The last Bo speaker has died. Her name was Boa Sr, and she lived in the Andaman Islands. With her died one of the 10 languages belonging to a group of people who have been living in the same place — and in much the same way — for about 65,000 years. The news agencies differ as to whether they are Paleolithic or Neolithic. Anyway, they're Stone Age, and they're cool people.
They say she was lonely, not having anybody to talk to in her own language. I can imagine that, though from the videos she seems to have been a cheerful woman with an infectious laugh. Her singing is remarkable — hey, maybe that's what our ancestors sounded like, once upon a time, back before Madonna and Elvis?
The Andaman Islanders have always intrigued me. The ones that haven't gone uptown don't wear much of anything. The Jarawa, for instance, wouldn't talk to anyone until about 1997, but now they do. Their neighbours, the Sentinelese, are infamous for chasing tourists away at spearpoint — I know the feeling, usually when the Jehovah's Witnesses show up on a Saturday. Andaman Islanders are attractive people who don't need clothes to look good. They have beautiful black skin and are short and muscular. I wonder: were all our ancestors like that once? Is pale and freckled and silly-looking just the result of a bad genetic accident?
These people have skills I can only dream of. Not only do they know how to handle a bow and arrow, but they know when tsunamis are coming. Not one of them got caught in that big tidal wave in 2004. You see, they know more about wave amplitude than your average physics teacher. Like I said, they are cool people.
It's sad when a language dies. You don't know where to send the sympathy card — or how to word it. We're going to need a lot of sympathy cards in the next hundred years. Languages are dying out at the rate of 10 a year.
Of course, this is not new. In the course of human history, languages have been born and died. The rate is unprecedented, though. That has some people worried. They say that no language can survive unless at least 100,000 people speak it — and half the world's languages are spoken by 10,000 people or fewer. By the end of the century, up to 90% of the 6,000 languages spoken today may be extinct.
Most people who read this will shrug. What's the difference? We're all using the internet, anyway, and it's all one language, isn't it? If I weren't writing this in English, you probably wouldn't be reading it, would you?
English is my native language. Sort of. Actually, my grandparents were dialect speakers, and all of my family members speak varieties of regional American English. They are mostly unaware of this. I once had this hilarious conversation with my uncle:
Uncle: What are you learning at college these days?
Me: Old English.
Uncle: My grandmother spoke Old English.
Me (choking): Uh, huh.
Uncle: What does sugain mean?
Sugain, of course, is Irish, and so was my great-grandmother.
I wish I had not listened to my mother. She told me I shouldn't try to tape my great-aunt talking, because someone might be offended. One morning in the 1980s, I woke up with my great-aunt's cheery mountain voice in my head. I later learned she'd died that day.
I wish I could hear my great-aunt speak again. I wish I could hear my mother speak again.
The language of our birth is the language of our hearts. Mine might be called English — and so might yours. But I bet they aren't the same at all.
I do get tired of people being insistent that their version of a language is the only right one. I get tired of the trendy, bossy attempts to make us all speak the same. Of course we need a common language — it's a global economy, and all that.
But it is wearisome to hear the same sad stories in the same sad tones, over and over, as if this old, sad world were really a village, as if there weren't enough room for us all, when we know there is, there's plenty if we'd just share...as if it would take something away from somebody if I call it a poke and you call it a sack, or my great-grandmother thinks a rope bed is a sugain...
I mourn the loss of diversity because I treasure diversity more than sameness, always have, always will. I agree with Mr Carl Schurz (who had to learn English when he got to the US) that the best way to make sure you have liberty is to give it to someone else. And I mourn the loss of Boa Sr.
John Donne said, Send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee. The loss of a language is the loss of a way of thought, the loss of an image, an idea, a flexing muscle in the mental body of mankind. The death of another mother tongue calls for mourning. The bell tolls for us and we feel something.
Even if we can't remember the word for it.
27 November 2010
26 November 2010
At the Gates of the Celestial City
'People who are born even-tempered, placid and untroubled - secure from violent passions or temptations to evil - those who have never needed to struggle all night with the angel to emerge lame but victorious at dawn, never become great saints.' - Eva Le Gallienne
'I will have mercy, and not sacrifice...' - Matthew 12:7
The man stood before the alabaster gates, which iridesced like mother-of-pearl against the incredibly cerulean sky. He gazed up expectantly.
