Stephen Metcalfe's Blog

“What are you doing,” asks the lovely wife.

It’s 7 in the morning and it’s obvious what I’m doing. I’m sitting on the living room couch, a cup of coffee on the table beside me. My tablet is open and on my lap.

“You’re not reading the newspaper, are you?”

“Uh, no, not really” I say. “Just, uhm… taking a quick glance at the headlines.”

“I thought you said you were giving that up.”

I have said that. Countless times. Because these days, even glancing at the news is like falling headfirst down a dragon hole. Headlines that read like the titles of catastrophic horror movies. Opinion columns that sternly address the problems plaguing modern society but offer no viable solutions. It’s not a positive way to start the day, but I too often do.

“I wanted to read about the tennis,” I say. An excuse.

“The what?”

“Tennis? The US Open? It’s going on in New York right now.” Yes, it is. Twenty-year-olds, most of whose names I can’t pronounce, madly galivanting around, playing a game I no longer recognize. The New York Times coverage mostly focuses on the confrontations that take place at the end of the match where players meet at the net and angrily accuse one another of bad sportsmanship. Why wouldn’t they? There are no linesmen to blame anymore. The Times referred to the U.S. Open as a fashion show.

“Anything more important than sports happening in the world?”

What a question. One only the lovely wife would seriously ask. “Oh, one or two things.”

“Like what?”

“Well… Russia, India and China all just had a happy get together in Beijing celebrating them winning the second world war together.”

“I take it we weren’t invited?”

“Either that or someone was too busy playing golf and posting on social media to attend.”

“The someone being…?”

“Yup. Apparently he threw out over 95 posts in 24 hours, mostly about his health.” I glance down at the tablet screen. “Oh, wait. No, sorry, my mistake. What he did was he shot 95 on the golf course and took 24 mulligans getting it done.”

“A mulligan being?”

The lovely wife. Not a golfer. “A do-over. You hit a bad shot, you get to take it over.”

“I think it would be very nice if America got a mulligan.” The lovely wife. Yes, occasionally she does make me laugh. “Didn’t you tell me someone just had Russia over for dinner last week?”

“Yeah. In Alaska. And now it’s Poland coming to visit this week.”

“Oh, my.” The lovely wife sighs.

“Yup. Hot dogs for lunch.”

“Anything else I should know about?

I look down at the tablet again. “Well… U.S. Space Command is being moved from Colorado to to Alabama.”

“Wait. Okay, now what exactly is US Space Command?”

“It’s the part of the military that defends U.S. national interests in space.”

“I didn’t know we had any.”

“Me either.”

“So why are they moving?”

“Because Colorado has mail in voting and someone says that means they automatically have crooked elections, and we can’t have that.”

“But… we have mail in voting.”

“Yeah, but we’re California, so we don’t count.”

“I don’t understand any of this.”

“You’re not supposed to.”

“Is there anything good you can tell me?”

“I can show you something.” I press several buttons and hold up the tablet. A video is playing. An enormous passenger jet is moving towards the side of a runway. “Several hundred Guatemalan children were loaded onto planes. They were about to be deported when a federal judge blocked someone from doing it.”

“You mean for the time being.”

“Yeah, probably.” I hesitate for a moment. “You know, you’re right. I shouldn’t be reading all this negative stuff. All it does is put me a bad place.”

Much to my surprise, the lovely wife shakes her head. “No, I think you should be reading it. Everyone should.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because when people realize things like this are happening, maybe they’ll get up off the couch and do something about it.”

What is there to say? Putting tablet and coffee aside, I get up off the couch.

“Time to begin the day?”

“Time for all of us to begin the day,” says the lovely wife.

And with that, we hug.

I keep trying to write positive things these days. Needless to say, I’m finding it difficult. I’m not sure if it’s advancing age, personal circumstances or the tumultuous times we live in but too often I feel as if I’ve lost my underlying optimism and sense of humor; both of which have always been cornerstones of the work I do. I was looking at this recently, written in 2022, post pandemic. It gives me hope that the positive scribbles will still come.

*

There it was, out of nowhere.
It was late afternoon, and I was on our lower terrace, doing some sweeping up of summer leaves and I saw something lying on the beige stone walk. I went to pick it up – and stopped. It was moving ever so slightly. I looked closer and I realized that it was a baby bird. A hummingbird. We have a lot of them around our home. They buzz around the trees and flowers, sometimes moving too fast for the eyes to follow. My son puts up a feeder for them, filled with sugared water. This one was obviously hurt. It tried to spread its tiny wings but couldn’t. It tried to move and couldn’t do that either. What had happened? Had it collided with something, been attacked by something? What to do… sweep it up with the leaves and toss it in the trash bin? There was no way it was going to live. But no, that didn’t seem right. There was only one thing to do, and I did it. I called out to the captain of the house – my wife.

A hiker, a gardener, a disciple of nature, she immediately hurried downstairs, got down on her hands and knees and looked at the bird. “Aw, poor little guy…” she murmured. Amazing. Somehow she already knew it was a male. Finding a large, green leaf, she gently shifted the “little guy” onto it and took it back upstairs. I shrugged and went back to my sweeping.

When I came up the steps ten minutes later, the wife was sitting at the outdoor table, the little bird in one hand and an eye dropper in the other. She was, of course, attempting to feed it – yes, sugar water. “Really?” I asked. “It’s hungry?” Still barely moving, it sure didn’t seem hungry.

“They need to eat every fifteen minutes,” said the wife.

No wonder they’re always buzzing around, I thought. “Do you think it’s even going to live?” I asked. I was skeptical.

“I’m not sure,” said the wife, her voice implying it certainly would if she had anything to say about it. And that’s when it hit me. What I was seeing. A tiny bird, not much more than five weeks old, resting quietly in the palm of my wife’s hand. Was the baby beak opening and closing near the tip of the eye dropper now? Was it feeding? Yes, it seemed to be. And were its eyes open? I couldn’t remember now if they’d been fully closed. The wife looked enraptured. I certainly was. Two entities nurturing one another, one giving food and protection, and one giving gratitude. Both sharing a spirit. I quietly watched for a while before going into the house.

When I came out a short time later, the bird had been transferred to a small, flat, open box. The wife had put leaves into the box, the better, she said, for the bird to feel at home and it was moving now, trying to stand, fluttering its tiny wings. The evening around us was filled with bird song and the wife was looking off into the surrounding trees. “I wonder if its mother is watching,” she said.

“Would it be?”

“Hummingbird mothers are the best moms in the bird world. Male hummingbirds don’t do anything, the mothers do it all by themselves.”

