The State of the Novel (1)

The Novel Arrives

From our butter and eggs man I learned The Novel had registered at Pension Beatrix, but it wasn’t until Sunday that I met him on his way to service. He reminded me of my Uncle Eric: a little stooped, with a reliable pace. He explained he couldn’t stop to visit without making himself late, so if I chose I could escort him to the church gate.

Some days, he said, I love the sound of terrible voices singing Onward Christian Soldiers well.

And The Lord’s Prayer, he said. People forget what a great punch line it has.

That afternoon I saw him coaching third base for the women’s softball league. I offered him a sip of my beer and he drained the cup.

I like girls, he said. I like to see them steaming into third. When I see a girl rounding second I almost believe in immortality.

Monday he subbed for a sick postal carrier, his pockets bulging with treats for the neighborhood dogs. Tuesday morning he mowed Mrs. Pike’s lawn. After lunch he shot hoops at the town court, going eleven-for-fifteen from the foul line.

I next saw him at the Town Centre during the Wednesday rush, directing traffic around the War Memorial. He came into Finbars at the shift change, sat at my table and accepted my offer of a bourbon.

I read the obits in today’s paper, he said. Terrible isn’t it, how everybody dies?

I’m concerned with your tone, I said. You understand you’re only as old as you feel.

I thought he would spit on the floor. That’s the dumbest idea out there, he said. You’re only as old as you feel.

I bought him another drink, and then a third. He talked about the Pacific Islands and he talked about Ohio.

In the morning he was on Mulberry Street tramping through the yards, harvesting dandelions for wine.