Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Nickel and Dimed Review of Night Shade By Elizabeth Murray Radical Influence: Review of Spoken Word Revolution Redux By Romella D. Kitchens Creative Nonfiction Toiling in the Garden of Memory By Madonna Dries Christensen Poetry Homecoming By Nic Sebastian Maple Syrup Emergency By Paul Carlino Bathroom Visitor By Michael Lee Johnson Fiction A Job Well Done By Catherine Cheek Animal Man By R.B. Trout Watch Over By S.K. Tatiner The Frailty of Perfection By William R. Stoddart Eat Drink and Be Merry By Rebecca Barbush Cover Art "Riot of Flowers" By Dee Rimbaud 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 - Kenneth Weiss, Ed.D 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 Senior Editor - Patti Kurtz Senior Editor - Neeldhara Misra Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Blog Contributing Editor - Maggie Koster Education Blog Contributing Editors - Jordan Wirfs-Brock, Kim Haynes 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.

Eat Drink and Be Merry By Rebecca Barbush I weaved my way around the stacks of exams on my office floor, wishing they were graded and organized neatly in the empty file cabinet. For the third or fourth time that week, I resolved to come in early the next day to start grading them. I left my cluttered office at the University of Pittsburgh before a student could catch me leaving my designated office hours early. My goal was to get home for my mother-in-law’s TV cooking show; “Eat, Drink, and Be Merry” and hopefully I would learn along with her. Since I was an academic, cooking had never interested me. Besides I didn’t have the time or patience for it. I never had an “Easy Bake” oven as a kid and exploring the domestic world had never occurred to me until I married a man whose mother was a professional chef, Maxine Gilman. Sometimes I got so mad at her for making everything look and, even though I couldn’t smell through the TV, smell fantastic. I was also mad at myself because I had been trying different recipes since July and four months later, I still wasn’t good. Everything either had a burnt taste or was soggy or was bland as my students’ papers. The rust colored leaves were falling from trees at a feverish pace. Inhaling the crisp air of fall, I wanted to bottle the unique smell. What to make for Thanksgiving dinner? It was only October, but I needed time; time and practice. Time is a wonderful thing; especially since I constantly run low on it. I had too many students and I was working toward my PhD. Maxine was very surprised at my proposal to make Thanksgiving dinner. My husband, Eric, was too; he didn’t know about my secret cooking sessions. Heck, I don’t even know why I volunteered. I suppose it was the challenge. None of them had the least bit of confidence in me. Even Mr. Gilman had been doubtful. “You’re too smart to cook,” my father-in-law said. “Why can’t I do both.” I forced a smile. This thanksgiving I was going to prove them wrong. It was only after volunteering, I realized how awful a boring old traditional Thanksgiving dinner would be - a turkey, mashed potatoes and green beans. Maxine would be critical if I made the same meal she perfected over the years. In fact, everyone would compare my meal to hers. No, it had to be special. After entering my house through the kitchen door, I dropped my briefcase on the kitchen chair and headed straight for the cookbooks. I scoured them to find a special Thanksgiving meal, avoiding Chef Maxine’s recipes contained in the books she gave me for a Christmas present. She put post-its on certain recipes; they were marked easy. Ham, no; steak, no; pasta, no; I mentally discarded possible recipes. I would like to say that I had a warm relationship with my mother-in-law, but we never bonded. We were too different. I stand up for myself, and she shrinks into the background. She seems strong and confident on her cooking show, but in real life she was a nag. She often complimented me on my academic work but her admiration sounded artificial. I turned on the TV. “Yum…Can you smell that? Doesn’t it just smell delicious?” Chef Maxine said. Her voice sounded phony. As if she were teaching preschoolers their ABC’s rather than grown adults how to make a quiche. But she was sincere. It made me cringe as if I was watching Fear Factor and the contestant, the blonde with the fake boobs, was forced to consume live centipedes. Maxine created a world for herself where every woman’s place was in the kitchen and they were delighted to be there. Well, I wasn’t. No siree, I have a life. After scribbling the recipe for the quiche on a note card, I began to gather and mix the ingredients. Putting the raw quiche in the oven and setting the timer, I watched as Maxine invited the audience into her kitchen to taste her perfect quiche. Show-off! I had a sneaking suspicion she paid these