Edit o r in Ch ief
Charles P. Barrett
Westhampton Ed itor
Carolyn Parks
A ssistant Editor David Blythe
Associate Editor Selection Editor Carl Schon Robert Arthur
Photography Editor David D. Ryan
Literary Consul tant Clifford Dowdey
Staff -Nancy Cox, Travis DuPriest, Leslie McNeal, Reuben Musgrave.
Death found its way among Waves of human names at last And lay its cold hand upon A warm forehead to pass.
Peoples of all races in file Joined together after Mourning the loss of history's child Born to save her from disaster.
I find myself not among Those who brush their ladened eyes, For tears fall easy from some When joined for last goodbyes.
Sir Winston is gone I am told But only his body of human flesh Gathered from dust where now it folds like all men mortal to death
What matter this body which parts? It was only meant to be A home for human thought That part of man we can not see.
But again you say he is gone And once more I say to you His words will live on as each is born, Only his body was due.
My last words are these, then, I give no tears but wish I would, like him, live to the end As long as words exist.
-David D. Ryan
by Otis Douglas
«J hear, sir , that you hav e been hunting for tig e1·s,}) he
There is a story told of an old hunter and a young reporter. When the old hunt er came off the boat, th e young reporter was waiting there on the dock to meet him. said.
«That's right,}) said th e old hunt er . «How many did you g et,}) ask ed th e r eporter. «None.})
«None, sir?)) said the incredulous young man. «Listen, son,)) th e old man said. "Wh en you>re hunting for tig ers , none is a pl enty.))
In the little fishing village where I was reared, things are much different from here in the city. For one thing, all of the children in town go to the same, small school-I can still remember vividly the heroes I worshipped in the sixth grade. They were always doing something intensely active and as exciting to a child as fireworks. Once when I had been lounging around Mac's Marina, an older boy, Howard Marsh, came rowing up the creek in his skiff. He rowed up to the dock, where we all were, to rest. He had a rifle in the boat and said he was going to row out to Holland's Marsh, three miles out in the Bay, to shoot snakes. I still recall with a kind of ache the yearning I felt then, but to ask to go along would have been for me the equivalent of asking Apollo for a chariot ride. We sat on the dock and watched his solitary boat slowly disappear around the headland into the broad Bay.
But later on things became less and less sure . The more godlike of my schoolmates quit high school before their junior year to work on the town's menhaden fishboats that worked up and down the East Coast. For a while they had money to burn at an age when most boys still receive an allowance. I would go down to Mac's to hear of their experiences in such distant ports as Wildwood , New Jersey, and to admire their new cars ,. Life was hell for me then. I begged my father to let me take a berth on a boat, but he demanded that I finish high school. He even talked of college at a time when, as I saw it, the very essence of my youth was slipping away. But, by my senior year, things looked different. For one thing, the fleet had had a bad year when nobody had caught anything in the Bay, and the boats had gone as far north as Rhode Island in a futile search for fish. By this time much of what had at first been only a pseudo world-weariness among my heroes had become real. They still hung around Mac's waiting for the next season to begin, but now it was no longer new. One boy had joined the Marines, another was married, and those
that remained were perfectly content with things just as they were. Their stature gradually shrunk to human size in the eyes of the few of us who were preparing to go off to college.
When I came home for spring vacation my freshman year, I was so filled with projects of my own that I didn't even take time to go to Mac's One night after I had been home several days, Howard Marsh came to see me. I was surprised because he hadn't been to my house since we were children, and then he had always been as imperious as a visiting prince. He came just as we were finishing dinner and after he had engaged in a few minutes uneasy conversation with my parents, I invited him up to my room to talk. Even with me he seemed a little awkward and ill at ease. We talked about last year's fishing and about how I liked college until we came to the point where he felt it necessary to account for his presence. We fell silent. He was sitting upright in hiS! straight chair, silent, and as un-at-home in my not especially neat room as a giant in a doll house.
"Do you remember when you used to help me with my lessons in Mrs. McCardler's clasS'?" he asked.
I remembered vividly. In the sixth grade, Mrs. McCardler had asked me to help him with arithmetic and spelling. Usually she asked girls to help whatever boys needed assistance, but in our class there were fewer girls than recalcitrant or dumb boys. Howard had been a particularly difficult pupil for me. For one thing, he was a ballplayer, a boat owner, a girl kisser; and I admired hell out of him. And worse than that , he considered me a teacher's pet. But somehow I had managed to laugh at and generally deprecate the lessons enough to ease over the embarrassment of our relationship and even to teach him some spelling and arithmetic. His bringing up the subject now was an attempt to show that he realized that now we were in some ways equals-that we were adults. And with that friends, too.
"I want you to s:ee my boat," he said. "I thought they were all in drydock " "Come on," he said, "I'll show you."
We went out of the house and got into the car he had bought his first season fishing. I couldn't guess where we were going, since I was sure all of the big boats were in drydock. I figured we would go to his house, or rather, to his parents' house where he probably had a new runabout moored. But we turned the other way, and Howard drove out to Fleeton Point where the Boy Scout camp had been. I followed him down to the old wreck.
The boat had once been a tender boat that carried fuel
for the fishing fleet; but ever since any of us could remember, it had lain here where it had towed up on the beach to rust. All of its wooden decks had been long since stripped away; only the one-half inch steel plate hull remained. The bow had been pulled high on the shore, while the rest of the hull, lying submerged to the gunwales, extended over eighty feet into the Bay. As children we had used this old boat for as long as we could imagine ourselves pirate ::; ,, and after that we had hidden there to smoke.
Sand had closed in higher on the bow now and the hull had rusted a little deeper, but other than that the wreck was exactly as it had been years before when I had last seen it. Except now there was a nice three-inch hawser looped over the sampson post with the ends running back onto the bank. The field above the boat, where the camp had once been, was littered now with block and fall tackle connecting the ends of the hawser to two railroad ties set d : ep in the ground. Another set of block and fall ran almost back to the woods where Mr. Marsh's little Fordson tractor was sitting. It was easy to see that someon e had been doing a lot of work.
"What do you think?" said Howard. "Do you think I can haul it out?"
"I don't know," I said, still amazed at the extensive operation, wondering what was Howard's and, for that matter, what was my connection with it. "Why do you want to?"
"Well, I was fooling around down here one day, and I commenced to thinking maybe I could salvage that old wreck. I figur ed if I could get it up on land, I could cut it up for scrap iron. I S1tarted out just fooling around with it, but that damn thing is really in there solid. I've been working on it for better than a week now."
"Who's been helping you?"
"Nobody. You're the only one I've told about it. Like I say, I was just playing with it, and it got to being a big job. I figured since you were always strong on book learning, you might know some different kind of tackle. I've got ten to one leverage on it already but I'm using all of my power just to handle the tackle."
