RON HAGGIN - THE LISTENER

Ron is a 64 year old retiree living in Salt Lake City, Utah. He is the father of one son, and an 8 year old granddaughter.

The Listener
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Small talk with a big ocean...

Late evening, and I huddle on a slightly inclined flat piece of granite on the rocky coast of Maine. I stare wistfully into the placid water, now colored steel gray, but always subject to the whims of the sun’s angle and the skies temperament. Slight peaks of the restless sea rise up and catch fire from the low hanging sun. The dark water gurgles and laughs as it playfully caresses the shore, rendered shy and timid by the late September calm. Eastward, the brightest stars begin to emerge from the growing darkness. 
I visit this place often and listen to the ocean speak. I don’t know if it speaks to me alone, or if it speaks to anyone who will listen. It tells haunting tales of lonely sailors mesmerized by visions of mermaids, who, overcome with a passionate loneliness, cast themselves into the water, but instead of slaking their desire, drift slowly down to an icy death. It tells stories of old fisherman with furrowed faces and hardened hands, who toil from dawn to dusk, only to return ashore with empty nets and empty bellies. It speaks of violent storms that roil the frigid north water, pitching and pounding even the largest of vessels, and sometime sends them to the sea bottom.
The ocean isn’t proud of these events, but it is helpless to prevent them. Its actions are governed by the forces of the moon and the sun, and at times the cries of the whales are laments for the victims of this unfeeling magic. The sky speaks also, but less often, and when it does speak, it whispers like a mother to a newborn child. I once heard it say with pride and dignity, “Today a sun, spinning in a spiral arm of the galaxy Andromeda, exploded in a stunning display of light, the colors of which have never before been seen in all the universe. This is what I can do, this is what I have done.”
One might have thought that these words were spoken by a haughty woman intoxicated with her own beauty. Instead, they were spoken as a child would speak when discovering its ability to scatter the spores of a dandelion with its breath. This is what I can do, this is what I have done. 
With night closing in, the ocean becomes quiet and its waters turned black. I left my stone and began the short walk down the path I had worn through the lush undergrowth. In a clearing surrounded by white pines, stands the small cottage that is my home. Tonight, as most nights, the light of a candle is burning in the four paned window, dancing seductively with the coming darkness, the light hoping to embraced the night, and the night needing to cradle the candle.

