EvergreenChronicles_Winter1992.pdf
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- EvergreenChronicles_Winter1992.pdf
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Evergreen
C II R O
~
I C L E S
Property of the Center
•
AJournal of
Gay and Lesbian Literature
•.
Table of Contents
Editor's Preface ........................................................3
Submission Information ............................................... 4
Subscription Information ..............................................2
Contributors ......................................................... 79
Poetry
MAX CII \:\rnERS LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF
CENTRAL OKLAHOMA
Berland ·
Christopher Thomas/On Being Gay ................ :. ............ 5
Glenn Sheldon/One Man's Biography,
One's Man's Autobiography.................................9
Rane Arroyo/Why I Didn't Write This Poem .................... 12
Roseann Dabasi/ About Beets.................................... 19
John M. Ison/Lady In Satin ......................................26
S. E. Mead/You ...................................................39
Christopher Moes/Maine Sleeps ................................. 45
Christopher Moes/Mr. Sugar Packet ............................. 46
Steven Riel/Just Before.._........................................59
Janis Totty/String ..... : ........................................ 6o
Deborah Parks-Satterfield/Trumpet Call Of The 7th Angel .....73
• Prose
Nona Caspers/just a cow breeder's daughter ......................6
Debora Parks-Satterfield/The Wedding Story................... 13
Robert Leone/Walking Your Baby Back Home ................... 21
Vicky Phillips/I Want To Be Your L-0-V-E-R ....................28
Gary Eldon Peter/Sun Country.................................. 40
Greta Gaard/Solstice Phoenix ................................... 47
Grant campbell/Making Peace .................................. 64
Artwork
B.R. Harriman/Untitled .....................................cover
gelatin silver print
Laura Migliorino/Who Will AID(s) My Brother Now ............ Z'l
diptych pasteL oil on paper
Jen Wright/Untitled............................................. 56
charcoal on paper
oco...__ ........ .._�o...
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Evergreen
The Evergreen Chronicles
A Journal of Gay-and Lesbian Literature
P. 0 . Box 8939, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55408-0939
Volume VII, Number 1, Winter/ Spring 1992.
Founder Don Markus Matsen (1954-1988)
Managing Editor Jim Berg
Associate Managing Editors Sima Rabinowitz
Betty Mihelich
Editors Kandy Beard
GretaGaard
Betsy Rivers
Art Director B.K. Harriman
Accounts & Records Sally Gordon
Distribution Manager Lee Klement
Marketing and Development D.R. Harriman
Betsy Rivers
Word Processing Jerry Bell
Proof Reader Colleen Frankhart
Technical Services Rosie, Iris Graphic Art Studio
Howard Liebhaber, Smart Set
The Evergreen Chronicles represents the literary and artistic talent of gay men
and lesbian women. ISSN. 1043-3333. The Evergreen Chronicles is published semiannually by The Evergreen Chronicles, Inc.
©1991 The Evergreen Chronicles, Inc a non-profit, tax-exempt organization. All
financial contributions are tax-deductible. First printing copyrights. Copyrights
return to the author upon publication.
Subscription Rates: $15 per year Individual (US), $28 for two years Individual
(US), $18 per year for International (Outside US), $20 per year Institutional, $30
per year for Supporting Subcription, or $7.95 per single issue.
Address Changes: Send address changes to Distribution Manager, The Evergreen
Chronicles, P.O. Box 8939, Minneapolis, MN 55408-0936.
Evergreen is available in many quality bookstores nation-wide. Interested
vendors should write for Bookstore rates and information.
Advertising: Please write for rates and information.
The Evergreen Chronicles is printed on recycled paper.
Editors' Preface
It's been a rough season. In Minneapolis this summer, )ohn Chenoweth and Joel
Larson were murdered by gay bashers, and City Council member Brian Coyle
died of AIDS related complicaaons. In St. Paul, the fight started again to repeal
the sexual orientation clause of the city's civil rights ordinance. The gay and
lesbian community has felt under seige.
Perhaps by the time this issue of The Evergreen Chronicles reaches you, the
police will have arrested the murderers of Larson and Chenoweth. The St. Paul
ordinance has indeed weathered the storm and remains on the books, and
Brian's successor (a progressive non-gay man) has been chosen. We've lost a lot
here in the last year. It seems we have begun to heal in Minnesota-or maybe
we're all ready to retreat from the world into our igloos. One motif running
through this issue of Evergreen, the first number of our seventh year, is the
search for peace and the search for a loving, caring community: Grant
Campbell's "Making Peace" concerns a single man's difficult life and his
momentary salvation; other pieces deal with individuals connecting to others
through community celebrations and acts of singular kindness. At this time in
our history, it's important for all of us to realize that despite the difficulties
we face, we can survive. Together.
You'll notice some differences in Evergreen this time. Our new design was
developed by our new Art Director, B.R. Harriman. Harriman has revamped the
entire magazine to make it more attractive and enjoyable for our readers. We
can thank him as well for enlisting the support of Howard Leibhaber, of Smart
Set, who gave us a substantial discount on Postscript output for this issue. We
will continue to improve the production of the magazine with the next issue.
We welcome also new editor Greta Gaard, who teaches at the University of
Minnesota-Duluth. By way of introduction, we've included Greta's short story,
"Solstice Phoenix," in this issue.
Finally, we have a question to pose to our readers. Over the past few months,
the staff has discussed the subject of bisexuality: that is, should the magazine
change its subtitle to specifically include bisexuals? (One discussion lead to the
change from "A Journal of Gay and Lesbian Writers" to "A Journal of Gay and
Lesbian Literature.") Several staff members support the idea while others are
opposed for various reasons and to various degrees. We invite you, gentle
reader, to respond. Should The Evergreen Chronicles change its stated guidelines
and subtitle to specifically welcome bisexual people? Please send us your
thoughts, ideas, etc. We may decide to publish some of them in a future edition.
Jim Berg
for the editors
The Evergreen Chronicles Submission Requirements
The Evergreen Chronicles, while rooted in the Midwest, draws its
artistic talents from a national audience of lesbian and gay writers and
artists. No one theme is required, but works must have a lesbian or gay
appeal. The subject matter need not be specifically lesbian or gay, but
we look for work with a deep sensitivity to the lesbian and/ or gay
experience. We are interested in works in a wide variety of genres.
Please send 4 copies of your submissions for the editorial committee.
Include your name on each page. Include a self-addressed, stamped
envelope for return of submissions, as well as a short biographical
statement describing yourself and your work. Artwork cannot be
returned.
Prose:
Submit double-spaced, typed stories or plays up to 25 pages
in length. Limit - 3 pieces.
Poetry:
Submit single-spaced, typed poems.
Limit - 10 poems or 10 pages.
Artwork: Send a clean, reproducible copy in black-and-white up to
8-1/2"xll". Photography submissions should send an 8"x10",
black-and-white, glossy print. Other media should submit
photographic reproductions of artwork in 8"xl0", black-andwhite, glossy format. DO NOT SEND ORIGINAL ARTWORKartwork cannot be returned.
Writers and artists chosen for publication will receive a complimentary
issue of The Evergreen Chronicles. Buys one-time rights.
Deadlines: Summer/Fall Issue (June): January 1
Winter/Spring Issue (December): July 1
Send Submissions to:
The Evergreen Chronicles
Managing Editor
P. 0. Box 8939
Minneapolis, MN 55408-0939
On Being Gay
Christopher Thomas
Perhaps I'm best explained
by the games I played
the year puberty bloomed
like an Amaryllis,
or the sudden hired hand
I caught fumbling
at his jeans watching in a trance until
his lovely apparatus
inched up past his buckle.
He was a moon-mind
filled with moon madness.
The embers of his smile
caught my innocence off guard
and sucking my first cock in the loft.
He was everywhere delicious.
We danced without moving,
proclaiming what the glands know
about the illiteracy
of a young heart.
just a cow breeder's daughter
Nona Caspers
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hy can't you act like your sister who sits quiet with her legs
shut. I didn't know my legs were open are they open? I looked
down and sure enough each leg had gone off in a different
direction and before you knew it I was talking like a whore. You talk
like a whore like a man you look pretty but you talk like a whore like
a man you walk like a cow in that dress, she said, you wear the dress
but you walk like a cow.
My father is a cow breeder he's a technician Mom said and she
showed me how to spell the word TECHNICIAN so I could write it in
the space on all the forms at school where they ask what your father's
occupation is and if you are a boy or a girl, always in that order. My
father is a TECHNICIAN I wrote and the teacher asked, But what kind
what does he do? I looked around the room with my hands under the
desk and each leg off in a different direction and I said, He gives shots
to cows, I said, and she said, Oh he's a Veterinarian, she said and I
wanted to say yes but I didn't I said, No. He breeds cows.
Then my mother taught me a different word-ARTIFICIAL
INSEMINATION-and I learned how to spell it but I didn't know what
it meant all I knew was that I'd gone with my father to the farms in
his blue coveralls and watched him put the long plastic glove on his
arm and stick it in a cow to give it a shot. And he said, I'm a Cow
Breeder.
Act like a lady, Mr. Ricklick said as I stood leaning my pelvis on the
front of his desk and I wondered what exactly he meant and he
wondered why I didn't know. I didn't know why I didn't know. I never
seemed to know how to act and my sister brought a book home from
college and she put it on my head, she said, Walk across the kitchen
pull your stomach in and don't arch your shoulders. She put the book
on my head and it was heavy with words. I did it perfectly but when
she took the book off I ran outside into the night to play tin-can-alley
with the neighbor kids. Nobody had books on their ~eads. I coul~ never
have ran in free with that book on my head or without openmg my
legs.
The Teachers told me to stop talking so loud and laughing so loud
but in my house you had to talk loud if you wanted to get your share
of the Dad's Root Beer and have Dad himself say, Tell me your stories.
And if I got an A I got a dollar so I wanted the Teachers to like me
because I wanted to buy bubble gum and there was a way to chew it
without making any noise or showing that you had a mouth at all. My
sister learned how to do it but I couldn't so Mr. Hegle the American
Government Teacher told me I was a pig. He told me I was a goddamn
pig because I didn't chew right or talk sof! an~ I l~ughed so loud at a
lot of things in his class because a lot of thmgs m his class were funny.
My mouth was too big. They all said it was big. Way too big for a
girl. Bigger than the classrooms at school. Bigger than the whole
playground. I could fit the swing set in my mouth so the boys at school
tried to stick a worm in it. They dug one up a long pink one and then
they all chased me. I ran as fast as I could in my flouncy polyester
dress and new shoes with plastic heels and tight pointed toes. I ran as
fast as I could in those itchy panty hose with my long hair flying in
my face the barrette sliding out (I couldn't stop to pick it up and my
mom just bought them). When they caught me I kicked and screamed I
kicked my legs out at them my dress flew up and the whole
playground could see my underwear but I kicked and yelled with my
big mouth and they couldn't get the worm in it.
Then all the rules changed, they said, Screw, they said, Screw it
screw boys it's what women do, they said, You don't have to keep your
legs shut, they said, You are free. It's the Sexual Revolution honey
chicky baby come on open your legs don't worry 'bout that Lady stuff
it's all a bunch of crap you can do what you want so open your legs
open wide.
I shut my legs. I crossed my legs. And they said Weird and they said
Frigid and they said Faggot. A whole group of blonde blue-eyes
Arkansas girls said faggot and threw combs and wet tissue at us and
we grabbed our clothes and ran out of the Harrison pool as they
chanted and cut us with their soft-blue-lady-girl-eyes. And I said FUCK!
My younger brother told me not to say FUCK! It was really
unbecoming what man would want to kiss a mouth such a dirty big
mouth that said FUCK! The mouth of a woman should be soft and
sweet as papaya dipped in honey Yes uh hmm how do you feel tonight
Oh that's too bad how could she do that to you. A mouth that could
slide. A mouth that could fit. A hollow mouth.
My father wanted me to race him on my bike so I did and I won
and I stank. You stink like B.O., he said, God you stink can't you do
something about that smell and I sank. I sank into my tee-shirt and
jeans I sank into my sweat and my mom bought me some roll-on
deodorant and told me to use it but I'd forget and the gooey ball got
clogged and I broke into a rash and I sweat. I sweat and I stank and
my brothers said ich as they lifted their weights and dripped salt on
the floor and nothing I did stopped the odor completely and
everything I liked made me sweat. Even cheerleading made me sweat
and the other cheerleaders sweat but none of us told.
My mother said, You're asking for trouble, as I ran out of the house
in a scooped neck summer smock and I wasn't sure if she meant I'd
catch a cold or a penis and have babies and end up like her with wide
hips. So I stopped eating and everyone was happy. My Teachers were
happy, my father was happy, my brothers were happy but I wasn't
happy so I ordered a pizza and the man in the suit at the table said,
Don't touch your food with your fingers. Keep your fingers clean off
the plate and don't lick them, he said in a whisper.
They said I should be a nurse, Don't you want to be a nurse? and I
said NO, but they said I'd make a good nurse because when my dog got
hit by a car I held her in my lap with blood on black fur and my thigh
until stiff. Then they said, Be a Teacher don't you want to teach little
kids? and I said NO, but they said I'd be a good Teacher because when I
babysat the kids in the neighborhood I'd make them sit quiet in rows
and read books and if they didn't I send them to bed. They all said I
should be something until I got married and my mother worried
because I still didn't act like a Lady and the roots of my hair were not
as blonde anymore but my father said, At least she doesn't give away
the milk free. ■
One Man's Biography,
One Man's Autobiography
Glenn Sheldon
He says I am his codependent to heaven.
I say he romanticizes such infinities.
He says each of us walks away from our Bethlehems.
I say my house of silence is empty.
He says I fear the familiarity of my own voice.
I say his poetry tips over his own words.
He says I am a man who's forced to change changes.
I say he's joined one too many cults.
He says my ego is anorexic or bulimic.
I say he has one too many mouths to shoot off.
He says that sex used to be like darkness igniting.
I say that the sun revolves around the sun.
He says that I insist on intimacy or else!
I say he mistakes his dictionary for a bed.
He says I'd probably wear a tie in the tropics.
I say at his autopsy they'll find only stone.
He says all my tattoos are probably pen names.
I say he'd make a good cross behind a martyr.
He says my bed is too warm in the winter.
I say he is too soused to come near my cigar.
He says my poems are like DC-lOs...crashing.
SPECIAL REPORT
"We interrupt this poem to bring you the critics."
Continued
Ms. Z: By the time I'm done decoding, there's no poem left.
Mr. X: It's not up to par; it's no "Death in Black and White."
y (pseudonym): This poet always delivers quality. Why bring
Mr. Sheldon in on it?
SPECIAL REPORT
"We interrupt the critics to bring you a poem."
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Your bed is a raft: a buoyant thing.
You want me to be the oar.
We breathe water before we breathe each other.
First you are fisherman, then, the net.
I awake to find I was never,
never meant to hold on to "you" or "we."
I never meant to get caught.
I say I wrote that on March third, 1984.
He says it's no "Death in Black and White."
I say he flatters me with his poetic regrets.
SPECIAL REPORT
"We interrupt art-be it good art or bad artto bring you an arsonist..."
THIS POEM JUST BURNED DOWN TO THE GROUND
"We now resume our regular programming."
LIFE IN BLACK AND WHITE
(Critical Restoration of "One Man's Biography,
One Man's Autobiography")
He says I could row him up the river of heaven.
I say that the infinite is envious of us.
He says we are each other's affirming mangers.
I say my cabin of camouflage has crumbled.
He says he is the wild air feeding my fire.
I say that his right eye is bloodshot with desire.
He says he sleeps with the angel inside my atheism.
I say my body apexes in its partial eclipse.
He says he resents sleep for lack of my consciousness.
I say that our tight jeans envy our bodies.
He says the taste of a man is like a peppermint wafer.
I say I always sing sweet blues in the morning.
He says my ego is like a religion, an addiction.
I say the sounds of our moans build galaxies.
He says the blooming irises call out our names.
I say that his heart swells like an overfed dove.
He says our love is like a gluttonous thief.
I say there is no me left to be taken so feast!
He says that trees breathe by tightening their barks.
I say there can be no shame to such movements.
He says I fear to awake without you here.
SPECIAL REPORT
"We interrupt this poem to bring you a poem."
GIVING IT UP
Night is the moon's own
Bandage for vicious wounds.
We are pretty dolls that God
Spent time winding for us to unwind...
Blood is rare-none die willingly.
There are those who do not fear flesh;
They are the violent virgins.
I say that this poem is too short, like our nights.
He says that the ultimate compliment is horizontal.
