Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of The Pittsburgh That Stays Within You Review of If Instead of Apes We Had Come from Grapes Review of Anson County Review of Dissolution of Ghosts Crossword (Solution Posted in July. Printable version in pdf format of journal.) Mar/Apr Crossword Solution Creative Nonfiction 1998 By Samuel Hazo Booing the Pope By Matthew D. Taylor Sgt. Robert Starbuck, USMC: Elegy and Essay By John Guthrie Shrink Wrap, Diet Cokes and a Kazoo By Sara J. Ford Poetry And the Time Is By Samuel Hazo In His Winter By Wanda D. Campbell Lester By Thomas Reynolds Generation Gap By Valerie Lauria Stanske Two Poets By Gary C. Wilkens Mongolia, 1930 By Gary C. Wilkens Fiction A Death in the Family By John Speeking Letters By Suzanne Abbot Among the Briars By Pat Tompkins Filling in the Angles By Jessica DelBalzo Miss Mary By Beth L. Block Cover Art Photography by Seth Brown About the Contributors © 2006, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Bill Mausteller Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Sen. Fiction Editor - Patti Kurtz Sen. Poetry Editor - Neeldhara Misra Sen. Creative Nonfiction Editor - Brenda Coxe Contributing Editor - Robert Dittman Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/submission.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/volunteer.html.

Among the Briars By Pat Tompkins Tantalizing once described how I felt about blackberries. The wild bushes, heavy with fruit, seemed a gift of summer. But I’ve lost my taste for them. And summer, which once spelled freedom, now just means a couple of hot months to endure. I’d been feeling grown-up because I had a new role: guardian. The winter before my last free summer, I brought a stray puppy home. According to my father, "All kids should have a pet. It teaches responsibility." He talked about Rufus, the beagle he’d had as a boy. My mother was pragmatic: "What happens when it throws up on my new carpet?" This was the deal: I promised to walk him every day and feed him and clean up after him. Failure to do so meant the dog would go to the pound. I realize now that my parents wouldn’t have carried through with that threat. Cindy Roczynski had told me about the pound, how dogs that didn’t get adopted were killed, or "put to sleep." They did it with a needle, Cindy said. First impressions count, whether or not they’re accurate. When my parents agreed to let him stay, I announced, "I’m calling him Alexander the Great.” "Pretty big name for a little guy," Dad said. "How about Al?" I walked Alex three times a day because he was thrilled to go out. As the golden lab grew, he walked me. We zigzagged up and down Hillcrest so he could sniff the news. On weekends, we abandoned our usual route. Sometimes Alex rode in my bike basket out to the city golf course. While I collected stray balls, he hunted for ground squirrels. The golf course, just nine holes, was modest and weather beaten, like the town. My dad and half of Clarksburg worked at the John Deere factory. My favorite hangout, the Carnegie Library, didn’t allow dogs so I didn’t linger there anymore. I owed some of my freedom that summer to Alex. One evening, I overheard my parents in the backyard, sipping beer. "About time you admitted I was right," Dad said. "Right? About what?" "That dog. He’s been good for Nan. He’s got her on the go day and night." "He does, but I don’t know that that’s such a good thing. I’d just as soon she didn’t run all over town by herself." "But that’s it. She’s not by herself. She’s got the dog. He’s devoted to her. And she hasn’t got her head stuck in a book all the time like she used to." "At least she was safe at the library. I don’t know where she is sometimes." "This isn’t Chicago, Alice. She couldn’t get lost in this town if she tried." "I don’t mean lost." The cushion on the folding chair sighed. By the time the screen door screeched open, I was headed upstairs, Alex bounding ahead of me, two steps at a time. As an only child, I was used to entertaining myself, and most of the kids in my neighborhood were several years older or younger, so Alex became my constant companion. One humid July morning, we went down by the river to pick blackberries. I considered leaving Alex home; he’d just collect burrs. But Mom would put him in the backyard and he preferred investigating the larger world. The outer bushes of the wild blackberry patch, those facing the road, were picked over. Only crouching or stretching overhead yielded the ripe berries. The prospect of reaching the best berries, the ripest but hardest to reach, lured me into the thicket. With brambles plucking at me, I edged along a faint path. Grasshoppers leapt as I ventured further. When I heard a rustle underfoot—a snake?