A silent grandma...
Inside the cottage, an old woman sits peacefully knitting, and meets my entrance with a warm smile. I kneel down beside her and placed my head in her lap as she ceases her knitting and begins to stroke my hair with her soft, trembling hands. She does not speak. I had lived with her in this place since my memories began, and I had never heard her say one word, save only to say my name, Samuel, without a sound. Perhaps her will to speak had died with the passing of her husband, my grandfather, many years ago. Whatever the reason, her silence did not prevent her from communicating a gentle and abiding love for me, and this piece of earth that seems to be a part of her. I had developed the ability to read the subtle changes of her facial expressions: fear, longing, sorrow, love, sometimes a mixture of some or all. It was a face where once lived an earthy beauty and still holds an abundance of dignity.
My routine was to sit calmly by her side, and tell her of my conversations with the ocean. She would resume her knitting, and a knowing smile would grip her, and sometimes when I mentioned mermaids, or giant sea monsters, her eyebrows would rise and arch as if she questioned why the ocean would be so willing to give up her ghastly secrets to one so young. When I told of the times when the ocean grew restless and angry and stole the life of a seafarer, sorrow would fill her cracks and crevices as if she was feeling the helpless pain of being swallowed up by the cold and dark and lonely water.
After my monologue had drifted off into silence, I would prepare a meager supper, which we enjoyed around a small roughhewn table that was hobbled with a short leg. It had been this way for so long that neither I nor my grandmother paid it any attention. 
After supper, I helped grandma to her bed and softly laid a comforter over her frail body. She would then tap my cheek three times with her aged hand, which was her way of bidding me goodnight. 
Having seen to Grandma's needs, I was now free to spend the balance of the evening as I chose. Most nights I would stir and restock the fire and sit cross legged before it, reading from a book that I had brought home from my school's library. I grew to love the characters from those books: Pip and Estella, Tom Sawyer, Long John Silver, Robinson Crusoe. I melted into their worlds as I shared in their joys and travails, traveled with them to exotic destinations, loved who they loved, feared what they feared, befriended their friends, and grieved at their loses. 
Sometimes as I read, I would lose my focus, and my mind would wander to professor Laughinghat’s half ring circus. The circus would visit complete with hundreds of giggling and screeching children, all under a small paisley tent held up by barber poles. The tall center one would spin, causing a red stripe, embedded with the faces of yellow haired clowns, to climb until it reached the top, then disappear into the fabric of the tent. The show would begin with professor Laughinghat himself, dressed in a glistening white tuxedo, and with a loud bombastic voice, welcome children of all ages (although there seemed to be only actual children in attendance) to the world-famous half ring circus.
First up was the miniature elephant parade. The elephants numbered 10 and were a mere 2 feet tall, with not one the same color as the next. Orange next to teal next to onyx next to purple. Up onto the low curved sections of gray standards that made up the half ring, jumped the elephants who immediately began dancing. First balancing on their front legs and tiny trunks, then standing on their hind legs with the front slowly pawing at some invisible bale of hay.
After several minutes of the elephant dance, out of the dark staging area ran ten squirrel monkeys decked in sequined vests and top hats. The monkeys jumped on the elephants and began to perform graceful pirouettes, all the while clicking and screeching as if singing along with the band as it played a rousing rendition of Camptown Races. After several minutes of dancing, the elephant and monkey pairs were guided out of the half ring to enthusiastic applause from the children.
This act was quickly followed by three outlandishly attired clowns, each of which carried a small bundle under its arm. This bundle turned out to be a tightly coiled rope ladder, which, upon their arrival into the half ring, was unfurled and instantly became rigid. The ladders were then erected, such that the tips rested against one the other forming a tripod. Each clown stood in front of his ladder and all pointed up in unison, indicating that they would now climb their appointed ladders, and meet at the top.
One clown, at mid-ladder, saw his suspenders inexplicably lengthen, causing his pantaloons to fall, exposing his bony knees. Feigning chagrin, he hoisted them to their proper place, and resumed his climb. Another saw his polka dot tie suddenly curl up, causing his nose to itch. While scratching it, he lost his grip on the ladder rails, and quickly slid down to the bottom. This action was repeated several times, until the polka dot tie was removed, and place into an oversized pocket. 
The third clown, when near the top of his ladder, was suddenly seized by a paroxysm of laughter. Placing one hand on his stomach, while the other slapped his knee, he quickly ran out of appendages to hold himself to the ladder, and thus, tumbled back down to the ground. Repeat attempts to climb his ladder resulted in the same behavior, so in frustration, he pulled a large yellow mallet from his waistcoat and proceeded to pummel his own noggin. This rendered the clown incapable of further laughter, allowing for a successful accent of his assigned ladder. All three clowns, having successfully found their way to the top, were overtaken with an abundance of glee and laughter. However, their celebration was short lived, as the ladders suddenly lost their rigidity, and they found themselves laid out on the ground, each one scratching his head in bewilderment. Far from being injured, they all jumped up and began performing Irish jigs and whirling and twirling and jumping about.  
My weariness drew me out of my reverie. The fire burned low for want of wood and the candle danced with little enthusiasm. The moon was in its infancy, and struggled to cast shadows, so goblins and sprites were free to roam at will. The candle provided just enough light to guide me into my little room, and setting it on the bedside table, I crawled under the warm comforter that my grandmother had made for my tenth birthday. Sleep came immediately.
Morning shone through my window, removing any evidence of the night's playful haunting. It teased me gradually from my slumber by waxing and waning as the trees and breeze influenced its intensity. The autumn air was chilled, and took the opportunity to steal into the cottage, there being no fire to slow its entrance. Reluctantly I began my morning ritual. 
My grandmother’s awakening had preceded mine as usual, and she sat in her chair rocking peacefully, gazing out the window at a pair of robins nervously perched in the branch of a pine tree. I entered the room, and she acknowledged my presence by slowly clapping her hands in a sarcastic celebration of my grand feat of waking. I in turn stopped to bow deeply in mock gratitude, and then continued on to the kitchen.
We seemed not to tire of this scene, as we enacted it each morning. I prepared a small breakfast consisting of biscuits and coffee for Grandma, and served it to her on a small wooden cutting board that doubled as a serving tray. I grabbed a biscuit for myself, kissed Grandma goodbye and hurried out to begin the two mile walk to school.

A mysterious encounter...

