"c25fbdd6-b7a0-4a05-b8fa-289c8525f2f0"@en . "CONTENTdm"@en . "Prism international 17:2 / Fall 1978"@en . "http://resolve.library.ubc.ca/cgi-bin/catsearch?bid=1215619"@en . "Prism international"@en . "Prism international"@en . "2015-08-10"@en . "[1978-10]"@en . "https://open.library.ubc.ca/collections/prism/items/1.0135417/source.json"@en . "181 Pages"@en . "application/pdf"@en . " PUIS\ninternational\nFall igy8\n.00\nSpecial Canadian Under jo's Issue II international\nSpecial Canadian\nUnder jo's Issue II Editor-in-Chief\nDONA STURMANIS\nAssociate Editors\nMARGARET COE DON DICKINSON\nKICO GONZALEZ\nEditorial Assistants\nHAL GRAY ROBERT J. RANKIN\nTERRY THOMAS\nManaging Editor\nHAL GRAY\nSecretary\nHAL GRAY\nPublicity\nROBERT J. RANKIN\nAdvisory Editor\nGEORGE MCWHIRTER\ninternational\nA JOURNAL OF\nCONTEMPORARY WRITING This is the second of our two special PRISM international\nissues devoted to Canadian writers who are under thirty\nyears of age. The first, PRISM 17:1, contained mostly\npoetry, and this issue, 17:2, contains mostly fiction. It has\nonce again been our editorial policy to publish our contributors for their strengths of craft and original style, and\nto be as representative as possible of their work. Enjoy.\nDONA STURMANIS\nEditor-in-Chief \u00C2\u00BB\nCONTENTS\nVOLUME SEVENTEEN NUMBER TWO FALL 1978\nBruce Byfield\nTwo Poems\n8\nBrian Bartlett\nTent by the Sea\n10\nStephen Boston\nThe Erosion of Privacy in the New Age or\nCaged on a Stage with No Place to Hide 23\nDanny Feeney\nTwo Poems\n36\nTerence Byrnes\nGetting the Hang of It\n39\nMark Frutkin\nTwo Poems\n5i\nBarry Dempster\nA Large K in Kill\n53\nPaul Gotro\nTwo Poems\n65\nLevi Dronyk\nBaxter Jack\n67\nSean Hearty\nThree Poems\n76\nTove Ditlevsen\nFear\n79\nKevin Irie\nThree Poems\n85\nLesley Krueger\nThe Songs of Anna Marten\n88\nA. Labriola\nSilent Films (poem)\n97\nBeth Powning\nMothers\n99\nNicholas Mason-Browne\nMemoir (poem)\n107\nDave Richards\nHusband and Wife/Gratten/1927\n108\nErin Moure\nThree Poems\n118\nDavid Sharpe\nIn Another Light\n121\nBarbara Rendall\nParental (poem)\n126\nRobert Sherrin\nBest Falling Dead\n127\nMartin Reyto\ni\t\nTwo Poems\n132 Donna E. Smyth The Temptation of Leafy 136\nBetsy Struthers Two Poems 145\nJoel Yanofsky Ghost Stories 147\nNotes on Contributors 177\nBooks Received and Recommended:\nCanadian Under-30 Authors 180\nPRISM international, a journal of contemporary writing, is published twice-\nyearly at the Department of Creative Writing at the University of British\nColumbia, Vancouver, B.C. v6t IW5. Microfilm editions are available from\nXerox University Microfilms, Ann Arbour, Michigan, and reprints (Vols. 1-5)\nfrom the Kraus Reprint Corporation, New York, New York.\nPRISM international now appears twice-yearly in the Spring and Fall. The cost\nof single issues is $4.00, one year individual subscriptions $7.00, two year subscriptions $13.00, three year subscriptions $18.00. To libraries and institutions:\none year subscriptions $10.00, two year subscriptions $15.00, three year subscriptions $20.00.\nOur gratitude to the Canada Council and the University of British Columbia for\ntheir continued support.\nPRISM international would like to acknowledge the kind assistance of the following individuals and organizations in the compilation of the two Canadian\nUnder-Thirties issues: Clark Blaise; Fred Cogswell; Dave Godfrey; Ralph\nGustafson; Dennis Lee; Rudy Wiebe; the League of Canadian Poets; the\nWriters' Union of Canada; and the Creative Writing Programmes at the University of Toronto, University of Victoria, and the University of Ottawa. Bruce Byfield / Two Poems\nA SUMMER SINGLE\nYes, I have walked the way of beaches, stared,\npretending not to stare when blue-smeared eyes\nopened deer-wary. When each body's bared\nin lotioned ease, I've eyed across breast-rise\nand knotted on nylon-bound loins I passed,\nblood wilding on the bottlecap-bright sands.\nThen every shadow has seemed couple-cast\nexcept my own. From tideline I've toed fast\npast those sprawled back on grass, hands spread on hands,\nand empty as an echo, found cement,\nmy unmingled heat unspent. STOOD-UP\n(A Poem for a Voice)\nTwilighted reek in a blood-rugged hall \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nmy drumming fingers bring no one before the door.\nWalled whispers. I wait,\nwait for the okaying eye,\nweight down left foot, right foot.\nSecret as thieves, I nudge the doorknob around \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nlocked.\nDid I board an early bus?\nYou woman. You witch. Bitch.\nThe door's swatted flat-handed. I fling down the hall.\nI stretch on a bench, bored as a cat.\nI put a page of my book away.\nThe letters are calm, so calm!\nI go needle and thread through streets,\nstare out of stores not to miss her.\nI should go ask the neighboring gay,\nI should stab at her blinds with a stick.\nWhy am I circling, circling her rooms like the sun?\nWhy am I something she'd rather wipe off her feet?\nI eat a peach. I eat pizza,\nI knock again, knock again\nuntil the skylip leeches the sun away\nand I wander home, home\nin darkness like undeveloped film. Brian Bartlett\nTent by the Sea\nAs soon as his father's car disappeared in a cloud of dust, Henry\ndropped his folded puptent onto the grass and looked through\nshadows of trees past a bank down over the long pale beach to waves\nbreaking onto the sand. The grey-green ocean was just close enough\nthat he heard it murmuring. Even when he hit his thumb while\npounding a peg into the ground, he kept smiling. Dropping the rock\nhe shook his hand, thinking as if the skinned knuckle were someone\nelse's, Blood \u00E2\u0080\u0094 what a nuisance. Sparrows scrambled under the trees\nat his back. Quickly he picked up the rock and drove in the other\npegs, which sank smoothly into the rich-smelling earth. Inside the\ntent he emptied a knapsack throwing his cans of stew and beans,\nfrying pan, flashlight and grey paperback along one wall. Having\npicked a site with no other campers either way for two sites, he heard\nnothing but sparrows stepping on leaves as he changed into his\nbathing suit.\nHot sand flowed over his bare feet as he walked towards shore,\nthe sound of the ocean like a slow enormous beast coming closer.\nAcross the half mile afternoon sunbathers were scattered rather than\nmobbed, Thank God. A few yards from the sea he stretched out his\ntowel, buried his glasses in sand and lifted his arms over his head. He\nbegan running and tried not to howl as the Fundy cold hit his ankles,\nthen his knees, then his stomach, then his chest. Submerged he soon\nfelt warmer, his long hair floating back so freely it felt like a crown\nof fine sea grass.\nWhen he broke surface he drifted on his back, blinking at the\ncloudless sky. Even salt water trickling into his mouth tasted good,\ntasted even better when the past week flashed by his eyes: writing\ngrade 11 Departmentals in a humid packed gym he had stabbed his\nhand with a compass point to stop dreaming about the beach, and\npromised himself A weekend by myself, away from all this! Now\n10 waves lifted him high and low, wrestling and embracing him.\nThough he was half blind without his glasses he saw drenched\nkaleidoscopic patterns wink all around him where sunlight and water\nmet.\nOnly when he headed back to his tent did the cut sting again, so\nhe sucked it to clean away the salt. Back in his T-shirt and cut-off\ncorduroys he walked jauntily through a stand of spruce to the canteen, where a man wearing a baseball cap was turning a hamburger\non a grill. As he rested his arms on the counter Henry asked, \"Got a\nbox of Band-Aid's?\"\nThe man reached into a shelf and tossed a white box onto the\ncounter. \"Tentin' here with friends?\" he asked, chewing bubblegum.\n\"Naw \u00E2\u0080\u0094 by myself.\" Noting the price scribbled on the box, Henry\npulled change out of his pocket.\n\"Come to check out the honeys by the sea, huh?\" the man asked,\ntaking the money. One of his front teeth was missing. \"I see lotsa\nguys like you all summer \u00E2\u0080\u0094 come here and try to start up somethin'\nwith every honey in the campgrounds.\"\n\"I \u00E2\u0080\u0094 huh, I hadn't thought of that.\"\n\"Sure you hadn't, sure you hadn't.\" As Henry clutched the box\nof Band-Aid's and left, the man called, \"Good huntin'!\"\nThe rocks of the parking lot under his sneakers made sounds as\nharsh as his anger. That man was like his father's friend who always\nasked how many girls' names and numbers he had in \"the little black\nbook,\" as if everyone in high school worried about nothing but messy\nkisses in back seats of cars and had never heard of the gods Poseidon\nand Triton. His father's friend and Gaptooth back there didn't know\na damn thing about pitching your own tent for the first time, all the\nshackles that threw off. As he reached the path the noise of gravel\nstopped and again he walked silently over spruce needles.\nBack by his tent he sat on a tree stump and put a Band-Aid on his\nthumb, then piled together paper from his knapsack and sticks from\nunder the trees, started a fire in the cooking pit of his site and twisted\nopen a can of Irish stew. Within minutes the stew bubbled and spat\nin the frying pan. Hunched on the stump watching sand lolling\ndown to the sea and the sea lapping up over sand, he ate stew and a\ngrape jam sandwich. Insects fell onto his skin and clothes and he\nlooked at them closely before calmly brushing them away.\nBy 7:30 he was thirsty. When he reached the canteen the man\nwas off duty and to his relief a woman \u00E2\u0080\u0094 Gaptooth's wife? \u00E2\u0080\u0094 served\nhim without speaking. With a box of chocolate milk in his hand he\n11 passed through the trailer park, glad his parents had never dragged\nhim around in one of those miniature wheeled suburban houses.\nTrailers! He wanted to throw rocks at them and run away, laughing.\nBeyond the campgrounds a tall young woman in a peach-coloured\nbikini was strolling along the edge of the forest, her sleek black hair\ndripping and her rounded hips gently swinging. She seemed to be\ntalking to something held up in her hand; he stared, seeing it was a\nlarge dried starfish. If there weren't a legend about a girl communing\nwith starfish, there should be. Maybe he would write it.\nIt took an hour to figure out the intricate forest trails. All hidden,\novenbirds and spring peepers chanted tirelessly. More campers than\nhe'd expected were taking walks, especially young couples, the trails\nso narrow only two campers could walk abreast on them; whenever\nhe met a couple coming arm-in-arm or hand-in-hand he stepped\ndown and pressed against trees, as if backing against the wall of a\nnarrow hall, to let them pass. Giggling or whispering or silent, they\nall seemed to him unaware and blundering.\nOne trail led to the river, which was no wider than a brook that\nclose to the sea. After the deepening darkness of the trails, by the river\nthe purples of violets, oranges of dead ferns and whites of bunchberry\nblossoms almost stunned him. He rubbed his hands in them until his\npalms were lightly painted. // / was a dog I'd roll around in these\ncolours. It was hard following the river down the rest of the way\nwithout a trail and with scratchy trees interlocked everywhere. Now\nthe woods were almost too dark for him to see his feet, but after\ncrashing through the last branches and sliding down onto shore he\nclearly saw his dirty white sneakers in the clean white sand.\nAround a bend from the swimming beach, here stones and boulders were more plentiful than sand. Starting back towards the\nswimming beach he climbed onto a rise of copper-coloured rock. A\nslender yellow-legged shorebird flew by with a fish in its bill. When\nhe reached the highest level of the rock he walked to the edge, threw\nhis fists in the air and let out the happy yell that had built up all\nafternoon. Ah-ah-ah-ayeeeee!\nIn his tent he ate a devilled egg and crawled into his sleeping bag,\nkeeping on his shirt to stop shivering. With the flashlight beamed on\nhis book he started reading, struggling to care that Jack Durbeyfield\ndiscovered his family was once illustrious. Yet he liked the girls and\nwomen on their \"club-marching\" festival crossing town with willow\nwands and white flowers; he could almost hear Tess's dress swishing\noutside his tent though to almost everybody she was a fine and pic-\n12 turesque country girl, and no more. Somehow she got mixed-up with\nthe round-hipped girl holding the starfish, and his eyelids dragged.\nOnce the flashlight was off he forgot both girls and felt he was back\nin the sea riding with the waves.\n\"Danny, don't you dare take fig-bars for breakfast!\"\nA woman's sharp voice somewhere outside. The top of the tent\npaler green, more in light, than the bottom. Tess and his glasses at\nhis side. He tugged on his sneakers, hearing New York accents in\nthose voices.\n\"Dad, the tent's crooked!\" called a boy.\n\"Don, give me a hand here!\" shouted a man.\nSquatting, he shuffled out of his tent. Square on all sides, their\ntent was as big as a trailer and partly blocked the sun. \"Great,\" he\nmuttered, turning toward the public outhouses. He heard the father\nshout, \"Don, you can unpack later!\" and saw a girl in sky blue\nshorts and blouse step out of the tent. Don? Dawn. Before hearing\nher speak he hurried away, knowing from experience girls his age\nalways brought out the worst in any accent.\nAfter eating a can of pears he changed into long pants and pulled\non a sweater, then again walked through the trailer park and forest\nto the dead end by the river, down along the river breaking branches\nand pushing aside boulders, out to the sea and the rock and around\nthe beach where he watched gulls picking at corn cobs left from a\nbeach picnic. Already he felt that walk in his bones as he'd felt other\nwalks: from his family's home on the hill to favourite haunts downtown \u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 the library, the movie theatre, the rink \u00E2\u0080\u0094 back to home.\nFour lawn chairs now sat outside the large tent, the girl in the one\nfarthest away \u00E2\u0080\u0094 a sweep of light brown hair and a foot in a sandal.\nCrawling into his tent he heard the father say, \"No film at that canteen. You'd think they haven't discovered photography in this part\nof the world.\" The girl still hadn't spoken. Maybe she's mute, maybe\nshe's retarded he thought, pulling on his bathing suit. Good \u00E2\u0080\u0094 then\nshe prob'ly won't bug me. A girl's voice said, \"Danny, quit picking\nyour nose or I'll. ...\" It was softer than the other voices; he'd made\nout only half the words but already heard music in that voice.\nHer voice stayed with him until he splashed into the sea, shouting\nas the cold hit him. It seemed not Fundy cold but Arctic cold and he\nbecame warmer only when a jellyfish floated by his face, a simple\nand almost translucent blob. Rocking in the waves he felt almost\nthat simple himself.\n13 At the canteen the man with the baseball cap chuckled, \"Found\nany mermaids?\"\nIn his damp bathing suit he ate a cheeseburger on the stump outside his tent, then strolled along the beach almost as far as the\ncopper-coloured rock. Here he could see no one except in the distance. On his towel he lay on his back, serene and drugged by the\nsun, caressed by heat rising off the sand. When a cool breeze rippled\nover him he shivered and recalled how in some movie he'd seen on\nthe late show a Medieval man \u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 crusader or monk \u00E2\u0080\u0094 had stripped\nto a loin cloth, stretched out by the sea and testing his fortitude let\nicy waves lap over him. As he saw himself huddled in his puptent\ntrying not to hear the New Yorkers he decided he must find out how\nit felt to be that monk/ crusader, and pushed on his glasses.\nOn the shore he crouched where, when a wave reached that far,\nit scattered between, but not over his toes. Lifting off his glasses he\nlay flat on his back, his feet farthest out so the waves would reach\nhis face last. The first waves curled along the edges of his body and\nseeped under his legs. Soon waves rose to the fronts of his legs and\nwhen one swept over his bathing suit, he jerked, groaned and curled\nup his toes tighter. What he was doing was so crazy he felt like\nlaughing. A wave splashed all the way over him but he forgot to hold\nhis breath and water rushed into his mouth and nose. He lifted and\nshook his head, coughing. Then something pulled at his hair.\nRolling over he sat up, coughing. \"Oh My God!\" she cried. \"I\nthought you'd drowned! What're you doing?\"\nTurned around, he shaded his eyes with his hand. Her eyes were\ngrey and wisps of brown hair sticking from under her bathing cap\nshook as she bent toward him. \"Try \u00E2\u0080\u0094 trying an experiment,\" he\nsaid, pushing hair out of his eyes. \"Freezing . .. have to get back to\nmy towel.\"\nThey seemed exactly the same height as they walked up to his\ntowel. She was carrying a sandal in each hand, jiggling them by the\nthongs. In the sand he huddled under his towel. \"I \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I saw this\nmovie once, where a monk or something did that.\"\n\"I thought you'd drowned!\" she said, starting to laugh.\n\"Sit down if you wanna.\" He tried to laugh but coughed, salt\nwater stinging his throat. While she sat and crossed her legs, her\ndrab one-piece bathing suit black against the sand, he dried his\nglasses with the towel. \"Well thanks for checking on me. If most\npeople saw a ... a corpse they'd be gone like a bat out of hell.\" \"Guess I'm not a bat out of hell,\" she laughed lightly. She slipped\none of her sandals against her feet, knocking sand from between her\ntoes.\n\"Your accent. New York \u00E2\u0080\u0094 New Yawk \u00E2\u0080\u0094 is it?\"\n\"Now don't make fun of my accent or I'll never rescue you\nagain.\"\n\"D'you come here every summer?\"\n\"Oh no it's my first time out of the country.\" Not wanting her to\ncall the States the country, he wanted to peel off that bathing cap\nwhich made her look bald. \"Oh no, here comes the Tasmanian\nDevil,\" she said, dropping the sandal. \"Let's go in the water before\nhe gets here.\" Over her shoulder her brother was approaching,\nswinging his arms high, a popsicle in one of his hands.\nSwimming with her was not like swimming alone. Even when he\ncouldn't see her he sensed where she was, how close or distant, above\nor under water. Even when he knew she was yards away she seemed\nright next to him; a wave could have been her arm around him, a\ntrickle of water her fingers. Paddling on her back she called, \"Why're\nyou camping by yourself?\"\n\"Cause I hate people!\" he called with mock fierceness.\nShe flickered near the surface of the water. \"Am I people?\"\n\"You're Dawn!\"\n\"How'd you know? . . . been spying on us?\"\n\"You Yanks talk so loud!\"\n\"... hiding in the trees spying on us!\"\nAs they walked back up the beach she tugged off her bathing cap,\nreleasing her wavy springy hair. Their shadows fell across the sand,\none shadow nearly touching the other. Watching her blue-veined\nfeet he recalled girls he had taken to movies, how he'd dropped the\nticket before passing it to them or forgotten at the canteen what\ncandy they'd wanted. If Dawn had been the girl those times she\nwould have laughed, not stared at him glumly to pick up the ticket\nor said What's that? I don't like coconut. Their shadows touched on\nthe sand, she was laughing; it seemed he had never heard a girl\nlaugh before.\nOutside her tent she introduced him to her mother, who sipped\nice tea in a lawn chair and said, \"Isn't that nice, a local boy.\"\nBlushing under his sunburn he laughed weakly to cover his sudden\nanger. A local boy. Back in his tent he hurriedly dressed into his\nT-shirt and cut-offs and smiled when he remembered the mother,\nnot Dawn, had said A local boy.\nJ5 She was wearing her sky blue blouse and shorts. As they walked to\nthe canteen and drank Cokes on a ridge above the parking lot her\nNew York accent seemed as natural as the ovenbird voices last night.\n\"I had a crazy nightmare in the car,\" she said as they sat in the\ngrass. Her legs and arms were browner than his; her hair rose like\na thicket framing her face but didn't touch her high brown forehead. \"I was inside a giant washing machine \u00E2\u0080\u0094 Dad runs a laundromat on Amsterdam Avenue, did I tell you? Whenever I saw someone I knew, they just whooshed by and disappeared in the suds.\"\n\"I wish I had dreams like that. Mine are usually real boring, like\nabout putting my shoes on the wrong feet.\"\n\"Putting your shoes on the wrong feet! I'd rather have funny\ndreams like that than washing machine nightmares.\"\nThey walked out to the hot black highway and started along the\nweedy roadside, careful not to brush against one another. While they\nwatched dragonflies swerving over the floating logs of a swamp, he\nasked after a long silence, \"You ever read much Hardy?\"\n\"Oh Hardy, I like him but he gets to be a fatalistic old bastard. I\ntell you what I really love \u00E2\u0080\u0094 something like As You Like It. I played\nRosalind in a school production we put on.\"\n\"Yeah? Hardy's okay. For a fatalist.\"\n\"Well I can't stand fatalists.\"\n\"I'm not one,\" he said, not sure what one was. Throwing a stick\ninto the swamp, he felt she was attacking his choice of books and\nmaybe bragging a little about the Shakespeare acting. But when they\nwere leaning on a rotted fence at a farm beyond the swamp, she\npointed at his hand gripping the fence and asked, \"How'd you bang\nup your thumb?\" and he thought Those other girls wouldn'tve asked\nwhat happened if I took them to a movie with a cast around my\nneck!\nBack at the campgrounds she was limping. He was both afraid she\nhad blistered her feet and excited she might have blistered them to\nbe with him. As she hopped off the gravel up onto the grass he said,\n\"You shouldn'ta walked all the way in those sandals.\"\nAmong the spruces the young woman in a peach-coloured bikini\npassed them, murmuring to a starfish in her hand. Dawn whispered,\n\"The Starfish Lady, she seems to be everywhere. The guy at the\ncanteen told Dad she's a real nut-case, but wouldn't hurt a flea.\"\n\"I didn't know she was that. I thought ...\" He couldn't say the\nwoman had seemed beautiful to him.\nThey stopped by the rope he had tied between two trees outside\n16 his tent. \"Hey, your bathing suit fell in the grass,\" she said, looking\ndown. She picked it up by the string and handed it to him.\n\"Crappy clothesline,\" he laughed. Draping it back over the rope\nhe still saw her fingers on the string.\n\"Listen, ah, we're going to King Kong vs. Godzilla at the drive-in\ntonight,\" she said, fingering a button on her blouse. \"You like to\ncome? You might feel kinda dumb, sitting there with my mom and\ndad and kid brother. My mom wanted me to ask you.\"\nWhile he made his supper he couldn't stop thinking, \"My mom\nwanted me to ask you\" \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I bet she made that up.\n\"Okay, you guys sit here in front. My little lady and I'll take the\nback,\" Mr. Owen announced, putting his arm around his wife.\nHenry opened the door at his side and moved up into the driver's\nseat, high beams from other cars at the drive-in sweeping across his\nface like search lights. On the other side Danny raced up ahead of\nDawn and she grabbed his arm trying to squeeze ahead until Mr.\nOwen called over, \"Dan, you take the middle for this half, but\nDawn has it for the second.\"\n\"You scared of monsters?\" Danny asked Henry once they were\nseated.\n\"Only monsters like you,\" Henry said, grinning uncomfortably.\nGarbled sounds crackled from the speaker hung on the half-\nopened window near his ear. Soon across the screen buildings collapsed and mouths opened screaming, black and red colours ran and\ncoagulated, the creatures thrashed around. Now and then Mr. Owen\nreached over the seat and sneaked his hand under Danny's chin,\ngoing \"Rarrrrrrrr!\" Henry was afraid Mr. Owen would do the same\nthing to him. Though Dawn was at the other end of the seat she\nseemed so close he almost believed his arm could encircle her, the\nspace between them was nothing, Danny was nothing.\nHalf way through the movie he volunteered to buy snacks and\nMr. Owen handed him a $5. bill over the seat saying, \"Canadian\ndough.\" As they walked back to the canteen over dusty ground\nhe was finally beside her, breathing deeply as if fumes had been leaking in the car. Danny fell behind, walking backwards watching the\nscreen. \"It's funny.\"\n\"Yeah, but Danny thinks it's scary.\"\n\"I mean it's funny \u00E2\u0080\u0094 sitting there with your family.\"\n\"I told you so,\" she laughed, the sleeves of her white windbreaker\nflashing in the dark.\n17 Having folded the bill into the size of a stamp, he now began\nunfolding it and tried not to think of what a classmate of his had\nsaid the morning after taking a girl to the drive-in: Sure had a good\ntime, man, but I didn't see any of the fuckin movie. Bumping into\nher he said, \"I'd rather be with just you.\"\n\"Hey you guys!\" Danny cried. \"Look what Godzilla just did!\"\nShe said, \"Yeah, families can be a drag.\"\nBoth his hands folded the bill again. She hadn't understood him.\nHe hadn't been talking about her family, he had been talking about\nher!\nThrough the second half of the movie she sat beside him. When\nhe held up his ketchup-splattered hands she handed him a kleenex,\ntheir fingers touching. Then he was afraid to move, afraid if he\nmerely brushed her arm or leg he would throw himself against her.\nA few times Mr. and Mrs. Owen murmured and Henry heard\nsounds of a light kiss or two. He imagined Mr. Owen lying on top\nof Mrs. Owen on the back seat, both of them half naked. Dawn\nturned to him and said, \"Good Hollywood culture for you.\" Noticing the keys still in the ignition he figured he should switch on the\nengine and speed away letting the cord of the speaker rip from its\npost. If he had a gun, he was sure, he would turn to each of them\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 the father, the mother, the brother \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and blow out their brains,\nto be alone with her.\nTheir hair was wet from a late morning swim with her family.\nThe man at the canteen eyed the two and said to Henry, \"Well\nwell well, lookee here.\" On the ridge above the parking lot they\nsprawled in the grass, ate cheeseburgers and laughed about King\nKong vs. Godzilla and other bad movies. After wiping their fingers\nin the grass they walked out to the highway, Saturday's traffic even\nheavier than Friday's. Whenever silence grew between them he\nstared at her sneakers or kicked rocks or poked at his clip-on sunglasses, she whistled almost imperceptibly or felt her ear or picked a\npiece of straw and nibbled it.\nBy the farm as they sat on the fence he asked her for her birth\ndate. \"April 26 1953,\" she said. \"A.D.\"\n\"Hey, that's only two weeks before me!\" The fence swayed under\nthem as he turned to her. \"We could have a birthday bash together.\nThe Bash of the Century.\"\n\"Then that's a date for next year. At whose house?\" No don't laugh I mean it he almost shouted as she jumped off the\nfence.\nFrom the window of a passing car a grinning man waved at them\n\u00E2\u0096\u00A0\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 or only at her. \"Lemme get on the outside. Better a car knock off\nmy block than yours,\" Henry said, dodging around her closer to the\npavement and nudging her toward the roadside weeds.\n\"Big hero!\" she laughed. \"Like one of my friends back in New\nYork. Once in a big crowd he pushed me ahead of him to get on\nthe subway, then the doors closed before he got in.\"\nA subway. He had never seen a subway, let alone been on one.\nPoking at his sunglasses he heard A local boy and tried to picture her\nriding on rattling subways with grizzled winos and Puerto Ricans with\ntennis shoes bumping against her. But that vision slid away and the\nonly New York he could feel was that of Miracle on 42nd Street, a\nmerry city in winter; he saw her in twenty-floor department stores\nsteering herself through crowds with such a frank calm face all the\nclerks waited on her first.\nAt the swamp where dragonflies hunted silently, she lifted her\nblouse out at her neck and blew under it saying, \"Pheww, I'm dying\nfor a swim.\" Her blowing on herself made him stop feeling all the\nmiles, six hundred, seven hundred, stretching between their homes.\nI'll cool you like that if you like.\nMinutes later when they were in the sea he knew: swimming alone\nwith her was not like swimming with her family. They pulled themselves underwater repeatedly until the cold became bearable. Floating on his back he saw her blur of arms, legs and bathing suit. \"I\nsaw a jellyfish here yesterday!\" he called. \"96% water!\"\n\"What?\" She swam so close her toes grazed his stomach.\n\"A jellyfish is 96% water. Sounds like a lot, except we're 70%.\"\n\"Where'd you hear that crap?\"\n\"Not crap, it's true!\"\n\"There's a giant jellyfish in the aquarium back home.\"\nBack home. \"I'll have to see it sometime.\"\n\"You \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \" She said more but a wave rose between them.\nDressed again outside her tent he watched her come out in a\nyellow T-shirt and black shorts, slipping on her windbreaker. The\ncrest of the windbreaker included the letters AT. \"Look at the sky,\"\nshe said, pointing up at dusky clouds rolling over them. \"Now show\nme that path you were talking about.\"\n\"I hope you're not expecting something special, it's really nothing\nspecial. If it rains at least the woods'll cover us.\"\nJ9 Walking at her side through the forest he felt thirsty and wished\nhe had detoured to a water fountain. If he kissed her by the river he\nwould make a joke first, call her bumblebee because of her yellow\nand black clothes. A bushy-moustached man came from the other\ndirection and stepped onto a log to let them pass but nobody else\nappeared on their way to the end of the trail. The river was darker\nthan before, the sun now behind a cloud. Colours he had seen, of\nviolets and dead ferns and bunchberry blossoms, seemed to have disappeared. Ugly grey bracken grew all over the side of a tree. He\nwould kiss her by the sea instead. \"It's a lot nicer when the sun's\nout.\"\n\"It's okay. Look at those rapids.\"\n\"I should wade in to see how deep it is.\"\nShe touched his arm. \"No you don't. You'd drown, you blockhead. I might not rescue you again.\"\nAs he touched her arm her white windbreaker felt soft, sliding\nsmoothly under his fingers. Like panties he suspected, shaking.\n\"Okay, there's no path the rest of the way. Just watch where I\nstep.\" Now she was behind rather than beside him. They walked\nslowly, halted and stumbled. Suddenly he realized she was looking at\nhim from a foot or so away, at the back of his head, neck and shoulders. He tried to straighten his shoulders but a thin branch stung\nacross his face. Whenever she said \"Ouch\" he was stricken with\nguilt and imagined her covered with scratches, bleeding down her\narms and legs.\nBrushing needles off their clothes they walked onto the copper-\ncoloured rock and up to its highest level. Waves beat heavily, bits of\nwater flying in the air beyond them. \"Good, it's not going to rain,\"\nshe said.\nTurning, he looked sadly into the sun. \"I kinda hoped it would\nrain.\" He laughed, \"I saw us running through a storm.\" She was\nwatching a gull riding on the air, hardly moving its wings. There\nwas a tiny hook-shaped scratch on one of her legs. \"Maybe it'll rain\ntomorrow.\"\n\"Tomorrow,\" she began, then she bent to tie her sneaker lace as\nif it hurt her to speak, \"tomorrow Dad wants to drive back through\nMaine by suppertime.\"\nHe looked from her to the gull.\n\"I'd just as soon stay but he's the boss.\"\n\"Yeah. Yeah.\" Hard sunlight glanced off the rocks, clawing his\nface. More gulls flew by, cackling.\n20 \"I have to help Mom with supper,\" she said, standing.\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"You look mad at someone.\"\n\"Mad? No.\" If he had put his hand over her right breast it\nwould've covered the crest saying AT. Instead he grasped and\nsqueezed her shoulder.\n\"Promise to visit me when you're down our way?\" she asked.\n\"New York \u00E2\u0080\u0094 when the hell am I ever going to be in New York?\"\nHis grip on her shoulder tightened. \"You would have to be from\nsome place like New York, wouldn't you?\"\n\"Whaddo you mean? What's the matter with my city?\" she asked,\npushing his hand away.\n\"It's far from here,\" he accused her.\n\"Well don't get mad at me.\"\nHe jammed his hands into his pants pockets and began walking\nover the rest of the rock toward the swimming beach. \"We're toasting marshmallows tonight,\" she said, following him. \"That'll cheer\nus up.\"\n\"Toasting marshmallows won't cheer me up.\"\n\"I said don't get mad at me.\"\nThey talked no more as they climbed off the rock and headed up\nthe beach, hands in pockets. Their shadows, long and lurching,\nmoved farther apart the closer they came to their tents. Two laughing young men in bathing suits were chasing a screaming young\nwoman in a tight white top and shorts. She went on screaming and\ntossing as they carried her, one by the arms and the other by the\nlegs, towards the sea.\nWaking, he felt without looking outside that the site beside his\nwas empty. Yes he had heard them talking, canvas thudding and a\ncar starting, and sluggishly drifted back to sleep. Now he reached\nover to his jeans and felt in the back pocket for the scrap of cardboard she had given him at the quiet marshmallow toasting. On his\nback he slipped on his glasses and read the pencil-scrawled address;\none number could've been either 9 or 7 and he was afraid a mistake\nin a New York address could be fatal to a letter. When he noticed\nTess at his side he almost laughed recalling A picturesque country\ngirl.\nWalking to the canteen he heard girls' voices and all of them\nsounded flat and common. At the canteen he leaned on the counter\nand waited for the man to make his toast. \"You had any luck with\n21 the mermaids this weekend?\" the man asked. \"Saw ya with one here\nyesterday.\"\nHenry turned and looked toward the trees.\n\"She was pretty cute,\" the man said behind him, pushing down a\nstiff toaster lever. \"Now there's one sure way of figuring out the\nhoneys here.\" The man's voice came closer until he was standing\nbehind the counter. Henry turned and stared at him stonily. \"You\nmosey over to any of 'em smokin' cigarettes on the beach and you\nstart talkin' and, you know how they like blowin' big smoke rings.\nWell you sit close to one so's when you're talkin' casual-like you reach\nup your finger thisa way \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \" the man made a circle with the thumb\nand finger of one hand, and lifted a finger of the other hand \" \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and\nstick it through the smoke ring.\" The finger jammed into the circle.\n\"If she laughs that means she'll go down for you, sure thing.\"\n\"If she laughs. ...\" Henry said aloud to himself.\n\"Yeah,\" said the man, grinning.\n\"... sandwich in my tent.\"\n\"Hey!\" called the man holding onto his baseball cap, when Henry\nwas already out in the gravel. \"You can't get me to make toast, then\njust run off like that!\"\n\"Eat the toast yourself!\" Henry called, then he mumbled, \"And\nchoke on it for all I care\" and broke into a run. Crossing the parking\nlot he was thinking If I write if she writes so what it will end then he\nwanted to laugh wildly at the man's startled face then he was thinking A batch of letters nothing but a batch of letters. Along the path\nsweat gathered under his arms and the sunburn on his legs itched.\nOutside his tent he pulled the scrap of cardboard from his back\npocket, held it up in both hands and hesitated before letting it drop\ninto the cooking pit. He hesitated again before falling on his knees,\npicking the cardboard out from among the ashes and sliding it back\ninto his pocket. Below the sand water sprawled invitingly but he\ndoubted if he would swim before his father arrived. The sea, he\nfeared, would feel empty without her.\n22 Stephen Boston\nThe Erosion of Privacy in the New Age\nor:\nCaged on a Stage with No Place to Hide\nI was sitting alone in the big empty cafeteria full of empty booths\nand tables, piling the torn pieces of styrofoam coffee cup into a\ntower and wondering where everyone had gone. Perhaps they'd gone\nhome for the weekend, or perhaps they were studying, but it being\nonly the second week of term I doubted both. And now the only\nother occupants, a happy group clustered tightly at the distant other\nend of the room, were getting up to go, walking this way. I tried to\nkeep my attention concentrated on the tower, but as they went by\nmy booth I accidentally looked up to meet the gaze of a comical-\nlooking guy with a crazy loping walk and an Afro hairdo. He\nstopped to lean over me, peering suspiciously through his dirty gold-\nrimmed glasses.\n\"Engineering!\" he said, pointing to the tower.\nI gave him a look that said he was crazy and he mouthed a laugh,\nmaking big goofy bobbing motions with the upper half of his body,\nwhich gradually subsided to a quick nervous nodding of his head as\nhe stood back to light a cigarette. He made a long exaggerated reach\nto put the match into the ashtray beside me; it was as if he were\ntrying to avoid disturbing the equilibrium of his sturdy stance. All\nhis motions were like this, stiff and self-conscious, designed to give\nan impression of casualness and ease, but even the good humour and\nthe trace of satire on his face failed to mask his anxiety.\n\"Hey Chancy, you coming?\" someone called from the doorway.\nHe jumped to act surprised. \"Wanna go to a party there, Major?\nhe asked, toking noisily at the pinch of his forefinger and thumb.\n23 1. \"So guess who phoned today.\"\n\"Who?\" She was right to be excited: these days no-one ever\nphones when it's only me at home so she suspected it must be someone from the past. Someone nice. \"Louise!\"\n\"No, not Louise. Chancy: Chris Prince.\"\n\"Oh that's nice. What did he have to say?\"\n\"He's coming to stay for a few days \u00E2\u0080\u0094 You're not pleased.\"\n\"Sure I am, but I was never really ...\"\n\"He thought a lot of you. He was always under the impression\nthat I stole you from him.\"\n\"Oh we were just friends. He was cuddly and cute.\"\n\"Well I'm looking forward to seeing him. I miss those old days,\nyou know. Everything was so much more casual and easy. People\nwere more tolerant, I guess.\"\n\"And I suppose your life now is restricted and miserable.\"\n\"No come on, Jennie. I didn't mean that.\"\n\"That's what it sounds like. You're always talking about 'the old\ndays', 'when I was at school', 'before I got married' or something.\"\n\"Don't say 'always'.\"\n\"You say it enough for it to seem like always.\"\n\"That's just because you're so easily threatened. If you weren't\nso bloody insecure.\"\n\"And no wonder I'm insecure the way you're always thinking that\nthe best part of your life is behind you \u00E2\u0080\u0094 before the part where I\ncome in.\"\n\"Sometimes \u00E2\u0080\u0094 sometimes I feel that way.\"\n\"It's more like I stole you from Chancy and all those other stupid\nassholes you used to hang around with.\"\n\"Well I haven't had a real friend since.\"\n\"Don't be ridiculous.\"\n\"Name one.\"\n\"Fred.\"\n\"Fred's in Nigeria! He doesn't count.\"\n\"But he exists, he's alive, he's your friend. And there's Charles,\ntoo.\"\n\"Charles? Charles wouldn't like me half so much if you weren't\nthrown into the bargain.\"\n\"Ohhh, I'm going to sleep.\"\n2. She was wearing a camel skirt and jacket, a silky chocolate\nblouse open at her lean white throat, standing erect, strong, with a\n24 busy intelligent look, refined but with a tough stance, her lean thighs\nparted so that they were outlined against the skirt. I had fallen into\nimagining myself next to her on a plane, savouring the tension of her\ncoolness and distance, the small crisp sounds of her intimate movements when her eyes met mine and we had to look away, showing\nno more recognition than we'd give to the same old unchanging\nscene we see every day. But she turned back to look behind me, her\ngaze touching mine for a micro-second and then falling away to the\nstreet behind the doors where a tall, calm and efficient man would\neventually appear to take her away in a clean tan Mercedes. She\nshowed a flicker of impatience and then turned to watch the passengers coming through the gate from Chancy's flight.\nI recognized his loping walk while he was still well back in the\napproaching crowd. He flopped a casual wave in reply to mine but\notherwise made no sign of recognition, just continued loping along,\nlooking around him slow and bored \u00E2\u0080\u0094 until he saw the woman in\nthe camel suit. He gave a sudden jerk of surprise; she stared at him\nquestioningly and then he mouthed a laugh: hanging his tongue out,\nmaking goofy bobbing motions with the upper half of his body.\nAmused, she shook her head and turned to watch him crossing the\nfloor towards me, he wrenching his head around every few steps to\nlook back at her. She shook her head again and with a big happy\ngrin looked away to watch the passengers coming through the gate.\nAs Chancy came up to me I could hear the wheezing of his otherwise silent laugh, but he hadn't yet really met my eye.\n\"Well, well,\" I said to attract his attention.\n\"Now there's a nice tight little cunt,\" he said looking back over his\nshoulder just as the woman ran to embrace a grey-haired, dignified\nold man who was bursting with smiles for her.\n\"So,\" I said, \"It's really good to see you.\" And he shoved his\nhand at me. It was trembling and clammy.\nHe hadn't changed a bit; pretty much the same Afro, the same\ndirty glasses, and though now the lenses were tinted red, behind them\nwere the same eyes looking as if they were about to drip with tears\nexcept for the same flickering grin that tried to deny it though somehow couldn't quite. I felt like hugging him but I didn't dare.\n\"Good to see you,\" I said again. And he smiled and nodded as if\nto say, \"Well naturally.\"\n3. You have to go through the woods a bit to get to the house,\nalong a narrow path going down the hill to the bay. That evening as\n25 we came out of the trees onto the shore, the water was so still it\nlooked thick and black like oil or jelly with solid gold bars flickering\nacross the surface from the sun going down. And everything was\nquiet except for a gull far away and the sputtering of an old boat on\nthe other side, and the gentle slurping and gulping of the water's\nedge; and Chancy's hacking cough as he marched along in front of\nme, marched solidly, head down towards the door of the little cottage\nthat sits right at the water's edge.\nI had been looking forward to seeing he and Jennie meet again\nafter all these years, but as we went through the door, she stayed\nstanding awkwardly on the other side of the room trying to smile.\nShe didn't run up to embrace him as she usually does with these\nvisitors from the past, she just said, \"Hello Chris.\"\n\"Well Jennie,\" he said, dumping his backpack, \"Long time no\nsee.\" He sniffed hard, stretched, \"Ohhhwahhoh, what a trip!\" It\nwas an awkward restrained movement during which he examined\nthe floor from wall to wall. \"I guess there'll be room for Old Chancy\nto crash here.\"\n\"Sure,\" I cried boldly. \"There's always room for you, Chancy.\"\nHe laughed the goofy silent laugh again. \"Well,\" he declared,\n\"I've squeezed into some pretty tight places in my travels. This will\nbe adequate.\"\nI made a little laugh. Jennie took a look at me and then looked\naway.\n4. Jennie had taken care with the dinner. It was a complicated and\ntime-consuming dish which she served with pride and enthusiasm,\nalmost with glee.\n\"Well Jennie, you're quite the cook aren't you,\" he said, watching her excitement. It sounded like a crack; she looked hurt, her\nsmile blinked off. He laughed at her, wheezing with his tongue\nhanging out. \"No no,\" he reassured her, \"I'm sure it's eatable. But\nyou don't have to go to trouble for me. After eating on the road it's\ngoing to be good just to have a home cooked meal again.\" And\nindeed he ate with gusto.\nAfter wrashing the dishes, Jennie went to read in the bedroom, I\nplayed a record I'd been wanting to share, and he sat down to write\nletters to friends.\n\"I write a lot of letters,\" he said. \"I've got a lot of correspondents.\nYou don't mind me giving them your address eh, so they can send\nletters back to me.\"\n26 \"If you write so many how come you've never written to me,\" I\nsaid, trying to sound teasing.\nHe coughed, laughed uneasily, \"Well ...\"\n\"Who you writing to now?\" I asked to let him off the hook.\n\"Diane MacKenzie. You remember Diane.\" He licked a corner\nof his mouth, flicking his eyebrows suggestively.\n\"Oh yeah.\"\n\"A very fine lady. She's in Halifax now, doing her docky in phys.\nYou remember Gordie.\"\n\"Gordie?\"\n\"Gordie Melansen, used to hang around with Tod.\"\n\"Oh yeah.\"\n\"Well he's living with her now. A very lucky dude. Got a pretty\ngood job, too: silly service. Set for life. Crashed with them for a\ncoupla months. Now there's a pair of beautiful people.