The Noticer Returns Page 6

Kelli lifted her arm without thinking and stared briefly at the bracelet. The first thing that came to her mind was to tell the old man it was none of his business whether it was a gift or not. She wanted to ask what that had to do with anything and announce that she and her husband were leaving. Later she would wonder why she had not blurted out any of those things. There could have been any number of reasons, Kelli decided, but when the old man asked if the charm bracelet had been a gift, she answered, “Yes. It was a gift from Bart on our first anniversary.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Jones said. Looking to Bart, he appeared to change the subject. “Now then, you asked how I knew anything about your children . . . Things are easy enough to figure if a person gets in the habit of noticing.”

  They waited for him to continue, but Jones simply looked at them and remained quiet. Finally Bart asked, “And? What did you notice?”

  The old man’s smile broadened, and he said, “The charm bracelet. I noticed the charm bracelet. Lovely charms on it too. I’m sure there is an interesting story for each one. However, three of the charms, except for a slight shape variation and their color, are almost identical. They are baby shoes. Three baby shoes signifying your three children. By their shapes, color, and degree of wear, I believe your three children to be a boy and two girls. The boy is the oldest.”

  “Wow,” Bart exclaimed, briefly staring openmouthed at the bracelet on his wife’s wrist. “Okay. Well,” he said as he gathered his wits. “I am a financial analyst. I work primarily with the insurance industry.” Bart grinned and pretended to look at his hands and arms. “You might have already figured that out, though.” They all laughed.

  Kelli went on. “So, yes, we have three children. Art is twelve, and, yes, he’s the oldest. Then the girls . . . Donna is ten. Our baby, Lucy, just turned five.” Then she added, “Mr. Jones, you seem very familiar to me. Have we met?”

  “First of all,” the old man said, “call me Jones. Not Mr. Jones. Just Jones. And as for our having met . . . my guess would be that yes, at some point, surely we have run into each other.” Without further explanation or even agreement from Kelli, Jones changed the subject again. “Our class is assembled,” Jones stated as he slapped his palms crisply on his thighs. “It is eight minutes past seven o’clock—”

  Bart looked at his watch and back at Jones, who continued to talk. He glanced at his wife and back at the old man before twisting in his chair. Bart looked directly behind himself, expecting to see a clock on the wall, but there wasn’t one to be found.

  After patiently enduring Bart’s movement, Kelli placed her hand on his arm. She took this action while keeping her smile intact and her eyes on Jones—perfectly executing the sit-still maneuver that wives tend to use on their husbands and children.

  Bart zoned back in as Jones said, “Sunset is at seven fifty-four this evening, but the sun will hit the water a bit earlier than that.” To Kelli, he said, “I enjoy the sunsets too. Let’s hold this evening’s class outside.” Kelli Porter was now as openmouthed as her husband had been the moment before.

  As they stood, Jones moved toward the exit and added, “I say we convene on the end of the pier.” The old man was already outside by the time the Porters reached the door. They shrugged at each other and hurried to follow.

  Other than the old man, there was no one else around as Bart and Kelli made their way onto the wooden structure. Jones had stepped to the very end of the pier and, with his back to them, looked out across the bay, to the sun in the west, and spoke over his shoulder. “We won’t stay long this evening. I suggest we use the sun’s imminent farewell as a countdown of sorts.”

  He turned and faced the couple. There was a light wind that tugged at the old man’s shirt and tousled his white hair. “There are now thirty-four minutes exactly,” he said with an inkling of a smile, “before the bottom edge of our sun meets the horizon created by the water of this bay. Let us consider it a symbol of parental opportunity slipping through our fingers, never to be retrieved.”

  Motioning for Bart and Kelli to join him at the railing, Jones turned back around and was quiet again, this time for several minutes. The Porters waited uncomfortably. They felt it impolite at this point to say anything, but if they had talked to each other, one would have been sure to note that this was unlike any class—parenting or otherwise—either had ever experienced. “When one truly comprehends the fleeting nature of time,” Jones finally said, “the urgency acknowledged often creates a greater degree of focus. We are thirty-one minutes from sundown.”

