Chapter 13
The Dung Ball Blooms
New Hampshire – August, 1970
Sloan dropped his suitcase and, leaning forward to sign the register, he announced, “Good evening. I have a reservation. Name’s Stewart.”
“Is this your first visit to The Orchard Inn, sir?” the concierge inquired.
“Well, yes and no,” he responded, “I actually worked here one summer quite a long time ago.”
“Oh, splendid,” she responded, “Then you should know where room 33 is located.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” he replied.
“Excellent, Mr. Stewart. Here is your room key. Please enjoy your stay with us. Oh, and your party is planning to join you in the restaurant at eight P.M.”
“Thank you,” he replied and, turning to locate his room, he halted a moment to admire the quite unchanged surroundings, a myriad of distant memories flooding over him.
As instructed, he appeared at the door of the restaurant precisely at eight and, spotting the couple at a nearby table, he strode forward.
Elise arose, saying, “Daddy, so good of you to come.”
“Elise, you look lovely tonight,” he responded and, affording her a fatherly embrace, he added, “Robert, it’s good to see you.”
“And you as well, sir,” Robert responded.
“To what do I owe this rather mysterious invitation, may I ask, and at The Orchard Inn, of all places?”
At this Elise volunteered, “We thought it only appropriate, given our news.”
“Oh, and what might that be?”
“I’m pregnant, Daddy. We wanted to tell you in person, as well as within special surroundings.”
“Oh! I say, congratulations are in order! That is indeed good news! When is the anticipated arrival?”
“Next January, the 31st, to be precise,” she responded, a giddy smile spreading across her features.
“That is indeed wonderful!” he responded, and so saying, he leaned forward to award her a fatherly kiss on the forehead.
Thereafter, they shared a pleasant dinner, something they had not found time to enjoy in quite some time. And when it was time to end the evening, Sloan arose, saying, “Well, I must get my beauty sleep. I’m not the youngster I once was, you know.”
At this, Elise grabbed his sleeve and, tugging him back down within his seat, she pled, “Please, Daddy, not quite yet. We have something further to impart this evening.”
Suddenly intrigued, he inquired, “What? What might that be?”
“We have a small gift for you, I’m afraid,” she admitted.
“A gift? What sort of gift?”
Robert now interjected, saying, “Sir, we are only too aware of the travails that you have suffered over the years, and we two agree that you are deserving of restitution.”
“Just so,” Elise supplemented in agreement, “Just so.”
“Right, I’m all ears,” Sloan responded vacantly.
“Now, I have an envelope,” she commented, “Within the envelope is a message. You are not to open it until you arrive at your destination, Daddy.”
He frowned and, arching one eyebrow in doubt, he observed, “I see, and what, pray tell, is my destination?” and so saying, he accepted the envelope as she thrust it forward, surveying it for a sign of familiarity.
“The lake,” Robert instructed, “You must go directly down to the lake.”
“I say, what sort of game is this?” Sloan blubbered quizzically.
“I assure you, Daddy, it is no game. Now do our bidding, if you please.”
At this remonstrance, he remained glued to his seat, defiantly staring the pair of them down.
Affording him her most insolent scowl, she now commanded with summoned bravado, “Daddy, stand up this instant, and do as I tell you. I must insist!”
Glancing dubiously at his daughter, he arose from his seat and grumbled affably, “Right, I see that I must do your bidding, but I shall take this up with you on the morrow, young lady.”
Pointing emphatically toward the exit, she exclaimed intrepidly, “Just go!” at which he strode dutifully from the room.
On arriving lakeside he tore the note open and, peering at it in the moonlight, he perceived the following:
You must go directly to the women’s shower room.
Baffled by this rather terse and mysterious message, he turned uncertainly and peered about him, eventually glancing in the direction of the dock. There fifty yards distant, he made out the selfsame dock of yore, conflicting memories flooding back in a veritable torrent.
But this time it seemed the dock was not to be his destination. Instead, he turned on his heel and headed for the women’s shower room. Arriving within, he observed an envelope taped to the far wall and, approaching it, he tore it open, finding the following message within:
Have a pleasant shower.