\" Lovingly,\nhis hands trembling, he smoothed the paper he'd been writing on,\nsweeping away any dust that may have accumulated. Then after\ninspecting the page carefully, blowing now and then at stubborn\nstray specks, he took a deep drag on his cigarette and turned to gaze\nat the window which was dark by now, reflecting.\n\"While I was there, Bull Shepherd came and crashed for a coupla\nweeks. Amazing dude.\" He looked at me with an intimate air, his\neyes swelling with tears again but his mouth set hard. Suddenly he\nbroke up into his goofy laugh again. \"You wouldn't believe!\" he\nwheezed. He lifted one cheek of his buttocks off the chair and farted\nloudly. \"Good food, Jennie,\" he shouted at the bedroom door and\nthen did the laugh again, looking at me as if we were in some mocking conspiracy.\n\"I'd really like to see Old Bull again,\" he said after a while. \"I'll\nhave to write to him, tell him I'm back in old Can. That is if the\nposties can track the dude down. We had some good times. Now\nthere's a dude to shake you up. He just doesn't give a fuck. A drifter.\nJust like me. Ran into him in the Auckland airport. Auckland!\nAuckland of all places. Amazing dude. Amazing. Everybody thought\nwe were nuts, didn't know whether to arrest us or not: screaming\nand laughing and poking at each other. Shit. Now there's a trip for\nyou.\" He glanced at the bedroom door and said, \"You don't know\nwhat it's like. You oughta travel you know. You need that experience\nto grow. You just hang around here, don't you?\"\n\"Mostly yeah.\"\n\"I bet you always do. Come on, Steve. Fess up.\"\n27 \"Well no, we did go away for a while last summer.\"\n\"Oh I see yeah, I see: The World Traveller.\" He shook his head\nin disgust. \"Where'd you go? Nanaimo?\" I shrugged carelessly.\n\"Come on, Steve. You can tell Chancy. Your old friend? Old\nbuddy?\" He hung his tongue out to laugh at me.\n\"Went to Calgary,\" I said with a glance at the window. The truth\nis it was Red Deer to see my sister, but I didn't dare tell him.\n\"Calgary!\" he cried. \"What a pissy town. What the hell d'you go\nthere for? And you went with Jennie of course?\"\n\"Sure yeah.\"\nHe shook his head with a grave look, \"Doesn't count. You got to\nbe alone, to be free, no ties.\" He brushed off his letter paper as if to\ndismiss me and then lifted his pen to write \u00E2\u0080\u0094 lifted his whole arm\noff the table, far more motion than was necessary for the function:\nit was as if he were doing it so the people at the back of the theatre\ncould see. But even after all that the pen didn't reach the page. He\nlooked up at me over the top rims of his glasses, \"You know everyone else from the Old U has done some serious travelling, Europe at\nleast.\"\n\"I've got other things to do,\" I said with a shrug. \"I don't like\ntravelling much anyway.\"\n\"You get into it, Steve. And you really need it to relate these days,\nit's part of the common experience. I'm serious. And it'd do you the\nworld of good. You and Tim Johnson. But he can't help it. Couple\nof kid's now.\"\n\"Tim! How the hell is Tim? What's he doing?\"\n\"Yeah everybody wants to know about Tim.\"\n\"Tim was pretty important to me. He helped me through some\nbad times.\"\n\"Yeah,\" he said to the window. \"Most people used to feel that\nway about him. He's working for some investment company in TO\nnow.\"\n\"Tim?\"\n\"Some big shot job pushing people around. And he wouldn't see\nme. Went to see him and he wouldn't see me. Margie always came\nto the door or answered the phone and said he didn't want to see\nme, didn't want to see anybody from Fred.\" He was shaking so\nbadly he could hardly get a cigarette out of the package.\n\"Tim?\"\n\"Tim.\"\n\"Jesus he was always so \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"\n28 \"Yup, but people can change.\" He smoothed his paper, lifted his\narm. \"Well I gotta finish this letter. Try to write a letter every day.\nOf course some days, (some very good days), you never get around\nto it.\" He made one goofy bobbing. \"You go ahead with whatever\nyou want to do there, Major. You don't have to entertain me. I\nknow you feel you have to be a good host.\" The tongue hung out.\n\"But just pretend I'm not here.\" It was a genuinely magnanimous\ngesture. He took a big lungful of smoke and blew it out into the\nroom, followed it up with several short sharp puffs and another\nbillowing lungful and then farted again, sniffed and went back to\nhis letter.\n5. \"How long is he staying?\" Jennie muttered under her breath as\nI slipped in next to her sleepy warmth. The tone of her voice was\nunsettling.\n\"What's the matter?\"\nShe stirred uneasily. \"I just want to know how long he's staying,\nthat's all.\"\n\"I don't know. He hasn't said yet.\"\n\"Oh Jesus, Steve, he's planning on staying for months.\"\n\"No he wouldn't,\" I said with an alarming lack of conviction.\n\"He's not just visiting. He's settling in.\"\n\"Let's not fight about it, OK?\" I said turning away from her as\nif to sleep. And then to calm us both I said, \"We won't let him stay\nthat long.\" I tried to remember something which might reassure me\nthat he didn't intend staying more than a week or so but my mind\nwouldn't settle to it. I listened to Jennie's breathing, waiting for it\nto take on her sleeping rhythm: if she felt easy enough to sleep then\nprobably my alarm was exaggerated.\n\"He's a gossip,\" she whispered suddenly, turning onto her back.\n\"It's how he lives. Staying with old friends and telling them about\ntheir old friends. He's a travelling nostalgia show. He looks the same,\nhe talks the same, he acts the same. He uses the power that whole\ngroup used to have to intimidate you. The whole travelling thing.\nAnd Diane MacKenzie.\"\n\"Oh Christ, Jennie.\"\n\"And you can bet when he leaves here eventually, he'll take the\nwhole story to entertain his next victim, threatening in his insidious\nway. Look at the way he tries to destroy Tim. Tim probably couldn't\nstand him either and that's why.\"\n\"But he's really suffering, you know,\" I said, trying to excuse\n29 him. \"I've never seen anyone so uptight. It must be agonizing. He\nthinks he's on stage you know. It's like he's got chronic stage fright.\"\n\"So what you're saying is that you're not going to tell him to go\nwhen he starts driving us crazy.\"\n\"Oh come on. He won't stay that long.\"\n\"Oh Jesus, Steve\" she hissed, tossing over into her falling asleep\nposition. My legs broke out into a prickly sweat, my heart heaved,\nand from the living room where he had just turned off the TV\ncame the shiny slithering sound of Chancy crawling into his sleeping\nbag. He let a loud tearing fart and an exaggeratedly grateful sigh,\ncoughed, sniffed, coughed, sniffed and sighed again. To let the world\nknow he was falling asleep now.\n6. The next morning when I came out to eat breakfast, he was\nballed up on the floor. By the cleanness of the table I saw that\nJennie hadn't eaten there, probably because she felt too self-\nconscious, and I wondered, guiltily, if she'd eaten at all.\nThe sounds of my coffee cup and plate hitting the table were\nunusually loud. Chancy stirred. Although I felt sorry for disturbing\nhim, I resented his sleeping \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I'd been looking forward to his company over breakfast. To make things worse, I began to suspect he'd\nbeen awake all along (his body was too still, his breathing too\nshallow) and that he intended to lie there listening to my eating. In\nan urge I clumped my coffee cup down hard, too loud for anyone\nto sleep through. He looked up at me, feigning surprise.\n\"What the fuck time is it?\" he grumbled.\n\"Ten o'clock.\"\n\"Jesus.\" He flexed and crawled.\n\"You want some breakfast?\"\nHe snorted. \"Coffee's fine for me, Steve.\" He said it with condescension.\n\"On the stove.\"\nGrunting, he lumbered into the kitchen. \"Oh hoh! Real coffee!\nReal class!\" Although he meant it was totally lacking in class, he\nmeant it was bourgeois. \"You didn't have to go to all this trouble\nfor me. All I need's to get the old caffeine into the old system.\" He\nsat across from me and lit a cigarette. Guiltily I noticed he looked\ngenuinely tired.\n\"You know I was thinking,\" he said, suddenly awake. \"I was\nwondering what you've got to write about. You just hang around\n30 this same old place, never doing anything with your life. You'd do\na lot better if you had something to write about.\"\n\"Like what?\"\n\"Like a trip around the world.\"\n\"I don't want to go around the world.\"\n\"So you said. So I thought of making my diary available to you.\nPacked with lots of juicy adventure. Beats your life.\"\n\"My life's not bad.\"\n\"Well not meaning to be rude, Friend, but quite frankly your life\nain't much. But now if you were to go through my diary, fixing up\nthe incoherencies, the spelling, taming down the dialogue and stuff\nlike that, then maybe we could get ourselves a bit of cash. And you'd\nget enough ideas to keep you going for fifteen years. I guarantee it.\"\n\"Well . .. Have you tried doing it yourself?\"\n\"Just trying to help you out, Friend,\" he said with his hands in\nthe air. \"As a matter of fact I have considered doing it myself but\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 \" He laughed to pull me into his confidence. \" \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I'm not very\ngood at typing and stuff like that. Names need changing too. Some\nvery personal stuff in there. Very personal. Wouldn't want to get the\nladies mad at me.\"\n\"You old dog.\"\nHe hung his tongue out and did a bob or two. \"Ahha. I knew it!\nYou're jealous. Admit it, Steve, you'd just love to fuck the women\nI've fucked.\"\n\"I don't know that.\"\nHe pulled the knapsack across the floor and plucked from a pouch\na packet of photographs. He looked at the packet proudly for a\nmoment and then with a cluck of his tongue and a jerk of his head\nslid the photographs across the table.\n7. It was mid-afternoon so the place was just beginning to get\nlively. The regulars were playing pool, making furtive deals as cool\nas they could, or staring glassy-eyed at nothing. Two old ladies\nclutching parcels to their laps, who had obviously wandered into the\nwrong place and found themselves too embarrassed to leave, hid\ntheir terror by gulping sherry faster than ever before in their lives.\nChancy, seeing them as he came through the entrance, gave a hearty,\nsilent laugh and even quietly slapped his knee before sitting down\nacross from me.\n\"Well how d'it go?\" I asked him.\n31 \"Like I expected: nothing. There's not a job to be had in the\nwhole damn country.\"\n\"Yeah this isn't the best place to look. I didn't realize you were\nthinking of stopping here or I would've warned you.\"\n\"Well why else would I've come, Stevey boy?\"\nI looked across at the old women \u00E2\u0080\u0094 one of them had managed to\nsmile at something the other had said \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and tried to find some distraction in wondering what the joke could be, but it wasn't enough\nto stop the slight turning down of the corners of my mouth. \"Uh I\nguess I didn't think much about it. I was looking forward to seeing\nyou.\" I looked away to avoid his eyes, tried to see if I could pick up\non the games at the pool table, but with the corner of my eye I\ncould see him bobbing back and forth.\n\"Oh ho, I see, I see. You thought I was coming just to see you.\nOld Times.\"\n\"Well no. I mean Victoria's a nice place.\"\n\"If you like geraniums. Speaking of which I think they're getting\nto you, Friend.\"\n\"Fuck off. You just said you were thinking of living here.\"\nHe laughed again. \"Oh ho. Now his feelings are hurt.\"\n\"Nooh.\"\n\"Hey, I'm just a drifter, Steve. I don't feel ties easily. I live the\nbest I can on as little as I can and that means I depend a lot on other\npeople to get me by. You know: put me up when the cash is low.\nSo I'm pretty good at getting people to like me. I have to be \u00E2\u0080\u0094 to\nsurvive.\"\nWhen I turned back to face him, his face was smug. He looked\naway quickly and with trembling fingers rattled a cigarette from his\npack. Suddenly he broke up with a laugh again, \"Looks like those\ntwo old dolls are getting to feel right at home.\" he said.\n8. \"Steve, he's driving me crazy.\"\n\"Yeah, I know. He's a prick, a pompous, pious prick.\"\n\"You'll have to get rid of him.\"\n\"I don't know why it has to be me. It's you he's driving crazy.\nHe's only just started to bug me.\"\n\"Stephen.\"\n\"Well goddam it, Jennie, you can't just kick him out. He's got\nhardly any money, he doesn't know anybody around here \u00E2\u0080\u0094 he has\nnowhere else to go. And he's a friend, goddamn it. You can't just\nkick out a friend.\"\n32 \"Friends don't act like him. Sitting there with the TV blasting out\nthe goddamn hockey game, and he knows how much we both hate the\nsound of it. And farting. Smoking incessantly. Making insinuations.\nHe's got nothing but contempt for us. A friend! Shit!\"\n\"Yeah I know. But I keep hoping I'll get through to him.\"\n\"What the hell for? He's not worth the trouble. The only thing\nthat'll get through to him is getting kicked out. He doesn't think you\nhave the guts, you know.\"\n\"I think he's right.\"\n\"You're just afraid of what he'll say. You're afraid he'll take a\nbad report to all those people you think are so great. That people will\nremember you as the one who kicked 'Chancy' out. You're so concerned what all those people will think. Why?\" It wasn't a rhetorical\n'why'; she expected an answer even though she knew I didn't have\none. \"Ninety-nine percent of them wouldn't even remember you if\nyou were described in detail,\" she said. And it hurt like the truth.\n\"But even if everyone of them could, even if they thought about you\nevery day, what the hell would it matter?\"\nI couldn't answer, my mind was struck dumb. \"It just does,\" I\nsaid, \"It just matters.\"\n\"Oh for pity's sake,\" she spat, and rolled over to fall asleep.\n9. Defiantly I prepared an enormous breakfast for myself; I even\nturned the radio on to listen to the news. And Chancy's scorn was\ndripping. But I didn't care. I chomped and slurped with a heart\nfull of happy hate, and stared at Chancy's hands until they trembled\nso badly his coffee cup rattled when he touched it to the table.\n\"What's bugging you, Chancy?\" I asked suddenly, staring at him\nhard.\nHe took a quick glance at me and said, \"Oh lots of things bug\nme, Steve. Why?\"\n\"You're always shaking, you're always looking like you're just\nabout to fall apart. Ever since I first met you.\" I felt exhilaration\nat the aggressiveness in my voice: that I would dare.\n\"Sure I'm more nervous than the average. I admit that.\" He was\nboasting it.\n\"Nervous!?\" I snorted at the understatement.\nHe shook some cigarettes out of the pack, but before he could\nreach the matches, I'd picked them up and lit one, holding it across\nthe table towards him. He jerked backwards in exaggerated surprise.\n\"Why thank you, Major,\" he said, but he was frightened by it.\n33 \"I'd say you were in a perpetual state of terror.\"\nHe mouthed a goofy laugh. \"Hey, what is this, Friend?\"\n\"And that laugh of yours,\" I said in an off-hand way, just an aside\nbefore stuffing my mouth with egg and toast.\n\"What about my laugh?\" he said, trying to make his defensiveness\nsound like an act.\n\"Oh nothing,\" I muttered between chomps. \"I mean if you gotta\nlaugh, you gotta laugh someway, Friend. Who am I to criticize?\"\nAnd I hung my food-smeared tongue out, wheezed a few forced\nha-ha's and bobbed myself up and down just like he always does.\n10. \"So how d'it happen so fast?\" she asked, cuddling a little\ncloser.\n\"Well right after I told him, he wanted to go and find a place.\nJesus it made me feel bad. I didn't think he was going to take it\nhard as he did. It even looked like he might really cry at last. He\nwas a bit pissed off too, but I don't care. I guess.\"\n\"He must've known it was going to happen though. I mean he\nmust know what he was doing.\"\n\"I don't think so. I had to reassure him, right? I thought he was\ngoing to have a nervous breakdown right there in the street, so like\nan asshole I had to try and reassure him, tell him it wasn't him or\nanything, that it was us and our privacy thing. And he lapped it up\nof course and turned it back on me. You know what he said? He\nsaid: T know what it is! You and Jennie are too uptight to get it\non when I'm right there in the next room listening.' \"\n\"What a prick. Anything so he doesn't have to face up to what\na pain he is.\"\n\"And I was going so good this morning. I had him terrified I\nthink. I was really getting through to him, really shaking him up.\nAnd then I had to go all soft. Goddamn. So he got away.\"\n\"Well maybe now that he's on his own he'll have to take a good\nlook at himself.\"\n\"Uh uh: he's not alone.\"\n\"Oh no.\"\n\"This couple needed help with the rent. They all seemed to get\nalong so well even, that they said he could move in as soon as he\nwanted.\"\n\"Do they know what they're getting into?\"\n\"They do by now. When we got there with his stuff (about three\nhours later \u00E2\u0080\u0094 a couple of days earlier than they'd expected, I think)\n34 he just walks in like he owns the place \u00E2\u0080\u0094 which he does, I guess,\npartly. I mean he lives there and everything, but still . . . And they\nhad the curtains closed, lying on the couch drinking wine. And he\nyells something. 'Howdy gang it's me again,' or something, and walks\nright in past them there on the couch and throws the curtains open\nand says, 'Let's get some light in here.' And then he slumps over to\nthe kitchen area and starts banging all the cupboard doors and\nyelling, 'Where d'you keep the coffee there, Major?' \"\n\"Oh my God, Stephen.\"\n\"I couldn't believe it.\"\n\"Well what did they do? Didn't they say anything?\"\n\"Yeah. The guy told him where the coffee was. And Chancy\nmade me a cup of coffee. 'Instant,' he says. T hope you don't mind.'\nJesus.\"\n\"Bastard.\"\n\"Well I don't know. I guess I had it coming in a way. I feel like\nsuch an asshole. I mean I would've broken down and screamed for\nmercy if anyone had come charging into my home like that, but\nthis guy seemed to think it was all normal and OK.\"\n\"I bet she didn't.\"\n\"Well I couldn't tell. She disappeared into the shower.\"\n\"Yeah I think I would've too. And never come out.\"\n\"I felt rotten. And I had to sit there and drink the coffee. I\ncouldn't just walk out.\"\n\"He wouldn't've cared.\"\n\"He might've. Anyway this guy was so casual, so calm about\neverything. I had to sit there like a dummy feeling shitty while they\ntalked \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and you know what? Within three minutes they'd found\na mutual acquaintance.\"\n\"Well you're bound to get to know a lot of people when you\ntravel a lot.\"\n\"But I get the feeling that all those people know each other, that\nit's all a kind of family, you know. That it's a family.\"\nJennie sighed. \"Well I bet she won't like it. No matter who he\nknows.\"\n\"I really don't know. I guess not. I mean: you can only hope.\"\n35 Danny Feeney / Two Poems\nWHAT I FORGOT\nI know every depressing thing\nyou could say to me\nall the words are in my mind\nsignposts of my dead end nihilism\nI have, how you say, survived\nnicely, she has answered my\nletters, I am proud\nI met her when my speech\nwas crazy, my eyes steely\nand my sex deformed\nagainst the greedy transfer of hands\nand morning papers\nand coffee\nNow I am not sure\nwhere nothingness fails me\nI break down every time\nin the doctor's office\nIt's not mine, it's\nnothing at all, it's\nnobody's I say\n36 Blood is an enemy of\nkindness, its stains are hard\nto remove\nI scrub and scrub but it\nchanges and breathes\nand grows and the air gets heavy\nwith ammonia\nand I gasp a last phrase\nI've been practising since I was ten\nbut it's not the scene of my death\nnot yet, I have wonders\nto perform, I see\nthe sun bathes us all and still\nwe are dirty with nicknames\nreligions and paranoia\nDear God, if I stood in a circle\nand prayed\nwould it be your absence that saved me?\n37 SUMMER EVENING FOR CECILIA\nplayers walk off to those gold-red clouds\ntwisting near the edge of deeper dimensions\ntwilight closes in, orange transparency dims\na cheap stain cracked by long shadows\nshadows pausing, extending fuzzy borders that disappear\nneighbourhoods settling, lawn chairs folding\ndusk into packets\nthe lighted room travels\nout an open window and down the greying avenue\nas dusty corners disperse among residences\nsound of one absent crying over newspapers\nand Oh for the nightly death\nof accomplished innocence\nI saw those tiny diamonds\nyears ago, tumbling from the shaft of her eyes\nand down her cheeks\nshe put on a jacket\nand took to the streets\nwhere players played knights and maidens\nsincere artists beneath the streetlights\nand isn't that her face\nin that pile of bloody paintings lying there\nlike the wrecked face of an old dark woman?\nin the kitchen a name disturbs the cutlery\nI open the recent layers of night and seek that name\none mysterious fife among so many\n38 Terence Byrnes\nGetting the Hang of It\ni.\nEvery Saturday, when the listener surveys had been tallied, one of\nthe popular Top 40 stations in Miami declared itself the winner.\nThe first month they lived in the city, they listened for the results\neach Saturday afternoon. They had followed the warm weather\nfrom Nova Scotia to Florida, having left windy Truro at night to\nfind Indian Summer in Massachusetts the next afternoon. Two\nnights later, lost on an orchard-lined road in Georgia, Paul heard the\ndistant voice of a Miami announcer suddenly wash in over the\ntwangy hillbilly station that his father had chosen. When it washed\nout just as suddenly, his mother pushed all the tuning buttons in\nsequence so that the dial pointer scuttled across the band trying to\nreceive the signal as though it were a homing beacon.\nThey took the Collins Expressway into Miami Beach, where they\nlearned from a short-sleeved motorcycle patrolman that Miami itself\nwas miles to the west, on the other side of Biscayne Bay. They\nblushed and nodded gratefully, stunned at the idea that they had\ndriven two thousand miles to the wrong city, and took the causeway\nto a motel on Biscayne Boulevard in Miami. The same afternoon his\nfather arranged to sublease a house in Coral Gables. The square\nwhite note pad that the manager kept in the motel's phone booth\nwas left covered with the rapid calculations of family accounts.\nThe house sat on a street of meticulously bordered lawns dotted\nwith dwarf banana trees, mango, papaya, and blanketed with the\nsmell of jasmine. They felt like intruders. His mother arranged all\ntheir household goods in three front rooms, as if daring them to live\noutside the frugal orbit she had established. His father's truck, with\nits rusting Nova Scotia tags and spotty grey coat of primer, sat\nincongruously in their white gravelled driveway. Curious neighbours\n39 on after-dinner walks would stop beside the truck to read the sign\non the leaning plywood walls bolted to its bed. Watching them from\nthe darkened kitchen, Paul could see their lips sounding it out as\nthough either the words or the message were somehow difficult and\nforeign: D. McConnell. Carpenter and Roofer. General Contracting.\nOn Saturday afternoon his mother would study the long column\nof houses for rent in the Miami Herald, referring all the time to a\nsmall map of the city she had borrowed from a neighbour. Some sections of the map had been neatly fenced off with pencilled boxes.\nOther sections were labelled \"White.\" While he waited for the Help\nWanted ads, invariably in the same section of the paper as Houses\nfor Rent, his father would leaf through old copies of Esquire, Flair,\nand Look, which they had found in one of the unused bedrooms. He\noften ripped the pages when he turned them, as if the movement\nwere too fine for his heavy wrists and fingers. His large hands were\nalways at odds with the rest of his body, which had a look of almost\nhollow-boned fragility. In a baggy flannel work shirt, his chest\nseemed to be concave. His hair, as light and fine as a baby's, formed\nonly a sparse fringe around the top of his head. His hands trembled.\nSetting a nail into a stud, he would jab at it with the hammer at the\ninstant his shaking hand happened to be holding the nail perpendicular to the surface of the wood. All the same, Paul knew he was\na good carpenter.\nWhen WQAM declared itself the winner on the fourth consecutive Saturday and WFUN, its competitor, was still on the air, Paul's\nmother decided that their competition was all somehow duplicitous.\nThe listener surveys didn't mean anything. It no longer mattered if\nshe were loyal to the station she had first heard in Georgia, then lost,\nthen recovered in St. Augustine. The radio, she said, would have to\ndo without her. She let Paul spend two dollars for batteries at Wal-\ngreen's so he could take the radio outside with him; she didn't want\nto hear it.\nAt night, tired of hearing the same DJ's insistent voice as he lay\nin bed, he would slide the tuning dial over to another station's frequency, where one DJ had been broadcasting continuously for one\nhundred hours from a booth in a car dealer's parking lot. There was\nan anxious, angry edge to his voice when he boasted about the world\nrecords he was breaking and about his listeners who, he said, depended on him. He sounded like an inhabitant of some vivid, unrestrained and frightening world. Paul's father, walking past the\nbedroom at eleven ea.ch night would hear the radio and call, \"Lights\n40 out.\" Minutes later his mother would yell, \"Put the damned thing\noff.\"\nIn January they were still living in Coral Gables, and renting two\nrooms to a student from the University of Miami medical school. He\nhad been a doctor in Cuba, he told them, but now worked as a janitor at the university, where he was also studying to pass the professional exams which would allow him to practice in Florida. Having\na boarder gave them an almost giddy, proprietorial feeling. They\nmoved around the house with an exaggerated sense of responsibility,\nready to do anything their tenant might ask. But the young man\nnever asked for anything and after a few weeks the back half of the\nhouse seemed as though it had never belonged to them. Paul would\nmeet the boarder in the yard as they both left for school and in their\nsurprise they would look at each other as though they were both\ntrespassers.\nPaul met Mrs. Tannenbaum after answering an ad she had tacked\nto the bulletin board at the 7-11 store. She wanted a boy to do yard\nwork. A stunted cabbage palmetto clung to the sandy loam in the\ncentre of Mrs. Tannenbaum's back yard and he would hang the\nstrap on his transistor radio over a broken frond on the tree so he\ncould listen to music while pruning the spare, nameless shrubs that\nstaked out the perimeter of her yard. Catching an occasional glimpse\nof her watching him through a half-closed jalousy, he would flex his\narm muscles and try to look strong and tireless, working until droplets of sweat flew from his eyebrows into his eyes, making them burn\nwith a sharp salt tingle. Then, turning to see if she was still watching,\nhe would find her gone.\nHe worked for a dollar twenty an hour and lunch, always a warm\nslice of salami on a single piece of bread. While he ate she talked to\nhim. She was a widow. She was from New York. A whining sigh\npunctuated her sentences when she spoke about herself but she was\nstern and full of sarcastic humour when she talked about neighbours\nor relatives. She became as completely Floridian to him as white\nstucco or healthy brown skin.\nIt was important to her that the blunt ends of table legs and the\nunderside of chair seats be waxed every week. She gave him a footstool so he could reach the highest leaves of a rubber plant in the\n41 screened Florida room to wipe them with a dark, citric-smelling oil\nwhich made them shine like plastic. Balancing on the stool, washing\nthe walls and ceiling, he would look down and see that she had\nquietly walked into the room to watch him. Her floral Hawaiian\nmuu-muu billowed from her sloping shoulders and flapped and\nundulated to the ground from her stiffly supported bust. When she\nleaned forward, the tired elastic at the neck of her dress would let\nthe material droop, amazing him with the few full drops of perspiration which formed a wet and perfectly circular pool in the concave\nslope between her breasts. As she stood up, the dress would close\nabout her again and exhale the cool smell of camphor-ice.\nAfter he had worked for three weekends it seemed impossible that\nMrs. Tannenbaum could find anything more for him to do. When\nhe arrived at her home from the bus stop, carrying his tools in a\ncanvas duffle, she invited him to sit in the Florida room and gave him\na cup of tea and a sweet roll. Then, with a rush of explanation she\ntold him that she had seen some palmetto bugs outside, but there\nwere none inside and \"even the best houses down here have them.\"\nHe had seen these dark cockroaches running from the light in the\nkitchen at home. They were as long and dark and thick as a cigar\nbutt. Stepped on, their hard shells sent a shudder of sickening vibration through the sole of his shoe and up his leg to his stomach. To\nget rid of them, exterminators covered entire buildings with light\nfabric and pumped in gas until it inflated, making the house look as\nthough a billowing orange balloon had landed on it.\n\"Just find out where they are and do something,\" Mrs. Tannenbaum instructed him. \"You know,\" she said, reaching for a can of\nRaid under his wicker settee and putting it down beside his tea cup.\nOutside, not knowing exactly what to do, he searched underneath\nhedges and checked for entrance holes along the concrete foundation\nand in window frames. At the rear of the yard he found a book-sized\nslab of concrete raised just above ground level. He pried it up with\nthe blade end of a pair of pruning shears and pushed it aside. A\nthick army of palmetto bugs moiled around the bottom of the concrete box it had covered, coming half-way the height of a water\nshut-off valve inside. They churned like an agitated mass of dark\nmolasses, spilled over the sides of the box and disappeared into the\nstiff grass. Jumping from them, he fell and then scrambled to his\nfeet, spraying insecticide into the grass in a defensive circle around\nhimself.\n42 He retreated to the centre of the yard but the palmetto bugs had\nall somehow disappeared. When he nudged his pruning sheers with\nthe toe of his shoe, a dozen more ran from their disturbed cover. He\ncarefully picked up the open duffle bag, shook it, and hung it from\na palm frond beside his radio. He heard a Cuban sternly reading an\nannouncement on the news. The Cuban said his name was Jose\nCardona. He said the Cuban Revolutionary Council had launched\nan attack on Cuba at a place called Bay of Pigs.\nPaul turned the volume up. His mother was working in a box\nfactory in Little Havana just off Flagler, and a week before had\nbrought home the news that all the Cubans were drawing their vacation pay, \"and that means there's going to be something with Cuba.\"\nHe and his father had listened respectfully to what seemed like\nromantic and even clandestine information. Neither of them had\nthought of what it might be that was going to happen in Cuba.\nThey couldn't even agree on the direction in which Cuba lay off the\nAmerican mainland.\nHe looked back at the house and saw Mrs. Tannenbaum watching him through the jalousy. The slats snapped vertically shut and\nMrs. Tannenbaum appeared at the side door, waving a bamboo fan\nand holding a glass dripping with condensation. \"You did something out there?\" she asked. \"Didn't you?\"\nWhen the Cuban medical student announced that he was moving\nout at the end of April, Paul felt an urgent need to ask him about\nthe invasion \u00E2\u0080\u0094 to describe it, confirm it, anything. It was as if, after\nhis mother's disillusionment with the radio, it had redeemed itself by\nreporting something that could be verified. In May, the rooms at the\nrear of the house were as empty as they had been before.\n3.\nAn ad appeared in the \"Personals\" and in the \"Help Wanted\"\nsections of the Miami Herald: \"Anxious to Succeed? Young Men\n13 to 17 Wanted for Sales Positions. Income as great as your desire\nto get ahead.\"\nHe was in a third floor office in Northeast Miami. The building\nfaced south over the shabby grey frame houses and tenements of\nBrownsville to the business district, almost a hundred blocks away.\nThe view from the office window was partially blocked by an air\nconditioner that shuddered occasionally as it worked to keep the\nsmall room overcooled. He tried to be inconspicuous about reaching\n43 into his suit jacket pocket to recover the sheet of mimeo paper with\nhis instructions. Across the top of the page someone had hand-\nlettered, \"From the Desk of Nick Pappas.\" Beneath that, it told him\nwhere and when to report for work and said he should memorize a\nshort sales speech which began, \"Hi! Do you have a telephone?\"\nHe waited uncomfortably with six other boys, none of whom wore\nsuits or even jackets. Tongue shaped shirt tails, which they wore outside their jeans, lay in their laps like short aprons. One boy, a Negro,\nwore a white shirt that had acquired the spotty grey pallor of an\noverbleached kitchen rag. Another boy, with scented dark hair and\na light purple shirt was obviously a Cuban. Apart from his general\nappearance, Paul recognized the heavy, square glasses frames which\nall Cubans seemed to wear. Two of the boys talked quietly. When\nthe air conditioner clicked off, their whispers echoed lightly in the\nhigh-ceilinged room.\nA young man walked into the room from an inner office. He was\nwearing a beige suit with large buttons and a yellow tie with grey\ndiagonal stripes. \"A short interview,\" he announced, crooking his\nfinger at the boy with the white shirt and the Cuban. The boys\nglanced at each other with expressionless faces and slowly followed\nthe man's clicking footsteps into the hallway.\n\"I bet that's gonna be some interview,\" a boy said.\n\"It's the U.S. Space Program,\" said another. \"Coon to the moon\nby June.\"\nTheir sudden laughter stopped when the young man returned\nfrom the hall. He led them to a meeting room with four rows of\nfolding chairs arranged in front of a low wooden platform. The\nunfinished plywood walls of the room were decorated with framed\nslogans and warnings. The largest read, \"Never Use the Word\nFree.\" Paul took a seat at the edge of the room and recited the sales\nspeech to himself.\nThe young man stepped up onto the wooden platform. Paul could\nsee the perforated violet panels on the tops of his shoes. \"I am Mr.\nPappas,\" he began, \"and my father wants me to work on his sponge\nboat in Tampa.\" He let his hand dangle at the wrist, stared down a\nsnicker from one of the boys, and showed them a large sapphire ring\nin a gold setting. \"But I don't have to do that, you see. I worked my\ncan off and in a couple months I had something like this to show for\nit.\" The boys, who were almost equally spaced in the room, like alternating squares on a checkerboard, leaned forward to look.\n\"And the way I got this is the same way you're gonna get it. You\n44 sell the magazines that we buy discount subscriptions to, and if you\nsell more than three mags to one customer, you pick up extra PM.\"\nOne of the boys put his hand up.\n\"PM is Prize Money. But you're stupid, right? You don't know\nhow to sell a life preserver on a sinking ship.\" He waited for their\nlaughter. \"To get you started, we paid a consultant to write this sales\nspeech for you, and you all know it, right? And if you don't, think\nfast.\" He pointed at Paul after dramatically sweeping his arm across\nthe room.\n\"Let's hear it,\" he said when Paul stood up. \"But the jacket and\ntie have gotta go. We don't want to scare anyone off. The image is\nboys, not salesmen.\"\nPaul took his jacket and tie off and blankly recited the sales\nspeech. Sitting back down, he realized that even the seat of his pants\nwas wet with perspiration.\n\"Next,\" Pappas called. Each recitation was more enthusiastic\nthan the previous one, as though they drew courage from each\nother's mistakes.\n\"OK,\" Pappas said. \"Anyone who doesn't know the speech washes\nout. If your customer doesn't have a telephone, he can't afford to\nbe buying subscriptions. Any paperwork we have to do on the freeloaders gets billed to you.\" He handed around booklets of order\nforms. \"Let's do it,\" he yelled, with practiced enthusiasm.\nThe distance between the boys shrank as they leaned together to\ntalk. Paul edged in closer to the group so Pappas wouldn't notice\nhim. He wanted to leave but the noise the others were making\nseemed to hold him in its centre.\nOutside, they crowded into Pappas' car, a black Thunderbird that\ndrew exaggerated gasps from the boys. While he drove, Pappas told\nthem about his career as a door-to-door salesman. He said, that to\nclose a sale, he would offer to trim shrubs, water gardens, dust the\nfurniture, \"Or even,\" he said, \"to give the lady of the house a quick\nfeel and a bang while her old man's out. I used to have a hell of a\ntime explaining to my old lady how I got rug burns on my knees\nfrom selling magazines.\" The boys' laughter was quick and shrill.\n\"But if you try it, you'd better know what you're doing. Nookie\ndon't pay for subscriptions.\"\nPappas drove the boundaries of each boy's territory and let them\noff one by one. He let Paul off last. \" I think we'll watch you today,\"\nhe said. \"Help you out until you get the hang of it.\"\nPaul stopped at a corner house and knocked lightly on the door.\n45 The street was a bare new development of concrete bungalows. No\none answered the door. Before he had reached the next house Pappas\ndrove along side the curb and hailed him. \"Don't give up to easy,\"\nhe advised. \"Knock once, wait a minute, and then knock again twice\nas hard.\" Pappas pulled away and Paul returned to the first house\nto bang on the door. There was still no answer. At the second house\nhe could see a woman watching television in her Florida Room. When\nshe came to the door, he raced through his speech. Surprise filled her\nface. She wrinkled her forehead and turned one ear toward him as\nif he had a slight speech defect that could be overlooked by an attentive listener. When he finished he realized he'd forgotten to start off\nby asking her if she had a telephone.\n\"That's stupid,\" she told him. \"What do I need magazines for?\"\nand she closed the door without further sign of annoyance, as if she\nhad just turned off a radio. When he reached the end of the street,\nwhere the Thunderbird was already waiting, he had tried eighty\nhouses.\nPappas, combing his hair in the rear-view mirror, signalled for him\nto get in. \"You're too tall and stiff,\" he said. \"I wouldn't open my\ndoor if I saw something like you coming up the walk. Not only that\nbut you've got an accent or something. Where you from anyways?\"\n\"Hialeah,\" Paul lied.\nPappas let him off on an older street that ended abruptly in the\nparking lot of a white frame church. This time, Paul tried to look\ncheerful, walking across lawns instead of using the sidewalk, and\nsmiling all the way through his speech. A few bored faces listened to\nhim, thought for a moment, excused themselves to check with a husband or wife, and then came back to apologize. Some people would\ntell him no, but not close their door all the way, as though they\nwanted to let him know they were willing to be talked out of it. Seeing their indecision, he could think of nothing more to say, and left\nquickly for the next house.\nPappas still hadn't come back by the time he worked his way\ndown to the church. He rubbed spit on the knuckles of his right hand\nwhere the skin was worn off. He followed a tile path to the presbytery behind the church and knocked on the rattling frame of the\nscreen door. A short man, bald, but with hair curling out of his nose\nand ears, answered.\n\"Hi! ...\"\n\"I'm sorry, but I can't buy anything.\"\n\"This is an unusual offer.\"\n46 \"I'm sure I couldn't afford it.\"\n\"Just hear me out.\"\n\"Please don't make me be rude.\"\n\"Maybe you'd like some yard work done?\" Paul wondered if he\nshould wedge his foot between the door and the frame.\n\"I don't have time to listen to you.\"\n\"Hi, do you have a telephone?\"\n\"No, I don't.\"\nAgain, Pappas waited for him at the curb, the dark car running at\na fast idle to power its air conditioner. Two of the boys were already\nsqueezed into the narrow rear seat. One had sold four subscriptions\nand the other, eight.\n\"I thought you might have had something going at that last\nplace,\" Pappas told him. \"Good luck and brains is what it takes to\nget something like this,\" he said, hitting the steering wheel with the\npalm of his hand. \"Some people just never get the hang of it. Everybody's a loser at something, you know?\"\n4.\nSleeping in late on Saturday morning was a mistake. By nine-\nthirty or ten the heat would have lapped up the stairs to their\nsecond-floor apartment, filled the room like a heavy liquid, and\npressed wetly on the eyelids of anyone still asleep. Getting up in the\nheat always seemed to signal a day in which it was impossible to\nwake up or to shake off the night's dreams.\n\"You should've got me up early,\" Paul heard himself saying as he\nwoke up. He pushed himself up on his elbows, looked for his mother,\nand realized that she had called him from another room. When she\nappeared at the bedroom door, he waited for her to turn away before getting up. He pulled chinos and a white T-shirt on over his\nsticky skin.\nThey had three upstairs rooms and a kitchenette in a duplex with\ncracking pink stucco walls and a red tile roof. The landing at the top\nof their stairs was screened on three sides, but the corrugated plastic\nroof was half broken away and sometimes, thumbnail-size tree frogs\nwith tiny fingers that ended in small knobs would drop from the\noverhanging persimmon branches and fix themselves to the outside\nof the door. When his mother called again, Paul walked impatiently\npast her and pushed the screen door open. He found one frog clinging\nto the screen. Its back glistened such a perfectly gemlike green that\n47 he couldn't imagine why his mother was afraid of them. A house\nlizard, clumsy-looking without the two inches of tail it had lost in a\nterritorial battle, slipped through a tear in the screen as he approached it. He threw the frog back into the persimmon leaves.\n\"There had best be nothing left out there,\" his mother warned\nthrough the door. \"Makes me feel like I'm walking through the\nbloody jungle.\"\nAs she walked down the stairs he could see that the weight of her\nsmall purse was enough to unbalance her shoulders and give her the\nhunch-backed look of some old women. Strands of hair clung to the\nback of her sweaty bare neck.\nIn his bedroom, he reached under the mattress and fished out a\npack of Luckies. The cigarettes were flattened into ovals and threads\nof tobacco hung loosely out both ends. He took one and tapped it on\nthe crystal of his watch to pack it as he had seen boys at school do.\nSomeone had told him that you liked either Camels or Luckies and\nhated the other. He hadn't had the chance to try Camels yet. As he\nsmoked, he was careful to exhale through the open window.\nIt was the beginning of summer vacation and he hadn't been able\nto find work, so he had promised his father help loading CBS block\nand used brick on the truck later in the day. Except for cabinet work,\nhis father had said, Florida's houses didn't need carpenters. Just\nmasons, plumbers and exterminators.\nRiding with his father, Paul had seen most parts of Dade and\nBroward counties and he was beginning to feel some mastery of it\nall. He knew that people his father's age called Fort Lauderdale,\n\"Likkerdale,\" but if he called it that in the presence of adults, they\nwould look at him as though he had cursed. Brownsville, the monotonous and decayed Negro part of town in the northeast was \"Nigger-\nville.\" People who lived in the string of Keys south of the Florida\npeninsula were known as \"conches,\" after the large, spiralling shells\nthat sometimes washed up on the beaches. He had a good brown tan,\nwore loafers, knew that the sharp green burrs which grew on Florida's\nsandy lawns were called \"stickers,\" and he was careful to pronounce\n\"grease\" as \"greeze.\"\nEast of Hialeah, his father pulled off the road at a corner everyone\ncalled \"The Slave Market.\" Fifty or sixty men perched on a long\nwooden corner fence or sprawled in its shade on the ground. A larger\ntruck had already parked in front of them and a thin white man\nwearing a construction helmet walked the length of the fence, point-\n48 ing at some of the men and jerking his finger back in the direction\nof the truck. The men he chose clambered over the rail siding around\nthe bed of the truck. The tops of their heads bobbed up and down\nbetween the slats.