HAYDEN'S FERRY
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HAYDEN'S FERRY
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At the upper end of the dancing floor, on a raised platform, sat
the musicians-a young girl with a harp, a boy with a violin, and
the old man, father of the other two musicians, blowing on a
flute ... Dancing was kept up until way in the night, which with
flirtation, chit chat etc. made the hours pass away pleasantly.
Arizona Miner
Hayden's Ferry, Arizona Territory
September 25, 1872

HAYDEN'SFERRYREVIEW
Managing Editor:

Becky Turnbull

Poetry Editors:

Kevin Dobbs
Susan L. Krevitsky
Gary Short

Fiction Editors:

James Barbour
Catherine Zinck

Facuity Advisor:

Alberto Rios

Student Publications:

Bruce Itule
Salima Keegan

Hayden's Ferry Review is published annually. Single or sample
issues are five dollars plus one dollar postage.
Subscriptions, contributions, and correspondence should be sent
to Hayden's Ferry Review, Student Publications, Matthews
Center, Arizona State University, Tempe, AZ 85287-1502.
Unsolicited manuscripts are welcomed during our_fall reading
period. Manuscripts will be returned only if accompanied by a
self-addressed, stamped envelope. Please include brief
biographical statement. Copyright reverts to author upon
publication with appropriate acknowledgment to Hayden's
Ferry Review.

Member of Coordinating Council of Literary Magazines
Indexed by the Index of American Periodical Verse
(Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press).

Copyright, 1988, Hayden's Ferry Review.
Issue 3
ISSN 0887-5170

Spring 1988

CONTENTS

•

Stephen Dunn
Gabby Hyman
Frank Thomson

•

Trouble
An Orchestrationof DrPam
Mannlich Among the Sheaves
Self Reflexive Portion,
Part29
Self Reflexive Portion,

7
9
11
17

•

•

18

Part 25

•

Philip Gerard
StefanieMarlis
Laurie Kirk
Ron McFarland

Sharon Ewing-Rash
Candice St. Jacques
Miles
Kay Emig
Norman Dubie
,

•
•

Debra Bolin
• Catherine Marconi
Sharon Ewing-Rash
BradleyHenderson

The Ticking Tomb

19
31
32
34
35
36

15 112

High School Teacher
Heroics
.
The Worley Club Cafe
Fantasyscape:RenaissanceI

Home Fires
Memory Launcher
New Age at Airport Mesa
Fever
The Saints of Negativity
Safe Conduct
Untitled
The]ob
FantasyscapeI:
SensualSucculentsSeries
57 . The Pride Of This Valley
37
46
47
49
50
52
53
54
56

'
•

•

Jim Barnes
John Anton Piller
Maura Stanton
Jerry Santek
Dennis Schmitz
Janet Holmes
Rene Guy Cadou
Dorothy Neil Cohen

Sharon Ewing-Rash

68
69
70
71
73
75
76
78
79
81
82
84
85
86
87
88
89

Dianne Nelson
Chris Pichler

90
98

T.M. McNally
Dean Stover

102

Going After the Milch Cow
Souvenirs
Rebuilding
Keepsakes
Parable
At TheSalmon Feast
TheLillianThat Remains
The Three-leggedDog
Famey's Sister
Hibiscus
Chez Persephone
Le chant de solitude

Song of solitude
"Mon Dieu ce n'est
pas parce que"
"My God it's not because"
Fantasyscape/:
FloralSeries
FantasyscapeVII:
FloralSeries
Paperweight
Four Photographs:
The NazraeliSeries
An Interview
with John Updike
Contributors'Notes

StephenDunn

Trouble
I remember walking into Gaucho territory
wearing my Cobra jacket
and climbing those three flights
to where Renee Zucker was babysitting.
I was nothing then, the v~
of nerves and hopes a teenager is,
so when I found trouble
I must have felt I'd located
part of myself.
I got away, untouched,
through the alleys and the park,
and later went back again
Soon thereafter, in sports,
I found the legal excitement
within lines, the trouble
skill can get you out of,
the good drug of praise.
The cliches are true:
it was like being saved.
But trouble loves someone
who thinks he's trouble-free.
It slipped into my house,
it whispered to my parents.
And then on dates
it came along with me.
How foolishit seems
to ever have sought it,
ubiquitous as it is.
Renee Zucker always has another name.
And the Gauchos are forever waiting
for a mistake.
7

Now if troublemust come
in thisadult night,
in thishalf-lit,half-understood
night of open doorsand corners
stillto turn,
I pray for trouble
to energize,quickenme,
to even be kind,
before I'm caught,hurt,
told to singa foreignsong.

8 StephenDunn

n

ream

I, too, have been attractedto a voice
or shyne$
and prefer subtle,deliberateaccidents,
yet downstairsat the Booth Theater,
cocktailtime
before showtime,she was someoneto look at
before she moved, but when she walked
myway
firstone nipplepeeked out
from her · ·-.....
neckedblack dre$,
then the other,
alternatingin rhythm
with her sbide. The ho11selights
were flickering;
I followedthe crowd towardEquus
and a differentpromise,played
and replayedher,
even imaginedthe shop, the mi:t1·or
she must have filledwith visions
of h-~~,
that drC$ o • u-. and closing,
her nippleslike signalsthe sensateworld
.__
..•· t slow down for,
erect, the fabricbrus ·-.z ~ . them
and my eyes, how many eyes she must
have conjured
StephenDunn 9

before she said yes, 111take it.
The theater darkened,and men with
horses'heads danced,
a wild incipiencein the air.I knew where she was sitting,dosed up,
motionless,
like a secret half told,
the distancebetween us nqw part
of her genius,
her orchestrationof dream.
Afterwards,I waited by the coat check
for one more look.
The man she was with, who didn't exist,
suddenlydid. He held the claimcheck,
she his arm, then she
began to work herself,slowly,
into her coat as if always
there was more to do
before the diminishment
set in, the gettinghome.

IO StephenDun:n.________________

_

Gabby Hyman

Mannlich Among the Sheaves
Mannlich Veidt had a recurring nightmare in which appeared
a sand dune, an iron-rusted phone booth, and a woman's
choked-off scream. He'd been having the vision since moving to
Marin a year ago, when he gave up Silicon Valley for a new life
on his own terms. The software job he gave up willingly; the
loss of his wife, Paula, was an unexpected consequence of the
change. Waking from his visions, Mannlich rose from his bed
and went out on the redwood deck to practice Yoga. With each
Cobra, Breath of Life, or Salute to the Sun, he focused silver light
into his solar plexus.
In the afternoon, his free-lance consulting work completed,
he'd drive to Mill Valley and sit at a table at Tingles, sipping a
Dubonnet and attempting eye contact with the ladies. If there
was such a thing as a happy divorce-for there are happy marriages-Mannlich attained one. Paula had split amicably, and
both of them moved into new lives as one might pick up and
transfer consciousness into a new body. ·His books balanced,
Mannlich cut his wife a check and mailed it for Tenerife each
month, and he set an equal amount aside to pay for sailing
lessons, a membership in the Marin Singles Society, for his afternoons at Tingles-frills that reminded him that work was not all
there was to life. This year the books would slide completely into the black, so Mannlich Veidt decided he could take the time
necessary to fall in love. The idea shined like a polished blade as
it cleaved his imagination, and he ran a lemon wedge around the
rim of his glass of Dubonnet.
•
Mannlich worked this new concept into his small red
notebook, flaring out the word "love" with his pen. The world,
he knew, was a sea in which the puckered fish could meet and
press lips before returning to the business of gobbling each
other. Most of all, love did not mean a complete overhaul of his
priorities, and it would not mean an end to fun either. On the
contrary. He scanned his copy of the Marin Singles Monthly,
the tide tables for the social intercoastal waters. And he knew his
11

•

,

body's energy flashed on the tables at Tingles, proclaiming his
availability, the silver light of his openness.
In the late afternoon, Tingles was awash with possibility.
Mannlich's eyes prowled the tables while his hand moved pen
across notebook. He absently rubbed his clean-shaven chin,
inspecting for stubble. Then, he was staring into his own
reflection, mirrored by sunglasses of a woman at the table next
to his. Her hair was pulled back into a French braid and her jaw
moved in a small, polite chewing motion. He watched the jaw.
She seemed preoccupied with her salad, and moved chunks of
avocado across the lettuce. To Mannlich's amazement, she
glanced up and smiled, her glazed lips parting beneath the twin
reflections of his own startled face.
Mannlich raised a hand in a calm wave, worried at once that
his uptur11edpalm might be mistaken for a defensive gesture. So
he stood and went to her table, offering his hazel eyes and an invitation that she join him.
''No," said the woman, ''but please sit ·here with me."
Her name was Sheridan Hyphen-something and Mannlich
listened while she described her important family and acq11aintances about whom she hardly gave a shit~ He felt the urgent
desire to reach up an,,dlift the glasses from her fac.e, thought
about directing hi~nergy into that idea, hoping Sheridan would
feel his pressure and remove them herself.
''You're not married,'' she said. ''But you have been.''
Mannlich sat silently.
''Or you were recently. You've been out of the swim of
things. You're much too polite."
'Well then,'' he answered, tilting his head like a bird does
when it is thinking, ''what would you say to a night in the cityr'
''I'd say, Mannlich, you're over-compensating."
He felt a meanness start inside him, but he squelched it. She
smiled faintly.
/
''You think I'm just a rich bitch, don't you?''
''Oh , no ... ''
-Sheridan jabbed her fork into the heart of lettuce and then she
stood up.
''I'd like to meet you again," she said. 'When you're over your
shyness.''
She took up her bill and turned away. Mannlich watched her
disappear behind a jungle of ferns, and he took inventory:
designer jeans stuffed into cowboy boots, small cheery ass, a
12 GabbyHyman

•

•

margin of tanned skin between belt and fluttery blouse, that
tight, twisted braid. A few nights later, his nightmares returned
and the woman's screams pierced his sleep.
Mannlich felt it was not a matter of coincidence, but
calculated fate that brought him to Sheridan at a hot-tub party
on Mount Tam. The party was portentiously organized around
massages, cocaine, and Napa wines. In the tub, Mannlich was
neck-deep in the frothy water, haranguing a stockbroker from
Larkspur when she walked up, dressed but undressing from
Mexican sandals, short-shorts, and a T-shirt that said: You Get
What You Pay For. Mannlich saw her eyes now, deep brown,
pupils hard black seeds, and her nipples, emerging from beneath
the shirt, were dark copper.
"I'm outa the tub," said the stockbroker, lifting his pink body
from the steamy water. "You guys have fun, now."
Sheridan shimmied into the bubbles and tossed back her head.
Her hair webbed up into peaks where the water soaked into it.
They sat, unwinding a while, saying precious little. Then
Sheridan reached beneath the foam and caressed Mannlich's
foot.
"Have you ever fallen in love?" she asked.
"Yes. Everybody does, although nobody has the slightest idea
what they mean by it."
For the first time, Mannlich studied her eyes. There was
something cruel, tortured about them, and he felt an awful sorrow about it, pity. She squinted in the bright sun.
"I hate the light," she said.
"Light is very important. No kidding. I project it everywhere I
can."
She stopped rubbing his foot and crossed her arms over her
breasts.
"Then you believe in pure evil?" She asked this, then fell darkly quiet.
"In only the abstract sense," Mannlich replied. "We are not
evil, if that's what you mean. But we draw it to us, as if we were
lightning rods. I meditate every day, to keep it away from me."
Sheridan seemed about to laugh, and Mannlich moved his
feet away to the center of the tub. But she probed with her toes
and ran them up and down his calf.
"You're such a deadly serious man," she said. "I like that about
you quite a bit. I minded when you stared at me in Tingles. But I
knew you'd taken the bait."
GabbyHyman13

"But you smiled at me."
Again Sheridan paused at the brink of laughter, then she
leaned across the tub and kissed him slowly, her tongue plunging into his mouth. Mannlich tasted something salty.
She sat back, beaming.
"Silly. When a man stares at a woman, she feels angry, and
also complimented. I'm returning the compliment."
With that, Sheridan climbed &om the tub and retrieved her
clothes. And she's returning the anger, too, Mannlich thought,
watching as she abandoned him for a group of merrymakers
beneath the limbs of a redwood tree. They were snorting
cocame.
The salty taste lingered in his mouth, and Mannlich felt compromised. He'd revealed his spiritual essence to Sheridan, his
core of beliefs, and she had not given him love so much as she
had offered up a taste to him. Of what? Mannlich needed the inner calm of a sensitive, quietly centered woman who could offer
healing powers. And he was attracted to this idea: that he didn't
need love, not like one needs a source of income, but wanted it,
as one wants a spring day when the sun lies low and your bones
are cold.
He had felt relieved and happy-if that was what it
was-when Paula left for the Canaries. She went on a curious
note; there might have been fights and things since forgotten,
but he was sure that the split was amicable. He was glad it had
ended because he did not love her, or what he felt was not
shaped like that word. It would do no good now, now that he
had made room for new emotions to flourish, to associate with
Sheridan, who was psychically bruised and battered, who lacked
the capacity to give.
He waited until Sheridan was preoccupied with her new cocaine friends, and slipped from the tub unnoticed. Driving down
Mount Tam, the fresh sea air blowing over his face, Mannlich
felt clean of her.
He did not see Sheridan again for several months. By then he
was attached to a calm, decent woman named Tillie Smith, and
they shared their weekends. On a Sunday afternoon nearing fall,
he left Tillie at the mountaintop house and drove into town for
groceries. They planned to fry fish on the hibachi, so Mannlich
stopped at Gundies-by-the-Sea for briquets and salmon steaks.
On his way back to the car, he passed a red convertible coupe.
14 GabbyHyman

Sheridan sat in the passenger seat, running a file across her nails.
He tried to avert his face, but she spotted him and cried out.
"Mannlich, hey Mannlich."
He turned and walked to the car, where once again his twin
images were reflected in her glasses.
"I was afraid we'd never see each other again," she said. "You
know, we servants of sin have got to stick together."
She offered her hand and Mannlich had to shift the groceries
to take it. He could see down the top of her white tennis dress.
"Hey," she said, "give me your number and we'll get
together."
Mannlich felt the fish where it soaked through the shopping
bag, and shifted his feet. The expressionless face behind the
sunglasses held him.
"Oh, you're married," she said, caressing the bulging shopping
sack with her bright nails.
Mannlich glanced at the top of her dress. Her breasts glistened
with sweat, silvery in the sun.
"Umm, no, not married," he said finally.
They exchanged telephone numbers, using a scrap tom from
the grocery bag, and promised to call each other. Mannlich,
back in his car, shook all over. He saw in his mind a descending
staircase: it spiraled dizzily beneath him. He drove back up the
mountain, went directly to the kitchen, unpacked the groceries,
and crumpled the bag into the trash. Tillie came in, and he kissed
her. Then he took the phone off the hook.
Later that evening, as small flames danced in the fireplace, he
held Tillie close on the sofa.
"Something's bugging you," she said. Her eyes flashed in the
firelight.
"No, not really."
"That's funny. I have the sense that you're down."
"It's really nothing," he said, and he worried his face behind
her neck, nuzzling. He focused light into his midriff but could
not still the pounding there. After Tillie had gone, he returned to
the couch and stared at the fire. It came to him that the sizzle of
wood in the heart of the flame resembled the sensation at his
throat.
He went into the bedroom and lit a candle against the growing fear inside him. When the flame had flickered and died,
Mannlich was deep into his recurring dream, and he pumped his
legs against the fierce resistance of the sand dune. The sun
GabbyHyman 15

blistered his skin, his throat burned with the fire of his own
hearth and, up on the_rise,the telephone rang out with the cry of
a thousand temple chimes. Mannhch reached the summit, crawling on his scorched kn~es to the phone booth, ~is e~s smarting
from the volley of noise. He clutched the receiver m his hand
and drew it to his gasping gill mouth. In this dream, the voice did
not scream out in anguish, but spoke in mellifluous tones.
"Love me."
Mannlich woke to an absence of fear. On the redwood deck
where he performed his Yoga, Mannlich saw that he was seated
on the sill of a vast window that opened out into the harmony of
his soul. He stepped right through and his heart swooned with
goodness.
,
In the kitchen, he opened cabinets and stared at the cups and
saucers of his marriage. He could see the heat marks, red and
shimmering, where Paula touched things, the flaming shapes of
lips and fingertips glowing in the enamel. And in the stainless
steel sink he read the scars left behind when he had smashed her
potted fem there, the memory of ceramic shards glowing
yellow, and the scratches ran like blood across the metal.
He went into his study, pored over a morning's work, put the
software proposal into a manila folder, and left it out for the
postman. Then he telephoned Sheridan.
At his table by the waterfront at Tingles, Mannlich watched
the sails and spinnakers, opening like flaming wings of seraphim
on the bay. Beneath the waves, fish paired off and darted under
the rocks. Plankton flowed into their mouths like hot light.
When Sheridan finally arrived and took his hand, he saw they
sat beneath the fanning palms at Tingles, like Moabites under
the dripping leaves-and wasn't she as beautiful as Ruth, passing
with the reapers among the sheaves. When she spoke to order
her meal, he saw the iron-rusted girders under the skin of her
jaw. The harsh mandible snapped beneath the formed plates of
her skull, and as she said, "How nice it is to see you," Mannlich
distinctly heard her undervoice, shrieking and howling:
"Kill me, Mannlich. Kill me, please."
They fed on a lunch of dates and avocados of sweet white
wines . and fragrant cheeses, and when th~y were done,
Mannhch had her in his car, spinning down the interstate,
through the brightening window into his soul. There were many
places he would take her.

16 GabbyHyman_________________

_

Frank Thomson

"Self Reflexive Portion, Part 29," sabattier process photo, II"x14".

17

4

"Self Reflexive Portion, Part 25," sabattier process photo, 1J"xI ".

