but not signed. I steal a glance at it and look away. The portrait of Christ is above me.
Tape and White-Out and staple boxes and paperclips. A magnifying glass. Ink pens and pencils and a pencil sharpener that at first looks like a miniature coffee grinder, and at the bottom is the beveled razor. I thrust a pencil in it and twist, letting curls of wood fall to the floor. When it squeaks, I rest the pencil in the front drawer, careful of not bumping the point, and sharpen another. I’ll do the whole drawer-full to avoid reading the half-penned letter in the middle of the desk, under my nose.
But didn’t I come to the desk to read the letter? To learn a little of the story of the man whose hospitality I’ve commandeered?
Dear Jacob,
I received your invitation to chair the Bittersmith Chamber of Commerce’s Christmas Festival with great excitement. Serving as the Chair in past seasons has proven the highlight of the dreary winter season.
It is with regret that I must decline your invitation, however. I find this year I am not of the soundest health, and am afraid the event would suffer from my unintended mismanagement. I have given my little remaining stamina to the church, and the urchins who attend Sunday school not knowing the gift that has been prepared for them. The gift that was prepared for all of us who regret having been born unknowing.
I’ve become a doddering fool, and
The text ends without another word, without a signature. I imagine a gray-haired giant of a man collapsing from this very desk, and tumbling to the floor.
Not knowing, and not yet regretting they were born that way?
I read the missive again, and its mystery is no clearer. I’ve had the basics of Protestant theology drilled into my head over twenty years of mandatory church services. I’m clear on the gift that’s been prepared, but being born unknowing? Isn’t that the point?
The only book on the desk is
Moby Dick
, and I know from past excursions that I can’t read it. I take my Melville in shorter bursts. I carry the volume to the sofa anyway, and it sits on my lap while I watch the fire. There’s a giant flame that the little ones feed. It keeps trying to climb into the chimney only to fall away over and over again. Minutes drift along, and I find I’m no longer interested and only watch through half-lidded eyes.
During the daytime, Gwen and I kept our affair hidden. It would never have done to flaunt it or allow anyone to grow suspicious. I never looked at her. Even if she fawned on me I wouldn’t give away the truth. I worried she appeared to have some childish infatuation, but at least I was sure it didn’t look the other way around. I worried, but she was an actress and never slipped. In private, she stopped the teasing she had begun in the garden. No more rubbers on cucumbers.
In terms of prettiness, Gwen was fine-tuned. My instinct to help her might have clouded my feelings, but in quiet reflection I could imagine us spending a lifetime learning each other’s secrets, and I knew she was special. You don’t ever understand everything about a girl, but if you can strip away the fears that unbalance one side of the equation and the animal spirits that kowtow to the other, the real girl shines. Even before you witness her wrinkled brow and moving lips you know her prayers are sincere. You know her worthiness. In my soberest moments I knew Gwen was good.
Not that there were many opportunities to dote. Mostly I spent twelve or fourteen hours every day in the fields or the barn or the garden. Burt Haudesert only had so much equipment, and the rest of the work was done by hand, elbow, back, and knees.
A fall day came when Burt wanted me to help him slaughter hogs. Cal was barely getting around the farm with a cane, and Jordan had made it clear the night before how urgently he looked forward to turning over the section of cornfield farthest from town, some miles off. Burt sniggered and said if Jordan had a third hand he’d
Tape and White-Out and staple boxes and paperclips. A magnifying glass. Ink pens and pencils and a pencil sharpener that at first looks like a miniature coffee grinder, and at the bottom is the beveled razor. I thrust a pencil in it and twist, letting curls of wood fall to the floor. When it squeaks, I rest the pencil in the front drawer, careful of not bumping the point, and sharpen another. I’ll do the whole drawer-full to avoid reading the half-penned letter in the middle of the desk, under my nose.
But didn’t I come to the desk to read the letter? To learn a little of the story of the man whose hospitality I’ve commandeered?
Dear Jacob,
I received your invitation to chair the Bittersmith Chamber of Commerce’s Christmas Festival with great excitement. Serving as the Chair in past seasons has proven the highlight of the dreary winter season.
It is with regret that I must decline your invitation, however. I find this year I am not of the soundest health, and am afraid the event would suffer from my unintended mismanagement. I have given my little remaining stamina to the church, and the urchins who attend Sunday school not knowing the gift that has been prepared for them. The gift that was prepared for all of us who regret having been born unknowing.
I’ve become a doddering fool, and
The text ends without another word, without a signature. I imagine a gray-haired giant of a man collapsing from this very desk, and tumbling to the floor.
Not knowing, and not yet regretting they were born that way?
I read the missive again, and its mystery is no clearer. I’ve had the basics of Protestant theology drilled into my head over twenty years of mandatory church services. I’m clear on the gift that’s been prepared, but being born unknowing? Isn’t that the point?
The only book on the desk is
Moby Dick
, and I know from past excursions that I can’t read it. I take my Melville in shorter bursts. I carry the volume to the sofa anyway, and it sits on my lap while I watch the fire. There’s a giant flame that the little ones feed. It keeps trying to climb into the chimney only to fall away over and over again. Minutes drift along, and I find I’m no longer interested and only watch through half-lidded eyes.
During the daytime, Gwen and I kept our affair hidden. It would never have done to flaunt it or allow anyone to grow suspicious. I never looked at her. Even if she fawned on me I wouldn’t give away the truth. I worried she appeared to have some childish infatuation, but at least I was sure it didn’t look the other way around. I worried, but she was an actress and never slipped. In private, she stopped the teasing she had begun in the garden. No more rubbers on cucumbers.
In terms of prettiness, Gwen was fine-tuned. My instinct to help her might have clouded my feelings, but in quiet reflection I could imagine us spending a lifetime learning each other’s secrets, and I knew she was special. You don’t ever understand everything about a girl, but if you can strip away the fears that unbalance one side of the equation and the animal spirits that kowtow to the other, the real girl shines. Even before you witness her wrinkled brow and moving lips you know her prayers are sincere. You know her worthiness. In my soberest moments I knew Gwen was good.
Not that there were many opportunities to dote. Mostly I spent twelve or fourteen hours every day in the fields or the barn or the garden. Burt Haudesert only had so much equipment, and the rest of the work was done by hand, elbow, back, and knees.
A fall day came when Burt wanted me to help him slaughter hogs. Cal was barely getting around the farm with a cane, and Jordan had made it clear the night before how urgently he looked forward to turning over the section of cornfield farthest from town, some miles off. Burt sniggered and said if Jordan had a third hand he’d
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