
##1001767 Sassafras : The drifter and the kid New Orleans Magazine ; Sep 1990 ; 25 , 1 ; ProQuest Newsstand ## Sassafras THE DRIFTER AND THE KID/By Don Lee Keith F ver since the bus had left the Baton Rouge depot , Little Ben had slept fitfully , flouncing this way and that , occasionally pawing at his father 's faded-denimed legs close by . Then , as the Scenic-Cruiser eased off the expressway and approached the New Orleans terminal , the sandman finally worked his magic , and the kid in cowboy boots was at last still , peaceful . Big Ben whispered to his son when the bus stopped , but he got no response , so he lifted the boy gently and got in line with the others headed toward the door . They were off the bus and on the concrete boarding ramp when Little Ben awakened with a quick stretch . He looked up and spotted the large clock near the ceiling of the covered walkway . He pointed to it and said , " Tick-tock . " " That 's right , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ past nine . Sixteen hours from Dallas on a Greyhound . He slid the boy off his shoulder and they proceeded hand-in-hand into the waiting room , between the phone clusters , past the gift shop with white ceramic elephants in its windows , and finally out and into the city of strangers . They paused for Big Ben to pull the little guy into a worn , sleeveless sweatshirt . The shapeless , oversized garment drooped like a blanket . They got directions from a craggyfaced man who stood , whistling , by a newspaper rack , and within a half hour , the Bens ? Big and Little ? were midway through their foggy trek toward that night 's lodging . It had rained earlier and most likely it would rain later , but squeezed curiously into the gap between those two wets was a plug of gauzy moist ? a thick , gossamer cloud that had simply squatted on St. Charles Avenue from the Circle on up . At every other street or so , Big Ben would switch his son to the other shoulder . He assured @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hummed the only tune he could think of , " I 'd Waltz Across Texas With You . " They passed a restaurant with plaster lions at the entrance , and the boy began to whimper . And so , father and son left the sidewalk and took to the grassy middle space that had tracks down its center . Traffic on both sides moved timidly , headlights turning pavement into ebony mirrors . Streetlamps wore hoods of palest saffron . And meanwhile , the surrounding silverness confused distances , twisted perspectives , lulled senses . Finally to their left were the lighted windows with flowercolors . Big Ben hoisted his rider high and seated the boy astride his neck . This should be Washington Avenue , he thought , so he summoned a bit of untapped vigor and moved almost skippingly from the center tracks , edging curbward . That 's when a savage clanging tore through the mother-ofpearl mist , and a yellow beacon came thrusting toward them . It whushed by , perilously near , and the man went rigid , incapable of backing back farther from the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , then was gone . A slight rigor had shaken the boy . He had reached silently for Big Ben 's forehead , and his tiny boots had clutched in unison at the man 's chest . Then , all at once , the man lifted the boy down and into his arms , holding tight , and they were walking along a side street , waiting at a red light , passing a white-walled graveyard . They came to a street without trees and turned right . The man saw it half a block away , the red shield aglow through the fog . Salvation Army Men 's Lodge . His hope quickened . At first , the men next morning at this haven for the broken and the broke viewed the boy with caution , unaccustomed as they were to having a 20-month-old youngster at their breakfast table . Any attention they paid him was indirect ; they studied him with side glances . They camouflaged their curiosity , but by mid-morning after the two Bens ' first night at the lodge , the story was known . When @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inquiries to determine identity and to be sure kidnapping was not involved . As proof , the father had produced his wife 's death certificate . The boy 's mother had died in childbirth , and the young father , still in his early 20s , had insisted on keeping his son . He had supported the infant by washing dishes at a Dallas restaurant until last week , when he was laid off . He expected to find employment in Gulfport , where his sister lived , but New Orleans was as far as he could get on the money he had . He had written his sister and was hoping to hear . The first thing Little Ben did after breakfast was to totter forth to the front of the TV viewing room , his cowboy boots clicking on the linoleum tiles , and point assuredly toward the clock above the television set . " Tick-tock , " he declared . After that , the few men who had watches let him listen to them while sitting on their laps , then lent the watches to others who had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Bens got fresh , clean clothes , but no word from Gulfport . When the men lined up that night for supper , one fellow with a portable radio shared the earphones with Little Ben , and the result was a drop in the popularity of television but a rise in the popularity of watching kids listening to radio . And still , no word from Gulfport . The next morning Little Ben ambled out into the back yard area of the lodge and promptly discovered the meaning of wonderful . It was a wonderful visitor to the place , a wonderfully frisky , wonderfully loving , wonderfully whitewhiskered , green-eyed , gray-all-over tomcat that smiled ( sometimes ) . The boy pointed to it and said , " Tick-tock , " and rubbed the animal 's tummy when it rolled over . That night the Bens were n't at supper . There had been word from Gulfport . Afterwards , not very many guys stayed up to watch TV . And in the sleeping dormitories , nobody had much to say . If the thought of the kid crossed anybody @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ next day 's doings in the back yard area were enough to make one visiting tomcat which smiled ( sometimes ) figure that he belonged there at the Salvation Army Men 's Lodge . That day he got fed four different times by four different gentlemen , all who rubbed his tummy and all who called him " Tick-Tock . " is ## 
##1001850 Rodriguez 's myopia Masliah , Leo Triquarterly ; Spring 1990 ; 78 ; Research Library ## Rodriguez 's Myopia Leo Masliah Rodriguez came into the waiting room . Its only furnishings consisted of some long sofas and a small table , on top of which there stood a lighted lamp ; the lamp was topped by a pale yellow lampshade featuring a picture of a boat . In the picture four rough-looking men each held an oar ; three of the oars were largely submerged . The fourth , which stood out most clearly in the picture , appeared to be made of cedar . In its lower section -- where it was widest -- someone had made some fairly deep cuts that resembled a human face , albeit somewhat confusedly ; it was difficult to determine whether that form had been sought intentionally or whether it was a mere figment of the imagination , evident only to the observer inclined to see it . The face seemed to be that of an Indian ? most notably in the region of the cheeks , from the center of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . The lines on the left cheek depicted a Portuguese or a Spanish galleon , with its sail strained to the breaking point , as if by the force of a strong wind . A tiny lookout , stationed at his observation post , seemed to wave his arms , eager to advise the crew of their possible proximity to land . The captain , standing on the deck , remained absorbed in his own thoughts , oblivious to the gesticulation of the lookout . Nor did he seem to notice a map that lay close by one of his boots , strangely unaffected by the wind which persisted in its struggle to break the resistance of the solid sails . It was a map of Africa surrounded by long lines indicating the circumnavigational routes . One of these routes , marked in bright red , ended at a spot on the coast of what is today known as Nigeria . The tiny piece of continent designated by the end of the red line was occupied by a minuscule drawing in colors , almost certainly typical of a village in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was emerging in squatting ## position , due to the scant height of the space not obstructed by the thatched roof and walls . Next to the hut a woman , seated and with her legs crossed , could be seen inserting a fish into an almost cylindrical opening in the earth . A few inches away was a ceramic jug containing some leftover food that failed to obscure entirely the folk scene adorning the interior surface of the receptacle . It pictured a hunting party : a group of aborigines chasing a deer . Their weapons were surely the same ones they used for intertribal combat ; otherwise there was no possible explanation for the large shields they carried , all of them bearing colorful illustrations on their external surfaces . Some of these illustrations had been damaged , perhaps by enemy lances in recent skirmishes ; but on one of the shields the layer of pigments derived from plant matter had apparently survived intact . The painted areas , the outlines of which were not very sharp , at a distance nevertheless took on the exact shape of a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ civilization of invaders and not to the civilization of the creator of the shield , its design had been reproduced to perfection : the handle featured a golden cross , on which a Christ of pallid complexion lay dying . A soldier of the Empire , who seemed to spring from the handle of the saber , stood gallantly at the side of the Redeemer ; in his right hand he held a parchment containing incomprehensible annotations , no doubt purely a product of the painter 's imagination . The only decipherable element on the parchment was a drawing at the top , comparable to a letterhead . It represented the mythological character Perseus , his eyes fixed on a mirror to avoid the icy gaze of the Gorgon , who stood behind him . However , the image in the mirror was not Medusa 's face but a landscape , perhaps the environs of the temple , reflected on the shiny surface through one of the rare openings in its main facade . The landscape consisted of an endless expanse of open field , devoid of trees or any other @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in which there appeared only the majestic figure of a gigantic bird , its wings fully spread . The bird was in every respect similar to an airplane ; its small eye -- the only one visible -- could easily have been the side window of a cockpit . Additionally , the creature 's small pupil , which contained a blemish at the top perhaps as a result of some eye infection , was the very picture of a pilot 's head covered by a visored helmet , in the center of which a golden glimmer evoked the insignia of the air force of a neighboring country . This insignia was comprised of three juxtaposed logotypes , shaped respectively like a ship , an airplane and a railroad -- the concomitance of those three objects symbolizing recognition of the brotherhood of all the national transportation networks . The locomo-## tive standing on the railroad tracks displayed the emblem of the staterun company to which it belonged : the sketchy shape of a building behind big letters spelling out the company 's name . Without a doubt , the building was the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but the schematic quality of the design failed to express that too clearly . One window on the top floor of the edifice was scarcely visible . Judging by what little could be seen , it did n't belong to an office or to any room ; it only opened onto a corridor , dotted with two rows of doors of diffuse outlines . One of the doors appeared to be open , although it was still possible to discern on the brass plaque identifying it the name and position of a high-ranking public official . Inside the room , the only thing Rodriquez could make out -- and that with great effort -- was a painting that occupied almost a third of the surface of the wall . But it was impossible to see what that painting contained . Disappointed , he directed his gaze elsewhere . 