I say let's let our cocks shoot themselves off. ■
::::
I
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Why I Didn't Write This Poem
The Wedding Story
Rane Arroyo
Deborah Parks-Satterfield
R
*The cat is scaring away birds
feeding on seeds I threw on
the porch even though I know
it's going to be a mild winter
II
11
"*a man steps out in underwear
I
sits on his porch and smokes
a cigarette and points at me
and the black cat as if to
say, so I'm not alone, the Earth
was destroyed last night
only in my dream, I shiver too
*Maintenance men kick open
my apartment door to make sure
thieves haven't broke in during
Christmas vacation and I have
to show my in-state I.D.s to
prove this is my place, my poem
"*
II
I
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II I
ight in the middle of Yahtzee Annie and Jill announced that they
were getting married! "After being together for 16 years," they
said, "it's time we publically acknowledge our relationship and
made another step toward a more global way of thinking." "Global,
huh?" I snickered, "before you tell Zimbabwe why don't you tell your
parents?" Somebody kicked me under the table, then everybody was
quiet.
I sat there and sizzled, silently! Were we fast becoming a Lesbian
nation of Lucy and Ethels, Rhoda and Marys, or worst of all June and
Junes, prancing around in house dresses and pearls waiting for some
fool to walk through the door saying, "Honey, I'm home!?"
"I don't know why you think this is necessary!" I blurted. "/ know
you've been together for 16 years, you know you've been together for
16 years, even the postman knows you've been together for 16 years! So
what's the point?!" "We feel..." (watch out for any sentence that starts
with 'we feel') ..: " that having some sort of ceremony is an important
political and personal statement of our commitment to each other." Jill
intoned in her best, I'm-just-trying-to-educate-you voice. "You know, as
well as I do, that there's no legal or moral support for us out there. We
have to find ways to affirm and empower ourselves." "Right!" I yelped,
"You just want presents! You two are exactly like that Het yuppie
trash! Is the Mayor of Munchkin City gonna perform the ceremony?!
Get a grip on reality girls, marriage is not the answer to
empowerment!"
Everyone was so engulfed in ecstacy, at the prospect of a lezzie
wedding, they totally ignored me! I proceeded to go on and on any
way. I ranted and thrashed_around the living room like Godzilla. They
laughed and floated off into the dining room, waxing organic about
macrobiotic wedding cakes, the moon and love, babies and 2nd
mortgages. I hollered, "That's it!" and threw the dice across the room.
All 5 dice smacked the wall and landed on the floor in a perfect
Yahtzee, all sixes. Everybody took this as a blessing from the Goddess.
Iht was my "lucky" toss so, of course, they figured it only made sense
t at I should be maid of honor.
"~re you all out of your minds?! I haven't set foot in a church since
my F1!st Communion when my veil got caught on the holy water font
~nd tipped the whole damned thing into Sister Timothy's lap! AND I
ave never dressed up in anything froo-froo, lacy or mint green! Next,
I suppose you'll want me to go to a department store and have my face
done by some woman with big hair!"
"Come in here, hush up and sit down!" commanded Annie, "you
know, you watch too much T.V.! We're planning on doing it up nice in
a really centered and womanly way. We're having the ceremony on
that land we bought up north, in the clearing I told you about."
"Me? Outside? In the woods!" I shrieked, "you know I don't do dirt!
We-1-1-1, you're not gonna catch me jiggin' around with my chest
flappin' in the breeze like some damn wood sprite. I will be keeping all
my clothes ON thank you! And if I SEE any naked breasts I'm leaving!"
. They just smiled and kept planning.
On the day of the blessed event, I'd agreed to give a ride to a
couple I didn't know, who were close friends of Jill's. When I picked
them up, that morning, something told me I was in for a rough trip. As
I honked the horn a pair of thin, blonde, very white women skipped
down the walk. They were dressed as if they'd been caught in
explosions at Pier I, L.L. Bean and Banana Republic. They looked
ethereal, ethnic, gauzy yet practical all at once. This pair also reeked of
Patchouli oil! I, on the other hand, reeked of OFF. I'd sprayed on so
much insect repellent my pants were clinging to my legs and my butt
was permanently glued to the drivers seat! "Hi, and blessed be!" they
chirped in unison. "I'm Birchbark and this is my friend Autumn Wind
What's that awful smell? We both have allergies." I thought for a
moment then replied; "I'm a Voo-doo princess and what you're smelling
is the ju-ju bag I have in my purse."
"Oh," Ms. Wind said, as if she was speaking to a retarded child, "we
respect all religions except Christianity of course, so it's o.k. We'll just
hop in the back and open the windows."
"Good."
My companions sang Kay Gardner songs for the next 100 miles till
they fell asleep or passed out, I couldn't tell which. I almost got pulled
over for speeding, it was either that or o. d. on patchouli.
We arrive at the wedding site, trekked in about a quarter mile and
came to a beautiful clearing. The trees surrounding it were decorated
with fresh flower garlands and the smell of pine was everywhere. In
the very center of the clearing stood a waist high stone altar. All
around the altar, growing right out of the ground, were hundreds of
day lilies, black-eyed susans and other summer flowers I'd never seen
before. I was overcome! This skulking euphoria crept up on me!
Suddenly, I was seized with a woodsy, organic, crunchy granola kinda
bean-sprouty feeling! I mean I was actually starting to understand why
people liked to be outside. Just as I was beginning to relax a half-naked
ephemeral flit danced up to me and tried to mash a halo of dried
flowers onto my head!
"Do I look like a Smurf?!" I screamed. Ms. Flit ignored my protests
and continued to leap about and grin.
.
.
"Do you understand that dried flowers and nappy hair do not mix?!
I don't wanna be pickin' that shit outta my hair for the next week!"
But she was high on life and obviously locked in 'don't-worry-bestupid' mode. I know you," she said delightedly, "maid of honor, perfect
Yahtzee, all sixes!" She waved the crusty halo in front of my face and
whined, "Everyone in the wedding party i~ wea_ring the~e! You can't be
the only one not wearing a halo) We re videotapmg the who~e
ceremony and it just wouldn't look rtght! Come on, let me help. you tte
it on." I genuinely wanted to be a _part of one of_the ~ost spec~al days
in Annie and Jill's lives so I gave m and stood still while she tied that
.
, . .
stupid crumbly thing to my head.
"Oh, and the gift table is on the rtght, food far left, Brenda s givmg
neck rubs behind that oak and Pilar is reading Tarot down by the
creek, enjoy." she called over her shoulder as she skipped off to find
the next victim.
The day was moving into afternoon and all I wanted to do was sit
down and eat. As I walked across the clearing a realization hit me.
Women were seated directly on the grass. No blankets. No lawn
chairs... nothing. I was in a panic! I can't sit on grass! Things live in
grass! Animals pee on grass! Maybe it wasn't to late to find Birchbark
and have her whittle me a chair! What was I supposed to do?
Frantically, I searched the group for some sign of Annie or Jill, but no
luck. Well at least there was food here, when in doubt eat.
I assumed the spread would consist of your average dyke fare, you
know, wheat-free this, rice-flour that, tofu-ridden this, carob-laden
that and the ubiquitous blue corn chips. I knew it would be futile to
look for a chicken. Unfortunately, when I arrived at the table, none of
the food resembled anything I'd ever eaten! Among the entrees was a
black paste surrounded with gray crackers, fat purple things floating
in purple liquid, a gelatinous steamy casserole and some crunchy red
stuff that women kept popping into their mouths and commenting on
how yummy this batch tasted, this time. In the center of this repast sat
a huge, brown mound. Now, THAT was either the wedding cake or
beavers had crawled up from the creek and began construction of their
new home right in the middle of the table. I was starving! I would've
danced the mambo butt naked across Montana for just a Ritz cracker
and a slice of cheese!
I had to find Annie and Jill! My blood sugar level was dangerously
low. I wobbled around the perimeter of the clearing, feeling almost
drunk and bumping into other guests as I mumbled,
-
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"HaveyouseenAnnieorJill?" I stumbled back over to what was looset proportions! I looke~ dow? and there at my feet was a fat, heavyreferred to as the food table and discovered that someone had brought looking pinecone. I picked it up and thought, maybe I'll just give little
a plain mixed green salad. Mine! Mine! I swooped down and hung ovei Terpsichore a hand. As I said earlier I do not function well in the outthat bowl like a vulture! Finally, my head started to clear and my eyei of-doors and I am certainly not athletic. I wondered if I could put some
unglazed. I leaned against a tree and was drifting into that full-tumm1 serious velocity on that pinecone without hurting the impudent little
coma when -someone shrieked, "Oh, my Goddess!" The noise came froq puss. I knew I'd probably bring the wrath of the whole dyke universe
the direction of the creek, so everyone made a mad scramble for till down on myself but... I took aim and let that prickly baby fly! Bullseye!
water! Once there, we encountered a large Black woman in a brigh When the cone made contact with Terpsichore's fuzzy flanks she leapt,
yellow toga pacing, leaping and yelling under a gigantic maple. (She all teeth _and claws, a parabolic trajectory soaring over our heads!
too, was ~earing c~unchy d~ied flowers 0!1- her ~ead.) Ms. Yellow Togi Before you could say "inappropriate" she landed WHAM! right in the
was hoppmg, runnmg, babblmg and pointmg up mto the branches. "Mi middle of the gift table! Vibrators, power tools, sensible cotton
poor baby," she moaned, "my Terpsichore, my darling! I told her not 1G underwear and tie-dyed jog bras flew in every direction! In the ensuing
go up there but she just insisted! I turned my back for one second, onr- confusion I escaped from the crowd and sprinted for the altar. If they
second! She's not healthy at all, you know, she's due for her asthmi were going to kill me we might as well turn it into a ritual. My freezeshot at 4:30 and it's already 5 o'clock, oh, Goddess what am I going II dried crown bounced merrily as I ran straight into a teeny, birdlike
do?!" Her voice trailed off into a distressful moan. I looked around anl woman dressed in black. I was stunned! How could retribution have
couldn't believe it! We were all just standing there unmoving, like I arrived so quickly?! After all I hadn't done any serious damage.
pile of Lincoln Logs! Well, I'd had my vegies and I was fired up! I was Terpsichore walked away from the crash shaken but intact. Even so
prepared to do what ever it would take to save that little lamb! J'tl guilt .hung around me like undissipated gas. I fell to my knees on the
lower myself into the well like when they rescued baby Jessica or I'I clammy turf, stammered out the whole story and begged forgiveness.
sit out on the ice all night like they did with those stranded whales
. "For heaven's sake, get up. You must be Catholic. I get that response
"What is the matter with you women!" I cried, "let's help the sister get qmte,, frequently from Catholics. You'd think I'd be accustomed to it by
her child out of that tree!" I started forward expecting them all tc now.
follow, when someone whispered in my ear.
"Wait~ minute," I growled, "just who the hell are you anyway!"
"It's not her kid, it's her cat."
She pomted at her clerical collar and said, "Reverend Ramona, I'm
"Say what!? Why would anyone, in her right mind, bring her cat tc here" to perform the ceremony."
a wedding?!"
"What?! You mean you';ve actually talked to Anni~ and Jill today?!"
Oh, sure, they're in the Winnebago down on the other side of the
The woman who'd whispered to me straightened up and fixed mi
with a look like Superman doing X-ray vision. "You sound quite hostili cree~. I've been doing a little impromptu counseling with them to
and just a little judgmental. I think your aura needs cleaning!"
alleviate_ stress... cold feet, you know how it is."
Before I could tell her to go get the Dustbuster someone hollered
"Trailer, they're in a trailer?"
"Stand aside!!" As we all stepped back Birchbark made a running stad
Before s~e could u!ter another word I flew down the path and
and hurtled herself onto the tree! She was plastered to the trunk an< acr_oss the httle footbridge that spanned the creek. I arrived at the
kind of hung there for a moment then shinnied up, turned, gave th! t~tler and b~eathed a sigh of relief. Finally, some sanity amidst this
"thumbs-up" sign and disappeared into the branches. What a woman! c aos, an oaSIS of calm, a snug harbor... a REAL toilet. I flung the door
We stared up into the tree for what seemed like hours. My ned orn and the ~tmosphere was, how shall I put it, a little thick. Jill was
was killin' me and I still couldn't see the little beast. Then I spotteil ~{etched out_10 a ha~mock suckin~ back o~e pop after another, eating
her. Contentedly nestled on a branch was a snotty-looking Siamese thsl g f~oppy shces of pizza and cham-watchmg Madonna videos. Annie
had absolutely NO intention of coming down to earth in this lifetime pac~.T~ack an~ for_th with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Poor Birchbark was wedged up there doing that "nice kitty," "hert e 1 . e w~ddt~g ts OFF!" These words popped out of Annie like little
kitty" baloney. Each time her hand got close enough the little rat w6 OSions. 1_thmk we must have been in the grip of some serious PMS
catcher would mutate into Pussy from Hell. Then she'd go back I th en we decided to do this number!" She paced back and forth spitting
politely cleaning her whiskers. The situation was reaching maddenill
e wo rd s out as she walked while Jill just munched away.
.....
--..I
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11
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1:
11
"I mean, really, you were absolutely right! Aping heterosexuals •
not an act of empowerment, it's an act of stupidity! I don't know wha About Beets
we were thinking! We have been in here all damn day trying to sort
nn Dabasi
everything out. I'm sorry, Deb." I felt like a sandbag with the edge torq aosea
off. My whole body sagged. The tears gathered in the pit of my
A tale that begins with a beet will
stomach and ·started that slow roller-coaster climb to my throat. Then I
d ·th th d .1
en wi
e evi •.
got a good look at myself in the mirror. My halo, which, by now, was
completely destroyed, was down around my neck. I was marinate~
(Old Ukraman Proverb)
from head to toe, in leaves, mud and grass. My blouse twisted East, my
slacks twisted West and there were cherry-tomato seeds stuck to the
You are almost asleep as
corners of my mouth.
I read to you from Tom Robbins
"Yeah," chomped Jill, "we know you're upset, so are we but..."
Jitterbug Perfume
"Get out of that hammock!" I growled through clenched teeth, "put
about Beetsthat pizza down and turn that T. V. off! This event is going to continue
You do not like beets and
as planned and do you know why?!" (By now their eyes were as wide
so
do not understand
as banjos. They thought I'd lost my mind!) "Because I came all the way
their mystique.
out into the wood for you two today. My hair is full of crunchy dead
flower crumbs, my clothes are ripped to shit, the dyke tribunal has put
I like beets
a bounty on my head for cat torture and I STINK! Now, you are gonm
in the hot summer
get your butts out there and smile and be happy dammit!" There was 3
with plenty of butter.
long pause. They both just stared at me. Then Jill sighed. "Geez, Deb you
I like it that they bleed
always know just the exact right thing to say in a crisis situation.'
that the water they are cooked in
They stood, hugged each other, brushed off their matching tuxedos
turns a red soaked stain.
hugged me, then, hand in hand, walked out the door.
I like digging beets from the
I picked up a piece of pizza, · stretched out on the hammock and
turned on the T.V.
warm earth
After all, I could always catch the wedding on video, right? ■
Fingernails caked with dirt and grit
It's fitting that beets with all
their blood
are born of black humus.
"Red Sugar Beets"
I say it several times
"Red Sugar Beets"
even its sound is tempestuous
a bit lustful.
I stare into your face
and realize it is not the face
of a beet lover.
I
I
I
I
I
!
I
,,
There is no roundness
no redness
no indication of a history
of beet eaters.
only Blue eyes
and Blue eyes.
My passion for the beet
remains lonely.
I kiss you
once-then twice
yours are lips that
I cannot forget
and so I hold you
wistful.
■
I
I
I
fwatking Your Baby Back Home
obertLeone
I
t's just an ordinary photo in a cheap red frame. The glass has to be
cleaned every couple of weeks because of grease splatters. That's
because I keep it in the kitchen on a shelf over the stove. Just a few
days ago John-the man in the picture with me-smiled. He was
l probably always smiling, I just never noticed; it's not a very big smile.
' He's sitting on the back steps of an apartment building on Valencia
1street with me behind him, a step above. My hands are on his
'shoulders as if to keep him from floating away. My smile is much
1easier to spot, it's big and not too sincere. I see John's smile now when
'rm scrambling eggs or boiling water for coffee-it's not that easy to
find but it always cheers me up when I do find it.
"I spend all my time watching the damn TV and my father won't
stop blowing on that lousy flute," John says.
"It's driving me nuts."
"You should go out more. Get away from him for a while." I
suggest.
"Go out more! Are you nuts? I can barely walk to the bathroom
now without falling over and this one wants me to go out more. Maybe
I should do laps around Dolores Park until the ambulance arrives, what
do you think Tony?"
A red flush creeps up my face. I blew it again.
"I'm sorry, I was trying to help."
"Well don't. Just shut up and listen once in a while."
