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ARE
THE
W I N DS
By David Pendery
We are the winds.
It is we who carry
man’s complaints.
On autumn nights you heard us
whistling in chimneys,
howling in the stove,
as the autumn rain
cried on the roof.
On winter nights you heard us
whisper in the snow-laden tr ees.
Out on the storm- swept sea
You heard our whining
in the ropes and sails.
You heard us,
creatures of air,
who learned our songs
in passing through
the lungs of men.
The hospital, the battlefield
taught us what to sing.
Most we learned in the nursery
where the newborns cry,
mewl, and scr eam
with the pain of coming alive.
We are the winds,
howling, whining,
whistling, wailing.
The Story
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21 December 1986
16
A Sketch
18
Handful of Petals
19
Portrait
21
3
Say What You Said Before
“So, we had dinner. We’re just friends. That’s all I want from her, Joe.”
“You’re lying.”
Joe lifted his cup to his lips and sipped his coffee. His friend looked away.
A few moments passed. Joe leaned back in his chair and looked at his friend.
And for the first time since they had sat down for coffee after their workday, the
“I’m not ‘pursuing’ her. I know her situation. We’re just friends.”
“Not at all!”
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“That was before.”
“How often?”
“Every week?”
“Almost.”
“It is.”
“Alright it is.”
The two friends were sitting outdoors, on an oak deck that extended out of the
coffee house and over the water of the bay. The weather was sharply cool, and the breeze
was fresh and the water before them was choppy with whitecaps. The wind foamed the
whitecaps and jets and sprays of water peeled off of the crests.
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“Weren’t you interested in another woman…what was her name?”
“So you are in love with !” and Joe spoke their associate’s name.
“It is Dan, but either you don’t know it, or you won’t say it.” He paused. “Or you
“Go to hell.”
They sipped their coffee and people dressed in warm, fall clothing came and sat at
the outdoor tables or sat inside and talked together. Around them were the sounds of the
wharf, and gulls fluttered nearby, perched on the deck railing, or marched under the
“Back off, Dan. She won’t allow herself to fall for you. There are other women for
you.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Then say what you said before, Dan. Say what you said at the beginning.”
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Dusk was near. The light was fading and both men declined more coffee when the
waitress offered it to them. A few chill drops of rain fell in the evening air. The two men
were good friends and Joe felt they would not talk about this subject again until the thing
he felt would happen had happened. Joe looked down at his cup and saucer and Dan
looked away, to the empty beaches across the steely water. As he looked down, Joe said,
“Go ahead and say it, Dan. Say what you said before.” And he looked up and their eyes
7
The Story
I knew that there was a story in the bronze-colored girl's stepping from behind a
tree and into my path that sunny day in February in Golden Gate Park. Anyone could
Consider this: I'm riding my bicycle through the park and it's a beautiful day. Sun's
smiling, sky's friendly, I have no cares. I'm pedaling slowly, threading my way through
Ahead of me, just before the handball courts, there's a turn in the path. There, from
behind a mossy eucalyptus tree steps a bronze-colored girl, about eight years of age. She
has sad eyes and hair black and shiny as a panther's. In her hands she holds a small,
orange plastic bowl and a yellow colander. Without hesitating—you know how bold
children can be—her head turns, tilts back, her eyes meet mine and she asks:
I paused and turned on my bicycle. I looked back toward her. "No," I told her. "I'm
sorry,
I haven't." She gazed at me blankly, nodded slightly, and then turned and walked
away. I looked at her small back, her pretty figure, the plastic kitchen utensils in her
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Now do you see my point, about the story? The story is ours. It is yours, it is mine.
It is the bronze-colored girl's. We have all been twilled into a gentle fabric that can be as
She was a bronze-colored girl, about eight. She wore a plaid skirt, a sleeveless
blouse, and her arms were dirty and scratched. Her feet were bare.
In her hands she held an orange plastic bowl and a yellow colander. She had pretty
teeth, hair like a panther's, and sad sparkling eyes. I never found out her story, but there
9
The Wind Returns
doorway, tall, with curly gray hair. Hair grayer than I remembered. Grayer than I would
have imagined.
