Coraddi

CORADDI

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CORADDI

April 1978
Spring Arts Issue

the university of north Carolina
atgreensboro

CREDITS

This issue of the Coraddi contains the winning works from the 1978 Coraddi
Spring Arts Contest. Many thanks are given to Bob Watson, Fred Chappell,
JuMus Tobias, and Richard Lamb who acted as the judges for the four
respective categories of Poetry, Fiction, Art, and Photography. Hearty
congratulations are extended to the contest winners and those individuals
receiving honorable mention. As this is the last issue of Coraddi for the '77-78
academic year all artists are encouraged to keep the magazine in mind and be
prepared to submit at the beginning of next year.

Editor — Martha A. New

Business Manager — Karen J. Fagg

Associate Editor — Susan Taylor

Art Editor — Claudia Green
Art Director— Keith Kolischak

Editorial Board

David Hall Gary Lilley

Clarice Zdanski Richard Hodges

John Bartlett Susan Taylor

Kim Church Elaine Robbins

Production Staff
Worth Hager Eugene Hayworth

JeffErwin Ric Marshall

Debbie Troutman David Reavis

Amy Dickert Peter Rutledge

Coraddi is the fine arts magazine of the University of North Carolina at
Greensboro.

"Admission to, employment by, and promotion in the University of North
Carolina and all of its constituent institutions shall be on the basis of merit,
and there shall be no discrimination on the basis of race, color, creed, religion,
sex, or national origin."

Published by Triad Graphics
Copyright 1978, Coraddi

CONTENTS

Short Stories

"Bowed Heads" by Pamela Nately Donnell Page 4

"Martha" by Barbara Presnell Page 18

"Lists" by Barbara Presnell Page 42

"The Old Man, The Fire Lady,

and The Little Boy in the Forest" by Patti Morel Page 58

Poetry

"Wildfire" by Amy Stapleton Page 12

"Strangers". by Terry Harper Page 14

"The Seduction" by Robin Gwyn Routh Page 15

"The Woodcutter's Wife" by Rebecca Reagan Page 16

"The Ride" by Robin Gwyn Routh Page 16

"Of, And To A Girl At A University" by Robert Teakley Page 37

"Blessing the Loss" by Mary Parker Page 15

"Rib" by Mary Parker Page 51

"Song of Snow" by Stephanie Kay Tingler Page 52

"Letting Go" by Mary Parker Page 53

Photography

Page 11 Keith Kolischak

Page 15 Larry Oxman

Page 40 David Nelson

Page 24 Tim Weiant

Page 31 Keith Kolischak

Page 39 Elain Christensen

Page 44 Keith Kolischak

Page 45 Barbara Grant

Page 50 David Reavis

Page 54 Martha New

Page 55 Elain Christensen

Page 56 Keith Kolischak

Page 57 Keith Kolischak

Page 63 Larry Oxman

Art

Page 25 Bob Shepherd

Page 27 Glen Aumant

Page 30 Kathyrn Taylor

Page 26 Bob Shepherd

Page 34 Bryan Presson

Page 35 Dorlis Miller

Page 20 Paula Clark

Page 21 Bonnie Osborne

Page 17 Susan Hicks

Page 41 Karen Humphrey

Page 48 Susan Hicks

Page 49 Rhonda Jordan

Bowed Heads

Pamela Nately Donnel

I do not like to think of feelings
in the past but I was very deep into
the "body" ot those days at 'the
mill'. I was employed at the mill.
The mill was a place of
sweat-whipping exertion, cursing,
dirt, ignorance, comics, feigned
intelligence, and irritable bosses
who treated their employees like
kids; even the grown men. Then
again, some of the bosses were
kind; two, I think.

When I would walk into the
mill, a scent of salt would
immediately swarm about me, then
fade. The floor was wooden and
slick. I could feel the lint of the air
bathe my face. Walking on through
the mill I would pull off my coat
and keep it pressed against my side
so that the coat tails would not get
caught up in a machine and snatch
me into it. I'd think about how I
woidd be embarrassed rather than
think about how the snatch of the
machine could kill me.

I'd walk down past the first row
of hammering slubber machines
which prepared the cotton for
weaving. They would be twisting in
a full circle wath a speed which
made them seem to stand still.
Then a twist would go wrong or a
strand of cotton would lose its
control and cotton would be
stroked out into the air and the
first layer of wasted cotton would

1st place fiction

pile upon my clothes and form a
slope down from my sternum,
down my breasts and onto my
stomach with trails of the industrial
snow landing on my blue jeans.

There was an intersection where
the main floor joined. This passage
led to the weaving rooms, the lunch
room, dye house, and boss men's
offices. I'd stop at the intersection,
look to the left and right to see
what I could and then continue
walking until I reached the "women
only" door of the restroom and
push the Hlthy door open.

The swampy filth. Thick, dusty
odors. No air; air is something you
need, you did not need this. Toilet
seats not to be sat upon. Benches to
secretly nap upon. Sanitary napkins
on racks, sandvdches on racks,
coats on hangers, racks on racks,
lotion-soap, magazine remnants and
the like. I'd hang up my coat and
be sure to breathe through my nose
so the air could be filtered and then
leave the restroom for the mill
floor.

You were required to wear a
breath mask and ear plugs; ear plugs
to decrease the noise pollution, of
course; there was a constant noise
which masked out all other sounds;
human sounds.

After picking up my breath
mask I'd go see an acquaintance of
mine named, Estroy, so called, he

joked, because as a child he would
rummage through his home and
practically 'estroy everything.
Estroy worked on the first shift like
me. He would always kid around
with me in the mornings before the
whistle blew. I did not know what
to think about Estroy. if I spoke
about something of a serious nature
to him, he'd immediately make
jokes and tell me about silly things
he had observed on the job that
struck him funny. Also, he never
touched me or even tried. I feel
that strangers tend to touch you
more than your friends as if
reaching for a connection. Because
he never touched me, I thought
maybe he did not think much of
himself. I thought he thought that I
was above him, or, he felt strongly
that we were very different from
each other. He was a full time
worker there, and I was part time, a
college student. His manner often
assured me that he wanted to be
much closer to me. If I would move
close to his face to speak over the
noise without shouting he would
almost quiver with strain to not
move a breath.

Whenever I'd leave him and say
"good-bye," he'd always say,
"o.k.," as if he meant "I suppose
you can leave now." Never would
he say "good-bye." Not since the
first day I spoke to him. I helped
him, voluntarily, to fix a
malfunctioning machine once and
we began to talk.

On the "spare hand" floor.

which was located on the main
floor, the extra work was assigned
to the spare hands. There were long
yellow rails sectioning off the main
floors' passageway and bordering it.
The men and I would lean up
against the rail and secure our
behinds on the surface and look
like we were seated comfortably
but even though the rails were
round they caused indentions in the
heavy seats ot our pants.

I was the only girl there. 5' 11"
and 165 pounds; I felt like one of
the guys. They all looked so tired.
Even the young men looked worn
out. I suppose I really did feel like
one of the guys except I wore clean
clothes every day and there was the
forty C exposure from my chest.
The guys would stare at me, pass by
and stare, smile, stand in front of
me, make me ill, and so on. Most
often they would speak. All the
noise and the breath mask made me
want to abstain from speaking. I
did not want to feel obligated to
pull the mask down, smile and
speak and replace the mask, even if
the mask was thin and only covered
my mouth and the tip of my nose;
enough to cover my nostrils. I
wanted them all to leave me alone.
Except, Mark Saunders. Mark
Saunders was the bright coin. He
was the man who looked like he
had just arrived from some court of
Roman Soldiers to tease and inspire
without uttering a word. He always
looked as if he were just born. I saw
the lint in the air part and let him

through. I saw other eyes watch
him walk by on the main floor. My
"care" for him was stark and the
aura I saw when I thought about
him was a terrible red. He was an
electrician and wore a yellow hard
hat that had his last name,
Saunders, on the back; I made up
the name Mark. He wore plaid
structured, deep colour,
maroon-black shirts with bleach
white T-shirts beneath. His hair was
raven-wing cut and thick layered.
His stature was like a shy -bull; head
cast down. He was my height as
well, but built. His complete body
was bold. His arms were strong and
large. His face was olive coloured.
His eyes were dark, large circles. His
nose was Romanesque and sharp,
when first I saw him, over the
summer, nine months ago, I was
not attracted to him but bit by bit
by lapse of time not seeing him on
certain days to being jolted by
suddenly seeing him, with his head
bowed, seemingly shy,
untouchable, biting the edge of his
bottom lip as if he had the insight
of a prophet, or, as if he were
supposed to report back to God
after one year, I increasingly
wanted to see him and I became
attracted to him. I never spoke to
him. He would walk by and I would
try to act as if he were not there. I
felt embarrassed. I knew he had felt
my eyes before and it hurt me to be
despised by him for liking him.

