The path #10 layout

3. Winter 2015 $8.99
The Path
A Literary Magazine
©Elaine Westphal

5. The Path
A Literary Magazine
Winter 2015
“A can of worms”
The Path is taken by all writers. The Path to Publication can be long
and arduous. This publication is dedicated to straightening and
shortening that path. Please enjoy the work of authors who have
chosen to take the path to publication.

6. Editor-in-Chief:
Mary J. Nickum
Managing Editor:
Dian Butler
Founding Editor
R. J. Buckley
Assistant Editor:
Caitlin Demo
Copyeditor:
Pattie Angelucci
Book Reviewer:
John G. Nickum
Contributing Authors:
Dian Butler
Douglas G. Campbell
Richard Lloyd Cederberg
Tatjana Debeljački
Bruce Louis Dodson
Steven G. Farrell
Claire T. Feild
Raymond Greiner
Thomas M. McDade
Budd Nelson
Hal O’Leary
Richard King Perkins II
Tom Sheehan
Elaine Westphal
Eva Willis
Tim Wilkinson
Advisory Board:
Pattie Angelucci
Dr. John G. Nickum
Catherine Becker Reynolds
The Path is published by Path to
Publication Group, Inc. with the purpose
of providing quality works to the reading
public. It is our wish also to provide a
venue not only for established authors, but
to open another door for new writers to
make their entrance into the literary world.
Submission guidelines can be found at the
end of the book after the contributor bio
information.
Correspondence should be directed to the
Editor-in-Chief, Mary J. Nickum,
mjnickum@thepathmagazine.com
Published semi-annually. Single copies,
$8.99 Arizona residents add sales tax.
Ezine, - $3.99.
For libraries - $10 per issue.
Subscriptions: $16 per year
website: www.thepathmagazine.com
ISBN: 978-1522821502
ISSN: 2165-9540 print
ISSN: 2167-1737 online
Copyright 2015
The Path to Publication Group, Inc.
All rights reserved.
All purchases are tax-deductible

7. TABLE OF CONTENTS
Volume 5, Number 2 Winter 2015
Poetry Poetry
Douglas G. Campbell
Richard Lloyd Cederberg
Tatjana Debeljački
Bruce Lois Dodson
Claire T. Feild
Richard King Perkins II
Tom Sheehan
Elaine Westphal
Eva Willis
10
12
14
24
25
29
30
33
34
3 Poems
More than just reflections
Kuća od stakla
Opus
6 Poems
Dichotomy of Nimbus
Hill of the Blue Goose
Just My Sister and Me
What Cost Compassion?
Poetic Essays
Richard L. Cederberg
Elaine Westphal
Dian Butler
37
41
43
Poetic Essays
The Man Who Had Dwelt in the Cabin
Recollections of Mom
A Time to Hurry
Short Stories
Claire T. Feild
Steven G. Farrell
Thomas M. McDade
Budd Nelson
Tom Sheehan
Tim Wilkinson
Essays
Steven G. Farrell
Hal O’Leary
46
47
49
50
51
53
61
78
84
90
98
100
123
142
152
Short Stories
Mumie
Aunt Juanita
Front Yard Games
Goose Egg Park
Mary’s World
The Count and the Captain
Antimacassar
Liar’s Reward
An Awed Submersion
Comet with A Nasty Tale
Dear Lady of My Night’s Rush
One Oh for Tillie
He Ain’t Heavy
Essays
Mr. James T. Farrell and Mr. Steven G.
Farrell;(Goofing off on the corner of 58th
and Calumet with James T. Farrell, Studs
Lonigan and the Gang)
My Son, Sean

8. “For [a] born writer, nothing is so healing as the
realization that he has come upon the right word.”
—Catherine Drinker Bowen
Novella
Raymond Grenier
Book Review
John G. Nickum
Puzzle Solution
163
238
242
Novella
Millie and Ami
Book Review
The Big Burn. Teddy Roosevelt and
the Fire that Saved America.
Puzzle Solution
Biographies of Contributors 243
Submission Guidelines 249
Advertisements

9. Poetry
17th-century English poet John Milton

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Douglas G. Campbell
Earthsleep
Hibernation gently folds
winter’s gray hills
beneath frost and snow.
Below soil and stone
deep down among roots
gathered and harvested,
down where the pulse of the earth
is radiant and strong
where the sap is swaddled
but surging within slumber,
waiting to awaken
and flow back to the light—
there dwells summer’s heart.
Catalpa
October has arrived
and the Catalpa tree
is dropping its twisted
seed pods. Those bland
light green oversized
leaves are yellowing
in readiness to return to
earth. Soon rain will pound
and winds will tug and
battered leaves will drop
from exhaustion. A cold
rest, a long dark
silent sleep awaits.

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Enunciation
Collect the words
gather them in as they
swoop, swirl or drift.
The ether is overfilled
with pronunciation;
syllables are free for the taking.
rake up adjectives and verbs
bind up adverbs and nouns.
Eventually, when the air is asleep
when silence and emptiness
surrounds your ears, and
you need to shout,
then, if you have saved enough
you can unfurl them endlessly,
stitching sentences into banners,
regalia, tapestries, quilts—
give pattern and measure
to what otherwise would remain a mute,
unarticulated effluvium.

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Richard Lloyd Cederberg
More than just reflections
You were the
Refractory soul,
Willing to be touched,
In a peculiar kind of faith
Reaching out, - round-eyed -
Not knowing whether a monster
Would eat you, or if you would be
Wrapped cozily in the honey of
An unexampled apotheosis
In an arcane way,
It made more sense when
You were ingenuous; when you
Were eager to be known; when you
Journeyed beyond those most dreaded
Limitations; when you danced to the tunes
Of sage echoes; when you cast out your
Throbbing heart upon the waters of
Chance and foresaw harvesting
And your verve stained me,
And your mysteries lingered,
AND
When I felt you, and a
Flame of curiosity enkindled,
I knew there was more at work
Than our self-centered imaginings;
Something was happening that would
Absolve the dark places (in YOU) to illume
A languishing heart eager for more than
The drivel of poetic clambering

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And you were more than anyone
Could hope for – a vision – an arrant
Provoking ghost, an anthem to the bliss
Of sempiternal hypothesis, and you deftly
Worked the magic of shadows and teased;
And when it was understood that you were
Revered, you controlled those in your web
With the shrewdest of BRILLIANCE
Even embracing the chesty
Quasimodo TYPES with affected
Impressions of humility; and stomaching
Backwards reviews and keyboard hieroglyphs
As if these threadbare distortions were inroads
To some fresh new level of creative nirvana
It was then that you became more
Human than goddess, but I held you
Dear even more …
And now as the river winds further
Into the distance, and the once leaping
Flames of vision settle into smoldering embers,
I call back those cherished rare moments when
The ripples of stirring between two souls - willing
To go beyond limits – adopted together a warming
Light and became, for a season, more than just reflections


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Tatjana Debeljački
KUĆA OD STAKLA ガラスの家 A
HOUSE MADE OF GLASS
New book Tatjana Debeljački タチアナ
デベリャスキー
Serbian Japanese and English
KUĆA OD STAKLA
Kuća od stakla.
U njoj poslednja predstava,
poslednje rolanje,
uloga koja nema cenu.
ljubavnici, na rastanku
letite, letite.
Dugo, dugo suzbijajte svoja ćutanja.
U mrkoj noći, jedna zvezda je bar tvoja.
ガラスの家
ガラスでできた家
そこで与えられる最後の演技
最後の役割
掛け値のない役割
恋人たちよ、愛撫しつつ

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飛んでゆけ、飛んで
長く、長くあなたたちの沈黙に耐えよ
夜の闇で、少なくとも一つの星はあなたがたのもの
。
A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS
A house made of glass.
The last performance is given there,
Last role,
A role without a price.
Lovers, on your parting
Fly away, fly.
For long, for long restrain your silence.
In the dark of night, at least one star belongs to you.
Critic/ 講評
AGAINST CONVENTIONALITY
(Tatjana Debeljacki – THE HOUSE MADE OF GLASS)
Although a title was not always about the nature or the real
identity of the collection gathered between the front and the back
book covers, it has always, or almost always, emphasized a path
to follow in order to figure out writer’s intention or mission. The
poems in Tatjana Debeljacki’s collection – The House Made of
Glass, along with poet’s sincerity in the conventional statement
and ethic-aesthetic obligation, construct the “house of view and
reflection”. One can look through glass, but can see the own

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reflection as well. Like a mirror that doubles the space in front of
one self and other eself at the same time. So this “house of
glass” creates a special view, a telescope to perceive the inner
world, but also a “greenhouse” where people, things, emotions,
time and eternity, life and death… exist simultaneously, like in
the poem “Real People”
People die only
In dusk or dawn,
There are no eternal graves.
I smell on sweet basil
Pleasantly and divine,
And I love up to freedom.
In the considerable number of poems, almost on a level of
the poetic emblem and rule, the thought and experience of a
man’s alienation is suggested; that habits, preconceptions and
rigid institutional ways of explaining and accepting the world
collide with conscientiousness and the most basic needs and
primordial urges. At the same time, as for good romanticists, for
Tatjana Debeljacki, the
beauty is a way of resistance to death, but it doesn’t exist in this
poetry as an aesthetic category, but as a hope and feeling. Only
that
that is built in special circumstances can outlive its
moment, only that that is close to a “tragic sense of life” can
come closer to the truth. In the poem “Bare Face”, bareness of
feelings, as a prerequisite and result of faith and love, love
transforms to the dead end of meaning.
I’ve been sick since the very start,
I don’t care up to the very end of the game.
They lost it.
What about the other man?
In the twentieth chapter in the eight line
He was betrayed by the bare face.
In the twenty-third chapter,
It was goodbye.
The same face under the hat,
Bare face.