Fortunately the door to the bedroom is closed so no one can hear
unless John's father has his ear plastered to the keyhole which is
unlikely. I fumble around with the books and pill bottles on his
bedside table, pretending to straighten up the mess. John's bony fingers
pull a Marlboro from the pack stashed somewhere in his rumpled
blankets. He lights up and inhales briefly, precisely, then drops the
burnt match in the ashtray.
"You know," John says, "the old man has only been here two weeks
and already I'm sick of him. He's either practicing his flute or trying to
get me to eat something awful that he cooked himself. This morning it
was lumpy oatmeal with a banana in it and a cup of Ovaltine for
Christ's sake."
"You're the one who asked him to come," I point out.
"Thanks for reminding me," he says, taking another drag on the
Marlboro. "Yesterday on the way to the clinic I was trying to show him
N
N
■
l<-'l
z
0
...
l<-'l
11
1·
I!
I
how to drive my car-he's not used to a stick shift-and darn it, he just
wouldn't listen to me. Had to do it his way, which meant we did a
bump and grind all the way down Mission Street."
John inhales one last time and crushes the cigarette out, then fixes
me with his clear brown eyes.
"I'm too tired to talk anymore now Tony, will you come back
tomorrow?"
"Sure, I'll be back around three, after work."
I kiss him lightly on the forehead; already his eyes are beginning
to close. John's world is shrinking fast. It's just the three of us really,
me, Pop and Buster, plus visits to the clinic at General Hospital. His
energy is low and he doesn't weigh much any more; bones stick out
everywhere. The first time we met we talked nonstop for two hours. It
didn't take long for us to realize that we liked each other. Since then
we have seen each other every day. Sometimes we barely talk, other
times we talk a lot. At the volunteer training they told us that silence
is OK and you don't have to make noise just to fill up time. We seem to
meet in a vacuum. It makes no difference to us what Reagan is up to or
what color Madonna's hair is this week. I wish I cold do more for John;
help him. Usually I take a few deep breaths until the urge passes.
They're not exactly music yet, those flute sounds drifting in from
the front of the apartment. Maybe someday but not yet. I've just let
myself in and drop down into a chair in the living room. John's little
black dog jumps up into my lap demanding to have his belly rubbed:
"Hey Buster, what's goin' on? You're a good doggy aren't you, a good
little slobbery doggy."
He tries to French kiss me but I resist. John wobbles in from the
bedroom at the sound of my voice.
"Quit fooling with that dog and come in here, will you?" He says
irritably, motioning to the bedroom. "At least we won't have to listen
to that awful racket."
"I brought you something."
Shyly I stand up and pull out a small bunch of daisies, half stuffed
in my backpack. John touches my arm awkwardly, takes the flowel'!
and puts them down on the coffee table. We hold each other for 1
moment, too embarrassed to say anything.
"Thank you," John finally rasps in my ear.
He shuffles into the kitchen for an empty jar and sticks the brighl
yellow and white flowers in one at a time, breaking off excess leave
that will only wither and smell bad in a day or two.
"How are things going with your father?" I ask, getting right tc
business.
"Terrible. They couldn't be worse, actually. I wish he would leav-
,
me alone and stop playing that damned contraption of h' 1
• • f or my f unera1. Th'1s v1s1on
• . keeps running th is. hswear hes
prac t1cmg
of him seated next to my coffin playing 'There's a new ~~ugd my_he~d
don 't ~v~n know if you can play that on the flute \/wnltlng. 1
excruc1atmgly gruesome."
• s a too
"What did you expect, dear heart? There he was en. .
retirement fishing or golfing or whatever it is
1 Jodym~ a l~ve~y
peop e b O m Ilhno1s
1 65. Th en you call with some st
af ter th ey 've h't
death's door and out he schleps ready to wait on yo~r6 ad out being at
gets }n E for effort as far as I'm concerned."
an and foot. He
Yeah well that may be but I'm the one that's d .
.
do I have to give him an E for effort huh? A
ymg, not htm. Why
hav~ to give him any goddamn E for effort." • nswer me that. I don't
You _do make a lot of noise for someone who's on the
thought it was a much quieter process A
.
way out. I
h' .
• n occasional moan some
.
dtscreet
cou~ mg mto a white linen handkerchief."
'
John smtles very faintly.
The next time I visit John he's in bed r d.
. .
at one corner of the bed, his eyes half clo::d •~g. Bus~er ts snuggled up
chair positioned nearby especially for visit . P~f mto _a lum~y old
there's a soft knock on the bed
or~. most immediately
answer Pop sticks his kindly old f~coeo~ door. Without waiting for an
"W II b
'
m.
"I : 0 /Y~ I,m off to the_Safeway. Anything you want?"
"I'm not s~r/bit r: t~~~k~t~~~r~~a~ytu;_a cllasserolel agai_n," John says.
Probably ·ust a f
.
ce count ast time we had it
there likj Velve:~ ~~~~~~ t:~~g~ct!n~;r t:e~e's ah lot of good stuff i~
ts
ut onestly Pop, I can't
take it again so soon."
Pop pulls his peaked cap d
I' 1
as if to protect them from
own a ttt e lower and narrows his eyes
"I
h' .
an unexpected gust of wind
wast mkmg of baki
h' k
•
•
beans, how would that be?" ng a c tc en with some potatoes and string
"Peachy."
•
Pop closes the d
• l
"God ou can b oo~ 9uiet_y and the three of us are alone again.
"Stay Ior dinne: v1c1ous, m the face ~fa tuna casserole," I say.
"Can't. I have cl Tony, .1 m sure there 11 be plenty to go around."
or I'll be stuck eati/gs~utotmlglht, akn~ I have to get some groceries myself
"G
a wee .
ee that's tough " J h b • 1 " .
to people orde .
, o n nst es. Gomg out to a restaurant talking
~aiter who wi~~g ;xactly what you w_ant and having it brought by a
hke absolute hell on oe:~~;~ound watchmg every bite you take. Sounds
h:
"Aren't you mak·
mg t ts out to be a little worse than it is?" I blurt.
Instantly the air in the room begins to crackle. A strong desire to
flee grips me, but like Dorothy in the face of the tornado I'm unable to
make the right move. All I can do is clutch little Buster, who has
climbed into my lap, and wait for the twister to reach the farmhouse.
"No I don't think I'm making it out to be worse than it is," John
replies, starting out slowly, coolly. "But I'll just fill you in on the
details, in case you missed something."
"No John, really, don't trouble yourself. It's not necessary honest
And I've got this darn class... " _
"I insist," he hisses. "It's no trouble. You can just sit there and listen
until I'm finished, it won't take long. I'm 32 years old, Tony, and just
marking time. A 32-year-old dead man with a nitwit father who I
never got along with even when I was well and now is trying to force
feed me with good home cookin' to appease his guilt. And then there's
the other one."
I hold my breath, even Buster is still, his ears flat against his head.
"He's in it to serve himself too. Do good works now and go straight
to heaven, no detours. But the problem is she's a dizzy queen. A.dizzy
queen with delusions of Flo Nightengale. Says the wrong thing, does
the wrong thing. I'm sick and tired of all of you. That dog is the only
one who's any use."
By the time he stops speaking his eyes are wet and shining with
anger. He looks over at me. I want to hug him real bad but stay rooted
to the chair. Quick as a flash he blows his nose and fires up a Marlboro,
the storm is over. Buster springs from my lap to the bed and gives
John's face a few licks. _
"Get down from there you slobber puss. I don't have anything evil
to say about you now, but don't push it."
I sit there dumb as a rock.
"You seem to be really angry with your father and me, do you
want to talk about it some more?"
John looks at me like I had just recited the pledge of allegiance
backwards or something.
"I'm sorry Tony, it's not your fault and no I don't want to talk
about it some more."
Now seems like a safer time for a hug so i get up and kneel on the
bed, squashing Buster's tail in the process.
"You're killing my dog, you dizzy queen."
John pulls me gently down onto the bed. Buster, recovered from
the attack on his tail, does his best to lick us both. We hold each other
quietly, without moving. In a few minutes the room becomes
shadowed, dusky.
John's father is back from the Safeway, I can hear him putting
groceries away. It reminds me of being a kid, safe in bed for a nap.
Mom would be busy in the kitchen getting a head start on dinner so
she could relax before my Dad got home. I want to know what John is
feeling but I don't ask. Instead I get up, straighten my clothes and get
ready to leave.
"I'll walk you to the bus stop," John says to me as I put on my
jacket.
"Don't be silly, stay in bed and rest."
"I've got lots of time to rest, I'd like to walk you to the bus."
It's a warm hazy fall evening as we walk to the corner. The
Mission Street bus is just pulling up. We look at each other one more
time.
"Thank you for walking me," I say. "It was really nice."
John smiles at me as I board. Inside a bunch of kids are playing
together in the back seat, a riot of boisterous high spirits. They pay no
attention as I sit down quietly near them. I look out the gritty window
and see John, hunched over, with Buster at his heels, making his way
slowly back home. ■
•
Lady In Satin
JohnM.Ison
Hollywood meets Whitley.
Rap blasts through Camaro windows
as drivers whistle at snakeskin boots pirouetting
on Jack Palance's star.
Storefront signs rain neon on sidewalks
and form puddles of ice.
Against a Frederick's backdrop of mannequin love
a black man tramps in holy Converse sneaks
and sells his wares.
He stops you while you wait for the Number 26.
Reminds you he used to sing in nightclubs
but now he studies art at an unaccredited school.
Five dollars will get you a sketch of his idol,
Billie Holliday, etched from her bio, with love.
Her scarred image, twice removed from the source,
defies focus.
You don't have a five, but a dollar, he says,
will buy a serenade of Billie blues.
He takes it, top-throat. Willow, weep for me, he pleads.
It prickles down your back like angora worn in summer.
Wi-hu-looa weefo-mee.
You're six years old again, peering into the back-door darkness,
listening for the crinkly mewl of the kitten Daddy gave away.
Your bus arrives. You turn from his closed-eyed stare
and count the number of empty seats.
Wait, one more, he begs as the driver closes the door. "Just
crooning for the crowd." He continues. "You've changed..."
As you ride past Whitley, you hear Billie picking up the cue.
Traffic noise dissolves into the swelling strings of
"Lady in Satin."
Through the window, you watch him.
He lip-syncs to the voice in your ear.
Laura Migliorino
f ho Will AID(s) My Brother Now
Iptych pastel, oil on paper
I Want To Be Your L-O-V-E-R
Vicky Phillips
S
am sits in the flabby, overstuffed, plaid chair, her head bowed, her
feet tucked ·beneath her. She glances up occasionally and looks at
Cecilia, who is slouched on the .sofa, but mostly she inspects her
feet and picks roughly at the laces of her new brown leather ankle
boots. Cecilia is slouched on the sofa, legs spread, palms moving across
the nubby fabric in search of her pack of Camels. Cecilia's living room,
where they sit, is dark and shadowy, because although it is almost
n·oon neither of them has raised the shades. Usually Sam comes over
early in the morning and raises the shades, moving through Cecilia's
apartment in a whirlwind of sound and light so that Cecilia awakens
to the sounds of paper smacking wood and windows creaking and
splintering as Sam forces them open, her breathy voice muttering
disapproval: "Goddamn-never understand how you can live like this.
Like some goddamned blind gopher. Hell-people need light."
But today is different. Today, Sam let herself in quietly and much
later than usual. She came into the living where Cecilia had been
sitting all morning-just sitting and smoking-and began on Cecilia
rather than the shades. Sam and Cecilia have been dating for three
months now, and Sam thinks that's long enough. Sam wants to get
married, and she is at Cecilia's this morning to make this clear; as if it
weren't already clear to Cecilia from the way Sam has been acting
lately.
Sam twists her body into a knot of arms and legs, a pose learned in
yoga which is supposed to aid relaxation, but looks to Cecilia, who is
not a limber woman, as though it must engender pain. Sam sucks on
her cheeks and then begins again. "I'm too available; that's it-isn't it?
You don't want me because you can have me. I should be more like the
ice princess. Then you'd think I was something. Something hot.
Something sexy. Something too good for you." Sam pauses and examines
Cecilia's face for some indication of the truth in what she is saying,
but getting no response (Cecilia's face is expressionless), she continues.
"That's it. I should be like-"
"Annie?" Cecilia offers with a sigh. "You think you should be more
like Annie?" Annie is Cecilia's ex-lover, whom Sam has never actually
met, but is very involved with nonetheless, because Sam is trying to
love Cecilia and Cecilia is still very much a mess from her seven-year
affair with Annie.
"Yes," hisses Sam. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? I think you can
only love me if I have the guts to treat you like you don't deserve it."
"Not particularly," Cecilia mumbles as she gets on her knees and
begins to palm under the sofa cushions in search of matches for the
cigarette which dangles from her lips. "Not particularly." Cecilia does
not want to talk_ about love o~ Annie or Sam. She wants desperately to
smoke an?ther c1gar~tte, and 1f at all possible to cease having feelings
of any kmd. Searchmg under the cushions, Cecilia finds a clipped
newspaper ad for a 1982 Jeep and a quarter. "Yours?" she asks, offering
the ad to Sam who has been shopping for a Jeep in her spare time.
Sam snorts and waves her hands. "Don't change the subject. We
were. talking _about_love.~ Then a pause. "What's wrong with me?" Sam
asks m her httle gul voice. She bows her head and picks at her boot
laces. 'Just tell me. Is there something wrong with me?"
Cecilia sits on the couch, her hands between her knees. She runs
her fingers around the slick cellophane edges of her pack of Camels.
"Don't bait me," she says. She looks at Sam and shakes her head. "Don't
do this. There's nothing wrong with you. You're fine. We've been over
this. It's me. I just can't-"
Sam unfurls and throws her legs across the chair arm. She kicks
her feet. "Right! Right! Right! You just can't commit. You need time to
f!nd Y?urself. Well-I'm sick of it! You can't just run away from life
hke th1~. _Yo~ have to be in a relationship to learn about relationships."
Cec1ha fmds some matches, a paper book which advertises a toll
number for a psychic named Mariah, who for ninety-five cents will
~ake manifest the inner secrets of any caller. "Right," Cecilia thinks. "A
big black hole. Nothingness. I know what my inner secret is and I don't
want to see it." Cecilia lights a cigarette and flips the match across the
room. A~ the smoke hits her lungs she relaxes into the sofa. She smokes
for ~whlle be~o!'e talking. "Sam, I just can't. Not now. I do love you-"
Horse shit! Sam screeches. "You love me like what? A sister? Oh
rreat. Just what Sam needs. Another lesbian sister. We haven't made
1?ve for ~eeks. Just like that!" Sam snaps her fingers for emphasis. "Just
ike tha_t!_ She snaps her fingers again. "Sorry, Sam! I don't feel sexual."
h Cecih~ _winces and smokes harder. What Sam says is true, and it
Aurt~. Cec1ha does not feel sexual. She feels like shit and nothing more.
f~me left her for a balding man with a car phone, a penchant for
Wh tball, and the cruelest lips she'd ever seen, and then her father,
h' om ~he had not seen: for several years, dropped dead while driving
bis C~dillac, and Cecilia, the only child, found herself back in Indiana
u~~!:°g a total stranger. Cecilia, who is thirty, is beginning to
h . stand that loss and death are the punch lines of life and she is
a hard time accepting this. She tells Sam these things. She tells
she cannot love her because every time she looks at her she sees a
s::tg
Property of the Center
body which will someday become a corpse, either physically or
metaphorically, and she, Cecilia, just can't take it any more. "It hurts,•
she tells Sam.
But Cecilia does like being with Sam, loves it even in a terrified
sort of way. With Sam, every thing is immediate, and now, and
important. Sam is alive and when she holds Cecilia, Cecilia feels like
she almost has a form. Cecilia has told Sam these things, time and
again, and Sam has told Cecilia time and again, "That's supposed to
make me feel better? Well-I don't want to be your shell. Your mold. I
want to be your lover. Your 1-o-v-e-r. Do you understand? Do you even
know what that word means? Do you!?"
Sam stands and goes to the window. She yanks on the shade and
the dry yellowed paper snaps up. Cecilia is blinded by a fist of morning
light and immobilized by the sound of Sam walking across the carpet
Scuff, scuff, Sam moves quickly, yet lightly, on the slick soles of her
new boots. As Cecilia's eyes adjust to the light she sees Sam's outline
develop in the doorway. "I'm going," the outline says, developing a little
further until Cecilia can see the dark ledges of Sam's eyes and full lips.
"I'm going, and I may or may not come back."
Sam does return, letting herself in quietly, way after dark, some
time around midnight. Cecilia is lying in bed where she has been chain
smoking and reading the biography of Carson Mccullers. In the book,
Carson is described as a petulant brat who dressed queerly in her
husband's oversized shirts and black ankletop tennis shoes, her main
pastime, after drinking, being the relentless pursuit of straight women
in the hopes that one of them might love her, or failing that, at least
adopt her, or better yet, save her from her own twisted desires. Cecilia
is finding the parallels between her life and Carson's very unsettling.
