“I could join the Socialist Party,” I said. “I suppose you could,” he said. “I read in a brochure that membership doesn’t cost much a year,” I said. “You just have to check the box that says ‘low income.’ Maybe I can even get a tax deduction for it.” “Except you don’t pay taxes,” Epsilon said. “And now I’m grateful,” I said, “because if I did, it would seem cynical to join.” “True, true,” Epsilon said. “Like all socialists, I would be the sweet and naïve type,” I said, “Unless I’m the exception that proves the rule.” Epsilon looked confused; again we had both fallen off the train of thought.
On my way home, I climb the hill next to the church. Up ahead, a man is shuffling along with a walker. I bet he can’t open jam jars either, but he probably has the courage to ask for help. It’s just me who doesn’t have the courage, and I could say that it’s pride, if I had anything to be proud of. Then I have a good idea: isn’t it true that putting other people down makes you feel better? And so I decide I’ll make it to the top of the hill before this bag of bones in front of me. If I win, I might have a reason to be proud.
My legs move as quickly as drumsticks, it turns out I can sweat after all, and I use words that I didn’t even know I knew. I’m actually a racewalker, and I want my footsteps to be so fast that the human eye can’t make them out. I get closer and closer to the old man and then I pass him. Passing people isn’t great for community-building, but it feels good, and I’m walking so fast that I nearly don’t notice the man behind the bushes, I jump when he’s suddenly there asking me the time. I collect myself and lift my heavy left arm, which I have to support with my right hand.
“It’s still half past nine,” I say, and remain standing there. I’m a soldier at her post, my unsteady limbs are rooted to the ground. Maybe he’ll need me for something else. I can’t put a single coherent thought together and I’m afraid anything I say will ruin the moment. I whistle a bit and try to ignore the banana he’s holding in one hand. I even manage a few real notes this time and smile cautiously, but he doesn’t smile back. He just says “well then” and turns and disappears into the trees. A little angel came down, said hello, and turned around.
That’s what I do too.
As I’m unlocking my apartment door, the neighbor’s door opens and June comes out. He stares at me without saying anything.
“You must have it really rough,” he says.
I don’t know what to say, what can I say?
I can’t open the jar of jam and so I eat five slices of plain bread. What’s the point of spreading something on bread, anyway?
“Do you remember when we took the bus to the mountains and picked berries? A silly idea, when you think about it,” I said. Epsilon and I were eating soup, strange that it was such a short time ago. “Berry picking was a great tradition in my family,” Epsilon said, as he had so many times before. Perhaps he blamed me for putting a stop to it. “My mother was best at it,” he said. I never met Epsilon’s mother, but I can picture her clearly. “I followed you to the very back of the bus,” I said, “and then we waited for the bus driver, who was still loading the bags.” “I was looking forward to a vacation,” Epsilon said, “I was exhausted.” “When you put your head on my shoulder, I thought you were asleep,” I said, “and I felt quite serene. But then the bus next to us started and you jumped up and shouted, ‘We’re rolling, we’re rolling!’ ” “I thought our bus was rolling backwards,” Epsilon said. “The other passengers were giving you strange looks,” I said. “A few were laughing,” Epsilon said. “But luckily they soon got over it,” I said. “Except for that one guy,” Epsilon said, “who just sat and stared.” “It was weird,” I said. “But you asked him to stop,” Epsilon said, “and that wasn’t like you, I was surprised.” “Me too,” I said, “my heart was pounding for a long time.” Epsilon smiled at me across the table. “Your gums are a healthy color,” I said. I thought that boded well for the future.
I look out the kitchen window at the apartments in the building next door. It’s strange to imagine all those people living out their lives, completely unaware that Epsilon and I exist, and so what’s the point of having neighbors anyway? They walk around their apartments and act like they’re not going to die, but they’re going to die, the cashiers at the grocery store are going to die, and the old man with the walker is quite likely already dead now. You’ve earned your heavenly sleep, though our earthly sorrow’s deep.
~ ~ ~
I CAN BE A LOT OF FUN. I remember a joke I once made up: “Have you heard about the man who was so thin his pajamas just had one stripe?” I asked Epsilon. “Yes,” Epsilon said. “Impossible,” I said, “I just made him up.” “No, I’m sure I’ve heard of him before, Mathea,” Epsilon said. “Oh, yeah, you’re right,” I said. “Come to think of it, I remember a whole article about him in that senior citizens’ magazine Over Sixty.” Typical, you think up a good joke and it turns out you’ve heard it before. But I laugh anyway, and I tell Epsilon that I’m the funniest person I know. “You don’t know anyone besides me,” he says. “But still,” I say.
How sad it is for the world to have missed out on lively Mathea. But it’s sadder for me. So I’m sad for a moment, but then I decide to bury a time capsule. I push back the covers, haul my legs out of bed, and put my feet into Epsilon’s worn felt slippers. Then I walk into the kitchen and look under the sink. Back behind the buckets and rags is an old cardboard box that used to hold bottles of detergent. Epsilon always buys in bulk, I have no idea why. The box says “Bulk,” and I guess that’ll have to be my legacy. I plop it on the kitchen table and think about it a while. Finally, though, I decide it won’t work. I need to bury something meaningful. I know what I have to do.
Epsilon sat there staring off into the distance, I thought he was calculating probabilities, but then he said: “I’m going to make you a pine box.” “But I’m not dead yet,” I said. Back then I had no problem joking about death. “Please don’t say things like that, Mathea,” Epsilon said. I was knitting an earwarmer with a bumblebee pattern, Epsilon had been having earaches, wet weather was always hard on him. “Trying to make earwarmers that look summery will be hard,” I said, “but I’ll give it a shot.” Unfortunately, we’d had to cut our camping trip short because our clothes and food and gear had gotten soaked, and there was no way to dry everything before the next downpour.
“I’ll make a little pine box,” Epsilon continued, “and you can put it next to your stuffed chair, which is actually my chair.” “But I’ve used it so much it won’t fit you anymore,” I said. “Anyway,” Epsilon said. “You can keep your knitting things in the box, I’ve already calculated the dimensions in my head.” He was gone for hours, he’s not very handy and he’d never been to the sawmill before. When I sing that folk song about the sawmill by the sea, he just half hums the refrain. Oh hovli-ruvli-ravli-rei. Hurrah! I’d just knitted the last stitch on the earwarmer when he came through the door carrying boards and a hammer and a folding ruler, along with the most expensive miter saw the store sold. “A clever invention,” Epsilon said. “This’ll make the box nice and smooth.” I stared at it for a long time. “It reminds me of something,” I said. “What?” Epsilon asked. “I don’t know,” I said.