Telling Time

by Austin Wright

  Meanwhile, your theory of transferable souls. If Daddy’s soul left his body in the quiet moment of his death, by your view it went (or soon will go) into another body at the beginning of life. That’s the procedure, right? It’s Daddy’s soul until he dies; then it migrates and becomes someone else. When this new person grows up he (or she) will have no memory of having been Daddy. That’s the norm, no residue of memory remains. Otherwise your reincarnation of souls would have been recognized as fact centuries ago.

  So, my question. If Daddy’s soul on leaving his body really does forget everything and takes over its next body with memory washed clean, how can you call it Daddy’s? If it can’t remember him, why isn’t it just another new soul? In which case, Daddy’s soul isn’t immortal at all, it’s dead. But if that’s true, why talk about souls at all? Seems to me your reincarnation theory gets rid of immortality. If Daddy no longer exists in his soul, how does your doctrine differ from those who think life dies with body in the atheistic void?

  I know you have an answer, but until you explain, I prefer to think of Daddy’s soul as uniquely his and let it slip gently out of his body into eternal disembodied life as Daddy. In full possession of his mind, his thoughts, his memories, everything that endures, stripping away only the transient earthly desires and fears. And to tell the truth, now that a little time has passed, I realize that I did indeed feel him rise quietly out of his body, which was shrunken finally into a pile of old bones and dried guts. I heard him rise, felt him look around, almost saw him turn and whisper or breathe on each of us with a promise of future reunion and reconciliation. Okay?

  ANN REALM: What to tell the survivors

  In the room where we went and waited and watched, talking like any other day, a natural part of time, where I saw the external manifestation. The sunny room full of unmentionable history was too simple to understand. The bed where hundreds of strangers had lived or died, with a curtain rack for strangers’ bathing, dressing, bedpans. A movable hospital table for trays, thermometers, cotton swabs. Though it was unlikely that a majority of his predecessors had died here, some certainly had. His propped head, unresponsive to us in changing groups, Mother, Philip, Henry, Melanie, Patty, William, and myself.

  The damage inside was severe, communications ruined in the flooded part of the brain and reduced oxygen flow aggravating the damage. Memories still flashed, but cut off from each other, available only if you had a way to get across the barriers. If you did you could probably still find Chicago and River City University. Names and places, students and colleagues, enemies who forced him to resign, friends who supported him. Such names therein might ignite flashes in the chambers, the walls would light up for a moment. Likewise pictures of the Island and house and harbor. Me too and the others, Lucy on her throne, still present despite the sleeping exterior silence. You’d find everything illuminated by light of the blood, but the chambers were inundated. The memories were sinking under the water like china and silverware in the sunken Andrea Doria. If like Philip you wanted to ask a question, it would be hard in that drowning machinery to find a dry switch that would work.

  The increasing faintness of breath meant less space in the lungs open to the air. Less oxygen was available to circulate and what there was circulated more slowly. The brain struggled to keep its lifelong treasury of memory lit, but as the available oxygen diminished the light faded. The screens on which Thomas’s memories were projected dissolved in the liquid, and the slides containing the images shriveled up and disappeared. The chamber walls collapsed like soaked cardboard. A vicious circle developed in which the weakening power to breathe weakened further the power to breathe. This weakened in turn the power of the heart to move the already almost inert blood, allowing the flood to rise still higher.

  At some point in the morning the flood reached the oldest memory cells, and the brain shut down, curling up like a fetus not knowing what it was. When the flood reached the breathing centers it caused a short in the machine’s rhythm. I don’t know which faltered first, the breathing circuit or the heart circuit, but their mutual faltering reinforced itself and both circuits stopped. Unfed, the heart could pump no more, and despite seventy-two years of habit, it stopped.

  At once everywhere in the body the sluggish already useless blood stood still, and in an instant a change spread through the whole organization. Universal panic, every part, every cell, groping for sustenance, and finding none, giving up. This was the moment of Thomas’s death.