\n\"Go get one,\" his father said. \"But I don't want one that stinks.\"\nPaul turned away quickly to hide his feeling of surprise \u00E2\u0080\u0094 selecting workers was a man's job. He knew that the trick to choosing one\nwas to not walk the length of the fence as though he were canvassing\nthe stalls at a market. That way, the men chosen might think there\nwas something special about themselves and ask for a higher wage.\nInstead, he quickly pointed to a slim, sweating young man with a\nblack silk kerchief tied around his forehead as a sweatband. The\nyoung man hadn't appeared to be paying attention but the instant\nPaul signalled, he pushed himself away from the fence. \"Dollar an\nhour,\" Paul said, surprised at his own feeling of confidence.\nThey worked through mid-afternoon selecting and loading bricks\nfrom a bulldozed pile of rubble beside a ruined Motel sign. Though\nthe bricks were used, the labour of breaking off chunks of mortar\nthat adhered to them combined with their attractively weathered\nlook gave them a high resale value. The man Paul had picked\nworked in a preoccupied and distant way, stopping only to untie his\nsweatband and squeeze it dry. When the truck was loaded, they paid\nhim and drove him to an apartment building in Brownsville. As they\nslowed for a traffic light, the man leapt out the back and slapped on\nthe side of the truck to let them know he was gone.\n\"I have to see if a jackpost I set up to level the floor in these\nniggers' house has settled,\" Paul's father said. Paul looked at him and\nsaw that his face was the colour of a rash. He now wore thin cotton\nwork shirts which clung to the sweat on his chest and back, revealing\nshoulders which slumped protectively forward. \"It's just a dirty\ncrawlspace where this buck keeps his tires,\" he said, sounding as\nthough he were speaking to himself.\nThey turned at 17th Avenue and then turned again onto a road\nthat had once been paved but was now just a gravel bed with broken\nslabs of asphalt lining its shoulders. It looked more like a Northern\nstreet than any Paul had seen in Miami. The houses were frame with\nshingled sides, some surrounded by broken or tilting wooden fences.\nIf the houses had ever been painted, it was with primer or whitewash only so the finish had a thin, dusty look. Red maple and a few\nsmall elms lined the sidewalks. They stopped at a house with clapboard siding that was full of holes where the knots had fallen out.\n49 Paul stayed in the truck to watch the tools in the open back. He\nput his feet up on the seat in his father's place behind the steering\nwheel and leaned the back of his head against the window. He closed\nhis eyes and listened to the voices outside \u00E2\u0080\u0094 high-pitched sudden\nwhoops of laughter and funny, breathless name-calling. He sat up\nand opened the window. A light-skinned girl was throwing a muddy\nvolleyball against the clapboard house and successfully intercepting\nit on the first bounce before either of the two boys she was playing\nwith could reach it. It was hard to tell her age. Her breasts were full\nand they swelled and bounced as she ran. He stared at her, trying to\ncatch her eye, but she seemed not to notice. They played at a frantic\nrate until one of the boys picked the girl up around her waist and held\nher, struggling and laughing, until his friend could retrieve the ball.\nBack on her feet, the girl faced the truck and bent over, putting\nher hands on her knees and breathing noisily until she caught her\nbreath. When her chest stopped heaving she walked toward the\ntruck. He nervously searched out the window on the other side of\nthe cab to see if she was walking to meet someone who might have\ncome up on him from behind.\n\"You got something on your mind?\" she asked through the open\nwindow. The cab was small and he felt trapped. The girl put her\nhands on her hips and waited for an answer. At this close range he\ncould see that she was not really a girl, that she was a woman much\nolder than him.\n\"I was just watching.\"\n\"Well I don't like to be watch like that. What you doin' here\nanyway?\"\n\"I'm waiting for my father. He's doing some work in that house.\"\nHe looked for the two boys who had been playing with the volleyball. They weren't even watching. They ran to the rear of the building, passing the ball back and forth.\n\"That your father? Well he a crook. That floor look like a old\nmattress. It uneven.\" She stepped back from the truck and walked\naway, her hips twitching with anger.\nHe wanted to yell at her and tell her she was wrong but he felt\nthat if he tried to call out, he would choke on his tongue. He sat\nupright, rigid with embarrassment, until his father appeared from\nbehind the house. The knees of his pants were caked with dark mud.\nFor a long moment he looked unfamiliar, like a sunburned tourist,\na complete stranger.\n50 Mark Frutkin / Two Poems\nMUSEUM\nWithin their etched armor\nthe samurai warriors\nhave melted down\ninto a quaint suggestion\nof dust\nwithin his embroidered silk robes\nwhich blinded peasants\nwith the sewing,\nthe emperor himself\nhas lost his face\nin the air,\nhas given the beat\nof his heart\nto the distant\nmurmur of a stream\nwithin their sheaths\nthe swords turn to rust\ndisuse and dissipation,\nwhere once light\nwas sharp reflections\nonly clear spirit remains.\n5i GIVING BIRTH\nConstantly\ngiving birth\nto your own heart\nas if it held a life\nof its own,\nallowing it another heart\nwithin this heart\nand somehow living\non the emptiness\nleft behind\nlike the inside of a bell\nthat was rung once\nand will never quite\ngrow entirely silent,\nonly ever more subtle\never more delicate music\nand the heart you give\neach moment\nlistens to its drum\nand hears a pulse\nwithin its pulse\na more distant and subtle music\nlike a heartbeat\nin a womb\nand each birth\ngives birth to a space\na slightly ringing\nand generous emptiness.\n52 Barry Dempster\nA Large K in Kill\nJuly 19, 1976\nThere comes a time when all the excuses in the world are shown\nto be what they really are: avoidances, illusory words as phony as\nslugs in a dime machine. Lying to oneself in this day has become an\naddiction. The succinct pain I feel in the back of my head proves it\nto me. Repression is like a rock in the softest part of the skull.\nMarjorie Hamilton Melzer is a human elision. Something has\nbeen left out of her. God did not pronounce her alive in the proper,\nforeseen way. He said: \"Get up Marj and reap hell in some man's\nnest. Peck at his soul until it drains and collapses like a beach ball.\"\nThe day is about as hot as a giant barbecue. All morning the\nsweat runs down my forehead, splits at the start of my eyebrows and\ntaking two parallel paths, it trickles into the corners of my mouth\nand makes me thirsty. Still, this afternoon I have to finish the Sudbury article and at four, there's a group meeting. I will stick to the\norange vinyl of the session room chair and have to peel myself away\nlike tape come five o'clock. Hell. Something has to give but Lord\nknows, it's not going to be me.\nJuly 20, 1976\nShe sits across from me chewing her food with words. Carrots are\ntransformed into gossip, steak is turned into questions about the\noffice, orange jello made to resemble answers about the mechanics\nof the house. All the while her feet are tapping against the wood of\nthe dining room floor and her fork and knife, harmless dinner utensils, are wielded in the open air like anxious hands in a classroom.\n\"And you'll never guess what happened after that,\" she says and\nproceeds to transfigure a simple piece of bread into an outrageous\ntale about her mother.\n53 It was the way she ate that first attracted me to her, back in '65.\nWe'd sit in the campus restaurant while I shoved greasy piles of\nfrench fries into an obviously uncouth mouth. She never complained\nor even seemed to notice, she just sat there chatting with me, fingering each chip as if it were a thin piece of ice. Actually she sucked her\nmeals. Food disappeared down her throat, with no real motion of\nchewing or swallowing. So damn graceful. The first time we made\nlove I insisted she eat a bagel afterwards so once again I could marvel at the neatness; the noiseless, motionless, wonderful way she had\nwith sustenance.\nBut no, it wasn't all the food's fault. It never is. One bright sunny\nday I woke up and rolled over, preparing to plant a rose-kiss on her\npink cheek and there she was: lips parted like a hole in the ground,\nsnoring like a tractor, the face of a farmer's wife or a gotten-up\nactress in a rural play \u00E2\u0080\u0094 not the vision of Marjie, the sweet girl I\nmarried. I fell out of love like a meteor and the pit created was\nthe size of a suburb. From then on things have been getting worse.\nErosion and other atrophies.\nTonight at dinner, I almost threw my fork across the table \u00E2\u0080\u0094\naimed at her heart. Poor Marjorie. She thinks everything is bliss.\nJuly 21, 1976\nAlright, it's not all Marjorie's fault but before anyone gets out\ntheir automatic label machine, let me say I've been as faithful as a\nnun. When my libido starts a two-step, I rein it in like a horse and\nshove it in the stable. So now I'm tired of cold oats and perfunctory\nbrushings \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I want to trot.\nAmy Billingham is the newly appointed product manager for the\nmagazine group. Often, with my copy of Mining Mirror under my\narm, I walk into her office and discuss ads, hoping to convey a lifetime of desire in the words \"aluminum\" or \"gravel pit.\" We sail\nover Sudbury together with heatwaves rising from the tip of our toes\nand going who knows where? As I said, I am faithful.\nToday Amy came to see me. Dressed in a black velvet suit, white\nblouse unbuttoned two or maybe three pearl buttons, she was smashing. I wanted to applaud. \"What can I do for you?\" I said instead.\n\"I thought we could talk about the back of your book, next issue\nthat is.\"\n\"Of course,\" I said.\n\"Perhaps dinner one night. I'm a great cook. I live down at the\n54 beach by the racetrack.\" She tossed her mane of blonde hair and the\nair was showered with gold.\n\"Love to,\" I said, my hooves quivering, my nostrils opening and\nclosing like doors.\n\"See you then,\" she said, stepping out of the office with, I swear, a\nsmile on her rear.\nForgive me Marjorie of my memory: mellow Marjorie. I will\neither have you stuffed or sold to make glue.\nJuly 22,1976\nThe pain in the back of my skull grows worse. Last night, at three\na.m. I was sitting on the hard shut surface of the toilet bowl counting the squares on the black and white tile floor. Five aspirin were\nmelting in my stomach and shooting their mysterious rays over my\nbody, until finally they'd find the right spot. The base of my head\nbeat like a bongo drum.\nAt three-ten a.m. the ghost of my mother came into the bathroom.\nShe was wearing one of her flowered housedresses, a red apron and\ndidn't look any the worse for wear considering twelve long years\nunder a marble tombstone.\n\"I told you to shop around for the right girl. Miss Fancy Ass at\nwork may be the one but you've already sewn yourself into a potato\nbag so to speak.\" Her voice reverberated off the white walls and the\nstone of the bathtub and sink. She could have been God in disguise.\n\"Give me a break,\" I pleaded.\n\"If I'd only lived, I could have told you little Marjie Parjie would\nhave soured. The girl's a grape. You should have picked a nut, a\nwalnut, they don't go bad.\"\n\"I'll divorce her,\" I said, leaping up from the toilet.\n\"She's Catholic. She'll fight you to the death. Anyway you'd have\nto pay so much alimony, you couldn't afford new socks.\"\n\"Alright, I'm trapped,\" I said, waiting for an answer, a solution,\nmotherly advice.\n\"You can say that again,\" she said chuckling and disappeared up\nthe hot water faucet.\nI sat back down and although my headache was gone, I felt no\nbetter. Even with the door closed I could hear Marjorie in the bedroom snoring down the walls, so I did what thousands of unhappy\nhusbands do \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I curled up on the very edge of the bed and dreamed\ndreams of another woman, in my case Miss Fancy Ass or Amy\nBillingham.\n55 July 23,1976\n\"You don't love me the way you used to love me,\" she whined. Her\neyebrows arched and her mouth coiled into a pout.\n\"Nonsense,\" I said burying my face in a pork chop.\n\"You hardly ever kiss me on the mouth,\" she said holding up one\nfinger, \"and I could count the number of times you touch my body\non the hand of a war amputee.\" Up went another finger. \"Not to\nmention you never buy me little love gifts.\" The third. \"Or brag\nabout me in the company of friends.\" The fourth wagged in the air\nlike a flag. \"And in the fifth place, you never talk to me during\ndinner.\" Her entire right hand waved in front of me.\n\"Move it,\" I said, \"or I'll bite it off.\"\n\"Why ...\" She gasped and clutched her throat. \"How dare\nyou?\"\nThe meal went downhill from there. Tears ran over her heaps of\nmashed potatoes like butter, swilling on the bottom of her plate. I\nwas locked out of the bedroom, forced to sleep on the couch but\nworse than that, in the middle of the quiet night, Marjorie stole into\nthe living room brimming full of apologies. I feigned unconsciousness and was gone early in the morning.\nJuly 24,1976\nWe went to the Roxy as a \"kiss-and-make-up-treat.\" Being an old\nmovie buff, taking me to a film is a form of penance. Marjorie made\nsure I was comfortable and brought me a cup of soggy popcorn. The\nfirst feature, Joan Crawford confined to bed listening in on her own\nmurder plans, passed over my brain like a light breeze. I was not in\nthe mood. Solutions to the problem of Marjorie kept buzzing about\nmy head like bees. As of yet, none of the stingers were viable. The\nhouse lights came up and I listened to Marjorie gushing over Joan\nCrawford's eyebrows. They went back down again. The last film\nwas Dial M For Murder. It started slow, Ray Milland only steps\naway from having a lost weekend and Grace Kelly auditioning for\nthe role of a princess. But as the story unrolled, the plans inside of\nme caught on to a snag in the reel. Soon I was planning Marjorie's\nmurder one step ahead of Milland's scheming over Kelly. The\nphone. The hired killer. The perfect alibi. And there was no Robert\nCummings in our life.\nWe left before it finished. I had no inclination to see how it turned\nout. I could tell from the apple blossoms in Kelly's cheeks that she\n56 would prevail but Marjorie has no petal skin and she is as pale as\nsnow. No heroine at all.\nJuly 25, 1976\nWe showed up at Toby's party a bit earlier than invited. Toby\nand I grew up together the best of friends and remained so. I took\nhim into the bathroom and told him everything.\n\"What do you think?\" I asked. I was anxious because what he\nwould say mattered enough to make me change my mind if he\nthought I was being foolish. I figured that murder is something like\nan idea for a Broadway show. You've got to test it out on those you\ntrust to see if it will ever survive the previews.\n\"It's that serious?\" he asked. Toby got rid of his wife years ago\nby telling her he had chronic V.D. He prides himself on that coup\nbut really the girl was as troubled as he was to end the union.\n\"Sure is.\"\n\"Then go ahead. I back you all the way. I never liked Marjorie\nanyway.\" We put our arms around each other and the secret is\nlocked between us.\n\"Where do you think the best place is to find a hit man?\" I ask.\n\"Geppy,\" he said. Geppy's another buddy, works for the Mob, in\nfact his father was one of the founding members.\n\"Yeah Geppy,\" I said.\nJuly 26, 1976\nI have nightmares of being gunned down in front of Italian fruit\nmarkets, tumbling amongst the overripe bananas and mouldy\noranges, tomato blood on my heart. I wake up and find that I'm\nshaking. No matter. I slip Marjorie into the dream in the place of\nmyself and slowly go back to sleep.\nJuly 27, 1976\n\"Geppy, it's me,\" I whispered into the phone. I'm in a booth with\n\"Suck me off, here's my number\" sort of things scrawled on the walls\nlike scars. There's a smell of urine somewhere around my feet.\n\"Whose you?\" Geppy asked.\n\"Me,\" I said reluctant to give my name. The plan is in motion.\nEvery precaution has to be taken or like Ray Milland, I'll be molder-\ning away my time in some unromantic prison cell.\n\"Well whose me then?\" he asked.\n57 I searched the baggage that's kept in the corners of my brain and\ncame up with, \"Remember Delores Machavelli and the time we tied\nher up with her own skipping rope just to have a look at her underpants?\"\nA short silence. \"Toby, old boy,\" he said.\n\"The other, the other,\" I said.\n\"Oh Michael, it's you. How are you buddy?\"\n\"Shhh,\" I hissed into the phone. Outside the booth, only inches\nfrom the glass, a policeman was balancing himself on one foot, picking gum off the sole of the other. \"I've got a job for one of your men,\na serious job. Can you meet me?\"\n\"Sure. How about the Spaghetti Factory for lunch?\"\n\"No, not in public, somewhere quiet.\" We decided on High Park\nby the zoo, near the buffalo pen and by two o'clock in the afternoon\nI had the names of four professionals to choose from. I took the\nsubway home feeling like a weight were being lifted from my fourth\nfinger left hand, everything normal except for the faint traces of\nbison mixed in with the bad subway air.\nJuly 28,1976\nTonight I dream about plain-clothed policemen. I'm standing on\nthe busy corner of a noonday street where I will meet all four of the\napplicants. They'll be recognizable in white trenchcoats and out-of-\ndate fedoras. But as the hour approaches I count ten such men and\nI know that six of them have badges instead of hearts, pistols shoved\ninto their pants in the place of other things. I make motions of going\nup to several of them but no words are exchanged. Each one stares\nat me wilfully until I back down and slink away like a cat.\nWhen I wake up in the first indistinct moments of morning I\ndecide not to meet anyone on a crowded street. I stick to High Park\nand unattractive buffaloes.\nJuly 29, 1976\nI confided my plan to Amy during our initial lunch and the outcome was supper at her place, by the beach, next door to the racetrack. We made love to the echoes of hard feet on equally hard\nground, the booming voice on a loudspeaker and ultimately the\napplause of the crowd.\nNear dusk I slipped on the noisy frame of a streetcar and got off\nat the entrance to the Park. The green trees and grass were turning\nblack for the night, Grenadier Pond was putting on its dark lid. I\n58 ran through shadows and shadows of shadows, down the hill and\ninto the zoo. Hurrying past the bear compound, the mountain goat's\nfake hills, I turned the corner and there in front of the hulking shapes\nof smelly buffalo, stood the man. I walked past him once, then\ntwice, just to be safe. He was wearing a grey trenchcoat and a hat\nof indiscernible colour. \"Strawberry cream,\" I said \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the password,\nfortunately something you don't hear too often.\n\"Yeah,\" the man answered.\n\"Has Geppy filled you in?\" I asked.\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"Are you game?\"\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"How much?\"\n\"Your money, right now,\" he said and I felt the fist of a gun in\nmy ribs. I emptied my pockets like a customs agent rifling through a\nbag and was left there, emptied.\nIt was with heavy heart I arrived home and climbed in beside the\nblack mass of Marjorie under the sheets.\nJuly 30, 1976\nThe next two potential employees I met together, each one as\nprotection against the other and we met in daylight, at the beach.\nNot too far from us Amy was sitting in the sand making giant castles\nwith her bare feet. She was the lookout.\nThe first man was huge, a Brink's truck of a man. He breathed\nso heavily, the sound of the waves were almost drowned out. And\nthe second one was thin as a straw, nervous, picking the fingernails\non one hand with the other one and then alternating every minute\nor so. \"Experience?\" I asked.\n\"Not much lately,\" the fat man said, \" but the flesh is willing.\"\n\"And you?\" I asked the thin man.\n\"Let's see,\" he said counting furiously on his fingers. \"Three cats,\none racoon and a wino down on Church Street.\"\n\"I want her strangled with the telephone cord,\" I said and\nwatched for reactions.\n\"Oh I couldn't,\" the fat man said. \"Their eyes always bulge out\nof their sockets and the damn tongue pops out like a slab of meat.\nIt's sickening. And most times they turn blue, as blue as the water\nout there,\" he said pointing out at the grey polluted lake. \"No, it's\npoison for me or nothing.\"\n59 The thin man listened, still fidgeting madly. \"I want to push her\nout the window, please?\" he pleaded. \"I like to see them fall, please,\ncould you let me?\"\nI tried to explain and the fat man left, trundling up the beach like\na whale. Finally I shook the thin man off with a flick of my wrist\nand a quick apology and started towards Amy who by now was\nalmost buried in sand. I felt a weight on my shoulders and as I went\ndown, I saw the thin man's bird face, eyes raging like pots of boiling\nwater. \"If it's strangulation you want, it's what you'll get,\" he mumbled and put his skeleton fingers around my neck. Air escaped me\nand I couldn't find the words to cry out. For what was probably\nonly twenty, thirty seconds I thought I was dead, then the thin man\nloosened his grip and fell to the side. Amy was standing above him,\nlaunching good swift kicks to his side. \"How dare you,\" she said\nbetween blows.\nWith her help, I made it back to her apartment where she\npampered me, rubbing my neck and back muscles until I was able to\nrelax. I was almost myself again in time for the first race.\nJuly 31,1976\nI met the fourth man at the Spaghetti Factory at high noon when\nthe place was packed full. We took a table in the centre of things so\nthat my back was pressed up against the back of another man.\nSafety in numbers.\nThe man across from me was small, rat-like, with a long crooked\nscar on his right cheek. His eyes looked like two black bubbles. There\nwas no emotion behind them. He was as blank as a wall.\n\"Did Geppy brief you?\" I asked. I sat imagining every danger\npossible in rush hour restaurants. A fork in the heart? A bullet in the\nbelly? Would anyone hear? I thought of shushing the place with a\nlong sombre finger but I didn't. Anyway, Amy was at another table,\nmere feet away, just in case.\nThe man nodded and said: \"I want a clear five thousand. Half\nnow, the rest when the job's done. You don't know my name and I\ndon't want to know yours. When it's over, it's over. I'll take my\nmoney and be gone. No hassles.\" His scar twitched as he talked and\nI couldn't help but be impressed.\n\"I want her strangled, you know. By the telephone cord. I'll phone\nto get her into the living room and the rest is left up to you. When\nyou're finished, hang up on me.\"\n\"Okay,\" he said.\n60 \"You'll do it?\" I asked, still wary.\n\"It's a deal.\" He held one of his small hands across the table and\nwe shook on it.\n\"You're quite the professional,\" I said as I was paying the cheque.\n\"That's right,\" he answered. \"A killer with a capital K.\" For one\nquick moment his eyes flared up and the bubbles burst into deep,\nangry pools, then just as suddenly, they formed again and everything\nwas back to normal.\nAugust 1, 1976\nAmy and I lay in bed, a beam of stray moonlight fallen across our\nchests. Our talk was lazy, our bodies quiet. I told Marjorie I went to\nSudbury for a day or two. When the night was perfect and the bedroom heavy with predictions of sleep, I rolled over on my side and\npressed close to Amy. \"Soon my darling,\" I whispered. \"Very soon.\"\nK Day:\nAugust 2,1976, 6:30 p.m.\n\"There's a board meeting after dinner,\" I say to Marjorie, spooning fruit salad between my words. There really is one. I arranged it.\n\"Oh that's terrible,\" Marjorie says, \"and you just came back from\nthat horrid Sudbury. I had plans for tonight.\"\n\"Can't be helped,\" I say, biting into a cherry. \"It's the business\nthat pays for this house, for all your comforts. We have to make\nconcessions to it, don't we?\"\nMarjorie nods and I think that I've silenced her until I feel her\nfoot climbing my leg, rising up into my loins. \"Tickle, tickle,\" she\nsays seductively and winks at me.\n\"No time,\" I say bluntly and get up from the table. I kiss her\ngoodbye and tell her to go to bed early, that tomorrow night we'll\ngo out on the town.\nThe hot night air cleans the taste of her lips from my lips. She\ndwells over the bananas in a fruit salad and I sigh thankfully as their\nflavour melts away in the dull blue evening. At the corner I stop and\nturn around, looking at the square sunlight that hits the front window. \"So long Marjie,\" I say. \"Good riddance.\"\n7:15 p.m.\nI meet the man out front of my office, on the street. I tell him\nwhere to find the rest of the money that's hidden in the house and\ngive him last minute instructions. He is not to make a move until all\n6i the lights are out and then he is to phone my number and let it ring\nthree times. I will grab it just before the fourth and act as if the\nparty has hung up. Then, feigning concern, I will phone Marjorie\nwhile in the company of my business associates and I will pretend\nthe phone is never answered. The deed will then be done and getting\none of the men to drive me home, I will stumble onto the dead, bug-\neyed, long-tongued, blue figure of my wife \u00E2\u0080\u0094 Marjorie.\n9:35 p.m.\nThe phone rings. I'm in the middle of a sentence and I finish it,\nextend it until the end of the third ring and then I pick the phone\nup. \"Hello,\" I say and hear the click, then the busy signal on the\nother end. \"Jesus, you'd think people would ring more than three\ntimes.\" All of the men agree with me and the meeting continues.\nFive minutes go by and I say, more to myself than to any of the\nmen, \"Hope it wasn't my wife. She's not feeling too well tonight.\"\nThey all reassure me blandly and Tom Nixon of Lace and Leather\nMagazine says: \"Give her a call and see. We all need a stretch.\"\n\"Good idea,\" I say and pick up the telephone, begin dialing. My\nheart is slamming against my ribs like a loose screen door in the\nwind. I feel a bit faint, shivers of fear or anticipation rising from my\nstomach up into my head. I nearly swoon.\nThe phone rings once. Twice. Three-four-five-six. Seven. Halfway\nthrough the eighth the bell is cut off and I hear Marjorie's sleepy\nvoice saying, \"Hello.\"\nI am as quiet as a dead man. I hear Tom Nixon in the background saying: \"No answer huh?\" but I ignore him. There is the\nsound of a struggle in my ear, bangs and whimpers crawling up into\nmy brain. My conscience is almost on fire. There is one loud, tortuous crash, a strained scream and then I hear my wife's voice saying, \"Gordon Chamberlain!\" Gordon Chamberlain? In her last\nthroes of life she utters Gordon Chamberlain. There is another crash\nand then a man's voice in the distance cries out: \"Marjorie Hamilton, oh no.\" And the phone goes dead. It is an amputated limb still\nbleeding in my hands. I drop it into its cradle and Tom says: \"My\nGod Michael, you look as if you just heard the stock market crash.\"\nI stammer something fortunately inaudible and then in a louder\nvoice I say: \"There was no answer, I'd better get home.\" Tom offers\nto drive me but I shake my head and dash out the door. I fling alibis\naside like extra coats. The night is too hot.\n62 10:15 p.m.\nThere are lights on in the living room and from farther down the\nstreet, I can see the reflection of the kitchen light on the backyard\nbushes. I creep closer to the front window on my hands and knees\nuntil I reach the brick of the house and slowly raise myself and peer\nthrough the curtains. Marjorie is sitting on the sofa, animated as a\npuppet, chatting away to someone in the chair across from her,\nwhose face I cannot see. She doesn't have a trace of seriousness about\nher so I gather the stranger is not a policeman.\nGathering up my courage around me, I creep to the front door\nand slip my key quietly in the lock. Before I am even halfway inside,\nI can hear Marjorie's voice buzzing on like a fly. \"So then I knew it\nwould never work unless I could persuade you to give up that nasty\nhabit you had of chewing tobacco.\" I step on a floorboard that\ngroans back at the sole of my foot. \"Is that you Michael?\" I hear the\ncouch springs squeak and Marjorie comes walking out into the hall.\n\"Come here Michael,\" she says, her voice full of excitement. \"There's\nsomeone I want you to meet.\"\nThe rat of a man with bubble eyes sits in the living room chair.\n\"Gordon Chamberlain, my husband and vice-versa. This is the man\nI almost married before I met you,\" she says to me. \"He just dropped\nover tonight after my not hearing a peep from him for thirteen years.\nImagine that.\"\nI shake his hand and then bend down to the coffee table and rifle\nthrough the pages of Saturday Night where I had hidden the remaining two-thousand and five hundred dollars. It's gone. When I\nlook up, he is smiling an empty-eyed smile.\n\"It's uncanny how we met again,\" Marjorie is saying. \"Just a\nminute.\" She bustles off into the kitchen.\n\"Where's the money you fool,\" I demand.\n\"Forget it,\" he says. \"Anyone who wants to kill Marjorie Hamilton is a snake in my books and it costs you nowadays to be a snake.\"\n\"I'll call the police,\" I say, hoping that he, like a bird, might run\nat the mention of a cat, even if the cat is a phony one.\n\"And we'll go down together.\"\nMarjorie comes scurrying back into the room with a tray of tea\nand Christmas cake left over from the winter. \"I'm so glad you came\nhome early,\" she says to me.\nI glare at the man and he glares back. I blink. He blinks. He is\n63 my mirror reflection. I warn him with my eyes. He warns me with\nhis.\n\"I said I was glad you came home early,\" Marjorie repeats.\n\"I'm not home,\" I say and with one last dual glare, I head back\nfor the door.\n\"You're not home?\" she asks and giggles.\n\"Not for long,\" I say, opening the front door.\n\"Where are you going?\" she asks, following me. \"You haven't\nheard my story yet.\"\n\"I'm going to the race track,\" I say and as the door is shutting\nbehind me, I hear Marjorie saying: \"Such a strange man. It makes\nme wonder sometimes if perhaps I didn't marry the wrong man.\"\nTheir laughter follows me up the street and gets on the westbound\nbus with me. I retreat \u00E2\u0080\u0094 winded from defeat.\n64 Paul Gotro / Two Poems\nSPIDER IN THE SUMAC\nThe bamboo chimes hang silent, not feeling the\nsumac or the webbing stuck to the tree's reddening leaves. A spider, stretching a tapis of\nsilk onto the landscape \u00E2\u0080\u0094 a tragimonotony of\nmovement, to and fro, up and down \u00E2\u0080\u0094 holds the\nsumac and the chimes like the dropped note of\nrain in its weaving.\nA passer-by will see the creature, hideously\nspinning, or feel its web stuck on their face\nin the dark \u00E2\u0080\u0094 not the effort or delicate\nmeasurement, spinning, winning, from branch to\nbranch between the chimes.\nThe spider will be gone.\nThe sumac remains, the bamboo chimes hanging\nfrom its branches, singing softly of dragons.\n65 GOOD FRIDAY\nThis is the day\nI wait by the window for three o'clock,\nFor a tree to be split by lightning.\nThis is the day that sits me by the window\nto drink coffee and smoke.\nI think, at times, of the church:\nMy son has asked to go.\nThe doors, I say, are made from the wood\nOf a tree split by lightning.\nThey are large and too hard to open.\nNo one needs two fathers.\nThere is too much understanding in his face:\nHis mother warned me: The world, you say,\nIs what he sees.\nAt 3:01,\nThe saloons will open.\nI glance at my watch\nAnd blow a smoke ring against the window.\nWatch it break against the cool surface.\n66 Levi Dronyk\nBaxter Jack\nHe watches the fishermen. They point to where He is near the top\nof a fir tree. He jumps, soaring toward the water spreads His wings\nand shrieks. He levels parallel to the sea and His talons find their\nmark below the surface. On His return to the tree He sweeps over\nthe boats and the fishermen cover their heads with their arms.\nAs He tears at the pink flesh He considers His next assignment. A\ncity job, another citizen on the brink of disaster, He supposes, more\nviolence than that research job. The research into the feasibility of\nthe saxophone replacing the harp as the Official Instrument. His\ntedium in testing the horn was far from complete when he was\nrecalled. He faintly resented but soon dismissed the lost opportunity\nof perching on a tall bridge, of wailing into the heavens until They\nreleased their harps to fall through the clouds.\nBaxter Jack is insomniac. Insomnious Baxter Jack hasn't slept,\nnot ever. There he is, easily seen from down below. Any time, night,\nday, they can see him sitting on the window ledge in his room on the\ntop floor of the Marble Door Hotel.\nHis former friends, they're all former friends now, have torn down\nthe line they'd used to send up food and written messages. Crowds\nnow come to watch Baxter Jack sit. His former friends are nervous\nlooking up at him. They're all acrophobiacs; their stomachs turn\nwhen they see him sitting on the window ledge, see him sitting there\ndropping chocolate chips out of the window and stretching out at\narm's length to follow the fall.\nIT'S OKAY I'VE SEEN MYSELF FALL\neagle comix presents THE GENTLE SUICIDE\nHe lets the salmon half-skeleton slip from His grasp and watches\nit fall to the beach. The gulls converge. Charting His course He flies,\n67 wide-winged rises to a designated point, and now gliding to the roof\nof the Sylvia Apartments. To begin with, He checks His work order:\nBaxter Jack. Possible suicide. Respond kindly but without interference if possible. Impossible, He thinks. Next, he tests His sight, noting on a moving target, silk tie, mauve, silver pin; pink shoes, red\nlaces, three ends frayed, six eyelets on each shoe.\nBaxter calls down to the woman. He usually cultivates indifference\nbut he seems to recognize the girl from Bible School. She is or isn't,\nhe decides, and sees her now as the first tourist of the day. Sitting\nthere, he pops five or six chocolate chips into his mouth, lets them\nmelt into a thick sauce and adds a marshmallow. He eats; looking\nbelow him, not at the woman but at a cathedral; real or imagined,\nan open-air church. He sees the walls covered with murals of Hell\nand is fascinated by the variety of shades of orange. The studied\nfaces floating in fire. Heads of Lenin, Hitler and Stalin.\nDEATH IS INSTANTANEOUS\nNo it isn't; Baxter Jack considers death. There's a microsecond\nof inconceivable pain, Baxter Jack guesses, if you pass out on the\nway down the impact is dreamlike, but hurts twice as much.\nThe Hungarian is happiest at night. He tells himself he'll be dead\nby morning. Half alive only, with desire, he follows women. He\nwatches men and women enter buildings and tries to memorize the\nfaces of the women before they disappear. Visualizing parades of\nwomen, all in evening gowns; women with thick lips; lusty eyes and\nred tongues. Rows of them with backs arched, waiting for and\nexpecting love. In bed, the Hungarian lays awake. He caresses his\nown face and promises himself he'll never shed tears over the whole\nbusiness. Then he sleeps.\nThe Hungarian looks expensive in a rayon shirt, silver suit and\nmaroon shoes. He drives his equally maroon Thunderbird car to the\nMarble Door Hotel. Finding a spot and staring at the woman with\npink shoes he knows that more will come. They came yesterday and\nhe'd plunged his head into a huge cleavage. She'll be back, he\nthinks, with the other teasers, with their sister, mother, nurse and\nguardian angel complexes. I'll tell them, he muses, that they belong\nin movies, that their souls burn in their eyes and that their minds\nopen mine. Come on, just a little suck, he pretends, you're beautiful\nlike Rita Hayworth, come on. Bitches, his thoughts crawl up the wall\nof the Marble Door and he shouts, \"jump you dumb bastard why\ndon't you jump?\"\n68 WHO ARE YOU\nArrivals. On bicycles, in wagons and buses and on roller skates.\nComing to save, condemn, condone, exploit, pity, love, hate, pray\nfor, draw pictures of and sling stones at Baxter Jack. Two distinct\nopinions; soon the chanting begins.\nDON'T JUMP\nDON'T JUMP\nDON'T JUMP\nDON'T JUMP\nDON'T\nDON'T\nDON'T JUMP\n\"honey, i could have his\nass, i mean, give him\nsome heavy loving\"\nJUMP JUMP\nPLEASE\nJUMP JUMP\nPLEASE\nJUMP JUMP\nPLEASE\nJUMP\n\"he should accept the\nprecious gift\"\n'Jesus, enter his heart\nand save him from the\neternal...\"\n\"he doesn't want to jump,\ncan't you see, he wants\nto sleep\"\n\"what! one shot,\nhe's down\"\n'it doesn't matter who\nyou are if you understand who that is\"\n\"you might grow up to be\nPrime Minister\"\n\"i caught a bus, 20\nmiles\"\n\"ssshhh\"\n\"he's so young\"\n\"that's better\"\n\"big deal, i'm on\nholidays\"\n\"ten bucks, wanna bet\"\n\"i knew him in Sunday\nschool\"\n'let's go sit in my car':\n69 The Neville twins. Their age is 210. Between them they've witnessed several drownings and a dozen hangings. Lately, they're most\nvisible on the suicide circuit; today, among the jump crowd. Brother\nJohn is being dragged down the street by his big dog Rum. Brother\nJohn can't keep up to his animal. The dog stops at the Ukrainian\nperogy peddlar's stand, flapping his long tongue for a handout. By\nstopping abruptly, the dog Rum sends his master staggering, and\nfinally to a fall with loud cracks that are various bones breaking.\nARE YOU DEAD\nThe perogy saleswoman wheels her cart into the crowd. Big Rum\ndog sniffing behind her, dragging his fallen master past Brother Mike\nNeville, busily rehearsing children with sling-shots. Brother Mike\nfails to notice Brother John; they never loved each other anyway.\n\"Okay kids, on the last is enough you fire.\"\n\"Don't think it'll go that far mister.\"\n\"It will it will.\n\"Now, ready, 1 2 3 go.\n\"too much too much too much is enough enough enough is too\nmuch of enough and enough of too much is enough of too much is\nenough, Fire.\"\nStones bounce off the Marble Door, hardly close enough to\nthreaten Baxter Jack, and as they deflect into the anti-jump faction,\nSri Ohm Jr. steps forward.\n\"Please, your attention, ladies and gentlemen, thank-you.\n\"Consider friends. Our brother, he is not our brother, we are not\nhis keeper.\n\"He must not be influenced by anything he hears. Yet, neither be\ninfluenced by his thoughts and desires. Desire not think not.\n\"To find truth his mind must be free so that he may find truth.\nAnd then he will find God. God is not g-o-d. This is my truth. Not\nyours. It is not his.\n\"To find his truth he must be free of fear, examine fear and it\nceases to be fear because he is no longer afraid of it.\n\"When you say jump or don't jump he is afraid and no longer\nfree. Truth discontinues and therefore God.\"\nSTOP YOUR HEART\nSpeeches continue. A reformed drug addict manages to pull the\nfinger out of his nose and the thumb from his ass. A local politician\nexplains the fiscal responsibilities of death, but less effectively than\n70 the undertaker who reads from the brochure of special rates. An\nunemployed train conductor claims to have ridden in a U.F.O.\nThe saleswoman is breaking records. Only sauerkraut perogies\nremain. Potato and potato/cheese are sold out. All the popcorn\nvendors are out of stock. New ice cream wagons keep arriving while\nmore budget conscious families are spreading picnic lunches where\never there's space. \"Popsicles and Ice Cream Sandwiches,\" is the cry\nas Max Soulbrethern addresses the crowd.\n\"Sinners! Sinners open your heart to the light. My brothers. My\nsisters. Heathens! Pagans! Blasphemers! Wake up!\n\"Rejoice in the spirit of Jesus Christ who died for your sins. Open\nyour eyes. Brothers and sisters open your eyes . . . Jesus .... is coming. Open your hearts let us pray. Jesus saves.\"\nSafeway Saves You More. The maroon Thunderbird is parked in\nthe supermarket parking lot. The backseat is a mess. Seat cover\nloose, red shoe laces, silver suit jacket and the torn pages of a soiled\nsex manual block the Hungarian's passage into the body of the\nwoman who went to Sunday school with Baxter Jack.\n\"Oooh god this is wrong,\" she moans as the Hungarian tastes the\nskin behind her knees.\n\"Ooommff, yummm,\" the Hungarian attempts to swallow her\nkneecap.\nTedium. The roof is hot and the rhetoric makes Him weary. He\nis not amused and resists the impulse to rip the Hungarian's scrotum\nwide open. From what He sees there is no reason for Him to interfere. Baxter Jack is not in danger. Scanning the scene below, He\nfocuses attention on the sketchbook of the illustrator from eagle\ncomix*\nSerious collectors are busily framing each of the six illustrations\nbehind plates of no-glare glass and Baxter Jack splits a banana down\nthe middle, fills it with strawberry jam and sprinkles on pinches of\nicing sugar and cake candies. He wipes his chin with the yellow peel\nand tosses it out the window in hope of some slapstick entertainment.\nBaxter Jack finds slapstick boring, and therefore believes it might put\nhim to sleep. The skin lands near the perogy wagon and the sales-\n* We at eagle comix offer our subscribers journalism with a minimum\nof words. Words are usually titles. Last week's issue pictorially depicted the prison riots with six separate illustrations on pieces of birch\nbark. Each illustration was titled. For example, *6 was entitled ON\nTRIAL, in bold-face over the painted picture of prisoner and guard\nshackled together.\n7i woman steps from behind it to chase that Rum dog away, again, and\nslipping on the banana peel lands in the midst of NewLife Dance\nTraffic as it prepares for an interpretive rendering of the traditional\ndance of the flaming asshole.\nDANCE ME TO SLEEP\nThe Hungarian is succeeding. His white ass appears and disappears from view.\n\"Oooh, get off me,\" says the woman who sat next to Baxter Jack\nat Pentecostal Bible School. Tears come.\n\"We made bowls out of popsicle sticks,\" she sobs as she hears the\nadvertisement, \"popsicles and ice cream sandwiches,\" and the Hungarian sucks the tear droplets from her face with a cocktail straw.\n\"Baxter chewed the sticks,\" she groans, and remembers how\nBaxter Jack dropped moist splinters down the front of her blouse.\nShe still loves him and wants to marry him. Her shame is unbearable\nas she seeks the Hungarian's mouth and sinks her teeth into his lips.\nThe illustrator from eagle comix accepts the story of Baxter Jack\nas a challenge. I face two equally dull possibilities, she reasons, that\nhe'll jump and that he won't. She decides that her format, in any\ncase, must be unique. The design on the apron of the Ukrainian\nsaleswoman, who's sitting up against her cart nursing scraped elbows,\ndraws the illustrator's attention. Of course, she thinks, hollowed-out\neggs. She rushes off to call her editor, but has to speak to the publisher instead.\n\"Of course it's impossible,\" she screams into the telephone, \"so\nwas 60,000 pieces of birch bark. Why do you think you can charge\n$5,000 a copy asshole? Okay? Yeah, I can get it all on one egg.\nOkay? Yeah, it should break by midnight. Shit, how am I supposed\nto know? Yeah, bye.\"\nShe slams the receiver, a loud noise comes from the maroon\nThunderbird and NewLife Dance Traffic leaps into action. The\nassholes flame in the soft dusk light. The preparation, was painful.\nAsbestos insulation, the large funnel. Now the chance of overheating.\nFearless, they dance in three circles, like a circus, each ring encloses\na spectacular solo performance of splits, dips and flips. The crowd\ndiverts its collective stare from Baxter Jack, and is stunned by the\nblazing energy of it all.\nI DON'T WANT TO GO THERE\n72 Away from the fire and cheering, another circle forms, the society\nof Baxter Jack's former friends. Determined to end this pageant, the\nacrophobiacs are divided; some feel that sleep is the answer, while\nthe rest insist upon death.\n\"You used to be his best friend. He'll forgive you and let you in.\nThen you can push him.\"\n\"That's murder. I ain't going up there.\"\n\"Why don't you go sweet-talker? Maybe you'll talk him into\njumping.\"\n\"I say push him off.\"\n\"Yeah, push him off.\"\n\"You go.\"\n\"You go.\"\n\"Up there? You crazy or what!\"\n\"Somebody go.\"\nA bowl of cumquat halves in white wine. Baxter Jack savors one\nwith loud smacks. Lifting the bowl to his mouth. The dance was\ngreat, he thinks as he now watches the paraplegic martial arts\ndemonstration. To jump? It makes him shiver. He drinks some more.\nI JUST WANT TO SLEEP\n\"Ah'g'p'n'psshh'mm\"\n\"What? Who said that?\"\nThe Hungarian. Crazed. His rayon shirt blood-stained. Lips fat\nand hurting. The acrophobiacs are repulsed and back away. His\neyes spill danger after them. He slams a fist against the side of his\nhead and it improves his speech.\n\"P-push himmm!\"\nHe is disturbed. More people arriving, and He fears the pro forces\noutnumber the anti-jumpers. He considers his options. To go down\nand put the fear of death into all of them would not accomplish anything. They'd soon return. I have no choice, He decides.