A
ny moment now, Ellen Maurits will wipe her sweating glass of ice across her forehead and sip from it what liquid has melted. She will put her hands on her dirty knees as she stands, having just finished digging the fourth and final hole for the rose bushes, and she will hear the familiar crack of her eighty-eight-year-old joints as she does so. Before she can go into the house to refill her glass and wash her hands, she’ll hear the slapping sound of bare feet on the driveway and see her grandson Felix stop in front of her, leaned over and panting. Shirtless, shoeless, without the bucket or bamboo fishing rod or anything he’d promised he’d be responsible enough to take care of alone. And before she can ask him about any of this, he’ll hand her a letter, without speaking, still breathless. She’ll barely have time to wonder where he got the letter—it will be too early for the mail—before she notices it’s from Felix’s older brother, August. She’ll feel herself lowering but won’t hear her knees cracking again, though they will be. Sitting on the ground at the border of the driveway and yard, she’ll see that the ink is smeared, like it was wet but has dried. She won’t have time to marvel that it is all somehow still legible, because she will already be skipping to the end of the letter, just as she always did when her brothers wrote home long ago from the war in Europe, to read “Love,” before she reads the whole letter, quickly at first, skimming, and then slowly, deliberately, to see that her grandson is coming home for good, finally. She’ll fix Felix a glass of lemonade and, when he has finished, tell him to put some shoes and a shirt on, and to go back to the park to pick everything up, and not to worry about catching carp, she’ll pick up some fertilizer. She’ll hear the screen door squeak and slam shut before she gets up to make phone calls. She’ll heat the coffee in the stove percolator. She’ll wash her hands so she can smooth the letter out on the kitchen table without getting more dirt on it. She’ll refer to it as she relays the news. Everything will have to be just right. Yes, she’ll get everything in order. She’ll return the red rose cuttings and buy yellow ones, just as her mother had for her brothers. Yes, that will be fitting.
38
SP R I NG 2013
“
Sara? It’s Sam. Listen, I need you to type up a letter and put it in Mr. Klein’s box before he gets in this morning.” “Is this about his dirty locker lately? I know he’s been—” “No. The Raskin boy is coming home.” “So what does that have to do with Mr. Klein?” “Mrs. Maurits called me this morning to remind me of my promise to give her grandson his job back.” “What about Mr. Klein?” “Ellen and I are old friends. And she’s right. I did promise.” “So that’s it?” “Sara, he knew this was temporary work.” “You’ll fire him? Just like that?” “No one will be fired. He will be let go.” “What’s the difference?” “He’ll be able to stay on a couple months, ‘til the next cycle begins.” “His divorce isn’t even final yet. Is there at least an open spot in Sorting?” “Sara, you know there isn’t.” “So that’s it?” “Type it and read it back to me.” “Sam, are you whistling?” “Yes.” “A man’s losing his job.” “Sorry.”
THE UNIVERSITY OF MEMPHIS