Authors: Daniel Wimberley
The Pedestal (53 page)
“Not bad,” she says with a giggle. “For an old man.”
At the kitchen table, my son groans. “Can you guys put a lid on that while I’m here?” He looks so handsome in his suit. I wish he had more time for us, but he’s a man now—he’ll be twenty-seven tomorrow—and with his own home and career to cultivate, I feel privileged to be a priority at all. Just like me in my younger years, Arthur isn’t a huge hit with the ladies. But I know there’s a young lady out there with his name written all over her. In the meantime, I’m honored to have him here for breakfast, even if it’s a pastime he humors purely out of a sense of duty.
“Now why in the world would we want to do that?” I say.
Arthur chats us up about work, where he’s a key player in the restoration of the nexus. I don’t agonize over his choice of career paths anymore. It’s his decision, however much my paternal instinct seems to whisper otherwise. Mitzy and I raised him to follow his heart, and I’m doing my best to let him.
Besides, admonishing a man at his age will only push him away.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t tear me apart to watch him do what he does. The world is systematically hoisting mankind back onto that precarious pedestal—blindly repeating a mistake that nearly sucked us dry of our ability to be self-sufficient, to be human beings rather than mere consumers. And knowing that my son is subjected to daily propaganda—cleverly packaged, portraying those of us with colorful opinions as crazed radicals—honestly, it drives me nearly mad.
But I believe in my son, and to believe in him is to know that he’ll brave the truth, once it’s revealed to him.
Mitzy lowers a gift bag onto the table like a crane; expertly curled projections of colorful, tissue–thin cellophane peek through the opening like volcanic ash frozen in time.
“Aw, c’mon, Mom. We agreed you guys weren’t going to do this.” His words are firm, but they don’t really chafe, because his eyes are sparkling with mischief. You can never take the boy out of the man—and birthdays have never lost their importance to us. He rips into the bag like the little boy I’ll always cherish.
“Wow, Mom. It’s beautiful.” It’s a matching titanium pen and pencil set engraved with his name, and a leather-bound journal. The pages are of thin, slightly transparent polyethylene, but they’ll outlive us all. In a world of virtual keyboards and voice-activated word processing, writing by hand is truly a lost art. Naturally, we’ve become pretty fond of it in this house. Nothing like a near end-of-the-world experience to bring one back to the basics.
“It’s just a little something, hun.”
Arthur leans across the table and kisses her cheek. “Thanks, Mom. You really shouldn’t have, though.”
“Uh-uh,” Mitzy rebuts. “I’m not giving up birthday presents, no matter what you say. It’s my right as your mother, so get used to it.”
I smile at this petty exchange; it’s not only their annual ritual, it’s mine, too—watching from the sidelines, I mean. When it’s over, it’s my turn. Taking a deep breath, I gingerly lay a small box on the table in front of my son. I’ve painstakingly wrapped the box in blue, metallic plastic, encircling my handiwork with a silver ribbon. Mitzy rewards my effort with a smile; she’s a keeper of the “it’s the thought that counts” principle, so the gift-wrapping is as important as the gift itself.
Arthur tears through the wrapping and opens the box. As he reaches inside, I feel my heart flutter nervously. This is a moment I’ve at once been looking forward to and dreading. For a split second, I doubt my decision to do this and nearly snatch it from his hands to throw in the garbage. But then I feel Mitzy’s hand seeking out mine underneath the table, and I know she’s apprehensive, too. That we’re in this together, no matter what.
We’re doing the right thing.
Arthur may love us or hate us for it; only time will tell. But sometimes doing the right thing comes with a tax, and you just have to grin and bear it. Because without the truth, without an honest acceptance of what has been, we’re all destined to repeat our mistakes.
“What is it?” he asks curiously, his fingers emerging with a small device between them.
I swallow thickly, my tongue suddenly a pile of sand in my mouth. “It’s a NanoPrint reader.” I want to tell him how rare a device this really is, that once upon a time, law enforcement agencies might’ve been pretty upset to find one in my possession. But that’s not the message I want to convey to my son. What I’m trying to share with him exceeds monetary value or novelty, even the thought behind the gift; what I want to share is something so basic that people too often overlook it, though it’s the most important thing of all.
Arthur glances at me with raised eyebrows, and I have to smile. It’s the same look I get whenever I bomb on a Christmas present, one that seems to say:
Wow, it’s a reindeer sweater ... with an LED nose—just what I’ve always wanted
.
“That’s not all, look in the bottom.”
His gaze abandons the reader in his hand for a moment and returns to the box. He tips it to its side and a tiny bit of metal tumbles onto the table and bounces to a stop.
“Whoa, is this what I think it is?” His eyes are bright and furiously curious, just like when he was a kid. They flicker to my wrist and back to the tiny implant between his fingers. It may be small, but it’s the greatest gift I can give.
He looks at me with a wary frown, and again I feel the flutter of nerves. “But I thought they were all reformatted?” he says. Mitzy swallows loud enough for me to hear.
This is the part I’ve been dreading the most. How can I explain myself honestly, knowing just how bizarre it will surely sound? What sane person would believe that I had a dream—a dream so powerful and convincing that, upon waking, I immediately rushed to the kitchen and cut open my wrist like a crazy person? And that days later—against all odds, defying logic itself—my far-fetched dream came true? “Mine’s a little glitched, I guess,” I finally say. It’s not untrue—it’s merely an abbreviation of a more convoluted truth.
Arthur glances at his mother and then back to me, eyes guardedly intrigued. Mitzy squeezes my hand and I feel her excitement surge into my skin. “So, what exactly is on this thing?” he wants to know.
“The truth,” I answer in a firm but kind voice. “The plain, unwashed truth, son.”
Although my name appears by its lonesome on the cover, this book isn’t the product of my efforts alone. Writing and refining it required a great deal of time and commitment from others.
I’d like to take a moment to thank Meghan Pinson with My Two Cents and her sidekick Mark Moore for their tremendous editing contributions, Giovanni Auriemma for his killer cover design, my generous beta readers (of which there are simply too many to mention), Gary Neece (author of
Cold Blue
and
Sins of Our Fathers
) for his selfless mentorship and my family and friends for their continuous prayers and support.
Speaking of support, I must single out my brilliant wife, whose patience, understanding and uncanny intuition have never dwindled. I’m a blessed man.
Finally, thank you Jesus Christ for changing my life. Unlike Wilson Abby, I’ve had the pleasure of recognizing God’s steadfast presence. When I think of all He has done for me, I bend under the weight of my gratitude. There is no sweeter burden.
Daniel Wimberley is a professional web developer, moonlighting writer, and self-proclaimed voice of the dork. Well, the voice of
a
dork, anyway. He isn’t smart enough for the fraternity of nerdhood, yet he’s helplessly drawn to it like an ewok to the
Starship
Enterprise
.
Daniel lives with his wife and children near Tulsa, Oklahoma. He enjoys website programming and integration, audio and video production and a host of similar pastimes that are sure to lull you to sleep.
For more useless trivia about the author, visit
danielwimberley.com
, or you may email him directly at [email protected].
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