Sweet Thursday

31 The Thorny Path of Greatness

When people change direction it is a rare one who does not spend the first half of his journey looking back over his shoulder. Hazel had chosen, or had been forced to choose, a new path. He had said, “I’ll have to do her myself.” It had seemed easy. But, sitting under the sheltering branches of the black cypress tree, he had to admit he didn’t know who or what in the hell “she” was. He thought with longing of the old time when he was a dope, when he was cared for and thought for and loved. He had paid off, of course, by accepting ridicule, but it had been a lovely time, a warm time.

Doc had said long ago, “I like to have you sit with me, Hazel. You are the well—the original well. A man can give you his deepest secrets. You don’t hear or remember. And if you did, it wouldn’t make any difference because you don’t pay attention. Why, you’re better than a well because you listen—but you don’t hear. You are a priest without penalties, an analyst without diagnosis.”

Those were the good days before Hazel’s responsibility. But responsibility required judgment, the choosing between courses, and what was that but thought? Hazel undertook thought, but he did it secretly. No one knew. He was a little ashamed of it. In the sweet old days he would have sat down under the black cypress and then he would have reclined with his head on his arm and in less than a minute he would have been asleep. The new Hazel clasped his knees with his arms and mourned into the future. His mind climbed and slipped like an ant in the treacherous crater of an ant lion’s trap. He must plan, he must judge, he must choose. No sleep came. He didn’t even itch. He had to do her. But what was she? He never knew how his solution came to him. He dropped off to sleep, forehead on knees, then suddenly his muscles leaped as though under a blow. He had a sense of falling—and there was his course laid out before him. It wasn’t an honorable course, but it was the only one he had. It almost amounted to treachery.

You will remember that it was Hazel’s pleasant social custom to ask questions but not to listen to the answers. People expected that, depended on it. Suppose, he thought, I was to ask and then listen but not let on I’m listening. It was sneaky, but the intention was clean and the end infinitely to be desired.

He would not only listen, he would remember, and he would put all the answers together. Maybe then he would be able to think her and do her. One question would be enough, he thought. Maybe two.

Hazel was weary from his effort. He reclined, put his head on his arm, and slept the good sleep of work well done.