Volume 34 (2002)

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The Broad River Review

Literary Societies and Publications

2002

Volume 34 (2002)

Abigail Wolford

C. V. Davis

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Wolford, Abigail and Davis, C. V., "Volume 34 (2002)" (2002).

The Broad River Review

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The

Broad

River

Review

Volume 34

Spring

2002

Gardner-Webb

University

The

Broad

River

Review

EDITOR

AbigailWolford

DESIGN EDITOR

JenniferMenster

ASSISTANT EDITORS

Natalie

Brown

DarinDeaton Kelly Ergle BethanyFrizsell EvieGrant Nicole

Hemric

MichelleSeals Katie

Thomas

FACULTY EDITOR

C.V.Davis

The

Broad

River

Review

is published annually by the English Departmentat

Gardner-Webb

UniversityinBoiling Springs,North Carolina.

Upon

request this publication can be provided in an alternate

format. Please

make

arequestbycalling (704)406-4414.

Cover

Photograph:

“The

Broad RiverinBlue”

©

2002, NatalieBrown.

Printed in

Canada

byHignell

Book

Printing

A

Division ofUnigraphics Limited

©

2002, The

Broad

RiverReview

Gardnei^X^bb

INIVtRSI

T

Acknowledgements

The

Broad

River Review wishes torecognizethe following individualsfor participating ascontest judges:

The Broad

River

Review

Student Writing

Awards

David

Parker DarleneGravett

Janet

Land

The

J.Calvin

Koontz

Poetry

Award

Ron

Rash

The Broad

River

Review

Student

Art

Awards

SusanBell

Doug

Knotts Matt

Theado

David

Parker

We

would

like tothank

Ted

Vaughn,

Bob

Carey, andJessica

Webb

for theirinvaluablephotography assistance.

We

would

also like tothank Colin, Gary, and Sharon of Hignell

Book

Printing for their technical expertise.

The

followingworksfirst appeared, sometimesin slightly

differ-entforms, inthe followingpublications:

“Loops

and Fireworks”

—

Appalachian Heritage

“The Banana

Pudding Dish”

—

Proteus

“The

Finding”

—

Now &

Then

“Summer

Work”

—

Casualties

“Jericho”

—

Time ofSinging

“Over

Betsy’s”

—

The Raleigh

News

and

Observer

Finally,

we

would

like toextenda specialthanks toGaylePrice,

who

assisted thepublication ofThe

Broad

RiverReview intoo

We

alsowishtoacknowledge andthankthefollowing publications for their generosity:

Aethlon

The Allegheny

Review

Aura

LiteraryArts

Review

Boulevard

The Chariton

Review

Michigan

Quarterly

Review

Nimrod

Agni

Borderlands

The MassachusettsReview The Chattahoochee

Review

Cold

Mountain Review

Alabama

Literary

Review

AshevillePoetry

Review

The Bellingham

Review

Red

Wheelbarrow

Crab Orchard Review

Epoch

The Florida

Review

The Greensboro

Review

TheHollins Critic The Journal Field

The

Hudson Review

Karamu

Crucible Five Points

GreenHillsLiteraryLantern

Many

Mountains

Moving

TheLickingRiver

Review

Pikeville

Review

Notre

Dame

Review

The

Coe Review

New

DeltaReview

Concho

RiverReview The

Midwest

Quarterly TheBriarCliffReview North

Dakota

Review

New

Orleans

Review

Ploughshares Quarterly West PrairieSchooner

Nassau

Review

Pembroke Magazine

TheNebraska Review The

Marlboro Review

Plainsongs

Passages North North

American Review

The Missouri Review TheLiteraryReview The

Kenyon

Review The

Iowa

Review Gulf Stream

Magazine

The Georgia Review FourteenHills

Contents

SPECIAL

AWARDS

The Broad

River

Review

StudentWriting

Awards

ChristiHallis 8 Severedin Spring TaraHostetler 9 Jazz

AbigailWolford 10 theology withSteve

The

J. Calvin

Koontz

Poetry

Award

Sarah

Thomas

11

Leah

’s

Grandmother

12 Kokinshu

Poems

The Broad

River

Review

Student

Art

Awards

FirstPlace

Kim

Blanton 33 Oddities

Second

Place

Erik

Wince

34 Eyes Watching ThirdPlace

Ignacio

Arana

35 The TrueGospel

Honorable

Mention

Charlie Baber 36

Broad

River Coffee Co. Stacey

Homesley

37 Green Feet

Emily Davis 38

Box Forms

Kim

Blanton 39 SittingPretty

FICTION

Ron

Rash

14

Summer

Work

JenniferCarlile 45 Landfall

Miriam Oviedo

55

Baby

Uth

POETRY

Kelly Ergle 23 1972

24 The

Back

Door

25 Untitled

DeniseC.Deaton 26 The

Organ

Recital Tara Hostetler 27 NightClub

28 Untitled

Andy

Greene 41 Untitled 42 Untitled 43 Untitled

Tim

D. Livingston

44

Peace

Sign

(WTC)

DarinDeaton 52 SheSmiles 53 Interstate 84 54

Clumsy

Words

Jonathan

Wood

58 Tennis BallPhilosophy Joyce

Compton Brown

60 The Finding

61 The

Banana

Pudding Dish

Adam

Gaske

68

Doesn

f

tIt

Make

You Feel Better 69 Trespassers Abigail Wolford 73 Firebird

74 Jericho 75 raspberries

Christi Hallis 76 Nervosa

NONFICTION

Les

Brown

29

Loops

and

Fireworks

Christi Hallis 63

Fumbling

Toward

Destiny

PHOTOGRAPHY

THE

Broad

River

Review

Christi

Hallis

Severed

in

Spring

Her

voicedancesnervously

down

a lineextending fourhundred andeightymiles.

It flirtswiththe Atlantic,beforejutting westthroughsilentVirginiabattlefields

and broodingCarolinamountains, before stopping andlingering in

my

room.

Her

voiceshouldlounge incomfort, withease, as oldfriends do.

Butitdoesn’t.

Itshiftsanxiously,likean atheistata revival,

andI

wonder

why

shecalled.

She’s looking outoverthePotomac, butcan’t see

me

because

herheart can’t travel asfast as

my

Nissan.

Nor

canittravel as far.

She

labors, painfully:

“The

cherryblossoms are beautiful, it’s a

shame

youcan’t see....”

Butas Igazeacross thishillsideofpines, theapparitionof her face disappears, and

I

know

I’mmissing

Tara Hostetler

Jazz

The

simple

word

rolls off

my

tongue and

down

my

cheek and hip before

strutting into the

smoky room

where

the sultry siren sways

to thecrazyrhythmofthesaxophone, reignedinbytheconstantpiano.

A

cool,deepdrink flowsfromher moist cherrylips.

Then

crawls offtoa

summer

day

onthe

damp

grass with aclearblue sky, andjazzbreezily affecting

my

innerbeating.

And

now,

thereisno

more

grass,no

more

rooms, no

more

sky.

onlya liquid

womb-lazyand

warm.

And

there isnothingtobreathe butjazz.

Abigail

Wolford

theology

with

steve

bom

andraised inbrooklyn. foughtin ‘nam.

my

sonwantstodie for hiscountry

butitain’tan honor.

hadan out-of-body experience in

‘nam

when

igot

blown

up.

saw

the lightandall.

my

buddy

died.

afterthey stitchedup

my

front,

theyhadto turn

me

overandwipe

my

butt becausethat’swhat happens

when

you

almostdie.

'i**}» 'f'

i ain’ta religiousman.

call

god

when

ineedhim,

but mostly i’mjustnice topeople,

ifthey’re niceto

me

anyway.

some

peopleain’t

worthmessin’with.

