Phoenix - Winter 1961

PHOENIX

february

(~nd

fo! The bird

IS

on the wing..... ))

With this issue the editors and staff of the Phoenix feel that our rare bird is all the way off the ground. In the past it could at times better have been compared to Keat's hare that "limped trembling through the frozen grass." As was implied in a previous editorial, the lameness seemed to result from a disturbing scarcity of creative effort on campus coupled with a lack of interest in the magazine and its potential.

We do not mean to imply that nothing of worth has ever been published in the Phoenix; were such the case we should not have persisted in our efforts. It is nevertheless true that contributors and even readers have been nearly as rare as Phoenixi. And, we believe, it is ,also true that student creativity has now begun to show a robustness already evidenced by a considerable increase in submissions.

The prospects thus opened up should offer quite a challenge to the entire campus community.

And so, we dedicate this issue with pride and a perhaps not unreasonable excitement to its readers-with the hope that they will respond with fresh interest and contributions for the bird in flight.

RENNI DILLARD

Library The University of Tennessee Knoxville

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VOLUME

NUMBER

2

Orange and White Literary Supplement THE UNIVERSITY OF TENNESSEE Knoxville, Tennessee

editor

IMOGENE IIJEFF" GREENE

contents

LEISURE Doris Rivers _____________________________________________________________ ---- ---- ----- -------- 2 assistant editor

RENNI DILLARD

A NEW METAFUSSICAL POEM, IN THE MODERN MANNER Suzanne Grahn ____________________________________________________________________________ 3 DISCIPLINE AND DONNE Renni Dillard ______________________________________________________________________________ 4

section editors

JAMES CLEMMER

fiction

JULIA WITT

exposition

DORIS RIVERS

art reviews poetry

FAITH AND LOGIC Don Evans _____________________ :____________________________________________________________ 5 CONVERSATION AT THE THEATER James A. Sparks __________________________________________________________________________ 6

LAURA JEAN GOSS H. PHILLIPS HAMLIN, JR.

IN THIS HOUSE-WE ARE SAFE Doris Rivers ______________________________________ _____ _______________________ -_____.__ ---- -- 7 GEORGIA FRIEND Brian Ellsworth __ ___ __________ __ _____ ___ ________ ____ ____ ____ __ __ ________ _____ ____ ___ _______ 7

staff

SANDRA BROWN DON EVANS KURT HARRIS

GOOD FRIDAY Suzanne Grahn __________________________________________________________________________ 8 MAN OBSERVING SOME THINGS Don Evans __________________________________________________________________________________ 9

BECKY ROBERTS J Al\1ES A. SPARKS

EL NEGRITO Joseph Harkey __________________________________________________ --__________ --_____ -- _____ 10

l\1ARY CLAIRE WYATT

THE business manager

FRED GENTRY

advisory board

Dr. Percy G. Adams, Dr. Dale G. Cleaver, Dr. James F. Davidson, Prof.

James E. Kalshoven, Mrs. Carolyn Martin, Prof. Frank Thornburg.

PHOENIX

february 19&1

.T "

Leisure

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A Ne1N Melalussical Poem, In The Modern Manner. by Suzanne Grahn

Sped under the tall tWIstmg short straight Craggy watery desert Flame-like lions through something Nothing Too lucidly opaque Disembodied, discombobulated To see a vision.

Twice two centuries minus half of one haH Divided by the square root of half of nothing Up under over above racing Alive, dead-dead, alive.

In rolling curves of straightness Nothing . . .

Who sees a vision?

Thoughts flooding sparsely with rough smoothness Like damned nothings Somethings Writing in bliss, contorted with pleasure Ecstasy in their slowly swift non-convolutions Somehow . . .

How to get a vision?

Alas, dekko!

Ahah, Gemisch!

Ad extremum et laudanum. 1

1. These last three lines obviously contain the clue to the entire poem.

On one level of meaning, the third, they show the jarring unity of the author's mind, when, at the age of six years and two months, he was forced to read Sanskrit, German, and Latin at the same time, an experience which left a life-long impression. The impact of this one experience was terrific, and gave the basic form to this expression of it. Or, as the famous Arabian philosopher, Ibn Khaldoun al Etcetra Cflorit, H. BOO-equivalent in our calendar to a date not yet determined by scholars), said, "Hatha Almathae Alalmi Crudde." The meaning of the poem on other levels is altogether too obvious to warrant discussion.

DISCIPLINE AND DONNE Renni Dillard

A lamentably persistent approach of many readers to poetry is to lay themselves open to a poem, confidently . awaiting titillation of the emotions. To approach a good poem in such a way is to do an unfortunate injustice to poem, poet, and reader. Admittedly, most poems will eventually have some emotional effect upon the reader by crystallizing for him an experience emotional in quality.

But one can obtain little of value from a poem by coming to it empty-handed. He must bring all of his intellectual forces to bear upon it before the crystallization becomes meaningful; disciplined and concentrated study must be his gift before he may expect rewards. Like most valuable things, the rewards of poetry do not come free.

with meter, structure, and imagery. Consider, for example, the alliterative force of "batter", "bend", "break", "blow" and "burn". In contrast the words "knock", "breathe", "shine" seem at first glance weak; yet they, too, are potentially powerful words in Christian terminology. God knocks, the Spirit breathes, Christ shines, together they seek to mend. But this is not for the poet-he must be knocked until broken, breathed upon until blown, shone upon with an intensity hot and bright enough to bum him. Thus the meter and the images contained in the words receiving metric stress emphasize the idea of the Trinity.

