Bus Ride

His father was of a cheerful disposition, his mother of a quite melancholy temper; both contributed to the character of the child. Do you have the time, she said. He was standing almost rooted to the spot waiting for a bus. Some are quick to notice, others require convalescence. She was not speaking to him. The bus had not arrived. I have hoped for some time, he thought, to have entered into an agreement with certain people, but the substance has rarely shown itself in ingenuity and depth. Her unmistakable body entered the bus. The light was changing slowly all around him. He stood. I have hoped for some time, he thought, to have achieved a modus operandi. Now he felt the slight chill which was the mark of the beginning of the evening. But I have failed in this. It was as if he were attempting to turn to stone. Do you know what time the next bus is, she said. He stood. She did not repeat her question. The bus, his bus, had not yet arrived. He could feel her eyes on him. He stood there, rooted, like a tree. There was a tree behind him. He had no idea what sort of tree. Sometimes, at the beginning of a story, you can sense what it was that made the writer begin that story. The beginning is always interesting. The light had changed, perceptibly. He wondered if she would repeat her question. Diphtheria. Someone was standing behind him. Each night he had stayed home hoping to have achieved some understanding. He watched carefully now, carefully. He entered the bus. No one was getting out.

After a long convalescence of three years or more he had returned to the grammar school. His word box had increased perceptibly.

SHAKESPEARE CAMBRIDGE SELECTION BELVEDERE

Inside there was a picture of a man and a book. Sometimes in a story one can follow the twists and turnings of an author's mind. The bus was moving in an unfamiliar landscape. He would have to go downtown. But the landscape, here, was unfamiliar. He watched as it passed by, slowly. The bus turned. It stopped. What do you think of a person in a particular way that is time, he thought. She was smiling at him but not directly. What do you think of a person who is almost forty years old and still unable to tie his shoelaces. That's what he is. Almost forty years old and still unable to tie his shoelaces. His mother has to do it for him.

She was sitting directly across from him but she had not spoken. The two women who had been speaking stopped. He wondered if there had been something he should have said. She arose and rang the bell. As the landscape changed it became more like something he remembered. As a result of a great mischance he had grown up with a melancholy and irritable temperament such as belongs to men of ingenuity and depth; thanks to the one, they are quick as lightning in perception, thanks to the other, they take no pleasure in verbal cleverness or falsehood. As the landscape changed it became like something he remembered. His mother stood over him wondering what to say. He said, I don't want you to do that again. It was time. The bus stopped. Longing for the release the story promises, the writer begins. I have never done that to you, she said. Not ever. I have never yet broken your skin when I hit you with my fists.

Sous Le Pont Mirbeau

Various writers were sent a story about a community which has a strange custom: its young men gather on Mirbeau Bridge and leap — often beautifully — into the water below. No one ever survives the leap. The story has various elements. We were asked to take at least two of them and make a story of our own. This is mine. I considered calling the story "Poor Thing."

Yes, no one survived the leap. Except one. They don't speak about it, except a few of the old ones. They're the ones that know him. Not the current crop. What do they know? Watching the telly, going to stupid films. What do they know about anything?

The old ways, ah, the old ways. You couldn't talk about it. It wasn't talk that made it. It was something else. A feeling, perhaps, but that's not it either. That's too vague. No, no, it wasn't a feeling. It was a, well, it was a presence, an aura perhaps. It's not there now. The telly and the films drive out the aura — poof. But it was there then. Not that it was any mysterious thing. It was as common as water then. We all felt it. We were all so to speak nourished by it, held in its arms — but it wasn't so what do they say "anthropocentric" as that, no it wasn't "anthropocentric" at all. It's like the water you know. You're either in it or you're not. And you know whether you're in it or not. Now people are not. But then they were in it. It held us.

Richard Thatcher was not a bad lot. Just like all of us who grew up hereabouts. One of many, no different than the others, no. I knew him when he was a lad, but he was a little older than I was, and wild. I was fond of books, always was since I learned to read, but he, he was never one to spend any time at the library. "A lot of dead words," he said. "We ought to toss them over the bridge with the leapers. They're a bad job."

What he liked was action of any kind. Sports. That was his love. Oh, he'd compete with anyone over anything. How he loved to wrestle and to run! "Where are you running, Richard?" we'd ask him. "Oh, nowhere," he said, "I'm running to run. I'm running to catch the wind and then run faster run faster." And swimming. Oh, how he could swim. "Part fish he must be," we said. "Swim, Richard! Outrace us all!" And he would. He'd ask his body to do impossible things and his body would shrug and smile and say, "Yes, Richard, I'll do it."