It had been a long, hard journey, fraught with bitterness and frustration, but fueled by hope. He had wasted the first years of the quest in fruitless meandering, the second part in stubborn misreading of the map, and the last leg in dogged struggle up a seemingly endless slope - only to discover at the summit that a much easier path, well-marked, had been carved on the other side of the mountain. Now, as he caught his breath and drank the last sips from his water bottle, filled at the spring a few miles down the slope, he felt a sense of self-congratulation and contempt for those who had come up the easy way.
'Only those who struggle have truly earned the prize,' he thought, as the gates opened, flooding the summit of the mountain with an impossible light. A figure gradually became visible, backlit against the splendour within, a man in a long, white robe, aged but ageless, with kind, blue eyes and a long, white beard. He walked slowly to the new arrival, his hand raised in universal greeting.
'Welcome, friend,' he said, his voice as deep and calm as a sunlit lake. 'From your appearance, your journey has been a long one.'
The man smiled broadly at this recognition of his effort. He had dreamed of this day all his life, and this made it perfect. 'Yes, sir,' he said, and launched into a thorough description of his travels: the clues he had so cleverly deciphered, the setbacks along the way that he had borne with fortitude, the faith in his goal that he had never abandoned. He left out no detail, particularly stressing the courage and ambition that had marked his quest for the Celestial City. The stranger from within the gates, nodding encouragement, sat down with him on a bench by the gate - placed there perhaps for the purpose - and listened with patient attention until the man was finished. Then he smiled, rather sadly, the man thought.
'I am afraid you are going to be sorely let down,' the sage said. 'After all that excitement, this isn't going to be very interesting.'
The man was astounded. 'How could you say that?' he stammered. 'Is the Celestial City not as beautiful as they say?'
"Oh, yes, indeed. As beautiful, and more.'
'Is the City not at peace, and full of delights?'
'Oh, yes. More pleasures than you can imagine, and all at peace.'
'Are not the best people there, the very finest and kindest?'
'The people are indeed kind, and good, and clever.'
The man almost shouted. 'Then how could you say I would not love it here? This is what I have sought all my life.'
The sage patted the man's knee, and spoke kindly. 'The Celestial City is full of beautiful palaces. But you are used to dingy taverns, where your presence makes the place seem brighter. The City is at peace. But you are accustomed to struggle and war. The people are kind, and good - they take this for granted. Your goodness will not be noticed there. They will expect...more.'
His eyes twinkled, though his voice was solemn. 'This is not a sad, troubled world, where the light of a single candle pierces the darkness. This is a bright city. We have no challenges to offer you, such as you are accustomed to. We have no stage on which you can shine alone. It troubles me to think that you have come so far, only to be disappointed. Are you sure that you can live in a place where your hard-won achievements will be found unremarkable? Please think before you answer.' The sage clapped hands upon his thighs, and stood, and made his way back into the City. The gates closed.
The man hesitated. He thought a long time. As the sun sank low behind the mountain in glorious crimson, he was still thinking. As the stars began to peek through the velvet night - the most beautiful he had ever seen - he was still thinking.
The sage sent out servants with dinner, and a warm blanket, for he was kind at heart.
'I will have mercy, and not sacrifice...' - Matthew 12:7
The man stood before the alabaster gates, which iridesced like mother-of-pearl against the incredibly cerulean sky. He gazed up expectantly.
It had been a long, hard journey, fraught with bitterness and frustration, but fueled by hope. He had wasted the first years of the quest in fruitless meandering, the second part in stubborn misreading of the map, and the last leg in dogged struggle up a seemingly endless slope - only to discover at the summit that a much easier path, well-marked, had been carved on the other side of the mountain. Now, as he caught his breath and drank the last sips from his water bottle, filled at the spring a few miles down the slope, he felt a sense of self-congratulation and contempt for those who had come up the easy way.
'Only those who struggle have truly earned the prize,' he thought, as the gates opened, flooding the summit of the mountain with an impossible light. A figure gradually became visible, backlit against the splendour within, a man in a long, white robe, aged but ageless, with kind, blue eyes and a long, white beard. He walked slowly to the new arrival, his hand raised in universal greeting.
'Welcome, friend,' he said, his voice as deep and calm as a sunlit lake. 'From your appearance, your journey has been a long one.'
The man smiled broadly at this recognition of his effort. He had dreamed of this day all his life, and this made it perfect. 'Yes, sir,' he said, and launched into a thorough description of his travels: the clues he had so cleverly deciphered, the setbacks along the way that he had borne with fortitude, the faith in his goal that he had never abandoned. He left out no detail, particularly stressing the courage and ambition that had marked his quest for the Celestial City. The stranger from within the gates, nodding encouragement, sat down with him on a bench by the gate - placed there perhaps for the purpose - and listened with patient attention until the man was finished. Then he smiled, rather sadly, the man thought.
