WILLIAM VAN POYCK

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HERO OF THE QUOTIDIAN
Fielding Dawson Citation for Outstanding Achievement

      "She loved you very much," he said quietly, following my gaze. "She spoke every day of the time when you would return."
      Not for the first time, I wondered just how much Squanto really knew.
      "Her fear was that she might die before she could give it all away. The fear, I think, kept her alive. She said if she died you would know what to do."
      Turning back to the ledger book I calculated that she had eight different bank accounts, six mutual funds and three stock brokerage accounts in five countries under nine names. She had already given away over a hundred million dollars, as best as I could determine, and with almost two hundred million dollars left it was clear that she had invested well. Apparently she conducted all transactions by mail.
      I don't know how long I sat there, lost in thought, until the plan formed in my mind. It seemed fitting, on balance. Having already been charged, convicted and punished for stealing this money, it seemed only right that I could now dispose of it. At her insistence I once took calligraphy classes, part of her notion of what constituted a cultured individual. I became quite skillful with the pens. Picking up her silver Mont Blanc I began practicing, and within twenty minutes I'd mastered the different signatures.
      Straightening up, I took a deep breath. "Squanto," I said, pulling the knife from behind my back and laying it on the desk, "I have a plan." He eyed the knife warily, grunting noncommittally. "We have a lot of work to do," I continued, pulling the steak knife out of my sock and laying it down. "We are going to give it all away."
      For the first time the old Indian smiled, and I began writing the checks, backdating each one by several days, consulting with him occasionally. By the time I was done the sun was rising above the eastern mountains and dust motes danced in the golden beams of light. I was very tired.
      "Where will you go now, Squanto?" I asked, closing the green book.
      "Home to my village."
      "Guatamala?" I recalled that Squanto came from an ancient Mayan village deep in the interior, a mysterious region called el despoblado, "the uninhabited land."
      "Yes. My village is called San Miguel. The true name, though, is Ixtamacojo. I have nobody else and no place else. I have served the senora many years. Now I am old and I will go home."
      "You should go now. There may be trouble later. I will take care of things here."
      "She must be buried."
      "I will do it. But you must leave now." I handed the strong box to Squanto. "There is enough money in there to buy everyone in San Miguel a new house."
      "We are very poor. We need a hospital. Roads. Good water. And a school for the children."
      "Yes," I agreed, handing him the largest check I ever wrote. "This is for you. From now on they can call you the mayor of San Miguel." I smiled faintly.
      "Yes," he said as I stood up. "Yes, I would like that." He returned my smile.
      "We have done the right thing," I said finally, searching his face.
      "Yes."
      "There is nothing else we could have done."
      "That is true," he replied, not unreasonably. Then, taking my hand, he shook it firmly, said something in a language I did not know, and turned, leaving the room. Ten minutes later I heard the Jeep grinding its way down the rutted road.
      Picking up the boning knife, I made my way downstairs until I stood before her lifeless body. In law school they teach you that even if the reasoning behind a judge's decision is erroneous, the ruling can nevertheless be upheld on appeal if the ultimate outcome is correct. In the end, it is the result that counts.
      I brought the knife blade up against my neck, feeling the sharp, cold steel caress that spot where my carotid artery pulsed. I reflected on the body lying before me, soon to be interred in the black volcanic soil outside, as dead as my childhood dreams of being the hero of the day. Had I ever truly known this woman at all? In the end she was an enigma, as perhaps was I. Perhaps in the end we all become what we resist. With that thought, and befriended by that peculiar euphoria which accompanies a supremely decisive act, I stretched out beside my mother in the dawn's early light.

***

      You choose to lie down, your heart burdened from the gravity of a lifetime weighed in the balance and found wanting, a life lived in places where others cannot go, less than the sum of its parts. You cast your eyes upon a landscape littered with the soft fruit of the mistakes you have earned. You reach back, far back, to a time when your life was stitched to the rising and falling fabric of a small boy's world, of golden grasshoppers and dusty yellow dogs, of desperately wanting to be the daily hero, but try as you might, your reach exceeds your grasp. You wonder how and why it all went so wrong, and whether you at least get points for effort.
      It occurs to you to pray, but the fear that you might receive justice rather than mercy stops your throat. So, weary from your struggle against a tide of regrets, knowing not what else to do, you lean into the long wind, searching, listening for its mocking song, until you finally sense the approach of that familiar dark shadow, its thundering hooves in tune with the beating of your own heart, its melancholy song echoing back to a time long ago. Squinting your eyes shut, you hunker down, struggling, resisting, according to your nature, until, finally, with a wretched gasp you hold up your frail human fallibility like Orion's shield and choke out a prayer. And, in that singular moment out of time you again feel your father's hand tightly gripping yours, and finally, in that moment, the shadow ceases to sing.