  The old man had leaned against the railing, his forearms flat against its top, and looked to his right. Kelli would remark later that it was as if he were gazing past the sun. “Twenty-eight minutes now,” he said softly. “Watch it closely. The sun’s movement is so much like the formative years of a child’s life. Parents can become blind to the passage of time. We can also become blind to the truth of what’s happening around us during that passage of time. We think we are paying attention, but the sun doesn’t seem to move. So because nothing seems to be happening, we quickly become bored and look away. Only moments pass before we look back and realize that the sun—or our child—has moved significantly. Or is gone altogether.

  “Twenty-seven minutes,” Jones said and turned to look directly at Bart and Kelli. With his hands shoved comfortably into his pockets, he said, “It is my strong belief that far too many children have parents who try to do the best they can. Why are you here?”

  Bart and Kelli exchanged an awkward glance. They didn’t know where the old man was headed. Why are you here? What kind of question is that? they wondered, as subatomic particles of doubt began to sail unbidden from the couple who were beginning to wish they had not come.

  “Bart? Kelli? You have three children,” the old man began gently before tilting his head back and gazing at the sky as if he were trying to recall something just beyond his thoughts. “Art, who is twelve. Donna . . .” He smiled at Kelli. “You said Donna was ten . . .”

  Kelli nodded a yes to Jones and took her husband’s hand.

  Jones, still smiling, finished with, “. . . and Lucy is five. Correct?”

  Kelli and Bart nodded and leaned forward as if they were concentrating mightily. Bart took a deep breath, preparing to speak.

  “Three quick questions,” Jones said and held up three fingers, breaking in before Bart could begin whatever he was about to say. “This will only take a moment.” Before either of the couple could reply, Jones put a single finger forward and asked, “As parents, do you believe that you are doing the very best you can and that you have endeavored to maintain that standard for more than twelve years now?”

  The couple blinked, then looked at each other briefly before Kelli spoke. “Yes,” she said, “I do. Obviously there is always room for improvement as parents. Um . . . I mean, as human beings we certainly want to improve . . . grow . . . that is, become better . . . or more effective . . .”

  Kelli was searching, stumbling a bit, and she looked to her husband momentarily before hitting her stride. Her words poured out in a jumble but conveyed what she intended. “I do believe,” she said, “that is, Bart and I believe together . . . I mean, with all the tools available to us as parents in the form of books and the most recent studies, that yes . . . yes, we are currently doing, and intend to continue doing, the very best we can.” She lifted her chin, looked at Bart, who nodded, and focused again on Jones. “Yes,” she stated once more. “We are.”

  “Good,” Jones nodded agreeably. “I, too, believe that. I have all the confidence in the world that you are indeed doing the best you can.”

  He held up two fingers. “Second question. If society’s best parents—the most loving, the most determined, the most concerned parents—are all raising their children by setting their sights on a target called ‘doing the best we can,’ is anyone aiming at the same thing?”

  The strange question hung in the air for a minute as the couple—now not quite so certain—rolled it
over in their heads. Bart and Kelli looked at each other searchingly for a moment before focusing again on the old man. “I don’t know,” Bart said at last.

  “Care to hazard a guess?” They did not, so the old man continued with more of the question. “I believe most parents are not too different from you. I think most are probably doing the best they can. But what is that exactly? What guideline has society settled upon as the best method for bringing up kids? What do today’s parents agree is the gold standard for raising children? Any clue?”

  Bart looked as if he would have been happy to jump over the pier railing and swim for it. Kelli was lost as well. What, they wondered, was wrong with doing the best you can? How could any parent do better than the best they could do? As hard as they tried to fight it, the fingers of self-doubt were beginning to tap nervously in the minds of Kelli and Bart Porter.

