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T HE

American Tradition in Literature
EIGHTH EDITION

Edited by
George Perkins
PRO FESSO R OF ENGLISH
EASTE RN MICH IGAN UNlVERSIn'

Barbara Perkins
ADJUNCT PROFESSOR O F ENGLISH
UNIVERSIn' OF T OLEDO

VOLUME
2

McGRAW-HILL, ING
NEW YORK ST. LOUIS SAN FRANCISCO AUCKLAND BOGOTA
CARACAS LISBON LONDO N MADRID MEXICO crrv MILAN
MO NTREAL NEW D ELHI SAN JUAN SINGAPORE SYDNEY TOKYO TOR ONTO

This book was developed by STEVEN PENS INGE R, Inc.

Contents

T HE AMERICAN TRADITION IN LITERAT URE
VOLUME 2
Copyr ight © 1994, 1990, 1985, 1981, 1974, 1967, 1962: 1961, 1957, 1956 ~y McG raw-Hill, In? All right s reserved. Printed in the United Stat es of Amenca. Except as permi tted u~de~ the U~lted
States Cop yright Act of 1976, no part of th is pub licat ion may be repro~uced or dlstr.lbut e? In any form or by any means, or sto red in a dat a base or retri eval syste m, Without the pnor wntten permi ssion of th e pub lisher.
Acknowledgments appear on pages 2043- 2054, and on thi s page by referen ce.
1 2 34 5 6 7 8 9 0

DOC

DOC

9098 76543

ISBN 0-07-049367-7 (hard cover)
ISBN 0-07-049368-5 (soft cover)

T his book was set in Avanta by ComCom, Inc.
The editors were Steve Pensinger and David A. Dam stra; the production supervisor was Den ise L. Puryear.
The cover was designed by Kath erin e Hulse.
The photo editor was Barbara Salz.
R. R. Donnelley & Sons Company was printer and binder.
Cover painting: Geor gina KIitgaard , Win ter Afternoon, 1934. National Museum of American Art,
Wa shington , D.C. Art Resource.

Library of Congress Ca taloging-in -Pub lication Data
The American tradit ion in literature / edited by George Perkins,
Barb ara Perkins.- 8th ed .
p.
cm.
Includes bibliograph ical referen ces and inde xes.
ISBN 0-07-049365-0 (ha rd: v. I )- ISBN 0-07-049366-9
(pbk.: v. I )-ISBN 0-07-049367-7 (hard: v. 2).- ISBN
0-07-049368-5 (pbk.: v. 2)
1. Perkins, George B., (date) .
1. America n literature.
I!. Perkins, Barbara, (date) .
PS507.A62
1994
8IO.8- dc20
93-1I 009

PREFACE

XXIV

T he Emergence of Modern Amer ican Literature
NEW VOICES IN POETRY

WALTWHITMAN (1819-1892 )
Preface to the 1855 Edition of Leaves of Grass
Song of Myself

11
14
27

CH ILDR EN OF ADAM

Out of the Rolling Ocean the Crowd
Once I Pass'd through a Populous City
Facing West from California's Shores
AsAdam Early in the Morning

63
64
64
64

CALAMUS

For You 0 Democracy
I Saw in Louisiana a Live-oak Growing
I Hear It Was Charged against Me

65
65
65

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
Song of the Redwood-Tree

66

69

SEA- DRIFT

( ' ) <") <) 1
(r> 7
_ .L
_

Englisches Seminar der Universitat
MOnster

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking
As I Ebb'd with the Ocean of Life
To the Man-of-War-Bird

72
77
79

BY T HE ROADSIDE

Gods
When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer
The Dalliance of the Eagles

79

80
80

DRUM-TAPS

Beat! Beat! Drums!
Cavalry Crossing a Ford
Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field One Night iii 80
81
81

1960

loyce Carol Gates

W here Are You Going?

JOYC E CAROL OATES

(1 938-

[oyce Carol Oates publ ished her first collection of shor t stories, By the North Gate
(1963), two years after she had received her MA from the University of Wis consin and become an instru ctor of English at th e University of Detroit. Her productivity since th en has been prodigious, accum ulating in three decades to forty or more titles, includi ng novels, collections of short stories and verse, plays, and literary criticism. Under th e pseudonym Rosamund Smith, Oates writes mystery stories such as th e academic whodunit Nemesis.
In th e meantime, she has continued to teach, moving in 1967 from th e University of Detroit to th e University of Windsor, in
Ontario, and, in 1978, to Princeton University. Reviewers have admired he r enormous energy, but find ,a produ ctivity of such magnitude difficult to assess. Clearly her work is uneven, but clearly, also, it is distinguished by p~ ssages of brilliance.
She was born in Lockport, New York, and raised in the country nearby, "a part of th e world," she has said, "and an economic background where people don't even graduate from high school." A scholarship student at Syracuse University, she wrote voluminously, graduated Phi Beta
Kappa in 1960, and th en spent a year on a fellowship at the University of Wisconsin.
In a period characterized by th e abandonment of so much of th e realistic tradition by authors such as John Barth, DonaId Barthelrne, and Thomas Pynchon ,
[oyce Carol Oa tes seemed for years dete rmin edly old-fashioned in her insistence on the essentially mimetic .quality of her fiction. Hers is a world of violence, insanity, fractured love, and hopeless, loneliness. Alth ough some of it appe ars to come from her own direct observations, her dream s, her fears,' mu ch more is clearly ' from th e experiences of others. Her first novel, With Shuddering Fall (1964), dealt

