tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73710647108468574972024-03-18T11:58:46.275+00:00Nexis PasSome short stories and novellas. See list of subject categories to the right of the first story. Many of these stories have gay characters and themes (other than the two obvious categories under 'Labels', <em>Cinque Ports</em> and <em>Lewis</em> also deal with gay subjects). My apologies for the errors. I am not good at proofing, and my frequent revisions leave scraps of earlier versions embedded in the posted text. Feel free to leave comments, or message me at nexispas.yahoo.co.ukUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-63808013398199696652023-06-24T15:23:00.004+01:002023-07-02T20:56:21.540+01:00<p> Why are these stories suddenly so popular in Singapore? In June, according to the site tracker, there were 1.27K views from Singapore. For comparison, there were 173 views from the United States. Would someone from Singapore please explain why Is this one person reading and rereading these posts? Or are many different people from Singapore reading the posts? Or does it only appear that these views come from Singapore?</p><p><br /></p><p>Later--it turns out this isn't the only blog experiencing high levels of views from Singapore. Ah well, thank you, Singapore-based bot for a spurious popularity. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-17099424371579533502023-05-03T20:47:00.002+01:002024-01-20T19:13:00.111+00:00CommentsComments are appreciated. Please post them here or email them to me at z119z2000@yahoo.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-33078519205426965462023-03-30T14:27:00.000+01:002023-03-30T14:27:25.691+01:00The Runcible Lad <p> 2011</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Yeah, I'm
nervous. I'm not too proud to admit that. I've never been this nervous before. Look
at my hands. They're shaking, and we've not even begun yet. I didn't expect to
be this wound up. I'm not worried about the ceremony at the registrar's. That'll
be over in a few minutes. That's nothing. Henry says 'I do' and I say 'I do'
and then we sign our names. In at 10:45 and out by 11:00. That's just me and
Henry and our parents and our friends Linc and Des as witnesses.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It's later
that's making my stomach churn. At the hall we rented. When I have to get up in
front of all our friends and everybody in our families and say something about
why I'm there and what it means to me. Everyone I know will be there, and I don't
want to look a fool. I want to say that I'm the luckiest man in the world. I
want to tell them that. I want to tell Henry that. I've told him that before,
but I want to tell him that in front of everyone so that they know it too.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I don't
want to do anything stupid. I don't want to do that to Henry. For the past two
weeks, this speech is all I've thought about. And I can't ask anybody about it.
They'll think me a right ass if I admit to being worried about it. But Henry
deserves my best today. I guess I just want to say something important,
something that everybody will remember, something that Henry will remember. A
gift, it should be like my wedding gift to him. That's what I want to do. Give
him this gift in front of everyone and let them share in it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I'm just no
good with words. That's my problem. It's like the day I met Henry. I couldn't
find anything to say. I just stood there with my mouth open making noises.
Grunting like. I was walking Blue--that's my dog--I was walking Blue in the
park, and Henry--well, I didn't know it was Henry at the time. There was this
man playing with a child. They were chasing each other around a tree. The child
was shrieking, and the man was laughing. They were so happy. Everybody was
smiling because of them. I thought they were father and son. I found out later
that Carl was Henry's nephew. He's going to be there today. Carl, I mean. He's
almost four now. Of course, Henry's going to be there.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I'm not
telling this very well. I just can't think straight today. Anyway, Carl spots
the dog and he stops running and says 'dog'. You know how children fix on things
that catch their eye. One minute Carl is chasing Henry around that tree, and
the next moment he’s toddling toward me pointing at Blue, saying 'dog, dog'. Of
course, Henry came up behind Carl just to make sure that Blue didn't hurt him.
He knelt down behind Carl and stretched his arms out around him. Not to keep
him away from Blue, but just to be there to protect Carl in case Blue didn't
like kids or something. Henry's like that. He tries to protect everyone he
loves.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So Henry
bends forward and kind of whispers aloud into Carl's ear and tells him to ask 'the
nice man' what the doggie's name is. Then Henry looks up at me, directly into my
eyes, and smiles. And it was like a flash of lightning going off inside my
head. There was this loud noise, I swear, like thunder. That'd never happened
to me before. It wasn't love at first sight. The love came later. I don't know
what caused all that commotion. It was just something right and good for once,
something that felt like it had to be.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You've seen
Henry. He's not bad looking. But he's not handsome or gorgeous. I mean he's
nice looking but he's not spectacular or anything like that. I'm not either. I'm
not complaining. It's just that he doesn't have the type of looks to cause
explosions. Yet there's this roaring in my ears, and I'm seeing black spots in
front of my eyes, and he's looking at me as if he's beginning to wonder if I'm the
village idiot, and then I stammer out 'Boo'.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And Henry
says to Carl, 'The doggie's name is Boo. Can you say “Boo”?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Carl
reaches out a finger toward Blue and says 'Boo' and then he starts screaming
with laughter and shouting 'Boo, Boo, Boo.' Blue is leaning forward trying to
smell Carl, and Carl touches Blue's nose with his finger. And Blue licks Carl's
hand and then Carl jerks his finger back and starts laughing even harder. Then
he puts his hand out toward Blue again.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That sets
Blue off and he's pulling against his lead and standing on his hind legs and
leaping up and down so that he can get closer and lick Carl's face. Henry lifts
Carl away, and I bend over and try to grab Blue. Blue's jumping about, and I
lose my balance. That's when I fell over. There I am, lying on my back on the
path trying to hold on to a squirming dog, and Carl is all excited and Blue is
barking just to add his bit to the noise and this god I just met is helping me up
and then brushing the dirt off my clothes and asking me if I'm all right.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I suppose I
could tell that story. Lots of people tell funny stories about themselves at
their wedding suppers. But I don't want to make a joke. In any case, I'm not
good at telling jokes at the best of times, and today I know I'm not going to
be at my best.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I don't
want to say anything about sex. I've heard people do that on their wedding
days, and it's not right. I mean the sex is great. I’m not saying the sex isn’t
great. But before I met Henry, but sex was
just something that happened to me. It wasn't something I did. But the first
time I went to bed with Henry after I knew that I loved him, I wanted to make
it good. I wanted to make him know that I was going to spend the rest of my
life making him feel great. And you know that made all the difference. When he
moaned for the first time, it was like this explosion of joy going off in my
bedroom. I didn't know. I didn't know how much better sex can be when you love
the other person until I met Henry. But I don't want to talk about that. That's
between Henry and me. That's private like.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don't
know how people get through all this. Maybe every groom is nervous. When I was
ten or so, there was this older couple on our street. They were in their
nineties and they had their seventy-fifth wedding anniversary, and everyone in
the neighbourhood got together to celebrate. They closed off the road and then
put trestle tables down the middle and covered them over with coloured paper.
Everyone brought food, and we had this great roaring party. They had games and
funny hats and noisemakers and balloons. There was a band and dancing and
fireworks at night. And Mr Moore stood up and said how nervous he had been on
their wedding day seventy-five years ago but that he knew that everything would
come right in the end because he and his wife were like a poem, a proper poem with
rhymes where everything fits together right and all the words are just what has
to be said.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Maybe I
should tell that story. Then I could say that that's what I would like, a party
on our seventy-fifth anniversary. I'll invite everyone to our seventy-fifth
anniversary party. In seventy-five years, both Henry and I will be 98. We could
live that long. People are living longer now. That's what I would like--to have
the neighbours throw us a party in the middle of the street. Maybe I could say
something like that. Do you think that would be all right?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Oh, what
idiot thought up weddings? There must be a simpler way for two lads to get married.
Yeah, yeah, I know we're not supposed to call it a 'marriage'. It's a 'civil partnership',
but to me and Henry it's our wedding day and we're getting married, and anybody
who says different--well I'm not starting a fight at my own wedding but I'll
not forget.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Oh, Christ,
look at the time. It's already 10:15. Linc and Des will be here to pick me up in
a few minutes, and I've not even put my tie on yet. I bought this blue tie
yesterday. Is it all right? Does it look good with this shirt? Or would my red
tie be better?</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-70752814506104986902023-03-23T18:03:00.000+00:002023-03-23T18:03:11.085+00:00The End<p> 2007</p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I know the exact
moment I realised my relationship with Nathan was over.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We had lived
together for 28 years. I was 52 at the time, and he was 53. Our friends joked
that we had a far more stable and enduring relationship than most married
couples, and indeed our union outlasted those of many of our friends, gay or
straight. Nathan was the first person I knew for sure to be gay, other than
myself of course. I met him on my first day of graduate school. I had paused
inside the front door of Old North Hall and was examining the list of occupants
posted there and trying to locate the office of my supervisor of studies. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Hello, you must be
Ross Cambourne.’ The hallway was dark and the staircase was brightly lit by the
windows at the back of the first landing. I could tell the deep voice came from
above, and the creaking of the staircase revealed that someone was walking down
it toward me. But all I could see against the light was a dark figure. When I
walked further into the hall and Nathan approached the bottom of the staircase,
the figure resolved into a young man, taller than myself, his hand extended to
shake mine. And I knew, knew without doubt, that this man was gay. ‘My name’s Nathan
Sevenfields.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘How did you know
my name?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘From your picture.
It’s quite a good likeness. Mrs Jackson, the departmental secretary, tacks the new
graduate students’ photos up on a board in our common room. I was just looking
them over and spotted yours and now here you are.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And that was how we
met. It was also one of the few times that I have kept a New Year’s resolution.
At the beginning of that year, I had resolved that I would do something about
being gay. You have to understand that this was 1966. I had first heard the
word ‘gay’ only a few years before, when an acquaintance explained to me that
he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thought</i> the word as used in the
line ‘show me a man who rides side-saddle and I’ll show you a gay caballero’ in
a Kingston Trio song referred to a homosexual. Other than meaning a man who was
sexually attracted to other men, I wasn’t sure what being ‘gay’ involved, but I
was determined to find out. I’m not going to bore you with a recitation of how
difficult it was to be gay in the dark ages. Those of you who lived through
them already know; those of you who didn’t can extrapolate from your own
experience.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It was almost five
months before Nathan and I first had sex. As he explained to me years later, after
he had adopted the idea that honesty was essential to a healthy relationship,
he hadn’t been attracted to me. He saw that I was horny and wanted to have sex,
and he was feeling charitable and thought he would treat me better than another
person might. And so began my initiation into gay sex and gay life. I thought
we were in love; he was doing me a favour.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I don’t mean to
imply that there was no love. It wasn’t like that at all. I will try to avoid
the tendency common among the divorced to revise the past and exaggerate every
woe and slight that occurred, and I realise that Nathan would tell a story quite
different from the one I am telling. Both of us were enthusiastic about being with
each other for the first ten years or so. We liked each other and could
envision a life together. And that helped create a good relationship. We had
the usual fights about money and clashes about life styles, but the commitment
to the relationship helped get us past that. Both of us got jobs in the
university after we took our degrees. We found a flat together and later bought
a house. Gradually, without consciously intending to do so, we acquired all the
possessions and chattels of a married couple—except children, although we did
keep a succession of dogs and cats.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Our careers were
successful. Both of us became senior staff in about the minimum time possible. Nathan
specialises in ancient history and has written a series of highly regarded and
popular books about the Roman Empire. He is what is known as a ‘solid
historian’—he is careful never to go beyond the facts or indulge in
speculation. And he writes incredibly well. As narratives, his histories are
superb. My original field was Byzantine history, and a good part of my current
work is still in that field. Rather early in my career, I reviewed a book on
the philosophy of history. My comments provoked a spirited, and I must say
somewhat intemperate, response from the author, and in order to defend my
views, I had to think harder about the subject and publish on it. Many of my
colleagues have little sympathy for such endeavours, and I’m afraid that, for some
of them, I became a ‘once-promising scholar of early Byzantine history seduced
by continental-style theorising into fanciful flights of philosophising’. I
mention this because it was one source of tension between us. Nathan tends to
receive invitations to speak to groups of enthusiastic amateur historians. I am
asked to lead seminars by graduate students and to serve as a main speaker at
professional conferences.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Another source was
something I alluded to above: Nathan’s discovery of ‘honesty’ as a virtue in
relationships. I don’t mean to suggest that we had been lying to each other
before this discovery. It was just that like most couples we had left much
unsaid and often did not bother to correct the other when something less than
the whole truth was said. Nathan adored his mother, for example; it was one of
his many virtues. I found her talkative and narrow in her interests (truth to
tell, she bored me utterly), but I would never have told him that, and I
endured many of what I found to be dreary hours in her company.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Sometime during our
second decade together Nathan began using honesty as a weapon in the
relationship. ‘Honesty’ in this case masked a determination to have his view of
the relationship prevail. At first, none of the statements issued under this
rubric was an outright lie. Frequently they were uttered with a tone of bemused
tolerance. We were eating dinner with a group of colleagues once, and Nathan
greeted the appearance of a serving of peas on his plate with the gleeful
announcement that I didn’t like peas and he had to eat out to get them. Well,
of course, I eat peas. They are not a favourite vegetable, but I do eat them
and had often cooked them at home for the two of us. Nathan was simply casting
himself in the martyr’s role, the long-suffering spouse forced to forgo an innocuous
legume because of the misguided tastes of his partner. Over time, however, the
statements stretched the truth further and had more serious consequences for
our relationship. One night, for instance, Nathan announced to a group of
friends that I hated travelling and hence would never take a holiday, forcing
him to travel alone. It is true that I find travel tedious, but I had
accompanied him on many excursions. Subsequently, however, this served as an
excuse for him to take trips alone despite my protests that I was willing to
accompany him. As he put it, he did not want to coerce me into doing something
I found objectionable. I came to feel more and more that I was being channelled
into a role and that attitudes and behaviours were being prescribed for me
because it suited his convenience. Needless to say, it was an irritant in the
relationship.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As I said, at
first, none of these assertions was a complete lie. They seemed to be such
small things that there was no reason to argue about them. As many people do, I
suspect, eventually I found myself at the point of no return. I had for so many
years put up with these statements and accepted them as the ‘official version’
of our relationship and history together that it became difficult to undo them.
Small decisions, none of them of any particular importance and often made by
others, accumulate, and the result is that one finds oneself in an intolerable
position. Nathan is a much more assertive person than I am, and his view of the
relationship—that he was the dispenser of charity and I the recipient—prevailed.
It was a view that Nathan, understandably, felt redounded to his credit, and he
was loathe to confront its untruth and incapable of looking at it
dispassionately. Eventually any attempt by me to contradict this ‘family
romance’ was met by vociferous argument.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It is difficult to
write about this without sounding a complete fool. But there was much about the
relationship that was good. We passed into middle age a relatively contented
couple. We were comfortable together, and we had made a good life together. I
aged more rapidly than Nathan, however. He is athletic and probably still plays
a vigorous game of tennis. In my off hours, I preferred to potter about the
garden or to cook. I became bald, he retained his thick head of black hair. My
waist thickened (to be honest, I am fat); he remained slim. I was frequently
tired by the end of the day. I grew to look several years older than he.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It was around this
time that the infidelities came to my notice. I do not know when they started. I
became aware of them because of a strange incident with one of his students.
Nathan had introduced me to J_____ several months earlier. I happened to fall
into step with J_____ as I was walking across the quad one day. I tried to
strike up a conversation with him and received in return a withering look of
contempt before he abruptly reversed course and headed back the way we had come
without speaking. I mentioned the—to me inexplicable—incident to the group of
colleagues I was meeting and was greeted by an embarrassed silence. Later,
Margaret Brockston took me aside and told me that J_____ was Nathan’s ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">latest</i> favourite’ and ‘might be jealous
of my position in Nathan’s life’. Margaret also took it upon herself—rather
presumptuously, I thought—to offer the opinion that Nathan was trying to provoke
me and overcome my ‘phlegmatic nature and habitual tendency toward irony’. I
thanked her for her willingness to tell me the truth and promised her—much more
politely than she deserved—that I would reflect on her comments. Needless to
say, since Nathan had many more ways open to him for getting my attention than
having affairs, I did not give much credence to her views. In any case, I have
little sympathy for such facile psychologising.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I spoke with Nathan
about J_____ and, in the interests of ‘honesty’, was told that my increasing
lack of desire for sex was forcing him to look elsewhere for physical release.
Nathan subsequently made sure to tell me about each of his liaisons. According
to Nathan, none of them was serious, and he promised that none would endanger
our relationship. As far as I know, he took my advice and was careful not to
get involved with one of his students again, however.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And so both of us
reached our fifties, neither of us sufficiently dissatisfied to end a
relationship of many years’ standing, but neither of us totally happy about
what it had become. So why did I stay? Why did Nathan stay? Well, why does
anyone stay together? Habit and inertia. The comfort of a familiar argument. A
shared history. The semaphore flags comprehensible only to a long-time couple
and thus in themselves a sign of their bond.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>Busy lives that gave both of us an excuse to avoid deep
interaction. The awkwardness of admitting to a mistake and arranging a
separation. My Catholic upbringing and the notion that divorce is a sin. Hope
for an improvement. Convenience. The aged cat it would be cruel to dispossess
of her favourite spot in the sun. The throbbing toothache that just might go
away if one puts off calling the dentist for another day. Trivial reasons
perhaps, but the glue of many relationships.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The event that made
me realise the relationship was irrevocably over occurred on a Monday afternoon
in Washington, D.C. I had been in Washington since the preceding Wednesday for
the annual conference of a scholarly organization for specialists in Byzantine
studies. The conference ended on Sunday at noon. When Nathan learned about the
meeting, he suggested that he join me in Washington on Saturday and that we
stay over for a few days and take in the Freer and the other museums. He also arranged
to examine a manuscript at the Library of Congress and contacted some old
friends of his to have dinner with them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">By Sunday at noon,
I was weary of smiling and trying to remember the names of people I see only
once a year. I was ready to sequester myself in our hotel room and indulge in the
pleasures of being grumpy for a few hours. Nathan, however, was tired of
sitting in the hotel lobby and reading the newspaper. The conference was at the
Hilton above Dupont Circle. In the taxicab on the way from the airport on
Saturday evening, Nathan had noticed (it could hardly have escaped his
attention) that Dupont Circle and its environs were frequented by a large
number of handsome young men. Even someone as lacking in the ability to identify
other gay people as I had no trouble recognizing it as a gay area. Nathan
insisted that it would do me good to change out of my suit and tie into more
casual clothing and take a walk and get something to eat. I was half-tempted to
tell him to go by himself and let me take a nap, but in the end I decided that
he had travelled a long way to join me and that it would give us a chance to do
something we so seldom did—be together in a place where we didn’t have to be
Professors Sevenfields and Cambourne.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">England had been
damper than usual that March, and Nathan was right, it was a treat to step
outside into the spring sunshine, flowers, and warm air. To judge from the
ready smiles and laughter, everyone else felt the same way. Even apparent strangers
were exchanging pleasantries. The pavements outside the restaurants were so
packed with people waiting to enter that it was often difficult to edge around
the queues. We walked around for about an hour looking into the shops. The noon
rush was over by then, and we were able to find a spot in an Italian restaurant
that had an outdoor seating area. It was very pleasant to sit there, and Nathan
and I traded horror stories about conferences. The food wasn’t the best—the
cook was one of those people who thinks <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">al
dente</i> means crunchy in the middle. By the end of the meal, half-cooked bits
of pasta were ground into the recesses of my teeth and were proving impervious
to the nudges of my tongue. I think chefs in the United States were going
through a raw veggie and no salt phase. The “sauce” had consisted of crisp
chunks of vegetables that had briefly been in the same room as the stove and was
so lacking in flavour that it was an incentive to diet. But even the bad trendy
food didn’t impinge on our enjoyment, and the waiter was young, handsome, and
attentive enough to rate one of Nathan’s raised eyebrows and amused smiles as
he walked away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The day continued
in much the same way. Nathan’s friends invited us to their home for dinner,
along with another couple. All six of us hit it off immediately. The
conversation was animated and droll. It was a very urbane evening. When we got
back to the hotel, Nathan was in an amorous mood (he often was in hotels), and
our lovemaking was more vigorous and prolonged than it usually was. For me, and
I think for Nathan, it was one of those happy days that came only occasionally
by that point in our lives. We spent the night curled up next to each other in
one of those huge American hotel beds with its cool, smooth sheets. The bed was
so big that in the morning the blanket on the far side was hardly ruffled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Monday morning we
spent at the Library of Congress. Nathan had arranged beforehand to view the
documents and artefacts he wanted to see, and he and the librarian were soon
engaged in a deep technical conversation about archives and manuscripts. It was
pleasant to sit in that book-lined, light-filled chamber among people so
enthusiastic about their profession. I shortly tuned out what the two of them
were saying and became lost in a reverie about libraries and books and my own
research.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Around eleven we
went to the Freer. As usual Nathan’s tolerance of museums was greater than
mine. I find my desire to view objects diminishes rapidly; museums have too
much to see, too many things that demand that one look at them, in my opinion.
It would be far better to display only a few of the best items at a time and
let the rest remain in storage. Nathan, in contrast, is indefatigable in
museums. He wants to see everything and examine every object in great detail
and then discuss what he sees. He can speak with such authority that he often
collects an audience who treat him as a docent/lecturer. He loves that. But by
four that afternoon, even Nathan’s enthusiasm had begun to falter, and he readily
agreed with my suggestion that we take a cab back to the hotel.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">That was a mistake.
Within two blocks we were stalled in a traffic jam caused by a parade of
demonstrators walking up the mall toward the Washington Monument. It seemed
endless at the time. We must have been stuck at that intersection for twenty
minutes before traffic began to move again—slowly. Every light turned red as we
approached, and Nathan and I, not to mention the taxi driver, were beginning to
be impatient. When Nathan spotted a coffeehouse in Dupont Circle, he had the
taxi pull over and we got out. We found two seats at the front window and had a
full view of the street scene. The subway station there disgorged a constant
stream of people coming from work. It was enjoyable to sit there watching
others be busy while we were relaxing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Opposite the
coffeehouse was a gay bookstore, and Nathan asked if I would mind if we browsed
for a while. I hate shopping for almost everything, and he loves it. Over the
years, we had reached a compromise. Bookstores we did together. Food, I shopped
for alone. Clothing—he was on his own. The bookstore was quite large and had a
surprising number and range of books. I headed for my favourite shelves—the
mysteries section. I had read a few gay mysteries but had had no idea how many
there were. Most of them were American publications not available in Britain,
and I spent an enjoyable half-hour limiting myself to the four I thought I
could fit in my luggage and whose covers would not alarm a customs agent. I
jotted down the authors’ names and titles of others that looked promising. I
was surprised to find how much time I had spent browsing. We had to be up early
the next morning, and I thought I had better find Nathan so that we could eat
and then pack for the flight back in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nathan was in the
photography section, examining a book of male nudes. Those books were displayed
on a table, and that area of the store was more open. He happened to glance up
as I walked toward him. When he saw me, he pretended that he hadn’t and focussed
on the picture in front of him. At first I thought he was doing what he usually
did and trying to ignore what he knew would be a prompt from me that we ought
to be moving along. ‘I found several books. How about you?’ I held up the four
books I intended to purchase. Nathan looked up at me blankly and then turned
away. ‘Are you about finished? We should get back to the hotel and pack.’
Nathan closed the book he was looking at and put it back on the table. He moved
a few feet away and then picked up another book. He carefully positioned
himself so that his back was towards me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And that’s when I realised
that Nathan didn’t want to be seen with me. He wanted anyone who had been
watching to think that I had tried to pick him up and that he had snubbed me. As
I stood there trying to figure out what to do next, he put down the second book
and walked away from me, into another area of the store.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Sir, are you ok?’
It took me a second to make sense of the concerned young face that was looking
at me with alarm. One of the clerks was holding out his hands for the books. ‘I
can keep these at the counter for you if you would like to browse some more.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, these will be
all. Thank you. I’ll just get these.’ I paid for the books and walked back to
the hotel. What surprised me most was my acceptance of what had happened. I
wasn’t feeling regret or anger so much as relief that the relationship was finally
over. I returned to our room and took a shower and then began packing. Nathan
didn’t come back for another hour or so. He had decided to ignore the whole
incident, perhaps in the hope that it would all blow over quickly, and he said
nothing when he came in. I continued to sort through the papers in my
briefcase, and then I said, calmly and without thinking much about what I would
say, ‘If being seen with me embarrasses you, you do not need to feel that it is
necessary to invite me to accompany you. I am quite happy on my own.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nathan didn’t even
bother to try to deny my interpretation of the incident. He just nodded. All he
said in response was ‘Yes, perhaps that would be best’. He changed and then
left. When he returned after midnight, I was pretending to be asleep. He got
undressed in the dark and then slid into the other bed. In the morning we flew
back to London. Since Nathan had made his reservations long after I had, we
weren’t sitting together. So I had a good eight hours to think about my plans
for the future. I knew that I wanted out of the relationship. The question was
how best to engineer that. Nathan, I knew, would not tolerate my leaving him.
His pride would not stand for that. I had to arrange for him to leave me. He
had to ‘dump’ me and that fact had to be known to his friends. I decided that
as long as I was free of him, it didn’t matter what his friends thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Back at home, to
all appearances we resumed our familiar routine, with only a few differences. I
had started waking up in the middle of the night a few years earlier and often,
in order to avoid disturbing Nathan with my restlessness, I would get up and
move to the bedroom that was designated ‘mine’ on those, mercifully rather
rare, occasions when it was necessary to convey the notion that we were merely
sharing a house. Gradually I spent more and more of my nights in my bedroom,
until we were sleeping apart. I also found excuses to avoid spending time with
Nathan alone—the proofs that I had to return the next morning demanded that I
stay late at the office; a particularly boring visiting colleague who needed to
be fed dinner in college. It wasn’t hard to devise reasons. When necessary, we
could still become the devoted couple for our friends and associates, but
psychologically and physically the relationship had ended. For many months,
however, I was unable to realise my goal of ending it definitively. For Nathan,
I would say that my presence was a convenience. I did the cooking and the
day-to-day cleaning and cared for the gardens. An occasional conversation was a
small price to pay for the services I supplied.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But the gods do
provide, if seldom as quickly as we mortals might wish. Enter the only person
from Liechtenstein I have ever met. Alois von Hohenlohe was, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> for all I know, an overpowering
person—tall, muscular, handsome, engaging, intelligent. He came as a visiting
external student to study with me and to use our library collections and those
at the British Museum. Moreover, Alois, it soon became apparent, liked mature
men. His hints to me were unmistakable. I invited him to a dinner party at our
house and sat him beside Nathan. They enchanted one another. I made sure that
Alois became a frequent guest. It took little effort to persuade Nathan to
accede to my suggestion that the vacant and unused nursery and nanny’s room on
the third floor would make a perfect apartment for Alois.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Contrary to my
usual habit, I accepted many requests to deliver guest lectures that term.
Often it was necessary for me to be away overnight. Even my notorious and
fabled dislike for travel did not prevent me from accepting the invitation to
deliver the Norhouse Lectures at that university in the other Cambridge. I was
gone for ten days. Again the gods stepped in. The breakup of our housekeeping arrangements
would have entailed much division of common property. We would probably have
had to sell the house. Nathan and I would have continued to cross paths at the
university. We would, of course, have been civilised and not discommoded our
colleagues and friends, but there would inevitably have been unpleasantnesses
and awkward moments.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">My lectures were
very successful. Modesty will not prevent me from saying that I was unusually
thought-provoking, not to mention witty and charming. A group of students even
insisted that I accompany them to a ‘pub’ in Harvard Square after one of the
lectures so that they could continue to talk with me. At the time I thought ‘pub’
was an Anglicism trotted out to spare me the embarrassment of having to admit
my ignorance of the American ‘bar’. To my surprise, however, I discovered that the
place is indeed called a pub and, moreover, fully deserves the name. (The stout
made on the premises is quite good and has grown to be a favourite of mine.
Should you ever visit Cambridge, I recommend you to try it.) I enjoyed that
evening immensely. I appeared to be a ‘hit’ with the students, and that is
always flattering and satisfying.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">After the final
lecture, I was invited to have dinner at the Faculty Club with several
professors from the History Department as well as the Dean of the Faculty of
Arts and Sciences. After the waiters had cleared the table and coffee and drinks
were being passed around, the Dean leaned over and asked if he and a few others
might have a ‘private word’ with me after the dinner. To make a long tale
short, I was offered a major professorship at a salary that quite took my
breath away. As protocol demands, I did not accept immediately, although I knew
as soon as I heard the offer that I would. I promised to let them know my
decision within a few weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I had told Nathan
and Alois that I would be returning on a Thursday. They thought I meant during
the day. Actually the flight arrived late Wednesday evening, and I reached our
home around three o’clock Thursday morning. I found them asleep in bed together.
I think I managed my surprise rather well, even with aplomb. I told them not to
get up and to go back to sleep. I would leave before they awoke in the morning.
And I did. I left it to Nathan to devise the official story. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vraiment, c’est ça son métier</i>. I spent
my few remaining weeks in England in lodgings. I arranged with Nathan to remove
my belongings while he and Alois were out. I buried my sorrows in seclusion and
refused all invitations.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nathan, I would
guess, quite relished my misery. That is, until he heard that I had resigned to
take the job in the United States. I doubt that he has forgiven me that. Of
course, no one suspected my hand in manoeuvring him to end the relationship.
One of the advantages of Nathan’s pursuit of ‘honesty’ in our relationship was
that I was cast as the more naïve and bumbling partner who needed Nathan’s help
to survive. No one could credit an unsophisticated professor of Byzantine
history with a capacity for such deviousness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-91201526767499307532023-03-20T14:31:00.003+00:002023-03-20T14:31:26.606+00:00The E Train Doesn’t Stop at Kenmore<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">2009</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To Lenny’s gratification, someone spotted the resemblance
almost immediately. He had entered the hall devoted to British paintings in the
Museum of Fine Arts in Boston twenty minutes earlier and was wandering slowly
around the room, pausing before each work and gazing at it for a few minutes
before moving on to the next one. He tried to look like a thoughtful
connoisseur of art. He had paid several exploratory visits to museums in New
York City and observed how people behaved. There were some who hurried through
the rooms, stopping only briefly before one of the more famous paintings or
sculptures. Those Lenny had dismissed as boors unworthy of emulation. He had
finally settled on one well-dressed, distinguished-looking middle-aged man, who
moved slowly about the rooms. The man positioned himself in front of each
painting and regarded it attentively if impassively. Occasionally he would
raise an eyebrow in amusement. A few paintings merited a quiet smile and nod of
approval. When Lenny had returned to his apartment, he had practiced the look
of rapt attention and the nod of satisfaction before his mirror. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For the trip to Boston, Lenny had chosen clothes to match
the colors of those in the painting. He couldn’t copy the dark fur robes and
the white lace collar of the figure in the painting—that would have been
ridiculous and in any case beyond his means—but he wore a black crew-neck sweater
over a white shirt. After he had bought a ticket and entered the MFA, he had
stopped in a bathroom to check his reflection in the mirror. A few quick tugs
had brought the edge of the shirt collar neatly above the neck of the sweater.
The sweater emphasized his trim build. His trousers draped perfectly over his
hips and buttocks and down his legs, and the cuffs broke just slightly over his
polished shoes. Lenny knew that he looked good in the outfit. Elegant. That was
his goal. Elegance. Not ostentatiously elegant, just nonchalantly and
comfortably elegant. A gentleman who had found himself in Boston and had
decided to spend a few hours strolling through the Museum, engaged in the
leisurely appreciation of art. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was a long way from Cove Point. But that’s why Lenny had
moved to New York City. To get away from Cove Point and into a world where
people made time for things like the leisurely appreciation of art. He had
taken care to create his new, urban self slowly. He didn’t rush into things, he
didn’t risk mistakes. The last thing he wanted was to make a fool of himself. He
watched and studied and listened. Once he had selected the type of person he
wanted to be, he watched how such people dressed. He studied how they moved. He
listened to how they spoke and what they said. Only when he was sure that he
understood how people behaved and how things worked for them did he begin to
mimic them. And he was always careful to review his behavior and others’
reaction to it later. Had there been a moment’s hesitation in responding to him
when he acted in a certain way? Were people laughing with him or at him? Did
they and others accept him as one of them? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny saw the portrait as soon as he entered the hall. It
hung about a third of the way down the left-hand wall. He intentionally began
his circuit of the room on the right side to delay his arrival before the
painting as long as possible. He was examining the third painting to the right
of his target when the couple entered the room through the same entrance he had
and began walking toward him along the left-hand wall, devoting a minute or two
to each painting. Both of them appeared to be vigorous senior citizens—the
types who kept active and still played golf or went on long walks along the shore.
They were more casually dressed than Lenny. Both wore tennis shoes, and the man
had on a pair of Dockers. They did, however, look alert and intelligent. And
that was all that Lenny required. He could forgive their sartorial failings as
long as they turned out to be appreciative of fine art. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny timed his perusal of the paintings so that he stood
before the painting next to his portrait when they moved in front of it. The
man bent forward slightly at the waist and read the contents of the card beside
the painting. “Charles Leland Roberts, 1794-1859. Portrait of John Lawrence Sommerville,
1801-1852, Fifth Marquis of Creeslough. Oils on canvas. 1826.” The man and
woman contemplated the picture briefly and then turned toward Lenny to move on.
Lenny stepped back and smiled vaguely in their direction, allowing them to pass
in front of him. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The man gasped and then looked back and forth between Roberts’s
portrait of Sommerville and Lenny. As Lenny stopped before his portrait, the
man whispered into his wife’s ear. She turned casually in Lenny’s direction, letting
him drift into her field of vision, and then nodded at her husband. The two of
them smiled at each other. As Lenny stood before his portrait, he knew they
were comparing him to the image in the painting. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The resemblance was remarkable. Lenny might have sat for the
portrait only a short time before. The facial features, the general shape of
the body, even the hair color matched. Luckily Sommerville had favored a simple
hair style that still more or less acceptable, and Lenny’s barber had been able
to come close to it after Lenny had described it to him. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The art student had brought the resemblance to Lenny’s
attention. He had told Lenny his name but Lenny hadn’t bothered to remember it.
He knew that he would not be seeing the guy again. When they had met in the
bar, the student had told Lenny that he looked familiar. “I can’t quite place
you, but I know I’ve seen you before.” Lenny tried to remember if he had had
sex with the guy before. He didn’t think so. Perhaps, he thought, it was just a
come-on—the guy’s way of pretending to a familiarity that didn’t exist. After
another drink, they had left the bar together and gone to the other man’s
apartment. It was small and crowded with books. The student had hung several of
his paintings on the walls. As soon as they walked in the door and switched on
the lights, he made sure that Lenny knew that he had painted them. It was practically
the first thing he said. “I painted all of these.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny didn’t think they were any good but shrugged off his
lack of interest to his ignorance of painting. To be polite, he made a show of
looking at them. “Nice,” he said. “I like that one. It’s very colorful.” He
pointed at the brightest of the paintings. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The art student ignored his comments. “I know I know you
from somewhere.” He had repeated that thought about a dozen times. Lenny was
beginning to get tired of hearing it. The bar had been ill-lit, and the streets
had been dark. It was only when the student switched on the overhead light in
his living room that he could look closely at Lenny. He stood there examining Lenny,
tapping an index finger against his lips. Finally, he said, “Yes, of course” in
a satisfied voice. “I know.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He turned to a book shelf and ran his hand slowly across the
spines of the books before stopping at one and pulling it out. It was obvious
to Lenny that he had known from the beginning which book he wanted. He was
simply making a show of searching for it. Lenny began to wonder how long he had
to wait before he could suggest that they undress and get started on the main
business. The student flipped slowly through the pages. Finally he stopped and
held the book up so that Lenny could see the picture. “I knew I had seen you
before. I never forget a face.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The student kept talking but Lenny didn’t bother to listen.
His face stared out at him from the pages of the book. Without consciously
thinking about his actions, Lenny reached out and took the book from the other
man and sat down, concentrating on the descriptions of the painting and the
artist and sitter. The student had had to pull the book out of his hands and
begin kissing him before he remembered why they were there. Lenny had bumbled
his way through the next hour without interest, his body participating in the
sex but not his mind. When they finished, the art student said a few polite
things about how great it had been and then rolled over and went to sleep. Lenny
waited until the other man was breathing regularly and then eased himself out
of the bed. He picked his clothes off the back of the chair where he had hung
them and his shoes from the floor. He carried them into the small living room
and dressed as quietly as he could. He pulled the door to the bedroom closed
and then turned on the small light next to the guy’s computer. Lenny found the
book on the shelf and paged through it until he found his picture. He carefully
tore the page out and then put the book back on the shelf. When he got back to
his apartment, he had turned on his computer and searched the Internet for
information about Sommerville. He quickly forgot the student. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He began his preparations for the trip to Boston the next
day, looking up plane schedules and investigating possible places to stay. His
visits to museums began the following weekend. Barely a month after he had
learned of his portrait’s existence, he was standing before it. The similarity
really was astounding. Lenny wished that he could touch the painting. He wanted
to feel the rough surface of the paint and affirm its reality. He knew from his
reading that the painting was seven feet tall. The museum had hung it well
above eye level, forcing the viewer to gaze upward at Sommerville. The figure
in the painting sat in a chair. His body was shown in three-quarters view, but
his head was turned to look directly out from the plane of the picture. His
gaze was focused high above the head of any possible spectator. His right hand
held a half-opened book. He appeared to have been disturbed in his reading, and
his attention drawn to something in the center of the room. Both his
indifference and his disdain were palpable. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny regarded the painting with excitement. He would have
been dismayed if he had seen his open-mouthed stare. When he had envisioned the
confrontation, he had imagined admiring throngs gaping at him as he stood
coolly before the portrait for a brief moment before drifting to the next
painting. They were nudging one another and whispering among themselves,
speculating about the relationship of the handsome young man and the
distinguished-looking Fifth Marquis of Creeslough. But when he came face to
face with the painting, all thought of the impression he might be making
evaporated from his mind. He was lifted up and became the man sitting in the
chair and looking out at the world he owned. The world he was seeing as he
regarded his marble hall was magnificent, and Lenny was one of the glorious
immortals at home in it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Another one.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny turned toward the speaker. “What?” A young man stood
beside him, beaming at him with evident pleasure and expectation. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Another match. I’m St. Sebastian. In the Italian Room. You
have to come see me. I’m almost a match. But you’re much closer. The best one
is the Japanese guy in the Buddhist temple. He looks just like one of the
statues there. It’s too bad it’s Thursday. He only comes in on the weekends. Or
you could meet him too. And then there’s the guy in the Spanish Room who claims
he’s a match for one of the Goya paintings, but he’s not. The guard told me
that there was a new match in here, and I had to come see.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The young man spoke rapidly and his words gushed out in a
confused welter of sound. Lenny couldn’t make any sense of them. “I’m sorry.
I’m not following you. What are you talking about?” Lenny drew back. In his own
mind, he was still Sommerville, and he unconsciously spoke in what he imagined
to be Sommerville’s manner. The interruption was cheating him of his glory. He
wanted to shove the other man away and return to his painting. The guy was
handsome, but he hadn’t come to the Museum to pick someone up. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“We’re matches. Every museum has them. Someone who looks
like a person in one of the paintings. Or sometimes a statue. Someone told me
there’s a man in Chicago who looks just like one of carvings of a pharaoh
there.” The young man put a hand on Lenny’s forearm and then pointed to the
painting of Sommerville. “Like you and this guy. It could be you.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“There are others?” It hadn’t occurred to Lenny that there
might be others like him. Living artworks. Somehow better than ordinary people,
more refined, chosen and then distilled to an essence and preserved in art,
there to be contemplated and appreciated. The thought that there were others,
that he wasn’t alone, heartened Lenny. He wasn’t just a fluke, an oddity. If
there were others, then the resemblances had to mean something. It wasn’t just
an accident. There were others who had had a similar experience and could help
him understand what it meant. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, there are lots of us. Though there are lots of fakes.
You have to be careful.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Where are you?” Suddenly Lenny had to see evidence that the
young man was indeed real. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“In the Italian room. It’s three halls down. Come on. I’ll
show you. I’m Antony by the way.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Len.” The two shook hands. Antony held onto Lenny’s hand a
bit longer than necessary. Before letting it go, he ran his index finger up and
down Lenny’s palm. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">St. Sebastian’s flesh glowed white. His hands were bound
above his head to a post, and his muscular body twisted away from the arrows
piercing his flesh. The athletic youth looked upward ecstatically toward an
approaching angel carrying a crown of martyrdom to place on his head. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You do look like him.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I used to look more like him, a couple of years ago when I
was younger. I’m growing old. In a few years I won’t be able to claim that he
looks like me at all.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“But you look like him now. You are so beautiful.” Lenny
wasn’t looking at Antony. He spoke to the body in the painting. He wanted to
touch that flesh, to experience its wounds. He half lifted a hand and caressed
St. Sebastian’s thigh in his imagination. The air felt solid beneath his
fingers. The purity of Sebastian’s suffering was so sensual as he offered his
body to the arrows piercing it. His flesh remained bloodless and passionate
even as it closed around the wounds. Looking at it, Lenny began to understand
why some people were so enthusiastic about art. It made him want to be part of
that world. One of the people who felt things like art, to whom such things
mattered, who was ardent about it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, he’s more muscular than I am. I’ve tried to recreate
his muscles, but I can’t train mine into the same shape.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny looked away from the painting and took a slow
inventory of Antony’s body. “You must look almost like him.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“A lot of people think so. Especially when they see me
undressed, like him.” Antony nodded toward St. Sebastian in invitation. “People
like to possess him. I don’t have the arrows stuck in me of course. I’m not
willing to go that far.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Do people want that?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Sometimes they want to reproduce the pose. Tie my hands
over my head, that sort of thing.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Do you let them?” Lenny licked his lips. He could see Antony/Sebastian
bound. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Never have. Too risky. Some ‘art lover’ might decide to
stick me full of arrows.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“There has to be some way of having the arrows without
actually sticking them in your flesh.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antony shrugged. “I never gone to bed with one of the other
matches. It will be a first. We can see if we can figure something out.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t until that point that Lenny knew that he and
Antony were going to bed together. “Where do you live? I’m just here for a
couple of days. I’m from New York. I’m staying in a motel near the airport
tonight.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“On Beacon Street in Brookline. It’s not far. We can take
the subway. We’ll have to take the E line and then transfer to the C line to go
out Beacon. Did you buy a day pass? If you did, we can change at Copley.
Otherwise we’ll have to go to Arlington.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A train was approaching the stop near the museum and they
had to run to catch it, but they were at Copley within a few minutes. Antony
led the way up the inbound steps and then across the street to the stairs leading
down to the outbound platform. They moved away from the crowd of people and
stood a bit apart. Antony faced down the tunnel staring at an approaching
train. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Is this safe? It looks like it’s falling apart.” Lenny
pointed toward the peeling and cracked plaster pillars holding the ceiling of
the underground platform up. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antony shrugged. “The Green lines are the oldest ones. The
tunnels must be safe, or they wouldn’t use them, would they? Oh, damn, it’s a B
train. There should be a C in a moment.” He stepped away from the approaching
train and leaned back against the wall of the platform. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was a small sign affixed to wall next to Antony. Lenny
read it and then pointed to it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Why do they tell you that? They made the same announcement
on the E train when I took it to the museum.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antony turned to the sign and read it as if it were the
first time he had seen it. “ ‘For Kenmore, take a B, C, or D train. The E Train
does not stop at Kenmore.’ Oh, Copley’s the last stop on this track for the E
trains. All the Green lines come through here, but after this the E line
branches off. The rest of them go on to Kenmore and then they branch off too.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“But what’s so special about Kenmore?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s where Fenway Park is.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When Lenny looked confused, Antony continued. “It’s where
the Red Sox play. I suppose the sign’s for people going to baseball games there
so they don’t take the E train. Oh, here’s a C train. It will only be another
fifteen minutes or so.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Beyond Kenmore, the C train climbed a slight grade and the
tunnel grew lighter. After a pause, the train emerged into the open and ran down
the middle of a broad street lined with brick apartment buildings. Both sides
of the road were heavily traveled. Some of the ground floors housed small shops
and restaurants. The train climbed another hill and then passed through a
larger shopping district. The sidewalks were crowded with people, and most of
the riders on the train got off at that stop. A residential section began
within a couple of blocks. Large trees arched over the roadway and the tram
line. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antony guided him off the train and to an old apartment
building with the word “Empire” chiseled in the stone over the door. Two
twisted wires, the metal long since corroded black, protruded from the top of a
pillar that had apparently once held a lamp. The floor of the entrance was
covered in cracked tiles, and the walls were painted a dark brown. Antony led
him down the first floor hallway. It was so dark that he had to feel with his
fingers and scrape the key against the lock to find the slot. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The apartment had high ceilings, far higher than any modern
apartment would have. Directly in front of the door was the kitchen, with an
old stove and a refrigerator that was humming loudly and making ticking noises.
A wastebasket overflowed with food cartons and packages. A short hallway led to
a large living room, with a bay window looking out over the back yard of the
building next door. A fireplace centered between two bookcases occupied the
opposite wall. A vase of dried flowers in the grate and the lack of soot
betrayed that the fireplace was fake. Over the mantel hung a reproduction of
the St. Sebastian painting. Sections of several days’ worth of newspapers
littered the floor and the cushions of the sofa. The room may once have been
attractive, but the walls were cracked and in need of painting. Another door
led to the bedroom. A trail on the carpet marked years of footsteps from the
front entrance to the bedroom. The apartment smelled of old dust. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antony led him through to the bedroom. A double bed, a
dresser, and two wooden chairs were the only pieces of furniture in the room. Clothes
were draped haphazardly over one of the chairs. The back yard next door was
dimly visible through a small, grimy window. Through a second window only the
tarred wall of the building behind the apartment could be seen. Only a foot or
so separated the two buildings. The room was quite dark even though it was
early afternoon. Antony pulled off his clothes and tossed them toward the chair
with his other discarded clothes. One of his socks caught on the seat of the
chair and then slowly slid to the floor. “If you need to use the toilet before
we get started, it’s through there.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny shook his head. “I’m fine. Thanks. Do you need to pull
the shades?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“What for?” Antony snorted. “No one can see in here. Even if
they could, they’d probably enjoy it. I don’t mind if they watch.” He raised
his arms over his head, and crossed them at the wrists. He leaned back against
the wall and twisted his body in an approximation of St. Sebastian’s pose in
the picture. His body was darker than that in the picture, except around his
groin. There a white triangle highlighted his cock and balls. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Great tan.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Just got back from a vacation in Puerto Rico last week.”
His cock and balls swayed from side to side as he shifted his weight from one
leg to the other. He pivoted his body around an imaginary rope fastening his
body to a post. The tan lines on his ass revealed that he had been wearing a
thong on his vacation. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His body was a close match for that of St. Sebastian in the
painting. Both were lightly muscled and hairless even around the groin. Lenny
began stroking Antony’s body. He didn’t know why, but he had expected
Sebastian’s flesh to be cool and smooth. Antony’s was hot and slightly moist
and oily as if he had been sweating. His fingers tugged at Antony’s body
instead of gliding over it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I need to get another Brazilian wax. The stubble is
beginning to show. That’s where I don’t resemble the painting. I have a lot of
body hair. It’s a constant fight to keep it off. But people want me to be like
the painting. You won’t have that problem. All you have to do is comb your hair
like that guy in the painting and people will think you’re Lord
What’s-his-name. No one knows what his body looks like. Speaking of which, Len,
why don’t you get undressed and let me see what you look like.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny turned away and undressed slowly. He took his time. He
sat on the chair that wasn’t piled with clothing while he unlaced his shoes. He
pulled the sweater over his head and then folded it carefully before placing it
on the seat of the chair. He knew that he looked good. Let Antony enjoy the
visuals before they moved in closer. He turned his back to Antony and undid his
belt and trousers. As he was preparing to drape his trousers over the back of
the chair, he felt Antony’s hands on his ass. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antony pulled him closer and shoved his hands up under
Lenny’s shirt and T-shirt and began stroking his nipples. “Nice. I thought you
would have a nice body. From the way that you look.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny unbuttoned his shirt and pulled his arms out of the
sleeves. Antony had waited long enough. He impatiently pulled Lenny’s T-shirt over
his head and tossed it on the floor. He grabbed Lenny and spun him around so
that they were facing. He placed his hands on either side of Lenny’s face and
then kissed him, forcing his tongue between Lenny’s lips and into his mouth.
His breath was stale, and he tasted of garlic. Lenny tried to pull back, but
Antony held him tightly. He aggressively ran his hands up and down Lenny’s body
and then grabbed his cock and balls and squeezed them. His hand pumped Lenny’s
cock until it grew hard. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He pulled Lenny over to the bed and then lay down, sprawling
across the width of the bed and opening his legs. “Suck me until I get hard.”
He pointed toward his cock and then laced his hands behind his neck with his
arms spread out and resting flat on the bed. Lenny bent over and took Antony’s
cock in his mouth. “That’s it. Suck it. Make me hard.” Antony pumped his cock into
Lenny’s mouth a couple of times, but it was still flaccid. Lenny sucked on it
as hard as he could. It tasted sour to him, and the foreskin was loose and slid
up and down. He closed his lips around it and ran his tongue back and forth,
trying to make it hard. He suddenly wanted the whole episode to be over as
quickly as possible, to make Antony cum and then leave. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antony grabbed the back of Lenny’s head and began fucking
his face. His cock jabbed the back of Lenny’s throat, and Lenny began gagging.
He thrashed about trying to get free, but that just excited Antony more. Anthony
sat up on his knees and began forcing his cock even further down Lenny’s throat.
Lenny felt as if he could hardly breathe. He labored to fill his lungs between
Antony’s thrusts. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, yeah, bitch, suck on it. Harder. Come on. Take it all.
You know you want it.” Antony never stopped talking. “Come on, your lordship.
You’ve always wanted to suck a saint. Now’s your chance.” He extended an arm
down Lenny’s back and pressed a finger into his anus. It was soon joined by a
second finger. Antony’s nails tore at his flesh. “Oh, nice and tight. That’s
going to feeeeeeeel so gooood when I fuck you.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny shook his head no and tried to speak, but Antony just
shoved his cock in again. It got harder and harder to breathe as Antony got
more excited and his cock swelled. Finally he withdrew and hopped off the bed.
Lenny bent forward at the waist and lay his face against the cover. It was
rough against his skin but he didn’t care. He was just relieved to be able to
breathe normally again. His face was hot and flushed, and there were beads of
sweat on his forehead. Behind him he heard Antony moving about. He hoped that
he was through. He didn’t think Antony had cum but some guys didn’t have much,
especially if they had had sex recently.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Antony suddenly grabbed a handful of Lenny’s hair and shoved
a lubed finger deep into Lenny’s ass and plunged it in and out rapidly. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“NO, don’t. I don’t want to be fucked.” Lenny tried to pull
away. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antony pushed his face into the bed and then slapped his
ass. “You’re going to take it, your lordship. I ain’t no saint.” Then he pulled
his finger out and thrust his cock into Lenny. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny screamed in surprise. “Oh that’s what I want to hear,
bitch.” Antony started laughing. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny’s hands clawed at the bedcovers and closed into fists.
He pounded the bed to keep from shouting out from the pain. He bit down on the
covers, taking a wad of cloth into his mouth. His head arched backwards,
lifting the sheets off the bed. His eyes were tightly closed, and his face was
contorted. Antony rode him for almost fifteen minutes before he came. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny struggled for the first few minutes, and then he just
gave up. The pounding continued. There wasn’t any pleasure in it for him.
Occasionally Antony would slap Lenny’s ass to make him contract his muscles
tighter around his cock. As Antony approached orgasm, his cock grew larger.
Finally he came with a great shout and then collapsed on Lenny, still inside
him. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antony wrapped his arms around Lenny and squeezed him
tightly. He kissed Lenny on the back of the neck, growling with pleasure. “That
was a good fuck, your lordship. With a little training, you would make a
first-class cocksucker. You’re already a great fuck.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antony pulled out and jumped up. Lenny could hear him
pissing into the toilet and then the shower began running. Lenny pushed himself
off the bed. He grabbed a handful of Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and
began cleaning himself up. His ass felt about three times normal size, and it
was slimy with fluids. When Antony finished showering and came out, Lenny
rushed into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He turned on the
shower as hot as he could and scrubbed himself. He stood there for ten minutes
letting the water wash Antony off. He found a towel on a shelf and used that.
It smelled faintly of mildew and left him feeling in need of another shower. He
would take another one when he got back to the motel. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lenny stood behind the bathroom door for a minute and tried
to hear if Antony was in the bedroom. He couldn’t tell. He eased the door open
and peeked out, relieved to find that Antony was nowhere in sight. He quickly
dressed and felt in his pockets to make sure that he still had his wallet and
keys. When he was ready, he dashed into the living room, intending to make a
quick exit. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antony was sitting on a chair before the fireplace, with his
legs crossed, wearing just a pair of shorts and flip-flops. Above him, the
figure of St. Sebastian still looked upward toward the angel. Antony smiled
when he saw Lenny. “There’s a Irish bar up the street. It’s pretty good. At
least this time of day. Later at night, they have all these Irish bands in
singing about the Old Sod. And then all the drunks start crying about how much
they miss Ireland. We can go there until dinner time and then go somewhere and
have something to eat and then come back here and fuck again.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m meeting some friends for dinner—in Cambridge.” It was
the first lie that Lenny could think of. He didn’t know anyone in Boston, and
he wasn’t even quite sure where Cambridge was. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, that’s too bad. I was hoping<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b> well, never mind. It doesn’t matter. What time will you be at
the Museum tomorrow? I’ll meet you there.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m going back to New York early tomorrow. I won’t have
time to go to the Museum again.” Another quickly improvised lie. Lenny had
planned to spend most of the day at the Museum. “How do I get to Cambridge? I
take the C line out front and then I have to change somewhere, don’t I?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, C line to Downtown Crossing. Go downstairs to the Red
Line outbound and take any train. There are several stops in Cambridge. Which
one are you supposed to go to? Harvard? Central Square?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Harvard sounded like the obvious place to go in Cambridge,
and so Lenny said that. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s the third or fourth stop after Downtown Crossing. I
don’t remember.” Antony waved a vague hand toward his front door. “You know how
to find your way out and to the train?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, thanks. See you.” Lenny was relieved to get away so
easily and so quickly. He sprinted toward the door before Antony could change
his mind and decide to accompany him. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, see you.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A taxi was passing as Lenny stepped out the front door, and
he flagged it down. He had the driver take him back to his motel. Maybe, he
thought, he could get a flight back tonight on one of the shuttles. He didn’t
want to stay in Boston any longer. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-35315490634103888032023-03-16T17:11:00.003+00:002023-03-16T17:11:36.061+00:00The Canvas<p> 2008</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It started with a
streak of cadmium yellow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The wind had died
just after noon that day, and the heat rose from the dry earth, filling the air
with the resinous smell of the rosemary and oleander bushes that surrounded the
cottage. Raymond was working with all the doors and windows of his studio
opened with the shutters latched to the wall in an attempt to catch any breeze.
The idea for the painting had come to him in the morning and he was trying to
get it down before the inspiration faded. At some point during the afternoon,
when the sweat had begun running down his forehead and into his eyes, he had
absentmindedly tied a rag around his head. He was wearing only an old, baggy
pair of khaki shorts and sandals. His paint-stained T-shirt lay on the floor
behind him where he had tossed after pulling it off when it became too hot to
wear. He had covered most of the canvas with wet cloths to keep the paint from
drying too quickly, before he had a chance to work the next layers of paint in.
Only the area he was working on was exposed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Dell came up from
the beach and walked in the open doors on the seaward side. He had been
swimming and was towelling his hair dry. He wore only the old flip-flops he had
found in the hallway cupboard when they had opened the cottage for the summer,
and his passage up the stairs that led to the beach and then across the patio had
been heralded by the sound of the heels of the sandals striking the boards of
the staircase and then the stones of the patio. He stopped to examine the
painting that Dell was working on and then turned to Raymond for a kiss. Raymond
put an arm around Dell’s shoulders and drew in him briefly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Hmm, salty.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘If you can tear
yourself away from this, you should go for a swim. The water is just the right
temperature now.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Maybe later.’
Raymond gestured toward the painting to indicate why it was unlikely that he
would go for a swim<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘How’s it going?
Can I see?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Raymond reached
forward and lifted the cloths and draped them over the top bar of the easel. He
stepped back out of Dell’s way. It was then that he saw the mark for the first
time. When he had hugged Dell briefly, he had been holding a brush and it had
left a smudge of paint on Dell’s back. Just a small streak of cadmium yellow,
barely half an inch long. The edges were ragged. The paint glowed against
Dell’s tanned skin. In the three weeks they had been at the cottage, Dell’s
body had turned a rich golden brown. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh, just a minute,
let me<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>’ Raymond picked up a cloth
to wipe off the paint.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What?’ Dell turned
halfway round to look over his shoulder. The muscles of his back bunched, and
the streak of yellow paint rose and fell with the motion. Raymond was
transfixed by it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Nothing. Just a
stray thought about the painting.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I should let you
get back to work. Dinner about nine? It should be cool by then. We can eat on
the patio.’ Dell draped the cloths over the painting again and smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I’m sorry to leave
all the work to you.’ Raymond stepped back to the painting and added a streak of
cadmium yellow to the patch of open canvas. It was barely half an inch long and
ragged at the edges. But against the mottled greens of the background, it drew
the eye.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I’ll take my
payment later, when we go to bed. For now, just think of it as my tribute to
your genius.’ Dell patted Raymond on the buttocks and walked out.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Raymond nodded
absently. Dell disappeared from his mind even before he had left the studio.
Raymond lifted one of the cloths and began judiciously adding a few streaks of
cadmium yellow. He didn’t want too many of them, not enough that they would
overwhelm the painting, just enough to convey fugitive motion on the static
canvas.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The mark was still
there when they ate dinner. Dell sat to Raymond’s left, and every time Dell
leaned forward, Raymond saw the yellow patch. It had cracked a bit at the edges
as it dried, but it was still there. And it was still there when they made love
later that night. As Dell lay atop him, pushing him down into the bed, Raymond
gingerly felt with his fingertips until he located the rough patch on Dell’s
shoulder. He was careful not to brush it off. In his mind’s eye, he could see
the yellow against Dell’s flesh, moving with Dell.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In the morning
Raymond awoke early. The light was just beginning to come through the window.
Dell lay beside him on his stomach, with the sheet bunched around his waist,
his back uncovered. The mark had disappeared during the night. Raymond reached
over and gently touched the area where the spot had been. Dell’s flesh was
smooth and cool beneath his fingertips. His deeply tanned flesh was almost
black in the half light. Raymond eased his body out of the bed, careful not to
disturb Dell. Without dressing, he padded through the cottage and across the
patio. In his studio, he quickly located the tube of cadmium yellow and
squeezed a dab onto his palette. He dipped a brush into it and held it up. The
bright yellow colour gleamed in the dawn light. It seemed even brighter than
usual. He walked back through the house and into the bedroom.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He held the brush
poised over Dell’s back for several seconds, searching for the right spot to
paint. In the end, he was drawn to a spot just under the right shoulder blade,
an inclined area where the skin was stretched taut. Once he had located the
spot, his arm seemed to move without conscious thought. The brush dipped, and a
yellow spot appeared on Dell’s body.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Raymond stepped
back a few feet and looked at Dell. A painting took shape in his mind. He could
see the colours he would use and the shapes he would create. How they would
flow together on the living canvas of Dell’s body. A flat canvas on stretchers
wouldn’t do for the images flowing through his mind. And oil paints would be
too stiff. They would have too much texture of their own. He needed something
that would flow onto the skin and look like a second skin. The brush trembled
in his hand. He wanted to move forward and make another mark on Dell. He knew
the exact spot the brush should touch. Dell rolled onto his side, and the
images in Raymond’s mind shifted and flowed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What are these?
I’ve never seen these names before.’ Dell held up the list of painting supplies
that Raymond had just handed him through the open window of the van.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I have something
new in mind. I wasn’t sure what will work best. So I want to try various
paints.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Dell smiled and
tucked the list into his shirt pocket, along with the grocery list and the
other reminders of things he needed to buy and do in Genoa. He manoeuvred the
van carefully through the narrow gate. Just before he drove off, he lifted a
forearm out the window and waved goodbye.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For Raymond, one of
Dell’s more endearing qualities was his lack of comment about Raymond’s work.
Dell never wanted to discuss the paintings. He never felt a need to chatter on
about their meaning or significance. He just accepted that painting was
Raymond’s life and incidentally his livelihood. In response to a polite question
early in their relationship, Raymond has told Dell that if he could find the
words to say what he said with painting, then he wouldn’t need to paint. Dell
had nodded and never mentioned the subject again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Dell took care of
the daily tasks that would have overwhelmed Raymond. He did the shopping and
the housekeeping. He put the food on the table and made sure that Raymond ate
it. He dealt with the plumbers and the carpenters. When his school let out for
the summer, he organised the move to the cottage on the Ligurian coast. He arranged
for the boxing and shipping of the paintings and saw to it that Raymond’s agent
was kept happy with a steady flow of them. He drove Raymond where he needed to
be, when he needed to be there. And several times a week, he made love to
Raymond. If Raymond never lacked for anything, it was because of Dell’s
foresight. Raymond took it for granted that there would be clean clothes in his
bureau and closet, that there would always be hot coffee in the thermos and
milk in the fridge, that the dentist would see him twice a year.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It never occurred
to Raymond to ask himself if Dell was happy. He didn’t think about Dell’s
existence in those terms. Dell was simply Dell. He was there. Raymond was quite
satisfied with the arrangements. He knew he was fortunate that Dell was willing
to manage his life. There were so many tasks that were beyond his interests and
hence beyond his abilities. But the question of Dell’s satisfaction never arose
in Raymond’s mind. He simply assumed, without devoting much thought to the
question, that Dell would not do all the things he did if he were not satisfied
with their life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Raymond stood
motionless in the driveway for several minutes after Dell drove off on the
weekly trip into Genoa. He was staring out the open gate. A passer-by might
have thought he was studying the rock wall opposite the gate. But Raymond’s
vision was filled with images of the body of his lover, its surface completely
painted. A human-shaped canvas, a canvas that shifted and moved, a canvas whose
images were ever-changing and never the same. A canvas that could be wiped
clean and repainted as often as he liked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You want to paint
me? But you never do portraits.’ Dell looked up from the work table in the
kitchen and smiled. ‘This must be your first. I’m rather chuffed that you’ve
asked me to sit for you.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Not a portrait.’
It hadn’t occurred to Raymond until that moment that what he was about to
propose might strike Dell as strange. The idea had been so present in his mind
for the past few days that he thought that Dell would understand what he
wanted. ‘I want to paint your back. At least that’s the first painting. It’s
just a trial, to see what paints will stick to the surface. When I find the
method that works best, then I want to paint your entire body. You’ll have to
shave all your hair off, of course.’ The words rushed out. Raymond was never
sure that language would bend to his meaning. Paint was much easier to manage
than was speech. He looked around the kitchen for help. Everywhere shiny
metallic surfaces reflected distorted images of himself and Dell. It was a
domain he identified as Dell’s part of their living space, both here at the
cottage and at the house in Norfolk.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You want to paint
my body?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Raymond nodded and
held up the tube of yellow body paint he had brought with it. He handed it to
Dell as if its very existence explained and justified what he wanted to do. The
colours of the Cryolan paints were brighter, more lurid, than he liked, but he
had experimented a bit and found that he could tone them down. He wasn’t sure
what they would look like on Dell’s tanned skin or what would happen to the colour
and lustre when they dried.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Dell turned the
tube of paint over and over, reading all the labels. Neither man said anything
for a few moments. Raymond tried not to disturb Dell’s thoughts. He was certain
it was only a matter of letting Dell grow used to the idea.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It says to use
face cream to remove the paints.’ Dell indicated the directions on the back of
the tube.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘For this kind. It
will also come off with hot water and soap. I checked. The latex paints that
you bought the other day will peel off. But they will take the hair with them.
That’s why we need to shave your body first.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But why?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘The idea just came
to me. It’s<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b> it’s an experiment. It
will only take me a few hours to finish your back. Then you could show me how
to operate the video recorder and I’ll take some pictures and you can remove
it.’ It pained Raymond to say that. He didn’t want Dell to destroy his painting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I suppose if it’s
only a few hours<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>’ Dell looked
Raymond in the face for the first time since he realised what Raymond was
asking of him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Raymond nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘When do you want
to start?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Raymond didn’t
trust himself to speak. He wanted to start now, but he simply raised his hands
and shrugged to indicate that Dell could choose the time. He didn’t want to
appear to be in a hurry.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Dell looked at the
vegetables that he had been chopping. ‘Just let me finish up here. It will only
be ten minutes or so. Is my back hairy? Does that have to be shaved now? I’ll
need your help if it does.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The image of what
he wanted to do was clear in Raymond’s mind, and Dell’s back was not as large a
surface as the canvases he usually painted. The colours of the paints were more
intractable, however. They didn’t blend in the same way as oils. Raymond wasn’t
wholly satisfied with the results when he finished. But he could see what
adjustments he would need to make the next time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Dell had perched on
a stool while Raymond painted his back. He hadn’t said anything and had barely
moved the entire time it took Raymond to paint both sides of his back from the
shoulders down to the waist.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It’s very sensual.
It’s as if you were kissing each spot on my back. Tiny kisses with the tip of
your tongue. Each kiss is a drop of moisture and then it dries.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Do you want to see
it?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, I don’t think
so. I don’t know why. Somehow I think<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>
I don’t know. That it would be like seeing a foreign growth on my skin. Are you
happy with it?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It is beautiful,’ Raymond
whispered to himself. He was entranced by the look of the painting on Dell’s
body. It was as if he had created something from the raw material of Dell.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I don’t think I
have ever heard you use that word about any of your paintings before.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Raymond set his palette
and brushes down. He walked over to Dell and then kissed his back. Raymond
inhaled the paint smell slowly and deeply. The odour was different from that of
oils, more natural, less processed and chemical. Dell’s usually cool skin felt hot
beneath Raymond’s lips. He pressed his fingertips into the painting and felt
the familiar flesh give slightly as if the paint had softened Dell’s body, made
it more malleable. Dell stood up and undid his shorts. The unpainted portions
of his body shocked Raymond with their nakedness. He blocked them out of his
mind and focused on the painting as he stepped out of his own shorts. He
pressed Dell’s back against his chest, with the painting between them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The pattern of
their coupling was different. During the eight years they had been together, Dell
and he had fallen into easy habits, but that afternoon Raymond felt more
active. They flowed together but Raymond for once set the rhythm of their
movements. Raymond wasn’t dominant or violent, but there was just more energy
and intensity.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The painting was
ruined. As much of the greasy body paint ended up on Raymond’s chest as on
Dell’s back.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Neither of them
said anything. Each separately took a shower and washed his body clean. Dell
finished cooking the evening meal, and they ate it in their customary silence.
Something had changed, but they didn’t want to talk about it yet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The next day,
Raymond returned to his studio and resumed work on the painting on his easel.
Dell followed his usual routine of swimming and pottering about the cottage.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The second morning,
Raymond rose at his customary early hour and began painting before breakfast. Around
nine he heard Dell enter the studio. He half-turned around expecting Dell to
call him into the house to eat.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I’ve removed all
the hair I could.’ Dell stood there naked, his body shaved. The purity of the
canvas was an ache in Raymond’s psyche, a void in his mind that called out to
him to paint. Several hours later when Dell’s body had been converted into a
maze of colours and shapes, Dell made him videotape the painting. The colours
swirled and the shapes shifted as he walked about in front of the camera. It
was as if some creature had possessed Dell, possessed the both of them. Human,
inhuman, Dell, not-Dell. Created yet always already there. They awoke in the
morning with the evidence of their lovemaking on their bodies and on the sheets
of the bed. The two painters came together again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">That set the
pattern for the summer. Every few days Raymond would paint Dell. It became an
obsession, to cover Dell’s body with images, to transform the familiar, to free
them from the inheritance of form and shape and colour. Dell was scrupulous
about recording Raymond’s work before the two of them joyfully set about
celebrating the wonder they were discovering. ‘It will be a record,’ he said.
‘You can donate the tapes to a museum.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">One week toward the
end of the summer, when Dell returned from the weekly shopping in Genoa, he
walked into the studio. He was dressed in his usual summer outfit of jeans and
a knit shirt and wearing the wide-brimmed straw hat he favoured. ‘I got a
haircut.’ He removed the hat. All the hair on his head had been shaved off. ‘I
left the eyebrows. I thought my face would look too strange without them, but
we can cover them with petroleum jelly, and then you should be able to paint
over them.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As the critic for
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Times</i> wrote later, after the
exhibition of the tape recordings at the Tate, Raymond’s first painting of
Dell’s body and shaven head was ‘a sublime maelstrom of rapture’.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-78427885662153694222023-03-15T14:17:00.004+00:002023-03-15T14:18:49.463+00:00Even in Our Own Despite<p>2010 </p><p style="text-align: left;"> --Even in our own despite comes wisdom by the awful grace of god.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;"> Aeschylus, </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #000020;">Agamemnon.</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;"> trans. Edith Hamilton</span></p><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“She’s down in the cellar now. And if it were up to me,
she’d stay locked down there forever.” Ryan stood in front of the closed door
to the basement stairs, blockading it with his body. With his right hand, he
thrust a wooden spoon red with spaghetti sauce toward Eric’s chest, brandishing
it like a weapon. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric had returned home to find Ryan in the kitchen stirring
a pot on the stove. He had no sooner greeted his partner than an anguished
round of barking followed by the sound of a body bumping the inside of the door
to the basement answered his question of where the dog was. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“She’s just a puppy.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Your so-called puppy tore my best sweater apart. That
sweater cost me $290. And now it’s a pile of yarn on the bedroom floor. My
bedroom floor. I told you to keep that dog out of my room.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’ll buy you a new sweater.” At the sound of Eric’s voice,
the puppy started howling. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You’re damned right you will. Listen to that. That fucking
dog has woke me up every night the past week with her barking. Even the
neighbors are complaining. I want her out of here. She’s not spending another
night in this house. My house, I remind you.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You remind me often enough.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“If you don’t like the reminders, you can get out too.” Ryan
threw the spoon into the sink. The tomato sauce splattered across its surface. He
stormed down the hallway and stomped up the stairs. Each tread of his feet thundered
through the house. From the floor above came the sound of a door slamming and a
distant shout of “Goddamn fucking dog! My best sweater ruined.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric sighed. He put his coat back on and took the dog’s leash
off the hook by the backdoor. When he opened the door to the basement, Bean
rushed out and began circling happily around him, yapping loudly. The fox
terrier stood on her hind legs and pawed at his knees, asking to be picked up.
Eric knelt down and petted her, trying to make her be quiet. As soon as Bean
saw the leash, however, she began barking even louder. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From upstairs, Ryan shouted, “Get that damned dog out of my
house.” And the door slammed again. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric fastened the leash on Bean’s collar and opened the back
door. The dog went charging out, almost rolling down the steps to the yard. At the
bottom, she squatted down. “At least you’re becoming housebroken,” Eric said to
her and patted her on the head. Bean twisted her head around and grinned, her
tongue lolling out. “But where am I going to put you tonight?’ Bean finished
and strained at the end of her leash, trying to pull Eric over to the fence
that surrounded the yard so that she could sniff at it. “Don’t get attached to
this,” Eric whispered to her. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to be your kingdom. Maybe
not mine either, for that matter.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When Eric opened the door to his car, Bean jumped in and
hopped into the back seat. She quickly put her front paws on the window sill
and began looking around, her tail wagging with excitement, as if the scene
outside were totally new to her. Eric backed out the driveway and into the
street. He drove for several blocks and then pulled over to consider what to do
next. If Ryan were looking, he and Bean were far enough away that they couldn’t
be seen. After a time, he started the car again and drove to the Petco on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Western Avenue</st1:address></st1:street>. He
cracked a back window to give Bean some fresh air. Before he had gone five
feet, the dog had started barking. When he turned back, Bean tilted her head
and gave him the “How could you be so heartless?” look. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She resumed barking when she realized that he
was not coming back to the car to let her out. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Confronted with a choice of dog foods, Eric opted for the
most expensive brand. Bean didn’t care, but Boeuf Barkoigne assuaged Eric’s
guilt. He added two plastic bowls for food and water to the basket and a small
cushion for Bean to sleep on. When he got back to the car, a young woman was
holding a small child up to the window and guiding his hand in a waving motion.
Bean was running back and forth along the seat and jumping up and down in her
cute puppy act. When the woman realized that it was Eric’s car, she asked, “What’s
its name?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When Eric told her, she began cooing to her child. “The
doggie’s name is Bean. Can you say Bean?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The child leaned forward in her arms and began
pounding on the window glass. “Ean,” he squealed. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Bean pushed her nose against the window on the other side. “Oh,
look, Bean is saying hello.” The child laughed happily. “I hope you don’t mind.”
The woman spoke to Eric. “Alan was fussing, so I brought him over when I heard
your dog barking. My husband and I are thinking about getting a dog, a small
dog like this one, now that Alan is older. He likes dogs so much. They
fascinate him.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Unfortunately, I can’t keep Bean. She needs to be with
someone who can watch her all day. I think I can leave her with my sister for
tonight. But tomorrow I’ll have to find her a permanent home.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Bean stuck her nose to the crack in the window and sniffed.
