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MUSE IS THE QUARTERLY JOURNAL PUBLISHED BY THE LIT
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CLEVELAND, OH
ISSN 1942-275X
07
M U S E
I S
T H E
Q U A R T E R L Y
J O U R N A L
P U B L I S H E D
WORDS+IMAGES
9 771942 275009
NYC / SUBWAY, 22� X 22�, CARBON PIGMENTED INKJET PHOTOGRAPH
09.10
ISSUE
B Y
T H E
L I T
Drama. At the theatre, we love it. In our own lives, not so
much. But there’s no escaping it. The mundane can become
MUSE IS THE QUARTERLY JOURNAL PUBLISHED BY THE LIT
VOLUME 3, ISSUE 3 SEP 2010
JUDITH MANSOUR
Poetry Contest
Editor/Publisher
[email protected]
Submission deadline is Friday, September 10, 2010 5:00 p.m.
T I M L AC H I N A
Poets over the centuries have ventured across the globe—both literally and imaginatively—for
inspiration, seeking ideas from new places and cultures or from objects and ideas that have come
from afar. Given our community’s growing interest in globalism, we are seeking poems that engage
with our broader world. The contest is open to poets of high school age and above; high-school
applicants are judged in their own category. Winners will be notified by Monday, September 27 and
are expected to attend the Poetry in the Garden event on Sunday, October 3.
Contest rules and submission details are available at case.edu/humanities.
provokenlightenrichallengelevate
Poetry in the Garden
Sunday, October 3, 2010
1 - 4 pm
Check-in begins: 12 p.m.
Cleveland Botanical Garden • 11030 East Boulevard
Local and national poets share their work in the idyllic setting of the Cleveland Botanical Garden.
Their readings reveal how globalism has shaped their work. Poets include Ilya Kaminsky (San Diego
State University), Phil Metres (John Carroll University), Kazim Ali (Oberlin College), Michael Dumanis
(Cleveland State University), and Erika Meitner (Virginia Tech). The day also includes a poetry
contest, book signing, and reception. Support provided by the Helen Buchman Sharnoff Endowed
Fund for Poetry at Case Western Reserve University and the Ohio Arts Council. Pre-registration
required for free admission to garden.
Contact the Baker Nord Center for the Humanities
For more information visit us online at case.edu/humanities or call
216.368.2242.
dramatic, given the right word choices and syntax, and that
is what you will see in the pages that follow. Drama is the
theme of this issue, and whether it’s the dramatic excerpt by
Diana Tittle in Chapter 11, the dialogue between playwright
Raymond Bobgan and editor Ray McNiece, or the short
plays in the coming pages, this issue will tickle our fancy for
Design Director
[email protected]
the stage and spotlight.
ALE N K A BANCO
When we were going to press for this issue, we were
Art Editor
[email protected]
NIN ANDREWS
R O B JAC K S O N
R AY M C N I E C E
DAV I D M E G E N H A R D T
K AREN SCHUBERT
Contributing Editors
[email protected]
K E L LY K . B I R D
Advertising Account Manager
[email protected]
steeped in planning for The LIT”s first biennial Lantern
Awards, which will be held on September 11, at the Palace
Theatre in PlayhouseSquare. Genres ranging from poetry to
blog, with a little drama in between, will be celebrated at
this hallmark event. We hope you will join us.
We are also gearing up for the 3rd annual MUSE Literary
Competition, so please be on the lookout for the guidelines
included in this issue. Many good and dramatic things on the
horizon for The LIT and for MUSE, which is nearing the end
of its third year in publication. Let’s continue to give voice
to writers in this region. There is so much to say.
S U B M I S S I O N S may be sent electronically to
[email protected]. We prefer electronic submissions. MUSE publishes all genres of creative
writing — including but not limited to poetry, fiction, essay, memoir, humor, lyrics, and drama.
Preference is given Ohio-based authors.
Founded in 1987 as Ohio Writer, MUSE is the quarterly
journal published by The LIT, a nonprofit literary arts
organization. No part of this journal may be reproduced
without written consent of the publisher.
THELIT
JUDITH
DON’T MISS MUSE.
SUBSCRIBE NOW TO MUSE–
A QUARTERLY PUBLICATION
THE-LIT.ORG 216 694.0000
CLEVELAND’S LITERARY CENTER
M u s e
i s
t h e
q u a r t e r l y
j o u r n a l
p u b l i s h e d
words+images
A R TCR A F T BUIL DING
2 5 7 0 S U P E R I O R AV E N U E
SUIT E 203
C L E V E L A N D, O H I O 4 4114
t h e
l i t
MUS
M u s e
216 6 9 4.0 0 0 0 W W W.T H E - L I T.O R G
07.08
issue
JAIL GUITAR DOORS IMAGES BY PROJECT NOISE FOUNDATION
b y
i s
t h e
q u a r t e r l y
j o u r n a l
p u b l i s h e d
words+images
b y
t h e
l i t
09
10
M
U
S
M
Case Western Reserve University’s
Baker-Nord Center for the Humanities
and Cleveland Botanical Garden present:
1
Drama. At the theatre, we love it. In our own lives, not so
much. But there’s no escaping it. The mundane can become
MUSE IS THE QUARTERLY JOURNAL PUBLISHED BY THE LIT
VOLUME 3, ISSUE 3 SEP 2010
JUDITH MANSOUR
Poetry Contest
Editor/Publisher
[email protected]
Submission deadline is Friday, September 10, 2010 5:00 p.m.
T I M L AC H I N A
Poets over the centuries have ventured across the globe—both literally and imaginatively—for
inspiration, seeking ideas from new places and cultures or from objects and ideas that have come
from afar. Given our community’s growing interest in globalism, we are seeking poems that engage
with our broader world. The contest is open to poets of high school age and above; high-school
applicants are judged in their own category. Winners will be notified by Monday, September 27 and
are expected to attend the Poetry in the Garden event on Sunday, October 3.
Contest rules and submission details are available at case.edu/humanities.
provokenlightenrichallengelevate
Poetry in the Garden
Sunday, October 3, 2010
1 - 4 pm
Check-in begins: 12 p.m.
Cleveland Botanical Garden • 11030 East Boulevard
Local and national poets share their work in the idyllic setting of the Cleveland Botanical Garden.
Their readings reveal how globalism has shaped their work. Poets include Ilya Kaminsky (San Diego
State University), Phil Metres (John Carroll University), Kazim Ali (Oberlin College), Michael Dumanis
(Cleveland State University), and Erika Meitner (Virginia Tech). The day also includes a poetry
contest, book signing, and reception. Support provided by the Helen Buchman Sharnoff Endowed
Fund for Poetry at Case Western Reserve University and the Ohio Arts Council. Pre-registration
required for free admission to garden.
Contact the Baker Nord Center for the Humanities
For more information visit us online at case.edu/humanities or call
216.368.2242.
dramatic, given the right word choices and syntax, and that
is what you will see in the pages that follow. Drama is the
theme of this issue, and whether it’s the dramatic excerpt by
Diana Tittle in Chapter 11, the dialogue between playwright
Raymond Bobgan and editor Ray McNiece, or the short
plays in the coming pages, this issue will tickle our fancy for
Design Director
[email protected]
the stage and spotlight.
ALE N K A BANCO
When we were going to press for this issue, we were
Art Editor
[email protected]
NIN ANDREWS
R O B JAC K S O N
R AY M C N I E C E
DAV I D M E G E N H A R D T
K AREN SCHUBERT
Contributing Editors
[email protected]
K E L LY K . B I R D
Advertising Account Manager
[email protected]
steeped in planning for The LIT”s first biennial Lantern
Awards, which will be held on September 11, at the Palace
Theatre in PlayhouseSquare. Genres ranging from poetry to
blog, with a little drama in between, will be celebrated at
this hallmark event. We hope you will join us.
We are also gearing up for the 3rd annual MUSE Literary
Competition, so please be on the lookout for the guidelines
included in this issue. Many good and dramatic things on the
horizon for The LIT and for MUSE, which is nearing the end
of its third year in publication. Let’s continue to give voice
to writers in this region. There is so much to say.
S U B M I S S I O N S may be sent electronically to
[email protected]. We prefer electronic submissions. MUSE publishes all genres of creative
writing — including but not limited to poetry, fiction, essay, memoir, humor, lyrics, and drama.
Preference is given Ohio-based authors.
Founded in 1987 as Ohio Writer, MUSE is the quarterly
journal published by The LIT, a nonprofit literary arts
organization. No part of this journal may be reproduced
without written consent of the publisher.
THELIT
JUDITH
DON’T MISS MUSE.
SUBSCRIBE NOW TO MUSE–
A QUARTERLY PUBLICATION
THE-LIT.ORG 216 694.0000
CLEVELAND’S LITERARY CENTER
M u s e
i s
t h e
q u a r t e r l y
j o u r n a l
p u b l i s h e d
words+images
A R TCR A F T BUIL DING
2 5 7 0 S U P E R I O R AV E N U E
SUIT E 203
C L E V E L A N D, O H I O 4 4114
t h e
l i t
MUS
M u s e
216 6 9 4.0 0 0 0 W W W.T H E - L I T.O R G
07.08
issue
JAIL GUITAR DOORS IMAGES BY PROJECT NOISE FOUNDATION
b y
i s
t h e
q u a r t e r l y
j o u r n a l
p u b l i s h e d
words+images
b y
t h e
l i t
09
10
M
U
S
M
Case Western Reserve University’s
Baker-Nord Center for the Humanities
and Cleveland Botanical Garden present:
1
KELLY BANCROFT lives and works
in Youngstown, Ohio. A winner of
an Ohio Arts Council Individual
Artist award and the First annual
Muse Literary Competition, her work
has been appeared in many journals
including Whiskey Island, Cortland
Review, XConnect, Puerto del Sol, and
Time Magazine. She’s the vocalist for the
New-Celtic band, Brady’s Leap.
RAYMOND BOBGAN is a 2010 Creative
Workforce Fellow. He was Acting Artistic Director of CPT (1995-1997) and
served as Associate Artistic Director, Education Director and Resident Director
at various times in the theatre’s history,
most recently from 2004-06. Bobgan
specializes in creating new work through
an ensemble-driven process. He was the
founding artistic Director of Wishhounds (aka Theatre Labyrinth) and has
directed and collaboratively conceived/
created over twenty new theatrical
works. Recent creations include: Blue
Sky Transmission: A Tibetan Book of the
Dead, co-produced by CPT and La
Mama ETC (NY), which was a recipient
of a Rockefeller MAP Fund Grant, and
The Confessions of Punch and Judy, coproduced by CPT, NaCl (NY) and Number 11 Theatre (Toronto), which
continues to tour periodically throughout the US, Canada, and Europe.
LAUREN CAMP (Santa Fe, New
Mexico) is an artist and educator
traversing and interweaving a variety
of visual, musical and literary arts.
One of her poems was selected Editors’
Choice by Rhino, and other poems
have appeared recently in Thema, J
Journal and Sin Fronteras. She is the
author of a book of poems, This Business
of Wisdom, published by West End Press
in summer 2010. Visit her online at
www.laurencamp.com.
09
10
M
U
S
M
E
JENNIFER EDWARDS is a Ph.D.
student in English at Oklahoma State
University, where she studied with
the poet Ai and currently studies with
Lisa Lewis. She holds a B.A. and M.A.
in English from Ohio University. Her
poetry has previously appeared in The
Laurel Review and is forthcoming in
DOPE Magazine.
MIKE GEITHER— after earning an
MFA in playwriting from the University
of Iowa, Mike served as playwright in
residence at Cleveland Public Theatre,
where his plays and collaborations have
been staged regularly for the past ten
years. His work as a solo performer includes The Green House; A Field Guide to
Midwestern Charms and Curses; The Fall
Liturgy; and Arthur 33. He has been the
recipient of three
Individual Artist Fellowships from the
Ohio Arts Council and is currently an
Assistant Professor of English at Cleveland State University.
CHRISTINE HOWEY recently had
her first feature reading as a poet and
is working on a chapbook poem cycle.
She is the theater critic for Cleveland
Scene. Formerly, Chris was an actor
and director at Dobama Theatre in
Cleveland Hts., with performance
credits that include roles as Richard
Nixon, Robespierre, Goebbels, Lucifer
and God. She spent more than 30 years
in advertising and was the creative
director of three northeast Ohio ad
agencies plus one in Minneapolis, MN.
Chris was also the restaurant critic for
Northern Ohio Live until the magazine’s
demise. She currently operates two
enterprises: Resumes Re-imagined—
unique resumes for professionals,
and Winning With One—marketing
communications for one-person
companies.
ERIKA LUTZNER is a former
professional chef living in
Williamsburg, Brooklyn with her
twenty year old cat Kerouac. She hosts a
reading series called Upstairs at Erika’s
as well as running an
organization called New Poets For
Peace She also
publishes an online journal called
Scapegoat Review. Her work can be
found in such publications as elimae,
failbetter, wicked alice, web del sol,
Ping Pong, Tygerburning Journal and
Eclectica.
LAURA MILLER is a high school
English teacher and a graduate student
in English literature at John Carroll
University. Miller also worked as a
newspaper reporter and freelance writer
in the Cleveland area. Her current
interests include Jorge Luis Borges,
tap dancing, kayaking, and shouting
“yawp” at students. She lives with her
husband in the Tremont neighborhood
in Cleveland.
RAY MCNIECE is the author of six
books of poetry and monologues, most
recently Our Way of Life from Bottom
Dog press and Us Versus…? Talking
Across America, a one man theatrical
satire. He has created the solo play,
Dis–Voices from a Shelter, and
collaborated with Shawn Jackson to
present Homegirl Meets Whiteboy. With
his band Tongue-in-Groove, he created
two poetry musicals, Mouth Music and
Rust Bowl Hootenanny. He has appeared
in productions at Dobama, Ensemble,
Cleveland Playhouse, Bad Epitaph
and most recently at Cleveland Public
Theater as Cuchullain, in Open Mind
Firmament, an Evening of Yeats. In a
review of Us? Talking Across America,
the Star-Phoenix said, “His thoughtful
writing combines with perfectly timed
delivery to create a powerful wordscape
that owes as much to jazz as drama.”
He presents two historical characters
in schools, Johnny Appleseed and
Thomas Jefferson. He currently teaches
poetry and performance at John Carroll
University.
LAURA MERLEAU was born and grew
up in the Kansas City area. Ballet and
gymnastics kept her very active. After
studying engineering and French, she
received a doctoral degree in American
Literature from the University of Kansas
in 2000. Ms. Merleau taught French at
Arkansas State University in Jonesboro
and English as a Second Language at
Washington University in St. Louis.
Her novella Little Fugue was published
by Woodley Memorial Press in 1992.
Her poetry has recently been accepted
for publication in Rougarou, Poppyseed
Kolache, and Ragazine. An excerpt
from her novel Blood Sugar Jezebel has
been accepted for publication with The
Survivor Chronicles. Currently, Merleau
is a tutor for literacy in Waterloo,
Illinois. On Sundays, she enjoys playing
the flute in church.
Before having children, VINCENT
O’KEEFE taught writing and literature
at the University of Michigan while
living in rival Ohio, much to his
students’ dismay! His essays and book
reviews have appeared in a variety of
venues, including The Washington Post
website, The Cleveland Plain Dealer, and
What Would MacGyver Do? True Stories
of Improvised Genius in Everyday Life,
edited by a former editor at Esquire.
DAVID RITCHEY is the theater critic
for The West Side Leader in Akron, and
a member of the American Association
of Theater Critics. In 2007, The Society
of Professional Journalists awarded
Ritchey a “First Place–Excellence in
Journalism– Arts & Entertainment
Criticism,” in Ohio for a newspaper
with a circulation of under 100,000.
Ritchey studied playwriting with
Dominic Danza at The Cleveland
Play House. In 1988, Ritchey attended
the Breadloaf Writers’ Conference in
Vermont. Last summer he participated
in Scotland’s Hawthornden Castle
Writers’ Retreat. Ritchey is a Professor
in the School of Communication
at The University of Akron. The
Ohio Communication Association
honored Ritchey as the “Distinguished
Communications Teacher–2001.” On
seven different occasions, Ritchey
has lead students on a study trip to
London. He has taught in Beijing, Hong
Kong; Bucharest and London. He has
consulted for the US government in St.
Petersburg, Russia, and he has visited
Cuba. In 2003, he was a Senior Fulbright
Scholar in Romania.
MARY DORIA RUSSELL has been
called one of the most versatile writers
in contemporary American literature.
Her novels are critically acclaimed,
commercial successes. They are
also studied in literature, theology
and history courses in colleges and
universities across the United States.
Her debut novel, The Sparrow, is
considered a classic of speculative
fiction, combining elements of First
Contact sci-fi and a tense courtroom
drama. As a novelist, Mary is known
for her exacting research—no surprise,
when you know that she holds a Ph.D.
in Biological Anthropology from the
University of Michigan. Before leaving
Academe to write, Mary taught human
gross anatomy at the Case Western
Reserve University School of Dentistry.
That background that will come in
handy for her fifth novel, Eight to Five,
Against, a murder mystery set in Dodge
City in 1878, when the unlikely but
enduring friendship between Wyatt
Earp and Doc Holliday began, four
years before the famous shoot-out at the
O.K. Corral.
contents
DIANA TITTLE is a writer, editor and
publishing consultant with more than
thirty-five years of experience in the
field of journalism. An Ohio native and
longtime resident of Greater Cleveland,
she has worked for newspapers and
magazines, launched a small press and
written, edited or produced more than a
dozen nonfiction books. In 1997 she was
awarded the Cleveland Arts Prize for
Literature for her reportage on urban
affairs and regional history.
JEFFREY STAYTON is the author of
stories published in StorySouth, Carve
Magazine and Yemassee. He teaches
American Literature at the University
of Mississippi. He is currently writing a
novel, This Side of the River.
GARIE WALTZER’s carbon pigmented
photographs examine the contemporary
cultural landscape. Her work has been
published and exhibited widely, is
included in numerous corporate and
museum collections including The
Cleveland Museum of Art, the Robert B.
Menschel Media Center in Syracuse, NY,
and Houston’s Museum of Fine Art. She
is a recipient of artist grants from the
National Endowment for the Arts, the
Ohio Arts Council and the Vermont
Studio Center. Her work will be included
in Landslide 2010/Every Tree Tells a
Story, a traveling exhibition of The
Cultural Landscape Foundation, and
will be featured in an upcoming issue of
American Photography magazine. She is
represented locally by Bonfoey Gallery.
COIMBRA, PORTUGAL / CITY PARK, 22� X 22� , CARBON PIGMENTED INKJET PHOTOGRAPH
7 BIPOLAR ORDER, LAURA MERLEAU
10 CENTURY HOME THEATER, VINCENT O’KEEFE
11 END PLAY, CHRISTINE HOWEY
12 ON POETRY, PERFORMANCE, & AUDIENCE: A DIALOGUE
BETWEEN RAY MCNIECE AND RAYMOND BOBGAN
14 TWO DAYS OFF, KELLY BANCROFT
14 FLATIRON RANGE, COLORADO, JENNIFER EDWARDS
15 THE NOTE IN THE MAIL SAYS, ERICA LUTZNER
16 IT’S OKAY TO CRY: A PERSONAL HISTORY OF CLEVELAND
BASEBALL, MIKE GEITHER
18 THREE SISTERS IN HEAVEN, DAVID RITCHEY
21 PRIMOGENITURE, JEFFREY STAYTON
26 CHAPTER 11 (COLUMN), A LIFE OF QUIET DESPERATION
(EXCERPT) DIANA TITTLE
28 FINDER OF LOST THINGS, ERIC ANDERSON
ALL IMAGES BY GARIE WALTZER, WWW.GARIEWALTZER.COM
COVER: SICILY / TRAIN, 22� X 22�, CARBON PIGMENTED INKJET
09
10
M
U
S
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ERIC ANDERSON is afraid of basements; it’s not a crippling fear, really.
Certainly not a phobia. If he has to go in
a basement, he can do it. That’s one of
the things that makes them so scary; the
whole thing seems like a trap. Another
thing which makes them frightening is
the presence of the furnace. Even the
new ones are frightening, with all that
compactness, like little alien robot dictators from Star Trek. But the old ones?
You’ve seen them, too, I’m sure. If only
in dreams you can’t quite remember on
waking....
PHOTOGRAPH
2
3
KELLY BANCROFT lives and works
in Youngstown, Ohio. A winner of
an Ohio Arts Council Individual
Artist award and the First annual
Muse Literary Competition, her work
has been appeared in many journals
including Whiskey Island, Cortland
Review, XConnect, Puerto del Sol, and
Time Magazine. She’s the vocalist for the
New-Celtic band, Brady’s Leap.
RAYMOND BOBGAN is a 2010 Creative
Workforce Fellow. He was Acting Artistic Director of CPT (1995-1997) and
served as Associate Artistic Director, Education Director and Resident Director
at various times in the theatre’s history,
most recently from 2004-06. Bobgan
specializes in creating new work through
an ensemble-driven process. He was the
founding artistic Director of Wishhounds (aka Theatre Labyrinth) and has
directed and collaboratively conceived/
created over twenty new theatrical
works. Recent creations include: Blue
Sky Transmission: A Tibetan Book of the
Dead, co-produced by CPT and La
Mama ETC (NY), which was a recipient
of a Rockefeller MAP Fund Grant, and
The Confessions of Punch and Judy, coproduced by CPT, NaCl (NY) and Number 11 Theatre (Toronto), which
continues to tour periodically throughout the US, Canada, and Europe.
LAUREN CAMP (Santa Fe, New
Mexico) is an artist and educator
traversing and interweaving a variety
of visual, musical and literary arts.
One of her poems was selected Editors’
Choice by Rhino, and other poems
have appeared recently in Thema, J
Journal and Sin Fronteras. She is the
author of a book of poems, This Business
of Wisdom, published by West End Press
in summer 2010. Visit her online at
www.laurencamp.com.
09
10
M
U
S
M
E
JENNIFER EDWARDS is a Ph.D.
student in English at Oklahoma State
University, where she studied with
the poet Ai and currently studies with
Lisa Lewis. She holds a B.A. and M.A.
in English from Ohio University. Her
poetry has previously appeared in The
Laurel Review and is forthcoming in
DOPE Magazine.
MIKE GEITHER— after earning an
MFA in playwriting from the University
of Iowa, Mike served as playwright in
residence at Cleveland Public Theatre,
where his plays and collaborations have
been staged regularly for the past ten
years. His work as a solo performer includes The Green House; A Field Guide to
Midwestern Charms and Curses; The Fall
Liturgy; and Arthur 33. He has been the
recipient of three
Individual Artist Fellowships from the
Ohio Arts Council and is currently an
Assistant Professor of English at Cleveland State University.
CHRISTINE HOWEY recently had
her first feature reading as a poet and
is working on a chapbook poem cycle.
She is the theater critic for Cleveland
Scene. Formerly, Chris was an actor
and director at Dobama Theatre in
Cleveland Hts., with performance
credits that include roles as Richard
Nixon, Robespierre, Goebbels, Lucifer
and God. She spent more than 30 years
in advertising and was the creative
director of three northeast Ohio ad
agencies plus one in Minneapolis, MN.
Chris was also the restaurant critic for
Northern Ohio Live until the magazine’s
demise. She currently operates two
enterprises: Resumes Re-imagined—
unique resumes for professionals,
and Winning With One—marketing
communications for one-person
companies.
ERIKA LUTZNER is a former
professional chef living in
Williamsburg, Brooklyn with her
twenty year old cat Kerouac. She hosts a
reading series called Upstairs at Erika’s
as well as running an
organization called New Poets For
Peace She also
publishes an online journal called
Scapegoat Review. Her work can be
found in such publications as elimae,
failbetter, wicked alice, web del sol,
Ping Pong, Tygerburning Journal and
Eclectica.
LAURA MILLER is a high school
English teacher and a graduate student
in English literature at John Carroll
University. Miller also worked as a
newspaper reporter and freelance writer
in the Cleveland area. Her current
interests include Jorge Luis Borges,
tap dancing, kayaking, and shouting
“yawp” at students. She lives with her
husband in the Tremont neighborhood
in Cleveland.
RAY MCNIECE is the author of six
books of poetry and monologues, most
recently Our Way of Life from Bottom
Dog press and Us Versus…? Talking
Across America, a one man theatrical
satire. He has created the solo play,
Dis–Voices from a Shelter, and
collaborated with Shawn Jackson to
present Homegirl Meets Whiteboy. With
his band Tongue-in-Groove, he created
two poetry musicals, Mouth Music and
Rust Bowl Hootenanny. He has appeared
in productions at Dobama, Ensemble,
Cleveland Playhouse, Bad Epitaph
and most recently at Cleveland Public
Theater as Cuchullain, in Open Mind
Firmament, an Evening of Yeats. In a
review of Us? Talking Across America,
the Star-Phoenix said, “His thoughtful
writing combines with perfectly timed
delivery to create a powerful wordscape
that owes as much to jazz as drama.”
He presents two historical characters
in schools, Johnny Appleseed and
Thomas Jefferson. He currently teaches
poetry and performance at John Carroll
University.
LAURA MERLEAU was born and grew
up in the Kansas City area. Ballet and
gymnastics kept her very active. After
studying engineering and French, she
received a doctoral degree in American
Literature from the University of Kansas
in 2000. Ms. Merleau taught French at
Arkansas State University in Jonesboro
and English as a Second Language at
Washington University in St. Louis.
Her novella Little Fugue was published
by Woodley Memorial Press in 1992.
Her poetry has recently been accepted
for publication in Rougarou, Poppyseed
Kolache, and Ragazine. An excerpt
from her novel Blood Sugar Jezebel has
been accepted for publication with The
Survivor Chronicles. Currently, Merleau
is a tutor for literacy in Waterloo,
Illinois. On Sundays, she enjoys playing
the flute in church.
Before having children, VINCENT
O’KEEFE taught writing and literature
at the University of Michigan while
living in rival Ohio, much to his
students’ dismay! His essays and book
reviews have appeared in a variety of
venues, including The Washington Post
website, The Cleveland Plain Dealer, and
What Would MacGyver Do? True Stories
of Improvised Genius in Everyday Life,
edited by a former editor at Esquire.
DAVID RITCHEY is the theater critic
for The West Side Leader in Akron, and
a member of the American Association
of Theater Critics. In 2007, The Society
of Professional Journalists awarded
Ritchey a “First Place–Excellence in
Journalism– Arts & Entertainment
Criticism,” in Ohio for a newspaper
with a circulation of under 100,000.
Ritchey studied playwriting with
Dominic Danza at The Cleveland
Play House. In 1988, Ritchey attended
the Breadloaf Writers’ Conference in
Vermont. Last summer he participated
in Scotland’s Hawthornden Castle
Writers’ Retreat. Ritchey is a Professor
in the School of Communication
at The University of Akron. The
Ohio Communication Association
honored Ritchey as the “Distinguished
Communications Teacher–2001.” On
seven different occasions, Ritchey
has lead students on a study trip to
London. He has taught in Beijing, Hong
Kong; Bucharest and London. He has
consulted for the US government in St.
Petersburg, Russia, and he has visited
Cuba. In 2003, he was a Senior Fulbright
Scholar in Romania.
MARY DORIA RUSSELL has been
called one of the most versatile writers
in contemporary American literature.
Her novels are critically acclaimed,
commercial successes. They are
also studied in literature, theology
and history courses in colleges and
universities across the United States.
