May

     May Carlisle got out of bed every morning except Sunday at 6:00 a.m. and ran, not jogged, two miles before breakfast.  She never missed, even when it rained, except for once during the winter when there was a blizzard going on and the snow was too deep and the wind too strong and cold.  She was quite proud of the fact that she could do the two miles, when the whether was fit, in just under fifteen minutes.

    She ran in a vacant field not from her apartment, and she knew it was two miles, because she had taken her car down one Saturday afternoon and driven around twice to check the mileage on the speedometer.

    Her roommate, Sally, though she was crazy and said so every chance she got.  Sally believed in sleep in the mornings.  She had her toilet routine timed down to the minute so that she knew exactly when she had to get up and start in order to get to her job at the stroke of eight.  She was very cranky in the mornings.  May was cheerful and boasted of how good she felt in the mornings, and sally suspected that she felt just as lousy as she, Sally, did but was too damned stubborn to admit it.  The mornings were the only time when they did not get along.  The rest of the time, they were best friends and were quite happy in each other's company.  They had shared their apartment for over three years, and they were accustomed to each other's habits by now.  Sometimes Sally worried, because they were like a couple of old maids, and she didn't want to become and old maid.

    May, on the other hand, was an activist in everything that she did.  She did not appear to worry about things, when she saw a problem that needed fixing, she got to work and fixed it.  She was involved in all sorts of activities and organizations, and sometimes Sally suspected that a good share of the groups were working for diametrically opposed goals.  But May didn't care about that, it was the participating that counted.

    May's only real handicap, and it was the one that she could not conceal, was her love life.  She was atrocious with men.  She either scared them to death, or else she got into raging arguments with them about such absolutely unromantic things as politics, or business, or even, of all things, sports.  May had had more first dates than any girl in the city.  And she had had an equal number of last dates.  Sally knew that her lack of success with men bothered her, and she tried to counsel her about how to act with one of the elusive creatures, but May was, among her other attributes, stubborn.  She was convinced, or rather she had convinced herself, that the reason that men were not turned on to her was because they were somehow inferior men that she had been dating.  She stated that she was confident, that when the right man came along, he and she would fit together and mesh like two cogs.  If she were to change her personality just to attract men, then she would be dishonest and would wind up being unhappy besides with the mate that she finally settled for.

    Another of May's problems was that she was good at most of the things that she attempted.  She skiied well enough to show up most of the men in the ski club that she belonged to each winter when they took their ski vacations.  Her bowling average was 175, she had studied on her own and could speak quite well, German and French; she was a member of a sky diving club, she shot skeet, and she was one of the best sports car rally drivers in the city.  She was also a competent skin-diver and held a private pilots license.  It was no wonder that May had trouble with men.  She could do everything better than most men, and that is an almost impossible handicap for girl to overcome.  To make matters even worse, she was an excellent tennis player, and her gold handicap was 14.

    Her friends had arranged dates for her with every sort of male that they could think of.  They had talked to her beforehand and cautioned her to play submissive, and to let the poor guy win at least occasionally.  But May was a competitor.  There was something about a challenge of any kind that drove her beyond the edge of restraint.  Competition of the most ordinary sort kindled her spirit and, like an alcoholic, or food addict, there was nothing that she could do to stop herself until she had mastered her opponent.  She usually ended her dates standing at her front door while the relieved young man scurried for the elevator promising himself never to be caught in that section of town again. 

The Field

     The vacant field behind the housing development where they lived held more interest for the boy than all of the organized playgrounds that the city provided to keep the children occupied.  The playgrounds, mowed and clipped and cleaned, were antiseptic areas where kids could do those things that the playground had been designed to allow.  The vacant field was wilderness.  There were no rules there, only those that had obvious and just penalties attached to punish violators.

    The boy's parents merely counseled him at first.  They told him that the playground was the safest and the best place for him to play.  They looked meaningfully at each other when he replied that he preferred the field.  You should play with the other children, his father said.  But the boy found the other children dull and stupid.  The games that they played had no purpose, other than noise and dirt as far as he could tell.  The field held all sorts of wondrous things for him to explore and watch, and he never grew tired because it was impossible to see it all.  There were so many new things occurring each day, that he felt as if he were entering a fresh world every day after school, and he hurried out into the field because he didn't want to miss anything.  Later, his parents became more insistent and tried to make him stay out of the field.  The gave him the choice of either going to the playground or staying his room.  He chose at first to go to the playground, but after a day or two, he just stayed in his room and looked out the window at the field.