Of course, he was the last person I expected to see on this dreary Sunday afternoon.
You learned to live without the small expectations you had once cherished. In fact, I had
ceased to anticipate his measured step on the walk at 5:30 after his workday, the way I
once had. Then the faint aroma or change in the atmosphere that presaged my father.
There was nothing magical or fantastic about these subtle heraldings of my father’s
approach. It was simply a talent that he possessed, as natural as his arresting voice when
And I felt a wash of bitterness as my eyes met his clear eyes, deep set in his lined
face. Intelligent, learned eyes, with no trace of maliciousness. But I knew. Knew of his
supreme act of malice. The premonitions, the painful break, the leaving. And I thought,
what have to do with him? I could turn away now, emotionless, final. But I did not.
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Across the years, bridging our parting, there were connections. Unasked questions,
unrealized emotions, unshed tears. Now we were squared off, and I did not know who
Reavers of time, Rob? You’ve been reading Faulkner. You always loved words.
You were reading by the time you were three. And how happy you were when you
“Those were the last times I was happy, Dad. You stole more than time when you
left.”
“Well you must know, that I’m truly sorry about that. Truly sorry. I had no
intention of stealing anything when I left, least of all time. But of course I did. What I did
was act of inveterate selfishness, Rob, which I never wished to impart in you. It was a
function of my time. My aim was to keep you off an inexorable path to becoming…me,
Rob.”
“Well you put me on a path, Dad, and although our paths are different, our
“No, Rob, for you have something that I never had: self-assuredness.”
Yes, I thought, there were things I was sure of. I was sure of unsuredness, and sure
of mistrust. Sure of loss. Sure of an intruder waiting in the night when I would try, and
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I felt transparent. I was talking to a phantom, a man who could read my thoughts.
And for the first time I had hear in so long, unless he was drunk, my father burst out
“You’re mistaking seriousness for humorlessness, Rob. Yes, I was serious, much
too serious. My generation took life seriously. But for all the wrong reasons.”
ignorance. As I said, ‘for all the wrong reasons.’ This is our legacy. Bad as that may be,
“Fuck my generation!” I snapped angrily. “Your act was the very height of apathy.
My father looked down sheepishly. I forbid myself from seeing my self in him.
“Don’t be self-pitying, Rob. Our burdens are not similar. You still don’t
understand, do you? It’s not how a man dies, but how he lives. Get on without me, that’s
the point of life. And death too. And do it well. You’re capable. What I did was a
necessary evil.
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“Until you stop seeing it through a lens of self-deception, Rob, your point of view
is…,” he searched for the word he wanted, an old habit of his. “Unrealistic,” he finished.
And we laughed, but cold wrapped my body. I felt no amicability toward this man.
His cruelty, his so-called ‘necessary evil,’ like the passing of a sirocco, had left me
You must be strong, Rob. I was possessed of the worst values. Steeped in a cock-
eyed word view. Absolutely backward. This broke me. But you have humanity, and
farsightedness, qualities that you suppress with, of all things, timidity and inaction.”
“Don’t you try to escape responsibility. What I did was ruthless, compassionless,
but not without aim. I killed my lack of compassion that it could never take root in you.
And it hasn’t, truly. You must believe me, Rob. I killed a dictator.”
A dictator. And like all dictators he had his followers, his believers, even his
friends. And that was me. believing in this finely principled but foolish man’s memory.
Now he talked of killing off a generation! As in his life he was again trying to make the
world a better place, if only with a nudge in the right direction. But always trying a little
hard than was good for him. The right reasons, the wrong decisions. Very much like me.
“We’ll never be able to say it, will we Rob? We’ll never be able to face each other
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He paused and said, “Well you’ve got me there, Rob.”
I smiled at his concession. Part of me did not want him to leave. I felt our time
receding, and so I asked him, “Why does time play tricks, Dad? You should know.”
