AmLit Fall 1984

i

a

Literary resurrection edition fall 1984

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THE AMRICANUNIVERSITY WASHINGTON DC

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1985 Talon

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A Yearbook for the University Community

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kk if ppur is sawe kin ag For phstbs the most rtiking white ppr is neo sinee

we

tent f

m

e

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i

c

a

Literary

gloty.-dennThempson--

VOLUMEI

features an interview with ann beattie: chronicler of the clinicallydepressed McHester Street: a cartoon by andrew schoengod

a biannual maçazine published bg 16

students of the americanuniversity

26

poetry markbaechtel: vignette..untitled

editorial staf 8

laura cruger creative director

jd. smith: things to do around dc (aparody)

14

david oleshansky: rst grade farming

15

elinor c. hiller: jogging to thechateau

22

jameshmitchel: what thewatch sid

23

randall mars: and god took spanish for me

23

tara kelley: who is bubbles?

24

business staff

jüm faye: not enough of looking at the moon...coming from amsterdam

30

laura cruger

russellatwOod editor-in-chief, ction

įd.smith associate editor, poetry

business manager

patludwig

visuals patricia jackson: ve dravings john quale: two infrared photographs valerie fuchs: two infrared photographs

advertisingrepresentative 6, 7, 8, 23, 31

nancyedelstein advertisingrepresentative

9, 14 10, 11

els van der goot: oil painting (reproduced in black and white)

13

andrew schoengold: ink drawing

15

ray gesumaria: ink draving

21

june shadoan: watercolor (reproduced in black andvwhite)

22

edward dubinski: photograph

24

Covers ink drawingsby raygesumaria

copyrightO 1984 american Literary all rights reserved

ashley pound: photograph

25

lina wafa: two infrared photographs

32

all rights revert to artists upon publication love and kisses 00XXIN

american Literary

ction tracy o'shaughnessy: a time

the american university

12

massachusets and nebraska avenues. nw

washington dc 20016

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russell atwood: air

n

20

(202) 8856414

6

clash of diametricaly opposed intellects, despite a year and a

half of paper shuftling. despite our own lack of experience, despite "other" timeconsuming

commitments, despite that green-eyed monster called skepticism, despite the long silences, despite the fact that none of us smoke.

the

magazine is reSur-

rected. We did it and we loved it.

Now the only problem is keeping the magazine alive. Without interested, willing contributors and staff members, and especially without continued and increased nancial Support, the magazine will fade into the past as it did in 1976.

We would like to thank the Stu-

dent Confederation for their founding contribution. CAS Dean Frank Turaj for emotional

and

nancial

support. Ann

Beattie for her con dence and inspiration. UPPO for technical quidance, all of our advertisers, our contributors to whom this magazine offers a creative outlet, and you, our reader.

We invite you to read on, hoping it vill be as much fun for you as it has been for us. al,

a.it

drawings by patricia jackson 7

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We did it. Despite a thicket of nancial dif culties, despite the

fi

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a few words from the editors

These walls, my rooms

the eyes in lined papers

myhands - a portlychair my lips – such books as rest within a scholar's scope

The windows weep my tears the bed hokds trial until I stoop to

put close my face. draw out

mydags - like shes like loves. lbke lessons

to eat. to breath. to cleave this air

Ah. theserooms - mỹ soul a desk M chest theplasterwalls My watercolor Mu ed mill sounds. the streetlight My face. mỹ soft night breath Here. I dwel here

(untitled) Somewhere. begond time.

A sitver music plays The sound of running feet.

The sacred. wet embrace.

A dancer spins alone With darkened. hidden face:

Somevhere. begond time A siver music plags.

Somevwhere. near the edge

Of what can be perceived.

The dancer lifts an arm And places careful feet.

The runner paces on: The lovers fuse in heat

Somewhere, near the edge Of what can be perceived.

Somewhere-locuslost The broken two are whole:

Piroueting body.

The pirouetting soul.

Impossibleand realPure light held in a bovl.

Somewhere- locuslost -

,

Thebroken to arewhole.

patricia jackson

mark baechtel 8

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fi

viğnette

john quale 9

valerie fuchs 11

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a time by tracy o'shaughnessy

see it in the rst innocent, playful notes of

"Dadd's

gone." she said. streaking her

hand acrOSs her face.

fresh. I can almost hear the erratic sputer of

watched her. She just kept on crying. I was

my uncle's sixteen-millimeter

eight years old.

music.

I see

the

lm.

