RETREAT Anna Lee Carver Behind my chattering parents I breezed expectantly into the ultramodern home of my relatives, but the first comment addressed to me came from my tall, attractive aunt: she was apologizing in her low raspy voice because her oldest son was out for the evening. I accepted her words meekly and slipped quietly away from the drone of adult conversation, retiring to a dark, obscure corner of the lower recreation room. As I knelt before the large, blinking eye of the television, I was oblivious to all but the dull throb of disappointment at having missed the company of my favorite cousin. Later, having wallowed for sufficient time in the melancholy of such a letdown, I grew bored and restless. I stood up and meandered slowly, without purpose across the spacious, dimly-lit room. My wandering eyes were halted at the sight of a closed door. I twisted the cold brass knob timidly but noiselessly and with a sweaty palm gently pushed the heavy walnut door ajar. Into Gary's own peaceful retreat I crept. The door thumped shut behind me, and with a short gasp I beheld a host of curious faces examining their intruder. Scowling at me from the bookcase was the ponderous mahogany-stained wooden head of an African jungleman; staring glassy-eyed at me from the large desk was the scientifically assembled cranial cavity of a pink plastic skeleton; and gazing sadly at me from the opposite wall was the chocolate brown oil painted face of a Negro slave. Strewn at all levels of high and low in the eight by ten foot olive green ana tan cubicle were skillfully modeled figures depicting the intricate anatomy of the human body, frogs, fish, airplanes, ships and cars. Half of one wall, from floor to ceiling, exhibited a bookcase made of dark slabs of wood supported by cinderblocks. The six narrow shelves were loaded with multicolored paperback and hardbound books which covered a wide variety of subjects including art, fiction, religion, poetry, philosophy, science and mathematics. Some of the titles I had seen, like Rabbit Run, 1984, and of course Shakespeare's. A few I had read, like Lord of the Flies and Franny and Zooey. But most I had never heard of. Placed at intervals between the books were jagged-edged rocks of fool's gold, azurite, lava and obsidian; and several wrought iron sculptured figures in grasping, reaching, straining poses. Stacked on top of the badly scarred desk of cherry wood was an array of notepads and looseleaf papers, all scribbled with black ink notes in the margins and between the typed sentences. One message said something to the effect that the conflict between King Henry IV and the Percy family provided the plot center of the play. A pile of hardbound,scrappy looking school books rested to one side. Above the desk hung a black and white poster picturing a frail Indian girl with a pathetic look on her face and a tear rolling down her dirt-smudged cheek, admonishing me to "Join the Peace Corps." In one corner of the room stood a black painting easel, heaped with originals of all sizes. On each canvas were semi-objective and non-objective images, daubed on with that impressionistic flair in globs of bright, pure oil color. One depicted green and turquoise stick figures against a blue background, dancing frantically around a leaping red-orange fire. The subjects of other paintings had much of the same occult appearance. This was the sanctuary of the boy with whom I had spent my early years. He had been the patient "older brother" who had counselled me on how to retain some small amount of dignity on roller skates, how to aim a B-B gun with more precision and how to fit the puzzle parts together at record-breaking speeds. This room, in its own quiet, very personal way, revealed the essence of his character.