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REBEL 87
THE LITERARY-ART MAGAZINE | ee
OF EAST CAROLINA UNIVERSITY 2
VOLUME 29° |
\
TO: All Readers
FROM: Tim Thornburg, Editor
DATE: Spring/Fall 1987
SUBJECT: Rebel 1987
As the final touches were being added to the Rebel, I could not help but think
that it has been a long, difficult semester. The word sanity is no longer part of my
vocabulary.
Despite the mass confusion and hardships of the real world, the staff has
managed to create another outstanding Rebel. I should have realized when I was
applying for this position for the second time that I was a glutton for punishment.
What the heck, some people like torture! Maybe I'll try a third time. If Ronald
Reagan made it all these years, why canTt I?
The Rebel has undergone a few cosmetic changes this year. For years, readers
have had to play 007 to decode the contents page. Anything is better than
hieroglyphics. And thank God the biographies of the writers and artists have
finally been put to rest. It was probably the best decisions I have made since I
stopped using my credit cards.
On a somewhat more serious note, the Rebel is relatively the same in design and
content. However, this issue includes an insightful profile on Fred Chappell, one of
North CarolinaTs most important, serious writers. Another great feature is the
deletion of the staffs pictures to give the magazine a more professional appear-
ance. I never liked the idea of having mug shots in the Rebel anyway.
Although I may be hallucinating from a lack of sleep or smelling ooWhite Out,� I
like to think that the Rebel is one of the finest publications produced at East
Carolina University. My staff and I may have to go incognito after that statement,
however, the RebelTs record for oexcellence in magazine journalism� speaks for
itself.
Since 1961, the publication has been ranked as an All-American by the Associ-
ated Collegiate Press. In 1985, the magazine was awarded the ACP Pacemaker
Award and the First Place with Special Merit by the Associated Scholastic Press
Association. In 1978, 1983, and 1986, the Columbia Scholastic Press Association
awarded the magazine a Medalist rating. The Rebel staff and I like to think that
the publication is a legend in the making at ECU. The writers and artists from this
university can take pride in the fact that their work has helped to make the
magazine what it is today.
The year 1988 marks the 30th anniversary for the Rebel. Could this mean a
special, expanded edition with more color, drama, and excitement? ItTs a possibili-
ty. I guess you will just have to find out next year " same Bat time, same Bat
channel.
on 9 a Ternde 4
Timothy D. Thornburg
Rebel T87 Editor
Cover designed for the Rebel T87 by Hayes Henderson.
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ArtistTs Awards
Best-in-Show: Robbie Barber, Pageda
Ceramics: Agyeman Dua, Untitled
Design: Robbie Barber, Italian Neckpiece
Drawing: David Lee Cherry, Tight As A Spring
Illustration: Shelton Bryant, Amanda In Wonderland
Mixed Media: Roberta Brown, Layered Feathers
Painting: Denyce Brooks, Jump/Circle Of Friends
Photography: CCE Walker, Untitled
Printmaking: Susan Fecho, Untitled
Sculpture: Matt Savino, Energy Source Inactive
WriterTs Awards
Prose
First Place: Theresa Williams, Places In The Woods
Second Place: Brett Hursey, The Fortune
Third Place: Carolyn Moore, No Regrets
Poetry
First Place: Linda Johnson Morton, Free Lessons
Second Place: Micah Harris, NOW
Third Place: Donald Rutledge, Traces
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Each Fall, the Rebel holds its annual literary-art contest. The
year 1987 marks the highest number of entries in recent years.
The Rebel staff would like to thank the individuals who helped
to make the magazine possible: Mr. John Satterfield, Mr. Bob
Rasch, and Mrs. Marilyn Gordley of the School of Art for judging
the art contest; Dr. R. Hardee Rives, Mr. William Hallberg, and
Mr. Luke Whisnant of the English Department, Ms. Christine
Rusch, and Mr. Jerry Raynor for judging the literary contest;
Mrs. Yvonne Moye, ECU Media Board secretary; WZMB for itTs
advertisement of the contests; the Joyner Library administrative
staff for allowing the magazine to display the Rebel Art Show;
Mr. Fred Pulley of JostenTs American Yearbooks; Dr. Jeanne
Scafella and the ECU Media Board for their valuable advice; Mr.
Henry Stindt for his outstanding photography; visiting artist, Ke-
vin McKlouski for his guidance in illustration; the artists who lent
their creative talents for illustrations; and the writers and artists of
East Carolina University for their contributions, and bands Cen-
taur and Toyz for their support during the Rebel Benefit Concert.
The Rebel would once again like to extend its graditude to the
university community members who provided financial assistance
during publication: the Art and Camera Shop, JefferyTs Beer and
Wine, and Mr. Tom Haines of The Attic Rock and Roll Club for
his years of devotion to the magazine.
The Rebel is published for and by the students of East Carolina
University. Offices are located in the Publications Center on the
campus of ECU. This issue, Vol. 29, and its contents are copy-
righted 1987 by the Rebel. All rights revert to the individual
writers and artists upon publication. Contents may not be repro-
duced by any means, nor may any part be stored in any informa-
tion retrieval system without the written permission of the author
or artist.
The Rebel invites all students, faculty members, and alumni to
voice their opinions and/or make contributions. Inquires should
be addressed to the Rebel, Mendenhall Student Center, East
Carolina University, Greenville, North Carolina 27858-4353.
Mr. Luke Whisnant, Ms. Christine Rusch, Mr. Jerry
REBEL T87
STAFF
Editor
Timothy D. Thornburg
Art Director
Arnold W. Gambill
Prose Editor
DA Swanson
Poetry Editor
Richard W. Wells
Associate Editor
J. Christopher Thrift
JUDGES
ART
Mr. John Satterfield, Mr. Bob Rasch,
Mrs. Marilyn Gordley
Literature
Dr. R. Hardee Rives, Mr. William Hallberg,
Raynor
ILLUSTRATORS
Shelton Bryant, David Cherry, Greg Davis,
Allison Gale, Arnold Gambill, Allan Guy,
Hayes Henderson, Doug Hilburn, Greg Jarrell,
Neil Kopping, Elizabeth Raab, Steve Reid
PHOTOGRAPHERS
Arnold Gambill, Carolyn Hemmingway, Amanda |
Jarrell, Meg Long, April Moore, Elizabeth Raab
THE REBEL
CONTENTS
FEATURE:
10 Fred Chappell: A North Carolina Poet by DA Swanson
LITERATURE:
PROSE 18 Carolyn Moore No Regrets 30 Brett Hursey The Fortune 64 Theresa Williams Places In The Woods
POETRY 5 Micah Harris 9 Kate Ferraro 15 Dawn Ripley, William A. Shires 17 Wayne Barham 24 Martha Jeanne Cherry 28 Lisa Ryan, Marty L.
Silverthrone 29 Hal J. Daniel III] 36 Linda Johnson Morton 62 W. Barham 75 Donald Rutledge 78 M.L. Silverthrone 79 Debra Sutterfield 82 Sam Silva 83
Ray Irvin 84 David Bradshaw 88 David D. Herring
ART
ILLUSTRATIONS 4 Allan Guy 8 Steven Reid 14 Elizabeh Raab 16 Greg Davis 18 Neil Kopping 25 Arnold Gambill 30 Shelton Bryant 37 Greg Jarrell 63
Allison Gale 64 David Cherry 74 Doug Hilburn 79 Hayes Henderson 85 A. Guy 86 N. Kopping
PHOTOGRAPHY 1 CCE Walker 6 Carolyn Hemmingway 7 A. Gambill 22 April Moore 23 E. Raab 26 Amanda Jarrell 27 Meg Long 34 Karen James 35
Michelle Masson 60 A. Jarrell 61 M. Mason 72 A. Gambill 73 C. Hemmingway 77 A. Gambill 80 C. Hemmingway 81 April Moore
GALLERY 40 Susan Fecho 42 Matt Savino 43 Robbie Barber 44 H. Henderson 46 James Deason, R. Barber, Victoria Higgins 47 Denyce Brooks 48
Agyeman Dua 49 Jeff von Hausen 50 CCE Walker, Matthew Myers, D. Brooks 51 Roberta Brown, Helen Colevins, J. Deason, J. von Hausen 52 Lynda
Yoon 53 E. Raab 54 S. Bryant 55 A. Guy 56 Pam Stevens 57 D. Cherry 58 Mark Scott 59 S. Bryant
OTHER ART 38 Candace Craw-Goldman 39 H. Henderson 76 D. Cherry 77 A. Gambill
TriS PAGE
Neil Kopping " (untitled " pictured are Edgar Allen Poe, William Shakespeare, Andy Warhol & Toulouse Latrec)
see page 86.
SPRING /FALL 1987 3
Now
There is this bent place
In the barbed wire
We always look for.
One leg over and
Another over and
We are in the field.
The green field,
Flecked with gold.
Under one lone apple tree
A hill rises.
Against it we lean;
The roughness comforts.
SeNOol 1s Gull.
Tree shade blows down the hill.
Drenched in the solar torrent,
The summer pours over me.
In the fragrance of fresh grass,
In the lawn sprinklerTs rattle,
In the oplop� the soda bottle
Makes when pulled
From your mouth,
Like the drop of a line
In our fishing pond.
Though the sky threatens no
storm
Still the air
smells warm like water
From a hose coiled in the sun.
One drop
Three, then a
Thousand
Rain drops fall
Like liquid seconds
And we cannot count them.
We speak of the good life
Of the days to come
Not knowing later
We will look for today.
Micah Harris
SPRING /FALL 1987
Carolyn Hemmingway
THE REBEL
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SPRING /FALL 1987
9
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Steven Reid
THE REBEL
| may write poems, but my brother can fix cars
He is willing to soend hours
with nuts and bolts
and internal combustion.
Clinks of repair
and angry oaths
lubricate his work.
| can hear him from where | sit.
This room is quiet,
only an occasional rustle of paper
and the tapping of my pencil.
| lean back and run my hand through my hair,
Damn .
| find him with his tools,
probing valves, scraping plugs, firing cylinders.
The parts of his engine lie around him.
He reaches for a starter,
misplaces a distributer
and tinkers with the brake line.
| stand and watch,
weighing a wrench in my hand,
feeling the metal
warm to my touch.
| kick a hose out of a grease puddle
and move closer.
When he is through
the motor will start.
He will wipe his hands
and slam the hood
after taking one last look.
Kate Ferraro
SPRING/FALL 1987
REBEL PROFILE
FRED
CHAPPELL
A NORTH CAROLINA POET
assure you,� he says ushering me into a com-
fortably appointed den, othat I really don't
have much to say on anything.�
oWell, I imagine thatTs not entirely truc.