My days proceeded as usual deep into October. In the mornings and evenings the air was crisp with a slight bite, and it seemed more days were overcast and threatened rain, although none fell. I began to feel a foreboding and ineffable sense that my life was about to change, a feeling that grew deeper and more confused as winter approached. On my frequent visits to the rocky shore, I would tell the ocean of my misgivings, but it seemed reluctant to engage in conversation on this subject.
My path home from school took me near a clearing where often sat men about a low fire, cooking meals and warming themselves against the afternoon chill. As I neared, I noticed a shabbily dressed man leaning against a tree smoking a cigarette. There was no way to avoid passing him, and he had already caught sight of me. I was seized with fear, but kept walking at the same leisurely pace, not wanting to display my anxiety. As I approached him, he spoke to me with a subtle New England accent, saying, “I suppose yer on ya way home from school, hey son?” Rendered mute by my fear, I did not respond.
His weathered face was covered with an unkempt beard, but there was a gentleness in his eyes, and despite his abrupt question, they seemed to be begging for me to speak. He was soft spoken, with a kindness to his voice, two characteristics that belied his coarse exterior.  He waited impatiently for a response, and quickly determined none was forthcoming, and continued, “I donʼt blame ya none for not wantinʼ to speak. Iʼm a stranger, an ya right to be wary. I suppose ya grandma taught ya well. But I mean ya no harm boy. Iʼve been wandrinʼ for many a year and itʼs nice to every now an again see a kind face.” 
His eyes more than his words assuaged my fear, and I slowly began to relax, although I was still unable to speak. “Still no words son? Can ya at lease tell this stranger ya name?”
I was able to fulfill that request, and said, “Samuel sir, Samuel Shapleigh”.
“Well Samuel, itʼs a pleasure ta make ya acquaintance. I see yer totin a heavy load of books and whatnot. Itʼs a grand thing to get a right proper education. I myself went to school around these parts. In fact I hale from a town south of here called Bar Harbor. But I been wandrinʼ these last 10 years. Canʼt seem to put down roots. You ever been outside of Beals, son?” 
Listening to him speak seemed to calm me, and I was now ready to offer more than my name. “No sir. Are those men yonder in the clearing your friends?” He seemed pleased that I had gained enough composure to speak, and a broad smile appeared and lingered for several seconds before he spoke again. “Yes, several of em. Some of those men have been my wandrinʼ partners since last winter broke. We've come a long way, but been nowhere together. Ya pick up and lose comrades quickly on the road. Sometimes their appetite for wandrinʼ falls aside, sometimes they get involved with a doxy, and sometimes they just die. They die from a weariness deep in their bones. They die from neglect, they die from loneliness. Seldom do they die of old age. But then ya take up with other fellas. Fellas who canʼt seem to find their place amongst proper society. Sometimes a fella is just born to wandrinʼ. Thatʼs the only thing he knows, the only thing heʼs ever known. The only thing heʼs ever gunna know.”
The man's monologue drew me in, and I became curious to know the places heʼd been. I didnʼt get a chance to learn, for just when I was about to ask him, simultaneous with a truck pulling up next to the clearing, a man called out saying, “Hey Conrad, this fella is on his way to Portland. Let's go.” A sadness drew across the man face as he squinted at the bright autumn sky, as if he was wishing that something would happen to prevent his leaving. He says, “Son, Samuel, I must be on my way. You take care of yourself and your kin. Perhaps our paths will meet again in the future.” With that he walked slowly to the awaiting truck, climbed in and waved goodbye as if he had known me all his life. 
I watched as the truck pulled away, and noticed the man turn his head to look at me until it rounded a curve and was out of site. I stood motionless attempting to make sense of this chance meeting. Why did he look at me with such fondness, as if we had met before? Why did a wanderer, who must be constantly exposed to the unforgiving forces of a vulnerable existence, possess such a soft and gentile manner? Why did he have kind and knowing eyes? Why was he there near that clearing, on this day, at this time?
As I resumed my slow walk home, I suddenly became seized again with fear. In my apprehension during this encounter, I had listened to his words, but not all them made it through to my consciousness. As I strolled, I remember him saying that he did not blame me for being wary, that my Grandma had taught me well. I began to suspect that this meeting was not random, but still its purpose and its planner were a mystery. How did this man know that I lived with my Grandma? Despite his pleasant demeanor, did he mean harm to either myself or my Grandma? If he knew about my Grandma, did he also know where we lived?
Alarmed by these questions, I quickened my pace toward home. I imagined the worst, that my Grandmother had been harmed by this man's accomplices while he engaged me in conversation. My quickened pace turned to a run, my papers flying behind me left to the vagaries of the chill autumn breeze. I was winded by the time I arrived, and tears began to well in my eyes as I opened the door. 
The relief at seeing my Grandma unharmed, sitting in her chair knitting, should have arrested my tears. But so overwhelmed with the events of the afternoon, I rushed to her side, placed my head in her lap, and began sobbing. My Grandma remained calm, but had a slight look of concern as she slowly ran her hand through my hair. After I regained my composure, I attempted to tell her of my mysterious meeting, and how I feared for her safety after remembering how the man had mentioned her. I looked at her and tried to discern her emotions at hearing this story.
At that moment I was as frustrated at my Grandma's inability to communicate as I had ever been. I needed her to tell me if she knew who this man was, and how he knew that I lived with my Grandma. A slight smile appeared on her face as if she somehow knew everything about this man, and that this meeting was inevitable. The effect of this increased my frustration. I stood up from beside her chair and in anger shouted, “Why won't you talk to me Grandma. I need to know who that man is!”.
I had never before raised my voice at her, and felt immediate remorse at losing control of my feelings. I could see that my words had hurt her, as tears began to fill her eyes. This was too much for me to bear, and I clutched her in an embrace and renewed my tears. She held me as tight as her frail arms would allow, and began humming a soft melody while slowly rocking from side to side.
After several minutes of this catharsis, I kissed my Grandma on the cheek and apologized for my angry words. She smiled warmly and shook her head and tapped herself on the chest several times, I supposed to indicate that she was to blame for my tears.    
The evening progressed and the pain slowly gave way to musing about the mysteries of the meeting and about the circumstances of me and my Grandma's life. I often thought about what had happened to my parents, and how I had come to live here in Beals, but given my Grandma's muteness, I had no one to turn to for answers. I learned to accept my life as is, and despite being often lonely, I was content with my frequent visits with the ocean, listening to its wondrous and fanciful tales. 

