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ATTIC

COVER

The piece on the cover is oDeco Blasrer,TT an acrylic by
Billy E. Walker, Jr. We are featuring his work throughour rhe
magazine.

The REBEL is published annually by rhe Media Board of
East Carolina Universiry. Offices are located in the Publications
Building on the ECU campus. This issue and its conrents are
copyrighted 1983 by the REBEL. All rights reverr back to the
individual writers and artists upon Publication. Contents of this
issue May nor be reproduced by any means, mechanical or
electrical, nor May any part of if be stored in any
information retrieval system withour the written permission of
the aurhor or artist. Volume 25, Number 1

Address all correspondence to the REBEL, Mendenhall
Srudenr Cenrer, East Carolina University, Greenville, NC 27834.

Editorial

No one who comes into rhe REBEL office ever believes
thar such a slick magazine really comes out of ir. Ir is
impressive to learn thar Columbia Scholastic Press Association's
1982 First Place-Medalist was conceived in a sixteen by
sixteen Office whose ~~word processor�T is a first run IBM
Selectric which is worth more as an antique than as a
rypewrirer. }

Winning the Medal fromm CSPA was a great reward, but it
pur scads and wads of pressure on us this year. Design and
production pur our collective talent and dedication to the
rest. As nice as long-term planning and spacious schedules
are, projects like the REBEL seem to turn our berrer as rhe
products of hundred-and-twenty-hour creativiry-jam-sessions.

The REBEL is, more than anything, a group effort. The
staff members are only middlemen who organize the efforts
of Easr Carolina's most talented students. If the process
stopped there, rhe resulr would be no more than a stack of
manila folders full of poems, stories, slides, photos, etc.
People nor involved with publications don't realize what
alchemists printers really are. Once again we thank JosrenTs
American Yearbook Company for its patience,
professionalism, and perfection. Fred Pulley, JosrenTs local
rep., is simply in a class by himself.

As talented as ECU's writers and artists are, they still need
to be coaxed our of their academic-alchoholic ennui. Thus,
we wish fo express our deepest grarirude to Tom Haines of
the ATTIC and Wayne Hardison of Jeffrey's Beer and Wine
and Budweiser for rhe prize money for the REBEL Contest
Series.

We also wish to thank Mary Ann Pennington and the
Greenville Museum of Art for hosting and hanging the
receprion and show.

Special rhanks tro: Doreen Rountree for her help with rhe
Art Conrest and Show; Laura Redford and John Barnerr for
typing and production assistance; Ed Midgert for shooting rhe
art; Gary Patrerson for shooting us; and the FCC for allowing
24-hour radio.

Rebel Contest Series Winners
Prose

First Place: Carlyn Ebert ~~Living in Sin in the Bible BelrTT
Second Place: Brian Rangeley oA Dog's LifeTT
Third Place: Keith Srallings oWinter SolsticeT

Poetry

First Place: Katharine Kimberly ~The Hor House VarieryTT
Second Place: Edith Jeffries ~~PowerTT
Third Place: Don Ball ~~Letrer to a BrorherTT

Art

Best in Snow: John Boone ~'Self PortrairTT mixed media
Painting: Ellen Amendolara *~The Tenth GareT
Printmaking: Ed Midgerr *~All Dressed Up Nowhere To GoT
Ceramic: Steve Jones oVessel #2T

Sculprure: Gregory Shelnurr oAmphibian |"T

Design: Paula Moffitr Poppe o#3

Mixed Media: Diane Maisel ~Line and Lireral: One UnderTT
Graphic/Illustration: Keith Simmons ~Car VacTT
Photography: Roche! Roland oNight Study AwarenessTT
Drawing: Bob Ray ~#13T

T

Billy Wallser Figure 53: Favorite Turtle Fantasy

Beatty COLE

Dresents

Ellen Moore Associare Editor

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Jamie Biggers Prose Ediror Bobbie Housron Poerry Ediror

Table of Contents

Deco Blaster by Billy E. Walker, Jr.

Figure 53: Favorite Turtle Fantasy by Billy Walker
Living in Sin in the Bible Belr by Carlyn Ebert
Fossil Rocks by Jamie Biggers

Patch Work by Paul Rogers

An Illustration by Mike Rigsbee

The Hothouse Variety by Katharine Kimberly
An Illustration by Dan Fuller

Falling Tide by Katherine Kimberly

En Passant by Malynn Linton

Jo by Paul Rogers

Concrete by Gary Patterson

All the Oprions by Ellen Moore

A Dog's Life by Brian Rangeley

Letter to a Brother by Don Ball

An Illustration by Jean Lee

The Lasr Puzzle Piece by Karharine Kimberly
Chariry and the Hand of the Beholder by Rick Gordon
Second Spring by Elizabeth Iro

Black Box by Don Ball

Goldfish Pond by Malynn Linton

Untitled by Fred Galloway

Lace Matador by Paula Blumenfeld
Amphibian | by Gregory Shelnurr

ChuckieTs Pajama Party

Design #3 by Paula Moffirr Poppe

All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Go by Ed Midgerr
Line and Literal: One Under by Diane Maisel
The Last Encore by Donna Gregory

Subway by Wilfred Spoon

Bound, Unbound by Jo Pumphrey

The Tenth Gare by Ellen Amendolara

Ed and Fred and Bed by Ed Midgerr

The Undersea World of Minnesota Fats by George McKim 44

Self Portrair by John Boone

Ruffian Rebound of Riverhead Rhinorhea by Milke Tarsis

WharTs On Your Mind? by Chris Carlson

Atlantic Symphony by Fred Galloway

The Sea and All Within Ir by Micah Harris
Dancing With the King by Robert Waldrop

The Narure of Minority: In 3 Voices by Lisa Ryan
Physical by Sam Silva

Years Ago by Keith Carrer

The Sayings of Them All by Lisa Ryan

Antique Srore by Kay Lamb

46

Rebel 8;

Hog Kill by Ray Elmore

Winter Sosrice by Keith Srallings

New England Cellar by Kay Lamb

Johnny Quest Grows Up and Meets His Electric Monster
by Billy Walker

Passion Crime: Willie by Billy Walker

Los Angeles 12 Noon by Marl Kemp

The Ciry by Edith Jeffries

Jai by Jamie Biggers

African Summer by Edith Jeffries

Fanrasies by Paul Rogers

Interstare Forty 3:00 p.m. by Mark Kemp

Power by Edirh Jeffries

An Illustration by Ellen Moore

Ocrober Rirual by Phillip Horne

illustration by Donna Gregory

One Day's Vagary by Lisa Rayn

Burning Issues by Billy Walker and Rick Gordon

Abstracts by Sam Silva

ArtistsT and WritersT Biographies

Equal Time by Ellen Moore

60
61
65

66
6/7
68
69
70

71

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72
73
73
74
74
75
76

78
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Living iNoin

Carlyn Ebert

| hate big family weddings. Not necessarily other
familiesT big family weddings, at which | am a
guest and free to whirl about spearing Swedish
meatballs and making lewd toasts to the ushers.
No, thereTs little chance the brideTs Aunt Tillie will
really care if an anonymous female guest with a
much-too-low-cut neckline for this-sort-of-affair is
carrying a plastic cup of misty, Scotch-flavored
ice cubes in her teeth or engaging the bartender
in slurred conversation while her uncomfortable
shoes are perched back at her table next to her
fruit cup. And since Aunt Tillie hasn~t the faintest
notion who the disgraceful girl might be, she will
not be tempted to corner her in the ladiesT room
to ask, so when are you getting married?

That privilege remains reserved for my own long-
distance relatives, a well meaning but inquisitive
group of northern suburbanites who descend on
me at those inevitable family functions with the
grace and tact of seven-year locusts. The
standard interrogation begins with a warm-up
grilling about ~career goals,� my health, my social
life. Remember, they~re just getting started. They
click their new dentures and drip cigar ash onto
the parquet dance floor while | sway on my
unfamiliar high heels and offer suitably vague
answers. | know, and they know, what the really
meaty question is: so when are you getting
married?

For four years this one required especially tricky
navigation, since the man | lived with liked these
full battle dress occasions even less than | did and

in the Bible Belt

rarely escorted me to them. He had a pretty
good excuse, too: we lived 800 miles away in a
steamy, backswamp college town in central
Florida on one Sunshine State clerical salary and
one part-time graduate assistantship. The living-
together arrangement hardly scandalized my
generally liberal relatives; instead, it seemed to
tantalize them, fanning a competitive spirit among
the older folk for facts about ~my friend,TT and
made me particularly worthwhile and easy prey.
So, when ...?

| am thankful the subject of marriage rarely
cropped up between Bruce and me in the very
early days. The not-so-novel idea of living
together only came up, originally, as an attractive
alternative to trying to keep our relationship
breathing over 800 miles; | think we were finishing
a six pack and swatting mosquitoes at one of the
drive-in porno filmfests that grace the outskirts of
Washington, DC, during the summer, discussing his
intentions of returning to school in Florida in the fall.
Florida sounded magically tropical and blissfully far
away from the Washington suburbs where |Td lived
far too long and was at the time enjoying a
leisurely unemployment. Living in sin in the South,
we giggled, would be an adventure. Especially if
we called it living in sin. The phrase carried a
delicious tinge of the wicked, and | enjoyed the
raised eyebrows and small smirks it usually
garnered. | guess people figured we intended to
do a whole lot of sinning. In comparison, marriage
sounded as dull as cup custard.

oThis was small-town North
Carolina " the buckle of
the Bible belt and the back
seat of the Moral Mqority. �

Although not thrilled about losing my third of the
rent money, my loyal roommates offered Bruce a
quick self-help session on dealing with what they
considered quirks in my personality (like relaxing to
loud AM radio static, or shredding bottle labels, or
throwing ill-mannered cats over balcony rails) that
made living with me such an unqualified pleasure.

| am tough to live with; | have been informed of
this harsh reality by a number of people. Loyal
roommates Carolyn and Kathy, for example, were
positive our new venture would fail solely because
of my passion for Salvation Army furniture and my
late-night stereo habits. My older brother, for
instance, who awakened countless mornings to
the hair-raising jangle of jacks and Superballs
skittering across his ceiling as | whiled away the
early morning hours in my bedroom above
perfecting cherries-in-a-basket. My old college
roommate, who stumbled over a new
rearrangement of our ration of dormitory furniture
on a weekly basis as she returned from her
grueling microbiology lectures. Bruce wasn't the
least bit phased. We loaded our common
possessions into a U-Haul and headed for I-95. No
scrap of parchment, no wedding hoopla, no
strings. For sentimentalityTs sake, | glanced back at
our apartment from the parking lot. On the
balcony, KathyTs cat lay napping and drooling and
shedding on my forgotten hibachi. No hibachi. No
cats. Ahh.

Now, even as far back in ancient history as
1977, living together " at least in the northern
city-burbs where Bruce and | grew up " was
commonplace to the point of semi-respectability.
Living together in the seventies didnTt reek of
rebellion anymore; living together was *~~sensible.�T
Even my mother thought so. To hell with first
comes love, then comes marriage ... | may have
missed out on the excitement of bra burning, but |
wasn't missing this. There was still a system to
resist, and we were dedicated nonconformists, or
at least we tried to be. One hitch: cohabitation in
the land of Anita Bryant, strictly and legally
speaking, is taboo.

We got the quick impression that unless we lived
indefinitely out of the Days Inn or the Palmetto
Court Motel, we'd be fighting an impossible
housing battle if we did not represent ourselves

from the start as man and wife. Fortunately, the
lady with the beehive hairdo at the second rental
agency we contacted was easily convinced. This
was probably my first tactical error. Bruce, |
thought, referred to me a little too zestily (and
repeatedly) as his ~~wifeTT as we signed our first
lease as married unmarrieds. The whole
arrangement became an increasingly complex
and occasionally embarrasing tangle as |
constantly tried to keep straight Who Knew and
Who Couldn~t Know.

Our 80-year old landlord, the semi-lucid Mr. Fate
Radford, couldnTt know, and neither could the
lovely people next door with the yappy collie and
the oP.T.A.! Hurray!TT bumper sticker on their front
screen door. Bosses (mine) would know, major
professors (his) would simply not be apprised of
the situation. Most of our friends knew and took it
quite casually. To further complicate matters, while
most of the student population deserted the town
during the summer, our ordinance-happy legislators
kept busy passing inane rulings preserving ofamily�T
neighborhoods. Actually, this was just basic
antistudent jingoism aimed more at keeping the
students housed in the student ghetto than at
combatting cohabiting sinners on the cityTs fringe.
Parents (mine) already knew, of course; they had
asked only that | bring him over for a nice hot
meal before leaving DC. Parents (his) could not
know, until they decided to visit their son in
December of that first year and bring him all the
comforts of northern New Jersey he was somehow
managing without in the heathen, backward
South, like onion bagels, hard rolls, and good dill
pickles. Normally levelheaded, Bruce at first tried
to persuade me to move into the garage and
pose as a rent-paying stranger. | refused.
Eventually, we reached a compromise: he would
tell them about me. He would not tell them about
the motorcycle (this had something to do with his
motherTs blood pressure). The motorcycle stayed
over at a friendTs house, and | stayed home,
served cheese and crackers and my new
mushroom pate and felt distinctly uncomfortable.

| could sense BruceTs growing dissatisfaction as
we argued the pros and cons of living together for
two years following his parentsT initial visit /lecture.
We also argued the pros and cons of wet towels
on the bathroom floor, of whose family to visit for
Thanksgiving, of whose turn it was to balance the
checkbook, and whose fault it was when the
checkbook wouldnTt balance. Neighbors, those
within earshot at least, believed we were really
married.

