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CORADDI

The University of North Carolina at Greensboro

Fall Issue, 1963

EDITOR: Tina Hillquist
ART EDITOR: Lealan Nunn

LITERARY STAFF: Beth Cazel, Sue Craven, Elizabeth Devereux, Sylvia Eidam, Alison Greenwald, Kaye Grossman, Janet Hatner,
Leigh Hibbard, Diane Oliver, Martha Prothro

ART STAFF: Betty Birlce, Alison Greenwald, Karen Ann Hancock, Caroline Horton, Susan Mosteller, Kathy Peak

CORADDI, the literary nnagazine of the University at Greensboro, is published four times during the school year by the students
of the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, Greensboro, North Carolina.

Manuscripts and art work may be submitted to CORADDI, Room 205, Elliott Hall at any time during the school year.
Manuscripts should be typed, if possible, and accompanied by a self-addressed envelope. Art work is not returned through the
local mail and should be picked up in the CORADDI office.

ART WORK

Cover

Pantheon, Rome, Photograph
Jane Welles

For Frost's "To Earthward", Woodcut 4

Margie West

Italian Girl, Woodcut 9

Gelci Wu

Photograph 10

Jane Welles

Byzantine Boys, Pen Drawing 14

Lealan Nunn

Woodcut 16

Jean Ellen Jones

POETRY

A Dialogue 10

Sylvia Eidam

Old Woman In The Rain 10

Sylvia Eidam

For Jocelyn's Bastard Son: Born Dead 15

Martha Prothro

A Bedside Clock Before a Sleepless Dream 15

Martha Prothro

Late August In a New England Park 19

Anne Eddy Daughtridge

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep 20

Janet Hamer

Night Of No Light 20

Tina Hillquist

Wrong Bird 20

Tina Hillquist

FICTION

When The Apples Are Ripe 5

Diane Oliver

Roommates 1 1

Tina Hillquist

Spring Quatrain 17

Alison Sreenwald

348088

When the Apples Are Ripe

By Dianf, Oliver

Mrs. Gilley lived in the second gray house from the
corner. When the Anderson children were playing in their
backyard, they could see the house, stuck between piles of
red dirt left by the construction crew enlarging the road.
Sometimes old Mrs. Gilley would come out on the porch,
inspect her three gardenia bushes, and go back in again.
The children saw the top of Mrs. Gillcy's house more
often than they saw Mrs. Gilley. She was sick a lot and
their mother didn't want them bothering her. Jonnic-Boy
and the girls were forbidden to play in Mrs. Gillcy's \ard
unless she asked them. So Jonnie would climb up into the
swing and Angle and Carrie would push hnn from behind
until he was almost as high as the green hedge separating
the Anderson's yard from the P'orney's.

When Jonnie-Boy was swinging as high as the swing
would go, he could see Mrs. Gilley's yard with the apples
from the big apple tree rotting all over the ground. If the
wind was right, the pungent apple smell carried over into
their backyard. Sometimes the two brown dogs would be
on the porch. And from up high, the dogs looked like a
part of the window shades that always were pulled down.

Lots of times when Jonnie, Carrie, and Angle didn't
eat dessert because their mother hadn't baked anything,
they would be gi\'en a nickel and sent to the neighborhood
store. Almost every trip they would meet Mrs. Gilley with
a brown paper bag in one hand and some meat scraps
wrapped in newspaper in the other. I'hcy knew the bag
held meat bones because once Mr. Potter, who kept the
small neighborhood store, told Mother he saved the bones
and scraps for Mrs. Gilley's dogs. She carried home the
bones e\er\' e\cning that she came to the store for her
medicine. Since they lived so far out from the drug store,
Mr. Potter had Mrs. Gilley's prescriptions filled.

The children always spoke \'ery politely to Mrs. Gilley
but when Jonnie-Boy was by himself and saw her com-
ing, if he couldn't duck he would walk up quickly, speak,
and get it over with. He was not chicken as Angle msisted.
But anybody speaking to Mrs. Gilley always had the idea
she was looking at something straight past him. And
sometimes Jonnie-Boy wanted to turn around and look
too.

Mrs. Gilley was partially bald. Tire few strands of hair
still growing on her head were a reddish brown and mixed
gray. When he was smaller, Jonnie always thought she'd
been scalped. He knew better now, but she was the only
grandmother he'd ever seen with such a little bit of hair.
So they always spoke to Mrs. Gilley and any of the other
older people in the neighborhood, although Mrs. Gilley
never told them stories about the second World War
as Mr. Jefferson did.

Jonnie-Boy's mother felt sorry for Mrs. Gilley. He
heard her telling his father quite often that she'd like to
do something for the woman. "I'm afraid she's not going
to last very long," his mother would say, lifting the spoon
from the mixing bowl and watching the liquid drops fall
into the batter. Sometimes when they had something esjje-
cially good for dinner or something easy to chew, his
mother would fix a plate for Mrs. Gilley and Jonnie would
carry over the supper, running because the x'egetables
might get cold.

They ate dinner around six-thirty, so in the fall every-
thing was almost dark before Jonnie could get up to Mrs.
Gilley's with the plate. The street light glinting at the
corner was not bright enough to light all of Mrs. Gilley's
yard. He walked fast until he got to the front of her house,
and then dodging the shadows from the trees, he ran until

he found the walkway. The stones that used tc be ar-
ranged neatly in a criss-cross pattern had long since been
rearranged by too many feet. Here and there a stone was
missing or split into chunks with strands of grass growing
between the pieces.

Whenever he carried a plate, his mother warned him
not to walk on the walkway because he might trip and
fall. Last year when she was making a canvass for the
United Appeal, her pump got stuck in a crack and she
broke the heel on a pair of brand new shoes. Tliis time
he had to walk on the ground, lifting the plate high in
the air, because there was no telling when one of those
dogs would come out and start barking. Once the biggest
dog, whom Mrs. Gilley called President Lincoln, snapped
at him and made him drop the plate. Since the dinner
landed right side up, he just brushed the grass from the
lamb chop and knocked on Mrs. Gilley's door.

Tonight the dogs weren't e\en in sight. The President
had been surprised when a ear he was chasing rolled in
reverse and hit him. It was a wonder he didn't get killed,
but Mrs. Gillev bandaged him up and kept rubbing on
ointment that Mr. Potter ordered from the dnig store. He
had been limping around for three days now and couldn't
bother an\- of the kids who had to pass Mrs. Gille\-'s house
to walk to school.

Sometimes Jonnie-Bo\ didn't mind earning Mrs. Gil-
lev's dinner, but when the apples were ripe and scattered
all o\cr the ground, he hated to walk in the yard. Mrs.
Gille\' didn't have a porch light and tr\ing not to drop
the plate he couldn't see his feet to a\oid stepping on soft
apples. 'I1ie apple juice always spurted on his ankle mak-
ing him itch and he couldn't scratch and hold the dinner
too. Tonight he walked slowh', feeling around for any
stray apples with the toe of his tennis shoe. Stepping o\er
the snail lying wetly on the board of the second step, he
reached the porch and knocked on the door.

Mrs. Gilley who was hard of hearing alwa\s took a
long time to answer, \\nien she finally unlatched the
screen door, she grabbed his head and pushed him toward
the corner of the porch nearest the street light. Satisfied
that he wasn't one of the boys who broke off her purple
Iris and threw the blossoms into the street, she in\-ited
him in the house to exchange the new plate for last week's
plate.

Mrs. Gilley's li\'ing room spilled out on the front
porch. And if her lot hadn't been so small, she probabh-
could have decorated the front \ard. TTic mahogan\-
rocker and foot stool near the porch banister matched
the other dark furniture in the li\ing room. Tlie faded
tapestn,' sofa backed up against the window blocked what
little light came through the yellowing window shade.

