by Kenneth M. Kapp
Kurt Taurn retired years ago. He’d told all his friends when he started college that he had a list of what he wanted in life, calculated the income that would be necessary to achieve those goals, and then planned accordingly. He wasn’t shy about entering into such discussions, sharing his views and methodology, always concluding with a short addendum: “That’s the way it should be, isn’t it?”
In his high school yearbook, alongside his picture were the editor’s remarks: “Isn’t it true that Kurt likes questions more than girls? He’ll go a long way recursively by not cursing.” There was a single inscription: “Isn’t it ?” A. E.
The yearbook could be found on his nightstand where, if you were to stand it on its spine, it would flap open to his picture with its inscription. Safe to assume the A.E. was a close friend and that already in high school he had the habit of frequently interjecting “Isn’t it?” at the end of sentences.
And now many years later, in a neighborhood of modest homes and well-maintained yards, Kurt can be found each day walking in a programmed pattern midmorning and after supper. There was a certainty to his gait as if his right foot were laying claim to the sidewalk every time it descended.
A teenager, once challenged, followed him home, returning the next evening and on six successive nights. He reported that Kurt walked out the side door and down the driveway at precisely 6:02 every evening. Then, as if by accident, he met Kurt on one of his walks.
“Hi, Mr. Taurn, pleasant evening for a walk. I’m Norm Green; I live around the corner there,” throwing his thumb over his shoulder. Then, not knowing what else to say next, he started to ask if he needed someone to cut his lawn even though he didn’t like mowing lawns.
Kurt was impatient and interrupted. “Yes, it’s pleasant this evening, isn’t it. And I prefer to do my own gardening; exercise is good for you, isn’t it.” Then he nodded politely and resumed his walk.
Young Norm brought to mind his own youth, when he decided to study mathematics and computers and had gone to a small engineering college in a neighboring state on a full scholarship.
~ * ~
His high school guidance counselor, Ms. London, had been helpful. “Kurt, you’re quite bright as you know. I’d suggest applying to several schools on this list. I’ve circled a couple of ‘safe bets’ where you should most definitely be accepted. Reach for a couple of the others. I’m sure we can figure out a financial plan – loans and scholarships – to make it happen. There’s always a way.”
Kurt smiled, agreed, “Isn’t it,” but realizing that “Isn’t it” didn’t quite fit the situation, raised his right shoulder a smidgen. As he closed the office door behind him, he reflected that raising his shoulder ever so slightly added a certain gravitas to his “Isn’t it.” He made a mental note to use the gesture going forward.
~ * ~
Ms. London, she was unique. I sent her a card every December for years. She was right, I got a full scholarship.
Kurt decided to walk to the bike path that bordered the community on its east side. There were plans to link it with others, providing a non-motorized artery all the way to downtown. He blew air through his closed lips producing a “brrmm” approximating, or so he thought, the opening piano introduction to Schubert’s lieder Der Erlkönig and ran his fingers over an imaginary keyboard.
Then she passed. Part of the BIG PLAN, I guess. An enigma – the plan, not her. Go figure.
Kurt paused when he came to the corner. He sighed and, remembering what his PT therapist had said, relaxed his shoulders, and rotated first one and then the other in small circles – clockwise and counterclockwise. He muttered to himself. “I never thought my small smidgens could cause such pain after many years. And really, it’s simple math. If a smidgen is about 1 ½ inches, one smidgen per “isn’t it,” and so many of them each day. And eventually my right shoulder ends up ½ inch higher than my left and leads the race by ¾ of an inch, causing me to walk slightly lopsided.” He paused and concluded, “I’m sure my shoulder could have climbed Mt. Everest after fifty years!”
He turned onto Emdem Avenue and crossed Central Boulevard, noting a black convertible stopped at the light. He looked around, no one was nearby, and he began to sing, “Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?” He dropped his voice an octave, pretending to be Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, and continued, “Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind.”
Kurt laughed, raised his shoulder a smidge for old time’s sake, and continued his discussion. “A father and his son out for a ride late at night, hmm. So, in German, ‘Nicht wahr?’ German for “isn’t it.” Probably must convert to centimeters. He continued singing, thinking all the while about his undergraduate days, a combined degree in math and computer science, and a minor in biology.
Elm Street was residential, four-way stop signs at every crossing. He looked both ways, stepped into the street and absently continued, “Den Erlenkönig mit Kron’ und Schweif?” The Erlking with crown and cape. Just like at graduation.
Kurt paused in front of a house with a wide swarth of colorful flowers bordering the steps leading to the front door. “Manch’ bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand.” Life and art, a colorful tapestry woven of coincidence. Another cape for my MS graduation, and my advisor suggested going to MIT for my PhD. He gave me a research publication to read. I contacted John Oldfellow, one of the authors. He was part of a new business venture. We talked. He invited me to visit, and the rest is history. Funny, their campus was close to the beach – the Strand in the song!
Kurt crossed Maple half consciously, his mind skipping back and forth, singing various verses from the lieder. Emdem Avenue climbed as it came to Oak Boulevard and the old right-of-way that was converted to a bike path. He watched as the top of the trees were tussled by the evening breeze. “In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.” He sang his own translation in a loud voice, “Saucy wind blowing the leaves” and did not hear the rumble of the black convertible speeding down the Boulevard.
Kurt lay on his side, his mouth open, and jumbled words from the song dropped from his bloody lips to the roadway. “Mein Vater… siehst…jetzt fasst er mich an…” (my father… you see…now he’s grabbing me.” He managed a final “nicht wahr” before his shoulder shuddered one last time.