One morning in particular, I
remember, I had seen him coming

and I tried to prepare myself but
my body tightened and my mind
"made" me feel anger. When I
glanced at him I saw that faint
blush on his face from his bowed
head. I felt him pass by and my
chest heaved and the anger left.

It was a good day when I would
be assigned to "run drawings;" four
machines which should rim
constantly as much as human
tolerance would allow. They should
be attended to constantly in order
to fill five foot cans with ropes of
cotton and I'd run them hard.
Many men were lunch room
mongers and restroom-space
renters; gone for long periods of
time in the day. Sometines I would
run the machines so hard I could
almost imagine hearing the men
cursing behind their masks calling
me a show-off, stupid, and
wide-hipped.

Sometimes Estroy would watch
me for a while from afar and then
slowly come to me and say things
like, "don't work so hard." His
voice would be soft and half
flighty, non-concerned and yet
partially serious. Sometimes he
would come over too often and I'd
get irritated and once I cursed him.
"Bastard," I think I called him.
Estroy trailed off, head hung. I
suppose I would have thought
about Mark Saunders right then.
Why? When I had first seen both of
them, at different times and places,
they both had mustaches and some
time later they had both shaved

them off but why did I think of
Saunders right then? I think
because Mark's head is usually
bowed. Estroy's head was hung as if
he had just been lynched. There
was such a difference there. Mark's
bowed manner made him seem to
be "expecting" something. I
suppose I had hurt Estroy but he
had always presented himself to me
as if he could not feel.

As Estroy left, I felt strong,
tough for stepping on him. I turned
quickly from a machine I had just
handled with a masculine air and
looked up into the eyes of Mark
Saunders. His head bowed when I
looked at him and the corners of
his lips turned up like a blush. I
rolled my eyes past him in
embarrassment which I clothed in a
look of disgust. I rammed my fist
into a cotton can, intentionally, in
order to cloud my rationale even
more. I called myself a bastard, an
ugly bastard, and kept my eyes cast
down to the floor as much as I
could for the remainder of the day.

The next day I saw him
approximately four minutes after
the whistle blew. He had not put on
his hard hat and his hair was fully
revealed. It was importatn to me to
see his full head exposed without
anything man-made touching it. He
was dressed in a blue jacket, blue
jeans, and a plaid shirt which I
could partially see through the
unbottoned top of his jacket. His
hands were in his jacket pockets
and his head was bowed. He walked

slow and as far away from me as
possible. He relayed, through
hardly a breath of information, that
he realized that I was there
watching him. But I was not
watching him. I was too afraid.

For my infatuations I could
have bound volumes with detailed
explanations on "why." This
infatuation was different. For the
first time I wanted to hate the one I
wanted. The more I thought on it
the more I knew that I had to
exclude Mark Saunders from my
mind. Sometimes I would think
that while he would be working on
a malfunctioning electrical unit on
some controlling component in the
mill that he would get electrocuted
and die. I'd say aloud, "I wish he
would die" and then I'd think, "no,
be careful, Mark."

Estroy and I had reconciled. All
he had to do was say "hello," smile,
and say something funny and I'd
brighten up. I think I should have
said . . . I'm sorry.

Estroy came up to me and asked
me to have lunch with him; it was
the first time he had ever invited
me to anything. I began walking
with him. We walked the long way
around the "carding" machines. I
was glad to go that way because I
felt Mark Saunders would not come
that way. Estroy stopped for a
moment and spoke to someone
who ran "drav^ng" machines. He,
Estroy, checks the quality of the
cotton. His job is sort of special and
above mine; position wise. He

7

always remained clean. That was
important to me. Saunders was
always clean, too.

Estroy was Jewish and I suppose
quite nice looking. I suppose I
never noticed it before.

He talked to a man and never
made a joke nor smiled. Maybe I
had never seen him with anyone
else before. He spoke to this man
with an authoritative voice. His
stance was half facing me and half
facing the man he was talking to.
His eyebrows shifted to the rhythm
of his voice. At the end of his
conversation he looked at me as if
to say, "I'm capable of handling
people."

We both decided to go to the
electrician's station house and buy
canned cokes rather than the ones
in the lunchroom which were in
paper cups. We walked outside.

"When do you go back to
school?" He asked me this without
looking at me.

"Next week," I answered.

"I'll miss you. I wish your spring
break were longer. You make me
laugh." He smiled. He lied.

There was a railroad track that
led from the dye house to about 18
feet up to another section of the
mill. It was foggy outside and the
railroad tracks made me feel like
Estroy was a lyric artist of the
1960's and that I was a strange
friend he hung around with so that
his publicity would be speckled
with oddity and boost his
popularity. This thought made me

disregard him and instead I thought
about Simon and Garfunkel, and
"Homeward Bound" and "Sounds
of Silence." I saw factory songs
written on "New York Times"
pages and heard photographs of
War Countries flip from page to
page. I thought about Phil Ochs
and . . . then I thought about Phil
Och's protest songs and then his
suicide and then about Mark
Saunders. They I would think
about Prophets and Protesters
united. I'd follow that thought wdth
Saunders and Estroy united.
Saunders and Estroy united made
no sense to me right then.

Suddenly I looked up at Estroy
and said, "I'd like to call you
sometime." He smiled.

We were at the electrician's
station house and I opened the
door for myself before Estroy
could do it for me.

The station house was dim lit
and cool inside. There was a large
long table there with chairs and an
office on the right side of us. We
turned to the left toward the
entrance of the room where the
electrical equipment was kept, and
the coke machines. Estroy had just
said something funny. I was
laughing and entered the room.
There stood Mark Saunders alone.
He was at the coke machine with an
assortment of coins in his hand. He
looked up at me and I, realizing
that I had removed my breath mask
before I left the carding room,
turned my head to hide my face. I

8

looked at Estroy and sighed.

"What's wrong?" Estroy asked
me. "Hi," was the next thing he
said as he looked at Saunders.

"Hello." Saunders responded.

I could sense stark irritation in
me and non-chalance in Saunders.

"You on a lunch break?" Estroy
asked Saunders as he got closer to
him.

"No." Mark Saunders felt my
eyes. He bowed his head and a
small smile appeared. His eyes
moved slowly, his lips parted like
caramel pulled apart by a weak
child. He bit his bottom lip and
squinted his eyes. His large hands
stroked his hair and he chose a
soda, dropped a coin in, pushed a
button and bent over to get his
drink. He rose and swallowed hard
before he spoke with a trace of a
blush left.

"I'm . . .just taking a short
break."

"I heard that you and Bobby
had a cable bust on you the other
day."

"Yeah." Mark smiled. "It
could've killed us." He stared
toward me but not at me.

"Hey," Estroy put his hand on
Mark's shoulder, "I can come over
tomorrow night. We can see if we
both can put that stereo system
together."

Mark looked into my eyes and
then away from me.

"O.K." He answered Estroy. He
pressed his lips together as Estroy
walked away from him and started

flipping through an old newspaper
on a chair.

In my head I heard the silence
build up to a harsh shrill. Mark's
hands were shaking and he was
walking towards me. Everything
seemed to be in slow motion. His
mouth opened and I felt his chest
touch mine for a moment. He
stepped back just a little.
"I . . . want ..." He began
speaking but I turned from him in
all my nervousness when I realized
Estroy had turned his attention to
us. What I wanted to hear Mark say
became what I feared he might say
in front of Estroy.

I turned to the coke machine
and stood silently, torn between
dispondence and anger. I finally
turned around when Estroy
touched me and asked me what was
wrong.

"Nothing." I went into the
adjoining room.

Estroy called out asking me
what sort of soda I wanted. I
reached into my pocket, felt
confused and in the confusion I
became calm and level-headed.

"Do you have change for a
dollar?" I asked Estroy.

Just then, Saunders walked in
and stood in front of me.

"No," came Estroy's reply as he
studied over some electrical
equipment. "Why the hell did we
both come here with inadequate
money?" I thought to myself. As
soon as the thought left me I saw
Saunders' opened hand and I

looked into his ince. His lips were
tight and his eyes were very large
with seriousness. He stretched out
his wide palm full of change.
"Here," he said.

My head jerked. Advancing
nearer I reached tor the money and
touched him in the process. I saw
Estroy's face from over Saunders'
large shoulders and felt that Estroy
was judging my composure. I had
also just realized exactly how
beautiful Saunders' face was and
because of this I began to lose some
of that composure. I found the
adequate change and frowned
because Saunders' stare at me
became a gaze. He may have
noticed that I kept my face
practically cast to the floor as if to
hide my face.

I walked past him and went to
get my drink.

Estroy and I started to leave and
Saunders joined us. I walked slower
but my self-assuredness and
appreciation made me feel like
talking.

"I know a little about
electricity." I said.

"Oh?" Estroy spoke loudly.
Saunders was silent and I made a
point of walking beside Estroy and
not him.

