STRETHER’S BOY

Since Father had read the classics to me at bedtime when I was younger, it makes sense, I suppose, to begin as Charles Dickens began David Copperfield: “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” But it’s fun to use the closing sentences from that novel here, too, though I’ve cut out some parts: “And now my written story ends. I look back, once more — for the last time — before I close these leaves. I see myself…journeying along the road of life. I hear…the roar of many voices, not indifferent to me as I travel on.” Except, of course, I don’t. I suppose I was five or six when Father started reading Dickens to me to put me to sleep — David Copperfield, Bleak House, Oliver Twist…my favorite was A Christmas Carol. I loved the ghost of Christmas Present the most, I think. Father also read me a biography about Dickens later, though a lot of it was lost on me, but I do remember thinking how sad that Dickens had died so young…58…of a stroke, even if I suppose I didn’t know what a stroke was, then, and I wouldn’t have dared to have interrupted Father to ask what it was. I couldn’t tell how old Father was at the time, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t yet 58. But what does a six-year-old know? My life was pretty routine as a very young boy before that summer. I most recall long weekend walks with my parents, which Father called “our walk-&-talks,” and long summers when I might go to the pond to swim with Momma. She taught me to swim when I was just five. Father never came swimming, saying the water was too muddy for his liking. I kept begging for a dog, but Momma and Father both said that I had to be older to take care of one…it was unusual for them to agree like that. Getting a dog never happened, even though I’d picked out a dozen possible names for the dog. My favorite was “Dickens.” And of course I was an only child. One boy who also lived in Woollett, however, was the son of a family Father worked for, or I guess you’d say he worked with that boy’s mother. Father was the editor of a journal, called The Review, and the boy’s mother was something called its publisher…she provided the money, I now understand. Her name was Mrs. Newsome, and her husband owned the factory that was helping grow Woollett. Her son, who was a couple years older than me, was called Chad. You’ll be hearing more about him later. Momma had a lot of sayings, which Father called her “quips,” and she was famous in Woollett for them. Another one was if someone had on a sweater and I wanted to say it looked nice, I shouldn’t just tell them “That’s a nice sweater,” cause Momma would remind me, “Compliment the person, not the clothes” (that kind of quip). So instead I should say, “You look nice in that sweater!” Momma was a wise woman. Father didn’t usually have “quips” like Momma, but one thing he liked to say was, “Date everything you sign…and don’t sign very much.” He had told me that later, when I was about seven, and I’m sure it’s good advice, but I’m still not sure what it means…or why anyone would tell it to a seven-year-old. But Father was pretty wise, too, I suppose. That morning the three of us headed out the front door for our “walk & talk,” and went at a faster pace than usual along the several streets that took us to the mouth of the path into the woods surrounding the town. I remember wondering why we were walking so fast, but I didn’t want to ask. In the woods, we slowed down a bit, with Momma and Father in front of me. Father usually liked to look around and comment to me on the way about various things, like how the foliage was getting greener this spring; today he didn’t look around or make any comments to me like that at all. Instead, he leaned in closer than normal to Momma and was talking to her in a lower voice than he usually used in the woods. Most walks he spoke so that both Momma and I could hear him, even though I was always behind them. Since he spoke so softly today, however, I couldn’t catch what he was saying, but I did see Momma shake her head a few times. She still didn’t look so happy whenever she’d turn to check on me behind them, which was also unusual, as she loved these walks. But then I did hear Father say several disconnected words: “results…doctor…diagnosis…” That’s when Momma sat down on a tree stump, which she had never done before... But I’m getting ahead of myself. It makes more sense to start at the beginning, I suppose, like David Copperfield did, and let the story tell itself, though it’s been more than 10 years, so I’ll need a little help from Father.