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In the same poem, we recognize essential non-
determinability (it seems that the poetess insists on that) of
mutual transitions from pictorial grade to conceptual, from
abstract to realistic grade - of the poems in whole, and also of
the single poem images - in dynamic change and connecting of
various cognitive perspectives, through which the world
manifests itself. In the scope of that relation, sublime and
generalized, sacral and profane, work as borders of conceptual
limits; illusory antagonisms (I’m looking in lacking/ but I have it
in looking for it) , clarifying more deeply the basic poetic
principle of the poem in whole, forming a broad thought horizon
which often exceeds the subject, depraving its fixed limits
because of revealing the unusual and the original placed behind
it. Beyond conventionality and fixed stereotypes, beyond
expected causes and consequences. So, there is only one front
side and a lot of back sides that Tatjana Debeljacki is searching
for, persistently and for a long time, and she is finding them in
most successful poems and single verses. Her self-reflexivity
isn’t just a need to perceive more deeply the causes and its
projections on a spiritual map, but she wants to perceive all
conditions between the visible and the invisible, and social rules
and its images in the proximity and the spirit of experience (the
worst is when you die from the inside).
Diverse rhythm does not muffle the thought and the
associativity, managing to focus the attention to the image
diversity and suggestiveness. Poetess wants to find and paint the
mysticism of the relation between outer - and inner drama, and
to find the right measure for her lyrical reflection in their
overlapping. It can be absolutely stated that she manages to do
that in significant number of poems, and all of that has to do
with poet’s idea striving to have a clear thought and content
outline of each poem, and for each poem to be an image of a
special psychological state and lyrical sense of the world.
Tatjana Debeljacki is a poet of atmosphere, and not only
visually shaped one. Life experience anticipation and
meditativeness of these poems carry a need to create complex
lyrical image, but also to verify meaning and drama of the
crossed path. That feeling, that we could claim to be the
dominant characteristic of this book, closes the poetess and the

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reader to the other end of poetically multi-valent personality; to
the special connection of skeptical and vital sense of the world.
To the poetic fluid made of image and emotion, which precede
every intellectual synthesis.
The verse and the poem in whole is for Tatjana Debeljacki
a part of intention to create a poetic world (substitute for hostile
and deceiving reality) which would have some constants, and
where the restless and short human life, exhausted with the crisis
of meaning, would find ways of making sense; if not in some
new sense, then at least in realizing the present nonsense.
Petar V. Arbutina
KUĆA OD STAKLA ガラスの家
When I translated the book "A House Made of Glass" by
the Serbian poet Tatiana Debeljački, I got the idea to write this
poem of mine. We do not have to accept the things only through
love poetry that is tragic. Although the characteristics of glass
itself is that it breaks easily, the love that must have been
developed in such a house tells us that it was a place for love.
Probably, there was always a notion of love existing in that
house. The love would have always existed unless the power of
external factors did not influence the bright light of it.
Consequently, the durability of love that overcomes the
brittleness of glass must be provided. This poet informs, through
her lyrics, all the people she loved, that both strength and
tension in the poetry grow. This is how one part of the long
poetry, "A House Made of Glass", was born. Even if a house
with such sad love shatters down, there must still be love poetry,
that would not break the enchantment of its reader.
Mariko Sumikura
Tatjana Debeljački, born on 23.04.1967 in Užice. Writes
poetry, short stories, stories and haiku. Member of Association
of Writers of Serbia -UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of
Serbia - HDS Serbia, HUSCG – Montenegro and HDPR,
Croatia. A member of Writers’ Association Poeta, Belgrade
since 2008, member of Croatian Writers' Association- HKD
Croatia since 2009 and a member of Poetry Society 'Antun

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Ivanošić' Osijek since 2011, and a member of "World Haiku
Association“ – 2011, Japan.
Union of Yugoslav Writers in Homeland and
Immigration – Belgrade, Literary Club Yesenin – Belgrade.
Member of Writers' Club “Miroslav – Mika Antić” – Inđija
2013, Writers’ Association "Branko Miljković“ – Niš 2014,
and a member of Japan Universal Poets Association (JUNPA).
2013. "Poetic Bridge: AMA-HASHI (天橋）
Up to now, she has published four collections of poetry: “A
HOUSE MADE OF GLASS “, published by ART – Užice in
1996; collection of poems “YOURS“, published by Narodna
knjiga Belgrade in 2003; collection of haiku poetry
“VOLCANO”, published by Lotos from Valjevo in 2004. A CD
book “A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS” published by ART in
2005, bilingual SR-EN with music, AH-EH-IH-OH-UH,
published by Poeta, Belgrade in 2008."HIŠA IZ STEKLA" was
translated into Slovenian and published by Banatski kulturni centar – Malo
Miloševo, in 2013 and also into English, "A House Made of
Glass" published by »Hammer & Anvil Books» – American,
in2013.
Her poetry and haiku have been translated into several
languages.
translation Danijela Milosavljević

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Ilustracije / Artwork / イラスト
Dragoljub Djuričić
Critic/ 講評
因習に抗う
(テベリャスキー ガラスの家)
題名は表表紙と裏表紙の間に所収されたありの
ままの姿や真の同一体と関係しているとは限らない
が、常に、あるいはほとんど常に作家の意図や使命を
顕在する小径を強調する。ターニャ・テベリャスキー
の詩集「ガラスの家」の詩は、因習的な主旋律のなか
の詩人の誠実さと倫理-美学的義務での真実とともに
「視界と反射の家」を構築している。
人はガラスを通して見ることができる、でも
同様に自分自身の反射を見ることができる。自分の前
および他人の前の空間を同時に二倍にする鏡のよう
に。このように「ガラスの家」は特別な視界を呈す
る。この詩の「実在の人々」のように、精神界を知覚
する望遠鏡、また人々や物、感情や時や永遠、生や死
が同時進行であるところの「温室」なのだ。
詩の相当な数のなかで、詩の紋章や支配のレ
ベル上、人間疎外の思想や経験、その習慣、先入観や
厳しい制度上の方法が良心をもっての世界の受容、最

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多の基本的欲求、原初の衝動と衝突することが示唆さ
れる。同時に、よきロマン主義者のごとく、ターニ
ャ・テベリャスキーについては、美は死にたいする抵
抗の方法なのだ。
しかし、それは審美的なカテゴリーとしての
この詩にではなく希望と感情として存在する。特殊な
事情に構築されるそれだけがその瞬間より長く続くこ
とが可能だ。
「命の悲劇の感覚」に切迫していることだけ
が、真実に肉薄できる。詩「素顔」の中で、素顔の感
情として、一つの、必須の、そして信頼と愛の結果、
愛は意味の行き止まりに変容する。同じ詩では、我々
は、絵印の等級から相互の推移の本質的な非決意可能
性（女流詩人たちはそれを主張するようだが）を認め
る。概念、抽象および様々な認識の展望〔世界はそれ
によって現れる）からダイナミックな変化での現実的
な等級へ、そしてまた単一の詩の表象へ、までその関
係の範囲で荘厳、聖礼、冒瀆的で一般化された概念の
範囲の境界で働く。錯覚の反対（私はかけることのな
かを見ている/しかし、それを探すときに持ってい
る）、より深く明確にすること、全体中の詩の基礎的
な詩の原理、広い思考、地平線の形成、異常なもの、
およびその後ろに置かれたオリジナルを明らかにする
ためにその固定範囲を貶めて主題をしばしば超えてし
まう。因習、および予期された因果の果てに固定した
ステレオタイプを越えて。
したがって、一つの正面側だけがあるのだ。
そしてターニャ・デベルジャスキーが探索する多くの
背後側、固執するほどの長い時間で、また彼女はもっ
とも成功した詩集、詩に見出している。彼女の内省

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は、精神の地図上の原因およびその射出をより深く知
覚する必要だけでなく彼女自身なのだ。ものと目に見
えない、ならびに社会規則のあわいの条件を
すべて知覚したい、また接近および経験（最悪
の事態は、内部でいつ消えるか）の精神中のそのイメ
ージ。種々のリズムはイメージ多様性および示唆性へ
の注意をどうにか集中して、思考との連合性を内包し
ない。女流詩人は、関係の神秘主義をあわいに見つけ
て描きたい、外部ー内部のドラマ、またそれらがオー
バーラップすることに映る彼女の感傷的な影に適当な
量を見つけること、それは絶対にある場合、彼女は詩
の重要な数のなか、そのすべてで何とかしようと述べ
た。各詩の明瞭な考えおよび内容やアウトラインをも
ち、かつ各々詩が世界の特別の精神状態および感傷的
な感覚のイメージであるため努力する詩人の思考で行
っている。ターニャ・テベリャスキーは大気の詩人で
、単に視覚的なひとつの形態を作らなかった。これら
の詩の人生経験や予想、瞑想は、複雑な感傷的なイメ
ージを作成する必要をもたらす。また十字の小径の意
味、ドラマを確認するために、この本の支配的な特性
であることを私たちが主張することができたという感
覚は、もう一方の端に女流詩人と読者を閉じる。詩的
に、多重な個性、世界の懐疑的で重大な感覚の特別な
接続によりイメージで作られていた詩の流体および感
情（それはすべての知的合成に先行する）に。
ターニャ・テベリャスキーにとって全体中の
韻文や詩は、いくつかの定数を持つ詩的世界〔対立的
で偽る現実の代わり）をつくり、かつ意味の危機で疲
弊し落ち着かない短い人命が、方法が意味を持つ方法
を見つけるだろうという創造的意図の一部なのだ。少

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なくとも現在の無意味を実現する際にある新しい感覚
の中でなければ。
Petar V. Arbutina
ガラスの家
書評
「ガラスの家」を日本語に訳しながら思ったこと
がある。これを単なる愛の悲劇詩と取るべきではない
。壊れやすいガラスという材質ではあるものの、愛の
居場所である家で、愛を育てるはずであり、明るい光
を受けたならば、またなんの外部よりの力が加わらな
ければ、いつまでも存在はしただろう。そこでは、ガ
ラスの脆弱性を凌駕する愛の強靭性が担保されねばな
らなかった。この詩人は愛する人に、それを知らせ、
互いの力を高めようと訴える。そして一編の長大な詩
「ガラスの家」が書かれた。美しくも哀しい愛と、家
が壊れても愛は壊れぬ詩の強靭さが読者を魅了する。
すみくらまりこMariko Sumikura
タチアナ デベリャスキー、１９６７年４月２３日
ウジツェに生まれる。詩、短編小説、小説、俳句を書
いている。セルビア作家協会（ＵＫＳ）会員。２００
４年よりセルビア俳句協会（ＨＤＳ）、モンテネグロ
（ＨＵＳＣＦ），クロアチア（ＨＤＰＲ）俳句協会に
所属。２００８年よりベオグラード詩人協会かいい
ん、２００９年よりクロアチア作家協会（ＨＫＤ）、

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２０１１年よりアントン・イワノジッチ詩人協会に所
属、２０１１年より日本の国際俳句協会の会員とな
る。母国・移住地ユーゴスラビア連合、ベオグラード
文学クラブ、２０１３年インドミラソフ作家クラブ、
２０１４年よりブランコ ミルコビッチ作家協会、２
０１４年日本国際詩人協会「詩の架け橋：天橋」会員
となる。
現在まで四冊の詩集を出版「ガラスの家」１９９６
年ウジツェ、「ユアーズ」２００３年ベオグラード、
俳句集「ＶＯＬＣＡＮＯ」２００４年、ＣＤ本「ガラ
スの家」、２００８年セルビア語―英語「AH-EH-IH-
OH-UH」を出版。
HIŠA IZ STEKLA はスロベニア語に訳されＭａｌｏ
Ｍｉｓｅｖｏで出版、英語にも訳される。「A House
Made of Glass」が２０１３、アメリカ Hammer &
Anvil Booksより出版。彼女の詩や俳句は8・9カ国の
言語に訳されている。

Bruce Louis Dodson
Opus
I’ll tell you this about the Gods, my son,
though there is more that you will have to know,
they change the scenery to match the passing years,
and no one ever sees the entire show.