Howard and I walked around the field, looking at the rig he had set up. I was amazed by the enormous amount of work he must have done. There were railroad ties set in the ground in several places and holes all over the field marking other attempts to get the best leverage. His philosophy had apparently been that with a long enough lever and a Fordson tractor, he could move anything. Theoretically, he was right, but there were problems. For one thing the weight of the tackle
alone had become almost too much for the little tractor. Howard started the tractor and drove it about ten feet forward. All of the lines came taut and the old wreck creaked slightly, but before it even budged, the little tractor was spinning helplessly. Howard cut the engine off, and we sat and talked until it was dark about the best sort of rig to use. By the time Howard had driven me back to my house, we were conspirators. I stayed up till about 2 a.m. that night, working out a double spindle arrangement to enable us to wind the main hawser up like on a winch instead of pulling it directly with the tractor. I called Howard early the next morning to tell him about it, but he had already left. By the time I got down to the camp, Howard was then surveying the situation. I told him about my idea and we set to work. In the next three days I worked harder than I'd ever worked before-but not as hard as Howard. We had two big holes to dig for the spindles and college life hadn't prepared me very well for that kind of labor. Howard kept on digging when I was resting, and when I arrived in the mornings bent almost double from soreness, he would be there digging. Finally, by late in the afternoon of the day before I had to return to school, we had the two oak-log spindles set and a cross-piece fitted into a notch in the top of each of them. I hooked the tractor to the end of one of the cross-piece levers, and Howard drove around in a wide semi-circle. After repeating this several times we hooked on to the other spindle and tightened that one up. It seemed to be working fine. Howard's dirt and sweat streaked face broke into a wide smile. While I stood on the drawbar and held on, Howard raced the tractor back across the field to the first spindle. When we had made about six half turns on it, the old wreck began to crack loudly as the big, iron plates of its hull sheared against their rivet. It was only a matter of time before the huge wreck would have to move-if for only an inch. Howard shifted down and was making another turn, when, with a sound like a shot, the big hawser parted about thirty feet away from us, the loose end flying back, dangerously close over our heads. For some reason it struck us both hysterically funny. Howard almost lay over the hood of the tractor laughing. Even later we were elated. We had found a way to break a three-inch hawser; all we needed now was cable.
Back at school I had problems of my own. For some time I had entertained the idea of writing a series of short stories about various characters I knew in my home town. The isolated fishing community, with its high percentage of individuals, seemed a rich source of fiction. Indeed, the village
itself had a kind of salty personality of its own. Myself I saw as a prose-writing Dylan Thomas, doing for Reedville what Thomas had done for the little village of Laugharne in Western Wales.
I had plenty of material. Right in my own family, my grandfather had made his fortune standing on the bridge forcing frightened, shanghaied crews to work the rich but stormy fishing banks off Cape Hatteras. Much of the very gossip of the village was rich fiction, already set in dialect.
But I had a lot to learn about writing. Words that seemed soft and pliable in conversation, once written became inflexible and angular on the page. Writing I became like a builder trying to model human features with a pitiful supply of square and oblong blocks, which when they did fit together did so by their own rules without much regard to me. I quit a dozen times and would only start again when I read something good that made writing seem easy and, thus, maybe just perhaps plausible for me.
Other than not being able to write, being a writer was just fine. I acquired several pipes, a girl friend, and a lot of similarly inclined literary advisors who were interesting and, above all, sympathetic. It wasn't a bad life, but I was continually haunted by things I wanted to say. Finally, late iri the spring, writing ruined me as a writer.
I decided without qualification that to write was impossible. Freed from the possibility of failure and thereby faced with its certainty, I felt somehow safer and started working for an inviolatable four hours a night. Promptly my girl friend left me for a young man with talent, and my friends, after petitioning me to quit being a bastard, moved on also. I don't really blame them; I had lost faith in all my fascinating literary theories and had become quite dull. Night after night, with a page or two, sometimes with just a paragraph, I reproved that for me the business of writing was utterly impossible. I became, in short, a naked fool. Worse than that, I became insufferably proud of my foolishness. Since I was already spending a quarter of my waking hours trying to do what I knew clearer and clearer each night could not be done, I felt no compunction against forcing all the less obviously perverse but equally blatant caprices of my nature on those around me. I became a rude fellow and found with all the blind joy that self expression brings, that it suited me perfectly. After three years of being a bright, model student, I failed two courses that spring with the kind of flying colors a pirate ship flies.
Back in Reedville, I found myself with a week on my hands before the beginning of summer school. The first thing I did was to go down to Mac's Marina to look for Howard. It was after 10:30 on a Saturday night so I knew the boats were in. Jim, Howard's brother, and Buzzy and several of the boys were there, but Howard was nowhere around.
"Howard's not fishing this year," Jim said in answer to my inquiry. "He's trying to make a couple thousand dollars' salvage off that tender-boat on the point."
For a moment the news shocked me. "But he can make more than that fishing!" I exclaimed.
"I know," Jim said sadly. "Howard has changed a lot."
"He's crazy," Buzzy said. "You can't even talk to him anymore. That old wreck drove him crazy."
Evidently, Howard's secret was out.
Driving down the dirt road to the camp, I wondered about what Buzzy had said. Even when Howard had first come to me about the wreck there had been some change evident in him. It was barely noticeable, but even then he had seemed slightly different from the highly characterized bunch of young fishermen that he had been inseparable from for so long.
The field above where the boat was looked like a pitched battle had been fought there. There were deep holes all over it and wide trenches left by the tractor tires, so that except for scattered patches of grass, the whole place looked like a plowed field. A large oak tree leaned at a crazy angle toward the shore where the boat was-a worn band where the bark had been stripped by the cable and a quantity of naked roots showed white on the other side . Walking across the field, I felt a kind of awe, as though I were standing where some great beast had lain rooting. Huge cables, larger than any I knew existed, were connected now to the bow of the old boat, which except for deeper rust was unchanged. Out on the steel decked stern of the boat was a large centrifugal pump and engine connecting to a pipe extending into the hull, its outlet hose extending over the side. I felt a warm glow of empathy for Howard's thinking how much lighter that big pump could make the boat, as long as it was running.
When I got back home Howard was there in the living room talking to my mother. There was clay all over his boots and clothes, and he sat slunched down on mymother's brocade couch talking about the weight of sand. My mother seemed relieved to see me.
"Why don't you and Howard go out on the patio to talk, Dear," she said.
When Howard stood up, there was a large smear of clay on the couch where he had been sitting, and for the first time he noticed his tracks on the rug.
"I've made a mess," he said, stating the fact as an afterthought almost. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Lewis."
"That's all right, Howard," my mother said, somehow perfectly charmed for the moment. Howard and I went out on the patio.
"Do you want to buy my boat," he began. "I'll let you have it for $200."
I wasn't surprised by his eagerness to sell me a runabout for twice what it was worth, but the obvious change in his personality was disconcerting. There was nothing overbearing or rude in his manner, only the same thoughtless, detached imperiousness with which he had treated me when we were children.
"Why do you want to sell it, Howard?" I asked.
"Well," he said, "I need some dynamite."
"Great," I said, "I'll help you with it."
"Well, no, Bob, you see I think I'd better handle it by myself."
"Yeah, I see," I said, slipping naturally into my role of so long before, feeling once more as I had felt watching him row out to the marshes that day. "I'll see about the money tonight," I said.
That night my father and I had a long talk. "Son," he began, "your mother's been worried about you." It was one of those kind of talks. We were upstairs in my room, and I was trying to explain about my grades and also about spending the money for Howard's boat. I was telling him about trying to write. "How much money can you make at it?" he naturally wanted to know. I tried to explain to him about writers and money, but it was hard work. "Well, then how well are you doing at it?" he asked, obviously seeking some consolation. I wasn't much help there either, though I tried to explain how hard it was. Finally, I told him the story about the old hunter, the young reporter, and the tigers.
"Trying to write really well is like hunting tigers," I explained.
In spite of himself his face lapsed into such an expression when I said this that for a :moment I felt an almost overpowering wave of pity and guilt and wished more than anything that I could tell him that I would be all right. But in
a moment my perverse pride had reasserted itself, and I realized how futile it was to explain a thing, which like a fact in another world, was so explicit and yet so confused.
