By George Lundgren, Becketwood Member
He knocked on the blue door and waited. He noticed how the paint had faded near the bottom, how some places had begun to peel and split, how it was worn around the knob. He felt the warm sun on his back and the wind on his left cheek. He looked down. His shoes were dirty, scuffed, and slightly turned up at the toes from much use. He was eight now. The wait was a tension-filled eternity. He knocked again, almost hoping no one would answer so he could leave and say he had tried. Maybe he could even fool himself into thinking he had given it a good try. Life was supposed to be difficult. What did he really want of difficulties? He noticed the stone he was standing on was worn smooth and slightly curved in the center. Had they waited too? Had they come looking for life? Had they found it? Images flashed before his mind: sailors, bums, poor people, old people. Maybe years ago, a family had lived here, and little children had played games on these steps. The door opened, surprising him.
She was rather old and slightly bent over in the usual manner. He knew she was older than his grandmother since he had heard stories about her from both his father and grandmother. All she said was, “Yes?”
“I’m here looking for Life,” he replied. How easily it had come out, as though it were a natural thing to make such statements. It had felt as comfortable, as thoughtless, as drinking water, or eating, or going to sleep.
“Come in,” she invited, opening the door all the way. He walked in as though his entry were his final triumph, his zenith. The odor of the house struck him first. It smelled like tacos, but it was not quite the taco smell. It was, in fact, curry, which would for the rest of his life bring him back to this day. The Persian carpet on the floor was threadbare in the paths of walking. The carpet gained color and softness, though, as it approached the furniture where it was actually very pretty. The rug pattern was busy but had enough color to keep the curious eye engaged as it followed the curves and lines before it.
The room was darker than he would have had it. The shades were halfway down. The furniture was dark by both fashion and age. The woodwork was simply dark. The room was tidy but seemed dingy. He was sure that nothing had been changed in a long time. The room had, in fact, seen more of life than he had, many generations and many families. He assumed without knowing it that old things were dark with little color or variation. He had quickly compared the room with his home, then wondered if that was fair. He knew very little of this woman and her life. He would wait before deciding too much. He instinctively knew he was out of place. He did not fit. There was no ready-made slot waiting for him here, no toys. He would carve out a place here by his presence, his being. He knew this would have its awkward moments, but he did not realize how helpful it would ultimately be. Looking back years later, he would see only gray memories of the room itself, ... except for the red and blue of the carpet and the smell of curry.
He was directed to the couch by the slow movement of her right arm. He knew immediately where she would sit. And she did. Hers was the most worn chair, the one with the shiny arms and the saggy seat. A small grunt and sigh accompanied her final adjustment into the chair. She looked at him squarely, with unwavering attention. She looked only at his eyes. She had seen the rest already. He was a normal-appearing eight-year-old, clean for his age but well below standard for a first date. She had seen his confidence as he walked across the threshold. She knew he generally liked himself and had come from a loving home. She had not sensed any sharp edges, any prickly points, any missing pieces. He was somewhat grandiose in the very utterance of his opening statement. His innocence, however, far outweighed such a shortcoming. She took care not to stare, leaving her face relaxed and loving. Yet she felt a need to present a sense of seriousness. She would begin by affirming her principles during the first few minutes of their encounter. I will look at you with my eyes and my heart, she thought. I will be open and honest with you. We will in part play a game of chess. You will see all my moves, although you may not understand them at the moment. She knew he would understand her look. He did.
“I’m glad you came. What would you like?” she began.
He too had taken in much of what had already happened. She moved surprisingly well for a person her age. He still saw in his mind the trace of her arm inviting him in, the slow and graceful movement of a dancer. She had been a survivor, he thought. The trials of life had not taken their usual toll. Her spirit was intact. Her inner joys had outweighed her feelings of loss and sadness. Her body mimed her sense of hope and optimism. There was no sullen resentful aura, no load of self-pity to drag into the next day. Her voice was pure and gentle with no evidence of the baby talk he had known from others her age. Neither were there too many words, long hellos, or forced social pleasantries of studied conversationalist. She seemed straightforward, a trustable being. He had felt her receptiveness in her body posture. He was comfortable enough to take the next step.
“My parents have told me that I could learn a lot from you. They told me to ask you about the stories.”
“Ahh, the stories,” she said, dragging the ‘ahh’ just a bit as though she were thinking, or planning, or remembering. Smiling, she looked at him again to see if everything within him was ready.
“Boys your age like stories of knights, and dragons, and castles. I will tell you today about the castle. You are the castle, a castle that was built a long time ago. Your walls are thick and heavy and protect you well. Your gate is very big. When it is open, your friends and your enemies walk freely in and out, some with devious plans, most with laughter and good times. Some will cause trouble until you recognize them and ask them to leave.
