The Cry of the Sloth by Sam Savage

Author:Sam Savage
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-56689-231-5
Publisher: Coffee House Press
Published: 2010-08-22T04:00:00+00:00

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Dear Dahlberg,

Doing those kind of things to your body is not going to make you a writer. NO ONE wants to hear about them. You MUST find someone to help you. But I am not that person. While I wish you happiness and good fortune, I am not going to open any letters you send in the future. Don’t waste your time as they will fly straight into the trash can.

Andy

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To the Editor:

I read with interest the stimulating letter from Dr. Hawktiter on the subject of Andrew Whittaker, in which he points out how fortunate we are to have a writer of Mr. Whittaker’s caliber in our midst. That is certainly the case. And it is true even for those of us who are not aware that he is here, for there is something to be said for living in a cultured community even if one does not partake of it personally, choosing TV over the stimulus of a good book. That is their right. However, I am not concerned here with Whittaker the controversial author. Let others judge his literary merits. Let others criticize if they dare his courageous support of struggling artists. No, I am concerned not with Andrew Whittaker, but with Andy, the man who lives across the street.

Six years ago an automobile accident snuffed out the lives of my husband Rob and my infant daughter Clarissa Jane and left me paralyzed from the waist down, confined to a wheelchair. One doesn’t know how one goes on living after a tragic event like that, but somehow one does. And one can, thanks to small things like bird songs and game shows, and, let me add, thanks to big-hearted people like Andy. The day I came home from the hospital, he was there, a stack of books in his arms. I remember his gentle smile and the moisture in his eyes when he looked at my face, which was terribly mutilated. It was Andy who that very afternoon went through the closets and drawers and carried away all Rob’s suits and shirts so I would never have to face those reminders of happier days.

How many times over the years since have I heard the merry jingle of the doorbell announcing one of his impromptu visits? He always does the shave-and-a-haircut thing on the bell. I laugh to think of it. Such a boyish thing to do, and yet so endearing. He possesses, how shall I put it? a spiritual bounciness that is totally contagious. After his visits I would find myself scooting about the house in my chair until the battery was quite dead. And my attendants love him too, especially the young girls, to whom he shows an old-world courtesy, though even the old ones are cajoled into allowing an occasional peck on the cheek. Dear old Andy. One day he comes with a loaf of raisin bread that he has baked himself, another day it’s a single flower plucked from the park or an autumnal leaf

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