Her debut novel, The Sparrow, is
considered a classic of speculative
fiction, combining elements of First
Contact sci-fi and a tense courtroom
drama. As a novelist, Mary is known
for her exacting research—no surprise,
when you know that she holds a Ph.D.
in Biological Anthropology from the
University of Michigan. Before leaving
Academe to write, Mary taught human
gross anatomy at the Case Western
Reserve University School of Dentistry.
That background that will come in
handy for her fifth novel, Eight to Five,
Against, a murder mystery set in Dodge
City in 1878, when the unlikely but
enduring friendship between Wyatt
Earp and Doc Holliday began, four
years before the famous shoot-out at the
O.K. Corral.
contents
DIANA TITTLE is a writer, editor and
publishing consultant with more than
thirty-five years of experience in the
field of journalism. An Ohio native and
longtime resident of Greater Cleveland,
she has worked for newspapers and
magazines, launched a small press and
written, edited or produced more than a
dozen nonfiction books. In 1997 she was
awarded the Cleveland Arts Prize for
Literature for her reportage on urban
affairs and regional history.
JEFFREY STAYTON is the author of
stories published in StorySouth, Carve
Magazine and Yemassee. He teaches
American Literature at the University
of Mississippi. He is currently writing a
novel, This Side of the River.
GARIE WALTZER’s carbon pigmented
photographs examine the contemporary
cultural landscape. Her work has been
published and exhibited widely, is
included in numerous corporate and
museum collections including The
Cleveland Museum of Art, the Robert B.
Menschel Media Center in Syracuse, NY,
and Houston’s Museum of Fine Art. She
is a recipient of artist grants from the
National Endowment for the Arts, the
Ohio Arts Council and the Vermont
Studio Center. Her work will be included
in Landslide 2010/Every Tree Tells a
Story, a traveling exhibition of The
Cultural Landscape Foundation, and
will be featured in an upcoming issue of
American Photography magazine. She is
represented locally by Bonfoey Gallery.
COIMBRA, PORTUGAL / CITY PARK, 22� X 22� , CARBON PIGMENTED INKJET PHOTOGRAPH
7 BIPOLAR ORDER, LAURA MERLEAU
10 CENTURY HOME THEATER, VINCENT O’KEEFE
11 END PLAY, CHRISTINE HOWEY
12 ON POETRY, PERFORMANCE, & AUDIENCE: A DIALOGUE
BETWEEN RAY MCNIECE AND RAYMOND BOBGAN
14 TWO DAYS OFF, KELLY BANCROFT
14 FLATIRON RANGE, COLORADO, JENNIFER EDWARDS
15 THE NOTE IN THE MAIL SAYS, ERICA LUTZNER
16 IT’S OKAY TO CRY: A PERSONAL HISTORY OF CLEVELAND
BASEBALL, MIKE GEITHER
18 THREE SISTERS IN HEAVEN, DAVID RITCHEY
21 PRIMOGENITURE, JEFFREY STAYTON
26 CHAPTER 11 (COLUMN), A LIFE OF QUIET DESPERATION
(EXCERPT) DIANA TITTLE
28 FINDER OF LOST THINGS, ERIC ANDERSON
ALL IMAGES BY GARIE WALTZER, WWW.GARIEWALTZER.COM
COVER: SICILY / TRAIN, 22� X 22�, CARBON PIGMENTED INKJET
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ERIC ANDERSON is afraid of basements; it’s not a crippling fear, really.
Certainly not a phobia. If he has to go in
a basement, he can do it. That’s one of
the things that makes them so scary; the
whole thing seems like a trap. Another
thing which makes them frightening is
the presence of the furnace. Even the
new ones are frightening, with all that
compactness, like little alien robot dictators from Star Trek. But the old ones?
You’ve seen them, too, I’m sure. If only
in dreams you can’t quite remember on
waking....
PHOTOGRAPH
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(Excerpt)
LAURA MERLEAU
Act III, Scene iii
about you all week.
Omar: [Gazes quizzically at the fruit she’s holding.] And what did you think about me?
Linda: I wondered if you eat mangos in your country.
Omar: [Hesitates.] Of course, we eat mangos in Nigeria.
Linda: Well, then. I would love, love, love it if you would take
Linda: [While chewing.] How did I know you would come back me to Nigeria and show me how to eat this mango. I mean, a week later?
I assume I need to peel it and then it’s going to be very Omar: How did I know you would be here waiting for me?
juicy, the way it’s soft to the touch.
Linda: I missed you.
Omar: [Takes the fruit, assessing the softness by lightly Omar: [Frowns. Does not believe anything she says.] I have
squeezing it.] Oh, yes, the mango is very juicy.
something for you. I made prints for you of the pictures
Linda: I’ve never eaten a mango before. [Glancing over Omar’s
I took.
shoulder while she talks, checking the doors for anyone Linda: Oh, please don’t make me look. I never like seeing exiting.]
pictures of myself.
Omar: What about plantains?
Omar: Well, these are yours. [Hands them to her.]
Linda: Those are the big bananas? [Shifts, glancing at her watch.]
Linda: [Puts them in her backpack without glancing at them.] Omar: Big and green. We fry them in butter and serve them I’ll send them to my mother. Now, please sit and tell me
like potatoes.
what you’ve been up to.
Linda: You’re making me hungry. [Puts on her sunglasses.]
Omar: [Hesitates. Then sits.] Me, I have been doing what I Omar: You’re making me anxious. You are worried your always do. Working, working, working.
professor will appear at any moment.
Linda: I’m sorry to hear that. All work and no play makes Omar Linda: [Defiantly removes her sunglasses.] No, I am not. And a dull boy.
what difference will it make if he does show up? I mean, Omar: [Raises an eyebrow. Glances over his shoulder.] can’t I talk to my friend Omar whenever I want to?
So, how long do we have until the professor makes his Omar: I will leave and not return next Wednesday. You must appearance?
decide now if you want to see me or not.
Linda: How long do you want?
Linda: [Tosses the mango from one hand to the other.] Okay, Omar: I want your undivided attention the rest of this okay. How about this. I promise I’ll break up with the afternoon and evening.
professor this afternoon. Then we can meet in the library.
Linda: You’ve got it.
I promise, this time I’ll do it. Really, I’ve been thinking
Omar: [Makes an incredulous face.]
I should break up with him anyway. You see, he asked me
Linda: The professor’s gone to Kansas City to a conference.
to move in with him. And, well, I don’t think my mother
Omar: Is that so?
would be very happy with that sort of arrangement. She’d
Linda: [Pauses.] You know. I don’t really know. He might be probably cut off my allowance.
grading papers or something in his office now.
Omar: Is that the only reason you would break up with him? Omar: Does it matter?
For this allowance?
Linda: [Waits to answer after a young woman passes.]
Linda: [Gives Omar the mango.] You know that’s not true. You
No, it doesn’t.
know, I want you to take this mango home and keep it
Omar: Because you’ve finally come to your senses.
there until I can be there with you to devour it. Maybe we’ll
Linda: Yes, I’ve finally come to my senses. [Puts her sunglasses go to your place after meeting at the library this evening.
on. Takes a mango from her backpack.] I’ve been thinking Omar: I live with others. It will not be so private.
Wednesday afternoon. Eating a candy bar, Linda sits on a
wooden bench in front of hot pink impatiens. Looking around,
she removes a pair of sunglasses and smiles and stuffs the
last bite of candy bar in her mouth when she sees Omar
approaching.
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OSAKA, JAPAN / GIRLS+TRAIN, 22� X 22�, CARBON PIGMENTED INKJET PHOTOGRAPH
Bipolar Order
(Excerpt)
LAURA MERLEAU
Act III, Scene iii
about you all week.
Omar: [Gazes quizzically at the fruit she’s holding.] And what did you think about me?
Linda: I wondered if you eat mangos in your country.
Omar: [Hesitates.] Of course, we eat mangos in Nigeria.
Linda: Well, then. I would love, love, love it if you would take
Linda: [While chewing.] How did I know you would come back me to Nigeria and show me how to eat this mango. I mean, a week later?
I assume I need to peel it and then it’s going to be very Omar: How did I know you would be here waiting for me?
juicy, the way it’s soft to the touch.
Linda: I missed you.
Omar: [Takes the fruit, assessing the softness by lightly Omar: [Frowns. Does not believe anything she says.] I have
squeezing it.] Oh, yes, the mango is very juicy.
something for you. I made prints for you of the pictures
Linda: I’ve never eaten a mango before. [Glancing over Omar’s
I took.
shoulder while she talks, checking the doors for anyone Linda: Oh, please don’t make me look. I never like seeing exiting.]
pictures of myself.
Omar: What about plantains?
Omar: Well, these are yours. [Hands them to her.]
Linda: Those are the big bananas? [Shifts, glancing at her watch.]
Linda: [Puts them in her backpack without glancing at them.] Omar: Big and green. We fry them in butter and serve them I’ll send them to my mother. Now, please sit and tell me
like potatoes.
what you’ve been up to.
Linda: You’re making me hungry. [Puts on her sunglasses.]
Omar: [Hesitates. Then sits.] Me, I have been doing what I Omar: You’re making me anxious. You are worried your always do. Working, working, working.
professor will appear at any moment.
Linda: I’m sorry to hear that. All work and no play makes Omar Linda: [Defiantly removes her sunglasses.] No, I am not. And a dull boy.
what difference will it make if he does show up? I mean, Omar: [Raises an eyebrow. Glances over his shoulder.] can’t I talk to my friend Omar whenever I want to?
So, how long do we have until the professor makes his Omar: I will leave and not return next Wednesday. You must appearance?
decide now if you want to see me or not.
Linda: How long do you want?
Linda: [Tosses the mango from one hand to the other.] Okay, Omar: I want your undivided attention the rest of this okay. How about this. I promise I’ll break up with the afternoon and evening.
professor this afternoon. Then we can meet in the library.
Linda: You’ve got it.
I promise, this time I’ll do it. Really, I’ve been thinking
Omar: [Makes an incredulous face.]
I should break up with him anyway. You see, he asked me
Linda: The professor’s gone to Kansas City to a conference.
to move in with him. And, well, I don’t think my mother
Omar: Is that so?
would be very happy with that sort of arrangement. She’d
Linda: [Pauses.] You know. I don’t really know. He might be probably cut off my allowance.
grading papers or something in his office now.
Omar: Is that the only reason you would break up with him? Omar: Does it matter?
For this allowance?
Linda: [Waits to answer after a young woman passes.]
Linda: [Gives Omar the mango.] You know that’s not true. You
No, it doesn’t.
know, I want you to take this mango home and keep it
Omar: Because you’ve finally come to your senses.
there until I can be there with you to devour it. Maybe we’ll
Linda: Yes, I’ve finally come to my senses. [Puts her sunglasses go to your place after meeting at the library this evening.
on. Takes a mango from her backpack.] I’ve been thinking Omar: I live with others. It will not be so private.
Wednesday afternoon. Eating a candy bar, Linda sits on a
wooden bench in front of hot pink impatiens. Looking around,
she removes a pair of sunglasses and smiles and stuffs the
last bite of candy bar in her mouth when she sees Omar
approaching.
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saying seriously?
Linda: [Grimaces.] Look, Mr. “Why-do-you-hate-me”
accusation-maker. You asked for it. You asked for
everything you got. And don’t even try to deny it.
Brandon: So, that’s what this is about. You’re getting even with me
for reading your diary. Well, as it turns out. It looks like it was
a good thing I did. Because it was the only way I could ever
find out anything real about you.
Linda: Well, getting me drunk was another good tactic.
Brandon: Wait a minute. Whose idea was that to start with?
[She doesn’t answer or appear to care to answer.] Okay, it
doesn’t matter anyway. All that matters is that you need
to know, Linda, I really cared about you. I knew you had
some problems, but I wanted to help you.
Linda: [Straps her backpack over her shoulders.] Well, I don’t
need your help. I don’t need your pity. And I don’t need
anything but some good old-fashioned make-up sex
whenever you’re ready. You know where to find me. [Goes
to the sweetgum tree where her bike is waiting. Mounts her
bike and rides away.]
Brendan: [Gazes after her.] She’s got to be kidding. [Watches her
disappearing down the hill.] I don’t think she’s kidding. [Sits
on the bench, shaking his head. Smiles.] Maybe she’s not
kidding.
Act IV, Scene i
An upscale hotel room. Omar and Linda enter, carrying
backpacks. Omar turns on one light next to the plush kingsized bed. He sits on the bed while Linda wanders about the
room aimlessly.
Linda: [Takes off her tennis shoes.] This is much better than
either of our apartments, with roommates crawling all over
the place.
Omar: Your mother must be a very generous woman, that you can splurge on such an extravagance for one night.
Linda: [Goes in the bathroom.] Oh, I’ve been saving up for something special.
Omar: Sorry, I forgot the mango.
Linda: You did it on purpose.
Omar: I have something else for you.
Linda: Please, show me. [Emerges from the bathroom in a white
terrycloth robe.]
Omar: [Removes an album of photos from his backpack.] Pictures, of my homeland.
Linda: [Sits next to him on the bed. Takes the album but doesn’t open it. Gazes at Omar’s hands.] Isn’t that sweet?
Omar: We don’t have to look at them now.
Linda: [Takes his hands and kisses one finger at a time. Sighs
deeply.] No, show me the pictures. I have been dreaming
about this place, Nigeria. I want to see if it looks anything
like what I dreamed.
Omar: Oh, tell me your dreams before I show you the pictures. [Sets aside the album.]
Linda: Really?
Omar: If you please.
Linda: Okay. This is what I dreamed. I was riding a jeep and it
crashed in the jungle. Monkeys were everywhere, and
one came up to me and took my hand and led me to a cave
where I stayed for three days and nights. Inside the cave
was an amusement park, complete with roller coasters
and ferris wheel and those other contraptions that spin
and twirl at the same time. I had a grand ol’ time riding
the rides and eating popcorn, hotdogs, and cotton candy
for three days. Then the devil showed up. Everywhere he
went, he was surrounded by a moat of boiling tar. He
was so ugly, like a black metal praying mantis, though it
doesn’t make sense for the devil to be praying. But that’s
what he looked like. He had something for me, a ring
with black diamonds and other black precious stones,
which I laughed at and threw in the tar moat around
him. He was very angry I would have nothing to do with
him. The rest of the dream, he went around punishing me.
I can’t remember how he punished me. Oh, by the way, I
was pregnant.
Omar: In your dream?
Linda: No, in real life. What do you think?
Omar: I never know what to think.
Linda: I can’t get pregnant.
Omar: That’s okay.
Linda: No, you don’t understand. Physically, I can probably
get pregnant as easy as the next nineteen-year-old college
co-ed. But I take a lot of bad pills that wouldn’t be good
for a baby.
Omar: Then we will be very careful.
Linda: Yes, we will be very careful.
Omar: Now, finish your dream.
Linda: No. You finish it for me.
Omar: How do I do that?
Linda: You come and save me from the devil.
Omar: How do I do that?
Linda: Use your imagination.
Omar: I have no imagination.
Linda: We’ll see about that. Are there monkeys in Nigeria?
Omar: There are many monkeys, lions, giraffes, and parrots
in Nigeria. There are parks you can drive through, for a
safari tour, and see these wild animals.
Linda: Is it dangerous?
Omar: Not as dangerous as it is here with you.
Linda: It is not dangerous here with me.
Omar: [Kisses her.]
Linda: See. Nobody died.
Omar: [Shakes his head.] I don’t know. We will see. Are
you hungry?
Linda: [Removing his shirt.] Always.
Omar: Do you want to order some dinner?
Linda: [Kissing his bare chest.] Maybe later.
Omar: Do you want to order some drinks?
Linda: [Pushing him back on the bed.] Not a good idea.
Omar: [Sits up. Holds her in his arms.] You haven’t told me,
Linda. Did you break up with the professor.
Linda: [Opens the robe and wraps him in it with her.] Are
you kidding?
Omar: [Lies back on the bed, succumbing.] So you will not be seeing him again.
Linda: [Kissing him from head to toe, trying to remove the
rest of his clothes.] I’ll have to see him sometime, to get
my things from his place.
Omar: [Pulls up his shorts. Stands.] I do not know why. I can not believe you finished with him yet.
Linda: [Pouts and climbs under the covers.] I do not know why you are being so silly.
Omar: [Stands beside the bed, considering. Then climbs under the covers with her.]
Linda: Isn’t that better?
Omar: [Takes her in his arms.] You are too beautiful.
Linda: [Rolls about slowly with him.] No, I am not beautiful. I know I’m not beautiful.
Omar: [Stops rolling once on top of her.] You are too sexy.
Linda: [Pushes him off her, rolls on top of him.] You are too Nigerian.
Omar: [Gives in. Moves about in a smooth motion until they both sigh.] You are perfect.
Linda: [Going at it.] Enough talking. Hold me tight.
Omar: [Says nothing until she finishes.]
Linda: You’re turn, you little devil.
Omar: [Stops what he’s doing.] What is this? Now you call me the devil? I am the black creature from your nightmare?
Linda: [Pushes him to keep going.] Don’t be silly. You are nothing like the devil.
Omar: Then who do you think the devil is?
Linda: Me, myself, and I am the devil. Now will you go on with what we were doing?
Omar: [Shakes his head in consternation.] I don’t know.
Linda: Sure you do. [Kisses him under the covers.]
Omar: Oh, God. I think you may be right. You are devilish indeed.
Linda: [Emerges from the covers.] So you’ll wear my black diamond ring?
Omar: I’ll take whatever you offer me.
Linda: All I have to offer is me, myself, and I.
Omar: [Rolls on top of her.] I’ll take all three.
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Linda: Okay, okay. We can go to my place. But bring the mango.
Omar: I will bring the mango to the library, then we can go wherever you wish.
Linda: We have a plan, then. I will see you at eight like last week.
Omar: Can I kiss you goodbye now?
Linda: [Puts on the sunglasses.] Yes, please, if you make it a real one.
Omar: [Leans in, gives a little peck on the cheek.]
Linda: [Glances over his shoulder. Sees professor exiting the
building.] Oh, come on. I said a real kiss. [Takes Omar
by the shoulders, gives him a long, deep kiss as the
professor approaches, stopping in his tracks half-way to
the bench.]
Brandon: Excuse me, Linda. Am I interrupting something?
Linda: Oh, Brandon! I want you to meet my imaginary friend,
Omar, from Nigeria.
Omar: [Stands, caught in the middle, not knowing which way
to turn. Finally turns to Linda.] Imaginary friend? You
have decided to prove my existence then?
Brandon: Decided to prove something? It’s been proved pretty clearly to me.
Linda: I’m sorry it had to be like this, Brandon. [She takes
Omar’s hand, pulls him close to her, kisses him again.]
Brandon: Linda, why are you doing this?
Omar: She owes you no explanation. She has made her decision, and now we will go without making a scene.
Brandon: Wait a minute. Just wait one minute. Before you go,
Linda. Please. Can we have just a minute together?
Linda: [Turns to Omar.] What do you think? Do I owe him at least a minute of our precious time?
Omar: [Shrugs.] It is up to you.
Linda: Okay. Omar, let’s go back to our original plan. Meet me
you-know-when and you-know-where. I need to wrap up a
few loose ends here, if you don’t mind.
Omar: [Stiffens, a bit concerned.] Are you sure?
Linda: I’m sure. [She hugs him, taps the mango, then kisses him
again.] See me there?
Omar: Yes, I will be there. [Exits slowly, turning to watch what is happening until the last chance.]
Linda: [Turns to Brandon, appearing unconcerned.]
Brandon: [Waits patiently for an explanation. Instead, Linda
approaches him, puts her hand on his arm, looks up into his
eyes and smiles.] What is going on here, Linda? You have a lot
of explaining to do.
Linda: About what?
Brandon: About what! Are you kidding?
Linda: [Waits for a couple to pass.] How about if we sit down and
talk about this like two rational adults. [Sits on the bench.]
Brandon: If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to remain standing.
Linda: Suit yourself.
Brandon: [Waits for her to begin.]
Linda: [Sighs. Looks up at the professor. Considers her
options.] I’m sorry. Please forgive me. It was all a terrible
mistake. Now, can we move on to the fun part, the make-up sex?
Brandon: [Exasperated.] You expect me to take anything you’re
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saying seriously?
Linda: [Grimaces.] Look, Mr. “Why-do-you-hate-me”
accusation-maker. You asked for it. You asked for
everything you got. And don’t even try to deny it.
Brandon: So, that’s what this is about. You’re getting even with me
for reading your diary. Well, as it turns out. It looks like it was
a good thing I did. Because it was the only way I could ever
find out anything real about you.
Linda: Well, getting me drunk was another good tactic.
Brandon: Wait a minute. Whose idea was that to start with?
[She doesn’t answer or appear to care to answer.] Okay, it
doesn’t matter anyway. All that matters is that you need
to know, Linda, I really cared about you. I knew you had
some problems, but I wanted to help you.
Linda: [Straps her backpack over her shoulders.] Well, I don’t
need your help. I don’t need your pity. And I don’t need
anything but some good old-fashioned make-up sex
whenever you’re ready. You know where to find me. [Goes
to the sweetgum tree where her bike is waiting. Mounts her
bike and rides away.]
Brendan: [Gazes after her.] She’s got to be kidding. [Watches her
disappearing down the hill.] I don’t think she’s kidding. [Sits
on the bench, shaking his head. Smiles.] Maybe she’s not
kidding.
Act IV, Scene i
An upscale hotel room. Omar and Linda enter, carrying
backpacks. Omar turns on one light next to the plush kingsized bed. He sits on the bed while Linda wanders about the
room aimlessly.
Linda: [Takes off her tennis shoes.] This is much better than
either of our apartments, with roommates crawling all over
the place.
Omar: Your mother must be a very generous woman, that you can splurge on such an extravagance for one night.
Linda: [Goes in the bathroom.] Oh, I’ve been saving up for something special.
Omar: Sorry, I forgot the mango.
Linda: You did it on purpose.
Omar: I have something else for you.
Linda: Please, show me. [Emerges from the bathroom in a white
terrycloth robe.]
Omar: [Removes an album of photos from his backpack.] Pictures, of my homeland.
Linda: [Sits next to him on the bed. Takes the album but doesn’t open it. Gazes at Omar’s hands.] Isn’t that sweet?
Omar: We don’t have to look at them now.
Linda: [Takes his hands and kisses one finger at a time. Sighs
deeply.] No, show me the pictures. I have been dreaming
about this place, Nigeria. I want to see if it looks anything
like what I dreamed.
Omar: Oh, tell me your dreams before I show you the pictures. [Sets aside the album.]
Linda: Really?
Omar: If you please.
Linda: Okay. This is what I dreamed. I was riding a jeep and it
crashed in the jungle. Monkeys were everywhere, and
one came up to me and took my hand and led me to a cave
where I stayed for three days and nights. Inside the cave
was an amusement park, complete with roller coasters
and ferris wheel and those other contraptions that spin
and twirl at the same time. I had a grand ol’ time riding
the rides and eating popcorn, hotdogs, and cotton candy
for three days. Then the devil showed up. Everywhere he
went, he was surrounded by a moat of boiling tar. He
was so ugly, like a black metal praying mantis, though it
doesn’t make sense for the devil to be praying. But that’s
what he looked like. He had something for me, a ring
with black diamonds and other black precious stones,
which I laughed at and threw in the tar moat around
him. He was very angry I would have nothing to do with
him. The rest of the dream, he went around punishing me.
I can’t remember how he punished me. Oh, by the way, I
was pregnant.
Omar: In your dream?
Linda: No, in real life. What do you think?
Omar: I never know what to think.
Linda: I can’t get pregnant.
Omar: That’s okay.
Linda: No, you don’t understand. Physically, I can probably
get pregnant as easy as the next nineteen-year-old college
co-ed. But I take a lot of bad pills that wouldn’t be good
for a baby.
Omar: Then we will be very careful.
Linda: Yes, we will be very careful.
Omar: Now, finish your dream.
Linda: No. You finish it for me.
Omar: How do I do that?
Linda: You come and save me from the devil.
Omar: How do I do that?
Linda: Use your imagination.
Omar: I have no imagination.
Linda: We’ll see about that. Are there monkeys in Nigeria?
Omar: There are many monkeys, lions, giraffes, and parrots
in Nigeria. There are parks you can drive through, for a
safari tour, and see these wild animals.
Linda: Is it dangerous?
Omar: Not as dangerous as it is here with you.
Linda: It is not dangerous here with me.
Omar: [Kisses her.]
Linda: See. Nobody died.
Omar: [Shakes his head.] I don’t know. We will see. Are
you hungry?
Linda: [Removing his shirt.] Always.
Omar: Do you want to order some dinner?
Linda: [Kissing his bare chest.] Maybe later.
Omar: Do you want to order some drinks?
Linda: [Pushing him back on the bed.] Not a good idea.
Omar: [Sits up. Holds her in his arms.] You haven’t told me,
Linda. Did you break up with the professor.
Linda: [Opens the robe and wraps him in it with her.] Are
you kidding?
Omar: [Lies back on the bed, succumbing.] So you will not be seeing him again.
Linda: [Kissing him from head to toe, trying to remove the
rest of his clothes.] I’ll have to see him sometime, to get
my things from his place.
Omar: [Pulls up his shorts. Stands.] I do not know why. I can not believe you finished with him yet.
Linda: [Pouts and climbs under the covers.] I do not know why you are being so silly.
Omar: [Stands beside the bed, considering. Then climbs under the covers with her.]
Linda: Isn’t that better?
Omar: [Takes her in his arms.] You are too beautiful.
Linda: [Rolls about slowly with him.] No, I am not beautiful. I know I’m not beautiful.
Omar: [Stops rolling once on top of her.] You are too sexy.
Linda: [Pushes him off her, rolls on top of him.] You are too Nigerian.
Omar: [Gives in. Moves about in a smooth motion until they both sigh.] You are perfect.
Linda: [Going at it.] Enough talking. Hold me tight.
Omar: [Says nothing until she finishes.]
Linda: You’re turn, you little devil.
Omar: [Stops what he’s doing.] What is this? Now you call me the devil? I am the black creature from your nightmare?
Linda: [Pushes him to keep going.] Don’t be silly. You are nothing like the devil.
Omar: Then who do you think the devil is?
Linda: Me, myself, and I am the devil. Now will you go on with what we were doing?
Omar: [Shakes his head in consternation.] I don’t know.
Linda: Sure you do. [Kisses him under the covers.]
Omar: Oh, God. I think you may be right. You are devilish indeed.
Linda: [Emerges from the covers.] So you’ll wear my black diamond ring?
Omar: I’ll take whatever you offer me.
Linda: All I have to offer is me, myself, and I.
Omar: [Rolls on top of her.] I’ll take all three.
09
10
M
U
S
M
09
10
Linda: Okay, okay. We can go to my place. But bring the mango.
Omar: I will bring the mango to the library, then we can go wherever you wish.
Linda: We have a plan, then. I will see you at eight like last week.
Omar: Can I kiss you goodbye now?
Linda: [Puts on the sunglasses.] Yes, please, if you make it a real one.
Omar: [Leans in, gives a little peck on the cheek.]
Linda: [Glances over his shoulder. Sees professor exiting the
building.] Oh, come on. I said a real kiss. [Takes Omar
by the shoulders, gives him a long, deep kiss as the
professor approaches, stopping in his tracks half-way to
the bench.]
Brandon: Excuse me, Linda. Am I interrupting something?
Linda: Oh, Brandon! I want you to meet my imaginary friend,
Omar, from Nigeria.