Structurally, too, the sonnet suggests an emphasis on threes in its three sentences: lines 1-4, 5-8, 9-14. Within these divisions are contained the three basilc images: the blacksmith image, the image of the usurped town, and the sexual image. In considering the opening image, in which God is represented as a refiner or blacksmith, we immediately note that he is addressed in the familiar person without any of the formality in which the usual invocation to a deity is enmeshed. Power, strength, complete control are suggested; involved in this blacksmith image we also find an incisive commentary on the state of the poet's soul, or "heart". Donne has reversed the religious conceit which might be expected, that of the pliant soul seeking to be molded by God: "Thou art the potter, I am the clay", etc. His soul, as tough, as resihant as the iron which the blacksmith must hammer, is not to be so easily shaped.

By approaching a poem with the above-mentioned gifts, a process frequently termed "close analysis," the reader comes to terms with the poetry itself, rather than avoiding it and thereby depriving himself of what it had to offer.

And close analysis, though never easy, can prove to be an experience both richly rewarding and pecuHarly exciting. Reward and excitement will be proportional to ~ow good the poem is, how extensive the abilities and effort brought to it.

The following sonnet by John Donne is admirably suited to close analysis because it is a "close" poem-characterized by tight control, chiselled word-choice, and a rare poetic economy. The poem, at least, is an excellent one, and it is hoped that the analysis of it will illustrate in some degree both the rewards and the excitement.

In the second image the poet's soul is likened to a town seized and occupied by another, viz., Satan. As God is Absolute Reason, so reason is his viceroy in man's soulbut that viceroy has defected, proving "weake or untrue".

With this image Donne probes the basic conflict involved in any approach to God by an intelligent man. His mind, and thus his power to reason, is his Creator's most priceless gift to him. Yet the spiritual relationship so passionately desired and the fact of the Triune Person itself are unreasonable in that they are beyond reason. Thus a surrender of reason as well as passion will ultimately be involved. The poet is acutely, painfully aware of this conflict, even in a moment when he so intensely longs to make the necessary surrender that he cries out at God.

HOLY SONNET XIV Batter my heart, three person'd God; forr, you As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend; That I may rise, and stand, 0' erthrow mee, 'and bend Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.

I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due, Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end; Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend, But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.

Yet dearely 'I love you, 'and would be loved faine, But am betroth'd unto your enemie: Divorce mee, 'untie, or breake that knot againe, Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free, Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

-JOHN DONNE

This longing becomes quite apparent in the ninth line which opens the last of the three images: "Yet dearly I love you, 'and would be loved faine". The word "faine" implies constrainment or obligation. Here Donne penetrates a paradox earlier implied by the line "That I may rise, and stand, 0' erthrow mee," the paradox of Christianity itself: the alleged gaining of life through death, freedom through bondage, self-fulfillment through self-abnegation.

In stating that he is betrothed to sin, he again suggests to

1

The poet invokes a three-per so ned God to "batter his heart" in the opening lines of the sonnet and then successfully perpetuates the idea of the trinity throughout, 1. The Complete Poetry and Selected Prose of John Donne, edited by C. M. Coffin (New York, 1952).

4

us the state of his soul: the betrothal, or knot, is so binding that the cry must be "Divorce mee, 'untie, or breake that knot againe".

..,

With these lines (9-11) the sexual image which has been implicit through word choice in the first four lines and sharpened with the image of the usurped town ta~es on subtle but definite form. In lines 12 and 13 we fmd the sexual image explicit rather than implicit; the paradox in sharp focus: "Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I/ Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free . . . " The word "enthrall" connotates sexual possession and at the same time telescopes the paradox by acknowledging thralldom or bondage as the agent for freedom.

The theme reaches its climax in the last line when

Faith and Logic

the paradox is brilliantly fused with the now overt symbolism of the sexual image: "Nor ever chaste, except you ravish mee." Unless taken by the Deity, he will remain betrothed-physically and emotionally united-to sin, h~n~e unchaste unless ravished. And, just as an assaulted vugm can never physically be the same after ~~r body has o~ce been taken so, from the moment of spIntual penetratIon the poet expects never to be the sa~e. He will have been made new in a terrifying sense. Fmally, the use of the word "ravished" rather than "rape" implies an emotional as well as physical possession and/ or violation. In this way is expressed the desire to be taken totally,-by a threepersoned God because of the completeness involved in the Trinity: for him there must be complete rape, bondage, and possession.

Conversation At The Theater JaIlles A. Sparks

"If we are quick and silent, We won't be seen sitting here, And I'll explain to you The strange pageant soon to appear The curtain rises.

The play's begun, Played to an audience of One. (There she is, and notice, Front-row-center, so That she commands a perfect-) Now he enters, And will walk to center-stage.

(How can I predict it?

I have seen the whole performance, Seen :it several times, in fact, And though the play is similar To the way it was before, That single actor that you see Can change his role uncannily, Can playa different part in every act.)

Shhh! H 'e speaks.

So, then. Tonight he plays The role of an attendant page.

(He was the lover in the last Performance that I saw, Was once a jester, that an outrage, Once an artist, and before that, Played the role of a learned sage.)

Think you his delivery convinces?

She, his audience, is no mean critic.

Even now, I do believe she frowns.

He winces!

One scornful look, And he has lost all presence!

Look he runs!

She is calling for the curtain.

What's that? Yes, I suppose It is a pity With the story scarce begun."

6

/

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In This House- We Are Safe

GEORGIA FRIEND Brian Ellsworth

We speak together of the things that are And will be in the pattern of our time, Moving with linked anxieties against Unquiet questions.

We speak of justice, sighting it the same, And ohytacles and omens and best ways, As separate eyes fixed forward on a view To give it depth.

Only the awkward pause, misstep of words Not found, an instant neither of us wills, Recalls forgotten maps and parts us with A hurt not mine.

GOOD FRIDAY by

Suzanne Grahn

I walked the streets at six 0' dock.

The crucifixion sun turned gray Upon the pavement, block by block And thinking nothing, knowing nothing, Up and dOWIl the avenues Went the tip-tap of my shoes, Thinking nothing, knowing nothing.

Something blows Cigar, cigarette butts, bits of news

For memory's sake attempting to remember.

Frosted the wine our now forever sips.