“Thankfully you’re not talking about me.”

“Oh, no, never.” Which elicited a small smile. From both of us.

Still, feeling a need to prove myself, I picked some blossoms off a nearby flower planting and dropped them in the box next to the baby bird. “Nice,” said the wife. And then, reaching for the eye dropper, “I think you’ll be making dinner tonight.”

I did. At least I got something started.

Our son came home and went to sit out at the table with his mother, as mesmerized as she was by the little bird. Our son is interested in hawks and falconry and I’m not sure he was prepared to be quite so enchanted by the smallest member of the bird kingdom. I came out and set the table around them. Knives, spoons, forks, and napkins – no eyedroppers.

“He’s trying to fly but he can’t,” said the son. “We’re hoping it’s Mom will come and help him.”

“Your mom would if it was you.”

“I know.”

“Would its mother be able to carry it?” I asked. Somehow that didn’t seem likely to me.

“I don’t think so,” said the wife, “but maybe just by being here she could give him give it the strength to fly. But she won’t come close if we’re here.”

“We should go in then,” said the son.

Nodding, the wife picked up the small, flat box and rising from the table, placed it carefully on the terrace wall between some potted plants. The little bird fluttered softly but didn’t make a sound. “You’re going to be fine, little guy,” said the wife. We all went in.

When I came out a short time later to move the utensils back in, the little bird was gone. “He’s not here!” I called and my wife and son quickly came out to join me. “Maybe it fell,” I said, and we all hurried down the steps and outside the terrace wall to look through the vegetation. No bird.

“Its mother must have come,” said my son.

“Or a crow did,” I said, ever the optimist.

“No,” said the wife, again looking at the surrounding trees. “It flew away on its own. It’s watching us now. He knows he’s safe here. He knows this is home.”

How could you doubt it wasn’t true?

Early the next morning I went out onto the terrace. A cloud-streaked blue sky, the ocean in the distance. And just like the previous evening, the air was filled with birdsong. Birds everywhere, all ecstatically singing. And as I listened, perhaps for the very first time, really listened, I was suddenly certain of something. The baby hummingbird was singing with them.

– 2022

I’ve always had rather bizarre dreams. Maybe it comes from working in my head all day long, as a writer wandering down roads of the imagination. I remember back in my forties and fifties constantly finding myself on planes going to… somewhere. And then, somehow, I’d end up in an altered dream-state version of New York City where I’d spent my twenties and not be able to find my apartment. I’d wander around searching and then, when I did find it – if I found it – complete strangers would be living there, and I’d be invited to camp out in the garage. What? – garage? In New York City? Oh, but there it was. A garage, complete with bunk bed. Someone had constructed it off the kitchen. Were these nightmares? No, not at all. They were just wacky-ass dreams. Thankfully I didn’t have them all the time, but regardless, I woke up[ and went on with my day.

In my early seventies, I dream constantly now. They’re mad adventures that take me all over the place. To grand hotels, to seashores, to golf courses, to crowded concourses, to malls teeming with people. As often as not, I am an observer more than a participant, wandering the premises, holding it at arm’s length, not recognizing a soul. And let’s not talk about the movies that play and replay over and over in my head. Thrillers, mostly. I’m sure my subconscious has rewritten Star Wars 37 times. Sadly, I’m a supporting actor and there are no residuals.

Are these nightmares? Again, no, but there is an element of anxious confusion to them that often wakes me up. I muse and mull for a while and then finally I fall back to sleep, only to go on another odd journey through the labyrinth. The dreams stay with me when I wake up in the morning, then fade into the first cup of coffee.

It makes me wonder at times if real life is dreaming. You’re in the car, driving, and the images in the windshield in front of you keep shifting and changing. Or you’re in the market, shopping for groceries, and as if in a dream, you don’t recognize the faces or voices or products that surround you.

Muse and muddle, muddle and muse.

Quantum mechanics has suggested that the universe is split into any number of parallel universes and that we are just living in one of those universes. The idea being that there are infinite versions of each and all of us living different lives in alternate realities. Could it be that our dreams connect us to these alternate realities and that we are visualizing what happens to us in these different places? Probably not, but it’s intriguing to think about.

And finally, sometimes my dreams are filled with memories; events that actually happened, friends and people I loved and love. Those are the dreams worth going to sleep for, especially when they connect you with the people that are no longer with you. You wake up and you remember. You cherish.

Whenever I want you all I have to do is dream….

Indeed.

Nothing to do, nothing to do, put a rocket in my shoe…
Yeah, well, these days I wish I could. How is it one can be busy and focused pretty much one’s entire adult life and then suddenly hit a time where you get up, make a cup of coffee, retreat to the living room, sit down on the couch and …. pretty much stay there. And stay some more. Reading. Sending an email or text or two. Staring out at the ocean and trees in the distance.
What am I looking for, objective, action, or motivation? Probably all three. Am I complaining? No, not really. The fact that I can afford to sit on the comfortable couch says a lot. And if I were very busy, rocketing around, focusing on who knows what, would I enjoy that? I’m not so sure.
Acceptance. Enjoying the moment. I am content to be typing write now because I am typing right now. I will be happy to be sitting on the couch later because I will be sitting on the couch later.
Sometimes easier said than done.
Lots to do, lots to do, put a pillow in my shoe.

Working on a new novel. This is a rough draft of chapter 1.