)

with stock car racing, though she had never seen a race. In them (1969) she focused on Det roit from th e depression through th e riots of 1967, drawing much of her material from the deep impre ssion made on he r by th e problems of one of her students. W hatever th e source and however shocking th e events or th e motivations, however, her fictive world long remained strikingly akin to that real one reflect ed in th e daily newspapers, the television news and talk shows, th e popular magazines of our day. Wonderland (1971) opens with a family murder and suicide, from which only th e main character escapes. Do with Me What You Will (1973) begins with th e abduct ion of a small girl from a school playground . Unholy Loves
(1979) explores university life. Bellefleur
(1980), however, is in some ways a striking departure: a mammoth gothic romance covering several genera tions and centered in th e Adirondacks in th e nin eteenth centur y. Ang~l of Light (198I ) is a strong novel of politics. In A Bloodsmoor Romance (1982) and Mysteries of Winterthurn (1984) she continues to experiment with form arid content. In Marya: A Life
(1986), You Must Remember This (1987), and American Appetites (1988), however, she retu rns to contem porary realism.
Some of her best work is in her short stories. By the tim e of her third collection,
The Wheel of Love (1970), th e source of th e story below, she had developed a control and an authority th at placed her well ahead of most of her contemporaries.
More recent volumes have confirmed her unflagging energy and inventi veness.
, Novels not ' mentioned above are A Garden of
Earthly Delights, 1967; Expensive People, 1968; The
Assassins, 1975; Childwold, 1976; Son of the Morn ing, 1978; So lstice, 1985; Because It Is Bitter, and
Because It Is My H eart, 1990; The R ise of Life on
Earth, 1991; I Lock My Door Upon Myself, 1991;

and Black Water, 1992. Collections of shor t stories not mentioned above are Upon the S weep ing Flood,
1966; M arriages and Infidelities, 1972; The Goddess and Other Women, 1974; The Poisoned Kiss and
Other St ories f rom the Portuguese, 1975; Crossing the Border, 1976; Eighteen Tales, 1977; Night-Side,
1977; A Sentimental Ed ucation, 1981; L ast Days,
1985; Raven 's Wing, 1986; The Assignation, 1988; and Where Is Here, 1992. 'On Box ing, 1987, is nonfiction. Verse is collected in , Anony mous Sins &
Other Poems, 1969; L ove and .Its Derangements,
1970; Angel Fire. 1973; The Fabulous Beasts, 1975;
Women Whose L ives A re Food, M en Whose L ives
Ar e Mon ey , 1979; In visible Woman : Ne w qnd S e-

1961

lected Poems 1970-1982, 1982; and The Time Traveler: Poems 1983-1989, 1990. Criticism is The Edge of Imp ossibility : Tragic Forms in Literature,1 972;
New H eaven, New Earth: The Visionary Exp erience in Literature, 1974; The Profan e A rt: Essays and
Reviews, 1983; and ( Woman) Writer: Occasions and Opp ortunities, 1988.
Critical studies include G. F . Wailer, Dream ing
A merica: Obsession and Transcendence in the Fiction ofJoy ce Carol Oates, 1979; Ellen G. Fr iedman,
Joy ce Carol Oates, 1980; Eileen Teper Bender,
Joy ce Carol Oates: Ar tist in Residence, 1987; and
Greg Johnson, Understanding Joy ce Carol Oates;

1987.,

Where Are You,Going, Where Ha ve You Been ?
ForBob Dylan
Her name was Connie. Sh e was fift een and she had a quick,'nervou s gigglin g habit of cran ing her neck to glance into mirrors or ch ecking other people's faces to m ake sure her own was all right. Her mother, who noticed everything and knew everyt hing and who hadn't mu ch reason any lon ger to look at her own face, always scolde d C onnie abo ut it. " Sto p gawking at yourse lf. Who are you?You th ink you' re so pretty?" she would say. C onnie would raise her eyeb rows at these famili ar old complaints and look right th rough her mother, into a shadowy vision of herself as she was right at th at moment: she knew she was pretty and th at was everything. Her motherhad be en pretty once too , if you could beli eve those old snapshots in the alb um, but now herlooks were gone and th at was why she was always afte r C onnie.
"Why don 't you keep your room clean like your siste r? How've you got your hair fixed-what th e hell st inks? Hair spray? You don 't see your sister using that junk. "
Her siste r Jun e was twenty-fou rand still livedat h om e. Sh e was a secreta ry in th e high school Connie attended, and if that wasn 't bad enough-with her in the same building-s-she was so plain and chunky and steady that Connie had to h ear her praised all' t,h~ time by her mother and her mother' s sisters. Jun e did this, June did th at , she saved mon ey and h elp ed clean th e house and cooked and Connie couldn' t do a thing, her mind was all filled with trashy daydream s. Their father was away at work most of the tim e and whe n he cam e hom e h e wante d su pper an d he read th e news pape r at suppe r and aft er su pper he wen t to bed. He didn't bother talk ing mu ch to th em , but around hi s bent he ad C onnie's m other kept picking at her until
Connie wished her mother was dead and she h erself was dead and it was all over.
" Sh e mak es me want to throw up sometimes," she complained to her friends. She had a high , breathless, am use d voice that mad e everything she said sound a little forced , whe the r it was sincere or not.
There was one goo d thing: Ju ne went places wit h girl friends of hers, girls who were just as plain and ste ady as sh e, and so whe n C onnie wanted to do that her m other h ad no obj ections. The father of Connie's best girl friend dro ve th e girls th e three mil es to town andleft.them at a shopping plaza so they could walk through the sto res or go to amovie, and whe n he came to pick them up again at eleven he never bothered to ask what th ey had don e. .
.T hey m ust have been fam iliar sights, walking aro und th e sho pping plaza in th eir
'0

