by an unknown master
TRANSCRIPT
University of Northern Iowa
By an Unknown MasterAuthor(s): Carol Baker HansenSource: The North American Review, Vol. 259, No. 4 (Winter, 1974), p. 60Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25117629 .
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He saw it move. Then there was another thump and
the hollow sound of something heavy falling. ". . . told you to cover his mouth!"
"Son-of-a-bitch bit m'hand!"
Someone moaned and coughed. The young man
lurched closer. In the deeper shadow of the overpass, he saw two men
leaning over a third?an old man?who was
sprawled on the sidewalks They were hurriedly going through his pockets. One of the leaning men was clad in overalls and the other was bearded. The young man
recognized Richie. He shouted at them, his voice echoing down the concrete tunnel. They turned, Richie holding the old man to the sidewalk with a knee across the nape of his neck.
"Now, how do you like that? If it ain't the 'serter." Richie's voice was almost a
whisper, low and controlled.
"Leave him be, he's an old man."
The bearded tramp laughed. Then they lunged, glanc ing aside the mop handle, bearing down on him and
pouring over him in a
vile-smelling wave. The young man
saw the white sliver of a knife and felt it as it went
through his side. He sat down on the sidewalk leaning against the galvanized pole of a parking meter and felt the blood running out. He was
vaguely aware of the
scattering sound of the two tramps as they fled across
the field down into the obscurity of the yards. The old man rose from the sidewalk rubbing his neck
where Richie had knelt on it. He retrieved his errant cane
and stood over the young man.
"Scum," he said in a cracking, old voice. He tapped
his cane furiously on the sidewalk. "You've got what you
deserve; what all of your kind deserve!"
l\ place had been cleared on the hillside and the ground was red and raw-looking where the earth moving
ma
chines had been at work clearing away the jungle. There were three of them receiving commendations. Three Dis
tinguished Service Crosses and three Purple Hearts. He was the last of the three, standing at attention, his knees
slightly bent in his fatigue trousers and his eyes half closed in the brilliant sunshine.
Around them green-fringed ridges marched away in
every direction, casting their shadows across the narrow
valleys. Finally, it was his turn. The Brigade Commander stood at attention before him and they saluted. Stymie was beside him, like an orderly pinning the ribbons to his fatigue shirt. By the order of the President and Con
gress, I am directed, he began, for not deserting your post
. . . But then his voice turned soft and he extended
his hand to shake. Hell son, he said smiling, you should have received this medal just for surviving. They saluted
again and stood at attention. We appreciate what you've
done, the Brigade Commander said.
CAROL BAKER HANSEN
BY AN UNKNOWN MASTER
A budding fifteenth
century Flemish witch
prepares a potion
for love. Her breasts
are high, hard as apples, her belly a pear or mirror.
Heart of dove, swallow's womb, ambergris.
Begin with these.
She handles the herbs
carelessly, her face
turned; a dog
sleeps at her feet. As if
the philtre's efficacy were lodged in that illusion.
A casual white
magic, benign and practical.
Even her broom gives milk.
The young man already
at her door sees
what we cannot, her tight
buttocks, straight back.
The absent preparation half
accomplished she
is thinking of him.
60 THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW/WINTER 1974
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