remembers in a moment of suspension of belief. "Have a little faith," she coaches herself, as the dark shape floats easily through the screen like smoke or clouds or figments of any
sort. Out it flies, delighting in its new-found freedom, its dark hooded beak and tiny head drooping like its sex between arching wings.
Suddenly-it stops-midair. Delight and surprise are written all over its wing grin. It plummets down towards the sunning man on the lawn. Beak first, a dark and secret complex, a personality disorder let loose on the world, it plunges!
"Oh no," Yo wails. "No, not him!" She had thought that alone at her window on an August afternoon she would be far from where she could do any harm. And now, down it dives towards the one man she most wants immune to her words.
Yo screams as the hooked beak rips at the man's shirt and chest,- the white figure on the lawn is a red sop.
Satiated, the dark bird rises and joins a rolling cluster of rain clouds in the northern sky.
Yo bangs on the screen. The man looks up, trying to guess a window. "Who is that?"
"Are you all right?" she cries out, liking her role as unidentified voice from the heavens.
"Who is that?" He stands, grabs the beach towel.
The blood congeals into a long, red terrycloth rectangle. "Who is it?" He is annoyed at the prolonged guessing game.
"A secret admirer," she trills. "God."
"Heather?" he guesses.
"Yolanda," she murmurs to herself. "Yo," she shouts down at him. Who the hell is Heather, she wonders.
"Oh, Joe!" He laughs, waving his racket.
Her lips prickle and pucker. Oh no, she thinks, recognizing the first signs of her allergy-not my own name!
in
The lawn is green and clean and quiet.
"Love,"
Yo enunciates, letting the full force of the word loose in her mouth. She is determined to get over this allergy. She will build immunity to the offending words. She braces herself for a double dose:
"Love, love,"
she says the words quickly. Her face is one itchy valentine.
"Amor."
Even in Spanish, the word makes a rash erupt on the backs of her hands.
Inside her ribs, her heart is an empty nest.
"Love."
She rounds the sound of the word as if it were an egg to put into it.
"Yolanda."
She puts in another one.
She looks up at the thunderclouds. His tennis game is going to be rainchecked, all right. There isn't a sample of blue up there to remind her of the sky. So she says,
"Blue."
She searches for the right word to follow the blue of blue. "Cry... why... sky
..." She gains faith as she says each word, and dares further:
"World . .. squirrel. .
. rough . . . tough . ..
love . . . enough..."
The words tumble out, making a sound like the rumble of distant thunder, taking shape, depth, and substance.
Yo continues:
"Doc, rock, smock, luck,"
so many words. There is no end to what can be said about the world.
The Rudy Elmenhurst Story
YATAYATATATATAYAYATAYAYATATA-YATAYII itatat
Yolanda
W
e took turns being the wildest. First one, then another, of us would confess our sins on vacation nights after the parents went to bed, and we had double-checked the hall to make sure there were "no Moors on the coast," an Island expression for the coast being clear. Baby Sister Fifi held that title the longest, though Sandi, with her good looks and many opportunities, gave her some competition. Several times Carla, the responsible eldest, did something crazy. But she always claimed she had done whatever it was she'd done to gain ground for us all. So her reigns of error smacked of good intentions and were never as juicy as Fifi's. To our
"Wow, Fifi, how could you?!" Fifi gave us bad-girl grins and the catchphrase from the Alka-Seltzer commercial, "Try it, you'll like it!"
For a brief few giddy years, I was the one with the reputation among my sisters of being the wild one. I suppose it all started at boarding school when I began getting lots of callers, and though none of these beaus lasted long enough to even
be called relationships, my sisters
sort. Out it flies, delighting in its new-found freedom, its dark hooded beak and tiny head drooping like its sex between arching wings.
Suddenly-it stops-midair. Delight and surprise are written all over its wing grin. It plummets down towards the sunning man on the lawn. Beak first, a dark and secret complex, a personality disorder let loose on the world, it plunges!
"Oh no," Yo wails. "No, not him!" She had thought that alone at her window on an August afternoon she would be far from where she could do any harm. And now, down it dives towards the one man she most wants immune to her words.
Yo screams as the hooked beak rips at the man's shirt and chest,- the white figure on the lawn is a red sop.
Satiated, the dark bird rises and joins a rolling cluster of rain clouds in the northern sky.
Yo bangs on the screen. The man looks up, trying to guess a window. "Who is that?"
"Are you all right?" she cries out, liking her role as unidentified voice from the heavens.
"Who is that?" He stands, grabs the beach towel.
The blood congeals into a long, red terrycloth rectangle. "Who is it?" He is annoyed at the prolonged guessing game.
"A secret admirer," she trills. "God."
"Heather?" he guesses.
"Yolanda," she murmurs to herself. "Yo," she shouts down at him. Who the hell is Heather, she wonders.
"Oh, Joe!" He laughs, waving his racket.
Her lips prickle and pucker. Oh no, she thinks, recognizing the first signs of her allergy-not my own name!
in
The lawn is green and clean and quiet.
"Love,"
Yo enunciates, letting the full force of the word loose in her mouth. She is determined to get over this allergy. She will build immunity to the offending words. She braces herself for a double dose:
"Love, love,"
she says the words quickly. Her face is one itchy valentine.
"Amor."
Even in Spanish, the word makes a rash erupt on the backs of her hands.
Inside her ribs, her heart is an empty nest.
"Love."
She rounds the sound of the word as if it were an egg to put into it.
"Yolanda."
She puts in another one.
She looks up at the thunderclouds. His tennis game is going to be rainchecked, all right. There isn't a sample of blue up there to remind her of the sky. So she says,
"Blue."
She searches for the right word to follow the blue of blue. "Cry... why... sky
..." She gains faith as she says each word, and dares further:
"World . .. squirrel. .
. rough . . . tough . ..
love . . . enough..."
The words tumble out, making a sound like the rumble of distant thunder, taking shape, depth, and substance.
Yo continues:
"Doc, rock, smock, luck,"
so many words. There is no end to what can be said about the world.
The Rudy Elmenhurst Story
YATAYATATATATAYAYATAYAYATATA-YATAYII itatat
Yolanda
W
e took turns being the wildest. First one, then another, of us would confess our sins on vacation nights after the parents went to bed, and we had double-checked the hall to make sure there were "no Moors on the coast," an Island expression for the coast being clear. Baby Sister Fifi held that title the longest, though Sandi, with her good looks and many opportunities, gave her some competition. Several times Carla, the responsible eldest, did something crazy. But she always claimed she had done whatever it was she'd done to gain ground for us all. So her reigns of error smacked of good intentions and were never as juicy as Fifi's. To our
"Wow, Fifi, how could you?!" Fifi gave us bad-girl grins and the catchphrase from the Alka-Seltzer commercial, "Try it, you'll like it!"
For a brief few giddy years, I was the one with the reputation among my sisters of being the wild one. I suppose it all started at boarding school when I began getting lots of callers, and though none of these beaus lasted long enough to even
be called relationships, my sisters
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