  What do today’s parents agree is the gold standard for raising children? Unable to answer what seemed uncomfortably close to a personal challenge, the couple glanced at each other, keenly aware that they were the only attendees in a parenting class that had, so far, only managed to make them uncertain.

  As they pondered the second question, Jones called out in a louder voice than he had been using, “Quit hiding over there!” The old man had an amused smirk on his face and was looking beyond the Porters. “If you intend to stay,” he said, “the least you can do is come over here and help.”

  Bart and Kelli turned to see a man sitting in the pier’s gazebo. As he rose to approach the small group, two things were obvious. First, by positioning himself below the gazebo railing and behind a large trash container, the man was clearly attempting to go unnoticed; and second, he was mortified to have been caught.

  Seeing the embarrassment evident on the man’s face, Jones cackled gleefully.

  Eight

  How had he seen me? I had walked out onto the pier when the old man and the couple had their backs turned. I was completely hidden behind the massive trash receptacle, and still, he had busted me.

  Only a few days earlier I had been thrilled to see Jones in Fairhope. Since that unexpected meeting, I was very excited about the Thursday event and had planned my whole week around it. Anticipating the Grand Hotel’s large ballroom would be packed with parents, I arrived early intending to get a good seat for the class. Unfortunately my cell phone rang as I pulled into the hotel parking lot.

  The phone’s screen read “Matt Baugher.” It was my publisher. Just seeing his name there in my hand conjured up storm clouds of guilt that threatened to overwhelm me, but having not delivered my latest manuscript on time made it impossible to ignore his call. To some degree, I knew that my situation had also created professional problems for Matt. As the nonfiction publisher for one of the world’s largest publishing companies, he had deadlines as well. So, as much as I wanted to find a hole to crawl into, as much as I wanted to run away, I answered the phone and talked with Matt for almost forty minutes.

  When we finally said good-bye, I felt worse. For one thing, I knew that I was either very late for Jones’s class or had missed it altogether, but the main reason for my mood was Matt. If he had yelled at me or threatened legal action, I could have taken it. But no, Matt was nice. He talked and laughed and assured me he was not worried in the slightest about my ability to deliver the best story we had ever done together. In other words, Matt was calm and cool. He was his usual upbeat, encouraging self, and though I don’t think it was what he intended, I hung up the phone somehow feeling more pressure than ever.

  I like Matt a lot and was horrified to be letting him down. Naturally, when I told him so, he said, “You’re not letting me down,” which I felt was more evidence that I was doing just that.

  Then I couldn’t find the parenting class. I checked every ballroom and was headed to the main lobby to ask for help when I glanced outside and saw Jones with only one couple. Disappointed that I had obviously missed everything, I headed for the pier. At least, I figured, I could still have a few minutes with Jones.

  Arriving at the end of the wooden structure having not been seen, I heard a snippet of conversation that sounded serious and decided that I would not interrupt. I was sitting behind a large trash can half-trying to hear and half-trying not to hear when the old man called me out.

  I stood, red-faced at having been discovered eavesdropping, but as I sheepishly approached the small group, Jones laughed, and somehow that made me feel better. He introduced me to the Porters, and after only a few minutes, my mood had changed entirely. Of course, Jones always made me feel better, but to some degree, my spirits were lifted because it was so interesting to watch someone else attempt to decode the old man.

  It was immediately apparent that Bart and Kelli were mentally scrambling to figure out what they had gotten themselves into. From long experience, however, I knew something about Jones that, when I was in his presence, made me more patient with myself. It was something they were about to find out.

  Through the years I had found that most conversations with Jones were a lot like gazing into those bizarre paintings in which one is supposed to be able to see the Statue of Liberty or an elephant or a face. At first, of course, one can’t see anything at all. That result creates frustration leading to speculation about whether the entire exercise is a waste of time. Suddenly, however, all the clutter comes into dramatic focus, and one sees things clearly that were invisible only moments before.

  The sun was behind the old man’s left shoulder as he looked at me and winked. “Twenty-three minutes until sundown,” he said. “I don’t know if you were able to hear everything from behind the garbage can, but the question we are currently exploring is this: What do today’s parents agree is the gold standard for raising children?”