'I am afraid you are going to be sorely let down,' the sage said. 'After all that excitement, this isn't going to be very interesting.'
The man was astounded. 'How could you say that?' he stammered. 'Is the Celestial City not as beautiful as they say?'
"Oh, yes, indeed. As beautiful, and more.'
'Is the City not at peace, and full of delights?'
'Oh, yes. More pleasures than you can imagine, and all at peace.'
'Are not the best people there, the very finest and kindest?'
'The people are indeed kind, and good, and clever.'
The man almost shouted. 'Then how could you say I would not love it here? This is what I have sought all my life.'
The sage patted the man's knee, and spoke kindly. 'The Celestial City is full of beautiful palaces. But you are used to dingy taverns, where your presence makes the place seem brighter. The City is at peace. But you are accustomed to struggle and war. The people are kind, and good - they take this for granted. Your goodness will not be noticed there. They will expect...more.'
His eyes twinkled, though his voice was solemn. 'This is not a sad, troubled world, where the light of a single candle pierces the darkness. This is a bright city. We have no challenges to offer you, such as you are accustomed to. We have no stage on which you can shine alone. It troubles me to think that you have come so far, only to be disappointed. Are you sure that you can live in a place where your hard-won achievements will be found unremarkable? Please think before you answer.' The sage clapped hands upon his thighs, and stood, and made his way back into the City. The gates closed.
The man hesitated. He thought a long time. As the sun sank low behind the mountain in glorious crimson, he was still thinking. As the stars began to peek through the velvet night - the most beautiful he had ever seen - he was still thinking.
The sage sent out servants with dinner, and a warm blanket, for he was kind at heart.
24 November 2010
A Change in Plans
Author's note: Don't read this story until you've read the previous one, Planning. This story is in response to angry readers. First they said they hated Robert Thigpen, who was a nasty, manipulative little so-and-so. One woman even said she'd like to hit him with a blunt instrument. Robert Thigpen is probably my most hated fictional character. Then somebody else demanded that I tell the story from Dolores' point of view. So here it is, with a shift in focus. Don't shoot the messenger. I hope it fills in a few gaps in the Thigpen saga.
She had sworn she would never become a Baptist.
But as Dolores Thigpen kicked open the bedroom door, and viciously kicked off her high heels, throwing herself backwards on the bed in total disregard for her designer dress (80% off at Dillard's, she was a killer shopper), all she could think of to say was 'gosh darn it', so thoroughly had proper verbal habits crept in.
Obadiah the Cairn terrier (son of Amos, sire of Jonah, pets of Gideons with a sense of humour) stuck a cautious nose from under the bed as Dolores heaved a frustrated sigh. In her mother's words, she was 'feeling like her name'. Too much shopping, too many ladies' coffees, too many good works filling up her empty time.
Dolores sighed again, jumped up to avoid an overaffectionate cat, and changed her dress before going into the kitchen to start dinner.
Slicing okra for vegetable soup, Dolores tried to put discontent from her mind, but without success. 37 next week, good figure...she started the broth, salted it, tasted it, nodded, opened a can of tomatoes, twisting off the Mason lid with practised strength...still healthy enough, she laughed to herself. It was...
It was what Robert had said about babies. Dolores knew what it was, had been dreading the conversation long before it happened. She had been to the doctor, knew there was nothing wrong on her side. When Robert had brought the subject up, a wistful look in those puppy-dog eyes of his...
She tossed in peas, carrots, corn, a pinch of salt and pepper...when he had mentioned babies, Dolores had just frozen up, a catch in her throat and a catch in her mind, as she had suddenly realised what she was afraid of.
He was going to mention adoption. She couldn't stand it. How could she tell that sweet, kind man who was always there for everybody, who never had a cross word for his worst enemy, that although she wanted a child more than anything else in the world...
...it had to be hers? She couldn't face him with that, so she had fluffed him off with inconsequential remarks, all the while petting Puff, and wishing that the cat were...oh, well, what was the use of wishing? Watching the pot boil, Dolores tossed her head angrily, and remembered to salt the soup before putting the rolls in the oven.
Things got livelier the evening Robert brought Geoff home for dinner. Geoff was a different kettle of fish from Robert - tall, muscular, handsome in an almost movie-star way, with a boyish charm that belied his 40 years.