My father rather helplessly agreed to try to comfort my mother , and before he left, he said resignedly, "If you want to buy that damn fool's boat, it's your money. Spending money on college hasn't helped you much."
I had to leave for summer school before Howard had had time to buy the dynamite and get the charge set. I heard later that he had used three cases under the boat and had only succeeded in opening the hull, so that now he had to keep the pump running twice as fast to keep the water level down. Someone said he had left the engine running and the blast didn't even stop it.
In summer school it was harder to find time to write, but this only meant that I slept less. I was convinced more than ever by now that it was utterly impossible to even approach what I wanted to say. Writing had even changed and in some instances reversed what I wanted to say. I redoubled my efforts. On the mornings after an evening's work in which I had broken somewhere short of even, I would be particularly assertive and annoying in class-but in a detached sort of way, that is, since of course I hadn't read the assignment before. I discovered I didn't need a tenth of the things I'd once thought were essential to campus life. I found I had a strange power over all the things I no longer had time for. It was the power to ignore them. People who had once intimidated me were now prisoners of the same rational values I had transcended. When I met them now, they were no match for me. And, little by little, in a paragraph here or a page there, I found I was saying something. Not what I'd started out to say, but something.
One afternoon when I was in my room reading, Howard came in. He must have had a devil of a time finding me. He looked exhausted and said he had come up early in the morning to sell his car to buy dynamite. He looked so tired and nervous that I persuaded him to stay and sleep :for a while. My roommate had moved out shortly after I started writing, and without another word, Howard stretched out on his bed to sleep.
"When are you supposed to pick up the dynamite?" I asked.
"It's out in the car now;" he said, "I bought a cheaper car."
I went to the window that overlooked the parking lot.
There, sitting almost under my window, was a battered, tenyear old Plymouth that Howard must have gotten for $50. It looked unsafe.
"How much dynamite do you have in that car?" I asked. I could see large boxes stacked in the back seat .
"Oh, ten cases," Howard said, a little proud of himself. Howard went to sleep while I stayed at the window, looking over the campus. Afternoon classes were letting out, and laughing groups of boys were crossing the parking lot toward the dormitory. The whole thing seemed unreal to me: Howard asleep fully dressed here in my room, the familiar sounds of the campus, that old car loaded with explosives, my typewriter table piled high with manuscript, and somehow connecting it all, an old wrecked boat that for two decades had lain rusting in the sand ninety miles away. Somehow it all formed a unit, a kind of reality in which I was living; and yet I sensed acutely my separation from the world of my schoolmates who were clammering into the dormitory now. I looked around at Howard, lying asleep on my roommate's bed. His boots, caked with dried clay, extended over the foot of the bed. For the first time I realized how vulnerable he had become-sleeping here a hundred miles from home in the midst of more people than he had ever known, none of whom would have even understood why he was there -and, for the first time, how lonely.
I agreed to drive back to Reedville with Howard. He was still tired and he seemed so unnaturally excited that I was afraid to leave him alone with all that dynamite. The trip down was an incipient nightmare. I drove most of the way. The old car Howard had bought was one of the kind advertised as "as is," and the front wheels vibrated so that it wandered in a wide path down the highway. I remembered reading somewhere that it took a pretty substantial bump to detonate dynamite, but that was all I did know about it. The things I didn't know about dynamite bothered me.
It was late in the afternoon when we got to Reedville. I thought we should get supper somewhere, but Howard wanted to drive down to the point right away. By the time we got to where the wreck was lying, beacon lights were showing clearly in the Bay. Howard and I unloaded the cases of dynamite and stacked them on the shore. Then we took off our shoes and socks and waded out alongside the wreck carrying one case of the explosives. The water was cold and our feet sank deep in the bottom which was composed of fine silt and soft clay. When we got to where the water was waist deep, almost at the stern
of the boat, Howard took several sticks of dynamite and disappeared beneath the surface. I remained upright, half floating, half supporting the waxed cardboard box. In a moment, Howard reappeared beside me for more dynamite, his white shirt clinging wet to his body. We proceeded alongside the boat toward the bow in this fashion, setting about one case of explosives every twenty feet. By the time we had worked our way back to shore, we had set four cases, and it was very late.
"Why don't we wait until in the morning to set the rest?" I said.
"All right," Howard agreed reluctantly. "Do you want to go home?"
"I don't think I'd better," I said , "they aren't exactly expecting me."
"Well, I can't invite you to my house," Howard said apologetically, "my folks didn't know I was leaving. Maybe we'd better sleep here."
We went back to the car and tried to get comfortable on the seats, but it was no use. Finally, we gave up and went over into the edge of the woods to hide from mosquitoes. Howard's cigarettes were wet and I only had one, so we lay back in the trees and smoked that. We hadn't had any supper and our clothes were still wet. But my muscles were pleasantly tired from the unaccustomed exercise, and the cigarette, not being one of a chain, was a luxury. I felt good. There was the mast-head light of a single boat visible above the trees on the other side of the point. We watched its slow motion as the boat rounded the point and started into the channel.
"You know something, Bob?" Howard said, "you're the only one who hasn't said I was crazy for trying to salvage this boat. Do you think I can do it?"
I waited for a moment, trying to think of an answer. "Not really," I said. "We'll see in the morning, but I don't really think you can get it out."
"I guess maybe you're right," he said. "I don't know any more. I thought I could get it out when I started. It looked easy and for a long time I thought that was why I kept on trying. But after a while, it stopped being just that exactly and got to be something else ."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, it's hard to explain. Back when I first started going down to Mac's at night, I used to enjoy it. You know, hanging around late and drinking beer and all. But after about a year I got so I didn't like it much any more. I still liked the fellows and all, but I got to feeling like there wasn't
anything else to do. You know, stuff like we used to talk about when kids. One night I even tried not to go, but I got so lonely I ended up going anyway. Then, when I started working on the boat, everything changed. One night I even tried to tell them about it down at Mac's, and they all thought I was crazy. So after that, I quit going. I was too tired most of the time anyway. And then one night last week I went down there and everything was different. I mean, it was the same, but they all seemed like babies. They still thought I was crazy but it didn't bother me any more. Not the least bit."
Howard stopped talking abruptly. I had never heard him say so much at once. Perhaps it was the first time he had found something significant enough about himself to warrant an explanation. Now he was embarrassed.
"Do you think I'm crazy?" he asked.
"No, Howard, I don't."
"But you don't think I can get the boat out?"
"No, but it doesn't make any difference. I mean I think I understand how you feel about it. And if what I've learned about psychology is right, when one person understands another completely, they can't be crazy. They just want different things from the world."
Saying this I realized it was true. Looking back at how Howard had changed, I realized he was not crazy, but only the discoverer of something wild in himself, something not selfdestructive exactly, but at best, manifestly unprofitable, some magnificent conceit that drove him to attack the impossible, as though simply by attacking he would somehow become as large, in scope if not in stature, as the inconceivable, monstrous, immovable enemy.
Or maybe after a while it had become just some feeling he got when his sweat was wetting the ground as he struggled with the tackle and blocks and timbers, a kind of explicit confusion in which he came to doubt if anything less than the impossible could call forth such resources, could round out his muscles and rasp away all that was not the natural convolutions of his mind in such a way as this misbegotten mound of steel could, with its keel aground somewhere in Hell; and maybe then in his confusion, although he couldn't have fitted words around it, he saw clearly that it didn't much matter if he never got the boat out at all and that he really didn't give a royal damn about $2,000 worth of scrap iron. Whatever it was, he wasn't crazy. Because whatever it was, I understood and somehow even shared in it. It was just different-not crazy.
