Now it was of great consternation to the citizens of the little town of M, and especially to the Ramanda family, to discover the family head, the heretofore, smiling, gregarious and rather rotund, Mr. Ramanda, hanging by his thumbs from the rafters in the attic. Now, many were affected by this event and certainly not just the family.
Dr. Johanson, an older, very well respected person in the community was the first to come up the stairs, at the urging of a hand wringing and certainly concerned Mrs. Ramanda.
“What,” said Dr. Johanson, “is the meaning of this? Why are you hanging by your thumbs from the rafters?”
Mr. Ramanda merely smiled and said, “I’ve done many things in my life, but this is something I’ve never done before.”
Dr. Johanson was totally shocked. “This is a scandal,” he said pulling at his brown beard. “This most certainly is a scandal. You, a professional banker and community leader—you who run the yearly telethon for the sufferers of food allergies, you, of all people, are making a mockery of yourself, and,” he drew Mr. Ramanda’s child, Eric, close by, “your sickly son, who must someday leave this house to go out into the world.”
Mr. Ramanda smiled benignly; “Yes, I suppose that is true,” and his smile became somewhat rueful, revealing his fine, gold capped incisor, “but everyone has something that they must do and I guess this is something that I must do.”
“No,” said Dr. Johanson, “this is something you must not do. I can have you committed to the local asylum for what you are doing—” and he turned to Mr. Ramanda’s wife. “Has he threatened suicide?”
Tearfully but dutifully, Mrs. Ramanda shook her head no.
“Has he threatened property damage?”
“No, no, he has not done that,” said Mr. Ramanda’s wife.
“Does he eat, I mean, he surely can’t eat—”
“He does eat,” said Mrs. Ramanda.
“Well, has he threatened young Eric here?” pointing to the six-year-old child.
“No,” and again, Mrs. Ramanda shook her head.
Dr. Johanson, now very indignant at this community outrage, said, “Well, this must stop. I’m going to saw this beam in half—”
But Mr. Ramanda just tightened his grip on the beam with his great thumbs and said, “No. The main electrical cord to the house is fastened here; you could get electrocuted.”
Dr. Johanson, simply said, “We’ll remove the cord and just cut the beam.”
“No,” said Mr. Ramanda. “This is a very important beam. Cut it and the roof might well collapse.”
Temporarily dismayed at all of this, Dr. Johanson, said, “Well, I’ll pull you down then.”
“No,” said Mr. Ramanda, “for I will kick you.”
“You kick me,” said the doctor, “and not only would that be very ungentlemanly of you, but that might cause me to press charges and have you taken to jail.”
“And I’ll just find another beam from which to hang by my thumbs.”
Mrs. Ramanda went up to her husband. “Please dear, if it was something I said...”
Mr. Ramanda looked lovingly at her and simply said, “No, no, not at all.”
“I’ll make your favorite desert of tapioca pudding and raisins—whenever you want it and however much you want—”
“That’s quite all right,” he said, “but no, I think you don’t have to do that. And this really doesn’t have anything to do with you—”
“Is it something I’ve done?” and she went up to her husband dangling by his thumbs from the rafter. “If you’d just tell me—”
But he shook his head.
Mrs. Ramanda motioned young Eric over. “But what kind of role model are you providing for Eric? He needs a father—”
“But I’m here,” said Mr. Ramanda. “He can see me any time, ask me any questions. Just because I’m hanging from the rafter doesn’t mean I can’t be a role model to him or a good father,” and he looked at his son. “Isn’t that right now?”
Eric just looked a bit confused but nodded in agreement. “Yes Papa.”
And Mr. Remanda smiled almost triumphantly. “See? Now what did I tell you? ‘Out of the mouths of babes—’”
“Oh,” said Dr. Johanson, abruptly turning, “this is too much. Too, too much. Give me polio, a cold, a bleeding ulcer, give me something I can cure, not someone who is totally deranged—oh,” he said, walking downstairs, “this is too, too much.”