Alan stuck a cautious finger into the gap. Bean licked at it, and Alan pulled
his hand back in shock and laughed with delight. He and Bean repeated the
action. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The woman eyed Eric speculatively. It took very little
discussion to find Bean a new home. The woman assured Eric that they had a
large fenced-in yard for Bean to play in and that both she and her husband
liked dogs. For his part, Eric assured her that Bean had received her first
series of shots and promised to send the dog’s papers. He even handed over the
bag with the “starter kit.” The last he saw of Bean, the dog was charging ahead
at the end of its leash, sniffing at the tires of cars, as the woman tried to
balance child and the shopping bag and hold on to the dog’s leash. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric sat in the car and considered his options. He had
gotten rid of Bean and had complied with Ryan’s minimal requirements for his
return. But the thought of spending an evening with someone determined to be
aggrieved repelled him. Ryan had demonstrated his willingness to milk his
discontents for days on many occasions, and Eric knew that he would have to
apologize over and over before Ryan stopped complaining. Nor did spending the
night at any of his friends’ places appeal. He didn’t want to have to explain
why it was necessary. A call to his sister had yielded only the “We can’t answer
the phone right now” message he had recorded for her to discourage callers
trying to reach single women. He finally drove past her apartment, thinking he
could let himself in with the key he carried if she hadn’t returned. The lights
in her bedroom were on, and he rang her again. When the beep signaled that he
could leave a message, he said, “Liz, this is Eric. Please pick up if you’re
there.” The urgency in his voice must have persuaded her that she had best
answer. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“What’s the matter? Has something happened?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the background came the sound of a man’s voice asking, “Who’s
Eric?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No, nothing’s happened.” Eric sighed inwardly. “I was just
driving around and thought I might stop by. But you’re busy. I’ll talk to you
later.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Tomorrow,” his sister said insistently. “Call me tomorrow.”
“Eric’s my brother,” he heard her say to the person with her as she hung up. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric stopped at the first motel with a vacancy sign. The
anonymity of the motor lodge and the small room with its bland furniture and
inoffensive pictures fit his mood—he didn’t want anything that would trigger
thought. The room smelled strongly of scented cleaning fluids, a pine forest
attempting to camouflage ammonia. The small lamp beside the bed barely lit the
room. He couldn’t have read by it, even if he had something to read. Eric
pulled the drapes and then lay down on the bed. Thirty-four and single again,
he supposed. Spending the night in a cold, damp motel room with nothing but the
clothes he had been wearing all day was preferable to returning to Ryan. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A convenience store on the corner provided a toothbrush, a
miniature tube of toothpaste, a pack of disposal razors, and a small can of shaving
cream. He didn’t have the energy to get in his car again and find dinner and
ended up buying a loaf of bread and a package of sliced ham encased in plastic.
Beside the checkout counter was a display of candy. While waiting for the
person ahead of him to finish, he gave into temptation and put a chocolate bar
into his basket. After a few seconds, he added another. The girl at the cash
register had blond hair dyed red in front. The dye had been combed back into
her hair, tinting much of it pink. Her eyes were heavily outlined in black. Her
earrings were clusters of small feathers. She wore a bright orange T-shirt with
a slogan partially obscured by the smock she was wearing over it. The words “I’m
only doing this” were visible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
looked over the items he was buying and smirked at the woman standing behind
Eric. “This is what us professional suppliers of food and personal healthcare items
call the ‘suddenly by myself tonight husband’s kit.’ ” Both of them laughed. “What’s
the matter? Didn’t she give you time to pack?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her long fingernails were painted black, and many of the
dozen or so rings she was wearing were so tight that the flesh bulged around
them like miniature rolls of fat. She picked up the package of sliced ham by
the tips of her fingers and dangled it in front of the scanner, swinging it
back and forth, until the machine beeped. Eric felt a wave of revulsion sweep
through him at the sight of her nails next to the pink-red ham. It had seemed
something he would enjoy when he had picked it out of the cold case, but now he
felt it had been fouled. His mouth flooded with memories of sour meat, its
surface sticky with salty juice. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric blushed and stammered something. It didn’t make sense
even to himself. He paid for his purchases as quickly as he could and hurried
from the store. The clerk said something behind his back, and the two women
laughed again. Eric hurried back to the motel, almost at a run. In his mind’s
eye, he could see the two women leering out the window of the shop and watching
him as his destination confirmed their suspicions that he was on his own. The man
standing behind the check-in desk glanced at the bag as Eric walked through the
lobby and seemed to reach the same conclusion as the store clerk. To Eric, his “Good
evening, Sir” carried a note of derision. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric turned the deadbolt and pushed the chain through the
slot. Canned laughter from television programs seeped through the walls. A
female announcer brightly encouraged listeners to stay tuned for “more
irreverent comedy from Ricky and Alan.” He dropped the sack from the store on top
of the table in the room and sat down in the chair without taking off his coat.
After a few minutes, he stood up and turned off the light and then sat down
again. </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I want you to meet someone.” Alec had to lean in and shout into
Eric’s ear to make himself heard over the music and the shouting of the crowd.
One of the dancers had just whipped off his shirt, exposing a well-developed
chest, and the watchers standing next to the dance floor had erupted in
whistles and shouts of encouragement. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric shook his head. “What? I can’t hear you.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alec cupped his hands around Eric’s ear and shouted. “We’re
in the back room. It’s quieter there. We can talk. Come on. You don’t need to
sit here by yourself. I’ve got someone I want you to meet. I’m buying a round
for the table. Help me carry the drinks.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That’s how Eric met Ryan, carrying a glass of beer in each
hand and trying not to spill any. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I found a waiter to help bring the drinks. This is Eric.
Isn’t he the best-looking man you’ve ever seen?” Alec’s remarks were directed
toward the person at the table Eric didn’t know. The stranger coolly looked
Eric up and down as if he were formulating a serious answer to Alec’s question. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Sit down, Alec, and stop harassing Eric.” Alec’s current
partner stood up and took one of the glasses from Eric. “How are you doing,
Eric? This is Ryan, by the way. He and I are colleagues. We both work at Tactiks.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m fine, Will.” Eric nodded to the stranger and held out
his hand. “Nice to meet you.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ryan continued to appraise Eric as he shook his hand. “I
wouldn’t say the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, but certainly in the top ten.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I think Alec’s question was addressed to me. He was asking
me if you aren’t the best-looking man I’ve ever seen.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“And your answer would be?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“A polite one, of course.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ryan laughed. “A damning answer if there ever was one. Here
sit down.” He slid to the next chair over and gestured to Eric to sit in the
chair he had been using. As Eric sat, Ryan brushed up against him. For a few
seconds their upper arms were in contact. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Let’s dance.” Alec pulled Will out of his chair and led him
off. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I think we are being left alone.” Ryan regarded Eric with
amusement. “I suppose we’re to use this opportunity to get to know each other.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Alec likes to set people up. Including himself.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“He’s done this to you before?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“He’s tried.” Eric shrugged. “Many times.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Was he successful?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No, but he might get lucky tonight. Cheers.” Eric clicked
his glass against Ryan’s, stared Ryan in the eyes for a few seconds, and then
looked around the room as he took a sip. “Would you like the impolite answer?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The impolite answer? To what? . . . Oh, you mean to Alec’s
question. No, I think not. The question served its purpose, didn’t it?’ Ryan
glanced up as someone walked past the table and then followed the person with
his eyes. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Top five.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Five?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ryan’s
pretense of a lack of interest disappeared. He turned back to look at Eric. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t get out much. I obviously have less exposure to
handsome men than you do. I don’t think I have met ten handsome men.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ryan weighed Eric’s remarks, letting equal parts of doubt
and amusement show in his face. He finally decided in the affirmative and held
out his right hand. “I’m Ryan Shaw, by the way.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Eric Pastene.” The two shook hands again, this time they held
the grasp before letting go. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well, that got us past the awkward moment, didn’t it? I
think the next step is to exchange the short version of our life histories,
isn’t it? So tell me about yourself, Eric Pastene.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alec and Will lingered on the dance floor through several
numbers and then stopped to chat with some friends. By the time they arrived
back at the table, Ryan and Eric knew that they would not be sleeping alone
that night. </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“What’s Ryan like at work?” Eric shifted his chair closer to
Will. He had asked Alec and Will out for a drink. Soon after they had arrived,
Alec had spotted a friend he “had to talk to” and left the table, leaving Eric
and Will alone. Will had followed Alec with his eyes, a resigned smile on his
face. It was an awkward moment for Eric. He had seen this before—Alec moving
from being unable to stop pawing the current boyfriend to dumping the guy on
someone else to entertain while he went off and cruised the room. He knew Alec
well enough to guess that he was in the first stages of breaking up with Will.
He wondered if Alec realized it yet. To judge from Will’s reaction, he already
suspected that it was about to happen. Before the silence became awkward and
impossible to interrupt, he brought up the subject of Ryan. He wanted to find
out more about Ryan, especially the side of Ryan he didn’t see. It was the
reason he had asked Will and Alec out. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Will turned back to look at Eric and sipped at his drink
before speaking. He set the glass down squarely in the middle of the paper
coaster and then held it between his outstretched hands. He twisted it slowly
back and forth with the tips of his fingers. He was in no hurry to answer
Eric’s question. He didn’t know how the relationship between Eric and Ryan had
developed, and he suspected it might not be politic to give his true opinion.
Eric would not, he assumed, have asked the question if the relationship had not
developed to the point where the answer might matter to him. “He’s very well
thought of by his team leader. He’s very aggressive in securing business and
very good at charming our clients and keeping them happy. That part of the job
he does well. He carries the same qualities over into the office. He’s a good
colleague to those of us he regards as his equals or superiors. But he can be a
bit impatient with those below him. When he tells them to do something, he
wants it done immediately. Why do you ask?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“He wants me to move in with him, into his house, I mean.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You two didn’t waste time. It’s been what—three, four
weeks?—since Alec introduced you.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“He’s terrific. Everything feels so right with him. I’ve
never been as comfortable with anyone as I am with him.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“That’s great. It’s wonderful to feel that way.
Congratulations. Are you going to?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Move in with Ryan? I don’t know. He wants me to get rid of
everything I own. He says he already has everything we need, and his things are
better than mine.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“He wants you to get rid of everything you own?’ Will looked
concerned. “How do you feel about that?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m not sure. I told Ryan I would put my things in storage,
and then he accused me of wavering. He said if I truly loved him, I wouldn’t
hesitate. I would have enough confidence in our feelings for each other to get
rid of my stuff because I wouldn’t need it in the future. I would sell
everything except my clothes and then move in.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Will reached over and briefly tapped Eric’s wrist. He was
unwilling to intrude further into Eric’s and Ryan’s lives. “Well, I’m sure
you’ll work it out. Alec will be pleased to know that one of his matchmaking
schemes has succeeded. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope the two of
you will be happy together.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, we’re happy. That’s not the problem. I’m not worried
about that. I guess I’m just too attached to my things. I’m making too much of
it.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Will nodded and then changed the subject. Alec soon rejoined
them, bringing with him someone he had just met. Alec and the newcomer did most
of the talking. First Will and then Eric fell silent. Eric left a few minutes after
he had finished his drink. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The evening left Eric no closer to a decision. He had hoped
that Will would provide enough information to help him make up his mind. In
retrospect, he didn’t know why he thought that might happen. It had been
foolish to expect Will to “tell all.” And he had obviously picked a bad moment
to ask for advice about moving in with Ryan. It was becoming clear that Will
and Alec would never live together. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When he returned home after leaving the bar, he found a
message from Ryan on the machine. “Love of my life, where are you? I’m in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Atlanta</st1:place></st1:city> tonight. Call me
on my cell when you get back. It doesn’t matter how late. I won’t be able to
sleep unless I hear your voice.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Ryan answered on the first ring. “Where were you? I tried
three times before leaving a message.” He sounded peeved. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Hello. How did you know it was me?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Caller ID on my phone. You have got to buy a cell phone. I
don’t like being out of contact with you. And you didn’t answer my question.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I took Alec and Will out to buy them a drink.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Why? You knew I would call. I’ve called every evening I’ve
been away.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I wanted to thank them.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Thank them? For what?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“For introducing us.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, well, uh, I guess that’s all right then.” The pleasure
in Ryan’s voice was audible even over the phone. “But you should have told me
last night. I was worried that something might have happened to you.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“We had a meeting of the department today, and I asked Alec
on the spur of the moment. He called Will, and we arranged to meet at 8:00.
There wasn’t any point to going back to my apartment only to go out again. So I
stopped at that Chinese noodle restaurant at <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Washington Square</st1:address></st1:street> in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Brookline</st1:place></st1:city>.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The Tiantian? Why do you go to that place? It’s so bad.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I like it. Mrs. Lin at work says she and her husband go
there when they want noodles, and they’re from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Beijing</st1:place></st1:city>.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well, don’t expect me to go there. It’s not even clean.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’ll reserve it for the nights you’re away. Were you really
worried that something might have happened to me?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Hmm. I had this vision of you lying in the hospital. I was about
ready to start phoning the police to see if you had been in a traffic accident.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“That’s not very flattering. You could have chosen something
more dashing. I had been arrested by the police for being an international
jewel thief and was spending the night in jail before appearing in court in the
morning.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I know you better than that. That would be totally out of
character.” Ryan chuckled at the notion. “How were Alec and Will?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m afraid that they’re about to break up.” Eric related
the events of the evening. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When he finished speaking, Ryan commented, “Well, that will
be a nuisance. We can hardly avoid dealing with them at work. We’ll have to be
careful when you move in not to have both of them in the house at the same
time.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes. We can manage that. It shouldn’t be a problem.” They
chatted for a few minutes more before hanging up, but not before Ryan extracted
a promise from Eric that he would be waiting by his phone the next evening for
Ryan’s call. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t until later that Eric realized that he had agreed
to move in with Ryan. He was lying in bed, unable to sleep and reviewing the
conversation in his mind. He was secretly pleased that Ryan had been worried
about him. No one outside his parents had ever been that concerned about him. Ryan’s
momentary anger he dismissed as an indication of the depth of Ryan’s concern
for his well-being. He fell asleep planning their life together. </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I thought you could use this room. I’ve emptied the closet
and the chest of drawers. If you need more hangers, we’ll have to buy them.” Ryan
set the box he had been carrying on a chair. “You can use the bathroom across
the hall. I’ll use the one that’s off my bedroom.” Ryan bustled around pulling
the drapes closed. “Oh, don’t put your suitcase on the bed. I just had that quilt
cleaned. I put one blanket on your bed. If you need another one, we can put it
on the list of things to buy.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I could have brought the ones I was using instead of giving
them away. In any case, we can keep each other warm if necessary.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“That shouldn’t be a problem. I’m looking forward to keeping
you hot. Maybe we should . . .” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Should what?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Test the bed. I’ve never actually slept on it.” Ryan’s left
eyebrow seemed to acquire a life of its own, arching up beyond his control.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“You mean we should check if it’s sturdy enough for the two
of us.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, we don’t want it to break in the middle of the night.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“No, that might be inconvenient.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“And this mattress might be lumpy.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“Nothing worse than a lumpy mattress.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, in the hierarchy of things you want to poke you in the
rear, a lumpy mattress ranks pretty low.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Very low.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Hmmm. I admire a man who can undress so quickly.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“My clothes seem to melt away near you.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Is the bed lumpy?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m not paying attention to the bed. My mind is on other
things. Your firm lips among other hard objects.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“But you’re a scientist. Aren’t you supposed to be observant
and interested in collecting data?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Let’s see what happens when I do this.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Ohhh.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Let me make a note of that. Test subject exhibited
immediate signs of arousal when five centigrams of pressure was applied with
moistened apex and lamina of the tongue to his left papilla.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“Is this why your laboratory rats always look so happy?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“It’s one reason. Let me demonstrate some of the other
reasons.” </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric found himself embracing one of the pillows and
clutching it close to his chest when he woke in the morning. The other half of
the bed was cold. Ryan had not joined him again. When he had headed up to bed the
night before, Ryan had said that he would be along shortly, after he finished
watching the television news. Later he had half-heard the shower running in
Ryan’s bathroom. He must have fallen asleep soon thereafter. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He pushed the pillow away. It was a poor substitute for
Ryan’s warm body and the feel of Ryan’s soft hair against his face. Ryan had
begun to absent himself from what he always called “Eric’s bed” a few weeks
after Eric had moved in. The first time it happened, Ryan had left in the
middle of the night but rejoined him in the morning with the excuse that he
hadn’t been able to sleep and didn’t want to disturb Eric. Gradually the
absences had become more and more frequent, until now it was rare that Ryan
spent the entire night with Eric. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After the first few weeks, the two of them had reverted to
the sleeping habits they had followed before moving in together. Of the two,
Eric was much more of a morning person and usually turned in long before Ryan.
Ryan now had a reason for never joining Eric. And Ryan’s reasons always placed
the blame on Eric or made it seem that Ryan was doing him a favor. “You were
snoring and I couldn’t sleep.” “You were sprawled all over the bed, and there
wasn’t room for me.” “I didn’t want to wake you. I knew you had to get up early
today.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On the second morning Eric had woken up to find Ryan absent,
he had gone looking for him. Ryan was asleep on his side in his bed, the covers
pulled almost over his head. Eric had carefully lifted the blankets and slowly
stretched his body along Ryan’s and then wrapped his arms around Ryan’s torso. He
began kissing Ryan’s neck softly. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ryan stirred. He rolled over and snuggled in closer, trying
to burrow his face into Eric’s chest. He mewled in contentment. Then suddenly
his body stiffened as he came fully awake. He lifted up his head and stared
blankly for a few seconds, as if he couldn’t remember who Eric was. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, not this morning. Let me sleep. I was up late last
night.” Ryan’s voice betrayed his irritation. He rolled over and pulled the
covers up. He curled his body in on itself, as far away from Eric as he could
get in the bed. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric hesitated for a few seconds, uncertain what to do next,
and then eased himself out of the bed trying to make as little disturbance as
possible. He crept out of Ryan’s bedroom quietly and then slowly closed the
door. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next time that Ryan slept in his own bed, he closed the
door. A Post-it note at eye level warned “Don’t wake me.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thereafter Ryan joined Eric in bed only when he wanted sex
and then left soon after they had finished. And they always met in Eric’s bed,
never in his. He made it clear early on that his own bedroom was off-limits to
Eric. “I’m not used to sleeping with someone else. It’s nothing personal, and
it’s not about you. It’s just that I need my own space,” he explained. “I just
need somewhere to be by myself sometimes.” </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Hey, Eric, how are you? It’s been months. Where have you
been hiding?” Will looked genuinely pleased to see him. He shook hands
vigorously and enthusiastically. If they hadn’t been in a mixed social setting
organized by the president of the company Ryan and Will worked for, Eric had
the impression that Will would have hugged him just as vigorously and
enthusiastically. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, I’m fine. I’ve just been busy.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“So Ryan’s been telling us. I’m sorry you had to miss Theo’s
party last week. It was great.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“What party?” Eric tried to remember if he had ever met
someone called Theo. Whoever he was, he was well enough known to Ryan that Will
expected him to be acquainted with Theo. “When was that?” From the look of
surprise that suddenly crossed Will’s face and was just as suddenly replaced by
a bland mask of politeness, he knew that Will had just realized he had spoken
out of turn. Ryan had said he had a dinner meeting on Friday and had told Eric
not to wait up for him. He hadn’t mentioned a Theo or a party. Ryan had
returned very late that night and slept until almost noon on Saturday. That had
been the only evening he had been gone long enough to attend a party. “Oh, was
that the party on Friday night? Yeah, I had something with my family. I
couldn’t cancel.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The something with his family had been dinner with his
sister, arranged at the last minute to take advantage of Ryan’s absence. Ryan
had quickly made it apparent that he didn’t want Eric’s family intruding on his
life. He had sulked for hours after the first visit from Eric’s sister. Ryan
had barely spoken to Liz and left the room and went upstairs five minutes after
her arrival. Soon the sounds of an animated phone conversation had become
audible. Eric thought Ryan had to be standing at the top of the stairs and
speaking loudly to be heard so clearly. He had remained in his bedroom with the
door closed for several hours. When he finally emerged, he had acted surprised
that Liz was no longer there. “You should have told me. If I had known, I
wouldn’t have shut myself away. I just wanted to give the two of you a chance
to talk.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That was a harbinger of his treatment of all of Eric’s
friends and family. He hadn’t forbidden further visits, but he became impatient
if Eric had visitors or chatted for long on the phone with anyone. Eric soon
grew to feel that Ryan would prefer not to be reminded that he had a life
beyond their relationship. Ryan didn’t welcome discussion of Eric’s work, and
he found excuses for avoiding all interactions with Eric’s friends or family. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well, Ryan has been boasting about how happy the two of you
are. I suppose that’s why we haven’t seen much of you. He wants to keep you to
himself. You’re still in the honeymoon stage.” Will moved closer and spoke
quietly. “I hate parties like this. It was a relief to see a friendly face.
Let’s find a spot so we can talk.” He tilted his head toward a sofa in a corner
of the hotel ballroom the company had hired. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When they sat down, Will stretched his legs out. “Ah, it
feels good to get off my feet. I’ve been running around all day. How is Alec
doing by the way?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t have to
answer that question if you don’t want. It isn’t the main reason I want to talk
with you.” Will spoke casually as if his question were simply idle chatter
about a common acquaintance. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“He’s gone through two ‘Mr. Rights’ since the two of you
split up. He’s working on the third now.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I guess I lasted longer than average with him.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, you did. Do you want to talk about it?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, if you don’t mind.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric half turned to face Will. “Not at all. What are friends
for?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The look of relief on Will’s face was answer enough. For the
next half-hour, he unburdened himself. It was, Eric realized, his first personal
conversation with anyone since moving in with Ryan. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>When Will had exhausted the subject of Alec, he asked, “Are
you finding married life all that you expected?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was a question Eric had asked himself on many occasions,
but it was the first time he had been asked it by someone else, and Will seemed
to be asking out of more than just a polite desire to make conversation. Will
seemed genuinely interested. He could, Eric thought, answer the question with a
dishonest but enthusiastic yes and end the discussion. With most people, that
is the course he would have chosen. But he found, to his surprise, that he
opted for a cautious opening. He even paused before speaking to formulate a
response that would allow Will to choose either to terminate this line of
conversation with a platitude or dig deeper. “I’ve had to make a lot of adjustments.
Everyone does, of course.” He tried to toss the line off <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as if the subject mattered little to him. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Will leaned forward and looked Eric directly in the eyes as
he spoke, “And are you finding the adjustments difficult?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Will kept his gaze steady on Eric’s face. Eric felt as if
their eyes were locked together. “Some of them, yes. I know that Ryan does as
well. We’re very different people in many respects, and there have been a lot
of things that we didn’t discover about each other until we were living
together.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m not asking for details of your and Ryan’s life
together, and you mustn’t tell me any. But I sincerely hope that you are happy
in your life, Eric.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Thanks, but why did you say that? I’m sorry, that was rude.
But do I give the impression that I’m unhappy?” Now that the subject of his
relationship with Ryan had been broached, Eric found himself feeling defensive.
Suddenly he was having second thoughts about exposing himself. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You haven’t looked particularly happy tonight. Forgive me
if I’m misinterpreting, but you didn’t know about Theo’s party, did you? And
some of the comments you made about Alec would apply more to Ryan, at least to
the Ryan I know.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s difficult to talk without being specific. And you’re
right about avoiding the details. I can’t burden you with the details of my . .
. I don’t even know what to call them, my frustrations, my disappointments.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Your choice of words says a lot.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The two were so involved in their conversation that the rest
of the gathering receded into background noise. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, here you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. I’m
ready to go.” For a second Eric couldn’t connect what was being said to him
with the discussion he was having with Will. Ryan didn’t bother to hide his
annoyance. He was like a parent addressing a child who had wandered off. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The interruption startled both Eric and Will, but Will was
the first to recover. “Oh, sorry. I’ve been monopolizing Eric. I’ve been
bending his ear about my personal problems.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ryan barely acknowledged Will. “There were some people I
wanted you to meet,” he said to Eric, “but it’s too late now. They’ve already
left.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Sorry. Will and I got to talking and I didn’t notice the
time. I’ll just get my coat and then I’ll be ready. Will, give me a call. Let’s
get together. I always enjoy talking with you.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ryan hardly spoke until they were in the car and halfway
home. “Will is my colleague at work. I think simple loyalty to me would mean
that you would not see him behind my back.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“We were just chatting. There’s no reason for you to be
jealous. And we weren’t seeing each other behind your back. The room was full
of people. We weren’t doing anything that would embarrass you.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Don’t think people didn’t notice that you deserted me and
spent the evening with someone else. And I’m not jealous. I was just concerned
that people might misinterpret your and Will’s actions. You may not have to
worry about what my colleagues think of me—or Will for that matter—but I do. If
you don’t care about me, at least think about your buddy Will.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Since you didn’t bother to introduce me to anyone and
pretended as if you didn’t know me, how could anyone have thought we were
together? Why the hell did you insist that I go to that party if you were going
to ignore me?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“My boss and his wife like to think they’re broad-minded.
They invite all the domestic partners, gay or straight. He had heard that I was
living with someone, and he insisted. It wouldn’t have looked good if you
hadn’t come. That’s still no excuse for you to spend the entire evening talking
with Will. You could have mingled.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric recognized that he was about to be subjected to another
lecture from Ryan on his behavior. Without thinking, he blurted out, “Sometimes
I feel as if I’m alone in this relationship.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Ryan suddenly wrenched
the car into the left lane and accelerated. He passed the car ahead of them and
then cut back into right lane just as suddenly. The angry driver behind him
leaned on his horn. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t think you see this as a relationship. I’m just a
convenient lay on those nights you feel horny.” Eric folded his arms across his
chest and looked out the passenger side window. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, well, most nights my hand provides more relief than
you do.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They rode in silence for a minute. Their anger shocked them
both. Ryan was the first to speak. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I really
didn’t mean that.” He took several deep breaths to calm himself down. “Look, I
know I’m not the easiest person to live with. It’s just that I’m not used to
living with anyone. I lived by myself for ten years, and I got used to having
my own way about everything, and it’s hard for me to remember to consult you. But
I need you. I really do. My life is so much better with you. Please, let’s
patch this up.” </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In retrospect, Eric thought, he should have left that night.
He undressed and got into the motel bed. The sheets were stiff and rough, and
the thin blanket provided no warmth. He curled up on his side, wrapping his
arms around his chest and pulling his legs up. The noise of the TV in the next
room mingled with the sound of traffic on the Pike two blocks away. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yeah, he thought, I should have walked out that night.
Instead he let Ryan persuade him that he would try to change. They had make-up
sex, very good make-up sex, he admitted to himself. Ryan had stayed with him
the entire night, and the next morning they had gone out for breakfast together
and then drove to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Cape</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Anne</st1:placename></st1:place> and spent the rest
of the day walking on the beach. They had eaten at a clam shack in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Gloucester</st1:place></st1:city> and driven
home feeling slightly drowsy and stuffed from the greasy food but more in
harmony than they had been in weeks. For the next week or so, Ryan had gone out
of his way to assure Eric that he valued their relationship. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But gradually the old Ryan had reasserted himself. There
wasn’t anything major, nothing worth arguing over, but in a hundred small ways
Ryan imposed his rules and expectations. If Eric complained or got angry, Ryan
would back down, apologize, and reform for a day or so. The one time that Eric
had got close to walking out, Ryan broke down in tears. It was as if, Eric
concluded, Ryan needed someone to dominate and panicked at the thought of
losing that person. It wasn’t domination in a physical sense. There were no
whips or chains. It might have been easier if there had been. The roles would
have been clearer then. Nor was Ryan necessarily dominant in bed. There they
split the roles rather evenly. In fact the terms top and bottom held little
relevance to their couplings. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The domination came instead in little things—the way that
towels were to be folded, the position of the throw pillows on the sofa, the
neat arraying of the cutlery in the drawer, with each spoon and fork nestled
into the one below it and the blades of all the knives facing the same
direction. Ryan had a way of waiting until Eric was in the room before redoing
Eric’s arrangements. He said nothing, but his ostentatious satisfaction at
“putting things to rights” was eloquent. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Why had he stayed? Well, things weren’t always so bad. He
had to admit that. He mustn’t exaggerate his sense of grievance. When the two
of them were getting along, the relationship could be fabulous and wonderful.
But there was always the undercurrent of Ryan’s need to feel superior to
someone else. He had to reassure himself in a hundred small ways that his taste
was finer than anyone else’s, that his methods of doing things were better, that
he had thought through every issue with more acumen. The fact that he could
criticize others and find fault was proof to him that he was superior. His
demands on others for an impossible level of perfection defined according to
his own conceptions were his means of reassuring himself of his own worth. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I enabled him, thought Eric. That was my mistake. I should
have spoken up each time, but I went along with him and fell into his world
because I didn’t want to be alone. Even a bad relationship seemed better than
the alternative of life alone in a small apartment, a space left sterile and
impersonal because it wasn’t worth the effort of making it livable. But there
were nights, many nights, with Ryan in which he had felt more lonely than he
had when he had lived by himself. The knowledge that another human being, your
lover, was downstairs or in his own bed totally unconcerned about you was
another form of loneliness and a harder one to take. </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***** </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I think I was so grateful about finally having a lover and
excited about the prospect of living with someone that I didn’t think about the
day-to-day arrangements. It never occurred to me that we had to be friends as
well as lovers.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric and Will sat across from each other at one of the small
tables in the back room of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Tiantian</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Noodle</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
In the outer room the counterman was busy taking delivery orders over the phone
and dealing with the stream of takeout customers. The sizzle of food and the
noise of spatulas clanging against the sides of the woks punctuated their
conversation. The remains of their meal littered the tabletop, odd bits of
noodle and shredded vegetables and meat stuck in the congealing sauce remaining
on the plates. Each had ordered a second bottle of beer to give them an excuse
to remain at the table. They had the back room to themselves, but the owner of
the café would have pushed them out if he felt they had finished. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The night of his stay at the motel, Eric had been awakened
early by plumbing noises and the conversations of people in the hallway as they
prepared to leave. He stopped at a McDonald’s to eat breakfast and then went to
his office at the university. After his morning class had finished, he went
back to Ryan’s house. When he entered the kitchen, he found a plate of cold spaghetti
and a bowl of wilted salad sitting on the table. Ryan had dished out his dinner
for him and then left it. “What’s the message I’m suppose to read into that?”
thought Eric. Ryan cares so much for me that he wants to make sure I eat or
Ryan wants to show me how much work he does for me, work that I don’t fully
appreciate? Probably a bit of both, he decided. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric went upstairs and packed his clothes and his few
personal possessions. Everything that belonged to him in the house fit into the
trunk of his car. He stripped the sheets off his bed and carried them and the
towels in his bathroom to the basement. While they were washing, he cleaned his
bedroom and the bathroom he used. He dumped the spaghetti and salad down the
disposal. He rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When he went to empty his trash in the garbage cans, he
found the sweater that Bean had ruined. It looked far less damaged than Ryan
had claimed. He pulled it out and examined it. He could find only one small
snag where a loop of yarn had apparently been caught by one of Bean’s claws. He
didn’t know anything about knitting but he was sure that it was something the dry
cleaner could have repaired. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When the dryer finished, he folded the sheets and towels and
stacked them in the hall closet upstairs. He tossed his set of keys in the
center of the kitchen table. He knew that Ryan would complain about the way he
had left the house, but he had cleaned it to his own satisfaction, and that was,
for once, good enough. He thought about leaving a note, but then decided
against it. There was no point in saying the obvious, and it would take too
long to say what he should have said months before. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Will nodded his head. “I don’t suppose the dog helped
matters.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No. That took a big argument, and Ryan only agreed to it on
condition that I guarantee Bean would cause no problems. It was like a parent
making a child promise that he would be responsible for feeding the hamster and
cleaning its cage. The one time I insisted on having my way, and he managed to
turn that into way of causing more problems. Poor Bean. I should have known
better than to bring him into that house. It was asking for trouble. I didn’t
handle this very well, did I?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Truth?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, of course. Say what you like. It can’t be any worse
than all the things I’ve said to myself the past two weeks.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“First, I should have warned you about Ryan. I didn’t. I
didn’t think it was my place to interfere, and I couldn’t be sure that it
wouldn’t work out between the two of you. I only know how Ryan treats people at
work. I thought maybe he might treat someone he lived with better. But, yeah,
you could have handled it better. We could all handle relationships better. God
knows I’ve not been successful in mine, but if I learned anything from my time
with Alec, it’s that relationships aren’t something that the other person does
to us but something we help make happen. And it doesn’t help that they all
start with emotions and sex. It’s too easy to think that great sex will lead to
a great relationship. It’s the part that comes after that that’s hard.” Will’s
mouth twisted into a brief, shy smile. “It’s easy to be wise after the fact,
isn’t it? I know that’s a counsel of perfection.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No, it’s good advice.” And there’s no need for you to be wary
about my reactions, thought Eric. If talking with Ryan had been as easy as it
is to talk with you, we wouldn’t have had so many problems. “Has Ryan said
anything at work?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No, he’s not been around much. He’s been down in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Atlanta</st1:place></st1:city> helping set up
the new office there. He’s applied for a transfer there several times. This
time, it’ll probably be approved.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“He never said anything to me about that. I wonder if he
planned on asking me to go with him. Maybe he wanted me to walk out on him. One
less problem to deal with before moving.” That thought left a bitter taste. Had
Ryan maneuvered him into leaving? “Well, I shouldn’t be offloading this stuff
on you. You still have to work with him.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Don’t worry about it. I can handle Ryan. I outrank him. He
has to be polite to me. Besides, you know, I don’t think it would occur to him
that we would be talking.” Will leaned back from the table and stared at Eric
for a moment as if contemplating a course of action. “Do you want the rest of
your beer? If you’re still hungry, we can get something at Just Desserts in
Coolidge Corner. We could walk down there. It only takes about fifteen minutes,
and it’s one of my favorite walks. I like the way the trees meet overhead on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Beacon Street</st1:address></st1:street>, and
all the old apartment houses with the silly names.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The Balmoral.” Eric suggested one of his favorites. “That tall
building with the yellow brick façade and the tarred sides and the broken lamps
beside the door.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The Windsor. All those fake turrets on the corners.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric liked the way Will’s face lit up in delight at the
absurd names. “The developer who built this section must have thought English
names sounded good and no one would notice that they’re attached to ordinary brick
buildings. My favorite, though, is that stone building that looks like a French
chateau. That’s beautiful. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of that.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The Stoneholm?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“Is that what it’s called?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes. It’s where I live. I can show you my place if you’d
like.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I didn’t know that. I knew you lived around here, but I
didn’t know where. Yes, I’d like to see your place.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As they waited for the light to change at <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Washington Square</st1:address></st1:street>, Will said, “Alec said
that I was too ordinary. I wasn’t exciting. I was too quiet and boring and I
didn’t really know how to have fun.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You don’t have to tell me such things.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, I do. I want you to know what I’m like.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Alec isn’t the best character reference, you know.
Ex-lovers often exaggerate. What else have I been doing for the past two hours?
And wouldn’t it be better to let me form my own opinion? Alec and I value
different things.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I hope so.” The two of them smiled at each other. It wasn’t
until someone brushed past them that they realized the light had changed and
the walk signal was lit. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As they crossed the street, Eric glanced over at Will. Will
was good-looking, he decided. If he had been asked six months ago, he would
have said that much without feeling at all attracted to Will. Will would have
been one of the many people he found blandly good-looking but not sexy enough
to cause that momentary piquing of desire that led to the next step. And Will
wasn’t someone you felt you knew immediately. That took time. It was as if his
personality made his physical attractiveness more apparent rather than that his
physical attractiveness made his personality seem better than it was. None of
which explains why, Eric thought, I feel so good just to be walking beside this
man. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When they reached the steps leading to the courtyard of the
Stoneholm, Will pointed to the right-hand side of the building. “My unit’s the
one on the third floor in the front.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eric stopped and held out a hand to keep Will from walking
up the stairs. “Please, don’t take this the wrong way. In fact, it’s important
to me that you take it the right way. But I don’t think I want to see your
place just yet. I want to see it, but not until . . .” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Until what?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Until we’re both sure that we want to see it together. I
don’t think I want us to be just sightseers in each other’s life, but I don’t
know yet if we can be more. I think maybe we can, but I want to be sure of that
before I intrude into your space. I want that intrusion to be special and to
mean a lot. Tonight I’d just like to talk. If you’re still interested in Just
Desserts, we could go there. Or we could just walk around.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t need more food tonight. Do you? Have you ever been
to the park at the top of <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Summit
Avenue</st1:address></st1:street>?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I didn’t even know there was a park there.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s just a small park, but it has a great view across the
river. There are some benches where we can sit. It will be dark soon and the
lights will start coming on. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Summit</st1:place></st1:city>’s
steep from this side, and it’s a climb, but it’s worth it.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Let’s go then.”</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-64196865042153042962023-03-14T13:23:00.005+00:002023-03-14T13:23:44.138+00:00The Djinn’s Three Wishes<p> 2010</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I found the bottle
when I was clearing out the shed at the bottom of the garden. Years ago, I
placed a wooden box in the back corner under the potting shelf. Gradually it
had become a repository for items I had little use for or, rather, items I
thought I might have a use for some day, things that seemed too good to toss.
The box itself fell into that category. If it had been made of cardboard, I
would have flattened and recycled it. But a wooden box was too sturdy to
discard. I may have thought it would be useful for carrying smaller items when
I needed them in the garden. Some of the glass jars I used for mixing sprays
and fertilizers found a home in it, their lids rusted tight to the glass,
filled with the residues of now unidentifiable liquids. A cracked and crumbling
stack of small green plastic pots that had held plants from the nursery
dribbled ancient potting soil over the items beneath. Drain pipe caps. Odd
screws and bolts. A half-empty tin of paint thinner. Unidentifiable bits of
metal and plastic.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Emptying the box
had long been on my list of things to do. It was never the top priority,
however, and it wasn’t until several months after that task first appeared on
the list that I got around to it. When I was eating breakfast and contemplating
my tasks for that day, it popped into my mind as something I needed to tackle. As
a precaution against exposing myself to caustic liquids or poisons, I wore rubber
gloves. I put a double layer of liners in the bin and dragged it over to the
door of the shed. I hauled the box out and began carefully lifting each item
out. Most of the items were quickly thrown away. There were a few useful
items—a packet of rubber washers, for example—and those I disciplined myself to
stow where I could find them if I needed them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The bottle was at
the bottom of the box. It wasn’t large—little more than three inches tall. It
appeared to be made of delicate glass coated with a silvery film. It was shaped
like a bottle gourd, with a narrow ring just above the centre dividing the
bottle into two bulbs, the lower one larger than the upper. A small silver
chain around the neck of the bottle was attached to a ruby-red stopper. By all
rights, the bottle should have been crushed by the weight of the trash above
it. Oddly enough, unlike the other items in the box, the bottle was clean. When
I lifted it out of the box, the stopper caught the light and glowed red.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I held it up and
turned it slowly. A distorted version of my eyes and face was reflected back at
me. There were no flaws or imperfections in the surface. The silver coating did
not vary in colour or apparent thickness. There were no wrinkles or waves in
it. The bottle weighed only a few ounces. It was warm to the touch, noticeably
warm. I detected a faint odour of sandalwood, and my first—unlikely—thought was
that it was a scent bottle deposited by a mysterious passer-by in the habit of
sneaking into garden sheds and leaving strange objects to mystify the
householder. I knew that I hadn’t put it there. As far as I could tell, none of
the items above it in the box had been disturbed since I had put them there in
the months and years that the box had sat in the shed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I hardly knew what
to do with it. The bottle was far too good to throw away. Certainly it didn’t
belong in the garden shed, but it was not the sort of object that appeals to me
as a decoration. It wasn’t something I would place with the other bits of
flotsam that had drifted onto the mantel of the sitting room fireplace. In the
end I decided to give it to my niece, and I stuck it in my shirt pocket while I
finished the rest of the work in the garden. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">After a few
minutes, I became aware of a hot area over my chest. It was the bottle. Not
burning hot, but more than ordinary warmth, rather like putting on a piece of
clothing fresh from the dryer. I took the bottle out of my pocket and carried
it into the house and left it on a kitchen counter. I went back into the
garden—the boxwood needed to be trimmed. But after a few minutes working on the
hedge, I was plagued by the feeling that I had left something undone. It was
like the nagging sensation you get when you drive away from the house and can’t
remember if you unplugged the kettle or locked the backdoor. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I’m the sort of
obsessive-compulsive that pats his pockets ten times on the way to the airport
to make sure that I have my passport and tickets. I know that I have them, but
I can’t stop myself from checking. I knew that the kettle was unplugged and
that nothing was about to boil over on the cooker, but I also knew from
experience that I would not rest until I had looked. So I set the clippers down
and walked back into the house. Of course, there was nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The bottle,
however, had moved. It was now standing upright on the kitchen table. Right in
the centre of a shaft of light coming through the window. The silver surface
refracted the light and sent it flying around the kitchen in a cacophony of
colour. The ruby stopper glowed in the sunlight. The room smelled strongly of
sandalwood. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Someone, I
suspected, was playing games with me. I don’t know who I expected to answer,
but I called out, ‘Hallo. Is anyone there?’ Silence was my only answer. I
suddenly felt foolish. Did I really expect a thief or prankster to answer me? I
had simply forgotten where I had laid the bottle, and the shiny surface and the
sunlight were responsible for the glow in the kitchen. It was just simple
physics or optics or some such natural phenomenon.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I grasped the
bottle by the stopper, intending to put it in a drawer. The stopper came off in
my hands. A thin plume of vapour began drifting out of the bottle, whirling
slowly at first and then faster and faster. More and more smoke poured from the
bottle. It grew so thick that I could see only a few inches in front of my
face. The odour of sandalwood grew sharper and sharper, and the temperature
rose higher and higher. It was like being inside a gigantic burning stick of
incense. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Perfume has always
made my eyes water, and my nose run. This time the smell was so strong that I
sneezed prodigiously several times. I don’t know if that was why the smoke
began to coalesce and solidify or it was simply a matter of coincidence. Within
a matter of seconds, however, a human-shaped form began to appear in my
kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Might I trouble
you for a glass of water? This apparitioning always leaves me parched.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The being who
addressed me was decidedly exotic. He was naked, except for a dazzlingly white
turban, with a large ruby in the front. He stood perhaps five feet tall, even
including the turban. He appeared to be about thirty–forty years old. His body
was very well formed. Even in my surprised state, I noted the well-defined
muscles. His hairless body was tanned a rich brown. His most startling feature,
however, was his eyes. They were the colour of lapis lazuli, an intense deep
blue with streaks of gold in them. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Of course, tap or
bottled?’ I was so stunned by the sudden appearance of the spirit that it
didn’t occur to ask him what he was doing in my kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Tap is fine.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I filled a glass
with cold water and handed it to him. He emptied it in one gulp and handed the
glass back to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Thank you. That
was most kind.’ He looked around the kitchen, examining the appliances. ‘Things
have changed since my last appearance. There were fewer electrical appliances
in the 1960s. One reads about progress, of course, but one needs to see it for
oneself to appreciate it. But is the style now to keep kitchens so dirty?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No. The smoke<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>’ I gestured at the bottle.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh, my dear
fellow, I am so sorry. Sometimes when decades have passed since the last time
the bottle was opened, dust builds up in the neck. Let me clean this for you.’
He waved a hand. Magically the grime disappeared from every surface. My kitchen
had never been so clean.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Now, I suppose we
should get down to business.’ He smiled at me. ‘Do you know who I am?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Well, you appear
to be a genie, and I have released you from your bottle.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I prefer the term
“djinn”. But, yes, you have released me from the bottle, and now I have to
reward you with three wishes.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘So all the tales
of djinn bottles are true?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh, please, Mr
Pas, “djinn bottles”? You can’t imagine how many times I’ve heard that one.
That and “djinn joints” and “djinnger beer” and “djinn rummy”.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘How do you know my
name?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I had a full
dossier on you before I shifted the bottle to that box last night.’ The djinn
looked exceedingly smug. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Why didn’t you
just put the bottle on the table? It would have meant less work.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘That box was long
overdue for a cleaning. I just provided an incentive for you to do so.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You’re beginning
to sound like my mother. And how was I to know to clean out the box? The bottle
could have been in there for months before I got around to cleaning the shed.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The djinn folded
his arms across his chest and smiled enigmatically. ‘I can’t reveal my
secrets.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I should think it
would have been simpler just to appear before me. Why go through all this rigmarole?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Tradition, Mr Pas.
Tradition. The djinn appears in a cloud of smoke from the bottle and grants
three wishes. If I just popped into view while you were reading the newspaper, no
smoke, no fanfare, you would have thought you were hallucinating and run to a
doctor. Instead, you find a mysterious bottle with odd properties. You open it.
Billows of smoke. Clouds of incense. A handsome stranger. What else could he be
but a djinn about to grant you three wishes? We’re just observing narrative
tradition here. You’ve been conditioned to accept me as real. I’m within your
horizons of expectations.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I still may see
the doctor this morning. I’m still not sure that you’re real. I do have an
overactive imagination.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I swear the
creature smirked at me. He was very cocksure. If he were an hallucination,
however, I will say that my ability to envision muscular definition was
definitely improving. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He cleared his
throat. ‘Well, we should proceed to the main business. You get three wishes and
only three, no more. You can’t wish for more wishes. Nor can you wish for
longer life for yourself or anyone. The length of everyone’s life is already
set. I can’t change that. And they have to be serious wishes for major things.
I don’t do raspberry ice lollies, no matter how much you may plead for one. I’m
not a trickster, trying to get you to say “I wish” and waste a wish on some
trivial matter. And you can’t wish for me to be gone as one of your three
wishes. You get three wishes. That’s all, but you have to take them. I’m not
leaving until I’ve granted you three wishes.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You’re not going
to fool me with that. I know that no matter what I wish for, you’ll twist the
request and make things worse than they are.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Please, Mr Pas.
And you a writer. What kind of a three-wishes narrative would it be if there
were no irony? That’s the whole point of the stories that humans write. A
hungry man wishes for a pot that always full of food. He gets the pot, but the
food is inedible. They’re stories with a built-in moral. The truth is that I
deliver what the human wishes for, no more and no less. I don’t do irony. The
pot will always be filled with tasty, nutritious food, and each day I supply a
new variety of the recommended seven fruits and vegetables. What would I gain
by causing you misery? Do you think that would please me? I’m an immortal
being. I can get anything I want. What joy would I get out of harming a
transient, powerless creature such as yourself? My only purpose is to bring joy
to human beings. Enough chit-chat. Now make a wish or I’ll change you into an
octopus until you do.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He was growing
quite heated on the subject. He stomped around the kitchen pulling open drawers
and examining the contents and peeking into cupboards. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Could I help you
find something? Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In answer he
pointed to the table. There was a flash of light and platters piled with
sandwiches appeared. There must have been five hundred of them. He offered me a
plate of what appeared to be smoked salmon and cucumber on wholemeal bread. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh, thank you. I
was feeling a bit peckish.’ I picked up the topmost one and took a bite. ‘Oh,
these are quite good. Make them yourself or do you have them catered?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You are becoming
aggravating. If you don’t stop, I may have to take steps. Three wishes. Get to
them.’ He glared at me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">His tough-guy act
would have been more effective had he been taller and more imposing. He was
quite cute, and somehow that didn’t seem threatening. Time was passing,
however, and I did have work to do. I had to give him three wishes if only to
get him out of my kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Well, let me
think.’ I tapped my lips with a forefinger in a mimicry of deep thought. ‘I
should like my parents and my sister and her husband to pass the remainder of
their lives in excellent mental and physical health. That’s my first wish.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Don’t you want to
include yourself in this wish?’ He appeared concerned on my behalf.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, I don’t think
so. I should like to experience everything that is to come. If I understood you
correctly, such things are fated unless you intervene.’ He nodded. ‘Well, my
parents and my sister and her husband have already suffered from poor physical
health. And my parents and my brother-in-law sometimes say things that make one
wonder about their mental health. So they have already experienced such things.
I am not robbing them of anything by wishing only the best of health in the
future.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I could still
include you. There’s no extra charge.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Thank you, but no.
I’ll take my chances.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He closed his eyes and
held out his arms in front of himself. He clasped his hands together tightly.
His body briefly glowed a golden colour. Then he smiled to himself and opened
his eyes. ‘All done. Lifetimes of excellent physical and mental health for your
parents and your sister and brother-in-law. Now, for your second wish.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘There is a young
man. I don’t know his name. I used to see him on the bus occasionally before I
retired.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Hold on. Let me
touch your head for a second. Just above the right ear.’ He held up an arm. I
had to bend over so that he could reach the area he wanted. His fingers were in
contact with my scalp for only a second or two, but the warmth of his touch
lingered. It felt very pleasant, I must admit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Is this the lad
you have in mind?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A small figure
stood on his hand. It was quite perfect in every detail.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes, that’s him.
He’s been sort of a muse errant and wandered in and out of several of my
stories.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘And now you want
him for yourself.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, not at all. I
don’t even want to know his name or anything else about him. I should simply
like for him to attain whatever will make him happy. Notice that I said
“attain,” not “obtain”. He should have to work to get what he wants. Well, not
have to work too hard, but enough to make him appreciate the results.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘And will you want
progress reports?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, nothing of the
sort. I should simply like your assurance that you will carry out my request.
If the two of us meet, fine. But you are not to give that meeting a push. That
is my second wish.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But why this man?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Because he smiled
at me one day.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You reward him for
a smile? You are a strange person, Mr Pas. You spend your wishes on other
people.’ He closed his eyes again and repeated the same sequence of actions as
before. ‘There. That’s all done. And now your third wish.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘This power to
grant wishes on others’ behalf is very satisfying. Do you find it so?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It has its compensations.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Perhaps if you
have time someday, you could stop by and tell me about your experiences.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Is that your third
wish?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No. Simply a
friendly gesture. My third wish is also for someone else.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Nothing for
yourself?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Not directly. Only
if the satisfaction of doing a good deed for someone else counts as being done for
myself. A sort of selfish altruism.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I await your
command, Mr Pas.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I should like to
have the power to grant you three wishes, with the same stipulations you applied
to my three wishes. That is my third wish.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The djinn looked at
me quizzically. ‘Now that is unique in my experience. No one has ever asked for
that before.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘That is why I
wished for that power. You can be said to be an expert in wishes. How many
wishes have you fulfilled in your lifetime? Hundreds? Thousands?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Several thousand
at least.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘And are you aware
of the outcomes of these wishes?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes. As soon as
the wish is granted, I know how it will turn out.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Then, I am curious
what an expert would wish for. Can you grant my wish?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The djinn nodded.
‘Oh, easily. But you do understand that most people ask for wealth, health, and
sex, don’t you? Those are the three most common wishes. I am immortal, and
health is irrelevant to me. Only sixty-four djinn were created. There can never
be more of us, or fewer for that matter. We have no need of sex, either for
procreation or recreation. As for wealth, I can create whatever I need. I have
never wanted for anything. I shall have to devote some thought to the matter.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You can take your
time and get back to me when you have decided. And I can go back to trimming
the shrubberies.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I would rather
pass the time with you while I decide on my wishes, but I would prefer more
comfortable surroundings than this.’ He gestured at the bottle. ‘I live in a
houseboat floating on a lake. Perhaps you would like to join me there. It is
very pleasant.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I don’t see how
you fit in the bottle, let alone the both of us.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘And you call
yourself a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Doctor Who</i> fan, Mr Pas.
The bottle is like the Tardis, bigger on the inside than on the outside. Now if
you will close your eyes and not open them until I tell you to.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I did as the djinn
asked. I felt a tingling in my earlobes, and my body was squeezed from all sides,
rather as if the air had grown denser. Then the pressure ceased. ‘You may open
your eyes now.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I found myself in a
room filled with pillows of all shapes and sizes and colours. The room was open
on all sides. Slender pillars supported a canopy of silk whose colour shifted
through all the hues of the spectrum as I looked at it. The room floated on a lake
of deep blue. Mountains surrounded the lake on all sides. The air seemed to be
new made. From somewhere came the faint sound of music. When I tried to listen
to it, it faded from my senses, but when I turned away, it was there. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘This is
beautiful.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes.’ The djinn reclined
on his side facing me, his right hand supporting his head, with his left leg
bent at the knee and his other arm resting on it. He patted a pillow beside
himself. ‘Make yourself comfortable. We may be here a while.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Is this one of those
places where a day is a hundred years on the outside?’ I sat down on a pillow
near him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It is a place
outside time. I can return you to any time, or for that matter place, I choose
when I send you back to your universe. But don’t worry. You will find yourself
in your kitchen one second after you left it, Mr Pas.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Please call me
Nex. What should I call you?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘My name is a
secret known only to myself. Why don’t you call me Sam?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Sam?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes, I rather
fancy it. Sam—it has a ring of sturdiness and trustworthiness, don’t you think?
Would you like something to drink?’ A small table holding a glass of clear
liquid appeared at my side. ‘I’m sorry I can offer you nothing alcoholic. It is
against my religion. But I think you will find this quite refreshing.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I took a cautious
sip. The liquid seemed to flow into my tongue. It was like a wave of good
feeling and health spreading throughout my entire body. ‘What is this? The nectar
of the gods?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes, Hera gave me
her receipt, but I’ve added a few touches of my own. I’m rather proud of it.’
He massaged the back of his neck. ‘It’s giving me a crick to stare up at you.
Let me adjust these pillows.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The pillows beneath
him grew plumper, and the djinn rose until his head was level with mine. He
also drifted closer, until we were only a few inches apart.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Your eyes are really
most extraordinary. They are the colour of lapis lazuli. They are as beautiful
as the name itself. Lapis lazuli. The stone of Lazul. I’ve never thought about
it before, but is Lazul a place?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes. It’s in Afghanistan.
It looks like this.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A miniature village
appeared in the air between us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘A rather dismal
place to produce such beauty.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Silk comes from
caterpillars, Nex. Beauty from ugly things. But you were speaking of my eyes.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘They are incredible.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Do you find them
attractive?’ His eyelids drifted shut and then languorously opened part way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Are you trying to
seduce me?’ I laughed and set up straighter. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I’m not sure. I
think I just want you to like me. As I said, I have no need of sex. Indeed I
cannot feel any of the sensations that you humans apparently feel. I know that
you become aroused by sight and touch and smell and a dozen other sensations,
but I have no understanding of what it feels like to be stirred by one’s senses.
If I appear to be seducing you, I am just acting. The rewards of a successful
seduction would have no meaning to me.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Especially if you
seduce me. There are others far more desirable than I.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘There, too, I
understand that you do not fulfil the usual human criteria of desirability, but
those are immaterial to me. You are here. I would seduce you if I could enjoy
the pleasures of sex.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Perhaps that’s
what you should wish for—the ability to feel what a human feels. It might help
you understand why human wishes so often involve sex.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You mean, purely
as a means of making myself a better grantor of wishes?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes, for
educational purposes only.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You’re having me
on, aren’t you?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘A bit, yes. But
are you tempted?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Why not? I will
put a time limit on the wish, however. I will wish to be able to have the
senses of a human for the next, oh, shall we say, the next four hours.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Why put a time
limit on the wish?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘As you pointed
out, I am an expert on wishing. Even the most wonderful dream can pall and become
tiresome if continued for too long. This way, the wish will serve your
“educational purposes” and perhaps give me something to remember fondly.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What do I do?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Close your eyes,
clasp your hands together tightly, and imagine the result you want.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I did as the djinn
said. For a brief moment, I felt a tingling in my hands.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Don’t open your
eyes just yet. Wait until I tell you.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The djinn touched
my face. His fingers felt cool and smooth as he explored my face, along the
line of my jaw, the curve of my eyebrows, across my eyelids, and then the
gentlest stroking of the eyelashes and finally my lips. ‘Each part feels so
different. Firm and soft. Warm, cool. Smooth, rough. I can feel the blood
beating beneath your skin. How does this feel to you?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Elegant.’ That was
the first word that popped into my mind. Oddly enough, it was an apt
description of his touch. ‘Let me show you how it feels. Close your eyes.’ I
touched his face as he had touched mine. When I reached his lips, he gasped and
then laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh, is that why
humans love to kiss?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Would you like to
experience that?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘In a moment. I
have four hours. I do not wish to rush them. Introduce me to these experiences
slowly.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It’s your wish.
I’m here simply to help you achieve it.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘There is one
thing. We seem to be mismatched in size. Wouldn’t this be better if we were the
same height?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Not necessarily.
That really doesn’t matter.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Then if it doesn’t
matter, I think I would like to be bigger. I will make that my second wish. I
wish to be a bit taller than you, with everything in proportion to the height. I
could also wish to look like your friend from the bus. Would you like that?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">My ‘no’ was very
decisive. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. That was rude of me. I know you
mean well, but the point of the man on the bus is that I will never meet him.
He can be whatever I want. But if I meet him in person, then he will be what he
is, and he will no longer be something I can weave a fantasy around.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘And fantasies and
unfulfilled desires are important to you?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘They are the stuff
of narrative. The wishes that must never be realised. How many of the humans to
whom you have granted three wishes have been satisfied in the end?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Some. More than
you would be willing to credit, I think. But perhaps they were not as addicted
as you to stories. They were willing to let the world satisfy their desires.
But I will honour your vision. My second wish is that I be taller than you,
with all the body in proportion to the height, for whatever remains of the four
hours allotted to my first wish. Now clasp your hands in front of you, close
your eyes, and think about my wish.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I did as the djinn
instructed. I swear I could feel him growing. When I closed my eyes, our heads
were roughly even and his toes were in the vicinity of my knees. And then I
became aware that his body had grown longer than mine and that his body was
much bigger. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘There. What do you
think?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I opened my eyes.
The djinn’s shoulder blocked my view of the lake outside. Or perhaps it was his
eyes. Something was concentrating my attention on him to the exclusion of all
else. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">If I had greater
powers of description, I might be able to convey the splendour of the next
three and a half hours. But even if I could describe the events that followed,
I don’t think I would. All I will say is that should a djinn with eyes the
colour of lapis lazuli ever offer you three wishes, make one of them a wish for
four intimate hours with him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘The time is almost
up.’ The djinn sighed with contentment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Did you enjoy the
experience?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes. You’re very
skilled.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Since I am your
first lover, you have no basis for comparison.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I wish to have
none. It could never be this wonderful again.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Flatterer.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">His eyes twinkled. ‘I
just realised that I am no longer a virgin. I feel quite odd. After all this
time to lose something so trifling in such a wonderful way.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I couldn’t stop
myself from laughing. ‘Surely you would make the Guinness Book of Records.
Oldest age at loss of virginity. How old are you?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I am coeval with
time itself. I stopped keeping track of my birthdays aeons ago. Oh, I believe I
am beginning to revert to my former size.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He was indeed. ‘You
could wish to stay the same size. You still have one wish left.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, this body has
served its purpose. It would be inconvenient to be that large. I would have to
raise the roof and enlarge the doorways.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You still have
your third wish.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The djinn rolled
onto his back and placed his hands behind his head, contemplating the ceiling.
‘Your young man on the bus—will you write more stories about him?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Perhaps. I don’t
know. I suspect I will. I have jotted a few notes about possible stories
involving him in my ideas file. Why do you ask?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘He will remain an
object of desire and inspire more narratives?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Today we rewrote a
narrative, didn’t we? The human who gave a djinn three wishes. It has been a
most unusual morning for me. An adventure. I haven’t had an adventure in ages.
I’m very grateful to you for supplying that.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Well, you were the
one who rewrote the narrative. All I did was give you the wishes. It was your
story. I was just along for the ride.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, you played a
large role in the formation of this story. It came from your mind. I added a
few details here and there, but it came from your imagination, from up here.’
He touched my forehead. ‘Would you mind if I stop by to see you from time to
time? We could talk for a while. I could tell you where I have been, what I
have doing, show you what I have seen. And you could tell me what you have been
up to. We could sit in your garden and enjoy the day.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I should like that
very much.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Then that is my
third wish.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But you don’t need
to wish for that. You could have that without wishing for it.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘The last wish
should always be for something valuable. Now it is time for you to return. We
shall meet again soon.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The next instant I
was standing in my kitchen. The mid-morning sun slanted through the slats of
the window shade. My house was silent. Nothing remained of my encounter with
the djinn with eyes the colour of lapis lazuli except the story we had found. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-27166411965114748232023-03-14T12:54:00.000+00:002023-03-14T12:54:24.607+00:00The Designated Listener<p> 2007-2011</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Prologue<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Three days are missing from my life. The gap began as
I was returning from school one early March afternoon in 1955, sixty-one years
ago. At the corner of the road that led to our house, I dawdled as I chatted
with my friend Stephen. We were swinging our book satchels in gigantic arcs and
laughing, seeing how close we could bring them without colliding. It was not
until his mother opened the door to their house and called him in that I
continued on my way. The days were beginning to lengthen, and for the previous
week or so, the pale sun had been far enough up in the sky that it remained
light until I made it all the way home. The days were warm enough that the
banks of once pristine white snow on either side of the walk had begun to
shrink and become spongy. Graying mounds of snow sagged and hovered on the
brink of collapse, held in place only by the habit of being one substance even
as they turned into another.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Water dripped from long icicles hanging from the
capstones of the stone retaining wall at the front of the Patterson place and
drilled holes into the snow bank below, staining it a rusty color. Here and
there tufts of yellowed grass turning green at the base showed through the
thinning snow cover. I was looking forward to the day in a few weeks when I
would be able to run along the top of the wall and leap over the break where
steps led down to the street from the walkway to the front steps of the house.
The Pattersons had long since given up trying to prevent boys in the
neighborhood from walking on their wall and jumping over the stairs. It was a
test of athletic prowess for us to spring into the air with studied nonchalance
and land safely and securely on the other side. Especially surefooted landings
that did not break one’s stride earned extra points. There still remained too
much snow and ice on the wall to attempt the jump, however. That would have to
wait. I tried to hurry that day along by breaking off several of the icicles
and tossing them into the gutter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The snow was wet enough to make good snowballs. I
scooped up the biggest mound of snow I could hold in my hands and packed it
into a tight ball. Icy bits clung to my woolen mittens as I molded it into a
rough sphere. I took aim at the trunk of a large maple about twenty feet away.
Whitey Ford is pitching for the Yankees today at Fenway Park. It’s the bottom
of the ninth, with two men out. Ted Williams is up for the Red Sox, and the
count is three and two. The tying run is on third after a sacrifice fly to right
field. For a minute a pennant rippling in the breeze catches Ford’s calm eyes.
The stadium is hushed. Then, with no visible effort, Ford gracefully winds up
and throws. It’s a fast inside slider that breaks just over the plate. Williams
swings and misses. He’s out. Ford retires the side. The Yankees win the game.
The crowd goes wild. Even the Red Sox fans are cheering Whitey. Hats are flung
into the air, jubilantly rising impossibly high above the park. The shouts of
the fans can be heard in Connecticut. As a slugger, Williams is OK, but Ford’s
just too good for him. Williams lifts his cap to Ford in recognition that he
has met his match. Ford, the perfect gentleman, walks over and shakes Ted’s
hand and pats him on the shoulder. Better luck next time, kid. We’ll meet
again. The crowd is still cheering. You don’t see pitching like that every day.
Another win for the incredible Mr. Whitey Ford.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The snow underfoot had a gratifying way of compressing
into ice when I stepped on it, leaving prints pressed into the slush that
quickly filled with cloudy water. I concentrated on laying down an even line of
perfectly formed outlines of my black rubber boots, with the ribbing on the
soles and the maker’s logo neatly imprinted in reverse in the ice. The mounds
of piled up snow along the walk confined the thick, icy water between them and
turned it into a river cresting around the ankles of my boots. The brave Sir
Ernest Henry Shackleton is leading his men to safety as the relentless ice
crushes the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Endurance. </i>Timbers groan
and snap in the unforgiving grip of the implacable foe. Masts tumble and
splinter on the hard ice. The tattered remnants of sails are torn from the
spars by the cold Antarctic gale. But for Shackleton it’s just a walk in a
spring breeze. As he nimbly leaps from ice flow to ice flow, he urges the
fainthearted on. Chin up, Evans, just another mile. You can make it, lad.
You’ll be back in Cardiff in no time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The weak light reflecting off the snow and ice made my
eyes water. My vision blurred and then my head begin to throb. Within another
twenty steps, my leg joints felt stiff and sore, and the effort of taking a
breath rubbed my throat raw and made my chest hurt. A whisper of pain along the
back of my neck suddenly flashed upward into my skull and exploded. Midges
began to swarm through the snow and then became pulsating circles of black that
grew ever larger and larger. The familiar path up the hill became an endless
tunnel. I knew only that I had to struggle up that cliff and find the safety
that lay at the end. But with every step my legs became heavier. My feet and
legs were trapped in a vat of tar. And the pain had become an animal thrashing
about in my brain and down my spine. I had never felt the inside of my spine
before. That was the final moment I remember of my walk home—an angry beast
clawing my spine and my skull apart in its struggle to get out of my head.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The pain returned along with consciousness. That was
my next memory. The pain. It was faint at first, but as I awakened, the pain
grew. It was as if I didn’t exist except for the pain. I didn’t have a body
anymore. Just a consciousness in pain. The visions began—gradually at first,
stray bits and pieces of color and light without shape. Shooting stars flashing
at the edges of eyesight. But when I looked toward them, they were no longer
there, and another comet would trace a line of light in the distance. Gradually
I became aware of floating in a dim light that coalesced here and there into
odd, distorted globules of yellow. It came to me that I had died and was in
Purgatory. I tried to apply the catechism to my situation. Had I died in a
state of grace? Was I forever to be denied the beatific vision of God? Did all
the pain I was feeling mean that I was being tortured in hell for my sins? I’m
sure that time has imposed an order and a coherence on my thoughts they did not
have, but the fears of a Catholic childhood were behind the images that
succeeded one another in my mind. I think I screamed, but that may be a false
memory. I know I was in terror. That much I remember clearly. Even after all
these years, I can still call into the palpable present the waves of terror
that overwhelmed me at that moment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">And then I saw the angel. It was hovering behind the
light and flying toward me. It was enormous. There was a ripping sound as if
the sky were being torn asunder so that the angel could get at me and tear me
apart too. And in that moment I knew that I would never see my parents and my
brother and sister again. I was one of the lost souls, and I was being devoured
by the angel of vengeance. The victorious angels with their lances were pushing
the hordes of rebel demons off the cloudlike edges of heaven into the abyss
waiting for them below, and I was one of the damned, falling forever through
the burning night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">******<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">In 1954, when I was eight years old, I helped test the
Salk polio vaccine. I don’t remember volunteering to do that. I was in the
third grade at the time, and I believe that everyone in the class participated
in the trial. Perhaps we had to take permission slips home for our parents to
sign. I don’t recall. But on the appointed day, we dutifully lined up, several
of the more wary students jostling for a position near the end of the line in
hopes that someone had miscounted and the rows of small bottles filled with a
colorless fluid and neatly lined up on our teacher’s desk would be exhausted
before they made it to the head of the queue. Sister Margaret’s repeated
assurances that the shot would not hurt served only to convince several of my
classmates that that was precisely what it would do. For them, even the
anticipation proved painful. There were some tears and several anxious faces.
Billy Gephardt was the largest kid in our class, easily a foot taller than
anyone else and already developing the build that would make him a starting
tackle at Michigan State many years later. He was also comically terrified of
shots. As he neared the front of the line, he panicked and ran out howling and
bawling onto the playground. His cowardice emboldened most of the rest of us
boys. We took deep breaths and swelled out our chests, tucked in our stomachs,
and pulled our chins back in a parody of the military posture we had learned at
the movies. Not for us the puling of Private Billy Gephardt. We were made of sterner
stuff than the craven giant.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">As we neared the front of the line, each of us rolled
up our left sleeve to expose the upper arm. One nurse swabbed the target area
with alcohol, while the other picked a bottle off the desk, turned it upside
down, punctured the top with the needle, and drew out the fluid within. As she
did so, she read out the number on the bottle, and Sister Margaret noted it
down next to our name on a list. I received sample 252. The second nurse then
swiftly injected the fluid, and her colleague secured a piece of sterile gauze
over the area with tape. I doubt that it took half an hour to inoculate the
entire class.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">As soon as we were out of sight of the nurses and Sister
Margaret, we removed the gauze so that we could check the puncture hole. Other
than a small reddish circle, nothing remained to show that we were
participating in a historic event. And even as young as we were, we knew that
we were helping to make history. Polio touched everyone in many ways that are
hard to fathom today. Franklin Delano Roosevelt had been such a major presence
in all our parents’ lives that we were well acquainted with his triumph over
the disease. Most of us personally knew a “victim.” Every class in school had
at least one member who wore braces or walked on crutches or, as in the case of
my year, a student who “attended” school by phone while lying at home in bed.
We had a neighbor who had contracted the disease as an adult. He was confined
to a special bed in the living room. Or at least that was the rumor. No one
ever saw him. Just his tired-looking wife assuring everyone that “Jim is doing
as well as can be expected, thank you for asking. He should be up and around
any day now. But for now, he’s resting up and not seeing anyone.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Polio also affected us in many small ways. By the age
of eight, I still had not learned to swim. Every summer after I reached five,
my parents had enrolled me in the beginning level of swimming lessons at our
local country club. And every summer, within two or three weeks the lessons
were called off because some child in the community had contracted polio and
the fear arose that it would be transmitted quickly from child to child if they
gathered in groups. At an age when children would have been allowed to grow
beyond the stage of being sent to bed for an afternoon nap, we were suddenly
forced once again to endure this affront to our maturity during the heat of
summer, just “to keep your strength up.” Our assertions that we were old enough
now not to need a nap were met with the unanswerable “You don’t want to get
polio, do you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The campaigns of the March of Dimes were a familiar
event in our lives. As children we were given cardboard coin holders with
circular slots into which dimes could be pressed. I can’t remember how many
slots there were in each holder—fifty, perhaps a hundred. Of course, it seems a
trivial amount now, but at the time for many of us a dime was a week’s
allowance, and it took months and what we regarded as substantial sacrifices to
fill all those slots.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Each dime we pressed into a slot served as a reminder
of the horror that might afflict us. For behind all those concerns was a grim
reality. The initial symptoms of polio—the high fever, the headache, the
blurred vision, the stiffness—are common to many diseases. The onset of a cold,
the flu, any of many childhood diseases, immediately brought looks of worry to
our parents’ faces. Polio was a sudden disease and totally arbitrary. One
person could get it and no one else be touched for miles around, or a dozen
people in the same neighborhood could be infected within a matter of days. For
most, the disease resembled a bad case of the flu and had no lasting impact.
For a few, it brought a quick death; for still others it meant years of
recuperation and therapy to regain control over wayward muscles. It is hard to
know which of the last two was thought the worse fate.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Anyone who can recall those days would have to be nearing
seventy now. Perhaps only those of us who can remember them can appreciate the
jubilation that greeted the announcement that the Salk vaccine worked. It was
an age with a great faith in science, and in this case, science had delivered
the goods. Salk could readily have been elected president if he had wanted the
job.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Those of you who lived through those days may remember
that the children who participated in the trials of the vaccine were urged to
get polio shots in case they had been among those who had received the placebo.
In my case, there was no uncertainty. I know that vial number 252 contained only
water. On March 10, 1955, nearly a year after receiving the shot, I collapsed
walking home from school. A neighbor driving past saw me fall and took me home
in her car. I was put in bed, and our doctor was called to the house (doctors
did make house calls then). By the time he arrived, I was delirious. I have no
memory of his arrival or of my immediate removal to a hospital.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Three days later, I recovered consciousness and saw an
angel. I had been taken to our local hospital, which was run by a Catholic
order, and placed inside a plastic oxygen tent. The plastic distorted my
vision, and in my confusion, I mistook the elaborate headdress worn by a
nursing sister for an angel’s wings. My first thought was that I was dead, and
my fears that I would never see my parents again made me shriek. Family history
has it that I started screaming, begging the angel not to punish me and
promising never to sin again. I do remember that my one thought was to get out
of that bed and flee. I became extremely angry and frustrated when I found I
could not do so. I thought my legs and arms had been tied down, but in truth
the bonds securing them existed within my body. I no longer had control over
them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I was one of the lucky ones. The nerves in my legs and
forearms were damaged but not destroyed by the virus. The nerves controlling
breathing were not affected. Over the next few years, I would undergo therapy
and physical training to relearn to use my arms and legs. With the help of
braces and crutches, I would achieve some mobility. An operation on my calf
muscles allowed me once again to place my feet flat on the ground. By the time
I reached college, I was able to move about wearing only leg braces and using a
cane to steady myself. I was one of a few in my class who had had polio. Still,
there were enough of us that we were not an unfamiliar sight. Another ten
years, and the freshman class would have no visible reminders of the plague.
Now, half a century later, when my students speculate on the reasons for my
tortuous gait, polio has receded so far from their minds that it seldom occurs
to them as an explanation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The active phase of polio is over within ten days or
so. When that stage ended for me, I was transferred to a hospital about forty
miles from my home especially for children recovering from polio. I was there
for over a year and a half before my parents gave in to my entreaties and
brought me home against the advice of the doctors.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">There is a picture of my return. My entire family is
in it. We must have just arrived—we are on the sidewalk leading to our house,
and the car is parked on the street about ten feet behind us. My father is
dressed in a suit. A necktie is visible in the V of his topcoat, as is the neck
of his suit jacket. He is wearing his usual homburg hat and standing behind me.