"I can recite OHM's law. I know
the three different types of
connectors utilized for sockets. I
know the difference between three
wire service, and two wire
service ..." As I spoke I looked
ahead and walked faster. For a

moment I looked back at Estroy
and seriously asked him what time
it was. If I would have had the
insight I would have seen the way
he looked at me as being one of
'affection;' it was. Saunders was
watching me, too. There was a look
of compassion on his face. We
entered into the carding room and
Estroy said good-bye to Saunders
before I wanted him to.

"Bye." Saunders framed the
word wath his lips but no sound as I
looked at him and Estroy walked
on ahead of me. I watched him
begin to turn away. He studied me
for a moment longer but I had to
turn away.

As I walked on behind Estroy, I
thought of Mark and an album
called Watermark because of his
name in the title. Then a song on
the album called "What A
Wonderful World."
But I do know one and one is two
And if this one could be with you
What a wonderful world this would be
The words were slow, mellow. I felt
harmonious, mellow, slow
motioned like Mark, and as if I
were connected to Saunders by
some type of thin string.

In the lunch room Estroy and I
sat across from each other. He
spoke and I heard nothing. I
became irritated when Estroy gave
me his telephone number. I
accepted it and he was pleased; I
could have called him a "bastard"
again.

"How do you know Saunders?"

10

I asked him.

Estroy paused and stared into
my eyes. "His wife is my sister."

I lost my steadiness. I smiled a
little like "insane" people do; I
suppose. Estroy noticed my change
and touched my hand I pulled
away. He seemed to realize what
was wrong. He cocked his head to
the side and slowly shook his head
as he said, "oh."

I stood up and said, "for the
first time, I feel like I belong in this
hole," turned and walked out. I
looked in again at Estroy and could

see that he was distraught He had
covered his mouth with the palm of
his hand. I saw his head hang.

On my way back to my job I
saw Mark Saunders coming my way
and on that "last day of my work
at the mill," that Friday, I didn't
know whether or not Saunders
blushed, or smiled, or walked close
to me, or spoke to me within the
noise, or bowed his head. I pulled
my mask up and walked past him,
quickly, feeling a sweep of wind,
smelling and tasting wet salt with
my head hung.

M/ ., i

Wildfire

He crunched among the trees a madman,
Dryness singing to the blaze in his brain.
His pocket filled with the same sure flame.
Each in its own separate chamber;
And perfect endless lines of green geometry
Stretching on and up into a Titan's temple
Pushed on and on and reached and filled him.

Dryness singing to the blaze in his brain.

He kept his wild tune steady as all freshness

Took to black, his heart inflamed, and his tongue

Cursed Giza's distance, just too much time away.

Too much time, for the kindling was set.

The spark eager, and it was now for the spring of justice;

Just as one breath, one breath, one breath.

Upon the next must at last have some heave or sigh

To bring all meaning crashing back.

His pocket filled with the same sure flame

That broke already before his eyes like salvation.

Like some collosal creation in the hot womb of earth's forge.

Like all power: every muscle, root, and vein of ore fused

Into a force that got every dog with one kick.

Every face with one consummate snear.

He felt as if it was to stand among the statues

And watch Eiffel's bastard son plunge suddenly to

French soil, to loose itself at last and land

In one great dive among the other cripples.

12

Each in its own separate chamber.

His pulsing core, his mind with cells of kerosine.

His simple tools of hope.

He plunged on, his whole self a quivering bomb,

His heart spewing hot ash amidst his mind.

His mind erupting in oily color, his soul at rest

Once more to hear again his pocket click.

And perfect endless lines of green geometry

Laughed at him, pleaded, spat on his head;

He watched the rows stretch on forever.

Into what must be out of time or into then

And just to see the whole in one endless

Red storm like a hell-shot scream

Would be to have the past and the present and the future

All understand at once, all come to know the total.

All slapped awake at last.

Stretching on and up into a Titan's temple.
The pine's like columns beckoned him and
He felt his burden, his same burden, his burden
From birth, his burden of life, his endless weight,
And the needles clicked and let the sun into his face
And he walked on beneath the pressure of the sky;
And through the cracking of his steps sprang the chant of the birds.
And he moved on as the sun broke down through the pines
And thrust itself upon his face;

He stepped onward beneath the pressure of the patches of the sky
And each moment seemed to dry his mind and mellow the flame of

his core
And polish nature's chant until the tune had entered his veins and
Tlie sun came into his eyes and the pine scent dulled the burns
And the trees smiled down on his head and his gift as he kept to the

rows that

13

Pushed on and on and reached and filled him

At last with pain wliere his purpose had been stripped

Away and his chest stung from the place where it was torn;

He was out of time or into then and kept watch

For some stream where he could soak his matches.

Amy Stapelton

Secimd place poetry

Strangers

I could have turned my head and answered no,
to all the pleas and offers each had bid.
I could have stopped before I did let go.
Now how can I account for what I did?

In one long night my trust is flowing out.
In mind my mind is asking "Why the cost?"
And morning brings my soul into a shout.
I feel that all I ever had is lost.

And on and on the cycle never stops.
I wander, fearful, full of siiame and guilt.
Until I find another hopeful man.
To climb the careless castle that I've built.

Is love for me a paranoic "ride"?
Or will I find a LOVER by my side!

Terry Harper

14

The Seduction

Pleasing you was simple then by letting

down my hair still damp and sweet— smelling

from my bath.

You buried your face in it, lingering at

my temples to trace cheekbones with

your lips.

Forgetting my parents, just upstairs, listening

for silence, you lingered at the door with

flushed cheeks and unopened books as the smell

of White Shoulders still teased your senses.

Rohin Ciwyn Routh

The Ride

He rides well, mounting with the sureness
of a jockey.

Rock-hard thighs against, rippling flesh,
they bathe in each other's sweat, the rider
and the ridden, becoming one great animal
of rhythmic motion, oblivious of surroundings
and concious only of the quickening pace
clocked by heartbeats.

Robin Ciwvn Routh

gsssssssssssssssssssssssss SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSiSaSSaiaSSSS

The Woodcutter's Wife

The melody in his throat is gone,
And just a tuneless hum
Reminds her of their victories,
The lengths to which they'd come.

Fallen cedar, cypress, ash;
Fallen useless bark.
Fallen crest of family--
They never passed the mark

Oh was it only in her mind.
The tension racket-sprung?
Fallen oaks and elms and beech.
The wood to which she'd clung.

He had constructed out of form
And friction-laden truce.
Fallen willow, fallen birch.
Maple, gum, and spruce.

Rebecca Reagan

16

Martha

Barbara Presnell

Honorable Mention Fiction

Martha Rawlings had been and a half of hunting, she was still

working at the Jocane Hosiery Mill without a job, and was quickly

ever since her husband died in a car running out of money. Reverend

wreck ten years ago, and left her in Thurman, the preacher at the

debt for their house and car, as well Presbyterian church, where Martha

as the funeral expenses and the was a very regular attender,

price of a plot. She sold the car the contacted several laymen in the

first thing, and added to some church, and finally, Mr. Everette

money she saved in her cedar chest Jones of Jocane Hosiery offered

in the bedroom, she had enough to Martha a job as a seamstress. She

cover the burial. She had a son, took the job eagerly, learned to run

Roy, who was nineteen at the time, her sewing machine very quickly,

and worked in a food store bagging and vwthin the next five years

groceries, but he was living away pulled herself out of her financial

from home, thinking about getting hole.

married, and didn't think he could Her son was married to a local

afford to pitch in a couple of secretary shortly after her husband

dollars a week to help his mother. died. They had a small wedding.

He did attend the funeral, and and Martha cried and cried for days

afterwards felt it was his obligation afterwards to think that her son

to visit his motherandpick out some would be so happy. He had moved

of his father's possessions that he out of towTi then, about five

thought should rightfully go to hundred miles away, where he took

him— a heavy woolen overcoat, a a very respectable position as the

shotgun, and a gold pocketwatch assistant manager of Housewares at

that he lost a few years later at the the five and dime store chain. She

county fair playing cards. got a letter in the mail from his

Meanwhile, Martha, being the wife about every two months

practical woman that she was, telling her that they were fine, and

began searching for a job, both to maybe they would stop in to see

fill her empty hours and to keep her soon. Martha knew they

from having to rely on social
security or welfare for her income.
She had no references since she
hadn't held a job in at least twenty

wouldn't come, and they didn't.
Especially after the baby was
born — a little boy — and she
imagined that the diapering, feeding

years, and her wardrobe was plain and caring for him must not leave
and worn, and after about a month them much time for traveling.

18

Martha didn't mind living alone.
She enjoyed the quiet evenings
when she could sit in her warm
living room, listen to the wind
outside her window, and relax in
front of the television set.
Sometimes she liked to come home
from work in the afternoons, open
a new bottle of gin, and drink until
she felt very light, very happy and
very gay. Her favorite drink was
bourbon, especially when it was
mixed with gingerale, but she liked
to save it for special occasions. She
and her husband drank bourbon on
their wedding night. Her husband
used to drink it straight from the
bottle, but she preferred it a little
less strong and burning than that.
She had bourbon the night of Roy's
wedding, too. The sweet taste made
her even happier for him and his
new wife. The last time she
remembered drinking bourbon was
the day she got the letter from Roy
about his new son. She came home
from work, read the letter, and
went right back uptown to the
liquor store for the special
occasion.

