and trudged with tired eyes toward bed and blankets and a soft pillow. I fell into bed and dreamed of dancing and spinning with the most beautiful girl in the world with her soft skin, ruby lips, and sparkling eyes. I dreamed of living.
Morning came, and I awoke with remnants of my dream firmly embedded in my mind, and I could not tell what was real and what was not. I lay there reliving and again I drank of the music and the dancing, but it was not quite so sweet as before. It was mixed with the bitterness of my own pathetic fearfulness and failure. I felt the height and width of the fence between the jungle and me. I recognized my isolation, which seemed only to heighten the beauty of that which I could not obtain. I was a fearful observer afraid to live for fear that, in my living, I would dishonor the death of my mother—yes, the very woman who loved and laughed until tears spilled down her rosy cheeks, the stunning beauty who lived each day as if it might be her last. And yet somehow I felt that if I embraced life as she had taught me, I would forget her. Above all else, I feared losing her memory, so in a strange way I honored her with my solemn sadness. I remembered her death and saw it everywhere I looked. I felt her absence and the darkness that her death had wrought. This never-ending vigilance was my curse and my course.
CHAPTER 13
The Aftermath
IT WAS NEARLY NOON WHEN I decided to get out of bed and face the day. Charles obviously had no such notion, as he lay sprawled out in nothing but his underwear. His soggy dancing clothes were crumpled on the floor—tie, suspenders, and all. I dared not wake him. If I was tired, I can only imagine how he, the lord of the dance, must feel.
I remembered that I was supposed to have lunch with Dr. Emory and was assuredly going to be late. Famished and tardy, I arrived at the Emory house. As usual, Mr. Calhoun answered the door and ushered me in with knees and elbows jutting out in all directions, an accident waiting to happen. Dr. Emory was out on the back porch, taking in the beautiful fall day. The leaves were just beginning to turn colors, and the yard was littered with acorns. A black walnut tree stood near the side of the house, and Dr. Emory was cracking shriveled shells to get at the innards.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Emory,” I said meekly. “I apologize for being late.”
“Think nothing of it, Tom,” he replied, putting me at ease. “Being on time is not all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, I try to make a habit of being late. The more people seem to get all wound up about being impeccably punctual, the more I want to be impeccably late. I’ve always been that way. You tell me what to do, and you can be darn sure I’ll do the opposite. Plenty of folks rant and rave about such behavior, but I think it’s because most of them are jealous they don’t have the guts to step out of line and live a little.”
He offered me a walnut, so I popped it into my mouth and plopped down in the worn rocking chair beside him. “Yes, well, it’s not that easy for everyone to just do whatever they want to do.”
“Why not?” he retorted.
“Well … I mean, people might talk, and you might lose your job and so forth.”
“Let me give you a bit of advice, Tom. People are going to talk no matter what you do. If you choose to do nothing at all, then people will talk about that and try to analyze you. Don’t let people stop you from living. Sometimes you just have to get out there and play the fool. Make mistakes. Fall on your face. Get back up and try it again with even more gusto. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fallen down and failed. That’s just part of the deal.”
“I don’t care so much about what people say,” I explained. “I’m just afraid to get out there. It’s me holding myself back, not anyone else.”
“Yes, I can understand that. You are afraid to fail, but why? What’s so scary about messing up?”
“I don’t know. Most of the
Morning came, and I awoke with remnants of my dream firmly embedded in my mind, and I could not tell what was real and what was not. I lay there reliving and again I drank of the music and the dancing, but it was not quite so sweet as before. It was mixed with the bitterness of my own pathetic fearfulness and failure. I felt the height and width of the fence between the jungle and me. I recognized my isolation, which seemed only to heighten the beauty of that which I could not obtain. I was a fearful observer afraid to live for fear that, in my living, I would dishonor the death of my mother—yes, the very woman who loved and laughed until tears spilled down her rosy cheeks, the stunning beauty who lived each day as if it might be her last. And yet somehow I felt that if I embraced life as she had taught me, I would forget her. Above all else, I feared losing her memory, so in a strange way I honored her with my solemn sadness. I remembered her death and saw it everywhere I looked. I felt her absence and the darkness that her death had wrought. This never-ending vigilance was my curse and my course.
CHAPTER 13
The Aftermath
IT WAS NEARLY NOON WHEN I decided to get out of bed and face the day. Charles obviously had no such notion, as he lay sprawled out in nothing but his underwear. His soggy dancing clothes were crumpled on the floor—tie, suspenders, and all. I dared not wake him. If I was tired, I can only imagine how he, the lord of the dance, must feel.
I remembered that I was supposed to have lunch with Dr. Emory and was assuredly going to be late. Famished and tardy, I arrived at the Emory house. As usual, Mr. Calhoun answered the door and ushered me in with knees and elbows jutting out in all directions, an accident waiting to happen. Dr. Emory was out on the back porch, taking in the beautiful fall day. The leaves were just beginning to turn colors, and the yard was littered with acorns. A black walnut tree stood near the side of the house, and Dr. Emory was cracking shriveled shells to get at the innards.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Emory,” I said meekly. “I apologize for being late.”
“Think nothing of it, Tom,” he replied, putting me at ease. “Being on time is not all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, I try to make a habit of being late. The more people seem to get all wound up about being impeccably punctual, the more I want to be impeccably late. I’ve always been that way. You tell me what to do, and you can be darn sure I’ll do the opposite. Plenty of folks rant and rave about such behavior, but I think it’s because most of them are jealous they don’t have the guts to step out of line and live a little.”
He offered me a walnut, so I popped it into my mouth and plopped down in the worn rocking chair beside him. “Yes, well, it’s not that easy for everyone to just do whatever they want to do.”
“Why not?” he retorted.
“Well … I mean, people might talk, and you might lose your job and so forth.”
“Let me give you a bit of advice, Tom. People are going to talk no matter what you do. If you choose to do nothing at all, then people will talk about that and try to analyze you. Don’t let people stop you from living. Sometimes you just have to get out there and play the fool. Make mistakes. Fall on your face. Get back up and try it again with even more gusto. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fallen down and failed. That’s just part of the deal.”
“I don’t care so much about what people say,” I explained. “I’m just afraid to get out there. It’s me holding myself back, not anyone else.”
“Yes, I can understand that. You are afraid to fail, but why? What’s so scary about messing up?”
“I don’t know. Most of the
Similar Books