I

lm. I hear the

lay

back.

and

remember.

I stood on the other side of the room and

The next

the hollow

silence of St. Brigid's and knelt at the altar. i

looked at the buming candle encased in red

the time when moie cameras reached the

glass that stood under the portrait of the

masses and everybody wanted to be Frank

Blessed Virgin. They alvays kept the ame lit.

Capra. My uncle just wanted to be Alan Funt.

Tht's how he must have taken these pictures.

When our CCD. classvwent on a tour of the altar. theg told us the

I can see us in the

spmbolize

dad. Jim. a

the eternal

ame was kept lit to presence

mutt we named Major. and me. At the edge

Christ. I stared at it. and

of the screen I see the skunk cabbage that

slared at it.

of Jesus

stared at it. and

each gear inched farther out of the woods and toward the patio. The stuff stunk like

mother made up some excuse about a busi-

mad. and if sou got it on gou. gou'd have to

ness trip. My father worked as a newspaper

take a bath in Tide to smell like a human

being again.

I didn't see my father at all that fall. Mg

typographer. Where the hell could he go?

Funng. but when you're at that age. Octo-

Dad was throuing us into the skunk cab-

ber to December doesn't mean months. it

bage. into the compost pile. over the tree

means minutes. it means hours. It means

stump. or angwhere his left elder's arm would have us land. He called it roughhous-

hand to hit twelve to show it's ten o'clock.

ing. Jim. the dog and I would crash into his

Sometimes I'd feel like inging open the bed

stomach. muss up his dippety-do pompadour and pull on his faded jeans. Nothing seemed to faze him. The guy was a rock.

disçusted look at six I carry at wenty one.

I'm

empty mornings you wait for the second

room door and beating the dog to the bed to wake up Dad. To shake him up when I knew

he already might be awake. just waiting to

Ican seemyself in the lm with the same

tickle me to death.

Kind of dumb. the love a daughter has for

siting in the mud. arms crossed. all

her father. When I got to college and took

bruised up. defjing tears to fall. waiting for

my rst Intro to Psych class I found out there

Daddy to notice lI'm hurt. But he never did.

was a rational. clinical reason for it. I wrote it

He was too busy with my brother and the

down with the rest of the 120 freshmen in the

stupid dog.

d have cried if I thought it

class. andvwhen the question came up on the

would help. but Daddy said Irishmen don't

exam. I circled B and got a check beside the

cry. We're t0o tough. We let evergbody wear their hearts on their sleeves and we just bite

number ten.

the bullet and show the vworldvwe can take it.

fall. my mother took the three of us to this

The

lm

utters over the reel and I remem-

beredvwhenm mother entered my ovn cinematic menory for the rst time. tvo years later. It was fal. my favorite túme of the gear.

Someime in November of that very long park and had a photographer take candid shots of us plaging in the leaves. We glued

the pictures inside a walnut 12"x 18" frame

and wrapped them in red holiday paper.

and I awoke early to a crisp. urging wind. I re-

member seing her shoulders shaking from the back of the Ethan Allen colonial divan we

used

to have. I

had

never

seen

my

mother cry before. I had never seen m mother as angthing but mother before. I was

Scared.

stretching my neck over the

dashboard of the 68 Chevy Impala and wondering vhy the trip to Grandma's was taking so long. "What's wrong with the car.

morning. I entered

It was 196S and I was six years old. It was

backyard-my

after all that time.

chance to see Dad. Dad. I remember

The Way We Were." The way the notes dance on the end of the keyboard: gouthful.

But we barely got angthing for Christmas that gear. My mother was working as a secre-

larg at some high-tech

rm on Route 128

Mom?

I asked. but she just looked straight

ahead.

We nally reached the big gray twofamity house in the section of Arlington they call the Heights. I ran up the brown

linoleum

steps: tro at a time. then three. as fast as my leçs could ake me. I didn't even look at his face. I just nushed into his arms and held him

tight. He held me as tight as he could. but it was almost as if he didn't want me near. I was

afraid again. strength

that şear. I

needed it more than anything

I needed

my

father's

Eversbody

else was wimpin' out on me. All Mom did was cry. AI I wanted was for thinçs to be like they used to be. AIl I wanted was to re

member to put Daddg's white bread on the supper table when eveybody else forgot. to go to a Sherwin

Williams

paint store on

Saturdag with Dad and play with the water cooler while he talked about the Sox. All I

wanted was to annoy him while he dug up bushes. watered down lawns and shoveled snow off our two and a half lot cape in suburbia. That's all.