Omar: [Stands, caught in the middle, not knowing which way
to turn. Finally turns to Linda.] Imaginary friend? You
have decided to prove my existence then?
Brandon: Decided to prove something? It’s been proved pretty clearly to me.
Linda: I’m sorry it had to be like this, Brandon. [She takes
Omar’s hand, pulls him close to her, kisses him again.]
Brandon: Linda, why are you doing this?
Omar: She owes you no explanation. She has made her decision, and now we will go without making a scene.
Brandon: Wait a minute. Just wait one minute. Before you go,
Linda. Please. Can we have just a minute together?
Linda: [Turns to Omar.] What do you think? Do I owe him at least a minute of our precious time?
Omar: [Shrugs.] It is up to you.
Linda: Okay. Omar, let’s go back to our original plan. Meet me
you-know-when and you-know-where. I need to wrap up a
few loose ends here, if you don’t mind.
Omar: [Stiffens, a bit concerned.] Are you sure?
Linda: I’m sure. [She hugs him, taps the mango, then kisses him
again.] See me there?
Omar: Yes, I will be there. [Exits slowly, turning to watch what is happening until the last chance.]
Linda: [Turns to Brandon, appearing unconcerned.]
Brandon: [Waits patiently for an explanation. Instead, Linda
approaches him, puts her hand on his arm, looks up into his
eyes and smiles.] What is going on here, Linda? You have a lot
of explaining to do.
Linda: About what?
Brandon: About what! Are you kidding?
Linda: [Waits for a couple to pass.] How about if we sit down and
talk about this like two rational adults. [Sits on the bench.]
Brandon: If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to remain standing.
Linda: Suit yourself.
Brandon: [Waits for her to begin.]
Linda: [Sighs. Looks up at the professor. Considers her
options.] I’m sorry. Please forgive me. It was all a terrible
mistake. Now, can we move on to the fun part, the make-up sex?
Brandon: [Exasperated.] You expect me to take anything you’re
9
Century Home Theater
VINCENT O’KEEFE
The thick of the night was the time he liked best.
He’d turn on the lamp with delicate ease,
then open his book on the skin of his knees.
And soon it would come, the tale of the home,
a distant din growing, a slow-roaming moan.
At first he’d been ruffled, a skittish thin kitten,
lamenting the purrs of his recent large purchase.
But slowly he settled, like the wood and the plaster,
and learned to indulge in the pitter and patter.
misplaced, here
somewhere
wait, here! no
that’s not it
When he came to the end of his lines for the night,
he rose from his chair and snuffed out the light.
The thick of the night was the time he liked best.
Best not to disturb the new owner’s rest.
M
10
CHRISTINE HOWEY
It is Hitler, smiling encouragingly at me under
his moustache, who brings me back. Warmly,
he murmurs “Don’t worry, nobody knew.”
When Adolf is your comfort, how deep is your fall?
The walls became screens upon which the house
projected each person and spirit and mouse
who’d ever been part of the radiant heat
the home still offered the rest of the street.
M
U
S
(After “Good” by C.P. Taylor)
Like a restless spirit or mere spirited critter,
each sound in the story would skitter and fizzle.
Here a creak-creaking and there a drip-dripping,
each droplet a ticking or some out-of-tune clicking.
He became a keen reader of cracks in the ceiling
that scattered like lines on a weathery palm.
Though the past not the future emerged from the wrinkles
as giggles of children echoed and tinkled.
09
10
End Play
I remember it now, an hour before, when I said,
“All the scents of autumn were still fresh to me—“
And then I was blank, gone up on Halder’s lines,
crouched in my Nazi uniform, digging the last
potatoes of the season with an imaginary trowel.
ejected into space
weightless, searching
sprinting mind legs
pump, flail
Deeply embedded in a seven-minute monologue,
I had four minutes to go, No one else on stage.
I tried repeating the last line, the last blocking,
scraping my knuckles on the floor, grunting in hope
urgent breath would carry words out on its shoulders.
clam armor breached
dark terror lit brilliant
by ten overhanging suns
crouched tender flesh
recoil reflected in a
hundred plus a hundred
pairs of eyes on three
sides, blink, wait
for a goose bump
white balloon brain
seamless, horizonless
seizes on a thought
09
10
M
U
S
E
M
He’d make his way down the well-traveled stairs,
careful to miss each creak in his tracks.
He’d grab a good read, a match for his mood,
and gather himself in his old favorite chair.
11
Century Home Theater
VINCENT O’KEEFE
The thick of the night was the time he liked best.
He’d turn on the lamp with delicate ease,
then open his book on the skin of his knees.
And soon it would come, the tale of the home,
a distant din growing, a slow-roaming moan.
At first he’d been ruffled, a skittish thin kitten,
lamenting the purrs of his recent large purchase.
But slowly he settled, like the wood and the plaster,
and learned to indulge in the pitter and patter.
misplaced, here
somewhere
wait, here! no
that’s not it
When he came to the end of his lines for the night,
he rose from his chair and snuffed out the light.
The thick of the night was the time he liked best.
Best not to disturb the new owner’s rest.
M
10
CHRISTINE HOWEY
It is Hitler, smiling encouragingly at me under
his moustache, who brings me back. Warmly,
he murmurs “Don’t worry, nobody knew.”
When Adolf is your comfort, how deep is your fall?
The walls became screens upon which the house
projected each person and spirit and mouse
who’d ever been part of the radiant heat
the home still offered the rest of the street.
M
U
S
(After “Good” by C.P. Taylor)
Like a restless spirit or mere spirited critter,
each sound in the story would skitter and fizzle.
Here a creak-creaking and there a drip-dripping,
each droplet a ticking or some out-of-tune clicking.
He became a keen reader of cracks in the ceiling
that scattered like lines on a weathery palm.
Though the past not the future emerged from the wrinkles
as giggles of children echoed and tinkled.
09
10
End Play
I remember it now, an hour before, when I said,
“All the scents of autumn were still fresh to me—“
And then I was blank, gone up on Halder’s lines,
crouched in my Nazi uniform, digging the last
potatoes of the season with an imaginary trowel.
ejected into space
weightless, searching
sprinting mind legs
pump, flail
Deeply embedded in a seven-minute monologue,
I had four minutes to go, No one else on stage.
I tried repeating the last line, the last blocking,
scraping my knuckles on the floor, grunting in hope
urgent breath would carry words out on its shoulders.
clam armor breached
dark terror lit brilliant
by ten overhanging suns
crouched tender flesh
recoil reflected in a
hundred plus a hundred
pairs of eyes on three
sides, blink, wait
for a goose bump
white balloon brain
seamless, horizonless
seizes on a thought
09
10
M
U
S
E
M
He’d make his way down the well-traveled stairs,
careful to miss each creak in his tracks.
He’d grab a good read, a match for his mood,
and gather himself in his old favorite chair.
11
Raymond Bobgan and Ray McNiece
RMc: The paradox of poetry is that people want “poetic moments” and
speak of “poetry in motion,” but they’re terrified of actual poetry. Part
of the problem is that it has traditionally been taught that it is full of
rules and hidden meanings, or in post modernism, that formless free
verse can mean anything for the poet and the audience, and so ends up
meaning nothing. And yet audiences continue to yearn for those poetic
moments. Would you describe your work as “poetic theater?”
RB: When I create, I’m thinking more of poetry than fiction. It’s more
evocative and has more emotional impact than the strict narrative of
typical fiction. Poems invite the reader to invest more in the process,
and I think theatre should invite the audience to play an important
role in the experience. On one level, the results are more visceral and
immediate; on another,
I hope that the performance will resonate long after you experience
it—just like a poem.
RMc: Exactly, as MacLeish said, “a poem should not mean, but be.”
And that moment of being is memorable. It’s not about trying to figure
it out. It’s strangely understood—the title of one of Yeats’ stories
describes it, “Dreams that have no morals”. Yeats initiated the early
20th century movement of poetic theater. TS Eliot, Auden, MacNeice,
and Isherwood elaborated on it as a reaction against the naturalistic
theater, in the mode of domestic drawing room dramas, of Ibsen and
Chekov­­— himself a short story writer. You mentioned Sam Sheppard,
a kind of surrealist poet of the stage, and Beckett as influences.
RB: My primary early influences were Jerzy Grotowski, Samuel
Beckett, Sam Shepard, and Peter Brook. With Beckett, it’s not so much
the staging as the approach. My work is not so much a reaction against
realism. What I’m trying to say I can’t say in any other way. I’m bound
to do it this way. Like Beckett.
09
10
M
U
S
M
E
12
RMc: I’ve worked with you as both a writer, (for Blue Sky Transmission,
a Tibetan Book of the Dead), and as an actor in Open Mind Firmament,
an Evening of W B Yeats. What I’ve found fascinating is the importance
of gesture and movement in your creations. As a writer you had me
write dialogues based on observing groups of actors improvising, what
I would call “gesture jams.” As a performer you asked me to find a
narrative of gestures based upon a mythic story prompt. These
movements were subsequently married to a text, not necessarily related
to the prompt. As an actor it opened up a whole range of choices for me.
RB: I’m really interested in creating performances that have multiple
layers. In realistic theater, or even in Shakespeare, gestures try to
explain the text—saying it and then demonstrating it. In my work,
there’s more going on with multiple meanings just like life and
dreams. The problem in physical theater is how to work so that
movement does not become merely illustrative of the text. That’s why I
have actors come up with gestures from their own physicality and
experience.
RMc: It’s physical method acting! The gestures have personal
resonance—so they’re not robotic. Have you seen much performance
poetry? Often the gestures are overblown with big punctuation marks,
did you get it, did you get it? Or repetitive gesticulating for rhythmic
purposes which pushes the pace along and flattens out the dynamics of
the text. Of course much of this comes from the Slam—which is a
timed competition. Unfortunately many of the poets going into
performance do so through the slam and not through theater... as if
the mask invalidates personal emotion, when even the persona of the
poet is a kind of mask to begin with.
RB: There are certain expectations in the world of performance
poetry. The audience has to get it in the first take.
RMc: Well that’s certainly the case in slam competitions. The slam
poem is a high energy construct and the poet is the delivery vehicle.
Often the volume is jacked up to 10 from jump, culminate with some
verbal pyrotechnics and blast through the three minute wall. So, yes,
in a slam the audience must get it on the first take. Because that’s what
wins. The form got funneled down over the years by poets imitating
styles that won. But slam is only one small slice of performance poetry.
It was in fact created by Marc Smith at the Green Mill in Chicago as a
gimmick to get people to come to the larger poetry show, which
included the dreaded open mic, a feature and often poetry/music jams.
RB: It’s primarily about the word and that’s one of its limitations. I’m
more interested in poems that I come back to, that create a moment of
discomfort. I think of that quote by william carlos williams I included
in the program for OMF, “It is difficult to get the news from poems/
yet men die miserably every day/ for lack of what is found there.”
RMc: Most current slam poetry is rhetoric driven, identity politics.
This is my point of view, opinion, stance, and I will now prove it. There
were more monologues in it initially. But it’s become formulaic, a form
based not on structure, as in a sonnet, but on time. Many slammers
don’t realize they’re in a larger continuum of performance poetry that
includes epics and theater. They do get the lyric mode as evidenced by
the song samples that will bookend their performances. The African
griots, Irish Seanachies, and Provencal troubadours were performance
poets, as were Greek Playwrites who often performed their poems
backed by a chorus. So there was a hay day of poetic theater.
RB: Remember Greek theater came from a relatively tiny community.
Athens was like 150,000 people, smaller than Cleveland. Theater for
them was like the Cavs, Browns, the Playhouse and the Orchestra all
rolled into one. And this was also the time of the birth of democracy,
which I don’t think is a coincidence. Our sense of theater is different
now. My relationship with the audiences is strange. It doesn’t divide
around a marketing strategy. I’m trying to find the best way to
communicate what’s in my heart and what I’ve created with the actors.
In some ways it’s like poetry itself: Two people from the same
demographic, let’s say mergers and acquisitions lawyers, may have
completely different takes on poetry. One may embrace Yeats, who can
be difficult, may get it and love it, while the other hears “poetry” and
changes the channel.
RMc: No doubt there’s a paucity of audience from the general public
for both poetry and poetic theater. And yet once they see it, done well,
they will come back. It offers a unique, live, perspective on life. A
friend who came to OMF, not a regular theater goer or bookish sort,
commented afterwards, Why are we watching TV when we could be
seeing this? You’ve said theater is always in 3D -RB: And in high definition. The audience is the final collaborator. In a
movie it’s all illustrated for you. If people are getting in a boat, you see
them boarding the Titanic. In theater I can get on a table and say I’m
on a boat and the audience must use their imagination. My job is to
evoke that. Their job is to feel it, to play an active role in the
interpretation of it. The primary place, the canvas of the director, is the
mind of the spectator. It’s open for interpretation
RMc: It’s like reading a text. They’re all going to see a boat, but their
own imagined boat. At least in the poetic theater. You often present
your creations in the round. In that way it hearkens back to ritual.
RB: There are more opportunities to surprise the audience. I’ve done
two sided as well, but if I only had one way to present it would be in the
round. The Greeks created the Stage, Shakespearean theater further
removed it and by Chekov, it was in another room. Movies and
television are the logical extension of that. Nothing against them. I like
watching TV.
RMc: But it’s a more passive, receiving experience, which you won’t get
when you enter into a theater space.
RB: Yes, and often audiences expect that when they come to the
theater that it should function just like TV or movies, that they should
just sit their and receive. In a poetic theater the audience takes an active
role, as I mentioned they’re the final collaborator.
RMc: Have you ever directed a verse play?
RB: Well Holly Hollsinger’s play Frankenstein’s Wife wasn’t entirely in
verse, but half the story was told by Frankenstein and it was all in verse,
starting with nursery like rhymes and getting more elaborate. All great
plays are verse. They’re meant to be spoken out loud.
RMc: That reminds me of something Vincent Dowling said, He was
the former director of the Great Lakes Shakespeare Fest and the Abbey
Theater in Dublin. He believed, as did Yeats, that poetry is the heart
and soul of theater. Every great playwright is a poet, but not every poet
is a great playwright. Certainly Yeats was a great poet and he did start
the movement towards poetic theater, with varying results. Poetic with
a capital P, which could come across as stilted.
RB: His early plays had more flow, but the epic plays were more obtuse.
The problem for Yeats was how do we not write realism, but still carry
weight. What I was trying to do with the Cuchullain cycle was to
eliminate the more distracting elements of the text while retaining the
poetry so the audience completes the actions.
RMc: Again, it’s the same as reading text. I’m noticing in my teaching
how the attention span of students continues to shrink. They’ve been
hard wired into jump cut reality. It’s hard for them to follow narrative,
let alone create pictures from words. I think of Beckett’s post
apocalypse play, Imagination Dead Imagine, where I disembodied
voice coming from a sarcophagus encrusted with melted media tools,
bemoans that there is no there there anymore. It was anti theater in a
way, in that there was no actor present, just a voice coming from a
casket. Maybe prescient on his part.
RB: The challenge for the theater artist is not to try to do the things
that television and movies do. Theater is one of the only art forms that
exercises the muscle of people’s ability to control their own attention.
I’m trying to create a space where the audience can “respond to” rather
than “be controlled by” outer stimulus. A space where the audience is
part of the creative act.
RMc: Just like the experience of a poem.
09
10
M
U
S
M
ON POETRY, PERFORMANCE AND
AUDIENCE, A DIALOGUE BETWEEN
13
Raymond Bobgan and Ray McNiece
RMc: The paradox of poetry is that people want “poetic moments” and
speak of “poetry in motion,” but they’re terrified of actual poetry. Part
of the problem is that it has traditionally been taught that it is full of
rules and hidden meanings, or in post modernism, that formless free
verse can mean anything for the poet and the audience, and so ends up
meaning nothing. And yet audiences continue to yearn for those poetic
moments. Would you describe your work as “poetic theater?”
RB: When I create, I’m thinking more of poetry than fiction. It’s more
evocative and has more emotional impact than the strict narrative of
typical fiction. Poems invite the reader to invest more in the process,
and I think theatre should invite the audience to play an important
role in the experience. On one level, the results are more visceral and
immediate; on another,
I hope that the performance will resonate long after you experience
it—just like a poem.
RMc: Exactly, as MacLeish said, “a poem should not mean, but be.”
And that moment of being is memorable. It’s not about trying to figure
it out. It’s strangely understood—the title of one of Yeats’ stories
describes it, “Dreams that have no morals”. Yeats initiated the early
20th century movement of poetic theater. TS Eliot, Auden, MacNeice,
and Isherwood elaborated on it as a reaction against the naturalistic
theater, in the mode of domestic drawing room dramas, of Ibsen and
Chekov­­— himself a short story writer. You mentioned Sam Sheppard,
a kind of surrealist poet of the stage, and Beckett as influences.
RB: My primary early influences were Jerzy Grotowski, Samuel
Beckett, Sam Shepard, and Peter Brook. With Beckett, it’s not so much
the staging as the approach. My work is not so much a reaction against
realism. What I’m trying to say I can’t say in any other way. I’m bound
to do it this way. Like Beckett.
09
10
M
U
S
M
E
12
RMc: I’ve worked with you as both a writer, (for Blue Sky Transmission,
a Tibetan Book of the Dead), and as an actor in Open Mind Firmament,
an Evening of W B Yeats. What I’ve found fascinating is the importance
of gesture and movement in your creations. As a writer you had me
write dialogues based on observing groups of actors improvising, what
I would call “gesture jams.” As a performer you asked me to find a
narrative of gestures based upon a mythic story prompt. These
movements were subsequently married to a text, not necessarily related
to the prompt. As an actor it opened up a whole range of choices for me.
RB: I’m really interested in creating performances that have multiple
layers. In realistic theater, or even in Shakespeare, gestures try to
explain the text—saying it and then demonstrating it. In my work,
there’s more going on with multiple meanings just like life and
dreams. The problem in physical theater is how to work so that
movement does not become merely illustrative of the text. That’s why I
have actors come up with gestures from their own physicality and
experience.
RMc: It’s physical method acting! The gestures have personal
resonance—so they’re not robotic. Have you seen much performance
poetry? Often the gestures are overblown with big punctuation marks,
did you get it, did you get it? Or repetitive gesticulating for rhythmic
purposes which pushes the pace along and flattens out the dynamics of
the text. Of course much of this comes from the Slam—which is a
timed competition. Unfortunately many of the poets going into
performance do so through the slam and not through theater... as if
the mask invalidates personal emotion, when even the persona of the
poet is a kind of mask to begin with.
RB: There are certain expectations in the world of performance
poetry. The audience has to get it in the first take.
RMc: Well that’s certainly the case in slam competitions. The slam
poem is a high energy construct and the poet is the delivery vehicle.
Often the volume is jacked up to 10 from jump, culminate with some
verbal pyrotechnics and blast through the three minute wall. So, yes,
in a slam the audience must get it on the first take. Because that’s what
wins. The form got funneled down over the years by poets imitating
styles that won. But slam is only one small slice of performance poetry.
It was in fact created by Marc Smith at the Green Mill in Chicago as a
gimmick to get people to come to the larger poetry show, which
included the dreaded open mic, a feature and often poetry/music jams.
RB: It’s primarily about the word and that’s one of its limitations. I’m
more interested in poems that I come back to, that create a moment of
discomfort. I think of that quote by william carlos williams I included
in the program for OMF, “It is difficult to get the news from poems/
yet men die miserably every day/ for lack of what is found there.”
RMc: Most current slam poetry is rhetoric driven, identity politics.
This is my point of view, opinion, stance, and I will now prove it. There
were more monologues in it initially. But it’s become formulaic, a form
based not on structure, as in a sonnet, but on time. Many slammers
don’t realize they’re in a larger continuum of performance poetry that
includes epics and theater. They do get the lyric mode as evidenced by
the song samples that will bookend their performances. The African
griots, Irish Seanachies, and Provencal troubadours were performance
poets, as were Greek Playwrites who often performed their poems
backed by a chorus. So there was a hay day of poetic theater.
RB: Remember Greek theater came from a relatively tiny community.
Athens was like 150,000 people, smaller than Cleveland. Theater for
them was like the Cavs, Browns, the Playhouse and the Orchestra all
rolled into one. And this was also the time of the birth of democracy,
which I don’t think is a coincidence. Our sense of theater is different
now. My relationship with the audiences is strange. It doesn’t divide
around a marketing strategy. I’m trying to find the best way to
communicate what’s in my heart and what I’ve created with the actors.
In some ways it’s like poetry itself: Two people from the same
demographic, let’s say mergers and acquisitions lawyers, may have
completely different takes on poetry. One may embrace Yeats, who can
be difficult, may get it and love it, while the other hears “poetry” and
changes the channel.
RMc: No doubt there’s a paucity of audience from the general public
for both poetry and poetic theater. And yet once they see it, done well,
they will come back. It offers a unique, live, perspective on life. A
friend who came to OMF, not a regular theater goer or bookish sort,
commented afterwards, Why are we watching TV when we could be
seeing this? You’ve said theater is always in 3D -RB: And in high definition. The audience is the final collaborator. In a
movie it’s all illustrated for you. If people are getting in a boat, you see
them boarding the Titanic. In theater I can get on a table and say I’m
on a boat and the audience must use their imagination. My job is to
evoke that. Their job is to feel it, to play an active role in the
interpretation of it. The primary place, the canvas of the director, is the
mind of the spectator. It’s open for interpretation
RMc: It’s like reading a text. They’re all going to see a boat, but their
own imagined boat. At least in the poetic theater. You often present
your creations in the round. In that way it hearkens back to ritual.
RB: There are more opportunities to surprise the audience. I’ve done
two sided as well, but if I only had one way to present it would be in the
round. The Greeks created the Stage, Shakespearean theater further
removed it and by Chekov, it was in another room. Movies and
television are the logical extension of that. Nothing against them. I like
watching TV.
RMc: But it’s a more passive, receiving experience, which you won’t get
when you enter into a theater space.
RB: Yes, and often audiences expect that when they come to the
theater that it should function just like TV or movies, that they should
just sit their and receive. In a poetic theater the audience takes an active
role, as I mentioned they’re the final collaborator.
RMc: Have you ever directed a verse play?
RB: Well Holly Hollsinger’s play Frankenstein’s Wife wasn’t entirely in
verse, but half the story was told by Frankenstein and it was all in verse,
starting with nursery like rhymes and getting more elaborate. All great
plays are verse. They’re meant to be spoken out loud.
RMc: That reminds me of something Vincent Dowling said, He was
the former director of the Great Lakes Shakespeare Fest and the Abbey
Theater in Dublin. He believed, as did Yeats, that poetry is the heart
and soul of theater. Every great playwright is a poet, but not every poet
is a great playwright. Certainly Yeats was a great poet and he did start
the movement towards poetic theater, with varying results. Poetic with
a capital P, which could come across as stilted.
RB: His early plays had more flow, but the epic plays were more obtuse.
The problem for Yeats was how do we not write realism, but still carry
weight. What I was trying to do with the Cuchullain cycle was to
eliminate the more distracting elements of the text while retaining the
poetry so the audience completes the actions.
RMc: Again, it’s the same as reading text. I’m noticing in my teaching
how the attention span of students continues to shrink. They’ve been
hard wired into jump cut reality. It’s hard for them to follow narrative,
let alone create pictures from words. I think of Beckett’s post
apocalypse play, Imagination Dead Imagine, where I disembodied
voice coming from a sarcophagus encrusted with melted media tools,
bemoans that there is no there there anymore. It was anti theater in a
way, in that there was no actor present, just a voice coming from a
casket. Maybe prescient on his part.
RB: The challenge for the theater artist is not to try to do the things
that television and movies do. Theater is one of the only art forms that
exercises the muscle of people’s ability to control their own attention.
I’m trying to create a space where the audience can “respond to” rather
than “be controlled by” outer stimulus. A space where the audience is
part of the creative act.
RMc: Just like the experience of a poem.
09
10
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U
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M
ON POETRY, PERFORMANCE AND
AUDIENCE, A DIALOGUE BETWEEN
13
Two Days Off
KELLY BANCROFT
A man gets sucked up into a fan,
ginsu-ed, spit out, his head landing
clear across the room. I hear of the accident on the radio. Details forthcoming. Late shift cancelled. This means
blood, I know. Never do they stop
production, not even a blizzard can
stop a car from being built once it’s set
in motion. I call my father. He gets
two days off, full pay. My father gets
to sleep in, mow the grass, work on his
tool shed, breathe. Who dreams of the
headless man? Who catches his name?
Who re-assembles him? Rested, my
father goes back to work. They clean
up the fan.
The Note In The Mail Says:
Are you still affected by 9/11?
ERICA LUTZNER
JENNIFER EDWARDS
At seven thousand feet, we hardly breathe.
The snowstorm catches in our throats.
Flakes hit our bodies; slide down backs.
This seems rehearsed, you and I.
We hike in the mountains,
slip on icy patches,
rescue each other from a fall.
I think myself winter:
glacial and slick.
So much of me is chalk white –
I want you snow blind.
09
10
M
M
U
S
14
I hear the collapse –
crisp-cold beneath trees.
A quick scuffle of paws.
I want to take this piece
of paper and shove
it up the Red Cross’ ass
I cannot rid myself
of images of you–what a plane does
to the human body
at two thousand degrees Fahrenheit
they found your femur–
mold covered and half gone
The police at my door
January 18, 2002
“We have to inform you
that Mr. Grabowski is officially—”
your DNA gave you away—
09
10
My father tells me now we know:
you did not
M
U
S
run away from home.
M
Flatiron Range,
Colorado
“But don’t call the Red Cross
The New York City Dept of
Health and Substance Services
is at your service”
15
Two Days Off
KELLY BANCROFT
A man gets sucked up into a fan,
ginsu-ed, spit out, his head landing
clear across the room. I hear of the accident on the radio. Details forthcoming. Late shift cancelled. This means
blood, I know. Never do they stop
production, not even a blizzard can
stop a car from being built once it’s set
in motion. I call my father. He gets
two days off, full pay. My father gets
to sleep in, mow the grass, work on his
tool shed, breathe. Who dreams of the
headless man? Who catches his name?
Who re-assembles him? Rested, my
father goes back to work. They clean
up the fan.
The Note In The Mail Says:
Are you still affected by 9/11?
ERICA LUTZNER
JENNIFER EDWARDS
At seven thousand feet, we hardly breathe.
The snowstorm catches in our throats.
Flakes hit our bodies; slide down backs.
This seems rehearsed, you and I.
We hike in the mountains,
slip on icy patches,
rescue each other from a fall.
I think myself winter:
glacial and slick.
So much of me is chalk white –
I want you snow blind.
09
10
M
M
U
S
14
I hear the collapse –
crisp-cold beneath trees.
A quick scuffle of paws.
I want to take this piece
of paper and shove
it up the Red Cross’ ass
I cannot rid myself
of images of you–what a plane does
to the human body
at two thousand degrees Fahrenheit
they found your femur–
mold covered and half gone
The police at my door
January 18, 2002
“We have to inform you
that Mr. Grabowski is officially—”
your DNA gave you away—
09
10
My father tells me now we know:
you did not
M
U
S
run away from home.