1B FrankThomson1
______________________

_

PhilipGerard

The TickingTomb
It ain't like them hook man stories. It's better, cause it really
happened, but you'll never hear about it over to Kemblesville.
They ain't said a word about it yet, nor ain't likely to.
Let's back up a dozen years to the summer me and Benny
Sikes turned eighteen. We had spent the better part of May and
June playing ball for a company team-maybe you heard of
them, the St. Clair Clippers?They had a big papermill down the
valley by the Delaware line, and we used to bus up to Philly and
down to Wilmington to go doubleheaders against the shipyard
and factory teams, I'm talking hardball, mister. We were the left
side-me at third and Benny at short-just the way we had
played for Kemblesville High for three years and missed the
state championship to those ringers from Pittsburgh, every
damn one of them playing paid.
By the end of June I was playing with taped ribs and two
black eyes off a little rhubarb we had over a suspicioustag I laid
on some dumb rivetknocker who was circling the bags with his
head yanked over his shoulder to watch the ball instead of me
tripping him. Benny was favoring a sore knee and a broken
thumb on his glove hand that he wouldn't admit was broke or
else get benched but which took all the power off his batting
stroke. •
•
"Yank," he says to me, "we're beating ourselves to death over
this." We were piled into the back of that old Studebaker bus
with our legs crooked over the equipment bag, coming back
from a bruiser with Delaware Drydock. We had won 9-8 in
twelve, but it cost us.
"You can say that again. I'm all used up." My ribs were grating
around so loose that I felt like if I unraveled that tape I would
just sort of spill out onto the seat.
"What say we give it a rest?"
"And do what instead?" Thirty bucks a game wasn't making
us rich, but at four games a week it was sure easy money compared to running a pulp press or bolting on fenders over at GM.
19

We'd both decided to c_oastall summer ~d see about real work
in the fall. Besides,playing was always a kick, and we were loose
d quick and young and that doesn't last long for anybody.
anHe settled back and pulled his hat brim over his eyes. '1 don't
know. I'm just saying is all."
"It's something to consider."
"Let's consider it over a beer."
Well, everybody knows that we didn't do no such thing as
quit, in fact Benny got in four solid years in the minors in
Oklahoma City before his knee gave out on him for good, but
that night we took his Dodge pickup down to the R. Watcha Eat
tavern and lubricated our creaky joints with a few gallons of
cold Rolling Rock, and that's when he met her.
It was Tuesday and we had the place practically·to ourselves.I
remember, because Tuesday's special was always Philly
cheesesteaks, and we wolfed down a couple of those badboys
apiece before we got down to the business of our future. Her
name was Wanda. She was a new girl, and she sidled up to Benny like she had known him all his life, ·all legs and tits and wild
blond hair.
''Hi there, I'm just coming on. Can I get you boys another
pitcher?"
•
She might as well have reached under the table and yanked
his johnson out by the roots, for the look on his face, all
popeyed and slavering. For about a minute he couldn't put two
words together to make a sentence, and for the next four hours
he just sat there sucking up suds as fast as he could to give him
an excuse to call her back to the table. Right away they start
mooning over each other.
That's always a bad thing, and Benny wasn't long on senseto
begin with. He was scraping his cleats on the linoleum, and she
kind of parked herself handy and got him all worked up.
''You're ballplayers, I bet."
,
Not that the two-toned caps and uniforms give us away. Shes
got those hooters stuck in his face and he can't see past them and
I don't blame him. She had a shape and a half, that girl. Steam
heat.
He says, "So when do you get off anyhow?"
And of course she's got to close up the joint and we end up
scuffing gravel outside for half an hour while she rearrangedte
ketchups and counts her tips and so forth. Then we pack
er

20 PhilipGuard

into the pickup between us and Benny says, "You want to go for
a rider'
''Yeah," she says. What else? "But let's stop someplace first."
So we did, to pick up Ginny Rae, who I guess she had called
because she was all dressed and ready when we pulled into her
driveway. Now I had a date, and boy it suddenly got awful
crowded up front, with this new element bottled up on my lap
and causing no end of excitement every time we hit a frost
heave in the road.
Ginny Rae was a little bit of a girl, dark as they come, with big
eyes you couldn't get past. They just reflected back at you. But I
was seriously more interested in watching this Wanda go to
work on Benny. She says, "Turn here, honey," and he did, and
next thing you know we're on a dark road tunneled by trees and
heading straight down to Stony Creek. We made a couple of
turns here and there, I wasn't paying attention. It was all I could
do to keep Ginny Rae out of my face, and after awhile I wasn't
trying so hard as before. Where we came out was a dark little
triangle of a place called Yeatman's Station, which had a single
old frame house and an old church. I didn't like it already.
"I brought you boys down here for a reason," Wanda says,
and I believed her. You just can never trust a woman that knows
she's a looker. They've always got schemes. "This is a special
place."
"Oh? And why's thatr' Benny says, kind of slurry and feeling
pretty good about himself.
Ginny Rae says, "You mean you don't know? I thought all
you boys knew." And giggled, you know how they do.
"Know what?" I said. "What's to know about? We're
somewhere down along the creek, that's all."
Wanda leaned over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. I
was smothered in females just then. She practically put her
tongue in my ear. "About the ticking tomb," she says.
"That's a lot of crap," Benny said, and I agreed. It was a worn
out story: a dead man chipping his way out of the grave with a
little hammer. I had heard the story in school but never been all
the way out here, which was just a little clearing in the middle of
the woods.
"Get out," Wanda says.
'What?"
She opened Benny's side and gave him a shove. "Get out," she
insisted. And so he did. The crickets and cicadas were making a
PhilipGerard21

helluva racket, an1 you c~uld be sure,_off in the middle of all
that dark woods, sixteen kmds of creep1e-crawlieswere keepin
g
.
1·
their s 1my eyes on us.
Anyway, there we are, heading over to the churchyard like
the four horsemen, and there's about a nickel's worth of
moonlight shining up those headstones like a cheap Halloween
trick. Wanda leads Benny by the hand through the rusty iron
gate and past a whole row of citizens planted way hack when
the Redcoats were still raising hell in this part of the country, and
before I can say a word Ginny Rae has me following along likea
puppy. Ain't it always the way-good sense just ain't around
where women are involved.
"This is the one," Wanda says, standing over a long slab.
I said, "What one?"
She sighs and tosses her head, and breaks Benny's heart right
there on the spot. I mean it's just awful to have to watch that sort
of thing. "Listen," she says. And there's nothing to listen to, at
first. "Put your ear to it," she says, and like a fool, I got down on
my knees and did. So did Benny. We both heard it: a faint tapping. More like a ticking. Like an old windup dock.
"Jesus," Benny says. "Let's get out of here."
But Wanda had other ideas. "It's going to be fantastic, Benny.I
promise," she said in a stage-whisper, and pulled him down onto
the slab, right on the tomb, and didn't even mind that we were
watching. But I never went in for that kind of stuff, so I asked
Ginny Rae if she could tear herself away from these hijinksand
take a walk.
"If you say so," she says, cool but disappointed, like she was
used to watching. We found our own slab a couple of rows over
and went at it hammer and tongs, as they say. Man, she was a
sweet little number. Not too long on looks, but she was soft ~s
an old mitt, broken in in all the right places. She had curves m
her curves, and everywhere I grabbed there was a perfect handle. This went on for awhile and when we were all finished,we
just laid there passing a cig back and forth.
. ·t
1
CA:eron the ticking tomb, I heard Benny and Wanda ~till_at
workmg off those cheesesteaks. And a funny thing: the ticking.
could hear it now all way over where we were, getting ~oudf
1
along with Wanda. "Oh please!" she was saying, "Oh do t! O ~
baby, baby, baby, oh do it!" And the ticking went on bke
~ountdown,. till she finally blasted off. You couldn't even hear
he damn cnckets for about a minute.

1

22 PhilipGerard

And when they were done, you couldn't hear the ticking
anymore. I led Ginny Rae over to the ticking tomb, and she's all
demure and smiling with that secret way women have. Which
you know how they get, afterward. Anyhow, right next to the
tomb you can hear it again, faint, tick-tick-tick-tick. And
something else: Benny is white as a sheet, scared clean out of his
wits.
"Take it easy," I told him, "Put your pants back on and let's
blow this movie."
Back at the truck, we're all packed in like before, only I'm in
the driver's seat. Benny didn't look like he should be operating
complicated machinery right now. "I'm taking you home," I said
to Wanda. I put the old Dodge in gear and tum around the little
triangle to head back the way we came, but I'm only halfway
around, directly across from the churchyard, when she says,
"Stop right here, sweetie." It didn't make any sense, but I hit the
brakes anyway.
She hopped out. "Thanks for the ride home," she says.
We were right in front of that clapboard house that must have
been a hundred years old. Even in the dark you could see it
needed paint. No lights were on inside.
"You live here?" I said. We couldn't have been two hundred
feet away from the ticking tomb.
"You figure that out all by yourself?" she says. And then
laughed and tossed her head in that way she had and carried her
unsaddled breasts up to the house, swinging her bra like a bolo.
She clattered onto the old leaning porch, and I swear I saw a
man-sized shadow parked in an old rocking chair up there, a
shotgun across his knees.
We peeled out of there, and make no mistake Ginny Rae got
a kick out of it all, and so we ditched her like a bad idea as soon
as we could and wound up at Benny's place for a stiff belt of
Johnny Walker.
"Who's supposed to be in that tomb anyway?"'I asked Benny
once he had calmed down. Good thing he had a strong heart.
He gulped some of Mister Scotch and started to get some of
his color back. "Damn if I know, Yank," he says. "All I know is
what they said around school. They used to say it was some
crazy old geezer trying to chip his way out with a little hammer.
You know, the kind has the pick on one end."
"That's what I thought," I told him, but there was more to it
than that thin story. "Well, he's sure taking his sweet time about
PhilipGerard23

it What killed him?"
• "Search me. What always kills people in stories? Love or
money. "
I didn't like these shenanigans one bit, but I have to tell you
once the scare rubbed off we went with the program. It takes
awhile for that sort of novelty to wear thin, especially when
you're in the middle of a hicksville summer and the curveballs
are getting harder to hit. We'd sweat out the afternoons under a
sun that withered the grass and baked the sense right out of our
heads, then drown our aches and pains over at the R.Watcha Eat
till Wanda got off, and hustle her and Ginny Rae out to the
churchyard for the submarine races. Always the same routine,
but after the first time, Benny worked out a new twist: soon as
we hit the last curve above the creek, he'd kill the engine and
lights and coast down into the triangle, pulling the pickup off
the road into the shadow of some big elm trees.
If you're asking me, it made it even creepier.
Then he and Wanda would skip off to their slab, and Ginny
Rae would lead me by the hand to ours. Even without a moon,
she could find it, and I guess that should have worried me. And I
have to admit, that damn ticking gave me shivers, but what's a
fellow to do?
Every night was Halloween.
And every time, Wanda would insist we drive her the two
hundred feet to her front door, and every time that shadowy
man in the rocking chair would be waiting up for her. Benny
asked her about him, but she just smiled, clicking her front tooth
in that way she had. "Don't worry about old Zeke, sugar," she
said. "He lets me come and go as I please."
So he asked me: Who was this joker? Her old man? Her
father? Some depraved uncle or brother? I said I didn't know,
but that we should keep to our policy of making a quick
getaway. We dropped it.
That same night-and this was maybe two weeks in-he
says, "Yank, you think there's something a little bit queer about
this whole thing?" He was in love, and he couldn't see that this
w~ as ~ormal as it was likely to get.
Don t worry about it," I said. "These things have a way of
working themselves out."
But I never guessed how that would tum out.
Bknny had to go up to Philly for a few days to get his knee
100
ed at, and things sort of speeded up. But the afternoon
24 PhilipGtrard

before he left, we drove down there in daylight. We didn't have
a game, and it seemed like a good time to get a better grip on
this thing. We drove past her house slowly, and there was no
sign of life. The shutters were open, but the windowpanes were
so gray and dingy you couldn't see in. The front windows had
curtains anyway. The rocking chair sat on the porch empty. Old
Zeke must be a nightowl. We knocked awhile, but nobody was
home.
So we walked across the little triangle to the churchyard,
opened that creaky old gate, and hiked back to the ticking tomb.
In daylight, it was not so much, just a smooth marble slab like all
the others. It was the roof of what they call sepulchre-I asked
Mr. Brink, the history teacher. That's just a marble box that's
buried shallow instead of really planting you, like with a
headstone. Pretty convenient, if you ask me-just plop in the
stiff and put the lid on, no fuss, no muss, no messy cleanup. Apparently it was all the rage back in the old days.
We tried to make out the writing on the slab, but it was no
good. The d. date was there-1771. But the b. date and the
name were rubbed out, all but s-o-n at the end. "Somebody's
kid," Benny said, and I agreed. You never think about people
that are that dead ever being connected to anybody else, like in
a family. You always just think of the person, all by himself.
One to a box.
There were still some carved flowers left around the edges,
and the word "wander." We rooted around some of the other
graves, and pretty soon wound up at the one Ginny Rae and I
had been camping on. Ezekiel What's-his-fart had apparently
died "witless," whatever that meant. 1730-1799, the end. We
walked on down to the gate, and I looked back on kind of a
reflex and it was funny, the whole churchyard was overgrown
with high grass, but you could see a path worn right from the
gate to the ticking tomb. •
• •
And when we got in the pickup, I swear I saw the curtains
draw back at the front window of the old house. Somehow I
knew it was him and not her watching.
That night I was parked in my booth at the R. Watcha Eat
when Wanda came on. "You're all by your lonesome," she says,
swooping those creamy balloons of hers into my face. "Does
that mean we don't get to go for a ride tonight?"
Where a woman like that is involved, friendship is worth
about twenty cents. "Sure, we can go for a ride," I said. In for a
PhilipGerard2 s

enny in for a pound.
P She '1·cked
her
lip
and
clicked
that
front
tooth
of
hers.
"I'll
b
1
,, h
e
·ng
the
minutes
sugar,
s
e
says.
t
l
'
• h
d
dr
d
coun
had
my
own
pickup
tomg
t,
an
we
ove
own
there
after
1
she got off, punishing an ~ight-pak of Rock ponies along the
way. I saidit was a pretty mght, all those stars up there in all the
right places.
.
"
.
.
In a singsongv01ce,she says, Rove, 1fyou will, the stars up
yonder but absence made the tart go wander," and giggled.
"Wh~tr' What was this silly bitch up to now?
. "Nothing, just poetry. Edward Farthington. Don't you like
poetryr'
All the poetry that concerned me just then was busting out of
her blouse,but as we got closerto the creek I was having doubts.
"I'lljust drop you off in front of the house," I said. "Okie-dokie?"
"The dickensyou will," she says. "That's.no fun."
So I had no choice. Benny would understand-anyway, she
was no good for him. I tried to tell him. We legged it up the path
to the tickingtomb, and all of a sudden she had about six hands,
stroking,tugging,unzipping,unbuttoning. I was flat on my back
on the slab, and it was like being in the planetarium at the
FranklinInstituteon our senior trip: these two enormousplanets
were orbitingabove me, surrounded by stars. I zoomed in for a
closerlook, astronaut-style,and we had ignition. All bets were
off.
And then, the ticking started.
Real soft at first-tick, tick, tick, tick-then louder and
louder-TICK, TICK,TICK!TICK, TICK, TICK!I tried to push
her off me, to get away, but she had me. Leglock,hammerlock,
liplock,pinned. I felt like she was sucking my whole body inside
her. By now she was moaning and muttering, then yipping and
yelping, finally screaming to wake the holy dead. Under my
head, the cold slab was hammering like a metronome, fasterand
faster. I felt it shaking, quaking, shuddering, trembling like a
volcanoabout to blow. And then, with her hot breasts muffling
my ears,I gave her all I had. She wasn't screaming anymore but
smiling,her front tooth clicking,the tomb ticking like a Timex,
t~e marble slab sizzlinglike a griddle. Under my back the slab
still ~embled but gradually settled down, like somebody was
pushingat it from below and decided it was just too heavy to
move.
Shemoved off me, and the stars prickled my skin like needles.
26 PhilipGerard

What the hell was going on?
She got up and stood over me, and for just a split second I
couldn't move, I felt like a stiff at my own wake. "Take me
home," she says.
Old Zeke was guarding the porch, and I swear this time he
stood up. I wasn't sticking around to get acquainted-I made
tracks out of there. Back at my place I had a late appointment
with Mister Scotch, and in bed alone I heard that damn ticking
all night long, but on my ceiling there weren't any stars, just
water stains.
So now what happens? I'll tell you. Benny was still out of
town, and next night I got to the R. W atcha Eat early and rattled
around waiting for Wanda to show. I watched the dock over the
counter, the dock was ticking. Six-thirty, seven-thirty, eight
o'dock. Tick, tick, tick.
The waitress who brought over my pitchers stood by the
booth each time, drumming her fingers, waiting for me to pay
up-tick, tick, tick.
In the backroom, Big Mike the owner was typing out the
paychecks with his index finger, one letter at a time: tick, tick,
tick.
The counter girl tapped a pencil on the bartop: tick, tick, tick.
One of the regulars stood chicking his boot against the
barstep, tick, tick, tick.
When I got up to use the john, the spigot dripped-tick, tick,
tick.
Behind the counter, the night cook was boiling water in a
covered pot. Using a mitt he lifted the lid and plopped in a
dozen wriggling crabs. When he put the lid back on he held it
there, grinning, while the doomed critters clawed against the
metal. You could hear them, tick, tick, tick. "Got to hold the lid
on tight, or they jump right out and bite you!" he says.
Where was Wanda?
"Wanda Nickerson?" the counter girl replied, still tapping her
pencil. "She's scheduled. But we'll get by without her, I guess.
Slow night."
"Wait a minute," I said. "What did you call her?"
She laughed a hard laugh. "Don't tell me you never even
asked her name," she says. "Isn't that just too typical."
Just then Benny walked in, back from Philly. 'Where's
Wanda?"
"Come on," I said. "Let's go find out."
PhilipGerard2 7

His pickup knew the way better than mine, so we took it. He
did his whole routine with the lights and engine, and we coasted
to a stop near the churchyard. "Now what?" he says.
"I don't know-how am I supposed to know?" But my instincts told me try the ticking tomb, and before I even said so
Benny and I were headed up that worn path again. What did we
expect to find? Maybe nothing, maybe Wanda spread-eagled on
the slab with some lucky farmboy, who knows. What we didn't
expect to find was old Zeke and his shotgun stalking down from
the tomb looking like he had just done some dirty business and
nobody better get in his way. There was enough moonlight for
six graveyards, and we didn't have time to find a decent hiding
place.
"You there!" he bellowed, and we took off into the rows of
headstones, tripping over marble slabs and stumbling around
like something on the Saturday matinee.
I looked back-the way you should never do in a situation
like that. I saw the flash of his shotgun muzzle and felt all those
pellets roar past my ear so hard I lost my place for a minute. Benny tackled me down behind a headstone as that creepshow
fugitive let loose with another blast. The shot rattled like hail
against the headstone. "You don't belong here!" he yelled across
the churchyard. "Get out of here and don't never come back!"
It sounded like a good idea to me, but you know Benny, he's
always got to have the last word. 'Where is shei' he yelled back.
''Where's Wanda?"
I couldn't tell whether old Zeke was laughing or only grunting. ''Back where she belongs," he shouted, and blasted away.
''Where she usually is this time of night!" Blam, blam, blam.
It was almost two weeks before me and Benny got the nerve
to go back there. We went in daylight, figuring maybe our imaginations had got the best of us that night. But we couldn't ignore the pellet-holes that peppered the driver's door of Benny's
pickup. And Wanda had not come back to work since. Ginny
Rae, too, had done a disappearing act.
The house was the same as on that other day-quiet as death,
the rocker empty. But there was somebody home, that much we
both knew. You could feel them in there, watching.
We slunk up the path like housebreakers, nervously looking
over our shoulders. The ticking tomb was still there. I knelt and
pressed my ear to the slab: tick, tick, tick. Faint, faraway, no
28 PhilipGerard

louder than a wristwatch. Benny heard it, too.
'Where do you think she went?'' Benny asked, scouting the
churchyard Indian-fashion.
-1 said, ''I don't even want to guess.''
''Maybe we should break into the house. Maybe she's there."
I shook my head. ''She's not in the house, Benny."
'~ eah, you're right," he says, and he was so sad about it I
knew right there and then I couldn't ever tell him about my wild
night at the planetarium. What was the point?
Benny was shifting around from foot to foot, and none of this
was sinking in. ''Then where did Wanda go, Yank?''
I shrugged. I wasn't going to be the one to spell it out for him.
'~ou know women. They never stick around long.''
'1'm not cut out for this romance stuff," he says. ''Let's go
throw the ball around.''
On the way out of there, the valves in Benny's old Dodge
were tapping, tickety-tickety-tickety.
•
.

Now, Benny made the mistake of telling this s·tory around,
which you ask me was why he finally left town for Okie City.
He kept getting into fights over it, specially when I wasn't there
to bail him out. I myself am a little brighter than that, and tried
my best to forget it ever happened. But two things made me
remember, which you ask me is two too many.
The first is that Mr. Brink the history teacher came down to a
ballgame one afternoon during a rainout and caught me in the
dugout. He started talking about sepulchres again, which as he
said I had brought the subject up a while back and he heard I had
been out to the ticking tomb. The raindrops splattered the concrete roof of the dugout, tick-tick-tick.
He says, ''Funny thing is, Yank, nobody knows anymore
who's buried out there. Used to say it was an old man, but that's
not necessarily so.'' He chewed on his pipe awhile to make me
fidget. ''Could be anybody, man, woman, or child." Then, like a
babysitter trying to have a mean laugh on the little brat that
won't go to sleep on time, he says, ''Could be a lot of people."
What was I supposed to say to that? I sat and watched the rain
make mush out of the basepaths and run down the drains by the
dugout.
And the second is this: A couple of days later I was up to Philly to visit Benny in the hospital, where he was having his knee
fixed by the doctors. I went out into the stairwell to cop a cig
PhilipGerard2 9

while they gave him his sponge bath, and I heard somebody a
nurse probably, come into the stairwell on the floor below mi~e
I listened to her footfalls on the metal stairs-thud-thud-thud·
then bang-bang-bang, then clop-clop-clop. This went on and on'
till finally, after about ten minutes it seemed like, I could he~
her way at the bottom: tick-tick-tick, tick-tick-tick, tick-tick-tick
and she just kept going, and I kept on hearing her. I got chills'
listening to her like that. My cig burned all way down to th~
filter. And I could still hear her, and the only other thing I could
hear was my own heart pounding at my sore ribs. Tick, tick,
tick, she went, and thump, thump, thump, went my heart.
It came over me again worse than ever, that graveyard scare. I
could see the headstones shining like teeth under the moon, that
path worn through the high grass from all those feet going back
and forth from the ticking tomb, old Zeke standing guard in his
rocking chair. The slab of the ticking tomb hot under my back,
trembling. And the footfalls on the stairway, softer and softer,
going tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
Lardy, I thought, she must be a long way down.