Men dressed much more formally in those days. His hands grasp the push handles
of my wheelchair. He regards the camera with impatience. He was never much for
ceremonies and commemorations. My mother is beside him, in a drab, shapeless
winter coat, a scarf hiding her forehead and most of her hair, looking weary
and anxious. She is looking downward at me, and her right hand covers her mouth
in a gesture that would become familiar. Her fingers are curled tightly inward
toward her palm, and she is pressing the first knuckle of her index finger
against her lips. She looks as if she is fighting to remain in control of her
emotions and not cry.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My sister, Alice, stands to my right, in front of my
mother and slightly apart from the rest of us. She is smiling directly at the
camera. Alice always smiles pleasantly for the camera. She learned early on how
to take a good picture. She appears to have taken pains to look nice for the
occasion. She has on a high-waisted wool coat with large buttons that flares
out over her full skirt. She is wearing dark gloves. Her right arm is bent at
the elbow and held in front of her stomach. A small, shiny black purse hangs
from the wrist of her right hand. A round hat with a piece of gauze at the
front perches atop her head, and her well-brushed, symmetrical hair neatly
touches the shoulders of her coat and frames her face. The strand of pearls
isn’t visible, but it must have been there.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">To my left is my brother David. He is the only one
touching me. He has a hand on my shoulder and is turned toward me, looking down
into my face. He must have just said something to me. He is dressed far more
casually than the others. He is wearing a pea jacket, and stray locks of his
hair escape from beneath his stocking cap. I am in the center, surrounded by my
family. My calves and lower thighs are encased in metal braces on the outside
of my trousers. The bars that went under the shoes are not evident in the
picture, but the tips of the heavy orthopedic shoes I had to wear are visible
on the footrests. My torso is twisted to the left, and my neck is bent as I
look upward toward David. I wear the careful mask of stoic indifference we
learned to assume in the hospital lest we irritate the nurses with our miseries
and our need for their help.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I suppose a neighbor took the picture. I don’t know
why. It wasn’t a happy occasion. Perhaps he or she felt it was something to
celebrate, something we would want to remember. But it was a difficult time for
my family. It would take months of practice and exercise before my legs were
strong enough to allow me to venture outside by myself. I would not return to
school until the eleventh grade except to take one of the occasional tests the
state required. My mother tutored me, and I was able to keep up with my
schoolwork and even to advance beyond my former classmates.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The library on the first floor, which had doubled as
my father’s study, was made over into a bedroom for me. My mother soon fell
into the habit of taking visitors in to talk to me. When my older brother and
sister returned from school, she would shoo them into the room to entertain me
for a while. Since my days gave me little to talk about, my visitors usually
ended up discussing their lives. And that is how I became the designated
listener, the quiet, reserved person who eavesdrops on life, interposing a
question here and there when the speaker pauses. I quickly learned that I could
keep people talking if I showed an interest in them and gave them an
opportunity to speak about themselves. I also learned that judgments about what
they said were best kept to myself if I wanted them to return. Especially for
my brother and sister, the charitable aspect of visiting a crippled brother and
amusing him combined with the opportunity to talk about themselves proved
irresistible. It remains so to this day. We fell into the pattern that has
since governed our lives. They talk, I listen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I was eleven when I came back from the hospital. My
father would have been forty-four, and my mother forty-two. My father was a
professor of biology at the University of Michigan, about twenty-five miles
from our home in Walled Lake, Michigan. Like most women of her generation, my
mother was a “homemaker.” My parents had married the summer after graduating
from college. My mother had worked for three years as an accountant while my
father attended graduate school. When she became pregnant with my brother, she
quit her job and thereafter remained at home. At the time I returned home, my
brother, David, was seventeen and a junior at a Jesuit high school in a nearby
town. My sister, Alice, was fifteen, and a sophomore at the girls’ academy in
Walled Lake.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I suppose we were normal, middle-class children,
perhaps more bookish than most, but then our parents emphasized education. I
don’t think we were that much different from other children our age in our
town, except that we didn’t as yet have a television set. I felt the injustice
of that strongly. We would not get one until the early 1960s, when my father
finally accepted the fact that television was not just a passing fad.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">But enough background. The whole point of this act of
recollection is for you to come to know my family as I did—by listening to
them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">1<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Please, Mom, let me do it myself.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother looked at the spoon full of soup she was
holding. I was sitting in bed, propped up on pillows. A few minutes before, my
mother had straddled a wooden bed tray across my thighs. It was one of the new
pieces of furniture and equipment that had been bought for my return. She had
laid a napkin and a spoon on the tray and then brought in a bowl of tomato
soup, and a plate with half a sandwich and some apple slices on it. It was my
first meal after returning home. From the dining room next door came a
carefully modulated conversation. My father was quizzing Alice and David about
their progress in school. None of them sounded interested in the subject. They
were trying to talk quietly and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary was
happening, that it was perfectly normal for my mother’s spot at the table to be
vacant and for her to be helping me eat. From my bed, I could see the back of
Alice’s head.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Really, Mommy, it’s OK. We had to feed ourselves in
the hospital. The nurses made us do it. They didn’t have time to feed all of us
and they made us those of us who could do it feed ourselves. I won’t make a
mess. I promise.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother looked at the red soup and then at her white
sheets and the multicolored quilt that my grandmother had made. And finally she
looked at me. The bottom edges of her eyes were watery. “I just wanted to spoil
you a bit on your first day back. I wanted to spoil myself a bit too.” She
tilted the spoon and let the soup drain back into the bowl and then handed me
the spoon. “Sister Margaret said she might drop by this afternoon to see you. I
think she’s got something for you. But if you get tired, you let me know and
I’ll ask her to leave.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I won’t get tired, Mommy. I’ll be a good boy. I’m not
going to be any trouble to anyone. I can do most everything now. You’ll see. I
won’t be any trouble at all. And I’m going to practice my walking and I’ll be
able to get about by myself soon and I won’t need the wheelchair or the braces
and it will be like I wasn’t sick at all.” The conversation in the dining room
had stopped and been replaced by the silence of people waiting for a disaster
to happen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I carefully maneuvered the spoon into the bowl and
dipped up a scant half-spoonful of soup. I slid the bottom of the spoon against
the edge of the bowl to get rid of the drop that always clings to the bottom.
It ran down the outside the bowl onto the plate beneath it, but I didn’t think
that counted as making a mess. I concentrated on lifting the spoon slowly to my
mouth. When I made it without spilling a drop, I smiled at my mother. She
nodded at me and patted my head. That reminded me of something else I had been
planning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mom, can I let my hair grow long again? The nurses
cut it off so that they didn’t have to comb it. But I comb my hair now. Really,
I can.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Oh, I think we can do that. You look better with
longer hair. I’ve never liked this style of short hair on boys. It makes you
look like you had to shave your head to get rid of lice.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“And I won’t look like one of those boys in the
hospital anymore. Mom, you don’t have to sit here with me. I can eat by myself.
You should go eat your soup before it gets cold.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“If you’re sure.” I nodded. My mother sighed and stood
up. “I’m supposed to worry about you, not the other way around.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’ll be all right.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">It took me almost an hour to finish that meal, but I
did it without staining the sheets or the quilt. It was far more food than I
wanted, and the effort left me exhausted. But I was determined not to be a
burden on anyone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">******<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Look at the mess you’ve made. Food all over the bed.
And you think you’re going home next week. Your parents will bring you right
back if you make a mess like that. But I don’t know if we’ll have a place for
you. A bad little boy like you. You’ve always been a troublemaker. Always
causing us more work.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Nurse Kellner regarded me with much satisfaction. She
pushed the tray table out of the away and began scrubbing my face with a rough
washcloth. Even my ears, which couldn’t have been dirty from eating, were
subjected to a stiff cleaning. She ignored the crumbs on the sheets and blanket
that had been the occasion for her harangue. I could lie in the mess I had
made. It would teach me a lesson. She always liked it when we gave her a reason
to indulge in lecturing us. She was the head nurse on the noon to 8:00 o’clock
shift, and she insisted that all the nurses under her management resist any
temptation to coddle us or allow us to take advantage of their good nature.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“If you stayed here, you would have to learn to
conquer your handicaps. That’s the only way you will ever lead a normal life.
But I know what will happen. As soon as you walk in the door of your house,
you’ll start working on your mother’s sympathies, and she’ll take pity on you.
Pretty soon, she’ll be waiting on your hand and foot because she feels sorry
for you, and you’ll never learn to walk. You’ll spend the rest of your life
lying in bed, taking advantage of other people, until one day they get tired of
you and ship you off to the state home in Coldwater. Your family will be so
happy to see the last of you that they’ll lock you away and never think about
you again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’ve seen it all many times before. I’ve had thirty
years’ experience on the polio wards. The worst thing you can do for them, I
always tell the new girls, is to feel sorry for them. You have to harden
yourself and push them. It’s the best thing you can do for them. Don’t let them
fall into bad habits and expect to be waited on hand and foot.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">No one would have accused Nurse Kellner or the nurses
and porters under her of waiting on anyone hand and foot, but all the patients
on her ward knew better than to complain. Most of the doctors knew better than
to complain as well. Disobedience of her rules, and there were many of those,
never went unpunished. Somehow you would be passed over when the porters from
the kitchen delivered the meals. “Johnny’s not hungry tonight.” Or your bed
would be empty during visiting hours, and your parents would be told that you
were undergoing special treatment that couldn’t be interrupted. Hadn’t the
administration called them to tell them that? It was such a pity they had had
that long drive for nothing. Well, Nurse Kellner would look into it and those
responsible would have to bear the brunt of her anger.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">She was always on her best behavior during visiting hours.
No parent would ever have reason to think that our complaints were justified.
“Can I get you a cup of tea, Mrs. Hawkes? Suzie is making such good progress.
We’re all so proud of her.” We paid for the cups of tea and the compliments
later. “Such a pretty coat your mother was wearing, Suzie. It must be nice not
to have to work for a living. To sit around every afternoon and play bridge
with your lady friends. To have someone clean your house for you. But, of
course, you’ll never have that. Not with those shrunken legs and those ugly
metal braces. No one is going to marry you and let you live in luxury. No, I’m
afraid you’ll have to learn typing and shorthand and prepare for a life as the
office drudge. A working girl, that’s what you’ll be. Now let’s get you up, and
you can practice using your crutches. Of course, when you fall again, you’re
just going to have to work your way to your feet by yourself. None of us is
going to help you. You have to learn to fend for yourself. I’ve had thirty
years of experience with your kind. As I always tell my girls, you have to
harden yourself and push them. Don’t feel sorry for them. You’re not doing them
any favor by coddling them.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Few of the nurses were that bad. Nurse Kellner had
made a class for herself. There were some kind ones. But most of them were
indifferent to us. They did their job, but they didn’t like us for making them
do it. The prevailing lesson, repeated over and over, was that we had to
“conquer our handicaps,” that if we tried hard enough, we could lead normal
lives, that we just had to want it enough and have enough willpower and courage
to work through the pain and regain control of our muscles. “Look at what
Franklin Delano Roosevelt accomplished. He conquered his handicaps and went on
to become president. That’s the model for you. Just keep trying, and you can be
Franklin Delano Roosevelt.” There was a picture of Franklin Delano Roosevelt in
every ward in the hospital. We couldn’t escape his inspiring example and that
cigarette clenched between his lips in that silly holder tilted up at that
jaunty angle. I hated Franklin Delano Roosevelt.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">But that was the bargain I made with myself, with God,
with the devil, with anyone who might have listened to my prayers. If my
parents removed me from the hospital and Nurse Kellner, I would be the good boy
that conquered his handicaps and learned to walk again and was never a burden
on his family.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">2<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Miss Lewis says that I’m the only student in sophomore
English who is ready to read this book.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My sister held the book against her chest. Both of her
arms were wrapped tightly around the volume, and one hand stroked the back
cover. Perhaps my memory is faulty, but I see Alice wearing what I recall as
her customary school outfit. A full skirt, descending to mid-calf, made of a
solid-colored wool, usually in some shade of gray, a white blouse, a sweater in
a pastel shade, most often pink or light blue, buttoned up almost to her neck,
and white knee socks. It was the standard uniform of the “nice” girls at her
school. And Alice was a “nice” girl. She never wore jeans or trousers, and she
shuddered at the thought of pedal pushers. She agreed with my mother that they
looked “vulgar.” Alice detested vulgarity—frequently. It was a favorite comment
about those outside her carefully chosen circle of friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What is it called?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You won’t know it. Here, listen to this—” She
reverently opened the book to the first page. “ ‘It is a truth universally
acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want
of a wife.’ Isn’t that the most perfect sentence you’ve ever heard? And the
whole book is like that. At least the first few chapters. That’s all I had time
to get through in study hall. Mrs. Thompson gave us twenty algebra equations to
solve. I hate algebra. I know I’m never going to need it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I like algebra. It’s so beautiful. The way everything
balances and the way it makes the relationships so clear.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What would you know about it? You haven’t had algebra
yet.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I read David’s algebra book two years ago.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Well, you couldn’t have understood it. You’re too
young.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, he understood it, Sis. If you’re nice to him, I’m
sure he’ll do your algebra homework for you. How you doing, champ?” David
walked into my room and pretended to slug me on the upper arm. He was eating a
piece of bread thickly spread with peanut butter and held out one corner for me
to take a bite.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Ugh. You shouldn’t do that. You’ll get germs.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m not worried. Champ here doesn’t have any germs.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I wasn’t talking to you. I was warning Michael that
he’ll get your germs. And you shouldn’t talk with food in your mouth. That’s
rude and impolite and vulgar. And even if Michael could do my algebra homework,
I couldn’t let him do it. That would be against the rules. And I’ve asked you
time and time again not to call me ‘sis.’ My name is Alice.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Against the rules, the rules.” David drew the words
out and savored them in a parody of Boris Karloff. “And Sister never breaks the
rules. Noooooooooo, Sis izz a goooooddgarul.” This was followed by a maniacal
cackle.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Alice’s English teacher gave her a special book to
read.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">David regarded me with amusement. “Little brother is
playing the peacemaker again. He’s telling us to be kind to each other.” David
sat down in the other chair beside my bed, crossed his legs, and simpered at
Alice in a saccharine voice. “Tell us, Dear Sister, what book are we reading?
What is this special book we’ve been given to read?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You wouldn’t have heard of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I bet I have.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Un-hunh. You don’t read good literature, just those
stupid<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>” For a second, Alice
couldn’t think of what stupid things David might read. “<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">…</b> books you’re always reading.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It starts out, ‘It is universal knowledge that a man
who finds a good wife is rich.’ ” I quoted as much of the line as I could
remember. “Alice says it’s the best sentence she’s ever read.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Oh, Michael, you got it all wrong.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Oh, Jane Austen. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pride
and Prejudice</i>. I read that last year.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You never did. You’re lying.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, it was for English literature. We were supposed
to read an important English novel and then trace its influence. I asked Mom
what would be a good choice, and she told me to read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pride and Prejudice</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mother? Mother hasn’t ever read Jane Austen.” Alice
was shocked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes, she has. Her copy is on the top shelf behind you
with all the other A authors. She made notes all over the margins. I bet her
name’s on the inside front cover.” Alice jumped up and stretched up on her toes
to scan the titles on the top shelf. She reached up and pulled a battered book
from the shelf. She opened the front cover, grimaced at it, and then dropped
the book on my bed. “See, I told you she had read it. If you have to write a
paper on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pride and Prejudice</i>, I’ll
let you see the one I wrote. Father Serruys gave me an A on it. Said it was the
best paper in class. I wrote on Jane Austen’s impact on Katherine Hepburn’s
movies. How the screenwriters took Jane Austen’s insight that couples use
arguments and insults to hide their attraction to each other. How you can
always tell that two people will fall in love and get married when they bicker
with each other.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“So you and Alice will get married someday. You two
are always arguing.” Both Alice and David looked aghast. David was the first to
recover.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Fortunately the laws of God and of men are against
that. No matter how much Sis wants me, we won’t be able to get married.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Boys. You’re both such boys. I don’t know why I talk
to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“We don’t know why either, Sis, do we, Champ?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Are you two entertaining your brother?” My mother
stopped outside the door and looked in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes, Mom.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes, Mother.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“They’re entertaining me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">All three of us mustered innocent-looking smiles for
our mother.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Oh, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pride and
Prejudice</i>. I think you’re still a bit young for that, Michael. I hope you
two aren’t giving him books like this to read.” My mother picked up the volume
Alice had thrown on the bed and opened it in the middle. She read for a few
seconds and then smiled at the book. “I should reread this. I enjoyed it so
much years ago. Professor Butler’s course on the nineteenth-century English
novel was one of my favorite classes in college.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Alice’s teacher gave her a copy. She read me the
first sentence. ‘It is a truth that men should get married.’ ”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Indeed.’ My mother chuckled. ‘You and David are to
remember that bit of wisdom when you get older. Now, Alice, I need you to set
the table for dinner. And David, your father told you to scrape that patch of
ice off the front sidewalk. The postman nearly fell on it this morning.
Michael, do you think you can sit at the table to eat tonight? David will help
you into your wheelchair after he finishes the walk. I think I found a cushion
that will raise you up high enough so that you can be comfortable.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">3<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“David measured them for me. The bars are ten feet
long, and if I do two laps, that’s twenty feet. I’m starting today by doing two
laps, three times a day. Then tomorrow I’ll add one lap to each set, and keep
on adding one lap each day until I can do fifty laps. That will be 500 feet,
three times a day. That’s almost a third of a mile a day. It will take me
forty-eight days to reach fifty laps. Then I’ll be strong enough to make it to
the stairs and start learning how to climb them again. I think it will take me
a couple of weeks to learn to do that, and then I can move back into my own bedroom
and you can have your office back.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I showed my father the charts I had made, with each
day’s projected exercise routine for the next two months marked in, with a
square beside each unit of exercise to fill in when I had finished. The bars in
questions were a set of parallel bars adjustable to hand height and set about a
foot apart. They took up most of the space remaining in the library between the
bed and the small desk that had been brought in there for me to do my
schoolwork. My father’s desk had been moved into the small front parlor. There
was only just enough space for it beside the piano, and the small sofa that had
once set in that room had been moved into the front hallway.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My father examined the charts carefully. “You don’t
want to push yourself too hard. You have to make sure you’re strong enough
before you move on to the next step. And when are you going to have time for
your schoolwork?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“That’s on these charts.” I handed him another set of
pages, with my lessons marked in for the next two months.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Arithmetic (6th grade), Spelling (6th grade), Reading
(6th grade), World History (6th grade), Science (6th grade), Geometry. What are
all these sixth-grade classes? Aren’t you in the fifth grade?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’ve already done all that work. I’m doing the
sixth-grade lessons now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Are they teaching geometry in the sixth grade now?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">This was the sensitive matter. I had counted on
concealing my geometry studies from my parents until they were so far advanced
that they couldn’t put a stop to them. “David said he would let me have his
geometry book from last year, and I thought I could do that. I’ve already
finished his algebra book. And David said he would help me if there was
something I didn’t understand. But I’ve already looked at it, and it’s not
hard. It all starts with just these four axions, and everything follows from
those. And David says that this summer after he’s through with his advanced
algebra and solid geometry books, then I can have those. I plan to finish those
over the summer, so David and I can do trigonometry and calculus together next
year.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Axioms, not axions.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Axioms.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“And David is going to teach you this?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m going to study them by myself. I don’t want to be
a burden on David. He’s got his own work to do. Besides he sometimes makes
mistakes. He forgets that everything has to balance out. He doesn’t think about
the implications of the operations. The equals sign confuses him.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“ ‘The implications of the operations’? ‘The equals
sign confuses him’?” My father regarded me with amusement.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I nodded. I was on more solid ground now. At least I
thought I was. Math I could handle. I was less sure about my parents. “He
forgets to change the sign of the number when he transfers it to the other side
of the equation, because he doesn’t understand that the equals sign means that
the two sides have to balance.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Where did you learn all this?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s just obvious. It couldn’t be otherwise.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“ ‘Just obvious.’ I have graduate students who don’t
grasp the functions of operators, and you think they’re obvious.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s OK isn’t it, Daddy? I mean, I could wait until
I’m older if it’s wrong for me to know such things. And what are operators?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, it’s not wrong, Michael. But you’ve got to give
yourself time to be young too. There’s plenty of time to grow up. You’ll have
lots of time for geometry and calculus and operators later. And what are you
going to study in high school if you study all those courses now? You should be
out playing baseball.” As soon as he said that, my father’s face betrayed that
he felt he had misspoke. Both of us knew that baseball wasn’t part of my
immediate future.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Well, I’m not going to play baseball anymore. I’ve
decided to give that up. I don’t have time for that anymore. So in the time I’m
saving by not playing baseball, I can do other things.” I offered my father the
excuse I sensed he needed. “I’d better start my exercises. I did two laps this
morning after breakfast, and I need to do my two afternoon laps now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I wheeled myself over to the bars and pulled myself up
to a standing position between the two poles. “You have to be careful to make
sure that your legs are doing the work and that you’re not using your arms to
lift your body up and swing it forward. That’s cheating. The therapist said
that if we cheated, we would never force our legs to be strong enough to
support us. You’re just supposed to use the bars to steady yourself until your
legs are strong enough.” I repeated the lessons that had been drummed into us
in the hospital by the physical therapists.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I gingerly took the fifteen or so steps it took me to
travel ten feet. I was concentrating on putting my feet down squarely and not
letting them pull up so that I was walking on my toes. My left leg was in
better shape. The nerves in my right leg had sustained more damage, and I still
could not lift that leg and bend it at the knee. I had to raise myself up a bit
on my left foot and then swing the right leg out in a half circle to move it to
the front. Because it took longer to move that leg, the rhythm of my walk was
very irregular, and my body had to sway to accommodate the movements of my
right leg. When I reached the far end of the bars and turned around to face my
father, he had a horrified look on his face. For me that ten feet had been a
victory lap. I was showing off for my father, trying to demonstrate to him that
I would walk again, that I would be normal again. What he saw was a shambling
twisting gait that barely kept me upright, with my knees splaying out at
unnatural angles.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My father was a tall man. Everyone in his family was.
At that period in his life, he was still at his full height of six feet two. I
have never been as conscious of how short I was until that moment, when I
looked up into my father’s face and saw how much my condition appalled and
saddened him. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’ll improve. I’ll be walking fine in just a
few weeks. You’ll see.” I started on the second lap, trying to keep my legs
from wobbling and bending to the side, not daring to look up to meet the stark,
shattered gaze of a father who has seen his son’s future.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My father dropped the sheets of paper with the
schedules I had laboriously worked out on the bed and walked out without
speaking. A few seconds later, I heard the back door open and close.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I paused in my exercises for only a few seconds before
resuming. I still had to finish that lap and reach my wheelchair. It seemed
very far away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">4<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“So what happens after Elizabeth and Darcy get
married?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Well, what would you expect from someone as
intelligent as Elizabeth? She impresses all of Darcy’s friends and relatives by
being so clever, and Darcy respects her more and more each day. And they just
grow closer and closer. There’s never anything vulgar between the two of them.
It’s the perfect marriage.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“How many children do they have?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“None. They don’t need children to be happy. Elizabeth
isn’t a mother. She’s a lady.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But mom’s a lady, and she had children.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Not that kind of lady. Elizabeth’s a lady like Miss
Lewis, who devotes her entire life to reading and appreciating the better
things in life and helping others and educating them.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Alice was still clutching Jane Austen tightly to her
chest. She had finished <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pride and
Prejudice</i> and had found a two-volume set of Jane Austen’s complete works in
the library. She was now midway through the second volume.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Miss Lewis says that when I finish Jane Austen, I
should read the Brontë sisters. I had a long talk with her after school
yesterday. She’s so interesting. She’s read so many books. And she’s been to
Europe. She goes to Paris every summer. She stays in a little hotel she knows.
She’s the only American there. So she doesn’t have to associate with tourists.
She says it’s cheap but quite serviceable, and small discomforts are worth
being able to live in Paris. She says Paris is the only place she can really
breathe. It’s not like Walled Lake, so bourgeois and stifling.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What’s birdjwa?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Alice gave me a disdainful look. “Really, Michael. I
am going to have to supervise your reading. You should know words like
‘bourgeois’ at your age. Algebra and geometry are bourgeois. And baseball is so
bourgeois.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Then I like bourgeois things. Algebra and geometry
are my favorites. But I’ve given up on baseball. I don’t have time for that
anymore.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You don’t know anything. You’re still so young.”
Alice gave me a satisfied look. I tried to look younger to win her approval. It
was clearly something she found praiseworthy in a younger brother. “Miss Lewis
is going to give me a list of books to read over the summer. These books are so
much better than that stupid <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tale of Two
Cities</i> we’re reading in class now. Really, it’s so childish.” She looked at
me speculatively. “But we should start you reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oliver Twist</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">David
Copperfield</i>. Those would be good books for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Alice stood up and began searching the library shelves.
My mother’s prized set of the complete works of Charles Dickens occupied one
entire shelf and part of another. She had inherited the set from her
grandmother. It was something we had been trained not to touch. Alice looked
over her shoulder to see if my mother was watching and then carefully eased a
volume off the shelf and brought it over to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">She whispered, “This is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oliver Twist</i>. I’ll get you a copy from the library the next time I
go.” She carefully opened the book to the title page and the facing
frontispiece. Looming over a small boy was a large, evil-looking man. “That’s
Oliver Twist. He’s an orphan. And that man standing behind him is Fagin. He is
not a nice man.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Is it a horror story? I like horror stories. There
are some horror stories in the Hardy Boys.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, this is not the Hardy Boys. That’s for
children. This is real literature, even if it is by Dickens. I found it quite<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b> enlightening when I read it. Of
course, I was only in the fifth grade then. I don’t read such sentimental books
now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But there are ghosts in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Christmas Carol</i>. The Ghost of Christmas Past rattles his chains
on the record.” I was referring to a recording by Basil Rathbone of Dickens’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Christmas Carol</i> that we owned. It was
one of my favorites, or at least it had been until Tiny Tim became too relevant
to my life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Well it is sort of horror story, but not with
ghosts.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“How can it be a horror story if there aren’t any
ghosts?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s about the horrors of society. I’ll bring you a
copy from the library, and you can read it yourself.” Alice put the book back
in place on the shelf and lined it up so that its spine stood at the same
distance from the edge of the shelf as the other volumes in the set.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I could read Mom’s copy until you brought the book
from the library. I wouldn’t get it dirty.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You know that’s against the rules. Mother would not
like it if she found you reading one of her Dickenses.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But you took one off the shelf.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“That’s different. I’m older, and I’m just more
careful about books than you and David. I’m going to the library after school
tomorrow. So you’ll only have to wait a day. I’m going to ask Miss Lewis for a
list of books for you to read. Books suitable for children. If we guide you in
the right direction, at least you won’t end up like David and just read the
sports pages.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“David reads lots of books.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Only because he has to for school. The only books he
ever takes out of the library are for his homework. He doesn’t read to improve
his mind. Miss Lewis says that we have to work on improving our minds our
entire life. Miss Lewis is the most educated person I know. I’m going to be
just like her. And when I’m older, I’m going to go with her and spend my
summers in Paris.” Alice walzed around the room. She lifted her arms above her
head slowly twirled around, her torso bent backwards at the waist. “We’ll go to
museums and look at the pictures and statues and sit at a table in a sidewalk
café and discuss books and life. I’m so glad I decided to take French. It’s
really the only foreign language one needs. The others are just so<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b> pedestrian. Everyone who is really
educated knows French.” Alice sunk to the floor in a graceful bow and modestly
acknowledged the tastefully subdued applause of the audience. We had been taken
to see a local production of a ballet several years earlier, and Alice had been
enchanted by it. Since the only recording we had of ballet music was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Nutcracker</i> suite, she had begun
dancing to that. Although not as frequently as had once been the case, Clara
still visited us on occasion.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m the Mouse King.” I stabbed at the air with a
pencil.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Really, Michael, that is so jejune.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Nutcracker</i> takes place at Christmas time. That’s December, not June.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Je-june, je-june. It means childish.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Well, it’s April now, not je-june, so I can’t be
childish for another two months.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Alice shook her head and sighed theatrically. The word
“jejune” was whispered toward the ceiling. “I have to go now. I promised Margie
I would go to her house and help her with her homework.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I thought you didn’t like to go to Margie’s house.
You always say Mrs. Roberts doesn’t keep a clean house.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Well, she doesn’t.” Alice became very interested in
the arrangement of the books on the shelves. She pulled one out and reshelved
it before the book to its left. “These books are getting out of order. Mother
doesn’t have time to arrange them.” She kept her back turned to me as she
walked out the door. “Mrs. Roberts doesn’t want Margie coming over here. She
thinks, well she thinks it would disturb you and cause more work for mother.
She says mother has enough to do without having more people in the house. So
I’ll be going over there from now on. I’ll see you at dinner.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><a name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">5<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Hey, Champ, how are you doing?” David was wearing his
varsity jacket with his letter for baseball on the back. He was carrying his
baseball uniform, mitt, and bat. The uniform was covered with dirt and grass
stains. His cleated running shoes were tied together by their laces and draped
over a shoulder. “I gotta take these to the basement and throw them in the
laundry basket. I’ll be back in a minute.” He started off and then turned back.
“We won. 5 to 1. I’ll tell you all about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother and Alice began talking almost
simultaneously. My mother called out from the kitchen. “David, do not put those
dirty things in with the other clothes. Dump them in the sink and soak them in
hot water. Add a half cup of the soap powder. And put those shoes on the back
porch. I do not want you dropping mud all over the house. I swear that
elementary hygiene is beyond you. It’s a constant fight to keep dirt out of
this house with you around.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“David, those clothes stink. Don’t bring them in
here.” Alice was sitting in my room doing her homework. She ran to a window and
opened it and fanned the air vigorously. “If you two are going to discuss
baseball, I’m going to go upstairs to my room and read.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I buried my nose in the book I was reading. I hoped
both of them would go away. Alice hadn’t ever understood baseball, and I didn’t
want to talk about it with David. “Thank you for bringing me the book, Alice.
That was most kind of you.” I didn’t look up from the book as I turned a page.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Why are you talking like Grandmother Scotthorn?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s what Mom says too.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Only when she wants to demonstrate good manners for
us. It sounds stupid when you say it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I just want to show everyone that I preciate what
you’re doing for me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Ap-preciate, not preciate.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Appreciate. Thank you, Alice, for correcting me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, you’re being silly. Stop it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes, Alice. I am sorry if I am giving offense. I can
assure you that none was intended.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Now you sound like Aunt Emily.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Who sounds like Aunt Emily?” David bounded into the
room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael. He’s talking like Grandmother Scotthorn and
Aunt Emily. Except he doesn’t have that hurt tone that Aunt Emily uses when she
apologizes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What hurt tone?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Oh, that ‘you’re being rude for making me apologize’
tone.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Ah, that tone.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“David, did you leave the water on in the basement
sink? I hear it running.” My mother appeared in the doorway.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m letting it run for a minute, Mother, to let it
get hot.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“David, go downstairs and soak your uniform. I do not
want to see you again until you’ve finished that chore. And Alice, if you’ve
nothing better to do than make unkind remarks about your Aunt Emily, you can
sweep the porch and front sidewalk. And put a coat on. It’s too cold for you to
be wandering about outside without a coat. And have you practiced your piano
lessons yet today? I’ve told you, you need to do that when you get back from
school before your father comes home, so you won’t disturb him when he’s
working at his desk after dinner.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother watched both of them to make sure they were
doing as told and then turned to me. “Do you need anything, Michael? Some more
water?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, Mother, I have sufficient. Thank you.” My mother
examined that remark closely for sarcasm. Then she smiled at me. “Alice was
right. You do sound like your Aunt Emily in one of her more aggrieved moods.
It’s enough just to say ‘thanks,’ Michael. You don’t have to copy Aunt Emily.
She’s not a proper model for a young boy. Not for anyone, come to think of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“OK, mommy. I just don’t want to be a burden to
anyone. And everybody leaves Aunt Emily alone when she talks like that. Even
Uncle Ralph.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother came and set on my bed. “Is that why you’re
talking like that? Do you want to be left alone? Are we too much company for
you, Michael?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m taking too much of everybody’s time. Everyone
feels they have to sit with me and talk with me and entertain me. Alice never
sat in my room to do her homework, and David didn’t spend all his time talking
to me. It should be like it was before, when nobody said anything to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“We talked to you before, Michael.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But not so much. You didn’t go out of your way to
talk to me. You don’t talk to David and Alice like that. I shouldn’t be any
different. It shouldn’t be any different now. It should be like it was before.
Everybody is too<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b> too careful
around me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“We missed you. We’re making up for all the
conversations we missed while you were in the hospital.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I don’t want to be sick any more, Mommy. People
shouldn’t treat me like I was sick.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You’re not sick, Michael. You’ve just got to be
patient and give yourself time to recover and get well. It’s hasn’t even been
two weeks since you came home. We’ll get used to you again, and then things
will be back to normal. Just give us time. We’ll soon be ignoring you again. I
have to go make dinner now. You just read by yourself for a while. We’ll come
get you when dinner’s ready.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Ok, Mommy. I’m sorry. I’m not complaining.” My mother
gave me a half smile and patted my hand. When she stood up to leave, we both
realized that David was standing in the door to the room. For once, he looked
unsure of what to do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Perhaps we should let Michael rest, David.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, it’s all right, Mommy. I want to hear about
David’s game. He won 5 to 1.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You’re sure?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I nodded. I didn’t want to hear about it, but I had to
be a good boy and show both of them that I was interested in them. “Yes, Mommy.
Besides if David tells me now, then he won’t have to tell me at the dinner
table and make Alice feel bored.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Oh great, then we’ll get to hear Alice talking about
Jane Austen and Miss Lewis.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“David, I do not want you saying things like that in
front of your brother.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes, Mother.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Now don’t tire your brother.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes, Mother.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">David waited until mother was out of earshot before
mouthing “Alice is boring.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Jane Austen is Alice’s baseball.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Alice can’t catch a ball. Here, I’ve got something
for you.” David reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a hard
rubber ball. “Coach gave me this. You squeeze it and it helps build up your
grip. I figure if you use that every day you can start pitching to me in a few
weeks. Plus coach showed me how you can use your parallel bars to build up your
shoulder muscles. Here watch this.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">David walked over to my exercise bars and gripped them
in his hands. With his arms locked stiff, he bent his legs backward at the
knees until he was supporting his weight on his arms. Then he slowly lowered
and raised his body between the bars. “See, this forces your shoulder muscles
to do all the work. Why don’t you try one?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s all right, David. I’ll try it later.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Where’s your exercise schedule? We can add these to
your lists.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’ll do it later.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, where are your schedules?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I shook my head no and picked up my book and started
reading.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Champ, what’s the matter?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m not a champ.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What happened? Why are you so upset?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m not upset. And don’t talk so loud or Mommy will
come back.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">David sat down at my desk and started pulling open the
drawers until he found the red file folder my mother had given me to put my
schedules in. He shuffled through them until he found the exercise sheet for
that week. “You haven’t been coloring in the boxes to show that you’ve done
your exercises.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’ll do it later.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, you have been doing your exercises, haven’t
you?” David crossed to the bed and sat down on it. He poked at my shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes.” I didn’t look up from the book I was reading. I
tried to sound unconcerned.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Then why haven’t you been marking your charts?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Dunno. Too busy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What? I’m trying to read, David.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What’s wrong?” David picked up my hand and held it
between his.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Suddenly the burden was too much for me to carry
alone. “I can’t. I can’t finish them. The most I can manage is six laps and
then I get too tired to go on.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Six isn’t bad.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It isn’t twelve. I’m supposed to do twelve today. I’m
never going to be normal. I’m never going to play baseball again, David. I’m
never going to<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>” I pushed the
rubber ball away from me. It rolled off the bed and bounced on the floor. David
scooped it up and brought it back.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What are you telling me? You want to play basketball
instead? Maybe football. We could do that. Golf? Tennis?” He mimed each of the
sports in turn while smiling at me uncertainly, like a comedian who fears that
he’s failing to amuse.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, I’m never going to be able to do those things.”
David turned my hand palm up and put the ball into it. He wrapped his hand
around mine so that my fingers held the ball. Then he squeezed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“We’ll figure out something for you to do, Champ.
Coach said you should do twenty squeezes at a time to start. Work up to a
hundred. After dinner, we’ll do your laps.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You have other stuff to do. Homework.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I can do it later. Besides you can explain conic
sections to me again while you’re doing your laps. I still don’t see how you
derived the equations for them. Now, I’d better tell you about the baseball
game so we men don’t bore Alice with sports talk at the dinner table. I pitched
a no hitter for the first three innings. I struck out eight runners and the
other guy hit a pop fly to center field. I walked Paulson, you know that big
catcher who plays for Stella Maris, in the fourth.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My brother sat and talked to me until Mother called us
to dinner. I listened to him and tried to appear interested. I nodded at the
right moments and asked the right questions. But I was afraid to let myself
become interested in a sport that I knew I would never play again. The conversation
was just a game I was playing to make my brother feel good.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“So I’m thinking maybe we can start by just throwing
the ball back and forth and then moving slowly further and further apart as
your arms get stronger. You’ll soon remember everything I taught you before.
And I’ve been rubbing oil into your glove so that the leather’s still soft. Of
course, you’ve grown so much that it might not be large enough anymore, but
then you can use one of my old gloves. I’ll bring them down after dinner, and
you can try them on till we find one that fits you. Does that sound all right,
Champ?” David was becoming elated at the prospect of helping me recover.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I nodded. “I probably won’t be able to throw the ball
far, David. Or for very long.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Not at first, but you’ll improve. You’ll soon be
playing again.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">David has always felt that he can make the world what
he wants it to be just by talking about it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">6<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mother, can we go shopping after school on Friday? I
need to get a new bathing suit for the summer and some other things.” Alice had
finished practicing the piano and was setting the table for dinner. My mother
was in the kitchen. I was sitting at my desk working on my lessons.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Your father needs the car on Friday afternoon to take
Michael to get his braces adjusted.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“On Saturday then? Can we drive to the Hudson’s in
Southfield? Patricia said she was there last week, and they had a lot of nice
bathing suits. I need two or three summer dresses too. You should get some new
ones too. You’ve been wearing that same three dresses to church and the country
club for two summers now. And the seams on your white gloves are coming loose.
I should get a new hat too.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Hudson’s is so expensive, Alice. The Emporium here in
town has some good things. We can find something for you there.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But, Mother, the Emporium is so cheap. Nobody in
school wears clothes from there. I can’t wear my clothes from last summer. I’ve
grown so much that nothing fits any more. Please, can we go to Hudson’s? They
always have sales on weekends, and I can find something nice on sale. You can
too. Just a new bathing suit and one new dress. I don’t need a new hat. But I
need at least one new dress for the country club this summer.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Well, you won’t need a dress for the country club
this summer, Alice. We’ve quit at the beginning of the year, Alice. Your father
decided that we can’t afford it any more.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But where will I swim, Mother? All my friends swim at
the country club.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Then one of them can take you as a guest. Members are
permitted to bring guests.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mother, I couldn’t ask them to do that. That would be
like admitting we’re poor and can’t afford things.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Alice, there are three lakes within walking distance
of this house. Surely you can find a beach to swim at at one of them.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But, Mother, none of the girls from school would be
caught dead at a public beach. It’s so common, and the boys there are so
vulgar.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Alice, that’s enough. We can shop for patterns and
fabric this weekend, and I’ll sew you some dresses for the summer.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mother, nobody wears homemade dresses.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Well, I’m afraid that both of us are going to.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s because of him, isn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What are you talking about?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s Michael, isn’t it? All the money has to be spent
on him. There’s none left for me or the rest of us.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Alice, be quiet. Your brother will hear.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I don’t care. He should know how much the rest of us
are suffering because of him. Fine. I just won’t leave the house this summer. I
don’t have any friends left because they’re afraid they’ll catch some awful
disease from him. So it doesn’t matter that I’ll be wearing rags and won’t be
fit to be seen. I’ll ask Grandmother Scotthorn for the money for new clothes.
At least she won’t let me run around in old clothes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Alice Feneron, you will do nothing of the sort. Go to
your room. The only place you’ll be going on Saturday is to Confession to tell
Father Kennedy how disrespectful you are to your parents and how cruel you are
to your poor brother.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">There was the sound of silverware being thrown on the
table, followed by Alice’s deliberately heavy-footed dash up the back stairs. A
door slammed upstairs. Then there was a loud wail. In the kitchen, the
refrigerator opened and closed. There was a snap of a switch as a burner on the
stove was turned on or off. A few seconds later, a chair was pulled back from
the dinner room table, and I heard creaking noises and a long sigh as my mother
sat down.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">As quietly as I could, I maneuvered my wheelchair to
the door to the library and peeked around the corner. My mother was leaning on
her elbows and massaging her forehead with one hand. With her other hand she
pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Her eyes were closed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mommy?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother looked up. When she saw me, she straightened
up. She dabbed at her nose and then tucked the handkerchief back under the cuff
of her sweater. “Michael, I suppose it’s too much to hope that you didn’t hear
that.” She stood up. Like someone decades older, she walked around the table
holding on to the backs of the chairs for support until she stood opposite me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Alice didn’t mean that, Michael. She’s just very
young, and it’s hard for her to adjust.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s true, though, what she said, isn’t it? Are we
going broke?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, Michael. We’re not going broke. We’re in the same
situation we’ve always been in. We don’t have as much money as the parents of
Alice’s friends at school. We just have to watch our money and save it for the
important things. Like David’s and Alice’s school fees. And we have to save for
college for the three of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But there would be more money if I hadn’t gotten sick.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“There might be, Michael, I won’t lie to you. But
you’re not to worry about that. I want you to put that out of your mind. In any
case, there will never be enough money to buy Alice all the things she thinks
she needs. You’ve heard me and your father say no to her before, and you’ve
heard her getting angry because that meant she wouldn’t have something the
other girls in her school consider necessary. It’s good for her to do without
occasionally.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I suppose.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, Alice and her problems are not your fault.
Not everything that happens happens because you got sick.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But that means that some things happen because I got
sick. If I hadn’t been a bad boy and God hadn’t had to punish me, then I
wouldn’t have gotten sick, and I wouldn’t be a burden on everyone.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Who told you that? God doesn’t do things like that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“That’s what the man at the hospital said. Reverend
Skeffington. He used to visit us and talk to us about our sins and what we had
done wrong so that God had to punish us. To make an example of us so that other
kids would know what happened to bad children.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Oh, Michael, that’s just not true. I can’t believe
anyone would say such a cruel thing to a child. He’s an evil, evil man.” My
mother’s face was contorted with anger.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m sorry, Mommy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Why are you sorry?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“For saying the wrong thing. For upsetting you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Oh, Michael. It isn’t you. It’s never you.” My mother
reached over to hug me. I involuntarily shied away. I knew instantly that my
flinching had hurt my mother more than what I had just said. Her hand fled back
to her mouth, and her eyes watered.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m sorry, Mommy. You can hug me. Please. It’s just
that sometimes it hurts to be touched. I’m ok, now.” I took a step forward to
bring myself closer. My mother reached out and hesitantly stroked my head.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You’d better sit down before you tire yourself out.
Why don’t you show me your homework? What have you been working on?” Even I
understood that my mother was changing the subject to something safer and less
emotional.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“The questions at the end of the history lesson. I
made a neat copy for school. My handwriting is getting better again.” I showed
my mother the piece of paper with the answers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“This is very good, Michael.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mommy, is it true what Alice said—that her friends
don’t come around any more because of me? Is that why none of my friends comes
to visit me?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“There are lots of silly people in the world, Michael.
They’re not worth thinking about. I want you to put that out of your mind right
now. We don’t think about things like that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes, Mommy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“And now, I had better go talk to Alice. I don’t want
your father to hear about this, and if she isn’t at the table and chattering
away, he’ll start to wonder why. One thing she’s going to do is apologize to
you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Oh, don’t make her do that, Mommy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It will be good for her.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But then she’ll hate me. She won’t mean it, and
she’ll be mad at me because you made her apologize to me. Just let her come
back and not say anything. She’ll find a way of saying she’s sorry by herself.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, you are growing up too fast.” My mother
pushed a lock of hair off my forehead. “It will always be hard for Alice to be
Alice. You two are a lot alike. You’re my fighters.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“David’s a fighter too.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, David will always have it too easy. He’ll never
have to fight to get what he wants. People will always be happy to help him get
what he wants. But you mustn’t repeat what I’ve said to David or Alice. That’s
just between the two of us. And now I have to talk to Alice. You’ve done enough
homework for today. You can do the rest tomorrow. Why don’t you read your book?
Or do your geometry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">7<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, I’m going to put your wheelchair in the car
just in case you need it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I won’t need it. I walked for ten minutes yesterday
with just my crutches and braces.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I will feel better if we have it along. It will make
me feel safer. Just in case we can’t find a parking spot near that shop.” My
father wedged my crutches into the well behind the front seat of the car and
returned to the house. I rolled down the window and watched two squirrels chase
each other around a tree trunk. There was the smell of wet soil and new leaves
in the air. The grass was beginning to turn green again. Only a bit of crusty
dirty snow remained of the pile north of the garage where David and my father
had shoveled it over winter. The sun never shone directly on that area, and it
was always the last spot with snow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My father emerged from the house pushing my
wheelchair. He had to bend over to reach the handles. My mother opened the
screen door and said something to him. He turned backed to her and listened for
a second and then nodded. He folded the chair and then stowed it in the trunk.
“Your mother said to remind you to ask the technician how to clean the pads on
your braces. Can you remember to do that?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I nodded and mm-hmmed to show that I would remember.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Is your door locked?” My father reached across me and
checked that the lock button was down. Our house set up on a knoll and the
street fell away sharply for the first thirty feet or so. Seatbelts would not
be standard equipment on cars for another ten years or so, and as we started
down the hill, I slid forward in the seat. Without thinking, I braced my leg
against the dashboard and began struggling to push myself back up. The part of
the brace that went under the shoe scraped against the glove compartment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Stop that. You’ll scratch the finish.” My father
spoke automatically.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m sorry, Daddy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My father stopped the car and reached over and lifted
me back into place. He regarded me with great weariness and sadness. “Michael,
I didn’t intend to speak so sharply. I know you didn’t mean to do that.” He
sighed and looked straight ahead out the windshield. “David used to kick the
dashboard when he was young, and I was always telling him to stop it. You took
me back to that for a second.” He shifted into gear again and we started
forward.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“We’ll have to figure out a way to keep you from
sliding down in the seat. Maybe Mr. Perkins will have an idea.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">We rode in silence for the next ten minutes or so.
Then my father cleared his throat and began speaking carefully. “You know,
Michael, we’re all glad to have you home again. But you’ll have to be patient
with us. We learning to make adjustments to living with your condition. It’s
going to take us time to work everything out.” My father glanced over at me,
and I nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m especially worried about your mother. Most of the
work around the house falls on her. Your brother and sister help out, but she’s
the one who has to take care of you during the day.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I know, Daddy. I try to do as much for myself as I
can and not be a burden. I’m walking much better now, and she doesn’t have to
do so much for me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“That’s my boy. How are you doing in your schoolwork?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">For the rest of the trip into Pontiac, my father and I
discussed my lessons. Mr. Perkins’s shop was located near the hospital. A group
of nurses walked past as my father was handing me my crutches and helping me
out of the car. One glanced at me and then nodded. We didn’t know each other,
but we knew what our roles were. “How’s it going, kid? You doing your PT?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Every day.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“That’s a good boy. Keep up the good work.” She gave
me the “thumbs-up” gesture of support.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The door to Mr. Perkins’s shop was wider than normal
and a short ramp abutted the doorsill so that wheelchairs could maneuver in and
out easily. When my father opened the door, a buzzer sounded in the back of the
shop. A few seconds later a woman called out, “Just a minute. I’ll be right
out.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The shop had a large open space in the center.
Crutches, braces, and canes hung from hooks on one wall. Another wall was used
to display artificial arms and legs. A row of wheelchairs lined the front. An
older man sat in one of them. He looked up from the magazine he was reading and
nodded hello to my father. He smiled at me. “Take a number, kid. Ted will be
with you as soon as he’s finished working on my leg.” He gestured toward his
left side. The left leg of his trousers was folded and lay flat on the seat of
the chair. Only about six inches or so of his left thigh remained.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My father glanced at the man’s trouser leg and then
looked away. The prosthetic devices lining the walls didn’t provide a
comfortable place for his eyes to linger either. The curtains over the door to
the back room were pushed aside, and a middle-aged woman rolled her wheelchair
into the room. “Hello, you must be Mr. Feneron. I’m Judy Perkins. My husband
will be out in a few minutes, as soon as he finished working on Bill’s leg. Hi,
Mike, how are you doing? It’s going to take him another fifteen minutes or so
before he’s ready for you. If you folks want to go out and get a coke or
something, there’s a soda fountain in the Woolworth’s in the next block.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My father greeted that suggestion with relief.
“Michael?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m fine, Dad. Why don’t you go get a cup of coffee?
It takes about half an hour to adjust the braces. You don’t have to wait with
me. Mother always has a cup of coffee and does some shopping while Mr. Perkins
is working on my legs.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I do have a couple of errands to run.” He turned back
toward Mrs. Perkins. “Another hour or so?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“About that. We’ll watch Mike. If he runs out into the
street, I’ll chase him down.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I giggled. “Un-hunh. I’ve been practicing. I can run
now. You won’t be able to catch me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yeah? Well, there’s something you don’t know, bud.
Since the last time you were in here, Ted installed a jet motor on my chair.
Plus Bill here hops real good. You won’t get away, Tiger.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Well, if you’re sure it will be all right?” My father
gestured toward the door.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Mrs. Perkins smiled at my father. “We’ll be fine.
Mike’s a good kid. He helps me do the accounts.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Well, if you don’t mind.” My father pulled back his
cuffs and looked at his watch. “I’ll be back around 2:30. You behave yourself,
Michael.” He hurriedly stepped outside and looked up and down the street for
somewhere to go. I watched him out the window. My father’s shoulders were
hunched forward. He looked tired as he walked away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">When I turned around, I found that the man reading the
magazine was watching me. He closed his magazine and tossed it onto the seat of
the chair next to him. His mouth twisted in a half smile. “Feneron. There’s a
pitcher for St. Ignatius named David Feneron. Throws a mean fast ball. He some
relation of yours?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“That’s my brother.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“My older boy plays first base for Little Flower in
Royal Oak. We’re expecting to play St. Igs in the CL playoffs this year. We
went out to scout your team two weeks ago when they beat St. Mary’s. You see
that game?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“That’s too bad. You missed a good game.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“David told me about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“So you play ball?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I used to. I don’t anymore.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You’re like my younger son, then. We can’t get him
interested. He’s always got his nose in a book. You can hardly get him to stop
reading long enough to eat. But he does real well in school. His mom and I are
proud of him. We’re proud of both our boys. Is that what you’re like? The smart
brother?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“David’s smart too. He’s going to be a doctor.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Is that right? Did he get interested in that because
of you?” Bill pointed toward my legs.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I guess. I don’t know.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Hey, Bill, leave Mike alone. He’s a good kid.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I can see that, Judy. I’m just talking to him. Man to
man. You see, Mike, parents want to be proud of their kids. It doesn’t matter
what they’re good at. We’ll even take not so good and blow it up into great.
Hell, we’ll even take so-so and by the time we finish talking about it, it’s an
act of pure genius.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Hey, watch your language, Bill.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Judy, Mike and I are Catholics. We’ve heard of hell.
You know what hell is, don’t you, Mike?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“So what I’m saying here, Mike, is that sometimes when
you are a parent, things happen to your kid. And you can’t do anything about
it. And you know that you can’t make it better. That you can’t talk it up into
something good. You can only feel the pain of it, and you can’t fix it. And
it’s almost as bad for you as it is for the kid, because you’re supposed to be
the one who fixes things. And you don’t know what to say to your kid. So you
end up saying nothing and walking away and hoping that things will just somehow
work out for the best. And then the kid wonders what he did wrong to disappoint
you and starts blaming himself. And it’s just life. That’s all it is. Life just
slams into you. And a shell takes off part of your leg and blows your two best
buddies to bits so small that there’s not enough left for the sharks to nibble
on. And after being in a hospital for months, you come home to your family, and
they try to pretend that nothing happened, and you try to pretend that nothing
happened so that they don’t get upset. But nobody can forget what happened. But
after a while they get used to it, and they learn to live with it. So that’s
what you gotta do, Mike, help your family learn to live with it. Just be
patient with them. They’ll catch up to you eventually. You’ll find other ways
to make them proud of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Next time, I remove your battery when I take your leg
off.” Mr. Perkins had entered the room while Bill was talking and stood there
holding his artificial leg. I had been paying so much attention to what Bill
was saying that I hadn’t noticed him come in. “That way you won’t talk so much.
Roll up your pant leg.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Maybe we should go in the back. Mike’s a bit young
for this.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, I was at the Vets. I’ve seen stuff like this
before—in the hospital.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“The Vets? Kinda young to be a soldier, aren’t you,
Mike? Or did you lose both legs and get sawed off. Is that why you’re so
short?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“He was at Children’s Hospital off of Woodward down at
Seven Mile. Sometimes they take the kids over to the Veterans Hospital there to
get fitted for braces.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yeah, I’ve seen lots of amputees. Can I watch?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“If it’s all right with Bill.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mike wants to watch, he can watch. Kids. Bloody
minded little beggars all of them.” Bill smiled at me to show he was just
joking. He rolled up his left pant leg and exposed his leg. The end of the
stump was red. The flesh was scarred with deep white furrows. Mr. Perkins
quickly fitted the pads against the stump and then fastened the artificial legs
to the straps. “There. How does that feel?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Let’s give it a test. Judy, you up for a dance?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Not today. Ted would get jealous.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mike, what about you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I don’t know how to dance.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Here, I’ll show you.” He stood up and started
singing. “You put your right leg out, you put your right leg in. You do the
hokey-pokey and you turn yourself about. That’s what it’s all about.” He
matched his actions to the words. “Now you try it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I stood up and spread my crutches out wide for better
stability. “My left leg is better.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Hey, we’re a matched pair. I’m a righty. You’re a lefty.
Fred and Ginger had best look to their laurels. It’s the incredible dancing duo
from Pontiac, Michigan, Mike and Bill.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Bill was singing about his right leg, and I was
singing about my left leg. I even did one chorus about putting my right crutch
out. Bill matched that with “I put my prosthesis out.” After a couple more
verses, Judy wheeled her chair over until the three of us were in a ragged
line, and she joined in. “You put your right wheel out, you put your right
wheel in. You do the hokey-pokey and you turn yourself about. That’s what it’s
all about.” Even Mr. Perkins started dancing, all of us singing as loudly as we
could. We kept going for about five minutes. Bill finished with a great
flourish of an imaginary hat. Some people in the crowd that had gathered on the
sidewalk outside the Perkinses’ shop to watch us applauded; some of them were
pointing at us and laughing; others just shook their heads and walked off. And
for a few minutes, I didn’t care about any of them. Bill was my hero, and the last
thing I was going to do was disappoint him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Next time, Mike, we’ll teach you the bunny hop. Only
in all honesty, Mike, I gotta tell you. You may have blue eyes, but Frank
Sinatra you’re not. Better stick to dancing and let someone else do the
singing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">******<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Did you remember to ask about cleaning the pads on
the braces?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My father and I were back in the car headed toward
home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“He said to use some mild dish soap in lots of hot
water and make sure to dry it thoroughly.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What did Mrs. Perkins mean when she said that next
time you had to save a dance for her?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“We were just fooling around. That man who was in the
shop. He was teaching me how to dance.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I hope you weren’t bothering him, Michael.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, Daddy. We were just talking.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“About what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“He was telling me about his two sons. One of them
plays first base for Little Flower. He’s going to play against David, and Bill
said that David throws a mean fast ball.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Bill?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“The man.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You shouldn’t call adults by their first names,
Michael. It’s disrespectful.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But I don’t know his last name. Mr. and Mrs. Perkins
just called him Bill.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You could have asked, Michael.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry. I’ll ask next time.” Although
I was sure that if I had, Bill would have told me to call him Bill. I bet his
sons’ friends called him Bill. “He was in the war, like you. That’s how he lost
his leg. And his two best buddies got blown to bits. There wasn’t enough of
them left for the sharks.” The hungry sharks had caught my imagination. “And
his leg is all red and bumpy where it was cut off.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael! I hope you weren’t asking him questions.
That’s not a subject people like to talk about. You mustn’t bring subjects like
that up. Especially with strangers. And how do you know what his leg looks
like? Michael, your mother and I have told you before how rude it is to be
curious. There are some things one doesn’t talk about. You’re old enough to
know better.” My father was becoming angry. He pulled the car over to the side
of the road and turned it off. I was about to receive one of his lectures.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I didn’t ask him. I didn’t. He told me. And I’ve seen
worse injuries—in the hospital, there were people without any arms or legs.
Bill was just talking to me about how hard it is for parents to deal with<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“With what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Nothing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, I asked you a question. What is hard for
parents to deal with?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I stared out the window at a field where a bunch of
cows were grazing. My father prided himself on his ability to know where he was
at all times, and he often took back roads because they were “shorter than the
highway.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, I am waiting for an answer.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I watched the cows. “That man whose last name I don’t
know said it was difficult for parents to deal with crippled children because
they couldn’t help them.” I didn’t look at my father. I could feel his eyes on
me, though. We sat there for a while. Finally my father looked away and started
the car. He drove for ten minutes before he spoke again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m going to talk with your mother. We will have to
find another place to take you to get your braces adjusted. Those people
obviously do not know what is appropriate behavior around a child. There must
be some place in Ann Arbor we can go to.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">8<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, your father and I were talking. He’s found a
place in Ann Arbor that can service your braces and wheelchair. It’s closer,
and the roads to Ann Arbor are better than those to Pontiac. You won’t get
jarred so much.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But I like Mr. and Mrs. Perkins, Mom. They’re nice.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I know, sweetie. But I’m sure you’ll like the people
in the new shop. Your father says they’re very professional. And he can take
you when he goes to work. It will be much more convenient for everyone.” My
mother was dusting the bookshelves and pointedly devoting much more attention
to that task than to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s because of what happened, isn’t it? He’s
punishing me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,
Michael. And I don’t like your tone of voice. And you are not to slam your
books like that. Your father is just thinking about your comfort. He thought
the long ride made you very tired, and he’s trying to make it easier on you.
You ought to be grateful to him for thinking of your welfare.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“He didn’t give the Perkinses a chance. He didn’t stay
in the shop or talk to them. He wouldn’t even come in when I was finished. He
waited in the car, and Mrs. Perkins brought me out. She had to wheel herself
out because he didn’t want to be in their shop.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, that’s enough. I don’t know what happened in
Pontiac. I don’t want to know. All I know is that your father was upset, and
he’s decided that you’re going to go to this place in Ann Arbor from now on.
And I don’t want to hear another word on this subject.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s not fair. Why is he so mean to me? Just because
I had fun at the Perkinses’? Because they understand what it’s like to be
crippled, and he doesn’t?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, you are not crippled. I refuse to let you
use that word. You’re getting stronger every day, and soon you’re going to be
back to normal. You just have to keep working at your exercises.” My mother had
abandoned all pretense of dusting. She stood with her back to me, her right arm
resting on a shelf and bent at the elbow so that her hand covered her eyes.
“And your father loves you. It just causes him so much pain to see you like
this.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“He doesn’t love me. I embarrass him, and he doesn’t
want to be seen with me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Oh, Michael, it’s not that. It’s never been that.
It’s just that<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>” My mother left the
dust cloth on the shelf and came over and sat beside me at my desk. She put a
hand over my wrist and squeezed it. “Your father had a very hard war, Michael.
He saw some awful things, and he still has nightmares about them. Then after
his back was injured, he had to spend months in that hospital in Toledo while
they did the bone and skin grafts. It was a horrible place, Michael. So many of
the soldiers were so badly injured. Much worse than your father. You’ve no
idea. It took all my bravery to visit him there. Some days I got sick to my
stomach on the train down to Toledo. That’s why he didn’t like to visit you
when you were in the hospital, and that’s why he’s having a hard time dealing
with you. It just brings back a lot of memories that he has trouble dealing
with.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Plus he feels that he should have been able to
prevent you from getting sick. He thinks he should have seen the symptoms
earlier and taken you to the doctor the night before when you complained about
being stiff and tired. You know he read every article he could find on the
transmission of polio, trying to figure out how you got infected. I think he
was worried that he might have brought something home from his lab that gave
you the virus. Sweetie, it’s just very painful for him to deal with you now.
You’re going to have to give him some time to make his peace with it. Well,
you’re going to have to give us all time.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You’re much braver than he is, Mommy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, Michael, that’s crazy. It’s not as simple as
that. It’s never as simple as that. You just do what you have to do, and pray
that you have the strength to do it. But we have to keep thinking good thoughts,
positive thoughts. That’s why we can’t use words like ‘crippled.’ We have to
focus on getting better. If we think of ourselves as healthy and normal, then
we’re going to be healthy and normal. Promise me you’ll do that, Michael.
Promise me. You’ve got to have the right attitude.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I promise, Mommy. I’ll have the right attitude. In
fact, I should start my exercises now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“That’s my good boy. I’m going to go make lunch for
us. When you’ve finished, let me know and we can eat.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">9.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Nora, Michael’s finished that plate of cookies. I
know he can eat more.” Grandmother Scotthorn had kept an eye on my consumption
of the cookies she had brought. I had barely slipped the last one off the plate
before she spoke to my mother.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“He’ll spoil his supper if he eats any more, Mother.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“He’s a growing boy, Nora. At that age your brother
could eat a dozen cookies and then sit down an hour later and eat as if he
hadn’t been fed for a week. Not that my children ever lacked for food on the
table. Besides I baked those just for Michael. I know he loves my sugar
cookies. Isn’t that right, Michael?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Negotiating the shoals of the relationship between my
mother and her mother, especially in the matter of our consumption of their
cooking, was a hazard that David, Alice, and I had long faced. It required the
skills of a diplomat. “Just one more, Mommy. I’ll do my exercises before
dinner, and that way I’ll be hungry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My grandmother beamed. “There, Nora, one more won’t
spoil his appetite. Emily, make yourself useful. Nora has enough to do.” My
grandmother handed my Aunt Emily the cookie plate and nodded toward the dining
room table, where a large red tin filled with sugar cookies sat.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My Aunt Emily put her cup of coffee down and leaped to
her feet. “No, no, sit, Nora, don’t get up. I’m happy to help. It’s no trouble.
I’m on my feet all day long anyway.” My mother in fact had not made a move to
stand up, but Aunt Emily seldom missed an opportunity to remind others of her
ceaseless labors on their behalf. “Nora, while I’m up, I think I should cover
that pie I brought. I think I heard a fly buzzing about. Is your cake cover
still in the second cabinet? That will work.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Emily, there are no flies in this house. You’re
hearing things. And I made a cake today. Please leave it covered.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Aunt Emily opened the cabinet as if my mother hadn’t
spoken. “Oh, I see you already made a dessert for your supper tonight. Did you
use one of those new cake mixes? I think you’re wise to use them.” Aunt Emily
put the slightest of stresses on the word “you’re.” “Even with all my
experience baking cakes, every now and then, one of them just doesn’t rise as
high as I like. Of course, they’re still good, but they’re just not as light as
I want them to be. I’m told that these new mixes are foolproof, but I just
don’t trust what comes out of a box. I hope you don’t mind that I brought a
pie, Nora. I know how your family likes my pies. Luckily your cake will keep.
But you should serve the pie tonight. The crust won’t be as flaky if you wait
to eat it.” Aunt Emily had all but guaranteed that her pie would not appear on
our table until her famously flaky crust was sodden. “Oh here, this will do.
This will keep the flies away.” Aunt Emily appeared in the doorway and briefly
brandished the lid to the turkey roaster. She reappeared shortly with the
cookie plate, which now held a stack of a dozen or more of my grandmother’s
sugar cookies.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Just one, Michael.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Aunt Emily spoke at the same time as my mother. “These
are so good, Mother. I’ve always said that you make the best sugar cookies.”
Aunt Emily put the plate on the end table beside me and helped herself to a
cookie as she sat down. She patted her lips with her napkin as she held the
cookie up so that we could all see that she had taken a bite out of it. She and
my grandmother smiled at each other. They bickered with each other frequently,
but they often presented a united front against my mother.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I nodded and took the one cookie I was allowed. I sat
it on the plate my mother had provided each of us. I was quite proud of that
solution. I had taken a cookie (one point to grandmother), but I wasn’t eating
it and spoiling my dinner (one point to mother). In the most “grown-up” voice I
could manage, I turned toward my grandmother. “Is your arthritis better now,
Grandmother, now that the weather is warmer?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">All three women stared at me. My grandmother with
delight, and my mother and aunt aghast that I had broached the subject. “Why,
thank you for asking, Michael. It is better. Not that I would ever complain. No
one knows what I suffer. I’ve never been one to complain. But there were days
this winter when the cold and the damp got to me. But I never let it interfere
with my work. Not like some I could mention.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The last was a reference to my Uncle Robert’s wife,
who employed a cleaning woman once a week and whose migraines often rendered
her unable to cook or do housework. If there was one subject that united the
three of them, it was “that woman from San Francisco your Uncle Robert married
when he was in the Navy.” They all agreed on her shortcomings.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But I shoulder on. Your mother tells me that you’re
being very good and doing all your exercises. As soon as I heard that, I knew
where you got that trait. Everyone in my family has always been a hard worker.
I said to myself, ‘That’s the Wainwright blood coming out in him.’ You get that
from your great-grandfather. He was thrown from a horse and broke his leg. It
never healed right, but he never let that stop him. You’re like your
Great-Grandfather Wainwright and me. We don’t let anything defeat us.” The
subject occupied my grandmother for the next five minutes. My mother and Aunt
Emily and myself nodded at the appropriate places.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">When she finally wound down, I turned to Aunt Emily.
“And how is Jordan? Does he like Dartmouth?” Jordan was my cousin and Aunt
Emily and Uncle Ralph’s only child. He was then in his freshman year at
college.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“My goodness, Michael, you are becoming such the young
gentleman. You are too kind to ask. Jordan absolutely loves Dartmouth. He is
doing so well there. We had a letter from him yesterday. I’ve got it in my
handbag. I brought it so that your mother could read it. I shouldn’t boast
about my child, but all his professors think so highly of him. They say he’s
the brightest student they’ve seen in many years.” Aunt Emily reached into her
purse and pulled out Jordan’s letter. “But since you’re interested, I’ll read
it to everyone. Your Grandmother’s already read it, of course, but I’m sure
she’ll forgive a mother’s pride if I read it out loud.” Aunt Emily put her glasses
on and pulled the letter from the envelope. “ ‘Dear Mother and Father,’ ”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Aunt Emily read the letter in its entirety. Apparently
all of Jordan’s teachers did think highly of him, except for one, but he was
widely acknowledged at Dartmouth to be long past the age when he should have
retired, if not senile. Unfortunately no matter how hard Jordan tried to please
him, this man remained unimpressed with my cousin’s talents. Aunt Emily paused
in her reading long enough to inveigh against the evils of the tenure system
(“although it must be a comfort to you, Nora, to know that Connor [my father]
can’t be fired, no matter what he does”).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">When Aunt Emily finished reading, she folded the
letter and returned it to the envelope. She briefly pressed it to her heart and
then put it back in her purse.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“More coffee, Mother? Emily?” My mother held up the
coffee pot.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No thank you, Nora. Mother, I think we should be
going. I have to get Ralph’s dinner ready. He’s so fond of my cooking that he
wants it on the table when he gets home from work. And Nora probably has to
start dinner for her family soon.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I was hoping to see Alice and David.” My grandmother
made no more to join Aunt Emily and my mother in standing up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Alice has library club after school today, Mother,
and David has baseball practice. His team’s in the semifinals this weekend. I
know we won’t be able to persuade you to sit through a game, Emily, but it will
mean a lot to David, Mother, if you would be there.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My grandmother made a noncommittal response. My mother
helped her to her feet. I was wrapped in her embrace for several seconds. I
thanked her politely for the cookies. As my mother walked my grandmother to the
front door, my aunt leaned over and spoke quietly. “We’re so glad that you’re
back home, Michael. Your mother was so worried about you when you were in the
hospital. She looks much better and happier now that you’re here. I know it
must seem that the two of us argue a lot, but we are sisters and we want each
other to be happy. Now I won’t hug you, because your mother says that hurts you
still, but I’m hugging you mentally. You’re such a good boy. I know your
grandmother can be difficult sometimes, and you’re not interested in hearing
women talk, but you behaved very well today.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Thank you for the pie, Aunt Emily. I’m looking
forward to having a piece with dinner.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Aunt Emily exploded in a most un–Aunt Emilish hoot of
laughter. “And everyone thinks that David’s the charmer in your family. The two
of you are a right pair. But you mustn’t mock your grandmother. She means well.
And that’s the way young ladies were taught to talk in her generation.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">10<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Was Grandmother Scotthorn here? I see the red cookie
tin.” Alice stood in the doorway to the library holding a stack of books. She
was looking intently past me out the window.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mmm. She and Aunt Emily were here earlier. Aunt Emily
brought a pie. Mother put it away after they left.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Alice looked over her shoulder toward the kitchen
where my mother was preparing dinner and then turned back to me. She spoke
softly. “Did Mother lose her temper again?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Aunt Emily said there was a fly in the house. And
Mother, well she didn’t shout this time, but she wasn’t happy. They’re a lot
alike, aren’t they?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Who? Mother and Aunt Emily?” The rest of us used the
pronunciation common in the Midwest in the 1950s and said “ant” for “aunt.”
Alice had recently begun saying “aahnt” instead.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No. I meant Grandma and Aunt Emily. Aunt Emily will
be just like Grandma in a few years. How was Library Club?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It was OK. Helen Thompson is graduating this year,
and everyone seems to think I’ll make a good replacement as club secretary.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Of course you would, Alice.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Don’t say things like that, Michael. You can’t know
anything about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But you would, Alice, you would make a good secretary
or president.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“If the members want me to serve, of course I will be
happy to be an officer of the club. But I’m not going to seek office. That’s so
common—putting yourself forward and running for office. Here, I brought you
some more books. Another Dickens, a collection of Mark Twain’s stories, and I
thought you should start reading poetry, so I brought an anthology of English
poetry. An ‘anthology’ is a collection. You should learn that word.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What’s the matter?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Nothing. What makes you think something is the
matter?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You’re frowning.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m not frowning. It’s just discouraging sometimes.
Helen was talking about her plans after graduation. She was accepted at
Marshall College and now she doesn’t know if she wants to go. She’s not the
smartest person in school, but she does well enough when she applies herself,
and she likes to read. She could get through college and make something of
herself—be a grade school teacher or something like that. But now she’s
wondering if she shouldn’t just get a job until she gets married. Her parents
don’t know yet, but she secretly engaged. She’s waiting until after graduation
to tell them. She’s even got a ring. She doesn’t wear it on her finger, but she
keeps it on a chain around her neck. It’s not a real engagement ring. Her
boyfriend can’t afford that. But it’s a sign they’re committed to each other.
She won’t tell anyone the boy’s name, but we all know who it is. And really,
Michael, he’s so ordinary. She could do much better. Some people just don’t try
hard enough. They give up. And then Sylvia Merton asked me if I thought David
would accept an invitation from her to attend the end-of-the-year tea and dance
at school. We’re supposed to be discussing the library and how to raise money
for the book fund, and as soon as Miss Jessop leaves the room, all they do is
discuss boys and dates and marriage. And why would anyone want a date with
David?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But that’s all everyone talks about in those books
you read. Like that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Withering Heights </i>you
were talking about yesterday. Catherine and Cliff. And Elizabeth and Darcy get
married.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“That’s different, Michael. That’s literature. And
it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wuthering Heights</i>. And it’s
Heathcliff, not Cliff. If you don’t know what you’re talking about, you should
keep quiet.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes, Alice. But why shouldn’t David have a date?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s my school. I don’t want David there. He has his
own school. Let him stay there. Besides, he doesn’t even own a proper suit
anymore. Mother told him she wasn’t buying another suit for him until he
stopped growing. And he can’t tie a tie. He’s just unsuitable. I told Sylvia he
had a baseball game that day.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“How do you know that?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“He always has a baseball game or a practice.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But you lied. You don’t know if he has a game or
not.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It wasn’t a real lie, Michael. You’ll understand when
you get older. And you have to promise me not to tell anyone.” Alice had
dropped her voice to a whisper. “Besides, David wouldn’t go out with Sylvia.
I’m just saving her the embarrassment of being turned down. Sometimes the
kinder thing to do is to prevent unpleasant things from happening. And it would
be embarrassing for me to have to face Sylvia after David had turned her down.
Sometimes one has to manage things in everyone’s best interests. So really the
best way to save everyone trouble is to say that David has a game. More likely
than not, he does. And if he doesn’t have a game, he probably has something
else.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Maybe he’ll be working that night.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Working? Why would David be working? He doesn’t have
a job.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes, he does. He got a job as a life guard at the
pool at the country club.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Do Mom and Dad know about this?” Alice scowled at me.
It was not welcome news.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Um-huh. They had to sign some papers for him. That’s
where he is now. He’s at the country club turning them in.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mother!!” Alice flew out of my room. “Michael says
David has a job. At the country club!” Alice had recovered her voice. My mother
murmured something from the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But it’s so unfair. David gets to use the swimming
pool at the country club, and I can’t.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I heard my mother mention the words “job,” “working,”
“sixteen years old,” and “earning money,” “taking some responsibility.” This
was followed more clearly by “Mrs. Henderson is looking for someone to watch
her children during the summer and supervise their play. The Hendersons belong
to the country club, and I’m sure that part of the job will involve taking the
children to their swimming lessons. She asked if you might be interested, and I
said I would ask.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Babysitting? Mother, I couldn’t babysit.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I don’t know why not, Alice. Millions of girls your
age do. You are surely as capable as they. And Mrs. Henderson said she would
pay twenty dollars a week.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But they’re such awful children.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No worse than you and your brothers were at that age.
It will be good preparation for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Preparation for what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Someday, Alice, you will have children of your own.
Trying to boss David around and supervising Michael’s studies isn’t all there
is to raising children. Taking care of the Henderson children will be good
practice for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I am not going to get married and I’m not going to
have children. I’m going to be a teacher. At a university. Like Daddy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“We don’t always get what we want, Alice. It’s fine to
have grand plans, but you need to be practical as well. And twenty dollars a week
for a girl your age is good money. You need to start saving money to have when
you’re in college. And there will be twelve weeks of vacation during the
summer. That’s almost $250.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But surely I can’t work in August.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Why not?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“That’s when we go to Georgian Bay. To Grandfather and
Grandmother Feneron’s place on the lake.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“We won’t be going this year. Your grandparents are
coming here for a visit this year.” My mother’s voice faltered. “Lion’s Head
Cove is too rocky for Michael to get about. And it’s too far from a hospital if
we need one. We’d have to go to Owen Sound if there were an emergency, and it
takes two hours to get there. Besides, your brother will be working all summer,
and you know that we couldn’t leave him alone in the house.” My mother’s appeal
to Alice’s disdain of my brother didn’t work. Alice didn’t bother to answer.
She turned and ran up the back stairs to her room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">11<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Michael, there’s a letter for you.” My mother stood
in the doorway holding an envelope. “It’s from a Mrs. Kinross. She says that
you and her son John were good friends in the hospital. I’m sorry, Michael, but
I’m afraid it’s not good news.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Is he dead?” I looked up from my schoolwork.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother looked startled for an instant before
assuming the expressionless mask she habitually wore in the presence of bad
news. I suppose she was taken aback by the matter-of-fact way in which I spoke.