"Have a seat young man," Mrs. Gilley whispered. Jon-
nie-Boy sat on a hassock near the fire place and looked
up at the pictures on top of the big brown piano. Mrs.
Gilley had placed the pictures in three rows, but there
seemed to be lines and lines of men in soldier suits and
ladies with babies and long hair staring into space. Jonnie
guessed she'd run out of piano top because pictures were
tacked all over the walls. On one wall there was a photo-
graph of two little boys wearing funny pants puffed out
at the knee.

After a while he got tired of looking at the pictures and
began pla\ing games with the figures in the carpet. The
green diamonds would turn four different ways or he
could look another way and play with the red diamonds.

depending on how he stretched his neck. He was just
about to count the squares when Mrs. Gilley came from
the other room and saw him gazing at the floor.

"See a mouse?" she said, bringing the clean plate down
to his level. "Tliev come out sometimes when the room
is quiet like this." He held out his arms and she carefully
placed the plate on his hands. "Tell your mother I thank
her," she said and guided him out of the door. Mrs.
Gillev stood behind the screen door until he was past the
apple tree and out in the street light, carrying the blue
plate in front of him.

Tomorrow was Saturday. A whole day to do whatever
he wanted until his mother was ready to wash windows.
Tlicv did things by years at his house and last year there
hadn't been enough of him to help get the windows clean.
Instead they made him help his daddy transfer the potted
Christmas cactus to the place in the front yard where the
vellow rose bush died. He still missed that old rose bush
but summer before last when his father found white spots
on the leaves, and the blossoms began turning brown on
the edges, they had chopped down the bush, lliey had
another yellow rose bush now and yesterday, just for prac-
tice he tried to touch the top panes in the kitchen win-
dows. And unless he stood on the cabinet counter he still
couldn't reach the top. At this rate, his year to wash win-
dows ne\er would come.

Maybe Mrs. Gilley could make him grow. He stopped
and turned around. Only a faint outline of Mrs. Gilley's
porch showed through the shadows. Angle said that Mrs.
Gilley's dogs caught rabbits for her to eat and she herself
caught the mice that replaced the chicken in mice and
rice soup. Jonnie-Boy shivered happily. Nobody would
e\er catch him trying to take a rabbit from one of Mrs.
Gillev's dogs. But just to make sure her dog didn't follow
him, he crept to the side of the road, picked up a stick,
and walked through the red dirt.

On Saturday mornings after breakfast, everybody got
assigned a job. '\\lrile Angle and Carrie scrubbed Venetian
blinds, he went around the house collecting waste paper
baskets. His mother insisted on tying an apron around his
middle which he hid in the linen closet when she left the
room. This time of morning nobody else in the neighbor-
hood was up, and Jonnic-Boy had the garbage cans all to
himself. He had just mashed all of the paper down to the
middle of the trash can when his mother came to the back
door and told him to hurry up. Tliey were out of Spic 'n'
Span and he had to go to Kir. Potter's store.

Jonnie-Boy's mother made him pin the dollar bill in-
side of his shirt pocket. "Spic 'n' Span comes in a can,"
he sang to no one in particular.

"Hold still," she said.

The things on the list made a little song. He liked to
make up songs but today they didn't have time. His
mother made him repeat the list two times, anchored the
dollar bill farther down inside his pocket, and sent him
out of the front door.

On the front porch steps, he reached up to the mailbox
and took his hat from the magazine holder. Jonnic-Bo\'
put on the cap, bent down and began thumping c\er\'
other blue flower growing along the walkway. He was
about to walk up the street when he suddenh' remembered
the watch. That was funny, he'd forgotten he c\er had a
watch. But it was buried somewhere around here, right
under the blue marigold on the end. Ouictlv he tiptoed
to the other end of the walk and dug around in the dirt.
His stick touched a root and he pushed a little to the side.
The farther down his hand went, the wetter the dirt was.
Just right for the worms. Jonnic-Boy wiggled his fingers
in the reddish brown dirt until he touched something
hard. His face looked disappointed. It was still there, no

matter how hard he prayed, that Cinderella watch
wouldn't go away.

All last month Jonnie-Boy practiced extra hard learn-
ing to tell time. When he finally could tell the time and
read the hands on the left side of the clock, he'd asked
his father for a watch. They'd given him one all right —
one Angle had outgrown. A stupid Cinderella watch with
a pink strap. They'd even put it back in the plastic glass
slipper to pretend that it was new. He knew if he showed
up at the Center with Cinderella strapped to his arm, the
big bo\s wouldn't ever let him pla}' on the team. So, he
just buried the watch along the walk way and when his
mother asked, he told her it was "somewhere."

Jonnic-Boy fished the watch out of the dirt and began
brushing it off on his pants' legs. The pink band had
turned a funny color and poor Cinderella's face was now
a strange bluish -green. Satisfied that the watch was al-
most beyond recognition, he rc-buried it in the same hole.
A little bit deeper than before because his mother liked
to putter around in the flower beds. And would he get
spanked if she e\'er found Cinderella. Jonnie smoothed
over the dirt, pulled some grass to stick on top, and ran
down the driveway and up the street to Mr. Potter's store.

Jonnie-Boy walked a block, stopped, and sniffed the
air. He still couldn't smell the rain coming like Mrs. Gil-
ley. He guessed his mother was right. "Rain," she said,
"is in older people's bones." He was almost up to her yard
now and not a thing was mo\ing. The other dog was
draped across the old rocking chair on the porch. Jonnie
picked up a clump of dirt, and just as quickly let it fall.
He couldn't run too fast carr^'ing groceries.

He was about to walk another few feet \\'hen he no-
ticed a clock standing on Mrs. Gilley's porch. The clock,
the color of mashed peanuts, was mounted on a low table
with four wheels, like a roller skate. Two little knobs
looked like they were attached to a drawer, and the long
glass front sparkled, out of place on the front porch.
Jonnie-Boy wasn't sure but he thought that was a dish-
towel, dangling from the top. He went to the edge of the
yard for a closer look, and then hurried up the street to
the store. He'd never seen such a big clock on anvbodv's
front porch.

Ten minutes later he was on his way home, earning
two brown paper bags. Mr. Potter asked him to deliver
yesterday's bones to Mrs. Gilley because she hadn't come
after them herself. Now, o\'er the top of the bags, Jonnie-
Boy could see Mrs. Gilley standing on the side of the porch
nearest the apple tree, and looking straight down at some-
thing. She didn't seem to notice him until she heard his
feet squashing apples near the porch.

Mrs. Gilley was wearing a na\y blue house-dress. Tlie
blue was lighter under the slee\es and around the bottom
where it looked like the hem had been let out. His mother
used to have a dress like that. But the last time the Meth-
odist Church truck came around, she'd gi\cn it awa\' with
some of his baby clothes. Jonnie-Boy looked at Mrs. Gillev
trying to think of something to say when she spoke:

"Good morning young man," she said. Her \-oice \\'as
harsh like she hadn't gargled yet with her mouthwash.

"Morning, Mrs. Gilley," Jonnie-Bov answered. "Mr.
Potter sent you yesterday's bones for the President and
that other dog. He said he hadn't been able to get awav
to the drug store yet."

"Thank you, young man, put them on the rocking
chair."

He plopped the bones on the chair and stopped to look
at the clock. Tire wood, smooth and freshlv polished, was
cut into swirls which rushed up and curved at the top
like dragon's heads. It was such a big clock. He was about

to reach out and touch the surface when Mrs. Gihey spoke
again.

"While you're here, Jonathan, I have a chore for you
to perform. My garden scissors fell through the floor
boards, and I want you to crawl under the front porch and
retrieve them."

