Voices from

the Underground

James W. Bowers

Rapid City, South Dakota

A Many Kites Press Book

Copyright 2006 Jim Bowers

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author,
except for the inclusion of brief quotations.

Many Kites Press

3907 Minnekahta Dr.
Rapid City, SD 57702
www.manykites.com
Cover Illustration by Bruce Speidel

ISBN-13 978-0-9618469-2-3
ISBN-10 0-9618469-2-5

To the Bearlodge Writers,

Including in Particular

My Wife Jytte

Prologue

I am sitting in my chair in the cabin built by my own hands, looking out at the stream flowing
through my property, with my feet elevated, piles of newspapers and my dog at my side. It is not
that I am lazy. Im retired, and retirement means not doing whatever I do not care to do, not talking
with people I do not find interesting, not being anything other than what I want to be. It is the
ultimate in freedom, just to be myself: no more games to play, no role to tell me how I ought to act,
only silence and intuition. But that also involves getting to know who I really am. Memories from
the past float to the surface, long-forgotten, painful, surprising. I am changing in unexpected ways:
death and rebirth in my late sixties, as if one can start over again at that age. I am becoming more
reclusive, more observant, delighted by the vast panorama of inward experience.
Room after room I wander through the mansion of my soul, ascending stairs toward ecstasy,
descending into a murky cellar of horror and evil, desperately trying to find some stability within the
synergy between polar opposites. There are many faces populating my house of imagination. In the
silence of meditation personalities gather in each room, conversing with one another, anxious to be
bodied into words so that they can live in the light of the world outside. Most are unknown in the
real world yet resembling colleagues known, conversations overheard, small events that somehow
reveal meaning.

It is the meaning, the purpose of each unexpected observation that entices me now: how each
piece of the puzzle begins to fit, how obvious it all is, how simple. The posts and beams, the tongues
and grooves of a lifetime fit together so perfectly.

I could never have accomplished such

craftsmanship myself, yet here it is. Mine has been a life flowing between granite walls of necessity;
now it is opening out into a huge expanse of still water, deep, reflecting the light of the sky, clear and
green to the very bottom.
The problem is how to embody this inner world, to articulate it in a form that will not become
obtuse in the outer world. I must learn how to transform breath into words, not the spoken words I
have used as a teacher, but written words with black rigid forms that will never change. The spoken
word might live in the hearing of a few others, might somehow reach their souls with transforming
power, but the printed word seems, like a rock, not to have a life of its own. Its form must enliven
through the eyes of a reader, become a face in the readers inner world.
I sit in my chair reading newspaper accounts of events in Russia, China, the far flung reaches of
the world, but the words are simply informative. They do not reverberate in the soul. They are
pebbles on the bottom of the stream, inert, without a life of their own, passed over quickly and soon
forgotten.
To live, the words have to sing. They have to resonate with meaning, creating polytonal pictures
in the mind of a reader. They have to dance on the page, forming and reforming until the mind is
filled with images conversing with one another in spacious rooms of the imagination. They have to
startle with unexpected associations, entice with intimate revelations, seduce with clairvoyant
intimations until the soul of the reader is immersed in a world of the writers creating. Writer and
reader, together they dance and sing on the waters of a calm sea, their souls reflected in the depths,
clear, green to the very bottom.

The Loner
I didnt want to discuss my concerns with my niece Jane. After all, she was entitled to live her
own life. But I had been placed in loco parentis and it was getting to the point where something had to
be said, if only to keep matters from getting worse. She had talked about her boyfriends cabin in
the woods, even pointed out its location on the forest road map. So I slid into my car and drove the
ten miles up the road to his cabin.
Although the summer heat had been blistering, a long, slithering rain cooled things off, and
suddenly it was autumn. The wild thistles in the fields lost their purple crowns, their white hair
now matted and soggy. Clumps of prairie grass, tall as a man with their honey-colored heads of
grain, were weakened with age. Clouds which had been nestling close to the earth disappeared so
that the sun could radiate in unhindered majesty. The residue of heavy dew glistening in the
sunlight would soon be gone.
As I drove past the meadows and into tall forests of pine and spruce, the sun was no longer
visible except in brief glimpses, and pools of fetid water lingered in the undergrowth. The air
was markedly cooler and smelled of decaying wood. I parked the car off the edge of the narrow
dirt road and climbed up the winding path barely visible among the low-lying brush until at a
sudden turn to the right his cabin appeared a short distance ahead.

It was built of logs which he had cut down, the bark still remaining, for he had had neither the
tools nor the energy to clean them properly. It was, after all, never intended to be a permanent
residence, only a haven of solitude during the summer months. A pipe from an old wood stove
pierced the roof, and the lazy white smoke indicated that he was not only home, but preparing a
meal, though certainly not in anticipation of my arrival.
I was not more than a hundred yards away when he suddenly appeared in the doorway stark
naked. At first he was not aware of my presence but was concentrating on breathing in the
humid air, eyes closed, mouth wide open. Embarrassed, I was about to turn back when another
figure appeared behind him resting her hands on his shoulders, long blonde hair disheveled, eyes
looking straight at me, a smile of contentment on her lips. It was my niece, scarcely eighteen
years old, equally naked.
Hi there. Cmon in. Her voice was sweet and lofty, the voice of a mature woman, not the
little girl who had so often sat on my lap while I read fairytales about dragons and trolls in the
depths of the forest. Their innocent behavior defied original sin, as if their animal nature simply
ignored centuries of religious and social condemnation. They were pagan, uncivilized, beyond
shame and guilt, aglow with sensual pleasure uncontaminated by thought.
I was shocked, confused, delighted, afraid. Without thinking, I followed them into the
darkness of the cabin. My worst fears were now confirmed, but what was I to do next? Their
clothes lay scattered on the floor. No attempt was made to regain modesty. my niece finished
her preparation of a simple meal, and he and I sat down on upended wooden boxes. There was
no table. Since there were only two plates, she used a bowl and stood alone in the corner.
Well, Uncle John, what brings you up here?

There was a malicious little twinkle in her eye and a slight pouting of the lips. No beating
around the bush, only a straightforward answer was expected.
I wasnt sure what I should say to your father the next time he calls. Her parents were
divorced, and she had been living with me for the summer while her father was on assignment in
Europe.
Tell him whatever you like. She walked over to her boyfriend, bent down and kissed him
on the mouth.
Youve got some mail from Winston College, some housing forms to fill out, I suppose.
Im not going to college. There was no defiance in her voice. Her plans had changed. I
never really wanted to go anyway, but I didnt know what else to do.
Whats your father going to say when you tell him?
Im not going to tell him. You are. Theres no phone up here.
But what are you going to do?
Nothing. All I need is someone to love. She caressed Jeffs hair and kissed him on the side
of his neck. He looked up, and this time she kissed him on the mouth passionately. There was no
hiding the fact that he was becoming aroused. It was as if I had disappeared, and they were
alone together in their intimate world. I got up to leave.
Goodbye, Uncle John. She looked straight into my eyes, then sat down on his lap. I made
my way out the door and walked slowly down the path to the car.

A week later I walked up the path a second time, carrying a bag of groceries in each hand. At
first I thought no one was at home since there was no smoke coming out of the chimney, but
suddenly they were behind me on the path. They had been picking berries; the boyfriend, rifle in
hand, was carrying a dead squirrel. His previously white tee shirt and cutoff jeans, her yellow
8

dress with flowered print, had not been washed for some time. Laundry soap. Id forgotten all
about that.
Go on in. Well be there in a minute, he said.
Jeff was a handsome fellow, rather tall, with long, elegantly shining black hair hanging
loosely over his shoulders. His aquiline nose and blue eyes, the way he held his head perfectly
upright, conveyed a certain aristocratic sensibility. I guessed that he was in his early twenties
and, judging by the number of paperbacks here and there on the cabin floor, an avid reader. We
entered the darkness of the cabin, and at first no one spoke. They were waiting for me to begin.
Just finished my weekly shopping and thought Id bring out some extra stuff in case you
needed it. Theres more in the trunk of the car. Here are the keys. He took them without
saying a word and started back down the path. Again there was silence.
Your father wasnt too pleased to hear youre not going to college.
Didnt think he would be. But at least hes saving a lot of money. Hell think of that soon
enough.
I looked down at the floor. I didnt tell him anything else.
She shrugged and her left eyebrow arched. Why not?
Youd better explain that yourself. I told him youd call and talk to him.
Maybe I willsomedayif we get to town. Thanks for the food.

It was several weeks later that I returned to the cabin. By this time the leaves on the oak trees
had wizened. The sumacs were scarlet red and turning brown. The first frost would be coming
soon. This time I carried no groceries with me.
You cant stay up here much longer, I said to my niece. Whatre you going to do?

Dont know. Jeff will come up with something. She turned to him and gave him a smile
both wistful and full of hope. Someday soon hell sell one of his inventions. Then everything
will be just fine.
Theres always your old roomuntil you get a job, you know, I said.
What do you say, Jeff? she said.
Sure. Why not?
In fifteen minutes their bicycles were tied to the top of the car, and we were on our way home.
It turned out to be a long winter.

Jeff was a very polite young man, respectful towards his elders, really quite charming. When
he did work, it was with great care and a driving passion for perfection. If it were not right he
would tear it out and do it over again. But it had to be done his own way. He would take orders
from no one. Since he could not figure out on his own what to do, on any new project he only
pretended to be working. Once he saw how it could be done, however, he insisted that that was
the only way to do it. Since he had no formal training in any field he became a handyman:
roofer, carpenter, mason but not electriciantoo dangerous. He was determined never to work
an eight-hour day and took at least twice as long to finish a job as anyone else. As a result he
was difficult to work with and was soon fired by local contractors. From time to time he found
the odd job which he could do alone, or together with a friend for a day or two, without paying
him, of course. For the most part he preferred to spend the time reading books, his refuge from
the inconsiderate demands of the real world. Above all else, he was determined to be true to
himself.
In other words, he was not for hire. On the other hand, he was willing to help out a friend as
long as there was no money involved. He would spend hours lying on the ice and snow under
10

someones old car, fixing this and that until it was running again. It was the challenge: to get
more out of a vehicle that had seen its last days. His wages were gratitude and a sense of
accomplishment. That did not put food on the table. He talked about finding an apartment for
Jane and himself, but there was never enough money to make the deposit and first months rent.
It became a long winterand summerand winter again.
Jane was far away, on her own little island of bliss. Jeff, her hero, could do no wrong. There
was a purity in her absolute commitment, an innocence in her adoration. They refused to be
contaminated by hypocrisy and guilt. She played and danced and loved without restraint, holding
back nothing. She was determined not to make the same mistake her parents had made. She and
Jeff would never be separatednever. She developed a rich talent for artistry, transforming
common articles into objects of beauty. Her imagination wavered in the wind, alighting in the
most unexpected places. A garage filled with old junk would metamorphose into a cozy hideout
during the hot summer months. Occasionally she would work as a waitress for a timea
temporary job, never permanent, not really an expression of herself, a momentary compromise.
But a compromise it was, and soon she would draw back into the real world, the world as it
ought to be, the world of beauty and truth. She lived as a goddess radiating happiness and good
will, adored by Jeff and, to tell the truth, by myself as well. For she had found in herself that
inspiration to be what any man wanted her to be. Who could not fall in love with her?
And so I did everything I could to protect them, to preserve their innocence, succumbing
totally to their charm. Their love for one another was so obvious, so delightful, so delicate. It
was the dream of youth that I had lost and would never recover again.
Of course I was naive, but what else could I do? Her father refused to have any contact with
her again. Her mother was remarried and living in California with her new family. She did not

11

want to be burdened with the past. I did not have the temerity to ask when they were planning
to get married.
Throughout the winter there were occasional arguments between them which I could not
avoid overhearing. At first I thought they were just temporary disruptions, but finally it was
clear that the relationship was ending. When Jeff suddenly disappeared back to his cabin in the
wilds, I was not surprised. It was a man thing. Jane was distraught but said nothing. I could
only grieve with her and wait. Finally she reached the point where she had to talk.
Springtime came early that year. Due to the unusually warm winter the crocuses had already
bloomed and the daffodils were stretching their long, green fingers toward the light. Sitting on
the warm deck, I was reading the newspaper when she came out and sat down with a determined
yet hesitant look on her face. I put down the paper and waited.
Guess you know Jeffs not coming back.
I thought perhaps not.
She was trying not to cry, but without success. I just dont understand. I loved him as much
as I could ever love anyone. I never held anything backno secrets. Everything out in the open.
I trusted him completely.
I know.
It all seemed so simple, so natural. It never crossed my mind that there would ever be an end
to it. I dont know what happened.
Youre right. Love is the most natural thing in the world. Any dog knows that.
Then why did he leave?
Because like Huck Finn he didnt want to be civilized. In the 1800s a man like Jeff would
have been out on the frontier hunting bear, perfectly happy lying naked on a raft floating down

12

the river. Its natural for a boy not to want anything to do with the civilized world. Hes afraid it
will destroy his innocence, his integrity. Huck Finn is in every man, I think, the boy who
absolutely refuses to grow up. Men like Jeff are charming, lovable, but you never want to marry
one of them. Sooner or later theyll take off, and you wont see them again.
She continued to weep.
Now, even more than before, she became alienated from her parents. I became the one to
take her in when she had no other place to go. She attempted now and again to regain with
another man the love, the freedom, the exuberance she had once known, but she never forgot
Jeff. Whenever she called she asked about him, but when she stayed with me she never
attempted to see him.
Despite my attempts over the years to keep in contact there are no more odd jobs around the
house he can do for me. The last time he fixed a faucet he refused payment. He did not look
well, far too thin. He no longer has a job, never had a real job in his lifetime. Oh, I hired him to
put an addition on to my home. A year later it was still not finished. Its not that he detested
hard work. He seemed to enjoy the punishment of long hours when a task had finally to be
completed, working in a driving rainstorm to cover with plastic the roof that should have been
completed weeks ago but now was almost finishedalmost. It was getting started that was the
hard part, the commitment to finish what could never be as perfect as he wanted it to be. Every
day there was the journey into town to get the necessary part, prowling around the junk yard to
save a few dollars, gossiping with the other men who had unfulfilled dreams of their own. By
late afternoon he would settle down, ready to start, but by then there were so few hours left
before darkness. A search light had to be rigged up so that the work could continue.

13

He was charming, likeable; his friends tried to use him on odd jobs so that he would have
some income. But now they are gone; friendship has rusted and grown weather beaten,
transformed into avoidance and finally, No.
When Jane called yesterday she was in tears. She had had a terrible nightmare, a premonition
that something awful had happened to Jeff. She begged me to do something. One last attempt
seemed the least I could do, for as strange as it may seem we have never ceased to care for him.
So here we are, having made the tedious journey to Jeffs ramshackle dwelling up in the hills
surrounded by the rusted iron bodies and gaping holes of aged vehicles: trucks with flattened
tires, autos without engines or transmissions, lawnmowers without blades or sparkplugs. Not
much has changed except that the area covered by debris has enlarged, and encroaching pines
have done their best to conceal the shame.
Now he is alone in his shelter; one can scarcely call it a cabin any longer since the fingers of
the wind easily pry their way between the logs and around the windows, and the hand-made door
sags with age. We have arrived again with the cans of beans and home baked bread, but
although we can hear him inside he does not open the door to us. Perhaps for some reason he
thinks we have betrayed his trust and no longer deserve his company. We realize he would
rather starve than accept pure charity, having done nothing in return.
I will not offend him further by leaving the groceries behind, she says.
Turning around, we drive the long way back to town, having fulfilled the last requirement of
love that has solidified into duty, and finally into despair.

14

Becoming Civilized

The winter was cold that year. Although we children in our innocence could for a time slide
down the hillsides in the exuberance of our natural state, our grandparents had from early
childhood trained us to prefer the artificial, the man-made. Soon we were kicking off snow-laden
boots and nylon snowsuits in the warmth of the living room, clambering for hot cocoa and
homemade cookies before settling in front of the TV to enter the lifeless world of programmed
animation. Our own animation became passive silence, more suited to the sedate life of our
grandparents who required obedience and respect. Our red cheeks mellowed into the plastic
uniformity of my sisters favorite doll, at least for a time, until our natural sprightliness could no
longer be repressed, and we were chasing one another around the house, much to the dismay of
our grandparents. Such liveliness was not civilized. Porcelain figures might be broken, chairs
overturned, crayons scattered and crushed under foot. No, children needed to be brought up
properly, disciplined to live in a classroom fortified against the unpredictable world of nature.
And in fact disaster was foreordained. While our grandparents were momentarily out
shopping a porcelain figure brought from China did indeed tremble on its foundation before
casting itself on to the floor and disintegrating into slivers and triangles of hard, pure whiteness.

15

All vivacity ceased in the shock of recognition that something fearfully unforgivable had been
done.
Lars, you did it!
Well, you pushed me. It was your fault!
Did not!
I knew that I did not have a chance. They would believe my sister; it was always my fault. I
had watched helplessly as the porcelain figure jumped maliciously, of its own free will, off the
coffee table, sacrificing itself so that I might again be punished. It was always happening to me
at the most unexpected moments, at the height of joy in the uncontrollable exuberance of life.
One minute I was alive with rambunctious activity; the next moment was deadly stillness and
rigid sorrow.
Why did it happen? What was so unnatural about the ebullient body and its thoughtless
hyperactivity? Why was the adult world so condemning? Such thoughts, of course, could not
yet even form in my young mind. They were only vague feelings, subtle apprehensions of the
incomprehensiveness of every moment of life. Perhaps someday I would understand that there
was some meaning, some purpose. I would understand the rules of the game. But for now I was
innocent of laws. All experience was curiously new and filled with both joy and terror.
As yet my sin had not been discovered. I quickly gathered the treacherous fragments and cast
them into the dust bin, hoping that my grandparents would not notice the missing figurine, at
least not until I had returned home to the safety of my own bedroom.
Ill tell. You just see. Ill tell.
My sister could never resist an opportunity to see me punished. She was the angel of
righteousnessself-righteousnesswho smiled surreptitiously as I begged forgiveness. She, of

16

course, was sinless, beyond reproach, for she always contained some secret knowledge of how
she should act, what was expected of her, what role she should play to please those with power.
It was a knowledge I would never have, nor would want to have. I would rather pay the price for
my sins.
My terrible deed remained undiscovered. On arriving home our grandparents suggested that
we watch Sesame Street while grandfather sat in the next room reading his newspaper and
grandmother stood in the kitchen washing the dishes. A civilized order had again descended over
the noise of the TV, and we were protected from the sinfulness of nature. Those were indeed
days of wonder.

I am suddenly torn from reminiscences of past joy by my wifes loud voice.

Come to dinner, dear. The children have to be at their dancing lessons in less than an hour,
so we don't have much time. I obediently rise from my chair and head for the dining room.

17

The Springtime of Love

In the beginning of December, the shocking month of the year, temperatures can dip well
below zero. It was my senior year in high school, and suddenly I was pregnant.
I had become rather lax about taking my birth control pills; there was so much else going on
in my life that I scarcely had time to realize what day it was. It was such a hassle, concealing the
little packet from Dad within the refuse of my shoulder bag. I was certain that someday the
whole mess would leap from my bag and sprawl across the floor, exposing all, not that I was
certain he would even recognize what they were. His generation couldnt control the creation of
life. But it was always possible, and I thought I knew the inevitable consequences:
My daughter! Taking birth control pills! Not even married! Not even engaged!
How could I live with Dad after that?
Sure, I was scared, but I thought I could handle it. Head of the cheerleading squad, Ive
always looked good in a tight sweater and short skirt. All those boys with the hunger in their
eyes. Ever since sophomore year Ive dated just about every guy on the football team. In this
rural town if youve not found your man by the time youve graduated from high school, youre
out of luck. They all thought I was really cool, an easy score, like so many of my girlfriends, but
a blow job, thats as far as I needed to go.

18

Id even gone out with some of the guys from the college. If you smile a lot, just listen as if
youre enthralled by every word hes saying, and tell him youre sorry every time you say
anything he doesnt like, its no problem. The boys hang around you like flies. One guy
followed me all the time, but he wasnt even a football player.
You see, I was in loveI mean really in love. Not with any of those kids the other girls were
slobbering over who thought they were such heroes. No, I had got me a real man, tender, a
soaring spirit, a man of experience who knew instinctively what a real woman wanted. As he
stood before the class reciting Ulalume, my heart hovered while he deliberately avoided looking
in my direction. I knew the words were meant for me. It was just that our secret could not be
revealed, not yet. How surprised they would be, my girlfriends, when they found out; how
jealous!
So as soon as I told my true love I was pregnant, he promised to leave his wife. I would be
graduating from high school in a few months, before the baby was born, and then we could get
away, soaring into a world all our own filled with love and joy. It came as a shock when one
evening we were having dinner together in our special restaurant far from prying eyes.
You know, my love, he said, perhaps it would be best if you had an abortion. Ill cover
the expenses, of course.
An abortion! Mouth open, eyes widened, my lips could scarcely speak the words.
But I already have two children to support. I cant really afford the responsibility of raising
any more, not on my salary.
Ever? You mean we'll never have any children of our own?
We'll work that out later, my love. Its just that its too much for me to handle right now.

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By this time I could no longer hold back the tears. All I could do was get away, be alone, have
time to think.
Yes, perhaps an abortion was the most reasonable, the most practical thing to do; but why be
practical?

I had seen enough while raising my younger brother after Mom died to know that

having babies made no sense at all, but it was what I wanted, what my body wanted, more than
anything else in the world. I had usually been practical, taking the pills. Now I had been
ambushed by natureand it was good. I was a woman now. So I became unreasonable, and he
returned to his wife. By the end of March it was time to face my father.
Dad. Ive got something to tell you. Im . . . Im pregnant.
He recoiled, surprised, concerned. And the father? One of your classmates, I suppose. I
hope hes got a good job lined up after graduation.
Hes already married. Doesnt want to leave his family.
I see. Dads face became contorted with anger. Ill kill that man if I ever meet him. He
turned away to gain control of himself, then sat down.
Before Mom died my parents had been married for twenty years, and there was never any
doubt about their devotion to one another, or Moms determination to throw him out of the house
if he were ever unfaithful to her. But then he never would be. That was their generation. I
belonged to the world of liberation from all that, of freedom to do your own thing, what you felt
was right at the time.
Then he turned to me. I braced myself for his angry outburst, but instead his eyes softened.
His voice was controlled, intellectual.
And what do you want to do?