    After a week of this, on night after his parents had fallen asleep in their room, the boy lay quiet in his bed, his head turned toward the window and the field.  The moon was out and full and the light spilled in through the window and washed a large section the carpet.  It was quiet in the house, but there were sounds out in the field, not loud or even of the sort that would attract attention, but they were there just the same, and they could speak to you and tell you things if you knew how to listen and to interpret their language.  The boy lay for a long time after his parents had gotten quiet in the other room, and then he rose carefully from the bed and went to the window.  It was a sight that took his breath away.  The moonlight had changed the colors of everything, so that the tall grass was silver and black, and the huge willow tree up in the corner with the spring flowing from beneath its roots, looked grotesque and fearsome with its unfamiliar shadows.  Out in the middle of the field, something moved, and the boy switched his gaze to that spot.  The grass was shorter there where a grader had been brought in and scraped the roots out for some now forgotten reason.  He stared at the spot for a long moment, but it was impossible to see clearly in the dim moonlight.  He unfocused his eyes and moved is eyes off to one side, so that he see the spot slightly off center in his vision.  He had discovered that this technique enabled him to see better at night.  Then he was able to see the rabbit sitting motionless.

    He had never liked to play with the other children.  His inability to laugh at the things that amused them, caused him to be ignored at first, and later, as his strangeness became the object of their interest, just as a new item of playground equipment would hold their interest until the newness had worn off, they began to actively pick on him and make him the butt of their cruel games and taunts.  When he refused to respond to even this form of communication, they became violent and attacked him with epithets and then blows and stone.  He suffered this indignity until the other children grew weary of him, and moved on to other forms of entertainment.  After that, he was merely an outcast and they didn't bother him except to taunt him occasionally just to keep him in his place, or when they were temporarily bored and in between amusements.  He didn't mind so much after it got to that stage, for the did not seek their companionship, but rather much preferred to be alone.  He liked it that way, and was one of those solitary souls who function best alone.  That was why he grew to like and to prefer the field to the playground.  The other children did not play in the field because because they were forbidden by their parents.  Just as he was, but he found that parents do not watch their children constantly and it was easy to slip into the tall grass at the edge of the field and to remain in there out of sight for a whole afternoon without being detected.

His mother warned him to beware of snakes in the field. 

Guppie Defined

 

The word Guppie is an acronym for Grossly Under-Performing Person. I use it to describe the majority of the people who work on what I call the corporate reef (see In Search of a Metaphor elsewhere). A formal definition is difficult to construct because of the diversity of the workforce, but the following list of Guppie characteristics gives a general introduction to the species.

• Guppies can be male or female, young or old.
• Given a choice, Guppies prefer to take a nap (see The Art of Napping).
• While ambitious members of the corporate community dress to win, the Guppie dresses to break even. Corporate dress codes are a nuisance for the Guppie, who usually manages to dress right on the line of corporate acceptability. Comfort and convenience are the driving forces in the Guppie's wardrobe selections. To draw a military analogy, if the corporate achievers can be thought of as wearing full dress blues, the Guppie wears the corporate equivalent of camouflaged fatigues. Unlike the power-dressers, the Guppie dresses to blend in, to disappear in the crowd.
• The Guppie's short-term career goal is to get by until quitting time.
• The Guppie's medium-term career goal is to last until Friday.
• The Guppie's long-term career goal is to stay employed until something comes along. He isn't sure what it is that he is waiting for, but he has a vague sense that salvation is on the way. It may be a feeling that some forgotten rich relative will surely remember him in his will, or that Publisher's Clearing House will call at any moment. The Guppie plots winning lottery strategies and dreams of economic freedom. It is this unfounded belief in imminent rescue that keeps him sane. He doesn't want to advance in the company, and he certainly doesn't want more responsibility. The Guppie does what he has to do to get by until relief arrives.
• The Guppie brings a power lunch in a brown paper bag, or dines at the nearest 7-Eleven store.
• The Guppie wakes each morning thinking about what he will do after work.
• Guppies are generally smarter than the people for whom they work, but they go to considerable trouble to keep it a secret. To appear too smart could result in one of two equally undesirable outcomes: Either the boss will be offended, in which case the Guppie's job will be in jeopardy, or somebody will be so impressed that the Guppie will be promoted to a position of responsibility. These are both undesirable possibilities from the Guppie's viewpoint. The Guppie is without corporate ambition, and likes the status quo.
• Guppies are exceptions to the well-known Peter Principle that states people rise to their level of incompetence. The Guppie lowers his or her level of competence to match the job.
• Guppies usually see clearer than the bosses. They always know what is wrong in their working group, and they usually know how to fix it, but they never volunteer, and nobody ever asks for their suggestions.
• The Guppie is not a true believer in the benevolence of the corporation. This is the single most important defining characteristic of Guppies. They feel no overwhelming sense of gratitude to the corporations for giving them a job.