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Claire T. Feild
Sphinx
This woman, a riddle to many, stays in her
place, a house in the shape of a lion.
During dusk, she waters the peonies and
other plants that straddle the steps
of her front porch, the plants spikes
that call the worms to attention.
Since she has no heat in her home, at night
she carts the blankets she keeps
in her mildewed attic to her bed
full of feisty rose petal stems as
they bite her with their steamy
arrow stems.
All she wants is a layer of mosses in her
bed at night, their softness hiding
her ill-formed body.
Privileged
She is the favored child of three girls,
her eyes deep ocean blue, her
tresses making coal look white,
her skin porcelain white.
The witch-girl on the other side of town
has dirty brown eyes, hair
a thicket of mouse-brown, and

26. The Path
26
skin grey from the lack of a
favored cleansing.
When the two meet, the ugly one snarls
at the frail one, calling upon Lot
to turn the innocent one into a
pillar of salt.
Since the wicked one has lovers in the
underworld, her wish is granted,
and her smile is pristine, in stark
contrast to the rest of her fleshy
hovel full of worms.
Dead End
We design our dead ends, a disappointment
causing us to believe we cannot
march forward.
Being cheated on by someone I love
makes my brain sizzle, and then
I feel those clenching sensations
in my brain since there is nowhere
to go to change reality. So I cry,
moan, and then call the place
where I sit my home full of worms.
Our grandchild is a stillborn. I hit my fist
against the wall because I cannot
bring him back from heaven for
my children to love and facilitate
his growing process. So, life, once
again, is a boat stuck in the sand.
We can be happy in all things if we view
our misfortunes as opportunities
to learn what beams beyond the
impasse, a flight from the cul-de-sac
a quick jolt and then data

27. The Path
27
galore to share with others to
find answers to life’s most
daunting questions as if they
are squirming around in quicksand.
Estrangement
Her withdrawal from his essence came
in the form of concentric circles:
She was at the edge of a dinner
plate in her feelings for him.
But she rested inside an estrangement
to keep the money flowing from
him.
He was still in love with her, his wits
shivering and his heart a royal
red.
When would he take a giant step from
his illusion? It happened when
he could not find her.
He can be seen nestling against a new
woman who feasts on financials
and a an full of worms.
The Alterations Woman
The alterations woman, her teeth a vise for pins,
readies me for her operation on my
skirt by telling me how pretty I am.
She uses a tape measure to see where her
pins will play “Ring-around-the-
rosy,” the pins left in her hands

28. The Path
28
and mouth dropping to the floor
when she has finished her method
of care.
I trod to another bedroom to remove
my new skirt, my mother a
a handmaiden as she hands
me my other skirt to put on.
A couple of needles prick my skin as
if to say “good-bye” in an ugly
way from the woman who keeps
her pins in an empty can of worms.
Slight
Her form so thin, she is an unlit
match, the match’s red tip never
having been struck by a handsome
man.
She finds a lagoon where she can wet
the red tip so that she will never
be touched by a man.
She moves like a worm, except she does
not arch her back, a crack too
forthcoming.
She accidentally falls all the way into
the lagoon, her drowning a
secret, for she did not
know anyone else except the
match maker machine and the
one who held her for a short
time before placing her on
a shelf.

29. The Path
29
Richard King Perkins II
Dichotomy of Nimbus
The sun strains to linger
in the first call of darkness
flaring toward an ephemeral lakebed.
Marigolds slowly die in their window box
asking why it’s so difficult to be loved
and more than that—
can a dead thing be loved
and give love in return?
With great gradual ponderousness,
separating shadow from skin and petal
the sun will never find balance
between two worlds
the dichotomy of nimbus—
when I turn the table lamp off
I’m surprised at all the things that cannot be.


30. The Path
30
Tom Sheehan
Hill of the Blue Goose
The hill
steals lightning,
sees Boston stand up
after catching a haymaker.
This morning caught geese
like runaway shoes, tongue screech,
traffic cop calls and winter
ticket stub lost in a pocket;
has mirrors of yesterday’s thighs
the moon of the seventh of July
of our lord of “Forty-five
touched with its butter,
shows her inclined to me
and tilt of the hill.
Her thighs still count the thrust.
The cops
broke up a card game
on the left shoulder, toward the river
and West Lynn, in ‘Thirty-nine;
the pot’s never surfaced.
Now a specter in tight pants
sells angel dust, gives
green stamps.
Has new options on street war:
use hammers, screwdrivers, no sunlight.
Night kisses the hill with lonely.
Do not be lured there.

31. The Path
31
No pig in a poke.
Has anyone seen
Frank Parkinson lately,
meant to die outside Tobruk
in the mutilating horrors of the sands,
but didn’t? Hangs on the hill
like cloud root, spills images,
has literate left hand, flies
with the awesome geese.
Oh, Frankie!
Throws hill shadow
ominous as dice toss;
a family’s left a photograph
in a friend’s scrapbook
in a trunk in a cellar
in the thrown shadow.
Nothing else. No dandruff.
No acne. No evidence of being.
Gone off the waterfall of Time.
Nobody remembers they were here
halfway up the hill once.
Lone blue goose,
tandemless, no fore
and aft, plunges over,
cries high noon of search,
drags feathers, drops
the quick flutter
of a shadow.
Poem stops.
Starts.
Hill has transport.
Pieces left in Hwachon Valley
in the Iron Triangle. In Verdun.
On the Ho Chi Min Trail. Waters
near the Marshall Islands. Sitka.

32. The Path
32
In flecks of blood in Walpole cell.
On the wall of a cave in the Tetons.
An unmarked grave in a dead town in Iowa.
Almost, near Tobruk. Parkie’s too tough
for Krauts, shrapnel’s conversion to flesh,
booze, cancer, rolled over cars giving off
ribald laughter, snowstorms going like
wild pinball games, bad dreams
with real smells a listener
can touch; all of them,
almost.
The blue goose
throws down a quick shadow.
I hear the high noon call
at night.
The terrors near Tobruk
are as hard to shake as nicknames.
Beaver. 39 Stone. Maude’s Jake.
Sinagna. Dropkick. Snakeeyes.
Automatic Brown. The Indian,
who fell near Tobruk, arose,
moved the stone, gave his
voice to the blue goose.
High noon call at night.
He gave up his pain forever;
how he lives so long
the hill sings.
Steals lightning. Spies on
Boston, Hancock’s glass face.
Sees the ocean die close in-shore.
Gives up the moon. Throws trees down
to hungry flame. Wears the shadow
of the blue goose.
Watches my poem stop.

33. The Path
33
Elaine Westphal
Just My Sister and Me
A little trunk of memories
Lies deep within my heart.
It’s filled with old time pictures
And childhood plays the part.
They tell a little story
Of our young and carefree days
And of the world of use-to-be
Shared by my sister and me.
Some pictures bring a little laughter
Some bring a little pain,
And some you’d like to jump right in
And live all over again,
Like the one that shows the homemade swing
Under the old pine tree
That brought happy playtime hours
For just my sister and me.
A couple of my favorites
That I always hold so dear
Are paper dolls played for hours
And our cuddly teddy bears.
They all were a part of that magical land
Of childhood make-believe
Where no one else could enter
But just my sister and me.
After I close the trunk again
And lock it with a key.
I tuck it back within my heart

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34
And I can plainly see
These childhood memories play a part
Of what would come to be
A special life-long, loving bond
Just between my sister and me.

Eva Willis
What Cost Compassion?
Anger, that gut-wrenching, breath-shortening
explosion of pique, is based in fear. Fear -
usually the concern of an occurrence that COULD
happen and how it would affect us, change our lives.
I fear that my country is changing and
not in a good way. I fear it is being taken over
by people with different values, languages, and
aims, rendering it and us less safe and economically
stable. I fear less control over my health care, less
choice in my daily affairs, and wondering where all the
surveillance and economic decisions are taking us. I fear
the tension over racial issues and epidemics.
I understand compassion for people struggling
to find a better life in the United States and
their trials in getting here and staying here.
I understand too the practicalities of a
sovereign nation, asking for responsible
immigrants to follow our laws and assimilate.
I understand there are large numbers

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35
struggling to feed their families and survive,
whether in this country or others.
I also understand that more and more
handouts from an already bankrupt nation
is not the answer.
There is a humanitarian crisis in the world
with migrants looking for new lives and homes.
How do we care for all these people and what
do we do with the ones who commit crimes?
Syria is not in a civil war, it is in a power struggle
but nothing will be left for the powers-that-be.
How insane is that, I ask you?
I have little control over these matters.
I vote, write my senators and congressmen,
donate to worthy charities, and
do what I can to protect myself.
I try to heal things one-on-one
where the opportunity exists and, mostly,
I pray!

36. The Path
10
Poetic
Essay
Khalil Gibran (1883-1931)

37. Cederberg
37
Richard L. Cederberg
The Man Who Had Dwelt in the Cabin*
Like war-drums their hearts pounded. The switchback
was grueling and dangerous, and in various places great granite
boulders, all crosshatched with mossy streaks of moisture,
appeared as if they may break free and fall at any moment. With
careful reverence, the two hikers made their way over rills and
runnels, across a swinging footbridge spanning a gorge, around a
waterfall, and through an old graveyard of silver-mining
equipment, where the droppings of Elk were clumped-up like
pyramids, and where, as they paused to snack, wild turkeys
scrambled past them noisily.
For a time they pressed on. When the path had finally
ended and the high-ridge had been crested, both took in the
panorama around them, with argus-eyed interest. The Mountain
Lake below glistened as a brooding dark jewel. Scattered
throughout the lower ridges, stands of Pinyon Pines were
hovering like primeval warriors. Across the valley, spring was

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38
bursting up through the last of winters-white in colorful
cornucopias. In their view, Nootka Rose, Paintbrush, Sego
Lilies, Arrow-leaf Balsamroot, Manzanita, and Rubber Rabbit-
brush, were dappled together in posies of delicate beauty…
“Marvelous,” the woman exclaimed. “Who would have
known?”
A sudden blusterous wind had shifted her focus. The
growth behind them was moving in such a way that allowed a
fleeting glimpse of something hidden back in a small clearing
near a stand of Bristlecone Pines.
“A hunter’s cabin, maybe,” the man proposed, when they
were nearer the structure.
“Could have been someone’s home, too,” she countered.
For a while, the unexpected fixed their eyes in pure
wonderment. Still clinging doggedly to the granite; the cabin had
long since fallen into disrepair, the roof was warped and
blanketed in a fleece of dry emerald moss, and each of the
windows was broken and scattered in shards.
“See how the rivulet was diverted into this cistern for
storage,” The man pointed as they walked around its perimeter,
“and how there in the tree-line a garden was once cared for;
someone did live up here.”
“And they had a friend, too.” The woman paused to look
at a grave marker with the name ‘Tinny’ carved into it.
“Indeed,” the man agreed. “This was someone’s
hideaway.”
“Let’s take a look inside,” the woman suggested.
For a while, both stood unsure. The wooden door had
been banging, in an eerie cadence, against the jamb, and it was
unnerving for them imagining what may be lurking inside. After
a while, given their tireless natures, both shrugged it off and
crossed over the threshold. Inside the air was dank but,
thankfully, there was no visible danger, which allowed each to
move about in focused contemplation.
The cabin was sparsely furnished. On the walls, an
assortment of daguerreotypes stared out blankly in two-
dimensional silence. Empty brown bottles strewed the
floorboards. In one corner, a rusting metal bedstead was leaning
against the wall. In another, a potbelly stove sat cold and sooty.
On the rear wall, a shoddily made bookcase was listing under the
weight of several dozen volumes. There was a table and chairs

