Read Online Think of a Number (Dave Gurney, No.1) by John Verdon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Verdon
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November—so I took out my pen and on the back of my program, at the top of the page, I wrote ‘Xmas Cards’—not the whole word
Christmas
but the abbreviation, X-M-A-S,” she said, spelling it out.
In the darkness he could feel more than see her inquiring look, as if she were asking whether he was getting the point.
“Go on,” he said.
“Every time I see that abbreviation, it reminds me of little Tommy Milakos.”
“Who?”
“Tommy had a crush on me in the ninth grade at Our Lady of Chastity.”
“I thought it was Our Lady of Sorrows,” said Gurney with a twinge of irritation.
She paused a beat to let her little joke register, then went on. “Anyway, one day Sister Immaculata, a very large woman, started screaming at me because I’d abbreviated
Christmas
as
Xmas
in a little quiz about Catholic holy days. She said anyone who wrote it that way was purposely ‘X-ing Christ out of Christmas.’ She was furious. I thought she was going to hit me. But right then Tommy—sweet little brown-eyed Tommy—jumped up out of his seat and shouted, ‘It’s not an
X.
’
“Sister Immaculata was shocked. It was the first time anyone had ever dared to interrupt her. She just stared at him, but he stared right back, my little champion. ‘It’s not an English letter,’ he said. ‘It’s a Greek letter. It’s the same as an English
ch
. It’s the first letter of
Christ
in Greek.’ And, of course, Tommy Milakos was Greek, so everybody knew he must be right.”
Dark as it was, he thought he could see her smiling softly at the recollection, even suspected he heard a little sigh. Maybe he was wrong about the sigh—he hoped so. And another distraction—had she betrayed a preference for brown eyes over blue?
Get ahold of yourself, Gurney, she’s talking about the ninth grade
.
She went on, “So maybe ‘X. Arybdis’ is really ‘Ch. Arybdis’? Or maybe ‘Charybdis’? Isn’t that something in Greek mythology?”
“Yes, it is,” he said, as much to himself as to her.
“Between Scylla and Charybdis …”
“Like ‘between a rock and a hard place’?”
He nodded. “Something like that.”
“Which is which?”
He seemed not to hear the question, his mind racing now through the Charybdis implications, juggling the possibilities.
“Hmm?” He realized she’d asked him something.
“Scylla and Charybdis,” she said. “The rock and the hard place. Which is which?”
“It’s not a direct translation, just an approximation of the meaning. Scylla and Charybdis were actual navigational perils in the Strait of Messina. Ships had to navigate between them and tended to be destroyed in the process. In mythology, they were personalized into demons of destruction.”
“When you say navigational perils … like what?”
“Scylla was the name for a jagged outcropping of rocks that ships were battered against until they sank.”
When he didn’t immediately continue, she persisted, “And Charybdis?”
He cleared his throat. Something about the idea of Charybdis seemed especially disturbing. “Charybdis was a whirlpool. A very powerful whirlpool. Once a man was caught in it, he could never get out. It sucked him down and tore him to pieces.” He recalled with unsettling clarity an illustration he’d seen ages ago in an edition of the
Odyssey
, showing a sailor trapped in the violent eddy, his face contorted in horror.
Again came the screech from the woods.
“Come on,” said Madeleine. “Let’s get up to the house. It’s going to rain any minute.”
He stood still, lost in his racing thoughts.
“Come on,” she urged. “Before we get soaked.”
He followed her to her car, and they drove up slowly through the pasture to the house.
Before they got out, he turned to her and asked, “You don’t think of every
x
you see as a possible
ch
, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why …?”
“Because ‘Arybdis’ sounded Greek.”
“Right. Of course.”
She looked across the front
Christmas
but the abbreviation, X-M-A-S,” she said, spelling it out.
In the darkness he could feel more than see her inquiring look, as if she were asking whether he was getting the point.
“Go on,” he said.
“Every time I see that abbreviation, it reminds me of little Tommy Milakos.”
“Who?”
“Tommy had a crush on me in the ninth grade at Our Lady of Chastity.”
“I thought it was Our Lady of Sorrows,” said Gurney with a twinge of irritation.
She paused a beat to let her little joke register, then went on. “Anyway, one day Sister Immaculata, a very large woman, started screaming at me because I’d abbreviated
Christmas
as
Xmas
in a little quiz about Catholic holy days. She said anyone who wrote it that way was purposely ‘X-ing Christ out of Christmas.’ She was furious. I thought she was going to hit me. But right then Tommy—sweet little brown-eyed Tommy—jumped up out of his seat and shouted, ‘It’s not an
X.
’
“Sister Immaculata was shocked. It was the first time anyone had ever dared to interrupt her. She just stared at him, but he stared right back, my little champion. ‘It’s not an English letter,’ he said. ‘It’s a Greek letter. It’s the same as an English
ch
. It’s the first letter of
Christ
in Greek.’ And, of course, Tommy Milakos was Greek, so everybody knew he must be right.”
Dark as it was, he thought he could see her smiling softly at the recollection, even suspected he heard a little sigh. Maybe he was wrong about the sigh—he hoped so. And another distraction—had she betrayed a preference for brown eyes over blue?
Get ahold of yourself, Gurney, she’s talking about the ninth grade
.
She went on, “So maybe ‘X. Arybdis’ is really ‘Ch. Arybdis’? Or maybe ‘Charybdis’? Isn’t that something in Greek mythology?”
“Yes, it is,” he said, as much to himself as to her.
“Between Scylla and Charybdis …”
“Like ‘between a rock and a hard place’?”
He nodded. “Something like that.”
“Which is which?”
He seemed not to hear the question, his mind racing now through the Charybdis implications, juggling the possibilities.
“Hmm?” He realized she’d asked him something.
“Scylla and Charybdis,” she said. “The rock and the hard place. Which is which?”
“It’s not a direct translation, just an approximation of the meaning. Scylla and Charybdis were actual navigational perils in the Strait of Messina. Ships had to navigate between them and tended to be destroyed in the process. In mythology, they were personalized into demons of destruction.”
“When you say navigational perils … like what?”
“Scylla was the name for a jagged outcropping of rocks that ships were battered against until they sank.”
When he didn’t immediately continue, she persisted, “And Charybdis?”
He cleared his throat. Something about the idea of Charybdis seemed especially disturbing. “Charybdis was a whirlpool. A very powerful whirlpool. Once a man was caught in it, he could never get out. It sucked him down and tore him to pieces.” He recalled with unsettling clarity an illustration he’d seen ages ago in an edition of the
Odyssey
, showing a sailor trapped in the violent eddy, his face contorted in horror.
Again came the screech from the woods.
“Come on,” said Madeleine. “Let’s get up to the house. It’s going to rain any minute.”
He stood still, lost in his racing thoughts.
“Come on,” she urged. “Before we get soaked.”
He followed her to her car, and they drove up slowly through the pasture to the house.
Before they got out, he turned to her and asked, “You don’t think of every
x
you see as a possible
ch
, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why …?”
“Because ‘Arybdis’ sounded Greek.”
“Right. Of course.”
She looked across the front
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