Darkness, silence, wisps of cold then warm air, months apart… somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of cars on a road, then, once again, a lingering, muffled quiet dulling the senses; layers of dust, year upon year…
A burst of light… The steel chain door of a storage unit, begging for oil, is hoisted up, flooding the dark cubicle with sunshine. An old table, its heavy wood top separated from its wrought-iron base, feels the crisp autumn air seep in and around the torn brown paper in which it is wrapped. Someone is moving boxes away, all the boxes leaning against it.
“Where are we? What post is this? Belgium, Brasilia?” Two men begin lifting the table out of the storage unit and into the cavernous back of a waiting van, placing it carefully on quilted moving blankets, tying it down… “I recognize one of the voices… one of the brothers… which one…? Craig! Of course, Craig!” As the van pulls away, the table is transported back to another time…
Caracas, Venezuela, 1961. A United States Foreign Service officer, Charlie Morris, and his young family are seated at the regal yet solemn table, a mighty plank of black oak, quarter sawn, with its intricately designed wrought iron base… just finishing a dinner of baked ham, mac and cheese, iceberg lettuce, and angel food cake with vanilla ice cream. Charlie, the Chief Administrative Officer at the Embassy, is a distinguished man in his late 40s, with wisps of gray at his temples. He taps a Marlboro from the pack in his shirt pocket, flips open his Navy lighter, and inhales. His wife, Jane, then nods to her husband. Father has called a family meeting,
“Arthur’s going to leave us. He’s going to live up in Ohio with Auntie Mary and Uncle Bob. The schools are better up there.” Everyone looks at Arthur, the oldest, brightest pioneer, firstborn, who lowers his eyes. Maggie, the youngest of the five children, asks,
“But Daddy, suppose he gets lonely? That’s so far away, Daddy…” Maggie pokes at her angel food cake,
“Mother and I have made up our minds. Arthur needs a good education and can’t get it here!”
“But suppose he gets lonely…” Little Maggie persists. “What does he do then?”
“Maggie… are you going to finish your dessert?” her mother asks. Father taps an ash from his cigarette into a heavy glass State Department ashtray.
“There are things called letters and stamps. Arthur will stay in touch with us through the mail, won’t you, son?”
Arthur nods, “Yes, Dad.”
“Then, that’s all there is to it…”
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