people to make yummy noises. This was a regular segment of her show. She would point out that the recipe originated from France or Greece. She had an encyclopedia-induced story about how queens would serve a particular cookie at “un petite soiree.” Sometimes she needed note cards to remind herself of the brief tale. Short term memory wasn’t her strength. “Hello?” the voice of my neighbor, Helen, as she opened the kitchen door. “I saw your car in the drive way,” her gaze went to the TV. “So what is Chef Maxine making today?” Helen and I were the only full-time women instructors in the History Department at the University of Pittsburgh, and two of the youngest. I was twenty-nine, and Helen was thirty-three. The department was otherwise composed of a lot of old stubborn men. They knew their history, but failed to connect with their young audience. “If there’s no life in the classroom, then history is just history,” I said to Helen, as we munched on fast food one night after another “could have snoozed through it” staff meeting. It was Helen who coined it thus. “They don’t infuse life into their lectures. You’re right; it’s just rubbish about dead people,” she had said. Now, glancing at the cookbooks, Helen sat on a stool next to the kitchen counter, watching the TV with me. “Tune in next time for table decorations. Setting décor for any festive dinner is oh so important. Join me. We’ll “Eat, drink, and be merry.” “Trust me. I have a degree from Northwestern; I can set a table.” I said, talking to the TV. I pressed the OFF button on the remote and Chef Maxine disappeared. “No, pretend I didn’t say that,” I said. “Eric asked me to try to get along with her. You have to, too. If you start making fun of her I might join in. I’m weak.” “No, Sarah, you’re not. You’re a strong woman” “Not where Maxine is concerned. She makes me feel like crap by showing me up. When Eric and I were still living in Chicago, she sent cookies and pies for a bake sale.” “That bitch!” Helen teased in a mocking voice. “I guess it was kinda sweet. But it’s like saying that I can’t stick dough on a tray and pop it in the oven.” “Did she visit?” “Nope, and we got married in my hometown. Maxine and I never even met face to face until the rehearsal dinner. After Eric graduated law school, we moved here. It’s weird being so close to her. Now Maxine can just pop on over to tell me my cooking sucks and how she could do better. She doesn’t say it like that, but it still stings.” “And the time I wanted to serve tuna fish sandwiches and carrot sticks at a historical lecture and discussion group I was holding at my house. Chef Maxine saved the day for me by advising me not to make that,” I said, still feeling embarrassment. “No one cared about the event. All they cared about was the food.” “She made avocado and sun-dried tomato spring rolls and tender slices of pork in garlic sauce, right? I remember, I was there,” Helen said. “It was good, but everyone really enjoyed the lecture. It was just that dickhead from the department chair that made you feel lousy.” “The point,” I said “is that they looked down at me the same way she looks down on me.” “Is that why you’re killing yourself trying to cook? You know your going to start a fire,” Helen said. “I’m not that pathetic,” I said. True, I made sure I knew where the fire extinguishes were, but I doubted I’d use them. “Do you really think cooking is important?” she asked. “No. It’s for women who can’t use their brain.” I said. “Teaching is important.” “The fall of the Roman Empire, the Industrial Revolution, and the World Wars were and still are important. Getting my doctorate is important.” “I don’t have anything against Maxine,” Helen said. “But she should realize some women can’t cook.” “I can cook,” I said, as I reached into the oven to take my quiche out. It was burnt. Helen smirked, and I had to laugh at myself. It was rumpled, with brown patches. The basil had never blended and had drained toward the center of the quiche, which sunk in. It looked like a funnel. “I just need some practice,” I said. “Did you mean some women can’t cook, or won’t cook? At least I try.” “Some women have midterms to grade,” she said, trying to excuse her dependency on TV dinners. “You are done writing your thesis. You have a PhD. You have more time than me,” I said, smiling. Between writing and researching a thesis on early civilization and teaching about two hundred students, I had very little free time. “I am crazy-cat lady. I have a reputation to uphold. Besides, I don’t have a husband or a family to cook for,” Helen said. She was lucky. I had both. At my first all family lunch, I had made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, straight from the can. Chef Maxine looked disgusted, as if I had insulted her. Later when we had a moment alone, Eric told me to forget about it. He said his mother thought food was more