“Most important ideas still probably start with physical acts, Carter,” I say (his friend). “You’re an old classicist. Maybe what you need to do is get off your butt and stir up some dust.”
Carter stares at me a long moment and says nothing, but is clearly thinking. Finally he says, “You know, I am still in the Active Reserves. If Bush could get a little conflict fired up when he gets in, I could be called up for serious midlife ass kicking.”
“There’s an idea, I guess.” My daughter’s red bow is attached to my little finger like a reminder, and what I’m reminded of is my LICK BUSH sticker, which I’m sorry Carter hasn’t seen. Though this is enough, and I ease my car down into gear. The limo’s taillights brighten at Venetian Way, swing left and glide from sight. “You might arrange to get yourself killed doing that.”
“I-BOG is what we used to say in my platoon: In a blaze of glory.” Carter mugs a little and rolls his eyes. He’s no fool. His fighting days are long over, and I’m sure he’s glad of it. “You relatively happy with your current life’s travails, ole Franko? Still planning on staying in town?” He does not exactly mean “travails” but something more innocent, and smiles at me with purest, conversation-ending sincerity built upon the rock of lived life.
“Yep,” I say, with goodwill in all ways equal to his. “You already know I believe home’s where you pay the mortgage, Carter.”
“I’d think real estate might get a little tiresome. About as ridiculous as most jobs.”
“So far, not. So far it’s fine. You oughta try it, since you’re retired.”
“I’m not that retired.” He winks at me for reasons that aren’t clear.
“I’m headed for the parade, ole Knott-head. You endure a fine Independence Day.”
Carter snaps up a crisp, absurd little army salute in his colorful poolside attire. “Ten-four. Go forth and do well, Cap’n Bascombe. Bring back glory and victory or at least tales of glory and victory. Jefferson still lives.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say, slightly embarrassed. “I’ll do my best.” And I motor off into my day, smiling.
And that is simply that. The whole nine yards, that which it was all about for a time, ending well, followed by a short drive to a parade.
There is, naturally, much that’s left unanswered, much that’s left till later, much that’s best forgotten. Paul Bascombe, I still believe, will come to live with me for some part of his crucial years. It may not be a month from now or six. A year could go by, and there would still be time enough to participate in his new self-discovery.
It is also possible that I will soon be married, following years supposing I never could again, and so would no longer view myself as the suspicious bachelor, as I admit I sometimes still do. The Permanent Period, this would be, that long, stretching-out time when my dreams would have mystery like any ordinary person’s; when whatever I do or say, who I marry, how my kids turn out, becomes what the world — if it makes note at all — knows of me, how I’m seen, understood, even how I think of myself before whatever there is that’s wild and unassuagable rises and cheerlessly hauls me off to oblivion.
Up Constitution Street, from my car seat, I now can see the marchers passing beyond crowded spectators’ heads, hear the booms of the big drums, the cymbals, see the girls in red and white skirtlets high-prancing, batons spinning, a red banner held aloft ahead of flashing trumpets borrowing the sun’s spangly light. It is not a bad day to be on earth.
I park behind our office and beside the Press Box Bar, lock up and then stand out in the noon heat below a whitening sky and begin my satisfied amble up to the crowd. “Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom! Hail to the victors valiant, hail to the conquering heroes …” Ours is a familiar fight song, and everyone up ahead of me applauds.
Late last night when I was dead asleep and the worst of my day’s events were put to rest after a long trial-by-error followed by the reemergence of some small hope (which is merely human), my phone rang. And when I said hello from the darkness, there was a moment I took to be dead silence on the line, though gradually I heard a breath, then the sound of a receiver touching what must’ve been a face. There was a sigh, and the sound of someone going, “Ssss, tsss. Uh-huh, uh-huh,” followed by an even deeper and less certain “Ummm.”
And I suddenly said, because someone was there I felt I knew, “I’m glad you called.” I pressed the receiver to my ear and opened my eyes in the dark. “I just got here,” I said. “Now’s not a bad time at all. This is a full-time job. Let me hear your thinking. I’ll try to add a part to the puzzle. It can be simpler than you think.”
Whoever was there — and of course I don’t know who, really — breathed again two times, three. Then the breath grew thin and brief. I heard another sound, “Uh-huh.” Then our connection was gone, and even before I’d put down the phone I’d returned to the deepest sleep imaginable.
And I am in the crowd just as the drums are passing — always the last in line — their boom-boom-booming in my ears and all around. I see the sun above the street, breathe in the day’s rich, warm smell. Someone calls out, “Clear a path, make room, make room, please!” The trumpets go again. My heartbeat quickens. I feel the push, pull, the weave and sway of others.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The author of six novels and two collections of stories, Richard Ford has received the Pulitzer Prize, the PEN/Faulkner Award, and the PEN/Malamud Award for short fiction. His work has been translated into sixteen languages. He lives in Maine and New Orleans.