***************

“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs forth. Shall you not know it? Do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and rivers in the wasteland.”
He isn’t, thinks Declan McCaslin, peering at the computer screen, not really. A new thing? No. It’s just an old thing being done differently. Oh, well. His eyes return to the paper in his hand and he continues to read aloud.
“Ambient Sounds, June the eighteenth. As of today I am no longer hampered by that epitome of two fingered and one thumb aggravation, the computer keyboard. As one whose mind has long moved faster than his fingers, I’m thrilled to tell you I am dictating this. Yes! I have recently been introduced to what is called Open Word. To use it, I open a blank document, I click on Home in the top menu and expand the screen so that the toolbar is shown. I click on Dictate and then – I speak! Taa-daa! How is it, you ask, I didn’t know about this simple tool before? Answer? At the age of 71, I know far too little about far too much in this modern world, the dictation of words being high on the list. However, I am never too old to learn.”
The fact that he’s reading words out loud that have already been typed and printed out on paper suddenly hits Declan. Is this actual dictation? Perhaps not. Something to consider in the future. At any rate, back to the words in hand.
“Open Word can, and I quote, turn talk into text three times faster than typing. It can send email, search the web and more – exclamation point. It is, and again I quote, just great for students, businessmen, grandparents, and individuals with accessibility issues. I would like to report that as I speak – ” Declan glances towards his computer screen. It’s on the wooden table in front of him, keyboard, and mouse in front of it. “ – I’m watching words appear as if by magic. Remarkable. And a thoughtful suggestion from a former student, now a lawyer, who says he found the program unusable thanks to a nervous stutter. Ahhhh – exclamation point! – technology.”
And now, having read all this in a semi-assured rush, Declan McCaslin finds himself oddly exhausted. Again, he glances at the computer screen. Yes, there they are. Words. His words. Or something to that effect. Cogent sentences that now seem like total nonsense. Or were they – he – ever cogent to begin with? Probably not. Well, this will be a first draft, nothing more. He’ll do the rewriting, the real writing, with the usual slow keyboard hunt and peck. Oh, but to what end? For what earthly reason? No, stop, don’t go there. Clearing his throat, Declan starts to say something but hesitates as a group of convoluted letters, the translated equivalent of phlegm, appeared on the screen.
“Well… apparently Open Word has no un-do for creative constipation.” Much to Declan’s surprise, the spoken words immediately appear on the screen. “No, no, don’t write that, I –” As if by magic, these do as well, “No, I — not that either – I – oh, for goodness – ”
Flustered and not a little bit annoyed, Declan turns away from the worktable. Ridiculous to feel so done this early in the day. Perhaps he needs more coffee. There’s a thermal pot of it, fresh brewed for Macy, waiting in the kitchen. But no, he’s already several cups over his limit. What then? Some food to eat, some errand to run? Declan sighs. When you’ve been awake since four in the morning by nine you feel it’s time for lunch, wine, and a long nap. Oh, but he has a tennis game at one. If he can somehow keep focused until then. What do do, what to say….
“I fell into a burning ring a’ fire.”
Declan glances at the screen. No, Johnny Cash doesn’t quite come through in translation. Open Word is obviously tone deaf. Declan certainly is.
“Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.”
Hmmm. Somehow John F. Kennedy doesn’t translate either. Not that he ever did to some people. Staring at everything and nothing, Declan turns and ponders the living room. Yes, it was a good decision, coming in here to work. The open light. Space to get up and move around. The bookcases close at hand. Not that anyone needs books anymore, what with the sum total of the world’s collective knowledge a wireless mouse-click away. Oh, but Macy’s furniture. Solid antiques, most of them. They give one a feeling of permanence. This is a salon, not a guest bedroom converted to a makeshift office. The mirror over the fireplace is a problem though. Declan occasionally catches himself in it and it’s like being surprised by a stranger. He finds himself staring back, not out of any kind of vanity, but rather out of curiosity. How has it come to this, the graying hair, the pallid, lined face in the mirror? Hmm. Perhaps he’ll jettison the creativity this morning and just go for a swim. Oh, but that would leave him too tired for tennis, wouldn’t it. Well, he can always go to Costco and join the mid-morning brigade of other bored geriatrics looking for a cheap hot dog. Then he can peruse the wines, contemplate the athletic socks, sample the free samples if they have any, buy some fish oil supplements for the dogs and then come home. Yes, he could do that. But no. No, he can’t. Discipline and focus are important when you’re his age. When there’s free time on one’s hands, one needs a determination to get things done. A breath of fresh morning air and he’ll get back to work. Breathe, thinks Declan, breathe. Be in the moment.
With the moment in mind, Declan rises and walks across the living room and out the open door onto the terrace. He stands, taking it all in. Sunshine, a cloud splashed blue sky, and beyond the waist high wall, the trees, the top of houses, and then the ocean in the distance. Macy’s potted flowers close at hand, chrysanthemums, or whatever. A beautiful day. A day to enjoy. A day to get things done. Light. Let there be creative light. Who makes this kind of malarkey up?
As Declan turns back, Macy’s painting catches his eye. It’s on an easel off to the side, half done, a paint box, and brushes on the wooden chair next to it. He hesitates, the moves to it. It’s of the view, of course. An evening sunset framed by the twin palms, a green smear of vegetation at the bottom, a stratum of pink-red clouds towards the top, the ocean in between. Amateurish at best. The perspective off. The color of the clouds is all wrong. Declan peeks towards the living room, and then, turning back to the painting, he picks up a brush, dabs some paint and begins to make a correction. A small one. Suddenly, like the sword of Damocles rising, there is the sound of a door slamming inside the house and of dogs shuffling and barking. And then, Macy’s voice.
“Stop, you two, stop it. Breakfast is coming. Quiet down!”
Declan quickly drops the brush and hurries back across the terrace and into the living room. Moving to his table he sits, picks up a pencil, reaches for a legal pad and begins to scribble with an industry far exceeding anything he’s shown in the last half hour.
“Declan!? Declan, are up!?”
Of course, he is. She knows he is. “Yes, working! In here!”
Declan listens as Macy moves out of the kitchen and into the adjacent dining room. “Good morning.” he calls, still scribbling, as she enters. He knows without looking that his wife is wearing loose, comfortable, unfashionable clothes and sneakers and that she is make-up free, her long, greying hair pulled back. He also knows, regardless of what she wears, that she is confident and elegant.
“Morn-ning.” Macy’s voice going up an octave on the second syllable. Not a good sign. Does she know he’s been fiddling with her painting? No, how could she? Impossible.
“I made you coffee. It’s back in the kitchen.”
“Thank you, I’m fine.”
Declan surreptitiously watches as Macy, not so much as glancing in his direction, begins to tidy up what is, apart from his worktable, an already spotless room. Though she has never mentioned it, he knows she didn’t like him working here. His clutter offends her esthetic sensibilities. She is a fluffer of pillows, a smoother of towels, napkins, and sheets. Clothes and dishes, when washed, are immediately put away, cups and glasses, when brought into the living room, demand coasters. So it has always been, so it will always be.
“You were out early.” Still scribbling.
“Mmm. I took the dogs for a long walk.”
“Not to – ”
“Yes, Declan. The beach.”
“Oh, Macy, no.” No longer scribbling.
“Oh, shush.”
“We can’t afford any more fines.”
“Oh, pooh.” Declan watches as she plumps a couch cushion for emphasis. “I refuse to be intimidated by some person in uniform who won’t stop people from scattering their beer cans and trash but thinks it’s just fine telling me to keep my dogs on a leash. The dog walkers are the ones who pick up those beer cans. At least, I do.”
“And I’m the one who pays the fines.”
“We do. And it’s the principal, Declan.”
“Last time it was 250 dollars. Each.”
“Mmm.” Meaning conversation over, anything else regarding the subject will fall on deaf ears.
“You were up during the night,” says Declan. A change of subject. Always good.
“Fritz had to pee, and Toad started retching and so, yes, I was up.”
“I didn’t hear them.”
“Yes, you did, you just rolled over.”
Maybe not so good. “I never heard a thing.”
“You heard enough to know that I was up.”
Macy, finished with pillows, is now peering around the room as if wondering what else there is to do. If it was winter, she’d have started opening the drapes by now. She closes them at night because she says it keeps the house warm. So do heaters, he likes to remind her. And now, thinks Declan, you’re going to go out onto the terrace, aren’t you.
“Newspaper’s here, if you’d like it,” he says quickly. It’s neatly folded in the chair next to him, an anachronism, still delivered daily. “Interesting story. Seems scientists found some human bones in Kenya, ten thousand years old. Apparently one group of hunter gatherers slaughtered another. A pregnant woman was killed by a blow to the head.” Macy, he notes, is now staring at him as if he’s received a blow to the head.
“And how did they know she was pregnant?”
“A fetal skeleton was preserved in her stomach.”
“The point of all this being?”
“The point being that human beings are descended from monkeys who, as we know, are violent, little bastards at heart.”
“Mmm. Thank you, but I’ll pass on the paper today. And every day.” With that, as expected, Macy goes primly out the open doors and onto the terrace. One thousand one, one thousand two, thinks Declan. “We need to sweep out here,” her voice calls. One thousand three, one thousand four. As if she’s been hit by falling bird droppings, Macy strides back into the room. “Declan! Have you been at my paintings again?”
Declan looks up from the legal pad as if he hasn’t really been paying attention – which is all he’s been doing. “Hmm? What? No.”
“I know they’re not very good, but I don’t need you making corrections to them.”
“I didn’t – I just – I added a little contrast, that’s all.” The excuse sounds lame and decidedly hollow. They usually do. He should know better by now.
“And I’ve asked you not to. How would you like it if I went and started rewriting your – whatever your silly things are called.”
“Blogs.” Declan, now going on the offensive. “And you couldn’t rewrite them, you wouldn’t even know how to log on.”
“Do what?”
“There, you see?” Thrilled that the subject has been changed. “You’re intentionally hopeless when it comes to technology. You’re what’s known as a twelve o’clock flasher.”
“What exactly is that?”
“It’s a person who can’t even be bothered to set the time on their electronic devices. Their microwaves, their stoves, they all go blink-blink-blink, flashing nothing but twelve o’clock.
“Why should I bother when you set them for me?”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point? I don’t like e-mails, I like letters. And I have no desire to read books off a screen, when I can go to the library. And as for all this on-line shopping – ”
“ – why would you do it online when you don’t like to do it at all. Yes, I know.”
“Though I wouldn’t mind investigating some of this pornography that I understands available on the internet.”
Pornography. What!? Where has this come from? Totally out of the blue. He didn’t know she knew it even existed. “You’d be appalled,” he murmurs.
“Two attractive young people passionately making love. I might learn something.”
“It’s two people minimum, it deeply misogynistic and for reasons I don’t quite understand, all one learns about is sodomy.”
“How do you know.”
“I’ve… read about it.”
“Mmm.”
“And besides” – quickly – “ there’s nothing you could learn that you don’t already know.”
She’s close to him now. Putting a hand on his shoulder, she leans down, her voice just above a whisper. “Declan? Mess with my paintings again and I just might have to kill you.” With that, she kisses the side of his head. It both warms and alarms him which, when he later thinks about it, is Declan’s definition of marriage. Turning away now, Macy starts for the kitchen. “Fritz! Toad! Breakfast!”
“I won’t – ” Declan calls after her, “if you tell the Brewers to trim their oleander.” Oh, God, where did this come from, what is he thinking? He’s not.
Macy stops and turns back. “What’s that?”
“… all that green at the bottom of your painting. You – they – our neighbors – need to trim their oleander.”
“Oh, Declan, we’ve had this conversation before.”
“Tell them we’ll pay for it.”
“And what if they take you up on the offer?” They have had this cion versation before, he knows this.
“Why would they? They never have.” He knows this too.
“Which is why I’m not going to bother them about it.”
“No, of course, you won’t. Because there’s hardly any view left anymore, is there. Houses, non-indigenous trees. No planning, no foresight.” He’s ranting now. Why? Is it because he needs an audience? Or a classroom?
“It’s still beautiful,” says Macy.
“I’m not saying it isn’t. It’s just… diminished.”
“Mm. Like us.” Another half-smile on Macy’s face. “Didn’t you tell me once that copper poisons trees?” She’s teasing him now. Declan has no defense against it. He never has. Nor has he ever wanted one.
“Did I? Well, it does.”
“So you could go out some night with a hammer and copper nails and drive them in.”
“You know, I just might?”
“Or you could pee on them. Yours would be especially lethal.”
“All I could do is dribble on them. That’s why I’m up at night.”
Macy laughs, deep in her throat. It pleases Declan to no end, and in response, he laughs with her.
“You,” Macy says softly. An endearment.
“You,” Declan replies, more of the unexpected feelings coursing through him, filling him with delight. Yes, all can occasionally be right with the world.
Looking back, Declan will remember that when Macy left the living room to go feed the dogs, the two of them were in a good place, pleased and at ease with one another. The day suddenly did seem filled with undiscovered prospects and possibilities. And then he glanced at his computer screen. “Oh, for God’s sakes – it’s written out the whole damn thing!” Yes, it was a good thirty-some pages of conversation, unexpected but in truth, as he read it, not horrible. In retrospect, what was surprising is that instead of saving and holding on to it as something to be looked at and contemplated in the future like a story or a poem, Declan erased it. But then, he was of a generation that hadn’t yet realized a machine was much smarter than he was.