important than religion. “Sincy,” he said, using his nickname for me. In college he called me “Sincerely Sarah” because I was always honest with people - sometimes a little too honest. I loved that he could look past my faults. “Maybe you should let my mom do the cooking from now on. She enjoys it.” “You don’t have to tell me twice, I’ll never cook for that woman," I vowed. Eric didn’t argue. “Let’s talk tonight.” We never did talk about it. It was this thing, neither of us wanted to talk. We suffocated our argument to the point where I didn’t even know what it was anymore. Were we really arguing about who cooks family meals? A few weeks ago, when I said that I would make the meal for Thanksgiving, I knew Eric wouldn’t like it. Getting ready for bed, he voiced his displeasure. “I thought we agreed to leave the cooking to my Mom.” “I think I can make a really good meal.” I slid between the sheets and curled up in bed next him. We lay face to face. We agreed a long time ago that the only way to fight was to look each other in the eye, getting it all out in one spat. That way fighting was easy. And making up afterwards was easier. “I know you want me to make peace with your Mom,” I had said. “Maybe this is my way of doing that. She expects me to be a domestic.” “I don’t want you to be a domestic. And I, sure as hell, don’t think my mom would push that role on you,” he said, clenching the covers with his fists. “Then why? Why am I always expected to be a magician in the kitchen?” I shouted. “You mean women like my mother,” he said, arms flailing. “That’s not all she is you know. She has other hobbies besides cooking.” “Yeah, I know it, but no one else knows it,” I said. “She portrays herself, on goddamn national television as a domestic goddess.” “So,” Eric said in a hollow voice. He acted as if it was okay for a woman to limit herself, defining herself by how well she can bake a pie. I had to fight off the impulse to hit him. We didn’t argue a lot, but when we did it was a good healthy fight, a chance to air out aggressive feelings on both sides. Our fights had never turned physical. Although it wouldn’t have been the first time I had hit a man for saying something stupid. He had stopped listening to me, so I didn’t even try to explain myself. I turned my back to him. Lying scrunched like a cheese curl, I closed my eyes, and concentrated on my breathing. The next day, I went into the history department’s computer laboratory to search Gilman, Maxine. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Maybe as a novice chef she had burned her house down. Eric had told me about how she had started her cooking show, “Eat, Drink, and Be Merry,” as a brief segment on the local news. She struggled to get a network to pick it up. When she got that opportunity, she ran with it, never giving them reason to cancel it. I knew there had to be more though. When the results came up, I skipped over the material about Maxine’s recipes and cookbook orders. Fan and anti-fan web pages took up the next twenty results. Wow, some people loved her for being an exemplary chef and some people hate her for not doing more with her life. She certainly stirred up emotion. I typed in her maiden name: Maxine Conroy. One of the search results caught my attention. It read Picketing for Women’s Rights at Women’s College from St. Mary’s campus newspaper’s website. I clicked on it, and a blurry, black and white photo appeared. It was taken on a fall day in Indiana. Leaves were lying on the ground in heaps. Young women were lined up, grinning and carefully clutching their signs. Their signs were like pieces of art. They were all different, in design and content. The signs ranged from outrage over sexual discrimination to the demand for birth control. In the center of the line, standing with her arms wrapped around her fellow picketers was Maxine Conroy. Her short silvery hair was once dark and wild. Even though the picture was black and white, I could see that her face was flushed with excitement. And her eyes sparkled with emotion. Looking closer, the girl was definitely Maxine because of her two distinct characteristics. One was her posture: shoulders back, head held high. She was proud to be at the rally at St. Mary’s. The other her eyes, they were deep, and radiated wisdom. Looking into her eyes told me everything I needed to know. The article from the campus newspaper was attached. “Hey, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. What are you doing?” a voice said. In the dark, I could barely make out Helen’s figure. I felt ashamed that I couldn’t accept my mother-in-law for who she was. “I want to see what makes Maxine tick. I'm researching her past,” I said, knowing she would understand. “Diggin' up the dirt on Cheffie,” she said, rubbing her hands together. I showed her the picture and we read the article together. Junior, Political