He chuckles in an offhand way and detours into
the kitchen. oGo ahead and get settled. Which do
you preferT Bud @r rose 7
I tell him that beer will be be fine and tentative-
ly seat myself on a cushioned love seat. The room
is paneled in a heavy, dark oak and the furniture
is equally heavy and dark. He returns and sets a
cold, damp can onto a coaster on the coffee table
and seats himself across from me. A large glass of
red wine dangles casually in his fingers.
oWell, what do you want to know?� He puts a
Vantage cigarette in his mouth and strikes a pa-
per match to light it.
~oHow does one become a quality writer like
yourself?�
DA Swanson
oLike myself? Thats a bit presumptuous. Besides, ITm
not sure I could give you any straightforward guidelines.�
oWell, you must have some advice to aspiring writers as a
writing teacher at UNC-G.�
PiRead. Reae@ everyuning.
oEverything?�
~o~Well, as much as you can. ThereTs a lot to be learned as
an observant reader. Especially in classics, such as Homer,
Virgil, Proust, and others like Tolstoy and Shakespeare. All
of those horrendous epics that youTre made to read in En-
glish classes.�
He pauses to tap a column of ashes into the ash tray and
take a swallow of wine. oOf course, there are other literary
genres that are good to read. If approached in the right way,
even the more important scientific works can be interesting
and even enlightening material for style and general knowl-
edge. And then thereTs always more current literature. If
you want to be a serious writer you should read a lot.�
oThatTs an awfully academic approach to writing. What
about the more active, or maybe athletic styles used by
writers like Hemmingway?�T
oWell, thereTs nothing wrong with that, although ITm sure
Hemmingway was something of a reader himself. ITve cho-
sen to lead a relatively uneventful life, though. Everybody
has their own lifestyle. I enjoy writing and study, and that
demands a certain routine.�
Actually, Mr. ChappellTs life hasnTt been all that routine.
In 1967, on a $9,000 Rockefeller Foundation Grant, he took
his young family to Italy for the year. Like most foreigners
abroad, Chappell explains, they developed a habit of living
beyond their means and by the end of his sabbatical they
found themselves in Florence with no money to return.
Luckily another grant, this time from the National Institute
of Arts and Letters, was awarded, just enough to cover their
passage. ooWe might still be in Italy, hawking English les-
sons to Hungarian engineers,� Chappell quips in an auto-
biography written for the Contemporary Authors Autobi-
ography Series.
oLiving in a place like Italy really gives one 4 miulen
sharper view of history and a closer acquaintance with art. I
had never had a very clear idea of visual symbols and
imagery, at least I see now that I didnTt, until I was im-
mersed in the art of Florence. After a time, the extraordi-
nary mass of it became something of a necessity to me.�
oHave you ever written anything based directly on that
trip? I donTt believe ITve ever run across anything youTve
written specifically set in or about Italy or its art.�
oNo, nothing specific. But it did provide, to a certain
extent, a stronger historical base and some fresher, or rath-
er, more insightful ideas for my writing.�
~Such as some of the short stories in Moments of Light? I
mean, ~JudasT and ~Mrs. Franklin AscendsT and ~Moments
of Light.T The way you handled the meeting between the
composer, Joseph Haydn, and the astronomer, William
Herschel, really brought those historical characters to life.�
oTo 4 centam extent, yes. | also became imterested in
writing about historical figures when I realized how little
many of my students knew about them. Like you said, they
were just historical characters, and itTs pretty hard to get
excited over someone who is no more than a name, date,
and list of accomplishments. I want my students to see
history in a broader context of the ideas and real people
who inspired them. ItTs important that you have an under-
standing of history in a context broader than your own
discipline. In order to fully understand a Shakesperean
Sonnet the way it was written, a person needs to know about
the influences that science and music and the other arts had
on it. ~Moments of LightT actually began as a classroom
presentaion and I suddenly realized what a wonderful op-
portunity it was for a story.�
~ITve never found that the immediate
goal of these students can be termed no-
ble. They are present in order to acquire,
in their phrase, which is their parentTs
phrase, a college education.�
o| write more out of a desire for self-re-
spect, and the respect of my friends, than
out of any desire for fame or money. | find
that | experience the sense of excitement
and aiscovery in writing that | did, and do,
in reading Shakespeare or Faulkner.�
oThe scientist and the humanist both are
engaged in working with the same mate-
rial. Both must derive their ideas first from
previous ideas about nature, and then
from Nature herself. The methods impor-
tant to these studies may often be
identical.�
42
THE REBEL
He glances at his empty glass and asks me if I could use
another as well. I reply, yes, and he leaves for the kitchen
once more.
oFirst and foremost, I am a poet,� Chappell says with a
quiet distinction. His first book of poetry, The World Be-
tween the Eyes, which he claims he still isnTt satisfied with,
won the Roanoke-Chowan Poetry Prize of the North Caro-
lina Literary Association in 1971.
oT basically wrote it in a very ad hoc way, and it shows. I
hope ITm not sounding overly modest, but the book really
has no true direction or center. I was more interested in
getting myself, my poetry into print at the time.�
oI haven't been able to find that book in print anywhere,
but
oThatTs not suprising,� he interupts quietly with an un-
derstanding grin and takes another draw on his Vantage.
oBut, in the past few days I have had a chance to make it
through about half of Midquest.�T
oWhat did you think?�
oTI must admit that I usually have some difficulty in
reading long poetry, and especially poetry set up in the epic
style of that one, but it reads amazingly well. More like a
tightly condensed novel than a long poem.�
oHmm,� he smiles taking another sip of wine.
oI especially liked the poem, ~My Mother Shoots the
Breeze.T It really caught my attention for some reason. The
underspoken humor. Did your mother really do that?�
oNo. Most all of my characters are based on more than a
single person. Midquest is actually a tetrology, four poems
of eleven poems each, all rolled into one larger poem. It was
styled after DanteTs reflection at the age of 35. I had intend-
ed to finish with it by my fortieth birthday, but it took
another four years after that to complete. The time I spent
on that project was possibly the closest I have ever come to
an absolute joy in writing. ThatTs not to say it wasnTt ex-
hausting. I had meant to take a vacation during the work at
one point, but I have yet to take it.�
oIn 1984 you won the Bollingen Prize in Poetry from the
Yale University Library for you total body of work. How
much of a part do you think Midquest played in that
award?�
oTTm sure it played a role since the prize was for every-
thing ITd done up to that point, but ITm not really concerned
with literary prizes or awards. The money is nice, but ITm
not out there in any kind of a competitive spirit. I donTt
write for any sort of audience other than friends and my
own satisfaction. When art becomes a competition, it is no
longer ari. Well, for me at least. The act of writing is
something very seperate from the idea of giving brownie
points for doing better than average work. In fact, itTs a
ludicrous idea. But it would appear very crass to turn down
awards. The recognition and the money are nice.�
oBy the time this is published your second novel, Dagon
will have been rereleased. I realize that it won the very
prestigious Prix de Meilleur des Lettres Etrangers (French
translation) in 1970, but why did St. MartinTs Press decide
fo reissue it?�
oT haven't the slightest idea. Maybe a young editor saw
some value in it worthy of publication.�
oThen this didnTt come up through your agent?�
ING�
oAnd the same for the collection coming out late in
March?�
oYep. That will have the ~flambouantT title of The Fred
Chappell Reader. There should be excerpts from about
twelve short stories and then 100 poems from The World
Between the Eyes, Midquest, Castle Tzingal, and Source.
Sounds like a monstrous collection, heh?�
oThen you'll be busy the next few months doing
promos?�
~Hell no. Business bores the piss out of me.�
Fiction:
It Is Time, Lord. New York: Atheneum, 1963; London: Dent,
1965.
The Inkling. New York: Harcourt, 1965; London: Chapman &
Hall, 1966.
Dagon. New York: Harcourt, 1968; New York: St. MartinTs
Press, 1987.
The Gaudy Place. New York: Harcourt, 1973.
Moments of Light (short stories). Los Angeles: New South
Co, 1980.
I Am One of You Forever. Baton Rouge: LSU Press, 1985.
The Fred Chappell Reader. New York: St. MartinTs Press,
1987.
Poetry:
The World Between the Eyes. Baton Rouge: LSU Press, 1971.
River. Baton Rouge: LSU Press, 1975.
The Man Twice Married to Fire. Greensboro, N.C.: Unicorn
Press, 1977.
Bloodfire. Baton Rouge: LSU Press, 1978.
Awakening to Music. Davidson N.C.: Briarpatch Press, 1979.
Wind Mountain. Baton Rouge: LSU Press, 1979.
Earthsleep. Baton Rouge: LSU Press, 1980.
Driftflake: A Lieder Cycle. Emory, Va.: Iron Mountain
Press, 1981.
Midquest (includes River, Bloodfire, Wind Mountain, and
Earthsleep). Baton Rouge: LSU Press, 1981.
Castle Tzingal. Baton Rouge: LSU Press, 1984.
Source. Baton Rouge: LSU Press, 1985.
SPRING /FALL 1987
13
The Beach
The gull cries its sharp, bitter squawk.
The sea rushes to the shore like a child
Into its motherTs arms.
The sun rests far
Above the horizon,
Reaching out with
Its blazing rays.
On the dunes, sea oats rustle,
And a child appears;
Bucket and shovel in hand,
Waiting for sights and
Sounds to draw him
Towards shore,
And captivate him
With their magnificence.
Dawn Ripley
Depths
Still, still water,
A clear, cold pool,
Ten feet down?
Fifteen?
How deep is the water,
In a crystal pool?
Pure, clear water,
So cold, so deep.
The bottom beckons,
Down, down, down.
Look into the depths,
And remember, | have been
there.
William A. Shires
SPRING /FALL 1987
15
~
"
Se
&
On a New York Cabbage Farm in January
| lop off another head ...
Mud sucks at my boots.
My fingers are stiff
as grass tufts,
curled and cracked,
frosted during the night.
The row never ends,
an ugly, green caterpillar
crawling forever.
My tenth season
picking produce "
35 a crate.
The season has opened in Florida.
| lop off another head |
A black beetle
drowns in dew
collected in a cabbage leaf.
Carlina is pretty
bundled in rags against the cold.
She doesnTt know
I'm going to marry her someday.
It'd be warmer in Florida.
Three ducks
straggle across
a low, gray sky "
late leavers.
| lop off another head ...
Wayne Barham
B.
