
One day he blew a slope’s head clear off. He’s a priest now.

10


“Me, I work for the Bell Telephone Company,” the fat man said to Iggy. Iggy had 
finally found a ride out there on I-66. “Going down to a convention in Miami.”

“Why, lucky me,” said Iggy. “I just happen to be going to Miami, too.”

“You are?” asked the fat man and smiled. “Well, you are a lucky one, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I sure am,” said Iggy.

Iggy sure was lucky.

And somewhere around Tennessee Iggy asked, “Do you like your job?”

The man smiled. “Sure I do,” he said. “Communication is important, don’t you 
think? I mean, if we couldn’t communicate with each other, where would we be? 
Answer me that.”

“I surely don’t know,” said Iggy. “Nowhere, I guess.”

“Nowhere is right!” said the man.

They were quiet again. They drove for a long time staring at the road.

Iggy once knew a guy named Kenneth Barton Osborn of the 525th Military Intelligence 
Group in Saigon. When Ken was working in Danang he became good friends with Iggy 
and they got high together a lot. Ken’s job was to get information from suspected Viet 
Cong agents who refused to communicate with him. He did this usually by pistol 
whipping them or else hooking them up to field telephones and turning on the juice. This 
method was a favorite of the Intelligence Corps because it established communication 
very quickly. They even had a name for it. “The Bell Telephone Hour.”

Smiling, resting against the car window in the middle of Georgia, Iggy Christmas 
dreamed he was in heaven. The streets were made of solid gold bricks and into each brick 
was stamped the words “Fort Knox.” Everybody in Heaven had big color TV sets with a 
choice of one hundred and sixty-seven channels and there were snowmobiles in Heaven 
and stacks and stacks of Stag magazines. Bob Hope was in Heaven and he was telling 
jokes all the time. And every morning this is what Iggy found under his pillow: a 
hundred dollar gift certificate from Sears.

There were hundreds of Sears stores in Heaven.

Iggy sighed.

Iggy had to go to the hospital once in Viet Nam because he’d tripped over an arm 
while body counting and sprained his ankle.

And next to Iggy in a bed was this twelve year old slope. One day the kid started 
talking to him lying there in the bed and Iggy couldn’t understand what he was talking 
about until a doctor came and began to translate.

This is what the kid said:

“My friends are Nhung, Ky, Chau, Nguyen,” he said. “They are thirteen, twelve, fourteen, 
twelve. I have a friend who is a boy named Liem. He was thirteen. When the bombs 
came I saw Ky’s bowel and intestine come out of her body. Her head blew away. Her 
arm and leg blew away. Nhung was buried alive and dug out dead. Chau’s teeth were 
broken by stones which shattered them. Nguyen was buried alive. Liem was beheaded. 
My friend Phuong laughs sometimes, cries, speaks without knowing what she says, she 
screams, she is twelve. I was buried completely. Teacher Minh dug me out. I have pains 
in my spine...”

Iggy had to stop listening then for the air raid siren was screaming in his head. “Weep, 
Iggy,” said Voice through the screams.

Iggy wept.

I saw a television show once. It was an anti-war film. It was telling people what a 
rotten thing war was. Part of the film showed about a billion young men all jumping up 
and down and yelling, “Kill.”

11


“Kill, kill,” they said.

I wondered what made all those young men do that. It was like each young man had a 
Voice of his own inside his head and each Voice was whispering to his young man,

“You jump up and down and you yell kill”

And there was another time when I was in elementary school. The teacher asked a 
question and everybody raised their hands to answer. There were the Voices again. 
Except this time they were saying,

“Raise your hands.” And everybody did.

Iggy smiled in his dream and this was why. He had finally found his Naked Brazilian 
lady.

He was making love to her on a bed in Heaven.

The bed was lined with Sears Perma-Press quilts and they were making love on a Sears 
Perma-Snooze Boxspring Mattress. When they finished Iggy looked down at her and said, 
“I have a message for you from my Voice.”

She ran her fingers through his hair. “Um,” she murmured. “That’s nice.”

“Do you want to hear the message?” he asked.

“Sure,” she whispered in his ear.

“Then I’ll tell you.” Iggy rolled over and stared at the ceiling, hands behind his head. 
He cleared his throat.

“Life, ”he said, “is funny sometimes. ”

They were quiet a few minutes. Iggy wanted to let it all sink in.

“That’s the message?” she asked finally.

“Yup.”

She laughed and pulled him to her. “Don’t you have anything to say?” Iggy asked.

“Sure,” she whispered and kissed him full on the lips. “Danang,” she said, “has 
changed hands more often than Liz Taylor.”

Which was an old Bob Hope line. Iggy had been in Danang when Bob Hope came, was 
one of five thousand GI’s who listened to Les Brown and his Band of Renown play 
“Thanks for the Memories.”

“Is it true that Danang is really the in-country Rest and Relaxation Center?” asked 
Bob Hope.

“Laugh, Iggy,” said Voice.

Iggy laughed.

All around him everybody else was laughing.

“Danang,” said Bob Hope, “has changed hands more often than Liz Taylor.”

“Laugh again, Iggy,” said Voice.

Iggy laughed again.

He did this several times throughout the afternoon.

Then Anita Bryant came on. She led a singalong and the song was “Silent Night.” 
After awhile with five thousand GI’s all singing “Silent Night” together everybody started 
to cry.

“Cry, Iggy,” said Voice.

All around him everybody else was crying.

And another time when he was in Viet Nam Iggy taught this little slope kid to blow 
soap bubbles. He kept a jar of Bubble-Glo in his coat pocket, kept it there all the time. 
Didn’t know why. Except sometimes at night when he was on guard duty he liked to 
blow a bubble or two just to watch them break.

One day when he was body counting he picked up a body that wasn’t wasted. It was 
about four. It stared at him with malice. He took it back to camp.

12


Everybody at camp liked the kid. They named him Joe. One night while Iggy was on 
guard duty smoking a cigarette Joe came out to see him. That night Iggy taught him how 
to blow bubbles. “Look,” he’d say and blow a bubble. “You try.”

But for some reason one of the bubbles didn’t bust when it hit the ground. It was a 
big blue bubble and when it landed it just sort of sat there quivering in the breeze.

Iggy and Joe stared at the bubble for a long time but it didn’t pop. Then for a quick 
second Joe looked up to Iggy. There was a question in his eyes and a lot of different 
things in there all at once.

Iggy didn’t want to look at Joe’s eyes but when he did all he could do was shrug.

Joe nodded, walked over to the bubble and stomped it.

Look: Iggy Christmas reached Miami in October of 1972. He found a job there at an 
old people’s home named Mira Mar and he works there under the name of Hank. He is 
working there today.

“Hey Hank,” the old people say as they pass by each day on their way to the shuffleboard 
courts or the bingo room.

And each day Iggy looks up from his broom and says,“Hey.”

And look: One day last month Iggy Christmas found God. There, sleeping in room 
256 of the Mira Mar: the blankets over him were warm quilts from Sears and he smiled as 
he slept. Iggy Christmas was in Heaven again. Only this time there was music all over 
Heaven and the song was “Silent Night.” And up he climbed a golden stairway covered 
with thick shag carpeting; he was crying and there was a light at the top of the stairs so 
bright he had to wear sunglasses. He climbed toward the light. The light was God. 
Slowly His form emerged in the blinding light. He was an old man with white hair and 
buck teeth.

Iggy fell to his knees. “God!” he sobbed.

“Don’t call me that,” smiled God. “That isn’t my real name. Iggy, don’t you 
remember me? Old Joe? I used to work in a drugstore in Peoria. I work in a lot of 
drugstores, Iggy.”

Iggy was crying so much now he couldn’t see at all. The stairways were covered with 
his tears. “Old Joe?” he sobbed. “Old Joe? Didn’t I kill you? Once? Didn’t I? I think 
I did. Didn’t I?”

Old Joe smiled. “Of course you did, Iggy,” he said, and wiped away a tear. “Of course 
you killed me.”

“Who doesn’t?” asked Old Joe.

Their tears were forming a big pool now; they were crouching in a big pool of tears in 
the middle of Heaven. Old Joe was holding Iggy and Iggy’s hands dug deep into Old Joe’s 
shoulders as slowly the puddle of tears melted and soon it and the light were the same.

“Old Joe,” whispered Iggy, his voice ragged. “I got a question for you. It’s a question 
I’ve had to ask for a long time. My Voice told me to ask it of you.”

Old Joe flashed a cracked smile as if the smile hurt him. “Shoot,” he said. “I know a 
lot about Voices.” And even Old Joe and Iggy were melting now, turning into the light, 
melting slowly so that tears and man and light became one. Iggy straightened. “Joe,” he 
said, straight to God’s face,

“why are babies made?"

Old Joe shrugged and smiled and patted Iggy on the head.

He leaned forward and put his lips to Iggy’s ear.

This is what he said.

“Because,” he whispered.

But only his voice remained.

13


HARDENING • debbie wiitala

My deerskin mittens make my hands 
work like paws, look like the paws 
of some orange animal.