The big fishing boat was moving sitraight down the channel now. Its whistle sounded-the lonesome, far-off, giant sound that identified the boat to the waiting families of the men. Faintly from across the creek I could hear the factory, where the fish were processed, start into operation. Soon the women and older children would be on the flood-lit dock, waiting for the men as they came down the narrow gangplank with their duffle bags. It was another part of the life of the little fishing villages that I had tried so futilely to catch with words. I rolled over in the pine needles and settled myself to sleep, warmed by membership in what was perhaps the smallest fraternity in the world.
In the morning Howard and I set to work with the rest of the dynamite. By noon we had the entire charge under the boat, and the primer stick was capped and set. The only wire Howard had was about eighty feet of bell-wire that he had used for the first blast. It was hardly long enough to safely detonate ten cases, especially since we didn't have a detonator and would have to use the car battery. Howard and I debated going to town for more wire. It would have taken at most a half an hour to get the wire, but Howard seemed to be rushing to meet some internal schedule of his own. He was as disdainful of the danger as he was of all the townspeople who said he was crazy. Once again I saw how little he had changed from that day I'd watched him row out into the Bay. There wasn't any defiance in his attitude, only a kind of supreme unconcern for whoever and whatever didn't relate to what he was doing. He overrode my arguments with the ease of someone who hadn't been listening. And I'd had 1,000 pounds of dynamite on my side.
Howard drove the car up close to the bank, and we wound down the windows so they wouldn't be broken by the concussion. I crouched down in the floor of the car, holding the bare ends of the two strands of bell wire. Howard stayed behind the car watching through the open window. I took another look at the big, ugly bow of the boat, less than a hundred feet away and thrusit the wires into the lighter socket. For a moment nothing happened as I jiggled the wires. And then a geyser was towering straight up from the boat simultaneous with a huge sound that was thick as though you could cut it, and the air was being sucked out of my lungs. I looked and the tower of water was standing like a gigantic column, and sJowly it started to descend as I got my breath back and water and mud began to thunder on the roof of the car. There was still a kind of light rain of spray falling when Howard and I
reached the bank. The boat had disappeared completely. There was a deep pit carved into the beach, and under what had looked to be solid sand, I could see it filling with black slush washing in from the sides.
"The bottom is unstable," said Howard. "The blast knocked her loose and she settled."
He waded out to where the water was waist deep and then cut back to where the explosion had been. Suddenly he disappeared straight down beneath the surface. In a moment he was back cussing, and then he made a surface dive and was under for a long time He came up for a minute to breathe and then dove again, a little further over. When he came up the second time, he looked stunned.
"It's gone!" he yelled. "It's gone, it's gone!"
He was standing waist deep in the water yelling to me when the first of the cars from town drove up to the edge of the field.
"He stood there for a moment in the center of the huge circle of muddy water that the dynamite had made. Then he started to wade in toward the shore. , 'He must know,' I thought. Like me with my writing, Howard had passed the point where it made any difference so long before, that, like me, I figured he had to know. Howard was coming in like the tide. When he finally splashed up onto the bank his face showed not the slightest hint of defeat. He knew.
"Blew it right out of the water," Howard said.
Beginning before we gave it so much thought, time is just that long.
-David D. Ryan
I have played with rose petals
And seen them fall one by one
I have seen truth fail in what
Lack of conscience would have done
Oh God, I would but set it right
If I could live this night
But I will die
I hear the sound of crow 's wings silhouetted against the evening
Tl,e evening weeps with the sound of laughter
Dead are all the things I've become
The stillness sweeps away the light
And darkness covers all the things I've done
I will die as the black wing closes, I will die
Still in laughter, in laughter still
Though memory sits on my window sill
I hear the sound of the horrible wings
And the beak that tears the sky
I will die
As the black feathers glimmer in the dark light of the evening
As the crow settles in the branches of the night
I will die
The black crow with Chinese yellow rasping tongue caws black
Black against the outlines of the sky
His black claws sink in dark gnarled boughs
And the fire-like sockets blaze in his eyes .
-Rob ert P. Arthur
Beyond the chill, misting glass
And his own image,
The night passes .
Beneath his feet the trucks clatter and jerk, The car jolts and shivers over tracks of ice. Thoughts come of things lost, Melancholy matching the loneliness of the farmhouses
Which slide by
From nothing,
To nothing .
The light within them grows, and fades, Signifying little
And then the train slows-he starts up ,
A street light passes, then another . Flits past his window .
The town, a movie run too fast, Main street-people stopped in midstep . Signs glow, a platform,
Two ca rs,
A crossing bell .
The last sight passes, fades .
The window is dark again. His $fare lingers , For a moment,
On the icy glass .
Then he turns away, shivers ,
As the trucks clatter and jolt
On the brittle tracks
-B ar t Gr eenw ood
When you leave go slowly, gently Do not affect violence when going . Neither throw yourself sorrowfully On the broken, parched memories Of the past, nor seek return By apparent means, but please Spare all pain and leave Quietly, gently Close not your Mind to sincere efforts To placate the pain ; run not Into secret parts of your grieving Soul, walk proudly, quietly Into that void of life, Existing alone not giving Or receiving: Leave quietly, slowly Gently; walking with sure Steps into the new life, Leave the memories where they Will fall; do not attempt To hold them in Your memory for it Will soon be full With no room left For life
When you leave go slowly, gently Do not affect violence when going
--Jam es Samans
Approaching death I could do no more than take a backward glance while preparing to break .
The vanity seen from such a stare slowly leaving my veinity now, but the loss is unfelt being who//y concerned as I am with preparing to break .
Stopping is wishing too much and I dare not dwe/1 on such a dream now, while here I lie reliving my dreams and daring to call it life.
If life were here with me the brake could be touched but seeing no need to die but less to live one leaves.
Alone I go now knowing that the dearth of death is more than less the amount of life one gathers while preparing to break.
-David Blyth e
by Reuben Musgrave
It was late October and a light crispness had begun to settle in the atmosphere of the Jacobs farm. Across the fields, the golds and reds of the woods seemed to be coated with a stillness as in a painting. There was hardly a sound to be heard. The wind was not stirring the trees or toying with the cotton plants as it usually did this time of year. The people around the county were saying there would soon be a bad freeze.
The stillness hung over the Jacobs house and everything around it. In the garden, the pears seemed heavy on their branches, and a few pumpkins peeked silently from their foliage. The red tin roof of the house sloped downward in a suspended slant, as if it had stopped at the house corners because something had told it not to move another inch. The columns of the front, with the iron balcony visible between them, usually suggested great height and a soaring sensation. Today they looked short and squat. The whiteness of the weatherboard had taken on a plasticized look, and the green wooden shutters of the windows, freshly painted, hung motionless in the early morning sun.
Beyond the whitewashed picket fence, the barnyard stood empty except for a few hesitant chickens pecking at some corn beside the horse trough. The silent stillness was everywhere and settled with the coldness of the air.
But if you listened closely, you would know that there was a stirring throughout this silent scene. The squirrels on the edge of the woods were shuffling hurriedly through the dry leaves, beginning to gather their winter stores. Somewhere in the distance a dog howled. There were fresh deer tracks in the peanut field. A few sheep grazed lazily on the front lawn, outside the fenced-off house yard. There was a hint of a deeper motion, an undercurrent stirring beneath the appearance of things. It was hard to distinguish whether the silence was embryonic, or if it was the yielding hush that precedes death.