The Art of Desktop Arrangement

 Being a successful Guppie demands considerable artistic sense, a fact that seems unlikely at first. Certainly the actual duties of a Guppie require no art, only a rudimentary knowledge of the business, and precious little of that. The artistic demands lie in the visual rather than the professional spectrum. The successful Guppie is one who knows how to arrange his or her desktop in an esthetically pleasing way. The desktop, approximately two-and-one-half by four feet, is similar to a painter's canvas; empty it says nothing, but let a talented person loose on it and it becomes an artistic work--a statement.

Many novice Guppies simply place whatever they are working on at the time in the handiest arrangement, with little concern for esthetics. This is the surest sign of an amateur. The experienced individual carefully distributes papers, pads, books, pencils, rulers, coffee cups, calendars, and telephones to achieve an effect with little or no concern for practical matters like the work at hand. Indeed, a pleasingly arranged desktop, with clutter and empty space properly balanced, precludes all work for that day. To spoil the effect by actually doing some work would be artistic heresy.

Guppies, like all artists, have individual desktop styles that are easily recognizable. This is not to imply, however, that a Guppie's desktop arrangement is static and unchanging; to use the same arrangement even twice would show a serious lack of creativity, and also might cause management to become suspicious concerning productivity. No, the creative Guppie changes his display at least daily, and sometimes several times during a day. These changes are not haphazard however; each is a carefully thought-out move, sometimes contemplated for hours beforehand, intended to improve the arrangement. Merely moving a pencil an inch or two can not only create the impression that work has been done, it can sometimes change the entire nature of the artistic statement.

Some may feel that desktop arranging has nothing at all to do with corporate survival, but those who know agree that it is the very essence of longevity. The ability to properly set up a display is an admirable as well as valuable talent.

Each Guppie, within the limits of his or her ability and style, strives to achieve an overall effect that satisfies intellectually, and at the same time gives the illusion of "busyness," as if something important has either just happened or is about to happen.

(Next Week, Part II: Pencil Sharpening.)

---

The Crossing of Sam Higgins

 I have been working on this story for years, and I am sick of it. Every time I come back to it, determined to finish, I rearrange it a bit, but remain unsatisfied with the result. Maybe posting it here, in its latest incarnation, will motivate me to either finish it or trash it.

The rain began sporadically in that uncertain season between winter and spring that can be delightful or perverse; for two weeks showers fell in fits and starts from thin gray clouds that rode quickly on the cold wind and barely hid the bright promise of the late March sun. Then, in the third week, the wind died; the clouds thickened and lay dark and heavy over the land. A cold relentless rain began that soaked the spongy just-thawed earth and, when the saturated soil could hold no more, the runoff rushed into ditches and creeks and, finally, into the river.

The river, clear and pristine when the rain began, awoke from its winter sleep and changed to a thick brown serpent that roiled and hissed as it swelled up through weeds and willows and slithered across bottomland fields into the oaks and hickorys that marked the start of high ground. It went about its work--caressing, consuming, overcoming all in its path.

The house stands safely back in the timber between the river and the road. There is no clearing--the house merely exists in the midst of the woods, squatting mushroom-like in the damp shadows, as if sprung from some wind- or water-borne spore. The unpainted clapboard exterior, weathered to match the surrounding forest, makes the house nearly invisible to all save those who know its whereabouts. Travelers on the road or the river, if they notice the house at all, sense a vague coolness--a whiff of mildew, earth, and cobwebs--as if they stand at the entrance to a cave.

Each morning at first light, Sam Higgins stands on the back porch peering through the trees at the river, the slate-gray sky, and the woods; and each morning as he stands there the rain continues--heavy some days so he can hear it drumming all around in the forest, some days light and misty, a cold dampness that penetrates his nightshirt and causes him to shiver as he turns back into the house with an armload of wood and kindling. He finds many small excuses to postpone the trip to town for another day, but today, Wednesday of the third week of rain, Lila, his wife, shows him the empty medicine bottle. It has been empty for two days now. He sighs and knows that he will have to go today. He does not own a car, and the thought of trudging to and from Cape May in this weather does not appeal to him.

After breakfast, he comes out and stands again in the shelter of the shabby porch. The river, plainly visible now through the trees, is higher than he has ever seen it. Lila comes to the back door.

"Reckon you'll be back afore dark?" she asks.

"I reckon," Sam says without looking at her.

They met in Tennessee during the war when he, a new soldier away from home and lonely, came on furlough to visit kin he knew only through hearsay. She was fifteen and pretty, his second cousin, and they watched each other shyly and smiled. She may have been mad, even then, but if so it was a shy harmless madness, somehow fetching in its innocence.

