Then what is it you read. What you read or see in the great books, is what there is in you. That’s what they enable. This you know, and you’ve earned it.
What you see here: The guy in the brown macintosh who haunts Glasnevin is the ghost of Bloom’s father, who killed himself. The snatches of the note left to Leopold—in that second drawer at 7 Eccles, he kept it—says he is going to his wife, and she’s in Glasnevin, and he’s not—buried in Ennis, unconsecrated ground. A terrible fate. What a church. That would kill a son, wouldn’t it? Who’s the real victim. Would kill a father, too. Don’t have ten kids. The math doesn’t work, you know, you know. He’s half the man for every one he had; you once did the math, do it here, starting at 100 percent, goes to 50 with the first, Patrick; 25 with Terry; 12½, Frank; 6¼, Joe; 3⅛, Betty; 1, Helen; then it gets easy—convert the whole fraction, not 1 but , then just double the denominator heading out, for every halving: , Agnes; , Tom; , Vincent; , you.
You vow that will not be you. All you can do, you will do for your son, sons. Daughters. Starting here. What’s over is over. You may never know. One day maybe you will. You were all so lonely. Lost generation, that’s what Cassie said. Time to be found. Time to keep. Trust the world; trust the reader of all things. It’s in the text scribbled there and here, dark or not. The great text of life. Read it. Teach that. To the children.
There’s a little light coming into the sky. Home at last. Jimmy, dear lad, concerned enough, though he hides it, will walk you home, and does. You are silent. He seems refreshed. Maybe you are, too.
—So Bob, I’ve got the questions. The four. What’s the fifth question?
You draw a blank, the Clifford Brown solo running through your head; you keep following it. Your “Night in Tunisia.”
—The fifth, he says. To get in the class.
And you remember.
—What’s the word known to all men, Jimmy? That’s it.
Trick question. You are at your stoop.
—Coming in?
—Nah, Bob. My mother’ll be waiting up. I’ll think about it. What’s the word . . . okay. Thanks. That was a good night.
—Go get some sleep, you say. Regards to your mother for me now.
You take a long breath, calming. You find your key and squeak inside, go right to the bathroom one two three, light switch, close the door. In the mirror there, you do not look. You hear a clock ticking. . . . It’s your Bulova, your present settling around you like a house. You listen, your heart. You hear Marion say your name. You hear your boy’s soft cry. Then Jimmy Curran from below, cinder scrape of his skip on the sidewalk. He exclaims to the street the word—Love!—a sparrow of discovery in his voice. Then you grab a look in the glass. Why not. You smile. And flick the light off.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I WOULD LIKE TO THANK Bradford Morrow, Stephen Donadio, and Carolyn Kuebler for early support of this work; agent John Wright for keeping the faith; Erika Goldman and her team at Bellevue Literary Press for believing in this book and making it happen.
I am also grateful for the friendship and support of Kevin Gallagher and Lizanne Gallagher Moretta, whose reading of “Finishing Ulysses” was very important to me. My two sons, Joshua and Gabriel, remain central to my telling of any story. I thank them for being. Lastly, I thank my wife and partner and first reader, Rebecca Smith, who continues to ask all the right questions.
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The Business of Naming Things Page 18