I leave, recall his birthday's in December.

A fine mind, a fine mind He never had a chance to find.

Ham and eggs at nine.

The beggar's fine.

I think of Michael, noblest of us all, Whose boyhood knew the loneliness and shame Of those who'd rather learn, than bat a ball.

Yet, free of despair or :::pite, he made a name In high school days for gentleness in strength Of mind and heart that won him many friends, Who sensed hilS spirit never had a length Neatly defined as bounded by base ends.

H ,e dived a Chiron on the sword of college, But as he died, opened his trusting eyes To see Prometheus straining all his knowledge To bear fat Silenus, drunk and babbling lies.

In shaming silence he joined the ranks for fourBeli1eving much of nothing any more.

To faded It ramps in doorways.

At seven o'clock, the engines start, Coughing steel across the heart, Slaming the soul behind a door And fusing flesh with a motor's roar.

The faceless, featureless cars roll byCadillac, Pontiac, Buick, FordStopping on red, then making a dash On green in Oldsmobile, Chevrolet, Nash, Lincoln, emancipation speed, And Mercury, the modern lord Of every nery.ous human need.

The faceless, featureless men roll by To square a hole in a factory, Earning by their industry The car, the beer can, and T. V. The beggar passes by me on a crutchA pool of water in a world that's drying, For he has walked all seasons, noting muchThe shades of green upon a slope in spring, The summer dimpling in a skylark's wing, The fine full redness of an apple ring, I Whose winter's odor sets the wild geese flying.

At ten comes a bright young man, so very gray Of suit and hat, with bright-bespeck!led tie: "Good morning, Bob, what's new with you today?" liThe Journal doubts recession's here to stay, But things are tough all over-that's no lie.

Comes a depression, brother, off I fly To Europe-that's the perfect place to be.

Sweet wine and women, cabarets, and me!

A little villa by the-what's the sea?" liThe Baltic?"

"Off Italy, wise guy!

Or maybe France. A guy could really play Around in Paris. American dough can buy A lot of memories-if you're not too shy In flashing it around, or so they say.

And culture, man! To them the only way To live is being wrapped up in the arts.

Of course, that's all they got-les belles arts.

No decent living standards-just their arts.

But still, they've got the old-time culture, see?

And, well, I like to dabble in the artsA little painting-once, I wrote a play.

I'll dig it up and show you by and by.

Classical music, all that stuff, gets me.

Depression comes, I'll go pursue the arts Along the banks of sunny Italy.

I gotta ruu, Goodbye!" said the bright young man, so very gray Of suit and hat, with bright-bespeckled tie.

Aromas of coffee, doughnuts, and cream Make eight o'clock the beggar's dream.

I walk into the restaurant, For I have money; he does not.

He stands outside the window looking in.

Excess of seasons makes him much too thin.

Here is my friend, eating the ham and eggs Of those who work the shift from nine to five.

His face is thin and narrow, like his legs, Which serve no use except to let him drive To work and from work, and show on Saturday night.

His eyes are squinting and his hands are fineA perfect tool to turn a lathe just right.

He eats quite slow, anticipating nine With no particular relish. Talk comes haTd, For nothing's left in common anymore.

He envies me my studies, feeling barred By lack of education from my door.

We press the grape of friendship to our lips,

liMy scheming friend, you're just in time for lunch.

8

I

1

A futile bit of fanagling on your part, I must say! How about a slice of nothing?

That's all I've had today myself. I paint My hunger into my canvas. See its form In false delineations, contorted frames, The general atrophy of human features?

My gods fall apart in disconnected tones Of flesh! Themeless and purposeless the thigh Of Mars, leering at Aphrodite, Skinny and brittle in her stiff-hung robe!

I wish to God you'd say it's a masterpiece.

Then I'd despise your judgment, feeling proud, Thereby, in damning my own creationThat lie-or a bowl of soup, the latter Being preferred. Oh, thanks! Tonight my soul Will seek its spirit in a piece of cheeseBut really, thanks, old man. My art is duB! Instead of healthy bodies, flaccid limbsAll khaki where the golden armour shone; From sun-suspending temples drenched in white To blackened smoke-stacks bathed in burning soot; And Venus dances in an artist's belly, The Mars who sold his trumpets for a loaf!

My art is dull. I think I'll go to Cuba And fight for Castro, or on either side.

At least I'll eat, and maybe sketch a bit!

And if I die, it won't be really bad.

By rope or lead in disillusioned youth Is better death than falling off in sleep A wise old man confirming youth's suspicionsOh damn, these colors either crack or run!"

Find the secret of the yew, Source dispelling all despair.

Like a shadow's stare Across the solid cross are you.

Find the ocean in the stream; The light reflected by the dark; Find the dreamer in the dream; The loss sustained within the lack.

Disclose the cause, conceal effect, Pretend the price of peace away!

Worship the soul; the flesh reject, And wish all truth is what you pray!

But the tree no longer can Conceal the shadow's mockery, Which shows, though not to see we try, From every branch there hangs a man.

Or Or Or Or

can can can can

The The The The The The The The The The

The church bells ring from one to three.

The sun drops down in showers, Lamenting the heavy hours When Christ is hanging on the tree.

the the the the

world's world's world's world's world's world's world's world's world's world's

ocean lose its streams and flow? light reject the dark and shine? dreamer heat his dream of snow? dead one dying tear refine? effect, effect, effect, effect, eHect, 'effect, effect, effect, effect, effect!

conceal it as we may, and do not speak of rove, nor spirit, soul, or mind, conceal it as we may, and do not speak of hope, nor spirit, soul, or mind, conceal it as we may, and do not speak of God, nor spirit, soul, or mind, But is the world effect?

Something blows Cigar, cigarette butts, bits of news To faded tramps in doorways.