Well, here I am in the eleventh week of recuperating from a total knee replacement and upon reflection, what I have to say is this. All the fellow tennis players I know who have gone through the procedure and told me they “wished they’d done it sooner”? They were either suffering from memory loss or were lying to me completely. To put it bluntly, the last eleven weeks have been a bitch. No one said that in the first month, trying to find a comfortable position in bed so you could sleep a wink at night would be next to impossible. No one ever mentioned that sitting on a toilet seat, bending forward, trying to wipe your butt would be a challenge. Go up and down the stairs? How about in slow motion, grasping the handrail. We won’t even talk about the fatigue, lack of appetite and ongoing discomfort that is only now starting to ebb. Discomfort. Is that right word ? The doctor’s office sends you questionnaires. On a scale of one to ten where are you on the pain meter? You mean ten minutes ago, right now or an hour from now? Why don’t we just write down every number because there’s a good chance you’ll hit each one at some point during the day. The physical therapist has suggested that riding a stationary bike is good exercise therapy. I’m sure it would be if my knee would allow a full rotation of the bike pedals. It won’t. It just about gets full circle and then it’s like someone sticks an ice pick into the side of my leg. It’s nerve pain, I’ve been told. Well, it has a lot of nerve. And speaking of physical therapy, isn’t it supposed to make the injured appendage feel better? It doesn’t. “If you can’t bend your knee any further than that, let’s see if I can.” Gahhhh! And please, tell me why it is that in week eleven I can’t get my leg comfortable when driving the car or sitting at my writing desk. Did they replace the old, arthritic knee joint with bricks?

