I was reading this short story during my 10-11 one hour break between two biochem lectures, sitting in the sunlit cafe on ground floor gently shrouded in the soft warmth of winter sun and the whiteness of polished tables and chairs exuded a sense of peace. And reading this story under the sun! I don't know if I should cringe at his ludicrous yet poignant home-coming encounter, the humility and sour self-mockery of it all. The shame filled truth and bitterness of living an impecunious life of an unwelcome writer, unable to provide for his family when his father was in dire need and his mother a 'miserly' woman who paid excessive attention to absurd details, like that thread on his coat. Can't find online text so I'll have to type it out. These were the times I wished I had some X-men factor inside me and my thoughts could materialize into hypertext. Ah and I realized I left coffee stains on the page where my book mark resides. How could that happen??
Reunion in Brooklyn
from Sunday after the war, by Henry Miller
The great problem, the old man confided to me when we were alone for a few minutes, was to be able to have a quarter in his pocket at all times - 'in case anything should happen,' as he put it. 'They mean well,' he said, 'but they don't understand. They think I ought to cut out the cigarettes, for instance. By God, I have to do something to while away the time, don't I? Of course it means fifteen cents a day, but....'
I begged him not to say any more about it. 'I'll see that you have cigarettes at least,' I said, and with that I fished out a couple of dollars and blushingly thrust the money in his hand.
'Are you sure you can spare it?' said my father, quickly hiding it away. He leaned forward and whispered: 'Better not let them know you gave me anything - they'll take it away from me. They say I don't need any money.'
I felt wretched and exasperated.
'Understand,' he went on, 'I don't mean to complain. But it's like the doctor business. Mother wants me to delay the visits as long as possible. It's not right, you know. If I wait too long the pains get unbearable. When I tell her that she says - 'it's your condition.' Half the time I don't dare tell her I'm in pain; I don't want to annoy her. But I do think if I went a little oftener it would ease things up a bit, don't you?'
I was so choked with rage and mortification I could scarcely answer him. It seemed to me that he was being slowly tortured and humiliated; they behaved as if he had committed a crime by becoming ill. Worse, it was as if my mother, knowing that he would never get well, looked upon each day that he remained alive as so much unnecessary expense. She delighted in depriving herself of things, in order to impress my father with the need of economizing. Actually the only economy he could practice would be to die. That's how it looked to me, though I dare say if I had put it to my mother that way she would have been horrified. She was working herself to the bone, no doubt about that. And she had my sister working the treadmill too. But it was all stupid - unnecessary labor for the most part. They created work for themselves. When any one remarked how pale and haggard they looked they would reply with alacrity - 'Well, some one has to keep going. We can't all afford to be ill.' As though to imply that being ill was a sinful luxury.
As I say, there was a blend of stupidity, criminality and hypocrisy in the atmosphere. By the time I was ready to take leave my throat was sore from repressing my emotions. The climax came when, just as I was about to slip into my overcoat, my mother in a tearful voice came rushing up to me and, holding me by the arm, said: 'Oh Henry, there's a thread on your coat!' A thread, by Jesus! That was the sort of thing she would give attention to! The way she uttered the word thread was as if she had spied a leprous hand sticking out of my coat pocket. All her tenderness came out in removing that little white thread from my sleeve. Incredible - and disgusting! I embraced them rapidly and fled out of the house. In the street I allowed the tears to flow freely. I sobbed and wept unrestrainedly all the way to the elevated station. As I entered the train, as we passed the names of familiar stations, all of them recalling some old would or humiliation, I began enacting in my mind the scene I had just been through, began describing it as if I were seated before the typewriter with a fresh piece of paper in the roller. 'Jesus, don't forget that about the head that was sewn on,' I would say to myself, the tears streaming down my face and blinding me. 'Don't forget this...don't forget that.' I was conscious that everybody's eyes were focused on me, but still I continued to weep and to write. When I got to bed the sobbing broke out again. I must have gone on sobbing in my sleep for in the early morning I heard some one rapping on the wall and awoke to find my face wet with tears. The outburst continued intermittenly for about thirty-six hours; any little thing served to make me break out afresh. It was a complete purge which left me exhausted and refreshed at the same time.