Cecilia knows she did a lot of begging with Annie, a lot of knee
crawling; but at the time it had seemed appropriate because it had felt
familiar, and Cecilia, for her part, had a tendency to go for the
familiar.
Sam sits on the edge of the bed, next to Cecilia, and flips her hair
with her fingers. After a while she picks Cecilia's lit cigarette from the
ashtray, inspects it, then stabs it out against the glass. Cecilia, who is
very attached to her cigarettes, looks at Sam in a concerned way. Salll
sighs. "That is a nasty habit," Sam says as she points at the ashtray.
"Hi," Cecilia says.
"Hi yourself," Sam says. "I'm back." Sam presses her palm to her
forehead and brushes her bangs as she speaks. She looks around the
room, which is littered with books, and coffee cups, and twisted
clothing, and feels once again that this room is very reflective of
Cecilia, whose life is a wreck. Sam would like to tidy up the room just
as she would like to tidy up Cecilia's life through the process of love,
but Sam has been in therapy recently and is just beginning to feel that
maybe she has more to do with her life than be a one-lesbian salvation
army.
Cecilia closes her book and focuses on Sam.
Silence.
"Don't you care? I mean, that I came back." Sam is speaking in her
little girl voice again.
Cecilia smiles slightly, showing a white silver of teeth. She takes
Sam's hand and squeezes her fingers. "Of course I care. I'm impotent,
not heartless."
Sam balls her hands and punches Cecilia's shoulders, knocking her
flat to the bed. "Then act like it!" she says. She kicks off her boots,
strips her sweater over her head, and climbs under the comforter with
Cecilia. She rubs her cheek against Cecilia's."You're horrible," she
whispers. "Someone should turn you in to the lesbian police."
Cecilia nods and tousles Sam's thick hair. She is glad that Sam has
returned, though she does not understand why, because this thing of
being sought after and desired is something that has never happened to
her before, and it feels so unfamiliar that sometimes it makes Cecilia
want to cry. "Maybe you should leave me," Cecilia hears herself say.
Then, seeing the hurt look on Sam's face, she quickly adds, "but I don't
want you to."
Sam lifts her cheek from Cecilia's shoulder and props herself on
her elbows above Cecilia. She gazes into Cecilia's eyes, which in the
dark look like gleaming blue marbles, and walks her fingers across
Cecilia's forehead. "Too easy. You'd like it too much. I leave you and
you get to be alone feeling sorry for yourself. What a bunch of bull!
You think I'd let you enjoy yourself like that?"
Cecilia laughs. "No-I think you want me to suffer."
Sam narrows her eyes and flips her fingers across Cecilia's chin.
"Damn right, I do."
. That night, Sam sleeps behind Cecilia, her arms curled around her
waist, her lips pressed to the nape of her neck. Cecilia falls asleep to
the rhythm of Sam's easy, shallow breathing. Cecilia dreams that she
and .sam have a house on the beach, and while Sam is out buying
fuhrnit~re for the house, which is barren, Annie appears and decorates
t e kitchen in sky blue (a color Cecilia hates), with faux marble
ped~.stals (a concept Cecilia hates even more).
Look," Annie moves her arms to indicate. "Look what I've done for
You." Annie takes Cecilia's hand and leads her around the kitchen
which expands as they move. "Everything just for you," Annie says.
Annie's boyfriend appears at her shoulder, a car phone stuck to his
head. "For you," he nods. "We thought you'd like it."
Cecilia shakes her hand from Annie's and runs and runs, but she
does not move. Her legs whirl like those of a cartoon character. Annie
and her boyfriend join hands. The boyfriend has ceased talking on the
car phone and is now tonguing it. "Get away!" Cecilia screams. "You
don't live here. Get away!"
Sam shakes Cecilia awake.
Cecilia sits up and covers her face with her hands. She is breathing
hard from all that running. Sam places her fingers to Cecilia's lower
back and presses lightly against her kidneys. She knows Cecilia likes to
be touched like this when she is frightened. "Bad dream?"
Cecilia looks at the ceiling and palms her cheeks. "Nightmare."
Sam strokes Cecilia's back, then moves up and massages her neck.
After awhile she gets out of bed and belts herself into one of Cecilia's
kimonos. She goes to the kitchen.
Cecilia lies on her back, her knees up and bent. She smokes and
listens to the pans clatter as Sam sorts through them looking for the
right one. Sam is like -this, fussy about what food is prepared in what
pan. She has assigned a function to all of Cecilia's pots and pans and
gets very animated if Cecilia violates the assignments. "Not that one!"
she'll scream, jerking the pot from Cecilia's hand. "Not for tomato
sauce!" Sam, who was once a chef, is fussy like this about kitchen
utensils.
When Sam returns, she is carrying two mugs of hot chocolate.
Cecilia cannot see Sam because she is lying on the far edge of the bed,
buried beneath the covers, her back to the doorway; but she can smell
the hot chocolate. Cecilia is lying this way because she is scared-of the
nightmare, of death and loss, of Sam and her hot chocolate. If this
keeps up, Cecilia knows she will fall in love with Sam. So Cecilia
burrows deeper and shuts her eyes, hoping to fool Sam into thinking
that she is asleep or perhaps even dead.
Cecilia hears Sam sigh, then the lights click off. She feels a cold
wave hit her backside as Sam lifts the comforter and crawls in next to
her. Sam folds her body into Cecilia's and plants a kiss to the nape of
her neck. "You don't fool me," she whispers. "And I'm not going
anywhere."
Sam continues to see Cecilia, though not as often, once a week,
twice a week, maybe, if her painting is not going well. She brings her
paintings to Cecilia, and Cecilia looks at them, telling her where they
need work. Sometimes Cecilia, who has no training in the visual arts,
stands back, rocks on her heels, crosses her arms, and says un-artsy
things like: "Wrong color. Too light. Too dark. Gives me a headache.
Boring to the max."
"Fuck you, too, Picasso," Sam cries as she takes her paintings and
crams them into a mildewed canvas carrying portfolio. "Can't you say
anything nice?" But Sam always come back with _the paintings in
question revised. (Sam hates to revise her work, and ·both hates and
loves Cecilia for being so honest with her.) She shows the new
paintings to Cecilia and says, "Fuck you, again, sweetheart. Fuck you for
being so damn right."
Sam and Cecilia rent foreign films-Swedish, Spanish, French-Sam
checks them out indiscriminately, then the two women lie on the
couch entwined, eating pistachios and arguing about the deeper
meaning of the fleeting images. Sam rages about life and death (Cecilia
notices that all these foreign films are about life and deat),, then Sam
gets on a roll about how Cecilia should get on with her life and stop
moping. "Get with the program," Sam says-and she says it a lot.
While Sam rages, Cecilia cracks open pistachios with her front
teeth, secretly pretending that she is a squirrel. She does this because if
she pays too much attention to Sam and the beautiful way that Sam
rages through life she is afraid she will end up in Sam's arms again.
When the pistachios are all eaten and Sam comes to sit in Cecilia's lap,
Cecilia backs off, makes jokes, and expends a lot of time smoking
cigarettes. When Sam kisses Cecilia, Cecilia gets up to look for more
cigarettes, or make tea, or search for matches. "Just a minute," Cecilia is
always saying. "Give me a minute."
But when Cecilia returns with her tea or the matches or the
cigarettes Sam is sitting with her knees crossed, her fingers tapping her
palms. "I don't think you're funny anymore," Sam tells Cecilia. "I don't
want you touching me unless you mean it." Cecilia and Sam stop
touching, but Sam keeps coming over, so Cecilia lets her read her
stories.
When Sam reads Cecilia's stories she frowns a lot, sometimes
stopping to chew the ends of her hair. "Bad," she guffaws. "Oh, God,
this is just awful." .
Cecilia hands Sam a red pen and watches as Sam marks away.
"Un_b~lievably bad," Sam murmurs, moving through the pages. Sam tells
Cec1ha that her stories fail more than they succeed because in every
story there is at least one character who is so alive as to be lovable, but
~he~ all the other characters mess up the story because all they ever do
~s ~•t around and chain smoke and mope and feel sorry for themselves.
Ring a bell?" Sam asks, raising both eyebrows and shaking the red pen
at Cecilia. "Sound like anyone we might know?"
Cecilia knows that Sam is right, of course, Even on paper Cecilia
cannot allow any aspect of herself to become too involved with life or
love. Cecilia goes back to her word processor and tries again, and again,
and again. Sometimes she feels like a God trying to breath life into
paper dolls. She succeeds in that she creates some characters who can
and do have relationships; however, every story she writes ends
tragically with death and/ or disease.
Sam reads these new manuscripts, then dumps them in a pile on
Cecilia's kitchen table. "You're getting better, girlie," Sam says as she
sticks both thumbs up. "Stick with it."
In the early autumn, Cecilia and Sam go out to buy biodegradable
dishwashing liquid (Sam insists Cecilia use only biodegradable and
Cecilia is tired of resisting Sam who is very bull-headed about this
issue); but on the way to the whole foods store they pass a pet shop
and Sam, who is driving, screeches to a stop. She looks at Cecilia. "You
need a pet," she says. "Pets are good for depression. I saw it on 60
Minutes." Before Cecilia can object, they are in the pet store, and Sam is
coming at her with two Siamese kittens who look to Cecilia to be rabid
or at least insane because they are clawing the air and hissing. "We'll
take these two," Sam says to the store clerk. "They look lively."
. Sam and Cecilia buy matching pink collars with blue rhinestones
and take the kittens, whom Sam has named Si and Am, leash walking
in the park near Cecilia's apartment. Si is Cecilia's kitten, and she is a
foul tempered sulker. Sam's kitten, Am is the lively one, always
jumping in circles trying to chew through her leash. Sam and Cecilia
have to keep the kittens separate when they play because Si is a little
bigger and likes to chew the ends of Am's ears. Am goes dog-eared
quickly at the mercy of Si's teeth. The kittens grow into cats quickly,
but their dispositions do not change, and Si does not cease chewing
Am's ears. Cecilia and Sam eventually decide that Si and Am like their
relationship, ear chewing and all, so they leave them alone and let
them have at it.
In the park, on Saturdays, Sam teaches Am to retrieve small sticks.
Cecilia tries to teach Si the same trick, but Si just sits in the sun licking
the pads of her paws, looking at Cecilia like she is insane because
doesn't she know that cats don't fetch. Cecilia cuffs Si's ears and calls
her grumpy. "Grumpy! Grumpy! Grumpy!"
Sam, who sits on the park bench next to Cecilia, throws her scarf
across her shoulder and picks at the bunched leather tips of her gloves.
"Look who's talking," she snorts. Sam cradles Am in her arms and rubs
her belly roughly. "How'd we get such grumpy girlfriends?" Sam coos to
Am who only yawns, the pink serrated roof of her mouth gleaming in
the faint sunshine.
'
Alone, Cecilia keeps dreaming. She goes to visit her father's grave
where she discovers that a periscope has been installed so that if she
drops in a quarter she can peer down into the grave and watch as her
father turns, trying to get comfortable. Cecilia wonders if she should
tell someone (but who?), that her father, while buried, is still moving.
As she wonders this, her father turns his face to the periscope. "Go
away," he says. "I never did like you."
But Cecilia keeps watching her father until she runs out of
quarters and a metal lid clicks across the eyeglass, obscuring her vision.
Then she picks up a lawn rake and starts to dig at the grave. She
knows it is strange that she is digging with an instrument which will
not break the dirt ( the fine, green, metal teeth snap and bend under
the pressure she applies), but she is helpless to stop all the same.
Sam comes to the graveyard walking Si and Am on their leashes.
"We're here," she announces, stooping to unclip the leashes. Si and Am
lie down on the grave and start kissing each other. Cecilia puts aside
the rake and stares at Sam whose back is turned against her. "What
happened to the cats?" she asks. "Why isn't Si chewing Am's ears?" Sam
turns around. She has Sam's body but Annies face. "Things change-if
you let them' she says.
Cecilia dreams and dreams and dreams. Her dreams get very
crowded.
Annie picks her up from the bus stop in her boyfriend's red BMW.
Cecilia crawls into the back seat, but after a while she wants out
bec~use everyone is in that car. Annie's boyfriend is sitting on her lap,
talkmg nonsense about football and foosball and hardball into the car
phone, and the cats are sitting in his lap chewing each other's ears, and
her father is in the front shouting directions, and her first lover
Janice, is sucking on her fingers, and Sam is outside running alongsid~
the car, waving her arms and shouting. Cecilia can see Sam's lips move,
but the windows are up and there is too much noise in the car, so she
.
cannot understand what Sam is saying.
!hey head down a hill much too fast and Sam hangs onto the
0 ~ts1de of the car, her cheek pressed to the window glass. She looks
frightened, but she does not let go. "Hang on, Sam." Cecilia whispers.
Ev~ryone in the car, including the cats, stops fighting and
~hatt~rmg and turns to look at Cecilia. "WHAT DID YOU SAY?" they ask
urnso?. Cecilia flings her arms, throwing Annie's boyfriend off her
.ap. Anrne looses control of the steering and the car careens off a cliff
Into the ocean. Cecilia stands up on the backseat and her head pops
t
through the roof of the car. She spreads her arms and shouts. "I SAID,
HANG ON, SAM!"
But Sam is gone.
The car lands in the ocean, but does not sink. Annie regains control
of the steering and begins to drive up and down the crests of the
waves. Cecilia bursts into tears.
Walking in the park, Cecilia tells Sam about the dreams. "They
scare me," she admits. Cecilia stops walking and stands on a slope
which faces the city. She rubs the back of her hand to her forehead.
"They fucking scare me."
Sam places her hand to the small of Cecilia's back. She does not
speak for awhile. She just stands next to Cecilia. When she speaks, the
words come out softly and carefully, as though she is speaking to a
child. "I have to go to Los Angeles," she says. "Gallery opening."
Cecilia retracts her hands and places them in her jacket pockets.
She rocks back on her heels, thinking how big the city looks from the
slope. She tries to locate her own apartment building, but the view is
blocked by too many taller buildings. "Don't leave me, Sam," she says.
"I'm scared."
Sam places one hand to Cecilia's back and takes her chin with the
other hand. She turns Cecilia's chin until their eyes meet. "Butch up,"
she says. "I'll be coming back."
Cecilia smiles slightly, then looks away. "You're not going down
there to die or get a boyfriend?"
Sam smiles. "Highly unlikely," she says, "Sam has been a healthy
queer since kindergarten."
In the dead of winter, with Sam gone, the dreams cease suddenly,
and Cecilia sleeps long hours in total darkness, with Si and Am curled
in balls on her belly. Outside, rain sheets the windows; stray, pink-eyed
cats slink _from the bushes in the park to eat fish heads which the cook
from the Pacific Seafood Cafe across the way slides out the back door
on waxed paper; clocks tick; people run through t~e rail:~ for their
buses; the baby next door gets colic, then recovers; Chmese girls ~ounce
blue rubber balls against Cecilia's front door; messages pile up
unanswered on Cecilia's machine.
It is winter, and when Cecilia is awake she writes into the
darkness; carries the cats through the rain to the park in the pockets ~f
her oversized pea coat; gathers pine wood limbs which have been spht
from the trees in the park during the storms; and builds fires in the
living room, where she sits with the cats, the three of them shroude~
in blue curls of cigarette smoke. Cecilia drinks strong coffee and tells St
and Am that it is winter, and that Sam has gone to Los Angeles to sell
her art.
Sam sends postcards: aerial views of the smog; a picture of Bette
oavis; an announcement of one of her openings. On the back of the
cards Sam scribbles little messages in her peculiarly looped
handwriting: SAM IS NOT DEAD. SAM IS STILL QUEER. SAM LOVES YOU
ALL LOS ANGELES STINKS. SAM IS STILL NOT DEAD. SHIT DOESN'T
HAPPEN; IT COMES FROM ASSHOLES WHO LIVE IN L.A. Cecilia reads
these cards to Si and Am and then tapes them to the refrigerator.
Cecilia sends Sam new manuscripts and Sam returns the manuscripts
with notes in the margin. HOT SHIT is her most frequent comment;
that, and OH MY GOD, BABY, YOU CAN WRITE.
In the early spring, Sam returns in a Jeep, a red one, having sold
several paintings. She goes to get Cecilia and Si and Am, and surprises
them by taking them to the desert. Cecilia has never been to the desert
so she is surprised by the beauty. She sits on the edge of her seat, with
her window down, with all the windows down, and screams at Sam
about how beautiful it all is. Cacti, Sam's favorite flower, bloom in
waves across the taupe valleys. Si and Am sit in the backseat, sniffing,
occasionally climbing onto Cecilia or Sam's shoulder to get a better
view.