JO Philip
Gerard
_________________

_

StefanieMarlis

15½
Sometimeschangestays closeto the body, it's the new
dreamsthe boy tends with his hands,the imaginarygirl.
Your teenageson gettingin trouble downtown
and you assureyourselfhe's growing-uptowardswhole
boy, not just golden.But you want him good again
Your boy like young Eroswith bow & arrow;
the archerhying out tequilaup at the lake overlooks
old valleys-of all A's, the aquariumguppies,
of cleanroom, model planes,littlesister.His quiver
black leatherand studded,saysit clearly,perfectlyfor now.

31

LaurieKirk

High School Teacher
Usually they stare at me
or out the window,
whichever's more interesting.
Right now, I'm losing
to robins, gr~, wasps,
but mostly hormones,
unstable as their loves
on thissunny afternoon
one hour before spring
break. So I give a test
on Emily Dickinson,
the woman whose bird
bit a worm in two,
the poem I've included
for analysis of new material.
Two boys in the back
snicker, then mouth
the next line in unison:
"and ate the fellow raw''
as Kell points to his lap.
A girl in the front row
pumps one tanned leg up
and down, up and down,
and the boy next to her
is hypnotized, his paper
blank, while Lesliewrites

MARCUS MARCUS MARCUS
all over her margins.
I should probably call
it a day, but my job
is to set the tone,
so I swallow what wants
to be a smile, tell
them their hour's almost
32

up, even as my own
sex beginsto pulse,
more subtle than theirs,
a little more selective,
though my hourgla&5,
like my figure,
is fillingup fast.

__________________

_.....urieKirk 33

Ron McFarland

Heroics
Playingonly halfof Beethoven'sThird
at the high schoolband concert, we only
halfbutcheredit by our mathematics.
Yearslater I heard it played by some
philharmonicorchestradressedin black
and realizedour calculationswere off
by virtue of infinitudeand time.
Turning to a new arithmetic,
a math of higher fractions,
the melodiccalculus,I found
remnantsof harmony, soft scraps
we neither heard nor
dreamt of hearingin the desperate
squeaksof clarinetsand the bad
approximationsof trombones.
Even by finite numbers
one halfof a third is a sixth:
BillyMalseedon the tympany
for the firsttime, Art Dodzweit
masteredby his new Frenchhorn,
and I pressingmy upper lip numb
with my tarnishedtrumpet, all of us
trying to guess what Beethovenhad in mind,
knowing nothing of Napoleon in the Alps.
Our grim conductor never cracked a smile.

34

e
•

The highway bends just right for a place like this,
slowingyou straightinto a gravelledparking space
and scrambledeggs folded like a formal handkerchief,
hashbrownsa flat rectangle,great coffee.
You thought this place was famous for something,
not eggs, God knows. They're out of pie today.

•

-

Everyonehere has a first name but you.
The waitresscould be your grandmother,the one who
refused to go to your parents'wed • .._,cut you
out of her will, and left it all to the Humane Society. .

•

The guy at the counter drivesa hard bargain
on his hard-drivenpickup etched a faded blue
againstthe wheat stubble.He11throw in the pair · .
of stuffed pink dice he won at the fair, and the gun rack
but not the rifle. The short order cook is hooked.
•

After ten this place gets back to normal,
just the waitresssaying this is her last cup,
the cook washing up and ha • ..,,.....
into the mountains
in his faded blue dream, the giant moosehead
.
under which you ate so fearlesslygloweringsteady
through his bright glasseyes, and you drivingaway.

________________

•

RonMcFarland35

•

n wing-Rash

Candice St.JacquesMiles

Home Fires
The officer's boots crunched on the loose gravel. Without
bothering to look, Bonnie Withers listened as he picked his way
across the dry riverbed towards her little Toyota's final rest stop.
She poked awkwardly inside the cement chunk border of her
fire pit with the clump of dead mesquite she'd been using as
tongs. The morning sun was too low to give off any warmth,
and her hands were still stiff from the night's chill.
"Hello, Ma' am," said the officer. Younger than her brother
Will, thought Bonnie.
"Momin'," she said.
"You're staying out here, Ma'amr'
Bonnie nodded in the direction of the battered car. '1t's not
going anywhere. I'm not either."
He nodded slowly and pulled out a metal-backed notepad.
"Do you have some identification? Driver's license? Car
registrationr'
Bonnie sighed. "I'd offer you some coffee, Officer, but I'm
fresh out."
He repeated the questions in a louder voice.
"I heard you," she said. "I'm not deaf. Or retarded." She stared
at him a moment, as if expecting argument. When none came,
she continued. "No, I don't. Not anymore."
"What happened to themr'
"Don't suppose you have any coffee?
"No," he said. "May I have your name, Ma'amr'
"Have I committed a crimer'
"This is private property, Ma'am. We've had a complaint."
"Thisr' Bonnie gestured. The Toyota rested against a dead
tree. A threadbare tire was half-buried in a wash of debris. On
either sloped side of the channel, rip-rap interspersed with hardpacked yellow dirt, to which clung desert weeds and shrubs. "I
can't see that I'm offending too many neighbors in this country
club lot."
"It's still private land, Ma'am. I've got to ask you to move on."
37

Bonnie wiped her nose with the cuff ?f her sweater. "What
happens if I don't?" She bared her teeth m a smile. "Is your jail

7"

w~ didn't laugh. The policeman walked over to her car and
rested a gloved hand on its scratched, dented hood.
"All my worldly possessions," said Bonnie. "Think I should
have a yard sale?"
"How long have you been here?"
She shrugged, knowing he couldn't see the gesture. When he
didn't hear an answer, he turned back to look. The weak sun
flashed off his tinted glasses. His boots looked sturdy and warm.
She shrugged again. "Coupla months."
"Where you from?"
''Midwest."
"There are shelters, you know."
She laughed and bit her lower lip. "Ever had a drunk pee on
you when you're asleep?"
He walked around the car, looking in the windows. "There's a
baby carrier in here, and toys. You have a child?"
Bonnie stood up. "When do I have to be out of here?"
"I'll take you to a family shelter if you have a child."
"No. Thank you."
''Ma'am, I know this seems ... " He took off the glasses and
rubbed the red lines they'd left on either side of the bridge of his
nose. He stared up at the white sky and the brighter whiteness
that was the winter sun. "It's going to rain soon. These dry
washes aren't good places to be when it rains."
"Appreciate the weather report, Officer. I haven't heard the
news in a while. Weather these days just seems to be what happens while the sun moves up and around-it gets cold and then
colder. But then what do I know? I thought before I came here
that this part of the country was supposed to be hot. At least
warm. Was I surprised! Should have brought that nice fur coat.
That's me, never prepared. I'd never make a boy scout, would

17"
Bonnie couldn't tell if he flushed from embarrassment or
anger. Sarcasm, she knew, always brought trouble from them. It
gave the anger they felt around her a place to hit. But, living
alone in the open, she no longer choked back her words. The
mountains were too far away to echo them. Their heat
evaporated in such a hungry sky.
th
The earth had its roots in her now. She'd lost the pattern, e
38 CandiaSt. Jacques
Miles

key, to cities. She couldn't move from this dry channel, Shcd
been where this officer was-clean pants, chewing gum in silver
wrappers, the smell of cigarette smoke and a car's interjor, She
knew the difference, He must think it was just washing up,
renting a place with a stove that heated up when the dial turned,
giving away her time to people who spent their days in dusty
rooms and laughed at electricshadows,She remembered plumb•
ing. When it didn't worki it hardened into dead meta), crusted
and flaked in a dry white bowl below uselesslyswingjnghandles
of white porcelain marked ''froid'' and ''chaud'' that left nothing
but spit for washing a tiny red face whose budding nose open•
ings couldn.'tbreathe. Choked off by hidden tubes, houses made
hard-edged,drafty tombs, Nature, most and least, did not lie,
She didn't want to move. She'd been in his shoes, but he
didn't know hers. Lethjm feel bad. Did he think she had a choice
here? That she was just campingout a few days?She wiJJedhim
to go, imaginingthat once the sound of his squad car's tires end•
ed, she'd lift a scourge of stiff branches against the husk of her
car until her arms stayed down against her will. Then she might
be hungry and humble enough to panhandle the suits or walk
the long path to the church where the priest gave quarters,
The radio strapped to his hip crackled.He touched it until the
sound stopped, then reached into his pant pocket and brought
out his wallet. He handed her a five dollar bill,
''Get something to eat," he said, ''Don't be here the next time I
check, okay?''
''Sure," said Bonnie. ''No problem."
1

The garbage truck bellowed a dinosaurs warning. Irritated
metal squealed. Restaurants blocks away eructed l.ast night's
browned onions. The swish of traffic, a speeding morning tide,
obediently stayed a few deadly feet from the curb.
Bonnie neared a girl wearing shiny tights and a zippered
turtleneck dress that matched her vivid plastic hoop earrings.
''Oh, Jesus," said the girl. Her lips and nose pulled together.
She stepped aside in doddering heels. ''Christ, they're
everywhere."
The girl pulled a vinyl bag higher on her shoulder, turned, and
moved to the shelter of a bus stand.
Bonnie trudged past without response.
The door to Gold's Cafe opened and banged shut in front of
her. Bonnie'sstomach growled at the sudden smell of coffee and
CandictSI.Jacques
Miles 39

itself, and entered.

one lookedup. She took a comer seat. The radiosangsometh·
packed snow hard as rock and as dead.
•
A black woman with an apron swathed round her belly
turned an earthenwaremug upright on the table. The fullglass
bubble swayed as coffee approached, then was pulled back
Steamcurledoff its dark, liquidsurface,up throughthe spouted
neck. Bonnie looked up into eyes that neither welcomednor
condemned, but met hers with patient, blamelesssuspicion.She
pulled the money loose and pressed it against the table,
weighing it down with an amber glass ashtray.
'Want cream?''
''Yes, please."
''111get you a menu."
A man two tables away looked at her over his newspaper,
sighed, turned the page, and lifted it again. Bonnie tried to imagine where she'd last heard the song that still played. Country
music was this area's radio language. She couldn't remember
what the songs she once knew sounded like anymore.
The door opened and clattered shut. The woman who entered
looked as out of place to her as Bonnie herself did. For all the
other reasons.
''Excuseme. Excuse me," she said to the black woman.
''Just a minute, Ma'am."
The handsomewoman blushed and stepped a few pacesback
and forth. She ran one hand's long fingernailsalong the countertop. The other ar1n clutched some papers.
The waitress plugged a scrawled newsprint slip onto the
aluminumcarouselbehind the counter, and turned it to facethe
cook. She slid her hand under an order steamingbeneaththe

his coffee cup. She nodded and moved to the dispenser.
''I'd like to speak to you a moment,'' said the wo~an.

was clear, unaffected by wealth. This was obviously not a
The blackwaitressfinished.She stood behind the cashregis
40 Candice
51',Jacques
Miles

•

and waited expectantly. ''Yes?''
The woman pulled a flyer loose from the stack clutched under
her arm.
''Are you the proprietor?'' she asked.
The black woman bowed her head.
''I'd be very grateful if you could post this in your shop. I'm
going to all the merchants on this street. It's important that I
reach everyone."
She pushed the paper over the cash register. The owner took
it. Her glance went down and up like a slow yo-yo.
''He might come in here,"' said the woman, gesturing around
the cafe. Her eyes passed over Bonnie and returned briefly
before moving politely past. ''I've got to find him."
''What'd you lose, lady," said a heavy man at the counter,
''your puppy dog?''
Visibly angered by his assumption, the woman straightened
her spine and tilted her well-coiffed head to the side and back.
''No," she answered, her voice a soft barb. ''My father."
The owner's eyes returned to the paper in her hand. ''He's a
good-looking man," she said noncommitally.
The man at the counter reached for the flyer and looked.
''Haven't seen him,'' he said.
''He's ill," said the woman. ''He needs medication. Without it,
he's more ... disoriented. He probably can't remember how to
get home.''
''You think he's around here?''
''No. I don't know. He missed his stop. He could be anywhere
near the bus lines. I thought he might have continued south,
towards the river, because his bus to the senior center was going
that direction. But I don't know anything for sure. No one's seen
him. He's been missing ... a week ... now." The woman felt her
throat as if her glands were swollen. The hand shook.
Bonnie rubbed her own neck and looked at the blackened
half-moons of her split fingernails. For an instant she imagined
her own fat her wandering through the streets that she now
knew so well. She would have liked to introduce him around,
show him what had resulted from his refusal to accept her phone
calls. Nothing she'd done to him was so bad that she'd deserved
to be treated that way. Everyone makes mistakes. But she'd paid
for hers. A lot.
The bell in the kitchen rang. The owner lifted the flyer to the
woman as a kind of salute. ''I'll put this in the front window,
CandiceSI.JacquesMilts 41

Ma'am. I do hope you find your father."
,,
''Than k you.
Bonnie smiled, caught in a mental vision of her dad sleeping
with his back curled against the chain link fence of the shelter
She closed her eyes and rocked in her chair, remembering Bone;
Jack and The Beard. They could show her pompous father
something. They'd change his perspective on the world. She
laughed to herself.
''Do you know something?''
Bonnie opened her eyes. The woman was standing closer
staring at her intently. Bonnie's mouth opened in surprise.
'
"You laughed," said the woman. "Please don't hide anything
from me. He's very ill. He needs help. Please?''
Bonnie slowly sipped her coffee. She lowered the mug, smiled
again, and rocked in her chair.
·
''Please," begged the woman. ''Take me to him."
''She doesn't know anything," said the owner.
But the woman wouldn't turn away. Bonnie looked at the
powdered face, the colored eyeshadow, the gold chain around
the woman's neck. She laughed a bitter laugh.
"Do you know how many lost people are out there?" she
asked the woman.
The woman's gaze, a dumbstruck suitor's, grew more intense
with the attention. Bonnie suddenly despised her.
''I don't know shit. Let me be." Then, to the black cafe owner,
she said with mock hauteur, ''I believe I'm ready to order now."
First rain plopped random dots across the pavement. The
moisture pressed long unwashed odors back towards the
ground. A rar approached: yellow lights showed a swirling mist
that wasn't yet a downpour in its path; its wipers beat a squawky
rhythm.
Bonnie felt the tremor as a slow train came near. Lights ahead
alternated flashes from the turnstile that descended in shaky
drops toward the road. A bell clanged. Across the barrier, the car
rolled closer and stopped. With a hiss, the rain came nearer,
harder.
Rivulets of water shivered off Bonnie's hair. The train rolled
closer, moving with irritating slowness when Bonnie watched .it
off to the side, then impossibly fast and faster as it swirled m

between the locomotive's cars, Bonnie watched the wiper
42 Candice
St. Jacques
Miles

the car flap, now soundlessly, backward, forward, backward,
and on. The two people sitting dry inside it looked through the
train at her without speaking.
The train swooped past. The beeping warning lights lifted to
free the road. Still on beat, the car's wipers could be heard again
as it pulled forward. A woman was driving. The man with her
peered sideways through the glass as Bonnie stepped once more
toward the tracks. He had neatly cut hair and a stiff shirt collar
just showing above the neck of a solid sweater. The car purred
by.
Across the tracks, a footpath of packed dirt and rocks curved
into the wash. Bonnie trudged down it, while the rain beat
harder on the back of her head. Her hair had flattened into a
slick helmet, and her clothes weighed heavy on her shoulders
and arms. The path, slippery even when dry, felt treacherous
under her smooth-soled shoes. She watched each step. At the
bottom. she looked up.
The Toyota was an island. A plane of rippling water encircled
it. Bonnie heard -the funny sound of pebbles soddenly clink
against one another as the water rolled them downstream. Rain
pricked the grey surface with thousands of tiny circles.
Her feet slid out from underneath her. She landed heavily.
"You okay?"
The voice came from behind her. Bonnie turned and saw a
man sitting partly under a mesquite bush. She flushed, angry and
embarrassed.
"Yeah. Sort of."
"That your car?"
"Used to be."
He chuckled. "Used to drive it, too, I bet. Now you could
pilot it, I suppose, if you liked boats."
Bonnie didn't answer.
"You live here?"
She pushed herself up with her hands and grabbed a shrub to
pull herself closer to him. His eyebrows were bushy and grey.
He smiled idiotically in a lined face, showing gold on a molar.
His clothes matched too well.
,,
"Yes I live here" she said. "Welcome to my humble abode.
"I a~preciate yo~r hospitality. Care to shar~ my tree?"
,,
"It doesn't seem to be doing you a whole fiery lot of good.
The old man pressed against its spines. Thunder ru_mble~fro?1
the pigeon-colored sky. He shrugged. "I should've hid behmd it.
CandiaSt. Jacques
Miles 43

Then you would'~e thoug~t I was the voice of the Lord God
speaking in the wilderness.
"Those were burning bushes, weren't they? One, at least?"
"It wouldn't catch fire. I tried."
"No, I can't imagine it would have," said Bonnie.
"Can you make a fire?"
She saw he was shaking. "No, I can't right now," she told him
''My matches are in the car, and it's too wet."
•
"That's a pity."
Bonnie sniffed hard and wiped her nose on her drenched
sleeve. The old man's pant legs had ridden up above his socks.
Thin-haired legs showed white and goosepimpled.
"Your daughter's looking for you."
His face squinched together. His eyes looked at hers with
vague comprehension.
"You've been wandering around a long time?"
He nodded.
"Bet you've seen some interesting stuff."
"Yes, I have indeed." He smiled. "Do you have something to
ea.t?"
"No," she said. "Sorry."
They listened to the hissing of the rain. The clouds looked low
enough to touch.
"Women hold up half the sky,"' said the old man. "Know
who said that?"
"No."

"Mao Tze-tung. Chairman Mao. King of the Reds."
"I don't hold up anything," Bonnie told him.
"Sure you do. You can't help it. You take up space, right? You
live. You breathe. When you stand up, you move the air out of
the way."
She shook her head. "You're crazy."
"I might be," he agreed. "I've stopped giving a damn about a
lot of stuff that used to be real important. But I'm not alone.
Billionsof Red Chinese could take over the world, do you know
that? Because their women fight like men. That Chairman Mao's
a clever guy. Doubled their army."
"He's dead."
"Doesn't matter." The old man leaned forward and
whispered, "I saw some Chinese. Here! Now!"
"They grow flowers."
"Where?"
44 Candice
SI. Jacques
Miles

"Down there." She gestured up the stream.
"They raise flowers and sell them in the supermarkets."
"A plot. A damned plot," he said. "Their women sell them
right?"
'
Bonnie shrugged.
"See?"
She laughed, liked the sound of it, and laughed harder. The
old man looked pleased that he'd said something funny.
"You pay attention to me," he said. "I like that."
She felt in her jacket pocket. She had a dollar and some coins
left from the meal. She could take him to the diner and buy him
some coffee while the black waitress called his daughter. They'd
owe her. They might buy her supper.
The rain stopped. Bushes continued to drip, but little circles
no longer dented the sheet of water, and she could look up
without being stung. Used to be that washing your hair in rain
water was a good thing, she thought.
"It's stopped," said the old man.
"Looks like it."
''Do you see a rainbow?"
She looked back and forth. "No."
''Maybe it's over there, up the ridge or on the other side," he
said.
"Maybe."
"I might go try to find it."
She slid her hands back into her pockets and clenched the
money in a hard fist. The old man stood up and shook himself.
His pant legs were plastered against his skin. Mud smeared the
arms of his sweater.
Or maybe, thought Bonnie, the daughter would figure she'd
had him all along. She thought of the police officer who looked
like her brother Will. Jails were never warm.
The old man patted her shoulder when he walked past. Bonnie watched him come to the edge of the running stream. He
waded in, unsteady as a man on stilts, and pushed through the
water downstream from the Toyota, over her drowned fire. It
almost reached his knees. She watched with disbelief as he
forced himself farther in, then up the opposite side. It wasn't as
deep as it looked.