M
Flatiron Range,
Colorado
“But don’t call the Red Cross
The New York City Dept of
Health and Substance Services
is at your service”
15
It’s Okay to Cry:
A Personal History of Cleveland Baseball
(Excerpt)
MIKE GEITHER
delivered by an actor seated at a small
table. He or she would read from a
personal journal but when he or she
is familiar with the material then the
actor could stand and wander about as
appropriate. This isn’t so much a play as
an intimate group talk. This excerpt is
you end up with your cheek against a
police cruiser in front of a small crowd
on Detroit Avenue and let’s say this
crowd, whose faces color with red and
blue, parts, and there you see your son,
whose hands are no dirtier or cleaner
than your own and he’s waving. Hi,
Dad. I love you.
the beginning of the performance.
The performer nervously begins while
standing. To illustrate the first section of
2.
I don’t want to stop anybody’s fun.
text, he or she could eventually assume
a vaguely sexual position.
1.
Let’s say you’re using an electric hand
dryer in the bathroom of the Lakewood
Library and you begin to imagine a race
to dry your hands between you and
your six-year-old son. And say in an
effort to beat the son, who’s not there,
who you only imagine, whose hands
are smaller and therefore dry faster, you
position yourself against the wall of the
bathroom in order to wrap your arms
around the dryer. And maybe, in order
to hold this position, which is difficult,
you raise one of your legs against the
wall just as another patron opens the
door and sees you.
09
10
M
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E
16
And, let’s say that you explain to the
security guard who finds you hiding
in the stacks how you’re really normal,
how you’ve spent years in the Elks club
(twist ring), how you enjoy fishing and
hunting (swallow), how you’d like to be
a security guard yourself some day. Let’s
say you make a run for it but your book
bag gets caught in the rotating door and
3.
The performer does a small, slow,
restrained dance. It looks more like
someone practicing a series of simple
movements than it looks like a dance.
This is my crazy dance. Don’t let it scare
you. It’s just a place I go. (the performer
makes his or her hand into a puppet
which speaks the following in the hand
puppet voice) He did it at his brother’s
funeral.
4.
Yes, my brother died. And I did the
dance at his funeral.
5.
Really, I don’t want to stop anybody’s
fun. (hand puppet voice) But he already
said funeral twice.
6.
The performer goes to the table and
reads from the journal.
I’d like to thank Ken Burns. I’d
like to thank him for his tribute to
baseball. His love letter to baseball
really. Wow. I mean. Wow. All the
way from Walt Whitman and Abner
Doubleday to the black sox. Wagner,
Matthewson, Johnson. Young, Ruth,
Gehrig. DiMaggio, Williams, Mantle.
Yastremski, Campanella, Bera. Lazzeri,
Rizzuto, Boggs. A documentary so
laden with perspective, so infused
with the tempered fruits of florid
perspicacity . . . yes, the tempered fruits
of florid perspicacity . . . a film that
makes clear that outside of New York
and Boston, baseball wasn’t played.
7.
And now for the Jeter/Steinbrenner Visa
commercial. Steinbrenner at the end of
a conga line shaking his behind. But it
wasn’t him. They had an actor filmed
from behind. This actor would be called
a stunt ass. No, sorry, an ass double.
8.
In 2002, when Cuban pitcher Jose
Contreras signed a contract with New
York, the President of the Boston Red
Sox, Larry Lucchino, referred to the
Yankees as the Evil Empire. Note to
Larry Lucchino: in Cleveland, we have
a word for Boston – we call it New York.
Also, the phrase “President of the Red
Sox” has been replaced by the phrase
“Lord Vader.”
9.
It’s so hard to be a Boston fan, right?
It must’ve been so hard coming home
from another Sox loss and watching
Bird and McHale mop up the NBA year
after year. And in Chicago where Cub
fans had to watch Jordan get bored of
championships. You poor, cheated lot.
You beggars at the pot of beneficent
gruel. Look to Heaven for your reward
for you shall not find it in this life.
10.
When the Boston Celtics won the 2008
NBA Championship there was a boy
at their parade holding a sign that said
Nine-years-old, Six parades.
11.
How’s this? For forty-four years your
baseball team is the Yankee’s farm
team, rules are named after the bad
practices of your basketball team and
your football team sucks, disappears,
comes back and sucks worse. Oh, your
river catches fire, your bank puts the
city in default and maybe just maybe,
while the country is laughing its ass
off at Cleveland, Cleveland is laughing
its ass off at you – (whispers loudly)
Parma.
12.
When I played hockey for Parma High
and we played at Shaker, people in the
stands rattled pink flamingos at us.
13.
Then my brother, not an idol figure
by any stretch of the imagination, but
someone that I really liked, died.
14.
(puppet voice) He said funeral again.
(another puppet voice) He said ‘died.’
15.
So, you’re making a film about baseball,
cover every year from 1900 to 1919 and
leave off at 1920. Good decision. Sure. I
mean does anyone remember who won
the series that year anyway? Really, you
don’t want to cover 1920. That was the
year Ray Chapman, shortstop for the
Indians, charming and happy, Omar
Vizquel before there was an Omar
Vizquel, was killed by a pitched ball
thrown by Carl Mays of the New York
Yankees. Then fans pay for his funeral
with nickels and dimes, the Indians
rally around his loss, replace him with
future Hall of Famer Joe Sewell and win
the World Series. Yep, nothing really
happening there. Let’s skip it. Thin
gruel. It’s not really even gruel; it’s like
somebody thought about oatmeal while
they looked at a glass of water.
My theory on graveyards goes
something like this: we have them so we
can still have people, right? So we can
visit. Also, they’re peaceful. The ground
opens up. The body goes in. A year later
the grass grows, birds chirp.
17.
And now for the non-fiction portion of
our evening. If Chapman’s not in the
hall of fame by 2015 I’ll burn it down
and piss on the melted brass plaques.
18.
Lifetime batting average of .278, 27
steals, 43 RBI a year, 17 homers in the
dead ball era, a witch with the glove,
team leader, beautiful singing voice,
loved, not in the hall of fame because he
played nine years and you need ten for
the hall. Oh, pardon me, I left my life
on the Polo Grounds in my ninth year.
The performer performs the dance of
confused hands.
16.
I’ve been hanging out at Ray Chapman’s
grave. (pause) That’s a line that gets me
a lot of dates.
He’s buried in Lakeview Cemetery on
a hill by my grandparents. Seriously,
you can drive down Euclid and be
there in twenty minutes. People leave
stuff – hats, balls, bats. One time I went
and there was a book on how to play
baseball opened up to the shortstop
page.
09
10
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U
S
M
NOTE: It’s Okay is a solo performance
17
It’s Okay to Cry:
A Personal History of Cleveland Baseball
(Excerpt)
MIKE GEITHER
delivered by an actor seated at a small
table. He or she would read from a
personal journal but when he or she
is familiar with the material then the
actor could stand and wander about as
appropriate. This isn’t so much a play as
an intimate group talk. This excerpt is
you end up with your cheek against a
police cruiser in front of a small crowd
on Detroit Avenue and let’s say this
crowd, whose faces color with red and
blue, parts, and there you see your son,
whose hands are no dirtier or cleaner
than your own and he’s waving. Hi,
Dad. I love you.
the beginning of the performance.
The performer nervously begins while
standing. To illustrate the first section of
2.
I don’t want to stop anybody’s fun.
text, he or she could eventually assume
a vaguely sexual position.
1.
Let’s say you’re using an electric hand
dryer in the bathroom of the Lakewood
Library and you begin to imagine a race
to dry your hands between you and
your six-year-old son. And say in an
effort to beat the son, who’s not there,
who you only imagine, whose hands
are smaller and therefore dry faster, you
position yourself against the wall of the
bathroom in order to wrap your arms
around the dryer. And maybe, in order
to hold this position, which is difficult,
you raise one of your legs against the
wall just as another patron opens the
door and sees you.
09
10
M
U
S
M
E
16
And, let’s say that you explain to the
security guard who finds you hiding
in the stacks how you’re really normal,
how you’ve spent years in the Elks club
(twist ring), how you enjoy fishing and
hunting (swallow), how you’d like to be
a security guard yourself some day. Let’s
say you make a run for it but your book
bag gets caught in the rotating door and
3.
The performer does a small, slow,
restrained dance. It looks more like
someone practicing a series of simple
movements than it looks like a dance.
This is my crazy dance. Don’t let it scare
you. It’s just a place I go. (the performer
makes his or her hand into a puppet
which speaks the following in the hand
puppet voice) He did it at his brother’s
funeral.
4.
Yes, my brother died. And I did the
dance at his funeral.
5.
Really, I don’t want to stop anybody’s
fun. (hand puppet voice) But he already
said funeral twice.
6.
The performer goes to the table and
reads from the journal.
I’d like to thank Ken Burns. I’d
like to thank him for his tribute to
baseball. His love letter to baseball
really. Wow. I mean. Wow. All the
way from Walt Whitman and Abner
Doubleday to the black sox. Wagner,
Matthewson, Johnson. Young, Ruth,
Gehrig. DiMaggio, Williams, Mantle.
Yastremski, Campanella, Bera. Lazzeri,
Rizzuto, Boggs. A documentary so
laden with perspective, so infused
with the tempered fruits of florid
perspicacity . . . yes, the tempered fruits
of florid perspicacity . . . a film that
makes clear that outside of New York
and Boston, baseball wasn’t played.
7.
And now for the Jeter/Steinbrenner Visa
commercial. Steinbrenner at the end of
a conga line shaking his behind. But it
wasn’t him. They had an actor filmed
from behind. This actor would be called
a stunt ass. No, sorry, an ass double.
8.
In 2002, when Cuban pitcher Jose
Contreras signed a contract with New
York, the President of the Boston Red
Sox, Larry Lucchino, referred to the
Yankees as the Evil Empire. Note to
Larry Lucchino: in Cleveland, we have
a word for Boston – we call it New York.
Also, the phrase “President of the Red
Sox” has been replaced by the phrase
“Lord Vader.”
9.
It’s so hard to be a Boston fan, right?
It must’ve been so hard coming home
from another Sox loss and watching
Bird and McHale mop up the NBA year
after year. And in Chicago where Cub
fans had to watch Jordan get bored of
championships. You poor, cheated lot.
You beggars at the pot of beneficent
gruel. Look to Heaven for your reward
for you shall not find it in this life.
10.
When the Boston Celtics won the 2008
NBA Championship there was a boy
at their parade holding a sign that said
Nine-years-old, Six parades.
11.
How’s this? For forty-four years your
baseball team is the Yankee’s farm
team, rules are named after the bad
practices of your basketball team and
your football team sucks, disappears,
comes back and sucks worse. Oh, your
river catches fire, your bank puts the
city in default and maybe just maybe,
while the country is laughing its ass
off at Cleveland, Cleveland is laughing
its ass off at you – (whispers loudly)
Parma.
12.
When I played hockey for Parma High
and we played at Shaker, people in the
stands rattled pink flamingos at us.
13.
Then my brother, not an idol figure
by any stretch of the imagination, but
someone that I really liked, died.
14.
(puppet voice) He said funeral again.
(another puppet voice) He said ‘died.’
15.
So, you’re making a film about baseball,
cover every year from 1900 to 1919 and
leave off at 1920. Good decision. Sure. I
mean does anyone remember who won
the series that year anyway? Really, you
don’t want to cover 1920. That was the
year Ray Chapman, shortstop for the
Indians, charming and happy, Omar
Vizquel before there was an Omar
Vizquel, was killed by a pitched ball
thrown by Carl Mays of the New York
Yankees. Then fans pay for his funeral
with nickels and dimes, the Indians
rally around his loss, replace him with
future Hall of Famer Joe Sewell and win
the World Series. Yep, nothing really
happening there. Let’s skip it. Thin
gruel. It’s not really even gruel; it’s like
somebody thought about oatmeal while
they looked at a glass of water.
My theory on graveyards goes
something like this: we have them so we
can still have people, right? So we can
visit. Also, they’re peaceful. The ground
opens up. The body goes in. A year later
the grass grows, birds chirp.
17.
And now for the non-fiction portion of
our evening. If Chapman’s not in the
hall of fame by 2015 I’ll burn it down
and piss on the melted brass plaques.
18.
Lifetime batting average of .278, 27
steals, 43 RBI a year, 17 homers in the
dead ball era, a witch with the glove,
team leader, beautiful singing voice,
loved, not in the hall of fame because he
played nine years and you need ten for
the hall. Oh, pardon me, I left my life
on the Polo Grounds in my ninth year.
The performer performs the dance of
confused hands.
16.
I’ve been hanging out at Ray Chapman’s
grave. (pause) That’s a line that gets me
a lot of dates.
He’s buried in Lakeview Cemetery on
a hill by my grandparents. Seriously,
you can drive down Euclid and be
there in twenty minutes. People leave
stuff – hats, balls, bats. One time I went
and there was a book on how to play
baseball opened up to the shortstop
page.
09
10
M
U
S
M
NOTE: It’s Okay is a solo performance
17
Three Sisters in Heaven
DAVID RITCHEY
CHARACTERS: In heaven, we’ll all look
like we did when we were 31 -- that’s
the age when we looked our best. That’s
what happens to these characters. They
should be played by young women,
without makeup to age them.
Marie: 89 years old, looks 31
Edith: 87 years old, looks 31
Louise: 83 years old, looks 31
SET: Set should look like a community
theater set after the show has closed,
but no one got around to striking the
set. Several director’s chairs or other
left-over style chairs. Maybe a table or
two. Set has at least one door. Could be
a free-standing door.
(LIGHTS COME UP SLOWLY. MARIE
AND EDITH ARE INSPECTING THE
FURNITURE.)
MARIE
Just a big whoosh and I was here. Just
whoosh and . . . here I am.
EDITH
Same with me—I saw the car coming
toward me. I was crossing the street
and couldn’t get out of the way -- damn
walker won’t walk when you need to
run. Car hit, splat and shoosh.
MARIE
No, more like a whoosh with me. Not a
shoosh. The doctor was looking down
at me and, hell, the whole damn family
was standing around my hospital bed
and crying and saying (mocking voice):
“It’s gonna be alright Marie. Don’t you
worry, Marie. The doctor will take care
of you.” And then whoosh.
09
10
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18
EDITH
You’ve always wanted to be right all the
time. But, I heard a shoosh.
(pause)
Maybe you shouldn’t say damn, here.
And I’d be careful saying hell, that’s for
sure.
MARIE
Hell, I’ll say what I damn well please.
(pause)
You know what I like about it here? I can
look down at the floor and see what’s
happening in people’s homes.
EDITH
Do you think it’s OK to watch them?
MARIE
Sure. We’re in heaven. We’re perfect.
That’s how we got here, isn’t it?
EDITH
Maybe we’re not in heaven. I expected
something different. Pearly gates or at
least some kind of gates. I sure didn’t
expect to shoosh here.
MARIE
Whoosh. You never could hear without
your hearing aid. Were you wearing your
hearing aid? (beat) When you died, I
mean.
EDITH
I thought the housing would be better.
All of that stuff about a palace for
everyone.
MARIE
This looks like a bare stage in some
broken down community theater.
EDITH
I wanted a palace, too.
MARIE
The problem with a palace is you have
to clean them. Who’s going to dust? Run
the vacuum?
EDITH
Do you think there’s dust here? Maybe
that’s what the angels do, maybe they
dust, run the Hoover, wash dishes, fold
towels.
(pause)
When I was down there - I thought
about Queen Elizabeth living in
Buckingham Palace. Do you think she
dusts?
MARIE
No, dust is theological. It’s His way of
putting a protective covering on the
furniture. It’s a sin to dust.
EDITH
Who told you that? Did those people tell
you that in the orientation meeting?
MARIE
Those aren’t people. They’re angels
or archangels or saints or something.
(pause) It’s strange here. Not what
I expected. Not bad, but not what I
expected.
EDITH
Look down there. It’s a funeral.
Somebody we know?
MARIE
That’s what I like about being here. I
don’t have to wear glass or that damn
hearing aid. Look, it’s Louise’s funeral.
Our baby sister is on her way here.
EDITH
Now we’ll all be together again.
(Negative) Whoopee!
MARIE
You never liked her, did you?
EDITH
No, I guess I didn’t. But, I’m here in
Heaven, now. Guess I should learn to
love her.
MARIE
Wonder if she shooshed or whooshed up
here?
MARIE
Of course, she’s coming up here.
(Pause) Well, I’m almost sure she’s
coming up here. Who knows.
(pause) Wonder what she looks like. I
haven’t seen her for years. I’ve been dead
so long.
(Pause) I heard that when you die and
get up here, you look 31 -- that’s when
we look our best on earth. So, maybe
she’ll look 31. What do you think?
EDITH
Don’t know. No mirrors.
MARIE
You look younger than you did. How old
were you when you died?
EDITH
85
MARIE
85, that’s too old to be crossing the street
— even with a walker. You should’ve
stayed home where you belonged and
had that fool of a husband of yours do
the shopping for you. You’d still be alive.
EDITH
Sam isn’t a fool.
MARIE
He married you didn’t he? But, you do
look late 30s or maybe early 40s. But
never would anyone take you for 31.
(Knock at the door)
EDITH
Should we answer the door?
MARIE
Can’t hurt anything. Who knows—
maybe another orientation meeting
or dinner or a cocktail party with real
booze. I’d kill for a martini, with two
olives.
(Door opens)
LOUISE
I think this is where I’m supposed to be.
EDITH
Oh, Louise, it’s you. We saw you die and
we watched your funeral.
MARIE
Nice funeral. We watched it just like it
was on TV—just like Princess Di.
LOUISE
My sisters (hugs each of them). I’m glad
to see someone I know. Everyone is
friendly, real friendly. But, I guess you’re
supposed to be friendly here.
MARIE
How did you get here—was it a whoosh
or a shoosh?
LOUISE
What do you mean?
MARIE
When you died? Did you make a
whooshing or a shooshsing sound to get
here?
LOUISE
Plop. I remember thinking—I plopped.
Just like dropping an egg on the floor
or dropping a cake on the stove and it
goes plop. And then it splatters. I just
went -- plop. Just a big PLOP. Wonder if
I splattered?
EDITH
(Attempting to change the subject)
What did they tell you in the orientation
meeting?
Did they say anything about the pearly
gates or the palaces?
LOUISE
No, just a general welcoming speech
by one of those obscure saints. I can’t
remember his name and he said we
should get out and meet people and
angels and saints and other folks.
EDITH
Did he say anything about someone to
clean our palace—dusting, running the
vacuum?
LOUISE
No, just that we should meet as many
people as we could and we’d get a call
about other meetings.
(Pause)
I think I’m going to join the choir.
MARIE
The choir—you never could sing.
Couldn’t hit a note.
EDITH
I’m joining the gardening group. I
thought about the community theater.
But, I don’t know. I saw some movie
stars, I think, at the orientation meeting.
LOUISE
But, the saint said we could do anything
we want—we can sing now even if we
couldn’t on earth. What are you doing to
do Edith? Are you going to teach Sunday
School, again?
(Interrupting)
Look down there. Louise, if you lean
over a bit and concentrate on a house
you can see what’s happening inside.
EDITH
It’s better than TV. MARIE
More of a reality show.
LOUISE
There’s my house. George looks so sad,
he is grieving and ...
MARIE
Looks like someone’s comforting him.
EDITH
Is that Mabel?
MARIE
Your good friend, Mabel?
LOUISE
What are they doing? Oh! Oh, that’s
what it looks like from up above.
(The three women look down on earth
as the lights
dim and out)
END
09
10
M
U
S
M
EDITH
Wonder if she’s even coming up here.
19
Three Sisters in Heaven
DAVID RITCHEY
CHARACTERS: In heaven, we’ll all look
like we did when we were 31 -- that’s
the age when we looked our best. That’s
what happens to these characters. They
should be played by young women,
without makeup to age them.
Marie: 89 years old, looks 31
Edith: 87 years old, looks 31
Louise: 83 years old, looks 31
SET: Set should look like a community
theater set after the show has closed,
but no one got around to striking the
set. Several director’s chairs or other
left-over style chairs. Maybe a table or
two. Set has at least one door. Could be
a free-standing door.
(LIGHTS COME UP SLOWLY. MARIE
AND EDITH ARE INSPECTING THE
FURNITURE.)
MARIE
Just a big whoosh and I was here. Just
whoosh and . . . here I am.
EDITH
Same with me—I saw the car coming
toward me. I was crossing the street
and couldn’t get out of the way -- damn
walker won’t walk when you need to
run. Car hit, splat and shoosh.
MARIE
No, more like a whoosh with me. Not a
shoosh. The doctor was looking down
at me and, hell, the whole damn family
was standing around my hospital bed
and crying and saying (mocking voice):
“It’s gonna be alright Marie. Don’t you
worry, Marie. The doctor will take care
of you.” And then whoosh.
09
10
M
U
S
M
E
18
EDITH
You’ve always wanted to be right all the
time. But, I heard a shoosh.
(pause)
Maybe you shouldn’t say damn, here.
And I’d be careful saying hell, that’s for
sure.
MARIE
Hell, I’ll say what I damn well please.
(pause)
You know what I like about it here? I can
look down at the floor and see what’s
happening in people’s homes.
EDITH
Do you think it’s OK to watch them?
MARIE
Sure. We’re in heaven. We’re perfect.
That’s how we got here, isn’t it?
EDITH
Maybe we’re not in heaven. I expected
something different. Pearly gates or at
least some kind of gates. I sure didn’t
expect to shoosh here.
MARIE
Whoosh. You never could hear without
your hearing aid. Were you wearing your
hearing aid? (beat) When you died, I
mean.
EDITH
I thought the housing would be better.
All of that stuff about a palace for
everyone.
MARIE
This looks like a bare stage in some
broken down community theater.
EDITH
I wanted a palace, too.
MARIE
The problem with a palace is you have
to clean them. Who’s going to dust? Run
the vacuum?
EDITH
Do you think there’s dust here? Maybe
that’s what the angels do, maybe they
dust, run the Hoover, wash dishes, fold
towels.
(pause)
When I was down there - I thought
about Queen Elizabeth living in
Buckingham Palace. Do you think she
dusts?
MARIE
No, dust is theological. It’s His way of
putting a protective covering on the
furniture. It’s a sin to dust.
EDITH
Who told you that? Did those people tell
you that in the orientation meeting?
MARIE
Those aren’t people. They’re angels
or archangels or saints or something.
(pause) It’s strange here. Not what
I expected. Not bad, but not what I
expected.
EDITH
Look down there. It’s a funeral.
Somebody we know?
MARIE
That’s what I like about being here. I
don’t have to wear glass or that damn
hearing aid. Look, it’s Louise’s funeral.
Our baby sister is on her way here.
EDITH
Now we’ll all be together again.
(Negative) Whoopee!
MARIE
You never liked her, did you?
EDITH
No, I guess I didn’t. But, I’m here in
Heaven, now. Guess I should learn to
love her.
MARIE
Wonder if she shooshed or whooshed up
here?
MARIE
Of course, she’s coming up here.
(Pause) Well, I’m almost sure she’s
coming up here. Who knows.
(pause) Wonder what she looks like. I
haven’t seen her for years. I’ve been dead
so long.
(Pause) I heard that when you die and
get up here, you look 31 -- that’s when
we look our best on earth. So, maybe
she’ll look 31. What do you think?
EDITH
Don’t know. No mirrors.
MARIE
You look younger than you did. How old
were you when you died?
EDITH
85
MARIE
85, that’s too old to be crossing the street
— even with a walker. You should’ve
stayed home where you belonged and
had that fool of a husband of yours do
the shopping for you. You’d still be alive.
EDITH
Sam isn’t a fool.
MARIE
He married you didn’t he? But, you do
look late 30s or maybe early 40s. But
never would anyone take you for 31.
(Knock at the door)
EDITH
Should we answer the door?
MARIE
Can’t hurt anything. Who knows—
maybe another orientation meeting
or dinner or a cocktail party with real
booze. I’d kill for a martini, with two
olives.
(Door opens)
LOUISE
I think this is where I’m supposed to be.
EDITH
Oh, Louise, it’s you. We saw you die and
we watched your funeral.
MARIE
Nice funeral. We watched it just like it
was on TV—just like Princess Di.
LOUISE
My sisters (hugs each of them). I’m glad
to see someone I know. Everyone is
friendly, real friendly. But, I guess you’re
supposed to be friendly here.
MARIE
How did you get here—was it a whoosh
or a shoosh?
LOUISE
What do you mean?
MARIE
When you died? Did you make a
whooshing or a shooshsing sound to get
here?
LOUISE
Plop. I remember thinking—I plopped.
Just like dropping an egg on the floor
or dropping a cake on the stove and it
goes plop. And then it splatters. I just
went -- plop. Just a big PLOP. Wonder if
I splattered?
EDITH
(Attempting to change the subject)
What did they tell you in the orientation
meeting?
Did they say anything about the pearly
gates or the palaces?
LOUISE
No, just a general welcoming speech
by one of those obscure saints. I can’t
remember his name and he said we
should get out and meet people and
angels and saints and other folks.
EDITH
Did he say anything about someone to
clean our palace—dusting, running the
vacuum?
LOUISE
No, just that we should meet as many
people as we could and we’d get a call
about other meetings.
(Pause)
I think I’m going to join the choir.
MARIE
The choir—you never could sing.
Couldn’t hit a note.
EDITH
I’m joining the gardening group. I
thought about the community theater.
But, I don’t know. I saw some movie
stars, I think, at the orientation meeting.
LOUISE
But, the saint said we could do anything
we want—we can sing now even if we
couldn’t on earth. What are you doing to
do Edith? Are you going to teach Sunday
School, again?
(Interrupting)
Look down there. Louise, if you lean
over a bit and concentrate on a house
you can see what’s happening inside.
EDITH
It’s better than TV. MARIE
More of a reality show.
LOUISE
There’s my house. George looks so sad,
he is grieving and ...
MARIE
Looks like someone’s comforting him.
EDITH
Is that Mabel?
MARIE
Your good friend, Mabel?
LOUISE
What are they doing? Oh! Oh, that’s
what it looks like from up above.
(The three women look down on earth
as the lights
dim and out)
END
09
10
M
U
S
M
EDITH
Wonder if she’s even coming up here.
19
SHANGHAI, CHINA / FOUNTAIN, 22� X 22�, CARBON PIGMENTED INKJET PHOTOGRAPH
Primogeniture
JEFFREY STAYTON
M
U
S
M
E
20
brother were a professional gentleman. But he could not
walk his leg with his old stride no more. Twice he stumbled
on our way back to the gold, and twice he brusht away my
right hand after I caught his arm. Annoyed. ‘He must walk
the rest his days with a cane,’ I thought, thinking we all in
the artificial limb business now.
Weeks back, I’d returned to Bentonville to retrieve
some my tricks, but also to deliver Smit’s artificial leg what I
stoled from a Raleigh storefront in a broken winder display
jest moments before fleeing the city. A quality leg, too—no
pegleg that, but still he refused it. Smit never acknowledged
it. Still sore at Bob Hill for amputating his mangled leg on
the field. He wouldn’t even look into the box, much less at
the leg itself. So I had to tote my brother’s leg a little while
longer. A box what Smit refused open and our Ingraham
cousin would use for a seat in the waggern bed we come
upon a week later.
Another week later, we bivouacked near an Indian
mound. The only one I ever seen this side of the mountains.
It were here, where Smit tried hobbling off after an
argument and I passed him without a word or break in
stride fore he got halfway to the waggern. When I come to
it, I reacht into its bed for the pine box the size of a child’s
coffin: Jewett Patent Leg, Co., Raleigh, NC stamped on its
lid. I took out my bowie, pried open the lid and lifted to see
for the first time the leg itself: the wood were finely polished
and even the ball of its foot had a hinge what allowed each
step to bend natural; even the laces at its corset were long
and red and not shoddy. ‘If I lost a leg,’ I thought, ‘I’d warnt
my brother to find me one no better.’ He wore it after that.