I’ve realized that

I can’t feel any apology for wearing the skin 
of even a gentle animal on my body.

Deer are stupid.

All they know is eating—bark, apples, corn- 
how to make their bodies snap off the ground 
in a tense arc,

how to give birth to table-legged fawns

alone in the underbrush,

how to rub the moss of velvet off new spike antlers, 
how to crumple a thousand car fenders

with the same swift movement into the road, 
how to run, cataracting red, a hundred yards 
with lead in the neck before bruising the earth, 
and how to hang from a tree, a curiosity in town 
with their tongues hanging out from the bloody cracks 
of their mouths.

I know their deaths; they don’t know mine.

My hands are warm for a while.

I have no apologies.

15


MICHIGAN DRIVING POEM

We drive northwest on the highway 
that lengthens itself flat to the earth 
like ribbons narrowing into the sun. 
We are going home 
to the house that waits like a white cat 
behind the coal blue hills of the north, 
waiting with a belly full of kittens.

I think of the space by which we clear 
the underpasses warning 14 feet!

13 feet 7 inches!

The prospects of towns 
called Rosebush (red, with thorns) 
and Wolverine (carnivorous, with teeth) 
and the predictability of any small town. 
I read poetry in names: Michigan

One does not begin to breathe 
until he has driven for three hours 
up from the borderline.

Then his eyes begin to distinguish color.

The houses are smaller here.

They guard the road as if it would try to escape, 
leaving them not knowing the way into town.

Ten thousand deer die here every year, 
not one a natural death.

There are no bones in the woods.

But there are tons of bare deer bones in the suburbs of Detroit. 
The ground is white there; it crunches beneath your feet.

16


INDIGO

The last heron

stays mute in dense forest.

No one has seen him.

He sees nothing

but the horizon burning to the boundary 
of the cool swamp in anger.

All night he breathes in black smoke, 
all night he waits standing.

In the morning the sun moves up his legs, 
lights on his back.

He casts a long thin shadow 
toward the west horizon, 
a thick black scar.

(his eyes roll; one a clouded agate, the other 
polished onyx)

The man who cries 
through long nights 
hears the lost voice of the last heron.

His children find unnamed feathers

near the edge of the woods:

one sleeps with them under her pillow, 
wakes many times through the night to finger 
them in the darkness.

Her dreams are of long birds breaking above black trees 
under the moon.

She is up early, 
her father before her.

He brushes feathers from her hair.

They speak of nothing but flight.

17


WHALE POEM

I.




There are men hungry for whale.

Inland they would sell their children for a bucket 
of the monster’s blood, their souls for a cup of his oil.

II.




The whale does not taunt the coast, 
neither does he pass close to give sight of his bulbous back 
breaking water like a pool of black oil.

And stripped of his flesh 
the whale would not rest 
beached on his bones like the frame of a house.

His bones would get up and walk 
into the forest on primitive feet 
giving rise to legends of a haunted coast 
spreading inland from the wet forest 
by word of mouth of 
the weird high whistling heard there, 
corner-eye glimpses of huge white, 
the odor of ambergris.

III.




But when the whale gives himself up to the beach 
long knives carve the weight from his bones.

His bones glow white in the dark like a ghost ship.

His bones are shelves where men can sleep.

His hollow bones are pipes lamenting in the wind cathedral.

His bones are a cradle for drowned sailors.

His bones bless the moon.

His bones pierce the ears.

His bones signal death to his kind.

They signal out over water submerge, submerge

18


MY BONES

My skin has been stolen.

My bones are seen as whale bones;

shoulders bowed like the keel of a wooden boat 
across the slats of my thick-ribbed back.

And I walk on jawbones, the heavy club-foot 
gait of the mouth opening and closing.

I speak as the wind through a hollow bone.

I fold into sleep as fins wedging together 
and the spine clicking apart like spools.

I beg for my skin back

to hide the whale:

for other women have the bones of birds light as reeds 
that can be laid in white stacks

in the palm of a hand.

They are not heavy and do not bruise the hand 
that holds them.

They can fly ahead;

I must follow on stumping legs 
in danger of breaking under my own weight.

19


BLOOD

Okey-doke.

If blood would come like a half-idiot 
bouncing up the street 
saying “okey-doke” with goofy teeth grinning 
with goofy hands flopping fish-like 
with goofy gait of big brown shoes. 
But blood comes like a metal horse 
in precision movement, radiating heat, 
his hooves like hammers.

Blood leaves the smell of iron 
and its silence a weight pulling downward.

For weeks after losing you

I dream of: 
beached whales, 
bones, 
ivory-handled knives, wood knives, 
removing the bones from your body, 
hollow bone pipes, 
my mouth of blood 
yer balls of blood

honey I want to watch you dance 
with yer balls of blood

and nobody better come near me.

My face has collapsed 
from the inside: a fence falls 
down into the weeds.

I do not believe I have a pulse anymore. 
My veins have collapsed—their impotence 
like worms stranded out on the dry street 
morning after rain.

Those people that still love me work the blood pump 
in shifts. But when their arms grow tired 
my veins will shrink to their bones, 
all color will go out of my body.

You hunt the wolf 
who deserts the streets, runs in ditches 
in absence of forest, does not follow the path. 
You want to take her with her eyes burning 
and her teeth bared.

The name of the savage rattles your throat.

You do not speak it: you taste it.

The name means pain.

You pronounce it blud.

Bury yourself! 
the womb is warm, will feed you

20


blood,

the blood of night after night alone

the blood of the doomed egg 
buried in a stocking 
of blood the rites 
commend you

I would command you

to sow this parched land

to work it with your glistening implements 
to beat it into bloom

to cut and eat the fruit.

The eye lives!

under the cataract.

Its days are white. It feeds on blood

the color of milk.

The vein lives

beside the bone like a hose pumping 
the cargo out of the hold.

Its days are red. Its life is red.

It knows no other word.

21


NIGHT WATCH john hohlt

In this hour, the breath comes sharp. 
Making a stand, crows huddle, 
their black knot of bodies closing the breach. 
The needle of wind through pine barrens 
lances the ear. Shut in a room 
between rising and falling, I lie this hour 
in wait of a great fall, and think 
of our winter’s store hung from the rafters. 
There, a smoke ascending, go our reeling dreams, 
skirl of sturdy plans, our uplifted hands 
prodding night into day, 
scraping the frozen hour’s sheen 
from blockaded windows. In the all-between, 
unseen waves rush the house and pull down 
mountain ice to lock and bar and cramp us in.

All bear up; what is torn tears no further. 
In the reedy afterlight, stiff beaks tuft up 
the nuzzled underwings, and the night-hawk’s 
screams preen the watch.

UNTITLED, PARTS I AND II

I.




before sleep

the rind of moon

of late gnawed away more and more

the skin of moon

lies down where I am lying late awake

like spring floods roaring awake

with no one near

with no one near

your skin is written on

by waves

by lightning when you lie

bright a moment as the lightning stroke

a moment dark as rivers engorged with floods

II.




as far as I from you

as far from me waters roar

after long journey emptying into sky horizonless 
beneath dark waves

this night I hear the waters breathe short breaths 
suffering breaths

sighs with gravel choking them because

this night longing big as ocean ebbs beneath my eyes 
all night beneath my eyes

your hand underwater stirring the tides

23


THE FRAGRANCE OF FLOWERS

phyllis eyer

Coral glimpsed herself reflected in the window of Nan’s fashions, between the naked, 
jointed mannikins, and noticed her smile. “Perpetual apologetic smile,” Grace had termed 
it, and Coral couldn’t help feeling a moment’s relief to know she was free forever from her 
daughter’s perpetual criticisms of things she couldn’t change.

Still smiling, and nodding to the left and right, she entered Nan’s Fashions, which was 
empty of customers, and walked to the back of the shop where Nan Mahoney pumped her 
ancient treadle Singer quietly down the seam of someone’s skirt.

“Just six inches more,” she said without looking up. Coral stood erect, smiling, resting 
her pale eyes on Nan’s hands without really watching them. She held her purse before her 
with both hands on the handle so that someone’s eyes would travel lengthward when 
looking at her, making her seem taller. Grace had been blessed with height, yet she 
slouched, even after a summer at a camp that stressed posture, and where she had managed, 
Coral learned from the counselors, to walk so straight that two books rode easily on her 
head, the top one larger than the bottom one.

“Damn!” said Nan as something slipped. Coral blinked her eyes into focus and made 
sure her smile was in place so Nan wouldn’t feel embarrassed for having sworn.

“Oh, Coral!”

“Hello, Nan.”

“If I knew it was you I’d have quit right away.”

“It was a short wait.”

Nan glanced back at her sewing machine and gestured at the skirt.

“I was going to come to the funeral home tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got so much 
altering, and the ladies in the window need dressing. I couldn’t believe it when I heard it 
over WFYC.”

“I know. It’s all right.”

“Janet Evans is collecting money from everyone in our church circle, and she was asking 
me if I knew where you wanted it donated. We were positive you wouldn’t want it 
squandered on flowers.”

