by Daniel Klein
Digby sees her brace her hands against the arms of her chair as if about to propel herself up and at him. This must be it—the fulfillment of Aaron Epstein’s prophecy. Digby’s untimely demise, choked by Madeleine acting as a surrogate for his own spleen. Thankfully, June places a calming hand on Madeleine’s shoulder and she remains seated.
Digby takes a deep breath. He reopens his folder and closes it again. He blinks involuntarily for several seconds. His spinning head slows like a wobbly top returning to stasis. And then he begins again.
It is I who speaks.
“I need to tell you that love is serious stuff. In fact, it is the only reliable thing anybody can come up with to give meaning to life. It is, as they say, what makes the world go ’round. And that is why I am assigning articles to some very bright and thoughtful people. People like Professor Arthur McRitchie of Purdue University, a disciple of the existentialist Rollo May who saw love as essential to human survival. Professor McRitchie has some fascinating ideas on how loving is a transcendent act, a way of merging our I-ness with a profound Thou-ness. I’ve also tapped Professor Edith Pelati, a Harvard classicist who has developed a fascinating deconstruction of the term ‘Eros’ in the early Platonic dialogues. She has some dazzling insights into how loving the form of beauty is the basis of what she calls our ‘aesthetic libido.’ And I am particularly happy to report that Professor Avi Aaronson, a scholar at Hebrew Theological Seminary, will contribute a chapter from the volume he has been working on for twenty-some years on the concept of uncompromising love in the Old Testament. Aaronson has some unusual insights into the relationship between the biblical concept of fear of the otherness and the biblical concept of love of the otherness.”
Digby gazes out upon his audience. With the exception of Goldenfield who is applauding avidly, they are making eye contact with the floor, sounding a distant bell in Digby’s memory. After a silence of staggering dimensions, Baskerton clears his throat.
“Saatchi & Saatchi—” he begins, but then falls silent again.
Only minutes later, everyone picks up and departs, leaving Digby alone in his office overlooking the tulip garden. He feels remarkably at peace.
I am here now.
EPILOGUE
I am sitting in my office at the Gloucester Times where I have just finished writing a survey of open-to-the-public musical events coming up on the Cape Ann waterfront. I may have squandered more ink than I should have on Old Cold Tater, a bluegrass band that will be playing tonight on the bandstand at Rockport’s Back Beach, but I listened to them practice this afternoon and these guys deserve to be heard. I have an inkling that Old Cold Tater just might make it to Boston in the coming year.
I check my watch—it is just past five, so I call it a day. Mary has to correct papers tonight, so I’ll grab supper at Captain Carlo’s and then head back to my apartment on Smith’s Cove and read some more Thoreau. I only see Mary and little Ruby when she has the time. On these occasions, the three of us have dinner in her kitchen and afterward I put her son to bed, singing him my original lullaby, “Ruby is Such a Little Snooby.” It has proved to be suitably soporific. Afterward, Mary and I sit on the couch in her little living room. We talk and laugh and kiss one another tenderly.
I am patiently awaiting my final goofy blessing—my lucky, if tricky, ending.