“Your castle has many rooms. You know all the rooms already but only like the bird knows of the warm southern land where it will fly on its first migration. Room after room you will find. They will all be surprises, grand surprises. They will all be different. Now, you might be thinking, ‘Ah ha! I will run around and explore this place!’ just as you would explore a new friend’s house: first the bedrooms, then the basement, then the attic. But wait! Your castle does not have any hallways yet! All the rooms are there, but you cannot get there from here. You will find each room when it is the right time for you. With its finding, you will find the hallway that leads you there. You will find the key also, at just the right time. You will learn to put each of the keys in a safe place. Some, you will carry on your belt. Others, you will tuck away under a rug, or put on a shelf, or hide behind a book. Yes, and some keys you will lose, only to find them again the next time you need them.
“There are many, many rooms to find, and open balconies, and courtyards, and gardens, and springs, and a pool, a blue pool. At most places, there will be a light. At some places it will be dark, the walls wet, the floor slippery. You will learn to go very slowly at such places, putting your feet down slowly and carefully. At others, you will open a door to find a courtyard full of sun and wind. You will hop and skip until your legs give out, giggle until you run out of breath, then flop down on the ground and pretend dead.”
She caught her breath... then let it out and giggled. “We’re going to have fun together,” she said, and then asked, “Where are you now?”
“I’m standing in my castle and I’m the King,” he said, somewhat surprised at how real the castle had become.
“Good,” she nodded. “And what is it like to be the King in your castle?”
“I’m very important and everybody wants to be my friend.”
“And do they want to be your friend because they like you, or because you are the King?” Again, she nodded at him.
“They like me because I am the King. I AM THE KING.” He said it slowly this time with great emphasis on each word so that the meaning would be entirely clear to her.
“Oh, I see,” she consented. “But what are you the King of?”
Unable to contain himself, he burst out, “”I’m the King of my castle, just like you said!”
She waited a few moments to see if he would hear his words and their meaning. “I said in the story that you were the castle. I am a castle. Each of your friends is a castle. Your parents are each a castle. Now I cannot go into your castle or your dad’s castle. It would get awfully crowded if we each came to see you and brought our own castles.”
He knew now that things were starting to get silly, but he was not quite sure how it had happened. “When I told the story about the castle,” she went on, I was talking about you, your body, and the way you are. You will spend the rest of your life discovering new rooms in your castle, new parts of you you did not know were there. Let me tell you some of the rooms you already know about, maybe that will help. I know you have discovered the room where courage is. You must have been a little scared when you knocked on the door. Were you?”
A shy nod told her to continue. “Well, it was courage that kept you standing on the steps even though you were scared. How about help? Did you come here to ask me for help?” Another shy nod. “Well then, you know about the ‘asking for help’ room. Do you think you could find courage again if you needed to?” His nods indicated that he was understanding better this time.
“Now tell me,” She went on. “Can you think of another room you know about?” This stumped him. He sat, leaning his cheek on his open palm, looking at the patterns in the carpet.
“Waiting!” he exploded.
“Yes!” she shouted as she joined in the celebration. “We call that patience. You will need to use that often. Best keep the key to that one on your belt.”
“Okay!” came a quick, almost military reply,
“We will talk more about your rooms as you find them but I must tell you the two secrets that will help you the most. The first is Life. If you keep your eyes and ears, and heart and mind open, life will show you the way to many of the rooms.” His eyes were big now, as though he was being told where to find the path to the enchanted forest. “The second is the English language....”
“English!” he screamed, interrupting her. “I hate English, and I hate spelling, and I hate reading....” Perhaps he would have continued, but she had raised her right hand, leaned her head toward it, and held a pleading and expectant look on her face. He softened, realizing that it might be wise for him to listen to the rest of what she had intended to say.
“English has all the words that name all the rooms that you will need to know about for a long time. Do not forget the words you have right here.” As she said this, she slowly closed her fingers. They both fell into a silence, the kind of silence that lets the shoulders relax, the breathing soften. They both knew that today had ended. She showed him to the kitchen and stirred the curry as she said a simple good-bye.
He found the door by himself as though he were at his own house, let himself out, and began walking home. As he turned the first corner and put his hands in his pockets, his right hand found the key. His pace slowed. He stopped, pulled the key out into the light of the day. Everything seemed very real, very bright and very special. A warm glow seemed to be coming up from his stomach and... it seemed like a long time before he began walking again.
Artwork by George Lundgren
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