Spring 1994
A Student Publication Sponsored by the Department of English Murray State University Murray, Kentucky
Notations Staff Managing Editor ............................................David R. Ross Production Editor ..................................... Charlotte Dawson Art Editor ...............................................................Liz Riggs Editorial Staff ..............................................Jackie Atchison Taylor Carlisle Travers Houck Dan Parker Mary Jo Wallace Faculty Advisers ........................................ Squire Babcock Ann Neelon
Editors' Note: We would like to thank the Office of the Dean, College of Humanistic Studies, and the Department of English for their financial and technical support. Thanks also to Professor Dale Leys of the Art Department and to the student volunteers who helped with the production and promotion of this magazine. Finally, thanks to all Murray State students who submitted their work.
Table of Contents Artwork
The Three of Her .Mike Gilles ........................................ 12 Untitled .Honorine Winter ...............................................39 Gestation .Matthew Bradley ............................................ 49 Bath .Mark McCain ......................................................... 62
Photography Untitled .Chris Holloman ..................................................5 Untitled .Betsy Porter ......................................................24 Untitled .Betsy Porter ......................................................25 Poetry
To Be. Vincent .Kathy Kohne ........................................... 6 Manhattan .K.S. Greenwood ...........................................8 A Head At The Races .Jackie Atchison ...........................9 The Rule of Four No 1 .Eric T.Anderson ....................10 little tiger .Eric T.Anderson ...........................................10 funFeralL .Joshua Garcia ...............................................11 Paradigm Shift .Eric T.Anderson .................................26 Twisted Petals .Tonya Basinger ....................................27 Evidence .Kathy Kohne ..................................................28 Crowd Running -Tonya Basinger ...................................29 God Answers Prayer .Greg Hagan ...............................34 Of Starships and Sexism .Mary Jo Wallace ..................36 Mussel Man .Robert F. Harris ........................................37 Footwinds .Daniel T. Parker ..........................................38 Never Again .Bridgette Owen ........................................50 Untitled .Barbara Kern ...................................................51 Passing Passing Time .Allen Williams .........................52 camisado .Joshua Garcia ................................................ 63 A Note of Apology .Greg Hagan ...................................64
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Fiction A Bump. a Pisspot, and a Field Goal -Travers Houck .................................... 13 Jigsaw .Daniel T Parker................................................. 30 Jasmine .Beverly Brown ................................................40 Rituals .Mary Jo Wallace ................................................54
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Cover Art Will that be all sir? .Mark McCain
I
I
Chris Hollomun
To Be, Vincent No leaf is silent here. No green is still, and the blue races through the grass. I have to paint the yellow now, before it blows to bits on the wind, and make it strong with lots of paint so that it stays-there, sunflowerbefore it flies away like my hat before I tied it to my head. There sunflower, shining in the dark. There are no stars tonight, but pinwheels, spinning in the sky. Lamps of night creep into the street cafe. Here and there, flames flicker through crystal cups of absinthe. Heavy elbows sink into tidy tablecloths as the silent drinkers sip; the liquid surface glows
like tiny moons held to their lips, and their eyes shine, but they are so dark. I paint them bright, as if they needed my help to take the clouds out of their minds, to fade their clouds into my hand. Red and purple oils soil my sleeves. My tom bread is dented like a bruise. Kathy Kohne
MANHATTAN Across foreign seas Her family sent her to learn The ways of the red, white, and Blue. I sat behind her As the plane descended Through the storm landing In Newark, The land of the Rising Sun A million thoughts away. Her baggage was practically Nonexistent. One change of clothing for Her new country. I followed her Aboard a bus headed for Downtown Manhattan. The rain and urban rust Creating a bus window zebrine. I lost her just outside the Terminal, Took a cab to my hotel Not knowing why I Followed her, wondering Who sits behind her now. K.S. Greenwood
A HEAD AT THE RACES Mrs. Havelock told the crowd At the derby that she'd flown From Panama the day before. She hid beneath a bonnet, yellow, The color of straw. Pale white Hands shook, struggling at the pillbox. The cap would not give. She was weak from The sun and watching horses cowl from the whips. A cowboy placed a bet in her honor, On a horse named Ten Gallon. He liked the sound. On Mondays, he was a bowler, yelling CLOCHE! when only eight pins fell. He used to be a sailor but quit from VD. That was the topper, he said to the crowd. Stay away from wild babushka he told a boy Leaning against a wall, practicing to be a hood. Mrs. Havelock stared at the Stetson On the cowboy's head and the bright red kerchief Around his neck. I wonder what he'd Look like in a turban, she asked the bookie. Jackie A tchison
The Rule of Four No. 1 spring's ending wind sings in the trees flowers outstretch to the sun the rains come again summer storm dark clouds ride the night thunder rolls across the hills the pounding of rain alive in the autumn leaves blow in the wind falling on the frosted ground a whisper of cold winters dance snow whirls in the air a mad dance of frigid joy beneath a grey sky Eric T Anderson
little tiger dance little tiger for the grass is golden warm beneath a red sun Eric Z Anderson
Hurry up. There ain't no time. There is this humongous merry-go-round that is so cool to ride. All the kids are high and all the adults are drunk. You will heave your soul unless you have cotton candy fingers. The horses look real and go faster if you whisper in their ears. Every now and again a bell rings and there is a fatal crash but the carousel lights up still. The painted, wooden horse and rider are thrown into a casket where they have angry faces because. They are broken but not very dirty. They both look good as new almost but you have to bury them on purpose. Don't disturb the reins or the saddle. Leave them be. Looking funny. Joshua Garcia
"The Three of Her" Mike Gilles 12
A Bump, a Piss Pot, and a Field Goal No, but what Raimen was doing was walking down the road at night -just walking, an act he used to think mundane, but now an act he relished, or at least put up with. He last saw his car ten miles outside of Brownsville, after the machine overheated. Without hesitation he had slammed the car door shut, grabbed his camera and large prune-like bag through the open window of the back door, then took a step, then another, and so on. Now he's humming a tune (sounds like Roky Erikson's "Nothing in Return") and nearing a convenience store just off the road by the name of Stop and In. He pauses to rest up against an ice machine outside and rubs his exposed arms against the cool metallic box. Raimen eyes a red pickup truck that rolls into a parking space next to the front door. The whole action of the man pulling up and getting out of his truck is very quiet. Raimen licks his finger and smoothes a nasty scuff on his cheap cowboy boots, then walks toward the entrance. The sign on the door reads "pull" instead of "push." He pulls the door open and allows the man, a Mexican gentleman, who is behind him, to enter first. If it had been a "push" door rather than a "pull" door then I'm sure Raimen would have entered first and, well, this might have changed things "Gracias." "No problem." They each wander around the store, collecting the items that they desire. Raimen has a stick of beef jerky in his left hand and a strawberry soda in his right hand. The Mexican holds a toothbrush and a candy bar in one hand as he pulls a pair of reading glasses out of his shirt pocket with the other. He walks up and sets the two things on the counter. "Hola," the Mexican says to the cashier. "Hola," the cashier says without looking up. "Two ninetyeight." 13
Raimen takes his place in line and watches as the Mexican starts digging in his pockets. He comes up fifteen cents short. "Chuy !" The Mexican pronounces the word "chew it," really drawing out the "ew" part of "chew." "Chuy!" he says again, this time louder. He wipes his hands on his white denim pants and looks around the floor for some sparkle of change. "See what's in here," the cashier says as he points, automatically, to a tin on the counter where people drop in their pennies for other customers who are short a few cents. The Mexican empties the tin and counts out eleven cents. "You could look under the soda machine, fella," the cashier adds. Raimen lays a nickel on the counter. The Mexican puts his hand on Raimen's shoulder and acknowledges his kind gesture with the word "amigo." "I was thinking my toothbrush would to be put back, no?' He chuckles. "Can you give me a ride into town?" "Where to, amigo?" "I need to catch a bus. I'm heading home." Now see, Raimen does these sorts of things. He didn't know he was going to take a bus until this guy asked him. Maybe he's just saying he's heading to the bus station, but I think he means it. I think he's ready to go home. "Yeah, I can drop you off. You ain't packin' are you arnigo?" The cashier's eyes get real big and he looks up from the register for the first time. Raimen motions for him to go on and ring his items up. Once outside, Raimen opens his bag to let the Mexican look inside. He peeks in without moving anything around. "Chuy. I don't really care. You look like a man with the morals." "A man with morals. I try."