J

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60

Man Observing Some Things C)

Sf NSQR950 by Joseph Harkey

It was early morning as she walked toward the bus~ and still-damp hard-dirt floors exuded a clean odor that mingled with the market smells of the little pueblo, the most forceful smell corning from the piles of goat meat that lay in front of the butcher shop.

"But, senorita," the ticket clerk explained, "for you to make this trip just now is very dangerous!"

"We've been through that several times already," Clara Jewett replied. "I must visit a friend near Guaymas, and I'm not going to turn back now after that trip across the Sierra Madres. No, I've corne too far to tum back now, when I'm so close to Guaymas."

"But the bandidos are-" "Yes, I know. The bandidos are very active between here and Guaymas at presen.t, but I've prayed fo[' a safe visit."

"But, senorita, you seem to take the bandits very lightly. With Americanos on the bus, they are sure to stop you. And they will know there are Americanos on the bus, of that you can be sure. The men they will only rob, but such a beautiful lady as you, one can not say what-" "Will you sell me a ticket, or mU!st I speak to the manager?"

"I am also the manager in this small S1tation, senorita.

Perhaps that is why I feel such a responsibility for you; also, perhaps, because of your hermosura- your beautyand because of the kindness you seemed to radiate when you were talking to the little ninos in front of the station.

It is odd for an Americano to befriend Mexican children, even more so for a woman American. But, if you rure adamant, I will sell you the ticket. And I pray, also, that Nuestro Mujer de las Montanas will give you safe journey. Here is your ticket and your change, senorita."

The ticket clerk's arms hung loosely from his shoulders, his hands resting lightly an the counter, and his dark eyes seemed to float as listlessly in their shadowy sockets as he stared at Clara, hoping that she would take his warning and not make the trip. Ay, mujeres, he thought.

Oh, women!

IIMuchas Gracias, for the ticket and the prayer," Clara said, smiling softly. III trust Our Lady of the Mountains will see me through to Guaymas."

IIAnd, senorita."

IIYes?" IIWill you please make me a promise?"

IIIf I crm able."

IIPlease go back by a safer route if you make it to Guaymas all right. The bandidos are very treacherous." liVery well," she replied, and walked toward the door.

IIVaya con dios," he whispered to he[' as she walked out, forgoing the modern Adios for the more meaningful goodbye.

The bus itself was an old model Ford, dust-streaked and panting as the driver throttled its recalcitrant motor, readying it for the trip to Guaymas. It put her in mind of the comfortless school bus she had ridden as a firstgrader almost twenty years earlier.

She walked into the bus aisle and glanced quickly for a seat. There were only two left, one by a white man and another by a Negro. All of the other seats were occupied by Mexican peasants. She immediately moved toward the white man, feeling slightly embarrassed at having to make a choice, as a man feels who walks into an empty barber shop and has to choose between two barbers, hesitating to choose either seat because of the implication of a feeling of inferiority for the one he ignores (even while recognizing the definite preference for the other which somehow proves the implication).

The white man was on his feet, politely offering her the inside seat, while the Negro continued to slump against the window as though he had not noticed her, and she felt faintly -relieved to have the decision taken from her hands and yet was piqued that she had bothered to worry about the Negro, for he obviously was not concerned with her.

IIWould you prefer the window or the aisle seat? The scenery is beautiful when you get into the waste lands." liThe window, thank you." She glanced quickly at the man as she slid past him onto the seat. He was young, about thirty, and his close-cropped hair and tight-fitting cotton cord suit made him appear younger, like a college man, or she thought, a young school teacher like herself. liMy name is Torn Setzler-from St. Louis. I went to school at Washington U. back home." He held out his right hand so that she might see the Greek letters an the stone of his class ring, and as he did, a shining gold wristwatch was revealed by his receding coat sleeve. "Best fraternity on campus. I'm down here to take a job as athletic director of an American industrial firm-Johnson Felt, they make good fabrics, you know." He leaned toward her, good-naturedly intimate. And yet impersonal, she thought.

He has the air of an undergraduate you might meet at a dance, she thought as she looked at the ring and watch, almost startled at his indubitably American mm-

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ner of embarking into his life history at a casual meeting.

And yet, so impersonal, as though he were merely talking to himself and you were not in the conversation at all.

"You're American, too, aren't you?"

"Yes, my name is Clara Jewett."

"Let me guess-from Texas?"

"Yes." He laughed boyishly at his success in guessing her state, and pointed out that he was very ~;ood on placing accents.

"A secretary?" He framed the question hopefully, anxious to score another point in rus guessing game.

"No, I'm a school teacher. I've been doing graduate work at Mexico City College."

"But this is a long ways from Mexico City."

"Yes, a long way," she reflected, thinking of her conversation with the ticket clerk. Then she smiled. He certainly knew how to break one's reservations against conversation with strange men. Yet he was not like a strange man; rather, a strange boy out in a man's world.

"Yes, it's a long way. I'm down in the provinces to see a friend who teaches at a mission school at San Eduardo. It's a few miles this side of Guaymas-they don't even have a bus station there, it's so small-and only about thirty-five miles from here. Of course," she said, laughing, "It will seem like three hundred as slow as this bus moves."

The bus had now gone about ten miles, and its brakes groaned as the driver pulled to a stop by a clump of adobe buildings. One Mexican left his seat and walked toward the door, and while he was leaving the driver trotted to a well and drank several dippers of water. When he got back on the bus, he came to the two Americans.

"It is just a little mission, now deserted, senorita. But it is the last stop between here and your San Eduardo, and I cherish its water. Perhaps you desire a drink? It is very cool and refreshes one."

"No thank you. About when will we reach San Eduardo?"

"In the afternoon. Just after siesta. Ay, but why do not bus drivers get the mid-day siesta," he whined comically as he strode back to his seat.

As Clara turned to Tom to explain the conversation to him, a peasant sitting behind her tapped her on the shoulder.

"Perdone usted, senorita, habla usted espanol, no?

