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FAST �,�CARGLINA UNIVER Sey
LITERARY @ ART:
MAGAZINE
EAST CAROLI NSB UNIVERSI1 1
LLL ERARY @ ARIS
MAGAZINE
VOLUME 329
teen
nine
omy
a
qe
_
N
editor
julie spivey
designers
pollie barden
tlm a jones
julie spivey
illustrator director
tim a jones
copy editor
fam@lcll! miankocela
art judges
laurie godwin
norman keller
ann riggs
literary judges
william hallberg
brett hersey
faculty advisors
craig malmrose
paul wright
brian buchanan
The Rebel is produced for and by the students of East Carolina University. Offices
are located in the Student Publications Building. Volume 39 and its contents are
copyrighted 1997 by the Rebel. All rights revert to the individual writers and
artists upon publication. Contents may not be reproduced by any means, nor may
any part be stored in any information retrieval system without the written per-
mission of the writer or artist.
mK) Printed on recycled paper with nonstate funds.
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of Ge Mb eis
58 ae ele,
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BVA TS
rin f | ©.WN
Mango Laura McKay
FIRST PLACE
a7
Butterfly Ann Chambo
SG:@ ND BAe
44
Swimming Tara Stroud
TWiIstOR ID) IP IL, AVC 18,
16
Letters to the Dead Amanda Baer
EOIN OR A Binh VoOEN ON
BZ
Aiming High Christian Mew
BEST IN SHOW
Zi
PAINTING
Ze
TEXTILE DESIGN
24
CERAMICS
2
METAL DESIGN
26
EOIN OOREA Bie Ey MOE NON
6
GALteE AR Y
WOOD DESIGN
28
PHOTOGRAPHY
29
SCULPTURE
30
FRINIMAKING
a2
GRAPHIC DESIGN
34
ilT USTRATION
30
POET R Y
One-Eyed Jack of Spades Amy Willoughby
IIR SI IP IL ACE
Ay
Black-Eyed Susan Jennifer Newman
ST COIN De AG ys
4
A Fear of Snakes Jennifer Newman
WUBUUIR ID) IP IL, AC 18
50
A Letter to My Mother Jennifer Newman
HONORABLE MENTION
14
In Apologies Linda Gusmano
EDITOR S CHOICE
18
GC-o nten tg
|
]
|
|
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8
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tilustvation Oy jer) sehulier
b le ed
jennifer newman The dress that hangs
in the corner Of te closet
Apart from the silk blouses
And warm winter coats
Is covered with black-eyed susans
Nodding on dark green stems.
They watch me accusingly.
We know who you are, they say.
We know what you did.
But i didnt do iw, 1 say.
I didnTt want to do it. He made me.
We know what you are, they chant.
We know who you did.
No, I say. HeTs guilty, not me!
The flowers stare with their black eyes
Into my blackened eyes.
Susan only answers with the phosphorescent fingerprints
I see on the cotton,
Glowing at me from the shadows of the closet.
Yes, Yes, the flowers sing,
Here is where his hands were, and here,
And here and here...
But 1 tried to stop hum, 1 scream,
It was like the old poem about the blacksmith,
His arms were as strong as steel bands
And he wouldnTt let go
He wouldn't let me go
You wouldnTt let me go
I won't let me go
Let me go!
A million battered Susans bob their heads and mock me.
til
MSEV ALI ORS
by
tim
a.
jones
Sea A
christian mew
It was Shitty Jackson who had given me my name.
oDamn boy,� he exclaimed upon first seeing me and my lean build,
odon't you know that a hunger strike won't get
you out of the army. They'll throw
your skinny ass up on a pole and use you as a
Scarecrow for the Gooks!�
From then on I was known as Scarecrow. On our first march humping
supplies across country, Short Cock had taken pleasure in swarming
behind me and cawing like a crow while I tried to shoo him away. Short
Cock marched behind me in rank, and I was afraid he would contimic
the joke my entire tour. But by the second day, he had broken line and
was following Crash yelling out football plays to him as we marched.
oCrash, you cut left and then go straight down this trail for two clicks. Cut
back at the land mine and look for the hand off.� At first I thought that
Short Cock was picking on Crash because he made an easy target, but
after a month everyone noticed that he would always walk behind the man
carrying the biggest gun. After Crash abandoned the M-60 machine gun
for the M-16 assault rifle, Short Cock began following Rhino, who not
only carried the M-60 but also fifteen pounds of extra ammo. On attacks,
Rhino would charge through the brush blazing that huge gun in sweeping
arcs from left to right. We all liked to get behind Rhino on attacks.
Shitty Jackson had dysentery the first day he
touched down in the bush, and he hadnTt been
able to keep his pants clean since. The platoon all
kidded me about being the one who had to march
behind ShittyTs ass in rank, but I didnTt mind.
It was actually Shitty who had told me to get
behind him the first day I joined the platoon. We
were both new in country. On the base, Shitty was
walking around bragging that everyone should always follow a black man into battle because the black man was
originally from the jungle.
oUncle Sam ainTt sendinT me off to war,� he ranted, "heTs sendinT me home to the jungle anT he donTt even know it.�
oI thought the Black Man was from Africa,� someone questioned him.
oAfrica, Asia - shit man, it donTt matter. A mother-fucking jungle is a mother-fucking jungle, and ITm going
home.� A crowd had gathered, and he picked me out of it.
oYou man,� he said pointing, owhenever we line up you just fall in behind me because there ainTt no Iowa corn
fields to be hiding in over here. This is the mother-fucking jungle!�
But the jungle hit Shitty harder then any of us. Shitty had spent his entire life deep in Harlem and his city-bred
body never took to the jungle setting. After we had been in the bush a while, I teased him about originally coming
from the jungle.
oAnother lie propagated by Whitey,� he yelled. A black man is meant to battle roaches and rats. Let your
white-bread ass deal with these mother-fucking mosquitoes!�
oDonTt you mean corn-bread ass,� I teased him, oI am from Iowa you know.�
oShut the hell up, Scarecrow,� he shot back. oI know damn well youTre from Maryland. Not that | know shit about
Maryland. Do they even let black people in Maryland?�
oOne snuck in once, but we chased him out.�
oYeah,� Shitty shook his head. oThey let a whitey in Harlem once, but they never let him out. I think every time a
black person gets fired from a job or harassed at a store they just go beat up on that one white dude.�
There were twenty men in my platoon, and four men in my squad. The four men had names. Crash Stevens was
nineteen; a high school football star who hadnTt been good enough to be recruited by any colleges, so he enlisted
instead. Before running clean-up on a village, he always wanted to huddle up. Short Cock was told in boot camp that
funny guys were just trying to make up for other shortcomings. He had lost the name after camp, but then had got-
ten drunk one night with Shitty and admitted the boot camp nickname.
From then on, no one called him anything but Short Cock. Short Cock told Shitty that he caught dysentery faster
then catching crabs from a five-dollar whore. Shitty claimed he got it from the airplane food on the flight over. It
didnTt matter how he got it, the fact was his pants were stained brown and looked like they were going to stay that
way. Shitty had named me Scarecrow, and the name stuck.
You remembered the men in your squad. You remembered their faces and what side they liked to run
on when you charged into the bush. The rest of the platoon didnTt matter. They were just other targets
for the Gooks to aim at instead of you. In the beginning I tried to remember their names. Tiffany threw
grenades like a girl and always had a bag of weed. Gramps was the oldest and on his second tour. Joe
the Man was first lieutenant and platoon leader. But there were too many names, and the names kept
changing after missions. Crash, Short Cock, and Shitty were my squadron, and these were the only
names that mattered.
I kept a secret from my squad, and from the platoon. Of course everyone in the platoon had secrets
that they kept to themselves. No one asked Gramps why he had reenlisted for a second tour. No one
asked Tiffany where he got his dope. Individual names were secret. Short Cock didnTt have Mr. Cock
printed on his business cards, and my mother didnTt name me Scarecrow. Crash Stevens was a nickname
too, stolen from the 1968 college football rookie of the year. Everyone in the platoon had a nickname.
Even Robert Jakewell, though he never found out what his was. Real names were guarded secrets that
reminded everyone of who they were before they were thrown into the jungle. Instead of real names,
we used jungle names and kept jungle secrets. Some of these
were platoon secrets, which we kept together. Beaver kept a
Gook finger hidden at the bottom of his ruck sack. Rhino dis-
appeared for twenty minutes while cleaning up Than Kwe. The
female Gook who had run toward Short Cock as he systemati-
cally gathered up the chickens and broke their necks with the
heel of his boot disappeared as well. I was pouring gasoline over
baskets of rice, while Short Cock was trying unsuccessfully to tie
a blindfold around a water buffaloTs head before laying into it
with his M-16, as Shitty and another grunt lit the dry thatched
roofs of the village, joking to themselves about finding RhinoTs
love shack. Later no one talked about where Rhino had been.
We kept it our secret. If the platoon ever discovered -ny secret,
I would be strung up on the trail.
I aim high.
No one knows how they're going to act until they get to the jungle.
Shitty Jackson smelled like crap and complained about the jun-
gle more than anyone, but he kept a cool head under fire, even
though he always told everyone that as soon as the gunfire start-
ed, he would throw it into Harlem mode and find is ass a
Camaro to hide under. I thought I could handle the guns that
they gave me. In my rucksack I carried steel brushes and rods,
swabs and tubes of LSA oil, all to keep my M-16 clean and in
good working order. Around my belt I carried three clips, and
another two clips were in the first pocket of my sack. In basic
training I could massacre a family of paper targets fifty yards
away, but in the jungle there were no paper targets.