I
1

1962

Joyce Carol Gates

shorts and flat ballerina slippers that alwaysscuffed the sidewalk, with charm bracelets jingling on their thin wrists; they would lean together to whisper and laugh secretly if sorneonepassedwho amused or interested them. Connie had long dark blond hair that drew anyone 's eye to it, and she wore part of it pulled up on her head and puffed out and the rest of it she let fall down her back. She wore a pull-over jersey blouse that looked one way when she was at home and another way when she was away from home. Everything about her had two sides to it, one for home and one for anywhere that was n,9t home: her walk, which could be childlike and bobbing , or languid enough to make anyone think she was hearing music in her head; her mouth, which was pale and smirking most of the time, but bright and pink on these evenings out; her laugh, which was cynical and drawling at home-"Ha, ha, very funny,"-but high-pitched and nervous anywhere else, like the jingling of the charms on her bracelet.
Sometimes they did go shopping or to a movie , but sometimes they went across the highway, ducking fast across the busy road, to a drive-in restaurant where older kids hung out. The restaurant was shaped like a big bottle, though squatter than a real bottle, and on its cap was a reyolving figure of a grinning boy holding a ham burger aloft. One night in midsummer they ran across, breathless with daring, and right away someone leaned out a car window and invited them over, but it was just a boy from high school they didn't like. It made them feel good to be able to ignore him . They went up through the maze of parked and cruising cars to the bright-lit, fly-infested restaurant, their fac~s pleased and expectant as' if they were entering a sacred building that loomed up out of the night 'to give them what haven and blessing they yearned for. They sat at the counter and crossed :their legs at the ankles, their thin shoulders rigid 'with excitement, and listened to th~ music that made everything so good: the music was always in the background, like music at a church service; it was something to depend upon.
,
,
A boy named Eddie came in to talk with them . He sat backward s on his stool, turning himself jerkily around in semicircles and then stopping and turning back again, and after a while he asked Connie if she would like something to eat. She said she would and so she tapped her friend 's armon her way out-her friend pulled her face up into a brave, droll look-and Connie said she would meet her at eleven, across the way. "I just hate to leave her like that," Connie said earnestly; but the boy said that she wouldn't be alone for long. So they went out to his car, and on the way
Connie couldn't help but let her eyes wander over the windshields and faces all around her, her face gleaming with a joy that had nothing to do with Eddie or even this place; it might have been the music . She drew her shoulders up and sucked in her breath with the pure pleasure of being alive, and just at that moment she happened to glance at a face just a few feet from hers . It was a boy with shaggy black hair, in a convertible jalopy painted gold . He stared at her and then his lips widened into a grin. Connie slit her eyes at him and turned away, but she couldn't help glancing back and there he was, still watching her. He wagged a finger and laughed and said, "Gonna get you, baby," and Connie turned away again without Eddie noticing anything,
'
She spent three hours with him, at the restaurant where they ate hamburgers and drank Cokes in wax cups that were always sweating, and then down an alley a mile or so away, and when he left her off at five to eleven only the movie house was still open at the plaza. Her girl friend was there, talk ing with a boy. When Connie came

Where Are You Going?

1963

up, the two girls smiled at each other and Connie said, "How was the movie?" and the girl said, "You should know," They rode off with the girl's father, sleepy and pleased , and Connie couldn't help but look back at the darkened shopping plaza with its big empty parking lot and its signs that were faded and ghostly now, and over at the drive-in restaurant where cars were still circling tirelessly. She couldn't hear the music at this distance ,
Next morning June asked her how the movie was and Connie said, "So-so ."
She and that girl and occasionally another girl went out several times a week, and the rest of the time Connie spent around the house-it was summer vacationgetting in her mother's way and thinking, dreaming about the boys she met. But all the boys fell'back and dissolved into a single face that was not even a face but an idea, a feeling, mixed up with the urgent insistent pounding of the music and the humid night air of July. Connie's mother kept dragging her back to the daylight by finding things for her to do or saying suddenly, "What's this about the Pettinger girl?" "
,
And Connie would say nervously, "Oh, her. That dope ," She always drew thick clear lines between herself and such girls, and her mother was simple and kind enough to believe it. Her mother was so simple, Connie thought, that it was maybe cruel to fool her so much. Her mother went scuffling around the house in old bedroom slippers and complained over the telephone to one sister about the other, then the other called up and the two of them complained about the third one . If
June's name was mentioned her mother's tone was approving, and if Connie's name was mentioned it was disapproving, This did not really mean she disliked Connie, and actually Connie thought that her mother preferred her to June just because she was prettier, but the two of them kept up a pretense of exasperation, a sense that they were tugging and struggling over something of little value to either of them.
Sometimes, over coffee, they were almo st friends , but something would come upsome vexation that was like a fly buzzing suddenly around their heads-and their faces went hard with contempt.
One Sunday Connie got up at eleven-none of them bothered with churchand washed her hair so that it could dry all day long in the sun. Her parents and sister were going to a barbecue at an aunt's house and Connie said no, she wasn't interested, rolling her eyes to -let her mother know just what she thought of it. "Stay home alone then," her mother said sharply. Connie sat out back in a lawn chair and watched them drive away, her father quiet and bald, hunched around so that he could back the car out, her mother with a look that was still angry and not at all softened through the windshield, and in the back seat poor old June, all dressed up as if she didn't know what a barbecue was, with all the running yelling kids and the flies. Connie sat with her eyes closed in the sun , dreaming and dazed with the warmth about her as if this were a kind of love, the caresses of love, and her mind slipped over onto thoughts of the boy she had been with the night before and how nice he had been, how sweet it always was, not the way someone like June would suppose but sweet, gentle, the way it was in movies and promised in songs; and when she opened her eyes she hardly knew where she was, the back yard ran off into weeds and a fence -like line of trees and behind it the sky was perfectly blue and still.
The asbestos "ranch house" that was now three years old startled her-it looked small . She shook her head as if to get awake.
It was too hot. She went inside the house and turned on the radio to drown out

1964

Joyce Carol Gates

Where Are You Going?

1965

~ j~rk, and so. sh~ dawdled in the doorway and wouldn't come down or go back inside. She said, What s all that stuff painted on your car?"
"Can'tcha read it?" He opened the door very carefully, as if he were afraid it
~ight fall o.ff. He sli~ out just as carefully, planting his feet firmly on the ground, the b~y met~lhc world m his glasses slowing down like gelatine hardening, and in the m~dst of It Connie's bright green blouse . "T his here is my name, to begin with, " he said. ARNOLD :RI~ND was written i~ tarlike black letters on the side, with a drawing of a round, gnnnmg face that reminded Connie of a pumpkin, except it wore sunglasses. "I wanta introduce myself, I'm Arnold Friend and that's my real name and
I'~ gonna be y~ur frie~d, honey, and inside the car's Ellie Oscar, he's kinda shy."
Elhe brought hIS transistor radio up to his shoulder and balanced it there . "Now, these numbers are a secret code, honey," Arnold Friend explained. He read off the numbers .33',19, 7 and raised his eyebrows at her to see what she thought of that, but she didn t thmk much of it. The left rear fender had been smashed and around it was written, on the gleaming gold background: DONE BY CRAZY WOMAN DRIVER.
Connie had to laugh at that . Arnold Friend was pleased at her laughter and looked up at her. "Around the other side's a lot more-you wanta come and see them?"
"No."
.
"Why not?"
. "W hy should I?"
"Don'tcha wanta see what's on the car? Don'tcha wanta go for a ride?"
"I don 't know."
"W hy not? "
"I got things to do."
"Like what?"
"Things."