** *

ilove lacrosse.

peopleshould play

more

sports,

that'swhat’s

wrong

with america.

damn

‘emfor

making

sportslike war.

itain’tthesame,

Sarah

Thomas

Leah’s

Grandmother

Leah’s

Gram,

curled, plasteredand

bosomsome

Saturn

Smoke

Ringencirclingher planet-head

sits;

among

theflowers androses, daisiesandlace

awaiting

my

responsetoher jokeson friendsnowdead grandchildren,interracial couples,the

woes

ofgossip... andI

make

a face

—

not

good

orbad

andawaitfurther talkofbadhealthandlostvalues.

Grandpa

silently sneaks, boxersandtightwhite

T

bedroom

tokitchen without asound;

Gram

says

thedoor-bottoms are shavedoffbecausethehouseleans.

Grandpa

says nothing, butI believeGrandpa. But

enough

aboutme, enough,enough...

And

smoked-chicken-saladisoffered on smoked-bread,with smoked-tea.

Oh, have

some

sweetbread orhave

some

sweet-bread.

The

bag-of-flour-sized-dogdoesnotlet lunch

interrupt his barking,justas our conversation did not bother

him

onebit; return to theimpostergarden livingroom

—

SaturnRingfollows andsendsnoxious gases

my

way,

Iswallow-smoked-lunch-whole and await our departure

from

Gram

and shaveddoors and

humping

dogs and Arkansas altogether.

My

feelforit

now

smoke

tinged

Hanging

on adoorhinge, not touchingthe bottom.

It’s beennicemeeting you too (get

me

out ofthisplace

—

In thecar

—

Can

you believethat place, it’slikestepping in the twilight, wait)

Can’t saythat. It’sLeah’s

Gram

were talkingabouthere.

Sarah

Thomas

Kokinshu

Poems

1.

Unseen

by men’seyes,

ababyeaglesoarsundermother’s care

finallyspreadingits

own

wings: Celine

Dion

singing

inalocalkaraokebar!

2.

Sincelittlebirdies tell,

we

shut andbarredthe

windows

Why,

then,is

G-Dubb

covered

withrumorslikesandstorms

thatleavethe desert

smooth

andflat? 3.

Lessprofitable

thanasking foran

engagement

ring

froma

man

who

justbought aboat

suchisthefutility

of lovingyourthirdgradeteacher.

4.

My

body

fills with despair

as Iwatch the parts sag,

the inevitable platinumball appears surrounding foldsof cares

5.

Lessprofitable

than eatingcafeteria

Jell-O with a knife

—

such isthefutility

of lovethatisnotreturned.

6.

Unseen

by men’seyes

awildvolcano spews into theair

onan islandinthe Pacific:

surelyone cansay, likeChris

Rock

entertaining

inaJewish retirementcenter.

Ron

Rash

Summer

Work

I

saw

CecilLedbetterlast

week

forthe firsttimesince I’d

seen

him

dragged unconscious and bleeding from a truck eleven years ago,andIthought again of

my

roleinwhat had happenedto

him. I

was

back

home

inwesternNorthCarolina, visiting

my

par-ents and sister. I’ve lived in southwest Virginiathelast decade, a

region completely ignorant of red cole-slaw and ketchup-based pork, soon

my

infrequenttrips backto CliffsideI indulge myself

by eatinglunchatHenson’s Barbecue Lodge.

I drove

uptown

with

my

sister, past theclosed-down the-atreand

new

supermarket, on past

Hamrick

Mill where

my

father worked.

At

Cliffside’sstop light

we

turnedright, parking in front

ofCliffsideJunior College’s administration building.

We

crossed

thestreetandstepped intoHenson’s.

Cecil

was

sharing the table closesttothedoorwitha

cou-ple of college-aged boys.

They

had spent the morning cutting grass. Their tee-shirts were sweat-stained, and I could smell the

gasoline lingering on their hands and clothing.

As

I passed the tableCecil lookedup atme, butthere

was

no blinkof recognition

in his blue eyes.

Whatever

link he had to

me

had been severed

when

hisskullcrackedthewindshield.

He

looked back

down

athis

plate,

my

face one

more

lost connection. In a

few

minutes I

watched

him

take short steps toward the door, his gait slow and deliberate, likea

man

who’d

suffered a stroke.

In

my

mind

Ifollowed

him

acrossthestreet,across eleven

summers

totheAugustafter

my

junioryearatChapelHill,the

sum-mer

my

college

roommate Ben

Grier and I

worked

on the mainte-nance crewatCliffsideJunior College.

Our

plan

was

to

work

at

Hamrick

Mill as

we’d

done the

last

two

summers. Ben'sfatherand

mine

were shiftsupervisors, so they’dbeen able togetus

work

in the past. But during the spring there’d been layoffs at the mill.

The

only

summer

job

we

could

find

was

working atthejunior college for

minimum

wage.

Our

milljobshadpaid a dollaran hourbetter, soI hadto

recalculate

my

student loan.

Ben

didn’t have that worry.

He’d

scored 1560 onhisS.A.T.andreceivedafullscholarshiptoChapel

Hill.

He

was, however, saving

money

for medical school. Like

me,

Ben

was

alreadyticked offabout

making

lessmoney.

ButI don’t think thathad anything todo with what hap-pened thatsummer. I’d

known

Ben

since second grade. In high school

we’d

beenlab partnersandintheBeta Clubtogether,butI’d neverthought of

him

as a friend. Ididn’t

know

anyone

who

had.

We,

students and teachers, had

known

even in

grammar

schoolthathe

was

different,smartina

way

that therestof us

would

never benomatter

how many

books

we

read,

how

hard

we

studied.

Ben

didn’t

draw

attention to his brilliance.

He

never raised his

handin class, though he always

knew

theanswerifhe werecalled

on. But sometimes

when

astudent or teacher

would

saysomething he foundstupidhe’d

make

asardonic

comment,

as

much

tohimself

as anyone else, and

you wondered

if in that

moment

he’d

shown

what hethought ofall ofus.

In the springof oursenioryearinhigh school

Ben

asked

me

to

room

with

him

atChapel Hill. I

was

surprised and flatteredbut shouldn’thave been.

He

was

already planning for medical school anddidn’twanttoriska

roommate who’d

be crankingupthe stereo

at2:00 A.

M.

orbringing abunchofdrunkfriendsbacktothe

room

foraparty. Isuspect he

saw

me

as dullenough tohavetohaveto

spendalotof timestudying, introvertedenoughtokeeptomyself.

So

one

Monday

in late

May

Ben

and I

punched

in at the

juniorcollege’sphysical plantoffice. Mr. Priester,

who’d

hiredus,

nodded

towardthe other

man

in theoffice.

“Cecilwill

show

you boys whattodo,” Mr. Priestersaid,

then disappearedinto theair-conditioned officehestrayedfromas littleas possible.

We

walkedoutto theblue truck with Maintenance paint-ed onthe side.

“Getin,”Cecil saidbut didn’tunlockthepassengerdoor,

so

Ben

and I climbed into the back.

We

rode past the

gym

and curved around the

math

and science building and on past the

springhouse abruptlyinfrontofaquonsethut,causing

Ben

and

me

to slide against the cab window.

We

jumped

out ofthe truck as

Cecilunlocked thequonsethut’s slidingmetaldoor.

“Listen, college boys,” he said as

we

stepped inside.

“This machinery don’t care

how

smart you are.

You

get careless

RonRash 1

and

you

can get hurtbad.”

We

stood

among

the big

Yazoo

riding mowers, the push

mowers

and

weed

eaters. It

was

already hotinside the hut,andthe

reek ofoilandgasoline

made

me

nauseous.

