Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Paint It Black Review of The i Tetralogy Poetry Zoology By Patricia Murphy Framed Gift By Sheila McLaughlin Sikorski Friends 'n' 'at or Ode to Pittsburghatory By Betta Risa In My Father's Shoes By Richard Fein Freedom By Skip Shea Fiction Quitting Time By Barbara Archer Tumbleweed By Thom Brennan Maternal Instincts By Diane Kimbrell You Should Write People Dead By T. M. Warfield Spring Fling By Patricia Murphy About the Contributors © 2007, 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 - Vacant 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 Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Contributing Editor - Robert Dittman Blog Contributing Editor - Maggie Koster Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.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 VolunteerMatch.

Quitting Time By Barbara Archer We knew we didn’t belong the moment we set foot in the place. This was a tourist town, but we were the only tourists in here, as the dozen pairs of staring eyes trained on us made clear. After a long day of hiking from one scenic viewpoint to another, though, we were tired and wanted a beer and a burger. Besides, the bar was Ted’s choice, and if Ted felt inclined to communicate an opinion, I felt inclined to go along with it. We slunk into a booth at the back and waited for someone to take our order. After keeping us waiting long enough to make her point, a woman sauntered over to our booth, no order pad in sight. Like most of the natives, she wore denim, boots, and the evidence of too much time in the sun. No greeting, so Ted asked what was on tap. Beer order placed, our waitress admitted with some reluctance that the kitchen’s resources might stretch as far as cheeseburgers and fries. Once she disappeared behind a curtain in the back, our own conversational resources seemed as exhausted as the waitress’s hospitality. We’d been on the road for two weeks, on a trip that I’d hoped would close the distance that seemed to be growing between us. Instead, it seemed to be harder each day to communicate beyond, “What does the map say?” or “Does this (cafe, motel, gas station bathroom) look okay to you?” We weren’t arguing; that might have been better than this polite--what? I didn’t have a name for sitting side by side in the front seat for hours on end, looking at some of the most dramatic scenery on earth and sharing only platitudes. How had we gotten to this place? I’d met Ted at one of his gigs, a house concert where he was the opening act for a group that was just breaking out of its local-band straitjacket. Ted played as though he’d invented the guitar and sang with surprising power for a man lean enough to chase rabbits at Hialeah. His lyrics were sophisticated, and I found myself listening hard--and after a little while, staring. At his blonde hair, just long enough. At his face, with its clean lines and calm, serious expression. Most of all, at those guitar-player’s hands as they caressed the strings. When, after the concert, I made a point of meeting the artist, he turned his blue eyes on me like searchlights, and I imagined he could tell what I was thinking. He radiated an inner focus and stillness, qualities I found very attractive. Still waters run deep, I thought, and clung to that cliché until, six months later, I was forced to wonder if “quiet” wasn’t becoming an excuse to withdraw and withhold. Lovemaking, at first so tender, so magical, was beginning to resemble a consolation prize. Now here I was, studying the dust motes dancing in the late-day sun. Ted stared at the tabletop, apparently pondering the initials carved into our wooden table. Katie loves A.J.. Jen + Jose, together forever. Why was it always the girls digging these declarations into wood and the metal of bathroom stalls? Maybe the Katies and Jens were whistling in the dark, hoping their public displays of love would make it true. “Are you okay?” I asked, as I’d been doing more and more often lately. Ted answered with a barely perceptible nod, without lifting his eyes from the tabletop. He drummed the tabletop lightly with those long, strong fingers. I remembered the electric thrill of holding hands for the first time. Remembered how the touch of those fingers could raise goose bumps, could make me melt. What would happen if I just reached out and grabbed Ted’s hand? I tried it; he stopped drumming but didn’t look up, and when I withdrew my hand, his disappeared into his lap. An occasional rumble of talk came from the bar, like a summer thunderstorm on the horizon. Tired of young love and Ted’s refusal to engage, I turned to people-watching. One old guy with a grizzled beard hunched over his glass, already halfway to where he wanted to go. He was alone, as was the woman with hair like a dandelion gone to seed. At the end of the bar, facing me, a man and a woman sat together. A couple, I guessed, though they seemed no more communicative than Ted and I were. She leaned sideways toward her companion like a phototropic plant, her dark hair hanging limp as dying leaves. Whenever she wasn't sipping from a glass of something clear, she kept her gaze fixed on the side of the man’s face, while he seemed to be fresh out of glances for her. Black was losing the battle to gray in his long ponytail. His cheekbones were high; his features chiseled and still as a cigar store Indian’s. Having nothing better to do, I couldn’t help speculating about these two. Did they come here often? From the seriousness with which they attacked their drinks, my guess was “Yes.” What did they do when they weren’t here? No rings, so they weren’t married. She looked to be the younger, though not by much, and I imagined a trailer with ragged kids running around a tire-strewn yard. That was unfair, but her bedraggled look and slumped shoulders made it easier to stereotype her. His fine features looked blurred from too many hard nights. "Too many fights?" I wondered. For now, he just sat there and downed each drink with a quick motion as soon as the bartender set it down. Somebody fed the jukebox, and Vince Gill began to sing about love slipping away. Had this man and woman once been in love? Maybe she still was--at least, she seemed to be trying to connect, saying things to him, though she could have been reciting a laundry list for all I could hear. What had she done, or not done, to this man, so that he would not even look at her? Then, apparently giving up, the woman scrabbled in her purse, pulled a cigarette out of a crumpled pack, and lit it. Quick as a hawk swooping down on a mouse, the man reached out and grabbed her hand, lighted cigarette and all, flicked it out of her grip and ground it out on the floor. Without a word, he went back to his drinking. If she protested, I couldn’t hear over the music. At long last, the waitress brought our beers and the food. Ted and I managed to squeeze out a few words along the lines of “Not bad” and “I’m starved. You?” I was, in fact, famished “The canyon was amazing,” I tried. Brilliant. Scintillating. No wonder the guy’s tired of you. Ted swallowed a bite, and I gave him time. Our cheeseburgers were dry enough to choke on if we weren’t careful. “Yeah, it was.” Just then the man with the ponytail turned to greet someone he knew who’d just come in (so he could talk, after all), and his companion seized the opportunity to pull out another cigarette. She lighted it, but before she could take a drag he snatched it away, this time keeping his grip on her wrist. I wondered why he waited till she lighted up. Did he need the risk of getting burned to make the game more exciting? “Hey, you’re hurting me!” the woman protested, trying to twist herself free but failing. He was about twice her size, with the muscles of a man who works outdoors. Finally, a protest, I thought. You go, girl. He merely grinned. “This is your lesson; learn it. I don’t like something, you don’t do it. Got that?” The jukebox had stopped, and both of them were plenty loud now. She yanked harder, losing her balance and slipping off the bar stool. He stood up as well and, still keeping his grip, turned to the bartender, whose face was blank as a fresh bar tab. He pulled some bills out of his pocket “We’ll settle up now,” he said. The woman had stopped squirming and stood quietly, looking at the floor. “We’re done here,” the man said, pulling his companion toward the door. As it closed behind them, I turned to Ted. “Did you see that? Why on earth does she put up with it?” Ted shrugged. “Why does he?” “Put up with what?” I demanded. “A frumpy bitch who smokes,” he said. “That’s her crime? Being frumpy?” I stared at this man, whom I thought I knew. He shrugged again and looked down at his hands. They would be here again tomorrow and the next day and the next, dancing their sick dance. Ted and I would be long gone, driving toward the end of the road.