Jonnie-Boy hesitated, looking around to see if the dogs
were still in the yard.

"My dogs arc out walking," Mrs. Gilley said, as if
reading his mind. "You may enter right o\er there." She
pointed to a narrow opening on the side of the house. "I
was trimming my gardenia bushes when they slipped from
my hand, and I do not bend except when necessary. Too
much exercise injures the heart."

Mrs. Gilley walked down the steps and guided Jonnic-
Boy to the side opening, leading under the house. W'hilc
she walked back arouncl to the front, Jonnie took a deep
breath and started to crawl under the porch. He stopped,
took another breath, and closed his eyes. He would be
under the house by the time he opened them again. Jonnie
didn't like to close his eyes for long. Once, when liis Uncle
Frederick had died, he asked Angle how dead people felt.
She told him to .shut his eyes real tight and stick his
fingers in his ears and when he did he couldn't feel any-
thing but darkness. That was being dead.

There was more light underneath the gray house than
Jonnie had imagined. The air was damp though and
smelled like clothes that were rained on and stored in the
attic for a long time. Jonnie-Boy was afraid to stand up,
his head almost grazed the top. Slowly, he crawled toward
the front of the house. Above him light from the cracks
in Mrs. Gilley's porch filtered down, making a criss-cross
pattern on the red dirt. He could e\en see Mrs. Gilley's
feet, and a few inches in front of them were her scissors.
He stopped to examine Mrs. Gilley's shoes. They were
just like Carrie's winter oxfords except that they passed
her ankle and disappeared underneath the navy blue skirt.

Now that his eyes were accustomed to the strange light,
Jonnie-Boy looked around. Stacked neatly, on each side
of the house were piles and piles of old magazines. They
were arranged like a little fence, ziz-zagging in and out.
Tliere must have been rows and rows of them, making
a clear space in the middle. He crawled o\er to the near-
est stack and found a group of Life weeklies, dated 1941.
Right beside them was a stack of Ladies' Home Journals,
for the same year. Life went in and the Ladies' Horne
Journal stuck out a few inches, all the way around that
side of the house.

Jonnie-Boy began to wonder about Mrs. Gilley. No-
body he knew collected old magazines that way. His
mother always made his daddy sell their old papers to
the waste collection plant. Jonnie touched the top maga-
zine. Some of the pages stuck together and when he tried
to pull them loose, little pieces crumbled in his hand. The
slick magazine paper felt cold and he didn't like to touch
it. He picked up the scissors and crawled toward the un-
derground door.

Jonnie-Boy was out in the yard, rubbing his eyes when
all of a sudden he figured out why Mrs. Gilley kept her
old magazines. Mrs. Gilley was rich and didn't want any-
body to know. If she sold all of those magazines down
there, she'd probably be a millionaire. Mrs. Gilley was
going to be just like the good witch in his ston- book who
died and left the \'illage the money to build the dam.
Well, if she didn't want to tell anybody, he wouldn't
either. But she sure must trust him to let him go under
her house.

Mrs. Gilley was standing on the porch waiting for him.
"Thank you," she said, taking the scissors from his
hand. Jonnie-Boy turned to pick up the groceries.

"Wait one minute, young man, and I'll send your
mother some fresh fall leaves. I find that attending the
flowers insures me of a certain cjuantity of fresh air."

Jonnie started to say "no, thank you." He knew if
there was anything his mother did not want it was a hand-
ful of leaves. But ?^Irs. Gilley bent over and began clipping
leaves from the gardenia bushes. She had a hard time try-
ing to find enough green leaves. Of the bunches of leaves,
some had begun to wither and turn brown. When she had
a fistfull, she reached back and wrapped them in the dish-
towel hanging on the clock. So it was a dish-towel. Jonnie-
Bo\- stared at the clock, his eves following the swinging
pendulum. Mrs. Gilley polished the leaves one-by-one
and handed the bouquet to him.

"Do you like my clock?" she asked, fondly patting the
wood. "It's my third clock you know. I have one in my
bedroom, one on the back porch and one in the kitchen.
Just before he died, my father gave this one to me when
Mr. Gilley and I were married. 'This is the kitchen clock,"
she said. "I try to air it out once a year."

"Father was fascinated by clocks." Mrs. Gilley was
looking o\-er his shoulders at the \acant lot across the
street. "I kept only one of his tin watches, all of the others
are buried with him." Mrs. Gilley began pulling the knobs
of the clock drawer. "Of course until it was sold I kept the
big gold watch in the safety deposit \-ault at the bank. But
this one went all through the war with ni\- father. He
never did bclie\e in letting those foreigners get close
enough to touch his watch." Tlie drawer glided all the
way out and she pointed to a small grayish white box.

"Young man do you ha\e your countrx's flag?" Jonnie-
Boy shook his head. "My father used to say," Mrs. Gilley
said, resting his hand on the porch banister, "even.' man
ought to have a confederate flag before he owns a horse
or a watch." She motioned for him to lift the top from
the box.

Jonnie-Boys hands wiggled with excitement. He was
almost afraid to touch the box, but suddenly the top was
off and there was the watch. He couldn't help smiling,
there was exactly the kind of watch he'd always wanted.
Tlie kind that was in those pioneer stories. Tlie watch was
round and .shiny siher with a long silver chain, and there
was the clasp thing to pin it inside of his pocket. He
wanted to run his finger over the case and around the big
siher numbers, but with Mrs. Gilley standing there he
hesitated to pick up the watch.

"Don't vou have a watch?" Mrs. Gilley asked, looking
down at his wrist. Again he shook his head.

"I thought all young men had watches these days."
Then %\'ithout warning she closed up the gra\ing top and
shut the clock drawer.

"Thank you, tell your mother I send my regards."
Jonnie-Boy picked up the groceries and Mrs. Gilley stuck
the gardenia leaves on top. Until he turned the comer,
she stood alert on her porch, waiting to see if a leaf slipped
to the ground.

Jonnie-Boy's mother wondered where he had been, but
she knew he wasn't far enough from home to get lost. She
said how nice it was of Mrs. Gilley to send the leaves and
promptlv stuck them in an empty mayonnaise jar. After
all of the change had been accounted for and some of the
dirt brushed off his pants' bottom, his mother fixed him
a picnic lunch to eat out of doors and out of the way.
Jonnie-Bo\' didn't see Mrs. Gilley the rest of the afternoon
because his mother decided to wash before the sun went
down and he dragged a laundry bag from room to room
to collect dirty clothes.

Angie and Carrie took the damp clothes out of the
washing machine and carried the basket to the backyard
clothes line. Jonnie-Boy stood on the side and shook the

wrinkles from each piece. Tlien one of the girls hung it
on the line. When he picked up Mrs. Gilley's dish-towel,
he was afraid to shake too hard. The green and white
towel looked just like a worn out dusting rag. Carrie and
Angie brought in the clothes right after supper, but Jonnie
was responsible for folding and putting away Mrs. Gilley's
towel.

E\crybody went to bed earh" that night and when
}onnie-Boy awoke he could smell cinnamon buns baking
in the kitchen. His mother made a plain loaf for Mrs.
Gillc\-, cut off the crust, and wrapped the soft bread in
the clean dish-towel. [onnie-Boy was to deliver the loaf
before church. E\erything was so clean and fresh today
that he sniffed all the way up to Mrs. Gilley's house with-
out smelling a single drop of rain. He couldn't even smell
the apples until he was up real close to the yard.

Mrs. Gilley was sitting straight up in her rocker on
the porch when he reached the walkway, which was odd.
Mrs. Gilley never sat on her porch in the day time. She
looked as if she was waiting for something. Jonnie-Boy
stepped o\er the loose stones and right on a big apple. As
he raised his leg to scrape his foot, Mrs. Gilley looked up.