With the Caroliners most behind us now, Smit got
more used to the idear he were a cripple, if still resisting
the least bit assistance from another man of honor. There
were a big log already left upright not far from my saddle
for Smit to set hisself down. Doubtful my brother even had
ask, not simply cause he were an officer in our detail, nor
cause indeed he become another lamed Southern hero. Even
fore the shell what had exploded beneath the belly of his
warhorse during our last charge at Bentonville tore Smit’s
right boot from his stirrup with his right foot still in it, folks
somehow always found theirselves doing such things for my
eldest brother, scion of the Harveys—oft-times for reasons
even they couldn’t explain sufficient afterwards—and, like
as not, Smit would oblige them.
We sat three gunnysacks now from each other. My
brother let his left leg drape somewhat lazily over off to
09
10
M
U
S
M
09
10
I heard a burst of laughter coming from the boys
and traced back its source to Smit. In fact, I could see that
my brother and Cuff had them in stitches with some their
fireside nonsense. So I returned to the campfire to see what
were going on. Bad enough I had to have my body servant
see after my brother, but Smit also liked to make Cuff
amuse folks, Vaudeville he callt it, and doing so without my
permission. As I approacht I could see how deep my brother
had gotten in his cups. Enough apparent for to perform
all huncht over hisself like a crotchety old English master
speaking to his mute servant.
“Speak not though I question you,” my brother
commanded Cuff, who froze quick as thought. “You
have taken the ring off from the street door, as I bade
you—answer me not by speech, but by silence! unless it be
otherwise.” Then Cuff, right on cue, bowed and scrapt the
ground without a word, like a horse, hoofing twice for “yes”,
which made the boys laugh whilst Smit feigned that even
these stomps were too loud to bear.
“Very good,” he replied. “And you have fastened on
a thick quilt, or flock-bed, on the outside of the door, that
if they knock with their daggers, or with brickbats, they
can make no noise? But with your leg, your answer! unless
it be otherwise.” Now Cuff skipt in place his affirmative
like a dumb gal, and this sent everone howling, including
Calsas. “Very good,” Smit said. “This is not only fit modesty
in a servant, but good state and discretion in a master!” By
and by, Smit asked Cuff, “And have you given him a key, to
come in without knocking?” Cuff give Smit the leg. “Good.
And the lock oiled, and the hinges, today?” Cuff answered
with a grin and give two deliberate taps from his big toe
this time, which caused more laughter. “Good,” Smit said.
“And the quilting of the stairs nowhere worn out and bare?”
Cuff pretend to think about this one awhile, then nodded
and stompt twice, loud; so’s the entire campfire liked to rise
from all the gas they give it.
“Enough of this shit,” I finally told them after the
laughter died down some. Uncle Calsas already headed
toward the horses. “Y’all wake the Yankees cross the river,”
I said. “Cuff, you go on with Calsas and see to the remuda.
Got a big day tomorrah.”
By then, Smit had risen up, too, ostensibly to take
the night air some more, but said to me, “Li’l Brother. I
could use your opinion on a matter. Come. Let us reason
together.” Meaning: Let’s go somewheres else to chat the
price of gold. He did not speak in slurred accents. My
21
SHANGHAI, CHINA / FOUNTAIN, 22� X 22�, CARBON PIGMENTED INKJET PHOTOGRAPH
Primogeniture
JEFFREY STAYTON
M
U
S
M
E
20
brother were a professional gentleman. But he could not
walk his leg with his old stride no more. Twice he stumbled
on our way back to the gold, and twice he brusht away my
right hand after I caught his arm. Annoyed. ‘He must walk
the rest his days with a cane,’ I thought, thinking we all in
the artificial limb business now.
Weeks back, I’d returned to Bentonville to retrieve
some my tricks, but also to deliver Smit’s artificial leg what I
stoled from a Raleigh storefront in a broken winder display
jest moments before fleeing the city. A quality leg, too—no
pegleg that, but still he refused it. Smit never acknowledged
it. Still sore at Bob Hill for amputating his mangled leg on
the field. He wouldn’t even look into the box, much less at
the leg itself. So I had to tote my brother’s leg a little while
longer. A box what Smit refused open and our Ingraham
cousin would use for a seat in the waggern bed we come
upon a week later.
Another week later, we bivouacked near an Indian
mound. The only one I ever seen this side of the mountains.
It were here, where Smit tried hobbling off after an
argument and I passed him without a word or break in
stride fore he got halfway to the waggern. When I come to
it, I reacht into its bed for the pine box the size of a child’s
coffin: Jewett Patent Leg, Co., Raleigh, NC stamped on its
lid. I took out my bowie, pried open the lid and lifted to see
for the first time the leg itself: the wood were finely polished
and even the ball of its foot had a hinge what allowed each
step to bend natural; even the laces at its corset were long
and red and not shoddy. ‘If I lost a leg,’ I thought, ‘I’d warnt
my brother to find me one no better.’ He wore it after that.
With the Caroliners most behind us now, Smit got
more used to the idear he were a cripple, if still resisting
the least bit assistance from another man of honor. There
were a big log already left upright not far from my saddle
for Smit to set hisself down. Doubtful my brother even had
ask, not simply cause he were an officer in our detail, nor
cause indeed he become another lamed Southern hero. Even
fore the shell what had exploded beneath the belly of his
warhorse during our last charge at Bentonville tore Smit’s
right boot from his stirrup with his right foot still in it, folks
somehow always found theirselves doing such things for my
eldest brother, scion of the Harveys—oft-times for reasons
even they couldn’t explain sufficient afterwards—and, like
as not, Smit would oblige them.
We sat three gunnysacks now from each other. My
brother let his left leg drape somewhat lazily over off to
09
10
M
U
S
M
09
10
I heard a burst of laughter coming from the boys
and traced back its source to Smit. In fact, I could see that
my brother and Cuff had them in stitches with some their
fireside nonsense. So I returned to the campfire to see what
were going on. Bad enough I had to have my body servant
see after my brother, but Smit also liked to make Cuff
amuse folks, Vaudeville he callt it, and doing so without my
permission. As I approacht I could see how deep my brother
had gotten in his cups. Enough apparent for to perform
all huncht over hisself like a crotchety old English master
speaking to his mute servant.
“Speak not though I question you,” my brother
commanded Cuff, who froze quick as thought. “You
have taken the ring off from the street door, as I bade
you—answer me not by speech, but by silence! unless it be
otherwise.” Then Cuff, right on cue, bowed and scrapt the
ground without a word, like a horse, hoofing twice for “yes”,
which made the boys laugh whilst Smit feigned that even
these stomps were too loud to bear.
“Very good,” he replied. “And you have fastened on
a thick quilt, or flock-bed, on the outside of the door, that
if they knock with their daggers, or with brickbats, they
can make no noise? But with your leg, your answer! unless
it be otherwise.” Now Cuff skipt in place his affirmative
like a dumb gal, and this sent everone howling, including
Calsas. “Very good,” Smit said. “This is not only fit modesty
in a servant, but good state and discretion in a master!” By
and by, Smit asked Cuff, “And have you given him a key, to
come in without knocking?” Cuff give Smit the leg. “Good.
And the lock oiled, and the hinges, today?” Cuff answered
with a grin and give two deliberate taps from his big toe
this time, which caused more laughter. “Good,” Smit said.
“And the quilting of the stairs nowhere worn out and bare?”
Cuff pretend to think about this one awhile, then nodded
and stompt twice, loud; so’s the entire campfire liked to rise
from all the gas they give it.
“Enough of this shit,” I finally told them after the
laughter died down some. Uncle Calsas already headed
toward the horses. “Y’all wake the Yankees cross the river,”
I said. “Cuff, you go on with Calsas and see to the remuda.
Got a big day tomorrah.”
By then, Smit had risen up, too, ostensibly to take
the night air some more, but said to me, “Li’l Brother. I
could use your opinion on a matter. Come. Let us reason
together.” Meaning: Let’s go somewheres else to chat the
price of gold. He did not speak in slurred accents. My
21
M
U
S
M
E
22
side of the Colorado that Father deeded him. Sul being least
favored of the Dueling Judge’s four Harvey sons, since Sul as a
child allowed Comanches to capture him and hold him in
captivity well into adolescence. Father, if you only knew how
much Sul worshipt you, or how Smit all but despised
Magenta; what should been Sul’s the day you bled out in your
own courtroom, the month after I were born.
When going betwixt plantations Sul crossed the river
on horseback daily, his acute canine madness notwithstanding. He were like the man courting his more attractive
sister-in-law whilst still keeping appearance with his sickly
wife. Until somewhere around the time of Buchanan’s
presidential election, Smit finally named his price for
Magenta’s handsome prairieland. Smit’s own birthright!, all
for a modest sum. He had purchased a similar league of land
over in Fort Bend, Smit axplained the family; though rumor
had it in Bastrop that Smit Harvey had won his new estate
when he bet it against his own at a Houston poker-table.
(Others saying Smit won it betting on a clipper at the San
Jacinto Yacht Club’s last regatta!) When the seven Harvey
sisters asked him in their separate ways why, why on earth
Smit, their own brother, would sell that which their father
had decreed his?, Smit merely told the family that he was
“more inclined to raise sugar than cotton.” He even
attempted to give Magenta to Sul as his “gift to the family,”
but Sul would hear none of it; although for years Smit had
warnted to simply cut cards with the eldest of his little
brothers for the entire estate. Magenta would have been
worth losing, too, jest for Smit Harvey to involve our pious
brother in the dreadful Sin of Gambling. A price was named,
papers were drawn, and Sul Harvey promptly moved into
Magenta’s master bedroom, finally, with all the speed and
haste of an adolescent taking over his big brother’s room,
once and for all, shortly after the young man has left for
military college.
Sul would never set foot on Smit’s new estate himself,
nor would he behold the mansion that Smit had christened
“Montefiascone” after the central Italian town celebrated for
its sweet white wine. Sul forbade himself ever to trespass his
brother’s property, in fact; so neither would Virgil, neither
would Cat. The boys were not expressly forbidden to go there;
they simply knew that this would have rankled Sul to no end
and would have made their young lives on Magenta all the
more difficult. Their seven Harvey sisters, however, paid
many visits to Smit’s family. Yes, their brother had even
acquired a wife, whom Smit soon relegated to the estate and
neglected with the rest of his overseers and darkies, so that he
might continue pursuing the good life of speaking French
atop scrolled wrought-iron balconies above paved thoroughfares in New Orleans. Before the War, his wife had somehow
given Smit two daughters that his own sisters saw more
regularly than he. Our sisters reported on which Harvey
traits their infant nieces seemed to exhibit, if also feeling the
need to add that, while Montefiascone might have rivaled
Magenta in scale and scope, it “lacked something of Father’s
splendor.” Our eldest sister, Ophie Belle, going so far as to say:
“It looks like a perfect steamboat.”
Me? I hed no idear how my brother regarded anyone in
the family, axcept coolly, as a matter of form. Even on our
annual hunting trips, not a single meaningful conversation
transpired betwixt the eldest and the youngest, like brothers
wars s’posed to do. Leastways not one that I could readily
recall. My tell…Smit apparently honed his aquiline
poker-face long fore bellying up to his first poker table, long
fore I were ever born.
He were a constant puzzle. Not even the War could
bring us much together. Smit made no secret that he would of
rather been a Louisiana Tiger Zouave than a Texas Ranger if
not for his prejudice against infantry. In peacetime, whenever
his weekly sporting club met, Smit proudly donned his red
Oriental fez with blue tassel, his embroidered jacket and his
baggy, striped pantaloons: the dashing uniform of Des
Zouaves de la Nouvelle Orléans. One of his many clubs. My
brother has a passion for clubs. But three and a half years ago
in the autumn of ’61, Colonel Frank Terry, his neighbor,
happened to pass through the Crescent City, leading five
companies of his newly formed regiment with all three of his
younger brothers in tow. Already a Messikin War veteran
with enough personal glory accrued to carry him into old age,
Smit Harvey nevertheless decided to join the Harvey brothers,
cast his lot with the Bastrop Rangers, and “go to the wars.”
So cavalierly did he regard warfare though, one might
of expected him to balk at the first sign of battle; and yit
betwixt his old bayonet-scar from Veracruz and more recent
his leg knocked from under him like a bowling pin at
Bentonville—not to mention what the various stories of
Smit’s duels and deer-hunts, his daring escapes and
well-played hands, hed done to enhance (or perhaps offset)
his reputation— in all probability Smit would become one of
the next Texas state senators or simply “Senator Harvey,” if
indeed he cared for such laurels, if indeed there were a
Confedricy left in Texas to take up agin for the Harvey clan.
Gold or no gold.
“Ah! Li’l Brother,” he says, feigning surprise at
discovering me and drawing this imaginary seegar away from
his face. Should be smoking right now, too, though how Smit
has forever refused smoke anything less than them Cuban
seegars what the blockade-runners did till recent continue
importing from the isle at considerable cost in specie. The
best, Smit swears, and well worth the expense. Till we luckt
upon our treasure, I were for certain that’s where Jeff Davis
and his cabinet would of took theirselves. Now I realized we
the ones what could head south for Cuba. All this gold, we
might could even bribe Yankee ironclads into shipping us
theyselves. Buy some Cubans direct, smoke them on the
beach. In the good months of the War, such as they were, Smit
liked to declare how he would gladly gamble “that original
gorilla Abe Lincoln” every state in the Confedricy—“barring,
naturally, Texas and Tennessee”—if only for the chance
(“just the mere opportunity,” Smit would say) to fill his silver
case once more full of fresh Cubans. Amongst so many items
he left behind on that Bentonville bean farm, my brother kept
his brace of pistols, his Messikin War saber, a fine but
useless-looking velvet cape and matching sash, a deck of
cards with only the ace of spades missing, and his silver
seegar-case.
“Brother,” I reply. “Done playing Shakespeare with Cuff?”
“Jonson,” he says.
“What?”
“Ben Jonson, not Shakespeare. I am a Son of Ben.”
“And I’m a Son of Bitch,” I say, then look down at the
gold lay at our feet. “King’s ransom today.” We had gold
enough to relocate Magenta and turn it into a sugar
plantation. Shit, into several. It crost my mind the Harveys
could rebuild in Cuba. In 1865, what with fewer Southern
states for Smit to bet against even in jest, fewer Cubans to fill
his now tarnisht stampt case, my brother has had learn how
to savor his pearly gray seegar-smoke once the pearly blue
gun-smoke finally clears. Cause it has devolved upon 3rd
Lieutenant Pericles Smithwick Harvey, 8th Texas Cavalry,
C.S.A., to save his last Cuban seegar-stub, so crudely encased
in his vest pocket during most days so’s he has the pleasure of
taking it out each morning like he about to smoke it. It awaits
the right time, the exact moment. Not for any night like
tonight. This night of money, marbles and chalk. Loud
enough to distract the smoker from minding his burning
tobacco leaves. The last Cuban he smoked got rid the stink of
Death. No, my brother might could only tease his right
moustache meditative tonight, warching the campfire glow in
the distance like the cherry from a well-rolled Cuban,
keeping the tip of his right thumb tucked a little seegar-wise
in the corner of his mouth.
“Indeed,” my brother replied, droll.
“And I’ll lay, you know how best to spend it,” I
added. “What’s why you call this council of war, idn’t it?”
“Pshaw,” he says. (Only man I know what says it that
airn’t…that way.) He had his fill of applejack, my brother; the
thousand devils of delirium tremens not yet begun haunting
his body agin, not yit leastways. But once Smit poked his head
out from beyond the moonshadows, fore resuming his
former haughty mask of self-composure, he lookt on me a
little too foreboding: Smit’s characteristic laconic poker-face
turnt visibly baleful, even lachrymose. He will need brandy
on the march soon so far from Brother not Harvey but
brother despite Smit’s bushy brown hair wreathing about his
head, the hairs curling along his receding hairline what
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the side whilst his wood leg kept him propped up on the
log. Depending on the breezy shifts in moonshadows, the
nocturnal chiaroscuro sometimes give off the uncanny
appearance of Smit standing freely with his right leg fully
restored; still other times, giving off his having no legs at
all: Smit’s gossamer moonlit torso practically hovering an
inch or two above the log. Irregardless, either which way,
the world still lookt his; as if the nearby Savannah be my
brother’s birthright to claim, another piece of property for
Smit Harvey to declare his, lose, repudiate, or merely haunt
a spell. ‘You would be the spitting image of Father,’ I think
to myself, ‘if you never said a fucking word.’
By accident of blood and the extralegal right of
primergeniture, Smit were crowned scion of we Bastrop
Harveys. Exercised through the will of our father, the
Dueling Judge. But my brother’s own moderate wagering on
life’s immoderate pursuits—like casually seducing another
beau’s belle, or beguiling her married sister; or to gamble for
the sake of telling a good war-story, often involving more
gambling; or to binge-drink like a complete fucking
gentleman—made my eldest brother black sheep of this
family, as were Smit’s primergenitive right I s’pose.
Practically removed altogether from my childhood,
Smit seemed more like a distant cousin now, or a wayward
uncle, since he’d elected live away from Magenta plantation,
Hills Prairie and Bastrop County, once he returned home,
two years after their father’s death, from the Mexican War.
Father lost his only knife-fight to his longtime political rival,
Art McElroy, for trying to raise a regiment in Bastrop out
from under his command and spreading the rumor some say
that there were a “nigger in his woodpile.” First thing Smit
did when he returned were gather young Sul and kill Art
McElroy and his two sons dead on the streets of Bastrop.
Blotted out the McElroy line. Dragged Art McElroy’s body to
the courthouse to let him bleed out where Father hed bled
before him. The only thing Smit and Sul done together I
heard tell what didn’t involve arguing first. You would never
know they wars related, much less the only brother by the
same mother. Then Smit leave Magenta for good.
He first resided in Austin, then Houston, awhile.
Briefly summering in Galveston to play a few hands of draw
poker before pulling up stakes for the nearest steamboat
embarking to New Orleans, where he would remain put in
order to take in some of the Crescent City’s best salons whose
society politely tolerated Smit’s anglecized Frinch for the
“Voltairean wit of his words.” He would sell Magenta to Sul,
but not yit. Both my brothers would have to wait on each
other awhile. For nearly a decade, in fact, with Harvey
children still in the house to raise and more Harvey sisters to
marry off. And Sul overseeing to the daily running of
Magenta, even as he ruthlessly turnt into a fine estate the
quarter league of malarial swampland on the piney eastern
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side of the Colorado that Father deeded him. Sul being least
favored of the Dueling Judge’s four Harvey sons, since Sul as a
child allowed Comanches to capture him and hold him in
captivity well into adolescence. Father, if you only knew how
much Sul worshipt you, or how Smit all but despised
Magenta; what should been Sul’s the day you bled out in your
own courtroom, the month after I were born.
When going betwixt plantations Sul crossed the river
on horseback daily, his acute canine madness notwithstanding. He were like the man courting his more attractive
sister-in-law whilst still keeping appearance with his sickly
wife. Until somewhere around the time of Buchanan’s
presidential election, Smit finally named his price for
Magenta’s handsome prairieland. Smit’s own birthright!, all
for a modest sum. He had purchased a similar league of land
over in Fort Bend, Smit axplained the family; though rumor
had it in Bastrop that Smit Harvey had won his new estate
when he bet it against his own at a Houston poker-table.
(Others saying Smit won it betting on a clipper at the San
Jacinto Yacht Club’s last regatta!) When the seven Harvey
sisters asked him in their separate ways why, why on earth
Smit, their own brother, would sell that which their father
had decreed his?, Smit merely told the family that he was
“more inclined to raise sugar than cotton.” He even
attempted to give Magenta to Sul as his “gift to the family,”
but Sul would hear none of it; although for years Smit had
warnted to simply cut cards with the eldest of his little
brothers for the entire estate. Magenta would have been
worth losing, too, jest for Smit Harvey to involve our pious
brother in the dreadful Sin of Gambling. A price was named,
papers were drawn, and Sul Harvey promptly moved into
Magenta’s master bedroom, finally, with all the speed and
haste of an adolescent taking over his big brother’s room,
once and for all, shortly after the young man has left for
military college.
Sul would never set foot on Smit’s new estate himself,
nor would he behold the mansion that Smit had christened
“Montefiascone” after the central Italian town celebrated for
its sweet white wine. Sul forbade himself ever to trespass his
brother’s property, in fact; so neither would Virgil, neither
would Cat. The boys were not expressly forbidden to go there;
they simply knew that this would have rankled Sul to no end
and would have made their young lives on Magenta all the
more difficult. Their seven Harvey sisters, however, paid
many visits to Smit’s family. Yes, their brother had even
acquired a wife, whom Smit soon relegated to the estate and
neglected with the rest of his overseers and darkies, so that he
might continue pursuing the good life of speaking French
atop scrolled wrought-iron balconies above paved thoroughfares in New Orleans. Before the War, his wife had somehow
given Smit two daughters that his own sisters saw more
regularly than he. Our sisters reported on which Harvey
traits their infant nieces seemed to exhibit, if also feeling the
need to add that, while Montefiascone might have rivaled
Magenta in scale and scope, it “lacked something of Father’s
splendor.” Our eldest sister, Ophie Belle, going so far as to say:
“It looks like a perfect steamboat.”
Me? I hed no idear how my brother regarded anyone in
the family, axcept coolly, as a matter of form. Even on our
annual hunting trips, not a single meaningful conversation
transpired betwixt the eldest and the youngest, like brothers
wars s’posed to do. Leastways not one that I could readily
recall. My tell…Smit apparently honed his aquiline
poker-face long fore bellying up to his first poker table, long
fore I were ever born.
He were a constant puzzle. Not even the War could
bring us much together. Smit made no secret that he would of
rather been a Louisiana Tiger Zouave than a Texas Ranger if
not for his prejudice against infantry. In peacetime, whenever
his weekly sporting club met, Smit proudly donned his red
Oriental fez with blue tassel, his embroidered jacket and his
baggy, striped pantaloons: the dashing uniform of Des
Zouaves de la Nouvelle Orléans. One of his many clubs. My
brother has a passion for clubs. But three and a half years ago
in the autumn of ’61, Colonel Frank Terry, his neighbor,
happened to pass through the Crescent City, leading five
companies of his newly formed regiment with all three of his
younger brothers in tow. Already a Messikin War veteran
with enough personal glory accrued to carry him into old age,
Smit Harvey nevertheless decided to join the Harvey brothers,
cast his lot with the Bastrop Rangers, and “go to the wars.”
So cavalierly did he regard warfare though, one might
of expected him to balk at the first sign of battle; and yit
betwixt his old bayonet-scar from Veracruz and more recent
his leg knocked from under him like a bowling pin at
Bentonville—not to mention what the various stories of
Smit’s duels and deer-hunts, his daring escapes and
well-played hands, hed done to enhance (or perhaps offset)
his reputation— in all probability Smit would become one of
the next Texas state senators or simply “Senator Harvey,” if
indeed he cared for such laurels, if indeed there were a
Confedricy left in Texas to take up agin for the Harvey clan.
Gold or no gold.
“Ah! Li’l Brother,” he says, feigning surprise at
discovering me and drawing this imaginary seegar away from
his face. Should be smoking right now, too, though how Smit
has forever refused smoke anything less than them Cuban
seegars what the blockade-runners did till recent continue
importing from the isle at considerable cost in specie. The
best, Smit swears, and well worth the expense. Till we luckt
upon our treasure, I were for certain that’s where Jeff Davis
and his cabinet would of took theirselves. Now I realized we
the ones what could head south for Cuba. All this gold, we
might could even bribe Yankee ironclads into shipping us
theyselves. Buy some Cubans direct, smoke them on the
beach. In the good months of the War, such as they were, Smit
liked to declare how he would gladly gamble “that original
gorilla Abe Lincoln” every state in the Confedricy—“barring,
naturally, Texas and Tennessee”—if only for the chance
(“just the mere opportunity,” Smit would say) to fill his silver
case once more full of fresh Cubans. Amongst so many items
he left behind on that Bentonville bean farm, my brother kept
his brace of pistols, his Messikin War saber, a fine but
useless-looking velvet cape and matching sash, a deck of
cards with only the ace of spades missing, and his silver
seegar-case.
“Brother,” I reply. “Done playing Shakespeare with Cuff?”
“Jonson,” he says.
“What?”
“Ben Jonson, not Shakespeare. I am a Son of Ben.”
“And I’m a Son of Bitch,” I say, then look down at the
gold lay at our feet. “King’s ransom today.” We had gold
enough to relocate Magenta and turn it into a sugar
plantation. Shit, into several. It crost my mind the Harveys
could rebuild in Cuba. In 1865, what with fewer Southern
states for Smit to bet against even in jest, fewer Cubans to fill
his now tarnisht stampt case, my brother has had learn how
to savor his pearly gray seegar-smoke once the pearly blue
gun-smoke finally clears. Cause it has devolved upon 3rd
Lieutenant Pericles Smithwick Harvey, 8th Texas Cavalry,
C.S.A., to save his last Cuban seegar-stub, so crudely encased
in his vest pocket during most days so’s he has the pleasure of
taking it out each morning like he about to smoke it. It awaits
the right time, the exact moment. Not for any night like
tonight. This night of money, marbles and chalk. Loud
enough to distract the smoker from minding his burning
tobacco leaves. The last Cuban he smoked got rid the stink of
Death. No, my brother might could only tease his right
moustache meditative tonight, warching the campfire glow in
the distance like the cherry from a well-rolled Cuban,
keeping the tip of his right thumb tucked a little seegar-wise
in the corner of his mouth.
“Indeed,” my brother replied, droll.
“And I’ll lay, you know how best to spend it,” I
added. “What’s why you call this council of war, idn’t it?”
“Pshaw,” he says. (Only man I know what says it that
airn’t…that way.) He had his fill of applejack, my brother; the
thousand devils of delirium tremens not yet begun haunting
his body agin, not yit leastways. But once Smit poked his head
out from beyond the moonshadows, fore resuming his
former haughty mask of self-composure, he lookt on me a
little too foreboding: Smit’s characteristic laconic poker-face
turnt visibly baleful, even lachrymose. He will need brandy
on the march soon so far from Brother not Harvey but
brother despite Smit’s bushy brown hair wreathing about his
head, the hairs curling along his receding hairline what
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the side whilst his wood leg kept him propped up on the
log. Depending on the breezy shifts in moonshadows, the
nocturnal chiaroscuro sometimes give off the uncanny
appearance of Smit standing freely with his right leg fully
restored; still other times, giving off his having no legs at
all: Smit’s gossamer moonlit torso practically hovering an
inch or two above the log. Irregardless, either which way,
the world still lookt his; as if the nearby Savannah be my
brother’s birthright to claim, another piece of property for
Smit Harvey to declare his, lose, repudiate, or merely haunt
a spell. ‘You would be the spitting image of Father,’ I think
to myself, ‘if you never said a fucking word.’
By accident of blood and the extralegal right of
primergeniture, Smit were crowned scion of we Bastrop
Harveys. Exercised through the will of our father, the
Dueling Judge. But my brother’s own moderate wagering on
life’s immoderate pursuits—like casually seducing another
beau’s belle, or beguiling her married sister; or to gamble for
the sake of telling a good war-story, often involving more
gambling; or to binge-drink like a complete fucking
gentleman—made my eldest brother black sheep of this
family, as were Smit’s primergenitive right I s’pose.
