December 12, 2009

I went, after long absence, to the studio, where there was a sort of flea market. Vendors had set up tables and were selling soaps and pottery and tarot readings. I had gone to work, so it was a little annoying, but I warmed to it, and ate the vendors’ pot luck and bought a pretty green goblet from a blond dredlocked Warren Wilson boy, from which I am drinking right now. One of the visitors bought a painting right off my wall, Christ in the Wilderness, which he seemed to love. I asked what I had lost in my wallet, and he thought it was a deal. A former student walked in with four lovely children. Marty came in dressed in black. I spent most of the time with Richmond, who brought his work upstairs to be with me. He is the handsomest man I know. That he should be kind and thoughtful at the same time is almost too much. I had such pleasure in his company that I had to remind myself of the rest of it when I sat down to write. The whole day was, now that I think of it, social, convivial, rewarding. Got some canvases prepared, but did no actual work. Came home numbed with the cold of the cold studio.

Yesterday the phone rang and it was a man named Scott Treadway, who said he had found my wallet in the New Morning parking lot. I had replaced everything by then, so I almost said “forget about it,” but he told me what effort he had gone through to find me, so I thought that, at least, should be rewarded by my coming to get it. Treadway grew up in Marion, but lives now in Cincinnati, where he works at a country club. He and his wife are separated, and she moved back down here. He is in town because his daughter is in Memorial Mission Hospital. “Oh, how is she doing?” says I. “Not so good,”says he. The fact is, she is dying from congenital heart disease, at the age of eight, and Scott is holding off taking her from life support until he can get his mama and little sister to Asheville to see her before she dies. We met at Hardee’s It did cross my mind that he had been the one who took the wallet, and was adding daring to larceny by returning it face to face. How does one guard against superior guile? Not by becoming hard-hearted, so I decided to see it through as if no suspicion had crossed my mind. There was a 50/50 chance that his story was genuine. He said he had been starving himself to build money for his mother and sister to get here before his daughter died. “How much do you need? “ I asked. He needed $160. Sometimes it is astounding what small thing will change a life. I took a deep breath and steeled my resolve to stand apart from cynicism, We went to the bank, and though all my ID was either invalid or still coming through the mail, I managed to get out $300 and give it to him, so he could both eat and send for his family. He kept saying that everything was all right and that God would take care. When I handed him the money he said, “I guess I was right about God having it all in his hands.” Being the Instrument is a satisfying thing. I would do it every day if I were needed. I hope it was needed, if it was a scam, he went to a lot of effort for comparatively little.

The final thing to be said about this event is that I KNEW my cards, and the wallet itself, would be returned. I went, nevertheless, through the effort of replacing them. This is a triumph of prudence over faith, and I am ashamed.

In the dark dark evening, off to Waynesville to see Barbara Bates Smith in her one woman show The Christmas Letters. Steve gave me a HAMLET T-shirt.