##1001851 Something big Nelsen , Robert S Triquarterly ; Spring 1990 ; 78 ; Research Library ## Something Big Robert S. Nelsen With her hand , the mother pulled the boy toward the bathtub . The boy felt as though he were a bull , a bull being dragged by the horns through the yellow ooze of the fly dip out back beside the bulls ' corral . This was the boy 's first bath in this new house ; he had arrived just a week ago . The boy had walked up the lane to the house and had stared into the house through the screen door until the mother opened the door and motioned for him to enter . At the screen door , the boy had been silent , and there before that bathtub , the boy was silent still . The boy looked at that bathtub perched on top of iron eagles ' feet . Looking at the bathtub and its eagles ' feet moved the boy closer to the mother . The mother walked around behind the boy , and the boy could feel @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . The boy could feel the mother press her body against his back , wedging him between her soft legs , wedging the boy from his feet to where his head fit into where the mother 's legs stopped . The boy was five years old . " Off with your clothes , " the mother said in a singsong voice . " That 's law number one of the bathtub laws . " The mother quickly stripped the boy of his shirt and stockings and threw the shirt and stockings toward the clothes hamper . One stocking missed going into the clothes hamper and stuck to the outside of the clothes hamper . The boy 's eyes moved from the stocking back to the bathtub , and he knew that this time he would do something more than lighting a fire , maybe stealing something big . With the boy wedged between the mother 's legs from his feet to where his head fit into where the mother 's legs stopped , the mother undid the buttons on the boy 's pants . Her hand stopped as it reached into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his bare penis , and discovered that he ## was wearing no underwear . The mother quickly withdrew her hand and coughed , or at least the boy thought that it was a cough he heard . The boy felt the mother pry his body from her body . The mother turned the boy to face her . The boy could see red in the moon-shaped cheeks and thick neck of the mother . The boy did not know how many bathtub laws existed , but he was certain that one of the laws , just like the laws at the other six houses in which he had lived , would say wear underwear . With his pants still unsnapped , the boy looked up at the mother 's round face framed by her home-cut gray hair , and he smiled at her . The mother did not frown , but the mother did not smile either . The boy continued smiling . Smiles usually worked for him . " Take off your pants , and turn on the cold water , " the mother said . The boy obediently took @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Naked , the boy sat down on the edge of the bathtub , his bare feet dangling in the air above the bathtub 's eagles ' feet . The boy looked around the bathroom for something to steal , for something big . Finding nothing except for a half-empty bottle of perfume that could not possibly be worth stealing , the boy looked to see if the mother wore a ring that he could steal , but he saw that she did not . " Feel how deep the water is , " the mother said , her voice cutting through the noise of the water squirting from the cold-water spigot and splashing against the cold water colored yellow by the bathtub 's ruststained porcelain . " An inch of cold water is all you need . That 's what law number two of the bathtub laws says . " The boy turned and sniffed at the yellowed water . The water smelled to him as though it were stewed-cabbage water . The boy stuck his two hands in the water , and with the two hands flat on top of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of them . The water , the boy guessed , must be close to an inch deep . The boy took his hands from the yellow water and showed the mother one finger , meaning that the water was one inch deep . " That 's perfect , " the mother said . " Turn it off . It 's time for law number three . Add an inch of hot water to the cold water . " The boy bent down and turned on the hot water . With the hot water splashing against the cold water already in the bathtub , the boy stared at the mother , and the mother stared back at the boy . Since the day that the boy had stared into the house through the screen door , the mother had referred to herself as Mother ; the boy , on the other hand , had never offered a name or any other words for that matter . The boy dropped his stare from the mother 's eyes to the swirling water in the bathtub . As soon as he saw the water , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for something big to steal . Again seeing nothing worth stealing , the boy knew that he would have to go outside to steal something big , something like a horse or a bull or a tractor or a dog or maybe one of the neighbor 's sheep . The boy 's hands , feeling the depth of the water , moved down and then up the cracked , yellowed porcelain of the bathtub . The boy held up two fingers this time for the mother and turned off the hot water . " Get in and lie down , " the mother said , " and get yourself good and wet . That 's law number four . Five says stand up and soap your body , every inch of it . Then , after you are all soaped up , six says lie back down in the water and wash all that soap off your body . I 've got some washing of my own to do . You 're on your own till I get back . " Lying there in the yellowed bathtub water , the boy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ door close behind her . Quickly , the boy stood up and lathered his body with soap . Then the boy lay down in the bathtub and spread his legs wide . With soap bubbles from his body floating in the water around him in what looked to the boy like soap islands , the boy took hold of his penis and pretended that his penis was a bull 's horn , and he shoved his bull 's horn up and through one soap island after another . Again and again the boy shoved the bull 's horn up through the water , ramming it clean through , bursting the soap islands into disappearing pieces . The boy heard what he thought was a cough again and turned to see the mother beside the bathtub . The boy saw the red in the round cheeks and stout neck of the mother , the red that the boy had seen in the cheeks and neck of the mother when she discovered that he wore no underwear . The boy sunk into the yellow water to be out of sight of the mother @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ make his naked body even bigger . The mother said , " What do you think you 're doing ? Stop . Stop it right now . Not in my house you do n't . " The boy watched the mother take a step toward him and then turn and leave the bathroom without saying anything more . The boy listened to the door close , hearing it close softer than he expected . The boy rolled over in the bathtub and felt as though now he were a bull stranded in the yellow ooze of the fly dip out back beside the bulls ' corral . The boy gripped his bull 's horn and rammed the horn against the bottom of the bathtub . In return , or so it seemed to the boy , the bathtub rammed back at the bull 's horn . Again , even harder , the boy rammed the bull 's horn against the bottom of that bathtub . The bathtub rammed back against the boy so hard that he hurt all the way from his ## horn to his spine . Faster and faster @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and faster and faster the bath rose up and rammed itself against the boy . With tears in his eyes , the boy rolled over back upright in the bathtub . Today , the boy decided , today had to be the day to steal something big . The boy decided that he could not steal a horse or a bull or a tractor or a dog or even one of the neighbor 's sheep today because he could not think of a place where he could hide anything that big , not today . But the boy did think of the neighbor 's raspberries , and the neighbor 's strawberries , and the neighbor 's tomatoes that he could steal today , things that he could eat and would not have to hide . The boy stared at the bathtub that had hurt the boy from his bull 's horn to his spine . The boy doubled his fist , and , just as he was about to punch the bathtub , he heard the bathroom door open and the mother begin talking . " O.K. , only two more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ " and you are going to like both of them . Law number seven says baths do n't have to last more than ten minutes , and law number eight says you only have to take one bath a week . See , you 're done and you did n't even drown . " Smiling , the mother turned and left the bathroom , this time without closing the door . The boy jumped out of the bathtub and wiped the towel once over his hair , once over his front and once over his back . Freed from the yellow water of the bathtub , the boy thought only of the neighbor 's garden with its raspberries and its strawberries and its tomatoes . From the clothes hamper , the boy took his shirt , pants and stockings , pulling the one stocking from where it was still stuck on the outside of the clothes hamper . The boy did not bother with underwear . Outside the screen door , the boy grabbed his boots , and he stamped his feet into his boots there on the front porch in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inside the house . In his boots , the boy ran to the horse 's pen next to the bulls ' corral and the fly dip . The boy climbed into the horses ' pen and I laid himself down in the dust hole that the horses used to dry themselves off . Over and over the boy rolled in the dust hole , just as he had seen the horses roll around in the dust hole after being unsaddled . The boy stood up , and he spat into his hands and rubbed the spit into the dust covering his face . " Bathtub , " the boy shouted , " die ! Stay away from me and my dirt , or I 'll cut your eagles ' feet off . " The boy ran to the barn and he unhooked two of the milk buckets that hung on nails pounded into a wooden beam in the room where the ## mother separated the cream from the milk . The separating machine beside the boy glittered as spotless stainless steel glitters . The boy , the boy ready to steal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , looked at the separating machine and dashed out of the barn . Outside , the boy swung the milk buckets over his head . The milk buckets glittered at the boy as the mother 's separating machine in the barn had glittered at the boy . The boy put the milk buckets close to his legs to stop the buckets from glittering , and he walked down the lane . The heels of his boots raised no sound , but looking behind himself , the boy saw the heels kick spurts of dust into the air . Seeing the spurts of dust