In the cotton field to the north of the house, Tom Jacobs swung his heavy plow behind Juniper, the bleak gray mare they had known so long. Tom's hands, red from the cold, gripped the plowhandles firmly as he turned the dying cotton plants under. This field would lie fallow for the coming year. Tom was following the suggestions of the county agriculture agent, who had helped institute the new government programs for farming. It was the period of the post-depression years, and Tom Jacobs had been hit hard by losses, just as all his neighbors in southeastern Virginia had. Just now were they begin-
ning to see the possibility of happiness ahead. But the lesson had been a hard one to take.
Juniper's flanks moved rythmically in front of Tom, and he could see the top of her head, swaying from side to side as they moved down the rows. He thought of the goodness of a strong work horse, and what a blessing it had been to have had Juniper around for so many years. She was the last of five horses they had owned before the bad years, though they still had one mule. And now the damned chestnut mare.
Tom cursed the new chestnut, "Sandy," as his son called her. He cursed himself for letting Johnny keep the horse. He cursed his wife for having bought the raffle ticket last year at the county fair. The mare was a "riding horse," and couldn't be used for the plow work. At least that was what the man at the fair had said. "Don't use her for no plow work, now, Mister, she's too good a horse for that, and besides she wouldn't last long if you tried to work her," he had said. Then the man had handed the reigns to Johnny, who had saved the raffle ticket his mother bought for charity.
Tom tried to imagine what could possibly make his wife do such things, but he couldn't comprehend it. Sallie was always wasting money in one way or another, but he tried to put up with it, warning her gently to be careful of what she spent. But this was differen t. She had wasted three dollars on the ticket, and added to it the cost of feeding and caring for a horse that couldn't work. It was her fault Johnny had won the horse. It was all her fault . Tom pulled in the reigns for a minute, and brushed his long brown hair back from his forehead with his hand. He rested his arm on the plow handles and scratched at his wild moustache. His narrow eyes looked over his high cheekbones through a million wrinkles. Tom was forty-two years old, each year hardened by rough work. He had kept the old family place going practically by himself, and was beginning to show the effects of it.
His face was sharp everywhere, and his ears hung out a little too far. He presented a striking countenance . People had said he could scare a child if he growled . And yet he was a fairly peaceful man. Except for occasional drinking binges, he was never loud or arrogant. He had done a good job of providing for Sallie and Johnny, and had been reasonably satisfied with life-until that beastly chestnut mare had started eating his hay. At first he had cared for Sandy like he did for Juniper and the mule, feeding them together. But eventually the thought of a horse not working for her feed
caused him to tell his son to look after his own horse. And, since the chestnut couldn't work, he suggested that Johnny could work in the fields with him every day except Saturdays. After all, Johnny was twelve years old, and it was about time he started doing his share to keep the farm going. One day he would have to take it over himself.
Tom started plowing again, urging Juniper on with a slight clucking noise in his throat. The gray moved steadily before him. She had gotten over her limp completely now. Tom cursed the lazy nigger who had accidentally bruised her leg with a shovel earlier in the summer. The bruise would not have been so bad, but Juniper had kicked the nigger and pulled a bone loose in her knee. After that she had to be kept in her stall for months while the vet visited every week, costing Tom more money every time he showed up. At last the vet had said Juniper could go back to work.
Today was Saturday, and Tom knew that Johnny would be getting up late. Sallie was probably busy putting away some pickles and preserves, and getting ready to cook dinner. It was about eleven o'clock, so Tom figured Johnny would be in the front parlor looking through that damn mail order catalogue and dreaming about saddles with fancy bridles, blankets, and the like. He would have to talk with Johnny soon and put an end to all this nonsense. He thought it might be profitable to sell the horse, and start saving money to buy a tractor. But he would certainly have to discourage his son's ideas.
Tom finished plowing and decided to go in for dinner. He started to the stable with Juniper, talking softly to her as he led her along. Outside the barnyard fence he stopped and looked towards the house. Johnny had just come outside, banging the screen door and skipping out to the stable. Tom drew Juniper back behind the small feed house and watched the boy. There was a happiness about him that was hard to describe. It was a sort of love for life, that infected everything he did. It was innocence and naivete. It was a bouncing, carefree happiness. Tom thought of the trials of life that Johnny would have to face, and he wished there were something that he could do to start him on the right road to growing up.
Actually, Johnny already had a pretty good start. He had surpassed everyone in school all his life, simply because he enjoyed learning as much as any other part of life. He was well known as an athlete. His agile and lean body would float him with ease through any baseball or football game
even against brute competition. His twelve-year-old frame was thin, but not weak. He had bright blond hair, which he wore long and combed to one side. His mother always made sure he had clean knickers and shirts for school, but their cleanness lasted only a day or so. His face was not like his father's, but rather soft-looking. His cheeks were puffy and his nose and chin rounded. He was tall, and walked with a loping gait.
Tom Jacobs hid behind the feed house with Juniper and watched his son walk across the barnyard. The boy had not missed a day riding Sandy since he had won her three weeks ago. Tom had noticed a change in him, a strange change. Johnny had begun to dream for the first time. The boy had never had a chance to play make-believe before, but now he was bringing home books from school about equestrian heroes from Sir Lancelot to Buffalo Bill Cody, and once in a while he would be heard to imitate them as he galloped around the farm on Sandy. Tom did not like this dreaming in his son. He eyed it with contempt. Johnny hardly noticed him anymore. They used to go out every Saturday morning and shoot their rifles. Tom had tried to teach him marksmanship and hunting. But Johnny's new horse had brought an end to any closeness they had shared before.
So Tom watched with resentment as Johnny mounted Sandy and headed for the fields. The barnyard gate was already open. Tom leaned back behind the building as his son tore by in a swoop of flying dust and screaming chickens. He heard him yell as he passed through the gate-"Open the drawbridge! It's Ivanhoe!"
His father watched him mournfully as he galloped away, bouncing bareback on the chestnut mare. Then he put Juniper in her stall and headed for the house.
The aroma of frying chicken caught his nose as he came in the kitchen door, and his appetite made him forget his mind's wanderings. After dinner he sat with his wife at the table, puffing a rare cigar.
"Sallie," he said, "I've been thinking of selling that horse."
His wife looked up from the beans she was breaking up. "You mean Juniper?" she asked, quite seriously.
"No, that blasted chestnut. She'll be the ruination of that boy if I don't. He's all dreamy-eyed about it. He rides around screaming that he's Ivanhoe now! Just think of the money we could get toward a tractor. You know how much better things would be if I could get the tractor. Why, Luke Samuels told me just the other day ... "
"Luke Samuels is a drunkard," she interrupted." Anyway, I think Sandy is doing a world of good for Johnny: I don't ever think I've seen him so happy. Besides, you don't want a tractor anyway. That's just an excuse."
As Sallie talked, she looked at her work and continually nodded her head up and down. She always nodded her head when she talked. She was a plain woman with brown hair and blue eyes. She was older than her husband by two years. They had met at the county high school almost twenty-fivQ years ago. Sallie had been sent to college, but didn't stay because she felt she did not fit. When she came back, they renewed their friendship and were married. Neither of them had ever left the county since. They had lived in Tom's family's home ever since his father died.