"Good morning, young man, I've been waiting for
you."

Jonnie stood still. "My mother sent you some bread,"
he said, trying to remember what he could have done
wrong.

Mrs. Gilley met him on the steps and placed the
bread plate on the banister. "My father would have liked
for you to ha\"e this." She placed in his hand a small box.

earefulh' wrapped in brown grocerv bag paper. "Take care
with it.'''

^^^^ile Jonnie-Boy untied the string, Mrs. Gilley
gathered the bread and walked into the house. He pulled
off the paper and there was the same fading white box
that had been in the clock drawer. Quickly he lifted the
top. He must be seeing things, but no, he shut his eyes
and looked again — It was still there. Mrs. Gilley had given
him her father's watch.

Jonnie-Bo\- clipped the wateh to his pocket and let the
chain dangle, almost down to his knees. He turned around
to thank NIrs. Gilley but nobody was there. He supposed
she had gone back in to take her medicine because the
bread plate was still on the banister. The door was shut,
the window shades were down, and the dogs were lying
out of the sun, under the apple tree.

Jonnie-Boy ran all the wav home, around the front
yard, straight to the back yard swing. He didn't want to
show anybody his new watch yet. He wanted to rub the
siher}' metal, and wind the knob to see the second hand
swoosh around. Jonnie steadied himself in the swing and
with a big push he was up in the air looking over the
whole neighborhood.

He held out his hand with the chain encircling his
wrist and the watch swung with him, making silver arcs
in the air. From the swing Mrs. Gilley's house looked like
it always did. Tlie dogs were lying still in the cleared off
spot under the tree. Although the clock was gone from
her porch, in its place was the mahogan}- foot stool. He
could even sec Mrs. Gilley sitting in her rocker, with her
licad touching her knees.

ITALIAN GIRL
\\OODCUT
Geki \\u

A Dialogue

Old Woman In The Rain

I.

Tree To Early March

Too late the summer comes for you.

An iee patch shriveling there.

Your field of fulfillment?

I await the tongues of May, to blister.

But my lips are blown bloodless

\N'ith your loud depraxing whisper.

All m\- children choke my mouth

Unbeing. and offended so;

For you speak but denials of their birth

And sliame my trust of April.

Now, my tree-house is frail and warping.

And you have pushed the limbs erotic.

II.
Early March To Tree

You cry with a voice of blind sand.

Your earliest winter hope, becoming.

And \ou apply me as a crime.

My tears run cold while m\- bowels are burning,

Yet I cast but barren children

Upon sadness of wandering

As vou are drawn fat for glory.

Intimidations from December's obscure marrow

Nh- boundan.' bars determine,

And you and spring accuse me as antichrist;

Still my passion inclines its neck

Toward green waters.

Sylvia Eidam

I do not fear to ride the branches

in tlie wind

with the children of the trees;
And I have

run barefoot through the rain.

puddles breaking clear.
My toes rub against the sky

and my fingers spread sud clouds

in a nodding path;
Tears of an antiquated passion

wink as the gutter trickle

against striking pebbles,

melting my winter wrinkled face;
But I no longer seek drowned worms

or follow a snail's frosted track:
This waterway of a child's sleep

will in a night dn,' itself,

and I am not young

to hope for a morning shower.

Sylma Eidam

PHOTOGRAPH

J AXE ^^^ELLES

10

Roommates

By Tina Hillquist

The sun, sh)' after its long winter retirement, dappled
the Mareh ehartreuse of the Bentmore eampus and gnawed
at the edges of a few obstinate snow spots. It glittered
pinkly on fat old President Alfred's head as he nodded at
the bright girls on the sidewalk. The girls had discarded
their wool sear\es under the tentative touch of the fresh
sun that studded rich brown and blonde and black and
red hair with golden sparks.

The old red slate roofs seemed to be wakening and
blushing, and stones of the library looked suspiciously sil-
ver. E\'erything gleamed. I\\'erything except one girl. Mcl-
vina Kuch carried a shadow with her, and the sun made no
attempt to caress her mud-colored hair as she stomped
down the library steps, her unclasped arctics clumping and
jangling. Her caterpillar eyebrows crawled together as she
slit her eyes against the gentle sun and lowered her head
as if to choose which of the young grass clumps to stomp
on on her way to the dorm.

Someone had opened the window at each end of the
hall to let Spring into the dorm, and Melvina's walk from
the stairs to her room made the lazy dust motes bob
furiously in their sun streak. Melvina stopped in front of
203 and pushed the door open on the whirr of the hair
dryer and whine of the radio.

She clomped to the neat desk and dropped her dusty
library books on it. Kathy looked up from under the
puffed dryer hood to say, "Hi, Melvie," and bent back to
her careful toenail painting. Melvina sat on the edge of
her bed to pull off the heavy rubber boots and then placed
them side-by-side in a corner of her closet, hung her oli\e-
green car coat squarely on a hanger, and shut the closet
door. She took a white tissue from the box that was the
only thing on one half of the wide dresser and began to
rub the dust caressingly from the books she had put on her
desk. She rubbed the tissue from binding to edge along
the tops of the books, holding them away from the desk
and over Kathy's half of the floor. Melvina rubbed her
hand across the bold black title on a faded orange book
and almost smiled as she looked at the fascinating word:
VOODOO.

She glanced at Kathy, and her almost smile disappeared
into a normal scowl. Her roommate sat on her bed, in a
jumble of bedclothes, books, and clothes, blowing on her
pink toenails, and the sun filtered through the window
screen to encase the girl's silhouette, hair dp.er, toenails,
and all, in spring gold.

The sun came through the screen: The window was
open. Melvina pulled her sweater slee\'es to the tops of
her thumbs and coughed. Kathy touched her right little
toenail with her right little finger, lightly and then firmly,
and stopped blowing on her toes. Melvina coughed again,
and Kath>- began to inspect her fingernails for chips.

'"S cold in here," Melvina finally muttered toward her
gilded roommate, who patted the fat dr^'er hood and said,
"Louder."

Meh'ina shook her head, sat down, and lowered her
eyebro\\'s o\'er the orange book. Kathy clicked the dryer
off and detached the collapsed hood from the mass of
rollers on her head.

"Now, what were you saving, Mehie? I really couldn't
hear a word." She pulled the clip off one curler and un-
wound a li\e lemon-yellow curl that bounced out full in
the sun. "Hmm, I do believe it's dr." — Now, what did
vou sav?"

"It's cold," Meh'ina answered, turning the first page
and squinting down at it.

"Oh, but don't you feci the Spring, Melviei It's great!
I have a psych test tomorrow, but who can study — Arc
\ou studying?"

"Reading," Melvina mumbled.

"Oh well — Anyway, that's just what Johnny said, 'WTio
can study?' He called a little while ago, and he has a test
too, but he's coming up tonight." Kathy had swung her
legs over the edge of the bed and was wiggling her feet
into her bedroom slippers and raking the curlers from her
hair as she talked. She looked at Melvina who had her
straight hair pulled behind her ears and her jaw propped
between her clenched fists while she read.

Kathy decided to hum with the radio, rather than talk.
The last wire curler loosened and bounced from Kathy's
bed to the floor. The sun plunged into her free hair and
made a \olatile gold halo around her pretty face.

Kathy went to the crowded side of the dresser, found
her hairbrush, and began to brush and pat her hair into
place, watching the happy sparks the sun gave each strand.
She was too attentive to her reflection to see Melvina
look up from her book and smile.

