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.

Tumbleweed By Thom Brennan “Mrs. Gregory, I’m really sorry about this morning.” Alan sat on the very edge of the plastic office chair like a nervous crow about to take flight, his gaunt body all sharp angles and jutting limbs. Without looking up, he smoothed his damp clothes and shook rain onto the carpet. “What was it this time?” Alan spoke slowly, weighing each word. “Well, you see, the babysitter didn’t arrive until after nine and David had already left for school. I couldn’t leave Sarah alone, considering how she’s...I didn’t want to leave her.” Mrs. Gregory stared over the steeple of her intertwined hands. Her forehead creased into its permanent frown below dyed auburn hair. “It’s the third time in two weeks you’ve been late.” Now Alan looked up. “I want to make up the hours. Honestly I do.” Gregory thought for a minute before the slight trace of a smile surfaced. The frown’s red lines faded to white. “I understand what you’re going through, settling down in a new city, a new job, especially as Sarah...” She altered her body language by opening her hands to Alan, dropping barriers just as they had told her on the Human Resources training course. “I had to go through upheavals myself when my husband transferred here. And I know how much effort you’re making to fit in with the other staff. But as Office Manager I need to know I can rely on my workers. And you need to improve your punctuality; do you think you can do that?” Alan nodded and smiled, saying, “I can. I will.” “That’s fine, then. I want you to know that you’ve made a very good impression in what’s really quite a short time. In fact, the Partners have mentioned the quality of your work, and your enthusiasm. I’d hate to have to lose you.” Ending the interview with this warning, Gregory turned towards her VDU, which had lapsed into a streaming vortex of accelerating icons. Alan closed her office door behind him and stood for a moment taking deep breaths. Mrs. Gregory wasn’t the worst manager he’d worked under in the past five years, no way, but that made it even harder to lie to her; the real harridans made deceit easy, sometimes even a little satisfying. Before heading into the main office, Alan popped two painkillers from their foil and washed them down with water from the corridor cooler. He rubbed a little overspill on his temples. Must be the stress of getting up late, rushing into work and then facing Mrs. Gregory. Sure. It couldn’t be the wine. In the legal firm’s open-plan main office, Alan hung his sodden coat on the communal rack and waved hello to the five occupied desks before he sat at his own. As he booted up his PC, the woman on the adjacent desk reached over and slid a notepad in front of him, saying, “That’s all your messages.” “Thanks, Mary, I—“ Before Alan could finish thanking her, Mary intoned into her headset, “Good Morning, Jefferson and Philips, how may I help you? One moment please.” Then, to Alan, “Everything all right?” “Only just,” he said, looking away. “Thanks for covering for me.” “That’s okay, hon, it’s been pretty quiet.” Mary pointed at the messages she’d taken. “Nothing too urgent there, just some callbacks on the Doran pre-trial. So, how’s Sarah? Is that why you were late?” “That’s right.” Alan still didn’t look at Mary. “We had a rough night again but I think she’s improving.” “That’s good news. You hang in there.” “See you later for coffee?” Alan pushed his headset into place as the phone started chirruping. “Good morning, Jefferson and Philips.” As he settled into the usual routine, and as the painkillers took the edge off his hangover, Alan glanced at his coworkers. He didn’t think he’d consciously intended it, but after that first temporary contract in Boston, chance had steered him toward all-female offices. This type of work suited people struggling with young families, people who wanted to slide in and out of jobs. Easy, so long as you fitted in. Was that how it started? With those innocent questions all those years ago? ‘So, Alan, are you married? How many children do you have? What does your wife do?’ Alan focused on his work. The next hour passed in a blur of phone calls and clients, mail and meetings. He snatched a break at ten-fifty and stood at the coffee station with Mary and Jocelyn, the three workers almost identical in their unofficial uniform of dark jackets and skirts or slacks, black shoes, white blouses and shirt. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” said Jocelyn after checking the corridor and over the partition for eavesdroppers. “Gregory’s a pain in the ass. Remember when her youngest was ill? We saw her in the office maybe twice a week, if that.” “That’s right,” Mary said. “And whatever happens, you know we’ll put in a good word for you.” Alan smiled. “I appreciate it. It’s been hard, lately, trying to keep everything together.” “Sure, honey, we understand.” Jocelyn squeezed his arm. “We’ve all been there.” Alan turned to the coffee machine, refilled his mug and added a swirl of half-and-half. He stared down for a moment into the coffee and winced as if the headache had come back. “Have you found schools for the kids yet?” asked Mary. He turned from the machine. “Sorry? Oh, for David, yes: he’s in a little place just around the corner, a few blocks from the apartment.” “Where’s that?” Jocelyn asked, leaning closer. Alan hesitated. “‘Our Lady of Walsingham’.” “Haven’t heard of that one.” “No, it’s, ah, private.” Jocelyn spluttered coffee. “Whoa, that’s got to cost.” “Well, it’s not too expensive, not yet.” Alan blushed and looked down at his watch, then asked Jocelyn, “How are Michael and Susie doing at college?” They swapped news for a few minutes, mutual problems, shared dilemmas, general gossip. As Mary rinsed her mug she said, “I’m bringing in more photos of the twins tomorrow.” Alan smiled. “Can I take a look?” “Sure thing. And why don’t you bring in some pictures?” “I’ll try to dig them out.” The smile slipped. “I should get back to my desk. See you later.” “Oh, I almost forgot,” said Mary. “You know Marsha’s taking that Chicago job? She’s leaving tomorrow so I ordered a cake from Edelmann’s; Gregory’s given us half an hour’s break after dinner, in our office, big deal. Patti’s coming in too.” “Who?” “You’ll like her - you should come along and say hello. She’s had her own... Well, she’s had a rough time too. I’ll tell you later.” Jocelyn waited until Alan was out of earshot. “My heart goes out to that poor guy. Widowed at his age and with two children to care for. One of them sick, too. Got to be a struggle.” “He seems to be coping okay, Jo, and he’s really tried to fit in here.” “I guess it helps that we’ve got so much in common, kids and all.” Jocelyn emptied her cup into the sink. “What happened to his wife?” “I don’t think he’s ever mentioned it.” “Well, it’s not something you come right out and ask,” said Jocelyn, as if wondering how to do exactly that. Then she started to laugh. “What’s so funny?” Mary asked. “You know Donna? The intern? She asked if Alan was gay.” “No!” “I’m telling you.” Jocelyn wiped her mouth with a scrap of kitchen roll, smudging her lipstick, and said, “You can see what she means: a handsome guy working in an office full of women. And Donna reckons he never knows what to say to other guys, never talks about sports or cars or any of that shit.” “He still wears his wedding ring,” Mary said, “and he’s got two kids. What does Donna want? A signed affidavit?” “Or him making a pass at her. It could happen.” Mary shook her head. “When he’s ready, Jo.” “You can’t mope around forever,” Jocelyn said. “Does a guy no good, being all alone, especially with kids to look after.” “I guess.” Mary thought for a moment. “I’ll invite them over for Thanksgiving. We’re having a party for my niece’s birthday, and a few more will just get lost in the shuffle. Think Alan would like that?” “Sure, give it a try, hand of friendship and all that,” said Jocelyn. “It can’t hurt, can it?” # “Thanksgiving? That’s really good of you, I appreciate it.” Alan cut into the chocolate cake and slid the dark sliver onto a paper plate. “I’ll have to wait and see how Sarah is on the day, but I’m sure she’d love to meet everyone.” “You just let me know.” Mary smiled and touched Alan’s hand for a moment before joining the group of workers flocking around Marsha. Alan sat on the edge of a desk as he ate the cake. Without realizing it he swung his legs back and forth, like a daydreaming child, and watched the group. He smiled. Even if some of the women – Jocelyn, for instance – sometimes gossiped about each other from time to time, they all stuck together when it mattered. A tall, dark-haired woman broke away from the group and approached him. “Alan, right? I’m Patti.” “Hi, how are you?” Alan couldn’t place the name for a moment, and then remembered Mary explaining about the accidental death of her friend’s son. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Mary told me, but...” “She told me about you, too.” Patti sat next to Alan on the desk. “Are you okay?” Alan blushed. “Me? Yes, I’m fine. I mean, not fine; I’m getting on with things, you know?” “You have to, don’t you?” Patti looked out of the fourth floor window, her eyes on some distant point high above Foster’s Wharf. Alan set the cake down and opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. “So, you’re settling in here okay?” Patti asked as she turned back to Alan. “Uh, sure, yes.” “They’re a good crowd. I miss them.” Alan coughed, then said, “Have you, I mean, how are you...” “Honestly? Every day is hard but I’m getting there.” Patti spoke quietly, almost to herself. “You think you can control what happens; you think you have everything covered. It only takes one small slip for it all to change. Everything... snowballs, you know? It gets out of your hands so quickly, no matter how you try to hold on.” Alan looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to bring you down. Look, I’m back in work next week; we’ll get together, have a little talk, okay?” Alan forced a smile. “I’d like that.” As Gregory appeared in the door and pointed to her watch, the group broke up and the workers returned to their offices, leaving the gently weeping Marsha and the remains of the half-eaten food. Five-thirty brought the exodus of office staff. One of the last to leave, Alan shrugged into his damp coat and turned off his PC. Inside the elevator, the mirrored side walls showed an infinity of reflected Alans on the journey down to the lobby, each image slightly distorted, subtly different. Alan stared straight ahead and ignored the doppelgangers. “Hey, I heard you’re looking for a babysitter?” asked Barbara, the front-desk security guard, as Alan walked from the elevator. “You know someone?” “Sure I do.” A grin split Barbara’s tanned face. She sat behind the high counter, her pale-blue uniform stretched tight over her breasts. “My sister’s eldest is home from college and looking for a few extra bucks. She’s a good kid – you could trust her.” “Thanks, but I’ll see how this one works out, for a few more weeks anyway.” Alan looked back at her, his hand already on the polished brass bar of the street door. “Really, thanks for that.” “No problem. You just let me know.” Barbara watched Alan’s hazy figure through the glass walls as he merged into the evening pedestrians on Pearl Street. Carried toward South Station by the tide of workers, Alan fought against the current and made it to the toy store on Washington Street by six o’clock. He preferred the smaller stores where the owners were happy to chat for a while. This store was too big, too corporate, but at least it stayed open until seven. He hesitated outside the main entrance. Hey, there was no harm in looking, nothing wrong with that. He pushed at the doors and walked through aisles stacked with myriad toys. The store seemed surprisingly busy for late evening: fathers with their sons; tired couples and excited children; fazed grandparents looking for gifts. Alan smiled as tiny hands found cars and trucks, puppets and dolls, the small treasures glittering beneath fluorescent lights. He climbed up to the second floor to find its menagerie of stuffed toy animals and picked a trail through herds of padded tigers and lions, velveteen elephants, and coiled felt snakes. He ran his hand over the animals’ pelts and eventually chose a cheetah cub, its nylon coat as soft as a real cat’s. On the way home on the ‘T’, Alan stood embedded in the swaying crowds, the gift held close to his body and safe inside his coat. His apartment building’s elevator displayed a red and white Out of Order sign. Alan peered through the gap between the doors and into stale darkness. The stench of oil and fetid water drifted up from the well below. As Alan climbed the narrow stairs he found Mrs. Kramer blocking the way, one hand on the handrail, the other clutching her cane. The old woman wheezed. “I’m sorry, my dear.” “Don’t worry about it.” Alan reached out to support the old woman’s arm until they reached the third floor. Mrs. Kramer fumbled for her keys and smiled at Alan, faded blue eyes set in her crimson face. She seemed about to speak, maybe to repeat her last offer of a cup of tea. Alan slammed his own front door shut and leaned against it, eyes closed, breathing hard. His own silent apartment smelled musty, the furniture anonymous relics of previous tenants. Alan dropped his mail onto the table and separated the bills from the clothes catalogues, forcing himself to leave the catalogues intact. He eased the pawn shop wedding ring off his finger and rubbed at the circle of paler flesh it left behind. He