Jeffrey
Mathews, cub reporter for one of New England's largest newspapers, scooped up
his pocket tape recorder and camera and headed for the apartment door.
It was Sunday morning and supposedly his day off.
But, if nothing else, Jeffrey was a hustler.
He was convinced that the way to beat his peers was to bring in a human
interest story that would catch the eye of the editor-in-chief.
"I
don't know when I'll be back," he announced brusquely to his young wife,
Peggy. "If I get onto something
good, I could be gone all day."
Peggy
smiled sadly at him and nodded that she understood.
She knew it was futile to argue that it was Father's Day
to beg him
to spend a little time with Richie just this once.
He would only blow up in her face, accusing her of not wanting him to get
ahead.
She
had tried every way she could think of to please Jeff, but nothing had worked.
He remained cold and aloof, even when they made love (if one could call
it that).
Had
Peggy known what was in her young husband's heart, she'd have been devastated.
For when she'd become pregnant with Richie, Jeffrey had secretly decided
that the whole marriage was a mistake. The
more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he'd have to shed
her and the kid. He needed to be
free of encumbrances
free to follow the stories around the world, wherever
they led him. Only that way did he
stand a chance of gaining national fame.
Jeffrey's
eyes scanned the apartment as his hand turned the doorknob.
He was at least decent enough, when he nodded back at Peg, to mask the
hatred he felt in his heart. On the
floor little Richie played with a toy truck, oblivious to his Daddy's departure
and to the fact that it was Father's Day. A
card, barely glanced at by Jeff, lay on the counter.
Peggy had guided Richie's hand to scrawl out "Love, Richie."
"Stupid,"
Jeffrey had thought when he'd read the card.
But again the decent part of him had concealed the truth.
"Thanks,
Richie!" he'd smiled. Little
Richie had smiled back, uncertain of why his father was talking to him.
He had already accepted the fact that the man called 'Daddy' didn't like
him very much.
Jeffrey
pulled the door shut behind himself, and with an angry sigh headed down the
hall. How could he have gotten into
this mess? He was indeed on the
horns of a dilemma. He had to be free! Yet he
knew that Peg would be crushed if and when he told her that he wanted a divorce.
Since
before Richie's birth he'd been secretly building a case for why they should go
their separate ways. He'd even toyed
with the idea of claiming that Richie wasn't his.
But the kid already favored him strongly.
Ironically enough, he resented it.
He
tossed his recorder into the front seat and headed north, out of the city.
It was a lovely June day, and he decided to stop in Gloucester.
There were pictures aplenty to be had in that venerable fishing port, and
perhaps he'd get the human interest story that he was looking for.
By
the time he'd entered Gloucester's city limits, Peggy and Richie had vanished
from his thoughts. He was already
thinking ahead to a seafood lunch in one of Gloucester's Mom and Pop
restaurants. Who could say
maybe
he'd find his story there, over a beer with an old salt.
Jeffrey
found a parking spot down on the waterfront, and strolled out along a fishing
pier. Fishing boats, large and
small, nuzzled the pilings with their matted rope and discarded tire bumpers.
The water made pleasant slapping sounds beneath him, and the air was
redolent with the smell of the ocean. Barnacles
and other crustacea festooned the pilings below waterline, and here and there a
small crab held fast to them. Little
needle-like fish plied the water.
This
was the life for him! Free to chase
the next story, wherever it waited to be found!
Down the pier a young man and woman approached.
They were talking and laughing, but Jeffrey couldn't yet make out their
words. The man pushed a stroller,
occupied by a little boy about Richie's age.
The kid was having a conversation with himself, looking all around with
new eyes filled with wonder.
"Boat!"
Jeffrey heard him exclaim, pointing a chubby finger at one of the moored
vessels. And then, "Bir',"
as one of the countless seagulls sailed by.
For an instant a pang of guilt tugged at Jeffrey's heart.
This was how kids learned about the world
by getting introduced to it
by their parents. He knew that
Richie's world would be the apartment walls all day.
Peg might make a quick run to the supermarket, but that would be it.
There'd be no boats
no seagulls for Richie.
But
although the family life might work for some guys, Jeffrey reminded himself
that it wasn't for him.