After eight months overseas, he returned on a stretcher, minus part of a lung. She wrote long letters daily while he recuperated in hospital, and when he was discharged he returned to Tennessee and married her. He brought her back to his Missouri woods and they settled there between the river and the road.

They were mostly happy in those early days. She complained some at first of homesickness for her family, and Sam felt guilty for having taken her so young. For a while, letters came once or twice a year, and she would cry over them and be out of sorts for several days; he learned to leave her alone in these times. When she occasionally mentioned going to Tennessee for a visit, he would say, "One of these days we will." It had a hopeful sound to it and he always felt a little better after he said it, but they never returned to Tennessee. After a time the letters stopped coming and she stopped mentioning it.

They had no children; they did not make a conscious choice to remain childless--she just never conceived. But whether the failure was his or hers they never learned.

"We'll see about it one of these days," Sam said when they were young. But they got used to being childless, and the years passed until it was too late to do anything.

Over the years she grew more reclusive and lost contact with everyone but Sam. She was content to depend on him. She cooked and washed and cleaned the house, and she seemed happy. But when she had a spell, she didn't speak for days, as if she were mute.

Other times she was bright and lucid and talked and laughed with him in the old way as if she had no recall of that other darker world she feared. But at night when the terror returned, she would be mad again. Those nights were when she became afraid and hard to handle, when she saw and heard things out in the darkness that normal folks couldn't, terrible things that made her moan and roll her eyes and cry. On those nights, he would draw her close to him on their narrow bed and shush her like a child with soothing words and caresses.

Once when she got sick and delirious with fever, he had to go to Cape May and bring Doc Pierce back to tend her. After he had treated her, the doctor turned to him and said, "Sam, you should get some help with her. She's getting to be too much for you. You're not young anymore."

Sam had nodded and said, "I know. One of these days I'll have to." But he had nursed her back and when she was well they had gone on as before.

The rain is coming hard again, and he waits, hoping it will let up. But it continues to beat on the roof and windows, rattling the old house, and just before noon he begins donning the heavy yellow slicker that smells of sweat and rubber.

Lila watches him getting ready and there is concern in her expression.

"'Spect you'll be back here by dark?" she asks again. He hears the worry in her voice and knows what she is thinking.

"Oh yes. I'll be back early. I'll catch a ride sure at the bridge." The trip is two hours one way if he has to walk all of it, but if, as usually happens, he catches a ride at the bridge where the county road crosses the river he can make the round trip in just over two hours. "You just stay here and keep dry and have me some supper ready," he says, to reassure her.

The road, like the river, follows the path of least resistance. It is little more than a short cut, a narrow winding track that connects the main county road up on the ridge to the state highway bridge that crosses the river to Cape May. It began years ago as a convenience for men who invaded the woods with wagons and cross-cut saws and broadaxes in search of timber suitable for railroad cross ties that could be converted to cash money at the depot in Cape May. Later, after all the cross-tie timber was gone, they came again with their implements, this time in search of what was left that could be sold as stave bolts for making barrels. Later still, the county, as a favor more than an obligation, legitimized the road's existence by making an annual swipe at it with a road grader--once down and once back--to smooth the ruts and accommodate the occasional tourist or pickup full of fishermen. The road would have soon disappeared in weeds and regrowth without this annual renewal. Of those who use the road, as many are lost as know where they are going.

Sam walks on the grassy center strip between ruts that feed torrents of cold brown water into the knee-deep ponds that stand in the low places. In some places the timber grows together over the road, forming a dark tunnel, but the emerging leaves and vines don't keep the rain out, they merely concentrate it into larger drops that splash coldly on the rubber slicker that feels like snake skin where it touches him.

The hat makes him uncomfortable. In the woods he depends as much on hearing as vision to stay aware, and now, with the rain hat covering his ears, he cannot hear. It is like being blind, he thinks. Sam doesn't like or keep dogs, an unusual circumstance in these hills. To him, dogs are noisy stupid beasts that blunder about disturbing and obscuring the natural voice of the woods. He has been accused by some of killing dogs that he found running loose, chasing deer, but nobody has proved it.

When he reaches the bridge, cars and pickups are parked at both ends, and crowds of people are watching several men out on the bridge trying to dislodge drifts from the pilings. The river is within three feet of being over the bridge, and the men use long poles, trying to pry and nudge the drifts loose.

As Sam crosses the bridge, he feels a low-pitched vibration, almost an audible hum, through the soles of his boots. He nods to the men working with the poles. "Sam, if you want to get back across today, you'd better hurry," one of the workers says. "She ain't gonna last long at this rate."