Kathy dropped the brush back into the clutter on the
dresser and went out, patting the back of her hair. She
left the door half open. Mehina scraped her chair back
from the desk, walked to the door and closed it; to the
window and closed that. She lowered the blinds all the
way, held the cord for a minute; then raised them again,
half-way. She went to the messy side of the dresser, in-
spected Kathv's hairbrush, and returned to her desk, where
she turned the gooseneck lamp down to her book and
read again.

Twenty pages later, Kathy came back with a laxender
%\'ool skirt over her arm and a can of hair spray. She
draped the skirt o\er the foot of her bed and started toss-
ing sweaters from a drawer to the bed, studying each with
a speculative "Hmm" as it landed near the skirt. She
chose a violet mohair and stopped "hmming" and resumed
humming. Mehina hunched farther o\er her book.

Kathy wiggled into the skirt and sweater, adjusted
them a few times in front of the mirror, and opened the
right-hand closet. Nylon underwear slid from the shaky
laundry heap into the room when Kathy opened the door.
She kicked a pink slip absently back toward the heap, dis-
lodging a pair of red panties and a black knee sock with-
out noticing, while she deliberated over the rows of shoe
boxes on the shelf. She stood on tiptoe, balancing herself
with one hand on the shelf, to slide a blue striped box
from the middle of the end stack. Mehina moved her
fists from beneath her jaws to beneath her chin to tilt
her head up while her roommate pulled the box out. Tlie
boxes abo\e it teetered, but none fell on Kathy's blonde
head, and Mehina looked back at the page under the
lamp.

Kathy pulled a pair of black shell flats from the box
and dropped it on the laundr\' stack. She looked critically
at the shoes, ble\\' on them, sending a few dust specks
dancing in the air, and inspected them again. Mehina slit
her muddy eyes toward Kathy, and the corners of her
mouth turned down as she watched Kathy pick up the
stray knee sock and rub it quickly o\er the toes and sides
of the flimsy shoes, which she then dropped to the floor
and stepped into, letting the sock fall in the direction of
the laundri- pile.

11

Mehina placed her feet more firmly on the floor and
turned another page, as Kathy clicked from the closet to
the dresser, la\ender pleats swinging. Mehina scowled
while Kathy shook the little bottle of liquid make-up that
went "squig, squig, squig'' \'ery lightly.

Liquid make-up, e^-eshadow, lipstick, powder, mascara,
one more hair-brushing, and hair spray. Mehina could not
concentrate \-ery \\-ell with all those little clicks and hisses,
but she smiled again at the hair-brushing.

Kathy dodged out of the cloud of hair spray, coughed,
and wa\-ed her hands in front of her face a few times. She
patted her glowing hair gingerly, ran her hands down the
tops of her skirt pleats, and revolved on tiptoe in front of
the dresser mirror, tilting her head at different angles to
watch her curls with the sun behind them. The sun was
beginning to weaken. Kathy turned the ceiling light on and
watched her hair reflect bands of white gold under it.

"Hate to disturb you, Melv, but is my slip showing?"
Mehina looked, shook her head, and returned to the book.
Kathy pulled a sleeve that was sticking out from among
the bedclothes, and her raincoat materialized. She swung
the coat over her shoulder, stuck a lipstick in her pocket-
book, and said, "Fm going to wait for Johnny do\\n in
Gwen's room. See you later."

She left the door completely open this time. Mehina
went over and swung it slowly back and forth on its hinges
to push some of the floating hair spray into the hall. Be-
fore she closed the door, she looked up and down the hall.
It was empty, and the breeze through the end windows
was turning into a wind, now that the sun was gone.

Kathy's hairbrush \\as dark wood with thick natural
bristles. Tiie cur\'ed handle was comfortable and silky
smooth, and sometimes Kathy would run her thumb along
the smooth little indentation where the handle met the
head of the brush while she read or talked and brushed
her hair.

Melvina balanced the slender brush in her square
hand. She rubbed her thumb around the handle, and the
eorners of her mouth turned up instead of down. She
cradled the brush in both hands and held it to the light.
Long lemon hairs gleamed in an intricate filigree around
the dull bristles. Mehina grasped the handle in her left
hand and was reaching her fingers in around the base of
the bristles.

The door swung open. Melvina dropped the brush.

Kathy saw her drop it. "Oh, did I put my brush on
your side?" Mehina mo\ed away, and Kathy put her brush
back on the dresser.

"Yeah, on my side," Meh'ina muttered and dropped
back into her desk chair.

Gwen, who had come with Kathy as far as the thresh-
old, leaned against the doorway blowing smoke rings and
casually not noticing Mehina. Kathv pulled a little pink
and gold box from another box in the back of her top
drawer and waved it under her nose, inhaling. "Umm,"
she breathed with her eyes closed and her eyebrows and
nostrils raised appreciatively, "Joy." She took a \el\'et-en-
cased vial from the box and unscrewed the stopper.

"Since Just Spring comes but once a year, Lll wear it
tonight." She breathed ecstaticalh- again. "I'll let you
smell, Gwen," she said, holding the tempting bottle to-
ward the other girl.

Gwen glanced at Melvina. The heavy girl was bent
over a page of diagrams in the lighted spot on her desk.
Gwen tapped her cigarette ash onto the hall floor and
walked to Kathy at the dresser. Kathy held out the little
bottle, and Gwen rotated her nose o\er it. "Umm, poor
Johnny'll go crazy," she said, watching Kathy tilt the
bottle and apply sparing dabs behind each ear, on each
wrist, and at the base of her throat.

A tiny odor sifted around the room, and Melvina
pushed her nose closer to the brown-edged, diagram-cov-
ered page. Kathy replaced the gold top, snapped the pink
\ehet case back around the vial, and put it back into
boxes and drawer. Gwen went out before her, and Kathy
remembered to close the door.

This time when Melvina got up the first thing she did
was cut off the radio. Now she could hear in the hall. She
stood listening at the door until the tin \oice of the inter-
com announced: "Kathy Martin, 203, compan}." Mehina
listened to the little black flats click down the hall to the
stairs and down the stairs to the turn at the first landing.

She opened the door and waved the perfume out,
clicked the lock, and went to the dresser. She opened her
top drawer, took out a white towel, and spread it over her
half of the dresser, putting the box of tissues temporarily,
but neatly, on the floor. She took a fat candle and a flat
piece of tin from the drawer and closed it. Melvina placed
the candle on the tin on the towel and picked the hair-
brush from the other side of the dresser. She could hear
a record playing down the hall and water mo\'ing in the
pipes, but otherwise, the dorm was quiet. She pressed the
silent switch, and the ceiling light was off. The lamp bent
over her book made a small circle of light on her dark desk.

She held the brush in her left hand and coaxed the hair
from between the bristles. Mehina's shadow fell over the
brush, and the hair did not gleam, but it was fine hair
and felt like silk threads. Removing all the strands she
could with her hea\"\-tipped fingers, Mehina put the brush
back on Kathy's side.

She divided her little nest of yellow hair in two. rolling
one half into a ball that she placed in the center of the
square of tin. She turned to Kathy's unmade bed. A large
ash tray sat beside the hair dryer. Melvina looked into the
ash tray and smiled. Tliat was one thing Kathy was consist-
ent and neat about: \\ hene\er she cut her toenails she put
the parings in that ash tray. Mehina scraped the curling
white scraps onto a tissue with a pencil end. She held the
corners of the tissue firmly and shook it to get the ash
deposit off the toenails. She went back to the dresser
where she sprinkled pinches of toenail over the hair ball
on the tin, being careful that all the little scraps caught
in the hair.

Mehina stepped back to look at the spun gold ball
studded with toenail flecks. The dim mirror o\er the
dresser reflected her steady mud eyes and elay-colored
lips, but Melvina did not notice.

