Chapter the Second, in which Steve and Miriam go on their first date, and a very special item is added to Veronica's wardrobe.
*
The letter was handwritten on stationery, the heading of which read, "From the desk of Carlton Gardiner, Jr." It was framed, and it hung on the wall at the end of the hallway, underneath a picture of the man himself. It was the first thing Steve saw every morning as he came out of his bedroom, and the last thing he saw before retiring in the evening. Seven years had passed since he first read it. He could have recited it from memory now.
April 3, 1992
Dear Son,
I'm writing this letter eight days after the death of your mother. If you're reading this, I've joined her.
Your mother used to talk a lot about how quiet the house was after you went away to college. I noticed the difference too, and now that she has gone, I notice it all the more. I laugh now to think of all the times she told me that working so hard was going to put me in an early grave. I was going to retire early. Not early enough, it turns out, but no man expects his wife to die so young. There was always one more thing to do, one more goal to achieve, and then we could spend our twilight years enjoying one another's company. These past few days, I've found myself feeling like God has cheated me out of my life. You being the unrepentant heathen would undoubtedly have the good sense to place the blame where it really belongs.
I'm still holding out hope that you'll come back to church. You have an open invitation from me. I'll welcome the prodigal son, whatever the rest of the congregation might have to say. As for me, I apologize for calling your gay friend an abomination, but of course you realize that my apology doesn't change the way I feel. Your mother and I were distraught when you abandoned God and stuck up for your debauched friend, but I suppose there's something to be said for your loyalty.
I've tried to make up for not having your company by acquainting myself with all the books you left behind. I never understood why a man would need any books other than the Bible, but on closer inspection, I was surprised to find that you have six of them, which is five more than I have. I'm glad you found room in your collection for six versions of God's word, and I've tried to meet you halfway, as it were, by reading stuff that, just a few months ago, I would have considered an impious waste of my time. (I can hear your mother's voice now, saying, "Carlton, you're a fine one to be talking about wasting time.") Yesterday, at random, I pulled down that little volume of Dylan Thomas. As you might well imagine, I was drawn to that poem about not going gentle into that good night. With all due respect to an otherwise fine poet, if there's anything I've learned these past few days, it's that the right time to rage against the dying of the light is when it burns most brightly.
Workaholic that I've been, I never was able to understand how you could approach life as if nothing at all was worth doing, and yet remain such an optimist. Maybe you were on to something after all. Certainly you're better equipped to learn from Dylan Thomas.
I know – have known for years, really – that you have no interest in running the family business. I accept that. I think you'll make a fine attorney. But if you insist on helping the downtrodden, rooting for the underdog, and fighting losing battles on behalf of lost causes, you're going to need a safety cushion. So I'm selling the business. I'm drafting a new will. Whatever is left over after I'm gone is yours.
But there's a part of me that wants to tell you not to make the same mistakes I made. I waited for the day when I would be able to sit back and enjoy my life, and never was wise enough to perceive that the time to enjoy life is when you're living it. I lived in order to work, when I should have worked in order to live. The value of my estate will most likely spare you from having to make that kind of choice, and allow you simply to live.
Do your mother and me a favor. Enjoy my retirement. Rage against the dying of the light.
Whatever you do, and whatever you believe, I am proud of you, and I love you.
--Dad
Steve's mother had just celebrated her fiftieth birthday that winter, and her sudden and untimely death was a serious blow that almost kept him from graduating on time. At the end of summer, he went on to law school. In October, on receiving the news of his father's disappearance, he took a hiatus and returned home. In the middle of that month, Carlton Gardiner's body was found, washed up on the banks of Lethe Creek a few hundred yards downstream from where he had left his fishing gear. Steve's hiatus from law school became permanent when he read the letter.
He still resided in the apartment that he had moved into while he was grieving seven years ago. Miriam had assumed that the apartment near the University campus was just a temporary residence while he looked for something more appropriate to his wealth, perhaps one of the condominiums on the riverfront, or a house in the expensive west suburbs, but Steve had stayed here, occupying the three-bedroom apartment alone – one bedroom for him, one for his books, and one for his music collection – and seeing no need to move.
He sat at the dining room table reading the paper that Miriam had given him last night, occasionally glancing up and looking through the window at the gray skies, watching the wind whip the oak tree just outside. The tree had still been green and lively just a few weeks ago, and now a few brown leaves were left clinging to the branches. He used to like watching the seasons change, observing how summer's last gasps tried to disperse the encroaching chill and darkness. After his father died, October became death writ large, and whatever the weather brought, he was always glad to turn the page of the calendar on the morning after the thirty-first.