\n\"JumP Jump Jump\"\nI DON'T WANT TO\n\"Jump Jump Jump\"\nThe Hungarian spits blood at the acrophobiacs. They run away.\nSlowly, he moves toward the Marble Door.\n\"Jump Jump Jump\"\nI ONLY WANT A DREAM\n73 \"Jump Jump Jump\"\nHe spreads His wings, \"iiiiiiilllllHIIIIEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeee.\"\nThe windows of the Sylvia shake, then shatter. Baxter Jack. The\ncrowd is silenced. A devout follower of Max Soulbrethern is ecstasized with fear and allows his piss to puddle on the street. The perogy\nsaleswoman crosses herself, again and again. The Rum dog begins\nto howl and is joined by screamers whose efforts are terribly feeble in\ncomparison to the original one. No one leaves.\nHe draws Baxter Jack's eyes to the roof of the Sylvia. Baxter Jack\nsees nothing. Blinded, he closes the book he's reading. He sets aside\nthe mustard coated celery stalks. Baxter Jack yawns and is surprised\nby it.\nPenetrating deeper into Baxter Jack with His warm stare. He\nhates His job as He pierces Baxter Jack's brain. The book drops. The\ncrowd gasps. Baxter Jack falls asleep.\nAM I DREAMING YET\nThey look up and see him sleeping on the ledge. There he is, with\nsleep, the gentle suicide. Relief. They think it's over. No hard feelings\non the part of anyone except the Hungarian. He waits, watching\nwhile the crowd tip-toes away.\nSensing His work isn't complete, He guards Baxter Jack, and also\ntries to define the uneasiness within Him. It's within My power to\nknow, He considers, but I'm not all knowing. I have worked thousands of jobs; this one is not over. His eyes remain fixed to the ledge.\nThe Hungarian skulks along the outside wall of the Marble Door.\nEases through the entrance, past the elevator. He creeps up the stairs.\nFat lips now trembling; footsteps, one floor, another after another to\nBaxter Jack's floor. Creaking down the hall to Baxter Jack's door.\n\"Yeah, 850 dozen should do it. Try to have them all drained,\nokay? What? Yeah, it's a drag he fell asleep. Sure, sure, just drain\nthose eggs. I know. Look, I'll stick around. I need one of him sleep-\ning...\"\n\"Oh-Pin Da Door,\" head screams, twice-filled with murder. The\nHungarian smashing it open with his head, feet, fists and knees.\nI MUST BE DREAMING\nThe illustrator from eagle comix sketches. Phone booth offers an\nangle where Baxter Jack appears to be squeezing his head between\nhis thighs, she grins, he's blown himself to sleep. Before that crude\nimage cements itself another comes bursting in, he's falling.\n74 I MUST BE\nHe examines His alternatives. Already, He's frozen time, leaving\nBaxter Jack suspended in the air, the illustrator wide-mouthed in the\nphone booth and the Hungarian wild-eyed at the ledge. His choices\nare narrowed to four.\ni. to not interfere; to let time resume so that Baxter Jack falls to his\ndeath; to hit head first so that the skull cracks along the seam\nand his brain spills as his spine splits perfectly down the length\nof his back.\n2. to interfere; let the Hungarian join Baxter Jack in a race to the\nbottom of the Marble Door.\n3. let them exchange places; the Hungarian in space, Baxter Jack\nin the telephone booth and the illustrator on the ledge.\n4. to fake it; to somehow demonstrate the magic that immortalizes\nvictims and sells subscriptions.\nHe decides. Time begins. The Hungarian completes the follow-\nthrough of pushing Baxter Jack out the window and the illustrator\nattempts to give sound to the horror she feels. He slaps the air once\nand steals the scene. In a flash He's holding Baxter Jack by the\nankles. His wings drive a small storm behind Him as He ascends.\nBanking above the Sylvia He takes Baxter Jack further into his\nmouth. His size doubles as he blows by the window ledge and picks\nthe Hungarian's sockets clean. Baxter Jack is visible from waist to\nhead as He grazes street level and tears the door of the telephone\nbooth with the tip of a wing. She feels His mercy and only Baxter\nJack's head can be seen as He climbs once more, climbing and still\ngrowing. Stopping high above the city, again His wings extend, and\nHis shape is outlined in hot white light. And then nothing, only\nnight.\nThe illustrator partially recovers and begins work on the design\nfor this week's feature. Painted eggs representing the transformation\nof Baxter Jack, from insomniac to what the subscribers will meditate\nover as they sip morning coffee after bringing eagle comix off the\nfront porch.\n75 Sean Hearty / Three Poems\nI LOCK YOU WITH THESE WORDS\nI lock you with these words\ninto the Christian hump.\nYour silence will eat\nat the hinge at night\nwhen the moon rages.\nI force you with this bread\nto the meated mast.\nYour mouth will heat\nthe lip of the crutch\nwhen breath is still.\nI damn you with this wine\ninto the blooded form\nof your womanhood.\n76 MY WOUND IS AN ACRE\nMy wound is an acre if I count the sun\nWhere I fuse my nerves' dead ends;\nIf I fire the lemoned light\nThat stings the soft eye;\nIf, in eye, I find the kiss.\nMy heart is a prism if I smash the glass\nWhere I stain the lover's lip;\nIf I plague the singed stream\nThat wets the moist brain;\nIf I mesh the corded blood.\nYour youth is a spectre if you hold the bowl\nWhere you stock the shining bees;\nIf you suck the foreign fruit\nThat stumps the green tree;\nIf you pardon the sweet saint.\nYour hand is an engine if you plough the womb\nWhere you bury the rich coin;\nIf you storm the forged mind\nThat clouds the new beast;\nIf you stumble in the dark.\nOur hair is an anchor and we bruise the roots\nWhere we folded all music's prince.\n77 WHEN SKIN DOES WASTE TO FINGER\nWhen skin does waste to finger\nGods bleed the father stone.\nWhen the parent star turns fruit\nThe wasp at raw earth sucks.\nWhen, like the mothered fawn,\nI skid the first-lapped lake,\nThen frost's first seasoned sting\nPunishes the child in shade.\nThen the strapped skies strip the bird,\nFeather the sea-sand's matter.\nThen mermen, through the clay hero,\nStun the tumbling bee into my hair\nWhere I wax the father's sockets.\nWhen does skin waste to finger?\nThe first sleep's deer is dead.\nAll since all the child's first river\nRibboned round the rocks,\nTurned sour in the weather.\n78 Tove Ditlevsen, Denmark\nTranslated by Elin Elgaard\nFear\nThe bed creaked and, frightened, she stared at the ceiling. Then she\nplaced the coffee cup very carefully in its saucer, prevented it from\nchinking against the spoon. The bed had a different creak to it when\nhe was awake, different from his turning in sleep. But sometimes it\ndid not creak at all, which was almost the worst. This had been\ngoing on for three years, and she never had time to remember what\nit had been like before. He was a proof-reader. Worked nights. When\nhe came home in the morning his face immediately showed her\nwhether there had been misprints in the paper; sometimes, however,\nhe did not read it till he got up. He was terribly angry with her\nwhen there were misprints, and, really, it was a shame, she thought,\nwhen after all he did his job so conscientiously. She always took great\ncare to think of him in a nice correct way. But once in a while \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nlike now, for instance \u00E2\u0080\u0094 when he was awake, she did think of how\ncosy it would be if somebody came along, somebody to talk to. In\nthe beginning, Henny would pop in occasionally, as she had always\ndone. Henny was her sister, and she lived nearby. But although they\nwere very careful, talking very low, the bed had creaked all the time.\nThe wakeful sort of creak, and Henny said, \"The way sounds carry\nhere!\" And they'd started to whisper. Then he had shouted to them\nthere was no need to whisper, he couldn't sleep anyway. And she\nwas always glad to see Henny go. Better so.\nActually, she would like to have a cat. Cats are company, and\nquite soundless. One day, when he was in a good mood, she would\nask him if she mightn't have a cat.\nShe looked at the ceiling again. Completely quiet now. Was he\nasleep? She moved one foot a little, wriggling her ankle. She got too\nlittle exercise. Once, they had always gone for walks in the afternoon,\nor on Sundays. Now he stayed in bed Sundays, too. It was an old\n79 bed. It was more run-down than hers, against the opposite wall: he\ndidn't care for the 'marital' bit.\nShe bent down to pick up a thread from the floor. She never\ncleaned the house till he had left. She accidentally banged her head\nagainst the table, making the spoon chink against the cup. The blood\nshot to her forehead, her heart galloped. How clumsy she was! No\nmatter how careful, always some mishap or other. Why hadn't she\nleft the thread alone? The bed creaked.\n\"Drinking coffee again, are you?\" he shouted.\n\"Oh dear,\" she shouted back,\" did I wake you? I was only having\na drop from this morning.\"\n\"I could hear you take the lid off the tin,\" it boomed through the\nceiling. \"Drink away \u00E2\u0080\u0094 all the coffee you like. No need for those\nidiotic lies.\"\nShe stood rigid, the cup in her hand. She was about to take it to\nthe kitchen. She listened \u00E2\u0080\u0094 if more was to follow. The echo of his\nvoice kept ringing inside her, and she could not move till it faded.\nNow her heart beat normally again. The bed creaked violently a\nfew times, in triumph.\nShe went out there, put down first the cup, then the spoon, then\nthe saucer. He had been quite truthful: he didn't mind her drinking\ncoffee. He was really quite good-natured. It wasn't his fault that he\nslept so lightly. She decided to pay Henny a visit. She'd often decided\nthat, hardly ever carrying it out. She liked her sister's children very\nmuch, even if they were terribly noisy. She found it hard not to\nbelieve that disaster must be the result of so much noise. As a kind\nof counterweight, she always started whispering. And Henny would\nlaugh, saying she was getting honest-to-goodness weird. Henny said\nit was Arthur who made her cranky by lying up there creaking all\nday. But where else should he be? Henny was really quite unreasonable.\nUncertain, she took a few steps toward the door.\n\"Where you going gadding about now?\" he shouted.\nHer hand went to her heart. Her throat suddenly felt so dry. Then\nshe cleared it.\n\"No,\" she screamed. \"I was just going to put my shoes on.\"\n\"But they clatter,\" he roared, and she could hear that his patience\nwas well-nigh gone. She made a tremendous effort: if she didn't\nshout at the top of her voice, he declared it impossible to hear her.\nOtherwise his hearing was excellent.\n\"All right \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I won't wear them, then,\" she shouted, in despair.\n80 Sat down at the table again. No sound from upstairs, and ten\nminutes passed in an ominous, listening silence. Then the silence was\nbroken by a low, comfortable snore \u00E2\u0080\u0094 one of the safest in her world\nof sounds.\nShe stretched her stiff limbs, making joints give. Smiled and\nrubbed her hands together. It would be at least an hour before he\nwoke up again. It was feasible to get to Henny's and back in an\nhour. She was alone too much. Once, people came to their place,\njust like any other home. Her mother had sat back in that chair, her\nbrother on the sofa next to his wife. All went well for a few hours.\nThen, gradually, he would grow silent. They'd speak to him, and be\nanswered by monosyllables only. She never knew how it happened,\nbut suddenly they couldn't breathe. They spoke in low voices, as if\nsome accident had happened, threw little anxious glances his way.\nThen they left, left her standing there with far too much food for\ntwo people. And with a feeling of having committed a crime. When\nshe came back in \u00E2\u0080\u0094 after a nervous, whispered goodbye in the corridor, he'd already fallen asleep in his wing-back chair. When he\nwoke up, he'd be very surprised to hear of their having left. He, too,\nhad had a few friends: a couple of young bachelors who'd sit for\nwhole evenings at a time, attentive to everything he said, while she\nput out beer for them and collected the empty bottles. They themselves rarely spoke. Truth to tell, they'd been a bit afraid of him, no\ndoubt. She didn't know why. But all this had taken place on another\nplanet, as it were. She'd only think of it when he slept. While putting\non her shoes and coat \u00E2\u0080\u0094 very carefully, very quietly \u00E2\u0080\u0094 she also\nthought of the child they ought to have had. Of course, she was too\nold now (soon thirty-five), but when they were young. But already\nthen \u00E2\u0080\u0094 on an even more distant planet \u00E2\u0080\u0094 there would be long\nbetween one time and the next. Only seldom, in darkness and deep\nsilence, would he get the better of his aversion. Afterwards, he had\nbeen sort of angry with her. It was never mentioned between them.\nShe disengaged the catch before opening the door: he could\nalways hear its little 'click'. Out in the street, she looked both sides\nand then, narrow and spectre-like of figure, half-ran the fifty paces\nto her sister's place.\nThe two children ran into her arms.\n\"Dear me!\" she said, touched; \"but it IS a long time ago. And I\nhaven't even brought you anything.\"\nAnd they took her hands, dancing with her, round and round, till\n81 she got out of breath, sat down laughing, clapping a hand to her\nmouth as if she'd gone too far and if he could see her now!\n\"I'm off again at once,\" she told Henny, who was pregnant again,\nher eyes so merry and warm. \"I only nipped across because he was\nasleep, so I thought \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"\n\"Yes yes,\" Henny said, \"now sit down. Do calm down, dear. Keep\nyour hands still.\"\nAnd the room was so light; that was the sun's doing. There was a\nsewing machine, clothes lying about everywhere, and she didn't know\nat all why, but suddenly she burst into tears. Then she blew her nose\nwith a mighty blare and couldn't help laughing out loud, couldn't\nmake herself stop.\n\"Oh,\" she said, \"it gives me a stomach-ache. It's true, Henny:\nit's sitting somewhere in my stomach now. It's downright bubbling\nwith it.\"\nAnd why! there were tears in Henny's eyes, too; and she came up\nto put her arms round her; something like an ice-crust melted, making her inside soft and light, a moment she would remember forever.\nShe'd never experienced anything so strange. Here she was, just visiting her sister, whose husband he could not stand, because there was\nso much noise and laughter around him.\n\"Now, listen,\" Henny said, \"it can't go on like this. He's scaring\nthe wits out of you. Don't think we haven't got eyes.\"\n\"But \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \" she was speechless, indignant, and she must go \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"but,\ndearest Henny,\" she said. \"What do you mean? I'm just a bit nervous. He doesn't do me any harm, you know. It's just all that night\nwork. Poor thing, he sleeps so badly in daylight. And if only I had\na cat \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"\nNow she was babbling. There was really no sense in dragging a\ncat into this preposterous accusation. She ought to put Henny in her\nplace, and then she did go on, anyway, without taking Henny up on\nher nonsense:\n\"Just a small kitten, a soft and warm kitten, which would pun-\nvery quietly. It would just lie there, Henny, in my lap, purring all\nday. Couldn't you get one for me?\"\n\"Have you asked him?\"\n\"No, but I was going to, this very day. I'll go home and ask him\nright away. You really mustn't think I'm afraid of him \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"\nShe stopped. Her eyes darted about the room. She was listening\ninside herself. He was awake. She felt it through walls, through\noceans, through three years of tense alertness. She flapped her arms\n82 a little as if to get out of the chair quicker. The sun hurt her eyes.\nShe longed to sit at the table, listening toward the ceiling. She longed\nfor the sound of the bed creaking. She could not bear to be without\nthat sound. Her heart beat wildly.\n\"I'm sorry,\" she said to Henny, and \"goodbye, children\" to the\ninvisible small figures dancing in the sun's rays. And Henny shouted\nsomething behind her, but the wind bore it away in the opposite\ndirection. And \"yes yes\" she shouted back, \"yes yes\".\nAnd if only everything turned out well this one time, and God\nknows, she thought, I'll never demand a cat if only he's gone to sleep\nagain. If only he isn't awake.\nShe took off her shoes on the outside mat, creeping sideways in the\ndoor, as if it would make less noise, the less it was opened. Then she\nstood rigid, a pillar of salt, in the doorway to the living-room, for\nthere he was, the paper spread before him, propped on the coffee\ncup. Infinitely slowly he raised his head, let his eyes run up and\ndown her, as if he had never seen her before.\n\"Well,\" he said impassively, \"has there been an accident? You\nlook that way.\"\n\"No.\"\nShe took a step toward him, stopped.\n\"I \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I was just over at Henny's place for a bit. I thought you'd\nbe asleep \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"\nHer voice trailed off, broke.\n\"I heard you go right enough,\" he said, again immersed in the\npaper.\nShe stared at his Adam's apple. It was going up, down \u00E2\u0080\u0094 up,\ndown. If only it would stop. If only something would stop. She'd be\nhappy if he would keep his Adam's apple still.\n\"I'd like \u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 I mean \u00E2\u0080\u0094- wouldn't it be fun to have a little cat?\"\n\"They're smelly,\" he said, irritated. \"You shouldn't let her stuff\nyour head with such nonsense.\"\n\"No.\" She hung up her coat in the wardrobe.\nThen she sat down carefully in her usual chair, at pains to take\nup as little room as possible. He was reading the advertisements. His\nface was terrible. Worse than when there were misprints, it seemed\nto her. She oughtn't to have gone. By always staying in the house,\nshe averted something horrible which was always just on the point\nof happening, something she was always expecting, something which,\ndaily, minute by minute, she pushed back in its place \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the way a\nwall will crash on you, if you don't push all your weight against it.\n83 The clock struck six.\nHe folded the paper neatly, regarded her in silence a moment.\n\"There were no misprints,\" he said slowly.\n\"Oh, thank God,\" she said, \"thank God! Now, just you forget\nabout that cat, Arthur. It doesn't matter. They smell nasty. You're\nquite right. I'll just go and start the potatoes off.\"\nAnd she tripped into the kitchen, with a vacant smile, and small,\ndeprecating gestures flailing the air, as if to ward off imaginary flies.\nShe dared not think of what might have happened if, on top of\nall, there had been misprints.\n84 Kevin Irie / Three Poems\nCROW IN FLIGHT\nCaught among a snag of trees\none crow\nhooked upon a branch\nsnuffed to silence, still as coal\nthen two black sickles\nstrike the air:\na volt of leaves, the branches whips\nthat flail and toss and topple numb\nwhile flung\nand funneled up to break\nthe clouded surface to the sun\nthe crow ascends\nbeyond all sight\nand wears the sky for feathers\n85 THE IRON HARVEST\nThey cut the wheat\nthe wind rolls them eastward\nmore and more\nthe sun flounders through a grey smoking cloud\na dull red hole\nInto the iron jaws\nthe rats are harvested\nsocket, spleen and tails like stalks\nthe rabbits torn\nthe rodents pulped\nswallowed by the raving bowels\na tunneled reaper\nthey fill its hollow vein with blood\nBrown hands gather the summer's tinder\nthe earth erupts then returns to itself\n86 METAMORPHOSIS\nThe ice is a knife twelve inches long\nthat cuts through itself\na thousand crystals:\nthe wind enters\nlike a stranger\nto where it once erased\nautumn's scars from the ochre earth\nOn his face blood etches itself\nlike scratches of frost\nDeath cleaves his body like butcher's meat\nfingers fall\ntoes peel off like gloves\nleaving husks of skin and agonised holes\nHis coat tatters and blows\nlike the ragged wings\ntorn and abandoned by a mutilated bird\nthe winter laps his burial slowly\nhis body floats in a solid pond\nhe sees everything: his eyes are hailstones\nand the wind\nrolls his head\nlike some strange tumbleweed\nacross a prairie of untrodden snow\n87 Lesley Krueger\nThe Songs of Anna Marten\nThem funny kids is going out somewhere tonight, you can see what\nthey're up to. The daughters-in-law is running back and forth between the trailers and the house, their hair getting fluffier and their\nmouths getting redder, oh my, red, like their cheeks too. The sons'\nhair, ain't much of that left, but what there is gets darker with goo\nslap-slapped on the head. Only the grandkid sits still, swinging her\nlegs until it comes to me that she ain't going out too, so I winks at\nher, seeing as how we're in this together.\nOne of the daughters-in-law, she comes over to the chair where I\nparked myself after dinner and she says to me, she says, \"Granny,\nwe're going to a movie at the Odeon tonight. Would you look after\nAlice?\" So I nods at her and says, \"Su-ure. Where you say you at?\"\n\"The Odeon downtown,\" she says. So I leans back and listens to the\nleaving noises while Alice sits there dealing solitary to herself at the\nkitchen table.\n\"Pheum, pheum pheum pheum,\" the car starts with that big son\nof mine giving it the gun and then it quietens down and I hear\nGertie, she hates me calling her that, she says, \"Rudy, you know\nwhere we're going now, do you?\" And he says to her, \"Shut up\nGert,\" so I can almost hear that nice wife of his, that Doris, move\nand whisper to Gertie, \"Sorry, sorry.\"\nThey drives off, but not before I gets me an idea from Gertie.\nThey bring me presents each summer when they come from the\nCoast, them funny kids towing their trailers. Rudy and Doris, they\nbring me sheets and towels, linen sheets what feel nice against an\nold body. Gertie and Harold, they brings perfumes in big fancy\nbottles. Now most of them I likes, makes the old girl feel like a bite\nof mint. But this year, phew, this year they brings me this awful\ncrap, phew, I open the bottle and think I make better smells farting.\nSo when they leaves me alone I pours it down the toilet, phew phew,\n88 and then thinks I should fill it up with something so Gertie's feelings\nwon't be hurt. I starts to fill it with water and then I get me an idea\nand asks old man Olaffson when I gets the chance to get me a\nmickey of rum. So he brings it and I pours out the water and pours\nin the mickey. I ain't supposed to drink. Ingrid don't approve, Rudy\ndon't approve, Doris don't approve, Gertie pretends she don't approve and Harold he don't give a shit, but he's agreeable to the rest.\nBut I likes my nip and it don't hurt no one and old man Olaffson\nsecures it from the liquor store.\nSo anyways, my idea is to get that rum and that Pepsi from the\nfridge and these pennies from the jar and have me and Alice a fine\ntime. I look over at Alice, there she sits playing solitary, and I says\nto her, I says, \"Alice, you like to play a real game of cards?\"\n\"Sure Granny,\" she says to me.\n\"We play rummy,\" I says, and rolls the 'r' on my tongue Swede-\nfashion, the way I rolls the rum. She grins, that one, and I creaks\nout of my chair with my voice going, \"Unh, unh,\" without me even\ntelling it to. Alice, she watches me, she don't move to help not because she ain't nice, but because it don't occur to her yet that she\nshould. Quiet, she only does what she thinks and not what other\npeople expect. I look at her and I think, Were I like her back when\nI were i o, 11 ? I always think that, but I was never sure until the\nother night when I were sitting in the kitchen and them kids was\nwatching the television in the front room. Alice, she's out there on\nthe back porch and after a while, she forgets I'm here. So she starts\nleaning out into the warm night wind and sings sudden-like in a\nlittle open voice, \"Oh stars you are so pretty. Oh stars you are so\nfine in the sky, in the sky. I like you stars, friendly stars, do you like\nme?\" And then she stops and breathes heavy thinking of me in the\nkitchen, but she don't know I'm back in the Old Country, singing\nin a low voice to the linden trees. They sure was pretty, them trees\nagainst a fine blue sky, the wind pushing through them with slow-\nmoving fingers. And I think, I was like her once. I used to sing. And\nthat's something.\nSo she gets a Pepsi from the fridge, the kid do, and a couple of\nglasses Rudy got from the gas station on the way up. She puts them\non the table and gets an opener and opens the Pepsi, fffzzzzit. Then\nI says, \"Alice, get Gertie's bottle of perfume from my bedroom,\" and\nshe brings it back to me and I pours a shot into my glass and she\nsays, \"Granny, you can't drink Auntie Trudy's perfume. It'll make\nyou sick.\" But I laughs in this deep old lady's laugh and I says, \"This\n89 here ain't perfume now. This is rum.\" And so her face opens up in\nthis big grin which reminds me of the sun coming out on a wide flat\nfield. She hangs onto the back of my chair and sort of kicks it, thump\nthump, oh that rattles the bones, but she don't know yet. So I gives\nher a shot in a glass with a funny-looking dog on it and I hits us\nboth with Pepsi.\nI leans back, that hip of mine I done broke last winter protesting\nlike a barn in a windstorm. Alice, she deals the cards and then takes\na gulp of her rum. \"Faugh, cough cough,\" she says, and then has\nsome more. Her cards is in a neat pile. Were I that neat? I don't \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nAnd then it comes back to me. Me in the Old Country, little little\nwith long skirts what hide my legs. My hair is blonde, white-blonde,\nSwede-blonde, and it tickles my neck with soft curls. I is sitting inside\nlearning to knit, darn. Neat rows, lining up straight. I like those for\na time. Then I goes outside to the fields, many years running. Planting, tending, picking, sometimes in between stealing them little ears\nof corn that taste so sweet they make you float off with the wind.\nThem years I talk in different words, words that jump and race like\nAlice-songs. I sing to the fields, the trees, the cow \u00E2\u0080\u0094 she's a friend\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 to the little kids in cradles. Then I sings to the little kids in graves,\nsometimes that happened too.\nKids don't croak so easy these days. Alice, she born so early in the\nold days she croak for sure. Then the mother she would have cried\nand folded away all the little clothes until the next time coming and\nthe pa, he makes the box and digs the hole. Doris, though, she cry\nplenty anyways, do I remember this correctly. Maybe because she\nknows Alice is going to be the only one. Gertie don't have none,\nthough, like Ingrid, not a one there neither. Alice she's the only\ngrandkid and that old man, he would have hated no one having a\nboy and the name dying. So what's so hot about Marten anyways, I\nasks. That Alice, she's fit to end us all.\nSu-ure she is. Look at that pile of pennies by her elbow. She been\nsaying \"Rummy,\" \"Rummy,\" \"Rummy,\" like she got the hiccoughs.\nShe been beating the old lady, she's drinking her rum, gulp gulp,\nand I pours her another shot of the stuff and belches.\nI grows up on that farm happy. Sure I was happy, running free.\nI don't have to worry and see things get done. There's always someone standing behind me to make sure they do. And that's a whole\nmeasure of freeness to have that, so when the wind calls you can go\nrunning.\n90 Do this one run? I never seen her. But cooped up in them old cities\nrunning ain't worth much. You just end up at places like you started,\npassing more places like the ones at the beginning and the end with\nfeet pat-patting against the hardness. I think I see her mind go\nrunning sometimes though, as she sits singing.\nSinging, singing. How I sang. That's how Samuel said he first\nseen me, singing over the fields. I were 16 with big hips, big tits and\nlips and shoulders, a Swede farm girl made for working the earth.\nHe were new thereabouts, walked down to his uncle's place, the third\nson hired out to make do. Ya he were big and wide with hard blunt\nmoves that made him stand out among the poorer bent folks. Yet\nhe were gentle and knowing too, that Samuel, when he felt private\nalone with you. He told me things and said he liked my songs and\nmarried me when I were going on 17 in the Old Country still. He\nstill makes me tender, that Samuel, old woman going on 75 though\nI be. He calls up memories of teeth and long waved hair what is\ngone, leaving me with damn old falsies what click and a grey scrub-\nbrush on my head.\nThat Samuel though, he had one bee in his bonnet. He would\ngo to America, even though I find out there's a kid on the way. Now\nI don't think of saying nothing contrary because Samuel, he's like\nmy ma and pa gone, he stands behind me to make sure things\nhappen proper. But for the first time I see this means not just freedom to run, but ropes to tie you to others' ideas, and I wonder how\nyou has both at once and cries.\nAnd rummy, here I got a rummy old fool woman sitting here in\nher memories. I don't see it right away and gets one of them hot-\ncold hits of fear in the forehead what says, \"Woman, you old.\" And\nI gets this bad picture in my head of that hospital what I went to\nlast winter with that hip, where they sit in memories and shit and\nthat's all. And I think then, Anna Marten, you never gets lost that\nway. You keeps a hold of yourself old girl. And for a while I were\nscared to remember, until I get scared thinking of everything else\ntoo. You try thinking of what's in the newspapers and magazines\nand you get scared just cause you don't understand a lot of what's\nthere \u00E2\u0080\u0094 you must of missed something somewhere along the line\nand what's that say about you, then? You get scared too after a\nwhile watching the boob tube, since you start thinking, how them\npictures get there? Just like you think, that phone, where the voices\ncoming from? And you gets scared of your own past and a present\nyou don't understand and after that you gets scared of your own\n91 future. So many things you don't know. What does happen to a\nbody when it croaks? And you get touchy and jumpy and Ingrid\nsays in her long-distance phone voice, \"Rudy, I just don't know how\nto handle Mother after her hip. She's one big bundle of nerves and\nshe's wearing my nerves to a frazzle.\" And you sits there thinking,\nhow can I tell you Ingrid but what I'm scared to die, you'd be so\nembarrassed.\nSo there's a while when I just sits and pulls myself together. I\nthinks, I got to live my life in little pieces what is easy to chew. I got\nto bring my vision in, thinking in parts and not letting the old brain\ngo leaping and jumping and getting scared. I'm strong, ja, I'm a\nstrong old bugger of a woman and I does. Have another drink,\nAnna, varsagod. Tuk, don't mind if I do.\nI wins, I is on a winning streak and that kid, she's pleased. She\ndon't like winning so easy against her old Granny. To show how\npleased she are, she takes one special penny she's been touching all\nnight off her pile and she says, \"Granny, here's a real neat penny for\nyou. It's old. I like it.\" And I peers and squints at it, but even with\nmy glasses it's pretty fuzzy, so I asks Alice to read it to me. And she\nlooks at it again and says, \"Nineteen twenty-eight. I like them from\nthe twenties. That's a long time ago and you don't see many around.\nSome from the thirties.\" Her sentences is short but her words run\non long. The rum is getting to her and I says to her, I says, \"Kid, I\nwere born in 1885. What you think of that, eh?\" And she nods.\n\"Sure I remembers 1928. Nineteen twenty-eight? I remembers a\nlong time before that. We had a farm in the Old Country and me a\nlittle girl. And then a married woman with a bun in the oven.\" She\nlooks at me sideways and grins. She knows.\n\"And then I is a married woman with a bun in the oven on an\nold boat in 1904. We is crossing the Atlantic.\"\nCrossing the Atlantic in a puke-ship of sick Swedes. Tall white and\nyellow people with green faces heading for America. I move among\nthem, the sick Swedes and Norskas, cleaning up and tending. I am\n19 and considered long time gone a woman.\n\"You and Grandpa Marten were coming to Canada, Granny?\"\nthe kid says, her head on the side. I is slightly surprised.\n\"No, me and old man Samuel. Samuel Samuelsson.\" She don't\nknow. Them funny kids, them asshole kids with their grown-up\nsecrets. They make her grow up and think it's a shame to marry twice\nif they carry on like this. Makes an old woman want to heave. Funny\n92 kids. What they think if they find out I only marry once, not twice,\nand then not to their pa?\n\"Samuel Samuelsson, sure. He's my first husband. Big Swede. We\ngo to America. We get off the boat and he talks Swede and no one\nunderstands us, only pushes us into lines, into more lines, stamp stamp\nus and we is on a train with most money gone and the other Swedes,\nthey say Minne-sota.\"\nAnd we sticks to them and talks, me with the other young wives\nand him with the men. They say, Samuel Samuelsson, you want to\nbe a big farmer, you need more train money to go to Canada. You\nstop in Minnesota, you work in the mines, make money and go. So\nwe go to Minnesota, bun pops out of the oven the second day on\nthe train. The other women help. I remember making my body rock\nto the train, that's all.\nMinne-sota. We settles down in a town with other Swedes. Other\nSwedes help us get a house, not with a boob tube like I got now,\ndidn't have them, a little house outside town. That Samuel, he gets\na mine job and I stays home, tending the baby and the house and\nthe garden, happy. Singing? I sang. I is happy with that baby, nursing it, singing to it. Other Swede women come to me, we make shy\ntalk of strangers, but I don't need them. I sing to my baby in old\nsongs, new songs following the pattern of the wind, the drop drop\nof the rain. So when this new sound comes from the mine one day,\nI is rocking the Johan baby and singing to it and it seems quite right\nto make up a song of toot toot toots. I joggle him and sing toot toot\ntoot and laughs and I swear but that he smiles, that baby do, and\nthat's why I don't believe the wives when they run and tell me there's\na cave-in come to the mine. I sits and laughs and rocks my baby in\nthe sunlight and it's only when they brings him in broken and black\nthat I starts this scream and I do say I ain't never heard anything\nlike it before and since and I never want to neither, no I don't.\nBut what's that noise now? There it are. Me singing in a deep\nold lady's voice in rocking sad Swede words. The kid she's half\nlistening, eyes closed, and I stop like she done in her song to the\nstars. Who told that old voice to start singing, eh? And she opens\nher eyes and says to me, \"Teach me some Swedish swearwords\nGranny,\" before she falls onto the table. Clean cold passed out.\nI passed out after the old man died. Then I come to and me and\nan old woman we laid him out and buried him. And then, I forget\nhow, I get a job as a cook on a farm for a widowman and his hired\nhelp. I take that kid John along and he starts growing up in the\n93 healthy farm air. Sometime when he is about two I start singing to\nhim again and sometime when he is about five he dies, Johan baby,\nthat John kid, he up and dies on me. And now I know I can't stay\nin America no more, so I takes my bit of money and I catches a train\nto Alberta where I got an aunt and she got a son and a farm. They\nsays I can cook, the old lady's getting wobbly, and I can cook there.\nThey're round about Drum, down south, and I takes a train into\ntown and walks to the Marten farm. I can do these things now. I\nhas to. Nobody's standing behind me to help me out if I muffs it.\nI muffs it and I go hungry and I go underground. Somehow I don't\nwant to croak yet. My teeth is fine and my hair is strong yellow\nwaves and I is 25.\nWell that farm is some farm for sure. They has two quarter sections of fine land and the wheat has a way of running and bending\nin the wind what makes it look like the hills is bowing. We have a\nbig vegetable garden what I tends and weeds and some chickens and\npigs and milk cows what I milks. There is cats all over the barn,\nsmall quick-moving cats with slippery eyes and ears half gone in the\nwinter freeze. I names them and they follows me and Peter, he's\nmad, them cats is supposed to be hungry barn mice killers, I probably likes mice too. But I growed up on a farm and I pats the cats\nand knows not to feed them. I only feed him and he can shove it\nup his rear end, which is a way of talking I learned on the last farm\nwith the widowman, who used to pat my round Swede ass.\nJa Peter, Pete. He was a funny one, sometimes into a bottle, which\nis where I learned this. Later I come up to his room at night when\nhe's liquored up and find him on his knees praying. \"God, please\nkeep them ghosts away.\" So I laughs and he starts up and I says, \"So\nyou believe in ghosts, Pete Marten?\" And he says, \"I ain't sure if I\nbelieve in ghosts now nor in god neither. But I figure if there is\nghosts, there is a god too, and if I asks him, he'll keep the ghosts\naway. But if there ain't no god to answer my prayer, there ain't no\nspooks neither, so I'm safe there too.\" He spoke so serious I didn't\nknow if he were joking. Later I finds out he weren't, later when his\nmother dies, later when I becomes his sorta wife, and that story sums\nup for me the whole of Peter Marten.\nCrazy coot. Stooperstitious, no practical sense, believes in omens.\nYou thinks god spends all his precious time sending omens to Peter\nMarten. Pete, sell the farm, move to Grande Prairie, to Calgary, to\nEdmonton. Buy a car Pete, sell a car, try to make a quick profit, god\nsays. Peter sees a cloud shaped like a horse, it means this. A cow\n94 pisses upwind, it means that. God spends so much time sending Pete\nMarten messages, he never has time to work things out. But Pete\nMarten, he's so helpless, I stand behind him, behind them three kids,\nfixing up the ends of things.\nThat Pete Marten though, he gets liquored up and he bashes us\naround any number of rooms, although he's mighty sorry afterwards.\nI'm sorry too, and bruised, and I washes his back with warm soapy\nwater and thinks, poor little man, you won't ever understand why,\nwill you? And until you do, you won't ever make things work out.\nAnd so we lives, and so we lives. Harold, he's too young to go to\nthe first war, too old to go to the second, but Rudy he goes to the\nsecond, to Dieppe. They never talk about the war and I never know,\nuntil I start reading them books and magazines after my hip. And\nthen they frighten me like nothing ever frightened me before, because\nI think, I never understood those wars. But even if I did, there was\nnothing I could do about it anyways. And here's me thinking and\nbeing superior to the old man because I got it into my head that if\nhe knew what was going on, he could have handled things proper\nfor both of us. He couldn't, though. Not alone, not with me bitching\nand screaming, with everyone else saying, Peter Marten, that head-\nin-the-clouds fool. Maybe he knew somehow there weren't never\nnothing he could do on his own. Maybe those really were omens,\nbad omens, always bad, showing what would happen if we didn't\nall believe. And so one night I prayed, \"Dear god, if you are there,\nplease keep Pete Marten away from me, if he is there, because I\ncouldn't stand having to face him knowing he was right.\" And me\n74, thinking this. And me, 74.\nThat old man, he died in '48. Cancer got him and he stank lying\ndead. Ingrid, her husband were dead too, from the war, and she got\na pension and we got this little house. Part of a house, actually. We\nshare it with other families and they make noises, noises now, late\nthough this be.\nWhat noises? Traffic noises outside, walking noises upstairs, kids\nhot summer night-time yells. Alice snores quiet at the table. Her\nmother, that Doris, she says the kid's got to have her adenoids out.\nHer cheek's in a pile of pennies. All careful I move her special penny\nover by her nose. Least I think it's the right one \u00E2\u0080\u0094 feels old, worn\nlike me. I leans back, creaking. Hear more noises. What they be?\nAn old deep scratching. What's that? Me singing another Swede\nsong. Ja, and a \"Pheum pheum,\" from outside. Voices, and there's\nthat Doris talking soft yet high in words that carry through the\n95 night. They catch up in my song, bending through it, and I change\nthe tune so her words fit. I make that Doris sing, ja, and close my\neyes. Then that Rudy, deep bear voice, and I gather it into my\nSwede song too. Harold, Gertie, Harold, Gertie, and my song brings\ntheir words in with a jumble of Swede and English. They marry\nduring the thirties, those two, and Doris and Rudy too before he\ngoes away to war and my song is sad since they have but one kid\nbetween them. This Alice. She sleeps, her face in the pennies and\nher glass in her hand with the fingers on that dog's nose. So I throw\nsomething about stars and a few Swede swearwords into my song\njust to fit her in too. And those funny kids in the hall they quit talking, even Gertie who don't quit talking ever, except when someone\nmentions that time when she were in the hospital in '42, which was\nwhen she got rid of a kid.\nI'm singing, they're quiet, all bunched up out there. Then that\nDoris she comes into the room and she looks at me and at Alice and\nshe says, \"What Granny, what?\" while I sit back in that chair singing. Then Rudy walks in behind her and picks up my glass and has\na sniff and I put the bear back into my song for him. Doris she grabs\nthe glass and has a sniff and shrieks and my old lady's voice lifts up\nas far as the old body'll let it go. Then Ingrid shrieks and Gertie\nshrieks and I start laughing an old lady's rasp and Gertie shrieks\nagain and I say, \"Tell us about your operation in '42, Gert,\" and\nshe shrieks again and Harold says \"Mo-ther.\"\nJa, and there goes that song again, jumping in Swede risings and\nfallings as Rudy looks at me disgusted and picks up the kid and\nthrows her over his shoulder. She belches, I belches louder for effect.\n\"Mo-ther,\" Harold says, he says to me. I leans back even farther, as\nfar as an old body can, my eyes closed and that song walking around\nme. Then I opens my eyes and winks at Rudy and he can't help but\nhalf grin back, that Rudy, and wink too. I belches. We're all in this\ntogether, I thinks, all of us, and my voice swells to catch them in a\nringing Swede song rising high on the night wind.\n96 A. Labriola\nSILENT FILMS\nTih Minh (1919), take me into\nThe vast house, through the listening rooms,\nWith ornamental tables, the carved staircase,\nAnd the portraits of limp women, sleeping\nLet me touch all the sobs of their breasts,\nLike a beloved assassin\nBurdening anguish, moaning voluptuous hymns\nTo the polished skull\nOn the table, shatters of stillness\nInset with burning shells\nThe pearls which drown their eyes,\nDrown us in wakening horror\nWith statues murmuring\nThe faint greed of paranoia\nLift the skin of time\nTo find the disquietening sleepers\nAnd the flowering shells of solitude\nThey wear like hysterical bouquets\nEarly, I was the Skeleton (man or woman)\nAt the scented feet of the voluptuous Theda Bara\nWhose anthropomorphic body\nWas/is as corrupt as the\nIsotta-Fraschini of the murmuring 20's\nImagine her body, now dead, as the automobile\nDelirium or the bird descending\nTo pick clean my bones with tremors of doom\nI touch the jewelled asp adorning\nHer breast, memory and desire,\nBeyond dark, or forbidden love\nI am talking about remorse\nThe chimerical destroyer, desperately\nIn love with the man-eater\n97 We'll take our place among photos of Garbo\nIn Wild Orchids (1929), in the sleeping city\nOr the immeasureable garden, we'll be like Garbo\nAnd the beautiful Robert Taylor in Camille\nOr the World War I lovers: Cooper and Hayes\nAs poisonous as the same glance that went between them\nOr the drowned eyes of child-women\nLillian Gish, May McAvoy, Mary Pickford (1927)\nAll the bee-sting lips and dreaming eyes, now silent\nYet all these mirrors shatter\nGlamorous lipstick on a cigarette or a glass\nWe come to it now,\nEspecially the lips of Heddy La Marr\nAnd one thing is certain\nTheir angelicism without genius or love\nLurks and limps with death itself\nIn the presence of that desire,\nSilent, they sink through boredom,\nThe stinking shadows of Error and Fame\nAnd they do not touch my darkening soul\nFluttering like a moth\nTo the flaming of nightmare\nOr the despair of old films\nAnd do not touch me when we leave the house\nWaste and empty\nWhen my body, too, is a spice bowl\nLike Betty Grable's,\nA pomander of broken promises\n98 Beth Powning\nMothers\nGavin and his mother watch the goats coming up from the alders.