Matt Cowper - The Clerk

But then he lost his position in a contentious election. His opponent and the press accused him of “dereliction of duty.” There was talk that certain funds had been mismanaged, and that Wallace had been a little too friendly with a secretary. Wallace Copeland mustered fiery rhetoric, swearing to wreak vengeance on the “libelous blackguards” hounding him, and promising Carteret County voters that he was a man of integrity and grit, and that they’d do well to elect him for another term.

But after the votes were counted, Wallace Copeland, clerk of court for sixteen years, was booted out of office. The fire that Wallace had conjured was instantly extinguished. For the remainder of his days, Wallace Copeland did so little that one could accurately say he barely existed. He got up at dawn, shambled downstairs to his recliner, turned on the radio, and sat there stupefied. He did not get up except to use the bathroom or to eat meals. When it was eight or nine o’clock in the evening, he switched off the radio and shambled back upstairs to bed. It was a depression Gothic and irrevocable.

With Wallace immobile and atrophied, little money came into the household. Carol did all she could, taking on odd jobs and getting loans from her relatives, loans both parties knew would never be repaid. Eventually, however, the thirty acres of land had to be sold, as did many heirlooms. Frank became acquainted with poverty, and with its attendants, shame and humiliation. He vowed that, once he escaped this rotting house and this disgraceful family, he would never be poor again.

And then, when Frank was twenty years old and getting his start at McAllister’s Furniture, Wallace Copeland killed himself. Frank could vividly remember cleaning up the gore left behind by his father on a pretty spring afternoon. At first, his father’s suicide had confused him, and threatened to pull him down into the same depression that had cannibalized his father. But as that afternoon waned, he’d righted his ship. He would stay the course: he would be successful, and he’d never succumb to sloth and resignation as his father had. He’d made good on his vow: he’d become a successful businessman, and now lived in comfortable retirement in Florida. His mental state was lucid and strong.

His son, on the other hand…

Frank Copeland was sure (pretty sure) that Thomas was unhappy. Destitution and loneliness had to have taken their toll on him, even though no toll had ever been evident. Thomas seemed perfectly content. It was infuriating, it was a slap in the face. If poverty and the specter of suicide frightened Frank Copeland, if they had acted as black-robed riders driving him forward when he was tired and his mind was depleted, they should have that effect on everyone.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Thomas said cheerily. He’d been through enough of these talks to know most of what his father was thinking. “Took a day off work, had a nice long walk, and now I’m grilling a nice juicy steak.”

On the other end of the line, Frank ground his teeth. As he seemed unable or unwilling to speak at the moment, his wife gladly took over. Jean Copeland believed herself to be the world’s cure-all, even though the world emphatically did not want to be cured, and told her so often.

“Well, that sounds fan-tab-bu-lous!” she exclaimed. “A day off work for some rest, a nice walk for some exercise, and a steak for a nice supper! What more could one want on their birthday?”

“One could want many things,” Frank said gloomily.

Ignoring her husband, Jean continued: “Did you get our card? I mailed it on Monday, but you never know about the post office, sometimes it’s two days, sometimes three, and well, sometimes it’s even four or even five days before it arrives — you just never know!”

“Yes, I got the card and the check.” Before they’d moved to Florida, his parents had always taken him out to eat on his birthday and given him gifts (such as a “low intensity” shoehorn or a magnetic pocket diary) that he neither wanted nor needed. After they moved, they began sending him a $200 check as a gift, enclosed in a flowery card. Thomas much preferred the current arrangement.

“Good!” his mother chirruped. “What are you going to spend it on? Is there a… lady in your life for whom you might want to buy a little something?” To Jean Copeland, young women were exotic, manipulating, promiscuous, and overbearing. That she was of the same gender didn’t seem to matter, and she’d long ago rationalized away her own youthful adventures.

“No, there isn’t,” Thomas replied. It wasn’t a lie, because Kara was no lady.

“Well, you’ll find a nice girl eventually! There’s a Soul Mate out there for everyone.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Thomas said.

“So how’s that steak coming along?” Jean asked. “We’re sitting here jabbering away, and you’re trying to cook! I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

“Of course not.” Thomas had been flipping and prodding the steak throughout the entire conversation, and now it was cooked (medium-well, which was the only way to cook a steak) and sat oozing on a plate inside. “I can multitask. The steak’s done, anyway.”

“Well, then go eat it!” Jean exclaimed. “Can’t let it get cold, now can you? We’ll talk to you later. We might send an e-mail tonight, just to let you know what we’ve been up to.”

“Sounds great. Thanks for calling.”

“Oh, you’re welcome! Enjoy the rest of your birthday!”

“Happy Birthday, son,” Frank Copeland said, though few people had ever made “Happy Birthday” sound so dire. He wasn’t done, either. He cleared his throat, and Thomas knew his father was about to deliver a Frank Copeland Important Statement: “Take some time to reflect, if you haven’t already. I find that birthdays are a good time to do so — I would even venture to say it’s a necessity.”

Thomas had already reflected on his life, but hadn’t reached the conclusions his father no doubt had. He didn’t want to argue, though, so he simply said, “I will. Thanks, Dad.”

“Good-bye!” said his mother sweetly.

“Good-night,” muttered his father with finality, as if they’d never talk again on this plane.

After hanging up, Thomas stood tapping his cell phone, pondering. Finally, he tossed it onto the couch and sat down with his steak. It was still warm, and tasted delicious.

Before Thomas went to bed, he checked his e-mail. After deleting the spam, he saw he had two messages from actual people: one from his parents and one from Emily. He clicked on his parents’ first, and was, as always, amused by his mother’s formatting, or lack thereof. None of the words in her e-mail were capitalized. Jean Copeland, like many adults her age, thought that computers were malevolent, nearly-sentient machines hellbent on frustrating their users. Each time she used one, she believed she was one keystroke away from erasing its hard drive or from weakening the system somehow so those evil hackers could get in. Typing out the e-mail was frightening enough for her; she wasn’t going to tempt those zeros and ones inside the machine by using the shift key, or God forbid, the caps lock key. Unfortunately, this meant she couldn’t type exclamation marks, which was always a disappointment, but one she lived with.

hello there thomas,

it was nice talking to you today. dad and i are always glad to hear from you. it’s comforting to know you’re doing well and that your birthday was splendid.

things are fine down here in florida. i keep busy around the house and in the garden, and i’m still doing my volunteer work at the food pantry. they are working on a grant for a summer feeding program for kids, so i’m helping polish up that.

dad is as busy as ever. he’s taken up painting, which is exciting to me. he doesn’t want my help, though. you know how he his. you know how much i love painting, but he’s got to do it his way.