-aannatuannsnnss aneanasnaspnossanestesensonassnponsins
SPRING /FALL 1987 ~7 :
=
Illustrations By Neil Kopping
18
THE REBEL
Carolyn Moore
couldnTt bring himself to open it because he was
afraid of what he might find. It had been six years
since heTd last seen her and their last time together was not
all that pleasant. With a deep breath, he quietly opened the
door and walked inside. From the door Brian could see her
lying in the bed, motionless with her face turned toward the
window. Brian broke the silence.
oRate?�
The figure in the bed turned her face toward the voice.
She raised herself up and reached for the switch on the
lamp. oBrian OTConnor?�
oOne and the same,� he said as he walked over to the bed
and placed a chaste kiss on her cheek.
oWhat a surprise,� said Kate. oThis is definitely unex-
pected.�T Nervously, she reached up and pushed her dark,
slightly graying hair out of her eyes. oPlease, have a seat.�
She hoped that she didnTt sound as anxious as she felt.
Brian smiled and sat down in the chair beside her bed. He
still has that wonderful smile, she thought. If possible, he
looks better now than he did in college. oBrian, the years
have been good to you. ItTs good to know ITm not the only
B rian stood there with his hand on the door. He
one getting gray hair.�
He laughed and settled himself more comfortably in his
chair. oI donTt mind the gray hair; itTs the bulge around the
middle that bothers me.� They both laughed.
oSo what brings you to town?� Kate asked.
oBusiness. My companyTs bidding on an office building
thatTs up for construction,� he said. oI saw Stacy, and she
told me you were having some tests done. That wasnTt all
sheTd said. She wanted me to tell you that she would be by
after work with some of your things.�
oT told her that was not unnecessary, but she insists on
worrying over me,� Kate said smiling. oI guess she feels
obligated since I have no family here. StacyTs always been
an overprotective type; she was the same way in college.�
oDonTt your parents know youTre here?�
oNo, I didnTt want to worry them over nothing,� said
Kate. She tried to sound matter-of-fact about it. oOf
course, you know that I had cancer about four years ago.
Well, the doctors just want to make sure that everythingTs
alright.� She smiled what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
oBesides, it's just routine.
Brian watched her as she played with the tie on her robe,
9
SPRING/FALL 1987
19
She was still pretty, only now it was more subtle. Her dark
eyes were as bright as they had always been. The only
differences were the small lines surrounding them. Despite
the lack of make-up and the plainness of her dressing gown,
she was still an attractive woman. She sounds so sure that
itTs nothing, he thought. He only hoped it was going to be
that simple. HeTd always hoped for the best in life and
expected the worst. In his experiences with life, the latter
always came through.
oSo tell me ... what have you been up to these past six
years?� Kate desperately searched for any topic of conver-
sation. oThe last ITd heard youTd moved out of town.�
Actually she knew more than that; she just wanted to hear it
from him.
oWell, after graduation I moved to St. Louis and started
working for a construction company and eventually worked
my way up to vice president.�
oSounds like youTre doing very well for yourself,� said
Kate. But you still havenTt said it, she thought. She watched
him as he crossed and uncrossed his legs.
oCanTt complain, really.� Brian shifted a little more in his
chair. oAnd I... I got married. Been married about three
years now.�
There! HeTd said it! Kate thought as she relaxed back
against her pillow. She looked down at her hands and found
the bed sheets crunched up in them.
oThatTs wonderful, Brian.� She smiled what she hoped
was a convincing smile. She was glad for him, really. Still . .
. She couldnTt help but wonder, What if, oKids?�
olwo.�
On. ~
oAnd you, Kate? HowTs life been for you?� Immediately,
he wished he could take back that statement. Looking at her
now, he knew what life had given her.
She could tell what he was thinking. It was in his eyes.
Damn! she thought. Just dont feel sorry for me. | domt
need that from you. The thought of him pitying her was
maddening.
oActually, Brian, things have been great,� she assured
him enthusiastically. oITve put my law degree to work at the
D.A.Ts office, and things are really going well, professional-
ly and privately.�T They were, and she wanted him to know
that. In spite of everything, she was happy with her success-
es im life.
oWell, I'm glad you got what you wanted. Getting
through law school was very important to you,� Brian said
as he got up and walked to the window. More important
than anything, he thought.
oYes, it was. And you got what you wanted too " a wife
and family, I mean.�
Brian leaned against the window sill with his arms folded
across his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles. oI guess
we both got what we wanted.� They stared at each other not
aD)
20
THE REBEL
knowing what to say.
The uncomfortable silence was interupted by a knock on
the door. The door opened and a tall, thin man wearing a
lab coat walked into the room.
oMiss Andrews, how are we today?� the doctor asked.
oHi, Dr. Brewer. I was wondering when you were going
to come by. I was beginning to think you had forgotten me,�
Kate said jokingly. oEither that, or I thought you might be
playing golf,� she said with a grin.
oDonTt be silly,� he said. oBesides, todayTs Tuesday, and
Wednesday is my day for golf.TT They laughed. She liked Dr.
Brewer; heTd always been honest with her. She was counting
on that honesty again.
oDr. Brewer, ITd like for you to meet an old friend of
mine, Brian O° Connor
oDr. Brewer,� greeted Brian. The two men shook hands.
oItTs a pleasure, Mr. OTConnor.� Looking at the both of
them he said, oI hope ITm not interupting anything.�
oNo, not at all,� said Kate. Gesturing at the folder held
securely in his grasp, she asked, o~Are those my test results
by any chance?� Her voice sounded strange to herself.
oYes, as a matter of fact, they are.�
Brian politely excused himself and walked out into the
hall. Leaning back against the wall, he lit a cigarette and
was about to take a much needed draw from it when he
noticed a THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING sign. He
crushed the cigarette onto the newly mopped floor and
began to walk up and down the hall. Just as he was about to
pass the door for the third time, Dr. Brewer came out. By
the look on his face, Brian could tell what had transpired.
oDoctor,
ooSheTs a very brave woman, Mr. OTConnor, but she needs
a friend right now.�T He turned and walked down the hall
leaving Brian alone and unsure of what to do. He slowly
opened the door and walked into the room. Kate was sitting
in a chair in front of the window with her back to the door.
SheTd heard the door open and knew who it was but couldnTt
bring herself to look at him. She was afraid sheTd start to
cry and never stop.
Brian walked toward her. What am I going to say, he
thought. Gently, he placed his hand on her shoulder.
Reaching up, Kate placed her hand on his.
oSurgery is set for tomorrow morning. Dr. Brewer hopes
to get most of it that way.� Brian watched her push the food
around on her plate.
oNot to good, huh?�
oNow, I know why hospitals donTt cater.� She pushed the
plate away, leaned back in her chair, and stared blankly at
the window.
oDo you still like Chinese food?� Brian asked smiling.
Kate looked at him and grinned. oBring back some for-
tune cookies, will you?�
oBrian, this is great! ITve never seen so much food,� Kate
said as she spooned out the food onto the paper plates heTd
brought back with him.
oIT know I probably should have asked sooner, but should
you be eating this?�
oits fine. As long as | dont eat past twelve am.� Kate
reassured. oBesides, ITm only going to eat a little.� oWy el.
ITve never known you to pass up Chinese food, anyway.�
Brian sat down at the small table across from Kate. He
noticed that sheTd put on a little make-up while he was gone.
Kate looked up at Brian and smiled. Handing him a plastic
fork she said, oWell, shall we?�
Pushing her plate away, Kate leaned back in her chair.
oThank you, Brian. And not just for the food.� She smiled
weakly. oI guess I needed the company tonight.�
oWhat are friends for?� God! How clicheTd that sounded,
he thought. He didnTt know what to say " what she needed
to hear.
oYou know, I thought ITd be relieved.� Kate looked at
Brian. oNo more wondering and fearing when or if itTs
going to come back.� She got up and walked to the window
and stared out into the city streets below. oITm scared
Brian.�
He walked over and gently held her. She cried, and he let
her cry. Holding her, he thought about his wife who had
convinced him to come and see Kate. She knew about her.
He had told her many years ago about the love he once had
for her. He smiled as he thought about the two women he
loved most in the world. One love, the first love he now held
in his arms, would always be special to him. It had its time
and place, and the old bitterness had long since passed. The
other love, the one changing diapers and loving their chil-
dren, was everything to him. Together, they had made a
home and a family, and those bonds would last a lifetime.
He always wondered if he had made the right decisions in
his life. He had no regrets, and he wished the same for Kate.
She deserves better, he thought angrily.
Brushing away the tears, Kate gently pulled away from
Brian. oWould you look; ITm getting your nice shirt all
wet.� She felt a little embarrassed at her crying. She walked
over to the table in front of the window and sat down. Brian
did the same.
oItTs getting late. I guess I should be going,� Brian said
trying to break the silence.
oCan you come back tomorrow?�
Sune: -
oI'd appreciate if youTd call my folks for me. I just donTt
think ITm up to it tonight.�
oTd be glad to. Just give me a number where they can be
feached.
oTl be here when you come out of surgery.�
oPI be counting on it,� said Kate. She smiled warmly
and kissed him on the cheek.
Kate walked over to the bedside table, took a piece of
paper and a pen out of the drawer, and wrote the number on
it. oHere you are,� she said handing him the paper.
oThanks�, said Brian. oWell, I guess ITll be going then.�
He started toward the door.
oBrian? Thanks. For being here I mean.� She smiled and
gave him a hug. oYou know, as soon as this is all over, ITd
really love to meet that family of yours.�
oThat would be great.� Brian pulled his coat on and
walked to the door. Kate held it open and Brian stepped
into the hall. oI'll be here when you come out of surgery.�
Brian walked down the hall and into the elevator. He
waved as the elevator doors slowly closed.
SPRING /FALL 1987
24
April Moore
THE REBEL
Ze
Q
8
&
a
S
'N
uy
SPRING /FALL 1987
Dig Dirt
Hard-hatted,
they came with big yellow bulldozers
and took away the tall green trees
(to be pulped for paper, ya know)
never to be seen in thier towering grace again.
Bone-cold
steel unloaded from loud, dirty trucks "
Watching from my window, | want to muck their destruction
but in timid silence only duck my responsibility.
Jack-hammered
iron piles driven deep and straight into leveled ground
by mortal men making feckless foundations.
They break down with mechanical sound the pines that once
stood proud.
Man-made
condominiums shoot up without real roots.
| see bare beams erected,
pounded into soft, dark dirt where evergreens took years
to rise.
They cut down what is real
and replace life with money-made fallacy,
covering dirt with hot, black asphalt around a tall new building
to make smooth the ground dug up.
Change,
but do not erase.
Somewhere | know the tree limbs blow,
but here, buried underground, | see only dirt.
ItTs impossible to factory produce ...
this feeling ...
is mine.
| feel dead in the dirt
as God digs beneath my surface
and | write with these tree-made pencils
on their paper made of God's trees.
seeing, reality
| cannot yet seem ...