and then looking back down the lane toward the neighbor 's garden and seeing one of the neighbor 's black sheep grazing right next to the garden made the boy laugh . The top strand of barbed-wire fence in front of the neighbor 's garden buzzed when the boy touched it . The boy tossed the mother 's two milk buckets over the barbed-wire fence , and , on his back , the boy began wiggling under the barbed-wire fence . Halfway between the mother 's land and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on one of the wire barbs , unsnapping the snaps on his shirt and opening the shirt up . The boy 's bare chest shone there before his eyes , a clean bare chest , a bare chest cleaned by that bathtub and its bathtub laws . The boy twisted his head , looked at the neighbor 's garden , unhooked his shirt from the barbed wire and wiggled the rest of his body onto the neighbor 's land . The boy grabbed the milk buckets and ran to the raspberry bushes . The raspberry bushes were bare . The strawberry plants were bare too , and even the tomato vines were bare . The boy sat the milk buckets in the garden 's dirt and dropped quickly to his hands and knees . On all fours , the boy searched for something big to steal . Up and down the rows he went on his hands and knees until he finally found a partial row of cabbages and a small patch of unweeded radishes . The boy pulled up a handful of radishes , looked at them , and tossed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cabbage plant and wiggled back and forth until , with a popping sound , the cabbage tore loose in the boy 's hands . The boy placed the cabbage in one of the milk buckets . The cabbage covered the shiny bottom of the bucket and came halfway up the sides . The boy straddled another cabbage , wiggling it , pulling on it until it tore loose in his hands , and then he tossed the cabbage into the other milk bucket . The boy threw the milk buckets with the cabbages in them over the barbed wire fence , and he wiggled underneath the bottom strand of barbed wire back onto the mother 's land . The boy took hold of the stainless-steel handles of the milk buckets , and , swaying from side to side ## and swinging the buckets out in front of him , he walked back up the lane to the bulls ' corral next to the yellow ooze of the fly dip . With the cabbages in his hands , the boy used his elbows to climb the pole fence . On top , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and took his pocketknife from his pocket . The boy cut into one of the cabbages and laid the pieces of cabbage on the pole that he was sitting on , squeezing the pieces with his legs so that they would not fall to the ground . The boy stabbed his hand and fingers with the pocketknife , and the boy dripped the blood from his hand and fingers onto the cabbage between his legs , turning the cabbage red with blood . With his bloodied hand , the boy tossed the blood-red cabbage to the bulls . The bulls sniffed at the blood-red cabbage and soon began eating the red pieces . The boy cut into the other cabbage and placed it between his legs on the pole and stabbed his other hand and fingers and dripped the new blood onto that cabbage , turning it the same blood red . The boy tossed the blood-red cabbage to the bulls , and placing his bloodied hands on top of his head as though they were bull 's horns , he watched the bulls below him fight over the cabbage . @ 
##1001852 Story of my weight Calcagno , Anne Triquarterly ; Spring 1990 ; 78 ; Research Library ## Story of My Weight Anne Calcagno Until the other day , I did not know my feet had become so crookedly misshapen and wide . I told myself my socks were unnecessarily thick ; the weather too hot ; it stood to reason my shoes were squeezing me . That was n't true . The things I owned or faced had n't twisted on me : it was me . I had changed without knowing it because I had n't looked my way for a long time . With my eyes focused away from me , I 've lived out my days in an interlude . Because when I suddenly saw the width of my warped feet , my eyes next traveled up the length of my legs , noticing mottled bruises like disheveled leaves rotting on my legs -- I have distractedly smashed into things . I moved to cover them , saw the back of my hand , vein-swelled and colorful , too , like a cabbage leaf . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ slack as silk . I was stunned ; as if it all happens in one day , the pieces lined up : I am not young . It feels as if I have always been fat . I married twenty-three years ago , have been overweight for twenty . Over time , I lost all personal perspective , grew overwhelmed in reaction to wide-eyed glances : when you 're fat you 're a focus . In public places , like the supermarket , they observe you until you ca n't get away from being your own prisoner . Wheeling my cart around , I peered at as much as I could , before fleeing . I 've been an exaggeration of cells , a reduced woman . My short blond hair curls into squat corkscrews , tips up ; sometimes , when the perm is running out , I look bristling . Yet , when the harried supermarket cashier glances up , I 'm the one whose eyes roll into her lap . This is how it is to be an anomaly . Yet , the point is : the other @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by widening corns , and it became terribly clear : like other women , conclusively mortal , I am going by degrees . No one is a constant picture . ## My disfigurement was a private affair . I ate and many things became mine . My consumption accumulated , giving me the appearance of having more years than my actual age . For many years , with a lot of effort , I still could have peeled off these layers and reached a young person . But it is too late . Time went ahead and did some real altering . I am forty-one and look like hell . I 've watched my failure . But my feet , the other day , were n't a continuation of this exaggerated flesh that haunts me . They were life and the broad response of time . I do n't know why I saw this . Age is an invisible train charging through the dark , wearing down the rails . Gradually , I 'd been feeling in need of repair . I grew to have more bent space inside . I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I done ? My husband , perhaps two weeks before I looked at my feet , became aware of his own wearing-down . He began to feel his life erasing , tried to leap back from the movement of the train , the foreshortening of horizons . He grappled to stop losing things . He remembered me differently ; supple , eighteen , my eyes on the gravel , lifting up very quickly to notice he was there . I was like a leaf . He could have picked me up and taken me anywhere , kept me in his pocket , or pressed in a book . The other week , a martini in his hand , he said , " You were sweet and your ankles were thin , hon ' . Now you 're close to a heart attack . " " What 's happened now ? " I asked . " For Chrissake , Susan , you 're wasting your life . Listen , I do n't want to watch you do this any more . Lose some weight . I 'll buy you dresses . We @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my life , Susan . We 've been waiting too long to do this . " " Harry , how did this come out of the blue ? " I ventured . " Do n't you understand what I 'm saying ? " he replied . Harry is growing bald and his remaining disconnected hairs stood straight up with the lamplight gleaming behind them . He had finished his drink . He stared at me . We were in the middle of a movie episode and I was a girl in bright dresses , and he was a young dapper ready to love . But he was catching on fire with the lamplight gleaming around his head and shoulders . Harry invested himself in this rejuvenative idea , insistent . He had not talked to me much in a long time , yet now he repeated himself . " You lose some weight . I 'll buy you dresses . What about the good old days ? " These must have been in the beginning of our marriage . Being a salesman , he started going away . Absence became a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into a wide plateau ; crushing the good old days , he says . I ca n't remember the good old days . Five years ago , I did start to work . The newspaper ad looked for ## someone " willing to learn . " I am a secretary for an escort service , on the top floor of an old undecorated building . They call it a modeling agency . This is the way it 's done : hidden and glorified . I believed the disguise for a long time because that 's what you see looking up at you in the yellow pages . You have to read the fine print to figure out the code . And I did n't see it . Strangers in town get lonely , perhaps greedy . They call my boss , Rose , willing to pay . I file the accounts . An array of girls in tight colorful dresses and hose , with foreign accents or long hair , always in high heels , comes to the office dependent and warm , wanting more than they have . I give @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as if I am neutral practice for a man . I watch silent but accustomed . I keep thinking I 'm to give them something , but I ca n't find it . I have come to believe in the heart of every woman there is a secretary ; she wants to assist . These women are so different from me in their way of serving ; each is a bird full of plumes and her red fingernails hand me back the forms . But she is a secretary . And I am . I tried to explain this idea to Harry a while back . " Hell , call them something better than secretaries . You ca n't get help like that from Kelly Girls ! " His hand slaps his knee with gusto . In the beginning , I was happy because of the way he enjoyed his own jokes . " It 's serious , " I said . " So many servants in the world . " " We all need people to rely on , sweet cakes . That 's what you forgot about when you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I found out the girls were n't models , I was amazed . Harry visited me at the office a couple of times to peek at photos . " Act like I 'm an important account , " he said . In the meantime he had a few salesman 's affairs , things in motels he lately informed me of . He was explaining his decision to help me regain the shape he met . Upset , he confessed , he could not make love to shapeless flesh ; he pursued women with angles and curves until it bored him . " I ca n't remember one face , " he said . " You know that 's pretty sad . " " Why did you tell me that ? " I said . " Because when you try to understand yourself you need a confidante . When you tell someone else your sins , you 've got a responsibility to change . Now you 'll make me change , hon ' . " " I never wanted to know everything about you , " I said . " Ca n't @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ " Harry has always wanted the woman he loves to be so riveting that the envious stares of others around him will , like a magnetic