A note to the good readers of Lord of Indiscipline: Storytelling has been on (I think) a good run lately, but I do intend to shift back—at some point—to whatever you want to call the other kind of writing I do here and develop a more consistent back-and-forth between the two genres. My hope is that, when my ship comes in, Lord of Indiscipline will go back to the weekly offering schedule and alternate between the story and commentary formats. That way, those who prefer the former and those who prefer the latter can each be happy in their own little corners. And I lordly will be the happiest of the bunch, because I prefer both. As for now, thank you for being here and I hope you enjoy “The Present.”
History is similarly the relation and conjunction…between two levels of humanity: the past lived by the men of other times, and the present in which the effort to recapture that past is undertaken for the benefit of living men and for men who will follow after. (H. I. Marrou)
Faith draws the future into the present, so that it is no longer simply a “not yet.” The fact that this future exists changes the present; the present is touched by the future reality, and thus the things of the future spill over into those of the present and those of the present into those of the future. (Pope Benedict XVI)
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation. (T. S. Eliot)
Emil walks in the tunnel for hours. At intervals the darkness yields to light and in the light he can see his surroundings: a sidewalk in the city, the houses close upon him, the rush of cars and roar of buses, and over it all the perception, but not the feeling, of that hot, dusty smell of summer spreading itself over the asphalt and brick and concrete of the city. It is all so exact, so loud, so vivid that it betrays its own unreality. The tunnel looms ahead again and as he leans into the darkness he hears the first ominous chirpings of the alarm clock. He feels it is morning before he knows it but before he can fend off the impending knowledge there is a whisper in his face and a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Daddy, it’s morning. It’s so early, he whispers, his eyes still shut. The sun isn’t even up yet. Yes, yes, it is, she says with the sibilants of a whisper but the volume of ordinary speech. I can see the car outside. Can we go to the store and get the present. The store isn’t open yet, he says. Go wait for me in the kitchen.
He listens to her feel her way out of the room and when the door clicks shut behind her is when he opens his eyes and sees, pushing through the crack in the curtains, the light of the first day in the week that we call holy. He swings his legs out from under the sheets and sets his feet on the floor and the cold of the floorboards chases the last traces of sleep from his mind. Savannah stirs in her sleep and he puts a hand gently to her shoulder and then cautiously, quietly, stands up and slides through the room to the door and, more deftly than Anna did or ever could, pulls the door shut behind him.
Anna waits for him in the kitchen. She has dressed herself as if spring has really and truly sprung and the bright white and yellow of the daisy pattern on her dress brings a waft of the warmth from his dream into the air. Can we go to the store, she asks again. Not just yet. It doesn’t open until lunchtime. Dismay drops like a curtain across her face. But that is in a long time. No, he says, not too long. We just have a few things to do first. Want to make the coffee with me. She nods. Okay. He hoists her onto the kitchen counter and she confidently measures the grounds into the filter and hands it to him and he pours the water into the reservoir and presses start. Can I press the button. Okay, he says, and presses start again, turning the power off, so she can press the button herself. The coffeemaker grumbles and then restarts and Emil makes toast and the air is quickly strong with the familiar aromatics of morning. I tell you what, he says as he leans into the refrigerator, takes out the milk, puts it on the counter next to Anna, touches his hand to her curls. I tell you what. What. Today is Monday. He takes the toast from the toaster. And on Monday I go to work. He plates the toast, butters it, squeezes honey over the butter, cuts the toast into quarters. But today, he continues, today I will come home early because we are going to go to the store and get the present. He hands her the plate, pours his coffee, sits down at the table. Sound good. Anna nods. That sounds good. Good.
In the early morning stillness they sit quietly together, eating and drinking. When Anna sees her mother slip past the kitchen door to the back bedroom where her sister is still sleeping, she silently blows a kiss and turns back to her toast, holds it by the crust, keeps her fingers free from the butter and the honey, absentmindedly in between bites running her hand over the table and brushing crumbs from the table to the floor. Look, Anna breaks into the silence suddenly, excitedly. Look-look-look. That chipmunk is eating all the seeds. All the seeds for the birds. He follows her finger and sees the chipmunk. It has climbed onto the birdfeeder that hangs on the side of the neighbor’s house and is looting the seed-filled cylinder with might and main. I like chipmunks, Anna says. Does your sister like chipmunks. Yes, she does, too. Maybe I can get a chipmunk for her. Emil laughs. I don’t think that would work out too well. Would it eat all our food. Yes, it would. Okay. I guess I will find something else for the present. That would be good. You can think of what that might be while I’m at work. Okay, she says, and follows him out to the front door, throws her arms around his neck and plants a kiss on his cheek and touches her hand to his hair and when he turns to wave at the bottom of the steps she returns the wave vigorously and her mouth makes the shape of see you soon.
This is the first year for the present. For it is better to give than to receive.
To be a child is to take. To be a father or a mother is to be taken from.
But that way lies madness: who can follow it.
To be a good father or a good mother is to give. To be a good child—to have a good childhood—is not to get but to receive.
To receive is to get and know at the same time what it is to give because the giver is known and loved. To be a receiver: that is to be a good child.
The child is the father of the man. To be a good child is to become a good man or a good woman. Good.