I was siting at Grandma's feet when he opened his present. He opened it slowły. and I hought I saw his hands shaking. but it must

have been the wrapping paper. He looked into the frame. looked at each one of his children playing in the leaves. He ran his cal-

lused hands over the walnut and kept staring into the frame.

I smiled. I waited. Why didn't he say angthing? Did I do something wrong Then I saw it. slow at

rst.

like

out of a

dream. something verg unreal. Water built in his hazel iris so much like mine. lled the edge of his eye. and fell slowiy down his

windburned face.

And at that exact

moment.

as the tear

really got that year. the only thing that made

melted silently into the vingl cushion below. a litle girl and her father vanished into

the

memory.

and made $2.65 an hour. The only gift we Christmas

carols

so sweet. was

the

painting by els van der goot 12

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thingsto doaround-dc(parody:of Gary Stonun ka for đsplayin aidba bio knowledeof.onentalia

BSking benghángupiiFreet Gallety FindđstraçtngnevOiénsiveays to

ordspissandsbity

Eatingsilkneed'mityecd seae sicd pickkdrotingkinchee, umps oEhumpingbuffalosoosedooşe with shạrt mea bearmeatequatssihstrasberries =

one koloitbarkdogwood hsigs

bs, i oz.equals,

sea cucumberonryehokdmayo ne sip ofCoke isbether or not it's tbamboo shoos uider fngernail=4 Oregonians equals three Ariźonans ghoeor take aJerseyite.

fnd out wty shíft ke onlyisorkshalftimę.

Go bgWashinggonMonumenten route: to making banalstátement at ietnain memorial and imáke no phallic remárks

Likethis.

Going tóCongress

saying nord isn't part of u.s. bioreion

gettingbrainfriedwondrng why' Theybored mepersişting

tospeak.ínkóans.

,d. smith

photobgjöhn.quale

A

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david oleshansky

rst grade farming Beans grOw well

At Beaumont Hospital

in eg carton depressions shaped like an ear.

I decided to plant

the Korean emerçenc resident

next to mş hearing a slippery kidney and see what sprouted.

One less hole in my head and l'd be balanced

He told mg mother

probed. I screamed.

to leave. the nurse

to wrap me in a green sheet.

He strapped me to the table. caught

but whenIwanted it out

the bean's end in forceps. I labored.

the more I pulled

screamed my ve year od

the further in it pushed.

ears off and the sprout out.

I sat quietş waiting to leave.

He gave me the bean and said to plant it.

"All the little beans will

Steve Klinsky told the teacher I had tears in mỹ eges.

have that blood. a birthmark on the tip."

Ineverfarmedbeansno more.

drawing by andrew schoengold 15

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chronicler of the clinically depressed Ann Beattie lires on the top oor of a Chesca townhouse. which is

an historical ste built in the 1805 and ow cOsting her an out

rags rnt to lire in Outfront s a rrcty ofmaple tre thatsup posdy cantgrowin N.IC Ie hortiuluristscome ty oxe ayear and take a photograph of it.

The

igts of sais up. from bond aT door. a dogscratches

andyipesasher k ftsüntothe kck. "Will" s ina frenzoverher absence. though se's anby ben gone ten miutes Wily is not Ann's but the dog of an etiorfnernd who has keft hin with her while he's in

Calijomia

Willg kooks like the RCANctOr dog. He scuries

around hi front paws baret touching the oor boardsas ifdancing a ballkt.

Ann is a collector of photographs of friends (the enomous Mr. B. haT nolongrhusband David swüning in he water. sharing a

stick with hT nokongriring dog Rus) and wrilers (Don Delilo. her hro. ad an old photo of Sanud Bckett),Thereare ako plnts by the windos:. borks of wine and tos (the larg wolfmask. scary

nubby monsers windp mahanismsand a tiy baty dol.

Sthehas just boughr a ner typernier. an Obynpia that does pra ticalj ereryhing isetf, It sits on the dining tablebesideher old ypx uriCT. The dy bgjore she had lugged the now one home fourbloxcks and up thre ighıs of sais and she s stildelighuedmysti ed at

how ü woks (l just psh this andit erasseverythingandyoucan't even se it"2 She wears pirstripe jeans, a whie shün that looks like it's been

splashed with blue paint, and moxCOsİs. AI thirty six. she weas the

sane cxpressionshe had at nine and at nreniy when she studied at

AU: skepy ges sķ grin-onby her rgemails are a lot longer (usu ally talon lergth she has lked them down as she prepares lo go

Ny to Venont for nvo months and wrie her next novel on dadline) In 68 at A.U. shewTOte for the Eagle and was the editor of the Ameican

magazine. She was devotcd to the magazine. She was

Dean Frark Turaj's star pupil and friend She spent very little tine with campus activities, though She had her own car and spent most of her tine driving around too fast and geting tickets "all the tine"

(she still speds stillgetstickets, but "s worth i." shesays).