Coral put a hand to her brow to smooth her quick frown away, and smiled while she 
shook her head.

“No. I hope everyone will send flowers.”

“Oh?” Nan’s thick red eyebrows were up, and then down in amazement and doubt.

“We talked so much in our circle about the waste of money in funerals, so I just thought...” 
She stopped with a shrug. Coral waited a moment to see if she were going to complete her 
sentence, not wanting to interrupt, but Nan didn’t go on.

“I know,” said Coral. “I understand. I presume I want flowers because she’s so young, 
and my daughter, and my last relation on earth.”

“Of course. Absolutely.” Nan folded her arms and jutted one crepe-soled shoe to the 
side. “I told Janet from the start a nice wreath of roses and carnations to lay on the lid.”

“I’m going to have her on view, Nan.”

“Are you?” She shifted her weight to the other leg. “Well...” She shrugged again. 
“And what may I do for you?” She ran her eyes around her store, avoiding Coral’s gaze.

“I’d like to see what you have in the way of wedding gowns, Nan.”

Her narrowed eyes locked on Coral’s but she asked nothing. She strode down a row and 
Coral followed.

“You’re size 8, I believe,” Nan said, as she shoved the gowns back from the number and 
looked at the first gown rather than at Coral.

“Yes, but it’s Grace’s size I want to see. Size 12.”

25


Gown by gown Nan moved them down the bar, through the 10’s to the beginning of the 
12’s. She kept her hand on the hanger of the first gown and turned to flick her narrow 
brown eyes over Coral’s face.

“If you were a stranger, I wouldn’t ask, and maybe you want to be a stranger today, but 
you aren’t, I’ve known you from fourth grade, you’ve had all three of my kids in school, 
and I have to know, Coral, if you’re going to bury Grace in a wedding gown.”

“Yes, Nan.”

The woman’s face grew tight with horror. Coral smiled reassuringly and let her purse 
hang on one elbow while she adjusted her glasses with thumb and forefinger. Nan’s face 
loosened and a stream of tears spilled over the edge of each eye.

“You look through them,” she said in a soft, clogged voice, “while I go finish that skirt.”

Coral stood still until Nan’s loud sniffs were muffled by the racks of clothing. The tears 
bothered her. She had expected shock and disgust from her friends and neighbors, but 
Nan’s crying confused her. She had instructed Grace, from six years up, that tears were 
childish. They solved nothing, they gained nothing, they were a waste of time. She had 
not come close to crying since the day her husband was killed driving his car into a freight 
train when she was thirty-five and Grace, her first child, was a fetus in her womb.

Nan had the gowns arranged by cost, a practice Coral approved of, yet today she ignored 
the price tags dangling from sleeves and, in fact, had to quell an urge to snatch the last 
gown, the most expensive, from the rack. If Grace had been alive and choosing a gown, 
Coral knew she would insist her daughter pick from the first three gowns. Finally she 
found a satin gown, somewhere in the middle, that was as plain as Grace and had sleeves 
long enough to cover her wrists.

She carried it to Nan’s machine and was relieved to see the woman’s tears had dried and 
her whole compact form was tense with disapproval. She laid her shears down with a bang 
and led the way up the narrow aisle to the cash register, never offering to carry the gown, 
as was her custom.

Betty Fiedler looked up from the twirling rack of blouses and greeted Nan, and then 
came to Coral and took her free hand between her soft gloves.

“I can’t tell you how grieved I am to hear of your recent loss,” she said, massaging and 
patting the hand. Coral opened her eyes wide to keep frowns away and smiled brightly. 
“Let me know if there is anything I can do, won’t you?”

“You’re very kind,” said Coral. She began gently to remove her hand, but Betty grasped 
it tightly and patted it more with her next words.

“And when is the funeral, my dear?”

“Four o’clock tomorrow. In our church.”

“In our church, fine. I’ll arrange my schedule to be with you then.”

“I appreciate your kindness.”

Betty gave her hand a final pat and released her.

Coral moved to the counter where Nan was packing the dress in tissue paper, rustling 
things more than necessary, Coral thought. She understood why. Often she had exhibited 
displeasure in situations where words would not have been tactful. Nan had her eyes fixed 
on the back of Betty’s hand as her short fingers worked with the paper and satin. Coral 
drew her own eyes into a friendly crinkle to show she understood Nan wished Betty would 
turn and see the dress, and to show she wasn’t offended. Nan moved to the cash register 
and hovered her fingers over the keys.

“How much is it, Nan?” Coral asked.

The woman locked her gaze on Betty.

“You always know before I do. Tax, everything.”

The bitterness in her voice brought Betty wandering near.

“What is it you’re buying, Coral?” She pulled the edge of the thin box slightly, 
buckling it, to peer inside. “Lovely material.” She touched it with one gloved finger. 
“Satin, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a wedding gown,” said Nan. “For Grace to be buried in.”

Coral turned her head to view Betty’s reaction with both eyes.

25


“Oh, Coral.” She shook her head. “That’s not a good idea. Why is this your 
intention?”

Coral’s smile deepened with relief at finally being asked.

“I’m sure you must know. It’s the only way I can even partially rectify things now.” 
She nodded as she spoke, her eyes wide with the conviction of having their immediate 
understanding.

“How could you do this to her,” said Nan, thrusting each word out with disgust.

Coral tilted her head, discomposed by her vehemence.

“You misunderstand me, Nan. I’m doing this for her.”

“She is dead, Coral,” said Betty loudly, as if Coral were deaf. Coral nodded eagerly, 
glad to be able to agree on something. “Nothing any human can do is ‘for her,’ nothing is 
‘to her’ anymore. She is dead. The funeral is for the living.”

“But surely you must understand my point,” urged Coral, heedless of the line between 
her brows. “It was her desire to marry Mike MacCurdy, and I forbade it—I prevented it. 
This is my last chance to rectify things.”

As she talked, she noticed a change in Betty’s eyes; a sort of loosening of their hold.

“I’m not sure,” was all Betty said in reply, and Coral knew she was withdrawing from 
the conversation. Nan, too, had taken on a pitying expression, which Coral could do 
without. She shut her mouth firmly and then opened it to state the price of the dress, 
and the tax, succinctly for Nan.

“Perhaps you should consult Reverend Thomas about this,” offered Betty, taking up 
Coral’s hand again. Coral looked down, amazed at how close she was to flinging off 
Betty’s hold.

“I’m sure it is legally within my rights to dress my daughter as I desire for her funeral,” 
she said as calmly as possible.

“The legality of it was not what I was questioning,” murmured Betty, letting go her 
hand and glancing at her wristwatch.

All three women were silent as Nan tied string on the box and Coral pulled from her 
worn wallet the exact amount of cash.

“Thank you,” said Coral automatically as she picked up the box. Usually her ‘thank 
you’ joined with a store clerk’s so that there was camaraderie on both sides. She was 
uncomfortable when Nan said nothing. Stiffly erect, she walked to the door with the 
cumbersome box under one arm, determined to keep her ‘good-bye’ to herself unless 
either of them offered to speak. With the door open and the bell jingling, she suddenly 
turned and said over her shoulder, “You should dress those mannikens, Nan, without 
delay.”

“They aren’t alive, Coral,” came the quick retort.

She shut the door firmly, jarring the glass, and went at a brisk pace down to State 
Street where Saunder’s Florist Shop was located.

She closed her eyes, once inside the shop, so that the sensation of smell was piqued 
and the fragrances seemed near enough to caress her skin. It was a habit from childhood 
that somehow had become a simple superstition; that if she gave up her senses to a 
flower’s fragrance, things would go well. As a child she had also plugged her ears, but now 
Coral merely ignored sounds when concentrating on the smell.

Beatrice and David Saunders, who owned the shop, were aware of her idiosyncracy and 
waited for her to be done with her ‘flower-smelling-spell,’ as David referred to it when 
conversing about it with others, before asking what was on her mind. But apparently a 
new clerk had been hired, who had not been instructed as to Coral’s superstition. Coral 
found it difficult to screen her out of her consciousness because of her adament, unceasing 
‘may I help you’s’ and because her perfume, a variety with musk oil predominating, nearly 
smothered the delicate odors of roses and violets and damp green ferns.

“Yes, you may,” Coral finally said with a smile of resignation, her gaze gently 
admonishing the tall girl for her rudeness. She was uncertain now as to how things would 
go. As she had explained to Grace countless times, she knew there was no direct 
correlation between her superstition and the outcome of events, but that by fulfilling her 
superstitious duty, she put herself in the proper frame of mind for good things to occur.

27


At this point Grace would shift the direction of their discussion by stating that that was 
all there was to God, too. He was no more than a whiff of may apples or poppies. Coral 
would remain silent then, but try to get Grace to see, by her expression, that she was not 
prepared to disagree with her interpretation of God, and when she was old enough, they 
could discuss the possibility of God’s non-existence. It was a topic she longed to discuss 
with someone. All her friends were too devout to be approached with such a radical idea, 
and she had looked forward to the day when Grace would be mature enough to handle 
the topic without being unduly affected.