Practically removed altogether from my childhood,
Smit seemed more like a distant cousin now, or a wayward
uncle, since he’d elected live away from Magenta plantation,
Hills Prairie and Bastrop County, once he returned home,
two years after their father’s death, from the Mexican War.
Father lost his only knife-fight to his longtime political rival,
Art McElroy, for trying to raise a regiment in Bastrop out
from under his command and spreading the rumor some say
that there were a “nigger in his woodpile.” First thing Smit
did when he returned were gather young Sul and kill Art
McElroy and his two sons dead on the streets of Bastrop.
Blotted out the McElroy line. Dragged Art McElroy’s body to
the courthouse to let him bleed out where Father hed bled
before him. The only thing Smit and Sul done together I
heard tell what didn’t involve arguing first. You would never
know they wars related, much less the only brother by the
same mother. Then Smit leave Magenta for good.
He first resided in Austin, then Houston, awhile.
Briefly summering in Galveston to play a few hands of draw
poker before pulling up stakes for the nearest steamboat
embarking to New Orleans, where he would remain put in
order to take in some of the Crescent City’s best salons whose
society politely tolerated Smit’s anglecized Frinch for the
“Voltairean wit of his words.” He would sell Magenta to Sul,
but not yit. Both my brothers would have to wait on each
other awhile. For nearly a decade, in fact, with Harvey
children still in the house to raise and more Harvey sisters to
marry off. And Sul overseeing to the daily running of
Magenta, even as he ruthlessly turnt into a fine estate the
quarter league of malarial swampland on the piney eastern
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never in public. Cat, you would of died from shame had so
much as the word “shit” dropt from his precious mouth on
the streets of Bastrop in broad daylight. I could not even
stand to hear such language uttered in public. Even the less
mysterious harlots and gillyflowers in Nashville, what’d
propositioned me when first arrived with the rest of my
regiment in October of ’61, even they’d turned my tender ears
jest as beet-red as the whores in New Orleans with their exotic
Frinch accents did the week before. Tecumseh Sherman
changed all that. When, you could not say. Had you swore jest
once in the presence of Sul, God knows he would of for
certain give crack to the jaw, wouldn’t he? Being too old for
Sul Harvey’s slaps across the face any longer (and thus,
finally, a man in my brother’s eyes).
“Now, Brother,” Smit says, “I am certain I need not
remind—”
“You’re right,” I cut in. “Won’t happen round you agin.”
“I say,” he continues. “I need not remind you that
you’re a Harvey, not to mention a commissioned officer.”
“I know, Smit,” I reply. “I outrank you.”
“Hmm,” Smit muses. When he resumes speak, Smit’s
eyelids raise occassional with his eyebrows for greater
emphasis. “But that is not the point, is it, Brother. Not the
point at all. It did happen. It has happened. Bad enough you
and Virgil developed western accents under our notice, but to
coarsen your discourse with…Naturally, I realize Diomedes
is not here to, how shall we say, ‘put screws to you?’ But you
are a gentleman—nay, an officer and a gentleman!—Li’l
Brother. Whereas the days for salty talk ought better to
remain left to the BMI cadet of bygone days, as expected of
teenage boys obliged to demonstrate their flimsy virginal
manhood to each other with profane boasts instead of deeds:
the cadet still trying to impress the other plebes in his mess
with all the bad words that his brothers and sisters would
have disallowed him to utter within their hearing—not
without the boy-soldier’s mammy summarily washing his
mouth out with soap. Albeit, God only knows…hei mihi!, id
commune malum. You would not be the first Texas Ranger to
pollute the sweet Southern air with such argot, a miasma of
vile oaths and blasphemes and vivid references to the
genitalia—”
“Smit.”
“—of the fairer sex.”
“Smit,” I say. What he said were a waste of both our
time. But I felt this undercurrent betwixt us. Did it have
something to do with the gold? Only reason I heard him out.
“No, no, Catullus,” he goes on, “it’s a matter of
refinement…of good taste.” Then Smit raises up his right
hand with a flourish and let his fingers bloom out instructive.
“For there is a time and a place for such language,” says he. “Indeed, in
certain circles such oaths become a matter of propriety. The field of
battle, for instance. Or, say, the poker table. But the saloon, Brother.
Not the salon.”
If only I’d of shut up then. But “…You finished?” I ask, instantly
regretting my question.
Smit paused, then said, “Brother, I shall not pretend to know
what all occurred in Georgia, or here in these Carolinas, when you and
Diomedes followed Capt. Shan—”
“Nothing they didn’t do us at Sinking Cane,” I declare you see a
white man here i see no white man here captain face too grimy to be a
white man remember sinking cane boys remember shelby dodd “Or
what they did to Shelby Dodd.”
Silence. Almost a year hed passed since Smit’s closest
brother-in-arms, Pvt. Shelby Dodd, were hung as a Rebel spy for
simply keeping a journal and wearing a Yankee overcoat in
wintertime who will help the widows son where have all those
wisefool heroes gone the two used to pyroot around together cross
middle Tennessee in search of ladies who might invite them to an
“old-fashioned candy-pull.” I knew, cruel though it might be, evoking
the name of Shelby Dodd would change the subject of Capt. Alex and
his Scouts.
“Ah,” Smit says. “Va savoir. Naturally, you dispatched your
duty against those Hoosiers most efficaciously. And yet, perhaps if I
had protested to Sul, nay, insisted you remain with the rest of our
regiment, your language would have not so freely been dragged
through the salt-house.” Smit raps his fingers against his leg. “How I
lament it exceedingly that I could not disallow you your travels into
the Georgia back-country, left there to breathe too freely amongst
Hessians, Hoosiers, but worst of all those low-born corn-cracker
Georgians, whose men forever ride horses like sacks of meal and
whose celebrated belles are no doubt but two generations removed
from dipping snuff with sticks. Even before going to the wars, I have
always made it my policy to declare openly that Georgia was never the
South. No, sir. Not my South. ’Twas the Australia of the Colonies, it
was. Containing the very scrapings of society, and, in truth, remains
the poorest star in our fair Confederacy. Alas, Brother, honor
demanded we defend her like a lady, dulcis amor patriae, though we
knew in our hearts she be common trash. Yet would I have gladly
traded ten Georgias to spare but one Tennessee…”
“You done yet?” I sayd, and yet you know you knew better than
to ask.
“Of course, naturally. But Catullus, you must remember
this…” and then my eldest brother did something monstrous strange:
he called me “Cat,” something Smit rarely does. In fact, he made a
pretense of eschewing nicknames around family. He freely give
nicknames amongst his wide circle of acquaintances, even cultivated a
few besides Smit, himself. The Army of Tennessee knew him as
“Lucky,” and at least two celebrated Kentucky belles referred to him as
“Duke.” But nicknames for family? Too familiar. “Cat,” Smit called
me. “Cat, we have struck upon a bit of good fortunate.”
“Yes,” I sayd. Here it comes.
“I would never ask a fellow officer, much less family member,
to settle debts I might have accrued at the gaming table. Bad form,
you know.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I have played faro with the best of our chivalry, Lil’ Brother.
Enough to have learned fortuna caeca est. Fortune favors fools as
much as the bold. Our generals, brigadier or otherwise, liked to test
their ‘skill’ at cards against Lucky Harvey. Defy luck, you know. I
obliged them. Because they tip their hand on the battlefield, you see.”
“That so.”
“Oh, quite so. You rode with Bedford Forrest as much as I. The
entire world declared him brave, but we saw how much he did cling to
life in the field of action—heaping men on the enemy, catching him
off guard, bluffing him. You would never see Forrest stand like a stone
wall with bullets flying past. The man wanted to live. That was his tell.
He gambles like fights—overwhelm, trick, bluff. But he wants to win,
craves it. Which is why I beat him at poker time and again.”
“It’s late, Smit,” I sayd. “Congratulations on beating Forrest,
and all—”
“Cat,” he called me again. “I am not talking about poker. I am
talking about the pot right below our very feet. Like Sul, as far as I
know, you have never taken a drink nor sat at cards. Admirable in
some circles. But now you hold the pot, so now you must play. You
cannot simply scoop it up and bid the world a hasty adieu. Bad form.
You have to give the world its chance to win its money back.”
“You cain’t jest come out and say it, can you?” I ask.
“Ah,” says he. “There is your tell. Ever since Shiloh: haste. If we
are to ride with this huge pot on the table, it will require some artifice
on your part, I’m afraid. You must look the part of leisure, not haste.
Comfortable, not rich. You must make us believe the pot is still on the
table, you understand. You must even stake us.”
“Here it comes.”
“It’s true, Cat. You know in your heart it be so.”
“I know you would like nothing better than to settle whatever
debts you got with Jeff Davis’s generals with Jeff Davis’s gold.”
“You think I would lose to a general, when it is captains and
majors who win or lose the day?”
“You’re not getting any of this Treasury,” I flat declare.
“And what would I do with it?” he asks. He taps once his
wooden leg. “Pay the Raleigh clerk for the leg you stole?”
“God, do you always have to come out and say things?”
I ask, riled.
“I thought I could have an officers’ council,” my brother
laments. “But I can see you shall not keep my council. But I would be
remiss, Cat, if I did not say this: there is certainly no reason, no reason
at all, to swear oaths as profanely as a teamster. Cursing,” he tell me
instructive, like a brother, “will not lead us home any sooner.”
“Neither will pretty fucking please,” I say, then we had nothing
more to say one another.
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appeared in the faint moonlight to strike his forehead like
comiferous debris; and the stubble surrounding his
Van-Dyke moustaches and beard enshadowing Smit’s
moonlit, oval face rather odd, as if twin savage moons stead
of one lunar event beamed down upon it from divergent
pieces of sky. Which seemed to me revealed two distinct,
enjambed Smit profiles rather than presenting him the two
calm hemispheres of the same Harvey countenance. He were
a mess.
“What, then?” I ask. “I’ll not have this damned
gold—”
“Catullus,” Smit goes and says rather affected, eyeing
me appraising. “I care not a whit for Jeff Davis and his purse. I
am inclined to speak to you on a graver matter that has
recently come to my attention, one I am afraid is of cardinal
importance.”
So I steelt myself against whatever twaddle my brother
were about to expound; for my brother could dissertate, yes
he could (“His mouth don’t know no Sundee,” Mammy Zee
would say). With the stoicism of another Seneca, Smit could
wag on subjects, such as the gentlemanly art of refraining
from blowing one’s nose in public; or with Ciceronian
intricacy Smit might would sometimes explicate the reasons
why Aaron Burr were perfect within his rights to claim Texas
for his own, Burr having proven his mettle in his infamous
duel with President Hamilton; or my brother might could
wax eloquent entire orations, ones more eloquent than
Cincinnatus hisself, on the proper gifts one ought give they
octoroon mistresses, as opposed to one’s quadroon wenches,
“should one find himself wintering in New Orleans.” Smit
could declaim whole monologues from Shakespeare
comedies (‘scuse me, Ben Fucking Jonson); he could recount
legendary poker games played during the Siege of Veracruz;
or, whenever the muse struck him, Smit might could even
recite word-for-word William Barrett Travis’s famous final
dispatch from the Alamo to the Texas Republic, in Frinch. In
other words, he like as not make a fine senator. Whenever my
eldest Harvey brother began speak, I braced myself for just
about anything.
“It has not gone under my notice, Brother,” Smit
begins, “that your discourse has of late somewhat coarsened.
Your language, Catullus. It has grown entirely too salty. And I
am certain you were better raised. Indeed, what would Sister
say?” Smit didn’t even have to say which of our seven Harvey
sisters he meant, I knew he meant Ophie Belle. Before the
War, I might of thrown around every cuss word I knew when
amongst my closest circle of friends, mebbe on our way to a
ball, sometimes hurling a few choice ones at Virgil in an
attempt to impress upon my brother that I, Cat Harvey, were
no longer the same tag-a-long “Baby Cat” what had balled his
eyes out years before, after Virgil left Magenta for his first day
of school, alone. But such profanity I used sparing, private,
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never in public. Cat, you would of died from shame had so
much as the word “shit” dropt from his precious mouth on
the streets of Bastrop in broad daylight. I could not even
stand to hear such language uttered in public. Even the less
mysterious harlots and gillyflowers in Nashville, what’d
propositioned me when first arrived with the rest of my
regiment in October of ’61, even they’d turned my tender ears
jest as beet-red as the whores in New Orleans with their exotic
Frinch accents did the week before. Tecumseh Sherman
changed all that. When, you could not say. Had you swore jest
once in the presence of Sul, God knows he would of for
certain give crack to the jaw, wouldn’t he? Being too old for
Sul Harvey’s slaps across the face any longer (and thus,
finally, a man in my brother’s eyes).
“Now, Brother,” Smit says, “I am certain I need not
remind—”
“You’re right,” I cut in. “Won’t happen round you agin.”
“I say,” he continues. “I need not remind you that
you’re a Harvey, not to mention a commissioned officer.”
“I know, Smit,” I reply. “I outrank you.”
“Hmm,” Smit muses. When he resumes speak, Smit’s
eyelids raise occassional with his eyebrows for greater
emphasis. “But that is not the point, is it, Brother. Not the
point at all. It did happen. It has happened. Bad enough you
and Virgil developed western accents under our notice, but to
coarsen your discourse with…Naturally, I realize Diomedes
is not here to, how shall we say, ‘put screws to you?’ But you
are a gentleman—nay, an officer and a gentleman!—Li’l
Brother. Whereas the days for salty talk ought better to
remain left to the BMI cadet of bygone days, as expected of
teenage boys obliged to demonstrate their flimsy virginal
manhood to each other with profane boasts instead of deeds:
the cadet still trying to impress the other plebes in his mess
with all the bad words that his brothers and sisters would
have disallowed him to utter within their hearing—not
without the boy-soldier’s mammy summarily washing his
mouth out with soap. Albeit, God only knows…hei mihi!, id
commune malum. You would not be the first Texas Ranger to
pollute the sweet Southern air with such argot, a miasma of
vile oaths and blasphemes and vivid references to the
genitalia—”
“Smit.”
“—of the fairer sex.”
“Smit,” I say. What he said were a waste of both our
time. But I felt this undercurrent betwixt us. Did it have
something to do with the gold? Only reason I heard him out.
“No, no, Catullus,” he goes on, “it’s a matter of
refinement…of good taste.” Then Smit raises up his right
hand with a flourish and let his fingers bloom out instructive.
“For there is a time and a place for such language,” says he. “Indeed, in
certain circles such oaths become a matter of propriety. The field of
battle, for instance. Or, say, the poker table. But the saloon, Brother.
Not the salon.”
If only I’d of shut up then. But “…You finished?” I ask, instantly
regretting my question.
Smit paused, then said, “Brother, I shall not pretend to know
what all occurred in Georgia, or here in these Carolinas, when you and
Diomedes followed Capt. Shan—”
“Nothing they didn’t do us at Sinking Cane,” I declare you see a
white man here i see no white man here captain face too grimy to be a
white man remember sinking cane boys remember shelby dodd “Or
what they did to Shelby Dodd.”
Silence. Almost a year hed passed since Smit’s closest
brother-in-arms, Pvt. Shelby Dodd, were hung as a Rebel spy for
simply keeping a journal and wearing a Yankee overcoat in
wintertime who will help the widows son where have all those
wisefool heroes gone the two used to pyroot around together cross
middle Tennessee in search of ladies who might invite them to an
“old-fashioned candy-pull.” I knew, cruel though it might be, evoking
the name of Shelby Dodd would change the subject of Capt. Alex and
his Scouts.
“Ah,” Smit says. “Va savoir. Naturally, you dispatched your
duty against those Hoosiers most efficaciously. And yet, perhaps if I
had protested to Sul, nay, insisted you remain with the rest of our
regiment, your language would have not so freely been dragged
through the salt-house.” Smit raps his fingers against his leg. “How I
lament it exceedingly that I could not disallow you your travels into
the Georgia back-country, left there to breathe too freely amongst
Hessians, Hoosiers, but worst of all those low-born corn-cracker
Georgians, whose men forever ride horses like sacks of meal and
whose celebrated belles are no doubt but two generations removed
from dipping snuff with sticks. Even before going to the wars, I have
always made it my policy to declare openly that Georgia was never the
South. No, sir. Not my South. ’Twas the Australia of the Colonies, it
was. Containing the very scrapings of society, and, in truth, remains
the poorest star in our fair Confederacy. Alas, Brother, honor
demanded we defend her like a lady, dulcis amor patriae, though we
knew in our hearts she be common trash. Yet would I have gladly
traded ten Georgias to spare but one Tennessee…”
“You done yet?” I sayd, and yet you know you knew better than
to ask.
“Of course, naturally. But Catullus, you must remember
this…” and then my eldest brother did something monstrous strange:
he called me “Cat,” something Smit rarely does. In fact, he made a
pretense of eschewing nicknames around family. He freely give
nicknames amongst his wide circle of acquaintances, even cultivated a
few besides Smit, himself. The Army of Tennessee knew him as
“Lucky,” and at least two celebrated Kentucky belles referred to him as
“Duke.” But nicknames for family? Too familiar. “Cat,” Smit called
me. “Cat, we have struck upon a bit of good fortunate.”
“Yes,” I sayd. Here it comes.
“I would never ask a fellow officer, much less family member,
to settle debts I might have accrued at the gaming table. Bad form,
you know.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I have played faro with the best of our chivalry, Lil’ Brother.
Enough to have learned fortuna caeca est. Fortune favors fools as
much as the bold. Our generals, brigadier or otherwise, liked to test
their ‘skill’ at cards against Lucky Harvey. Defy luck, you know. I
obliged them. Because they tip their hand on the battlefield, you see.”
“That so.”
“Oh, quite so. You rode with Bedford Forrest as much as I. The
entire world declared him brave, but we saw how much he did cling to
life in the field of action—heaping men on the enemy, catching him
off guard, bluffing him. You would never see Forrest stand like a stone
wall with bullets flying past. The man wanted to live. That was his tell.
He gambles like fights—overwhelm, trick, bluff. But he wants to win,
craves it. Which is why I beat him at poker time and again.”
“It’s late, Smit,” I sayd. “Congratulations on beating Forrest,
and all—”
“Cat,” he called me again. “I am not talking about poker. I am
talking about the pot right below our very feet. Like Sul, as far as I
know, you have never taken a drink nor sat at cards. Admirable in
some circles. But now you hold the pot, so now you must play. You
cannot simply scoop it up and bid the world a hasty adieu. Bad form.
You have to give the world its chance to win its money back.”
“You cain’t jest come out and say it, can you?” I ask.
“Ah,” says he. “There is your tell. Ever since Shiloh: haste. If we
are to ride with this huge pot on the table, it will require some artifice
on your part, I’m afraid. You must look the part of leisure, not haste.
Comfortable, not rich. You must make us believe the pot is still on the
table, you understand. You must even stake us.”
“Here it comes.”
“It’s true, Cat. You know in your heart it be so.”
“I know you would like nothing better than to settle whatever
debts you got with Jeff Davis’s generals with Jeff Davis’s gold.”
“You think I would lose to a general, when it is captains and
majors who win or lose the day?”
“You’re not getting any of this Treasury,” I flat declare.
“And what would I do with it?” he asks. He taps once his
wooden leg. “Pay the Raleigh clerk for the leg you stole?”
“God, do you always have to come out and say things?”
I ask, riled.
“I thought I could have an officers’ council,” my brother
laments. “But I can see you shall not keep my council. But I would be
remiss, Cat, if I did not say this: there is certainly no reason, no reason
at all, to swear oaths as profanely as a teamster. Cursing,” he tell me
instructive, like a brother, “will not lead us home any sooner.”
“Neither will pretty fucking please,” I say, then we had nothing
more to say one another.
09
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M
09
10
appeared in the faint moonlight to strike his forehead like
comiferous debris; and the stubble surrounding his
Van-Dyke moustaches and beard enshadowing Smit’s
moonlit, oval face rather odd, as if twin savage moons stead
of one lunar event beamed down upon it from divergent
pieces of sky. Which seemed to me revealed two distinct,
enjambed Smit profiles rather than presenting him the two
calm hemispheres of the same Harvey countenance. He were
a mess.
“What, then?” I ask. “I’ll not have this damned
gold—”
“Catullus,” Smit goes and says rather affected, eyeing
me appraising. “I care not a whit for Jeff Davis and his purse. I
am inclined to speak to you on a graver matter that has
recently come to my attention, one I am afraid is of cardinal
importance.”
So I steelt myself against whatever twaddle my brother
were about to expound; for my brother could dissertate, yes
he could (“His mouth don’t know no Sundee,” Mammy Zee
would say). With the stoicism of another Seneca, Smit could
wag on subjects, such as the gentlemanly art of refraining
from blowing one’s nose in public; or with Ciceronian
intricacy Smit might would sometimes explicate the reasons
why Aaron Burr were perfect within his rights to claim Texas
for his own, Burr having proven his mettle in his infamous
duel with President Hamilton; or my brother might could
wax eloquent entire orations, ones more eloquent than
Cincinnatus hisself, on the proper gifts one ought give they
octoroon mistresses, as opposed to one’s quadroon wenches,
“should one find himself wintering in New Orleans.” Smit
could declaim whole monologues from Shakespeare
comedies (‘scuse me, Ben Fucking Jonson); he could recount
legendary poker games played during the Siege of Veracruz;
or, whenever the muse struck him, Smit might could even
recite word-for-word William Barrett Travis’s famous final
dispatch from the Alamo to the Texas Republic, in Frinch. In
other words, he like as not make a fine senator. Whenever my
eldest Harvey brother began speak, I braced myself for just
about anything.
“It has not gone under my notice, Brother,” Smit
begins, “that your discourse has of late somewhat coarsened.
Your language, Catullus. It has grown entirely too salty. And I
am certain you were better raised. Indeed, what would Sister
say?” Smit didn’t even have to say which of our seven Harvey
sisters he meant, I knew he meant Ophie Belle. Before the
War, I might of thrown around every cuss word I knew when
amongst my closest circle of friends, mebbe on our way to a
ball, sometimes hurling a few choice ones at Virgil in an
attempt to impress upon my brother that I, Cat Harvey, were
no longer the same tag-a-long “Baby Cat” what had balled his
eyes out years before, after Virgil left Magenta for his first day
of school, alone. But such profanity I used sparing, private,
25
A Life of Quiet Desperation
(E X ER PT)
DIANA TITTLE
EDITOR’S NOTE Diana Tittle, the author of a new biography, The Severances, from which this piece is excerpted, thought that she would be able to
provide only a bare recitation of the biography of John Long Severance: orphan, Presbyterian choir boy, bank employee and the namesake great-uncle
of the benefactor of Cleveland’s Severance Hall. Few traces of the man himself seemed to have survived. In caches of documents and memorabilia still
in family hands, Tittle found a precious few letters written by Severance that described his battle with tuberculosis, the cruel disease that had claimed
both of his parents and his brothers, Solomon Lewis and Erasmus Darwin. But it was the discovery of a small handwritten travel journal, literally stowed
away in a basement in Cleveland Heights, that allowed Tittle to bring John Long Severance’s final days to dramatic life.
With the departure of his older
brother T. C. for Boston, John Long
09
10
M
M
U
S
26
Severance became protector of Longwood,
the country estate of his guardians,
where he and his brothers had lived since
their parents’ death in 1830. His health
poorly equipped him to fulfill these
responsibilities. Indeed, John was often
absent from home during the last years
of the 1850s, as he searched for a cure for
what had become a full-blown case of
tuberculosis.
Severance had initially looked to
Cleveland’s medical community for a
remedy for his labored breathing, but the
two local doctors he consulted had been
of little assistance. The first physician, a
Dr. Terry, refused to subject the thirtyfive-year-old bank teller to a treatment
about which John had knowledge. Called a
“thrush,” it entailed plunging a medicated
sponge on the end of a slender rod down
the patient’s throat. The second physician,
on the other hand, was in favor of radical
approaches. Dr. Dillenback advocated
for the eradication of diseased tissue in
throat and lungs by cauterization. John’s
burned flesh had healed, but his breathing
problems remained unchecked. He
decided to consult a big-city physician.
Mary Long Severance, the matriarch
of Longwood and the widow of John’s
brother Solomon Lewis, urged her son
Louis to accompany his uncle to New York
City to see a Dr. Green in the fall of 1857.
“Dr. Dillenback never gave my throat such
an examination,” John reported back to
his sister-in-law. The New York physician
had performed his inspection with a
“hook and spatula,” more detail than
Mary probably wished to know. It was a
good thing that twenty-year-old Louis [Ed.
Note: the future father of philanthropist
John L. Severance] had been present in
the examining room. Dr. Green delivered
bad news. John’s pulmonary disease had
progressed to the chronic stage, and the
doctor could not hold out more than a
fifty-fifty chance of recovery. Nevertheless,
he offered to treat the patient on the spot.
Green’s examination had uncovered
a tubercle buried in the folds of flesh
behind the soft palate. John agreed to
let Dr. Green remove the nodule, “& in a
twinkling, he cut off a vile looking block
about as large as two peas.” The doctor
insisted that Severance remain in the
city for further treatment. “He says he
shall drop into my lungs gradually with
his probang, and he has twice given me a
thrush of at least 6 inches, the operation
is not a pleasant one, but not so ‘killing’
as Dr. Terry thought,” John wrote to
Mary from his accommodations at the
Metropolitan Hotel.
Dr. Green’s course of treatment
seemed to provide relief. Severance felt
well enough during the summer of 1858
to go on a vacation in Nova Scotia with
T. C. The brothers rambled over the hills
above the Straits of Canso, fished, and
feasted on wild strawberries. But, as winter
approached, Severance’s health worsened.
His legs sometimes gave way unexpectedly,
he was easily fatigued, and he knew that
he could not physically endure the cold,
snowy days that lay ahead. Somehow John
made his way alone to South Carolina,
taking up residence in early 1859 in a
boardinghouse in Aiken, a village located
near Augusta, Georgia. Severance’s
peaceful enjoyment of the area’s seventydegree weather came to an abrupt end
two months before his planned return to
Longwood.
At dinner one evening in mid-March
the landlady’s son made a terrifying
announcement. John was in mortal
danger. A public whipping of a slave had
recently occurred in Aiken, and a letter
denouncing the brutality had subsequently
been published in a newspaper in
Brooklyn, New York. Tensions between
the North and South over the slavery
question had long before reached the
boiling point; indeed, the country’s
ancient disagreements over whether new
states should be declared free or slave
had erupted in violence four years earlier,
when “Free Soil” settlers in the newly
opened Kansas Territory took up arms
to defend themselves against armies of
invading Southerners intent on forcibly
imposing a pro-slavery statehood. In the
aftermath of the small-scale civil war
dubbed “Bleeding Kansas” and Kansas’s
ultimate entry into the Union as a free
state, anti-Northern sentiment swept
through the South like a contagion. By
1959 the citizens of Aiken were ready to
explode at the thought that a Northerner
had dared to call their humanity into
question in the public prints. A committee
was appointed to determine the origins
of the humiliating letter so that its author
could be dealt with appropriately.
The letter’s “bold tone” had
persuaded the investigators that (as John
later explained to T. C.) its author must
have been a man. Severance hardly seemed
a reasonable suspect. Even his friends
acknowledged that his “manly virtues”
were tempered by the “most delicate
womanly tenderness and purity.” But
Severance hailed from Cleveland, a city
his Southern hosts perceived to be—in
John’s words—a “nest of red mouthed
abolitionists.” Therefore, the investigators
concluded, Severance must be the
guilty party. The landlady’s son advised
Severance to leave town immediately, as he
could not vouch for John’s safety for even
an hour longer.