They get into his pickup truck and turn onto the highway. There's a Post-It note stuck to the inside of the windshield, just below the rearview mirror that reads: "By being lazy or not working, I'm doing my part to slow down a world out of control." Raimen doesn't notice this little note until later, just before he hops out of the truck, which is just as well. "My name is Raimen," he says as he opens his soda. "Raimen? Spell it.'' "R-A-1-M-E-N." "Ah, if you spell R-E-Y it is 'king' in Spanish. Your name would be Kingman, but you spell it differently. Me llamo Lippy." "What? Lippy?" "Si, my name is Lippy. Do you live around here? I don't think you do, but I ask anyway." "Boston - up East." Raimen pulls out his lightweight Celtics jacket from his bag and points. "See?' "Mrnrn. What are you doing in Tejas?" "I was working on a rig in the Gulf for a couple of months. Never been south of the Carolinas before now. Before that I was taking a bath one night in my apartment in Boston, and my wife gets in with me and starts talking about how much fun it would be to take a bath with a baby, like a family bath, you know. It wasn't the first time. She can't have a baby cancer." "Cancer?' "Yeah, it's all gone now, but she can't have a kid. Her mother died from it, too. So I left the next week and came down here, couldn't take her baby talk anymore. Came down here to make some money and thought I'd maybe get one to take back to her. They pay good money on the rigs." "Thinking you'd take a one what back to her?" "A baby, Lippy. A baby. You see them advertised all the time in the paper - pregnant girls looking for a good home for their kid."
"Chuy." There are a few minutes of silence. Lippy rolls down his window and glances out. Raimen opens his beef jerky during this time and stares ahead. Homes and businesses along the road are not as sporadic now as they near the city limits. "What religion are you, Catholic?'Lippy asks. "No. I pray to probability. I pray to the God of Chance when I want something." "That's not right, you know? You came down here to get a cheap Mexican baby. I don't think that's right." Raimen reaches down at his feet and picks up his camera that was sitting next to his bag. He turns on the flash to give it a chance to warm up. "I don't think I should give you a ride, amigo. You've used up your nickel on me." "Just drop me off in the parking lot up here." Why Raimen didn't argue with the man is a mystery. Lippy pulls into a 24hour superstore as the light to Raimen's flash comes on. Raimen takes a picture of Lippy and grabs hold of the door handle as the truck slows to hit a speed bump. Raimen takes this opportunity to jump out of the truck. The truck lingers in the lot and then pulls out onto the highway again. Raimen walks inside the store and begins the next step, if you will.
After his ride with Lippy, Raimen looks like he feels a little lost. He checks his bag and his camera with a smiling young man at the front counter. He pulls out a cart and aimlessly pushes his way down the main tiled row, glancing down each aisle as he passes, looking for something to catch his eye - aisles full of items that could help or harm him, if he bought them. Raimen decides his odds are good tonight, so he starts searching for a deck of playing cards. While searching, he hears the voice of an older woman.
"Excuse me, sir," says the lady. She looks about sixty and is fumbling through various packages of pins. "Yes?' "Look at these pins. If you were to step on one, which do you think would hurt more? Bare feet, mind you." "If I were to step on one, I think this would probably hurt the most," Raimen says as he reaches for a long, curved sewing needle. "Oh, it can't be a needle. It has to be a pin. See, he buys new shirts all the time and thinks the pins come from his new shirts. He would suspect something if it were a needle. Oh, and needles are too long. Pins have a head you can twist in the carpet threads that hold them real good." "You mean you plant these pins in someone's carpet so they will step on them? Why?" "The asshole got my daughter pregnant, but he won't marry her. She's just as much to blame. Never listens to a word I say to her. You're not like that are you, young man?' "You remind me a lot of my mother-in-law. I was an asshole who got her daughter pregnant. She's dead now. God, my wife misses her. She never used pins on me, though." Raimen picks up a pack of pins, examines them, hands them to the lady. "You are a father? You make a good father, no?" "We lost the kid. My wife had ovarian cancer. It wasn't meant to be." "It should be a man like you who fathers a child, not Dechen." "It was nice meeting you, but I have to catch a bus." Raimen hurries aisles away and locates a deck of cards. As he approaches the only checkout counter open, he sees the same old lady pay for her pins. She notices him and smiles. It's not a sinister grin or anything, more of a distressed, forced smile. She waits for Raimen to pay for his pack of playing cards. The young cashier pushes him his bag (cashiers and
checkout counters have been in Raimen's favor tonight) and he heads for the old lady who is now waiting near the doors. "Could you walk me to my truck, young man? It's not safe around here at night." Raimen looks out of the enormous plate glass windows into the parking lot. He sees the employees' cars parked in the farthest row and four other vehicles parked close to the store. A Camaro stops near the front door and two teenagers get out and walk by Raimen and the old lady. "No problem," Raimen says. "What time does your bus leave?" "I don't know yet. I don't even know where the bus station is." They near her truck, the only one in the lot, which is parked under a light. "Oh, well where's your car? Is that it over there?'she says, pointing to a beat up sedan. "It broke down a few miles away. It's a clunker. I'm just going to leave it and head home." "Well I... Why don't you come with me and we'll get a drink. I know a place that stays open all night, no? There's no buses leavin' tonight I bet, and I'll drop you off in the morning." Raimen looks at a patch of rust on the bumper of her truck, then notices the reflection of the parking lot light in another part of the chrome. Another thing Raimen uses to help guide him is rock kicking. He chooses a rock on the ground and some sort of crack or painted line or twig as a mark in the distance. When he kicks the rock, if it makes it to his mark, then it is a good sign. If the rock veers off to one side or another or just doesn't make it to the mark, then he should be cautious. He chooses a rock and kicks it. "OK." Raimen shares information about his wife and his search for a baby on the way to the bar which it seems is a few miles out of town. When they reach the establishment, Raimen no-
tices it is the only place in sight, except for a gas station a few hundred yards away, and that the lights are already out inside. It looks like some sort of chopped up barn. The sound of cattle can be heard in the distance. He struggles to make out the name of it - Dechen's Bar and Butcher Shop, or so the sign says - a longhorn's head in neon balancing a beer on its head. "This is Dechen's place? The asshole?" "Yes, my daughter and I live in the back behind the butcher shop. He lives above the bar." "Is that right? A real butcher shop?" They approach the front door to the bar and she pulls out a key and unlocks it. "He trusts me, but he doesn't like me. He's from Germany. I'm Puerto Rican. Can you tell?" "You speak very good English." "Only when I want to. I never speak English to Dechen. When my Estrella wakes up, 1'11 introduce you to her. What can I get you to drink?' They step through the front door and into the bar. The butcher shop is to their right and very white and clean. The two rooms are separated by glass and a wooden door. "Here I am so close to Mexico and I haven't had a tequila yet." She serves Raimen a few drinks. He notices an apron on a bar stool next to him, stained with butcher shop blood. Then the old woman shows him the mock stage, off to the side of the bar, where she makes tortillas for the occasional tourist that comes by on the weekend. She says they enjoy seeing how real tortillas are made by hand. The drinks and the fact that he's just plain physically tired put Raimen to sleep. He rests at the bar, with his bag at his feet and his rolled up jacket under his head. The old woman stares at him as he sleeps and decides to let him rest. She goes out the back door and heads to her room so she can lie down with her daughter.