One day, after one of my particularly exhaustive
(and, | thought, well-reasoned) tirades against
marriage, he asked me over a forkful of lasagne if
| would ever agree to marry him. This, obviously,
was a difficult spot to negotiate: if | said no, it
could have been interpreted as an intention to
leave him for the first millionaire podiatrist who

came along; if | said yes, | could only look forward
to another couple of years of wrangling over such
details as setting the date. He canTt be serious, |
thought; remember all that good stuff we agreed
on? Like marriage being a contract of ownership, |
argued. Like missing the hassles of getting to know
each otherTs ugliest habits, too late. Like avoiding
divorce court. Like holding on to a shred of non-
conformist decency. | was on a roll, and argued
further that living together was the best truth-in-
advertising measure since Sir Thomas MoreTs
ludicrous Utopian procedure of presenting the
prospective bride and groom to each other in the
buff, in the presence of a chaperone, so each
one would know what he or she was bargaining
for and could back out if revolted by the otherTs
physical appearance. Obviously not interested in
Sir Thomas More, Bruce had already clammed up
and stalked out of the kitchen.

~Welcome to Utopia,�T | screamed at a dirty
spatula as | threw his lasagne away.

| guess | could have just answered, ~o~Well,
maybe,T and winked my saltiest wink.

Luckily, around this time Bruce graduated and
finally snagged a job, and we were too busy
attending farewell parties and slinging household
goods into cardboard banana boxes to hash out
the commitment and till-death-do-us-part debate
one more time. By the time we arrived in rural
North Carolina, | assumed the subject was well
buried, and | filled out lease applications as
oRelationship: WifeTT without thinking twice. When
we accidentally met one of his new co-workers at
the Winn Dixie express checkout, Bruce introduced
me as his fiancee visiting from Florida, and | didnTt
even wince. He might have assumed | had finally
backed down on the marriage issue, but | was
merely dazedly realizing that although | thought |Td
moved 500 miles north, | had actually moved into
a moral atmosphere several strata " and several
decades " south of Florida. This definitely was not
cracker Florida or cosmopolitan DC, this was small
small-town North Carolina " the buckle of the
Bible belt and the back seat of the Moral Majority.
Maybe marriage would make sense, and maybe it
would make life and tax returns and saying hey to
the neighbors a whole lot easier. Maybe | could
get a credit card ... | caught myself and
banished the idea by picturing myself making
biscuits while some gritty country star on the radio
wailed about lovinT and livinT and goinT to the
preacher man.

Our lively arguments started up again,
becoming violent semi-annual bloodlettings. One
day | came home to find Bruce, calculator in hand
and my auto repair bills spread out on the living
room floor, calmly estimating the monetary haul
we could figure on by submitting to a Big Family
Wedding.

oLook at this!TT He enthusiastically nudged a pile
of papers toward me and lit a Winston Light. ~We

could make more money by getting married than
we both made last year.TT My eyes fell to his
scrawl-covered legal pad and then back to the
boy who once swore heTd happily eat brown rice
and home-grown vegetables for the rest of his life.
He actually wanted me to marry him as a financial
coup. | decided to cancel his subscription to
Forbes.

His vocabulary started changing. oLiving
togetherTT became ~a deception.TT Was he
slipping out to revival meetings, | wondered? Did
he really think getting married would change
anything besides our legal status? | sat at our
cramped kitchen table and watched him try to
recreate TonyTs Sanitary Fish MarketTs Famous Tar
Heel Hushpuppies. While the peanut oil heated, he
ran upstairs to change out of his Permaprest
respectable, young executive look before
spattering grease on the cuffs. Appearances, |
mused, mattered a hell of a lot more to him now.
It must have been the transition from Florida
student farmer to Carolina corporate image. |
started chopping onions for the hushouppies when
Bruce stepped back into the kitchen in his
standard, almost buttonless, brown flannel shirt,
Levis, and work boots. My eyes stung from the
onions, and he took the knife and finished
chopping.

oWe oughta get a food processor one of these
days,T he muttered. ~~My sister got three as
wedding presents.TT

While the onion burn subsided, | closed my eyes
and pictured married life: just like living in sin, only
with a food processor. What a great kick-off point
for the final bout; it would culminate, | imagined,
with my suitcases being violently stuffed with my
clothes and a few Costello albums hurled down
the hall after me. But weTd played this scene
before, and it was letter-perfect and getting
boring.

What if we did it?

My mother, delighted beyond words, would rush
out for a flowing, pink chiffon ensemble. I'd wear
ivory; something short, sensible, and reusable. (
didn't.) Bruce would wear his good, gray suit. (He
wore a tux.) We'd drink lots of champagne and
go to Mexico with the wedding loot. (We paid off
our VISA bill.)

Living in sin was easy, but ... what the hell, |
thought. LetTs do it. LetTs get married. Can~t be
any different.

To Bruce, still chopping at the kitchen table, |
only said, oLetTs.TT R

Patch Worl

Paul Rogers

Fossil Rocks

They woke us one Saturday "
bulldozers.

We watched. They gouged
black dirt

where our fort was,

where I hid my fossil rock,

really a blob of cement.

All day, we watched.
Finally, rushed out
through street-light blue
across naked,

new-smelling ground.

Twigs at crazy angles

in black dirt like
tombstones in an ancient,
unkempt graveyard.

Our beautiful trees

a huge, smoldering pile.

We searched, hours it seemed
never finding a recognizable
piece of our fort.

Or my fossil rock.

I wonder, looking
at new houses,
where children
build forts and hide

fossil rocks.

Jamie Biggers

Mike Rigsbee

The

Hot-House

Variety

She has a tiny tatoo

high on the stretched skin

of her left breast

that shows over the edge of the blue housecoat
when she washes dishes.

Dan Fuller

Years ago, the tatoo flashed

above the fringed satin of her costume
when she danced in bars

and work-weary men, just off second shift
and young boys in fresh uniforms

edged the stage

waving clean dollar bills

(or more on payday)

just to touch the freckled pink rose

with their hot lips.

She called herself oBreezy,�

like the wind,

and a free smile would slide across her face
as her flat brown body whirled

drawing them into her vortex

and the music caught her, transforming

her drabness into everymanTs Cinderella

a princess for the not-so-charming.

Now she lives in suburbia

behind the picket fence of marriage.
He reigns rigidly, an ex-Marine

who used to watch her dance
wanted more than one nightTs music,
gave her the middle-class dream,
and buys her knit pantsuits

and high-necked blouses

to hide the rose

he once kissed for free.

Katharine Kimberly

12

The Falling Tide

The darkening water is spread across the creek
in shallow ripples, tucked unevenly
into the corners of the marsh

like the wrinkled, navy sheets

on my unmade bed.

An immense live oak hangs

over the channel, slowly dying

as the grey strands of moss

drape its branches and drag it down
as grey apathy drags at me

pulling me down into the ebb.

On the rotting platform of an abandoned beacon
a female osprey mirrors me

preening out of habit;

her nest crumbles beneath her

slipping, stick by stick,

into the water

to drift away.

She watches as the tide begins to shift;
on the ongoing current rides a disheveled mass.
She dives, one more time

anxious for the prize.

her talons connect, and she rises

easily as the breeze

that lifts across the stagnant water,
suffusing the air

with the sweet stink of decay,

before the carcass disintergrates
dropping back into the darkness

with muffled splashes.

Katharine Kimberly

oo

En Passant

Beards and men

file through my room.

~~Shah mat, shah mat,TT we whisper.

| ponder a ponderous
weight down looking to
partitions on a plastic mat
" control this parody.
We rehearse a feudal system;
an arcane philosophy.
They move their moves,
they rearrange while
castle-like | wait,

defend, debate and watch
the white parts shuffling

across the checkered field.

Malynn Linton

13

Paul Rogers Jo

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16

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A Dog's Life

It was a moderately warm day in June, some
two months before the hunting trip. Junior was still
going strong, but | was dead tired. | watched his
lean, well-developed body move almost without
effort as he thrust the fifty-pound sacks of Gravy
Train up to the top shelf. | had been going out
into the woods and pushing old logs up the hills
since Junior moved into that new house behind
ours a year ago, but my body still had far to go to
match his. | looked at my own thin form, then
watched Junior toss up the last sack. | chalked the
difference up to time; there would be three years
before | was his age.

Junior brushed his hands off and looked at me.
oThere,TT he said, with a deep breath, owe're
almost done. | gotta go see Dr. Nelson for a
minute. You go get those dogs | showed you and
take them out to the back pen.T He grabbed his
T-shirt and slipped it on after using it to wipe the
sweat Off his face.

| followed him from the storage room into the
kennels, and he continued to the offices up front.
The late afternoon sun streamed lazily through the
fenced windows and across the room. Junior had
worked as the vet's assistant ever since his folks
bought him a 4-wheel drive Bronco, shortly after
they moved in. | came with him that day, partly
because | was bored, and partly to see what he
did. | found out that feeding one end of the dogs
and cleaning up after the other end was a big
part of JuniorTs day.

| got the dogs Junior had pointed out and
herded them into the grassless pen. One was a
white miniature poodle, one was a German
shepherd, one had some retriever in him, and the
other three were of the Heinz 57 variety. | closed
the gate to the chicken wire cage and looked at

Brian Rangeley

them. They each selected their own section of turf
and stood there barking at me. All of them had
flea collars, and a few wore collars with names on
them, but no OwnersT names.

Junior came out carrying a pistol. Approaching
the pen, he released the safety.

oYou're not gonna shoot ~em, are you?� |
asked, trying not to sound squeamish.

oHell, yeah,T he replied. oWhat, did you think we
were gonna take ~em out for a stroll?�

o| thought they just gassed dogs.�

~Nope. Not here. No gas chamber. We just
shoot ~em here, kill oem quick. LetTs see, you first,
big boy.�T He stepped inside the pen and aimed
the gun at the shepherd's face. | looked at the
shepherd's collar, remembering the name *'Prince�T
stamped on the shiny aluminum tag. Junior fired.

A hole appeared in the dog's forehead, and
blood spurted from it. The dog blinked and
opened his mouth like he was about to cry out,
but nothing came out, not even a whimper. All
four legs quickly folded under; the shepherd fell
lifeless to the ground. He lay there on the hard,
dark soil, blood and drool running from his mouth.
The remaining dogs suddenly became quiet and
stood still, quivering.

| left the pen and ran inside, shutting the door
firmly behind me. | fell back against it, holding my
stomach. | heard another shot. | ran to the other
end of the kennels and covered my ears. | could
still hear the crack of the pistol. They only shoot
dogs, | thought. Dogs with rabies. Not dogs with
name tags and clean fur. | imagined the poodleTs
white fur being stained red. | still heard the gun.
The sight of the shepherd's spasmotic collapse
stuck in my mind. | heard the gun again. He must
be shooting them twice. Everything became quiet,

17

Sao rn RR EE a ee

sn aN

save for the scratching noises of the dogs in the
cages.

| walked slowly back to the door, debating
whether | wanted to go back out there. | heard
Junior call me.

Jimmy? WhereTd you go?�T

| opened the door, being careful not to look
out.

oWhat do you want?� | asked him.

oWhere you been?�

o| hadda go to the bathroom.� | couldnTt tell him
the real reason.

oGo get me some of those Glad trash bags
from the storage room.�

| got the trash bags. As | carried them outside, |
watched the ground just in front of me. | fumbled
with the gate, trying to get it open without seeing
inside.

oWell, damn, Jimmy, if | wait on you, it'll be six
o'clock before | get done.TT He took the bags from
my hand.

oNow help me bag these dogs so we can get
out of here.�T

| gasped at the thought. | looked up and saw
the dogs on the ground. One was still breathing.
~No! | mean, | canTt.�

~What do you mean, you canTt?T Junior
demanded.

| pointed to the dog that was still breathing.
~ooArenTt you gonna finish hin?TT

oHe'll die. What are you, a wimp? Come on,
theyT~re just a buncha dogs that nobody wants.TT

olm nota wimp,� | said, turning away from the
massacre. The wet, bloody smell of death was
starting to choke me. oThe doctor told me there
were some cages that needed cleaning again.�

~Oh, | guess you better go do that, then, if itTs
what the doctor ordered. I'll get the dogs myself.�

| was already moving inside. | stumbled through
the door, closing it behind me. | sat on the floor
and waited for the dizziness to pass.

The animal shelter was just outside the Reidsville
city limits, so it was only a fifteen minute ride
home. The winding, old two-lane highway
straightened out long enough to stretch past the
row Of cigarette factories. Littering the rooftops
and walls of each building were billboards showing
young, attractive people in romantic or outdoor
settings. One had a cowboy lighting up in the
middle of a herd of cows. Junior saw the
advertisement and reached for his Marlboros. He
held a cigarette out to me.

~No thanks,�T | said.

oAw, go ahead, you're old enough. Try one.�

| had tried smoking before. The smoke hurt my
throat. ~All right,TT | conceded. | put the cigarette
in my mouth. The tobacco smelled good. Junior
struck a match and held it up. | put the cigarette
to the flame and sucked hard. It burned my
throat, and | bent double in a fit of coughing.

Junior slapped my back and laughed. oHot

damn, boy, what you tryinT to do, smoke it all at
once? Just take it easy, draw slower, and relax
your throat.�

| tried it the way he said and managed to
choke down the rest of it without coughing too
much. It left a bad taste in my mouth. While Junior
was fumbling for a tape, | put the butt in the
ashtray.

~How was it?� he asked. oNot too bad, huh?T

oItTs okay.� | let it go at that.

Junior plugged a Willie Nelson tape into the
dash. Junior sang along with the tape. oWhiskey
River On my mind!TT He was badly out of tune. We
were on the access road that crossed the MartinsT
tobacco fields. The fields were posted, but Junior
liked to cross them anyway, because it was
shorter. | looked over at the MartinsT house; Lester
" everybody called him ~BookwormT " was
sitting on the porch with an open book, watching
us go by.

| looked down at the gun rack that was
mounted on the floor. It was empty. oHey, whereTs
your shotgun?� | had never known Junior to be
without if.

o| lent it to my fool cousin,TT said Junior. ~~The
inconsiderate bastard stuck the barrel in his mouth
and blew the back of his head away. SheriffTs got
it now. We won't be able to hunt dove for a
while.T

oA muscular hand restedT on
his belly, a mat of hair curled
over the topo of his favorite
Airty undershirt. oT

oThat's okay,� | said. ~We can go again when
you get it back.� | enjoyed hunting with Junior.
We were planning on some rabbit hunting later in
the summer. | wanted a gun of my own for my
14th birthday, but we didnTt have any money. Pa
said he would find one for me somewhere.

