Joseph?” she asked.
I said nothing. I wondered what she thought I might be pleased about.
“The Adjudication Board wrote to you, all the way from Atlanta, to tell you that your story had received a special commendation. They say that you are bright and immensely talented. Do you understand that?”
“I understand that we didn’t win, Miss Webber,” I said.
She laughed suddenly, and it was like a wealth of sunshine breaking forth. “Didn’t win? Winning is not the only reason to do something. Sometimes you do something for experience, or simply for pleasure; other times you do something to prove to yourself that you can do it, irrespective of anyone else’s viewpoint or belief. You wrote a story, only the second complete story you’ve ever written, and the Atlanta Adjudication Board sent you a special commendation and expressed their wish that you go from literary strength to strength. That, my dear Joseph Calvin Vaughan, is something of which to be very proud.”
I nodded and smiled. It was fifteen minutes past the end of lessons and I wanted to get home. When I’d left that morning my mother had seemed particularly frail.
Miss Webber folded the letter carefully and returned it to the envelope. “This is for you,” she said, and handed it to me. “You should keep this letter, and whenever you feel that your ability is in question, whenever you feel that you should do something other than write, you should read it once more and feel your purpose resolve. Writing is something that is a gift, Mr. Vaughan, and to deny its importance, or to do something other than use your ability, would be a grave and significant mistake.” She smiled once more. “Now go . . . home with you!”
I thanked Miss Webber and left the room. I walked quickly, taking the High Road and staying close to the fence. Mr. Kruger had told me that after the rain the ground was too soft to bear the weight of a child, let alone a young man such as myself, and that if I walked along that way I was to stay close to the fence and away from the trees.
When I arrived home I stood in the kitchen for several minutes. In hindsight, always our most astute adviser, I realized I had granted no importance to the letter from Atlanta. It was my first real acknowledgement, and yet it seemed to mean nothing. I took the letter from my pocket and read through it once more. The words were received but they were not absorbed. Later, the letter would mean a great deal, and in some small way it would act as an anchor amidst the storm of critical and trenchant self-doubt that would come, but then—standing in the kitchen—it was merely a message of failure. Miss Webber was not to blame. The letter told me I could do better, and perhaps, in some small way, I had already determined the standard to which I would aspire.
It was then that I heard voices, above me I believed, and I was puzzled. My mother was alone and unwell in the house, and yet the voices sounded like a conversation. Had the disease she suffered driven her to madness?
I tucked the letter into my pocket and backed up to the bottom of the stairwell. I heard nothing. Was I imagining things?
I took the risers one at a time, my ears sharpened and alert. When I reached the upper landing I heard the voices again—my mother, her clear and distinct lilt, even a hint of laughter, and another deeper voice —perhaps accented?
I walked down the hallway to her door. It was firmly closed, but it was undoubtedly from behind that door that the voices came.
I knocked once.
“Mother?” I asked.
There seemed to be a moment of confusion, the sound of rustling, something else, and even as I reached out to turn the door handle she called out, “One moment, Joseph, one moment, please.”
I waited, perplexed and confused.
Thirty seconds, perhaps more, and then the door was opened from within and Gunther Kruger stood there looking at me, smiling widely, his cheeks reddened.
“Joseph!” he exclaimed,
I said nothing. I wondered what she thought I might be pleased about.
“The Adjudication Board wrote to you, all the way from Atlanta, to tell you that your story had received a special commendation. They say that you are bright and immensely talented. Do you understand that?”
“I understand that we didn’t win, Miss Webber,” I said.
She laughed suddenly, and it was like a wealth of sunshine breaking forth. “Didn’t win? Winning is not the only reason to do something. Sometimes you do something for experience, or simply for pleasure; other times you do something to prove to yourself that you can do it, irrespective of anyone else’s viewpoint or belief. You wrote a story, only the second complete story you’ve ever written, and the Atlanta Adjudication Board sent you a special commendation and expressed their wish that you go from literary strength to strength. That, my dear Joseph Calvin Vaughan, is something of which to be very proud.”
I nodded and smiled. It was fifteen minutes past the end of lessons and I wanted to get home. When I’d left that morning my mother had seemed particularly frail.
Miss Webber folded the letter carefully and returned it to the envelope. “This is for you,” she said, and handed it to me. “You should keep this letter, and whenever you feel that your ability is in question, whenever you feel that you should do something other than write, you should read it once more and feel your purpose resolve. Writing is something that is a gift, Mr. Vaughan, and to deny its importance, or to do something other than use your ability, would be a grave and significant mistake.” She smiled once more. “Now go . . . home with you!”
I thanked Miss Webber and left the room. I walked quickly, taking the High Road and staying close to the fence. Mr. Kruger had told me that after the rain the ground was too soft to bear the weight of a child, let alone a young man such as myself, and that if I walked along that way I was to stay close to the fence and away from the trees.
When I arrived home I stood in the kitchen for several minutes. In hindsight, always our most astute adviser, I realized I had granted no importance to the letter from Atlanta. It was my first real acknowledgement, and yet it seemed to mean nothing. I took the letter from my pocket and read through it once more. The words were received but they were not absorbed. Later, the letter would mean a great deal, and in some small way it would act as an anchor amidst the storm of critical and trenchant self-doubt that would come, but then—standing in the kitchen—it was merely a message of failure. Miss Webber was not to blame. The letter told me I could do better, and perhaps, in some small way, I had already determined the standard to which I would aspire.
It was then that I heard voices, above me I believed, and I was puzzled. My mother was alone and unwell in the house, and yet the voices sounded like a conversation. Had the disease she suffered driven her to madness?
I tucked the letter into my pocket and backed up to the bottom of the stairwell. I heard nothing. Was I imagining things?
I took the risers one at a time, my ears sharpened and alert. When I reached the upper landing I heard the voices again—my mother, her clear and distinct lilt, even a hint of laughter, and another deeper voice —perhaps accented?
I walked down the hallway to her door. It was firmly closed, but it was undoubtedly from behind that door that the voices came.
I knocked once.
“Mother?” I asked.
There seemed to be a moment of confusion, the sound of rustling, something else, and even as I reached out to turn the door handle she called out, “One moment, Joseph, one moment, please.”
I waited, perplexed and confused.
Thirty seconds, perhaps more, and then the door was opened from within and Gunther Kruger stood there looking at me, smiling widely, his cheeks reddened.
“Joseph!” he exclaimed,
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