20

Theres nothing in the world I want more than to have this baby! My voice had a tinge of
the defensive, but my sincerity was beyond doubt.
He turned his head aside to look out the window. There was a long, long silence.
Good. Well, then, lets celebrate. Im going to be a grandfather.
It was not at all what I had expected.
Do you love him? I suddenly realized that Dad had not yet asked who he was, and never
would unless I wanted to tell him.
I thought I did. I was so sure at the time. I was speaking in the past tense, as if it were all
behind me now, as if the dream of joy had vanished. It was unbearably painful, the thought of a
life without the father of my child by my side. I could not imagine what it would be like, but as I
spoke, the cold truth seized me, and I wept, not bitterly but helplessly, until I could weep no
more.
After my son was born, there were times, of course, when I doubted whether I had done the
right thingto keep the baby, that is. The thought of adoption crossed my mind once or twice.
But as for Dad there was never any question. For him love was not just a personal indulgence,
like lobster or filet mignon; it was an absolute commitment to a personal relationship, a matter of
sacred trust.
One evening I was sitting in the rocker, nursing the baby. Dad was busy correcting papers for
his Great Literature course. I was all confusion, muddled feelings, needing answers.
Dad, how do you know when you are truly in love? I was so sure.
He put down his papers. He spoke carefully, thoughtfully, with all the understanding his
years of studying human nature could give him.

21

I have no doubt that you were in love, but being in love and actually loving someone are two
entirely different things.
What do you mean?
The poet Dante stated it very clearly. To be in love is to be in hell; it is the first stage of
alienation from true love.
I looked at him in alarm, but there was such compassion in his eyes.
How can you say such a thing? It was like being in heaven. When we were together it was
so beautiful.
And now that you dont see each other anymore?
Thats hell all right. All I do is think about him, wonder what hes doing, where he is. I
cant think of anything else. I was on the verge of tears.
And if he were to beckon, would you go back to him, even after hes abandoned you this
way?
Of course. Its our destiny to be together. It cant be any other way. My voice was
helplessly defiant. There was a long pause.
What about his children, his wife? If you were in her place, would you think he was doing
the right thing by leaving her?
She doesnt deserve his love, not any more. Perhaps at first, but not now.
And suppose you had married him. What would you do if he left you for another woman?
Id kill him! I could feel my eyes ablaze with passion. I was stunned. I wanted to kill the
man I loved. Dad persisted.
And what about your baby? Do you want to kill him too?

22

No, nonever. I recoiled in horror. How can you say such a thing? Hes part of me; Im
his life. How can I kill a part of myself? Dad smiled.
So you love your baby. Youre not in love with him. You love him.
What do you mean?
What if he were handicapped, or didnt turn out to be what you wanted him to be, would you
still love him?
Of course.
No matter what happened?
Yes.
Now that is real love. It was a delicate moment. Dad hesitated, searching for the right
words. But thats not the way you loved his father. You dreamed of him as another person, a
man without a family devoted solely to you, rather than what he really was. He was someone
you had to own, someone who would be what you wanted him to be. He never was the man you
thought he was. You never loved him as he really was. In other words, you were in love. He
looked at me intently.
But why is that hell?
Because theres no freedom in it. You always have to do what he wants you to do. If you try
to be yourself, he doesnt love you anymore. But youre still bound to one another by this need
to be together, and no one likes to be a slave to another person. If thats not hell, I dont know
what is.
But how can the greatest, most ecstatic, most romantic love become sohellish? It doesnt
make sense. Dad could be so intellectual, so academic.

23

Egotism. Self-centeredness. When youre in love all youre really thinking about is your
own feelings, wanting things to be the way you want them to be. Love is just the opposite; all
you think about is what is best for the one you love, even if it means giving him up, letting him
go free. Love crucifies egotism. If we dont move beyond that selfish determination to control,
were condemned to fall in love again and again, and every time there is the agony of the dream
becoming a nightmare. According to Dante no one reaches heaven without first going through
hell, but once is enough. He stopped speaking. It was all too logical.
As I sat nursing the baby, I sank slowly into another world. It was as if Dad was retreating
into the distance, and all I knew was the life flowing out of me yet constantly renewing itself.
The sleepless nights, the changing of diapers, the incessant self-sacrifice were simply irrelevant.
I was in a place of peace, listening to my body, holding in my arms a living person whom I loved
above all else. It was so natural to love, like the bulbs of spring bursting into new life. Two are
one. That is love. Its that simple.

24

Nightfall

The fall afternoon was cold, crisp, with its yellow browns and slate grey sky. The first snowfall
of the season had weighted the pines until they snapped, the tops pointing accusingly at odd
angles toward the snow-covered rocks. The vicious wind had diminished to a sigh, but the
damage was already done. The dirt road leading into the hills was simply impassable, filled as it
was with the wreckage of pine boughs and oak branches. Turning around here, where the
embankment fell sharply to the stream below, would be impossible.
The elderly couple stepped out of the car to observe their plight when a deer suddenly
appeared on the other side of a fallen tree trunk. With her oval ears at an odd angle and calm
eyes looking at them as if they did not exist, she was clearly implying that they did not belong,
not with their mechanical conveyance by their side. She did not appear to know how dangerous
they might have been, had they taken a rifle with them. But of course they had not; perhaps she
understood that as well. Man and beast, they were on equal footing nowor rather unequal, for
human lumbering was no match for her sure-footed leap over the edge of the embankment into
oblivion.
So they had not been alone, totally abandoned. Someone had been keeping an eye on them,
dispassionate as she might be. But they were not at home as she was, surrounded as they had
25

always been by quadrilateral structures to protect them from the inconsiderate storms of nature.
It would soon be dark, and they were miles from their secure homestead. Since to turn their
vehicle around was impossible, he would have to back down, slowly, carefully, remembering to
turn left when he wanted to go right.
Were awfully close to the edge, my love.
Damn!
The back wheel was off the edge of the road, and they no longer had the traction to pull
forward. They were stuck in a world in which they were aliens, without mechanical means of
assistance. All they had left were human bodies clothed for the comfort of a heated vehicle and
miles of distance from civilized living.
There was nothing else to do but walk back down the canyon road as the suddenly rosepetaled clouds lost their beauty and became portentously solemn again. Darkness welled up
from the creek bed, slowly climbing the hillside until even the tallest trees ceased to reach for the
light and became looming shadows. No moon yet, the clouds dissipated slowly so that the
occasional glimpse of stationary points of light revealed a universe of stars, billions upon
billions, absorbed in their own creating and destroying. As humans they were no longer the
center of attention, enthralled by their own mechanical inventions. They were simple animals,
living creatures all too aware of how ephemeral life might be.
Men and women in their youth might have considered it a lark, an adventure, but the elderly
pair were well past their prime and were scarcely able to discern the shadows at their feet, let
alone the edge of the precipice. For them the darkness meant a gradual feeling of one's way, a
gratitude for each moment of the blood coursing in their veins, a knowledge that there was not
much more of dreams to be realized, opportunities to be seized, adventures into the unexpected

26

to be made. Hand in hand they progressed, too aware of the danger of one false step and
therefore dangerously slow as cold tentacles of darkness penetrated the flesh of their bodies.
To keep up their spirits they reminisced, retelling old stories of adventures in foreign lands,
remembering again what had long been forgotten, as if a lifetime was made of stories retained in
the mind while the body was attending to its own needs. It was as if they were wandering among
the stars, oblivious of bodily needs, of the cold, knowing only of their love for one another, of
the life shared together, of hope fulfilled beyond their wildest dreams, of the sacred gift of life
lived in this moment. What might happen tomorrow, or the next day, if indeed there ever was a
tomorrow for either of them, was totally irrelevant. They had now, at this moment, all that they
needed, all that they had ever really needed. It was so simple, to be absorbed in nature, to be
engulfed by the darkness like two burning candles lit for a time, walking together down a dirt
road toward a destiny they might never reach but comforted in the knowledge that the walking
itself was enough for any manor woman.

Their daughter in Chicago made a number of phone calls without receiving an answer before
she called the local police. Their visit to the house confirmed the fact that the elderly couple had
not been home for a number of days, and a search party was organized. The bodies were
discovered in the ditch by the side of the road. She had apparently broken her leg when she fell.
He could never leave her alone, and the warmth of their embrace had dissipated into the frigid
night air.

27

Insensible Snow

The tall pines occasionally rustled their branches to shake off the wet clothing shielding them
from the cold, proud of their supple greenness and rough, scarred bark. The smooth, slate blue of
the jays perched in the branches appeared and disappeared as they foraged for food while the
chickadees dipped and soared, alighting only to sail once again into the living air.
Coyotes wailed, inhuman in their almost human voices, wild with animal ferocity like men
gone mad in wartime. Their cries resonated in the fiber of our being, intimating primeval
memories of our ancestors surrounding prey and consuming the flesh.
I do not recall the name of the man who burst into our home. Memory begins to fade in and
out as if the lens was not quite in focus, and some incidents have been forgotten altogether. But I
can still see vividly his head of tangled brown hair cascading to his shoulders revealing only his
opaque eyes, narrow nose and thin tremulous lips. He was a short man clad in jeans and flannel
shirt which lacked all semblance of cleanliness, and his awkward gait revealed a childhood
trauma which had left one leg slightly shorter than the other. His speech, or what there was of it,
revealed little education and an abundance of profanity. The gun which he waved and pointed to
show virility where there was none might well not have been loaded, but who would be
courageous or foolish enough to find out? He was a natural killer. Like any animal he needed
28

food and drink, which was provided without question, though I doubt it was quite the
nourishment he had in mind; warmed-over quiche was nothing like a hearty meal of steak and
potatoes, and wine was no substitute for gut alcohol. He had been running and hiding for some
time and was now utterly exhausted, but fear allowed no respite. He would not be caged again
no matter the cost in lives, including his own.
Of course no one knew he was here, for we were some distance from town and our nearest
neighbor had been gone for some days. Communication by telephone with the outside world he
had naturally cut off immediately, and the wind on the snow would soon erase all signs of his
approach. He had chosen his refuge well, for now that our family was spread abroad, there was
no one to intrude unexpectedly. Our isolation, which had been savored as freedom, was now our
prison.
Despite intermittent conversations, it was never quite clear to me what crimes he had
committed. Drugs were certainly involved, as an escape from the inescapable, the toleration of
the intolerable. But it seemed to me the possibility of rehabilitation had long since been rendered
impossible. He was fated to be what he had become. He was struggling to gain some control
over events that occurred unexpectedly, at random. Overwhelmed by helplessness he could only
strike back when it was reasonably safe to do so, which is to say against the weak and unarmed.
We were elderlyexcellent targets.
At first he kept our hands tied behind our backs and the doors locked in the event he should
succumb to the necessity for sleep. But my wife and I were exhausted. When we awoke, he was
still flitting from window to window to mark the approach of the inevitable enemy. As a
precaution he had turned off all the electricity to the house; fortunately, the gas heaters were still
able to function so that we remained relatively warm. But the approach of darkness revealed only

29

the light of the evening star, the misshapen shadows of scrub oaks with their barely perceptible
movements, and the heavy breathing of the night. Once again the howling of the coyotes pierced
the silence and an occasional patch of white movement announced the presence of deer that had
come down from the hills to feed in solitude. But nothing happened. It was clear to us, though
not perhaps to him, that his pursuers had lost the trail. He was safe, but we were not.
Yet strangely enough we were not afraid; we had lived to an age beyond fear where the worst
that could happen was death and that could come at any time in any case. We hovered in a cloud
of indifference where the physical body was observed and appreciated but was no longer
considered necessary. It was a material form which would soon dissolve into the earth from
which it was born, but we had already transcended that vibrant Mother of life, death and rebirth.
We accepted the presence of the intruder as being as natural as that of the coyotes.
One of the first days I was sitting in my recliner reading a book with my hands tied in front
while my wife was busy in the kitchen preparing some food. It was not necessary for my wife
and me to say much to one another. After almost fifty years of marriage we often knew what the
other was thinking; an occasional nod or arched eyebrow was sufficient communication. The
intruder, on the couch where he could watch both of us, had fallen asleep. He awoke with a start,
only to discover when he looked at his watch that he had been asleep for at least an hour. He
was covered by a blanket which my wife had placed over him. After that he no longer bothered
to tie our hands. We continued our regular routine as if he were not present.
He was no longer the powerful man with a gun; he was invisible. For the intruder the silence
was obviously nerve-wracking. Doing nothing was becoming intolerable.

Here he was

imprisoned, yet enjoying more freedom than he had ever known before. There was no one
beating him, nor anyone insisting that he be someone other than who he was. He could kill us if

30

he wanted to but seemed unable to do so: there was no excitement, no rush of adrenaline, no
satisfaction in the terror convulsing the victim.
One morning when we awoke he was gone, along with our car. By the time we were able to
notify the police, it had been abandoned high up in the back woods. He had disappeared, it
seemed, for good.

It was more than a year later that we recognized his picture in the newspaper of a nearby city.
His beard had been shaved off, revealing a somewhat refined chin, too weak to assert itself, and
his hair had been nicely trimmed. In his suit from Sears he was prepared to confront the jury
who would decide his fate. During an attempted robbery he had murdered three people and
wounded a police officer. The prosecution had argued for the death penalty.
According to the weather report we should expect our usual spring snowstorm sometime
tomorrow afternoon, so I shall be driving into town to stock up on provisions. The clouds are
already looming overhead, and the pine trees on the hilltops are alive in anticipation. Soon we
shall be white and clean again.

31

The Power and the Blood

Youd think I was an animal in a cage. The cinder block walls painted a vomit yellow. Floor
and ceiling grey concrete. Stainless steel toilet and washbowl in the corner. Cant crack
stainless steel when ya hit your head against it, no matter how hard ya try. One wall is steel bars.
They look at you through the bars any time, day or nightno privacy. But Im the only one on
this row. Its quiet. I like it that way. Not many people to bother me. A lawyer once in a while,
but I know the law books a lot bettern he does. A priest once a week. He may prove useful
sometime, so I play along. Ill get out a here someday, one way or another. I read a lotand
talk. So Ill tell ya my story.
When I was born we was living in a one room cabin in Alaska. My father built it. It was out
in the forestno neighbors around. Mother didnt like the loneliness. Whenever she got to
town, which warnt often, shed go to the library n borrow books, lots a books, s if she had
any time to read. But she got em anywayjust in case. I can remember her reading to me in
the evenin, the kerosene light flickerin, throwin big shadows on the walls. At first she read
books with lots a pictures. Shed point out a word, sound it out careful like; then Id say it.
Next night shed do the same thing, with the same book s if I hadnt learned it the first time.
Finally I got tired a that and started readin aloud by myself. Sometimes shed stop me and

32

correct what Id said. That made me mad. Sometimes Id just let her read cause I liked the
sound a her voice, but she was nervous, listening for any sound of father coming home. Shed
skip a word, maybe even a whole page, and that made me really mad.
Mother never understood theres a right way and a wrong way to do everythin. You know,
the potatoes on a plate, they go on the upper left. The vegetable on the upper right. The meat in
front: red meat, cooked a bit on both sides. You eat the potatoes first, then the vegetables. The
meat comes last, cause thats the best. But motherd mix everything together in a stew and fill
the whole plate. Fatherd get angry and beat her up, push her against a wall, pound her with his
fists til she slumped to the floor, whimperin and cryin, not even tryin to defend herself.
Fatherd never allow me to cry like that. A man dont cry.
I aint sure what happened to mother. Seem to member they had a really bad argument. I
covered my face with the covers and when it was silent I fell asleep. The next morning father
and me got in his truck and we drove all the way to the lower forty-eight, along with Fast Wolf.
Fast Wolf was my dog. We had a bitch with a litter a puppies when I was about five. Never
knew who fathered em, except there was this wolf kept hangin round the cabin bout the time
they was born. Then he disappeared. I kept the best a the litter and got rid a the rest. He was a
fast runnerreal fast. I liked ta run with m through the woods, but I couldnt keep up. Hed
stop n wait, then soon as I was almost up to m hed take off again. But the runninthat was
really somethin. Id feel the muscles, the sweat, the wind in my hair. My feet seemed like, you
know, just touchin the ground n they was in the air again. Like flyingthe air in and out of
the lungs, the exhaustion til you cant feel no more, then the quiet place with the body movin
by itself and the trees and the sun and you all one beatin heart, alive, joyous.

33

Fast Wolf loved to fight other dogs. They was civilized; he wasnt. Hed tear into their flesh,
lock his teeth on their throat, hang on til the blood filled his mouth. Then hed swallow,
drinkin in the power. Never walked away from a fight til the other dog was dead. His lust for
blood was raw, naked.
When we got down here to the lower forty-eight, we moved around a lot. Father sent me to
school, but I hated it. There was this one time, you know, when the teacher made us write a
story bout someone or somethin we really liked a lot. Id been readin a story bout a wolf, so I
thought Id write bout that. Then she called me up front a the class, handed me the paper, said
Id copied it out of a book. I told her I did not. She wouldnt believe me. Took me to the
principals office. He read it, said Id cheated. Sent me home with a note to father. But I swear,
I didnt cheat. I just member things.
So by the time I was a teenager Id got into drugs and run away from father. Stayed with a
friend in a little town out West, near the hills, you know. Me and him and another guy went over
to this friends house. Hed just got out of jail and was home alone. His mom and sister, they
went south on vacation, but he couldnt leave the state cause he was on probation. Well, we
was supposed to deliver some crack, but when we got there, he said he didnt have no money
right now. Id told him hed have to have the cash before there was any deal. Thats the way it
was always done. He said he had to have some crack now. Couldnt live without it. We seen his
mom had a lot a nice stuff in the house: big stereo, real nice TV. I was getting real mad. So I
told this guy we was takin it all, and if he didnt like it, he could shove it. I knocked him up
against the wall, hit him a couple times, but all he done was begin to cry. Said how mad his
momd be when she came home. I kicked him in the stomach a couple times, but he just curled

34

up like a baby and kept on crying. It was real bad. I couldnt take it no longer, so I got this idea:
wonder what it would be like to kill someone.
I told the others, Lets scare the hell out of this bastard. We put the stuff in the truck, tied
him up and threw him in the back, and drove up into the hills. By this time it was three in the
morning, something like that. The middle of March, but not much snow on the ground. A full
moon, though, nice and fresh and quiet goin up the road. We drove real slow sos not to make
any noise to wake the neighbors. We had plenty of time anyway.
When we stopped the truck, we pulled him out a the back and untied him. Didnt even try to
run away. Take off your clothes, I said. And you know, he did it. Stood there all cold and
naked. We thought it was funny, him jumping up and down trying to stay warm, like a Jumping
Jack. He was scared all right. We three, we joined hands in a circle round him and started
dancin and singin. At first he just stood there. Then he started singin too, his eyes bulgin. It
was lots a fun. So I took a poke at him, not too hard. And the other guys, they poked him too.
He tried to run toward the stream, but we tackled him and got him to the ground. The other guys
pinned his arms and legs and I took out my knife. First I just sort of scraped the skin, and he
started yelling, but of course there wasnt no one to hear him. Then I stuck it in his stomach and
pulled down. Lots a blood come out. You could see his guts sticking out too. The other guys,
they got scared and let go, but he didnt move. Just lay there groaning. So I cut him on the
throat and there was more blood. We got up and stood around, lookin at him. But you know, he
turned over and started to crawl away on his hands and knees. So I got this big rock and dropped
it on his head. That does it, I thought, and we went back to the truck. Waited around for a
while, then went back to take another look. You know, he was still alive. So we all got together
and dragged him into the creek til his head was under the water. Waited around a while longer,

35

but he didnt move. So we got into the truck and drove back to town. It sure took a long time
for him to die.
Course I took off for home, back to the cabin up in Alaska. But one of the other guys, he
couldnt keep his mouth shut. Went back to the high school and started braggin to his friends
about what hed done. Course none of the kids said nothin. A couple months later the body
was found in the creek. Finally the kids started blabberin and the cops picked him up. He said
it was all my fault. So one day I was alone in the cabin, and suddenly Im surrounded by all
these cops with guns.
Sure, we done it, I told em. I was kinda high at the time. Anyway, why shouldnt I be
proud a what we done.
But now I dont know what I feel about it all. It wasnt that much of a deal. I felt real
powerful at the time. I know that. But now I dont feel nothing. Guess I dont think it was
worth it.

36

My Brothers Keeper

How could I, a corporate lawyer, do such a thing? My brother John had come over to my house
in an alcoholic stupor, enraged that his own flesh and blood would refuse to loan him more money.
Aint got no right to treat me this way. His long, grey hair, normally tied up into a neat
ponytail, was now disheveled, matted with black, oily grease. He had been working on his old
pickup, again, and his tee shirt was filthy, torn by the grasping fingers of tie rods and transmission
bolts. The leather belt on his frazzled jeans strained to support a pregnant beer belly, and his work
boots were spotted with oil stains. He had not shaved for some days, and the spittle from his
slurred speech clung to his chin before dropping to the ground. Aint done nothin to deserve
this.
I was silent, too sick at heart to find the words to justify my decision. I had so admired my older
sibling when we were kids. The memory of our swimming together in the pond behind the old
farmhouse suddenly appeared like a phantom before my eyes, his long, sinewy arms cutting
smoothly through the water. Of course, I could never keep up with him.
In high school John was the big football hero with lots of girlfriends. Mom and Dad, they never
missed a game. Athletic scholarships to big universitiesthey poured in until the injury his last
game as a senior. The pain must have been unbearable, but he was a real manclenched teeth,

37

never a tear. No more sports though. It was John who got a new truck as a graduation present.
The gift on my big day? A book. Dad spent his life savings trying to set him up in one business
after another. He had the potential to be a genius as a salesman. Anyone could see that.
I walked him to his car. You go home now, John. Well talk later. He was not about to let it
go at that. He wanted an explanation and would not leave without it. Just look at you, I said. I
cant let you in looking like that. Its Judys graduation party, and the house is full of some of my
most important clients.
You and your high fallutin friends. Whats wrong wi workin, doin a mans job, not jus sittin
at some desk all day?
There was nothing wrong with it, if the job ever got finished. But John never did finish it. There
was always some part he needed, a trip into town necessary, then the obligatory stop at the bar to
see some friends before going to the auto parts store. Somehow the reason for the trip was
forgotten, and he would have to borrow five dollars for some food for the family, as he said. At
the grocery store he would buy another six-pack and head for home.
So ya got some money you can lend me? I got m family to take care of, jus like you. Thats a
mans job. Take care of his family, aint it?
Yes, it is. But as I said, theres no money, not now, never again. I was mortified, defensive.
John lashed out.
Jes like m wife. Always so smug. Think youre bettern me. Well, you aint. He tried to take
a swing at me but fell into my arms instead, then collapsed onto the ground and tears began to roll
down his cheeks. The Great Hero was weeping!
Stop crying! You know what Dad always said. A real man doesnt cry. Get hold of yourself.
My outburst only made things worse. He disintegrated into hopeless sobbing.

38

A surge of uncontrolled, limitless power possessed my body. I observed myself straddling him,
my fists striking his emaciated face, blow after blow. There was no resistance. His failure to fight
back only heightened my rage. How much blood would have to pour from his mouth, his ears, the
open wounds on his head, before I could stop? I watched with horrid detachment as my fists flayed
the creature on the ground.
Suddenly my strength was gone, the muscles weak with exhaustion, and I rose slowly as in a
dream to view the lifeless thing at my feet. I suppose Ill never know why I lost my temper. There
was no sense of remorse. I did what I had to do, what Dad would have done. No, what I keep
asking myself is why I couldnt stop, why I hit him over and over and over again.

