The pleasures of silence

On Monday, I spoke at length with my uncle about the surprising turn in my family's fortunes. He noticed that my collar was not well-pressed and asked in what ways I had been dishonest in my previous business dealings. As we sat in his office, he sipping a 20-year-old single malt Scotch from a crystal tumbler and me attempting to make my hands seem useful as I watched, he told me that business was not what it once was. He could no longer afford even the smallest of expenditures to assist distant members of his family.

"But, Mr. Rockwell," I insisted, perhaps too adamantly.

"But nothing, son. Remember you still have your skills as a bootblack. As you yourself have proven, hard, honest work and an inquiring mind are the surest paths to success. Besides, as I've told you, I simply do not have the capital worth sparing."

I was silent then. I nodded when spoken to. I listened as he told me, like he had so many times before, that I must keep my attendance at church, run my household sternly but fairly, endeavor to learn all that might be possible, and present myself as a gentleman ought.

He grew increasingly drunk as he spoke to me, refilling his glass multiple times, as if for emphasis.

Near the end of his half hour dissertation on the merits of business, I inquired, hesitatingly, whether one of his colleagues or a gentleman from his church might profit from my services as a bookkeeper.

He slammed down his glass with such force that its amber contents careened into a wave across the contracts and other sundry paperwork that covered his desk. I had, he told me, clearly not been listening. He would not recommend someone who had difficulty keeping their own books for such a position. He would not, he told me, deign to risk his reputation on a man who at such a point in his life could not maintain the crispness of his own collar. He did not, he told me, have time for such nonsense. At which point he refilled his glass.

Security escorted me out of the building. The guard, oddly enough, shook his head as he grabbed my arm.

"A bit too much of the sauce, eh?"

I have thought endlessly of Mr. Rockwell's advice since that unpleasant afternoon. I believe that he may be right. I have reinvented myself before. There is no reason that more hard work and determination will not allow me to do the same once again, no reason other than the diminished role that Mr. Rockwell must play in my successes this time.

I have not, as yet, told Ida. I am fearful of what I might say to her. She did not, after all, know of my meeting with Mr. Rockwell, so what need was there for my collar to be starched perfectly?Though she says nothing and bares our heavy burdens with the approximation of a smile, she must, surely, let her duties suffer, for how could she have imagined on that day when I fell to my knees with the gaudiest of diamonds in my palm that she would be expected to perform such tasks? We had, for so long, had the sort of staff to which she was accustomed.

For her sake, then, I must redouble my efforts to complete my novel, for therein lies the fame and fortune that might transform the slightest upturn of her delicate lips into that radiant smile which once made me blind with happiness.

A slight misapprehension of our backyarad

The weather over this last, burdensome week has been remarkably reminiscent of the mosquito plagued dampness one might encounter scant latitudes from the equator. Those portions of my skin that have been left uncovered itch as if sprinkled with the devil's own compound. The stifling heat, in similar fashion, has exerted itself on my mind, making each movement infinitely heavier. I have been unable to think, and thereby, unable to write.

My novel remains untouched, my prospects dim as bookblack. Even on days such as this, when clouds, white as a gentleman's pressed shirt, sprawl across the sky as though to suggest the promise of rain (which they will not deliver), I cannot delude myself into thinking my prospects blue as the sun or green as the still-thriving ivy.

Ida believes, as I have told her, that I am focusing my efforts on the garden in mute anticipation that the worst of our fears will come to pass. She is inside sewing hems on my trousers. She plans, if our prospects do not rapidly improve, to speak with our pastor about doing small portions of piecework for the congregation. She tells me that the choir has long needed new robes.

Myself, I am well lost and preparing to swallow what pride I may have remaining. I shall speak with Mr. Rockwell on the morrow.

Summer storm

A flash storm just blew through our neighborhood. Hail, lightning strikes, thunder crashes, window-rattling wind. Our beagle, Jack, shadowed me around the living room and kitchen, half-begging for the Pop-tarts I'd made for Ida and myself before dinner, and half-cowering at each house-shuddering boom of thunder.

The storm, like my fortunes, was over almost as soon as it began. In the evenings, I study Ida's face as she stares, unfazed, at the latest installment of America's Got Talent or a re-run of The Sopranos. I keep expecting to find evidence that our decline in stature has taken its toll on her, but other than the slightest strands of gray in her still lustrous hair, I find none.

I cannot help but wonder what she thinks of me. Was I dishonest with her in how I first presented myself? Have such reduced expectations altered, in any way, what she feels for me?

I do not know. I must, however, succeed. Somehow.

After the storm, we ventured into the city. Police lights pulsed mere blocks from our house, cordoning off lightning strikes and downed power lines from the unwary. Sheared branches, bright with summer green, littered the roadsides. Twenty minutes and the world had changed.

Today, I've made little progress on my novel. Given my current prospects, I must make this a success. Mr. Rockwell, doubtless, has little time remaining for gifts, and those of my colleagues who have been little affected by the economic downturn are, doubtless, leveraging what assets they can for their own betterment, not the betterment of one whose origins, I must now admit to myself, remain suspect.

For now, I must rest. Perhaps tomorrow will bring more whispers from my muse, a smile from my dear Ida.