force , keep him gravitated to her . I grew into a monstrosity . But the way they stared at me spun him away . ## After Harry confessed , I could n't get rid of what he had told me , and how my weight had ruined my life . Two weeks later , on a glazed and flat day , my feet caught my attention . I stared . Minute by minute I grew amazed , because my realization was unprecedented . I paused for some time . Looking at my feet , I saw that age had bitten into them . It did n't appear hesitant to finish its meal . And I do n't know why but then I knew that my hands , my eyes , my cartilage -- all of me -- was tied close to the same sounds and ways of others , held to the globe . I am what always happens in time , and it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ now I am in common . The only thing is : I do not want to become the shape of a woman Harry chased . If I am ever thin I will not have thrown off dead weight ; my husband will have pressed it into a thin red lining right under my skin ; that is what memory is like . Harry stormed into our house with yesterday 's picture in mind and stuck it on me . I am very full and he has decided I 'm just beginning . But no one can be emptied out . Never before has my aloneness been made so clear . There are other fat women like me ; I see them in the pastry aisles . But I am in myself alone . Harry has been out of town , on a job , for three days . At lunchtime , I went to the Red Cross shoe store and selected bright green comfort-fit pumps . Their sharp little heels protruded like horns from two tender cocoons . It was me and the geriatric ladies all belonging in the store together @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Things have blown open around me as if I had suddenly stepped over the horizon into a rushing wind : it lifts my hem , pulls my hair into disorder , swirls up my sleeves . Walking to work in this pictured disorder I 've realized I want someone to talk to , to explain this disarray . I feel newly in existence , terribly sensitive , sick of confinement . What is this ? An older woman . Unlike before , I 'm impelled to watch myself as a part of everyone . I know the women Harry slept with were likely to spend an hour getting ready to go out for coffee . He looked for this , having found me incapable of it . It was n't for him to see that their ardent self-description is an embroidery of hunger . When these women are as young as the escorts I work with , they feel the pulse of their generation clicking in their heels , and they toss and turn looking for something . They stretch into life like branches , to grow . My husband , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; instead , he felt out his advantage . Their limbs were octopus tentacles he could feast on . And when they were older did n't the women still seem to be looking for an answer ? By habit , they allow their men to imagine that they are waiting to be shown life . The men ## become accustomed mostly to devouring them blind . The women do n't ask for change . They do n't like change . They want to remain beautiful and wanted . Over the years it takes more and more time . Today , a girl walked into the office , rather tall in a red coat . Her hair was bleached , curling down her shoulders , her nose pointed , her mouth plump as a rosebud . She reminded me of a picture of the women at Louis XVI 's court in France , women in high hair and lace , with red cheeks , women decadent in their life , who at the end of the world said : " Let them eat cake . " I wondered if she knew about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ world less than men ? " I asked . She looked at me and her eyes turned very thin . " Are you kidding ? Every one of those men had a mom , and if those moms had n't been preparing men for the world the men would n't be able to handle anything . " She looked at her red fingernails . " It takes a woman to know , " she said . Then she leaned close to me . " I know how to baby men , too , " she said . " Do n't do it , " I said . " Shit . I do n't have much time . Is this an interview ? " She pulled her hose up , tightening them , first up her ankles , then along her thighs . " They look at photos before the interview , " I said . " I look good , " she said . Then Rose called the girl into her office . I made a collect call to my friend Rema , whom I 've known since childhood . She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ " Rema , thank God you 're home . Can you listen now ? " " Well , tell me . " " It just hit me like a ton of bricks that I have n't given myself a look in years . Who 've I been ? " " You 've been living , honey , " Rema says . " Where did you get this idea you have to stare at yourself all the time , to live ? That can hold you up . Plenty of people go nuts . " " No . We do n't have this idea straight , most of us : you have gold running in your veins , up to your heart ; if you see that , you begin to catch it . " " Some people might feel that way , " she says . " Sure some do . What 's been happening ? " Her voice is patient as lake water . " I ca n't understand myself why everything has changed , " I say . " Everything seems on fire . It makes me so nervous @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ says , " That 's how it is : you ca n't tell when the next thing is going to happen . " After work I like to walk a few extra blocks to the bus for exercise . ## 11 People are so busy running home , I 'm unnoticed . Today , the yellow leaves were falling and breathing themselves into the wind , mingling a bitter scent of regret . I 've noticed each winter comes by advance of many tantrums ; the trees toss their heads , the grasses shake , disheveled , blown up , turned brown . Today , the leaves scurried over , wildly dancing between my feet while an endless blue blanket looked down , selfcontained . All at once , something darted at my feet . I pressed myself up against a wall . My heart nearly leapt out of my mouth . It was a squirrel now staring at me , flicking its tail , a yard away , raising itself on its hindquarters . It began to gesture at me by way of masticating though it had nothing in its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this communication , chewing a mock meal , under the understanding that I had something to give them . And I do understand hunger . But I had nothing for them . On the bus going home I saw animals in people 's faces : a lynx , goats , the flamingo , a saddened spaniel . But they wo n't show their hunger . It saddens me to know I walked around for years in trepidation of myself without knowing or remembering about this hunger in others . I tried to hide my own but they saw it on my body . I peered out a small window which never opened . Every day circled me like gauze , and I was mummified into the years . My husband called it a disgrace . My heart closed like a little stone . Harry is ravenous for taut flesh yet now age flicks him around in its large jaw , tugs at his skin , decomposes his bones . He is amazed , denying so much hunger . I never had the brazen confidence to deny life 's big appetite , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . Yet life and time are always tapping in your ear to confide in you . Occasionally , I would be startled by sounds like a foreign song ; vague , remarkable music . I placed it far away . But chords were rising through me , to describe me . This is how potential approaches you : in no one else 's language . If you grasp it , other people sense it . It begins to announce itself . Like a song , you ca n't exactly say you see it . Mine rose up through my feet . I looked down at myself and saw the silent onslaught of years , the wide general thing represented in my feet . This is n't my failure . I have a double dimension of weight : one fat made me hide , but this can have grace because it 's everyone 's mirror . The night before Harry left on his present trip , he visited the supermarket . Lettuce , trim-fit dinners , broccoli , tomatoes , celery and crackers returned with him . He looked as happy as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : " Here we go ! Now we 're ready , are n't we ? " It was as if a beetle began crawling inside my stomach . ## " The thing I want to tell you , honey , is that this is n't just about taking off pounds ; it 's about building a whole new spirit . A spic-and-span streamlined one , Susie . I can hardly wait . " I looked straight at him . " What I 'm concerned with is my spirit . But you ca n't get it with celery . How could you go looking in the supermarket ? " Harry 's eyes retracted quick as crabs . " You 're a coward ? " he asked me . " Are you ? Shit , you 're the biggest disappointment in my life . " He turned around to the kitchen sink and spat in it . Then he grabbed the porcelain edge as if he was saving it from falling off the wall . " You 're going to ruin our life , " he shouted . I have my age . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more and more chairs . All my veins are pulsing more fiercely , and this work , through time , has slackened my skin , interspersed it with magnets and marbles . This is an accumulation I must tend to . Life surreptitiously crowded in me . I want to walk through my markings , to pick them up as on a cafeteria line , then to have so full a dish I 'll be stunned by it . Age is a sort of overeating . I 've noticed many of the escorts from my office fear life will pass them by . They fling themselves into the world to be touched . Life has walked through me and , like a town square , I have been mute through the walkings , have been the vessel , not the subject . I see that though I did not pay attention to the way life was changing me , I can not say it passed me by . It passes no one by . I must try to tell them this . Age draws itself on the flesh and time becomes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ happen and let your mind become a blank slate , but the flesh wo n't play chameleon . It stabilizes you , and imprints the artifacts of your route ; they 're yours . I am rising , heavy and powerful as an old seal , independent in my digestion , awake . ## 
