White Angel, presented
in this collection, is another example of how this wonderful little exercise of
mine presents me with authors of true quality.
Michael Cunningham went on to win the Pulitzer Prize for his novel “The
Hours”. He presents, and Margaret Atwood has presented readers with an
emotionally charged story first published in The New Yorker. In the Contributor’s Notes at the back of The
BASS, Cunningham explains that the central – focal - genesis- of this story came from an incident that happened
in his home town when he was thirteen, and that it had been alive in his head
for some 30 years and eventually developed into this story.
It's not that I am
beginning to fear these types of stories but I do find myself becoming more
anxious after reading them. Stories when children are horribly injured,
abused or killed - man, they are difficult.
The reader knows from
pretty early in the story that the main character's brother will die.
Reading of the
relationship between the brothers serves as a way to strengthen the emotional
punch when the brother does die. It
hurts – even though you know it’s coming.
Concerning his death
and they manner of his death, perhaps this is where most of my fear comes from
in these types of stories.
It is a death that
comes during an ordinary moment in our lives. Rushing towards a closed
sliding glass patio door, bursting through the glass, having a shard of that
glass sever the jugular and bleeding out on the living room floor.
It's horrific.
An accident. A
mistake.
And you reflect on
your life and remember all of the instances that you were in a position where
you could have been that boy - bleeding out on the living room floor.
And then you think
about your son. How he might grow up like you. And how he might be
in situations where he would run towards that closed sliding glass patio door...and you can't sleep at night thinking
about this. And all of these awful scenes that haven't even happened in
his life. But could happen. And are happening right now… in your
imagination.
A lump forms in your
throat your eyes glass over in the darkness as you set the scene so perfectly –
And you obsess over
his safety. You try not to hover but he's so little, so innocent. He
needs to be protected. But the years will pass and he will run further
down the street from you...away from your protective arms. Towards that closed sliding glass patio door. .
He’s getting older now
and faster and faster and faster - always running from you - from your
protective arms towards that closed
sliding glass patio door. You cry
out for him to STOP!
And that’s it exactly – his life, our life – this
life - a closed glass patio door. Normally we approach it, slide it to the side
and walk into the living room. But there
are moments when we – or someone we love runs through that closed sliding glass patio door.
And things are never the same after that moment.
Years pass, you’re both
be much older. Your hair has grayed out completely - lying in bed - still
thinking about him running towards...
And there is no way of
every catching him. All you can do is
watch. And hope that he slides it to the
side.
Parenthood.
"If you've never wept and want to, have a child."
Incarnations of Burned
Children – David Foster Wallace - of course.