“What may I help you with?” queried the clerk, her plucked eyebrows perched above 
half-closed eyes.

Coral cleared her throat to show with tact her disapproval.

“I’d like a bouquet,” she said, and followed the girl to the counter to fill out an order 
form.

“We have a catalog with pictures,” said the clerk, lugging it up from under the counter. 
“Oh, that’s nice. All right. Is there a section on bridal bouquets?” 
“Sure.” Reading the page numbers upside down, she flipped over to it.

“I see. Yes,” said Coral, nodding, trying to choose when each looked as serviceable as 
the next. She knew nothing about flowers, or the arranging of them, always feeling that 
it might be bad luck to reach any intimate knowledge of them.

“I rather like this one, with the roses and trailing leaves.”

“Lemon leaves, yes.”

“But I wonder if they’d present a problem in a casket. Slide off the satin dress, 
perhaps.”

Coral gazed up at the girl, the question sitting on the surface of her eyes, and another 
question below it. The clerk shifted her stance, slouching, Coral noticed, in a pretty 
manner. If Grace were here she could point it out to her.

“Oh, we have funeral arrangements in a different section,” said the clerk, beginning to 
turn the pages.

“Oh no. No. Wedding is what I want.”

The clerk let the pages flop back.

“But you mentioned a casket.”

“Yes. I’d be happy to explain. You see my daughter died this week. Committed 
suicide, to be exact. And I am having her buried in her wedding gown, and with a bridal 
bouquet.”

The girl’s eyes had lost their bored droop, and she stood straighter.

“I see,” she said with emphasis. “She was going to get married or something?”

“Well, she wanted to, but her boyfriend dropped her. Became cold and heartless.

Even took out another girl, someone my daughter had known in high school. She killed 
herself for love.”

“My God. Are you Grace James’ mother?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. You are acquainted with her?” Coral scrutinized the girl more 
closely to see if she had taught her in any of her math classes.

“I knew who she was. I mean I never hung around with her or anything, but, you 
know, everyone knew everyone at least minimally. She was a year ahead of me.”

Coral nodded smiling, delighted with the girl’s sociability.

“And so you’re sort of fulfilling her last wish with the bouquet and all?”

“Yes. I believe that’s what I’m doing.”

“Oh, well, sure. You know, to each his own.”

Coral frowned and smiled at the same time, a questioning expression.

“You don’t think much of the idea?”

The girl resumed her slouch and gestured with one hand.

“Well, being buried in a wedding gown isn’t my idea of romantic, but of course Grace 
was, I hope you aren’t offended, sort of weird, anyway.”

Coral looked down at the book, struggling to maintain a cordial expression.

“And what is your opinion of the trailing leaves?”

28


“Oh, I’d get them. You can pin them to her dress, you know. It’s not as if she’ll be 
holding them out in front of her and walking down the aisle.”

Coral nodded gravely, her smiles all gone.

“All right, then. I’ll want them for tomorrow morning. And I’d also like to order one 
each of all your potted plants, blooming and soon to bloom.”

“What?” She scrambled for her pencil. “One each of everything?”

“Yes. Will that reduce your stock too much?”

“Oh no. It’s just such a strange request. Don’t worry about it. You want those 
tomorrow too?”

Coral nodded and explained where they should be delivered, and was pleased with the 
clerk’s exuberant ‘thank you’ as she left.

Carrying the wedding gown box was tiring her, and her legs felt swollen from being on 
her feet so long, but she continued her errands, hiking across the State Street bridge, over 
the rushing, riled waters of the dam, into the south end of town. Mike MacCurdy’s small 
house was on one of the curbless streets, too near the sidewalk, freshly painted a dark 
gray, as detestable, Coral thought, as a thick cloud, filled with cold snow. He rented the 
house, but even so, she could not imagine living inside such walls. Grace had almost 
agreed with her on that point, admitting that the color, when driving up to the house, 
depressed her, but once inside, with Mike and his warmly colored things, she forgot about 
the gray exterior. Even inside, Coral saw only the outside.

She rang the doorbell, hearing it buzz harshly behind the door. She was certain Mike 
was home since she had called the Great Lakes Trucking Firm that morning and was 
informed that he had called in sick. She believed his illness was a ruse, but when he came 
to the door in his bathrobe, and she saw how pale his cheeks were, she was tempted to 
change her mind.

He stood behind the storm door, holding the knobs of the inner one, and she nodded 
up at his blank face, framed with long brown hair.

“Hello, Michael,” she said, and began to open the storm door.

“Devil.” She paused and whisked her eyes back to his face. There was still no expression 
to read. Slowly she opened the door and stepped up into his livingroom. He stood still, 
not offering to stop her progress.

“Witch!” he flung at her out of his dangerously bland expression.

She carefully stood the box on end by the couch, rehearsing in her mind how she 
would relate this scene to Grace, concerning the man she persisted in wanting to marry.

“She’s dead!” he yelled suddenly, his lips drawn back from his teeth as he heaved the 
door shut, shaking the walls and floor with its boom.

“Oh. Yes,” said Coral, sensing a heavy desolate feeling in her lungs, as if the air had 
been knocked out of them with the slamming of the door.

“You killed her. You murdered her.”

“Michael, may I have a cup of coffee? I’m beginning to fall in a slump, and I see your 
pot is plugged in out there,” motioning to the tiny kitchen. “And then we could discuss 
this calmly.”

“Oh, calmly, by all means.”

She smiled, ignoring his sarcasm, and stepped out to the cupboard for a cup.

He stood against the doorjamb, watching with narrowed eyes as she poured and sipped. 
She sat down in one of the vinyl and chrome chairs, giving him a questioning nod as to 
whether he would sit in the other, but he gave no response. She sighed and looked at the 
steam from her coffee.

“I agree that I’ve done wrong,” she said, dipping her head and coming erect again. 
“But I could not know she would kill herself. Impossible.”

Suddenly he whirled in the doorway, as if in a dance, and clapped his hands to his 
head.

“God, she killed herself! She loved me, she did, and you told me she was through.” 
Coral nodded, and then shook her head.

“I must have misinterpreted. I must have misread her expressions.”

29


“Her expressions! Oh, Jesus. She loved me, she killed herself over me, because you 
‘misread her expressions!’” He ran his fist against the wall, following it with his body, 
and she grew anxious for fear he might cry. But instead he whirled on her again.

“You’re too much, Mrs. James. You really are ready for the nuthouse. Or a burning 
at the stake.”

His eyes were too hot for her to look at. She shifted a bit and sipped her coffee.

“Michael, did you love her?”

The anger drained out of his face, and he leaned against the doorjamb again, his hands 
in the pockets of his robe. He shook his head.

“I don’t know. If you had asked me when she was alive, I would have said no. But 
now, the loss I feel, the regret...”

“Yes, well, I’m glad to know how you felt before she went and did this. It helps me to 
know she understood your feelings correctly.”

“Now wait a minute.” He stood up and pointed at her. “Listen, she acted on my false 
feelings. She died because I rejected her, outright. And I did that because you told me 
she was all through. But that was false too, you told me her false feelings. It all comes 
back to you, Mrs. James. You can’t shirk the blame. You are responsible for your 
daughter’s death.”

“I accept that responsibility,” she said, gazing evenly into his eyes.

He watched her and then shook his head.

“You’re too much, Mrs. James. I can’t take this talking anymore. You’d better leave.” 
“I have something else to discuss, Mike. It was Grace’s fondest desire to marry you.

You must have known that. You must have read it in her eyes, even if she never said it.”

“I guess I knew it,” he said softly. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat opposite 
Coral. She smiled to encourage his good attitude.

“Well,” she said. “I am determined to rectify this unfortunate occurrence to the best 
of my ability. I want to do my best by Grace and my best by you.” She looked up to 
significantly catch his gaze, but he kept his head bowed. “I have ordered the best casket 
for Grace, with pastoral scenes painted on the inside of the lid, a vault that will keep out 
water for twenty years, flowers of all varieties, and this morning I bought her a wedding 
gown to be buried in.”

“A wedding gown!” He gave a breathy laugh. “Good God, she’d be outraged if she 
knew.”

“Oh, I think not. Especially if you were there in attendance, in a tuxedo.”

“Oh, Jesus, you are insane.”

“Hear me out, if you will please. I will buy the tuxedo and you may keep it.”

“Forget it.”

“I’m not through. I would also pay you in cash to stand beside her casket throughout 
the funeral service and, of course, be a pallbearer.” She paused to let him ask how much 
money, but he watched her without speaking.

“Are you through?” he finally asked.

“I would pay you five thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand...Where would you get five thousand dollars?”

His insolent tone stirred her pride.

“Obviously I have the money, or I would not offer it.”

He stared at her and she tried to regain her even temper.

“Why are you doing this crazy, insane thing?” he asked quietly.

She let the words that might incense her slide by her ears unnoticed.