But when she drank these days,
it was most often gin. It was pretty
and clear in the glass and she could
sit and watch the bubbles rise to
the top.

Martha read a little. Her
husband collected a few books
while they were married, but she
never considered reading them
then. They were mostly war stories,
with a lot of sex and violence, and

it was only recently that she pulled
one off of the dusty shelf, and
without realizing the time, read
almost half of it in one night.

She had a few house plants on
some windowsills, but her prize
greenery was the small vegetable
garden that she spent many summer
evenings after work hoeing and
weeding, and waiting for the
tinylittle green beans to emerge
from the blooms, and trying to
guess which tomato would be the
first to turn red.

But it was early winter now.
Martha could look out her kitchen
window to her garden and notice
how the green weeds that filled her
garden plot in the fall were brown
and dying. As she scrambled her
eggs for breakfast that morning, she
happened to notice for the first
time, as she looked out that
window, that the trees in the small
wooded land beneath her yard were
almost bare. She shuddered at the
thought of cold weather, and
remembered how her mother used
to tell her that early winters meant
long, cold days of snow.

She liked her eggs hard cooked.
Her husband had always liked them
that way. Roy never liked them at
all. As she sat dovsm at the small
kitchen table, she thought of Roy.
She wondered if he was healthy, or
if maybe that wife of his wasn't
feeding him good. He might be bald
now, she thought. His daddy was
near bald at thirty. She had never
seen the baby, but then, she

19

'«' V ,

fh '^

guessed it wasn't a baby anymore.
For Christmas last year, Roy and
his wite had mailed her a picture of
the curly headed boy. He was
squatted down on a red tire truck
with a black bicycle seat on top.
The boy had looked like he was
determined to crash right into the
eye ot the camera and shatter it to
pieces. On the back of the picture,
in almost illegible child's writing
with an olive green crayon was
written, "Hi, Grandma." He must
be smart, she always thought. Roy
was smart, and Roy, too, always
had curly blond hair and a
determined look on his lace.

Martha had to gulp down a cup
of coffee and her eggs, and leave
her dishes in the sink that morning.
She was expected to punch in at
Jocane's at exactly 7:00, and if she
was even a few minutes late, she
was alraid that Mr. Jones would lay
her olf of work. Laid oil. All of the
ladies at Jocane had been told that
they may not be needed fuU time,
but Martha only knew of a couple
of the girls who had actually gotten
fired. Times were hard. Times are
always hard, Martha thought, but
she was determined to make do and
certainly not to get 'laid off' just
because of a scrambled egg and bare
trees.

She wasn't late. But she was out
of breath from halfway running
through the wind and cold, and she
was still hufHng when she almost
crashed into Mr. Jones at the
punchboard.

"Martha, where are you flying
off to in such a hurry this
morning?"

"No place," she said. "Trying
not to be late. It's freezing cold
outside this morning, though. I
guess that's why I'm so out of
breath."

"Looks like it might snow
already this winter, my wife says."

"I don't think so. I didn't see
any birds eating."

"Birds?"

"Oh, you know, Mr. Jones.
When the birds eat, it means it's
gonna snow. They're storing up
food."

"Oh yeah," Mr. Jones chuckled.
"I remember my mama used to say
that."

Martha peeled off her coat and
hung it over her arm.

"Gotta get to my sewing
machine. See you later, Mr. Jones."

He nodded, smiled and headed
down the hallway.

"Oh, Martha." He turned. "I
almost forgot. There's a new girl
coming in today on machines. I
wonder if you might help her out.
Show her around."

"Sure."

"Her name's Betsy. Watch out
for her, okay?"

"Sure, Mr. Jones."

Martha entered the machine
room through the double doors, if
she stood outside the doors, all she
could hear was a low hum, but once
inside, the roar of sewing machines
was almost deafening. Many of the

22

girls preferred to wear small wads
of cotton in their ears, but Martha
had gotten used to it aher so many
years, and liked to hear what she
called the "sound of progress." She
could talk to herself, sing, laugh or
cry, and no one in the room would
ever know.

Martha's machine was Number
Five in the second row. She'd been
working on the same machine now
for almost six years, and she could
tell every scratch and knock about
it. She oiled it twice a month, and
dusted the parts with a paintbrush
at least once a week. As she moved
down the line of ladies to her space,
she passed a young, brown-haired
girl at Number Seven. Betsy, she
remembered. The new girl.

"Everything alright?" Martha
tapped the girl on the shoulder and
shouted above the roar of the
machines.

The girl looked back and
nodded. "Fine."

"I'm Martha."

"Betsy Cauldwell."

"I know."

The girl looked puzzled.

"Mr. Jones told me to watch
after you today," Martha said. "If
you got any problems there, you
come to me. I'm at Number Five,
right over there."

"Thanks."

Martha moved down the aisle
and slipped into her chair. She had
left a green stocking on her
machine the afternoon before that
had to be resowm. One of the

operators had driven the needle
straight down the center of the
material. It was Martha's job to rip
out the stitches and do it right.
There was a pasteboard box beside
her chair stuffed with the morning's
work. She plowed through,
matching lefts with rights, greens
wfith greens, reds with reds, and so
on, and seemed close to the edge,
first once, then again. On one pair,
she ran off the edge of the heel, and
she had to slacken her pace, remove
all the earlier stitches and redo it.
Mr. Jones took a note each day of
the number of articles each of the
ladies got done. Martha wasn't the
fastest of them, by far, but she
worked steadily and carefully, and
he had often complimented her on
her work. She felt proud when he
did. She wanted to do the best job
she could, and tried hard to please
him.

When the lunch bell sounded at
11:30, Martha realized that she had
completely lost awareness of time,
but felt her stomach growling with
hunger. She eased from her seat,
moved carefully dovwi the aisle and
into the Vending Room, where
most of the ladies gathered for
lunch. There were several green
plastic tables and red chairs in the
room and many of them were
already taken by groups of women,
and crowded with pocketbooks,
lunch bags and cold sandwiches
from the machines.

Martha never spent much time
with the other ladies. She liked to

23

sit by the window, drink a cup of
coffee and munch on a cheese
sandwich from the vending
machine. She Uked to gaze out the
window at the sky, the clouds, and
the tops of buildings that she could
see uptown. She always thought
that must be what it was like to be
a bird. To fly through those
buildings, through the clouds, and
never have to mingle with the
crowded people down below on the
sidewalk.

She was staring the way when
she heard someone say:
"Can I sit here?"
It was Betsy, the new girl.
"I notice you got an extra chair.
Mind if I sit with you?"

Martha nodded and smiled.
"How's your morning been,
honey?"

Betsy pulled out the wobbly red
chair and sat down.

"Okay, I guess. I feel like I'm so
slow. Martha, isn't it? My machine
is fine, but I'm afraid it's too fast
for me. I must have ripped out
three dozen seams this morning."
Martha smiled. "You'll get used
to it. We all did."

"I sure hope so. My husband's
depending on my extra money."

Betsy had brought a soggy
peanut butter sandwich that she
had covered with a paper towel and
stuffed in her pocketbook. She
unurapped it, and tore it in half
before she started eating. She
sipped on a coca-cola in a paper cup
that said, "Visit Weeki Wachi

28

Wonderland" along the bottom
edge.

"He's got a good job, I mean. He
works over at Day Mattress
company. But with the baby and
all. ..."

"You got a baby?" Martha
asked.

Betsy leaned back and patted
her stomach.

"One and a half months. You
can't tell it, can you?"
Martha shook her head,
"if I can work here maybe six,
seven months and save all that, it
sure would help."

Martha thought about Roy's
wife, and hoped that her son had
made enough money that she didn't
have to go to work before the baby.
"I got a sone about your age,"
she said, after a pause.
"Oh? Is he married?"
Martha nodded. "He's got a
little boy about five years old
now."

"Yeah? Boy, I bet you're a
proud grandma."

"Oh, I've got a lot to be proud
of, for sure. He's a cute little boy.
And smart."

"And I'll bet he loves to come
to Grandma's house."

"Why, I'll bet he'd rather come
to my house than stay in his own
home," Martha said. "He's spoiled
rotten when he comes to see me."
"I remember my grandmother
was that way." Betsy smiled.

''They're coming down,
supposed to be tonight, and'll

probably stay through
Thanksgiving."

"You're gonna have a house full,
aren't you?"

"Oh, but I'm gonna love it."
Betsy stood up and wadded her
greasy napkin into a ball. "I got to
see if I can catch up a little during
lunch time," she said. "Say, why
don't I meet you after work and
let's walk home together."