Pardon me, but you speak Spanish, do you not? I could not but overhear your conversation with the driver, and I feel there is something I must tell you." The man leaned close to her, speaking so no one else could hear.

"Yes?" "The man who got off the bus at the old mission. I have fears about him."

"What kind of fears and why should you relate them to me?" She asked, coughing her words in the formal Spanish she learned in college.

"I tell you because it may concern you ultimately. The man looked closely at the golden jewelry of your friend.

Too closely. That and the fact that he left the bus at the old mission, where no one lives, makes me think he may be a bandido. If you know our country as well as our language, you must know that our waste lands are still plagued by bandidos. And certainly you must have heard that recently the area west of the Sierra Madre has been plundered mercilessly by a group of bandits led by one Juan Tapotecas, better known as El Jefe-the cruef."

"But that was not the Jefe?"

"No, but of course not."

"Why would a bandido be an the bus?"

"Many of us feel that the Jefe has one of his men ride It he buses he plans to rob in order that he might gain intelligence for his plan of attack. That one looked long at your friend's opulent jewelry-and at you, senorita."

"Why does everyone worry so much about me when the bandidos are discussed?" Her angry question sounded more like an accusation than a query.

"Senorita, the Jefe is a good man in many ways-every man has an amount of good in him-but in one way he is the worst of the robbers. I do not want to offend you, senorita, b ut he is a very lecherous man." The man drooped his head, his eyes suddenly hollow in the same manner that the ticket clerk's had been, and he silently slid back into his seat.

Clara turned and looked out the window, now puzzled by the fear the two men had expressed for her. She did not speak to Tom immediately, but stared quietly across the waste lands that swept back away from the bus to the dusty, sun-baked hills that rimmed the plains.

"Wha t was all that about, Clara?"

"What-oh, he was talking about the man who got off the bus at the old mission back there." The sound of Tom's M issouri accent seem to pull her thoughts back into focus, to return her to the reality of the world she knew. T he concern she felt a few minutes earlier now dissi,p ated and the familiarity of their English words ringing through her mind helped persuade her that after all the ticket clerk and the Mexican passenger were rather absurd in their over-concern for her safety. Nothing was going to happen to her-bus robberies belonged to the romantic era of an earlier Mexico, the days of the Robin Hoods of the Badlands.

"What about him?" Tom asked. "I do wish you would speak English so I could understand when you're talking with these peons."

"Oh, he thinks the man who got off the bus was a bandit-a bandido. He said the man might be a sort of scout for a group of bandidos who operate in this area. It seems tha t the fellow stared at your watch and ring, and the man behind me feels that he has gone to tell rus chief that there are some rich Americans on the bus."

"Well, you don't seem very concerned, I must say."

Tom was looking around the bus, staring at each passenger

trouble-though, like you say, there obviously will not be any." He again lowered his voice. "That brown boy wouldn't be much help. I know them. Just like the Jews at University City, they only fight in gangs. Separate one from the pack, and he's like a lamb. Back home a white man can't go to East St. Louis alone, they're so mean when there's a gang of them, but one never jumped anyone by himself."

"Well, I'm reassured," she said, and turned to look through the window at the huge expanse of sand and cactus, the blistering noonday glare and the light blue mountains that fell back in uneven rank and seemed to form an enclosing barrier for the bowl-like desert.

The sun was now directly over the bus, and the dusty, rusted vehicle grew increasingly hotter as it plodded deeper into the waste lands. The Mexicans piled their serapes on the floor and opened the necks of their coarse-textured, jumper-like shirts. The gurgling of sleeping men filled the bus, broken occasionally by a grunted Caramba or Chingado as the bus jolted over a bump and awakened a peasant.

Outside the atmosphere adopted a blue cast as the sun tortured the rocks and sand, and the only life the bus encountered was an occasional toad-like reptile squatting indolently in the shade of a cactus, its bellow-like lungs throbbing soundlessly under its jaws, its eyes squinting against the blaze of barren rocks.

The Negro's eyes also squinted as he gazed across the alkalide emptiness, and he too had the air of one indolent before the conquering majesty of the sun. Turning his face from the window, he rubbed his eyes deeply into their sockets to fight off the desert-engendered vertigo, then held his hand to his face a moment longer and stared between bluish-black fingers at the other two Americans.

The woman held her head against the glass, and she looked vaguely like the Mayor's daughter back home; her name was Mary Alice, like half the girls back there were named Mary something or other, and she had gotten. him out of trouble once. Mary Alice had a soft spot for folks, always had, and luckily she had come in from a date just when Mister Morven, the drug store man" had about persuaded the Mayor to send him off for good for stealing some money.

"Joe's a good boy, Daddy," Mary Alice had said. "Anybody can make a mistake. Give him another chance." She always did have a way with grown folks, always sold more tickets to school plays and ball games and such, and her daddy wasn't different from other folks, nOir was Mr. Morven, and she had her way finally, after Joe had passed an hour wondering whether he'd have to go to Morrisson Training School.

"But one thing's for sure, Mary Alice. He's got to be somebody's responsibility. You know he stole a bike once, and cigarettes and money before that."

"He never had anything like I did, Daddy, that's why he stole those things and you know it. If he'd grown up around me, I'd have given him enough love that he'd not feel he had to steal to get something in its place-that's it!

intently. "You don't suppose any of these guys are bandits?"

"No. You see, I knew about the bandit scare long before my holiday started. I'm sure we'll miss them completely-in fact, I don't think they would attack a bus that had Americans on it. The police are pretty touchy about tourists and foreign business people."

"But, knowing all of this you're still not worried about them? I mean, travelling alone and all?"

"Oh, it's not as serious as all that, Tom. The bandidos are not so numerous and ubiquitous as the press would have us think. But, then, I'm not alone. There is only one seat-well, two now-empty on the bus." She glanced at the Negro, who continued to look out the window and appeared to be oblivious to their conversation.