Okay, I’m being a baby. As usual, I’m complaining about something that isn’t worth complaining about so I won’t lose my mind focusing on things that are. The truth is I’m walking well. I’ve gotten on the tennis court several times to play stationary statue tennis. I played nine holes of golf with my son last week. Is there still the ongoing wince and stutter and groan? Yes. But a knee replacement wasn’t an age replacement. At 71, aches and pains come with the territory. And if I remember right, I moved like a crippled hedgehog when I was in my forties and fifties and sixties, bad knees had nothing to do with it.

So. Perhaps down the road I’ll be like those other tennis friends who can say with a straight face, “I wish I’d done it sooner”. The surgeon seemed to think so. At a recent checkup, he said – casually and totally out of nowhere – that knee replacement is the “male equivalent of childbirth”. A year out, and you’ve forgotten all about the pain and you’re ready to do it again.

I’m not sure if I believed him. And unlike a woman giving birth to a beautiful child, I’m not sure the cost is worth it.

December Harbor

Talk about a Christmas gift. My sister in law sent me something from the family archives back in Connecticut. How she found it I don’t know. It’s a poem I must have written around my third year of college and sent home. I have no idea who kept it. It’s about my father. He and my mother were divorced when I was very young and he went to sea becoming, of all things, an officer in the passenger ship industry and then the freight industry. I had forgotten this. It’s over fifty years old.

December Harbor

The mist comes in on December Harbor, turns the salt water to stone.
Seagulls ride the whitecaps like horses, held by the wind, motionless, frozen, white.
The bitter air cuts through coat and flesh, embracing liver and lungs in splintered needle hands. Feet kicking, toe numbing, hands-in-pockets-blue, nose running, eyes blurring, wind.
Watching December Harbor Ship come in.

The December Harbor Sailors disembark, move down the gangplank, huddled, tans squinching and squinting, turning to December Harbor Dust. Their pea jackets seem made of nylon. They don’t sing but curse, loudly, in many colors
Eyes turn to the palm trees of Manhattan, grey, forbidding, so ominous they seem to scratch the sky. Dirty water glaciers seen from the docks of December Harbor
The sailors shoulder bags of breadfruit and silently head for home, walking.

The solitary sailor stands at the edge of December Harbor Deck. He ponders, he listens, he whispers to the honk of tugboats, to the slow, methodical, rust of cold water on metal.
“Stephen, the cargo once was people – yeah, vacationers from Iowa, conventioneers from Georgia, schoolteachers from Boston.
Drinking Barbados rum, laughing, kissing, greeting family and friends, sharing it with you. You, excited by something done a hundred times, yeah, a hundred times before.”

Longshoremen move sullenly through the cold, hooks hanging like icicles from their belts. Lobster Dinners from Durban, dead ammunition from the Mae Cong Delta. As frozen-and cheerless as the buildings on the land.

“Stephen, is it any wonder I’m so tired? The sea is dead, my dreams didn’t last, the life I loved is past, and look – my sons are men, and I hardly knew them as boys.”
The solitary sailor stands in the mist. Black hair streaked with grey, the streets of Rio etched in his face, tan furrowed, creased with a map of the world. His tongue is burned and overflowing with the hot, flashing tastes of Leningrad, Jamaica, and Tokyo. His eyes are blue, deep, confused like the December Harbors of the world.

The December Sailor fades away.
To telephone calls and letters postdated months ago.
My eyes – burning – my throat – aching – follow him.
The seagulls scream to their mounts, a long, thanking and forgiving call, and fly away into the mists of December Harbor