Another Winter, and Christmas...

The winter was harsh. Cold rain was plentiful, and would often take a break while snow lightly blanketed the ground and clung to the leaves of dormant shrubbery or held precariously to the branches of evergreens. Occasionally the moon would fly by the clouds, with their bright silvery edges that faded into gray, then disappear totally into the blackness of night. The snow that fell at night would melt by mornings end, it being always thin and without the constitution to withstand the maritime climate.
Our Christmas celebration was modest. Grandma most always gifted me with something she knitted, a scarf or a cap or a sweater. This yearʼs gift was an afghan, which included written instructions that it was to be used on cold winter nights when I sat cross-legged before the fire reading my books. My gift to her was a little book of poems by Emily Dickenson, which I found at Rexalls. They had a table full of neglected books that they were selling at a discount, and if not sold by Christmas, were to be discarded. I managed to cut the top 3 feet off of a 6-foot white pine, which I brought inside the cottage and decorated with ornaments that Grandma had collected over the years. On Christmas eve, Grandma made raisin bread and I popped corn over the fire. 
That night as I lay in bed trying to sleep, Professor Laughinghat brought the half ring circus back to town. The performance consisted of two beautiful girls dressed in long flowing gowns and tiaras, who stood perfectly still in the center of the half ring. Above each girl hovered a thin luminous band, the circumference of which was just large enough to fit over their bodies. The hoops appeared to be covered with a translucent film, which refracted the light into tiny rainbows that shimmered across the surface.
The music went up, and the hoops started to slowly lower themselves over the girls, who remained motionless. As they drew even with the girl's heads, the film ceased to lower with the hoops, and giant lustrous bubbles formed and slowly surrounded the beautiful princesses. When totally enclosed, the bubbles, with the girls inside, began to rise off the ground and float slowly above the gathered children who sat perfectly still with mouths agape. 
Now the bubbles hovered high above the crowd, and the princesses began to gracefully turn pirouettes and spin head over heels. At times they would spin with their arms extended, and the speed of the spins would increase as they drew their arms to their sides. At other times they would stretch out their arms and legs to resemble an X, and then slowly begin making circular motions with their outstretched appendages. This activity lasted approximately ten minutes, and the beautiful graceful girls held the attention of children the whole time.
But now the bubbles began to slowly descend back to earth where they lit softly in the center of the half ring. They rested there until two clowns appeared with bright yellow oversized needles, and used them to pop the giant bubbles, freeing the princesses, who summersaulted out of the ring, followed closely by the frolicking clowns.

Another encounter...