Anna is there waiting for him when he returns. Time to get the present, she exclaims. That’s right, sweet pea. Here we go. And he swings her by the hand down the stairs and they set off the down the street to the store. The noonday sun has chased the chillness from the late March air and a steady stream of people, coming and going, pass them on the sidewalk. Some people still give a wide berth; some even step into the street to let them pass by; most keep their eyes on the traffic or ahead on their destination, but others smile and wave at Anna and nod to Emil and Anna waves and smiles in return, except when there is a dog and then she holds close to Emil’s leg and waits for the dog to pass and then peers periodically over her shoulder until the dog is well on its way in the other direction. Occasionally the dog is unleashed and then Emil tracks its advance and feels a tightness clench in the pit of his stomach, the sudden stirrings of that primeval power, seemingly dormant but only drowsing, to fly or fight with all his heart and with all his soul and all his mind down to the very last drop of blood in his body. But then the dog trots peaceably past and the tightness loosens and the power settles down into its customary doze and Emil renews his hold on Anna’s hand and returns his attention to the present.
Did you decide what the present will be, he asks. Not just yet. I want to look and see. Okay, we can do that, he answers, as they turn the corner and the bright orange and yellow awnings of the toy store comes into view. There it is, Anna sings out, there’s the store. She pulls her hand free from his and she rumbles ahead of him down the sidewalk, her jacket unbuttoned and loose about her, and she reaches the door to the store and wheels around, a smile burst full into bloom across her face. When Emil joins her, she is staring at a sign on the door. What does that say. On the paper is the red outline of stop sign and inside the outline are words in red.
We are limiting occupancy to three shoppers at a time. We also ask that you keep your shopping time to under fifteen (15) minutes and, out of consideration for others, limit children’s contact with merchandise. Thank you for cooperating.
What does that say. Emil looks down from the sign to Anna, feels the tension stir in his gut again, reads the sign again, takes Anna’s hand and pushes the door open. It says many things but mostly that they want us to go home in fifteen minutes. Now let’s go find the present.
The clerk is a young woman who smiles with eyes and greets them and tells them to let her know if they need help finding anything and waves vigorously at Anna and says what a cute dress that is, that daisies are her favorite, that spring is the best time of year. Except for her, they are the only ones in the shop. The shop is well-heated. Already warm from the walk Emil drops Anna’s hand to unzip his jacket and no sooner is her hand free than she is off and away from him, weaving through the displays, running her hand along the plush bears and puppies and hedgehogs and pandas, pressing try-me buttons and pushing the trains along the tabletop tracks, taking her contact with the merchandise to the limit. Emil glances quickly toward the clerk, but her eyes are on her computer screen and not on her customers, and he even more quickly covers the ground between him and Anna and catches her hand and bends down to her ear and whispers that she needs to try not to touch anymore things unless it’s the present. She whispers back. Okay. Her whisper sounds deafening. Okay, the bears are so soft and the pandas are so soft, too. I believe it. Have you looked at the puzzles yet, he whispers. Does Emilia like puzzles. I bet she does. Okay, I want to look at the puzzles.
As they make their way across the shop, toward the section of games and puzzles, the clerk catches Emil’s eye and asks him again if they need any help finding anything. Before Emil can answer Anna does. I’m getting the present, Anna says. You are, exclaims the clerk. How fun. Is it for your birthday. No, it’s for Emilia. For Easter. Is Emilia your sister. Yes, she’s a baby. She’s only one. How sweet, says the clerk. I’ll let you look, then. Oh, and just so you know—this, to Emil—and I know, it’s so inconvenient, but we do have to be pretty strict about that fifteen-minute limit. Just so you know. Of course, Emil says, of course, of course. Come on, sweet pea. He nudges Anna along. Clock’s ticking. Let’s find the present.
This is the first year of the present. The night before this day—the day of the present and the time-sensitive shop and the smiling clerk—as they tuck Anna into her bed, they ask her if she would like to go to the store with him tomorrow and get her sister a present. Oh yes. For her birthday, she asks. No, her birthday was last month. For Easter. Do I get a present for Easter. We’ll see. But you can get one for your sister, if you want to. Okay, she says, I want to. Good. Then tomorrow, I’ll take you to the store and you can get her the present.
That was yesterday. This is today. God knows what this present is going to be and God forbid the clock runs out while she is still looking. Emil looks at his watch. It is just shy of half past. The past and the present. The past is the work of other men and other women in other times and other places that may as well be other worlds in comparison with this. The past and the present. The present is my work, right here and right now, to make contact with those worlds and those men and those women and capture for myself, for her, for all of us, what they had that made life worth living and will make life worth living a thousand years hence.
Look. Look at this, daddy. Anna stacks four blocks, grasps the tower by the top block, holds it upside down, describes for him (with a child’s blissful disregard for grammar) what it is he is looking at. Look: they sticks together. At her feet is a box: magnet-magic set. A dozen blocks, cubes, pyramids, cylinders, brilliant in primary colors. Is that the present, he asks stupidly. This is the present, she says. This is what I’m going to get. It’s for Emilia but I can play with it with her. And we can build it together. Perfect, he says, and takes the tower from her, drops it into the package, scoops the other pieces from the floor, snaps and seals the packing shut again, brings it to the counter. You found the present, beams the clerk. She wraps the package, drops it in a bag, hands the bag to Emil and thanks him for coming in today, for being mindful of the time limit (such a help), and she waves to Anna. Of course, of course, Emil says again, and Anna waves back to the clerk and they are out the door and back home before they know it.
Emilia is waiting for them when they return. He slides the bag with the present up his arm to his elbow and scoops Anna up in that arm, reminds her in a whisper that the present is a secret, bends down, picks up Emilia, leans over to embrace her. But Anna beats him to it, throws her arms around Emilia, plants a kiss on her cheek, and exclaims to her sister in cheek-to-cheek confidence that she got the present.
Credit: Theo van Doesburg, Composition I (Still Life) (1916), via Wikimedia Commons.