“Ireckon

you

boys

know

allaboutequipmentlikethisbut I’m goingtotellyou anyway, once. That

way

my

assiscoveredif

you

cutyourfingers offdoing somethingstupid.”

Cecil bent

down

on one kneebesidethe

weed

eater.

“Come

over here,” he said to me.

“You

too, four eyes,”

Ceciladded, notevenlooking atBen. Ifhe’dlooked up he might have been surprisedattheangerthatflashed acrossBen’s face,but

itdidn’t surpriseme.

Ben was

tallandskinnyand had

worn

glass-es since the second grade, but his looks were deceiving.

He

was

quietbut nottimid. Yes, he looked the

way

you’dexpect

someone

who’d

nearly aced the S.A.T. to look, but he

was

also an athlete,

hardnosed and competitive, something you wouldn’texpect.

Our

senioryearhe had been the pitcheron the baseball team.

He

was

smartand he

knew

how

tokeephittersguessing, buthe also

knew

how

to intimidate his opponent. Rutherford

County

had a first

baseman

that year

who

was

all-state.

The

first time up, he hit a

home

runoffBen.

The

secondtimehe

came

tothe plate

Ben

threw

two

head-highfastballsrightattheguy.

Ben

rattled

him

so bad he fanned oncalled strikes therestofthe game.

Ceciltuggedsix inchesofmonofilament from eachofthe threeholes onthe

weed

eater’s plastichead.

“That’s the length you need.” Cecil looked up at us.

“Waittillyougotitrunningfullspeed beforeyoutry to trim.

You

understand?”

Ben

smiledathim.

“Do

you

mean

do

we

understand the concept of centrifu-gal force?”

Ben

said, still smiling. “Yeah, Ithink

we

understand

that, Cecil.”

As

soon as the words were out I

knew

Cecil Ledbetter

would

be a long time in forgiving

Ben

for what he’d said, would

make

him,and

maybe

me, payforthose wordsthe restofthe sum-mer. Ben’swordsdidn’t surprise me. He’dsaid similar things in a similartonetoother

men when

he’d

worked

inthemill.

A

couple of times I’dthoughthis words wereleading towardafight,and

maybe

they

would

haveifhisdaddy hadn’thad

some

rankin themill.

twenties buthe lookedolder, his forehead alreadycreased, hislong

hairandbeard flecked withgray.

He

was

almostastallas

Ben

and outweighed

him

by fiftypounds.

“Well,” Cecil said to Ben. “Since

you

know

so

much

about

weed

eaterswe’llletyourun onethissummer.

Me

and your

buddy

here will ride theYazoos.”

Ben

shruggedhisshoulders. “Fine,”he said.

So

that

Monday

morningour routine

was

setforthe

sum-mer. I’ddotrimwithapush

mower,

butmostofthetimeI

was

atop one oftheYazoos

making

a week-long journey that started atthe

springhouse, then around the

dorms

and classroom buildings,

acrossthe acreofopen ground atthe

campus

center,and endingat

theadministration building facingCliffside’s

main

street. It

would

beFriday afternoon

when

Ifinishedandthefollowing

Monday

I’d

startover.

Always somewhere

behind

me

was

Ben,

moving

around

the trees andbuildings withthe

weed

eater. Meanwhile,Cecilkept

themachineryrunning,changingoil, tighteningbelts,and

sharpen-ing

mower

blades, usually

down

by the springhouse

where

he

worked

in the shade of century-old oaks.

The

rest ofthe time he drove around

campus

in the blue maintenance truck, ogling sun-bathing co-eds ortryingtocatch us slacking off.

By

lunchtime thatfirst dayI

was

feeling guiltyabout

rid-ing while

Ben

lugged the

weed

eaterin

my

wake, so I decided to

saysomething.

We

gotourbaglunches out ofthe office’s refriger-atorand walked

down

tothespringhouse.

You

weren’tsupposedto

drinkthe water becausetheremight bebacteriainit, butmost

peo-ple did anyway.

When

the college had repaired the springhouse years back they’d built a roofed lattice with a door.

A

concrete bench curved around the springlike a horseshoe.

Ben

and I bent

down

and filledourhands with the water so cold it hurtourteeth

when

we

drank.

We

satontheconcrete and openedour bags. “I’m going to talk to Cecil about us switching off this

afternoon,” Isaid. “It’snot fairfor

me

toride the

Yazoo

allday.” “No,”

Ben

said sharply. “He’ll think I asked you to say something. Idon’twant you togive

him

the satisfaction of

think-ingthat.

You

justkeep your

mouth

shut.”

Ben

lookedup.

“Here

comes

the bastardnow.”

I turned and

saw

the blue maintenance truck curving aroundthe

math

andscience buildingand heading towardus. Cecil RonRash 1

drove onto thegrass and parked in the shade ofan oaktenyards

from where

we

sat.

He

opened the truckdoor butdidn’t get out. His metal lunch

box

lay open onhislap.

Ben

stashedhissandwich backinhislunch bag,the paper-backhe’dbroughttoreadin hisbackpocket.

“I’llbe

damned

ifI’m goingtospend anytime around

him

Idon’thaveto,”hesaid,gettingup fromthebench. “I’m goingto

sit outsidethe library andeat.”

Ben

walkedoutthe door.

“I’llgotoo,”I said,packing up

my

lunch.

“Suityourself,”

Ben

said,not looking back.

Afterthatfirstday

Ben

andCecilpretty

much

stayedclear

ofone another,but inearly JuneCecil caughtus talkingto a

cou-pleof co-eds in front ofthe cafeteria.

He bumped

thetruckover thecurband drovestraightuptous.

“Get backtowork,” hesaid.

“You

canchasepoontang on your

own

time.”

The

girls and I were embarrassed.

Ben was

too, but he

was

also angry.

“You

ignorant redneck,”

Ben

said.

“What?”

Cecilcut off the ignition. “Don’tsay itagain,” oneofthe girls said.

“You

heardme,”

Ben

said.

“Yeah, well, just

remember

this ignorantredneck gets to

tell

you

whattodo.”

“Only one summer,Cecil,”

Ben

said.

“A

summer

can bea

damn

longtime, collegeboy.” Cecil

crankedthetruckand droveoff.

Forthenextten

weeks

Cecil

made

sure

we

worked

every minute

we

were onthe clock.

He

watchedus take our breaksatten and three and

saw

to it they were exactly fifteen minutes.

He

wouldn’tlet us bring ourequipment back tothe quonsethut until

five minutesbefore lunch orquitting time.

By

mid-July the temperature

was

overninety every

after-noon. I

was

riding at leastpartofthe day, but I

was

still exhaust-ed byfive.

The

mill

work

had been hard,but

we’d

beenout ofthe sun and our bosses, probably out of deference to ourfathers, had cutus

some

slack

when we

gottired. At lunchtime

Ben

no longer

read.

He

ate quicklyandthennapped underan

elm

tree in frontof

the library. At fiveminutesto oneI’dshake

him awake

and

we’d

walk

down

tothe quonsethut. 8

He

never complained, not to Mr. Priester, Cecil, or me, and he never easedup.

Sometimes

on afternoons

when

it

was

so hot I could see heat rolling across the

campus

in waves, I’d risk Cecil’swrathbyparkingthe

Yazoo

undera tree afewminutes, but

Ben

never stopped.

He

was

always moving, always wearing his

eight-pound albatross.

It

was

in lateJulythatIcaughtthe snake.

Ben

andIwere

walkingtothe office tocheckout. Ithoughtit

was

dead, but

when

IsteppedcloserI

saw

theredtongueflicker. Ipickedituptotake

home

andletgointhe

woods

behind

my

house.