39

Friendship

Not that I thought it would do any good. Yes, we had been friends for many years, but
friends do not try to tell one another what to do. So when they said I should at least try to do
something, the best I could do was simply to pay him a visit, listen to what he had to say, and see
if I could do any good.
When he opened the door, I could not help but be shocked at what I saw standing before me.
For years his fulsome light brown hair with its natural wave had been particularly attractive to
women. Now it was white, all white, butch-style, though it was obvious he had not been to a
barbershop for many months. The clear blue eyes which had revealed a depth of soul were now
dull, blood-shot, avoiding any perceptive gaze. The high, smooth cheekbones contrasted with
his unshaven jowls of hanging flesh. The broad, winsome smile had degenerated into flaccid lips
with a remnant of spittle. His well-worn tee shirt was covered with spots of grease, egg, the
remains of recent meals. He was a picture of human degradation I had hoped never to see, least
of all in a good and loyal friend with whom I had previously shared the secret longings of the
soul.
Come on up, he said, and I followed obediently but with some hesitation. It was a rundown hotel in the poorest section of town, obviously overlooked by health inspectors. His room

40

was on the third floor of what had once been a Victorian mansion whose elegance was still
manifest despite peeling paint and rooms partitioned into small enclaves. His space contained a
single bed, unmade and unwholesome, and a single wooden chair, unstable and insecure. He
motioned for me to sit on the bed as the more secure and sat delicately on the chair himself,
knowing well its idiosyncrasies.
Good to see you. Not many people come around these days. There was a wistful, even
tragic, tone in his voice which made me wince inside. Could I really not have come sooner,
more often, without an invitation? What had kept me so busy as to forget a friend who needed
me?
His eyes were downcast, as if he were seeing himself for the first time through the eyes of
another. There was no mirror over the broken sink in the corner. It had undoubtedly been years
since he had seen a reflection of his outer self. The dissolution of his inner soul he knew well
enough.
Well, its been some time, hasnt it? I said. I did not really know what to say. Small talk
for the sake of keeping up a conversation had always been forbidden between us. Nothing less
than perfect honesty would do. You look a mess.
I know, he said. There was something determined in his confession, as if he were facing
the truth for the first time in many years.
It must be hell, I said. There was no condemnation in my voice or any sweet consolation. I
was only stating a fact.
Yes, thats precisely what it is, as if he were just beginning to realize it. You know, I
thought hells supposed to be after youre deadfire and brimstone and all that. There was a
certain petulance in his voice, as if he had been the victim of a hoax.

41

Theres no hell other than the one we make for ourselves, I said slowly, with deliberation.
Make for ourselves, you say! The anger flashed in his eyes, and he looked straight at me. I
looked into his eyes without flinching.
Yes.
He was struck with silence. To say nothing in his defense would be to admit responsibility,
yet there was nothing to say. He had lived for so long in his own world, an inner world of
helpless turmoil, incessant anger, unresolved conflict, drowning his sorrow with alcohol until he
could no longer feel the pain. But I was his friend, his only friend, the one person to whom he
must speak the truth.
I need your help. The words seemed to form themselves softly, painfully. I don't think that
was what he had intended to say, certainly not what he wanted to say. But the words were
spoken, and he knew they were the truth. He rose from the chair, hesitating for a moment, then
sat beside me on the bed. I put my arm around his shoulder.
It was as if a dam inside had suddenly been breached. His proud determination to hold on, to
be his own man, had dissolved into tears, and he wept without constraint or shame, helpless and
totally vulnerable, without the defenses of manhood.
I need help. I need help. I cant go on.
Not this way, I murmured quietly and began to weep myself, for I had no answer to give,
only the pain we shared together. His convulsions of grief finally subsided, and at last there was
only silence.
Why dont you come home with me, I said. A good, hot shower. Ive got plenty of
clothes we could share. My wife will cook us a good meal, and weve got lots of empty rooms
now that the kids have moved out. Come on home with me. Well go on from there.

42

But I cant. Its too much.

What are friends for?
As he followed me down the stairs, I began to wonder what my wife would think, how much
she would tolerate. There was no way of knowing what would happen next, whether this was the
beginning of a true resurrection into a new life or a temporary change of heart. I knew one thing,
however: we would never feel sorry for him or try to make excuses for his behavior, nor would
we hesitate to throw him out of the house if he sought solace in alcohol. With us he would have
to face the truth about himself. He would have to discover those deep resources within himself
which could do what he could not do on his own. He had finally admitted that he needed help.
That was the first step. Actually relying on that help was up to him.

43

The Funeral

After a long drought the transparent pearls of gentle rain cling to the wizened brown oak
leaves before slowly reaching the edge and dropping into the abyss. A mist of clouds hangs over
the tops of the hills, grey and sweaty. They recline for a time before moving once more beyond
the trees in their race toward the south. A gust of wind shakes the pines on the hilltops. In the
canyon below the prairie grass maintains a silent vigil in anticipation of the killing frost which
must soon smother life in its cold embrace. A disciplined flock of wild turkeys struts across the
driveway, heads held high, then breaks ranks to peck and claw. Clothed in my ministerial robes I
get into the car and start the engine. The turkeys scurry into the tall grass, glistening in the
subdued light until they evaporate into the field.
As I pull out of the driveway the dank misery of my mission overwhelms me. It was
inevitable, of course, that the cancer which had spread though the spine of my good, dear friend
would wreak its havoc, but the pain! Was that really necessary? On my last visit to the hospital
I saw the retired colonel in the intensive care unit, a sight never to be forgotten. A rigid arm rose
into the air. His teeth were clenched with determination. It was the eyes, liquid blue, staring at
horror unimaginable that I cannot forget.
Its good to see you, my friend, I said.
44

It was a lie, of course, but what words could convey the truth of what I felt at that moment?
His eyes continued to stare straight aheadnot that he did not recognize my presence. The pain
had simply absorbed him in its extremity. There was no room for friendship, only the insistent
agony which embraced every atom of his body.
You know, Mark, youre the only friend Ive got left.
What a ridiculous thing to say. Here I was, thinking only of myself, of my own loss. But I
could not put myself in his place, listen, share his pain as we had so many times before.

He

turned to me for just a moment of recognition.

I love you, Mark.
Thats not something you say to another man; it just came out. His eyes became a rigid stare.
You need to rest. Ill be back. I turned around and left. Alone in the elevator I wept.
Mark was not a religious man. He had seen too much death. He once showed me an essay he
had written about his experiences as a commanding officer in Vietnam. Unlike most soldiers he
had learned to speak Vietnamese. He knew the enemy as human beings, even acquaintances.
Yet he had been responsible. He had given the orders. The enemy had to be killed. That was
his job. I knew how much he was torn apart inside, yet his writing was strangely objective,
lacking all feeling, almost like a newspaper account.
A soldier must not feel, only think clearly, strategize. Perhaps a soldier who has seen combat
can not be your friend. You know, he once said to my wife, I like your husband, but he likes
to preach too much. But then I could not be his comrade in arms, experiencing that intense rush
of adrenaline, that male bonding of men whose very lives depend upon the persons next to them,
since I had not myself been in combat.

45

Now as I drive toward town to preach at the funeral of my good friend, what can I say to his
caring children and grandchildren toward whom he has been so harsh and unforgiving? What can
I say about his loyal wife of fifty years whose descent into Alzheimers he could never accept?
He was too embarrassed by her behavior to allow us to visit them except on rare occasions.
When she died she was cremated; there was no memorial service. We did not hear of her death
until several weeks later.
I pray for guidance, some words of consolation, when a strange thing begins to happen, so
overwhelming that I pull over to the side of the road. In my mind I begin to picture Mark on his
hospital bed, so vividly that it is as if I am actually there. Then I am no longer looking at him; I
am Mark, lying in agony inexpressible. The suffering is beyond endurance; every muscle of my
body is pain.
Damn you, God. No more. I wont take more. My face is rigid with horror, my arm rising
into the air, finger pointing at the dark mist in utter defiance. By sheer force of will I do not
accept what is happening to meand suddenly all memory of the pain is gone. I have conquered.
But I feel a terrible loneliness. God is dead.
Shaken to the core I drive on to the funeral of my dear friend. I shall not mention his
incomprehensible suffering, both physical and psychological, or the dead men, women, children,
strewn beneath his feet. I shall certainly speak of his wonderful sense of humor, the roll of toilet
paper he surreptitiously placed in our bathroom that played the national anthem whenever the
paper was needed. I shall speak of his courage in speaking truth to his superior officers regarding
what was really going on in the field during the Vietnam War, a forthrightness that cost him his
career as a loyal and devoted servant of his countrys ideals. It will be a small affair, attended
only by the closest of his family and friends, but it will be a gathering of those who loved him.

46

Bad Boy

Next month Ill be five years old. Usually Moms got a nice present for me, like a pair of
short pants, even though we dont got a lot of money, and Dad, hes made a paddle outa wood
just for my birthdayone smack for every year. Course he doesnt hit very hard. Its more like
play, you know. But this year, well, I dont deserve no present and the paddle, it might hit pretty
hard. You see, I been a bad boy, I mean a really bad boy.
Its like this. I've got this really nice friend. Oh, I guess I should say I had this really nice
friend. Shes a girl a couple years older than me, somethin like a sister cept we never argue
like brothers and sisters usually do. To me shes more like, well, you know, that statue of Jesus
mother. You kneel down in front of her and ask real nice. Course youd never tell her what to
do. And when she tells you what to do, course you do it. Shes real pretty, with long, blonde
curls, somethin like hot dogsyou know what I meanand a big bow tied in back.
Dad told me once that I had a real sister, but its a secret we dont never talk about. She died
when she was one year old. Got sick and three days later she was gone. He says Moms never
been quite the same since. Never seen a picture of my sister. Guess they dont got one.
So Jo Jothats what I call heris like my big sister. We have lots of fun together. Its
pretty lonely at home with just me and Mom, and Dad at work all the time, so Jo Jo comes over

47

bout evry day. Sometimes we like to play house, but mostly we run around outside. Shes
always runnin this way and that, laughin and screamin and hidin sos I cant find her. You
know, I cant never run as fast as she does, but its not hard findin where shes hidin cause she
cant keep quiet very long and starts laughin again. We play mostly in the woods behind our
house. Shes just wild bout flowers, white flowers and blue flowers. She puts em in her hair or
weaves em into a crown and wears it on top of her head. But of course its always fallin off
cause she cant sit still very long. We got these secret places in the woods, you know, where we
sit under the tree while she tells these stories about fairies and elves shes read about. Shes real
smart, you know, and some books she can read all by herself without much help at all. Course
her Mom has read em to her a million times already. Anyway, theyre good stories and
sometimes when were in the woods shell point to somethin and say, See, theres a troll, right
over there! I pretend to see it too, but mostly I cant see em.
Well, this one day she didnt come over when she usually does, so I went out into the woods
to our secret place. She was lyin on the ground in her white dress, the one with the lace on the
sleeves, and there was this man sitting on top of her with his pants off and his little boy thing
well, you know, I didnt know it could get so big. He had one hand over her mouth cause she
was squirmin around and tryin to scream, but she wouldnt stop, so he had this knife and he hit
her. He just kept hittin her and hittin her til there was blood all over the place.
Then he seen me and jumps up and starts chasin me with his knife. Well, I tried to run fast as
I could, but I fell pretty quick and he grabbed hold a my arm. Said hed kill me if I ever told
anyone what I seen.
Then he tried to hit me with the knife right there, but there was so much blood on the hand he
was holdin me with that I slipped away and started runnin down the path out of the woods and

48

into the wheat field. There was somethin wrong with his leg so he couldnt run so fast, and
when I got into the field I hid in the tall grass and was real quiet. I was so scared. To tell the
truth I was so scared I pooed in my pants. I guess he didnt dare come out a the woods, so after
a long time bein real quiet I ran home.
Course when I got home I was a real mess. Mom took one look at me and then she started
yelling. She took off my pants and put em in the sink. Then she made me stand on a stool and
rubbed my face in the poo so Id never make a mess like that again. And I never have.
A few days later we went to the fu-ner-al. I guess thats what you call it. You know, they put
a big wooden box in the living room and then they put the person inside the box. This time it
was Jo Jo. She was so beautiful in her new white dress and her blonde curls done up just right.
There was lots of flowers around. I knowed she liked that cause she loved flowers so much. I
went up to the box and tried to talk to her, but she wouldnt say nothin. Didnt even move a bit.
Id never seen her like that before. I hope she isnt mad at me too. Well, I kept lookin around,
cause there was lots a people there. I thought that man might be there, keepin an eye on me to
make sure I didnt say nothin. But a course I didnt. Never have. Never will.
After a while we all followed along while they carried the box to the church. Then they put it
in a deep hole in the ground, and I had this feeling I would never see Jo Jo again.
So you see, I must a been a real bad boy, I mean really bad. I promise I wont never do
nothin bad again. I sure do miss Jo Jo.

49

Flesh Made Word

Today is the day to be writing. The rush of wind pirouetting over the snow, the miniature ice
crystals dancing and falling exhausted only to rise lethargically before their burial in the
deepening drifts, make travel unthinkable. It will be another day or two before the roads have
been plowed, the driveway cleared, the pathway to the outside world stabilized under the calm,
clear gaze of the sun. Today must be a time of inward contemplation, of travel into memories of
other places, other times. The pathway to the world of the imagination is straight and clear.
As I take the first step into the world of insubstantial images and vague uncertainties I am
seized by the specter of childhood fear. I am again the little boy with elephant ears sticking
straight out, the object of ridicule among my fellow pupils, made defenseless by innocent
sensitivity, isolated and alone. In my vision I am threatened by some awful, shadowy figure,
malicious, murderous. As I walk alone down a narrow path in the woods a man appears to the
rear. I begin to run, and he recedes into the background, only suddenly to reappear immediately
behind me. At last I reach the edge of the forest and run toward the light. The menace is gone.
It is a dream I have not thought about for many years. Now I try to imagine myself turning
around to face, even to embrace, my pursuer. I begin to remember. He is a man I saw as a very
young boy, bending over the body of a young girl whom he has just raped. His hollow eyes,
50

buried in sunken cheeks covered with a brown, scraggly beard, glare at me. He is frightful,
terrorizing with foul words and threats.
In my youth I awoke from my nightmare sweating profusely; this time he creates no fear. His
power is gone, for he is no longer a real man who might return to seek revenge, but a ghost of the
imagination, a memory of one long dead, a character in a story. His substance has now become
flesh embodied into words written by a man who had been a terrified little boy. In the light of
day he has become a character in a work of the imagination sentenced to iron words on a printed
page for his unspeakable deed. And I am gazing at the crystalline snow, embraced by its beauty,
transcending the past in the joy of living, here, now.

51

A Failure of Heart

It was not the right time to be asking such a question, but I found myself doing so anyway.
Why did you do it?
Her thin, blue lips, drawn with precise delicacy, rigid but also fragile, did not move. The dark
shadows surrounding her almond eyes revealed a failure of heart. She knew that any excessive
excitement might be the fatal fall into darkness. She had to contain herself within this emaciated
form with all the strength of will she possessed. As ill as she was, she radiated a kind of
transcendent beauty, a renewed innocence, a reminder that she had been an enchanting woman in
her youth who had seldom failed to get her way. There was a long silence, as if she had not even
heard my question.
I dont know. The lips moved, but there was no facial movement to betray her true
feelings. Why does anyone do what she does? Its a meaningless question, really. Things just
happen.
But you must have known how devastated he would be, how much you were the center of
his very existence. To be cut off so suddenly, a couple of lines written on a scrap of paper and
stuffed into an envelope. I was there when he opened it. I cant describe to you how . . . .

52

Then dont even try. It was over. He was a friendan acquaintancethats all. I had other
things to do. What do I know about how another person feels? There was the faintest sign of a
smile on her lips.
He was never himself after that, you know. Took to drinking a lot. Lost his job.
Oh, I didnt know. What a shame. The lips compressed into a circle, as if she were about to
kiss the dead body of a husband she had hated for years. He was such a good boy, so talented.
I was sure he would become the C.E.O. of some large company.
No, he died about five years ago. Cirrhosis of the liver. Never did marry.
Oh? The nonchalance of her reply was more than I could take.
Damn you. There must have been some reason for abandoning him.
I cant think of any. Can you?
What could I say? He had been my best friend, a gentle man in every sense of the word,
perhaps too sensitive, too open, too trusting.

No, he would never have been a C.E.O. of

anything, but perhaps a poetyesor a musician. We had spent many hours together listening
to classical music, going to concerts when a famous orchestra came to town. He would sit
entranced, the tears rolling down his cheeks, unable to speak or move, and afterwards we would
leave the concert hall in silence until he had regained his composure, reconnected with the
material world of the ridiculous and the mundane. That was before he met Loraine.
Perhaps it was her exceptional beauty that attracted him, her condescension to make him the
center of her attention, if only for a moment, which haunted him. If ever there had been a slave
to beauty, it was he. She became his goddess; her every whim was his command. He was in
love, obsessed by love. Not carnal desire. That was too physical to contain the ecstatic feelings

53

which he felt for her, too demeaning. Theirs was a communion of spirit, for him at least. The
poems he wrote at that time are still in my drawer at home, too sacred to be shown to others.
Did he ever read you any of the poetry he wrote about you?
Poetry? He wrote about me? What nonsense. I dont think I could have kept a straight face.
But then he was always off in his own little world. Talking about all these great things we would
be doing together, without ever asking what I wanted to do. Perhaps thats why I couldnt stand
to listen to him anymore.
And what did you want to do?
I? I wanted to be the queen of hearts, to be able to get any man I wanted. I had them all
groveling at my feet, doing anything I wanted them to dojewels, trips abroad, you name it. I
lived in a world of splendor and wealth. It was the realization of my wildest dreams.
And now?
Doctor says Ive got to be careful, very careful. But I know nothings going to happen. I
wont let it happen. So you can just go now. She looked straight into my eyes. I know what
youre thinking. Youre thinking, Who is this woman? Well, Ill tell you. She paused. The
expression on her face began to change dramatically. Her eyes widened in surprise as if some
dark knowledge were rising to the surface. She was staring straight ahead. The blood drained
completely from her face until it became as white as that of a china doll. Perhaps her heart had
surrendered and a vision of her entire life was passing before her eyes in an instant.
I was becoming truly alarmed. I should never have come in the first place. Are you all
right? I said. Should I call a doctor?
It seemed like an eternity before she spoke again, this time slowly, quite distinctly but with a
hollow tone. I dont know who I am!

54

A Beautiful Woman

The next morning I was in my car on the way to my old friend and mentor George. A
beautiful fall day, it was the kind you dream of during the heat of the summer when the parched
earth sweats until there is no moisture left. The trees were free to shiver lightly in the breeze, and
the chrysanthemums defied the coming onslaught of winter with their bright colors. The sun was
casting long shadows, but a wind from the south created sudden pools of warmth in the cool air. I
drove with the windows open, aware that by nightfall we might be surprised by the first heavy
frost.
George was not at home. Of course I should have called to say that I was coming, but
George was always home, puttering around the garden or fixing the broken hinge on the gate.
His wife had died a few months earlier, and he was not by nature a sociable person. He avoided
large gatherings, preferring the intimacy of good talk with a few friends with whom he could be
himself without a face to face the world. He could not have gone far, perhaps just down the road
to the nearest grocery store. I had time enough and decided to wait for his return.
I did not have long to wait. A figure on a bicycle appeared in the distance with a small dog
in front scouting out the terrain and occasionally stopping for his master to catch up. A heavy
bag of groceries in the bicycles basket made progress precarious, since from time to time an

55

object took flight, diving to the ground, requiring circling and retrieval. By the time he was close
enough to recognize me, George was already exhausted with frustration and barely able to utter a
cordial invitation to come in. His brown, tightly knit sweater had seen many years of wear; his
chino pants were frayed at the cuffs and too tight around the waist. His long grey hair splayed in
all directions out from under a cap worn to conceal a bald crown. Heavy eyebrows hovered over
two limpid blue eyes, and a white mustache cascaded over his upper lip.
Let me help you with the groceries, I said.
He said nothing, but held the bicycle steady until they were removed from the basket, then
walked painfully up the path to the porch, where he parked the instrument of his humiliation and
opened the door.
Cmon in.
Since there was no car in the driveway, it was apparent that something had happened. I said
nothing.
Damn car. Driving down the road yesterday it veered off to the right into the ditch. Good
thing I had my seatbelt on. Too much money to get it fixed, so they just hauled it away. He sat
down on his well-worn lounger, and the dog immediately jumped up on his lap, his customary
right as defender of his master.
I didnt know how to begin. I wasnt sure I should be bothering you right now. I was so sorry
to

hear . . . .
Dont say another word, he said softly, his heart overflowing with grief. He tried to smile,

but the tears appeared of their own volition and slowly stole down his cheekbones. The dog
began instinctively to lick his face. I put my arm around his shriveled shoulder and waited until
he could regain control.

56

Sit down, he said finally. Ill get some beer from the refrigerator.
We were halfway through our first glass before he broke the silence.
Well, whats up? You look like hell.
Ive got to tell you about this girl Sheila.
Go ahead, he said.

We met in The Olde Towne Restaurant. Every table was occupied; she was sitting alone, so I
said, Mind if I sit down?
I couldnt help but recognize how extraordinarily beautiful she was, though Im usually too
preoccupied with my own thoughts to pay much attention to girls. She appeared used to having
men stare at her. Rather relishes their attention, I thought. Shell be a good catch some day for
the man who is willing to pay the price.
Havent seen you around before. New in town? I said.
Visiting a friend for a few days. We were classmates in high school, and now shes moved
to this god -forsaken place with her new husband.
So youre not staying very long.
Not if I can help it.
What high school?
A little town in Wisconsin. Youve never heard of it.
No nonsense there, I thought. Her face was calm, collected, which only added to her charm.
Our conversation drifted on. It was her eyes, soft, enticing. I felt mesmerized as she listened to
every word. I was the center of her attention. You know how shy I am, but I found myself
revealing secrets I had never shared with another person. The noisy crowd, the waiters, the tables

57

disappeared; I was floating on an enchanted pond surrounded by pine trees and sunshine. When
I finally finished talking the other patrons had left; we were alone.
Well, guess we better get going. Hope to see you again before you leave. I hesitated. Could
I really be so bold as to ask? Will you be having lunch here tomorrow by any chance?
I might.
Perhaps Ill see you here tomorrow then.
Perhaps.
No, theres no reason why a beautiful woman like that should be interested in me. Shes just
being kind. But you know, I couldnt help myself.