"Different
strokes for different folks," he muttered.
He
candidly studied the other man and his family as they approached.
"Probably
an engineer," he thought to himself. It
was the kind of job that accommodated a family life.
The guy probably made a good living.
His kid would go to college. But
engineers never became famous.
"Nothing
is free. Everything has its
price," Jeffrey rationalized, nobly thinking that it was the price he'd
have to pay for his climb to the top. Somehow
the idea that Peg and Richie would be the ones who really
paid the price got lost in his feelings of grandiosity.
The
happy family of three passed by, and Jeffrey continued on down the wharf.
At its end an old man sat fishing, his back to Jeffrey and his legs
dangling above the water, ten or more feet below.
As Jeffrey approached, the old man spoke without even glancing over his
shoulder.
"Sit
down," he invited. "You
look like you could use a story."
Jeffrey
was startled. Was it that obvious
that he was a reporter? The tape
recorder lay hidden in his jacket pocket. And
practically everybody carried a camera slung around their neck.
"As
a matter of fact, I could," he smiled uneasily, carefully seating himself
next to the gnarled old fisherman.
"Caught
anything?" he asked, trying to gain the initiative.
"Not
yet," the old man answered without giving him a glance.
"How
did you know I was a reporter?" Jeffrey pressed.
The old man didn't answer. His
pale blue eyes looked out across the harbor.
Jeffrey
studied the old boy's countenance. It
seemed almost biblical with its long, flowing beard.
The old man wasn't wearing a hat, and his white hair, unshorn for longer
than Jeffrey could guess, cascaded down over his shoulders.
Again
the old fisherman took Jeffrey by surprise.
"You
must want a story pretty bad, to leave your family on Father's Day."
Wariness
seized Jeffrey. The words smacked of
a scolding. And again, how could
this old geezer know
"Well,
here she is, then," the old man continued, pulling a folded paper from his
vest pocket. Jeffrey mutely accepted
the small wad. It had been folded on
itself several times, and was reduced to a small, stained and yellowed packet.
He began to unfold it carefully, lest he tear the fragile paper.
"Not
here! Don't read it here!" the
old man growled. "I'm done
fishin' for the day."
Jeffrey
nodded submissively at the wizened head and rose to his feet.
"Thanks,"
he mumbled. "I'll take a
look."
"You
do that, young fella," the old man answered with the trace of a chuckle in
his voice. "You take a real good
look!"
Jeffrey
glanced back up the pier. Not far
from the end was an empty bench, its back nailed to the pier's side rail.
He shuffled over to it and took a seat, carefully unfolding the ancient
sheet of paper. It was crisp, almost
like parchment. The title puzzled
him.
"To
God's Young Earthly Surrogates," it read.
What could that mean?
Jeffrey
glanced back at the old fisherman. With
a start he beheld only the empty pier's end!
"What
the
" he exploded out loud. The
old salt couldn't have slipped by him.
Jeffrey sprang to his feet and raced back to the pier's end, fully
expecting to see the old boy floating in the water.
But there were only the pilings and barnacles and crabs.
Light
headed and confused, he retraced his steps to the bench.
He spied a middle aged couple approaching from far down the pier, and
delayed re-opening the folded paper until they approached.
"Excuse
me," he said sheepishly as they drew nigh.
"Did you notice an elderly gentleman pass on your walk out
here?"
"Nope,"
the middle aged man answered amiably. "You're
the only person out here. We saw you
sittin' alone on the end yonder when we started the walk out."
Jeffrey
blinked and nodded mutely. Had he
been half the reporter he thought he was, he'd have instantly realized that this
was the story of a lifetime. but all
he could think was that someone was playing a trick on him. Was
this couple in cahoots with the old fisherman?
Would they enjoy a good laugh, in some waterfront bar, at his expense?
Jeffrey remembered the piece of paper, and again unfolded it
carefully. Beneath the title
appeared to be a story written in verse. Slowly
the look of skepticism in his eyes changed to one of interest as he read the
words:
To God's Young Earthly Surrogates
Sallow of
face, fallen from grace,
Bankrupt
of hope lay he,
Under the
moon, hard by a dune,
Next to a
lifeless sea.
