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A Gesture and a Pose by Sweeney Agonistes [Reviews - 0] 
It is typical of Mr. William Stanton’s lifestyle that he comes home late. Mr. William Stanton is a very busy man; he is much too involved in his work to be involved with a woman. Or so the women about him whisper. They cannot understand why such an attractive man – in his late thirties, yes, but quite fit – chooses to hold himself apart. Carole has it that he did have a lady friend a few years ago, but she left him in a horrible fury, and since then, he has not wanted anything to do with anyone in That Way. Janet swears up and down that he’s a wee bit lavender, but the girls all scoff at that. There is one fact that they can all agree on, though, and that is that Mr. William Stanton is very much alone. Had you told Mr. William Stanton that the women in college said these things about him, he would have inclined his head and stared at you in a manner that would have made you feel squirmy – but only for an instant. Then he would have smiled briefly and gone back to his work without a word. Mr. William Stanton is not in the habit of addressing these issues in the light of day. He walks home nights down the streets of Cambridge, nondescript coat, nondescript briefcase, nondescript build. He never leaves college till late – it’s past seven or eight when he bids farewell to the porter. He will walk very quietly to a public house, consume a nondescript supper, and then walk to his nondescript rooms, where he may or may not listen to the wireless before going to bed. Janet and Carole know this routine – they would never admit that they’ve made inquiries – and do not expect him to vary it. However. On Mr. William Stanton’s way to his public house one night, he heard the sounds of a competent jazz trio coming out of a decrepit-looking coffeehouse. With his nondescript coat and briefcase, he entered. He has been going to hear the live music every Friday night since. Janet and Carole have not caught on yet. On this Friday morning, Mr. William Stanton has done the unthinkable: he has not responded with his typical absent-minded nod to Marjorie’s cheerful greeting at the door. He has instead ignored Marjorie and gone straight into his office and shut the door. Marjorie rings Carole. Carole rings Janet. There is much consternation. Janet sticks her head in Mr. William Stanton’s office later that morning, ulterior motives firmly in place. “Mr. Stanton, dear, did you want a cup of coffee?” Mr. William Stanton has his head in his hands. “Mr. Stanton?” Janet begins to enter the office. His head lifts. Janet is astonished – and frightened – to see that his eyes are puffy and red. “No, thank you, Janet.” Janet flees. There is much discussion over lunch. Had Mr. William Stanton perhaps acquired and subsequently lost a lady friend that they had not known about? Janet continues to swear that he’s not normal like that, but Marjorie and Carole continue to scoff at her. The debate quickly degenerates into a discussion of Janet’s gay cousin, and what similarities he may or may not bear to Mr. William Stanton. The girls are long gone by the time Mr. William Stanton leaves college that Friday night. One might expect him to forgo the jazz and go home, but he does not. It is interesting to note that he has left his briefcase at the office. The coffeehouse is smoky as he enters, and he nods to the man making the drinks. He might go fetch a cup later, but he knows that when he gets home he will want to get drunk – very drunk – and fall asleep. It will not do to be overly awake. He does not take his usual seat close to the small platform where the trio plays; rather, Mr. William Stanton takes the table in the back corner, out of the light, away from the music. Away from everything. He then begins to sit stormily and think – think about a dog with silver eyes, and a boy with golden eyes and white hair, and all the many things he has lost since that day in the Welsh hills when he was young. The girls would be surprised to know that Mr. William Stanton is well beyond thirty. Fifty, perhaps. Or seventy, or eighty. Mr. William Stanton himself has lost track, and there is now no one left who would know. Mr. William Stanton does not notice when the door of the coffeehouse opens, letting in a blast of cold air. He does not notice when the figure by the door removes its hat, revealing a shock of wild white hair crowning a fierce, harsh face. He does not notice when the old man comes and stands by him. He does notice when the old man shields the two of them from public view with a few well-chosen words in a speech he thought he wouldn’t hear from anyone but himself for the next several hundred years. Mr. William Stanton’s stormy, hurt face looks up at the old man. The old man looks down at him. “May I sit?” he asks, gravely, formally. Mr. William Stanton waves a careless hand at the other chair at his table. The old man sits. “Will,” the old man says gently. Mr. William Stanton, Will Stanton, says nothing – only shoves a newspaper clipping across the table at him. The Tywyn Morning News. It is a page showing obituaries. Circled with furious gusto in red ink is one beginning DAVIES, BRAN. The old man slides it back across the table and regards Will, pokerfaced. “Well?” Will bursts angrily. “What do you want me to say, Will?” That question, so calmly asked, catches Will off-guard. “I – I don’t know.” “You thought I’d have some reaction to it.” “Yes.” “You and I knew it would happen one of these days. It was only a matter of time.” Mr. William Stanton, the (not precisely) late-thirties lecturer and part-time bursar, bane of undergraduates everywhere, speaks like a lost child. “Merriman…he died alone.” “Many do the same.” “I could have been there with him.” “Old One.” Merriman speaks softly. “You appear slightly younger than middle-aged. Bran was in his eighties.” “So? I could have sneaked past the nurses and seen him.” “And told him that you were his old friend Will Stanton, who should by rights appear just like him?” Merriman raises one bristly, bristly eyebrow. “I think not.” Will bows his head. The two men sit in silence for a time. Smoky jazz wafts through the barrier as music from another world. “Merriman – ” Will starts, and stops himself. The older man lets out a brief rumble. “Was it like this, in the old days?” “When I was the First, you mean?” Merriman settles more deeply into his chair. “When I was the First, and when my lord Arthur still had battles to fight, and when there was barely time to sleep, much less think about being lonely.” He sees Will stiffen at his last words, and he smiles bitterly. “Yes, Will. It was like this. Only I expect I had it a bit easier – people nowadays don’t believe in magic. Still, being one of us was not something you advertised, and it was wise not to let my lord’s enemies know he had an Old One for his Lion.” “And you had to leave a mortal, too.” Merriman raises his eyebrow again. “Gwion.” A brief expression of pain crosses Merriman’s gnarled angular face. “Yes, Will. I did. Through his own choice, too – just like Bran.” “And he died.” “Yes.” The music breaks through the barrier again, and they listen, alone with their thoughts together. Merriman leans forward suddenly, sliding a hand across the table towards Will. “I have to return.” Will nods and puts his hand in Merriman’s. Merriman squeezes. “I understand, Will.” Will meets his master’s eyes for the first time in nearly seventy years. What he sees there makes him choke back a sob. The old man rises. “Go well, Old One.” With a smile, he leaves the table, takes his hat, and exits the coffeehouse with another blast of cold outdoor air. The spell falls away from Will’s table. He rises and looks at the saxophonist on the platform, brilliant in resplendent white linen. He then passes by the platform and leaves, taking a right, going back to his rooms, scuffing through piles of dancing fallen leaves as he walks through a park. Mr. William Stanton thinks he might stay home next Friday night. Jazz is only good for the soul in small doses. |
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