Down there on a visit

 Down there on a visit 

Uncle Albert has come to visit. This is a serious matter – it must be. I didn’t think he’d ever leave Paradise. In fact, how did he get out in the middle of winter?

     He was here Friday night, when I got home. Roz brought me.

She picked me up before supper, because we had supper on the way home. We stopped at a place in Seeville we used to like. She said, “I have a surprise for you.”

     I said, “Tell me.”

     “It’s a surprise.”

     “Will I like it?”

     She said, “I hope so.”

Uncle Albert was the surprise, I think. At least, there wasn’t any other. He was climbing to his feet when we came through the front door.

     “Your Uncle Albert’s come for a visit,” Roz said.

     “Oh,” I said. “Did you eat?” I asked Uncle Albert. “We ate on the way home,” I said. “That’s why I was wondering if you ate.”

     He said he had.

     “Oh,” I said.

He was here again yesterday. He asked me how I was feeling, and I said, “Fine.” We watched football together: I’d forgotten he liked football. (I should say, Not American football. These were FA Cup games. Arsenal barely beat some team from somewhere in the north, Prescott or Presswick or – I think it began with a P. Arsenal is Uncle Albert’s team, the one he roots for.)

     We had egg salad sandwiches for lunch. Roz made them before she went to work. She had to work in the morning, because she’d taken off work the afternoon before.

     To pick me up.

Clara Bow, 1927

This morning we went to church, Uncle Albert and I. Roz didn’t come. There was snow yesterday night, but it was pretty much gone this morning. I drove.

     The preacher was a young woman, very young, it seemed, to Uncle Albert and me. “She looks just like Clara Bow,” Uncle Albert said, “circa 1927.” Uncle Albert was six years old in 1927. 
     I looked up Clara Bow, when we came home. The young woman did look like her. She was very pretty.

     She spoke very quietly. She sounded afraid.

When we got home, I said to Uncle Albert: “She sounded afraid.”

     “She did,” he said. “I liked that.”

     “I did, too,” I said. Then, I said, “Why?”

     “Why did I like it?” he asked.

     “Yes,” I said. “And why did I?”

Uncle Albert said, “She was preaching from the Gospel.” I nodded. It was the story of Jesus’ being baptized. He comes from Galilee to the Jordan River, to be baptized by John; but John doesn’t want to. But Jesus says, “Go ahead. It’s the right thing to do.” And John baptizes him, and when he comes out of the water, Jesus sees the heavens open and a dove, and he hears a voice: “This is my son.” And so forth.

     “She was preaching from the Gospel,” Uncle Albert said. “It’s always good to be afraid when you’re preaching from the Gospel.” I nodded. I knew why: it’s because the Gospel is always scary.

We went to the early service, and we were home in time to watch the game between Tottenham and Aston Villa. And Tottenham won.

01.08.17