Orwell speaks
A false spring had accidentally summoned the crocuses. The eager little showoffs popped up weeks ahead of schedule. In the distance, above the rumble of cars and trucks thundering down the expressway, rose the twittering of hundreds of birds foolishly celebrating what they thought was the passing of winter.
From the elevation of the porch I surveyed the lawn, looking for that familiar white bundle that holds the news. This was the day of Orwell's operation. If ever a horoscope mattered, it was now.
I saw a paper in my next-door neighbor's driveway, and another in the driveway after that, and still more farther down the street. I saw one lying in the yard across the street and another at the house next door to it. But I did not see a paper in my yard.
I searched behind the tree and underneath the car. I looked in the bushes and even on the roof.
There was no paper. It had not been delivered to my house.
"Rats!" I said. "C'est dommage!"
With my father working on the house and my grandmother attending the sale at the department store at the mall, it was my mother who drove Orwell and me to the new veterinarian's office. She provided the alarming explanation en route.
"Your father has canceled the newspaper," she said, waiting for the light to change at an intersection as wide as a river. "He's trying to save us money."
"But I depend on the paper!" I cried.
"There's always the TV," she suggested. "Or the radio."
"They're not the same," I said.
"Well, we're all having to make sacrifices right now."
I did not wish to argue with my mother, but my father's frugal decision didn't make sense. The savings from canceling the paper couldn't be more than a few dollars. The information it had been bringing me was priceless.
At the corner of the vast and crowded intersection was an apartment complex whose big brick buildings stood in rows like brass bands in a parade. As my eyes automatically searched for something interesting to help them pass the time, they landed on what appeared to be an inverted mop in motion, a vaguely familiar object that I was startled to realize was the tousle-headed boy himself, leaving an apartment!
He was dressed in blue jeans, white tennis shoes, and a pale yellow shirt that reminded me of spring flowers. His light brown hair flew wildly as he walked toward the minivan I'd seen him get into once before.
"So that's where he lives!" I said softly.
"Where who lives?" my mother asked.
"Oh, just somebody from school," I sighed, remembering how badly I'd monkeyed up my French.
"I lived in a place like that nearly my whole life," my mother said.
"You did?"
"Uh-huh. In fact, until your father and I got married, I had never lived in a real house at all," she confided.
"Oh," I said.
"My house means a lot to me," she continued. "I don't take it for granted."
"And now you've got a rabbit living in it," I said apologetically.
"Well," she smiled, "as rabbits go, he's a pretty nice one."
It's a funny thing about parents. You think you know them pretty well and then one day they let something slip and you see them in a brand-new light.
Because of school, I couldn't stay with Orwell during his operation. The new veterinarian advised against it anyway.
"We'll call you as soon as we're sure of his condition," he promised.
There was nothing left to do but hurry to school, put my brain on "worry," and offer up a prayer.
"Please, God," I said, entering the familiar broccoli-smelling building as the last bell of the morning echoed down the hall. "Please look after your rabbit. Thank you."
That day was the longest day of my life. Math class went on into infinity. In history, the teacher tediously traced the entire Lewis and Clark expedition to the edge of the American continent and back again. Even P.E., normally a welcome break for me, ran in slow motion. Basketballs thrown into the air took forever to fall into the net, like pancake crumbs drifting down through syrup.
By afternoon the false spring had faded. The wind rose. The temperature fell. And still the day crawled on.
Never have I felt so helpless.
Never have I felt so trapped.
When I finally did get home, there was still no news about Orwell. I fixed a snack and turned on the TV, but even the world's greatest mind-numbing machine failed to work on my worried brain. I couldn't stand to wait any longer. I reached for the phone, and just as I did, it rang.
"Your rabbit is a lot tougher than he looks," the new veterinarian said, although I had trouble hearing him over the pounding of my heart. "He's been through a lot these past few weeks. It took a little longer to piece him back together than I'd originally thought."
"Is he alive?" I gasped, my first exhale since picking up the phone.