the quiet. She sat on the edge of her bed, barefoot, and listened for an hour and a half to a program called XYZ Sunday Jamboree, record after record of hard,fast, shrieking songs she sang along with, interspersed by exclamations from "Bobby
King": "An ' look here, you girls at Napoleon's-Son and Charley want you to pay real close attention to this song coming up!"
"
And Connie paid close attention herself, bathed in a glow of slow-pulsed joy that seemed to rise mysteriously out of the music itself and lay languidly about the airless little room, breathed in and breathed out with each gentle rise and fall of her chest. After a while she heard a car coming up the drive. She sat up at once, startled, because it couldn't be her father so soon . The gravel kept crunching all the way in from the road-the driveway was long-and Connie ran to the window. It was a car she didn't know. It was an open jalopy, painted a bright gold that caught the sunlight opaquely. Her heart began to pound and her fingers snatched at her hair, checking it, and she whispered, "Christ. Christ," wondering how bad she looke~ .
The car came to a stop at the side door and the horn sounded four short taps, as If this were a signal Connie knew.
.
'
She went into the kitchen-and approached the door slowly, then hung out the screen door, her bare toes curling down off the step. There were two boys in the car and now she recognized the driver: he had shaggy, shabby black hair that looked
' I . crazy as a wig and he was grinning at her.
\'1 airi't late, am I?" he said.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Connie said.
"T old ja I'd be out, didn't I?"
"I don 't even know who you are ."
,
She spoke sullenly, careful to show no interest or pleasure, a~d he sp~ke in a fast, bright monotone. Connie looked past him to.the other boy; .ta~mg her time. He.had fair brown hair, with a lock that fell onto hIS forehead . HIS sideburns gave him a fierce, embarrassed look, but so far he hadn't even bothered to glance at her. Both boys wore sunglasses . The driver's glasses were metallic and mirrored everything in miniature. I
"You wanta come for a ride?" he said .
Connie smirked and let her hair fall loose over one shoulder.
"Don'tcha like my car? New paint job," he said. "Hey ."
"What?"
, ,
"You're cute."
She pretended to fidget, chasing flies away from thedoor.
"Don'tcha believe me, or what?" he said .
.
"Look, I don't even know who you are," Connie said in disgust. .
'
"Hey, Ellie's got a radio, see. Mine broke down ." He lifted his friend 's arm and showed her the little transistor radio the boy was holding, and now Connie began to hear the music. It was the same program that was playing inside the house . '
"Bobby King?" she said.
',
"I listen to him all the time. I think he's great."
"He's kind of great," Connie said reluctantly.
" Listen, that guy's great. He knows where the action is,"
.
Connie blushed a little, because the glasses made it impossible for her to see'1ust what this boy was looking at. She couldn't decide if she liked him or if he was lust

!

I

I

.

He .lau~hed as if she had said .something funny . He slapped his thighs . He was st.andmg 111 a str;nge way, lea~mg back against the car as if he were balancing himself, He wasn t tall, only an inch or so taller than she would be if she came down to him . Connie liked the way he was dressed, which was the way all of them dressed: tight faded jeans stuffed into black, scuffed boots, a belt that pulled his waist in and showed how lean he was, and a white pul1-over shirt that was a little soiled and show.edthe hard small muscles ofhis arms and shoulders. He looked as if he proba bly did hard work, lifting and carrying things . Even his neck looked muscular. And his face was a familiar face, somehow: the jaw and chin and cheeks slightly darkened be~ause he hadn 't shaved for a day or two, and the nose long and hawklike, sniffing as If she were a treat he was goingto gobble up and it was al1 a joke.
.
"Connie, you ain 't tel1ing the truth . This is your day set aside for a ride with me and you know it," he said, stilllaughing, The way he straightened and recovered from his fit of laughing showed that it had been al1 fake,
"How do you know what my name is?" she said suspiciously .
"It 's Connie."
"Maybe and maybe not."
"I know my Connie," he said, wagging his finger. Now she remembered him even better, back at the restaurant, and her cheeks warmed at the thought of how she had sucked in her breath just at the moment she passed him-how she must have looked ~~ him ..An,? h~ had re~~mbered her. " El1ie and I come out here especially for you, he said. Elhe can SIt m back . How about it?"

d

,...
WhereAre You Going?

1966 . foyce Carol Gates
"Where?"
"Where what?"
"Where're we going?"
.
He looked at her. He took off th e sunglasses and she saw how pale the skin aroun d his eyes was, like holes th at were not in S?ado:v but in~tead in light. Hi~ eyes were like chi ps of broken glass that catch the hght m an amiable way. He sr:l1led. It :vas as if the idea of going for a ride somewhe re, to some place, was a new Idea to him.
"Just for a ride, Co nnie sweethe art."
"I never said my name was Connie," she said .
.
"
" But I know wha t it is. I knowyour name and all abo ut you, lot s of th ings, Arnold
Friend said. He had no t moved yet but stoo d still leaning back against th e side of his jalopy. "I took a special int erest in you, such a pretty girl, and found out all abo ut you- like I know your parents and sister are gone somewhe res an~ I ~now ~here and how long th ey're going tobe gone , and I know who you were with last night, and,
.
.. your best girl friend's nam e is Betty. Right ?"
He spoke in a sim ple lilting voice, exactly as If he were reC1tm~ th e words to a song. His smile assured her th at everything was fine . In th e car Elhe tu rned up th e volume on hi s radio and did not bother to look aroun d at th em .
" Ellie can sit in th e back seat," Arnold Friend said . He indi cat ed his friend with a casual jerk of his chin, as if Ellie did not count and she sho uld not both er with him.
" How' d you find out all th at stuff?" Connie said.
"Listen: Betty Schultz and T ony Fit ch and Jimmy Pettinger and Nancy Pettin ger," h e said in a chant. " Rayrnond Sta nley and Bob Hutter-"
,
" Do you know all th ose kids?"
"I know everybo dy."
"Look, you' re kidding. You' re not from around here."
>

"Sure."

