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Do We Not Bleed?
by
Daniel Taylor
DO WE NOT BLEED?
Copyright © 2017 Daniel Taylor. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Slant
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
paperback isbn: 978-1-4982-9987-9
hardcover isbn: 978-1-4982-9989-3
ebook isbn: 978-1-4982-9988-6
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Names: Taylor, Daniel, 1948–.
Title: Do we not bleed? / Daniel Taylor.
Description: Eugene, OR: Slant, 2017.
Identifiers: isbn 978-1-4982-9987-9 (paperback) | isbn 978-1-4982-9989-3 (hardcover) | isbn 978-1-4982-9988-6 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Fiction.
Classification: PS3570.A92727 D75 2017 (print) | PS3570.A92727 (ebook)
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
For those whom we loved and from whom we learned.
If you prick us, do we not bleed?
if you tickle us, do we not laugh?
if you poison us, do we not die?
—Shylock, Merchant of Venice, Act 3, Scene 1
“Consider the lilies . . .”
one
I’m better. Thanks for asking.
Not cured of course. What would that mean anyway? Cured of the human condition? There’s only one cure for that and few seem eager for it. Some of course have embraced the cure, fled life—the saddest ones among us. May God receive back their souls.
(There I go again, invoking beings I no longer believe exist.)
No, not cured. But better. No more voices—so far. Less mind noise. More purposeful action. (Judy should be proud of me.)
Like working here at the group home for instance. Me and six disciples—each of them wounded, each of them a wonder. Me their patched-together Jesus, they the faithful half dozen, looking to me for the next meal, the next activity, the next tock in answer to this moment’s tick.
Actually they don’t need me at all. They serve the god Routine and I am just the local priest, one in a long line of Servants of the Schedule. They know What Comes Next much better than I do, but they instinctively grant me a measure of authority, because, after all, I can tell time. I can also count change, use a can opener, and measure out flour—something most of them cannot do at present, though we’re working on it.
When I brought my sister Judy back to New Directions last December, after my near-disastrous attempt to take care of her on my own, I had no idea I would be joining the circus myself. I thought I’d just unload her suitcase, kiss her goodbye, and get on with my own deconstruction. But there was this sign in the office offering a part-time job staffing a group home on the campus. And since I felt I was clearly a part-timer in many ways, including metaphysically, I thought maybe the offer was intended for me.
You know—intended, as in fated, as in meant to be. Never mind that there seem to be no certifiable Intenders or Intentions in the universe.
So here I am, hanging out with the . . . what’s the word? With the . . . you’ve got to be careful, because the right word changes regularly, and they’re very jumpy around here about getting the right word right. I think I’ll just leave it at “hanging out.”
So here I am, hanging out with Judy. And Ralph, and Jimmy, and Bonita, and J.P. And with Billy, who lives in Billy World—population: one.
And we’re about to start a summer football game.
New Directions is very big on real-life activities for the residents. (“Residents” is a safe term at present, as is “clients.” Who knows about tomorrow?) Apparently people in Normal Life play football for fun (I think the Kennedy clan started it), so the activities staff has organized a game of flag football for the enjoyment and social development of all.
Our particular residence, Carlson Group Home, is a big contributor. Ralph is the center, a fitting spot for a fiftyish man of short stature and legendary strength. When I took everyone to the first Lord of the Rings movie, Jimmy pointed at Gimli on the screen and yelled, “Hello Ralph!”—much to the delight of the others. Ralph doesn’t have a beard, but he is built like a Tolkien dwarf—short, broad, strong, a man of few words. When you talk to him, he has two dominant responses. If you instruct him to do something and he accepts it, he says “Da dooey,” turns and goes and does it. If he doesn’t accept it, he gives you a dismissive wave of the hand, says “Ah phooey,” and turns in the same way and goes about his business. You have as much chance of changing his mind as getting an avalanche to go back uphill.
Jimmy is the running back. He campaigned to be quarterback because he knows that’s the position the girls go for and Jimmy is the quintessential ladies’ man. He’s always campaigning for something. He is the youngster of the group home, maybe twenty-five, with sandy brown hair that he is constantly adjusting with a toss of the head, and very verbal, some would say verbose. Jimmy knows enough of the therapeutic lingo to self-diagnose. He likes to announce to staff and strangers alike, “I’m high functioning,” with a sigh and condescending glance toward the other residents, as if to say, “We have quite a load on our hands here, don’t we?”
In a shockingly gender-stereotypical move, Judy and Bonita have been informed in advance that they are to be cheerleaders. J.P. as well. This gives them a chance to dress the part. I’m responsible for costuming and the only thing I can think of are sweaters. I’m a severely-lapsed Baptist and a product of the time when cheerleader meant tight sweaters, not cleavage and bare midriffs. Bonita isn’t interested much in the sweater, but she is adamant about the accessories: “Get me some pond-ponds, Mote.”
Bonita usually calls me by my last name, Mote, unless she wants something. Then she plays the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi, ducks her head shyly and calls me Jon. As in, “Please, Jon, could I have my pop now?” And a quite remarkable head it is, too. About the size of a tennis ball. Okay, maybe a cantaloupe, but noticeably smaller than it should be even in relation to her very slight body. She weighs in at around ninety pounds, stands less than five feet tall, and, with hips substantially wider than her almost nonexistent shoulders, gives the general appearance of a bowling pin wearing a fright wig. (Or, for those old enough, a Shmoo.)
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