Removing his garments, he followed the instructions. Within moments a swimsuit-clad figure entered the room and, stopping short, she exclaimed matter-of-factly, “Sloan. Why am I not surprised?”
Continuing to lather himself nonchalantly, he inquired, “I say, however on earth are you, Sabrina?”
“Fine, and you?” she responded noncommittally and, surveying his sculpted physique, she volunteered, “I hear you’ve been on some sort of world tour. How did it go?”
“It wasn’t actually a world tour, but it went just fine.”
“Where did you go?”
“Mostly Egypt.”
“Did you see James along the way?”
“Why do you ask?” he prevaricated.
Eyeing him doubtfully, she exclaimed, “No one seems to know where he is. I just thought you might have seen him somewhere. Have you?”
“Why ever would I see James, Sabrina?”
Staring at him in shock, she announced, “My, what has got into you, Sloan? That’s the second question in a row that you’ve refused to answer. You used to answer any and all questions quite directly.”
Eyeing her suspiciously, he rejoined, “I discovered that approach could be improved upon.”
“Oh, God, I have no time for this prevarication. Just tell me what you were up to, Sloan. You did see him, didn’t you?”
“Yes, if you must know, I suppose I did.”
“I thought so,” she replied knowingly. “That was the reason you went away, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” he hedged yet again.
“I see I will have to drag it from you,” she posited, “So you followed him to exact revenge, right?”
“No, on the contrary, Sabrina,” he responded in denial, “He in fact followed me.”
“Why ever on earth for?”
“As you said – to exact revenge.”
Suddenly showing interest, she inquired, “And did he?”
“Did he what?”
“Obtain revenge, you idiot!”
“Let’s just say, he got his just reward,” Sloan murmured thoughtfully.
“What, you mean you killed him?”
“No, I did no such thing, Sabrina. You should know me better than that!”
“Is he dead then?”
“Let me put it this way – he is in the dung beetle’s hell.”
“What on earth does that mean? I’ve heard you mention the dung beetle’s den, but never the dung beetle’s hell.”
“Right, well, one must first sire offspring in order to be afforded the inviting comfort of the dung beetle’s den.”
“My, that is truly enigmatic. I think I liked you better the old way,” she responded in apparent confusion, “Do you suppose he will ever bother us again?”
“I promise you, Sabrina, he shall never bother us again.”
“That’s more like it – a direct answer!” She paused momentarily and, changing the subject, she inquired, “Why on earth are you here?”
“I might ask the same question of you!” he responded acerbically. “How exactly did
you arrive here, Sabrina?”
“I was given a note by our daughter, thereby commanding me to search out the women’s locker room. And so I did.”
“I see,” he observed, “But for what purpose have you journeyed to The Orchard Inn, Sabrina?”
“I see you’ve not heard,” she responded pointedly.
“Heard what?”
“I own The Orchard Inn,” she replied matter-of-factly.
“What! You own this entire inn? However did you manage that?”
“It was Isolde’s Aunt Fiona’s doing. Having no remaining living relatives, she left me her entire estate when she passed away recently. I had kept in touch with her over the years, and Fiona was well aware that I had been there for Isolde at the end.”
“So you bought this place. I say…good for you, Sabrina, good for you!”
“Actually, Aunt Fiona bought it. She willed it to me.”
“What! Why ever on earth for?”
“Let’s just say, she seemed to understand that I had ‘unresolved issues’. Frankly, I suspect that Isolde had a hand in it.”
“Ah, I see…Isolde, of course…that does indeed make sense,” he responded and, contemplating momentarily, he inquired, “Is it working out for you then?”
“Yes, I think so, at least, it is so far. Actually, I’m rather enjoying it, if you must know.”
The two stared at one another for a moment and, having apparently dispensed with the formalities, he now asked, “So, exactly what are the pair of us doing together in the women’s shower, Sabrina?”
“I should think it would be obvious - we were both commanded by our children to assemble here tonight.”
Pondering momentarily, he mumbled, “Yes, of course, you are so right…those two little sneaks!”
“Perhaps,” she replied evasively, “Do you suppose that they know something about the significance of this location?”
