notebook?”
“Just the notebook.”
“That’s a strange thing for a thief to take. Don’t you think?” Ross slowly folds his handkerchief and tucks it into the pocket of his jacket. “The Schroeder boy been bothering you a lot lately?”
“So you know about him. Good. The little fucker should be locked up.” I pick up the empty laundry basket and swing it to let the water fly. A small arc of droplets lands in the grass with a pleasing little sound.
“What do you think he wants with your notebook?”
“I have no idea.”
“How does he even know about it?”
“I’d like to know that myself.”
“I guess you write down your thoughts and such in it.”
“Yes and no.”
“What kind of stuff do you write in it?”
I rearrange the clothes on the line, considering how and whether I should answer.
“That’s what most people do, isn’t it?” He takes a small pad from his shirt pocket and holds it up. “That’s what I do with mine. Take notes. Record impressions. Couldn’t do my work without it.”
“I recite.”
Ross tucks the pad back into his pocket. “I don’t follow.”
“From memory. I recite passages, texts I’ve learned.”
Ross nods, a look of puzzled appreciation. “What kinds of texts?”
“All kinds of texts.”
“The Bible?”
“Ancient poetry and philosophy, mostly.”
Ross’s eyebrows arch and he nods again as though to say, my, my, but aren’t we … strange. I continue rearranging the clothes on the line, wondering what he is piecing together in his detective brain. For the briefest moment I’m tempted to invite him to sit down with me in the grass—or, better, on my front porch, my stoa—and discuss it. I might explain to him that my preoccupation with ancient texts isn’t as much an exercise in memory as it is an effort to construct—or reconstruct—a self. I might explain that nothing resonates more clearly or more truly, nothing creates a fuller sense of
being
, than the words and phrases that cycle through me; that my essence is memory and that the content of this memory is identical to the content of my being. I might tell him that I believe he too is a sum of texts and that to know them is to know himself, and I might recite to him the opening of the John Gospel, a text that I have no doubt already resides within him—
At the beginning of time the Word already was; and God had the Word abiding with him, and the Word was God. He abode, at the beginning of time, with God
. That you don’t even have to believe in God to know this about the Word, and finally that, this being the case, we are epigones, all of us, and thus may—no, must—choose the texts we live by.
“A personal question.” Ross holds up a finger. “Just one.”
“Go ahead.”
“What is a rich, educated, middle-aged dude like you doing in a place like this?” He gestures toward the house, the yard, a fat smile breaking across his face.
I have to think for a minute, and we stand facing each other beside the clothesline. Sheets billow gently. Ross’s stentorian breathing is as audible as the breeze. I swing the plastic basket once more and watch the tiny arc of water disappear in a neat, parabolic curve. “I like it here.”
The detective, grinning, shrugs his heavy shoulders. “Just asking,” he says.
Two squirrels scamper across the far corner of the lawn and up into a tree. I watch them with feigned interest.
Ross continues eyeing me from a discreet, detectively angle. “I thought folks like you preferred big cities, apartments. You don’t fit here. Know what I’m saying?”
“You didn’t come here to talk demographics, did you?”
His expression turns serious. One hand disappears into his pocket; he shifts his weight, paunch hanging over his belt. “I’ll get to the point,” he says. “What does that boy—assuming he was the one who broke in last night—what does he want with you?”
“How the hell should I know? He’s been pestering me for
“Just the notebook.”
“That’s a strange thing for a thief to take. Don’t you think?” Ross slowly folds his handkerchief and tucks it into the pocket of his jacket. “The Schroeder boy been bothering you a lot lately?”
“So you know about him. Good. The little fucker should be locked up.” I pick up the empty laundry basket and swing it to let the water fly. A small arc of droplets lands in the grass with a pleasing little sound.
“What do you think he wants with your notebook?”
“I have no idea.”
“How does he even know about it?”
“I’d like to know that myself.”
“I guess you write down your thoughts and such in it.”
“Yes and no.”
“What kind of stuff do you write in it?”
I rearrange the clothes on the line, considering how and whether I should answer.
“That’s what most people do, isn’t it?” He takes a small pad from his shirt pocket and holds it up. “That’s what I do with mine. Take notes. Record impressions. Couldn’t do my work without it.”
“I recite.”
Ross tucks the pad back into his pocket. “I don’t follow.”
“From memory. I recite passages, texts I’ve learned.”
Ross nods, a look of puzzled appreciation. “What kinds of texts?”
“All kinds of texts.”
“The Bible?”
“Ancient poetry and philosophy, mostly.”
Ross’s eyebrows arch and he nods again as though to say, my, my, but aren’t we … strange. I continue rearranging the clothes on the line, wondering what he is piecing together in his detective brain. For the briefest moment I’m tempted to invite him to sit down with me in the grass—or, better, on my front porch, my stoa—and discuss it. I might explain to him that my preoccupation with ancient texts isn’t as much an exercise in memory as it is an effort to construct—or reconstruct—a self. I might explain that nothing resonates more clearly or more truly, nothing creates a fuller sense of
being
, than the words and phrases that cycle through me; that my essence is memory and that the content of this memory is identical to the content of my being. I might tell him that I believe he too is a sum of texts and that to know them is to know himself, and I might recite to him the opening of the John Gospel, a text that I have no doubt already resides within him—
At the beginning of time the Word already was; and God had the Word abiding with him, and the Word was God. He abode, at the beginning of time, with God
. That you don’t even have to believe in God to know this about the Word, and finally that, this being the case, we are epigones, all of us, and thus may—no, must—choose the texts we live by.
“A personal question.” Ross holds up a finger. “Just one.”
“Go ahead.”
“What is a rich, educated, middle-aged dude like you doing in a place like this?” He gestures toward the house, the yard, a fat smile breaking across his face.
I have to think for a minute, and we stand facing each other beside the clothesline. Sheets billow gently. Ross’s stentorian breathing is as audible as the breeze. I swing the plastic basket once more and watch the tiny arc of water disappear in a neat, parabolic curve. “I like it here.”
The detective, grinning, shrugs his heavy shoulders. “Just asking,” he says.
Two squirrels scamper across the far corner of the lawn and up into a tree. I watch them with feigned interest.
Ross continues eyeing me from a discreet, detectively angle. “I thought folks like you preferred big cities, apartments. You don’t fit here. Know what I’m saying?”
“You didn’t come here to talk demographics, did you?”
His expression turns serious. One hand disappears into his pocket; he shifts his weight, paunch hanging over his belt. “I’ll get to the point,” he says. “What does that boy—assuming he was the one who broke in last night—what does he want with you?”
“How the hell should I know? He’s been pestering me for
Similar Books