39. Cederberg
39
beneath a gaping hole in the roof. Sitting on the table, open to
the weather, an old Underwood typewriter sat rusted beyond
repair. The man noticed, under the table, an open leather valise,
and clearly visible inside an unbound ream of papers. With
measured curiosity, he removed them and began carefully
thumbing through each page.
“It’s a collection of poems and stories.” He declared after
a time. “Some of the words are too faded to read but some are
still legible. Listen to this will you: ‘And in desperation his heart
cried-out to her …
Forgive my folly,
For it is my undoing,
This thing that grips me
In talons of fruitlessness
And all dark insanities,
Oh to find you here
In the sweet swirling shadows
Of pine trees rustling,
Reaching out to embrace me,
Willing to offer your hand,
Willing to absolve
All I afflicted you with,
(In the name of love)
Adopting the best of me
Instead of what was lessened’”
Mystified, the man continued reading… After a while, it
became clear that what was written had been born of folly and
dire misfortune. It was clearly obvious, too, that the writer of
these words had caused irreversible harm to another, and that the
miseries he’d inherited from his sins had permanently altered the
course of his life. Two souls had suffered deeply. And the man
who had once dwelt in this cabin never again found his place in
society. An irrepressible madness had slowly destroyed him
because of the vile behavior he’d displayed towards the only
woman who would ever (in his life) love him.
“STOP,” the woman demanded, suddenly, as he read.
Fidgeting nervously now, she had finally reached her limit of
listening. “No more my darling.” She declared. “We must depart

40. The Path
40
this awful place at once. There is a terrible madness lingering in
these words and we cannot be partakers of it another second.”
In perfect agreement the man put the writings back
[exactly] where he’d found them. Without a word, they made
their way back to the trailhead and began their descent. As they
walked, a profound melancholy fell upon both and the woman
was soon sobbing. How could a day that had started so
magnificently end in such a way as this? With deep compassion
he took her hands and urgent petitions were offered up to heaven
for relief and understanding. When tears had ceased they trudged
on in silence until a commotion in the eastern skies caught their
ears. Dozens of noisy Ravens were suddenly circling above
them. Eight landed a few yards from where they stood and began
cavorting like rambunctious children. Was this God’s response
to their prayer? Soon the woman was laughing—then the man.
The spectacle was charming them and the colorful cawing
brought unbridled joy. After a time, clear-headed and happy, the
woman continued her descent. The man paused, however, and
turned one last time to look up and mull the mystery, and horror,
of what they’d discovered above them on the ridge.
Having long relinquished its newness to desiccating
winds; time had long taken a toll on the old cabin. Though it
slumbered now in a certain measure of disorder and had been
stripped of all warmth and welcome, it still bore a lingering
impression of the willpower it had once taken to build; and
forever, now, to both of them, a reminder of how one man’s
misbegotten choices had utterly destroyed two lives.
*This is a fictional work derived from personal experience, and actual
discoveries, in a recent investigation of abandoned cabins in Bodie, California, and
Panguitch Lake, Utah.


41. Westphal
41
Elaine Westphal
Recollections of Mom
Remember the old saying: “a man works from sun to sun
but a woman’s work is never done”? So it was in our home.
Long after the meals were cooked, children’s homework was
finished and the cows were milked, Mom was busy knitting
socks, crocheting a doily, or embroidering a dresser scarf to
make our house into a real home.
Rainy days on our farm were especially welcomed by
Mom because those days you could always hear the sound of the
old treadle sewing machine as she was busily sewing school
dresses for her two girls, patching overhauls for Dad’s work in
the woods, and every so often, making a new apron for herself
after finding a pretty patterned feed sack brought home from a
trip to the feed store.
In summer, Mom was always busy with her big garden.
Mom canned “everything”. Center stage in our farmhouse
kitchen was a big, black, wood-burning cook stove that was used
continuously through the cooler seasons, but to keep the house a
few degrees cooler in summer, she mostly used the gas stove
over in the corner. It had four small burners, but big enough to
heat the big pressure cooker full of jars of fresh vegetables. With
all this activity in the kitchen, we were assigned to the screened
in porch and sat on the swing to snap beans for the next load of
jars for the canner.
Summer, too, was for County Fairs and Mom loved the
competition of entering her homemade goods in the proper
competitive category. While winning many blue ribbons, she
especially took pride in her homemade bread. When her bread
came out of that old cook stove oven, we were entranced with
that fresh bread smell and couldn’t wait for a treat of warm,
fresh baked bread with butter and homemade chokecherry jam.
That was the best treat this side of heaven!

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Fall came and Mom always had our newly sewn school
dresses ready. With the crisp air coming on, Mom helped Dad
with the last chores around the farm including making and
stacking wood to get us through another sub-zero winter. As fall
turned to winter, Mom was relieved to think that winter months
would give her time to sew a quilt badly needed for the bed, knit
mittens to fit into Dad’s “choppin’ mitts” for making wood and
to braid a rug to place next to our bed to keep our feet warm
when we’d get up on cool mornings.
Winter Sundays were Mom’s special time for herself.
This was her time for writing letters to family and friends and to
her beloved pen pals. Most of all, she mused herself in writing
poetry. Her poetry subjects ranged from comments on the news
to reflections of her childhood to the beauty of nature.
Besides all these duties, she was the one who loved us,
made us giggle, sang us songs, dried our tears, and taught us
how to cook, sew, and be dedicated citizens. She loved to share
her talents with us. She is the one whom we still love in our
hearts every day—we call her OUR MOTHER.

43. Butler
43
Dian Butler
A Time to Hurry
Time is going fast for us and a never ending, watch and
listen, time for us, a time without limits, a schedule here and a
pay check there, we never wanted to hurry through life, we only
wanted to be a part of life and content with what we had in life.
A hurry up generation, that is what we were.
Oh children of this 21st
time do not grab the next ticket
that takes you to a party for a job, imagine your own plan
without all your precious time given to a job, a place, a
corporation and someone else’s ideas. You are part of a time
when you make your own ideas guide you and allow your
dreams to come true ; you fantasize the next future for your
children. A large amount of hurry, up to nowhere, a cloudy
scheme that is now all yours, with some objects hidden in the
cloud.
A hurry-up generation is not what you want to say you
were.
Have your day thoughts put to paper, your knowledge
come alive with others, lead and not be left behind, guide and
never hide, worry only about the when you will begin, we are
cared for as the wind blows the leaves away, we are given water
to drink and air to breathe, no need ever to hurry and follow
those whose notions were really yours, once upon a time, and are
thought about by those above, they will never force you, a
choice is always yours.
Go now and do not hurry.
For your life means something and your actions mean something
because all the ripples in the stream help to make the water

44. The Path
44
move, just as your thoughts bring life to earth, so do your
actions.
Allow yourself to be that pebble which glides the water
over it on its journey to others. Then slowly begin again your
movements that kept your life and others alive. Believe in
yourself and what you can and will do, leave your time slowly
because hurry is for those who do not frame the earth for others,
as you now do. Not to do as we once did and did in a hurry. Die
slowly now, before your name appears in the Book of the Dead,
who never did a thing to help the humans you are a part of as
you live and breathe and speak.
Stop, listen, create and never, ever, hurry.
Chinese Proverb

45. Short
Stories
John (Jack) Griffith London (1876-1916)

46. The Path
46
Claire T. Feild
Mumie
Short Story
Mumie, my maternal grandmother, made the word
“unique” mourn: She was like a closet full of various shades of
black, blue, and purple feathers. For example, she wore her
stockings in a peculiar way. She would roll them almost to her
knees and then let her stockings dramatically stop moving.
When she sat in a chair, one could see these rolls, but after she
stood up, her long dress took over the process of sheltering her
hose aberration.
She placed a net over her long black (probably dyed) hair
after she had pulled her hair up into two fairly long twisted
clumps. Her eyelids took batting practice as they bumped each
other as fast as possible, just like a baseball bumps its bat in
batting practice.
I don’t recall her wearing anything but black shoes.
Being fancy would have dusted off her practical disposition.
Cooking was her trade. Anything that looked like an
ingredient soon became a mincemeat pie, a lemon pie, or a
chocolate pie; thus, flour did not perturb her disposition.
The two stillborn boys she had pinned devastation to her
heart. However, she had two male grandchildren, Steve and
Benson, whom she adored. They lived with her most of their
lives because their mother (Juanita) was an alcoholic. She also
birthed another girl (Gwen) whose middle name was named after
a horse (Cubie) revered by Mumie’s immediate family members.
She and her husband Walter must have resided in every
town in the deep Mississippi Delta. We visited them in
Hollandale, Glen Allan, Clarksdale—you get the idea.
Because Mississippi was the only state in the Union that
had people with sense and class, it was harder for her to move to

47. Feild
47
New Orleans than it is to pluck a concrete pole from the ground.
But she did what she had to do.
Because her husband was deceased, she had to live with
Juanita and Juanita’s second husband, a cab driver in New
Orleans.
After my daddy died, Mumie took Mother to see one of
Mother’s old flames—who was married. Mumie just wanted to
make sure that Mother’s former boyfriend knew Gwen was
available if his wife died.
When I was sitting in front of the mirror looking at
myself more admirably than the Ground Hog looks at himself,
and she said, “Claire, you don’t think too much of yourself, do
you?” The comment hurt me; I did not know what to say. I was
just getting ready to go to Bourbon Street with my cousin Steve.
Eventually, it was time for us to leave Mumie to return to
Jackson, Mississippi, via The City of New Orleans. I hated
seeing her bat her tears away as she looked through the screen
door of her shotgun home. I felt guilty that we were leaving her
in such a precarious situation. Juanita was still drinking, and her
second husband had left.
Mother arranged for Mumie to live at a nursing home in
Quitman, Mississippi, near Benson’s home. Therefore, Mumie
was in Mississippi again, but she did not realize it.
I asked Mother how Mumie died, and she said she died
of “the infirmities of old age.”
Therefore, I never knew how Mumie died, and when my
husband and I drove near Quitman on our way to Jackson to see
my parents, we never stopped to see her. How cruel newly
married couples can be.
Aunt Juanita
Short Story
Aunt Juanita, my New Orleans aunt, had a mouth that
materialized into the size of Jaws’ mouth and missing teeth that
looked like mini-caves. Of course, she did not live to intimidate
anyone: She was too interested in a good joke. Since her hair
was dyed red, she was before her time. She had no desire to quit
eating Mumie’s mincemeat pie, lemon pie, and chocolate pie—a

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48
ramification of her eating sweets galore. She was as obese as a
diesel truck and wished to be the size of an electric car.
She was either in her housedress shaking the floors in the
shotgun house or asleep in bed after a night of boom-boxing on
Bourbon Street. Mumie and my mother (Gwen) thought I had no
clue Aunt Juanita was an alcoholic, but I heard them talking
about her situation in another bedroom one room over from me.
The fan blowing on me was supposed to flatten out any words
they spoke, but their mistake in thinking never blew up in their
faces because I was as quiet as a quilt about my knowledge.
Aunt Juanita’s small toe on her left foot had gone to
sleep forever on the top of the toe next to her pinkie toe. She
often wore Mother’s shoes without asking permission to do so.
She just sneaked around like a marshmallow on the end of a
skewer on the fire. When Mother saw her rummaged shoe, she
threw a tantrum babies can’t execute.
Aunt Juanita would remind my mother that she (my
mother) was no saint. For example, Aunt Juanita noted that
Mother stupidly jumped into hay and could not breathe. Aunt
Juanita reminded Gwen that she saved Gwen from deletion on
many occasions.
Aunt Juanita worked part-time at the prestigious makeup
counter at Maison Blanche. On the days she had to work, she did
not go to Bourbon Street the night before.
One Christmas, I received a baby doll as a gift from Aunt
Juanita. When I opened her gift, I noticed the cutest doll bathing
in sweetness. However, when I looked at one of her legs, I
realized it was detached from the doll’s body. I did not know
why she sent me a doll that was deformed. I still loved the doll,
her disability an imperfection that I gradually began to accept. I
learned by meeting Aunt Juanita’s doll that everyone has a
disability of some type such as, heart disease or a missing tooth.
She was married twice, two sons a result of her first
marriage. However, she had a hard time rearing them because
she was an alcoholic. Therefore, they lived with Mumie, their
grandmother who became their “mother.” They worshiped the
grass she scuffed on.
When Aunt Juanita died, Mother gave me no reason for
her death, but my stepfather did. He said the inside of her brain
bubbled up as a volcano and exploded. I did not know that part
of the terrain of one’s brain was a volcano about to blow, the

49. Feild
49
brain’s tornado parallel to an earth’s volcano. I felt unhappy that
Aunt Juanita had died, her jokes gone with her to Heaven.
Front Yard Games
Short Story
Before dusk started rolling in like a huge shoulder, we
played front yard games. The game we liked the most was hide-
and-seek. I recall hiding behind a big bush with wasps.
My screams were like death, caught in my throat. When I
found mother, she placed cigarette weed on the stings, and I
went on out to play devil-in-the-ditch. One child was chosen to
stand in the middle of the driveway. This child was the devil.
The other children were standing on each side of the driveway,
ready to run across the driveway. The first child touched by the
sweaty devil became the devil. After three devils were chosen,
the game was sent to Hell.
My daddy told me that when it rained and the sun was
out, the devil was beating his wife. I used my spade to dig about
a foot down in dirt, hoping to see the devil. I then realized I
would have to dig to the center of the world to find this uncouth
reprobate.
Then it was time to play jump rope. This game lasted
until someone got hurt.
Swinging the rope over the heads and under the feet of
each child had its clean-cut challenges. Sometimes we would
jump first across the rope on the driveway and scoot out fast
after the rope travelled over our heads.
When we wore our hula-hoops, we looked liked a front
yard of lovely flowers, the hula hoops each a different color.
Blindman’s Buff (Bluff) was a dangerous game we
played because sometimes those blinded would walk out into the
street. I stood straight as a Popsicle stick, hoping that I would
not be touched and have to wear the tight-red handkerchief.
When we played this game, the cars moved as slowly as they do
in a funeral procession.
After supper, we looked for lightning bugs, placing them
in jars with holes on their caps. After I would occasionally see
someone kill one of the miniatures, my teacher spirit opened full

50. The Path
50
blast. Let’s put it this way: The person who heard my words
never went to prison for killing anything.
Goose Egg Park
Short Story
Goose Egg Park took center stage in Yazoo City,
Mississippi, as it was in the shape of a goose egg in the center of
town. It was where they held the annual Easter egg hunt for
Annie Ellis Elementary School students.
Mother was often in charge of this event. To make sure
that all the children received the same number of eggs, she had
the children place all of the eggs they had found on the ground.
Next she would count the number of children present to make
sure every child received the same number of eggs.
The children enjoyed gathering the pennies from the coin
fountain to play a number game. The child who could retrieve
the most pennies in the allotted time won the game. When the
children were told to return the pennies to the water fountain, the
smiles on their faces took a cursory tour to unhappiness.
In that this depression did not last long, they scurried to
find four-leaf clovers. A four-leaf often was stretched out as a
child had sat on it. The ones who found four-leaf clovers were
awarded the extra eggs—if there were any.
Often the children’s maids took their charges to Goose
Egg Park to play. The gathering of maids was like the grouping
of boisterous sound waves. Because they laughed so long and
hard in their group, they had more fun on these outings than we
did. We got bored running around the park for no particular
reason. Its shape restricted where we could run: We felt like
Ginny dolls within glass cabinets in Miss Steinreid’s doll and
clothing store downtown.
At church, we learned that our lives were meant to have
specific purposes. Therefore, we felt guilty since we were
wasting our time. But God was looking at us, turning us into
rose petals in His mind: We were getting exercise, and that was
enough to fulfill one of His most important ventures for
humankind.

51. Feild
51
Mary’s World
Short Story
Mary, Mother Taylor’s maid, was busy ironing clothes
while the sawmill churned its guttural sound at 5:00 p.m.
promptly from Monday to Friday, respectively. Paw Paw
worked at the sawmill, and Mother Taylor, his wife, had supper
waiting for her husband who thought weighing oneself a waste
of one’s time. He expected biscuits with a purple jam jar, grits,
bacon, ham, scrambled eggs, and sweet tea to be smoking on the
back porch table when he arrived home. He spoke to no one as
he headed to the food, a homeless man’s dream.
While he ate, Mary continued to iron clothes and dream
about the places she could go if she were not black and living in
the Mississippi Delta. Her ideas twisted in her mind as if they
were one sequenced DNA structure.
She was already singing in the black Baptist church, her
melodious voice admired by those who could not carry a tune to
an appropriate destination. She would love to sing with Taylor
Swift in Las Vegas, the background singers for Taylor soft and
secure in their renditions.
She would like to rap with Jay-Z on The Tonight Show
and belt out songs with as many rockers as she could find on The
Voice. Her most important duo she would like to create would be
with John Legend.
As Mary continued ironing, she realized her dream was
cut in half by a falsehood.
Comet would still be her best friend when it was time to
tell the grime good-bye. A feather duster would help the
furniture lose its dust.
Occasionally, when the residents were gone (she needed
her privacy), she would open the cedar chest and look at the
jewelry and other accidental finery. The open cedar chest
became the place where she performed her songs.
Mother Taylor’s relatives and friends visited her quite
often, all asking Mary to sing her most recent song.
Therefore, she sang an original song while she was
ironing on the back porch. Since she sang her original songs
while she was ironing, she was doing the best she could do “to
get her songs out there” for whites in the Mississippi Delta, a

52. The Path
52
place where most blacks accepted their place. Some blacks were
like Mary, finding an ingenious substitute for an impossible
dream.
Cedar Chest

53. Farrell
53
Steven G. Farrell
The Count and the Captain
Short Story
The count, a man of regal but pale bearing, could clearly
hear the clamorous knock upon the great oaken door of his castle
but he was not yet able to lift himself from his coffin to welcome
his supper. The sun was still shining brightly enough for its rays
to be too strong for his sensitive eyes and skin. If only his visitor
had the patience to stay put until the sun descended upon the
Wallachia valley.
The captain, an Englishman and an officer in the
Hungarian royal army, was a burly man who didn’t wait on any
man even if that man was of high birth. The battle-harden
veteran of battles across the continents of Europe, Africa and
Asia was a fearless warrior who considered Dracula just another
backwoods bumpkin, an overlord to whom he had to be civil to
complete his duties as a cartographer for the House of Hapsburg.
“We’re too early,” said Gerardus, the companion of the
captain on the open road. “The sun is still up.”
“Where are the bloody servants?” Captain John Smith
spate out, as his spun from the door to look abstractly at the sun
as it made its descent into the west.
“You may not approve of his servants, Captain Smith”
“Are you on that again, Irishman?” snorted Smith but
not unkindly.
In spite of the constant warfare between the two men’s
nationalities, they were now fast friends after many weeks of
surveying and wandering the wilds of Transylvania. The military
man had been impressed with the stocky Celt’s mountain-
climbing abilities, as they scaled the southern Carpathians
together. Father Gerardus was also a fair-to-middling astronomer
who was held in high regard by the Emperor Rudolph and Tycho
Brahe, the Danish scholar and court geographer in Prague.

54. Farrell
54
Keeping a safe distance from the two men was the third
member of the party: Isabella Cortese, a beautiful young Italian
woman who was along to do the cooking and the secretarial
work. No, actually the Emperor had insisted that she be part of
the team as she was known everywhere for her arcane
knowledge and her experience in the occult. Her lovely shape
also was a comfort to the eyes of the soldier. Even the old priest
seemed to bask in her company and he appeared to enjoy
speaking to her in church Latin. In spite of her humble birth, she
was fluent in several languages and was a good hand at drawing,
especially of rivers and lakes. They even tolerated the old chest
she had them lug around She stepped backwards to get a better
look at the ruins, which once had been a great fortress.
Smith walked over to the cliff to observe the view: a nice
high spot to make his observations so as to jot down his
notations to be incorporated into the series of maps that Michael
the Brave was drawing up of his recently won lands from the
Ottoman Turks. The Romanian prince also wanted to set up his
border with the Hungarian king, who was also a vassal of the
Austrian royal house.
“You deal with the latitude and longitude of this realm
and I’ll deal with the undead,” said Gerardus, crossing himself
as he clutched his Celtic cross. Almost as an afterthought, he
tucked his crucifix beneath his great coat. It was his secret
weapon to be used at the right time. The light of the day was
soon gone and the night air became chilly. A gust of wind began
to pick up from the lonely valley below. A distant village soon
became invisible in the darkness. It struck the captain as odd that
no lights shone from the windows below.
“These Romanian folk go to bed with the chickens.”
“They board up their homes and retreat to the safety of
their bed.”
“If these vampires are so powerful, why can’t they
penetrate the feeble doors of a peasant’s cabin?”
“Even vampires are bound by certain rules,” he
responded. “Snezana, put up your hood…it’s getting colder.”
Snezana and Janic were the servants of the priest.
“Hello, what’s this, then?” asked Captain Smith, nodding
towards the entrance of the castle. Gerardus and Isabella peered
into the darkness to make out the tall figure, who was now
looming there in full view. The sinister outline of a man