##1001853 The address Minco , Marga Triquarterly ; Spring 1990 ; 78 ; Research Library ## The Address Marga Minco " Do you still know me ? " I asked . The woman looked at me , inquiring ; she had opened the door a crack . I came closer and stood on the front step . " No , " she said , " I do n't know you . " " I 'm the daughter of Mrs. S. , " I said . She kept her hand on the door as though she wanted to prevent it from opening further . Her face did n't betray any sign of recognition . She kept looking at me silently . Maybe I 'm wrong , I thought , maybe she is n't the one . I had only seen her once in passing , and that was years ago . It was quite likely that I had pushed the wrong doorbell . The woman let go of the door and stepped aside . She was wearing a green hand-knitted sweater . The wooden buttons were slightly faded from laundering @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and again hid partly behind the door . But now I knew that I was at the right address . " You knew my mother , did n't you ? " I asked . " Did you come back ? " said the woman . " I thought that no one had come back . " " Only I , " I said . In the hall behind her a door opened and closed . A stale smell came out . " I 'm sorry , " she said , " I ca n't do anything for you . " " I 've come here especially on the train . I would have liked to speak with you for a moment . " " It 's not convenient now , " said the woman . " I ca n't invite you in . Another time . " She nodded and carefully closed the door , as though no one in the house should be disturbed . I remained on the front step for a moment . ## The curtain of the bay window moved . " Oh , nothing , " @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ " I looked at the nameplate once more . It said " Dorling , " with black letters on white enamel . And on the doorpost , a little higher , the number . Number 46 . While slowly walking back to the station , I thought of my mother , who had once , years ago , given me the address . It was during the first half of the war . I had come home for a few days , and it had struck me right away that something had changed in the rooms . I missed all sorts of things . My mother was surprised that I 'd noticed it so quickly . Then she told me about Mrs. Dorling . I had never heard of her before , but she seemed to be an old acquaintance of my mother 's whom she had n't seen in years . She had suddenly turned up and renewed the acquaintance . Since that time she had been coming regularly . " Every time she leaves she takes something home with her , " my mother said . " She took @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ antique plates which hung over there . She really had a tough job lugging these big vases , and I 'm afraid that she hurt her back with the dishes . " My mother shook her head with compassion . " I would never have dared to ask her . She suggested it herself . She even insisted . She wants to save all my beautiful things . She says that we 'll lose everything when we have to leave here . " " Have you arranged with her that she 'll keep everything ? " I asked . " As though that were necessary , " my mother exclaimed . " It would be an insult to agree on something like that . And think of the risk she takes every time she leaves our house with a full suitcase or bag ! " My mother seemed to notice that I was n't totally convinced . She looked at me reproachfully , and after that we did n't speak of it again . Without paying too much attention to the road I had arrived at the station . For the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ familiar districts , but I did n't want to go further than absolutely necessary . I did n't want to torment myself with the sight of streets and houses full of memories of a cherished time . In the train back , I saw Mrs. Dorling before me again , the way I had met her the first time . It was the morning after the day my mother had told me about her . I had gotten up late , and as I went downstairs I saw that my mother was just seeing someone out . A woman with a broad back . " There is my daughter , " said my mother . She motioned to me . The woman nodded and picked up the suitcase which stood under the coatrack . She was wearing a brown coat and a shapeless hat . ## " Does she live far ? " I asked after seeing how laboriously she left the house with the heavy suitcase . " On Marconistraat , " said my mother . " Number 46 . Do try to remember . " I had remembered . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ going there . During the first period after the liberation I felt no interest at all in all that stored stuff , and of course some fear was involved . Fear of being confronted with things that had been part of a bond which no longer existed ; which had been stored in cases and boxes and were waiting in vain until they would be put back in their places ; which had survived all these years because they were " things . " But gradually everything had become normal again . There was bread which was steadily becoming lighter in color , there was a bed in which you could sleep without being threatened , a room with a view which you got more and more used to every day . And one day I noticed that I was becoming curious about all the possessions which should still be at that address . I wanted to see them , touch them , recognize them . After my first fruitless visit to Mrs. Dorling 's house , I decided to try it a second time . This time it was a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ asked whether her mother was home . " No , " she said , " my mother is just on an errand . " " That does n't matter , " I said , " I 'll wait for her . " I followed the girl through the hall . Next to the mirror hung an oldfashioned menorah . We had never used it because it was much more cumbersome than candles . " Would n't you like to sit down ? " asked the girl . She held open the door to the room and I went in past her . Frightened , I stood still . I was in a room which I both knew and did n't know . I found myself among things I had wanted to see again but which oppressed me in the strange surroundings . Whether it was because of the tasteless manner in which everything was arranged , because of the ugly furniture or the stuffy air , I do n't know , but I scarcely dared look around me anymore . The girl moved a chair . I sat down and stared @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I rubbed it . My fingers got warm from rubbing . I followed the lines of the design . Someplace on the edge there should be a burn hole which had never been repaired . " My mother will be back very soon , " said the girl . " I had already made tea for her . Would you like a cup ? " " Please , " I said . I looked up . The girl was setting out teacups on the tea table . She had a broad back . Just like her mother . She poured tea from a ## white pot . There was a gold edge just around the lid , I remembered . She opened a small box and took some teaspoons out of it . " That 's a lovely little box . " I heard my own voice . It was a strange voice . As though every sound in this room had another ring to it . " Do you know much about that ? " She had turned around and brought me my tea . She laughed . " My @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more . " She pointed around the room . " Just look . " I did n't need to follow her hand . I knew which things she meant . I kept looking at the still-life above the tea table . As a child I had always wanted to eat the apple that lay on the pewter plate . " We use it for everything , " she said . " We 've even eaten from the plates which hang on the wall . I wanted to . But it was n't anything special . " I had found the burn hole at the edge of the tablecloth . The girl looked at me inquiringly . " Yes , " I said , " you get used to all these beautiful things at home , you hardly look at them anymore . You only notice when something is not there , because it has to be repaired , or , for example , because you 've lent it to someone . " Again I heard the unnatural sound of my voice , and I continued : " I remember my mother @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ That was very long ago , and I must have been bored that day , or maybe I had to stay home because I was ill , for she had never asked me to do that before . I asked her which silver she meant , and she answered me , surprised , that she was of course talking about the spoons , forks , and knives . And that was of course the odd thing , I did n't know that the objects with which we ate every day were made of silver . " The girl laughed again . " I bet you do n't know that either , " I said . I looked at her intently . " What we eat with ? " she asked . " Well , do you know ? " She hesitated . She walked to the buffet and started to pull open a drawer . " I 'll have to look . It 's in here . " I jumped up . " I 'm forgetting my time . I still have to catch my train . " She stood with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like to wait for my mother ? " " No , I have to leave . " I walked to the door . The girl opened the drawer . " I 'll find my way . " When I was walking through the hall I heard the clinking of spoons and forks . At the corner of the street I looked up at the nameplate . It said Marconistraat . I had been at Number 46 . The address was right . But ## now I no longer wanted to remember it . I would not go there again , for the objects which in your memory are linked with the familiar life of former times suddenly lose their value when you see them again , torn out of context , in strange surroundings . And what would I do with them in a small rented room in which shreds of blackout paper were still hanging along the windows and where in the narrow table drawer there was room for just a few dinner things ? I resolved to forget the address . Of all the things I should forget , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 
##1001864 The Texas principessa Goyen , William Triquarterly ; Spring 1990 ; 78 ; Research Library ## The Texas Principessa William Goyen Who would 've dreamed that I would get the Palazzo ? Well let me try and stay on what you asked me about before we were so rudely interrupted ? by me . That ever happen to you ? Start out to tell one thing and get off onto another ? Well let me try and stay on what you asked me about . Welcome to the Palazzo . The Texas Principessa had married a Naples prince of an old line . Hortense Solomon ( we called her Horty ) was herself of an old line -- of dry-goods families . Texas Jews that had intermarried and built up large stores in Texas cities over the generations . Solomon 's Everybody 's Store was an everyday word in the mouths of Texas people and an emporium ? which was their word -- where Texas people were provided with everything from hosiery to clocks . The Solomons , along with the Linkowitzes , the Dinzlers and the Myrons @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to their faith by traveling rabbis in early days , and later they built synagogues and contributed rabbis and cantors from their generations -- except those who married Texas Mexicans or Texas Frenchmen . These , after awhile , melted into the general mixture of the Texas population and ate cornbread instead of bagels and preferred barbecue pork and tamales to lox and herring . That ever happen to you ? Let 's see , where was I ? Oh . The Naples prince , Renzi da Filippo , did not bring much money to the marriage because the old line of da Filippos had used up most of it or lost it ; or had it taken from them in one way or another -- which