" But- how come we never saw you before?"
,
"Sure you saw me before," he said. He looked down at his boot s, as if he were a littl e offended . "You just don 't remember."
"I guess I'd reme mber you," C onnie said.
.
.
"Yeah?" He looked up at thi s, beami ng. He was pleased . He began to mark time with th e mu sic from Ellie's radio, tappi ng h is fists lightl y together. C onnie looked away from his smile to th e car, which was painted so bright it almos t hurt her eyes to look at it. She looked at th at name, ARNOLD FRIEND. And up at th e front fender was an expression th at was fam iliar-MAN THE FLYING SAUCERS. It wa~ an expre~sion kids had used th e year before but didn't use th is.year. She looked at It for a while as if th e words m eant some th ing to her th at she did no t yet know.
"What're you th inking about? Huh?" Arnold Friend demanded . "Not worried about your hair blowing aroun d in th e car, are you?"
"N o ."

"T hink I m aybe can't drive good?"
" How do I know?"
"You're a hard girl to handl e. How come?" he said. " Do n' t you know I'm your friend? Didn't you see me put my sign in th e air whe n you walked by?"
"What sign?"
.
"M y sign." And he drew an X in th e air, leanin g out toward h~r . ,!,hey we.re maybe ten feet apart. After his hand fell back to his side th e X was still m th e air, almost

1967

visible. Conn ie let th e screen door close and stoo d perfectly still inside it, listen ing to th e music from her radio and th e boy's blend together. She stare d at Arnold
Friend. He stoo d th ere so stiffly relaxed , pretending to be relaxed, with one hand idly on the door handl e as if he were keep ing himself up th at way and had no int ention of ever moving again . She recognized most th ings about him , th e tight jeans that showed his thighs and buttocks and th e greasy leath er boot s and th e tight shirt, and even th at slippery friendl y sm ile of his, th at sleepy dreamy smile that all the boys used to get across ideas they didn 't want to put into words. She recognized all thi s and also th e singsong way he talked, slightly mocking, kidd ing, bu t serious and a littl e melanc holy, and she recognized the way hetapped one fist against th e othe r in hom age to th e perpetual mu sic behind him. But all th ese th ings did not come togeth er.
She said suddenly, " Hey, how old are you?"
His smile faded. She could see th en th at he wasn' t a kid, he was mu ch olde rth irty, maybe more. At th is knowledge her heart began to pound faster.
"T hat' s a crazy th ing to ask. Can't cha see I'm your own age?"
' '' Like hell you are."
"O r maybe a coupla years older. I'm eighteen."
"Eighteen? " she said doubtfully.
He grinned to reassure her and lines appeared at th e corne rs of his mouth. His teeth were big and white. He grinne d so broadly his eyes became slits and she saw how th ick th e lashes were, thi ck and black as if painted with a black tarlike mat erial.
T hen , abru ptly, he seemed to becom e embarrasse d and looked over his shoulder at
Ellie. "Him, he's crazy," he said . "Ain't he a riot ? He's a nut, a real cha racter." Ellie was st ill listening to th e mu sic. His sunglasses told nothing about what he was th inking. He wore a bright orange shirt unbuttoned halfway to show his ches t, which was a pale, blui sh ches t and not mu scular like Arnold Friend's . His shirt collar was turned up all aroun d and th e very tip s of th e collar point ed out past his chin as if th ey were protecting him : He was pressing th e transistor radio up agains t his ear and sat th ere in a kind of daze, right in th e sun.
" He's kinda strange," C onnie said.
" Hey, she says you' re kind a strange! Kinda strange!" Arnold Friend cried. He pound ed on th e car to get Ellie's attention. Ellie turn ed for th e first time an d
Connie saw with shock th at he wasn't a kid eith er-s-he had a fair hairless face chee ks reddened slightly as if the veins grew too close to the surface of his skin, th e face of a forty-year-old bab y. C onnie felt a wave of dizziness rise in her at thi s sight and she stare d at him as if waiting for something to change the shock of th e mo ment , ma ke it all right again. Ellie's lips kept sha ping words, mumbling along with the words blastin g in his ear.
.
"Maybe you two better go away," Connie said faintly.
"W hat? How come ?" Arnold Friend cried. "We come ou t here to take you for a ride . It' s Sunday." He had th e voice of th e man on th e radio now. It was th e same voice, C onn ie th ought. "Don't cha know it' s Sun day all day? And honey, no ma tter
~ho you were with last night , today you' re with Arnold Friend and don't you forget
It! Maybe you better ste p out here," he said, and th is last was in a differen t voice. It was a little flatter, as if th e heat was finally getting to him.
"No. I got th ings to do."
" Hey."