“Not a chance,” he replied. “I simply told Elise years ago that I was the lifeguard at The Orchard Inn. Wait a minute…suppose for a moment, just suppose - Isolde…also gave them something before her death…”
“Such as what?” she queried.
“It matters not exactly what, the point is - the two of us are here. And now I can answer the question you asked me two years ago.”
“What question is that?” she asked in confusion.
“You asked me why Isolde exposed James.”
“Ah, yes, now I remember…” she murmured thoughtfully, “And as I recall, you refused to tell me why.”
“Actually, I didn’t refuse to tell you why. I myself wasn’t certain at the time. But now I am.”
At this she glared at him and exclaimed, “Well, are you going to tell me why or not?”
“She did it for us, Sabrina.”
“What? You mean, so I could have my revenge?”
“No, it’s not that at all…”
Still confused, she inquired, “So, what is it then?”
“She created this moment for us. She always knew that her actions that night were our undoing, and she wanted to make amends. I suspect - no, I am certain of it - James’ undoing, as well as our presence within the shower at this moment, both are in fact Isolde’s doing. Of course, she did so unwittingly, but she nonetheless was partially at fault for the entire mess that summer. And, having discerned as much, she must have determined to make amends. Dear Isolde, what a wonderful gift she has given us.”
“Ah, I see,” Sabrina murmured, awareness finally coming over her, “I hated her guts, you know. All those years, thinking that she had enticed you into an affair, when in truth, she was our fairy godmother, secretly protecting us. She must have really loved you, you pervert.”
“Yes, so it seems,” he replied wistfully.
“The question is – what shall we do about it?” she responded thoughtfully.
A pensive silence now engulfing the pair, she eventually spoke first, offering, “Sloan, this is where it all started, all those years ago, and perhaps it is fitting that this is where it should finally come to an end,” and at this she offered, “I want to help you. I know that your dismissal from Harvard has been hard on you all these years. I have some money. Please, let me help you get back on your feet. I shan’t take no for an answer.”
“Thanks for the offer, Sabrina, but I’m doing just fine,” he responded in apparent rejection.
Clearly hurt by his rebuff, she retorted, “But I want to help you! No, actually, I need to help you. You cannot deny me this opportunity!”
“So you haven’t heard the news…” he rejoined with a slight frown.
“What news?”
“Harvard has reinstated me. I am once again a full professor, and at full pay. As a result of the revelations of late, my conviction for moral turpitude has been rescinded, there being no evidence other than the now refuted charges.”
“Oh, Sloan!” she responded with genuine joy, “That is quite wonderful news, but you doubtless still need help to make up for the lost revenue.”
“Thank you,” he replied noncommittally, “But I’m afraid I don’t need your financial support.”
“Why can’t you simply accept my help, just this one time, you pervert?” she pouted.
“Because I really don’t need it – that’s why.”
“Oh?” she said, a perplexed frown clouding her features, “How so?”
“Right, first of all, there is the back pay, and then there are the punitive damages awarded to me for improper dismissal.”
“Oh?” she replied with interest, “How much does it amount to?”
“Almost two million,” he supplied nonchalantly.
“Oh, good for you, Sloan!” she exclaimed, a smile coming over her face, “But surely they can never fully repay you for your lost dignity.”
“Ah, but you see, Sabrina, I never lost that to begin with,” he denied, “I always knew that I was in the right.”
“Well, then, let me put it another way,” she corrected herself, “Your lost reputation.”
“Yes, there is that, but actually, if truth be told, I have managed to maintain that as well,” he proffered.
“What? How did you manage that?”
“I’m afraid that I have become a successful author.”
“An author?” she blurted in shock, “An author of what?”
“I am a novelist,” he said, shrugging his shoulders in apparent culpability.
“Really,” she responded doubtfully, “What exactly have you written?”
“I’ve written the first two novels in the Fairbourne Series. My penname is Parker Thorne.”
“Oh, my, I’ve heard of you!” she expounded and, pausing momentarily, she added uncertainly, “My goodness, I’ve actually read those novels!”
“I am flattered,” he murmured, “I certainly hope that you enjoyed them.”
“That is an understatement. I loved them! Aren’t they in fact bestsellers?”
“Yes, indeed they are.”