She nodded and sat the envelope on the corner of my desk. “Why don’t you read
it and then we can talk about it, if you want?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, it’s ok. He wasn’t very well. He had trouble
breathing. He was in and out of the iron lung several times. And he couldn’t
walk.” I picked the envelope up and aligned it squarely on the desk. In the
past few weeks, I had begun controlling my world carefully. It was ordered,
square, proper. My dislike of the accidental and unexpected was growing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Were you good friends? I don’t recall him. Which one
was he?” I recognized the start of one of my mother’s attempts to engage me in
conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I shrugged. “You never met him. He wasn’t in the beds
near me. When he was on the ward, he was kept near the nurses’ station, because
he had to be watched. Some days when he was feeling stronger, they put him a
wheelchair and took him to the games room. He liked to play checkers. When he
was in the iron lung, we would move his pieces for him. What does his mother
say?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I didn’t read your letter, Michael. Mrs. Kinross put
in a note to me saying that she was writing to all of her son’s friends to let
them know. He died ten days ago. The funeral was last week. I’ll buy you a
sympathy card that you can send. You’ll have to write a note to go with it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But I don’t know what to say.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It isn’t so much what you say that’s important as the
fact that you take the time to say something. Just say you’re sorry to hear
that her son died, that you’ll pray for him, and then remember something about
him, something personal like the checkers games. Oh, that poor boy’s parents.”
My mother pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it against her
lips. Her eyes began to water, and she swallowed convulsively several times.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“His father was dead. He was killed in the war. He was
born after his father died. It was just his mother and him.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Then he was all she had.” My mother sat down on my
bed and covered her eyes. “The poor woman.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s OK, Mommy. He was in a lot of pain, and he
wasn’t ever going to be able to walk again.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">‘It’s not OK, Michael, it’s never OK to lose a child.
You can’t know what it’s like to lose a child. Those first few days you were in
the hospital, I—all of us—were so worried. I don’t know how I would have gone
on if you had died.” My mother was crying openly now, something she rarely did.
At least something she rarely allowed the rest of us to see.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“But I didn’t die. I’m still here. So there’s no
reason for you to worry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">On the wards, we learned to gauge who would make it
and who would die. There were some who were mobile within a couple of weeks. If
the nerves in their legs had been affected at all, they usually took delight in
swinging around on their crutches. They seldom had to be fitted with permanent
braces and wore supports only for a few weeks. They usually left within a month
or so, never to return. There were others like myself whose arm or leg nerves
had been moderately damaged during the active stage of the disease. Our
recoveries took longer, but once the fever and the infection had ended, it
became clear that we would not die.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">And then there were those like John Kinross, for whom
every breath was a struggle, whose limbs froze in awkward shapes, their heels
drawn up and their feet distended like those of ballet dancers standing on the
tips of their toes. Their hands and fingers curled and bent into impossible
angles. Their muscles unresponsive. Lives of pain and agony. Some unable to
control their bladders or bowels. Occasionally one would improve enough to be
taken from the iron lungs and allowed to sit up for a while. They were always
carefully watched, if not by the nurses, then by the rest of us. They were everyone’s
joint responsibility. All of us soon learned to distinguish a labored but
successful breath from the panicky flailing and purpling face that signaled the
inability to pull air into the lungs. A dozen voices would immediately start
yelling for a nurse to come, and the temporarily freed prisoner would be rushed
backed into the iron lung.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The worst patients were kept on Ward 8. There was
always someone ready to report that he had been awakened late at night by the
sound of a gurney being slowly pushed down the central aisle of our ward, the
orderlies trying to move it noiselessly so that no one saw the shrouded figure,
its face covered by a sheet. Even though the aisle between the two rows of beds
was an unlikely route for the “death cart,” as one of the boys on the ward
christened it, our imaginations were caught by the image. Even now, after fifty
years, I still half believe that I personally witnessed dead children being
wheeled past our beds late at night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">We joked that no one left Ward 8 alive. That ward was
our bogeyman. Any of us would have taken the announcement that he was being
moved to Ward 8 as a sign of impending death. Occasionally, someone would be
wheeled away to be examined privately by one of the doctors and not be brought
back. Later a team of nurses would descend on the bed and strip it. One of them
would open the small cabinet beside the bed that each of us had and remove the
few personal belongings we were allowed to have and pack them in a box to take
away. None of us asked them what had happened. Everyone studiously ignored the
nurses. We forced all our attention on the book we were reading or the game we
were playing. But we were never for a moment unaware that someone had been
transferred to Ward 8.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother’s tears and anguish made me relive my worst
moments in the hospital, when the fear had been strong that I would die. In my
imagination, I saw myself lying on the death cart, sightless eyes open, not
registering the alternation of light and shadow as the cart was wheeled down
the hallway and passed under the regularly spaced lights on the ceiling. For a
moment, I was close to tears myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">But then I reminded myself that I had to be strong. I
couldn’t allow myself to be weak. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t doubt that I was
going to walk again, to be whole again. I had to fight. I had not just to
survive but to be victorious. I had to be the good child and repay my parents
for all the trouble and suffering I had caused everyone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“If you’ll buy me a card, I’ll write a letter to Mrs.
Kinross, Mommy.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother wiped her eyes and quietly blew her nose,
mollified by my attempt to behave properly. “I’ll get it tomorrow when I go
shopping. You can write the letter on a separate sheet of paper to put inside
the card. Why don’t you write it out on your tablet? I’ll check it for you and
then you can copy it onto a sheet of good stationery.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I turned the pages in my notebook to an unused sheet.
As I had been trained, I wrote the day of the week in the upper right corner.
On the next line, I began “Dear Mrs. —.” “How do you spell Kinross?” I knew how
to spell it, but I sensed that it would please my mother to do me a service. I
carefully wrote out the name as she spelled it out letter by letter. “I’ll
write how much I liked him and about the checkers.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother nodded and smiled at me. “That’s very good,
Michael. I’m glad to see how grown up you’re becoming.” She patted me on the
head and then left.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I suspect that by that point in my life, I had seen
more illness and death than my mother, certainly more than David and Alice. My
father had been injured in combat in Italy in World War II. He had seen more
death than I. In retrospect, I know he probably saw far worse injuries and
deaths than I did. However, I had long outstripped the others. I had heard silence.
And I had learned the value of sound. Any sound will serve for the great white
noise, even a whisper.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Dear Mrs. Kinross,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I was so sorry to hear of your loss. John was<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I could already bandy those clichés with ease.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">12<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">As the weather warmed, I took to sitting outside,
either on the swing on our front porch or on an old bench under the trees at
the bottom of the back yard. I liked being able to leave my room and the
hospital bed and my exercise bars. They were becoming increasingly burdensome
reminders that I was not progressing as fast as I had hoped. The bench was my
favorite place because it was partially hidden in the shrubberies. I knew that
my mother could see enough of me to know that I was there but not so much that
I felt under her surveillance. I quickly became aware that, even so, my mother
looked out the window several times an hour to check on me. The slightest sign
of overcast brought her out with a jacket or sweater for me. The possibility of
rain was enough for her to wheel me back inside. Sometimes I was allowed to sit
on the porch swing when the weather was bad, but not for long. I liked sitting
outside on rainy days. It was as though I were isolated in my own private
space, kept safe from intrusion by the rain. Sometimes it felt that the worst
punishment that polio had inflicted on me was the loss of privacy. I was never
allowed to be alone or unwatched.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">David joined me outside after school the day after I
learned that John Kinross had died. Earlier I had been doing some schoolwork, and
my books and papers covered one end of the bench. David stacked them into a
pile and sat down beside me. I was reading one of the novels that Alice brought
me. He reached over and grasped the top of the book and tilted it up so that he
could read the title. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">David Copperfield</i>.
I see Alice is still trying to educate you. She’s worried that if she doesn’t
guide you, you might turn into me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I like it. So far.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“School’s out in another four weeks and then you can
have my solid geometry book.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“How are you doing in math?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Better, thanks to you, champ. I’ll get an A in that
course.” David flashed me a sardonic grin. It was a joke between us that I was
helping him with his math. In reality, he was teaching it to me by pretending
not to understand.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">David reached out and pulled a leaf from one of the
bushes. He drew it between his fingers and examined it without looking at me.
“They’re worried about you, you know. I heard them last night when I was in
bed. They were sitting outside on the porch and talking.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mom and Dad?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Who else? You don’t think Alice is sitting up
worrying about you, do you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Why are they worried? I’m getting stronger every day.
I can do a lot more now that I could before.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s not that. They’re think you’re going crazy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m not going crazy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yeah, I could have told them that. You’re not going
crazy. You’ve always been crazy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Un-uhh. Not me. You’re the crazy one. Not me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">David half-turned to punch me playfully on the upper
arm, but he stopped in mid-motion, his fist just about to make contact. The
laughter that had been on his face faded, and he bit his lips. He opened his
fist and patted me on the shoulder with his palm. He turned away and stared
into the distance. “You can’t tell them I told you this. You have to swear.
They don’t know I can hear them talking when they sit on the porch and I have
my bedroom window open.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I nodded agreement. “What? What did they say?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“They think you’re too calm. They’re worried that
you’re not reacting enough. Mom said you’re so unemotional now. When she told
you that that friend of yours died, you were so cold. That you didn’t even cry.
You don’t laugh anymore. You don’t even really talk anymore. All you say is
polite things but that you never really talk to anyone. She said you had so
much to bear and that you were shutting everyone out and<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I can’t talk. And I won’t cry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Everybody can talk. I’ve heard you talk. You talk all
the time. I’ve even seen you cry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, I can’t let myself talk.” I pushed at him to make
him leave. If I could have run away, I would have. “Go away. Just go away. Just
leave me alone.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No. Not until you tell me why. Why can’t you talk?”
David must have sensed my desire to run because he moved close to me, draped
his near arm across my shoulders, and pressed my chest with his other hand. It
was an unusual act for that time. In the American Middle West in the 1950s,
men, even brothers, simply did not hug. Physical contact was limited to
handshakes and the occasional playful punch. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I shook my head no. “Let go of me. You’re hurting me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Then maybe you’ll talk.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, I can’t talk.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Tell me why. Why can’t you talk?” He shook me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Suddenly the misery of being the good patient became
too much. I started shouting, “Because no one would understand. Nobody can
understand what it’s like. I have to be strong. I have to make myself right
again. I have to. I can’t be weak. I can’t be a burden on everyone.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">David pressed my head against his chest and then
started rocking us back and forth and patting me on the shoulders and neck.
“Shhh, Michael. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right. We’re going to make
everything all right.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No. I’m never going to be all right again. I’m always
going to be a cripple. I’m never going to walk again. You can’t make everything
right. Nobody can.” I think I knew that that would set David to reassuring me
again. I wanted him to tell me again that I would be all right and that I
wasn’t alone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Stop talking like that. You’re going to get well
again. Listen to me. You are going to get well.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, I’m not. Why can’t you just face facts? I should
just go back to the hospital so I won’t be a burden on everyone. I’m just
making trouble for everyone here. For you and Alice and for Mom and Dad.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You can’t go back to the hospital. Who would I have
to talk to?” David let go of me and gave me a shy smile, as if he wanted to
ease the situation with humor but wasn’t sure how I would receive it. “You know
I can’t talk to Alice. Nobody can talk to Alice. And all Mom and Dad do is
shout at me and tell me that I’m doing everything wrong. You’re the only person
who listens to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You’ve got friends. They can listen to you.” I wasn’t
about to be placated and give up my grievances now that I had released them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yeah, but I’ve only got one brother. And he’s my best
bud.” He hugged me again. My head was buried in his chest, and I couldn’t see
his face, but he sounded like he was almost crying. “You are crazy. Mom and dad
are right. You are crazy. You’re not alone, you know. Just stop this talk about
leaving. That’s crazy. If you need to talk with someone, talk with me. I’ll
listen to you. I promise. But you gotta promise not to worry mom and dad. You
gotta try to be more cheerful around them. Otherwise they’re going to worry,
and they’ll start taking you to a shrink. And I like my crazy brother just the
way he is. Listen to me. You’re going to get well. So maybe you won’t walk as
well as before. Big deal. Just try to be happy again. That’s all. Just be happy
again.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">He released me and moved away from me. That exchange
had taken us into places neither of us found comfortable. By that point, both
of us were embarrassed by the conversation. We came from an environment in
which strong emotions were conveyed in small gestures and clipped words. We
didn’t like getting that close to expressing ourselves. Neither of us could
look at the other.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I changed the subject. “Why aren’t you at practice?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Coach had something to do after school. We practiced
at lunch. You’re coming to the game on Saturday?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m going to pitch a no-hitter.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Against St. Paul’s? Not a chance.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Wait and see. I’ll make you a bet. If I pitch a
no-hitter, you have to mow the lawn this summer.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’d do a better job than you do. Dad won’t complain
that I missed lots of spots.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“That’s never going to happen. Even if you did a
perfect job, he’d still find something to complain about. He doesn’t want to
admit one of us might do something right for once.” A bitter look roiled
David’s face. “Hey, don’t worry about it.” He patted me on the knee. “You’re
probably right. I won’t pitch a no-hitter, and I’ll end up mowing the lawn this
summer. Dad would like that better anyway. He’ll get to complain more that way.
If you did it, he would have to keep quiet.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Nah. He doesn’t like anything I do.” Suddenly we were
in competition over who suffered more from my father’s insistence on
perfection. “Anyway, you’re going to pitch a no-hitter.” I looked around. “This
is a big yard, isn’t it? How long do you think it will take me to mow all of
it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“We’ll do it together. It won’t take us long.” A puff
of wind lifted the lock of hair that fell over David’s forehead. He stretched
his legs out and leaned back against the bench with his fingers laced together
behind his neck and his elbows outspread, turning his face to the sun and
closing his eyes. “It’s nice out here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I leaned back too and put my hands behind my neck,
aping David. “Yeah, it’s nice out here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">13<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The baseball game that Saturday was for the divisional
Catholic League championship. St. Ignatius, my brother’s school, belonged to
the division consisting of high schools in the northern and western suburbs of
Detroit. The winner of the game would play the winner of the division for
Catholic schools in Detroit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">In the mid-1950s, these games attracted more attention
than they might now simply because far fewer people had access to professional
sports. Only a few baseball games were televised in those days. I’m not
certain, but I think that for most of the baseball season the only televised
broadcast was the “game of the week.” Also, at that time getting from towns
like Walled Lake to Briggs Stadium, then the home field of the Tigers, was
considered an undertaking, and that meant few people made the trip. Most of the
Tiger games were broadcast on the radio, of course, and sports writers in the
newspapers provided detailed accounts of games, but listening to an announcer’s
description or reconstructing a game from a written description required
imagination and enough familiarity with baseball that one could envision the
play. So a major game between two good high school teams afforded a relatively
rare opportunity to see live baseball. There was also a certain amount of
partisanship involved. Catholics were not then part of the mainstream, and
attending CL games was considered a way of supporting “our side.” All these
factors meant that the divisional CL championship was held in Pontiac at the
high school with the largest set of bleachers and attracted a crowd of nearly a
thousand people.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Our tickets were for seats several rows up in the
section reserved for supporters of St. Ignatius. The bleachers were too steep
for me to climb, however. After some discussion with one of the men managing
the event, my father positioned my wheelchair next to the end of the bleachers
and just behind the tall chain-link-fence that served as the backstop
surrounding home plate. That put me out of the way of everyone. I was off to
the left side of home plate and had a clear view of the infield through the
backstop. I was also seated next to a group of nuns, who volunteered to keep an
eye on me when they overheard my mother fussing about leaving me by myself.
That fact reassured my mother, who had been ready to have my father drive us
all home when she found out that I could not sit with them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">David had given me a pennant with his team’s name on
it. After my parents left, the nun closest to me asked, “You’re rooting for St.
Igs then?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I nodded and said, “My brother is their pitcher.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Poor boy. We will pray that God will help him to
accept defeat gracefully.” She grinned at me. “I’m Sister Ursula. We’re
teachers at St. Anne’s, by the way, and we hope you will behave yourself and
not embarrass yourself by cheering for a lost cause.” St. Anne’s was the girls’
school affiliated with St. Paul’s, the other side in that day’s game. I had
been abandoned to the mercies of the opposite team’s supporters.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“And I will pray for you, Sister Ursula.” That drew a
laugh from the row of nuns. A certain amount of cheek was tolerated in relation
to athletic competitions. The same remark from a student in a classroom would
have merited a ruler across an open palm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The nun seated next to Sister Ursula leaned forward.
“Did you have polio?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">When I nodded yes, she said, “Oh your poor parents.
It’s always such a hardship on the family. Still, God does not give us burdens
we are incapable of bearing. You must pray for the gift of His grace.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">That platitude received a collective nod from the nuns
and precipitated a series a questions. Where did I go to school? What parish
did we live in? What did my father do? How many brothers and sisters did I
have? Where was Alice going to school? Why was she not being sent to a Catholic
school? What did I think of the Tigers’ chances this year? Was Al Kaline enough
to lift the Tigers in the standings?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">It was professional sympathy, of course, but still it
was the first conversation I had had in weeks with someone outside my family.
It drove home to me how isolated I was becoming. My former friends hadn’t been
permitted to visit me when I was in the hospital. There had been a few visits
soon after I had returned home, but all those children had been brought by
their mothers, and those duty calls had gradually ceased. When, at the end of
these visits, my mother had urged my friends to return, their mothers had
inevitably remarked that the visits added to my mother’s work and that they
didn’t want to impose.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The conversation was brought to a halt by the start of
the game. By lot, St. Igs was chosen to bat at the top of the inning. My
brother was positioned late in the batting order, and St. Igs was retired in
the first inning before his turn came. The dugout for his team was on the same
side of the field as I was, and I wouldn’t have come within his line of vision
until he took the mound. Even then, I don’t think he saw me. My mother once
asked him if all the noise bothered him while he was playing, and he said that
he didn’t hear it. You had to focus on the game and the next pitch, and you
learned to ignore the crowd when you were on the field. You just couldn’t
permit yourself to be distracted by the noise.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Nor did he see me in the second inning when he walked
from the on-deck circle to batter’s box. I suppose that for him I was just a
part of the irrelevant background. Also, David is right-handed, which meant
that he had his back to me when he batted and I was out of his line of vision.
He got a single on the second pitch to him. That was his only hit of the game.
He didn’t pitch a no-hitter, but he was credited with the win. It was a good
game, close enough for the outcome to be in doubt until the last out, with some
exciting plays on both sides.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The players probably ranged from sixteen to eighteen
years old. Many of them were still growing into their bodies, and some arms and
legs were too long or too short for the torso to which they were attached. Each
team’s uniforms matched only in concept. Some had endured many more washings
and were faded and graying. Sudden growth spurts had made many of the uniforms
ill-fitting. Footwear was a matter of individual choice, but most players wore
black-and-white Keds. Batting helmets were not yet a requirement, and each
player wore a cloth cap. It was considered a matter of distinction to have an
old, run-down cap—it proved that one had been a member of the team for a longer
period of time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The teams’ demeanor also differed from that seen now.
Television hadn’t as yet exposed viewers to the habits of professional players,
and there was much less posturing or copying of role models. The priests who
ran those schools also demanded a certain decorum. All the players and the fans
wanted their team to win, but the other side was to be treated with respect.
Everyone applauded a particularly good play, although groans might interlace
the applause.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Once the game started, I was left to myself for the
most part. Occasionally when the teams switched sides or between innings, one
of the nuns might ask how I was doing or if I needed anything. My mother came
down to check on me during the seventh-inning stretch. But during the play,
everyone’s attention was focused on the game. But baseball is a slow game. The
slowness is part of the game, the rhythm each side tries to impose on the
other. There is plenty of time for thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">It was the first time in two years that I had seen my
brother interacting with people his own age. He moved with ease among them. At
the end of each inning, he was quickly surrounded by the other players on the
St. Igs team as they walked off the field. David was patted on the back
repeatedly—he was pitching well—and he and his teammates would be deep in
conversation about the game even before they left the field. They must have
been aware that they were being watched, but evidently it wasn’t “cool” to
acknowledge the spectators. Their smiles and their laughter and their chaffing were
only for the circle of themselves. The spectators could look but not touch. It
was the players’ game, and they weren’t sharing it with others. They must
remember that game as a golden moment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">That day I saw that David had a life apart from me and
my problems. I suppose I knew that but I had ignored it in my egoistical focus
on myself. Misery and its burdens can make your world very small. My feelings
toward David were so mixed that afternoon. Every time he struck someone out, I
shared his glory. I was so proud of him. But I was also jealous both of him for
being able to have the life he did and of his friends for being part of a life
I would never share. For me, David had been my greatest supporter, my one
friend, my brother, and seeing him with others made me wonder if he had been
acting, if his behavior toward me was simply his form of pity and charity. I
began to question his attachment to me. How could he make others as happy as he
made me, how could he share his smiles with others, if he truly loved me? Even
as I thought that, I knew those thoughts were petty and that my brother’s life
was larger than me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Most of my attention was devoted to David. Pitching
requires so many different motions of the body. The balance of the body shifts
from the back to the forward leg. The pitching arm rotates overhead from behind
the body forward and then across to the other side of the body after the ball
is released. The pitcher’s hand has to release the ball at a certain angle to
achieve the type of pitch desired. And the pitcher has to recover quickly
enough to be poised to field a hit if necessary. It is a sequence of motions
that has to be drilled into the body through training and practice and, to be
successful, has to be governed by sharp reflexes, a good eye, and no little
intelligence. David was good, not flawless, but good. He was never good enough
to pitch for a professional team or even for a major college team, but he was a
good high-school player. He had enough ability to make pitching look
effortless. He held St. Paul’s to eight hits and three runs during his time on
the mound.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">As I watched David play, I knew that I would never
achieve that particular grace. I might regain enough control over my body to
walk unassisted, but I would never be able to pitch a ball again. I was very
quiet during the last few innings. My eyes and part of mind still were on the
game, but my thoughts were elsewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Polio had imposed certain limits on me. That day I
realized that I had to learn to recognize and accept those limits and to live
within them. I didn’t have to like them, I didn’t have to be happy about them,
but I had to be realistic about what I could achieve and concentrate on that.
Everyone had limits. Mine were more physical than most people’s, but still
everyone had physical limits. All those people watching the game were sitting
in the stands because they, like me, weren’t capable of playing baseball as
well as the players on the field.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">There are many ways of excelling. David and Alice and
my parents, everyone I knew, excelled in different ways. I decided that I just
had to find my own way. That would be my form of grace. I wasn’t going to live
my life second-hand through others, and I wouldn’t allow them to live their
lives through me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I had received special treatment that day because I
was different. I was crippled, and for some I had become an object of charity.
For others, I was something to be avoided and shunned lest they be infected
too. Still others resented me as a reminder of what might happen to them. And,
as every handicapped person knows, sometimes one just isn’t seen. Being unseen
isn’t the worst treatment, however. Jokes and disdain and pity are the crueler
methods of quarantining and isolating the damaged and placing them in the
category of the safely other, the person we shall never be. The worse, however,
are the stares from the people who don’t see a person, who regard you as an
object. I decided I couldn’t do anything about how others regarded me. I
couldn’t stop them from pitying me or seeing me as a victim or avoiding me. But
I could stop seeing myself as a victim. I could stop avoiding myself. I could
stop feeling sorry for myself. And I would stop manipulating others through my
lack of emotion and engagement.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">This account makes it sound as if I suddenly grew up
that day. I didn’t. I was still a small boy, determined to be a good fighter
according to the code of conduct others had given me. The resolutions I made
that day were much more rudimentary than this account suggests. The systematic
version has taken me a lifetime to articulate. My resolutions were often
neglected, and my progress toward maturity often interrupted. But I like to
think that was the day I started on that path.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">14<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“15-2, 15-4, and a run of three for 7.” My mother and
I were playing cribbage. She loved to play cards. She was very good at it, and
she outshone everyone. Before I got sick, she had belonged to several bridge
groups. Now that I was better and no longer required constant care, she had
cautiously rejoined one of them and was spending her Wednesday afternoons
playing. My father had long before given up playing with her, and she had never
been able to interest David or Alice. Neither of them had any feeling for the
mathematical probabilities, and, when forced to play, both made ridiculous
choices and relied on luck. They saw no value in the types of skills good card
players need. David lacked guile, and Alice thought card playing was frivolous.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother had early on discovered that I shared her
interest in cards and had taught me to play cribbage. Both of us delighted in
the neat board with the little pegs that force one to consider the strategy
necessary to manipulate the path to the final hand so that you count out first,
the challenge of choosing the four cards that give you the greatest chance of
benefiting from the cut and of deciding which two cards will most help you when
the crib is yours and most damage your opponent when the crib is hers, the
psychological battle of laying down your cards in the count to maximize your
own score and minimize the other player’s, the wonderful balance between
playing it safe and taking a chance, even the rhythm of the totaling of the
point value of a hand. We played thousands of games together.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother was taking a break from her housework. The
two of us were alone in the house. My father was away in Northern Michigan
supervising a research project with several of his graduate students. David was
at the country club working as a swimming teacher for the beginners, and Alice
was babysitting. I had finished my physical exercises and had been reading
David’s solid geometry textbook and working on the problems. When my mother
asked if I wanted to play a round of cribbage, I inserted a page marker in the
book and placed my worksheets in a neat stack to one side.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“4.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“8 for a pair and two points.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I looked at backs of the three cards remaining in my
mother’s hand. I had another 4, but dare I risk that mother had the other one?
It was early in the game, and I decided to take a chance.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“12 for three of a kind and six points.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“16 for four of a kind and twelve points.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Rats.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Ha!” My mother beamed, happy to have enticed me into
playing the third 4.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“22.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Go.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">So my mother’s two remaining cards were face cards. I
was safe. “27 for a go and one point.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“10.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“15 for 2.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Oh, you’ve got a good hand, don’t you? It’s lucky I
counted those fours. 25 and one for last card.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“15-2, 15-4, 15-6, 15-8 and a double run for
twenty-four.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Four for the two pairs. And in the crib, a pair and a
run of three for five points. You’re going to skunk me if you keep getting
cards like that.” She folded her cards and added them to the pile of undealt
cards and handed me the deck to shuffle and deal. She pointed at the solid
geometry book. “How are you doing with that?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Good. It’s not at all difficult. It’s just the
mathematics of solid figures. It’s neat.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I remember that it was fun. We had a few weeks of it
at the end of second-year algebra.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I began dealing the cards. “Mom, have you bought
David’s textbooks for next year?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, not yet. It’s still three weeks until school
starts. I suppose we will have to get them soon.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Do you think you can buy me a copy of the trig and
calculus books? I’d like to get started on them.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“So soon? I wish David were as enthusiastic about
math. Let me look through your father’s books. He has a trunk full of old
textbooks in the attic. He never threw any of them away. I know he took trig
and calculus. If I can find them, you can use his. Trig and beginning calculus
can’t have changed that much. Oh, another lousy hand. And it’s your crib too.
What am I going to do with this mess?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I discounted my mother’s comments about her hand. She
was capable of bemoaning four 5’s to deceive her opponent. “If Daddy doesn’t
have the trig or calculus book, do you think I could use David’s calculus book
while he does trig? He says that the trig is the first semester. He won’t start
calculus until January, and I’ll be finished with it before then.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You need trig to do the calculus. If I can’t find
your father’s book, I’ll see about getting a copy from a used bookstore in Ann
Arbor. If push comes to shove, we’ll borrow the library’s copy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">It hadn’t occurred to me that my mother knew anything
about the subject. “Did you take trig and calculus?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother scowled at the cut when I turned over a
four. “No, it wasn’t considered suitable for young ladies when I was in high
school. I was the only girl in advanced algebra. When I wanted to sign up for
trig, I was put in a book-keeping class. Play a jack for 10.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“16. But that’s not fair. I bet you would have been
good at trig.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I think I would have been too. But I didn’t get the
chance. 26.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“30.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“31 for two.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“10. You could study it with me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“20.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“24 and one for last card.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I think it’s a bit too late for me. You need a young
mind to learn math. We’ll get you copies of the books, but you have to promise
me that you will do your regular schoolwork first. You can’t neglect your
lessons. 15-2, -4, -6, a pair for 8, and nibs makes 9.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Three 4’s for six points. And in the crib, 15-2,
15-4. I won’t. I’ll do my other lessons first.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I am never going to have children.” Alice’s entry was
heralded by the slamming of the screen door at the back entrance and a rush of
footsteps across the kitchen and dining room. She stood in the doorway to the
library. Her face was flushed and strands of her hair stuck out at odd angles.
“They are evil, just plain evil.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Why aren’t you at the Hendersons’?” My mother dropped
the cards on the table and stood up, prepared to do battle with Alice. I think
she had guessed why Alice was at home in the middle of the day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I quit. I am never going back. You can’t make me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I see. Well, that’s that then.” Alice and I looked at
each other in surprise. Calm acquiesnce was unexpected behavior from my mother.
“Your brother and I are playing cards. Since you have some free time, you can
check the washing on the line and take down and fold the dry things. The basket
is on the shelf by the back door.” My mother sat back down and began shuffling
the deck.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mother, I couldn’t<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I am not interested, Alice. You are old enough to
make your own decisions. The reasons may seem important to you, but you will
find that they are of little concern to anyone else. And you are right.
Children are sometimes difficult. But they are hardly the worst thing life will
throw at you. If you cannot handle the Henderson children, you cannot handle
them. As soon as Michael and I finish this game, I will call Mrs. Henderson and
apologize to her for thinking that you were mature enough to help her out.” My
mother pointed at the cribbage board. “You would do well to learn that we
cannot control the hand dealt us. It’s what we do with that hand that matters.
Now, you have work to do, and I need to concentrate on our game. Your brother
is beating me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother turned away from Alice and dealt the cards.
Alice stood in the doorway for a few seconds staring at my mother’s back and
then she crept soundlessly off. The screen door at the back of the house
creaked open and then closed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The cards in my hand made no sense to me. They refused
to form patterns.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s my crib, Michael,” my mother prompted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b> I’m
sorry, Mommy.” I pulled two cards at random from my hand and threw them into
the crib.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You haven’t beaten me yet. No need to apologize.” My
mother smiled at me. “Your go, I think.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Before we finished the game, Alice came back into the
house and called Mrs. Henderson. She apologized for running out and recommended
a girl who lived down the street from us as a replacement. When she finished,
she came and stood in the door to my room waiting for my mother to acknowledge
her. My mother seemingly paid no attention. She played her cards and counted
her points. The only response Alice got was “15-2, -4, -6<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b> .”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">15<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The room that functioned as my bedroom after I
returned home occupied one rear corner of our house in Walled Lake. Our house
was at the end of the street, on the outskirts of the town. Beyond our house, a
thicket of trees separated our lot from the fields of the farm on the other side.
The room was very dark at night. The streetlight at the end of the road was on
the opposite corner of the house, and its rays did not reach my bedroom. Nor,
in the mid-1950s, did the house contain the sorts of electronic devices that
now provide small green or red dots of light in almost every room. In contrast
to my current bedroom, in which every object is visible at night, I could see
very little even with dark-adapted eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I usually fell asleep by nine. That summer, with my
father away, my mother and Alice went to bed about the same time and read for
an hour or so before turning out the lights. On many nights David worked late
at the country club, earning extra money by serving as a waiter for dinners and
banquets or as an attendant at the swimming pool. It was often eleven or even
later before he returned. I grew used to half-waking up at the sounds of his
key in the front door lock and his footsteps as he crossed the small entry hall
and climbed the stairs. It was usually little more than the dim, comforting
thought “OK, David is home. We are all here.” And then I would return to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">One night, late in August, David instead walked into
the dining room and paused at the door of my room. It was very dark, and I
sensed rather than saw him at the door. “David?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Shhh. Don’t wake Mom up.” He crept across the room
toward my bed, trying both to be as quiet as possible and not to bump into any
furniture. When he reached the bed, he knelt down beside it and then felt for
my hand. When he found it, he wrapped both his hands around it and pulled it
toward himself. Still holding onto it, he laid his forehead on it. I felt
something wet on my hands and then realized that my brother was crying.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What’s the matter, David? Are you all right?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">His shoulders shook with his stifled sobs. “Stay pure,
Michael. Promise me that you’ll stay pure.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“David, what’s the matter?” I was becoming alarmed and
sat up in bed, pulling my hand away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Shh. Don’t say anything.” David stretched out an arm
and patted me on the chest. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I just wanted to make
sure that you were safe.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’m all right.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Good. Don’t tell anyone about this. I’m sorry I woke
you.” He stood up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Don’t go. Tell me what’s the matter.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I can’t. I’ve just done something very wrong. At
least everybody says it’s wrong.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What did you do?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Keep quiet. Don’t talk so loud or Mom will hear. I
can’t tell you. I can’t tell anybody. I can’t even confess it. I just wanted<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b> It’s just that you’re so innocent. I
just wanted to be with you for a while. After what I’ve done.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I stretched out my hand and found David’s body. Since
he was standing, I must have touched his leg. He grasped my hand again. I
pulled him toward me. “Sit.” The mattress sagged with his weight as he sat on
the bed beside me. “It’s OK.” I whispered. I curled my body closer to David,
bringing myself as near to him as I dared. His anguish was upsetting me, but I
couldn’t tell him that. I couldn’t admit to myself that my adored brother had a
problem. He was supposed to be my problem-solver, and I wanted him to hold me
and tell me that everything was all right, that nothing was wrong, at least
nothing that he couldn’t fix for the two of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“No, I won’t be OK again,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“David, what have you done?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I can’t tell you. I just broke one of their rules.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“What rule?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I can’t tell you. I don’t want you to know about such
things. It’s just that they have all these rules. They have everything figured
out. They’ve got your entire life planned for you. They never ask you if it’s
the life you want. It’s just go to school, study hard, go to college, study
hard. Get into graduate school, study hard. Get a good degree. Work hard and be
a success. Get married and have children. Earn lots of money. Make your
children into copies of yourself. They never think that someone might be
different. That I might want something different. Ugly words. They have ugly
words for what I am. It isn’t that I want to be what I am. I just am that way.
I don’t have a choice. I feel like I’m going to explode.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">David was crying again. I didn’t know what to say. I
understood that he was suffering, but I didn’t understand the cause. I was
years away from having the maturity to deal with his problem. So I did the only
thing I could. I pushed my head against his body and then hugged him. He sobbed
and then hugged me back, his body curling up around my head.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I shouldn’t be here. Go back to sleep.” David patted
me on the back and then released me. “I’m sorry. Don’t tell Mom about this.
Forget about this.” He stood up and left. A minute later, I heard his footsteps
on the stairs.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I did not go back to sleep for several hours. The next
morning David was ill at ease around me. At the breakfast table, when my mother
said, “You didn’t come in until very late last night,” David apologized. He
didn’t explain why, but he did glance at me, checking to see if I would say
anything. When I continued buttering my toast, he said only, “Some of the guys
got together and had a party for Gene. He’s leaving for college next week, and
that was his last night at work.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My mother looked at him carefully. “I hope you weren’t
drinking.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Just sodas, Mom. Mr. Carter was there, and he just
put out Cokes and 7-Up and chips. The special last night was roast beef, so he
had the chef make roast beef sandwiches for us. There were some leftover
desserts from dinner, but I didn’t have any. But I ate too much, and it made my
stomach queasy. There was lots of horseradish and mustard on the sandwiches,
and I think that upset my stomach. I sat out on the porch for a while till it
calmed down.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I knew that David wasn’t telling the whole truth.
There may have been a party, but that wasn’t what had upset him. And he hadn’t
been sitting on the porch with a stomach ache. He had been sitting on my bed
crying because he had broken some rule.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“That happens when you eat too much too late. Your
body’s not accustomed to it. Especially if you’re drinking colas. I find that
all that fizziness upsets my stomach. Beer does the same thing to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I looked from David to my mother and back again, all
the while eating a slice of toast and trying hard to look the picture of
innocence. Luckily my mother was focusing on David and not on me, or she might
have realized that another source of information was close at hand. I don’t
know if my mother knew that David was lying. If she did, she had decided, at
least on the surface, to accept his version of events. She probably thought
David had been drinking. The emphasis she put on “drinking colas” and her
mention of beer suggested that she found she found that part of his story
suspect.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The incident was never mentioned again. My mother
monitored David’s late-night returns from work a bit more closely. For the
remaining two weeks of the summer, I sometimes heard her call out to him as he
climbed the stairs at night. In the ensuing decades, David and I have never
spoken of the events of that night. For a time I was unsure whether it had
really happened or whether it was only a dream.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">With my knowledge of David’s subsequent life, I now
have several guesses about what may have happened that night. At the time, it
was one of the central mysteries of my childhood. From time to time, David
would say or do something a bit out of the ordinary, and I would find myself
wondering what rules he had broken and what made him different. As far as I
could see, he didn’t break any serious rules, at least none worth worrying
about, and he was no different from any other teenage boy at the time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">David’s reaching out to me had the effect of making me
feel even closer to him. He had come to me when he was troubled and had sought
comfort from me. That was very flattering. To my mind, he didn’t have anyone
else he could really trust. Not our parents, not Alice, just me. And we now had
a secret, a secret so big that we couldn’t even talk about among ourselves. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">16<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Do you have everything you need, Michael?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Yes, Mom. I’ll be all right. Don’t worry. You’d
better hurry. Aunt Emily will start honking her horn if you don’t go out soon.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“And we don’t want that, do we?” My mother kissed me
on the forehead, brushing a lock of my hair out of the way, and patted me on
the head. My mother smelled gently of the face powder she wore on special
occasions. It came in a shiny dark blue box with silver lettering. I can’t
remember the name, just that the smell signified that my mother was dressed up
and going out. She and Aunt Emily and Grandmother were attending a wedding
shower for the daughter of a friend. For once, I would be left alone in the
house for several hours. My father was at the university, and Alice and David
were in school. I figured I had the house to myself for at least four hours.
And I had a plan.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Through an open window in the dining room, I heard
Aunt Emily asking my mother, “Nora, did you remember to bring a cake knife? You
know that Mary won’t have one. She never has anything you need.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Before Mother could answer, my grandmother began
issuing instructions. “Nora, put that gift in the trunk with the other things,
but you had better hold the cake on your lap.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Mother, I don’t want to open the trunk again. It
would take me ten minutes to rearrange everything to make room for that box.
Nora can put her gift on the back seat.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It’s all right, Mother. I’ll just move this sack out
of the way and put the box on the floor behind the front seat. There’s room for
the sack and the box. I’ll put the cake on the seat and watch it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Now, Nora,<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>”
Both Aunt Emily and Grandmother spoke at the same time, giving contradictory
orders. My mother attempted to placate both of them and ended up pleasing
neither of them. Finally, everything was stowed away, although not without a
final warning from Grandmother. “Nora, you know how Emily drives. I will not be
responsible for any damage that occurs to that cake if you leave it sitting on
the back seat. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And don’t hmpff at me, Emily. You
know you never stop until the last possible moment and then you stomp on the
brake and toss everyone and everything forward. One of these days you are going
to wait too long, and I will bang my forehead against the windshield.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Aunt Emily’s car made a grating noise as she shifted
into reverse. I watched as she backed down the drive and out into the street
and then drove off. I gave them fifteen minutes to get far enough away that a
return would be thought unreasonable no matter what might have been forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">It was a luxury for me to sit in such a quiet place.
The hospital ward had been filled with noise at all hours. Even during the
depths of the night, there had been nurses coming and going and whimpering and
cries from my fellow patients. Since my return home, I had seldom been left
alone in the house for more than a few minutes. Now the house felt hollow and
empty. The slight breeze coming through the open windows barely stirred the
curtains. The sounds of the town seemed far off. Our street dead-ended just
past our house, and we seldom had traffic on weekdays except in the morning and
after work.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">When I was sure that I was safe from interruptions, I
closed my book and pulled my crutches over. I got to my feet and walked to the
door of the library. I was getting much better at maneuvering myself around. I
could move almost as fast with my crutches as someone walking slowly. I peeked
around the doorway to make sure that I was truly alone in the house. I stood
there listening to make sure that it all hadn’t been a trick and my family was
lying in ambush. I had considered both stairways and decided on the front
stairs, even though my bedroom was at the back of the house. The landing at the
top of back stairs was right outside my bedroom door, but that staircase rose
steeply upward in one continuous flight. The front stairway had two landings,
one only three steps up from the first floor and another seven steps up. The
second floor was another dozen steps up. There was a sturdy banister along one
side all the way up, and the final flight of stairs had a railing on the inside
wall. I figured I could hang on to the railing with one hand and hold my
crutches in the other. If worse came to worst and I couldn’t walk up the
stairs, I had worked it out that I could sit down and ease my butt up the
stairs, dragging my legs and crutches behind me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The front parlor was tricky since it was crowded with
furniture now that my father’s desk occupied one wall of the room, but I
managed to hold my crutches in front of me and hop through the narrow opening
between the piano and a large easy chair. That left only the front hallway. I
looked out the window just to make sure that my mother wasn’t lurking outside.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The front staircase was made of oak. It was a grand
edifice. My mother kept it highly polished, and the wood gleamed. The first
three steps took one up to a landing inside the tower attached to one corner of
our Victorian house. There were benches and windows all along the outside walls
of the tower. My mother had plants growing in all the windows, and Alice’s
parakeet was kept in a cage there. It chirped at me as I carefully took the
first three steps. It was harder to lift my right leg than I had anticipated. I
had been practicing trying to raise it directly up, but the best I could manage
was to lift the left leg to the next step and then swing my right leg up while
hanging on to the banister to steady myself until I was standing on both legs.
My crutches got in the way of moving my right leg. I hit upon the tactic of
bracing them between the railing and the second step up and then moving them up
one step before I moved myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I was already tiring by the time I made to the second
landing. I stopped and rested on the bench beside the window there. My mother’s
battered Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls slumped against the wall in one corner of
the bench. They must have been close to forty years old at that point. Ann’s
red-checkered gingham dress had long since faded into a light pink, and, no
matter how often my mother straightened Andy into a sitting position, he always
ended up prone. They had always sat on either corner of the bench, at least as
long as I could remember.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I measured my strength against the next flight of stairs
and decided that Plan B was the wiser course of action. I sat on the first step
and began backing myself up by lifting myself from stair to stair. It was
difficult to do this and to hold on to my crutches. I thought about abandoning
them, but decided I would really need them when I made it to the top. Crawling
along the floor would be an admission of defeat. I had to play by the rules and
make it to my bedroom by legitimate means. It was part of my plan to show my
parents that I could leave the library and the first floor and restore at least
some measure of normality to our household. I reasoned that with more practice,
I would build my leg muscles up enough that I could walk all the way up the
stairs and not have to resort to the butt-sliding technique. But for today, it
would be enough to make it all the way up and back.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">It took about ten minutes to get myself and my
crutches up the final flight of stairs. I felt elated when I made it and stood
up. If I had been capable of a victory dance, I would have done one. It was the
first time in nearly two years that I had been upstairs. Nothing seemed to have
changed. The balcony leading to the playroom in the upper story of the tower
still contained the familiar wooden trunk that had accompanied my great-great-grandparents
from Ireland. We had inherited it along with the oft-repeated statement,
“Imagine, everything the two of them owned was in that trunk, and he ended up
owning thousands of acres of forest and several paper mills.” What appeared to
be the same coleus and African violet plants occupied every window in the
playroom.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I paused in the doorway to each bedroom and took in
their reassuring normality. David’s bedroom was at the top of the front stairs.
It contained its usual muddle of books and sports equipment. Alice’s bedroom
was the first door on the left. Her room was neater than David’s, the books
shelved in tidy rows, the cover on her bed pulled tight over the sheets and
pillows. Like my bedroom and the second-floor bathroom, my parents’ room opened
on to the back landing at the other end of the upstairs hallway. My mother’s
prized antique candlewick bedspread lay evenly on the bed, the row of small
balls along its bottom edges a uniform distance from the floor on all sides.
Before she had left, my mother had opened all the windows on the second floor.
She had taken advantage of the warm autumn day to air the house out one final
time before the storm windows were put on in preparation for winter. The dry
powdery smell of the first of the autumn leaves came through the screens.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">All the doors were open except for the one to my
bedroom. I braced myself on my crutches and opened it. The room was quite dark.
The shades were down, and the curtains were pulled over the windows. I felt
along the wall for the light switch. The room looked unused. It had none of the
clutter of a lived-in room, not even the slight mess that our mother permitted
us. It was too tidy, and in comparison to the breeze circulating through the
rest of the upstairs, the air smelled stale. An unfamiliar spread lay atop my
bed. I lifted one corner and discovered that there were no sheets or blankets
on the bed, just the pillows and the bare mattress. The top of the dresser held
one of my grandmother’s crocheted doilies and a small vase, neither of which
had been in the room the last time I had seen it. I eased a drawer open and
discovered that instead of my clothes, the dresser now held linens. The closet
held an assortment of boxes as high as the rod for the hangers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Another new object was the easy chair in one corner
beside the bookcase. A reading light stood behind it on the right side. I
recognized my mother’s handiwork in that. Light was supposed to come over your
right shoulder, she insisted. I sat in the chair and looked around. Instead of
my toys and my few treasures, the bookcase held an assortment of books and
journals. I pulled one out and saw that it was devoted to biology. My father
was using the room to read in. A book lay on the small table to the left of the
chair, with a small piece of paper marking the spot where he had stopped
reading.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">A small frame atop the bookcase held a picture of me
taken several years before. I was seated outside at a picnic table. There were
platters piled high with ears of corn and chicken pieces in front of me. I was
laughing at the camera, my head tilted back beneath a straw hat that my
grandfather had bought me on one of our trips to their summer house on Georgian
Bay. It was too large for me and fit low on my head, propped up on my ears. I
remembered the summer he had bought me the hat but couldn’t recall the occasion
when the picture had been taken. It would have been during a summer three or
four years earlier. I recognized myself but felt no kinship to the child in the
picture. It was a boy someone else wanted to remember, some story line other
than the one I found myself in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">But other than that picture, there was nothing of me
left in the room. I understood why my discussions of my plans to return to my
bedroom had been met with variations on “We’ll see. First you have to get your
strength back.” I sat there for perhaps half an hour, trying not to feel
overwhelmed by my discovery. Someone else had lived in that room, not me.
Something had been taken from me, without my permission. There was no going
back now. My family had moved on and adapted. I would have to learn to do that
too. I was not going to be “normal” again. I wanted to accept that and to find
reasons for it. But I couldn’t. The most I could achieve was to realize that I
was different now and that I couldn’t allow what wasn’t going to happen to
determine my life. I couldn’t afford emotions and regrets. I had to go on, and
if that meant being hard, well, then I would be hard. I turned out the light
and closed the door. I sat down at the top of the back staircase and slowly
went down them step by step. It was easier going down the stairs than coming up
them had been. I was back at my desk in my room long before my mother returned.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-90295086580075461792023-03-13T12:48:00.002+00:002023-09-02T00:00:48.414+01:00A Day When Cupid Did Not Care<p> 2010<span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Joanna Fletcher<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘. . . and this by that I prove, /
Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.’ Joanna Fletcher closed the book
with a sigh. Now she would have to find another reading project to occupy her mid-day
break. Along with a plastic cup of yogurt and a piece of fruit, the Sonnets had
been part of her daily diet for the past twenty-two-plus weeks. Today,
Thursday, June 3, she had fulfilled her New Year’s resolution to read and
reread one sonnet each day until she had parsed all the meaning and savoured it
fully. ‘All the variations and complexities of love’ proclaimed the blurb on
the back of the book. She turned the volume over and traced a line with a
fingernail under the title. So much in so little, she thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">She had completed her self-assigned
task while sitting on a park bench. She pushed aside the debris in her purse and
wedged the book between her appointments diary and the magazine she had brought
to read on the bus and then turned to the scene before her. A sudden upwelling
of joy made her realise that the sight made her feel happy and fuller of being.
If I were a poet, she thought, how would I describe this beautiful early June
day? One of those days that Nature fashions a few times each year to remind us
of the wonders of the world, a day when the air glows more luminously, a day when
the clouds are harbingers not of rain but of halcyon skies, a day when the
grass is greener on this side of the fence. Truly a day to ‘live light in the
spring’.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Before her on the lawn leading down
to the pond were a hundred other workers from the surrounding office buildings who
had chosen to spend their break enjoying the sun. Some chattered in groups
formed into rough circles. Others sat by themselves reading or sunbathing or
just looking about. A few couples were displaying their passion for each other.
Here and there one member of a pair clearly hoped that the other member would
consent to demonstrate similar degrees of passion.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘If I were Venus,’ mused Joanna, her
thoughts still on the last sonnet, ‘whom would I choose as targets of Cupid’s arrows
this day?’ Some had already been hit by the little love-god’s arrows. Those she
could ignore. Just as obviously others did not need Cupid’s help. It should be a
challenge, thought Joanna. She needed to find two people who would suit each
other but who on their own would never think of the other as a potential
partner.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The problem intrigued her. Even
excluding those who did not need Cupid’s aid, there were still dozens of
possible pairs. What about the young woman in the pale green blouse reading the
newspaper and the older man seated to her right who from time to time oh so casually
glanced in her direction? The man was probably married, thought Joanna. He
looked the type who would be married. No, today, Venus would not stoop to
countenance adultery. Other pairings presented similar objections. The power to
connect two individuals was tempting, but the responsibility was too great. Cupid
might as well shoot the arrows at random, Joanna concluded as she stood up to
leave. Those two young men sitting at opposite ends of the pond were as good a
choice as any. The odds of making a wise choice were as likely as the two of
them ever meeting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Nathaniel Bowman<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Nathaniel Bowman leaned back, with
his forearms on the ground behind him propping his torso up at an angle. He stretched
his legs out in front of himself and crossed them at the ankle. The ground was
cool and damp, in contrast to the warmth of the sun on his face and chest. Behind
his dark glasses he surveyed the crowd, his eyes briefly lingering on other
young men who caught his attention. He felt safe behind the glasses. Those whom
he was cruising would not realise that something about them had caused him to
pause and consider them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">There were three worthy of more
attention, he decided. The best was the one sitting fifty feet away, near the
other end of the pond. He had drawn his legs up by bending them at the knee and
was resting his forearms on them, with his hands clasped lightly together. The
sleeves of his shirt were pushed above the elbow. His wrists and forearms were
thick, muscular. His thighs stretched the fabric of his trousers. Even though
he was sitting, it was clear that the rest of him was well built. Like
Nathaniel, he was wearing dark glasses, but he was gazing at the pond,
seemingly lost in thought and oblivious to the crowd surrounding him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Good, thought Nathaniel, the deep,
brooding type. Passion beneath a calm exterior—those still waters the proverb says
run so deep. That’s what he needed, a summer romance, perhaps continuing into
the fall or, with luck, into the winter. Who knows, he might even be Mr Right,
the ever elusive MR. Now how to meet him? Oh, he’s looking this way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Right stood up and brushed off
his trousers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Nathaniel leaps up and hurries to
catch him. ‘Pardon me, are these your glasses?’ MR turns around and sees the
ever-helpful and charmingly cute Nathaniel returning his property. But will MR
leave anything behind for me to return? Unlikely of him to be so obliging,
thought Nathaniel.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">What if we work in the same
building? At 1:30, both of us make our way back. Ever courteous, I hold the
door open for the people behind me. And there he is, smiling at me and trying
to remember where he has seen this devastatingly handsome lad before.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Beautiful day,’ say I with a smile
meant just for him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Isn’t it though,’ says he. ‘I’ve
been sitting in the park by the pond. I wish I didn’t have to go back to work.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I was there too.’ And then both of
us wonder how we managed to miss seeing each other. ‘My name’s Nathaniel.’ No, ‘My
name’s Nathaniel Bowman.’ Better to give my full name. That shows sincerity and
seriousness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">We shake hands. His grasp is dry and
warm and confident and smooth and strong and gentle—Is he holding on for just a
tad longer than necessary?—and promising. ‘I’m<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>’ What would be a good name for Mister Right?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I’m Misha Wright,’ he says with a
wry grin, simultaneously exhibiting mortification at having an unusual first
name and explaining the source of those high Slavic cheekbones and those pale
northern frost-blue eyes. MR is half-English, half-Russian. His mother was a
ballerina with a touring company from St Petersburg who fell in love with a handsome Englishman and abandoned her career for love. MR’s passion comes from
his mother, his devastatingly masculine looks from his father.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">We stop before the lift doors. The
crowd pushes us closer together. Our bodies brush. Has MR felt the same electric
shock that I have? Our eyes lock. We know. Fate. Kismet. At the very least, a
date.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The lift arrives. I push the button
for the fifth floor, he for the ninth. We rise in silence, standing next to
each other but not touching, more aware of each other’s body than we would be
if our flesh were pressed tightly together. The bell chimes just before we
arrive at my floor. I look over at him and shrug with dry irony. Passing ships,
alas.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Meet after work for a drink?’ MR
stammers and blushes slightly. His shyness is endearing in one so attractive. The
lift doors part at the fifth floor. The other passengers stir restlessly,
waiting for me to get off.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Sure,’ say I nonchalantly as I step
out and turn around to face him. ‘5:45 at the front entrance?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Great,’ says the Adonis of the ninth
floor, craning his neck to maintain eye contact as the doors close. ‘See you
then,’ I hear him calling from overhead as the lift continues its ascent. I get
no work done at all this afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">We meet for drinks. MR is everything
I’ve ever hoped for. I am everything he’s ever hoped for. We skip dinner and
proceed directly to bed and slowly make love and drive each other mad. When I
spill some champagne on my chest as we lie in bed, he pulls a petal from the
single red rose I left on his night table and then gathers up the droplets and
eats the petal.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">In the morning when I awake, I am
lying face down, with my cheek pillowed on one of MR’s well-rounded and firm
pecs. His arms are around me, and with the fingers of one hand he is lazily
tracing the channel down the centre of my back, engraving each vertebra with the
gentle hardness of his fingertips and wondering if I am the one. A light
covering of hair covers his chest. No—a thin rivulet of soft dark hair runs
between his pecs and down his abdomen. My legs are stretched out an angle
across the bed. The window beside the bed is open. It has just finished
raining—a light rain—and the air smells fresh and clean. The rest of the day
will be bright and warm. The curtains are made of that gauzy white material,
and they stir in the wind. The lower edge of the curtain brushes the backs of my
calves. It is slightly damp from the rain. I raise my head, and we stare into
each other’s eyes. We say nothing. Nothing need be said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">As if that’s going to happen,
thought Nathaniel. He’s probably straight anyway. The good ones always are.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Nicholas Hilliard<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Nicholas Hilliard was staring at the
pond but he wasn’t seeing it. Nor was he more than dimly aware of all the other
people around him. The shadow of a passer-by might flit momentarily over his
body but not across his consciousness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Three nights ago, on Monday, May 31—a
day he would never forget—David had told him that he wasn’t ready for a
commitment. They had been seeing each other for nine months by that point. It
must have been on his to-do list for the Spring Bank holiday. Tell Nicholas
that you’re not ready to settle down, let’s just be friends, fuck buds, see
each other occasionally, nothing serious, no strings attached. David had even
waited until the bank holiday was almost over before ending their relationship—he
hadn’t had to find another date to fill the three-day weekend.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Nicholas had thought David was the
one. They had met in this very spot. One of those fleeting, warm days in
September when everyone came to the park one last time before the cold rains
began. The park had been crowded that day, especially by the pond, but Nicholas
had found a place to sit close to it. There had been a few early autumn leaves
floating on the water, just drifting in the breeze. He had been watching them,
almost mesmerised by the sight, and hadn’t even noticed when someone sat beside
him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘What a beautiful day.’ That’s how
David had drawn his attention away from the pond and toward himself. Nicholas
turned toward the speaker who had interrupted his contemplation of the end of
summer. And David had smiled at him. That’s all it had taken. One smile. A
smile with the promise of eternal summer in it, or so Nicholas had thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Why was it so difficult to meet
someone serious? Someone who wanted a life together. Sometimes he felt like the
only gay in the village, even if the village in question was London. The only
gay guy in London who wanted a serious relationship. Surely there had to be
someone else who wanted what he wanted—a lifetime together.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">He raised his head and looked around
as if expecting to find someone with a sign around his neck advertising
‘Wanted—serious relationship’. It was so much like the day he had met David.
Crowds of people enjoying the weather. Chatting with friends. Reading.
Sunbathing. Looking around. All but a few people wearing dark glasses. A few
solitary lads. Like that one over there at the other end of the pond. What if I
were to walk over to him, sit down beside him, and say ‘What a beautiful day’?
Could I manage a smile that promised eternal summer? More likely eternal
misery.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The other man appeared to be looking
his way. It was hard to tell where his eyes were behind those sunglasses. Better
stop staring at him, thought Nicholas, he might take offence. I have to snap
out of this. Next I’ll be attempting to pick up complete strangers with a line
that worked on me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Nicholas stood up and brushed
himself off. Time to get back to work.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Pour changer en amour notre
amourette, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="google-src-text"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast;">Il
s'en serait pas fallu de beaucoup,</span></span><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="google-src-text"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast;">Mais,
ce jour là, Vénus états distraite,</span></span><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="google-src-text"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast;">Il
est des jours où Cupidon s'en fout.</span></span><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="google-src-text"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast;">Il
est des jours où Cupidon s'en fout.</span></span><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">To have changed our flirtation to
love<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Would not have taken much.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">But that day Venus was distracted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">There are days when Cupid does not
care.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">There are days when Cupid does not
care.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">— Georges Brassens, 'Cupidon s'en fout,' 1976<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-3297067889312101332023-03-12T17:22:00.006+00:002023-03-12T17:22:30.438+00:00The Corpse in the Back Seat<p> 2009</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Excuse me, excuse
me, please.’ The young waitress had to shout over the din of conversations in
the café to make herself heard. ‘There is a white Toyota with a dent in its
body in the back car park.’ She read from a piece of paper in her hand. ‘Number
plate 94-DL-542. The lights are on.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Like the other customers,
I stopped eating for a moment and looked up as the waitress made her
announcement. Near the door a man jumped up, hastily swiped at his mouth with a
napkin, and dashed outside.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh, dear, that’s
not yours, is it?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, Auntie, we
bought the car last year. It has an 09 number. And the lights turn off
automatically.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘When she said there
was a dead body in the back seat, I thought that Colin was causing trouble
again.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘None of the Colins
I know would leave a corpse in my car. In any case, it wasn’t a dead body. The
car has a dent in its body, and it’s back of the café. That’s what she was
saying.’ I raised my voice as loud as I dared in the restaurant. Aunt Mary is
growing deaf.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She regarded me uncertainly.
I suppose she could tell from my face that I had shouted and was attempting to
tell her something, but I don’t think she understood my explanation of the
announcement. Sometimes when she gets a wrong notion, it is hard to dislodge it
from her mind. ‘Perhaps I am thinking of someone else. My memory isn’t as good
as it used to be. I’m certain it was Colin who put the dead body in the back
seat of our car.’ She took a large bite of her burger and chewed thoughtfully.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Aunt Mary’s lapses
of memory are becoming more frequent of late, but her appetite remains strong. I
try to take her to lunch at least once a month. She does enjoy getting out.
Unfortunately she favours a café alongside the N56 just north of Letterkenny. I
have tried to suggest other places, ones with better food, but she always
insists on this café. She knows the owners’ mother—they attend the same church—and
for her that is reason enough to patronise it. The café is large and
boisterous, and I think that is part of its appeal for her. She likes watching
the people in the restaurant and the traffic passing outside the windows.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">There are always
families with young children, and that makes her happy. The progress from the
door to the table is always brought to a halt when she stops beside some
harried mother attempting to placate a fractious child and asks how old the
‘darlin’ is. No matter what number the startled woman says, my aunt invariably
replies, ‘Oh, that is a good age. Well, enjoy her while she is young. She’ll
soon grow up and become a teenager. She’ll break your heart then.’ My aunt then
walks on, leaving behind a mother seriously contemplating abandonment of the
beast before it reaches an even more obnoxious stage.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Most of the
waitresses are older women who have worked at the café for years. They know my
aunt and fuss over her, and she also likes that. She always orders the same
meal. A large burger with chips. She eats everything on the plate, but her
progress is slow. I usually finish as much as I care to eat about half an hour
before she does. She also takes full advantage of the opportunity of being with
someone to talk, and that further slows her consumption of food. I like to
think that I am a favourite nephew and that my presence cheers her. I know from
experience that patience is a necessity—that and a stiff drink waiting for me
at home as a reward for a good deed performed in good spirit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Perhaps Colin was
a friend of your father’s. You look so much like Frank that I sometimes confuse
the two of you.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It could well be,
Auntie. And was he in the habit of putting corpses in the back seats of cars?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Well, Patrick
wasn’t a corpse when they left our place. Patrick Noonan, that was his name. I
remember it now. He lived in Port-an-Iolair.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Patrick?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, Colin. Patrick
lived in<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b> He lived somewhere else. You’re
interrupting me so much that I’m forgetting my thoughts. I had the whole story
a moment ago.’ She glowered at me and stabbed a chip with her fork. She held it
up and examined it thoughtfully for a few seconds and then bit off about a
third of it. She chewed slowly while looking out the window.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I waited for a few
seconds to see if she would recover her train of thought. Sometimes she does. I
was about to start a fresh topic when she resumed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘He pounded on our
door after midnight. He was making a terrible racket. The countryside was much
quieter back then, and it sounded much louder than it would now. The noise woke
all of us up. Norah and I slept in the front bedroom and I wanted to look out
the window. Norah told me not to. She was that frightened. Hissing at me, as if
whoever was outside would be able to hear us if she spoke in a normal voice.
“Mary Kathryn, get away from that window. You’ll get us all killed.” You would
have thought the devil himself would come flying in the window if I peeked out.
She tried to crawl under the bed, but that’s where we kept the cases with our
winter clothes and there wasn’t room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I stood at the
side and just pulled the curtain back enough so I could see out. There was a
cart and a horse in the road. The horse was snorting and shaking her head. She
didn’t want to be out at night. I couldn’t see the man making all the noise
because he was still at the door. But there was another man lying on the cart.
He was stretched out, and there was a cloth wrapped around part of his head.
Then Da came in and pulled me away from the window and made me and Norah go
into his and Mam’s bedroom, because it was at the back of the house.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Mam was in bed,
with the bed clothes pulled up to her chin. She made us get in bed with her.
She didn’t want Da to open the door. She kept saying, “Michael Gallagher,
you’re not to open that door. I’ll not have that lot in my house.” But then Colin
started shouting, and Frank recognised his voice. I don’t know how he knew him.
Mam and Da weren’t at all happy about Frank knowing this man and him knocking
on our door in the middle of the night, and the both of them went after Frank,
“What have you gotten into now? You’ll bring the troubles on us.” They were that
mad at him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Frank paid them no
attention. He never did when they scolded him. He went downstairs and opened
the door. And there was lots of whispering at the door. Then Frank came back
upstairs and said there had been an accident and Colin wanted him to take the
man on the cart to a doctor in Letterkenny. The other man had been injured in a
boating accident. We had the only car in the village then. Colin wasn’t the
first to ask us to drive someone to a doctor.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Aunt Mary paused to
chew slowly on a bite of her burger. She was the youngest of the three siblings
in my father’s family. She was six years younger than Norah and eight years
younger than my father. When my father spoke of his sisters, Mary was always
the ‘pretty’ one and Norah the ‘clever’ one. Mary’s reputation in the family
and the village was that she was ‘slow’. In truth, she was simply average, but
that counted for slow in a family with my father and the brilliant Norah. Both
my father and my Aunt Norah were eloquent. Mary was born into a household of
talkers, and at an early age, she apparently chose not to add to the babble
around herself. For that she was called ‘slow’. To judge from the pictures, she
was pretty, but so was Norah. ‘Pretty’ was simply a polite label for what the
family regarded as Mary’s only saving grace.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Aunt Mary is 89
now. Unlike Norah, she married only once and was, as far as any outsider can
ever tell of someone else’s marriage, content in her life with Uncle Michael.
She had three children, one of whom died of polio when he was eight. My two
cousins left Ireland as soon as they were adults, but they visit once each year.
Unlike my father and Norah, Aunt Mary never ventured far. Her marital home was
only a few miles from my grandparents’ house. She seemed not to care about
that. She was interested in our life in Dublin, and she spoke with great
knowledge of Norah’s far-flung travels. But never with envy or regret. She had
the same interest in her neighbours. If others led more exciting lives, she was
prepared to share their joys without begrudging them their happiness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">My childhood memory
of her is of a dowdy woman flinging open the door to her house when we drove up
and rushing out to greet my parents and me. There was always a moment when she
would enfold me in her warm arms and make some remark about how I had grown. Then
she would usher us into her kitchen, and pour cups of strong black tea and set plates
of cakes and teabreads and biscuits on the table. She liked to feed people, and
she was, unusually for that area in those days, a good and adventuresome cook.
If my mother protested feebly that we had just eaten or were on our way to our
grandmother’s to eat, Mary would override any objection. Food was a sacred part
of hospitality.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It’s strange what
one remembers. Of Norah’s rare visits, I can remember in detail the stories she
told of her life, the people she had met, the parties she had gone to. Our
house was in constant motion when that whirlwind visited. Norah demanded
attention and homage, and she got it, of course. She was entertaining and vivacious,
but one went to bed exhausted from the animation of her living.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Aunt Mary, on the
other hand, would sit at her deal table, the wood worn smooth and silver with
years of scrubbing with a pumice bar, her elbows on the table, a dish of tea
held in both hands just beneath her chin, smiling at us impishly as she told a
story about her neighbours. I can’t remember any of the stories, just that she
told them with great good humour and delight. She always enquired about my
progress in school and my parents’ activities, and I think she may have derived
more satisfaction and pride from our accomplishments than any of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">You listened to
Norah. Aunt Mary listened to you. That was the main difference between them.
Norah was exciting, even Aunt Mary’s children felt that, but Aunt Mary had the
heart. She was the one who relieved the pain. She knew more about that than
Norah or my father. I didn’t appreciate her when I was younger. She was the
boring aunt we had to visit when we stopped in the village and Norah was the
exciting world traveller. But when I grew up and came to understand the value
of ‘manners of the heart’, I learned to treasure Aunt Mary.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Perhaps she had
dreams. If she did, she never spoke of them. She might talk of her hopes for
her children and for me, but I would say that her hopes for herself, if there
were any, had been put away with other childish things when she decided to
cease speaking as a child. I wonder if anyone ever asked her about her dreams
or thought that she might want to lead a life other than the one lived by
everyone else in the village for generations.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She still lives in
the house that she and Uncle Michael occupied for nearly sixty years. After my
uncle died, my cousins arranged for a neighbour to check on her several times a
week. A district health nurse stops by once a month. Aunt Mary is related to
half the village, and she, like everyone her age, is watched. Not obtrusively—that
would create an obligation. In the small world of that village, one never
imposes charity on the neighbours. Help is often offered, but the automatic
response is always ‘No, thank you for offering, but I’m fine’. If help is truly
needed, one simply acts without asking or fussing. If my aunt’s lights are not
on at the usual hour of the morning, a neighbour will knock on the door. If my
aunt comes to the door, the neighbour will offer a prepared excuse—she just wants
to chat for a moment, or she dropped by to see if my aunt will keep her company
on a drive to the shops later in the day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">On the inevitable
day when my aunt doesn’t answer the door, other neighbours will quickly be
consulted. Someone will call the priest and the Garda. But before they arrive,
one of the older women will enter the house alone first to make sure that Aunt
Mary is ‘decent’ and that even in death, especially in death, her dignity is
preserved.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She was in hospital
two winters back with the flu. The doctors were worried about pneumonia. She
recovered but since then there has been a gradual deterioration. She walks very
slowly now. A few years ago the cane was mostly for decoration, part of the
costume of the old. Now she leans on it heavily and does not take the next step
until her feet and the cane are firmly planted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Each time I take
her to the café, she dresses with care. For her, a visit to a restaurant, no
matter how ordinary it may seem to others, is an event, and events demand adherence
to certain standards. She wears a hat, not a headscarf, and a long black cloth
coat. The wellies or trainers she uses when venturing out on the village streets
are replaced by sturdy leather shoes. The loose trousers with an elastic
waistband and the blouse and the fleece with a zipper in the front that are now
her daily clothes are replaced by a wool skirt and a twinset. Although on the
day of this story, the two parts were not twins. The jumper was light grey, and
the cardigan was beige.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I had never heard the
story she had begun telling. That fact alone made me wonder if it had happened.
My father and everyone else in his family cherished the stories of their lives.
They retold them endlessly. By the time I was a teenager, I had heard them all.
I would hear them countless times again. The Norah that I knew would have been
the one at the window peeking out and would have rushed down the stairs with my
father to share in the excitement of a night visitor. Certainly she would not
have attempted to hide under a bed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Of late, Aunt
Mary’s stories feature herself in a leading role, one she seldom played in
life. I suspect the story of Colin and Patrick happened to someone else, or
perhaps it was something she saw in a television drama. She isn’t lying. She
does seem to think that the events she relates really happened to her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She turned her gaze
away from the road and back to me. ‘I don’t remember what happened next. That
happens more and more. I’m forgetting everything. Soon I won’t be able to
remember who I am.’ She looked so forlorn and alone at that moment. ‘That
frightens me so much.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I pushed my plate
to the side and reached over and took her hand. It was colder and dryer than I
expected, and the flesh had grown loose on the bones. ‘I heard Da tell that
story more than once. He and Grandfather helped Colin move Patrick from the
cart into the car. It was hard because they had to lay him out as flat as
possible but the seat wasn’t long enough. And they had to be careful not to
hurt him. Your mother finally left her bed, and she was upset because Patrick
was bleeding. She made them put a pile of cloths under his head so that he
wouldn’t bleed all over the seat of the car. And then you went and got a
blanket to put over Patrick to keep him warm. You wanted to go along, but of
course they wouldn’t let you go. It wouldn’t have done for a young girl to
accompany the men.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I watched her
carefully as I spoke to see if the story I was crafting sparked any engagement.
She eyed me warily at first, unable to match what I was saying against her
memories or her imagination. But when I brought her into the story, she sat up
straighter. When I paused in my narrative, she broke in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, they wouldn’t
let me go. I wanted to, but they said I was too young.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You were what?
Eight? Ten?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Twelve. I was old
enough to go, but in those days they watched us so carefully. We weren’t
supposed to know anything. Mam was always so frightened Norah and I would turn
out to be wild. That was the worst they could imagine for girls in those days.
That you would turn out wild and do something shameful. Of course, Norah did
become wild when she went to London. But that was later.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It was too bad
about Patrick. If I remember correctly, he was a young man.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Not that young. In
his thirties. He had a wife and child. Well, more fool him then running about
with a smuggler like Colin.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Colin was a
smuggler? Da never mentioned that.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh, in those days,
Port-an-Iolair was all smugglers. I don’t suppose your father wanted you to
know that he used to associate with criminals. There were so many small fishing
boats there before the harbour silted up. It wasn’t quiet like today. It was
very busy, and there was a place to salt fish and an icehouse. They used to
send fish to Derry on the train every day. But everyone knew that the fishing
was only a front. They all went out at night and brought in arms and men. And
that’s what Patrick was. He was being smuggled back into the country. Sometimes
the Gardai would try to stop one of the boats and there would be a fight. I
think that’s what happened that night. Patrick was shot. Did I say that?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I knew he had been
shot. Da did mention that part of the story.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I suppose that’s
why he died on the way to hospital. You know that long flat stretch just before
Moncrees?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Well, in those
days there weren’t many people living in that area. Not like now with that
housing estate. And they didn’t have the electricity yet, of course. So it was
very dark. And Frank didn’t put the lamps on because he didn’t want to attract
any attention. There were plenty of people ready to report anything suspicious.
And there weren’t that many people who had cars. Someone would have come round in
a day or two asking questions about what they were doing out at that time of
night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘The moon provided
enough light for him to see the road. When they came over the hill, they could
see lights far ahead coming toward them. So Frank pulled off the road and stopped
behind an old shed. Frank and Colin got out of the car and watched between the
boards of the shed. When the car got closer, they could see that it was the
Garda. They waited until it was gone. When they went back to the car, they
discovered that Patrick had died while they were waiting. So they put him in
the shed and made it looked as if he had walked there by himself and stopped
there to rest and then died.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You must have been
very worried waiting for Da to return.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘None of us could
sleep. We sat up the rest of the night. Of course, we didn’t dare light the
lanterns. So we waited there in the dark, Mam holding on to me as if she
thought I would chase after the car. Da wanted to go out and check, but Mam
wouldn’t let him leave us alone. Frank and Colin didn’t come back until the
morning. Mam was so worried by that point that she didn’t say anything to them.
She was so glad to have them back, even that Colin. She made him sit and have
some tea and breakfast.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I suppose the car
was a mess.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes. Mam made Da
drive it around the back, and then sent Norah and me out with pails of water
and brushes to clean the back seat. Most of the blood was on the cloths she had
made them put under Patrick’s head, and she burned those, but we scrubbed the
back seat for an hour and still couldn’t get all the blood out. The water
turned red, and it stained my hands. I never could sit in the back after that.
We couldn’t get it completely clean, and there was a dark spot. I knew it was
that man’s blood, and I couldn’t bear to sit on it. But even in the front seat,
it felt like we were riding with a dead man. I always had the feeling that
Patrick was with us still. Even when Da finally bought another car and got rid
of the old one, I still felt that Patrick was in the back seat. Even now
sometimes I feel that. Can’t rid myself of that old man.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She sat there lost
in thought for a moment, haunted by ancient memories. Then her face cleared and
she looked up cheerfully. ‘I would like an ice cream now.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Do you want it
here or would you like to go to that Maud’s farther on?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Here, I think. Moira’s
son owns this place. Did you know that?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes, you’ve told
me. Do you want to go shopping when we’re finished here? I can take you.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh, I won’t
impose. I know you want to get back.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It’s no trouble.