The old smartass. The old, graying, humorless, selfish, finely principled, thieving
smartass. With his philosophical notions. My money says he stole that line from a book
Then he was leaving and as he left he walked to me, clutched my shoulder and
lifted my chin in his hand. Again our eyes met and by god I think I saw a hint of fatherly
pride there. But allow him that. He was only a man after all, and if his tragedy is that he
thought he might transcend that station, then allow him that. And Father, for now, I’ll
continue to believe in your right reasons, if not your wrong decisions. I’ll abide.
A simple parting, unlike our first. I looked away. I am always a little embarrassed
14
Dog in the Manger
He walked into the bar and sat down at one of the tables. I was wiping off one of
the other tables. I looked at him, and I could see that he wasn’t a regular customer. He
was dressed neatly, with a copper-colored scarf looped around his neck, and—I must
say—a very smart looking jacket. But I didn’t like him, sitting there alone among all the
After a few minutes, I walked by him and told him that we did not have table
service, and that he’ have to order whatever he wanted at the bar. He answered, “Okay,
I’ll be right there,” and right then I decided I’d ignore him and walked back behind the
bar. He sat there and his back was to me and he just sat there. I’d run him out, soon
enough. He was not a regular customer and this is a bar where people like to come and
see familiar faces. Besides, he’d just walked in off of the street and regular customers
After a few minutes, I noticed that he’d approached the bar and stood there with a
pair of winter gloves in his hand. Of course, he wanted a drink, but I just passed him by a
couple of times, avoiding his eyes. I’ve done this before. He got the message, and sure
enough, he stepped from the bar, turned, and left through the front door. It’s a swinging
door, just like you see on old Gunsmoke episodes. I must say, he didn’t seem bothered. I
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didn’t care. He was not a regular customer and I didn’t like him anyway. As I wiped the
bar I overhead two customers talking. They were complimenting the jacket he was
wearing.
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21 December 1986
“Well, anyway,” he was thinking, “you have to grow up sooner or later. And part of
growing up is learning that life can be hard. ‘Nothing good is for free,’ and that sort of
thing. Seen in that light, I think I can handle all of this. I just wish that it had not
happened at such a vulnerable time. Some damage was done, to be sure, but isn’t that
He wasn’t one to complain, but maybe things had been a little more difficult for
him. One can’t put much stock in luck or fortune, good or bad, but nobody could dispute
that there had been some serious problems. He thought that maybe he was a little too
inhibited and that if maybe he were a little more confident or forceful, a little more
If Mike could hear me!” he was thinking. But of course he and Mike had lost touch
long ago.
What had really happened there? Had he outgrown Mike? Or had Mike outgrown
him? It didn’t matter, because they didn’t write or call each other any more, and surely
that too was part of the growing up. Yes, but there were times when it would have been
nice to have heard from Mike. Or Frank or even Joanne. Is this business of growing up so
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“It doesn’t matter,” he was thinking. “I’m quite grown up now and very happy with
18
A Sketch
Oh, I don’t know why he did what he did. I mean, they were fighting and all, but…I
just saw him last Saturday. Do you what he said? He told me that he was worried that
maybe she was going crazy, that she was becoming unbalanced. That that’s why she was
doing what she was doing. That maybe she was going to kill herself! That shook me at
first, but then I had to laugh—inside of course. That is really not like her.
He was pretty upset—no kidding, right? I was more worried about him though—he
was drinking. Lot’s, too. But what was I supposed to do? He’s a grown man, you know.
He was talking about killing the guy, and how all he wanted was to have her back.
Another chance, you know. Of course, I could understand that. I got him off that killing
stuff, though. Of course, I cared a lot for him, and when we finished talking—about three
hours—I thought he was okay. I really didn’t’ think he was the type and then this
happens.
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Handful of Petals
The old artist sat in a low chair facing the beds of roses. He was painting a group of
different roses in an arrangement, as a study of their shapes and colors, on his pad. His
watercolor was skillful, as yet unfinished, and passersby stopped to admire his work, and
The old artist wore a straw hat with a weathered band and his face was sunburned
and covered with gray stubble. Youth, though, lit his transparent blue eyes. He
commented to me about the different techniques he was using and the various difficulties
in painting the petals and the different colors. The petals in his painting were lifelike and
beautifully rendered.