She wrote for the magazine, but she did not start submitting her SRoris until her grad school days Since then she has published three

collections of short stories, Distortions. Secrets and Surprises. The

Buming House (most appearing originaly in the New Yorker) and vO nores, Chilly Scenes of Winter and Falling in Place. She writes about chaos. Her storis are wity. beautiful. but as serious as they

are sad You can't walk awag from an Ann Beattie story without the

fecling that somethirg vital has just gone on. though it's hard to pu

gour rger on jst what.

She sits baxk. drinkinga sugarfree Canada Dry. She is still just re-

covering from the rigors of her New York State driver's licensetest.

She wams that you should never take the test in New Pork ("the

manual is this thick." shesays. spreadirg her ngers tvo inches) But she did get her license and she looks relieved

16

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ann beattie:

$ 1

What was your childhood like in D.C.?

When did gou start writing?

It was a very nice

I guess I wrote bad

chilhood.

extremely nice in a lot of ways.

read a lot. particulariy when I was young. I stopped reading when

think it

three personal letters a gear. I mean. I et three personal letters a

probably was clear to angone that I was a little budding writer. If it

day. I quess that's a little unusual., but that is a form of writing. and

I get very good letters from friends and I think that Iweritethem amusing letters: so on that level, ike in a lot of wags that I don't

Is it true that in junior high school, you were thought to be

90

6

vlil vWhIntottthAknțthlbirhy ass-+really isar exagyera

often think of. I awvags have trusted the written word and enjoged

the written word.

What guided gour decision to go to A.u.?

tion to saş underachiever: the word achievement stopS pertaining in those circumstances. I ahwags found it di cult to work with a

Mỹ parents told me I had to ço to college. and I didn't want to go

lot of people around me. and there is simply nothing you can do

to college and I didn't have the courage to

when gou're in school and gou have gour reading group and

came right down to it. And it was the only school I applied to. so I

there are wenty people in it. I never performed my best. It wasn't

went to A.U. and I did very well. As a student. I was very diliçent

easy for me to associate with other people. And for whatever pspchological

tremel

reason. I didn't. I was

extremely

unhappy.

ght them vhen it

about the things that truly interested me. and I think I was known

and noticed in most of my classes. II got faitly good grades.

I was ex-

lost in ahe shu e. And I just gave up. I mean it was like

beingsent to-prise-

17

fl

years old. the way

averaçe humanoid in the United States receives an average of

there were books. I wTote some. but I don't

retarded?

fi

thirteen

cool. And lso because l'd become a zombie and I forgot vehat to

was. l'd be surprised.

fl

when I was

I was in junior high scheol and high school just because it wasn't do. I forgot

fi

poetry

everybody wrote bad poetry. I've alwags been quite a correspondent. and I'm really surprised when I read the statistics that the

You used to skip classes while you worked as the American

eđitor?

Yes. it's true. It really was a big job. It was like a very serious parttime job. I mean even if I had to do that todas, I would

nd it

hard to get my other commitments done. And I'm really proud of the way all of us did that: I mean I'm proud of all of us skipping

classes and doing what ve did. by the way. On the other hand. we devoted a great deal of time to the coursevork in the long run. It

got taken care of. I've ahvays been ery bad at proportioning my time. It's nothing I've ever been able to learn. The thing that saves me is that I just do have more energy than a lot of people. I physi-

callş can type for eighteen hours a day. So if I haven't

qured out

as well as other people might how to do this. that and the other thing. I mean. if I behave

particularty

stupidly there. the other

truth of it is I will not be exhausted and fall over at the typewriter

at four a.m. Il just keep typing. So that's pretty much the way my life was handled at A.U.

Did gou submit stories in college?

Not at all.

When were gou rst published?

It was either 71 or '72. I don't

remember. It was in a small maga-

zine called the Western Humanities Review. I might have çotten a

hundred dollars. It was called "A ROse on Judy Garland's Casket.

I remember that title because it is so unlike me nov with my one-

word titles.

