Stranger in a Strange Land

“The depths of winter longing are ice within my heart
The shards of broken covenants lie sharp against my soul
The wraiths of long-lost ecstasy still keep us two apart
The sullen winds of bitterness still keen from turn to pole.

“The scars and twisted tendons, the stumps of struck-off limbs,
The aching pit of hunger and the throb of unset bone,
My sanded burning eyeballs, as light within them dims,
Add nothing to the torment of lying here alone

“The shimmering flames of fever trace out your blessed face
My broken eardrums echo yet your voice inside my head
I do not fear the darkness that comes to me apace
I only dread the loss of you that comes when I am dead.

“There,” he added briskly, “sign it ‘Louisa M. Alcott’ and have the agency send it to Togetherness magazine.”

“Boss, is that your idea of ‘pay copy’?”

“Huh? Of course it isn’t. Not now. But it will be worth something later, so put it in file and my literary executor can use it to help settle the death duties. That’s the catch in all artistic pursuits; the best work is always worth most after the workman can’t be paid. The literary life—dreck! It consists in scratching the cat till it purrs.”

“Poor Jubal! Nobody ever feels sorry for him, so he has to feel sorry for himself.”

“Sarcasm yet. No wonder I don’t get any work done.”

“Not sarcasm, Boss. Only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches.”

“My apologies. All right, here’s pay copy. Begin. Title: ‘One for the Road,’

“There’s amnesia in a hang knot,
And comfort in the ax,
But the simple way of poison will make your nerves relax.

“There’s surcease in a gunshot,
And sleep that comes from racks,
But a handy draft of poison avoids the harshest tax.

“You find rest upon the hot squat,
Or gas can give you pax,
But the closest corner chemist has peace in packaged stacks.

“There’s refuge in the church lot
When you tire of facing facts,
And the smoothest route is poison prescribed by kindly quacks.

“Chorus—

With an ugh! and a groan, and a kick of the heels,
Death comes quiet, or it comes with squeals—
But the pleasantest place to find your end
Is a cup of cheer from the hand of a friend.”

“Jubal,” Anne said worriedly, “is your stomach upset?”

“Always.”

“That one’s for file, too?”

“Huh? That’s for the New Yorker. Their usual pen name.”

“They’ll bounce it.”

“They’ll buy it. It’s morbid, they’ll buy it.”

“And besides, there’s something wrong with the scansion.”

“Of course there is! You have to give an editor something to change, or he gets frustrated. After he pees in it himself, he likes the flavor much better, so he buys it. Look, my dear, I was successfully avoiding honest work long before you were born—so don’t try to teach Granpaw how to suck eggs. Or would you rather I nursed Abby while you turn out copy? Hey! It’s Abigail’s feeding time, isn’t it? And you weren’t ‘Front,’ Dorcas is ‘Front.’ I remember.”

“It won’t hurt Abby to wait a few minutes. Dorcas is lying down. Morning sickness.”

“Nonsense. If she’s pregnant, why won’t she let me run a test? Anne, I can spot pregnancy two weeks before a rabbit can—and you know it. I’m going to have to be firm with that girl.”

“Jubal, you let her be! She’s scared she didn’t catch… and she wants to think she did, as long as possible. Don’t you know anything about women?”

“Mmm… come to think about it—no. Not anything. All right, I won’t heckle her. But why didn’t you bring our baby angel in and nurse her here? You have both hands free when you take dictation.”

“In the first place, I’m glad I didn’t—she might have understood what you were saying—”

“So I’m a bad influence, am I?”