was O.K. because they had taken it from somebody else earlier on : sometimes there is a little justice . That ever happen to you ? Renzi was the end of the line . Someone who was the end of a line would look it , would n't you think so ? You could not tell it in Renzi da Filippo , he looked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and handsome in that burnt ## blond coloring that they have , sort of toasted -- toast-colored hair and bluewater eyes and skin of a wheaty color . He was a beauty everyone said and was sought after in Rome and London and New York . Those Italianos ! About all he had in worldly goods was the beautiful Palazzo da Filippo in Venice , a seventeenth-century hunk of marble and gold that finally came into his hands . Had Hortense Solomon not given her vows to Renzi in wedlock , Palazzo da Filippo might have gone down the drain . It needed repair in the worst kind of way -- all those centuries on it -- and those repairs needed a small fortune -- which Horty had a lot of . As soon as the marriage was decided upon , there was a big party . The Prince was brought to Texas and an announcement party was thrown , and I mean thrown , on the cold ranch river that flowed through the acres and acres of hot cattleland owned by the Solomons . The gala stirred up socialites as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the rich , famous and titled flew in on family planes . Horty Solomon ? which was very hard for Italians to say so they called her La Principessa di Texas -- started right in with her plans for fixing up the Palazzo . The plans were presented in the form of a little replica of the Palazzo used as a centerpiece for the sumptuous table . Two interior decorators called The Boys , favorites of Horty 's from Dallas , exhibited their color schemes -- a lot of Fuchsia for Horty loved this favorite color of hers . " You 're certainly not going to redecorate that Palazzo " ( they said Palazzo the way she did , so that it sounded like " Plotso " ) , " you 're certainly not going to furnish it out of Solomon 's Everybody 's Store ! " The Boys declared to Horty as soon as they heard of her plans to redo the Plotso da Filippo . " Nor , " said they , " are you going to make it look like a West Texas ranch house . We @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Fuchsia appointments ! " When Palazzo da Filippo was in shape , the Texas relatives poured in . The Palazzo was crawling with them , young and old . The Palazzo could have been a big Texas house . Black cooks and maids from East Texas mingled with Italian servants . The Venetians loved it . " Viva la Principessa di Texas ! " they cried . Those Italianos ! Here I must inform you something of which you were asking about , that on his very wedding night in a villa in Monaco ( the beautiful Prince gambled on his wedding night ) the beautiful Prince Renzi burst a blood vessel in his inner ear and succumbed ( the newspapers ' word for it ) . He just plain died in his wedding bed is what it was . You were asking about how he died . Vicious talk had it that the only stain on the nuptial ( newspapers ' word ) ? only stain on the nuptial sheets came from the Prince 's ear . Crude . The poor bride , who had been married before -- a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stunned . Poor Horty . Tragedy dogged her , as you well can see . I myself have never experienced the death of a husband but I have experienced two divorces and let me tell you they are similar , they are like a death . They are no fun . My last divorce was particularly nasty . Thank God there was no issue , as the Wills said . Both my husbands were without issue . Issue indeed . That 's a joke for the last one , who issued it to Old Granddad instead of me -- mind as well say it ; and excuse the profanity -- that one had little issue except through his mouth . . . when he threw up his Bourbon . Crude , I know . But that 's mainly the kind of issue he had . That ever happen to you ? Let 's see where was I. Oh . Anyway , this left me in London , quite penniless ; tell you why I was in London some other time . Do n't have time for that garden path now -- @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to take a detour from . But the thing of it is , this is how Horty Solomon got the Palazzo da Filippo , which is what you were asking me about : under the auspices of a sad circumstance -- a broken blood vessel leading to death ; but a tragedy leading to a new life for her . And for me , as you will soon hear the story ( that you were asking about ) . Anyway , Horty went on with her plans for the Palazzo , now all hers . As I said somewhere -- I ca n't tell a story straight to save my life , my mind races off onto a hundred things that I remember and want to tell right then , do n't want to wait . That ever happen to you ? Anyway , as I said somewhere , Texans flooded into the canals of Venice because of the Principessa : Venezia was half Texas some days -- and loved it . And if you 've ever heard a Texan speaking Italian , you wo n't believe the sound of it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ football players ? Horty had given them a stadium in Lampasas ( they called her Cousin Horty ) ? Junior League ladies , student concert pianists ( Horty was a patron of the Arts , as you will see more about ) , and once a Rock group ? they had that Grand Canal jumping , and some seventeenth-century tiles fell , I can tell you . And maybe something from even earlier , a Fresco or two from the Middle Ages . And talented young people who wanted to paint or write came over to the Palazzo , to write in or paint in , or practice a musical instrument in ; and they accepted . See what she did ? Palazzo da Filippo jived , that was the word then ; it was in the nineteenfifties . That joint jumped , as they said . I said back there that I was going to tell you why I was in London . Or did I ? Ca n't remember . Just try to remember something with all this noise around here . Italians are noisy , sweet as they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ where was I ? Oh . London . Well , forget London for the time being -- if I have n't already told it to you . Just keep ## London in the back of your mind . Now where was I ? Oh . Well , you have asked me to tell you what you are hearing -- the story of the Texas Principessa , my old schoolmate and lifelong pal , that you asked about . After the Prince 's death , Horty pulled herself together and got the Palazzo together -- a reproduction of Palazzo da Filippo was engraved on Renzi 's tombstone with Horty 's changes incorporated ( which , of course , I thought was rather nifty , would n't you ) ? and Horty pleaded with me in April by phone and cable to come stay . " Come and stay as long as you want to , stay forever if you 're happy in the Palazzo ; just come on , " Horty said , long distance , to me in London . Horty loved to have people in the house . This does @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Sometimes I 've seen it happen that a motorboat would arrive and disburse a dozen guests and a week later depart with the same guests and not one of them had ever seen the Principessa . Horty would 've confined herself off in her own apartment in the far right top wing and there remain in privacy . Simply did not want to have anything to do with them , with her guests . " That 's Horty , " everyone said . They 'd had a grand time , gone in the Principessa 's private motorboats to Torcello , to lunch at the Cipriano , to cocktails at other palazzos , been served divine dinners with famous Italians at the da Filippo . But no Horty . She usually -- she was so generous -- gave expensive presents to her guests to get them to forgive her . Once she gave everybody an egg -- a sixth-century -- B.c. ! ? egg of Chinese jade . Amounted to about a dozen eggs . Somebody said the retail value of those eggs was about one hundred and fifty dollars apiece . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ April and May I came . Horty at once announced to me that there was no room for me at the Palazzo ! She was getting crazy over painters . She 'd become more and more interested in painting , Horty did , but that 's no surprise because she always seemed to possess a natural eye and feeling for painting , not so curious for an heiress to generations of garment salesmen , even though you might so comment . For Hortense Solomon inherited good taste and a tendency for her eye to catch fine things when she saw them . Though there were Brahma bulls leering through the windows of the Solomon ranch in West Texas , what those bulls saw inside was fine china and Chippendale , silver and crystal and satin and silk . Those bulls saw the handiwork of a chic decorator and an elegant collector ; not every bull sees that . So a seventeenth-century palazzo in Venice was not so far a cry for Horty to fix up . Well , here was I living over at the Cipriano where Horty , who could @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ banished me -- to a terrific suite , I ## must say , and footed by her -- and here was I coming across the Canal every day to observe the goings on at the Palazzo . Frankly I was glad to have me a little distance from the commotion . Well-known artists came to live in the Palazzo da Filippo and to set up studios there and in the environs . Horty patronized them . Gave them scholarships as she called them . A few were very attractive , I must say , some very young -- Horty 's eye again . The Venetians adored La Principessa di Texas . They appreciated her for unscrewing the horse 's outfit from the horse sculpture in her garden on the Grand Canal when the Archbishop passed in his barge on days of Holy Procession . The Principessa had commissioned the sculpture of a beautiful horse possesed of some wild spirit , with a head uplifted and long mouth open in an outcry . On it sat a naked man , again possessed of some wild spirit , seemed like , and his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . You did not see the rider 's outfit but the horse 's was very apparent , and the Principessa commissioned the sculptor -- a then-unknown but handsome sculptor -- to sculpt one that was removable . Which seems to apply to a lot of men that I have known -- where was it ? A lot of them seem to have removed it . Put it in a drawer someplace . Or mind as well have . Where was I ? Oh yes . The horses 's outfit . On high holy procession days the Texas Principessa could be seen on her knees under the belly of the horse with grasping hands , making wrenching movements . The Italians coined a phrase for it . When they saw her going at the horse as if she were twisting a light globe , they said to each other that La Principessa di Texas was " honoring the Archbishop . " The community generally appreciated her decency for doing this ; some felt that the Archbishop should