It was about an alienated couple, I'm afraid. the thing that

people avags throw in my face. It was juvenilia about the things that I later became clinically depressed about. I don't remember it

well.

What about the claim that gour stories are clinicaly depressing?

I keep saying, and of course I don't have ang ability to persuade

people to my viewpoint. the reason that I like to give public read-

ings is that when I do. audiences laugh at the appropriate point.

do think there is a great deal of humor in the work. or at least I'm trying to put it there. I would

certainly de ne myself as a writer

about serious issues who tries to be somewhat amusing.

I don't think that my chaacters are just downbeat, nowhere,

hopeless people. I just can't read the stories that way. / think that

what I'm doing is writüing about people who perhaps don't have a

world of possibilities open to them, but who are coping. So that mabes me look at the stories ith a positive emphasis,almost.

Given that hings are di cult. here are people who are. to some

.

extent. coping. I mean. things do get done in the stories: if people

are stoned vhen they do them. nevertheless they still get done.

It's really not vhat the critics present. which is a bunch of people Iying around in a stupor staring at the ceiling. I keep rereading

these stories and. no. they are not about that.

fi

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fi

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18

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"73. Theg had actually written me a dozen rejection letters at that

Bog. I really don't know. I mean as far as I'm

point.

no jobs in the United Slates. I really can't

Extremely productive. I mean. that's the truth of it. It was quantity

period in which I wTote twenty stories and got Because I had

nothing to do. I was bored to

But now gou're incorporated, you're Irong & Pity Inc.-the name borrowed from The Sun Also Rises gour stories no

death. I was liing in he woods of New England. I hated it. I was in graduate

school.

I hated

it. I ived

with

people

that. to put it

longer gounpublished -itseemspeoplewouldratherhavea second-rate"Ann Beattie"story than a rst-rateirst-time

mildly. I was not very simpatico with. And I was just nowhere near a

metropolitan

rst started voriting I did live on $3.500 a gear.

for something like four or ve straight gears. And that's not geat money and we're talking about 1975. That's not that far ago.

would be three or four years work. you know. For me. it was a rejections.

would be lost somewhere in the shu e. I think

Well. geah. When I

to get into the New Yorker might get trenty rejections. but that tvelve-month

there are

Have gou ever had hard times?

more than quality in those days with me. and that a writer trying

tventy

thinkI

concerned

imagine what I woukd

would be a secretary. I can type well.

You must've been very productive at the time?

city. I was cut off from all of my friends. I was cut

writer's story-so do gou nd gourself getting too busy. swept

off from my family. I made $s.500 a pear for which I was wildly ex

up byeverythingelse?

ploited. And. gou know. party not to think and partly as a complete lack of what else to do in this world. I started writing.

Yes. I deal with it by just being

arbitrary

sometimes.

Sometimes

I

just won't pick up the phone because if I don't then nobody can

What are gour writing habits like, if you have any?

demand one other thing. Sometimes I go through a period of sas-

Wriúng

ing no no no no no to everything. until I çet tired of being so neg ative that I can't stand to hear my own voice. And a lot of the

cion

is terribly

unpredictable.

Sometimes I get frus

trated. you know, and I sas. well. if I had a more reasonable life. ií

time I capitulate or compromise or whatever

l just plain had more energs. I might hare more inspiration. And that

troubles

Being a "famous writer," do you get a lot of weird things in the mail?

me. but I don't force myself to write. so I end up

writing when inspiration suikes. One of the hardest things for me to learn to have done is to be patient with myself. I realized abso

lutely that with

momentum

From time to time. Maybe not so weird as strange. People do nice things. get you can't imagine why they do it. Someone vill send me theit collection of penguin photographs. which I'm sure is

ction I can't force mgself to create if there is no

there. And it is just plain very boring if gou ço six

months without a thought in your head. and it's very frustrating and it's not the best thing for gour bankbook. but that's liíe. And |

meant to be

thoughtul

and amusing: and get. I can't tell you

what it does to my day when I open a manila

really do mean that. It took me years to realize that that was the

Beattie clo New

game I was plaging. and I had to learn to live with the price that

Yorker-and

envelope-Ann

there are 300 Sx 10 glossies oft

penguins with very little explanation. Then. as everybody dos

had to be paid. And I have learned to Ive with it.

who is a writer. I get a fair number of letters telling me to meet

some man on the corner of Bleecker St. and here's what he'll do

Do gou recognize that inspiration or do you start to write and

to me. I get letters from prisoners. I get letters from people who

itcomes?

think I'm writing about them when I'm not. I get desperate ktters

No. I recognize it. Sometimes I recognize it and lI'm driving along

Iget funny letters. I also get some very intelligent letters Im

the Westside Highway. and by the ime I get home and pick up

amazed by the number of people l've really moved with ny wurk.

the laundry. that's that. But thar's more or less the vway it happens.

and people whove understood it. It's great.