And you know how it goes, other people found out quickly what had happened, and the neighbor, Mrs. Reginold, stomped up the stairs. She was a hefty lady with glasses and grey hair, and she was dressed in a blue dress with her stockings bagging above her dirty white running shoes, and she said, “Now, what is this? Why are you doing this? The neighbors are talking and you are presenting one awful scandal—an awful scene—in the neighborhood. Surely you know better, a brilliant industrialist and banker like you hanging by his thumbs from a rafter. Here now, I’ve known you for years. Come down immediately.”
But Mr. Ramanda kept his place and said, “I really must not do that. I really must not. We all find our place in life and I’ve found mine.”
Mrs. Reginold just shook her head. “Well, your thumbs are certainly going to become tired. That is very obvious.”
“No,” said Mr. Ramanda, “I think not. Because when you really find what you like to do, strength, my dear Mrs. Reginold, strength! You can do anything! Endurance is forever.”
Mrs. Reginold, looked at Mr. Ramanda for a long time. She smiled. “Well, certain bodily functions...”
Mr. Ramanda smiled to his wife and he glanced to a white bucket nearby. “I’ve thought of everything. It’s in foot reach.”
“Oh,” said Mrs Reginold, “oh, oh, my heart just can’t take this. Oh, oh, my.” And she stomped down the stairs, saying, “Oh, oh, oh,” with every step.
Eric looked up at his father with a mixture of pride and fear. “But Papa, won’t you play with me anymore?”
“Eric,” said Mr. Ramanda, “we’ve played a lot, but there simply has to come a time when a man must make a decision about what he must do for the rest of his life. But I’ll be here and I’ll most certainly help you with your school work and give you pointers about how to deal with that terrible monkey-brained Billy Danas.”
Meekly, Eric considered this, then the local Priest, Father Loharns, came up the stairs and looked at Mr. Ramanda for a long, long time. Father Loharns, tall as a whip, rigid as a cross, with abrupt facial features like chiseled steel, looked at Mr. Ramanda with hard, grey eyes, looking and locking into Mr. Ramanda’s face like a vice grip and asked, “Do you, by any stretch of the imagination, think that by doing this, you are doing God’s will?”
“With all due respect,” said Mr. Ramanda, “Never said I wanted to do God’s will, with all respect, most Holy Father.”
“God has greater things for you to do aside from hanging by your thumbs from a rafter.”
“How do I know that this isn’t God’s calling?” asked Mr. Ramanda.
The father took in a very deep breath, as if looking into the abominable sins of the devil’s work right before him. “This cannot be the work of God.”
“Well, what if it is?”
“God does not work this way.”
Mr. Ramanda smiled. “Maybe He does. How do you know? It’s a strange world God has created—a world of snakes, spiders, butterflies and clouds—all the strange, simultaneous faces of God. So how are you to know what order is God’s order, and, given how strange this planet really is, what is not? Is what I am doing so truly strange? All is taken care of and provided for; the pension comes once a week so I don’t have to work. I’m available at all times—now what harm am I doing?”
Again, Father Loharns sucked in a very deep breath. “There are certain—ahem—duties between a husband and wife—”
“We’ve not touched each other for a long time,” said Mr. Ramanda.
“It’s true,” said his wife, looking down out of deep shame, “We simply are not interested in that any more. I wish it were different, but it is not.”
A deep look of consternation and disgust passed over Father Loharns’ face as he looked at Mr. Ramanda again. “There is your son. He needs to be touched by you—”
Mr. Ramanda smiled. “Oh, heavens, I never was much of a father, Father. Now my Brother, Jacob—he and my son have a much, much better relationship.”
Eric smiled at the sound of Jacob’s name. He turned to his mother. “Is he coming over again today? Is he Mother? Is he?”
“We’ll, see,” said Mrs. Ramanda.
Mr. Ramanda looked at the Father. “Now, what more to you need to know?”
