The old man's loneliness dissolved the moment he placed his fingers on the keys of the typewriter. A peaceful calm settled over him, and the years, with all their joys and bitter hardship, no longer mattered. Only the moments immediately following the last keystroke mattered now, for it was then that those closest to him returned.
How it happened or why were questions the man did not bother to ask. He accepted the gift as it was given to him, like a child accepts a piece of candy, without weight of judgment. There was no right or wrong; there was no good or evil. There was only the gift.
And the typewriter had been especially kind to Stanley Jacobs during those brutal January nights, when the north wind howled outside his trailer. It allowed him to visit with his parents, his sister, and his best friend from childhood.
He was grateful for the company. His wife, Enid, was in the hospital again, the third time in six weeks, and the prognosis this time was grave. The cancer was everywhere. Stanley had tried reading to pass the time, but his mind continually wandered and he found himself reading the same paragraph three or four times. Television provided no comfort, and only deepened his loneliness.
Finally, he resolved to clean the inside of the trailer, something he had neglected during the time that Enid was in the hospital.
"The place will be nice and clean for her when she comes home," he had said to himself. "She'll like that. It'll make her happy."
It wasn't until he found the old typewriter in a spare closet and brought it out and placed it on the kitchen table that the long dark nights felt less burdened by his solitude. The typewriter, a gift from his parents when Stanley entered high school, was the same one on which he had composed letters to Enid, when they were courting, more than sixty years earlier.
He dusted it off and took a dish towel and rubbed the metal casing until the matte black finish looked like new. Stanley found a sheet of paper and rolled it into the machine. The discovery of the typewriter made him think of his parents. He typed out their names.
HOWARD AND CYNTHIA JACOBS
The old machine still worked, the action of the keys sharp and precise, and the ink on its ribbon was surprisingly dark, even after all those years in the closet.
"Hello, son, it's good to see you again."
Stanley looked up from the typewritten words. Sitting across the table from him were his parents, as they had been when Stanley was a teenager, both in the prime of life. Howard Jacobs was broad and strong, with thick dark hair and a thick brown moustache. His ruddy cheeks clean-shaven. His mother's long, luxuriant brown hair was swept up and pinned on the top of her head. She wore a high-collared white shirt, and her face, untroubled by age and illness, glowed with health.
"We've missed you," she said.
Tears spilled down Stanley's wrinkled cheeks.
"Don't spend the time crying, son," his father admonished him gently. "We're not here for long. Tell us how you've been. How's Enid?"
Stanley nodded and dried his eyes. He gathered in his emotions, got his feet back under him. His father was right, of course, their time together was short. He needed to make the most of what time he had with them. That was a sentiment Enid subscribed to as well. It's the reason she and Stanley had rarely ever argued, and when they disagreed, they made up quickly and never let anger fester between them.
"I'm okay, Dad," Stanley began.
"How's work?"
Stanley chuckled. "I've been retired for twenty-two years."
YOU ARE READING
The Typewriter
Short StoryHe once believed the typewriter would help him bring life to his stories. Now he hopes it would do much more.