"Oh, honey I can't this
afternoon," Martha said, "I got to
stop by the grocery store on the
way and do my weekly shopping."
"Another time, then?"
"Sure. Maybe tomorrow."
Betsy nodded, and moved
through the tables and out of the
room.

Martha spent the remainder of
lunch gazing and thinking about her

she had emptied almost four
pasteboard boxes in just over three
hours. She was pleased, and told
Betsy on her way out.

"And I haven't done but four all
day long," she replied.

"You'll speed up. Wait 'til
tomorrow."

"I hope so."

They parted at the side door,
Betsy heading down towards the
railroad tracks close to where she
lived, and Martha, in the other
direction towards town.

She found herself in a small
department store at the edge of
town. It was cold outside, and after
walking only a few blocks, her
hands were cold and red, and her
nose dripping from the sting of the
wind. The department store was
new, and had only been open for

son. She had invited them to come about a year. It was a clean place,

for a visit. Maybe this time they
would come instead of sending her
the note that said, "Sorry, we're
too busy right now," or "Can't get
off work," or even worse, no card
at all. But on the night she
expected them, she would always
leave the porch light on until after
midnight, before finally turning it
off and going to bed. She had a
good son, she knew. And he was
busy with a family now, and an
important job. She knew she
couldn't expect him to come
running home all the time.

Martha worked fast for the rest
of the afternoon and at 3:00 when
the shift changed, she realized that

much different than anything
Martha had seen in town, and much
larger than the dime stores she had
grown up with. She was dazzled by
the variety in the store, and each
time she wandered through it, she
seemed to discover something new.
she strolled up and down the
aisles, carefully examining the pots
and pans in the housewares
department. Her frying pan was
getting thin on the bottom, and
sometimes if she wasn't careful, she
scorched the bottom of her meat
from the close heat. She passed
them by, though. Hers would last a
little longer. In the toy department,
she picked up a red fire truck with

29

a large black bicycle seat on top.
She turned it over and tried to get
all four wheels spinning at one
time. One, two, three, four, one
again, two again, three. . . but when
she touched the whirling fourth
wheel, it sprung from the axle and
went flying across the counter. The
other three tires slowed to a stop
and Martha turned it up again, and
set it unevenly on its three wheels.

Behind the toy department, she
heard the chirping of birds, and saw
a large wire cage filled with green
and blue parakeets. To the left of
them was a smaller cage, with two
yellow canaries perched side by side
on a small steel rod.

These are the ones I want, she
thought and turned the price tag on
the cage around. Two-fifty apiece.
Five ninety-five for the cage.
Martha walked on, keeping an eye
on the yellow birds.

It was almost dark when Martha
left the store at closing. She made a
stop at the liquor store in the
middle of town, then huddled the
brown bag under her elbow, stuffed
her hands in her warm coat pockets
and walked slowly down the street.
She had pulled the collar of her
coat up close around her neck to
prevent the wind from rushing
down the front. Her thin scarf was
tucked neatly around her collar,
but one end was loose, and as the
v^and whipped past her shoulder, it
caught the fringed edge and sent it
flying across her back.

A shiny new Buick passed

through town and drove by Martha
as she was wrapped and walking the
way. She didn't see the driver, but
the car stopped, backed up to
where she was standing, and the
man in the front reached over and
rolled down the window on the
passenger side of the car.

"Martha!" the man called out.
"Need a ride anywhere?"

''Oh, it's you, Reverend
Thurman." Martha held her hand
over her eyes to block out the glare
from the late sun.

"I'm going over your way. Do
you need a ride home or anything?"

"Yessir," she answered. "It's
awfully cold out here. I was just
headed home myself."

Reverend Thurman reached for
the handle and opened the car door
as Martha walked over to the car.

"Thank you," she said as she
straightened her coat underneath
her. She pulled the door closed, and
immediately a buzz sounded in the
car.

"It's your seat belt, Martha,"
Reverend Thurman said. "In these
new cars you always got to fasten
your seat belt before that buzz
quits."

He showed her the ends ot the
belt and helped her buckle them
across the front of her coat. She
held her brown bag securely in her
lap.

"You been up here shopping, or
something, Martha?" he said.

"Yes," she said. "I had to get
some needles and thread before the

32

stores closed. I got a little rip in my
Sunday dress."

"It's an awfully cold day to be
walking."

"It is, for sure." Martha
snuggled down in her seat, and was
very comfortable in the warm car.

"I been meaning to tell you how
much I liked last Sunday's sermon,
Reverend," she said. "So many
people these days think only of
themselves, and never think about
the church."

"Thank you, Martha," the
reverend said. "I hope those people
were there."

"I always try to put at least a
dollar in the plate every Sunday,"
she said. "Sometimes I have to put
a little less, but then I always make
it up the next week."

"That't real good, Martha," he
said. "I wish everybody in the
church was as charitable and kind
as you."

"Say, Reverend," she said. "Did
I tell you that Roy is coming home
tonight?"

"Oh?" he said, calmly. "Wasn't
he here just a few weeks ago?"

"He couldn't make it that time.
But he's coming now, for sure. I
just have a feeling."

"I hope so, Martha. I bet you
can't wait to see that baby of his."

"You know, Roy tells me that
the boy looks just like me. Well, of
course, he is a boy."

"So, what time do you expect
them in?"

"Tonight. I guess they've been

traveling all day. I guess they'll be
tired when they get in."

Reverend Thurman nodded his
head.

"Say, Reverend, maybe you and
Mrs. Thurman would like to come
over for dinner tomorrow night.
Visit with the family for a while?"

"Aw, we don't want you to go
to any trouble," he said.

"No trouble. I like to cook.
What about it. Reverend?"

Reverend Thurman shrugged.
"I'll have to check with Mrs.
Thurman, but we'll let you know."

Martha beamed as the car pulled
up to the curb in front of her
house.

"Thank you for the ride.
Reverend Thurman," she said as she
stepped out. "And I hope to see
you tomorrow night."

"Tell that boy of yours I said
hello."

The car hummed slowly down
the street and turned at the corner.
Martha walked through the thin
grass to the porch of her small
brown house. She opened the door
and brought a gust of wind into the
kitchen.

Better get the fire going, she
thought, and laid her bag down on
the kitchen table while she struck a
match and held it under the stove.
She unbuttoned her coat and laid it
across a chair by the table. She
opened the cabinet door above the
sink and pulled an old jelly glass
from the shelf. This one had been
strawberry, she remembered. It was

33

^v

• *^

Part Four of "Casey at the Bat,"
with two verses of the poem, and a
picture of a skinny, black-haired
baseball player with his legs twisted
around the bat. When Roy had
been much younger and still living
at home, Martha remembered
having each glass in the set. Parts
One through Five. Roy had liked to
start the morning with Part One,
Part Two at lunch. He always drank
a glass of milk in the afternoon so
he could use Part Three. He used
Part Four at Supper and Five with a
glass of water by his bed at night.
Roy's favorite part of the poem was
when the ballpark was silent and
Casey was shamed from the
stadium. Our hero had let us down.
Roy always loved it.

Martha had only two glasses in
the set now— Parts Three and Four.
The other three had been broken or
cracked or lost. She really couldn't
remember what had happened to
them. She didn't use them much,
now that Roy had grown up. She'd
gotten a whole new set of six from
buying large boxes of laundry
detergent. They were clear and
beautiful, with Httle rivulets of gold
plating around the edge.

She lowered the Part Four glass
from the shelf, brought her brown
bag to the counter and lifted the
small pint bottle of bourbon. The
label was small with red and black
old-type hand printing. She broke
the seal as she twisted the cap off.
She held the bottle to her lips and,
squeezing her eyes tightly, took a

long gulp. She smiled as she felt the
warm alcohol slithering dowoi her
throat, through her body, and
finally tingling her bones all the
way to her fingernails.

She poured about an inch of
bourbon in the bottom of the jelly
glass, just touching the edge of
Casey's shoe, and filled the rest of
the glass with cold gingerale that
she got from the refrigerator.

Sloshing the mixture together,
she walked to the table and sat
down easily in her chair. She
swizzled her drink carefully with
her index finger, then licked it and
tasted the sweet bitterness.

She took a small sip and leaned
her head back. She smiled
peacefully and gleamed with
satisfaction.

She looked out the window into
the backyard and noticed that it
was almost completely dark
outside. She moved quickly to the
front door, flipped the switch to
the front light, returned to her seat
at the table and thought of Betsy.

Of, And To A GMAtA Um^mty

dear Randall ] arrell,
you knew her less well,

This "object among dreams"
cum woman

and yet,

you knew her as well
as you could have; as I:
your thoughts were compelled

to her, helpless as mine

. . . but, she studies,

or so it seems;
she has wound us into

a goddess' dream

and presses a finger to out lips

and whispers,
"hush . . .
be silent now . . ■ sleep"

and we must

. . . studied and studying,

she slips easily in

and out of beauty,
hut she must -

for it is so much her nature
as to become her duty

. . . she turns a page:

unconscious of

her being watched,
unconscious of her grace . . .

her concerns
are those of a goddess,
immediate and modest-

what to wear . . .

how her hair . . .
whome to grace
with a smile, whom to kiss

—and nothing to do
but dream as this

but she, in her sleep,
"she never dreams"

for, what might a goddess

further desire?
-for one passionate second,

one pure desire?

