This week
I am writing about a short story by the Seattle-area writer David Guterson,
best-known for his novel Snow Falling on
Cedars, about the internment of Japanese residents in Puget Sound during
World War II. About a year ago, I came across Guterson’s story collection Problems with People. At the time, the
story that most resonated with me was one in which a father grieved over having
encouraged his son to work as a fisherman in Alaska. It was very similar to a
story that I had published more than a decade ago.
But it was not Guterson’s story about a young man who
drowns in Dixon Entrance, just north of British Columbia, that most impressed
me. It was a story about a man diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
The story, “Shadow,” begins with a series of short,
declarative sentences:
He went in for tests that revealed
changes in his frontal lobes. A battery of interviews yielded the conclusion
that his short-term memory had declined. His ability to act serially was
compromised, and he’d lost what a doctor called “executive function.” All of this
within three months of retiring—not what he’d had in mind.
There is no wringing of hands about the diagnosis. The man
is stoically unhappy, even when – or maybe because of – going on a cruise with
his wife. He pines for his freedom. He resents his wife’s condescending
comments. It is not until he gets a call from his youngest son, whom he hasn’t seen
in years, that the old man’s spirits rise. The son, a former global backpacker
and war correspondent, is working on an oral history project about people who
took part in the civil rights movement in Alabama.
The father is taken aback by his son’s invitation to help
him with the project, and he wonders whether one of his other sons has put him
up to it.
He didn’t think he needed their
concern or assistance. He was a man who still knew how to operate in the world.
So what was wrong with everybody? Talking about him as if he was a baby,
talking to his face that way, talking to him as if he weren’t there, about his
driving, clothing, eating habits, etc.
The plan is for the father, a former chair of the local
Anti-Defamation League and president of his B’nai B’rith chapter, to fly from
Seattle to Atlanta, where his son will pick him up before driving to
Birmingham. “You’re not going anywhere,” his wife declares. “How would you find
your way around?”
This, of course, is the wrong thing to say to a man who
has just been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. It only solidifies his resolve to
demonstrate that he is still a competent person.
But in the post-9/11 era, airports are curious places.
People are herded into lines cattle-style, and then asked to remove their
shoes, lest some unhinged mind has a dream of copycatting the shoe bomber,
Richard Reid, a true failure, and yet a failure so colossal that each of us,
now and forever, must remove our shoes to be allowed to board a plane.
His son waved and receded, and
then he was alone. He waited his turn, but when his turn came, he’d failed to
understand about his shoes and belt and had to wrestle, in a time crunch, with
these wardrobe items. After some trouble with his shoelaces (he’d
double-knotted that morning, at his wife’s insistence), he was told to empty his
pockets into what looked like a dog bowl, and in so doing spilled change. A
lucky thing next—in a switch from what was normal, he made it through the metal
detector without a hitch. Then back to normal: the X-ray machine picked out his
razors, so he had to wait while a security guard unpacked and examined
everything in his bag. In the end, he was admonished for his razors, and lost
his razors, and had to hear the rule about razors, which he already knew but had
hoped to circumvent, and now feigned surprise at.
Things continue to go badly. He can’t find his pills. He
ends up at the wrong gate. He learns that he is in the wrong terminal. He gets
on the airport tram, which at the Seattle-Tacoma airport, makes announcements
in several Asian languages, causing the former lawyer to miss hearing the
announcement in English. It is like a bad dream derived from Kafka.
In frustration, he asks an airport official, “Do you
really think I look like Osama bin Laden? Do you think I’m going to blow up my
own plane? Let’s be reasonable for a moment. I’m asking you to be a reasonable
human being.”
He is soon escorted out of the airport terminal.
And when the son who is a lawyer picks him up at curbside,
the son looked “neither distressed nor surprised on taking delivery of his
father.”
What I most like
about this story is Guterson’s gentle touch toward his luckless main character.
It would be easy to make a buffoon of the old guy. But Guterson grants dignity to
his character through an anecdote about his mother, who made sacrifices that
enabled him to get through law school:
“To me, every year I live past forty-nine, which is how
old she was when she died—that’s a bonus I don’t deserve.”
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