\nMists drift across the hillside beyond the pasture. The air smells of\ndamp earth and balsam. Behind them a house trailer crouches\nagainst the grey sky. Tar paper on the goat shed roof glistens dully.\nGavin sits on the top bar of the fence. It is a cedar sapling and\nsprings slightly under his weight. He grips it, leaning forward with\nhis rubber boots on the lower bar, and watches the goats intensely\nas they straggle up over the greening field. Their submissiveness\nmakes him feel powerful. His eyes are cowlike, too big, like his teeth,\nand his head. He hunches awkwardly, knobby wrists bare below the\nfrayed cuffs of his denim jacket.\nHe glances over his shoulder at the mother collie. She is huddled\non straw, chained to her hutch by the diesel tank. She never takes her\neyes off Helen and Gavin. Even from here, he can see their whites,\nsorrowful, accusing.\nHe glances at his mother.\nShe is studying the hillside. Her face seems rumpled, slightiy, with\nanxiety.\nGavin feels important. Five children, and none of the others had\neven bothered to offer to stay home and help her search.\n\"Wha'd she want to drap the pup off there for, anyway, Mum?\"\nHelen moves suddenly, as though startled. She is strong, stocky,\nbut there's an apologetic expression on her face, a look of hidden\nrefinement, and an apologetic set to her shoulders, as though she's\nnot quite accepted, or believed, what she's become. Her hands are\nshoved into the pouch of a grey sweatshirt and Gavin knows they\nare clenched into fists, hidden in there. She stands with one leg forward, the knee bent. She shakes her head slightly, rapidly wipes her\nnose with the back of her hand. Her eyes drop automatically to the\ngoats coming out of the grey silent landscape.\n99 \"Just jealous, Gavin,\" she says lightly. \"Wants all my attention.\"\n\"She musta known that was the very one,\" he says, outraged.\nHelen nods simply, not looking at Gavin.\n\"Old bitch,\" he adds explosively, and looks evilly over his slouched\nshoulder at the dog. The collie is still staring down at them. She\nseems to writhe forward inside her fur as she feels his scorn.\nThe goats are almost to the gate. Their small hooves tap fastidiously on the hardpacked soil, on bits of yellow straw. Mist settles on\ntheir coarse brown and black coats and the hair is bristled along\ntheir spines. They seem aggrieved. Old Molly's bag drags on the\nground, blue veins bulge, the goat waddles and stares at Helen with\nunfeeling yellow eyes. The herd jostles together vaguely. A bell\nclanks, a tail lifts and droppings rattle to the ground.\nThere's a heavy jouncing thud as a truck hits a pothole in the dirt\nroad, and Gavin grins at his mother.\nBut she seems almost not to know he's there. She's staring back at\nthe hill again.\nShe is composed, her face is serene. But she's like a child, innocent\nof her transparency, not realizing how the crow's feet, the downward\nlines around her mouth, the forward jut of her jaw, even the wisping\nof her greying hair, reveals the anxiety that underlies and supports\nthe composure.\nShe squints hopefully as though she can see something moving.\nA breeze stirs her baggy doubleknit pants, she puts her hand to her\nbare throat, gathering the collar of her sweatshirt.\n\"Cold, Gavin, eh?\" she says without looking at him.\nShe speaks lightly, as though nothing is ever as bad as it seems.\nGavin's eyes slide sideways at her. He's afraid sometimes of her\ncheerfulness.\nThe goats huddle around the gate. They wait in unquestioning\nstances, a head up staring at Helen patiently, Old Molly's freckled\nwhite ears drooping, her lips fumbling at the straw.\nGavin swings his legs over, jumps down importantly. \"Mus' take\nthem in now, Mum.\"\nHelen looks at the herd. Her eyes widen slightly, become vacant,\nher lips tighten as she stares at the ground, at the eighty black and\nwhite ivory hooves. She nods, then lifts her eyes and stares at Gavin\nwith the same expression.\n\"You take them in Gavin. I'm ...\" she glances at the trailer.\nThe mist looms nearer, the ragged maple trees by the road have\nbecome indistinct. \"... I'm just going to have one last little look.\"\nioo Gavin's mouth opens. He turns jerkily, looks at the goats. \"But....\"\n\"I know, I won't be long,\" she says quickly. She seems almost\nembarrassed.\nThen Gavin feels smug.\n\"Hokay,\" he says exuberantly, and slides back the top bar. \"This\nway, ladies!\"\nHelen disappears surprisingly quickly, a vivid figure plunging\ndown the hill at a half-trot, her arms out for balance, her hands in\nfists.\nShe can feel the muscles at the backs of her legs as she goes up\nthe old logging trail once again. It is so steep she climbs with her\ntoes pointing out. Her insteps feel the scrabbly wet soil through her\nrubber boots. Red beech saplings thrust through the soft layer of\ndecaying leaves. There are white violets, innocent in their tiny delicacy, of footsteps, tractor tires.\nAt the top she stops, leans against a spruce tree. Her fingertips\ngrasp the grooves of rough bark, she puts her other hand on her\nchest and feels her heart thudding.\nUnder the mist, nothing stirs. Leaves are limp, the trees fade back,\ntheir trunks become like columns of smoke that might drift away,\nand there is a sound of dripping, a smell of wet leaves, soil, spruce\nresin. A thrush drops five notes into the quiet, the sound hovers,\ntrembles, fades away.\n. . . the children have no notion of the way the front wears thin,\nthe way she and Donald build it again and again, when the requests\nfor shoes, hockey sticks, hairpins, records, fall like hail on their precariously renewed stock. But it will never be otherwise. Never. Never.\nThe pups were born yesterday, purebreds, worth seventy dollars\napiece ... the pup had lain in her cupped hands limp and soft, sleeping trustingly. Helen, kneeling alone in the pen, in the sunfilled barn,\nquiet save for the sudden fluttering thuds of sparrows against the\nwindow, had felt a desire for the pup that startled her with its force,\nits boldness. She had sat back on her heels and traced the pup's neat\nskull with her finger. It would not desire her, or possess her, it would\nnot be inseparable from her, she would need neither to hide nor to\ngive .. . the mother dog had whined, wormed away from the sucking\npuppies and nudged her head under Helen's hand, and Helen had\nrisen onto one knee, stroking the dog absently and gazing at the pup\nas though something unstoppable had suddenly stopped. .. .\n101 Helen pushes off from the spruce tree and goes on up the trail.\nShe walks with one hand on her waist, she is limping as though\nthere is a stone in her boot, and yet she is unhurried.\n\"Here pup,\" she calls, calmly, as though the pup might be following her.\nThere's a feeling of space, the mist becomes denser and whiter,\nshe hears a hoarse croak and the soft rushing of feathers as a raven\nflies over the clearing she's come to. The road still winds ahead, but\nit is no longer an alluring path. R.aspberry canes are starting up\nthrough moss, stumps rise from a tangle of grey slash on either side\nof her.\nShe stops again. She sniffs and wipes her nose, she hunches her\nshoulders and stands irresolutely listening. Hair strays over her forehead and she tucks it back vaguely with a finger whose knuckle is\nbaggy and holds garden soil in its creases. And then her hand drops\nonto the top of her thigh and rests there while she pauses expectantly,\nhopefully, and yet hesitantly, as though Donald, children, chores, are\ngathering behind her as naturally and relentlessly as the dusk.\nShe turns suddenly off the trail.\nShe is picturing Donald's face as she grasps a dead branch, pulls\nherself up onto a fallen tree, stands looking over the slash and then\ndrops awkwardly into the grey branches. They are like the curved\nbackbones of bleaching animal carcasses, they crackle under her\nboots and she plunges through to the moss that grows softly underneath. A branch scratches her cheek, she has to stop to pull a twig\nfrom her hair.\nHe is incredulous, his eyes are squinted in a mocking leer, he's\ngrinning, yet she imagines his uncertainty. He's half-afraid of the\npart of her he has never understood.\nAnd she could not explain it even to herself. The feeling of anger,\nof loss, of longing, is unfamiliar and yet demanding and more\npowerful than all her impulses of control. And it pushes her through\nthe slash as though she is thigh deep in snow, caught in a sudden\nstorm and heading desperately towards home.\nBut it is hopeless.\nAfter awhile she stops in the middle of the slash. The woods are\nsilent, as though listening to her frantic crashing. She rubs her forehead, looking down and breathing deeply through her nose. Her eyelids are heavy with sweat, her shirt sticks to her back, her hair is lank\nwith mist and exhaustion.\nHer emotion gathers to a point. She closes her eyes and presses\n102 hard with her fingers, imagining the small black mother collie slinking stealthily, swiftly, with animal sureness to the most inaccessible\nspot in the woods, with the pup dangling from her jaw, its paws\nflopping helplessly, its tiny muzzle pointing towards the ground, innocent and secure in its mother's grip.\nHelen's arm drops suddenly, she looks up as though relinquishing\na pointless anger. She seems to stop, all over. Her search ends. It is\na familiar feeling, the simple, patient cessation. She has accepted,\nagain, and again, and again. She has stood before defeat quietly, all\nher life.\nThe mist wreathes over the grey boughs. Half-furled ferns are\nbent, glistening. Far off a thrush calls and its notes seem clarified by\nthe silence.\nThen she sees the pup.\nShe doesn't move. She stares at the small black body lying under\na branch that curls over it protectively.\nIt is as though she has to see it without recognition, she has to\nlook away again as though going on with her search, calmly, while\nher mind tells her what she's seen.\nThen, cautiously, she looks back.\nThe little black body is exactly the same, it is perfectly motionless.\nShe looks away, looks up at the white sky. Her legs are braced\napart, her boots press against the broken branches. She closes her\neyes. A muscle twitches in her cheek.\nShe stares down to her left, down towards home, down off the\nhillside. She nods very slightly, seeing nothing, feeling nothing,\nthinking nothing.\nSuddenly she turns and thrashes across the scattered debris. She\nstumbles, catches herself, whispers something to herself, stops to tug\nher sweatshirt from raspberry prickers, looks sideways, her face\nstrained, her eyebrows lifted and tense with bitter disappointment,\nthe struggle not to care and helplessness before sadness.\nShe kneels next to the pup.\nIt lies on its side. One eyelid is partly open, there's a viscous glisten.\nIts head lies back heavily, its paws and legs are flung out, it is like a\npup deeply exhausted but there's no rise and fall of ribcage, its body\nhas been abandoned.\nShe strokes the pup. Her hand on its flesh makes one leg pull up\nstiffly, makes the eyelid lift, slightly.\nFor one brief moment she allows herself to remember the moment\nof the pup's birth, when it had turned its head blindly, trustingly,\n103 out of the iridescent slime. And afterwards, when it had fallen asleep\nclose to its mother's pink belly.\nThen she lets it go.\nHer hand goes on stroking the cold, dewed fur. She sits quietly,\nfeeling the mist settle on her hair just as it settles on the ferns, the\nmoss covered rocks, the black fur of the pup.\nShe knows they are down there, waiting. The mother dog, Gavin.\nYet the trailer seems far away, a remote place of heat and exhaustion\nand senseless movement.\nHer hand goes on stroking the pup, but as she stares at it something drains out of her face, out of her body, sucked away with the\ncoming dusk as though tendrils reach up to her, all the way from\nbeyond the woods, and the alders, and the pasture.\nWhen Helen reaches the edge of the pasture, she sees Gavin sitting\non the fence up at the top, waiting for her.\nHe is whistling. He's not waiting anxiously but he stares with\nchildish incuriosity over at the neighbour's barn, where cows are\nfiling through a doorway. He seems to be holding himself carefully,\nas though full of some surprise that he doesn't want to spill before\nshe gets there.\nHis face is a pale spot up there, and behind him the mist makes\nthe light from the trailer windows soft and blurred, like candlelight.\nNight is crouched in the mist, ready to spring down on them.\nHelen walks through the shallow brook at the bottom of the pasture. The water eddies around her boots, the tone of the water\nchanges, rushes chockily, pebbles roll and rattle.\nShe walks up the pasture like a nun, her hands clasping her forearms so that her fingers are tucked inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt. She doesn't pause, she walks steadily, looking at her boots coming up, up, and up, and up. Beside her, there are beads of mist on the\npage wire fence, the fenceposts are dark. Soggy bits of yellow lichen\ngrow on their tops where the maul frayed them.\nShe glances up briefly and sees Gavin, watching her now, and she\nlooks down again without waving, as though she's holding something frail and fragile to her stomach.\n\"...find it?\"\nShe pretends not to hear. Food and beds and broom and dust-\nmop and socks and boots and cat dishes and money and mud and\ngravel and holes.\n104 \"Did ya find it.\" It is a demand.\nThere's a familiar leap inside Helen. Irritation, and the quick\nquenching.\nShe's closer now and she looks up.\nHe looks unsure, one leg is reaching down, groping for the next\nrung, his arms holding all his weight as he starts to come towards her\nand yet holds himself back.\n\"Yes,\" she says quietly. The word hurts.\n\"What?\"\nHe's down now, he comes along the path running a stick along\nthe page wire, click-a-click-a-click-a-click. He comes right up to her,\nhe turns and walks along next to her. She feels his smallness, his\nleechlike closeness, his trusting insistence.\n\"Mum, didja find the pup?\"\nThey're at the barway.\nHelen takes her hands out of her sleeves, slowly, without looking\ndown at Gavin, and crosses them on the top bar of the gate. She\nlooks up at the dog house under the diesel tank. The mother dog has\nnot moved, it's as though she's been poised all day waiting for Helen\nto discover her guilt and now her body quickens as her eyes meet\nHelen's.\n\"I found the pup, Gavin,\" Helen says quietly, but not lightly. Her\nvoice is edging towards harshness.\nGavin looks up at her sharply, then looks at her arms on the fence.\nThen he glances up at the dog because Helen is looking that way,\nbut he looks back at her, as though he needs an explanation but\ndoesn't dare ask, and isn't sure why he's suddenly afraid.\nHelen leans forward and looks directly at the dog. \"It was dead,\"\nshe says, distinctly, across the tumbled timbers and the wild rose\nbushes.\nThe dog convulses into a sitting position. Her mouth opens in a\ncollie smile, and she pants. One paw comes up. Then she barks, once.\nIt's a mute plea for understanding, for forgiveness of an act as\nincomprehensible to the dog as the need which prompted it.\nHelen looks away, shakes her head impatiently, not wanting to\nsee the dog's pathetic eagerness, not wanting to admit her own\nunderstanding and angry sympathy.\nShe shoots the top bar back, feeling her harshness turning subtly to\nirritation. \"Old pest,\" she says sharply.\nGavin is looking up at her.\n\"Come on,\" she adds, waiting for him to hop over.\n105 She goes on ahead of him. \"Dead because her mother was a . . . \"\nShe hears the quick flap of Gavin's boots. \"Just a little pest,\" she\nadds quickly, looking down at his black head.\nGavin breaks into a trot, runs ahead of Helen and then turns,\nfacing her in the path.\nHelen has to stop.\nThe hillside is a darkening hunch against the sky now. The world\nis close around them, sheds, old tires, figures moving across the windows, the smell of the chicken yard.\nShe pushes her fingers back through her scalp. The backs of her\nlegs feel hot, hollow. She stands with one leg forward. Her body feels\nheavy and yet rugged with childbearing, with animal handling, with\nwood splitting. With endurance.\n\"Just a nuisance, that's all, wants all my attention,\" she says\nagain, beginning to feel ashamed.\n\"Mum,\" Gavin demands. His big head is forward, anxiously, his\nmouth is open and she can see his teeth and his hands hang out of\nhis sleeves and they're clenched into fists.\n\"I milked all of them,\" he says importantly.\nThe game begins again, with its familiar rules. Helen, gazing at\nher son, out of her tiredness and her disappointment, feels their\nintricate demands start their push and pull inside her, filling the\npainful place of emptiness.\nShe crosses her arms. The crow's foot wrinkles deepen beside her\neyes, which have become gentle even though her mouth still pulls\ndown at the corners from weariness and failure.\n\"You never did.\"\nHis face seems to open, his anticipation is rewarded.\n\"Even Molly!\"\n\"Not Molly.\"\nShe follows him as though his jauntiness, his pride, pulls her\nagainst her will.\nThe light is on in the barn and she steps over the rotting sill,\nlooks down the row of bony backs, smells molasses, sweet hay, hears\njaws crunching. Gavin touches Old Molly lightly with his stick and\nlooks at Helen as though he does not see who she is, and yet he\nknows her better than anyone else ever will, and needs her more.\n\"I milked her, Mum,\" he says.\nAnd her desire for a simple love fades away as silently and\nstealthily as it came.\n106 Nicholas Mason-Browne\nMEMOIR\nWe used to live in cargo lifts.\nThis was in Shanghai.\nSometimes we tried to hear the pigeons\npecking at bread-crumbs above our heads,\nbut never did.\nCurled up in tea chests,\nwe picked the straw out of our hair\nand wondered if it were the Chou Kingdom\nor the Han Dynasty,\nor if people still read \"Dream of the Red Chamber\",\nbut couldn't decide.\nOne of us talked endlessly\nabout the Civil Service examinations.\nAnother went mad and thought\nhe was a lacquered bridge in Canton.\nIn the end, we died.\nOur skeletons were like straw.\nThe fog-horns went on hooting.\n107 Dave Richards\nHusband and Wife\nGratten (1927)\nGratten shuddered and put his hand over his face. Everyday there\nwas something. Everyday. In the morning she'd walk along the hallway, and he'd hear her voice and Janet's saying 'Yes Mrs. Gratten'\nlong before he rose. Her face was soft toward him, to the idea of\nhim, her flesh graced her nightclothes. There was a close scent of\nreclining bodies when he woke. In the morning she'd walk along the\nwalkway. He'd think about the grove, about the day she signed her\nshares in Gordon's store over to her brother. Yet everyday there was\nsomething.\n\"I'll take him fishing some other time,\" he said, softly.\nShe didn't answer. He didn't watch her face. Whenever he looked\nat her face he'd be reminded. Twice she'd given him money, and\ntwice he'd done something with it. This morning too when she'd\nlooked at him in the kitchen and nodded her head quickly it made\nhim flush. A feeling passed like cold stone and he wanted a drink.\n\"You tell me how you were brought up,\" she said. Her voice ached\nin the evening air. \"You tell me how you were brought up \u00E2\u0080\u0094 hiding\nbehind your mother so your father wouldn't beat you \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and everything else \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and then you have children \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and you let some man\ntake Ernie fishing.\"\n\"He's not some man,\" he said. \"He's my foreman \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I'll get him\nto do what I damn well please \u00E2\u0080\u0094 outta yer Goddamn childhood\nbecause ya had everything, because ya had that safe sorta life that\nlet ya graduate, and I grew up without one cent to rub against the\nother.\" He shuddered and raised himself on his elbow. They sat\nbehind the front veranda screening. Across the lawn there was a\nlight rigged to a pole and a swarm of flies under it. They heard the\nBay. The tide was full now. This afternoon Samual had hurt his\nright arm placing the last timber, but he'd taken the mower into the\nyard and pushed it along with his left. His right arm hung limp out\n108 of his shirt and Gratten had watched him from the bay window, but\nhe didn't want to go out to him. There was something frantic in the\nway he pushed the mower, his eyes narrow and hard as if he wanted\nto be rid of something. Then Amanda went out from the kitchen\nand told him to stop.\n\"Maybe you should come back tomorrow,\" she said, \"and finish\nit then \u00E2\u0080\u0094 there's no sense straining yourself.\"\nHe kept pushing the mower as she spoke. There was a smell of cut\ngrass in the air and Gratten began sneezing. Samual looked up and\nsaw him staring out the bay window and he turned the mower\naround and went along another row, close to the house. The grass\nwas moist when it was cut and clotted the blades, so it must have\nbeen hard to push. Gratten watched him. Amanda came in and said:\n\"Daryll why don't you tell that man to go home \u00E2\u0080\u0094 his arm's all\nbruised.\"\n\"He's got a mind of his own,\" Daryll said. \"He hasta come and\nask me for time off \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I don't go running out to him and tellin him\nto take it off.\"\nSamual flipped the mower over with his left arm enabling him to\nclean the blades better.\n\"Please Daryll?\"\n\"Please yerself,\" he said. \"He won't quit fer you he's not gonna\nquit for me.\"\n\"You're his employer.\"\n\"I've got nothing to say about that.\"\nSamual lifted the mower upright. Again he strained along another\nrow. Daryll put a cigar in his mouth and watched him. Now and\nthen Samual would look toward the window. When he saw Daryll\nhe'd spit and push harder.\nHe shrugged and looked along the dirt roadway. It was almost\ndark now, and he looked into the darkness and tried to remember\nthe map of the sou-west where his men cut. It'd been hot all day but\nnow the breeze was cool and smelled like rain. Far along the shore\na light gleamed and far off shore on Fox Island another light echoed\nand rotated. She clicked her tongue against her mouth. Out of all\nthis \u00E2\u0080\u0094 out of her Goddamn childhood, he thought, out of her birthday parties with Margaret Hitchman, knowing Max Aitken and Bennett and the rest. If he had a cigar he'd start choking so he didn't\nbother. Yes, too he wanted another drink but he didn't bother.\n\"I'll take him fishin some other time,\" he said.\n109 Why did she bring that up? His father'd burned his hand on the\nstove when trying to catch him, but he could run faster than his\nfather ever could. But his father'd burned his hand and wanted to\nbeat him. He tried to punch him, but he hid behind his mother \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nand his aunt started crying. His mother smelled of holy water \u00E2\u0080\u0094 it\nreeked in her clothing, a scent somehow like a graveyard because his\ngrandmother had been doused with holy water in her casket. He\nshrugged coldly and tapped his shoes on the veranda flooring. Lester\nwas supposed to bring their sister down in a week or so and then\nperhaps Amanda would have some company. For some reason he\nremembered the way his brother walked when he was a child \u00E2\u0080\u0094 that\nday they were scampering along the wharf with the smell of peeled\ntimber in the spring air.\nOut of her Goddamn childhood, he thought to himself, out of her\nsafe childhood, one good thing to the next and gossiping about each\nother, and parties and the whole Jesus bit \u00E2\u0080\u0094 going to Halifax for a\nyear when she was fifteen, and Margaret Hitchman off to Boston. I\nwas in the woods when I was fifteen ha yes. He smirked again and\nbelched. The thought of what he'd done for himself made him belch.\nHe knew she didn't like it so he prolonged the belch and raised himself on his elbows. If he looked at her she'd stare at him, shake her\nhead and click her tongue against her mouth. Her mouth was soft\nand saddened. The smell of her auburn hair in the heat would make\nhim forget. He lit a cigar and inhaled deeply, smiled and looked\nacross at the water. Though things hadn't been going so well at the\nmill he was sure next year or the year after everything would be like\nit had been in the early years when his men would cut for ready\nbuyers; because it'd been good in the earlier years he was sure it'd be\ngood again. In the early years when he wasn't so sure of himself, and\ndidn't know how to talk to his men or to the buyers, or to men in\nthe same business as himself, everything had fallen into place \u00E2\u0080\u0094- now\nthat he knew exactly what to do and how to do it nothing seemed\nto be right. He thought of Hitchman in his wheelchair in a white\nroom, with mush at the corner of his mouth, with his kindly yet\narrogant smile and his flesh cooled. It cooled in the breeze from the\nBay, and from inside himself.\n\"My father was a good man,\" he said, \"so you don't haveta go\nrailin off about him.\"\n\"I never mentioned your father,\" she said. \"What are you talking\nabout?\"\nno \"I'm talkin about what you were just talking about \u00E2\u0080\u0094- my family\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 I know what in hell yer old man called us when you were about\nto marry me \u00E2\u0080\u0094 oh yes, yes I overheard what yer old man said.\"\n\"What did he say?\"\nHe could see her profile in the darkness, the one bulb far across\nthe lawn, her smooth face twitching and hear a swarm of flies against\nthe veranda screening. It didn't bother him if she was angry. Out of\nher whole childhood she probably never had one cause to be angry.\nShe probably felt because they had a little money it entitled her not\nto be angry or anything else. He knew that was not true but he\nwanted to think it. He rubbed his hands on his pants. The way she\nkept a house \u00E2\u0080\u0094 even in that way. She'd not once leave anything\nalone. The children were always immaculate, their hair combed,\ntheir heads washed, their clothes pressed. Sooner or later she'd have\nto learn the truth about the way things stood. He rubbed his nose,\nsnorted and spit through the screening.\n\"He called us all riffraff,\" he said calmly.\n\"He did not,\" she said. \"He never said any such thing \u00E2\u0080\u0094 you\nknow it as well as I \u00E2\u0080\u0094 he never said anything like that, who do you\nthink helped you when things were starting \u00E2\u0080\u0094 who do you think \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"\n\"You know as well as I,\" he said picking her up, still calmly, \"You\nknow as well as I it was to help you, not me \u00E2\u0080\u0094 he was ashamed of\nwho you decided to marry \u00E2\u0080\u0094 wouldn't one of the Bryans a been\nbetter for you, wouldn't Kerry Donald Salome be better for you.\"\n\"That's not true.\"\n\"Go way,\" he said.\n\"He never mentioned one thing \u00E2\u0080\u0094 he's dead now and can't defend himself can he?\"\n\"Kerry Donald Salome,\" he said. \"For over a year with you it was\nKerry Donald Salome \u00E2\u0080\u0094 wasn't it. Too bad.\"\n\"Daryll.\"\n\"Fish run in schools don't they,\" he laughed. He knew his breath\nwas sharp and his eyes almost closed. And he knew if he took one\nmore draw from the cigar he wouldn't be able to catch his breath.\nSomeday he'd go to a doctor about losing his breath like that. But\nthe doctors here knew nothing, so he'd go to Montreal. He still\nbelieved if his father'd gone to Montreal he wouldn't have died.\nThough at the end he couldn't talk or move.\n\"Don't say it,\" she said.\n\"I'm saying nothin,\" he said. \"I wonder where Kerry Donald\nSalome is now?\"\n111 \"Daryll,\" she said.\n\"Fish run in schools,\" he said. \"Though he smelled like a woman\nand walked like one \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and talked like one even \u00E2\u0080\u0094 yes he even talked\nlike one, and you for a year \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"\n\"Daryll,\" she said. \"My father liked you.\"\n\"Your father liked nobody \u00E2\u0080\u0094 some he didn't like because they\nweren't good enough \u00E2\u0080\u0094 like the Grattens \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and some he didn't like\nbecause they thought they were better than he was.\"\n\"Daryll,\" she said.\n\"And so he set his goal on Kerry Donald Salome, before I came\nback, of course \u00E2\u0080\u0094 though Kerry Donald Salome had other intentions \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and everyone knew it, I knew of what he was, fish run in\nschools. Now that's yer old man \u00E2\u0080\u0094 that was his idea of a match, and\nyours too, your idea for a great life, with a man that couldn't stop\nsmelling like a woman.\"\n\"I've heard it all before Daryll,\" she said. Her voice wasn't pleading. It was sad, and the smell of cologne on her flesh was sad.\nHis breath was rapid, his nostrils opened and he smelled rain in\nthe wind. When he'd begun speaking his voice was calm, but now it\nwasn't. Nor was it loud. It was raspy, reminding her of his blotched\nforehead and spotted back. He saw her jerk about in her chair and\nknew in a moment she'd get up and go into the house again, and\nhe'd be alone. Though he never wanted to be alone, not in the twilight \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the road and hedges almost dark. Yet nothing was to be\ndone. Perhaps too it was all so much simpler. The flies batted themselves against the veranda screening, and under the yard's bulb, were\nblack. He snorted and spit into the screening again, and tasted alcohol on his lips.\n\"I don't mind,\" he said.\n\"Daryll for God's sake,\" she whispered. He could feel her trembling. \"I came out to rest for five minutes, for five minutes.\"\n\"If you wanta go in go in \u00E2\u0080\u0094 rest in bed,\" he said. He waited. It\nwas motionless. She didn't stir. He could see her face painfully expressionless, blunt, staring straight out into the darkness \u00E2\u0080\u0094 a scent\nof fouled seaweed and rotted planking.\n\"I don't mind,\" he began, his voice once more calm, and almost\nreassuring \u00E2\u0080\u0094 as if they must discuss something now, expiate something between them. \"I mustn't say I don't mind but it doesn't\nbother me \u00E2\u0080\u0094 it never bothered me a'tall what people thought a me\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 I don't come from those type a people who are always interested\n112 in what people think. But what I mind is how can people fall for\npeople and go chasing them around \u00E2\u0080\u0094 like Kerry Donald Salome.\"\n\"Nobody chased him around,\" she said. He didn't look at her. He\nknew by the way she spoke just the way she looked, and he'd no\nneed to stare at her. Mosquitoes drenched in his spit fumbled in the\nscreening. \"Every Goddamn day for a year \u00E2\u0080\u0094 every day. And the\nthing is he never earned any money \u00E2\u0080\u0094 he was one of those sons a\nwhores like the Aitkens and the Bryans, the people who I shined\nshoes for \u00E2\u0080\u0094 one a those Goddamn useless people who never had a\nthought in his head about earning money \u00E2\u0080\u0094 but just went day in\nday out because his old man was a Salome \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and you people\ncouldn't get enough a him.\"\n\"He was a friend since I was eight years old \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and he never said\na word about you \u00E2\u0080\u0094 never. He always thought a lot of you.\"\n\"I'm sure he thought a lot of me,\" he snorted. \"Smelled like a\nwoman, and walked like a woman. Yer old man now.\"\nShe stood. The chair creaked and he paused to catch his breath.\nHe didn't want her to go in, but he couldn't stop speaking. Out of\nher whole Goddamn past he thought, out of her whole Jesus past,\nnot once does she understand anything. Kerry Donald Salome. He\nkept grating his teeth together so she'd hear the sound. His cigar had\ngone cold in his hand, and his hand twitched. It wasn't jealousy. It\nwas someone having splashed water on him and it'd be hard for\nhim to catch his breath. The way Lester walked when he was a\nchild along the timber butts. His mother dousing them with holy\nwater and picking her teeth with a splinter from the woodbox.\n\"He never had any property \u00E2\u0080\u0094 nor was he intelligent, but your\nold man especially your old man thinking of him as if he had earned\nhis own money, and was intelligent.\"\n\"He was intelligent,\" she said.\n\"Go in,\" he said.\nThe veranda floor creaked. His hand wouldn't stop twitching.\n\"Go in,\" he said. \"Go in.\" His voice was loud, and he couldn't\nhelp it. She wouldn't answer him now, and he knew it.\n\"Every Sunday for a year after we were married there he'd be\nsitting next to you at the table \u00E2\u0080\u0094 his hands folded at grace \u00E2\u0080\u0094 eh \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nhis hands folded at grace.\" He laughed and tried to thrust the cigar\nthrough the screening, \"And of course yer old man pleased as hell\nthat you talked to him more than me about poetry and everything\nelse \u00E2\u0080\u0094 none of ya havin an idea what you were talking about.\"\nShe'd turned from him and was walking toward the door, \"An I\n\"3 tolja that more than once \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the lot a ya \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the whole Goddamn lot\na ya \u00E2\u0080\u0094- him especially \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"\nShe went to go inside but the door opened and Janet came out.\nAmanda looked at her and then at Daryll. When Daryll saw her he\nstopped speaking, muttered a little and raised himself on his elbows.\nHe searched in his pockets for another cigar, found the tie-clip and\nbegan to rub it patiently between the fingers of his left hand.\n\"The kids are in bed,\" Janet said. Her voice was straightforward,\nas if there was nothing wrong and she'd not heard him yelling.\nDaryll grunted again and looked to his right, away from them.\nJanet smiled.\n\"Are they covered well enough?\" Amanda said.\n\"Yes Mrs. Gratten \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I think so,\" she smiled, and there was something strange about the smile, Amanda thought, and the way she\nstood in the dark.\n\"Perhaps you can go into my room and get the quilt,\" she said.\n\"Put it over Caully. It'll probably be cold tonight.\"\n\"Yes probably \u00E2\u0080\u0094 probably be cold,\" Daryll said.\nJanet looked over at him and smiled rapidly, though he wasn't\nlooking in her direction.\n\"Did you tell them a story?\" she said.\n\"Yes ya better tell them a story,\" Daryll muttered. \"Tell them two\nstories.\"\n\"Yes \u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 Ernie wanted stories about fish,\" Janet laughed.\n\"I don't know why \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the little bugger didn't catch any,\" Daryll\nsaid.\n\"I'm going for a walk,\" Amanda said. \"I'll just be a while \u00E2\u0080\u0094 so\nyou can stay until I get back.\"\n\"Of course\"\nAmanda turned and went down the walkway, and Janet returned\ninside, and Daryll watched his wife's shadow in the darkness, with a\nqueer strutt to it becoming finally immersed, part of the hedges. He'd\ngo to the study and have a cigar and another drink, and tomorrow\nhe'd go into town, just to be away from the first guests that'd be\narriving.\nHe lifted himself from the chair and went inside. The house was\nshadowed and retained the warmth from the day \u00E2\u0080\u0094 a moist clinging\nwarmth. He could feel his pulse along his temples and hear his blood.\nThe furniture was dusted and orderly, but it had the stigma furniture\nhas that sits in an empty house for a long while.\nHe went to the top of the first landing and stopped at his study\n114 door, rubbed his hand across his brow and waited, feeling sweat in\nthe thinning hair at the top of his forehead. Across the hall the light\nwas on, the door ajar. Janet must be getting the quilt he thought,\nand he thought too that Ernie hadn't caught any fish. They'd held\nthe supper so that if he came back with even one trout they might\nfry it for him. When he did come in there were fly bites on his white\ncheeks, with white down at the side of his ears. His cap with the blue\nribbons had fallen into the pool and Emmett had to wade for it.\nThe ribbons had become spotted and dirty. He turned to go downstairs again \u00E2\u0080\u0094 where the children slept, to open the door and look\nin on them. \"Outta her Goddamn childhood,\" he muttered slowly.\n\"Couldn't let him wear anything but caps and ribbons.\"\nHe moved from the study door and was about to descend the\nstairs, without really thinking why he had to go down and look in on\nthem, or if that was his intention at all, when he saw Janet move\nfrom the corner of the room toward the mirror. The door was opened\njust enough so that he could see her standing in front of it, at the\nside of the mirror looking at her reflection. It startled him for a\nsecond because he'd not been thinking of her, and the hallway was\ndark \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and also his father-in-law had died in that room five years\nbefore, a gigantic man who'd spent his last days sitting in a rocking\nchair and staring out the window. A coldness swept over him and\nhe shook his head. He grabbed quickly for the tie-clip, but when his\nhand touched it he suddenly realized how silly it was and took his\nhand away. His shirt was still unbuttoned and a spot of light shone\non his belly. His mouth opened a little. First she did nothing. She\njust glanced at her reflection. She carried the quilt over her left arm\nand was about to turn away from the mirror \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and he was about to\nsay hello if she came through the door, when she stopped once more\nand put the quilt down. She looked at the bottles and jars on the\ndresser, began picking them up and reading the labels. Her dress was\ncut low and she rested more on one leg than the other. He could see\nher examining the labels \u00E2\u0080\u0094 but he didn't think this unusual. And\neven when she took the top off Amanda's perfume, put some on her\nfinger and touched it to her throat, he thought nothing. She smiled\nslightly, swayed a little, with one leg ahead of the other and opened\na jar of cream. This too she sampled. He opened his mouth to\nbreathe, the air was dead with the heat. He turned and went softly\nto the bottom of the stairs because he didn't want her to come out\nwith him standing there, and yet all this time he thought of nothing.\n\"5 When he reached the bottom of the stairs the light went out in the\nbedroom. He turned just as softly and started up the stairs again.\nIt was dark \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the stairs and the landing. One floor-lamp burned\nin the livingroom. For some reason he pretended he didn't notice her\ncoming down the stairs. She was whistling to herself and he kept his\nhead down, his fingers on the tie-clip. The things he must do in town\ntomorrow went swiftly through his mind, and like always he saw\nhimself doing everything at once, from laughing with Peter to going\nout into the yard quietly to observe his scalers, to going to the train\nstation to talk to the signal men.\n\"Oh Mr. Gratten,\" she said suddenly. \"You scared the breath\noutta me.\"\nHe looked up quickly and was startled himself. His mouth twitched\nand he could feel the blood going from his face. There was the\nfamiliar scent of Amanda's perfume and lotion in the heat. She\nstood on the step above him, but he'd been climbing the stairs without looking up and he'd one foot on her step. He didn't realize this\nat once. He stared at her and tried to keep his mouth from twitching.\nHer breath was quick and short, his right leg pressed against the\ninside of her left.\n\"Getting the quilt were you?\" he said, for something to say and\nhis voice sounded odd. She smiled and he could see her face clearly.\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"Mrs. Gratten wants Caully covered.\"\n\"Making him into a sissy,\" he said, again for something to say, and\nagain without knowing why, or even wanting to say that. She smiled\nand nodded slightly. His mouth twitched and felt dry. She put her\nhand on the bannister and he moved to the side feeling her thigh\nagainst his leg.\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"I grew up myself without one blanket let alone\nfour.\" He laughed clumsily at this and drew around her.\n\"Do you want me to put it on Mr. Gratten?\" she said, without\nmoving.\n\"What?\" he said absently.\n\"The quilt \u00E2\u0080\u0094 do you want me to put it on?\" The fabric of her\ndress touched his stomach and she made no movement.\n\"Put it on \u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 yes put it on, do what she says \u00E2\u0080\u0094 do what she says.\"\nHe went by her, up the stairs and into the study where he closed\nthe door. He didn't know why he'd tried to sound rude to her just\nthen, but he could still feel where the fabric of her dress touched his\nbelly. He smiled slightly, went over to the desk and sat down. The\nblood had returned to his face and there was a cool breeze through\n116 the window and he could hear Bay sounds. He found a cigar and lit\nit and without trying to think of anything remembered his wife's\nstrutt across the darkened lawn. \"Where'd she be off to this hour?\"\nhe thought absently. When he thought of his wife a queer sensation\nfilled him, almost as if someone were sticking him with small invisible\npins, yet something which gave him no pain. And, no matter how\nhe tried, he couldn't think of his wife without remembering Janet,\nstanding in the bedroom with one leg slightly ahead of the other. He\nflinched and tried to catch his breath.\n\"Yes, yes,\" he said finally, looking about the study. \"At least I've\nmade something of myself eh?\"\n117 Erin Moure / Three Poems\nPULLING THRU\n(for Paul)\nSometimes the invisible pulls\nall its blankets away from us.\nIf only it would stop.\nLast night, I saw you on the lake pulling\nyour brother thru a hole in the ice.\nWhat lake, you say.\nFrom grey water into your arms, the familiar\ngreeting between brothers, between\ngood men.\nSnow pounded around you, ridiculous\nimage of white,\nskies open like a grey bird, & you moving.\nWhole forests of words.\nYou always wanted to leave like this,\nthe city & its stalled seasons, leave Main Street\n& build a house, somewhere, or in Hope.\nDommage, dommage, but in my dream there were\nno houses, only you & your brother & the monstrous\ndance of winter, now \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nyou are singing, your brother\nstiff with cold, still in your embrace; you are remembering\na whole childhood to him, together,\nkissing his shocked head.\nInto his ear you feed twenty-year-old bread, old doorways,\nsour rats, a continent, more & more cabbages!\nFinally he nods, mouth twisted open to laugh, his hand\nclenched upon yours: he pulls\nyour arm, rowing it wildly \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nhe takes you with him\nacross the ice, rowing your faint lives, gladly, like brothers!\n118 FOUR ROOMS, HOPE, SONG\nMy brain a carburetor leaking\nthru all the four rooms of the heart.\nA man lies in hospital, the woman\nbeside him waiting, full\nwith language, her eyes eating his drugged\nface, his fingers stuck with glue, grab\nthe sweaty bed.\nMy brain a carburetor ticking\nthru all the four rooms of the heart.\nDoors open & close unnecessarily.\nA man walks in, says\nhe is jesus, takes off both shoes.\nMy brain a shoe ticking blood\nthru all the four rooms of the heart.\nAt a table in one of the rooms sits\na man, he laughs a bit, shuffles\npaper thru his fingers. He knows\nfour card tricks perfectly. He knows\nhe has a soul, & waits for it.\nWhen it arrives, it will stoop to remove\nintravenous tubes, sit at the table.\nThey will talk together about films,\nviolate each memory, eat\ncooked meat from skewers, play jazz.\nThe landlord will be offended. Doors\nopen & slam without permission.\nThe heating bills in this building are high, &\nno one pays them.\nMy brain a carburetor sticking.\nThe man in hospital still alive, moves\nthru all the four rooms of the heart.\nIn one of the rooms, a man sits,\nlaughs at bit. He hears his soul in the hallway.\n\"9 PREHISTORY\nIn the pale light of the refrigerator, a man singing\nhas as much right\nas a cabbage.\nIt is nearly three in the morning & he peers down his stomach\nin the cold atmosphere, the door\nopen.\nThere is little to eat, some jars alone, no glasses to drink,\nno puddings, newspapers, animals\nholding their young up for the photographer\nin the spring.\nJust a man in the cold region, his toes curled, naked, watching\nthe light in the gross heart\nof the machine.\nAlready he has phoned hospitals, the police, & received\nno information.\nThe possible ended, he sings about\nwhat has been proved.