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Authors: Vidar Sundstøl
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back into the bar when something caught his eye. Hanging on the door in front of him was a poster announcing the evening’s “poetic master reading,” as it was being called. A simple poster with no pictures, just a brief blurb about each of the three poets. And it was the last of the bios—or rather, the name at the very bottom of the poster—that had caught Lance’s attention. At first he merely skimmed the words, but then he took a step back and read more carefully:
Clayton Miller (45): Professor of English at U of M, Twin Cities, originally from Duluth, has published a series of critically acclaimed poetry collections and has won numerous prizes and grants for his literary work. Latest book: Siamese Wing Strokes (Larsmont Publishing).
On the other side of the door he heard a woman’s voice welcoming the assembled audience to the evening’s master reading. If he didn’t exit the toilet at once, he’d be forced to walk through thebar while one of the poets was in the middle of a reading. The very thought filled him with terror.
He stepped out, keeping his head low as he hurried past the poets and emcee to make his way over to Chrissy.
At that moment the emcee introduced the first of the poets. “A woman who has devoted a large part of her life to studying Lake Superior: Liz Brent!”
The slender, gray-haired woman with the gold-rimmed glasses read a series of poems in which Lance could find only scattered references to the lake, through phrases such as “lava rocks,” “the ancient geometry of arrowheads,” “the city, the iron, the water,” and “the good woman and the bad woman standing on either side of the lake, shouting.”
When she was done, he politely applauded as he tried to guess which of the two men was Clayton Miller. Both were tall, and it was his height that was practically the only thing Lance could remember about Clayton. Even so, he thought it had to be the man who looked like a bank teller, and he turned out to be right. When the emcee introduced “Clayton Miller, native son of Duluth,” the man with the cropped hair got up and took a seat on the bar stool next to the tall table. Calmly and deliberately he adjusted the microphone, as if he were in the privacy of his own home and not in a bar where thirty strangers were watching his every move.
Then Clayton Miller began to read. These poems had nothing to do with the lake, at least as far as Lance could tell, but that was really the only thing he understood. Soon he stopped listening altogether and instead stared at Miller, envious at how good the man looked. From what Lance could recall, Clayton had been one grade behind him in school, which was one grade ahead of Andy, but he could easily be taken for ten years younger than either of them. This was the boy who had been lying on the ground in the schoolyard, actually not very far from this very location. “He tried to kill me,” Clayton Miller had gasped after Andy had run away. That was the only time Lance had spoken to the man who was now sitting on a bar stool, whispering words into the microphone: “a mother-of-pearl heart on the mantelpiece, a knife, a peeled apple.”
After the applause faded and Miller was once again sitting at the bar next to Liz Brent, Lance leaned over to his niece and whispered in her ear: “Do you think it’d be possible to talk to the authors afterward?”
“You want to talk to them?”
“Do you think I could?”
“Sure. They usually sell copies of their books after the reading. So, did you like it?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Clayton Miller?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jesus,” she said.
The last poet was introduced, but the only thing Lance could think about was what he was going to say if he got the chance to talk to Miller. Do you remember that time in high school when you got beat up real bad? Well, that was actually my brother who did that to you. So, how’s it going? No, he couldn’t ask about the one thing
Clayton Miller (45): Professor of English at U of M, Twin Cities, originally from Duluth, has published a series of critically acclaimed poetry collections and has won numerous prizes and grants for his literary work. Latest book: Siamese Wing Strokes (Larsmont Publishing).
On the other side of the door he heard a woman’s voice welcoming the assembled audience to the evening’s master reading. If he didn’t exit the toilet at once, he’d be forced to walk through thebar while one of the poets was in the middle of a reading. The very thought filled him with terror.
He stepped out, keeping his head low as he hurried past the poets and emcee to make his way over to Chrissy.
At that moment the emcee introduced the first of the poets. “A woman who has devoted a large part of her life to studying Lake Superior: Liz Brent!”
The slender, gray-haired woman with the gold-rimmed glasses read a series of poems in which Lance could find only scattered references to the lake, through phrases such as “lava rocks,” “the ancient geometry of arrowheads,” “the city, the iron, the water,” and “the good woman and the bad woman standing on either side of the lake, shouting.”
When she was done, he politely applauded as he tried to guess which of the two men was Clayton Miller. Both were tall, and it was his height that was practically the only thing Lance could remember about Clayton. Even so, he thought it had to be the man who looked like a bank teller, and he turned out to be right. When the emcee introduced “Clayton Miller, native son of Duluth,” the man with the cropped hair got up and took a seat on the bar stool next to the tall table. Calmly and deliberately he adjusted the microphone, as if he were in the privacy of his own home and not in a bar where thirty strangers were watching his every move.
Then Clayton Miller began to read. These poems had nothing to do with the lake, at least as far as Lance could tell, but that was really the only thing he understood. Soon he stopped listening altogether and instead stared at Miller, envious at how good the man looked. From what Lance could recall, Clayton had been one grade behind him in school, which was one grade ahead of Andy, but he could easily be taken for ten years younger than either of them. This was the boy who had been lying on the ground in the schoolyard, actually not very far from this very location. “He tried to kill me,” Clayton Miller had gasped after Andy had run away. That was the only time Lance had spoken to the man who was now sitting on a bar stool, whispering words into the microphone: “a mother-of-pearl heart on the mantelpiece, a knife, a peeled apple.”
After the applause faded and Miller was once again sitting at the bar next to Liz Brent, Lance leaned over to his niece and whispered in her ear: “Do you think it’d be possible to talk to the authors afterward?”
“You want to talk to them?”
“Do you think I could?”
“Sure. They usually sell copies of their books after the reading. So, did you like it?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Clayton Miller?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jesus,” she said.
The last poet was introduced, but the only thing Lance could think about was what he was going to say if he got the chance to talk to Miller. Do you remember that time in high school when you got beat up real bad? Well, that was actually my brother who did that to you. So, how’s it going? No, he couldn’t ask about the one thing
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