"Oh, yes." Setzler glanced over his shoulder and his voice lowered almost to a whisper. "The nigger. He's the only other American I've seen for a day or so. It's awful nice to be with one of my own people again," he added, looking at her.

"Then you've talked with him?" She kept her voice low also, so that they would not be overheard by the Negro.

"No. In St. Louis we see them, but we don't mix socially, you know. Oh, there were a few at W.U., but they stay pretty much to themselves. Not that I look down on them; we give them their due, but people naturally seek out their own kind in the world, and I believe in leaving them to themselves."

"But you know he's an American?" Although they continued to speak softly, she glanced at the Negro to make sure he was not listening.

"Yes, he has a Southern accent. I overheard him talking to a ticket seller in English a few stops back. He speaks some Mex too-sounds pretty good-because I heard him talking to one of the guys in the seat behind him' but he hasn't talked much to anybody." , She looked closer at the Negro now. His color was a medium brown, and he wore somewhat soiled jeans and a denim coat. His eyes were empty, distant, and she detected a faint odor of dry sweat coming from him, an odor that seemed to separate itself from the pungent smell of .the Mexican peasants and the pleasantly sharp shavinglotIOn scent that Tom exuded. As she stared at him, the Negro looked in her direction with a short, cold glance, and she turned her eyes quickly to Tom again.

"Are you-are you prepared for the bandidos? There is always the possibility, to be sure."

"Well, I haven't thought much about it," he replied.

He pushed his shoulders back to relieve the cramping sensation the seats caused, and thought for a moment.

The slight fear he had experienced earlier had melted in the heat of Clara's confidence. "I would think that a good man wouldn't have too much trouble with these greasers.

And I was a pretty good tackle." His voice grew a Httle louder. "I blocked four punts against Butler, and that's a man-sized job. I really can't say, but it seems to me that it's good for you that I'm along if there might be any

12

I'll be responsible! He can wash my car, and cut the grass, and do things like that and, well, you know you always wanted some man to be with me when I drive to Raleigh, in case there is car trouble, and-" "He's no man, Mary Alice, not yet. He's only sixteen."

"He's old enough to drive, and he can change a tire.

Can't you, Joe?" "Yes, ma'm."

"There, then it's settled!" And it was. He didn't even go home that night, or ever again, and he lived in the garage room after that until she went to college and got married and never came home again. And he never got into any more trouble.

"Isn't that something," the Mayor had said so many times. "Just like my mother and her little colored boy, and how many times she told me about that! Most young girls in her day had a colored girl for a companion and servant, but Mother chose a little boy, and by the time the war came they were so inseparable that one night he gave his life saving her from some drunken soldiers. Now Mary Alice has her Joe." He smiled as he thought of Mary Alice, the one person who had ever done him any good. And as he looked at the soft brown hair of the girl across the aisle, he pictured her again bouncing out to the garage with the guitar and ordering him to quit fooling with the car and sing Jeannie With The Light Brown Hair, because he had once told her that that was what she was like to him.

Borne like a vapor on the summer air. She always loved the way he got two notes on the a in vapor, the medium note wafting and slurring to the high note, and sliding back down to the medium note for the por.

"That's the way Grandmama's Tim would sing it," she always said.

He stared now at the tall man in the crinkly cotton suit. I blocked fou,r punts against B~~tler. He smiled as he caught himself lowering his chin and poking his chest out slightly in a mild burlesque as he thought the words.

N ever been any trouble since then. Not until last week, when he hit that sergeant up at Fort Bliss. Called me a black bastard. Damned rebels fighting the Civil War still.

You'd think I was from up North or something, that my greatgrandpap had been one of Sherman's men instead of going along to help his folks. But it happened. And now there was trouble all over again, and even if that lady were Mary Alice she couldn't help him now. Hit that man, deserted. Getting from Ft. Bliss into Mexico had been easy, just get on the bus and go into El Paso and then catch a ride into Chihuahua. Staying ahead of the police would be something else.

and saw that they were weaving toward some rocky hills.

Soon the bus would be among them and the cottonwoods that grew among the huge rocks. The sun was almost half-way down, and the air had cooled a little, but she could still taste the salt that formed on her lips, feel the dampness of her armpits, and smell the workman's odors of the peasants. The smell of Tom's shaving lotion. had vanished, and he smelled more like a human body in the sweltering atmosphere of the bus. He too, emitted grunting snores, and now he, too, dissolved into the fabric of the tapestry of humanity that extended the len.gth of the bus.

Only she remained separate from the snoring tangle of humanity here, she thought, and only she because she was a woman and the rest were men, not because she was American. Her heavy eyes relaxed and she passed into a half-restful state of semiconsciousness. I only hope I don't snore, too. Her half-alert mind laughed at the thought, the idea that she must grasp tightly every vestige of ladyhood even in such a place as this. But what difference would it make?

She started and realized that the bus. had jolted to a halt, awakening her. She looked quickly around and saw ,that Tom and the Negro were both in the process of becoming awake, but the Mexicans were all wide awake and cowering in thei.r seats. Then she looked out the window and saw that a Mexican was standing on a high rock by the bus, pointing a rifle at her window. Before she could react, she heard a muffled cry of "Bandidos!" from the front of the bus, and a gruff voice ordering them to get off the bus, ((Fuera! Vamos!" Fearful of antagonizing the bandits, the peasants all hurried off the bus, and the three Americans followed suit. Within minutes, the old vehicle stood empty and awkward in the blistering sun, like a shell of a house long ago deserted by its occupants.

The passengers were first lined up against the bus as two bandits ransacked it looking for valuables, and two others badgered the passengers, taking even their serapes from them. Once searched, the peasants were then herded into small groups, leaving only the Americans near the bus.

The leader, or Jefe, supervised from some thirty yards distant, jocularly teasing both his men and the Mexican passengers.