—I climbed a boulder. I'd heard that rats liked such thickets for shelter and food, but I'd never seen one. At the tops of the bushes, birds had nibbled the fruit. Hot air vibrated like a cloud of gnats, and a breeze off the river tickled the leaves. Soon, I was practically dizzy from the fragrance of the berries, eating one for every three landing in the bucket. The taste of warm berries made up for the accompanying spider webs and winged bugs, powdery gray like moths, but smaller. I brushed them off my neck. They didn’t sting or bite but I didn’t like them on my skin. The bucket was half full when Alex started barking, probably at other kids picking berries—the bushes stretched about 50 yards along the riverbank here. But Alex sounded upset. With his leash tied to a jump rope around a butternut tree trunk, he could nose around but not reach the road. He stood there, barking with his whole body, squared off against a man bent over, trying to free his pants leg from the briars. When he straightened up, a thick vine hooked itself to the back of his shirt. "Damnation." I almost laughed. Then he saw me. "Call off your dog, little missy." I didn’t like being called little missy, but he smiled and it was a smile—wide with dimples—that made you smile back. To quiet Alex, I put down the bucket and rubbed his chest. “What a good, smart boy you are,” I said. He stopped barking but trembled from a suppressed growl. "What are you doing?" I asked the man, who looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. "Picking berries, same as you," he said, as he finished freeing himself from the thorny canes. When he stood erect, his shadow fell on me. "Where’s your bucket?" "Oh, I’m not collecting any," he said. "Just eating ‘em for breakfast." Maybe he was one of the hoboes I’d heard about who passed through on the freight train; I was sorry that Alex had bothered him. "At Svenhard’s bakery, you can get day-old rolls half price." "Is that a fact? I could eat a jelly doughnut or three or four." I would have given him the address, but he didn’t ask. Then he plucked two berries and popped them in his mouth, and I noticed his fingertips weren’t purple like mine. I also noticed that his jeans were unzipped. I stood and backed up. "Sure tasty," the man said and smiled again. I nodded and untied Alex, who was sitting now. I jerked his leash. "C’mon." The man reached for a huge cluster of ripe berries overhead. He grabbed one berry and as he pulled it off the cluster snapped back up. He stood on his tiptoes to reach again. "Tantalizing. The best ones are always out of reach." "Those are for the birds." I tugged at Alex. "You know about old Tantalus, don’t you?" I shook my head. "He was a king back in the days of the ancient Greeks. Got sent to Hades—hell—and his punishment was to stand in a pool of water with a bunch of fruit hanging off a branch above him. If he tried to eat the fruit, the wind moved it just out of his reach. If he tried to drink, the water level dropped. So he was surrounded by plenty but had to do without. Forever and ever." What had Tantalus done to deserve that punishment? I was afraid to ask. "Anyhow, that’s where we get tantalize," he said, drawing out the last word. A crow caught Alex’s interest, and as he stood, I pulled him away. "Bye," the man said. I felt him watching me head for my bike, but I didn’t turn around. Alex ran alongside me; I pedaled fast for about a mile and stopped at a gas station. Alex lapped water from a Dixie cup I filled and refilled. In years past, I’d picked berries at that same spot without Alex. What if that man had snuck up on me alone? With the quarter in my pocket—Mom told me to always carry one to use the phone—I got cheese crackers with peanut butter from the vending machine for Alex. When Mom poured the fruit into a colander in the kitchen sink, she said, "This isn’t enough to make jam. Why didn’t you pick more?" "I got hot," I said. I didn’t want to mention the man. If I did, she’d tell me to stay away from that spot. Say not to go off by myself. And nothing had happened, really. I’d sensed he was lying. Adults and kids lie to each other all the time. His lie was the kind with no good intentions. I figured mine was harmless. "It’s your fault, making me wear these long sleeves and pants." "I didn’t want you getting all scratched up." She pulled a leaf out of my hair. "I can make a pie with these. But blackberry jam is your father’s favorite." "I’ll get some more tomorrow," I said. "Tomorrow’s Saturday. We’re going to the lake this weekend, remember?" "OK, I’ll get berries Monday." I had forgotten my plans to teach Alex how to swim. Meanwhile, I wanted to find out about this Tantalus guy. I didn’t want to ask my mother; she'd want to know why I was asking. I looked in our encyclopedia—nothing—and in the dictionary, which confirmed the origin of tantalize. It did seem an awful predicament, being up to your neck in water but unable to drink, fruit dangling just out of reach. What could Tantalus have done? After lunch I rode over to the library. I asked the librarian, "Can you tell me about Tantalus?" "Tantalus? Is that an author’s name or a book title?" "I think he lived in ancient Greece." Soon we were in the reference section thumbing through a thick book of mythology. It said Tantalus killed and cooked his son and served him to the gods, but it didn’t say why. Once the gods figured out what had happened, they restored life to the boy, but hauled Tantalus down to Hades. According to the book, everyone in his family suffered for several generations. How come the blackberry man knew this story? I thought only nice people were smart. At the lake, swimming lessons were unnecessary—fearless Alex darted in and out of the water with glee. I caught a trout big enough to keep and entertained Alex by capturing fireflies in a mayonnaise jar while also collecting a fresh crop of mosquito bites. The man at the berry patch faded from my thoughts, like the tiny scratches on my hands, until Monday morning, when Mom reminded me about the jam. I didn’t want to go back, even with Alex beside