One day the war just began. The only enemy I had seen were
the mosquitoes that attacked in swarms and feasted on any
flesh they could find. Our platoon had humped a load of sup-
plies to another base. The entire march I watched curiously as
Gramps stuck close to the heavy brush and never took his eyes
off the trees. It was on the return march that Short Cock was
teasing me about being a scarecrow.
oCaw caw, you ainTt so scary,� he teased, while tickling the
back of my neck with a long blade of grass. Shitty marched
ahead of me.
oCaw caw, gonna eat your corn.� I wasnTt used to the heat and
couldnTt understand why Joe the Man wouldnTt let us stop
for a break.
oCaw caw, you got a sister?� It was at that moment that a
car backfired.
Gramps dove toward the thick undergrowth
and began returning fire before most of us knew
what had happened. Crash Stevens dropped his
canteen before he dove, and we all saw it take the
enemy rounds, as polished metal ripped into
jagged fragments and scattered along the trail.
Short Cock and I ran into the woods and fell
behind a rotten log that lay fallen in the brush.
There was a large ant hill hidden inside the
rotted"out empty trunk, and the ants immediately
swarmed onto our legs. I rolled to my left to
escape their stinging bites, but Short Cock had
already raised his gun and was firing into the
darkness across the trail. His left hand tried to brush away the biting ants, but his right
hand remained steady on the rifle as he returned fire. I crawled over to another tree and
squirmed to remove the remaining ants. In my ears the guns roared and cried and sang
out into the opposing trees, and it suddenly occurred to me that I too had a gun and could
fight back. I dug my body against the ground and peered around the tree with my rifle tip
searching for any movement. Ants, angry that I had invaded their home, remained in my
clothes and continued biting away at me, but I didnTt care because I could feel the trigger,
and it too was gnawing at my finger to press it and release the built-up tension it con-
tained. I barely licked the trigger with my finger, and the bullets jumped out of the gun.
But there were no paper targets across the path, and I didnTt know where my bullets were
going because, unlike the training field, I couldnTt watch the paper targets fall under my
fire. Instead I was firing blind into a dark undergrowth, and I couldnTt see the enemy or
know if there was even an enemy to hit in there. What if it was our guys in there, scared
as hell after being out in the bush for too long and now were just firing at everything? I
couldnTt fire on our own guys. And what if someone in platoon hadnTt jumped onto this
side of the trail. What if he was over there cowering against the green jungle floor begging
us over and over to stop firing, to just stop the bullets? Without thinking I raised my gun so the barrel was aimed toward the tops
of the trees. I aimed high. As the gun fired it vibrated in my hands and fought its aim, but I held it steadfast pouring lead high
into the treetops. The tree leaves shattered under my killing barrage.
The platoon teased me for marching behind Shitty in line, but on long hikes we all took comfort in ShittyTs loud rambling. Shitty
made his business everyoneTs business.
oWhy do these damn mosquitoes like my black ass so fucking much? CanTt they find a Honky to go chew on? Course my shit is
walking beside a damn scarecrow. AinTt no mosquito alive wants to chomp down on some straw and shit.�
oITm surprised they'll go anywhere near your shitty ass, Shitty,� I called back to him.
oOh, it always comes back to that donTt it. ShittyTs got a shitty ass. Well this ass is raw like yo mama and the mosquitoes still like it
just fine. So why donTt you kiss my shitty shitty ass, yaT beanpole mother fucker.�
oBeanpole? How the hell does a city boy know about a beanpole. You plant a garden or somethinT between the cracks in
the sidewalk?�
When the firing began, the platoon
jumped into the dense cover. I fol-
lowed them. The ants had been
biting me in the legs, and everyone
kept firing their guns into the dark
jungle brush, but I aimed high and
kept my rifle sight dancing in and
out of the tree tops. Sometimes I imagined a scared Gook, not wanting to fight so he climbed a tree to get away from the fighting.
Suddenly my bullets would come whizzing past his head. oWhoTs firing at me up here?� the Gook would wonder.
After the battle was over, Joe the Man, platoon leader, lined us back up in march order. Shitty Jackson was in front of me, and
Short Cock was supposed to be behind me, but had already begun to establish a position behind the still steaming M-60 of Crash
Stevens, instead of behind my much smaller M-16. Robert Jakewell marched in front of Crash, but when we lined up he was not in
formation. He was as new as Shitty and I, a little greener too, and probably still hiding behind a tree confessing every sin to God
from his last nineteen years.
I pictured him hugging that tree, whispering to God how sorry he was for taking His name in vain and for touching himself after
watching dirty movies, not even realizing that the bullets had stopped. But Robert Jakewell was not hiding behind a tree. Robert
Jakewell had run.
Joe the Man, platoon leader, had seen him run. While Short Cock and I grabbed our nuts and tried to hide from the bullets behind
an overgrown fern, Joe the Man had kept a steady eye on his platoon. When he saw Robert Jakewell run, Joe the ManTs rifle locked
onto his legs as he sprinted down the trail. The rifle slightly bobbed up and down like a buoy floating on a calm ocean bay, and then
quickly swept across the trail to the approaching bush and opened fire. oI should have shot that Chicken Shit Mother Fucker,� Joe
the Man told our platoon as we held rank in the middle of tine trail.
oYou would have shot Jakewell?� questioned Crash. Joe the Man snapped his head in CrashTs direction.
oChicken Shit Mother Fucker!�
oYou mean Jakewell?� Crash continued hesitantly. He didnTt understand why they were holding rank instead of forming search
parties to look for him.
We all kept Secrets, Ihe entire platoon had seen Chicken Shit Mother Fucker half
impaled on bamboo pole
, Mali shot up, but mo ome talked about it. As time passed,
\
> collected more secrets. Joe the Man sent one of his grunts down into a tunnel with only
A flashlight and a side arm. Iwo hours later he hadnTt come out. We knew where he
was, but kept it secret. I continued to aim my gun high toward the sky when the bullets
came for us. The gun would fight its aim, and try to sneak down below the tree line,
but I always wrestled it high, and kept pumping lead into the highest leaves. Shitty had told
me some of his secrets. We often talked while filling the sandbags to place around our fox-
holes at night.
oYou got a woman, Shitty?� I asked him one night, while I held the bag open and he
scooped the fresh earth into the open mouth.
oYou mean packed up in my ruck sack?� he answered. oLook Scarecrow, maybe you need
to go lide behing a tree of somethin
oNo. I mean back in Harlem.�
oHarlem?� Shitty stopped shoveling and looked up at me. oWhitey, everybody has a woman in
Harlem. ThereTs one sittinT on every corner just wailing for you. They used to tease me every morning
when I walked to school.�
oI mean a woman of your own, Shitty,� I prodded him. Shitty looked away and began shoveling the
dirt again. He furiously shoveled three portions in and then threw down the shovel.
oLook man,� he said grabbing the sandbag out of my hand, owhy donTt you do some of this shovel-
oScarecrow, me and her would go down to the
ing crap!� I picked up the shovel and began filling the bag with dirt. ShittyTs dysentery had been get- club. She would drink sloe gin fizz through a straw.�
ting worse, and he was only eating a few crackers for meals. His spirits were still high, but the dysentery
was taking its toll.
Shitty stopped talking and just sat there remem-
bering this girl. oShe thought that I should grow
oCome on man,� Shitty whined, oyouTre going too slow. You know these things gotta be stacked three high.� one of those Afros.�
oTo be bulletproof?� I questioned him. Shitty firmly believed that our fox hole was completely
bulletproof if the sandbags were stacked three high around it.
oYou should do it,� I told Shitty.
oNot over here man,� he snapped. oITm not giv-
oYeah, to be bulletproof, mother fucker,� Shitty shot back. I continued to fill the bags. Shitty looked ing the Gooks a big fucking target on top of my
uncomfortable.
head. Now why donTt you just keep to yourself and
oJust tell me her name,� I kept at Shitty, othatTs all I want to know.� Shitty kicked the ground in _ try shoveling some crap im here.�
front of him.
We settled into routines. Short Cock would always
position himself behind the grunt with the biggest gun. Cleaning up villages, Crash slaughtered the livestock, and I watched the
perimeter. Humping supplies, we marched in rank. I marched behind Shitty Jackson. In front of him used to march Spider. Shitty
was his ass man, he watched SpiderTs ass. But while crawling through the bush during a particularly heavy fire assault, Spider rolled
over behind a tree and directly onto a land mine. On long marches, when the sun beat down and the trail wouldnTt end, Short Cock
would sometimes slip back in the line and get into ShittyTs face.
oGrunt Shitty, are you an ass man?� Shitty would snap to attention and reply in full voice.
oYes sir, sir. 1 am SpiderTs ass man, sir.�
oAnd do you know the present location of that ass, Grunt Shitty?�
oYes sir, sir I do. That ass is there, and there, and over there, and some landed over there.�
If any of us ever made it home, we would not tell our family that we made fun of Spider for getting his midsection splattered by a
land mine. We would just keep that a secret. When we would engage the enemy in gunfire, I would aim my rifle toward the tops of
the trees. I kept that a secret too, until Shitty Jackson found out.
The platoon was in a friendly neighborhood. ThatTs what we called a village that didnTt offer any resistance when we marched in to
burn it to the ground. I was guarding the perimeter with Shitty. We were talking about Batman.
oAll ITm saying, is that I donTt see what a giant fuckinT bat is gonna do in Harlem,� Shitty argued. He was leaning against a large
cart filled with animal feed. The rest of the platoon was spring cleaning. Crash had finished with the livestock and was just lighting
the first roof when a Gook ran out from one of the
huts firing a pistol. Crash took two slugs in the shoul-
der. The Gook ran straight for the thick jungle bor-
dering the village and dove into the foliage. Half the
platoon took pursuit after him. They rushed the jun-
gle, guns firing and mouths cursing. Shitty and I
maintained our post, as the radio man rushed over
toward Crash. Suddenly our platoonTs gunfire was
answered. The platoon turned to set up position in
the village, but the new Gook fire had them pinned
down. What was left of the platoon in the village
quickly dove for cover and began shooting at any vil-
lager that moved, or even didnTt move. Some of the
Gooks returned fire. The radio man slumped over.