Mr.PriesterandCecil wereinthe office

when we

walked in, thesnakecoiled around

my

hand.

Cecilstumbled backagainst the refrigerator.

“Keep

that

damn

thing

away

from me,” he said.

At

firstIthoughthe

was

joking.

“Keep

it

away

from me,” hesaid again,andI

saw

he

was

truly frightened.

He

punched

outandleft theoffice.

“It’sjust a green snake,” I told Mr. Priester, holding the

snake upfor

him

to see.

“Cecil’sscaredshitlessof snakes,” Mr.Priestersaid.

“He

gotbitby acopperhead

when

he

was

a kid. Italmostkilledhim.”

“A

green snake isn’t a copperhead,”

Ben

said.

“Even

Cecil shouldbe abletofigure that out.”

Mr.Priestershookhis head.

“What

kind it is don’t

make

a difference to Cecil,” Mr. Priestersaid.

Cecil had beenright.

A

summer

can be along time, but August finallycame.

Whatever

battleofwills Ceciland

Ben was

over.

Ben

had

won

and even Cecil realized it, and though he’d havedied before admittingit,youcouldtellCecil respected

Ben

for sticking itout,fornever oncecomplaining.

Those

lastdays heno longercheckedourbreaks. If

we

saw him

atallhe

was

bringing us

acoolerfilledwithwaterfromthespringhouse,

some

paper cupsto

drinkfrom.

It

was

eleven-thirty of our last day

when

Ben waved

me

towardthequonsethut.

He

carriedour lunch bagsinhis righthand.

“It’s a little early, isn’t it?” I asked as I climbed off the

Yazoo.

“It’s our last day,”

Ben

said.

“What

can they do to us.

Besides, I’ve got

some

lunchtimeentertainment you mightenjoy. It’sgoingtobeatthe spring,so

we

better getgoing.”

“IsCecil inonthis?”I asked.

“Oh,yeah,”

Ben

said.

“He

justdoesn’t

know

it.”

Ifollowed

Ben

uptheroadpast thespringhouse.

We

went

upthehillto the sideofthe

math

andsciencebuilding.

“Thiswillgive usa

good

view,”

Ben

saidandsat

down

on

the grass.

“What

are

we

waitingto see?”Iasked.

“I added something to Cecil’s lunch

box

a few minutes ago

when

I wentto get ours.

A

snake.”

Ben

grinned.

“Don’t worry. It’s just a hog-nose snake, but it looks

enough

likeacopperheadtogive Cecil a

good

scare.”

“He’ll

know who

didit,” I said.

Ben

looked atme.

He

was

not longergrinning.

“Idon’tcare. I’llrisk aconcussionjusttoseethatasshole

when

he opensthatlunch bag.”

“Thisis abad idea,”Isaid. “This iswrong.”

“Well,”

Ben

said, looking up the road. “Here he comes.

If

you

wanttotellhim, flag

him

down.”

And

Ialmostdid,becauseIrealizedat that

moment

Iliked

Cecil

more

thanIlikedBen,that a partof

me

would

enjoywatching Cecil kickBen’sass. ButIdidn’t. Ijustsatthereandletithappen.

The

blue maintenance truck curved around the

math

and science building and passedthirty yardsbelow us. I

saw

Cecil in

the cab, the

window

open, onlyhislefthand onthe steeringwheel.

Iwatched

him

glance

down

atthepassengerseat.

People

who

have beeninwreckstalkabout

how

everything slows down, but towatch a

wreck

happen is a different matter. It

happens so fastyou can’tbelieve what you’ve seen. Cecil’s truck swerved then accelerated across the grass and crashed through the

springhouselatticeandinto theconcrete bench.

The

impact

was

so loudfaces appearedatthe doors and

windows

ofthe

math

and

sci-encebuilding. In thefew secondsIsatthere trying to get

my

brain

tobelievewhat

my

eyeshadjust seen, studentsandteachersran out

thedoors towardthe crumpledtruck, itsdoors flung open.

Ben

and I followed. Inside thecab I

saw

Cecil slumped

overthe steeringwheel,thewindshield crackedwherehishead had hit.

One

of the students

was

a nursing major.

She

checked Cecil’spulse andkeptanyone from tryingto

move

him.

“He’s alive,”Iheard hersay.

Mr.Priester

showed

upa

few

minuteslaterand pushedhis

way

throughthe studentsandteachers.

He

was

talkingtoCecil but

getting no response.

An

ambulance finally arrived, and

we

all backed up toletthe

EMS

crew work.

They

gently

removed

Cecilfromthe truck, placed

him

in the ambulance and drove off. At the stoplight the ambulance wailedeastward towardCharlotte,notwest towardthecounty

hos-pital.

The

students andteachers went back totheir classes.

Ben

leanedtoward me.

“You’renotgoingto tell,”he said, and whetherhiswords wereaquestion

was

unclear.

“No,” Isaid, asMr. Priesterwalked towardus.

“You

boys

know

what happened?”

“No,sir,”

Ben

said.

“We

heardthecrashand

came

tosee what

was

going on.”

“Well, he wasn’t wearing his seat belt. That’s a school

regulation,”Mr. Priestersaid,looking atthe truck.

“Do

you

know

whattodothisafternoon?”

We

nodded.

“Well,go do it. I’llprobably beinCharlotte.”

At

fiveo’clockIwalked intothephysical plant officeand

punched

atime clockfor thelasttimein

my

life.

Ben

andIstepped

into theparking lotwhere Mr. Priesterandthe college’s vice-pres-identwere talking. Mr. Priester

waved

us over.

“The

doctor’s sayhe’ll live,butthey’re prettysurethere’s

brain damage.

They

don’t

know how

badyet.”

The

vice-presidentlookedathis watch.

“It’stimetoleave,” hesaid, andit was.

Three months passed before Cecil leftthe hospital, and it

was

almostayear before the college,whetheroutofcompassionor

fearofa lawsuit, rehired him.

He

no longer

worked

onthe equip-ment,however,ordroveatruckorYazoo.

They

let

him

usethepush

mowers

and

weed

eaters. In thefallandwinterheraked leaves.

The

nightbefore

we

weretogo backtoChapelHill,

Ben

called.

RonRash 2

“Listen,”he said. “Don’ttake thispersonal butIputina requestto liveinJohnson

Dorm.

It’scloserto

my

labs.

They

told

me

it

would

take a couple of

weeks

to

make

the switch,sowe’llbe

rooming

together afewdays. IsthatO.K.?”

“Sure,”Isaid. “Inever asked youto

room

withme. That

was

youridea.”

“Iguessthat’sright,”

Ben

said, asifhe had forgotten. “Ithink

we

needto talkaboutwhat happened,”I said.

“What

do

you

want

me

tosay?”

Ben

asked, thenanswered his

own

question.

“You

want

me

to say I’m eaten up with guilt.

Well,Idon’tfeelbadatall,and I’mnothypocritical

enough

to

pre-tendIdo. It

was

anaccident,andithappenedtoa

dumb,

mean

red-neck. It’s not like the world’s lost

some

great contributor to

mankind. Butdo Iwishithad never happened? Sure.

And

that’s

more

than Cecil

would

havefeltitifhad happened tome.”

“You

don’t

know

that,”Isaid. “I feel badaboutthiseven

if

you

don’t.”

“You

shouldn’t,”

Ben

said. “It’s on

my

conscience, not yours,andifyou’restupid

enough

to feelbadabout nottellingwhat

happened, let

me

ease your mind. All that

would

have done

was

riskruining

two

lives insteadof one.”

Ididn’tsay anythingelseto

Ben

aboutthewreck, notthat

night oranyothernight. Theredidn’t

seem

tobe anypoint.