Unable to concentrate on my studies, I stared out the window watching the cold rain fall and gather in the shallow indentations of the dirt parking lot outside my classroom. I became mesmerized by the drops bouncing off the surface of the puddles, then quickly being absorbed into the dirty brown water. I was torn from my reverie by the ringing of the final bell. I gathered my books, and it being Friday bade several of my classmates a good weekend, and began my journey home. Spring arrived during the course of my walk, as the clouds found that they could no longer hold forth against the warm sun and sought refuge on the distant horizon. 
The breaking of the weather buoyed my spirits, and I found myself strolling through a moist and lush jungle on a Caribbean island. The trees were alive with the exotic cries of beautifully plumed parrots, and calls from wiry white coated monkeys, nervously looking out for foes that might lurk amongst the dense vegetation. Long, brightly colored snakes were coiled in moss covered branches, their bellies full from a recent meal. 
Eventually the jungle broke, and I found myself looking out over white sand that stretched for miles in either direction, and where small pearl colored waves teased the beach, then withdrew, leaving only froth and foam to linger momentarily. Palm trees, bent by the breezes flowing in from the ocean, were laden with large coconuts, their large, thick leaves barely rustled by the moist cool air.   
I thought I saw a man leaning against a palm tree, but reality crashed this pleasant scene, and instead I saw that he was leaning against a pine, drawing on a cigarette. As I drew closer, I could see that it was the same man that I had encountered last fall. I felt apprehension again, but this time it was tempered by memories of his gentle ways and the softness of his eyes.
He spoke first; “It's been a hard winter Samuel. Grayness and cold winds have ruled my days. Met many folks inhospitable to wanderas. Work were hard to come by, an when it did come, didn't pay enough to keep a belly full of victuals, or a new pair of stocking on to wam my feet. But we made another one Samuel. I'm not much of a god fearin man, but pahaps there are such a thing as guardian angels, and I got a goodinʼ.” 
These words were spoken with a touch of moisture in his eyes, and I could tell he took the hard edge off his experience because of my youth. He didn't make full eye contact; there was only fleeting moments when our gaze met, and I could sense that he longed to say something that he had long kept private. I wanted to say something that would take away his pain, but I knew I was helpless against the forces of nature aligned in opposition to his well-being.
This was the best I could do: “Mister, sometimes the ocean talks to me, and one time she said, ʻgather your loved ones about you, theyʼll act as a warm blanket even when the sun is shininʼ cold.ʼ” 
The man then turned away from me and stared into the woods for several moments. He then turned to face me, and with a cracking voice said, “Well Samuel, that is just about the best advise anyones evah gave me. I thank ya for your kind words.” 
Then I thought about our last meeting and how he said that my Grandma had taught me well to be wary of strangers, and the frustration and anger I felt that evening because Grandma would not speak. I was feeling as comfortable in his presence as the situation would allow, and made the decision to confront him about the words that he said. Even though I knew nothing about him, somehow I knew by observing his behavior, that he wouldn't react negatively to my question. So I said to him, ʻMister...ʼ
But he cut me off saying, “Samuel, I'd be honored if yaʼd call me Conrad.”
I started again: “Mis... Conrad, the last time we met you seemed to know that I lived with my Grandma. Please sir, how is it that you know of my Grandma?”
Conrad did not answer immediately, but instead looked up at the sky and stared, as if trying to make out the shape of some wild animal in the distant cloud formations. I remember him doing the same thing on our last visit when his departure became eminent. 
A full minute before he finally answered my question, all the time gazing upward, and the words he said would forever change my life. This is what he said: “Samuel, would ya like to hear a story? Not an easy story to i-the hear or tell, but if ya have a moment, Iʼd like to tell ya.” I told him that I was not expected home anytime soon, and that I would be glad to hear his story.

Conradʼs Story...