“It is the closest thing to a wedding I can give her now, Michael,” she said softly. “I 
am distressed that my preventing her from marrying you has led to this—her death. I 
must learn to say it.” She lowered her head to blink at her coffee, amazed at the ache in 
her throat, wondering if it was really the onset of tears.

“Do you have a lot of money, Mrs. James?”

His gentle tone did not fool her, and she hissed at him with narrowed eyes,

“Listen, young man, I won’t be blackmailed.”

30


“Who the hell’s talking about blackmail? I just don’t want to ruin your life savings. 
I’d need to be paid to stand up at some crazy funeral—even to go to a funeral for that 
matter. But I don’t want to wipe you out, paying me.”

“Oh. I see. Pardon me.” Her coffee was gone, but she sipped anyway to fill the pause. 
“I have plenty saved, Mike, don’t worry about me. I’ve lived cheaply for a long time.”

He nodded, and she was sure his eyes were receptive now; cordial, if not friendly.

“Will you do it Mike? I’m sure Grace would appreciate it, and I know I certainly 
would.”

“Would I have to look out at the people, or just down at the casket?”

“Wherever you like.”

“The lid will be closed, won’t it?”

“No.”

“Oh, Jesus.” He buried his head on his arms for a moment, and she wanted to reach 
across and pat his hair, but refrained. “Okay,” he said, not raising his head all the way. 
“I’ll do it. For five thousand dollars, I’ll do it.”

“Fine. Thank you so much.”

She popped her purse open and pulled out an envelope and handed it to him.

“You may buy a tuxedo out of the five thousand, all right?” He nodded, his head still 
down. “Here, Mike.”

He came up all the way, his eyes almost scared.

“You’re giving it to me now?”

“Certainly.”

“But I could split with this. Never show up. Why are you trusting me?”

“Oh. Shouldn’t I?”

His neck relaxed and he lowered his head again.

“I’ll be there,” he said, and she rose immediately, elated with success.

“Good-bye, dear,” she said, and patted his slumped shoulder as she walked past him to 
the door.

In her own livingroom, she lay on the floor with her legs up on an easy chair so that 
some of the blood in them would flow to her brain. Grace had never liked to see her do 
it, and lately had mentioned a case she had supposedly read in which a man gave himself 
a stroke by elevating his legs higher than his head after exertion. Coral had replied ‘one 
person’s medicine is another’s poison’ at the time, but today she felt slightly anxious. 
She had not thought about disability and old age since Grace’s death. Previously, the 
thought of Grace always accompanied those topics in her mind. She was certain Grace 
would be argumentative and provoking even if Coral were in pain, but she knew her 
daughter would take care of her. Now there was no one.

The jangling phone brought her out of a snooze with a leaping heart.

“Hello.” Her tone was peremptory, and she cleared her throat, smiling apologetically.

“Coral, this is David Saunders. You are to listen to me now.”

“Certainly, David.”

“I can’t let you spend so much money on crazy, worthless plants. You need that 
money. You must save it for old age. Do you hear me?”

“There is no need to be so agitated, David. We can discuss this calmly.”

“Maybe you can, but I cannot. You are a friend, you are alone in the world, and you 
need your money. I must make you change your mind.”

“I want the plants, David. Not only for the funeral, but here in my home, too. That’s 
why I ordered live ones.”

“Just a few, though. So many is too costly. You’re spending too much for a bunch of 
dumb plants.”

“Oh, David, you musn’t degrade them just so I’ll change my mind.”

“I always degrade them. Sometimes I throw a pot and flower and all on the floor. 
They cost too much.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have gotten you so upset, but really, I want them. I won’t change 
my mind.”

31


“All right, then. All right. Then I will charge half.”

“No, no!”

“Sure. Do you want me to feel guilty or something? I’ll charge half and we’ll both be 
happy. Don’t argue with me.”

“All right, I won’t. But let me say thank you. I appreciate your generosity and your 
kindness.”

“Well, it’s the least I can do. With Grade dead. And I want to say I think the wedding 
gown will look nice. Beatrice doesn’t like the idea, she’s afraid it will reflect badly on 
you, but I think it’s nice.”

“Thank you, David. You’re the only person to tell me that.” Again the tight ache 
closed her throat, and she could not speak. She believed that if she hadn’t quickly 
wondered if tears were coming, they might have come. She was too conscious sometimes, 
she thought. She studied herself too closely and too well.

Coral arrived early at the church in order to glimpse Grace in her satin gown before the 
service. Mr. Wolverton took her elbow and escorted her down the dim aisle to the pulpit 
platform where the pots and vases and wreaths of flowers festooned the casket. Grace 
was lovely with a pleasant brow and calm mouth, and the trailing leaves of the bouquet 
seemed perfectly positioned. Coral smiled and Mr. Wolverton patted her hand which she 
had slipped through his arm, and she realized a compliment was expected.

“A remarkably good job, Mr. Wolverton. I’m so glad the dress fits.”

“Yes. We slit it up the back, of course, to get it on.”

She nodded, and they stood a moment longer, gazing at her. “I wonder if you’ve 
noticed whether or not the painting on the lid is visible from the rear of the church, 
Mr. Wolverton.”

“I’ll test it right now.”

He eased away from her and strode to the last pew and sat.

“I’m afraid there’s no detail,” he called. “In fact, I can’t determine what the picture is. 
But the colors are vibrant. Particularly the gold.”

She nodded, smiling. “Thank you.”

He glanced at his watch, pulling his coat sleeve back from it.

“If you’ll excuse me now, I believe I should rally my assistants so we can take our 
posts by the doors.”

“Of course.”

Coral pulled the dense black veil down from her hat, carefully avoiding snagging it on 
the points of her glasses, and seated herself in the front pew. The smell of flowers was 
strong and comforting and she closed her eyes and gave herself up to it for the time being.

Soon she heard Jim Wolverton, the funeral director’s son, tell someone they were 
welcome to view the body before they were seated, but Mrs. James would prefer not to 
be disturbed. She watched, without focusing her eyes, the sporadic stream of people 
passing the front of the casket, listening to them marvel on Grace’s good appearance, 
and on the amount of flowers, and occasionally on how well Coral was taking it.

When the hour came, Mr. Wolverton and his assistants closed the doors at the rear of 
the sanctuary, and the funeral director walked up the middle aisle to stand at the pulpit. 
He stood facing the expectant faces, waiting calmly for Mike, and Coral was pleased 
with his demeanor.

Mike emerged from a side door where Reverend Thomas entered each Sunday. Coral 
nodded encouragingly at him, knowing he couldn’t see her smile through the veil. He 
stood directly behind the casket, intent on keeping his eyes off Grace, and off the 
congregation who were whispering and shifting in their pews.

“Dearly beloved,” began Mr. Wolverton in his baritone that lacked resonance. Coral 
swiftly squeezed her eyes together and inhaled the fragrance of the flowers. As a child 
she had learned to block out a minister’s sermon, yet never miss when the moment came 
to bow for the benediction or rise for the final hymn. She had retained the habit into 
adulthood, although when in her twenties and thirties she had strained to listen, 
comprehend, and believe. Soon after Grace was born, she relapsed into her own thoughts 
during sermons.

32


Mr. Wolverton’s sonorous tones drifted alone near her ears for several minutes. Then 
from somewhere near the back of the church she heard a sob. Instantly she was out of 
her reverie. There was coughing and nose blowing, and across the aisle both Beatrice 
and David were wiping their eyes with tissues from Beatrice’s still open purse. Mike’s 
cheeks were bloodless, nearly yellow, and he stared with a squint at the spot he had 
chosen on the wall at the back of the church.

Coral was tempted to listen to Mr. Wolverton, but was overcome with chills at the 
thought. Perhaps she might cry if she listened, and she wasn’t ready for that. She had 
suppressed tears too long to let them come out in public, with the rush and noise and 
mess she was sure she would make. Besides, there was enough vanity within her to want 
people to think she was taking it well.

She closed her eyes and resisted a desire to stop her ears with her gloved index fingers. 
The sweet smell of the flowers warmed her again. Grace had detested plants and had 
sabotaged any that Coral attempted to grow; winding the tender philodendron leaves 
around a hot lamp so that half of each leaf scorched and crumpled off, and putting ice 
cubes on the violets. Now all these green and blooming flowers could fill her windows 
and tables and the top of her piano, and she would be able to lean back and let their 
smells touch her whenever she chose.

Mr. Wolverton came down and held his arm out for her to grasp, and together they 
briskly traversed the long aisle. Coral looked out from the veil, amazed at the sincerely 
stricken expressions on the faces of her friends and neighbors. She was relieved that 
they could not see her dry eyes and the smile that felt grotesque now, but which she 
could not remove.

Nan sprang at her in the vestibule, her eyes swollen, her mouth still twisted awry.

“Oh, forgive me, Coral. I came here hard and angry with you, and I broke down in 
five minutes. I didn’t realize the importance, and how much it all means.”

“Yes, dear.” She grasped and patted Nan’s hand, hoping the volume of her voice 
would sink.

