A sneeze came from an adjoining room. “Come into my library,” came a reedy, high-pitched voice, “if you’re not allergic to dust!” Scrawny and angular, Homer sat like a potentate in a pile of soft pillows cushioning his bony frame. His face had the furrows and wrinkles of his age, but his spirit was still lively. Now official historian for Moose County, he had been a high school principal – and a lifelong bachelor – when he retired. Not too long ago he had married a retired teacher ten years his junior.
“He married me because I still had a driver’s license,” she said sweetly.
“She married me because she thought I had a future,” said Homer. “She was a wild thing at eighty-two. I tamed her.”
“Shall we have tea?” she asked with her gentle smile.
When she left the room, Qwilleran set up his tape recorder on the tea table. “Well, Homer, do you have any profound thoughts to share on the occasion of your natal day? Anything fit to print?”
The old man cleared his throat at great length before saying, “Glad you asked. It so happens I came upon my childhood bankbook a few days ago, and it loosed a flood of memories. I was born in the town of Little Hope, but I had the grand hope of becoming rich and having my own horse and saddle. My father could afford to give me spending money – ten cents a week – and I always took a penny to the general store and bought a week’s supply of candy. The rest went into my cast-iron bank. It was like an apple, with a cork in the bottom, which I removed twice a week in order to count my growing fortune. When I had amassed fifty pennies, I deposited them in my bank account. The teller would write the total in the right-hand column – so I could always see my net worth at a glance. Sometimes the bank added a few pennies interest. I was always amazed and overjoyed to get something for nothing.”
“Did you ever save up enough to buy your horse?” Qwilleran asked.
“No, but I bought a two-wheeled bike – a dollar down and a dollar a month. I couldn’t believe it when they said I could take it home and ride it before it was paid for! It seemed like incredible largesse on the part of the general store.”
Rhoda had poured the tea and handed him a cup, saying, “Stop talking and drink it while it’s hot.”
“She’s a tyrant about hot tea! Wants me to scald my gums!”
She murmured to Qwilleran, “He forgets to drink it and then complains because it’s cold. I didn’t know about his quaint foibles when I married him.”
“Bosh! You knew everything! You’d been chasing me for years!”
“You didn’t run very fast, dear.”
Qwilleran interrupted the comedy routine that the happy couple repeated on every visit. “I suppose there was no income tax in those days.”
“Not until I had my first teaching assignment. It was in a one-room schoolhouse with a pot-bellied stove. I didn’t earn much money, and at the end of the year the government took four dollars away from me. For income tax, they said. I thought I’d been robbed! Now all you hear from Washington is: seventy million… twelve billion… six trillion! Sounds like the old Kingfish character on the radio. You don’t remember him. You’re too young.”
Qwilleran said, “Homer, you should start writing your autobiography.”
“There’s plenty of time for that,” the old man said testily. “I intend to live until that villain in the mayor’s office is thrown out on his ear!”
“Then you’ll live forever, dear,” said Rhoda, explaining to Qwilleran, “Mr. Blythe is automatically reelected every term because his mother was a Goodwinter.” Between sips of tea she was snipping a scrap of black paper with tiny scissors.
“May I ask what you’re doing?” Qwilleran asked.
“Cutting a silhouette of you. My grandmother taught me how. It was a popular art in Victorian days. She had a silhouette signed by Edouarte that would be quite valuable today, and she promised to leave it to me, but my cousin in Ohio got it.”
“Rhoda and her rascally relatives!” Homer complained. “They’re driving me to an early grave!”
Qwilleran said, “I have no relatives at all, and I’d gladly settle for a couple of rascals.”
“Take some of Rhoda’s, Qwill! Take her two cousins in Ohio.”
She said, “But… the Aunt Fanny you inherited from…”
“She was my mother’s best friend – not my real aunt.”
“And how is dear Polly? I haven’t seen her since we moved out here. I used to drive Homer to the library every day, and I always had a little chat with Polly.”
“Do you find it stimulating enough – living out here?”
“Oh, yes! We have book clubs and discussion groups and lectures. Last week we had a speaker from the Literacy Council. Do you know it’s easier to teach adults how to read than to teach children? Adults have developed certain skills and talents and are more realistic.”
Homer was showing sings of drowsiness, and Qwilleran thought it was time to leave. Rhoda gave him his silhouette in an envelope, saying, “Put this in a little frame and give it to Polly. She’ll want to put it on her desk at the library. Your head has very good lines.”