"Malditos, do your wives allow you to possess nothing but these miserable serapes?" he asked the peasants; then, turning to one of his men, "Even your woman gives you more, eh, Chico?" ('If she does not give it, I take it," Chico shouted back, "todas las noches, every night."

The band laughed, and one shouted, "Todas las noches," then made an animal sound and smacked his lips, "Oo-ee, oo-ee!"

He screwed himself deeper into the seat, then looked out the window again. Up ahead a jackrabbit galloped across the road, seemingly free from the heat and the dangers of the desert.

"Oh, you sons of whores! hijos de putas! but I do not know why we waste our time on the likes of you," the Jefe chided the peasants. "Were it not for the gringos, a bandido of our day could not earn a respectable living.

Clara watched the jackrabbit lope in front of the bus toward the shade of a large rock, and she looked ahead

13

If any of you swine are prosperous enough to own fifty centavos, then that one I will allow to keep his possessions.

Ay, Chihuahua, but I wonder how you can afford to ride the bus in the first place."

his throat, but be路fore the Mexican could raise his carbine or regain his balance, Joe had whipped the revolver from its holster and pressed it in the Jefe's ribs. He wheeled his back to the bus, holding the Mexican. tightly as a shield, and began shouting curses and orders at the other bandits.

A short, fat man, the Jefe wore a wide sombrero and had several belts of ammunition draped across his shoulders, presenting the picture of a cinema bandit chief. "But the gringos have valuables. Miguel, get the watch and ring and money from the tall one, and Antonio, take what the black one-el negrito-has. I will examine the chica for valuables myself."

As he swaggered toward her, he wagged a carbine back and forth as though it were a baton, and the butt of a pistol glistened in the sun where it jutted from his trousers' tops. As he drew near, all eyes were focused Dn him and the other bandits momentarily fDrgot their plunder as they laughed and chattered about the Jefe's spoils. liLa senorita es muy bonita," he slurred in rapid syllables through his stubby mustache. Clara did not reply, but drew closer to Tom, who was standing a few feet in front of the bus. All of the other passengers had been divided into groups of four and five, and they stared mutely at the Jefe.

"No tengas miedo," the Jefe said. "Do nDt be afraid, I would not harm such a beautiful chica. Only perhaps I would steal a kiss-just a small one, un besito-and perhaps a little something extra." At this he turned to his men and they all laughed and made the animal sounds, "Oo-ee, oo-oo-ee, oo-ee!"

"Y salve alguno para mosotros," one shouted. "Save something for us, mi jefe." The men laughed again, and one made a smacking sound with his lips, as of one kissing loudly and moistfully.

Realizing what the men intended, Clara grasped Tom's arm and pleaded, "Do something, Tom! Stop him or they'll -oh, please do something!"

"See, here," Tom began, but the chief pushed the muzzle of his carbine into the pit of Tom's stomach, and he stepped to one side away from Clara and the carbine.

"Do not be a hero, senor. It is not healthy."

"It's no use, Clara," Tom said pitiably. "What can I do, don't you see they have guns and would kill me?" He fell completely away from her, stepping into the scant protection the cluster of peasants offered.

She stepped backwards, pressing her back against the bus and putting her hands before her eyes as the J efe lowered his rifle and pushed up against her.

The Negro had remained impassive and quiet, evidently unconcerned with the matter, but as the Jefe grasped her shoulder, ripping her dress away from the top of her body and pressing his body inward and upward, Joe, seeing the image of the light brown hair against the bus and hearing her shrieks, momentarily forgot the other bandits and their rifles.

Even before he formed a perfect thought, he had lunged onto the back of the Jefe.

"Chingadof" the Jefe roared as Joe's arm went around

"Marchanlos, marchanlos 0 Ie matare a su jefe! Get out of here or I'll kill your chief," he growled.

"No eschuchanle," the Jefe returned. "Do not listen to him!" The puzzled bandits, mentally off guard, were unable to' decide to retreat or attack the Negro. One impulsively raised his rifle, making to shoot him. Joe blasted the arm of the Jefe, almost tearing it from its socket at the close range, and gritted in his ear, "The next shot will kill you if your men don't vamoose, Cabron!"

"Ay, Chihuahua, but you have already killed me, I think! Por Christo, hijos de perros, do as the man says! Get on your horses and leave. Do you want me dead?"

The bandi,ts slowly moun.ted and cautiously pulled away from the bus, hesitating on a knoll a few hundred yards away before galloping away into the desert. When they were out of sight, Joe released the Jefe.

"Do you wish to see the sun rise manana?"

"Si, every man does."

"Then get onto the bus, you're going to San Eduardo and then to Guaymas with us."

"First, mi negrito, my black one, tell me your name."

"What business of yours is my name, old man?"

"Te llamas Joe Allen?" he asked, a smile forcing its way through the grimmace of pain. "Do you call yourself Joe Allen?"

"Yes, but how do you know?"

"The gringo police are looking for you. We hear it in Guaymas. In San Eduardo, where the bus must stop when it leaves this desert, an army policeman awaits you, to take you back to the great fort at EI Paso. You are a deserter, no? I think it when I first see you, negrito. We do not see many of your color in this desert."

Joe did not reply, but his brow furrowed as he listened to the man. Back. Back to the Stockade. And nowhere to run but the desert.

"What a man you are, negrito! Que hombre eres! Never did I think I would admire a man who almost kills me, but you I like. Why do you need to go to the policia at San Eduardo? The arm, it almost kills me, but I would be willing to forget if you join me. I have always wanted a valDrous son to ride with me, but have only girls. Ask these peons, they will tell you. Ay, but do I have a multitude of girls! My men need another like myself to keep them in line, why should it not be you? You would make a grand bandido. Did you not almost kill the gringo soldier at the great fort? They will shut you away for many years for that. Put your gun away and come with me."

"What about these people?" Joe nodded toward Clara and Tom. "The man is free, the girl we take, no? I could use a

14

IIS top the bus!" Clara was now in the aisle, shouting to the driver. IIS top the bus!"