The next day I found myself entering the

restaurant again, apprehensively. She was there, almost as if she was waiting for me. The waiter
was just bringing her food as I sat down.
Nice day, I said.
If you dont mind the rain.
It was a foolish remark. I should have said something more original, but I didnt have the
slightest clue how to be charming. So I just sat there, trying not to look at her face. The sly
smile on her lips disappeared just as I looked up. I tried again.
Your friend. Where does she live?

I might know her husband. At the Chamber of

Commerce where I work we come in contact with a lot of the men in town.
Shed just taken the first sip of clam chowder. My question went unanswered. I began to talk
about my plans for the future: finishing a degree in computer science, getting a job with G.E. or
some other large corporation. She listened intently.
Yes, no doubt about it, she said. In a few yearsa few short yearsyoull be a manager,
perhaps a dozen men under you, even more.

58

I was in heaven again. I picked up her check as well as my own, and we walked out of the
restaurant together. The next day she was not there. I knew I would never see her again.
I tried to forget her, but it was impossible. She was the right one for me; there would never be
another. But how to reach out to her. Id given her my card, but I knew only her first name. It
would have to be pure luck to meet her again. Then three months later I picked up the phone in
my office, and it was Sheila.
Im back in town for a few days. Thought you might like to take a walk in the park this
afternoon, say around one?
I was ecstatic.

This was surely itproof that she really did like me. How could I be so

lucky!
It was quarter past one before she finally arrived. She wore a cream-colored dress with
mauve flowers to accent her red haira goddess whose feet barely touched the ground. What
could I say to express my love for her? She smiled. I was utterly helpless.
Shall we walk down by the river? Its a bit cooler there, she said. I obeyed without saying
a word. This time we were mostly silent. I made a few feeble attempts to find some common
interest, but she had nothing to say, avoided any discussion of her personal life. Whenever I
turned to her to speak, she smiled expectantly, willing to be whatever I wanted her to be, say
whatever I wanted her to say. She was the perfect listener, and soon I was revealing all. She
understood.
Ive always really wanted to be an artist, but you cant earn a living that way, I said. See
the light dancing on the leaves of those quaking aspen right there.
She looked where I was pointing.

59

See how they tremble in all different directions. To be able to capture that movement, to
paint the tremulous breeze that surrounds them, gives them lifethat would be a real
accomplishment. I looked at her enchanted eyes. It was a moment Ill never forget.
After several sleepless nights I finally decided about midnight to take another walk through
the park, re-visioning in moonlight the intense moments of that memorable afternoon. I was
startled suddenly to see in front of me a figure in a cream-colored dress with flowers now grown
black under the stars. She was walking hand-in-hand with another woman, a touching sign of
affection for two former schoolmates. I was about to turn onto another path so as not to disturb
their privacy when they turned to one another and kissed in a long and passionate embrace.
No! No! The words were frozen in the air. The women turned toward me, Sheila
recognizing me immediately. She called out in her silvery voice.
Come on over. I want you to meet my good friend, Rose.
My legs began to move, for I could never disobey her command, but my body was a chaos of
emotion.
We were just talking about you. You see, were planning to go to New York together. Had
enough of small towns, suspicious neighbors. Wondered if I should say goodbye to you before
we left. I decided I wouldnt bother.
I was too overwhelmed to reply, but then I turned to Sheilas friend, Rose.
I thought you were married.
Never loved him anyway. Not the way I love Sheila. Men are such little boys.
Well, bye, said Sheila, and they walked away arm in arm, laughing.

Had there been another person there I mightve been able to maintain some control. But
there was no possibility of restraint. The waters of grief poured from my eyes, the heaving sobs
60

wrenched my body again and again. I was hysterical beyond hope. As soon as I gained some
semblance of control it would start all over again until I was utterly exhausted.
Last night was spent reliving over and over again the gruesome scene in all its clarity. I had
to talk to someone, George. I looked up to see his furrowed brow and soft, blue eyes staring
intently at his hands wrapped around an empty glass. The dog was now lying at his feet.
You know, he said, I must have been about ten years old. I used to go swimming in the
ocean with an older boy who lived next door. One day, after we had showered off, he took me to
his bedroom and we crawled under the sheets. I fell asleep, and when I woke up he had his arm
around me and I could feel something warm in my . . . . There was a moment of silence.
Well, that was my first sexual experience. I kept dreaming about it afterwards. I knew it was
dirty, but I couldnt help wishing it would happen again. Of course it never did, but it was a long
time before I could get interested in girls.
My sorrow turned into amazement. What was he trying to tell me?
Its not so unusual, he continued. Im told one out of every three children is sexually
molested, often enough by adults of the same sex. The consequences can be pretty devastating.
Who knows what this Sheila of yours has been through? He paused, deep in thought. Then he
continued. How well did you know this Sheila of yours?
I had to admit that I didnt know her at all. She never talked about herself. She only
listened.
But you were sure this was the woman you should spend the rest of your life with. No, what
you were experiencing had nothing to do with Sheila as a person. Yours was a spiritual, not an
erotic experience, but one that is a preparation for meeting the right woman. You were in love,
infatuated. That is quite different from actually loving someone.

61

I . . . I was so certain. How can I know when the right woman comes along?
He frowned and drew his head back, as if startled by my question. I cant answer that. I can
only speak from my own experience. My wife and I had been friends for a time but never
thought of a serious relationship. I simply accepted her for what she was, and she felt the same
way about me. Then one evening she became my goddess, and I became her god. Ours was a
spiritual love before it became an erotic one.
She was my goddess for fifty years. I couldnt think just about myself anymore. It was
always what we wanted to do. His voice began to choke, and for a moment he could not speak.
And thats what she still is. I cant touch her anymore, but I can feel her presence in my heart.
I can almost see her sitting in that chair next to you. Shes smiling and nodding her head. He
closed his eyes. So you agree, my love. Thats the way it was, wasnt it?

62

A Chalice of Daffodils

The daffodils were just coming into bloom, their frilled mouths open wide, gently absorbing
the misty rain; petals extended in an exuberance of color; long, thin stalks erect, waving in the
breeze. She loved daffodils, planted hundreds of them in the woods behind her house, along the
path inlaid with red brick that wandered toward the back of the house, even in pots that lined the
edges of the sheltered patio.
I sat alone, encompassed by a tear-shaped wicker swing, rocking slowly, absorbed by thought.
We had been friends in college, nothing more. I had not even known her last name before
receiving, unexpectedly, a Christmas card a few months earlier. Home from basic training in the
military before reporting for assignment and with nothing else to do, I had decided to look her
up. Why? I dont know.
To be quite honest, I was afraid of women. Yes, I had fallen madly in love with a girl who
turned out to be a lesbian. What a fool I made of myself, always at her beck and call, too much
of a nerd to think of imposing on her, too shy even to think of kissing her. In high school I was
the one who did the driving after the party while classmates were making out in the back seat.
So here I was, waiting on the patio for my friend who loved daffodils to bring out a glass of
iced tea and some cookies she had baked. The mist was evaporating, the veiled sun penetrating

63

more strongly through the clouds until its round orb broke through to reign in triumph over a
blue sky. In my loneliness I was possessed by a vague longing too secret to be expressed in
thought, too powerful to be admitted in words.
I hope theres not too much sugar in the tea. Im afraid the cookies got a bit burned on the
bottom. She was standing, tray in hand, a familiar face, a familiar voice. I felt as if I had been
on a long journey, a quest for something or someone unknown, yet beckoning, and now, for the
first time I had come home, really home.

I couldnt tell you what the tea tasted like, or the

cookies for that matter. After all, it was fifty years ago. We talked about our lives together at
college.
Remember the time I came over to the dorm to invite you to a dance? You were already in
bed. You were too tired to go, she said.
Oh, I guess I do remember, I said. Rather stupid of me, I guess, or at least not very
considerate.
But you had been studying so hard for the history test. I knew that. There was no sign of
condemnation or disappointment in her voice. She simply accepted me as I was, without thought
of reforming me. With her I could be myself. I was no longer afraid.
else we talked about.

I dont remember what

But I do remember that we watched the sun setting over the hills,

shrouding the daffodils in a cloak of darkness, and sat silently as the evening breeze wafted over
our heads and blew out the single candle on the table where we had finished our dinner.
Will you marry me, I said. It was the last thing in the world I had intended to say.
Yes, of course, you fool.
It was a sacred kiss, a commitment that was absolute. I was placing my soul in her hands, a
terrifying abandonment of all fear, a leap of faith into a chasm of ecstasy, or despair.

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My parents are gone for the weekend. Theres no one home. I think you had better go now,
she said.
I said nothing, too overwhelmed by emotion to speak. She thought I had something else in
mind.
Well, all right. She led me to her bedroom. I undressed in the adjoining bathroom. When I
came out she was lying naked on the bed.
I had never seen a naked woman before. As I approached the bed I found myself kneeling.
She was Woman, the goddess to be worshipped in the secret heart of every man, the chalice who
would contain my soul for the rest of my life. She could make a man out of me or destroy me,
but she has borne that sacred grail for fifty years, and I have become fearless.

65

An Honest Neighbor

Not that I was particularly surprised by the incessant, monotonous vibrations of the relic
which was his dearest possession. His passion for old cars was well known in the town. But the
vehicle also emitted the heavy smell of exhaust. It was with considerable reluctance, therefore,
that I had to accept his offer of a ride to town. It was a 1962 Ford truck which he had personally
repaired over the years, but he had never quite gotten around to painting the rusted fenders faded
into a dull grey. After his wife left him, the grease spots on his overalls had become increasingly
numerous, and he had grown a pepper-and-salt beard which attempted to conceal the red veins of
his cheeks. His alcoholic breath and bleary eyes gave one pause; our journey might not be
without incident, yet in the rural West of expansive skies and few houses there was nothing else I
could do. So I said Sure and eased into a seat covered with an old blanket bulging with broken
springs.
Goin any place special?
My car is out of gas.
Aint got no gas can inr?
No, I dont. Theyll have one at the station, Im sure.
Should always have a gas can in the car. Never know when youll need it.
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I know.
He knew I was from some big city in the East, unused to the vast distances of the western
plains. Dumb.
Drive ya back home when Ive picked up somethin . . . less you cn hitch another ride, a
course.
I would appreciate that very much. He knew he had me. Few cars drove out our way in a
days time.
Gonna get me a new truck54 Chevy. Gotta tow it home, a course, maybe next week, but
Ill have it runnin fine in a few days.
I'm sure it must be a beauty.
He turned to look at me and with a big smile said, Sure is. He swerved to the left and for a
time was driving on the wrong side of the road, but since there was no other traffic it made little
difference. He could see the look on my face and laughed. Before we reached the hill we were
on the right side again.
Heard ya wifes gonna have a baby. It was a small town. Everyone knew everyone elses
business.
Yes.
We had a youngn once. M wife n me. His voice was matter-of-fact, but there was a
puzzled look on his face as if he were trying to remember something too vague to recall. A
boy. Nice kid. Silence. Used to carrym on m shoulders all the time. When I was fixin
somethin, hed be askin me what I was doin. Even crawl under the car and watch, big-eyed
like. There was a longer silence, as if the fog were beginning to melt away and vivid photos
were forming in his mind. Then the wrinkles on his forehead formed over a clenched jaw.

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Whats he doing nowyour son, I mean?

What? Oh, he growed up.
I mean, what kind of job has he got?
Job? How should I know?
Well, is he married?
Dont know. Guess hes old nuf by now, aint he? The question was directed to himself,
not to me.
I thought I would give it one more try. Does he still live around here?
The truck lurched forward, and we began to speed downhill. I grabbed the door handle, ready
to take my chance at jumping out before we rolled into a ditch. Then we started to climb the
next hill, and the motor went dead before making it to the top. He got out of the truck, opened
the hood, and fiddled with some wires. I was hoping the thing would not start again, but it did.
Sonuvabitch. I thought he was referring to the truck. His bleary eyes glared straight ahead.
Ran away. Thats what he did. Stole th money ma was savin for a new TV and took off.
Course I never knowed bout the money til much later, one day when I needed likor bad and I
was slappin the old lady a little cause I thought she had some hidden somere. Nothin but a
common thief. Probably in jail. Cant stand them that steals.
By this time we were on the outskirts of town. We stopped at the first gas station.
Pick ya up in n hour. By the way, ya got ten bucks I cn borrow?
I guess so.
After three hours I was lucky enough to hitch a ride with a customer at the gas station who
was going in my direction. Its only a few miles out of my way, he said.

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Fear

Now that the arid time, the time of wizened leaves and fragile stems, was over we decided to
luxuriate in the late autumn freshness of misty rain. The clouds had descended to kiss the earth
with moist lips, and the dark soil responded with a fertile fragrance before the winter frost. We
walked along the rural dirt road in silence, certain that there would be no vehicles to intrude on
our reverie.
The approaching sound of a truck without muffler, the appearance of two eyes of light search
ing for direction, were not particularly welcome, but we obediently moved to the side of the road
and waited. The vehicle stopped, surprised that human life should search out such loneliness.
Two men stepped out, each with rifle in hand, and hesitated. The tall one with jeans tucked into
his military boots and dirty tee shirt barely covering the navel of his pregnant beer belly was the
first to speak.
Goin somewheres?
Just out for a walk.
Aint anyone supposd to be out here. This here is our land.
Sorry. We didnt mean to intrude. We recently moved into the house down the road a bit
and thought we would take a look around.
69

In the fog? His voice was low and defiant.

O.K. Well turn around and go back. Its getting a bit chilly anyway.
No, ya wont. Dont move. Joe, you keepm covered.
The short one with a sharp, bearded chin and sallow cheeks walked towards us slowly with a
slight limp; apparently a broken leg had never healed quite right. He scrutinized us carefully as
if he suspected we were the enemy but was not quite sure.
Where ya from?
I told youabout a mile down the road. We moved in . . . .
Ah mean, where ya really from?
We used to live in Chicago but . . . .
Just what ah thought. Aint got no right a be here.
I was wearing a zippered leather jacket I had bought abroad as well as a beret and leather
boots with shoelacesnot cowboy boots.
Stressed leather, good quality. Never seen colors like that fore. Whered ya get the
jacket?
In Lithuania. I taught there for a year and a half.
Wheres that?
In Eastern Europe. He looked puzzled. Used to be part of the Soviet Union, but . . . .
That was clearly a mistake. He raised his gun. A real Communist, thats what I was, a traitor
to the United States.
Just wha I thought. Knew you was comin. Jus didnt know when. Been trainin though,
evry weekend. Me and the boys is all ready.

70

There was a smile of triumph on his lips; his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Wheres ya
guns?
We dont own any guns. Never have and never will.
Its a trick, Joe. Theys just decoys. Theyre surroundin us. Get back in the truck! We gotta
get th rest o th boys. He jumped into the drivers side, turned the truck around and raced off.
We could hear a few shots being fired above the rattle of the vehicle, then silence. Twenty
minutes later we were home.
It was a few weeks after that, on a cloudless day when the sun was shrinking the newly fallen
snow into scattered patches, that a mechanical roar announced the imminent arrival of a truck on
our dirt road. It slowed down as if uncertain whether or not to stop, then revved up a couple of
times and plunged on toward town. In the evening it returned, full of drunken laughter, racing at
top speed. The next morning when I went down to the road to get our mail, the mailbox was
leaning sideways, smashed beyond repair. We decided to rent a box at the post office.
We had left Chicago because we were afraid of road rage. Now the fear was returning. If we
heard the sound of a vehicle approaching as we took our morning walk toward town, we stepped
behind some trees until it had gone by. If a truck passed by the house in the middle of the night
we were instantly awake. While at work in town I would get these sudden premonitions that
something was wrong, and if my wife failed to answer the phone I would rush home only to find
her working in the garden or taking a bath. We put locks on all the doors, and even installed an
alarm system.
All of our savings had been spent on our new home, not that it was really new. It had once
been a farmhouse, with a large vegetable garden and dilapidated chicken coop. The weathered

71

siding needed new paint, and the sharply slanting roof had a leak somewhere which we could
never find. But it was ours, and we were determined to keep it ours. We would not move again.
As a young man in military service I had learned how to fire a rifle, although my aim was
never very good. The day I came home with a gun, my wife said she would not have it in the
house. But its more for show than anything else. You know I would never shoot someone
unless it was absolutely necessary.
What if there are ten or a dozen of them? Remember, theyve been preparing for this for a
long time, or so they say.
Cant you see? Ive got to do something to defend you. Cant have you out here alone all
day. No telling what they might do. Weve got to have a gun and youve got to learn how to use
it.
No way.
The next day I returned the rifle to the dealer. That was something he had never seen before
but was quite willing to refund the money.
Something wrong with it? Im sure we can find one youll like.
No, not at all. I never should have bought it in the first place. We dont need a gun.
You dont? I left feeling that I had somehow lost my manhood.
A few weeks later we were awakened in the middle of the night. A carpet of shimmering stars
had been cast over the sky, so distant, and yet their light was enough to illuminate the darkness,
if ever so faintly, in spite of the absence of a moon. We could see shadows moving across the
yard in front of our house.
Probably cattle from the neighboring ranch, we thought.

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When the first lighted torches were thrown at the house we immediately called 911. The
chicken coop went up in flames. A few shots were fired; apparently some of the intruders
thought that they were coming from the house and did not dare come too close. By the time the
volunteer fire department arrived they were gone, and the main house was spared any damage.
We told our story to Officer Hansen.
Oh, the Branson gang. They dont mean any harm. Just a bunch o guys playin at bein
warriors. Well keep an eye on em, but theres no evidence here to pull em in.
By this time my wife was distraught with fear. The sergeants reassurances had not been very
comforting. I cant take it anymore, she said. Weve got to get out of here. Much as I hate to
say it, weve got to move. She was heart-broken. I had to do something.
During the night a chinook wind came through, and by morning the sun stood proudly in a
cloudless sky, warming the earth with its caresses as if it were already spring. Without saying a
word to my wife I climbed into the car and drove up to the Branson ranch. When I parked in the
driveway behind the old truck, I could see the rifles in the rack above the seat. Getting out, I
deliberately walked past the truck and stood in front of it while the tall militiaman came
lumbering up. He was alone.
What you doin here? Ya get off . . . .
Sorry. I didnt mean to intrude. Ill just take a minute. Seems there are some kids in the
neighborhood acting up a bit. They knocked down our mailbox a while ago, and last night they
set fire to our chicken coop. Sergeant Hansen says he thinks he knows who did it. Have you
been having any trouble?
Notz I know.

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Well, Sergeant Hansen says theyre really good kids at heart, and he doesnt want to see them
get into any real trouble. If you catch them doing anything up here, just give him a call and hell
take care of itscare the hell out of them, you know. You got any kids?
Couple younguns, thats all.
Well, you know what its like when they get to be teenagers. Never know what theyll get
into. We raised four of them ourselves.
Yeh? The silence was awkward.
Nice place youve got here. How long have you lived here?
Bin in th famly since m greatgranddaddy chased off the Indians.
You know, in communist countries the people couldnt own the land. If a Soviet general
decided he liked your house, you moved out and he moved in. Nothing you could do about it.
His eyes narrowed. There I was, talking about communism.
When we got to Lithuania it was still occupied by Russian soldiers, young boys with guns
walking up and down the streets, helicopters flying overhead every evening. A week earlier
some Russian tanks had taken over the radio stationjust ran over the people who stood in their
way. Thirty or more people killed. The Lithuanians were all scared, every one of them.
He began to listen.
But you know what? The leaders in the Lithuanian parliament called for help, and people
from all over the country rushed to the capital. By the time we got there every street leading to
the parliament building was blockaded with big chunks of concrete, steel girders, anything that
could stop the tanks from getting in. The square in front of the parliament building was flooded
with people, day after day, night after night. They didnt have any guns to defend themselves.
They just waitedand prayed.

74

I paused a moment. He looked confused.

When the Russian soldiers saw that the people were no longer afraid of their guns, they
didnt know what to do. Ten months later Lithuania was a free nation. After fifty years of
occupation they had finally got their freedom. It was a great experience to be there. No more
Russian soldiers on the streets.
He smiled in spite of himself. I bet.
You know, we take it all for granted, but were awfully lucky to be living in a free country
where you dont have to worry about someone chasing you off your own property, where the
land belongs to you and you know it will always belong to you. Its a great feeling, isnt it?
I turned toward my car. Well, next time you drive by our place why dont you stop in for a
bit? Weve always got some beer in the refrigerator.
From time to time we can hear the Branson truck a mile away coming down the road. The
muffler has never been fixed.

They wave to us when they drive by, but they have never stopped

in.

75

Alone in the Woods

A slowly swirling, magnificent kaleidoscope of luminous cloud formations illuminated by

the setting sun had given way to an impenetrable darkness on the lonely, wooded pathway. Had
I come prepared with a flashlight, even a box of matches, I might have been able to find my way.
But I was totally disoriented, unaware that I had been circling back to the same spot rather than
heading directly for the parking lot at the head of the trail. I was a suburbanite used to being
sheltered in a man-made structure of bricks and plasterboard surrounded by neatly manicured
lawns and architecturally planted bushes. The wilderness was a foreign land, chaotic, unplanned,
silent. Weary and exhausted, I sat down on a fallen log, uncushioned, uncomfortable, and
waited.
I was not used to waiting, except for the express train if it happened to be a minute or two
late. Busy doing somethingthat was the mantra of my existence. Even on vacation I had my
cell phone in my pocket at all times, in case I was needed. To be needed, to be the one who had
to make the decision, meant more to me than anything else. Time was money, money to give to
those I loved the life which they deserved. Nevertheless, the doctor said I had to have a rest, so
I deliberately left my cell phone at home, reluctantly, foolishly.