What endeared Geoff Hayes to Dolores from the first was the way he made Robert laugh. Geoff, who somehow managed to make even bookkeeping seem glamorous, handed Robert some papers to sign, then studied the signature with mock earnestness.
'W. Robert Thigpen, Jr, ' he mused. 'I get the Junior. What's the W stand for?'
Robert, five-foot-five of dapper Southern gentleman, from the top of his wiry ginger hair to the soles of his size 9AAA brogans, blushed. "William.' And Geoff roared with laughter.
'Don't,' warned Dolores jocularly. 'His mother gets high-toned livid if you call him Billy Bob.'
Robert laughed his self-deprecating laugh. 'I'm too short for a Billy Bob,' he opined. 'Billy Bob is six-six, with a beer belly out to here...' he gestured, 'and a girlfriend named Towanda.'
This set Geoff off even more. 'Billy Bob,' he suggested, 'has a big ol' Ford pickup with a gun rack, and a Rebel flag on the bumper.'
Robert agreed, pouring more iced tea. 'Billy Bob's got a hound dog, and Towanda's hair was ruined by a ceiling fan...' This went on for quite a while, and Dolores' heart was won by the two of them.
They were inseparable on the weekends, and then, when Robert's printing business got busy, she and Geoff became...well, inseparable. When it started, it surprised them both, not only with the intensity of their need for one another, but for the way it all seemed...well, inevitable.
Dolores seemed to be waking from a long sleep. Geoff aroused feelings in her that she had not known existed. Where Robert was a lamb, Geoff was a tiger. Mondays, she blushed, and covered the scratch marks with makeup and long sleeves. Where Robert never raised his voice, Geoff was passionate about almost everything - tastes, ideas, plans...they shouted, threw things, kissed, made up.
And went home feeling guilty. Dolores sat smiling through the ladies' missionary meeting, but secretly winced at the Bible study of Proverbs. Proverbs 9:17 had become her verse...bread eaten in secret was truly pleasant, but was that all it was?
Christmas the three spent together, watching 'Camelot' on the widescreen tv. Robert sang along, unmusically, while Dolores exchanged what she hoped were unreadable looks with Geoff, finally having to run out of the living room for a good cry when Robert Goulet sang, 'If Ever I Would Leave You'. This she explained away as an eyelash in her eye.
Dolores almost gave it up the night of the first spring rain, when the thunder drove Obadiah under the bed in a snit, and Dolores, reminded of an event from their honeymoon, first clung to Robert, then made love to him with a passion she'd all but forgotten she felt for him. When she woke the next morning, determined to tell him the truth, he was gone.
Then came the call from the doctor, and matters were settled. Geoff had been brave, offering to break the news, but in the end it was they who were surprised by Robert's reaction.
Sitting over a farewell dinner Robert had made, Dolores looked at her ex-husband with a mixture of sadness and exasperated love.
'Why?'
Robert smiled gently as he reached across the table and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. 'Because I love you too much to hold onto you,' he said simply.
'Besides, I want to play with the babies.'
The wedding was a joyous affair. Dolores wore green to match her eyes, and thought that - to two men there, at least - she looked pretty good. But later, when they came to open the gifts, Dolores burst into tears.
'Darn that man! He would give us a gas grill for a wedding present!'
She didn't know about the christening gift yet.
She had sworn she would never become a Baptist.
But as Dolores Thigpen kicked open the bedroom door, and viciously kicked off her high heels, throwing herself backwards on the bed in total disregard for her designer dress (80% off at Dillard's, she was a killer shopper), all she could think of to say was 'gosh darn it', so thoroughly had proper verbal habits crept in.
Obadiah the Cairn terrier (son of Amos, sire of Jonah, pets of Gideons with a sense of humour) stuck a cautious nose from under the bed as Dolores heaved a frustrated sigh. In her mother's words, she was 'feeling like her name'. Too much shopping, too many ladies' coffees, too many good works filling up her empty time.
Dolores sighed again, jumped up to avoid an overaffectionate cat, and changed her dress before going into the kitchen to start dinner.
Slicing okra for vegetable soup, Dolores tried to put discontent from her mind, but without success. 37 next week, good figure...she started the broth, salted it, tasted it, nodded, opened a can of tomatoes, twisting off the Mason lid with practised strength...still healthy enough, she laughed to herself. It was...