A few hours later the sun comes up and shines in Raimen's eyes. He decides to find his own way to the bus station, but first he needs to find a restroom. He tries a door near the back of the place - a bathroom, but it smells nasty and the floor is all wet. He decides he would rather go outside. Looking out a window on the back door, Raimen sees a woman, maybe twenty, sitting on an large, empty flower pot. The pot looks to be hand-painted with reds and oranges and is buried halfway in the ground, right near the base of an enormous cactus. The woman's short, black shirt has a message on the front that reads "You are not what you buy," and her cut-off jeans and underwear are resting around her ankles. She's taking a piss, in that beautiful pot. She turns her head from the horizon and looks in his direction. He sees what a beauty she is. What a sparkle of a face. Her eyes turn towards the window and Raimen ducks, but it is too late. Their eyes had met. He raises back up to see the young woman struggling with her clothes and running to a small structure behind the butcher shop. The old woman walks out of her place a few minutes later and through the back door of the bar with the young woman looking quite confident following close behind. "Morning, young man. This is my daughter, Estrella." "Hello. I didn't know anyone was out back. I was going to head out there myself after I saw the condition of the one in here. I hope I didn't scare you." "Scare me? What were you staring at, man?" "I didn't mean to. I just wasn't expecting ..." "Nor was I. Where did you meet this guy, mama'?" "I met him at the superstore last night. I'm giving him a ride to the bus station shortly. Would you two like some eggs?" "I don't want any. You know that, mama'. I don't like them." "You like them when Dechen fixes them." "I would like some if it's not a problem," Raimen says.
"I'll go make some," the old lady says. Raimen usually doesn't eat eggs. He probably wants to have a conversation with Estrella. That would be my guess. So the old lady leaves and Estrella takes a seat at the bar next to Raimen. He looks at her body to see if he can tell how far along she is in her pregnancy. She appears to be only a few months along. Her cheeks aren't full, but peaked, yet her belly button is sticking out. That might be natural, though. "So, what's up with the restroom?" "Dechen and his pals always mess it up and he wants me to clean it up. No fuckin' way, right?" "There's not another bathroom? One for men and one for women?" "Just one. Mama uses the one at the gas station cause we don't have one in our living area either. I use it sometimes, too." "So you and Dechen are going to have a baby, your mother tells me?" "Yes. I didn't want to keep it, but he proposed to me last night." "So you're going to many him and have the kid, huh? You know my wife and I are looking for a kid to adopt. We'd give it a good home if you change your mind." Estrella gets up and walks around the room. Then she smiles at him. "You know, I always wonder when I piss in that pot out there where it goes to. There's some holes and cracks in the bottom of it, but the top of the ground is so dried and hard. Does it seep through, or does it evaporate into the air? Whenever I go out to the pot later, it's all gone."' "That's an interesting question." "Last night Dechen burnt himself on the grill, he does that sometimes. He went out and broke off a small piece of that cactus, the one beside the pot. He wiped the salve of it on his bum to cool the pain." She pauses then starts again. "If I
were to guess where it went, I'd say it seeps through the bottom of the pot into the ground, and that it waters that cactus. Dechen wipes my piss on his bums. That's kinda funny, don't you think?" "And you're going to marry this guy?" "I love him." Raimen gets up and walks out the back door with his camera. He takes a picture of the beautifully painted piss pot undemeath the cactus. After finishing his eggs (and another shot of tequila), Raimen gathers his bag and camera, then heads out to the truck for his journey home. The old lady and Estrella soon join him. Estrella asks Raimen, "Would you mind sitting in the back? My mama and I have a few things to talk about." Raimen climbs in the back. It's starting to get hot outside, like one of those days where it seems like the sun is slowly being pulled into the sky out of molten metal, still dripping. The wind is blowing hot. Raimen touches the top of his head - it's blistering. He's leaning up against the window separating him from the two women and looking at the passing scenery. He sees everything after the truck has already driven by. The two women see everything coming towards them. They can see the future. Raimen can only see the past. All the road signs are backwards to him. I should tell him to turn around, but he should do it on his own. When they reach the station, Raimen hops out of the back. Estrella smiles at him like a friend and gives him a hug. The old lady waits. "Could you come here a second before you leave?" Estrella asks Raimen. "We need to talk." "No problem." They take a few steps and stop near a parking meter.
"I just told my mother that Dechen and I are getting married and she feels that there is no place for her there anymore. She wants to go with you. I wouldn't have a problem with it. What do you think?' "I'm going home - to Boston. Are you sure she knows that?' "There was a poster back in the butcher shop I meant to show you - a diagram labeling the different cuts of pork. Dechen made me memorize it. There are nine: hind foot, ham, fatback, loin, side, picnic ham, jowl, forefoot, and Boston butt. Do you know which one I think tastes best?' "Boston butt?" "Yes, it's my personal favorite - very juicy and tender." Out of all of the words and phrases that Estrella could draw from in her brain, all of the images, she chooses the right one. The right one, as luck would have it. Two hours later Raimen and the old lady are sitting together on a bus that's making its way north, through Houston, on its way to Boston. Raimen is playing solitaire. The old lady is listening to a football game on a headset. "You know the Oilers have a pretty good team this year, " the old lady says as she takes the headset off. "My mother-in-law used to watch a lot of football." 'The team hasn't been scoring as many touchdowns so far this season, but they sure make those field goals. There's nothing wrong with field goals, Raimen. They can win games for you just as well as a touchdown." He understands. Raimen stacks his cards in a pile and takes out his camera, then takes a picture of her with her arms in the air, just as a referee does to signify that the kicker put the ball through the uprights. Travers Houck
Betsy Porter
Betsy Porter
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Paradigm Shift Here at the center of the mind, is a rock surrounded by a sea of time. Above the surf, it rides the waves that know no night that knows no day. in the sky no stars shine, For as if who watches must be blind. And there something sits on the rock, a dim paradigm of the god it mocks. Is it being or beast on the stone, shivering in the cold it calls its own. For the masked face never shows a sign of its passion nor of its crime. A shadow of what it was or could be, maybe soon it will remember and its eyes will see. Eric 'I:Anderson
Twisted Petals One by one, Purple by blood By black and bruisedThey are falling. Petals; Twisted, dried, Bled and tired From holding too long To death-pale dreams And loves, and companions And other hopeless things. Butterfly wings Touch my cheek as they go; Perilous final flight To their lusty pool of death, Where I see my own Scarred, hollowed eyes reflected. I am a petal Clinging to a dead rose, Dying myself Before letting go. I am timid butterfly kisses, And twisted final caresses, And the ebony taste of blood As the rose falls to dust, As our love is blackened rust. Tonya Basinger
Evidence One soaking loop sucks a thin white pool of sweetened milk, bloating, floating at the bottom of my black breakfast bowl like an empty lifesaver on a foggy pond. Beside the bowl is a silver spoon, half filmy, opal coated, stuck. This is all he left behind. Cheerio. Kathy Kohne
Crowd Running the crowd draws closer breathing, heaving in and out up and down walking the paths to their busy lives running away from running to some one they love or loved in a life that to each seems a hazy dream as the crowd draws close i shudder, shrug them away i, alone despite the crowd running to and fro Tonya Basinger
JIGSAW The flannel-covered shoulders barely twitched, the balding and graying head slightly turned when Will stopped at the open door of the backyard shop. "Haven't seen you for a spell," Andy Thornwood said quietly, speaking down to the lawn mower engine he was disassembling at the workbench. Will Thornwood squared his shoulders, then stepped into the shop and stood just over an arm's length away from his father's shop stool. "I, uh, was wanting to borrow the jigsaw." Andy held the carburetor up and squinted at it for several seconds. Will swallowed the taste of coffee rising in his throat and added, "Cherry and I are trying to build bookshelves." Andy ran his thumb disdainfully across the small jet of the carburetor. "Well, get it." Will wondered at the softness of his father's tone as he walked over to the pegboard wall and lifted the jigsaw. The plastic case of long thin blades was tucked against the handle by the tightly wound electric cord. "I won't need it for long," he said to the squared shoulders of his father's back. "Okay." Will stood still, his hand absently testing the weight of the jigsaw. Then he moved toward the doorway and had almost reached the slant of sunlight when his father spoke again. "I know it's your birthday, Will." Will turned. "What?" "I know it's your birthday." Andy's hand was moving the carburetor around the top of the workbench as if he was seeking a precise location for it. "Look at me, damn you!" Will shouted, and Andy jerked his head around. He put the carburetor down and lowered his hands flat against the edge of the bench.
