had suffered his silence and suppressed anger for these four years. And although she loved and sympathized with him, she had begun to lose patience. Indeed, he inspired her compassion, as Sara had no doubt inspired his. But Martha’s primary concern was for the child and the opportunity Hector was losing and would never, most likely, regain. And it would be the same for David: in every way that really mattered he was an orphan. Thus she had decided to push her morose and inscrutable brother as far as she dared – until he saw the light! His withdrawal from life had ramifications to which he seemed oblivious: his pain extending out to unknown regions and growing like a fungi.
To complicate matters, Martha had recently received a letter from Sara, a letter Hector not only refused to read but even to acknowledge; as if no such person existed. He had erected a modest stone on his burial plot and was working assiduously to destroy her ghost. This, of course, created quite a stir in the small town: alarm, mockery, fear, sympathy, and even anger. Strangely, this pleased Hector.
“She’s his mother, she has a right to see him,” Martha once again chastened him. He was sitting in the den, reading his time-worn Conrad. Martha was standing in the doorway, holding the forbidden letter. He slowly lowered the book, an expression of resolve frozen upon his unforgiving face.
“She has the right,” Martha repeated, unflinchingly, like conscience itself. Hector, rising to his feet, shook his head in adamant dismissal.
“If there’s a God in Heaven,” he thundered, dropping the book to the floor, “then he’s both our Mother and Father. . . Don’t talk to me about rights! You earn your rights, and that bitch relinquished hers!” Then he made a quick, obscene and uncharacteristic gesture. “To hell with ‘em all!” He finished his tirade and stared back at her defiantly. She hesitated, taken aback by the vulgarity and violence of his reaction.
“The love you stand by is your life,” he continued firmly, his rage somewhat abated. “This earns you your rights! Your privilege to be called mama or daddy!”
“Yes,” she began in a passionate whisper,” resolving to respond strictly to his reasoning, “and you have someone to stand by, someone who needs you. . . I’m asking you to stand by your son!” She was engaged in an obvious fight to control her emotions; the blood rushed to her face and her pupils dilated. “That’s all I’m asking,” she said forcefully, and turned and left the room. Again the arrow had hit its target. Hector staggered toward the front door and gazed out into the choppy sea, then sat on the edge of the living room couch, a slight tremble in his hands.
Dear Mr. Dvorak,
When you reach that heart rending series of notes, and drop me to the center of my being, for a moment then, life seems real and such beauty wakes me in the deepest place, the placeless place in which I have wasted my days circling myself, involved in ludicrous mental chatter, in tacit acceptance that my illusions are real. Then the deep longing enters, poised on a wave of tears, and I know, for just an instant, that nothing so beautiful and so true can come without pain . . . the pain of waking. For this, I am grateful beyond words. Did you know the very real magic birthed in the majesty and the agony of your work? Could you too hear it? Did you know that your music had the power to give a man the strength to suffer another day, as he searched for that which cuts so deeply and fills his emptiness with a glimmer of hope?
Most days went something like this: long walks on the broad beach, the dull sheen of driftwood in the encroaching fog, the fragrance of eucalyptus, wild rosemary, bottlebrush and sage, the brown hills covered in tall mustard plants; the micro-climates’ strange influence on earth and man alike – cool, foggy coastal summers, hot sun-drenched golden hills inland. Suddenly one crossed the demarcation line between cool tatters of fog and serious heat, the unpredictable sea and the whale’s journey; dolphins and sea lions too singing ocean joy – as if to teach the land-locked world. Then there was Morro Rock, beautiful and imposing, decorated in gull excrement, home to the once endangered Peregrine falcon.
This was the world Hector haunted now – a pint of Jack Daniels in his back pocket, a small notebook and pencil in his shirt pocket. He simply wandered aimlessly, belonging to nowhere and nothing. He was in a different war now – not the ‘wrong’ wars greed and stupidity had created from Korea to Iraq; no, this was a true ‘Jihad’ or holy war in which a human being tries to transmute flesh into spirit – and he was the battlefield, the general, the president, as well as the dutiful grunt.
David had witnessed, in hiding, the scene between Martha and his unhappy father, uncomprehending. But a question was forming inside him, a question that he could not put into words but whose meaning was even then beginning to weigh upon his heart, knowing, in his childish innocence, more than he could assimilate.
He climbed the stairs to his room and pulled a box from under his bed. A toy car was on his windowsill but he had yet to see it. Previously, Martha had given him some toys and various items – some of which he kept in his box. He slowly removed the lid and searched among baseball cards and action figures until he found what he was looking for. He saw the mysterious toy car and put it beside the box, on the floor, while he reached inside and brought out a picture.
For a few moments he studied the face in the photograph, the long dark hair and the reckless smile, the dark eyes, arms akimbo, before a background of ocean surf. He studied the face, as it were, for some kind of answer, a feeling of vague longing pressing on his chest. . . And a response seemed about to congeal in his throat, only to fade away. Then he put the picture and other items away and picked up a shiny metal car; a detailed replica of a ‘49 Ford, painted bright green. Martha had not given him this either; he had simply found it on his window-sill just a few days before. Just as he would find the others. No one had said anything. Momentarily he put the first car and the photograph away and sat on the floor, absent-mindedly holding the lid.
Martha had taught him his first word. He whispered that word now, not knowing why, unable to find any better word for the strange feelings that were suddenly welling up inside him.
“Daddy,” he whispered, and placed the lid neatly on the box and slid it gently back beneath his bed.
Dear Antonin,
If I may be so familiar. Your music has spoken my name, so, yes, I know you. You sing like the great whale, a cry of echoes shimmering beneath a membrane of light and darkness – the mysterious deep. Of course God exists! You seem to be saying. But this does not mean he is maintenance free. We are too weak to sing his songs, to take the world back to where it belongs. And because of our weakness nothing changes.
Beneath the covers in the dark room, the little boy pulled his blanket tight against his chin and once more whispered the word “Daddy,” and soon fell asleep, clutching a shiny toy car to his chest.
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