Science major may be expelled from St. Mary’s after staging another Women’s Rights Rally in Central Square. Maxine Conroy organized a rally promoting equal rights for woman. Three hundred and twenty people, mostly women attended the rally. Dr. Fredrick Nelson, head of resident life, says “This is the third rally Maxine Conroy has organized and participated in. The administration does not condone the message of women’s equal rights in all cases. Our purpose is to educate our women to be able to raise well-rounded children in the future.” St. Mary’s laws insist that while planning an event, a group must obtain permission from a department chair. Since Conroy failed to do this, she faces expulsion. “I’m just standing up for what I believe in,” Conroy said at the rally. “I believe you should always stand up for things that are important to you.” “Miss Conroy knew the rules and she made a conscious decision to break them,” Nelson says. Conroy will stand before the board of trustees later this month. They will decide her fate. Helen and I didn’t say anything for a few moments. My mother-in-law had been part of a revolution: the women’s right movement. I had unearthed Maxine’s secret. I doubted that even Eric knew about her days of rebellion. Was it rebelling though? She was fighting for a choice. She was fighting to make up her own mind about the woman she wanted to be. “What do you think happened? Did she really get kicked out of school?” Helen asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “But there's only one way to find out. I’m asking her.” Class didn’t start until that night, and those exams could wait. I drove across town drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. I should have been planning what I would say to her, but I knew I would blurt out the first thing that popped into my mind anyway. Finally, I pulled up to the lot where “Eat, Drink, and be Merry” was shot. I didn’t feel apprehensive about confronting her. To me, it felt like a challenge. The aluminum door had a giant number four/cooking sprawled on it with green paint. Looking through the window on both sides of the door, I didn’t see a guard or anyone else who would ask me what the heck I was doing there. Once I slipped inside, I could see that the building used to be a high school gym. The bleachers and the scoreboard were still there. Bright lights highlighted the modern looking kitchen set. Grey formica counter tops encased the high tech stove. Behind the stove was a stainless steel sink and next to that were the huge double ovens Maxine constantly shuffled dishes in and out of. I had seen this set a million times on TV, but being up close I could see the special gadgets Maxine regularly used. The oven and stove had a complex array of buttons. Any man would get lost in here. I would get lost in here. A unique teal checkered curtain covered the window above the sink and flowers were etched in the ceramic squares tiled to the wall. Through the window I could see the crew bustling about. They were not filming yet, so I got the chance to watch Maxine from a distance. She was sitting cross-legged, examining a script marking it with a yellow highlighter. Reading glasses were perched on her nose. Snatching them off, she rubbed her temples and sighed. I stood frozen in the middle of the set, rethinking coming to the TV studio. I was barging in on Maxine’s territory. Somehow, it didn’t seem right. Just as I was about to turn to leave, the chef glanced through the window and I was pretty sure she caught sight of me before I ducked behind the stove. After a few minutes I peeked above the counter top and snuck a look through the window. Maxine stood in front of her chair as if she was uncertain of what she had seen and was thinking about investigating. Someone called her over to look in a camera - probably to ask her opinion on a camera angle. I didn’t want to add to her stress, so I left. I got in my car, and went to the person who knew her the longest and the best, her husband. Bob Gilman was a quiet man. He’d retired from being a salesman for an engineering company the previous year. Not knowing what to do with the free time he had, Mr. Gilman experienced a period of depression. When Eric and Maxine were decorating Eric’s home office, I often sat with him, grading papers while he watched TV. He invited me into his house and motioned for me to sit in a comfortable leather chair. I spotted books on Modern and Renaissance Art lining the shelves, calendars of famous works, there was even a card table displaying the pieces of a Picasso puzzle. I asked him how he was doing. “Time can be a dangerous thing. I felt like I was drowning,” he said. “Thank God Maxie was here to help me through my depression. She got me into art. I’m reading about famous artists, and I’m volunteering in the art museum once a week.” “That’s great. I’m so happy