And I was thinking of imposing on you. Do you think you could put me up for the
night?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh, that would be
nice. We can talk some more then.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes, I would like
that.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-45505530936516448052023-03-11T18:55:00.001+00:002023-03-11T18:55:03.619+00:00The Butterflies of Samarkand<p> <span style="font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">2011</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">He had learned to
be careful. He couldn’t expose his body in public—only in private.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Oh, that’s
beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like that.’ The man stared at Justin’s
body. His mouth opened slightly and he ran his tongue over his lips, anticipating
the taste of Justin’s flesh. His eyes fixed unblinking on Justin, mesmerized by
the sight.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Are those tattoos?
They look almost alive.’ He whispered, as if speech might startle the images
and frighten them away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Justin lifted his arms
above his head and rotated slowly, allowing the man to see his entire body. He
said nothing. The images would speak for him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">A cloud of
iridescent, deep blue butterflies began on the inside of his right thigh, just
above the knee. In an ever-widening sinuous band, the butterflies swarmed
upward along the outside of his thigh and across his right buttock and then his
lower back. The band grew wider as it crossed his stomach from left to right
and then continued under his arm to his back again. The butterflies rose in a
stream of colour over his left shoulder and then down on to his left pec.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The butterflies
grew in size as they circled his body—the first was a minute, meticulously
detailed mark above his knee, the last a large image poised over his left
nipple as if about to alight on a flower.They glowed with colour. When Justin
moved, the images seemed to move with him, their wings undulating as if
floating lazily above a summer garden.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘What are they?’
the man asked. Everyone who saw them asked that.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Justin had asked
the same question the first time he had seen them. And the man had answered, ‘The
butterflies of Samarkand.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">*<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Come on. It’ll be
fun.’ Declan grabbed Justin’s arm above the elbow and tried to pull him towards
the shop door. ‘Everyone’s getting one. You’re not gay until you get a tattoo.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I don’t like them.
I think they’re ugly. Look at those.’ Justin pointed at the pictures in the
tattoo shop’s window. ‘They’re like smuts on those men’s bodies. Big ugly
blotches.Why do people think they’re sexy? They’re all wrong.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I agree.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Both Justin and
Declan turned towards the speaker. The man ignored Declan and spoke to Justin. ‘So
few tattoos complement the body. Most of them disfigure it. They are, as you
said, smuts, blotches, that have nothing to do with the body to which they are
attached. Occasionally, however, there is one that works with the body and
transfigures it. Unfortunately the artists who can create such tattoos are
rare.’ He nodded at Justin and walked on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Declan shot a look
of disdain at the man. ‘Wanker. I don’t care what he says. I’m going to get
one. Are you coming with me?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Justin shook his
head no. ‘I’m going home. I’ve got work to do.’ He walked away brusquely.
Declan was becoming a nuisance. His notions of fun weren’t Justin’s, and he was
becoming insistent that Justin fall in with whatever whim flitted across his
consciousness. Time to break it off before they went further.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">*<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Did your friend
decide to get a tattoo?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Jason looked up
from the magazine he had been paging through. He had stopped at a coffee bar
after leaving Declan. The man who had spoken to him earlier took the chair
opposite him at the small table. It was hard to tell his age. He could be only
a few years older than me, thought Jason. Maybe around thirty. But there was
something about his face that hinted he was older, perhaps even much older—a
suggestion of too many summers’ sun.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Jason’s defences
against being picked up by strangers instantly activated. He felt prickly and,
without thinking, sat up higher in the chair, stiff and wary, poised to leave. ‘Yes.’
Jason pulled back the sleeve of his sweater and looked at his watch. ‘I should
get back there and meet him. He’ll be finished by now.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No. Even a small
tattoo will take longer than that. And your friend will opt for a large one. It
will require many visits before it is finished.’ The man spoke confidently.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘What makes you so
sure of that?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘You. It is what
you think.’ The man was handsome in a sardonic way, dark. His hair was cut
short but was so dense that his scalp was not visible. He was clean shaven and
dressed neatly but without ostentation. Jason knew that the clothes had not
been purchased in a shop. A tailor had made them, in some distant, foreign city.
He gave the impression of a quiet power, a power that, if necessary, could be
uncoiled slowly but effectively. His eyes regarded Jason as if he could indeed
see into Jason’s mind.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘How can you know
what I am thinking?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘You are thinking
that your friend—Declan, isn’t it?—will not settle for a small tattoo. He will
want to impress everyone. At least he thinks in terms of impressing
others—really it’s himself he wants to impress. If others think well of what he
does and applaud him, then that will reinforce and confirm his opinion of
himself. He will ignore contrary opinions. Isn’t that what he always does?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘How can you know
that?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I read minds,
Justin.’ The man smiled. ‘My name is Paul.’ He extended his right hand across
the table.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Justin shook Paul’s
hand automatically. His touch was cool and dry, firm. ‘You have beautiful
hands. Do you play the piano?’ Both the comment and the question surprised
Justin. He had never told someone that his hands were beautiful, and he had no
idea how he knew that the man played the piano.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Yes, I play. I
will play for you later.’ Paul splayed his fingers out flat and then lay his
hand on the table. Justin stared at it because he didn’t trust himself to look
at Paul’s face. Paul’s fingers were long and slightly flattened at the ends.
the nails trimmed square.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">As Paul’s fingers
touched the keys of the piano, Justin felt them touching his own body, playing him
as they were playing the piano, creating that cascade of sound and emotions. At
the end of the piece, Paul sat motionless, his hands lowered to his lap, and allowed
the silence to linger. The room was dark, lit only by a small lamp on a table
on the other side of the room. Speech would have disturbed too much.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Paul stood up without
speaking and undressed. He walked over to the sofa where Justin was sitting. It
was then that Justin whispered, ‘What are those?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">And Paul answered, ‘The
butterflies of Samarkand.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">They gleamed as if
made of crushed pearls and lapis lazuli, shot through with threads of gold and
silver. Hundreds of them flying on Paul’s body, wings held at various angles, a
flock of butterflies surrounding Paul. As he moved, the wings fluttered.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘What are they?’
Justin asked again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Whatever you
desire them to be. Promises. Mementos. Gestures. Signs. Falsehoods. Truths.’ He
moved closer.’Touch them.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">*<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">It was not until he
was showering the next morning that Justin noticed the butterfly just above his
right knee, a small image no more than a centimetre square. That was the first.
The others came later, one by one. Tomorrow there would be another.Tomorrow the
man who was now tracing them with his fingers in wonderment would find the
first of them on his body.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-56658439081932159272023-03-11T13:25:00.002+00:002023-03-11T13:25:18.164+00:00Bookmarks<p> (c) 2012</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr
Quillan discovered the pamphlet wedged between pp. 134 and 135 of the copy of Elaine
Pagels’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Adam, Eve, and the Serpent</i>
he had borrowed from the library. It was small, eight or so centimetres wide by
roughly twice that long. The brochure consisted of four sheets of paper folded
in half lengthwise and stapled together through the seam. In dramatic red type
against a white background above a package gift-wrapped in red and tied with a
green bow, the front page proclaimed ‘For Our Valued Patrons’ and ‘Claim Your
Thank-You Rewards Now’. The inside pages contained pictures and descriptions of
jewellery made with the cheaper gemstones, small household items,and gadgets.
Beneath each description was a code number for ordering and an indication of the
number of ‘power points’ needed to claim the item. Mr Quillan recalled
receiving something similar from a credit-card company.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">At
first it struck him as a particularly unsuited to the Pagels book—a discussion
of early Christian attitudes towards sex and sin and women and moral freedom
paired with a commercial display of frivolous and unnecessary goods, toys for
adults that would be used once and then tossed in a drawer to be forgotten.
These items were fodder for charity shops or the annual parish fête. It was consumerism
at its most pointless. It was rather like finding a photo of a page-three girl stuck
in a Bible in a bedside drawer in a family-run B&B. But, Mr Quillan
thought, perhaps it wasn’t so inappropriate after all. A secular intrusion into
the sacred—what was religion if not a matter of inserting the sacred into the
mundane? It was another reminder of the variety of influences on our lives.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Apparently
the previous reader had been using it for a bookmark and had forgotten it. It
wasn’t the first forgotten page marker Mr Quillan had found in library books. He
had run across an appointment card from a dentist, receipts from cashpoints,
shopping lists, handwritten notes, not to mention the more traditional form of
bookmarks. The list of things people used to locate their stopping place was
long and varied. He had been finding such objects more and more frequently of
late. Since the library had inaugurated its automated self-service system for
checking books out and returning them six years earlier, no one looked at the returned
books and removed any stray items. With the computerised tracking system the
library used, the borrower held each book’s barcode under the scanner until the
machine beeped and then slid the book through a slot beside the scanner. Mr
Quillan had noticed that the clerks who gathered the returns picked each book
up, glanced at the call number, and then placed it on one of several carts for reshelving.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Whenever
a bookmark tumbled from the pages of a book he had borrowed, Mr Quillan would
put the book down and examine the marker, searching for information about the
previous reader. He liked to imagine episodes in the lives of those who left
these clues about themselves. Had the ‘Anne’ who had the dentist’s appointment
inserted the card into the book when the dentist’s assistant had opened the
door to the waiting room and called her name? Was she there for her semi-annual
check-up or had a toothache brought her? It wouldn’t have been a toothache, he
decided. Not a sudden and unexpected emergency. No, this appointment had been
made ahead of time. The existence of the card with the date and hour of the
appointment filled in with a biro argued that Anne had scheduled the visit.
Perhaps an earlier examination had uncovered a problem, and she was paying a
return visit. Or perhaps she had received the card at the end of an appointment
and then used it for a bookmark while riding a bus or a train home or back to
work. The card had slid down between the pages. Maybe Anne missed her
appointment because she forgot about the card and failed to remove it before
returning the book.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">A
cashpoint receipt might suggest a different story. Someone had withdrawn 150
euros at the Bridge Street branch of United Bank on 9 December 2007. A healthy
balance of 7600 euros remained. Mr Quillan speculated how the sum had been
used. Was it just spending money to be frittered away a few <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>euros at a time to buy lunch, cigarettes, a round
of drinks in a pub? Or was it that week’s money? Mr Quillan knew people who
budgeted that way—each week they took out a set sum that had to cover all
expenditures during the upcoming week.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The
shopping lists and notes were equally open to conjecture. Had the person who
bought ‘500g mince, 4 pots, onion, carrot, tom paste’ made a Bolognese sauce
and kept the potatoes for another day or had shepherd’s pie been on the menu? Was
‘J’s 10’ a reminder to be at Jim’s at 10:00 am or did the person owe Judy 10 <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>euros?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Library
books held other forms of messages from readers. The last reader of another
recent book had used those yellow self-sticking notes to mark important points
in the text. He, or she, had been a student, Mr Quillan decided. The sticky
notes were a means of keeping track of passages to be quoted or discussed in a
paper the student was writing. Each note was carefully positioned at the
beginning of the paragraph, just after the indention on the first line. The
reader was very methodical—most likely a woman. Women were more particular
about such things than men, he had found. There was never any advance warning
about the appearance of a note. Mr Quillan would turn a page and there would be
one. He learned to pay particular attention to those paragraphs. The young lady
was obviously an astute reader. He had gathered the first three notes he
encountered in a neat pile to throw in the bin the next time he stood up. But
then he began putting the sticky notes carefully back into place when he had
finished reading that text under them. Perhaps the next reader would find the
markers as beneficial as he had.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Other
readers underlined passages in pencil or pen or made marks or wrote brief notes
in the margins. Mr Quillan understood the marginal exclamation point as an
indication that a previous reader had found some significance in the passage beside
it. A particularly important passage might warrant a pair of exclamation
points. He regarded three as an excessiveness bordering on hysteria, however.
He shuddered inwardly when he saw three points in a row and thanked the book
gods that he had been spared a face-to-face encounter with this over-reacting,
self-indulgent idiot.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Of
course, some of the underlinings and comments were incomprehensible. Why would
anyone take the time to highlight ‘ “Hello, my darling Chatsworth,” said
Cynthia brightly.’ or ‘He wore a green tie’? The last one he had found
particularly annoying. ‘Green’ had been heavily underlined twice in red ink,
with a large exclamation point in the same ink in the margin. The person had
jabbed at the paper so hard as to raise a welt on the other side of the page. What
significance had these readers found in these remarks? There were times when Mr
Quillan suspected mischief at play and a dolt chortling to himself at the
mystification of future readers of the book upon encountering these silly
underlinings. He always saw the person behind these as male, a puerile boy no
matter what his age.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Another
of his pet peeves was the reader with illegible handwriting. Mr Quillan firmly
believed that anyone who wrote in books owed it to future readers to write
neatly. He hated it when he had to devote time to a futile attempt to decipher
a marginal note. If such notes were written in pencil, he carefully erased them
to spare future readers the annoyance of dealing with it. What was the point of
scribbling?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr
Quillan examined each of these marks carefully for information about the
previous readers. Had they liked the book? Was the reader a student ploughing
through the book as a class assignment looking for quotable passages and
engaged in a symbol hunt in the attempt to decipher the ‘book’s meaning’ and
write a paper that would gain a teacher’s approval? Or was the previous reader
someone like himself—someone who read for pleasure and simply wanted to share
the delight of finding a well-written sentence or an insightful thought? On the
whole, Mr Quillan preferred readers searching for pleasure to those who read
out of a sense of duty and to fulfil the requirements of a course.
Occasionally, of course, one ran across an intelligent student whose marginal
jottings challenged his reading. Such readers were treasures.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr
Quillan welcomed these small intrusions of other people’s lives into his own.
He wasn’t lonely, he told himself, and he wasn’t looking for friends. But it
was nice to be part of a community, even one brought together in different
places and at different times by their reading of the same copy of a book. The
random community, now that was a notion he liked. Its very randomness promised
a meeting of differences united only by the chance encounter over the pages of
a book. The only certain characteristic that the group would share was a love
of books. Mr Quillan had found that love to be more lasting than friendships or
romance.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The
new automated check-out system was an improvement, he supposed. It was said to
save on labour costs, and it had been easy to master. But he missed the old
days, when he had carried his three or four selections to the front desk and
stood in line, surreptitiously examining the books others had selected and
allowing them a glimpse of his, perhaps even exchanging comments with them
about their choices. He had always enjoyed those brief encounters. There was,
he had found, a camaraderie among library patrons. One didn’t have to introduce
oneself or carry the conversation further. The interaction was short and to the
point and ended when the first person had finished checking out. A brief smile
and a nod was all that was necessary in parting. It was pleasant to have these transient
moments of connection with a stranger. It was not unlike the chance encounter
of finding a stray bookmark.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr
Quillan also missed dealing with a librarian at the check-out desk. Mrs Sullivan,
who had sat behind the desk on Saturday mornings for so many years, always took
a moment to look at the books when he placed them on the counter. She would
pull the stack closer, her head tilted back so that she could see the titles
through the lower half of her bifocals. She often rewarded him by nodding her
head in delight at his selections. He liked to think that she approved of his
tastes. Occasionally she recommended another title or told him of a new
acquisition that she thought he might like. If no one was waiting in line
behind him, they might hold a quiet conversation about books, while she wrote
his ID number and stamped the return date on the card in the pocket on the
inside of the back cover. She always rocked the date stamp on the ink pad first
and then carefully positioned it over the right box on the card before pressing
it firmly down. Then she would put the card into the box on her desk. Finally
she would stamp the return date on the flap of paper glued to the left-hand
side of the back inside cover, close the cover, and hand the book to him with a
smile. She always said, ‘See you next week, Mr Quillan.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">That
was another thing he had liked about the old system—those sheets of paper with
the date stamps at the back of the book. He liked to look at them and see how
many people had read the book before him and how often it had been checked out.
That, too, had made him feel part of a community. The new scanner printed out a
receipt with the titles of the book and the due date, but those pieces of paper
gave no indication of how many people had enjoyed the book before him or how
popular it was.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Indeed,
those flimsy paper receipts churned out by the scanners at the end of the
check-out process were the most common of the forgotten bookmarks. It made
sense. They were convenient and ready at hand. But they were less useful for Mr
Quillan’s purposes. He found these receipts more frustrating than informative.
They provided so little information about the borrower and what little
information they did provide was uncertain. They recorded only a short version
of the titles and the due date for the books checked out by a borrower at one
particular visit. Most people, Mr Quillan found, checked out two or three books
at a time. Not much could be gained from the list of abbreviatedtitles. Unless
one knew the books, it was impossible to guess what qualities had attracted
this particular borrower or what, if anything, linked this particular
collection of books. And the date didn’t reveal much either. It might well
indicate the last time this copy had been checked out. Or an earlier reader may
have found the receipt in a book and then re-used it as a page marker. Often
indeed, the book in which Mr Quillan found the receipt was not one of those
listed on the receipt. The library’s patrons obviously used whatever came to
hand as bookmarks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">One
thing that puzzled him was the location of the bookmarks. He often uncovered
them in the middle of books. Did they mark the page where a reader had
abandoned the book? Or had they simply been stuck in at random and then
forgotten as the reader continued further?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">When
the branch library near Mr Quillan’s flat had closed for remodelling, Mrs Sullivan
had been transferred. She had not returned when the branch reopened. He
sometimes wondered what had happened to her and he didn’t know who to ask. He
knew so little about her despite having seen her almost weekly for twenty-some
years. Well, that had been his experience. The pleasant people came and went.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mrs
Sullivan’s replacements were far from satisfactory.On the past few Saturday
mornings, a young man—a student Mr Quillan thought—had been sitting behind the
desk. He appeared to spend his time on duty doing his lessons. If someone had a
problem with the scanner and asked him for help, he would dip his head and
frown at his work to let the person know that his studies were being
interrupted. He would laboriously and ostentatiously mark his place and then
heave himself out of his chair with an effort, stomp over to the scanners, and
quickly and, to Mr Quillan’s mind, disdainfully reset the scanner and run the
book through it. Usually he flourished the scanned book in front of the
person’s eyes for a second and shook it as if to say, ‘See. This is easy. Even
an idiot like you can do this.’ He seldom spoke, and his behaviour conveyed his
opinion that the patrons’ incompetence was taxing his patience, if not ruining
his life. Mr Quillan resolved never to ask this youngster for help. He
suspected that the young man would never enter a library again after he
finished his course and found a full-time job. He hoped that it would be one
more suitable to the young man’s meagre talents.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The
machines were taking over. Mr Quillan seldom had occasion to go inside the bank
now. The bank clerks made it clear that the cashpoint machines could handle
most transactions and they were not to be bothered for ordinary withdrawals and
deposits. In his last years at work, personal interaction had declined. It was
so much easier for a person to send an email with a file attached than to
photocopy a report and carry it to your desk, stopping to chat and gossip for a
few minutes. No longer did anyone take the time to leave his or her ‘workspace’
and walk up or down a flight of stairs to meet with a co-worker. He himself had
abandoned the practice when several colleagues made it clear that they would
prefer to deal with questions by email rather than discussing them face to
face. There were some of the newer hires that he had never met, even though he
had exchanged many emails with them. He didn’t think they were avoiding him
intentionally. It was just the new way of doing things.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Of
course, the young didn’t like to talk with older people. He saw that in the
clerks, even middle-aged ones,in stores. They might exchange a few remarks with
people their own age, but older people such as himself got only an indifferent
‘Good morning, Sir. Find everything you needed?’ He could have said, ‘You were
out of the bullets I needed for my revolver. Now I shall have to go somewhere
else to find them. Pity because I was planning to rob someone on the way home
to make up for your outrageous prices,’ and the clerk would nod, give him a
vacuous smile and reply, ‘Good. That’s 22 <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>euros 15, Sir.’ That was one lesson he had
learned after he grew old. No one saw you when you grew old. At least the
readers who left bookmarks or made notes in books didn’t care about his age.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Perhaps
he should join one of the book discussion groups at the library. He had read
the notices soliciting new members or inviting others to help form a group.
There seemed to be a group for every interest. There was one for readers of
mystery novels, another for fans of romance novels (Mr Quillan shuddered at the
thought). One group specialised in discussing politics and economics and books
on those subjects. There were easily ten discussion groups specifically for
seniors that met during the day or on weekends. He had stood outside the door
to the meeting room one day and pretended to examine the notice board while
inspecting a reading group devoted to ‘the modern novel’. The group had
consisted entirely of women and they were engaged in a loud discussion,
everyone talking at once and no one listening. As far as Mr Quillan could determine—it
was hard to disentangle the many threads of conversation—no one was discussing
a book.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">A
table near the side wall held an assortment of baked goods. The members must
have to contribute a snack. Cakes and biscuits dominated. It reminded him of the
gifts of food Mrs Conlin had brought him when she moved into the flat above him.
He had answered the knock on his door—that in itself was unusual; most visitors
rang the bell from the lobby—only to be confronted by a stout woman holding a
plate with a cake on it. She pushed it at him. ‘It’s me way of introducing meself,
so. Me late husband—his name was Michael, just like yiself—said I made the best
cake. I just bought flat 6B. Me husband died six months ago, and me daughter,
that’s Nell, she thought that a flat would be easier for me than the house.’ It
took her only a few minutes of nonstop chatter to begin hinting about shared
excursions and meals. It had taken him much longer, far too long in fact, to
make it clear—politely—to Mrs Conlin that he wasn’t available and wasn’t
interested. He hadn’t invited her in and had to stand in the doorway to his
flat, blocking her from entering while holding the plate with the cake in one
hand and trying to close the door with the other. He remembered that the plate
was sticky with icing. He had quickly consigned the cake to the bin, but for
the sake of courtesy he waited a few days to return the plate. He had washed it
and left it outside her door in a carrier bag early one morning with a short
thank-you note. Luckily she had found more success with the man in 2A and had
moved on. Now when they met, she merely nodded at him brusquely.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr
Quillan looked at the group of women in the book discussion group. Many of them
had that unattached look. He didn’t fancy another bout of fending off the
advances of lonely women. There might be men who would welcome the attention,
but he wasn’t one of them. When one of the women looked towards him, he quickly
averted his gaze and pretended to be fascinated by a notice about upcoming
visits to the children’s wing by the story lady.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">In
any case he was not one for groups. Even if he had found a group to his liking,
he wasn’t sure that he could say anything intelligent about the books he read. He
preferred to enjoy them quietly without worrying too much about why. Mr Quillan
saw himself as a slow thinker. He wasn’t quick to form opinions. He knew that
he was also not an agile conversationalist. Often he had to let a conversation percolate
into his consciousness and steep there while he thought about what had been
said. By the time he formulated a reply, the occasion for speaking had been
lost and the conversation had moved on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr
Quillan replaced the brochure in the book, tucking it firmly into the centre
seam so that it would not fall out. When he had first encountered the
bookmarks, he had removed them and tossed them away. But then he had begun to
replace them, returning each marker to the page where he had found it, for the
next reader to find. Perhaps that person might spend a few moments, as he had,
thinking about previous readers of the book. Perhaps he or she might toss it
away without thought. It didn’t matter. What mattered was giving the next
reader an opportunity to be part of this community. He wouldn’t break the
chain.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">He
had finished the current batch of books. He thought with satisfaction of the
passage he had underlined in one of them. He had refrained from pencilling a
star in the margin. He reserved the stars for extremely well-written and
thought-provoking passages. The particular passage had deserved only an
underlining. One had to be responsible about the marks one made. It was a
courtesy to subsequent readers. The third book hadn’t merited comment. He had
contented himself with inserting an ancient sales receipt inside it. Perhaps
the next reader would find some amusement in speculating what he had bought for
</span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">£</span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">26
8/- at the Kingston Hardware Store in 1983 or wonder if the book had gone
unread since that year.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Tomorrow
morning he would visit the library and spend a half-hour choosing his reading
for the next week. He would fan the pages looking for marks left by other
readers. He often selected a book precisely because it had such indications of
previous readings. Perhaps he might even find a ‘five euro’ book. Twice,
sometimes three times, a year, he ran across a book so good that he stuck a
five euro note within its pages for the next reader to find. It had been
several months since he had found a deserving book. He was due for another. He
had been doing that for two or three decades, beginning with the old Irish </span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">£</span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">1 notes and then switching to euros.
Oddly the library bulletin never mentioned those gifts. Mr Quillan could only
surmise that the lucky recipients chose to keep their find secret, but he liked
to think that they returned often to the library in the hope of finding another
fiver. It was his way of encouraging a community of readers.</span></span><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-72213246776870335912023-03-09T14:19:00.003+00:002023-03-09T14:19:31.894+00:00Arthur<p> (c) 2011</p><p><span style="font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">‘What was Arthur like?’ Kate James repeated the inspector’s question,
but softly as if speaking to herself. She turned away and looked pensively out
the window, apparently deep in thought. It wasn’t that she didn’t have an
answer. Rather, it was, she felt, the type of question that deserved at least
the appearance of consideration. She hoped that the pause and the stare at the sky
outside the window of the flat conveyed that she was taking the question
seriously and formulating her response carefully. She wanted to be
helpful—always within the bounds of discretion, of course. It wouldn’t do to
give too much away. She had to control her anger and her fear.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The drizzle had
stopped, but raindrops still beaded the window. The clouds were thick; it would
rain again later, she thought. If the inspector and the constable left soon, she
could finish the shopping before the rain started again. Derek’s mother was
particular about food, and she had several hours of cooking ahead of her, and
the house still had to be cleaned. She liked her mother-in-law, and she thought
Derek’s mother had a good opinion of her and considered her an appropriate
match for Derek, a thought that gave her no little pleasure.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">One of the
policeman shifted position. The chair in which he was sitting creaked, and the
noise drew her attention back. Perhaps she shouldn’t have offered them coffee.
But that was what everyone did in police shows on the telly—offer coffee or
tea. Usually the senior policeman present refused. But the inspector had
accepted her offer with apparent gratitude. When she carried the tray with the
cups and cafetière and the milk and sugar into the lounge, she had the impression
that the two policemen had inspected the room during her absence. Both of them
were standing, and they sat down again only when she did. Now they looked fixed
in their chairs.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Kate turned to the
inspector and allowed her eyes to meet his with what she hoped was appropriate
candour. ‘Arthur could be difficult. I got along with him, but most people
found him rather trying. I last saw him a week ago yesterday, however. We were
away on holiday. My husband and I just returned last night. I haven’t even done
the shopping yet. There’s nothing to eat, and my husband’s mother is coming for
dinner tonight.’ She fidgeted in her chair and glanced at her watch, hoping the
police would understand that she was in a hurry. The constable made a note on
his pad. ‘I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know why he committed suicide. I’m
sorry, but I don’t know anything that could help you. I last saw him the day
before we left for Spain, and he seemed his usual self then.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">She giggled
nervously and then instantly remembered that the occasion was not one for levity.
She pressed her fingers over her lips and looked down at the carpet. ‘It’s so
hard to imagine that he’s gone.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The inspector
settled back into his chair. ‘You said he could be trying. In what way?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">What would other
people at work have told them already? Surely they would have been candid, now
that Arthur was gone. Bill and Margaret would have welcomed the opportunity to
speak ill of Arthur. Best to be truthful, then, but sound judicious not
vindictive. ‘Arthur thought all of us were entitled to his opinion, and he
didn’t hesitate to give it. I suppose he thought of it as a good deed—letting
you know the truth and putting you straight about things. And he wasn’t very
forgiving of others. He was very critical, always criticising in fact. And it
wasn’t often justified. He’d pick out some little thing and blow it up. But I
don’t see what this has to do with his suicide.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘We’re trying to
get a better picture of Mr Collier. It helps us to understand him and the reasons
for his death.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘How long did you
know him?’ The constable spoke for the first time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I started at Hendricks
six years ago, in the billing department. I was introduced to him soon after I
started, but I didn’t really know him—just to say hello in the corridors or the
lunchroom, that sort of thing. Last year, after I finished several courses—I’m
taking a business degree at the Open University—I was promoted to the customer
service department and given charge of a group of our clients. All of us work
on the same floor. I was given the desk next to Arthur’s. It was the only one
open, because no one wanted to work next to him.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The constable paged
back through his notes, apparently checking an earlier statement. ‘You appear
to have been on better terms with him than most of your colleagues?’ He framed
his remarks as a question, as if prompting Kate to explain her colleagues’
remarks. ‘Several of your co-workers mentioned that you got along with him?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I suppose I did. I
had heard about him, and the first day in my present position, he started in on
me. I let him know I wasn’t going to put up with him, and I think he respected
me for that. I didn’t let him bully me. I didn’t shout at him or anything like
that. Most of the time, I just made a joke about what he was trying to do. When
he found out that he couldn’t push me around, he left me alone. I wouldn’t say
we were friends, but we were friendly. Just at work, though. I never saw him
outside the office.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The constable made
several notes and then flipped over a page on his pad. The inspector waited
until his colleague finished writing before asking, ‘Did he talk about his
personal life?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Not often. He was
always mysterious about that. You know, like there was more to him that he
could reveal.’ Kate looked down at her hands and forearms. Her tan was really
quite good. Poor Derek. He burned so easily with that fair skin of his. A pity
her tan wouldn’t last. Another two or three weeks and she would be pasty white
again. Perhaps she should sit in the sun during her lunch hours. Regular visits
to a tanning salon would probably be too expensive.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Arthur’s desk was
by the window. Of course, he had always kept the shade down. He didn’t want his
co-workers looking out the window. Hendricks would have to hire a replacement.
There was far too much work for the customer service reps as it was. But
perhaps if the position hadn’t been filled yet, she could ask to have his desk.
She would keep the shade up and even open the window when the weather was nice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">She was glad that
Arthur had waited until after she and Derek had left for their holiday. If he
had killed himself before they left, Hendricks might have asked her to postpone
the trip to fill in at the office. But they could hardly ask her to come back
from Spain. As it was, she hadn’t learned of Arthur’s suicide until they had
returned yesterday and played back the phone messages on the answering machine.
Both Susan and Maggie had rung separately to tell her. Maggie had contributed a
pound on her behalf for the wreath the office sent to the memorial service (fortunately
she had been spared the duty of attending). She would have to remember to repay
her. But then Maggie wouldn’t let her forget. She was glad they hadn’t spent
more. It was such a waste to send flowers to a funeral, but everyone expected
you to do at least that..<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Did he ever
mention suicide to you or discuss any reasons why one might commit suicide?’ The
police constable seemed to have made himself responsible for conducting the
interview. The inspector had lowered his head and was eyeing the titles on the
bookshelves next to his chair.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No, never. But it’s
not the sort of conversation you have in an office, is it? Didn’t he mention
why in his note?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘There was no note,’
said the inspector. ‘It is the absence of a note that has brought us here.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">It took Kate a few
seconds to understand the implications of the inspector’s remark. ‘But surely it
was suicide, wasn’t it? The people from the office who called said it was
suicide.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘The facts of the
case could support either suicide or murder. If it was murder, it was disguised
to look like a suicide.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘But no one would
murder Arthur. He was such a pitiful creature. If anything, Arthur would try to
disguise a suicide to look like murder. I’m sorry. I don’t like to speak
harshly of the dead, but you did ask. Arthur would like the idea that he was
causing you trouble. That’s the kind of person he was. Always trying to stir
things up.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The two policemen
glanced at each other and then leaned forward in their chairs and stared at her
intently. Kate suddenly knew that she had given them something they had been
looking for. She was in for a long bout of questioning now. She and Derek would
have to take his mother to a restaurant. Well, at least, she had a good excuse,
and she would have plenty to tell them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Why did you say he
was a pitiful creature?’ The constable wrote something on his pad and then
looked at Kate expectantly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Well, there was
his blog.’ Kate felt a red rush of anger. She thought she had put her feelings
about what Arthur had written behind her, but they were as strong as they had
been when she first discovered Arthur’s writings. Her words came gushing out. ‘He
had this blog. I ran across it by accident, and it was horrid. I<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b> I was so furious with him. The
things he said. His lies. It was disgusting. He had names for all of us. Nasty,
spiteful names.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Kate grabbed a
tissue from the box on the table and pressed it against her face. ‘He took
every little incident and blew it up into something awful. And if something
good happened, he took credit for it. He boasted about all these things he had
supposedly done. And none of it was true. He was making it all up.’ She turned
away and began crying.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Would you like a
glass of water?’ The inspector motioned to the constable, who put his pen and
pad down and went into the kitchen. Kate heard a cabinet door open and then the
sound of running water. The constable came back into the room and set the glass
down on the table beside Kate.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">She automatically
picked it up and drank. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so upset. I
pushed it out of my mind while we were on holiday, and it just suddenly came
back to me.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Don’t worry about
it. I know it’s difficult to talk about such things, but it would really help
us if you tell us about his blog. If it’s too hard for you to talk about it
now, we can come back later.’ Both the inspector and the constable smiled at
her sympathetically.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">I don’t want you
coming back, thought Kate. ‘No, I just want to get it over with. It won’t be
any easier later.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Thank you. We
appreciate your taking the time to talk with us. But if it becomes too
difficult, let us know. How did you learn of Mr Collier’s blog? Did he tell you
about it?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No. I, well, I’ve
been thinking about finding a job at another firm. Please don’t mention that to
anyone at Hendricks. Hendricks is fine, but it’s so far away. When I first
started working there, I lived closer—just a fifteen-minute bus ride. I could
even walk to work on nice days. I did that sometimes. But when Derek and I got
married, we moved into this flat. It’s perfect for us, but it means that I have
a longer commute to work. I have to take the underground and change at King’s
Cross, and there are always delays and stoppages. The trip takes at least an
hour. Some nights it’s almost 7:00 by the time I get home, and then I still
have to do the cooking and the washing up. And then I’m so tired I just want to
go to bed. It’s not fair to Derek that I’m so tired, and we barely get to see
each other during the week.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The inspector
nodded. ‘I understand. So you were looking for another job, something closer<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Yes. This was two
nights before we left. I was searching for jobs at printing firms in London. I
planned to start looking when we came back from Spain. I ran across this blog
about working at a printer’s, and I thought it might have some information I
could use. But when I started reading it, I realised it was about Hendricks.
All of us were there. Arthur had given us different names, but I could identify
most of the people. And it was easy to see that it was written by Arthur. He
gave himself the starring role.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Do you have the
address?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I’m not likely to
forget it.’ Kate spelled out the URL.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I take it the
content of the blog was distressing.’ The constable looked up from his notebook
and smiled encouragingly at Kate.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Well, as I said,
he either took credit for everything or he magnified other people’s mistakes
and made them seem worse than they were. He had to step in and set things
right. The worst was<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b>’ Kate
hesitated and turned away from the two policemen. ‘The worst was that he
claimed to have had sex with practically every woman at Hendricks, even the
older ones—he described those as ‘charity fucks’. That was the term he used.
Mrs Hendricks—she and her husband founded Hendricks—she’s in her mid-sixties,
and according to Arthur, she wanted to leave her husband and run off with him,
but Arthur had persuaded her against this. The way he described it we were his
private harem. And he wrote what he had done with each of us in detail. I felt<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> …</b> violated. It was as if he had raped
me and was bragging about it.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I’m sorry, but I
have to ask this. Do you think any of these claims were true?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No. Arthur was
horrible. No one would have gone to bed with him. He was making all of it up.
You shouldn’t ask such questions. How can you say such things?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘We have to
investigate all possibilities, Mrs James. A jilted lover might have thought she
had reason to harm Mr Collier. I’m sorry if this distresses you.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Arthur was just
another one of those sick people on the Internet who hides behind a cute name
and thinks he can say anything because no one knows who he is. He’s horrid,
just horrid. I know he thinks he’s better than all of us, but he shouldn’t have
said those things.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Did you talk with
him about this blog?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No, of course not.
I wasn’t going to speak with him ever again. I just wanted to get out of there.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Did you tell
anyone else about his blog?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Just Mrs Flowers
in Personnel. Part of her job is to deal with problems between employees at
work. I made an appointment to see her the day before we left. I told her what
I had found, and she looked at Arthur’s blog and read a few entries. She agreed
with me that it had to stop. She felt the same way I did. She said she would
have a word with Arthur.’ Actually Mrs Flowers had spoken out forcefully and
said that she would put a stop to it and that if Arthur didn’t agree to delete
the blog immediately, she would have to speak to the company lawyers. Kate was
beginning to regret being so open with the inspector and the constable. Perhaps
she had revealed too much. She didn’t want to cause problems for Mrs Flowers,
who had only been trying to help.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Do you know if she
did? Would she have spoken to other people?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘She may have
talked with Arthur. I don’t know what she did with the information I gave her. When
I left, she was printing out pages from Arthur’s blog. I had the impression
that she was going to speak to Arthur first and see what he had to say and then
maybe discuss this with others at Hendricks.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Would she have let
Mr Collier know that you were the one who made the complaint?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No, she wouldn’t
have done that. Not without my permission.’ Kate suddenly had a vision of
Arthur extracting revenge. But it hadn’t been her fault. She hadn’t made him
write those awful things. If he got fired, it served him right.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Mrs Flowers works
in Personnel? Is she there every day?’ The constable looked back through his
notes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Yes, she works in
Personnel. I think she’s there every day. I don’t know. I don’t see those
people very often.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘How do you think
Mr Collier would react to a meeting with Mrs Flowers?’ The inspector spoke very
quietly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I don’t know. I
think he would try to bluster and deny that the blog was his. He would threaten
to sue the company and her personally. But it was clearly written by him. He
couldn’t deny that. He would have to find some other lies to tell, some other
story to make up.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘And if he had no other
story to tell?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Do you think
that’s why he committed suicide? Because he had been found out? Are you saying
this is my fault? That I should have kept quiet?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The inspector shook
his head. ‘No, not at all.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘He could have told
the truth. He didn’t have to lie. What was I supposed to do? Let him go on
telling lies? I didn’t think he would kill himself. But if he did, I’m not
sorry. He shouldn’t have lied about us.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">She grabbed at a
tissue, but in her haste she pulled a handful from the box. She batted at the
box and shoved it to the floor. ‘He had no right. He ruined everything. I
thought we were friends, and he wrote all those awful things about me.I never
did anything to him. I was always polite. It was all his fault. He was too
ashamed to live with his lies. That’s why he killed himself. It didn’t have
anything to do with me.’ Kate looked the inspector in the eye and dared him to
dispute what she had said. It wasn’t her fault. No one would think it was her
fault, not if they saw the things Arthur had written about her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No. As you say, it
was something he brought upon himself.’ The inspector stood up. ‘Well, I think
we have taken enough of your time today, Mrs James.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">A few seconds
later, the constable finished writing in his notebook and closed it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-18693306497579046692023-03-08T18:54:00.002+00:002023-03-08T19:27:05.281+00:00An Italian Landscape, with figures<p> (c) 2011</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The dawn wind stirred the curtains,
and bits of Jason’s dream merged with the light flickering through the gap that
opened and closed between them. For a moment, he was in his flat in London,
with Charles curled up next to him. He was happy and content. Every few
seconds, Charles’s steady breathing brought his chest into contact with Jason’s
body, comforting him with this rhythmic proof of his lover’s nearness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">There was a whisper of conversation
outside the window and then a half-stifled laugh. ‘Ciao, Angelo,’ said a female
voice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Ciao, Maria.’ The voice was deep and
masculine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Jason rolled over and awoke in a
hotel room in Italy. He turned his head and gazed out the window at a narrow
strip of sky that was quickly fading from grey<a name="_GoBack"></a> to the
pale yellow of an Italian day. The breeze mingled the scents of the Adriatic
and country grasses and bread baking. Another perfect day, thought Jason. Later,
he and Charles would breakfast in their room, sitting on the small balcony and
watching the fishing boats on the bay. On the crest of the hill behind the
hotel, the bells in the church would toll, followed shortly by those of the
clock in the tower above the town hall. Below them, the town would stir with
activity as the market opened. The trucks bearing crates of vegetables would
arrive, and the sellers would set up tables and erect awnings and then display
their offerings for the day in colourful mounds. The merchants would fold open
the shutters that covered the shop windows. Soon the parade of housewives would
begin, and the noise of joyous bargaining and gossiping would fill the air.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Or perhaps they would sit at one of
the tables on the terrace below their window, drinking coffee as they paged
through the guidebooks and planned their day. They would choose that table that
was half-hidden in the bower created by the bougainvillea branches that tumbled
over the walls from the garden next door. The glow of sunlight filtered through
red and purple flowers would surround them. Later they might take the bus that
ran along the coastal road and explore one of the villages further south. They
would find a café and have another wonderful meal and then catch the last bus
back. In the gathering twilight they would climb the hill to the hotel. They
would get drinks at the bar and then sit outside on the terrace and watch the
reflections of the lights of the town ripple in the sea.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">They would discuss what they had
seen that day. Charles would again surprise him with his sensitivity, both to
others and to him. It was amazing how accurately Charles knew his moods. Charles
could sense what he was thinking from the smallest clues. They would finish
their drinks and say goodnight to the hotel staff and climb the stairs to their
room. They would undress and sit in the dark in front of the open doors to the
balcony, sharing the peace of the night. Then they would make love, quietly,
gently, slowly, easing into their final raptures, letting the climax happen
without force or artifice or self-consciousness. It would be another expression
of their growing love for each other, an important way of expressing it but not
the only way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Another enchanted day in San Andreas,
their fifth. They hadn’t spoken of it, but for Jason, and he was certain for
Charles, the trip was a trial run. They had met seven months earlier. Their
relationship had progressed from friendship, admittedly a friendship fuelled by
mutual physical attraction, to a convenient means of having sex with an
agreeable partner to love. Their joint holiday was a test. Could they live
together? Or was their limit a few hours a few times a week, dinner, a few
drinks, bed, perhaps an overnight stay?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">On the whole, Jason thought the
holiday was proving that they could live together. Of course, it would have to
be tested in London. A holiday with no everyday responsibilities, an attentive
hotel staff, scrumptious food seemingly available on every corner, warm
weather—those were hardly normal conditions. But he was increasingly certain
that the demands of their schedules, domestic chores, cooking for themselves,
and cold, rainy weather would not dampen their relationship.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Jason eased himself out of bed and
slipped on his robe, careful not to disturb Charles. He closed the door to the
bedroom behind him, and walked into the small sitting room. He wanted a bit of
privacy to think and get his thoughts in order. He needed to plan how best to
raise the subject of inviting Charles to move into his flat. Luckily Charles
was only renting and his flat would be cramped with two people living in it. So
it made sense that Charles should be the one to move. But he didn’t want to box
Charles in. Charles would have to get rid of his furniture and many of his
possessions. Jason’s flat was big enough for the two of them, but they wouldn’t
need another television set or a second sofa. It might be more crowded than
either of them was used to, and having only one bathroom could be a problem. It
was important that they be able to discuss the possibility without committing
themselves until both of them were ready and understood the consequences. Haste
might lead to a disaster that thoughtful planning could avoid.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">He had never thought he would be
having this discussion with himself. At 32, he thought himself beyond a
relationship and had resigned himself to a lifetime alone. The realisation that
he loved Charles had surprised him. He hadn’t expected that to happen. The
sudden swelling of joy he felt when he unexpectedly saw Charles approaching him
along Douglas Street had startled him into an awareness of his feelings. Further
encounters had only deepened his feelings. He was certain that Charles felt the
same. Charles had exuberantly acquiesced in his suggestion that they spend a
week in Italy together. Charles had scoured the guidebooks and found San
Andreas. It was proving to be the perfect place for—well, for a honeymoon. The
sequence of events might not be the customary one, but the emotion and the
sentiment surrounding this holiday in paradise fulfilled the definition of
honeymoon. Of course, Charles has his faults. Truth be told, so did he. But as
long as they were committed to each other, they could work out their
differences. And living together would make them even more willing to make the
relationship permanent.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Should he, pondered Jason, propose
today? Or should he wait until the last day of their holiday? Spending the last
two days and then flying home together would be awkward if Charles said no. He
needed a way of testing the waters. There was that jewellery shop on the street
leading to the market square. Yesterday when they had walked past it, there had
been a tray of cheap rings in the window. The miniscule diamonds had sparkled
in the light. Perhaps they could just amble by it again, and he could point
them out and then speculate a bit on marriage in San Andreas. See what Charles said
on the subject.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Jason’s reverie was interrupted by
the scraping of a metal chair against the flagstones of the hotel terrace. He
stepped over to the balcony doors and looked out. One of the hotel employees
was cleaning the garden. The young man’s back was towards Jason. He had to be
the Angelo of the conversation that had awoken him. Angelo was kneeling down
and reaching under a table for a scrap of paper. He had draped the white tunic
that all the employees of the hotel wore over the back of one of the chairs,
possibly to keep it clean while he was sweeping up. He was wearing only a string
vest. It stretched tautly over his torso. His body glowed in the early morning
light. That was one problem with Charles. He burnt so easily that he had to
keep his body covered up. His flesh was so pasty looking. And it meant he didn’t
go outdoors and exercise. His body drooped, unlike Angelo’s. Jason had a sudden
mental image of Charles lying on his side in bed, his chest uncovered. His pecs
sagged and his stomach flowed down onto the mattress. Not like Angelo. That
young man’s muscles wouldn’t sag, and his ass was magnificent, worthy of
Michelangelo. Jason could almost feel it under his hands, firm and full.
Charles couldn’t even begin to compete in that area.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Jason slid the door to the balcony further
open and stepped outside. The young man looked around at the noise. He smiled
and waved a silent greeting. Jason nodded and then looked away. He didn’t want
to be caught staring but he was very conscious of Angelo and his movements as
he continued to prepare the terrace for anyone who might want to breakfast
outside.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Jason considered returning to bed
and awakening Charles with a kiss. He mentally shuffled through the possible
places where he could plant the kiss, each succeeding option a bit more
arousing than the previous one. The young man tugged the bottom of his vest
loose from his trousers, briefly exposing his abdomen. Now that deserved a
kiss, many kisses in fact. Jason leaned on the railing of the balcony and
looked down. The young man was working directly below him. From above, his
curly black hair obscured his face. Poor Charles was going bald already. From
above, the bare spot on the crown of his head would have been very apparent.
The young man’s shoulders were really very wide. They made his waist and hips
look even smaller. It would be lovely to be in bed with a body like that.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The quiet of the morning had a palpable
weight. Somehow it magnified the sounds of the birds calling in the hills and
of the scuffling of the young man’s plimsolls against the garden tiles. It felt
almost warm on Jason’s skin. It was really a perfect day. The boundless sky,
the cloud of flowers hanging over the terrace, the handsome hotelworker going effortlessly
about his task—Jason felt a wave of contentment and happiness infuse his body.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The quiet was interrupted by the
sound of snoring. Charles must have rolled onto his back. That was one of his
annoying traits. Charles’s snoring had disturbed his sleep several times
already. If they were going to live together, he would have to do something
about that. Even with the bedroom door closed, his snores were loud enough to
wake anyone within twenty feet. It would be even worse in London, thought
Jason. His flat had a lot of charm, but the walls were thin. It would be
impossible to escape the noise if Charles lived there.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Jason glanced back into the sitting
room. Charles’s shirt and vest were tossed over the arm of a chair. The rest of
his clothes—the jeans, pants, socks and shoes he had worn the day before—lay in
a tangled heap on the floor. That would have to change. Jason knew that he
could be irrational about neatness, but Charles went too far in the other
direction. His flat was a mess. It was impossible to sit down in a chair
without first removing several days’ worth of dirty laundry. Every dish Charles
owned sat in his sink waiting to be washed up. When he needed a clean glass or
plate, he simply rinsed off the one with the least grime.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The young man finished straightening
up the terrace. He walked towards the chair where he had left his tunic. As he
passed by the ironwork gate in the wall, he stopped and peered out into the
street, twisting his neck so that he could see down the hill. He appeared to be
entranced by whatever he was seeing. He stood with one hand poised above the
back of the chair about to pick up the tunic. Jason held his breath. He wanted
to do nothing that would distract the young man and interrupt the scene below
him. If this was the Angelo that Maria had spoken to earlier, he was rightly
named. He looked like a young angel disturbed in his labours by a vision of
beauty. He was himself a vision of beauty.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Angelo turned suddenly and looked
back towards the hotel. He grabbed his tunic and put it on, buttoning it
hastily. He moved forward and then greeted someone coming out of the hotel.
Jason heard murmured ‘buongiornos’ and then Angelo gestured towards the tables,
inviting someone to sit. A couple, a man and a woman, appeared on the terrace.
They consulted briefly, pointing first at the tables shaded by the flowers and
then at a table in the sun. They chose the table in the sun. The wife spoke to
Angelo, who nodded and then hurried away. He returned shortly with a tray laden
with a cafetière of coffee, a dish of melon slices, and a plate of rolls along
with a bowl of sugar, a pot of milk, and plates and silverware. Angelo set the
dishes on the table with quiet competence and efficiency. Every movement was a
note in an aria of assured gracefulness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Jason suddenly wanted to sit in the
garden and have breakfast. He would choose the table under the flowers. He
would nod to the couple but not disturb them with conversation. Angelo would
serve him the same meal he had just brought the couple. They would smile at
each other. One of the bright red bougainvillea flowers would fall slowly onto
the table, a gift of the gods.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Jason went into the bedroom and
dressed quietly. He would let Charles sleep—Charles did like a lie-in. It was
another difference between the two of them. As Jason walked down the stairs, he
decided not to raise the subject of living together with Charles yet. It would
be better to wait until after they had returned to London and he could evaluate
the relationship soberly. It was too easy to get drunk on Italy. The country tempted
one into hasty decisions.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-56495567824919823282023-03-07T13:19:00.001+00:002023-03-07T13:19:15.568+00:00 A Heart in Port<p>2008</p><p>Sheephaven Bay cuts deep into County Donegal in the northwest of Ireland. The name derives from a misunderstanding. In Irish, the original name was Cuan na gCurrach, ‘haven of the ships’. When the English asked what the name meant, they heard ‘sheep’ instead of ‘ship’ in the local accent. The mistranslation has become so accepted that even in Irish the bay is now often known as Cuan na gCaorach, ‘haven of the sheep’.</p><p>The lower end of the bay is placid and sheltered and lives up to the original name. The mouth, however, faces directly north into the Atlantic, and the currents and winds there can be treacherous and unpredictable. This makes the bay a favourite of sailors, both those who prefer pleasant, safe outings in calm waters and those who want a more challenging sail in turbulent seas.</p><p>The summer nights are short along Sheephaven Bay. At that latitude the sun officially sets after ten in late June and early July, but it remains light long after that. The night sky is never truly dark and begins to grow light again around three. On all but the stormiest days, the bay is filled with sailboats and windsurfers from early in the morning until late at night. There are even some who would spend the entire day sailing if they could.</p><p>Early on the morning of June 23, St John’s Eve, Mark rushed into the kitchen of his family’s summer home. He had had a growth spurt that spring, and a long, bony arm peeling with sunburn snaked out to grab a piece of toast from the stack on the table as he sped past. His father caught Mark by a shoulder as he started for the door and spun him around. ‘And where are you off to then?’</p><p>‘I’ve got to get the boat ready for Brian. He’ll want to go out as soon as he gets here.’</p><p>‘Your brother’ll not be here for several hours. You spent all yesterday working on that boat. There can’t be much left for you to do. You can spare fifteen minutes to eat a proper breakfast.’</p><p>‘But, Da …’</p><p>‘But nothing. Your mother did not put breakfast on the table for you not to eat it. Now, sit and eat like a human being. And you’re not to be after your brother to take you out as soon as he gets here. He drove for several hours yesterday and spent the night on the ferry from Holyhead, and then he has to drive here from Dublin. He and his friend might want to rest before you herd them out to the bay.’</p><p>‘But the tide changes at four. Brian will want to catch the turn. And the weather report last night said fair weather and winds out of the northwest. We should have great sailing. Oh, I’d better see if there’s been any change.’ Mark leaped up from the chair he had so briefly occupied and switched on the radio. ‘And his friend won’t want to go with us. It will just be Brian and me.’ A newsreader’s voice blared through the static of the old receiver, drowning out all other noise.</p><p>‘Mark, turn that radio off. I want to eat breakfast in peace. Your mother and I came here to get away from the news for a few weeks. The weather won’t change if you have to listen to it half an hour from now. And this Luan likes sailing. That’s why Brian asked him. Now sit and eat your breakfast.’</p><p>Mark reluctantly sat down. He tore off a quarter of the slice of toast with his teeth and chewed rapidly a few times before swallowing. ‘What kind of name is Luan? It doesn’t sound like a proper name. Anyway there won’t be any room for him on the boat. He’ll have to sit here while Brian and I go out.’</p><p>Mark’s mother lowered the newspaper that she was reading and looked over the top of it at him. ‘That boat can hold three people. It has often enough before. And I don’t know what kind of a name Luan is. Maybe he was born on a Monday. The Innleys have invited us to join them at their bonfire tonight, and I imagine Mary Innley will ask him that very question. She’ll soon have his entire history out of him, and half the county will know it by tomorrow.’</p><p>‘Why can’t Brian stay longer? Why does he have to go to Galway tomorrow? If that Luan wants to see his family, he could go by himself, and Brian could stay here. He won’t be able to get much sailing in.’</p><p>‘So you have said—several times. Brian has his own life now, and he can’t always consult your desires. He and Luan have only four days’ break from their training programme. You will have to accept that he may occasionally have things on his mind other than sailing. All he told your father and me was that the two of them are coming here to talk with us and then with Luan’s parents. If your brother wants to tell you the reason, you’ll know soon enough.’</p><p>Mark sank lower into his chair. Both of his parents returned to the pages of the newspapers they were reading. A solid wall of print confronted him. For the past few days, neither of his parents had said much to him, and they had taken to speaking to each other in whispers, whispers that were quickly replaced with nervous smiles and tightly closed lips when he walked into a room. Even his gran had picked up the habit. He sighed loudly to make his objections known and stuffed another large bite of toast into his mouth. The newspapers barely quivered. Five minutes later, he judged that he had spent enough time at the table and asked to be excused. His father made a noise deep in his throat, and Mark took that for permission to leave.</p><p>He sped out the door and grabbed his bike on the run, leaping on to it when had enough speed. Too impatient to let the bike glide down the hill, he peddled vigorously, pumping his legs to go as fast as possible and avoiding by well-practised inches all the ruts in the path. He braked at the last moment, sending a spray of sand and pebbles into the air as he reached the dock where An Ghaoth Gheal waited. A few drops of dew glistened on the taut cover over the cockpit. He wiped them off carefully before unsnapping the cover and stowing it away in the chest at the end of the dock. He swabbed the boat down and began working through the checklist Brian had devised for him many years before.</p><p>Even though he knew it was much too early for Brian to arrive, he kept an eye on the road leading down the hill into the village on the other side of the old harbour. Every low red car caught his attention. He could tell that none of them were Brian’s ancient MG Midget, but still he followed each of them as it went into the village, hoping that he was wrong. He waited in vain for each car to emerge from behind the row of houses that faced the harbour and then race along the road that curved along the coast toward their house, the sound of the engine changing as Brian shifted through the gears to speed toward him. But none of them did.</p><p>Around noon his father walked down to the dock bringing him a sandwich and an apple. ‘Your mother thought you might want to eat down here.’ His father’s eyes wandered up and down the boat. ‘You’ve done a good job. Brian will be proud of you. I listened to the weather report just now. The winds are at 10-15 knots out of the northwest. It will be a good sail. How far are you thinking of going?’</p><p>‘Depends on what Brian wants. Maybe to Horn Head.’ Mark wiped a minuscule spot off the teak railing. When it came to An Ghaoth Gheal, his father lacked Brian’s critical eye. He hoped that his father was right and that Brian would approve of how well he had kept the boat.</p><p>‘Don’t stay out too long. Your mother and grandmother have a big meal planned for Brian’s visit, and then we have to be at the Innleys by 10:00.’</p><p>Mark nodded and bit into the sandwich his father had brought. He thought that would be a signal to his father to leave, but instead his father kicked his shoes off and climbed aboard the boat. He sat on the side opposite Mark and stretched his legs out. He shaded his eyes with a hand and looked off into the distance. ‘A lot of boats out today. You’ll have to be careful.’</p><p>Mark nodded. The remark was so obvious it didn’t merit more of a response. His father cleared his throat a few times and then spoke to the air over Mark’s right shoulder. ‘You know, Mark, Brian may have changed since the last time he was here. He’s qualified for the provisional registration now. Another year, and then he has to chose a specialty.’</p><p>‘I know.’</p><p>‘What I’m trying to say is that he’s an adult now. He’s been one for years, and he’s contemplating some major changes in his life. That’s why he’s coming here. To talk with your mother and me. He may not be the big brother you remember. I just want to warn you not to expect him to be the same.’</p><p>‘I know. But he’ll still like sailing. That won’t change, will it?’</p><p>His father chuckled. ‘I think we can be confident of that. But he may not be able to spend as much time on the boat with you as you might want. He’s here for another reason.’</p><p>‘What? He didn’t say anything to me except to get An Ghaoth Gheal ready. And if he’s here to talk to you and mam, why is he bringing this Luan?’ </p><p>‘I’ll let him explain that to you. That’s part of being an adult. You get to speak for yourself without your parents correcting you.’</p><p>‘Then I’ll be an adult right now.’</p><p>‘That day’ll come soon enough, lad. There’s no need to hurry it. And it’s less of a privilege than you might think. One other thing. Your brother will be happy if you’re nice to this Luan. And put a hat on. Your face will burn in this sun.’</p><p>‘That’s two things.’</p><p>‘Don’t be cheeky.’ His father tapped him on the shoulder and then stepped out of the boat. The motion pushed the boat away from the dock until the mooring ropes caught and pulled it back. The fenders chaffed against the dock as the boat rocked from side to side. To Mark’s mind, the boat was as anxious to be out on the bay as he was.</p><p>Mark returned to watching across the water to the road leading into the village. A solitary gull floated by, eyeing the food in his hand. He tore off a strip of crust and threw it into the water. The gull dived for it, but he had no sooner caught it in his beak and risen off the water than he was joined by another pair of gulls fighting to snatch it from him. Their raucous cries attracted more of them, and the first gull fled, pursued by the flock. The fight ended as abruptly as it began, and the gulls arranged themselves into a spiral tower, rising and falling as they drifted on the wind, watching for food.</p><p>The only sounds were the waves slapping against the side of the boat and the creaking of the timbers as the boat knocked gently against the dock. On the far side of the harbour to the east of the village, too distant to be heard, a line of three horses galloped through the shallow waters off the strand, the riders urging them on through the spray tossed up by their passage, joined together in the pleasure of the moment. When Mark was sure that his father could no longer see him, he pulled his cap out of his pocket and smoothed it down on his head.</p><p>He knew that he looked good in the red cap and dark aviator glasses that Brian had given him. His old white shirt was half unbuttoned and its sleeves folded back to the elbows, the tails tucked carelessly into his shorts. His sockless feet were shoved into the dirty grey plimsolls he wore on the boat. They were getting too small for him. He needed to buy a new pair. Maybe, he thought, he could find an old pair of Brian’s that would fit him.</p><p>The growth spurt had left him ungainly, but he knew that he would grow out of it, just as Brian had. Brian had been so tall and thin one summer, and then he had gone away to school and come back at Christmas a ‘fine figure of a man’ as their gran had said. He would be like Brian, follow the same path. He would qualify as a doctor, just like Brian. When he finished, he would join Brian in his practice and the two of them would work together the rest of their lives. Maybe living in the same house, or next door to each other. Brian would teach him everything he needed to know, just as he had taught him how to read the waves and see the wind in their brightness.</p><p>His eyes idly trailed an old green sedan down the road into the village. He shifted his vision elsewhere when it disappeared behind the row of buildings lining the harbour side. He was only vaguely aware of it when it took the north coast road a minute or so later and came toward him. He didn’t even pay it much attention when it turned into the driveway of his parents’ house. It was, he supposed, just someone dropping in to speak to his mother. He heard the sounds of car doors, and then his parents and the people in the car talking. It wasn’t until he heard someone call his name that he turned around and looked.</p><p>Brian was standing with his arm around his mother and waving toward him. Mark leaped to his feet, barely pausing long enough to kick his plimsolls off and thrust his feet into his regular shoes. He raced his bike up the path to the house, waving his right arm like a madman.</p><p>Brian ran a few steps toward Mark and hugged him tightly as he jumped off his bike and let it fall to the ground. ‘Lord, you’ve grown. You’re not my little brother any more.’</p><p>‘Where’s the MG? What have you done with your car? Why are you driving this piece of rubbish?’</p><p>‘Well hello and good to see you too. Now, stop choking me. Let me breathe.’ Brian held Mark at arms’ length and then grabbed the bill of Mark’s cap and pulled it lower over his forehead. ‘There now, it’s an improvement not to have to look at as much of your ugly face.’</p><p>Mark grinned and lifted a hand to push the cap back in place but then thought better of it and left it as it was as a sign of his brother’s affection.</p><p>‘And the MG takes more time to keep it going that I have time to give it. This “piece of rubbish” is Luan’s car.’ Brian hooked an arm around Mark’s shoulders and turned him around, still laughing. His hand tightened its grip on Mark’s shoulder as if he were afraid that Mark might run away. ‘This is Luan Cusack. Luan, this is my brother Mark. He didn’t really mean what he said about your car.’</p><p>‘Well, it is a piece of rubbish, but unlike yours it runs.’ His brother’s friend held out a hand to Mark and smiled at him. ‘So in addition to being an excellent sailor, you are also a good judge of cars. Brian’s told me a lot about you but he didn’t tell me that.’</p><p>Mark smiled at Luan shyly as they shook hands. He was unsure what to make of this stranger who seemed to know about him. As his father pointed out some nearby landmarks to Luan, he took advantage of the distraction to examine Luan more closely. Brian had mentioned many friends and colleagues since he had left for medical school and then the foundation programme, but this was the first one he had ever brought home. He wore a red cap and aviator glasses, much like Mark’s. He had very white, very even teeth. His dark black hair curled out from beneath his cap and stirred in the breeze. He was an inch or so taller than Brian and three or four inches taller than Mark. He looked athletic, as if he jogged and played a lot of sports.</p><p>His mother interrupted his father’s guided tour of the bay. ‘Come in. I’ll make a pot of tea. Did you eat? I can make you something if you’re hungry.’</p><p>‘Mam, Brian wants to go sailing.’ Mark tugged at his brother’s arm. ‘An Ghaoth Gheal is ready. I got everything ready. The tide changes just after 4:00, and if we leave now we can make it to the mouth of the bay just as the tide turns and come back on a rising tide.’</p><p>Brian put his arm around his brother’s shoulders again and drew him toward the house. ‘Just let us stretch our legs for a bit. Then we can go out.’</p><p>Mark fretted throughout the next hour. His mother had pushed everyone into the front lounge. In a departure from their usual practice, his parents were sharing the couch instead of sitting in their customary chairs. Both sat upright and close together, their hands in their laps and their feet planted solidly on the floor. His father had made Luan take the chair next to the fireplace, facing them. Mark took one of the window seats, as far from the others as he could. Through the open window, he could see down the hill to the bay, but the boat was hidden from view by the house. Brian had sat down briefly but soon stood up and began pacing about the room. When their mother had invited him to sit, he said that he needed to walk about. His path took him behind the sofa, forcing their parents to look around whenever they spoke to him.</p><p>The four adults seemed not to know what to say to one another. One of his parents might inquire yet again about the trip, only to be told once more that it had gone smoothly. Then all of them would take a sip of tea and look out the window rather than at any of the others. Mark couldn’t see why if they had nothing to say that it was necessary for them to sit politely pretending to have a conversation. Everyone was tense, a situation he attributed to the presence of Luan. The stranger was keeping Brian from being his usual self.</p><p>After Mark had looked pointedly at the clock several times, his brother said to him, ‘Why don’t you take Luan down to see the boat? He’ll help you get it ready. I’ll be along in a few moments.’</p><p>Mark looked uncertainly at the intruder. ‘Does he know what to do?’</p><p>‘He has a name, and you can talk to him directly. Can you try not to be so rude!’ Brian spoke sharply. ‘And yes, he knows what to do. He was sailing before you were born.’</p><p>‘It’s all right, Brian.’ Luan looked embarrassed at being the cause of a fuss.</p><p>‘No, it’s not all right. He’s fourteen years old now. He should know how to be polite.’</p><p>Brian’s sudden explosion of irritation snapped Mark to attention. ‘I was just asking.’ Brian had reacted so angrily to his question. For the first time in his life, his brother had taken someone’s else side over his. It was one of the few times Brian had criticised him. It was as bad as if Mark had slapped his face in front of his friends.</p><p>Brian covered his eyes with a hand and took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Mark,’ he said in a weary voice. ‘Could you just show Luan the boat? I need to talk with Mam and Da privately for a moment. Then I’ll come down.’</p><p>‘Let me get my jacket and shoes from the car, and I’ll be ready. Thank you for the tea.’ Luan quickly stood up, obviously thankful to have an excuse to leave, and walked out.</p><p>Mark looked uncertainly from his parents to his brother. None of them seemed to want to look at him. Finally his mother said, ‘Mark, please do as your brother asked. I’m sure that in any case both of you would rather be out on that damn boat than talking with your parents.’ She slammed her teacup down on its saucer and stood up. She strode over to a window and looked out, her back to the room. ‘Your brother wants to speak with us, and his “friend” needs attention. You haven’t done anything since we came here but worry about that boat. We don’t ask you for much. You can at least entertain Mr Cusack for us for a few minutes.’</p><p>Mark slid out of the room, half-relieved that he was allowed to leave and half-frightened by his parents’ and Brian’s unaccustomed displays of anger. The house was heavy with their unease. And he didn’t understand the reason for it. As he stepped out the door, he heard his mother say in a cold voice, ‘I believe you have something to tell us.’</p><p>Luan stood beside his car. He had put on a yellow cagoule and held a pair of plimsolls with one hand. He looked uncertain of his welcome. Mark wasn’t in a mood to be pleasant. ‘It’s down this way. We’ll have to walk. We’ve only the one bike here.’ He hurried on, not stopping to check if Luan was following him. When they were halfway down the hill, Luan broke the silence. ‘Brian tells me that An Ghaoth Gheal belonged to your grandfather.’</p><p>Mark nodded, without turning around. If he could, he would have walked even faster. The only thing that kept him from running was a fear that Brian would not forgive that rudeness. He had been instructed to ‘entertain’ Luan. No one had ordered him to pretend to be happy about it.</p><p>‘It’s such a beautiful name. An Ghaoth Gheal—that means “The Bright Wind,” doesn’t it?’ Luan said each syllable of the Irish name separately rather than running them together, as if he had learned Irish in school and never spoken it. Mark’s ears resented even that slight proof of difference. It was a sign of Luan’s foreignness, the cause of the unhappiness in their house. He didn’t bother to correct Luan’s pronunciation.</p><p>Luan suddenly came up beside him. ‘You’re a sturdy walker, as me mum would say. How often do you get out? On the water, I mean.’</p><p>Mark shrugged. Conversation seemed unavoidable now that Luan had caught him up. Besides there were things he wanted to know, and he couldn’t find them out if he kept quiet. ‘I’m not allowed to go out on my own yet. Da will go with me once or twice a week, if I pester him. But he doesn’t really like it. He didn’t start sailing until after he married mam.’</p><p>‘There’s no one else?’</p><p>‘There’s Jimmy Innley. That’s their house there, the one with the pile of wood for the bonfire tonight. But he’s only interested in going fast. He’d be happiest if the boat capsized or ran aground. That would be a lark for him. Sometimes one of the other owners will let me crew for him, but the only practice I get steering is with Da and Jimmy.’</p><p>‘Brian and I have the same problem. We’ve met some people in London who keep a boat at the Isle of Wight. They let us crew for them, but we’re just the help then. We tried renting a boat one weekend, but it was a tub. Had no lift at all. And the Channel is too tame if you’re used to Galway Bay.’</p><p>‘What sort of boat do you have at home?’ In spite of himself, Mark was curious about this stranger, this “friend” Brian had brought into their midst.</p><p>‘You mean in Galway? We have an old Hunter Sonata.’</p><p>‘Not too different from An Ghaoth Gheal then. Same rigging but a couple of feet longer.’</p><p>‘Brian says the Sonata’s too sluggish.’</p><p>‘Brian’s sailed on it?’</p><p>‘Yes, we go out every time he visits. He’s been on it several times now.’</p><p>‘I didn’t know. He didn’t tell me.’ The knowledge that Brian had been so close without coming to see him stung. Mark suddenly looked several years younger, the boy he had been a few months before peeping out behind the teenage face with its hints of the adult he would become. He seemed to shrink inside his clothes. He felt betrayed—the most important person in his life had developed other loyalties. The day was bringing too many surprises, and none of them welcome.</p><p>‘You’ll have to visit next time we’re in Galway. We’ve some great sailing. And we would be pleased to have you.’</p><p>Mark shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It can’t be any better than our coast.’</p><p>‘You’re just like your brother then. He says the waters in Galway Bay aren’t as challenging as those off the Donegal coast. And he complains that he can’t feel the water against the tiller in the Sonata the way he can in your boat.’</p><p>‘He’s always on about that. Feeling the water against the boat and seeing the wind ahead in the waves.’</p><p>‘He says you’re a natural at that. The best he’s ever seen.’</p><p>‘Nyah.’ Mark flushed with pleasure. The unexpected praise found a warm home inside his chest. ‘That’s wrong. He’s the best.’ He looked directly at Luan for the first time. ‘Did he really say that?’</p><p>‘Yes, several times. He said he had to work to learn what he knows. But you just knew it.’</p><p>‘That’s because he was always talking on at me about it. He made me sit beside him and hold the wheel as he steered so that I could learn what it felt like to sense what the wind and the water were telling you. By the time he let me try steering by myself for the first time, I already knew what it would feel like. I used to practice on my bed, at night.’</p><p>‘He’s very proud of you, you know.’ Luan stopped suddenly, forcing Mark to face him again. ‘You mustn’t mind what he said just now. He’s tense about this visit and then the one to my parents. Although my parents will be worse than yours.’</p><p>Mark had to fight a momentary urge to defend his parents and insist that they were much better at being much worse than Luan’s could possibly be. Instead he asked, ‘What’s happening? No one will tell me.’</p><p>‘Brian will explain it to you. He wants to do that.’</p><p>‘He’s not ill, is he? It’s not cancer.’</p><p>‘No, no, nothing like that. You mustn’t worry about that.’ They rounded the final corner in the path to the dock. ‘Oh, is that An Ghaoth Gheal? What a beauty. How old is it? Nobody uses wood like that now. It’s all plastic resins and fibreglass now.’</p><p>‘My grandfather had it built in the early 1970s. In a yard in Belfast.’</p><p>‘If Brian doesn’t come soon, we’ll leave him ashore and go out by ourselves.’</p><p>It felt good to be working alongside Luan. He moved about the boat efficiently, getting it ready to sail. Mark watched him carefully for mistakes, but there were none. Perhaps he did know something about sailing after all. And he didn’t seem a bad sort. Brian appeared just as they were finishing their preparations.</p><p>‘Mam says we’re all to wear life vests. She doesn’t want to add our deaths to her troubles.’ Brian looked a bit haggard. For the first few minutes his mind was on other things. After they cast off, Mark manoeuvred the boat away from the dock using the small electric motor. When they reached deeper water, he motioned to Brian and stepped away from the wheel.</p><p>‘What are you doing?’ Brian looked surprised.</p><p>‘Don’t you want the wheel?’</p><p>‘No. I’m a tourist today. You have to do the work. I’m just along for the ride, brother. And it’s a test. If you do well, I officially turn An Ghaoth Gheal over to you. Prove to me that you deserve it.’ He grinned and began raising the mainsail. Luan stepped forward to handle the foresail. The canvas began flapping and then stretched taut as the sails filled with the wind. An Ghaoth Gheal quickly picked up speed as Mark steered the boat into a beam reach and it began to move northward, towards the mouth of Sheephaven Bay.</p><p>For the most part, Brian and Luan sat on the railing forward of the wheel, midway along the hull. They faced outward, their legs dangling over the side of the boat, shifting into action only when Mark changed course. The two of them talked quietly. Except for an occasional word, Mark couldn’t hear what they were saying. From time to time Brian would point to some feature of the bay. And Luan would nod, and then the two of them would resume their conversation.</p><p>Brian had changed since the last time Mark had seen him. He had grown older, but more in manner than in years. Brian acts more like a man now, thought Mark. The last of his youth had been shed. And he seemed happier. Whatever had troubled him earlier was quickly forgotten once they were on the water and he was talking with Luan. Occasionally when Mark manoeuvred the boat, Brian would look over his shoulder and smile and hold a thumb up in approval.</p><p>Mark soon gave his full attention to the boat. He could sense the ebbing tide moving north beneath the hull, pulling the boat along with it, and what his grandfather had called the echoes of the waves against the shore, the reverberations of energy that flowed away from the land as the water shoaled. As he had been trained, he watched the water ahead, alert for clues to sudden shifts in the direction of the wind. ‘Watch the light dancing on the water ahead. That will tell you where the wind is and what it’s doing.’ Brian had schooled him in that over and over—to read the ‘bright wind’ that lent its name to An Ghaoth Gheal.</p><p>As they neared the mouth of Sheephaven Bay, he felt the water under An Ghaoth Gheal grow quiet as the movement of the ebbing tide slowed and then ceased. Mark waited for the moment that would soon come. He was vaguely aware that Brian and Luan had stopped talking and were watching him, but he ignored them, focusing totally on what was happening around him. And then there came a hint of a motion against the boat, the gentlest push against the keel, as the tide began to return to the bay. ‘I’m bringing it about,’ he shouted above the wind. Brian and Luan leaped up as Mark began turning the boat in a broad arc. The sails began to luff noisily as the boat briefly came head to wind. Luan backed the jib as Mark moved the tiller in the same direction. In unison, Luan lowered the foresail and Brian sent the spinnaker ballooning aloft. An Ghaoth Gheal leaped forward as if that were the moment she had been awaiting.</p><p>Brian gave a great shout, of joy, of triumph, as the boat sped down the bay. The three of them were flushed with the satisfaction of a perfectly executed manoeuvre. Mark felt a renewal of comradeship with his brother. And Luan was no longer a stranger—they had shared too much for that. He never knew how to describe the feeling, even to himself. But when he was sailing and the boat was running perfectly, he was taken out of himself. It wasn’t freedom exactly because the boat still depended on the water and the wind, but it was as if all the forces of nature were working together and his spirit had soared into the sails, raising the boat out of the water and sending it flying on the wind.</p><p>When they had docked and were securing the sails, Luan turned to him and said, ‘Thanks. That was great sailing. It felt as if the boat were alive.’</p><p>Brian growled at him. ‘Not just great. It was perfection. And if the boat was alive, it was Mark’s doing.’</p><p>Luan laughed. ‘I pity people who never experience that.’ He turned to Mark. ‘We work with some people who can’t understand why we sail every chance we get. They can’t imagine anything better than clubbing and drinking. They think we’re fools to want this.’</p><p>‘A heart in port,’ said Mark.</p><p>‘Oh, I haven’t heard that in years.’ Brian stopped what he was doing and stared at a memory.</p><p>Luan waited for an explanation from one of the brothers. When none was forthcoming, he asked, ‘What’s that?’</p><p>‘It’s a line from a poem our grandfather used to quote,’ said Brian. “Futile the winds to a heart in port. Done with the something, something.” Can’t remember the rest of it.’</p><p>‘ “Futile the winds to a heart in port. Done with the compass. Done with the chart. Rowing in Eden.” ’ Mark finished the quote. ‘He always said that would be the worst thing for a sailor—to be condemned to row a boat on a calm lake in paradise.’</p><p>*</p><p>Mark sat at his bedroom window. He was supposed to be in bed. After they had returned from the Innleys, he had been sent upstairs. But he was too excited to sleep. The Innleys had built a huge bonfire, and dozens of people had shown up to celebrate midsummer night’s eve. When his mother had drifted off to talk with her friends, Brian had passed him a bottle of beer. His father had seen it, winked at him, and then looked away. And when the sun had set and the fire had died down to the embers, Mr Innley had come over and asked Mark and Brian to sing. Brian said no, he wasn’t good enough to sing with Mark, but ‘my friend Luan is.’ When Luan had protested, Brian had said simply, ‘Do it for me.’</p><p>And so Mark and Luan found themselves conferring, trying to find a song both of them knew. Several people called out favourites, but they rejected them all. Finally, Brian said, ‘Sing “Gaoth Barra na dTonn”.’ And they did. They sang it for Brian, Mark felt. The others were just bystanders listening in. The words didn’t fit the season, but they matched what he felt that evening. It was an offering of thanks to the waves and to his brother, and that was all that mattered. And Luan’s voice was as good as promised. His baritone harmonised effortlessly with Mark’s high tenor. When they finished, there was a silence and then some cheers and clapping. Others stepped forward and sang. But none were as good as Mark and Luan.</p><p>The day had started badly but it had ended well, he thought. From his bedroom window, he could see down to the bay and the dock where An Ghaoth Gheal was moored. It was too dark to see the boat, but there was a long thin line of darkness against the reflection of the moon in the water and he imagined it was the mast. Over supper, Brian had raved about Mark’s sailing and argued strenuously that he should be allowed to sail alone. Their mother had objected that Mark was too young, but Brian had said, ‘No. He’s the best sailor on these waters, and he needs to be out on sailing every day, in every kind of weather. For the practice. He could bring home a gold medal in the Olympics. He’s that good. But he needs to practice.’ An Ghaoth Gheal, he pointed out, was built to be rigged so that a single person could sail it, and Mark was skilled enough to do that. His father had joined in on Brian’s side. There had been further argument, but it had ended when his father had told his wife that Mark had inherited her father’s talents. That satisfied his mother. She didn’t say yes, but she stopped saying no, and Mark took that as permission. He knew that after he had sailed by himself once, she would not protest.</p><p>The conversation was much more relaxed than it had been earlier. Brian was elated about something, and he wouldn’t let anything prevent him from being happy. By the time they left for the Innleys, everyone was laughing with him. Whatever had caused the tension before had disappeared.</p><p>Even with the moon, the night was dark below his window. A few fitful glimmerings across the bay betrayed the locations of the remains of other bonfires. Below him a rectangle of light appeared briefly on the ground as the back door of the house was opened and closed. Brian and Luan walked out to the low wall that separated the back garden from the fields beyond. They leaned against it, with their backs to him, standing closely together. The murmuring of their voices came through the open window.</p><p>Mark knew that if they turned around and looked up, they would see him at the window, but he was watching over them, not spying on them. That night he was charmed, every power was his. He would protect them and bless them.</p><p>The door opened again, and his parents stepped out. Brian and Luan turned around and walked toward them. His father shook Luan’s hand and then his mother kissed him. They repeated the action with Brian. A few words were exchanged and then all of them went back inside. Mark was still puzzling over the incident when he fell asleep.</p><p>*</p><p>Mark had been up so late the previous evening that he slept until past seven. When he came downstairs, his parents were talking in the kitchen. He heard his mother say, ‘It’s not what I would choose for him, but Luan seems nice, and he makes Brian happy. I will try to let that be enough and be happy for him.’</p><p>As Mark came around the corner into the kitchen, his father started to say something but then stopped when he saw Mark. ‘Oh, you’re up finally. The rest of us have already eaten. There’s some toast left for you. Brian and Luan are down by the boat. They have to leave early this afternoon. Don’t keep them waiting.’</p><p>That was all Mark needed to hear. He grabbed a slice of toast and flew out the back door. He could hear his mother calling something after him, but he outsped the words.</p><p>His brother and Luan were sitting close together on the storage chest at the end of the dock. When Mark ran down the dock, Brian stood up.</p><p>‘I’m sorry to be late. Let’s go.’ Mark started to jump aboard An Ghaoth Gheal, but Brian stopped him.</p><p>‘I have something to tell you. Walk with me for a bit. Luan will watch the boat.’</p><p>Brian started up the dock to the shore. Mark looked at him and then at Luan. Luan smiled and nodded his head toward Brian. ‘Go with him. It’s important.’</p><p>When he caught Brian up, he was seated on a rock overlooking the bay. He had drawn his legs up and was resting his forearms on his knees. He moved over slightly to make a place for Mark to sit.</p><p>‘This was one of my favourite spots when I was young. I used to spend my days here watching the boats and dreaming of the time when I could sail one. Sometimes I wish I could go back to that. Things were simpler then. Do you ever feel that way?’</p><p>Mark nodded. In truth, he couldn’t wait to be fully grown, but Brian seemed to want agreement. ‘You can always come back here. Once you qualify. It’s big enough to support a doctor. Everyone’s always saying we need a doctor.’</p><p>‘No, rural Ireland’s not a place that would tolerate me and Luan very well. We need a different sort of country. Some place like London.’</p><p>‘But Luan doesn’t have to be here.’</p><p>‘But I have to be with Luan. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. That’s why we’re here. To tell everyone that we have to be together.’</p><p>‘I don’t understand.’ Mark shook his head from side to side, trying to chase away the knowledge that was growing inside him.</p><p>‘I love him. He loves me. Next month in London we’re going to register a civil partnership and go through a ceremony. Mam and Da and Gran are going to be there. We hope that you and Luan’s parents and family will join us. I would like you to sing for us.’</p><p>‘No.’ Mark jumped up and away from Brian. ‘You can’t. It’s a sin.’</p><p>‘No, that’s the one thing it’s not.’</p><p>‘You’re joking. Stop it. I won’t listen. It’s not funny.’</p><p>‘Mark, please, just listen to me. Luan completes me. He’s …’</p><p>‘Noooooooo.’ Mark ran off blindly, his feet stumbling over the rocks along the shore. He heard Brian chasing after him. He had run only thirty feet when Brian grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him to a stop, wrapping his arms around Mark to keep him from fleeing.</p><p>Brian put his hand on the back of Mark’s head and held it tightly against his chest. He rocked back and forth. ‘Please. Don’t run away. I need you.’</p><p>Mark pounded his fists against Brian’s back. ‘Let go of me. I hate you. You’re not my brother.’</p><p>‘I’m still the same person I always was. I still love you. It’s just that now you know something about me you didn’t before.’</p><p>‘Why did you tell me? I didn’t want to know. You can change. We can make everything like before.’ Mark felt his brother stiffen and lift his head. He knew then that Luan had walked up and was standing behind him. ‘Make him go away. I don’t want him here. Just make him go away.’</p><p>Mark sprang away from the two of them as his brother released him from his grip. Luan stepped forward and stood beside Brian. The two brothers looked at each other warily, uncertain what to say next. Then Brian put his arm around Luan’s shoulder and pulled him close.</p><p>Tears welled up into Mark’s eyes. He started running again. Behind him, he heard Luan say, ‘No, don’t. Let him go. He needs to be by himself for a time.’</p><p>Mark turned around and danced furiously in place. The stranger had no right to interfere and tell Brian what to do. ‘I hate you. I hate you. Why did you come here? You don’t belong here.’ Then, sobbing, he ran off, putting more and more distance between himself and Brian and Luan. He could tell that they weren’t following him, but he kept running until he had rounded the next spit of land and was in a rocky cove. He found a place among a pile of boulders where he could hide and there he gave vent to his misery. He cried until his throat ached. The schoolboy words echoed through his mind. All the dirty hateful words. Queer. Faggot. Gay. Perv. All the jokes about that singer in Westlife. The sniggering over Captain Jack and Ianto in Torchwood and John and Craig in Hollyoaks. The remarks about the boys that didn’t play football, or the ones that were too good-looking or the ones like himself that didn’t quite fit in. And now his brother was one of those people.</p><p>He cried for himself and for finding himself bereft and alone. He cried because he felt tainted and would never be whole again. He was still crying when his father came several hours later. His father stood there silently for a moment and then said, ‘Come, Mark, it’s time for you to come home.’</p><p>‘Is he there?’</p><p>‘Brian and Luan left several hours ago. They were sad that you weren’t there to say good-bye, but they understood that you had to be alone.’</p><p>‘I don’t ever want to see him again. You can’t make me. I won’t.’</p><p>‘That will be your decision. However, both Brian and Luan will be welcomed in our house whenever they choose. We won’t change that for you.’</p><p>Mark nodded. ‘I’ll go away when they come.’</p><p>His father smiled sadly in reply and nodded. ‘Come, your mother’s getting worried. It’s time for tea. You didn’t have much for breakfast and you didn’t eat lunch. You must be hungry.’</p><p>The house was silent when he returned. Neither of his parents said anything about his absence or about Brian and Luan. It was as if they had decided to ignore everything that had happened. They talked about the news as they ate and spoke about their plans for the days ahead. Mark sat at the table without saying anything. When they finished, he went up to his room.</p><p>He didn’t notice the envelope at first. He threw himself onto his bed and lay there feeling miserable. He took stock of his room. All the sailing paraphernalia on the walls and propped up in the corners. All of it useless to him now. He would never sail again. He knew that. An Ghaoth Gheal was simply a reminder of a brother who had chosen another course.</p><p>The patch of whiteness on his desk glowed in the half-dark and seemed much larger than it was. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t. His eyes kept coming back to it. He finally gave in and opened the envelope and pulled out the sheet of paper inside. He hoped it contained the news that Brian was renouncing Luan and coming back to him. But he knew even before he read it that it wouldn’t.</p><p>‘Dear Mark, I have given my heart to only two people in my life, and you are one of them. It started the day Mam and Da brought you home from hospital and let me hold you for the first time. You were a miracle to me. You still are. There aren’t words to tell you how special you have made me feel over the years since and how important it is to me that you are my brother and that you love and respect me. I know that I have hurt you, but I cannot be other than what I am, and I hope you will understand. Please accept me for what I am. Love, Brian.’</p><p>Mark crumpled the piece of paper up and tossed it toward the bin. It bounced off the rim and fell to the floor. He grabbed it up and ripped it to shreds. When he couldn’t tear it into smaller pieces, he stood there with his chest heaving, trying to stifle his sobs so that his parents wouldn’t hear him crying. He frantically began pushing the pieces of the letter about and trying to flatten them and make them whole again. He cried because there wasn’t enough Sellotape in the world to put the letter back together. He cried for troubles that he couldn’t solve. He cried for envy of all the hearts in port, unperturbed by their ignorance of the winds.</p><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-54582088519670436942023-03-06T22:41:00.002+00:002023-03-06T22:41:24.013+00:00A Silence in the Sky<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">© 2009 by
the author. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It’s so
quiet here.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But
there’s the wind, and the waves hitting the shore. They’re very loud tonight. There
must have been a storm out at sea. Otherwise they wouldn’t be so big.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But that’s
what I mean. Everything sounds louder because it’s so quiet here. There’s no
background noise. No traffic. No people talking in the street. This house
doesn’t even make creak.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It’s built
of stone. That’s all that was available on the island until recently.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Recently?