We stopped at the side door to my house,
where | got out. Junior 4-wheeled the Bronco up
our back hill into his own backyard. His yard had
green grass, and his house was nicer than ours. His
people owned land. | turned and walked into the
house.

The screen door slammed behind me. The smell
of turnip greens rushed into my nostrils and filled
my whole head. Ma sat at the table carving up
potatoes. ~Where you been?� she asked.

oJust out,�T | said. ~Your face is getting fat.�

Ma sighed. ~Yep. ItTs what happens when
infantTs on its way.�T

oSuppose so. We havinT any meat tonight?�

~No, but thereTs plenty of fresh greens from the
garden,T said Ma. oYour PaTs in the livinT room.
said he wants to see you.�

18

oOkay,�T | said, turning down the hall. | reached
to cut on the light " the yellow wall had turned a
dirty gray around the switch " but the hall
remained dim. No new bulb yet.

| came out of my room with a clean T-shirt
halfway over my head when | was greeted by a
blow to the groin. It was Marti, attempting to leap
the distance up into my arms.

oHey, girl, donTt knock me over,T | said, lifting
her to eye level.

oAfter school, we went to a stable,� said Marti.
o| held three kittens and petted a dog and rode a
horse and got followed by a bee.�

~A bee! Did you get stung?�

~No. The dog ate him and got stung on his
tongue. He cried.�

| carried Marti into the living room. Pa was
stretched out on the couch, his head resting on a
wad of stuffing that had busted through the worn
fabric. A muscular hand rested on his belly; a dark
mat of hair curled over the top of his favorite dirty
undershirt. His left hand supported a TV Guide in
front of his face. Jason and John were sprawled
among old toys and wood blocks in front of the
old Magnavox. Marti wrestled free and ran over to
the other kids.

oGet off my stuff!TT she cried, ~oThatTs mine!�

oBite my ass,T said Jason.

Pa threw the TV Guide at Jason. ~Jason! Don't
be talkinT that kinda shit in front of your sister. Say
you're sorry.�

Jason apologized and turned his attention back
to oHappy Days Again.� | waited a second, then
stepped up to Pa. ~You wanna see me?�

Pa looked at me and broke out in a broad
smile. ~~Hell, yeah!TT he exclaimed. He pointed at
me excitedly. oWait here, | got something fer ya!
Gotta go to the truck. Sit!�

| fell back into the easy chair. Richie was trying
to talk his father into buying a fancy, red car from
the Fonz. The kids were totally engrossed in the
program. Two of the dogs were sleeping on the
floor beside them. | pulled a string hanging from
the piece of cloth Ma made to cover the worn
spots on the arm of the chair. It just got longer; it
didn~t break.

| heard the creaking of the front screen door as
it slammed. Pa walked toward me, holding
something behind him, grinning like the dogs after
a good rabbit run. The kidsT attention had turned
to us. When Pa got square in front of me, he
brought around a brand new .22 rifle. ~Take it,
boy,�T he said. oItTs yours.�

| looked up at PaTs face. He meant it. | looked
back at the gun. The long barrel was dark and
blue, securely mounted to a black walnut stock. It
was like Melvin Tucker's, only nicer. If loaded in the
side like a Winchester .30-.30.

oIt'll hold up to twenty shots,TT Pa said, ~and see
here? ThatTs the safety. On, off " thatTs how it
works.T

sane nSnnnenreneememrnnennrenaeenetereee

| just sat there gaping. The gun was so beautiful.
Jason opened the venetian blinds to let in more
light. The red evening sun reflected a deep
orange in the thick, clear finish on the stock.
Finally, | got to my feet and tenderly took the gun
in my hands. It began to sink in that the gun really

was mine. o~ItTs beautiful, Pa,� | said. ~ItTs beautiful.T

Pa put his arm around my shoulder and held me
close. *~| stole it for you, son.TT he said face
beaming.

oYou had to steal it?T

oThatTs okay, son. You're my boy, and you
deserve the best | can find.�

oWell, Pa " | mean, uh, thanks. ItTs beautiful.�

oHell, | already know that. LetTs go eat. And
bring your gun, let Ma see.�

The days were getting hotter, and the moisture
made the air heavy and hard to breathe.
Bookworm had gone with me into the woods early
one afternoon to do some target practice with
my gun, and maybe shoot some squirrel if we saw
any. | drew a target on a big piece of cardboard
and nailed it to a dead tree. | was getting pretty
good with my new gun. | got seven out of ten in
the bull's eye, but Bookworm managed only to hit
twice. While | reloaded the magazine, he pulled
out a penknife and pried one of the bullets out of
the tree. He walked back to me, examining the
bullet carefully.

oFascinating,TT he muttered, half out loud.

oWhat's fascinating?�

oThe ballistics of a projectile such as this.�

oWhat?�

oBallistics. | heard them mention it on ~Hill Street
Blues,T so | looked it up. See, guns are finished on
the inside with a wire brush, and no two are alike.
When a bullet passes through the barrel, it gets
marked, like a fingerprint. See these marks? Only
your gun will mark a bullet like this.�T

~No kidding?� | said, looking at the bullet. |
wasn't as excited about it as he was. oListen,
Junior Block said heTll take us to Reidsville to see
the fireworks on the Fourth, if we want. What do
you say?�

BookwormTs face grew solemn. *'!l canTt,�T he
said. oMy father won't let me.�

oWhy not? You beinT punished?�

oNo " | could go " but not with Junior. My
father hates him because heTs always trespassing
on our land. He says Junior is nothing but trouble.
Why do you hang around with him, anyway?�

o| donTt know,� | said. *~l just like him.�

oWhy? All he ever does is run around the county
in that Bronco, tearing up peopleTs property. My
father says heTs probably the one who tore up
Mrs. DentonTs flower garden.�

oThat shows what you know!� | said, in JuniorTs
defense. ~o~He works at the Animal Shelter, taking
care of the dogs. Would he have that kind of job
if he was that way?�

~| heard he cut a pigletTs tail off just to watch

rn

19

ee

Swen

(pe en Reon es

the hogs chase him down and eat him.�

oYeah, but thatTs just something you heard.TT

oYou know how hogs go crazy with the smell of
blood.�T

o| know, but that doesnTt mean he did it.T

~Mrs. Denton said Junior also put one of her
kittens in the fresh milk cooler and drowned it.T�T

oListen, Bookworm,� | said, raising my voice,
oYou can believe all the crazy stories you want.
But | know Junior. Everybody picks on him ~cause
heTs new around here. Well, heTs my friend, and |
won't let you pick on him!TT

oWell if heTs such a great friend, maybe you
don~t need me!�

~Maybe | donTt!� | turned to walk away.
BookwormTs voice followed me. ~Good riddance!�
| ignored the call and kept walking. | felt bad for
the rest of the day.

Bookworm avoided me the rest of the summer. |
spent a lot of my weekends hunting with Junior for
squirrel and dove. Then, late in August, we
decided to hunt rabbit.

The last Saturday of the month was
unseasonably cool, so | waited for Junior inside.
Hearing the familiar rumble of his Bronco, | ran
outside, just in time to see the deep blue vehicle
bounding down the back yard.

The previous nightTs rain made the air feel cooler
than it actually was. Junior slid smoothly to a stop
in the red mud, the sides of the Bronco already
spattered. Wearing a bright orange hunting cap
with oNAPA� on the front, he stepped down out
of the truck and propped an arm on the door. He
was wearing new Levis and a brown flannel shirt
with the tail tucked in and the sleeves rolled up.

oCTmere, see what | got,�T he said, motioning
toward the back of the Bronco. | peered inside,
shading the glare of the porch light with my hand.
Inside was Rufus, and another dog, a young one.

oJunior!TT | yelled. oYou got another dog!�

~Found him at a divorce sale,TT Junior said, in his
deep, raspy voice. Reminds me of Kenny Rogers, |
thought. ooGeorge and Emily Bramlet decided to
go ahead and make it final, so they're sellinT
everything they got to make the settlement
easier. Got that beagle, papers and alll, for fifty
bucks.�T

We climbed into the Bronco, and | fastened my
gun to the mount, next to JuniorTs. As we cruised
down the road, Junior told me about the stuff he
had bought at the divorce sale: a set of open-
end wrenches, a coffee pot, a lamp, two
portable radios, and some other junk. He said he
was going fo sell it at the big flea market down in
Greensboro and make a profit.

Junior turned onto the access road crossing the
MartinsT field. This time, however, Mr. Martin was
there. He began chasing us on foot, waving a fist
and yelling cuss words. Junior just laughed and
drove on.

We soon arrived at Junior's Grandma's farm. The

back hundred acres were unused, and there was
supposed to be a good rabbit population there. |
held the guns while Junior got the dogs. We
walked to the fields, where Junior let the dogs
loose. ~First rabbit they jump is yours,� he said.

With their noses busily searching, the dogs ran
back and forth, whining all the while. Every few
minutes one of them would dig eagerly at some
hole, but when they found nothing, they returned
to their regular routine. Rufus flushed the first
rabbit.

The rabbit scurried zig-zag across the field, and
Rufus fell into place a couple of yards behind, not
too close. We followed the animals slowly, waiting
for the dogs to chase the rabbit back our way.
Rufus was an experienced runner and soon had
the rabbit runinng by us. | aimed. Crack! A miss.
Crack! Another miss. | fired four more times before
| heard JuniorTs gun. The rabbit collapsed and
rolled to a stop, then Rufus fell on it. He got up
carrying the rabbit in his mouth. The new beagle
accompanied him, yapping happily.

oAlmost got away,� explained Junior. He tied
the rabbit to his belt.

oSure,� | said, scratching my forehead, ~~No
sweat, I'll get one.�T

About an hour passed before another rabbit got
jumped. This time it was the new dog. He was
chasing the rabbit to our left, over a hill. We ran
to the top of the hill to see which direction the
rabbit would take. By the time we got there, the
new dog had already chased him to the bottom
of the hill and was circling back toward us. Junior
raised his gun to shoot " paused " and lowered
his gun. He stared at the chase, his mouth gaping.

oThat damn dog's following too close!T�T he
yelled, half to himself. The dog was relentlessly
running the rabbit, right on its tail, barking and
snapping. Junior's expression changed; his frown
turned into a smile, and a gleam appeared in his
eyes. Junior raised his gun again, aimed, and fired.
The .12 gauge swirled from the end of his long
barrel, rushing madly toward the animals. The
swarm hit the beagle just behind the mid-section,
ripping his hind leg off. The dog gave a sharp,
quick yelp, then fell dead in his tracks. The rabbit
scampered over the hill. | looked at Junior,
perplexed. He looked at me and saw the question
in my face.

oThat'll teach him to follow too close.�

Junior walked over to the dog. He picked him
up by the remaining hind leg and slung him into
the bottom of a ditch. He came back, and said,
oLet's go. | think all the excitement has got Rufus
upset.T He put Rufus into the back of the Bronco
while | stood there watching. | got in and mounted
my gun. | kept seeing the dog, in full run after the
rabbit, and his body suddenly being ripped in half.
Junior climbed into the Bronco, mounted his gun,
and started the engine.

oAren't we gonna bury him?� | asked.

oBury him? What for, heTs just a dog. A couple
of weeks, and he'll be gone.�

oWhy did you shoot him? You just got him.�

oWhat the hellTs the big deal about the damn
dog? HeTs just a frigginT dog, thatTs all. Jeeze,
Jimmy, donTt be such a little shit about it.�

| decided not to say anything else. We left the
farmland and went down the road to the MartinsT
access road, where we turned. A car followed us
in; it was Mr. Martin and Bookworm. | slid down low
in my seat.

oOh shit,TT said Junior. o~HeTs caught me for sure
this time. We better move on out of here.�

Junior floored the Bronco. Thousands of half
harvested tobacco plants flipped by the windows
on either side of us as we sped down the smooth
dirt surface that ran between two drainage
ditches. Mr. MartinTs orange Pinto wagon grew
smaller as it fell farther and farther behind. The
MartinsT house came into view; we were getting
near the end of the road. Steve and Jerry,
BookwormTs older brothers, ran out of the house
and got into the pickup truck. Leaving a trail of
dusty air behind, they sped out into the access
road, blocking the way.

oProbably called ~em on the CB,� mumbled
Junior. He kept speeding on, staring out the front.

oJunior, you gotta slow down!� | cried. He had a
slight grin on his face, and he didn~t seem to hear
me at all. | grabbed the dashboard with both
hands and stiffened, looking at the pickup as we
rushed toward it. Steve and Jerry jumped out and
ran. | screamed at Junior. oJunior, stop this thing!�

Junior smiled broadly and shouted, oHold on!TT He
turned the Bronco off the road to bypass the
pickup, but the ditch was too deep. The left front
corner dug its way into the bank, flipping the
Bronco into the air. Rufus yelped. | was thrown
against my door, and | saw the sky turn from blue
to green to blue again. Suddenly, | flew across the
cab, landing against Junior and the steering
wheel. There was the snap of a bone breaking,
my own arm. The Bronco finally fell to a stop on its
wheels. Stray tobacco leaves were scattered
around us. | tried to sit up but my arm wouldn't
support my weight. | cringed with the pain. Junior
jumped out of the Bronco and slammed the door.

Se eet ee Ra ete weet " ne ene ee ence SEE

oJunior!� | cried. *~l think | broke my arm.�

Junior walked around the front end, surveying
the damage. He picked up a chunk of dirt and
threw it at Steve and Jerry.

oYou sons-o-bitches! Look what you did to my
Bronco!�T Steve and Jerry said nothing. Mr. Martin
pulled up. He and Bookworm got out and started
walking toward us. oStay back,TT snapped Mr.
Martin, pointing at Bookworm.

oJunior, my arm! | think itTs broken,� | said.

oWell youTre not gonna die from it, so just shut
the hell up!�

| settled back against my seat and began to
cry. | couldnTt stop the tears, and | didnTt care if
anyone saw me. Mr. Martin stepped up to Junior,
looking him in the eye. Junior shouted in his face,
oYou bastard! You ruined my truck.�

~ooNo,TT said Mr. Martin. oYou came on to my land
and ruined my tobacco. The sheriff is on his way
now. You've got about five minutes to think up an
excuse.�

| didnTt know why, but when | heard what Mr.
Martin said, | felt relieved.