Ravaged
and spent, beaten and rent,
Blood
seeping into the ground.
Cries of
despair, piercing the air,
They were
the only sound.
"Father
in heaven, savior of men,
Pity this
wretch, I pray!
Lift up
the weight, for it's too great!
Tell me I
need not pay
For the
foul deeds
for the bad seeds
Carelessly
sown in my life.
For the
sweet child, spurned and reviled,
For the
love kept from my wife!"
High in
the sky, deaf to his cry,
Ominous
storm clouds sped
Out to
the west, o'er the sea's breast,
Straight
to the isle of the dead.
Fully
aware, dourly they stare
Down at
the foolhardy lout.
Too late
he sees, despite his pleas,
What
final judgment's about:
As a man
sows punishing blows,
So in the
end shall he reap.
Hear me,
young mate, before it's too late:
Love
those God puts in your keep.
Only this
way, come judgment day,
Will it
descend from above,
Lifting
you high, into the sky:
Your
Father's fathomless love!
After
reading the poem, Jeffrey gazed back at where the old man had sat.
His eyes drifted out beyond the breakwater where the Atlantic stretched
away to the horizon. Just as the
thought occurred to him to fold the tattered piece of paper and tuck it into his
pocket, a gust of wind pulled it from his fingers.
Like an autumn leaf it fluttered away and settled on the harbor's
surface. For an instant Jeffrey
thought about plunging in to retrieve it. But
one of the skinny little fishes rose and tugged at it.
Jeffrey could see the sheet disintegrate into a hundred pieces, and these
were eagerly snapped up by other little fish.
In
a mild case of shock Jeffrey retreated from the pier, back to his car.
Somehow he knew that he'd never return to this place.
Once in the car he sat in a stupor, going over the events again and again
in his mind. Any thoughts of a
seafood lunch had vanished. Numbly
he stabbed at the car's ignition and, without really thinking about where he was
headed, steered the vehicle back toward the city.
As
Gloucester faded behind him and the signs of a metropolitan area picked up,
feelings of having been saved from some terrible mistake pervaded Jeffrey's
soul. They crept in slowly at first,
but then with greater and greater conviction.
Although he couldn't know it at the time, he would never become the
celebrated roving reporter he had dreamed about.
But half a century later, after a lifetime of living and reflection, he
would accept the Nobel Prize for literature in Sweden.
But
that all lay in the future. Early
that afternoon Jeffrey pulled back into the apartment house parking lot.
He hoped that Peg wouldn't be out shopping.
When he opened the apartment door he felt a surge of gratitude that she
was there.
"Hi!"
she greeted with a puzzled smile, coming out of the bedroom with a hairbrush in
her hand. "What a nice
surprise!"
Without
answering, Jeffrey laid his gear on the counter, crossed the room and took her
in his arms. He kissed her tenderly
on the mouth. At first she was
stiff, but then her body melted in his embrace.
When he pulled his face back, her eyes opened full of questions.
"What
" she began.
Jeffrey
put his finger on her lips, stopping the question before it was asked.
"I
love you, Peg," he murmured, pressing his cheek against her fragrant hair
and hugging her tightly.
"R-r-r-oom!"
little Richie exclaimed, pushing his toy truck along on the living room carpet.
Jeffrey broke free of Peggy's arms and lifted his son off the floor.
He sat down on the couch with little Richie in his lap.
"How
about a story for my favorite little boy?" he said.
"Who,
me?" Richie asked, his eyes full of amazement.
"Sure,
you. Don't you know you're my
favorite boy in all the world?"
"I
am?" Richie answered in a little
voice that seemed to say it was news to him.
Peggy
sat down beside them and linked her arm into Jeffrey's
"You
must have gotten quite a story," she murmured.
"Do you think they'll print it?"
Jeffrey
smiled at her.
"They'll
never see it," he answered softly. "They'd
never believe it."
Richie
wiggled in Jeff's lap, his eyes still filled with wonder at this rush of
attention from his Daddy. Jeffrey
settled more deeply into the couch's cushions and pulled his son against his
chest.
"Once
upon a time there was a boy who loved to fish," he began.
"He was a wonderful little boy, just like you
"