You will have to find the manuscript first. It
is in your hometown, by which I meant the town in which you grew
up, not the town in which you now live. You will have to go back
there. If you choose, take your car; drive it as far as the old
train station; park it there. Then jump the chain link fence,
cross the tracks (the wicked stones, the rotting ties), and make
your way carefully down the grassy slope to the river’s
edge. Do it carefully, as the incline sings louder in your adult
knees than strong, juvenile legs might have remembered.
When you were a child, homeless men lived in abandoned railroad
cars along the tracks and in cardboard boxes under the bridge.
You are careful even now, as one can never know when they might
rise up and descend upon the unwary traveler. Make your way to
the bridge now; it is your destination. The old, wooden
crossbeams seem to sag terribly in the wicked, August sun, and
you venture to imagine the train that will one day send the whole
structure tumbling into the river. But no train comes this
afternoon. Under the scraggly saplings that line the shore,
shadows stir and swirl, and some birds call out from the upper
branches, but otherwise you are alone.
This, incidentally, is precisely what you wanted. You could have
followed any great number of paths; you could have lived a
thousand other lives. Here you are. You are almost upon the
story.
At the foot of the bridge, make your way down to the water’s
edge. There, in a little pile of twigs, leaves and other debris,
a green wink of bottle flashes in the sunlight. Though the last
traces of its label peel away at the slightest touch, you guess
this was once a wine bottle. Inside, a sheet of paper, the
quintessential message, rests safely behind a clot of paraffin.
Smash the bottle; it is thin and shatters easily. Now take the
manuscript. Curled and sun-yellowed in your hands, it invites you
to read it.
Do so.
45
Houses Contributers