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...I had to swallow my pride and beg to be taken back to the fold. Of course there had never been any thought in their mind of refusing my request, but when they discovered that I had no intention of looking for a job, that I was still dreaming of earning a living by writing, their disappointment was soon converted into a deep chagrin. Having nothing else to do but eat, sleep and write I was up early every morning, seated at the sewing table which my aunt had left behind when she was taken to the insane asylum. I worked until a neighbor called. The moment the bell rang my mother would come running to me and beg me frantically to put my things away and hide myself in the clothes closet. She was ashamed to let any one know that I was wasting my time at such a foolish pursuit. More, she was even concerned for fear that I might be slightly touched. Consequently, as soon as I saw some one entering the gate I gathered up my paraphernalia, rushed with it to the bathroom, where I hid it in the tub, and then secreted myself in the clothes closet where I would stand in the dark choking with the stink of camphor balls until the neighbor took leave. Small wonder that I always associated my activity with that of the criminal! Often in my dreams I am taken to the penitentiary where I immediately proceed to install myself as comfortably as possible with typewriter and paper. Even when awake I sometimes fall into a reverie wherein, accommodating myself to the thought of a year or two behind the bars, I begin planning the book I will write during my incarceration. Usually I am proved with the sewing table by the window, the one on which the telephone stood; it is a beautiful inlaid table whose pattern is engraved in my memory. In the center of it is a minute spot to which my eyes were riveted when, during the period I speak of, I received one evening a telephone call from my wife saying that she was about to jump in the river. In the midst of a despair which had become so tremendous as to freeze all emotion I suddenly heard her tearful voice announcing that she could stand it no longer. She was calling to say good-by - a breif, hysterical speech and then click! and she had vanished and her address was the river. Terrible as I felt I nevertheless had to conceal my feelings. To their query as to who had called I replied - 'Oh, just a friend!' and I sat there for a moment or two gazing at the minute spot which had become the infinitesimal speck in the river where the body of my wife was slowly disappearing. Finally I roused myself, put on my hat and coat, and announced that I was going for a walk.
When I got outdoors I could scarcely drag my feet along. I thought my heart had stopped beating. The emotion I had experience don hearing her voice had disappeared; I had become a piece of slag, a tiny hunk of cosmic debris void of hope, desire, or even fear. Knowing not what to do or where to turn I walked about aimlessly in that frozen blight which has made Brooklyn the place of horror which it is. The houses were still, motionless, breathing gently as people breathe when they sleep the sleep of the just. I walked blindly onward until I found myself on the border of the old neighborhood which I love so well. Here suddenly the significance of the message which my wife had transmitted over the telephone struck me with a new impact. Suddenly I grew quite frantic and, as if that would help matters, I instinctively quickened my pace. As I did so the whole of my life, from earliest boyhood on, began to unroll itself in swift and kaleidoscopic fashion. The myriad events which had combined to shape my life became so fascinating to me that, without realizing why or what, I found myself growing enthusiastic. To my astonishment I caught myself laughing and weeping, shaking my head from side to side, gesticulating, mumbling, lurching like a drunkard. I was alive again, that's what it i was. I was a living entity, a human being capable of registering joy and sorrow, hope and despair. It was marvelous to be alive - just that and nothing more. Marvelous to have lived, to remember so much. If she had really jumped in the river then there was nothing to be done about it. Just the same I began to wonder if I oughtn't to go to the police and inform them about it. Even as the thought came to mind I espied a cop standing on the corner, and impulsively I started towards him. But when I came close and saw the expression on his face the impulse died as quickly as it had come. I went up to him nevertheless and in a calm, matter of fact tone I asked him if he could direct me to a certain street, a street I knew well since it was the on I was living on. I listened to his directions as would a penitent prisoner were he to ask the way back to the penitentiary from which he had escaped.
When I got back to the house I was informed that my wife had just telephoned. 'What did she say?' I exclaimed, almost beside myself with joy.
'She said she would call you again in the morning,' said my mother, surprised that I should seem so agitated.
When I got to bed I began to laugh; I laughed so hard the bed shook. I heard my father coming upstairs. I tried to suppress my laughter but couldn't.
'What's the matter with you?' he asked, standing outside the bedroom door.
'I'm laughing,' I said. 'I just thought of something funny.'
'Are you sure you're all right?' he said, his voice betraying his perplexity. 'We thought you were crying....'
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