It was about a month later when the doctor
took the cast off of my arm and put a brace on
it. Pa told me as soon as the doctor said it was
okay, | would have to get a weekend job;
between a job and school, | wouldnTt have time
to hang out with no renegade rednecks. | was
pretty much grounded anyway. Bookworm was
pretty good about keeping me company. | settled
back into the comfortable, old chair. o~Happy Days
AgainTT was on again. My stomach began to churn
at the smell of frying chicken. It was PaTs birthday.
| thought about Junior.

It would be a while before | saw him again. |
wasn't sure if | wanted to. Trespassing, hunting
without a license, destruction of private property,
and unlawfully shooting a domestic animal were
serious business with people in our county. The
SPCA sent a nasty letter to the editor of the
Tobacco Times. Dr. Nelson fired Junior.

One of the dogs jumped up into my lap. He
swiped a drippy, wet tongue across my mouth. |
ran my shirt sleeve across my face and hugged
him close. |

21

POLL Yr nea

The birthday cake is gone,

sweet-sliced, silver upon silver
until greed overcame geometry,
and | grabbed the last piece;

as | gobble now your oval face.

Our hiding places too are gone.
Knowing where to go to find ourselves,

we could only lead each other on.

Your candy-striped pajamas glowed
like paint in the hall closet
below thick folds of winter coats

hanging in woolen darkness.

22

You pretended to be dead,
so | dragged you out by your ankles
down the stairs, butt and head bumping

until you became violently alive.

You could find me even easier,
flattened out on the garage roof

at night, in January; inch slipping

on my belt buckle, concrete below "

a Marlboro rolled by me to the gutter.

~oSmoke?�T you said " | cannot A January night can freeze

let the moment go " the spore of a dream as hard as a hailstone
our laughter made me slide faster, and release it " rattling off a roof

until | slammed my feet against until it hits and cracks,

the basketball backboard to stop. while belly-up with winter shingles at my back,

| damn the mask of your face,
Scrape-clinging to the shingles, My face behind the glass.

my fingers numb, you said, ~ooJohnny-boy,
take a free throw,TT bouncing Dew Bell.

my own basketball off my forehead,

locking the window.

23

The Last Puzzle Piece

He stands behind the bedroom window,

the wooden bands separate his body

into nine puzzle pieces.

In the top middle square is his drawn, unsmiling face
tanned and wrinkled around the eyes.

As the car in the driveway unloads

and pulls away, she sees him standing there
unwilling to come out to greet her.

She detaches herself a little from the confusion
of mother, brother, dogs and luggage

and smiles past them

at his image behind the glass.

her smile sags

as he withdraws into the shadow.

She is taller,

or perhaps his memory lies.

She fills the sweater that he recognizes

as his gift, unmailed

too late for Christmas,

too early for birthday.

Her hair is too long, flying round her shoulders,
sticking to her cheeks,

which are thinner now, and less soft.

Even with him standing in the shadow
she can see that he is older

heavier and more worn.

She recognizes herself as a burden,

in his eyes, and the dread

that overshadowed the joy

of her long trip home

returns, making her pale.

He tenses, and turns "

the short, crinkled curls and freckles are gone,

only to be seen in cracked photographs.

The sticky kisses and sweet breath have been replaced
along with that complete trust of a child

for her father.

Replaced

by the cool brush of lipstick

and darkened eyes distant with expectation

and longings he can never fill.

Katharine Kimberly

25

ee

Charity

and the Hand of the Beholder

BertieTs Seafood House has been an institution in
Craven since 1938. When people go out to eat
seafood, they go to BertieTs first. Folks donTt mind
waiting, because they can sit on the benches that
line the walls of the foyer-hall running along the
front of the building and read fifty years worth of
clippings, autographed pictures, and plaques that
hang on the walls. When space comes open,
comely, college-age hostesses escort the waiting
people to their Formica-topped tables. The
waitress will probably be a college girl, too. There
are only a handful of local waitresses who stay on
to work the sparse months between Labor Day
and Memorial Day.

The opposite is true of the kitchen help. Most, if
not all, of the men on the fry line are both
permanent residents of Craven, winter population
1,500 " summer population 5,000, and permanent
employees of BertieTs. Many of the kitchen men
are college age, but only Ben Ames was between
semesters. Ben got the job of hushpuppy cutter
only because the old, regular cutter had decided
to shrimp-fish full time. Acceptance into the small
world of the kitchen had been slow, but Ben was
becoming trusted and liked.

The kitchen was separated from the dining room
by an open foyer and a wide counter, across
which orders were exchanged for trays laden with
food at one end, and dirty dishes returned at
another. This commerce of paper, food, and
dishes was almost the only exchange between the
young, transient waitresses and the cynical, leering
kitchen staff. Only the permanent waitresses spoke
across the counter to the boys on the line. The
fact that Ben rated attention from the young girls

Rick Gordon

had helped him with his co-workers. They would
come up beside Ben when he talked to a girl and
nudge him in the ribs until he introduced them to
the girl.

Tim Willis was BenTs partner at the hushouppy
fryers. Tim was eighteen, two years younger than
Ben, and a senior in high school. Tim was bored
with Craven, and for him the college Ben talked
about could be the perfect change. In the quiet
moments of the afternoons, between two and
four o'clock, when busy was six Customers, Tim
would ask Ben about college.

oIs it much like high school? | want to know what
the classes are like.�

oWell, you've got to read and study and alll, just
like in high school, if you want to do well. ItTs
better than high school, though, because you can
study whatever you want to, so you can get a
good job.�T As Ben spoke he leaned back against
the counter and toyed with the strings of his
apron. oYou'd probably like it.TT

~Yeah, if it wasnTt too tough.�T Tim put forks and
salt and pepper into the carry-out boxes he had
been folding. oYou like that waitress Diana, donTt
you?�

oYeah, sheTs really fine.T Ben smiled and ran his
fingers through his hair.

oShe seems nice enough to me,� Tim said,
stacking the boxes.

oIf her personality is as nice as her chest, sheTs
really something.�

oYa'll done anything yet?�

~No, but ITm gonna ask her out after Friday
night.�

oUh, huh,T Tim said. ~Here, helo me screen the
» Be

Ben pushed off the counter and bent over to

26

pick up the stainless steel bucket he would hold to
catch the filtered oil. He thought of Diana. He
could see her hair, chocolate brown with streaks
of faded butterscotch, resting on her white,
uniformed shoulders. He could see her warm,
caring smile, but he could not picture her in
anything but her uniform. He frowned at that. He
believed she had a nice body, but he couldnT~t be
sure. Those uniforms, he thought, tend to bring the
slim and the fat to a rather dull medium. But it
didn~t really matter, he told himself, if she was nice
enough, she could be a good friend and a fun
date without a great body.

After they had finished screening the oil, Ben
walked back to the rest room to wash the slippery
coating off his hands. On the way back through
the kitchen, he passed Bayard Dulsen, the head
dishwasher. Ben said hello in passing, but Bayard
only grunted and wiped his chin in response.
Bayard had not taken much of a liking to Ben, and
Ben was disturbed by this. He hadnT~t crossed
Bayard in any way and couldn't figure it out.
When he returned to his post, he asked Tim about
Bayard.

oHey, Tim.�

oYeah, what?T

oI've been here two weeks, right?TT Ben leaned
against the counter.

oYeah, so?� Tim stood with a Nab in his right
hand.

oWell, everybody seems to like me OK except
for Bayard.�

oWhat do you care about him for? HeTs just a
ree-tard anyway.� Tim finished his sentence as he
stuffed the Nab into his mouth.

oNot a retard, really?TT Ben stood up.

oOh yeah. Well, heTs only like semi-retarded. He
thinks on a six-or seven-year old level. HeTs been
the dishwasher here for as long as | can
remember, even longer.�

oDamn.TT Ben spoke softly, shaking his head.

Friday night at BertieTs meant a thousand people
would pass through the foyer and read the
clippings, autographs, and plaques. Friday night
also meant the entire staff, kitchen men and
waitresses, would be run ragged trying to make
sure that each of those thousand meals would be
satisfying and relaxing. The four hours of Friday
evening, five until nine, were the four hours of the
week Ben hated the most, for they were four
hours of four-bushel-per-hour cutting. This Friday
would be different; Ben was going out with Diana
after work.

Ben shook his head as he looked into the turmoil
of the dining room. The room was filled with the
sounds of hundred of voices, plates, and utensils.
He lifted the fry basket from the cooker and shook
another batch of hushpuppies onto the serving

tray. As the waitresses waited for the bread, they
leaned against the outside of the counter,
enjoying their brief rests. If Tim and Ben were
severely behind, the girls had time to swap a line
or two of gossip, or even take a sip of ice water.
As the bread hit the tray, they would break off
their conversations, scoop the hushpuppies into
small plastic baskets, and, once they had loaded
their trays, dart back into the tumult of the dining
room.

Ben took the two-quart pot in his left hand and
packed the dough into it with his long-handled
spoon. He turned to the fryer full of 300° cotton oil
and began cutting another batch. He thought of
the waitresses running around the dining room. He
compared jobs. He could stand still, but his feet still
got sore. The waitresses didnTt get grease burns alll
over their arms. They did have to smile all night, no
matter how obnoxious or offensive the people
were. They did make a lot more money than he
did. Most of the girls out there, he thought, would
make forty to fifty dollars tonight. He resented
being on minimum wage. Ben tried to think of a
way he might argue for higher pay, but Tim
interrupted him.

oYou're getting pretty good now,� said Ben's
cutting partner. oYoure breadTs got good shape,
and you're a lot faster.TT They stood shoulder to
shoulder over the hissing oil, their long spoons
clicking in rhythm. The long-handled spoons
scraped down into the pots, dug under the
dough, and cut perfect, cigar-shaped hushpuppies
against the edge of the pots. The boys rocked to
and fro and flicked the bread into the oil. They cut
quickly, barely taking time to swear at the drops
of oil that burned into the flesh of their arms.

~oYeah,"T Ben agreed. ~The first week was pretty
bad till my wrists got used to it. Now | can crank
~em out.�� The 300° basket was filled, and its
contents were dumped into an adjacent vat set
at 350°, where they would finish cooking.

oLife would be a lot easier if they wouldnT~t eat
so many of these damn things,TT Ben asserted
between pots.

~The hushpuppy is the cornerstone of this
business,T announced Murph, the line boss. Ben
turned to regard the man who ran the kitchen
with a steady smile and a ready wit. oSay, Ben.�

oYeah, Murph.�

oYou remember the story in the Bible ~bout Jesus
healinT the lepers?T Murph had stopped filling
plates with french fries and had turned to face
Ben.

o| know that story, sure.�

oDid you know those lepers didnTt thank Jesus,
why they were mad at Him?TT Murph looked at
Ben very seriously.

~No. What were they mad at?TT Ben stopped
cutting in preparation for the punch line.

~You'd be mad too if some crazy Jew left you
with no way to make a living but standing on the

27

corner yellinT ~Alms for an ex4teper.T TT Everyone in
the kitchen laughed, either at the joke or with the
laughter. Ben laughed, but not out of humor.
College social life had taught him to laugh at the
bad jokes of important people.

Ben looked down the line of ten fryers, whose
steam rose to the fans like incense to the greasy-
fish gods. The oHave an RC today!TT thermometer
on the back wall read 105°. The bread tray was
filed, and there were no waitresses in the foyer.
Ben spoke to Tim, oITm gonna break. Holler if you
get swamped.�T He turned and looked across the
kitchen to the rest bench and drink machine. He
looked down at the wood pallets on the floor
around the dishwasher. He would have to cross
them to get to the rest bench. The pallets were
there to keep the dish handlersT feet out of the
three inches of water that stood in that part of
the kitchen. Ben had touched those pallets once.
They were always wet and slick, as soft and slimy
as thawing fish.

Just as Ben stepped forward, Bayard darted
onto the pallets with a rack of steamy-clean
glasses. He stared at Ben. Ben was about to speak
when a large scallop struck BayardTs face and fell
into one of the glasses. An oyster zipped past his
head. Bayard turned to face the source of the
Objects. He grinned above a shiny chin as another
scallop bounced off his forehead.

oThem big scallops goes real good, huh,
Tommy!� exclaimed Seth, one of the mollusk men,
to his accomplice.

~Yeah, but he likes the oysters better,TT said
Tommy, who selected another oyster and threw it
at Bayard.

~Hold your fire,TT Ben called as he crossed the
pallets. He sat down with a Coke and a handful of
ice, which he rubbed into the blisters on his arms.
He looked back at the line. His passage had
spoiled the garne; Seth and Tommy were busy
again. Bayard had set the tray of glasses on the
counter so the waitresses could get to them.
Diana picked up the scallop glass. She withdrew
the mollusk with two fingers. Why is she doing that,
thought Ben. Diana called, oOh, Bayard.TT Ben
wished she would call his name in that tone of
voice. Bayard whirled at her cail. He caught the
scallop with his right hand as it bounced off his
face. BenTs jaw hung slack. He couldTt believe his
Diana had done that.

oThank you, Diana,TT Bayard panted, stuffing the
morsel into his mouth.

Ben was at the end of his Coke and on his third
handful of ice when Bayard shuffled across the
glistening pallets to the break bench. His white
uniform was stained by the food he had scraped
off hundreds of plates. Ben could pick out slaw,
fish, ketchup, butter, and a squashed french fry.

oDid you see?� Bayard asked Ben.

oSee what?�

oDiana gave me a scallop.T Bayard beamed.

o| saw her throw it at you.�

oNo ... no. She gave it to me. It was hers, and
she gave it to me.� Bayard began to wave his
arms.

oYeah, yeah. She gave it to you. Just calm
down. Don't cream over a damn scallop for
chrissakes.TT Ben reached for more ice.

BayardTs shoulders drooped. He wiped his shiny
chin with the palm of his hand. ~You donTt like me,
do you?� he asked, staring at Ben.