TO break from ...
this dirty world.
Martha Cherry
THE REBEL
econ ene TIT
Arnold Gambill
'
uw)
N
SPRING /FALL 1987
TERR ge in RR ES A A RA NINN EP nine
Amanda Jarrell
THE REBEL
26
oo """"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""" oo
ES
N
Meg Long
SPRING /FALL 1987
For a grade (for Ron Loewinsohn)
Perhaps the woman
who proposed ointerpretive
dance�
as a project,
a creative project,
perhaps she might have
danced
the dance of Salome.
Lisa Ryan
Fate of the ~~contentedTT housewife
Decadent fat women
sip wine
expel gas
consume tabloids
praise prime time prostitutes
nestle T.V. guides
while seeking "
romantic rendezvous.
Marty L. Silverthorne
THE REBEL
Mimi
raised my mother
my sister
and me
strolled us
to the church yard
where we played
in the bermuda grass
and pea gravel
while she testified
with other black
women
about Nannying
the chillun
cotton
catfish
and cantaloupe
Mimi wrapped me
in pale blue towels
held me
in heavy
chocolate arms
till | slept
She sang
Bye Bye Blackbird
after my bath
Her son Wilbur
was Head Waiter
at the Peabody
In 1945
my hero
was Wilbur Stockton
Mimi lost
her eyes
her legs
died in the Projects
| donTt know
what happened to
Wilbur
When | come back
| want Mimi
to sing to me
Wilbur
to open champagne
in the pink-blue light
Hal J. Daniel Ill
SPRING/FALL 1987
29
SE cS SMT RGN DPSS IS ES GRETA BABAR SC RMOP SEG RR APPEASE NERS ORIIED
THE FORTUNE
Brett Hursey
dirty wind rushed down the alley and pulled the
A newspaper off MarvinTs face. He woke up slowly,
yawning and blinking his eyes in the dull morning
light. Crouched on top of a battered trash can, a scrawny
tom cat watched Marvin stretch the muscles in his back and
gradually pull himself into a sitting position on the dirty,
grey pavement.
The city was beginning to come alive. Sounds of car
horns and cab driver curses echoed faintly down the alley-
way. Marvin rubbed knarled hand over the white stubble
growing on his chin and used one of his fingers to check his
teeth for new cavities. Then he took off his worn, leather
brogans and carefully rubbed the chill out of his feet. Pull-
ing his shoes back on, he eased himself against a soot-
covered brick wall and looked around his home.
The narrow alley was filled with discarded cardboard
boxes and shopping carts. Criss-crossing metal pipes creat-
ed an elaborate jungle gym overhead and a fire escape
climbed precariously up a wall with out-dated posters. Far
above, a heating vent spouted moist clouds of steam into the
chilly morning air.
Marvin sneezed loudly and wiped his nose on the sleeve
of his tattered flannel coat. The cold autumn wind eagerly
pounced on him, biting his nose and climbing down the neck
of his shirt. He pulled his clothing tightly around him and
stiffly got to his feet.
He had just decided to go look for breakfast when his
attention was captured by something lying on the pavement
across the alley. Marvin limped over to it and looked down
in amazement. Fluttering halfway out from beneath a dilap-
idated oMr. Potato Head� box was a crumpled ten dollar
bill.
He couldnTt believe his eyes. He pinched himself to make
sure he wasnTt still asleep. Mr. Potato HeadTs little brown
feet were firmly planted on Alexander HamiltonTs face.
Marvin reached out with fingers that shook only partly
from the cold, and pulled the bill free.
oHoly shit.
It was a fortune. He couldnTt remember the last time he
had held a ten dollar bill in his hands. His bad leg twinged
painfully and he pulled himself up slowly back onto his feet.
Jesus Christ, ITm lucky, thought Marvin as he pulled out
a shabby old wallet. On the front of it, his initials were still
barely visible in faded gold letters. The leather had been
high quality at one time, but now it was badly scuffed and
worn with age. He tenderly opened the billfold and leafed
through its jumbled contents. His driverTs license had ex-
pired. It didnTt matter, the bank had repossessed his car
long ago. He still had his Social Security card, but Social
Security checks were still a few years away. He ran his
fingers over the steel workerTs union card and thought about
all the layoffs and cutbacks. In the back of the billfold was a
picture of his wife. He had taken it while she was slicing the
ThanksgivingTs day turkey. There she was, smiling and
proudly showing off her holiday cooking. On the table was
her mew set of sterling silver. He had given it to her just
before the pay-cuts, strikes and long nights of worrying had
brought on her stroke. Marvin began to feel loneliness and
despair well up inside him, but he looked at the ten dollar
bill and a smile creased his weather-beaten face.
He slipped the money in the ragged wallet and pushed it
deep into one of his pantTs front pockets so nobody could lift
it off him. Then he walked quickly out of the alley, limping
slightly from the arthritis in his leg.
After using the bathroom at the gas station across the
street, Marvin headed downtown. Usually he had to
scrounge for something to eat in the mornings, but today
was different. Today he was rich. Marvin reached into his
30
THE REBEL
o ee
E _.
.
Hh
7
IIlustrations By Shelton Bryant
ee
a
a
a
ee
ae
ie),
He couldnt believe his eyes. Ele pinched inimseli, 10 make sume dnc
wasn't still asleep.
r. Potato HeadTs little brown feet were firmly
planted on Alexander HamiltonTs face. Marvin reached out with
fingers that shook only partly from the cold, and pulled the bill
free.
pocket and touched the reassuring bulk of the wallet.
He passed a store window displaying color television sets.
On ten different screens, Ronald Reagan struggled to ex-
plain the theory of otrickle down� economics. Marvin
flipped him the bird.
oTrickle this, Ron,� he said and kept on walking.
As he waded through the bustling tides of people , he kept
his eyes carefully on his feet like everyone around him. No
one spoke or looked directly at one another. Each person
moved through a world of crowded loneliness.
Marvin looked ahead and saw a sign hanging above the
teeming sidewalk. ooMaxTs Dine-In Diner� was proudly
SPRING /FALL 1987
31
I
|
(
:
i
1
i)
iy
spelled out in bright red letters. Above the sign, an arrow
made of tiny yellow lights flashed and pointed the way into
the restaurant. He jostled his way over, climbed three worn
steps, and pulled open the heavy glass door.
The interior of the diner was dimly lit with florescent
lights. In one corner, a battered jukebox winked and
hummed quietly to itself. The furnishings were sparse,
mostly old brown booths pushed up against the dingy, gray
walls. The smell of grease hung heavily in the air.
Marvin went to the counter and sat down. A large card-
board sign over the cash register read, ooWorking ManTs
Special $3.25.� His mouth was already watering when Max
walked over to him.
oHiya Marvin. HavenTt seen ya in a while. WhatTs it
going to be?� oThe special,� said Marvin, jerking his thumb
at the sign. He could already taste the food and his stomach
rumbled impatiently.
Max scratched his bald head. oDonTt get offended or
nothinT, but you got anything to pay for this with?�
Marvin reached into his pocket, pulled out the wallet, and
extracted the ten dollar bill.
~oHowTs this?� he asked, waving the ten in front of MaxTs
eyes.
oYep, that'll do it alright. One Working ManTs Special
cominT up.� Max went to the window behind the counter.
oHey, Myrna! Wake up and get me a special!�
Marvin sat on the stool and drummed his fingers on the
counter as he waited. Five long minutes ticked by before
rOreal-""-_~ just efeat,. feplied
Marvin. He felt like a junkie on
a food overdose.
Max set a chipped, white plate in front of him. An enticing
aroma drifted up into MarvinTs quivering nostrils. Two
golden fried eggs sat majestically beside three crisp pieces
of bacon. Spread over the rest of the plate was a generous
helping of hash browns. It was the most beautiful sight
Marvin had ever seen.
He ate the meal slowly, savoring every bite. When he was
through, he used a biscuit to mop up the juice left on the
dish. For the first time in months, hunger released its grip
on him and his stomach felt warm and full.
Max walked over and propped his large arms on the
counter. oHow was it?� he asked, sticking a toothpick in his
mouth.
oGreat ... just great,� replied Marvin. He felt like a
junkie on a food overdose.
oGood, glad you liked it.�� Max made the toothpick do a
little dance around his mouth. oYa know, when I was at the
YankeeTs game the other night, I thought of somethinT.�
oYeah?� said Marvin, becoming hypnotized by the tooth-
pickTs dance in MaxTs mouth.
oYeah. I was sittinT out in the stands before the game and
it hit me. Pow! Right out of the blue. I thought to myself,
~Damn, ITm lucky to be livinT in America!T How Tbout that?�
Marvin nodded, still watching the toothpick. oI mean, we
live in the greatest country in the world, donTt we? Number
one. Just because youTre down on your luck, it donTt mean
yaT canTt improve yourself. In America, a man can do
whatever the hell he wants, right? You know what it is? ItTs
the land of opportunity, thatTs what! What do ya think
Marvin?�
Marvin looked down at his hands. oSure. Sure it is.�
oYeah, and there I was at the YankTs game, thinkinT about
all this, yaT see? Then they start to play the national anthem
and " I ainTt embarrassed to say it " I got choked up.
Right there in the left field stands. Yep, I kept thinkinT
about how lucky I was to be livinT in the U.S. And let me
tell ya, I sang the hell out of the national anthem. Then the
Reds came up to bat and I had to throw my beer on the
bums in front of me Tcause they wouldnTt sit down and let
me watch the game.�
Marvin got to his feet and buttoned up the front of his
coat.
oThanks for the breakfast,� he said and handed Max the
ten dollar bill. He sadly watched it disappear into the cash
register. He got back a five, a one, and sixty-five cents in
change.
oSee yaT later Marvin,� called Max, spitting out the
toothpick. oTake it easy.�
Marvin stopped at the door and looked down at the
gumball machine standing against the wall. He hesitated,
then smiled sheepishly, and stuck his hand in his pocket.
Sliding a nickle into the machineTs slot he turned the handle
and three dark purple gumballs dropped into his palm. He
put two of them back into his pocket, popped the third into
his mouth, and thought, odessert,� as he pushed open the
dinerTs door.
As he made his way down the crowded sidewalk, the cold
wind reached out and gathered him into its frigid arms.
Marvin stood in the crowded line at the grocery store and
nervously waited for the cashier to check him out. He was
tightly sandwiched between two large, heavily laden shop-
ping carts. Fruit Loops and Hamburger Helper boxes
formed a wall in front of him. Granola Bars and Brillo Pads
hemmed him in from behind. Caught between these two
rolling mountains of food Marvin clutched a can of Vienna
sausages and a box of cough drops in his hands.