The old artist happily explained how he would fill the background with the vivid
green of each rose's leaves. Each leaf, he explained, had its own characteristics, just as
the different petals did. There would also be blue in the background, he said, and I
thought that he must mean the sky. More people stopped and watched him work, but
strangely, he did not speak to them, only to me, and I think that they may have though
Then a little girl stopped to watch, and as the old artist, she too had a handful of
petals. She walked between the rose bushes picking up loose petals, and her hand, stuffed
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with the petals, resembled a small rose itself. Perhaps later she would fling the petals into
the air, the breeze lifting and scattering them, then raining them down around her.
"So pretty," she shyly said to the artist, pointing to his painting. Then she walked
away, her attention once again on the many loose petals under the roses. The old artist
said after her, "You can do it. You can do it too. Just practice. Practice very hard..." The
little girl turned and seemed to ponder his words. Then she turned again and strolled
away.
"She doesn't know it now," said the old artist. "She doesn't know she can do it yet,
21
Portrait
You hadn’t seen me yet, but from across the room I saw you and I thought, “I
wonder who her lover is, for surely she has one.” You were shy, almost self-effacing, and
You were perhaps too shy (almost self-effacing), and not beautiful in a structured or
common way. Your clothing framed you well, but were at that time a tad overweight, and
you were always casting your eyes downward. Your eyes were so dark they were like
Do you know that I could hear your voice, as soft as it is, from across the room and
it was beautiful and sweet, clear, evocative, and sexy, sexy, SEXY? But the questions
remained: Who was your lover, for surely you had one.
I saw you and I knew there was so little you’d have to do, leave it to the man to
impress and to win you. Your finesse and your manner, without trying (even knowing),
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You started to giggle, I started to sweat,
She had no lover, she has one now, and for your information, her yes and her voice
are even better at certain times of the night, when our window is open, and the air is just
right.
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There are Reds too, and Gargoyles
They were sounding again last night, keening through the rain-heavy air, and so he
would have to tell her all about them. From his table he took a sheet of yellow paper, his
favorite pen with the ink that flowed smoothly, and began—
Dearest Fran,
I wanted to tell you about the foghorns. When I’m laying in bed
and it’s late and quiet, and its raining and misty (which it always
seems to be here), I hear them moan and they are comforting and
gentle and I guess they’re what loneliness must sound like, Fran. I
guess I have that sound memorized by now, because I’m still not
sleeping much—there is just too much to think about. I’m sorry things
aren’t moving along a little more quickly, Fran, but it’s true that I like
the people here and I guess I can’t think of any other place I’d rather
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Of course, I came here to accomplish certain things Fran, to reach
certain goals. And I’m not leaving until I do, come hell or high water,
I guess.
But what an unusual place, Fran, with all of the different people!
Would you believe that I’ve me two people from Orlando already?
can’t seem to pick up. It’s true though, that you can understand a little
just by watching. Even the buildings here are unusual, Fran. Some are
as white as temples, with domed roofs and trimmed in gold, but most
are in somber shades of blue and gray. There are reds too, and
gargoyles.
Jean has written me about what has happened, Fran, and though I
irrationally. I wish you two could resolve your difficulties. All of these
But I wrote to tell you about the foghorns, and how they sound at
night and how I wish you could come and visit and we could walk on
the beach and chase the gulls. The poor gulls, Fran! When the wind
blows madly they are buffeted and helpless and have to fly wherever it
blows them. Their wings become rigid and they just ride and dip and
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Fran, I think I’m feeling sad now with thinking of you. Will you
write soon and tell me how you are and, if you can, send me another
Much love,
And then he signed his name and laying the letter aside, he gazed out into the wet,
heavy air and the rain poured down and he knew the foghorns would be sounding again
that night.
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