  The fine assemblage fell now into a clump of parts, a simulacrum of the corporation that had sparked with spirit and personality for seventy-two years. I looked at him dead, a statue of who had been there. I knew he would not stay in that condition long. Rot began when the life stream stopped moving. Decay inside was already dismantling the parts.

  Who was this Thomas who died? Suddenly he was past tense, all past, nothing but past. I found myself quietly out of the continent of time in which I had lived and into a new one where nothing had yet happened to give it history, and everything was strange and empty.

  The decay of external memory which he imparted to others has already begun like the body, and the only tangible thing is a thin trail of writings he left behind. These like a track in the woods, nothing in themselves, good only for the way they stimulate the hunter trying to reconstruct what went by once. Not sure I want to do that, since some of the tracks are bloody. Most likely I’ll have to cover these and invent the creature myself. I won’t have even that chance though, if I go to London and let Philip hide his writings in a safe.

  PHILIP WESTERLY: Anticipating a memoir

  Back of his head with what Ann called its fore-and-aft shape (remember that shape going to the University when he was young and jaunty), hair white, short. Go around the bed with Lucy to look. Open mouth, closed eyes, hairy eyebrows, a frown. Look at Father trying to think no Father there. No effort to think it, for though he’s evidently there evidently he’s not.

  His body a photograph of the moment of death. At that moment his mouth was open and he frowned the discomfort of his last few days. Left on his face by life leaving.

  All the recent turmoil exhaled from the open mouth. The last four months remembered in the open mouth, to the hospital and home and again and back, to prolong normality with breakfast lunch and dinner which he could not eat, fever and pain. More than that. The turmoil of his retirement expelled and exhausted in that gape. Turmoil not known as turmoil until expelled. Brought up and expelled from all old time, exhaled from all the past, the controversy, the presidency, the dead speeches, letters, meetings, ceremonies. The unknown turmoil vacated from youth before my time, invented by my imagination from clues and vented through the mouth like an echo from a vault.

  Lucy bends to touch the dead shoulder. Already it’s getting cold. When she turns around, tears. The surprise of not realizing this is the time for tears. Not knowing what time it is except that it’s precarious, like an overloaded rowboat.

  PHILIP WESTERLY: List

  1. Hospital: a) Dr. Eastcastle, death certificate, b) Hospital depository for belongings, c) Thank nurse.

  2. Bank. Glassman: will, trust fund, safe deposit box, savings and checking accounts. Make appointment, Mother’s income, what she needs to know or do.

  3. Church. Minister (Dawson?). Service, dates (Friday?). Ceremony, music, speakers?

  4. Undertaker (Gregory Morticians, OK per Dawson). Church service, lot bought. Don’t get suckered on the coffin. Visitation (Thursday?). Embalming (embalming?) included, taken for granted. Limousines. Get estimate now. Gravestone? Mr. Cage in The Marble Halls. Check, does Gregory collect body from hospital?

  5. Home, notifications, telephone the VIPs. Who’s a VIP? University. Where’s George? If you can’t reach him, to hell with him.

  6. Call Beatrice tonight. Fly, bring girls, important for them. Let Beatrice call boys, pay their way. (That means she’ll have to tell Louisa. Okay? Would Louisa come? Don’t ask, but okay.)

  7. O
lder generations: call and put Mother on. Uncle Carl, probable. Aunt Edna not (Florida at her age). Nor Fred.

  8. Patty and Ann, call your own children.

  9. Island Inn, reserve X rooms and beds for overflow.

  10. Others: Cousin Charlie (Cleveland: Alzheimers?). Is Cousin Marie still living? If so, where? Dr. Balsam in River City. Ask mother re Makrov. Island friends: Jeffcoat. Grummond.

  11. River City News. Island News. New York Times.

  12. Obituary.

  THE WESTERLY FAMILY: Obituary

  Thomas Westerly, geologist and former President of River City University in Ohio, died today at Island Center Hospital at the age of 72. Dr. Westerly had been a resident of the Island for six years.