Ben

went on to medical school at Emory.

He

did his internship atBoston General, marrying afellow intern. He’s

now

a G.P.in aBostonsuburb.

I do not

know

if

Ben

is haunted by what happened that

summer. Idonot

know

if

when

he

worked

the

emergency

room

at Boston General he

was

remindedof Cecileachtimehe looked into the face of a

wreck

victim. Perhaps he

saw

so

many

damaged

humans

thatCecil

became

one

more

blurred faceonthe

emergency

room’s assembly line ofcatastrophe, an unlikable

man who

from his point of view

—

unlike the eight-year-old child or pregnant

woman

he might minister to

—

had

some

responsibility for what

had happened tohim.

As

my

sisterandI walkedoutto

my

carlastweek, I

saw

Cecilrunning a

weed

eaterin frontofthejuniorcollege’s

adminis-tration building.

He

held it in front of

him

as if it were a metal

detector.

He

looked likea

man

searchingfor something lost long ago.

Kelly

Ergle

1972

Rubber

rippingrubber

—

transporting

smoke

swirlingtrees on

mushroom

clouds Hendrixrattlingeight trackradio

—

My

father

high

pressed against an

A-cup

aspiring actress sweatonleather seats

—

briefandbare

Escaping

themother-abandoned

home

the piano-filled airgone

now

contaminated withthestench ofman.

Kelly

Ergle

The

Back Door

Allthe strengthittakes

toleaveyour world

toopenthisdoortohumidifiedair

isn’tworththepain of

my

collapsing lungs

andthesoundof vertebraeshattering

Kelly

Ergle

Untitled

Itdoesn’t matterwhatfacade

you

pick

soldier

WallStreetsuit

professional athlete.

I’ll

know

the

way

you

entera

room

—

behindclothesyoucan’t afford.

The

next time though, I might notbe here

—

waiting legsspread backarched licking clean the staccato rays.

Denise

C.

Deaton

The Organ

Recital

A

crowd

gatherstoheartheold

man

play. Thereis somethingspiritualin his hands andfeet asheglorifiesourgreat king.

With

every noteheplays, a certaintype of

drama

fillsthesmall room.

Then

he talks.

A

picturehe

now

paints forus,

oneof

Holy Manna.

I lookatthepeople as Ireceivea blessing.

The

old

hymns

received intheirgold splendor.

The newer

worksthan can

move

onetotears.

Some

getwhat I’mgetting.

One

distractedfromher

work

to listen.

Her

thesiscan wait.

A

profcloses hiseyes totake inthe beauty.

Yawns

trying tobe hiddenintheback

whileagirlwrites apoem.

Oh

how

strange!

Expectedtobeboring andsodull

Tara Hostetler

Night

Club

Massaging honey from the ivories,

digitsdance,

thenpause

wait forthe

muse

todescendagain between smoke-filled walls wheregreyveils eachblurryface undertherumbleofpoliteconversation. Bodiesdrowning

demons

inaseaoficeandfireonleathercoveredchairs.

Someone

laughs too loudly

then fadesbackinto the din.

And

the figureonthe dark beast

poundshisagony onblack andwhiteteeth

prophesying, pleading, praying

for release.

Tara

Hostetler

Untitled

A

war

no one understood

—

you

joinedfor discipline, benefits, forlackofanythingbettertodo.

John Doe, yourtwisted torso caked

brown

withdirt,sweat, blood.

Promises abandoned. Riddled withregret.

Your

body

dancedeerily as thenameless

man

Les

Brown

Loops

and

Fireworks

North Cove, NorthCarolinaliesinoneof

“The Loops”

of

the Clinchfield Railroad, a series of switchbacks that gently descendthe rugged Blueridge Mountains from Spruce Pine.

The

grade is

gouged

through nineteen tunnels and

many

deep cuts to

leveloutin the foothillsatMarion.

The

railroad carries coalfrom theminesof

West

Virginiaand Kentuckytothe southeastcoast.

Among

my

mostvivid

memories

ofNorth

Cove

are those

ofthehugeblacksteam locomotives andthelonesomewailofthe whistle. I

remember

thesoundabruptlydyingas thetrainwentinto Honeycutt Tunnel behind the house where I

was

born.

The

hot boxes of the brakes

glowed

bright red as hundreds of wheels pressed against the steep four-mile loop.

High

clouds of steam rushed fromthe stacks on cold winterdays as the powerful loco-motives crawled upthe mountains.

Now

andthenoneofthetrains

derailed, foldingitselfina cutor

down

afill,interrupting theslow pace ofthe valley. Folks

would

rush topick up the free coal for theirwinter fires; I always

hoped

forcandy or toys.

Sometimes

a

hot

box would

break, sendingglowing steeloff the tracks,catching

themountain onfire.

The

men

ofthecove

would

hurrytokeepthe

firefromracing withtheconvicting

wind

up the sideofthe

moun-tain.

North

Cove

had a little depot on the Clinchfield called Linville Station.

The

name

didn’t

make

sense butthe wealthy

who

summered

fifteen miles

away

in the resorttownofLinville wanted the

name

recognition. Until the late 1940’s the station served

pas-senger trains

which

have since disappeared from the route.

Ironically,as isolatedfromtheworldas

we

were,

we

could catchthe

train to anywhere fromjust a mile up the road.

We

can’t do that

today.

The

depot also served a huge packinghouse

owned

by

Ed

Robbins.

He

hauled shrubberyfrom Blue Ridge NurseryatPineola,

aboutten milesupLinvilleMountain, tobeshipped out byrail.

My

familyhadaverydifferentpurposeforthe depot.

We

used it as a

way

to get fireworks, which were illegal in North

Carolina.

We

had great shipments brought in

from

Zebra Fireworks

Company

up north.

We

saved our

money

all yearand poured overtheZebracatalogforourChristmas order;

we

bought

them

bythe case. Excitementbuiltfor

weeks

untilthetrainbrought the prizedcargo.

The

Christmasfireworks displayandthepowerfulreports

of

now

illegal

M80s,

double shots, aerial and cherry

bombs

were

shared by the

whole

valley.

My

dad

was

never content with the

power

ofthefireworks.

He

alwayswantedthe biggest,loudest

aer-ial

bomb

everbuilt.

Maybe

it

was

because he

was

theyoungestand

smallestoffivebrothers.

So

he searchedall ofthecatalogsofthe

fireworks companies for the pinnacle of power.

He

found it. Everyone

would

know

that the explosion that

was

to rock the silencefromathousandfeetabovethevalley

was

causedby

Gene

Brown’s big red ten-dollar aerial

bomb.

It stood eighteen inches highwith a diameter of fourinches,a five-inchfuseanda six-inch

square

wooden

base. It

was

magnificent,

made

by Black Cat FireworksinAkron, Ohio.

The

money

he savedforit

would

have

boughta largeassortment of

Roman

candles, rockets,doubleshots,

pinwheels, fountains, ladyfingers, sideloaders and Cherrybombs, notcountingtheregularlittlefirecrackerswiththegraypaperfuses that

came

in packs you could light all at once. Instead, all ofhis

money

wentforthebig show.

Dad

was

atthedepotearlyeachday.

He

satwaiting on oneofthebiggreenfreight

wagons

onthe

plat-form besidethe tracks. Finallyone day, thetrainhissedto a stop.

Sam

Brown,

the station master, shoved the latchopen, disappear-ing into thedarkness ofared boxcar.

He

came

backwith a single

box

and handedit

down

toDad,labelsideup. “To

GENE

BROWN

from

“BLACK CAT

FIREWORKS.”

Dad’sheartracedashe

gen-tlycarried thebox away.