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My sauntering through the woods had not had its intended effect anyway. All I could do was
worry about what was going on at the office. A record was playing over and over again in my
head: the call I had neglected to make to an important client, the estimate I had made for the
latest bidwas it too high or too low? I had scarcely noticed the wild flowers with their
delicately purple, fluted petals and bright yellow stamen, let alone the cloud formations
overhead. Ensconced in my world of past and future, an unreal world of ephemeral existence, I
had neglected to see, to hear, to feel the real world so pregnant with beauty which surrounded
me.
Now I was immersed in darkness, an absence of light not only in the external world but in the
core of my being. I was alone, abandoned, of no use to anyone. A blanket of despair descended
over me, suffocating, as if life were ebbing from me. I was a skeleton of bones sitting on a log,
buried in the darkness.
There was nothing I could do but wait until dawn, the return of the light which would provide
a sense of direction, a movement toward the rising sun which would lead me to the paved road,
back again to civilization. In the meantime I was condemned to listen to absolute silence. At
home there was always some machine operating: a dishwasher, the furnace fan, at least a clock
ticking. The absence of sound was a chilling wind passing through my bones. I shivered, and
arising from the log lay down on the bare, hard ground as if to sleep.
Fearful faces began to appear before my closed eyes, unknown yet strangely familiar, as if
they had been closeted inside, waiting for the opportunity to reveal themselves. I was no longer
the thinking man in possession of myself; I was overwhelmed with feelings: of regret, of loss, of
loneliness and despair. They were sensations I did not realize had always been there, beneath the

77

thrashing and cajoling of public life. For the first time I was forced to confront the turbulent
storms beneath the facade of daily routine.
I could bear it no longer. My face felt contorted with agony, as if my body knew the truth of
my useless life. I discovered tears trickling over my cheeks, and my lungs filled with gasps of
air as I sobbed uncontrollably.
The record in my head had stopped turning. Thought had ceased to exist. I was standing
aside, observing what was happening but unable to comment on it, do anything about it. I was
overwhelmed by the convulsions of my body. It made no sense. The raging flood of feelings
washed over me again and again, speaking in a voice I could not understand.
In the darkness time ceased. It could have been minutes, or hours, that I lay thrashing on the
ground, the back of my hands pounding the soil, my legs curling up slowly, then suddenly
extending. Finally, the rage oozed out into a helpless exhaustion, and I lay quietly awaiting my
fate.
The figure I saw bending over me was there, yet it was not there. It was more a presence than
an object of flesh and bone. I wanted to speak, but my lips were frozen. The eyes were piercing,
but the smile was kind, gentle, full of compassionate understanding. No words were spoken; yet I
knew without a doubt that I was not alone. All fear had disappeared. In its place was a peace I
had not known before, could never have imagined before, except perhaps as an infant resting in
my fathers arms. The struggle was over. The incessant need to dominate and control had
exhausted itself. I was willing to let go, to listen. Curiousit was all so curious, so unexpected
yet so right. The face above me became radiant with light, for I had understood, and then it was
gone.

78

I must have been asleep, for the rays of the rising sun were already penetrating the forest
shadows as I sat up, then rose to my feet. Now I could perceive the direction in which to go. I
was beginning to feel my way, to know what was the next step to take but not what the final goal
might be, only that it would be something entirely unexpected. I knew, with absolute certainty,
that I was not alone, had never been alone, never would be alone.

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The Jogger

The wheat in the fields was ripe and drooping, ready to be threshed into grain and stubble.
The sun, hot and indifferent, gazed down. The pavement was vibrant with heat waves undulating
in the distance as cars raced into oblivion only to reappear in another form, this time confronting
the runner head on like raging bulls determined to cast him into the air before nonchalantly
brushing past.
It was five months ago that he had met the Lord. Yes, he had been a sinner possessed by all
the passions of animal nature, unaware of Gods hatred for the human flesh which He had
created. But by Gods grace he had been saved from that despicable life and was now one of the
saints striving for perfection, no longer a slave to the Devil, forgiven and washed clean. Yes, he
had sinned by overindulging in Big Macs and potato chips, but now he would lose thirty pounds
in thirty days. That would take him down to 250 pounds; the rest would be easy. It was all a
matter of determinationand faith.
Although others might criticize his efforts as contrary to nature, he was determined to forge
ahead as if flesh were made to penetrate through granite cliffs. Will power, that was what was
needed, the power to move mountains if one had the faith to do so. Faith was the ability to do

80

what nature could not do. Some might think such faith to be supreme arrogance, but he was
simply doing Gods will.
The heavy bags of fat rose and, fell rose and fell, as his feet pounded the gravel. But he
prayed continuously until he became spirit, unaware of flesh and pain.
Thank you, Lord . . . . Hallelujah . . . . Thank you, Lord.
He could not speak aloud, for his breathing was ponderous and exhausting, but he was spirit
communicating with Spirit, hovering above the material world. He was entering the kingdom
reserved for the saints, pure light uncontaminated by living cells. The sharp, angry pain in his
chest was scarcely noticed.

The grains of wheat in the field nodded their heads in the soft breeze, savoring the life the rich
earth had given them. Another body would enrich the soil, and new life would reach toward the
light, rooted in the darkness, joyous in its fecundity, faithful to its destiny, ignorant of sin.

81

Embracing the Unacceptable

I sit on the steps of my porch, devoid of hope. The air is still, as if waiting for the
unexpected to occur. The heat has been unbearable, over 100 degrees during the middle of the
day. The dog has retreated to his lair under the porch, refusing to bark at the occasional car on
the dirt road in front of the cabin. The tall prairie grass on the hillside, reminiscent of the amber
waves of grain slaughtered to provide room for immaculate lawns in the suburbs, is turning
prematurely purple with age, no longer erect but sapped of its strength by the lack of rain. Even
the oak leaves have turned brown and wizened, unable to breathe in the arid heat. A passing
vehicle leaves clouds of dust which settle on every living plant until all are clothed a deathly
pale.
I hold my head between thin, delicate fingers. Two months since I left Iraq. Still cant pull
myself together. Cant sleep at night. Its my buddy, best friend I ever had, closer than any
brother could ever be. Joined the National Guard together, but never thought wed really have to
fire a machine gun, let alone kill women and children. Collateral damage, they call it. How can I
ever forgive myself?
So the roadside bomb exploded. Ran over to pick him up after the blast. Real glad cause he
looked perfectly O.K., just knocked down. A concussion maybe, nothing more. Then I put my

82

hand behind his head so I could give him some water. Back of his head blown off. All I could
feel was blood, the soft tissues of his brain. Why him? Why not me?
Over the tops of the trees on the cliffs above the house clouds begin to appear, dark,
threatening. The dog, faithful as ever, reappears by my side, nose twitching, searching. In the
distance I can see the lightning shocking the earth with its touch. It is awesome in its beauty, the
lightning, destructive as well. My shoulders slump.
Doesnt make any sense. First were fighting to protect our country from weapons of mass
destruction. Then there are no WMDs. Next its to win freedom for the Iraqi people. Now
theyre killing one another right and left. Suicide bombers. Whos crazy enough to blow
himself up in order to kill his own people? Its the faces on the dead bodies. Arms blown off.
Dirt roads red with blood. Flies everywhere. The stench of death. The knowledge you can be
next any moment now. Officers yelling orders. Cant see where the enemy is.
A sudden clap of thunder, and I hit the earth. Im back in combat, alert, terrified, ready to kill.
The wind whips the trees back and forth. The target. Wheres the target. My god, no gun. Got
to have my gun. Another lightning blast, much closer this time. The sound rends the air.
Whos down? My buddy. Got to save my buddy! Dark. Everythings dark. Must be dead.
Im floating in the air. No body, just me. I feel the wind, wreaking havoc on the earth. I see
the lightning, splitting the oak tree, light and destruction at the same time. I am Job in the midst
of the whirlwind. I am the rain, the tears of God. My heart beats with pain and anguish
unbearable. The sorrow of the earth crushes me. Its beyond human endurance.
I am again a body, the rain pouring over my face, drenching my clothes. It is cool, washing
away the dirt and the blood. The earth swallows every drop, preparing to bring forth new life.

83

My dog licks my face. I look into his eyes and see love. I feel clean once more, no longer the
warrior. Perhaps I can become human again.

84

The True Believer

This sanctuary, its really impressivecavernous cathedral ceiling, arching beams of

laminated wood aged to a brown sheen. The pews are rigid rows of oak, unforgiving in their
orthodox purity. No living plants though, silk ficus which wont wilt with time. How I love this
place.

Its a home for immortal saints, an escape from the natural world with its wild

uncertainties. Here the mind rests in certainty, no sins of the flesh.

Its a weekday. Parishioners busy with their worldly activities. My stately edifice remains
empty, contemplating silence, immaculately soaring above the worlds sorrow and doubt. Even
the urgent energy of sunlight is filtered though stained glass windows.
Here I am, standing before the altar, a priest devoted to the life of the mind, disgusted by the
lust of the flesh, celibate, beyond reproach. Ill be a saint someday, like the statues whose stern
countenances remind them every Sunday of what they ought to be. I preach the infallible
doctrines of the Church, intoning the litanies with unwavering conviction. No doubt that I stand
on a firm foundation of faith. The unfaithful, they talk about evolution from apes, a womans
right to abortion. Such theories, theyll pass away; the truth of faith will prevail. The Churchs
authority is absolute, never questioned. A single seed of doubt, thats the work of Satan, the
crumbling of the edifice of faith. Ive seen it happen over and over again, even among devoted

85

followers. But I, Im the true believer, alone perhaps in a world of sinners but nevertheless
undaunted.
I stare at the cross. Im beginning to understand the impossibility of the Lords absolute
demands. Yes, Ive told my congregation: God never places upon a man a burden heavier than
he can bear; yet I cant take it any longer. The congregation, theyre not all against me. There
are the chosen few who understand. The others, they cant simply throw me out. The church
council wants a new priest. Its unthinkable. I have God on my side.
I know who my enemies are. Its those charismatic businessmen with all their money. They
may be the financial pillars of our church, but like the rich young man in the New Testament
theyll never make it through the eye of the needle. Such hypocrites, they should be cast out on
the streets, not I. Theyve gloried in their power over me, thinking Ill bow to their requests for
guitars and high fi systems, dancing in the aisles, waving hands, speaking in tongues. Ill not
have it. The demands of Gods love are absolute. Compromise with the latest fads is not an
option. Theyre undermining the doctrines of the true faith.
I kneel before the altar, face uplifted.
Lord, have I not always done Thy will as best I could? If Ive strayed from the pathway of
truth, show me my error. If Ive sinned against any man, make it plain to me. Tell me what I
must do. I see only darkness.
Waiting, listening, my eyelids become heavy. By the time I finally open my eyes, the sun has
ceased to illuminate the windows. The sanctuary is intensely dark, shrouded in indifferent
silence. What is Thy will, Lord?

I ask again but feel only the cold, stale oppression of

darkness in reply.

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St. Albans! The monastery of St. Albans! Why have I never thought of it before? Suddenly
my future is perfectly plain. Ill become a monk, live apart from this abominable world. Ill be
glad to embrace the vow of silence imposed by the monastic order.

Not have to preach. Not

have to listen to one more interminable recitation of guilt in the confessional. Ill rise above all
that. Live a life of pure contemplation. Its so obvious. Ill resign next Sunday.
My final sermon.

What shall I use as the text? Ah, Ive got it. Though I speak with the

tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I am nothing.

Lord.

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Thank you, Lord. Thank you,

A Difficult Friend

He was not always so uncompromising. In fact we laughed a great deal together, a kind of
open-hearted joy at being alive, the laughter of children. He never made jokes at the expense of
another person. The humor was rather a devilish enjoyment in doing or saying the totally
unexpected. I can remember one day, for example, when we were walking through a field of
corn, he picked one of the ripest ears and breaking it into two pieces, handed one to me.
But this field does not belong to us, I said.
What is grown in the earth cannot be owned. What is not owned cannot be paid for. Since
we have no money, we must give thanks that Mother Earth has presented us with this gift. And
he broke off another ear of corn.
He was a good friend in spite of his idiosyncrasies: scuffed leather boots with bootlaces too
long; socks that never matched one another; chino pants invariably spotted and at least one size
too large, so that he was always hiking them up with a belt. His plaid shirts, torn at the seams,
were faded with too much wear. Frayed collars hid under a mass of brown hair and untrimmed
beard.

His cap greasy leather soaked in sweat. Brown eyes glowed under their massive

eyebrows. Mouth tense with fiery exertion, every word demanding the utmost sincerity.

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Not an easy man to get to know, underneath the disheveled exterior he was a caring soul too
sensitive to reveal itself except to his closest friends and strangers in need. He had no thought
for what others might think of him.

It was enough that he was perfectly honest. Mere

acquaintances might be offended by his forthrightness. He had few friends, but those who knew
him well were profoundly touched by him.
He enjoyed being out in nature. Entering an ornate building he was ill at ease, often taciturn.
As a result he spent most of his time outdoors and slept in makeshift shelters, tents, even caves.
On occasion we would talk through the night if the conversation was particularly entrancing, for
he was a charismatic speaker. But for the most part I preferred the comfort of my own bed.
His parents had been sent out as missionaries to the poor in Chile. Raised in the midst of
poverty he could not adjust to the affluence of America. After General Pinochet rose to power,
the number of persons who mysteriously disappeared increased year by year. Even as a small
child he had been intolerant of anyone with power, especially those who thought themselves to
be better than others. The political situation had become too dangerous for the outspoken. As a
result his parents had sent him and his older brothers back to the states. His siblings all had good
jobs by now and were prepared to live the American dream.
But my friend had a dream of his own. He would get his teaching credentials and return to
Chile to open a school for the street children who had been abandoned by their parents because
there was not enough food to feed them. It was what he had to do. Personally, he would have
preferred not to return to Chile, especially while Pinochet was still in power. In fact he envied
his brothers who were able to live such a comfortable life.
So the day of his graduation there was a gathering of his closest friends. He talked about the
life he would be living in Chile. I couldnt really imagine what it would be like. He spoke of

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friendship, how we would never be parted from one another, as if he had already become a part
of me which I should not betray. Suddenly kneeling before us with a plastic dishpan filled with
water, he washed our feet. At first I thought that was something they did in the churches in
Chile, but then realized he was trying to say something that could not be put into words. It was
disconcerting. We would not see one another again, yet there was a common feeling that there
was no separation. When he left I tried to forget about him. But you know, I couldnt. Words
he had spoken kept coming back.
On several occasions I was offered a position in one of the African countries for a year or
two. At the time I felt I really ought to go, but you know, the political situation is often so
unstable over there, and it would have meant quite a cut in pay. The house would have to be
rented out to keep up with the mortgage payments, or sold outright. And my boss could not
absolutely guarantee that my job would be waiting for me when I returned. In the end I decided
that it would just be taking too much of a chance.
Last night I had this awful vision, so real that it could not have been just a dream. I was with
a group of men huddled in a plane flying over the ocean. They were speaking Spanish, so I had a
feeling we were somewhere in South America. There was a prisoner sitting next to me with his
hands tied behind his back. Someone opened the door and I began to push him toward it.
Suddenly I recognized my friend just as he was released into the howling wind.
Oh my God! I awoke in horror. What have I done?

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The Eternal Moment

A time of wonder, it was a time of peace. The sky was ornamented with thin wisps of clouds
on a pale blue garment as if she were preparing for the grand ball in the ice palace of the North.
The snow lay brittle on the ground, crunching underfoot and sparkling in the persistent rays of
the sun. The pine trees stood proudly erect as courtiers clothed in the frost of the previous night,
awaiting their orders to begin the grand procession. The air, still with expectation, was frigid yet
pregnant with motion. It was a painting on a grand scale, arresting a timeless moment in
memory before the magic spell broke and the ordinary work of the day began.
To enter the painting, to become a small figure in the corner beneath the shade of the trees,
was to become eternitya moment outside of time when I could see the unseen and feel beauty
as supremely awesome. A moment outside of myself as nothing more than a daub of color in an
immense universe. A moment to visualize the Buddhist truth of no-thing-ness.
In such a kingdom was the peace which passes understanding. The fears and chaos of the
body had disappeared, a disembodiment, and in its place was clear and certain understanding,
grasped only for a second, then lost again as too immense to contain within the human frame.
Yet the memory of eternity remains, if only in vague outline, as if it were an ethereal presence
who entices the mind with premonitions of what is to come, with knowledge of what is here and

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now, had we the vision to see it. It is an awesome memory of peace in the frigid morning when
the sky donned her radiant garment, the trees prepared to march over the sparkling snow, and all
things created were radiant with joy.

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The Storm

The swirling tempest gust upon gust, the incessant rapping of heavy raindrops swelling into
bullets of hailstones, the brooding darkness surrounding the tall pine trees flailing against one
another, all created a sense of foreboding as if some terrifying and unexpected catastrophe were
about to occur which was beyond human reason or control. The electricity had, as usual, expired
under the onslaught, so that the candelabrum of living candles was the sole source of light in the
darkened living room. The oppressive heat of the day was dissipating, but that was of little
comfort to our grandchildren huddled on the couch. We were in our reclining chairs, waiting in
the silence, breaking it occasionally to console and comfort the young as if we were not
ourselves possessed by fear. Never in our lives had we seen such a storm, and the rattling of the
windows did not assure us that we were securely protected from its violence.
Come. Sit in my lap, my wife said to our precious granddaughter.
Youd better sit over here, said I to our grandson. This chair is big enough for both of us,
as I squeezed my frail body to the side. Your mother will have to stay in town with Aunt
Matilda until this is over with.
This reminds me of my first trip to Europe, I continued. In those days we traveled by
ocean liner, five days if I remember correctly, and on the third day we were in the midst of a

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storm. The waves must have been thirty feet high or more. They towered over us as we watched
them through the windows of the elaborate dining room. I thought we would never make it
couldnt possibly make itbut of course we did. As threatening as nature might seem, were
still in control. I meant, of course, to be reassuring, but for children times past and thousands of
miles away mean nothing to the now of present terror.
Suddenly the branch of an oak tree came crashing through the plate glass window, spewing
glass splinters, and the wind in all its fury thrashed against us huddled in our chairs. A moment
later my wife was crouched on the floor over her granddaughter.
I had taken refuge in a corner of the room with my back to the storm and my arms around our
grandson. The children were too terrified to cry out, too startled to move. A whirlwind of
newspapers, plastic toys and murdered candles filled the darkened room as if madness had seized
the tranquil atmosphere, sucking the air from our lungs until we could scarcely breathe.
God, protect these children! The words repeated themselves over and over again in my
head, but I was not so certain that my wishes would be obeyed. My life-long assurance that God
had been watching over us, protecting us, that Gods will would prevail over the whims of
nature, was gone. I was helplessly terrified, scarcely able to think, unable to do anything. The
raging storm was bent upon destruction for its own sake. In the next moment or two we would
be the victims of a senseless, merciless Power, indifferent to the earthly existence of creatures
who assumed they were made in Gods image. My arms enfolded my grandson in love; my heart
awaited our fate in despair.
The wind died down, capricious as if it no longer cared, knowing its own power, like a man
picking a tick off his arm and crushing it until it became a spot of blood. Our daughter said it
was a miracle that we had survived. After the mess was cleaned up, I sprayed the room to get rid

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of the wasps which had swarmed in through the broken window. I felt no sympathy for them as
they writhed in agony and pain, but watched with curiosity and indifference to see how long it
would take before they finally died.

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The Christ Child

In our son Erics church was one of those amateur Christmas plays put on by local
congregations which I avoid at all costs. The church was Pentecostal, where they sing and dance
to the Lord, not exactly our cup of tea. But Erics name was on the program as special director
in charge of bulletins; we could not refuse his invitation.
Before the play began the pastors wife sat down next to my wife and me. We are so glad to
have Eric with us, she said. When hes not here, the service is just not the same. He sings and
dances with the abandon of an innocent child.

When he shouts with praise to the Lord, his

words speak directly to our hearts. We love him so much.

At the end of the play Eric was called up on the stage. You know, said the stage manager,
Eric has been to every rehearsal, even when I could not be there myself. On December 19th he
will be thirty-two years old. Please join me in singing happy birthday to Eric. Members of the
cast threw their arms around him, and he stood center stage as the entire congregation sang.
There were tears in my eyes.
For I was thinking back to the day when he was born. It had been a breech birth, long and
laborious, but after three daughters my wife had presented us with a son to bear the family name.
She wanted to call him Eric James, after his father. But soon after his birth the doctor came into
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the room. Ive called in a specialist, just to make sure. I believe your son is a Downs
Syndrome. He will never walk. He will never talk. I would recommend that you not take him
home but have him placed in the state institution. Two days later I was in the cold, dreary
building that might be the home for our son for the rest of his life.
For some families, they said, raising a handicapped child is too much of a burden,
especially if there are other children. We suggest, however, that if at all possible you should take
him home. That is what I wanted to hear. So the day before Christmas we brought Eric home.
The James was omitted from his birth certificate.
That evening, after the children had been put to bed, my wife and I sat before the Christmas
tree surrounded by presents, especially for the new-born child. The lights on the tree sparkled.
The ornaments cast memories of many a joyous Christmas past. But my wife was weeping,
filled with guilt and despair. I did not know how to comfort her. But my heart spoke, and the
words formed in my mouth.
We have been honored and blessed, my love. For we have been given a special child. He is
our Christ Child.

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The Child Molester

Especially in the moonlight, we could scarcely recognize the place. Although we had lived in
the house for ten years the atmosphere had changed. With its siding of grey rough-sawn cedar
boards, it had an ashen look, as if the dimly lit window on the second floor was hiding some
mystery of desolation. Even the tall white pines in front seemed to droop in despair, bearing a
burden of wet snow under scattered ominous clouds. This had once been our home, designed
and built by my own hand, but sold twenty years ago when we were forced to move away. It had
been a home of joy and sorrow, the birth of a son, the death of a revered teacher who spent her
last months with our family when she could no longer care for herself. For us it was a mansion
of memories constructed of dinner parties and saunas, New Years Eve celebrations and intimate
discussions. Now, as we drove past slowly, curiously, what had once been the structure of our
daily lives appeared withdrawn.

The current inhabitant had been abandoned some years ago by

his wife and children. The single light upstairs struggled against the darkness of isolation until it
was suddenly extinguished.
We had heard about the crime not long after our return. In a small town gossip has a life of
its own, embellished and transformed over the years but ready at a moments notice to be
recreated for anyone who had not already heard the story at least four or five times. The

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pedophiles return from the penitentiary a year ago caused a momentary sensation in the town.
No one would speak to him, and the parents of young children made sure that he would under no
circumstances come in contact with their child. There were a few calls to Ed, the local sheriff,
about suspicious movements around some of the homes in the neighborhood. Ed would pass by
in his police vehicle every night for a week or two, and finally the community turned its attention
to other matters, leaving the local parolee in peace, but not totally forgotten.
The child molesters parents lived across the street and were the owners of the house in
which he lived. Occasionally the miscreant was seen crossing the dirt road, presumably to eat
one good meal for the day, returning later with a small bag of groceries. Employment was out of
the question. Though trained as a teacher, no school board would hire a convicted pedophile.
Even in prison he had been attacked as monstrous and needed special protection. Though no
longer in a jail cell he was serving a life sentence without forgiveness. What had once been our
home was now surrounded by invisible concertina wire, sharp-edged, lacerating those few who
might have the temerity to renew friendship with the man inside. There were a few former high
school teammates who entered the precincts once, but not again. Even his brother, who had
become the local physician, did not dare to be seen with him.
We could not leave town without seeing our good friend John, whose daughter had been the
victim. His house was on the other side of town in a secluded, wooded area, a small but cozy
home of warmth and delicacy. He had taught art at the college for many years, nervous, highly
strung, but respected for the depth of his knowledge and commitment. When we stopped by for
an afternoon of coffee and reminiscence, his gracious reception was tinged with melancholy. He
was not the man we had known, nor ever would be again. We refrained from mentioning the

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event, but after one of those pauses in the conversation when angels are said to be passing by,
he suddenly confronted the subject.
I suppose youve heard what happened to Melissa not long after you left? I nodded
slightly. No words could express what I felt at that moment.
She was six at the time, and John John just a toddler, but he adored his sister. Used to follow
after her wherever she went. She was always picking him up, trying to hold him in her lap, even
as a new-born. I was scared to death she would drop him, but their motheryou remember
Joyshe never interfered. He smiled slightly, as if he relished returning to the time when it
was still possible to feel happiness. They had their secret hideout in the woods beyond the pond
where they would spend hours together imagining a fairy-tale world of beasties and light-haired
trolls. John John would come back all excited.
Big trollbehind tree. Melly talk to him. Come back with candy.
Trolls in the woods. Quite an imagination, dont you think? There was desperation in the
fathers voice, laughter to conceal the macabre agony. He had to repeat the story again in order
to convince himself that it had actually happened.
It was John John who found her in the woods, in their secret hiding place. He came running
up to the house on his little legs, falling, getting up again, screaming Mommy! Mommy! Melly
hurt! in a voice of terror, as if he had been threatened by some monstrous giant whose form was
running through the woods. When Joy reached her, she was bleeding badly from . . . .
John could not go on.