"God, it must be hell to be old," he said, "sitting around with your aches and pains and remembering the 'good old days' when you wasn't. The good old days! What was so good about them? You got to be old because of your fear of the leap. The brave ones, the ones with no fear — they cared for nothing. It was glory that drove them. It was glory that brought them to the bridge's edge and glory that pushed them over. Look at the beauty of their bodies, look at the marvelous shine to that young flesh as it flies out, careless, into the waiting arms of the Infinite. What is your old age to that?" Richard Thatcher was one to go off by himself for periods. He'd scale the cliff or disappear for weeks into the wood. Just when people began to think he'd done for, just when they'd think, "He'll not come back this time," just then was when he'd show up, smiling with his big teeth and carrying a bag of berries or some fish or something to give to his mother, who had long ago given up trying to control him or even understand him. His father was one of those who had gone to glory, who had made the leap, but his mother raised him as well as she could, never complaining. Folks wondered how she was able to do it, him being so wild and all.

"Richard," she'd say to him, "why are you doing this to me, why do you make me suffer so?" "Ah, Ma," he'd say, "I'm not doing nothing. There's nothing to fear. I know, I know you worry when I go off as I do, but think of the joy when I return. Isn't there something there? Would you like it if I were nothing but a shadow following you around all the time, sticking to your apron strings? I have strength in me, life it is, and I must honor it. I must go wherever it tells me."

"And will you perish like your father in the leap? Is that where this life you call it is telling you to go? To your death? Is that your secret?" "I have no secrets, Ma. This — something — takes me over, that's all. 'The wind bloweth where it listeth,' it says in the Holy Book. That's how it is with me. I'm not doing anything apurpose. I have no desire to leap. Yet if it tells me to leap, leap I shall. And be happy doing it. Better glory, Ma, and a short life, than a slow trudging to the grave getting weaker and weaker as you go. Oh, look at those old men and then look at me. What have I got in common with them? What do they lead but lives of misery, whereas my life, Ma, my life is joy." "And a misery for those unfortunates who love you," says his mother, weeping, "a misery for me." "Oh, don't cry, Ma," says he. "Don't cry. Look at these flowers I picked for you. Do they last, Ma? Let them die if they wish. What pleasure their deaths give to others. What beauty. Take them now and joy in them." And the old woman took the flowers. But she continued to weep.

It's said that it was during one of these "trips" that Richard met something. Exactly what I could not tell you. I've never met it myself, and have no wish to. But meet it he did. It was in the woods, under a special tree, an alder, where Richard liked to stretch himself out at noontide. Just stretch himself out and sleep the sleep of an animal, more like an animal than like a man, so pure and dreamless was it. Suddenly there was a voice at his side. And it wasn't a voice exactly, especially since there was no body for the voice to come out of. But he heard it distinctly, and he had no doubt that it was real. It was as real as you or me. Realer perhaps. And it was telling him to awaken.

Richard opened his eyes. But he saw nothing. "You need to open your inner eye to see me," said the voice. And suddenly Richard did. He saw a small animal, like a kitten, a small thing, nothing that would threaten him or anything, just a small thing. And it was speaking to him though it didn't move its lips.

"Did you enjoy your nap, Richard?" the thing asked. "Yes, indeed," said Richard. "And who are you to waken me out of it and take the joy of it away from me?" "I am no one you know and the form you see is not my form. Were you to see me as I am you would burst apart. Here I am a kitten. But in my home I'm something altogether different." "Are you human?" asked Richard. "No, I am not human," said the thing. "But I don't hate humans. I try to help them if I can." "And how have you helped them?" asked Richard. "I helped your father," said the thing. "You knew my father?" asked Richard. "I helped him," said the thing. "And what did you do to help him?" asked Richard. "I helped him to a happy death," says the thing. "I helped him in the leap to soar beautifully and to demonstrate the beauty of his young muscles and the sharpness of his young mind as he jumped magnificently onto the rocks below." "And is that what you have in mind for me then?" asked Richard. "No, I have something different in mind for you." "And what is that?" "I am going to help you be the first to survive the leap."

"No one survives the leap," says Richard, "and I can't say I mind dying in that way, leaping to glory." "No one has yet survived the leap," says the thing, "but there is a way and I know it. I know how a young man can leap and live." "Then why didn't you tell it to my father?" asks Richard. "I didn't know it THEN," says the thing. "So you're capable of learning." "That's all I'm capable of doing. I have no capacity for action. What you see of me is nothing but an image projected into your mind. I am nothing but a will of the wisp, a bit of smoke, a light breeze, a nothing. Yet I know how to survive the leap." "And will you impart this information to me?" asked Richard, who was growing impatient with this repartee. "Yes," says the thing, "on one condition." "And what is that?" says Richard. "That you give me your body," says the thing. "That I live through you. I don't mean that you will vanish. Far from it. And yet — you will have me in you, too. I can do nothing unless you agree." "All right," says Richard, "I agree."