“It was beautiful, beautiful,” said Nan, and lost her speaking powers altogether.

Coral eased away from her and nodded to Mr. Wolverton who had gestured to the 
waiting limosine outside the door.

Once inside it she took off her gloves to run her hands over the black velvet seats, 
and then she relaxed and frowned and wondered what meaning she had missed. There 
was no way she could ask Mr. Wolverton the content of his message without insulting 
him. And no way to learn the significance of what he had said from her friends without 
revealing her own inattention. The meaning that had manifested itself as such agony in 
her friends and neighbors was as lost to her as Grace.

She turned slightly and watched through the tinted glass as they brought the closed 
casket out. Mike’s jaw was clenched from the strain. She had walked past his house 
early that morning when the streetlights were still on and had seen boxes stacked in the 
livingroom. It was no surprise. At the time of giving him the money, she had hoped he 
would move. Now she felt a curious longing to have him stay and come and talk with 
her sometimes. She chided herself, knowing full well that memories were best since 
they were manageable, as real life was not.

Pots and pots of flowers were loaded in beside the casket. Coral smiled at the 
remembrance of their sweetness, but suddenly scowled, and screwed up her eyes, 
feeling a quick stab of repulsion for them since they had caused her to miss Mr. 
Wolverton’s message. Then her anger transferred to Grace, since it was for her that 
she had spent so much to have so many blooming things around her casket.

Coral sighed, knowing the wise thing would be to give the flowers away, since 
their fragrance would be tainted with this last frustration Grace was causing her to bear.

On the other hand, she was certain there was not much else of significance in life 
for the fragrance of flowers to cause her to miss, and in time the angry remembrances 
of Grace would wither until breathing the sweet odors close to her would once again 
be a balm.

33


HERO OF THE PACFIC • richard koch

you can’t teach 
an old Hawaiian 
new tricks

(a great wave moves toward shore) 
(music) 
cut to-

McGarret walks confidently 
from the restroom to his office 
another miserable call 
another crime beyond excusing, 
someone putting bombs in 
packages to Goodwill, 
or spreading radioactive rats 
throughout the island 
and plotting to transport them 
by satellite 
to the mainland

later

McGarret (and by the way who cares 
if he puts his coat on like a girl) 
begins his fierce handcuff arrest 
aboard a plane which 
has just made an emergency landing 
when all of a sudden

the crook grabs McGarret’s hand 
forcing it onto the burner 
the stewardesses were going to use 
to heat coffee 
but, with his free hand 
McGarret draws and shoots the bastard 
right in his deformed face 
or was it in the chest 
(there’s one son-of-a-bitch 
who won’t burn anybody else)

then he stalks stoically 
off the plane 
his eyes glinting like diamonds 
in the noonday sun 
(let some fat Hawaiians clean up the mess)

35


FIRE CHILDREN

1. 
the young girl 
has thrown off her clothes

and run from them so fast 
that they are not even 
flames

in the background of

the picture

the awkward angle 
of her arms from her body 
and her black hair pressed 
to the sides of her face 
show the headlong 
of her flight 
and her open mouth 
screams

for the burning gas 
stuck to her shoulders, 
her back, and her flanks

I cannot see if she is dying 
or if this incident at ten or eleven 
will only leave monster tissue 
and the dull scent of her own flesh 
burning

2.

now I will have to tell

my daughter 
when she is ten or eleven

that I lived in the time 
when we burned the children 
and counted them 
as enemy casualties

3.




I know

if someone burned my daughter 
I would stalk them on bare feet 
and drive my fingers through 
the flesh of their throats 
unconscious 
to their screams

4.




at six each night

I watch television senators 
object to pictures of flames

36


5.

I understand

there is nothing

to be gained 
by talking about it, 
but

I saw her picture 
and you know 
they are burning the children

37


LEVELS

patricia polach

The smell of her room overwhelmed him. Astringent face cleanser, perspiration, 
perfume. He felt as if he had walked into her body or she into his. A shelf full of books 
and papers molded under dust layers. He stepped over piles of dull colored sweaters 
to reach the window above the shelf but turned back shuddering at the gray outside and 
with a start saw his picture glowing among the cans of sprays and the razor blades on 
top of her bureau.

No inscription changed the photograph—no “To Karin,” no “Love, Michael,” no 
date—just his image with a different haircut in a crazy orange frame that she had found 
God knew where. Just as much dust as everywhere else—it could have entered her life 
with Winnie-the-Pooh instead of with the falling leaves four months ago. He shut his 
eyes. Incredible that it was four months.

She’d been a cloud of chain smoking intensity hovering over that flippant Halloween 
party. They danced together to the whining music until his joints loosened and then 
were anointed with her aura. Fascinated, he walked her home early past the piles of 
burning autumn leaves that slowly writhed into black cinders.

“God, they look so much like hell, don’t you think?” she’d breathed.

He shivered. “I don’t know. Haven’t been there.”

She took her hand from his but not before he felt its tremor and plunged it deep into 
her jacket pocket. “Oh.”

They walked in silence except for the sound of her steps, of her breath, of her legs 
brushing each other.

“Can I see you again, Karin?”

Again and again and again that fall. Her mannishly unsqueamish sense of humor 
enveloped Michael and they laughed insanely at the absurdities she found in everything. 
Walking and riding and partying-they laughed incessantly and one evening she asked for 
his picture so she could laugh at his “stupid angelic smile” when she saw it.

They sat alone in her apartment that night. The picture gazed stupidly from the table, 
oblivious to the dimmed light and the jasmine incense and heavy silence.

“What are you thinking, Karin?”

She lit a cigarette. “Nothing.”

He touched the tip of her nose with his fingertips and let them brush her mouth on 
the way down to her neck. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well tough shit.” She raised her shoulders high and turned so that his hand fell away, 
embarrassed.

“Hey. Hey, what’s wrong?”

“What are you so goddam hoarse for?” Clear your throat or something.”

There was nothing in his throat but surprise. “Do you want me to go?”

“Do you want to go?”

“No reason to stay if you’re angry.” He watched her eyes glow smoky in the 
candlelight, her hair curl heavy on overfull breasts. She took a deep drag on her 
cigarette and let the smoke roll over her teeth before she blew it out. He watched her 

39


with his eyes and ears and hands and felt inside that he still could not see her. She faced 
him.

“Do you want to go?”

“No.”

She took another slow drag. “I’m not going to ball you so don’t stay for that.”

“God, you’re too bitchy to screw with a ten foot pole.” He said it with her casual 
cynicism but the tone fell flat because her trembling lips destroyed his voice and he 
realized that she had been serious.

“Karin? Karin, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, you know that.” Incense and smoke 
clogged the air yet he saw clearly that she was shaking. “Oh God, Karin. I didn’t mean 
it. What’s wrong, what’s wrong?”

She put out her cigarette and gazed at the ashes silently. Her silence joined the smoke, 
curling around Michael’s head and smarting his eyes. He leaned forward without 
realizing it, feeling incredible vibrations from her. Only his mind remained himself, his 
body was a sponge for her every nuance and he knew then he had never really seen her 
totality because she could never be seen, only be felt, only assimilated. His body melted. 
“Karin, I was joking. Really. Please.”

“But God it’s true, it’s true.” Her voice came from her stomach and tears filled the 
twisted grooves of her face. “I’m a bitch, a horrible bitch. You must want my body, 
there’s nothing else.”

Silence again, heavy, and he could not stay distant so he touched the black hair 
thick on her neck. “That’s not true, there’s lots more of you. You fill me every time 
we’re together .” The back of her neck shuddered under his fingers. “Like, like, life goes 
on inside me then and I can feel it instead of watching it like a movie. Please believe me, 
please don’t cry.”

She still shook, and leaning close he could hear her choked breath and her barely 
audible whisper, “Please, God, let me die. I’m so afraid.”

His strained position made him tremble and he slipped off the chair and knelt at her 
feet to look up at her bowed face. “What’s scaring you, what’s so wrong? Karin, what’s 
happening?”

Her sobs filled the room for a long time and then her voice telling him of all her 
emptiness and loneliness and of the razor blades she kept. He knelt there, holding her 
hand, touching her face until she was through. Candles had burned out and light 
filtered in past the orange curtains.

“It’s late, Michael. It’s late, go home. I’m sorry, just go away.”

“Are you okay?”

“Just go away.”

“But are you all right now?”

“Just leave me alone, I’ll be okay, just leave me alone now.”

“I’ll call you later. Karin?” He kissed her forehead gently. “Karin, please don’t feel 
empty. I care, I really do.”

Cold air and sharp outlines had struck him when he left. It was no longer dark and 
not yet light, there was no traffic noise. He had walked through the grayness seeing only 
her dark hair illuminated by flickering candles, and smelled the incense on his clothes and 
been filled with her memory and with wonder.

It was nearly night. He opened his eyes to see shadows fallen all around him in her 
room. He walked about anxiously, touching her comb, her pillow, her teddy bear. He 
smiled briefly and picked the stuffed animal up. It was a worn Winnie-the-Pooh with 
an orange jacket in tatters.