~Why do you say that?� Ben asked, startled.

oYou donTt. | know it. You never gave me any
hushpuppies.�T

~| don't have to give you any. You can come
Over and get some any time you want.�

oYou don't like me. You never gave me any.
You saw what Diana gave me. Seth and Tommy
give me lots.�

Ben sat up and stared at Bayard. He couldnTt
believe what he heard. He looked at the floor
beneath the pallets. There wasnTt a single oyster
or scallop in the water under the slimy boards. The
thought of anyone eating something retrieved
from that water revolted Ben.

~How old are you, Bayard?T Ben asked.

oThirty-one,TT Bayard replied. oITm a man.�

oHow long have you been working here?�

~~Always.TT Bayard stared at Ben for a moment,
then shuffled across the pallets to the pile of dirty
dishes. Ben watched him go, then he rose to his
feet and made his way back across the pallets to
the solid floor of the fry line.

~About time you got back. Bayard tell you his
life story?� Tim asked as he handed pot and
spoon to Ben.

oThanks. No, but he is one hard-core looney
toon.T Ben shook his head as he began cutting.

oI'm serious. You oughta ask Murph some of the
stuff heTs gotten Bayard to do.� Tim chuckled as
he spoke. oLike one time,� Tim said, falling into
rhythm with Ben, ohe told Bayard that one of the
waitresses was in love with him, but she was too
shy to tell him. We got Bayard to walk right up to
her and whip it out.�T

~No way, you gotta be shittinT me.T Ben
stopped cutting and looked at Tim.

~Swear to God,� Tim said, laughing. ~But thatTs
not all there is to it. Then the girlTs boyfriend came
one night and beat the tar out of old Bayard. He
didn't know what was going on.�

Ben couldn't laugh. He glanced across the
kitchen at Bayard. He thought of someone
beating him as he stood there stupid and
defenseless. They cut silently and steadily. As Ben
dumped a new batch into the tray, he saw a
busboy bring a tray full of dirty glasses in and set
them on BayardTs end of the counter. The foyer
was full of girls.

Diana screamed. Her tray hit the floor with a
crash. Diana screamed again. Everything stopped.
Ben turned around.

28

oMother of God!TT Murph yelled as he vaulted
the counter and ran to Bayard. Bayard stood
holding his right hand in front of his face. The
tendons in his hand had been severed, and the
hand hung back at the wrist, limp and lifeless.
Blood dripped from his elbows and swirled in the
water under the pallets. Somebody threw a towel
to Murph. He bound up the shredded hand. As he
and Seth led him out of the kitchen, the towel
began to glisten.

The waitresses all gathered in the foyer around
Diana. o~What happened?� they all asked. Diana
collected herself and wiped her face with a
napkin.

oHe fell down,� she sniffed. oHe had glasses in his
hands like this.TT She picked up four glasses with
her fingers down inside them. oThen he fell down.
He landed on the hand with the glasses. They all
broke and cut his hand.�T Diana broke into tears
again as the girls led her out of the foyer.

Ben winced as he pictured the shards of glass
driving up into BayardTs hand, cutting muscles,
nerves, tendons, and veins. He turned to the fryer
to block out the image. He cut intensely until he
realized that the ambulance was leaving and that
he had not heard it arrive. He looked out into the
dining room. He saw an old man cleaning his ear
with the corner of a napkin. He thought of Diana.

Diana had recovered from the shock well
enough to go home, change clothes, and buy
beer before Ben got off work at nine-thirty. They
had gone for a walk on the waterfront and were
sitting on the end of a dock. The last beer hung
from BenTs toe by the plastic as he swirled it in the
cool water. The bubbles phosphoresced in the
moonlight. DianaTs head rested on BenTs shoulder.

oWonder if heTll be able to use his hand again.�
Ben spoke more to the water than to Diana.

oSure,�T Diana said, ~o\doctors can do anything
these days.�T

oYeah. | hope you're right. He wonT~t have to
worry about money, at least not till the WorkmanTs
Comp and benefits run out. ITm worried about him,
though.�T

oWhat?� Diana asked, sitting up. ~ooWhy are you
worried about the town retard?�

oHeTs a person, too, right?T

oMaybe so, but heTs not like you or me.�T She
threw her hands into the air. o~Ben, listen. You donTt
need to make it into some sort of great tragedy.
People get hurt on the job all the time.�T

oYeah, but.�T

oYeah, but what?� Diana asked impatiently.

oYeah, but BertieTs is the only life heTs got.
What's he gonna do if he canTt work to support
himself?o

oHe'll get charity or get put in a home. People
are always willing to help people like Bayard if it
keeps them out of the way.�

oThat's hardly charity,TT said Ben, angry now.

~o~Nobody knows the difference. CTmon, let's
change the subject, huh?TT Diana cooed in his ear,
oOpen the other beer. ITm almost drunk enough
now.� She licked his ear.

~No thanks,TT he said, handing her the beer. *~!
don~t want your charity.T Ben stood.

oHey, whereTre you going?�

oI'm going to let you go home alone.�T Ben
walked down the dock.

~~Asshole,TT Diana called after him. ~| knew you
were weird from the start. Why donTt you go
home to your retard-buddy, Bayard?�

oMaybe | will,TT Ben said without looking back. As
Ben padded quietly away he heard Diana crack
open the last beer. He shoved his hands in his
back pockets and breathed deeply in the night. IR

Second Spring

In winter the house was so cold that

No number of socks would keep our feet
Warm, Hot it was in summer,

Window screens barring

Both breezes and mosquitos.

We're saving money you explained

And | wanted to ask what for.

The trip to New Orleans, | guessed
Though reality knew better.

Or the trip to London

Which was a little too far removed

From living in a cold house.
Doubledeckers defying gravity over the Thames
(ThatTs ~~Tems,�� Mama, not oThams.�)
Were on the other side "

Of Santa Claus, fairy tales, and

Being able to finish all your Dr. Spocks
Before | was too old for it to matter.

It didnTt matter "

You didnTt need him to tell you

The milk was just right

When no longer hot on your wrist

Or to keep the nipple filled

So | wouldnTt get too much air.

(You'd sacrifice a dun, polyester shoulder
For my relief.)

London is beautiful, Dear Mom,

We only stopped for the weekend

On the way home from Madrid.

April is the month to visit "

Infant breezes blow off the famous fog

And coax the tulips " red, orange, yellow " at Windsor.
If spring hasnTt reached the states yet,

DonTt sit too long in the cold.

Flizabeth Ito

Black Box

Like bespectacled inspectors of airplane disasters,

we pick through the strewn litter of bone for the whole reason;
we sift through the blown letters from home for the right word.

Shit-shovelers, knot-tiers and voyeurs,
we argue with ourselves about lines of descent
and internal collisions.

We eat ourselves up in lonely diners,

plug quarters into open wounds,

are always wailing for justice and regret,
are always about halfway between forgotten
and ~help me to forget,T

and our poems get flash-frozen

taxiing over the ice, sucking air

and trailing rubber in dubious flight,

until their wings get sheared off by the innocent trees

who wave like children at the end of a too short runway "

(go deep for the black box;
some voice must survive this end).

Don Ball

31

32

Goldfish Pond

The building sees me
up-side-down upon

the waterTs surface.

An exit sign,

a goldfish shines

in one reflected window.
It rises slowly to the top
of water grey with growth
and nibbles on some
cellophane that floats

(a greenish windowpane)
just beneath the surface.
Like orange bricks or
neon lights, they swim
across the wall or light
the sky as comet

carp and then dissolve
into the turbid heavens.
Broken-toed, the lily pads
list from side to side
Bruises of reality

upon a smooth illusion.

Malynn Linton

Se ee eee

x "rw, #
Ae,

ra

ee ee een

Amphibian |

Gregory Shelnurr

~5 Pajama Party

Chuckie

Paula Moffitt Poppe

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The Tenth Gate

Ellen Amendolara

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Ed Midgerr



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The Sea and All Within It

Micah Harris

old fingers of white froth pulled at Grant

StevensT feet. He thought of Sisyphus and
watched the tide claw desperately at the sand as
it was pulled back into the ocean. He wondered if
his crew at the Franksonville Grill had missed him
yet. Sticking his toes into the cold, wet sand, he
thought of the irony of studying for over four years
and then having to make hamburgers for a living.

He scratched a mosquito bite on his arm and
walked back toward the sand dunes. Behind them
was the campsite and his nephew, Jack. Jack had
been enthusiastic about fishing on the trip to the
beach, but now it seemed his stiff, white cof was
more appealing. Grant understood. He still
remembered the pleasure of ~sleeping inT on the
first official morning of summer break.

The water gasped from the spigot and washed
the clinging beach from his feet. As he turned the
water off, a sharp zip turned his attention to the
tent. Jack stepped out yawning.

~Is breakfast ready yet?�

o! was waiting for you to get up,�T Grant said.

oWhat time is it?T� Jack asked, running his hand
through his oily hair.

oAlmost 9:30," Grant answered. ~Why don't you
go down to the bathhouse and clean up. I'll have
breakfast ready when you get back.�

Jack said ookay� under his breath, shook his
head, and stepped back into the tent for a towel
and washcloth.

Fifteen minutes later Grant was watching tiny
bubbles hiss and spit around strips of bacon.
Turning away from the grill, Grant stared in the
tent. A breeze blew through and flipped the
pages of JackTs comic book like someone anxious
to finish an interrupted story.

The sound of breakfast cooking in the open and
the smell of fading green canvas brought back
memories to Grant. Although he had complained
about family camping trips as a child, he now
recognized them as highlights of his life. Those trips
represented the unbroken family unit he no longer
possessed. His father and mother died in an auto
accident during his senior year in college. Although
he was in his twenties at the time, he depended
on their financial and moral support. He prodded
the bacon. While waiting for the next semester to
begin, he started working at Gabe Jackson's grill.
To keep from thinking about his parents, he
pushed himself into long work shifts.

However, he didnTt intend for grilling hamburgers
to become his lifeTs work. The teaching profession
had been tied up in Franksonville when he
graduated. During this time Gabe Jackson had
offered him a job at the Franksonville Grill. Since
he had no better prospects, Grant accepted his
offer. Then Gabe suffered a stroke and Grant had
to take over the management. When Gabe died
later that year, his sons inherited the business. They
wanted to sell the building, a move that would
put Grant and three other employees out of work.

The others had rallied behind Grant.

oWe're all going to be out of work if you don't
do something, Grant,TT Ellen Smith, a red-haired
lady in her fifties said.

oWhy me?�

oItTs your place. After all, Gabe made you
manager,T�T said Maynard Smith. He had been with
Gabe since he opened the grill in 1955.

oYou know how the economy is, Grant. If we
lose the grill, we'll all be in the unemployment line
next week,T Ellen said.

49

COO MORE MARE ROOD CRL URED Le PF

Grant nodded. He knew all too well how scarce
jobs were in Franksonville.

o| graduate at the end of this year,TT Bernie, a
black student who worked part-time added. oITm
counting on this money for college.�T

oOkay,� Grant said. ~We'll put our heads
together after we close up tonight.T

After several hours of debate, they decided to
pool their savings. However, the money was far
below what GabeTs boys were asking. Fortunately,
the bank gave them a loan. Unfortunately, they
would be years paying it back.

~Smells good.�T

Grant turned back to see Jack coming from the
bathhouse, his wet hair sticking to his head.

oYou need to dry your hair or you'll get an
earache,�T Grant said, turning his attention back to
the bacon. ~With this breeze blowing, you
know ...�T

~~ThereTs always a breeze at the beach,� Jack
said. He bent over his cot and straightened his
comic book. As he stuck it under his pillow, he
turned back to his uncle. o~ItTll be okay.�

The ocean roared all during breakfast.

bg he rod whined as the line pulled away and
submerged in the ocean. Jack anchored his
rod and reel in the sand and sat down beside his
uncle in one of the shredding lounge chairs Grant
had dragged from his attic.

oYou think they'll be biting?TT he asked.

o| don't know,TT Grant said. He sipped his watery
cola and tried to locate his line. oBy the way,
Jack, | was wondering if youTre going to work in
tobacco this summer?TT

oYeah, boy do | dread it.�

Grant pushed his sunglasses up on his nose. He
wished he could offer the boy a job, but he

couldn't afford any part-time help. ~~Well,�� he said,

oitTs not like you're going to be there forever. Like
some jobs | know of,TT he added under his breath.
Two girls in bathing suits walked behind them.

oDonTt strain your neck,TT Grant said.

Jack flashed an embarrassed grin. oI like a girl
back home.�T

~Have you told her about it?TT

oNaw,� he said, ~| thought | saw my line jerk.TT

oYou oughta go talk to those girls. DonTt put alll
your eggs in one basket.�

oShe, the girl back home, | mean ... sheTs
already got a boyfriend.TT

oListen to the voice of experience. DonTt get
hung on just one girl ... you waste a lot of time
that way.�

oDid you ever have a hard time telling a girl you
liked her?TT Jack asked, looking intently at his
uncleTs face.

oYeah ... too many times.�

oHow did you handle it?TT

~| usually didn~t ... or | made my move too
late,� Grant said. He sipped the soft drink again

and poured the rest onto the sand, careful to
catch the half-melted ice with his finger.

~Was there ever anyone special ... like
Beatrice is to me?�

oOnce there was a girl | liked all through high
school, but | never asked her out until the last
week of school. She just smiled and said she was
doing something that night.TT

~Bummer. What did you say?T

~Nothing. Hey, you got a bite!�T

Jack turned his head back to his jerking rod. He
grabbed it and jumped to his feet, causing his
chair to fold and collapse.

oReel it in!T Grant yelled.

They ran into the ocean. Breakers exploded
around them. From the surf they pulled a glistening
fish, jerking and fighting his fate.

oCan we eat him?�

oDon't see why not,T Grant said.

Grant found a flat piece of wood bouncing
between the waves and the sand. oYou bait up
again,� he said. oI'll clean him here.�T

He laid the fish on the wood and drew his knife.
The stainless steel clicked through scales as Grant
began cleaning the small catch. Tossing the head
into the ocean, he glanced at Jack baiting his
hook. His nephew reminded Grant of himself at
age 14: irresponsible and girl shy. He smiled and
thought how glad he was his brother and sister-in-
law had agreed to this outing.

o| got another one, Uncle Grant.�

The ocean beat against shells and sand for the
rest of the morning.

