Vera recognized the man on the park bench. His beard was now white. His glasses were thicker. But he had the same hat. It was a Greek fisherman's cap, the same one he had worn every day of high school, and then, apparently, every day for the next 30 years.
The cap was dark blue with a black rope overlay and brass anchor buttons. It had seemed ridiculous back in high school. Then in the late 90s it was in style. Now it looked ridiculous again.
But it did enable Vera to recognize him. She struck up a conversation and asked how he was. “Fine”, he said, “not much different”. It was clear he had no idea who she was. Vera told him she had been in his creative writing class in 1990. “Oh yes”, he said, unconvincingly.
She had so much she wanted to tell him, and the park was much too public. So she invited him to her house for dinner.
He was 10 minutes late. Some things, she thought, never change. Dr. Thaddeus was always late for class. And always 10 minutes late.
She wanted this dinner to be perfect. She had imagined it often. Dr. Thaddeus would be 10 minutes late. He would arrive in his ubiquitous cap. She would serve him some sherry. They would talk. She would conclude the evening with a roast chicken dinner with all the trimmings.
The time had come. The doorbell rang, and she opened the door for Dr. Thaddeus. He sat in the easy chair by the lamp. She offered him the sherry and he took it, exactly as she had imagined.
They talked about school. She reminded him of who she was, the quiet redhead who wanted more than anything to be a poet.
“Did you continue writing?” Dr. Thaddeus asked. “No”, she replied, “things got in the way. The last poem I wrote”, Vera continued, “was for your class. I worked on it for two weeks. It was about birds.” Dr. Thaddeus finished his sherry. “Don't you remember?” Vera asked. She recited,
The birds have flown their fledgling nestDr. Thaddeus spoke slowly, slurring his words. “That is lovely. What did I give you for a grade?”
And left me here desiring.
To follow them without a rest,
And watch my life transpiring.
Vera looked at him. “You gave me a C”, she said, “and you wrote on the paper, ‘If this is the best you can do, you will never be a writer.’”
Dr. Thaddeus didn't respond. Vera could see that the poison in his sherry was working as she had expected.
She left him glassy-eyed on the easy chair and went to the kitchen. She removed the chicken from the oven and took it to the table, where she had a vase of flowers, a candle, and a lovely setting for one already arranged.
She had been looking forward to this dinner for a long, long time.
Spiritual questions:
- What have you not done because somebody told you you couldn't?
- What if they were wrong?
- Why don't you find out?
This is one of my Parables for the Spiritual but not Religious Series.
May 21, 2020 - This was written with the Roundhouse Writing Group in Santa Cruz, Guatemala, remotely from Guanajuato, Mexico. The writing prompt for the session was: She invited her English teacher over for dinner.
The photograph is by Capsun Poe and made available through Flickr and Creative Commons, some rights may be reserved.
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