Shitty looked toward the jungle bush. Our platoon was completely pinned
down, and they couldn't hold the Gooks back for long. The bombers could
be here in two minutes, but he had to get to that radio.
oCover my ass, Scarecrow,� Shitty yelled over the din of gunfire. He point-
ed toward the radio. I knew immediately what he planned to do.
oITm going now!� he yelled.
oShitty! Wait!� I screamed. oI canTt cover you!� Shitty misunderstood and
threw his rifle toward me.
oWe gotta go now! They won't last long in the bush.�
oI donTt fire at people! I aim high! Above the tree lines so as not to hit
people!� Shitty smiled at me, and his smile was louder then all the gunfire in
the jungle.
oT used to do the same thing! Just fire like you normally do!�
1 cay
oI know you can, Scarecrow!� He stood up and began to sprint across the
village without his rifle. I turned toward the trees where Gook fire spewed
out and aimed ShittyTs rifle toward the tops of the trees.
I pulled the trigger and let those leaves have it. Shitty kept running. He was
three huts away from the radio. The gun was hot in my hand and kept fight-
ing its aim. I bore down, and the tops of the trees screamed for a medic as
their precious limbs absorbed my ammo. I imagined slicing off a big branch
with my bullets, and it falling and landing on the Gooks. TheyTd awake in the
morning with headaches and decide to quit the war and go be at home with
their families.
Shitty was two huts away. I watched him run, and his shit-brown pants
trailed behind him. Once, burrowed in a fox hole on a rainy night, Shitty had
told me his real name: Bobby Emanuel Jackson. I tried to focus on the trees,
but my eyes were drawn back to his tired feet as they pounded across the
village. Bobby Emanuel Jackson was one hut from the radio, and he had a
girlfriend back home. He had enlisted in the Army because they promised
him three meals a day, something his mama never could give him.
I stood up a little more behind the wagon and let the trees have it. But my
eyes were drawn to Bobby Jackson. His pants were shit brown from the months of dysentery, and he looked tired as he ran. I always
wondered what made Chicken Shit run that first day of the war. Was he running away from the bullets that came chasing after us
that one afternoon, or was he running toward a better death then the slow, drawn-out hell we were forced to endure? I dropped
out the empty clip and almost instantaneously threw in the spare clip I kept on my belt. I always kept three spare clips on my belt
and two more in my rucksack. Robert Jakewell had been carrying a picture of his fiancee in his rucksack the day he ran off to die.
We all saw it that day, but decided to keep it a secret. Crash Stevens was a football star who had never been in a jungle. But I had
seen that eighteen year old boy, who held his high schoolTs football record for yards rushing, take two slugs in the shoulder. He
would never play football again.
Bobby Emanuel Jackson had almost reached the hut with the radio. He had dysentery for a month and a half now, and if the
bullets didnTt get him the dysentery soon would. He had made a run for the radio half out of pure bravery and concern for the
men pinned in the bush, and half because he wanted a bullet to call his name out and finally clean his filthy ass. For my part, I
did as I always did, and killed the trees that loomed over all of us.
Sometimes, after too many clicks on the trail humping heavy equipment on a hot day, Short Cock will work his way up the rank
and get beside me.
oTell me the story one more time, Scarecrow.� he says loud enough for most everyone to hear.
oNow I donTt want you to have nightmares again tonight,� I answer.
oCome on, you know itTs not a true story.�
oAre you questioning the realness of my ghost story. ITm telling you ITve seen it with these " my very own mother-fucking eyes.�
Hue you!
oITm telling you, there haunts these woods a
dirty, dirty ass, that refuses to die even after Shitty
Jackson had been shot fifty times.�
oYou donTt mean it.�
oOh yes I do, that dirty ass lives!�
ITm not sure what happened to Shitty Jackson. I
. had just made up that part of the story because
: I thought it sounded good. I think he got tired,
and decided to take himself a little vacation. Or
maybe his shitty ass finally got the best of him, and
they air-lifted him out of the bush and to a fancy
hospital in Japan where he could hit on the geishas
before his afternoon nap. I really donTt know
which one it really is. Sometimes alone at night in
my foxhole, I try and remember if Bobby Emanuel
Jackson ever made it to that radio. But it doesn t
matter. Usually I become distracted by the sound
ef Short CockTs voice telling the Babies about
Spider and his exploding ass, and I can just lie
back and stare up at the tops of the trees. a
or
He @ N © RA £ kL E Mo £ N 42 1 ©
N - £ © fo tf ek fF
etter
omy mother
jennifer newman
| know itTs been a while since ITve written you.
Things are so bad here even my cactus Is dead.
It's all the same, nothing new.
The mailbox is full of bills past due,
And itTs been a week since the dog's been fed.
| know itTs been a while since ITve written you.
For two weeks now I've had the flu.
The roof is abGe { fall in on our heads.
It's all the same, nothing new.
It hasn't rained in a month or two.
It's the worst drought in years, someone said.
| know it's been a while since ITve written you.
| get tired of hearing you bitch and tell me what to do,
And | don't give a damn what the neighbors said.
It's all the same, nothing new.
You say |lTd be happy if not for the man ITm married to,
But itTs my life. | wish you'd get that into your head.
| know itTs been a while since ITve written you.
It's all the same, nothing new.
MAaYCUuS meelhinny
by
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8
aS
~
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=
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°_~
ec ee YL A ee Rl Cc. 1 ft CO
tara stroud
oDo you put on your shoes to walk around in the house?
Or do you wear just socks? Or do you go bare foot?�
This was the beginning of the first conversation I ever had with Salah.
-oocks. | said, and sometimes bareioot.
oMiram, said Salah, and nothing more on shoes or feet or even toes.
oI love peanut butter noodles with cayenne. Have you ever eaten any?�
| admitted that | hadn't. That, in fact, | had never heard of such a concoction.
oWell, then, I will make you some now.� And she did. And they were good.
The next time I saw her was down at Palmer Lake. The rain had
fallen, solid, for three days and, when on Sunday I woke up
to sunshine instead of an alarm, I immediately grabbed my
notebook and headed for the lake. I already had the
poem in my head before I sat by the old peeling birch
ince. | was sitting there, mearly asleep, drunk from the
sun, when I saw a black-winged bird swing up from the
ground and across my blurred field of vision. My eyes
cleared, and the bird was Salah, hair flying everywhere,
she turning cartwheels in the grass. I stood up, trying to
decide whether to interrupt her morning calisthenics,
and she came running over to me.
oCome here a minute, Green!� Her face was pink from all
the blood rushing to her head, and her eyes were wild with
amazement. She took my hand, and we both started crazy running
toward the pier.
Jump! she hollered when we got to the end. oJump, Green,
jump!
I jumped.
illustration by jason smith The water was incredible " soft and light and warm.
Salah stood on the pier laughing, laughing, laughing with pure joy. I had never heard a laugh so
pretty. She balanced on a side rail post, on one leg like a heron,
arms twisting and bending in the air. Then, graceful and
quick, she dove in.
I did the backstroke and spouted up water like
a whale.
The sun was wondrous warm. I never
wanted to see another raindrop in my life.
ItTs so funny how one night you go to
bed tired, tired, so tired and worn Gut
from days and days of not living and
wondering what living is, and wake
up the next day knowing the
magic secret of everything.
J picked up the secret one
night while I was dreaming, the
way I'd pick up a fallen leaf or
a pretty stone. When I woke up,
I couldn't believe how simple
it was.
That afternoon, while Salah
and I were drying on the grass,
I said, 1 had a dream last migint.
oHoly yes,� she said, and she
caressed a dandelion with one
finger, not disturbing even a single
seed, oSweeping madman holy yes,
| ama dacre -
And that was the answer.
Ten days later I was reeling down the side-
walk past the yellow and white striped cafe
umbrellas. My mind was everywhere: on the
L-shaped shadow falling across the next building,
over the sneaker-wearing blue-eyed saint eating ice
cream, across the blades of grass poking up from the cracks in
the pavement. I heard a voice slide through the hum and music in my head.
It was SalahTs.
oI always go barefoot,� she said, onever shoes or socks.�
I looked at her feet. Five toes apiece, pinky-beige. I was wearing dollar-a-pair blue
plastic flip-flops.
The angel had finished eating his ice cream and was crossing the street.
I wanted to go after him, but he turned around and started coming toward us before I could
even think about moving in his direction. Salah jumped up and down and swung around a
parking meter.
oYes, yes, Ves, Ves, YES... site sane.
The warm light bounced off the store windows onto the angelTs shirt.
Everything was light.
Everything was soft.
We met at the curb and danced in a circle, twirling dizzily like café umbrellas.
if Dea ££ O- R 8 G fH @. it ° Pe Or i kK
@apologies
nda gZUSMaNO
There's no need to annunciate
mords Pound fer poune,
Wi VOUT (ist, oF
smoke away mutters
in cigarettes,
because you refuse to
be wheeled on the dock
FOr Summer wisi ine.
Because one arm retuses
te Go more than mang
as weightlessly as
a red and white bobber
from the root. ©f your syculder
(Jie iva ouws OY lee misdct
There's no need for me
to be Hime again. for you
to be a giant beside me.
VOUT Handicap ish t catehiiic.
You don t need to secure yoursel?
in those iron wheels, carry
aroumd your Veterans cao and books
of Nietzsche to make safer your death.
There's no need to be the heart
Conditioned warrior. | apologize
they haven't made medals for fathers.
Yes, Im apologies, | kie@aad
the breaking tendons of
VOUr lifabs, | waten
the elastic bands Of time. sii,
pulling down your eyelids, your chin.
Wity apologies, | wish YOU as Winite eral
as Prelograpis, wilneur
gull aches or the Nollowmess of cola.
Wish vou. my Giant,
living im bread, square feat.