Tom let the cigar smoke trail from his lips slowly. He wanted to make Sallie see his reasoning for getting rid of the horse. "Why shouldn't I use excuses to get rid of a horse that can't even work? Why, that's. a downright sin, all those muscles gain' to waste like that!"
"Johnny is helping you enough with the work," she said. "Besides, one horse is all you need. Johnny pays for Sandy's hay by working for you. Why would you want to hurt him by selling her?"
"I don't want to hurt him. Don't you see? I want him to cut out all this nonsense, and I'm going to see to it that he does!" Tom was getting a little impatient. How could Sallie act so stupid?
"You're going to do no such thing. Johnny won that horse, and he's working to keep her. Now you got no right to go causing him to be hurt."
This infuriated Tom. He stared blankly into his wife's eyes. His mind was figuring out ways to end the problem. He could kill the horse. He finally spoke again. "I never thought I'd see the day that my wife would tell me what to do."
"I'm just telling you what I know. If you take that boy's horse away, you'll break his heart. And I'm not going to let you do that!" Sallie looked upset. Tom did not usually act like this.
Tom fumbled for an escape. He did not want to give in, but what could he do if Sallie was going to act like that? They both sat motionless for a while. The stillness of the day had seeped through the walls and now hung over the dining room. Neither of them could find words. At last Tom decided the fight was futile, and that he might as well forget the idea of getting rid of the mare, at least for the time being.
"I'm going back out," Tom said. "He started for the door."
"Tom," said Sallie. He turned around and faced her. "Tom, what are you going to do?"
"The boy can keep his horse if he wants, but I'll be damned if I can see why he wants to waste all that time galloping and screaming all over the farm!" He walked out , banging the door behind him.
He went out to the garden to start working on a new grape trellis. The wild vines were spread out in all directions on the ground, and he started looking around for the best place to put the poles. He heard the gate slam on the other side of the house, and heard Johnny screaming-"Daddy!! Daddy!!"
Tom went back into the yard and walked around the house.
The boy was sitting on the steps of the side porch with his face in his hands, crying. His clothes were muddy, and his hair was pushed to the wrong side. Tom hurried towards him.
"What's wrong, son?"
"Sandy wouldn't jump; she just wouldn't jump," said Johnny. " I told her to, but she just wouldn't do it."
"What are you talking about, Johnny?" Tom shook the boy by the shoulders. "Come on, boy tell me what happened."
"She stopped," he sobbed. I tried to make her jump that stone fence in the south pasture. She was going so fast, and I was sure she would jump! But instead she stopped and threw me. Then she turned around all of a sudden, and cracked her front leg against the wall, and fell over, and just started rolling around, trying to get up, only she couldn't; she just laid there moaning and rolling around. I couldn't make her jump! And she's still there, Dad, she's hurt something awful. You'll have to get the vet right away."
"Let's go have a look at her son. Come on, now, stop crying, let's go look at her." He pulled Johnny up and led him out toward the pasture.
When they found Sandy, she was lying still, but she was breathing fast, and it was obvious she had broken her leg. Tom decided it would be best to tell Johnny at once that the mare would have to be shot.
"I think we'll have to put her out of her misery, son," ' he said. "She'll only suffer that much more if we don't ... "
"No! No!" the boy cried. "You can't do that-get the
vet, Dad, he can fix her up like he fixed Juniper. She'll be all right, I know she will. Please, Dad, please."
"No, son, there's no doubt about it. That left leg is broke, " he said, bending over Sandy. "We're going to have to shoot her. Now you run on back to the house and get my .22 and some cartridges, you hear? Go on now, run along." Tom was beginning to get perturbed because Johnny was acting like a baby.
The boy turned away. "I'm not going to do it," he said. He headed for the house. He began to run.
"Johnny! Johnny!" Tom called, but the boy was : gone. Tom stood up and walked away from the horse, back to the house. He would have to shoot the mare.
He walked into the side door and heard Johnny's sobs coming from the bedroom upstairs. He also heard Sallie's voice; she was with the boy, trying to soothe him. Tom went to his own room to get the gun. He pulled it from the closet and reached in the bureau for some shells. He took a handful of cartridges, loaded the rifle, then headed out. As he passed Johnny's door, the sobs had become softer, and he did not hear Sallie. Why did they all have to act like babies about a dying horse? He stood outside his son's door, thinking of some way to make Johnny see that the horse had to be shot. He walked in the room.
Johnny looked up from his bed where he was sprawled, muddy shoes and all, and his reddened eyes fastened on the gun his father held. He said nothing, but continued to sob convulsively.
"Hello, son," Tom said . "I just wanted to see if you were all right."
"You're really going to shoot Sandy, aren't you," Johnny blurted. "You're really going to do it!" As this full realization came to the boy, he threw his head down and began screaming again.
Tom grabbed the boy angrily. He was fed up with this babyishness. "Stop it," he cried. "Stop that crying now!" Tom jerked the boy upright. The tears spilled everywhere. "I said stop that crying, you little sissy!" This only made the boy cry harder, and Tom stood up, pulling Johnny with him. "Come on," he growled, "Goddammit, you're coming with me." He dragged the boy by the arm, out the room and down the stairs. Johnny was too weak to resist. He was still screaming. Tom heard Sallie's footsteps in the hallway, and he turned quickly and went out the front door. Aq he dragged the boy
across the yard, still holding the gun in the other hand, he heard his wife yelling from the porch. He paid no attention, and continued to pull the stumbling, crying boy along with him.
Once again they found the chestnut lying motionless beside the stone wall. Tom was still holding Johnny's arm tightly as they both stood still, panting, and looked at Sandy. He raised the gun in his other hand, and tried to sight, but it was too awkward, and he did not want to take the chance of missing. He could not let go of the boy, since he knew he would run away. Johnny should see this, he thought. After all, it was part of growing up. It was silly to act like a baby over a dying horse. There were a lot of lessons Johnny would have to 'learn in life, and this would be the first. It was for his own good. The boy was still sobbing and shaking his head slowly.
Tom put his arm around him, and he looked up at his father. His eyes were glassy. Tom brought his gun arm around the front of Johnny, and with one arm in front, one in back, Tom slowly lifted the rifle. He bent Johnny's head so that the boy's eyes were in the sighting line, then lined up the quivering target himself from behind his son. He whispered in a dry, cracking voice, "What's wrong, Johnny, don't you want to be happy? ... we'll be happy, son, just you wait ... "
And the father gently lifted his son's hand, and fitted the index finger over the trigger. There was one shot, but it seemed like many, as it rang across the fields and woods, shattering the cold, silent stillness.
Snow flakes lay softly as a baby's sleeping breath on green grass and you.
-David D. Ryan
Never nearing more alone but always moving away and feeling all from without.
Without those early beginnings and with current newness my life to you has quickly turned to a love.
A love of all that you may not possess yet still my reflections are brighter on you.
On you the adding of those features that I now live to love would scratch that surface on which dwelling cannot touch.
Touch me then and hear the noiseless sound of all the sights you may not hear.
But you hear me.
-David Blyth1 ;
The dancing shade of the table lamp Waved a sign of the approaching stormThe wind, the clouds, the stead-fast rain.
Dusty panes, streaked with delight For thirsty grass and flower beds, And I didn't much mind the-time it took To shed its tears in the afternoon cry.
As quick as it came, the wind and rain, The sun touched the storm in a golden haze And sent it running with a northwest wind.