"Oh, yes, but he's sleeping, of course. He did pretty well, I think, but it will take some time to know if he'll recover all his motor functions."
"You fixed his motor?"
The new veterinarian laughed. "Actually, I wish it were that simple. Your rabbit sustained a moderately severe spinal injury and that's sometimes worse than it sounds, but he's survived being reassembled, minus a faulty part or two, so that's a good sign. From here on out, it's up to him and Mother Nature."
The new veterinarian said that if Orwell didn't take a turn for the worse, he might be able to come home in a few days.
After I hung up the phone, I just stood there breathing.
"Merci," I said to my grandmother and all of her connections. "Merci" I said to God.
Mother Nature, it seems, has trouble making up her mind. That night it snowed. Fat, fluffy flakes drifted down from salt-shaker clouds.
My grandmother, remembering my earlier request, brought me a pillow she'd picked up on sale at the department store at the mall. It was something of a snowflake itself, big, round, and soft—almost too fat for its pillowcase. When I lay my head down on it, it wrapped itself around my ears, softening the sounds from other rooms.
Because of it, I dreamed a brand-new dream that night. One that was rich, colorful, and strange. I dreamed that I was an explorer leading an expedition into a vast and rugged land where no English-speaking person had dared set foot before. With me were two companions, Orwell, my faithful rabbit, and the tousle-haired boy from school.
The boy served as my interpreter, since the native people we encountered spoke nothing but French and I found spoken French to be as foreign as Chinese. What we were searching for was never clear to me. Dreams have a way of keeping secrets from the dreamer. But I remember well the feelings that I felt. One of these was that I'd known the tousle-haired boy all my life.
"How can you understand what these people are saying?" I asked him.
"It helps if you let them keep talking," he replied. "Most people just interrupt."
"And what are they saying now?" I asked him.
"They say we should follow the river."
"But which way?" I asked. "This is where the river divides!"
"They say you should follow the one that lies closest to your heart," he answered.
"That's easy," I said, remembering what I'd learned in science class about the placement of the major organs. "We will take the fork on the left," I announced.
It was then that I dreamed that Orwell spoke, even though his mouth never moved beyond an isolated twitch, and he never uttered a sound before or since. Somehow, though, I'm pretty sure, it was Orwell who pronounced these seven dream words to me that night:
"Not so fast. See it another way."
The collected works of Orwell
Habit rules when the brain does not. The next morning, I was outside in the snow searching in vain for a snow-colored newspaper when I suddenly remembered that it wasn't coming anymore. I stretched my arms, breathed in the cold, crisp, diesel-scented air and looked around again, just in case.
There were faint tracks in the shallow snow, mostly dog footprints, includ
ing one set from the fat family dog who followed me out the door, but also some that could have been squirrels and one set that I was pretty sure had been put there by a rabbit.
In the distance, I heard the slowly rising rumble of commuters launching themselves onto the expressway. From across the street came a sudden burst of shouts, followed by the drumlike banging of pots and pans.
I felt disoriented without my horoscope. I didn't know what to do with my time. Orwell was at the new veterinarian's office. And it would be an hour before any other member of my family got out of bed.
I went inside and sat down at the kitchen counter without turning on the light. The weak aroma of last night's dinner hovered around the stove. Hamburgers slightly overcooked in the cast iron skillet. Frozen French fries baked and salted on a cookie sheet. A pot of peas with butter. Lettuce and tomatoes in a blue ceramic bowl. Scents, dreams, thoughts—even words—they all try to stick around, but we ignore them, so they leave.
This gave me an idea. I retrieved my backpack from where I'd left it by the kitchen door and wrestled my green three-ring binder from the jumbled mess inside. I would write down everything the rabbit had ever told me, like a real detective, or a proper historian, would have done all along.
It took every bit of the time that fortune had allotted me that morning, but I completed my self-imposed assignment and produced a list that looked like this:
UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. WATCH FOR SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS.
STAY TUNED FOR AN IMPORTANT NEWS BULLETIN.