PAINTING
AEC TILEe DESIGN
CERAMICS
METAL DESIGN
wee OR DES|GN
PHOTOGRAPH Y
SCULPTURE
PRINTMAKING
GEArTHicCG DESIGN
PELOSTERATION
20
Davis
Kirk P.
ee
Sensei
ce
st
ee
feck
ei
ae
ener
Sees
So
ee
" =
Maes RRC ECU
poe teo coe rsot rouse nero sence erroG
S See eciette
Eee ere ees
Spake SON Sore
Bearcat ten canter
a Sao
Bendover
sculpture
Beth Hall
Self Portrait
third place
above right
Jeanette Little
Unrelenting Elements
second place
right
Bruce Thorn
Betty at Wilmington
figst place
Se
Bente
Stacy Evans
The Transfigured Ones
HhOMnerable mention
fot
Brian Buchanan
2-00 am
etait clgice
|
oS
ai
Melissa Hightower
Jungle Land
second place
above
Kelly Jones
Kimono Jacket
tmita Clace
akenant
Linda Werthwein
Tijuca silkscreen
first oleace
Amy Evans
Ted Pou
third place
above left
Jennifer Mecca
Tea Set
second place
left
Cynthia Blamire
The Big Dripper
first place
Daryn Pake
Harmony
third place
above right
Paula Creech
Enenan tind
hORCtaele Mention
right
Will Olney
Untitled
first place
Allison Cherry
My Spiritual Armor
staff choice
a
eee
ei
as
ce poets Soeaaeran ate
: 4 Poeueenian: ee
Felecia Szorad
Broaches
second place
WO 0 2
28
Df >
G
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Dan Galante
Table
hOneragle mention
right
Dan Galante
Light Table
honorable mention
cima
: Mire
ii y
rome oO tf 2 Go 8 a FP
Jeffrey Hill
Mit Finke Zum Ersten Meal
first place
series left
Stuart Williams
Picadiily Cireus
second place
Kyle Lusk
Void Earth
first place
Mike Waller
Landscape of Peace
second place
above lent
Kirk P. Davis
Adoration
third wilgce
left
Tripp Jarvis
Shilo s Son 0
honorable mention
Javier F. Marquez
Some Girls are
Bigger than Others
Tifst place
ee
fof OS Bost
9 et fens ee,
Sue Riley
Untitled
honorable mention
above left
Cyndi Herrmann
A Noman s Puzziec
iit wile ee
left
Sue Riley
Dirty Glove of Love
second place
...we spent all day at
White Lake and that
night, Cara and I
caught nine fireflies!
i
w cnt orcrvday ian gd
Paula Creech
feels Casale ...Mama gave us each a book of fairytales
first place that summer...1 memorized mine. : _""
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laura mckay
oMango...do you have any mangos?� you find
yourself asking whom you presume to be
Ding Ho, of Ding HoTs Korean grocery,
at CALE in the
morning.
You cough and glance around
feeling foolish, sheepish as Ding
Ho himself peers up at you
through his nondescript but
very thick glasses, looking
quizzical. oMaaangoe� he says,
a little bit hard on the ~a.
oYeah,� you nod, looking
around, shifting your weight,
craving a cigarette. What the
hell are you doing, you think,
at three in the morning in a
Korean grocery, looking for a
damn mango? Damn it.
silustvetions by andy farras
a7
oWhat
oWhat eees it?� Ding Ho asks, his wide eyes looking at
you as if you were the foreigner, the stranger asking for
the impossible.
oWhat?� you ask befuddled.
oMaaango, what is it?� he repeats.
A?
you think.
AMI do ing, Just a little
bit earlier
you had been sitting in a truck stop diner,
alone, being very depressed.
oOh, um,� you look around for reference clues on how
to explain a mango to someone with no idea. You point to
a fruit, a cantaloupe. You hold it up to Ding HoTs waiting
eyes, it and a green apple.
oMango...fruit,� you say holding them up and then
putting them together as if to combine them. oSort of like
these things combined, looking, sort of...� you mutter,
making no sense even to yourself. But Ding Ho is nonplussed.
oI check in back,� he says, heading off through the vertical
aisles back to the store room, you guess. The woman
behind the register, whom you presume to be Ding HoTs
wife, calls something out to him as he heads back seriously
on his mission. She calls in a high sing-song voice in a lan-
guage you donTt understand. He says something back and
she looks at you wide eyed, befuddled. Maaango? You grin
uncomfortably. She heads back to the storeroom to help in
tae search.
You really want a cigarette by now. YouTd feel much
more confident with it between your lips, the gleam in
your eye, your chin stuck out. There you are, invincible.
You could order mangos all night. Without them you feel
lost - mangoless. You can only lick your dry lips, shift your
weight and wait for the Ding Hos to return.
~What am I doing?T you think. Just a little bit earlier you
had been sitting in a truck stop diner, alone, being very
depressed. Your depression had caused your mind to wander,
tripping over topics taboo to average, psychotically affir-
mative America. You were thinking that death at times seems
preferable, but your strong moral abhorrence of it always
prevented you from suicide. You thought yourself a coward.
oWhat a journey,� you kept telling yourself. oWhat a
lame coward I am to be afraid of it,� but you are, so here
you are. Deathless. Deathless wouldnTt have bothered you
so much if you hadn't also felt lifeless - like the rain-sodden
truck stop you had been drinking religiously bad coffee in.
The place had no life, as if atmosphere completely escaped
it. No Jesus pictures over the grey, swinging kitchen door.
No country music jukebox - no people - just you, a booth
or two, a cup of coffee and a couple of doughnuts. There
wasn't even a waitress standing behind the nondescript
counter being annoying. No one. You saw a note over the
coffee machine in the corner saying serve yourself, so you
did, grabbed a couple of doughnuts from under a glass
cake tray and left money for them on the counter next to
the cash register. You had felt like throwing a fork against
a wall to hear some noise - something to give the place a
Sure OF lite.
The walls were so stark they seemed to absorb all color,
a hideous void, making you feel like it sucked all life from
the room, the waitress too - and it was coming for you....
It was late and you were tired, but you didnTt throw a fork
against a wall - the sound might be too much for such a
room. What doyou want? Looking around you decided
you would like some color. oWhatTs a nice color?� you had
asked yourself, violet, persimmon, cadmium red...but you
wanted something you couldnTt find at a paint store, some-
thing nondescript. You wanted something the color of a
mango " a nice lush tropical color. You could be happy
looking at mango, you thought. Your coffee was left unfin-
ished. You left it on the table, not feeling bad for not hav-
ing thrown it away as you left. It would give the place some
character, you thought and walked out.
You got off the interstate at the first exit you found with
a sticker on the little green food sign, whizzing by as you
squinted in the dark. ~The Ding Ho grocery store lit up the
dark, and you pulled into their tiny parking lot. The big
grocery store down the road was closed. oDonTt have those
open-24"hours-super-store-centers around these parts,�
you thought as you stepped out into the soggy, cold, early
morning air to enter the Ding Ho establishment.
Little bells had jingled from the top of the door as you
entered, and Ding Ho had swooped down on you from the
front counter, where he was leaning with his arms folded...
and now he was off looking in the back for your mango.
He had been gone for awhile. You hoped he didnTt get too
upset if he didnTt find one. You figured he would be very
apologetic, seemed the sort to be upset easily with those
wide curious eyes. But you wanted the mango, so you wait-
ed patiently, looking around, thanking God that no one
you knew or didnTt was asking why the hell you wanted a
mango at three -fifteen in the morning.
Waiting, your eyes trip over the aisles of cardboard
boxes, some in English, some not - languages in symbols
you can't decipher. If you looked inside the boxes, you
might not be able to tell whatTs inside either, you think,
shaking a box with a pictograph of a young Asian boy eat-
ing some unknown thing, which you guess to be inside the
box. Your eyes turn hungrily to the cigarettes behind the
cash register counter, but you only have a dollar fifteen in
your jeans pocket, enough for the elusive mango, you pre-
sume, if you can find one.
The jingly bells over the door come to psychotically
happy life as a woman barges into the store. She is a large
Nigerian-looking woman wearing traditional Nigerian
robe-like clothes: hoop earrings dangling, brow-print tur-
ban circling her hair, making her eyebrows look pointy and
curious. Theres a bustle albbout her, as all the fabric that
envelopes her in her robe moves, swaying long after she is
stopped. She casts her gaze quickly around surveying for
some elusive thing amid all the Asian and English boxes
and clutter. Her wide child-like eyes fall on you. oKuna
watu huko sokonie� she says, not unfriendly. You have no
idea and donTt answer.
oHakunapr� she asks.
You shrug your shoulders and point to your head, look-
ing confused in the universal, I-have-no-idea"what-
your-language-is"yet-ITm-not-trying-to-be-unfriendly
gesture. She sways to you perhaps as if nearness will help
you understand. She looks you clear in the eye. She has
the harmless, or semi-harmless, gaze of a child. She
speaks loudly, brashly startling you. oYou...you...you hair
too long....Let me touch your hair!�
She grabs it pulling. You try to back off from her sud-
den movement as she stares at you myopically. She seems
to sniff at you as her fingers are twined fast to your hair.