After a glance at the book open under her desk lamp,
Mehina picked an open pack of matches from Kath\"s side
and lit the candle. Ilair sputtered and toenails curled and
blackened as Mehina bent the candle flame to the little
ball. The flames reached high enough to be seen in the
bottom of the mirror once and died.

Meh'ina watched the ashes cool; then swept half of
them into her left palm and ground them with her right
index finger. She ground the ones left on the tin too. The
toenail ashes ground into larger lumps than the hair ashes.
A bad chemistry lab odor rose from them into the smell
from the candle smoking on a comer of the tin.

Melvina was a large shadow as she moved to the head
of Kathy's bed in the edge of the candle light and the
small glo\A' of the lamp lowered to the book. She kneeled at
the head of the bed and rubbed her right index finger in
the ash again. She began to draw with it on the head-
board, making a ver\' small design. She rubbed the last
traces from her hands onto Kathy's pink-flowered pillow
ease.

.\ few strands of candle smoke floated between the
gooseneck lamp and the book.

12

'lliL- vcmainiug nest of liiuv Mehina separated and laid,
piece by pieee, as straiglit as she could, on a tissue. The
candle flame was high, and wax dripped down the slick
white sides and solidified on the tin. Meh.ina glanced at it
while she separated the hair, but none of the wax crej^t
as far as the remaining ashes.

She finished the hair and loosened the candle from
the tin. All its wax came up with it, and Melvina smiled.
She pushed her right sweater slec\e above her elbow,
flicked a hank of hair back behind her ear, and slanted the
candle over the thin layer of ashes left on the tin. Wax
dripped over the black specks. Mclxina mixed with her
finger.

The wax stuck to her fingers at first, but soon began
to collect in a soft mass. Mehina melted and mixed until
the candle had burned almost to her fingers. Then slie put
the candle carefully back on its corner and molded the wax
(]uickly into a crude doll. The short arms and legs dried
quickly. Mcl\ina passed the top of the head through the
candle flame, pinched the long strands of hair in the mid-
die, careful to get them all, and pressed them firmh- into
th.e top of the doll's head.

A few of the hairs curled and bounced on the round
head: Others drooped lower than the ends of the stubby
legs. Melvina mo\-ed the figure back and forth and huffed
on the top of the head, watching the wax whiten o\'er the
hair. The candle flame shot up once and died. Melvina
leaned her doll on the back of the dresser and went in
the dark bathroom to brush her teeth.

She took her flannel pajamas off the hook b\ tlie bath-
room door and put them on, buttoning the jacket tightly
at her neck and pulling the sleex'es over her wristbones.
She hung her sweater, shirt, and skirt in the correct spaces
in her closet and put her socks in the brown laundry bag.

The blank doll stood on the dresser, and Mehina went
to it. She felt the top of its head. It was smooth and firm.

Meh'ina lifted the doll gently and looked around the
dim room. Her eyes stopped at Kathy's open closet door
and the shadowy, scattered laundr.- heap. The black knee
sock showed against the light-colored underwear.

Still holding the doll, Melvina leaned into the shadowy
closet and picked up the sock. She laid the doll on the
dresser while she rolled down the top of the sock and held
it open. The doll fitted niceh' into the foot. Melvina un-
rolled the top and knotted it.

She put the black package on the dresser and opened
the dravver. She put the tin with the remains of the candle

clinging to it m the back of the drawer. She shook the
wliite towel once, wrapped the kncc-soekcd doli in it, put
that in the drawer, and closed it. She placed the tissue box
back on the empty side.

Next, Melvina went to her desk and clo.sed the orange
book, which she stood in line with the other books on
back of the desk. Until she clicked it off, the weak lamp
had nothing to iigiit but a circle of desk and a low layer
of smelly smoke.

Kathy came into the dark room at ele\cn, took one
breath, and ran to the window. She pulled up the blind
and raised the window before she turned the light on.
The street lamp outside showed Melvina lying on her
stomach, with only her head above the even covers, eyes
closed and breathing regularly.

Kathy rcnioxcd the hard objects from her bed, un-
dressed, washed, turned the light off, and fell into bed.
Her light curls bounced and glowed on the pink-flowered
pillow. Soon, she too was breathing regularly, with her
mouth a little open and the street lamp gleaming on her
teeth, as well as her hair.

Mehina opened one e\e and looked at Kathy. She
opened the other Cv e too and took her arm from under the
eo\ers to look at lier watch. It was onl\- ele\en-thirty.
She lay still until two of tweh-e; then she put her feet on
the cold tiles and walked to the dresser.

She opened the drawer and unwrapped the doll. Kathx'
slept. One of twelve. She held the doll in her left hand
and stared at the watch face on back of that wrist. She
grasped six strands of hair between thumb and index
finger. Twelve: She pulled.

Kathy was smiling as if she were ha\ing nice dreams.
Mehina rewrapped the doll and smiled too. Her feet were
cold when she got back in bed, but she went right to sleep.

Melvina had been up, lowered the blinds, and left for
class by the time Kathy woke up. She sat up and pulled
the blind cord. The blinds whirred to the top of the win-
dow and clicked into place. Kathv stretched in tlie spring
morning sun that seeped into the tumbled hair on her
head. The sun filled her bed and washed the thin gold
lace of hair left on her pillow.

Kathy slid her feet into the little blue slippers and
padded, yawning, to the dresser and mirror. She picked up
her brush and began pulling it through her hair. She was
too busy watching her morning halo to notice how very
many lemon strands came awa\- with her brush or just fell
to the floor.

BYZANTINE BOYS
PEN DRAWING

Lealan Nunn

1P'V<A '''

14

For Jocelyn's Bastard Son: Born Dead

All night I'm under a silken sheet

And drinking green-leaf tea,

Awake beeause I cannot weep

For my son who weeps for me.

And splashing like-warm water,

And speaking rather low.

And never waking my lover,

And never letting him know,

I rise before his morning

And carr)' my cotton dress.

And wander through my yesterday things.

And play with my colored, un-diamond rings.

And looking long from this window.

The same window, sipping my tea . . .

Oh bend, oh bend to my boy whose sin
Was daring, desiring to be.

For a song, a song from my blood-born boy.

While the wails of the dawn begin,

Limbs and leaves in their half-belief

In the wind begin to bend.

Oh, bend to my own boy now.

I presume to pay for his sin.

For the sake of his unformed, unborn face,

From out of the saddest, weariest place . . .

Oh, bend, oh bend to my boy whose sin
Was daring, desiring to be.

Martil\ Frothro

A Bedside Clock Before A Sleepless Dream

Alone — the word has gummed the works:

The red hand circulates your face so slow.

I find my fingers in my mouth again.

My tin}' tendernesses, like a child's small gifts.

Not understood, but lliank you, (just the same), dear.

I took them chicken salad when the old man died.

I took them heavy cakes at Christmastime.

I gave their children cookies when they cried.

And let them smell my cats.

And put their sticky fingers on my polished woods.

And last night, with my cane and linen dress,

I passed their house on m\- last legs.

I'll close my doors and bar them and turn ni}- o\en off.

I'll call my cats and kill them and take my linen off.

So soft the words repeat thcmseh'es in whispers,

With expectations subtly grown to sleep.

I turn my pillow fluffy.

Press my palsied hands against this wall.

j\LvRTiL\ Frothro

15

\^'OODCUT
Jean Ellen Jokes

16

Spring Quatrain

By Alison Greenwald

"Father?"
"Yes, Son?"
"When is it coming?"
"Soon, Son, soon."