"What does that mean?Will asked softly, angry that he'd lost his temper. "What is that supposed to mean?" His father's face was expressionless. Will found himself guessing that this was the look his father had given to second lieutenants in Vietnam, wondering what lay behind the flat look of the eyes and the calm, controlled corners of the mouth. "It means I remember." Andy's voice was as flat as his hands and his eyes. "You remember." Will felt his facial muscles relax, felt the weight of the jigsaw tugging at his arm. "You couldn't have just said, 'Happy Birthday'?" The heavy silence of idle tools filled the small shop. His father's head tilted slightly. "We have a ... a dysfunctional father-son relationship. Is that an accurate quote?' Andy paused, but went on when Will refused to react. "I didn't even know if you wanted me to remember ...take the saw. I mean, keep it. Your birthday gift." Will felt the warning tension around his eyes and inside his throat. "I'm not a piece of shit," he said, voicing each syllable carefully. "I'm not a piece of shit, you bitter, twisted old man." He walked back to the pegboard and placed the jigsaw back upon its black silhouette. When he turned, he saw that Andy had turned the stool to face him, but was looking down at the particle-board floor. "Will ... please. You can borrow the saw." The two men each stared at the .floor for several seconds. "Will," Andy tried again. "I wish it wasn't this way with us." "You made it this way." "And you're keeping it this way." "You made your decisions. I make mine." "Good God, let's not start that again." Andy's voice still sounded softer, wearier, than usual. "Hell, so what if you can't look at me as a father? Can't you at least treat me like a person? Are you this way with your staff?" "Leave my job out of it, Andy," Will said, raising his eyes
and meeting his father's gaze, remembering the Army photo he'd kept for years after his parents had divorced. "Leave my job out of it. I do my job. I do it very well, and I treat people the way they deserve to be treated. I'm a responsible person, Andy. You probably don't understand that." "You're chickenshit, boy." "What?' Will expelled breath carefully through his nostrils. "Chickenshit. You are." A tiny curl appeared at the right corner of Andy's mouth, the same grim grin Cherry had often said she noticed on Will's face. "Responsible, huh? Yeah, you are that -and you're better'n your old man there, ain'tcha? Course, the people you're responsible for may lose a sale or a commission. Your family may not eat the right cheeses or have all the latest Barney toys." Andy swiveled the stool around and reached for the carburetor. "Responsible," Andy repeated, then turned back around. "I was a goddamn, motherfucking platoon leader, sir, and my people got killed: shot, stabbed, or blown to fucking bits. They got killed if I screwed up. They got killed if I didn't screw up. No matter what I did, they died. And when I was shipped back home, my family wore giveaway clothing from your mother's church, and we went to bed hungry. Yeah, I never was good at responsibilities." They were glaring at each other now, one man looking into the past, another seeing his future. "So," Will said finally. "Again, Andy, you've got your excuses all lined up. It's Vietnam's fault. If you hadn't gone to Vietnam, if you hadn't come back from Vietnam - yadda, yadda, yadda. Okay, Andy. You're forgiven, over and over, and over again. Forgiven. Not quite forgotten." "No, not forgotten. Not quite." Andy turned again to face the bench and the engine parts, and Will started walking toward the doorway again. And again, Andy's voice stopped him short of the patch of sunlight. "Will? Boy, go on and take
the jigsaw. Just drop it by sometime, whenever you're done with it." "I'll take good care of it." Andy seemed to catch the implied insult, and his head tilted back until he was looking at the thin metal roof of the shop. "Damn, boy ... okay, fine. Look, Will: I didn't leave you and your mother, all right? I was kicked out. She couldn't stand me." 'That's a lie." "Look at me." They faced each other again, and Will felt his heated need to defend his mother start to fade. "I don't believe it," Will said after several seconds. "I don't." "I know. She's a good woman, boy," Andy said carefully, "but she couldn't take my crying. And I couldn't stop." Andy dropped his gaze from his son's face and turned back around to fiddle with the wrenches lying amidst the small engine parts. Will felt his throat stiffen and fill with dryness, wondering at this sudden truth he could neither deny nor understand. He glanced at the familiar flannel shirt on his father's back, but let the right moment for speech ache away. He'd never felt like he knew his father, but now he realized just how little he did know. He turned, hesitated, then picked up the jigsaw again and walked silently out of the shop and into the bright September sunlight. He thought at first of opening the Mustang's trunk, but quickly decided that the jigsaw wouldn't damage the cloth of the passenger seat. After sitting for a moment, he backed out of the driveway. He drove out onto the highway and punchshifted the responsive car into cruising speed, driving east, away from the sun. An old song played on the radio and his right hand idly rested against the hard metal and coiled rubber cord of the jigsaw. Daniel T Parker
33
God Answers Prayer Yes He does. Well, just the other day a prayin loon stretched out, prostrate, reverent, before the throne of grace, the sea, a worshippin, a prayin and a prayin real hard to the Almighty for the sea to reclaim the land. Some people were mighty unhappy about a loon a prayin. Well, they didn't preciate a bird of pray, a prayin. And so they chased him, chased the loon into the water, into the sea. Well, the loon disappeared into the sea right before their very eyes. A loon immersed in sea of power before an angry crowd of scoffers. Immersed in a mighty sea of prayer, a sea of grace. There's power in prayer. Well, the people were mighty surprised when the loon appeared near the horizon, a prayin and a smilin, a prayin in the sea, a prayin real hard in a sea of grace before a gatherin of unbelievin people. What a loon the people said. Well, that very night high and almighty winds battered and pounded the shore, a nor'easter. Well, an answer to prayer of course, judgment and carnage, the sea
had reclaimed the land, the horse and rider hurled into the sea, even scatterin a few unfortunate gulls. And by the prayer of one loon. We know prayer can move mountains. Well, nothin like this had ever happened before. The people were mighty perplexed. And mighty angry when a jubilee of celebratin triumphant loons appeared amidst the flotsam and jetsam, jubilant prayin loons dancin wing-in-wing and beak-to-beak before the sea. A joyful celebration, a celebration of praise to the Almighty. Well, the people just scoffed and chased those prayer warriors, chased them into the water before any more trouble could get started. Well, several minutes later the loons appeared on the horizon well armed for spiritual warfare, a prayin a prayin, a mighty armada of prayin loons in a powerful sea before brewin storm clouds. Greg Hagan
Of Starships and Sexism As children our swing set was a starship. We thought the neighbor boys were klingons. I was the first female starfleet captain. My friend, Angie, was my female first mate. We led an entirely female crew. War between sexes began in first grade. Boys tried to be galactic pirates And upset our peaceful, starfleet mission. Even now we see them as pirates, Competing for parking and promotions. Calling truces for weddings and babies. As grownups we battle more politely, Instilling in our daughters knowledge That girls really can be starship captains. Mary Jo Wallace
Mussel Man Lifting shells From the swells Lead through The liver Brown arms Pull and lift Guiding hooks over cliffs where waters foam Drop weights of lead Near old river bed Captain oversee The children Blood and water Swirls Life to the Liver Grace to the Giver Of life On the river Robert l? Harris