He had spent the entire morning searching through trash
cans and dumpsters for anything of value. In his coat pocket
were the fruits of his labor " a broken calculator, a pair of
pink suspenders, and an old Timex watch. If he was lucky, a
pawn broker might give him a few bucks for the stuff.
A middle aged woman wearing an expensive pea jacket
wheeled her cart away from the cash register and Marvin
stepped up to the counter.
oThis is it?� asked the girl behind the register as she
looked at the cough drops and sausages sitting isolated on
the vast, metalic counter.
oYeah,� replied Marvin, feeling a little self-conscious.
oYaT couldTve used the express line. ItTs for ten items or
less.�
oSorry.�
The cough drops cost 75 cents and the Vienna sausages
were $1.20. As he unhappily watched his fortune dwindle
again, the cashier stuck the box and can ina large paper bag
32
THE REBEL
and thrust it toward him. Then he had to quickly move out
of the way to avoid being run over by the overflowing cart
behind him.
Marvin left the store and slowly walked to the park.
Finding a deserted bench, he sat down and rested his aching
leg.
He took the purchases out of the grocery bag, carefully
folded it, and put it in his pocket. Compared to the busy
streets of the city, the park seemed peaceful and quiet.
Here, the air was still relatively free of smog and the sur-
rounding trees were shedding their leaves. Marvin looked at
the box of cough drops and thought about the coming
winter. The alley was cold at night and he often woke up
with a sore throat. Now, he had something to take care of
that. Marvin smiled and shook the little box of medication.
Opening the can of Vienna sausages, he started eating
lunch. As he chewed he pulled out his wallet and counted
the remains of his fortune. He still had four dollars and
seventy cents left. Marvin ate another sausage and sighed
with contentment.
People occasionally strolled past him, but no one stopped
to sit with him. He gradually ate the rest of the sausages
and drank the juice out of the can. Then he sat back, put the
second gumball in his mouth, and thought about all of the
ways he could spend the rest of his fortune.
While the city rumbled and rushed around him, Marvin
became lost in the pleasant world of financial decision
making.
A little bell rang shrilly as Marvin pushed open the door
to the liquor store. Standing on the cheap, plastic doormat,
he gazed around the shop in wonderment. Each wall was
lined with shelves, and each shelf was packed to full capaci-
ty. Vast armies of bottles formed endless ranks and columns
around the crowded walls. Row upon row of gleaming glass
dazzled MarvinTs roving eyes.
oWhen was the last time I had a drink?� he thought. He
couldnTt remember. It had been a long time. His stomach
was full and he felt like celebrating. After all, you didnTt
find ten dollars everyday.
Marvin walked up and down the storeTs isles comparing
various brands and prices. Vodka and whiskey were too
strong. Champagne was too expensive, and he didnTt like
bourbon. After a long search, he decided on a bottle of Wild
Irish Rose Wine. It wasnTt the fanciest drink in the world,
but the three dollar and fifteen cent price tag was just right.
He carried the bottle up to the front of the store and got
in line. The shop was well-heated and he enjoyed the relief
from the chilly outside air. It was odd, but he never really
realized how cold it was until he went somewhere warm.
The heavy-set man in front of him paid for his case of
wine coolers and lumbered away from the counter. Marvin
stepped up to the cash register and eyed the packages of
cigarettes on display. Should he buy some? HeTd really like
a cigarette, but he had to think of the cost. As Marvin tried
to decide what to do he heard a harsh, feminine voice
whisper loudly behind him.
oWa see GeorgeT? Ya see? YaT pay welfare so people like
him can have some money, and what do they do? Spend it
on booze! It makes me sick!�
Marvin made up his mind. He reached over and picked
up a pack of Salems. As he paid for the wine and cigarettes,
he turned and smiled at the wrinkled old lady with the
beligerent expression standing behind him. Then he picked
up his purchases and carelessly whistled as he walked out of
the store.
Evening had fallen over the city. Lights twinkled and
blinked at him through a blanket of darkness. Streetlamps
threw pools of yellow luminescence on the sidewalks and the
air was brisk and sharp.
Marvin walked slowly back to his alley only stopping
once to buy a copy of the New York Times. When he was
back home among the trash cans and cardboard boxes he
seated himself on the pavement and opened the bottle of
wine. As he sipped the liquor Marvin looked into his wallet.
He had spent $3.15 for the wine, $1.10 on the cigarettes,
and twenty-five cents on the newspaper. The only thing that
remained in his billfold was one quarter. One lonely quarter
was all that was left of the fortune he had found that
morning.
oWell, PTve still got twenty-five cents left for a rainy day,�
thought Marvin as he turned the silvery coin over in his
fingers.
He smoked a single cigarette, enjoying its flavor and feel.
The pack would last him a couple of weeks if he was careful.
A slow liquid warmth began to seep through his body as the
wine started to take effect. Screwing the cap back on the
bottle, he carefully hid it in the alleyTs cluttered debris.
Marvin lay down on the cold, hard concrete and opened
his newspaper. He spread the sports section over his feet,
He spread the sports section
over his feet, the entertainment
section over his legs, and the
front page over his chest.
the entertainment section over his legs, and the front page
over his chest. Then he reached into his pocket, took out the
last gumball and put it in his mouth.
As he chewed, Marvin looked at the old, tattered posters
hanging on the wall above. One stood out from the all the
rest. In its center was a large, round happy face. Written in
bold print under the smiling yellow circle was: Smile, Today
Is The First Day Of The Rest Of Your Life
Marvin looked at the happy face for a long time. Reach-
ing up, he pulled the poster off the wall and covered his
head with it. As the cold wind whispered and sighed down
the narrow alley, Marvin closed his eyes and quietly
dropped off to sleep. R
SPRING/FALL 1987
33
a
Soa gee ate
ages Cl ee eer es
SES RANT.
Karen James Loading Dock
34 THE REBEL
Michelle Masson
SPRING /FALL 1987
Carol In Pollockville
35
ERT RATES
Free Lessons
We might win a mink
if | tell Good Housekeeping
what my mother taught me,
if | tell it well.
A prize for telling
as though the teaching paid off
because the diction played out right.
ItTs all in the ear,
those prize-winning stories.
But you taught me
unwriteable sights and smells and
sounds,
unreadable rights.
You taught me flavor,
pear preserves "
cooked down amber in a jar,
like fallen pulps
made whole and sealed sweet.
You taught me red pepper,
the red that keeps an old man going
even after the appetiteTs gone on.
Scarlet sage
bright before the boxwoods,
gives height behind impatience
and pansies purchased in autumn
can last a Southern winter.
Warmed, their faces remind us
of another motherTs spring.
But only pink roses
withstand the hard freezes
these twenty-nine years ITm alive,
this house is home.
Preserved recipes without measure,
enduring roses ...
You've sown me,
but | harvest,
Like a cache of minks
rose, sable, silver ...
Linda Johnson Morton
THE REBEL
Greg Jarrell
SPRING/FALL 1987
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THE REBEL
Elizabethian
Hayes Henderson
SPRING /FALL 1987
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42
Matt Savino
Energy Source Inactive
THE REBEL
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SPRING/FALL 1987
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THE REBEL
Hayes Henderson
ane
SPRING /FALL 1987
Decline
45
me
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Robbie Barber
James Deason
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Victoria Hi
THE REBEL
Denyce Brooks
SPRING /FALL 1987
Jump/Circle Of Friends
47
Agyeman Dua
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Untitled
THE REBEL
"
SPRING/FALL 1987
Jeff von Hausen
Untitled
49
9
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Sees
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Matthew Myers
(o)
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CCE Walker
Denyce Brooks
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Roberta Brown
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Window Washer
Death Of A
Shelton Bryant
THE REBEL
SPRING/FALL 1987
Allan Guy
WhereTs Billy?
55
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Pam
56
THE REBEL
Cae
oo Lol
David Cherry
SPRING /FALL 1987
Tight As A Spring
5/7
Mark Scott
Burning City
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SPRING /FALL 1987
THE REBEL
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Amanda Jarrell
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Michelle Masson
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SPRING/FALL 1987
To HopperTs America
The Victorian house
blinks in the stark
sunlight.
The alienation
of the modern dream,
stands alone, lifeless.
Where are the people?
giving life to life.
There is no meaning
but someone gives if.
lsolation
envelops the house, : a4
once throbbing
with the pulse
of human striving. . xy
The railroad rails
have reddened " rusted.
They need wear to
keep from wasting ""
away. a
The race of progress
has left its babes
unfed.
Wayne Barham
Allison Gale
Pe
THE REBEL
Oy
vey
OR,
"
em
ASA
SSE SE ag ae
.
ee
By David Cherry
tions
ge
ey
Illustra
Places
In
The
Woods
Theresa A. Williams
ordanTs mother and Lanelle sat at the
kitchen table drinking coffee. Or rather,
his mother was drinking hers, viciously at
times, and Lanelle was fanning at the steam
that rose from her cup. Every now and then
his mother would lean forward in her chair
and squint out the window to see what, if
anything, was going on.
oWhat he does is his own business, Lanelle.
And it ainTt no reflection on me as a person,�
JordanTs mother said with dignity, setting her
brown stoneware cup down hard on the table.
oThatTs exactly right,� agreed Lanelle.
Jordan was watching the two women, his
chin resting on stacked fists, from the ex-
treme outer edge of the top bunk bed in the
hallway. HeTd been sleeping on the top for
about two years, since he was five " not long
after his parents his parents bought the two
acres of land and the powder-blue and white
Magnolia trailer from a bankrupt auto me-
chanic named J.B. Wilson.
Lanelle, a tall lean bleached blonde from
Flint, Michigan, was sitting with her back to
him. She was an old friend of his motherTs,
and they hadnTt seen each other in a long
time. oDo you see something?� she asked his
mother who at that moment seemed to be
staring in the direction of the double gate
that closed their driveway off from the dirt
road.
oNah, itTs nothing,� said his mother. oI
canTt see a thing for the fog anyway. I donTt
know why I even look.�
oYou've got to settle down,� Lanelle said.
She propped her elbow on the table and rest-
ed her chin in the palm of her hand, her
second and third fingers extended to hold a
smoldering cigarette. With her other hand,
she scratched a bare portion of her back
showing above her yolk-colored peasant
blouse. oHe'll be home when he gets home.