Sam takes Cecilia rock climbing and shows her how certain cacti
can take root in the finely soiled crevice of rock. "Survivors," Sam, who
grew up in the desert, announces proudly, poking her palm against the
needle of the cacti. "These babies would never take no for an answer,"
Sam coos, glancing at Cecilia. "Never in a million years."
When Cecilia gets thirsty, Sam shows her how certain cacti can be
cut at the base to produce liquid. Sam hands Cecilia a piece of cacti,
instructing her to suck. The meat is sweet and stringy, sticky like
mango. Cecilia is amazed that Sam knows these things and finds herself
watching with new interest as Sam turns from her to bend and suck a
cactus.
Sam and Cecilia sit on a blanket laid in the sand, next to one
another, eating lunch (Sam has prepared it), and watching the cats. Si
loves the sand. She pounces, and purrs, and rubs her sides into the
Warm roughness. Am seems confused, disoriented. She steps gingerly
across the sand, stopping with each step to shake her paws. She looks
~t Cecilia and Sam questioningly, then tries again. Sam shakes her head.
Just do it!" Sam shouts at Am. "Watch Si, and then do it!" Si bounds
across a dune, out of sight. Am, as though influenced by Sam's words,
and determined not to be left behind, bounds after her.
Sam and Cecilia sit looking after the cats. It is hot, though pleasant
in the sun. Sam is wearing a blue leather baseball cap, a white tank
top, and short red shorts. Because she has been in Los Ang~les sh~ !S
already tanned so that when she smiles her teeth flash wh1~e._Cec1ha
watches as Sam finishes her food, then assumes the lotus pos1t10n, her
eyes shut, her wrists easily crossed. A shadow falls from her cap visor
making her look serene, yet mysterious. "Sam?" Cecilia says.
Sam opens one eye and lifts her wrists, but stays in the lotus
position. She inhales deeply. "Yes?"
"Can I kiss you?"
Sam inhales again. "Why?"
Cecilia examines her fingers which gleam like white bone in the
strong sunlight. She looks off toward the dunes, but the cats are not
visible. "I want to be your lover. You know: L-0-V-E-R."
Sam opens both eyes. "L-0-V-E-R?" She uncrosses her legs and leans
back on her hands. "L-0-V-E-R?"
Cecilia places her hand to her forehead and shades her eyes from
the sun so she can see Sam better. "Yes," she nods. "Do you know what
that means?"
Sam smiles. "Come here and show me," she says, holding out her
arms. "I think I've forgotten." ■
Yoo
s.E.Mead
were in your young skin, that
all-over shimmer: dew breath
roseate tabula rasa
for we needed to begin.
Old friends
didn't like it, fearing loss of
a confidante. "Hold back,
hold back."--All the whispers
of judgement reserved, I knew,
for when I'd be a self made true.
Still it was
kicking a habit:
years of playing the earnest
listener, pet eccentric, hangdog
mascot for that slowly
painfully drifting apart set of
hearts. Your heart
was an island
map for a new clan
& I rowed, had to grope
& eventually tread water
because arms
are rarely long enough unless
our own want to grow
& can.
So reach & we
will teach each other
the lesson of expansion, that
the breath of our skin
may one day belong
in the touch of somebody
else &
that the somebody else is
a shelter we give, gave, got
in you in you in you ■
Sun Country
Gary Eldon Peter
T
his is supposed to be my winter vacation, but today in Florida it
is 55 degrees. I've been huddled by the poo~, readi!1g a People
magazine, trying to keep the pages from blowmg while I balance
a cup of coffee on my lap. It is my last day here, the warmest day all
week and I am determined to be in the sun. I brought only one pair of
jeans: no jacket, everything else t-shirts and shorts. So I borrow ~y
father's windbreaker and hooded sweatshirt that he wears back 10
Minnesota when he rakes leaves in the fall.
I'm visiting my father at the trailer park where he _lives from
January through April. Before I left Minnesota I told my friends I was
spending a week at my father's "place" in Florida,_ but_ I didn't tel_l them
where. I wanted them to think that I was staymg m a gleammg art
deco condominium complex in Miami Beach or gold villa in Naples. I
didn't want them to know where I was really was, that I was staying
in a trailer in Avon Park, Florida, seventy miles south of Orlando on
Interstate 27.
·
When I first arrived earlier in the week my father took me for a
drive around the city, pointing out city hall, the new Winn-Dixie and
other attractions with the pride of a long-time citizen. The black
people in town are rarely seen and the sn?wbirds_ like it that way, he
said, as if he were challenging me to take issue with such a statement.
. .
I just smiled, trying to be an agreeable guest.
I pull the windbreaker tight aro~nd _me and ~ip it a!l the way up
to my neck. The wind has changed direction, blowmg twigs, leaves and
my empty styrofoam cup into the pool. "You just never kno~ about
Florida," my father said yesterday as we stared out the wi~dow,
watching the rain. "Last week it was 85, every day, not a cloud m the
sky." "Well, I'm really glad I spent $350 on air fare to sit in a t~ailer all
week," I replied, laughing. He laughed ~oo, but !hen was qui_et for a
while and I could tell I'd hurt his feelmgs. I tned to make it up by
telling him how nice the trailer looked, what a great housekeeper he
was. "Not much else to do some days," he said, "except clean."
I give up on my People and walk back to the trailer. He's left me a
note on the kitchen counter:
IN THE CLUBHOUSE - PLAYING SOME POOL
COME ON OVER!!!
I debate whether I should join him, or ignore the note and pretend
1 ter that I didn't see it. This is day six of my seven-day vacation, and I
:aven't spent this much time with my father since before I left home
for college.
1 find him in the recreation room, chalking up a cue. "How was the
pool?" he asks.
"Cold. Where is everybody?"
"I think they took a busload over to Tampa. They have a Senior
Citizen's special at Busch Gardens. Twenty-five percent off admission
and they give you a free cap. Or maybe it's a free mug, I don't
remember."
My father, having taken an early retirement, seems out of pla~e
here. When his neighbors stopped by yesterday afternoon for cocktails
and crackers I found myself counting the lines on their foreheads and
noticing that he had none. They kept saying how they couldn't believe
he could have a grandson who was thirty years old. "No," I corrected,
"I'm the son. The youngest." Then they laughed and asked me where
my wife was, how old are our children. My father shot me a ne~vous
glance as I ducked into the kitchen for more_ cra~kers_and dip. It
seemed that he hadn't quite gotten around to telling his neighbors, who
he introduced to me as "my best friends here," that his only son is gay.
"You could've gone," I say. "You don't need to entertain me."
"No way," he says as he leans down to take a shot. "I've been to
Busch Gardens already. Tourist trap." He connects with the ball and it
rolls into a corner pocket. "Wanna play some eight ball?" he asks,
drumming his fingers on the side of the pool table.
"No, thanks." I remember him trying to teach me pool when I was
seven, how I kept missing the cue ball and knocking the other ball
over the side whenever I tried to make a shot. After I chipped the
striped thirteen ball we gave up on pool.
"Oh come on," he says.
"One game," I say as I take a cue down from the wall. "Now
whoever hits the eight ball in loses, right?"
"Right, but just be sure to keep the thirteen on the table," he says,
chuckling. "I don't want the park to charge me for a new one."
I smile and pretend I don't know what he's talking abut. "Break?"
"No, be my guest."
I walk over to the end of the table, rack up the balls and take aim.
Two solids speed into opposite corners and another spins into a side
P<>cket.
"Where in the world did you learn to do that?" he asks, his eyes
Wide.
"No where in particular. Places, I guess."
"Places where you and your friends hang out?"
"Just places," I say, my voice edgy. "Bars. Didn't you ever play pool
in a bar?"
"Look, I was just asking. I didn't mean to-"
"Let's just play, OK?"
I beat him, two ou~ of three.
After our pool game my father decides that his ca~ needs
vacuuming and that my rental car could probably use some gomg over
as well. "We wouldn't want them to charge you when you take it back
tomorrow," he says.
As I stand inside the kitchen and watch him work I notice that
since the funeral he's lost a lot of weight. I check the cupboards, to
make sure that he's shopping and eating. He has stocked up on soupchicken noodle and tomato - and Hamburger Helper. But when I check
the refrigerator I can't find any hamburger. I wonder if I should offer
to show him how to make it.
But since it's my last night I take him out to dinne~, to an all-youcan-eat place in a strip mall a few miles from the trai!er court. After
we've had our fill of the salad bar we go back for shrimp, roast beef,
chicken, vegetables and potatoes. We end up sitting across from two
couples who live a few trailers away from my father. They are
laughing, talking about a golf game t~ey played earlier in the day.
They wave at us and nod, and a few mmutes later I see on~ of t~em Mrs. Sanders, from Galena, Illinois-pointing to me and whispermg to
her husband. I strain to hear what they're saying about me. All I can
make out are words like "son," and "visit" and "youngest." Mrs. Sanders
nods at me again and smiles.
..
Everyone in the restaurant is old, except for a couple of. famih~s
with toddlers in high chairs who sit eating jell? an~ peas w_1th the~r
fingers. There are no thirty-year-old men havmg dmner with their
fathers.
"
"I remember bringing you kids to restaurants at that age, my
father says as he butters his bread and folds it over. "Talk about a
production. We'd get you all dressed up, packed into the car, and _t~en
we'd coming traipsing in, all six of us. Somebody was always ~~mtng
about that they wished they got what somebody else got or ~ptlhng or
dropping their silverware. After we got home and got you kids to bed
Mary swore we'd never go through that again."
.
Hearing him refer to my mother by name makes he_r see~ hke
somebody else, like a distant aunt or a friend of the family. It is the
first time he's mentioned her since I arrived five days ago. My father
looks away, mumbles something about going for some dessert, and gets
up from the table.
He comes back to the table carrying two bowls of ice cream topped
with chocolate sauce, nuts and whipped cream. "Your favorite," he says
as he sets one before me and smiles. We eat our dessert in silence.
After dinner we bundle up and take a walk around the trailer
park. Even though it is barely 7:30 most people are in their bathrobes
and nightgowns, their figures outlines by the glow of their television
sets. Occasionally we pass a bridge game in progress, the players
crowded around a kitchen table sipping drinks and eating potato chips.
After a half a block I realize I'm about five strides ahead of my
father. I can hear him breathing hard, trying to keep up.
"I'm sorry," I say. "Are you all right?"
"Just this bum knee again," he says, trying not to limp. "That quack
doctor told me to lay off the golfing for a few weeks, or at least use a
cart. He doesn't know what he's talking about."
"What's wrong with using a cart?"
"No exercise, that's what. What's the point of golfing if you can't
walk? And some of those guys out there drive like idiots."
I change the subject. "Maybe we'd better head back to the trailer.
Can you make it alright?"
"Of course I can," he snaps. "I'm not a cripple yet."
When we get back to the trailer after our walk my father makes
himself a whiskey and 7-Up. Each night, at about this time, he drinks
two of them; it seems to be part of his routine. The last time I'd seen
him drink was when I'd visit on weekends, after my mother's
chemotherapy started. Then he was drinking juice glasses of vodka and
bourbon from bottles I thought I remembered seeing as a child. It made
me wonder how long liquor is supposed to last. As I watch him stir his
drink with a teaspoon I try to recall the seven signs of alcoholism, or
however ~any there are, but only one comes to mind: the alcoholic
often drinks alone.
"What do you feel like watching?' I ask him as I turn on the
television and flip the channel from station to station.
"Doesn't matter to me," he says as he settles into his recliner with
his drink and picks up the newspaper. "I'm just going to read anyway."
On the educational channel there's a special about AIDS. As the
narrator talks about modes of transmission; opportunistic infections,
and death rates, a man that looks to be in his early thirties winces as
an off-camera nurse sticks a needle into his arm and fills a test tube
full of blood. I imagine the man sitting in a doctor's office later on,
Waiting for the news. I wonder if the man will be going through it by
himself, or if someone will be there with him. The program ends
showing a young man walking down the hall pushing an IV pole. A
middle-aged couple walk on either side of him, holding him around the
waist. They are his parents, I suspect, at the hospital to watch him die.
I turn away from the TV to my father. He quickly picks up the
newspaper from his laiJ, rustles the pages, and holds it close to his face.
His hands tremble as he grips its edges.
"Whatever happened to your friend , that guy you had your
apartment with?" My father asks from behind the newspaper. "Wasn't
he in the hospital or something?"
"He's gone."
"What do you mean, gone? Moved?'
"Dead. I mean, he died. About a month after Mom. They were in the
same hospital."
My father turns the page of his newspaper.
It is Saturday morning, time for me to drive to Orlando to catch a
plane back to Minneapolis. The sky is blue and cloudless, and the sun is
already beating down as my father and I load the trunk with my
dufflebag and suitcase.
"Eighty-five today, according to the paper," he says as he wipes a
smudge off one of the headlights.
"You just never know about Florida," I say, smiling. "What do you
think you'll do today?"
"Oh, maybe change the oil in the car, maybe try to find someone to
play nine with later on. I should probably run to the store, pick up a
few things."
"Do you think you'll be all right?"
"What do you mean?" he asks frowning.
"It's just that... never mind, I guess."
He and I stand there, hands in our pockets, not looking at one
another. I look down the street and watch a couple riding three-wheel
bikes.
"Well, I suppose," I say, sighing.
"Yeah, you want to give yourself plenty of time to check in."
I get into the car and roll down the window. "Thanks for
everything."
"You bet. Drive careful."
I back out of the carport and drive slowly down the street, past
the rows and rows of trailers. I look in the rear-view mirror and see
my father standing at the edge of the driveway, waving. I flip down
the visor to keep the sun out of my eyes, turn onto Interstate 27, and
head north. ■
Maine Sleeps
Christopher Moes
Maine sleeps
At sunset
Under thin orange sheets.
I drive along seams
unfolding across dark blue hills
Like bodies, resting among weary towns.
Livermore Falls sleeps,
Or perhaps it's been asphyxiated
From the fumes of International Paper.
Farmington's eyes
Are just closing
As the last color bleeds.
When I am on the other side
Its breathing is steady.
I want to slip a mirror
Under New Vineyard's nose
To make sure it is still alive.
(There are more people in the cemetery than in the town.)
How can they sleep inside when outside the sky has frozen
into so many lights.
Mr. Sugar Packet
solstice Phoenix
Christopher Moes
GretaGaard
Mr. Sugar Packet returned to Holland,
Looking lik~ the fur of the lion
Or just thinking that way,
But at least he was thinking.
And in the winter he returned to Cambridge
(His hair color matched the beating of my heart)
His eye lashes drew lines
In the light midnight snow.
His dreams were like that,
I know because I was in some,
But I always had a strange feeling
That I was being watched.
"And if I know you then," he said
"We can go to England."
The words were mine,
I had misplaced them in his mouth.
He used to migrate,
But he would forget which way to go,
And one winter woke, his feet frozen
To the surface of a pond.
Philadelphia's zoning laws
Kept him from his dream house,
But the house was made of iron
With plastic snow on the roof.
The wind ignored him,
It was always thinking of the past,
Drifting like luggage
Tired of sleeping in a cargo bin.
And I waited and I waited,
But Mr. Sugar packet never returned.
I wonder if it was something I said,
Or the color of the coffee in that cafe.
D
uluth is a modern vestige of a booming nineteenth-century
shipping port. Narrow three-story houses huddle together on the
hills overlooking Lake Superior. The long grey winters have
taught residents the virtue of endurance and the necessity of
friendships in surviving sub-zero temperatures. While splendid
Victorian mansions populate the once-affluent neighborhood of
Kenwood, their worn exteriors attest to the faded glory of days well
past. Their interiors are now subdivided into flats, whole families
living in once-splendid drawing rooms, and sharing a bath down the
hall. Lester Creek House is one of these mansions.
For the past decade or so, it has been occupied by a lesbian
collective, whose membership changes with the residents' lives.
Carpenters, musicians, plumbers and nurses all share in household
duties. Every winter at solstice, invitations are sent to the entire
women's community for the annual pagan ritual. Guests are requested
to bring a gift to exchange, and a meal to share. It was to this
gathering that I decided to bring my new lover-anonymously.
"Whoa," I commanded my truck, pumping the brakes as we slid
down the icy slopes. "There's going to be a lot of people there, and I'm
just not ready to make a public statement about our relationship. It's
too new; I don't know what statement I want to make yet. So although
we're riding there together, I want to attend the party single."
The unspoken fact, known to us both, was that I wasn't willing to
tell my best friends, Robin and Inez, that I had decided to see Jody
against their advice. According to them, rumors depicted Jody as a
terrible flirt, whose playful innuendos had ruined several relationships
in the community. In fact, it was easy to believe: Jody's clear blue eyes,
sandy curls, and easy smile were a tempting combination. Yet I
wondered whether it was really Jody's looks or rather their effect on
other women which had caused her current reputation. Still, since
Robin and Inez had warned me against Jody, I felt I would have to
choose between their friendship and this woman: and I wanted them
both.