But there are old houses in the village built of wood.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Well,
recent meaning my great-great-grandparents’ generation. The late nineteenth
century. That’s when this house was built.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Even time
is different here.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘ “Silence
and slow time”?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Something
like that.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Does it
bother you?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Chris took
the pillow from beneath his head and propped it against the headboard. He
pushed his torso up so that he was sitting. Nick lifted his head and stared at
him, his eyes reflecting the moonlight coming through the open window. He
waited for Chris to answer his question.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Chris
reached over and took a lock of Nick’s hair between his fingers and rubbed it
gently. ‘No, not after last night. Now, that was silence.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nick
laughed. ‘ “O, King of the Bright Glory, give us last night again.” ’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What’s
that?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘A line
from an old love song.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>******</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Can we
rest for a second? I can’t take much more. How much farther is this place?’ Chris
clutched at a bush to keep from sliding back down the steep hillside. The
ground underfoot was muddy and slippery. ‘We’ve been climbing for two hours.
It’s going to be dark soon. How will we get back if it’s dark?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No. We
haven’t been walking anywhere near that long. An hour at most. We’re almost at
the spot I want to show you. Another ten minutes, and we’ll be there. And
there’s a full moon tonight. We’ll be able to see.’ Nick stopped several paces
ahead of Chris. He was half hidden in the brush that covered the hill. Only his
head and shoulders were visible. He turned back and stepped carefully down the
hill until he was standing next to Chris. ‘Are you warm enough? I should have
thought to tell you to bring a windcheater. I forgot how cold it can be up
here. Would you like to borrow mine?’ Without waiting for Chris to answer, he
unshouldered his backpack and pulled out a red cagoule and shook it out.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What about
you? Aren’t you cold?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, I have
the genes for it. My ancestors adapted to this climate. This feels comfortable
to me. Here, put it on.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Chris took
the jacket. As he threaded his arms through the sleeves, a faint smell arose
from the cloth. A lived in, comfortable smell compounded of the sea and driftwood
fires and Nick. When Nick turned around and started back up the hill, Chris
lifted the collar of the jacket to his nose, but the smell had already
disappeared. He didn’t know whether to trust his memory. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps he had just imagined it. He had to
hurry to catch Nick up. The evening walk that Nick had suggested was turning
into more exercise than he wanted, but he didn’t want to be stranded in this
unfamiliar countryside. If he got separated from Nick and became lost, he could
always walk downhill, he supposed. Eventually his path would cross the road
that led to Nick’s cottage. But he wasn’t sure how long ‘eventually’ would take
and the path down was steep. It wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. The sun
was setting and it was growing darker as he followed Nick walking up the hill,
more by sound than by sight.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The
clearing at the top of the hill took him by surprise. One moment he was
struggling uphill through the dense undergrowth, and the next step he was in
open space. Nick was already standing on a large flat boulder near the crest of
the hill, his head and body ruddy from the late evening glare. He held out a
hand to Chris and pulled him up onto the rock. ‘Look, you can see the open ocean.’
He put an arm around Chris’s shoulders and swung him around to face west. His
other arm transcribed an arc through the air, offering the view to Chris.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh my god,
it’s beautiful. Is this why you brought me up here?’ Before them the ground
dropped steeply away for several hundred feet before flattening out to a narrow
ribbon of land by the shore. The waves shoaled soundlessly, the only record of
their passage a swiftly moving shadow that ended in slim band of white foam
against the beach. Far out in the ocean the sun was setting.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In the
fading light, Chris examined the scene before him. There were no boats in the
ocean, and the valley had no roads, no houses, no sign of human passage. ‘There’s
no one here?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No one,’
said Nick. ‘I’ve never seen anyone here since I found this place fifteen years
ago. I was ten or eleven, somewhere in there. As far as I know, I’m the only
one who ever climbs this hill. The valley’s probably been deserted for years,
if it ever was inhabited. I’ve seen fishing boats passing by, but they would
have no reason to stop here.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Did you
come here often?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes. All
the time. It was a place I could be alone and think things out for myself. Where
I could be myself and drop the mask. This place was my refuge from all the
pressures I felt to be someone else. Someone other than who I am. I always make
sure to come up here at least once every time I visit.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It’s an
important place for you then.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes,
that’s why I wanted you to see it. You’ve done so much to free me. You’ve built
this space where we can be together, in the way we should be together. There
was a time when this was the only place where I could be with myself, with the
real me. But you’ve shown me that place can be everywhere I need it to be.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Chris
reached up and clasped Nick’s hand that lay upon his shoulder. He held on to it
as he turned around to look east, back the way they had come. In the distance
lights marked the location of the village. The valley between him and the bay on
which Nick’s cottage sat was already dark. The sea surrounding the island was
visible in all directions. At the end of the peninsula north of the village was
a white building. ‘I can see your house.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nick nodded
without looking around. ‘Don’t worry. The moon will be up shortly. Once our
eyes adjust to the night, we’ll be able to find our way back.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I’m not
worried about that. Not about the way back in any case. The way forward
perhaps, but not the way back.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘The way
forward? With me, you mean?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Chris nodded.
He didn’t want to say anything. Words would have destroyed the magic he felt
growing around them. He watched the light fade from the ocean as the sun
disappeared. At that latitude, the sky far above them remained light long after
the land had turned dark. The night seemed to creep upward from the land into
the sky. He felt Nick and himself merging with the stillness of the air, of the
night, as if they were growing light and insubstantial, joining together. ‘Even
the sky is silent here.’ He spoke quietly, barely disturbing the air with his
thoughts. The words seemed to float out of him. ‘It’s as if there will be no
tomorrow. No dawn. No world. Nothing but us. This place is like you. I understand
why you wanted to show it to me. It has silences in it just like you. Fierce,
elemental things that don’t need to be spoken in order for them to be. The
world before words.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But even as
he spoke, he felt himself becoming separate from the scene, once again an
observer of it and not part of it. Once he started speaking, he wanted to say
more and more. It felt comforting to disturb the silence, to impose himself on
it, to reassert the fact of being Chris. And what he had said about Nick wasn’t
true. He wasn’t even sure what he had meant. It was just something that felt
right to say at the moment. It should be true, he thought. Maybe it would
become true because he had said it. If not with Nick, then with someone else.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He put an
arm around Nick’s back and drew closer to him. He suddenly felt he had to touch
Nick, to reassure himself of his own physical reality against the silence
around them. He pulled the tail of Nick’s shirt out of his trousers and touched
Nick’s back. The skin was warm and smooth and firm beneath his fingertips.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nick didn’t
move at first, as if he sensed what Chris was thinking. ‘I’m here. I’m not
going to go away.’ He turned toward Chris and embraced him. ‘We can say
whatever words we like. Bring whatever world we want into being.’ He pointed
over head. ‘Stars, I want thousands of stars. And a bright moon that’s always
full.’ He gestured toward the east where the moon was just rising. ‘You see, we
can have whatever we want. I will make you a world. A tranquil sea and a green
land and a blue sky and warm temperatures and gentle breezes. A garden in
paradise. All for you.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Don’t
forget good beer.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘And good
beer.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">They kissed
and held each other for a long silence, swaying gently.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You’ve
never brought anyone else to see this place?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, you’re
the first person I’ve ever shown it to.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘So you’ve
never made love up here?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nick smiled
and shook his head no. He touched Chris’s mouth with his fingertips. ‘What are
you thinking? These rocks are hard, and the ground is damp.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘We’ll
manage. We just have to be careful not to roll off this cliff.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Always so
practical.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Not
always.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">*******</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘An old
love song?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes, it’s
a prayer to keep love as wondrous and magical as the first time. To keep it
forever fresh. To keep it like last night.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘That would
be nice. But this time without the rocks and bushes. Those I will willingly
abandon for a comfortable bed.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Funny, I
didn’t notice at the time how hard those rocks were.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Nor I. But
we’re going to remember them. We’ll both have bruises and scratches for days. I
don’t know what I was thinking. You got me drunk on your words. Offering
me<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>paradise and galaxies of stars.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You can
still have them. Let me conjure them up for you.’ The faint pleading note in Nick’s
voice hung in the air.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I don’t
think they would survive <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>.
Speaking of which, we had better get some sleep. I want to start back early
tomorrow. I’ve some errands to run before the shops close. I’m afraid it’s back
to the mundane world for us. Do you mind if I close that window? I’m not used
to all this fresh air.’ Chris didn’t wait for Nick to reply. He hopped out of
bed and shut the window.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-19869331441812773682023-03-04T15:27:00.008+00:002023-03-04T15:27:41.779+00:00A Distant Danger<p>© 2007 by
the author. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">nexispas@yahoo.co.uk<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It stormed
during the night. The sound of the rain and the wind against the house and the thunder
on the other side of the river awakened me, and I pulled the curtains open to
watch. The lightning played along the ridge of the hills to the northeast, but
by counting ‘one one-thousandth, two one-thousandth . . . ’ between the flash
and the arrival of the thunder, I determined that the storm was at a safe
distance. Each succeeding bolt of lightning showed that it was moving slowly
away.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I left the
curtains open when I went back to bed and watched drowsily as the receding
lightning briefly lit up the rectangles of the window from time to time. I lay
there, feeling warm and safe in the cocoon of the bedcovers, listening to the gradually
diminishing sound of the rain hitting the glass. It’s odd how comforting a
distant danger can be.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In the
morning I awoke to find the shadows of leaves moving on the ceiling of the
bedroom. The puddles left by the rain were reflecting the light of the sun up
through the leaves of the lilac bushes below the window and casting images on
the ceiling. The sharply defined heart-shaped shadows swayed gently in the dawn
breeze. I had seen something like this before. Not in this room, though; some far
place at the edge of memory. Another bed, another ceiling.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The vision
nagged at me all day. At unexpected moments in the tedium of my workday, it
surfaced, taunting me with the failure of my aging mind. What bothered me most
was the certainty that the shadows on the ceiling were important, a remnant of my
‘jolly corner’. Somewhere in the detritus of my history, some event of
significance lay buried, something suppressed lest it unravel me.</span> </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">******<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The etiolated
geraniums in the pots on the narrow ledge were always dusty. The pots sat on an
iron grill eight inches or so wide outside the window. A railing a few inches
high around the edges of the grill was supposed to prevent them from falling
four stories to the street below. The landlady, Signora Alberti, had been
insistent that Galen not water them; she did it herself every Friday, a
half-litre of water, no more, no less, per pot. When Galen opened the curtains
every morning, he was always surprised to see the pots still there, the long, gnarled
branches of the geraniums undamaged by the wind that always blew outside the
window at night. Every morning, he expected to find the shattered remains of a
pot adding to the litter of the road, a few bright red flowers lighting up the ordinariness
of the narrow street until they were trodden into the dust.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Perhaps it
had been a mistake to come to Florence at the end of Lent Term. Ten days in
Italy in early April had beckoned in Cambridge in February, the promise of
warmth and sun the impetus to muddle through his classes. The pictures of the
Pensione Albertus in the brochure had looked inviting, and the price was only a
bit above what he had budgeted. The reality was a small room at the top of a
steep flight of stairs, a shared toilet and bathroom two floors below, and the
eagle-eyed Signora Alberti every ready to complain about her guests and their
shortcomings--volubly in Italian to her neighbours and in simple, broken
English to Galen punctuated by gestures whose meaning was unmistakable. He had
thought that by economising on meals, he would be able to afford the trip. Once
there, he had discovered that, between the hotel bill and the entrance fees at the
museums and churches, even the minimally acceptable workman’s cafes were beyond
his means for more than one meal a day. For breakfast and the evening meal he
made do with chunks of bread torn from a loaf and some fruit he bought every
evening and finished every morning. He carefully removed all evidence of these
meals as he left each day and threw the remains in a public trash bin. He
suspected that Signora Alberti would find food in the room another grievance.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">At first it
had been enough to be in Italy. Florence was sunny and magnificent in the
spring light. He had done the usual tourist things, visiting museums and
churches. Each day a carefully planned round of sightseeing kept him busy until
he had to return before the eleven o’clock lockup at the Pensione Albertus. La Signora’s
English was sufficient to make it clear that she would not be happy to be
roused after eleven to open the door to anyone discourteous enough to disturb
her nightly slumbers in the overstuffed chair before her television.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">On the
sixth day, the weather had turned hot and humid, and his room on the fourth
floor grew stifling. Even with the window and the door left open, his body
stuck to the sheets, and it proved impossible to find a position that did not
leave him restless and uncomfortable. Beads of sweat rolling down his face woke
him before dawn. He felt slightly nauseous and fled the boarding house as soon
as he heard Signora Alberti greeting one of her neighbours in the street. The
pavements were already radiating heat upward. His ticket for the Uffizi was for
that day, and he walked around, keeping to the shaded side of the streets as
much as possible until the doors opened just after 8:00. He fled gratefully out
of the sun and heat. A slow meander through marble-cooled culture seemed the perfect
option for the day.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In the
early afternoon he wandered into the Rembrandt Room and found himself standing
before Rembrandt’s portrait of himself as a young man. The face could almost be
English, Galen thought. The eyes, though, were so judgmental, as if the sitter
had taken a look at the artist’s work and become sceptical of Rembrandt’s
ability to render an accurate likeness and had grown rather disappointed about the
painter’s failings.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You look
like him.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Galen
turned to confront the speaker with a look of annoyance on his face. His
initial impulse was to register his disapproval of this interruption of his
contemplation of Art by stalking away without speaking. Instead he gasped as h</span>is
eyes met those of a young man two or three years older than himself, dressed in
the brown duster of the museum staff. The speaker’s body was dense and compact
as if ordinary flesh had been compressed into a harder substance. <span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He could have stepped out of one of
the many portraits of cavaliers and noblemen and popes covering the walls of
the Uffizi. Not ugly but masculine rather than handsome, someone practised in
getting what he wanted and certain that he was entitled to it. Except the
present incarnation was obviously very alive and not a portrait of a long-dead plunderer.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But I
don’t look anything like Rembrandt.’ Galen’s voice came out strained and
high-pitched, as if his throat had constricted. To his own ears, he sounded as
if he were stammering.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The young
man looked carefully at the painting and then at Galen. ‘My English is not
good. I did not mean that you resemble the man in the picture. I mean that you
look at the picture the same way he looks at us. The gaze, is that right? the
way of the gazing is the same. The same look of doubt. But why are you
suspicious of the portrait? It is one of Rembrandt’s best. We are fortunate to
have it at the Uffizi.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I don’t
know enough to be suspicious of the painting. I was just thinking that the man
in the picture looks rather doubtful of the painter’s ability to succeed in
painting this portrait. Perhaps my thoughts were shaping my face.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The young
man examined Galen’s face carefully, almost clinically, like a sculptor
wondering if one final stroke of the chisel will bring perfection or
destruction. When he had finished his perusal, he nodded as if he had reached a
decision and then extended his hand. ‘I am Niccolò di Bardi. I am a conservator
here. Of the wood objects.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Galen Michelson.
I am a student, from England. I came to Florence for the break between terms.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Would you
like a cup of coffee? Or something to eat? I was on my way to the employees’ kitchen
for my meal. We are allowed to bring a guest.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I would
like that very much.’ Galen found himself eager to be in Niccolò’s company. He
hadn’t spoken with anyone in days except to order food or ask for directions.
He had come to Florence hoping for an ‘encounter’, as he thought of it to
himself. He wasn’t quite sure what the young man standing before him was
offering, but even if it was only a conversation, it was more than he had had
so far.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Perhaps
later I can show you what I do.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I would
also like that very much.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Niccolò’s
face lit up with pleasure. ‘Then, Signore assomiglia a Rembrandt, please to come
with me.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The
employees’ basement canteen was a simple affair. A coffee urn, salad, fruit,
bread, a pot of tomato sauce kept warm on a hotplate, and an attendant who
boiled a plate of pasta for those who asked. Niccolò had sat Galen at a table
and then spoke to the attendant in Italian too rapid for Galen to follow.
Shortly two plates of spaghetti appeared on the table, Galen’s with noticeably
more food on it than Niccolò’s. The room was almost deserted. An elderly man
sat at a table against the far wall and read a newspaper. The attendant walked
in and out of the room, removing the food and apparently preparing to close the
canteen.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Galen?
Like the doctor?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes, Galen
Harvey Michelson. My father is a doctor. I think he hopes that my name will
inspire me to become one too.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘And you
hope?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘The usual
things. A good life. Happiness. Comfort--not great wealth necessarily, but
enough to be comfortable. Respect. Success. And you?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Love. And
success--as an artist.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Are you a
painter?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, I want
to be a sculptor. But for now, I practice in clay. I cannot afford to have my
works cast yet.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘And you
work here? That must be interesting.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I will
show you later. I help preserve the wood carvings and the frames around the paintings.
It gives me a chance to study them and to learn from them. I am learning to
see. It is what my teachers say, that artists must learn to see, both what is
there on the surface and what is hidden below, the bones and the mind that make
the face.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The two
chatted on, while Galen finished his meal. He had been hungry, and somehow Niccolò
had known that. They talked about the sites that Galen had visited, and Niccolò
wrote out a list of out-of-the-way churches worth a visit. To his surprise
Galen discovered it easy to talk with Niccolò. His usual reserve with strangers
was set aside; he was, he reminded himself, on vacation and far away from
anyone he knew. And at the back of his mind was the hope that this might
develop into something more physical. As Niccolò spoke, Galen found himself
staring at the young Italian’s lips and imagining how firm they were. His gaze
drifted upward to Niccolò’s eyes. Niccolò met his gaze without flinching or
averting his eyes. He stared back with amusement, as if he understood the game
and knew what Galen was thinking but felt it unnecessary to state the obvious.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Soon they
were the only ones left in the canteen. Niccolò took the dishes into the room
where the attendant was working. A burst of laughter and loud comments greeted
him. Obviously Niccolò was a great favourite of the older woman. Galen remained
at the table while the two traded what sound like mutual gibes. He had made a
mistake in coming alone to Florence. The brief conversation with Niccolò made
him realise that he would have enjoyed it more if there had been someone to talk
to.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Niccolò
looked impish when he emerged. In high spirits he led Galen to the
conservators’ workrooms, pausing occasionally to explain the work being done.
The two paused silent for several minutes before Caravaggio’s great <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Head of the Medusa</i> as a restorer working
with minuscule bits of cotton daubed a fixative on a weak spot on the canvas. Galen
shuddered inwardly at the anguish in the face of the Medusa. It hadn’t asked to
be what it was. Perhaps it longed to love those it met, or simply to be able to
talk with them. But it was forever denied the comfort of human companionship.
And then to be deprived of life at the moment it saw its true face in the
mirror of the assassin’s shield--to know in its final instant what it looked
like--that would be terrible.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Niccolò’s
workroom was filled with bits of wood in various states of decay. It smelled,
not unpleasantly, of varnishes and glues and old dust. His current project was
the head of a fifteen-century wooden sculpture of Saint John the Evangelist.
Dry rot and insects had damaged the back of the skull where it had rested
against the wall of a church for centuries. Niccolò explained that he would be
able to save only the front of the original head. The damaged back would be
replaced by a rough carving shaped like the original. ‘But no one looked at the
back of the head for centuries, so it will not be missed. It is the face that
is important.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The carver
had chosen to represent John as the beloved apostle. Youthful, innocent, happy,
content, unsuspecting that the object of his love and adoration would shortly
be crucified. Not the best sculpture, but not the worst either. There had been
an intelligent hand behind its making. ‘The bones.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What?’ Niccolò
glanced up from his work.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘The bones
you were talking about earlier. They are there.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Niccolò nodded.
‘And the mind.’ He smiled and returned to his work. Galen sat and watched Niccolò’s
strong hands carefully remove centuries of grime. His confidence with his tools
was reflected in the sure movements of his fingers across the face of the
sculpture. His touch was almost sensual as he stroked the face with his
brushes.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>From time to time he would
stop and briefly explain what he was doing, and Galen would nod to indicate
that he understood. Conversation seemed an intrusion into centuries of silence.
It was extraordinarily peaceful to sit there and watch a labourer who could
have just stepped from a Renaissance workshop.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I am
ruining your visit to the Uffizi.’ Niccolò had at last put down his tools and
covered the head with a piece of cloth. ‘You come to see our masterpieces, and
instead you spend hours watching me clean a bit of rotten wood.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No. I
enjoyed watching you work and see what you do. It was an introduction to how an
artist works.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Not an artist.
Here I am a worker. When I leave at night, then I go home and become an artist.
Or try to become one. Perhaps you would like to see what I do? My sister is
about to give birth. My parents have gone to Rome to be with her. But my mother
left much food for me. You would do me a favour, if you would help me eat it.
That way, she will think that I am not forgetting to eat and hungering myself while
she is gone.’ Niccolò grinned mischievously. He seemed to shed about ten years
in age and become a boy tricking his family.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Niccolò led
him into a back courtyard and unlocked a yellow Vespa. He stowed his coat in
the compartment under the seat and rolled up his shirt sleeves to expose his
forearms. His tanned arms were covered with fine dark hair. With every movement,
the muscles in his arms rippled the surface of the skin. Galen thought that he
had never seen such strong-looking wrists. He could almost feel what it would
be like to lift one of Niccolò’s arms to his mouth and kiss the inside of the
wrist, there where the veins crossed dark and blue over the hollows formed by
the tendons.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You will
have to ride behind me and hold to me.’ That was Niccolò’s only prelude to a
wild dash through the streets of Florence. It occurred to Galen that Niccolò’s
ancestors must have galloped horses through these same streets with as much
apparent disregard for safety and with as much precision. Galen was so worried
about distracting Niccolò that he dared not move. He tried to compress the
various bits and pieces of his body as much as possible to prevent collisions
with passers-by and the motorcars that seemed intent on squeezing past them
with only a fraction of an inch to spare. The only consolation was that, unlike
the many young women laden with packages and similarly ensconced behind other males
driving motorbikes, at least he did not have to ride sitting sideways.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Niccolò
stopped only once, to rush into a baker’s to buy a loaf of bread, leaving the
machine running and Galen steadying it and hoping that it didn’t decide to take
off on its own. Niccolò thrust the long, narrow loaf into Galen’s hands,
leaving his passenger with only one arm to cling to what he was increasingly
sure would the last person he would ever touch. Niccolò’s shouted assurance
that they were almost there was accompanied by a spurt of speed down a narrow
cobblestone path between high walls that did nothing to allay Galen’s worries. Niccolò
abruptly braked and brought the Vespa to a halt before a small door in a wall.
Galen bounced against Niccolò’s body. Niccolò turned his head and stared
directly into Galen’s eyes. Their faces were only an inch apart. Galen was
acutely conscious of how beautiful Niccolò’s eyes were and how close his lips
were. As soon as they stopped moving, the dampness and humidity returned, and
he felt the heat of Niccolò’s body through the two layers of clothing
separating them.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘This is my
home.’ Niccolò grinned. ‘If you will release me, I will open the door.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh, I’m so
sorry.’ Galen jumped back and off the motorbike. ‘I wasn’t aware . . . I didn’t
realise I was holding on so tightly. I’m not used to moving so fast with so
much traffic around.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I was not
making a complaint. I am enjoying being held by you. It is as if you rely on me
to protect you. And I enjoy the speed. It removes the day from my brain.’ Niccolò
looked at Galen frankly. ‘Do you understand?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Galen’s
chest felt as if it were being crushed. The air was suddenly too heavy to
breathe. ‘Yes, I think I do.’ For a second he contemplated shoving the loaf of
bread into Niccolò’s hands and then fleeing. Instead he cleared his throat and
plunged ahead with a recklessness he seldom showed. ‘And now that it is over, I
can say that I think I enjoyed the ride. Thank you, Niccolò. It will become an
unforgettable experience. But where are we?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘This is
the door to our back garden.’ Niccolò unlocked the door and half-lifted,
half-wheeled his motorbike over the raised threshold. From the other side of
the door came the sound of the kickstand being pushed into place and of a chain
and padlock being wrapped around the bike. Galen stood outside uncertain
whether to enter or not. Visible through the doorway was a wall of climbing
roses. A large stand of bamboo grew from a gigantic Chinese porcelain tub just
inside the door. Water falling into a hidden basin and the hum of insects were
the only sounds.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Niccolò’s
head appeared around the edge of the door. ‘If I am to give you dinner, you
must come in. The neighbours will make angry if I feed you in the street.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But this
is beautiful.’ Niccolò had locked the door behind them and then guided Galen
through an opening in the wall of roses bushes, carefully holding a thorn-laden
cane out of Galen’s way. The small garden was filled with light and colour.
Goldfish swam in a moss-covered basin overhung with flowering crape myrtles. Visible
through the bushes and trees was a large stone house. ‘Who are you, Niccolò di
Bardi? This is not a museum worker’s house.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘My family
has lived here for many years. We have had time to build and make for ourselves
comfort. I think it will rain soon and then it will cool. It will be much
better tonight. For now, we can use the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">elletroventola</i>.
I do not know this word in English. The electric machine that moves the air so
that we feel better.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘A fan. An
electric fan, I think.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘A fan. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Uno ventaglio</i>. Yes, that would be senseful.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In the
event, a fan was almost unnecessary in the cool, dark house. Niccolò led him to
the kitchen and swiftly put a meal on the table with the same sure economy of
motion he had shown in his work at the museum. The two quietly exchanged
information about themselves as they ate. Galen offered to help with the
washing up, but Niccolò poured him another glass of wine and made him sit while
he dealt with the dishes. ‘You are nervous of me, I think,’ he said as he dried
the final plate and put it away.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I’m not
usually so brave. I am much more cautious and reserved at home.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It is a
vacation for you. You can be brave. And I do not bite. Now you would like to
see my work.’ Niccolò took Galen by the hand and drew him out of the chair. He
led the way down a long corridor and into another section of the house, into a
large room filled with clay heads. Charcoal drawings were tacked to every
surface. All of them of people. Extraordinarily alive people. People laughing.
Faces contorted with rage, faces filled with joy. Hopeful faces. Pensive faces.
Old, young, male, female, a vibrant human parade. A schoolboy bent over his
studies, pencil rigidly held upright over a tablet of paper, sat at a table
next to an old woman cutting up vegetables. A young man and woman drinking wine
smiled at a shared joke. All captured in a few, swift, confident strokes, a
smudge of the finger to create a shadow.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Niccolò
waited at the doorway while Galen walked around the edges of the room examining
the drawings and the sculptures. ‘I do not understand the process. These clay
heads will be cast in metal?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Eventually.
If I can convince someone to buy them.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But they
are wonderful.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Perhaps.
They are, I do not know how to say this, too bright. Like shoes that are new
and have no character yet. I do not have sharp edges and scars from use yet. My
teacher says that I have had too easy a life so far. I need to experience
sorrow and unhappiness. I am too optimistic, too happy.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Your
teacher is a fool. You have a great talent.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘No, she is
not. Talent is not enough. I need to understand all life in order to put it in
my work. But I will learn. And I will get better. And now, may I ask a favour?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Anything, Niccolò.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘May I draw
you? It will not take long. I am quick.’ Niccolò held up a pad of paper and a
stick of charcoal and motioned Galen toward a chair. He was as good as his
word. He moved about the room, making rapid sketches of Galen from various
angles, his work interrupted only long enough to tear one sheet from the pad
and place it on the table. When he finished, he tacked the sheets up along the
wall, covering up a layer of other drawings. ‘I will make a head from these.’ Niccolò
examined the drawings carefully, the model for them apparently forgotten, his
mind moving toward the clay sculpture that he would make.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Galen
didn’t trust himself to speak. He walked over to Niccolò and embraced him from
behind. ‘May I, may we, . . .’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Niccolò
turned in his arms to face Galen and returned the embrace. Galen’s body grew
taut with desire. ‘Yes, let us go to my bedroom. You will spend the night here.
It is late, and I do not want to take you back through the rain.’ Galen became
aware for the first time that it had started to rain. In the distance there was
the rumble of thunder. By the time that Niccolò had closed up the house and
turned off the lights, the flashes of the lightning were closer. The two paused
on the stairs to look out a window at the storm. After the next flash of
lightning, Galen automatically began to count ‘one one-thousandth, two
one-thousandth . . .’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What is
this?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It’s what
we do in England. We say that in the time it takes to say “one one-thousandth’,
the sound travels 1,000 feet--300 meters perhaps. So you count the time between
the flash and the start of the sound of the thunder in this way, and you know
how far away the lightning is. If the time grows less with each stroke, then
you know the storm is moving closer. If the time increases, then you know the
danger is passing.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The next
flash of lightning was nearly overhead, and the boom of the thunder shook the
house immediately after. Niccolò laughed. ‘I think the storm is here. But there
is no danger. The house has the rods on the roof that carry the electricity to
the ground. We are safe here.’ He took Galen’s hand and led him to his bedroom.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But the
bed is so narrow. We won’t both be able to fit in it.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It is big
enough. You will see. It will be enough space.’ And it was.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It rained
heavily during the night. When Galen awoke in the morning, he found the shadows
of leaves moving on the ceiling. Light reflecting off the pond in the garden
was shining upward through the bushes and trees surrounding the house and
casting shadows on the ceiling of Niccolò’s bedroom. The leaves and branches
were apparent in great detail. Through some trick of the light, the image
appeared to be three-dimensional, as if one of Niccolò’s charcoal drawings had
moved from the paper and taken on volume and life. Galen turned on his side
toward the sleeping Niccolò. Every time Galen breathed in, his stomach expanded
against Niccolò’s body, a moving circle of contact. Galen wished he had the
talent to capture the life in that face. With a finger, he lightly traced a line
in the air above Niccolò’s nose and then down the curve of his jaw. He brought
his lips as close to Niccolò’s as he could, just allowing them to touch, near
enough to feel Niccolò’s breath on his face. Niccolò stirred and then wrapped
his arms around Galen and pulled him in, an embrace that became even fiercer as
he awoke.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">They spent as
much of the next three days together as possible. As he headed to the museum, Niccolò
would drop Galen off for his day of sightseeing. They would meet at a
prearranged place after Niccolò was through with his work. Galen felt so much
joy when he saw Niccolò’s head zooming toward him through the traffic, a hand
waving a boisterous greeting, the Vespa coming to a halt precisely before him. Evenings
they spent together in Niccolò’s workroom or in his bed. On the night before
Galen had to return to England, they lay together in bed talking and making
plans. Galen would return during the summer. or Niccolò would come to visit him
in London. ‘I would like to show you around London, but we won’t be able to be
together like this in my parents’ house.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I will
stay at a hostel and you will visit me. And perhaps your parents will not mind
if you have a lover.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I’m afraid
that they would mind very much, even if you were a woman. Wouldn’t your parents
mind if they were here?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It is not
what they would choose for me, no. But I would find a way to love.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You are so
brave, much braver than I. It is not as easy in England as it is here for me to
do what I want. I’m not sure I have the courage to . . . risk the danger of
love.’ The bedroom was dark when he said that. Even so, he did not trust his
self-control enough to look at Niccolò. Nor did Niccolò seem inclined to push
him into a stronger commitment.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>They
had left it at that. They would write and make their plans later.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The letter
from Niccolò arrived a few days after he returned to Cambridge. The post came
just as Galen was leaving for class, and he didn’t have a private moment to
open it. Then a group of friends carried him off to a pub. It was late when he
returned to his rooms, and only then did he read the Niccolò’s note. Niccolò
proposed that he return to Florence in July. His parents would be away for
their annual summer visit to the Alps, and Galen could stay in the Bardis’ house.
Niccolò would take a week off from work, and they could take day trips around
northern Italy. He enclosed a photograph of the clay bust he had made from the
drawings of Galen. The quality was poor, and the head was too indistinct for
the features to be clear.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It was too
late to write an answer that evening, and Galen put it off until the weekend. The
weekend came, and he couldn’t decide if he would be free in July until he had
spoken with his parents to see if they would pay for another trip to Italy so
soon. In the cool northern light, it seemed less and less urgent to reply
immediately. There was always time. The letter with its foreign stamps lay atop
his bookcase under a growing stack of papers and books until the end of term,
when he swept it almost without thought into the trash bin along with the
litter of that term’s work.</span> </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">******<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Galen next encountered
the name Niccolò di Bardi in an article in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Times</i> reviewing an exhibition of contemporary Italian sculpture at
the Tate. It was the same year that his father died. Galen had joined his
father’s practice after qualifying. Earlier that year, his father had asked
Galen to check a spot on his back, and Galen had discovered the carcinoma that
led to his father’s death a few months later. He was alone in the practice now.
When his widowed mother decided to buy a flat, he took over their house as well
and lived in that. It was too large for one person, but he was comfortable
there.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Until he
read the article, Galen hadn’t thought of Niccolò in years and had not known
that Niccolò had been successful in his goal of becoming an artist. The critic
for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Times</i> drew especial attention
to one piece: ‘A highlight of the exhibit is the bust by Niccolò di Bardi labelled
“The Tourist”. The eyes gaze with placid indifference and a palpable lack of
curiosity at the world. It is a study of someone who observes life in
preference to living it, the face of someone who distances himself from involvement,
a man who experiences life only in books and other persons’ narratives. Bardi’s
art is nowhere more apparent than in this eloquently wordless biography of a
man who has rejected the possibility of engagement and shut himself off from
all human relationships.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Galen
jotted down the dates of the exhibition and tacked the piece of paper to the board
in the kitchen. He intended to make time to attend the exhibit. He found the
note there several months later when he engaged in his semiannual clearing of
the reminders of things he had not found the time to do.</span> </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">******<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I think
sometimes about returning to Italy. I should like to visit Florence again and
the museums there now that I have more time, not to mention enough money to
stay in comfort. On my previous trip, I was still a student and had little
money to spare. I stayed in the cheapest <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pensione</i>
I could find and nearly starved because I couldn’t afford to eat. My last few
days there passed almost in a fog because of the heat and humidity and low
blood sugar brought on by a lack of food. I don’t know why I didn’t leave, I
was so miserable. This time I will go during the winter. Heat bothers me so
much anymore, and strong light and bright colours can trigger my megrims. And
there won’t be so many people about during the winter--tourists, I mean.
Presumably there will be as many Italians as usual, but I won’t have to
interact much with them. Thankfully the museums shouldn’t be so crowded. There are
some pictures at the Uffizi in particular that I would like to look at again.</span> </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-25609524232886608692023-03-03T17:17:00.001+00:002023-03-03T17:17:05.983+00:0044 Cheynes Park Road<p> (c) 2012</p><p>Serendipity.
That was Mr Webster’s explanation for the happy chance that led him to the
Baldwin Rental Agency. The young man at the agency was so helpful. He found the
perfect tenant. Mr Webster had intended to put an advert in the local newspaper
and a notice at the newsagent’s on the High Street, but his nephew had advised
otherwise. ‘Everything’s computerised now, Uncle Matthew. Go to a rental
agency. They’ll put a listing on line. No one reads newspapers anymore and it
would be dumb luck if anyone suitable saw the card in a shop window. This way
people who are moving to the area from outside will see the listing. An agency
will even screen people for you and check their references before they show
them your flat.’ Mr Webster said he would think about it, but Harold hadn’t let
him dither. He had turned on his computer immediately and within minutes gave
Mr Webster a list of nearby agencies.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Baldwin
Rental Agency happened to be the closest. Mr Webster had no other reason for
singling it out. As he told Harold later, however, he knew as soon as he walked
in the door that he was in good hands. ‘When I was still working, I could
always tell. A properly run business announces itself from the first moment.
There’s just something about them.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The level
of activity impressed Mr Webster’s immediately. Several phone conversations,
all of them business-related as far as he could judge, filtered through to the small
reception area. The voices were friendly in a polite sort of way—the speakers
had a good telephone presence. A well-dressed couple sat at a table next to the
entrance paging through a binder of listings and conversing with quiet
excitement about the places on offer. A wall of photographs showed interior and
exterior shots of houses and flats. Many of them had red stickers pasted on
them saying ‘rented’. The young woman at the front desk greeted him as soon as
he stepped in. When he explained that he had a flat to let, she smiled at him,
asked him to have a seat, and offered him a cup of coffee or tea. When he said
that he was fine, she spoke briefly into a phone and then turned to him and
said, ‘Mr Fowler will be with you shortly.’ She had barely finished speaking
when a young man emerged from the back. The receptionist caught his eye and
nodded towards Mr Webster.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Mr
Webster? I’m Edward Fowler.’ As he told Harold later, Fowler had a pleasant
smile and a firm handshake. Mr Webster noted approvingly that his tie was
correctly knotted. So many younger people were careless about that now. It
boded well, he felt, that Edward Fowler took the trouble to present a good
appearance. He would have been reluctant to entrust the letting of his flat to
someone who was indifferent about personal matters. A person who didn’t take
the time to handle small matters correctly wouldn’t concern himself overly
about larger matters either.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As Fowler
led the way to his desk, he thanked Mr Webster for using their agency. ‘We like
to survey why people choose <st1:place w:st="on">Baldwin</st1:place>’s over our
competitors. I don’t mean to pry and don’t feel you have to answer, but could
you tell me why you came to us?’ When Mr Webster explained about his nephew and
the computer, Fowler said only that he hoped Mr Webster would find their
service satisfactory. It was, Mr Webster felt, another good sign that Fowler
understood that the employees of Baldwin Rental Agency had to prove themselves.
Rather than boast of the prowess of the agency, they realised that what counted
in the end was service and results, not words. And he was so reassuring when Mr
Webster offered a brief explanation of the reasons he wanted to let part of his
house.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘You see,
this is the first time for me. My wife died five years ago and my son—he’s my
only child—lives in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Australia</st1:country-region></st1:place>.
It’s a big house, much more than I need now. My nephew suggested that I convert
the basement into a flat—when the house was built the large room down there was
the kitchen and the servants’ sitting room. There’s also a room that served as the
cook’s bedroom and another smaller one for the maid—it was just a large closet.
Oh, and a large pantry off the kitchen. My wife didn’t like going down the
stairs—they’re rather steep—and so we used it mainly for storage. It was filled
with junk, none of it useful. I should have cleaned everything out years ago but
I never got around to that. My nephew knew of a reliable builder to help with
the conversion. Really it was quite ingenious the way the builder fit a small
kitchen into the old pantry. He made the maid’s room over into a bathroom,
modernised the electricity and plumbing, and refinished the walls and the
floors. It’s quite pleasant now.’ Mr Webster rambled on for another five
minutes describing the remodelling and his situation. ‘Harold—that’s my nephew—and
my son wouldn’t say this of course, but I think they worry about my being alone
and they want someone there to keep an eye on me. I don’t need looking after
now, but there will come a time, I daresay.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Edward
Fowler nodded and made comments at the appropriate moments. After patiently
waiting for Mr Webster to finish, he turned to his computer and called up a
form. ‘I need to ask a few questions for our standard form. Just background
information. First, what is the address?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on"><span lang="EN-IE">‘44 Cheynes Park Road</span></st1:address></st1:street><span lang="EN-IE">.’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘Oh, you
won’t have any trouble renting your flat. Very desirable area that.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘Harold
said it would be easy to find someone. But I don’t want to let to just anyone.
That’s why he suggested I go through an agency. He said that you could screen
prospective tenants for me. I want someone quiet. An unmarried male
professional would be best, I think. Not too young.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Oh, we
can’t specify such things, Sir. It’s against the law for landlords to
discriminate by marital status, sex, sexual preference, race, age—so we can’t make
such stipulations. And you can’t refuse to rent to someone with children.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘You mean I
have to let the flat to anyone who comes along? I don’t want that. I don’t want
someone who will be noisy or won’t keep the flat clean. I don’t want someone
with a pet—my dog is used to having the house and garden to herself and another
dog or a cat would upset her. She also doesn’t like children, and there’s no
room for a child. I don’t think a single woman would be appropriate for me. The
neighbours would talk if she brought anyone home. I know people your age aren’t
bothered by such things, but I wouldn’t like that going on in my house.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Quite
understandable, Sir. This is a flat in your own house. So it’s like you’re
sharing your own place. Of course, you want someone compatible.’ Edward Fowler
lowered his voice slightly and bent forward in his chair toward Mr Webster. ‘If
I might make a few suggestions, Sir?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When Mr
Webster nodded his head, Fowler said, ‘What we need to do is insert code
phrases. First, this is a one-bedroom flat, so we can imply that it isn’t large
enough for two. How big is the kitchen? All electric? Or do you have gas? What
about the bathroom—is there a tub or just a shower?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘The new kitchen’s
not large, no, you couldn’t call it large. It’s really an alcove off one side
of the main room. It’s just the basics. Everything’s electric. The bathroom
isn’t large either. There wasn’t room for a tub, but the builder said it didn’t
matter—most people want a shower now and think a tub is too much trouble to
keep clean.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Let’s
start with “One-bedroom flat in desirable <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cheynes</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>
area. Suitable for a busy professional. Recently renovated and meticulously
maintained. All electric kitchenette. Stall shower.” That makes it sound as
though it’s just basic accommodations. That will appeal more to men than to
women. “Meticulously maintained” is a warning that the landlord is likely to be
demanding about upkeep. Is there parking? Good, we’ll add “Parking available”. Now, is this a quiet
street?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘It’s very
quiet. Well. there’s traffic on the High Street—as you know, of course, that
can be busy at times—but that’s three blocks away, and it’s quiet at night. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cheynes</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place> is a block in the other direction
and that serves as a buffer for noise. It’s a good mile through the Park to the
houses on the other side.’ </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Good. So
let’s add “quiet residential neighbourhood convenient to shops, transportation,
and park” and “landlord on premises”. That way, if someone looks like the type
that would play loud music and have noisy parties, we can discourage them by
saying that the neighbours wouldn’t tolerate noise. People are also likely to
assume that a resident landlord will be less tolerant of noise. Now we also
need to add “References, credit check and security deposit required”—we can use
the references as an excuse if you don’t want to rent to a particular person.
And we take great care that<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>applicants
supply references from former landlords. Some people give their friends’ or
even relatives’ names, but we have ways of determining if the references are to
current or recent landlords. The credit check will discourage students.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Oh, this
is most helpful. Thank you. I wouldn’t have thought of all those things.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘And “No
pets”—we can still discriminate against pets.’ Fowler chuckled. ‘So let’s see.
We have “One-bedroom basement flat in desirable <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cheynes</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>
area. Suitable for a busy professional. Recently renovated and meticulously
maintained. All electric kitchenette. Stall shower. Parking available. No pets.
Quiet neighbourhood convenient to shops and transportation. Landlord on
premises. Current references, credit check, and security deposit required.” Now
we just need to add a few positive things. Can we say “light and airy”. Will
the renter have access to your back garden? What about heating? Is that supplied
or are there separate meters for the flats? And what rent were you thinking of?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
hesitantly mentioned the figure that Harold had thought reasonable. ‘But I’d be
willing to accept less if you think that’s too much.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘To the
contrary. I’ll have to see the premises before I advise you, but I’d be
surprised if you couldn’t get at least another hundred pounds a month in that
area. And you should charge extra for parking. Sheltered, secure, off-street
parking in that area is at a premium.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Fowler took
down the rest of the details quickly. Mr Webster was surprised to learn that
the agent would bring a photographer by later to take pictures of the flat, and
he was gratified to learn that the tenant would pay the agency’s fee. Really it
was almost too easy.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The next
day Mr Webster received an email from the agent with a link to the firm’s
listing of his property. The pictures made the basement look roomy and inviting
and the description had grown.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">New listing. A minute’s walk from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cheynes</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
this quiet suburban flat is close to urban conveniences. Ready to move in, never
before rented, unfurnished one-bedroom garden apartment in charming three-storey
Edwardian-era house on a secluded tree-lined street. Suitable for the busy
professional. Recently renovated and meticulously maintained. Bright and airy
living room with separate dining area adjoins a large bedroom, with en-suite
bathroom. All-electric, easy-to-clean kitchenette with built-in cabinets,
refrigerator, cooker, and microwave. Stall shower. Central heating (electric
radiators), with controls within unit. Washer/dryer on premises. On-demand hot
water heater. All new appliances and fixtures. High-speed Internet connection
and WiFi installed. Separate entrance at the front. Rear windows overlook
beautifully designed and landscaped garden. All entrances and windows equipped
with security locks. Convenient to shops, transportation, and recreation.
Landlord on premises. No pets. Current references, credit check, and security
deposit required. Secure, enclosed parking available for additional fee.
Contact: Edward Fowler, ext. 327, to arrange a tour of this desirable property.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Two days
later, Fowler called with a list of applicants, their references already vetted
and their credit checked. He carefully reviewed each application with Mr
Webster. In the end, Mr Webster gave the nod to three men, all of them single
or divorced. None with children. All professionals and all currently employed. The
rental agent advised Mr Webster to remain at home and, if possible, to be
working in the back garden while he was showing the flat. That would make it
easy for Mr Webster to meet each prospect and size them up. Mr Webster readily
fell in with that suggestion. He remarked, and Fowler agreed, that although a
first impression was not a warranty of subsequent good behaviour, much could be
learned about a person in a short time.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">In the
event, all three men wanted the flat. All were acceptable, but Mr Webster
thought one of them seemed quieter than the other two. Unlike the others, he
also wanted to rent the parking space, and now that Mr Webster was reconciled
to the idea of earning money by renting his property, the extra 75 pounds a
month was welcome. Within a week of contacting the Baldwin Rental Agency, Mr
Webster had rented his flat. Within two weeks, his tenant was in place.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Alec Deighton
was a youngish man, in his early thirties, Mr Webster guessed. The rental
application form listed his job as a partner in a security firm in the area; it
was, Edward Fowler told him, one of the larger such businesses in the area,
well regarded and known for its service. Later, when Mr Webster asked Deighton
about his job, he explained that the firm supplied alarm systems for homes and
businesses as well as security guards and drivers.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
had, of course, to make some adjustments in his routines because he now had a
tenant downstairs. He had kept some of his gardening tools and supplies in the
basement, and it had been his habit to walk down the stairs to the basement, gather
what he needed, and then out the door to the back garden. He also kept his
wellies and work shoes in the basement and put them on and took them off there
to avoid tracking mud into the house.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">When the
basement had been converted, the builder had walled in the basement staircase
and installed a door with a lock at the bottom. Mr Webster had the key to that
door and could enter the basement flat without going outside. The day his
tenant moved in, he had some matters to discuss with Deighton. His initial
impulse was to use the internal staircase and knock on the door at the bottom
and wait for Deighton to invite him to enter. But then he thought that would be
rude. The basement flat, he reminded himself, was no longer fully his. He now
occupied a strange position between owner and guest, and he had to remember
that Deighton was entitled to his privacy. His tenant might not be prepared to
deal with a visitor, even one who had a right to be there. And Deighton
wouldn’t be able to open the lower door himself. If Mr Webster used his key, it
would emphasize to Deighton that Mr Webster could—and might—enter Deighton’s
flat at will. He certainly didn’t want his new tenant to think that he might
snoop or pop in whenever he wanted company.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
decided to enter through the ‘front door’ of the basement flat. He gathered the
notes he had made and walked out his front door and around the side of the
house to the areaway and then rang the bell. He found Deighton busy unpacking
the contents of boxes but ready to take a break. Deighton even offered him a drink,
which he declined.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I won’t
take but a moment. I made some notes about things you need to know. Trash
collection is on Tuesday. The bins need to be out by the kerb before 7:00. I’ve
made a copy of the council’s instructions on recycling—it’s rather of a
nuisance, I’m afraid, but they do fuss if you don’t follow them. Oh, and my
nephew wired the house for WiFi.’ Mr Webster paused to point out the receiver
on the wall. ‘If you want to use my system, I’ve written down the name we
assigned my device. You can log in as a guest. I’ve also given you the password
for the guest user. If you want your own password, my nephew says that I’ll
have to log in and then call up the menu that allows you to change the
password. You’ll have to come upstairs to my office to do that. Drop by
whenever you’re ready.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went on to
speak of the arrangements the Post Office wanted and explained about the
council’s rules on street parking. ‘Overnight parking is allowed, but on
collection days they want all cars off the street by 7:00.’ Mr Webster had
devoted some thought to devising a tactful way to tell Deighton that he
understood that his tenant might occasionally have an overnight guest and that
he didn’t expect the young man to be a monk. As long as there was no noise, Mr
Webster was willing to accommodate modern conventions—another form of ‘mod
cons’ as he phrased it to himself.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
quickly adjusted to the presence of another person in his house. Deighton
wasn’t intrusive. If Mr Webster listened carefully when he was on the ground
floor, he might hear faint sounds from the basement—music playing, voices from
the television, the occasional ringing of a phone, the sound of water running.
When he was upstairs, however, it was as if he still lived alone in the house. Archie,
his dog, had fussed at first about the stranger walking about downstairs, but
she soon learned to ignore him as well.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Early one
morning a car honked at him as he was returning from walking Archie in the
park. When he looked up, the driver lowered his window and said ‘Good morning’.
It was Deighton. They exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather before
Deighton drove off.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">One Saturday
as he was working in the garden, Deighton opened the back door to his flat and
came up the stairs. He complimented Mr Webster on his efforts and offered him a
beer. They sat for a while chatting. To his surprise, Mr Webster found himself
inviting Deighton to use his lawn chairs. ‘No need to ask. My wife liked to sit
outside and read, but I hardly ever do that. You wouldn’t be disturbing me at
all. Archie may bother you. If she sees someone sitting, she thinks they need
to be petting her, don’t you, girl?’ The dog was lying in a patch of sun. When
she heard her name, she opened her eyes and looked their way. Her tail lifted
briefly and then she closed her eyes again.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Another day
as he was returning from a walk to the market, Deighton was driving by and
stopped to offer him a ride home. All little encounters to be sure, but Mr
Webster enjoyed them. It was, he decided, good to have someone younger about
the place who didn’t mind a bit of a chat.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">As far as
Mr Webster could determine, Deighton never entered the back garden unless he
was there. He rather appreciated Deighton’s scrupulous respect for his property.
Deighton was thoughtful about things, he found. Like the time he asked to
change the password for the guest account on the WiFi device. As Mr Webster
logged on to his computer and then opened the WiFi control menu, Deighton had
casually turned away and looked out the window to avoid seeing the passwords.
Mr Webster had copied his action when Deighton stepped forward to type in the
new password.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">As Deighton
was leaving, he mentioned that there was no peephole on Mr Webster’s front
door. ‘You should have some means of checking who’s at your door before you
open it. I know this is considered a safe area, but you’re almost the only
person on the street during weekdays. It’s what the people I work with refer to
as an “attractive” neighbourhood—plenty of valuable things to steal and no one
around to see you doing it and a quick route of escape though the park.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">When Mr
Webster said that he couldn’t bear to drill a hole in his front door—it was the
original door to the house and was over a century old, Deighton offered to show
him some door security devices his company sold. He would drop off the
literature tomorrow evening after he came back from work and Mr Webster could
look through it at his leisure.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
was touched by Deighton’s concern. It was little things like that that Mr
Webster appreciated. His nephew helped him when he asked, but Harold had his
own family and he lived almost an hour’s drive away. That afternoon he had
thanked Deighton and promised to think about installing some sort of security
device on his front door.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">When he
returned to his computer to shut it off, he found an automated email informing
him that the password for the guest user on his WiFi device had been changed.
The letter included the new password and advised that the email be printed out
and kept in a secure location. Mr Webster almost deleted the email—it wasn’t
his password after all—but then he thought that he had better keep a copy.
Deighton might move out suddenly without telling him the password or be injured
in an accident, and the new tenant would be unable to access the account on the
WiFi device.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The next
evening Deighton brought several glossy brochures extolling his company’s home
security devices. He was an enthusiast. ‘The best thing is that it won’t cost you
anything. It’s my policy to allow people who’ve worked for me for over five
years to have the service for free, and I can extend the same policy to myself.
We’ll take care of the installation. You won’t have to do a thing. It will only
take a few hours. You can see from the pictures that the cameras are nearly
invisible. Most people don’t see them unless they know they’re there and what
to look for. If you don’t want the viewscreen out in the open, you can put it
out of sight. That old stairwell to the basement would be a perfect place. If
someone comes to the front or back door, you can check the screen to see who it
is before you open the door. And you can talk to them through the microphone on
the camera. We can also arrange for you to be able use your computer to see
who’s at the door. That way you wouldn’t even have to walk downstairs if you’re
in your office.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The
photographs in the brochures featured attractive, healthy looking models
smiling with relief as they checked the camera images through a viewscreen. A
young mother in a kitchen beamed as she watched her baby sleeping in its cradle
in another room. A well-dressed and carefully coiffed grey-haired matron
confirmed the identity of a caller before opening her front door. A traveller
on a train used his mobile phone to confirm that the rooms in his house were
secure. Another series of pictures challenged the viewer to find the hidden
cameras. Mr Webster did not see them until Deighton pointed them out.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The two young
women who came to install the system were models of efficiency. They arrived at
the appointed time and, after consulting with Mr Webster about the best
locations for the cameras, the viewscreen, and the code pads, they had them in
place in less than two hours. The finished work was skilfully done, the walls
needed no touching up and every spec of dirt was cleaned up. One of the women
helped him input the codes that turned the alarm system on and off and
installed a programme on Mr Webster’s computer that allowed him to view the
images transmitted by the cameras from his office on the first floor. With the
page open, he could see the areas in front of both his front and back doors. If
he wanted to enlarge the view, he had only to click on the image. She even
tactfully raised the subject of a personal safety monitor that Mr Webster could
wear around his neck and use to summon an ambulance if he fell or became
ill—‘an add-on to consider when you’re older,’ as she politely put it. ‘I’ll
just leave this brochure for you to look at. If you reach the point that you
need it, you can just give us a call at that number. We can use the system you
already have.’ She then joined her partner in the basement flat to install the
cameras that Deighton had ordered. When they left, Mr Webster was working in
his garden, and they stopped for a moment to admire his efforts. One of them asked
for his advice about flowering plants suitable for a shady area. It had been,
Mr Webster decided as he later sat over his evening tea, a most agreeable
encounter.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Deighton
left for work around 7:30 and returned after 6:00. At first Mr Webster had
simply noted the times. Before the first month was out, however, he found
himself arranging to run across Deighton as he left or arrived. More and more
frequently Mr Webster and Archie’s emergence from the front door for their
morning walk in the park coincided with Deighton’s departure for work. And Mr
Webster began postponing his daily garden maintenance until early evening in
the hope of a few words with Deighton.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">I do not think—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he emailed his son</i>—I
am lonely or one of those old men so in need of company that he strikes up
conversations with strangers, but it is pleasant to chat for a few minutes with
another person every day. Deighton is an ideal tenant. He’s friendly in a quiet
sort of way. I think you and he would get along. He reminds me of you in some
ways. Of course, we respect each other’s privacy and don’t intrude.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">I think I can claim to have mastered the new security system. I’ve
learned to input the code that turns the system off as soon as I enter the
house. I forgot to do that a couple of times at the beginning and blithely went
about my business only to have the security company ring me up and ask me for
the code phrase. It’s “Archie is a good dog” by the way, in case you ever need
it. I’ve given Harold the codes to arm and disarm the security system. Remind
me to give them to you the next time you visit.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">It’s very convenient to be able to check who’s at the door from my
computer. I can talk with them from my office and send them on their way if I
don’t want to open the door to them. I can see not only my front and back doors
through the cameras but also Deighton’s front and back doors. He also put
cameras inside the basement flat, two in the main room and two in the bedroom.
I don’t know if I was intended to have access to those images as well. I
suppose I should have said something immediately, but the two girls who
installed them were so nice that I didn’t want to get them in trouble. It’s not
as if I’ll use them to spy on Deighton.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">And he
hadn’t used them to spy on Deighton. When he discovered that he had access
through his computer to the cameras within the basement flat, he resolved to
tell Deighton and have the problem fixed. But when he thought about it, he
decided that it might be useful for him to be able to check on Deighton’s flat.
If he heard a noise downstairs, he could investigate it from the safety of his
office. He wouldn’t want to confront an intruder. So it wouldn’t really be
spying. It was more a security issue. Perhaps that had been Deighton’s plan
from the beginning. He supposed he should mention it and clarify that point. He
even rehearsed what he would say, ‘Oh by the way, did you mean to give me access
to the cameras in your flat?’ But he didn’t see Deighton for a couple of days
and in the end it didn’t seem worth fussing over. Deighton knew what he was
about, and Mr Webster didn’t want to imply that he or the installers had made
an error. He knew that he wouldn’t abuse Deighton’s trust in him.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Checking
the cameras became part of his daily routine at the computer. When he and
Archie returned from their morning walk, he would make himself a cup of coffee
and carry it upstairs to his office. There he read and answered emails, did the
online sudoku and the crossword, and then checked each of the cameras to make
sure that it was transmitting an image. It was his contribution to the security
of the house, he decided.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The clarity
of the images was amazing. Even though Deighton turned off all the lights
before leaving and left the curtains drawn, the cameras showed everything in
great detail. Mr Webster was heartened to note that Deighton kept his quarters
neat, far neater than he himself sometimes did, he had to admit. He wondered if
Deighton had been in the military—he always left his bed tautly made. He would
have to work the question of military service into one of their conversations.
Of course, he wouldn’t mention the bed. He didn’t want Deighton to think he had
been snooping.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">He did like
the arrangement of the furniture. Deighton seemed to have thought out an
efficient disposition of his goods. The rooms weren’t crowded with possessions,
but what he had looked comfortable and practical. Deighton had one of those electric
towel racks in the bedroom. There wasn’t room for it in the bathroom. Mr
Webster thought about getting one. Sometimes, especially in damp weather, it
took the towels a long time to dry. He would have to ask Deighton if the
basement was damp. Mildew and rot could be difficult to eradicate if they got a
start. A pity there were no cameras in the kitchen and bathroom. He could have
checked for leaks or drips or to see if a burner on the stove had been left on.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">It amused
Mr Webster to chart Deighton’s activities and attempt to guess from the objects
visible in his rooms how he occupied himself. It was like watching a daily quiz
show—What has Deighton done in the past twenty-four hours? There was always a
book on the table next his bed. Mr Webster surmised that Deighton read in bed
before going to sleep. But apparently not for long. The same book might remain
on the nightstand for two weeks. The most comfortable looking chair was set ten
feet of so back from the television set. Deighton had one of the new large-screen
wall-mounted tellies. He must enjoy watching. There was only one mat on the
table. Deighton had placed it so that he sat facing the garden as he ate. I
will have to craft a pleasant view for him, thought Mr Webster. Perhaps remove
that boxwood shrub. It must obscure half the back window. Put in some low
flowers there.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The cameras
also transmitted sound clearly. If a car passed outside, he could hear it both
through the window of his office and over the speaker. The microphone in the camera
at the front of the main room picked up the conversations of passers-by. Mr
Webster could even hear the ticking of Deighton’s alarm clock. Amazing, that
was the only word for it. Well, Deighton had probably installed only the best
in his place.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">It was by
accident that Mr Webster learned that Deighton left the cameras on all the
time. He assumed that Deighton would turn the security system off when he was
at home. Since Mr Webster checked his computer only in the morning, he had no
occasion to learn of Deighton’s habit until several weeks had passed. Mr
Webster’s grandson had a birthday, and he arranged to call him on the computer
using Skype and the webcam Harold had installed for him. It was so convenient,
not to mention it avoided telephone charges to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Australia</st1:place></st1:country-region>. The only drawback was
the time difference. He had to call at 4:00 a.m. to be ‘present’ at his
grandson’s birthday party and watch him open his gifts.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The
‘virtual visit’ went off smoothly. It was nearly 5:00 when Mr Webster said
goodbye and broke the connection. The hour’s conversation and the cup of coffee
he had drunk had awakened him. He had gone to bed early the night before and he
wasn’t sleepy. So he made himself another cup of coffee and spent an hour
answering email, completing the sudoku, and reading the online newspaper. By
the time he finished, it was his usual wake-up time.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The camera
icon caught his eye. He had never tried the cameras at night and wondered what
they would show. He expected to find only the cameras over his front and back
doors active, but to his surprise he discovered that all of them were on. The
rooms in the basement flat were dark and it was hard to make anything out. He
turned the lights off in his office and let his eyes adjust. There was enough
light coming through the curtains from the street in Deighton’s flat that
gradually he could make out the larger pieces of furniture. He clicked on one
of the bedroom cameras. Deighton was lying on his left side, with his right leg
drawn up. The bed covers and sheet were bunched in an heap at the bottom of the
bed. Mr Webster wasn’t totally certain, but he thought that Deighton was naked.
If he was wearing pants, they were so sheer that the camera wasn’t recording
them. And that seemed unlikely.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
flushed with embarrassment and reached for his mouse to click out of the
programme. Deighton stirred in his sleep and rolled over on to his back,
spreading his legs. He must have been uncomfortable—perhaps his balls felt
cramped or sticky, that sometimes happened to Mr Webster at night—and with one
of his hands he freed his scrotum and nudged his penis so that it angled
towards his left. He was tumescent. The technical terms sprang into Mr
Webster’s mind, distancing euphemisms that served to separate him from the
reality of Deighton’s sex, hard, rigid, that captured his gaze and seemed to
grow to fill the screen.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Deighton
reached over to his nightstand, picked up his alarm clock and held it in front
of his face. He set it back on the table, and then yawned and stretched, twisting
his head from side to side and stroking his chest with a hand. The intimacy of
the camera’s gaze shocked Mr Webster. At one time or another, he had performed
these and similar actions. There was nothing unusual in them, but he had never
seen another man carry out this sequence of everyday movements.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster found
that he was holding himself rigidly still and holding his breath lest Deighton
realise that he was being watched. It was a ridiculous notion. Deighton
couldn’t possibly see or hear him. The cameras didn’t broadcast both ways.