A CD spun in his stereo. A song from his college days – "Getting Away with It," by Electronic. He had discovered during his high school days the therapeutic value of listening to depressing music, cleansing oneself of negative emotions by hearing someone else express them, but during this month it didn't seem to help anymore. This song in particular now seemed less meaningful than it ever had before. He had listened to it several times to help him come to grips with the idea that he and Miriam would never connect romantically, but last night's conversation with Miriam had undone the song's significance for him.
He still had trouble believing what he had heard last night. Somehow, during all the time they had spent together in college, he had managed to fail to see that she had wanted the same thing he had wanted. He thought he had understood her fairly well, but it seemed he hadn't after all. A consequence of being introverted was that he had never put much energy in getting to know and understand people generally, but he had always thought that he knew and understood his friends well. Miriam's revelation last night made that a lie.
He had always reserved the energy required to understand things for whatever captured his interest at the moment. He had been interested in music from an early age, buying vinyl records long before his tenth birthday, and over the years he had broadened his interests. As a child, he had received as a Christmas gift a portable radio, and he had educated himself about music by starting at the left end of the dial, tuning in the first station he could find, listening to it for a week or so, and moving on to the next station, learning music genre by genre. His interest in books had taken a similarly meandering course, starting out with general fiction, then reading non-fiction books, acquiring a stack of books on whatever subject he found fascinating, reading them, and moving on to a stack on a different subject. After last night, he couldn't help wondering how much different his life would be if he had taken as great an interest in people as he had in music and books, and he resolved to channel that energy in a new direction.
Getting to know his best friend better seemed an appropriate place to start, and now he looked forward to breaking the morose monotony of the autumn days by visiting the cinema with Miriam.
Three Kings
sounded good, at least as far as the plot was concerned, and a politically relevant film would probably score bonus points with Miriam.
Mumford
sounded offbeat and quirky, and was a tempting choice. But he had seen the trailer for
American Beauty
, and had made up his mind beforehand that that would be the film he took Miriam to see tonight, unless something more interesting caught his attention, and nothing did.
The choice of the movie was settled, but there was still the matter of the haircut. He called the salon. He usually made his appointments with Veronica, but doubted he could see her on such short notice. It turned out, however, that her one o'clock appointment had cancelled. So, late in the morning, he went out for an early lunch, planning to pick up advance movie tickets and stop at the salon afterwards.
Over the course of the day, Veronica had discovered that there was an advantage to the prospect of her Mistress putting her in a chastity belt. She had just returned from lunch, and usually by this time every day, her surgically-repaired ankle was very tender. Preoccupied with the threat that hung over her head, she hadn't paid much attention to the pain – nor, in fact, to much else. She had worked through her morning appointments in a mental fugue, and her more talkative and vivacious clients had noticed the difference. More than once, a client had paused expectantly as if waiting for a response, and she had had to fake interest with a nod, or a falsely knowing "Mm-hmm," and she knew when her response was inappropriate, seeing the confused and vaguely offended expressions on their faces.
She stopped at the front counter to read the name in the appointment book that had been penciled in after her cancellation. Steve Gardiner. Short top and sides, no sideburns, she recalled. Leave the back long, but trim the ends. Doesn't talk much, but has a nice voice when he bothers to use it. Apparently has a lot of money, but dresses like his wardrobe was purchased at K-Mart. Tips extremely well.
No sooner did she see the name than the man himself, dressed in his typical polo shirt and blue jeans, walked in the front door with all the punctuality of a man with absolutely nothing else to do. She put on the friendliest face she could and greeted him. "Hello Mr. Gardiner. How are you?"
"Fine, thank you. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks." A blatant lie, but she wasn't about to tell him how she really felt, and certainly not why. "Please have a seat." This was about all the conversation she could normally expect from him. Often, on previous appointments, she had been able to coax him into a little bit of conversation and managed to learn a few things about him – his interests in books, music and film, and his being wealthy enough not to have to work for a living. He had never asked any questions about her – not that he was impolite; he simply didn't give any indication that he was curious about her.
She wouldn't be prodding him for information today. She just wanted to get through the rest of her appointments and prepare to face Miriam. She took his glasses and sat them on the counter at her workstation, then took a comb and shears and prepared for his usual trim, and then he spoke.
"Take it all off."
No, she couldn't have heard that right. Or else it was a joke.
That's it, he's joking with me,
she thought and laughed. "What, bad hair day?"
"I'm serious. I want my head shaved."
She smiled cautiously. "Are you sure that's what you want?"
He smiled back. "Are you afraid of making a mistake?"