---------------

Candice
St. Jacques
Miles45

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Norman Dubie

New Age at Airport Mesa
My husbandwas hangingwet sheets,almostin disbelief,
When he had his heart attack.It kickedhim
In the neck and shoulder;the heavy linen,
Flyingbackwardswith him, was sucked
Into his mouth-he was like that Wyomingsnowfield
Where the ground above the old cisterncollapsed.
I was stillgrievingwhen the oleanderblossomed.
So Ruth and I rented a cottagefor a month.I painted
The streamand poplars.Ruth meditated
And made enough cucumbersandwichesto feed
Us and our dead husbands.She had a visionthat third week
Of a naked Navajogiantesseatinga peach.
It was so real that the juiceof the peach
Ran down her chin and breastsstrikingthe dust
Likea rain of nails.Ruth was delightedwith her vision
Untilshe realizedit was meaningless.
Our last afternoonin the cottageshe was feelingnauseous
And I was bored
So I visitedthe canyonfor the firsttime alone.I whistled
A warningto the snakes.
I found a sandstoneplatformabove a young palo verde.
My mind wanderedfor I don't know how long
UntilI realizedI had been staring, at somedistance,
At two nude women, girlsreally,
Kneelingbeforeone anotherand touchingthemselves:
They began to ki$-they were both blonde,it was
More like one woman and a mirror.What they did I wouldn't
Tellyou. But toward the end I could even hear them.
As I listenedto their criesrising above the desert,
I beganto cry with them. The hot wind
Driedmy tears.It dried their mouths,their wholebodies. . •
47

Laterwhen I told Ruth she amazinglyapproved
And announcedit was a vision.I agreed
So she would stop talking. . . I smiled.
Sat on the couch.
I told her I was done feelingsorry for myself.

48 Nonnan Dubie

Fever
-for my wife

In your sleep you talked.
There are cows standing in white mud.
A bale of hay has fallen out of the sky for them.
The cows are rejoicing,
Standing on their hind legs.
Theirrough teats caked
With the white mud.
Theirgreat skulls above the ground fog.
While you talked I bathed you with a sponge
From a basin of ice and alcohol.
I told you that in my childhood,
During the mud season, old boards ran from the house
To the barns and then out into pastureland ...

Thefarmer's wife is walking
On the old boards out to the dancing cows.
She'spissed and wants their milk.
Another bale of hay
Is fallingfrom the sky. It's killed the farmer's wife.
Good enough for her.
Themud is sucking her down. Good-bye.
I said, "You know I love you."

Oh, my god, the farmer's wife is alive.
She's climbing out of the mud
Onto an old board. She looks like a tooth.
Oh, my god, she is a tooth.
I love you too.
NormanDubie49

I

•
J

It was the firstsnow in memory, and
A dark morning.
The cypre&5
trees had fallenfrom the skies
Likelong fan feathersof the white ibis.
.

The patron, Piero de' Medici,
Eating his orange,
ChildishlysummonedMichelangelo
Backto the villa
From the • ary of Santo Spirito
Where the sculptor
Had •• ed a fresh body, his awful
Studiesin anatomy.

•

A huge block of snow was shaded
With skins
And the young Michelangelo
Was to make a virgin and child.
Servantsof Piero,as a joke,
Had spoiledthe marble
With a trickleof ox blood. Then
They paved the uncarvedblock
With more snow and a glaze of water.
Under the afternoon sun
Michelangeloreachedthe courtyard
And the snowmen of Piero's bastardchildren
Had saggedinto large pears
Which the hungry birds sat·upon . . .
Piero de' Medici, disappointedwith the sun,
Had gone to bed with his firstcousin
Who as a girl
Had roasted and eaten her favorite falcon.
50 NormanDubie

•

•
•

Stillin his hospitalapron
Michelangelosat in the cart
With one hand on a muddy wheel

•
•
•

And staredinto the white stubble
Of the distantfield.All he couldsee
Was the beardedface of the old
He had undone that samemorning.
He took his wrap of knives
And approachedthe blockof snow. He threw
Off the goat skins.He told Pierolater
Thata woman and childwere buriedin snow;
Thathe found them, but
In the sunlightthey turnedto water
And wine, possiblywater and blood.He didn't
Know.Make no mistake,he said,
The
likea crustof breadabsorbedthem.
~lirt-h

NormanDubie51

The snowplowwas a rattlingiron box
With a long chainspar • behind it.
The one curledblade raisedto the air in Sanskrit.··
The blue light on the floor of the cab
Was muted by a rag. The window, cracked·.
On my side, was sealedin the rose tint
Of a pin-upfrom the garage.

I

•

The windshieldwipersmade time. The • beams
Failedin the • t,
In the revealedlight that is snow.
From the back of the truck CharlieMinor,
Who stood with a shovel in a mountain of rock salt,
Coughedand yowled. My grandfathershiftedgears
And we began the descentto the county roads.

•

The blade dropped like the lip of a snarlingdog.
,
Comingoff the hill,going ·...,_
We left the hard dirt that Parker plowed
And hit the
snow. Eightyears old,
I reachedinto waxpaper
•
For chunksof ham, some cheese and the red potatoes.
He laughed,a thennos of coffee in his hand;
Past midnight,he looked back
And I was asleep,
Propped up with a pillow of old sUIVeyors'maps.
CharlieMinor drank from his pint of whiskey,
Ye • ---to my grandfather,''Sure is a bitch, Earl.''
My grandfatheradjustedhis weight and put it to the floor.
The next morning hisheart gave out.
In the barns we passedthere were cows, each with a face
As distantas thisworld.
'-'I.I.

-·~~

52 Norman
Dubie~------------------

Debra Bolin

•

Untitled, Black and White photograph .

•

•

53

Catherine Marconi

The Job
A calf-a-minute
job meansthe tools
mustbe ready and the men willing.
Takessomeoneto wade throughshit,
push calfaftercalfup to the chute,
leaninginto it with both 1~,
and someoneelsewho11catchthe calf
that slamshead-longinto the squeeze,
to pull the trap-bardown tight over its ribs
whilehe alsotips
the calf,tableand all,down flat
so a third guy can lean his elbow into the flank,
whilea fourth makesa quick-catch,both hind feet
roped, that he stretchesout,
swinging into it with his hips,
so the fellaacros.5the table from him
can lay into the brandthe butane torch in the brandingpot
bellowingits flame at two irons,
one alwaysred and one step behind him.
At the same time the ear man-with his tools
knife,stone, and ear-tickoil
on an upendedlug box-

54

shoves his thigh down onto the calf's nose
to cut a slit in the right ear, a swallowfork
in the left, as the blood spurts,
while the last man, the one who cuts the hairsack,

who milksout the testicles, and snips the cords
off fast,tossing them (the oysters)
into a bucket, is the one to fry them after.

_________________

Catherine
Marconi55

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56

Bradley J. Henderson

The Pride 0£ This Valley
The goat was cornered-behind it was the cruel simplicity of
a barbed wire fence, and closing in from the open field were Billy and Jasco. "Let's get a little closer, Jasco," said the ranch herdsman to his younger friend. "But walk steady now, walk steady.
That bastard's wild. He'll slip right through that wire fence if we
press him."
Side by side, Billy and Jasco walked cautiously, their boots
crunching stalks of dry brush against the arid ground. A mosquito buzzed in Jasco's ear, and landed on his neck. Jasco swatted
it and said, "I thought we left the mosquitos back in that irrigated
pasture. Guess one followed us." He wiped the smashed insect
off his neck, and with his thumb and forefinger ground the remains until there was nothing. Smiling, he looked over at Billy
to see if he had seen him do this.
The sun hung low in the sky and in an hour it would pass
_ behind the flat-topped Indian Mountains. In one more hour the
valley would turn purple and dark. They had to shoot that goat,
and skin it and hang it so that it would be ready for the Sunday
barbecue tomorrow. The task seemed simple to Jasco.
When they got within 25 yards of the goat, it started getting
squirrelly, ramming its head against the barbed wire. "That
cocksucker's got wind of us. Let's us take a stand. Easy now," Billy raised the rifle and pointed it at the goat.
Jasco could see the goat's face clearly. He could see the white
froth on its hairy lips. He could see its eyes-there was no mind
to them; they just reflected light like two glass buttons sewn to a
doll. Jasco drew in a breath of raw, dusk air, and watched Billy, a
28-year-old man in dusty blue jeans, a man lean and tough from
work, pull the trigger and drop the goat. Wap. The goat fell
dead, stone dead.
The two of them walked over to the fence and looked down.
Jasco's ears rang from the gunshot. He had to give the animal
credit. Ever since the goat had charged past them and escaped
out into the cattle fields, it had put up a good fight. An hour had

57

passed since Billy and he had gone up to the barn to "take car 0 f
the slaughtering business with that goat."
e
Billy knelt d~wn m:d patted t_hestill war~ and loose rum .
"Sorry fella," Billy said m a qmet, apologehc voice, "But I'p
afraid you got elected for a_barbecue." ~illy turned to Jasco,~
face serious. He scratched his unshaven Jowl and said, "Grab his
hind legs. Let's walk him back up ~o the headquarters." Jasco
perked up; Billy made the whole thmg seem very practical.
Sunlight diffused through the rolldown shades that covered
the two east windows in Jasco's bedroom. He woke up slowly-the warm, morning light upon him. Only on Sundays did
Jasco get to rise after the sun. The bunkhouse was quiet. Now
that all the alfalfa was put up, the hay crew that his uncle hired
had moved out. In another month, he would be gone too and
back home starting his last year of high school. Until then, his
uncle had an extra hired man besides Billy Chester.
Minutes passed before Jasco heard a vehicle on the gravel promenade which joined three dwellings-his uncle's house, Billy's
trailer, and the bunkhouse. The sound of the engine made a low
throb in his chest. When Jasco looked outside, he saw a pickup
pulling a black iron barbecue cart. Billy was driving, and Jasco
watched him bounce up and down, synchronous with the metal
cart as it strained and bucked behind the lunging vehicle.
Jasco reached down and scratched himself. Standing in the
light of the window, his eyes wrinkled slits, his hair ruffled from
sleep, he said out loud, "I guess we really are going to cook that
goat." He imagined his friends back home would get a real kick
when he told them about this one. Most of them were working
at the community pool as lifeguards; life sure was different back
home.
Jasco's tiny bunkhouse was comfortable in a way different
from his parents' rambling split-level with its white wool carpet
and antiseptically clean glass table tops and shelves. Here Jasco
was pleased with the worn furniture that he selected from his
uncle's storage room, and found the faded green linoleum more
practical for his daily 100 push-ups. The first 80 came easily, and
the last 20 he managed with blind determination. He refused to
cheat by bending his back or resting on his chest.
His pectoral muscles were filled with blood and his arms
pushed out from his torso like a scarecrow. Out on the front
porch, he punched the side of the bunkhouse. The brightness of
58 Bradley].Henderson

the morningsun closed his eyes and his right fist stung. He looked at it and saw chips of white paint stuck against the sweaty red
knuckles.

•

•

•

As Jascowalked to his uncle's,he noticed Lajollawas working
in her garden. It wasn't much of a garden really, just a small
patch of eight or ten stalks of corn, a couple tomato plants, and
some squash. The squash looked the best. But Lajollawas fond
of it, and some SundaysJascohelped her weed. The weeds were
forever-the vegetable plants weren't strong enough to
dominate without outside help.
Billywasn't around. Jascowondered if he should stop and say
hi to Lajolla,or whether he should just continue down to his uncle'splace and help with the preparation for the afternoon's party. It was nearly ten and the guests would start coming around
one o'clock.
Jascocould tell Lajollanoticed him but she kept working as if
he were not there. ''Did the weeds come back again?''he asked.
Lajollaput down the hoe. Slapping dust off her green slacks
and straighteningher bikini top, she smiled shyly. ''Hey Jasco,
how are you today.''
Lajollaput both hands into her back pockets and started rocking nervously back and forth on her heels, her hips gently waving with this motion. Jascoallowed himselfone quick look at the
two large breasts that were poorly concealed by the bathing suit
top, and then he looked around the garden as if to inspect it.
''How come you're not getting ready for the barbecue?''Jasco
asked, bringing his gaze back to her brown eyes.
''I was waiting for Billy to get back. He's out feedin' the bulls.
The front field's kind of wet. I'm worried he might get the
pickup stuck," she said.
''Don't worry," said Jasco, wondering why on earth she fretted so much. Billywas so damn independent. OccasionallyBilly
did get his truck stuck. A couple of times Jasco had been with
him when this happened, and Billyhad cussed and spun the tires
so much that the truck dug itself down to its axles. But after Billy
cooled off, they w~lked back up to the headquarters and got the
tractor. It wasn't that b.ig·of a deal.
Jascohoped that Lajollawould invite him in for a glass of iced
tea. Sometimesshe did and they would sit at her kitchen table
and talk. Last time she made cookies to go along with the tea,
and told him the story of how her parents named her after a part
Bradley].Henderson
59

of San Diego they had visit~d on their honeymoon. Jasco said
that was pretty weird and LaJollaagreed, but they both decided
that they liked her name anyway.
Today it appeared that they would not have tea. Jascolistened
politely as Lajolla rambled _on about the barbecue, not really interested until Lajolla mentioned the name of one guest he Was
curious about.
"I'll bet you're excit~d abou~ getting,, to _meet ~r. Acey J.
Waterfield-he's the pnde of this valley, LaJollasaid, her voice
full of conviction.
Jasco had heard this name over and over. His uncle talked
about Acey all the time. "Acey was a real athlete in his day," his
uncle told him. "Acey made all-American when he was playing
for Reno State." "Acey would have played pro ball if he hadn't
been shot over in Viet Nam." His uncle dwelled on the part
about the pro ball the most. Yes, Jasco admitted, this guy's past
did sound interesting; nevertheless, he couldn't understand why
everyone was so intrigued with this Acey guy.
Billy drove up with a fan of wet mud on the side 9f his
pickup. "Christ, it's wet out," he yelled to Jasco and Lajolla.
"Them irrigated fields are like quicksand." He climbed out of the
truck, and walked over to the garden to join them.
The top of Billy's shirt was buttoned and his clothes were
covered with shackles from the grain he had fed the bulls. Lajolla
unbuttoned his collar, saying, "You better get your rear end in
the house and get changed."
"Only if you get yours in there too, little lady," Billy replied,
winking at Jasco when he said it.
Jasco laughed; he felt warm inside. He said, "I'll see you two
over at my uncle's."
His uncle's ranch house was about 50 yards away, just inside
the front gate which linked Walter Stiggley's Registered
Hereford Ranch to County Road 71. The fresh paint and the
thick wood beams of his uncle's house belittled the other
buildings on the complex. The goat carcass was sectioned and
Uncle Walt was now preparing cuts of meat at a large wooden
table next to the barbecue. Standing by the black iron tub, Jasco
felt the heat from the bed of hickory coals which lined the inside
of the barbecue-all grey and amber, moving in the mirage of
heat.
Not looking up from the task of seasoning the meat, he said to
Jasco, "There's two things a guy has to know when he cooks
60 Bradley
]. Henderson

goat. Number one, you always barbecue it with hickory
wood-nothing else. Number two, you got to salt, pepper and
garlic it real good, or else it turns out gamey'er than a mud hen."
He drew the blade of the long butcher knife back and forth
against the sharpening steel with the quickness of a Japanese
chef. When he was satisfied, he flipped over a lengthy rack of
ribs. The meat thudded against the wooden cutting table. Jasco's
uncle cut the rack in half, and then he continued with his seasoning. ''Put another log in the fire, Jasco," Uncle Walt said. ''And
go fix me a bourbon and water. Fix one for yourself if you like.
Hell, you do a man's work around here. You might as well drink
a man's drink.''
At his uncle's outdoor bar, Jasco ineptly poured the
drinks-first putting ice in two cocktail glasses,then filling one
glass until it overflowed with bourbon, dividing the contents of
that glass with the other, and then topping them both off with
water. He sipped each drink to make sure it was O.K.
When he returned, his uncle said, ''Acey Waterfield is real
anxious to meet you. He called me the other day, and he said
maybe us three could go fishing some Sunday over at his ranch
in Wistler. It would do you good to meet some more prominent
folks to socialize with than the herdsman and his wife." Uncle
Walt paused, swirled his drink, and then took a noisy sip. ''Now
don't get me wrong. Billy is a good worker, but he doesn't quite
have ·the background that you have.'' His uncle laughed. ''Jesus
Chri-st,Jasco, you being a football star and everything, for a
seventeen-year-oldkid you do real well for yourself. Yes boy,
your mother says you do real well for yourself."
Jasco had nothing to say. He disliked it when his uncle
catagorizedpeople. Holding the drink that was as cold and wet
as a snowball, he listened to the goat meat pop and snap as the
...
fire seared it. Jasco took the fire iron and poked at the
coals-flipping the ashy logs over and exposing their red, heatblown bellies. In his mind, he tried to form a picture of Acey J.
Waterfi.eld,but the spell of the fire was broken as the guests
started to arrive.
The guests were mostly local people. Smitty Pierce,the Coun..
ty Watermaster, and his wife, Lucille,came first. The Van Loan
.
family and their hired help arrived second. The Van Loans
• · owned the ranch next to Uncle Walt's and were good neighbors.
••
Uncle Walt and Mr. Van Loan traded trucks and tractors back
and forth, and each helped the other during round-ups when
•

•

•

•

•

•

•

•

•

•

•

,'

•

..

.

.
•.

Bradley].Henderson61

. .

.

• • ·-

.
'

. .. .

'

t'

.

' . • •
......

