Under the Ash Tree
By Anne Spackman
Copyright 2014
By Anne Spackman
(Author’s Note: the opinions expressed within this story are not necessarily those of the author.)
“Everything rare for the rare.” The plaque read on his desk. He was sitting behind it, waiting for his financial advisor to give him the information he needed.
Ten minutes later, he was back by the pool. He swam 6 laps a day—just enough. He finished swimming at 5p.m., went in for a shower, and was dressed for dinner.
Dinner that evening was moules marinières to start, Lobster Thermidor as the main course, and Dark French mousse au chocolat for dessert. He ate lightly, and retired at 8:30p.m. in time for the meeting early the next morning.
His nightmare began that night.
* * * * *
They gave him someone else’s bone marrow, and he was able to recuperate from cancer within four months, but though Dr. Hopkins had told him that the cancer was in remission, he knew that it wasn’t guaranteed that he wouldn’t become ill again.
For the first time in his life, Grant Thornton felt disgusted by what he thought of as the apathy and hedonism inherent in the human race—in everyone, including himself—and he was angry. He was all right—though the doctor had warned him that feelings of anger wouldn’t help in his situation—but he was angry. He had never been a philanthropist, per se, but he had donated to charities in the past. But what he wanted most now to help was the human race itself, to be better, to make the world better.
Grant Thornton felt anger and disgust because so many people had to fight so hard just to be educated—and it was only through education that his countrymen would be able to wage the battles of the human race against cancer and for all kinds of worthy causes that not only Americans would benefit from, but the entirety of the human race. He had never felt this way before. A year ago he would have remarked, “who’s going to pay for it?”
He sighed. Until he was diagnosed with cancer four months ago, none of this had been his concern.
“I truly wish,” he thought to himself coming home from the hospital, “that every intelligent American with dedication in his heart and soul could contribute to our society what he can, and that he can do well at it.” He was almost back to his mansion—being driven home by a chauffeur, and still he knew that no matter what, there was nothing to stop the greed and apathy in the human race that led some to financial success and others to their ruin. Selfishness, not greed, he did not now disdain, merely when selfishness became excessive. And no one to his mind was entirely innocent of greed or selfishness. Moreover, those who suffered from apathy were unfortunate, for their souls were deprived of the driving force that gave the mind its satisfaction.
Grant hoped he was able to keep a positive attitude for the rest of the day.
* * * * *
He had thought to take a walk in Central Park as he left the hospital. Fresh air and the company of others might help, he thought.
There were so many people, though.
He got a drink and headed to sit down under a small ash tree, wondering why he felt so inordinately lonely that afternoon. He finished the drink, and some time passed.
“Are you ok?” A young woman of twenty-odd years stopped to talk to him. “You look really pale.”
“I am all right. I was at the hospital, but I am all right,” he said, getting to his feet. “Do I look that ill?”
“Just pale. You were falling asleep there, and I saw and got worried.”
“You did?” he said.
“Well, yes. I would have called an ambulance if you hadn’t woken up just now.”
“What is your name?”
“Lila. Nice to meet you.”
“Grant.”
“Well, good-bye, Grant. I hope you feel better.”
“Not so fast, Lila,” said Grant. “Why did you look at me? I am not particularly handsome.”
Grant was wearing a pair of regular pants and a disheveled shirt, from having gone to the hospital and having had a check-up.
“You seemed quite under the weather,” she returned. “I just thought I would see if you are ok.”
“Lila, that isn’t a very common name.”
“No. It’s not. Neither is Grant.”
“Well, Lila, are you from New York City?”
“Chicago. I moved here.”
“Oh, why?”
“I guess a lot of people have ideas of New York being the center of art and culture. I wanted to be a dancer, but I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t have the feet, or the money to keep dancing.”
“Oh,” said Grant.
“But my degree is in political science. I was working for a non-profit in the city.”
He brightened. “A non-profit? Commendable occupation, Lila.”
“Well, I should be going,” she said.
“If you don’t leave, I’ll take you somewhere to dinner and talk—just to learn about you. It won’t be a date.”
“Oh, ok.”
So they went to dinner.
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