“Is there room for three of us?”

“Don’t you think?”

“Well is Winnie-the-Pooh really necessary? Tonight?”

“Listen, Michael. If it’s too crowded for you, you know who can go. Old residents

40


have priority.”

“Karin.”

“Well really. He’s my oldest friend-never hurt me.”

Michael drew her close and bent to kiss her forehead and farther to kiss her throat. 
“I’d never hurt you. Never.” Her face was blank. He grinned. “If we have enough room 
I can prove I’m not the hurting type.”

She hugged him hard. “Okay,” she whispered. “You win.”

“Listen, Karin, he didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“The bastard.”

“You just can’t be so sensitive.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“It’s not a matter of sides. Tom’s my best friend and he was really drunk and you 
just took him the wrong way.”

“Well do you think I think I own you? That is what he meant, I know it.”

“Oh for God’s sake it was not. And anyway, a little drunken nonsense was no reason 
to ‘get a splitting headache’ and leave.”

“I did get sick. He made me sick, people make me sick, always evaluating other 
people and poking at them so a person’s afraid to breathe.” She stabbed out a cigarette 
in her over-full ashtray.

“Don’t you ever empty that thing?” She looked at him stonily. “Oh, here, I’ll do it.” 
He left her room with the ashtray and stood still in the doorway when he returned. Her 
hair fell over the back of the chair and glowed in the candlelight, her thin fingers tapped 
the chair’s arm and they were exquisite.

“I don’t make you sick?” He sat down on the bed. Her eyes looked like deep wells 
in the moonlight, with a faint glimmer at the bottom.

“No. But you have lousy taste in best friends.”

“No I don’t.” He reached for her hand; she pulled it away. “You’re my best friend, 
too.”

She got up and lit another cigarette.

“Now what’s wrong, Karin?”

“Nothing.”

He walked over and put out her cigarette, then drew her into his arms. She pushed 
him away. “Cut it out, Mike, I really do have a headache.”

“What from?”

“Nothing.”

“Karin.”

“Look, I just have a headache, you don’t have to back me into a corner about it.”

“How do you do it?” she breathed. “How do you get me into these corners and out 
of them again?”

They were huddled close in her bed. He kissed her cheek. “What do you mean? ”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes grew darker. “You always manage to make me say what 
I’m really feeling, and I really feel cornered. And then it’s all outside me and you touch 
my hair and all this peace flows in.”

He pulled her close. “I get you out of them all right, then?” Her hair was so near.

She nodded. “No one else knows anything more about me than I want to show. No 
one but you.”

“Because of corners?”

She nodded.

“What a way to learn.”

“Well it’s about time you learned to throw a snowball!”

“Michael! Stop it, you’ll kill me!” She collapsed, laughing, in the snow.

“Not till you throw one back. C’mon!”

41


“But I’ll miss anyway. I give up, already.”

He walked over, laughing, took and helped her up. “All right, spoil-sport—you're just 
lucky I love you.”

The only sound was of children squealing in the snow.

“Who was this kid?” They were sprawled on her floor, surrounded by old photographs. 
His side ached from laughing at her scrawny adolescence and at tales of her insane 
practical jokes.

“Some kid.”

“Your best friend when you were four?”

“No. Some kid.”

“Well show me some best friends. I want to see who preceded me.” He refilled their 
wine glasses.

“I can’t. I never went in for that best friend crap. They always screwed you in the 
end-told somebody else secrets or something.”

“Oh well I wouldn’t do that. Except for screwing you of course.”

“Michael? You’re drunk.”

“MMM-hmm. I’m drunk on you. I love you.”

Michael,

Why should I love you? I’ve felt it in the air for weeks but I didn’t know how to 
talk about it so I’m writing this. I can feel it in the air, Mike, you waiting for me to say 
I love you just because you’ve said it to me but I can’t do it and I can’t stand the air 
we’re breathing with all this in it. Why should I love you and get all bummed out in the 
end again?

You’ve been a paradise for me, really-someone I could really be me around. But 
I’ve got to be careful.

Karin

“There’s such a thing as being too damn careful, Karin. God, I can’t believe you’d 
want that kind of life again, not when I care so much. What are you going to do, stop 
crossing streets? stop breathing? Not let anyone know one thought that’s really in 
your head and not let anyone care, like before? I can’t believe you wrote that letter... 
Karin? Are you there?”

The line was silent for awhile and then her voice came, barely audible. “I’m here. 
Right in that corner you always manage to put me in.”

“I’m coming over. Right now.”

“What the hell are you doing, clutching Pooh Bear? You look like the last lonely 
child.”

Michael looked up, startled. She’d already turned away and he watched the flow of 
her back as she threw her heavy olive jacket on the chair and pulled off her knit cap to 
let dark hair fall on her dark sweater. “Where have you been? I told you I was coming 
right over.”

“You’ve got a key.”

“That’s pretty damn flip. I left work to come and talk with you.”

“Honestly, you looked so funny, sitting there in the dark...do you see any matches 
anywhere?” She walked about in quick short steps, rummaging through books and 
papers and nearly tripping over the stuff on the floor. Matches were under a hand mirror; 
she lit a cigarette and blew smoke out into silence. Michael switched on her reading 
lamp.

“Now will you talk to me, Karin?”

She picked up her comb and tugged at knots in her hair, head down. “Mike, I 
can’t talk about that letter, I just can’t. Can’t you just accept it without tearing at me?”

He moved into the shadow she cast from the hard light of the lamp. She was 

42


motionless now; her cigarette smoked in the ashtray. He touched her hand. “You’re 
freezing.”

“It’s cold out.”

“Where did you go?”

“Walking around. I thought you’d get angry and leave.” Her hair smelled of smoke 
and perfume, intoxicating.

“Oh God, Karin, why are you acting so afraid of me all of the sudden?” He spoke 
slowly. “I don’t understand. I thought we’d broken down so many walls in such a 
short time.” Karin had slipped her hand from his and sat hugging her waist, rocking 
back and forth. “Four months. I can’t believe it—in the past three we’ve grown so 
close it feels like years. Because you trusted me, Karin. And I’ve tried so hard to deserve 
it. I’m only human but I thought I was succeeding because I care for you so much.”

“I can’t stand it. Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop...” She was sobbing.

“Karin...”

“I can’t bear it that you’re so good I can’t bear it that you love me I can’t it’s 
ripping me I don’t know I wanted to stop being alone I guess I don’t know why I told 
you things but there was this big lump in me pushing to get out and I didn’t let it but 
then you were so good and I did and I couldn’t stop and then you knew and you didn’t 
go away so I kept on telling and telling and you kept on staying and started saying you 
love me and I started to need it and lonely was lonely but it was strong and now I wasn’t 
and loving is needing and I can’t spare anything for you stuck in your loving and it tears 
at me and Oh God for once I didn’t want to tell all this I wanted to be closed and 
complete and direct things but you had to know and so now you do and you can go 
away and leave me my corner.” She masked her face with her hands but her sobs came 
through.

Michael, too, swayed with her words. They were the hard light of the lamp, the smell 
of the room, the movement of her hair, the air he breathed, his heartbeat pounding. 
“Karin you’re all right, everything’s all right, it doesn’t matter what I need, it matters 
what you are. It’s okay, it’s okay.” He drew her hands from her face and cupped it with 
his. Her eyes were closed and streaming tears that he brushed with his lips, tasting the 
salt. Gently he moved his hands, putting his arms around her. “You’re all right, Karin.” 
He struggled for words, knowing she was listening although she showed no reaction to 
him. “I understand...I understand what you mean. There seems to be so much to being 
involved with another person. But there’s so much to be gained, too. So much 
happiness...haven’t you felt it?...in having someone close. Oh God I love you so much.”

“Michael? Michael, I do love you.” He felt her words with her hands on his body. 
“I guess maybe I did before, but I was afraid of it.”

He drew her even closer. “You can learn not to be, Karin. You’ll learn.”

“Just what is it that you’re ‘learning’ with this girl, Mike? If it was just an affair with 
some chick I think it would be bearable, but I just have a funny feeling about this Karin. 
Lately you two never go anywhere, never see anyone else, and someone asks what’s 
going on and hears about how you’re ‘growing’ and ‘learning’. This girl sounds eerie, 
why don’t you rejoin the human race, okay?”

“Yeah, well I appreciate your interest, Tom, but you don’t understand.” He twisted 
on the barstool restlessly.

“What’s the big deal? Listen, all the guys go our with chicks, no one else turned into 
a hermit. At least at first you brought her to the parties and she joked around. But then 
she started pulling all that possessive shit and wanting to go home early and always 
getting upset about something and you put up with it all. And now we hardly ever see 
you.”

“You really dragged me to this scroungy little tavern in the middle of a blizzard to 
tell me that?”

“Blizzard? Jesus, Mike, now you even sound like her. It’s only snowing. And it’s 
honestly because I’m worried about you. There’s just something unhealthy about her.”