He stared in horror as if experiencing it again for the first time,

oblivious to the tears streaming down his cheeks.

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I cant forget Joys scream: NO! NO! He was lost in a black hole of sorrow and despair.
Gradually he became aware of my arm around his shoulder and looked up, unmanned, helpless.
His sobs gradually subsided.
After the trial . . . . His voice was monotone. After the trial, Joy became convinced that
nothing had happened. She could not understand why Melissa had changed so much. Not long
after that my dear wife died of pneumonia. Suppose its better that way. Melissa, after a difficult
childhood, moved away as soon as she was old enough to do so. I dont know where she is.
His eyes were vacant, his stare rigid. He seemed not to be aware of our presence, but
continued talking.
At the time my first reaction was that I wanted to murder that rapist. He paused for a
minute or two. Ive never been able to forgive myself that I didnt kill him.

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The Rapist

They call me a sex offender, as if sex was an offense. Last time they put me away they said
they was goin to cure me, but I dont believe em. Aint no cure. Cant change who I am. They
put me in this here therapy group, you know, where youre supposed to spill out your guts. But I
didnt have nothin to say. O.K., so I like little girlslittle boys too. All I want is for em to
love me a bit. I know they like it, even if they do fight against it sometimes. Like this last little
girl. Didnt mean to use the knife, but she started screaming, so I had to shut her up, and then I
couldnt stop. But I went back an hour later and she was sleepin so peaceful like, I knowed she
was just fine. A little bleedin dont hurt nobody. So I covered her with a blanket and left. Next
time I went back she was gone. Lots a police around though, so I thought Id better get out of
there real quick.
So they keep askin me why I do what I do. How should I know? I member first time I had
sex. Was just a youngun myself. Didnt have no friends to speak of. They was all kind of
scared of me. Thought I was weird or somethin, I guess. But this older guy, he was so kind and
gentle, the only one whod really listen to what I wanted to say. It just felt good being so close
to him, feeling him hug me that way.

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I wasnt used to being held tight, you know. Beatinthats what I got whenever I tried to do
anythin. Mom would get out the old paddle and give me a good thrashin. Said it was the best
thing for me. Make a man out of me. Damn, I hated her guts. Hows a man goin to be a man if
some woman is always tellin him what to do? Well, I aint ever goin to let no woman tell me
what to do. You got to push em around, hold em down, give em what they say they dont
want but you know they really want it. You got to keep em under your control or theyll get
loose and start bossin you around as if youre a little boy. Anyway, a woman likes a man who
knows what he wants and dont stop till he gets it. A real manthats what I am.
Now little girls, thats somethin else again. Theyre so sweet and innocent. Do whatever
you tell em to do, so long as you dont take no sass from em. I wish I could be so innocent
again, like a child in a mothers arms, you know. But you got to grow upfast. We all got to
grow up. Learn to defend ourselves. Little girls got to learn what lifes really like. They got no
right to remain so good and innocent like that. You got to teach em, and by God Im gonna
keep on doin it long as I live. I got to put em in their place fore they get too big to hold down.
Else theyll be like Mom. God, how I hated her!

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Heart Attack

There was no time to discuss who was going to tell his wife. The important thing was to get
hold of her as quickly as possible and to drive her to the hospital, since she was at home without
their car.
It had happened so unexpectedly. One moment her husband was his usual exuberant self,
entertaining us with some of his more lively tales of adventure on foreign soil; the next he was
unconscious on the floor. The ambulance had arrived within five minutes and was already taking
him to the regional hospital. Her phone was busyprobably one of those long talks about
nothing between her teenage daughter and a friend.
So I found myself in the car on the way to her home in the country, peering through the
malignant splotches of wet snow that spread like a cancerous growth over the windshield until
visibility was impossible despite the desperate efforts of flaying wipers. Half an hour later I
reached their driveway, my headlights illuminating a crumbling wall of sparkling white. Out of
the corner of my eye I could see their mailbox by the side of the road and knew it was time to
turn rightslowly, deliberately avoiding the tree on the left hand side, instinctively following
the curve until the light from the living room finally appeared like a ghost in the whirlwind. I
stepped out into the snow, at least a foot deep, and stumbled over a bush some five feet south of
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the driveway. I had driven past the front door and onto the lawn. With headlights off the
illumination from the house seemed faint and distant, but it provided a destination. I finally made
it to the doorway and rang the bell.
Mrs. ONeill had by this time been contacted. She came to the door in her overcoat and thick
woolen scarf. She was a short woman, less than five feet tall, deformed by osteoporosis, the
result of bearing eight children while struggling to make ends meet on her husbands meager
salary as a teacher. There were tears in her eyes but a determination in her walk. She said the
oldest of the daughters had been given instructions on preparing a meal for her younger siblings
and getting them to bed on time. The raging of the snowstorm meant nothing to her as she made
her way to the car. She had been watching for my headlights through the living room window
and knew precisely where the car was located. As I started the engine, she spoke in a soft voice.
Youll need to turn rather sharply to the right. Theres a tree about three feet directly ahead.
When youve got past that, youll be back on the driveway again.
Im still not sure how we made it to the hospital in such a blizzard. Looking straight ahead we
could see nothing, but if I edged too closely to the ditch by the side of the road, she would calmly
suggest I might better move to the left a little. The streetlights of the city delineated our path
more clearly, but I was not sure how best to reach the hospital.
Youll need to turn right about a hundred yards. Thats Larsen Street . . . . Good, now two
blocks and well be turning left . . . . Here we are.
You go on in while I park the car. Her door was opening as I spoke.
By the time I entered the hospital Mrs. ONeill was already by her husbands side in the
intensive care unit. Looking at them through the glass panel which excluded all but immediate
members of the family, I was struck by her transcendent calm as she sat by his bed holding his

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hand in hers. She would remain there, no matter how long it took, dozing off from time to time
during the night perhaps, but never leaving his side.

My thoughts wandered back to an evening not long ago when her husband and I were alone,
drowning our sorrows. He had had quite a bit to drink. That was not unusual. Alcohol was part
of his Irish heritage. After his first heart attack the doctor had warned him not to touch a drop
again.
I can see the sadness in Marys eyes, he said, every time I take a drink. But she never says
a word, never condemns me for it. Itll kill me some day. I know that. But Im not ready to
stop, not yet.
Why?
If Im to give up the booze Ill have to get help. Go to AA meetings. Confess I cant stop on
my own. Ill never do that.
What about your wife? Cant she help?
No! No! Shes the reason I get drunk. He did not know he was going to say that, did not
want to believe it, would not admit it was true. There was a long silence.
Ive loved her from the moment I first saw her. Never been another woman before or since.
We were both sophomores in college. After we got married, she quit school and went to work so
I could finish my degree. Always had a good meal on the stove when I got home. Didnt have
enough money for a TV, but then we didnt need it. Spent every moment we could together
that was enough. I felt like a king, on top of the world. Nothing could stop me.
He paused and filled his glass with whiskey. It was half gone before he spoke again.
Then the children started coming, and somehow I wasnt so important any more. Oh, I knew
she adored me, did everything she could for me, but I could not talk to her without one of the
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kids interrupting.

She was gone, totally absorbed in what little Tom was saying or kissing

Marys sore finger to make it well again. I once asked her which of the kids she loved the best.
What a strange question, she said. I don't know. I suppose its the one who needs me the
most.
Thats the problem, you see. She loves all of us. I know that. But Im no different from all
the rest. Shes there when I really need her, when I break down, when I just cant go on. But
then shes gone again. So I come home drunk every night, and she doesnt say a word. Shes
too good for me. I dont deserve her, should never have married her.
Later that evening when we finally stumbled into their living room she was sitting on the
couch, reading, waiting. She untied his shoes, put his arm around her shoulder, and practically
carried him up the stairs as if he were one of her children. I knew she would pray for him, her
heart filled with anguish, but she had little faith that he would ever change. She would never
cease loving him.

As I watched through the hospital window I realized that the blinding storm of conflicting
emotions in his heart would soon abate. His many friends quickly organized themselves. Some
brought meals to the ONeill household. Others made sure that the children were driven to
school in the morning and picked up later, or taken to the rehearsal for the school play. Mary
stayed at the hospital. Two days later he died without ever having regained consciousness.

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Free at Last

The leaves have fallen off most of the oak trees early this year due to the summer drought.
Among the pine trees, however, there are still patches of rust brown leaves vibrant in the mellow
rays of the sun. The limbs of broken branches lie strewn about like shards of pottery cast aside
by fierce autumn storms. In the shadow of the distant pines a flock of wild turkeys scurries like
arrows into the safety of darkness, while across the meadow does and fawns, illuminated by their
white tails, pause, then soar up and down on their spindly legs. The moist air is crystal, cold and
motionless, solidified on the surface of miniature ponds in the dirt road. The silence is absolute.
Even the hawks high in the sky fly in awe of the beauty surrounding them.
How good it is to be out of the house. Finally, free at last. No more shouting. No more
telling me what to do all the time. No more babies crying all night long.
I walk alone, self-absorbed, deep in thought. On occasion I escape from reveries and begin to
see without comment, to become the silence, to escape from self into beauty. But without
noticing the transition I am again self-consumed, too much a creature of thought, unused to
existing by simply feeling, as a child might do. It requires an effort to pay attention to the
demands of beauty.

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How foolish, I think, to be walking in such freedom yet chained to the past, fearful of the
future. This moment, here and now, is all that really exists, yet I cannot accept its simplicity, its
peace. To be and not to think: why should that be so difficult? Our lives are a story with a
beginning and an end, a plot filled with action, deeds done, goals left unaccomplished. But here
and now there is no time, only a feeling of wonder.
At this very moment two deer graze nearby among the fallen leaves, oblivious of human
concerns, sufficient in themselves. On occasion they raise their heads to gaze at me abstractly.
They are scarcely visible against the autumnal colors of the field, simply a part of the natural
world. They seem not to realize that if I had any bullets left in my rifle I would shoot them as
wellnot for any particular reason, you understandjust to see them die.

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Love in Christ

Whats that? Almost sounds like a woman screaming, I said to my wife.

Just a coyote.
Im not so sure.
It was a cold, dreary Sunday, the kind of day you stay inside next to the fire, reading a good
book.

But our teenage son was out roaming in the woods in back of our house with his new

rifle. Im not a hunter myself, but owning a gun is a rite of passage in rural South Dakota. When
he finally came into the house, I thought he would at least have a dead squirrel in hand.
Dad. Come on out. Got something to show you. Did you hear that strange sound a while
ago?
The tracks in the snow were made by some suspicious creature, not a deer, we were sure of
that. The prints were too small to be those of a mountain lion, though some were in the area
from time to time. No, they were more like those of a dog, a good size dog, not the kind that
cuddles in your lap. The tracks were clearly leading toward the place from which we had heard
the screams, those bloody screams of some beast under attack, wounded, fearing death. We
followed the trail into the depths of the forest.

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The womans body lay on a granite mound, a rigid altar rising out of the frozen earth. She
was young, most likely a student from the local college, her jeans ripped off, her face and neck
covered with blood where the dog had torn off a chunk of the flesh, her legs and thighs also
bloodied beyond recognition. The surrounding area was covered with deep-cleated boot prints,
signs of frenzied struggle, a mans belt, a bible with her name on the title page. Returning home,
we called 911, waited for the officers to arrive and led them to the site.
The killing ground was sectioned off by the police; several officers were on guard to assure
nothing would be disturbed. In a small town word spreads quickly, and within an hour a crowd
had gathered: the reporter from The Mountain News, another from the college newspaper, the
Dean of Students together with roommates concerned that she had not returned to the dorm. She
had always been in bed by ten oclock, studious, plain-looking, a good Christian.

Her

roommates recognized the silver cross hanging from a delicate chain around her neck.
The newspaper reported during the following days that she was a sophomore who had dropped
out of college two years ago at the end of her first year. According to the police report not much
was known about what she did, where she lived, since then. Now she had returned to college, an
independent woman, both parents dead, a sister in California whom she had not seen for many
months. Her sister explained she had once been quite the party girl when she first attended
college, alcoholand drugs. But that was all a thing of the past. Her roommates knew very
little about her and her friends in the Christian Fellowship on campus even less. All were
questioned by the police. Nothing of any significance. The autopsy revealed heroin, more than
traces, in her bloodstream; semen in her vagina. The dog that attacked her was probably a
Rottweiler. I thought it rather unseemly that such details would be released to the press, but the

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police were warning the public and desperate for leads. The first break in the case came when a
letter she had written was discovered in her physics textbook:

Dear Alan,
I dont know how I can live another day without seeing you again. Youre in my prayers
constantlyevery moment of the day.
I know we can conquer Satan. The Lord has made us free to rejoice in every moment. He
has the power, if only we believe in His word. The Lord has filled my heart with unbearable
love. He too has suffered and understands. The Lord will lift this burden from us if only we
submit to His will. In Christ our love will prevail over all else.
The Christian Fellowship is holding a retreat next weekend at Camp Friendship. Theyd be so
glad to see you. Its hard to reach you by phone, but Ill try again tonight. Please come.
Your most loving and obedient servant in Christ,
Sarah

According to The Mountain News, who printed the letter, the name and address on the
envelope were traced to a drug dealer recently released from jail. By the time the police arrived
he had disappeared. His dog was penned up. Hadnt been fed for some time. No water either.
The dried blood on its muzzle matched that of the victim. A warrant has been issued for his
arrest on charges of rape and murder.

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Betrayal

The first blotches of rain splayed over the windshield like liquid spiders. They were the
tears I was determined would not flow down my own cheeks. I was scheduled to give the
Beecham Lectures at Gotham College the next day, but had turned off the interstate at the wrong
exit and now found myself lost on a narrow country road. The blotches soon spread to cover the
entire windshield until I could scarcely see through the wall of water despite the desperate
thrashing of the wipers. Suddenly there were two circles of bright light directly in front of me. I
frantically swerved to the right. The eternity of a lifetime flashed before my eyes before I hit a
telephone pole. The next thing I remember was the voices of a family from a nearby farm whose
electricity had been knocked out.
Dont even try, Jeb. Look at the gas spreading out all over the place. This things going to
blow up any minute now.
But we cant leave him in there.
I must have passed out, for my next memory is standing in front of a ball of fire and a voice
saying, Better call an ambulance.

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At the hospital a thorough checkup revealed no physical damage other than a bloody gash on
my forehead. I called John Rogers, who was to be my host while at the college, and asked him
to pick me up.
John and I had been roommates in college, both majoring in literature, but it had been years
since we last met. He was a giant of a man, six foot five, 250 pounds, cheeks covered with
cobwebs of veins, bushy black eyebrows over pale blue eyes. When we arrived at his home my
rumpled grey suit, soaked with rain, looked as if it had been slept in for days. My shoes were
vaguely brown and squishy.
Sorry to impose on you this way, I said to his wife. Good of you to invite me.
Our pleasure, she said. Ill show you to your room. Youll join us for supper, wont you?
We were about to sit down but can easily wait a bit until you have a chance to freshen up.
At the dinner table I was silent as John described my accident to his wife. I was staring at my
plate, scarcely able to eat, let alone speak. John was trying his best to be considerate. By the
way, one of my graduate students had you as a professor. He said you were the greatest teacher
hed ever had. Changed his life. You were the reason he switched his major to literature. Says
you really cared. Spent hours with students going over their projects for independent studies,
asking prodding questions, encouraging them to think for themselves. You always had time.
Suddenly every muscle in my body contracted violently. I was on the floor, my glasses gone,
John and his wife looking down at me in disbelief.
Wed better take him to the doctor.
It was several days later that John returned home to find me sitting in the living room, reading
the The Christian Science Monitor. His wife had gone out shopping. He began with the usual
pleasantries about the weather. Finally he decided to be more forthright.

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Any word from the doctors yet? I hope its not something serious.
Post-traumatic stress disorder.
His brow furrowed. He decided to change the subject. Its a shame we had to cancel your
lectures.
Fraid I couldnt have given them anyway. All my papers were destroyed in the fire, even
my wallet, which I had put in the glove compartment for safe keeping.

Money, credit cards,

drivers licenseall gone.

But, dear friend, of course well lend you the money to get home when youre ready to
leave.
Thats the question, Im afraid. You see, Ive got no particular place to go right now. I
expect the university will fire me when I fail to show up for the final exams.
Staring at the floor, I was reluctant to go on. The doctors had warned me about the possible
consequences of talking too much about my traumas. Finally I lifted my shoulders with a
profound sigh.
Guess Ill have to tell you the whole story. It started about a year ago. I was in top form, in
great demand as a lecturer. Unfortunately, one of my students took too much of an interest in
me. A graduate student in her early twenties. Long, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. High
forehead of smooth baby skin. Her brown eyes were a bit too far apart, but one couldnt escape
the intensity of their gaze! A soul enraptured by learning. She was almost six feet tall,
unsuitable for most men. No good for basketballborn with a club foot. Her high school years
had been an agony of isolation. By the time I met her she was used to loneliness. I rose from
my chair and walked to the window in an attempt to control my agitation.
We can talk about it later, he said.

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No, thats all right. A moment later I turned to face him. Cant say how it got started.
She was always coming to the office with a question about the reading, trying to find a topic for
a paper, something or other. She never gave the come-on. I just thought of her as another
student. Couldnt even remember her name to begin with. Second semester I had her in three
courses. She sat in the front row. Asked a lot of questions. The other students didnt like her
very much. Thought she was just trying to show off, but they were good questions, thoughtful,
maybe not expressed very clearly, yet I knew what she was getting at. She was a B student, but
she was trying. Could repeat everything Id said on an exam but could never write down
opinions of her own. You know the type.
Yes, I know the type all right, he said.
I hesitated for some time. The memories were too painful to recall, perplexing,
incomprehensible.
One day she came into my office in tears, holding her latest term paper which I had just
handed back. She was upset because I had never given her an A-, at best a B+. I tried to explain
to her that excellence was reserved for those who did some original thinking, went beyond what I
had said in class and applied the ideas to their own experience.
It felt good talking shop with an old friend who would understand.
You know, thats the paradox of teaching. How do you get another person to think for
herself? If you try to tell her what to do, youve defeated your own purpose. Shell simply
follow your instructions. Its like these self-help books, Ten Steps to Creative Thinking. No one
gets ideas of his own by going by the book.
So what did you do?

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I told her she had to forget about what she thought I wanted. She had to discover what she
really felt. In other words, she had to write from the heart.
By this time I was pacing back and forth. A darkness seemed to be closing in.
And her response?
She didnt understand a word of what I was saying. Just kept doing whatever she thought I
was telling her to do, and never got more than a B+. In courses where she took multiple choice
exams she was an A student. So she was determined to get top grades in my classes too, and
thats when the trouble started.
For a moment I stared straight ahead. Although perfectly aware of what was going on, I was
in a catatonic state. I could not speak nor move a muscle in my body, a frozen statue of
apprehension. Just as suddenly I was again myself.
It was toward the end of the spring semester when she brought in a first draft of the major
paper in the course. That, together with the final exam, would pretty much determine the final
grade, and she wanted to make sure that it reached my standards of excellence. A storm of
confusion swept through my mind. I paused, reluctant to continue.
She had with her a friend who sat out in the hallway and waited. The door to the office was
open, a precaution Ive always taken. Standing in front of my desk she asked me to read her
paper and make comments. I got up, walked to her side and began reading, since she would not
let go of it. She was obviously agitated, so I put my hand on her shoulder to try to calm her
down.
I could feel my eyelids twitch convulsively, but I was determined to continue on.
You dont know how much this means to me, she said. Ive never done this bad in any
of my classes. Ill do anything you sayanythingto get an A in your course.

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From what Id read so far I could see the paper was simply one quotation after another
without any comment or interpretation on her part. Shed obviously done a lot of research, and
the writing itself was good, but it just didnt have it. I started to explain as delicately as I could
when suddenly I felt a tug on the zipper of my pants. Ill do anything, she said.
It was like reliving one of those nightmares when your feet wont move. I forced myself to
continue.
I was too flustered to know what to do. Guess I said something about her leaving the paper
with me and Id talk to her about it later. Had to leave to go to a department meeting. All I
remember is rushing out of the office.
John stared in disbelief. That was the end of it, I hope.
I sat down, my head held despondently between my hands. Not at all. It was only the
beginning. When I returned her paper with a B+ on it she came into my office and accused me
of trying to molest her sexually. Said her friend had heard everything and would back up her
story. Shed already contacted a lawyer who would take the case. But of course, nothing would
happen if she got the grade she deserved.
The anguish was still unbearable, the sense of betrayal after having done everything possible
to help her.
Did you change her grade?
I sighed, my chest rising, catching for a moment, then contracting slowly.
No, I couldnt do that. Maybe I was wrong. She had been getting top grades from many
other professors. But I wouldnt be blackmailed.
So?

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Trying to collect myself, I spoke in measured tones of exhaustion. First, she called my wife.
Said I had molested her and she had witnesses. Was going to file a lawsuit. Well, you can
imagine what happened when I got home that evening. I didnt have a chance. How do you
prove you didnt do anything? My wife had lately been having suspicions regarding the adoring
co-eds surrounding me. The other faculty wives wouldnt trust any man to tell the truth, not
about something like that.
By this time I was on the verge of tears. Another betrayal, worse than the first. I had no
idea what to say. You dont know what it is like to trust a woman with every little secret, every
open wound of childhood, every fear and terror of the heart, to weep in her arms, to need her so
desperately, only to have her believe the word of a total stranger, not even questioning whether
the student might be lying. I cant go back. I simply cant. Did she never really know me? Did
she not know how I worshipped her in my heart? How could I ever betray our sacred trust?
John put his hand on my shoulder. The tears began to flow. It took some time to pull myself
together. I continued in the monotonous tones of self-restraint.
Rather than subject my family to notoriety, I decided to do everything possible to avoid
scandal. Even if I fought the charges in court and won, there would still be doubts in the minds
of friends, colleagues, students, administrators. If I lost, no more teaching. So I left on my desk
the final grades based on what the students have done so far. Theres no going back. My wife
will never believe a word I say now.
A week later John called me to the phone. It was my wife. I simply could not talk to her, not
yet. When he hung up the phone, he turned to me, face somber, eyes lowered.