Christmas

Eve

night

was

the time for the fireworks. Everyone converged on

Grandad

and Grandmother’s house for Christmas celebrations: Santa Claus,eating, raucous drinking and exchanging gifts;it lasted fordays.

Dad

was

going toputthe cap-stoneonthe fireworks withhisaerial

bomb.

He

tookthe marvel a safe distancefrom the house, placing it on the groundwith itsred

shaft pointing menacingly skyward.

He

struck the match: “Take cover,

men!” The

match touchedthe thick fuse. “Tssssss,”it

ignit-ed. With fingers stuck firmly in their ears, uncles and

younguns

woodpile, under dense boxwoods, and behindthelattice underthe

porch.

The

women

squintedintothedarkness throughthe

windows

—

then,a thick silenceof expectation. Strainingeyes could seethe

dim

fuse sputteringits sparksintothecold nightair.

The

silence and

my

dad’s spirit were broken by a quiet

“pffftt,” as a puff of

smoke

weakly ejaculated from the big red

cylinder. Anothersilenceprecededthehumiliationheaped on

him

byhisbrothers.

Undaunted,

Dad

turnedtodynamite.

He

begandetonating whole sticks from low limbs oftrees on thehill above our house.

Windows

rattledforamileup and

down

the valley.

The

deep

rum-ble

bounced

around for half a minute between Linville and Honeycutt Mountains. Shattered scrub pine limbs and compli-ments from all were testaments to his revenge on the Black Cat Fireworks

Company

ofAkron,Ohio.

Toonie

McGee

(his

name

was

really Julius)

was

a friend

ofthe family

who

joined the Christmas fireworks traditions.

He

andhis wifeLara were

coming

to visit

my

Grandad

and

Grandma

one crisp

December

day intheir

Model

A

coupe. Uncle

Hud

was

coming

too, buthe

was

walkingjustup the road fromthe house. Toonie and Lara wererattlingalongintheircar

when

they

saw

him. Toonie liked practicaljokes and decided to throw a cherry

bomb

outofthe

Model

A

window

nearUncle

Hud

toscarehim.

A

cher-ry

bomb

isapowerfulfirecrackeraboutthesize,shape andcolorof

a large dull red cherrywithafuseforastem.

A

match

was

struck; thejoy of anticipation caused Lara and Toonie to laugh inside with perverted pride at their prank. Their adrenalineburnedlikethe fuse,

now

lit.

Toonie slowed

down

and pitched the

bomb

with its

siz-zlingstem towardUncle Hud, one minordetailforgotten.

The

win-dow

inthecar

was

stillrolledfirmlyupagainst thecoldwind.

The

cherry

bomb

bouncedoff the

window

andfussedaround inside the

caras thoughit

knew

whatdevilishdeed it

was

abouttodo.

My

dad

saw

the activityfrom the frontporchofGrandad’s house.

He

described a metallic sound,

“FRANK!”

as the

bomb

jabbedagainst the sheetmetalinside thelittlecoupe.

A

blue

translu-cent cloud filled the inside ofthe car and pressed against the win-dows.

The

little Ford veered off the road into the grain stubble. Bothdoorssprungopenlikethe wingsofascaredchickentrying to

avoid

becoming Sunday

dinner. Toonie and Lararolled

awkwardly

LesBrown 3

ontothegroundas thelittleFord squirmed toa driverless stop.

The

ringing in then* ears, and a few scratches and scrapes weretemporary remindersthatwouldsustaintheirembarrassmentfor therestofthe holidays. Butthewitnesseswouldneverletthemforget.

The

Clinchfield notonly brought uscommercial

pyrotech-nics; italso unwittingly providedus with othercreative fireworks.

We

would

get torpedoes, called “tarpeters,” from people

who

worked

onthe railroad. Thesequarter-pound

brown

waxed

paper-wrapped

deviceswerebulgingflatobjects thatlookedlikebigstale

ravioli.

They

were filled with blackpowder.

Two

lead straps on

opposite sides were usedtoanchor

them

to therails.

When

trains

ranoverthem, they

would

detonate withaloudreporttosignalthe

engineersofdangerahead.

We

put

them

on creek rocksunderthe foot-log crossing the

Hog

Branch on the path from Grandad’s housetohis

bam.

We

would

dropanotherheavyrockoffthe

foot-logonthetarpeter.

The

loud explosion

would

splitthequietnessof

the valley,sometimes therocks aswell.

The

railroad gaveus the

means

to

make

anotherinsidious

device:blackpowder,fromacouple ofshotgunshells,

was

dumped

into the cavity ofa large railroad nutwith a bolt screwed a short

distanceinoneside.

A

secondbolt

was

screwedintothe otherend trapping the black

powder

inside the nut between two bolts. It

couldbedropped onarockto striketheendofoneofthebolts,

det-onatingthe

powder

withaloud explosion.

Uncle Walterbuiltone ofthe contraptionsexceptthat he

dumped

thecontents oftwotarpetersinthenutinsteadoftheusual

measure fromthe shells.

He

stoodproud withhiscreation onthe foot-log,helditovertheedge,tookaim and droppedittowardabig rock below.

The

loudshockstripped thethreadsofthe nutandsent the big rusty bolt straight up. It clipped off the end of Uncle Walter’s cigar on its

way

to knockinghis floppy felt hat into the

Hog

Branchbelow.

No

oneever heardthe bolt return toearth.

Today, cheering crowds ofstrangers sit on the hoods of

cars listeningto

Reba

and watchingthebrilliantFourth of July

Fire-worksatthe Mall.

Then

they drive

away

marveling attheshow.

Roman

candles cradled in little eager hands, held gently

by big leathery farmhands, send glowing spheres of colored light

into the night.

The

fadeoverwheatstubble intothesilentdarkness ofChristmas eveinNorthCove.

The

brightjoy binding us togeth-erfades in

my

memory.

Kim

Blanton

Oddities

watercolor, 15'’x 19’'

Erik

Wince

Eyes Watching

Ignacio

Arana

The

True Gospel

acrylicon canvas,27”x 20”

Charlie

Baber

Broad

River Coffee Co.

Stacey

Homesley

Green Feet

watercolor, 15” x 21”

Emily Davis

Box Forms

Kim

Blanton

Sitting Pretty

watercolor, 11” x 15”

CHRIST!

HALLIS

Social

Commentary

4”x 6”

Andy

Greene

Untitled

Colorfulconfetti fallslikerain

asthetall,green

man

waves

his arms andcries.

The

blue

box

of sunshine covershis pain; strippednaked, he’s abandonedto die.

Music

thatonce filledtheairisreplaced by tearing fleshandbreaking limbs.

Pasthis

body

crawls aghostwithnoface

who

whispers secretsofthe

coming

end.

A

white sheetisplacedoverhisbody.

He

remainsbreathing underdarkness

—

clawingthegroundto satisfy hisneed forsomethingtofeedlifeinto his chest.

Tears ofjoy stream

down

his

body

andbring

lifeto theworld;birds lifttheir heartsandsing.

Andy

Greene

Untitled

Truth

would

be

known

if

my

thoughtswereheard.

Words

fail me.

My

heartwhispers butsilencecrowdstheair.

She

asksforachance;

Igive aninsult.

My

eyesneversee

the lacerations of herheart.

Her dream

is someone’sreality.

She

sits indarkness.

Andy

Greene

Untitled

Apartfrom You, I

am

nothing buta fragile

man

hidingunderacolorfulrobe anda

crown

ofpride.

Icannotwalk on

my

own

andwill slipandcrashtothebottomoflife;

remembering

that falling

down

isn’tgraceful,

Tim

D.