1968

. Joyce Carol Oates

"You two better leave."
"W e ain't leaving until you come with us."
" Like hell 1 am-"
"Connie, don 't fool aroun d with me . 1 mean-I mean , don't fool around," he said, shaking his head . He laughed incredulously. He placed his sunglasses on top of his head, carefully, as if he were ind eed wearing a wig, and brought th e stems down behind his ears. C onni e sta red at him , another wave of dizziness and fear rising in her so th at for a mo men t he wasn't even in focus but was just a blur standing th ere against his gold car, and she had th e idea th at he had driven up th e driveway all right but had come from nowhere before th at and belon ged nowhere and th at everything about him and even abou t th e music th at was so fam iliar to her was only half real.
" If my fath er comes and sees you-"
" He ain' t coming. He's at a barb ecue."
" How do you know th at?"
"Aunt Tilli e's. Right now th ey're-uh-they're drinking. Sitting around," he said vaguely, squinting as if he were star ing all the way to town and over to Aunt
Tilli e's back yard. Then th e vision seeme d to get clear and he nodd ed ene rgetically.
"Yeah. Sitt ing around. There's your sister in a blue dress, huh? And high heels, the poor sad bit ch-nothing like you, sweethea rt !And your mother's helping some fat woma n with th e corn-they're cleanin g th e corn- husking th e corn-"
"Wha t fat woma n?" Co nnie cried .
" How do 1know what fat woman , 1don 't know every god damn fat woma n in the world!" Arnold Friend laughed .
"Oh, th at' s Mrs. Hornsby. . .. W ho invited her?" Co nnie said. She felt a little
.
lightheaded . Her breath was coming qui ckly.
"She 's too fat. 1don 't like th em fat. 1like th em th e way you are, hon ey," he said, sm iling sleepily at her. They sta red at each othe r for a while th rough th e screen door.
He said softly, "Now, what you' re going to do is th is: you're going to come out tha t door. You' re going to sit up front with m e and Ellie's going to sit in th e back, th e hell with Ellie, right? This isn' t Ellie's date. You're my dat e. I'm your lover, honey."
"W hat? You're crazy-"
"Yes, I'm your lover. You don't know what th at is but you will," he said. "I know th at too. 1know all about you. But look: it's real nice and you couldn' t ask for nobod y better th an me, or more polite. 1 always keep my word. I'll tell you how it is, I'm always nice at first, th e first tim e. I'll hold you so tight you won 't think you have to try to get away or pret end anything because you'll know you can't. And I'll come inside you where it' s all secret and you' ll give in to me and you' ll love me-"
"Shut up! You 're crazy!" C onni e said. She -backed away from th e door. She put her hand s up against her ears as if she 'd heard something terrible, some thing not meant for her. "People don't talk like th at , you' re crazy," she muttered . Her heart was almos t too big now for her ches t and its pumping made sweat break out all over her. She looked out to see Arnold Friend pause and th en take a ste p toward the porch, lur ching. He almos t fell. But , like a clever drunken man , he managed to catch . his balance. He wobbled in his high boot s and grabbe d hold of one of th e porch posts. " Honey?" he said. "You still listenin g?"
"Get th e hell out of here!"
" Be nice , ho ney. Listen. "

Where Are You Going? . 1969
"I'm going to call th e police-"
.
He wobbled again and out of th e side of his mouth came a fast spat curse, an aside not meant for her to hear.But even th is "C hrist!" sounded forced. Then he began to smile again. She watched thi s smile come , awkward as if he were sm iling from inside a mask. His who le face was a mask, she th ought wildly, tan ned down to his th roat bu t th en run ning ou t as if he had plastered make -up on his face bu t had forgotten about his throat. .
" Honey-? List en, here's how it is. 1always tell th e tru th and 1 promise you this:
1 ain'tcoming in th at house after you."
"You better not! I'm going to call th e police if you- if you don't-"
" Honey," he said, talking right thro ugh her voice, "honey, I'm no t coming in th ere but you are coming out here. You know why?" .
She was panting. The kitchen looked like a place she had never seen before, some room she had run inside but th at wasn't good enough, wasn' t going to help her. The kitchen window had never had a curtain, after th ree years, and th ere were dishes in th e sink for her to do-probably-and if you ran your hand across th e table you' d probably feel something sticky th ere.
"You listening, hon ey? Hey?"
"-going to call th e police-" .
"Soon as you touch th e ph one 1 don 't need to keep my prom ise and can come
.
inside. You won 't want th at .'.' ..
She rushed forward and tried to lock th e door. Her fingers were shaking. "But why lock it," Arnold Friend said gen tly, talking right into her face. " It' s just a screen door. It 's just nothing." O ne of his boots was at a st range angle, as if his foot wasn't in it. It pointed out- to th e left , bent at th e ankle. "I mea n, anybody can break th rough a screen door and glass and wood and iron or anything else if he needs to, anybody at all, and specially Arnold Friend. If the place got lit up with a fire, hon ey, you'd come run nin ' out into my arms, right int o my arms an' safe at home-like you knew I was your lover and' d stopped fooling around. I don't mind a nice shy girl but
I don't like no fooling around ." Part of th ose words were spoken with a slight rhyth mic lilt, and C onnie some how recognized th em-the echo of a song from last year, abo ut a girl rushing into her boy friend's arm s and coming hom e again. C onnie stoo d barefoot on th e linoleum floor; staring at him . "What do you want?" she whispered.
"I want you," he said.
"W hat?"
.
that night and th ought, th at' s th e one, yes sir. I never needed to look
.. "Seen you anymo re."
" But my fathe r's comin g back. He's com ing to get me. I had to wash my hai r first-" She spoke in a dry, rapid voice, hardly raising it for him to hear.
"No, your daddy is not coming and yes, you had to wash your hair and you washed it for me. It' s nice and shining and all for me. I thank you, sweethea rt," he said with a m ock bow, but again he almost lost his balance. He had to bend and adjust his boot s. Evidently his feet did not go all th e way down; th e boots must have been stuffed with some thing so th at he would seem taller. Co nn ie stare d out at him and beh ind him at Ellie in th e car, who seeme d to be looking off toward C onni e's right, into nothi ng. This Ellie said, pulling th e words out of th e air one afte r ano ther as if he were just discovering th em, "You want me to pull out the phone?"