The Annual Christmas Post

When Wayne McKee walks into his kitchen, he is suddenly and obliquely aware of how cold and grey and unkempt the room is. Is it possible that it’s changed in the three minutes it took him to get to and from the back door of the house? As if seeing it for the first time, Wayne notices the stained gas stove, the oven door slightly open. He sees the unwashed pans and dishes in the sink and the half full coffee pot on the counter. He sees the ceiling light that no longer works, sees the small table with its dowdy tablecloth, the single, tiny red candle sitting in the middle of it. The paper calendar pinned to the wall by the cupboard shows a photograph of a pine tree and reads September ’57. My god, a full three months ago. Why hasn’t he taken it down? Or changed it? Wayne’s clothes seem unexpectedly foreign to him as well now, the stained bathrobe, the flannel pajamas, and the house slippers. It’s one thing to be getting on in years but it’s another thing to be half dressed and disheveled throughout an entire day. The neatly dressed black man behind Wayne wears a neat shirt and button-down sweater beneath his too thin overcoat. His slacks are creased, and his shoes look as if they’ve been shined on occasion Wayne suddenly feels angry. He never should have answered the soft knock on the back door but it’s too late to do anything about it now.
“Well, sit down if you have to.”
“Thank you, I can stand, sir.”
“Suit yourself then. I don’t care. I will.” Wayne moves to the table and sits. What to say now. He has no idea. “Don’t think I do this on a regular basis.”
“I do appreciate it.”
“Well, don’t, I’d do it for anybody.” There, done. Only the black man is quietly staring at him as if waiting for him to say something else. All right.
“Dammit all, you’re gonna be in my house and I offer you a chair to sit in, you sit.”
The black man hesitates, then carefully pulls the second chair back from the table, and quietly sits. The wind is gusting outside in the evening dark, the snow banging off the kitchen windows. Wayne has no idea what the temperature is outside, he just knows it’s cold. Cold here in the kitchen as well. “What are you doing out in weather like this anyway? Colored boy like you, you oughta be frozen half to death.”
The black man again stares at him, saying nothing.
“Well? That was a question.”
“No, sir, that was an insult.”
It was, wasn’t it. Wayne wasn’t thinking. Still. “You don’t like it, there’s the door.”
The black man rises from the table. “Thank you for your hospitality, sir.” Turning, he starts out.
“Now, hold on, hold on.” The black man stops and looks back. “I’m not gonna have you turned into an ice cycle on my conscience. Tell you what. I’ll do my best not to call you a colored boy and if I do, you won’t take it personal.”
The black man stares at Wayne for another moment and then quietly comes back to the table. Taking off his overcoat, he sits again. Is it relief Wayne feels? No, it can’t be.
“And listen, you don’t call me, sir. My name’s Wayne McKee. I don’t need to know who you are.” Or does he. Perhaps he does. No, of course, he doesn’t. “Get up,” says Wayne, abruptly rising to his feet. “I said, get up. Switch. This chair’s closer to the stove, it’s warmer.”
“No need, sir.”
“I told you, this is my house. I say there’s a need, there’s a need.”
The black man hesitates, then rises and they both move carefully past around the table. The black man quietly nods. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Told you, I’d do the same for anybody.”
They sit again. The black man glances at the open oven door. It’s off, not emanating any heat at all. There was no need to switch. Wayne winces inside. What now.
“Well, talk. You gonna sit here, you might as well say something cause I’m not gonna.”
“I’m going home,” says the black man.
“What?” Wayne feels as if he no longer speaks English.
“You ask me why I was out in the storm. I’m on my way home. For Christmas.” The man glances at the small red candle on the table. As if it means something.
“Hmph.” Wayne grunts in reply. “Where’s home?”
“Newark.”
“New Jersey? That’s eighty-some miles from here.” Here being Bridgeport, Connecticut. Not paradise but certainly better than New Jersey. “What, you figured on walking the whole way?
“Till the snow picked up, I’d hoped to hitch some rides.”
“Hmph.” Wayne grunts again. “Didn’t have much luck, did ya.”
“I did. All the way from Boston. Nice couple. They dropped me off a couple of blocks from here. Then it began to snow.”
Wayne scowls, considering this. “White?”
“Snow is white, yes, sir.”
“No. This couple picked you up. They dropped you off round this neighborhood. Were they white?”
“Yes, they were white.”
“Hah. Wouldn’t catch me doin’ that, takin’ my life in my hands.”
The black man stares a moment. Angry, amused? Wayne can’t tell. “You are one mean-ass, bitter, old cracker, ain’t you.”
Wayne stares back, liking the response, annoyed that he does. “You want coffee?”
“Don’t go to any trouble.”
“It’s made. Just gotta heat it.”
The black man’s expression doesn’t change. “Some coffee would be just fine.”
Wayne rises, grabs the pot off the counter and moves to the stove. The front, right burner thankfully still works. None of the others do unless lit with a match. The blue flame flickers under the metal coffee pot. “Got family?” What a question to ask, where’s this coming from?
“Yes, I do.”
“Wife?”
“I don’t think she’s tired of me yet.”
It’s a good answer but Wayne grunts in reply. “Hmph. Any kids?
“A boy, three girls.”
“You got all these children, what’re you doin’ in Boston?”
“Lookin’ for a job.”
“Hmph. No jobs for — ” Wayne catches himself. “No jobs in Newark?”
“Not the kind of jobs I’m lookin’ for.”
“And what is the right kind of job for a smarty-pants like you?”
The black man seems to straighten slightly in his chair. “I’m a chef.”
“You mean, a cook?”
“No. A chef.”
Wayne shrugs. “Same thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
Is Wayne being contradicted? It feels that way. “What’s the difference?”
“Training. When I joined the army, they put me into culinary, sent to Europe. When I got out I stayed there, worked in kitchens in France, England and Holland. I learned things.”
My god. The army. Europe. What else has this man done that Wayne hasn’t done? “Learned what things?”
“That the difference between a cook and a chef is in the kind of food you make, for one.”
Wayne glares. “What do you make?”
The black man smiles slightly. “For Christmas tomorrow, I’ll be making shrimp Etouffee, a roasted acorn squash salad, cranberry relish. Plus Gratin Dauphinoise and Cochin de Lait.”
These last words have some kind of foreign accent to them. Wayne’s never heard them before, and he scowls. “What that?”
“It’s Cajun style roast pig.”
“Pig, huh. You got something against turkey for Christmas?”
“Not a thing. I do it with oyster cornbread stuffing.”
Wayne suddenly feels hungry thinking about it. Oyster stuffing. His wife Jenny used to… Wayne stops himself. “What about dessert?”
“Chocolate éclairs are my specialty. Plus pecan apple pie.”
Apple pie. When’s the last time Wayne had — he catches himself again. “Yeah, well, I’m not one for fancy food.”
“You would be if I cooked it, Mr. McKee.”
The coffee is bubbling in the pot. Wayne can hear it. “Coffee’s hot. I don’t got milk.” He turns off the stove. He reaches into the cupboard for two mugs. He pours and brings the mugs to the table. He puts down the mugs and sits. He sips. He watches as the black man does the same. There are grounds in the coffee. Will the man notice? Of course he will. He’s a chef. What was Wayne thinking.
“What is it you do, Mr. McKee?”
Should he answer? Why not. “Conductor. Metro North Railroad, forty years. Retired in fifty-seven. Mandatory.”
“You got family?”
The question takes Wayne by surprise. “Course I got family. What do you think I am?”
“Wife?” Wayne doesn’t speak for a moment. What to say about Jenny. The truth? Why not. “Dead.”
The black man nods as if he already knew this. “Children?”
Again, why not the truth. “I got a daughter. She’s got her own life. Not here.”
“You have any friends?”
The truth? No, not this time. “You are one nosey son of a bee.”
“That may be, but I got a wife, children and friends and I got a warm, happy place to go for Christmas.”
Wayne feels the anger building. Or is it envy. “But you’re not there, are you?”
“Just a matter of time. They’ll be waitin’ for me.”
Wayne slaps his mug down onto the table. “I think you should go back out in that blizzard and leave me alone.”
The black man doesn’t so much as move. “You want to come with me?”
Huh? Again, Wayne doesn’t feel as if they’re speaking English. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“You want to come with me, Mr. McKee? To Newark? A man shouldn’t be alone, no food or company at Christmas time.”
A name. What’s this man’s name? “Me in a room with a bunch of little Picaninnies? You got your nerve.”
“Mr. McKee, I guess you never got nothing but sticks and rocks in your shoes for Christmas.”
“You don’t like it, you can leave.” The black man just stares. My god, Wayne sees it. The man feels sorry for him. “Leave!”
Wayne watches as the black man slowly rises, puts on his coat, and turns for the door. He speaks before he can stop himself. “No. Don’t go.” Wayne stares down at the tabletop. There’s no way he can make eye contact, not now, not with a stranger, not with… with anybody. “I’ve been sitting here all day long. Hardly able to move. Wondering. What did I do wrong. What happened, why is it like this? I can’t seem to figure it out.”
“Mr. McKee?”
Wayne looks up. The look on the black man’s face is kind. Kinder than Wayne has any right to expect.
“Can I tell you a story?”
“Right now, you can tell me anything you want.”
“Once upon a time there was a lonely, old man. Christmas came this one year and he had no Christmas tree, no presents, no people. He just sat around in an old bathrobe being unhappy with the world.”
As Wayne watches, the black man starts to move around the kitchen as if searching for something. What can he possibly be looking for? The man’s voice pulls Wayne back.
“This old man? His wife was gone. He had a daughter he could call but he didn’t want to because she hadn’t called him. He had a Christmas candle on his table, one somebody had bought a long time ago, but he couldn’t bring himself to light it.”
No, Wayne couldn’t. The little red candle. He’d found it in a drawer. He couldn’t put up a wreath or tinsel either, couldn’t buy and decorate a tree. It’s as if he’s forgotten how.
“Well, that Christmas Eve day it began to snow early. Snow so heavy, it was like a weight. That old man was sittin’ in the kitchen, when he heard a knock on the back door. When he opened it there was this black man standing there, cold, not dressed for the storm. He asked if he could come in, get warm. The old man didn’t like black folk, but he said yes. He tried to pretend it was a bother, but truth is, if someone hadn’t shown up at his back door, he just might’a been getting ready to stick his head in an unlit gas oven.”
Was it that obvious, thinks Wayne? Yes, it must have been.
“He had no idea that Zwarte Piet, Black Peter, Saint Nicholas’s right-hand man back in Holland, is out and about on Christmas Eve, searching for somebody needs a friend. Also had no idea that the only way you get a visit from Black Pete is by inviting him in. And then when he tries to leave, you gotta ask him to stay. You gotta offer him some hospitality. Like a cup of bad, bad coffee.” The black man has found what he was looking for. A small, worn book of matches. They were sitting off to the side of the stove. He turns back to the table. “Now I’m no Black Peter, Mr. McKee, and we both know you are not that stubborn, unhappy old man, but I do know that inviting somebody in, is one way of getting a Christmas candle lit.”
With that, the black man lights a match, bends, and applies the flame to the wick of the small, red candle. It seems to hesitate a moment, then takes a breath and bursts into flame. The smell of pine and citrus fills the small room. Wayne shivers.
“I got a car.”
“What’s that?”
“The garage outside. I got a car. I could drive you. Down to Newark.”
“In this weather?”
“It’s got snow tires, it’ll make it.”
The black man regards Wayne a moment. “Only if you stay and have Christmas dinner with us.”
“You mean it?”
“With them Pickaninnies.”
Wayne gives a quick, hard nod. Yes. Yes to this unexpected gift. “My name’s Wayne, sir. What’s yours?
“My name’s Horace, sir. Horace Gleason.” The black man holds out his hand and reaching across the table, Wayne clasps it. Can it be voices he suddenly hears? Yes, outside the snow has stopped and somewhere close people are singing.
The swallow feels heavy in Wayne’s throat. He’ll call his daughter, Julie, in the morning. Yes, he’ll call, just to say he loves her.
“Merry Christmas, Horace. I’ll change my clothes and go get the car keys.”
The candle on the table flickers softly as Wayne rises from the table and moves from the room.
*
This is based on a one act play of the same name, a play I’ve posted in the past. I wanted to see what it’d be like as fiction. Thoughts welcome. And please feel free to share. Happy Holidays!