A young mother rocks and coos a child, a child burning with fever. The father paces the small room, and occasionally looks out the window at the driving rain, cursing the weather. The rain had not stopped all day, and the wind picked a fight with every bending tree, unlatched door, poorly attached shutter or shingle and decaying fence post. Light not destroyed by the storm was fading into darkness as evening drew close.
The mother, despite her calm exterior, was frantic with concern for her sick child. The symptoms of his unknown illness had increased slowly as the day progressed, and the father thought it cruel for the sickness to coincide with such an inclement day. 
The mother had finally had enough, and told the father that it was time to take the child to a hospital. They both had hoped to avoid this, because it involved a crossing of the bridge that connected their island home to the mainland, a trip they knew to be perilous in such dreadful weather. But it became obvious to them that the child's condition would continue to deteriorate. 
The mother bundled the child while the father warmed up the car and drove it close to the door to minimize the distance that the child would need to be exposed to the weather. It was not far, perhaps a mile or so to the bridge. As they approached, they could see several police cars with flashing lights and men in foul weather gear with flashlights, ready to signal instructions to any oncoming cars that dare approach. When they reached this scene, the father rolled down the window and inquired about the nature of the incident. The officer indicated that there had been an accident on the bridge, and that it would be several hours before it would be cleared. 
The mother, with anxiety now visible on her face, told the father that the only alternative she could see was to seek the help of her father, who owned a small boat, and have him ferry them to the mainland. This course of action was fraught with peril, as the sea was angry and in turmoil, and would not take kindly to vessels of any size having the temerity to attempt a crossing. However, the child's condition worsened with every passing moment, and they decided that the attempt should be made.
The mother's parents lived in a modest cottage on the opposite end of the island, hard by the shore. The island was not large, and normally the trip would only take several minutes, but the weather made the road treacherous, and they arrived at their destination in a half hours' time. The father ran into the house and explained the situation to the parents, and although the grandfather realized the risks, was willing to do everything in his power to assist the frightened couple. At first the father insisted that he alone should act as both pilot and currier, however the mother was by this time unwilling to leave the child, and the grandfather, now fully invested in the pursuit, was not to be denied as the pilot.
They decided that the father would man the outboard, the mother would hold the child seated on the bench just forward of the engine, with the grandfather navigating from the bow. These positions assumed, they shoved off, and the early going was not overly rough, giving them confidence that the journey would be successful. Additionally, the rain had let up, buoying there spirits further. 
But their optimism was short lived, as what was to happen next forever shattered the lives of each person on that boat. The rescue party had reached the midpoint between island and mainland, when suddenly a wave struck the bow, lifting it several feet out of the water, and then landed back down with a powerful thud. This violent action caused the old man and the mother with child, to be pitched into the icy sea.
The father, holding on to the outboard motor, was able to maintain his balance, and was spared a fall into the water. The mother somehow maintained hold of the child, and was barely treading water while keeping the child above the turbulent surface. Fortunately she was near the side of the boat, allowing the father to reach out and retrieve the bundled child and bring it back aboard. 
The father then turned his attention to the mother. He reached out making several attempts to grasp her arm, which she frantically waved back and forth, trying to either clutch his hand or grab on to the boat's side. The two made contact momentarily, but his grasp could not find a solid purchase, and she began to slowly dip below the tumult, and slip further away. 
The father, being now desperate, plunged into the sea after her. Never having learned to swim, he was reluctant to lose his grasp of the boat, knowing that if he should perish, the child would surely follow. He made a final attempt to grasp the women's flailing arms, but he could only watch as she slipped under the frigid surface, and was gone. 
The father remained in the water, and worked his way hand by hand to the front of the boat, hoping to find the grandfather. But again his hopes were dashed, as he was nowhere in sight. His attention turned to the child, and was not certain that it had survived the momentary plunge into the sea. He managed to climb back into the boat, and found the infant crying and writhing, but barely able to move in its tight bundle. 
The father made a final look around to see if there were any signs that his wife or father-in-law could still be alive. There were none. Reluctantly he set off to complete the mission. A great emptiness began to well up inside him. The sense of loss and the heartbreak would come later, but now he was just numb, blocking out the violence that had just occurred.
As he continued on to the mainland, he noticed that the wind and waves were subsiding. A great anger came over him as he thought that the menacing ocean had sought the warm lives of humans to quell its ravenous hunger, and thus sated, became pacified and docile.
Landing at a small dock that jutted from the rocky coast, the father with child went looking for someone that could assist him in reaching the hospital. Fortunately, despite the weather and late hour, several cars were parked outside a small cafe, and he hoped that at least one among the customers would be willing to help.
He burst through the door, startling the patrons, and began pleading for help. An older gentleman, who looked to be the proprietor attempted to calm the father, begging him to slow down and state his business. The father, out of breath and exhausted from the ordeal, managed to explain that he had a gravely ill child, who he just brought from Beal island over water. He implored someone to provide him the means to deliver the child to the hospital, and would gladly compensate the provider.
Another man indicated that he was on his way into town anyway, and would gladly give the father a ride, and no compensation was needed. It was a short distance to the hospital, and the father did not mention to the driver what had transpired between the island and the mainland. He was cold and shivering and not inclined to lengthy explanations, he only told the driver that the bridge had been closed due to an accident, which necessitated a passage by boat.
Having finally reached the hospital, the father rushed the child into the emergency room, and was met by several nurses, who unbundled the child and began an examination while the father explained the symptoms. The father could no longer be of any help to the child, and sat in a chair with head in hands, pondering the horrors that had just taken place. After several minutes, he realized that he must report the incident to the police. He sought out a public telephone and summoned the authorities, and waited for their arrival. 
