16

THIS IS THE LIFE of an old man whose friends are gone, who lives alone on the farm his father rebuilt, miles north of town. I stare at the large calendar on my desk, the one with an empty block for each and every day of the year. Most of the blocks are empty, except a few with things written in them in pencil, phrases like, “Plant the last of the corn” and “Give zucchini to Jerry.” Most blocks, though, are empty white spaces, blank days that repeat again and again.

The block that is tomorrow is filled with one word that I, for some reason, wrote in all capital letters.

FUNERAL.

I look up from the calendar and find my eyes drifting back and forth between two things. One is the beautiful day outside my open window, unseasonably cool for a summer day. I can see the oak tree and the lane and, if I lean to the right, the space where the church used to be. On some afternoons the beauty of this farm overwhelms me, and I can sit and stare at it for hours. Of course, this might also be because I am getting older, and because of all the blank-space days in my life.

My eyes leave the window and focus on the box in front of me, the box I brought down from the attic just this morning, the box I haven’t opened for decades. It’s covered in years and cobwebs. I wipe some of the dust off the top and it sticks to my fingers, a fine layer.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

I hear a knock at the screen door. I sigh. It’s probably Jerry, and it’s no good pretending I’m not home because he knows I never go anywhere. I rise slowly and walk to the stairs. He knocks again.

“Coming, coming,” I say, and I wonder again why everyone is in such a hurry these days, such a hurry. What are they hurrying toward? What is there out in front of every single one of them that they can’t wait to get to? What happened to this present moment?

“Mr. Chambers?” he says again while I’m walking down the stairs. “Samuel? Are you there?”

“For goodness’ sake, man.” I can’t hide the irritation in my voice any longer. “It takes me a while to get to the door. At least allow me that.”

I get to the bottom of the steps and walk over to the door, and there I find Jerry standing up rather straight. His son Caleb is beside him, reluctantly. I stare at the boy, and his glance, which at first looked defiant and aggressive, darts away into some corner to hide.

“Hello,” I say through the screen without opening the door. I’m not in the mood for people today. Caleb interrupting my pipe smoking the night before took me to the end of my rope. I needed a few days of solitude to gather my strength. Maybe a few weeks. Of course, the funeral is tomorrow, so there is no clear end in sight, and that makes me tired.

Jerry moves his hand to open the door, but it doesn’t budge when he pulls on the handle. It’s locked. He looks first at Caleb, then at me, and finally back at Caleb.

“I think you have something to say to Mr. Chambers,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Goodness, boy, what now?”

But the boy stares down at the porch floor. His father nudges him with his elbow, but he refuses to look up.

“Is that all?” I ask, moving from the door. “I have other things to do.”

“Caleb!” his father says in a sharp voice. I’ve never heard either of his parents call him by his first name before. I don’t think the boy hears it much either, because he springs into full confession mode.

“I climbed up on your roof,” he blurts.

I look at his father. “Is that all?”

His father nudges him again.

“To spy on you,” he continues.

I roll my eyes again and send out an exasperated breath. “Am I going to have to put an electric fence around my house?”

“And I broke the downspout when I was climbing down,” he says, and I can tell he is finished talking because a wave of relief washes over his face.

“Well, I’m sure your father will take care of that.” I back away again, trying to pry myself out of a conversation that is going nowhere.

“No, no, Samuel,” Jerry says in a determined voice. “Caleb will make it up to you. Of course I’ll fix the downspout. But he needs to make it up to you.”

Oh, these people and their endless quest to make it right. What scale do they measure by that must always be brought back to level? But an idea comes into my mind. I didn’t call for it. I’m not sure where it came from, unless perhaps I’ve been thinking about it without knowing.

“Fine,” I say. “He can come with me to the funeral tomorrow. That can be his penance.”

Jerry looks rather shocked. The boy looks terrified.

“Well,” Jerry begins, “I’m not sure how that—”

“I see,” I interrupt. “I need someone to help me with something at the funeral. But if your offer isn’t real, if it is, in fact, a false offer, I’ll be going back upstairs, thank you very much.” I say the last four words on their own, like a hammer striking a nail, and I turn to go.

“Of course he’ll go with you,” Jerry blurts out. “Won’t you, boy?”

I don’t even stop long enough to look at Caleb’s face. I’m afraid I may start laughing.

“Eight a.m. sharp,” I say, and I leave the two of them standing at the door. But when I get to the bottom of the stairs, I change my mind. I turn around and go back to the door. They are already down the steps and walking through the yard.

“Caleb!” I shout.

The boy turns.

“Come here.”

He looks up at his father, Jerry nods his head, and the boy walks back to the door. I bend down as low as these knees will let me.

“Now listen here,” I say, and he stares at me, his eyes unblinking. “I need someone at the funeral who can do something very brave for me. Very brave.”

“Is it illegal?” he asks, looking mildly interested.

I think for a moment. “I don’t think it’s illegal. But some people wouldn’t like it. Which is why I’m going to need your help.”

He looks at me, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Do you think you can help me?”

He nods. “Yeah, I can help.”

“Bring some of your smoke bombs.”

His eyes light up.

Upstairs, I sit back down at my desk and pull the lid from the box. Inside I find what I expected to find: a pack of articles and an atlas, its margins full of notes and dates and questions, but when I look at the writing I can’t tell if it’s my own from childhood or someone else’s. The small sword is gone. I hoped it would be there. I thought the heat from it would convince me that everything I remember is true. Could it all have been an adventure I made up in my mind? Could it be nothing more than the way Jerry’s Boy wanders the farm carrying a sword that is really a stick?

But I have a faint memory of giving it to her long ago. It’s like the memory of a dream, but it feels familiar. In any case, the blade isn’t there. I put the lid back on the box and slide it to the side of the desk. I pick up the necktie and walk over to the mirror. And I try again to weave that elusive knot.