“Aren’t there more to come in the Fairbourne Series?” she cajoled wistfully.
“Yes, two more,” he informed her pleasantly, “I am in fact working on them at the moment.”
“So, you’ve actually been making a decent living, I take it,” she responded doubtfully.
“Yes, of course.”
“How many copies are you selling?”
“Perhaps two hundred thousand,” he suggested matter-of-factly.
“Two hundred thousand copies to date!” she exclaimed in wide-eyed surprise, “That’s not bad, Sloan, not bad.”
“Well, actually, it’s two hundred thousand per year per novel,” he corrected.
“I see,” she muttered thoughtfully, “With two novels, that amounts to four hundred thousand per year!”
“Well, actually, there are a few more,” he corrected yet again.
“A few more what?”
“Novels,” he grunted.
“What!” she exclaim
ed and, realizing that he was being somewhat withholding, she inquired inanely, “Just exactly how many novels have you written?”
“Under various pen names, seventeen so far.”
“Seventeen!” she cried incredulously, “Are all of them bestsellers then?”
“Well, er, yes, in a manner of speaking,” he prevaricated yet again.
“Alright, Sloan, cut to the chase. Just tell me exactly how many books you’ve sold to date.”
“I’m actually not quite sure…” he said uncertainly.
“Just guess!” she commanded.
“Well, let me see, seventeen times one million, perhaps a bit less. Let me see, I’d say fifteen million copies total.”
“My God, Sloan!” she exclaimed in obvious exasperation, “How much is the royalty on each copy?”
“On average, I’d say about three dollars.”
At this revelation she blubbered in disbelief, “My math sucks, just how much is that exactly?”
“The royalties are just over forty million dollars to date.”
“Oh…my…God!” she cried, her mouth agape, “You, sir, are a mega-millionaire!”
“So it seems, Sabrina, so it seems,” he responded uncomfortably and, changing the subject abruptly, he inquired, “And now, if I may be so bold – exactly why are you here with me in the middle of the night in this shower?”
She shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind and, somehow focusing on his question, she suggested surreptitiously, “Under the circumstances, it does seem the right place.”
At this admission, certain that he had yet again failed to live up to her expectations, he asked in evident concern, “Circumstances? Right place? What circumstances? Is something the matter, Sabrina?”
“Yes, well, you needn’t worry,” she offered serenely, “It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”
“My, we are mysterious tonight,” he responded vacuously, a furrowed brow spreading across his features.
Staring at him enigmatically, she eventually offered, “It appears that Isolde, in collusion with our children, thought that, in the light of recent developments, we should have a ‘talk’.”
“Why ever for?” he replied in confusion.
“I knew you’d say that!” she responded. “Let me simply say, it is time to rectify an old mistake on my part.”
Still baffled, he replied, “Mistake? What sort of mistake?”
“I’ve never told you this, Sloan. I thought about it that night, the night before I left the inn.”
“Thought about what, Sabrina?”
“I thought about coming to you later, after the shower thing. Just think about it, had I come to you then, perhaps none of this would have happened. Had I come to you when I should have, our lives would have been much different, and most likely for the better.”
“I say, you may be right!” he responded, realization coming over him, “But it’s all water under the bridge, as they say. So what exactly is your point?”
“So now, it seems I have been offered a second chance,” she proffered, an impish grin appearing on her face, “And I shall not fail you this time!”
“Fail me?” he replied vacuously, “How so?”
“You know, you pervert,” she commanded imperiously, “Get over here this second, so I can tie your ass up!”
His concern mounting rapidly, he nonetheless followed her instructions, shortly finding himself bound ingloriously to the shower head. “Well, this is certainly embarrassing,” he mumbled disconsolately.
“Just so,” she responded disdainfully, “As only I could know.”
“Forgive me for being so blunt, Sabrina, but what has got into you?”
Eyeing him obliquely she, apparently drawing out the moment for some unknown reason, eventually mumbled, “I suppose there’s no getting round it.”
“Getting round what?” he responded blankly.
“The truth,” she replied, “The truth, you pervert.”
At this thoroughly unexpected retort, he frowned and, glancing at her, he responded inanely, “The truth shall set you free, or so they say.”