.

livestock needed to be branded, doctored, or sprayed for flies.
Jascowas glad to see Scott and Larry Yan Loan. They were the
only high school kids, other than himself, that lived in the
valley.
Skip Digger, the diesel mechanic from town, his wife Crystal,
and his retarded boy showed up. Skip waved hello, and threw a
set of plasticblocks down on the lawn. Jamie, his "not quite right
son," tried to fit two blue plastic cubes into his oval mouth.
Three-hundred-pound Crystal went straight to a bowl of potato
chips. Uncle Walt's brother, Jed, arrived in his pickup with his
farm dog in the back. Millie, the waitress from town that Uncle
Walt dated, drove up in her V.W. Bubbly and bright in a flower
print dress, she walked out into the yard carrying a huge container of her famous macaroni salad.
The casual Sunday rhythm which the first few carloads
followed was broken, and guests drove up in a continuous
stream. Soon Uncle Walt's house was surrounded by 3/4 ton
pickups and long, American cars with mud tires in the rear. The
air was full of voices-of men recounting their week, of wideeyed and joyous women complimenting each other on the food
they brought, of children screaming at grasshoppers they
discovered in the planters.
As Jasco tended the fire for his uncle, he looked out at the
valley-at its green level pastures which stretched until they
blurred and blended into the dry, bordering hills. Over the summer, the openness had stretched his mind. It made him think
about his future; it sometimes made him contemplate things; it
sometimes made him feel lonely as it did now. It was not the
people at this party but the valley itself that he would miss most
when he returned home.
Jasco's spirits rose when Billy and Lajolla joined him. Billy
wore a baby blue, pearlsnap shirt which looked by its stiffness to
be brand new. He had his good felt hat on, and he had pulled
himself into a tight-fitting pair of jeans. Around his waist he
wore his prize rodeo belt and sterling buckle. Lajolla's lower half
~as a repeat performance of Billy's, except her hips flared out
nicely. Her shapeliness was displayed as well on top by the knit
blouse she had pulled over her large breasts. Her face looked like
ca~dy• Her lips and cheeks were bright red, her eyelids were
~nght blue, and on her ears hung pink plastic loops. She smelled
like candy too. Billy smelled like a western herb. Jasco was glad
to see his two friends.
62 Bmdley
]. Hendmcm

The three of them got some beers and returned to the
barbecue. Billy took an interest in the cooking, and decided
Jasco had been n~glecting his duties. He threw on another log,
and lowered the rron grate a couple more inches with the handcrank on the cart's side. Like a father he lectured Jasco on the art
of barbecuing, while Jasco and Lajollasecretly laughed and made
faces behind his back.
Their easy peace drained away when a latecomer drove up in
a new yellow Oldsmobile. The car's custom license plate read
"A.J.W." Uncle Walt greeted the man, and the two of the~
slowly made their way toward the barbecue, stopping often so
that Acey J. Waterfield could give his regards to the other
guests.
Jasco recognized that there was something extraordinary
about Acey, and this he attributed quickly to certain details. The
way he walked with a limp was neither spastic nor pathetic like
the walk of an invalid; rather, Acey limped with authority, and
this authority was accentuated each time he caned the ground
with his ivory and black walking stick. His boots were ostrich
skin. Jasco had wanted a pair of those himself, but he had gone
into town and discovered that they cost nearly $300. Acey had
grey eyes and a straight, narrow nose; his smile was big and full
of even, well-formed teeth that were stained slightly with age.
His hair was salt-and-pepper grey and cut short. Jasco figured
that he was in his late forties.
Uncle Walt said, "Jasco, this is Acey Waterfield. Acey here is
one of the legends of these parts. His ranch is one of the
finest-last year they did an article on it in the Cattlemen's

Journal."
Acey extended his large hand to Jasco; the man's grip was
painfully firm. Jasco tried to squeeze back, but his hand was
trapped and immobilized. Acey let go and shifted his weight
back onto his cane. With a victorious smile he said, "Jasco,it is a
pleasure to meet you. Your uncle talks highly of you. He says
you're a football player. I used to play ball myself, but I got this
bum leg over in Nam. Don't do too many sports now."
"Well Acey, you're in better shape than I am," said Uncle
Walt, patting his rounded gut. "Now you remember Bill, my
herdsman," Uncle Walt continued.
"It's good to see you again, Mr. Waterfield," Billy said excitedly. "That bay horse you sold us last winter has been working out
real good."
Bradley].Henderson
63

''Well, I pride myself on my horsesense," Acey replied, and
Billychuckled politely.
"Now, now, let's not forget this pretty gal over here," Acey
continued, completely in command of the conversation. ''La.
jolla,I belie~e it is. My, don't you _looknice today." W~ile Acey
said this he limped over and put his arm around her. La1ollaheld
her arms together and smiled blankly, enveloped by the large
man.
Uncle Walt was beaming; however, Billy was tense. His left
eye was squinted and his jaw was tight. His eyes remainedon
the arm draped across his wife's shoulder. Jasco thought Billy
would say something, but he didn't say a word. Acey continued
to hold on to Lajollaas he talked. Finally, Lajollasaid she had to
go mix the salad that she had brought. Billy followed her silent•
ly. Jasco's uncle said, ''Hey Jasco, why don't you go buy Acey
and yourself a drink. Hell, they're free for the mixing."They all
laughed. Jasco was relieved that Billy and Lajollahad left.
''Lead the way, boy," Acey said, kind of pushing Jascoalong.
At the bar Acey did the honors, making, Jasco noted, two
very stiff drinks. Acey's face farmed itself into a shape it had not
taken while they were by the barbecue. His eyebrows were
cocked upward and he was smiling a smaller smile without
showing much of his teeth. Acey got close to Jasco andsaid
frankly, ''That herdsman's wife is a nice little number, isn't she?
Your uncle says Billy's dumber than a post, but he roped her,
didn't he? I bet you wouldn't mind getting to know that Lajolla
gal, would you boy?''
Jasco was startled. What was wrong with this sonofabitch?
''Now, now, don't you get me wrong, boy. This is just bar talk
between two men-you and me," Acey said, motioning for
Jasco to sit down.
As Jasco listened to Acey's stories about Viet Nam and hiscollege football days, he felt the liquor Acey fed him take away his
guard. Acey's drone was hypnotic.
''I saw two of my best buddies get killed over in Nam, so I
went out and killed twenty Gooks-ten apiece. Those are th_e
15
type of odds I like," Acey said, plunging the sharp end of ~
ivory and black cane into the sod. Slowly he pulled it out-dirt
innards clung to the end. ''Them Gooks had to pay," he said.For
a minute he was silent.

th
bathed, but they were clean like a dog. Can you 1mag1ne '
64 Bradley]. Henderson

boyf' Acey said, now more calm and reflective.
The conversationtu1·11ed
to sports.''My last collegega1newas
the Gator Bowl.My coach shot both my knees full of novocaine
so that I could play. I scored two touchdowns, but Jesus H.
· t I tho~ t I would never walk again.''Acey exhaled long
and hard, and eased back in his chair. Absently, he tapped the
ground with his cane. "Football cripples a man more than being
shot over in Narn. I o
to know ... "
Acey seemed to have an unen • life history. Jasco tried to
tell Acey something about himself-about his hometown, his
ambitionsfor college,about his football, but Jasco'sinterjections
were merely small obstacles which Acey steered around.
Jasco was glad when his uncle finally came over. The meat
was done, and all the casseroles,salads, loaves of French bread,
and dessertsthat the guests had brought were lined up on a long
table which was set up in the middle of the yard. The smells
were wonderful and Jasco was starved. Now the prospect of
eating goat appealed to him. Somehow, the animal's spirit
vanished when the meat was put on the • -its haunting,
vaporousstarewas gone.
Everyone in the party lined up and filled their paper plates
with goat meat and all the • • ~- Most stopped at the bar to
refresh their cocktails before sitting down in haphazard rings
for1nedby pu • ........
groups of lawn chairstogether in circles.Jasco
started to sit with Billyand Lajolla,but he stopped when he saw
that a number of other folks, inclu • • his uncle and Acey, had
joined them first. Lajollasaw Jasco coming and smiled meekly.
Jascostopped, looked around, and then sat with the two Van
Loanboys, whom he hadn't had a chance to talk with anyway.
"Hey you guys. Do you know of anything going on in town
latelyr' said Jasco, si • down carefully with his full plate of
food.
''Nope," said I.arry. His mouth was full of food.
"Showsome manners, l.a11·y,"said Scott, who was Jasco'sage.
'There's a dance in town next Saturday. Wanna ride in with usf'
"Yeah,come on," said the younger brother, "Roxanne Flour•
noy andher friendsare gonna be there."
'1 just might," said Jasco. He took another bite of goat.
Jascoliked visiting with Scott and I.any, but could not seem
to get his attention off the group that had gathered around
Acey. Acey and his uncle were acting silly and teetering back
and forth in their chai1-s.Both men were well into their sixth or
-.At

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Bradley
]. Henderson
65

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nth
drink.
Sometimes
his
uncle
would
lead
the
conv
Ve
se
A
talk"
b tN
ersa.
tion, but usually it w~" cey,
mg a ou am or football and
saying '1esus H. Chnst eve~ other sentence. One time when
Lajollagot up to get some drinks,Acey poked her in the r
with his cane. He laughed and laughed. After awhile every ear
else started laughing too. Lajolla, Jasco noticed, took her tfne
about coming back with the drinks.
rne
As everyone finished dessert, the party became louder Th
children were excused, and full of food and pent up en~rgye
they began to run around the yard and play. The women started
clearing the tables and throwing away paper cups and plates
Scott and Larry picked their teeth with toothpicks and talked
about the rodeo. Jasco continued to watch Acey J. Waterfield a
man he had taken a distinct dislike to.
'
Jascofelt someone nudge his shoulder. It was Scott. "Jasco get •
with it, looks like it's time for some entertainment."
'
Larry pointed at Jasco's uncle. Uncle Walt ran into his house
and came out with a small, sturdy, wooden end table and two
short stools. As soon as he returned to the group there was a lot
of commotion-the ring of lawn chairs opened up, the three
new pieces were put in the middle, people shifted places, and
more people came over. Then two men went to the center-his
uncle and Billy.
They squatted on opposite sides of the table on the little chairs
and locked their right hands. Acey acted as the referee, and held
the triangle formed by the two hairy forearms. Acey said, "Go,"
and for a second muscles burned. The plump blood vessels on
Uncle Walt's temples looked like they would burst. Then Billy
flattened his opponent's arm to the table.
Immediately, without giving Billy a chance to recover, Acey
sat down at the table. A few quiet words were said between
them and then Billy shook his head and laughed and sat down.
Jasco watched from the back of the crowd.
There was a wild look of intensity on Acey's face that Jasco
found sickening. Before they locked arms, Acey rolled his shirt
sleeves all the way up his biceps. His arms were more brawny
than Jasco imagined. They were covered with black ringlet~of
hairs and, on the undersides, blue veins, and on his sinewy nght
bicep there was a tatoo of a skull and crossbones underscored
with a military insignia.
From that moment on, Acey never broke his star~ at
Billy-his gaze drilled into Billy's eyes. Jasco was not surprised
66 Bradley
]. Henderson

with what happened. The second Jasco's uncle said, "Go," Acey
snapped his wrist hard-over collapsing Billy's the wrong way.
Billy managed to hold on, keeping the arms perpendicular for
awhile. But he had been ambushed, and slowly, as Billy grunted
loudly, his arm slipped downward until it was pressed flat. Acey
congratulated himself with a laugh. The tension subsided and
soon everyone was patting the both of them on the back.
Jasco spoke casually, addressing Acey from the back of the
crowd, "Nice going, Mr. Waterfield. You11have to give me a
workout sometime." Jasco nodded respectfully and turned
around as if to walk towards the bar.
"How about right now?" Acey asked, becoming serious once
again.
''Maybe sometime when there are not so many people around
would be better," Jasco said.
"Don't you like playing ball when there are people in the
stands?" Acey asked.
'Well I guess I do," Jasco said, and then, with a new authority,
sat down. Acey sat down too, and started his stare.
At' first, the crowd was quiet. Then they were overcome by
their liquor and again became enlivened by Acey' s tension.
"That sonofabitch means business, Jasco," someone said. "Hope
you've had plenty of arm wrestling lessons, boy," said another
voice. "Show him who's boss, Jasco," said Scott Van Loan.
Everyone started laughing. Acey did not break his stare, but he
did let his mouth roll up to a grin and back down again into a
hang of concentration.
When they locked arms Jasco felt the power of the man's
hands again. Acey strove to get advantage in the grip, but Jasco
didn't let him. Jasco felt a third hand on top set their arms, and
Jasco smiled and stared hard into the eyes that opposed him.
Jasco was pumped and his wrist set with a hair trigger which he
knew he had to pull first.
"Go." The single word set off a violent explosion in two men's
arms. One man's wrist collapsed and his arm fell under it. One
man cried out in defeat. And in that man's eyes, Jasco saw a
spooky mindlessness that he had seen once before.

_______________

_vradley ]. Henderson67

JimBarnes

Going After the Milch Cow
Alwaysin the back pasture,the white-facedcow
nevercameno matterhow long I tried to blow
her in, the horn so hard againstmy lipsmy teeth
feltas if they were bendinglike old nailsunder
sh'e$. Forseverallong yearswe milkedthat dumb beast
that wouldnot come in to the soundof the horn. Her
udderalmostdraggingearth,she wouldn'tmove at all
tmles5you walkedbehindand whistledall the while
you gentlywavedher home. The other barnyardstock
were quickto trough,but the white-facedcow chewedone
slowcud:I neversaw her swallow.Once a flock
of starling5roostedon her back.She left them on
all nightbeforeshe slowlywhippedthem off without
any effortexcepther tail.I wonderedhow
you couldmake a slow cow go, how to get her home
in time to get the milkingdone by dark. I tried
all the neighborssaid.Nothingworked.I wasn'tdumb
at twelve;experimental,
I like to think.I cried
a lot, but cowsare usedto bawlingcalvesand kids.
Nothingever seemedto work:she hardlyshookher hide
to keep the fliesat bay. The pies she left in that
slowwake I skippedtillmy feet were raw. Then I swore
I'd speedher up. I grabbedher tail and crankedthe fat
rump like a ModelA. I found her forwardgear.

68

Souvenirs
A hundred pictures of the London Blitz
or more he sent back, the postc.ardsa pale
sepia and held together with Red Cros.5
gauze. When he wrote, the V-letter came crushed
by many hands, through many lands. Once
even it bore a postmark from Morocco
and a stamp from Roma. We never knew where
he was nor how. He sent an Iron Cros.5
from somewhere near Berlin in '45.
Justbefore the end, he sent me another
B-17 someone had whittled out
of Black Forest pine, its metal props
snipped out of a prewar tobacco can.
My mother loved the Irish linen. My
sistersgaspedat the wonders that he sent
them, little thing; that made the marvelous
seem true. We placed the souvenirs along
the mantle and window sills and read his words
about a wider world he was going to help
us see. The war filled us with dread, so too
the age into which we grew. It was his way
to give us hope, the souvenirs, mementos
of being there, wherever it may have been
before he disappeared over the Netherlands.

____________________

JimBarnes69

'

O.""""".·
....

e

ton Piller

•

mg

The barn bums
in the ·n-n+-,
and tentatively

•

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an ember
with his boot
the farmer
relives
the ·nnt
in his buck
with a waitre$
halfhis age.
It's a smalltown
His wife
serves
the ne·~..._.
_ rs
coffee,and by dawn
the farmer
has sketched
anew barn
on a napkin
at the table,
the way it
shouldhave been
built the firsttime.

70

•

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Maura Stanton

Keepsakes
One June during our tornadoseason
The air raid siren sent us to the ba5elllent.
I looked up at the ceiling,our firstfloor,
Hearingthe flashand hammerat the windows,
Knowingmy room might disappear,my bed,
My books,my shoes,even the dancer
Who twirledon my musicaljewelrybox.
I hummed or played dominoes
To block the thunder,and block the radio's
Hystericalreportsof deshuction
After the all clear,we went up
To find the windowsin the kitchenshattered.
Glassin jaggedchunkscoveredthe floor
Mixed in with greenery,lilacleaves,
An elm branch,and giant white
Catalpaflowersfrom our favoritetree.
I walked out into the sweepingrain.
The elm, too high to climb,had toppled,
Crushinga parked car, and bringingdown
A bird'snest to eye level,with three egg;.
I climbedthe dark stairwayto my bedroom,
Pastthe frightenedcat, who shrank from touch.
I opened my jewelry box,·and liftedout
My three locketswith their tangledchains.
I felt the knots. I recognizedthe shapes,
One locketlike a heart, another round,
Containinga strand of my mother'shair,
And both entwined about my baby locket
Dented with teeth marks.I held my lockets.
I turned the key and made my dancer dance.
Twenty-fiveyears later, New Year'sDay,
71

My Arizonahouse was ransacked.
I walkedbewilderedthrough my changedrooms
Which looked as if a wind had blown them open.
EverythingI owned was heaped on beds,
Or thrown in comers,ta&<ied
away
In the intruder'ssearchfor gold or cash.
My jewelrybox was gone at last,
My locketsdestinedto be crushedand melted
To make a fractionof a bar of metal.
I thought about the danceron her spring
Who alwaysrose up with the lid
And spun in circlesto Brahms'Lullaby.
She was as real as all my shadowyneighbors
Who told the policethey heard nothing.
I swept up glass.I put my thingc;away.
I told myselfto forget,not to care,
And I could feel the shock in my brainA magnet,polarizedto pull and hold
Turningits negativeside to the world.

72 Maura Stanton

Down in the basementon the old table
I used to draw and color with my brothers.
We made a paste of flour and water
To stickhear·lsonto our homemadecards,
And keep.the glitter • • ""'to the paper
When we poured it around a glowingmoon.
My specialitywas facesof women.
l made a profilewith a singleline,
Added hair, and one sidewayseye.
SometimesI illustrated·Bibletexts,
And I rememberdrawingfive virgins
Hol • unlit lampsin a kind of frieze,
Loo • acr0$ at five other virgins
Who re _;_"'LV,~-.to lend them any preciousoil.
The story puzzledme. I always lent
My paste,my scisrors,even my new crayons
AlthoughI knew I'd get them back broken.
Yet here the bridegroomshut the heavy door
To keep the foolishvirgins from the feast.
I saw myselfoutsidein the black ·rr""t,
My lamp usele$~my eyes ·-- • to smart
As the violinsbegan, and I heard laughter.

•

Y""I

I lookedup at my brothersas I worked
On my identicalfaces,foolishand wise.
My brotherslookedalike.I lookedlike them.
One had drawn a £-...--ouse, one a dog.
I took the tube of silverglitter,to pour
Starson the veilsof my ten womenI understoodthe parable,tho_;:.....
I didn't.
The foolishvirgins, sleepy and forgetful,
So like myself,were going to go to hell.
And eveiyone who was foolish,who forgot,
Nodded off, who drea1nedof som-w""'· else
MauraStanton73

•

•

-..•e the bridegroomdelayed,and lampswent out,
Somedaywouldfindherselfon a threshold
Shutout of friendship,familylove, and hope.
My brothersseemedfar from me, the table wide,
And the nakedbulb •n.•• • aboveour heads
Lefthalfthe scarybasementin shadow.
Out of our ·~""'t,spiderswere eatingflies.
Mice were .qu • in their •_....
. holes
Afraidof us, afraidof the cat upstairs.
Near us the h-.&.I.
• ~ furnacepuffedand clanked.

74 MauraStanton

At The Salmon Feast
Belown'\e a white salmon,oily and rich,
Lieson the grate above the sparkingcoals.
The smoke blows into my face, greasy
And stinging.I've alreadyeaten delicate
Pink flesh of the ordinary salmon.
I'm holding a fork and plate like everyone
As the fishermandescribesthis lastsalmon,
The largest,and best.It's almostfresh
Becauseits big vein was cut on deck
While it stilllashed,and spatteredsea water.
It bled freely before it was packed in ice.
Now oil rises from the cookingmuscle,
Frothsand drips and his.5es
in the flame.
The solilld is louder than the subdued talk,
Or tinny music coming from the house,
And for a moment I hear nothing else.
I seem to have disappearedfrom my bcxly,
Though all arolilld me people are flowing,
Solid,real people, with eyes and lips.
Sweat shineson a brow; veins protrude
In wrist and throat. I watch the long spine
Under the packed muscleof a shirtlessman.
Then, shocked,I see my own torso
Spreadacr0s.5the rusty grate in the smoke.
Invisiblefishermenlean to watch me gasp,
One drop of sea water caught on my large eye
In which the whole sky is refracted,
The strangesky, with its dry, murderousair.

auraStanton75

Jerry Santek

The Lillian That Remains
Two imagesremain:
Lillianover a kitchensinkcrackingopen clams;·
Llllianleaning slightlyfoiward
in a straightback metalchairsmoking.
Most of what I get is from standing
in the dooiway of the kitchenwhile my aunts
wash dishes,drinkcoffeefrom chippedmugs:
That Lillianstood God knows why!
dead centerfront of the streetcar
allthe way down to Kaufman's- ·
Margarettried to get her to sit
but Lilliandeclaredshe wasprotesting;
Lillianin stocking5
and nailpolishspitting
on the stepsof Our Ladyof PerpetualHope
on the verymorningof the bishop'svisit;
Lilliansittingon the front stoop
in the middle of the afternoon
for all the neighborsto see
smokingand drinkingbourbon.

Lillianusedto tell me about going
to the farm in Sturgeon,hunting
for hours in the bush for turtlesyou couldget the mothers
comingfrom their em down to the lake.
On the back porch she'd coax
their heads out with scrapsof meat
so Paul or Regecould chop it with the axe.
"But,"she said, "you only have that instant.
Loseit and you have to wait
hours sometimesfor it to appear again."
If the instantwas not lost
she would go in with her knife,
separateleg from shell,
76

lumpingthe meat in a pot for soup.
She told me this three
of the five times I saw her
once saying,"Some of them
I waited hours for. But I got 'em."
The lasttwo times from the metal
chair of Mercy Hospital;
the firsttime in the kitchen
of the house in Ligonier
bare feet slappinglinoleum,
waving her knife like a cigarette.
This is the LillianI want to remain:
Lilliancrackingclams,
steamstickingher hair
to plucked eyebrows.