It was what Robert had said about babies. Dolores knew what it was, had been dreading the conversation long before it happened. She had been to the doctor, knew there was nothing wrong on her side. When Robert had brought the subject up, a wistful look in those puppy-dog eyes of his...
She tossed in peas, carrots, corn, a pinch of salt and pepper...when he had mentioned babies, Dolores had just frozen up, a catch in her throat and a catch in her mind, as she had suddenly realised what she was afraid of.
He was going to mention adoption. She couldn't stand it. How could she tell that sweet, kind man who was always there for everybody, who never had a cross word for his worst enemy, that although she wanted a child more than anything else in the world...
...it had to be hers? She couldn't face him with that, so she had fluffed him off with inconsequential remarks, all the while petting Puff, and wishing that the cat were...oh, well, what was the use of wishing? Watching the pot boil, Dolores tossed her head angrily, and remembered to salt the soup before putting the rolls in the oven.
Things got livelier the evening Robert brought Geoff home for dinner. Geoff was a different kettle of fish from Robert - tall, muscular, handsome in an almost movie-star way, with a boyish charm that belied his 40 years.
What endeared Geoff Hayes to Dolores from the first was the way he made Robert laugh. Geoff, who somehow managed to make even bookkeeping seem glamorous, handed Robert some papers to sign, then studied the signature with mock earnestness.
'W. Robert Thigpen, Jr, ' he mused. 'I get the Junior. What's the W stand for?'
Robert, five-foot-five of dapper Southern gentleman, from the top of his wiry ginger hair to the soles of his size 9AAA brogans, blushed. "William.' And Geoff roared with laughter.
'Don't,' warned Dolores jocularly. 'His mother gets high-toned livid if you call him Billy Bob.'
Robert laughed his self-deprecating laugh. 'I'm too short for a Billy Bob,' he opined. 'Billy Bob is six-six, with a beer belly out to here...' he gestured, 'and a girlfriend named Towanda.'
This set Geoff off even more. 'Billy Bob,' he suggested, 'has a big ol' Ford pickup with a gun rack, and a Rebel flag on the bumper.'
Robert agreed, pouring more iced tea. 'Billy Bob's got a hound dog, and Towanda's hair was ruined by a ceiling fan...' This went on for quite a while, and Dolores' heart was won by the two of them.
They were inseparable on the weekends, and then, when Robert's printing business got busy, she and Geoff became...well, inseparable. When it started, it surprised them both, not only with the intensity of their need for one another, but for the way it all seemed...well, inevitable.
Dolores seemed to be waking from a long sleep. Geoff aroused feelings in her that she had not known existed. Where Robert was a lamb, Geoff was a tiger. Mondays, she blushed, and covered the scratch marks with makeup and long sleeves. Where Robert never raised his voice, Geoff was passionate about almost everything - tastes, ideas, plans...they shouted, threw things, kissed, made up.
And went home feeling guilty. Dolores sat smiling through the ladies' missionary meeting, but secretly winced at the Bible study of Proverbs. Proverbs 9:17 had become her verse...bread eaten in secret was truly pleasant, but was that all it was?
Christmas the three spent together, watching 'Camelot' on the widescreen tv. Robert sang along, unmusically, while Dolores exchanged what she hoped were unreadable looks with Geoff, finally having to run out of the living room for a good cry when Robert Goulet sang, 'If Ever I Would Leave You'. This she explained away as an eyelash in her eye.
Dolores almost gave it up the night of the first spring rain, when the thunder drove Obadiah under the bed in a snit, and Dolores, reminded of an event from their honeymoon, first clung to Robert, then made love to him with a passion she'd all but forgotten she felt for him. When she woke the next morning, determined to tell him the truth, he was gone.
Then came the call from the doctor, and matters were settled. Geoff had been brave, offering to break the news, but in the end it was they who were surprised by Robert's reaction.
Sitting over a farewell dinner Robert had made, Dolores looked at her ex-husband with a mixture of sadness and exasperated love.
'Why?'
Robert smiled gently as he reached across the table and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. 'Because I love you too much to hold onto you,' he said simply.
'Besides, I want to play with the babies.'
The wedding was a joyous affair. Dolores wore green to match her eyes, and thought that - to two men there, at least - she looked pretty good. But later, when they came to open the gifts, Dolores burst into tears.
'Darn that man! He would give us a gas grill for a wedding present!'
She didn't know about the christening gift yet.