"Then what am I doing, going to this?" Jody blurted out.
We circled the blocks surrounding the house and found them to be
Parked solid.
"Oh, well," I concluded, and pulled into the driveway at Lester
Creek House, blocking in three other cars. "If someone needs to get out,
they'll make an announcement inside." I shut off the ignition and
alighted carefully, then reached in behind the seat and pulled out the
tureen of soup and ladle. Jody carried our gifts: mine was a string of
bells; hers, a package of scented potpourri. We walked apart up the
cobblestone driveway to the double doors of the old estate.
In the entry, we were formally greeted by three of the house
residents. One· relieved me of the soup; another took our gifts; and the
third took our coats and handed us candles, which we were directed to
place anywhere inside the house. Jody entered the dining room at once
leaving me to stand in the entry, holding my candle.
'
The entire house was aglow, the oaken walls and leaded glass
windows giving back reflections of warmth from the white tapers
burning atop every available ledge. Enchanted, I wandered through the
spacious rooms, past knots of conversation, watching, watchful. In the
bay window stood the tree, strung with tiny white lights-the
household's only concession to electricity that evening. Mismatched
armchairs of different shapes and heights were scattered throughout
the living room, each one draped with an India print bedspread or
Mexican blanket. I continued on past the living room and through a
wide doorway to the formal dining room. A piano was pushed against
one wall, while built-in buffets and cabinets lined the other two walls.
Across the front of the room, tall windows looked out on the icy
twilight over Lake Superior.
Danette was seated on the register near the piano, for warmth, and
called to me.
"I am the ghost of Solstice past!" I greeted her, gesturing with my
candle. Then I knelt beside her.
How was her woman-identified culture class coming along? I asked.
Danette liked the class but felt left out: sometimes she hated having to
think about lesbians and their unique culture. Her professor, Solveg,
was at the party, she added, looking around. •
"Perhaps it has less to do with lesbians and more to do with you," I
suggested lightly, alluding to an earlier conversation in which she had
revealed doubts about her own sexual preference.
"Now I know why I've avoided seeing you," Danette said simply.
"You remind me of things I'd rather not know."
I reflected on the similarity to my own situation that evening, and
nodded silently.
Dannette seemed to gleam in the candlelight: the flames leaping
off her auburn hair, flashing in her golden-brown eyes, the dazzle
repeated in her glossy lips and fine white teeth. We sat in silence for a
moment.
In fro~t of the bay windows facing the great lake, Gudrun stood
alone, starmg at her own reflection. In a moment, Solveg entered the
dining room from the kitchen and, seeing Gudrun, approached her and
put her arm tenderly across Gudrun's shoulders. Gudrun flinched then
shrugged away the arm. Kneeling beside Danette, I realized that' their
movements, their gestures and slouches all revealed the postures of a
}overs' quarrel. Throughout the fall, Solveg and Gudrun had been
separated while_ ~udrun ~aited in New York for her immigration
papers to be cert1f1ed. The distance had placed a terrible strain on their
decade-long relationship, and their differences were deep-seated.
Gudrun could no longer bear to stay in Duluth, for though she was a
scholar of_ greater s~ature than Solveg, she had been unable to find any
but part-time teachmg. Columbia University in New York wanted her.
It was the same struggle couples everywhere face: love or career. From
their ~ost~res, and _the way that each woman stared moodily past her
reflection m the wmdow, 1t seemed clear which choice had the upper
hand. I felt the sad inevitability of it all.
"It's time ~o form a circle," Linda announced, entering the dining
room and pullmg a small round table into the center. "Everyone in the
dining room, please!"
I took my place against the wall as the women packed in to the
roo~. The round table was covered with pine boughs, with thirteen
unht tapers arranged in a circle upon it. As more women poured into
the room, I looked up to see Jody standing only four people away from
me.
. "E~eryone hold hands," Linda commanded, bustling about to
mamtam a space around the pine-covered table.
. In the presence of all these women, the sheer heartlessness of my
de~1re for anonymity, and the impact it must have had on Jody, became
parnfully clear to me. I held out my hand to her which she
acknowledge with raised eyebrows, but after a moment,' she accepted
my o~tstretched hand and stood beside me. The women had stopped
shufflmg now and waited quietly.
"We celebrate Solstice," Linda began, "as the longest night of the
Y~ar. Traditionally, the night and the darkness have been associated
Wtth the feminine, and we celebrate this night as the seasonal height
~~ womanpow~r. ~a~onne will read to us a little bit more about the
f •story of solstice, Lmda concluded, turning to Lavonne, who stepped
orward shyly.
se Lavonne was the newest resident at Lester Creek House. I had only
en her twice before: once at the bar, and once at a party. To both
events, she wore her hair in dreadlocks, and sported a black leather
jacket with zippers and snaps- not the kind currently in fashion, but
the real kind-and a button which said "End Apartheid." Her dark skin,
wide-set eyes, high cheekbones and full lips made it difficult to tell
whether she was Black, Mexican, or Native American. In all the places
she appeared, she wore her defiance like armor. It wasn't until much
later that I learned she had fled to Duluth as a haven from cocaine
and prostitution. Tonight, doffing her black leather exterior, she wore
a long-sleeved thermal undershirt and faded jeans. In this new culture
of acceptance, it seemed, she was suddenly disarmed and fragile.
'"On solstice,'" Lavonne read, "'we light a fire, kindled with the
remains of the solstice fire of the year before. We feed the fire with
oak and fruit wood. We leap over the fire, making a wish for the
coming year, a wish for change. Through ritual we make something
real-our conscious awareness of what is happening inside us is
expressed in a tangible way. Through ritual we explore our
relationship with nature, our source, our relationship with ourselves as
we develop and our relationship with our community.'" Lavonne
paused to cl~r her throat. "'A ritual may be a communal celebration, a
time to reunite our community, to reaffirm our commitment to each
other and our way of life. We share and replenish our energy. We
indulge in playfulness and fantasy, we let down barriers, abandoning
restraints-we are freed, we are healed." LaVonne finished with relief.
"Thank you, Lavonne," Linda took over once again, turning to
survey the circle of women. "We stand in a circle to symbolize w~meo's
energy. These thirteen candles on the table represent the thirteen
women needed to compose a witches' coven. On the tree in the next
room, we have hung thirteen notes which describe things of value to
all of us. Would some women in the back go to the tree and each take
a note, come to the table, and light a candle after reading her piece of
paper?"
There was a murmur of movement as several women in the back
disappeared in accordance with Linda's request. After a few moments
of politeness and deference, the first woman came forth and took up
the box of fireplace matches to light a candle.
"Growing old together," she said quietly, but her voice carried
throughout the room. She placed the spent match in the caodleholder
and returned to her friends in the circle as the next woman
approached.
"Health."
With each candle, the women became less tentative about how to
proceed, and the values we held in common resonated and gleamed
with the candlelight.
"Laughter."
"Hope."
"Children."
"Lake Superior."
"Awakening.''
The next note was brought forth by Nadia, a fifty-year-old woman
who lived alone half an hour out of town, in a cabin without running
water and a wood-burning stove for heat. Though she was somewhat
of a matriarch in the community-head of the coffeehouse collective,
organizer of the lesbian center-her solitude enveloped her like a nun's
robe. She wore the usual red slip-on canvas shoes (Montgomery Wards'
five-dollar special), a grey pullover hooded sweatshirt, and baggy jeans
which emphasized the gangliness of her form. Her shock of grey,
frizzled hair, home-cut, curled and dove atop her gaunt frame, while
the candlelight reflected in her spectacles.
Nadia was the first woman to recycle a match. She took the burnt
matchstick from the last candleholder and used it to bring a flame to
the next taper. Nadia spoke softly. "Passion."
There was a chuckle in the room. "Fashion?" someone repeated
incredulously, watching Nadia's disappearing back. The joke was picked
up and tossed to Nadia, who caught it deftly with a gesture towards
her red slip-ons.
The candlelighting continued, each woman now following Nadia's
example and finding a charred matchstick to reuse.
"Dreams."
"Vision."
"Music."
A tiny woman clad from head to toe in black, silver-studded
leather, did not see the irony of her message. "Animal friends."
"Community."
And all the candles were lit.
"Would anyone like to say something?" Linda invited.
A woman with long sandy hair stepped forward. "Whatever bad
happened to you this year, let it go tonight. You die tonight and are
reborn tomorrow." She stepped back in the circle, and there was a
pause.
"Let's send energy to Meridel LeSeur," suggested a voice. "She had a
heart attack this week." And the women were quiet for this
transmission of energy from the circle of light to this elderly leader.
"I want to thank the community for your support," said another
Woman. "After a six-year battle with my ex-husband, I will be able to
see my son for the first time this Christmas."
Cl
>
>
"'
0
•-
VI
When it was clear that no one else would speak, Linda resumed.
"Outside we will build the traditional solstice bonfire. Sometime during
this eve~ing, you are all encouraged to leap over the bonfir_e._ As you
leave the ground, you will be leaving behind the old year. Saihng over
the fire, you will be cleansed, and you will land in th~ New Year.
Meanwhile, please help yourself to all the wonderful dishes on the
buffet table."
Satisfied with her role, Linda disappeared into the kitchen, and the
circle dispersed in a move towards the living room where. the ~uffet
had been set. Always one to avoid a line, I sat down_ to wait un_ttl the
majority had served themselves. Selecting an armchair by the wmdow,
I looked out onto the frozen ground. It had been especially cold that
week, and that evening the actual temperature read -27, made even
more biting by the wind.
Up at the buffet table, Jody spilled her fully-laden plate, and
someone called for paper towels.
At the last the line diminished, and I decided to go get supper. The
dishes had been somewhat plundered, but there was still enough of
each to go around.
"
. .
Pointing at a tomato-sauced rice casserole, I asked, Is this dish
vegetarian?"
Linda paused momentarily between bonfire a_n~ buffet. "Eat at
your own risk," she replied curtly. "We put no restrictions on the type
of food people could bring."
I made a mental note that Linda must be a carnivore, and used the
wooden spoon to pick apart the casserole in search of fleshy chunks.
Finding none, I decided to take my chances, and scooped the sortedthrough portion onto my plate.
Progressing around the table, I came at last to my soup tureen,
which was the site of every cook's nightmare: it was full, untouched.
In dismay, I realized that the ladle originally intended for ?1Y soup had
been used to serve out a nearby casserole; it lay now m the wellscraped pyrex dish, covered with white sauce and broccoli. I _took the
handle and rapped the ladle smartly against the pyrex, shaking loose
globs of food. Furiously, I carried the ladle to the kitchen as I had
carried the candle-aloft and flaming. Cheryl was in the kitchen, and
while I was washing the ladle, she found me a stack of bowls which I
took back to the buffet table and sat in plain view beside the soup
tureen. Somewhat calmed, I served myself a bowl of soup, picked up
my plate and faced the dining room.
At o~e of the many tables, Jody was seated with her roomm_ates
and friends. At another, my friends Robin and Inez sat alone. I deoded
to join them.
The conversation that ensued was as lifeless as any we had had.
Robin was depressed: her roof was leaking; the mail carrier had twice
refused to deliver her welfare check because she hadn't shoveled the
snow from her walk; and just yesterday, it had gotten so cold in her
basement that the clothes in her washer had frozen solid and stopped
the machine. Inez, as usual, interjected little jokes about life in general
and life with Robin in particular, but revealed nothing about herself.
furtively, I glanced over at the table where Jody was seated.
At that moment, Jody excused herself from the table and picked up
her plate as if to return to the buffet for seconds. There was a
movement of glasses and plates as the tablecloth yearned towards Jody,
who stopped just short of upsetting a cup of hot herb tea into
someone's lap. I looked away quickly.
At another table, Kate and Carla were engaged in animated
discussion, their hands and fingers flying as they signed to each other.
Finished with my meal, I excused myself from Robin and Inez, and
wandered into the old kitchen, where several women were in various
stages of washing dishes. The system, I was told, was to wash your own
plate, cup, and silverware, thereby eliminating this burden from the
cooperative residents.
Mary, a member of the household, was washing her dishes beside
me. Drawing a conversational blank, I decided to ask her where the
bathroom was.
"There's one on second floor and another on third-take your pick,"
she told me generously, adding, "Of course you know there's a ghost in
this house."
"Really?" I asked, not well pleased. "Does it haunt the second or the
third floor?"
Mary smiled mischievously. "People have seen and heard it on both.
It's a friendly ghost," she added, relenting at the look I gave her. "Why
don't you look for it on your way to the bathroom?"
I smiled noncommittally and returned my dishes to the cupboard.
"Thanks."
The wooden staircase was crowded with women, candles, and
empty plates. I edged my way past them and up to the second floor
landing, where I paused to explore. Three doors, apparently private
bedrooms, were firmly closed. From a fourth room, light and
conversation streamed out of an open doorway. Curious, I entered the
room.
Piled on the bed was an array of coats and scarves. The only other
Piece of furniture in the room was an elegant antique vanity table
With a tall mirror in its center. One woman adjusted her jacket while
two others looked on.
- "Have you all leaped over the solstice fire. and m~de your wishes?"
I asked them generally searching for my coat m the pile.
"Not me; said Lori, the tall woman who was adjusting her jacket.
"I'd never make it over."
"Sure you would," I challenged her. "Those long legs were made for
leaping."
"Or something else," chuckled another woman."
.
I found my coat at last. "Well, wish me luck, I said, and left the
room to the women.
In the kitchen, Jody carried her dishes to the sink and plunged her
hands in the sudsy water.
"Enjoying the party?" the woman rinsing next to her asked.
Jody looked up. The woman beside her was Robin. "Um, yea, sure,"
Jody stammered. "Are you?"
Robin nodded and put her dishes in the dish rack
"I didn't even realize it was you," Jody offered.
"Well, that's okay," Robin replied gently. "I think w.e were thro"'.n
here together for a reason." She paused. "We're both bi~er .tha? this,
Jody. Solstice is a time for letting go of the old and brmgmg m the
new."
"I hear you," said Jody, relief bringing a warmth to her ~hee~s.
"Maybe we could get together sometime and work this thmg out,
one-on-one," Robin continued.
"Let's do it " Jody accepted her simply. Then she felt a dampness at
her waist and looked down at the overflowing sink. Both women's
hands shot forward to close the faucets and collided midway.
Upstairs, the third floor landing seemed much smaller than the
second. Opening each one of the closed doors, I found the bathroom,
threw my coat on the floor, and closed the door behind me.
Outsi_de the house, three coatless women linked arms and ran
shrieking down the slope to leap the bonfire.
"I am the ghost of solstice past," I asserted to the shad~ws of the
third-floor landing. An answering creak resounded from behmd one.of
the closed doors. Clutching my coat, I turned and descended the stairs,
restraining the impulse to take them two at a time.
.
By the solstice tree, I rejoined Danet~e and Nadia, who were
looking out the bay windows onto the bonftre below. Buff, Kate, and
Jody panted and slapped their arms next to the fireplace nearby..
"I'm going to jump," I declared to Danette, who seemed lost m the
folds of the armchair. "Would you like to go with me?"
Danette smiled and declined. "It's 27 below," she objected. "I'd rather
watch."
Jody stepped forward. "I jumped with Buff and Kate," she said
proudly. "We were the first. We didn't even have jackets. Do you want
me to go with you?"
"No thanks," I said, a little too quickly. "This might be a good thing
to do alone. How do you get out?" I added, trying to appease her.
"Over there." Jody pointed to a door of the living room, barely
concealing her disappointment.
"Thanks." In four steps, I was out the door.
The blast of icy wind that greeted me made me gasp. I hurried
down the stairs to join the line of leapers.
"This is insanity," the woman ahead of me announced. "Whose idea
was this, anyhow?"
"Isn't that always the hardest thing?" another woman laughed in
answer. "We chose this ourselves."
I said nothing, shifting from leg to leg to keep warm.
Facing the solstice fire, two women struggled to secure a crown of
pine boughs onto the head of another woman. A door slammed above
us, and Betty came scurrying down the stairs, protected only by a suit
jacket.
"Th-this is all I brought!" Betty chattered in explanation.
"Then come now," the women at the head of the line urged her.
Betty was taken between two women, one of whom wore the crown.
"NOW!"
Slipping and gathering speed on the icy slope, the three women ran
and jumped over the bonfire, travelling well into the darkness before
they could stop. Only the crown-bearer returned, breathless and
laughing, to hand the pine crown to the next leaper.
What are they wishing? I wondered silently as the line diminished.
Out with the old, in with the new. The phrase kept repeating itself in
my mind. Forgiveness of past mistakes.
And then it was my turn. Placing the pine-bough wreath on my
head, I realized suddenly that most all the other leapers had gone in
pairs. Out with the old, in with the new.