give her a citation . And a few called her a castrator -- in Italian @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it right but you know what I mean ; and of course a few from home in Texas said she was a dicktwister -- had to put their nasty mouths into it . Crude . Where was I ? Oh . An American painter came to visit Horty one afternoon . He was showing in the Biennale , which is what they call the show of paintings that they have every year . Horty and the painter drank and talked about his painting . When the Principessa turned around from making another double martini for the American painter -- she hardly gave it to him when she had to whirl around and make another one -- pirouette is what you had to do when you made drinks for that man . Unless you just made a whole jug and gave it to him . Anyway , she whirled to find him urinating in the fireplace . The Principessa was so impressed with the American painter -- imagine the audacity ! ? that famous summer afternoon that she asked him to stay . He stayed -- over a year , it turned @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ paintings in the Palazzo gallery ; they have become very sought-after and the painter very famous -- though dead from alcoholism not so many years after that . More proof of the ability of discovery that the Principessa had , which is what an article about her recently said . And of the tragic cloud that kept lurking over her life . Even with all her money and the good that she did people , that cloud lurked . And of course it got her , as you well know . Because Horty 's dead . As you well know . Which is what I started out to tell you the details about when you asked me . Well , it was when we were lunching on the terrazzo of the Palazzo . One of those gold June days that Venice has . I 'll go right into it and not dwell on it : Horty was bitten by something , some kind of terrible spider , and blood poisoning killed her before we knew it . Guess where the spider was ? In a peach . Living at the core @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ orchards of the Meditteranean . Horty cried out and fainted . We 'd all had a lot of champagne . By the time we got her to the hospital she was dead . Doctor said it was rank poison and that Horty was wildly allergic to it . When she broke the peach open out sprung the horrible black spider . I saw it in a flash . And before she knew it , it had stung her into the bloodstream of her thigh , right through pure silk Italian brocade . I 'll never eat a peach again , I 'll tell you . All Venice was upset . The Archbishop conducted the funeral himself . Horty 'd left quite a few lire to the Church . We forgot to unscrew the horse 's outfit , but when the funeral procession passed by , all the gondoliers took off their hats . Those Italianos ! And I am the new Principessa -- except of course I am not a Principessa . But the Italians insist on calling me the new Principessa . The Palazzo is mine . Who ever dreamed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was opened back in Texas they read where Horty had given the place to me ! I almost had a heart attack . The will said " to my best friend . " But what in the world will I do with a Palazzo ? I said . I have not the vast fortune that Horty had . But you have all the paintings of the famous dead American , they said . Sure , the family have all fought me for the paintings of the dead American painter . Just let somebody find something good and everybody else tries to get it . Like a bunch of ants . That ever happen to you ? They could n't care less about the Palazzo . But the paintings are something else . The Museum has offered half a million dollars for one . I will not sell yet . And that man that peed in the fire died drunk and broke . Ever hear of such a thing ? But they say the pollution is just eating up the paintings . And the Palazzo . So far I 'm safe , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ town is sinking . Venice is a ## little lopsided . I do n't know where to go . I hardly know how I got here . Sometimes I think , who am I , where am I ? That ever happen to you ? But the Texas Principessa is a saint in Venezia . Better not say anything in this town against Horty , I 'm telling you . Those Italianos speak her name with reverence and the Archbishop says her name a lot in church . I have offered the horse to the Church , without outfit , but the Archbishop suggested -- he 's so cute , with a twinkle in his eyes , those Italianos ! ? the Archbishop suggested that it cavallo stay where it is . Because it is an affectionate monument for the townspeople , particularly the gondoliers . They point it out to tourists . I hear they 're selling little replicas near the Vatican . The sculptor is very upset . He 's made many more sculptures ( not of horses ) but nobody ever paid much attention to any of his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ our lives all crazy ? Some days I ca n't believe any of it . Sometimes I want to go home but I hear Texas is just as crazy . Anyway , that 's the story of Horty Solomon da Filippo , the Texas Principessa . Which is what you asked me about , is n't it ? But one more thing . Next morning after the funeral I saw below the terrazzo something sparkling in the dew , something pure silver with diamonds and rubies and emeralds -- like something Horty would 've worn -- and I saw that it was a gorgeous web . And there in the center , all alone , was the horrible black insect that I am sure was the one that had lived at the heart of the peach that killed the Texas Principessa and brought the Palazzo to me . How could something so ugly and of death make something like that . . . so beautiful ? I had the oddest feeling , ca n't describe it . That ever happen to you ? Well , that 's the story , what @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 
##1001872 My mother is the surviving half of a blindfold trapeze act , not a fact I think about much even now that she is sightless , the result of encroaching and stubborn cataracts . She walks slowly through her house here in New Hampshire , lightly touching her way along walls and running her hands over knickknacks , books , the drift of a grown child 's belongings and castoffs . She has never upset an object or as much as brushed a magazine onto the floor . She has never lost her balance or bumped into a closet door left carelessly open . It has occurred to me that the catlike precision of her movements in old age might be the result of her early training , but she shows so little of the drama or flair one might expect from a performer that I tend to forget the Flying AvaIons . She has kept no sequined costume , no photographs , no fliers or posters from that part of her youth . I would , in fact , tend to think that all memory of double @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were it not for the fact that sometimes , as I sit sewing in the room of the rebuilt house in which I slept as a child , I hear the crackle , catch a whiff of smoke from the stove downstairs , and suddenly the room goes dark , the stitches bum beneath my fingers , and I am sewing with a needle of hot silver , a thread of fire . I owe her my existence three times . The first was when she saved herself . In the town square a replica tent pole , cracked and splintered , now stands cast in concrete . It commemorates the disaster that put our town smack on the front page of the Boston and New York tabloids . It is from those old newspapers , now historical records , that I get my information . Not from my mother , Anna of the Flying Avalons , nor from any of her in-laws , nor certainly from the other half of her particular act , Harold Avalon , her first husband . In one news account it says , " The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or temperature gave any hint of the sudden force with which the deadly gale would strike . " I have lived in the West , where you can see the weather coming for miles , and it is true that out here we are at something of a disadvantage . When extremes of temperature collide , a hot and cold front , winds generate instantaneously behind a hill and crash upon you without warning . That , I think , was the likely situation on that day in June . People probably commented on the pleasant air , grateful that no hot sun beat upon the striped tent that stretched over the entire center green . They bought their tickets and surrendered them in anticipation . They sat . They ate caramelized popcorn and roasted peanuts . There was time , before the storm , for three acts . The White Arabians of Ali-Khazar rose on their hind legs and waltzed . The Mysterious Bernie folded himself into a painted cracker tin , and the Lady of the Mists made herself appear and disappear in surprising places . As the clouds @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , shouted his introduction , and pointed to the ceiling of the tent , where the Flying Avalons were perched . They loved to drop gracefully from nowhere , like two sparkling birds , and blow kisses as they threw off their plumed helmets and high-collared capes . They laughed and flirted openly as they beat their way up again on the trapeze bars . In the final vignette of their act , they actually would kiss in midair , pausing , almost hovering as they swooped past one another . On the ground , between bows , Harry Avalon would skip quickly to the front rows and point out the smear of my mother 's lipstick , just off the edge of his mouth . They made a romantic pair all right , especially in the blindfold sequence . That afternoon , as the anticipation increased , as Mr. and Mrs. Avalon tied sparkling strips of cloth onto each other 's face and as they puckered their lips in mock kisses , lips destined " never again to meet , " as one long breathless article put it , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cone , and howled . There came a rumble of electrical energy , drowned out by the sudden roll of drums . One detail not mentioned by the press , perhaps unknown-Anna was pregnant at the time , seven months and hardly showing , her stomach muscles were that strong . It seems incredible that she would work high above the ground when any fall could be so dangerous , but the explanation-I know from watching her go blind-is that my mother lives comfortably in extreme elements . She is one with the constant dark now , just as the air was her home , familiar to her , safe , before the storm that afternoon . From opposite ends of the tent they waved , blind and smiling , to the crowd below . The ringmaster removed his hat and called for silence , so that the two above could concentrate . They rubbed their hands in chalky powder , then Harry launched himself and swung , once , twice , in huge calibrated beats across space . He hung from his knees and on the third swing stretched wide @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pregnant wife as she dove from her shining bar . It was while the two were in midair , their hands about to meet , that lightning struck the main pole and sizzled down the guy wires , filling the air with a blue radiance that Harry Avalon must certainly have seen through the cloth of his blindfold as the tent buckled and the edifice toppled him forward , the swing continuing and not returning in its sweep , and Harry going down , down into the crowd with his last thought , perhaps , just a prickle of surprise at his empty hands . My mother once said that I 'd be amazed at how many things a person can do within the act of falling . Perhaps , at the time , she was teaching me to dive off a board at the town pool , for I associate the idea with midair somersaults . But I also think she meant that even in that awful doomed second one could think , for she certainly did . When her hands did not meet her husband 's , my mother @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on the wrong side , she could have grasped his ankle , the toe-end of his tights , and gone down clutching him . Instead , she changed direction . Her body twisted toward a heavy wire and she managed to hang on to the braided metal , still hot from the lightning strike . Her palms were burned so terribly that once healed they bore no lines , only the blank scar tissue of a quieter future . She was lowered , gently , to the sawdust ring just underneath the dome of the canvas roof , which did not entirely settle but was held up on one end and jabbed through , torn , and still on fire in places from the giant spark , though rain and men 's jackets soon put that out . Three people died , but except for her hands my mother was not seriously harmed until an overeager rescuer broke her arm in extricating her and also , in the process , collapsed a portion of the tent bearing a huge buckle that knocked her unconscious . She was taken to the town @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they kept her , confined to her bed , a month and a half before her baby was born without life . Harry Avalon had wanted to be buried in the circus cemetery next to the original Avalon , his uncle , so she sent him back with his brothers . The child , however , is buried around the corner , beyond this house and just down the highway . Sometimes I used to walk there just to sit . She was a girl , but I rarely thought of her as a sister or even as a separate person really . I suppose you could call it the egocentrism of a child , of all young children , but I considered her a less finished version of myself . When the snow falls , throwing shadows among the stones , I can easily pick hers out from the road , for it is bigger than the others and in the shape of a lamb at rest , its legs curled beneath . The carved lamb looms larger as the years pass , though it is probably only my eyes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me blurs and distances sharpen . In odd moments , I think it is the edge drawing near , the edge of everything , the unseen horizon we do not really speak of in the eastern woods . And it also seems to me , although this is probably an idle fantasy , that the statue is growing more sharply etched , as if , instead of weathering itself into a porous mass , it is hardening on the hillside with each snowfall , perfecting itself . It was during her confinement in the hospital that my mother met my father . He was called in to look at the set of her arm , which was complicated . He stayed , sitting at her bedside , for he was something of an armchair traveler and had spent his war quietly , at an air force training grounds , where he became a specialist in arms and legs broken during parachute training exercises . Anna Avalon had been to many of the places he longed to visit-Venice , Rome , Mexico , all through France and Spain . She had no @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Avalons , trained to perform from a very I wonder if my father calculated the exchange he offered : one form of flight for another . For after that , and for as long as I can remember , my mother has never been without a book . Until now , that is , and it remains the greatest difficulty of her blindness . Since my father 's recent death , there is no one to read to her , which is why I returned , in fact , from my failed life young age . They toured Europe before the war , then based themselves in New York . She was illiterate . It was in the hospital that she finally learned to read and write , as a way of overcoming the boredom and depression of those weeks , and it was my father who insisted on teaching her . In return for stories of her adventures , he graded her first exercises . He bought her her first book , and over her bold letters , which the pale guides of the penmanship pads could not contain , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . I came home to read to my mother , to read out loud , to read long into the dark if I must , to read all night . Once my father and mother married , they moved onto the old farm he had inherited but did n't care much for . Though he 'd been thinking of moving to a larger city , he settled down and broadened his practice in this valley . It still seems odd to me , when they could have gone anywhere else , that they chose to stay in the town where the disaster had occurred , and which my father in the first place had found so constricting . It was my mother who insisted upon it , after her child did not survive . And then , too , she loved the sagging farmhouse with its scrap of what was left of a vast acreage of woods and hidden hay fields that stretched to the game park . I owe my existence , the second time then , to the two of them and the hospital that brought them together . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of us asks for life . It is only once we have it that we hang on so dearly . I was seven the year the house caught fire , probably from standing ash . It can rekindle , and my father , forgetful around the house and perpetually exhausted from night hours on call , often emptied what he thought were ashes from cold stoves into wooden or cardboard containers . The fire could have started from a flaming box , or perhaps a buildup of creosote inside the chimney was the culprit . It started right around the stove , and the heart of the house was gutted . The baby-sitter , fallen asleep in my father 's den on the first floor , woke to find the stairway to my upstairs room cut off by flames . She used the phone , then ran outside to stand beneath my window . When my parents arrived , the town volunteers had drawn water from the fire pond and were spraying the outside of the house , preparing to go inside after me , not knowing at the time that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . On the other side of the house , the superannuated extension ladder broke in half . Perhaps the clatter of it falling against the walls woke me , for I 'd been asleep up to that point . As soon as I awakened , in the small room that I now use for sewing , I smelled the smoke . I followed things by the letter then , was good at memorizing instructions , and so I did exactly what was taught in the second-grade home fire drill . I got up , I touched the back of my door before opening it . Finding it hot , I left it closed and stuffed my rolled-up rug beneath the crack . I did not hide under my bed or crawl into my closet . I put on my flannel robe , and then I sat down to wait . Outside , my mother stood below my dark window and saw clearly that there was no rescue . Flames had pierced one side wall , and the glare of the fire lighted the massive limbs and trunk of the vigorous old @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was built , a hundred years ago at least . No leaf touched the wall , and just one thin branch scraped the roof . From below , it looked as though even a squirrel would have had trouble jumping from the tree onto the house , for the breadth of that small branch was no bigger than my mother 's wrist . Standing there , beside Father , who was preparing to rush back around to the front of the house , my mother asked him to unzip her dress . When he would n't be bothered , she made him understand . He could n't make his hands work , so she finally tore it off and stood there in her pearls and stockings . She directed one of the men to lean the broken half of the extension ladder up against the trunk of the tree . In surprise , he complied . She ascended . She vanished . Then she could be seen among the leafless branches of late November as she made her way up and , along her stomach , inched the length of a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . Once there , swaying , she stood and balanced . There were plenty of people in the crowd and many who still remember , or think they do , my mother 's leap through the ice-dark air toward that thinnest extension , and how she broke the branch falling so that it cracked in her hands , cracked louder than the flames as she vaulted with it toward the edge of the roof , and how it hurtled down end over end without her , and their eyes went up , again , to see where she had flown . I did n't see her leap through air , only heard the sudden thump and looked out my window . She was hanging by the backs of her heels from the new gutter we had put in that year , and she was smiling . I was not surprised to see her , she was so matter-of-fact . She tapped on the window . I remember how she did it , too . It was the friendliest tap , a bit tentative , as if she was afraid she had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she gestured at the latch , and when I opened the window she told me to raise it wider and prop it up with the stick so it would n't crush her fingers . She swung down , caught the ledge , and crawled through the opening . Once she was in my room , I realized she had on only underclothing , a bra of the heavy stitched cotton women used to wear and step-in , lace-trimmed drawers . I remember feeling light-headed , of course , terribly relieved , and then embarrassed for her to be seen by the crowd undressed . I was still embarrassed as we flew out the window , toward earth , me in her lap , her toes pointed as we skimmed toward the painted target of the fire fighter 's net . I know that she 's right . I knew it even then . As you fall there is time to think . Curled as I was , against her stomach , I was not startled by the cries of the crowd or the looming faces . The wind roared and beat @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . I slowly wondered what would happen if we missed the circle or bounced out of it . Then I wrapped my hands around my mother 's hands . I felt the brush of her lips and heard the beat of her heart in my ears , loud as thunder , long as the roll of drums . 