Father Loharns just shook his head. “Brother, you must be a lonely, lonely man.”
“Father,” said Mr. Ramanda, “forgive me, but you must be a nosy, nosy man.”
Father Loharns bristled as if the God within him had touched the devil’s flesh. “I’ll pray for you,” and he abruptly turned and left.
Yes, there was no doubt about it. What Mr. Ramanda had done had indeed caused quite a stir in the neighborhood. A reporter from The Daily stopped by and did a feature story on “The Man with the Iron Thumbs.” A Mental Health Specialist IV stopped by and tried to talk to Mr. Ramanda about the way hidden anger comes out, but Mr. Ramanda just laughed, and in a huff, the Mental Health Specialist IV stomped away. There was even a writer who stopped by and offered to write an article about this incident and claimed that he had very good credentials—that he was writer in residence at Shakespeare and Company in Paris, and had been translated and published in Germany and that he was even a member of a well-known science fiction writing association, and Mr. Ramanda laughed and said, “Go ahead,” so, indeed, for the next year or so, Mr. Ramanda was getting much publicity. Life Magazine did a story, and there was even an article in The New York Times in the Tuesday edition on Science: “Thumbthing Remarkable: Mr. Ramanda Hangs On” and the story went into the amazing thumbs that Mr. Ramanda must have to be able to hold on for so long. And little Eric, as well as the rest of the family, certainly got a great deal of notoriety for this, but even such things as these, people get used to, and so, as hard as it may be to believe, even this story faded into oblivion. But young Eric, growing up with this situation, could not help but admire his father and often sought his counsel.
“Be brave, Eric,” said his father, through the years. “You have to go out there in the world, and establish your place. Yes, you have to believe.”
“Yes,” said Eric, “but don’t your thumbs ever get tired?”
“Faith,” said Mr. Ramanda, “is a mighty thing.”
Another time, after Eric had brought back the emptied and washed-out white bucket, his father said, “Well, now you’re eighteen. So tell me, has living with a father who has hung by his thumbs for twelve years been so difficult?”
Eric set down the bucket and said, “It would have been nice to play baseball with you.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Ramanda, “You’d have been disappointed. I really am a terrible thrower and catcher. I really am. But at any rate, look at all this fame and fortune that has been bestowed on this family. Now surely that is worth a great deal. Just in money alone from the stories and the special on Channel Ten several years ago. And much of that money has been put into a trust fund for you to go to college if you so choose.”
“Yes, father,” said Eric, “I do appreciate that.”
“Would you get out my pipe from my pocket, put tobacco in it, light it and give it to me?”
Eric did as requested. “Yes,” said Mr. Ramanda, “it will soon be time for you to leave.”
“In several weeks, actually,” said Eric.
Mr. Ramanda, sucked on his pipe thoughtfully and gritting the stem between his teeth, said, “Yes, on to college. Well, just remember,” he said, “just remember this: hang on, just always hang on, and most likely you’ll get famous and outlast everyone. You just have to hang on. But then I’ve always told you that.”
Eric just nodded.
Mr. Ramanda sucked on his pipe again. “Everyone is always hanging by their thumbs, you know? I’ve enjoyed this,” he said. “Yes, I’ve enjoyed this. Now. Be on your way. Oh, take the pipe from my mouth, put it out, and—” he nodded with his head.
Eric did so and put the pipe back in the right pocket of his father’s maroon smoking jacket, then went down the steps to finish up his papers for school.
And two weeks later, after a fond farewell, Mr. Ramanda looked out the upstairs window and saw his son, walking down the street, luggage in hand, heading for the bus that would take him away. And Mr. Ramanda laughed a good natured laugh. “Good for you my boy,” and he smiled and nodded. “Good for you. Going out into the world of thumbs and rafters.” And at that point, Mr. Ramanda sighed mightily, relaxed his thumbs, crash, fell to the floor—and died.