did not bring her carriage. She arrived on the afternoon train and checked in at the Luxor, our town's one fine hotel. Everyone soon knew that he was there with her. We followed our child-wise instincts and made no attempt to see her, not because we were judging her or even considering the situation. Most of us did not know until we were much older that there had been a situation. Even then it did not occur to us to judge her. For she had given us gifts of magic and more. She was above and beyond reproach. When she left, late the next day, the artist left with her. We caught a glimpse of her slight figure as they boarded the train. She was wearing a very chic white frock. Her hair was piled high on her perfect little head. But she was unmistakably our Juanita. As she moved from the shade of the station platform, the sun discovered her golden earrings, and there was a sudden, silent, laughing explosion of light about her face. The train shuffled out of the station, out of our town, puffing dust rings at the skinny gray weeds that grew alongside the humming tracks. It seemed unusually warm for June....It was going to be a very long summer. 8 DEPARTURE Lynn Smith Tom turned the corner rapidly, his right arm brushing against the dull red stone of Mrs. Murphy's tenement. Some-how the drabness of the buildings, the street, even the people, couldn't dull the anticipation he felt as he neared the old brownstone. Chuck Alvarez was sitting on the top step of his lopsidedly settling front stoop. He raised his hand and a can of beer in typical greeting. "Hey, Tom!" "Hey yourself, Chuck!" "You comin' over?" "In a while, I suppose." Tom turned and walked up the worn gray steps. Even the loose metal doorknob was hot against his hand. The heat from the hallway seemed more stifling than that which rose from the sticky asphalt and baked cement outside. The partially carpeted wooden stairs creaked as Tom lifted his heat fatigued body, step by step. Sweat ran down his light brown face. His forehead shone and wisps of dark woolly hair clung to it. He reached the third floor and turned to his right. The sound of children's voice reached him and he smiled vaguely. "Mine!" screamed a shrill, babyish voice. That would be Marcie. She never seems to run down, thought Tom. "Those kids would be better off outside," he said to no one. He opened the door and was greeted by a chorus of childish voices followed by a stampede to be enveloped in his strong, brown arms. A resounding kiss from three-year-old Marcie left a deposit of sticky strawberry jam on his cheek. He stood up and stretched his tall, well-built frame. Looking around, he was surprised to see how much of the furniture had been removed already. "The van will be back tomorrow morning to finish up," called a feminine voice from the kitchen. Tom disentangled himself from three pairs of arms and walked through the barren living room into the kitchen. There he leaned against the doorway and watched his wife Ellie move gracefully and efficiently from refrigerator to sink to stove. Her supple body showed none of the fatigue that she must have felt after spending the day supervising the removal of furniture from their four room oven. 9