-David D. Ryan
by Robert P. Arthur
My father was at the wheel of the car when I awoke and shook my head to clear it of its drowsiness. I stretched my limbs and turned over on my back feeling the pleasant sensation of needle pricks playing on my sleepy body. My mother was sitting quietly in the front seat gazing out the window at the woods and undergrowth that flitted by too fast to be seen clearly. Noticing me she said, "Welcome back, sleepy head."
"Where are we now?" I said.
"Almost there," she said, and I scrambled to the window pressing my nose to it.
From the car, I could see the faded buildings of Melfa and the narrow familiar streets.
"Are we going to stop here, Mother?" I said.
"No son, you'll see Grandmother in Parksley, cousin Jimmy too, if the Turlingtons came down."
"I should hope they did," my father grumbled.
"I'm sure they did," my mother said, and I lay back down on the seat and hypnotised by the motion of the car, went back to sleep.
"Wake up, sleepy head," someone said, and shook my shoulder gently. I sat up straight and wiped the sleep out of my eyes. The car had stopped and my mother was combing her hair. My father was putting on his dress coat.
"Straighten your tie, son," he said, and I leaned forward to see myself in the rear view mirror and adjusted my tie.
"Bessie's house is still the same" my father said, getting out of the car. "Marvin should have kept it better."
Aunt Bessie's house was a narrow two storied building covered with old fashioned brown shingles. The grass in the yard was high and had long since killed the flowers that were once reputed to be the prettiest in Parksley. Bessie was so busy now and just couldn't find the time with Marvin sick so long and so little money, my mother said.
The porch creaked faintly with our weight. My father smiled, observing the front windows that he was so familiar with when he was a boy. They were very large and so low that the sills were not more than two feet above the level of the porch. He had once said that what he had missed above all else when he left the county life were the big windows that he had loved without knowing when he was a child.
It was hard to imagine my father once being my age, nine years old, and living in his Aunt Bessie's house for part of . each summer and playing with her when she was beautiful for it seemed such a totally unbelievable thing what with
Aunt Bessie as she was now, grown gently fat and sometimes harsh with my cousins and me.
But she came to the door with elegance and greeted us with restrained warmth.
"So glad to see you, Francis," she said to my father, "and Elizabeth, oh you look so fine, please come in won't you?"
"And how's my nice young man?" she said to me as I stumbled into the door.
"Fine," I mumbled, a bit leery of her.
"Moy how you've grown," she said. "How old are you, child? Eight years old?"
"Nine," I mumbled, wishing I had never grown at all, thereby saving myself from being questioned.
"My, my," she said with a sigh. "How time does go by. But Francis, how glad I am to see you and your family again. Won't you come upstairs? I've shut off the ground floor, being just Marvin and me here. Marvin and I didn't need much space, and it is just too much for me to keep clean alone. Follow me, dinner is almost ready."
My mother, father and I followed her up the carpeted stair. The inside of the house was surprising. It was fixed in a very respectable fashion; the walls had been recently plastered and pain ~ed, and smiling photographs, neatly framed, adorned the walls. The photographs of Marvin as a young man perhaps saddened my mother. She let her eyes stick to Marvin's face and sighed with weariness.
Aunt Bessie was a large woman, big of bone, and the years had turned her flesh into. loose flaps that she attempted to keep well hidden by tight binding. She wore a pair of glasses that were elegantly rimmed with flashing stones and held to her face by a silver chain that circled the back of her neck. Her body was always well scented by a perfume whose aroma gave her an air of a woman much younger than her sixty-five years. She fought with the ravages of time and ill fortune with social graces and dignity, and although she was not winning, it would have been useless to tell her so. A string of beads dangled from her neck. All this apparel did not serve to make her appear ostentatious, for her natural dignity of manner and her own sense of worth cut through all those that knew her, and she was respected if not, perhaps, liked.
She was the daughter of a wealthy horse breeder. In her youth she was accustomed to the best of everything. She had been to France and to England, but England was her favorite. She admired the quiet elegance of manners, the grace of the countryside. Here she had met a fun-loving sol-
<lier, my father's uncle Marvin, who married her despite the disapproval of her family. Her father, who was a haughty man, had objected violently to the marriage and cut Aunt Bessie off from her inheritance. Much surprised and dejected, she had no choice but to return with Marvin to Parksley. But this is history, and it was to Bessie's credit that she did not outwardly grieve long and instead brought to Parksley her grace and charm .
The rooms we entered were filled with many friends and relatives. They greeted us solemnly, and we all sat quietly while Bessie busily fixed the dinner in the kitchen. Marvin's brother, George, sat dejectedly on the sofa talking to my father. The old man's voice cracked when he talked.
"Francis," he said, "I'm sorry you missed the funeral." My father bowed his head. "Yes," he said, "I hated to miss Marvin's funeral but business tied me up."
Uncle George shook his head.
"But you're here now, aren't you son?" The old man shut his weary eyes.
"Yes, I am," replied my father touching Uncle George's shoulder.
"We're all here, Uncle George," said my Aunt Katherine who then blushed, thinking herself trite.
Aunt Agnes and Uncle Pete had brought their young daughter Mary Ann, who in one year of life had managed to capture many of her mother's grotesque features.
"Isn't she adorable?" said my grandmother to Uncle Ben. "You can tell she has Turlington blood in her."
"That you can," said my Uncle Ben with a twinkle in his eye, "and speaking of Turlingtons, where are Vaughan and Margaret Ann?"
Aunt Bessie poked her head into the room from the kitchen, "I'm afraid they didn't see fit to come," she said gravely.
Uncle Ben became suddenly silent and muttered something under his breath. It was obvious that the Turlingtons had not yet forgiven Bessie for some infraction or the other that had occured in the past. The gathering became more friendly while we waited for dinner. Uncle Ben and Uncle George who were farmers virtually by birth were intensely interested in the welfare of my father because he was a country boy who had made good in the city.
My father boasted quietly and respectably, here and there dropping the name of a company he worked with or dealt with, and the name of the type of the car he was driving,
while the rest of the company listened to half of what he said. I could not help but glance up questioningly when my father told a half-truth, but I refrained from saying anything. I wa s greatly relieved when Bessie called us to dinner.
As was the custom in Aunt Bessie's house, I was not allowed to eat with the adults.
"Children shouldn ' t interfere with grown folks' talk," she nad always said . So my meal was brought to me in the kitchen while my parents ate in the big dining room. While ea t ing I could hear Bessie's voice above the rest.
"First, salad," she said. "I mana g ed to get some fresh lettuce which is hard to get at this time of the year. Nothing but the best, you know. I don't have much, but I do the very best I can. I wish I could have afforded someone to wait on the table, but there are hard times you know, what with Marvin sick so long. "
I could hear Bessie passing judgment on the salad . "I don't think I put in enough salt," she said, "but this salad is good enough, what with Marvin gone. It's all that can be expected, I guess."
I finished my meal and was about to eat my dessert when Bessie came into the kitchen.
"Oh my," she said excitedly to herself, "one dessert short. Oh my, what will I do?" She wrung her hands in frustration and spying my piece of pie quickly took it off the table and into the dining room without a word. I started to protest but did not and decided for the sake of harmony to say nothing.
"I must call the funeral home," I heard her say to the adults and then heard her walk quickly down the stairs to the telephone.
"Bessie's a fine old gal," I heard my father say, "to go all out for us the way she has."
"Can you imagine," said Aunt Grace, "she has been working all day, working her fingers to the bone, just to make things nice for us? Just like Bessie, it is. Nothing too good for the relatives."
" I think its marvelous," said my mother, "the way Bessie has fixed up this old house, all alone too, and with very little money . I'll swear, the way Marvin threw it all away, getting drunk, fooling around all the time."