Do gou still get rejections?

Ann Beattie did nish her thid novel. It is about a txurtc1 J kt unemployed soap opera star who vaationS wih aT Alut luay' un Vemmont.Lucy is a latterday Miss Lonhurts CU Ciau. wt

Sure. I would say that the New Yorker rejects maybe as much as

fty percent of everything I write. I's not pleasing. You do doubı

writesfor"CountryDaze"magazi: whT'

gourself. I think very highly of the New Yorker. I don't think they

hu n NEM hi

are ineitably right. but. particularly when I rack up three or four

tionship with the editor. Random HoN À NuẠ

rejections in a row, even though I know perfecily well that they

spring.

might accept the next No or even three consecutive stories. it

huerview conductedby Rusl ANd

shakes my con dence a little.

19

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What would you do if gou weren't a writer?

rst published in the New Yorker?

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When vwere gou

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by russell atwood

M

ythegrandson backyard: Leo inJr. a hole is upfour to his feet neck deep. in

only his head pokes out from the earth.

"Gramma." he sags.COOS.

He has dug the hole with a garden spade. making it wide enough for onty himself to t in and just barely. He jumped in-hands at his sides-burying himsetf. To scare me. l am tanning

I am in mỹ bathing suit. my

my late

husband's

name.

though

To him I vas Air (my name is Clair) and he

died I lost myself in Becka. my only child: she was my life. The time I didn't spend wait-

Walter). Dead of a heart attack at the açe of

ressing. I spent vith her. I made her help me

forty-tuo. I have a few pictures of him still.

in the çarden. I kept her from her friends.

but they are no comfort. My mind retains no

She kept me from doing angthing drastic.

images of him in motion. only posed. I know

She should lose herselí in Leo Jr. Or take

he used to work in the gard on hot days-

up gardening. There is no garden in Becka's

skin is

thing, It is hard to believe it was so long aço.

naked I look like Leo Jr.

My bathing

suit-vhich

I bought off the

rack. reluctant to work mỹ way out of my clothes in the store's thin-walled dressing

one, magbe. probably. worse. When Water

was my Water (his middle name having been

sweat and dirt

wrinkled:

It must be like having no husband at all. no

I never

called him by it. Instead vwe had niknames.

brand nev bathing suit. It ts poorty over my body of jutting bones and receding esh. My when he dresses up in his father's ckothes.

reçetable

ying as he tilled our small

garden-but

I cannot focus on a

but I do believe it.

backyard. though there is plenty of empty space. She claims mg having forced her to help me has nothing to do with it. Leo Sr. is leaving the space open for a tennis court he

Frank is built as Water vwas. Arms and legs

of cement. but to both of them as light as

bee's wings. Becka

met Frank during a

hopes to put in next year. One more thing to

worry about.

"Gramma! Ga Gra-Mal"

room-has bright. ild colors, lime green

grudging visit to my house. where Frank

His arms at his sides in the tight- ing hole.

storm clouds in a daşlo pink sky.

My daughter and her husband have an in-

often came to help with the garden. He lives

Leo Jr. cannot move. He is trapped. His red

ground swimming pool which I refuse to go in. When he is not in dirt. Leo Jr. is alwags in

the pool swimming like a frog. The water looks blue. but only because the lining is blue. I cannot

understand how oceans can

a few blocks away. I used to pay him ten

face is trembling. His frantic coice çets higher

dollars to mow my lawn. prune my bushes. transplant my roses before a heavy chill. He did not have a job or angthing better to do.

and higher until it vanishes into a silent wail.

so he was by nearly

everyday. I would lie

ahvays do. When I try again. my legs slowiy

avake niçhs thinking of things that had to

ease themselves off the side. and I push my-

I jump up. barely rising an inch off the chaise lounge and fall back.

forçeting

like I

be done and. nally dozing. dream of Frank

self up. hands grasping the armrest. I lean

l am here today to look after Leo Jr. while

doing them. Then one day he stopped and

forward and the momentum starts me walk ing. My right bathing suit strap slips off my

look so blue.

my daughter is off with her lover. someplace.

