Harris, Carla

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MANUSCRIPTS 17was a very composed and reassuring person."Then allow me to show you. 'vVe are indeed fortunate that wecan view it from the window." The Negro pulled back the heavydrapery, revealing an enormous window as the fourth wall. "I daresay that you will find our city beautiful," he added.Clifford Webster again could not reply. He could only starewith unbelief at the scene before him. Beyond the window stretcheda plaza fully two hundred yards in dimension, an architectural wonderof gardens and marble statues and fountains. On either side and atthe end of the plaza lay three wide boulevards, lined with mansionafter mansion of gleaming white or soft pink marble. The entire citywas teeming with people of all ages, of all physical builds, of bothsexes. All were Negro."Why, it's fantastic," exclaimed Webster, "utterly fantastic!Everyone here is colored! They're all niggers !""Is that so strange?" questioned the Counselor. "Have you notbothered to look at yourself?"Trembling, Mr. Webster pulled off his gloves. He gasped. "I'mcolored!" he screamed hysterically. ''I'm a nigger!""You are indeed," the Counselor agreed, as he turned again togaze upon the city."What's going on here, anyhow?" Webster's voice cracked withrage. "Is this your idea of a joke? Well, is it?"Shaking his head sadly, the Counselor spoke. "I see that thetime has come when I must tell you the truth, Mr. Webster. Yousee, three days ago, after you returned to your apartment a bankruptman, you died of a heart attack." He paused. "You were buried,following tradition, in "Memorial Cemetery-and, I might add, withquite a display of mourning from your friends. The moment yourcoffin came to rest upon the earth, you found yourself knocking atmy door, here in this beautiful city ... in Heaven, 1\111-. Webster."June Balm"Carla HarrisSunset Lane, BloomingtonJUNE 20, 19-. I have hac! what I believe to be the most remarkableday in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind,I shall try to record them in my pocket secretary.To begin, I am James Clarence Withencrof t, forty years old, andhave always enjoyed perfect health. By profession I am an artisan,designing and repairing jewelry in my own small shop, and I makeenough money to satisfy my simple needs. My aging mother, whomI supported for many years, passed on last autumn, leaving me alonein this world and independent.I opened my shop at nine this morning, and after glancing through* A parody 011 /J 11.IJ'IIsl H cat, by VV. F. Harvey.18 MANUSCRIPTSthe morning paper, put on my jeweler'S glass to see what overlookeddetails might keep my entry in the International Jewelry DesignCornpetition fr0111being a prize-winner.. The shop, though both back and front door were open, was oppres-sivelv humid, anc! I had just made up my mind that a more comfort-able place would be the deep end of the public swimming pool, wheninspiration came.I began to etch minute characters on the inner rim of my entry,which addition was the final touch needed to complete the ultimatein betrothal rings. So intent was I on my work that I forgot to goout for lunch, and stopped only when the chapel clock struck four.Just time to get the entry wrapped and in the mail before the postoffice closed! .The final result, for a competitive design in jewelry, was, I feltsu.re, the best thing I had done. The ring was wide-enormouslywide, The jewels hung in scrolls at center front, creased into therich chunky gold. The band was polished, almost shiny; the scrollsclasped the jewels casually, conveying a feeling not so much ofstrength as of utter, absolute exhuberance. There seemed nothing inthe world malevolent enough to abrogate that knot of betrothal.I wrapped up the ring, and, without quite knowing why, placed itin my left breast pocket. Then, with the rare sense of happinesswhich the knowledge of a good thing well done gives, T left the shop.T set out hurriedly for the post office, fully conscious of the needto make sure that my precious entry was properly registered anc! inthe mail to the Design Competition.I remember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the rightalong Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill, where the men wereat work on the new storm sewers. From there onward, I have onlythe vaguest recollections of where I went. The pervasive humiditycame up from the dusty asphalt until I longed for the thunderpromised by the great banks 0 f copper-colored cloud that hung lowover the western sky.I must have walked five or six squares before I roused from myreverie as a small boy asked me the time. It was twenty minutesto five. After he walked on, I began to take stock of my whereabouts.T found myself standing in front of the window of a neighborhoodbakery, garishly lit in the softly falling dusk. The window wasbordered by trays of sugary pastries: cream pl1ffs, napoleon slices.cinnamon rolls. In the center was a huge wedding cake in tierstopped by two dancing figures, a gray-haired bride in traditional whiteand a portly, balding groom. From inside the shop came a cheerywhistle, and the brisk sound of broom meeting dust pan. A suddenimpulse made me enter. ..A woman was sweeping, with her back toward me. She turned atthe sound of my steps