Seated at the boardinghouse table
was a Brooklyn matron, who had brought
her invalid daughter, “a sweet child of
11,” south in search of a rest cure. To the
surprise of everyone in the room, “Mrs.
T” claimed authorship of the letter. (The
woman’s “insane blundering brother,”
John bemoaned, had “thought it smart to
publish” the diatribe.) A public meeting
was called at once for the purpose of
determining Mrs. T’s punishment. A
majority of those present favored her
expulsion from Aiken over a demand for
an apology. A gentleman in attendance
later advised Severance to loudly protest
his innocence. “[I]t seemed impossible
to get the idea entirely out of the minds
of those present that I was not under it in
some way,” John explained to his brother.
The Clevelander felt that he must publicly
disavow association with the letter.
Perhaps hoping to justify his cowardly
act, John expressed delight at the thought
that the Northern press would set the
record straight by denouncing Mrs. T’s
disgraceful treatment in a manner that
the “order loving people of Aiken little
dreamed of.” The fact that he did not share
his family’s strong abolitionist sentiments
may have contributed to John’s reluctance
to confront Mrs. T’s tormenters. “What
would they give I wonder,” he mused to
T. C. about his Southern hosts, “to know
that that I’d vote for Buchanan and the
South, bob & sinker, provided we could
balk the Republicans.” John knew full
well that his brother was hard at work on
a new cause: securing for Ohio’s governor,
Salmon Chase, a founder of the Free Soil
movement, the Republican nomination
for president. John’s profession of support
for Democrat James Buchanan, who
would preside over the secession of
seven slave states and the formation of
the Confederacy before turning over the
White House to Abraham Lincoln, the
candidate the Republican Party eventually
chose as its standard-bearer, was intended
to get T. C.’s goat.
John returned to Cleveland for a few
months before embarking on another
prophylactic trip: a long-anticipated tour
of the British Isles, accompanied by his
twenty-one-year-old nephew Louis. T. C.
and his wife, Caroline, saw the travelers off
from Boston on July 13.
The ten-day crossing was brutally
punishing for the elder Severance, who
had “only a covering of skin upon his
bones” to cushion him from the “rolling,
tumbling and pitching” of the steamship.
The Acalia tossed its passengers about
“like feathers in a whirlwind,” John noted
in his travel journal. He attempted to
fortify himself with copious draughts of
“fine old English ale,” but sank into a foul
mood nevertheless. “This... freesing up of
the heart—,” he confided to his journal,
& consequent repulsion of every advance
made in kindness by those around, is
dreadful to suffer. Let me alone for sweet
pity’s sake has been the feeling & I have
driven even Lewis away by my coolness &
unsympathising responses but—it is all
over today, and light breaks in upon my
soul....
That morning, a Saturday, the Acalia
had finally drawn within sight of land—
the “beautiful outline of old Ireland.”
The steamer chugged on to Liverpool,
where the passengers disembarked for a
short stay. On Sunday evening John willed
himself to leave the comfort of his hotel
room. The dedicated chorister couldn’t
pass up a chance to hear a choir of blind
singers. Pleasantly “surprised to hear them
sing such difficult music . . . well brought
out by the Italian method,” he thought
that his old music teacher, Miss Belcher,
“would have said ‘those tongues lie right,
flat on the bottom of the mouth.’” A side
trip to the country home of the Duke of
Westminster (taken via rail in a cramped
second-class compartment that made
him feel as he were buried alive) left John
exhausted. “There is no use in dodging it,”
he wrote, “I am terribly weak & nervous,
& suffer every day intolerably, while Lewis
thinks we are having a good time.”
On Thursday the 28th of July, two letters
arrived—“Oh! joy!”—from America.
These affectionate messages—one from
T. C. and the other from his employer,
Commercial Branch Bank president
Truman P. Handy—reduced the recipient
to tears. “T P speaks of my probable short
race, I know & feel that death is near and
trust that thru all atoning blood, I am
ready for it—,” Severance wrote, “but God
forgive me! I cannot lessen my love of life
nor of the living.”
Uncle and nephew moved on to
Scotland, where they spent two full days
touring Glasgow. Again, John overdid it,
confiding to his journal that even boating
is fatiguing, although L. says he don’t feel
it—it takes a well man to not understand a
sick one!... [B]ut it is worth something to
see Lewis enjoy himself.
The weather in Scotland was bracing,
as the consumptive had hoped. But instead
of reviving him, the crisp air irritated his
throat and increased the frequency of his
coughing spells. Unable to sleep at night,
John comforted himself by singing sacred
music. “How sweet are these old Hymns
that I have sung so often & carelessly
without dreaming that in committing
them to memory they would ever fill such
a spot in my heart, hour after hour ...,” he
wrote. “I have learned precious truths
by heart, that come to me in my lonely
sleepless hours like the very music of
Heaven!” Again sensing the nearness
of death, he cried out: “Father! Mother!
Lewis! Darwin! Shall I join your heavenly
Choir before another year rolls around.”
Yet John soldiered on, taking a sightseeing
trip in the rain to Stirling Castle, the
coronation place of Mary Queen of Scots.
Stopping along the way in Perth, Severance
placed his hand on the pulpit in St. John’s
Kirk where Jonathan Knox, a leader of the
Protestant Reformation and the founder
of Presbyterianism (“bold man, Knox”),
had preached. John joked that he had
“tried to steal a splinter but [the] guide
eyed me like a hawk.” His exertions cost
Severance several days in bed. On Monday,
August 7, having recovered from a bad
case of diarrhea caused by the peaches
he couldn’t resist savoring at Stirling
market, he scribbled an upbeat “Ho! for
Edinburgh—” in his travel journal. It was
his last entry.
On August 30, in Southampton,
England, John Long Severance lost his
battle with TB. The steamship that he
and Louis had been preparing to board
refused to carry Severance’s body back to
the States. Although grief-stricken, Louis
maintained his composure. He arranged
for his uncle to be buried in a lead coffin,
thinking that the remains could then
be brought home at a future date. Later
realizing the impossibility of this plan, the
family had a gravestone prepared, shipped
overseas and placed on Severance’s resting
place in Southampton. The marble slab
was inscribed with a five-stanza poem,
which ended with the expression of
Longwood’s poignant hope that a passerby
might read these lines and feel moved to
plant a flowering shrub or a willow tree on
the grave of John Long Severance.
09
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CH A P T ER 11
27
A Life of Quiet Desperation
(E X ER PT)
DIANA TITTLE
EDITOR’S NOTE Diana Tittle, the author of a new biography, The Severances, from which this piece is excerpted, thought that she would be able to
provide only a bare recitation of the biography of John Long Severance: orphan, Presbyterian choir boy, bank employee and the namesake great-uncle
of the benefactor of Cleveland’s Severance Hall. Few traces of the man himself seemed to have survived. In caches of documents and memorabilia still
in family hands, Tittle found a precious few letters written by Severance that described his battle with tuberculosis, the cruel disease that had claimed
both of his parents and his brothers, Solomon Lewis and Erasmus Darwin. But it was the discovery of a small handwritten travel journal, literally stowed
away in a basement in Cleveland Heights, that allowed Tittle to bring John Long Severance’s final days to dramatic life.
With the departure of his older
brother T. C. for Boston, John Long
09
10
M
M
U
S
26
Severance became protector of Longwood,
the country estate of his guardians,
where he and his brothers had lived since
their parents’ death in 1830. His health
poorly equipped him to fulfill these
responsibilities. Indeed, John was often
absent from home during the last years
of the 1850s, as he searched for a cure for
what had become a full-blown case of
tuberculosis.
Severance had initially looked to
Cleveland’s medical community for a
remedy for his labored breathing, but the
two local doctors he consulted had been
of little assistance. The first physician, a
Dr. Terry, refused to subject the thirtyfive-year-old bank teller to a treatment
about which John had knowledge. Called a
“thrush,” it entailed plunging a medicated
sponge on the end of a slender rod down
the patient’s throat. The second physician,
on the other hand, was in favor of radical
approaches. Dr. Dillenback advocated
for the eradication of diseased tissue in
throat and lungs by cauterization. John’s
burned flesh had healed, but his breathing
problems remained unchecked. He
decided to consult a big-city physician.
Mary Long Severance, the matriarch
of Longwood and the widow of John’s
brother Solomon Lewis, urged her son
Louis to accompany his uncle to New York
City to see a Dr. Green in the fall of 1857.
“Dr. Dillenback never gave my throat such
an examination,” John reported back to
his sister-in-law. The New York physician
had performed his inspection with a
“hook and spatula,” more detail than
Mary probably wished to know. It was a
good thing that twenty-year-old Louis [Ed.
Note: the future father of philanthropist
John L. Severance] had been present in
the examining room. Dr. Green delivered
bad news. John’s pulmonary disease had
progressed to the chronic stage, and the
doctor could not hold out more than a
fifty-fifty chance of recovery. Nevertheless,
he offered to treat the patient on the spot.
Green’s examination had uncovered
a tubercle buried in the folds of flesh
behind the soft palate. John agreed to
let Dr. Green remove the nodule, “& in a
twinkling, he cut off a vile looking block
about as large as two peas.” The doctor
insisted that Severance remain in the
city for further treatment. “He says he
shall drop into my lungs gradually with
his probang, and he has twice given me a
thrush of at least 6 inches, the operation
is not a pleasant one, but not so ‘killing’
as Dr. Terry thought,” John wrote to
Mary from his accommodations at the
Metropolitan Hotel.
Dr. Green’s course of treatment
seemed to provide relief. Severance felt
well enough during the summer of 1858
to go on a vacation in Nova Scotia with
T. C. The brothers rambled over the hills
above the Straits of Canso, fished, and
feasted on wild strawberries. But, as winter
approached, Severance’s health worsened.
His legs sometimes gave way unexpectedly,
he was easily fatigued, and he knew that
he could not physically endure the cold,
snowy days that lay ahead. Somehow John
made his way alone to South Carolina,
taking up residence in early 1859 in a
boardinghouse in Aiken, a village located
near Augusta, Georgia. Severance’s
peaceful enjoyment of the area’s seventydegree weather came to an abrupt end
two months before his planned return to
Longwood.
At dinner one evening in mid-March
the landlady’s son made a terrifying
announcement. John was in mortal
danger. A public whipping of a slave had
recently occurred in Aiken, and a letter
denouncing the brutality had subsequently
been published in a newspaper in
Brooklyn, New York. Tensions between
the North and South over the slavery
question had long before reached the
boiling point; indeed, the country’s
ancient disagreements over whether new
states should be declared free or slave
had erupted in violence four years earlier,
when “Free Soil” settlers in the newly
opened Kansas Territory took up arms
to defend themselves against armies of
invading Southerners intent on forcibly
imposing a pro-slavery statehood. In the
aftermath of the small-scale civil war
dubbed “Bleeding Kansas” and Kansas’s
ultimate entry into the Union as a free
state, anti-Northern sentiment swept
through the South like a contagion. By
1959 the citizens of Aiken were ready to
explode at the thought that a Northerner
had dared to call their humanity into
question in the public prints. A committee
was appointed to determine the origins
of the humiliating letter so that its author
could be dealt with appropriately.
The letter’s “bold tone” had
persuaded the investigators that (as John
later explained to T. C.) its author must
have been a man. Severance hardly seemed
a reasonable suspect. Even his friends
acknowledged that his “manly virtues”
were tempered by the “most delicate
womanly tenderness and purity.” But
Severance hailed from Cleveland, a city
his Southern hosts perceived to be—in
John’s words—a “nest of red mouthed
abolitionists.” Therefore, the investigators
concluded, Severance must be the
guilty party. The landlady’s son advised
Severance to leave town immediately, as he
could not vouch for John’s safety for even
an hour longer.
Seated at the boardinghouse table
was a Brooklyn matron, who had brought
her invalid daughter, “a sweet child of
11,” south in search of a rest cure. To the
surprise of everyone in the room, “Mrs.
T” claimed authorship of the letter. (The
woman’s “insane blundering brother,”
John bemoaned, had “thought it smart to
publish” the diatribe.) A public meeting
was called at once for the purpose of
determining Mrs. T’s punishment. A
majority of those present favored her
expulsion from Aiken over a demand for
an apology. A gentleman in attendance
later advised Severance to loudly protest
his innocence. “[I]t seemed impossible
to get the idea entirely out of the minds
of those present that I was not under it in
some way,” John explained to his brother.
The Clevelander felt that he must publicly
disavow association with the letter.
Perhaps hoping to justify his cowardly
act, John expressed delight at the thought
that the Northern press would set the
record straight by denouncing Mrs. T’s
disgraceful treatment in a manner that
the “order loving people of Aiken little
dreamed of.” The fact that he did not share
his family’s strong abolitionist sentiments
may have contributed to John’s reluctance
to confront Mrs. T’s tormenters. “What
would they give I wonder,” he mused to
T. C. about his Southern hosts, “to know
that that I’d vote for Buchanan and the
South, bob & sinker, provided we could
balk the Republicans.” John knew full
well that his brother was hard at work on
a new cause: securing for Ohio’s governor,
Salmon Chase, a founder of the Free Soil
movement, the Republican nomination
for president. John’s profession of support
for Democrat James Buchanan, who
would preside over the secession of
seven slave states and the formation of
the Confederacy before turning over the
White House to Abraham Lincoln, the
candidate the Republican Party eventually
chose as its standard-bearer, was intended
to get T. C.’s goat.
John returned to Cleveland for a few
months before embarking on another
prophylactic trip: a long-anticipated tour
of the British Isles, accompanied by his
twenty-one-year-old nephew Louis. T. C.
and his wife, Caroline, saw the travelers off
from Boston on July 13.
The ten-day crossing was brutally
punishing for the elder Severance, who
had “only a covering of skin upon his
bones” to cushion him from the “rolling,
tumbling and pitching” of the steamship.
The Acalia tossed its passengers about
“like feathers in a whirlwind,” John noted
in his travel journal. He attempted to
fortify himself with copious draughts of
“fine old English ale,” but sank into a foul
mood nevertheless. “This... freesing up of
the heart—,” he confided to his journal,
& consequent repulsion of every advance
made in kindness by those around, is
dreadful to suffer. Let me alone for sweet
pity’s sake has been the feeling & I have
driven even Lewis away by my coolness &
unsympathising responses but—it is all
over today, and light breaks in upon my
soul....
That morning, a Saturday, the Acalia
had finally drawn within sight of land—
the “beautiful outline of old Ireland.”
The steamer chugged on to Liverpool,
where the passengers disembarked for a
short stay. On Sunday evening John willed
himself to leave the comfort of his hotel
room. The dedicated chorister couldn’t
pass up a chance to hear a choir of blind
singers. Pleasantly “surprised to hear them
sing such difficult music . . . well brought
out by the Italian method,” he thought
that his old music teacher, Miss Belcher,
“would have said ‘those tongues lie right,
flat on the bottom of the mouth.’” A side
trip to the country home of the Duke of
Westminster (taken via rail in a cramped
second-class compartment that made
him feel as he were buried alive) left John
exhausted. “There is no use in dodging it,”
he wrote, “I am terribly weak & nervous,
& suffer every day intolerably, while Lewis
thinks we are having a good time.”
On Thursday the 28th of July, two letters
arrived—“Oh! joy!”—from America.
These affectionate messages—one from
T. C. and the other from his employer,
Commercial Branch Bank president
Truman P. Handy—reduced the recipient
to tears. “T P speaks of my probable short
race, I know & feel that death is near and
trust that thru all atoning blood, I am
ready for it—,” Severance wrote, “but God
forgive me! I cannot lessen my love of life
nor of the living.”
Uncle and nephew moved on to
Scotland, where they spent two full days
touring Glasgow. Again, John overdid it,
confiding to his journal that even boating
is fatiguing, although L. says he don’t feel
it—it takes a well man to not understand a
sick one!... [B]ut it is worth something to
see Lewis enjoy himself.
The weather in Scotland was bracing,
as the consumptive had hoped. But instead
of reviving him, the crisp air irritated his
throat and increased the frequency of his
coughing spells. Unable to sleep at night,
John comforted himself by singing sacred
music. “How sweet are these old Hymns
that I have sung so often & carelessly
without dreaming that in committing
them to memory they would ever fill such
a spot in my heart, hour after hour ...,” he
wrote. “I have learned precious truths
by heart, that come to me in my lonely
sleepless hours like the very music of
Heaven!” Again sensing the nearness
of death, he cried out: “Father! Mother!
Lewis! Darwin! Shall I join your heavenly
Choir before another year rolls around.”
Yet John soldiered on, taking a sightseeing
trip in the rain to Stirling Castle, the
coronation place of Mary Queen of Scots.
Stopping along the way in Perth, Severance
placed his hand on the pulpit in St. John’s
Kirk where Jonathan Knox, a leader of the
Protestant Reformation and the founder
of Presbyterianism (“bold man, Knox”),
had preached. John joked that he had
“tried to steal a splinter but [the] guide
eyed me like a hawk.” His exertions cost
Severance several days in bed. On Monday,
August 7, having recovered from a bad
case of diarrhea caused by the peaches
he couldn’t resist savoring at Stirling
market, he scribbled an upbeat “Ho! for
Edinburgh—” in his travel journal. It was
his last entry.
On August 30, in Southampton,
England, John Long Severance lost his
battle with TB. The steamship that he
and Louis had been preparing to board
refused to carry Severance’s body back to
the States. Although grief-stricken, Louis
maintained his composure. He arranged
for his uncle to be buried in a lead coffin,
thinking that the remains could then
be brought home at a future date. Later
realizing the impossibility of this plan, the
family had a gravestone prepared, shipped
overseas and placed on Severance’s resting
place in Southampton. The marble slab
was inscribed with a five-stanza poem,
which ended with the expression of
Longwood’s poignant hope that a passerby
might read these lines and feel moved to
plant a flowering shrub or a willow tree on
the grave of John Long Severance.
09
10
M
U
S
M
CH A P T ER 11
27
ERIC ANDERSON
When Malie wakes and hears the voices,
she believes for a moment that her parents are
fighting again. Late at night, they’ve been arguing about the baby, about money, about
what happened to the invitations to Malie’s
birthday party, and she rolls onto her side,
listening harder, facing the wall which separates her room from her parents’ room. It’s
almost as if she can see through the plaster
and slats, as if the wall is a television screen
and her parents are only actors and all she has
to do is tune her eyes to the right channel.
But it’s not her parent’s voices; these are
only whispers, little breaths, barely more
than the noise the furnace usually makes,
and so when she hears her name, Malie sits
up, too fast, dizzy at once. Her feet dangle
over the edge of the bed, coldness rises up
from the hardwood floor, but she climbs out
anyway and pads over to the wall, closer to
the vent. She can’t hear her parents at all, not
even the normal sounds of the night, her father’s ragged snoring, her restless mother
muttering in her sleep. Malie puts her face
closer, and the warm air brushes the wisps of
her bangs. It’s voices she’s heard, she’s sure of
it. But the voices have stopped.
Then—
Shhh. I think
she’s listening.
09
10
M
U
S
M
E
28
In the morning, Malie’s mother isn’t
there. Her father is making breakfast and
when Malie comes in the first thing he does is
check her hands.
“Mahalia, you didn’t get up and paint
last night, did you?”
No, Malie says, even though that’s what
she wanted to do, especially after the voices.
All Malie ever wants to do is paint, sometimes
even in the middle of the night, though she
knows she’ll get in trouble for staying up late.
Good girl, her father says. Can you feed
Lionel for me?
Which is not something Malie wants to
do. Her brother’s most awful when he eats,
chewing with his mouth open, and she has to
scrape the sides of his chin with a spoon,
shoveling the mucky baby food back in. He
reminds her of some disgusting factory; he
doesn’t eat the food so much as process it. It
goes in one end and comes out the other, goes
in one color and comes out another, goes in
smelling like fruit and comes out….
Malie loses her appetite watching him
eat. He holds a spoon in his hand and bangs it
on the high chair’s plastic tray, the sound like
a nail driven into her forehead.
Lionel, her father says.
Already Lionel has learned what that
tone of voice means. He stops beating on the
tray and Malie uses the moment to dump the
rest of the baby food into the garbage.
Why isn’t Mom here? she asks, and her father
seems to practice the words in his head. He
says, I think your mother needed a little
vacation.
The birthday party was an hour old
when Malie’s mother finally came over and
said, quietly, How would you like to open
your presents?
Malie nodded. She sat on the couch next
to Lionel, who was propped between two pillows, chewing on a Zwieback cookie. Little
soggy bits of crumb squeezed out between
his fingers. No one had come to the party.
Her parents, especially Malie’s father, kept
looking at Malie and determinedly not saying anything.
It must be a mix up, he said, as if explaining the situation to invisible guests.
The presents from her parents were
mostly art supplies; an easel, three gessoed
canvases, a wooden box with twenty-four little tubes of real oil paint
Hello? Malie says, waking again to the
sound of the voices. She’s on the edge of her
bed, tired from the long day with Lionel—as
if anyone can really play with a baby!—how
edgy her father was. She wishes she could
have gone on vacation with her mother, to
some warm place, to a fancy hotel.
Hello? The vent is quiet. Then—
Is she talking
to us I believe
she is
but why should we
trust her?
The voices overlap, finishing each other’s sentences, or perhaps beginning them.
Malie says, It’s all right, I can hear you. Another long silence, so long in fact that Malie
begins to drift back into sleep, to believe she
might not have been really awake.
She must
be hearing.
I can, Malie says. She feels brave; she
thinks of the dog catcher who came to her
class and told everyone that wild animals are
really afraid, all the time, more afraid of us
than we are of them. Malie says, Who are
you?
Who are
we we like
your paintings.
Malie backs away from the vent. She
hadn’t considered that they could see her,
that they have been watching her. She scoots
backwards until her bed’s at her back, and
watches the vent, turning her head this way
and that, so that the grate seems to rotate
slowly from side to side.
But who are you, she asks again, feeling
safer now that she’s farther away.
We’re lonely
down here you
taste good
to our eyes like your
paintings taste to
us paint some more.
Malie loves the drawer of her desk;
there’s pencils, erasers, a small scratchpad
where she starts lists. Everyone wants her to
be more organized, so it’ll be easier for her to
STAY ON TASK, so she can GET THINGS
DONE. The scratch pad is filled with lists she
started but did not finish. There are little
doodles: cats, dogs, babies bawling their eyes
out. Watercolors; red is her favorite. Sometimes she paints people covered in red, and
this has caused problems in the past, but the
school’s art teacher, Mrs. Dupree, loves Malie’s paintings and even called her parents in
for a special conference. Malie was allowed to
go, too.
Mahalia is a very talented young lady,
Mrs. Dupree said, in that careful, clipped way
of hers, as though she worked to keep her
words from running wild.
She is, Malie’s father said, like he was
asking a question. This was not the kind of
news Malie’s parents were used to hearing in
conferences; unlike her other teachers, Mrs.
Dupree didn’t say that Malie was distracted,
that she lost focus during the day, that she
sometimes sat and stared at the window instead of doing her work.
Malie watched her parents and Mrs. Dupree,
looking at each other, passing expressions of
alternating pleasure and mild surprise back
and forth.
To be honest, I’m not sure what to do
with her, Mrs. Dupree said. There’s classes at
the Art Museum, geared towards talented
children. I have some brochures.
Mmm, her father said. When it was time
to leave, he folded the brochures in half and
slid them into his back pocket. Malie never
saw them again.
When her parents argued about Lionel, her mother said things like, I’m not the
one who wanted another baby. I never
wanted more. Or, You’re the one who wanted
to do this. Or, You pressured me. You didn’t
care what I thought.
Malie’s father would say, It’s not like I
planned it this way. Or, I know I wasn’t the
greatest father in the world when she was a
baby. Or, What the hell good does any of this
do? We have to get over it.
Malie knew that she was the she, and she
tingled every time her parents said it, as if
they spoke of someone else.
She means well. She has to try harder. She is
trying. She’s doing her best.
Malie doesn’t like being a her.
Once her father said, Look, how am I supposed to feel? When we had Malie, you
thought I was good enough. So you tell me
what’s changed.
There are other things in Malie’s
drawer, secret things. A picture of her parents
when they were young, no lines in the corner
of her mother’s eyes. Her father has all his
hair. Malie likes him better bald; in the pic-
ture his hair looks like a hat that doesn’t quite
fit him right. She likes the way the top of his
head looks, especially in the summer time
when it’s tan and shiny.
Sometimes she puts her father’s head in
the paintings.
Um, thanks, he says. He looks
embarrassed.
Malie has her old brushes in the drawer,
because now she uses the ones that Mrs. Dupree gave her, along with a plastic palette and
a few books about how to draw things, trees
and animals and city streets. Still, Malie
couldn’t bring herself to throw away the old
brushes; it would be like abandoning her best
friends.
In the back of the drawer, she keeps the
small, pretty things other people have lost,
things which Malie has rescued. A plastic
pony, an eraser with bits of glitter in it, an
earring that looks like a can of soda, a ceramic dog that used to sit on Mrs. Dupree’s
desk, which Malie picked up one day and
slipped into the small, tight pocket of her
jeans. There is a black spider ring, a cuff link
from her father’s dresser, glass wings from a
broken Christmas ornament.
Malie knows the people who lost these
things didn’t know what they had; if they did,
they would have been more careful. All those
things seem magic to Malie, as if they are a
little bit alive. Like the wings; if Malie holds
them tight, she can feel them flutter.
On the morning of the first class at the
Art Museum, the week after the birthday
party, Malie’s mother found the invitations.
Malie had hidden them in her school bag.
Mahalia? her mother said. Malie, why
didn’t you give these out?
Through all the questions, all the scolding, Malie only shrugged or nodded or shook
her head, movements so slight that anyone
watching from a distance would not have
been able to say she moved at all. Why did
you let us buy all that food? Those decorations? If you didn’t want a party, why didn’t
you just say so?
Malie didn’t have a reason; she took the
invitations to school, but then she couldn’t
make herself hand them out, and later, when
her mother asked who was coming, Malie
lied and said, Oh, everyone. They all said
they’d be here.
09
10
M
U
S
M
Finder of Lost Things
I get in trouble for painting at night,
Malie says. The vent glows, as if she can see
the heat coming from the furnace.
We won’t tell you
trust us we’re so
bored so
play with us.
Their s’s are long, like sighs. Malie says,
What if I found you something to play with?
Yes play come
closer.
Malie goes quickly to the drawer of her
homework desk and feels around in the dark
until she finds what she wants; a large marble, cat’s eye pattern, heavy in her palm as she
carries it to the vent. The edges of the metal
are warm as she tries to wiggle the grate. A
single screw keeps her from getting it all the
way loose.
Mostly to herself, Malie says, I can’t get
it off.
We can
help,
The screw cranks slowly to the left and
the grate falls into Malie’s hands. She looks at
the open mouth of the vent and thinks of the
lion tamer she saw at the circus. She thinks,
At least I don’t have to stick my head in.
The air is warm as she reaches inside,
like putting on a shirt fresh from the dryer.
Along the base of the wall, the vent runs flat
and she rolls the marble towards one dark
end. After a moment, it’s gone from sight, but
she can still hear it rolling.
A quick silence as the marble goes over
some invisible edge, and then it clangs
against the sides of the sheet metal. Ping, it
goes. Ping, ping, and then there is the clear,
distinct sound of someone catching it, of it
falling—plop!—into somebody’s palm.