FOOTWINDS Leaves are falling from the trees too soon, falling in piles like flames without heat. Because there is too much God, my girlfriend says; it is not what she means, she is distracted, but the image rustles in the blazing boughs. The image lifts the brown, curled leaves that are shuffled in the footwinds of our passage. Now, green is an intruder and there is too much God. The leaves are libations being poured to us, the gods love us; it is not what they mean, they are distracted, they float among the mackeral clouds and we are shuffled in the footwinds of their passage. Winds weave and reap the greenless leaves. Our pace is contented, we are walking for a book, and leaves drop like bright shrouds behind us. There is too much God, but the gods love us; it is not what I mean, I am distracted. Daniel T Parker
..
Honorine Winter
JASMINE "Marc, where are the car keys? Marc...the keys?" "I left them on the table in there." "Which table?" "The one I just pointed to. In the living room, on the coffee table," Marc said, walking toward the bedroom. He closed the door. The keys weren't on the coffee table. Jas was getting angry. It was already 754, and she was going to be late for work. "I don't see any keys in here," she yelled. Jas walked into the bedroom where Marc was undressing. His pants were unzipped, his light blue shirt unbuttoned, and for the first time Jas noticed that he had gained a few pounds over the last few months. His chest was bigger, but not as muscular as it used to be, and his stomach was losing some of it's ridges. "Marc, where are the keys? They're not in there and I need to get to the hospital. I'm late as it is." "Oh shit, I left 'em in the car." "I asked you not to leave the keys in the car. Anybody could just hop in and drive off." "Well, look, I just worked twelve hours and I'm tired, okay. I think I'm entitled to one mistake. Now you know I'm not perfect. Sue me."
Jas looked at her watch as she pulled into the parking lot at the hospital. It was 8:23. She hated being late for work. Work was the one aspect of her life that she'd always been able to manage. It was always consistent, and always made her happy to remember that she was good at something. She looked forward to the time that she got to spend with the other nurses and even some of the doctors. But the patients,
the patients were what kept her going, especially a few of the new ones on her wing.
Room 422 -Emma Brodderick. "Good morning, Ms. Emma. Rise and shine," Jas said, letting the blinds roll up. "You missed breakfast, didn't you?" "No, honey, I had breakfast." "The other nurses said you didn't eat it and I checked with Peggy, one of the nurses' aids on this wing, and she said that you told her you weren't hungry because you'd been sick all night." "Liars, all of them. I wanted to eat breakfast but I couldn't eat. It wasn't because I was sick, though. It's because that shit y'all serve us ain't fit for my dead dog, Lucille, let alone an old, decrepit woman like me." "It's not that bad, Ms. Emma, and I wouldn't call you an old, decrepit woman, either." "No? Well, I am. And, I didn't see you suckin' down any of that crap this morning." "I was late, Ms. Emma. I had to skip breakfast today." "Late, huh. Why? You at home gettin' some lovin' right off this morning?' She looked at Jas with a sneaky, inquisitive grin, or at least it would have been a grin if she'd put her teeth in that morning. "No, I wasn't. I haven't done that in a while." Jas didn't mind the patients asking questions, especially not Ms. Emma. She was animated and humored Jas quite a bit. She had that voice that you get from living a long time and doing all the things other people are too scared to do. "Why not? You got an irregular period, one of them that lasts for months at a time? I had a sister who had them. 'Bout killed her marriage." "No, I don't have that problem," Jas said, shaking her head and trying not to laugh. "It's just not something I've been up to lately. And stop asking me personal questions. I
don't ask you about your sex life." "Oh, so you got jokes today. I can tell you some stories about my young days. Like when I was twenty-three...I used to do this trick with my..." "Okay," Jas jumped in. "Let me check your blood pressure." "So, Nurse Jasmine..." "I asked you not to call me that." "So, Jas..." "Better." "You and your husband fight now?" "He's not my husband. We live together. And no, we never get a chance to fight. He works twelve hours a day, six nights a week, and I'm here eight days a week, plus Sundays." Jas looked up to see the puzzled look on Ms. Emma's face. "Just kidding." "Oh, well I was gonna say. You can just let one of the others check me if you're that damn tired." "Your blood pressure's back to normal. We're still gonna let the doctor check you over again this afternoon to make sure you're fine." "Good, cause I don't wanna go through no more strokes, heart attacks, nothin'," she said, shooing her hand and resting her head on the pillow. "You never had a stroke or a heart attack." "No, but my friend Daisy had a stroke and it like to gave me a heart attack."
"Hi. I brought you some lunch." Jas rolled into the door carrying two plates with a beige cover on top of them, hiding the surprise. "Well, bring it in here. Shoot, I'm sorta hungry. I guess it's cause I couldn't eat this mornin'." "Yeah," clearing her throat and nodding her head, "that could be why." Jas wheeled the large, portable tray over to
Ms. Emma's bed and slid it three-quarters of the way to the top of the bed so that Emma could reach it. Unveiling her lunch, Jas said, "Voila." "Voi-hell. What is this crap?" "Baked fish." "Uh-huh. That green and brown stuff?" Emma was moving her finger back and forth above the plate. "What's ...That's mold." Her eyes danced on Jas's face, waiting for a response. "It is not. That's potatoes and gravy," pointing, "and that's green beans." Emma took a semi-deep breath and shook her head. "Boy, if I wan't about to just keel over and starve, I wouldn't even try it." "You mind if I eat with you?' "What you got?" "The same thing you have." "They don't pay you enough to eat out, huh? Go ahead. Have a seat. We'll see who gets food poison first." Jas pulled up a chair, then reached over to turn on the television. Channel 13- "The Noon News." "I don't know why people watch that junk. I don't hardly ever watch it, 'cept 'The Golden Girls.' Hell, I could be Sophia. Anyway, I stopped watchin the news a long, long time ago." "Don't you wanna know what's going on around you?' "Nope. Look here, Jas. What's the point in watchin' other people's misery? I got enough problems a my own without glarin' at other folks'. That's stupid. People oughta get over doin' that stuff - feedin' off pain. Theirs, somebody else's, it don't matter long as it's pain. Like the world is full of nothin but pain and suffering. That ain't so." "Isn't it?" "I don't think so. If that's all you see, well, it's 'cause that's all you wanna see. I think sometimes we get so used to bein' miserable that we just take it. 'Come on in,' we tell it." Emma looked up at the television, then pointed her bony finger at it. "That stuff they show you, that ain't real. I mean, 43
yeah, it happens, but that ain't all that happens. People are happy too. But you gotta forget about the bad. Throw it away; turn it off, whatever. Just get rid of it. That's where happiness starts." Emma picked up her spoon and dipped it into the potatoes and gravy. She tossed the food into her mouth, swallowing most and wiping the rest away from the comers of her mouth with the back side of her thumb. "I like your hair like that." "It's just down. Nothing special." "Maybe not, but it's different. It's a change from that black horse's tail that you usually wear." "You should work on your compliments. You almost had it." "It's a change. That's all. Change is good. Different, good." "Like hospital food?" "Let's not get crazy."