23 November 2010
Planning
The soup looked wonderful - picture-perfect vegetables from the summer garden, swimming in a rich, red broth. Robert Thigpen smiled as he inhaled the inviting aroma and brought the spoon to his mouth.
And choked, loudly, on enough salt for a bag of crisps. Extra large.
Thigpen set the spoon down in the bowl, carefully, and regarded his wife - the love of his life, his companion of 15 happy years, his green-eyed goddess - through a blur of tears. He smiled, more weakly, as he reached for the iced tea. Obadiah, the Cairn terrier at his feet, jumped up in alarm, then had to run off his excitement by chasing the two cats around the dinner table.
Dolores frowned as she tried unsuccessfully to fend off the smaller cat, which sought refuge on her lap. 'Don't you like the soup? I followed your mother's recipe, it even has that okra in it.'
Robert nodded, waving one hand vaguely as he gulped down the tea. 'Too much salt this time.' He glanced at Dolores quickly, catching the look he'd expected - disappointment, followed by the desire for explanation, followed equally quickly by indifference. She shrugged. 'I'll make you something else, if you like.'
For a long moment, there was silence in the dining room, except for the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Robert shook his head as he pushed away the offending dish. 'No, that's okay, honey. If I get hungry later, I'll make something.' He gave a light laugh and patted his flat stomach in mock demonstration. 'I need to lose weight, anyway.' Dolores shrugged again, but favoured her husband with a grateful smile as she stroked the purring cat, and went on with her meal, unfazed by its saline content. Robert grabbed a roll and a leash, and went off to walk Obadiah in the lingering sunlight.
Later, having been given a peck on the cheek before Dolores rolled over in bed and drifted off to sleep, Robert started to lie awake thinking about things. As his first thought was that tomorrow was going to be a big day at work, and that he owed it to his employees to be compos mentis, he put his ruminations off until further notice and, patting the dog at his feet, slipped into a dreamless slumber.
While showering the next morning (his own self-appointed brainstorming time, as he was not much of a singer), Robert went over the situation in his mind, a habit he had developed over the years, being a slow thinker who otherwise felt rushed in the company of others. He looked at his life, what he had to offer: good-natured guy, hard worker but not a workaholic, smart enough to bloom where he was planted, in his own Acme, North Carolina, backyard where the name Thigpen didn't make people laugh, but was a guarantee of honesty. Built his own little printing company, treated his 30+ employees like family, made a place for himself and the beautiful, educated city gal he'd snagged at college, kept the fun in things, remembered everybody's birthdays....
He reviewed the evidence: three spoiled dinners in one week, magazines and newspapers scattered everywhere, shoes in the bedroom for him to trip over...getting from bed to shower in the mornings was becoming like crossing a minefield, the arch of his foot still ached from stepping on a size seven Selby pump...the less-than-companionable silences...she was trying to tell him something...
Without telling him. That much was obvious. Whenever he'd ventured to ask, there was a shrug and that dazzling smile, and, 'No, of course I'm not mad at you. Are you mad at me?' Teasing. He'd quit asking.
Driving to work, Robert kept thinking as he waited for the lights at the intersection. They hadn't planned for children - or against them, either. They'd thought that sort of thing came naturally. When it didn't, well, it didn't. Until one day Robert had asked, and Dolores had shrugged, again, opined that there were advantages to not having to child-proof a house, and quipped, 'I'd be a terrible mother, anyway, probably scare the kids,' and continued petting a smugly purring cat.
Responsible as always, Robert had secretly visited a doctor, gotten the answer he was half expecting - although he cringed at the expression 'shooting blanks', which he privately thought would have upset his Baptist parents - and drawn his own conclusions about the relative merits of cats, babies, and clean houses.
Arriving at work, he set aside these considerations for a look at the morning's email, a round of checking up on the printing equipment (and the workers, without being obvious about it), and a conference with his investment counselor, a good-looking fellow about Robert's age who was kind enough to come by the office, rather than making Robert come to the bank.
Geoff Hayes was an honest broker, and charming (which, Robert thought, probably went with the job), but he was a lonely widower, so Robert concluded by inviting him over to supper on Friday for some company and a home-cooked meal. Robert then made a note to himself to a) warn Dolores about this, and b) get some steaks to grill. He could barbecue a mean steak, if he did say so himself, and put some 'taters and corn-on-the-cob (what his granny used to call 'roastin' ears') on the grill, and all Dolores would be stuck for would be a salad.
