Read Online The Amalgamation Polka by Stephen Wright - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Wright
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created holes in the evidence every child requires to try to solve that initial and most crucial puzzle of life: the mystery of parents.
His father was a big man with big hands and a big voice, but beneath his bigness was something small and quiet and tender which revealed itself most often when they were alone, in a certain look Thatcher passed to his son with the seriousness and gravity of presenting an invaluable gift, in the posture he assumed at his desk and the manner in which he gripped his pen when composing a speech, in the grace with which he modestly took Roxana’s hand and held it for a moment in his own, and on countless other fleeting occasions when, with the humblest of gestures, the briefest of words, all that was good and true in human life was allowed to peek out for an instant from behind the bars that kept such recognition sadly, needlessly, cruelly, incarcerated.
But just as the sun must set and night come rushing in, there were periods of unfortunately longer duration when Liberty’s father, or the self he chose to think of as his father, was partially obscured by what the family referred to euphemistically as Thatcher’s “grumpers.” Something deep inside the man became eclipsed by something else and the whole household had to move like mourners within its captive shadow. Then Thatcher sank into a curdled silence which no one dared break, stretched out on the worn horsehair sofa in his study, a wet cloth folded across his eyes. Liberty never really comprehended what was going on inside his father during these alarming interludes, but he did know this: Father, in this prone position, was not, under any circumstances, to be disturbed. No laughter, no loud voices.
But what Liberty would remember best was the feel of his own small hand gathered in the warm, comforting grip of the man, those times alone when all of Thatcher’s potent attention was concentrated on his son, as something inside Liberty always insisted, occasionally to contrary evidence that it should be, their trips together, their talks, the information about the sorry state of the world Thatcher shared reluctantly, almost sadly, with his son and heir out of a conviction that I do not enjoy having to tell you these things, but it is important you hear this news, no matter how distasteful, because, unfortunately, it is the truth, whereas it is lies and the promulgation of lies that will make you and the people in your life sick.
From the front porch the lonely Liberty could often watch children passing along the road at the foot of the hill. Since his near accident with hooves and wheels he had been sternly and repeatedly warned by both parents and his aunt, under pain of a punishment so severe he could not possibly imagine it, to never, under any circumstances, dare to wander down onto that dangerous pike, no matter what the temptation.
Of course temptations were many and Liberty’s years few, so eventually there came the day when, ignoring all adult authority, he yielded to his own. It was a warm, drowsy summer morning, banks of clouds sitting motionless off to the south like a succession of white reefs, Liberty on the porch rocking leisurely in his mother’s chair and quietly contemplating the grasshoppers sailing erratically across the long uncut yard when two boys, shirtless and barefoot, came meandering up the road, brandishing sharpened sticks which each deployed against the other as if engaged in the most furious sword fight. Startled by their whoops and cries, a cloud of sparrows erupted skyward from nearby trees as the boys, thrusting and lunging, gradually disappeared from view. Not a thought in his head, Liberty abruptly stood up out of the chair and let his willful legs carry him down across the yard and onto the road, following the junior cavaliers at a respectful distance. At the crest of the next hill the boys turned, looked back at Liberty for a moment and went on. Insects buzzed in the weeds. Butterflies chased
His father was a big man with big hands and a big voice, but beneath his bigness was something small and quiet and tender which revealed itself most often when they were alone, in a certain look Thatcher passed to his son with the seriousness and gravity of presenting an invaluable gift, in the posture he assumed at his desk and the manner in which he gripped his pen when composing a speech, in the grace with which he modestly took Roxana’s hand and held it for a moment in his own, and on countless other fleeting occasions when, with the humblest of gestures, the briefest of words, all that was good and true in human life was allowed to peek out for an instant from behind the bars that kept such recognition sadly, needlessly, cruelly, incarcerated.
But just as the sun must set and night come rushing in, there were periods of unfortunately longer duration when Liberty’s father, or the self he chose to think of as his father, was partially obscured by what the family referred to euphemistically as Thatcher’s “grumpers.” Something deep inside the man became eclipsed by something else and the whole household had to move like mourners within its captive shadow. Then Thatcher sank into a curdled silence which no one dared break, stretched out on the worn horsehair sofa in his study, a wet cloth folded across his eyes. Liberty never really comprehended what was going on inside his father during these alarming interludes, but he did know this: Father, in this prone position, was not, under any circumstances, to be disturbed. No laughter, no loud voices.
But what Liberty would remember best was the feel of his own small hand gathered in the warm, comforting grip of the man, those times alone when all of Thatcher’s potent attention was concentrated on his son, as something inside Liberty always insisted, occasionally to contrary evidence that it should be, their trips together, their talks, the information about the sorry state of the world Thatcher shared reluctantly, almost sadly, with his son and heir out of a conviction that I do not enjoy having to tell you these things, but it is important you hear this news, no matter how distasteful, because, unfortunately, it is the truth, whereas it is lies and the promulgation of lies that will make you and the people in your life sick.
From the front porch the lonely Liberty could often watch children passing along the road at the foot of the hill. Since his near accident with hooves and wheels he had been sternly and repeatedly warned by both parents and his aunt, under pain of a punishment so severe he could not possibly imagine it, to never, under any circumstances, dare to wander down onto that dangerous pike, no matter what the temptation.
Of course temptations were many and Liberty’s years few, so eventually there came the day when, ignoring all adult authority, he yielded to his own. It was a warm, drowsy summer morning, banks of clouds sitting motionless off to the south like a succession of white reefs, Liberty on the porch rocking leisurely in his mother’s chair and quietly contemplating the grasshoppers sailing erratically across the long uncut yard when two boys, shirtless and barefoot, came meandering up the road, brandishing sharpened sticks which each deployed against the other as if engaged in the most furious sword fight. Startled by their whoops and cries, a cloud of sparrows erupted skyward from nearby trees as the boys, thrusting and lunging, gradually disappeared from view. Not a thought in his head, Liberty abruptly stood up out of the chair and let his willful legs carry him down across the yard and onto the road, following the junior cavaliers at a respectful distance. At the crest of the next hill the boys turned, looked back at Liberty for a moment and went on. Insects buzzed in the weeds. Butterflies chased
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