flicked the light switch in the smaller bedroom. In the sudden glare, cartoon animals chased each other across the throws and pillows. On the wallpaper, hung by some previous family, rabbits chased their own powder-puff tails. The open closet doors revealed empty rails and shelves coated in dust. Alan peeled back the tissue paper from the cheetah and placed it among the other toys on the lower bunk, slotting it between a brown bear and a monochrome panda with black plastic eyes. Inside Alan, a key fitted into a lock and made him relax. Maybe one day... In the kitchen, he finished last night’s bottle of Shiraz while microwave penne pasta turned. He opened a fresh bottle and moved to the living room. When he clicked on the TV he found an old black and white film where Boris Karloff fled from villagers, his jigsaw face weeping. Alan kept glancing at the mail as he drank and ate and watched TV. Finally he pushed away his plate and settled into the armchair with the catalogues and the wine. The plastic peeled away to reveal children’s winter clothes special issues. Padded anoraks in primary colors, mittens and galoshes, red scarves and yellow hats. Alan absorbed images of smiling children against clean snow, searching their faces. He’d almost given up when, at the penultimate page, he saw the girl: the blond child looked nine or ten years’ old, with perfect teeth and red cheeks. One gloved hand held the toboggan while the other waved at the camera. Alan took out nail scissors and cut around the smiling girl’s figure. He retrieved the photo album from the bedroom; images crowded the pages inside, a patchwork quilt of photographs rescued from catalogues, newspapers, magazines. Alan leafed through until he found a gap. Carefully applying a dab of glue, he stuck the new addition between the picture of a laughing blond woman in svelte outdoor clothes, and a teenage boy in padded jacket and boots. He waited for the glue to dry before closing the album, then settled into the chair and sipped his wine. Above and around him, the walls and floors echoed with the muffled sounds of the surrounding families, footfalls and conversation, laughter, crying, TV show theme music. What would his children have actually looked like? At the start, when he’d first created them, they’d been nothing more than comforting vague shapes at the back of his mind. A dark-haired boy and an older blond girl, always smiling. Gradually, as he’d moved from job to job, they’d become more solid with each retelling. More flesh on the bones. Now he could almost hear them in the next room. Alan finished the bottle and opened another, the last in the kitchen. He’d have to get more sent up tomorrow. Maybe another twelve Australian Shiraz if they were still on special offer. He crossed to the window and opened it wide, letting in the smell of cold rain and the beat of traffic. What had Patti said? Life got out of control so quickly. It snowballed. You started off with one small grain of half-truth – maybe not even that, maybe nothing more than a buried wish that surprised even you as it left your lips in panic – and that grain gathered momentum with each new lie. The spicy wine burned his tongue and throat but didn’t yet stop that old question from resurfacing: which had come first in the cycle of his rootless life? The useful lies to cover up his hangovers, or the desperate need for women to accept him, or the yearning to come home to his own family and to hear the real laughter of his own children as they played and— Alan almost doubled up with the pain, as if someone had punched him with something sharp. He gulped wine and closed his eyes, pushing the question deep, deep down. The answer didn’t matter. He must never even ask. Then he remembered the office, the women, Mary and Patti. The promise of Thanksgiving, of friendship. Of taking that final step and actually making a real connection with real people. He could imagine their faces if they ever discovered the truth. It always had to end like this. Alan set his old portable typewriter on the table and fed in a fresh sheet of paper. The newspaper’s Help Wanted columns ran to two pages. He sifted through the advertisements, highlighting entries with a yellow marker, rejecting the offices he’d already worked in, before he began the first letter: ‘Dear Sir, I am writing in response to your advertisement for the post of Temporary Legal Clerk. I am currently employed in a similar role at the firm of Jefferson and Philips, but am seeking a new position as my family and I feel it’s time for a change.’