As Conrad finished, I began to realize there must be a reason why a man, who was a stranger to me, and who had mysteriously arrived at this place and time, felt compelled to tell me this story. This couldn't be some random wanderer who happened to be bidding his time near some random clearing, waiting to make his next random move. He had to have planned our meeting. He had to have known my daily habits, my route to and from school, and even where I lived. His eyes were moist and his hand, which held a cigarette, trembled as he raised it to take a draw.
He was now quiet, and as I thought about the story he had just told, emotions began to well up, emotions that I didn't know what to do with, perhaps emotions I had not previously experienced. I was confused and didn't want to face the brutal reality of what I was beginning to know. I refused to acknowledge the truths that were emerging from his thinly veiled narrative. The players began to fall into place. He was the father, my father, the mother was my mother, and the old man was my Grandfather, the husband of the woman with whom I lived. And I was the sick child. A child whose sickness caused the death of two people, and a man to lose his will to live.
I began to cry as Conrad looked at me and he knew that I had understood the meaning and intent of his story. He remained quiet for several minutes, and then with a quavering voice said, “Sammy, I debated the wisdom of finding ya, and I told myself that I wouldn't reveal my identity if I did. But seeinʼ ya Sammy, I realized ya deserve to know the truth. Ya deserve to know what a precious gift ya were to me and your ma. Ya deserve to know how ya came to be livinʼ with ya Grandma, and what became of ya pa.”
“Ya see Sammy, the night I lost ya ma, was the night that had no end. The sun comes up and goes down still, but I remain in darkness. I knew that every time I looked at ya, Iʼd be seeing your ma. Somethinʼ snapped in me that night, a broken heart, overwhelmed with guilt for not being strong enough to save your ma, wondrinʼ what I could of done different that would have prevented losing ya ma. So that night I told the police the whole story and I told em about ya Grandma livinʼ on the island who was now ya next of kin. Then I walked outa the hospital and Sammy Iʼve been wanderinʼ ever since.”
I didn't know how to feel about Conrad. Should I feel sympathy because he lost his world and his will to live? Should I feel angry because he failed to protect the people he loved, and didn't attempt to be a father to me? Should I feel sorrow because of his rootless, constant shifting and drifting life? I had no choice but to feel them all. He then embraced me, and for a moment I felt something wonderful. I felt a warmness against the early spring chill. I felt safe, and that I no longer carried the burden of being a man in a child's body. I was again a boy being protected by the strength and affection of a father. After several moments, I returned his embrace, and we held each other without speaking.
Conrad stayed for a while and told me stories about my mother. I could tell that this was difficult for him, as several times he turned away from me to collect himself and to clear the moisture from his eyes. But he sensed that I hungered to know about the woman who was my mother. He began by telling me that her name was Jennifer. He further told me that my mother was the most charming woman in all of New England, and how big summer clouds would form her image then scatter away when she went down to the shore to skip rocks in the ocean. And he told me that flowers would cease to present pleasant scents went she walk nearby, knowing that they could never match her aura, and how at night the stars would twinkle faster, the moon would shine brighter, and that the galaxies were stepping stones forming a path for her to walk among the cosmos. He told me I had reached my 4th birthday just two weeks before that night, and that I was often sick, which in hindsight may have been, at least in part, the reason why they had delayed their departure for the mainland.
And I asked Conrad about all the places he'd visited as he wandered. He told me that he'd seen just about all of New England, and he'd even made it as far west as Oklahoma. He told me tales of stealing rides in boxcars and holing up in abandoned buildings, and getting paid a dollar for sweeping the walk of some 5 and Dime, and spending that dollar in some gin joint on the seedy side of the railroad tracks. I didn't know if the stories were true, but it seemed to give him pleasure in the telling, as if the memories were a small compensation for living a lonely and unfulfilled life. 
The afternoon sun waned, and evening was becoming the prominent feature of the day. I knew that my Grandma would begin to worry if I was any later. Conrad said that he was going to flag a ride down to Bangor, because he had learned that there was temporary work available. So we said good bye, and he promised that we would meet again soon. 
He strapped on a ragged pack that I assumed carried his possessions, and began walking backward toward the main road that led to the bridge to the mainland. He held one hand over his head and pointed skyward, as if to tell me that the bright blue, now cloudless sky portended good days for the future. Tears again formed in my eyes, as finally he about faced, and slowly grew smaller and smaller in the distance.
As I completed my journey home, I began to think that my Grandma's muteness was somehow related to that fateful day. I hadn't had the opportunity to think about the second person who had lost his life that night. Was his death the reason she didn't speak? I didn't have an answer, but I decided that I wouldn't tell her of my meeting with my father. It would only open her aging heart to sadness and loss, and besides, this was a moment in time for only me and my father to share, as he intended. 
That night was restless, and I squirmed and circled my bed as I thought about my father's visit, and my feelings about him and my unknown mother. I was torn in my feelings toward my father, at once angry for his abandonment, but also willing to see him as a heartbroken man who did his best to see that I was cared for and loved, which I surely was by my Grandma. Neither of these thoughts gained prominence, but simply traded places over and over, and prevented me from sleeping soundly that night. 
Saturday morning did eventually arrive with a flawless sky and a coolness that would not hold against a Spring that was as wobbly as new born colt. I arose and quickly saw to Grandma's needs, and breakfasted myself on a piece of bread slathered with jam. I was eager to visit my rock and listen to anything that might be said by the ocean. 
The deep blue morning sky, being nearly the same color as the water, threatened to melt together at the horizon. The still low sun, not having any clouds to act as a canvas, instead played with the placid water, which became a star field filled with yellow light bouncing off its uninspired and languid peaks. I sat quietly, feeling a touch of sadness at not having had a chance to know my mother. I knew that my father's description of her was idealized and romanticized because of passing time, but that only meant that I could romanticize her myself, and she could and would become the mother I wanted and needed. 
The sun climbed higher noon-ward, and the quality of the sky changed from gold to silver. Still tranquil, the ocean sent playful messenger waves toward the jagged rocks and they found their way into the crevices of the ancient stones. As they lapped, they formed sounds that seemed like words spoken with a soft feminine voice. As I listened closer, the words became clearer and began to filled my heart with a bittersweet longing. This is what the ocean said on that day:

