Christian name.”
Robbie’s fork halted halfway to his mouth while he was lost in thought. “Expect he would, now that I think on it. Bet it made him feel a little less like he was from here,” he said as he waved his fork around. “Don’t suppose Dusty would fit him when he weren’t here. He was stormy, you know? All gritty like.” He cocked his head at Stephen again. “Think you saw that before though,” he added before he began another recitation.
“’... and if we could capture it, put it under glass, keep dampness from tamping its restless tranquility. What then? Every storm has brilliance, Dustin; has beauty when you look at it from a distance. It blurs all those incessant imperfections we seek to hollow out with each of our hopes. But when you step into its still center, when you see its fury and its power, you also see its beauty; its grace.
Five thousand miles away and I can still feel your turbulence on my skin, Dustin; your grit stuck in the chambers of my heart… and all the silence that has followed it.
Please write me back.’”
“Not one of my best,” Stephen said, knowing how needy and fragile he had been when he wrote those words; how close he had come to losing his conjured English reserve. The same reserve he was holding on to so desperately at that very moment.
Robbie dropped his chin a little as if considering what Stephen said. “Maybe not, but whispering from your heart ain’t always easy; and Dusty knew that real well, probably more than either of us.”
“Was he angry?” Stephen asked suddenly.
Robbie looked at him curiously.
“About the letters, was he mad?” Stephen asked him again.
“No, your letters never made him mad, Mr. Stephen, not that I saw. If anything they made him sad, but sad thinking and not sad aching, if you understand my meaning. He would go to getting real quiet, like you do. So I’d ask him if you sent him one of them biscuit letters again, and we’d get to laughing about it.”
“Biscuit letters?” Stephen asked.
“Yeah, Dusty said y’all didn’t know what biscuits was. Said you thought he was making you cookies for breakfast one day. That true? Y’all eat cookies for breakfast?”
Stephen remembered that morning conversation. They were about a month and a half into something much, much deeper than either he or Dustin had expected, and Dustin had sprung from the bed wanting to make breakfast before he ran off on one of his train spotting jaunts. He spent his time and money running around Europe as a foamer, but it seemed to Stephen more like an excuse to remain in London more than anything else, particularly in light of the fact that he detested the foul nature of some of the men in the train yards who reminded him of his father. But Stephen hadn’t complained. He would have gone to every train yard in Europe and Asia if that’s what it would have taken to keep Dustin with him.
“Most of the yard hates Stewart as much as I do,” Dustin had explained. “They can’t get rid of him because it’s union. But I don’t want to talk about him, let’s talk biscuits....” he said and began to instruct Stephen in ‘proper’ culinary terminology. And then, of course, Stephen had been obligated to show him what a proper English breakfast was. They ended up spending two days in front of the cooker and under the sheets; the trains never had a chance.
“No, we don’t eat cookies for breakfast,” Stephen told Robbie. “But how does that relate my letters to biscuits?”
“Well, like I told Dusty, ya’ll must be some pretty darn sad folks with no real biscuits for breakfast in the mornings. Man’s gotta have biscuits,” Robbie stated with the seriousness that a small boy would have on such a subject. “So, sad folks write sad letters and get sad thinking, but not the achy kind. See how that works?”
“Uh, not really,” Stephen answered him.
Robbie shrugged his big shoulders.
Robbie’s fork halted halfway to his mouth while he was lost in thought. “Expect he would, now that I think on it. Bet it made him feel a little less like he was from here,” he said as he waved his fork around. “Don’t suppose Dusty would fit him when he weren’t here. He was stormy, you know? All gritty like.” He cocked his head at Stephen again. “Think you saw that before though,” he added before he began another recitation.
“’... and if we could capture it, put it under glass, keep dampness from tamping its restless tranquility. What then? Every storm has brilliance, Dustin; has beauty when you look at it from a distance. It blurs all those incessant imperfections we seek to hollow out with each of our hopes. But when you step into its still center, when you see its fury and its power, you also see its beauty; its grace.
Five thousand miles away and I can still feel your turbulence on my skin, Dustin; your grit stuck in the chambers of my heart… and all the silence that has followed it.
Please write me back.’”
“Not one of my best,” Stephen said, knowing how needy and fragile he had been when he wrote those words; how close he had come to losing his conjured English reserve. The same reserve he was holding on to so desperately at that very moment.
Robbie dropped his chin a little as if considering what Stephen said. “Maybe not, but whispering from your heart ain’t always easy; and Dusty knew that real well, probably more than either of us.”
“Was he angry?” Stephen asked suddenly.
Robbie looked at him curiously.
“About the letters, was he mad?” Stephen asked him again.
“No, your letters never made him mad, Mr. Stephen, not that I saw. If anything they made him sad, but sad thinking and not sad aching, if you understand my meaning. He would go to getting real quiet, like you do. So I’d ask him if you sent him one of them biscuit letters again, and we’d get to laughing about it.”
“Biscuit letters?” Stephen asked.
“Yeah, Dusty said y’all didn’t know what biscuits was. Said you thought he was making you cookies for breakfast one day. That true? Y’all eat cookies for breakfast?”
Stephen remembered that morning conversation. They were about a month and a half into something much, much deeper than either he or Dustin had expected, and Dustin had sprung from the bed wanting to make breakfast before he ran off on one of his train spotting jaunts. He spent his time and money running around Europe as a foamer, but it seemed to Stephen more like an excuse to remain in London more than anything else, particularly in light of the fact that he detested the foul nature of some of the men in the train yards who reminded him of his father. But Stephen hadn’t complained. He would have gone to every train yard in Europe and Asia if that’s what it would have taken to keep Dustin with him.
“Most of the yard hates Stewart as much as I do,” Dustin had explained. “They can’t get rid of him because it’s union. But I don’t want to talk about him, let’s talk biscuits....” he said and began to instruct Stephen in ‘proper’ culinary terminology. And then, of course, Stephen had been obligated to show him what a proper English breakfast was. They ended up spending two days in front of the cooker and under the sheets; the trains never had a chance.
“No, we don’t eat cookies for breakfast,” Stephen told Robbie. “But how does that relate my letters to biscuits?”
“Well, like I told Dusty, ya’ll must be some pretty darn sad folks with no real biscuits for breakfast in the mornings. Man’s gotta have biscuits,” Robbie stated with the seriousness that a small boy would have on such a subject. “So, sad folks write sad letters and get sad thinking, but not the achy kind. See how that works?”
“Uh, not really,” Stephen answered him.
Robbie shrugged his big shoulders.
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