  A familiar figure in the social and political life of this community, Dr. Westerly was born Jan. 2, 1922, in Sherwood Forest-on-Hudson, N.Y. His father Philip Westerly was professor of biology at Columbia University. His mother, Ann Jenks, was the daughter of the astronomer Oswald Jenks. As a boy Dr. Westerly anticipated a career as a scientist and studied geology at Dartmouth before earning his doctorate at Chicago after the war. He taught geology at Chicago for many years before going to River City University (Ohio) in 1968, where he was named chairman of the geology department in 1972, dean of the college in 1978, provost in 1983 and president of the university in 1985. He retired in 1987 and moved here in 1988.

  Specializing in paleontology, Westerly was noted for his fossil studies in the southwest Ohio region. As an administrator he was admired for his sympathy and interest in the concerns of students. Noted for his liberal policies, he supported the right of students to bring unconventional speakers to campus and defended their artistic freedom against censorship in the community. He advanced the cause of racial integration and worked to improve the situation of faculty women. He strengthened the University’s Liberal Arts college by hiring internationally known scholars, and by developing a climate of reward for research and good teaching.

  He believed strongly in humanistic learning, especially in a technological society. He regretted that his duties never allowed him to write a book, though he produced several significant articles. A sensitive and inquisitive man, he also wrote unpublished essays of a philosophic and poetic kind. This was his hobby and he encouraged his children to write whenever and however they could. He believed thought was possible only through writing and reading and deplored the television culture which he considered to be the chief threat to civilization as we know it.

  In his retirement on the Island he distinguished himself as a member of the Library Board, of the P.T.A. though he had no children of school age, of the Nature Society, which profited from his professional expertise, and the Board for Clean Beaches. Though shy and reticent, he was particularly liked by the younger generation as organizer of church picnics.

  He is survived by his wife, the former Lucy Sycamore; his brother Carl, retired professor of English at Stanford known for his work on the novelist Fisk Purser; his sister the late Beth Coates, professor of biology at West Carolina University; his aunt, Edna Forsyth of Sarasota, Fla.; his children, Philip, an ophthalmologist, of Ithaca, N.Y.; Ann Realm, wife of the journalist and international correspondent Frank Realm, lately of Boston, Mass. and now of London, England; Patricia Key of New York City; Henry, a social worker from Stony Hill, Ohio; and George, a free lance writer, author of “Jungle Depths,” who lives in Ontario. He is survived also by thirteen grandchildren.

  Visitation will be on Thursday evening from 8 to 10 at Gregory House. The funeral will be Friday at 2 in the Unitarian Church.

  Written by Philip Westerly, Henry Westerly, Patricia Key, and Lucy Westerly. Sent to the Island News, The New York Times, the River City Post, the River City Enquirer, and the Sherwood Forest Bell.

  HENRY WESTERLY: To God

  As you know, before dinner we gathered in the living room to compose the obituary. It was Philip who remembered to do it. He thought we should collaborate, and he got the card table and we sat around it, three of us, Philip, Mother, and I. Melanie and Patty were in the kitchen cooking the dinner, to spare Mother. Melanie was glad to stay out of it, but Philip called Patty in every so often to take a look and make suggestions.

  The scribe was Philip, who proposed most of the phrasing (worrying a lot about newspaper style and subordinate clauses), writing it down and reading to us, so that we could make contributions. He was concerned about dates, though Mother knew most of them pretty well. She wasn’t sure when Father graduated from college so we left that out, and there was an argument about which year he became Dean at River City, but Philip remembered it was the year he went to Europe, so that was all right.

  When Philip asked if we should say anything about Father’s childhood, Mother wanted to mention his music and the sonata he wrote, but I objected, I thought it would sound silly in a dignified notice, considering that nothing ever came of it, so Philip left it out. When Philip asked for characterizations of his work, Mother mentioned racial integration because he got praised for it, but most of the language about how liberal he was and the good things he did was Patty’s, who came in from the kitchen and reeled it off while Philip copying toned it down. The phrase about defending the arts surprised me, but Patty reminded us of Oh Calcutta, so we let it stay.