'Becka began asking me to babysit. For this

She tels me she goes to Figures & Fitness.

chore I çet ten dollars. I awags check the

shoulder. For a second my breast is visible. a

but retums sweaty and refreshed vhile her leotards are dry and smell coolly clean.

tendollar bill for traces of dirt, recognizable

dry tea bag. I cover myself. His vision blurred

markings. a glint in Alexander

by trickling tears. Leo Jr. sees nothing.

My daughter Rebecca paşs me to babysit Leo Jr. I do not need this hush

moneg: at

eighty-four I have few expenses and usually

ege.

There

is

never

Hamilton's

anything

concrete.

though. Undoubtedly the money comes. not from Frank but from 'Becka's twenty-

My hands around his neck. I pull hard. He

doesn't budge. There is a bucket nearby. and

never buy new things with the exXception of

four hour automatic bank teller. If nothing

for a second I think it might just be easier to

my new. ugly bathing suit.

else. Leo Sr. at least gives her enough money.

conceal him unul his father comes home.

"Gramma!"

Leo Sr. is an assistant

The hooks pinch me in the back, below my shoulders

where the straps crosS. and it

itches rightbetvween mg"-Gramma!"

Leo Jr. yels.

He is smiling. His head bobs up and dovm like a coffee pot perking. He wants to give

consulting

trist for a big corporation.

vwho tells the boss.

whether

or

Instead I start digging

psychia-

He tells his boss.

not

carefully.

around

the edges.

In an instant I see the imaçe of

the

Frank. in motion. gently uprooting my roses.

workers are becoming irritable., unpredict-

and it thrills me. Bending doesn't hurt. I want

able. whether their dreams are symbolic of

him back. I want Frank back in m

union

will tell Leo Sr. about 'Becka and Frank and it

takeovers: do

they see organized

worms strangling the early bird.

garden. I

will be stopped. He'll return and I will pay

me a jolt. tO Start me gelling. However, it has

He is so worried about this and making the

him more. give him all I have saved. and he

the opposite effect. I am calm regarding my

nal payments on the swimming pool that I

won't even have to work. He will sit and to

doubt he has a clue to Becka's affair. On the

gether we will rest in the cool shade of a

towering tree.

band's name is Leo Sr. I hate the name eo

contrary. when he comes home. his eyes rol and he tells her how good she looks because

and loathed it being tagged on my grandson.

of her exercise class. He tells her to keep it

grandson. the tree.

"Becka's lover's name is Frank. Her hus-

I could not protest because it had also been

.hahhh. I don't know what l'm thinking

of

up.

20

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air

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fl

Leo Jr.'s arm sprouts from the ground and

begins to dogpaddle around the shallow

we vrork the rest of him out. He is in his black

end. I wade into the deep end up to my

Water. who ever thought I would go on for this much longer. Oh God. oh. dear.

bathing suit. Unearthed. excacated. his pale

neck. Hot tears are making my cheeks we.

Eyes open to the sting of chkorine. I look

freckled body is dirtcovered and as cold as a

so I ço in deeper. My mouth. my nose. my

block of ice.

ears. I can hear my pulse. faint like an imag

up to the surface and through crooked rays of sunlight I see a leaf-halí geen. half

I put my arms around him quickły and

ined voice. Eye level with the water. my

suddenty we both are shaking. I walk him to

breath is tight in my lungs. A tippy-4oed step

the pool. The water is warm. heated. ltered.

Together we walk in. He sheds the dirt and

feet are at on the blue bottom.

and then another and I am underwater. My

ray gesumaria 21

brovm-íallfrom and land above me. Ripples spread out. ll the sky.

Autumn is nearly here. I am counting the

seconds

a.

joqqinq o thechatoau

linor c. hiler Through the woods in the drizzle

Everyday I set out at noon.

By raspberry bushes and singweed.

The neighbors wait.

Magbe thes postpone lunch to watch.

To the iron grill doors guarded by stone lions.

As I come

The swans safely behind in their keeping.

running up the cobbled street.

And back.

They sa to me.

"I's not warm today. Madame."

I snub the

temptation

to stop

And so we meet.

Where no one can catch me.

But muddle forward with a dutiful escort of swallows

They crane patiently as I approach the corner.

Whose waterlogged cousins drip along the telephone lines.

"Certainly

not." I assure each one in turn.

Wondering when to ask the question.

Almost back in the villaçe.