I
I

1

1

1970

Joyce Carol Gates

"S hut your mouth and keep it shut," Arnold Frien d said, his face red from bending over or maybe from emba rrassme nt becau se C onnie had seen his boot s. "T his ain' t non e of your bu siness."
"Wha t-wha t are you doing? W ha t do you want?" C onnie said. " If I call the police they' ll get you, th ey'll arrest you- "
" Prom ise was no t to come in unl ess you tou ch th at ph one, and I'll keep that prom ise," he said. He resumed his erect position and tri ed to force his sho ulders back. He sounde d like a hero in a movie, declaring some thing im porta nt. But he spoke too loudl y and it was as if he were speaki ng to someo ne beh ind Conni e. "I ain' t made plan s for com ing in that hou se whe re I don 't belon g bu t just for you to come out to me, th e way you shou ld. Don 't you know who I am?"
"You're crazy," she whispered. She backed away from th e door but did not want to go into another part of th e house, as if thi s would give him permission to come th rough th e door. "What do you . .. you' re crazy, you . . . ."
" Huh? What're you saying, honey?"
Her eyes darted everywhere in th e kit chen . She could not rem ember what it was, thi s room .
"T his is how it is, hon ey: you come out and we'll drive away, have a nice ride. But if you don't come out we're gonna wait till your people com e hom e and then the y're all going to get it."
"You want th at tel eph one pulled ou t?" Ellie said. He held th e radi o away from his ear and grimaced, as if witho ut th e radi o th e air was too mu ch for him.
" I toldja sh ut up , Ellie," Arnold Friend said, "you're deaf, get a hearing aid, right ?
Fix yourself up. T his little girl's no tro uble and's gonna be nice tome, so Ellie keep to yourself, thi s ain' t your date-righ t? Don 't hem in on me, don 't hog, don 't crush, don't bird dog, don 't trail me," he said in a rapid, meaningless voice, as if he were run ning thro ugh all the expressions he'd learn ed bu t was no longer sure which of th em was in style, th en rushin g on to new ones, making th em up with his eyes closed. " Don't crawl under my fence , don 't squee ze in my chipmun k hole, don 't sniff my glue, suck my popsicle, keep your own greasy fingers on yourself!" He shade d his eyes and peered in at Connie , who was backed against th e kitchen table .
" Don' t mind him, honey, he's just a creep. He's a dope. Right? I'm th e boy for you and like I said, you come out here nice like a lady and give me your hand, and nobod y else gets hurt, I mean , your nice old bald -head ed dadd y and your mummy and your siste r in her high heels. Becau se listen : why bring th em in thi s?"
" Leave me alone," C onnie whispered .
" Hey, you kno w that old woman down th e road , th e one with th e chickens and stuff-you know her ?"
"She 's dead! "
"Dead ? W hat? You know her?" Arno ld Fri end said.
"S he 's dead-"
" Do n' t you like her?"
"S he 's dead-she's-she isn't here any mor e-"
" But don 't you like her, I m ean , you got some thing against her? Some grudge or something?" T he n his voice dipped as if he were conscious of a rud ene ss. He tou ched th e sunglasses perched up on top of his head as if to make sure th ey were still th ere. "Now, you be a good girl."
.
"What are you going to do?"

Where Are You Going?

1971

"Just two things, or ma ybe three," Arnold Friend said. "But I promise it won' t last lon g and you' ll like me th e way you get to like people you're close to. You will. It' s all over for you here, so come on out . You don't want your people in any trouble, do you?" She turned and bu mp ed against a cha ir or some thing, hurting her leg, but she ran int o th e back room and picked up th e teleph one. Some thing roared in her ear, a tiny roaring, and she was so sick with fear tha t she could do nothing but listen to it-the teleph one was clam my and very heavy and her fingers groped down to th e dial but w:re too weak to.tou ch it. She began to scream int o th e ph one, into th e roarin g. She cned out, she cn ed for her mother, she felt her breath sta rt jerking back and forth in her lun gs as if it were some thing Arnold Friend was stabbing her with again and again with no tenderness. A noisy sorrowful wailing rose all about her and she was locked inside it th e way she was locked inside th is house.
Afte r a while she could hear again. She was sitting on th e floor with her wet back again st th e wall.
Arnold Friend was saying from th e door, "T hat' s a good girl. Put the ph one back."
She kicked the phone away from her.
"No, honey. Pick it up , Putit back right. "
She picked it up and put it back. The dial ton e sto pped.
"T hat' s a good girl. Now, you come outside."
She was hollow with wha t had been fear but what was now just an em ptiness . All th at screaming had blasted it out of her. She sat, one leg cram ped under her, and deep inside her brain was something like a pinpoint of light th at kept going an d would not let her relax. She th ought, I'm not going to see my mother again . She th ought, I'm not going to slee p in my bed again. Her bright green blouse was all wet.
Arnold Friend said, in a gen tle-loud voice th at was like a stage voice, "T he place where you came from ain' t th ere any more, and where you had in mind to go is cancelled out. This place you are now-inside your dadd y's house-is nothing but a cardboa rd box I can knock down any time. You know th at and always did know it .
You hear me?"
She th ou ght, I ha ve got to th ink. I have got to know wha t to do.
"We'll go out to a nice field, out in th e country here where it smells so nice an d it's sunny," Arnold Friend said. " I'll have my arms tight around you so you won't need to try to get away and I'll show you what love is like, wha t it does. T he hell with thi s house! It looks solid all right," he said. He ran a fingernail down th e screen and th e noise did not make C onnie shiver, as it would have th e day befor e. "Now, put your hand on your heart, honey. Feel th at ? That feels solid too but we know better.
Be nice to me, be sweet like you can because what else is th ere for a girl like you but to be sweet and pretty and give in?-and get away before her people come back?"
She felt her pou nding heart. Her hand seem ed to enclose it. She thought for th e first tim e in her life th at it was nothing th at was her s, tha t belon ged to her, but just a pounding, living thing inside th is bod y that wasn't really hers eithe r.
"You don't want th em to get hurt," Arnold Friend went on. "Now, get up , hon ey.
Get up all by yourself.'.'
She stoo d.
"Now, turn thi s way. That' s righ t. Com e over here to me. -Ellie, put th at away, didn 't I tell you? You dope. You miserable creepy dope," Arnold Friend said. His words were not angry but on ly part of an incantat ion. T he incantat ion was kindl y.