I’ve been working on some different things and haven’t posted in a while. I thought I’d throw out a small blast from the past. These are two excerpts from my novel, The Practical Navigator, published in 2016.
*
“You seem particularly edgy today.”
“Do I? You don’t.”
In the five weeks that Anita’s been seeing Fari Akrepede, not once has she noticed so much as a dark strand of hair out of place. Make-up – check. Clothes – check. Expensive shoes – check. Unruffled mental and emotional state – check and double check. What must it be like to be so composed, so imperturbable, so regulated? I’ll never know. “Yeah, I am a little edgy. Maybe you could give me something for it.” Whatever you’re on.
“I can’t prescribe medication but I can recommend somebody who will. Right now though, I’d rather talk about what’s making you feel this way.”
Questions, questions, always questions when what you’re looking for is somebody to give you some answers. Anita rises abruptly from her chair and moves to look out the window. She can see the ocean in the distance, the ocean that always makes her think of Michael. “I’ve always felt this way.”
“What way is that?”
“Like…” Anita turns to look at this maddening sphinx of a woman. “Like I’m going to start chewing on my arm, if I don’t stop thinking all the time.”
“What is it you think about?”
“Lately?”
“Please.”
Fari watches as Anita Beacham hesitates, then moves back to her chair to pick her bag up off the floor where she’s left it. She opens the purse and after rummaging briefly, takes out a small photo. She offers it to Fari who takes it.
“This is my son.”
It’s one of those posed school photos. The boy blonde, possibly five or six is in a blue T-shirt. He stares blankly at the camera without expression. Something familiar. Fari hands it back. “He looks like you.”
“He’s autistic.”
“I’m sorry. That must be difficult.”
“You know some people think autism is caused by uncaring mothers? Refrigerator moms. Great, huh?”
In over a month, two sessions a week, Fari has yet to see Anita Beacham cry. She suddenly wonders if today will be the day. “They’re mistaken.”
“Are they? Are they really?”
“I’m not an expert on autism but it’s my understanding that genetics and environmental factors play the most important role.”
“Great. I gave him defective genes and should have stayed away from bars and toxic dumps while pregnant.”
Fari is silent as Anita turns her back to her again. Some patients can’t talk if you’re looking at them. Anita is one of them.
“I was a refrigerator.”
“I’m sorry?”
“A refrigerator mom. I might as well have been. I used to wake up every morning, dreading the day. I’d get out of bed, Michael would be gone – ”
Fari forces herself to keep breathing evenly.
“- and I’d be alone in the house, staring at walls. And then he’d start to cry. Jamie. And no matter what I did, feed him, hold him, change him, rock him, I couldn’t make it better. I couldn’t. I started hating him. My own baby and I hated him. And I was so afraid I was going to hurt him. That I was going to hurt me.”
A racing heart means adrenalin has kicked in. Adrenalin, Fari knows, allows you to use all your strength at once – but only once. “What you’re describing, Anita, is an extreme form of postnatal depression. Were you seeing anyone about it?”
Anita shakes her head. Her eyes are shiny pools. “I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“You mentioned a Michael. Who is Michael?” Good. Her voice was matter of fact. Even casual.
Anita turns from the window and again goes to her purse. She takes out and offers a second photo. “This is my husband.”
Fari takes it. The snapshot is probably ten years old. A man and a woman in their twenties. Arms around one another. Smiling. Sun kissed. Radiant in their love. My Michael. What a shame, thinks Fari, that innocence has only one season.
Something has happened and Anita isn’t sure what. Dr. Akrepede’s hand trembles slightly as she hands the photo back. Her eyes are blinking rapidly. Anita watches as the woman carefully composes herself. Maybe she isn’t always as together as she appears to be. It’s an encouraging thought.
“Tell me how you met,” Dr. Akrepede softly says to her. “Tell me all about your husband.”
Though the smile is still distant and professional, the voice, thinks Anita, is suddenly that of a long-lost friend.
*****************