-come, my lady,

they are not in that book;
nor are the truths,

nor the fallacies,
nor any understanding of love

and yet,
love would be simple

for us to prove-
more simple than

your turning a page,

more simple than
the sigh you breathe,

more simple, more simply
than anything . . .

37

eveti more simply

than you move among men,
moving as the mildest wind-
stirring passions
as leaves,
and, leaving—

as you leave-
men bared of their dreams

but you cannot be cruel
for you have no intent

save to move
from point to point

through lines least resistant

—it is sad, perhaps,

that those whom you would

wish to,
ask less often

sad? that a goddess
must settle for men

. . . men-
some of those very men-
have died young-

barely young men-
consumed by their longing,

in search of you;
worse than mortal,
those men were fools:

and neither are you simple:
the greatest men 's minds

cannot solve the riddle
that you become-

it is only more difficult
the harder they try

(despite how this seems,

I do not pretend
to know you better than them)

fools for assuming a goddess
could love only gods;
but more,
fools for worshipping a goddess
from afar

sad too, perhaps,
that men should die
with affections unbestowed,
unspoken

—ah, but your mystery

is your charm,
and your innocence,

your finest art

you,

who could have your choice

of nien,
are wont to be confused
by such choices, being new,
and so, you choose none;
iitstead, you are content

to be chosen

but then, at last,

we must admit-
we who survive

of the weaker sex—
our love

though we hesitate:

"and yet -- and yet - "

and so. I give myself over to you
(but a goddess deserves more
than a fool)

38

a)td so, if you have )iaught else

to do
in a goddess ' vast leisure,

come
-before you have time to

reconsider,
and, perhaps refuse;
before you grow

"old and cold and sure ";
before you pass, dreamless,

into forever;
and, before you should
grow cynical
of love and men . . .

come,
and forfeit a goddess' pleasures
for those of a woman

Robert Tcakk'v

Lists

Barbara Presnell

Marvin K. Lowe asked Margaret
Isley to marry him. He did it on his
regular Wednesday night visit when
they were sitting on the sofa in
front ot the television watching
their regular Wednesday night
detective show.

Marvin's arm was draped over
the back of the soft red sofa. His
hand fell loosely over the edge and
touched the tip of Margaret's
shoulder. His feet--his black
sneakers-rested casually on the
edge of the coffee table, and
Margaret eyed them nervously,
wondering if he had remembered to
wipe them when he came in. She
was afraid that mud was caked in
the treads and would dry and drop
off on the table-something she
would have to wipe up with a wet
paper towel as soon as he left.

It was at the very climax of the
action, when the prostitute was on
the floor and the lunatic stood
above her with a knife, that Marvin
spoke.

"You know, Margie, I've been
coming over on Wednesdays for
quite a while now. Almost a year."

"Yes, you have," she answered.

"And we've been going out on
Saturday nights almost as long."

"That's true."

The lunatic flashed the blade
and pressed it against the
prostitute's throat. Margaret

2nd place fiction

swallowed.

"I was wondering," Marvin said.
"I was wondering if maybe
tomorrow night you might like to
go out to dinner. To the Chalet.
For a nice dinner, some wine and
candlelight."

"Marvin, you know that
Thursdays I go to my gymnastics
class."

"You can miss that."

"No, I can't. I've never missed."

"Oh."

The New York Police
Department had the old warehouse
surrounded, and police cars were
swarming the parking lot. The
lunatic was nervous. He stood at
the window and cleaned his
fingernails with the knife blade.

"Well, I was wondering if you'd
be interested in marrying me."

Just in time, Sergeant McAdams
burst into the back door and
grabbed the lunatic, forcing him to
drop the knife on the floor. The
prostitute kissed the sergeant on
the cheek.

''Marry you?" Margaret
repeated.

"Yes. It's been almost a year
now."

"Marry you," she said.

"You don't have to answer me
right now," he said. "I know it
seems sudden, but I've been
thinking about it lor a long time

42

now. Saturday night we'll go to the
Chalet."

Marvin left soon after the eleven
o'clock news came on, and
Margaret was still so stunned that
she forgot to check for tracks on
the coffee table. She went to bed,
but she forgot to read a chapter in
her book. She lay awake in the
dark, listening to the clock
humming and the digital numbers
flipping every minute.

Like the flipping of the minutes
and the eleven o'clock news, each
day of Margaret's life passed
exactly as it was supposed to. Every
Monday morning, she made her
plans for the week of things she
needed to do and things she wanted
to do. On Mondays, she always
straightened the house from the
weekend and did her grocery
shopping. Tuesday, Wednesday and
Thursday afternoons, she worked as
a teaching aide at the junior high
school, and Fridays she visited her
mother. Monday night was the
book club; Thursday, gymnastics;
and Friday, dinner with her
mother. And then, there were the
little things that she scheduled in
between the regular
appointments— waxing the kitchen
floor, washing windows and so
forth. Every night before she went
to bed, she checked over her list
one final time so that she could
sleep soundly, knowing precisely
what the day had meant. Sometimes
when other people wondered where
the time had gone, or forgot just

exactly what they had done,
Margaret could think back and say,

"Tuesday, the fourteenth.
That's the day I scrubbed the
bathroom and repotted the
schefflera."

Everything was in its place— the
newspaper in the basket, this
month's magazine on the coffee
table and last month's in the
cabinet under the bookshelf. The
ashtray just a little left of the
flower pot, the bathroom rug snug
around the base of the toilet, and
the white coverlet of her bed
smoothed so that the pattern
around the edge fell evenly on all
sides.

She had no place on her list for
love. Marvin was on for Wednesday
and Saturday nights; the other
nights were full. Sometimes even
those two nights bothered her— the
nights when Marvin stayed over
much longer than she had planned,
which kept her up later and made
her sluggish the next day. Or the
Saturdays that Marvin would plan
something for them in the
afternoons— a picinic, or a long
drive somewhere— and she couldn't
make him understand that her
Saturday afternoons had already
been arranged on the Monday
before and she just couldn't
rearrange her plans. And, sometime
during the week, he would call her
on thy phone when she was right in
the middle of something important
and she would lose her
concentration.

43

Marvin himself was in such a
disarray that sometimes she
thought she would scream. He
never made plans of any sort. When
he came over on Wednesdays, he
never bothered to discuss just
exactly what they would be doing
on Saturday, and most of the time,
when Saturday night came, he still
wouldn't kno.w. Sometimes he'd
already eaten dinner and sometimes
he had not, and Margaret never
knew whether to eat before eight or
to wait tor him. His shirt tails were
almost always hanging over his
pants, the laces to his tennis shoes
were held together by knots, and he
could go for two months without a
haircut and never even think about
it. In fact, the only reason she
could think of that she kept seeing
him was because she liked him, and
that was such a vague and chaotic
notion that she preferred not to
think about it.

And now, the thought of
marriage overwhelmed her sense of
order. It meant breakfasts that
might be later than seven o'clock,
and it would mean that Marvin
might sometimes get to the
morning paper before she did and
she wouldn't be able to read the

chaotic it would be to have
kids— bottles, diapers, playpens. She
would have to work day and night
picking up dolls and trucks and
blocks and parts of this and that
would be scattered everywhere, if
she weren't careful, the plants
would be turned over and broken.
Worst of all, the baby would drool
all over her clean clothes. This, she
knew, was more than a simple
decision to make.

Thursday morning when
Margaret woke up, she felt as
though someone had pulled the
wrong thread and left her
completely unraveled. Not only had
she forgotten to read before going
to bed, she had also forgotten to set
her alarm and when she finally
woke it was already after eight. On
top of it all, she had neglected to
brush her teeth, and the onion that
she cooked with her squash for
dinner Wednesday night still
lingered in her mouth.

It didn't take long for her to
realize that she had absolutely
nothing to do in the morning
before she went to school. Her list
said, "Write Sue." She sent one
letter a month to her cousin in
Nebraska, but it was always a very

funnies with her second cup of structured letter, telling what she'd
coffee. It would mean that she been doing and inquiring about

might not be able to do things the
way she wanted anymore. She
would have to make time— much
more time— on her list for Marvin.
And kids. Oh my God, she
thought— how disorganized. How

Sue's activities. But, could she write
a letter and casually mention the
fact that she might be married
soon? She decided that she
couldn't. And she couldn't leave
that part of it out, because it would

46

be another month before she wrote
to Sue again. So, she put her
stationery back in the desk drawer
in her room and crossed that off
her list.

She had intended to make a trip
to the paint store this morning and
choose a color for her bedroom.
But, when she put on her coat and
headed for the door, she realized
that this too wasnot right, if she
married Marvin, she would move
out of the apartment and there
would be no sense in painting the
room. She would have to make a
decision before she bought her
paint.