1972

Bobbie Ann Mason

Shiloh

"Now, com e out th rou gh th e kit chen to me, h on ey,' and let' s see a sm ile, tr y it, you 're a brave, swee t little girl an d now th ey're eati ng corn and h ot dogs cooked to bursting over an outdoor fire, and they don 't know one thing abou t-you and never did and hon ey, you' re better th an th em be cau se not a one of th em would have done thi s.for you ."
C onnie felt th e linoleu m under her feet ; it was cool. She b rush ed h er h air back out of her eyes . Arno ld Friend let go of th e post tentati vely an d opened h is arms for her.diis elbows pointing in toward each othe r an d hi s wrists limp, to show th at th is was an emba rrassed embrace and a little m ockin g, he didn 't wan t. to m ake h er self-co nscio us .
She put out h er hand against th e scree n. She watche d h erself pu sh th e door slowly op en as if she were b ack safe som ewhere in th e other doorway, watc hing'this bod y and this head of long hair m oving out into th e sunligh t where Arnold Frien d waited .
"My sweet little blue-eyed girl," he said in a half-sung sigh th at had no th ing to do wit h her brown eyes but was taken up just th e same by th e vast sunlit reach es of th e land behind h im and on all sides of h im-so much land that C onnie had never seen b efore and did not recognize exce pt to know that she was going to it.
1970

BOBBlE ANN MASON
(1940-

,' )
"

Raised on a farm in western Kent ucky,
Bobbie Ann Mason gradua ted , frorn the
University of Kentucky in 1962 and did magazine work in New York before returning to school to earq. an MA from the
State University of New York at Binghamton in 1966. Marriage followed in 1969 and th en a Ph.D. from the University of
Connecticut in 1972. Teaching at Mansfield State College in Pennsylvania, she turned her dissertation int o her first book,
Nabokov'sGarden:A Guid~ toAda' (1974).
Her second, The Girl Sleuth: A Feminist
Guide (1975), is a study of th e Nancy
Drew series and othe r similar books. She came to fiction later, but her first collection , Shilohand OtherStories (1982), won th e Ernest Hemingway Award for th e most distinguished first fiction of th e year. In her first novel, In Country (1 985), she describes th e lingering effects of th e
Vietnam Wa r on an American family-a young woman who has never seen her fa-

th er, who died there; he r uncle, a traumatized veteran ; and her grandmo theryears later as they make a pilgrimage to the
Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Was hington. In her second, Spence + Lila (1988), she portr ays a Kentucky farm fam ily confronting change, age, and mortality.
Bobbie Ann Mason's Shiloh stories inVite,compariso n 'with th ose in Ann Beattie's The Burning House (1982) and Raymond Carver's Cathedral (1983).All three books collected stories published in popular magazines (a third of th em in The New
Yorker), and all t~nded to focus'on contemp orary alienation. Each writer has a distinctive tone and milieu, however, with
Carver's out look generaIly the bleakest and Beatt ie's people the most sophisticated. For Mason, th e milieu is' a rural
Kentucky forever changed by th e plastic improvem ent s' 'that have brought every town its McDonald's and Burger King. A retire d husband .and wife talk of "field

peas and coun try ham" as th ey sit down to a qu ick meal in the elabora te camper th ey have purchased with the proceeds from th e sale of thei r farm. Everywhere the world beyond Kentu cky int rudes, from
Phil Donahu e and Steve Martin on television to the mastectom ies of Bet ty Ford and Happy Rockefeller to th e housewife who works part tim e for H & R Block. Even

1973

the man who sells coon hound s at th e local flea market is taint ed by th e.present , failing to return one day, "picked up over in
Missouri for peddling a hot TV." Similar ma terials and themes are found in her second collection, Love Life (1989).
Mason 's books to date are named above. A brief appra isal appears in Dictionary of Literary Biography Yearbook: 198 7, 1988.

Shiloh
Leroy Mo ffitt's wife, Nor ma Jean, is working on her pectorals. She lifts th reepound du mbbells to warm u p, th en progresses to a twe nty-pound b arb ell. Standing with her legs apart, she rem inds Leroy of Wonde r Woma n.
" I'd give anyth ing if I could just get th e~ e mu scles to where they'r e real hard," says Norma Jean, " Feel thi s arm . It's no t as hard as th e othe r one ."
"T hat's 'cau se you 're righ t-ha nde d," says Leroy, dodging as she swings th e barbell in an arc.
" Do you think so?"
"Sure ."
Lero y is a tru ckdriver. He injured hi s leg in a h igh way accid ent four m onths ago, and hi s ph ysical th erap y, wh ich involves weights and a pull ey, prompted Norma
[eari to tr y bu ildin g herself up, Now she is attending a bod y-building class. Lero y h as been collecting temporary disab ility since hi s tract or-t railer jackkn ifed in Mis sour i, b adly twisti ng his left leg in its socket. He has a ste el pin in h is hip. H~ will prob abl y no t be able to drive hi s rig again . It sits in th e b ackyard, like a gigan tic bi rd that has flown hom e to roos t. Lero y has been home in Kentucky for three m on th s', and h is leg is alrn ost healed , but th e accide n t frigh tened h im and h e does not want to dri ve any more lon g hauls. He is not sur e what to do next. In th e mea n time , he m akes things from craft kit s. He star te d by building a m iniat ure log cabin from notch ed
Popsicle stic ks. He varn ishe d it an d placed it on th e T V set, whe re it remains. It reminds h im of a rustic Na tivity scene . Then he tried st ring art (sailing sh ips on blackvelvet ), a macrame owl kit , a sna p-toge ther B-17 Flying Fortress, an d a lamp m ad e ou t of a mod el t ruc k, wit h a light fixt ure screwed in the top of the cab . At first the kit s were diversion s, something to kill time, but now he is thinking abo ut bu ilding a full- scale log hou se from a kit. It would be cons ide rably ch eaper tha n building a regul ar hou se, and besid es, Leroy has grown to apprec iate how th ings are put together. He ha s begun to realize th at in all th e years he was on th e road he never took time to exam ine any th ing. He was always flying past scenery.
"T hey won 't let you build a log cabin in an y of th e new subdivi sions," No rma Jean tells him.
"T hey will if I tell th ern it's for you," he says, teasing her. Ever since th ey were married, h e ha s promised Norma Jean he would build her a new home one day. They have always rented , and th e hou se they live in is sma ll and nondescrip t. It do es not even feel like a home, Leroy realizes now.
Norma Jean works at th e Rexall dru gstore, and she has acquired an amazing