Silas Timberman Read Free Page B

minutes, stuffing his pipe, lighting it, puffing it, contemplating the increasing flow of boys and girls over the lawn, and trying to think through a very cloudy matter indeed. But his thoughts reached no logical, positive conclusion, and the striking of the big clock on the tower of the Science Building recalled him to the needs of the day.
    * * *
    It is only natural that the case of Silas Timberman was more often and thoroughly reviewed in his own mind than in the mind of anyone else, and his own picture of all the facts and factors that went into the making of it was both more and less complete than what is provided by the official files. If he had a tendency to seize upon seemingly unimportant factors, it was because subjectively he required apparent motivations rather than a more subtle integration into a vast and complex whole. Later on, he would examine his own origins more closely, and resist less the possibility that he was different from most of his colleagues, and this would come as he developed his own understanding of the forces that produced his colleagues—and as his own desire to be like them in so many ways lessened. However, for a good while to come, he would cling to the belief that the visit of Ike Amsterdam on this particular Monday morning was a prime factor.
    He had not gone more than a dozen paces from his home this morning when he experienced an almost irresistible desire to return and say something to Myra in the way of explanation. He did not turn back, however, because he was unclear as to what he might say; although he was quite clear in his feeling of being found lacking, which began a deepening depression rather unusual for him. For uncertain reasons, he now disliked both himself and the picture he was certain he had presented to Myra, and he felt a sudden sense of loss, desolation, and abandonment. When Brian called after him, “Wait for me—wait for me, daddy!” he stiffened almost guiltily and stood quite impassive, briefcase in hand, waiting for the impact of the child’s hurtling body. Brian noticed the difference and stopped short in front of Silas, his enthusiasm suddenly dampened.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” he asked.
    â€œNothing—nothing,” Silas said, feeling rather foolish in the pose he had struck for the little boy.
    â€œBring me something back?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou bring back something. Bring me a water gun. Bring me a space gun, will you?” The round, pudgy, freckled face stared at him with simple, uncomplicated hope, faith and trust. Bring me a gun, said the child. Silas picked him up in his arms and assured him that he would bring him something. “You forgot your briefcase!” Brian called, running after him.
    Age and weariness far beyond his forty years rode him as he walked toward the campus. Unlike Amsterdam, he saw little of the beauty for which Clemington was so justly famous. His thoughts went toward Myra; he had a beautiful, witty and accomplished wife—who in turn was possessed of a plodding and unspectacular husband, a person whose days of accomplishment were hardly to be distinguished from each other, whose intelligence was modest at best, and who moved without thought or particular purpose to no particular destination other than old age or retirement. Yet, he asked himself, wasn’t most life like that, and weren’t the periods of so-called happiness no more than intermittent glandular easements, and wasn’t it possible that he might not be envied by people who had neither refrigerators nor cars, could they but know him as he knew himself? However, he had enough wit of his own to realize that such philosophizing was neither profound nor particularly adult; and he was almost grateful to run into Ed Lundfest and thereby be relieved of the sole company of his own thoughts.
    â€œBeautiful morning, Silas,” Lundfest said, gulping air as if he had suddenly been confronted with a totally