  Turning to Bart and Kelli, Jones nodded toward me and said, “He and his wife, Polly, have two boys. Who knows? Maybe he can help.” Looking back to me, he grinned and added, “But help quickly, please. And let’s sit down.” With that, the old man stepped to the gazebo and grabbed a chair, moving it to face several others. “Come on,” he said as he motioned for us to move faster. With a grin, Jones pointed to the sinking sun and added, “Twenty-two minutes.”

  Glancing at the Porters as we hurried over, I saw expressions of anxiety and confusion on their faces. Looking back to the old man, something bumped my memory, bringing to mind the many times I had watched Jones comport himself with total calm, perfectly happy as a deadline of one sort or another threatened ominously.

  What was with the sunset countdown? I wondered as we arranged our chairs to face the old man. I understood the metaphor of the sun disappearing as it related to our children growing up and time running out on a parent’s opportunity to affect their lives. I actually had been thinking about that a lot since Jones’s observation about time in Fairhope several days earlier.

  At this moment, however, Jones was after the answer to something else. He wanted to know what today’s parents agree is the gold standard for raising children . . .

  Jones’s eyes twinkled when he realized that all three of us were staring at him. It was a look I had seen before. When I was a young man, that same expression had infuriated me. As my fear or anger or whatever escalated, he would match my desperation with his ability to become more composed, even tranquil. I remember wanting him to feel like me. I was upset. Why couldn’t he be upset too? Then we could be upset together! C’mon, Jones, I would think, be my friend!

  It took me years to understand that the old man was attempting to teach me something most people never learn: despite the ebb and flow of our feelings, we can control the way we act. “Patience, for instance,” Jones once remarked, “is not a feeling. Patience is the description of a behavior. One can choose to act patiently even while the feeling of frustration tempts him to choose inappropriate behavior. It is impossible to feel frustrated and feel patient at the same time, but one can be inundated with feelings of frustration and still display patience. Patience is a discipline. It
is an action. Patience is a chosen response.”

  I looked to the Porters, who didn’t seem any closer to an answer than I was. Kelli sat to my right. She was the one in the middle, between her husband and me, directly facing Jones, whose back was to the bay. The sun, seeming larger by the minute as it moved ever closer to the horizon, was to his left.

  Jones leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. The old man’s easy manner reminded me of every other time I had ever been around him. His temperament was absolutely imperturbable. While I was surprised at our collective inability to conjure up an answer to what, on the surface at least, seemed to be a fairly simple question, Jones displayed not an ounce of impatience or disappointment.

  What do today’s parents agree is the gold standard for raising children?

  After allowing the growing sense of unease to drift through our tiny group, Jones lifted his hands in a helpless gesture of resignation. “Well,” he began, “it’s not a huge shock that an answer is not readily apparent. After all, even the most influential people rarely ponder the question we’ve raised. Unfortunately, when it is considered, our question is quickly dismissed by society as being unanswerable.”

  Jones shook his head and rearranged himself in the chair. Leaning forward, he said, “Knowing that the quality of our answers is always determined by the quality of our questions, think carefully about this particular one we have raised. What do today’s parents agree is the gold standard for raising children?

  “This is a good question.” He paused. “Actually,” the old man continued, “it’s a great question. Yet any organization or expert who dares put forth any answer at all is rejected as presumptuous or ridiculed as intolerant. That answer—any answer—is labeled a matter of opinion, and as everyone knows, a matter of opinion can never be accepted as a standard for anything.”

  Jones took a deep breath and shrugged, exhaling in a sigh as he leaned back in his chair again. The old man looked away from us and toward the sun. In a softer, almost wistful voice, he said, “And so, very quietly, without anyone noticing, a tragedy is now in the process of playing out before our very eyes.” Jones was quiet then, and I thought his expression odd, as if the tragedy he spoke of was personal somehow, as if it had hurt him.