A few minutes later, in Cape May, Sam visits the post office, where he picks up the brown envelope containing the government check, the bank, where he cashes the check, and the drugstore, where he buys the medicine. The small disability pension covers most of their expenses. In the summers, to supplement their income, he hires out as a fishing guide for eight dollars a day plus tips. He spends most summer days on the river, guiding city people on river float trips. He is the best guide on the river, and he is always in demand; but he only accepts one day floats. He never stays over night. In the winters he sets and runs a trap line along the river, making additional money selling mink and fox and bobcat hides.

Just before 3 o'clock someone passes the word for everyone to get off the bridge. Sam, trudging down the shoulder of the road, sees the men leaving the bridge; drifts and uprooted trees pile against it in such mass that the few daring or foolish souls who wade out to dislodge them, can't keep them free. They can see the structure swaying now, and the bow is quite visible when you squat on the bank and sight along the downstream rail. The upper railing is so clogged and covered with drifts that it is hidden. Water moccasins cling impassively to the brush out there, trying to escape the insane water that is normally their home. The drifts are out in the center of the current, a sure sign that the river is still rising. Each time a new log or drift strikes, the bridge shudders.

By the time he got there, even the stumps at each end of the bridge that had not been washed away were covered. The road disappeared at a gentle angle into the muddy soup that didn't boil or flow fast close in, and it reappeared at the same angle far across on the other side as if it had reflected from a mirror.

Sam walked down to the water's edge and waded a ways out toward the last sign that was above water and still marked the entrance to the bridge. Some people on the bank squatted and eyed him quizzically. When he came out again, one of the onlook ers said, "She's still on the rise, Sam".

He watched a huge sycamore roll up from the depths out of the flood and stand almost upright, before it slipped and crashed back to disappear again.

Sam didn't look at the speaker. He nodded and stared off down the river to where it swept in under the bluff and then swung back to the west out of sight behind the willows and the sycamores.

Sam turned and started back up the road toward Cape May.

"Whatcha gonna do, Sam?" one of the watchers asked.

"I'm agoin' acrost," Sam said.

"I hope ye can fly."

The others chuckled at this show of wit and Sam walked on.

He found old man Hardaway at home. Mrs. Hardaway smiled at him through the screen door when he knocked, but he could see the distaste behind the smile. She was a fancy woman and didn't approve of him and his ways.

"What can I do for you, Sam?" Mr. Hardaway asked.

"Well, Lila is acrost the river by herself and I need to get over there to be with her tonight, and I was wondering if I could borry one of your boats to get acrost in? I'd bring it straight back soon's the river goes down a little."

Mr. Hardaway stepped out onto the front porch, closing the wooden and glass door behind him as if what he was going to say was not fit to be heard by those inside. He dug at something far back on his lower jaw with a wooden toothpick. Occasionally, he extracted the pick from his mouth with a sucking sound and examined the end of it.

"Well now Sam, I don't know. I don't think that river's in any condition to be out on. Why don't you wait till along about dark and see if it hasn't crested and tamed down some. She ought to drop pretty fast, once the crest comes."

"She ain't going to crest till after dark, Mr. Hardaway. I hear they got a real bad rain up north of here. I've got to cross now. The longer I wait, the worse it'll be."

"Don't you think Lila,...your wife could make out one night by herself? I mean it's like committing suicide going out on that river when its like this. We could get you a place to spend the night with some folks here in town and tomorrow you can go across. Don't that make more sense?"

"Yes sir, it does, but I got to get acrost now. I can't leave her alone over there. She gets scared you see, and I just can't let her down. Could I borry the boat?"

Mr. Hardaway smiled a little smile as he removed the tooth pick noisily from his mouth. He shook his head, as if in disbelief.

"Sam, them boats cost me a hundred dollars apiece when they was new. Now if you want to risk your neck out there, that's your business, but if I give you a boat and you don't make it, I'm, out a hundred bucks. See what I mean? Lordy, man, I'd like to help you but I make my living with those boats, and I can't just throw them away like that because your cr--because she gets scared of the dark."

Sam looked steadily at Mr. Hardaway now, not being deferential. "Will you sell me one?" he asked levelly.

"Sam, I..."

"Will you sell me one?" Sam repeated.

"I don't know. I guess so."

"I'll give you a hundred dollars for a boat right now. That way if it goes down, you can buy another one. Tomorrow or next day when the water lowers, I'll bring it back good as new and you give me my money back. How's that?"

Mr. Hardaway spat out over the porch railing and thought for a moment. Finally he cocked his head and looked up.

"Tell you what. I'll give you eighty back when you return it."

"OK" Sam said without taking his eyes from the other man's. He took out his wallet and extracted a hundred dollars of the pension money. He handed it to Hardaway, who counted it slowly, feeling each bill between his thumb and forefinger to be sure two weren't stuck together. When he was satisfied it was all there, he went back inside and got his hat and the keys to unlock the boats.