It had been quite a long time
since Margaret had a day with
absolutely nothing to do. She had
already dusted the furniture and
scrubbed the bathroom on
Tuesday. She watered the plants,
she swept the porch, and she had
even defrosted the refrigerator just

a game show, but she couldn't
name any of the tunes, even though
they were all very familiar and she
knew that any other day she could
have guessed them all.

Margaret finally pulled her coat
from the closet and headed tor the
door. She wasn't good at making
quick decisions. In fact, it normally
took days for her to adjust to the
idea of going to a movie, but she
knew that something had to be
done to get her lite back in order.
She made her decision— quickly,
yes, but definitely— and she headed
uptown to tell Marvin.

She sang right out loud as she
walked down the street, and she
didn't care who heard her. She
waved at the man who turned and
stared. She walked briskly, stepping
on cracks, even though she knew
she shouldn't, or at least never had
before, and one time she began
skipping down the street until a

last week. And, if she went ahead garbage truck passed and the boy in

and cleaned the oven, then she'd
have nothing to do on Friday
morning before she went to her
mother's.

She felt completely helpless. She

the front leaned out the window
and whistled, causing her to lose
her rhythm.

She stopped at the edge of town
at Barley's Ice Cream Parlor, and

read the paper a second time. She treated herself to a double scoop of

walked through each room and pistachio, then sat outside on a wall

checked all of the plants to make to watch the people pass,
sure that they weren't dry yet. She When she finally made it to

paced up and down the living room Marvin's office, she was running,

rug. She tried to watch television. She threw open the door, flung it

but the morning movie was one she wide, and stopped. Marvin looked

had seen at least ten times and

up m surprise.

knew by heart what happened at "Marvin," she said. "I have

the end. She flipped the channel to made my decision."

47

mjSxrjO^

^ Ml gi

\--4lM
]t j

35

"So soon? That's not like you."

"No, it's not," she replied. "And
it's not like me to skip school this
afternoon or miss my gymnastics
class tonight, but that's what I'm
going to do."

Marvin pushed his chair away
from his desk. "Does this mean
yes?" he asked. "Are you going to
marry me?"

"I threw away my list," she said.
"And I'm going to replace it with
you."

Marvin ran around the table and
kissed her on the cheek. He pulled a
chair close to his own by the desk.

"Sit down, Mrs. Lowe," he said.

Margaret sat down. She reached
inside her piu"se for a pen, and
found a sheet of paper on the desk.

"Now," she said. "The way I
figure it, we should get married on
a Saturday— how about the
twenty-first of October? if we have
it at two o'clock, the ceremony
should be over by two-thirty, the
reception by three-thrity, so we can
get plane reservations for four
o'clock."

Margaret smiled. The disorder of
her marriage to Marvin K. Lowe
didn't seem to bad at all. In fact,
she kind of liked it.

Rib

While we sleep,

a great rib

curved like the last slice of moon

rises for hours.

dirt spraying silently

into the black night,

inches of bone

fed from earth like a long glass tongue.

If we don 't wake,
lovers come to us,
opulent in furs.

Mary Parker

Blessing the Loss

He dresses for the desert,
omitting liis hat; he might allow
a flat palm to break his forehead.
Like two soft birds, his hands
duck into his beard.
Single-minded,

he picks the sun from his teeth
until her face lies still.

Behind him, the woman thins
in the skyline he wanted to fill;
it's just lately he can play
his little violin of twigs.
In sand, he has measured her face
to the square inch; she grows
sharply under his hand.
His beard is clean;
he is writing the necessary songs.
Isi place poetry Marv Parker

51

IQE

3DI

IDE

3GI

IDE

3D

Song of Snow

The snow breathed a

lovely lullaby
At my window so softly

that mv ear was
Part oj the pane-
She luimnied a white melody

oj silent peace
And I knew my heart thought

a harmony
That coaxed it from the skies.

A)id I wondered if the trees

melted the song
As it fell to their hands
As it would if I did.

Stephanie Kay Tingler

ird place poetry

□ E

3DI

IDE

3DI

IDE

3DI

52

Letting go

In fall, when you left,

I invited a snow blond

warm as a drift before sleep.

While you slept on the road,

he crept to the house,

shaking down my red throat,

freezing the veins

before the eggs could be gathered.

^^

v_

The snow smooths itself

like a woman's hair against your feet.

Your body breaks tether,

a silk chute of bones to rise upward

at the last unbearable moment.

-^

After first snow, you came home,
skin glowing from a candle
in your bones, heart cushioned
against the spectacular cold
of this winter.

Mary Parker

L

53

The Old Man, The Fine Lady,
and The Little Boy in the Forest

Patti Morel

Once upon a time, a little boy
stood in the fork of a long, rocky
road and was lost. He cried and
cried. By and by, a fine lady in
feathers with jewels in her cap
stopped her coach in the road and
held out her hand. The little boy
stared at her rings and stopped
crying. The coachman fell down
from his seat. The little hoy
laughed, having forgotten that he
was lost. The coachman puffed
white smoke in the air and fumbled
with the latch on the door of the
coach. With a flick of her lacy black
fan, the fine lady and a fluffy
broivn cat came out from jar inside
the coach. The little hoy stood on
his toes to peer inside after her, but
the window was too high, and the
door was nearly shut. He fell back
on his heels and blew his nose on
his sleeve. This time, the coachman
laughed, and the little boy jumped
when the old fellow had to pat him
on the head three times before
lending his handkerchief. So, the
little boy blew his runny nose iis
many times as he had breath and
unshed tears, before politely
returning the coachman's clean,
white handkerchief.

The fine lady gathered her
skirts, knelt down, and looked hi
his eyes.

3rd place fiction

"What is the matter?" She
smiled at him and he saw that her
teeth were made of pearls. He saw
that her lips were as smooth and
soft as cherries. He saw that her
skin was as clear and white as snow,
and he smiled at her. And then, he
saw something glittering in her hair
when she moved slightly forward.
He reached for it, and she let out a
cry, before she got up on her feet.
She backed away. And the little
boy saw that his shoes were untied.

When he raised his eyes, he was
looking into the coachman's face.
The old fellow was leaning over,
from his waist, with a ii'hip in his
ttvo hands. He balanced the weight
on his knees. The little boy stood
up straight and tall, looked at the
man in his eyes, and thoi he said;

"I am lost."

"You are lost." The old man
looked for a long while at the
glassy, red eyes of the little boy. He
looked at the plump little cheeks,
the stout little nose, the absence of
a little smile. He took a short
breath as the boy cocked his head
to the side.

"That's right," said the little
boy quietly, as he leaned from his
waist to tie his shoelaces.

The coachman stood up quickly,
walked towards the lady, and said

58

softly;

"7 was right, he has the ))iark,
there below his neck." He made a
blurry gesture.

"But he is lost, and little, and all
alone. He badly needs someone's
help. "

"Leave him to the king's
concern. "

The lady greiv pale. "I will not
have this on my conscience. If he
should die, I would feel
responsible. "

"And you may leave that to the
priest's concern."

"If I should feel responsible,
then you are as well." The lady had
raised her voice. "You are bound
by contract, which you seem to
have forgotten. "

The coachman cleared his
throat.

"I see that your list of public
servants is short indeed, my man."
The lady smiled her smile and
walked away, towards the boy.

Once again, she held out her
hand, and the boy stepped
backward. But then, he looked
once again into her eyes and down,
at her hand and then took it, and
held it for a long ivhile betiveen his
palms. And the lady did not cry
out. She put her arm round his
shoulders and led him towards the
coach.

The coachman turned his head
aside and climbed up to his perch.
The horses were restless also. Then,
the old man sat, and grunted,
shifted about and settled; taking

tobacco from his coat
pocket. The lady picked up the
little boy, holding ln)n liglitly at his
waist, and placed him on a rung in
the carriage ladder. The boy sighed.
"Now, I want very much to help
you, but first you must tell me all
that has happened. "

The boy looked again in her
eyes and said slowly;

"I have rim away from home,
and my father will beat me if he
finds me." He looked in the
direction of the coachman and his
four horses.

The lady touched his hair. "But
why?. . . . why did you run away
from home?"

The little hoy was still. He
looked once more in her eyes, and
she was smiUng at him. He looked
at her for a long while, and she still
smiled.

"I ran away because I haven't a

mother who is as beautiful as you. "

The lady stopped smiling. "I do

not understand, " she said, staring at

him.

"I ran away because I haven't a
mother at all. I ran away because
my father beats me. I ran away
because I am afraid of rats." The
cat ran out from under the coach.
The little boy looked away quickly,
and his brown hair fell in his eyes.
In the same moment; he looked up
at the lady, breathing little and yet
very heavily, for his size.

Her eyes were filled with tears,
and she was )io longer beautiful to
him. After a short while, she spoke

59

to him, loudly;

"Is there something that I can
do to help yon?"