Livingston

Peace

Sign

(WTC)

Two

fingers

Once

stoodonthehorizon

asapeacesign

Symbols

of prosperity

You

despised

Nothingcould express

my

rage

Here’stoignorance

Here’sto thespiritoffalse religion

Here’sto senselesskillinginthe

name

ofyourillusion

I’m notheologian, but I

know:

The

love oflife

isthebeginningofreligion

The

loss oflifeatthehandsof “holy

men”

Jennifer Carlile

Landfall

"Hey

Jill. I

saw

MargieFortenberryat Ingles yesterday."

They

had finally

managed

to pull two sheets over the big oak wardrobe

Emmie

hadinthedownstairs hallway,andtheywere

tak-ing inventoryofwhat

was

lefttocover.

"Really?" Jill droppedthe piece ofplastic she

was

hold-ing. "Shit."

She

pickeditup and threwitoverthehall tree. "Did

you

talk toher?"

Everybody

knew

about Margie and Earl being backintown,andtherewereallsortsofrumorsaboutwherethey'd been and whatthey'ddone.

"Yeah. Isaid,'HeyMargie.

How

was

Germany?'

And

she

said, 'It'sAnna.

And Germany

was

veryGerman."'

"What

did

you

say?" Jillthoughtaboutthelasttimeshe'd

seenMargie.

She

andEarlhadjustfinished their30hours of

com-munityservice for

jumping

off the

Second

StreetBridge.

They

cel-ebratedbygettingwastedintheonly clubintown. Margie had one leg

wrapped

aroundEarl,andtheydancedso close theylookedlike

one person. It

was

the nearest thing to sex you could have with yourclothes on.

"I said, 'well,

Auf

Weidersehen, meine bitch.'"

Emmie

laughed, andso didJill. "I

was

gladI

remembered enough

German

totell heroff. Ican't believeMargieis sofull ofherself; she used

tobe fun."

Emmie

arranged aplastic sheetoverasmall table, the

last piece offurniture left in the hallway. "There. I'll start in the hallway and

work

my

way

upthestairs."

"Are you sure you want to paint the stairs themselves? You'llbe stuckupthere until they're dry." Jill shivered.

"Eitherway,I'm stucksomewhere.

Up

or

down.

I'll

make

myself

two

peanut butter sandwiches and put

them

in

my

bed-room,"

Emmie

said. "I'vegotabunchof

Cokes

inthatlittle

refrig-eratorin themusic room, and there'sabagof potin there,too. I'll

be fine."

Emmie

was

getting thatdeer-in-the-headlights looknow,

which

meant

it

was

timeforherto startpainting. She

would

prob-ably still be painting well into the evening.

Once

Emmie

had set

outtopaint thekitchencabinets,andbythetime she

was

finished, she'd alsopaintedthewallsandthe downstairsbathroom.

Jill wantedtoask

more

about Margie, orAnna,asshe

now

insistedon being called.

What

happened overthere in

Germany?

ButJill

knew

betterthanto start inonthatnow.

Emmie

wantedher

toleave.

"Okay. I'm going.I

may

stopby tonightifIgetbored,"

Jillsaid.

Emmie

nodded. She

was

already painting in her mind,

applying straighthighways of colorto the

brown

landscape ofthe

steps. Otherpeoplehad ceasedto exist. Sheheardthe back door

shut,andshe

went

into thekitchento

make

those sandwiches.

*: i:_*

Jill had heard all the stories about

how

Earl Morris and MargieFortenberry

jumped

off theSecond StreetBridgeone

warm

night, gotarresteda quarterofa miledownstream, and avoidedjail

bypickingup trashalongthe highway every Saturdayforamonth. In one version ofthe story, they held hands and

jumped

together. OtherpeoplesworeEarlwentfirst,followedbyascreamingMargie. ButJill suspected Margie led the way,while Earldid his best to keep up. Margie had a well-deserved reputation for

risk-taking: for years, high school boys swore they'd visited Margie's house after dark and that she'd relieved their stress manually through her

bedroom

window.

Anybody

who'd do that wouldn't

hesitate to

jump

offabridge with hercluelessboyfriend.

For

months

afterthejump, Margie andEarlhad beenlocal

heroes. People expected

them

to settle

down

after theirbig night on the bridge. Instead, they'd

moved

to Germany, the last thing

anybody

hadexpected.

***

Once, ona dare, Jilldrove all the

way

toMadison, Wisconsin. It

was

the dayafter theirhigh school graduation, and

sheand

Emmie

had been sittingon

Emmie's

back deck drinking

beer.

Emmie's

olderbrother

was

there, too, andin a

mood.

"Look

atyou.

Two

good-lookinggirlswasting

away

the summer."

"Well,hell,

we

justgraduated," said

Emmie.

Shefinished

herbeerinalonggulp.

"Would

youget

me

another one?"

He

grumbled, butwentinside for the beer.

He

came

out with two,andhandedthesecondtoJill. "That's the thing,

Em. You

havetohaveaplanat least, oryou'llbothbe drinking beeron this

same

porch

come

August.

The

onlydifferenceisyou'llhavetans."

"Justbecause we're here

now

doesn't

mean

we'll be here

all summer," Jillsaid, as sherubbedanotherlayerof suntan lotion onher arms.

"So what do

you two

haveplanned?"

"We

don'thaveanything planned, but..."

"And

you're notgoingtodoa

damned

thingbutsiton your

assesallday and

work

at

McDonald's

allnight."

He

winked

atJill, whichinfuriatedher.

"ForgetMcDonald's," Jillsaid, fiercely. "We'll go

some-where

tomorrow."

"Like where?"

Emmie

was

startled

enough

to put her drink

down.

"Anywhere. Bring usamap."

"Goddammit!

I

am

notyourservant," he snapped.

"Fine. Ijustthought

you

mightwantto

come

along." Jill

knew

what

worked

with

Emmie's

brother and had been sleeping with

him

on the sly for the past three

months

whilehis

new

girl-friendguardedhervirginitylikeaprizedruby.

He

slammed

the back door behind him, but returned with a

map

ofthe United States. Jillspread itoutonthedeck andthey

all looked at it, waiting for inspiration. Finally,

Emmie

asked,

"Where

should

we

go?"

Before he had a chance to say anything smartass, Jill

spoke. "Blindfold

him

and let

him

pickthe spot. Butit hasto be

inAmerica," shesaid,emphatically.

His finger landed on Madison, and they left the next morning at fouro'clock. Jill likeddriving so much, shedrove all the way.

They

found a cheap moteloutside the city, stayed three

days, thendrovebacktoCartersville,Georgia,wherethey spentthe

rest ofthe

summer

working, partying, and feeling as though they

had accomplished somethingimportant,thoughnoneof

them

could puta

name

toit.

Jill surprised herfriendsby going to

Community

College

that fall. She

worked

hard, earned her Associate's in a yearand a

half, andtook abookkeeping jobattheshirtfactory

when

she

fin-ished.

Ten

years later,she

was

still there.

After leaving Emmie's, Jill drove absentmindedly to the

Mexican

restaurantandordered

two

beefburritos anda margarita. Jill ate quickly, then sipped her drink and stared out the window.

She

wondered what

people ate in Germany. Sauerkraut and sausage, she guessed.

And

beer. Jill

moved

to an outside table

where

she could

smoke

and watchthe cars passby. After awhile, she ordered another margaritaand

some

chipstokeepitcompany.

***

Jill letherselfin

when

Emmie

didn'tanswerthe doorbell.

She

wenttotheedgeofthe stairs.

"Emmie?

Are

you upthere?"

"Jill? Isthatyou?"

"Yeah.

Why

didn'tyou answerthedoor?"

"Ican't."

"Why

not?