You want to scream, but you think that might be rude.
oHummmm,� she hums in a deep sing-songy voice as if
she were about to burst into song, but she doesnTt. Instead,
oLet me kiss you� comes out. You back off pulling your
hair as you go, but you figure that pulled hair is better
than being scared to death by a semi-harmless Nigerian-
looking woman.
oDogo paka punda,�she says looking at you like you were
a house pet running from affection. If she tried to pat you
on the head, you were going to leave, you thought, sliding
carefully towards the door. Three rows of boxes between
you and jingly freedom, you think, trying to look noncha-
lant as you edge towards it. She casts her gaze away from
you to the bright rows of food boxes and shakes one or
two, muttering to herself. You hover, waiting near the door
for Ding Ho and your mango. You watch as the woman
flows through the aisles shaking a box, muttering, putting
it down and going on to another. You see Ding HoTs head
bobbing at the top of an aisle as he strides purposefully to
you, holding some pale-green, round fruit which youTve
never seen before. He holds it up for you triumphantly -
oAh, maango,� he says smiling. His wife hovers around him
smiling, pleased as well. TheyTre so nice. oMaango?� he
asks patting you on the back. You are looking, trying to
smile at him, holding a box and shaking it in front of Ding
Ho's nose. oPia Pia!� she says shrilly. Ding Ho backs off,
watching her as she shakes the box as if there were some-
thing annoying inside. He makes a motion for her to back
off. His wife grabs the box from her clasped fingers, mut-
ters something and walks angrily to place the box back on
ly
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You can't tell him
NOT a Man
the shelf. The Nigerian woman follows incensed. Ding Ho
gives you an apologetic shrug and makes the universal
crazy-woman hand symbol shrug, which youTve never seen
before but understand. His wife tries to shoo the woman
towards the door. The woman darts around and grabs for
the oKwa nini chakula kimechelewa?� The Nigerian woman
swoops down,box on the shelf again. Ding HoTs wife fol-
lows, grabbing onto the box and wrenching it free. The
Nigerian woman talks quickly, making little grabs for the
box like a child grabbing for elusive candy. She giggles as
if playing a game with Ding HoTs wife,
who looks unamused. Finally disgust-
ed, she goes to
now that °
this is 27deed
the door and
throws the box
outside, watching
QO e while the Nigerian
9 woman swoops after it, calling
you re COO fired. in a sing-songy voice something
that sounds to be a thanks.
Ding Ho shrugs as if this too is something that he has
no control over. He drops the fruit into your hands and
smiles walking towards the cash register. You follow as if
in a trance. You can't tell him now that this is indeed not a
mango; you re too tired. You just want to take your pale,
green fruit and leave. Searching in your pocket
for your $1.15, you hope its enough for what-
ever this exotic fruit is and place it on the
counter with a hopeful smile. Ding Ho punches
buttons on the electronic whiz cash register
and says, oTwo-fifty.�
You grin apologetically, oOh no...I only have
a dollar fifteen....� Ding Ho surveys you, looks
quickly around for his wife, who has disap-
peared back into the store room, scoops the
money into his palm, and places it in the cash
register. Vor you.. he smiles, discoumt. Ele
places a receipt in your palm. You smile and
grasp your newly acquired, but not necessari-
ly what you wanted, fruit and head for the
door. Ding Ho waves as you leave, stepping
from the warm, bright grocery into the cold,
wet darkness.
Your car awaits you, and you are craving the
chance to leave, to find home and to sleep
blissfully, sans-mango. The doorTs held fast.
You, in your sleepy trance, had locked the
keys inside. You consider dancing about in a
cussing dance or simply lobbing your green
fruit through the window and driving home well ventilat-
ed, but itTs not hard enough, and you're not psychotic
enough. You place your head on the roof in a nice sign
of defeat while thinking of what to do, and are considering
asking the Ding Hos to use their phone or to sleep on
their floor. You donTt care - you could use the damn fruit
as a pillow - but you donTt want to go back inside; itTs
too bright.
ThereTs a park across the street. You cross over to find
a bench to sit down in a funk, until daylight strikes up,
which should be not far away considering the lateness, or
earliness of things. Dark trees surround you and a few
shadowy benches stand empty. You plunk down on one
and place your fruit next to you, looking in the dark at the
dripping trees. ItTs a small park. Dark trees stand box-like
around it, forming walls between you and the Ding Hos,
the truck stops, and crazy women, and the car you canTt
get into. Its peaceful - nice. ~I hope there arenTt any bumsT
goes through your head - and again - but thereTs a bum.
You see him shudder forth from the shadow of a tree - a
man wearing dark clothes - made darker from the rain.
He woozily falls on the bench and looks at you, masked by
the dark. He looks exotic, foreign and holds a bottle of
what, you know not. YouTre wishing you threw the fruit
through the window at this time when he speaks.
oDominante, vencedora, buena suerte, proteccion, ojo
divina provencia, fuerzade dinero, paz to you my friend,�
he says nodding, serious, friendly.
oYou speak English. Hi,� is all your sleep-deprived mind
can think to say.
oOf course I speak English,� he looks at you smiling.
oAmerica " land of hot dogs, bad nacho sauce, and too
many similes - of course I speak English.� He smiles,
oWhat is this?� He pats the fruit.
oMango,� you say, savoring the irony of it all.
oMango? This is not a mango,� he says, looking at you
quizzically. oIf you believe this is a mango, you are sadly
mistaken, my friend. Where did you find this strange
imitation of a mango?�
oDing HoTs,� you say, pointing over your shoulder.
oWell calavera, they have sold you something that most
certainly is not a mango,� he looks at you joking, smiling.
oI know,� you nod.
oDing HoTs a very nice man, but he wouldnTt know a mango
if one came up and bit him,� he jokes, good naturedly.
oSo you ve tried to buy mangos there before?� you ask
interested in the mundane.
ie scratches his head thmking, No...don t believe |
have, but ITve looked for crema de trigo before-cream of
wheat,� he deciphers for you. oThe man had no idea. To
think, lived in America for eight years and the manTs never
heard of cream of wheat.� He gives a short laugh. oWell,�
he pats his bottle and holds it up to drink and then tilts it
to you. oYou would like some?� He offers it. oFamily recipe
" grandmother came up with it long time ago in Cuba.�
You take the bottle not wanting to be rude, and not
really caring what it is, and take a sip. It burns a nice
mellow fire down your throat. You hand the bottle back.
oNice,� you offer.
He nods. Very mice, he says.
You hear a woman singing nearby, a childish song rising
and falling. You both lean foreword trying to see in the
shadows. The Nigerian woman sits on the wet ground
under a tree, legs straight in front of her. SheTs singing,
playing with the box from Ding HoTs. SheTs crumpled
whatever was inside into small handfuls and is tossing
them up around her and laughing, watching as they fall,
fluttering around her in the dark. Each handful she tosses
up flutters down in a white cloud, falling around her.
oAh,� the man says nodding his head.
oYou know her?� you ask, curious as to who she is to be
tossing powdery handfuls of something up around her.
oYes. Seis harmless, A little bit touched, he points to
his head. oBut she is good woman - she likes to sing. You
like to sing?� he asks. oMore people should sing, we would
oYou know
all be much happier.� He starts into the womanTs song,
adding his deep baritone to her girlish voice. She looks
up laughing and continues singing, tossing handfuls up,
watching them fall. You nod,
what language she was
sang what sounded - h
A yy)
M181
finished, and he takes a sip from his bottle.
liking their song until theyTre
oYou know what language she was singing in?� you ask.
oNo,� he shrugs oI just sang what sounded right.� He
laughs. oAnother drink?� He hands you the bottle, and
you sip again feeling the fire make you a little bit happier.
You wake with a cold drop of water splashing on your
forehead from a tree limb. Your neck is stiffer than grout,
and your eyes and head are woozy. Light pokes through
the trees to announce that it is morning and about time
you were awake. The man and woman are gone, and you
straighten up on the bench, not remembering when you
fell asleep. Your fruit is gone and you shrug, not very
devastated with the realization. You stumble out of the
park towards Ding HoTs and a phone to call a tow truck or
a cab - whichever would be easier " and pull on the door
handle of your car in wild hopes that you were delusional
the night before and it never was locked. The door opens.
Amazed you slide into the comfortable interior and sit
sighing, feeling the familiar bucket seats, much more
comfortable than a wrought iron park bench. The keys jin-
gle from the ignition as your hand brushes against them.
You donTt know and you donTt care, you just want to go
home and start the car.
As you roll back in reverse, something knocks against
your foot from the floor board. You reach down and pick
up a perfect, small fruit. Something is written on the out-
side in scratchy black ink. oThis, calavera, is a mango,� it
says. You smile, set it in the seat next to you and drive for
ine interstate exit. R
we
a9
41
L1lustration ON Javier mang ez
42
amy willoughby
There is a dream of brown angels-
white dresses and black hair.
They are pedaling toward the jungle-
giggling.
Orange sparkles across the swelling sky-
shots and mortar blasts.
There are playing cards stuck in the wheel
spokes of their red rust bicycles-
like those of little American boys.
Three of hearts
One-eyed jack of spades
alick click
click click
A heavy wind is rising in this dream-
fat black rain clouds.
Hair and white cotton
fan up and out,
slapping like cool elephant-ear
leaves in the wet green jungle.
r & i
The angelsT tiny toes are rimmed in dirt.
Their bicycle tires make slender
tracks in the pale brown mud.
They are still pedaling forward.
Light whistles through the thick leaves
and the jungle opens to take them home.
An old woman in an ao dai
watches from beside the road.
click click
click click
One-eyed jack of spades and giggling.
T
R
43
BUTTERFLY
ann chambo
The mother picked her daughterTs wet towel off the bathroom floor,
folded it in half and laid it over the side of the bathtub. Her daugh-
ter had left little cotton balls, stained pink with fingernail polish
remover, scattered around the trash can by the toilet. One by one, she
tossed them in the toilet and flushed them along with the used tea
bag from her cup by the sink. She went back to sit on the balcony of
the notel room and read a book.
ONOloerapns OY Siuart williams
44
Down in the dining room, the young woman took three blueberry muffins and a carton of
milk from the breakfast table and put them in her big straw bag. A plump elderly lady wearing a
maroon apron and a plastic name tag eyed her bare feet suspiciously from behind the coffee
machines. The girl stuck her tongue out at the waitress and added a handful of butter patties and
some napkins to her bag. She maneuvered her way around the square, white-cloth tables and out
into the hallway. To the left, the sunny hotel entrance was full of tropical plants. A bored porter
stood by the large glass doors. She made a right to the elevators.