KEEP ALL FURTHER COMMUNICATIONS UNDER YOUR HAT.
BRONCOS TRAMPLE FALCONS 34–19.
GRAB SECOND RING.
THE MEANING OF LIFE IS TO SEE.
LEARN BY DOING. THERE'S NO OTHER WAY.
UNDERSTAND YOURSELF AND YOU WILL UNDERSTAND EVERYTHING.
WHAT YOU CHOOSE TO DO TODAY MATTERS.
BE WHO YOU REALLY ARE ALL DAY.
THINGS ONLY SEEM IMPOSSIBLE BEFORE THEY HAPPEN.
YOUR SISTER WANTS YOU FOR A FRIEND.
YOUR MOTHER NEEDS HELP AROUND THE HOUSE.
STUDY SCHOOL BOOKS TONIGHT. POP QUIZ TOMORROW.
IT'S NOT WITH THE TONGUE WE SPEAK.
WHY NOT TAKE YOU-KNOW-WHO FOR A WALK?
JE VOUS EXPLIQUE POUR QUE VOUS COMPRENIEZ.
(I AM EXPLAINING TO YOU SO YOU WILL UNDERSTAND.)
TRY 4-19-21-22-27-12.
LUCK MARKET IS CLOSED. TRY AGAIN LATER.
BETWEEN RABBIT AND GIRL LITTLE DIFFERENCE EXISTS.
LOVING ACTIONS MUST START WITH LOVING THOUGHTS.
THE GREATEST GIFT WE GIVE IS OURSELVES.
I left out the secret knock, since it was more of a signal than a complete message. I couldn't decide what to do about the dream advice, though, since I couldn't be sure that the words I had dreamed actually came from Orwell. Finally, I did add the phrase, but I put an asterisk at the end of it.
22. NOT SO FAST. SEE IT ANOTHER WAY.*
Looking it over, I couldn't help but notice that there wasn't really that much to go on. There were messages that suggested that I pay attention to other messages. There were messages obviously about specific events on certain days and intended just for me. And there were messages that I supposed might be useful to any person, anytime.
As I struggled to figure out the words on this short list, I was reminded of the book we use in church, where the actual words the main person spoke are few and far between, and the majority of the book is filled up with other people trying to explain what he meant by them. Complete understanding of the Book of Orwell could be a long time coming.
Of course, that's just one way of looking at it.
Home again
While Orwell was in the hospital recovering from surgery, I called to check on him every day, once before I left for school, and again when I got home. Every time I called, he was sleeping. But on Friday, the veterinarian said, "This rabbit is ready to be transferred to a nursing home. Does yours have room for him?"
"You bet!" I replied.
My father took me to the pet store to buy a proper rabbit cage and other supplies so that Orwell could stay in my room. Then we hurried to pick up the patient.
Orwell was waiting for us at the front desk in a white cardboard box with round holes in the sides. I wanted to give him a hug, but because of his recent surgery, I scratched his bumpy head instead.
"Am I ever glad to see you alive!" I told him.
He laid back his ears and nuzzled my hand with his weakly vibrating nose.
Safely home, I set up his cage on a LEGO table I'd placed by the windows. I lifted Orwell out of the box with both hands as the veterinarian had instructed, and set the rabbit carefully into the center of the cage on a carpet of fresh, aromatic pine shavings.
Orwell sprawled on his stomach with his tiny legs trailing behind him like the tail of a kite. He made no impression in the pine litter. The poor little guy weighed next to nothing.
Orwell was in as bad a shape as I've ever seen him, worse than the day I found him in the front yard, worse than the time he got carried off by the Irish setter. He was a limp and nearly lifeless rabbit now, a rabbit skin filled with loose and leftover parts, a beanbag toy and little more.
How much luck did he have left? I wondered.
"Can he walk yet?" My sister and her wily cat had followed me into my room.
"I don't think so," I answered. "It's not supposed to happen that fast." Then, so I didn't attract bad luck by expressing too much wishful thinking, I added, "If it ever does."