«But, senorita, there may be bandidos yet around.

Surely you can wait until San Eduardo for whatever it is you want?"

«No, it can not wait."

«Si, senorita, then I will stop."

«Joe." He did not even look up, for he was unable to believe that she meant to call him.

«J oe. " «Yes, miss?"

IIJoe, there is a monastery five kilometers away, up the left fork. I visited it once. You must go there. They'll give you sanctuary."

«But I am not Catholic."

«That doesn't matter. It's your only chance."

«See, here, Clara. He's a deserter. You can't help him.

It'd be disloyal to the government."

«He's right, miss. I am a deserter."

IIyou saved my life, maybe all our lives. You must go.

No one will tell the police where you are. I promise."

«The Jefe?"

«We'll take him to the police."

«We?" uTom and I." «Oh, yes. He blocked four punts against Butler."

«Look, I realize I acted badly back there, but now I'll have a gun. And, besides, he's tied."

Joe stood up. He handed the gun to Tom. «Five kilometers to the left?"

«That's right."

«Thank you, miss."

«Thank you, Joe. I hope things go well."

HAdios, mi jefe."

HGo to hell, black one! I try to help you and you send me to jail! I hope the Jesuits cut your black heart out, diablo!"

He started toward the front of the bus.

IIJoe.I" He turned and found that Clara was running up the aisle toward him.

«They missed this money. It's not much-take it, please."

HThanks, they did dean me. Goodbye, miss. Five kilometers to the left?"

wife, all of my women are old. Or, perhaps you? You must have eyes for her, no es verdad? One does not risk his life for nothing. She will come. She must. Either with you, or me. Put the gun away, no?"

He lowered the gun, ,then yanked it back into the man's midriff.

IINo! We take you to town so that your bandidos do not attack us again. Amigo," he said, turning to a passenger, lIatele. Tie him up." The others began filing onto the bus. lIyou realize that you sacrifice your life by going to town, negrito?"

IIShut up and get on the bus."

Clara made to go toward him, but stopped, turned and rejoined Tom on the bus. As the bus chugged to San Eduardo, Joe thought silently that each mile took him closer to the stockade. Perhaps the man lied. No, he knew my name. It's no use. There is no way out. Because a girl had once been kind to him, he now must be kind to a girl. Kind? Human. Human. Odd, but for the first time since Mary Alice went away, he himself felt that he was a human, a part of humanity. A man can't shut himself off from other people, from the world. Never really believed that until today. To live, you've got to belong somewhere, somehow. But why must we always learn too late? Today I join humanity only to be banished from humanity tomorrow.

I'Y ou are a foolish man, negrito. An idealist, perhaps, but nevertheless a fool. You'll go to heaven, but you'll know enough of hell before you leave this earth."

IIThat's my birthright."

"Que? Your what?" liMy birthright. Mis derechos de nacimiento."

IISi, but what is?" liTo know enough of hell before I leave this earth. It goes with the color of my skin."

IIBut it does not have to be so. Come and be my son, mi bandido, mi negrito. Here your skin will not matter. It will serve well to nullify the noon sun, in fact. Why must you turn me and yourself in to the policia? Neither of us will prosper in jail."

IIyou talk too much, old man." lilt is the girl? If you do not want her, why does it matter that I do?" lilt is not only the girl. I do not trust you. You would kill me and have her too."

IIBy my mother, I swear I will not harm you. But if you do not trust me, do you trust the policia? The gringo police is very bad."

IIy ou talk too much, old man."

The bus approached a fork in the road, and he noted that, according to the sign, he had fifteen kilometers of freedom left.

HFifteen kilometers to San Eduardo, negrito. You have small time to reconsider. Think, man!"

HFive kilometers to the left." She looked at his face as it glistened brown in the dying sun and a flood of emotion swept her as she remembered the scene with the Jefe. He had given her all, and she had only money to give in return. She was going to a holiday among friends, he was going friendless to try and escape the fruits of a mistake, he was going to run from his friendless past the rest of his life. She seized his hands and squeezed them.

IIShut up, old man. I can read!"

15

"Did I ever tell you that against Butler 1-" "You blocked four punts," Clara finished the sentence.

"I guess I told you after all," Tom replied dejectedly.

"Yes," Clara laughed, "but I know my daddy will be impressed to know I met a man who blocked four punts in one game. What is a punt, anyway?"

"Well," began Tom, "it's like this. If a team hasn't gained-" IIAy Chihuahua!" muttered the Jefe, are all Americanos ignorant about women?"

The bus pushed along the road to San Eduardo, trailing its dust cloud into the soft enveloping night.

End

"Good luck, and take care."

"Goodbye."

He hurried out of the bus and walked to the fork in the road, halting after he had taken a few steps up the unmarked left fork. Then he turned and looked at the bus. He waved his hand and smiled at Clara.

"Five kilometers to the left?"

"Five kilometers to the left," she called back, the tears now running down her face.

Joe turned and walked up the road.

The bus rumbled away toward San Eduardo. Inside the peasants jabbered about the negrito, and the Jefe sat silently blaspheming fate.

6W

lI

e require individualism which does not wall man off from com-

munity; we require community which sustains but does not suffocate the individual.

-ARTHUR

M.

SCHLESINGER

Submit contributions to: IMOGENE GREENE, Editor

The Phoenix Box 117 1621 W. Cumberland Ave.

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16

U. T.

Contributors

DORIS RIVERS

............................................ Senior

in Fine Arts majoring in painting Chattanooga, Tennessee

JOE HARKEY ................................. . . ......... Graduate

student in English in Liberal Arts Wadesboro, North Carolina

RENNI DILLARD

DON EVANs

._Senior transfer from Agnes Scott College, Liberal Arts English major Lynchburg, Virginia

...................................................... ................................ Senior

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.......•................. _............................ .. ...... Graduate

student in English

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A.

SPARKS

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