“I doubt that very seriously,” she replied curtly, “But nonetheless, I’m afraid that there are things that must be said.”
Still uncertain as to her intent, he could only nod his assent.
Determination suddenly apparent upon her features, she proffered, “Thanks so much for allowing me this moment of superiority. I confess that I quite needed it in order to find the nerve…”
“Nerve? Nerve for what, Sabrina?”
Emitting an audible sigh, she at length found her resolve, announcing, “Dear Sloan, I’m afraid I’ve been quite in error.”
“What?” he blurted, “Whatever about?”
“About everything, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Shut up! Just bear with me, as this is all quite difficult for me. Let me see here, where shall I begin?” And at this, she pursed her lips and, staring into space, she appeared to gather her thoughts. “So, I’m afraid I must dredge up that summer yet again. You see, I’ve avoided it for far too long…you hurt me badly, you know…”
Sensing that this was not the time for reprisals, he murmured softly, “I know, and I am so sorry for it.”
“Thank you, Sloan. I believe that’s the first time you’ve ever expressed regret to me over your actions that night,” and, smiling ever so slightly, she now added, “I have only begun within the past two years to understand your full intent on that night long ago. You see, I’ve spent well more than half my life under the firm conviction that your intentions that night were entirely sordid and deceitful. It was only recently that Isolde’s revelations began forcing me to reevaluate my estimation of your seemingly reprehensible actions.”
“I see,” he responded, although he really didn’t.
“At long last, I can say this to you, Sloan – the horrid reprisal that you forced upon me that night did me a world of good. It did in fact teach me an important lesson. And for that I am most thankful to you. Had it not done so, I would most assuredly not be here at this very moment, explaining myself to you. But, despite the fact that I considered your actions deceitful, I was at the same time forced to face my own abhorrent actions, and I am confident in saying this – I am much the better person for it.”
“My goodness, I don’t know what to say, Sabrina,” he responded carefully.
“Yes, well, there is more,” she murmured and, gathering herself yet again, she plunged onward, “You see, my mistaken image of you, one which was born that very summer, carried me forward for years to come, and each time that you came to me with one of your seemingly hair-brained explanations for your problems, I immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion.”
“I know that. You thought I was lying. All those years, you were convinced that I was dishonest.”
“Yes, precisely, and in so doing, I maligned you quite despicably.”
“Yes, I am aware of that, but in truth, the blame is partly mine. After all, I am the one who by his own actions led you to a thoroughly incorrect opinion of me.”
“Two years ago I would have agreed with that assessment but, standing here tonight, knowing what I now know, I beg to disagree. The fault is neither mine nor yours. In all honesty, we have both been duped by a heinous creature, one who slinked about behind our backs, perpetrating actions time and again that were designed to bring about our mutual destruction.”
“Ah, so I gather that you have read Isolde’s exposé.”
“Yes, and I am so ashamed, Sloan. I had no idea…you were never at fault, not a single time. In all those years, when you kept claiming to me that it was none of your doing, you were ever truthful with me, whereas I failed you, each and every time. I am so sorry - I failed you ever so badly. You were my husband and, being your faithful wife, I should have listened and provided support. Instead, I fell into his carefully laid trap, becomin
g, next to him of course, your worst enemy.”
“Yes, well…” was all he could think to utter.
Continuing, she announced earnestly, “But you on the other hand, you never stopped, you never gave up. You somehow maintained your adoration for me, despite my rather callous treatment of you. I must tell you, I admire you so much for that.”
“Thank you,” he responded, sensing that any further response might break her train of thought.
She halted momentarily, then murmured apprehensively, “There is one incident that wasn’t covered in Isolde’s exposé.”
“Oh? What might that be?”
“The camping trip, when you all went skinny-dipping in the lake that night.”
“Right, what about it?”
“What was James’ part in that?”
“Nothing, nothing at all,” he responded in confusion.
“So it was your idea to go swimming naked!” she confirmed accusingly.
“Of course it was,” he confessed, “You already knew that, Sabrina.”
“So you are a pervert!” she exclaimed.