55. Farrell
55
beckoned for them to approach. The three slowly approached,
with the two servants staying close to the horse, cart and
baggage.
Smith regretted he had left his musket on the back of one
of the horses. A torch suddenly sparked to light revealing the
face of the owner of the castle. The priest bowed with dignity as
the other two astronomers waited for the man to speak.
“Travelers are always welcomed to my home. I’m
Dracula.”
“We are honored to be in your presence, Count Dracula,”
responded Gerardus, digging into one of the pockets of his great
coat and producing an official document bearing the Emperor’s
royal seal. “We’re not mere wanderers upon the roads of your
domain, but we’re here on official business.”
“Rudolph the Second’s official business,” added Smith.
If the captain was hoping to impress the count with
name-dropping, it didn’t appear to work; for the nobleman
appeared to be unaware of the Hapsburg’s existence. However,
he did reach out a hand to accept the parchment. He also stepped
aside to allow the three to enter the great hall of the castle: it was
as dreary and cold as the dusk outdoors. The captain silently
wondered when was the last time a fire had been permitted to
blaze away freely inside of the household. The count made no
apologies for the disrepair of his estate. He silently led the trio
through a series of chambers and hallways to a great room off to
the one side of the entrance. The lighting of several candles
revealed a large room that had been arranged as a library years
before. A feeble fire was generated in the room’s great fire place
to reveal furnishings, desks and other household products that
appeared to be dusted and well-maintained.
“Those doors over there,” said the count, nodding, “shall
be your sleeping quarters.”
A serving woman appeared, as if silently created out of
thin air by the count. The captain was pleased she was young
and attractive. The priest thought she could be bait to lure them
to their doom.
“This is more like it,” said Smith, warming his hands and
unbuttoning his coat.
“You may uncover your head, children,” Gerardus
beckoned to Isabella, Snezana and Janic,

56. Farrell
56
The count, who had not paid any particular attention to
any one of the wanderer, was suddenly shook out of his
sleepiness by the charms of the Italian woman. He paid rapt
attention as Isabella uncovered her face and peeled off her outer
garment. His mixture of delight and surprise spread across his
hawk-like face. What was this lovely damsel doing with the likes
of these two uncouth mountaineers? He eagerly read the letter of
introduction to find out any important details that had escaped
his notice.
“Milijana, you shall attend to the wants of these
gentlemen. They are Captain Smith, Father Gerardus Lady
Isabella, Janic and Snezana. You shall see that their equipment
and luggage is brought to these chambers for their comfortable
lodgings. They are the guest of the Castle because they are on a
mission from the rule of the Holy Roman Emperor himself.”
Milijana curtsied before going about her ordained duties
as chambermaid. Smith smiled at her before handing her his
coat. The priest patted the woman gently upon the shoulder.
“Your name is Serbian?” he asked in Greek.
Flustered, the woman nodded her head before rushing off.
“Milijana, prepare a room for her ladyship and maiden in
one of the guest room.”
Panic showed in the eyes of Smith as Isabella was being
ushered away. Gerardus put a restraining hand upon Smith’s
wrist and gave him a reassuring smile.
None of the tiny party slept all that well their first night
in Castle Dracula. Snezana in particular looked pale and waned.
There was no sight of the count the entire day as the team
unloaded their gear and set-up their equipment. They soon forget
their concerns as they all became caught up in their royal duties.
Their meals were served in silence by the pretty but aloof
Milijana. Captain Smith noticed how the young maid frequently
shot long looks at Snezana. The captain couldn’t determine if her
glances were those of a jealous lover or a concerned sister.
Dracula made his first entrance of the day as the sun slipped
below the horizon.
“So it has begun? he intoned.
“Yes, it has begun,” replied the captain.
“The view from these towers and battlements are
excellent for our task,” put in Geradus.

57. Farrell
57
“We eat now,” the count said slowly, waving his hand
towards the inner sanctum of his home. The team reluctantly
followed his tall and dark figure through the hallways. Their
hearts cheered somewhat when their journey ended in the great
dining hall that was bright, with a blazing fire. The evening’s
meal was stacked high and on top of expensive plates. Red wine
filled silver cups to the brim. Dracula sat at the head of the table,
as was his prerogative as master of the domain. Smith astutely
observed that the count turned his head away from the others and
stared into the fire as Gerardus said the prayer over the meal.
Everybody seated at the table appeared to notice that the count
didn’t take part in with the meal, although he appeared to take a
sip or two from his own golden goblet.
The captain wasn’t able to get a conversation started until
the supper was over and the others had retired for the evening.
The count cut-off the captain’s retreat and offered him a
nightcap. Smith was shocked that the nobleman appeared to
have an interest in him and his career as a soldier.
“Tell me your tales of combat with the Turks,” ordered
the count.
Captain Smith concluded his personal saga with the
comment of, “The Turk is violent in warfare but he’s absolutely
vicious if you ever end-up in his hands as a prisoner or slave.”
“I was their…prisoner…for years. I have been confined
by Turks, Germans and Hungarians…but I can no longer
be…confined by any of them. Did they abuse you, Captain
Smith?”
It was Captain Smith’s turn to flush and to sputter a
verbalized response: “It was terrible.”
“I was indiscreet to ask such a dreadful question. I
withdraw it, sir. Please know that I understand.”
They were two old soldiers who understood one another
without words. The captain felt that somehow he had gained
some sort of respect in the eyes of Dracula. A cock was crowing
nearby when Dracula quickly broke-off the conversation in mid-
sentence and hurried off into the shadows of the pillars. The
captain followed him with his eyes, noting the direction.
One week later, Snezana was found dead in her bed.

58. Farrell
58
“She’s been drained of her essence,” noted Contessa,
making the sign of the cross. Her Catholicism was mixed with
strange signs only known to her craft.
“We must destroy the body,” said Gerardus, ‘or she’ll
become a creature of the night.”
“How do we destroy the undead?” asked Smith.
The priest pointed to the soldier’s sword and the response
was a sharp blade cutting across the punctured neck of a corpse.
It was gruesome but the trio had anticipated the horror of the
peaceful execution. The remains were shoveled into the fireplace
as well as the sheets and pillows of her deathbed. The smoke
summoned Milijana to the room. Her eyes widened in disbelief
as she rushed to the burning body.
“Stand back, child, warned the priest and the soldier
grabbed her by the arms.
“What goes on here behind the master’s back?”
“She died of the plague and it can only be purged by the
fire,” said Gerardus.
In spite of Miljana’s alarm, the Count handled the news
in an indifferent manner. He nodded in agreement when the
situation was explained to him after darkness. His expressions
and manners were the same when Janic died and was destroyed
within a week of Snezana’s cremation. Through it all the trio
worked at their chores of measurement and mapping. Then
Isabella began to turn pale and lose her appetite. The priest
dosed her with tonics and she added her own brews. Between the
two of them, they contained all of the knowledge of medicine,
alchemy and science of Hermes inside of their learned heads.
Captain Smith could only stand aside helpless as the Irishman
and the Italian talked in their cryptic and coded language.
“There should be enough of the chemicals inside of you
to put him in a coma for two months,” stated Gerardus, smiling
at his partner. “It shall give us just enough time to transport this
monster to Prague.”
“It is merely magic?” questioned Smith.
“Magic, mathematics and mystery,” said Contessa,
without fear. “The emperor is the only ruler in all of Europe
who’ll pay for such things to benefit his Holy Roman Empire.”
“I wonder if the people of Prague shall benefit from the
presence of this vampire in their city just for the amusement of
their over curious monarch?’ questioned Gerardus.

59. Farrell
59
“Orders are orders,” barked Smith, who was ever the
dutiful man-of-arms.
The Italian sorceress still felt no fear when Count
Dracula again approached her bed as the beams of the full moon
filled the chambers. His teeth pieced her soft neck and he began
to lap up the pouring blood with greedy hunger. His repast was
nearly finished when he became aware of a powerful flavor in
his mouth, which was so sharp it overwhelmed the taste of warm
blood. A few seconds after his discovery, the count began to feel
dizzy for the first time in centuries. He began to spin around the
room to in a desperate attempt to reclaim his bearings.
“Now,” shouted Gerardus, as Captain Smith leaped out
of a curtained alcove with a specially designed club. The soldier
felt his strength was in no need of any enchantment as he swung
the weapon around so quickly that the fiend never saw the blow
coming. Count Dracula let out a groan as he tumbled backwards.
He wildly sought the support of a wall but the captain clubbed
him again. Then he was hit a third time. The monster crashed to
the floor like so many of his victims had done in the past.
Captain Smith shackled iron chains around Dracula as the priest
bolted for the bed to stem the bleeding from Isabella’s neck. The
priest splashed on one of her own mixtures that removed the
marks from her neck and immediately restored her strength.
“Prepare the box,” she shouted. “We have won out over
Dracula.”
The two men emptied out the clothing from the
enchantress’s great chest, revealing a thick layer of Romanian
dirt. The soldier scooped up a handful of the soil and felt it
slipped away through his sturdy fingers.
“This soil, from his native land, shall keep him intact
until we’ve reached the capital.”
The count was stowed away in the chest for safekeeping
by the two men while the woman left the room to destroy
Milijana with the sword of John Smith. The men ignored the
anguished scream of the dying slave of the vampire as they
focused upon their journey back to Prague. The return home
would not be an easy one as the count was still able to deploy his
powers beneath the sealed lid, conjuring up thunderstorms and
attacks by bands of gypsies. Later, they would agree the most
harrowing of Dracula’s weapons was an invasion of their nightly
camp by a horde of massive timber wolves. Even the toll keepers

60. Farrell
60
at the border gates seemed to be in the employment of the count,
doing their administrative utmost to slow down the trio’s
progress.
However, the faith of Father Gerardus, the magic of
Contessa and the strength of Captain John Smith never wavered
and the Emperor Rudolph of the Holy Roman Empire soon
received the greatest prize to add to his vast collection of
masterpieces, treasures, manuscripts and oddities. He was now
the master of Count Dracula.
Count Dracula

61. McDade
61
Thomas M. McDade
Antimacassar
Short Story
I took a short, hot shower. The water went tepid like it
often did aboard ship. I shaved leisurely. Just as I got the fluffy
towel wrapped around me, Roger Lester’s little brother, Doug
walked in, without knocking. Punk was pushing fourteen but
acted like an adult who’d been around the world twice. He was
tall for his age I thought, square-faced, one front tooth crossed
over the other. I flipped a hand towel over my left shoulder and
let it drape my upper arm to hide my tattoo. I didn’t want to hear
any of his shit.
“Must be a chore taking a leak with all those buttons,
huh,” he said, pointing to my bell bottoms on the radiator on top
of my dress jumper.”
“Nah, secret method perfected in boot camp.”
“Must be a lot of yellow training stains,” said Doug,
snickering.
Placing his transistor radio on the toilet tank, he sat on
the hamper. “You really want to go to Val’s dance, Sailor Tom?”
he asked, over a used car commercial that reminded him he had
to steal another car soon to keep in practice.
“Yeah sure,” I said to myself. Now that the booze had
worn off, I wished I hadn’t agreed to the damned dance.
“Yup,” I answered.” “Unchained Melody” was blaring.”
“It won’t be like the slummy Silken Hoof where you got
your load on. I sure wish Lana didn’t live over that dump.”
“No load on. How about lowering the radio some?”