7 hey only caught four more fish that morning.
Grant cleaned the rest at the campsite and
put the meat on ice. In the tent, Jack watched a
game show on a small black and white television.
From the picnic table, Grant couldnTt make out
what the host was saying " something about a
new car " but the woman he addressed was
jumping like she needed to go to the bathroom.

A stray dog appeared from behind the tent and
walked slowly toward Grant. He had all the marks
of an experienced moocher: head low, tail
between his legs. Grant stroked the dogTs head.
Then he opened his hand and let him lick his palm.

Grant reached into the ice box, tore off a piece
of fish, and dropped it at his feet. The dog
touched it gingerly with his nose, yanking back as
if he suspected the morsel to snap at him.
Reassured, he snapped it up and trotted over to
the water spigot to devour it. As he ate, he
scanned the landscape nervously.

Grant studied the shaggy black animal. His fur
was stiff and tangled from constant exposure to
the salt air. Grant wondered how the animal
arrived here at Oceanview Camping. Perhaps a
family had brought him because their little
daughter had to have him on the camping trip.
Maybe the dog had wandered down the beach

the morning they left. And when he came back,
the family was gone, leaving behind only a dull
gray trash can full of food scraps and two shallow
trenches where their camper had rested.

He didnTt know whom he felt more pity for: a
little girl staring out of the back of a station
wagon, hoping to see her dog running behind
them or the dog who had been here for years,
waiting for the camper that never returned.

Grant watched the dog move over to the tent
and sniff it, trying to match the scent with that of
his family. If the same family drove up right now,
he wouldn~t recognize them, Grant thought. The
father and mother would be fat and gray and the
little girl, long-legged and awkward. The little girl
who now hangs posters of clean, cute puppies
and tiny kittens on her bedroom walls would draw
away from him in disgust.

The dog crept back to Grant. Again he held out
his palm. The dog understood that this meant ~no
more.T He licked the palm again and looked up at
Grant with dark brown eyes that stored eye
matter in the corners. Grant thought of a story he
had read about a dog that crossed 200 miles of
wilderness to find his family. He shook his head.

The dog turned and walked down the gravel
road to the next campsite. He'll be here until the
lot owner shoots him or a car hits him, Grant
thought. On the television, the girl screamed. She
had guessed Mick JaggerTs last name. The
audience cheered.

At least someoneTs a winner, Grant thought. The
sound of the breakers became audible again.

rant had gone to the bathhouse. When he
GS came back, Jack was playing catch with
another boy his age. |

oUncle Grant, this is Jeff. His parents moved in
the next lot while you were at the bathhouse.�

oHi, Jeff,TT Grant smiled.

oHi, we're from Virginia. We're moving down to
Disney Land after we leave here,� the boy said,
tossing the ball into the air. |

Grant looked over at the newly-filled campsite.
Their station wagonTs back window had so many
state stickers on it Grant wondered how they
could use their rearview mirror. The boyTs father
came out of the camper and walked toward
them. He was fifty-ish, overweight, and sunburned.
Large, brown freckles littered his chest and back.
From the tone of his voice, you would think he and
Grant were long lost friends. mre ,

oHow're you doing?� he asked, swinging his arm
out like he was taking a back stroke before he
slapped his hand into Grant's. oNameTs Joe
Kolwaski ... yours?TT he commanded.

oGrant Stevens,�� he said and watched the
picnic bench bend under the man.

Stevens, eh? | knew some Stevens from
Georgia once ... You one of ~em?� He raised his
left eyebrow at Grant.

~No, donTt think so,TT Grant said. He rolled a
huge piece of gravel with his big toe.

Kolwaski sat in silence, staring at him for a few
seconds. ~~Well,�� he said as he stood. The bench
groaned in relief. oBe seeing you, Stevens. Maybe
we can get a little deep-sea fishing in, eh?T He
grinned.

Grant smiled. oSee you around; have a good
time.�

oYeah,TT Kolwaski said and turned back to his
camper.

~Tf was obvious Kolwaski had!
probably instiled the same
obnoxious traifs in his son. Just
the same, Grant hooped he
hadn't offended him.

KolwaskiTs loud-mouthed personality-type had
always turned off Grant. He glanced to where Jeff
played catch with Jack. If was obvious Kolwaski
had probably instilled the same obnoxious traits in
his son. Just the same, Grant hoped he hadn't
offended him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of
commotion at the Kolwaski campsite. The dog
had made his round to the KolwaskisT lot. Kolwaski
had his flip-flop rared back as though he was
going to strike the dog. The dog was moving
sideways from him with his head lowered. When his
paws touched the gravel, he began a steady trot
to the next campsite.

The triumphant Kolwaski slid his flip-flop back on
his foot and began yelling something to his wife
who responded in kind. They were communicating,
but to Grant every word sounded the same.

Jack wanted to go with Jeff and his family to
play miniature golf. Grant gave him five dollars
and jokingly told him to keep the change. He
decided to go to the grocery store and pick up
some cold cuts for the ice chest during his
nephew's absence. He stepped out of the car
onto the parking lot. The black asphalt burned the
soles of his feet, prompting him to take high steps
to the cold, gray sidewalk. When he came to the
electronically controlled door, he said oOpen
Sesame�T just like he did when he was a child. The
door hummed open and closed behind him.

He turned the corner of aisle 9 and turned his
thoughts back 14 years. He remembered racing
shopping carts through IcardTs Dime Store with his
pal, Johnny Smith. A tall, homely woman in a
faded blue clerkTs jacket would chase them from
the store. The trick was seeing how long they
could race before she caught them.

Grant wondered what had happened to

51

. eae SAREE ASIDSSD LASELEIASD NUE NAEOLOOSTOLE ICEDN COD sit OOS bE

Ellen Moore

Johnny. They had been best friends through high
school, but their relationship seemed to melt away
in a matter of months when Grant went away to
college. When he came back on the first fall
break, Johnny was dating some girl and working
part-time in a hardware store. Between the two,
he didnTt seem to have time for Grant.

He stopped by the magazine rack to look
through the magazines. Everything the stores back
home had last month, this grocery store had this
month. Only the TV Guide was current. The aroma
of bananas and oranges perfumed its slick pages.
He thumbed it, then set it back on the rack.

With his purchases complete, Grant pushed the
cart to the check-out counter. The clerk looked
like he was about 29, GrantTs age. He was staring
out the large, glass windows toward the ocean
when Grant wheeled up. He jumped when Grant
set the half-gallon carton of milk on the conveyor
belt.

The clerk smiled. oHi, howTs it going today?� he
asked as he looked down at Grant's purchases.
Grant noticed he could stick his fingers on the right
cash register keys without taking his eyes off the
conveyor belt.

oPretty good,� he replied. ~How are you?�

oOh, the same,� the man said looking up and
smiling.

oThings look kinda slow.TT

oThey usually are right about now, but you wait
until the Fourth.TT The cash register chimed through
the grocery store.

oThings will pick up for a week and then calm
back down again,TT he said as he began loading
GrantTs groceries into a sturdy, brown paper bag.

Grant reached to get his wallet from his hip
pocket. ~What's it like, living here all year ~round?TT

oThat'll be $7.98,�" the man said as he ripped
the receipt from the register and stuck it in the
bag. oWell, you can imagine itTs pretty slow most
of the year, ~specially in the winter time. But | got
my regular customers. They keep the store going.�T

Grant handed him the money. The man touched
the cash register, and it thrust its drawer at him.
He slid the dollars in the proper slots and handed
Grant two pennies. He slid back against the
register, pushing the drawer in with his back.

~Course, the only time | get a big boom in
business is the week of the Fourth. But itTs usually
better from the beginning of June to the end of
September. Some of the older folks have
permanent trailers down at the campground, and
they stay most of the summer. So | get business
from them. And then there are the campers ...
you a camper?�

Grant nodded and began gazing out the huge
glass windows.

~Thought so. Didn~t think I'd seen you around.
Yeah, campers give me pretty good business, but
they usually clear out by Labor Day weekend. So
you're on vacation. What's your business?TT

52

~|, uh, manage a hamburger grill,TT Grant said.

The man laughed. ~Sounds exciting from where
I'm sitting.�

oDo you own this place?�

oMe? No, uh-uh, this is part of a chain that goes
throughout the South. Hadn~t you ever heard of
~Food EmporiumT before?�

oNo, ~fraid not. Guess they haven~t made it to
the metropolis of Franksonville yet.�

He laughed again. ~Well, anyway, ITm just hired
help. Been here for three years, but it feels like
forever. | been doing small jobs for a living ever
since | graduated from high school.�

oWhy didnTt you go to college,TT Grant asked.

~Married my high school sweetheart, and within
a year, | had a small family to support. | had
intended to take night courses, but, you know, it
just never worked out.�

oWell, youTre probably just as well off,� Grant
said as he lifted the grocery bag. ~So far the best
thing college has done for me was to keep me
out of Viet Nam.�

~Just the same, | wonder some time if things
would have been different ... better. Well,
anyway, ITm stuck here now.�

oYeah, stuck here with a woman who loves you
and a child. You could be a whole lot worse off,
man.�

The man smiled again. oYeah, guess you're right.
Listen,T he said as Grant started to leave. oIt was
nice talkinT to you.�

oYou too,TT Grant said.

The door hissed shut. In a few minutes Grant was
driving back to the campsite. In the store, the
clerk was staring out the large glass window.

ack had returned with the Kolwaski family at

sundown. Grant suggested roasting hot dogs
and marshmallows. Jack enthusiastically agreed,
and they ate and talked for 30 minutes.

oUncle Grant, most hot dogs are more red than
black after they're cooked,� Jack said.

oWhat do | know about cooking hot dogs? | run
a hamburger grill, remember? Since when did you
become a connoisseur of frankfurters?�T

Jack glanced at his wristwatch. oHey, itTs about
time for cartoons.�

~Ah, come on, Jack,TT Grant said as his nephew
unzipped the tent and flicked on the television.
oWe're supposted to be getting away from it all
Can~t you do without television for two days?

~| hate missing this show.� |

oYou've seen those cartoons at least five times
each.� }

o| still get a kick out of ~em,� Jack said as he
popped a white-brown marshmallow in his mouth.
~oWouldnTt you like to take a walk down the

beach instead?�

oThe beach will be there when my show goes
off.�T

Grant sighed and went to the spigot to get

water to put out the fire. The water had just
begun to gurgle into his plastic bucket when the
dog returned to the campsite.

Grant turned off the water. oHi there, boy.TT

The dog trotted after him with his tongue
hanging from his mouth. Grant poured the water
on the coals. The hiss made the dog jump behind
him.

~ooWhereTd the dog come from?� Jack asked.

~He was here earlier. | thought heTd like some of
those hot dogs you turned your nose down at.�

oHope the Humane Society doesnTt catch on to
you,T Jack said as he stuck another marshmallow
in his mouth.

Grant sat down on the edge of the lounge chair
and fed the dog the meat. After he finished
eating, the dog laid down at his feet. To Grant's
surprise, Jack suddenly appeared at his side and
began to rub the dog's tangled coat.

o| thought you were watching television.TT

oAww, I've seen that cartoon before. Does this
dog belong to anybody?TT

~| believe he used to. Probably was a pretty
dog at one time,TT Grant answered.

oSure is friendly,T Jack said.

oAnd hungry,TT Grant added.

oYou think somebody left him here?T

oItTs possible.�

Jack scratched the dog behind his ear. ~Kinda
sad, isn't it. To just be leff on your own one day,
after you've depended on other people for so
long.�

oYeah, real sad,� Grant said, staring toward the
ocean.

oHey, do you think we can take him home?T
o|... donTt think so, Jack. Your Mom and Dad
would have a fit. And | canTt afford to feed him.TT

oYeah, | didnTt think of that.�T

As if this were his cue, the dog rose fo his feet,
grinned at Grant and Jack, and trotted toward
the beach.

t was dark now. Across the road, other campers

sat in yellow light, under mosquito netting,
playing cards. A car crept down the road, gravel
cracking and popping under its wheels. In their
tent, Grant and Jack had just finished watching a
situation comedy.

oLetTs walk down to the pier.�

Grant zipped open the tent flap and stepped
into the cool night air. Looking behind, he saw
Jack click off the television and take off his tennis
shoes. The light on the screen faded until only a
small circle of light beamed sharply in the middle
of the darkness

oLetTs go,TT Jack said.

There was no moon that night and a thick fog
was forming on the ocean, making it impossible to
distinguish the ocean from the horizon, The
rhythmic crash and sigh of the waves and the cool
sand beneath their feet were the only things that

reminded them they were on the beach. It
seemed to Grant they were walking through a
huge vacuum. The camp was in another world.

At first they chose to walk on the wet sand, but
as the tide crept up the shore, they were forced
to walk on higher and drier ground. The sand stuck
and chafed between their toes. Ahead of them
was the pier, glowing in the distance in a soft helix
of white/blue.

Suddenly, they were aware of a ball of light
moving toward them. As they moved closer, two
women and two dogs materialized from the
darkness. The women were old. The dogs ran to
Grant and Jack, sniffing them.

oBuffy! Liza!lT� one woman called.

oItTs okay,TT Grant said. Jack reached down and
stroked one of the small dogs.

The women smiled. ~~Come on,TT the woman
called in the tone of voice people use on their
children when they start walking. She slapped her
thighs. ~~LetTs go.�

The dogs followed the women down the beach
and soon only the floating ball of light was visible.

They climbed the steep flights of stairs that led
to the small pier restaurant and onto the pier.
Along the sides people were in small groups
fishing. One man was cleaning his catch over a
crude sink, while his wife held a small hose over
the fish. A strange silence hung over the pier,
broken only by drifting voices and the plop of a
dropped line.

The end of the pier was rounded into a large
platform. A sign demanding ~~No Children Past This
PointTT hung from a post in the middle of the
platform.

A child stepped from behind the post and
announced, ~~We got a shark. You wanna see it?�

oSure,T� Jack said. Grant nodded.

From a metal chest the boy pulled a pair of
shark jaws. Strands of red meat still hung from
them.

oThis is all we got left after we skinned him,TT the
boy explained.