Sam struck at the water with the paddle and the boat leapt out of the calm eddy into the current. The river was quiet, it's only sound a faint murmurous hiss among the trees that now stood deep and trembling in its path.

Sam entered the current at an oblique angle, not fighting against the force but going with it, letting the river work its will while he subtly maneuvered the boat toward the opposite shore.

The group of onlookers quickly receded and disappeared behind the tormented trees at the first bend.

He yielded the right of way to a huge log. As it swept past, a water moccasin...

It was easier then, by feeling his way carefully along the edge of the current, he was able to avoid disaster. The water still moved fast, faster than he liked as he marveled at how quickly the banks slid past, but he could control it.

The water was too fast and the boat demanded too much attention for him to try to get the snake out.

The snake expressed neither fear nor interest.

All went well until he approached the bluff. He heard the river change long before he rounded the last bend and saw what lay ahead. The channel cut in beneath the bluff in a long gradual bend that had eaten away half of a hill to expose the gray and white rock and form the three-hundred foot bluff. Now, he could see the current battering against the base of the bluff, raging in a thunderous voice as it slowly proceeded with its conquest of the hill. As he watched, a boulder big as a house, its support undercut by the seething flood, gave way and slowly plunged into the muddy torrent.

He could see the froth on top of the waves now where the water was tearing at the bluff. The waves were large violent things that thundered and crashed in a frenzy of destruction.

Somewhere near the middle of the stream, he nearly lost it. There was a crashing sound from deep under the surface, as if two gigantic objects had collided, and suddenly a frothing vortex appeared directly beneath the boat. The boat spun 360 degrees like a match stick; and his suddenly frightened strokes with the paddle, directed like blows against the river, were totally useless. Water slopped into the boat and threatened to swamp it. He didn't realize until after it was over that he had been moaning aloud.

He could see Lila on the other side. She was standing in the back door of the house. It was too far, though, he couldn't tell what sort of state she was in. He whistled once as loud as he could and waved an arm, but he couldn't tell if she had seen him. It was still so far away that he didn't see her disappear back into the house again. He just knew he was watching her standing there one second, and the next she was gone and the door was only a black rectangle. The electricity must be off, he thought. Otherwise she would have the lights on.

Then, as he watched, she came running out of the house into the back yard and down the incline to the wood pile. She was running wildly as if someone or something was chasing her. Her hair was loose and it flew out behind her in waves and ripples. Then he hears her screaming. He could make out the terror and the fear in her sobs and screams. She ran to the chopping block and tried to tear the axe loose from where it was embedded in the wood. At first it didn't come loose and she almost fell because it threw her off balance. But she recovered and yanked again on the handle. It came loose and she raised it above her head, staggering backwards as if holding a demon at bay. She swung it twice at the empty air and the force nearly caused her to fall again. He yelled as loud as he could, trying to make her hear, to realize he was there and she was not alone, but he was still too far. He whistled again, but it was no use.

He stops on the porch and peers into the pitch black room.

"Lila? It's me."

The only sound from within is a whispery, slithery sound. Something cold happens in his chest. He reaches around inside the door and turns the light switch. The sudden brightness from the single bulb hanging in the middle of the room blinds him for an instant.

Then he sees her.

She has pressed herself into the far corner of the room, her shoulders hunched forward to more closely fit into the space, as if she would merge with the walls. Her dark hair hangs in damp ropey coils over her heaving shoulders and breasts. She holds the shotgun rock-steady, though, pointed at the center of his chest, and her mouth, even twisted into her most engaging smile, cannot conceal the hatred in her bright feverish eyes.

Sea Story

 Laughing and knocking rain from their hair and shoulders, two young men pushed through the double glass doors into the bright fluorescence of the hospital lobby. The middle-aged receptionist didn't smile or speak when they stopped in front of her; she raised one eyebrow and the opposite corner of her mouth in an inquiring sort of grimace.

"We're here to see Otis Sanders," the shorter of the two announced. The receptionist wrinkled her nose slightly and sat back in her chair. The smell of stale beer wafted across the desk. She looked down at her watch and then back up at him through her eyebrows.

"Visiting hours are over at eight-thirty," she said. "You only have ten minutes."

"That's OK." The short one smiled and waited. The receptionist eyed the paper sack that the tall one held partially concealed behind his hip.

"Do you know his room number?" she asked, looking again at the short one.

"Nope." His eyes didn't waver from hers. His smile broadened a little. She sighed and slowly consulted the list in front of her.

"One-twenty-one," she said, nodding to the hall that led away to the right.

They followed the hall past some offices and examining rooms. "I hate the smell of these places," the tall one said. "They always smell like old, sick people. I don't like it."