Smirking at her momentarily, he explained, “I ask you, a naïve twenty year old man, head over heels in love with a gorgeous young woman, gets drunk and, in a poorly conceived ploy, attempts to coax her into swimming naked on a moonlit night, is that perversion? If so, then count me a pervert!”
“What!” she exclaimed in surprise.
“What what?” he in turn exclaimed in confusion.
“You were in love with me?”
“Of course I was in love with you. I was always in love with you. From the very first moment I saw you, I was in love with you.”
Eyeing him anxiously, she subsequently inquired fearfully, “Is there no present tense then?”
“What? What are you talking about - verb tenses?”
“Yes,” she replied definitively.
He peering pensively at her and, his eyes suddenly lighting up in comprehension, he responded matter-of-factly, “The present tense applies as well.”
A sheepish grin coming over her face, she queried astutely, “Oh? That being the case, exactly how might one use the present tense?”
All too aware that she was the type that demanded things to be spelled out, he responded with a sheepish grin of his own, “Dear Sabrina, I have loved you my whole life. I never stopped loving you. Indeed, I confess that I love you at this very moment more so than I’ve ever loved you in my entire life.”
At his quite exquisite deployment of the requested verbage, she giggled blithely, saying, “You always were the one to answer honestly, but that response takes the cake!” Slowly, her mood changing noticeably, she inquired penitently, “My dear Sloan, can you ever forgive me?”
Contemplating a moment, he said, “I shall forgive you only if one condition is met. What say you, will you consider my condition?”
“Yes, of course,” she responded.
“Alright then, here is my condition – you shall never ever call me pervert again. What say you to this condition?”
A tiny smirk now appearing on her face, she rejoined, “Certainly, you dear pervert, I promise, I shall never ever call you pervert again.”
“Excellent, at least I think. Second condition, and this one is quite simple, you shall immediately consent to marry me once again, and you shall promise to spend the remainder of your natural life as my lawfully wedded wife.”
Her visage suddenly turning solemn, she retorted, “You go too far, Sloan. Besides, that is two conditions! I must have time to consider such stringent requirements.”
“How long do you need?”
“That depends on a condition that I’m afraid I must in turn require of you.”
Sensing his supposed advantage slipping away, he responded, “Oh, and what might that be?”
“Well, in all fairness, it is also two conditions.”
“Whatever. Please continue, Sabrina.”
“Certainly. Condition number one,” she exclaimed, “You must promise to revert to your old self, answering any and all questions directly.”
“Well, I don’t know…” he responded with feigned acrimony.
“Shut up,” she interjected brusquely, “Promise me!”
“Alright, I promise, but only for you. I reserve the right to prevaricate to others when necessary.”
“Excellent. Condition number two, you must agree to enact the infamous shower penance upon me whenever I falter, so as to always keep me upon my toes, wanting, needing, indeed – loving you desperately, as I do at this very moment - for the remainder of our lives.”
At this, an impish grin coming over his face, he tugged his hands effortlessly free from the shower head, bounded towards her and, sweeping her into his arms, he whispered, “I consent, you naughty girl.”
“As do I, you nasty boy.”
Epilogue
As I mentioned at the outset of my story, I had little idea what my father meant when he pointed out the dung beetle’s den to me in the Egyptian desert all those years ago. However, by now it should be apparent to you, my children.
The dung beetle lives a quite unremarkable life, subsisting uniquely on the dung of others for the purposes of proliferating his offspring. In point of fact, he lives his entire life, surrounded by the very dung of the world, with little ambition for himself, his reward being nothing more than the success of his children. And this is why the Egyptians considered the dung beetle a god. I, a dung beetle, have lived my life within the dung beetle’s den.
Upon returning to the law office of Squires, Dudley and Millhouse, you shall forthwith be presented with my original will, one could even say, my ‘dung ball’. It may surprise you to know that you and my daughter, your lovely wife, are the sole beneficiaries of that dung ball. It may also surprise you to know that the dung ball in question has grown quite large.
My charge to you, my children, is to employ that dung ball to make the world a better place. How you accomplish that is your affair, but know this - your success is my reward, and for that I thank you, for you have indeed made me a god. And should you succeed in creating your own dung ball, I assure you that you, too, shall someday become beetle gods.
My Father the God Page 18