~We threw the skin over the side,TT another
voice said. Grant looked up to see an older boy
moving towards them. ~~Sure am proud of it,TT he
said, tilting his head back and taking a swig of his
soft drink. oLet me tell you, he didnTt want to go
... Put up a fight all the way, but he was a goner
from the start.�T

Grant faked a smile and gazed over the side
into the still, black water. He watched the pier
sway lethargically like some beached sea monster,
waiting for death. A light breeze brushed his face.
Standing here with endless darkness before him, he
felt as though he was at the edge of time and
space. He shut his eyes to the darkness, and for a
moment, the problems of the past and future no
longer mattered.

~You ready to go, Uncle Grant?� a voice
behind him asked.

He opened his eyes and found himself still on the
creaking pier at JacksonTs Beach. He looked at his
yawning nephew.

oSure, letTs go.�T

Now they walked away from the pier and the
light toward the camp and the dark. Above them
the fog had come in and hovered over their
heads. Grant looked at his nephew beside him, still
young and protected, but on the verge of
crossing the line between boy and man. To him
the darkness was no more than darkness and the
ocean not more than sea.

oDo you know what that is?TT he asked,
gesturing toward the ocean he could not see but
felt slipping under his feet.

Jack grinned. oDonTt you know what it is?TT
Grant was quiet. He thought of stray dogs and
little girls, and grocery clerks and best friends, and
most of all, of sharks and people who fought the
inevitable, more out of desperation than courage.

oI've known all along,�T he said. o| just didnTt
want to admit it to myself.T

They said nothing for the rest of the walk. Long
after Jack had gone to sleep, Grant lay awake,
listening to the roaring of the sea. K

54

Dancing with the King

Robert Waldrop

55

The Nature of Minority: In Three Voices

Land of mill

and Yahweh God,

convenant upon convenantr.
Abraham feared to go childless.
This lead him to count the stars
and almost kill Isaac. | remember.
ir males sense.

In the vision quesr,

my fasting rook shape as bear,
and | climbed the hills like shadow
to bring home rhe cure

of stone, fearher, bone.

and soft buckskin.

The Dakota and Arapaho

had been called to Fort Laramie.

My city friend writes Mother Goddess
stuff " how disranr Greeks
dreamed the woman dream
collective. | add a o~pTT to Sapho

on the bathroom wall, trying

to dig it into wood

with pencil.

He balks ar forming lines.

Screams exodus,

screams memory.

Says o~Moses led my people.�T

Says it again. ~My people.�

, He is neatly numbered abour midway
} berween wrist and elbow.

First | want your name.

| Now tell me which tribe,

whar council, whar treary.

Then you may sit and share my drink.
| rell rhe kids,

oTonroTs name was Jay Silverheels,

a local boy.�T

She is too old ar eighteen, too much

ar ease with dangers, foo used to betting.
We have ren bers. She keeps score

in a blue notebook. She says

thar | will die at thirry a lonely woman.

| say she will die at twenty-five.

She warns me with her eyes
nor to rouch her.

56 Lisa Ryan

M = 16& 8x*

=

The curtains slowly draw shur.
Midday sun gropes for a hold on the room
groping the bedTs down mattress.
Housecoat opens ro unheard Music.
Yielded breast and stomach glow in the filrered light;
soft flesh smelling of lavender
is feverish to be touched, caressed.
A hand slowly,

carefully

traces taur skin of the buttocks.
Feeling pleasures unknown,
breathing increases with the hear of July.
| wish | were sixteen again ...
~. and Aunt Mildred srill thirty-two.

Marty Hardin

Physical

Love is a disease of the throat
You cough and hear my whispers
Moan thar | have power

Bur this is like a colder day

When | salivate and spit

Over lost and invisible words

Sam Silva

57

Years Ago

Here | go again

Up and down alone

All my friends have gone.
Years ago.

All my toys are broken
And so | am inside mom
The carnival has closed
Years ago.

I'm a little boy

Now, ITm a great big man

No, letTs be a little boy

Just a while longer

Maybe an hour.

No, | think itTs time to go home
Isn't that our mom calling.

Keith Carter

The Sayings of Them All

Ludicrous, these wise men.
Wishing me ephemeral, vapor;
Casting me solid, one.

steam rolls out my eyes,
Condenses on the cold bronze
Of my rounded belly,

Rolls down to where

| have no feet,

To where this pool

Gathers, formed by drops

Of soft litany.

Lisa Ryan

The Antique Srore

Kay Lamb

59

Hog Kill

Ray Elmore

Winter Solstice

Keith Stallings

Mark stepped from the school bus and turned to
look back at Toby. Above the rapidly reddening
handkerchief that Toby held to his nose, Mark
Could see the pain and hatred he was feeling
reflected in TobyTs eyes. They were the best of
friends and had just finished the worst fight of their
lives. It was the first time they had really tried to
hurt each other; before their fights had always
been victorless wrestling matches. As the bus
pulled away, Mark tried to wave to Toby and say
he was sorry. His attempt was futile, for Toby
turned away and held the handerchief more
tightly to his nose.

oBoy, DaddyTs gonna tan your hide for fighting
on the bus,�� said Lisa, MarkTs younger sister.

Mark kicked a rock and started walking down
the long path to their house. He watched two
doves fly over and pointed his arm at them as
though it were an imaginary shotgun. The doves
paid no heed but raced against the gray winter
sky, seeking shelter for the night and its attendant
freeze.

oEspecially since you tore your shirt. He's gonna
kill yalTT said Lisa and giggled. |

Mark fingered the torn collar of his shirt and tried
to dust off his clothes. He hadnT~t realized how
nasty the fight had made him. He looked up the
long, potholed lane to the house. His father stood
On the side porch.

oSure wouldnTt want to be in your pants. No
way. You~re doomed.�T Lisa tinged her youthful
voice with all the solemnity possible.

oShut up,T said Mark. o| wouldna even been in
no fight if it wasnTt for you. You just had to stick
your tongue out at Toby, didnTt you?�

oHe pulled my hair first!T said Lisa, with all the
indignation she could muster.

o| saw it all. | donTt want to hear any more,�
said Mark.

oHe hit me first!TT she said.

o| donTt want to hear it,T he said.

oWell he did!T she stomped her foot for
emphasis.

o| said | saw it. You stuck out your tongue, he
pulled your hair, you hit him, he hit you. Now donTt
say another word.� Mark zipped his coat against
the cold as he spoke. He looked at the gray sky
and shuddered inwardly at thoughts of possible
snow for tomorrow.

oHope he fries the skin off you,� said Lisa.

They continued walking to the house. Every time
Lisa tried to speak, Mark just looked at her with his
eyes narrowed. He felt it was his meanest look.
Their father was still on the porch as they walked
up the steps. His coat was unbuttoned as though
he was impervious to the chilly breeze. Mark pulled
his coat collar up around his neck to hide his torn
shirt.

~Change your clothes and come help me get
things ready for tomorrow,� said their father to
Mark. ooGotta get out the washpots, put down the
scalder, and chop more wood than you've ever
seen.T A light smile crossed his face, and his hazel
eyes twinkled.

61

oDaddy, you sure enjoy making me work,
dontcha?� said Mark as cheerfully as possible.

oItTs good for ya,�T his father said and patted
MarkTs shoulder as he walked by.

~Mark got into a fight on the bus!� blurted Lisa.
oTore his shirt!TT

oYou did what, boy?� said their father, spinning
Mark around. His hazel eyes had turned steel gray
and no trace of the smile remained. oLet me see
where you tore your shirt. Who were you
fighting?TT

Mark showed his father the torn collar. ~| was
fighting Toby,TT he said.

oThought y~all was friends,TT said his father,
fingering the collar. ~You know what | always told
you. Come on, you're about to get more than a
torn collar. What were you two fighting about,
anyway?TT

~He pulled LisaTs hair and hit her,TT said Mark.

oThat's right!TT said Lisa. oHe hit me.�

oYou always said for me to protect her,
Daddy,� said Mark. ~| donTt ever fight, do |?�
Knowing what lay in store for him made Mark
plead almost frantically.

oLittle girl, what did you do to make Toby pull
your hair and hit you?TT asked their father. ~| know
Toby. He wouldnTt do something like that unless
you started it.�

o| didn't do nothing,TT protested Lisa.

~What'd she do, boy?TT he asked Mark.

oDaddy ",TT began Mark.

~| donTt want to hear it. What'd she do?� his
fatherTs voice became as stern as Mark had ever
heard it.

Better tell him, Runt,TT said Mark,

oNothing! | didnTt do nothing!TT Lisa was
practically screaming now. ~Daddy, | didnTt do
nothing! | swear, Daddy ".�T

oYou what! You swear?�T their father glowered
at Lisa.

~Daddy! No, please! ITm sorry. | didnTt mean it.�T
she was almost hysterical.

~Go tell your mama what you did to Toby. Tell
her you were just swearing at me.� He turned and
walked down the steps, at the bottom he turned
back to Mark. ~~Change your clothes, boy. Lots of
work to do.�T

oYes sir,� said Mark. He felt the weight of doom
lift from his shoulders. He walked over to the door.
oYou better come on, Runt,�T he said softy. oGet it
over with.�

oDonTt call me that,�T her voice cracked, and
she began crying as she walked to the door.

Mark went to his room and began changing
clothes. Only the kitchen and living room were
heated in the large farm house, and MarkTs room
was frigid with the winter chill. He changed quickly.
He would have put on his boots in the warm
kitchen, but LisaTs screams from there gave notice
of a scene Mark didnTt care to witness. As he sat
on the steps lacing his boots, Lisa walked out

through the kitchen door that opened onto the
porch. she was still sniveling.

oIt couldna been that bad,�T said Mark.

Lisa looked at him with more hatred than should
have been possible for a ten-year old. oSomeday
you'll die,� she said and walked to the end of the
porch.

Mark shook his head and began walking to the
barn where his father was getting out the large
cast-iron pots. As he walked across the yard, Mark
wished for a pair of gloves to protect his hands
from the cold. He pulled his toboggan lower on his
ears and stuffed his hands deeper within his
pockets. Tomorrow everyone would be here for
the hog killing, and this evening Mark and his
father had to make all the preparations for the
next dayTs work.

They set up the pots in the yard to heat water
and render the lard, then they dug the trench
over which to set the large trough-like scalder.
Tomorrow they would build a fire under the
scalder and soak the freshly killed hogs in the hot
water. This would loosen the hair on the carcasses
enabling the men to remove it and clean the
dead hogs.

While MarkTs father erected the gallows from
which the hogs would hang while they were being
gutted, Mark got out the shelled corn to feed to
the hogs. Hearing the buckets rattling, the hogs
pressed against the fence, grunting and squealing
IN anticipation. Mark called to the hogs and shook
the buckets. The hogs stampeded back and forth
along the fence in response to MarkTs teasing.

Mark emptied the buckets into the long trough
and the hogs drove their snouts into the corn. He
scratched their ears and mud-caked backs,
talking to them in a low voice. The hogs seemed
to answer him with their deep, guttural, satisfied
grunting. Mark had fed these hogs in the same
manner for almost a year. The care and safety
was his responsibility; he worked hard to make sure
he met their needs.

After doing these chores, MarkTs father handed
him an axe, a sledgehammer, and an iron wedge.
Mark faced the woodpile. It seemed to tower
above him, but actually he could see across it
easily. NowTs when | get warm for a change, Mark
thought. He walked up to the woodpile and lay
down his tools.

oT'll call you when your supperTs ready,TT his
father said.

oYes sir,T said Mark.

oWood's the only thing that can heat yOu up
twice,�T said his father. oOnce when you cut it and
once when you burn it.T His voice had once again
taken on a jovial sound.

Maybe making me work is the only thing that
makes him happy, thought Mark. He remembered
how his father had hardly spoken to him as they
had worked during the evening. Mark wondered if
his father was angry with him about the fight or

62

oThe clouds hung from the sky lke dark
velvet " ominous in portent, brooaling in

qopearance.

Nice weather for a hog killing ...~

about not whipping him for the fight. Mark
continued chopping wood; the exertion so
warmed him he removed his jacket despite the
near-freezing temperatures. He wondered why his
father was not helping him with the chopping.
Usually, his father would be doing most of the
work, and Mark would be helping him. But this time
his father had gone to the house, leaving Mark to
do all the work. Mark couldn't figure it out; he
knew his father wasnTt lazy. He drove the wedge
into a piece of oak and wiped sweat from his
eyes. Slowly the pile of unchopped wood
dwindled. But no matter how fast Mark worked, he
couldnTt make the pile of wood shrink fast enough
to suit himself.

Mark heard his father step out onto the porch. In
one hand he carried a whetstone, in the other
hand he held an array of Old Hickory butcher
knives. His father sat on the steps and began
sharpening the knives, paying no attention to
Mark. Between chopping the wood and wiping
sweat, Mark would occasionally glance at his
father. He noticed how his father almost lovingly
caressed the whetstone with the knives. Gently
and painstakingly bringing each blade to its
ultimate sharpness. Mark felt proud of his fatherTs
devotion to perfection. HeTs like that in everything
he does, thought Mark.

The last knife MarkTs father sharpened was the
double-edged, sticking knife. Its only use was to
stick the hogs in the neck after they were shot in
the head. MarkTs father showed even more
attention to its sharpening than he had to the
other knives. That oneTs got to be perfect,
thought Mark. He remembered the many times he
had seen his father use the knife. How the blood
would spurt from the hogsT throats, sometimes
drenching his fatherTs arm before he could remove
the knife. When ITm a man, they'll let me shoot
and stick the hogs, thought Mark.

His father finished sharpening the knife and
stood. oYou about ready for supper, boy?TT he
asked Mark.

Mark dropped the axe and gave a weary, but
hearty, ~Yes, sir.TT He picked up his coat and
stretched his aching back muscles. Looking up,
Mark noticed the gray clouds had become even
heavier. Now they hung from the sky like dark
velvet " ominous in portent, brooding in
appearance. Nice weather for the hog killing
tomorrow, thought Mark sarcastically. We'll freeze
for sure. He slung his coat over his shoulder and
walked to the house.