"Hey. Hey," came the echo. "You leavin'?" Jas took three steps back and stuck her head inside the room that she'd just passed. "Yeah, I'm gone for the day." "Come here for a second," Emma said, tilting her head to the right, beckoning Jas inside. "You on your way home?" "I need to run some errands first. Why, you want me to take you somewhere?" "Ha, ha. And since you asked, a juke joint sounds good." "Juke joint, huh? Well, you can go with my boyfriend. He's goin' to one tonight, I'm sure." "You goin?" "I don't think so." "Oh, I guess you wanna sit around and watch TV.Let's see, you missed the six o'clock news. Well, don't worry, you can still catch the ten, ten-thirty, and eleven o'clock news." This tickled Emma to the point of snorting and patting her
leg in mild hysteria. "I don't have to take this, you know. I can go home and be treated badly." "In't that the point?'
Jas reached over to set her alarm clock for 6:30. It was already 1:21. She could hear his keys clinging and chiming as he unlocked the door. The door squeaked as he closed it, and there was an almost inaudible "click" as it finally shut. "Oh, what are you doing still up?" "Not much." As Marc undressed, Jas remembered when they used to go out to clubs and parties together, then go to bed together. She remembered when she'd undress him and he wanted her to. Now, as he removed his pants, she noticed the mole on his hip. She'd forgotten about it. "The strangest thing occurred to me tonight," she said. I was lying in bed before you got here with all the lights turned off, thinking. I thought about today, work, tomorrow, the new Italian restaurant that opened up on Fifth Street, made a WalMart list in my head ...just random, ordinary thoughts. Then it occurred to me that I might be abnormal." "You really ought to get out more, Jas." "I'm serious. Haven't you ever wondered what goes on in other people's minds? Not, 'I wonder what such-and-such thinks about this-and-that.'You know what I mean. Like when you pass two Chinese people on the street speaking their own language, you think, 'What the hell?' Sometimes I laugh to myself because it looks so funny. They look out of place, different, you know? Don't you wonder what they're thinking too? We think they look weird, they may think we do too." "You mind turning off the light so I can get some sleep?" "No. Listen. I mean it. What makes people think what they think? I don't mean all that stuff about religious background and childhood. I mean what makes you, for instance,
think about dreading the night shift at P & G one minute, remember to call your dad the next, then before that thought is complete, you're thinking about some girl you met at The Purple Crackle?" "Who says I did?" "Who says you didn't?" "Would it matter if an innocent thought about another woman flashed through my mind?" "No, not really, I guess. I think what matters is if that one thought can flash without my knowing it, what else are you thinking and not telling me? I wonder about thoughts becoming actions and reality." Marc glared at Jas for a moment, blank and hard. Then he rolled over on his side, face to the wall, back to Jas. "I don't feel like it, Jas. Not tonight, not again. I'm gettin' real sick of this shit. Just go to sleep, okay?" Sure. She'd just go to sleep. She always just forgot about it. But why? Why did she always have to 'forget about it?' Why had it become her responsibility to shut up, turn the lights out, and pretend that nothing was happening to them. "Jas, your light is still on." The words rolled out slow, precise and separated with a calm matter-of-factness. Jas did not move. She didn't comment. She kept thinking about what Ms. Emma was saying earlier and how it all made so much sense now. She had opened the door for misery, and now she was closing it. "Damn, Jas, my one night off and here we go, again." Marc raised up, leaned on his elbow, looked at Jas out of the corner of his eye. "I can sleep on the couch. I don't care. But you gotta get up for work in the morning and I'm tired as hell. I wanna get some sleep, okay? Now turn the light off." Marc turned full face toward Jas, giving her the most direct contact that they'd shared in what seemed like forever. Finally, he dropped his head a little to the left, away from Jas, and concentrated really hard on controlling his frustration. "I didn't watch the news tonight."
"What?Warc yelled, emphasizing the "t." "I didn't watch the news. I wore my hair down today, too. Did you notice it this morning?' "I don't think so." Marc raised one brow in a sneer. "When was the last time you said you love me?" "What?'emphasizing the "t" again. "When was the last time you said you love me?" "Where is this coming from, Jas?" "Answer the question." "Why?' "Why not?" "You're crazy. Go to sleep." "You don't, do you?" Marc didn't say a word. Jas could hear him breathing, clearing his throat, struggling for a word, any word to end the scenario. She could hear the quick beats of her own heart, but for some reason she could not feel the pulsation and wondered if her heart was still there. Finally, he began in a less than pleading voice, "Jas, 1-1 can't - umm - Jasmine, I kinda ..." There was a deep silence, no action except for Jas's thoughts. Finally she said, "Urnm, what? What is it? Say something!" "Like what? Say what? I don't know what you want me to say." "The truth." "What truth?" "That's what I thought." Jas started to get out of bed, but was stopped by Marc's words. "I don't know how I feel anymore. Things happen for no reason sometimes, and you don't know why. I really hadn't thought about us too much to be honest. I haven't had time. I mean, I figured you weren't as happy as you could be but ...Urnm," he heaved and caught his breath. "I don't know what kind of problems we're having. It's like, like little stuff, you know? It's not one big thing I don't think."