me. He could protect me or at least warn me, but I didn’t want him to get hurt. I told myself the blackberry man was long gone and remembered that when jam cooked, the house smelled better than pie. "Go on, Nan. It’s not so hot yet. I can make the jam this afternoon." So off we went, Alex loping along, panting as though smiling. I parked my bike at the south end of the bushes, as far as possible from where I’d been Friday. Soon I had mud all over my Keds and sweat trickling around my ribs. Ripe berries were scarce at this spot. Like a flock of crows, weekend pickers had landed here. I stooped and reached, thorns snagging my fingers, to grasp plump, dark berries, the ones that practically fell off, not the ones you had to yank from the stem. As I hunted, I forgot the man in the bushes. The bucket held a couple of pints when Alex rushed up. His tail beat against my legs. "Hey, calm down." I pressed my palm between his ears. "It’s too hot to get worked up over a squirrel." He ran off and pulled against his leash so that the bushes shook. Then he came back, pleading with his eyes, like I had a hamburger he wanted. He dashed off again and started to howl. I’d never heard him make that sound before. I dropped the bucket and ran after him. To keep him from choking, I unsnapped the leash. He bounded over to a log and started digging under it. I hoped he hadn’t found a skunk’s home. He ran back to me with a softball in his mouth and dropped it at my feet, but not to play fetch. Alex returned to the log, frantic, quickly scooping out a deep hole in the sandy soil. He grabbed something in his teeth and wrestled it out. Then he brought it to me. A baseball glove. On the palm were the initials T. Q. written in black Magic Marker. Tommy Quinn. The youngest Quinn, he lived a couple of blocks from me. A third grader. His sister Janet and I were the same age, but had never been friends. I didn’t know why Tommy would have buried his ball and glove. Alex remained revved up, so I put them in my bike basket, along with the berries, and headed home. On my way, I stopped at Tommy’s house. Mr. Quinn answered the door, which seemed odd for a Monday morning. Before I could say why I was there, he snatched the glove and ball from my hands. "Where did you get these?" When I learned Tommy was missing, I thought of the blackberry man. I told Mr. Quinn about the stranger in the berry patch by the river Friday. He called the police. They came over and I described the man and answered their questions. Then I had to tell my parents. "Oh, Nan. Why didn’t you say something about him on Friday?" Mom asked. Through my tears I said, "I don’t know," but I did. By Wednesday, the police had located the blackberry man. He was in Indiana. I identified him from a Polaroid snapshot. He wasn’t smiling, but I knew him instantly. The policeman asked if I was certain, so I looked at the photo for a long time. I was sure. I’ve never forgotten his face. But the police said he couldn’t have touched Tommy. The man had been in jail from Saturday night until Monday morning for drunk and disorderly conduct. He was an ex-con with an alcohol problem but he wasn’t the type to snatch boys. When I asked what he’d been in prison for, I expected to hear murder, but no, the answer was armed robbery. Maybe he’d learned about Tantalus there. Maybe he read a lot when he was locked up. Greek mythology didn’t seem standard reading fare for a convict, but why not? It’s loaded with crime and gore and revenge. They never did find Tommy Quinn. For a while, some of us kids thought he’d run away, but that didn’t make sense. Soon, people were saying they "feared the worst" had happened. Alex and I stayed a lot closer to home the rest of the summer. When I took Alex out, I avoided the street where the Quinns lived. After Tommy disappeared, the whole town aged, as though it was tarnished. People thrive on secrets, and you can’t keep them from having secrets anymore than you can keep them from having sex. It’s the allure of the furtive. The blackberry man had briefly been my secret. I tried to convince myself that nothing I might have said would have helped Tommy Quinn. I saw a stranger in the blackberry bushes. He scared me and my dog. A vague complaint would annoy the police more than alarm them. How do you keep children safe? Don’t speak to strangers. All parents say that to their kids, but I talked to the blackberry man. Did Tommy talk to someone, too—a stranger or somebody he knew? Maybe they talked about baseball. I try not to think about Tommy’s last moments. But they're like a shadow on an X-ray. A week after Tommy vanished, the head of the John Deere factory sent men and machines to plow under the blackberry bushes along the riverbank. Obliterate them. As if that would do any good. Dad said the factory head had a son the same age as Tommy. The long wound scraped in the dirt gave a new, clear view of the river from the road. By spring, some green had returned. With their root system, blackberry plants are hard to kill. Burning or plowing doesn’t work. Poison does, but if you poison the ground, you harm other life—a bad idea, especially alongside a river. Within a few years, the briars were back, and soon, they were as thick and tangled as before. What had been wild and welcome turned into weeds, something unwanted. Even years later, whenever we passed by that blackberry patch, Alex growled. I looked but never lingered.