A young man got on her elevator at the third floor. She
was going = = fourth, and uae ou a titth, He The g ; r| sty ck her ton g ue out at the
pushed the ~fiveT button three times with little jabs of
ee | SS waitress and added a handful of butter
You only have to push it once, you know,� she said
oe patties and some napkins to her bag.
xcuse me:
oThe button, you only need to push it once, instead of
stabbing at it. You might break it.�
oOh, yeah.�
He looked at her and tried to smile sheepishly. She wasnTt smiling back, so his eyes dropped to
her sunburned stomach, exposed by a small bright blue bikini.
oWhat are you looking at?� she snapped.
He blushed and looked down at his feet. The elevator dinged at the fourth floor.
She pushed the door open button three times and then left him studying his flip flops.
In room 406, she threw the bag on the double bed and went out on the balcony.
oEley, Mom. Ima back.�
The young woman pulled the other white plastic patio chair next to her motherTs and put her
feet up on the black metal railing. The wind from the beach had blown the motherTs short blond
hair back from her forehead into a lopsided spike.
oDid you get breakfast, sweetie?� the mother asked without looking up from her book.
oNo. Your hair is funny, Mom. Here.� She reached over and smoothed her motherTs hair down
to one side.
oOh leave it, baby. No oneTs going to see me.�
oYou never know, the prince of Zimbabwe could walk in any minute to whisk you away to his
beautiful jungle kingdom.�
The mother closed her book and looked at her daughterTs serious expression.
oReally, Lilly, thatTs not exactly the man ITm looking for.�
oWell,� the girl said reproachfully, oITm sure heTd probably be a lot more interesting than that -
what was his name? Robert.�
oYou have a point.�
oProbably not married, either,� Lilly said under her breath.
oDon't start that with me, missy. Besides, the prince-of-whatever probably already has six or
seven wives. You didnTt get any breakfast? You were gone forever.�
oOh yeah, thereTs muffins in my bag on the bed.� She stood up and leaned over the rail, so her
head was upside down. Below them was the hotel swimming pool shaped like a peanut.
oGo get me one, will you please? And my sunglasses, too. ItTs getting bright.� She pulled her
white cotton nightgown up around her thighs to let the sun hit her legs. Her daughter shook her
long hair fiercely and stood up.
oOkay.� Lilly walked back into the hotel room, grabbed her motherTs sunglasses from the televi-
sion, and put them on. On the dresser was a plastic tray that held the empty ice bucket and four
glasses. She took the tray and one of the glasses to the bed. She put a muffin, some napkins, and
oTherapy is not attention, Mother,
anc Meller |s Medication
three butter packets on the tray. She left the milk carton
unopened, but set it on the tray next to the glass. The
clock on the nightstand said 11:13. She went to the bath-
room and got one pill each from two of the five bottles in
her motherTs pink bag sitting in the sink.
oHere we are, madame.� Lilly set the tray on her motherTs
lap. oYour mid-morning medicine is in the glass, my dar-
ling mother, and here are your sunglasses.�
oThank you, sweetie, I didnTt realize what time it was.�
The mother put the sunglasses on and then swallowed the
two pills dry.
Lilly stood at the rail and let out a long string of spit
over the balcony.
lly, stop.
oHow is your heart today, Mom? No fainting, shortness
of breath or dizziness?�
oItTs working fine today, thanks.� She was pouring the
milk a little bit at a time and breaking off small pieces of
the muffin with her fingers. oAre you okay this morning?�
oNever been better in my whole entire life. Tve decided
I'm really over the Josh thing. He acted so young about
everything, like he thought I would really move to
God-knows-where to be his wife so that six months later
we could break up. ItTs better he went away. I think heTs
started seeing someone else now but doesnTt want to say it.
Not that | care
oI know you loved him, baby, but I wouldnTt want you
going anywhere after the year weTve had. Besides, I think
it's obvious this Josh boy canTt handle any sort of responsibility, or trauma for that matter. You
need somebody who can take care of you.�
oDon't say it like Tm helpless or something, Mom. I donTt need anything. And just because a
person doesn't feel so goddamned happy all the time like everybody else, especially-.�
oDamn it - donTt argue. You have a problem that requires attention.�
oTherapy is not attention, Mother, and neither is medication.� Lilly leaned on the railing with
her face tilted up to the sun and her eyes closed. oI loved him I guess, but he could be incredibly
narrow-minded and boring as hell. He did have beautiful eyes though, and sometimes he would
sing, if I asked him to.�
oOh well. 'm going down to the beach. Do you want to
come with me? Its not too hot.�
oMaybe ITll come down for a walk later. Do you think
that bathing suit is small enough?�
oMine? Like youTve never worn a bikini before, Mom. What is that book? ItTs new.�
oNot everyone wants to see your ass, Lilly. ItTs actually an old book, Rebecca by Daphne De
Maurier. You can read it when ITm finished, not before, please.�
olim not going to steal it. I just asked. Are you sure you won't come?�
oIn a little while, baby. Take your key.�
Lilly had twisted her hair into a long braid and secured it with a fluorescent blue rubber band
before leaving the hotel room. Over her shoulder she carried the big straw bag stuffed with two
beach towels, sandals, and the leftover muffins. In the hotel lobby, she stopped at the cigarette
machine to buy a pack of Camel lights. The receptionist gave her a decorative pack of matches,
which she slid under the right strap of her bikini top.
On the beach, she spread the towel with the oversized picture of a sailboat on it out on the
sand. She rolled the green towel into a pillow and placed it over the tip of the sail. She untied the
bathing suit strap around her neck, held her top up with one hand, and took the cigarettes from
the bag with the other. She lay back and let the straps fall to her side while she lit a cigarette. She
tucked the matches into the cellophane cigarette wrapper and tossed the cigarettes towards her
bag. They landed in the sand by her knee. The sky was cloudless.
After smoking the cigarette, she retied her bathing suit and went down to the water. She sat
down in the wet sand where the foam from the breaking waves ran up around her legs. A few
yards away, a woman was sitting under an umbrella watching a little girl and a baby play in the
sand. The little girl was yelling at the baby to stop touching her castle. The baby filled a green
sand bucket with wet sand and emptied it on a heap that was surrounded by a shallow, watery moat.
The little girl saw Lilly and ran to stand directly in front of her. Her stomach stuck pretentiously
forward as she stood with her fists propped on her sides
where hips would someday be. She let out a string of Lil ly Ou | led her bik NI bottom down
introductions.
oHey. ITm making a sand castle. My name is Eliza- below her bel ly burton tO reveal a ti ny
beth and my brother is Georgie. HeTs helping. WhatTs
your name?� green butterfly outlined in black.
oHello, Elizabeth. My name is Lilly. Do you like
butterflies?� She pointed at the girlTs stomach. Her
bright yellow bathing suit was spotted with red and orange butterflies.
oYes, they're okay,� Elizabeth said, looking down at the creatures. Her black hair was full of
sand and plastered to her head. oGrandma Judy gave it to me. ITm four and nine months. Georgie
is only one and two months. How old are you? Do you have a husband?�
oITm twenty-seven and, no, I donTt have a husband. May I ask why you're asking?�
oGrandma and Daddy are looking for a new mommy for me and Georgie. Georgie ~specially,
because ITm a big girl, but he cries a lot. Daddy doesnTt have breasts. Do you want to meet
my daddy?�
oThank you for the offer, Elizabeth, but ITm not exactly the woman your daddy is looking for.
Where is your mommy?�
Elizabeth began to march in place with her arms raised straight above her head. Georgie had
followed his sister and was now sitting next to Lilly, digging in the sand with a broken seashell.
oMy mommy is a whore. She lives with Jim. Daddy makes me go there but I like to go to
GrandmaTs. So does Georgie.� She stopped marching and snatched GeorgieTs seashell. Surprised,
he looked up at Lilly with big, round brown eyes.
oDid she steal your seashell, Georgie?�
Lilly found a smaller one behind her and gave it to him. She wiped the sand off his cheeks and
pinched his chubby nose. He ignored the seashell and stared at Lilly.
oHe likes you,� Elizabeth said and flung the broken seashell out into the water. oGrandma Judy
is over there in her chair. She watches us while Daddy goes to work. I love Grandma. So does
Georgie. SheTs getting us a new mommy whoTs going to be nice.�
The grandmother stared at Lilly from underneath her white sun visor.
oITm sure your mother likes you. Mothers love their little boys and girls even when they donTt
love the daddy.�
Lilly kissed Georgie on his forehead.
oNo!� she shouted, as she danced in a circle, stomping her feet in the foam. oShe does not love
my daddy. She said it on Tuesday at the party. SheTs a whore!�
oYou shouldnTt say that word, Elizabeth. ItTs not nice.�
oI am a very smart girl. I told Daddy to find me and Georgie a new mommy because she made
Daddy cry and now she lives with big hairy Jim who looks like a monkey. I know what whore is.
ItTs when people go away to live with other people when they're married.�
She stopped dancing and asked Lilly suspiciously, oWhere 1s your husband? Do you have a baby
like Georgie:
Georgie was putting lumps of sand on LillyTs thigh with his seashell.
oI told you no, silly girl. Do you want to see my butterfly?�
oYou donTt have a butterfly.� Elizabeth looked at her curiously.
Lilly pulled her bikini bottom down below her belly button to reveal a tiny green butterfly
outlined in black.
Elizabeth leaned in to thoroughly inspect LillyTs stomach.
oMy old mommy has lines like those.� Elizabeth ran her finger along a thin white mark below
the butterfly. oShe got them when Georgie made her tummy too big. They don't hurt.�
oStop it. DonTt touch.� Lilly shooed ElizabethTs hand away and covered her stomach.
oThe butterfly is a tattoo, Elizabeth. It lasts forever.�
oI know that,� she answered and pulled her brother to his feet. Georgie had smeared his sand
lumps down to LillyTs knee.
oWhere is your father?�
oDaddy went to buy me and Georgie a raft to go in the ocean. Why doesn't your husband like
the beach? Is he mad at you?� She walked Georgie carefully around in circles while he laughed
and splashed his feet in the shallow water.
oITm not married, you silly butterfly. I told you at least six times already.�
oMy daddy is the best. My mommy likes stupid hairy Jim and we're getting a new mommy!� she
chanted, pulling Georgie faster so that he tripped. Lilly caught him and sat him in front of her so
she could face him. There was sand in his belly button. He smiled up at Lilly and clapped his
hands, while she adjusted his twisted terry cloth shorts.
oGeorgie! Our sand castle!�
Elizabeth yanked her brother back up and dragged him away without saying goodbye. Their
drowning sand castle had melted to a small lump. The green sand bucket had been caught in the
water and was getting pushed and pulled by the incoming waves. Elizabeth immediately began
ordering Georgie to dig in the disappearing moat while
oMy daddy IS the best. My MOMMY she piled sand on the sad mound.
Lilly brushed GeorgieTs sand off her leg and got up to
5 ;
likes Stu D | d h d| ry Jim an d Wwe lke go. She went back to her bag and took out the muffins
and her sandals. She put the green towel in the bag and
, al
Q ett N Q a new mom My | wrapped the sailboat towel around her waist like a sarong
after shaking the sand out of it. Sliding her feet into her
sandals, she grabbed her cigarettes and dusted the sand off the cellophane wrapper. She left the
muffins on the beach and walked back to the hotel.
In room 406, the mother had left a note on hotel stationery next to the clock. She had gone for
a walk and would be back in half an hour if she didnTt see Lilly on the beach. There was money in
the brown suitcase if Lilly wanted a Coke. Please donTt disappear before she got back.
Lilly set the bag, the towel and her sandals on the floor by the door. She took the ashtray from
the dresser top and then lay down on the bed with the ashtray beside her. She pulled the phone
onto her lap and pushed the ~0.T
oCollect call, please. 916. 022. 5833. Lillian.�
She lit a cigarette with the receiver cradled on her shoulder.
oDaddy? ItTs Lilly. Is that your phone or mine?�
The manTs voice was muffled by static.
oLillian! No, itTs mine. WeTre out by the pool. Hold on, T'm walking inside. Okay, is that better?�
oItTs gone now. How are you?�
oITm great! Are you back from Florida already?�
oI got back from Florida two weeks ago, Daddy. Mom and I are at the beach for a week now.�
oHow was Florida?�
oJosh and I arenTt together anymore. Things just didnTt work out.�
oITm sorry to hear that, pumpkin.�
oITm fine, Daddy. The beach is nice. It hasnTt been too hot
this week.�
oWell, we donTt get to the beach much. ItTs sort of a drive. But weTve
been to the lake some, and you know the first of August weTll be
taking that trip down to San Diego to see SueTs parents.�
She switched the phone to the other ear.
oHow are the wife and the baby?�
oSue and Michael are doing great. HeTs gaining weight - theyTre in
the pool right now. He really likes the water.�
oHave her parents seen him yet? When am I getting a picture?�
oNo, this trip will be their first time. Pll be glad to get some rest and
let SueTs mom take over. We havenTt really taken any pictures yet. ITm
sure we will soon.�
oWhen do 1 get to see him
oIT donTt know. When we can get you out here, I suppose.�
oI miss you, Daddy.�
oI know, Lillian. Are you smoking a cigarette?�
She put the cigarette out and switched the phone back to the other ear.
oNo. Did you know that butterflies only live for a month, Dad?�
oWhat did you say?�
oNothing, never mind. CanTt you get me a plane ticket?�
oMaybe when we get back from San Diego. Have you been okay?�
oITve been fine, Dad. Look, I have to go now. Mom and I are going
to junc.
oOkay. Well, call me if you need anything, Lillian.�
oSure. Tell Susan I said hello and Michael, too.�
oIT will. Love you honey.�
oVeal, I love you, too, Dad.�
She set the receiver on the hook and put the phone on the floor.
She got off the bed and accidentally turned the ashtray over, dumping
ashes all over the bedspread. She left them and went into the bathroom.
Her motherTs pink bag still sat in the sink. The tray from the motherTs
breakfast was on the counter next to the sink. The muffin crumbs and napkin had been thrown away, but the
glass was still half full of milk. Lilly opened the pink bag and looked through the bottles. She took out two that
had very long names on the prescription sticker and looked full, and one brown glass bottle that was only half
full. She emptied them all on to the tray and then screwed the lids back on and put them in the pink bag. She
swallowed the pills four at a time, refilling the glass with water when she finished the milk. She was careful not
tO get laer motherTs pink bag wet.
From the bedroom, she got the pack of cigarettes and matches, then went back in the bathroom and pulled
the trash can next to the bathtub. She climbed in the bathtub and smoked a cigarette while she waited for her
mother, using the trash can for an ashtray. A
lliams
W 0
Photo by stuart
I have never trusted snakes;
They seem to move by magic, sliding
Across he! rea weletelemeyemaetotmiceyeer-ce eh
With revolting grace. Their dry skin
And Teruel eve tea ce) etea blot) bler-] ane) me of dirty
Places where serpents go to hide.
EB avo ur liutlemeyapeeteyehinonwerlenters
Underneath the bed; for me it was always a snake
There, waiting for a chance to sink its dirty
i i belex Se belcome eens (ore) eum iv-bletercas (our me er-belecm Lome ls
sites the bed with me. I imagine how its scaly skin
Would feel as it slithered over my stomach,
How my skin would feel to the snakeTs ae stomach.
| ESate (cele rewe-leew-lelemaulcemremereta :
Deeper under the covers. My mother once found a snakeskin
In the barn 8 Derlapebtaelas@ernerteele ascot snakes
That hiss and crawl over me, sliding |
Silently inside me, their dirty
Skin rasping against my thighs. I fell into the dirt
As I tried to run and woke up with my stomach
Muscles clenched tight. I slid
Out of bed, careful to keep away from the es jeytetbers
Underneath. Later that summer I saw a snake
Curled up on the warm stones of the patio, its patterned skin
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jennifer newman
Making it look like a coiled rope, that dry skin
That knows all the secrets of the grass and dirt.
I was skipping rope lojtla Be aueyse when I saw the snake,
The dream came back and fear chilled my stomach.
It didnTt see me and I knew I should run and hide
Before it came after me, slithering and sliding
Over the stones. But I could only stare as the rope slid
Out of my hands. Sometimes in sleep I feel rough skin
Moving across me and I wake up, afraid to see what is hiding
In the darkness. For woe I see eyes glowing with a dirty
Light, and I see the pale blur of a reptileTs stomach.
ThereTs nothing oe tell uae there is no snake
In my bed. But I still feel it sliding with dirty
Grace on the pale ribbed skin of its stomach. :
Hear it hiss to me that I can never hide from a snake.
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In spring we sometimes go in the indigo evenings to the doughnut shop. Doughnuts
make her laugh. We stand in front of a vast, glassed-in array, deciding. Golden,
puffed crullers, creme custard-jilled and tburstine, powdered,
glazed, coconut-coated. Chocolate-frosted, lemon, maple, or bright
candy pink with sprinkles.We revel in the freedom of choosing anything,
children away from parents. She buys a pink-frosted doughnut, cotton candy colored.
oIt tastes like elementary school!� she says, wiping bright pink frosting from her lips.
oHow?� I ask, laughing. oYou know,� she says, giggling, oit tastes sweet and bright and
artificial.� We both laugh. Outside, the trees bud fuchsia against the purple"-blue dusk.
We walk home. She steps silently in soft shoes. Laughing still, we say good-bye.
Her smile, sweet as pink doughnuts, briefly lights up my memory as she disappears
into the gathering dark.
Ved Aw
Dear Bekka,
We had doughnuts tonight in the studio, and I reached for one with my hands
all covered with paint, which made everyone laugh, but it made me remember
you, Bekka, and I smiled remembering " do you remember? " can you remember
the early mornings we worked on drama sets after nights of no sleep, and we
had doughnuts then, too, so many years ago, and I licked paint off my fingers
thinking it was sugar, and it was so funny we laughed ourselves breathless
and we got paint on the stage and wiped it up with our sleeves, which
seemed so funny, too. I remember you singing and laughing and creating -
there isnt anything you cant make " and I thought you were wonderful...
Usa tein So.
The day I first meet Bekka, she is sitting in the
alto section of the chorus room by me, waiting for
class to begin. She is sitting absorbed in complete
concentration. Her blond curls are twisted into a
chignon at the nape of her neck, somehow fas-
tened with a pencil. Beside her on my seat is a
small plastic case with divided sections. It is filled
with a myriad of tiny, multi-colored glass beads.
She is sewing them into an incredibly intricate pat-
tern drawn on her denim jacket. I see she has
been working for some time. The jacket is nearly
covered with beading. She is short and golden as
she sits hunched over her work. She is wearing
some sort of robish dress. The dress seems to be
fashioned of hand-batiked silk, deep indigo blue,
decorated with suns and stars and moons all
swirling in dazzling golden array. Her fingers fly.
She pushes a thin filament of needle through a
bead, into the denim, back through, and knots the
thread. I watch, fascinated. Suddenly sensing my
presence, she looks up.
oOh!� she says. oITm sorry! Sit down!� She hasti-
ly removes the case from my chair, sweeping up a
stray bead and neatly snapping the case closed.
She has a short, round nose sprinkled with freck-
les, and eyes blue and bright as glass beads. She
smiles. o?Tm Bekka.� She holds out her hand, and I take it as I slide into my seat. I find we are both fond of art, as well
as music, and that we are both dancers in the school musical. She asks me to help her work on the sets for the drama
play. She is forthright and funny and quite odd. I think I have never loved anyone so quickly or so well.