They passed a nurse and the short one stopped and turned to watch her walk. "You're too damned sensitive, boy," he said. "I love it."

"One-twenty-one," the short one said, pointing ahead to a door. "You got the sack?"

"Yes."

"Come on."

A teen-aged boy lay in the bed by the door. A woman sat holding his hand, gazing red-eyed at him. The pale slack-jawed boy looked as if making an expression would be too difficult for him. A metal frame with a cloth screen divided the room, and Otis Sanders lay behind it in the bed by the window. He was a large angular man, perhaps twice the age of either of the young men. He lay on his back with his face turned toward the dark rain-streaked window, but his eyes were closed.

"Hey, you old sombitch," the short young man said.

Otis opened his eyes quickly and a look of panic flickered for an instant across his face before he smiled weakly and said, "Hey, Ben. Steve."

"How you feelin'?" Ben, the short one, sat on the edge of the bed; Steve remained standing near the screen, his back to the couple on the other side.

"Aw, I'll be all right," Otis said, but he said it quietly, as if he didn't want the news to get out. "What're you boys doing ashore?"

"The power steering went out on the cable boat again this morning. Me and the skipper tried to horse it for a while. We took turns at the wheel, but the seas were running four to six feet and we were both beat down to parade rest inside of an hour."

Otis nodded. "All three boats come in?"

"Yeah. No use keeping the shot boats out without the cable boat. The oil company boys are pissed. They're threatening to pull out and hire themselves some other boats."

"How long you be in?"

"They said it would take at least a couple days to fix. So, me and ol' Steve were headin' for Houston to get laid, and decided to stop in and surprise you."

Otis smiled wanly and nodded. He looked down at his hands.

"How's the leg?" Steve asked.

"OK I guess. They put a steel pin in it. It'll be a while before they know if it's going to mend."

"You'll mend," Ben said. "You're too damned ornery not to." He leaned forward and tapped Otis on the shoulder with the back of his hand; Otis flinched as if it had hurt. His face looked pale and sticky in the stark fluorescent light; his lips and stubble-covered jowls were slack and tremulous.

"No..." Otis started to say something, but he stopped and looked away. Ben leaned in close again, leering, and whispered loudly, "You been getting any of this young stuff running around here?"

Otis shook his head and tried to smile.

"Come on now. I'll bet you've goosed every nurse here at least once. Even the ugly ones."

Otis managed a grin.

"When you think you'll be back?" Steve asked.

"Aw..." Otis looked at the window and blinked twice. The wind gusted in the darkness outside and rain whispered against the pane. "I don't 'spect I'll be back," he said. "I think I'll stay ashore for a while and see if I can't get me a regular job."

"Bullshit," Ben said.

"No, I mean it."

"Why you old fart, you couldn't live ashore no more than a fish could." Ben paused, but Otis didn't respond. "Besides, you got to come back so we can get some decent chow. The skipper didn't have time to hire another cook after you got hurt. On the way out to sea that morning he asked if anybody in the crew could cook until you got back; and guess who volunteered?"

Otis shook his head slightly.

"Reneau." Ben opened his eyes wide. "That damned coon-ass told the skipper he could cook good. And guess what? Since then we ain't had nothing hot to eat but shrimp gumbo and rice. Three meals a day! That's all he can cook! Why, I went into the galley the other day and begged the old bastard to fix some potatoes, but he just laughed at me. If the freezer hadn't been stocked with cold-cuts, I'd have starved. Nossir, you've got to come back."

Otis smiled but didn't say anything. Ben frowned at Steve and motioned for the paper sack. "Looky here," he whispered. "We brought you something." He took out three cans of beer. "This'll cheer you up."

Otis shook his head quickly. "No, I can't have those in here," he said. "If they catch me I'll get in trouble. And if my old lady finds out, I'll be in even worse trouble."

"Come on, Otis. Hell, you never refused a beer in your life."

"No, really. I appreciate it, but I can't drink 'em boys. Y'all go ahead. I'm gonna quit."

"Haw, haw," Ben said.

Otis hesitated; his hands shook as they twisted the sheet over his chest. Finally, when Ben continued to hold the beers out to him, he took them and placed them inside the stand beside the bed.

"They'll help you sleep," Ben said, winking.

Otis shook his head. "When my old lady found out I was drunk that night I fell off the dock, she packed her things and was ready to leave me. She's threatened to do it before, but I only just managed to talk her out of it this time. She said she'd stay if I quit drinking and got a job ashore."

"She'll get over it."

"Not this time, I don't think. In the nearly thirty years we've been married, I've been either drunk or at sea most of the time. She's put up with a lot of crap, but she's always taken good care of me. Now she's calling the debt due."

"Hell, Otis, you'd go crazy living ashore."