"You didn't think I was as happy as I could be. What the hell does that mean? That should tell you a lot. And the problem's big enough that we don't even talk anymore. You can't tell me one thing about myself lately. I think that's big enough." Marc was gripping the inside of his cheek with his teeth and popping his fingers and his wrist. Jas sat looking at him, wondering why he didn't have anything to say worth saying. "This is hopeless. I've thought about it and thought about it. You think it's too late, don't you?' "I don't know. I still care, Jas." At this, Jas began to laugh, not loud, not hysterically, but silently and to herself as if she was thinking about one of those "most embarrassing moments" that everyone has had. "This is funny to you?' "Not this, but what you just said is. I still care." "I do. You don't just stop caring overnight. I've never done it before, and I didn't this time." "No, you didn't, and that's what's so funny. You stopped saying 'I love you' first. That turned into, 'love ya' which became saying nothing. Now you're at 'I care.' What's next, 'I like you a lot?' No, none of it just happened over night. That's not the point, is it? The point is that it happened." Marc sat in bed listening, not believing. He had a sick, strained look on his face. Maybe he was having gall stone problems. Jas circled from his face to the clock to the bedroom door back to Marc's face. Ms. Emma was right. There was no point in wasting time and energy on misery, other people's or your own. After a short eternity of silence, Marc asked the ultimate: "What are we gonna do?" Marc had left the bedroom door partially open when he'd come in and Jas could see into the living room, the far corner where the entertainment center stood. "You can have the television. I really don't need it." Beverly Brown
Gestation
Matthew Bradley
49
NEVER AGAIN The aura begins with a cool void Restricting you with the dusty boards Stale, icy breeze calls remembrance Of the warm homecoming of sleep That had once played in the rhythm of your mind You sit patiently, dreaming of the last Wishing you could recapture the sweet past Only to remind yourself of the reality The moments slipped by with a dull thud You try to capture the present After growing in wisdom of the past Grabbing on to each moment It pulls itself from your childhood cast You scramble and struggle Trying to catch up Pick it up, again But it is lost just as the last Distinguished, it is unified with the past Bridgette Owen
i didn't want to do that to you but i lost control i couldn't stop myself as the passion took over my body and made my soul take flight i flew with you for such a short while and we probably shouldn't remember but we do and i know i changed you though you won't show it i changed too (i've scared myself) but when lustful hands slid over your body did you know they were mine? i had the power to make you scream though you kept it in and now that voice echoes in my head every time i close my eyes funny, cause i never heard it but what i felt you saying haunts me still i will never forget and when you see me, you'll know it was real my touch doesn't compare to how you touched me deep inside the lusting truth survives but now it's time to live the lie that we're just friends Barbara Kern
Passing Passing Time I. Not lying down not able to stand up, but against. A thinning grey helmet; One arm crooked to shield the world The other beckoning dreaded bliss. Not lying down. Silent curses cast at failing arms Mumbled blessings for the coming of the going. Soon, not enough. From behind the shield "Not for you" Chimes times toll in larger numbers? Merely less to draw from. "Come, take it all" "I'll pay" Not lying down.
11.
Not exactly music just repeated tones Regular rhythm Mechanical breathing liquid eating. Standing vultures heads bent in pretend prayer. Real prayer for a faster finish. "You can have the dishes. What are you afraid of? You can't catch my disease. You're already infected. That's what I see in your faces Fear and Recognition. Allen Williams
Elizabeth could hear Ben's voice over the running water as she indulged in her evening toilet. He was waving his hands in the air and saying over and over, "I can't believe that you said you would sleep with James." Elizabeth continued applying cold cream. "Really, Ben. You have taken the statement completely out of context. That's not exactly what I said." This banter had been going on for the past hour. They always engaged in it each time they attended a cultural event. In fact, it often began as much as a week before each date. Ben despised to "dress" for any occasion, especially University functions. It's not that he was intimidated by the people at such events. No one intimidated Ben. The truth was, he just could care less about "culture." To him, culture meant walking past the arts and crafts section at the local trade day. The previous week they had gone to dinner at the home of a colleague. The repast consisted of a large chef salad served with croissants and wine. While standing in line at the buffet, Ben inquired loudly, "Is this all we're having?Once they were seated, he leaned close to Elizabeth to complain, "This civilized crowd you run with is nothing but a bunch of heathens. They never say grace at these things, and half the group is sauced before we get to the desert." Later that evening, the hostess insisted that Ben take the most comfortable chair. It was the least she could do since he had just sharpened all her kitchen knives with the whetrock he happened to "pack" in his pocket. Only Ben could make sharpening knives an evening's entertainment. Soon a small crowd had gathered in the kitchen to observe his handiwork. He regaled them with "pocket knife" stories from his Middle Tennessee youth. When he had completed the task, he demonstrated how one of his knives could shave the hair off his
arm.No one realized, least of all the hostess, that he had originally ducked into the kitchen to avoid an art professor. Ben was sure the man was gay. Peoples' reactions to Ben varied. A few found him to be refreshingly honest and candid. Perhaps some envied Ben's ability to have fun. Most of his wife's colleagues seemed to have lost that ability a long time ago. Some snobs would comment, "Poor Elizabeth, she really married beneath herself." Elizabeth never felt this way. She told herself that Ben knew things in his heart. When it came to relationships, he surpassed many people who had a great deal of book knowledge. She was actually proud of the fact that Ben would not allow himself to be intimidated in social situations and remained so true to himself. What irritated her was that each social event had to be such an ordeal. The adjustment to her new career and new home had been a difficult one. Several schools had made Elizabeth good offers, but she had chosen the one in Lexington so Ben could still live in a farming community. Ben had supported Elizabeth through two years of graduate school, so she felt it was the least she could do for him. At least he had supported her financially. Emotionally was another story. They had married the day after she received her first degree. When she told him she wished to continue school, he complained she had been in school ever since he had known her...first grade. They lived on a farm about forty-five minutes from the university. To pass the time on the drive home, one of them would begin an argument with a casual statement, sure to get the other's ire. This evening they had been to see a foreign film about a woman who had an affair with her husband's brother. On the way home, Elizabeth simply remarked that Ben had nothing to wony about since she could not stand any of his brothers. "What's wrong with my brothers? Aren't they good enough for you? We sprang from the same seed. I guess if
I'm good enough for you, then one of them ought to be." Elizabeth attacked the logic of this comment, but allowed an exchange concerning the qualities of each of Ben's brothers. Since he had five brothers the subject was sufficient to keep them busy all the way home and even while they prepared for bed. Now Elizabeth looked at her husband as she used a tissue to wipe cold creme from her face. "I didn't say I would sleep with James. I said that if I had to have an affair with one of your brothers, it would be James. He is the most sensitive one in the bunch." "But you always said that James is an drunk." "I said he is an alcoholic. The rest of the brothers have driven him to drink." "What's wrong with Richard? You two seem compatible. You both love animals. Every time we go over there you make him show you his hound dogs. Hound dogs can be a good basis for a relationship. After all, it's only adultery we're talking about here. I know marriages built on less than a good huntin' dog." Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed and began to remove her stockings. "There is one difference between Richard and me. I prefer to let the deer and the antelope play. He likes to stuff and mount them. Besides, I've been disgusted with him ever since he dropped Dulcie. He drove fifty miles into strange territory and left her. He could have at least found her a good home. I can picture her now, all alone..." "The bitch was afraid of the dark. Have you ever tried to hunt a coon dog that's afraid of the dark? She used to spread all four legs and try to hold onto the cage whenever you grabbed her collar." He tried to demonstrate how she looked by spreading his arms and grabbing the door frame. "She looked like a cartoon dog." "I think I left my nightgown in the dryer." Elizabeth walked down the steps to the basement. Ben followed her,