------------------JmySanlek

77

Dennis Schmitz

The Three-legged Dog
which I wanted as allegory,
pusheshis snout, all hair-commas& snot,
against my pants-leg.

The host coaxesin dog-patois,coaxes
each of us back from self-revulsion,
from art. Up close,I see the actual
steadyingsome leg
device,studs & a leather-woundwood piece-

hame$

the dog wobbles
but moves. Neither of us is enticed
by sauce-impastoed
shrimpsor the party canapes,but by despair,
a state so low man goes in
on all fours, either as dog
which prefersflesh,
or the ingenuouslamb which eats
its own mood.
The dog holds up his snout, & I look
in the loose-lippedcleft

at teeth, phlegmatic,the only one of his retinue
attentive.

78

Famey's Sister
The storm expectedmany days had tasted
of carbolic:lightning
pulledfrom tree to tree,
violentbut short rains Famey'ssisterthought
she conjuredover the straying
squashrows, over pole-beans
supinebut knucklingbeanlessonto their strings.
Suchis the seniorityof memory over desire:
as it soothes,& the sensescallous
enough,I now smell
in my head the blackened
sweet potatoesthat oozed then over our stick fire
under the WPA culvert.
In that picture, the culvert cuts
off the popple-chokedfieldsfrom lawn & garden
over which Famey'ssister sings,
as she stampsthe culvert roof,
whiskinga gauze bag of lightningbugs
in parabolasat the end
of my Dad's trout rod, her dress rucked

almostto the waist.
Now I see my little head look
out of the culvert arch;
the fire my two friendsprompt
with throwawayboards or paper grows
as smokepushes,swellingmy clothes

DennisSchmitz79

with composite field smells.
In the picture, I can't twist my headeven now, here, as I remember which musclesto look up at Famey's sister, I can't.

BODennis
Schmitz

------------------

Janet Holmes

Hibiscus
Red, silky,lavish,it still
must have been an easy plant to growit was everywhereat the Floridahouse, while
the fems died, the aloesdied, the gr~
yellowedwith strangediseases,
and the vines along the fence
turned their p~ion flowersto face
the neighbors.At pruning time
my mother struggledcutting
. her one successfulplant untilmy brother,
Allen, took over the job. From Allen
I learnedto catch a feedingbee
in a hibiscusbloom, pullingall the petals
over it, plucking,and droppingthe flowerhead
into the ready jar. Or you could shake
the red pod to make it buzz, holdingit
next to a person'sear like a satin rattle.
Allen did that, without regard
for angry insects, his sister,
or the brown velvet bruiseswhere our fingers
pinchedthe petals;
but afterwardgave me, to guard,
the mayonnaisejar filledwith hibiscus
gently unfoldingwith bees,opening
as if for the firsttime, prodaming
that particularred
with a seriesof tiny explosionsagainstthe gl~,
and a constanthum.

81

Chez Persephone
I like it here. You might as well
learn to love your winters-

eachtime I go to you
more reluctant, riding with zebras
and leopards, that pageant of spangles.
You make incredible
whoopee; I stand around
in garlands. We can't go on like this.

I get one big party, then months
alone, with my mother.
Here, I'm not responsible for
the clouds, the people bring

giftsof blue glas5
when they visit, there's no
paperwork. A house of slate
and satin!
Thinking of you
in all that whitene$, the wet
branches, the long, long nights,
I don't really want
the earth again: there's
no need for saaifices,

82 JanelHolmes

friends.Oh I could stand
some minor worship
in thisunderworldmaniagebut standardcelebrations,adoration
of millions,a virtual
fan club of mortals
remindsme of so much snow.
Springdoesn't last,and was
too much like heaven, anyway.

-------------------land

Holmes83

Rene Guy Cadou

Le chant de solitude
~ venir

amoi tous les chevauxtoutes les femmes

et les betes bannies
Et que les gramineesse poussentjusqu'a la margelle
de mon etabli
Je veux chanterla joie etonnammentlucide
D'un pays plat barricaded'e'tranges pommiers cidre
Voicique je disposema lyre comme une echelle poules
contre le ciel
Et que tous les paysansviennent voir ce miracled'un
homme qui grimpeapres les voyelles
Etonnez-vousbravesgens!car celui qui composeainsi
avec la Fable
N'estpas loin de trouver place pres du Divin clansune
certaineEtable!
Et dites--vous
le soir quand vous rentrez de la faire
aux conscritsou bien des noces
Que la lampe qui brule a l'avant du pays tres tard est
comme la lantemed'un carrosse
Ou d'un navire bohemienqui deambule
Tout seul clansles eaux profondesdu crepuscule!
Que mon Giant vous atteigneou non ce n'est pas tant
ce qui importe
Mais la grande ruee des terres qui sont votres entre
le soleilet ma porte
Lesfumuresdu Temps sur le ciel repandues
Et le dernierdahliaclansun jardin perdu!
Dedaignezce parent benin et maudissezson Lied!
Peut-errequ'un cheval l'humeur insolite
Un soir qu'il fera gris ou qu'il aura neige
Poserason museau de soleilclansmes vitres.

a
a

a

''Lesbiensde ce monde", 1949-50

84

Dorothy Neil Cohen
Translator

Song of solitude
Let all horses all women all exiledcreatures come to me
And let spreading ~ advance to the edge of my workbench
I want to sing the astonishingly lucid joy
Of flat connby rimmedwith banicades of strange apple
cider trees
See me place my lyre like a hen's ladder against the sky
Let all peasants come to see this miracle of a man who
climbs up to stretch for vowels
How amazing, good folk! for a man who comes to terms
with the Fable
May find in a certain Stable his place near the Divine!
Coming home at night from a town celebration say to each
other
That the lamp burning so late in the country ahead is like
a carriage lantern
Or the light of a vagabond ship that drifts
Alone in deep waters of the twilight hours!
Whether my song reaches you or not is less important
Than the great rush of fertile lands that are yo1rrs from
the S1.lll to my door
Composts of Tune sprinkled over the sky
And the last dahlia in a neglected garden!
Scorn this gentle kinsman! curse his Lied!
Perhaps some gray cloudy evening when there's snow
A horse in an extraordinary mood
muzzle on my windowpane.
Will rest its Stn1Shine

DorothyNtil Cohen85

Mon Dieu ce n'est pas parce que tu as coupe ta barbe
Rougeet verte commedes cotes de rhubarbe
Ni parceques tune te vets plus al'antique
Commeles jeunesgens clansles societesde gymnastique
Que je ne suisplus capablede te reconna.itre
Pauvrerouge-gorge la croiseede la fenetre
Tu m'arrivesau moment ou je t'attendsle moins
Tu entrestu ne sais plus aucun mot de latin
Tu te heurtesau mur de la bibliotheque
Avec cet aquoi bon tenacede l'insecte
Qui grilleclansle four obscurdu radiateur
Lesailesde la nuit et le miel de son coeur
Tu es la je ne sais comment Tu te rechauffes
Au feu de bois Tu te tates les cotes
Pour t'assurerqu'il n'y a rien de deplace
Dans l'horlogeriedelicatede l'etemite
Et je te parle amots tres humbles
De la souffranceintraduisibleet des coloquintes
Qui sont en bas clansle jardin et qui edatent
Dans l'air avec un bruit de savates
Qui fait songer au pas de l'homme en son cachot
Innocentcomme un oeuf et le ciel sur le dos.

a

"Poemesinedits",1948

86

My God it's not because you've shaved your beard
As red and green ribbed as stalks of rhubarb
It's not because you don't still dress the same
In antique robes like young men at Olympic games
That I no longer recognize you
Poor robin redbreast on my windowsill
You come when I expect you least
you enter
You've completely lost your bearings
Hurling yourself against the library wall
With that helpless tenacity of an insect
That singes night wings and the honey of its heart
In the radiator's somber oven
You are there I don't know how
You warm yourself
At the wood fire
You lightly touch each rib
To be sure nothing's out of place
In the delicate clockwork of eternity
And I speak to you in very humble words
Of untranslatable suffering and of colocynth
Down there in the garden that explodes
In the air with a slap of old slippers
Making me think of man's step in his solitary cell
Innocent as an egg and heaven on his back.

----------------Dorothy

Ntil Cohen
87

Sharon Ewing-Rash

"FantasyscapeI: FloralSeries,"Oil, 24" x 18".

88

"FantasyscapeVII: FloralSeries," Oil. ::::.• , ::.~---

89

Dianne Nelson

Paperweight
When I think of my body, I usually see Martin Heffler trying
to pull open the stage curtains for the fifth grade's rendition of
How the West Was Won. Martin was only a fourth grader, and
maybe that had something to do with it, but really, it was the
curtains that wouldn't budge. They were gold brocaded velvet,
and they were beautiful to look at, but start working them in
across the traverse rod and they became as ponderous as wet
laundry.
At the far right of the stage, Martin was up there grunting, actually grunting. He was red-faced and the curtains weren't going
anywhere. Cruelty, inattention. I don't know what it was, but
the teachers just let poor Martin struggle for awhile, which was
wrong because they basically understood the laws of physics.
The curtains were a rock and Martin was a pebble.
Sheer determination was another thing though. Martin passed
from pulling on the rope to hanging on it, and his grunts
lowered in pitch. What started out as moderate effort became
painful and maddening. All of us were sure he would burst a
vein in his head or pee his pants, for in our minds, fate was
always assigned to one of these two ends.
How the West Was Won turned out to be more an assignment than an artistic creation. The pioneers were deadpan and
the Indians communicated only with timid war whoops. By far it
was Martin Heffler who had stolen the show, who neither burst
a vein nor peed his pants, but who lent me this image of my
body as something heavier than night and beyond the laws of
physics: the cumbersome gold curtains behind which Emily
Mills, dressed as the state of California, waited to be discovered.
It goes back that far, to the third grade, to Martin raging
against those curtains and me sitting in the audience with the
first realization that if it weren't for my body, I could fly, I could
go anywhere, I could be anything. One night in Louisville in
1976, Prentice Dom left his post at the bar and delivered himself
to me, tall and dark-haired, a man whose hands are more com90

mitted to my memory than his face, not because he was unattractive, but simply that his hands moved so smoothly. They
were like water as it edges around something big, as it pools and
cuts until everything is surrendered without a sound.
Prentice had already finished cleaning the bar and was following me around. It was after closing and I'd only -had the job at
Fiddler's for three weeks. Prentice had worked there for over
two years. He was telling me about how Walter, the maitre d',
had fouled up some reservations that evening and how a furious
party of six had been left sitting in the lobby for over a half
hour. Walter had given them a round of complimentary
cocktails and humbled himself in a slew of perfected apologies,
then taken it all out on the two nearest waiters. And if Nick was
too stupid to notice that the bus boys were stealing his tips, Prentice maintained, then he deserved it.
This was stuff I liked to hear about, everything I couldn't see
from the kitchen, though I didn't envy those who worked the
dining room, who stepped lightly among the tables of Louisville
socialites in the half-dark elegance that was as imagined as real.
A waterfall of blue-green lights, potted fig trees and magnolias.
It was a strange place to work. There was constant bickering
among the cooks: what could be served with what, who threw
out the last can of peppercorns. Back by the coffee station, the
bus boys hung out and watched the plates c}S they were taken
from tables. Leftovers were up for grabs, the good stuff, the
practically untouched prime rib or lobster, the Wellington.
Nobody went away from this place hungry. John would leave
quietly after midnight with cake or eclairs for his little girls. Even
the cats survived by prowling the garbage cans out back. It was
the way that city fed itself, and no one thought of it as stealing.
I knew, as he followed me into the pantry and back out to the
prep station, that Prentice was sizing me up. He had watched me
like this for three nights, following me out to my car where he
stood complicating the darkness, talking about Louisville'swater
system and his father's bowling alley and a host of trivia that,
though meaningless to me, was tender.
So on this the fourth night, when I reached up to slide a can of
olives onto the shelf and felt Prentice close behind me, his arms
around my waist, I was not surprised. No, in fact I leaned into
him the way a person leans into a storm, a little off balance
perhaps, but determined to go somewhere, despite the wind and
the rain. It was an awkward moment, Prentice kissing my hair
DianneNtlson91

because he couldn't get to my face. I couldn't get to anything on
Prentice, so I leaned back further into his arms, in~o his chest, to
the place where his heart became the sam~ pounding as Walter's
fist on the outside door. He had locked himself out and wanted
to know why it took so long for us to get there.
That was the fourth night, April, when Prentice took two bottles of the house Zinfandel and we left Fiddler's, though we were
unable to make it all the way up the stairs to his apartment. We
had to stop out there on his porch to taste each other, mouth and
neck and shoulders, everything unwinding into the black shoal
of night.
If I could, this is where I would have stopped it, on the porch
where desire was still blind, where it was only a sound: the
whining first gear of a car or dogs barking in the distance. But
Prentice unlocked the door, he opened the wine with a deep, resounding pop, and the next eight years began to take shape.
Later that night in Prentice's bed, I started at his foot and
dreamed my way up his leg in the old way, like the pioneers
scratching at the dirt, looking for signs, for smoke, for California. Prentice moaned a little. It was the kind of sound that's hard
to distinguish. Sometimes it's pain; sometimes it's heaven and
there's no word, there's just this sound that comes out into the
room, all breath and feeling.
"Do you want coffee?" Prentice asked me in the morning.
"Yeah. Always," I told him.
It wasn't a test, though to watch a man moving around in his
own kitchen is a kind of revelation. Prentice had a specific
cabinet for cups. Things were looking good.
Prentice in the morning in his boxer shorts. Why is the world
that kind of place, happiness and sadness converging, the smell
of coffee making everything new?
2

There is a moment when I look down at myself and the consequences of life are made real. Ankle and skin and bone, the long
curve of the arm, a patch of hair. Something that hums in the
darkness.
With clay, you get to feel what the body is really like. The
hands
. are incredible. There are 2 7 bones in them , and then the
wnsts tum in, delicate as hairpins, frustrating you, making you
crazy. Once I worked on a foot for a month. I made everyone
92 DianneNelson

take off their shoes when they came into the house so I could
study their feet, and still my foot, if I had to tell the truth, was
mediocre. One Christmas, as a joke, I sculpted Arthur's balls, but
they cracked when I fired them. They're on my desk now,
paperweights, a sad reminder of Arthur at the Am Trak station
when I gave him two apples and a box of Jujubes and told him I
loved him, really, forever.
Something hums in the darkness, forever: my body, where
happiness and sadness converge, where apples and feelings are
transformed into a patch of hair.
3

Fiddler's wasn't four stars, but it definitely had a reputation.
The service was good. Even though Walter had lived in
Louisvillefor over twenty years, he played up his Algerian accent, and the customers were charmed. In the safe confines of
the kitchen, though, he returned to his everyday slang, to namecalling and cracking the whip, to pointing out that all bus boys
were born with their heads up their asses.
From six until ten I was a slave, then the dinner rush died, I
got myself a drink and started clean-up. The front doors were
locked at twelve and on good nights I was out of there by one.
Theft is a harsh word, but it's the word Ron Mayfield used
when he spoke to the night shift one Friday before we went to
work. Even though he was one of the owners, we didn't see him
that often because he lived in Frankfort, so when he walked in,
his gray Saab parked in the loading zone, we stiffened a little and
Nick, who was about to throw a loaf of French bread rocketstyle across the room and onto the counter, gracefully put his
arm down and strode across the kitchen like, hey, it was just
work as usual.
Mayfield had a way of making it seem all very vague: inventories and loss statements. He avoided being accusatory. If I had
been a jury and looked out into their faces, I wouldn't have seen
anything, not from the cooks or the bus boys or the waiters or
anybody. Simply put: nobody here had stolen a thing. Mayfield
was having a business problem; that's what it was, and maybe
we even sympathized with him a little.
. Nothing really changed. Oh, one night Walter saw John leaving with a couple of slices of raspberry torte and he told him to
put them in take-out containers, but that was it.
DianneNelson93

I told Prentice, who was still wiping down the bar when John
left what Walter had done.
,:Yeah, he's O.K.," Prentice said.
I sat down on one of the stools. The lights in the dining room
behind us were already out, and for some reason, Prentice was
moving slowly that night. In ~other month he was due to start
an internship with a local architect and he planned to cut down
on his hours at the restaurant then. I had been thinking of that
of the fad that I would be seeing him less.
'
Prentice was beautiful at his work. No, he was beautiful doing
anything. I saw him mowing his father's front yard once. He had
to stop and empty the grass catcher every couple of times
around the yard. His shirt was off and the air was sweet with St.
Augustine. His father came out on the porch and I could see the
resemblance and I thought whatever happens, 111be better for
this.
"Prentice," I said, bending a straw in half, "do you think it's
stealingr'
It wasn't a test; it was a question, though I admit there was a
lot in it.
Prentice covered a bowl of cut limes and looked up at me. He
was tired, he was running late, but he paused thoughtfully and
then he said. ''Dee, everything is stealing."
4
It was a really bad year for Martin Heffler. Besides the
humiliation suffered in those few minutes before Mrs.
Gallagher's sixth graders claimed the West, Martin underwent
the trauma of being accused of stealing. Birdy Watson stood up
just before lunch and yelled that his lunch ticket was gone, and
several other students discovered theirs missing also. Through a
long process that involved a desk search, conferences, an
anonymous note, and a lecture on the importance of truth and
honor, Martin's name was arrived at. No formal punishment was
dealt out as far as we knew, but Martin was a small boy, and if
anything, he lost weight that year. He took to folding his
homework into tiny squares the size of quarters, and later on, he
stopped riding the bus.
So when Prentice told me that everything was stealing, I
remembered Martin and the Zinf andel and Walter turning his
head and the cats slinking up the alley. I saw Arthur with the apples and my heart, and I saw myself turning to Prentice in the
94 DianneNelson

night, throwing the covers back and easing onto him, telling him
there and there.
The most I ever took from Fiddler's was a cherry cream pie. I
was having lunch guests the next day and Estelle, the pastry
chef, said to go ahead, in another day or so it was going to be
stale anyway. It was a whole pie, eight pieces, with creme de
glace and everything. I served it on these little bone china plates,
and all I had were salad forks, but I used them and it didn't
matter.
Prentice was even less a thief than I. On occasion, he helped
himself to what he wanted, but this was excusable because Prentice was never paid for all the work he did. Constantly he'd be in
there on his day off or before his shift. In an emergency, Prentice
was always there, like when the pipes burst or when they needed someone to pick up new kitchen equipment from St. Louis.
Prentice was a real asset. Prentice was the man who bought
me three rings and moved me twice. After his internship with
Signature One Consultants, they hired him full time, and then
he only came into Fiddler's with clients or sometimes alone for a
nightcap.
"Prentice, are you happy?" I asked him.
"Happy," he answered, but it was the kind of answer I could
never trust. .
I told him to explain, that there were all kinds of happy, that
we should know each other's mind.
"O.K.," he said, pretending concentration, eyes closed tight,
hand on his forehead. "Tell me what I'm thinking."
5

What I'm thinking is that you can never leave it until the very
end, like that moment in "Ripley's Believe It Or Not" when they
show a man and his body finally separating. It's an old
photograph and the authenticity is questionable, but the idea
itself is great, how you get up and walk across the room and
leave your body just lying there.
It's not bitterness that makes me say this. It's simply how
much my body possesses me, how Prentice would stand in a
doorway and I'd be unable to think clearly.
One night I thought I lost my body in the main branch of the
Louisville Public Library, but if so, it hadn't gone far. I'd been
reading an oversized reference book, Twelve Moons of the
DianneNtlson95

Year,and it was dosing ti~e, ~d when I stood to leave, I was
thinking of the final illustr~tion m ~he book, a landscape, winterbrilliant, the stars caught 1i:tthe high, barren treetops. It wasn't
until I was in my car and five blocks away that I looked down
and like a tired swimmer come back to the shore, it was there, all
of it, my knees and breasts and the small of my back, which later
that night Prentice moved to and kissed twice, once cold and
light, then a second that lingered.