Smoke a cigarette or somethinT.�
oTried it once,� his mother said with a
peculiar air of remorse. oSmoked the whole
thing. Thought it would help. me lose about
twenty pounds, but I couldnTt seem to get the
hang of it somehow.�
oYou want me to stay Ttil he shows up?�
You could be waiting here all day,� his
mother said. ooWouldnTt be anything you
could do anyway.�
Well Tjust thought 4
JordanTs mother sighed. o~HeTs gonna do
what heTs gonna do, and nothinT anybody else
does ever seems to change it much.�
Lanelle seemed to ponder this reasoning as
she turned and sat sideways in the chair. She
slid her loose jaw forward and blew smoke at
the ceiling.
SPRING/FALL 1987
65
oYou wouldnTt believe what JordanTs been up to,� his
mother said drearily.
oJordan? What in the world?�
Jordan had felt it coming. He knew she would have to
tell. He didnTt like being around his mother when she was
with one of her female friends because she wasnTt herself
then. He pressed his nose to the screen of his crank-out
window, a rectangular slot shaped like the heater vents in
the floor. Directly below was a lumpy concrete patio being
devoured by a narrow stretch of Bermuda grass, now gone
to seed. Beyond the patio was his motherTs garden and then
the woods. He wished he could go outside but dreaded the
encounter with the two women in the kitchen.
oHad two phone catls from the principal that heTs trying
to play hookie,� said his mother.
ooHookie! Are you kidding? What in the world for " a
smart boy like that.�
oIT know it. He can read most
anything in this place. He picks
up encyclopedias and reads them
like they were fairytales "
almost.�
oWhy donTt you quit lookinT
outa the window like that? HeTs
eonna come when ...-
oT keep on thinkinT I hear him
drive up.
oT know it. You'll make your-
self sick if you donTt just watch it.
Wout.
oJordan! " � his mother called
without warning, " oWait a min-
ute, Lanelle " Jordan! I can hear
your feet beating against that wall
in there. Get up.
oItTs Saturday,� Jordan said.
oT donTt care. I want you to get
up anyway.�
Jordan grabbed the handrail
and swung down. His feet hit the
lower bunk, and he bounced once,
trampoline style, before dropping
to the floor. At the sound of his
feet hitting the buckled linoleum, Lanelle turned around.
oYou scared me,� she said laying one hand across her
chest in mock fear. Then she turned to his mother and
exclaimed, oHeTs so cute! HeTs grown about five inches
sinee ive seen him last.�
ooHeTs getting skinny as a ratTs tail,� his mother com-
plained. oHe wonTt eat anything but wieners and peanut
butter and jelly sandwiches.�
oIs that really so Jordan?� asked Lanelle. He was stand-
ing in the middle of the hallway, hands behind him, pressing
at a bubbled spot in the floor with his big toe.
oYou're going to bust the floor that-a-way,� said his
mother. oWhy donTt you say hello or something instead of
just standing there?�
Jordan said hello.
oYour clothes are folded up and in the laundry basket in
the bathroom and your belt is in the top drawer under the
sink.�
Jordan dashed into the bathroom to dress, but he could
hear the womenTs dismal discussion through the thin wall
that separated the bathroom and the kitchen.
(Hes so cute,� Lanelle said again.
oHe hid in the coat closet at school the whole day last
Thursday,� his mother informed. oI ainTt told Jackson. ItTd
just be one more thing for him to harrangue on me about.�
» the whole dayT What d the teacher .. .�
oMrs. VanCamp? She seemed to think itTd teach him a
lesson. He was hid under some yellow rainslicker or some-
thing. And she didnTt say anything " hoping itTd teach him
a lesson.�
oDid you talk to Jordan about it?�
oHe said he didnTt like it when the teacher called out his
name.�
oThat donTt make much sense,�
said Lanelle.
Jordan heard the refrigerator
door open and shut. oIf you put
some Half and Half in that cof-
fee, Maybe you can drink it.�
There was a pause. oITd meant to
call him Gordan " or did I al-
ready tell you this once?�T
*oHuh-uh.�
oT forget who ITve told and who
I havenTt,� confessed his mother.
oAnyway, I did. I meant to call
him Gordan, but the birth certifi-
cate got all botched-up somehow.
Well, the name Gordan didnTt
mean anything to me really " �
his mother said. oI just picked it
out of a book when I was eight
months along. It didnTt matter to
me " you know what I mean "
so I left it like it was.
> Jordans 2 mice name, said
Eamelle, oReal nice if you ask
me.�
oYeah, I thought it kinda was
too. ItTs in the Bible somewhere,�
his mother said, oItTs not a saintTs name ... I couldnTt say
thatexactly ... Saint Jordan. No ... I denTt think so.�
oAnyway, when Jackson got home ...�
Got home:
oHe was overseas when Jordan was born. YouTve never
seen such a brooding around. It was as if ITd tried and tried
to think of the one name thatTd shame him the most " he
said Jordan was sissified " and I told him if it bothered
him that much, why didnTt he get it changed? The boy
wasnTt even a year old " it wouldnTtTve hurt any to have it
changed. And like I said, it didnTt matter to me.�
oWell, why didnTt he then?�
oBecause heTd rather make me miserable over it the rest
of my life,� his mother declared vigorously. oAnd because
he thought itTd take a goddamn act uh Congress to change
ie
oWell, is that all he did? Just hid in the closet that one
THE REBEL
ime?
oFriday, he sneaked off the playground somehow and
tried to hide in that corn that grows ...�
oYou mean the Brinson place?�
oYeah " wait a minute Lanelle " Jordan!� yelled his
mother. oYou're takinT entirely too long in there.� Then she
said in a tone or two lower, oHe must be up to somethinT.
When they get quiet like that it means theyTre up to
somethinT.�
While Jordan finished getting dressed, his mother droned
on. It occured to him that if heTd watched out for the
playground monitor, a burly sixth grader named Mike Kir-
by, he might not now be listening to his motherTs dull
complaint. As luck would have it, Mike had spotted him
even before heTd dropped down to hid amoung the brown
cornstalks. It wasnTt any time at all before Mike was stand-
ing in the forefront of a mob of six or seven of his class-
mates, pointing an accusing finger at him. The others didnTt
seem to be there with lynching in mind, but more exactly to
have a look at some weird creature thatTd just wandered in
from another continent, like maybe a platypus or a Gaboon
viper.
Jordan continued to dress slowly. The trailer was a mi-
raculous conductor of sound, especially his motherTs voice.
Her story barked ahead until she finally came to the part
about the principalTs office. She recounted the bare facts
precisely as sheTd heard them from Mr. Rublein. Jordan
knew because heTd been sitting in the office himself when
heTd phoned her.
It was the first time heTd had to deal with Mr. Rublein.
His teacher had always taken care of things before. Friday
it was hot and still, the boy remembered, but Mr. Rublein
had loomed over him wearing a burgandy wool sweater with
suede elbow patches. oI hear you were hiding out in that
neid, JordanT he said.
At that point, Jordan had looked on the principalTs desk.
On it, among the paper and pencil rubble of his job, was an
old black and white portrait of his two children " a boy and
a girl. Their bespectacled gaze pressed him back further in
his seat. They seemed both wise and arrogant " these
children who both possessed the large, hooked nose of their
father. The methodical pumping of the mimeograph sound-
ed like a paddling machine. Jordan pictured a greasy con-
traption made up of wheels, cogs, and pulleys that ultimate-
ly worked a thick wooden paddle with holes drilled in it. He
would be made to bend over while Mr. Rublein flipped an
ON switch screwed to the wall.
oAre you going to answer me?� the principal said to
Jordan, who didnTt know heTd been asked a question. Jordan
lowered his eyes and kept time with the rhythm of the
secretary's typewriter with his dangling feet. ooOccasional-
ly,� resumed the principal, oI find wild animals that donTt
belong out in that field, and I take them and throw them in
that hot furnace thatTs down there in the basement.� Jordan
had heard that he really did that. oo~Do you know what ITm
getting at Jordan?�
The boy wasnTt sure yet what he was getting at, but there
was something solemn and momentous about his words.
oDo you belong here?� the principal asked.
Itd dawned on him that the question was a trick to get
him to say that he wouldnTt skip school anymore. He didnTt
appreciate it. As his eyes steered once again to the indig-
nant noses of the son and daughter, he silently reaffirmed to
himself that he didnTt think much of school.
Another reason he hated school was because on the first
day Mrs. VanCamp promised to call students by whatever
name they wanted. When she got to him, he said he wanted
to be called oJack.� She asked if his parents called him
Jack at home " he admitted that they didnTt " and after
that, she acted like the name swapping idea didnTt apply to
him at all. But when she called the rell on the day heTd
hidden in the closet, heTd relished the silence that followed
the word, Jordan.
oPhats his wall said Jondans
mother. oAnd his couch too,
since he sleeps on it about all
(ne tine
No, he decided. HeTd moved forward in the chair and
ignored the silent admonition of Mr. RubleinTs children. To
say he belonged would be a lie. However, to avoid further
trouble he did shake his head up and down.
Jordan,� called his mother, the sound penetrating the
wall full and clear. ooWhat are you doing in there?� Jordan
tightened up his belt, pushed the excess through the belt
loop, and shuffled into the kitchen. He was wearing a pair
of khaki shorts, and despite his motherTs claim that he was
oskinny as a ratTs tail,� his legs had a distinct muscular
quality as did his arms, and he was uniformly tan from
many days in the summer sun. His eyes, which were an
indeterminate mixture of blue and green, scanned the
counters and the stove top. His mother let out a pained sigh.
oThereTs a cold front coming in tonight, Jordan,� she said,
oand I want you to go put on a pair of long pants.�
That was another thing, Jordan thought bleakly. When
she was with her female friends, she was never happy with
what he picked out to wear. Either his outfit would be all
wrong for the weather, or it wouldnTt match up right. Jor-
dan looked past his mother at the front door. He wanted to
bolt outside to disappear into the gray morning at least until
Lanelle had gone. But he was hungry, and he wanted his
mother to fix him something. HeTd noted as he entered the
kitchen that his mother wasnTt cooking anything. The pink
gas stove sat naked and cold, unadorned of its customary
oHe's got real nice skin,T commented Lanelic. ¥ wish |
had nice skin like that. ItTs so nice and smooth and tan and
alll
This morning his motherTs hair was wiry and wild, and
she was trying to smooth it out with her hands. oHe likes it
outside,� she said. oJackson could do lots of things with him
outside if he would. He donTt though.�
oWell, I wish 7 tanned like that,� Lanelle said.
He returned wearing a pair of Wrangler jeans, but his
mother didnTt notice. She was standing in the living room
with Lanelle looking at the photographs and other memora-
SPRING /FALL 1987
67
bilia on the wall over the couch.
oThatTs Ais wall,� said JordanTs mother. oAnd his couch
too, since he sleeps on it about all the time.�
oHe used to be a good lookinT thing. I'll say that much for
him,� Lanelle said. She was looking at a picture of Jackson
smiling in a tent with two other Marines. There were five
cases of Carling Black Label Beer stacked in the fore-
ground. Each man held a can in his hand and was making a
toast to the person taking the picture.
oThat was took in Greenland,� JordanTs mother said.
