Nominative Determinism
I had only met the three children twice. I think about them often, these days. I should reach out, but who has the time. We all probably do, but talking to the people in our lives is draining, and watching T.V. is easy.
The first time, I was at Andrew’s retirement party. He was a good client of mine, but we mostly talked over the phone. We had maybe two face to face meetings before then. The house was large, the day sunny, and I milled around in a crowd of people I knew a little and liked none. None of them were my clients, and not from lack of trying.
I had been planning to leave. I had already shaken Andrew’s hand and made chitchat. But as I was getting ready to go, and was striding the lawn, looking for my car, he came up to me with three children. They were in their twenties back then, I guess.
“Heading out?” he asked me.
“Yeah. It’s a long way home. You know. Any, congratulations on retiring.”
He grabbed my arm. His three kids waiting politely outside the conversation. “What do you think of the house?”
“It’s lovely.”
He nodded. “It is, but it was never the goal. The goal,” he turned and beckoned his children closer, “worked out so much better than I ever hoped. They’re taking over for me, you know.”
“Oh.” That was news to me. I felt my prospects steadying.
He smiled knowingly. “I call them Jumpy, Stumpy, and Grumpy.” His children laughed at that.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because Jumpy is rock steady,” he pointed to his eldest daughter. “Stumpy is six and a half feet tall.” That was his son. “And Grumpy hasn’t cried since she was five. She’s my ray of sunshine.”
I shook hands with all of them, and we talked for some hours.
The second time I met them was at the funeral. That was a tough day. I had parked the car and walked up to the little church they had there. I met Stumpy at the door. He was in a wheelchair and had lost both his legs.
“Real nice of you to come out,” he said.
“I wouldn’t miss it. Your dad was really good to me. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks. It’s all too much for us right now.”
“And how are you?” I asked.
“I’m in a bad spot,” he said. “I just lost my dad and my legs in one go.”
We were interrupted then by Grumpy. “There you are. What are you doing out here. We need you in the back so we can get started.” She didn’t look at me.
He looked up at his sister. “I was just greeting the guests.”
“Inside now.” She looked at me. “Take your seat. I want to be done with this.”
We listened to her. I took a seat in the middle pews. I saw the third daughter. She was standing by the lectern, waiting to start. Somewhere in the recesses of the building a door slammed. She shook, collapsing in sobs.
Michael Frutig 