A burial at sea...

On the night that your mother died, the clouds parted and the light of the full moon fell upon the water where she drifted downward. The soft shroud caused her long golden locks to glow as they shifted with the gentle currents. The column of water that was her passage turned warm, caressing her as she descended, and her face, once full of fear, was overtaken by a delicate peace. She lit softly on the sandy sea floor, where she was surrounded by long undulating strands of kelp, from which, inquisitive fish peered and quickly darted about, as if happy to be in the presence of such beauty. Soon thereafter, a great and noble leviathan gently placed her weightless body in its mouth, and began swimming swiftly out into the dark Atlantic night, with the moon's glow guiding the way. 
As the great creature swam with its precious cargo, it began to sing whale songs that could be heard in every ocean and sea throughout the round blue world. Songs that called all the whales swimming in every corner of Neptune's kingdom to form an unearthly school to accompany the beautiful lady to her final resting place. And as the night turned into day, the procession became so immense that the ocean floor was covered with a shadow from Bermuda to the Azores, and from the Grand Banks to Recife on the Brazilian coast. 
Throughout the day did these leviathan honor guards swim. Down the western coast of Africa, around the Cape of Good Hope, passing just south of Madagascar and across the Indian ocean. From there the procession narrowed, and passed between Indonesia on the North and Australia on the South, through the Timor sea and on to the Coral sea to the East. It is not known to human beings, but the creatures of the sea know that the most beautiful place on earth is a warm and placid sea located equidistant from the continents and is surrounded by the world's largest and most formidable ocean. 
This sea has seen not tempest or typhoon, only occasional rain that falls from billowing white clouds, that when seen from a distance is like visible gray wind that gently arches from sky to sea. Deep below the calm azure surface lies a living plain where grows coral of every conceivable hue and texture. The colors of cloud draped sunsets, the colors of shifting sand deserts, the colors of a deciduous autumn.
And swimming among the coral are creatures that have no name, for no human has ever gave witness to their existence. Creatures that gather in schools of countless number, twisting and turning in perfect unison as if dancing to a symphony that only they can hear. Fish without fins and fins without fish. Mile long serpents with microscopic eyes. Turtles with gills and albino shells. Corkscrew shaped eels that emit neon hewed orange light. Small fish swimming within elephant sized fish with transparent bodies. And in the center of this underwater world lies a rock throne, which is circled by seahorse sentinels that float gently, ever vigilant, waiting for suitable royalty. 
The vast multitude of leviathans arrive, surround the throne, and fall silent. The carrier, with its fragile cargo, swims slowly and serenely to the center and places the woman gracefully onto the throne. After a moment of silence, the whales begin anew with their songs, and all the oceans of the earth are filled with glorious messages of hope and renewal. Thus was the burial of the unmet mother.

And now a goodbye...

Some years later my Grandma became gravely ill and was taken to the hospital where I was born. She laid for several days drifting in and out of consciousness, her eyes filled with tears during the moments when she was awake. I sat by her side and held her hand by day, and fell to sleep in the chair by night. I could tell that she was in pain, not only from the disease that had gripped her body, but also from some unseen torment that was playing out in her mind. 
I knew that her passing was eminent, as her breathing became labored and she cried out in pain. But in the midst of this turmoil, a calmness came upon her, and she reached out and touched my cheek as she often did during our nightly ritual. And with tears in her eyes and a quavering voice, she spoke to me for the first and last time: “Samuel, I'm sorry that I never told you that I love you, but I hope that I left no doubt. After your mother and grandpa died, and the police brought you to live with me, I went to the ocean and listened for anything that might be said. The lady in the water could feel my pain, and she made a bargain. She said that she would take away my memories, and that I in return would agree to never speak again.” 
With that she was gone.
That night I was visited again by Professor Laughinghat’s circus, but unlike his other visits, this time I was the only one in attendance. The Professor gently strode to the center of the half ring, where he removed his tall white hat and bowed deeply from the waist. He arose and extended his hands upward, and four figures appeared, floating above the ring. The figures all had youthful appearances, and were attired in the colorful clothing that you might see on gypsies or old west performers or Cossacks or priests at high mass. They all wore faces full of joy and contentment, as if they no longer bore the burden of pain or disappointment or loss, and had only to dance to some unearthly symphony. 
And what a dance it was. Beautiful in its simplicity, yet complex in its expression, its movements lively and strenuous, yet graceful with sweet passion and calm abandon. The lovely apparitions pirouetted like eddy currents along the bank of a slow-moving river. They mingled as moonlight and shadow mingle on a night in a clearing storm. They performed loops and summersaults like willow branches in a tempest. And then they stopped and they looked at me with such love and tenderness, and they reached out their hands as if they wanted to touch me, and cling to me. Then they performed a final pirouette in unison and their ethereal bodies became bright twinkling lights that floated out of the top of the tent and became stars in the night.