Oh, but he was a foxy man, and even as he said it he crossed his fingers and thought: "I will agree only until the sunset of the day the leap is made. After that, my spiritual friend, you're on your own. But I'll use you, yes I'll use you, to be the first to survive the leap."

"There is a place, I can show it to you," says the thing, "where the water is deep enough for a diver to survive. No one has ever found it. But I found it one day. I have great powers of sight and can see much. And one day, after your father's death, I saw that, that special place where it is possible for a leaper to leap and then live." "Show it to me!" commanded Richard. "Yes," said the thing, "look." And Richard looked, and, yes, he saw the spot, he saw it clearly though it was more than a mile off to the bridge.

It was soon after that that Richard announced his intention to make the leap during the next ceremony. His mother and a certain young woman who had eyes for him attempted to persuade him that it was folly, but he would not change his mind, though he told them nothing of the thing he had met in the forest. No, he would not change.

And what a day it was, that day he leaped. Six young men dived, but only one walked up the long path to the top afterwards. You could see the looks of amazement on the faces of the people on the bridge when he emerged from the water and then slowly made his way to rejoin them. What feasting there was then! What joy for all! And then in the midst of everything, Richard heard a voice: "You must let me ride you!" "Ride!" thought Richard, "it will only be for a short time."

And he suddenly rose up from the table and ran madly around the place, touching everything he could find, people, things, falling upon the grass, upon trees. "You're mad," thought Richard, "stop it, you fool." "You must let me ride you, ride you," said the thing. And the thing thrust Richard towards the edge of the bridge and did a dance, one foot extended over the edge, fearless. And then turned a somersault and then — But I can't tell you what happened then. It was to Richard's shame, and the very people who had cheered him suddenly began to feel revulsion for him. They began to say, "No one has ever survived the leap. No one can survive it. I don't believe he did it. It must have been fakery. We have been deceived. He is a madman and a deceiver at once." And Richard, struggling, said, "Get out of me, you foul spirit, get ye gone, I crossed my fingers when I agreed, it was not valid, I agreed to only a day's occupancy of my body, and, look, the sun is just now beginning to set."

"I bargained in good faith," said the spirit, "you are a deceiver." "There are powers stronger than you, spirit, and I will invoke them if you try to occupy me a moment beyond sunset." The spirit knew what Richard said was true. There were powers stronger than he.

"You think you have won over me," said the spirit, "but you have not." Suddenly, the entire crowd of people had the same idea or heard the same voice speaking: "Richard Thatcher is a deceiver, he has not truly jumped, let him prove himself now, let him jump while we all watch. If not, we will throw him from the bridge ourselves." Richard understood what was happening. "I don't need you, spirit," he said, "I know the spot. I will jump the moment after sunset." "Good riddance!" cried the spirit, "just like your father!" Richard ran to the bridge and jumped just as the sun went down on the horizon. His body crashed on the rocks below. Suddenly everyone there heard a ghastly laughter which left each of them horrorstricken. They went to their graves remembering that sound.

And so Richard Thatcher is never spoken of. But, if you believe such things, and no doubt you do not, there is a spirit in the wood which can tell you where to leap so that you too, like Richard Thatcher, can survive. But the spirit is a wild spirit. It has never learned to live in human company. Richard's body, filled as it was with his élan vital, was too intense. In any case, the spirit's laughter turned to moans, and I expect that it would be less likely, these days, to strike a bargain.

The Old Man

Everyone knew the old man. Some feared him. Most knew him only vaguely. He seemed never to have been young. He stayed there in his old house, rarely venturing out except for necessities. Never speaking to anyone. If he had a relative, no one knew it. If he had a pet, no one saw it. And yet they knew him — or felt they did — as he went about his business. He was cordial, oh yes, cordial to everyone. But rarely warm. Did women interest the old man? Did men? Did children? Did anything interest him except his own closed existence, as he pattered around? "Thank you, Mr. Garrett," he said, paying the grocer. "Thank you, I'm fine. I don't need help." And off he went. My mother said he was old to her — that she couldn't remember him ever being any younger. If he had a youth, she said, it must have been somewhere else. Unimaginable.

Yet he was part of the fabric of the town. No one minded him. No one thought much of his grizzled appearance. Does he bathe? said Emily Thompson, I don't think he bathes. Does he pray? asked Philip Leroy. I've never seen him at church. What does he eat? asked Sally Miller. Oh, some biscuits, vegetables, occasionally meat; told me once he liked to cook, said Mr. Garrett. Maybe he's a faggot, said Mr. Brownstone. Faggots cook. So do ordinary men, said Mr. Garrett, I like to cook myself. Are you a faggot? asked Mr. Brownstone. No, said Mr. Garrett.