This worked pretty well, and soon Geoff was a fixture over at the house, sharing good food and a laugh or two, never talking shop, just mocking the world in general. They even broke out Robert's old croquet set. He'd almost forgotten how to play, but they had a good time checking out the rules inside the box, and avoiding Obadiah's attempts to steal anything as heavy as a croquet ball, barking at it in outrage when it refused to move for a sixteen-pound terrier. Summer was more fun that year, and Dolores' cooking got better.
Come fall, Robert noticed with satisfaction that Dolores a) got a new hairstyle, and b) seemed to spend a lot of time visiting a cousin over in Cary she used not to have much time for. Whenever he, a grass widower for the weekend, called up Geoff to see if he'd take in a round of golf, he was usually disappointed by the message on the answering machine, but he shrugged good-naturedly and took Obadiah to Jordan Lake with him, enjoying long walks and conversations so nonsensical that any human would have balked at them, but which Obadiah seemed to find completely satisfying.
Christmas that year was good. He bought Dolores a string of pearls, and Obadiah a new squeaky toy. He even remembered to get the cats some catnip mice. Geoff he gave the best present: a briar pipe and a seat by his fireplace, while Dolores showed them how to make popcorn over an open fire.
Robert's resolve almost slipped the night of the first spring rain, when the thunder drove Obadiah under the bed in a snit, and Dolores, reminded of an event from their honeymoon, first clung to him, then made love to him with a passion he'd all but forgotten. In the early morning light, he kissed her cheek gently and slipped out before she could waken, remembering a detail about his will he needed to call his financial planner about.
When Geoff finally came to see him, Robert pitied him for the look on his face: embarrassed, half fearful, half hopeful, and guilty, all at the same time. Robert thought that nobody should have to look like that - not for long, anyway - and put him at his ease as best he could.
The wedding took place in June. Robert attended, of course, gladly - he'd secretly wanted to give the bride away, but decided that would have been tacky, so he settled for sitting on the bride's side, behind her parents, and sending the couple a brand-new gas grill for a wedding present. He'd save the other present - the envelope in his safe - for the christening.
Coming home from the reception, Robert smiled as Obadiah came running up to him, tail wagging. 'Come on, buddy, let's go for a walk.'
Headed down the drive with Obadiah on his leash, Robert reflected that if the little dog missed those durn cats, he'd have to get him a kitten.
Robert Thigpen made a mental note to call the shelter.
And choked, loudly, on enough salt for a bag of crisps. Extra large.
Thigpen set the spoon down in the bowl, carefully, and regarded his wife - the love of his life, his companion of 15 happy years, his green-eyed goddess - through a blur of tears. He smiled, more weakly, as he reached for the iced tea. Obadiah, the Cairn terrier at his feet, jumped up in alarm, then had to run off his excitement by chasing the two cats around the dinner table.
Dolores frowned as she tried unsuccessfully to fend off the smaller cat, which sought refuge on her lap. 'Don't you like the soup? I followed your mother's recipe, it even has that okra in it.'
Robert nodded, waving one hand vaguely as he gulped down the tea. 'Too much salt this time.' He glanced at Dolores quickly, catching the look he'd expected - disappointment, followed by the desire for explanation, followed equally quickly by indifference. She shrugged. 'I'll make you something else, if you like.'
For a long moment, there was silence in the dining room, except for the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Robert shook his head as he pushed away the offending dish. 'No, that's okay, honey. If I get hungry later, I'll make something.' He gave a light laugh and patted his flat stomach in mock demonstration. 'I need to lose weight, anyway.' Dolores shrugged again, but favoured her husband with a grateful smile as she stroked the purring cat, and went on with her meal, unfazed by its saline content. Robert grabbed a roll and a leash, and went off to walk Obadiah in the lingering sunlight.
Later, having been given a peck on the cheek before Dolores rolled over in bed and drifted off to sleep, Robert started to lie awake thinking about things. As his first thought was that tomorrow was going to be a big day at work, and that he owed it to his employees to be compos mentis, he put his ruminations off until further notice and, patting the dog at his feet, slipped into a dreamless slumber.
While showering the next morning (his own self-appointed brainstorming time, as he was not much of a singer), Robert went over the situation in his mind, a habit he had developed over the years, being a slow thinker who otherwise felt rushed in the company of others. He looked at his life, what he had to offer: good-natured guy, hard worker but not a workaholic, smart enough to bloom where he was planted, in his own Acme, North Carolina, backyard where the name Thigpen didn't make people laugh, but was a guarantee of honesty. Built his own little printing company, treated his 30+ employees like family, made a place for himself and the beautiful, educated city gal he'd snagged at college, kept the fun in things, remembered everybody's birthdays....
He reviewed the evidence: three spoiled dinners in one week, magazines and newspapers scattered everywhere, shoes in the bedroom for him to trip over...getting from bed to shower in the mornings was becoming like crossing a minefield, the arch of his foot still ached from stepping on a size seven Selby pump...the less-than-companionable silences...she was trying to tell him something...
Without telling him. That much was obvious. Whenever he'd ventured to ask, there was a shrug and that dazzling smile, and, 'No, of course I'm not mad at you. Are you mad at me?' Teasing. He'd quit asking.
Driving to work, Robert kept thinking as he waited for the lights at the intersection. They hadn't planned for children - or against them, either. They'd thought that sort of thing came naturally. When it didn't, well, it didn't. Until one day Robert had asked, and Dolores had shrugged, again, opined that there were advantages to not having to child-proof a house, and quipped, 'I'd be a terrible mother, anyway, probably scare the kids,' and continued petting a smugly purring cat.
Responsible as always, Robert had secretly visited a doctor, gotten the answer he was half expecting - although he cringed at the expression 'shooting blanks', which he privately thought would have upset his Baptist parents - and drawn his own conclusions about the relative merits of cats, babies, and clean houses.
Arriving at work, he set aside these considerations for a look at the morning's email, a round of checking up on the printing equipment (and the workers, without being obvious about it), and a conference with his investment counselor, a good-looking fellow about Robert's age who was kind enough to come by the office, rather than making Robert come to the bank.
Geoff Hayes was an honest broker, and charming (which, Robert thought, probably went with the job), but he was a lonely widower, so Robert concluded by inviting him over to supper on Friday for some company and a home-cooked meal. Robert then made a note to himself to a) warn Dolores about this, and b) get some steaks to grill. He could barbecue a mean steak, if he did say so himself, and put some 'taters and corn-on-the-cob (what his granny used to call 'roastin' ears') on the grill, and all Dolores would be stuck for would be a salad.
This worked pretty well, and soon Geoff was a fixture over at the house, sharing good food and a laugh or two, never talking shop, just mocking the world in general. They even broke out Robert's old croquet set. He'd almost forgotten how to play, but they had a good time checking out the rules inside the box, and avoiding Obadiah's attempts to steal anything as heavy as a croquet ball, barking at it in outrage when it refused to move for a sixteen-pound terrier. Summer was more fun that year, and Dolores' cooking got better.
Come fall, Robert noticed with satisfaction that Dolores a) got a new hairstyle, and b) seemed to spend a lot of time visiting a cousin over in Cary she used not to have much time for. Whenever he, a grass widower for the weekend, called up Geoff to see if he'd take in a round of golf, he was usually disappointed by the message on the answering machine, but he shrugged good-naturedly and took Obadiah to Jordan Lake with him, enjoying long walks and conversations so nonsensical that any human would have balked at them, but which Obadiah seemed to find completely satisfying.
Christmas that year was good. He bought Dolores a string of pearls, and Obadiah a new squeaky toy. He even remembered to get the cats some catnip mice. Geoff he gave the best present: a briar pipe and a seat by his fireplace, while Dolores showed them how to make popcorn over an open fire.
Robert's resolve almost slipped the night of the first spring rain, when the thunder drove Obadiah under the bed in a snit, and Dolores, reminded of an event from their honeymoon, first clung to him, then made love to him with a passion he'd all but forgotten. In the early morning light, he kissed her cheek gently and slipped out before she could waken, remembering a detail about his will he needed to call his financial planner about.
When Geoff finally came to see him, Robert pitied him for the look on his face: embarrassed, half fearful, half hopeful, and guilty, all at the same time. Robert thought that nobody should have to look like that - not for long, anyway - and put him at his ease as best he could.
The wedding took place in June. Robert attended, of course, gladly - he'd secretly wanted to give the bride away, but decided that would have been tacky, so he settled for sitting on the bride's side, behind her parents, and sending the couple a brand-new gas grill for a wedding present. He'd save the other present - the envelope in his safe - for the christening.
Coming home from the reception, Robert smiled as Obadiah came running up to him, tail wagging. 'Come on, buddy, let's go for a walk.'
Headed down the drive with Obadiah on his leash, Robert reflected that if the little dog missed those durn cats, he'd have to get him a kitten.
Robert Thigpen made a mental note to call the shelter.
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