From behind the lace curtain, a woman leaned against the
Windowframe and looked out at the bonfire.
Gathering my coat up above my knees, I began running, slipping,
leaping, soaring, landing, sliding, slowing, turning, running back to the
Waiting solstice leaper. Not until I climbed the steps to the house did I
realize that, obsessed with the solstice slogan, I had forgotten to wish
for anything.
Inside the house, women were opening their gifts. Robin
approached me as I unzipped my coat.
Cl
,.,>>t:::,
■
VI
VI
Jen Wright
Untitled
charcoal on paper
"I don't like mine," she complained, showing me a Patsy Cline
cassette I had coveted. "You pick something, and if you don't like yours
either, we'll trade."
"Okay," I agreed, throwing my coat across a chair. I knelt beside the
tree and began feeling and shaking the packages. One of them emitted
a muffled jingle, and I chose it immediately. The paper fell away,
revealing a marionette-like wooden cat suspended from a stick. In its
paws were two bells.
"I like mine," I said apologetically to Robin.
"Well, have mine anyway," she replied, handing me the tape. "I
can't ~l;(I].~ country-western."
"Thanks!" I looked full at Robin for the first time that evening.
Robin noticed.
"You know," she began, when Inez called her from the other room.
"I'll be back," she assured me, moving away and leaving me ,with the
wooden cat-and-bells in one hand and the cassette in the other.
"What did you get?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to face
Jody.
"These," I replied, showing her. "What did you get?"
Jody showed me a cloth sack tied with a ribbon. "Potpourri," she
grinned ruefully. "Shall we go now?"
"Sure," I said, looking back to where Robin had gone. "Give me five
minutes to gather my cookware, and to warm up the car."
Jody frowned. "Can't I help?"
"That's okay," I said, backing away to get my coat. I pushed my
arms through the sleeves and stuffed my presents in the pockets. When
I turned around, Jody was gone.
On the buffet table, I found my soup tureen empty, at last, with the
ladle inside it. The lid, however, was nowhere in sight. I ,scanned the
table, the radiator, the window shelves~nothing. Exasperated, I
returned·to the kitchen.
"Have you seen a lid to this pot?" I asked Denise, one oCthe
residents, and held up the tureen.
"Let me look around," she offered, and began opening and shutting
cabinet doors.
I glanced into the hallway, past Robin and Inez who were standing
next to the stairs, and saw Jody, her jacket on, preparing to leave.
I couldn't let her wait for me in the cold. If I called to her, Robin
and Inez would surely hear.
"Jody!" I called urgently, in a low voice, envisioning my word
sliding past Robin and resounding only in Jody's ears.
Jody jerked her head back and saw me.
So did Robin.
"Found it!" proclaimed Denise, handing me the lid.
"Thanks," I muttered, fitting the lid atop the tureen. Then I looked
up again. To reach the door where Jody now waited, I had t~ cross
through the hallway, past Robin and Inez. There was no other exit.
"Good night, Robin. Good night, Inez." I slid quickly past them,
gesturing with my soup tureen. Then I grasped t~e front door handle
in one mittened hand, and found I could not turn 1t.
"I'll do it," said Jody, behind me. "You've got your hands full."
"Goodnight," said Robin, looking squarely at Jody and me.
"Goodnight," I repeated, getting through the door at last. Jody
closed the door behind us. Together, we crossed through the porch and
out into the night, where icy winds embraced us. In silence, we walked
down the stairs to the driveway. Beneath our feet, the snow crunched
and squeaked.
"What a night," I groaned.
Jody was quiet a moment, then replied, "You can't live a lie."
"Too bad," I retorted coldly.
Jody froze.
.
•
Briskly, I walked on alone with my soup tureen. In my mind, the
image of a single woman, crowned with a pine _bough, resu~rected
itself. With sure strides, the woman ran and leaped mto the bonfire.
I stopped walking, and remembered the solstice slogan.
If the woman were to survive the flames, she would have to
emerge in another form.
.
I turned and walked against the wind back to Jody, who was still
standing fixed at the front of the driveway.
"Let's start over, from the beginning," I said quietly. "I can dismiss
the rumors about you, if you can overlook my behavior tonight."
Jody raised her eyebrows, but the warmth returned to her eyes.
"That's a pretty big leap of faith," she replied cautiously.
I paused to pick out some pine needles from her hair. "Not if we
jump together." ■
Just Before
(from Triptych Within A Snapshot, 1967)
Steven Riel
You there, bespectacled already & only
in the second grade, no longer the dreamy-eyed
toddler with Maybelline lashes
who'd stare back at the camera or glance
quizzically off to the left. Adrift,
you felt it no longer mattered where you lookedno one cares about odd little boys
who pretend they're grouse, build roadside nests,
wave their wings at neighbors while brooding
over a clutch of stones. It no longer mattered:
the flash's glint on your bifocals hid your gaze,
which turned inward as you waited
for some Superman to see through your homeliness
once two front teeth had replenished your smile.
Murkily you gathered there was more to
completion. The fairy godmother furnished
Cinderella with more than a gownthings were clearer with glasses, &
you didn't like what you saw: your fledgling
body like skin on a hanger,
•
.
your sissy recess ways reviled;
you didn't like that it mattered, it matteredyou'd have to learn to be somebody else
for them, understudy them
throughout your downy years,
years of wishing
as snow melted inside your boots
that someone would wave a beaded wand
instead of a Polaroid at you &
bring into focus your beauty,
your still-blurry daydreams
of what it was like
with the Prince
just before midnight. ■
3.
Wehavea new
rule, girls.
String
Janis A. Totty
She won't look at me.
1.
· Standing in the feet
of her own long shadow,
she says she is afraid.
Tells my mother this when they
meet at the fence, sheets
she has pulled from the line bunched
against her. They wrinkle, droop
like bloom toward the earth
she will not let them touch.
She is afraid, your mother, you
are becoming something leans
my way too much, is worried
you will grow that way,· •
when you, should ~ finding
also other friends.
'
2.
We pretend we
are tiny, are trying
to live in a world
of things now dangerous, used
to be ordinary; before
we got shrunk.
We give ourselves brave names
to make it, smoking hero sounds
of glory, like "Sieve," and "Rick."
For hours, we rescue each other
in the green stain of the yard.
I wrap your wounds iri dandelion
petals; you pull me out from crushing
under a clothespin.
Together we notice
how in this careful lawn
there are weeds growing
up everywhere.
And that is
when you are in here, the
door to this room
stays open.
She won't look at you, either.
Her eyes search instead the flat
wood of your bedroom door
as if she has never seen it.
I sit and go heavy, go
back deep down away, leave
on the bed a mud girl someone
has weary packed into the rounded
forms of human-mouth a dust
stable, tongue a dull plank.
You turn, twist, pull
with all your might
in an endless swim upstream
I have seen you try before.
Why can't I close it
We can close it
Why can't/
But even you, pumping
comet girl, can't answer
good enough the question, what
are you doing that you need it
closed, anyway, there shouldn't be
anything to hide.
She walks away.
I wish so bad I could take you
inside that door right now, show you
how the swirling grain tides gather,
then spread out. I wish I could
jump in with you, see you shine.
4.
This woman
who all day women
come to see, one after
the other for her hands
on their heads they wait
• for her-redolent, soft
and wise, listening to them,
making them feel beautiful.
I thought I was the only one
who hid the scorch of shame, thought
this beauty-shop woman must
not, did not know why she
cleaned that house morning,
noon and night.
5.
Also other friends, you
should be finding, but now
it's string you're after.
N
'-0
■
>E-E--
0
E--
Now you've gone down the basement.
stairs, through you mother's
beauty shop, past red and black
vinyl chairs, hairdryers tilted •
back, sliding stacks of magazines,
and on the walls, one man, tacked,
a star. The way to your father's closet.
You're not supposed to be in there.
But it's where you saw him disappear
the round wind, up on a high shelf,
so you'll climb. We've decided.
I wait in the yard with my two
tin cans, consider the distance
from your bedroom window to minebrick peas fence grass • juniper brick
I wonder will it be enough to reach across
across, to carry, but then
you come back, swinging off the door's
hinges barely holding, shouting
into the bright hot shape of afternoon.
The ball of string; we've got it.
We're gonna talk all night.
6.
Tough weed, this
voice, this gut stalk
to survive the culling
hands, the nail-lip
accusations. Improbable
journey, this too-deep
voice, this too-much love,
and string.
Afraid to speak, as if
the fragile cannot bear
the sonorous; afraid
to think my own mind's
thoughts, as if I have forgotten
the concentric, then breakaway
life of wood; I remember
nightIs that you laughing?
Put the can to your ear.
Now do you hear me?
I remember the black
star bowl of sky, a string's
astral weave, float back, how by sun's
fire we rolled it in,
our own long shadows taking us home.
>-3
0
>-3
>-3
-<
■
$
Making Peace
Grant Campbell
A
ghost appeared beside Martin Legge's tiny bed in the small hours
of the morning. The figure leaned over, laid a hand on Martin's
beard, and said, "Rise, take up thy bed, and walk." So Martin got
out of bed, stepped into his slippers, and began to walk. He opened the
front door of his apartment and walked down the hall until the light
over the waste-disposal room woke him up. He blinked and looked
around; there was no one in the hallway. He turned and shuffled back
to his front door, which had mercifully remained open; he shut the
door behind him, and went into the bathroom. His toes were cold. He
stared wistfully into the mirror until he was sure he was awake.
Eventually, he yawned, switched off the light and went back to bed.
No sooner had he closed his eyes when he felt a warmth on his
beard. Opening his eyes again, he saw the apparition bending over him,
chuckling slightly.
"Sorry about that."
The apparition's hand had moved over Martin's mouth, and the
gentle, firm pressure prevented him from replying. Martin raised his
eyebrows slightly.
"I really am sorry," said the spirit, looking contrite. "Just a bit of
fun. I've always wanted to say that. Didn't think you'd really do it. Can
I trust you not to shout? You might wake up, and I'd have to start all
over again."
Martin nodded, and the spirit lifted his hand from Martin's mouth.
The young man slowly sat up and swung his spindly legs over the edge
of the futon. The spirit, after jabbing curiously at the keyboard of the
computer on the desk, sat on the bed and studied his host, taking in the
tousled, thinning hair, knobbly knees and thin shoulders. As Martin
stared back, the ghost's fingers crept involuntarily to his own ample
waist.
After a brief silence, Martin spoke. "Do you mind if I ask you who
you are?"
The apparition winced. "Awkward question, actually. We don't
usually let that out until much later. Died thirty years ago. No one in
particular."
"Why are you here?"
The ghost shrugged and smiled, his eyes bunching up around the
corners; he crossed his thick and hairy arms against his scarlet polo
shirt. "To say hello."
"Say hello?"
"Sure. Why not?"
It was Martin's turn to shrug. "I'm not complaining. It's just that I
thought ghosts always had a message to give."
"You mean like Scrooge?" The ghost lowered his voice for dramatic
effect. "'I am the ghost of Christmas past!"' He laughed. "No. No message.
Just thought I'd drop by, see if you needed anything. Perhaps I can
help."
Martin rubbed his eyes again. "Would you mind if I got a cup of tea?"
"Hmm," said the ghost nervously. "All that moving around might
wake you up."
"I'm getting cold. That's going to wake me up soon."
"Oh, well then. Get into bed right away."
"What about my tea?"
"Allow me. Snuggle up and keep warm."
Martin got back under the comforter, and rearranged the pillows
against the wall, so that he was sitting upright. Meanwhile, the ghost
went into the kitchen and picked up the kettle.
"AGGGHHH!!"
Martin jumped. The room wavered briefly, but he held himself still,
and the sleep continued. The ghost reappeared at the door of the
kitchen, breathing heavily.
"What happened?"
"Sorry about that. Still asleep?"
"Yes."
"Thank goodness. Not my night, is it?"
"What happened?"
"Cockroach. Hiding under the kettle." The ghost shuddered. "God, I
still hate those things. Don't have them in the hereafter, you know.
Look, do you really want tea?"
"I don't mind."
"Here. Shove over." The apparition clambered onto the futon,
settled down next to Martin, and put an arm around his shoulder.
Martin's skin prickled with sudden warmth. "There now. How does that
feel?"
Martin leaned against the apparition's chest, and let his patron
stroke his beard gently. "Nice." His eyelids fluttered and dropped. "Very
nice."
The ghost looked down at him with wide eyes. "You're purring,
Martin. I can feel it." He laughed. "How wonderful."
"I thought ghosts were cold. I thought they felt like drafts and icy
Winds, and made fires go out."
(")
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t:""'
t:""'
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"Some are cold. I've met dead people that travel on skates. But I
was a nice fellow, when I was alive. Not the brightest or the bravest,
perhaps, but warm. I used to laugh a lot." He squeezed Ma~ti~ closer,
and ran a hand through his hair. Martin sat silent, rehshmg the
contact, leaning into the stroking gesture like a cat. Presently the ghost
stirred. "Feel good?"
"Mmmmmm."
"Tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"Tell me how it feels."
"It helps, that's all." Martin pressed closer against the warm body.
"It just-helps."
"Anything else I can do while I'm here?"
"It's time to spray the cupboards again."
The ghost stiffened. "I'm dead. I don't do that kind of work."
"Just kidding."
"Here's something I've always wanted to do." The apparition
scrambled to his knees. "Lie down and roll over." •
Martin did as he was told. The ghost lifted a leg and straddled him
awkwardly, then dug his warm fingers into the muscles between
Martin's shoulder-blades. Martin gasped. "That feels wonderful."
"GOd, you're tense!" The fingers probed the knotted muscles and
found a spot above the left shoulder blade. "What's this from?"
Martin grunted in pleasure. "That's our receptionist. She yelled at
me the other day."
The ghost moved up to Martin's neck. "What about this?" He slowly
closed his fingers.
"Ow! My bills. My goddamned bills."
"What kinds of bills?"
"Big ones." Martin clutched the pillow, while the apparition shoved
relentlessly. "Cable. Utilities. Student loan. VISA. If you really wanted to
help me you'd take away my credit cards."
"Sor~y. They aren't allow in the hereafter. Can you picture Jane
.
Austen with a VISA card? Every other day we'd be dragging .her out of
Fabric-Land."
Martin groaned. "How am I going to pay all those bills?"
The ghost thought for a moment. "A stitch in time saves nine. A
penny saved is a penny earned. Never put off 'till tomorrow what you
can do today. How the hell should I know? Do I look like an
economist?"
Martin laughed, a full rich laugh that came up from his belly and
out through his shoulders. "You make me feel good. That's enough for
me."
"You're starting to relax." He paused and ran his hands over the
pimply skin. "Here's a good patch." And his hands strayed down to the
small of Martin's back.
Martin tried to squirm away. "Don't. It's okay."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Martin. I'm a ghost. What do you think I'm
going to do?"
.
Martin tried to roll over. The ghost held htm down, gently but
firmly, and probed the knotted tension just above the tail-bone.
Immediately Martin twitched violently, with a yell of pain.
"Shh shh shh." The ghost retreated, and gently massaged the
surrounding areas. "Tighter than a drum down here. What's this all
about?" He pressed his thumb into the center of the knotted muscle."
"STOP IT!" Martin wrenched himself around savagely. "That hurts!
Don't you understand? It hurts!"
"I want to make it better. What caused it, anyway? Your exboyfriend?"
"I wouldn't give him that satisfaction."
"Then what's made you so sore? Parents? War? The recession?"
"A baseball bat."
The ghost's fingers froze. "A what?"
"Baseball bat. A week ago. Outside my building. This is not a nice
neighborhood."
The spirit raised himself painfully and clambered up beside Martin.
He gently wrapped Martin in his arms and stroked his beard once
again. "I'm sorry."
Martin pushed his hand away. "Don't. You'll make me cry."
"So cry." The ghost held him close and kissed his thinning hair.
"It's not important," said Martin through clenched teeth. "Small
potatoes. Other people have it worse."
"I'm not other people, Martin. I'm a dead man. A ghost. Big things
don't matter to me anymore. I fought in World War One. I heard the
Hindenberg blow up on the radio. I remember Lindbergh, Pearl Harbor,
Normandy and Sputnik. Do you think I care about that now? All that
remains are the small potatoes. Cockroaches. Beards. Purring. Back
rubs." He paused. "And now, a baseball bat."
By this time, the tears were running down Martin's face, and his
shoulders had begun to shake. The ghost wiped the cheeks wit~ a
calloused thumb, then drew Martin into his chest again, cradlmg
Martin's head. Martin cried for a long time before he finally calmed
down. The ghost reached over and pulled some Kleenex from the box
on the bedside table, and made Martin blow.
"Feel better now?"
"Better."
"That's good."
Martin thought for a moment. "What's it like, being dead?"