Twelve ninety-nine for an everyday hat. The old one
would have lasted for another three or four years. He ad-
justed it again on his almost bald head. It scratched be-
hind the ears. The newest, they said; it was green. They
had taken him to the store and pointed to it in the shining-
clean glass. The hat had been tilted on a toothy head witii
brown, wet-brown hair. The mannequin's pasted smile and
rosy lips smirked. That's what they wear. Pop, they had
stated, and today he had been ordered to the store to get
it. The salesman had been slick and smiling, and the old
man stumbled in his questioning of the tax. Wear it
tilted, mister, clean it every month and if it rains, DON'T
LET IT GET WET, hurried the salesman through hur-
ried lips and shifting eyes.

The old man felt very hot and before he knew it he
was out in front of the store clutching his old brown hat
in sweaty palms and feeling self-conscious in the new. On
the side of the greenish hat stood something that looked
like a shaving brush. He wondered at length about it, but
knew that he would never ask anyone. The tips of the
bristles were white and stood quite erect.

Twelve ninety-nine had been enough money to spend
in a day, so the old man decided to walk all the way to his
apartment. It was quite dark for the late April afternoon
and people moved quickly, hailing cabs and contemplating
rain. The old man created a brownish mass, head down,
brown hat held in hands, as he slowly dragged himself
through the crowds. Many rushing men and women
bumped into him and once a young man snapped a quick
"pardon me." This startled the weary walker.

The last smells of winter quickened the crowds, and
afternoon turned its April face toward evening. The rain
started slowly. The old man remembered the salesman's
words, DON'T LET IT GET WET, DON'T LET IT
GET WET, but he did not move to remove it. He did not
know quite what to do. He only walked slow and old and
brown downtown. His feet dragged and his new hat
scratched behind the ears. He did take the old brown hat
from between his damp palms and bundle it up, putting
it under his overcoat. 'The rain was strangely warm, as the
old man felt it get heavier and more insistent.

Now the rain was very heavy and straight, wetting the
neck and seeping to the bottom of the shoes. Squishing.
Hey man, don't you know enough to get in out of the
rain? The voice was gone and the old man stopped. He
removed the hat from his head and examined it. It sagged
a little and was a darker greenish. The old man was
frightened, as he stood quite still on the sidewalk, passers-
by dodging him. Don't let it get wet, the shaving brush
mocked, still erect.

The rain fell straight and hard and warm. The old man
smiled. A wide smile. Near him a drainpipe reached out
over the puddled-sidewalk. Rain slop-slopped down with
tremendous force. Through the drainpipe, plopping it with
strength upon the sidewalk. Smiling through grey teeth,
the old man walked a step, centering himself directly un-
der the drainpipe, and the strength hit him with vigor.

In a constant rushing stream it hit the top of the hat,
pushing it further down on his head. The warm-wet
sprayed over his shoulders and chest and dovra across his
face. His left hand clutched the warm, dry, brown hat, safe

inside of his coat. It was a wonderful rain.

"Father?"
"Yes, Son?"
"When is it coming?"
"Soon, Son, soon."

The room was dingy and smelled of grey-looking
flowered wall paper. The couple upstairs laughed immoral-
ly, almost shrieking, and she shuddered. Sitting at the old
desk, piled high with papers, she looked out of the win-
dow, and all she saw was the Brooklyn Bridge, ridged in
steel-grey and covered by night. It looked more like an
old photograph, and just hung, the lights of the cruising
cars slipping through the grey.

She glanced down at the papers and saw many years
of the same piles, written in ball-point pens and all mis-
spelling the word "surprise."

Outside the storm grew and the wind banged against
the pane. She glanced at the paper on top, but decided
that her T.V. dinner must be moist, and its choice pieces
of chicken, brown. She ate in silence, listening to the storm
and the noises upstairs. The wind demandingly harassed
the glass and the pane moaned. She touched her hair me-
chanically after throwing away the remainder of the din-
ner. Her hair was still quite soft and black, piled neatly
atop her head. Some of the weariness of the day hurt her
forehead in its classroom sounds and children's sweat and
chalk smells. She was sorry now that she'd given the test,
for they impatiently waited, neatly piled and ready.

The telephone rang. It was her younger brother who
matter-of-factly told her of her niece's birthday. He
thanked her for the check and only then asked how she
felt.

"Fine, thank-you, a little tired."

"How's school?" he yawned.

"The same. I may take the assistant-principal's test in
June."

"Good," he droned, and the rest of what he said was
drowned out by the wind against the window, its laughter.

"Spring's certainly coming in like a lion," she com-
mented, and hung up. She realized that she hadn't asked
about his wife. This annoyed her, after all these years. The
clock hopped past eight, and the waiting papers called.
Red pen in hand her eyes moved toward the window.
How the wind laughed. How it moaned and sighed. The
bridge shook a little, its power seduced by the wind. The
room felt very warm and the air pressed against her pained
forehead. The wall paper smelled of dead pink flowers.

A breath of air, just one, just one, and she opened the
window a little at the bottom. Her hand ached with the
pressure of the window, for it had been down all of the
long winter.

In rushed, ran, swirled, whirled the wind over her
face and forehead, sending some of the pinned hair
against her forehead. Swish went some of the papers from
the pile.

She smiled. She laughed out loud and let it swirl into
her mouth. It cooled her throat and eyes, and tasted sweet
and new. It sang in her ears.

She opened the window wide with little effort now
and laughed hard and wickedly, mouth very wide.

Surprise, surprise, SURPRISE, she laughed.

The wind blew all the papers around, around the desk,
sliding its breath upon them until they hit the floor and

17

walls. Swirling and laughing, her hair fell completely free,
wrapping itself around her chest and mouth.

SURPRISE, SURPRISE. The papers flapped and
flew. SURPRISE. She could not see the bridge, the wind
was in her eyes.

"Father?"

"Yes, Son?"

"When is it coming?"

"Soon, Son, quite soon."

The storm, fierce now, tumbles rain and drowns the
sidewalk. It puddles corners and slows the taxis. The lights
tilt-a-whirl into the puddles and the rain smashes them
into a million drops and spots of red, green, blue. Colors
and lights upon reflected sidewalks, elongated upon taxi
tops and windows. Dancing. Wipers sending the water
slopping down upon checkered hoods.

Theater marquees seem but a dull background flash-
ing on-off-on, too weak to pierce the rain, too yellow to
compete with car lights and reds and blues from bars and
signs.

Sounds of horns are dulled by the storm and form but
a constant beating background to the wind and tumbling
rains. Cabs and limousines pile up in front of theaters.
Honking. Shoving.

"Move, buddy, think you own the street or somethin'?"
"Go to hell."

The final bars of the orchestra rise and reach a climax
of drums and cymbals, sneaking out of the theater behind
doormen's backs, cutting the night's rhythm. A thunder
of applause rises against the closed theater doors, as the
doormen move mechanically from door to door, opening
them wide, allowing the thunder out. It too becomes dull
upon meeting the storm.

People begin to flow out of the theaters, creating a
mob of mink and black hats. Pushing down the street
toward Broadway. Rushing against the rain with Playbills
and newspapers over their heads.

Doormen hurry men and women to their limousines,
where chauffeurs hold doors open and push them inside.

One man strides straight out onto the sidewalk and is
caught by the doorman, who stretches to place the black
umbrella over the gentleman's head and jogs comically
to keep up with his stride.

The gentleman gracefully slips into the back seat and
closes the door against the pelting rain.

"Good evening, sir. How was the show?"

"Hmmm."

"Where to?"

"Just drive . . ."

"The storm, jammed cross-town streets . . ."

". . . JUST drive."

He leans back upon the uncreased leather seats and
watches the lights playing with the streaming windows.

Where to, ha, where to sit straight and be charming.
Wliere to be sophisticated and drink with the smart young
social set. Where . . . alone ... in April.

Outside the storm slows and the flip-flap of the win-
dow-wipers stops. The chauffeur mechanically stops, starts,
slows through traffic.