Stare as I turm onto the road

A tide of rain courses dovn my cheeks.

My face is a ame from the lash of swollen breaths

That leads to the chateau:

Five kliks everyday

And I. laved in the pride of sel n icted

Past the house of Monsieur René.

Sare back at the farmer Who has contemplated me in the distance.

The maor of twenty ve years Who inherited the post from his uncle: Past the house of old Madame Marie

hardship.

Who has now stepped forward into the wind To ask the question: "Madame, is this a sport gou do?"

Who only waves, does not even say.

I. something novel for awhile.

fait pas chaud aựourdhui Past the cows, who. neighborly.

Join the throng that has trooped this way

Run with me along the fence: To the chapel of Ste. Anne

I am enduring here

With carts. horses. tractors. bikes, motor cars and on foot.

As the cobbles laid in semicircles

(Praş for us").

I turn at the Rue du Chateau

By a man kneeling

By the house of the farmer vwho lost his wife

A hundred years ago Upon a Roman road.

("Borijour Madame. jait pas chaud aujourd hui")

june shadoan

fi

fl

fi

fl

29

fi

what the watch said you are not from here said the old man because i am not from here G gave him the time)

and we seem to understand each other

jameshmitchell

and god took spanish for me i waz new

and reaching out wit hard times

and God took spanish for me for me and He got integrated inside and out

He placed wit only a 2.9 average but that didn't matter me and God waz doin' ne 'cause God waz all right wit me

...*.

and God took spanish for me

greçory ricardo deJesus and He waz all right

HS

wit me

'cept by now i knew english and so God re-registered

and took inside me the acvanced course and He placed number one and graduated top of His class all right all right wit me

randall mars

patricia jackson 23

fi

fi

fl

fi

who is bubbles?

The large grey overcoa in the spider-webbed dowmstairs closet

became a home

for a family of brown eld mice. and so I took it out of the closet.

I never believed gou

when you said you were faithful: faith was a word out of religion. of fairy tales: a woman's word. an empty masculine consolation.

Cleaning the pockets of mice and debris.

I found the lipstick covered tissues. found the matchbook vwith her name. and though I never believed gou

when gou said gou were faithful.

I watched the wallpaper patterns fade into a blur.

The large grey overcoat that hung in the closet is gone now.

you managed to take it with you on the last ight into Seattle.

Funny: I onder

if pou'l realize

that Bubbles and her matchbook cover are no more.

I imagine gour surprise when.

gou

reaching. nd instead

a small brown

eld mouse.

tara kelley

edwarddubirski

ashley pound ►

co

1

HOPSKlinnqfanh

e1NIR

wey

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BUT t strançersawfhe hoe thing. Andhe uasSwt anyoÍma)

shanger in a pôkadotjome.sut.

so!meyư'pleas

otthat!oh plesce

fouT

o

,

:

3

Sage

fi

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not enough of looking at the moon there is no man in the moon

it is a woman of unknown ae mute and wishing to speak in november a distant star

follows the moon to her zenith prefering distance and her dark side in space a compass is useless

there are hemispheres in the moon while he washed his hands she lay on the bed rememnbering the darkness

seeing the moon over his shoulder

framed in the window

not quilty smiling acrylic crescents green cheeked cartoon faces pictures of lunar adventure

chikdren don't get enough of the moon

the remains of an ancient comet rain into the milewide crater dust rises in lazy pillars

silence accepts jourmeying ice at its nal destination

another millenium of timelessness bequn for some time now there has been water on the moon

coming from amsterdam train vindovs forward images into the moment shutling. shuttering. shuddering light. here we are undering this bridge.

Overing this river. where ice is stacked up like scales scraped down the

ank of a sh.

time assembles itself here never

nishing:

somewhere. someone else contributes a wish. a footstep. a voice.

the train seems insistent on oing where it must o. the light persistent in shoving every texture of winter. i hear the rails receive the train

whispering howevers.

but ges

but ges...but yes.

and a column of light on the water moves with the ease of a shadow.

ight and the absence of light. silent light.

dancing for the eye.

licking up the spaces. wind taking dust to new regions.

jim faye

o 30

patricia jackson 31

lina wafa

32

T american iterary

You are cordially

invited

to Quigley's 3301 New Mexico

Avenue,

N.W.

on Friday November 30, 1984

at 9:30 p.m. for aRENAISSANCE Party

in support of American Literary Magazine Dancing,

Food, Cash Bar,

and More

(Donations accepted at the party) RSVP, x6414