Authors: Sam Michel
And there was light yet. Through the barn door, an eastern aperture of setting winter
sun. Our last good looks. The schoolhouse out there, and the flagpole, our orchard
and the windrow and the pine corral all lit in quiet, chilly blazes. Nothing seemed
not ready. Jesus here and there, Joseph, Mary, and the asses. Kitchen-stalls, ballroom-crepe,
wire-constellations. Mama in the desert. Mama’s little Italy, her Roman pageant, my
mother’s nuts-and-bolts of necessary flight. Lady Gal, pearls and sweatshirts, honest
keeper. From the dancefloor, on the bandstand, my mother set a camera up to take our
self-timed portrait.
She was saying, “Folks don’t like to be caught picking. That’s why some bowls you
should make of pure cashews.” She said, “Tea is for later, coffee. Folks that make
it to the ends of nights, they like a little something warm to hold and have inside
them. Truly, if you’ve thrown a party to remember, then folks don’t suffer staying
up.”
But Mama slept. The boy slept and our neighbors. We live here on O Street. I do not
know where that picture’s got to.
I said, “Good night, Mama. Good night Lincoln.”
I said goodnight to Vernon, and to Owen and Amelia, Emmit, Grace and Hope.
I said, “Good night, Pop.”
I listened for my wife. I leaned, felt as if I tipped outside myself, listening, leaning
out there through the doors and
windows. I had a sense that things were on their way. I had a sense of something’s
coming. I felt my arm go numb, my leg where my son was pressing, my body falling tinglingly
to sleep. I could not move my toes, did not want to wake the boy by seeing could I
lift my arm up. Most all this day, how many hours, what must it be to not have spoken?
If I were him, what might I have said? When is too late for saying? All this day,
we assume the boy has suffered his traumatic shock. We suppose he grieves. He sleeps.
Somewhere, pressed against me, I feel my son rests deeper than a dream, deep down
in his body, dark and undisturbed, stiller than the picture-forms of conscious possibles,
potent, unhistoried, intact. He sleeps as women sleep. As my mother sleeps. He sleeps.
This storm will pass. The sun will shine. He may speak. What word will he bring back
for us? How has the body taught him? His mama bathes him. His guests arrive. He strips
the paper from a box, blows a candle out, distributes cake. He is to be the centerpiece
of cheer. So which yields? What does he say? Which word does he welcome? Today’s,
tomorrow’s? In me, a shell has grown around tomorrow’s word, my bright core, shelled,
a shell around a seed, hardening and growing hard, immovable, unsayable, held, and
held, too late. I sat. I talked. I listened. All quiet. All still. Yet I talked. I
believe that I am heard. Something I am saying here will be brought back. My body
tingles, is numbed and wooden, yet something riotlike leans out from me, seems to
strengthen, I feel stronger, talk my way back to tomorrow, a simpler, unconflicted
saying.
I try it out, say, “I love you, Mama.”
Say, “I love you.”
Love and love, I love you mister Lincoln.
And was I serious?
Am I funny?
I said, “I know we had a funny view from up there in that hayloft.” And, “You never
saw a lady more surprised to dance than Grace.” I said, “Mama, where’d that picture
we took on the timer get to?”
Easy, once you started, you had only to recall your chair, convince yourself that
if you sit, wait them out, then you might come to one idea that is true. Consider
yourself a wholly handsome man. Eat right. Age well. Man your shovel. Mind your son.
Zip him up. Play catch. Teach him how to carve. Save your letters. Save a brick out
from your Roxy. Don’t complain. Let a little light in. Ask yourself: Do I believe
in God? Tunnel deep. Think back. Somebody is hurt. Somebody is chasing. Say: I had
good, long talks with Pop. Say: I have loved my wife. Wonder: What great thought have
I not yet been thinking? Where have you found beauty? Know the fields are growing
over. The kids are building fires in the desert. A star burns out. The dust walls
up. The bank is having trouble finding takers. Sleep well. Sleep tight. Are you happy?
Can I come over? Do not forget: I am a handsome man. I believe. I miss you. Ask: Is
this what all I want? Have you come to what you meant? Do not ask why. Say: Goodnight,
now, goodbye, goodnight! Sleep fast and remember:
Anything you say tonight is easily unsaid by morning...
And as for me, this evening I’ve been meaning here to speak of, I am settled deep
down, deeper in my chair. I kiss my son and say, “Okay, folks, now listen up. I’m
telling you, what’s true, what I liked the best, remember most, it was a goose we
cooked I helped my papa slaughter. Mean old gander thing would pluck a chunk out from
the fat part of your arm when you were feeding if you let him. He came at you. Big,
big spread of wings, neck stretched way, way out like this, hissing and honking. Cleaved
him at the
shoulder. Roasted him in lemon juice and salt and pepper. I got to stick the fork.
Papa carved. Folks cared mostly for the breast meat. You tried not to think how long
his neck was. You spooned a sauce. He looked good there, in your plate. Red sauce.
Beef and mashed potatoes, green beans and a square of lemon jello. Almost made you
miss him. If you knew him how I knew him,” I was saying, “you would surely not have
guessed he could be tender.”
From the author:
Thanks to you early readers, you Gordon Lish, Will Eno, you Sam Lipsyte, Michael Kimball,
Yannick Murphy, Gary Lutz, and Noy, Noy, Noy. And thank you, Gian, for putting old
Lincoln between the covers, you make him look pretty good there.