"Very pleasant. You spend a lot less time looking for a bathroom."
"Are you on parole, or something?"
"What do you mean?"
"Is this penance? Do you have to serve a term as guardian angel to
some loser before you qualify for the big promotion?"
The ghost frowned, and shook Martin's shoulders none too gently.
"That's a vulgar remark. Not kind to me, or to you. I_ was ~ good_ man,
Martin. Oh sure I had my fights and my little cruelties. Still, I did my
bit. And you're not a loser, either. I envy you, you know. Baseball bats
notwithstanding, you have more chances than I did."
"Did you live alone?"
"All my life. Ran a hardware store in Oril~i~. Had a small ho~se.
Garden. Just a block from church. Lived there till I was seventy-five,
then got into a small place in Toronto. Three years later, I got lucky.
Taken off by a good, clean heart attack: no pain, no fuss. I slept for a
year, and then booked myself on the standard tour."
"The standard tour?"
"Let's face it, Martin. Unless you've died suddenly and very young,
by the time you go you're sick of life on earth. You want to tra~el, see
new places. The first term in heaven is like being on that starship that
boldy goes where no one has gone before. Then, for the second term,
you want to go back to Earth and do the things you've never done. In
nineteen-eighty-three God sent me to San Francisco, for refinement
school. I learned all about modern gay life there." The ghost paused for
a moment, eyes closed.
"I had so much fun, you wouldn't believe. I though my eyes would
fall out. The men, the men. The beautiful, gorgeous, tanned, bronzed,
pumped-up men! Not to mention the sunlight. Variety. Noise.. And the
shopping! I mean, look at the clothes I got!" He jumped off the bed and
stood with arms wide and eyes shining. "I used to think jeans were all
alike. But look at these! They way they fit! They way they hug my legs
and make my butt round and my crotch full! I never dreamed I'd e~~r
wear something like this." The ghost noticed the corners of Martm s
. mouth twitching, and he blushed. "Oh, sure. Laugh. rknow it must
sound silly to you. But remember, I was born in 1882! I never dreamed
I'd look at myself and feel so good, so full and-a~d proud!" .
His eyes wavered and dropped. "After awhtle, t~ou~h, _1~ ne!rly
drove me nuts. You see, during that second stage, you re mv1s1ble. ~e
sat down heavily on the futon and took Martin's hand. "The epidemic
had started by then. I watched the men die, and I watched them
survive, even while they died. I stood beside them in rallies and
assemblies, with a century of experience, unheard and unseen. As they
fought for rights, for a voice, for a cure for what was happening to
them, they looked right through me, as if I wasn't there!" He kissed
Martin's hand and ran it gently along his cheek. "Even in the saddest
moments, I'd be jealous.-I'd watch a man holding the hand of his dying
lover, and envy the grief he felt." He turned to Martin and smiled
sadly. "And through it all, the only thing I could do was learn how to
look good. While all those men were dying, I was learning to be vain.
And no one could see or hear me."
Martin put his other hand over the ghost's, and squeezed. "I can see
you. I can hear you." He chuckled. "Nice clothes. Great butt." He reached
inside the red polo shirt and caressed the hair on the ghost's chest.
Leaning forward, he grinned and whispered, "Want to do more than
stroke my beard?"
The ghost didn't smile back. He simply took Martin's head between
his hands and said "Yes," solemnly.
Martin lay on top of the ghost, enclosed in his thick arms, head
lying on the ghost's broad and hairy chest. The ghost lay with his legs
wrapped around Martin's torso, running his hands through Martin's
hair, and down Martin's back. For a long time, the small apartment was
silent. Then Martin looked up. "Feel good?" he asked.
The ghost didn't answer. Martin reached up to stroke the cheek,
and found it damp. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." The ghost smiled faintly. "I'm just happy."
Martin raised himself on his elbows and looked at the ghost
curiously. "Why can I see and feel you?"
"I've moved into the third stage of heaven, now."
"The third stage?"
The ghost kissed Martin's forehead. "After a few years, I was
accepted into the third term of happiness. It's hard to explain, but in
the third term, I get to move back towards something in my past that I
want to reclaim. You're a part of that third stage."
"How?"
"You remind me of someone."
"Who?"
"A rover. A traveller. Nineteen-twenty-five. Pulled down my porch
in the summer, then walked away."
"I don't understand."
The ghost leaned his head back against the pillow and closed his
eyes. "That old house," he said finally, stroking Martin's hair absently.
"It was built to last forever. But no one had taken proper care of it. So
when I bought it, the porch had become rotten. I ignored it for as long
as I . could, 'cause there were lots of other things that needed doing.
Then old Mrs. Sanders put a foot through it, one day, while dropping
by with one of her godawful casseroles. Fell backwards, all two
hundred .pounds of her. Broke a leg, and never said a word of
complaint. You can imagine how I felt.
"I thought, I can either pull it down, or I can repaint it, replace the
broken board and hope for the best. But the thought of Mrs. Sanders
breaking another leg was too much, so I figured, all right, it's time. So
out I went, with my crowbar, my saw, my hammer, and set to work.
Figured, couple of hours hard work, and gone she'll be. Well!" The ghost
chuckled. "Didn't I learn a thing or two!"
"Take longer than you thought?"
"Two days later, I'm still hacking away. That thing was built like
one of those cathedrals. It had struts, and buttresses, and planks and
joints and what-have-you. Finally, Harry, who taught over at the
school, came by and offered me his brother."
"His brother?"
"To help me. He was visiting on his way across Canada, and he
needed a bit of money. So I told Harry to send him over the next day.
Next day, eight o'clock sharp on a Saturday morning, while I'm still
asleep, and deep in a wet dream, the back doorbell rings. I stumble
down, wondering who the hell could it be, and there's this young guy,
with a furry beard, and the sweetest, most solemn puppy-dog eyes you
can imagine." The ghost scrutinized Martin critically. "He looked like
you. Same eyes. Same beard. And skinny: not enough meat on him to
make a noise in the pan. Slender. Wiry."
Martin sighed.
"Well, you never saw two guys sweat and strain the way we did
over that porch. But by noon, it was mostly kindling. He hardly said a
word. Shy, withdrawn. But if I cracked a joke, he'd smile the greatest
smile you ever saw. Like-" The ghost waved his hands. "Like-ob,
forget it. How do you describe a smile? Anyway, we worked and
worked. And around about noon, I said, that's enough. Let's get a drink
or something."
The ghost was silent for a moment. "We went in, and got ourselves
something to drink. He stood there in the kitchen, no shirt on. Flies
buzzing everywhere, and so hot I wanted to pant like a dog. But it felt
so good! Mid-June. Sun on the lake, sun on the trees. Having company
on a Saturday. Working with wood for four solid hours. A wint er's
worth of kindling in my shed. Smell of the grass. Feel of my ch est,
heaving from all that effort. The sight of a half-naked man leaning
against my kitchen counter.
i
"His head was thrown back, looking at the ceiling. I couldn't help
D1yself. I went over to him, and wiped a drop of sweat that was
running down his neck. He lowered his head, and looked at me. Before
I knew it, we were up in the bedroom, and I could smell the flowers
from the garden below, and hear the bees nosing about in the blossoms,
and taste the hot skin that had been out in the sun all morning." The
ghost sighed. "I'd never known anything so wonderful in all my life."
Martin thought for a moment, feeling the hand on his beard, the
chest against his face, the arm around his shoulders. "So where do I
come into this?"
The ghost didn't answer right away, but lay there with his eyes
closed. "After it was over, he got up right away, and put his clothes on
and left. I never saw him again. He never came to be paid for his work.
And I finished the porch myself, and grew my flowers, and sat on the
porch and smelled the flowers and thought about him. And life went
on, and eventually I grew old and I died. As I sat on my porch through
all the long years after that, I wished with everything I had that he'd
stayed for ten more minutes, cuddling with me. I had sex with men
during in my life; more than you might think. But I lived for seventy
eight years, and never hugged a man, never nestled in close to him.
God, I said, if you take me to heaven, let it be a place where I can hold
a man close and cuddle him and stroke his beard. So, when God moved
me on to the third stage, he let me find you, and come to you in the
dead of night, when you needed comfort, and let me hold you and kiss
you and rub your back and listen to your troubles."
"Mmmmm." Martin's head sank lower on the ghost's chest.
The ghost raised Martin's chin. "Moving out of REM sleep?"
"I'm afraid so. Will I remember you in the morning?"
"The way you'd remember a dream. Martin, I'm scared.- There's not
much time."
"What's going to happen to you?"
The ghost's voice cracked slightly. "Something strange. Incredible.
God knows. The fourth stage."
Martin reached over and turned out the light. "Lie down," he
ordered.
The ghost obeyed. Martin rolled the ghost on his side, and then
settled down behind him, with an arm around the ghost's waist. He
kissed the back of the ghost's neck. "It'll be okay," he whispered.
"You're a good man."
They lay there in silence for awhile. "Is this what you and your
lover used to do?"
"It's called making spoons. How does it feel?"
C":i
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■
-..J
"Don't let go. I'll disappear as soon as you fall out of REM. This will
be my last memory of earth."
Martin felt the sleep reaching out to grab him like an undertow off
a deserted beach. He summoned all his energy for one last effort. "Hey.
Robert."
The ghost twisted abruptly around to look into Martin's face. Even
in the dark, Martin could see the amazement in his eyes. "How did
you-"
Martin smiled, and kissed him gently, very gently on the lips. "We
did a nice job on that porch." ■
Trumpet Call of The 7th Angel
Deborah Parks-Satterfield
you blew through me today
that's how i knew you were dead
you left
so
suddenly, my heart is heavy with the sadness and the
knowledge
i am empty and full of you
all at once... putting one foot in front of the other is a chore
the idea of joining you crosses my mind like the
chaotic exit of bats from a cave
but i promise not to bind your soul to earth with my grief
you were hard and gentle and wild
my mouth is full of kisses for you and
i will love you and love you and
love you
till
Classifieds
■
AUTHOR QUERIES
Anthology of creative writing by young gays, lesbians, and bisexuals seeks
submissions. From Now On will include fiction, poetry, and short dramatic
writing by writers born 1966 and later. Original and previously published work
will be considered. Send submissions with SASE and short bio by January 31,
1992 to: Michael Lowenthal, P.O. Box A-164, Hanover, NH 03755.
Operating as a marketing-publishing firm, The Writers Block strives to enrich
the gay and lesbian community by producing interesting, high-quality
entertainment materials including books (fiction and non-fiction), cassettes,
and instructional as well as entertainment (not pornographic) videos. Send
SASE to The Writers Block Publishing Company, P.O. Box 6337, N. Augusta, SC
29841 for guidelines.
Submissions sought for a collection of stories about the Gay / Lesbian Christian
Experience. Particularly interested in stories about why you may have turned
away from God, and have come back into the Christian faith, and what your
spiritual life is like now. Other testimonies welcome. SASE to Candace Chellew,
P.O. Box 1251, Decatur, GA 30031-1251.
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experience to Managing Editor, Evergreen Chronicles, P.O. Box 8939,
Minneapolis, MN 55408.
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Rising Tide Press, a new Lesbian publisher, is soliciting manuscripts for fulllength Lesbian novels: romance, mystery, and science fiction/ fantasy. Nonfiction manuscripts are also welcome if they are unsual. Manuscripts are read
and evaluated free of charge. Free guidelines are available to all writers. Send
SASE to Rising Tide Press, 5 Kivy Street, Huntington Station, NY 11746.
Telephone # (516) 427-1289.
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I'm looking for recovery stories and ways of dealing with aftereffects of
tr;mma. The emphasis of the collection will be on thriving; not merely
surviving. Please send a SASE if you'd like a copy of the guidelines: L.A. Ross,
Box 51, 2 S. 727 Rt. 59, Warrenville, IL 60555. If you would like information
about the book when it is published, please send me your name and address.
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Advertisi ■ g your orga ■ izatio ■ or
Submit.
The Evergreen Chronicles Evergreen is the only
is looking for submissions magazine in the nation
for upcoming issues. dedicated to publishing the
Whether you are a fiction artistic endeavors of both
writer, a poet, a painter, gay and lesbian individuals.
a photographer- - - - - - - - - - Given to your
in short, an arti~t
creativity,
of any media RRIIILIBRIWIIIL■L11__ . express your
ident~ty,
dealing w_ith
gay or lesbian
submit to
issues-we would like you The Evergreen Chronicles,
to submit your work for P.O. Box 8939,
possible inclusion in our Minneapolis, MN 55408.
magazine. Send SASE for submission guidelines
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P.O. Box 50123, Minneapolis, MN 55405,
612-874-8 143.
Contributors
Rane Arroyo is a Chicago-born Puero Rican poet and playwright,
author of the forthcoming book of poetry, Columbus' Orphan.
Grant Campbell lives in Toronto. He works for the North York Public
Library, and is currently at work on his first novel.
Subscribe.
Nona Caspers lives and writes in San Francisco. Her short fiction
appears in Voyages Out 2 (Seal Press), a two-authored collection. Nona's
first novel, The Blessed (Silverleaf Press), is about salvation and
personal ghosts.
The Evergreen Chronicles Our staff is excited
is looking for readers. about the change and we
The nation's only magazine would like you to be part of
dedicated to _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ the new
Roseann Dabasi likes writing about the complexity of human
relationships. She loves reading and daydreaming. Hopefully someday
she'll finish her short story.
Greta Gaard is an assistant professor of Composition and Women's
Studies at the University of Minnesota-Duluth. Her work has been
published in Hurricane Alice, Lesbian Love Stories II, Word of Mouth II,
and The Creative Woman.
publishing h?th lEvorgroo~n E~rgreen.
gay and lesbian _....,_L_ _._L■L._11111 Jom the
write~ an_di ■■ QM@•
excitement, be
artists is
a part of your
currently undergoing an community, subscribe to
extensive makeover. The Evergreen Chronicles.
John M. Ison lives in Los Angeles. He has written for California, The
Advocate, the New York Native, Fresh Men and Torso.
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YES, sign me up for a subscription to The Evergreen Chronicles. Ewrgmm is
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published semi-annually (two Issues a year) In December and June.
Individual Sub8criptioo
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SUpportlng Solbocrlben ....tve a
glf1o!CN1elled<(m!,r form aa:om.-n1es nn1 laue)
Gifts IO • - are Ill dedDCtlble.
Mailing Information
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S. E. Mead is a writer and freelance painter living in Albany, N.Y. His
work has appeared in various small magazines and he recently had his
first solo art show.
Christopher Moes is a senior at Emerson College in Boston. He is
studing writing and literature.
Add,Uy
State
Robert Leone lives in San Francisco with his lover Ed and their cat
Gracie. He has written for the Bay Area Reporter and is currently
working on a coming-out story.
Zip
Send coupon and payment to: Tiu Evng,wn Chronic/a, P.O. Box 8939, Minneapolis, MN 55408
L-----------------------------------------------
Deborah Parks-Satterfield turned 40 in September. She resides in
Seattle, Washington with Risa Morgan, her partner for 9 years.
Trumpet Call Of The 7th Angel is dedicated to J. Max and Deb Milne.
Gary Eldon Peter was born and raised in southern Minnesota. An
attorney, he has received awards for his writing from The Loft and
Minnesota Ink, and his fiction has appeared in Wellspring magazine.
Vicky Phillips is a San Francisco based writer whose work has
appeared in Common Lives, On Our Backs, The San Francisco Bay
Guardian and Bad Attitude.
Steven Kiel has been published in NewMen, NewMinds,· Men Talk; Lives
in Translation, and Christopher Street His first book of poems, How to
Dream, was published by Amherst Writers and Artists in 1991.
Glenn Sheldon currently lives near and works at the University of
Pittsburgh as a publications director. His poetry is widely published
including Mudfish, Red Dancefloor, Pittsburgh Quarterly and Fag Rag.
Christopher Thomas: This is Christopher's second appearance in EC
He has other work represented in Diviance, Firshand, Fragments, and
other journals. He runs a corn farm in red nick [sic] territory.
Janis Totty is a poet, playwright, martial artist and baker living in
Northampton, Massachusetts.
Jen Wright is an artist living in Duluth, Minnesota, where she works
as a juvenile probation officer.
ulilliiOlii'OK
M 000 996 248
Property of the Center
"/ wondered if I could put some ~
serious velocity on that pinecone
without hurting the impudent little
puss... When the cone made contact
with Terpsichore's fuzzy flanks
she leapt, all teeth and claws, a
parabolic trajectory soaring over
our heads/Before you could say
"inappropriate" she landed WHAM/
right in the middle of the gift table/
Vibrators, power tools, sensible
cotton underwear and tie-dyed jog
bras flew in every direction!" •
The Wedding Story
-Debora Parks-Satter/ield
ISSN. 1043-3333
$7.95