A Most Terrific Day
by Carl Taylor
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Gerald rubs his slender fingers across his freshly buzzed hair. It looks like peach fuzz, the hair. I try to put my arm around him and he lets me for a moment, all the while staring ahead, glassy-eyed and with those bowed legs still tapping.
Did you know that the word “terrific” used to be defined as “causing terror”? What’s more, it still should be. In Latin, terrere meant “to frighten” or “scare.” Of course, the suffix “ific” comes from the Latin word facere, which means “to make.” Taken at face value, the word “terrific” should mean “to make afraid.” And yet, through the largesse of time, “terrible” is now loosely used to define the incredible. When we use the word “terrific” today, it’s usually with a positive connotation. “That’s terrific news,” we say. We simply ignore all the word’s first-cousins: terrible, terrorize, terrorist.
I reach over to unplug the black umbilical chords transmitting music directly into Gerald’s auditory cortex. “Did I ever tell you about the original meaning of the word ‘terrific’?,” I ask.
Gerald doesn’t respond, just shakes his head and then curls up in his seat, fetal-like. The curve of his body like an extended ‘s,’ as he glides with the music and the straight driftwood of the new roads.
The shape of his ears remind me of his mother. We used to be a family, but now we’re just tidal pools with a shared history. I try again and again to break through to the boy, but ice can be as hard as rock, and the sledgehammer of my love bends in my hands. I’m not sure how else to put it. My Gerald, the boy who grew up after all the glaciers melted, and yet he’s made of rime.
I stare out the window and note the aloof sky. My eyes take in the large milky clouds, each one shaped like paper planes pointing in the direction from which we come, which is to say home. Or perhaps they are the “lesser than” signs from grammar school math. It’s somehow comforting that the clouds have not expanded, or if they have, it was at a rate imperceptible to my mind.
“Do you know what the word ‘obsolescence’ means, Gerald?”
“No,” the boy says, chewing at his flaky bottom lip.
“Take a good look at it,” I say, both of my thumbs protruding inward.
“Do you want that bite?” he says. “There’s that diner you like a few blocks over.”
“No, son,” I say, “we shouldn’t be late.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” Gerald says. “Where we’re going doesn’t have a tight schedule.”
“We might as well be where we should be,” I say. “If that’s really what you think is necessary,” I add.
“I do,” he says, a lone tear forming in the waning moon of his right eyelid. “I do think it’s important.”
“And necessary,” I say, staring him in the eye. “For I know you’re not the type of boy who would do something were it otherwise.”
He looks away and bows his head, his knuckles pink as they forge into two tiny fists. They clench and unclench, and I know we’re almost to the destination. In music, the rest notes, the silence between notes are denoted with their own symbols. The silences carry the measure of the music the same as the melodies. The great composers know that the moments between noise are just as important as those with sound.
Master graphic designers speak of the importance of white space in their projects. The simple space bar of our keyboards, the mere breath at each comma as we speak, those sometimes seem of lesser importance. I assure you, as a deep lover of words and language, that silence can shout louder than any exclamation point. Together Gerald and I drift to our destination, bathing in the baptism of total solitude.
“We’re here,” Jamie says, the first to break the entente.
* * *
The building is, of course, non-descript. Cube upon cube fitted together in a chorus line taking up half a city block. Each cube has a few square windows surrounded by limestone, giving the appearance of faded Caribbean sand. Samantha and I went to the Bahamas on our honeymoon, but what does that matter now? Words... words never let me down, but the thoughts and people behind them often do.
Gerald has always made a strange sound from his throat when he’s nervous. He’s making that distinct sound right now.
I ask, “Where are we?” There’s no signage. The boy doesn’t respond.
I call out, “Jamie, where are we?”
Jamie says, “We are here, at the destination.”
Outside, the clouds have lifted, revealing a flawless sky. Lone maple trees are planted in bricked plots in each corner of the lot. For a moment, I put aside my concerns and stare ahead at a busy squirrel seeking sustenance for the winter ahead.
“I’m sorry,” Gerald says. “This wasn’t an easy decision.”
I say, “Don’t be too hard on yourself. If your decision is correct, then you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Gerald puts his head down and his scrawny neck looks as though it’s hanging by a thread.
For a second, I consider filicide, but I know it wouldn’t change a thing. Gerald didn’t ask to be born into this world any more than I did. It seems awfully unfair to expect him to be something more than a product of his environment. This is a shared concern, these feelings of inadequacies shared between the generations.
Gerald says, “If my decision is incorrect, then they will release you soon enough.”
“Sure,” I say. “Of course.”
“We all have to do our part,” Gerald says, repeating what he has learned in the camps and the schools. “We all have to do what we can to preserve our resources.”
“Right you are,” I say, pushing back the moisture forming in my eyes. Ahead of us in the distance I see three men in windbreakers jogging toward our car. I ignore them and instead turn my attention to my son. Despite everything, he looks very much his age; he’s eleven years old.
“Next week I’ll be thirty-nine,” I say. “You know, that didn’t use to be so old.”
“Everything is expanding,” he says, echoing what I always say.
“Even time,” we both say in unison. Gerald lets out an awkward laugh.
“I always knew this day would come,” I say. “Perhaps not this soon.” My voice slips away, even my beloved words now failing me. I plant a quick kiss on Gerald’s head. Before he can object, I say, “Look at that family of squirrels over there.” I point to the boughs of the maple tree closest to our vehicle. For a while, we stare and watch the squirrels working as one unit to ensure survival even during harshest winter.
I want to tell Gerald that I love him no matter what. I want to tell Gerald that I am ready. I want to teach him about how the Roman calendar changed and now our months don’t mean what they should. But before I can get the words out, the three men from the facility are upon us.
“Jamie, roll down the windows and unlock the car,” Gerald says.
An autumnal breeze fills the sedan. I look over and up at the three men now engulfing the vehicle.
“Gerald Frank?” the man in the middle says.
“Yes, sir,” Gerald answers, suddenly seeming ten years older.
The man has a surprisingly kindly face. He’s perhaps twenty years old. I want to hate him, but I can’t. We all have to survive the best we can. The first man has his hands balled into fists and he’s wincing in the sun.
The middle man says, “Gerald Frank, do you consent to our taking custody of your father, Peter Frank?”
Gerald’s eyes can no longer meet mine. “Yes,” he whispers, “I consent.”
They ask Gerald to sign. I watch him trace his finger along a thin tablet.
“All right, then,” the middle man says, turning his attention my way. “You can get out of the car now, chap.”
“There’s nothing to fear,” the first man says while keeping his right first balled. “It will go easier if we have your cooperation.”
“Of course,” I say. “I intend to cooperate and to do whatever is necessary to protect our global resources.”
“You are committed to the cause?” the third man asks.
“Sure,” I say, “of course I am.”
Consent. Cooperate. Committed. Oh, words, always so rich with meaning.
Copyright © 2020 by Carl Taylor