62. The Path
62
“It ain’t bothering me. My head ain’t lost in throb town.
You turn it down.” I did, instead of telling him to shove it.
“What’s the matter, Man?” he continued, “You don’t like the
Righteous Brothers?”
“Love them,” I said, “but it was too loud for
conversation. How would you know anything about the Silken
Hoof?”
“I’ve been there with Chad and Lana, a couple of visits
with Chad’s second cousin Clayton too. It used to be the
Paddock. He calls it the Padlock because he’s picked its lock.
Not a whole lot going on with him but he’s talented that way. He
did one too many crib dives as a baby, broke his shoulder once
but mostly it was his head suffered. Val’s been there too. We
sneaked out my bedroom window one night. Lana had a key
made on the sly.” Clayton nailed a photo of The Three Stooges
on the wall, lot of head scratching over that. “Who’s your
favorite?”
“Larry,” I said, although I liked them all equally.
“You kind of look like him, nyuk, nyuk. I’m a Shemp fan
myself; bet you didn’t know he was once a boxer.” I pleaded
guilty. Doug placed his elbows on his knees and propped his
face on his palms. I shaved carefully around my lips.
“What else about the Silken Hoof?” I asked.
“Not much, the jukebox got too much shit-kicking music.
You’d think this was Nashville. Besides that’s a dumb name,
Silken Hoof. I might spray paint ‘Silly Goof’ out front someday,
just might.”
“I like that name change. I was surprised at the country
stuff myself but there were other choices.” I remembered “Lana”
being a selection I almost played but came to my senses. “Oh
beautiful Lana, you know that I wanna.”
“Race trackers from down south brought the twang along
with their white lightning,” he explained.
“Country tunes ain’t all bad.”
“Chad liked to say you had to drink your way into liking
them and then you’d dig anything but he was always playing
Hank Williams songs. His favorite was ‘On the Banks of the
Pontchartrain’. He was starting to like the Beatles though,” said
Doug, voice breaking off.
“Haven’t started drinking yet, have you?” I asked,
joking.

63. McDade
63
“Clayton gave me some shine once that drilled me a new
asshole. I don’t even want to think about it.” I liked the way he
put it but didn’t want to swell his head.
“Jacked you up to take some powerful notice, huh?”
“I ordered the man down for a-hundred pushups. He can
sure take his punishment.” Clayton should give the punk a
backhand, I thought. “Let’s talk about something else. You’ve
seen them both, do you think Lana’s prettier than Val?” he
asked, jumping up to change the radio from news to Tommy
Edwards singing “It’s all in the Game.” I splashed on English
Leather and ignored the question. It was the after-shave I used
on Saturdays.
“You’ll never catch me using that shit,” said Doug.
“Why not choose Old Spice? You’re supposed to be a sailor
aren’t you?” I couldn’t recall being such a wiseass at his age.
“Old Spice is for old men, English Leather is for
horseplayers.”
“Losers, my old man would say. “That’s the opinion of
many, not necessarily correct. Take me, for example.”
“You won? How much did you win? Or is it the loser
code, breaking even counts as winning. I love the track and the
horses but don’t plan to go poorhouse over them.”
“You’ll hear dollars and cents soon enough.” When
Roger stranded me at the Silken Hoof after a phone call from an
old girlfriend in Central Falls, Lana asked me to her table. She
patted her belly and I joined in her toast to the beautiful baby she
had in the oven. She was the first woman I’d ever seen with a
gold framed tooth, the one next to the left front. The rest of them
were perfect and she didn’t need the precious metal to make her
smile a winner. Offbeat attractive, her face was narrow, nose
sharp and eyes deep blue. Questioning eyes? I’d heard that on
TV, might have applied to her. Her skin looked so flawless and
soft my fingers ached to touch it for proof. Hair ash blonde, it
was long enough to swing over her shoulder to cover her
substantial left breast. Johnny Burnette was “Dreamin’ on the
jukebox when she asked for my Racing Form. She gave me $20
to put on a horse named Dream Mesa, placed my hand on her
belly for luck. Dream Mesa paid $29 for a $2 bet. I had $10 on it
myself. I planned to give Lana’s dough to Val to deliver before I
caught a bus back to the Newport in the morning. I wasn’t

64. The Path
64
expecting much sleep on a cot in the same room with motor
mouth Doug.
“So, is Lana prettier than Val?” he asked again, standing
to switch off the radio before sitting on the edge of the tub.
“Dead heat,” I said.
“I knew you’d say that,” he said, slapping his knee.
“Lana beats her by miles in the figure department.”
I’d have to wait until the baby came into the world to
learn that and I didn’t intend to see these parts again, six months
down the road or ever. I shortened my sideburns. Doug fired up
his transistor again and joined the Beach Boys singing “Help Me
Rhonda,” applauding after the song ended.
“Are you really going to that dance?”
“Yes Sir.”
“All they got is Pepsi and you’ll get sick as I did on
shine,” he said, pleased with the comparison. Then running into
the bedroom, he returned wearing my white hat.
“Looking good,” I said, “maybe you’ll join the Navy.”
“All sailors do is get drunk. I told you I’m never going to
drink again.”
“There are Born Again Christians on the ship. They’d
rather be keel hauled than drink alcohol.”
You ain’t the first sailor that’s visited you know. My
cousin Liz picked one up at the Johnny Shadows Lounge and
took him home. They found me watching the big color TV. I’d
climbed in a window. My aunt and uncle were in Atlantic City
celebrating a wedding anniversary. She was 16 at the time. He
was a jerk, used big words. One I remember is “antimacassar”.
We were sitting on the couch. He had his paw around the jailbait
and suddenly he picks up the doily behind her head. “Do you
know what this is?” he asked me.
“It’s a doily unless you got a cold then it might be called
a snot-rag. That shut him up for a couple of seconds. Then he
raised his voice, said it was to keep hair grease off upholstery.”
Liz gave me a fiver to scram, probably lifted from his wallet.”
“Maybe “Antimacassar” would be a good name for the
Paddock/ Padlock / Silken Hoof / Silly Goof—doily coasters for
resting mugs,” I suggested.
“That would just be asking for arson. Anyway, this guy
from California, Ronald was his name, a Guided Missile Tech,

65. McDade
65
knocked up Liz. He didn’t get arrested but her daddy got money
coming in from the Navy; allotment I think they call it.
“Yup, that’s the term.”
Liz married a jockey but he didn’t’ adopt the kid named
Dolly not doily. Ha. The monthly keeps rolling in. Speaking of
jailbait, Val qualifies. Tell it to the judge. Here come-da-judge,
Sailor Boy. ‘A lot’ more government mail landing in the Lincoln
P.O. Ha.”
I thanked the punk for the parable of the antimacassar
man but not aloud.
“I saw you looking at her at dinner, your eyeballs trying
to melt buttons off her blouse.”
He made a grab to pull my towel off my arm. I moved so
quickly to dodge, I exposed the damned tattoo myself. Just then,
I spotted Val standing against the doorjamb like a hooker against
a telephone pole, a maroon, corduroy jacket slung over her
shoulder. They laughed like hyenas. She wore red lipstick, olive
oil over tomato bright. I‘d be flat ass lying if I didn’t find that
mouth tempting. Her jeans and purple turtleneck were tight.
High-topped sneakers, maybe PF Flyers finished her. No bra
haltered her little tits. Her black hair was in two braids and long
enough to rein her in. Her eyes were big, dark and a combination
of curious and ain’t-I-mysterious.
“Stand still,” she said, then slapped her palm against my
crossed anchors. Examining the palm, she said, “No ink; could
be real.” Doug belched, long and loud. “Doug can burp at will,
Tom, some talent, huh?”
“I reckon.”
“Make him turn around, Val. I think he’s got a boner.”
Val used her palm again, nearly knocked him into the tub.
Leading him out by the ear, she slammed the door. I finished
shaving, dressed; tied a snug knot in my neckerchief.
When I exited the bathroom, shadowboxing Doug
greeted me in a jean jacket that was too big for him. “After my
Sunday punch, we’re out of here the cat burglar way.” He swung
hard enough to extinguish a roaring fireplace. “You owe me. I
talked Val out of dragging you to the stupid dance.”
Grabbing my pea coat from the door hook and my hat off
his head, I followed him out the window onto the flat porch roof.
We reached the ground courtesy of a small fir tree and drain
pipe. I remembered times I wanted to run away from home.

66. The Path
66
Once I got five or so miles away before my old man’s jalopy
Chevy rattled and smoked up behind me.
The famous Clayton was waiting below. He saluted and I
saluted back. I could make out disheveled salt and pepper hair
and fleshy lips. He was lanky, probably a little over six feet,
wore a long black coat. He looked normal to me. I checked out
the sky while they lit cigarettes. I thought about all the lookout
watches I’d stood under skies clear, cloudy and angry. When my
eyes returned to earth, Doug and Clayton were gone. The hell
with them, I’d sneak back into Doug’s bedroom and call it a
night.
As I started for the porch, I heard a noise in the brush.
When I turned, my knees buckled, tackled like an indecisive
quarterback. “Goddamned you, Doug,” I said in hushed voice. I
scrambled to my knees and found myself in a chokehold. The
grip was too strong for Doug’s build. It was either Clayton or
Roger. This stunt had Roger Lester written all over it. “Better
fuck off,” I said, swinging my elbow into ribs then reaching back
for a hank of hair, suddenly thinking it might be old man Lester.
“If you want a lock of hair, just ask,” said Val, voice
weak and cracking as if I’d knocked her wind out.
“Jesus, Val, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you say something?
You OK?”
“No sweat,” she said coughing violently. I hugged her.
“Excuse my French,” I said.
“Oui, oui.” She bent down to pick up my white hat, set it
on my head, cocked.
We walked together about a half a mile. She held onto
my arm. All my attempts at conversation were awkward and
humdrum. Many times she repeated, “Adventure on tap tonight.”
We turned onto a path leading into the woods. The sky allowed
enough of the half-moonlight to guide us along a line of birches.
The stars were dim buds. As we reached a narrow field,
headlights flashed an S.O.S. It was a dark blue Chevy Impala,
Doug at the wheel, Clayton in the passenger seat sitting up proud
and tall. “Nice one, Doug,” said Val as we jumped in the back
seat.
“No funny business back there,” said Doug as he slowly
pulled out. The little shit wasn’t lying about car theft. Christ, if
we got caught I’d be in big Uncle Sam trouble.
“Next stop, F.E.I. Club,” announced Clayton.

67. McDade
67
“Now hear this, out-of-town Tom, that stands For Every
Imbecile,” said Doug, leaving rubber at the second red light we
hit. “Damn,” he said, “I had these lights down to a science the
night of the GTO.”
“That was one beautiful car,” said Val moving closer to
me, “red with leather seats, super speakers.”
The parking lot was full. Doug swung out, parked on the
main drag, left the keys in the ignition. “I’m going to trade up
when we split,” said Doug. “I detected a spark plug with a slight
misfire, correct Clayton?”
“Son of a bitch, misbehaving all right,” agreed Clayton
wiping down the steering wheel and door handles with a red
bandana. We walked to the side of the building.
“Lana was an exotic dancer at the F.E.I. before she got in
a family way. All the other girls are amateurs compared to her,”
explained Doug. “Mona the Magnificent Milk Maid is a freak.
That’s why the parking lot’s full. She could use a wheelbarrow
to transport her chest. It would take a hundred pairs of Val’s to
match her set.” Val dropped back and kicked him in
the ass.
“Through the uprights,” confirmed Clayton.
“Truth hurts,” said Doug.
“You’re going to hurt a plenty, pecker-head.”
“Lana has jugs made in stripper heaven,” said Doug.
“She’ll never come back to this sewer. She’s better than
that,” hissed Val.
“Quiet,” said Clayton, kneeling down before a window.
He lifted his arm. Doug grabbed it, stepped up on his shoulders.
Clayton easily stood up. I wondered if he’d see Roger in there,
loved strip joints overseas.
“She’s plopped them on a couple’s table,” reported
Doug. Val said she couldn’t look, might become violently ill. I
was going to beg off but Clayton and Doug would have never let
me forget. Would Val hold it against me? I used the same
elevator, strong guy, pushups I figured. That was a very sizeable
chest on that Maid but in my mind not a pleasure to look at.
Doug told us to wait there until he came back.
“I’m sorry I looked at that sideshow,” I confessed to Val.
“I know you didn’t have your heart in it,” she answered. I
was relieved.

