problem.
“You said you’d buy one for me, Mister Dees.”
He told her he would. He surely would.
Even as he celebrated this joy, he felt a pang of sadness creep over him. He knew he would rise soon and go back to Gooseneck, and Katie’s life—the one with her family—would go on without him. He imagined the voices sounding in this house, the bodies in motion, while in Gooseneck he played his records, prepared his lessons, and gorged himself on food that never made him fat. Years from now, when Katie was a grown woman, she might vaguely remember the summer he taught her fractions, but his brief presence would be an insignificant part of the whole. He was a shadow thrown briefly on a wall. He could never have the substance or worth that her mother and father did, her brother, the boys who would love her, the children she would have.
Mrs. Mackey came into the room, drying her hands on a dish towel. “My word,” she said. “What’s all the to-do?”
It was nothing, Mr. Dees told her. It was just Katie learning fractions.
“Mama, look at this pen,” Katie said. “Mister Dees is going to buy one for me.”
Before Patsy Mackey could answer, Mr. Mackey, home for lunch, was at the back door calling. “Patsy, Katie, come quick.”
The air stirred about Mr. Dees as Katie let the fountain pen drop to the table, and she and her mother rushed out of the dining room. He capped his pen and gathered up his tablet. What was it, he wondered, that made someone necessary, never to be forgotten? Wasn’t it the loving? Wasn’t it people looking out for one another? Wasn’t it family? Husband/wife, sister/brother, parent/child. “Come quick,” Mr. Mackey had said, and Katie and her mother had run to him. But what if one’s life—choices made, circumstances accrued—had rendered such a scene impossible, left someone, as in the case of Mr. Dees, standing to the side, separated from the clan?
He had been the only child born to parents already past the middle of their lives: his mother nearly fifty, his father the same. A miracle it was, people said, this child. But to Mr. Dees, when he thought back on the way life had been with his parents, it always seemed that he was more of an intruder than a miracle. As he grew older, he realized two things: his parents had never intended to have children and, once they did, they didn’t know what to do with him. He remembered one time, when he was around the age that Katie was now, walking into Helene’s Dress Shop downtown with his mother and hearing the saleslady say, “My, my. Isn’t your grandson a sweetheart?” His mother offered no word of correction. “I need a pair of new white gloves,” she said. (Whenever she went out, she wore white gloves and a broad-brimmed hat covered with artificial flowers.) He understood from the way she squeezed his hand that he, too, was to keep quiet. What he knew about family was this: his wasn’t normal. He had come to his parents too late in their lives, and they had little patience with him. “Shh, shh, shh,” his mother was always cautioning. The words of wise men, she said, were heard in quiet. It said so in the Bible. The meek shall inherit the earth. She taught him scripture. “It is good,” he repeated, “that a man should both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the Lord.” He learned to think before he spoke, to be careful, respectful, not knowing that at the same time he was learning to love by leaving people alone.
Outside, in the Mackeys’ driveway, Katie was squealing. She was jumping up and down and clapping her hands together and shrieking as her father lifted a bicycle from the bed of his pickup truck. Mr. Dees watched from the back door. Just a moment, he thought. He would stay just a moment and then let himself out the front door and leave the Mackeys to their excitement. The bicycle was one of those Sting-Ray bikes that Mr. Dees had seen the boys and girls riding that summer. They sat low and had long
“You said you’d buy one for me, Mister Dees.”
He told her he would. He surely would.
Even as he celebrated this joy, he felt a pang of sadness creep over him. He knew he would rise soon and go back to Gooseneck, and Katie’s life—the one with her family—would go on without him. He imagined the voices sounding in this house, the bodies in motion, while in Gooseneck he played his records, prepared his lessons, and gorged himself on food that never made him fat. Years from now, when Katie was a grown woman, she might vaguely remember the summer he taught her fractions, but his brief presence would be an insignificant part of the whole. He was a shadow thrown briefly on a wall. He could never have the substance or worth that her mother and father did, her brother, the boys who would love her, the children she would have.
Mrs. Mackey came into the room, drying her hands on a dish towel. “My word,” she said. “What’s all the to-do?”
It was nothing, Mr. Dees told her. It was just Katie learning fractions.
“Mama, look at this pen,” Katie said. “Mister Dees is going to buy one for me.”
Before Patsy Mackey could answer, Mr. Mackey, home for lunch, was at the back door calling. “Patsy, Katie, come quick.”
The air stirred about Mr. Dees as Katie let the fountain pen drop to the table, and she and her mother rushed out of the dining room. He capped his pen and gathered up his tablet. What was it, he wondered, that made someone necessary, never to be forgotten? Wasn’t it the loving? Wasn’t it people looking out for one another? Wasn’t it family? Husband/wife, sister/brother, parent/child. “Come quick,” Mr. Mackey had said, and Katie and her mother had run to him. But what if one’s life—choices made, circumstances accrued—had rendered such a scene impossible, left someone, as in the case of Mr. Dees, standing to the side, separated from the clan?
He had been the only child born to parents already past the middle of their lives: his mother nearly fifty, his father the same. A miracle it was, people said, this child. But to Mr. Dees, when he thought back on the way life had been with his parents, it always seemed that he was more of an intruder than a miracle. As he grew older, he realized two things: his parents had never intended to have children and, once they did, they didn’t know what to do with him. He remembered one time, when he was around the age that Katie was now, walking into Helene’s Dress Shop downtown with his mother and hearing the saleslady say, “My, my. Isn’t your grandson a sweetheart?” His mother offered no word of correction. “I need a pair of new white gloves,” she said. (Whenever she went out, she wore white gloves and a broad-brimmed hat covered with artificial flowers.) He understood from the way she squeezed his hand that he, too, was to keep quiet. What he knew about family was this: his wasn’t normal. He had come to his parents too late in their lives, and they had little patience with him. “Shh, shh, shh,” his mother was always cautioning. The words of wise men, she said, were heard in quiet. It said so in the Bible. The meek shall inherit the earth. She taught him scripture. “It is good,” he repeated, “that a man should both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the Lord.” He learned to think before he spoke, to be careful, respectful, not knowing that at the same time he was learning to love by leaving people alone.
Outside, in the Mackeys’ driveway, Katie was squealing. She was jumping up and down and clapping her hands together and shrieking as her father lifted a bicycle from the bed of his pickup truck. Mr. Dees watched from the back door. Just a moment, he thought. He would stay just a moment and then let himself out the front door and leave the Mackeys to their excitement. The bicycle was one of those Sting-Ray bikes that Mr. Dees had seen the boys and girls riding that summer. They sat low and had long
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