6
I gave up doing hair and there was only one kind of eyebrow I
was any good at. Prentice came in and saw the mess, saw my
face smeared with dried clay, and just smiled.
"No, I can't get studio space at the junior college," I told him.
"I didn't say anything. Relax." And he made his way to the
kitchen.
In '80 we went to Minneapolis to visit his mother and a couple
of years after that we camped in the Ozarks, which later Prentice
admitted was not all that restful as a vacation. The trails were
poor and the season unusually wet.
From the other side of the room, Prentice watched me so
often. What he saw was probably no different than clay: an impasse, a collarbone. The small features of children that, when set
in marble, seem no more than strokes or petals. His hands knew
these things as well as mine.
The best present that I ever gave Prentice was on the occasion
of his going-away party from Fiddler's. He was kind of embarrassed with everyone standing around in the lounge in their
street clothes, but he appeared cool and gracious nonetheless. I
let him open the gift in the car, and he was surprised, if not also
confused. It was a three-foot porcelain platter shaped like a fish.
The scales were in detail, shimmering, and the eye, an oval of
gold leaf. I had found it in an Oriental market, and the only time
Prentice took it off his coffee table was the Thanksgiving we
tried to serve the turkey on it, but it was all wrong. Prentice was
always slightly overwhelmed with gifts. He'd look at them closely, amazed, and he'd thank you ten times.
When I think of my body next to Prentice, I see how time is a
ritual, a complicated working out of who will reach over and
tum the lamp off at night, of how things will finally be said and
done.
96 DianntNelson

"Dee, it's not too late for med school," my mother offered
long-distance from Boulder, but Prentice and I were still
together. She had no idea what it was like, this body, walking
downtown and smelling rain, to be taut and wingless and
waiting in a crowd for the bus with this bag of tricks, with this
body, with wet hair.
Louisville is an old place, but it had attempted to modernize
itself. There was a pretty successful renovation project
downtown, though there were still the rattraps and walkups that
could be had cheap. It was a city that didn't demand much. It
could be traversed easily, the neighborhood sidewalks were
wide, and its economy was moderate but growing. I wouldn't
consider going back there, though it's a place that I'm glad I lived
in for awhile.
In Louisville on my thirtieth birthday, Prentice gave me a
ring, a garnet: a black-red stone set in a gold band. I couldn't ask
him what it meant. Anyway, what could he have said? There
were 27 bones in Prentice's hand when he touched me, when he
laid back the flesh, there and there, and found only a sparrow's
black-red heart.
7

After all of that, after eight years in Louisville,I ended up going to Boulder, though I warned my mother that medical school
was out. No questions. I took my time getting there: three days
during which I often stopped to read the map, checking the way
Interstate 40 bulldozed through Illinois and Missouri and Kansas,
then, outside of Denver, how it burst into spider lines going
everywhere. On the third day I had to stop to repack some
things I'd hastily arranged in the backseat. The ironing board
was hitting the T.V. screen everytime I braked. It was just past
Salina, a rest stop from which the great American prairie rol~ed
westward, not exactly as the fifth graders had made it out to be,
but lonely all the same. The wind was blowing as it usually does
there, cool and unpredictable. If you could have stood there by
my car and felt it, you'd know why California is such a happy
place and why the settlers cried into the soil, feeling the full
weight of their bodies.

-----__,...

___________

__....ianne
Ntlson97

Chris Pichler

Four photographs· ''The Nazraeli Series," Black and white photographs.

_______________________

ClzrisPichlerIO I

An Interview
with John Updike
Thisinterview,
doneby T. M. McNally andDeanStover,tookplaceat
the TempeMissionPalmshotel,in Tempe,Arizona, on the morning
·of
March 24, 1987. We wish lo thank Mr. Updikefor his generous
cooperation.
In their criticism of your work, critics range from praising
the accuracy of your vision to criticizing its triviality. How do
you see yourself as a writer and what you are doing? Well, I didn't set out to be a social commentator. I write out of
deeper, more childish motives than that, which begin with a
wish to make a mark on paper-the perhaps irrational belief,
which I began to get about the age of twenty, that I had
something to say, that I was a witness of things which somehow
should be told about and that hadn't been put into print.
I've led in some ways a sheltered life. I've not been wounded
in Italy like Hemingway and I've never fought marlin at sea. I'm
a product of the nearly forty years of cold war. So naturally I've
written about domestic, rather peaceable matters, while trying
always to elicit the violence and tension that does exist beneath
the surface of even the most peaceful-seeming life. That is, I
think I see human life as basically difficult and paradoxical. Just
being a thinking animal puts us into a paradoxical and somewhat
painful situation: we are a death-foreseeing animal and an animal
of mental appetite; we have a Faustian side always wanting
more or something else.
Anyway, I've never felt myself trivial. It's up to other people,
I suppose, to decide how important or relevant what I deliver is.
Each writer has to sing his own song, has to deliver what has
struck him as worth telling.
What are the differences you see between being a poet, a
short story writer, and a novelist?
I've explored the genres in that order. I was a poet first. Poetry
very much belongs to childish making. I wanted to be a car102

toonist, and from quite young on my love of humor and of
thingsclicking and jumping and squeaking and talking led to an
appreciation of so-called light verse. I began to write light verse
at about the age of fourteen and have remained something of a
poet ever since. I've tried also to write poetry that isn't light, or
that says what seems to me to be true and interesting about the
world. It's a satisfying thing to write a poem that you think
works; it begins and ends rather quickly, often in one sitting. It
has a neatness, an inbuilt order that we like. Somehow
something deep in us likes looking for order, a completeness that
composes well.
Short stories are something more, really; something that takes
most of us several days if not several weeks to write. I didn't
begin to write stories seriously until I was midway through my
college career. If a story goes well, you feel it has a beginning,
middle, and end, and in some ways, within its own terms,
couldn't be better: I mean it couldn't click shut better.
I never saw myself as a novelist until my mid-twenties, when
it seemed to me that this was the challenge in front of a so-called
creative word person in the Twentieth Century: if you couldn't
attempt a novel, you weren't really playing in the major leagues.
This sounds a little false as I say it. I'm aware of Raymond
Carver, Isak Dinesen, and a number of others who have done
quite well without ever leaving the short story form; but it
seemed to me something that I should try.
The novel is a little like living. You don't know what's going
to happen from day to day. You have the general direction and a
sort of general hopefulness that something nice will happen each
day, and you sit down to it in that spirit. Novels have a slightly
unsettling arbitrariness. I mean they could have gone some other
way, very possibly, and be just as good or even better, but they
do harden into the shape they take. You do your best by them
and try to move on to something else.
What are the determining criteria for what becomes a
poem and what becomes a work of fiction?
You don't always know, of course. Some things that begin as
poems work out only as short stories, and some things which try
to become novels maybe should have been poems. But in
general it seems fairly clear that a little tingle or even a ":'~f'f
sm_allshiver, but a distinct shiver, should produce a _poemif 1t,s
going to produce anything. And in the short stones-I don t
JohnUpdike103

write as many as I used to-the s!'iver _issomewhat broader and
often takes a twist or two of marupulaho':. There has to be some
comer you tum in a short story. And m a novel you have a
number of comers that have to be turned.
A novel begins with a _wishto make a statement of a fairly
large order about the society. It ma~ not seem large when it's
delivered, but it seems large to the wnter. For example in Rabbit
Run, one of the impulses was the observation that the small city
landscape I had come out of was littered with the unsuccessful
later lives of heroic high-school athletes. At least there was
something in the American society which led a lot of young
men to peak at the age of eighteen, and left them really with
nowhere to go but down; and this seemed an observation worth
somehow embodying.
• you also wrote a poem about an ex-high school athlete.
Yes, I did. In fact I worked that idea all three ways. It also was
in one of my early short stories, about an ex-basketball player,
called "Ace in the Hole." So I've been lucky with my exbasketball players. I really wasn't one, either, although I did, obviously, handle a ball and shoot a lot of baskets. In those days, in
Pennsylvania at least, there were an awful lot of baskets up on
telephone poles and above people's garage doors; and so we all
were exposed to the glamour of basketball and the beauty of it.
I went to a lot of high school basketball games, too, and still
remember the smell and the sense of excitement and the mixture
of the sexes and the cheerleaders out on the waxed floor with
their sturdy, young legs and short skirts. It was a kind of
romance, and it was something of what being an American
meant to me: the ability to get turned on by basketball.
And Couples, a somewhat later book, had behind it a general
sense that all of the old institutions which used to keep people in
their houses and in their marriages had broken down, and that
what had grown up instead was a kind of intensity of camaraderie, which led often to adultery and to the breakup of
these homes. But I wasn't thinking this was altogether bad; I was
saying that a kind of institution had evolved out of the decay of
the other institutions.
Other than the obvious reason that most people think of
you as a fiction writer, why do you think your poetry for the
most part has been ignored?
. W~ll, let's put aside the possibility that it might deserve
ignonng. I think people who decide what is worthwhile poetry
104 JohnUpdikt

are by and large people who have devoted their major efforts to
it. And somebody who writes poetry on the side is from the
start looked on with suspicion. It's taken quite a while, for
example, for Melville's poetry to emerge from total
insignificance to where it now has a standard place in the
anthologies. And Hardy, too. Not that I'm Melville, or Hardy,
but anybody who writes a lot of prose is viewed as a prose
writer and his best self will be searched for there, and maybe
found there. That might be a wrong supposition. In truth the
needs of my career, of supporting myself and putting my best
self forward most fully, have led me to write more and more
prose. And in a way I've abandoned the robes of poet. But I'm
not ashamed of the poems, of course. In fact some of them I like
quite well. But they were certainly written at odd moments:
often on vacation, an airplane trip. I'm not sure this is the way
Yeats wrote poetry.
What is the relationship between imagination and personal
experience in your poetry and your fiction?
My poetry is often quite impersonal, and may suffer because
of it. I rarely put my most ardent and suffering self into it.
Maybe my early light verse inhibits me, but the poetry tends to
be observational. The short stories are probably the most me,
the most autobiographical, because you can have even an
uninteresting life and have short stretches of it that can be cut
into short stories, with a little twist. Almost always there is an
extra twist. I mean you slightly exaggerate, you sometimes combine experiences, you often combine experiences you had with
ones you didn't have. But the short stories, on the whole, are the
least fantastical. They're almost like scrapbooks to me now. I'm
old enough to have forgotten ways in which I once was, so that
the whole experience of raising small children, for example, is
quite far behind me, and I read with amazement that evidently I
once knew all about it. And I must have, because I did have four
children.
The short stories were a kind of running letter to mankind
about my inner adventures, my domestic adventures; whereas
the novels almost always are in some large part fantastic. There
has to be something to make it interesting for me to spend the
months or the years with them. There must be a kind of leap for
me.
My first novel, my first published one, was about old pe~ple.
I never write totally without some personal hook; I had lived
JohnUpdikt 105

with my grandparents, so I knew a little bit about old peo.
pie-how they smelled and talked, their ~aden~es, and enough
to feel the poignance that a whole world dies with them. It's not
just th~t they die, but the~ carry. with them, accents and
memones and w~ys of construm~ reality that won t come again.
A sort of extinction of the species goes on all the time in the
generations. So I felt I had some authority to write a book about
old people. In Rabbit Run, without having been that guy who
never left Berks County and the home town environment, I still
knew the landscape and I knew the way attitudes broke down
and what people said, or thought I did. The novel was an at~
tempt to imagine what it was like, what it would be like to be
him as a young adult-one of these basketball heroes that I used
to idolize. A book like The Coup I wrote in part because I
wanted to say something about Africa and about the world, but
also in_
a way ! wanted to go to Africa. So, it was sort of my way
of takmg a trip.
I think unless we're going to become slaves to the
autobiographical or only write one vast autobiographical book
like Proust, or several vast somewhat autobiographical books
like Joyce, the American novel must force its imagination outward, try to stretch it as much as possible without losing that
urgency of the person writing it, that personal urgency which
makes a book alive.

How would you define American fiction?
There is certainly a distinctive American vein. Just for a matter of survival and trying to plot your own life, you have to do
some thinking about American writing. I majored in English,
and when I say English I mean the Metaphysical Poets, the Victorians, and I didn't really read much American writing in college. So I've had to kind of slowly attempt to educate myself in
the likes of Hawthorne and Melville, and in fact I. came to
Tempe with a novel by William Dean Howells in my suitcase
because in a month I'm supposed to give a lecture on him.
He's had a very instructive career: an American writer who
was preeminent in his day, and who has distinctly faded now.
The novels are quite readable and part of the fun of it is to (A)
enjoy them, and (B) try to locate what makes them not terribly
important now. But he was also trying to cope with this pro~
lem-how to be an American writer. And there was no doubt m
his mind that one shoul·d deal with American materials and get
106 JohnUpdike

•

away fro·m the English models; get away from Sir Walter Scott,
get away from Dickens, get away from Flaubert and face the
American reality. Howells did try, and I think the Howells way
one hundred years later still has to be· our way. We must try to
write about ourselves, and write about a continent and a social
system which in some ways is still wild. There is something improvised about the American way of life and A~merican art.
When you look at what we view as our own classics, you're
struck by how peripheral they are to ordinary experience. I
mean, how many of us go on whaling ships? Hemingway also
was a great avoider of the American landscape; he did not like to
write about what went on inside the American home. The Great
American Novel hardly takes place in America at all.
That certainly doesn't seem the case today in fiction with its
trend toward hyper-realism, especially in the short stories.
Yes. Post World-War-II American writers have tended to stay
home at last. I think there was a way of looking at America as
late as the Twenties: either the writer like Hemingway left and
wrote about charming European cafes and bullfights and
everything in fact that was not American but appealed to him
and entertained him; or the writer like Sinclair Lewis stayed at
home and wrote critiques of the awful banality and suffocating
hypocrisy and religiosity of American life. So when Lewis faced
the music, he faced it from above; he faced it from a sort of
superior position saying this isn't me, this is what I'm avoiding or
looking down on. My fe·eling is that if America and its
manifestations aren't worthy of being written about now, they
never will be. A writer like Bellow certainly can't be accused of
avoiding America reality; that Chicago of his is so alive and so
much Chicago it could only be Chicago. Indeed the American
Jewish writers have been very willing to embrace their local
reality.
My perception of the American writer's difficulties is that he
lacks that sense of an embracing society which enables him to
write easily about other people. The English, for all the rigors of
their class system, seem to have wonderful imaginative access to
each other, so that in Trollope or Henry Green or even the contemporary British fiction-however pale or babbling it might
seem-there is a wonderful ease about putting people on paper
an1 making them talk the way they do. Whereas for Americ~,
we re locked into our life histories in an unhealthy but m..
JohnUpdike107

teresting way. I guess the flip side of this is that we write
honestly about the little we do write about. There is some~ore
about our sense of what a person is that compels us to be m ng •
searching. But if you're going to have an extended career a~r:
writer, I think you do need to try to be empathetic and, in a
way, playful.
In contemporary American fiction, what do you think are
the differences between a work from the East and a work
from the West?
I'm not sure I've read enough to really answer the question
with any real intelligence, but my impressionistic answer would
be that the basic violence that is part of the American reality is
more accessiblehere in the West. And it's even true of California
fiction; the West Coast you would think is a fairly settled coast
now, but even there-I'm thinking of Nathanael West-lies a
scary sense of there being a scorpion under any leaf and of
violence breaking abruptly, and of lives breaking against
Nature. Fiction of the East is a little more padded, has a little
more greenery, a little more illusion of safety in numbers and
safety in an established and long history. But the West is closer
to the bone of American experience. Here in Arizona the quality
of the landscape has to it this feeling of being very thinly
covered and temporary, like it all might be blown away; it's a
subjective sensation. The East has, of course, the Atlantic, which
isn't a very wide ocean, and the East has looked toward Europe
often. I think you can kid yourself that you're a kind of branch
of European literature more in the East than you can in the West.
Recently, a good many younger writers have been published: Jay Mcinerney, David Leavitt, Amy Hempel. What
kind of effect, if any, do you think these younger writerswill
have in shaping fiction?
Well, I've read some and not all, and I just finished reading a
long short story by a woman called Deborah Eisenberg who for
my taste is one of the best of the youngish writers-but they
tend to be a little less young than one thinks. At least they're in
their thirties and not their twenties. I think it's a lot harder to get
a career going now than it was. In my generation there was a
number of us who published a lot, by the time we were thirty,
for good or ill. I don't want to harp on the economics of it all,
but I do think it's harder now to take writing seriously. When I
went to college, Eliot was firmly on his throne; one had no n:1
to defend writing as something worth doing. Now I thin
I OBJohnUpdike

anyone who sets out to write must at some point wonder if it is
really not sort of a dying little dead-end. The Gutenbergian age
is in its twilight: why should I be doing this for an American audience which basically doesn't read anymore, just flicks on the
tube or whatever else it does-goes out and has a beer?
Some of these new writers are very good. There's a strong
sense of their coming out of very unsettled upbringings. The
presence of stepparents or split families is almost more the rule
than the exception now. There's also a kind of geographical
wandering, people who have been a lot of places and haven't
really put down roots anywhere, so that the America you see is
an oddly generalized glittery America of parking lots and supermarkets that could be anywhere. This is the way they see it and
this is where their lives have led them, so you can't quarrel with
it. But it does make it harder for them to be warm. You think of
the warmth that Faulkner's able to generate from a moldering
old comer of the South, but in contemporary fiction there's a
funny, shallow feeling of "So what?" And the "So what" extends
even to "So what if my boyfriend and I broke up? So what if it
turns out I'm gay and not straight? So what if I lose a job?" These
things seem to happen almost as if on a TV screen. You don't
feel they're so much happening to the people as happening outside of them.
So the traditional warmth and empathy and caring that leads
us to enter fiction is not easy to generate. I read somebody like
Carver-who of course is no young writer, he's about my age,
but in a way he belongs much more to the younger writers now
than I do-and his work, in spirit and prose texture and even in
feeling, is sort of exquisite: his stories are like highly polished
porcelain pieces. Every word is worked over. Under the seeming
colloquial casualness there's this terrible craft. But you often
wonder, "Why is he telling me this?"
As for Jay Mcinerney, I've read only Bright Lights, Big City,
which seemed to me fine, as long as you were on this sort of
stoned, disco-to-disco level-a life going in funny directions and
no direction. When at the end he tried to pump a little warmth
into it, it felt phony in a strange way. That is, the very wish to
make you care about it made you care less.
.
Frederick Barthelme is a writer I read because he appears m
TheNew Yorker and because he seems to me the master of a
kind of glazed hardness: his fondness for describing the way the
restaurant tables look; and the way the women are dressed; and
]olmUpdike109
<

th wonderful scary way the hero can never make a connection
w~h these women, all of whom seem to be_kind of on the make.
These women are still alive in the old-fashioned way, throwing
themselves at this man, this narrator who's scarcely alive and
can't often respond sexually, and certainly not emotionally.
But the young writers are each different. You can't generalize.
Although many of them seem to share a fear of saying too
much-of having too many adjectives and volunteering too
much information and a fear of trying to steer you emotionally
until there's something faintly repellent about the surface of the
story. Obviously these young writers are interesting, and I applaud them for having been led into this venture of writing
when so much would seem to mitigate against it.
Your work explores taboo, especially sexual taboo. What is
the place of taboo in modem fiction?
Modem fiction, at least from Cervantes on, to some extent is
trying to bring out the intimate life of the individual person, and
part of that is his sexual life. And so I think it natural that fiction
has again and again seemed to skate near taboos. There isn't
much left in this day and age of triple X films and triple X books,
and after respectable fiction like Ulysses and Lolita and Lady
Chatterly'sLover. My own criteria is that we describe whatever
we feel exists but it must exist: it must be somehow mixed in
also with the other parts of being human. In my rendering of sex
I try always to present it in the full context of the social embarrassment, the awkwardness, the unease, the rumbly
stomach-the general human mess that these taboos are woven
into. Freud said some very nice things about taboos, of course;
he said that if the old ones break down people have to construct
new ones just to make sex interesting.
For every movement, there's a counter movement. There is,
of course, a very strong puritanical reaction in this country-Arizona's probably no stranger to it-that would put us
back into Victorian clothes and Victorian mores; but also within
fiction itself. Each fiction writer has to do something he feels
hasn't been done before. And certainly I don't see much specific
s~x in the younger writers. My generation, and the one generahon before, was keen on breaking sexual taboos in print, but I
don't think it is viewed as an artistic frontier now.
I 1on't know what's going on in writing courses, but what I
feel m the younger writers is their interest in seeing how much
11 o JohnUpdike

they can imply and not say, on every level. The art of implication, the art of delicacy: there's a frightful delicacy now that goes
with minimalism, isn't there? You often read a story and say
"What happenedr' That seems to be what interests the younger
people who I read instead of spelling it out or shocking grandma
or any of that stuff that used to interest me, maybe does still interest me, since it's hard for an old dog to learn really new tricks.
Where do you think the strongest poetry and fiction is being written?
On the theory that enough butter gets in the middle of the
sandwich anyway, I've looked abroad for inspiration, away
from America and American writing. I've read people like
Calvino and Grass and some Englishwriters whom I've really admired like Murdoch and Spark; and the Latin Americans I've
gotten into, not as heavily as many have gotten into them, but I
have read quite a lot of Garcia Marquez-and Mario Vargas
Llosa and Machado de Assis. I think Latin Americans are in some
way where Americans were in the nineteenth century. They
really have a whole continent to say; suddenly they've found
their voice; they're excited about being themselves and their
continent and their history. And that's a great weapon in the armory of an artist, to be excited by your subject.
I was chastised when I was in Paris last April, scolded for
always saying I wasn't aware of anything interesting coming out
of France, but it is true I'm not aware of much. I think criticismin
France has become almost the all-devouring art. Roland Barthes
was in his way a jolly life-enhancing figure, but Deconstruction
doesn't have much in it to encourage a creative writer because it
says that everything you say is not that at all anyway. As for
Germany, I think it is a country-a language, really-that has a
lot to work out still, and there is good stuff coming out of there.
Perfume, for example, by Patrick Suskind.
The formal problems that were of interest to me when I was
young were exemplified by Robbe-Grillet and Donald Barthelme, who were trying to reinvent what fiction could do, to
make it look different. But that has kind of run its course now.
There were some wonderful formal experiments made but I feel
it's rather exhausted. You can still write a book with some
?ickiness in it, but you can no longer write a book just because
it's going to be tricky. We're post-experimental in a way.