Are

you hurt?" Jill put out her foot, then

stopped,

remembering

the paint.

"No. I'mstuck."

Emmie's

voice

seemed

to

come

fromfar away. Jillleaned inas faras shecould withoutlosingher balance, butshecouldn't see

Emmie.

"Well,you

knew

that

was

goingtohappen." "No. I'm reallystuck, Jill."

"Where

areyou, exactly?" Jill lookedupatthe ceiling.

"Right overyourhead. In thecornerunderthewindow. I

got alittlecarriedaway."

"You

paintedthe floorupthere, didn'tyou?"

"Yeah."

Emmie's

voicetrailed off, then

came

back. "But

itlooksgreat

-

thiscolorisexactlywhat Ineeded. Icouldn't stop

when

Igottothe landing. Everythingupherelookedso drab

com-paredto thestairs."

Jill flipped the light switch. "They do look good," she agreed.

Emmie

always chose the right color.

"Thanks. Hey, Jill. Could you do something for

me?"

Sweet

Emmie

was

back, the morning's bitchiness obviously exor-cised through painting.

"Sure."

"Could you get

me

some

food?

Emmie's

voice creaked

Ineedajoint. Ileftthesandwiches andthepotinthemusic room, thenIpaintedright pastit." She soundedwild.

"SureIwill. But

how

doI getitto you?" Jilllooked up thesteepwalls,thought she couldthrowasandwich up and overthe

rails,but

Emmie

was

toofarbacktoreachit.

'Tvebeenthinking aboutthat. Ican

jump

fromhereto

my

bedroom

without screwing up the paint toomuch. If

you

go out-sideandstandunderthewindow,I'lllower something

down

toyou.

Okay?"

"Okay."

"Jill?"

"Yeah?" "Thanks."

Jillwentinto thekitchenthatshe

knew

aswellasherown. She found cheese and leftover chicken in the refrigerator,

made

Emmie

a sandwich with plenty of both and a little mayonnaise.

From

thecabinetsover the counter,Jill tookasmall bag of potato chipsandabrownie

wrapped

in plastic.

She

grabbeda

Coke

from the fridge, and surveyed the lunch. It

was

plenty; even hungry,

Emmie

probablywouldn'teatitall. Sheput everythingina plastic

grocery bag,addedacouple ofjointsandalighter, andtiedtheends

ofthebagtightly.

Emmie

was

leaning outthe

window when

Jill

came

out-side. Jill held the bag up, and

Emmie

nodded. "I'vegotjust the

thing." Sheheldasmallwickerbasket;Jillrecognizeditas theone she kept on the dresser to hold her earrings.

Emmie

was

tying somethinggreytothe basket'shandle.

"What

areyoudoing?"

"Tying

my

shoestrings to this basket. I could only find

four pairs of shoes with strings, so that'll have to do. Okay, I'm sending it down.

Watch

your head."

The

basket

came

rushing

towardJill,bangingagainst the sideofthehouseas ittraveled. Jill

thought about Margie, flying toward the water, not afraid of the

cold or the current.

The

basket stopped, spun upwards, then

down

again about

two

feetaboveJill's head.

"Dammit!"

From

Jill's perspective,

Emmie's

facelooked

like awalnut.

"Lean out a little.

Not

too far,

Emmie."

Was

that what Margie had done? Didshe think aboutthe dropfirst,orjusttakea deepbreathand fling herselfoverthe edge?

The

most dangerous thing Jill had ever done

was

sleep

around, but allherfriends had donethat.

None

of

them

had

trav-eled outsideAmerica.

Only

Jilland

Emmie

had lefttheSoutheast, andthen onlythatonetime.

Did jumping

off thebridgethatnight

make

Margie fearless? Jill stared atthe side ofthe house, forget-ting all about

Emmie,

thefoodinherhand,

why

she

was

there.

"Jill! Is this enough?"

Emmie

was

bent almost double, dangling likeapieceof laundry left onthe line. Jill looked up

—

firstat

Emmie,

then atthe basket,hanging overher head. Jill had

to stretch,butshecould reachit.

"Iputa lighterinthere,too,incaseyou need one."

"Thanks,Jill. Imighthavestarved todeath ifyouhadn't

come

backby."

"I doubt that."

Emmie

had the basket now.

She

unwrapped

it, and took a few quick bites of the sandwich. She openedthe chipsandate several, then

popped

the topon the

Coke

and drankhalfofit. Jillsmiled. Shehadn'tseen

Emmie

enjoyfood that

much

sincetheywere inhigh school.

"God, thisisgreat!"

Emmie

atemostofthe sandwich

—

everything butthecrusts,whichshethrewback

down

forthe birds. She finished the Coke, too, and Jill offered to get her another.

When

she

came

back outside with

Coke number

two, Jill looked up,atthebasket

coming

her

way

again.

"Emmie,

do you wantto go on a trip? I've gotvacation days I need to take. I'll drive." Jill pictured the

map

they had spread out on the deck ten years ago. All the expressways like

arteries and veins pulsing from their little

town

to all the other towns and cities she'd neverseen.

They

were still there, and she

was

still here. Thatcould change, though. Jill placedthedrink in

the basket andwatched

Emmie

pull itup.

Emmie

popped

the top anddrank.

"Emmie.

Do

you?"

"Do

I what?"

Emmie

frowned.

"Do

you wanttotakeatrip?

We

coulddrive

my

car, and

we

can packacoolerfull offoodanddrinkstosavemoney."

"A

trip?"

Emmie

soundedconfused. Jill

wondered

ifthe paintfumes had gottento her.

"Yeah. Let'sgo somewhere." "Where?"

"I can't afford to close the flower shop for

more

than a coupleof days, butIguess

we

couldgo toChattanooga."

"No,

Emmie.

Not

Chattanooga." Jill felt a pain in her stomach, but she wasn't hungry. "Let's go someplace

we

haven't been.

And

let'sstay long

enough

toseeit."

"Like I said,I can't afford tobe

away

thatlong. Butyou should go,Jill.

Go

someplacegreatandthen tell

me

allabout it."

Emmie

finishedthe

Coke

andsighed. "I really likethe

new

color.

Everything looks so

much

betternow."

Jill

nodded

in

Emmie's

direction, but she

was

thinking about Margie.

Would

she have

jumped

off the bridgeby herself? Jillfeltthepaininherstomach again.

What

ifit

was

allEarl? Jill suddenlyhadanother visionofthatnightonthebridge. Inthis ver-sion, Earl talks Margie intojumping.

They

hold hands, and she screams all the

way

down.

Maybe

Margie

was

justalong for the

ride. Jillshookher head.

"What's wrong,Jill?"

Emmie

said. "Is abee afteryou?" "No.

My

head hurts," Jill lied. "I'd betterget

home.

Do

you

needanything beforeIleave?"

"Yeah.

A

bigger bladder. Nah, really. I'll manage.

Thanks

fortaking care of me."

“No

problem." Jill drove straight

home.

She looked aroundthe living

room

untilshefoundherAtlas,agiftfrom

Triple-A.

She

satwithitonherlap alongtime before shefinally opened

ittothecomplete

map

oftheUnited States. Laidoutthatway, the

country looked so organized

—

manageable, even. All those red andbluelinescrossingall thosestateboundaries,alltheimaginary linesshecouldcross, too, ifshe wanted. JillpushedtheAtlasaway, stoodup, andspread herarms wide.

She

spunherselfarounduntil

blood

pounded

like a spring flood in her veins, until she stopped thinking about Margie and

Emmie

and

how

all oftheir lives had turned out.

When

she couldn't stay on her feet any longer, she slumped

down

besidethe openAtlasand letherfingerlandwhere itwould.

JenniferCarlile 5