29
ERIC ANDERSON
When Malie wakes and hears the voices,
she believes for a moment that her parents are
fighting again. Late at night, they’ve been arguing about the baby, about money, about
what happened to the invitations to Malie’s
birthday party, and she rolls onto her side,
listening harder, facing the wall which separates her room from her parents’ room. It’s
almost as if she can see through the plaster
and slats, as if the wall is a television screen
and her parents are only actors and all she has
to do is tune her eyes to the right channel.
But it’s not her parent’s voices; these are
only whispers, little breaths, barely more
than the noise the furnace usually makes,
and so when she hears her name, Malie sits
up, too fast, dizzy at once. Her feet dangle
over the edge of the bed, coldness rises up
from the hardwood floor, but she climbs out
anyway and pads over to the wall, closer to
the vent. She can’t hear her parents at all, not
even the normal sounds of the night, her father’s ragged snoring, her restless mother
muttering in her sleep. Malie puts her face
closer, and the warm air brushes the wisps of
her bangs. It’s voices she’s heard, she’s sure of
it. But the voices have stopped.
Then—
Shhh. I think
she’s listening.
09
10
M
U
S
M
E
28
In the morning, Malie’s mother isn’t
there. Her father is making breakfast and
when Malie comes in the first thing he does is
check her hands.
“Mahalia, you didn’t get up and paint
last night, did you?”
No, Malie says, even though that’s what
she wanted to do, especially after the voices.
All Malie ever wants to do is paint, sometimes
even in the middle of the night, though she
knows she’ll get in trouble for staying up late.
Good girl, her father says. Can you feed
Lionel for me?
Which is not something Malie wants to
do. Her brother’s most awful when he eats,
chewing with his mouth open, and she has to
scrape the sides of his chin with a spoon,
shoveling the mucky baby food back in. He
reminds her of some disgusting factory; he
doesn’t eat the food so much as process it. It
goes in one end and comes out the other, goes
in one color and comes out another, goes in
smelling like fruit and comes out….
Malie loses her appetite watching him
eat. He holds a spoon in his hand and bangs it
on the high chair’s plastic tray, the sound like
a nail driven into her forehead.
Lionel, her father says.
Already Lionel has learned what that
tone of voice means. He stops beating on the
tray and Malie uses the moment to dump the
rest of the baby food into the garbage.
Why isn’t Mom here? she asks, and her father
seems to practice the words in his head. He
says, I think your mother needed a little
vacation.
The birthday party was an hour old
when Malie’s mother finally came over and
said, quietly, How would you like to open
your presents?
Malie nodded. She sat on the couch next
to Lionel, who was propped between two pillows, chewing on a Zwieback cookie. Little
soggy bits of crumb squeezed out between
his fingers. No one had come to the party.
Her parents, especially Malie’s father, kept
looking at Malie and determinedly not saying anything.
It must be a mix up, he said, as if explaining the situation to invisible guests.
The presents from her parents were
mostly art supplies; an easel, three gessoed
canvases, a wooden box with twenty-four little tubes of real oil paint
Hello? Malie says, waking again to the
sound of the voices. She’s on the edge of her
bed, tired from the long day with Lionel—as
if anyone can really play with a baby!—how
edgy her father was. She wishes she could
have gone on vacation with her mother, to
some warm place, to a fancy hotel.
Hello? The vent is quiet. Then—
Is she talking
to us I believe
she is
but why should we
trust her?
The voices overlap, finishing each other’s sentences, or perhaps beginning them.
Malie says, It’s all right, I can hear you. Another long silence, so long in fact that Malie
begins to drift back into sleep, to believe she
might not have been really awake.
She must
be hearing.
I can, Malie says. She feels brave; she
thinks of the dog catcher who came to her
class and told everyone that wild animals are
really afraid, all the time, more afraid of us
than we are of them. Malie says, Who are
you?
Who are
we we like
your paintings.
Malie backs away from the vent. She
hadn’t considered that they could see her,
that they have been watching her. She scoots
backwards until her bed’s at her back, and
watches the vent, turning her head this way
and that, so that the grate seems to rotate
slowly from side to side.
But who are you, she asks again, feeling
safer now that she’s farther away.
We’re lonely
down here you
taste good
to our eyes like your
paintings taste to
us paint some more.
Malie loves the drawer of her desk;
there’s pencils, erasers, a small scratchpad
where she starts lists. Everyone wants her to
be more organized, so it’ll be easier for her to
STAY ON TASK, so she can GET THINGS
DONE. The scratch pad is filled with lists she
started but did not finish. There are little
doodles: cats, dogs, babies bawling their eyes
out. Watercolors; red is her favorite. Sometimes she paints people covered in red, and
this has caused problems in the past, but the
school’s art teacher, Mrs. Dupree, loves Malie’s paintings and even called her parents in
for a special conference. Malie was allowed to
go, too.
Mahalia is a very talented young lady,
Mrs. Dupree said, in that careful, clipped way
of hers, as though she worked to keep her
words from running wild.
She is, Malie’s father said, like he was
asking a question. This was not the kind of
news Malie’s parents were used to hearing in
conferences; unlike her other teachers, Mrs.
Dupree didn’t say that Malie was distracted,
that she lost focus during the day, that she
sometimes sat and stared at the window instead of doing her work.
Malie watched her parents and Mrs. Dupree,
looking at each other, passing expressions of
alternating pleasure and mild surprise back
and forth.
To be honest, I’m not sure what to do
with her, Mrs. Dupree said. There’s classes at
the Art Museum, geared towards talented
children. I have some brochures.
Mmm, her father said. When it was time
to leave, he folded the brochures in half and
slid them into his back pocket. Malie never
saw them again.
When her parents argued about Lionel, her mother said things like, I’m not the
one who wanted another baby. I never
wanted more. Or, You’re the one who wanted
to do this. Or, You pressured me. You didn’t
care what I thought.
Malie’s father would say, It’s not like I
planned it this way. Or, I know I wasn’t the
greatest father in the world when she was a
baby. Or, What the hell good does any of this
do? We have to get over it.
Malie knew that she was the she, and she
tingled every time her parents said it, as if
they spoke of someone else.
She means well. She has to try harder. She is
trying. She’s doing her best.
Malie doesn’t like being a her.
Once her father said, Look, how am I supposed to feel? When we had Malie, you
thought I was good enough. So you tell me
what’s changed.
There are other things in Malie’s
drawer, secret things. A picture of her parents
when they were young, no lines in the corner
of her mother’s eyes. Her father has all his
hair. Malie likes him better bald; in the pic-
ture his hair looks like a hat that doesn’t quite
fit him right. She likes the way the top of his
head looks, especially in the summer time
when it’s tan and shiny.
Sometimes she puts her father’s head in
the paintings.
Um, thanks, he says. He looks
embarrassed.
Malie has her old brushes in the drawer,
because now she uses the ones that Mrs. Dupree gave her, along with a plastic palette and
a few books about how to draw things, trees
and animals and city streets. Still, Malie
couldn’t bring herself to throw away the old
brushes; it would be like abandoning her best
friends.
In the back of the drawer, she keeps the
small, pretty things other people have lost,
things which Malie has rescued. A plastic
pony, an eraser with bits of glitter in it, an
earring that looks like a can of soda, a ceramic dog that used to sit on Mrs. Dupree’s
desk, which Malie picked up one day and
slipped into the small, tight pocket of her
jeans. There is a black spider ring, a cuff link
from her father’s dresser, glass wings from a
broken Christmas ornament.
Malie knows the people who lost these
things didn’t know what they had; if they did,
they would have been more careful. All those
things seem magic to Malie, as if they are a
little bit alive. Like the wings; if Malie holds
them tight, she can feel them flutter.
On the morning of the first class at the
Art Museum, the week after the birthday
party, Malie’s mother found the invitations.
Malie had hidden them in her school bag.
Mahalia? her mother said. Malie, why
didn’t you give these out?
Through all the questions, all the scolding, Malie only shrugged or nodded or shook
her head, movements so slight that anyone
watching from a distance would not have
been able to say she moved at all. Why did
you let us buy all that food? Those decorations? If you didn’t want a party, why didn’t
you just say so?
Malie didn’t have a reason; she took the
invitations to school, but then she couldn’t
make herself hand them out, and later, when
her mother asked who was coming, Malie
lied and said, Oh, everyone. They all said
they’d be here.
09
10
M
U
S
M
Finder of Lost Things
I get in trouble for painting at night,
Malie says. The vent glows, as if she can see
the heat coming from the furnace.
We won’t tell you
trust us we’re so
bored so
play with us.
Their s’s are long, like sighs. Malie says,
What if I found you something to play with?
Yes play come
closer.
Malie goes quickly to the drawer of her
homework desk and feels around in the dark
until she finds what she wants; a large marble, cat’s eye pattern, heavy in her palm as she
carries it to the vent. The edges of the metal
are warm as she tries to wiggle the grate. A
single screw keeps her from getting it all the
way loose.
Mostly to herself, Malie says, I can’t get
it off.
We can
help,
The screw cranks slowly to the left and
the grate falls into Malie’s hands. She looks at
the open mouth of the vent and thinks of the
lion tamer she saw at the circus. She thinks,
At least I don’t have to stick my head in.
The air is warm as she reaches inside,
like putting on a shirt fresh from the dryer.
Along the base of the wall, the vent runs flat
and she rolls the marble towards one dark
end. After a moment, it’s gone from sight, but
she can still hear it rolling.
A quick silence as the marble goes over
some invisible edge, and then it clangs
against the sides of the sheet metal. Ping, it
goes. Ping, ping, and then there is the clear,
distinct sound of someone catching it, of it
falling—plop!—into somebody’s palm.
29
Every night, after her father starts to
snore, Malie paints for the voices. The danger
is that Lionel will start to cry, and she’ll have
to scurry into bed and shut off her light before anyone sees. Then she has to lay there,
listening to him wail until finally, finally, her
father gets up to check on him.
She paints the treasures from her drawer,
making them so alive they seem to dance off
the end of the brush, animated, singing to
her, like the voices sing, swirling, whispering.
Your father is
good at making
your mother mad
she’s so mad.
She feels her hand moving the brush.
She feels something larger, moving her.
09
10
M
U
S
M
E
30
Malie comes down from the upstairs in
the morning and her father sees the paint on
her hands and says, So you got up last night?
Malie knows she’s been caught. She says, No.
I saw your light go off when I went to get Lionel.
Lionel is in his chair, banging with his
spoon, little judge with a plastic gavel.
I wasn’t painting.
Are you sure? It’s okay if you were. Well,
not okay, but it’s okay as long as you tell me
the truth.
I wasn’t.
Malie is sitting at the table in the chill of
the breakfast nook. It must be tropical where
her mother is, beautiful beaches and palm
trees and those red drinks made of ice. Malie
has a sudden longing for her, even the way she
would lose her patience: Malie, please. Please,
we’re going to be late. We can’t be late again. Please, Malie.
Warm air rises from the heating vent
under the table in the breakfast nook.
Malie, I can see the paint on your hands.
I forgot to wash them last night. You forgot to
make me wash them.
Her father considers the possibility. He
was drinking last night; cold beer after cold
beer, stacking the empties on the coffee table
beside his chair while Malie walked Lionel
around the living room in his stroller, while
she pushed him in his swing, while she
picked up the plastic blocks he dropped over
and over and over.
I didn’t even brush my teeth last night,
Malie says.
You didn’t?
Malie shakes her head. Lionel shakes his
head, too.
Go brush your teeth, her father says,
which Malie gladly does because Lionel has
started to cry, impatient for someone to
shove food in his mouth. Upstairs in the
bathroom (where there is a heating vent,
where Malie hears something like a long, satisfied unfurling of breath), she brushes as
slowly as she can, listening to the knocks and
rattles the furnace makes as it kicks on. It
sounds like little feet, running through the
ducts.
The problem is
the baby that’s why
your mother is
not coming back.
Malie, frustrated, tries to concentrate on
her painting—angry baby, red baby—but it’s
hard because the voices keep saying how
beautiful the paintings are. The voices (Malie’s sure there’s more than two of them, at
least three, sometimes four, five, six), whisper
and sigh and giggle.
She won’t come
back until the baby
goes.
I want my marble back, Malie says.
You’ve had it long enough.
Didn’t you
know already, it’s
with the other
little beauties prettier
now so pretty.
Malie pulls her desk drawer open. At
first, she doesn’t see it; she moves everything
in the drawer, all the pencils and pens and
yellowing lists, and then she finds it. No longer cat’s eye, but somehow heavier; one side
smooth and flat, the other side withered, as
though it has been held over a flame.
You ruined it!
We can
bring your mother
back.
And then they tell her how.
Before Malie will do what the voices say,
she demands an explanation. She says, I demand an explanation, the way people on television say such things. I want to know who
you are.
But what if
we aren’t
anything?
Everything is something.
The breathing sounds. In. Out. In.
We find lost
things like you
find lost things beautiful
bits which must
be saved.
The voices talk for a long time, then.
Malie listens, as if her ears are new and she is
hearing sounds for the first time in her life.
The voices mix with her own thoughts, so
that it seems as if she isn’t thinking at all, and
when they are done explaining, Malie goes
down to the kitchen and gets the sharpest
knife she can find.
She wants her mother back, but there are
some things she will not do.
For instance, when Malie takes the knife
and goes to Lionel’s room, she cuts off the
arm of one of his dolls instead, one of the
dolls that used to be hers. Miss Molly, a name
that is almost like Malie’s name; almost but
not quite.
Miss Molly’s arm is made of plastic and
it is hard to cut, and Malie slices her finger,
but she manages to get the arm off, working
the knife back and forth like a saw. As quietly
as she can, she goes back down the hall to her
room, past her father’s door, past the rattle of
his breathing.
All right, she says, lifting the grate off
the vent. I brought you the baby’s arm.
Oh yes give
t to us yes oh!
Malie sets the arm in the vent and slides
it in the same direction the marble went.
There is the scrape of plastic on metal, a
clang, silence, and then the sound of many
mouths, chewing wildly, the plastic crunching, snarls and chomps and the licking of lips.
The noise rises, coming closer to Malie’s
room, closer to Malie, and then subsides, a
final gurgling, like dirty bathwater going
down the drain.
Malie is sitting at her desk in school when
she starts to cry. She can’t make herself stop,
and they send her to the nurse, who calls her
father, who comes to pick her up. He says,
Kiddo, we’ve got to figure out what’s going on
with you.
I know, she says.
I’m sorry about your mom. I’m trying to
work it out.
I know.
What can I do to help you?
I just want to sleep. On the couch in
front of the television.
Okay.
That night, her mother finally calls. She
says, I hear you came home early today.
How’s your vacation going? Malie asks.
Her mother sighs into the receiver (just like
the voices from the vent!), and then she starts
to explain. Malie nods as much as she can,
mostly for the benefit of her father, who sits
anxiously beside her. Lionel is sleeping, for
once. For once, Lionel shuts up.
Malie watches her father, wringing his
hands; he gets up and sits down every time
she makes a noise, no matter how non-committal it is. Her mother explains that there
are certain things she needs, certain conditions which must be met, and she is speaking
to Malie as though Malie is another grownup. Everyone has to try harder, she says, and
when she stops talking Malie can hear her
crying.
At night, I hear voices coming out of the
vent in my room, Malie says. Her mother
hangs up the phone, and her father is so
angry, he raises his hand, as if he is going to
hit her.
We find lost things, like you find lost things,
the voices said, and that is what Malie is
thinking about as she sits on the floor next to
the vent, waiting for the voices. She touches
the vent and it is cool, but she still sits there,
waiting. When they come, she says, How did
you like my brother’s arm?
Oh good so
good we didn’t know
baby arms would be
so crunchy!
That’s good, Malie says.
And hollow
inside we like how
our teeth fee, we
were wondering
could you
bring us the other one.
I don’t know, Malie said. My mother
hasn’t come back.
We’re
sorry maybe
we need
more baby.
Malie closes her eyes. Cold air comes
from the vent, settling on her skin, as if she
has spent days and days playing outside. She
can almost see the faces behind the voices.
She thinks of Lionel, and wonders if babies
get lonely, if he wonders where their mother
has gone. She thinks of her father, alone in
the bed where her mother used to sleep, too,
how huge and empty that bed must seem. She
says, You told me you find lost things.
We do we
do we found
you.
I want to see you, Malie says. Can I see
you? Is it hard to get where you are?
Malie follows the voices through the
house, going from vent to vent, putting her
ear to each, listening to the instructions.
There are certain tasks along the way; she
must bring a talisman, and so she chooses the
wings from the broken ornament, though
they are cold in her hand, though she cannot
make them move. She must open a door she’s
never opened before, and so she climbs onto
a stool and opens the little cupboard doors
over top of the refrigerator. They say she must
go down into the basement without the lights
on and find her way to the furnace.
The furnace is old and iron gray, vents
and tubes branching out of it like shadow
limbs. As she looks at the furnace Malie can
hear it working, turning on and turning off,
almost like a pulse, great lungs pumping like
a bellows. There is a door in the front of the
furnace, just big enough that she could pull
herself through, if she puts her hands in first
and then her head and then wiggles the rest
of the way.
There is a tiny sliding window in the
door itself, warm to the touch, and Malie
slides it back and looks inside. A small blue
flame twists and turns. It seems impossible
that all that heat can begin with something
so small.
It looks awful in there, she says. It looks
too hot.
Maybe it is maybe
you’ll like the heat the way
it tastes you
should come in
come in come
in!
And the voices talk all at once, calling to
her, as Malie opens the door and puts both
hands inside. It’s hot, but it does not burn her,
not yet. She goes in with her arms first and
then her head, holding the little wings in
front of her as she eases forward, the frame of
the door so tight it scrapes her ribs, and in her
mind she sees her father, lying in bed, not
snoring now, and she can hear Lionel sucking
air through his nose, scrunching up his face
as if he smells something awful (imagine a
baby thinking something smells awful!), and
her mother someplace warm, too, but not
warm like this. Malie’s hips catch on the
door, and as she closes her eyes and squeezes
everything turns bright, beautiful red and
she feels the hair on her arms singe and
shrivel, and she could scream, but the voices,
Shhh, Hush, and in the flames, small hands
hold her, pulling, Shhh, Shhh, and her father
is dreaming of something that’s gone, something he can never have again, and now he
wakes and looks towards the vent in his wall,
and for a moment, thinks he hears someone
calling his name.
09
10
M
U
S
M
Her mother was trembling. She covered
her mouth and started to cry. Her father said,
You aren’t going to those classes, and then
her parents spent the rest of the day arguing
with each other and the next morning her
mother was gone.
31
Every night, after her father starts to
snore, Malie paints for the voices. The danger
is that Lionel will start to cry, and she’ll have
to scurry into bed and shut off her light before anyone sees. Then she has to lay there,
listening to him wail until finally, finally, her
father gets up to check on him.
She paints the treasures from her drawer,
making them so alive they seem to dance off
the end of the brush, animated, singing to
her, like the voices sing, swirling, whispering.
Your father is
good at making
your mother mad
she’s so mad.
She feels her hand moving the brush.
She feels something larger, moving her.
09
10
M
U
S
M
E
30
Malie comes down from the upstairs in
the morning and her father sees the paint on
her hands and says, So you got up last night?
Malie knows she’s been caught. She says, No.
I saw your light go off when I went to get Lionel.
Lionel is in his chair, banging with his
spoon, little judge with a plastic gavel.
I wasn’t painting.
Are you sure? It’s okay if you were. Well,
not okay, but it’s okay as long as you tell me
the truth.
I wasn’t.
Malie is sitting at the table in the chill of
the breakfast nook. It must be tropical where
her mother is, beautiful beaches and palm
trees and those red drinks made of ice. Malie
has a sudden longing for her, even the way she
would lose her patience: Malie, please. Please,
we’re going to be late. We can’t be late again. Please, Malie.
Warm air rises from the heating vent
under the table in the breakfast nook.
Malie, I can see the paint on your hands.
I forgot to wash them last night. You forgot to
make me wash them.
Her father considers the possibility. He
was drinking last night; cold beer after cold
beer, stacking the empties on the coffee table
beside his chair while Malie walked Lionel
around the living room in his stroller, while
she pushed him in his swing, while she
picked up the plastic blocks he dropped over
and over and over.
I didn’t even brush my teeth last night,
Malie says.
You didn’t?
Malie shakes her head. Lionel shakes his
head, too.
Go brush your teeth, her father says,
which Malie gladly does because Lionel has
started to cry, impatient for someone to
shove food in his mouth. Upstairs in the
bathroom (where there is a heating vent,
where Malie hears something like a long, satisfied unfurling of breath), she brushes as
slowly as she can, listening to the knocks and
rattles the furnace makes as it kicks on. It
sounds like little feet, running through the
ducts.
The problem is
the baby that’s why
your mother is
not coming back.
Malie, frustrated, tries to concentrate on
her painting—angry baby, red baby—but it’s
hard because the voices keep saying how
beautiful the paintings are. The voices (Malie’s sure there’s more than two of them, at
least three, sometimes four, five, six), whisper
and sigh and giggle.
She won’t come
back until the baby
goes.
I want my marble back, Malie says.
You’ve had it long enough.
Didn’t you
know already, it’s
with the other
little beauties prettier
now so pretty.
Malie pulls her desk drawer open. At
first, she doesn’t see it; she moves everything
in the drawer, all the pencils and pens and
yellowing lists, and then she finds it. No longer cat’s eye, but somehow heavier; one side
smooth and flat, the other side withered, as
though it has been held over a flame.
You ruined it!
We can
bring your mother
back.
And then they tell her how.
Before Malie will do what the voices say,
she demands an explanation. She says, I demand an explanation, the way people on television say such things. I want to know who
you are.
But what if
we aren’t
anything?
Everything is something.
The breathing sounds. In. Out. In.
We find lost
things like you
find lost things beautiful
bits which must
be saved.
The voices talk for a long time, then.
Malie listens, as if her ears are new and she is
hearing sounds for the first time in her life.
The voices mix with her own thoughts, so
that it seems as if she isn’t thinking at all, and
when they are done explaining, Malie goes
down to the kitchen and gets the sharpest
knife she can find.
She wants her mother back, but there are
some things she will not do.
For instance, when Malie takes the knife
and goes to Lionel’s room, she cuts off the
arm of one of his dolls instead, one of the
dolls that used to be hers. Miss Molly, a name
that is almost like Malie’s name; almost but
not quite.
Miss Molly’s arm is made of plastic and
it is hard to cut, and Malie slices her finger,
but she manages to get the arm off, working
the knife back and forth like a saw. As quietly
as she can, she goes back down the hall to her
room, past her father’s door, past the rattle of
his breathing.
All right, she says, lifting the grate off
the vent. I brought you the baby’s arm.
Oh yes give
t to us yes oh!
Malie sets the arm in the vent and slides
it in the same direction the marble went.
There is the scrape of plastic on metal, a
clang, silence, and then the sound of many
mouths, chewing wildly, the plastic crunching, snarls and chomps and the licking of lips.
The noise rises, coming closer to Malie’s
room, closer to Malie, and then subsides, a
final gurgling, like dirty bathwater going
down the drain.
Malie is sitting at her desk in school when
she starts to cry. She can’t make herself stop,
and they send her to the nurse, who calls her
father, who comes to pick her up. He says,
Kiddo, we’ve got to figure out what’s going on
with you.
I know, she says.
I’m sorry about your mom. I’m trying to
work it out.
I know.
What can I do to help you?
I just want to sleep. On the couch in
front of the television.
Okay.
That night, her mother finally calls. She
says, I hear you came home early today.
How’s your vacation going? Malie asks.
Her mother sighs into the receiver (just like
the voices from the vent!), and then she starts
to explain. Malie nods as much as she can,
mostly for the benefit of her father, who sits
anxiously beside her. Lionel is sleeping, for
once. For once, Lionel shuts up.
Malie watches her father, wringing his
hands; he gets up and sits down every time
she makes a noise, no matter how non-committal it is. Her mother explains that there
are certain things she needs, certain conditions which must be met, and she is speaking
to Malie as though Malie is another grownup. Everyone has to try harder, she says, and
when she stops talking Malie can hear her
crying.
At night, I hear voices coming out of the
vent in my room, Malie says. Her mother
hangs up the phone, and her father is so
angry, he raises his hand, as if he is going to
hit her.
We find lost things, like you find lost things,
the voices said, and that is what Malie is
thinking about as she sits on the floor next to
the vent, waiting for the voices. She touches
the vent and it is cool, but she still sits there,
waiting. When they come, she says, How did
you like my brother’s arm?
Oh good so
good we didn’t know
baby arms would be
so crunchy!
That’s good, Malie says.
And hollow
inside we like how
our teeth fee, we
were wondering
could you
bring us the other one.
I don’t know, Malie said. My mother
hasn’t come back.
We’re
sorry maybe
we need
more baby.
Malie closes her eyes. Cold air comes
from the vent, settling on her skin, as if she
has spent days and days playing outside. She
can almost see the faces behind the voices.
She thinks of Lionel, and wonders if babies
get lonely, if he wonders where their mother
has gone. She thinks of her father, alone in
the bed where her mother used to sleep, too,
how huge and empty that bed must seem. She
says, You told me you find lost things.
We do we
do we found
you.
I want to see you, Malie says. Can I see
you? Is it hard to get where you are?
Malie follows the voices through the
house, going from vent to vent, putting her
ear to each, listening to the instructions.
There are certain tasks along the way; she
must bring a talisman, and so she chooses the
wings from the broken ornament, though
they are cold in her hand, though she cannot
make them move. She must open a door she’s
never opened before, and so she climbs onto
a stool and opens the little cupboard doors
over top of the refrigerator. They say she must
go down into the basement without the lights
on and find her way to the furnace.
The furnace is old and iron gray, vents
and tubes branching out of it like shadow
limbs. As she looks at the furnace Malie can
hear it working, turning on and turning off,
almost like a pulse, great lungs pumping like
a bellows. There is a door in the front of the
furnace, just big enough that she could pull
herself through, if she puts her hands in first
and then her head and then wiggles the rest
of the way.
There is a tiny sliding window in the
door itself, warm to the touch, and Malie
slides it back and looks inside. A small blue
flame twists and turns. It seems impossible
that all that heat can begin with something
so small.
It looks awful in there, she says. It looks
too hot.
Maybe it is maybe
you’ll like the heat the way
it tastes you
should come in
come in come
in!
And the voices talk all at once, calling to
her, as Malie opens the door and puts both
hands inside. It’s hot, but it does not burn her,
not yet. She goes in with her arms first and
then her head, holding the little wings in
front of her as she eases forward, the frame of
the door so tight it scrapes her ribs, and in her
mind she sees her father, lying in bed, not
snoring now, and she can hear Lionel sucking
air through his nose, scrunching up his face
as if he smells something awful (imagine a
baby thinking something smells awful!), and
her mother someplace warm, too, but not
warm like this. Malie’s hips catch on the
door, and as she closes her eyes and squeezes
everything turns bright, beautiful red and
she feels the hair on her arms singe and
shrivel, and she could scream, but the voices,
Shhh, Hush, and in the flames, small hands
hold her, pulling, Shhh, Shhh, and her father
is dreaming of something that’s gone, something he can never have again, and now he
wakes and looks towards the vent in his wall,
and for a moment, thinks he hears someone
calling his name.
09
10
M
U
S
M
Her mother was trembling. She covered
her mouth and started to cry. Her father said,
You aren’t going to those classes, and then
her parents spent the rest of the day arguing
with each other and the next morning her
mother was gone.
31