\nAbout subways, by-pass operations, any other\nroad to the future, where\nhis voice is, where everyone is satisfied or\nat least talking about it \u00E2\u0080\u0094\n120 David Sharpe\nIn Another Light\ni\nA jet wind, the Tramontana, flooded the Spanish village of Cada-\nques and discovered every wire's whistle and whipsound, every\nshutter's shudder. In the gleam of last day, the gale called up the\nspeech of countless creatures and engulfed two gleaners as they\ngathered wood for a room turning black as sky, sticks for a sucking,\nblowing fire run pallid and chill.\nThe gleaners searched under a dark ash sky where smokeclouds\nturmoiled off the moon, a white coal touched with wind. Each time\nthe ember lost its light, they caught their breath and eyes rose suddenly ancient, worried and wordless in the cave of their faces. Fire\nof night, they prayed, survive the storm . .. and each time, the moon\nburned uncovered and strong.\nA candle flamed in the window of their apartment where, one\nmore time, they denied the electric light that had replaced their eyes\nwith lightbulbs. Two weeks ago, they first pulled the switches and\nsat vested in the violet and gold of candles, coated in cold, and\nwatched for other powers.\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Look \u00E2\u0080\u0094 cried one gleaner \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the moon is a well in the west,\ncloudy water within.\nSunlight cut an edge from the dusk, a sickle so slim that the\nAtlantic, the clouds of North America, and the noon Pacific tricked\nout with earthly light the whole of the face hidden occult from the\nsun. The dragon of the dark side, the yin releasing the tail of a full\nmoon, was caught in his complement and performed secrets in a\nblue light. Eyes left their orbits and fell free.\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 A porthole \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the other gleaner added \u00E2\u0080\u0094 with a shine behind\nits rim.\n121 \u00E2\u0096\u00A0\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 Lens into light beyond our black tarp universe \u00E2\u0080\u0094 shouted the\nfirst into the gulp of the wind.\nCool and fanatic, moonlight smoked in the rocky basin where sea-\nwater flowed, where, by day, sun lifted the Maritime Bar from the\nbeach and details swam declared and common. On the ridge above\nthe church of Cadaques, above the erosions of rock and canvas at\nthe villa of Salvador Dali, the two radar domes of an army base\nwaited to be lifted, ready and moonwhite.\nThere would be contact in the heavens that night. The limb of\nthe west was rising, reaching to the new moon, and the moon was\ndescending to a lunar landing somewhere near the U.S. Army, a\nbubble sinking\nonto\nrock.\n-\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 It's a spotlight balloon, it is, hauled tight above the hill by its\nupward surge against the cable.\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 Yes, I see a man playing the line. Look, he runs the silk bulb\non a slant along the sky \u00E2\u0080\u0094 They paused beside a slabrock fence,\nolive trees bending in the weight of a wind as thick as snow. Sticks\nlike frozen arms gestured from their sides.\nWhen the ridge above Cadaques coupled into the moon, roundness retracted like landing gear. The Pyrenees with hooks of metal\ndocked the earth to a black-ice sky and the wind guided outer space\nto the Mediterranean.\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 Igloo \u00E2\u0080\u0094 said the coldest one \u00E2\u0080\u0094 glow of oil lamp through the\nice, tunnel door bright.\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0080\u00A2 No \u00E2\u0096\u00A0\u00E2\u0080\u0094 answered the other, frigid with first fear \u00E2\u0080\u0094 that moon is\nthe protoplasmic head of a creature, peering. Quick, we must return.\nIt drops in stealth behind the outcrop.\nThe gleaners ran beside the Mediterranean through astral winds\nwhirled like galaxies as the universe expanded and sucked heat from\nthe center. This low pressure system in the cosmos, this cyclone of\nstars, pulled at their flesh until they felt they must radiate away like\nthe molecule masses from the aboriginal ice cube. From birth, as\nmoisture onto a seed, they had condensed to rain on the earth and\n122 run, just as the earth itself had grown as a hailstone in primitive\nclouds. Panic collected in their cold muscles like energy into first\nmatter and they fled precipitate in a storm, fearing evaporation.\nBanggg ... flashback ... bang. The wind is lifting a round ball,\nhitting it hollow, solid, against a pole. Banggg. The light from a narrow sun is green. Bang. The rope whines as \u00E2\u0080\u0094 bang \u00E2\u0080\u0094 another\nswing begins \u00E2\u0080\u0094 Bang \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the pole bends, splinters \u00E2\u0080\u0094 BANG \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the\nbody fallls.\nOxon is born.\nIn a column by an empty road\nstood Spanish power poles.\nLines of sparks flexed and popped\nin the wet wind\nas beings,\nbeing from Electron,\npassed messages\non naked wires.\nThe poles burst out,\ngesticulating and spastic,\nand stopped the gleaners\nas they approached.\nOne stood stiff above them,\na monolith\nguard\nwith the galaxy behind,\nthe stars\nflecks in the black\nmarble night.\nThe gleaners watched aghast,\npole after pole,\nwires walk the land.\nAhead, light in the village\nbuzzed in tubes and bulbs,\ncosmic night\ncut\nsixty a second\nwith electric moonshine.\n123 Oxon discovered the gleaners and pulled them by the neck back from\nthe live wires and out over the bay. Air billowed beneath and feet\nrose over head in a long, giddy fall. Up under stars, a solar wind\nparted hair from faces. Two pale infants in a pure night, their eyes\nopened like mouths, and legs streamed behind. Higher over the\nPyrenees, the faces fed and the bodies angled in crosswinds.\nWhen the last of sun cleared the upper reaches, the gleaners were\nreturned to the almond trees of Cadaques. Overhead, a new horizon,\nthe Milky Way, levelled for them like a sea. They stood on the road\nwith sea-legs, a galactic sense-of-balance rocking unsteadily on earth\nwhile previously flat constellations sank in a suddenly deep sky. Each\nstar gelled at some different, distant depth, and three-dimensionally\nbelow their feet, they pin-pointed through the dirt and rock, the sun.\nThey felt the whole deck of earth roll as the underside gathered light;\nshallow warmth spread across the inner heat of its pit, weightless\nheat on hot pig iron.\nThe gleaners re-entered their apartment with arms of fire and\nwere guided to the hearth by a new organ, a flesh button protruding\nfrom drop-jawed faces, from the smooth flank of brow that now\ncovered their mundane eyes. Behind a fairing, a sensory dome, they\nadvanced in another light while electricity wept in the switches of\nthe wall.\nFirelight sprayed its warm blood through the room, blood on Danish\nsofas, disconnected lamps, the lintels of the door. Ears rode the\nTramontana as it bellowed in the hearth like a trumpet. All around\nthis eye of the electric storm, the lights of the village searched the\nnewly born.\nInside, the gleaners sat rarefied on the abyss of a rug, space cases,\none hand clapped to headside, ears ringed with the songs of celestial\nspheres. Their brains were faced with thin and rampant populations\nof thought, but a core, a boss ball of core, filled silent the center and\nthat slow meld of heat and rock, the mind majority on which they\nstood, made peripheral the jubilations of sunlight, the squirming of\npower through forms, the hesitations of night. Their skin quaked.\nTheir earthen shoulders shook. Faults opened their rock to the light\n124 and many of their people died. In their spines, they felt the golden\nchain of being, pulled.\nWhen the gleaners attended the fire, elemental clocks chimed in\nthe flames as sticks released like springs their wound and wooden\nlight. They gazed with another eye on geoflex: time synclined in\nstupendous steppes. They watched the fire aquaflux: change swelling\nwith interval, eroding in lifetimes. And aeroflex: winds and weather\nvariable, sudden the systems as the crow flies. Then, in flashes of\npyroflux so fast they strobed the dark, the gleaners viewed the\ngalaxies that fell like snowflakes in their headlights: constellations of\nworlds and Romes and homes suspended in their storm by the\ninstance of a glance.\n8\nIn a windless mist, the sun like the back of a plant raised a day-glo\npleasure dome, amanita orange. Magic and incandescent, the atomic\nhead lifted and blazed, a sunspore exploded from the soil of the\nearth.\nThe gleaners slept beside the black slag of the fireplace as the\nmushroom mounted higher in secret, fungus silence. The songs from\nfar Sea broke against their vacuum and, like the wind, died. Out of\ntheir brows, the flesh button rose into the open, a solid tide flooding\ninto space. The organ expanded, folded its surface beneath, and\nwhen a perfect bulb shone sunlit above the gleaners, a shudder\nsevered the growth. Floating, Oxon left behind the rough cinder\nwhere the gleaners lay.\nLater, in the dusk of the apartment, they turned on the lights.\n!25 Barbara Rendall\nPARENTAL\nDownstairs, we think of you\nAbove, curled mouselike\nAround a simple dream.\nYou sleep,\nAnd we rest in the curve\nOf your done day \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nAll those direct delights\nBrought round once more,\nTucked in.\nLater, on the way to our own sleep,\nWe stop to give you\nOne last grazing touch,\nFor luck,\nBefore we cut the darkened house adrift \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nAnd find you\nUpright,\nCocked and wide-eyed,\nNose to nose with your own patch of night,\nSheets clutched in your tiny fists\nLike knowledge,\nRiding out the wrong side of the light.\n126 Robert Sherrin\nBest Falling Dead\nI am the best falling dead.\nI had come round the house with a purpose. I was not there to\nsteal flags or range trucks in rows by the side stoop. I was not there\nto find long legs behind the hollyhocks or look for mystery by the\napartment block with the white shingles. I was there to fall dead.\nAt that time death came from every side. We all seemed to understand that. All of us. You: the girl with the hair pale as tears whose\nparents fought in the summer in the upper room while you and your\nsisters cried in the shade, watching me cruise past on your bicycle.\nYou didn't need it. You were begging for silence. And it always\ncame, didn't it? There was always a great calm at the end of the\nafternoon, you and your sisters exhausted by the crying and yelling.\nOn those days there was always a huge dead area between your house\nand the neighbours'. They would sit on the far sides, the leesides of\ntheir homes, out of the sun, out of the wind and the turbulence of\nyour parents' relationship. No one asked about the boxes beside the\ngarbage cans. But I looked. All broken: lamps, pictures, bits of\npaper, letters, a china doll, a bottle. I hoarded things but I didn't\nhoard those. I left them as I found them. Moved myself quickly to\nthe store across the street where most bought jaw breakers and root\nbeer popsicles. I bought the little wax cowboys with the coloured\nwater inside and bit their heads off.\nOr you: the boy who threw stones. Who stood with your oversized\nheart bulging from your chest like a humped spare in the fender well\nof a car. You stood on the gravel path between the houses and you\nwaited for the children to pass on their bicycles, in their wagons, on\ntheir trikes. You squatted there with that heart of yours like a pounding fist. You hated that thing in your chest but you wore it with\npride, dared us to put our ears to it, to hear the whispering blood.\nWe were told it must not be exposed to the sun yet you went shirtless\n127 in the summer, strutted through the neighbourhood and chased the\ngirls, made them touch it, saying, I'm stronger than anyone, I will\nlive forever. But you were the one who was taken from the streets\nevery day by your mother and sent to bed for the afternoon. She was\npainful to watch as she walked into the heat and sought you like\na thin hound does the fat hare or the ground hog. She hunted you\ndown and hauled you from our midday conferences in the shade of\nsomeone's tree or the cool darkness of an underporch. Took you\naway. Said to you, COVER IT UP, IT ISN'T A TOY. Did away\nwith you until after dinner. Loved you too much and feared you\nmore than we ever would.\nSo you watched and you waited. Watched as the boys backed their\nwagons out of their sidewalks in mimicry of their fathers pulling out\nof driveways. You waited with your arms raised and levied your toll:\ntouch my heart. Each driver, each little boy in his red flier, each girl\non her first CCM moved slowly past and touched you. They passed\non, down the thin gravel road, their tiny convoy raising a chimney\nof dust in the prairie air. Gone before you like pioneers, leaving you\nto your stones and the few of us whose parents could not afford\nbicycles.\nOr you: the boys who dressed in women's clothes, who gathered\nin my basement and sorted through the rag bin, setting aside the\nskirts and removing our pants. Pushed our genitals back and\npranced about saying we were pretty. We dressed well and we\ndressed often. We walked in a circle and sat in a circle on the cool\nconcrete. We sipped at our imaginary tea. We asked for more sugar,\nplease. We touched hands and talked about our husbands: how\nstrong they were; how rich they were; how much they loved us; how\nour children were disobedient and we were forced to spank them.\nSome of us washed their mouths with soap. Some of us locked them\nin their rooms. Some of us yanked them like kittens by the neck, took\nthem yelling and kicking from the dinner table and pushed them\nroughly to their mattresses, said to our little ones: YOU EVER SAY\nTHAT TO ME AGAIN, MISTER, AND I'LL WHIP YOUR\nBACKSIDE TIL I CAN FRY EGGS ON IT. And we always left\nthem alone to cry. That's our way. Our civilized mama's way. Our\ncivilized papa's way. We don't humiliate our little ones, we educate\nthem. Some of us hit them on bare buttocks with a leather belt and\nsometimes they didn't cry. But we were good mamas. We talked\nabout babies and how messy they are. We said we never struck our\n128 children unless papa was there. We needed only the words: WAIT\nUNTIL PAPA GETS HOME. Our torture was simple.\nAfter our tea we did our makeup, didn't we? We pursed our lips.\nWe patted our cheeks. We brushed our hair. We went to the bathroom together and sat with our dinks hidden even though we made\nonly water. We felt so good, so clean. We patted each other on the\nbackside. We called ourselves after each other's mothers: ROSE,\nSYLVIA, EVE, NETTIE, KAY.\nAnd we would stroll, wouldn't we, boys? We would walk up the\nbroad hot street, where the tar moved underfoot like something\nnearly alive. People stared at us, laughed at us. But we walked, calm\nand erect and gestured a great deal. We said:\nMy dear, isn't it terribly hot?\nHave you seen my boy, Garson?\nOh I wear this only on special days.\nMy husband is very rich, you know. He drives the big white one.\nAll the way to the playground where the activities ceased as we\ncame face to face with real mothers who came to us and asked where\nwe got our fine clothes and asked us if we wanted their children.\nSome turned from us and led their little boys and girls away. They\nwere the ones who didn't laugh. They were the ones whose boys had\nshiny wagons and pants with creases and shoes with laces the same\nlength. They were as afraid of us as we were intrigued by them. We\ntook their swings, made magestic patterns with our fluttering rags\nin the afternoon. LADY BUG, LADY BUG, FLY AWAY HOME.\nYOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE AND YOUR CHILDREN ALONE.\nWe worked at staying alive by dealing with death. We put fire\ncrackers in bottles but that happened only once a year. We made\nguns of clothes pins and rubber bands. We walked out to the sheets\nof ice in the late winter and watched them tilt with our weight, felt\nthem sag with our passing, saw the water seep up to surround our\ngumboots. Most of us were strapped when we returned home for\ndaring to walk the ice where children were lost each year when the\nsheets gave way and they sank into the ice water and mud and the\nwheatroot that strangled like wet silk. We were so beloved that we\nwere whipped to cool our passion, to learn the ways of our families.\nAnd we tried. Didn't we? All of us. You, the blonde whose parents\nparted when your youngest sister left home. And you, the boy with\nthe heart outside your chest. And you and me, the ones who dressed\nas Rose and Sylvia and Eve and Nettie and Kay. Did we not?\nWe hunted through the neighbourhood for friends. We met be-\n129 hind the apartment block with the white shingles and we played\nDeath. We took ten deep breaths and held the last, allowing ourselves to be grasped from behind by the strongest and our chests\nsqueezed until we lost consciousness. We slipped away so early, so\noften.\nWe would surround the dead and await their return. They all\ncame back. One would rise from the grass, her legs and arms taut\nwith the sensation of nowhere. Another, you, the one who was Nettie\nwhen I was Rose, rolled over the steel pedals of a bicycle as you\nreturned and displayed no cuts or bruises. I returned always with a\nrush of heat to my head and galaxies under my lids. I came always\nto my feet and staggered with my arms waterwheeling in the air too\nthinned by summer to support me. We were the soldiers of our street.\nWe were the fliers with ring twitter and the sappers with hollow ear.\nWe were those who came back, we were the echoes of our fathers'\nvoices when they said, HE WAS ONE OF THE GOOD ONES\nWHO DIDN'T MAKE IT HOME.\nAnd then we fell dead. We came, all of us, girls and boys alike,\nbursting from the shade into the white of afternoon and met the\nsweep of machinegun fire. The gunner was only yards away and he\npanned over us, pumping round after round into the still air, each\nshot drumming away through the canyon of houses. No one saved\nus. No one tried to. We wanted to go. We wanted to be like Mom\nwho yelled from the back porch and fell down the steps; who\nsmelled like gasoline when we reached her and told us to BUZZ\nOFF! as she made her way inside. We wanted to be like Dad who\nswung wide into the driveway and went away in the fall with a gun\nand came back with geese that bled from the eyes and were plucked\nunder bare bulbs, their urine overpowering as it was squeezed into\nbasins. We wanted to be the mamas and we wanted to be the papas.\nThe ones who lived among the smell of a fired Zippo and the touch\nof nylon stockings. We went into the withering bullets with leaps\nand cries of delight.\nThe girls went first, crumpling to earth, hands to chests, their\nnipples like yours or mine, tasting of the same salt because we tried\nand we knew. Then the boy who had been Sylvia with a bullet to his\nhead and much yelling and thrashing. Then the boy with the large\nheart who had evaded his mother to join us, tripping, stumbling,\nclutching his throat, falling to his back, the little mound glinting, the\nskin a tight bony white. Then the blonde girl who had stayed low\nbut finally found herself skidding into the grass, hands clutching at\n130 her flat little belly, flopping away to one side like a nearly living\nthing derailed at last. Then Kay with one to the lungs. And me.\nFinally me. Me at last. A pattern through my chest but my legs\nchurning though the body was finished, the mind failing. I went to\nmy knees but moved ahead. I came to a halt, still kneeling, wavering,\ntrying to raise my hand like the soldiers always did. Like everyone\nwanted to. And the gunner looked at me through his clouds of cordite\nand the rippling of echoes and pointed the barrel at my face. He\ntouched the trigger and I fell away into the sweet grass, my head at\nyour feet.\nAnd things went silent because that was a rule. No one breathed\nbecause that, too, was a rule. We yearned for the looks of our elders\nwho would say we were the good ones who didn't make it. That, too,\nwas a rule. We recalled every war film and western we had ever seen\nand like the shotgunned hero we lay as still as we could because it\nwas important to be as real as possible in that world.\nFinally I was touched. The gunner had risen and walked to me\nand tapped me on the shoulder. He gave me the word: best falling\ndead. And walked on tapping the others, bringing them back to life,\nme moving into position as the new gunner who would mow down\nthe next wave. We all fell and we all rose to fall again.\nAnd we laughed, didn't we? We were happy, weren't we, because\nwe thought we could do it all our lives, forever.\n131 Martin Reyto / Two Poems\nESCAPE\nbefore long, we were all\nthinking about escape: someone\nsaid there'd be a boat with jewelled oars,\nwater-spiders would dart\non two straight ripples from the bow.\nevery day, there were our faces,\ntime-eaten, peering down the wharf\nwith onyx eyes while the spiders lay still,\nresting on the water as we did\non chances, possibilities.\nthen sometimes wars were fought\nby the mammoth clouds, they ate\neach other with jaws\ntailored precisely to each other's sizes, shapes.\ndecisions were constantly made, and\none man always heard a sound like singing.\nchildren captured unknown insects,\nbrought them home, where they\nshrilled all night in a bottle.\n132 why of course we'll all\nget out of here someday, our expectant\ndances make the stars brood,\nnow so many people lie cradled\nlike relics in soft wool,\ninvisibly attended to; escape must have\ncome to them like the shards of a mirror,\nbut with hands that reached\nand quietly drew them aside. I myself\nhad this dream last night:\na fish lay in the water like a silver arc,\nlike the moon playing at being a fish.\nI shot an arrow into its side\nand it leapt high, it was sunrise,\nthen it was a boat with glittering oars\nand finally a bird which ate the sky\nwith one shriek. Awake,\nI am surrounded by those who remain.\ntheir eyes are onyx\nagate, amethyst;\nthey touch me with words,\nwith a whispered fugue.\n133 AS THE COSMIC EGG\nI was lost for centuries,\nelephants played soccer, finding\nmy naked form forsaken\nand rotund on the savannah\nby that time I resembled a crystal ball\ndropped by alien civilizations again\nand again on the revolting grasses\nby that time I'd consumed\nentire cities\ncountries, continents\nand still and still\nyou may pick me up in the palm of your hand,\nI'll flower there\nindex poverty on this wracked skull\nindex meteorology:\nlunatic budgie-snatchers\nskulking around Woolworth's\nwith empty shoeboxes, eyeing the cages\nwear me, wedged tight\nbetween their brains and spines\nunder their coats I have sucked up\ncurious toddlers\ntheir mothers\ntheir nights, their beds, their houses,\n134 oh the playgrounds and the\nand the streetcars they took\nto get from there to here and it is\nand it is I who move their\ndirty old hands to the cage door\nmake them\ndip in\nmerge their\ngray wrist-bones and gray hands\nwith a blue-green\nchattering and\ntweeting universe: I\nbecame\na crystal ball, aggressive reflector,\nplanted in a mountain I sucked up Pompeii\nI filmed it over, inside out, it was\nholocaust in reverse,\nand my dreams were profuse\nwith antlers and children and holidays.\nJ35 Donna E. Smyth\nThe Temptation of Leafy\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Leafy!\nThe voice was so loud it woke her up. It was that loud.\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Here I am. What you want?\nSilence in the trailer. Only Sarah stirring in her sleep at the sound\nof Leafy's voice. Only hush and hesitation of spring wind against\nthe window where the flap of plastic had come loose and she'd\nmeant to fix it but hadn't got round to it. Later on when the sun\ncame up it might be warmer but now it was chilly, shivery under\nthe sheets. Grey light before the dawn.\nWhere did the voice come from? Second time it had happened\nand she couldn't remember a dream to go with it. Nobody'd get up\nat this hour, unearthly hour, to play a trick, would they? Leafy\nturned, trying to find the warm spot where she'd slept before the\nvoice. She called softly \u00E2\u0080\u0094 Sarie! Sarie dear, come and keep your\nMama warm.\nInstantly the goose blinked out of sleep. Bright blue eyes fixed on\nLeafy, a gentle throat noise, almost a honk, greeted her\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 C'mon up here, Sarie.\nLeafy patted the side of the bed. Sarah was so well trained she\nnever clambered up without an invitation. Better than a dog, Leafy\nbragged to the neighbours who had long since ceased to bother her\nabout the goose. In the beginning though, they'd tried to interfere\nlike folks always do. Fellas like James Thurston saying to her every\nsecond week \u00E2\u0080\u0094 Leafy, it's time you done away with that goose. Five\nyears is more than any bird got a right to expect\nLeafy reared at him, she was that mad she was seeing stars in\nbroad daylight\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Who you tellin' what to do, James Thurston? I knew you when\nyou was a tadpole \u00E2\u0080\u0094 no bigger than the blink of an eye. And I\nknew your father before you. Worst little hellion in Hants County!\n136 The young man shuffled a little but held his ground. He muttered\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 But it ain't good sense, Leafy. You keep a goose too long, all the\ngoodness goes out of her.\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Look at that bird there. You tellin' me there's no goodness left\nin her?\nAnd they both looked at Sarah who preened herself in the sun,\nwhite and glossy she was, long-necked graceful. A very goose of a\ngoose and gentle as a lamb. She'd only attacked once \u00E2\u0080\u0094 a stray dog,\nmutt of a dog who'd snarled at Leafy when she was out collecting.\nOrdinarily Leafy wouldn't have minded, she had a way with dogs,\nbut this one looked mean. Leafy backed away slowly, searching out\nof the corner of her eye for a stick. A rush of feathers burst out of\nthe bushes and a hiss like doom, like a dozen snakes. Neck stretched\nout, wings beating the air, Sarah flew at the dog like an avenging\nangel. The mutt hesitated for the fraction of a second and then\nturned tail and fled, yelping like he'd seen a ghost. Years later the\nmemory of it still tickled Leafy's fancy.\nShe turned solemnly to James Thurston\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 You mean to tell me I should do away with a goose who saved\nmy life?\n'Course the boy didn't have a leg to stand on. Nobody did when\nit came to Leafy's goose and after awhile they took it for granted \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nwherever Leafy was, Sarah went with her, untiring, unflagging\ngoose guardian of a dozen years and more. Sarah seemed never to\nget old.\nIn the summer she followed Leafy like a puppy up and down the\nroadside ditches where the beerbottles lay, amber jewels in the sun.\nLeafy collected assiduously, had only curses for the new-fangled tin\ncans which weren't worth a plug nickel. Weekends were the best\ntime, 'specially Sunday mornings after Saturday night's screeching\naround. Sunday mornings when the sun filtered through the leaves,\nsending shadows dancing, and the jays cheekier than weekdays,\nflashing blue past her. Once that preacher boy down the road, Marks\nwas his name, he tried to convince Leafy to give up this Sunday collecting and go to church\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 Mrs Lutz, you got to remember that you're getting on. At your\nage you should be thinking of making your peace.\n\u00E2\u0096\u00A0\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 Peace? What good did that ever do a body? 'Sides, I got plenty\nof peace right here.\n\u00E2\u0096\u00A0\u00E2\u0080\u0094- Your peace with God, Mrs Lutz. Remember, God sees all things.\nLeafy cackled, she couldn't help it\n137 \u00E2\u0080\u0094 Preacher, God and me ain't been on talkin' terms for a long time.\nThe young man \u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 they were all young men these days \u00E2\u0080\u0094 laughed\nnervously. Leafy could see he wasn't much of a one for a joke. Had\na high flutey voice like a woman and a belly like he was pregnant.\nSoft brown eyes behind glasses. Earnest. He cleared his throat and\nbegan again\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 That's what I mean, Mrs Lutz. Doesn't it bother you to think\nabout. .. about...\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Dying? That what you mean?\nGravely he nodded. It was plain that dying bothered him some,\neven brought out the sweat in tiny drops on his forehead\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094- Yes. We must all make our peace before we go.\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 If God don't like me the way I am, it's too late for either of us to\ndo anything about it. Way too late.\nLeafy gathered up a wad of spittle she'd been forming in her mouth\nand spat it out neatly beside the preacher's shiny shoe. He gulped\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Mrs Lutz, I'm only trying to help you.\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 The Lord helps them what helps themselves. Ain't that right in\nthe Bible, preacher?\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 The sin of pride, Mrs Lutz, the sin of pride. You have an account\nto settle with God.\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Well, let Him come and settle it then. I'll be waitin'.\nNext Sunday she returned to her collecting as usual. The preacher\nboy drove past on his way to church and Leafy waved from the ditch\nbut he didn't seem to see her. She shrugged. Nice boy but a Christian.\nWhen the burlap sack was full, Leafy sat down for a smoke, measuring out the tobacco carefully so's she didn't waste any. Sarah\nsettled in the long grass beside her, tramping it down till it was a\nsort of pocket into which she wiggled her bottom till she was comfortable. With her neck outstretched, her beak just touched Leafy's\nskirt. Leafy began as usual\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Sarie dear, see here, we two got what most folks want. Only they\ndon't know it. Most folks never know what they want.\nLeafy puffed meditatively, squinted at her cigarette. Preachers\ncouldn't tell a body half what you needed to know. She tapped\nSarah's beak lightly\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 There's a kind of love between the creatures. Holy love, I call it.\nCame to that a long time ago, so long ago you wasn't even an egg.\nLove between folks, now that's all tangled with hurtin' till the hurtin'\ngets bigger than the lovin'. You follow me?\n138 Sarah's eyes opened with the question, she watched Leafy lovingly.\nThe goose followed every inflection of thought and voice with a kind\nof intelligence Leafy never doubted. When things were flowing good\nlike now, mellowed by a quiet smoke in the sun with a full sack of\nempties to be traded in on Monday, Sarah seemed to know and\nrejoice with Leafy. She'd sidle closer until, absent-mindedly, Leafy'd\nput out a hand to stroke the soft feathers. If a goose could purr like\na cat, Sarah would have purred. In fact Leafy swore she did purr,\nnot out loud but with a body hum that vibrated through Leafy's\nfingers. Hum of goose contentment.\nWhen things didn't flow, when they got knotted up with kinks\nand twists under the inexorable grey of sky, white of snow, with\nLeafy's small trailer rocking in the bitter wind, then Sarah watched\nanxiously as her mistress paced the patch of linoleum, pattern worn\nto a sheen. At such times Leafy waved her arms like a preacher\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 There's a mistake, a mistake in livin'! God's cruel, Sarah! Cruel\nto make us, cruel to make such a wind it bites holes in the trailer.\nSarie dear, you're the only one who hasn't left. My first man, he\nbeat me. The second one left. Then they came after me, sent those\nsocial workers after me. Animals know \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the creatures do know.\nYou crawl into a hole to lick your wounds. But folks won't let you,\nno sir, they won't let you. Have to be pryin' and meddlin' till the\nday they die. I spit on social workers! I spit on men! I spit on the\nlot of 'em!\nThe rum in the bottle on the table was working its way down inch\nby inch. Leafy stopped ranting to swallow, sat down in the one chair\nat the table. Drunk \u00E2\u0080\u0094 carefully rolled a cigarette and smiled at\nthe goose\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Come to Mama, Sarie. There, there, don't be scairt of the old\nwoman. You're the only one who understands me, God's truth you\nare. Kids they see me \u00E2\u0080\u0094 you know what they do? Run away. Scairt.\nThink I'm a witch. Maybe. Maybe. Kids ain't what they used to be.\nUp here, Sarie dear.\nThe goose was lifted to Leafy's lap where she settled like a cat.\nLeafy stroked feathers and sang\n\u00E2\u0096\u00A0\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 \"All things bright and beautiful,\nAll creatures great and small\"\nAnother swallow of rum, contemptuous wipe of the mouth with the\nback of the hand\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094- Hah! What about the ugliness, Sarie? What about the ugly and\nthe dirt and the lonely? Who made them? You tell me that an' you're\nr39 a wiser bird than I. God, God! If He was to come down here tonight,\nI'd call Him to account! That I would!\nBy early morning the wind had died to a winter-cold stillness.\nTwo bars of the electric heater reflected red in the semi-darkness of\nthe trailer. Empty bottle on a table burnt with cigarettes forgotten.\nAsleep like an old woman, Leafy's mouth was slack except when she\ncalled out of her dreams, subsided back again. Asleep like a goose,\nSarah's head was tucked underneath her wing.\nIt often seemed to Leafy that it might have been that winter or\nthe next and then it was summer, last year's or this one, and the\nseasons changed but life didn't change. Sarah didn't change either.\nEach year she was a little plumper, more serene. When she was\ntwenty years old, by Leafy's calculations, she was no longer as spry\nas she used to be but then neither was Leafy who couldn't decide\nwhether she herself changed or did not change. She marked time by\nthe neighbour's kids growing up and those kids having kids. It all\nwent on changing and not changing at the same time. And more and\nmore Sarah seemed to know what Leafy was thinking until it got\nso's sometimes Leafy forgot Sarah was a goose or maybe forgot\nwhether or not she was an old woman.\nOn this particular morning then, with grey light becoming pink,\nLeafy confided to Sarah\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Sarie dear, did you hear the voice? It was that loud I nearly\njumped out of my skin. Sat bolt upright like a scairt rabbit. I must\nof been dreamin'! This big voice \u00E2\u0080\u0094 never heard a voice like it \u00E2\u0080\u0094 it\nsays: Leafy! Leafy! If those kids come back to play tricks, I'll tan\ntheir hides!\nSarah snuggled closer on the blankets, her head touching Leafy's\narm. When she was younger, the goose would be up at the crack of\ndawn nudging Leafy with her beak so's to be let out to do her morning business. But nowadays Sarah was inclined to doze and drowse\nin the early morning light, 'specially on spring mornings when it\ntook the sun awhile to warm the damp grass. And Leafy drowsed\nwith her, muttering still about her dream, fingers pushed into the\ndowny under Sarah's feathers\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Leafy!\nLeafy's eyes flew open. Was she awake or dreaming?\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 Sarie, did you hear that?\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Leafy!\nLeafy trembled. It was not inside nor outside, that voice, it was\nboth inside and outside. Not a voice. Leafy forced herself to answer\n140 \u00E2\u0080\u0094 What you want?\nAnd she ducked, half-expecting a cuff from an unseen hand.\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Do you love me, Leafy?\nLeafy groaned\n\u00E2\u0096\u00A0\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 I dunno, I dunno! Oh God, is it the accountin' already? Damn\nthat preacher \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I got to get the place cleaned up.\nShe shoved back the blankets, swung her legs out and looked\naround the trailer for the first time in a long time seeing it as if for\nthe first time. As if she was a meddling neighbour come in to find\nout what happened to Leafy Lutz. She saw a table littered with dirty\ndishes, crumbs, bits of crust, newspapers. A floor filthy with dust and\ndirt trod into uneven, colourless linoleum. Cobwebs hanging, festooned the rusty trailer ceiling, draped over the two lanterns. Once\nwhite sheets a dingy grey against skinny old legs roped with veins.\nLeafy saw it all and cringed. Sarah was the only white and shining\nthing in the place\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Leafy!\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 I hear you! I ain't deaf.\nNow Sarah woke up, looked expectantly at Leafy. Almost time to\nput her outside. Leafy grabbed the goose and hugged and hugged\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Sarie dear, it's the Lord. He' come for me like the preacher said\nHe would!\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Do you love me, Leafy?\nFrightened, Leafy clutched Sarah to her. Too late now for excuses,\nlies, regrets over small cruelties, large trespasses. Leafy moaned,\nrocked back and forth with Sarah \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I dunno! I dunno! What's\nlove?\nThe voice was silent. Did it expect her to know? It wasn't fair, it\nwasn't. She was just Leafy Lutz, an old woman alone in the world\nwith her beloved goose. How could she know anything?\nThe answer didn't come slowly but was there all of a sudden. It\nhit Leafy like a punch in the gut, leaving her breathless and doubled\nup with pain. She cried aloud\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 No, no! You can't mean that. It's not right!\nThe voice refused to argue. But she felt it suspended around her,\nwaiting. Sarah nudged her shoulder, wanting reassurance\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 Sarie, human flesh an' blood ain't stood by me like you! You're\nall I got left.\nSarah honked gently, seemed to agree. She searched the woman's\nface with a grave goose look. Seemed to say \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I'm yours, Leafy.\nDo with me what you will.\n141 The voice spoke again. This time it was small and still, not like a\nvoice at all\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Leafy, do you love me?\nIt was the softness that broke her. She was all set to rear and fight\nwhen it came so small and clear like a child's voice. Then Leafy\nknew\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Everything it means, don't it? Everything. That's love.\nThe first rays of sun lit upon her like a hand. Leafy shrugged off\nthe comfort. She was still struggling\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 She's the only one I got! Why'nt you go to James Thurston up\nthe road? He's got plenty.\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Leafy. ...\nThe voice sounded like her mother years ago when Leafy told a\nlie and got found out. Her father would have belted the life out of\nher, her mother just looked like she was sorry for Leafy. Leafy\ncouldn't stand nobody feeling sorry for her. She stood upright and\nsaid to the voice\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 I know. I know what has to be done.\nThen, softly to the waiting goose\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Come along, Sarie dear.\nLeafy stepped into the rubber boots by the door, slipped into the\nold coat she'd found some five years ago dangling from a highway\nsign. Sarah was so close behind Leafy almost stepped on her when\nshe opened the door.\nOutside was spring warm and clear, the kind of morning light\nthat hides nothing. A week of this weather would bring out the may-\nflower buds. She and Sarah would take some lunch and head down\nthe old logging road behind the trailer. .. .\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Leafy!\nThe voice recalled, recollected her. Followed her. Insistent. Leafy\nanswered\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Alright. Don't rub it in. I know, don't I?\nSarah had squatted in one corner of the weedpatch Leafy called\nher garden. Doing her goose business. Then she waddled towards\nLeafy, slowly, enjoying the sun. The whiteness of her glowed, her\neyes were finest blue. Such a perfect goose of a goose.\nOne hand in her pocket, Leafy squatted\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 Here, Sarie, Sarie dear.\nThe ritual was always the same. Sarah came with dignity to the\noutstretched hand, ate the offered corn with a certain elegant restraint, not greedily, not hastily, but as if it was her due. Leafy patted\n142 her all over, feeling the solid little body, the powerful wings and\ncurved, proud neck\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 What a fine bird you are! The finest in the world!\nSarah's look was trusting, loving. Leafy's voice broke\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Sarah, for what I am about to do, may you forgive me.\nShe rose quickly then, determined to have it over with. Behind the\ntrailer, to the left, was a little shack where she kept the tools and the\nax for the wood. Leafy was particular about her tools \u00E2\u0080\u0094 a shovel, a\npitchfork, a hammer, bucksaw, screwdriver, pliers, ax. She kept\nthem hung up, each in its own place, oiled and clean throughout the\nwinter. Sharpened each fall before they were put away. The ax was\nalways sharp for splitting kindling. Every year James Thurston\nbrought her two cords of wood but he didn't make them up as carefully as his father had \u00E2\u0080\u0094 too much slabwood. And every year he\noffered to split the kindling for her and each year Leafy refused.\nSarah followed Leafy to the shed door but stayed on the threshold. When she saw Leafy with the ax, the goose immediately started\nin the direction of the chopping block. Always the same routine.\nLeafy walked slowly, she felt a hundred years old. She felt it was\ntime to die. She took out more corn from the pocket and sprinkled\nit on the block. Sarah pecked each piece quickly, daintily. Leafy put\none hand on the goose head, held it so that the neck was stretched\nacross the block. The ax was in her other hand\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094-Sarie, I'll give you a decent burial. My darlin' Sarah!\nNow the goose head twisted so that the eyes looked straight at her.\nEyes dark with fear. Sarah knew. Leafy sobbed, lifted the ax\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094- Leafy!\nThe voice arrested the sun-glinted ax hanging in mid-air. Leafy\nswung around, furious\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Go away! Leave me alone!\nShe rushed to the slender young birch by the side of the shed and\nbegan to chop blindly, strongly. A white gash opened in the trunk,\nwhite with a lip of green where the inner bark was. The ax bit\ndeeper, harder. Again and again. Slowed. Thudded. Stopped. The\ntree didn't exactly fall, it was too thin and green. It bent over, wood\nsinews severed. It was dead.\nLeafy shook her fist at the sky\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0080\u00A2 There! Are you satisfied? Are you?\nShe fell to her knees on the frozen ground, tears salty on lips,\nfingers. Forsaken. The very word cut into her, left her shivering and\nalone. It was time to die.\n143 Soft nudge at her shoulder. Leafy looked up into Sarah's eyes. The\ngoose made a loving honk noise deep in her throat. Leafy could\nscarcely dare to believe\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 Sarie, you mean it? You forgive me?\nGoose head rubbed against her like a cat. Invited caresses. Leafy\nheld the goose to her and crooned\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 There ain't a creature in the world as precious as you. Then she\nfrowned at the so-innocent looking sky\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 You stay away from me, you hear? Creatures love, they know\nwhat it means!\nSarah rested her head against Leafy's shoulder. They knelt there a\nlong time, woman and goose, in the spring sunshine between the\ndouble-bladed ax and the dead tree.\nTHE END\n144 Betsy Struthers / Two Poems\nTHE DIFFERENCE\nIn the big field\non the hill overlooking\nfive farms\nand a pocket of forest:\nHe peoples\nthe blue air\nwith ideas\nsits, leaning forward,\nhands stressing points\nin the pattern\nBehind his dark glasses\nflash\nfight bulbs.\nAnd I\nlie back listening\ninsects hum over\nmy lips\nclouds cartwheel\nacross my horizons\nsun melts me\ninto ground rhythms.\nHe thinks.\nHe could be\nanywhere.\nI must point out\nfor him\nboth hawk and\nlady bug.