68. The Path
68
“Don’t you ever worry about the cops catching you in a
stolen car?”
“No, I haven’t been scared since Chad’s stock-car caught
fire at Seekonk Speedway. His death numbed me to fear. I know
that doesn’t make sense and maybe it’s not true but that’s what
I’m claiming now, how about you?”
“You bet I am, don’t want to get booted out of the
Navy.”
“Not to worry, Clayton’ll take the heat if we get caught.
We’ve rehearsed in the cellar under a bare light bulb. He’ll save
us.”
“Good to hear,” I said, leery. In ten minutes or so, Doug
returned. We followed him to a big black Chrysler.
“A guy and his gal just had a quickie and she wasn’t
happy,” said Doug. ‘The Anti-Climax Kid’ is what she called
him. No shit, he slapped her a few good ones before dragging
her back into the ‘diary bar’. Chump left his keys. Ha.”
“That’s the kind of people who go to strip joints,” judged
Val.
“I saw the mayor once,” challenged Doug.
“Made my case,” said Val.
Clayton turned the radio on to the Bobby Vee warning,
“The Night has a Thousand Eyes.” Doug cut the volume too low
for ears. We passed around the bottle Clayton claimed was
moonshine. I’d had it once before and this wasn’t it. More like
the watered down booze in sailor bilking nightclubs in Naples.
My body hair did not feel on the verge of de-rooting.
“You two sit on your hands back there,” said Doug,
deepening his voice.
Val ignored him. “Smooth ride or what, Tom?”
“Smooth is too feeble a word.” She kissed my cheek.
Doug announced Lincoln Downs Racetrack would be the
final stop on the grand tour he was launching. The first attraction
was the Diamond Hill parking lot. Chad had won a couple of
skiing medals three winters ago. It didn’t look like much of a
challenge but all I knew about skiing was what I’d seen on TV.
“My dad took me to a concert by that pond last summer,”
said Val. “We saw a famous drummer named Krupa I’d never
heard of but dad talked a blue streak about the guy’s fame. I
loved his solos.” No one claimed Chad was a genius on even one

69. McDade
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musical instrument. Clayton drummed on the dashboard with his
index fingers.
Next, we headed for Pawtucket. I mispronounced it.
“Paw” instead of “Puh,” they laughed at me. “Damned
foreigner,” ribbed Doug. Crossing a downtown bridge I could
see falls, barely flowing. Val explained they’d powered the Old
Slater Mill, the oldest textile mill in America. Clayton, expert at
entry antique and new, had picked its lock twice just for what
was at least the Rhode Island record we all agreed.
“Slater was a slave driver and they named a park after
him,” offered Clayton, stuttering. “They worked their asses off!
Sam Patch didn’t take his shit, became a famous daredevil,
conquered Niagara Falls by leaping the hell in.” That was the
longest narration I’d heard from Clayton so far. He was
passionate.
“Damn right,” agreed Doug.
We cruised past a cop car on the way to Narragansett
Park. I closed my eyes and crossed my fingers. They had no
connections to get us onto that track where Mr. Lester had seen
Seabiscuit win his first race. We lingered in the vast parking lot.
Lana’s dad sold his tip sheet in front of the clubhouse. He had a
portable printing press in his station wagon. “Chad made some
big hits here, he did,” said Clayton. “He parlayed seven races for
some big buckaroos a couple of times. He would have gotten all
nine eventually.”
“Clayton bets favorites to show,” said Doug prompting
Clayton to stretch his arm, flipped two fingers up behind Doug’s
head. “You’re just building up your pushup IOUs,” warned
Doug, spotting the move in the rear view mirror.
Val got behind the wheel and had us dizzy using the
lampposts for a slalom run. Doug tried to convince us to join
him in jumping the fence and but Val reminded him it was alien
territory and needed some daytime casing. Doug hit the gas,
fishtailed the Chrysler on its way.
Prospect Heights Federal Housing, where Clayton grew
up was down the street. We parked in view of his two-story birth
block after weaving through narrow streets. Clayton got on the
podium again. He served up the history of the place along with
names of people he’d known: a champion boxer and Major
League pitcher among them before documenting himself. “I
scaled those bricks a thousand times or more.” “I’d walk the tar

70. The Path
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and gravel roof and pretend it was an aircraft carrier flight deck.
How do you like that Tommy?”
“I’m very impressed sir.” He snapped off an exaggerated
salute.
“You sure are lucky you’re in the Navy. Do you ever see
bird farms?”
“Yup, USS Randolph, I see her too damned regularly.
“Here’s my carrier,” said Clayton, whipping out his
wallet. Doug switched on the overhead light for him. He showed
around a laminated well-creased WWII trading card featuring
the USS Lexington.
We swung into the Boro Drive-in. Clayton “finessed” the
padlock securing the chain. Doug pointed out the corner of the
screen. He’d climbed to the top a couple of times using the
support frames, pissed off it. “Clayton ain’t the only climber.”
“You’re the only pig,” said Val. She’d seen The
Unsinkable Molly Brown here with Chad and Lana. Doug inched
us as close as possible to the screen, switched on high beams.
Clayton ran to it, did some pretty nifty hand puppet work.
Cruising tyrant Slater’s Park, Doug told of giving
cigarettes to monkeys to smoke. He knew a kid who’d stolen an
Appaloosa and freed a timber wolf. I was wishing the night over.
Doug claimed he’d once helped Chad steal a peacock for Lana’s
birthday, returned it just before dawn. “Someday I’ll ride Fanny
the elephant,” he vowed.
“This is nothing but an animal concentration camp.” No
one challenged or heckled her.
By the time we reached Lincoln Downs, the night had
freed about a half million stars.
Doug held up the bottom of a ten-foot chain link fence
topped with sagging barbed wire and announced it was the
entrance for the blind, crippled and crazy. Clayton slid his
knapsack of shine under. We scaled that fence like death row
prisoners making a break. I landed flat-footed and hurt my heel.
I kept the pain to myself. Val just about flew over, like an
Olympic medalist and I told her so. It was casket quiet and it
struck me countless gambling dreams lie underfoot, hoof-
pounded into the earth without the courtesy of a gravedigger,
coffin or floral arrangement. A plane passing over broke the
silence. I recalled being jolted out of nightmares when I was a

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kid and finding comfort in a plane’s engines as if aircraft in a
lonely, night sky made a God more possible.
Val clenched my arm like a tot locked around its father’s
leg. Doug had a light grip on my pea coat hem. I thought about
ribbing him but decided to save it; sure was eerie. Clayton
walked ahead making whinnying noises between moonshine
sips. After stopping to let us catch up, he offered me the bottle. I
held off calling it Kool-Aid. “Let me wet my tongue,” said Val.
“Your old man would love to hear you were out drinking
rocket fuel with me,” I said.
“Clayton would take the blame. Wouldn’t you Clay
Man?”
“Ginger ale,” said Clayton, “I thought it was ginger ale,
by God.” Val hugged him, swigged and cart wheeled.
After we climbed over a small wall to get to the
clubhouse, a spotlight covered us. We were on stage. Clayton
did a soft-shoe. Doug and Val blew kisses. “Go give Harry some
hooch, Clayton,” said Doug. “Tell him there are crucial stakes
races to be run!” We rushed to the Grossman Building Supply
box seats. Doug pointed out he’d chosen them because his dad
worked there. Harry flashed the lights around the oval at minute
intervals. Doug calculated the end of the world would start with
the racetrack lights signaling such warnings.
“You been nipping moonshine?” asked Val.
“Just being near that junk gives me wild ideas,” said
Doug. He called an imaginary race which featured horses with
Beatles inspired names. Liverpool Lads won by a five lengths.
“I wish there were more stars,” Val said to me.
“Land stars are nothing next to sea stars,” I boasted.
“I’ve seen the sky almost one big star. Sea stars are flowers that
love the ocean air so much they bloom out of control and
overlap.”
“Talk, about wild ideas,” said Doug, making circles with
a finger near his temple.
“Wild and wonderful,” said Val, kissing my cheek; and
romantic.”
“Nah, it’s lonely out there.”
“From now on, think of me.”
“Think of me,” mimicked Doug, pitching his voice high.
“He’ll think of you with a broken nose if you don’t clam
up,” warned Val.

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72
“Any minute of the day or night, sis Valerie.” He sang
“Oh, Oh, Valerie” far off key while throwing out lefts and rights,
brushing his thumbs off his nose.
Clayton returned from the Harry mission and passed the
bottle while snorting like a Clydesdale. The octane had sure
skyrocketed. I wondered where the still was located. Was it
Clayton’s operation? Something in the Chad annals, I’d never
hear? “Holy shit,” shouted Val after a bigger slug than her first,
“Where did the smooth go? My lips disappeared, can’t feel my
lips!”
I kissed her, asking, “How ‘bout now?”
“You’re a hero, sailor,” she said. “Now tell me, how’s
the sea sky for shooting stars?”
“A showcase,” I said. “Star petals all the time diving. I
slipped my arms around her and she snuggled up to me. “I’ve
been studying up about the stars,” I continued. “After the next
cruise I’m going to be an expert. There’s a guy on the ship called
Rabbit. He’s had some college. He’s taking a correspondence
course in astronomy. I learn lots from him.”
“Rabbit?” asked Val.
“A guy in the personnel office spread it around that he
was born on Easter,” I lied. Rab made the mistake of telling a
bigmouth he was a virgin even after cruises to South America
and the North Atlantic.
“Rudolph, if it had been Christmas. Right Tommy?”
piped Doug.
“You still here?” asked Val. He gave her a Bronx cheer.
We drank more and I could see myself carrying a passed out Val
home, old man Lester raging.
“Why don’t you go to college, study astronomy on the GI
Bill?” Val asked.
Clayton murmured he was a Scorpio.
“If I could go where you go.” I remembered all the
college prep courses I hadn’t taken.
Doug whistled Beatles tunes while Clayton blew along
over the top of a bottle. “I’d love that,” said Val. Do you read
much?”
“No,” I said, feeling the strikes adding up.
“Well, you’ve got to start if you want to stay on my good
side. Two are very important to me.”
“Shoot,” I said, softly touching her face.