David Read Free

hat that I realized I’d taken it off when I’dpassed him in the doorway. I had sworn to myself that I would never do that again. Halfway back to Chatham, I’d almost convinced myself that the tears I was crying were all for Mrs. King.
    *
    As soon as Henry sets paw inside the house, he tears upstairs; before I’ve had time to light the lamp in the library, he’s scouring the main floor, including the pantry, the door of which he pries open with his nose. Nothing. Not much chance that Loretta would have been in there waiting for us to come home anyway, but dogs don’t like secrets, not even closed doors.
    I leave the fire alone. If Loretta was here, I’d have to add another log—Loretta can never be warm enough—but when it’s just Henry and me I keep the house cool, the temperature outside one’s head an honest thermometer of what’s going on inside. Imagine Socrates on a clear Athens morning in the fresh open air of the agora, busily corrupting the city’s youth in the art of being virtuous. Then think of the thousands of slithering gods and goddesses of India hatched from the steaming brains of overheated believing millions. People or places, weather is soul.
    Satisfied, or at least resigned, that it’s just the two of us, Henry circles the rug in front of the fireplace three complete times before collapsing in a heavy heap to the floor. I watch him watch the fire from my chair, head resting on his front paws, eyes slowly, slowly closing until finally fluttering shut, an extinguished candle on a drafty windowsill. Not forever, though. Not yet, anyway. Not like the Reverend King. Nearly eighty-three years of morning after morning of waking up—the world’s most ordinary miracle—and tomorrow morning he won’t. The truest truth that makes absolutely no sense.
    Times like this, only Mr. Blake or whiskey will do. A time exactly like this, I need both. Henry’s eyelids slide open as I stand up, but he stays lying where he is. Although it’s Songs of Innocence and Experience that’s behind glass and under lock and key, it’s the whiskey I should probably be concerned with protecting. Not much chance that anyone in Chatham would ever want my 1831 first edition—the only edition preceding it the illuminated, engraved copies produced by Mr. Blake himself—as much as they’d want a bottle of whiskey. But sometimes philistines make good neighbours. I’m going to own one of those copies made by Mr. Blake’s own hands one day, and when I do, I won’t even have to lock my front door at night.
    Favourite books are like old friends: beginnings and endings don’t matter, you take what you need when you need it. I swallow, savour the familiar burn of the first sip of whiskey, and set the glass on the table beside my chair, open up the Blake on my lap. The fuzzy black type reminds me that I’ve left my spectacles upstairs in the bedroom. If I bring the book nearer, I know I won’t need them, won’t have to get up again, but whenever Loretta catches me attempting to read without them, she warns me that my eyes will only get worse. But Loretta doesn’t really warn me, not about anything; warning isn’t Loretta’s way. Loretta explains the situation, points out the potential advantages and disadvantages, advocates the most reasonable course of action. I wonder if all Germans act the way that all Germans are supposed to act or just the only one I’ve ever known. If Loretta gets her way, I’ll find out for myself, and sooner rather than later. Only last week:
    â€œYou have the money, yes?” she said.
    â€œI could afford to go, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œDo not be modest, David. You could afford to go one hundred times over. The only question that remains iswhether or not your affairs here prohibit you from being away for an extended period.”
    Loretta didn’t speak