Lisa and their mother had already eaten, so
Mark and their father sat down at the kitchen
table alone. They had hardly begun eating when
MarkTs Uncle Luke drove up in his truck. MarkTs
father rose from the table and went to greet his
brother. Entering the kitchen, MarkTs mother sat
across from Mark at the table.

oHow was school today?T she asked.

oIt was okay, | guess,TT said Mark. *~Mama, ITm
sorry about the shirt.�

oNo need to worry. I'll fix it,oT she said.

oBut you already got too much to do, especially
with the hog killing tomorrow,� he protested.

~Never too much to keep from doing something
for my boy,T she said and patted his hand.

MarkTs father and uncle were talking on the
porch just outside the kitchen window. *Yeah,�T
said MarkTs father, ~ooeverythingTs ready for
tomorrow. The boy got plenty of wood chopped.�

~| noticed,�T said MarkTs uncle. oLooks like heTs
been chopping for a week.TT He spat tobacco
juice off the porch.

~| wish he wouldnT~t do that,TT said Mark's mother.
oIt makes the nastiest mess to clean up.�

~| let him chop it this evening instead of
whipping him for a fight he got in on the bus,� said
MarkT~s father.

Mark looked out the window. oEat your supper,
son,TT said his mother.

oYou ain~t getting slack with the boy now are
you, Matthew?� asked MarkTs uncle.

Mark dipped his fork into his mashed potatoes.
He glanced from the corner of his eye out the
window.

oNo, | ain~t getting easy with him. | always raised
my kids right,�T said his father from the porch. ~You
oughta remember that boyTs fifteen now. Almost a
man. Can~t go beating on him all the time.
Anyway, chopping all that wood taught him a
lesson, if heTs got sense enough to realize it.�

oDid you have any tests in school today?TT
MarkTs mother asked him. He took another bite of
ham.

~No, ma~am,�T he said and strained to hear
every word from the porch.

oYeah, but you canTt let him get in fights all the
time. You got to teach him that yourself, and
thereTs only one way to drive that lesson home,�T
said MarkTs uncle.

oDid you talk to Barbara today?� asked his
mother. oShe seemed real sweet on you at
church, Sunday.TT

~| saw her,�T said Mark.

oLuke,� said Mark's father, othe boy was going
to take that whipping today when it was Lisa who
deserved it all along. The boy got into that fight
trying to protect her after she had been her usual,
cantankerous self. | donTt know what ITm going to
do with her, but with Mark, | ainTt too worried. HeTs
gonna be alll right.�

~What did you say to Barbara?� asked his
mother.

oNothing much,� said Mark. he wished she would
stop aggravating him. He wanted to hear what
was being said on the porch.

oWhat did Ruth think about it?TT asked Mark's
uncle.

oShe thought | did the right thing. That boyTs a
dang good one. Not many woulda been willing to
take a tanning their little sister deserved,� said

MarkTs father. oHe didnTt whine or nothing, just
seemed like he was gonna take it ... �

~Why donTt you ask your father if heTll give you
and Barbara a ride to the movies, saturday,TT said
MarkTs mother. oITm sure he would.� Mark went
back to eating.

oMaybe,� he said.

oYeah, | guess Mark is getting to be a man,�
said his Uncle Luke. o~Reckon heTs ready to do the
shooting tomorrow?�

o| wonder what's playing at the movies,� said his
mother. She poured Mark some more coffee.

oHeTs a mighty good shot with that .22,� said
MarkTs father. ~Guess itTs about time he learned
what itTs like to really have to provide for a
family .�T

o| used to love Garbo,� said MarkTs mother.

~First time | ever looked a hog in the eye
through a rifle site, | was shaking like a leaf,� said
MarkTs uncle.

oAnd Cary Grant,TT said his mother.

~Me too,� said his father. oUncle Abraham gave
me the rifle and the knife. | was seventeen. Never
seen a hog bleed so much ".�

~Who do you like?� asked his mother.

~Huh? Oh, uh, Dustin Hoffman,T said Mark and
drank some coffee.

o| think he can handle it,TT his father was saying.

oAnyone else?� his mother asked.

oJill Clayburgh,TT he answered.

oSee ya tomorrow,� said MarkTs uncle. He
stepped from the porch. oReal early.TT

oYeah, real early. If it donTt snow,� answered
Mark's father, following him. Mark strained to hear
the rest of their conversation.

oItTs not polite to eavesdrop,T said Mark's
mother.

Mark leaned over his plate and continued
eating. He heard his father coming back up the
steps. His mother stood and walked to the sink.
Mark stabbed a piece of ham with his fork and
held it before his eyes. R

Kay Lamb New England Cellar

65

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Billy Walker

Los Angeles 12 Noon

Am I supposed to stare sorrowfully
Or should I sing sardonically?
Maybe I'll just plunge headfirst
Passively

Into the gray ocean

Above this star-studded city.

Chlorine always hurt my eyes

Guess itTs no surprise.

That I should squint tearfully
At the sulking, saturated city.
Perhaps I should call the cops,
Who knows

Maybe theyTll shoot the trash

And clear this hovering gray cloud

Over L.A.

Mark Kemp

§
4
6

Rp

THE CITY Hi

i

NYC

no sleep

rattling to your very bones

all day, all night

riddled with holes like Swiss cheese
NYC

big rock

covered with cement

and braced with steel

crawling with human race
NYC

dirty

trash in streets, alleys and
lights in sky

so colorful you are

NYC

glowing

with music, art, attitude
teeming with activity

bursting with life

NYC

crowded

cars and people line the streets
so much flesh and metal

rot in your bowels

NYC Gary Patterson
sO ironic

how could you be

so beautiful and

so ugly.

fetetc(afetatal (ijalag

fatal

Edith Jeffreys

69

70

Jal

You dance around,

new Buster Browns clicking on hardwood floors.

We struggle you into red, Smurf-peaked parka.
Blue mittens come alive,

wrap around your neck and arms.

You stamp and squeal, frustrated.

Finally, mittens conquered,

| take your yarny hand,

Run!

Reds, yellows, oranges, browns
explode around us.

Crisp, crinkling,

their sounds mix

with soprano squeak and alto laugh.

| call, ~~Look Jai. Come see.�

as a black V gooses and honks south.
No answer.

| look down at the pile.

One mitten, small, lonely, blue
floats on top.

Grab the mitten,

Pull!

It comes up

idiot string dangling

as chill wind pushes around me
scattering our pile.

Clutching your mitten,

| call again. Again.

Colors fly up,

startled birds.

You rise, triumphantly snickering.

Reds, yellows, oranges, browns

stick to long, gilded pig tails,

red parka, solitary mitten.

You put your warm, moist hand in mine,
and smile.

Someone calls us in to dinner.
We grin, conspirators.

Jamie Biggers

. ina

hn Se a ual

Paul Rogers

4

4

African Summer

Africa shimmers in waves of heat
Burning like your kiss.

In your lips | feel the jungle

Alive, exotic and crawling in
Sensuous motion.

We perspire and trade beads of love
That roll across heated flesh.

To faraway african drums

Our bodies ripple and strain, until ...

Your eyes suck me in...
Quicksand ...
Dragging me down ..
| lay gasping for air
On your leopard skin sheets where
We share our african summer.

_ and under

Edith Jeffries

Fantasies

71

72

Interstate 40 3:00 p.m.

I like the feel

of hot pavement

clinging to the heel

of my foot.

Never mind

the broken beer and whiskey

bottles, and dead animals.

I like the taste

of dry sunshine

nibbling at my body,

and at my mind.

You stare

from the comfort of your coolness,
and you all look alike

cause you read the morning news.

I donTt know why
you excite me

with aspirations,
slowing down,

then

fading like a mirage

before a thirsty traveler.

Mark Kemp

Power

I clench my fist

Ever tighter I squeeze
Until I hear the snap
And your head pops

Out of my hand

Like a slow moving bullet
Now Ill call the shots

And you'll walk the line.

Edith Jeffries

Filen Moore

BR Kod?

73

74

October Ritual

Grandpa taught me

to pop corn in the

cast iron pan that hung
near the hearth

on nights when the chill
of October reached beyond
the knotted pine
doorway and rustled the
bleached white shocks
hanging on the mantel
awaiting my next visit.

Now twenty-five years hence

as | survey my harvest

Two ears of bright, small kernels
from two short rows near the fence
The shocks crushed and dry,
some fall back

to the damp earth. Others float
upon the lift of that familiar chill.
Twelve years since Grandpa's

fire blazed against the hearth
and danced within his eyes.

Turning my back on stubbled fields
to escape the wind,

A path leads back

toward my doorway and

a Cast iron pan that

sits upon the shelf

awaiting my

October ritual.

Phillip Horne

One DayTs Vagary

Just outside of that old GreekTs cave
Leaves grow dowdy,

Precipitate themselves

Off branch ends,

Crack and steam

An oily essence

Into my hands.

| turn to share (to pour

in turn on someone

else) headlong into
Doppelganger, hard into

A staring vacancy of attacked
And drained from behind
Eyes.

In October,

| smear earth behind my ears,
Streak my temple

And rub my wrists together,
Damp and ripe,

Write words upside down

So that only God can read them,
And doodle in the corners

A kind of all saints picture
With prophets

And contorted sibyls.

Lisa Ryan

Donna Gregory

75

Buming Issues

Billy Walker

76

Abstracts

| took a few straight lines

For borders

Copied a newspaper clipping

oEulogy for the farmerTs daughter�

Drew a sick fish

To embue the whole thing with art as effort
Sooner or later the cat has to shit someplace

And | rarely rest from my labors, perfume pure anyway

Sam Silva

77

BIOGRAPHIES

Artists

Ellen Amendolara won first place in the Painting caregory of
this year's Rebel Arr Conresr for ~The Tenth Gare.�T

John Boone's self portrait does nor do him justice
Chris Carlson is a Junior Painting major

Ray Elmore is an instructor in the ECU School of Arr. He is a fine
draftsman in his own right

Dan Fuller is a Senior Painting major pursuing a BFA degree

Fred Galloway is a Senior Painting major from Greenville, Sourh
Carolina

Donna Gregory is a graduate student from Florida concentrat
ing in Painting

Lori Hicks is a Senior majoring in Fabric Design
Steve Jones is a Senior majoring in Ceramics
Jean Lee is a Senior majoring in Painting

Diane Maisel is a Senior majoring in Metal Design

George McKim is a graduate student in Painting. He's from
Wilmingron, NC., and this is his first~ appearance in the Rebel.

Betty Melton is a graduare student concentrating her study in
Meral Design. This is her first appearance in the Rebel, roo

Ed Midgett seems to have been around forever. HeTs a gra
duare student in Printmaking

Ellen Moore, our Associare Ediror, is nor as naive and unrurored
as she first appears or prerends to be. She's a Freshman in the
School of Arr.

Herb Parker is a graduate student in the Sculpture department
He's from Elizaberh Ciry, NC

Gary Patterson, a Junior, is the head of the phoro lab. He's gor
a hearr of gold

Paula Moffitt Poppe is a Senior Weaving Design major, with a
minor in Drawing. She recenrly made Greenville her home after
getting married this summer. She's been in the Rebel before.

Jo Pumphrey is a Graduate Painting student

Bob Ray wanders around Greenville collecting things for col
lages.

Mike Rigsbee is a Senior majoring in Painting. HeTs from Dur
ham, NC., and this is his first appearance in rhe Rebel.

Paul Rogers is a friend of Bobbie Houston's

Rochel Roland holds an AA in Phorography from Chowan
College. She was published in lasr yearTs Rebel.

Gregory Shelnutt is a Junior. His major is Sculpture, and this is his
first appearance in the Rebel.

Wilfred Spoon graduared last semester as a Painting major

Mike Tatsis was born and raised in Greece. He is a Junior major
in CA

Billy E. Walker, Jr., a CA major with a concentrarion in illustra
rion, is from Gastonia. He wears a bandanna around his right
wrist bur is elusive abour its symbolism

78

Writers

Don Ball is a graduate student in English who claims heTs a rennis
pro ar the Greenville Country Club

Jamie Biggers, a selectee for Officers Candidare School, enjoys
publicly correcting grammarical redundancies and errors A born
Prose Editor

Keith Carter probably doesnTt know he's been published

Carlyn Ebert is o senior business minor developing a marketing
campaign for BirdseyeTs Frozen Kudzu. Her major? Writing, of
course

Rick Gordon " alas, our beleagured Editor. HeTs a part-time
heavy meral guitar freak and a full-time sex fiend

Marty Hardin is a Sophomore Art major from Forest Ciry, NC. He
also spins rifle for the Marching Band.

Micah Harris, a Senior Writing major from Goldsboro, NC, hopes
to graduate sometime in lare 1997

Phillip Horne, a graduate student, soon will pursue his PhD in
English. He says he enjoys arheleric injuries. Wherher his own or
others, we did not inquire.

Bobbie Houston is our jet-setting Poetry Editor. Her worldly
travels include Wintergreen, Key West, and Europe. We are all
jealous beyond words.

Elizabeth Ito is a Junior English major concentrating in Writing. A
favorite hobby is collecting lipsticks with absured names. Ber
muda MelonTT and ~Mahogany BeanTT are two Classics.

Edith Jeffreys, a Compurer Science major, NOW sings in the
group Xrtra-Xtra.

Mark Kemp, a senior student of english from Asheboro, likes
modeling nude, playing guitar, dancing, and hiking. Simulta
neously?

Kit Kimberly, winner of this yearTs first place poetry award, is
from Wilmington, NC. She migrated north to study Writing

Malynn Linton, a Writing major, Nas been published in the
American Collegiate Poets Anthology and last year's Rebel.

Brian Rangeley, a Junior Writing major, hails from Danville,
Virginia. ooA Dog's LifeTT marks his publication debur. He lets
strange women trim his moustache.

Lisa Ryan, a Senior French major, has been published before in
the Rebel.

Sam Silva resides in Greenville; he has been published previous
ly in the Rebel.

Keith Stallings, a Junior Writing major, is from Hookerton, NC.,
although he claims Snow Hill as his residence. A true cosmopolite.

79

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