and stopped short. T glanced back at thewedding cake. The tiny doll was a portrait of this woman, from theneatly turned waist to the lively gray hair. Then 1 looked at theMANUSCRIPTS 19~ittle n~an. He greeted me smiling; it was as though I were looking111 a m11"1"0 r.I apologized for my intrusion. "That's an unusual cake in yourwindow. I missed my lunch and suddenly must have got hungry."She shook her head. "In a way it is," she answered. "The surfaceis as delectable as anything you could wish, but the inside's a tri fleheavy. It really wasn't made for eating.""Then what's it for?" I asked.The woman burst out laughing. "You'd hardly believe me if Iwas to telI you it's for exhibition, but it's the truth. Artists haveexhibitions: so do bakers." She went on to talk of cakes and decora-tion, which sort stood up best and which were easiest to work. Atthe end of every other sentence, she would set down her broom anddab at the perspiration on her shiny forehead.I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural,uncanny, in meeting this woman.I tried at first to persuade mysel f that she had seen me before,that my face, unknown to her, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of her memory. I put on my glasses, trying to persuademyself that perhaps the face of the man on the wedding cake did notresemble mine after all.For the first time, I read the inscription around the lower tier ofthe cake: "James Clarence Withencroft and June Atkinson ... be-trothed June 20, 19-." For some time I stood in silence. Then acold shudder ran down my spine. I asked her where she had seenthe names."Oh, I didn't see them anywhere," she replied. "I needed twonames, so I put down mine and the first man's name that came intomy head. Why do you want to know?""It's a strange coincidence, but you happened to use my name."She giggled. "And today's the day."But she knew only the half of it. I told her of, my morning'Swork. I took the ring from my pocket, unwrapped it, and showed itto her. She strained to read the fine engraving: "June betrothedto James, 6/20/19-." As she looked, the expression on her cheerfulface altered until she appeared to be seeing ghosts."Well, J line is such a common name," she said. "The month forbrides, and everything.""And you must have seen me in my shop sometime and forgottenit."She shook her head. She had just moved to Bloomington. Viewere silent for some time. She tentatively slipped the ring on herfinger. It was no surprise that it fit. Shivering, she started to takeoff the ring.A reverberating cannonade of thunder announced the chargingrain. Sudden wind blew the door shut, and as suddenly the lightsin the bakery flickered and went out."I'll get a candle," she said. "You may wait here if you like,20 MANUSCRIPTSuntil the storm passes over."She set a candle on a little table in the back room. She broughttwo cans of beer and some cheese from the refrigerator; and took aloaf of bread from under the counter. "You said that you'd forgottento eat lunch. Perhaps this will help."As I drank the beer and gratefully munched on bread and cheese,we resumed the conversation which nature had so rudely interrupted."You must excuse my asking," I said, "but is there no other manyou could have put on your wedding cake?"She shook her head. "I'm not married; 1. took care of my ailingfather until he was buried last month. And the romances of my youth.as I remember them, would look young and foolish dancing with agray-haired bride," she added as an afterthought.She got up, fetched two more beers from the cooler. "The rainwill be wonderful for the flowers. Pity you didn't make the postoffice in time. Where do you live?"I told her my address. It would take an hour's quick walk toget home."It's like this," she said. "We'll look at the matter straight. Ifyou go back home tonight, you'll get drenched to the skin. Youmight catch yourself a wicked spring cold, or even the pneumonia.And you said there's no one to look after you." She spoke with anintense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before.But I did not laugh."The best think we can do," she continued, "is to make youC0111fortable here. I have a little room in back, and some extrabedding. If the rain doesn't let up, we'll fix you a place to sleep."To my surprise, I agreed.I am writing by candlelight at the little table. June brought meanother beer before going to her r00111to get out of her uniform.She evidently opened a window in back, and the ail' is breezing in,cool, moist, and exhilarating. It is still raining, though not quiteso hard.It is almost eleven now. In an hour, this remarkable day willbe over.But the beer has me swirling.It is enough to send a man to bed.CloudsJane CoxSINCE the beginning of time, the clouds which drift majesticallyover and around the earth have exercised a profound influenceupon the lives and thoughts of men. The ancient Creeks, accord-ing to Greek mythology, worshipped Zeus, the god who, when angry,would gather the clouds together and hurl bolts of lightning smashingto the ground. In the J(oran, it is written that "God gently drivethforward the clouds, and gathereth them together and then layeth

June Balm

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June Balm

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