you’re feeling better,” I said to the man who used to watch CNN all day and complain about a secret agenda motivating the war in Iraq. “We’re even planning a trip to D.C. to visit the museums,” he said. “Maxie says she needs a break. I can’t wait to see the Smithsonian. “You said on the phone you needed to know something. What can I help you with ma’ dear?” Kindness radiated from him. If I had needed a kidney, he would have given me one without batting an eyelash. I was at a loss for words. I had thought Maxine to be a heartless thoughtless dictator. Speaking to the man who had her heart made me realize she had a whole different side. Maybe she wasn’t perfect; maybe I was quick to judge. But Maxine and Bob Gilman were sharing and loving people. “I just needed to see that you were okay,” I managed. “You can finish your puzzle. I’ll see myself out. Tears were streaming down my face as I made my way out of the Gilman’s house. A burst of wind from the dusk-dimmed streets enveloped me when I opened the door. A woman was mumbling to herself as she bustled up the walkway. It was Maxine. “Sarah, it’s so nice to see you! What gives us the pleasure?” She saw my tears. “What happened? What’s wrong?” “Nothing, I banged my elbow on the door.” I wiped my tears with the tissue Maxine had given me. “I was just returning a pan you had lent me. I saw Mr. Gilman. He looks wonderful.” “Yes he does. You know he always took everything so seriously. I told him to enjoy life.” I looked at her, trying to decipher if that was an innuendo. I saw her clearly innocent face. Age was starting to take hold there. Her eyes were puffy, and her chin was like a melting ice cream cone. Silently I approached her, and gave her a mammoth hug. “Your advice is impeccable,” I whispered. It wasn’t the right time to ask personal questions. So I went to my office finally ready to grade those papers. Thanksgiving day, I walked into the dining room holding the serving tray above my head, like a trophy I had coveted for several months and finally earned. I wanted to take a picture of it: my perfect Thanksgiving dinner. Not only did the food look great, but the table had been strewn with orange, gold, and red leaves. I placed down the serving tray in the center of the table. “It’s not turkey,” Maxine said in awe. “But it looks wonderful; I always get bored with turkey.” I served salmon for my Thanksgiving dinner, with side dishes of potatoes and candy-flavored carrots. And of course, wine. “How’d you come up with the idea?” Helen asked. I hugged her because I hadn’t seen her come in. “I found it online,” I said, winking at her. After dinner, we transferred ourselves to the living room and sank into the couches around the fireplace. We were lulled into a sleep-like, peaceful state by the fire. Eric scooted close to me on the couch. “A toast to my wife,” he said. After he refreshed everyone’s wine glasses, he raised his own, and I began to blush. “Sarah, I don’t know what to say. You did more, so much more, than serve us a meal, a fantastic meal, at that. You brought us closer together as a family. And friends became family. Happy Thanksgiving!” I should’ve been satisfied with my successful dinner, but the challenge to know the truth still burned inside. I cracked my knuckles as I stretched, hands clasped above my head. “Maxine, can you help with coffee?” I asked. I sprang to my feet and led the way to the kitchen. I hid a grimace because the last thing I wanted to do was get Maxine riled up. I had come to admire and respect my mother-in-law. At the same time, I didn’t want to admit to Helen that I’d gone soft-hearted, so I gave the thumbs up sign as I passed her. When Maxine and I were alone in the kitchen, I cleared my throat, ready to ask the big question. But Maxine started questioning me about school as if we were old friends catching up. She wanted to know when Thanksgiving break was over and how the semester was going. I saw my opening. “Where did you go to college?” “St. Mary’s, that’s pretty close to Northwestern.” “Majoring in domestic arts?” “Believe it or not I majored in political science. No one can teach you how to keep house,” she said getting the coffee beans out and putting them in the grinder. She moved around my kitchen with ease. I smiled because she knew the order of my kitchen better than I did. It’s funny how I didn’t resent that. “Take cooking for example, no one can teach you how to cook,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. I was waiting for her to tell me cooking was instinctive. “It’s basically trial and error. Trust me, I’ve erred plenty.” I was shocked. Maxine admitting she wasn’t perfect. Before I knew what was happening, I had come into ask whether or not she’d gotten kicked out of school. I realized it didn’t matter what she said. I accepted her regardless. I looked into her eyes and saw everything I needed to know.