University of Northern Iowa

BrothersAuthor(s): William PageSource: The North American Review, Vol. 273, No. 2 (Jun., 1988), p. 53Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25124974 .

Accessed: 14/06/2014 11:23

Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at .http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp

.JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range ofcontent in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new formsof scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact support@jstor.org.

.

University of Northern Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The NorthAmerican Review.

http://www.jstor.org

This content downloaded from 185.2.32.58 on Sat, 14 Jun 2014 11:23:22 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions

MI LU CENT OSBORN

"No, I don't see why you should." I gave her my name.

"You know, I thought you were Marlene Dietrich. Are you?"

"Oh, dear, no." I laughed and added, foolishly, "But

funnily enough, I know her. My husband writes for the movies sometimes and I've met her."

This unnecessary information had the most electrify ing effect. She stopped while we were crossing the street and put her hand to her heart and raised her eyes heaven

ward. I took one startled look at her and ran across to

safety. I looked back at her expecting the worst. She was

walking through the traffic as if she were some disem bodied spirit, immune to collision.

"Do you really know her?" she asked as she reached the curb unharmed. "It's been the dream of my life to

meet her."

I tried to deglamorize Marlene Dietrich. I wanted her to feel that she wasn't missing so much.

"She's a very nice woman," I said, making her sound

like a next-door neighbor. "I've met her a number of

times and she's always been very pleasant." The girl looked at me searchingly. I think she was

doubtful for a moment that we were talking of the same

person.

I walked on toward Park Avenue. She followed at my side.

"What do you do?" she asked suddenly. "I'm a housewife. I have a little granddaughter whom

I spend a good deal of time with; I go to the 'Y' occasion

ally." "I do, too! I take Yoga and Karate. When do you go?

Maybe we can meet. Do you take Yoga, too?"

"No, I use the pool sometimes," I said, more guarded now.

"Oh, you ought to take Yoga. It's a source of beauty," she said enigmatically. I started across the street north toward ninety-second.

"Where do you live?" she asked, catching up to me as I neared the curb.

"Here," I said, waving my hand vaguely to the build

ing on the corner. "I have to go now. My husband's

waiting for me." I held out my hand. "Goodbye," I said. She took my hand.

"Did you really mean it, about buying me the fish?" she asked, her head cocked to one side as if puzzling it out.

"Of course I did." I laughed, uncertainly. "You mean if I had said yes you would have bought it

for me?"

"Yes."

"But why?" "Well, if you wanted it that much and felt you

couldn't get it, I would have got it for you." "Just like that?" I nodded my head. "That's friendship, really." She looked at me a long time. "When will I see you

again?" she asked. I edged to the lobby. I evaded a direct answer. I

smiled a lot and mumbled something about coming out

every day. I entered the sheltering darkness of the lobby

and waved goodbye. She stood out in the sunshine in her black raincoat and waved back at me. She didn't look

happy or sad. She didn't smile. It occurred to me she hadn't smiled throughout.

I told my husband about it that night while we were

reading in bed. I told it in explanation of why we had flounder. I told it amusingly. I said I should have signed

Marlene Dietrich's name and made the girl happy. Then I turned out the light and went to sleep.

I found myself near a barren field, in the middle of which a little girl sat alone and motionless on a rock. The field was fenced in but I went right through the fence and held out a bouquet of flowers to the child. She didn't

move at first. She only studied me. I urged her on. She rose and came slowly forward, watching me, warily.

Then, seeing my encouraging gesture, she laughed and rushed toward me, her arms outstretched. When she was

within reach of the flowers, I put them behind my back and turned and walked away. D

WILLIAM PAGE

BROTHERS

We were standing, pissing never

to grow old, never to stay sober

by the car of a living green. It held

together the night sky, black

like the dark road that never moved

under us so smoothly to bring us

to the young brothers we were.

Closing our closures of clothes

and opening those heavy doors

of an almost now forgotten car, we slid back into our mobile tavern,

this car owned by our father

and mother who gave us our lives and stories

of what our lives could and must never be.

Wasn't it our ancestors and friends of friends, our perfidious and would-be lovers we spoke of

borne up on the thin air of our tires?

In the many layered waxed car we'd given the very grease of our arms I howled

like a desperate dog at the dark obedience of ni

We talked and drank in the beery solemnity, a brotherly rite parked to fill up the anxious

space of our rapidly passing time.

Brother, we toasted the future

by what we didn't say, by giving our open lips to the long bottle's neck.

June 1988 53

This content downloaded from 185.2.32.58 on Sat, 14 Jun 2014 11:23:22 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions