Chapter 37

Darold and Virginia dropped Foy off before taking Emm home with them for the night. Clutching his bag of goodies, Foy couldn’t wait to share them with his pals—and to watch television. “I’m home,” he called as he ran up the walk and banged on the door. Joe and Martha let him in, waving and calling out holiday greetings as Darold backed the car down the driveway. Through winking lights around the uncurtained windows, Emm saw his son surrounded by housemates, doling out treats and looking as pleased with himself as Santa.

Virginia rested her head on the seat back and her hand on Darold’s shoulder. He patted it, smiled at her briefly, and drove on in silence. Despite their spats, they fit together like Foy fit with his friends. Emm wondered if it might be kindest of him to try fitting into Kingsbridge after all, sparing his children the burden of his day-to-day care. Perhaps the old age home deserved another chance, like Erissa. Residents quaked and murmured about upstairs, but how many of them had actually seen it? Perhaps, like him, they’d come upon someone in the corridor having a bad day, but didn’t everyone? Bad days didn’t last forever; even the Depression had ended.

Only death lasted forever. What if their fear of upstairs was really a fear of death? Could Emm peek at death before going there for good? Maybe it wasn’t the bugaboo that everyone feared. The past nine months had been hellish in many ways, but there were heavenly moments too. Like today. Emm decided he was brave enough to take a look. Tomorrow, when he saw Mrs. Cray, he’d ask her to arrange another visit to Kingsbridge. Including a tour of upstairs.

An hour later, grateful to be in bed in the old maid’s room—which, he was pleased to see, Virginia hadn’t refilled with junk—Emm’s mind was nevertheless too jumpy to sleep. He skimmed a small pile of newspapers until his eye was caught by an article on the fourth-place contestants in last summer’s Olympics. A reporter had contacted them, five months later, to see how they’d handled coming so close, only to narrowly miss winning a medal. Most said they’d turned the loss into a gain, either vowing to work harder and win in four years or abandoning sports entirely in favor of school, work, or community service. With a few exceptions, they seemed happy.

Unlike these Olympians, when Emm lost the Derby, he’d compounded his loss. Frustration and rage pushed him to drink, which only made him angrier. He’d been so bitter that he failed to enjoy the children he had. He’d short-changed Izora, then she was gone. Emm thought, as he had that day in the cemetery, how his desire to bring so many lives into the world had ended hers too soon. And now, after nine months of getting to know his children, he realized the price they’d also paid for his obsession. He had taken away their mother’s love and deprived them of a father’s.

Could he turn that long-ago loss into a belated gain? What if, like creating a new tradition, it was never too late? If so, the first step was figuring out where Emm would call home. If only he had the same confidence about this decision as he had when entering Millar’s contest, but with the wisdom to make a better choice this time. Suppose he set out on another bad course of action that he was powerless to reverse before his final race ended?

Mrs. Cray was coming at nine. In five hours, Emm would have to answer her question about where he wanted to live. At the cemetery last March, after saying that people overcame their fears by facing them, she’d asked Emm if he ever wrote serious poetry. He’d laughed off the idea at the time, but now he understood the advice implied by her question. Before he could decide what to do going forward, Emm had to reconcile with his past. Seriously.

He went to the small desk in the den he’d cleared out six months ago and wrote a poem to his late wife. The words came from his heart, not merely his wits.

For Izora

My thoughts harken back to 1926

When, determined our future to fix

Chomping at the bit

Cocksure I was fit

I entered a race you gently tried to nix

I said the money would set us all free

Our children would grow up wealthy

You’d sing a happy tune

I would buy you the moon

But I was really just thinking of me

I was too busy counting every child’s head

Not cherishing precious moments instead

A first step, a first word

The first robin a baby heard

Minus joy, our home was filled with dread

My single-minded race down Derby Lane

Was a major cause of our children’s pain

I saw life as win-lose

And overlooked their virtues

I regret I can’t raise them over again

Perhaps worse is the grief I caused you

Saddling you with an unwieldy crew

Your voice so fair

Your artistic flair

I silenced them, another thing that I blew

After my hopes for the Derby were lost

I made everyone pay a high cost

I was depressed and angry

So you gave up on me

After that, our paths rarely crossed

But I’ve learned the futility of berating

A second chance is what I’m awaiting

If you could see me today

You’d know I’m on my way

I’m not there yet, but I’m still gestating

Our sons and daughters are educating me

About patience and generosity

Joy and acceptance

Forgiveness and repentance

I’m earning my branch on our family tree

I miss you with a full heart and I long

To eternally hear your sweet song

But please undertaker

Before I meet my Maker

Give me time to right my grave wrong

Dearest, I can’t rush to join you above

To lie beside you, our hearts interwove

For until my life ends

I must first make amends

To be worthy of your undying love

From Emm

December 1976

Emm reread the poem. He worried some lines were too flip, the opposite of his intention. But since irreverence was part of who he was, he let them stand. More rhymes popped into his head: humble and bumble; laugh and gaffe; ambition and demolition. He nearly added more verses, then stopped himself; why exhaust all his ideas now? Emm would save—savor— them until next year. In fact, he’d start another tradition, writing Izora a poem every Christmas. And, like the verses he’d made up for his children, he’d get better at it with time. “Do the little jobs well, and the big ones will take care of themselves,” Mr. Carnegie had counseled. Pen a collection of little poems, and Emm would create a whole book to match the family photo album.

It was eight o’clock, a full hour before Mrs. Cray was due. But finishing early didn’t make Emm a winner. His only race now was against death, and Emm was the only contestant. He’d gotten past the starting line; the ending and the prize were unknown. Emm would take this derby one leisurely lap at a time, stopping along the way.