"Yes," said my father, "old Marvin was a rascal all right, always joking, playing around; he never had a serious bone in his body."
"Perhaps it's a good thing," said my grandmother slowly. "Bessie has been under such a burden all her life. Think of
the sacrifices she has made, and God knows Marvin was in pain."
The company quieted suddenly at the mention of Marvin, "Yes," said Uncle Ben reverently, "I suppose that everything's for the best."
I remembered Uncle Marvin vividly. He was a short scruffy little man that always delighted in seeing children. He would pinch them, poke fun, and buy them ice cream. Once when I was very young, he put me on his back and walked what seemed to me to be at least a mile just to treat me to a soft drink. He had an unusual fascination for marbles, and upon entering any room, his eyes would light up when he saw a child, a potential victim of his marbleshooting prowess. Many times I heard Bessie refer to him, quite shamefacedly, as being her little child who required her attention more than an infant would have.
It appeared to me that he was one of us, and I remember taking delight when he sassed Aunt Bessie and got away with it. She would reprimand him, but he would only laugh and irritate her with the knowing gleam that came into his eyes.
The last time I saw him he was quite sick, and I remember now that his smile was gone. Aunt Bessie, glorying in her powt?-r at that time, ordered him this way and that, and he obeyed like a blind puppy. ·I had wanted to tell him to snap out of it and be my friend again, but being young, I said nothing and believed that he had suddenly become an adult. This saddened me a great deal, losing such a friend, but I had the feeling that he would come back. He did not; I never saw him again.
On the wall in the kitchen where I was eating there was an old photograph of Marvin. It had been taken when he was about twenty-five years old and in full uniform. He had not known Aunt Bessie at the time of the picture-taking, and I noticed how different the expression on his face was from the expression I was accustomed to. In his smart officer's uniform he reminded me of General Douglas MacArthur. His mouth was grim and determined, his brow was wrinkled with the care of command, and his eyes showed depth and compassion. Gazing at the noble face, I found it hard to believe that this was the man I had known. It gave me an eerie feeling. I turned my eyes away from the face so filled with purpose and life.
I walked into the dining room where my parents were
rising from the table. Aunt Bessie brought us all our coats, and we put them on, thanking her for the meal.
"Only the best for my relatives," she said, "Francis do you know the way to the burial lawn?"
"No," my father replied, "would you ride with me?"
"I'd love to," she said, and then she led the way down the stairs.
The party gathered on the front lawn, and Aunt Bessie divided the relatives into groups of four, and we got into three different cars and proceeded to the graveyard.
Uncle Marvin's grave was marked with a large stone which supported two delicately carved angels. , My father whistled to himself when he thought of the expense.
"One must always buy the best one can afford," said Bessie with pride. "'After all,' I said to myself, 'Bessie, this is going to be Marvin's new home and no husband of mine is going to have anything but the best.' "
A huge wreath lay covering the grave. "After all Marvin deserved it . I just couldn't find it in my heart to have a small tombstone like someone who didn't matter would have, could I?"
"Bessie," my father said, "didn't this cost quite a bit?"
Bessie smiled quietly. "I've saved for quite a while," she said proudly. "It's the least I can do for Marvin." "I only hope that someone cares enough for me to do the same.''
A frown came to my fathers face, but he remained quiet.
"I bought Perpetual Care," said Bessie, "I just can't stand the thought of Marvin's grave depreciating. Thank the Lord for Perpetual Care. Now the grass will always be cut. The flowers will always be pretty. Oh no, Marvin will always be proud of his grave. No one will look down on it. Why some of the best families in the country don't have stones on their graves as big as mine. It's the least I can do." My mother wiped away a tear and laid flowers on the grave.
We payed our last respects.
The party returned solemnly to Bessie's house. The men collapsed wearily into chairs and the ladies, some drying their eyes with wet handkerchiefs, daintly took their seats.
I crawled up on my mother's knee.
"You're too big for that," said Aunt Bessie. "Yes ma'am," I said timidly and got off my mother's knee and walked across the room, much embarrassed, to find a seat.
Bessie grabbed my by the arm as I passed her chair. She looked down at me with a tolerant little smile.
"Well, child," she said to me, "what do you want to be when you grow up?"
I winced at the question, "I don't know yet," I said.
Aunt Bessie blinked. "Come here, child," she said and put me on her knee. "Go make a name for yourself boy."
"Yes ma'am," I mumbled.
"You owe it to your blood," she said. "Go make a name for yourself so you can hold your head up and be like the rest of the family."
"Yes ma'am," I said, and embarrassed about being on her knee, tried to get down, but she stopped me.
"Son," she said, "you be like your great uncle Charles, he was a doctor, a real somebody."
"Yes ma'am," I said.
"Or like your great uncle Silas," she said. "Now he was a lawyer, and very respected I might add."
"Yes ma'am," I said, and slithered off her knee and sat on the floor beside her feet.
She looked at me fondly and turned to face the room full of my relatives and spoke to my father. "Francis," she said, "I wish you could have been here last week. I could have used a big strong man to help me fix things up."
"I would have loved to have helped," my father said.
"The work I did for you people, I swear it was enough to kill a horse, and the money, land sakes, I'll tell you, it took a lot of money and with Marvin so sick and all."
"I know," said my father.
"Lord have mercy," she said excitedly, "after all I couldn't have you people come to the funeral with the house a complete wreck, could I? What would you have thought? No sir, I wasn't about to have the reverend come here when the house was in need of repair. No sir, I'll tell you. What would he have thought, he would have thought that we were some kind of low grade people. Well I wasn't about to let that happen."
"Well I don't blame you for wanting the house nice for the funeral," my mother said.
"Yes that's what I thought," said Aunt Bessie happily, "and I am so glad that things came off so well. It was a beautiful funeral, and the house was so nice and everything, and I could tell that Marvin was happier not going to the hospital and being here where everything was being done up nice for him, and besides the hospital would cost so much money, and nothing could have been done to the house."
"Do you mean that Marvin didn't go to the hospital?" my father said loudly.
"Well, Francis," my aunt continued, "there was little use in that. We all knew that Marvin was dying."
"I see," said my father. My uncles nodded their heads at the wisdom of keeping Uncle , Marvin home. Feeling bored, from where I sat, I put my fingers against the wall.
"Don't touch that!" my aunt screamed and grabbed my arm. "Marvin painted that."
A faint trace of the still wet paint came off on my fingers. I glanced up shredded with guilt and looked at the openmouthed faces staring at Aunt Bessie, not me. I saw her face freeze and can still feel her steel-like fingers on my arm. I had a vivid picture of my poor uncle Marvin, coughing and wheezing, slavishly laboring to paint the walls for his own funeral reception. "Well, why not," my aunt was saying, "he was dying anyway." "Why not," she repeated, "why not?"
She sits as one alone amid the thousand-throng, Two pews in front of me,
A silence in the storm of hymnful sound
That rages reels and roars its tuneful mourn about us, Pushed by piercing pipes whose lurid laughing Whines its wheezing through the wail And churneth underneath.
She sits with mouth tight-pressed, Closed as the eyes that from her low-bowed head Stare blindly at the floor in solemn stillness, While all about a thousand mouths are gaping, Churning out a yowling for the hurricane of sound, Whirling shouts of piety flung upon the walls Where they pass among the window-stained beams of light, Refracting, and smearing on the walls-
A hypocrite-written hand.
-Charles P. Barrett