  If you see as deep into hearts as you should, you know I thought they were laying it on too thick about Father’s liberal good deeds, especially that about developing a climate of reward. It could provoke a sarcastic reaction. But do you see deep enough to know why I didn’t object? (When I talk to you, I never know how much I say is superfluous because you already know it.) It’s this: I didn’t want to call attention to myself, not right now, not in what might be thought a criticism of my father. As it happened, Philip raised the same objection, but Patty said it was important to correct Father’s reputation after all he had been through, and so they kept it.

  Philip thought we should say something about his geological work, but it was hard to think what. Mother wanted to call him a distinguished scientist, but Philip wondered if we could since he hadn’t written any books. He compromised by mentioning articles, though none of us knew what articles Father wrote, but he must have written some, since he couldn’t have gotten tenure if he hadn’t. It was Philip who wanted to add the stuff about his unpublished writing. Mother protested a little and wondered what unpublished writing there was, but Philip said it was an important part of his life and she said, If you say so, dear. I made a casual remark (I was trying to participate so that people wouldn’t think I was brooding or distracted) about Father’s pestering us to write things down, and Mother said that should be included, and Philip agreed because it followed smoothly after the unpublished writing. So then it occurred to me this would be a good opportunity to speak of the threat of television to civilization. This surprised them, which alarmed me. What Philip said was that he didn’t know Father was concerned about that. And it’s true he didn’t make a point of it, but I’m sure he believed it in his heart, just as I do. And whenever I think of the destruction of civilization there’s always an image of Father in my mind, so I believe my belief came from him, an inheritance, whether or not he stated it in outright words.

  It was Mother who put in the stuff about his life on the Island. Philip wondered about the Nature Society remark, how much the members appreciated Father’s professional expertise, which Philip was afraid might seem condescending. Especially as there are three other retired professors in the Society. Mother insisted they did appreciate him, and Patty came in saying if they didn’t they should, so Philip left it in. She leaned over his shoulder to see what he had written, and laughed (and God I still don’t know what to make of it when Patty laughs in that tone) and said we should also include the church picnics, so Philip added that, throwing in the young people on the Island because he was afraid it would seem an anticlimax and undignified otherwise, though I don’t believe anyone here knows any young people on the Island.

  When it wa
s done, Philip read it aloud and asked where to send it. I thought we should send different versions to the different papers: River City wouldn’t be interested in the Island news, and The New York Times would prefer another slant. But Patty said the papers would rewrite the obituary to suit themselves, and Philip was damned if he would write separate ones, so we ended up agreeing it wouldn’t make any difference. There was one logical booboo about the survivors that slipped by. None of us noticed until it was too late. I hope the editors fix it and it doesn’t make anyone laugh.

  Then dinner, seven of us at the table. You know how uncomfortable it was. Everybody talking about triviality. What a nice man Dr. Eastcastle was, what a fine job he had done for Father, being careful not to look at me. I mentioned this character Angel Vertebrate sent for by Sam Truro, but it was hard to sound natural. I wonder if you noticed how carefully they treated me, as if they knew but were willing to protect me. I could tell by how they glanced at me, as well as from the gentle tone in their voices speaking to me even when it was as trivial as pass this or that or would you like a roll, poor Henry, that sort of thing. Looking at me with carefully veiled incredulity, as if they realized again they didn’t know me and were trying to figure out who I was in this familiar appearance. My question to you: how can I deny it if they don’t accuse me?

  In the evening I went out for a walk. You know what I did, don’t you? Later I met William Key, who’d been out looking for a pickup somewhere, I suppose, the bastard.

  ANN REALM: Narrative

  Coming into the house she watched her mother, seeing with her own eyes what her mother saw, how every material thing was changed by what had happened in the hospital at 2:10 p.m. Transformation, Thomas’s things, everywhere altered: her mother saw this without a word. First the wheelbarrow on its nose by the garage door where he had left it two weeks ago. Indoors: his upholstered recliner which many had carelessly occupied while he was in the hospital, now occupied by a ghost. The magazine pile: Time, Nation, Review of Books. White toothbrush in the jar next to Mother’s green, his shaving mug, brush stiff with streaks of white residue. Male shoes under the bed. Hall closet, the red plaid jacket, the dark suitcoat on a hanger, the brown checked wool sweater.