"Then why is he in a cage?" she inquired.
"I'm not sure," I replied. "Maybe it's to protect him from your cat."
"He won't hurt Orwell. He's just curious about anything new."
It was true that the cat was always the first to inspect any box or shopping bag brought into the house. No sooner would you set it on the floor than he'd sniff it, walk around it, climb into it, sit on it, and generally claim it for his own until he eventually got bored and moved on.
Now the inquisitive feline had his face up to Orwell's wire mesh door. He stared blankly at the quiet rabbit and swished his tail.
"I don't know," I said. "It looks to me like he wants to eat him."
"I don't think he could," my sister said. "They're almost the same size."
Suddenly, in a single, skillful bound, my sister's cat leapt onto the top of Orwell's cage. He stretched out his full furry length, placed his head down on the wire, and studied the little rabbit from above.
Orwell seemed unperturbed.
As my sister and I continued to observe, the acrobatic cat rolled over on his side, rested his head against his forelegs and, as cats around the world are so adept at doing, promptly fell asleep.
"He doesn't look very dangerous to me," my sister said.
Soon the old dog came padding in, his belly barely clearing the carpet. Seeing the cat and the rabbit apparently enjoying an afternoon snooze, he decided to join them, collapsing like a deflated beach ball at the foot of the platform supporting Orwell's cage.
"That's strange," I said. "I thought they were natural enemies."
"People can change, you know," my sister said, an accidental insight that burst from her mouth like the burp that follows swallows of fizzy soda.
"Well, Orwell," I said, "you sure have a knack for making friends. I guess we're going to have to extend the visiting hours a little tonight."
The wheel of fortune
There is nothing unusual about the sight of FOR SALE signs in my neighborhood. People come and go for many reasons. So when the school bus dropped me off one chilly afternoon and a freshly planted FOR SALE sign beckoned from the house across the street, I barely even noticed, dismissing the commonplace placard with, "Cela m'est egal" ("It's all the same to me").
But once I got inside, it was a different story.
"Did you hear?" my father asked. "The what's-their-names, you know, the people who live across the street? They won the lottery yesterday! Can you believe it?"
"I was always meaning to speak to her," my mother said. "But I never had the time."
"Wait a minute!" I interrupted. "You mean the people who live directly across the street? They won the lottery?"
"That's right," my mother said. "Isn't it amazing? I've never known anyone who won the lottery before."
"You still don't," my father said. "You've never actually met them."
"I've waved," my mother corrected him, "as I was backing out of the driveway. That counts."
"Not for much," my father said.
"You mean," I continued in my astonishment, "the house across the street, the one with the FOR SALE sign?"
"That's the one," my mother said. "You can hardly blame them for wanting to move, now that they're rich and all."
"Why should he turn out to be the one who gets rich?" my father lamented. "Of all the dumb luck! So close and yet so far!"
I couldn't stop asking the same question over and over. "Those people? That house? That driveway? The one you would come to next if you were driving down the street to our house in a car, or a school bus, or on a bicycle, or in A NEWSPAPER TRUCK?!!"
"What are you talking about?" my father said. "The house right over there. The one with the rusted tricycle in the bushes."
"Maybe I should bake them something," my mother said.
"I doubt they're hungry," my father responded. "Besides, they're leaving."
"Yeah," I said, "with my money."
"I'm sure everyone feels they should have won," comforted my mother.
I went to my room to complain to Orwell about being skunked again by fate. Obviously, the people across the street had wound up with a newspaper intended for me. Orwell must have put the winning numbers in my horoscope before he went in for his operation, not knowing that my father had just canceled our subscription.
Rats, rats, and double rats! What good was luck if it kept missing you all the time?
The meaning of money
Sitting in my room with Orwell, agitated about the loot landing at the wrong house, I eventually recalled the rabbit's recent dream suggestion to try to see things in a different light. And so, with reluctant effort, I forced a revised theory to percolate in my brain.
Orwell's Luck Page 6