"Why." The little boy stiffened,
and sat up very straight.

The lady spread her hands, then
put them to her face, touching her
hair, and spoke fast.

"I saw you crying earlier— you
were frightened— did you not tell
the coachman that yon were lost?"

"Yes."

"Well— then, you are lost "

"/ was lost, then. "

"And you are not lost now. "

"No."

The lady stood 0)i her left heel
and put her hands against her skirts,
gathering them fonvard in her fists.

"But, how is that?"

The little hoy lowered his head.
He fidgeted, he dangled his legs
from his seat, he fingered the soiled
lineal that was his shirtsleeve.

The lady came suddenly towards
him, grabbing his fingers.

"Listen to me," she said calmly,
"I want to help you, hut I need to
know what has happened." The
boy squirmed, looking at their
hands. "Jllll you cease this insolence
immediately — before I—," she held
her tongue, and balanced herself
against the carriage door. She
stayed there for a long while,
before releasing his hands.

"Please. " She began again,
smiling. "I will make you a
bargain. "

The boy settled back, squared
his shoulders and looked up at the

lady, nodding his head in \
agreement. She then reached into '
her purse, and displayed for him
four gold cohis. The hoy lunged '
forward and grabbed at her hand.
The lady drew away her fist.

"But you must play by my
rules." She drew her lips into a
moist, red line. And the hoy
relaxed, looking smartly into her I
eyes. ^

"/ have in tny hand four gold
crowns." She held her fist at her
waist, securely. "They are yours, if
you can earn them. I will ask four
questions of you, of my own design
and curiosity, and you must answer
each one — truthfully— else the
bargain is finished and I shall leave.
Are you willing?" The boy
looked on, grinning; "There are
only four?"

"Yes."

"Is that enough, for you?"

The lady took a long breath and
looked quickly, towards the
coachman.

"I think enough, for you." A
strand of hair fell to her shoulder.

''Yes'm — I like to plciy
games— How do I win this one?"

"By answering with the truth.
That is all. "

But the little boy cocked his
head sideways. "How will you
know u'hat is the truth, with me,
and what is not?" The lady turned
her head over her shoulder and
looked to her horses.

"My coachman will judge." She
then stepped tivice backwards and

60

called her man by name.

The carriage swayed to and fro
as the old fellow came down from
his perch. He turned up beside his
horses and dusted tobacco aiid
ashes from the front of his coat. He
was standing at attention, but his
head was lowered and he was
grumbling into his beard. The boy
looked on, wrinkling his nose and
forehead.

Soon, the man lifted his head
and spoke carefully.

"Yes, I will help you, but it is
getting dark, and there are thieves
in the woods late at night." He
looked strongly into the boy's eyes.

"I leave them to your concern. "

She smiled again and moved
closer toivards the boy. He clasped
his hands together, his elbows
rested on his knees.

"I am ready": he said quietly.

"Very well;" she paused for a
moment, "Then; what is your
name, and how old are you. "

"That's two at once— is it fair?"
He looked over towards the
coachman.

"He who has the gold makes the
ndes. " His fleshy face became hard,
and he still held the whip.

The boy looked down at the
ladder. "My name is Adam." and
then he saw the coachman. "And I
am eighteen years old." He turned
his eyes from the ivhip.

The coachman steeped several
times forward. But then, the lady
turned quickly, looking at him, and
he stopped there. "Adam," she

began, her eyes again meeting his,
"How old are you?"

"Eighteen years old. Have I
earjied half a crown?'" The lady
grabbed the carriage door latch and
pulled it sharply down, turning
away from the boy.

Suddenly she turned on him and
said at once;

"Young man, the truth of the
first depends on the truth of thee
second. You have lost the first
crown." And he saii; her toss the
coin to the coachman's feet, he saw
the pink rise in her cheeks and
found her beautiful again.

There were three crowns left.
The boy spoke up clearly;

"If you had asked my name
sooner, it woidd not have cost a
cent."

She tossed apart her arms in the
air. "Why do you speak as though
you know so much — You cannot
have more than ten years behind
you — ." Her forehead was very
moist.

The boy lifted his chin. "My
father was the servant of a
ynerchant in the town before rny
mother was dead. He had a large
house, and we all lived there. I was
a merchant's assistant before my
father found me out. " He shrugged.
"But I had learnt enough. " He held
out his palm, waiting.

The coachman rushed at the
boy, waving his arms and the whip;

"Name your father— Where does
he I i ve — Y ou cannot lie
forever— What have you to hide—;"

61

the old ntaii's face was fleshy and
red, "You will not mock our
concent for voti—JVhy we might be
robbed— killed out here— Don't you
fear for vonr own life? You deserve
a thrashing." Fl'/f/; that, the lady
screamed "Stop. Stop it please"
until her face was completely red.
The boy had crawled backward into
the coach. He , was crying again.

And then there came a silence.
The coachman stood tivo steps
behind her, with his arms at his
sides, his weight resting on his toes.
The boy cowered on the floor in
the coach. It was getting darker
out, and the three of them were in
certain danger there, with )io
protection, save four horses and a
cat, against the thieves and
murderers lurking out there in the
forest.

"M'lady ?" She turned and
looked at her servant.
"M'lady — begging your pardon, but
it is a bloody fool who stays along
the road past twilight."

"Yes. You are right, old man."
She looked off into the trees and
away, down the road. "But what
shall we do with the boy?"

"Bring Inni along." The old
man 's eyes blazed.

"What?"; she cried hoarsely,
"But he tnay well be a thief
himself. You saw the mark, he
could rob us of everything we have
and before we know well what has
happened, he will tell every thief in

the-"

"Hold there Lady!"; there was a

pause. "This is certainly a change of
heart for you, whatever has
made—. "

"I, too, have seen the mark."

The coach swayed back and
forth. The little boy fell down the
ladder and ripped his shirt.

The lady gasped and stepped
back at once as the coachman ran
forward to catch him. And they
struggled together: old man and
little boy — the old man trying to
keep the hoy from escaping, the
boy trying to fight the old man for
his freedom. But it was no use for
him to writhe and kick as he did
since the old man held him fast,
tightly.

"Now you will answer me once
and for all." He pulled back the
boy's shirt. "What is this mark
here?" The boy became silent and
still, so he touched the mark and
the lady moved and looked down,
clutching her throat. They stared.
And the boy wiggled and kicked
out his feet at the old man's knees,
only to be held tighter still roujid
his ivaist.

Suddenly the lady drew back.
"That isn't the prison mark at all. It
is just a scar, see there?" You old
fool— let him go immediately. We
have no time to waste here, look
around you, if you cati, it is dark.
Il'e }nust go. " .-Itid with that, she
shook her skirts, stomped her feet
and stepped away towards the
coach.

The old man watched her, his
mouth ajar for a long while, before

62

releasing the boy. He then picked
up his ivhip, coughed and said
quietly;

"Come along with us, we will
give you food and drink and a bed
to sleep ill— I will even let you ride
up top with me." He gestured with
his whip.

The little boy pulled his shirt
hack up round his neck, and
breathed once, deeply.

"No sir, I would not. You have
called me a liar and a thief. I do not
need your help. And I do not like
your whip. " He pushed his hair out
of his eyes; liis hair touched his
shoulders.

"I will find my way to a
coin'eiit. The sisters are kind, they
do not treat me its you do," he
looked at the whip once more,
"—or your inistress." He looked
towards the coach but he could not
see her.

"She was beautiful to me; but
she spoke to me as though I were a
lost sheep, or dog." He shifted.
"Now, she is as ugly to me iis you
are." He looked into the old man's
eyes, glaring.

"I go now, to find the good
sisters." And lie turned, and he
walked down the road.

The lady moved forward from
inside the coach and watched him,
her hand at the window. The
coachman walked towards his
horses, his eyes following the boy
as he kicked stones along the way,
in the distance.

.■\nd they all lived happily ever
after.

The Moral: He who has the gold
does not always make the rides.

Contest Winners

Photography

1st place Tim Weiant. Page 24

2nd place Barbara Grant. Page 45

3rd place Keith Kolischak Page 44

Honorable Mention

Larry Oxman Page 63

David Nelson Page 40

Keith Kolischak Page 31

Art

1st Place Paula Clark Page 20

2nd Place Kathryn Taylor. Page 30

3rd Place Karen Humphrey. Page 41

Art Work

Page 26 Bob Shepherd oil on canvas

Page 27 Glen Aumant oil on canvas

Page 30 Kathryn Taylor oil on canvas

Page 25 Boh Shepherd oil on canvas

Page 34 Bryan Presson oil on canvas

Page 35 Dorlis Miller inkwash

Page 20 Paula Clark mixed media

Page 21 Bonnie Osborne pen & ink

Page 17 Susan Hicks pen & ink

Page 41 Karen Humphrey charcoal

Page 48 Susan Hicks pen & ink

Page 49 Rhonda Jordan pen & ink

,C,-G