A Survey of Certain Individuals Living In a Particular Town
or
“To Be Lucky and To Be Loved”
By Sarah Batts
I. Spencer‟s Walk Home
Spencer Dawson walked home from the bus stop alone. His mother used to walk
with him last year, but he convinced her that he was older now and knew the way all by
himself. He didn‟t need any help.
It was fall, and shades of yellow, orange, and red leaves whirred around in
unexplainable circles, which Spencer didn‟t understand though it delighted him endlessly.
Today was a good day, and there was no reason to think otherwise. The air was cold and
sharp, and it trickled down his throat like tiny daggers, stinging his lungs when he inhaled
too deeply. The wind whipped through the trees, whispering secrets through the branches
and whistling meaningless songs through the leaves. Silly, skinny trees proudly
displayed their bright new colors.
Spencer thought they were very pretty, though he did not prefer them. He instead
preferred another tree, a particular oak skeleton that remained naked year round, whose
arms stretched up into the milky gray-white sky. On days when the sky was bright and
blue and clouds were big and billowing, he imagined the clouds as the beard of an old
stranger and the lanky fingers of the tree scratching the beard pensively like a wise
grandfather.
From across the street, he saw the hulking hands of the oak skeleton sway in the
wind, waving him over. He ran to it and dropped his backpack on the browning grass.
He climbed onto a low branch and sat tall and confident, dangling his feet in the air. The
wind and the trees and the whirring leaves all waited patiently for his announcement. He
was important. All nature was his audience. He loved this feeling of being important,
being confident, of being listened to. In his other life, he was not often granted this
feeling. Sometimes he had difficulty forming words, and he could feel people‟s glaring
impatience boring into him, wishing him to be quiet. Even his teacher and his father
looked at him with frustration as he struggled through awkward words and slow,
fragmented sentences. Here he was safe from judgmental eyes, shaking heads and
impatient, tapping feet.
"T-t-today is a good day-good day," he said. "An‟-an‟ you know why? It‟s „cos I
got my um, my um, spelling te-test back and Mama said if I, uh, if I got a se-seventy-five
I could pick anything I want for sssupper, an‟-an‟ I got a se-seventy-eight, s-so I can pick
any-thing I want. An‟-an‟, you know what, you know what I‟m gonna pick? I‟m gonna
say I want chocolate-chocolate chip ice-cream an‟, uh-uh, big, big bowl of candy. Yep!
An‟ she can‟t say that I can‟t, ‟cos-‟cos, she‟s already said I could. An‟ I-an‟ I told
everybody in my class that‟s what I was having for dinner, an‟ they, uh, said I wouldn‟t,
but I am, and t-tomorrow I‟m gonna-gonna tell everyone what I had, an‟-an‟ they‟ll all be
real jealous!"
The small colorful trees rustled their leaves in applause, and the wind sang praise.
Spencer stared into the white-gray sky as the branches of the wise old oak nodded in
approval. He spent a few more minutes dangling his feet and chattering about his day
before it was time to go.
"I-I gotta go, „fore, uh, Mama gets mad „bout me d-dilly-dall‟in too long. S-see
you!" he said to the skeleton oak and to the wind, to the whirring leaves and the silly,
colored trees.
Spencer thought about what a good day it had been and how lucky he was for the
rest of his journey home. He was even lucky to have such a good mama, though he
didn‟t admit it to the boys who teased him at school for being a mama‟s-boy. He thought
excitedly of his arrival home and telling his mama about his success. He thought about
his mama‟s big walnut eyes glowing with pride, of her soft arms wrapped around him,
and of her warm skin that smelled like cinnamon bread.
But when Spencer got home, his mama was not there, and she would not be home
for a long time.
II. Stuart, Isobel and Sebastian the Cat
They got a cat, a simple brown tabby with black stripes, a sandpaper tongue, big
ears and blank yellow eyes. Stuart wasn‟t really a cat person, so he said, but Isobel said
the apartment was too quiet and lonely when he worked late, and she could use the
company. "Plus, who will keep me warm on all of these dark, long, lonesome nights?"
"Oh, you poor thing, so cut off from all social contact each and every day,
freezing to death in this prison of an apartment."
"Mm-hmm. Exactly, so you‟re sympathetic?"
"Am I really so easily replaced?"
"We‟ll see."
"Alright,” Stuart said. “We‟ll get the cat, but you must promise me one thing."
"Oh? What is that?"
"You must promise me, that in a year from now, I won‟t come home from work
and find all of your things have disappeared along with all of the cat food, replaced by a
letter on the kitchen table saying, „Oh Stuart, we have run off together for we are very
much in love, and you could never understand! You must realize it is really better this
way. (P.S. I left your dinner in the fridge. Heat it in the microwave for three minutes, and
I picked up your shirts from the dry-cleaners)‟, and it will be signed with ‟Isobel‟ and an
inky paw print."
"Do you think I‟d really make you dinner if I was leaving you?" she asked. She
propped her head on her chin and smiled.
"Of course you would! I mean, it‟s the least you can do, breaking my heart for
that animal! And you know I can„t take care of myself. I„m helpless." Stuart grinned.
Isobel named the cat Sebastian Thomas. It was such a serious name that it
seemed to give him a certain innate gravity and responsibility unknown to most cats.
They called him "Sabby" for short and fed him only canned food. Even Stuart liked the
cat, in truth, though he acted as he did not care for it all. He‟d kick the air in front of
Sabby‟s face, causing the cat‟s eyes to fill with bewilderment as it quickly dashed
beneath the couch. If he was feeling sinister, Stuart would toss Sabby up in the air and
catch him, much to cat‟s annoyance and Isobel‟s mock disapproval. After that, Isobel
would scoop Sabby up into her arms and cradled him like a baby, cooing hushed sounds
in a voice reserved for pacifying an infant.
"Did mean old Daddy hurt you? Poor baby. Someone„s daddy needs to be
punished, doesn„t he?" and she would look at Stuart with playful, accusing eyes. Of
course, being cradled annoyed the cat equally as much, and he squirmed and wriggled
until finally Isobel put him on the floor.
"You have to know that he started it,” Stuart said. “I tried to resist. He was
threatening you, Isobel, honestly he was! You don‟t know what he‟s like when you‟re
not around! I had to protect you; the thing is a monster!"
"Oh, I can tell,” Isobel said dryly, “A whole pound of pure danger."
Once, Isobel came home from the grocery store and found Stuart and Sabby
napping together. Stuart was stretched out in the reclining armchair with his mouth
partly open, and Sabby was sprawled out on Stuart‟s belly. It was almost as if they
resembled each other, with largish ears and sleeping faces. Isobel took a picture and
hung it on the refrigerator, and she teased Stuart relentlessly that his façade of
masculinity and toughness had been erased.
This was their life: a quiet existence in the suburbs of playful arguments and silly
conversations, where petty things were magnified and where serious problems were far
away and meaningless. They had important conversations about trivial subjects, and
trivial conversations on important matters. When there was a lull in the conversation,
Stuart read newspaper headlines to Isobel, and they discussed them without much care or
conviction.
...
This is just an excerpt. If you care about reading the rest, it can be arranged.