Lanelle turned from the photo to a yellowed newspaper
clipping taped to an index card. oThis platoon attained such
an enviable record,� she read aloud, o~that it was chosen to
be the honor gaurd for the Congressmen who visited the
post in connection with the laying of the new Naval Hospi-
tal cornerstone.�
oImpressive, ainTt it,� said JordanTs mother grimly.
There was also a post card of a G.I. stabbing a Japanese
soldier in the butt with a sword. The caption on it said,
oLife in The Marines is TOUGH " But ITm Making A
Good Stab At It!T. There was a Christmas greeting that
said oTHIS and a Merry Christmas for you� and showed an
eagle flying with a Japanese soldier in its grasp. The card
was addressed to JordanTs mother by her maiden name, c/o
General Delivery, Crosses, Arkansas; he had signed it o~with
love.�
~Do you hear me? Stay out of
the woods,� she said again.
Lanelle stood back and took in the entire visual effect of
the wall. oVery Chic,� she said.
oT know it. I wouldnTt know how to decorate like most
folks. I even get denied that pleasure.�
oWell, it could be worse,� Lanelle said.
oTd like to know how,� scoffed his mother, and they
both, to JordanTs disappointment, returned to the table.
HeTd thought Lanelle was about to leave. oI donTt want
much,� his mother said after sheTd reseated herself, staring
with calm confusion into the fog. oITd just like to live like
normal people do.� She put her coffee cup to her mouth and
pursed her lips as if to blow into it " but changed her mind
and took a sip instead. She winced as if sheTd just taken a
dose of medicine.
oTm hungry,� Jordan said.
His mother gave him a look that suggested he had just
vastly complicated her life. Then, she returned to the fog.
oJust to live like normal people,� she said again.
oT know it. Men. I donTt know why you put up with it the
way you do,� Lanelle said. oAnd youTre not taking care of
yourself ... When my old man finally fanned out, I said to
myself, ~Lanelle, now youTve got to start looking out for
yourself " now youTve got to start looking out for you.T �
oCan I go outside?� asked Jordan.
oYes,� said his mother as if she thought that was a very
good idea. oBut donTt keep going in and out, do you hear?�
WOKS he said.
oAnd donTt get dirty.�
PO.
oAnd stay out of the woods.�
Jordan dashed for the door.
oDid you hear me? I said stay out of the woods.�
> Yves, lie said distinetly.
-O.K., then. Mind what Il say.�
Once outside, Jordan took a two and a half foot wooden
slat from under the trailer and blazed a trail through his
motherTs garden of gnarled corn and tough weeds. Despite
the soilTs black-as-tar appearance, the cornstalks were
dwarfed, the blooms fell off the okra plants, and the toma-
toes rotted off the vine when they were no bigger than
kumquats.
Jordan hacked at the two rows of cornstalks, stopping
once to shuck an ear. The kernals were sparse and crooked
and hard. He dropped the vegetable and left the garden. He
leaned the slat against a tree and, against his motherTs
wishes crossed over a short space of discolored weeds and
entered the woods.
He moved along a path covered with thick pine needles
until he came to a small dumping ground. Scattered around
were several broken Mason jars and rusty cans, a set of box
springs nearly all rotted away except for the wooden frame
and coils, and a big tan naugahide chair made so that it
68
THE REBEL
rotated around and around like a barstool. He lay in the
chair on his stomach and gave a wild push with is foot. The
base was getting rusty. It squeeked and wouldnTt turn as fast
as it used to. He continued to lie in the chair, content that it
had determined which way into the woods he should look.
An unopened jar of his motherTs fig preserves that he had
tossed out months ago because he liked store-bought jelly
better lay nearby " the lid and ring now hopelessly rusted
together. There was an RC Cola bottle, the neck packed
with dirt. Near a scarred tree was the rusted skeletal re-
mains of a wrecked Pontiac, the Indian head hood orna-
ment pointed toward the sky like some strange missle.
The path grew narrow, dark,
and tangled before opening
suddenly to a soggy field ...
The thought kept coming back to him that he should be
getting back, but when he got out of the chair, he went
deeper into the woods. The path grew narrow, dark and
tangled for a time before opening suddenly to a soggy field
of weeds and purplish brown flowers that surrounded stag-
nant MillerTs Pond and a weathered two-story house, gray
like the sky. A dirt road beside the house showed itself only
as two bald strips zigzagging through the bristly field.
The pond was just big enough, Jordan had found, that he
couldnTt throw a rock from one side of it to the other. A
black piece of tree trunk seemed to stretch out of the water
towards him like an old aligator. He changed his course
abruptly and went to sit on the opposite bank. He pulled up
a hunk of grass by the roots, threw it in the water, and
watched as a whiskered fish swam up from the murky
bottom. It made a quick orbit around the sinking mass and
disappeared again. He threw in more grass and waited, but
the fish didnTt come up again. A dead catfish floated a few
feet away alongside a plastic sixpack holder.
Jordan had never gone into the house next to the pond,
although the door stood permanently ajar. Most of the
windows had been broken out and some had been boarded
up with plywood. Jordan got up, the seat of his pants
uncomfortably damp from sitting on the ground, and
walked over to the porch. The steps were brick, but the
porch itself was wood and very rotten. The old wooden door
was wrinkled and warped he noticed as he stepped inside.
The first room had a fireplace, and there were newspa-
pers and magazines piled along the walls. Some of the
newspapers were tied into bundles. Some bundles had been
cut loose and the papers were scattered like cards when the
deck is dropped. There was a white childTs oxford on a
window ledge, the shoestring gone and the sole pulled away
at the big toe.
The next room was the kitchen. There was a large rust-
stained sink with metal cabinets, and on the window sill
were a lot of dead flies and a JerginTs Lotion bottle with dry,
stale flowers in it. On the floor, there was some rotten
thread on small wooden spools, rusted pins, and smalls
scraps of cloth. About the only thing that looked like it
might be worth keeping was a two by four inch unopened
envelope that Jordan found under a triangular piece of
calico. It had a drawing, in red, of a very robust woman ina
very low cut dress. Under the drawing it said, oBeauty is
Every Womans Duty. Whe letters were red too, and
blurred, as if the envelope had gotten wet at one time.
Jordan read, with a small degree of difficulty, the rest of the
envelope:
oCREAM OF ALMONDS�
(Prof. BirdTs)
PERMANENTLY CURES
Pimples, Freckles, Wrinkles, Blackheads, Moths
Blotches, Tan, Sunburn, Roughness, Redness,
Sallowness and Flabbiness of the Face, Neck,
Bust, Arms and Hands and all Tender and In-
flamed Skin Surfaces
SPRING /FALL 1987
69
CONTAINS NO HARMFUL SUBSTANCES
Full and explicit directions in each package
PRICE 10 CENTS
[Package three times this size 25 cents.]
Prepared only by
CAROLINA MANUFACTURING CO.,
Prof. F.R. BIRD, Gen. Manager
Jordan put the envelope in his back pants pocket.
In front of the closed door that led to the next room was a
ladyTs black vinyl shoe, a very wide shoe, shaped like a
rowboat. It wasnTt an elegant shoe despite its raised heel,
but the bland, serviceable sort that old ladies wear when
they want to dress for church or a funeral.
After Jordan opened the door, it took a while for him to
make out things because the window was boarded up and
the room was dark. The first thing he saw was a fake
alligator handbag hung on the knob of the closet door, and
higher up on the same door, hanging from a nail, were
several wide belts such as go to ladies dresses.
The strangest thing to Jordan though was that in a corner
of the room was a deep pile of shoes: hightops, flip-flops,
clogs, oxfords, pumps, thongs, sandals, weejuns, furtops,
tennis shoes, patent leathers, loafers " all lived-in, lone-
some shoes.
There was something about old shoes that had always
made Jordan uneasy, even when he saw them paired off in
rows at the Salvation Army or the Thrift Store. They al-
ways made him think of dead people.
Jordan stood at the doorway for a long time. He imag-
ined a future time in which a boy about his own age would
stumble upon the house just like he did. The only difference
would be that JordanTs shoes would be a part of the strange,
sad pile.
As Jordan finally turned to walk back through the rooms,
he became a spectator of himself " watching himself walk,
as he had often heard his mother say, o~as if he owned the
place.� He was not totally convinced, however, that this
would deflect any lurking danger.
When heTd made it to the front door, he bolted over the
porch and through the woods like a spooked cat. He didnTt
feel safe until heTd made it to the dumping ground. Seeing
the old tan chair made him feel ecstatic. He sat down a
while to calm himself and force his mind to change tracks.
Maybe when he got back to the trailer, he thought with
relish, Lanelle would be gone and his mother would be
herself again.
Jordan followed the trail out of the woods and retraced
his path through the garden. He could hear both women
talking. He stood for a moment and looked at one of the
trailer tires. It was shriveled and flat like an ancient potato.
As Jordan stepped into the trailer, the door slammed
unnaturally loud behind him. His mother turned from Lan-
elle in mid-sentence and gave him an annoyed look. oWhere
were you when I called you a while ago?� she asked.
oJust outside,� he said.
oWell, 1 called, and | called, and I called.�
oI didnTt hear you,� he ventured to explain. oI was chop-
ping through the corn.�
oYou wasnTt chopping through the corn,� she said. Her
face was getting red and the vein in her forehead started to
show. She turned to Lanelle. ooLanelle, did I or did I not tell
this boy to stay out of those woods?�
oT think you did,� Lanelle said. She was trying to stifle a
smile behind her coffee cup.
oT think I did too. Matter of fact, I know I did. You know
it too, Jordan,�
Before he could think, Jordan had shrugged his shoulders
guiltily.
oYou were in those woods, Jordan. ItTs written all over
your face. Is it asking so much for you to behave?�
Jordan stared past his mother at a knothole in the pine
plywood paneling.
oWell? Is it asking too much?� He looked at Lanelle who
sipped intermittently from her cup and then at his mother, a
grim martyr in a flowered print housedress and apron with
Jordan took aim down his index
finger and fired a single shot
into the back of LanelleTs head.
embroidered strawberries on the pockets. Jordan felt his
mouth twitch.
oWell, is it?� his mother pursued.
Jordan shook his head, ~no.T
oWhat is a person to do with a boy like this,� his mother
fumed to Lanelle. oThat was a direct act of disobeyance.�
She reeled in her chair toward Joran. oThe next thing I
know you'll be " I donTt know " stealing hub caps off cars.