\n145 THE POET\nA big man he\nrocks on the edge\nof the kitchen chair\ncradles poems in\nhis awkward hands\nthese fascinate me\nIf I lay\nmine against his\npalms, my fingers\nwould not reach\nhis knuckles\nin his songs hands\nbecome birds broken\nby windows\nthe fingers pale\ncaterpillars denied\nchrysalis\n146 Joel Yanofsky\nGhost Stories\nAll things considered it would be a perfect day to do God's work; a\nperfect day to share God's everlasting love for mankind. Mother\nonce said there would be days like this and there are. The sky is\nbright and blue and cloudless. The grass is green and wet from last\nnight's rain. Orange leaves are spread out generously on the lawns\nand sidewalks like birthday icing. It is autumn's last sad recollection\nof a vanished summer. On the whole a perfect day to soothe sinners\nwith the offering of salvation, to convince the doubtful, to renew the\ntired and the confused. Two teenage girls, soberly dressed, breathing\nrapidly, twitching and excited, begin their door-to-door mission. \"We\nhave come,\" they announce confidently, humbly, persuasively \"to\nspeak to you of God's purpose.\"\n\"I'll give you God's purpose,\" a strained voice mutters.\nAn aluminum screen door opens for a moment, pauses, as if\ncaught in reflection or in a moment's hesitation, and then slams shut\ninto its aluminum slot. The lady of the house walks away mumbling\nsomething about nuisances and fanatics and takes no notice of the\nazure sky. She is busy: her youngest child cries, the television blares\nand the refrigerator hums threateningly. Spirituality has gone the\nway of all things in suburbia: towards noise and gossip and tedium.\nThe street is unkind, and particularly unkind to strangers. The\ncracked concrete sidewalk trips pedestrians and pilgrims alike. Stray\nfootballs, frisbees and children are formidable obstacles. Fat suburban women are irked at the idea of having to go to the door for\nno better reason than salvation.\n\"I'm sorry,\" they say sarcastically, (married to bald tired husbands, they are masters of sarcasm) \"but I gave at the office.\"\nSome people dislike confrontations of any sort and when the doorbell rings they pretend that they are not at home. A moving blind, a\nflickering lamp or a bobbing head usually gives them away; still\n147 they crouch beside their front bedroom window until their solitude\nis secure. Their transparency has become more than a way of avoiding things and people, it has become a fact. Undaunted, the young\ngirls continue (Oh to be young and Christian!) realizing by the\nnames on the mailboxes \u00E2\u0080\u0094 Weinstein, Yampolsky, Rosen \u00E2\u0080\u0094 that\nthey are in among the Pharisees and that they have somehow stumbled upon a challenge which is two thousand years old. They are\ninsulted, ignored and turned away from each door. Predictably no\none cares. One girl clutches at the crucifix around her neck not so\nmuch for her own sake as for the sake of those people who refuse to\nlisten. The other girl bends to tie her shoelaces. No one here wants\nto know anything. Mr. Morris, our next door neighbour and self-\nappointed community leader, has a joke, he says that we are happy:\nmiserable the way we are. In his serious moments, Mr. Morris\nwears light blue leisure suits \u00E2\u0080\u0094 which he swears by \u00E2\u0080\u0094 plays golf, on\nSaturday mornings, in his backyard, chain smokes, believes in mankind and insists that we must, indeed, have to, assimilate, integrate\nourselves, Jews, Semites, into the French, Quebecois, Catholic society,\nway of life, or else we will, in the future, one day, be in serious, profound trouble and distress. He comes by his redundancy, his wardrobe and his atheism naturally. Although everyone suspects that he\nis right no one ever listens to him. Whenever he would begin one of\nhis long speeches at our house my mother would tell me to go on\nwith whatever I was doing just as if he was not there. It was not\nhard. Inevitably, Christian forbearance stands up less well among\nJews than among any other non-believers. (Precisely, Mr. Morris's\npoint.) History probably has examples. The girls become irritated\nand bitter: they will attempt one more door and then be sure to\nwrite us off as a race. My doorbell rings and frankly I welcome the\ninterruption. I welcome all interruptions.\nAlthough my interest in my own salvation has decreased over the\npast two years, there was honestly a time when it was the only thing\nthat I considered important. I wrote long, agonizing stories about my\nperpetual loneliness; and I was almost singularly concerned with the\nsalvation of my lost soul and the satisfaction of my neglected crotch.\nI expected very little from life (I still do) but I did expect a great\ndeal from God and women. The one delusion, the one fairy tale left\nme, was that I would find God, figuratively speaking, under a\nwoman's skirt. Like Jack finding the Golden Goose. That, in fact,\nthere was a woman wandering about, shadowy and vague like an\n148 angel or a dream, who would save me spiritually and sexually, who\nwould end my doubts, forever. Things, being things, have changed\nnow. It's not that I'm less lonely or deluded, it's just that I'm tired\nof waiting. Still, I am willing to listen, to, at least, negotiate. (Particularly, with teen-age girls.) Finally, truthfully, \u00E2\u0080\u0094 an old schoolteacher, named Turpin, who is probably dead now, once told me\nthat no matter what I wrote, I should always be truthful \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I am\neternally grateful for anything which separates me from my room\nand my typewriter. My room has become a jungle: there are dark\nneglected corners where things have begun to take root. Blank,\ncrumpled sheets of paper, tangled clothing and books are scattered\nabout the floor. Those books that have found their way to the shelves\nrest upside down. My bed is a chaotic jumble of sheets, pillows, blankets and pyjamas and I am reluctant to replace a familiar mess with\nthe mess that would result if I tried to make the unmade bed. Now,\nI may never learn to make my bed properly. My dusty gray underwood stares at me with its forty-two eyes \u00E2\u0080\u0094 not including the back-\nspacer \u00E2\u0080\u0094 disappointedly. You see, though I try, there are no stories\nleft for me to tell. Only recollections: images, colours, shadows, alternately bright and dull, one on top of the other, jumping in and out,\nside to side, up and down, in my mind, like figures in a Chagall\npainting. No stories. No sensible plots. No full-blooded characters.\nJust ghosts. The memory of my mother's cancer has placed an unbearable weight upon me, for now everything outside of the truth\nseems frivolous and unworthy of my attention.\nMr. Turpin was an old gray man, a former evangelist, who quoted\nseventeenth century philosophers, and cried in class. His hands trembled and his nose was always red. For months he wore the same\nbrown suit until it became so wrinkled that the shape of his body\nwas completely hidden: from the front he looked like a clown, from\nthe back he looked like a discarded candy wrapper. Mr. Turpin\nliked me because I was the only boy in the class \u00E2\u0080\u0094 girls can be smart\nwithout being devoted \u00E2\u0080\u0094 who had any regard or affection for words.\nPeople like us, he said, are a vanishing breed. He would often keep\nme after class so that he would have someone to cry for and, sometimes, not knowing exactly why, I cried with him. He told me once,\nin the strictest confidence, that his wife had begun visiting him again.\nNot knowing quite what to say I had said congratulations. But he\nquickly shook his head and said that congratulations were not in\norder, that his wife had been dead for thirty years. \"She comes to\nme at night,\" he whispered, \"her hair and her eyes are black, her\n149 skin is white like waxpaper and she curses at me. She blames me for\nher death. She says that I bored her to death . . . Later we drink\ncocoa and talk about my death.\" Mr. Turpin was eventually relieved\nof his duties by the P.T.A. \u00E2\u0080\u0094 who debated for weeks how he had\never been hired in the first place \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and the last words he said to me\nwere the words of Baruch Spinoza (he thought that I would appreciate Spinoza because we were both Jewish): \"A free man thinks of\nnothing less than of death and his wisdom is a meditation not of\ndeath, but of life.\" He winked and, gratefully, I never saw him again.\nHe was content with his apparitions and his meditations.\n\"We are here to talk to you about God's purpose.\" They speak\nquickly, in unison, in what is definitely a take-it-or-leave-it tone of\nvoice. They stand, hands near hips, legs apart, like linebackers, ready\nfor anything. Poor girls, have my neighbours given you a bad time?\nI don't like them either. They are harsh and inconsiderate and a little\nignorant. Jews, obstinate, unbending, hiding in their houses and\nghettos, have always made it difficult for Christians to spread the\nword of God's love and mercy. We hid, kept to ourselves and\nremained unconvinced. Mrs. Wooden, who lives across the street,\nhas not left her house for as long as I have lived here, except occasionally to pounce on a trespassing baseball or football. Mostly, she\nsits near her window smoking and only her head, round as a pumpkin, and the collar of her paisley housecoat are visible. As children\nwe imagined that she was a witch or some kind of disembodied Goblin and we threw rotten apples at her house late at night. In the\nmorning she telephoned our parents to complain and our parents\ntold her that she was probably mistaken \u00E2\u0080\u0094 that it couldn't have\nbeen us. I discovered later that she had been in Dachau and that she\nhad black indelible numbers on her forearm. Sometimes at night I\nwould hear her screaming and I would hear her husband, frustrated\nand tired, trying to comfort her. (His burden, his indelible mark.)\nNow that there are no young children on the street and no balls\nrolling onto her lawn, she shuts herself up in her room, afraid of\nGerman soldiers and Polish informers, the Avon lady and well-\nmeaning teenage girls. Hiding from those who seek to destroy her as\nwell as those who seek to save her. \"Yes,\" I said, \"I would love to\nhear about God's purpose. Please come in. Sit down. Won't you?\"\nThey come in, unsuspiciously, gayly, like young Hugh of Lincoln\nskipping through the Jewish quarter, their scrubbed pink girlish faces\ngleaming. After all, they are the kind of people who expect the best\n150 from others \u00E2\u0080\u0094 (I, on the other hand, expect the worst and am, therefore, never disappointed) who expect tolerance and kindness from\nothers. And when the rest of the world turns out to be something less\nthan cheery and decent they are noticeably angered, intolerant, filled\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 a lingering vestige of their old testament origin \u00E2\u0080\u0094 with a wrath\nand vindictiveness worthy of good ol' Jahweh himself. Ready to bring\ndown the sword of righteousness upon the capped heathen head. But\nnow the slightest indication of kindness and encouragement returns\nthem to their old even-tempered optimistic selves. I, in my boredom\nand typewriterphobia, am a genuine human being, while all the\nothers \u00E2\u0080\u0094 my hiding uncooperative neighbours \u00E2\u0080\u0094 are aberrations,\nexceptions to an otherwise hopeful, God-loving world. I am a good\naudience and to me they could speak, at length, of the resurrection,\nthe sermon on the mount and the golden rule.\nReally, I have no time for this bit of religious entertainment.\nThere is work to be done. Debts to be repayed. Ghosts to be mitigated. The past creeps up on me like a vaudevillian hook and my\nperformance upon this present stage is limited. I am needed backstage where ancient male characters in wide brimmed black hats and\nlong black coats, where frail, tired women in white sheets and antiseptic hospital beds appeal to me, in Pirandello fashion, for sympathy, for immortality. For some kind of sensible death. A parade of\ncrippled bodies and wronged faces will not rest in me until some sense\nis made of their suffering. And there is no sense in any of it. And I\nam not up to such a task. I am no story-teller. I wish only to be left\nalone. I wish only to converse quietly with my tender-hearted, angelic\nproselytizers about God's true benevolent purpose.\nThey sit carefully on my mother's green sofa, their thin legs crossed\njust below their knees. Both girls are dressed carefully and simply in\nwhite blouses, black skirts and saddle shoes. (Evidently, they are on\nthe same team and it appears that their effort will be a concerted\none.) It has been years, fads, children and jokes aside, since I have\nseen anyone wearing saddle shoes and it's perhaps the single article\nin their uniform which is both silly and touching. While the soles of\ntheir shoes are worn and discoloured from rain, ashphalt and gum,\nthe tops of their shoes are bright and polished and new. Bottom and\ntop, these shoes were made to last. Italian leather and sporty canvas\ncould never see the days these shoes have. Looking down at their feet,\nI sit close by, perpendicular to them, in an old re-upholstered chair\n151 in which, I fear, I am sinking. The house seems somehow older than\nit is. Ours is the only red-bricked house on the block. It was my grandfather's wish. All the other houses on the block are white-bricked and\npretty while ours is dark and somber and older. My grandfather insisted that a house have character and maturity. Repairs are needed,\nbut put off. The brown patches on the lawn, the dying shrubs, the\ncracked walk, and the door, blackened by a year of fickle weather,\ndust, slush and hand prints, all will have to wait for spring. Inside,\nthe carpets, the furniture, the wallpaper have become ancient in only\ntwo decades. I must have entered and re-entered each room a thousand times and though they have changed over the years it is impossible to picture anything ever having been different. Everything is in\nits place, the same as it has always been with a single exception. I am\na good host as well as a good Samaritan and I ask my guests if they\nwould like anything to drink. Coffee, tea, milk, juice, coke, wine, gin.\nThey graciously decline. They shuffle, businesslike, through their\nbriefcases, each taking out a handful of beige pamphlets. (Something\ntells me that they do not consider themselves guests.) I wait patiently\n\u00E2\u0096\u00A0\u00E2\u0080\u0094- patience being a virtue and the only one that I can manage \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nand after a few moments of silence and throat-clearing, they look at\neach other and the older (I assume) taller girl begins her prepared\nspeech.\n\"If you have not already guessed, we are Jehovah's Witnesses. The\nJehovah's Witnesses are a Christian pros \u00E2\u0080\u0094 a Christian sect founded\nby Charles T. Russell. The name is adopted from the Bible, from\nIsaih \u00E2\u0080\u0094\"\n\"Isaih?\"\n\"Yes, Isaih. 43:10: 'Ye are my witnesses . ..' We have con \u00E2\u0080\u0094 uh\nmembers all over the world and our pamphlets are published in\nseventy-eight languages including Polish and Zulu.\" 123 Her friend\ncontinues: \"Do you long for a better world, one of justice and truth,\nfree from sorrow, hatred and war?\" I did not answer. I know a rhetorical question when I hear one. (Besides, my longings are best kept\nout of this.) \"Do you want to live at a time when genuine peace and\nlove prevail among people of all races?\" From the Poles to the Zulus.\nI like the way this girl speaks. Her face is not pretty, but her voice is\nclear and fragile. Like glass. To do this, to confront strangers, to\nbecome an imposition in order to help people, she has more courage\nthan I could ever gather. More courage and less common sense. I also\nlike the way her nose twitches when she speaks and the way her uncrossed leg dangles and swings like a pendulum. Her breasts are large\n152 and round and seem somehow separate from her small body and her\nsoft voice. As if they had minds and moods of their own, enthusiastic, bouncy, welcoming like old friends. \"Then we can help you! I\nmean the Jehovah's Witnesses can help you. Using God's word, the\nBible, as our authority, we point out the clear evidence that the present wicked system of things will soon end, destroyed by God. But we\nalso announce the coming in of a righteous new order.\" The doorbell rings several times; ringing out the old and ringing in the new.\n\"Excuse me.\" I pull myself out of my chair and walk to the door.\nThere is no one in front of the house. I check the back door and\nthere is no one there either. I return to my chair. \"I'm very sorry.\nPlease continue. I can't imagine who it could have been.\"\nThe younger girl continues exactly where she left off. \"There\nunder the rule of God's kingdom, his heavenly government, people\nwill enjoy \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"\n\"Actually the doorbell rings alot by itself, it's the craziest thing.\nNothing to worry about though.\" Apparently by the impatient look\non their faces and the anxious tap of their saddle shoes I am the only\none worried. They want to get on with it. The basic difference between us is in direction. They are straight-ahead and I, I am off to\nthe side somewhere. \"I'm sorry, I guess I interrupted again. It was\nprobably just Elijah looking for a glass of wine. You see, at Passover,\nwe \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"I smile, but they don't get the joke. Some day, some one will\nunderstand my allusions. \"Excuse me, again, please go on.\"\n\"Thank-you. There . . . there people will enjoy life forever in true\npeace, health and happiness on a paradise earth.\"\nThere is a short pause as I wait to see if they are both finished.\nThey are. For the moment. Evidently, it is now my turn to express\nsome feeble doubt. \"That's all well and good,\" I say, impressively,\nrabbinically, scratching my beard, hoping to interest and not offend\nthem, for if they should leave there is nowhere for me to go except\nback to my typewriter. \"But this idea of a paradise earth, well, I\ndon't know ...\"\nWhat would Zeyda say? Me, sitting here, all education and charm,\ntalking theology with two shiksas. Not even pretty shiksas at that.\nJehovah's Witnesses of all things. What would Ma say? On bright\nmornings, after late parties, my head ringing from too much beer,\nmy mother would make me coffee and eggs and matter-of-factly\nquestion me about the type of girl I had met. By \"type\" she meant\n\"were they Jewish?\" I would become angry or amused, depending\nx53 upon my mood, and she would drop the subject. Once, walking\ndowntown, I was approached by a red-haired Mormon, tall and\nlean. He offered me a booklet and I accepted it, being something of\na collector of fanatical literature and also being somewhat afraid of\ntall, lean people. Later when my mother found it on my desk, she\ndisposed of it. She said that it was an accident, that she was just tidying up, but I guessed otherwise. She was just protecting me from\nthe gentiles and the fanatics. It is a Jewish mother's responsibility.\nWho will protect me now? Her anxiousness about my associations\nwas a type of faith, in itself, a faith in my continuance, in my future.\n\"It seems to me that the dichotomy between the present wicked\nearth and the future paradise earth is a half-truth. There is only one\nworld, after all, God's world, the one we have, wicked and beautiful\nas well. First of all, we should have, if we give any credence to the\nBuddhist and Hindu conception of karma samsara or re-incarnation,\nas our first goal \u00E2\u0080\u0094 though it shouldn't really be seen as a goal per se\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 escape or release from the mundane, painful world \u00E2\u0080\u0094 wicked, I\ndon't think, is a fair description \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and even if we cannot obtain\nthat goal in this lifetime or in the next, perhaps some time. Each of\nus being bodhisattvas, really, in the ultimate sense.\" Wrong. Wrong.\nWrong. I must break my habit of trying to fascinate people \u00E2\u0080\u0094\nfriends and strangers both \u00E2\u0080\u0094 with my muddled, enthusaistic interpretation of Eastern religion. Their faces are blank, as blank as the\nBuddhist pantheon. (That is the Hinayana school, I believe.) Or\neven worse, as blank as the sheet of paper I had earlier rolled into\nmy Underwood. The sheet of paper I had been staring at, before\nthey came, for what seemed like nine years. (Like Bodhidharma staring at the wall of that cave in China.) Finally, the sheet of paper I\nhave no wish to return to. \"On the other hand, who is to say that\nthere could not be, one day, a paradise on earth. Why shouldn't the\ndead, the good dead, of course, all pop out of their graves and walk\nthe earth one day? They practically do it now, don't they?\" There is\nno reply. I can hear them breathing, exhaling their confusion and\ndisapproval, inhaling a new found patience and desire to save me\nfrom myself. I chant to myself: OM. Trying to transport myself out\nof the awkwardness I have created: OM. They look at me, oddly,\nlike a hungry cat eyeing a bird. We sit, the three of us, in spiritual\ncontemplation of the silence, knowing, in varying degrees, that God\nis out there somewhere, either waiting to be found or late arriving.\n154 The doorbell rings. Elijah, no doubt, has come to my rescue. I walk\nto the door and there is no one there.\nHanging in the living room, next to the vestibule, there is a portrait of my grandfather, drawn in pastels, by a rather inadequate\nand inexpensive artist. The portrait was copied from his photograph,\nseveral years after his death, and had been intended as a happy\nremembrance for the family, but neither the gay colours nor the\nartist's singular aptitude for simplification had succeeded in hiding\nthe sadness in his dark, immigrant eyes. No doubt, an inherited sadness. The sadness of the race. A truthful sadness which I will never\nknow. Not even now. The eyes, in contrast to the artificial lines and\nshadings of the face, seem almost alive, like in the old Hollywood B\nmovies where the painted eyes are removed so that the villain can\nspy, unseen and invisible, upon any intruders. My grandfather stares\nat me. He understandably, invisibly disapproves of my two evangelical shiksas. He blinks. When my mother died, eleven months ago, old\nrelatives with beady eyes, walking into the house to pay their respects,\nforgetting to remove or even wipe their October-stained shoes, commented almost immediately upon how much I resembled my grandfather. My great aunt sprayed s's in my face and remembered her\nelder brother to me. \"Yankel, did you know, you are the sphitting\nimage of Matas when he wash a boy. The shame walk, the shame\nbuild, even the eyes are the shame . . . You didn't know him when\nhe wash a boy, did you? No? A finer boy, a finer brother you\nshouldn't want to know from. I'm telling you if you are half the man\nhe wash, one tenth the man, then you'll be bleshed, your family will\nbe bleshed, your children will be bleshed ...\" Her lisp was unbearable, like a leaky faucet, but I stood patient, wet-faced, listening to\nthe stories of my grandfather's youth. She told me the happy stories.\nI remember the others.\nAlmost as soon as I sit down the doorbell rings again. Several\ntimes. The sound is familiar. I rush to the door \u00E2\u0080\u0094 understanding how\nPavlov's dog must have felt \u00E2\u0080\u0094 hoping to catch someone running\naway, but there is no one in sight. I step out on the porch calling,\n\"Who's there? Is anybody there?\" There is no answer, of course,\nbecause there is no one there. When I return to my seat, my guests\nare noticeably perturbed. Their enthusiastic twitches have developed\ninto nervous ticks. The younger girl holds her nose. My anxiety\nabout the probable faultiness of the doorbell or the possible presence\nr55 of an unseen visitor is contagious. The younger girl sneezes. I think\nthat they are worried about me. They stare at my face, which has\ngrown white with the rushing back and forth, and say that I look\nlike I have seen a ghost. \"Nonsense,\" I laugh, \"there is no such\nthing.\" They smile, but I can tell that they are uneasy. Their small\nflat bottoms wiggle restlessly, uncomfortably. My mother's plastic\nsofa cover quietly shrieks as the girls settle themselves. They recross\ntheir legs on the other side, above the knee. The scuffed toes of their\nshoes point to heaven. \"We really have to get that bell fixed.\" They\nboth nod. They are now entirely in favour of such a reparation. The\nday is made up of small mysteries which we somehow manage to\nignore or explain away. In turn, our lives are made up of larger\nmysteries which are harder to explain. The girls regain their composure and the younger girl speaks, intently, devotedly, to her partner. \"Beatrice, won't you please continue?\" Beatrice continues. \"If\nyou desire to be with the great crowd who will be standing before\nGod's throne, serving him day and night, in the post Armageddon\nera, now is the time to prove to Jehovah that your service will \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"\n\"Isn't that pronounced Jahweh. I was always taught \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"\n\"Yes. Jehovah. It's the same thing . .. Now is the time to prove\nthat your service will be, not half-hearted, not lukewarm, not on and\noff, but without let-up. It is not up to each of us to question or to\nwonder why, it is up to each of us to serve.\" Both girls with the mention of the \"great crowd\" and the \"post Armageddon era\" become\nmuch more animated. Their pale, patchy complexions become\ncoloured, red and bright like the sun at twilight. Beatrice, although\nshe is still reciting a speech, is ignited, absolutely fired by the consequences of what she is saying. Her dull green eyes widen, her drab\nblond hair seems to sparkle as if she had been magically transported\ninto a Clairol commercial, her slight bosom heaves and her legs\nuncross. She is leaning forward, speaking only to me, offering me,\nalone, the ecstacy of divine awakening. \"The love of Jesus is in me,\"\nshe says, \"and paradise is right before you, all you need do is hold\nout your hand and embrace it. God loves you. He loves you so much\nthat he gave his only begotten son to the cross. Imagine the greatness\nof that love, greater than all the love man has ever felt, in all his\ncenturies.\" Yes indeed. Something stirs inside me and, God knows,\nit's not my soul. For a moment, for more than a moment, flat-chested\nBeatrice begins to look good to me. I feel myself rising, almost out\nof my old sagging chair, prepared to travel through purgatory,\nthrough the inferno of hell, with my homely, aroused Beatrice. Now.\n156 The time has come. But I do nothing. What can I do? Except swallow and sit quietly with my hands folded over my lap.\nIn my first year of College I fell in love with a girl \u00E2\u0080\u0094 her name\nwas Rachel, I think \u00E2\u0080\u0094 who eventually fell in love with someone\nelse. (Conveniently, I have forgotten his name and most of his face.)\nRachel and I shared an English class. \"Thomas Hardy and D. H.\nLawrence \u00E2\u0080\u0094 Apostles of Love?\", and we spent hours together rummaging through WOMEN IN LOVE searching for womb images.\nWe berated Jude for his obscurity and his uncertainty. \"Jude's\ntragedy,\" Rachel said, \"was his inability or reluctance to communicate his feelings. If, right from the beginning, he had only told Sue\nthat he loved her, if he had been confident and determined, then\nsurely things would have turned out better.\" I added that Sue had\nsome problems of her own. Rachel agreed, but still placed the responsibility with Jude. \"What about class bigotry?\" I asked. She agreed\nagain, but said that what Hardy was trying to say was that man must\nshape his own destiny. \"Men must make things happen!\" she declared triumphantly. I disagreed. \"Hardy is saying precisely the\nopposite. He is saying that man cannot shape his own destiny. He\nis saying that man is powerless when confronted with circumstances\nthat he can neither control nor understand. The tragedy \u00E2\u0080\u0094 if you\nwant to call it that \u00E2\u0080\u0094 is that each person is locked up inside his own\nskin and the Jailkeeper has, out of spite or a twisted sense of humour,\nlaid down the key just beyond our reach. We are alone and helpless\nin everything. In our desire, in our pain, in our faith, and finally in\nour death. We accomplish nothing, except death.\" She laughed,\ntossing her brown-haired head back, looking her prettiest when she\nlaughed, and said that I was an awful cynic. It was at that moment\nthat I thought, maybe, she liked me, even loved me. It was at that\nmoment that I thought, in her, I had stumbled across what I had\nalways been looking for. I carried that thought with me for several\nmonths and though I never actually did anything about it, every\nshrug of my shoulders, every twist of my head, every inflection of my\nvoice, were my own clever tricks of seduction. Everything was\nplanned ahead. Nothing, on my part, was spontaneous. It was all\ndone with the sole purpose of sweeping her off her feet, but unfortunately, I only succeeded in knocking myself flat on my face. One\nspring day I saw her get into a red sportscar with a tall blond young\nman, and as I watched them drive away, I believe that something\n157 in her manner, something in her eyes, seemed to say to me, \"Fool,\nyou missed your chance!\"\nBeatrice speaks louder, almost screaming into my ear, for I have\nbeen distracted. She has been fighting the battle for my soul without\nme. I have not been listening. The gospel has gone in one ear and\nout the other. I apologize. She continues: \"As it says in Collossians\n3:23,24: 'Whatever you are doing, work at it whole-souled. Whole-\nsouled as to Jehovah, and not to men, for you know that it is from\nJehovah you will receive the due reward of the inheritance. Slave\nfor the master, Christ.' \"\n\"Of course, that's true,\" I say. The girls are pleased. They believe\nthey have made some kind of impression on me. \"But it is not easy.\"\n\"Yes we know that it is hard, but with determination, confidence\nand faith one can accomplish anything. The harder the struggle, the\nmore gratifying the victory. After all, God helps those who help\nthemselves.\"\n\"No you don't understand.\" And they don't and can't. Even their\nbest words, their most sincere, well-meaning words seem vulnerable\nand hollow to me, vulnerable as balloons. Their best appeals, their\nbest twitches and gesticulations fall around me like blunt spears.\n\"Please try to see my position. It is not a question of difficulty or\nstruggle, you see, for some people, people like me, it is just not\npossible.\"\nMy grandfather was a strong, handsome man. I am not a bit like\nhim. He loved his God so dearly, so completely that now I am\nashamed and envious. I have never been and will never be whole-\nsouled about anything, about God, or women, or my writing. He\ncame to Montreal from Kiev around the turn of the century. He left\nRussia because he was a Jew and he came to Canada to find wealth,\nfreedom and religious tolerance. My grandmother's family came to\nCanada from a small village in Rumania. They, too, came to escape\npersecution and to find prosperity, but instead of finding prosperity,\nmy grandmother and grandfather found each other and they were\nmarried in 1920. My grandfather fell in love with my grandmother\nthe very first time he saw her. \"I knew,\" he used to say, \"that I was\ngoing to marry her. Of course, she didn't know any such thing, she\nwas afraid of me and who could blame her. Everytime she turned\naround there I was, this small dark young man, dressed all in black\nexcept for my white shoes \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the ones I wore to synagogue \u00E2\u0080\u0094 follow-\n158 ing her about like a cocker spaniel. Finally, I went to see her father,\nyour great-grandfather, and I asked for permission to speak with his\ndaughter. Do you know what he did? He threw me out on my ear,\nthat's what he did. But I came back, every day, every single day, for\na month, until he realized that the only way I would leave him alone\nwas if he let me see his daughter. So for his own sake, I was allowed\nto see her .. . Your grandmother was beautiful. She had long brown\nhair that she pushed up on top of her head and held there with\nhundreds of pins and berrettes. Her eyes were wide and brown and\nshe had a figure like an hour-glass ...\" He would pause, for a moment, remembering, I suppose, that he was speaking to an eight-\nyear-old boy, or perhaps just remembering. \"She didn't like me after\nshe met me either. She said that I annoyed her, she said that I was\nconceited and, in those days, it's true, I was. There wasn't anything\nI couldn't have, not if I wanted it bad enough. People were not going\nto walk all over me. In Russia, I had seen my father and my grandfather beaten and spit on, and that was not going to happen to me.\nLife was not going to pass me by, not if I could help it, and your\ngrandmother was not going to slip through my fingers. I waited for\nher to fall in love with me and she did. When you are young there is\ntime to wait. . . and when you get older there is never enough time.\"\nZeyda, I am sorry for having let you down. I know how you must\nfeel. I think I know. I can see it in your eyes. In the yellow photographs. I am sorry for not being like you. For giving up so easily. But\nit all comes to the same in the end, doesn't it? Whether you fight the\npain and the suffering or surrender and accept it. It all comes to the\nsame. No one ever wins, really.\nMy grandfather was almost rich. He owned a fruit store which\nwas three times the size of the only other store on the block, which\nwas another fruit store owned by a man named Steinberg. My\ngrandfather lost most of his money and the store when my father\ncontracted polio. Mr. Steinberg, incidentally, expanded. There were\nother stories about how the money vanished. My grandmother, who\ndid not trust banks, kept all the money in an old cedar chest, in\nbrown and green paper bags, and my grandfather's two younger\nbrothers would borrow, and often forget to return, as much as they\nneeded. When times were bad it was the cedar chest that kept my\ngreat uncles going. Gratitude, however, was never their best quality.\nToday, family and cedar chests are forgotten as if the two were synon-\nomous. My great uncles are busy cutting each other's throats. They\nare both very close to being millionaires. (Rumour has it.) They\n159 manufacture paper bags and their grandchildren drive red Porsches.\nI, on the other hand, inherited the cedar chest. I only see my rich\nrelatives when someone dies, at which time they appear, looking\nreasonably sympathetic, reminisce for five minutes and leave, waving a fleshy hand, always saying: \"If there's anything you need.\" It\npleases me to think that they, like Claudius, are, or will some day,\nbe haunted by guilt. I hope, now, that their ears are burning. (I\nsuppose this means that I will have to squeeze a play out of my\nabandoned typewriter, yet another task which I am not up to.) My\ngrandfather died in our house, lonely, betrayed and widowed. His\nheart stopped beating. Early in the morning, from the bathroom, I\nheard a single gasp. Not sad or angry or sonorous enough to make\nup for a lifetime of disappointments, just a single gasp. I was too\nyoung to understand. The human heart, like any machine or emotion, love not withstanding, can only endure so much \u00E2\u0080\u0094 so much\nirony and unfairness. That final beat of the heart must be the realization of the senselessness of repetition, of going on.\nThe furnace gasps and groans like an old man awakening. It is\ndoing its job, sensing some imperceptible, invisible coldness. Slowly\nlike tea dissolving in a glass, odd inexplicable noises filter through the\nhouse. Things that go bump. It is only partly amusing. The roof\nstrains and creaks as if a heavy weight had been placed upon it. The\nwind whistles through the eaves and bangs against the aluminum\nsiding. The glass in the windows rattles. Also, the doorbell rings every\nfifteen minutes. We \u00E2\u0080\u0094 Beatrice, Rosalind and I \u00E2\u0080\u0094 are used to it. I\nfind the way they ignore trivial details attractive. It is just like a woman to look past things that don't really matter. Beatrice goes on\ntalking, using the ringing bell as a punctuation mark, while Rosalind\nties her shoes and pulls up her socks, folding them just above the\nankle. Beatrice and Rosalind have talked for two hours now and feel\ncertain that they are making some kind of progress. I warn them that\nthey are probably wasting their time \u00E2\u0080\u0094 I have become fond, though\nstill confused by their strange zeal \u00E2\u0080\u0094 seeing as how I am a circumcised Jew and will, for better or worse, stay that way. The Jehovah's\nwitnesses, they say, encompass all things, all traditions, all faiths.\nBesides, they inform me, there are many cases of Jewish people\nremaining Jewish and also devoting themselves to Christ and the\nWatch Tower movement. I am curious. Will my long-lost prepuce\nbe refunded. They assure me that whatever I have lost will be\nreturned to me, within reason. \"I'd like to see that,\" I say. Thank\n160 Jehovah, they don't understand me. The sun has disappeared. The\nblue sky has turned gray, noting, I guess, my changing mood. Summer never existed. It is late afternoon and I am hungry and drowsy\nand restless and a little bit giddy. The girls, on the other hand, are\nfresh. No thoughts of food, sleep or masturbation. (Oh to be young\nand Christian!) I am beginning to feel that I am keeping them\nunnecessarily, under false pretences. They like me and I am feeling\nguilty. Beatrice said, laughing, that there is hope for me yet, and\nRosalind shyly whispered that I was a nice person, an unusual person. This whole thing, after all, is just an evasion for me. Perhaps I\nshould let them go, let them go on to other people who are a little\nmore lost and a little more willing to be found. However, there is no\nway to be politely rid of them, so I wait and listen.\n\"One day,\" Rosalind says, \"and that day is coming soon, I know\nit...\"\n\"Yes. Soon.\" Beatrice murmurs.\nI hope so.\n\"... the glory of God's justice and mercy will be revealed. If only\nwe fill our lives with sacred service we can have the assurance of being among the happy crowd of Armageddon survivors who will\nrejoice to continue such service day and night before God's throne\nafter the great tribulation is finished . . . Jesus will walk the earth\nonce again.\"\nDownstairs there is a thump, perhaps not a loud thump, but a\nthump nonetheless. Then the unmistakeable sound of footsteps. My\nheart seems to slip a bit as if it was resituating in my chest. I think\nsomeone has entered the house (at last, they have been lurking and\nbanging about for hours) either through the garage door (did I\nforget to lock it?) or the back door or a loose window. Beatrice and\nRosalind did not hear anything. And I do not intend to frighten\nthem with something that might just be my imagination. (The\ndoorbell has been enough of an adjustment for them.) Anyway they\nare too concerned with a general Armageddon to worry about a\nlocal one. It could be burglary. The neighbours, around here, have\ntaken to stealing or borrowing anything that is not nailed down.\nClothespins, charcoal, rakes, bald tennis bells, suntan lotion, apples,\nlawn chairs, but these are only and specifically outdoor capers. They\nwould not come into the house, I know that for a fact. Ever since my\nmother died they have avoided this house as if it were haunted. I see\nthem walk by and avert their eyes and I know that the idea of death,\nthe proximity of death, frightens them, reminds them, I suppose, of\n161 their own inevitable end. And as far away as they can physically stay\nfrom the unsurprising, natural facts of death, the better. In the\nmovies the hero or heroine always gets up to investigate odd noises\nor unusual occurrences, but I have no wish to know. It is not particularly fear, but more like laziness or an attempt at indifference which\nholds me in my chair while possible strangers ransack the house. If\nsomeone has intentions of taking our appliances and then my life, I\nhave no great desire to stop or even startle them. If the angel of death\nhas found his way in through my garage (stained only with oil and\nmud, no trace of lamb's blood) then he will have to come and get\nme, I am not going to him. If it is someone I have known, or will\nknow, at one time or another, then, no doubt, they will find me and\ndeliver the message which has brought them here at this time. Of\ncourse I am acting irresponsibly. Like a child hiding from the bogey\nman. I am letting my imagination get the best of me. Granted, these\nnoises are inexplicable, but must I always have explanations for\neverything? As a child living in a decrepit apartment in the city I\nstared each night, before sleep, into a black, ragged hole across from\nmy bed. Phantoms, witches and vampires creeped in and out of that\nhole and creeped in and out of my sleeping and waking without\nexplanation. Often my mother would carry me from my bed and\nlet me sleep on the carpet in the living room, and with eyes half-\nclosed, grown-up legs stepping over me and Jack Parr talking on the\nTV., I would feel safe. Burglars don't break into occupied houses in\nbroad daylight. Convicts don't generally escape to the suburbs. And\nghosts are only in the mind, they don't actually rattle chains and\npace back and forth in finished basements. So I tell myself, \"Jake,\"\n(at times like this I call myself Jake) \"It is nothing to worry about\nand that is explanation enough.\"\n\"What a wonderful prospect is before us if we continue to render\nsacred service to Jehovah in a whole-souled way. If we freely allow\nGod to enter into our lives and our hearts not as an intruder but as\na long-expected guest.\" Rosalind's voice is warm and quiet and, for\na time, it carries me away to a softer, safer place. It is an instinctive\nvoice, the voice little girls use to comfort dolls, the voice women use\nto tuck children into bed. Rosalind's motherhood will be a wonderful\nthing. Little witnesses, blanketed and cradled, wearing white booties\nand sockettes and disposable diapers, fed on mashed spinach and\nbible stories. The conception I am less sure of. \"Free your imagination for a moment. Imagine all the wonderful possibilities. All our\ndreams come true, all our hopes fulfilled. No more disease or war or\n162 hatred or death. The good shall be awarded immortality and eternal\nhappiness and the dead shall rise up and walk the earth again.\nReborn. They will be rewarded for their service and their suffering.\nAll pains and wounds will be healed. All questions will be answered.\nThe dead will even be repayed, so to speak, for their death, Just\nimagine it ... \"\nWhen there is no hope left you feel free and empty all at the same\ntime. They tell you that you must be practical, that you must face\nthe facts. The outlook is not good, not good at all. There is no use\npretending anymore. Life, then death catches up with you. And\nwaiting for rewards and justice, waiting for explanations is just time\nspent waiting. In the hospital, waiting for my mother to die, I was\nalways angry. It seemed, then, that the anger would never subside.\nA rage that I had never experienced before grew and spread inside\nme like a malignancy. I hated everyone, the smug doctors, the loud\nnurses and the stupid orderlies. I hated the screaming senile women\nand the indifferent elevator operator \u00E2\u0080\u0094 with his nightly joke to the\ndoctors about life being a series of ups and downs \u00E2\u0080\u0094 and I hated\nmost of all the curious visitors. I saw them looking, the sideway\nglances from the hall, the averted eyes, and the concealed expression\nof fascination. What a shame, they whispered, how awful. Still, it\nhappens every day. Every single day. What can you do? Each time\nI heard the cold tiled floor squeak I imagined that someone was\ncoming to look, to take notes, to have a sad story to take home with\nthem, and I would guard the door to my mother's room. All the\nhatred and the anger I felt I would gather and put into a stare\nwhich, usually, succeeded in discouraging the tactfully curious. There\nwere others who continued to stare. (An old female patient who constantly wandered the halls looking for her Daddy and Sidney asked\nme why I was standing in the doorway. When I ignored her, she\npinched my arm and said, \"Why are you hiding Sidney? You can't\nhide him forever, it's only a matter of time until I find him, you\nknow?