JohnUpdike111

The American writers who still excite me most are people like
Bellow and Roth and Cheever
and Salinger and
Malamud-writer:5 who meant a lot to me whe~ I was young. I
suppose we're all m thrall to people who got their thumbs on u
while the clay was still fairly moist. The older you get the hardes
it is to make a dent, so that although I can certainly admire th;
younger writers, I'm less apt to want to steal from them than I
was from Bellow. I mean you read a page of Bellow at his best
and you think, "My God, nobody's ever written like this.
Nobody's ever put those things on paper before." So, I guess I'm
still reading fiction in hope of finding things there, news about
life, news about what it's like to be alive in a certain place.
There seems to be a debate in your poetry as well as your
fiction between the infinite nature of the spirit and the finite
nature of the body. How has this debate changed over the
years?
It's a large way to look at it and we may be approaching an
area where psychoanalysis and not self-analysis is what's called
for. I don't quite know why and I don't know why my poetry
has taken the exact form it has. Religiously, I was raised as a
Lutheran in a county where Lutheranism was taken for granted;
just like anything that's taken for granted, it didn't seem very important. But it was worked into my system so that when I left
this world I found it was a part of me that I didn't want to let go
of, couldn't let go of-I was scared without it, frankly. So in
some way I've remained a religious person off and on, kind of a
lackadaisicalChristian, but a Christian nevertheless and certainly
it's figured in the writing.
You wonder in a way-why write about people if they're just
bundles of neurons and cartilage and going to live and die like a
set of chickens in the yard? I guess it does seem remarkable to
me that we are inside these bodies and these appetites, and a lot
of the fiction is about a certain strangeness here. My early novels
were framed in terms of animals; that is, Rabbit being a kind of
impulsive darting creature and the Centaur being a horse person.
The Centaur is very much about this being half spirit and half
body, or being caught in an incongruous physical frame. Not
just incongruous but of course painful: death is painf~,
toothaches are painful, love is painful; so much that our bodies
ask of us is painful.
I don't know if I've changed an awful lot. Or enough. I should
112 JohnUpdikt

change. We all should change. One thing that's given me
courage in writing has been this belief that the truth, what is actual, must be faced and is somehow holy. That is, what exists is
holy and God knows what exists; He can't be shocked, and He
can't be surprised. There is some ad of virtue in trying to get
things down exactly the way they are: how people talk, how
they ad, how they smell. So I have felt empowered in some way
to be as much of a realist as I could be, to really describe life as I
see it.
I'm not ignorant scientifically, but there is something in the
way people have always written, from the Bible on. We are used
to this dualism in our fiction. We feel like spirits to ourselves as
well as bodies. So, yes, it is hard for me to write I suppose
without some sense of that dualism there. It makes life interesting. We seem to be biune, we seem to be double in some
odd way. We are witnesses to ourselves, too. We witness our intimate and helpless ads except when we sleep.
I really never set out to be a Christian writer or theological
writer. I'm just trying to announce with a sense of wonder and
surprise that I'm here at all. It has always struck me as slightly
odd that I'm me instead of you. There's a tendency to view most
writers-especially when they come to Arizona State University
or some such worthy place-as founts of wisdom who know
something and who are in there writing away trying to say
something; but often they are creatures of wonder and surprise,
and they're talking to themselves. I mean, you write as much out
of ignorance as out of knowledge, as much out of surprise as out
of any conclusion you've reached.
What do you think of the popular spiritual movement, as
represented by Shirley MacLaine, which among other things
believes in freedom from guilt?
Yeah, I think I believe in freedom from guilt too. I see myself
described in reviews, and not always in friendly reviews, as a
descendent of the anguished Puritan whatnot. As I say, I was
raised a Lutheran and Lutheranism is of all the Protestant sects
that I know of the least interested in guilt. It's interested in f~ith.
I didn't think I grew up with a sense of guilt. Most of the thmgs
t
we do in an animal way are probably forgivable, and we muS
forgive ourselves for growing pubic hair, having smelly feet,
f
needing haircuts, and the rest of it.
What do I feel about Shirley MacLaine7 I think her creed its
JohnUpdilct113

our general wish to be easy on ourselves. And there is this
bling thing about any faith that the pragmatic American tre~~1
tion encourages: anything that gets you through the night •
Frank Sinatra said, shouldn't be ridiculed. What she says sou~~s
to my prejudices pretty fantasti7al and ridiculous and needless}s
ornate and pointless. There's a kmd of horror: Asiatic cosmolo~
taken seriously really is terrifying-terrifyingly endless, terrify.
ingly senseless. Nevertheless, you have Shirley MacLaine
herself, who is very charming on talk shows, very crisp and
seems in _many_ways to !11esuperior to the slightly needling,
mocking mterv1ewer-M1ke Wallace or somebody else. I mean
when she's up against Mike Wallace, my sympathy is always
with Shirley Maclaine and reincarnation and whatever else
enables her to be warm and relaxed and amused and a lovely
woman. And her ideas are tied in with her loveliness in some
way that seems essential to her. I don't mind.
Perhaps America is especially prone to guilt because we don't
have a lot of institutions with which to get rid of it. There's
nothing you can do to get rid of it the way confession used to
work or should work. Participation in any large ritual or communal ceremony in some sense relieves us of our individual
burden of guilt.
I think there are other problems to being alive than guilt.
Maybe our age is less guilt-prone than it is anxiety-prone, and
not just in the sense that the atom bomb might go off. We are in
some deep way scared by how unthinkably small our place in
the universe is, just how fragile the planet is. We're almost
creatures of gossamer, aren't we? We're just barely here at all.
Certainly all the teenage suicides these days are an amazing
thing to me who was always so afraid of death. To rush forward
and embrace it-I just can't imagine what's going on in their
minds.
In the poem "Humanities Course," from the Carpentered
Hen, you write about "'crucial figures' in The 'pageantry' of
'Western thought."' What do you see yourself doing within
the pageantry of Western thought?
The poem was written with some resentment against Harvard. Harvard took me, a raw youth out of Pennsylvania, and
did expose me to this pageant and made me to some modest
degree an educated man, but I resented the process. I felt tha_tit
was frightening to be educated and in some way I lost something
114 JohnUpdikt

very essentially me. So the poem is meant to be satirical and I
don't think I saw myself as enrolling in that pageantry, but now I
wouldn't mind enlisting if I could think of a way. My aim is to
witness the life of America in the second half of the century as
best I can, and to keep my mind open more or less: to be openeyed, and open-minded.
I'd like to try to do a kind of Emersonian self-exploration; that
is, take my life not as the raw material of fiction, but as some
kind of essential datum delivered to me, to write about being me
in a way that would write about the problem of anyone being
himself or herself. I'd like to say something about selfconsciousness.
In a New Yorker review of Emerson's work you wrote
about a coldness in Emerson that you didn't like. Is that what
happens when you are looking at yourself? You develop a
coldness in your view of things?
I think Emerson, to his credit, was facing his own feelings.
One passage I quoted in that review, to some people's irritation,
was an interestingly frank set of remarks about his own response
to grief, his son's death. He found that for all of the initial passion, after a while it didn't matter as much as it should. I think
what he said of himself is true of most people.
William Dean Howells as a young man went and interviewed
these New England literary giants when they were all still alive.
He sat with Emerson for an afternoon and came away with an
impression of coldness and distance. Of course, Emerson was on
the verge of a long senility. I suppose he had Alzheimers, as we
would say now, and he did have an extended dotty or absentminded period. But I think there was always something detached about Emerson; and it might be true of the American
character in general. I think if we look in ourselves with honesty
we will find this Emersonian coldness that he spoke of.
Emerson was not only talking about his own coldness but
about the something brutal in the American way of life. And
foreigners feel this way when they come here; they see all the
homeless and the bag ladies, and the Communists never get tired
of showing pictures of it on their television, because it is the
other side of American freedom: you are free to succeed and
you are also free to fail. I think we as Americans should
recognize that bums are as logical an outcome of our wonderful
freedom as millionaires.
JohnUpdike115

•

We suspect we haven't asked the most "groping [and]
111
"trulyinteresting questions that one asks oneself, 50 we'd
like to leave the last questions to you. What questions are
you asking yourself?
Well, the questions one asks oneself are almost the best put of
course in the form of fiction, of dramatizing aspects of your own
self and taking an impulse and turning it into a person. That
manipulation of the alternative that we all have within us is the
most creative and honest thing we do.
I'd like to take a breather eventually. Writing is so much a part
of my day; I've structured life so I don't do much else, really. I
mean I'm not a teacher. So it'll be hard for me to let go of the
writing habit, but I think the best use of my ability would be to
let go of it a bit and try to regroup my alternative selves. I'd like
to do a little reading, also. I wish I understood American history
better.
I was one of those people who was brought up to believe, and
saw no reason to doubt, that this was the greatest country in the
world. I felt very lucky to be born an American, and I've carried
with me all these fifty-five years that uninvestigated sense of being happy to be an American. But then I happened to be young
when America was unquestionably the most powerful country
in the world, and engaged in a very just war. Now we are
becoming more and more one nation among many.
I'd like to look at our past in some intelligent way through
reading. My reading has tended to be either directly for a book
that I was writing or else a book I was going to review. This is
not an intellectually ideal way to live. I'd like really to be more
of a reader than I am and not just a reviewer. I'd like to work
against my addiction to type, my addiction to appearing in print;
I'd like to try to make myself into a slightly wiser person than
maybe I am.
1

John Updike, Introduction, in Writers at Work: The Paris
Review Interviews, Seventh Series, ed. George Plimpton (New
York: Viking, 1986), xiii.

116 JohnUpdih _________________

_

Contributor's Notes
Jim Dames is the author of The American Book of the D d
1982, and of A Season of ~oss, 19~5 (University _ofIllinoisPr:s).
He is e~~or ~f The Chanton Review ~d a~soc1ateprofessor of
companhve literature at Northeast M1ssoun State University.
Debra Bolin holds a BFA in Photography from Arizona State
University.
Rene Guy Cadou (1920-1951) was born in Brittany. He became
a friend of Max Jacob and, in 1941, was a leading figure in the
formation of the "School of Rochefort." Cadou's poems, known
for their lyrical quality, continue to influence French poetry.
Dorothy Neil Cohen studied at Reed College, Arizona State
University, and in France. A member of the American
Translators' Association and the American Literary Translator's
Association, her graduate work was in French and Translation
Studies.
Norman Dubie's most recent book of poems is The Springhouse, (W.W. Norton). Groom Falconer,his next collection, will
appear in a year from the same publisher. He is an IngramMerrill Fellow.
Stephen Dunn is the author of six books of poems, most recently Local Time. He teaches at Stockton State College in New
Jersey.
Kay Emig, mixed media artist, exhibits at the MARS Artspace in
Phoenix.
Sharon Ewing-Rash, an artist from Mesa, Arizona, works out of
the Serene Haven Studio in Mesa.
Philip Gerard is the author of Hatteras Light, a novel, and
BrilliantPassage... a schooning memoir. He currently teaches at
Lake Forest College, Lake Forest, Illinois.
118

Bradley Henderson's first novel Drums won a Phi Kappa Phi
award. He is working on his second novel, Midnight Marauder.
As a graduate student at USC, he is also poetry editor for the
Southern California Anthology.
Janet Holmes has recent poems in New Letters and Puerto del
Sol. Her chapbook is Paperback Romance (State Street Press).
She lives in Nambe, New Mexico.
Gabby Hyman completed his MFA at the University of
Alabama and is currently a visiting professor at the University of
Illinois. ''Mannlich Among the Sheaves" comes from his first collection of short stories.
Laurie Kirk is working on a manuscript entitled Lies and Other

Sins. Her poetry has appeared in the New Jersey Poetry Journal.
She holds three teaching positions, one of which is in creative
writing for the New Jersey School of Creative Arts.

Catherine Marconi is a third generation cattlewoman working
on a collection of poems about the cattle business. Her work has
appeared in Blue Unicom and The Christian Science Monitor.
She won a merit award from Vermont College.
Stefanie Marlis has recent poems in Black Warrior Review,
Massachusetts Review and Zyzzyva. Dooryard Press published
her book Red Tools.
Ron Mcfarland is Professor of English at the University of
Idaho, where, in 1983, he became the first Writer-In-Residence.
His books include Certain Women and Composting at Forty
(Confluence Press).
T. M. McNally, a graduate of the MFA program at Arizona
State University, has published fiction in Hayden's Ferry Review
and The Fiction Review.

Candice St. Jacques Miles published Jewel of the Desert, nonfiction, and short stories in Ajin Court Irregular and Earth
Daughters. Two of her plays, Firewor~s and Gim~e were produced in Tucson and Tempe, respectively. She 1s currently a
teaching assistant at Arizona State University while she works
on her MFA.
Dianne Nelson's fiction has appeared in The Beloit Journal, her
poetry in Blue Buildings. She is a candidate for an MFA at
Arizona State University.
Christopher Pelley graduated with a BFA from Arizona State
University in 1977. He resides in Phoenix, Arizona. He is
represented by Marilyn Butler Fine Art, Scottsdale, Arizona, and
Saxon Lee Gallery, Los Angeles, California.
Chris Pichler studied at Salzburg College in Austria and in
Munich before graduating from Arizona State University with a
BFA in Photography. He exhibits both in the United States and
in Europe, and his work has appeared in European Photography,
Camera Austria and Salzburg lmpuls.
John Anton Piller teaches at a Montessori preschool. He is a
graduate student at California State University, Sacramento.
Jerry Santek recently graduated from the Honors Program in
English at Arizona State University, where he won the Glendon
Swarthout Award for his poetry. He currently lives in
Washington, D.C.
Dennis Schmitz is the author of Singing (Ecco Press, 1985). His
next book, Grand Egress (University of Illinois Press), is forthcoming in 1989.
Maura Stanton is the author of Cries Of Swimmers (University
of Utah, 1984) and Tales of the Supernatural (Godine), forthcoming next summer. She teaches Creative Writing at Indiana
University.

Dean Stover has published poems in PassagesNorth, raccoon,
and Seneca Review. He won honorable mention and publication
in the 1987 Denny Anthology and currently teaches at
Chandler-Gilbert Community College.
Frank Thomson is curator/administrator of The Upstairs artspace in Tryon, North Carolina. His "Self Reflexive Portions"
series is an attempt to fuse the conceived with the accidental.
Each image is the result of a single negative.
John Updike's latest book, Trust Me, is a collection of short
stories. The title of his next novel is S. He has won a Pulitzer
Prize, a National Book Award, and the National Critic's Circle
Award for Rabbit Is Rich, published in 1981.

MFA
in Creative
Writing
Arizona
State
University
Faa,lly

N11111an
Dubie
MarkHanis
Dove
Rita

Roo
Carboo
Percy
Granger
PaulC.
JayBoyer
Ron
Newoomer
Alba1o
Rm
Diracu

TheMasterof FineArts
degree
in Creative
Writingis
offeredjointlybytheEnglish
andTheatre
Departments.
Poets.
screenwriters.
fiction
andcreativenonfiction
writersworkwithfacultyin
theEnglishDepartment.
Playwrights
studywiththe
playwright-in-residence.
ForilRmlation.
wrilllmKarta
Elling.
Arizona
Stall
English
llepartmert
Univenity,
Tempe.
Arizona
E287

'

,,

:~AYDEN'S
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:~[AYDEN'S
FERRY

REVIEW

REVIEW

Premier Issue
Spring 1986
is still

2
Spring 1987

available

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Interview
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Joseph Heller

Interview
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Fiction
by
Ron Hanson
and
others

Fiction
by
Ron Carlson
and
others

Poetry·
by
Rita Dove
Norman Dubie
Brenda Hillman
Peggy Shumaker
Jeannine Savard
and
others

Poetry
by
Peter Cooley
Richard Terrill
Naomi Wallace
Michael Carrino
Michael Hogan
and
others
..

Art
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Hayden's ferry Review
Student Publications,
Matthews Center,
Arizona State University,
Tempe, AZ 85287-1S02

Hayden's Ferry Review
Student Publications,
Matthews Center,
Arizona State University,
Tempe, AZ 85287-1502

is still

'

We wish to ackn?wledge Donna Bo~ring of Student Publications for typesetting and pasteup;, Diana Brubaker for camera
work; Liz Hartung for the Hayden s Ferry logo; Quentin Skaggs
for the design of the MFA announcement; Elizabeth Baldacchino, Raelinn Doty, Sarah Duerde?, Chester A. Fasulo, Katrina
Larson, Fran McClung, Peggy McG1nn, John Graves Morris, and
John Scott for proofreading; and Ron Carlson, Rita Dove, Karla
Elling, e.o., Marcia Hamilton, Salima Keegan, e.o., John Graves
Morris, Alberto R{os, and Dana Weimer, members of the
Hayden's Ferry Review ad hoc editorial selection commiHee.

HAYDEN'S
tu

F E R R Y

R E V I E W

S dent Publications, Matthews Center, Arizona State University, Tempe, Arizona 85287-1502

•

Jim Barnes
Debra Bolin
Rene Guy Cadou
Dorothy Neil Cohen
Norman Dubie
Stephen Dunn
Kay Emig
Sharon Ewing-Rash
Philip Gerard
Bradley Henderson
Janet Holmes
Gabby Hyman
Laurie Kirk
Catherine Marconi

Stefanie Marlis
Ron McFarland
T.M. McNally
Candice St. Jacques Miles
Dianne Nelson
Christopher Pelley
Chris Pichler
John Anton Piller
Jerry Santek
Dennis Schmitz
Maura Stanton

Dean Stover
Frank Thomson
John Updike

Cover art ''Samsonand Delilal1,,by Christopher Pelley, oil on wood and canvas is int-he
collection of Marta Boutel, Phoenix, Arizona