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Its your daughter. Shes been in an accident. He hesitated before continuing. She needs
you right now. Shell never understand why youre not there by her side. You mustnt betray
her.
I was about to say something, but no words formed the air. I was again in a catatonic state,
unable to move, incapable of willing motion. Only my eyes could speak the anguish of my heart.
Finally my arm began to move slowly and gradually I turned to lie down on the sofa. John
placed one of my Valium pills on my tongue, and soon I was in deep sleep.
When they came down for breakfast the next morning I had already gathered my few
belongings and was waiting for a lift to the Greyhound bus station.
Youre right, I said. My child needs me. Ive been so obsessed with whats been going
on in my own life. But above all else, whats best for her is whats most important right now.
The rest will have to take care of itself.
A month before the beginning of the new semester a position in literature suddenly opened up
at Gotham College. John phoned immediately.
Ive been appointed to the search committee. Ill do what I can for you, he said.
At the first faculty meeting of the year I was introduced as a new member of the faculty.
Subsequently John invited me and my family over for dinnerto welcome us. No mention was
ever made of the time spent in their home. Since our new house was only a short distance from
the campus, I usually arranged for my small seminars to meet there. That way my wife was able
to join in on the discussions while serving coffee and cookies, or with the graduate students a
glass of sherry. She could see for herself my relationship with my students. The only complaint
from the students was that they could so seldom find me in my office.

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Why Go to College?

With high hopes I arrived at McPherson College to assume my new duties. Although small,
the college had a reputation for excellence in teaching and high academic standards. I was
pleased, though not surprised, to be chosen as the new Dean of Students, given the dismal record
of previous deans who had come and gone on a more or less yearly basis.
I knew from past experience that I was at least decisive and had the ability to make changes
and get things done. In the eyes of the Board of Trustees there were many things that needed
doing, not the least of which was to increase the enrollment so they could meet the payroll and
perhaps even give the faculty a modest raise. A loss of fifty percent of the freshman class during
the last several years had been attributed in part to the actions of former Deans of Students. In
fact there were probably many other contributing factors, such as the lack of a new physical
activities building. Education is a business, and the college was falling behind its competitors in
luring high school graduates who were used to the amenities of entertainment, not rigorous
academic challenges.
Of course by the time of my arrival most arrangements for the social activities of the fall
semester had already been made, so I was locked into a system with very little room to craft my
job to my own liking. Perhaps that accounted for much of the frustration. But it was also
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obvious that my office had long ago taken on a life of its own, like a toy soldier with a
removable head who marched to his own tune. It was my secretary who had accomplished most
of the work while her vagrant bosses came up with new ideas only partially implemented before
their abrupt departure. Understandably, I took out my frustrations on her, a highly efficient old
bitch, who left my office in tears on several occasions.
At first I expected her to resign on the spot, but later I realized she had been a permanent
fixture, highly regarded by students and staff alike, not easily removed. Underneath her usually
calm exterior I had the feeling there was a rabid determination not to allow any mere man to
interfere with the labor which she loved so much.
The freshman girls were another source of frustration. They wanted to start up a womans
basketball team, of all things. One in particular had been a rather outstanding player in her high
school and thought such a team was just the thing by which to demonstrate her skills on the
court. I dismissed the idea out of hand. It was my job to determine how students ought to be
entertained, and I would brook no interference, especially by a young girl less than half my age.
Except that she happened to be the granddaughter of a member of the Board of Trustees, who
had been delighted by her initiative and was even ready to raise the money for team uniforms in
the schools colors. When she came to him in tears, his sympathetic heart was transformed into
righteous indignation. His granddaughter knew that he could not stand firm against feminine
helplessness.
The President made quite clear to me that at the meeting of the Board of Trustees her
grandfather had spoken up:

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I understand that some of the women want to start up a basketball team, but your
administration is against the idea. Might that not be illegalequal opportunity and all that, you
know?
The college president had been blindsided; it was precisely the kind of situation he had tried
to avoid at all costs. First of all, he knew nothing whatsoever about any womans basketball
team since he was primarily occupied with raising money for the college and left the day to day
operations entirely to his administrative deans. Secondly, he did everything possible to conceal
his ignorance by making sure that all information concerning college affairs was reported to the
board only by himself. He was taken aback, therefore, that any member of the board should have
spies on the campus. Thirdly, the mention of a possible lawsuit always riveted the attention of
the members of the board.
The President replied that there had been some misunderstanding, that the administration was
by no means against womens basketball, but that there were certain financial considerations
which had to be taken into account before a final decision was made. He would report back to
them on this matter at the next meeting.
Our next get-together, which occurred in his office immediately after the departure of the
Board of Trustees, was not a very pleasant one.
What the hell is this about a womans basketball team?
I was of course enraged; that a student should go behind my back and speak directly to the
board without going through the chain of command was unconscionable. But since it was the
harebrained idea of only one student, and a female freshman at that, I thought I could contain the
disease before it spread. I smiled self-confidently.

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Oh, of course I thought it was a good idea to begin with, but then I began to realize just how
much it would cost the college to institute a new program. New uniforms. A coach would have
to be hired. The gym is already fully booked in the afternoon. Theyd have to practice before
classes in the morning. Though I had never really given it a second thought, as an efficient
administrator I was able intuitively to find reasons for not doing something. So I let the matter
drop. Didnt think it was important enough to bother you.
What about equal rights for women? If weve got a mens team, arent we supposed to have
a womans team as well?
I suppose that means were supposed to have a womans football team, too. There was an
awkward silence. I'll work up an estimate of the cost of starting such a program. Thats the
end of that, I thought.
So the financial repercussions of the program were duly reported to the Board of Trustees at
their next meeting. The President allowed the figures to speak for themselves. But that was not
the end of it. He failed to reckon with the dreams of youth which are oblivious to such financial
constraints. Perhaps the young girls had not learned much of Homer and Dante, of Werner
Heisenberg or the intricacies of calculus in high school, but they had seen many basketball
gamesthe cheering crowds, the adulation of the players, the exhilaration of winning with the
last shot before the bell. I had graduated from an Ivy League college, which in my day was an
all-male institution. As something of a football hero, I well remembered the parties after the
games, the adulation of the girls who had come from the womens colleges.
But these girls were not about to concede to us men all of the glory. Share and share alike
that was the new mantra for the age. When a female flock burst into my office, sat on the chairs,

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floor, even desktops and refused to move until a commitment was made to womens sports, I was
flabbergasted. Such behavior was beyond redemption.
Now on a one-to-one basis I had no difficulty in handling women, having learned many tricks
of persuasion and domination to break a womans determination. But confronted with them en
masse I was helpless. Physical force was out of the question, and their diatribe did not allow for
reasonable argument. In the end I simply insisted (as was actually the truth) that I did not have
the authority on such matters and would have to discuss the issue with the President of the
college, who was at the moment in New York on a fund-raising tour. The women dispersed, but
the articles in the newspapers the next day were decidedly inflammatory, and my No comment
did not particularly help matters. Nevertheless, I was confident that the whole matter would
soon die down as the co-eds prepared for the up-coming Valentines Day Dance which I was
meticulously organizing.
The President of the college was not pleased to discover the college imbroglio on the front
pages of all the local newspapers. Bad publicity was the last thing in the world that he wanted;
he had already received several calls from members of the Board of Trustees. He had also
consulted with the colleges lawyer and was informed that we did indeed have the freedom not to
institute a sports program for the women, but we would as a consequence lose all federal
funding. As a small private college the federal funds did not constitute a large portion of our
income, but any loss would have to be made up in some way.
I, on the other hand, was determined to stand on principle. I could see the headlines: SMALL
COLLEGE DEFIES FEDERAL INTERVENTION. That would certainly appeal to a number of
the more conservative, and extremely wealthy, donors. For a moment I was enthralled. I had
never quite understood why colleges should be co-ed in the first place, and it was certainly

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beyond reason that a bunch of sweaty females with hair in disarray should ever be attractive to
men. It was imperative to put a stop to this latest outrage of feminine equality, for the sake of the
women themselves if for no other reason.
But the President needed to recruit women as well as men to keep up the enrollment figures,
and something had to be done soon to counteract the bad publicity. Would a sports program
actually be a reasonable investment? Where would we get the money?

It was all coming at

such a bad time, when the President had finally convinced the Board of Trustees to invest half a
million dollars to upgrade the Presidents House as a suitable place to entertain distinguished
guests of the college. In the midst of the tumult my secretary came up with a suggestion.
Im sure youve already considered the number of widows out there with more money than
they know how to spend. Rather than emphasizing post mortem endowments, perhaps some of
them would like to see their money in action while still alive. Im sure the female athletes
would be willing to show their appreciation for any contributions; women are more thoughtful
that way. And the President might even be able to persuade someone to build a new athletic
building dedicated as a permanent memorial to her name.
When I presented my idea to the President he immediately thought of several old hags he had
been courting for years who had become far too independent, too caught up in womens rights, in
their old age. That might be just the angle he needed to relieve them of some of their bonds and
securities.
There was, however, one more problem to take into consideration. We would need to
increase the size of the Physical Education Department by hiring new faculty to coach womens
sports. That would mean necessarily a cutback in other departments. Fortunately, in order to
accommodate such changes the college had instituted a renewable tenure program, a five-year

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contract for faculty members which could be renewed or cancelled depending upon the
circumstances at the time. The President and I had in mind a man in the English Department
whose renewal was just now under consideration; he would be a good candidate for removal.
Mr. Johnson had been at the college for nineteen years, a bachelor and something of an
eccentric with his long beard and sandals even in winter. He had often organized poetry readings
and workshops by some of the more renowned contemporary poets, a tradition started at the
college in the 1930s. He taught a Great Books course in which, over a period of two years, the
major classic writers were thoroughly covered from Homer and the Greek philosophers to
Dostoevsky and Charles Darwin. But there were seldom more than fifteen in the course. Over a
period of time he had developed a small contingent of faithful students and alumni for whom his
class was the highlight of their collegiate career. I had talked to several of them during
Homecoming Week. They spoke of their college years as a period of profound transformation:
coming into contact with the most brilliant minds of all time. But Mr. Johnsons students had
not been particularly successful. They had become teachers, social workers, some even manual
laborers; perhaps interesting to talk to, dedicated to serving others, original in their thinking, but
seldom wealthy. Parents expect their children to be well paid after graduation.
So at the next meeting of the Board of Trustees a comprehensive plan for a new program in
womens sports was presented, together with the reasons for denying renewal of tenure for Mr.
Johnson.

There proved to be considerable financial support for the athletic program from

hitherto untapped sources, much to the satisfaction of the college President and the Board of
Trustees. But for some reason in the ensuing year the most talented high school graduates chose
another college to attend. It was a phenomenon neither the President nor I could understand.

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The President apparently thought that my admissions officers were not doing their job. The
following year the college appointed a new Dean of Students.

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The Commencement Speech

The first of the honored guests, the commencement speaker, had already arrived at the
administration building.

He and I had arrived at this small, private, liberal arts college in the

1960s, fresh out of graduate school. At that time there was a shortage of professors. Teachers
with only a Master of Arts degree were allowed to teach full time. As soon as I finished my
dissertation, I moved on to a better paying position. My objective had been to become an
administrator; thats where the real money is in higher education. Now I had returned as
President of the college, earning more than twice as much as the tenured professors and living in
the Presidents mansion, owned and maintained by the college.
Preparations for the commencement ceremonies had been made to seat the invited guests in
the village square with its canopy of oak leaves filtering the sunlight with dabs of shadow and
splotches of green. Half an hour before the great event the air was saturated with a pall of
indifference emanating from rows of grey plastic chairs standing like soldiers, staring straight
ahead at nothing, expecting nothing in return.
A technician had placed a microphone on the podium and with some diffidence was
announcing: Testing. One. Two. Three, as if, in his torn jeans and dirty tee shirt, it was
somehow improper to address the public air with electronic authority. The audience of empty
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seats remained impassive, manufactured as they were to bear weighted bodies in silence. Even
the soaring oaks did not deign to respond. A few squirrels turned their heads momentarily and
scurried on, leaping from branch to branch in fearless defiance before stopping to stand erect and
survey their territory.
Having observed that all was in order, I headed toward the administration building in my
presidential robes with maroon velvet stripes on the sleeves and the colleges medallion hanging
around my neck. Upon meeting the speaker again I was not particularly pleased by his
appearance. His long white hair and peppered beard, defiant blue eyes and veined nose, bespoke
a man with a creative, if somewhat alcoholic, temperament. He was a sculptor who had taught at
the college for a number of years before his forced resignation in spite of student protests. The
other honored guests had also taught here at roughly the same time. They were popular with the
students but had failed to complete their doctoral studies and were too theatrical for more
pragmatic times. The dismissals resulted in a decline in student enrollment and in the yeasty
exuberance of a dedicated but somewhat unruly faculty. Now was the time for reconciliation,
honorary doctorates for former professors who had proven their worth in the larger world of
artistic and creative endeavor. It would be good press for the college.

The media attention

would be an opportunity to impress potential students, perhaps increase the size of the college.
Donations from formerly disaffected alumni would contribute to the bottom line. The honored
guests were sure to be compliant, leaving in a spirit of forgiveness and renewed dedication to an
institution they had loved for many years.
The plastic chairs began to fill with relatives and friends of the hundred or so graduates. The
band members took their places at the side of the platform. A remnant of the college choir who

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had not yet fled to summer employment was stationed to sing the alma mater, the song to the
Fostering Mother who was gestating to bring forth new creators for the body politic.
The graduates marched in wearing black robes without, however, the plumage displayed by
the faculty, who sat in the front rows.

All was in order for the decorous and time-consuming

awarding of diplomas. Before that welcome event there was, of course, the graduation speech to
be given by the distinguished sculptor. He approached the podium as a newly created honorary
doctor with flushed cheeks and unsteady gait. I frowned momentarily. There was something in
our earlier conversation which had given me cause for concern, but his glowing reminiscences of
our early experiences at the college had subsequently erased all doubt. The sculptor spoke
clearly, with unreserved conviction.
As a member of the faculty of this college some twenty years ago I was proud to be a
member of a communitya community of simple, ordinary human beings, some young, some
older in age but not in spirit, most seeking an understanding of what it was to be a human being
in a complex and ever changing world.

We were not primarily concerned with students

memorizing a particular body of knowledge. The colleges yearly catalogue stated that we
teach students, not subject matter. Our concern was for the individual student and the creation
of his full potential, whatever that might be. The mystery of creativity is that the outcome is
unpredictable. We were preparing our graduates to enter an unknown world full of surprises such
as the sudden collapse of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War. He paused as the sun
mischievously sent a shaft of sunlight through the oak leaves, momentarily blinding him.
What does an education have to do with creativity? I thought. Most students come to college
to get a well paying job. I dreamed once of being a poet when I was young. But you cant make
a living writing poetry..

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The speaker was not deterred. How can you prepare a student for the totally unforeseen?
What textbook will provide the answers when ten years from now half of the research being done
in engineering will be based on facts we have not yet now discovered? What multiple choice
exams allow for the answer: The textbook declares that B is correct, but I have another
idea? He held tightly to the podium.
Why would a student question the authority of the scholars who had spent years doing
research on the subject?
Our answer to these questions was simple: Learn to think for yourself and never cease to try
something new, especially if it appears to contradict orthodox thinking. That is what we taught.
That is the way we lived. He was speaking slowly, deliberately, looking directly at a young
man in the second row as if answering a query the student had just made.
We were mostly oddballs, misfits fleeing from the confinement of conventional society but
part of a community of people who understood and accepted one another as we were. We
insisted only that we be true to ourselves. Yes, we were also snobbish, contemptuous of those
who played games, tried to pretend they were something more than what they really were . . . .
His head turned sideways toward the administrator sitting at the end of the row behind him, the
man who had encouraged him to resign.
We were an unruly lot, difficult to governimpossible even. It was not that we fought with
one another, each arguing his own point of view and demanding that others agree with him.
Quite the contrary, we enjoyed one anothers company and laughed at one anothers quirks. He
smiled at his close friends who had remained on the faculty. They nodded in return.
Good thing hes not on the faculty today, I thought.

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Our students were no better. In deciding their career choices they turned their backs on the
large corporations. Their primary concern was to do their own thing, whether or not it paid well
or paid at all. He hesitated for a time, as if awakening from a pleasant dream, only to face the
harsh light of day.
What about the parents who invested so much money in their childrens education? Its no
wonder they had to get rid of him.
But then the climate changed. Our vision of education was no longer acceptable. Colleges
became business enterprises competing with one another for students, and when students did not
want to take foreign languages, the requirement was dropped from the curriculum.
By this time I was no longer smiling. I sat erect in my chair looking straight ahead at my
tenured faculty, all of whom had doctorates. The part-time teachers, graduate students at nearby
universities who did most of the teaching, were not required to attend the commencement. As
for the graduating students, I knew that they were too preoccupied with their own thoughts to
pay much attention to what was being said, although a stillness had fallen on the audience which
was somewhat disconcerting.
Once the colleges had become business enterprises, their primary goal became to prepare
students for business; in particular, to fit into the grey-suited corporations.

Year after year

faculty members were cast out of the community, exiled into a life of solitary fulfillment. Yes,
we accomplished our personal goals, we realized our potential; some of us even gained a
modicum of fame. But loyalty to this institution was shattered. We had made a fatal mistake.
We had confused commitment to our purpose of teaching students to think for themselves with
loyalty to a college.

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By this time I had difficulty in concealing my anger. How can he say such things? Has he no
idea of the heavy burden, every day, of raising enough money to pay the faculty, keep this
institution going?
Graduating seniors, I wish to prepare you for the world you are about to enter. As one
corporation after another lays off its loyal workers in the name of efficiency and profit-making,
do not put your faith into social institutions, whether they be a business corporation, a church or
a college. The pain suffered when they reject you is not worth it. Rather put your faith in
yourself, in your ability to realize your full potential if you are perfectly honest and try to be
what you truly are. If you find yourself in a community of kindred spirits, supporting one
another in your quirkiness as we once did at this college, consider yourself very fortunate
indeed.
The speaker sat down. The stunned audience finally roused itself to applaud, loudest among
the graduating seniors. As for me, it was clear that reconciliation with the past was not possible.
We had tried. When the seniors had finally filed out and the guests departed from the scene, the
silence and rigid indifference of the plastic chairs now strewn with confetti suggested that the
impassioned eloquence of the speaker would soon be forgotten.

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Poverty

The Chinese dormitory was oriental in its appearance with its green tiled roof and dragon
heads on each corner reaching for the sky with the blank stare of wooden eyes. The scroll work
on

the eaves was intricate and mysterious, conveying the story of some ancient myth now long

forgotten, and the red brick walls exuded moisture and decay through the crumbling mortar as
green moss laced with black crept up the foundation to escape the dank clay of the earth. The
wooden frames of the windows had been painted and repainted, but traces of dry rot could not be
concealed, and the occasional missing pane of glass presented clarity in the midst of the
otherwise opaque windows. In fact the presence or absence of glass made little difference since
the rooms inside were never heated.
The walls, floors, and ceilings of every room were smooth concrete covered occasionally by
splotches of black fungus where dirt had been mixed with the sand and cement. Each cell was
stacked with eight bunk beds, four to a side, with just enough room for the students to stand
between them to dress hurriedly in their down jackets and woolen gloves with the fingertips cut
off to allow better control of writing instruments. At dawn they were summoned by loud
speakers to assemble in straight lines for calisthenics designed in part to create some warmth for

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a day of sitting in cold classrooms and trying to avoid frostbite. Malingerers were promptly
punished by their teachers.
In the classroom I paired students together so that they could practice speaking English, a
technique they had not previously seen used, since their Chinese teachers seldom actually spoke
English in class. However, I had to be careful not to pair a male and female together. In the
1980s such close contact with members of the opposite sex was thought highly improper by the
Communist authorities, although the previous year for the first time students were allowed, under
proper supervision, of course, to engage in Western style dancing: the waltz, the foxtrot, the
dances which I had learned when in high school almost fifty years earlier. Romantic love was
not permissible, and those who were caught were soon separated. Such individual preferences
were subordinated to the good of the state. Individuals were not free to choose.
With one class I was having particular difficulty. The semester had started out well, but
toward the end some of the excellent students were now beginning to fail. I was crushed, certain
that I had done something to alienate them, until the chairman of the English Department
explained to me the situation. These were students who had passed the rigorous entrance exams
for the university, placing them among the elite in a nation of over a billion people. But they had
barely made it, and as a result they had been forced to major in welding and would as university
graduates be assigned by the Party Secretary to spend the rest of their lives assigned as manual
laborers. Intellectuals in China looked down upon manual work; many had allowed the nail on
their left little finger to grow exceedingly long as a sign that they were superior to such mundane
activity. The students in that particular class had now lost all incentive to study.
It was December, and the temperature in the classrooms, as outside, hovered just above
the freezing point. No central heating was allowed in buildings south of the Yangtze River, and

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we were on its southern bank. The sole exception was, of course, the tall Western hotel with its
revolving restaurant on top in the center of Nanjing, but entrance there was forbidden to all but
important Party officials and foreigners. The multitude stood outside the gates and gawked at the
life of luxury. So in the classrooms we spoke in puffs of visible moist air and wore down jackets
over our sweaters.
Some students were despondent, but most were not, for these were exciting times. It was the
winter of 1986, and in Shanghai the students were demonstrating, asking for, not demanding, the
rule of law. China was still a feudal society based upon the arbitrary use of power; despite what
might be written down on legal documents, the man (or woman) in power was the one who made
the rules. In our provincial city an announcement had been made that three positions as bank
clerks were opening up, and fluency in English was a prerequisite. Since such jobs were highly
desirable, there were over a hundred applicants, to whom the qualifying exams were duly given.
The daughter of a high school teacher made the highest grade on the exam, but when her father
inquired as to when the positions would be filled he found out by chance that they had already
been given to the children of high officials in the bank, none of whom had taken the English
exam. The daughter was in despair that her father was so powerless.
So the students in Shanghai tried to create their own power by demonstrating, although they
were careful to march along the side of the streets in order not to disrupt traffic and never to do
anything which might give the authorities an excuse to arrest them. There was even such a
demonstration, on a much smaller scale, in our provincial city, and after it one of our brightest
students came to us full of excitement. He was thrilled at the prospect of having his voice heard,
of seeing his beloved country emerge from feudalism into the modern world.

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At Christmas time two of the highest officials at the university gave us a special dinner in a
private dining room, even though they did not otherwise celebrate such a religious holiday
themselves.