Michael pulls to a stop in front of the elementary school and gets out. There’s a police car double parked ahead of him and near the entrance he can see Karen McKenzie and the school’s principal, Carol Udall, talking to two uniformed officers, one male, one female. Seeing him, Karen McKenzie excuses herself and approaches.
“They have another squad car going up and down the streets between your home and the school. They’ll call in if they see him.”
“Do they know he’s autistic?”
“Yes. We’re also calling parents to see if there’s any chance he went home with one of them.”
“He wouldn’t.” Michael reaches for his wallet. “It might help if the police have some photographs of him.”
“They have them. Your wife had several.”
Where is she?”
“Out on the playground.”
He sees Mrs. McKenzie hesitate. “What is it?”
“Michael, if I’d known she was going to be the one picking him up today…”
“Jamie was supposed to tell you.”
“He didn’t.”
Michael can see tears glinting. Karen McKenzie may be a rock but she’s a rock with feelings.
Anita sits on the low rung of a jungle gym, a lit cigarette between her fingers. The steel bar behind her is quite literally a pain in the ass but right now pain feels good. The jungle gym is also a good distance away from the children and teachers who surround the after-school activities table. The last thing she needs right now are small voices asking questions.
“Why do they call it a jungle gym?” she once asked her mother.
“Because,” Tisha replied, “Monkey bars is impolite.”
“Why do they call them monkey bars.”
“Because,” her mother answered with some impatience, “children play like monkeys.” Unspoken but implied was that children playing like monkeys was unacceptable behavior at best.
The material on the ground under and surrounding the climbing bars is a heavy blue, soft, thick plastic pad, obviously there to protect a child should he or she fall. She should make a dress of it. And then climb deep into the center of the jungle gym where no one can get to her.
“There’s no smoking.”
Anita opens her eyes to see Michael approaching. “Any news?” she asks, not dropping the cigarette.
“The cops are out looking between here and the house. They’ll call in when they find him.”
“When will that be?”
“They’ll find him, Anita.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Let’s not go there.”
“This is because of me.”
“Why, because you were late?”
“Because I insisted on picking him up. Because he doesn’t even know me.” Anita pushes her lower back into the metal joist, pushes harder. “Who am I? Some sleazy, stranger who shows up out of nowhere and inserts herself into his life. What was I thinking?”
“Stop.”
“I can’t stop, I can’t. If anything happens to him – “
“This is not about you.” Louder than Michael intended. Anita’s green eyes open wide. “He was looking forward to it, Anita. Now let’s just find him and then you can blame yourself all you want to later, okay?”
“Okay.” Almost inaudible.
He turns away.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m not leaving, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Nice.
*
Michael enters the empty classroom. He moves to what he knows to be Jamie’s desk and sees that his books are still there, that his backpack is slung over the chair. He crosses the room to the rows of cube storage units that line the wall to find that Jamie’s Power Ranger’s lunchbox is also still present and accounted for. He should call Penelope and ask if he’s come home yet. Only the little holster is empty because he’s left his cell phone in the truck and really what difference does it make because he knows Jamie is all right, knows someone is going to call in to the school at any second and they’ll all breathe a sigh of relief, and this will be over.
“I’ll get in a car. I’ll drive away. I’ll drive!” shouts Jamie
A dread akin to nausea surges in Michael and he bolts from the classroom.
*
He has every right to blame her. The right to say anything. Anita knows this. It’s no big deal.
“Words are just words,” as her mother would say. “They can’t hurt us.”
Wrong, Mom.
Words are more dangerous than jungle gyms. Words are what should be surrounded by protective padding. She wishes now she’d told Michael that it was her only cigarette, one long forgotten about and found in the bottom of her bag. And she isn’t even smoking it, not really. Just letting it burn to a nub in her fingers.
*
Entering the lavatory, Michael strides to the row of sinks and turns on a faucet. He cups his hands, fills them with water, drinks and spits. He splashes water onto his face. Breathe, he thinks.
Breathe.
“I need paper.”
He’s hearing things. He must be. A child calling from out in the yard. Ghosts in the pipes. Michael turns to face the row of toilet stalls that line the wall behind him.
“Jamie?”
He hears the lock turn. He sees the stall door open a crack. The little face peers out at him.
“Hi, Dad.”
Michael, moving to the stall, carefully pushes the door inward and kneels on the tiles so he is face to face with his son –
“Hi, Dad. Hi.”
– and scoops the boy up, half off the toilet seat, pulling him close, vaguely aware that he’s babbling as he does so. “Jamie, Jamie, what are you doing, what the hell, are you okay?”
“I have to wipe my bottom. There’s no paper.”
“You what?”
My akole, Dad.”
Akole. Hawaiian for asshole.
Hawaiian for me.
Sometimes you don’t know whether to laugh or cry and so Michael squeezes his son tight to his chest until it draws a protest – “Dad!” – and just like Anita but without the hiccups, alternates between both.
*
Karen McKenzie is trying to describe to a newly arrived plainclothes man what the missing boy was wearing and finding it difficult. The day, the students, clothes and her brain all keep running together. Primary colors mix and produce nothing but brown.
“- red polo, wait, no – T-shirt, I think. Jeans and sneakers. Just like every other little boy.”
“Like that one?” says the man in the suit, pointing behind her. McKenzie turns. And sags in exquisite relief. Michael is walking from the school entrance, Jamie at his side. Thank God. All is not yet quite right with the world, but her heart can beat again.
*
“Mom will pick me up,” Jamie is saying. A statement and a question.
“Go ask her,” says Michael.
He looks across the quiet playground, towards the jungle gym to see that no one is there.