"Maybe, but I've been working the boats since I was fifteen. A man can't stay at sea forever; sooner or later he's got to stop acting afool and grow up."

"But what will you do?"

"The wife talked to some of her people up in Tulsa, and they give me a job in their store."

"Are you serious?"

Otis nodded.

Ben shook his head in disbelief. "And you're sure enough on the wagon?"

Otis nodded again.

"I'm not believing this," Ben said.

"Well, I guess you'll have to. I haven't had a drink now since I fell a week ago."

"Surely one or two little old beers ain't going to hurt."

"No, I'm sorry."

"Tell you what. Let's just open them three right here and now. We'll each have one for old time's sake, and then me and Steve will shag it for Houston and some pussy."

"No. You boys drink it if you want to, but I can't."

"Well, I'll be damned."

A nurse poked her head around the screen and announced that visiting hours were over. Ben stood but he continued to stare down wide-eyed at Otis. Otis watched his own hands, still twisting the sheet.

"I guess we got to go," Ben said.

"Yes. Thanks...for coming by."

Steve stepped up to the bed and extended his hand. "Otis, you take it easy," he said.

Otis tried to smile, but his face merely trembled.

"You sure enough ain't coming back?" Ben asked.

"No."

"Well...you can at least come down to the docks and visit when we're in port."

Otis blinked several times. "We'll see," he said softly.

"I'll bet six months from now you'll be back at sea good as new."

"I don't..." Otis brushed a shaking hand across his eyes. "You tell the skipper to hire another cook," he said. "Tell him I said so."

"Jesus, Otis, I..."

"You tell him, y'hear?"

"OK, I'll tell him. But he won't believe it."

"Yes he will. Tell him I ain't comin' back."

Otis turned his face toward the dark window again. Ben frowned and shifted from foot to foot. "Well..." he said.

In a muffled voice, head still turned, Otis said, "I wish you'd take the beer."

"Naw, hell..." Ben sidled to the screen. "Well, take it easy," he said.

Otis raised a hand and let it drop; he continued staring out into the darkness.

Outside in the parking lot, Ben slammed the car in gear and squealed the tires on the wet pavement.

"You want another beer?" Steve asked when they were on the highway again.

Ben thought a moment. "Yeah," he said. "Hell yes."

Steve reached into the back seat and extracted two beers from an ice chest. He opened them and handed one to Ben. Steve fiddled with the radio for a while, but snapped it off when he couldn't find any music to suit him. Outside in the darkness, lightning flashed occasionally far off, and the rain hissed against the windshield.

"It's kinda sad," Steve said.

The wipers made soft regular tocking sounds. Ben sipped his beer carefully and then placed it on the seat between his legs.

"Ol' Otis," he muttered. "Jesus."

The Pilgrim

 

It started the night we gave the party to celebrate our new apartment. I noticed it as I helped her prepare for our guests--she was nervous. When the guests began arriving, she greeted them self-consciously and then escaped to the bar to fix drinks. She was an uncomfortable hostess. During the evening she moved constantly through the crowd, smiling, never pausing long with anyone. The young men watched her secretly as they sipped their drinks. Some reached out to touch her and smile as she walked among them--she was still a beautiful woman. She spent the evening in motion, fetching drinks, giving directions to the bathroom, nodding, smiling, never pausing for more than a moment with anyone.

Later, when most of the guests had gone, she retired into a corner of the living room with two of her friends and a famous entertainer. I sat in the dining room with some of my friends from work. I watched her laugh, animated and at ease now with the three women. The entertainer taught her a tap dance step.

She came into the dining room where we had just finished eating cake with pink icing.

"Why didn't we get any cake?" she asked.

She carried four cake-laden plates back to the corner and distributed them to the women. She scraped the pink icing off before she ate hers.

After everybody had gone, she placed a camp stool in the center of the living room and sat upon it, thinking. I brought her an apple. After an hour, she moved the stool one foot nearer the door and sat upon it again. An hour later, she repeated the one-foot move toward the door. I went to bed, but during the night I heard her making her one-foot moves every hour on the hour.

By morning, when I left for work, she was out in the hall, still sitting, still thinking, still moving a foot every hour. I tried to reason with her, but all she said was, "You've got to let me try". I brought her knapsack, filled with apples, and she wore it on her back.

It took her a week to reach the lobby.

The day she moved outside the building, I brought her yellow roll-up rain hat and her white golf umbrella. She emptied a weeks-worth of apple cores out of the knapsack into a sidewalk trash container.

"You'd be surprised at how much I've learned," she said. I brought more apples and put them in her knapsack.

"I've got to try," she said.

She set her course toward a bright spot on the horizon. She must have made it, because I don't think I ever saw her again.