Never, I said. Never mind. We used to know each other.
I was about to turn on my heel and leave when he opened the door a crack wider, and his one eye became two.
Thanks for collecting my numbers, he said. That was very thoughtful. But I don’t need them, he said. I’m making a new batch today.
Now that he’d said it, I could smell the wax, the piquant aroma of candle making coagulating behind him.
He reached down, touching the numbers I’d brought. His current choice, Old Reliable, the very scuffed wax 15, clinked gently against my collection.
So what do you want? Mr. Jones asked.
I leaned on his door frame.
I had no real reason except every reason. I had no real purpose except to tell him everything I noticed, to hear everything he noticed, and from both our not icings make some rules I could live by. Instead, I reached in my back pocket and pulled out the 50Unfolded its black numbers, sharp and unmistakable, and flattened it out with my hand until it faced him. It in no way resembled any of his numbers. But he was my favorite math teacher. He was the owner of the hardware store.
I wanted somebody to see, and I picked him.
This, I said. I found this. Do you recognize this at all? Did you happen to lose a 50?
He gave a wry smile. From the marathon, he said. He reached out his long slim fingers to it, tracing the curves.
Do you even go all the way up to 50? I asked.
He kept his fingertips on the plastic, going around the o, Siffiz of fingernail on a racetrack, slow. He let out a breath. I have up to 75, he said. Because I am a hopeful man. But I’ve never once worn 75, he said, I think I might die of pleasure. He sighed a bit.
Can you see it? You’ve got to be pretty much on top of the world to be wearing5 0You were 42 the other day, I said.
That was a marvelous day, he said. But besides that, the tops I’ve been in the last decade has been mid-3os. 37. Maybe 37, once. I think I saw that, I said. 37.
He looked at me, and his eyes grew tired, and seemed to know a lot about everything then. He smiled slightly. That 42 was a very good day, he said. Now that was a very very good day.
He fingered 15 around his neck.
Maybe the 50 fell out of your stack, I said, wanting to drag out the time.
I have no stack, he said. I use hangers.
Could you check? I asked. I would really appreciate that.
He leaned on the door frame himself. Mona Gray, he said, almost wistfully, as if just then remembering me.
Remember? I asked. I was the only kid who understood the numbers.
Today you’re 15. That’s not too good but it’s not miserable. It’s your most common choice. Could you see if your 50 is missing?
He shrugged. Why don’t you come on in, he said.
And with that, he opened his front door wide. He turned and went inside, leaving me at the door frame.
I just stood there for a second, and then, nervous, stepped into the dark wood-floored hallway, into the dark carpeted living room, which smelled strongly of wax and unlit pipes, unsmoked tobacco.
Most of the living room furniture was commonplace, with a dusty green couch and ivory curtains half-drawn. I could see through the window into his backyard, and on the edge I made out the familiar shapes of my parents’ shrubs.
But directly in the center of the living room, where most people had a coffee table, was a black pot that looked like a modest cauldron, bubbling up and dribbling over with wax. Itstood upon hot coals, trapped in some kind of tray, and a huge silver ladle with a wooden handle hung off its edge. The floor underneath it was covered with newspaper, to catch the drippings as they boiled over. Also on the floor, surrounding the cauldron, were number cutouts, made of tin. Scattered loosely, out of order. It smelled like a crayon factory. A few already-done numbers were hardening on the fireplace: 7-19Over that fireplace, strung along the walls, were hooks, but instead of holding paintings, they supported the old finished numbers, hanging there on their strings, in chronological order, bordering the house. There were spaces missing, for the missing numbers, more than even the collection I’d found. The numbers still hanging were all made of wax, with slight variations in color, and from where I was standing, I could see 6-28, winding through the walls of the room, back into the hallway where I lost sight of them. I put down the numbers I’d brought in a careful pile, and gravitated toward my age. Lifting it off the hook, I took it into my hands, and was holding it, my number of years alive, beige wax slightly warm in the afternoon sun, when Mr.
Jones returned, holding up a string on which dangled a fresh wax 5 0 Nope, he said. Look here.
I hung the 2o carefully back on its hook and nodded. His 50 was
perfectly shaped, unsullied by wearings, which made me sad. I Sig” folded up the marathon square, hiding the number, and held it, fingers by now used to the slip of the material, the toxic slide.
He shrugged again and returned the 50 to whatever room it inhabited.
Then he came back and walked over to the cauldron. Using the long metal ladle, he dipped into the wax and poured a spoonful into the stencil mold for a new 15. The wax spilled out, smooth and heavy, rich as chocolate but thicker and drier, and with that particular warm candle smell. It settled in the 15 evenly and began to set. He leaned down, as if with a lit birthday candle, and gently blew.
Where’d you find the cauldron? I asked.
His face was focused and clear. Hardware store of course, he said, blowing.
He rotated the 15 in his hands, letting the liquid, already hardening, slide into the details of the mold, the hat on the 1, the tight angle at the top of the 5. I stood close to the wall, one hand on the nubby wallpaper. I didn’t want to leave. I found the sight of him spilling warm wax into molds amazingly soothing.
I felt, by far, the calmest I had all week.
Why’d you take off those other ones? I asked. He picked up the ladle again.
Oh, he said, I suppose I’d had enough of them then. He smiled.
And now I want them back, he said.
He checked on the 15. The wax was gel ling almost hard by now.
Redipping the ladle, he put on a second layer, smooth and even.
I watched the wax roll around until it cooled and heavied, slowing. I was debating with myself whether or not it was rude for me to still
stand there, staring, when Mr. Jones looked up from blowing on his brand-new 15, and did the thing it took him ten years to do.
So, he said. What did happen to your father anyway? he asked. The man has faded. And you, he said. You faded, too.
He carried the new 15 over to the fireplace and carefully set it aside. Then he leaned down and picked up another stencil, the infamous and powerful 42-I was distracted by that for a second when I realized what he’d just asked. My heart rose up.
What? I said, holding up my arm, peach, to the partial light filtering in through the curtains. Look, I said. I’m not faded.
You faded too, he repeated. Faded, faded, faded. I saw those track meets, he said. You were so good, that stride of yours.
What? I said again.
I cheered and cheered even though you’d turned into a little brat by then, he said.
I quit the team, I said.
I know, he said emphatically. He picked up the ladle again. You were taking the makeup test in math class and told me, he said.
You were doing that odd thing with the pencil.
Wait, I said, you don’t even remember who I am.
He sniffed at that. Dipping back into the cauldron, he poured another thin layer of hot wax into the shape of the 42It crawled through the mold, taking on the angles of the 4, spinning down the hunchback of the
2.
Anyway, he continued, I enjoyed myself so much at the track meet that I went back, but you were gone by then. I found another star but she wasn’t quite as good. Then I got pneumonia, that was a bad month. 6’s and 7’s.