Deighton sat up and stretched again. The sound of the bedsprings and the
creaking of the bed were audible over the speakers. Deighton was naked. Mr
Webster had seen nude men before, in the changing rooms at school and in his
golf club. Some men at the beach might as well be nude for all they wore, and
modern advertisements left nothing to the imagination. He and his wife had
frequently visited museums on their holidays. So he wasn’t unfamiliar with the
male body.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">But
Deighton was so shockingly nude. It is, thought Mr Webster, because he is
unaware that he is being watched. He is making no attempt to conceal himself,
he is performing private acts that we never show others. He erects no defences
against the observer. He does what every man does—when he is alone—the peremptory
flesh bobbing upward from the groin and thrust with unabashed delight against
the sheets, the hand that casually touches it, lingers to caress and perhaps to
stroke, the mind luxuriating between dream and waking in fantasies of
indulgence. The sheer satisfying magnificent pleasure of being male in a moment
of freedom.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
had been reluctant to allow even his wife to witness his morning erections. They
had joked about his ‘morning glories’ as they became comfortable with each
other’s bodies following their marriage, but the engorged cock had always been
hidden away beneath the sheets and blankets, carefully tucked out of view
within his pyjamas, and he had forcibly thought it away before he stood up. As
he entered his fifties, these unbidden erections grew less frequent, less in
every respect. He had noted their passing with both regret and relief, regret
that he was growing old, relief that sex was becoming less troubling, less
demanding.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Deighton
stood up and walked out of camera range into his bathroom. Mr Webster hurriedly
shut down the camera programme. He had a horrifying vision of hearing the sound
of Deighton’s piss splashing into the toilet bowl or, worse, of farts and
explosions. The intimacies of public toilets appalled him. His uncertain
digestion had grown to a constant worry—his guts produced gas in such
quantities now that he risked a public toilet only with great reluctance, only
if unavoidable. The sounds that came from his old man’s bowels provoked satirical
expressions of concern—‘Are you all right there, Dad?’—and rude laughter. He
had no wish to know the state of Deighton’s digestive system.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The
experience brought home to Mr Webster how much he was spying on Deighton’s
life. Maybe, he lectured himself, he had been a responsible landlord in
checking that the flat was secure, but he knew that he had gone beyond that
into impermissible territory. He resolved never again to check the cameras
unless he had strong grounds for believing that there was an intruder in the
basement.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">That
morning he took Archie for her walk early. He stayed away long past the time
that Deighton left for work, and that evening he took care not to be working in
the garden around the time that Deighton usually returned. Mr Webster hoped to
delay a meeting for at least a week. He thought that would be enough time to
banish the image of Deighton’s nakedness.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The next
evening someone rang his bell while he was watching the telly. He checked the
viewscreen and discovered Deighton and an older couple standing at his front
door. His sitting room lights were on, the sound of the telly was probably
audible outside, and Archie was barking loudly. He couldn’t pretend not to be
home. Deighton introduced the couple as his parents. They had driven down from <st1:place w:st="on">Bradford</st1:place> to have dinner with their son, and Deighton had
brought them back to see his flat. ‘Mum was admiring your garden, and I wonder
if I we might have a look.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘It’s such
a nice arrangement of the space. There is such movement and colour in the
borders.’ She lifted her hands to sketch the arrangement of the beds. Mr
Webster could see evidence of hard work in her hands. ‘And your dahlias are
doing so well. What’s your secret?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">At that
moment, Archie stuck her nose out the door and wagged her tail at Deighton. His
father stretched out a hand and let Archie sniff it. When he successfully
passed that test, he stroked Archie’s head and scratched her behind the ears. ‘Hello,
old girl, what’s your name?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
supplied the dog’s name. The senior Mr Deighton was obviously as enthusiastic
about dogs as his wife was about dahlias, and Mr Webster was hard put to respond
to their comments as they engaged him in two unrelated conversations. It was
like trying to play two tennis matches at the same time. Before he could finish
answering a remark about dogs from Mr Deighton senior, the wife had moved on to
the issue of organic pest control methods. What was Mr Deighton’s opinion of
them? She wanted to be green and do well by the environment, but none of them
seemed to work as well as liberal sprayings of good old-fashioned chemical insecticides.
Purebred dogs were all well and good but there was much to be said for mixed
breeds. The mutt often combined the best of both parental lines and had none of
the weaknesses of the inbred. Take Archie, for example—the intelligence of the
border collie combined with the protective nature of the Alsatian. And what
about fungicides? How old was Archie? Was it necessary to wrap the roses in burlap
and straw overwinter this close to the Channel?</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The four of
them, along with an Archie delighted to be receiving so much attention,
inspected the front garden and then moved to the back. Mrs Deighton asked her
son for a cup of tea before they started the drive home, and the four of them
ended up sitting at the garden table until almost 10:30. The evening ended with
the parents telling their son to invite Mr Webster to join them for dinner the
next time they visited and an apparently sincere invitation to Mr Webster to
visit them in <st1:place w:st="on">Bradford</st1:place>. ‘Alec can bring you
the next time he comes up. You can keep him company on the road.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The evening
left Mr Webster exhausted. The conversations with the elder Deightons had been
the longest talks he had had with anyone for months. They appeared always to be
planning their next remarks rather than attending to what one was saying. He
was relieved that their son was more reticent and more inclined to listen when
one spoke. He was also glad to note that by the end of the evening he could
look at Deighton without thinking of an erection.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The next
morning he resumed his previous schedule. There was no reason to avoid
Deighton; it had been a regrettable accident but there was no need to make
anything of it. Deighton greeted him cheerfully. ‘I hope my parents didn’t tire
you out. Thank you for taking the time to talk with them. I think they are
finding retirement rather lonely. They both found their friends at work, and
now they’re cut off from them. So they tend to talk when they find someone to
listen.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No, not at
all. Thank you for introducing us. It was a very enjoyable evening.’ Mr Webster
didn’t mention that he would prefer advance warning of the senior Deightons’
next visit so that he could be ‘unavoidably’ absent. They must long ago have
said everything they had to say to each other on the subject of gardening and
dog rearing, and he had no wish to hear further disquisitions on those
subjects.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The evening
had one further consequence. Deighton took to joining him for a few minutes of
chat in the back garden when he returned from work. He offered Mr Webster a
beer one evening, and thereafter the two of them fell into the habit of sitting
at the garden table and talking for as long as it took to drink a bottle of beer.
Mr Webster preferred IPAs and Deighton brown ales, and each kept of supply of
the other’s favourite. They were as scrupulous about alternating the ‘buying’
of rounds as any group of friends in a pub.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Their
evening conversations became the highpoint of Mr Webster’s day. Deighton showed
an interest in his life and gradually Mr Webster opened up. Deighton didn’t pry
but he allowed Mr Webster to talk about things he mostly kept to himself—how he
had felt after his wife’s death, his regret that his son had moved to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Australia</st1:place></st1:country-region>, his
worries about growing old. Deighton never said much about himself. He would
answer questions about other subjects, but he usually parried personal
questions with a question of his own about Mr Webster’s life. Mr Webster hardly
noticed that he had told Deighton so much about himself. It was flattering to
have someone not only show an interest in his life but also express genuine
concern about his well-being.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Deighton
sometimes had to work late, and often on Fridays and the weekends he met
friends or colleagues. He always let Mr Webster know that he would be gone, but
Mr Webster missed his presence on those evenings. A few nights Deighton brought
a friend back with him from work, and Mr Webster had to forgo the pleasures of
their evening chats. He had to remind himself that Deighton wasn’t obligated to
speak with him. They weren’t related, and it was sheer happenstance that they
were together. But he was lonely on the evenings Deighton was away. His wife’s
death had left him bereft of simple everyday companionship and someone to talk
with, and the renewal of camaraderie and conversation made him regret the
occasional disruption of their interactions all the more. For the first time in
years, he had a friend, one he found dependable and one on whom he was willing
to depend.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
still logged on to his computer every morning, but he no longer checked the
cameras. The login sequence automatically connected him to the Internet through
the WiFi. One day while he was dusting his desk, he accidentally hit the off
switch on the side of his machine that activated the WiFi connection. The next
time he turned his computer on, he had to open the WiFi connection programme
and log in with his password. When he did so, he noticed that the guest channel
was active. Deighton wasn’t at home, and he wondered if something was wrong
with the programme.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">When he
mentioned the live connection that evening, Deighton explained that he never
turned his computer off. ‘Much of our business depends on secrecy and secure
Internet connections. We don’t like to put them at risk, and we encourage our
employees to bring their own laptop or use their mobile to connect with an
off-site computer to handle personal matters. So I keep my personal and my
business lives separate. Sometimes at noon, I check my home computer for
messages or do my banking, and I can access it through my mobile as long as
it’s connected to the Internet.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘But can’t
anyone get into it then?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘They could
if they had my password. I suppose I should be more careful, but my password is
complex, and it would take a lot of effort and luck to find it. I have
different passwords for the more sensitive material like my bank account, but
anyone who is clever enough to figure out my main password is welcome to read
my parents’ emails. That should discourage further snooping.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
changed the subject. It would be rude to imply that he understood why reading
the senior Deightons’ emails would dampen the desire to spy on their son.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Late one Wednesday
afternoon he was reading in his office on the first floor. It was a warm day
and he had the windows open. He heard the scuffing of someone’s feet on the
stairs to the entryway. When he looked out the window on that side of the house,
he could see nothing. He went to his computer and called up the security
program to activate the camera over the front entrance to the basement flat.
The screen filled with a man’s face.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">When the
man got no answer to his knocking, he pulled a memo book from his pocket, tore
off a sheet of paper, wrote something on it and stuck it between the door and
the frame. He bounded back up the steps and out of view of the camera. Mr
Webster looked out the other window and watched the man get into a car and
drive off.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster was
waiting in his back garden when Deighton returned. Now that they knew each
other, Deighton had taken to using the back entrance to his flat. It was much
more convenient to the garage.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Let me
change. I’ll be right out. Your usual?’ he called out.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘You should
check your front door. Someone came by earlier and left you a note. I noticed
it when I was out walking Archie.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Fifteen
minutes later Deighton returned. He had changed out of his business suit, but
he was wearing better casual clothes than he usually did and was profusely
apologetic. ‘I’m sorry but I have to go out again. An old friend of mine is in
the area. I haven’t seen him for several years. I hope you don’t mind if we
take a raincheck for tonight.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Oh, not at
all. Enjoy yourself.’ Mr Webster smiled and hid his disappointment. ‘There will
be other nights.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The next
morning as Mr Webster prepared to walk Archie, he saw Deighton drive up and
rush into his flat. He was wearing the same clothes he had on the night before
and needed a shave. When Mr Webster returned from his walk, Deighton had left.
That was the last Mr Webster saw of his tenant for several days. Once or twice,
he thought he heard Deighton’s car drive in late at night and then leave a
short time later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deighton never showed
up over the weekend.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Should I
contact the police? This isn’t like him at all. He’s usually so regular. Maybe
he was in an accident and is in the hospital. I’m beginning to be worried.’ Mr
Webster emailed his son to consult him.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No, Dad.
It’s the weekend. Perhaps he has a long date. I wouldn’t worry about it until a
few more days have passed. He’s a young man, and young unmarried men sometimes
have weekends away. If he’s not back by Wednesday, call his office and check.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Deighton
was in his flat on Monday morning. He had returned sometime during the night.
Mr Webster hadn’t heard him come in. To Mr Webster’s regret, Deighton missed
several evening visits. Deighton remained as friendly as ever, but his
priorities had changed. It was not until the following Sunday that he stopped
by for a chat. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting you.’ Deighton handed Mr
Webster a bottle of his favourite IPA.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Your
friend has been visiting. It’s understandable that you would want to see an old
friend.’ It was the most conciliatory thing Mr Webster could think to say. He
hoped he didn’t sound resentful. He wouldn’t want Deighton to think that he was
jealous of the time the younger man was spending with his friend.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Yes, well,
he’s going away again soon. I don’t think we’ll see each other in the few days
remaining. It didn’t quite work out as we expected. We’ve both changed since we
first met ten years ago. He was a bit disappointed with me. We’ve grown out of
each other, I think.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘That
happens. I know there were people at work I considered friends, but after I
retired, I found I had less in common with some of them than I had thought. Our
only links had been work, and when that stopped for me, the relationships
petered out.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Did you
have to do anything to end the relationship?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">It was, Mr
Deighton thought, an odd question. Was Deighton asking for advice on how to
sever a relationship? ‘No, we just had no reason to maintain an acquaintance,
and it died a natural death. I suppose if I ran into one of them, we would stop
and chat. We would be friendly, but there would be no reason to be more than
that or to meet again. We might say that we should have lunch some day—what’s
that phrase, do lunch?—but that wouldn’t mean anything.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Well, with
David—that’s his name, David Moss—things got ugly. He became angry and started
shouting. He accused me of betraying him.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘That’s
rather a strong word. You must have meant a lot to him.’ Mr Webster regretted
the words as soon as he uttered them. ‘Sorry, don’t mean to pry. It’s none of
my business.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No, it’s
all right. We were in the Army together about ten years ago during the Gulf War.
I got out and went into the security business. David stayed in. He was in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iraq</st1:country-region>, and now he’s in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>—some black-ops
operation. He always says he can never talk about what he’s doing. I don’t know
if that’s true or whether he’s just trying to impress me. We were close in the
Army. After I left, we would meet when he had leave. I hardly heard from him
otherwise. He might contact me when he was back home, but I hadn’t heard from
him in three years until last week. I don’t even know how he knew I’m living
here. I asked but he just smirked at me. That’s one of the things that ticked
me off. Him pretending to have all these secret contacts.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No, it
wouldn’t be pleasant to learn that someone was spying on you. Anyone would find
that distressing.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Yes,’ Deighton nodded, ‘that’s exactly how I
felt. He didn’t need to come by. He has my email address. He could have sent me
a note. In fact, he sent me a long email last night.’ Deighton frowned at the
thought.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Oh dear, I
hope it wasn’t too bad.’ His young friend seemed in a mood for confidences, and
Mr Webster was growing curious about the relationship between his tenant and
this Moss. His eager verbal prompt had the desired result.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘It was
bad. He called me all sorts of names. It was out of proportion—I mean, out of
proportion to our history. I never gave him any reason to think there was
something more than just casual . . .’ Deighton stopped in midstream and looked
at Mr Webster with surprise and alarm, as if he suddenly realised that he was
talking about his personal life. He flushed and looked away. ‘Sorry, I
shouldn’t be bothering you with my problems,’ he muttered.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">That was as
close as Deighton ever got to a personal comment. The bitterness with which he
spoke surprised Mr Webster. He started to remark that Deighton wasn’t bothering
him, but then thought better of it. Deighton liked his privacy, that much was
clear. If he wants to tell me more, thought Mr Webster, he will do so.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">While Mr
Webster hesitated trying to think of something noncommittal to say, Deighton
changed the subject. ‘The garden looks nice. You’ve been busy.’ The
conversation moved on, the opportunity for further revelations gone.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Later that night,
as he lay in bed, Mr Webster replayed the conversation in his mind. Clearly
Deighton had been about to reveal that he and Moss had had a sexual
relationship. Mr Webster prided himself on being open-minded. He would like to
make Deighton understand that his ‘sexual orientation’—Mr Webster knew the
current term—was irrelevant to their friendship. And it was a friendship. They
enjoyed each other’s company and looked forward to it. They shared confidences.
They talked about things that were important to them. They watched out for each
other. At least, Mr Webster reminded himself, he felt that way about Deighton.
He thought Deighton harboured similar affections. He couldn’t be sure, but the
young man seemed to enjoy his company. He resolved to encourage Deighton to
open up further. Deighton should understand that no subject was off-limits. Mr
Webster would provide a sympathetic ear.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Two days
later, Mr Webster had occasion to do Deighton a service. He was trimming the
boxwood in his small front garden. A car pulled up and a man got out. Mr
Webster recognised him immediately as David Moss. He went on pruning the
bushes, studiously ignoring Moss but watching him out of the corner of his
eyes. Moss bounded down the areaway steps and knocked loudly on the front door
to the basement flat. When he got no answer, he moved up a couple of steps and
peered at Mr Webster over the edge of the small wall surrounding the steps.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Pardon me,
but I’m looking for Alec. Do you know when he will be back?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘He’s at
work now.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I know
that.’ Moss’s irritation showed in his face. ‘It’s just that I left something
in his flat when I was here last week. I’m in the Army, and I’m leaving
tonight. Back to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Afghanistan</st1:country-region></st1:place>.’
Moss paused for a moment. He’s waiting for me to express admiration, thought Mr
Webster. When he failed to respond, Moss continued. ‘I don’t suppose you could
let me in. I’ll just be a second.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I can’t
let you in. I don’t know the security codes, and the alarm would go off if you
entered. The police would be here within a minute. The station is just on the High
Street, three blocks away. And I don’t want to explain to them or to Mr
Deighton why the alarm sounded.’ Mr Webster gave himself high marks for quick
thinking. He gave no indication that he knew Moss. That would be a betrayal of
Deighton’s confidences. ‘Perhaps if you sent him a letter, he could mail your
property to you.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Moss
scowled. He looked Mr Webster over as if judging his truthfulness. He was
definitely sizing up the older man. For a second Mr Webster wondered if Moss
were contemplating physical action to force him to open the door to the
basement flat. The moment passed, however, and Moss turned away, without
thanking Mr Webster—a telling omission in Mr Webster’s opinion. Some people’s
lack of character was apparent. Moss jerked open the door to his car and sped
away.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The
confrontation unnerved Mr Webster. The threat had been palpable. Moss was
trained in fighting and he was used to being physical and using force. That
much was clear. Mr Webster congratulated himself on having mentioned the
nearness of the police station. That must have given Moss pause. He wondered
what Moss would have done had he not been present. Would he have forced the
door and broken into Deighton’s flat? His claim of having left something was
clearly a lie. To Mr Webster’s knowledge, Moss hadn’t been in Deighton’s flat.
No, Moss had intended mischief.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I’m sorry
you became involved in this.’ Deighton became very apologetic when Mr Webster
told him of the incident.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No need to
be sorry. It’s not your fault. Anyway no harm done. I soon sent him packing.’
Mr Webster said up straighter in his chair. In his own mind, he was the hero of
the confrontation—the potentially dangerous confrontation, he reminded himself.
That’s when character came out, when one had to deal with problems. How one handled
oneself in a crisis was revealing. He was glad to note that he had behaved
admirably.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Deighton regarded
him kindly. ‘You must be careful. Moss has a temper and he can be violent. And
you’re right. He has no reason to be in my flat.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I can
handle myself. I won’t do anything foolish. I’ll call the police if he comes
round again. Did he contact you?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Yes. I’ve
had several more emails. I don’t know how to answer them. Well, he’s returning
to his unit in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
on Thursday. That will put an end to his visits.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Can’t you
just tell him it’s over? That’s he wasting his time?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I have
told him that—not in those exact words. I used somewhat stronger expressions.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The two men
shared a smile at the thought of those stronger expressions.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Well, it’s
good to see that you can laugh about it. Perhaps he’s just one of those people
who feels he has to have the last word. He wants to be the one that breaks off
the relationship and he became angry because you did it first.’ Mr Webster was
guessing at what had happened, but Deighton didn’t dispute this version of
events.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I think
you may have something there. He’s one of those people who doesn’t like to hear
the word no. I’ve seen him become livid when he feels someone is thwarting
him.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘I’ve known
a few people like that. They can be difficult to deal with. You have to manoeuvre
them into thinking you’re going along with their ideas.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘It’s too
late to do that with David. He’ll simmer down eventually. Something else will
come along to rouse his anger, and he’ll forget about me. I didn’t handle this
well. But we live and learn, don’t we? I’m sorry that it involved you. But I’ll
tell him not to come round again. He shouldn’t be doing that. He does respect authority,
and his career would be over if he harmed you or it became known that he was
harassing me. He’ll calm down.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Don’t
worry about me. I was glad to be able to help, even if only in a small way.’ Mr
Webster paused before going on. Then he decided to plunge in. ‘I think of you
as a friend, you know. I don’t want to see you unhappy. I’m glad to do what I
can to help.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Deighton
smiled and then briefly touched Mr Webster’s arm. ‘Thanks. That means a lot to
me.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">For Mr
Webster, that conversation still glowed in his mind the next morning. He had a
friend, a friend who appreciated his help. Clearly this Moss was up to no good.
He had deliberately mentioned that he was a soldier serving in a war zone and
then lied about his departure date in an attempt to manipulate Mr Webster’s
feelings. If he thinks that will work, thought Mr Webster, he is seriously
underestimating me.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Deighton’s
problem was that he was young. He didn’t know how to handle people. That was
one skill Mr Webster had learned through experience. One had to learn how to
size people up, suss out what made them tick, and then use that to move them in
the right direction. Mr Webster recalled with satisfaction that he had been the
one to point out that Moss was the type of person who had to be the one to
break off a relationship, he wanted to be the one who said no. Deighton had
immediately acknowledged that Mr Webster was right. Deighton hadn’t yet
developed the ability to evaluate people and manage them. That’s where I can
help him, thought Mr Webster.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">He didn’t
know Moss personally and had had only the one brief encounter with him, but he
knew the type. He could read Moss like a book—a troublemaker, thinking only of
himself, unwilling to face reality, a bully. Well, let him bluster. He had met his
match—which wasn’t to say that he couldn’t still make Deighton’s life miserable
in the coming days. He might wait until no one was at home and then break in.
He could do a lot of damage before the police arrived. Mr Webster had told him
the police would arrive in a minute after the alarm sounded, but he suspected
it would take much longer. It wouldn’t take Moss more than a couple of minutes
to smash Deighton’s telly or slash his furniture. Mr Webster could visualise
Moss on a rampage, tossing a can of paint over the walls and floors, plugging
the drains, ripping the mattress, setting the place on fire. He was a trained
soldier. He might even have access to explosives.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">What we
need, thought Mr Webster, is a way of forestalling him and preventing him from
causing further harm. I need information. I don’t even know where Moss is
staying or how to reach him. Deighton had mentioned receiving emails, perhaps
they might contain clues to his whereabouts and how to approach him. I have
Deighton’s password for the WiFi access, he mentioned that he uses the same
password for many of his accounts. Perhaps the WiFi code will allow me to read
Moss’s emails. It isn’t really snooping, he decided—just one friend helping out
a friend.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
retrieved the message with the password from his files. When he clicked on the
icon for the guest account, another screen appeared and asked him to input the
password. He carefully typed it in and then pressed enter. The screen
immediately went blank. He held his breath. He had a sudden moment of panic.
Deighton ran a security service. Undoubtedly he could trace this attempt to
break in back to Mr Webster. He should have thought of that. I’ll have to erase
all evidence of my presence, thought Mr Webster. He hoped he could figure out
how to do that. There was much about computers he did not understand, but he
knew that everything one did left a trace. He mustn’t give Deighton any reason
to suspect that someone had entered his computer.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Icons began
popping into view on the screen, and the status bar appeared at the bottom.
When the screen image settled, Mr Webster pressed the icon for the web browser.
He was relieved that Deighton used the same browser he did. At least, he didn’t
have to figure out a strange system. He opened the email programme and input
the same password. The programme opened immediately. He checked the time.
Deighton had said that he often accessed his home computer during his lunch
break. Mr Webster thought it best to allow a generous margin of time. He would
exit Deighton’s computer by no later than 11:00. Better to be safe. He could
always return if need be.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">There were
eight emails from David Moss, including an unopened one sent only an hour
before. Luckily the scoundrel used his own name rather than some silly name. Mr
Webster thought he would get a better idea of what had happened by beginning
with the earliest email. The date indicated that it had been sent the day before
Moss surfaced. It was a simple message.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Alec—</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Good news. I’m flying in tonight—I just got word this morning. The
commander is sending me to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>
deliver a message verbally ‘that can’t be trusted to ordinary channels’. As a
reward for being good and doing my duty, I have two weeks of leave. I’ll be
staying at my parents and will have plenty of free time. I want to see you
(make that—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need </i>to see you). I’ll get
in touch as soon as I can—I have a message for you too. </span><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Love, Dave</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">That seems
innocuous enough on the surface, thought Mr Webster. If one knew the man’s true
colours, however, it was easy enough to read between the lines. How like Moss
that he couldn’t resist hinting that he was on an important secret mission. And
that juvenile smiley face—another indication of the man’s immaturity. And he
hadn’t even apologised for the length of time he had been out of contact. It
was as if he thought he could drop into Deighton’s life out of the blue and
resume whatever relationship they had had. He wrote as if they were in frequent
contact. If Deighton had known the trouble that would result, he would have
written back with the news that regrettably he was out of the country for the
next month.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The second
email was written after the weekend Deighton had been gone.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Dear Alec—</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">I’m sorry you had to rush off to work—really sorry. Your half of the bed
is still warm and that makes me miss you all the more. I’ve been clutching your
pillow against my face and trying to pretend it’s you—not for the first time.
If you had any idea how many pillows and crumpled blankets have turned into you
in my dreams, you would be jealous of the bedding. Not to worry. They’re no
substitute for you, just reminders of your absence.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">I hope you’re not exhausted. I am but for the best possible reasons. I
suppose I should be sorry for you, but I’m more sorry for myself. Poor me. I’m
lying in bed alone—with only my memories of the weekend for company. And you’re
out there, rushing about, attracting attention wherever you go, the object of
lustful eyes. When you should be here with me, letting me show you what it
means to be the object of lustful eyes.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Next time I have home leave, I promise to give you more notice so we can
go away together for a week. I felt like a man who never noticed how hungry he was
until the feast was on the table. See you tonight. Try to get some rest during
the day—I plan to keep you up all night.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">I shouldn’t have drunk so much last night. Couldn’t keep up with you.
I’m not used to drinking so much. Can’t drink on duty and anyway <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region> is
officially a dry country. Guess I’m getting old. Stop me tonight after two
pints.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Love, Dave</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Moss was totally
inept, Mr Webster decided. What was that word Harold’s daughter had thrown at
her younger brother? Clueless. That was it. Moss was clueless. He didn’t
realise how Deighton felt about him. Obviously his relationship with Deighton
was based only on sex. He was still behaving like a randy teenager—thinking no
further than his cock. No wonder Deighton had complained that he had moved on
from Moss. He had grown up and needed more in a relationship than just sex. And
Moss had a drinking problem. No surprise there. A career soldier. They all
drank. Probably on drugs as well.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The next
two messages were short. They simply set times and places for meetings. The
fifth message was much longer and contained, Mr Webster was glad to note, the
first open admission of a disagreement.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Dearest Alec—</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Never again shall I wonder what ‘a full and frank discussion’ means.
Have you been holding all that in for days just to let me have a few moments of
bliss? You didn’t need to. I want you always to know that you can talk about
anything with me.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">I know you’re worried about my deployment. There’s no getting around it.
There’s no way I can claim I’m going to be safe. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s dangerous. We both
knew it would be when I asked for assignment there. But I’ve always told you
that I was in the Army for life. It’s my career. I’m proud of the job I’m
doing. And as long as the pols don’t gut the services, I can look forward to
promotion. It’s not certain yet but I’m pretty sure I’ll be Major Moss before
the end of the year.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Every job has its risks and dangers. You could be shot while trying to
prevent a kidnapping of one of your clients. There are streets in <st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city> that are as dangerous as any place in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
I’m not making light of your worries, but I worry about you too when I get an
email from you telling me about some of your encounters. We neither of us opted
for a safe course.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">I should have told you about the injury. I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to
worry. It was just a piece of shrapnel. The medic removed it, dowsed it with
antiseptic powder, and stitched it up. I can see how it would alarm you when
you discovered the scar. It was just a flesh wound in a nonessential part—at
least I don’t think my left calf is an essential bit.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">When you left the Army, you asked me to join your firm. I know you were
just joking. We both know I’m not suited to business. I’d end up being excess
baggage—the boss’s boyfriend who couldn’t pull his weight and was a drag on the
firm. Neither of us would want that. Imagine if you had to fire me. I know
where I am in the Army. It’s the life I was made for. But there have been days
when I have regretted not accepting your offer. I’ve been tempted, not because
I would be good at business but because it would mean we could be together. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Why do you keep saying this isn’t going to work? Is it just because we
can’t be together all the time? It’s hard on me to be separated as well. I
promise I’ll ask for reassignment in <st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city> or
nearby when my tour in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
ends. But you know the Army—there’s as likely to reassign me as military
attaché in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chile</st1:place></st1:country-region>. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Don’t give up on me. You mean too much to me. I wouldn’t survive long
without you. Let’s meet again tonight. Please allow me another chance to
explain myself. And please don’t speak of ‘moving on’ and keep talking about
how much we’ve changed. My feelings for you haven’t changed.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Love,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE">Dave</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">A clingy
type, that’s what Moss was. The letter justified Mr Webster’s initial
assessment of Moss. He was the type of man who couldn’t take rejection. He had
to be the one doing the rejection. The letter was a clear case of harassment.
Deighton was being hounded by a man whose pride prevented him from
understanding that he no longer measured up. Making feeble claims about the
importance of his career. Wrapping himself in his patriotic duty. All this talk
about understanding was so much disingenuous twaddle to camouflage the injury
to his self-esteem. He probably imagined that he was doing Deighton a favour by
condescending to have sex with him. And despite all the talk of love and
feelings, that was all that Moss was interested in. Sex. Well, words were
cheap.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Moss grew
even more demanding in the next two messages.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Alec—</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Please let me see you again. I promise not to get angry. We need to talk
this out. I know we can make things work between us.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Dave</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">And,</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Why won’t you answer when I phone or reply to my emails? I know you’re
still around. Is there someone else? Is that the reason?</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
checked the outbox. If Deighton had replied to any of these messages, he had
deleted the copies. Since his outbox was stuffed with hundreds of emails, Mr
Webster guessed that he seldom, if ever, deleted the copies of outgoing
messages. That might be his problem, thought Mr Webster—he needs to put an end
to this once and for all, not let it dangle unresolved. It was best to make a
clean break. Sometimes one had to clean out the trash.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
hesitated to open the final message. In the list of received emails, unread
messages were highlighted in bold. The moment he opened the message the
highlighting would disappear. Deighton would know that someone had read the
message, and it wouldn’t take much thought to guess who. Mr Webster’s curiosity
and the need for discretion were at war. No matter how close their friendship,
Deighton would not appreciate his spying. His only intent was to help Deighton,
but he would have to find another way.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Then he
remembered one of the options available on the email programme. Along with
‘delete’, ‘flag for follow-up’, and the other commands, there was ‘mark as
unread’. He had never used that before, indeed never understand why that would
be an option. In the list of incoming messages, he highlighted the selection
box beside one of the messages he had already read, opened the command menu,
and then clicked ‘mark as unread’. Instantly the message line appeared in
boldface. He clicked to open the message and the bolding disappeared.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
suspected that even if he read the message and then marked it as unread, the
action would be traceable. But what reason would Deighton have to suspect that
anyone had seen the message? To him, it would appear to be an unread message.
He would open it and the bolding would be replaced by regular type. Deighton
wouldn’t doubt that he was the first and only reader of the message.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Almost
before he had finished reasoning this out, Mr Webster had opened the message.
The button on the mouse seemed to click of its own volition.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Dear Alec—</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">I’ve been thinking about the events of the past week. Things were fine
between us until you realised that I really mean it when I say I love you. That’s
when you started bringing up all this nonsense about how dangerous my
deployment is and how you couldn’t take the stress. You saw the scar on my leg
the first day. But you never mentioned it. You started fussing over it only
when you decided to break things off. It was just a pretext for running away.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">As long as we didn’t go beyond sex, things were fine for you. When I
told you that I wanted to spend the rest of our lives together, you all but
leapt out of bed. You couldn’t wait to leave. Suddenly it was ‘Look at the
time. I’ll be late for work’. And when I suggested we have lunch, you were
busy. I had to beg you to meet me again. Then you stand five feet away and tell
me that things are over. That I’ve changed.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve changed. Sex isn’t enough for me anymore.
I want an adult relationship—two people living together and working out their
disagreements because they are secure in their love for each other. I refuse to
give up on you or on us. You can’t go through life in this rootless fashion.
You couldn’t commit to the Army. You prefer to deal with machines rather than
people. You are floating through life.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Think about what you’re doing—what you’re throwing away. I’m here until Thursday
morning. Please let me talk with you again. We can make this right.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">Love,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Dave</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">A classic
case of projection, thought Mr Webster. Moss was accusing Deighton of the very
things he was guilty of. Deighton’s biggest mistake had been not to deal with
this directly. One should never ignore things like this and expect them to blow
over. No, he should have told Moss the first night that he was through. When
problems grew this emotional, they became harder to solve. Deighton had to
confront the problem. It didn’t help that Moss was exploiting the feelings that
Deighton had for him. Moss was deceitful. Manufacturing a false history and
needless drama. Deighton probably didn’t know what to do. Poor lad. Old loves
and old claims were hard to deny.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">It was his duty
to help Deighton defend himself against this bastard. Send him back to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
Maybe he would get killed there. Solve our problems with him. He’d have to find
a way to persuade Deighton to answer this email without revealing that he had
read it. Pity he couldn’t answer it himself. Save everyone a lot of heartache.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">He clicked
‘reply’ and a new window opened. He wouldn’t send the message, just jot down a
few thoughts while Moss’s email was fresh in his mind so that he could advise
Deighton later. ‘David’, he began—best to keep it formal. Don’t give Moss any
hope of getting together again. Just come out and say what has to be said.
Don’t beat about the bush. Don’t apologise.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">David:</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">This past week has convinced me that we’re better off without each
other. Be a man and swallow your pride. Face up to the fact that it’s over.
Need to move on. Wish you the best. You’ll find someone else soon. Don’t
contact me again. Don’t want to see you. Have nothing further to say. Said it
all.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Perhaps
better not to say that bit about ‘find someone else soon’. Mr Webster deleted
the sentence and considered deleting ‘Wish you the best.’ He’d have to think
about that. Did it sound too friendly?</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Moss had brought
up the idea the Deighton had found someone else. How would he react to that? Would
that discourage him? Maybe add ‘I am seeing someone else. It’s serious. I
should have told you, but I didn’t realise how you felt about me and I didn’t
think there would be any harm in seeing you again’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He typed that in and reread the message.
Deighton knew Moss better than he did. He could decide whether to keep the part
about the new boyfriend. It wasn’t exactly a lie. A chap like Deighton would
find someone else soon. Someone better, Mr Webster was certain. He reread the
message. He couldn’t think of anything more than need be said. Without
thinking, he pressed the send button. A rotating arrow briefly appeared on the
screen before being replaced by ‘Your message has been sent.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr
Webster’s heart lurched. His first thought was to try to recall the message. He
opened the sent folder and deleted his message to Moss. Would that stop it? He
didn’t know. In a panic, he marked Moss’s last message as unread and then exited
Deighton’s computer. He fled his office and took refuge in his sitting room. If
he wasn’t in his office, no one would know he had been at his computer.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">His first
cogent thought was that Deighton would find out. Moss would reply to the email
and the reply would contain a copy of his message. Deighton would know that
someone else had typed it and he would soon discover the culprit. Hadn’t he
once said that his firm had specialists in computer crimes who could track
anyone? His only hope was that Deighton would understand that he had acted for
the best, that he had done Deighton a favour by ending the relationship with
Moss.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">He clung to
the thought of Deighton’s gratitude. Deighton wouldn’t suspect him in any case.
He was just an old man. He knew nothing about computers. Deighton wouldn’t
consider him capable of breaking into another person’s computer. He didn’t have
the skills. He would think some third party was the culprit. No blame would
fall on him. He spent the afternoon watching the street though the window. When
Deighton came home and asked him to join him in a beer, he would beg off, say
that he had a headache. Nothing to worry about. He’d take a couple of aspirin
and make an early night of it.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The police
car came at 4:00. The driver wore a constable’s uniform, and the two passengers—a
man and a woman—were in plain clothes. All three of them stood on the pavement
looking at the house and talking. The male officer pointed to the areaway and
then at Mr Webster’s front door. He pulled out a bunch of keys and he and the
constable walked down the stairs to the door to the basement flat. The woman walked
up Mr Webster’s front stairs and rang the bell.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
was alarmed. The police somehow knew that he had broken into Deighton’s
computer and were there to arrest him. Deighton must have discovered the crime.
Archie rushed to the front door and began barking. She always did that when
someone rang the bell. She ran back to fetch Mr Webster and herded him towards
the door. Mr Webster thought ‘These are my last moments of freedom’ as he
opened it.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Pardon me
for intruding, Sir. I’m Detective Sergeant Carlton.’ She held up her warrant
card.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Mr Webster
couldn’t focus on the card. There was a picture on it and printing, but he
could make no sense of the words.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Are you
all right, Sir?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘A bit of a
headache,’ Mr Webster stammered. ‘I’ll be fine. Is there a problem?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Does a Mr
Alec Deighton live here?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Yes, he
has the basement flat. What are they doing? Why are you trying to get into
Alec’s flat? Is something wrong? You’ll make the alarm go off.’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘There’s
been an accident, Sir.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Accident?
Has something happened to Alec?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Perhaps
you should sit down, Sir. Are you a relation of Mr Deighton’s?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No. No, I’m
just his landlord. Tell me. What has happened?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Sir, we’re
trying to find out what happened. That’s why we’re here. We’re hoping to find
something that will help us identify the man who shot Mr Deighton.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Alec has
been shot? When? Where?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Please,
Sir, I think you really ought to sit down.’ Sergeant Carlson grasped Mr Webster
by an arm and led him to a chair. ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">An hour
later, the three police officers were seated around Mr Webster’s dining table.
All three of them had notebooks open in front of them. Sergeant Carlson was
asking most of the questions, the police constable taking most of the notes.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Alec moved
in about six months ago. My son was worried about me being alone. So he and my
nephew persuaded me to remodel the basement into a flat. They wanted me to have
someone I could call on if I needed help.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Did you
come to know Mr Deighton well?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘Not well.
I wouldn’t say well. I’m a rather private person, and I think Alec was too. He
wasn’t given to confidences. And then there was the difference in our ages. Younger
people sometimes find it hard to talk with older people.’ Mr Webster looked
rueful. ‘We were friendly but not close.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘The man
who shot him had no identification on him. He simply walked into Mr Deighton’s
office and pulled out a gun. Then he shot himself. So we’ve no idea who he is.
Deighton never mentioned anyone?’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">‘No. He
rarely talked about his personal life.’ Mr Webster paused for a moment as if
recalling something. ‘There was one suspicious thing yesterday. A strange man
was trying to get into his flat.’ Mr Webster related the incident and then
described the man as best he could, without revealing that he knew Moss’s
identity. His description apparently satisfied the police. They asked him if he
could describe the car that the man had been driving. Mr Webster could recall
the colour. He thought it was a late model Rover, but he no longer paid much
attention to cars and couldn’t be sure. ‘My memory is no longer what it was.’ The
police officers exchanged glances. Mr Webster congratulated himself on playing
successfully on their preconceptions of the elderly.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The
constable pulled out a mobile and relayed the information about the car. He
waited with the phone next to his ear while the other two officers continued to
question Mr Webster. Finally he nodded into the phone and said, ‘Good.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned to Sergeant Carlton and said, ‘They
found a car parked around the corner from Deighton’s office that matches the
description. They’re running the plates now.’</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Sergeant
Carlton handed Mr Webster her card as they left. ‘Here’s my number in case you
think of anything else. There may be police in and out of your basement over
the next several days. I’ll tell them to knock on your door and identify
themselves before they go in. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-2826472086704508092023-02-26T18:18:00.003+00:002023-02-26T18:18:37.866+00:00The Gap Year<p> © 2010 by
the author.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The first
time was an accident. It was a cold, rainy Sunday toward the end of winter. Douglas
had everything he wanted; there was no need to go out. He read the newspaper while
he drank his coffee. He gave the kitchen and bathroom a long overdue cleaning. He
had brought work home from the office and devoted an hour to reading the report
of the administrative reorganisation committee and writing a response to it.
Then he picked up a book and read. It wasn’t until he went to bed that he realised
he had not said, had not heard, a word all day long. It had been, he decided,
not a bad way to spend the day. Peaceful, unstressed. Although he didn’t know
it at the time, that was his first day of silence.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next
day was a horror. The train into the city sat unmoving for half an hour between
stops. No explanation was given for the delay. After five minutes had passed, a
man seated two rows ahead of <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> took out
his mobile and rung his office to announce that he would arrive late for a
meeting. His example catalysed the other passengers, and a wave of phone calls
spread outward from him. A babble of shouted conversations soon filled the car,
as each person struggled to be heard over the din. Douglas tried to bury
himself in the newspaper, but the noise prevented him from concentrating.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The
underground was packed by the time the train arrived, and he had to ride one
stop past his usual station before he could make my way to an exit and get off.
He had to rush to the office to arrive in time for an appointment with a
fractious author. He needn’t have hurried. Lydia Paskings wasn’t there. When
she showed up an hour late, no one had to announce her arrival. Her progress
down the hall toward <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>’s office was
marked by a tirade about the stupidity of the taxi driver who had brought her
from her hotel.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>After
complaining for the first fifteen minutes and demanding sympathy and a freshly
brewed cup of coffee from the assembled staff, she turned to Douglas and asked
irritably what he was going to do about his company’s ‘criminal’ refusal to
arrange the author’s tour she wanted. When <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
explained in a studiedly calm voice that the declining sales of her books made
a tour infeasible, she exploded again. Douglas and the rest of the staff were
treated to another outburst. It ended with her shouting that she would take her
book elsewhere unless her wishes were satisfied. From somewhere down the hall
came the sound of laughter, quickly muted. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
found it hard to keep from smiling. It has been almost too easy to manoeuvre
her into making her oft-repeated threat again. ‘As you wish, Lydia. Have your
agent call me. We will arrange to cancel the contract.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>She paused
in mid-rant as the meaning of his words sunk in. ‘You can’t mean that. I’m one
of your best-selling authors.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘If that is
true, <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lydia</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
then you will have no trouble finding another publisher. Allow me to have the
porter find you a taxi.’ <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> lifted the phone and buzzed the porter’s desk on
the ground floor. ‘Ms Paskings is about to leave. Please ring for a taxi for
her. Thank you.’ <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> stood up and opened a
cabinet. He pulled out a manuscript box and handed it to the suddenly quiet
author. ‘I think you will find this in the same pristine shape in which it was
delivered to us.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Lydia
Paskings suddenly found her voice. She slammed the box against <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>’s desk. It slid onto the floor and the pages of
the manuscript cascaded out. ‘I’ve made this publisher what it is today. If you
think I’m going to stay here and be insulted . . .’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> Do</o:p></span><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">uglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> cut in. ‘No, under the circumstances asking you to stay would be unreasonable
on my part. I’m sure that a taxi has been found for you by now.’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘I can find
my own taxi.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘As you
wish.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Lydia</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> stood up. She seemed uncertain of
what to do next. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> knelt down and
gathered the loose sheets of the manuscript and stuffed them back into the box.
When he handed it to her, she appeared stunned by the suddenness of the
dismissal. She stared at the box as if she didn’t know what it was. After a
moment, she picked up her purse and set it atop the box. ‘You are a bastard. You
know that, don’t you?’ She spoke softly, as if to herself. If anything, she
appeared dismayed and saddened by the realisation of this side of <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>’s personality.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Douglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> made a dismissive gesture with his hand. He wasn’t sure whether he was
indicating to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lydia</st1:place></st1:country-region>
that she should leave or whether he was pushing away her assessment of him. She
took one final look at him and then left.
She hadn’t walked twenty feet before she found her voice again and
started shouting. ‘If this is the way you treat authors, you soon won’t have
any left. I’ll make sure that everyone learns of this outrage. All of you
should start looking for jobs now. This place won’t be around much longer.’ She
continued in the same vein until the lift arrived.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The lift
doors had barely closed before Miles Pope, the managing director of the press,
stood in the door of <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>’s office. ‘Are we
rid of her then?’ More and more often of late, he delegated the task of dealing
with difficult authors to <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘I believe
so. I will call her agent. Sophie has already prepared the papers voiding the
contract for the current book and arranging for the reversions of the rights to
the previous books as they go out of print. I’m sure her agent and <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lydia</st1:place></st1:country-region> will make
demands, but the matter should be settled within a week or two. She will need
to find another publisher quickly. If the rumours are true, she needs the
income to support herself in the style
she wants.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Behind Miles,
several staff were looking out a window in the corridor overlooking the front
entrance. They were pointing and giggling. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
heard one of them say, ‘There’s the old cow now. Pity the poor driver who picks
her up.’ Another glanced around. When she saw <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
watching them, she held her hands up and mimed applause.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Miles
nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good work, <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>.
I knew we could rely on you to sort this out properly.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Happy to have
been of help, Miles.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘If you
don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look particularly happy.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> T</o:p></span>o his
surprise, <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> realised that Miles’s
assessment was accurate. He wasn’t happy about it at all, and even a man he
thought unusually insensitive had seen that. ‘I’m becoming too good at this. I
hope at least that I haven’t grown to like it. That worries me sometimes—that I
am become good at being a bastard.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A brief
look of annoyance crossed Miles’s face. He did not welcome the intrusion of moral
concerns into his business. If necessary, he could countenance the occasional
platitude, but ethics were in his opinion best limited to unctuous utterances
at the proper moment—after-dinner speeches and the like. As always when
confronted by an employee acting in a way he found disagreeable, he opted for a
work cure. ‘Well, we have a meeting with the design and marketing people
shortly. I’ll see you there.’ He shot <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
a brief speculative look as he left.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Douglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> sighed inwardly, both because of the prospect of the meeting and
because of that speculative look. Miles would be watching now for any
recurrence of doubt or hesitation on <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>’s
part about playing his assigned role of hatchet man. Douglas knew that if he
gave Miles much evidence of second thoughts, he risked being called in by
another director and sent packing. He began gathering the files he would need
for the meeting.He wasn’t looking forward to it. The meeting promised to be
raucous and contentious. The heads of both departments would show up with an
unnecessarily large contingent of staff from their offices. Their claques,
thought <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>. A dozen people getting
absolutely nothing done while their managers wrangled over trifles.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The staff
meeting was worse than Douglas had anticipated. The head of the design
department and her staff seemed to view it as a forum to vent their inane
complaints about being expected to actually do some work and bend their
artistic sensibilities to production schedules. The marketing department
rejected three-quarters of the proposed dust jackets for the fall list and
complained that the mock-up for the catalogue was overdue. Miles sat at the
head of the table, his elbows resting on the table and his hands steepled
before his face. His eyes shifted from one speaker to the next. He appeared to
be enjoying the tumult and noise. The perennial argument between the two
departments was of long-standing and, in Douglas’s opinion, was approaching mortal
warfare because of Miles’s reluctance to make a decision and then enforce it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When the
two department heads appealed to Miles and asked for a decision, he turned to <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>. ‘You’re being very quiet today, <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>. What is your opinion?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Douglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> recognised his cue. He spoke directly to Miles, as if the others were
not present. ‘Sorry, Miles. My mind was elsewhere. I was thinking again about
our discussion last week of outsourcing design and production work and of
looking into hiring an outside marketing firm.’ <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
did not look away from Miles, but he knew from the sudden silence in the room
that he had the attention of everyone there. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
had in fact mentioned the possibility of eliminating the two departments only
in jest, as a way to end the bickering. ‘But that is a discussion for the
future. For the present, we must deal with the current problems with the
current staff.’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Douglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> looked around the table and found the head of the design department.
‘Philippa, I would remind you—again—that we will not remain in business if your
department does not do its job.’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Philippa
Henricks began to protest. ‘I cannot cope with this workload with the present
staffing levels. I have spoken with you about this before and . . .’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Enough.’ <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> held up his hand to stop her. ‘Your staff is
adequate to do the work assigned it. It’s just needs to be better managed.’ The
marketing department tried hard to suppress its smiles.The design department
looked dismayed, with one exception. One of the more junior members of that group
had looked up when Douglas spoke and then nodded almost imperceptibly. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> tried to remember his name. Robert something. ‘Now,
the catalogue needs to go to the printer by the end of next week. That is an
absolute deadline. I’m assigning Robert to do the design work.’ When everyone
turned to look at the young man who had nodded, <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
knew that he had at least remembered the first name correctly. ‘You will be
working with . . .’ <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> glanced down the
row of marketing people present. ‘with Alexis.’ He picked out another young person
he knew to be ambitious and anxious to impress. ‘Both of you will report
directly to Miles and myself. Stay on after the meeting and we will discuss a
schedule.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Now, as
for the jackets for the fall season.’ <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
reached across the table and picked up the stack of boards with the designs. He
turned to Miles again and held up each board in turn. ‘This one is fine, don’t
you think?’ The two of them went through the various designs, accepting most of
them and rejecting a few. Miles asserted his independence by disagreeing with <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> about one cover. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
deferred to him. When they finished, there were two piles on the table. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> indicated the pile of rejects and began
apportioning the work of revising them to various members of the two
departments, ignoring the heads of the two departments. He was amused to see
how quickly the staff abandoned their loyalty to their supervisors in their
haste to demonstrate their willingness to follow him. When he finished, he
turned to Miles and waited for him to speak.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The
director smiled broadly and beamed at everyone seated around the table. ‘Well,
I call that a good meeting. We have accomplished quite a bit today.’ Miles
stood up and headed for the door. When Philippa Henricks tried to stop him, he
said, ‘Sorry, I’m late for another meeting. Talk with <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The look
that Philippa shot Douglas said that she would rather talk with an axe-wielding
psychopath. Her dislike of <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> had become
hatred in the past half-hour. It had been a mistake to promote her, thought <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>. He wondered if the events of the meeting would encourage
her to resign or whether she would attempt to hang on a bit longer. It might
take more to get rid of her. She could be astonishingly dense about reading
between the lines and understanding what was being said to her. The head of the
marketing department would, <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> expected,
be more pliable. Andrew had proved himself capable of resilience in the past. The
message to him had been delivered and received. Andrew will wait a day or two,
thought <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>, and then he will drop by to
have a ‘chat’.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Douglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> motioned Robert and Alexis forward to the chairs next to him. He picked
up the mock-up of the catalogue and bent over it. The others filed out of the
room.</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">******<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The day
left Douglas burdened with disgust, disgust at the people he had to deal with,
disgust with his job, disgust with himself, at what he had become. His first
thought upon leaving work was that the day had been crowded with noise. That
thought was immediately followed by the admission to himself that he was also
to blame. He had been too noisy. He had even enjoyed being noisy. He had
enjoyed manoeuvring Lydia Paskings into cancelling her contract. He had enjoyed
sorting Philippa out and removing the design department from her control. He
enjoyed being Miles’s hatchet man. And the still, small voice at the back of
his mind told him he should not have enjoyed those actions, no matter how
necessary they had been. He hadn’t always been that way. There had been a time—surely
there had been a time, he thought—when he would at least have tried to work
with the two of them. It was as if the title of executive editor imposed a
certain mode of behaviour quite apart from what he wanted to be. Words and
names and titles had become tyrants that structured events and precipitated his
actions. When had he let that happen? Had, he wondered, passed the point of no
return? His life seemed to have escaped his control. Were his position and the
status that went with it so important to him and his sense of self that he had
to be what the job demanded he be?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It all came
down to words. He used words the way a more physical man might use his fists,
to batter and to wound. He had been trained to use words as weapons, to use
them carefully to argue with implied disdain for his opponent’s intellect, to
influence others with subtle deference and praise, to insult with the ironic
quip. Even his pronunciations and his speech patterns immediately separated him
from others and made his superior education apparent. Words were a constant
invitation to misuse. He couldn’t control his use of them anymore. The wry
comments escaped from his lips seemingly without thought on his part, bringing
embarrassment to the target and amusement to the others. Was he capable of
using words innocently again?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The quiet
of his flat struck him the moment he walked through the door. The neighbourhood
had little traffic at any time, but at night there was almost none. He was high
enough above the street and the building solid enough that most of the noise was
left far below. The front windows overlooked the park across the street. If they
were open during the day, he could sometimes hear children playing there, but
the park was seldom used at night, at least not by those who wished to draw
attention to themselves by being noisy. He had bought the flat after the
divorce, surrendering the one in which he had lived with Anne to her. He had
brought only his clothes and books and personal belongings with him. All the
furnishings had been new. He had intended to make it warm and inviting, but
when confronted by a plethora of possibilities, he had opted to buy the first
pieces of furniture that he found acceptable, a three-piece suite upholstered
in an unobjectionably bland fabric. He
had bought the hooks and wire necessary to hang his pictures but stopped after
placing one above the fireplace. The others remained stacked behind the sofa
with their faces to the wall. At first he had invited people over for drinks or
simple dinners, but gradually he had abandoned even that effort. He now
socialised elsewhere, meeting his acquaintances and business associates in pubs
or restaurants or in their homes.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Douglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> liked it that way. The flat was his sanctuary. Its lack of claims on
him and its sterile stillness, its palpable chill, were tonics to the office
and the world outside. Nothing intruded on him here, nothing demanded that he
be this rather than that. At the office he was what it required him to be. With
his sister and her family, he was the good brother and, if generous gifts of
money on the customary occasions counted, a good uncle to her children. With
his neighbours, he was, as they were, careful to observe the boundary between
friendliness and intrusiveness. With those with whom he socialised, he tried to
be intelligent and witty, not without charm. But in his flat, he was free to be
silent, to abandon the masks he wove from words.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Words were
his only skill, and he was good at them. Words provided his living, and his
colleagues and the authors he published relied on him to provide the words they
needed. Sometimes words seemed the only thing left to him. He had once
calculated that he was personally responsible for publishing close to three
million words a year. He figured that indirectly he added another two million.
Speech added another several hundred thousand. There were so many words in his
mind. Fragments, groups of four or five words, would drift unbidden into his
thoughts. He didn’t know why they arose. He seldom could trace a connection
between his present and the words from his past. He would be working at his desk,
reading a sales report or writing a memo, and suddenly he would experience a
phrase like ‘multitudinous seas incarnadine’.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Some mental
quirk made his mind a random thicket of words in a dozen languages. And it had
become worse as he had grown older. There seemed to be a bin labelled ‘foreign
languages’ in his mind into which words from all the languages he had studied
had been dumped. When he spoke French, he might insert a German equivalent in
the middle of the sentence. Sometimes he felt that he hated all language.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His friends
and colleagues treated his inability to forget as a parlour trick. His mind had
become a reference work to be mined as a wonder or a resource. ‘Ask <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>,’ they would say. ‘He’ll know the quote.’ And he
did. He always did.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Words. Was
it possible, he wondered, to live without words? Even the thought of doing so
had to be framed in words. If one thought about being conscious, consciousness
returned, in words. But was it possible to be conscious without words?</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">******<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘I don’t
understand, <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>.’ Miles lifted the letter
from his desk and stared at it as if he expected it to speak to him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘I am
resigning, Miles. As of May 30th.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘But why?
You give no reason. Have you found a position with another publisher? Is it the
money? We will better any offer you have been made.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘No, there
has been no other offer. I am simply resigning. I plan to take a year off, and
then I shall re-evaluate whether I wish to work again. A gap year, as it were.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Gap years
are for children, Douglas. People your age don’t take them. That’s ridiculous.
If you need a leave of absence for, say, two months, I’m sure we can arrange
that.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Miles waved
the resignation letter about helplessly. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
suddenly realised that Miles literally did not know what to do. This was the
sort of task that he or someone else handled for Miles, and Miles had no idea
of the steps he needed to take. ‘I will make all the arrangements with
personnel, Miles. All the paperwork, that sort of thing. If I might make a
suggestion, I think that Eleanor Williams is ready to take on more
responsibilities. But it might be a good idea to separate out my financial
oversight tasks and transfer those to Adrianna.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As he had
discovered in the past in dealing with Miles and had had so many occasions to
practice, it was best to act as if the decision had been made and to focus
Miles’s attention on the details of carrying it out. Miles wasn’t happy about
losing his services, but he soon accepted that as a fact.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At the end
of the discussion, Miles returned to the basic question. ‘But what will you
do?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Douglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> had thought long about how he would answer that question. It was
inevitable that people would be curious and want to know what he proposed to do
during the year. But he was reluctant to tell them the truth, both because he
knew that they would find it incomprehensible and try to argue him out of his
decision and because he felt that his chosen course would remain his own
possession if he kept it hidden. It would also be easier to follow it if no one
knew what his intentions were. So he lied. ‘I’m going to travel. There are many
places I’ve long wanted to see. But I don’t want to tie myself down to a
schedule. If I find a place I like, I may decide to stay there for a month or
two before moving on.’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His story
was successful. At the farewell party on his last day at work, he was given a
set of luggage and several items advertised as useful to travellers. His sister
recommended some places that she and her husband had enjoyed.</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In May, <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> spent his evenings and weekends preparing. He
boxed his books and CDs and stored them, along with the CD player, the
television, and the radio, as well as all the other noise-making and
word-generating gadgets he owned, in the storage space in the basement assigned
to his unit. He arranged with an accounting service to pay his monthly bills
and for the telephone service to be suspended. He stripped his flat of
everything but the essentials he needed. The evening of his last work day, he
answered all the emails in his personal email account and then turned the
computer off and carried it to the basement. It would remain off for the next
year.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He returned
to the lounge, turned on the one remaining lamp, and reread the memo he had
written himself a final time. For at least the next year, he would reduce his
contacts with words to a minimum. He would not initiate a conversation with
anyone. He had thought about vowing not to speak at all but then decided that
if the building manager came to the door and asked if he had a leak in the
ceiling, he could hardly refuse to answer. And if he needed to visit a doctor,
it might prove difficult to mime his symptoms. But he would keep speech to a
minimum. Some trials runs and experiments had revealed that it was easier to
say nothing in larger stores than in smaller ones. The workers in smaller shops
interacted more with customers, but in large stores nothing more than a smile
and a nod were required.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Nor would
he intentionally listen to others speaking. Of course, he would hear others
speaking on the street or in shops but he would not seek out sound of any kind.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And he would
neither write nor read anything. He had removed all written materials from his
flat. The only words that remained were the names on the appliances or the
writing on food packages and the like. Covering those over would serve only to
draw attention to them. He thought he could be disciplined enough to avoid all
but the most cursory of contacts with the remaining words in his flat. When he
finished reading the memo, he folded it and threw it in the bin.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He was
ready to begin his search for silence, for wordlessness.</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Douglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> quickly fell into a routine. He awoke early, between three and four he
thought, and then went for a walk as soon as it became light enough to see. His
route took about two hours to walk. He intentionally chose quiet streets. He
seldom saw more than a few early morning joggers or people leaving for work.
When he returned to his flat, he made a simple breakfast for himself. Then he satin
the lounge until late afternoon, when he ate his second meal of the day. After
he had washed and put away the dishes, he resumed sitting until he went to bed
around eight. He kept the drapes on all the windows closed and never turned on
a light. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Words proved
more difficult to exclude from his mind than he had expected, however. He would
be out walking and glance in a shop window and see words. Every street corner
had a sign. Every car and van carried a name. Words were everywhere. They were
scrawled in the most unlikely places. Even in the park there were signs
directing one to exits or to the children’s play area. He hadn’t noticed before
how ubiquitous they were until he consciously tried to eliminate them from his
life. Everything had a label, as if it would not exist if its name were not
acknowledged in writing, as if we could not identify a loaf of bread unless its
packaging stressed what it contained.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was also,
<st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> found, an extraordinary amount of speech
on the street, even during his early morning walks. The quiet of a suburban
street would be interrupted by the sound of the early morning news on a radio
or television coming through an open window. Van drivers making deliveries to
the shops or joggers rushing past him chattered into their phones. Even the
earplugs he bought did not keep all sound out.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His days
were filled with thought. He even thought about not thinking. Emptying his mind
of words seemed an impossible task, the more so as he intentionally tried to do
so. He tried staring at the wall and making his mind as blank as it, but the
colour reminded him of the flat he had shared with Anne and that started a
chain of thoughts about her and their marriage and the reasons for its failure.
He tried occupying his days with simple repetitive tasks such as cleaning but
found himself compulsively reading the instructions on the bottle of cleansing
liquid.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He was more
successful at carrying out his vow not to speak, but even in that area he found
himself uttering a few words each week. Another early morning walker might nod
at him and say ‘good morning’ as they passed, and without thinking <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> would return the greeting. An assistant in a
store would ask if <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> had found
everything he wanted and he would reply ‘yes’. Or a neighbour would stop him as
he entered the building and comment on the weather. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
could hardly refuse to speak without making an issue of not speaking, which
would defeat his project of rendering words irrelevant to his life.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His
frustration with words intensified as he struggled to do without them. It was
as if the words were fighting back, overwhelming him with their insistent
immediacy, their indispensability, their ability to organise raw experience
into chains of ideas, to structure chaotic reality to meet their nature. He
began to dread each day with its new torments, the cacophony of sound and
meaning that invaded his life as soon as he awoke. But he found no haven in
sleep. His dreams grew to taunt him with words. He dreamt of vocabulary
lessons, of words on chalkboards, books, manuscripts, memos, letters, shopping
lists, notices in the tube stations, signs in windows, lectures, plays, movies,
television programmes, newsreaders, presenters, art galleries filled with
pictures of words, words painted on hoardings and pavements and the sides of
buses, words interjecting themselves into his consciousness from signs, food
tins, stray bits of refuse on the street. No matter where he turned, no matter
where he looked, words attacked him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His attempt
to avoid words developed into a mania. He began to plot how to keep away from
them. He put off shopping for food because the stores were masses of words. He
took to rushing into the grocery store and quickly buying only items he could
decant from the packages and store in plastic bags and glass jars. As autumn
arrived and the days shortened, he began taking his walks in the dark. He kept
his head down. He wore earplugs to exclude the noise. He cut the labels out of
his clothes.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The
breakthrough came unexpectedly. He wasn’t even aware of it until it was over.
One day he suddenly realised that it grown dark while he was sitting in his
chair. He hadn’t been conscious of it. The previous memory was of finishing the
washing up from breakfast and stowing the dishes away. He didn’t even remember
walking into the lounge and sitting down. But he had to have done so several
hours before. He couldn’t call to mind a thing, a word, he had thought of
during the interim.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thereafter
he found it easier to lose himself. At first he could do so only in his flat.
But he soon learned to enter the blankness even while walking. Words and
thoughts ceased to assault his consciousness. Objects, situations, presented
themselves, and he dealt with them appropriately, but without words.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Douglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> even found that he could choose to think in words, or not. He could
choose to hear them, or not. He could choose to be conscious of them, or not.
And when he opted to be in words, the words grew richer and more laden with
significance. It was as if he came to them afresh each time and uncovered new wonders
in them.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Words had
lost their power, and he was gaining control over them. ‘In the beginning was
the Word,’ the evangelist claimed. And there were as many beginnings as there
were words. He could combine them in new ways, create new universes with them,
each with a logic determined by the single originating word. Everything was
possible. He had become the being whose word engenders a world.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Later, it would
occur to him that he was becoming insane, at least what the world thought of as
insane. The thought amused him. The belief that he had been liberated from
words and had gained mastery over them would be seen as a delusion, the raving
of a mad man.</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a name="_GoBack"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">******<o:p></o:p></span></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Douglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> was only vaguely aware of the
others at first. When he had first started the regimen of early morning walks,
the park across the street from the building that housed his flat was deserted.At
most there might be someone walking a dog or hurrying along the path toward the
train station. When he thought about it later, it occurred to him that the
gatherings had to have started with one person, but he was never sure. Perhaps
there had always been a group since the beginning. One day as he left the
building, he glanced across the street, and there on the two benches directly
opposite sat four people. Behind them stood another half-dozen people. It was
hard to tell in the half-light but all of them appeared to be watching him.
Thereafter, they were always people waiting in the park when he emerged from
the building. The number varied but grew slowly over time. Other than watching
him, they did nothing. They were still there when he returned from his walk.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He took to pulling the curtain in the lounge aside
and peeking out. His return seemed to be a signal for them to begin leaving.
Within half an hour after his return, their numbers had noticeably dwindled,
but two or three of them always remained. No matter when he checked, there was
always someone sitting there quietly and watching his building.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then there were the flowers. At first there had
been only the occasional solitary flower on the pavement outside his building.
Just a flower on the pavement close to the kerb. It might well have been
dropped by a passerby. But they grew more frequent and more numerous as the
days went by. Within a few weeks a pile of flowers greeted him every morning.
Not just a flower or two, but bunches of them, some of them still surrounded by
clear cellophane wrap from the florist’s shop.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A young woman was the first to approach him.
She was standing outside the entrance to his building. There was nothing to
distinguish her from thousands of other people her age. She wore jeans and a
short jacket. Small haversack dangled from
one shoulder. When Douglas returned from his daily walk, she stepped forward
and held out a rose to him. When he hesitated to take it, she pressed her palms
together, with the rose held between them, in the South Asian gesture of
greeting and then bowed slightly. She again presented the rose to Douglas, who
took it. She smiled and then bowed again, backing away a step or two. Neither
of them spoke.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A piece of paper had been folded around the
stem of the rose. The young woman pointed to it to draw <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>’s
attention to it. He opened it, expecting to see a message. But the paper was
blank. It held no words. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> smiled at the
woman. He had been understood. He moved his right hand in an arc through the
air. It simply felt the right thing for him to do, as if he were blessing the
gift-giver.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That action set a precedent. The flower-givers
multiplied. Soon he was greeted each morning by a dozen people bearing flowers.
He took to gathering the flowers together and then placing them on the pavement
before making the blessing gesture. One day a young man drew his attention to
the crowd of people standing in the park, and <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
crossed the street, followed by the group that had been waiting outside the
entrance to his building. The crowd parted as he neared, forming a pathway to
one of the park benches. Douglas walked through the crowd, closely observed by
a hundred people.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He sat down and motioned to the others to join
him. Slowly at first, those nearest him began to sit as they understood his
meaning. Soon only a few people were standing. A woman walking her dog outside
the circle looked at them with curiosity. The dog lifted its nose and sniffed
at the unexpected crowd of people who had lowered themselves to its level. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> closed his eyes and emptied his mind of words and
sounds. He formed a picture of the crowd in his mind and projected a wave of
wordlessness outward from himself. He sensed all sound within the radius of his
thought ceasing. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That first day, <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
sat motionless and silent for close to an hour. When he opened his eyes, he
found that the size of the crowd had increased. Many of them looked stunned and
shaken. When <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> stood, so did the others.
They began to close in around him. The young man who had earlier indicated
those waiting in the park was one of those seated nearest <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>.
He positioned himself in front of <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> and
motioned to others nearby to help him clear a path through the crowd. They
formed a cordon around <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>. When someone reached
out a hand to touch <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>, one of his
protectors interposed himself between Douglas and the person. Anyone attempting
to speak to <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> was motioned to remain
quiet. The crowd followed <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> across the
street. When the parade reached the entrance to his building, the young man
held the door open for Douglas. When <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
was inside, he turned to the crowd and said, ‘He will return tomorrow. Please
join us then. Please allow him to rest now. Please respect his silence.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next morning the young man and four other
young men stood outside the entrance to the building waiting for <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>. They wore identical outfits—a black jumper over
a white shirt, black trousers, black trainers. The neck and cuffs of the shirt
extended beyond the jumper, forming a white band at neck and wrist. As <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> turned to the left to follow the usual route of
his morning walk, they silently took up places behind him. At the end of the
walk, they escorted him across the street to the park. He sat on the same bench
as on the previous day and repeated the period of silence. That became the
daily routine.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
became used to the routine, he paid less attention to it. He was aware that the
throng of observers in the park was growing and spilling onto the street. He
knew that some in the crowd took pictures of him or videotaped him with their
phones. He was conscious that things happened around him, but awareness carried
no necessity to act. Events had ceased to be of much importance to him. He emerged
each morning, took a walk, and then sat in the park for a time. If it was
raining, someone held an umbrella over his head. Then he spent the rest of the
day sitting in his flat.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The young man followed him into the flat one
day. A short time later, a cup of tea appeared on the table beside <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>’s chair. He drank it. He hadn’t made tea for
himself for several weeks. He had forgotten how much he liked it. Later he
found food on the table. He ate that. He thought it might be the first food he
had eaten for several days. The young man stayed until it became dark outside.
He spent most of the day sitting quietly behind <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>.
That, too, quickly became part of the day’s routine.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No one spoke to <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>.
His silence was respected. Anyone who felt a need to communicate spoke to the
young man, who answered in laconic whispers. His presence relieved <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> of any necessity of speech or thought or willed
action. The young man simply took care of the necessities, and <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> no longer had to deal with them. Without thinking
about it, he became dependent on the young man and let him make more and more
decisions. It wasn’t so much that the young man learned to anticipate Douglas’s
needs as that he gradually grew to determine them.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The crowds gathered in the park soon drew the
attention of the media, the neighbours, and the police. The young man dealt
with them all. He gave interviews to the media and arranged for them to
interview the more articulate members of the daily gatherings. When the
neighbours objected that the crowds were disrupting traffic and creating
problems and complained to the police, he collected donations from <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>’s followers and rented an old church and scheduled
meetings to be held there. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> hardly
noticed the change in surroundings. The young man and his inner circle of
guards simply led <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> to the church rather
than to the park. There he sat on a chair on the raised dais at the front of
the sanctuary.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The church could not accommodate as many people
as the park, however. So the young man scheduled several ‘silent sittings’ each
day. When each ended, he led <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> to the
room that had once served as the vestry. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
sat there until someone came again to lead him back to the sanctuary for the
next sitting. He was not returned to his flat until after the last sitting
ended around 10:00 pm.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The movement grew rapidly, and the young man
soon found it necessary to hire other workers to deal with the finances and
assist with the organisation. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>’s followers
wanted to talk about their experience of silence, and he had to set up
discussion groups. Others wanted assistance with their devotions. At first he
counselled them himself, but these sessions proved so popular that he had to
train other counsellors to help him deal with the increasing numbers of people
wanting attention.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was also the problem of the desire for
more personal contact with <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>. The devout
wanted more direct access to <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> than the
sittings allowed. The young man instituted a system of allowing those who had
proven their worth with constant attendance and generous donations to sit in
the vestry with <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>. They were, of course,
schooled not to speak. They simply sat there for a few minutes and shared <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>’s silence.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Soon, however, there wasn’t enough
time for personal sittings for all those desiring them. Moreover, congregations
had formed in other cities. There was even talk of overseas branches. All of
them clamoured for <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>. Unless <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> could be cloned, the movement would be in danger
of atrophying because of the sage’s limitations. An experiment with videotaping
sittings for later viewing served only to whet the desire for personal contact.
Pictures weren’t worth a thousand silences.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">One morning when <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
awoke, his first thought was, ‘It’s June 1st. It’s been a year since I took the
vow of silence.’ He did not know how he knew the date, but he knew that he was
right about it. His gap year was over. On the whole he felt it had been a
successful experiment. He had harmed no one by being silent, and he had
regained control over his own life. The question was what to do next. He needed
to think about that. A glance in the mirror over the bathroom sink told him
that he also needed a shave and a haircut. When had he grown a beard and let
his hair get that untidy?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">While he was shaving, he heard a key
in the door to his flat, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing
and then sandals flapping against the floor and a kettle being filled in the
kitchen. He stopped in alarm, the razor poised to stroke upward under his chin.
The filling of the kettle impressed him as an unusual act for an intruder.
Surely no thief would stop to make tea, and in any case there was nothing left
to steal in the flat. He had stored everything of value before beginning the
year of silence. The refrigerator was opened and closed and there came the
chink of a dishes being laid on the counter and items being taken from drawers
and cupboards. The sequence of actions betokened a routine and familiarity with
his flat. Obviously sometime during the year, someone had begun to help him. He
wondered what other surprises awaited him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Douglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> walked quietly down the hall and
looked into the kitchen. A young man was slicing a loaf of bread, the knife
gliding quickly downward with little effort. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
vaguely recognised him as someone he had seen before and knew that for several
months at least this young man had made his breakfast. He could not, however,
recall why. The young man smiled at him, pointed to the teapot, and then
pointed to his watch and held up five fingers, apparently indicating that it
would take about five minutes for the tea to brew. <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
could not understand why he was miming. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">The young man looked startled. He turned
around and stammered, ‘My name’s Geoff, Geoff Harkness.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Douglas</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> realised suddenly that the young
man had never heard him speak before. Other memories flooded his mind. The
young man had been his caretaker for almost six months now, almost his manager.
In a rush of embarrassment, his first thought was the amount of work he had
caused Geoff. ‘I seem to have put you to a lot of bother. I do apologise. It
was never my intent that others assist me in my efforts. I thank you for
helping me, but I couldn’t accept more of your time.’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">‘It hasn’t been a bother. It’s been
a privilege. It’s my life now—to help others understand your message, I mean.’
The young man stared at <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas </st1:place>with dismay.
‘You’ve shaved your beard off.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">‘Yes, I need to have my hair cut as
well. I’ll do that this morning.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">‘But there’s no time. The first
silent sitting is scheduled for eight o’clock. Then you have appointments all
morning until the noon sitting. In any case, people expect you to have a beard
and long hair. They won’t recognise you without them.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">‘I’ll talk to them and explain. I
don’t like my hair this long. I’ve never worn it like this. It feels dirty.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">‘No, you mustn’t talk. That would
ruin everything.’ The young man stepped closer to <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>.
‘People don’t want you to talk. That’s where your power comes from. That you don’t
talk.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">‘You don’t need to raise your voice.
I can hear you perfectly. In any case, it is my decision. I decided to take a
year’s break. The year is now up. I wish to resume my previous life. That
includes getting a haircut. And I will put a stop to these ridiculous sittings
or whatever they are. And do stop waving that knife about.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">‘But you can’t. What about all our
hard work? What about all the people who believe in you and have benefitted
from your example? We’re in the midst of a fund-raising drive. A new temple is
opening in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manchester</st1:place></st1:city>
next week, and you’re to be there.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">‘I have no intention of
participating further in this charade. Now I must ask you to leave.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">‘I won’t let you do this.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">‘I don’t see how you can stop me
short of murdering me.’</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt; text-align: center;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">******<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">At the first sitting that morning, the
young man announced that <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> had entered a
period of prolonged silence, a retreat apart from others so that he could renew
himself. He would return at a later time with even greater powers. The
announcement was greeted with respectful disappointment. Two acolytes reverently
placed a large portrait of <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place> on the
altar. The young man led the congregation in the silent sitting and
contemplation of the meaning of <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>’s
silence. Several participants later said that <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
had been even more of a presence in his absence.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">At the end of the sitting, the young
man made a second announcement. Since <st1:place w:st="on">Douglas</st1:place>
recognised that others needed his help, he had prepared a book and a CD. The
book would be available shortly in both cloth and paperback editions, and as an
e-book. Both proved to be popular items. Most of the faithful bought at least
one of each. Many bought several copies so that they would always have one
available no matter where they were. The sales funded the expansion of the
church.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 85.95pt;">The cover of the book consisted of a
picture of David sitting with his eyes closed and his head bowed. The only
other element on the cover was the barcode for the ISBN number and the price on
the back. The interior consisted of 320 blank pages. A deluxe edition was
available, featuring a faux leather cover and heavy cream-coloured paper. The CD contained 50 minutes of silence. Excerpts
from it quickly joined the list of popular YouTube files.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-23378956445604341282023-02-25T15:16:00.001+00:002023-02-25T15:34:43.621+00:00Coffee in the Morning<p> © 2009 by
the author</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Bitch.’ The
word hung in the air between the two young men standing in the dark doorway.