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I was Sia home in the floating rain today. The entire world looked
grey: ri remembered you standing on uh ferrg in New York, yes curls laced
with bends of Syn I went home and looked for a photo of that moment; I know
Sage 4 used lo have one. I couldnt find it anywhere. Then at became so pee he
: ia I find a photograph vidi, I tore see room apart searching. I emptied the
drawers and shook out all my scrapbooks ig leafed through every single album,
but I cos iene one eee Then, I remembered our yearbook, and there
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you are. YouTre e wearing your little hot pink and orange mini-dress from the
SIxtUeS, ine youT Te seandane on a ladder and painting. There on the page 1S A.
a &
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a as ane caceKet are BS from her mouth in gusts. The wind
nh h glow. against the gray air like pearls. I suddenly feel time
5 our lives are being torn away. from us before we Can ever er possibly
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crets. Pin sO torn Ba yesh this excitement and the bitlliane ~broiling i inten-
~that I I can t ape onto her words, seats her as she pees ~She > walks in
i. Sn no- one die vib listens: like ~you: oYour re the best friend I have,�
am too happy to pe I smile and take her hand. I hold on as though
wy oni with such a ones and intensity that the esky
note you wrote me. oThoreau rules!� it
says. And when I saw your handwrit-
_ ing again, you were suddenly with
me, and more real than anyone else I
can think of Reading owt ores
was like - heaving eS voice.
Dear Bekka,
: Poa
Re 3
. . :
After my father died, I began writing him letters. I never told you about that.
f thought you d think I was SHES: Of COUNSE, I should have known better. You es > ~i :
understand. I Ares wanted to gel the chance to talk to him. There were so. many
things I never got to say, ( or to. ash Ave people completely gone. after the i do you
Un We cremated him, burnt him clean ee and neat, and thre him out over = 3
the ocean. The ashes floated soft ante ary in a loi They dispersed pe disap-
oS long before they nae the water. I stood and ae nae down the elif
to the's sea a pounding below, the
ed to when I sat upon
his that long ago. The
long grass, blowing there, was
as salty golden as your hair.
Except for my time with you,
I think I have been completely
alone since then. Living with
Stephano is just like writing
to Daddy; I reach and love
and try, but there is never any
answer. He seems to see right
I go to our studio to meet her for ligntle: Bekka~and I have a studio toaeihial now. WeT re > together altos
all the time. As soon as I found out Bekka needed. me, too, E let her know how mueh. ~love her.
Not sexual love, or anything like that, but: sisterly sort of love. I can't stand toT ~be: ~without h
Bekka says even sisters aren t together as much as we are; -but Vm sure she doesnT t mind. She sa
I need to find. a sense. of myself, some confidence, so L donT t have to rely s so much. on her, but
su sure It doesnT t really bother her that I need her.
a , Bekka i is working i in Hately eres | this huge, ieee than life self-portrait She is'aj
into her work. Beka puts: her Puieic soul into her dork The pottraie is Ne:
and oddly like her, I think, watching herf lying hair and twirling limbs. She is pegs
Watching her, I feel 2 a familiar SEP yearning totbe her. hl
I recognize as my own, but I donT t know anymore to whom it first belonged.
oDonTt you love long hair?� I ask. It isa Preamble to a private joke.
through me. I know now why I used to cling to you so. You were the anh person
who seemed to see me, hear me. I know I ruined everything. I loved you until
you se ges. I wish I'd done things differently, so you'd be here now to USE at
me and Say I should make some horror movie out of it.. Letters to the Dead, or
something. I can hear your voice and see the laughter in your eyes when you'd tell ae
me not to take myself so seriously. I need that now. I think I just expect everyone.% as
to leave me, because they always have. You told me you used to be the same way.
What did you learn that taught you to_let go?
Dear Bekka,
oYou can hide behind it and pretend youTre all alone!� we say in unison. BekkaTs voice is strained,
though, and she doesnTt laugh as she usually would.
oWhat's wrong?� T ask. She sighs.
oLook, you're not going to like this,� she says. She goes on to tell me that she is enrolling at the
university when we graduate in the spring. She is going to art school. oBut I wonTt be able to pay
rent for the studio too. YouTre going to have to find someone else to work with.�
oBut, I donTt want to work with anyone else!� My voice rises uncontrollably. It is all I can think to
say, and I hate myself for it. I sound like a child.
oAnyway, thereTs something else,� she says. oI just think we spend too much time together anyway.
You're so clingy.� She doesnTt even look at me. She tells me itTs not that she doesnTt want to be with
me, but she thinks I need to be more independent. oYou just donTt have any sense of yourself at all.
It's really pitiful, and I just canTt support you the way you need me. ITm sorry.� She waits for me to
reply, but I canTt say anything at all. To my shame, my throat is filled with tears. She gets up and hur-
ries out of the shop. Her face is hidden from me by her fallen hair. I sit alone at the table and stare
at her white mug. Where her fingers encircled it, a rainbow"hued imprint remains.
Tonight I went for a walk around midnight just to get away from him. I am more I JUST CEU INGS
alone with him than ITve ever been by myself. The moon is a perfect half circle WE SPEND TOO
hanging in the darkness. ItTs as if someone had just sliced it exactly in half. I miss you
MUCH TIME
so much. I miss the way you work. ITm so controlled, my back is always killing me.
TOGETHER
I wish I could learn to let go like you. Do you remember that time you tried to dye
your hai black for Halloween by mixing all of your food coloring together, and it ANY WAY.
was every color of the spectrum for months? It still makes me laugh to think of
you sitting in Geometry with your hair all streaked like a clownTs, but you didnt
care at all; you just laughed like it was the most wonderful game. You always
could just go along with life so free. You were always meant to be so free. Being
separated from you is like missing a limb. You were right " I should have learned
to live on my own. I saw that the doughnut shop was still open, and I am sitting
here writing you now, with a pink-frosted doughnut in front of me.
She is standing on stage, swaying to the slow rhythm of the saxophone, and I am watching her from
behind the side stage curtain, just off the dim, night-abandoned corridor of the local high school.
She doesnTt know ITm here. SheTs wearing some 1930Ts black evening gown she picked up at a thrift
store. SheTs radiant. Against the dark, she glows like amber. Bekka starts to sing, and her voice is as
slow and mellow as syrup, and it blends into one with the saxophone. And I am so filled with it, I
think I will crack open...until she looks up at him. He is leaning into the saxophone, and she is lean-
ing into the sustained note, and their eyes are locked with a stream of pure energy " almost visible.
And I am sure my heart is breaking as I am standing outside of the sad, sweet note of their inter-
mingled voices, and the love in their eyes. I stand up and flee the theater, stumbling, my retinas
burnt with the after-image of her brightness. In the blackness of the side stage, I bump against the
curtains and the props and run alone into the darkened hallway.
Dear Bekka, :
I know it was my fault weTve been apart so long. ITm so sorry " I just want to tell you
ITm so sorry. I had no right " I mean, you were right. I needed to get my own life. i
couldn't go on using your strength. ITm trying to follow your advice. I know I need to
leave Stephano - I know " but youTre right; ITm so scared to be alone. I don't know who
I am...how do I find out? YouTve always been so sure of yourself. You know, there's so 4
much I want to ask you " everything seems so pointless. I go to class and wonder how
our professors can stand it...weTre so stupid, all of us. Our inane, empty words echo in
my head, reverberating until I want to shut everything out...shut myself out. Everything
we do is insignificant; weTre just all hurtling toward death, so what does it matter what | i
we do? When I think of you, when
I think of your glowing and
warmth...you smelled like a warm
kitchen...and how full of life you
were " but no one else seems to
care, except to say itTs a shame...the
newspaper called you a woman, but
we're not women " we're just girls,
aren't we? Just young and shining
with everything ahead of us. And
if this 1s what you've come to, then
whatTs ever going to happen to me?
i lial. ie
PE are ie 5 laisiadas gsi 5
ee GO
38
: ovine You, know" she gues
n into the gins? ~where I hak aii is waiting f for me. Mos
60
Was it like that for you? Did you know when the little vw van you were riding rounded that curve and
crashed into the stalled truck? Did you whirl through the air forever? Were you scared...could you see? Did
you hurt, poor beauty, when your body slammed into the asphalt and slid? I wasnTt there. Were you
laughing before? Were you conscious as you lay there, your pooling blood clotting and staining your golden
curls? Why wasnt I there when you lay broken in the road? Did you note the irony of it - that your sweet
life was ebbing away exactly twenty-one years after your
birth? How did your body escape the confines of that van
- did it plummet through steel? And why were you the only
one? And how did I escape today? I wanted to join you.
Did the sky open up that day? Was there a tear in the
celestial mesh on your given day, so that you simply and
accidentally slipped back through?
The evening I ran from BekkaTs house into the woods was the last
time I spoke to her. I ran back to Stephano. I lay with him on the
trodden, moldering leaves.
Afterward, I simply went home with him. There was no one to
miss me, really, not my work-worn mother, too tired and sad to
care. Stephano let me, without seeming to notice, move in with
him. Then, without comment, he let me follow him to a far away,
grit-gray city. I live here still. 1 work as a waitress and go to school.
He treats me much as he treated Bekka, with distance. For a long
time, I loved him as I loved her..,just clinging to him. But he never
cared, never even seemed to register my presence. For two years, I
have been pretending Bekka never died, and that I hadnTt hurt her so deeply. I didnTt go to the funeral. I write to her faithfully.
I am sitting in a shaft of moonlight on the cold wood floor of our apartment. I have just finished my last letter. I tie it
up with the others and stuff them into the box I made for them. The box barely closes. It is speckled blue and indigo and
gold and painted with suns and stars and moons. I walk into the bedroom where Stefano lies snoring. I stare at him with
distaste. I tiptoe across the creaking floor to the door. I grab my coat and purse and tuck the box under my arm, and
without looking back I leave my life behind. I walk to the bus station. I buy a ticket home. I know where I am going. There
is a monument to Bekka in the cemetery in our town. I will bury her letters there in front of it. Then I will try to find out
who I am without anyone elseTs help.
I board the bus. It is close to midnight. The bus is full of gray, ashen sleepers. They sit shumped in wrinkled clothing in
the stale space, and their eyes look through me as I push down the aisle. I sit next to the window, close to the back, and
study my reflection in the cold brightness of the artificial light. 4
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