A jailbird is what youTll be. ThatTs what comes from direct
acts of disobeyance. Maybe I should take you down for a
tour of the jailhouse sometime, so you can see where youTre
going to live some day, at least.� Then her eyes assumed a
battered look and she sank in her chair.
Lanelle set down her cup and placed a rough, bony hand
over the small veined one of his motherTs. oJust calm
down,� Lanelle crooned, oYouTre overwrought.�
oYou better believe ITm overwrought,� his mother said
before taking a deep, nervous breath. Then her anger
seemed to subside. She shut her eyes and the vein went
away in her forehead. Jordan stood before her awkwardly
thinking for a wild moment that sheTd gone to sleep. But she
jerked back to life as if waking from a bad dream. She
turned to Jordan with a look of reproach. By now Lanelle
was taking the situation just as seriously, her jaw set tight.
oYou're not to go outside again today since you canTt
seem to mind. Matter of fact, I believe you oughta take a
nap,� his mother said with an exaggerated scowl. oAnd
nothing to eat until supper!� she said as an afterthought.
Jordan stalked past the women into the hallway and
jerked himself up into his bunk.
He moved to the edge of the bed and peered down at the
two women. His mother was sitting dejectedly in her chair,
her crossed arms moving up and down on her aproned
stomach. Jordan took aim down his index finger and fired a
single shot into the teased bulb of hair at the back of
LanelleTs head.
Jordan could hear the antenna wire, blown loose by the
70
THE REBEL
wind, flapping against the trailer. He thought about how
hungry he was, about times heTd been unable to eat another
bite, and his mother had scrapped perfectly good food off
his plate into a Maxwell House Coffee can. He lay down,
rolled over towards the wall and stared across the surface of
the bed. His mussed sheets looked like rolling hills and
valleys, and he imagined himself wandering through the
barren, foodless landscape.
Lanelle whispered something Jordan couldnTt hear.
There was a burst of laughter from the kitchen and the
sound of a cabinet door opening and shutting. His mother
was going to let him starve to death, he thought. He
wrenched and swallowed hard, but the sob backtracked,
and he buried his face deep into his pillow.
When he woke up it was beginning to get dark and his
mother was telling him to get up and have some supper. He
lay groggily for a time listening to the water running in the
sink and the clatter of spoons and lids making fierce contact
on the metal pots and pans. Then he remembered.
oJordan, come on,� his mother called.
He got up and straggled into the kitchen. Lanelle was
gone, but he didnTt allow himself any special feeling of
enthusiasm.
oYou ainTt going to want to sleep tonight, I reckon, since
you slept all day. If you ainTt a frowzy headed thing,� his
mother said, oYou hungry?�
What kind of question was that, Jordan thought. oWas he
hungry " � he said the words to himself. He watched her
busily stroking a pot of mashed potatoes with a long han-
dled spoon.
oNo, Jordan said. o1 aint hungry at all�
His mother shot him a surprised glance, then took on a
sort mischievous look as she turned over a piece of frying
chicken with a long, two pronged fork. oWell, you got to be
hungry,� she said. oYou didnTt eat all day.�
oWell, I ainTt hungry anyway,� Jordan said.
oWell, Pll just fix you a plate anyway,� she said, oand
we'll see about that. Sit on down.�
Jordan sat down and turned to the window
oHere it is,� his mother said, setting down his plate and
silverware.
He sat lumped in the chair and ignored the food. His
mother fixed her own plate and sat down.
oYou didnTt eat anything yet?� she asked. He told her
again that he wasnTt hungry. She shrugged a little and bit
into the chicken leg. oA shame,� she said. oItTs real good.�
Jordan tilted his head at a jaunty angle and looked at the
window again. The groan of an engine drew near and he saw
two headlights dancing crazily in the darkness.
oWell, itTs him,� his mother said.
It was his fatherTs Ford pick-up. In a moment it was on
the other side of the double gate. It sat a full five minutes
according to the clock over the stove. Finally, to JordanTs
relief, he got out of the truck.
Jordan and his mother watched the stout man walk with
loose steps to the gate and fiddle with the latch. oThirty
degrees outside,� she said evenly, oand he donTt even feel
it.� Jordan noticed the dark shape of an unfamiliar hat
resting cockily on his fatherTs head. The last time heTd
brought home a commendable derby, a gray felt hat with a
red-dyed feather stuck in the dark band. Its silk label read,
oCosmopolitan of New York.� After heTd passed out on the
couch, his mother had eased it off his head and forced it
down into the bottom of the garbage sack complaining to
the air that he could have half-filled the oil tank for the
amount of money heTd spent on it. His father never men-
tioned the hat. He probably thought heTd lost it. Nothing
more Ever Came Of it.
The gate opened with a wild jerk and he entered the yard.
He was holding his back very straight while his legs buckled
and swayed under him. Quite suddenly, he fell down, belly
first, sending the new hat bouncing and rolling next to the
fence. Then he flopped onto his back like a big catfish.
Jordan turned his mother to gauge her reaction. She must
have seen him out of the corner of her eye.
oDonTt worry over it, Jordan,� she said, her eyes resum-
ing the same dull, battered look heTd seen earlier. ~o~HeTs so
drunk he wonTt even feel it.�� Then she looked at him and
oWhat he does ainTt no
reflection on us " always
remember that, Jordan�
her whole face softened a little. oWhat he does ainTt no
reflection on us as people " I want you to always remember
that Jordan " even when I ainTt here anymore to tell it to
you.�
Her words made Jordan pull back, and he knocked off
the fork sheTd put beside his plate. As he bent down to get it,
he noticed her shoes. They were tired looking loafers sheTd
bought at the Thrift Store for seventy-five cents.
He put the fork back and went to his bunk. The oCream
of Almonds� envelope felt stiff in his back pocket so he took
it out and looked at it by the yellow light that filtered down
the hallway from the kitchen. He wanted to tell his mother
how her old shoes were intricately a part of her problem,
but now it was a bad time. R
SPRING /FALL 1987
74
& ow
Arnold Gambiill
72 THE REBEL I
Carolyn Hemmingway
SPRING /FALL 1987
73
REESE: SB OB OE i IE Ses
I MR at N° SION EN BORO LE tty
THE REBEL
S
Q
=
9
0)
Q
Traces
Winter in the desert.
Windows shut tight
against a crisp, west
wind that crackles,
rakes the shingles,
chases pungent vapors
from the womanTs pots.
Air deadens. Birds stop
pecking sand, wings
slap madly, wildly,
horses snort and stamp,
cactuses stiffen,
Q lizard shrinks
beneath a rock.
Images dissolve
into snowy ash
snapping sharply;
glasses tremble, chink,
old wood joists creak
and moan, and marrow
moves in bone to pound
a taut, thin drum.
Shadows etch the land,
forms distorted still
as the iron sun bleeds.
Lizards scratch the sand,
cactuses stand at ease,
flanks twitch away flies.
Clearing: the night
freezes over.
Donald Rutledge
SPRING /FALL 1987
7S
ABUSE Gp ROLLE Hl: Dia ae eae so AE
pee aa
vid Cherry
Da
nr 9
THE REBEL
76
77
BEE
EEE OP
rN
SS |
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re
GW
Sa
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Arnold Gambill
SPRING /FALL 1987
Lady in Wading
pregnant with death
she walked on water
time inflated her
as she waited for her passionate killer
the whistling of the pines
summoned her to the crossroads
where he caressed the wheel of his pick-up
soaked in death and adultery
tenderly she wrapped herself around him
and in the shadow of the steeple
made her final vow
Marty L. Silverthorne
78
THE REBEL
Old
ing
| look at my grandmother
Grow
lay
in her bed with
1 sm
ing
from see
her
is pa
loosing
d her skin
IS
le of pleasure
a fain
ing me
Although she
>
le
ir an
te
she looks beautiful to me,
almost the untouchable s
of heaven and peace
Her hand, paralyzed
from a stroke
gray ha
ilk
.
7
| remember the love she
has g
>
o
(ve)
O
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c
wn
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wn
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AGE
a
and wh
iven me
ith me
en bea
dom she
of my grandmothe
IS
has shared w
and pray _
that when |am old "
Debra Satterf
and the w
the God g
=
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D
ke)
G
oe
w
40)
S
"
Carolyn Hemmingway
80
THE REBEL
ge
a
see
ip 2 LOLOL
# 2
te
ee EBB
April Moore
SPRING /FALL 1987
|
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Pax Americana
Before a dusty light
spreads over the land,
| have a desperate need
to hide this secret in the creepers:
amid the smell of a land too ripe
with itself, my sour green disposition.
And the heartland will fade someday
the rapture of money and its love
dip down to something ordinary
underneath the stars.
| will be somewhat old
and a full yellow stalk,
and harvest time and the simple dream
of farmers will mean just what they say
it means.
Sam Silva
82
THE REBEL
Nightmares
They say
that there are no
ghosts,
but | know
differently
My ghosts are
dreams
of things past,
nightmares from
yesterday
They happen again
and again " especially
that one "
that one car
crash
As if I've
killed her
a thousand times
and more, but |
didn't, | only killed her
once.
Ray Irvin
SPRING /FALL 1987
83
A Pisgah October
Birds monument
in the forest
monarchs fallen
from the throne
the aisle catches
snowflakes
psychedelic from
the season
forming blurred
mosaics shiver
rushing ice
| water stings
| flutter down
|
:
toes and feels
: SO good too
one never bitten
like this before
the pungent
smell beautiful
beasts in sweet
cold air
that you breathe
and breathe
never filling
like this before.
David Bradshaw
84 THE REBEL
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Neil Kopping |
86 THE REBEL
1.
Hip
A ~p
sa
SPRING /FALL 1987
87
True Art
Its meaning is Obvious
understanding
in a language without words
Existing
on the edge of awareness
definitely
but disappears when stared at
directly
Reach for it and your hand passes through
shattering
it with your point of view
It is like a fragile web
destroyed
each strand scattered by the whim of the wind.
The spider crawls away
bereft
of his giff to whomever would accept it and
remembers
its intricate patterns and subtle beauty
For he is no more than it
creating
with a purpose until others pass
judgement
ignorant and oblivious of its meaning
Opinion
is all they have and since opinion is
subjective
they are only judging themselves
hypocrites
speaking a language in which they have nothing to say
David D. Herring
88
THE REBEL
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A,
Associated
2 Collegiate o/e)
Press Oe.
I ae ata 0 CR cE BREA RNY a ce ue ae et iN
COORD Tn COUN OF LITERARY UA AGS
art # camera sho F
518 SOUTH COTANCHE STREE
GREENVILLE, N.C. 27834
752-0688
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