\" As she walked away the strings of her hospital gown loosened,\nrevealing her flat, wrinkled bottom. Sensing the draught, she farted\nnonchalantly. I remember laughing.) Visitors in hospitals cannot\nhelp but stare into strange rooms. I know I have done it myself. I\ndon't know what we want or expect to see, but looking is a necessity,\neven if it is the quickest, most regretted glance. Most glances are\nregretted. At one point the three other beds in my mother's room\nwere empty. I was aware of five women who preceded my mother\n163 into death, who survived my nightly visits, but who had vanished\nlike ghosts the next afternoon. Their empty beds were presided over\nby young nurses with armfuls of white linen who tucked in corners\nand replaced pillow cases, meticulously, with invisible effort. These\ngirls removed every trace of life or death, making it seem that undisturbed bed sheets were the supreme, most artistic accomplishment of\nany hospital. It is the hospital's policy to put on a pretence of immortality. When someone dies, an inconspicuous bell rings which\nonly the staff can decipher, and the doors to each room are closed.\nNo one is permitted in the hall. The body, covered by a fresh white\nsheet, is wheeled to the closest waiting elevator and is delivered to\nthe basement. A moment later everything is back to normal and it is\nhard, for the average patient or visitor, to realize that anything at\nall happened.\nThere is no possible repayment for death. All the sugar-coated\nheavens and frilly paradises, all the consolation prizes, cannot begin\nto compensate for the indisputable cruelty and indifference of God.\nI imagine.\n\"Repayment. Bullshit. So to speak.\" I am passionate, for a change.\nMy bitterness has been appearing, disappearing and reappearing in\nmy mind all afternoon and finally it materializes in words. I would\nlike to do a little proselytizing, convincing of my own. \"Where I\nwould like to know, where was the justice and the mercy in my\nmother's death? I will never understand why she died, not if I live to\nbe a hundred. Why she died the way she did? Why I had to watch?\nI prayed, you know, at the beginning, I prayed for her recovery and\nthen, when there was no hope left, I prayed for her to die. And my\nprayers came to nothing. Covering my head, fasting, lighting candles,\ncrossing my fingers, God, these things we do for nothing.\"\n\"We didn't know.\" Beatrice says. Beatrice and Rosalind are surprised by the intensity and the suddenness of my outburst. They look\nat each other. Uncomfortable, coughing and fidgeting, they wait for\nme to continue. But I have already said too much. There is no sense\nin burdening others. There is no sense in pity. Or in conversations.\nMaking my sorrow into some kind of cause or banner makes it only\nmore absurd. Words are vain. Inconsequential. Elusive. Vanishing\ninto space like the bubbles children blow into the air for a game.\nAfter a long, awkward silence, Rosalind speaks: \"God has many\nways of testing us, Jake, we must learn to accept his will.\"\n164 \"Still, that doesn't tell me why.\"\n\"Why?\"\nHe did not have an answer either. All he wanted was forty-five\nseconds of my time. Just forty-five seconds. Every Friday afternoon,\nbefore the sun sets, young rabbinical students \u00E2\u0080\u0094 orthodox Jews \u00E2\u0080\u0094\ngather, along with an old Cantor's Bakery truck, at a local shopping\ncentre and attempt to herd groups of wayward Jews (like me) into\ntheir truck so that we \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the wayward Jews \u00E2\u0080\u0094 can put on the long\nneglected tephilim.\n\"Why?\" I asked again.\n\"Because it's a mitzvah, a good deed, because you owe it to God.\"\nHe answered questions well for a person who was not prepared for\nquestions. You see, most people ignored him. Most young boys, his\nown age, tripped him and threw his black hat in the mud.\n\"I don't owe God anything.\"\n\"You owe him your fife, don't you? He gives you life, doesn't he?\"\n\"Granted. But he also takes it away. I figure that way we're even.\nI don't owe him anything and vice versa.\"\n\"You are stubborn and bitter, I imagine.\"\n\"Just honest, I think.\"\n\"Bitterness is a mask for disappointment. Tell me, on what day\nwere you born?\"\n\"What has that got to do with anything?\"\n\"Are you going to fight with me or are you going to tell me?\"\n\"Are you going to tell my fortune?\"\nI knew that he was trying to change the subject, but I was interested in his concern with me personally. When I told him that I was\nborn on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the holiest of Jewish\nholidays, the day of Kol Nidre, he smiled, held a single lean finger\nup in front of his eyes and said, \"You see, underneath all your fancy\nnotions and ideas, there is a genuine holiness. Yes, I believe that I\nsaw that right away.\" My prophet. He knows all. He sees all.\nTouched by the almighty hand of Jahweh. That accounted, I suppose, for both his arrogance and his persistence. \"The Jewish soul,\"\nhe went on, \"is sometimes like an unpolished diamond, covered over\nwith dirt. It must be processed and cleansed and shaped so that its\npurity and glory may shine through ...\" Rabbinical platitudes and\ncliches. He had learnt his craft well. The type of thing I have heard a\nscore of times before and since at weddings, bar mitzvahs and fun-\nnerals. (Always followed by a joke of some sort and a meal of some\n165 sort.) Still, I must confess I liked the fact that he could or thought\nhe could see through me and that what he saw, after all, was a pure\nJewish soul. Tell me of myself brother and we will talk of spiritual\nthings, of unworldly things, of irrelevant things. We will leave no\nneedle unthreaded, no nit unpicked. I argued, persisted, for argument's, for persistences' sake.\n\"We see things from different points of view. You see, in me, a\nlost soul. And I see, in you, an untruthful soul. Your God can never\nbe my God, never again anyway.\"\nHe angered quickly, heating up like Moses faced with the Golden\nCalf, and shook a stafflike finger in my face, but he said nothing.\nThis is what I wanted most of all, to anger him, to shock him \u00E2\u0080\u0094 to\ndestroy his complacency, his security, his faith. To change his life, as\nhe, wanting me, just minutes before, to put on the tephilim, had\nwanted to change mine. We will be brothers yet, if not in our faith,\nthen in our bitterness. But he calmed himself. He would have\npatience with me \u00E2\u0080\u0094 poor lost lamb that I was \u00E2\u0080\u0094\u00E2\u0096\u00A0 the patience of old\nput-upon Job.\n\"Of course,\" he explained, \"there is only one God.\"\nI suppose I should have expected that. Quite predictable. He\nsmiled. Scroll yellow teeth smiling, beardless, blemished face smiling,\nsix thousand years of wisdom and monotheism in his smiling eyes, his\nsad smiling eyes. After all, he was toying with me. He was younger\nthan I was \u00E2\u0080\u0094 a mere adolescent \u00E2\u0080\u0094 but more convinced, more confident, more assured than I could ever be \u00E2\u0080\u0094 me with all my fancy\nnotions, with my introduction to Zen Buddhism, with my university\ndegree.\n\"One God,\" I said, \"for justice and mercy. One God for indifference and destruction. Perhaps both the same. Perhaps my friend,\nyou are right.\"\nHe winced at my backhanded concession. \"God gives man free\nchoice. It is man who chooses to do evil, to sully himself.\"\nMore cliches and platitudes, pre- and post-dinner comments.\nDressed in an old black hat, a worn black suit and a partially concealed fraying, yellow scapular, clothes which have been handed\ndown from one generation to the next, he speaks with words that\nhave also been handed down, that are also worn and yellowing.\nRemnants of a forgotten, phantom race, a disintegrating race \u00E2\u0080\u0094 disintegrating in mindless, heartless forgetfulness. He wanted simply to\nwrap me up in his words and his tephilim. He touched my arm and\nI pulled away. The next time, he held my arm firmly, like a wrestler\n166 applying a half-nelson, and said, \"Come. Put on the tephilim. What\ncan it hurt? It'll only take a minute. It will be a mitzvah!\" He\npaused, then continued, almost reciting, \"On the hand (he stroked\nmy left hand) as a memorial of His outstretched arm; upon the head\n(he touched my head with his index finger) over against the brain\nthereby teaching that the mind, whose seat is the brain, is to be subjected to His service. Blessed be He. Come.\" He stroked my cheek.\nHis hand smelled of onion and fish. His eyes were glazed and his\nvoice was hypnotic. He looked eagerly at the empty bakery truck\nand said once again, \"Come. You want to come. Come.\" I pulled\naway again. This time completely. Inside I was on fire screaming.\n\"Let go. Let go of me you dirty smelly Jew. Let go. I could never be\nlike you. I never was like you. You are old and forgotten. You are a\nliar, as all ghosts and phantoms are, as they must be. It can never be\nagain like it was, whether we like it or not and you will not trick me\ninto your illusion . . . Please let me go. You will not catch me up in\nyour dead wrappings, your dead ideas, your dead faith.\" He tried\nagain to hold my arm, but I was beyond his reach. As I walked\naway, he called to me in a quiet, controlled voice. \"You wish to\nforget, but you can't. You can never forget who you are and what\nyou are. Never.\" The fire inside me lasted, as do all fires inside me,\nonly a moment, extinguishing as quickly as it had ignited. I realized\nthen that it was my lot to always know what I cannot be and to\nnever know what I can be. He was wrong, really, I am not trying to\nforget, I am trying to remember.\nWho ever broke into the house has either left or settled down for\nthe remainder of the afternoon. It is, as they often say in westerns,\ntoo quiet. No good will come of this quiet, Kemosabi. The shadows,\nthe doorbell, the telephone, the furnace, the plumbing, the creaking\ntimbers and the shivering aluminum are all plotting something.\nWaiting their opportunity. I must remain alert. Beatrice and Rosalind are crying, real tears for me. Oblivious to irony and metaphor,\nthey are concerned only with my sorrow and my bitterness. They\noffer sympathy. A cure, a solution. Just like women to be preoccupied with concrete reality, when a terrible abstract danger\nthreatens. They regard me as yet another of Christ's lost, motherless\nchildren. Suffer the little children, etc. I am, indeed, short and\nround-faced (cute, so I have been told) and infantlike and they want\nto hold me to their respectively ample and insufficient bosoms. I have\nlearned to separate, to distinguish love from pity in a woman's eyes\n167 and although pity does not last, it has its momentary advantages. On\nthe whole, though, women are a mystery to me. They wander in and\nout of my life like bad memories, never staying very long and never\noffering very much in the way of spiritual or physical rewards. A\nfriend, whose success with women is surpassed only by his ignorance,\ntold me once that women are like buses, if you miss one, there'll be\nanother along any minute. (Unfortunately, my schedule has been\nrunning a little behind lately.) \"One hundred per cent confidence,\nJake,\" he explained, \"that's all it is. If you just let them know who\nthe boss is, they'll treat you like a god-damned god, I mean it. Faith\nin yourself, that's what it is. If you got faith and a good line then\nyou've got it made, man. Let me tell you, more ass than a toilet seat.\"\nI am no longer angry. I have, in fact, misbehaved in front of my\nguests and I apologize. \"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you\nwith my personal problems. We hardly know each other. Anyway, it\nhas nothing to do with what you came here to talk to me about. You\nhave to believe what you have to believe, I know that. And I \u00E2\u0080\u0094 \"\n\"Don't apologize, Jacob, please don't apologize.\" Rosalind's voice\nis gentle and maternal. Beatrice blows her nose compassionately.\n\"We want to help you, we really do. Don't you see, Jacob, that we\nmust have faith. We cannot wrestle with God's will as if it were\nsomething we could twist and shape so that it turns out the way we\nwant it to. Faith, Jacob, is the only way.\"\nI would have given anything for it not to have turned out the way\nit did ...\nWe \u00E2\u0080\u0094 my sisters and I \u00E2\u0080\u0094 watched and waited. My mother lay\nquietly, opening her eyes now and again to see if we were there. We\ndid little things for her, but we were no longer sure that we were\nhelping. She lay helpless, hopeless upon the white antiseptic bed\nsheets like Job upon the ashes. She wanted only to clear her throat.\n\"If only I could ...\" The words were barely distinguishable. It had\nbecome a task for her to speak and a much greater task for us to\nhear, to comprehend. Life ends like this with no one hearing, no one\nunderstanding. Her finger pointed to her throat. There was nothing\nwe could do except hide the blood she spat. A futile attempt to keep\neverything white and hygenic and bloodless. The blood was everywhere. Endless, internal, eternal. We peeled off clumps of blood from\nbehind her lips and from her tongue and there was blood in her\nphlegm and in her urine. As her face and fingertips became pallid,\n168 almost transparent, showing the veins blue and visible, everything\naround her became marked with blood. The bedsheets, the blankets,\nthe pillow case, unattached tissues, bits of cotton, disposable cups,\nand my hands. (Blood is not indelible. A little water and soap clears\nus of this stain.) That night, for some reason, I did not want to wash\nmy hands but I did, having no choice, for it is perhaps in the performance of these small habits that we are most alive. There was\nnothing that we could do. We could only calm her and lie to her.\nStroke her forehead and kiss her cheek, like a mother comforting a\nsick child. (Irony of ironies.) The doctor was in and out like a Jack-\nin-the-box and uttered six words from the medical profession,\n\"Make her as comfortable as possible.\" Brilliant advise. Thank-you\ndoctor. She did not die in my arms as I wanted, as I feared. She died\nalone in her sleep. The telephone rang with the news at six o'clock\nin the morning. Answering the phone was unnecessary, we knew\nwhat it was, we had expected it. The cord is cut, again. Life is a\nsuccession of disentanglements and partings. She disappeared, not\nlike a shooting star or a television magician, but slowly and softly\nlike a dissolving spirit. Still dissolving.\nMy mother's life waned like the flame of a candle. Weakening.\nWax people, that's what we are, wax people, burning ourselves out.\nSeparate moulds, fading, forgotten impressions, flickering shadows on\nthe wall. Death is an end. Life, a continuance. In a way, a betrayal.\nI go on so easily, so effortlessly. I forget so readily.\nIn sum a sad story girls. Sadder than most, but just one of many.\nMy memory is sharper, perhaps, than even I thought. But this is, all\nthings considered, a restful afternoon and I have allotted this time for\ncatching up on my memories. Or having my memories catch up to\nme.\n\"We want to help you, Jacob,\" Rosalind repeats, placing her hand\non my knee. Beatrice blows her nose again, even more compassionately.\n\"Is there anything that you want to talk to us about, Jacob, anything at all?\" Beatrice says nasally.\nThey have become too serious. I like to regulate my own seriousness, turning it off and on like a faucet and they are too touched by\nall of this. Their saddle shoes are off the carpet, poised, expecting\nsome enormous revelation. These girls have learned to live for, to wait\nfor breakthroughs and miracles and I have learned only that things\ncontinue much the same way as always, and changes are minor and\n169 for the worse. It is in their nature \u00E2\u0080\u0094 young, Christian and fanatical\n\u00E2\u0080\u0094 to be serious, passionate and moved. It's not that I doubt their\nsincerity, it's just that I wonder about their actual understanding of\nmy situation. They think me strange in my pain and unusual in my\nconfusion, when, in fact, it is their joy and certainty which is foreign.\nIncomprehensible. Anachronistic. I could not and would not want\nto make this clear to them. It is comforting, even for me, to know\nthat there are still people like Rosalind and Beatrice around. When\nthey leave, if I allow them to leave, they will be unchanged, I can\npromise that. And I can be grateful for small mercies.\n\"People,\" Beatrice resumes, realizing that there is nothing I want\nto talk about, but that there is still much that she wants to say to me,\n\"ask too many questions, that's the problem, it's part of the mistake\nwe all make: asking questions. Look at you, Jake, all you can do is\nkeep asking questions that you have no answers to, that there are\nno answers to. Why this? Why that? Jake,\" she looks directly into\nmy eyes when she speaks and when she says my name it is as if she\nhas known me all my life. It's hard to understand why, but she cares.\nCircumstances which would strike other people as distant and unimportant elicit the opposite reaction in Beatrice, she is moved to real,\nhonest-to-goodness sympathy and concern. Taking, like Jesus, the\ncares of the world upon her. She has, in her, the makings of a misguided, misunderstood martyr. And that, above all else, invalidates\nher sales pitch. \"Why ask at all? You want to believe, I know you do,\notherwise you wouldn't have let us in or let us stay, otherwise you\nwouldn't be as angry and as bitter as you are. Can't you see that you\nare going against your own nature like a river that stops flowing or\na waterfall that stops falling.\" Rosalind excuses herself to the bathroom. I offer guidance, but she assures me that she will find it. She\nmakes two wrong turns and walks into the linen closet before she\nhappens upon the correct door. Smiling back at us, relieved and safe,\nshe enters and carefully locks the door behind her. \"Ultimately, it is\na journey we must all make, from doubt to faith, from opposition to\nacceptance. For it is in the acceptance of God that our doubts are\nended. The slate is wiped clean. Our sins, our regrets, our worldly\npre-occupations are all forgotten, erased. We are given a new chance\nto start over, to begin again and it is only through God that anyone\ncan have such a chance. You can have it, Jake, if you would just\nstop struggling, stop this crazy tug-of-war you're caught up in.\"\nRosalind rejoins us and asks Beatrice what happened. Beatrice nods.\nRosalind glances at me and, unable to nod, I shrug my shoulders. I\n170 know it is, at best, a neutral gesture, but it is the most I can manage.\nThe plumbing grumbles like a primitive, vengeful God.\nFor seven days after my mother's death there was an endless,\nhandshaking parade of well-wishers, unknown relatives and insincere\nbastards through the front door and out again. The doorbell rang\ncontinuously. They came to pay their respects. Like debtors. They\ncame, I suppose, to wipe the slate clean. One more person they would\nnot have to think about. Death draws out relatives like vultures.\nThose who couldn't make it to the house sent donations and cards\nand food. And more food. (The Judaic cure-all is food. Life is hunger\nand when you are no longer hungry, then you are dead.) And all\nthe time I remember expecting my mother to walk through the door,\napologize for the mistake, and politely get rid of all of them.\n\"Our deepest sympathies ...\"\n\"What can we say?\"\n\"Sorry.\"\n\"What can we do?\"\n\"Sorry. So sorry.\"\n\"So very sorry.\"\nOne thing I will say for them they certainly were sorry. But not\nsurprised. Aunt Matty said that she had seen the writing on the wall.\nShe had known, for a long time, that it was inevitable.\n\"She never smoked a cigarette in her life. Can you believe it? Well\nhow is anyone to know about these things.\" Mr. Morris added, holding his yellow index finger to his temple, flicking his ashes on the\ncarpet, \"Not once did I see her smoke. Well what are you going to\ndo?\" He shook his head incredulously.\nCousin Mildred whispered to her sister Florence that this was an old\nstory and then proceeded to update those gathered around her, like\ngirl scouts at a fireside chat, about imminent deaths in the family.\n\"Remember Sid, Jerry's brother-in-law, a big strapping man, a little\nslow in the head, it's terrible, he's wasted away to nothing. Howard\nand I went to visit him in the hospital the other night, God, it was\nawful. His wife says that it's like he's disappearing right in front of\nher eyes. It makes me shiver to talk about it. Howard says that he\nused to weigh about two hundred pounds and now I'd be surprised\nif he even weighed half that. I tell you it's killing everybody these\ndays and with all the research and all the brainy doctors nobody\nknows why. A plague on us. Howard says it's got something to do\n171 with the cells. You'd think by now they'd know why. The worst thing\nis the way it eats you up ... oh ... I hate to even think about it.\"\nOur rich relatives waved from the doorway and called out, \"IF\nthere's anything, anything at all, you need, don't hesitate to call...\"\nUncle Manny wanted to go out and get complete chicken dinners,\nnot just separate pieces, but complete chicken dinners with gravy\nand french fries and cole slaw and bread and napkins and aluminum\ntrays and plastic forks and paper cups so that everyone could eat in\none motion, with no fuss. He wanted to know if there was a place\nnearby where he could get complete chicken dinners and not separate\npieces.\nMrs. Wooden smiled from her window. Her round face smirked\nlike a halloween pumpkin. For one night, she did not care who saw\nher. Tonight, she had survived.\nThe Rabbi, dressed in a beige suit, wearing a beige, brown-\ntrimmed fedora, came to the house on the first afternoon of the shiva\nto direct the Mourner's Prayer or Kaddish. (Although he had never\nmet my mother, such a first night appearance was included in his\nfee.) For some, as of yet, unknown reason, he focused his attention\non me, asking me first if I knew the Kaddish. My reply was no. He\ntold me not to worry because, really, it was simple to learn. He then\nasked me if I spoke or read Hebrew. Again I said no, qualifying my\nanswer by saying that I had forgotten almost everything that I had\nlearnt. He said, in that case, that I could read the phonetical spelling.\n\"Perhaps we could run through it once, just to see how it goes.\nWhat do you say?\" I was quiet. He spoke the strange words softly,\ngently, pushing the words towards me like a salesman sure of his\nproduct. \"Yisgadal Ve'yiskadash Sh'mey Rabbo Be'ol'mo ...\"\n\"I don't think that I want to say any prayers right now.\" It had\nnever occurred to me that I would be called upon to say anything.\nOver the last two months I had prayed enough and it seemed that\nmocking myself with still more prayers would not serve any useful\npurpose. It had also never occurred to me that I would be obstinate,\nfor the hatred and the anger that I had felt in the hospital just days\nbefore had mysteriously vanished, leaving me intact \u00E2\u0080\u0094 a little relieved and a little unsure of how I was supposed to feel. Still the\nHebrew words would not come. As a small child, restless and fidgety,\nin a subdued, silent synagogue I had laughed at the funny sounding\nwords. As a boy, studying for my bar mitzvah, the complicated pronunciations had frightened me. Now something inside of me was,\n172 successfully, fighting back the words and whether I liked it or not,\nthere was nothing I, personally, could do.\n\"But you must. Let me explain. There will be a minyan, of which\nyou will be a part, and then, along with your father and your\nmother's brothers, you will say the Kaddish. It has always been done\nthat way. You are not expected to say it alone, or, for that matter, to\nbe perfect. Just do the best you can.\"\n\"No.\" I shook my head slowly, almost sadly. \"I'm sorry, I can't.\"\n\"But it's your duty ...\" He pleaded with me. The simplicity of\nthe afternoon, of the procedure of sympathy and prayers, now in\nquestion, he looked dazed like a stunned boxer. He removed his\njacket, unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves and\npushed his hat back on his head. He leaned over me and moved his\nlips in an exaggerated way. 'U'vchayey De'chol Baiss Yisroale\nBa'agolo Uvisman Koreev Ve'imroo Omaine. It's easy. Try.\"\n\"No, I won't.\"\n\"Ah ha, now I understand.\" He smiled wisely, looking like a man\nwho had solved a riddle. \"Joseph, the living must go on living. We\ncannot question the ways of the Lord. Life is hard, in time you will\nlearn that you cannot turn away from God when something goes\nwrong. I know how you feel now, but you will get over it, you must.\nEveryone does. Put your faith in God. Our God is all that we have.\"\nHis hands, as they squeezed mine, were cold and his eyes were indifferent. He had said these words before, in a similar situation and\nI was frightened because I knew that what he said was true, in a\nway perhaps that he did not mean it to be. The living do go on living, something like this \u00E2\u0080\u0094 chatter and chicken dinners. I would get\nover it. I would forget. Everyone does.\n\"There is no point in blaming God,\" he continued, \"or in struggling with His will. We have no way of understanding his justice and\nmercy. 'Canst thou by searching find out God? Canst thou find out\nthe Almighty unto perfection? It is as high as heaven; what canst\nthou do? deeper than hell; what canst thou know?' \" He was right.\nAgain, sadly, in a way that he, perhaps, could not understand. Sadly,\nin a way perhaps that only I could understand.\n\"Now, repeat after me: 'Yisborach Ve'yishtabach, Ve'yispoar \u00E2\u0080\u0094' \"\n\"No.\"\n\"Yisborach, Ve'yistabach, Ve'yispoar, Ve'yisrowmam, Ve'yisnasey\n\"No.\"\ni73 \"We can't go on like this all night Jonathan, please try. 'Yisborach, Ve'yistabach, Ve'yispoar, Veyisrowmam, Ve'yisnasey, Ve'-\nyisadar, Ve'yisallay, Ve'yisallal, Sh'mey De'koodsho, Be'rich Hoo\n9 99\n\"Yis bor ach Ve yis ta back Ve yis po ar . . . \"\nI repeated the words, pronouncing each syllable exactly. My heart\ntightened, halted like a child about to utter his first forbidden word,\nhis first curse. My hands were clenched at my sides and my body\nwas rigid. I yielded only the words and those words he, having some\nunexplainable strength, tugged out of me. I finished the Mourner's\nPrayer praising God and cried thinking about my mother's death.\nMy sister asked me if anything was wrong and the Rabbi, standing\nabove me, his hands on my shoulders, my shoulders back against the\nhard uncomfortable chair, said, \"No, he'll be alright now.\"\n\"Jake, we have to be going, it's getting late.\"\n\"Yes, we must be leaving now.\"\nOn to other doorbells, no doubt. I suppose it is our opposite fates\nto ring doorbells which no one will answer and to answer doorbells\nwhich no one has rung. On to other non-believers or perhaps just\nhome to supper. After all, angels and missionaries have to eat too.\n(My sisters and my father will be home soon expecting supper \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the\nsupper which I have neglected to put in the oven. \"You're always\nforgetting something or other,\" they'll say, more frustrated than\ngood-humoured.) Outside the afternoon settles into a usual suburban\ncomplacency. The sun occasionally comes out of hiding from behind\na white blanket of cloud, but quickly fades, making all of its appearances brief and theatrical like Macbeth's kingly apparitions.\nOccasionally, the wind stirs and the sky darkens, threatening rain,\nbut the threat remains just a threat. It is naturally cold outside and\nartificially warm \u00E2\u0080\u0094 the furnace begins to groan again \u00E2\u0080\u0094 inside. All\nthings considered it would have been a perfect day to sit and brood,\nto reminisce, to stare at blank walls. The street is making preparations for twilight and eventual darkness. The giant streetlamps hum\nand buzz from inside their silver-metal bodies, cars drive by with\ntheir parking lights on, and mothers call their children in for supper.\nThe children hesitate and whine suspecting, correctly, that they will\nnot be allowed out again. Dogs return home voluntarily, cats are\ncorralled, and everything and everyone moves towards the day's final\nmeal. The house is hungry, too, grumbling like an empty stomach,\nsoon it will be filled with familiar people and its odd noises and\n174 lonely mysteries will be buried under the din of television sets and\ndishwashers and people re-telling the events of their day. The hunger\nis general.\n\"Won't you stay for supper, Beatrice, Rosalind? Please? I would\nreally like both of you to stay. It's no trouble really. My family will\nbe home soon and I'd like you to meet them.\" The invitation is\nreckless. First of all there is not enough supper, second what supper\nthere is, is cold, third I'm not sure I would like my family to meet\nBeatrice and Rosalind. I'm not sure that I would know how to\nexplain. Perhaps I only want them to stay because I am afraid of the\nhole their leaving will certainly create. Or reveal.\n\"No, we can't really, we must go. Roz?\" They both rise at precisely the same time, their skirts stick to the plastic sofa-covers and\nfor a moment it looks as if the plastic will not let go of them, but\nwith an embarrassing squeak, they free themselves and walk to the\ndoorway. They are actually leaving. I follow behind and find, on\nstanding, that my left leg has fallen asleep. \"It will be alright in a\nminute,\" I say, stumbling and rubbing my thigh. \"Something like\nthis always happens to me when I sit in that old chair. I don't think\nit likes me.\"\n\"You shouldn't sit in it then,\" Rosalind suggests.\n\"Tradition.\"\nBeatrice stops in the vestibule and glances at the portrait of my\ngrandfather and asks who it is. \"My grandfather. I'm supposed to\nlook just like him.\" I hold my head erect, turning it to one side and\nthen the other, allowing the girls to make their own comparison.\nThey are surprised and say that they never would have guessed.\n\"When he was younger, I have photographs of him when he was\nyounger.\"\n\"Jake, we really must be going.\" They pause, near the door, their\nbodies gravitating towards the doorhandle, not knowing quite how\nto leave, not knowing quite how to sum up their stay. A summary\nwill be expected. Required, no doubt. I do not envy them the task.\n\"The afternoon was spent in unsuccessful conversation. Prospect of\nconversion or continuing interest, unlikely. Possibility of return in\nthe future, not recommended ...\"\nApproaching twilight, the loss of light, the shadows on the wall\nbring out the feeling of desperation in me. I want to beg them to\nstay and I don't know why. People like Rosalind and Beatrice do\nnot give up easily but their departure now, despite my invitation\nthat they stay, is a sign of their giving up on me and although I do\n*75 not want to be changed, to be summarized as a victory, I do not\nwant to be abandoned either. I would just as soon leave the matter\nopen for discussion.\nRosalind shakes my hand firmly, as if she were never going to see\nme again. Cold hands, warm bosom. By wanting too much, we can\nmiss out on a great deal. Beatrice holds out her hand for me to shake\nand I hold it in mine for longer than I should. Awkwardly we gaze\ninto each other's eyes. More like strangers than lovers. If they leave\nnow it will be like they were never here at all. If they stay we may not\naccomplish anything, but at least they will be here and you never\ncan tell ...\n\"Jacob, let go.\"\nI release her hand and apologize for the last time. As they are\nleaving Beatrice tells me that I should get the doorbell fixed. \"It's\nsuch a waste of time,\" she smiles \"having to get up every two minutes\nand run to the door for nothing.\"\n\"Yes, I know.\"\n176 Notes on Contributors\nBrian Bartlett lived all of his early life in New Brunswick but has been\nin Montreal since 1975. A poetry chapbook, Cattail Week (Villeneuve),\nwas published this year. Other poems have appeared in such magazines\nas Queen's Quarterly and The University of Windsor Review. Fiction is\npublished in The Fiddlehead, Quarry, The Atlantic Advocate, and Best\nCanadian Short Stories: igy8 (Oberon). Two stories were listed in\nMartha Foley's Best American Short Stories, 1973, and 1974. Brian was\nborn in 1953.\nStephen Boston has had fiction published in The Fiddlehead and Stories\nfrom Atlantic Canada. He lives on Brentwood Bay in B.C.\nBruce Byfield is 20 years old and lives in Coquitlam, B.C. He runs seven\nto ten miles a day, and studies English and Communications at Simon\nFraser University.\nTerence Byrnes is a student in the Graduate Creative Writing program\nat Concordia University in Montreal, studying with Clark Blaise. He is\nfrom Verdun, Quebec.\nBarry Dempster has recently received a Canada Council grant. His\nstories are forthcoming in The Fiddlehead, The Dalhousie Review, The\nWesterly Review, and The Texas Quarterly.\nLevi Dronyk works as a technician at BCTV, writes record and concert\nreviews for Monday Magazine, and takes 4th year fiction workshop at\nthe University of Victoria. He's been previously published in the 1976\nand 1978 issues of From An Island. Levi was born in Two Hills, Alberta\nin 1949.\nElin Elgaard was born in Denmark in 1950, and came to Calgary in\n1971. In 1976, she obtained her degree in English Language and Literature, after going back and forth between Canada and the home university in Aarhus, Denmark for summer orals. She has had several stories\nof her own published in Canadian and American literary magazines\n177 since 1972. She now lives in Sackville, N.B. with her husband. The story\nshe has translated here, is by Tove Ditlevsen, a major Danish poet and\nprose writer who committed suicide in 1976. Over three decades, six\ncollections of her stories and poems were published, drawing richly from\nthe milieu of Versterbro, the poor area of Copenhagen where she grew\nup.\nDanny Feeney lives and writes in Kitchener, Ontario. He is eighteen\nyears old.\nMark Frutkin has appeared in such magazines as The Fiddlehead and\nCanadian Forum. One book of poems, Opening Passages, appeared in\n1977. Mark is from Wolf Lake, Quebec.\nPaul Edmond Gotro, 26, attends the University of B.C. where he is\ntaking his degree in English and Creative Writing. His work has been\npublished in New: West Coast, event and The CBC Hornby Collection,\nand his first book, Spider in the Sumac (Fiddlehead), will appear in\n1979-\nSean Patrick Hearty was born in 1956 in Luanshya, Zambia. He is a\nlanded immigrant who received his education at Langara College and\nthe University of B.C. A resident of Vancouver, he writes poetry, music,\nplays, and paints.\nKevin Irie was born and lives in Toronto, Ontario. He attended the University of Toronto where his first poetry acceptance was by a campus\nperiodical. This is his first national appearance.\nLeslie Krueger studied political science at the University of B.C. and\nedited The Ubyssey, 1974-75. She worked as a reporter for the Vancouver Sun, and later as a short story producer for CBC's As It Happens. She's been writing fiction for five years, has a novel finished, and\na story accepted by The Tamarack Review.\nA. Labriola teaches drama in Toronto, but lives in Oshawa, Ontario\nwith his wife and two children. Poems have appeared in Canadian\nForum and Amazing Grace. He is working on a novel and a collection\nof short stories.\nNicholas Mason-Browne is a Vancouver, B.C. poet.\nErin Moure, 23, will have her first book of poetry, Mechanisms of the\nLost Heart, published by House of Anansi in 1979. Other poems\nhave appeared in magazines like Canadian Forum, Waves, Branching\nOut, and in the anthologies Storm Warning 2 and A Government Job\nat Last. She lives in Vancouver.\n178 Beth Powning, 29, lives in Sussex, N.B., and has had short stories published in The Antigonish Review, The Canadian Fiction Magazine,\nQuarry, The Fiddlehead, Wascana Review, The Atlantic Advocate,\nAnthology of N.B. Women Writers, and C.B.C. Anthology.\nBarbara Rendall writes and lives in Lumsden, Saskatchewan.\nMartin Reyto was born in Budapest in 1949 and emigrated to Canada\nin 1956. He has since lived in Toronto, Halifax, Austria, Israel, and is\nnow back in Toronto again. His poems have appeared in The Fiddle-\nhead, Matrix, and Quarry.\nDave Richards has had three books published by Oberon Press: The\nComing of Winter (1974), Blood Ties (1976), and Dancers at Night\n(1979). This excerpt is from his novel-in-progress. Dave is 27 years old\nand lives in Newcastle, N.B.\nDavid Sharpe is originally from Penticton, B.C., and was educated at\nthe University of B.C. and the University of Alberta. He has an M.A.\nin English. Poems and stories have been accepted by event, Quarry,\nBoreal, Waves, Green River Review, and The Canadian Fiction Magazine. David currently writes and gives readings in Toronto.\nRobert Sherrin is currently completing his second novel on a Canada\nCouncil grant and putting together a collection of short fiction. One\nnovel has already been published. Stories and poems have appeared in\nCanadian Fiction Magazine, The Capilano Review, Quarry, and The\nCanadian Short Fiction Anthology (Intermedia).\nDonna E. Smyth has published short stories internationally and in\nCanada. One of her plays, Susanna Moodie, is in the repertoire of Mermaid Theatre, Nova Scotia's touring theatre company. She is co-ordinating editor of Atlantis: A Woman's Studies Journal, and teaches English\nand Creative Writing at Acadia University, Wolfville, N.S.\nBetsy Struthers lives in the country near Peterborough, Ontario. She is\n27 and has been writing seriously for just over a year. Her first two published poems have appeared in The Fiddlehead.\nJoel Yanofsky was born in Montreal on September 26, 1955. His\nB.A. in English Literature is from McGill University, 1977, and he is\ncurrently studying for his M.A. in Creative Writing there with Bharati\nBlaise.\n179 BOOKS RECEIVED AND RECOMMENDED:\nCANADIAN UNDER-30 AUTHORS\nQuotes from the books were selected for descriptive purposes.\nBowering, Marilyn; One Who Became Lost; Fiddlehead Poetry Books,\nigy6; 72 pages. Other books include The Liberation of Newfoundland\n(1973, out of print) and The Killing Room (Sono Nis). Three of these\npoems have appeared in The Malahat Review, All Alone Stone, and\nBranching Out. Marilyn Bowering was born in Winnipeg in 1949, but\nshe has lived most of her life in British Columbia, where she received\nher B.A. and M.A. degrees from the University of Victoria. \"Most of\nthe poems in this book reflect her residence in Greece and in the Queen\nCharlotte Islands.\"\nDi Cicco, Pier Giorgio, editor; Roman Candles; Hounslow Press, ig?8;\n85 po-ges: An Anthology of Poems by Seventeen Italo-Canadian Poets.\nThose under thirty included are: Saro d'Agostino, Alexandre L. Am-\nprimoz, Antonio Iacovino, Antonino Mazza, Mary di Michele, Mary\nMelfi, Tony Pignataro, Ed Prato, Filippo Salvatore, Mike Zizis, Vin-\ncenzo Albanese, and Pier himself. \"... a collection of poems by Canadian poets of Italian birth or background. Their sixty-five poems are\nexpressive of the Italo-Canadian experience.\" The editor, Di Cicco, was\nborn in Arezzo, Italy in 1949, has published five collections of poetry,\nand since 1976, has been Associate Editor of Books in Canada.\nParkas, Andre, and Ken Norris, editors; Montreal English Poetry of\nthe Seventies; Vehicule Press; 150 pages. Anthology of poems by 22\nMontreal English poets, eight of whom are under thirty: Guy Birchard,\nAndre Farkas, Laurence Hutchman, Bob McGee, Anne McLean,\nStephen Morrissey, Ken Norris, Marc Plourde. Three or more poems\nfrom each author, comprehensive bibliographies and biographies. \"However, through this anthology, it is hoped that something is made clear:\nthat there is a sacred geography of Montreal ... in this anthology its\ncontours, rhythms, invocations, and spirit are celebrated.\"\n180 Gaysek, Fred; First Scratches No Blood Eye Down; Fiddlehead Poetry\nBooks, igjy; 40 pages. His first collection. Born in Canada in 1953, and\na student at York University in Toronto, \"Fred Gaysek feels that the\npoems written after the works of established writers are not mere imitations but contain his own statements and are his own poems.\"\nKishkan, Theresa; Arranging the Gallery; Fiddlehead Poetry Books,\nigj6; 35 pages. Her first collection. Some of these poems appeared in\nThe Fiddlehead, Introductions from an Island, and Quarry. Currently\nattending the University of Victoria on Vancouver Island, Theresa's\ndesire is \"to write a truly West-coast poetry ... like Emily Carr, the\nWest coast has something very special that I would like to be able to\narticulate.\"\nLeckner, Carol H.; Daisies on a Whale's Back; Fiddlehead Poetry\nBooks, igy6; 60 pages. Some of these poems appeared in Montreal Free\nPoet, Salt, Intercourse, and Booster and Blaster. Selections from her\nnovel Rosie, have appeared in Canadian Fiction Magazine. Carol, 30,\nstudied Creative Writing at Sir George Williams University, and is\ninvolved in various literary activities around the Montreal area. This\nbook consists of works between 1969 and 1973, and was originally\nprinted in 1974. \"Carol H. Leckner's poems ... are personal statements\nmade by what may be termed a star witness (albeit a young star) possessing a vision of rock-core nature and human nature.\" {John Richmond, The Montreal Star)\nMcllwain, Sandy; And Between Us the Night; Fiddlehead Poetry\nBooks, 27 pages. Sandy Mcllwain is currently getting his M.F.A. in\nCreative Writing in Vancouver, B.C.\nMelfi, Mary; The Dance, The Cage, and the Horse; D Press, ig\"j6; go\npages. Born in Italy, in 1951, Mary Melfi graduated from Loyola College and McGill University. Poems have appeared in Waves, Antigonish\nReview, and other magazines. She was awarded Ontario Arts Council\nGrants in 1974 and 1976.\nWest, David S.; Poems and Elegies igy2-igyy; Fiddlehead Poetry Books,\nigy8; 72 pages. Also author of Franklin and McClintock (Intermedia,\n1977). Some of these poems have appeared in Canadian Forum, CVII,\nThe Fiddlehead, and the University of Windsor Review.\n181 OU\u00E2\u0082\u00ACD\u00E2\u0082\u00ACC F\u00E2\u0082\u00ACMINIST WRITING\nROOM OF ON\u00E2\u0082\u00AC'S OWNL\nis pleased to announce the fall publication\nof a special issue on Quebec Women Writers.\nIt includes translated selections from \"the\nmost important literary event of recent times\n...LA BARRE DE JOUR, nos 56/57, entirety devoted to the writings of women.\"\n- Emergency Librarian\nAuthors featured are Monique Bosco, Cecile\nCloutier, Nicole Brossard, Louky Bersianik,\nFrance Theoret, Madelaine Gagnon, Genevieve\nAmyot, and others.\nInterview with Michele Lalonde.\nAn informative historical survey article of\nwomen writers in Quebec, \"Voices of Discovery\nand Commitment.\"\nReviews. And more.\nOrder now for this double issue:$4.00. Bulk\nrates are available on request.\nAvailable from:\nRoom of One's Own\n1918 Waterloo St\nVancouver DC\nV6R 3G6N\n-QU\u00E2\u0082\u00ACD\u00E2\u0082\u00ACC F\u00E2\u0082\u00ACMINIST WRITING IRVING LAYTON - \"ONE OF THE BEST\nLITTLE MAGAZINES IN CANADA\"\nA LITERARY TRI-ANNUAL\nInterviews, Articles, Fiction, Poetry, Graphics, Reviews.\nWAVES, Room 128, Founders College,\nYork University, 4700 Keele Street,\nDownsview, Ontario, Canada,\nM3J 1P3.\nNAME \t\nADDRESS\nCheque enclosed for (please check)\nI\u00E2\u0080\u0094I Nonsubscription: Please supply.\nI\u00E2\u0080\u0094I Subscription: Individuals for\t\nLibraries for\t\n. copies @ $2.00 per copy.\n years @ $5.00 per year.\n. years @ $6.00 per year.\nBack Issues \u00E2\u0080\u0094 Vol. 1-5 \u00E2\u0080\u0094 $30.00 a set. Back Issues\nPrism 2:4, Summer 1961\nThis issue features poetry of Alden Nowlan, David McFadden, Lionel\nKearns, Phyllis Webb and the then high school student, Roy Mac-\nSkimming. Fiction includes work by Jacob Zilber, Henry Kreisel,\nAlden Nowlan, Avis Worthington and Wayson S. Choy, whose story\nlater was selected for publication in The Best American Short Stories\nof 1962. $4.50\nPrism international 7:2, Autumn 1967\nA mix of North American writers and Europeans. Fiction by Alden\nNowlan, Jack Matthews and Georg Britting. Poetry by Germans\nGunter Grass, Karl Krolow and Gottfried Benn, and Canadians Irving\nLayton, Ralph Gustafson, Robert Kroetsch and Elizabeth Gourlay.\nPaul Valery also appeared. $3.50\nPrism international 10:3, Spring 1971\nAn issue featuring translations of many of Europe's leading writers.\nPoetry by Bertolt Brecht, Theo Florin, Vincenzo Cardarelli, Pierre\nSoupault, Stanislaw Jerzy Lee and Henrikas Nagys. Fiction by Gidtav\nMeyrink and two Americans, Henry H. Roth and Kenneth Bernard.\nCover and graphics by Canadian poet and artist Pat Lane. $3.00\nPrism international 14:2, Summer 1975\nPoetry by George Bowering, John Ditsky, Robert Bringhurst, Rienzi\nCrusz, Ian Slater and David Bissonette. Fiction by American Walter\nRimler, Jack Hodgins and John Carroll. $2.00\nAll prices include mailing and handling charges\nISSN 0032-8790"@en . "Periodicals"@en . "PR8900.P7"@en . "PR8900_P7_017_002"@en . "10.14288/1.0135417"@en . "English"@en . "Vancouver : University of British Columbia Library"@en . "Vancouver : The Creative Writing Program of the University of British Columbia"@en . "Materials provided for research and reference use only. Permission to publish, copy, or otherwise use these images must be obtained from the Prism international: http://prismmagazine.ca"@en . "Creative writing Periodicals"@en . "Poetry--Periodicals"@en . "Canadian literature -- Periodicals"@en . "Prism international"@en . "Text"@en . ""@en .