Where to . . . April, with a sport jacket, drinking a
cocktail on the thirteenth floor.

"Storm's stopped . . ."

"Hmmm."

". . . said, it ain't raining anymore. Looks Kke the last
winter storm is over and from now on it'll be Spring."

"Spring . . . hmmm . . . take off your pants."

"What?"

"Just be nonchalant and take off your pants, and then
your jacket."

"SIR! !"

"Do as I say."

"Yes, sir, but it's rather difficult. Can I wait for a red
light?"

"Yes. How does one draw up a sweat?"

"What, sir?"

"How does one become sweated and . . . smell?"

"Um ... by running, I guess. Here are the pants, sir;
they're dirty and creased. Are you all right, sir?"

"Certainly I am. Now stop the car."

"But sir . . ."

"STOP THE CAR. Thanks. I'll see you later."

"Sir, I'm naked . . ."

He does not hear, he is gone, running and putting on
the jacket as he runs. Fast. Down Fifth Avenue. Long
strides through puddles. Jumping over curbs. Sweating.
Sprinting downtown. The limousine rides slowly to the
right of the street, always behind the runner.

"Look at that man. Must be crazy."

"You know how those domestics are."

The arch appears far down Fifth. The runner speeds
up, and, breathing jerkily, runs diagonally into the street,
almost being hit by a cab. He slows as he enters the park.

The night has become a soft breeze. Silent and warm.
Far-away stars have broken through the fading mist. The
limousine parks at the entrance to the park and becomes
just a big black blob, set down at the comer of Fifth and
Waverly.

"Hey, ya got a match?"

"Sure."

"Hey, ya got a cigarette too? I'll trade you a drink for
a cigarette."

"Sure."

"Boy, do 5'ou stink. That boss o' yours must be a
damned slave driver."

"Yes, he is. Rich bastard though."

"Yeah, I know the type. Good night, huh? The boys
and I were just noticin' that spring's just about here.
Guess winter's over and we'll be able to drink by the
fountain again."

"Guess so. It's been a long winter."

Tliey each take long drinks in silence.

"Father?"

"Yes, Son?"

"Wlien is it coming?"

"Soon, Son, soon. In fact, it's just about here."

"Father . . ."
"Yes, Son."
"I love you."
"Go back to bed."

He bounces out of the thickly carpeted bedroom.
Sleeping breath follows him out. To the \\'indow he jumps,
lowering its glass. Night hangs upon the trees and new
leaves of Central Park. Silence holds the night softlv by
its hand, and dawn blows its breath upon the lightening
horizon. He calls down to the floor below.

18

"Hey stupid — hey stupid . . ."

"Shhh."

"Shhh yourself. IT'S almost here."

"I know, I know."

He stretches his shaggy head out of the window and
looks down at the street far below. Down. Down. A side-
walk covered by something that makes it almost non-
existent, street lights but yellow circles through the grey-
black. A springtime smell swims into the room and his
eyes sparkle.

"Hey stupid . . ."

"Shhh."

"Let's go down to the Park and be there when it
happens."

Silence.

"Please come, huh, stupid? We'll just sit down by the
lake and wait."

Silence and then a meek, "Okay."

"Good, I'll meet you in the elevator."

Barefoot he runs to the door and down the corridor.
A cold wet silence greets him and he hops from foot to
foot as he waits for the elevator to climb to the top floor.

The door swooshes open and he sees that she has got
on already. She stands barefoot upon the cold floor.

"You look funny."

The elevator moves abruptly down and they giggle. On
the floor lies an empty pint bottle of whiskey. An um-
brella stands in the comer.

"That certainly was a funny storm last night."

"I watched it."

"Me too."

"It made the park into a jungle, do you know what I
mean?"

"I think so, sort of magic. The wind. The rain all
swirling around. It was real late when I woke up and heard
the last of the storm, sort of like sobs. And then it just
went away, as though somebody old and angry had just
died. It got very peaceful then, and I guess I went back
to sleep."

The elevator door opens and they quietly walk into the
lobby. The red carpets silence their steps, and slowly they
make their way to the large, clean, glass door. The door-

man sleeps in a red leather chair, his cap in his lap, his
snore the only sound in the lobby.

Outside the darkness is scattering itself thinly over the
sidewalk and a cab slips quickly back uptown.

"Hurry, hurry."

They run across the street and down into the park. He
slows his step to wait for her and together they scamper
onto the grass. The grass is wet and tickles their feet.
Sleeping against a tree a derelict breathes heavily with
mouth wide and black-stubble moving. Against liis leg lies
an old wooden guitar. Scratched. Battered. Warped. The
derelict's hand tightly grips the bridge. Several feet away
the lake lies, misty and grey-blue. Silence holds the mist
still and soft. Night has become but the grey.

"Let's swim."

"Our clothes . . ."

"Just take them off."

"Okay."

Quickly they undress, leaving their clothes in a pile on
the shore. Yelping he jumps into the water.

"It's cold."

She follows and for several laughing minutes they
splatter and splash through the mist and break the water
into circles and spots. Behind the April trees the light
seeps.

"Quick! Here it comes."

Pulling her by the hand, they run to the tree and climb
quickly to a branch. Below, the derelict has awakened
and with one hand scratches his face, with the other,
touches the strings on the guitar. He begins to pick a tune.
The sound is tinny.

"Look. ITS here. IT'S finally here."

The sun breaks through the lowest trees, lighting the
green and clearing the surface of the water. Sparkling spots
appear upon the blue. A breeze sighs through the tree.

"It's springtime. Finally. I've been waiting so long for
it, about a million years."

"Me too."

They are hidden in the tree as the sun rises higher and
the city begins to awaken. Beyond the trees the merry-go-
round stands. It is still and silent. Soon it will begin to
circle and sing.

Late August in a New England Park

There comes a time each summer

When the geese fly away

To some southern swamp

To some place where grasses wind around

The marshes in the depth of winter.

Tliere comes a time when the wind

Blows a different smell from the sea

While gulls clamor with the old knowledge

Of change.

And so, in this sad season,

We meet on hills

To lie on the grass with our blankets

Under us, to blow tunes on reed whistles.

To listen to the last park concert.

And we move as mourners

As we watch the eternal flight of the geese

From such seasons.

Anne Eddy Daughtrtdge

19

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

Before as it was in the beginning

Now as it seems to end

And after for ever and ever

They will walk into the rooms

Assume the pose on white canvas sheets

And tell one another, "Most of all."

All are rare to the night's pleasure.

He will walk from the room

Down the vaguely lighted streets

And it will be as the other mornings.

Avoiding cracks by half steps

The sidewalks will follow him

Into the morning's almost completeness.

The night had provided little distinction.

She has slept away the harshness of early
And has not looked upon the dresser
For what she knows is crumpled lying there.
There, more or less, remains the night.
The nights have provided her well
Less now, but well. Give her this day
Loaves to spread indifferently with honey.

They will come together again into the room
To find, unmoved, the bed in a different place.
She will find another chair, the same chair
And refold and replace her coat upon it.
He will walk into yesterday's morning tomorrow
Unconcerned that he could not remember
How to pray his soul to keep.

Janet Hamer

Night Of No Light

When I become a black leopard.
No one can hear me walk,
And I press my feet to grass
That bends to the ground in dark.

Far from lights of man I move.
Where a mist slides under the stars,
Nothing but my cold golden eyes
And the quicksilver of my claws.

I am a solid cloud fallen
Down to the ground in night,
A shadow with no maker, I can be
Only in these nights of no light.

Tina Huxouist

Wrong Bird

On the apple tree at the bottom of the jard,

I can hear and see

A woodpecker leaving his mark

In the circle of marks

Woodpeckers have left for eternity.

Tina Huxquist

20

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