43


Look, Tom, enough’s enough. Karin is a sensitive and intelligent and beautiful 
person who just happens to need some love right now. You couldn’t begin to imagine 
the happiness in meaning that much to someone. So don’t bother to worry. I haven’t 
left the human race-only found another level of it.” He stormed out of the bar, stormed 
through the snow until with relief he reached the musty warmth of Karin’s apartment.

“Michael! What’s wrong? You’re stomping around like an arctic bear.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re angry at me. What the hell did I do?”

“I’m not angry at you.”

“You must. I’ve never seen you like this before. What’s wrong?”

His jacket was off now, he slung it down and slumped in a chair, running his fingers 
through his hair. “I’m sorry. I just feel rotten, I had an argument with Tom. God, we 
haven’t spoken harsh words since we were kids.”

“Is that all?” She moved his jacket and sat down next to him.

He looked at her sharply. “Friends mean a lot to me, I hate this kind of shit.”

“Don’t you see, Mike, that’s exactly what happens with friends. You just can’t let 
it bother you.”

He looked at her intense face and smiled at her attempt to comfort him.

“Don’t give me that paternal smile, Michael, I’m right.”

“You’re sweet. Come on, let’s just forget it.”

“I’ve practically forgotten what it’s like to do little things together.”

“I’m only human, Karin. I can’t always be ready to do things when you are.” 
She looked at him stonily. Her silence hurt him but not as much as the knowledge that 
she wanted it to hurt. “We just live together, that doesn’t make us two synchronized 
watches.”

She stirred. “You can stay awake. Just lie down with me until I fall asleep, like 
those other times. Please?”

“All right, Pooh. All right.”

“All right, Karin.”

“Michael, you haven’t listened to a thing I’ve been saying.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Mike! What’s the matter with you, you’ve been moping and moping for ages.”

“I’m sorry.”

She lit a cigarette and puffed it quickly. “You’re getting sick of me. You haven’t 
looked at me in days.”

“Karin.” He looked up wearily. “I’ve just been busy. That’s all. I’m sorry if I’ve 
been hard to live with.”

“Do you love me, Mike? Really?”

“Nope. I moved out of my well-ordered apartment to this mess because my secret 
desire has always been to clean up a slum.”

“Michael!”

“Well, ask a stupid question...hey what’s the matter?”

She looked at him pensively. “I’m serious. Do you really love me?”

He put down his paperwork and stared back. “Whatever could make you doubt it?” 
She toyed with the book in her hand. “Karin?”

“Well...well, I thought maybe living here would make you change. This is different, 
you know? And you always seem to have somewhere to go lately, some appointment or 
something else to take you away from me.” Her voice trembled. She fumbled for a 
cigarette.

“Look, Pooh, don’t be silly. I have my work, I want to do well, get promoted. I love 
you just as much outside as here.” He walked over and kissed the top of her head. 
“You love me when you’re busy, don’t you?”

44


“That’s different, Mike. I...I just miss you so much when you’re away. There’s no 
one to talk to.”

“There’s a whole world full of people, Karin. Some of them you even know already.” 
“But not like you, Michael. There’s no one in the world like Michael, my best Pooh.” 
He pulled her up, holding her close, and kissed her mouth. “I love you. Oh, I love 
you. Don’t be silly anymore.”

She laughed. “I love you, too. Let’s have a special day tomorrow-get some wine and 
I’ll cook special.”

“I’m sorry, Pooh.” He kissed her lightly. “I’m meeting Tom.”

She looked up. “Oh. I thought you two had an argument.”

“We did. But that seems like so long ago...it’s time to do something about it. I hate 
to have an old friendship die. Come on, don’t pout. We’ll have all day Sunday, I’ll get 
some good wine, something special. Okay?” He kissed her again.

“Okay, Michael. Sunday.”

“Okay, Mike. Now what’s really on your mind?”

“What do you mean, Tom? I apologized for being such a prick lately, that’s what I 
wanted to do. There was no reason for us to become strangers but I saw it happening. 
I didn’t like it.” He ran his fingers around the handle of his coffee cup.

“It’s been forgotten, Mike. But you don’t seem any happier. Come on, I still know 
you well enough. What’s bothering you?”

The restaurant clattered in the background. “It’s nothing, really. Temporary 
depression, you know? Things just don’t seem to be going well lately, I don’t work as 
well, things don’t get done. That’s a pressure in itself, but when people start to notice, 
start to talk about it...” His voice trailed off and he looked at Tom, who was looking at 
his coffee, “I know. We’re friends again, you’re not going to say what you’re thinking. 
You think it’s Karin’s fault.” His voice was tired. Tom looked up and stared without 
speaking. “I don’t know, Tom, I really don’t think so. Why should it be her? And yet... 
but even if it were, there’s such a thing as priorities. I mean, people come before 
positions.” He shook his head.

Tom sat silent for a few more moments, then forced himself to speak. “Look, Mike, 
you called it temporary depression—maybe it is. Maybe all you need is to let loose a 
little, get out some more. Why don’t you come over to my place next weekend. I’m 
having some people over, probably you haven’t seen any of them for awhile. It’ll do 
you good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great. Thanks, Tom.”

“So you win, Karin. So you’re not talking to me again.” He looked at her with a 
practiced eye and knew exactly what was wrong. He’d been out late without her. The 
hangover irritated him, the mess in the apartment irritated him, her silence hurt him. 
“We can’t be together all the time. It’s just not humanly possible.”

She looked at him silently from the white sheets like the naked tree outside that 
blotted the snow, and he thought of Whitman’s live oak growing without a friend near 
and knew that she could not.

“It doesn’t mean that I don’t love you. One evening doesn’t mean I don’t love you, 
Karin.” He sat down wearily in the chair. She turned her head away. “Come on. Look 
at me at least.” His words fell. “Look, Karin, you could’ve come with. I wanted you 
to come.”

She stirred and her voice came, muffled. “You were going to come home early. Just 
for a little while, you said, and then you’d come home.”

“I said I’d try to leave early. There were some old friends of mine there, people I 
haven’t seen in ages...we lost track of time.”

“See.” She turned back, triumphant. “I told you it would be stupid for me to go. I 
wouldn’t have known any of those people.”

“But you meet people, Karin. You never get to know anyone without meeting them.”

45


“Well, what do I need them for? Goddam it, what do I need them for, you’re enough 
for me.”

Michael’s head pounded horribly. If only a window were open, or he could feel a 
breeze.

“Oh God oh God oh God...”

“Karin!”

“Oh God you need them! You need them! What’s wrong with me, why oh God why 
can’t I be enough for anyone!”

“Don’t scream, oh Jesus, don’t scream.” His body wouldn’t move. “You’re only 
human, Karin, we’re both only human, we can’t ask to be universes.”

“Get out!”

“Karin...”

“Stop talking to me, you’re just like everyone else. Get out, leave me alone!” She was 
breathing heavily and her eyes were sparks, her very hair was a black flame. Michael sat 
for a long time trying to think of words but his head was a block of pain and no words 
would come. He rose heavily.

“Karin? Karin, I do love you.” He paused. “Karin, I don’t know what to say. I just 
feel so empty.” The room was swirling around him, he waited for something to reach out 
and steady him but nothing did. Slowly the blur in front of his eyes cleared away and he 
saw Karin huddled in the bed. She looked so far away, his voice could never reach that far.

“Karin?” She moved, she had heard, but her motion was away from him. “I’m sorry 
Karin. I’m so sorry.”

He picked up his coat and walked out of her bedroom, out and out into the street. 
Buds had sprouted on the trees and in soil, trying to fill the nakedness. He shook his 
head pitying them. “It’s really no use, you know,” he whispered. “Really no use at all.”

46


phyllis eyer(keon) received her M.A. in English from Michigan State in Fall, 1974. She is 
married and has two sons. Her poetry has appeared in Bardic Echoes, Ball State University 
Forum, and Pine River Anthology. “The Fragrance of Flowers” won third place for 
fiction in the 1974 Creative Writing Contest.

john hohlt is from Missouri and likes to shoot pool. He is currently a graduate student in 
English. His poems tied for second place in the Creative Writing Contest of 1974.

richard koch received his Ph.d. in English from Michigan State in 1974. He is presently 
teaching at the University of Iowa. His poems tied for second place in the Creative Writing 
Contest.

patricia polach is perpetually late. “Levels” received honorable mention in the Creative 
Writing Contest. It also received honorable mention in the 1973 Mademoiselle College 
Fiction Competition.

michael schulze is an unfortunately sincere young sophomore, presently living in a garret 
on Linden Street. He tied with Andrew Scheiber for first place in fiction in the 1974 
Creative Writing Contest.

debbie wiitala is a sophomore. Her poetry has appeared in Garfield Lake Review and will 
appear in Intro 7. She received first place for poetry in the 1974 Creative Writing Contest.

RED CEDAR REVIEW is a tri-annual magazine of the arts published 
at Michigan State University. Manuscripts may be submitted to 325 
Morrill Hall, Michigan State University, East Lansing, Michigan, 48823. 
Please include return postage and contributor data.

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