Life Sentence by Kim Paffenroth Page A

me to be
right. So all I could do was shake my head and wait for his
help.
    “It’s in probably the most famous speech in the
play,” he hinted. “‘Out, out, brief candle.’ I know you know what
that speech is about.”
    I was surprised then that I’d missed it. “The
meaninglessness of life.”
    He nodded. He smiled at my success—he always did,
and the smile’s sincerity was complete and made you feel like you
were as tall as the ceiling—but I also saw the sadness in his eyes,
the sadness of an old-timer. “I imagine you’ve thought of that more
than once, haven’t you? Maybe more than we ever did in my
time.”
    I nodded. What else could one say in a world where
life was so small, brief, and fragile, and death was so terribly
large and durable?
    “I think we all have.” He looked back out the
window. “And what about the supernatural parts in all the plays?
You said those things aren’t real, they don’t exist. When I was
your age, we thought like that, that the things people used to
believe in were superstitious and silly and science would solve
everything—every disease, every problem, every fear would be gone,
even death. I think we stopped believing in monsters, and that was
our mistake. What we got was quite different than we’d expected or
hoped for. And I think what we got was much closer to what
Shakespeare thought the world was like—a world where there are many
things we don’t understand and can’t explain, things that frighten
and amaze us. And the biggest one of those mysterious and
frightening things is right here.” He tapped his chest. “It’s us.
And I don’t think that has changed much, either. Even the people
out there, the ones who are dead, they’re still us, they’re still
threatening us because they’re like us and they remember what it’s
like to be human, and we know a little bit what it’s like to be
dead inside.”
    “Like Banquo,” I said quietly.
    He turned back towards me and nodded. “Quite. Or
Lady Macbeth, who wastes away so slowly and painfully. I don’t
think ghosts and monsters are as unbelievable as I used to think
when I was your age.” He paused again and looked out the window.
“Well, I’m monologuing again at the end of the day, aren’t I?”
    “Like in The Incredibles !” my brother
helpfully offered, and all I could think was “knucklehead,” though
I kept my reaction to an all-purpose, dismissive eye-roll.
    Now Mr. Caine really smiled and the laughter was
throughout the room. “Zoey and Roger, perhaps sometime you can
explain this to us. When your father, in all his infinite wisdom
and care, finally splurges and fires up the generator, why is that the only kind of film he ever shows to the rest of our
wonderful community?”
    “It’s one of his favorite movies!” Roger informed
us.
    Mr. Caine kept smiling. “I thought that was Die
Hard .”
    “He’s showing that in a couple weeks. He promised us
when school was out he’d show all five of them in a row!”
    “And I’m sure that’ll be worth every precious ounce
of fuel and every minute of your valuable time. Well, with that
wonderful treat in our future, class dismissed.”
    The other kids scrambled out of the classroom for
lunch. Mr. Caine stopped me and Vera before we ran out and asked if
we’d have lunch with him. We often did this, since he was her dad
and he and I talked a lot now, getting ready for my vows. On the
way outside, we passed Mr. Enders at his little station by the
door. He was the school guard. I doubt he could’ve done much to
stop anyone, living or dead, but he was an older man, and it made
him feel useful to sit there with his nightstick and whistle and
sign-in sheet. He waved us by as he and Mr. Caine started their
back-and-forth, which I had heard with very little variation, most
days, for the last seven years.
    “Morning, Mr. Caine.”
    “How’s it going, Mr. Enders?”
    “Oh, can’t complain.”
    “That’s good. No one would listen to you if