and they never quit arguing as they descended. "It hurt Richard's ego having that dog around," Elizabeth was saying. "Finally, someone got the better of him in a trade. All your brothers have big egos, and nothing inflates their egos more than taking some poor soul to the cleaners. James isn't that way. The rest of them would ...what is that expression you sometimes use... when you've out-traded someone?" "Knock you in the creek." "No that's not it." They were in the laundry room now. Elizabeth had changed into her nightgown and was moving clothes from the dryer into a laundry basket. "Screw you without a kiss?" "No, it's even more vulgar than that." Before she started back up the stairs, she handed the laundry basket of clean clothes to Ben. "I remember it now. They would break it off in YOU." Once back in the bedroom, Elizabeth fluffed the pillows and crawled into bed. Ben threw the laundry basket to the floor, causing much of it's contents to spill out. "Why do you do that, Elizabeth?" "Do what?" "You know what. Why do you talk vulgar? I hate it when a woman talks vulgar." "I don't really talk vulgar. The words I use are the ones you call by words. Isn't that what you used to call it when we were dating?" Ben had always jokingly said that by words were the words you could get by with saying in public. Words like hell and damn, provided it was not preceded by God's name. "Really, Beth, sometimes you talk worse than any man I've ever known." "Don't push me, Ben. I might use the F word." "No wife of mine is going to use the F word." He held his hands over his ears to prevent hearing any vulgarities, and Elizabeth thought to herself that he resembled Dulcie when
he did that. "You are such a chauvinist," Elizabeth said as she tried to pry his hands from his ears, as if she could force him to hear the truth. "This is the nineties. A woman doesn't need her husband's permission to speak, be it vulgar or not." "I'm not a chauvinist." Ben shrugged her away and strutted around the room. "I was simply stating a preference. I prefer women who do not cuss. Just as you prefer men who do not drop worthless dogs. How long have you had this thing for my brother, anyway?" "I don't have a thing for your brother. What I meant was that if I had to choose, he would be the lesser evil. I don't even think he is good looking." "My mother tried to warn me about these interfaith marriages." He was talking as he shucked all his clothes, down to his boxer shorts. As usual, Ben crawled into bed, leaving clothes lying all over the bedroom floor. "Hon, the term interfaith marriage refers to the union of a Jew and a Christian, a Catholic and a Protestant, or maybe even a Hindu and a Buddhist. You are a Southern Baptist and I was raised a Missionary Baptist. What we have is an intrafaith marriage." "Well all I know is...we are unevenly yoked. You've gone above your raisin', and I'm not sure I approve of the change." "What are you saying? That you have to approve any changes I make? Or was that your way of saying you preferred the dumb, but sweet, submissive country girl that you went to grade school with. Well she's not here. She hasn't been here for a long time, so get over it." "I think you're over-reacting." "If I'm over-reacting, you're under-reacting. I don't think you realize how serious this stuff you're saying is." Up to this point it had been banter, an exercise in verbal exchange. She told herself that such tiffs were the whetrocks on which they sharpened their wits. "I'm proud of where I come from,
but there's more to me now. I'm not going to apologize to you because I want more out of life." "I didn't say apologize for anything. Just don't be so uppity. The girl I grew up with would have been shocked by that movie tonight." "That's what this is all about. I don't fit your old perception of me?' "That's not it. What I meant was you don't fit the way I always saw you." Elizabeth flipped the covers back and started walking toward the bathroom. "It's the same thing Ben," she yelled, slamming the bathroom door behind her. Ben went to the bathroom door and knocked. No answer. He knocked again. "Come back to bed, Beth. I'm sorry. People change. I guess as long as you can put up with my old ways, I can tolerate a few of your new ways. Just don't start serving rabbit food and pissy-tastin' wine for supper." Elizabeth leaned up against the door. She didn't hear the words Ben was saying. She only heard "gone above your raisin'." Isn't that what she always heard when she went back home? Her folks were proud of her accomplishments, but they wanted her to leave them at the university. They expected her to come home and behave like the same Beth that left. She worked in the kitchen beside the women, and stood patiently by while the men ate their fill. When the meal was over, meaning the men and the children had been served, she would sit with the women and pick at the leftovers until it was time to clean up. Ben knocked again, still no answer. "I still think you're pretty. And I know that deep down you wouldn't really sleep with my brother." He didn't get it, did he? He thought she was upset about the original comment, the catalyst comment she had made just to be joking. He didn't realize that making comments
about her culture was hitting below the belt. He really had no clue how she struggled with this issue on a daily basis. She slid down the door to sit with her head resting on her knees. She considered crying but told herself that would be a silly female reaction. Ben had been waiting the past five minutes in silence. Finally, he spoke, "Beth, I love you and if you love me you'll come out of there. I'm going to bed." Beth spoke from the bathroom, "I guess you figure you can't lose since I have to come out of here sooner or later." Ben didn't reply this time. Life was so simple for Ben. He was shrouded by this farm and small town community. He fit in here. He didn't mind the solitary work in the fields. He also enjoyed the small talk that was everywhere in this community: the country store, the feed mill, the bank, and of course the Happy Holler Baptist Church. Except for geography, it was Stewart County, Tennessee. Elizabeth wasn't so lucky. She had thought that two years of marriage and three times that many years of education would have prepared her for anything. She had never dreamed that her rural background and education would become such an issue, at home and at work. At times she was tempted to bury herself in this small community and never come out. But to do so would mean a sort of suicide. That is why everyday she drove the forty-five minutes to Lexington. All her life she had craved knowledge, and being a college instructor enabled her to continue her quest. Did Ben have any idea how tough it was to be a college instructor and speak with a Middle Tennessee drawl? Her colleagues loved to tease her about being an English teacher who couldn't speak English. As was her nature, she would laugh along with them, occasionally saying, "That ain't funny." So what would she do now? Go out there and tell Ben
how insensitive he can be? Tell him that she is going to quit backing down to him and acting like the women back home? Maybe she would throw her arms around him and beg him never to fight with her again. She decided on the first option. When she returned to the bedroom, her husband was on his knees next to his side of the bed. For an instant she felt a stab of annoyance followed by a pang of guilt. He was praying silently, but she thought she knew what he was praying for. The Lord's blessings on his family and good weather was all it took to make her husband happy. Despite his faults, he really was a good man. She took her place on the floor across from him and prayed as well. It was a brief prayer and she returned to her spot in bed before it could get much colder. Ben looked up at her with one eye, then continued to pray. When he was finished he looked at his wife and asked her, "Are you sure that was long enough?" Now he's going to criticize my spiritual life as well, she thought. She didn't reply. Instead she hit him with a pillow. Ben just shifted in his spot and asked her, "Turn off the light." "I'm not ready to turn off the light." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Turn out the light please." This time she complied. They lay next to each other, feigning contentment. It occurred to Elizabeth that this must be how women in her family have always handled marriage ...feigning contentment. It was quiet for a short while. Elizabeth decided if Ben wanted to spend the rest of his life avoiding the real issues, she would help him out. "You know Ben, I think I remember reading in the Old Testament something about if a woman were to lose her husband, his brother was supposed to marry her and give her children." Ben pretended to sleep. Mary Jo Wallace
Bath
Mark McCain
camisado Where do you go when the devil flips you off? basted and glazed dead in some strange apartment in some strange city in some strange kitchen in some strange company in some strange circumstance elf figurines everywhere commentary on linoleum complexions and relationships ended over pronunciation I never would have pretended that. so many skinny people will fit into a booth and tell you that their heart is a seashell and if you put your ear on their chest that you can undoubtedly heal the ocean instead I prefer to lick the sand from their navels and sneeze mucus from my gut and say panties with dignity and to apologize for uninteresting horizons I piAata the sun showering candy and small dangerous toys on likable deserts where I am just a cactus in the eternal moonlight and can only concentrate when I am frozen outside some club with this good nice cigarette next to me talking about her new transcendental make-up everyone tells her makes her look slutty it doesn't bother me tonight.
Joshua Garcia
A Note of Apology In this daily ritual, I fold my hand-written apology, but this time, carefully, into a Mute Swan and glide it above the Shark River. Skating across time, against all the regrets, now lumbering, my words collapse into the shimmering sea grass. A startled Snowy Egret emerges and with wings unfolded, sails for the great arc of the sky and beyond. Greg Hagan