They would have preferred to invite us to their own homes, but since we were

foreigners, that was politically impossible, and we understood. During the conversation my wife
asked them what they thought about the student demonstrations. I did not expect them to reply
and was astonished at their answer:
We are glad that they were able to demonstrate.
A month later Hu Yao Bang, the hero of the students and presumptive heir apparent in the
Communist Party, was expelled from the Party. Every student, every faculty member, was
required personally to sign a statement that he agreed with the actions of the Party. It was the
officials who had given us the Christmas party who were overseeing the requirement. But we
could not condemn them for doing so. They had become accustomed to betrayal, for they had
lived through the Cultural Revolution (1966-1976), when students had marched their teachers
through the streets with dunce caps on their heads, humiliated them in public for hours, locked
them in closets for months, broken into the their homes and destroyed all their heirlooms of
beauty and worth. The sacred bond between teacher and student of respect and mutual devotion
had been horrendously destroyed. Self-preservation was all that remained, looking over the
shoulder to make sure no one was stabbing you in the back.
The following spring the student who had participated in the demonstrations told us that he
had discovered through the grape vine he was to be assigned to teach in a college in Beijing
near his parents, a most suitable job for him, and we shared in his delight. Later that summer we
discovered that, because he had been seen at the demonstrations, the Party Secretary had
assigned him to a lifetime career of sweeping floors in a shipyard in Shanghai.

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When Hu Yao Bang died in 1989, his funeral provided the students with an excuse again to
take to the streets, which resulted in the massacre on Tiananmen Square. The sky was caving in,
for the Party was losing the Mandate of Heaven, but the arbitrary use of power remained.
One of the first assignments I had given my graduate students was to write an essay on
poverty. I was hoping that they would see poverty as a relative mattes. As an American I might
think the Chinese students were living in poverty, but when the intellectuals were sent out into
the hinterland during the Cultural Revolution, they discovered the life there far more povertystricken than that in the cities. Material poverty was something to which they could adjust,
especially if they knew it was for a limited time. But one essay dealt not with material, but
spiritual poverty, the poverty which resulted from not having the freedom to make those choices
which would determine the authors entire future. It expressed both rage and helplessness in the
knowledge that someone with power could control every citizens daily life in intimate detail.
For example, the local neighborhood committee organized by the Party checked every woman in
the community to make sure she had had her menstrual period and to counsel her on abortion if
she had not. Such poverty was not relative, but absolute. By the time I finished reading the
essay, I was weeping in anguish, understanding for the first time what it was really like to be
poverty-stricken.

139

Wealth

No, I did not want to go to the regional alumni meeting.

My wife was an avid

horticulturalist, but she knew nothing about competing with the wealthy. The speaker will be
Dwayne Dubois from Beacon Hill, she said, the one whose wife owns the big mansion on
Lookout Mountain in Tennessee. Her gardens are simply stupendous. They were written up in
Home and Garden a few months ago.
I know. I stayed there overnight on one of our Glee Club trips during spring break, eight of
us in four bedrooms at one end of the manor house.

Theyve got a butler and at least three

maids and two Rolls Royces.

Imagine that, she said. If only youd bothered to make the right friends in college. What
do you think Ivy League schools are for? Two Rockefellers in your class, but all you could do
was bury your head in your books.
I was a scholarship student, I said somewhat defensively.
Who cares? With the right connections we could have had a better life than we have now.

The meeting began with our singing the alma mater, which I mumbled through, having
forgotten most of the words. Mrs. Dubois was there in an elegant strapless black dress. I would
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guess the diamond earrings were at least one carat. She was a good ten years younger than her
husband, a real beauty: aquiline nose, dark piercing eyes like those of an eagle, her hair the latest
style in coiffure. She seemed to know virtually every man there, since they all belonged to the
same country club, and moved effortlessly from one group to another while her husband stood in
a corner, scotch and soda in hand. There was a great deal of laughter while the men
surreptitiously observed the voluptuous dcolletage. Having covered the field, she found herself
standing next to me.
I dont believe I know your name, she said.
I introduced myself and was about to turn around and introduce my wife Nancy as well when
she said rather pertly, With your build you look as if you must have been on the football team. I
do so love to watch real men in battle, even if it is just a sport, for fun, you know. Perhaps
youre new in town.
Well, actually no, we live in a small town some distance from here and dont get to these
events very often.
Oh, but you must commute to the city quite often, Im sure. My husband would be happy to
sponsor you at the country club if you would care to join. That way we could see one another
more often. I just love to make new friends. You know, theres going to be a dinner for any
Dartmouth alumni at the club after the Harvard game. Youre planning to come to the game,
arent you? Theres a whole section reserved for us, and Im sure there are a few tickets left.
Well, I really hadnt . . . .
Nancy interrupted. Of course we were planning to go, but we didnt know whom to contact
about the tickets.

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Mrs. Dubois turned her head momentarily, looking for her husband. As a matter of fact, Mr.
Dubois would be glad to get them for you. Hes so involved in alumni affairs, you know. Hes
even been nominated to be on the Board of Trustees of the college. My wife was duly
impressed. Why dont you see him about it now? Hes over there, in the corner. Always a bit
shy when it comes to large crowds, but terribly efficient when it comes to business
arrangements. For a moment her smile with properly straightened teeth and whitened enamel
was tinged with irony. She focused directly on my eyes. Ill look forward to seeing you there.
Of course, youll sit next to us at the dinner. Oh, theres Leonard Cummings. I must have a
word with him. She brushed past Nancy without looking at her. We were again alone in a
crowd of strangers.
I never imagined she would be so friendly, Nancy enthused.
What are you thinking of? I said. Do you have any idea what a dinner like that could cost,
in addition to the football tickets?
Consider it a donation to the college.

Nancy was already heading for the corner to

introduce herself to Mr. Dubois.

As it happened, the only seats available were those of Mr. Dubois and his business associate,
both of whom were unable to attend either the game or the dinner afterwardswork before play,
you know.

The day of the game we found ourselves on the fifty yard line. Mrs. Dubois was

seated between us.

You must let me reimburse you for the tickets, I said.
Oh, my dear, weve got season tickets and I have no idea how much he paid for them. Since
hes so busy Id never have come if it werent for you. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had taken
the last fifty dollars out of our checking account. We were close to the limit on our credit card
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after buying clothes for the kids. By the way, she continued, I dont believe you mentioned
what firm youre connected with.
Im a high school teacherEnglish.
The smile on her lips tensed momentarily and her raised eyebrows conveyed the slightest air
of disdain. Oh, how nice. She turned to my wife. And you, my dear, what is your
profession?
For the time being Im busy washing diapers.
Mrs. Dubois did not bother to enquire about our children.
But I do so enjoy working in the garden when I have time, Nancy continued, though I
suppose its not really a garden in the conventional sensemostly wild flowers. I spend lots of
time in the woodlands behind our home digging up plants, flowers, grasses.
Mrs. Duboiss china doll smile disappeared, as if she were possessed by a memory long
forgotten. Her rigid posture slackened, her face softened. I remember years ago, she began, I
used to sneak away whenever I could spend hours with the gardener digging in the dirt, mud all
over my dresses, planting seedlings, staring at the long, slender leaves, wondering what the
colors would be when they grew up. The roseshow I loved the roses, except for the thorns.
Sometimes I would put one in my hair and look at myself in the pond. Of course I could never
wear it in the house. Perhaps thats the reason I enjoyed Dartmouth so much. I remember the
long walks in the woods, the maples turning red in the fall, the snow on naked branches during
the winter, the anemones in the spring.
By this time the game was reaching half-time, and our team was clearly headed for a
disastrous defeat. It was also obvious that none of us was really interested in sports. On the spur

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of the moment I blurted out, Why dont we get out of here? Nancy and I go to the Arnold
Arboretum whenever we get a chance. Why not go there now?
For a moment Mrs. Dubois hesitated, then laughed. Ive never been there before; its the last
place in the world my husband would think of going to. Yes, all right, lets do it. Ill call my
chauffeur and tell him to pick me up there in three hours.
Im afraid we wont be able to make it to the dinner then, I said. At last I could begin to
enjoy myself without worrying about not having enough money.
The parks two-mile-long road weaved through a plethora of plants, flowers, and natural
woodlands. The Rose Lantern with its golden yellow flowers was still in bloom, although the
pink fruit with its papery capsules reminiscent of Chinese lanterns was replacing some of the
flowers. The red maples were already developing a reddish-purple tinge while the linden
viburnum were dark red, abundantly covered with white cream flowers and brightly colored
fruits. We wandered; we looked. There was little time for foolish conversation. For my wife
and me this was our sacred home.
At the end of the road Mrs. Duboiss limousine was waiting. We said our goodbyes and she
stepped again into her world of wealth and prestige. A few days later we received a package, a
dogwood to plant in our garden. Attached was a short note:

It has been many years since I have spent such a delightful day. The wealth of beauty on our
stroll through the arboretum I shall not soon forget. Thank you for your fellowship of silence.

Alicia Dubois

144

Vision Quest

And what are you going to do after your graduate from high school? said the visiting
lecturer from the university.
The same old question, I thought. Go on to the university, I suppose.
And what are you going to major in?
Well, my father wants me to go into his business, so I guess it will be business
administration or economics or something like that.
Is that what you really want to do?
No. I was tired of playing games. I dont know what I want to do.
Too often we think of jobs, what will bring in the most money. Im not talking about that. I
mean what would you like to do even if you were never paid for it?
I dont know. I like sports, baseball, football, but Im not that good. My grades could be
better, I know that, but whats the use of studying a lot of stuff Ill never use?
We've been talking about the Native Americans, he said. You know, they have a ritual
called the vision quest. A young man goes to the top of a mountain or other sacred space, draws
a circle around himself and sits quietly. He does not eat or drink, except perhaps for an
occasional sip of water. He does not pray as we might pray, demanding an answer to his
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question, but waits patiently until he is given a vision of his destiny, what he is meant to be.
Then he returns to the tribe and is given a new name, for he is no longer the person he used to
be.
That evening, alone in my room, I could feel the walls becoming darker, closing in, the
ceiling slowing descending, the air still, heavy with dust. Once more I was alone, as if standing
in a closet with barely room to move, encased in a coffin of despair. The darkness was worse
than it had ever been, more than I could bear. I lay on my bed, unable to move a limb. Why was
I still alive?
I felt myself floating on top of a pool of water, then gradually sinking until I was lying at the
bottom, eyes wide open, unable to breathe. Faces began to appear, unknown yet strangely
familiar; one kind, gentle, elderly. Suddenly I was soaring above the earth, the wind breathing
through my hair. I felt free, no longer bound to the earth, reaching upward, upward.

My right

hand was enclosed in a huge baseball glove, and as the glowing meteors raced by I stretched and
strained but could not capture a single one. Perhaps someday I would be holding the remnants of
one in my hand. The earth disappeared in the darkness of space; the eyes of a multitude of stars
were staring at me. Then I awoke.
Framed in my bedroom window by the approaching daylight was the telescope my parents
had given me. How often I had fallen asleep in class after a long night of watching the meteors
dancing across the sky, searching for Venus and Mars, Neptune and Pluto, identifying the
constellations from Andromeda to Vulpecula.
Steven Stargazeryes, that was my new name.

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Arachnephilia: The Love of Spiders

It had been a long time since we last metnot that we had intentionally avoided contact with
one another. It was just that my occupation required that I be constantly moving from one place
to another while his demanded stability, loyalty to a particular community. So when I came out
of the arrival gate, I was not sure I would even recognize him.
Jack? Hearing my name I turned to the left, confronted by the corpulent body of my old
college roommate. He wore large, horn-rimmed glasses and an untrimmed beard speckled with
blotches of white, but there was still the devilish sparkle in his blue eyes and the wide, open
smile which beckoned to laughter. The protrusion of his stomach was supported by a wide
leather belt precariously attempting to prevent a pair of chino pants from slipping to the ground.
He had given up all hope of ever buttoning his shirt, so that the tails hung outside his pants while
the white T shirt underneath failed to cover entirely the hairy flesh. Good to see you again.
Been a long time. You know my wife Janet.
We shook hands and I put on a smiling face intended to conceal my dismay. As a young
maiden she had had a charmingly beautiful face, but one would need a good deal of imagination
to picture the petite body which had once entranced my friend.

Her hips were slabs of

undulating fat contained like sausages in an intestine of pink polyester slacks, and her breasts

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hung heavily under a flowery blouse, beyond containment. For a moment I could not help
pondering what delight it would be to hold such flesh in the hand, but how could they ever make
love to one another?
Had a good trip? Mercifully we were soon engaged in a lively conversation about children
and grandchildren in the car on the way to their home.
The house was a modest one, lawn neatly trimmed, the requisite evergreens in front under the
plate glass window of the living room, the entrance door painted a garish red to distinguish it
from the other wood-grained plastic entryways. To the left of the entrance was the cramped
living room with its long sofa to preclude the necessity of sitting too close to one another. At the
end of the room was a fake fireplace with oak mantle and gas-lit logs to manufacture the
semblance of coziness. Opposite the sofa, under the plate glass window, was an entertainment
centerTV, VCR, compact disk player, stereo loudspeakers, the latest from Wal-Mart, so that
one was not actually obliged to look out the window at the trees with their agitated leaves. Half
empty bags of potato chips and empty cans of beer and Diet Coke from the previous evening still
decorated the nylon brown carpet. Their young son, a large bag of pretzels perched on his
stomach, was lying on the sofa watching cartoons. As we stood in the living room he slowly,
reluctantly, rose to his feet and made his way up the stairs to his bedroom without saying a word.
Janet wandered into the kitchen while Roger and I began to reminisce about our college days
together.
Remember that last game against Dartmouth? That was the year we won the Ivy League
trophy the fourth time in a row . . . . As he rambled on, replaying again his heroic battles as a
football quarterback, I smiled and pretended to be interested, but in fact I had not even seen the
game. I was a nerd, always been one, an outcast in the society of American males. But Roger

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was too excited to notice that I had nothing to say. All he really needed was a listener, a silent
admirer.
Strange thing. I dont know how, but I always knew which receiver was out in the open,
even when I was running in order not to get sacked. Didnt need to think about it. Smatter of
fact, if I tried to think, Id panic and invariably do the wrong thing. More as if the ball had a life
of its own. It would detach itself from my hand and head directly for the place it ought to be
while I watched in wonder.
I suddenly remembered Virginia Wolffs confession: I hope I am not giving away
professional secrets if I say that a novelists chief desire is to be as unconscious as possible. In
college Roger had been an artist! Hed not been much for the books, but he had known how to
live instinctively, to listen to what his body was telling him, to embrace his teammates with
exuberant joy after making a touchdown. He would never have embraced another man on the
street, not a good friend, not even a roommate hed not seen for many years. That would have
been too gay.
After our first two years at college, Roger had moved out to room with some of the other
football players. They understood each other, in an unspoken language which others could not
understand. We lost touch. It was my turn to speak.
Cant remember seeing you after you moved out of Thomson Hall. Guess I never did know
what you ended up majoring insomething in the sciences, wasnt it?
Want a drink before we eat? How about a scotch and soda?
Thats fine.
He put a double shot in his own glass. Heres to the old alma mater. There was a touch of
bitterness in his voice.

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Trouble with college is they expect you to remember everything and give it back to em on
some test. Not that I didnt have a good memory. Couldve told you every play made by any
team we played against. You had to know a lot to be a good quarterback. I'm not dumb.
Never thought you were.
The profs seemed to think so. Not all of em, of course. But a lot had a real grudge against
the jocks. Couldnt please em no matter how hard I tried. When I couldnt play football our
senior year, I told em to shove it. That school ruined my life.
So Roger never got his college diploma. The thought had never crossed my mind.
Idve made a good coach. But I went to work for my Dad instead. Its a small business, a
steady income. Weve made out all right, I guess. But I never got a chance to do my own thing,
toyou knowdo somethin special. In college I was one of a kind. Everyone knew it. But
now . . . .
You think youdve been a one-of-a-kind coach, is that it?
He thought for a moment. No, I suppose not. Just an ordinary high school football coach.
You cant teach someone how to be a really good quarterback. Its somethin inside, somethin
you cant think about too much or its gone. Youve got to find it for yourself.
You mean its like being an artist or a researcher. Doing something thats never been done
before.
Well, never thought of it that way. Suppose youre right. But what happens when youre no
longer on a team? Theres no ball to throwjust the same routine job day after day.
Routine because your hearts not in it, because its not the thing you know youve got to do.
Yeh. By this time he had filled his glass for the third time. But how do ya support a
family by playing around with spiders. I used to love em. Spent hours watchin em spin their

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webs. Caught flies and put em in the web just to see whatd happen. Suddenly he turned his
head with a startled look. Never told anyone about that. Dont say anything to Janet. She hates
spiders.
By this time his tongue seemed heavy, a bit numb.
Soyatthinkacouldve . . . . More slowly and deliberately. So you think I could have made
a name for myself studying spiders! Damn you.

151

The Pianist

We were supposed to have arrived in good time for the funeral. Now we were approaching
the outskirts of the city, and the traffic was becoming unbearably congested, five lanes on either
side, all moving slowly like some giant sloth who circled the metropolis endlessly without ever
escaping into the forests of suburban housing. The rain was falling incessantly, and when finally
the traffic speeded up, we were assaulted on both sides by massive trucks whose passing flooded
our vision with waves of water.

Blinded and terrified, we could only move forward in

regimented order, hoping that no obstacle would suddenly loom in front of us. The predators of
urban wilderness were not creatures of nature, but mechanical dinosaurs.

We longed for the

open spaces of the West, the vaulted skies and insistent sun. The city was not our home.
But we were on a mission, missionaries to a devoted friend who had lost his spouse and
needed the warmth of human presence. We had to be there to reassure him that he had not been
totally abandoned.

Isolated as he was among the throngs of people passing by without

acknowledging the humanity of his suffering, he needed to know that he belonged.

Having escaped the congestion of the freeways, we were finally able to meander through the
byways of the suburbs past three and four storied mansions cheek by jowl with one another.
They overwhelmed the small plots of land on which they were built, as if wealth precluded any

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room for landscaping or natural growth but must, like city skyscrapers, eliminate all signs of
fecundity in the soil. Our friend had maliciously built a modest home on his lot, and we pulled
into his driveway behind a 1989 Nissan Sentra, assuredly an eyesore to his neighbors with their
assertive new SUVs.
The neighbors did not know of his recent loss; his colleagues at work were busy; the minister
had already paid his perfunctory call. He and his wife had had no children. Their siblings were
unable to attend the funeral. One sister had a child who was the star of her dancing class. It was
giving its final performance, which she could not possibly miss. A brothers son was graduating
from high school.
So our friend was alone, without family or friends, without the wife who had been his
companion and friend for thirty years. He was living in a wealthy neighborhood in a prosperous
city, having achieved the American dream which was never his personal dream. As a youth he
had dreamed of being a concert pianist. But of course he had to make a living and support his
wife at a decent standard of living. Not that he used much money on himself; his one personal
indulgence was the grand piano, his sole consolation.
In the living room he was alone, dressed impeccably in a dark blue suit and narrow black tie.
He greeted us with the solemnity of despair. We tried to raise his spirits with small talk, to no
avail. Finally I asked:
Well, what next?
Dont have the slightest idea.
His life as a denizen of the city had reached its completion. Without a wife to support there
was no longer any reason to remain. Even before her death he had been offered an early
retirement from the investment firm rather than being fired outright, but the message was clear.

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He was no longer needed. In any case he did not have the energy to return to the daily hassle
which had distracted him for so long. Now he would have to decide what he really wanted to do
with what life remained to him, a decision put off for too many years. But what do you do with
yourself when no one wants you any more, when you no longer mean anything to anyone?
Perhaps it was just a game anyway, a charade in which everyone was trying to guess who
you were when you didnt know the answer yourself, he said.
But you do know the answer, I said. Youre a pianist. He was silent for a long time.
I know, he said very quietly. I guess Ive always known.

Several years later we by chance ran across our friend again. We had been invited to meet
some acquaintances in a local night club whose sole attraction was a small jazz ensemble with a
burgeoning reputation. At first we did not recognize him at the piano, unshaven and somewhat
unkempt with a cigarette hanging from his lips. Unfamiliar as we were with such music we were
rather shocked to think that he had descended to such depths, but then we began to listen more
carefully. First one instrument, then another, would take the lead while the others responded
encouragingly as if they were all listening to some ethereal conductor, unseen by the rest of us,
whose inspiration could never be completely reproduced by mortal instruments. Suddenly it was
the piano that became a lonely voice improvising a tender sadness. All conversation ceased.
The audience absorbed in silence the outpouring of a lonely heart as it soared into a frenzy of
ecstasy. When the last note was struck there was a moment of anticipation, then a thunder of
applause. A slight smile appeared on his lips.

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Epilogue

I am again sitting in my chair in our cabin in the woods with my dog on my lap. He is a
Peekapoo, part Pekingese, so I dont understand a word of what he is saying. Its all Chinese to
me. But he is quite capable of telling me what he is feeling. Sitting up, he looks straight into my
eyes. He licks my lips, my nose, my face. He wants to be held tightly. Then he jumps happily
to the ground and goes his own way. A few moments are enough.
When I started writing I was worried that black letters on white paper would not be able to
speak to the soul as the spoken word can. Now I know that there are many ways in which living
beings communicate their feelings. Today I heard a Baltimore Oriole singing its heart out in a
cascade of beautiful tones. I have heard human voices singing Verdis Requiem and wept, so
exalted was the tenor of their song. Such ecstasy, to be able to embody the soul in song!
My dog is a very patient lover, tolerating long periods of silence while I wander through the
mansion of my soul. In the process of writing it has expanded into a palace, like the Hermitage
in St. Petersburg or the Louvre in Paris. Immense rooms with vaulted ceilings follow one after
the other, framed beauty hanging on the walls. But there is a stairway in this palace which
spirals down into dungeons deep underground containing prison cells under lock and key,
opened safely only by compassionate understanding. These contain the murderers, men who kill

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not just for food to sustain their existence, but who take the life of others simply because they
enjoy doing so. This hell imprisons the rapists, obsessed by their hatred of anything feminine, in
others and in themselves. They must dominate, control, for they fear the power of women.
The descent into the dungeon is not a journey any man willingly makes, but it is necessary in
order to become a whole person. For I have discovered in the process of writing that I am all of
the characters in my stories, those passing through the rooms above as well as those incarcerated
in the vaults deep underground. We are creatures of nature full of paradoxes: sexual attraction
and stubborn self-centeredness, ecstasy and storms of hatred, divine imperatives and willful
egotism.
What holds these polar opposites together? My dog knows the nature of unequivocal love.
When we love, we embrace the opposites, the union of masculine and feminine. A husband and
wife live together for many years until they have become one, transcending the fear of death,
walking down a dirt road through the darkness, hand in hand, with the stars shining overhead.

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