Neither paid me the slightest attention as I approached.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="text-align: center;">******</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The snow began
falling around midnight. On a trip to the toilet around three, I pulled the
curtains away from the hallway window and looked out. Enough had fallen by then
to hide the ground. Beneath the streetlamp in front of the Lovatts’ house, the
flakes spiralled slowly downward. When I awoke again at six, there were three
or four inches on the ground and a fitful wind had sprung up. The snow would be
whirled about in a sudden gust only to resume drifting leisurely when the wind
died. The weather forecast on the radio said that the wind chill had brought
the apparent temperature down to minus twelve Celsius, and the snow was
expected to continue until mid-day, with another seven to eight centimetres of
accumulation. I don’t think I shall ever grow accustomed to the metric system.
Too many years of inches and pounds. I mentally translated the figures into around
ten degrees Fahrenheit and another three inches of snow. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>It was even
darker outside than customary for that time of the year and that hour of the
morning. I debated whether I should forgo my usual morning cup of coffee
because of the cold and the snow. It didn’t take me long to decide. Coffee in
the morning is a habit of a lifetime, and I’ve always liked walking in the snow,
especially at night. I like the way one feels isolated within the snowflakes,
the way they come cascading out of the sky in a vortex that swirls around you. The
hissing noise the snow makes as it falls, and the crunch as it compacts beneath
your feet. The hesitant way a flake touches your face or settles on your clothing,
almost as if it were surprised at finding something in its path.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>I wrapped a
woollen scarf around my neck and jaw and then pulled on my boots and heavy
coat. I decided the day demanded a knit cap and thick gloves. As I walked out,
I glanced at myself in the hall mirror. ‘Stocky’ would be a generous
description of my build. I looked like an aerosol spray can with a domed lid and
a push button on top done up in wool. I had pulled the scarf up over my mouth
and the tip of my nose, and the only part of my face visible was a narrow band
around my eyes.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The snow
was still fresh enough to be light and fluffy. I used the broom we keep in the
small entryway between the hallway and street doors to sweep a path down the
steps and along the short walkway to the street. The plough had been by earlier,
but enough had fallen since then to leave an inch or so of new accumulation on
the street. The snow had covered everything over and flattened the landscape,
robbing it of detail. Our small front garden and those of our neighbours looked
pristine and fresh beneath a smooth blanket of snow. Only humps with a few
twigs poking out hinted at shrubberies growing beneath.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span><st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Kinross Street</span></st1:address></st1:street><span lang="EN-GB"> is an old residential area. The
houses, all of them solid brick structures, were built in the 1890s. The street
itself is narrow, and the few streetlamps are spaced widely. Beneath each light,
a radiant circle of white faded quickly into thick darkness. A few of our neighbours
were awake, and lights dimmed by draperies cast yellow-grey squares on the
snow. It was one of those magically private moments when one feels unobserved
and free.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>I had to
walk in the street because the pavements had not been cleared yet. No one had
been out since the plough had been past. There were no tyre tracks or
footprints. Mine were the first. I felt a responsibility settle on my shoulders
to make my prints neat, to disturb the snow as little as possible. When I
reached the corner at <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Strathmore Road</st1:address></st1:street>,
I looked back toward our house. It always surprises me to see evidence of how
my feet turn out. I think I walk with my feet pointing straight ahead, but my
footprints gave the lie to that notion. Two lines of prints, each one angled
outward about thirty degrees, marked my passage down Kinross.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Strathmore
is a busy street, and the council gives it priority for cleaning. The plough
must have been by only a short time before. The street itself was almost free
of snow. The shops begin a block from the intersection with Kinross, and some
of the pavements had already been cleared and salt crystals, or whatever ‘green’
product that is used now, thrown down. The snow was already becoming slush in the
gutters. Not nearly as attractive as the fresh version, but then that never
lasts long. A sharp blast of wind made me suddenly feel the cold, and I began
to walk more quickly. I could see the lights of the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Veneto</st1:place></st1:state> coffee bar ahead. Other than the newsagent’s further down the street, it was the only shop open at that time of the
morning.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span><st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-GB">Veneto</span></st1:place></st1:state><span lang="EN-GB"> opened about three years ago. The
shop is long and narrow. There is a counter on one side toward the rear, with
the coffee machines on a ledge built against the wall behind it. At the back are
shelves with packages of coffee and brightly coloured and intricately patterned
cups and plates from <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
Travel posters featuring scenes of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city>
hang on what little open wall space there is. The small floor area is packed
with seven round tables, with two wire-mesh chairs at each. A well-wisher might
say that the seating is snug and conducive to friendliness. Someone intent on
being truthful would say that it is crowded. The tops of the tables are made of
stainless steel. The surface is polished enough to reflect objects and faces,
but the patterns and accumulated scratches scoured into them break the images
up and distort them. The odour of roasted coffee permeates everything in the
shop. For a coffee lover like myself, the smell alone is a promise of heaven.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Leo, the
young man who owns and runs the <st1:state w:st="on">Veneto</st1:state>, isn’t
from <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
but he has a love of all things Italian. I’m not even sure that Leo is his real
name. I suspect he may have been christened Leonard and was a Len for all but
the past few years. His light brown hair and fair complexion argue for an
English background. He is in his mid-twenties, I believe, at most late
twenties. He is unfailingly polite toward his customers and friendly with those
of us who are regulars. I am usually the first or one of the first customers in
the morning, and we have over the years since Leo opened the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Veneto</st1:place></st1:state> chatted often. He knows me well
enough to know what role Gabe plays in my life and to recognise him on the
street. Leo lives above his coffee bar, and we occasionally see him in the
other stores and restaurants in the neighbourhood.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Now that I
think about it, I actually know very little about Leo’s personal life. I
suppose I do most of the talking in the morning. I am become a garrulous old
man since I retired. Well, truth be told, I was both garrulous and old long
before I retired. In any case, Leo listens to me and seems to have some
interest in my life.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>I have
always been a quiet walker. Gabe sometimes complains about my ‘sneaking up’ on
him. That may have been why the two men standing in the doorway of the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Veneto</st1:place></st1:state> didn’t hear me
approaching. The man with his back to me as I walked up was wearing a duffel coat.
The other man had no coat on, as if he had just stepped outside for a moment. There
is no light over the door and the two men were illuminated only by the light
coming through the shop window beyond the entrance. They were standing very
close, almost embracing, and conversing quietly. When I was within a few feet
of them, I saw that the man without a coat on was Leo. The two were so intent
on each other that neither registered my approach.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>It was then
that the man wearing the coat said, ‘What time will you be through today,
bitch?’ Leo smiled at him and said something I didn’t catch. It was so cold
that their words came out as white puffs that lingered in the air. Then Leo
looked up and saw me. He stepped back from the other man and opened the door
for me. ‘Good morning, Mr Simmons. I’ll be right with you.’ I nodded to both of
them and greeted them. The other man glanced briefly at me as I went in, the
polite smile on his lips quickly fading, whatever interest he may have anticipated
dying as soon as he registered my age.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Even before
I had divested myself of my coat and other paraphernalia, Leo came bustling
into the shop and took his place behind the counter. I always order the same
thing every morning, a triple <i>caffè lungo</i>--at
least that is what Leo has taught me to call it. Whatever its name is, I love
the richly nuanced bitterness of the taste. There are days when I feel almost heady
after drinking it, rather like the feeling I get when drinking whiskey on an
empty stomach. Without asking, Leo began tamping the coffee into the filters
and wedging the holders into the espresso machines. Soon the machines started
to hiss, and the coffee began straining into the pots. Leo swirled the liquid
in the first pot around and then sniffed at it cautiously. He scowled and then dumped
the contents into the sink and started over. When he was satisfied with the
brew, he poured the contents of all three pots into a large cup for me and
carried it over to my table.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘Sorry
about that earlier, Mr Simmons.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>My
confusion must have shown on my face. I didn’t know what he was apologising
for.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘My
friend.’ Leo tilted his head toward the door of the shop.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘Ah.’
Comprehension. ‘Nothing to worry about. I’m glad to see that you have someone.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Leo gave me
a rather uncertain look, as if my interpretation had drawn his attention to the
question of what his relationship to the man in the duffel coat was. Perhaps I
had simply misread the situation, and it hadn’t occurred to him that others
might see a relationship where there was none. For a second I thought he was
going to speak, but then he simply nodded his head and went back behind the
counter. The surface of the coffee was covered with a layer of foam. As I
waited for it to cool, several of the bubbles popped, and the black liquid
under the brown foam began to appear. I cautiously took several sips to gauge
the temperature and then half-turned in my seat to speak to Leo. ‘Oh, that’s
perfect. You worked your usual magic.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Leo looked
up from the cups he was arranging on a towel and smiled at me. ‘I think you may
be my only customer this morning. No one else is about in this weather.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘You and
your friend were the only other people I’ve seen this morning.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘We made a
late night of it, and it had started to snow when he was ready to leave. So he
stayed the night.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘May I ask
something? It’s not personal. I am just interested in a word your friend used.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘Sure.’ He
shrugged and looked at me with curiosity. ‘His name’s Jerome, by the way. Most
people call him Jer.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘I’ve heard
other people use the term on the telly and on the street. He called you a “bitch”--I
know what the word means, but this usage is unfamiliar to me. What does it
signify when one young man says it to another?’ Sometimes I sound stilted and pompous
even to myself. I tend to ratchet myself up a notch when I fear that I am
becoming rude--formal politeness seeking to excuse and ameliorate nosiness.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘Means
different things, doesn’t it? Depends how it’s said. Jer likes me. With him, it’s
a . . . a term of affection, I guess. It also means that he’s trying to make a
claim on me, calling me “his bitch”.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘Ah, I see.
Thank you for enlightening me.’ I took another drink of coffee. I’m never sure
what sorts of questions are considered too personal nowadays. The young seem to
discuss everything so openly. I suppose that’s why my next remark was spoken so
tentatively. ‘So this relationship with Jerome could be serious?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Leo looked
toward the ceiling as if the answer might be written there. He hesitated not,
as I first feared, because he was trying to think of a polite way to tell me to
mind my own business but because he wasn’t sure of the answer. After a moment,
he dropped his eyes and looked at me. ‘Might be. Not yet though. I think he’s
trying to rush things a bit, and I’m not sure I’m ready to be his “bitch”--or
anyone else’s for that matter. I hope you weren’t offended. He was just saying
goodbye. He’s affectionate, like. Very physical.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘No, I
wasn’t offended. It’s heartening to see that two men can demonstrate their
feelings toward each other on the street. It wasn’t that way years ago. So
we’re--gay people, I mean--we’re making some progress. When Gabe and I were
your age, it was still against the law for men to have sex with each other,
even in private. We could never have kissed on the street like that.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Leo gave me
a polite half-smile and went back to his work. He wasn’t interested in ancient
history. I returned to my coffee and the view out the window. Most customers at
that hour of the morning read the newspaper or pull out a laptop or their phone
and start tapping away. I like to look out the window and watch the traffic and
the people walking past. I’ve reached an age when I enjoy being a spectator. I
have all day to read the newspaper, and I feel no need to be linked
electronically to everyone I know during every waking moment.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>It was
still dark enough outside that the interior of the shop was reflected in the
glass of the window. The images in the glass weren’t as clear and ‘solid’ as
those in a mirror would have been, and they overlay the background of the scene
outside. What one saw depended on the focus of one’s eyes. When I looked at the
reflection, I saw my outline dark against the light behind me and Leo moving
about in the background. When I looked at a distance, the reflection faded
away, and I saw only the snow falling. Although long delayed by the heavy
overcast, the light outside was growing. The wind appeared to be getting
stronger. The snowflakes were no longer floating down but were being driven
almost sideways and forcibly blasted into the ground.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Gabe and I
had been so circumspect when we were younger. Furtive. I suppose that lent our
relationship a certain excitement. We were being daring. The camouflage of
convention was as much a part of our lives as the wonders of love. Two staid
young men at the beginning of their adult lives and careers secretly making out
like rabbits as often as opportunity allowed. We thought we were being
innovative and avant-garde. I’ve never spoken about it with Gabe, so I don’t
know what he thought, but I was certain that we were inventing sex and creating
previously unknown pleasures.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Now, of
course, an hour ‘surfing the net’ provides an advanced tutorial in the sorts of
activities we stumbled across by chance. But there weren’t any models for us,
sexual or otherwise. The only visibly gay people were comedians and actors who
exaggerated their ‘swish’ side and camped it up for effect. We knew we weren’t
like that. The only examples we had were straight couples--our parents and
others--and we wouldn’t have been allowed, or allowed ourselves, to copy them
openly.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>We didn’t
dare live together at first. Gabe was a teacher in a secondary school before he
retired, and in the nineteen-sixties and even up into the seventies he would
have been dismissed if it were suspected that he was gay. If it had become
known at the bank that I was gay, I wouldn’t have been fired, but I would probably
have been shunted aside to some corner of the office doing tedious tasks that
no one wanted to do, safely removed from contact with the bank’s customers and
clients. I would never have been promoted or granted a rise in salary. The bank
would have done everything it could to encourage me to leave.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>When Gabe
and I met on the street, we greeted each other with hearty handshakes. In
public, we were always careful to maintain a physical separation. Straight ‘blokes’
touched their ‘mates’ in public far more often than we did. We couldn’t do that
because we couldn’t afford gossip about our friendship. When I visited his flat,
I always left at an early hour, and vice versa. Our visits to gay pubs and
other such places were restricted to occasional trips to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>. Secrecy and discretion just seemed
second nature to the way we had to live, part of the price we paid for being
gay lovers if we wanted to remain respected members of society. Or even if we
wished to remain members of society at all. We had so many subterfuges, so many
masks. People who knew us may have suspected, but we were never indiscreet
enough to supply them with proof for their suspicions. ‘Such good
friends’--‘Bryan and Gabriel are such good friends’--that was the arch
euphemism others used to allude suggestively to our relationship.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Once in the
mid-seventies, the bank sent me to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">San
Francisco</st1:place></st1:city> for a week to supervise the negotiations
over a loan. The end of the term at Gabe’s school fortuitously coincided with the
projected end of the negotiations, and I arranged to take time off to tour <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">California</st1:place></st1:state>. He flew over
to join me. It was such a week of freedom for both of us. We weren’t making out
in the streets or anything like that, but it felt so comfortable just to be
able to walk around together and not have to pretend to be ‘just friends’.
Nobody noticed one more couple of whatever gender or orientation. If anything,
our accents attracted more attention than did the fact that we were a gay
couple.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>It was our
first trip together. It was a wonderful luxury to share a bed for a full night with
Gabe. The bed was enormous, but we occupied very little of it. When I woke up
the first morning, we were curled up next to each other, my face pressed into
one of his shoulders. He held me tightly against his body. We shaved and showered
and then went downstairs to the restaurant on the ground floor of the hotel. Oddly
enough, that was the first time we had ever had breakfast together. Gabe
conformed to the waiter’s expectations and ordered a pot of tea. My lover was
very surprised when I asked for black coffee.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘I didn’t
know you drank coffee in the morning. Or is that just because we’re in the
States?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘No, I
always have coffee in the morning. Don’t you?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>‘Not very
often. I usually drink tea.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We had been
together for nine years by that point. Each of us knew a lot about the other,
but there were many details of our personal lives that the other never saw. In
some ways, ignorance was bliss. When we finally moved in together, it was just
such petty details that caused the most squabbling.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That visit
to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">San Francisco</st1:place></st1:city>
did propel us into making a big change in our lives. We decided after that we
could no longer live apart. Our jobs were secure enough that we could
contemplate the added expense of home owning, but at that time there were legal
complications about two, unrelated men buying a place jointly. We decided that,
because of my connections in the bank, I would buy the house and take out the
mortgage in my name. We found the place on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Kinross Street</st1:address></st1:street>. It was made for us and
our situation. A previous owner had remodelled the place so that the top floor
was a separate flat, reached through a back stairway. I had the first two
floors, and Gabe ‘rented’ the flat.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It proved
to be a perfect arrangement. When necessary, we could keep up the fiction that
Gabe was just the tenant of the rental unit. He could invite his colleagues
over for drinks without confronting them with the awkward question of who I was, and I could do the
same with my associates. And when we were alone, we could spend time with each
other.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We had a
few gay friends, most of them couples of our age. None of us flaunted our
orientation. We were true to our upbringing and kept our private lives private.
Two of our friends lived together fairly openly as a couple, but most of the
others were as careful in public as we were. It wasn’t until nearly the end of
the 1980s that I noticed a change in attitudes. Change must have been happening
all along, because when it finally drew my attention, it was well developed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Oddly
enough, it was remark of my mother’s that drove home to me how much things were
changing. After my father died, I began taking her out to dinner every Wednesday
evening. She was a far more adventurous eater than my father had been. Unlike
him, she liked to try new dishes. She read the reviews in the papers each week
and was always eager to try restaurants that had impressed the critics. One Wednesday
she wanted to eat at a place in the country near Chelmdene. It was raining when
we arrived at the restaurant, and I let mother out at the front door and then
drove off to find a parking spot. The closest one was a good quarter of a mile
away.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By the time
I walked back to the restaurant, mother was seated at a table and deep in
conversation with the two men who ran the restaurant. While I was hanging my
coat in the entranceway, I watched her through the doorway to the dining room. She
had taken her coat off, but she still wore her hat, one of the feathery confections
she favoured. She belonged to a generation of women that never appeared in
public with hair uncovered. In some areas, change could be tolerated, perhaps
even welcomed. In others, tradition was sacrosanct. The feathers trembled
lightly as she turned her head from side to side to talk to the two men. One of
them, it turned out, was the chef, and the other was the maître d’/wine
steward/waiter. The three of them had already decided what I was to order.
Mother liked us to eat different things so that we could sample what the other
had.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The two men
weren’t flamboyant, but it was clear that they were gay. They were apparently a
couple. Each demonstrated a familiar joy in the other’s foibles. When I asked
about the contents of the starters that had been chosen for me, the non-cook
informed me, ‘You have to be careful with Richard. He thinks certain dishes
require an excess of pepper, and that’s one of them.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘I do not.
I use only the amount of seasoning needed, never an excessive amount. If Geoff
ran the restaurant, everything would be smothered in ketchup. We’d be serving
sardines on toast with tomato sauce.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Oooh, one
of my favourites,’ said the man named Geoff. ‘That and beans on toast. Both
underappreciated classics of English cooking. It takes talent to scorch toast
to attain just the proper degree of crispness and burnt charcoal flavour. Not
everyone can do it up right.’ He addressed his next remarks <i>sotto voce</i> to mother. ‘He’s been trying
to educate my taste buds for years. He finally gave up and opened a restaurant
so that he could feed people who appreciate his skills.’ The two men smiled at
each other over our heads with easy affection.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When one
left to cook our order and the other to open the bottle of wine for us, mother
turned to me and said, ‘I think God makes people what they are, don’t you?
What’s important is how people treat each other, not what sex they are.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My face
must have registered my shock. I didn’t know what to say in answer to that. It
was a remark so unlike mother.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was mother’s
turn to look at me with easy affection. ‘It doesn’t matter so much about being
gay these days. No one thinks anything of it anymore.’ One of my hands was
lying on the table, and she reached over and patted it and then clasped it
tightly. ‘I think it’s past time that you asked Gabriel to join us, don’t you?
He must get tired of sitting at home on our Wednesdays eating beans on toast or
takeaway while we’re feasting. Invite him next week.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Another
sign of the change in attitudes came a year or two later when the headmaster at
Gabe’s school invited me to his annual garden party for the staff. The
invitation came as a surprise. Gabe had introduced me to the headmaster many
years earlier, but I had no idea that he was aware of our relationship. My
inclination was to decline, but Gabe was uncharacteristically insistent that I
accompany him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The party
was held at the headmaster’s house, and as was my habit when Gabe and I
appeared in public together, I separated from him shortly after we arrived. I
was sipping at a glass of wine and examining the rose bushes when a young woman
accosted me. ‘I saw you arrive with Gabe. Are you <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bryan</st1:place></st1:city>? Gabe’s always talking about you.’ She
didn’t pause for answer. She turned around and waved to someone standing with a
group several feet away. ‘Andy, come meet Gabe’s <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bryan</st1:place></st1:city>.’ Everyone in the group turned to look
at us. Six or seven pairs of eyes looked me up and down. I suddenly felt very
exposed. I couldn’t imagine what Gabe might have said about me that would
generate such curiosity. I had to fight an urge to bolt down the pathway along
the side of the house to the street.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next
moment, I was surrounded and people began introducing themselves. I was able to
identify some of them from comments Gabe had made about them over the years,
but most of them were strangers to me, but not apparently I to them. To judge
from their remarks, I was already well known to them. All the other guests were
colleagues of Gabe’s and their partners. Most of them were married, but there
was one other gay couple, much younger than Gabe and I. I felt rather envious
of the straightforward way they passed in and out of each other’s orbit and how
physically comfortable they were with each other. They weren’t kissing, but
they felt no hesitance about touching one another in public, the same way that
any married couple might do. When Gabe came up to me later, I automatically stepped
back from him. I couldn’t bring myself to stand right next to him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Later that
night, when Gabe and I were together in bed, I expressed some surprise that he
had spoken freely of our relationship with his colleagues. I tried not to let
my dismay at his openness about us show. It took me some thought to formulate a
neutral question that would not sound critical. We often discuss the events of
our day in bed after turning the lights off, and I spoke in the most casual
voice I could muster, as if I were half-asleep. ‘You’re not worried what they
will think?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘No,
they’re adults. They know other gay people. And why wouldn’t I talk about you?
I’m very proud of you. We all talk about our marriages and our families. Don’t
you talk about me at the bank?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘No. The
subject has never come up. Some of the staff discuss their families, but I
never pay much attention to that. Does everyone at your school know about us?
Surely not the students.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘I think
everyone on the staff does. Some of the students know that a few of the
teachers are gay. William and Harry’ (the other gay couple at the party) ‘are
the staff advisors for the student gay, lesbian, and bisexual club.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘There’s a
club for gay students? And they supervise it? But doesn’t that hurt them in school?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘No,
they’re both quite popular. They’re known as the “two princes”.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘What about
you? Do the students know about you?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘William and
Harry asked me to talk to the GLB club about the “old days” and how it used to
be. So at least those students know that I am gay. I imagine that word got out
and a few more students have found out that I am gay.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘You talked
about us?’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Yes. They
were very interested in how we had to live. They thought it hilarious at first
that we had to be so careful, but I was able to show them why it was necessary.
Don’t worry. I didn’t mention your name or what you do. There won’t be students
coming up to you in the streets and asking about us.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘I should
hope not.’ The very idea of teenagers confronting me on the street for
information on my relationship with their maths master appalled me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘You know, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bryan</st1:place></st1:city>, we don’t have to
be as secretive anymore. Things are changing. At least in this area, straights
realise that the world isn’t going to come to an end just because a few of us
are gay. Despite what you may think, most of the neighbours have a good idea of
what goes on between us.’ He kissed me on the side of the neck and burrowed his
head into my shoulder. ‘We’re quite an old couple now. People can learn to
accept us for what we are. If they can’t, then fuck them. Speaking of which--’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I do admit
that I tend not to be very observant about strangers. I had schooled myself so
strongly not to look at other men in public that I hadn’t really noticed how
many gay men there were on the streets. I suppose that statement sounds stupid,
but I had kept my own head down for so long that I truly hadn’t allowed myself
to see what was there.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I did try
to be a bit more open after that. But it’s hard to change the habits of a
lifetime. I was so used to being in the ‘closet’ with the door tightly closed
that I was reluctant to venture far outside it. I had grown, perhaps not to like--that
would be an inaccurate word--but at least to be comfortable with its
conventions and to draw some satisfaction from the notion that I was doing the
right thing and behaving correctly. It came as a surprise to me that many
people regarded this as old-fashioned and asinine if not immoral.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A week or
so after the headmaster’s party, Gabe and I were having dinner at a friend’s
house. I mentioned my reaction to discovering that Gabe’s colleagues knew about
us. It turned out that everyone at the table was ‘out’ in both their personal
and their professional lives. They all agreed that they didn’t make an issue of
it but saw no reason to pretend to be other than what they were. In fact, several
of them chided me for not being open. One of them even accused me of being a
capitulationist and of failing to speak up for the freedom to be ourselves. I
was giving aid and comfort to the enemy by allowing myself to be manoeuvred
into obeying ‘their’ rules. He grew quite hot on the subject. The very
behaviours I had adopted to forestall a negative reaction from outsiders were
being criticised by a group I thought would understand. The support I expected
wasn’t forthcoming.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course,
I took it all with a show of good humour. I even had the presence of mind to
defuse the situation by mocking my own insecurities. But Gabe knows how much
that sort of unpleasantness upsets me. We’ve been together long enough for him
to know what to do to excite me, and what to do to comfort me. And he realised
that I needed comforting that night. As we lay next to each other in our dark
bedroom, he pulled the covers up around me and then rolled on to his side so
that he was facing me. He held me for a while and then began gently massaging
my shoulders and the back of my neck. After a while, he kissed me on the
forehead and said, ‘We just have to be what we are. We’ll take things at our
own pace and not worry what other people think. Their opinions of us don’t
matter. This is our life.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I hope I
provide as much to Gabe as he provides to me. I would guess that most couples
at some point find themselves bored with their common life and irrationally
irritated by some everyday behaviour on their partner’s part. I know both Gabe
and I have at times longed for things to be radically different, if only for an
hour or two. But there are moments when the familiar enchants and the well-trod
path confers the blessings of unexpected grace.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Gabe was
being polite in using the first-person plural and in pretending that both of us
were still in the closet. He would in the months to come gradually ease that
door open for me. I’ve always done most of the cooking, but he began
accompanying me on the trips to the market, pushing around the trolley and
making suggestions about dishes I might prepare. Anyone who overheard him would
have no doubt that we not only ate together but lived together in every sense.
Occasionally someone would stare at us or pull a child away. Perhaps I gave
those acts more weight than they deserved. But for the most part we attracted no
more attention than any other couple shopping.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One evening
when I returned home from work, Gabe was standing in our driveway talking to a
neighbour. When I walked up, he put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. And
left it there. The neighbour’s eyes drifted to his hand on my shoulder,
registered it, and then looked back at us. The three of stood there conversing
naturally for several more minutes.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Loosening
up in public did take some effort on my part. I did finally manage during a
meeting at work one day to bring myself to refer offhandedly to ‘my partner
Gabe’. One of the juniors in my department asked if Gabe was the ‘distinguished
white-haired man’ she had seen me playing golf with. When I nodded yes, she
said that we made a handsome couple and gushed, ‘Oh, you two must have looked
absolutely fabulous when you were young.’ I advised her that her flattery would
have been more successful had it not been tempered with an insinuation that
Gabe’s and my looks were in decline. Everyone laughed, and that was that--a
brief bit of banter, and Gabe and I were officially a couple at the bank.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Small
things to be sure, but I found that the sky would not fall if I acknowledged
being gay. Oh, life wasn’t suddenly perfect and everyone tolerant and
understanding. There are still many who feel a need to register their hatred
and contempt. But one learns to accept even that. There are people whose
behaviour I disapprove. But my disapproval won’t cause them to change the way
they act. It took me a while to learn not to let others’ disapproval make me
feel I had to change mine.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>It isn’t a
world I had ever expected to live in. I’m not sorry it’s here, but the habits
of a lifetime still impose a certain reticence on me. I could never, for
example, refer to Gabe as ‘my bitch’, even in private. I’ll tell him about the
incident later. It will amuse him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span>******</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Thank you,
Leo.’ I carried my empty cup over to the counter. ‘I don’t know what I would do
without the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Veneto</st1:place></st1:state>.
You start my day off right.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He smiled
at me with delight. ‘I’m always happy to make coffee for you. Not everyone
appreciates a good cup of coffee. Most of them just want something so sweet and
tarted up with other flavours that you can’t taste the coffee.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘My lover
among them. If by some miracle I could ever persuade Gabe to come in here, he
would want a weak cup of milky liquid with lots of sugar. The smell of coffee
in your shop alone would be too strong a brew for him.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Takes all
sorts, doesn’t it? Well, it leaves more of the good stuff for those of us who
appreciate it.’ He pointed to the snow falling outside. ‘Are you going to be
all right walking home by yourself? I could close up and walk with you, just to
make sure you make it back safely. It’s no trouble.’ He reached behind his
waist and began tugging at the strings of the dark blue butcher’s apron he
always wore at work.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Yes, it
takes all sorts. And no, thanks for offering, but I’ll be fine.’</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-65622039577639710652023-02-24T19:04:00.001+00:002023-02-24T19:04:34.451+00:00Message on the Pavement<p><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>© 2010 by
the author</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>“I say I
would relive what was.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I found the
message on the pavement outside my house as I was leaving for work. It was
written in white chalk and faced the door as if it had intentionally been written
for me to read as I walked down the steps. The letters were quite large and
very readable, and the message was centred neatly on the square of pavement directly
in front of the steps. A decorative border surrounded the message. The obvious
care with which it had been written brought me to a halt. It felt curiously
inappropriate to tread on the letters. I moved to the side and put my foot down
just to the right of the message.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The message
hadn’t been there when I returned the previous night. I was sure of that. I
would have seen it. That meant it had been written after 10:30 pm, when I got
back. I drew back the sleeve of my coat
and consulted my watch. It was 7:30. That left a period of nine hours in which
it could have been written. The sun was rising around 6:00, and I thought it
unlikely that someone would have chalked the message on the pavement in
daylight. It somehow seemed an activity suited more to the night. And where had
the person stood or knelt? The last words were so close to my steps. He—or she,
it could have been a woman—the lettering betrayed nothing about the writer. As often
happens when I confront a mystery, the lawyer in me takes over. I find it
useful in working through a problem to imagine myself questioning a witness. “Let’s
call the writer the ‘anonymous scribe,’ ” that self intoned. “Where did the
anonymous scribe sit?” And the witness answered, “The anonymous scribe must have
sat on your steps, at least to write the last words.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then, too,
the phrasing was so odd. Why “I say”? “I would relive what was” was a simple
statement of a desire. Surely that would be what most people would write. One
wanted to relive an incident in one’s past—a happy time or something that one
got wrong the first time and wanted to redo perhaps. But what was one to make
of the “I say”? The old-fashioned exclamation “I say!” was unlikely. Was it “<i>I </i>say I would relive what was”? I as
opposed to someone else. Or was it “I <i>say</i>
I would relive the past”? Meaning, this is something I say I would like to do
but not something I would actually do. Of course, it wasn’t possible to relive
the past. So one could only claim to want to do it. But it seemed so
unnecessary to emphasize that point. It was an ambiguous message at best, and
one that seemed to mean less and less the more one thought about it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I see the
hooligans have been at work. One would think the police would protect us
against such filth in this neighbourhood. Our rates are certainly high enough.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My head
jerked up in surprise at the interruption. I had been so engrossed in
speculating about the inscription that I hadn’t noticed the other man come up. I
didn’t recognise him even though, to judge from his comments, he lived in the
neighbourhood. My mind was still on the nature of the message. “Interesting
phrasing, though.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The other
man harrumphed and eyed me with disdain. “I would write the council and
complain, but those ninnies would just protect the criminal’s right to free
expression. Useless.” His jowls shook with his indignation. He scuffed the message
with the sole of one of his shoes in an attempt to efface it. All he
accomplished was to smear the chalk.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Probably
just some child amusing himself,” I said in an attempt to downplay any malicious
intent behind the graffiti.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Then his
parents should spank him and make him scrub it off and apologise. Teach him a
lesson.” The man strode off shaking his head.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The man’s
excessive irritation left me slightly bemused. I shrugged and headed for train
station. In the press of work, I soon forgot about the message. It was dark
when I returned home that evening, and a day’s worth of traffic had all but
erased the chalk marks from the pavement and my mind. In fact, I would probably
never have thought of the message again if it hadn’t been for the book.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The book
was sitting on the hallway table along with my mail and a note from the
cleaning woman explaining that she had found the book on the front steps and
thought I might have dropped it. It was a paperback book, but the cover and the
title page and other front matter pages were missing. Oddly, despite the
missing elements, it appeared to be a new book. The corners of the pages were
still square, and there was no sign that it had been read. The book block
started with page 1. I turned it over. The last page was numbered 316 and ended
midway down the page. I fanned the pages, looking for some clue to the mystery.
There were no running heads indicating the title or the author’s name, but the
frequent appearance of conversations among descriptive passages made it clear
that it was a novel. I put it back on the table and picked up my mail. If
anything, I thought of it as no more than a free book that might provide a few
hours of distraction.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>A few
nights later, I found nothing to interest me on the telly. It was drizzling
outside, and I had no inclination to go out. It seemed a good night to turn in
early and read in bed until I became tired enough to sleep. As I checked to
make sure that the front door was locked and bolted, I saw the book lying on
the table in the hallway and carried it upstairs.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>I don’t
know what I expected to find when I started reading it. I assumed that it would
be some sort of mass-market paperback, the sort of thing one reads while riding
the train or waiting in an airport, where half the prose is boilerplate cobbled
together from the preceding dozen novels in the series and the characters are
the stock figures of television serials. The book was a mystery/thriller, and
in that it fulfilled my expectations. It was, however, extremely well written,
and the characters were drawn with great psychological insight. The plot was
not all that original but the skill of the storytelling held my attention and
kept me up far later than I had intended.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Early in
the year, a man—in the book he is called only Benjamin, no surname is ever
given—sets off for a week’s holiday at his seaside cottage in Cornwall. The
novel opens with a description of his busy life—he is some sort of important
businessman—and the hectic nature of his days and the tension surrounding him
contrasts strongly with the quiet and solitude he expects to find on the
Cornish coast. At this time of year, he reasons, he will be alone.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The final
stage of his journey is a road along the coast. Late in the day, at a time of
year when the weather makes the area unattractive, his is at first the only
car. About halfway to the cottage, another car, a red car, comes up behind him,
follows him for a quarter-mile or so, and then speeds past him. The coastal
road has many curves, and he thinks the other car’s speed dangerous. That keeps
the car present in his mind. Every time he comes around a curve, he expects to
find the red car overturned, its front end crumbled. But when he sees no
further sign of the car, he supposes that it turned off and that he didn’t
notice it parked beside one of the many holiday homes lining the coast.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>When he arrives,
he finds signs that someone has entered his cottage. Nothing is missing, and
nothing is damaged, but there is a sheet of blank paper in the centre of the table
in the kitchen. Most disturbingly he finds an attaché case on the floor of the
wardrobe in the bedroom. The sheet of paper might be something he failed to
discard on his last visit and subsequently forgot, but he knows that he has
never seen the attaché case before.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>When he
opens the case, he finds it filled with money, several thousand pounds he
estimates. He searches the pockets of the case and finds the usual
paraphernalia—a small pad of paper (not the same size as the sheet of paper on
the kitchen table), a pen. He is intrigued, but he begins to worry when he
finds one of his business cards tucked deep into one of the pockets. It was no
accident that the case has been left in his cottage.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The case
also holds a slim mobile phone. He flips the phone open and discovers that it
is fully charged. At that point the phone rings. He responds automatically—the
phone is in his hand and open. Without thinking, he answers it. But his ‘hello’
is met with silence. Frightened, he terminates the call. He realises that he
made a mistake in answering the call. Whoever left the money now knows that he
has discovered the case. He becomes hypersensitive to sounds and begins to
imagine that he can hear someone outside the cottage. He rushes downstairs and
locks the door. He is still carrying the phone. He checks it, but there are no
messages, no record of other calls, no stored phone numbers. Nothing. It is as
if the phone has never been used apart from the one call.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>He is
conflicted about the money. He wants it, but he reasons that the money has to
be illegal—loot from a robbery, or drug money—and he doesn’t want it found in
his cottage. But whoever left the case in his cottage knows who he is. The
presence of his business card proves that. He worries that if he takes the
money, the person will seek him out and demand the money. He decides that he
has to get rid of the case so that it can’t be associated with himself. He rechecks
all the pockets in the case to make sure that there is nothing that ties it to
him and tries to wipe every surface that he remembers touching. Then, using
gloves, he carries the case outside looking for a place to hide it. He finds
objections to every place he considers. At one point, he feels that he is being
watched, but then chides himself that he is becoming paranoiac. In the end, he takes
the case back into his cottage and puts it back in the wardrobe.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By now it
is late evening. He has worked himself into a panic and decides to flee. On his
way back to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>,
he notices a red car keeping a steady distance behind him. He thinks it is the
same car that he saw earlier. Every time he looks in the mirror, the car is
there. He can’t decide if he is intentionally being followed or if the car just
happens to be on the same road as he. He begins checking the mirror so
obsessively that he almost has an accident. He realises that he should not be
on the road and decides to stop at a motel. With great relief he sees the red
car continue on the highway as he pulls off on the slip road.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>His relief
is short lived. His life becomes filled with messages without content. He
receives an envelope in the mail that contains only an empty sheet of paper.
His phone rings but no one is on the line. He thinks he is being watched. A
blank sign appears in the window of a shop near his house. He overhears
conversations in languages he cannot understand. Most of the time, his television
set produces only static, white noise with hints of voices in the background
and ghosts of pictures slowly scrolling down the screen. When he does get a
good signal, the sound does not match the picture. It is as if the spoken words
and the visual images came from different programmes. He finds a file folder on
his desk at work when he arrives one morning filled with pages of nonsense. None
of his co-workers knows anything about it. He meets a woman. They become close,
but there are hints that she is not what she seems.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The plot
was basic thriller—an innocent drawn into a mystery and implicated in it.
However, something about the writing made reading the book an intense
experience for me. I had very clear mental pictures of the man and those he
encountered. It was almost as if I was hallucinating the narrative rather than
reading it. As the man disintegrated further into paranoia and madness, I felt
myself being carried along. The man’s thoughts became my thoughts, his actions
became my actions. I became the man as he tried to convince others of the
reality of what was happening around him and as he began to doubt his own
sanity in the face of others’ disbelief.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The man’s
collapse (I almost wrote “our” collapse) was mirrored by the physical
disintegration of the copy of the book I was reading. Without a cover to hold
it together, the book began to come apart after I read the first half. First sections
of pages began to come off in my hands, and then individual pages. Towards the
end, the pages of the book were scattered over my bed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>In the end,
the man decides to return to the cottage and turn the money over to the police.
And there my copy of the book ended. In mid-stream. What I had thought was the
end of the book was simply the end of a chapter. I searched through the sheets
of paper on my bed, looking for the next pages in the sequence. Finally, I
methodically arranged them in order. There were none I hadn’t read.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>I felt
bereft. It was as if someone I cared for deeply had vanished without trace. One
minute we were intimate friends, privy to all details of each other’s life. The
next minute he was gone, possibly in danger, his life threatened by the
meaningless chaos threatening to engulf him. I had to find the end of the
narrative.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>My search
led me to bookstores and libraries. Most of the clerks I spoke with had no
knowledge of the book. Their lack of interest in my plight was apparent. At
best, I received half-hearted apologies for their ignorance. The few who
thought my description sounded familiar were even worse. They tried to help,
offering me this or that title. I never had to read past the first sentence to
know that none of them was the narrative I sought. My hopes were raised only to
be dashed. It grew difficult to thank them for their well-intentioned suggestions.
In my desperation, I even snapped at one persistent helper who kept pulling new
titles from the shelves and stacking them in front of me on the counter.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>I combed
the fragments of my copy of the book looking for a significant phrase that
might have served the author as the title and then searched the internet for a
book with that title. I Googled unique phrases in the hope that I would find an
online version of the book. I pestered the frequent readers among my
acquaintances. All to no avail.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>In
retrospect, my frenzy, for want of a better term, is inexplicable. It was after
all only a book, a work of fiction. It was not the key to the meaning of life,
it did not hold the answers to humanity’s problems. But the truncated narrative
was suspended between meaninglessness and meaning. I think that more than
anything else was what drove me. The break in the text abandoned the main
character, and unless I could find the complete book, he would be left dangling
in an unfinished story, a story made worse by its multiplication of signs
without apparent meaning. For some reason, perhaps because of something in my
own life, that struck home. In the end, it wasn’t the fate of the character in
the book but my own future that concerned me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>It became
more and more difficult for me to hide my frustration. To judge from one of my
colleague’s comments, others had noticed my lack of attention to my work and my
growing distance from what previously had been the everyday routine of my life.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>I began
reading the book obsessively, searching for clues that foreshadowed the
resolution of the story. During one of these rereadings, it occurred to me that
the description of Benjamin’s trip to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Cornwall</st1:place></st1:city>
was meticulous enough to be traceable on a map. Even the local roads that lead
to his seaside cottage were shown on the detailed map of the area available on
the internet. And when I switched to the satellite image, I could see the group
of cottages at the end of the road. I could even identify the one in which
Benjamin found the case with the money.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The moment
I discovered that the narrative was anchored in a real place, I knew that I
would have to visit it. It was around 11:00 pm by that point, and I should have
gone to bed, but I was too excited to sleep. I called my office and left a
message telling my clerk to cancel all my appointments for the remainder of the
week. I hastily packed a bag and set off.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The trip
was uneventful, although I did notice what seemed an unusual number of red cars
on the road. I knew that that was only a coincidence and that, because of the
book, I was more aware of them, but I considered them confirmation that I was
on the right track at last. Each time I saw a red car, my faith grew that I
would find the answer when I reached Benjamin’s cottage.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>It was
still dark as I drove along the coast. After I left the main road, I saw no
other cars and the countryside seemed deserted. There were no houses, no
lights. I knew from the map that the ocean was off to the left, not far from
the road, but I could not see it. If there were waves breaking on the beach, I
could not hear them. Oddly even the smell of the ocean was missing. It was as
if the countryside had been sanitised of anything that might register on the
senses.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>I almost
missed the turning to the cottages. The book mentioned a fingerpost at the
entrance to the road, with signs blazoned with the fanciful names of the
holiday cottages. A storm must have blown it down, or perhaps someone had uprooted
it and carried it off, because no evidence of its existence remained. It was
only luck that I happened to see the gravelled path leading off to the right.
As it was, I was going too fast to slow in time. By the time I braked and
stopped, I had passed the road and had to back up.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The gravel
ended after twenty feet. Thereafter the road deteriorated into two parallel
ruts with a grassy hummock between them. It was beginning to get light, and I
could make out the cottages a mile or so ahead, at the end of the headland.
Reluctant to risk damage to the undercarriage of my car, I decided to walk the
rest of the way. I backed up to the main road and pulled over onto the narrow
verge. There was no one about, and in any case there was no traffic on the
road. I was certain that the car would be safe. I took my copy of the book from
the car but left everything else.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>My decision
to walk was wise. The road to the cottages was almost impassable, even on foot.
All the low spots were filled with water, and a car would most likely have
become mired in the mud. Clearly the road was not used much. It was a mystery
how anyone living in the cottages would bring in supplies or where they would
park.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The solution
to the mystery became clear as I neared the cottages. They were long abandoned.
Vandals had left marks of their passage through the area, however. Doors were
kicked in or missing, all the glass had been knocked out of the windows. Scorch
marks on the walls attested to fires. Furniture and crockery had been dragged
from the cottages and demolished. Spray-painted graffiti offered the usual
selection of sexual terms and insults or assertions of the presence of this or
that person. The joy of destruction was much in evidence.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>It was
apparent that I would find no answers to my questions here. Having come that
far, I was loathe to leave without at least visiting Benjamin’s cottage. It was
in no better shape than the others. The floor was littered with refuse. Someone
appeared to have used it as a squat for a time. Food boxes and old newspapers
mouldered on the floor, their lettering long since faded by rain and damp. The
smell combined mildew, rot, and piss.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The
staircase appeared to be solid, and I risked a visit to the upper floor to see
the site of the wardrobe in which Benjamin had found the case with the money.
There was only the one room—a bedroom under the steeply sloping roof. The
vandals had destroyed all the furniture. Someone had taken an axe to the bed
frame. The doors of the wardrobe had been torn off, and the wardrobe lay on its
side. There was nothing in it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Here, too,
the graffiti writers had been at work, but the fact that this had been a
bedroom had evidently spurred them to even greater sexual assaults on the
walls. The claims were predictable. “Sheilagh is a slag”, “Jeremy sucks Dick”. The pictures were grotesque exaggerations of
cartoonish breasts and genitals. The graffiti did serve one unintended purpose,
however. They cleansed me of any lingering interest in the cottages.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>I turned
and walked quickly down the stairs. In my haste, I almost overlooked the
message painted on the inside wall above the door. The rising sun shone through
a back window and illuminated the area around the door, lending a rosy patina
to the scarred walls. “I say I would relive what was.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Like the
message left months before on the pavement in front of my house, the message
was neatly lettered and surrounded by a decorative border. I once stayed in a
rustic hotel in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Norway</st1:country-region></st1:place>.
Many of the doorways similarly had sayings painted over them, trivial wishes
and trite sentiments such as “May wisdom guide our steps” or “Storms are
followed by sunshine,” presented as if they were the perceptions of the ages. The
lettering was an ornate Gothic-style script, and the mottoes were surrounded by
elaborate and colourful floral borders.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The message
over the door in the cottage was less elaborate, but it had one feature the
Norwegian decorations did not. Over the top of it was spray painted a picture.
The final message of Benjamin’s cottage was an obscenity. There was no
resolution to his story, only a rotten structure and wanton defacement mocking
me and my search.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>I hurried
back to my car. I felt much as I feel when I leave a doctor’s office—relief, no
matter what the outcome, to be rid of that oppressive atmosphere. No matter how
large the examination room, it feels small and the walls crowd in. No matter
how careful and kind the doctors and nurses, they invade my space both
physically and psychically. And overall lies the fear of the diagnosis. For now
I am free. At the same time, a sense of dread clouds my thoughts and diminishes
my relief. I will have to return in a few days.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Weeks
before, someone had left a message outside my house. The same person had
probably left the book, a book that led to a cottage on the coast with the same
message. I could escape Benjamin’s cottage but not its message. I had no choice
about that. I had to relive that. “A bait on purpose laid to make the taker
mad.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Did anyone
ask Lazarus if he wanted to be brought back to life? Did he afterwards long for
the cool certainty of the tomb? When faced with the ambiguous message, did he
regret resurrection? Did Lazarus laugh?</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-8132735686886813182020-02-12T00:14:00.000+00:002020-07-21T19:27:38.470+01:00The Bright Ring of the Day<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">The Bright Ring of the Day</span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nexis Pas</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">(nexispas@yahoo.co.uk)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I wrote this in 2008. It was published in an ezine that required that all other copies be deleted. I recently discovered that the ezine has disappeared. So I am reposting it here. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.75in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And I said, Let
grief be a fallen leaf </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">At the dawning
of the day.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">--Patrick
Kavanaugh, ‘Raglan Road’,
1946 </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">(sung to the
tune of the classic Irish </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">song ‘Fáinne
Geal an Lae’)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In the early morning light, the cold ocean stretched
grey to the north horizon. On that autumn day, the long waves rolling past me
toward the head of Sheephaven
Bay barely lifted the
water, as if the sea were too thick and heavy to move. The bus taking the
children to school in Letterkenny had awakened me while it was still dark. Their
voices as they waited in the old market square and then the protest of the
engine as the driver shifted gears and eased the bus up the winding road out of
Dunfanaghy carried clear and distinct across the harbour that separates our
house from the village. Sounds that I would not notice amid the noise outside
my home in Brighton disquiet my sleep here,
where the bleating of a solitary sheep against the background of the waves is
enough to perturb the night. A short time later, when a group of hikers chattering
about birds walked past the house along the road to Horn Head, I abandoned all
hope of sleep and got out of bed. Without turning on the lights, I made coffee
for myself. I pulled on one of the heavy woollen coats that always hang from
pegs in the passageway and then carried my cup outside to stand by the low wall
behind the house. The steam from the cup mingled with the mist in the air.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Fáinne geal an
lae</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">, the ‘bright ring of the day’, the ancient Irish kenning
for the dawn, was apt that morning. The low clouds closed off the sky except in
the east, and the first hint of the sunrise was a narrow crown of light along
the tops of the hills on the east side of Sheephaven Bay.
Shapes slowly emerged from the darkness as the daylight grew around me. I wedged
the cup into a hollow in the top of the uneven stone wall and looked down the
hill toward the shore. A lone razorbill skimmed the surface of the sea below me
and then merged with the water. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I seldom visit Dunfanaghy any more. My sister and her
husband and their children and now their grandchildren use the house as their
summer home, and I find them too much company. Once, perhaps twice, each
summer, I yield and spend a weekend with them. The phone will ring, and that
voice that sounds so eerily like my mother’s will entreat, ‘It is after all
your house too, Ross, and family is important. The children deserve a chance to
know you.’ And so I take the car ferry from Holyhead and then drive to Donegal,
and for two days observe the formalities of affection. I listen sympathetically
to my sister’s fond tales of her irritating students and nod sagely at my
brother-in-law’s accounts of his business. I pretend an interest in the lives
of my nieces and nephews. I chaperone their young children on walks along Killahoey
Strand and then ooh and aah at the treasures they find on the sand. I accompany
my sister and her husband as they play a round of golf. I like the exercise if
not the game, and it gets me away from the house. The air in the house on those
weekend visits is dense with noise. It feels like a pressure surrounding my
head and pushing into me. Someone is always talking, and the radio or
television or the children’s CD players are always on--occasionally all of them
at once. I am glad to flee on Monday morning into the silence of my car and the
drive back to Brighton.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This stone house with its slate roof has been in my
family for generations now. Over time, it grew from a crofter’s hovel to its
present dimensions as my family moved up in the world. It is the usual Irish
country box, with a door in the centre of the ground floor, three windows to
each side of the door matched by a roughly parallel row of windows on the floor
above, and chimneys in the centre of both ends. My great-grandparents were the
last to live in it permanently. My grandparents and then my parents used it as
a summer retreat, leaving it in the hands of a caretaker the rest of the year. My
parents had the builders in when they retired in the mid-1970s and modernised
the place. Before that the accommodations were still fairly primitive. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We spent every summer there when I was growing up. The
house stands a quarter-mile or so north of Dunfanaghy above the long beach of
the Strand, facing eastward with an unobstructed view across Sheephaven Bay
to the opposite shore. I loved the freedom of the place when I was young but
grew to resent those visits mightily when I became a teenager. In my view, I
was being kidnapped from what I was learning to see as the delights of London
and forced to spend my holidays in the ‘back of beyond’, a deserted land with
more sheep than people, and no one my age except a few ignorant children who qualified
as teenagers only by virtue of their years, spoke in an impenetrable accent and
giggled whenever I said anything. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Inevitably, every spring, my father or mother would mention
that ‘soon we will be in Dunfanaghy and breathing clean air again’. For my parents,
the village was a welcome haven from the modern world and its confusions, a
simpler, purer place that allowed them to renew themselves. I dreaded those
summers as endless weeks of boredom with nothing to do except watch the days
creep by. In retaliation I buried myself in books and pointedly ignored their
enthusiastic advice to commune with nature. As far as I was concerned, the
‘fresh air’ I was always being counselled to enjoy was a danger to my well
being, and it would require weeks of London
pollution to restore my lungs to their natural state. I think I owed my success
on the A levels to all the hours I stubbornly spent lying on my bed reading
instead of improving myself by hiking and bird watching.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Now that I am older, I have learned to love the place
again. But I prefer to stay there when I can be alone, in the spring or autumn,
when the only sounds are those that come from a distance and my only companions
are the past and faded words spoken years ago and surviving only in my memory.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">******</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘If you want birds, you should visit Horn Head in
Donegal. There are thousands of them there.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Andrew Wheelwright and Damian Abbot turned to look at
me from where they sat farther down the table in our college hall. They had
been noisily discussing their plans for the break at the end of Lent Term and
speculating whether they would be able to find birds in sufficient numbers and
varieties to justify the trouble of getting to the different spots that had
been proposed. Damian’s voice irritated me, and his self-assured statements
always grated on me. I had had plenty of opportunities to hear them during the
three years we had been in the same college. He was fond of braying his
opinions loudly and decisively. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Damian slowly turned his head to face in my general
direction as if trying to locate the source of the comment, a look of disdain
on his face. ‘Good lord, perhaps I am only imagining it, but I do believe I
heard Kennaleigh speak. He so seldom violates the vow of silence he has so
wisely imposed upon himself that one almost forgets that he is capable of
speech. And in something approaching English. One has to wonder, however, on
what ornithological experience he might draw to make such an assertion. Did he
perhaps see a budgerigar in a cage on a trip to the ancestral bog?’ Damian’s
friends rewarded his sarcasms with raucous laughter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I can assure you that there are indeed millions of
birds on Horn Head, including some very <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rarae
aves </i>indeed. I have spent many fascinating hours watching them when the
family has been visiting my uncle’s estate on Inishowen. We once spotted a
Greater Seidenberg Plumed Goshawk at Horn Head. You would be wise to pay more
attention to Mr Kennaleigh. It has been my experience that although he seldom
speaks, he always does so to great purpose--a habit you would be wise to
cultivate, Mr Abbot.’ Damian’s head swivelled to respond to the speaker, but
whatever retort he may have planned died on his lips when he saw who was
speaking. David Saint-John ignored him and addressed his next comments to me.<span style="color: red;"> </span>‘I wonder, Ross, if I can persuade you to take a break
from your studies and join me in my room for a drink. It will just be a few of
our friends.’ The mellifluous voice floated above the table, silencing all the
after-dinner noise. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The ‘our’ was stretching it. David Saint-John and I rarely
spoke to each other outside class discussions. Certainly we had no
acquaintances in common that could be referred to as ‘our friends’. David stood
on the other side of the table looking at me with the warmest of smiles. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I answered in kind. ‘Of course, David, it is always a
pleasure.’ I closed the book I had been reading and pushed my chair back. I
must admit that I found no small pleasure in the satisfying snap with which the
book shut. Sometimes I surprised myself by rising to an occasion with what in
my youth I regarded as élan. As David strolled beside me out of the hall, he
began reminiscing in his clear, carrying voice about the Greater Seidenberg Plumed
Goshawk. Both of us contained our laughter until the doors to the hall had
closed behind us and we were standing in the quad.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘And what is a Greater Seidenberg Plumed Goshawk?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I haven’t the slightest idea. It does sound impressive,
though, doesn’t it? I hope it takes Abbot several hours of consulting bird
guides to find out that I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. It would
serve him right. I was once taken as a child to see the bird colonies on Horn
Head and that experience convinced me that it was wiser to avoid the messy
creatures entirely. And where are you going?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I turned back from the walkway that led to the annex
where I lived. ‘To my room.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Nonsense. You have agreed to have a drink with me. Our
friends will never forgive me if I fail to deliver you.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But I need to finish this.’ I held up the book I had
been reading.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Then you can finish it in my rooms. I will sit
quietly and watch you as you read, occasionally replenishing your glass as you
peruse that tome and heedlessly and unappreciatively swallow the moderately
good plonk I am about to pour you.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Plonk of any quality is wasted on me. And you will
get tired of watching me. And your friends will get bored.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘The wine will not be wasted on me, and even you, my rustic
and ignorant bog dweller, will like it. And I never tire of watching beauty.
And I have already dismissed my friends. They are unworthy of your company.’ And
with a grand flourish of an arm, David indicated the path to his staircase. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I raised my eyes to his. ‘You don’t have to do this.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Indeed, I do not. But it pleases me to do it. I’ve
been trying to get up the courage to speak to you for three years. And now that
I have rescued you from that petty snob, you can hardly be so churlish as to
refuse to grant me the reward I desire.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘The courage to speak to me?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Yes. You are a devilishly hard person to meet, Ross
Kennaleigh. You are so seldom without a book in front of your face. I have
tried ever so many stratagems to attract your attention and draw your eyes away
from the words that seem to engross you so totally. I have even contemplated
the study of . . .’--David bent over to look at the title of the book I was
reading--‘Good lord. I never knew people read such books. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Linen Tax and the Formation of the Merchant Taylors’ Company</i>? You would prefer the
company of the merchant taylors<span style="color: red;"> </span>to the pleasures of a bottle of my most excellent
claret and my sparkling conversation? Nay, nay, gentle scholar. Do not shrug
your shoulders at me and look as if you want to escape. It is your duty to lift
the veil of ignorance that surrounds my knowledge of the role of the linen tax
in English history. If only you allow me to gaze upon your comely face as you
help repair my sinful neglect of the subject, I promise to attend upon every
word that issues from those wonderfully full, firm, masculine lips of yours.
Besides we must not disappoint Abbot. I am looking forward to regaling the
breakfast table with my newly acquired knowledge of the linen tax. I shall
relate how you kept us all enthralled with your account of the subject.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But I’m not at all entertaining.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It is not necessary for Adonis to be entertaining.
All he has to do is be. Come, make a mortal happy. It is the only worthy gift a
god can bestow.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But I don’t qualify for that name. You do, but not
me.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Well, yes, it is true that I am an Adonis, and, being
one, I<span style="color: red;"> </span>can recognise others of my ilk. And you
are one.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘By that argument, if I were one, then I, too, would
be able to recognise myself as one.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Hmm, very clever.’ David tapped a finger across his
mouth. ‘I am sure that there is a flaw in your logic. We shall have to discuss
this question. Need a beautiful object know that it is beautiful in order to be
beautiful? Now, you must join me in my room so that we can debate the issue.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I ignored David’s last comments and returned to a
discussion that gave me firmer grounds for avoiding his invitation. ‘Adonis
wasn’t a god. He was naught but an up an’ cummin’ lad wot made good and boffed
the boss god’s dau’ter and sis.’ When I was younger, I often resorted to broad
dialect to cover the shyness that overcame me when I felt uncomfortable.<span style="color: red;"> </span>I needed the mask of another personality as a shield.
The reasons for David’s interest had become apparent to me. It wasn’t that I hadn’t
occasionally let my thoughts drift in the same direction and looked upon people
like David with a sort of speculative curiosity, a ‘What if he were interested
too?’ But I wasn’t sure how serious David was, and I didn’t want to risk a
rebuff by revealing what was quickly becoming a hunger for him. I was also
worried that if we did end up in bed together, my lack of experience would
result in a disaster and that he would dismiss me with scorn and derision. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Classics and economic history.’ David gave a
theatrical sigh. ‘I have so much to learn. It will take years of constant
tutoring. We shall begin tonight. And you are wrong about not being Adonis. If
there is one thing I do know, it is . . .’ He stopped and looked at me soberly.
‘I’m babbling like a character in bad schooldays novel. I only do that when I
am nervous. I’m sorry. Look, I won’t pressure you but, please, come have a
glass of wine with me. I promise I won’t be foolish. Just one glass and some
conversation. When you finish, you can leave if you like, and I’ll stop hinting
that I want to tear your clothes off and ravish you. I’m really quite
harmless.’ He grinned at me and tried to look innocent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I don’t have many clothes, so please don’t rip them
off me.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What if I promise to remove them carefully and drape
them neatly over a chair?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘As long as you don’t think me insensitive if I read in
bed while you ravish me.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh, Ross, do not toy with me.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What if I take you very seriously?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Then all will be well. It’s time that someone began
taking me seriously. I am tired of playing the clown.’ David put his hand on
the small of my back and with a light pressure began guiding me to his rooms. He
turned his head to look at me. ‘You surprise me, Mr Kennaleigh. It’s another
thing to like about you.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">David and I talked for hours that night about
ourselves and our lives and our hopes. We were still young enough to think that
words alone are enough to give castles in the air a solid footing on the ground.
I never opened the book on the Merchant Taylors’ Company. We actually didn’t
even drink that much. We sat on the floor with our backs against his bed and
our legs extended across the rug. After a few hours he turned out the light.
The noise of the traffic in the street outside his back window gradually died. Until
midnight or so the sound of a someone’s footsteps on the staircase would
occasionally interrupt our murmurings. After that we had the world to
ourselves.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">At one point, I confessed my lack of sexual experience
and my worries about that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘We will find you a book to read on the subject.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I don’t think there are any books for men alone,
maybe for men and women but not for just men.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Then we shall have to write one. We will study the
topic closely and thoroughly. I think for now we should leave the chapter on
approaching one’s prospective partner to me. “The Initial Contact” we shall
entitle it. You will write the next chapter, “The Seduction: Tips for the
Beginner”. I suspect you will do quite well with that.’ David continued on that
vein, outlining the contents of the book. I joined the game and began proposing
other chapters. We chortled with glee, each trying to invent an even more
ridiculous subject.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">When we had exhausted the topic, we sat there quietly
for a while. Eventually David broke the silence. ‘I don’t have much experience
either. At least not the type of experience that counts.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Any experience would be more than I have.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh, I’ve had sex a few times. I’m not talking about
that. I meant experience with a more serious relationship. The kind where your
partner does read in bed. I think I’m ready for that.’ He floated that idea
rather tentatively, as if trying it out on me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What else would one do in bed except read or sleep?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Hmmm. I can see that the book will require a lot of
research.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Later he put an arm across my shoulders and drew
closer to me. Very late in the night, I drifted off to sleep, with my head on
David’s shoulder. I awoke as David was gently easing me off his body so that he
could stand up. And that is how the morning found us. Stiff from sitting on the
floor, resting against each other. I was the happiest I have ever been in my
life. I think David felt the same way, but I was afraid to ask him then for
fear that he might not regard me in the same light I was beginning to regard
him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I didn’t take your clothes off and ravish you.’ He
reached a hand down to help me stand. ‘I do apologise for failing in my<span style="color: red;"> </span>duties as a host. This is what happens when someone
takes me seriously. I talk too much.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Oh you ravished me. Many many times.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">David looked at me sardonically. ‘Was it as good for
you as it was for me? I suppose now that you’ve had your way with me, you’ll
lose all respect for me.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I . . .’ Then I did something I had never done to
anyone. I gathered David into my arms and kissed him. And following that we did
take our clothes off, and we didn’t waste any time draping them neatly over a
chair.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Later that day, David sought out Damian Abbot and
shook his hand while thanking him effusively. David’s arch and elliptical
expressions of gratitude must have mystified Damian. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Our lives depend so much on chance. The most important
thing that ever happened to me started because I broke into a conversation and
was snubbed. If David had left the hall a minute earlier or later, he wouldn’t
have been walking past and overheard the exchange between Damian and me. We probably
would have finished out our third year without speaking and then never seen
each other again. But David’s behaviour that evening was typical. He hated
cruelty of any sort, and he never lacked the courage to be kind.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">******</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I do believe that is the elusive Greater Seidenberg
Plumed Goshawk.’ David pointed at the small bird pecking at the flagstones in
the small yard behind our house in Dunfanaghy. We had decided to spend the
break between terms in Ireland.
Since his uncle’s house had more amenities, we were sleeping and eating there.
But we frequently stopped by my parents’ house and opened the shutters and
camped out there for the day. That afternoon was warm for the time of year, and
I had pulled one of the garden chairs from the garage and set it up so that I
could read outside. David had wandered down to the beach to make some sketches.
From time to time, I stood up and looked over the stone wall and watched him as
he ambled about, stopping every few feet to examine the pools of water along
the shore. Occasionally he would open his sketchbook and draw something. Even
from the distance, I could see the wind ruffling his hair. The light caught at
it and turned it russet. When he returned, he stopped beside me and ran his thumb
along the line of my jaw. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I’m almost certain it’s a sparrow,’ I said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Not a Goshawk?’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The two of us examined the bird closely. In turn, it tilted
its head and eyed us suspiciously, appraising us for any possible danger to
itself before it returned to its hunt for seeds. ‘Now that I look more closely,
I think it may be a Spitzenberg Plumed Goshawk. In fact, I’m sure it is. It’s a
close relative of the Greater Seidenberg Plumed Goshawk and is often mistaken
for it.’ The bird decided it had enough of our speculations and flew away. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">David laughed and then leaned against the wall and
looked out over the bay. ‘This place is so special. I wish we didn’t have to
leave on Wednesday and go back. I could stay here forever.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You will have your sketches to remember it by. How
did your drawings turn out by the way?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He picked up the pad of drawing paper from the top of
the wall. It was held together by a spiral of wire at the top. He flipped back
the bright yellow cover and paged through the sheets until he found the one he
wanted and then handed the open booklet to me. I examined the meticulous pencil
drawings filling the page. He had recorded a tuft of sea grass blowing in the
breeze, an outcropping of shale, a chipped and broken shell half buried in the
sand. The village was rendered in an abstract panorama of lines that somehow
captured how it looked better than a more realistic drawing might have. ‘I envy
you this ability.’ I held a finger over an image of the backside of a wave and,
without touching the paper, traced its outline in the air. Because of the shape
of Sheephaven Bay,
the waves sweep in from the North Atlantic. On
most days, they pass almost perpendicular to anyone standing on the long sides
of the bay. Looking southward from our house, you can see the backsides of the
waves rolling away from you and then cresting on the beach to the east of Dunfanaghy.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Those waves are so magnificent. The way they stretch
across the bay and only break along the ends until they hit that beach there. It’s
as if there is this tremendous energy in the sea, and every hundred feet or so,
it rolls through the water.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Those are the swells.’ He lifted an eyebrow to query
me. ‘The little waves are called the seas. They’re formed locally. The swells
are the long-distance waves. They travel across the ocean.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘God moving over the face of the waters.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What’s that?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Ah, at last I have found something I know and you
don’t. In the Bible, before the creation, it is written that the breath of god
moved over the face of the waters. You can see how those waves, those “swells”
as you would have it, could serve as an image of the power of god. It’s an
ancient mystery, the force in the waters.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘My grandfather once told me that the waves come all
the way from the North Pole and that Donegal is the first land they encounter.
They become so large because the wind has so much distance to work on them and
build them up.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Mr Kennaleigh, you are the most unpoetic Irishman I
have ever met. You are determined to be rational. I offer you a gift of poetry
and you hand me prose. “Mad Ireland”
will apparently never “hurt <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> into
poetry”.’ He faced the bay and, arms flung wide, declaimed, ‘Say rather that
the waves are fortunate to break on the shores of Ireland. But none so fortunate as I
to have found this blessed land and a man who knows the difference between a
swell and a sea.’ He embraced the entire scene before us and hugged it to
himself. Then he turned to smile at me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Argh, what a tongue yon daft laddie has on him. It’s
enough to addle a man’s heart.’ I started to hand the tablet back to him when a
puff of wind briefly lifted the topmost sheet. I could see that the next sheet
held another drawing. I turned the page and found a picture of myself sitting
in the garden chair reading, with a few faint lines suggesting the wall of the
house behind me. ‘When did you do this?’ I was filled with a sudden great fierce
overwhelming joy at the discovery that David had drawn a picture of me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Just now. When I was walking along the beach.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But you couldn’t see me. How could you draw a picture
of me?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘When I started down the hill, I turned back to look
at you. And when I was walking, I thought about you, and the image of you
sitting here reading came to me. I had to draw it. It was so strong in my mind.
I felt I had to record it.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘May I have it? Please.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘But it’s just a sketch. You can see a more accurate
image of yourself in the mirror.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It isn’t that. It’s, it’s that it’s something by you.
Will you sign it for me?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">David found a pencil in a pocket and took the tablet
from me. He set it atop the stone wall and began writing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What are you writing? It shouldn’t take this long to
sign your name.’ I sat up higher in the chair in an attempt to see what David
was doing. He turned the pad away from me so that I couldn’t watch him write.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Patience, Mr Kennaleigh, patience. I have a very long
name. It took ever so long to christen me.’ He finished with a flourish and
handed the pad back to me so that I could read the inscription.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘To a constant reader from his constant lover, John
Michael David Lionel FitzHugh Kennaleigh Saint-John.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Kennaleigh?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘It is a recent addition. It is a name I have chosen
for myself. “Kennaleigh Saint-John” has a pleasing rhythm, don’t you think? But
perhaps you prefer “Saint-John Kennaleigh”?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I couldn’t speak. We stared at each other. After a
minute David spoke:<span style="color: red;"> </span>‘You’re crying.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I suddenly became aware that tears were running down
my face. They felt both hot and cold in the wind as they furrowed my face. I
nodded my head yes and started to wipe them away. David reached over and
grasped my hand to stop me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Don’t. Let them be. They are beautiful. You are
beautiful.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I finally found my voice although my throat was closed
tight with emotion. ‘You make me feel beautiful.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">******</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">That conversation took place forty-two years ago. David
died two years ago last month. In the measured words of his obituary in the
papers, he ‘passed away after a long and valiant struggle’, the customary
euphemism of his tribe for a death from cancer or some other debilitating
disease. A record of his accomplishments and honours followed. The only
departure from the conventions came in the listing of the names of his
survivors. At his mother’s insistence, the first person named was ‘his long-time
and much-loved partner, Ross Kennaleigh.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I was with David when he died. The hospital had tried
to exclude me because I wasn’t ‘family’ only to be met with an imperious ‘Don’t
be ridiculous’ from his older brother. ‘Of course, Ross is family.’ David’s
last words to me were ‘thank you’. I had performed some trifling service for
him as he lay in the hospital bed, and he grasped my hand in his and squeezed
it briefly. He had to manoeuvre his arm through all the tubes attached to him
to reach me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I can still feel the touch of his fingers. He was so
weak by that point, and his hand was dry and thin. The touch of the husk of
someone I loved, someone I wanted desperately to be a stranger. I try to
remember him as he looked that day when he stood where I am standing now,
leaning against the wall behind the house in Dunfanaghy. When he was young and
alive and vibrant and I first knew that he was as in love with me as I was with
him. But that memory is often overwritten by the old man he became in hospital,
his face drawn taut, the shiny too-pink scalp with large spots of brown showing
through his sparse and brittle hair, the brightness falling from his eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And I mourned. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">David’s death made me a stranger even to myself. An automaton
took over my body and went through the motions of life. It attended his funeral
and spoke one of the eulogies. It helped David’s family sort through his things.
After a week, it returned to work. It endured and accepted with as much dignity
as it could muster the inarticulate expressions of regret that were hurriedly
cast toward it, the swiftly spoken and embarrassed reactions of those who felt
they had to say something but didn’t quite know what form of sympathy to offer the
‘long-time partner’. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But nothing anyone says can ever help. No words could
fill the enormous blank vacant emptiness at the middle of my life. Nor did I
want them to. I cherished my soundless grief and held it to myself. It was as
if my sorrow were the only thing left to me of David. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Inside, silence, complete and total silence. The
ancient poetry ended, prose splintered,<span style="color: red;"> </span>words
floundered, stripped of the possibility of meaning. Time stopped in anguish and
regret at the futility of it all. Sorrow became my close friend. I feared that
if I let it go, nothing of me would remain. If I let my grief go, David and I
would disappear and no one would remember us.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But once the inadequate words of consolation have been
spoken, one is expected to move on and not burden others with the necessity of
sympathising. The proprieties had been observed, and the survivor is supposed
to get on with his life and restore our common pretence that there is no death.
And the person who inhabited my body when I was with others mastered my
emotions and kept them locked inside. I quickly relearned the amiable habits of
sociability. In public, David became someone I could speak of again and refer
to in the past tense, without the threat of unsettling tears. But I would awake
alone in the middle of the night raging with mindless anger, at David’s death,
at his betrayal, at his desertion. Everything reminded me of his absence.
Better never to have loved than to have loved like this.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And then David healed me, as he had so many times
during our life together. Last Wednesday, for the first time since his death, I
awoke feeling calm and, if not content, at least aware that contentment was again
a possibility. I lay there in my bed watching the wind stir the curtains in the
open window. I could smell the ocean. It was such a strange feeling, something
that I hadn’t felt in so long, that I was at a loss to account for it. And then
came the memory, vague at first but growing stronger and stronger, that I had
been dreaming of David, David standing against a wall overlooking the sea and
stopping me from wiping away my tears. And I knew I had to return to Dunfanaghy
once more and finally bury David. Not to forget him, but to let go and let him
be dead. To remember him, and to honour those memories, all of them, both good
and bad. But to stop disfiguring his memory with my wanton, selfish grief. He
deserves more, much more, from me. He deserves someone brave enough to tell him
‘thank you’ for everything he gave and to, at last, cease wanting more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And so I stand by an ancient stone wall, as waves that
began with a wind blowing over distant waters roll past me and break upon the
land. And I do not grieve. The joy that I was privileged to share for so many
years swells inside me and lifts me up, into the bright ring of the day, into the
uncreated light.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-76884068453328650362020-01-20T11:37:00.002+00:002020-08-06T21:13:34.285+01:00The crowns of Nineveh<span class="st">Where got I that truth?</span><br />
<span class="st">Out of a medium's mouth, </span><br />
<span class="st">Out of nothing it came, </span><br />
<span class="st">Out of the forest loam, </span><br />
<span class="st">Out of dark night where lay </span><br />
<span class="st">The crowns of Nineveh.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">William Butler Yeats, 'Fragments,' II, <i>The Tower </i>(1928) </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">If I were still writing, I would use the title 'The Crowns of Nineveh' for a story. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7371064710846857497.post-50810256902548596952017-06-20T22:24:00.001+01:002017-06-20T22:24:28.108+01:00Time used to seem, if not infinite, at least a comfortable possibility. It all closes in so fast. I wanted to produce one good work I gave up that idea and settled for producing what might at least entertain. Ah well, I never existed. Je n'existe pas. Finally I fulfill my name.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0