A sunday afternoon ramble through the underbrush, nettles and thorns,
where ideas lay dormant, nestled in for winter, hibernating against the
cold. He had left the path to forge his own way.
He wasn't sure what to write about any more. There were so many things he
had become unsure about. Now this. He had lost his way.
Here's the reality: he was tired. And indecisive, vascillating between an
ideal of what his life ought to be and trying in vain to find a voice that
was authentic. All decisions originating from within himself seemed arbitrary,
thus incapable of commanding his complete and undivided allegiance. The
result: a paralysis of will, an inability to mobilize his powers, to consolidate
the resources of his mind, heart, soul, experience, training.
He was wounded, with a wound he knew incurable.
In an upstairs room, sitting in the dilapidated cushioned chair which he
had obtained at a flea market for fifty cents, he organized his thoughts
and prepared to scratch out the story of his life, a suicide note.
--R.A.G.
I was stunned, for this writer, this writer who had lost his way, who
had been wounded with an incurable wound, who was once confident but now
confused... this writer was me. Inside I trembled, though I concealed it
from my hostess.
"Do you have more?" I asked.
She looked as if she were about to break down. Her cheeks were red, eyes
averted.
"I'm having trouble putting this all together," I said. "For
years your husband stored his brother's manuscipts in his attic. Then one
day he decides to burn everything. Did he ever say why?"
"He only said that it was 'God's will' and that he didn't want to talk
about it."
"Was this like, say, a week after Richard died?"
She shook her head.
"A month?"
She continued shaking her head.
"A year? Or when?"
When she didn't make any reply there was a long pause in our conversation
which, though awkward, gave each of us a few moments to reflect. As I studied
her pale grey eyes I could only guess where her thoughts were escorting
her. The ticking clock on the mantle seemed to stress that I had overstayed
my welcome, nevertheless I did need to ask about one more thing.
"Would you mind if I asked how Richard died?"
"It was really terrible. He died in a fire."
"I thought it was a suicide."
"Yes, he set himself on fire in his bed."
"Sounds like an awful way to choose to die. How did they know it wasn't
accidental."
"Oh yes, that's exactly what they thought until Greg got the letter."
"So there was a suicide note?"
"It was mailed the morning of the day he died."
"You're sure of that? And you're sure it was his handwriting."
"Definitely. He had a very distincitive way of making his letters,
all full and round. His penmanship was like a work of art, like calligraphy.
His whole life was that way, actually."
"Do you remember what it said?"
"Something like, 'When you read this I'll be gone.'"
"You sound as if you almost liked him."
She did not reply and I could tell she cared about him very deeply.
"How often did you see him?"
She didn't answer again.
"Do you still have his last letter?" It seemed a stupid question
as soon as I said it. Her husband had burned everything else the guy had
written.
The story fragment was lying on the table and I selfishly wanted to ask
if I could have it. Instead I pulled two dollars from my wallet and set
them on the table. "Can you photocopy this for me?" Then I scribbled
my address on a piece of paper. "Mail it to this address."
She nodded, as if this wouldn't be a problem.
"Oh, did you know his friend Gary Spencer?"
"His name was mentioned a few times. A writer friend, I believe."
"I'm trying to find him. Someone said he joined a monastery. You wouldn't
have any idea where, would you?"
I left feeling pretty much like I'd come to a dead end and feeling sad in
myself for these two brothers. Still, the blue sky and brightness of the
sun lifted me up a bit as I returned north to my home. Though my thoughts
were strange and all over the place, they continually returned to a single
notion: to now find, if it were possible, Gary Spencer.
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