A RIDDLE FOR MR. DAVENPORT

                                                By Mary E. Martin

Mr. Peter Davenport, in his charcoal pin-stripped suit, gripped the arms of the leather chair in his office. His only son, Angus, sat rigidly in the chair across the desk from him. Neither had spoken for some moments, but silent anger flashed in the room.

Fuelled by his son's obstinacy, Mr. Davenport spoke coldly. “What kind of son are you? You have refused the job I offered you. I suppose you think you're too good to start on the bottom rung of the business I built.”

Angus matched his father's cold fury. “Why do you try to misunderstand me? What makes you think I want to spend my life uselessly balancing columns of figures. Just because you wanted to be an accountant...”

Davenport slammed his fist on the polished desk, nearly knocking over the brass lamp. “Damn it all! Accountancy has been a good living— in fact an excellent one.” His mouth twisted down in bitter sarcasm. “You want some fly-by-night career as an artist.” He rose swiftly.

Angus jumped to his feet. “Just because you can't see beyond your own self importance, doesn't mean I have to do what you say.” Although his lower lip quivered, Angus drew himself up. “I've got my own life to live, my own way! I don't need you.” He, too, banged on the desk so loudly, the secretary coughed discreetly in the doorway.

“You just do that!” shouted Peter Davenport. “But don't come running to me when you're starving in some godforsaken garret.”

Angus turned on his heel and marched from the office. Peter Davenport sank into his leather armchair.

All morning, Peter busied himself with columns of figures, reports and position papers. Angus, driven by his fury, rode the subway until noon. He would find a studio. He had a million ideas for his first canvas. Fantasies of his first one-man show consumed him. Father would come ready to heap scorn, but would be so mesmerized by his talent, that he would beg his forgiveness. A strange smile played on Angus' lips.

At lunch, Peter sat with his old friend John Clarkson. “That son of mine is so pig-headed,” he declared. “Can you believe it? He thinks he can make a living by painting.”

John heard the ache beneath his friend's belligerence. Wisely, he just shook his head and chuckled softly. 

At home that night, Martha, Peter's wife and mother of Angus inquired, “Did you talk to Angus today, dear?”

From behind his newspaper, Peter muttered. “Yes, dear.”

“Is he going to stay on at the office?”

Peter lowered his paper and glared at her. “No. Our son has decided to starve in a garret. He's going to become an internationally famous artist.” Peter had a talent for sarcasm. “Perhaps in his own lifetime.”

Martha closed her eyes and gave a silent prayer. She knew her husband's temper.

Her three phone calls to Angus that week remained unanswered. By the weekend his number was out of service. On Sunday night, Martha asked her husband at dinner, “But dear, how can we ever speak to him now?”

Peter set his wine glass down with deliberate care and folded his napkin. “Don’t worry Martha. He'll be back. Especially when he needs money.”

His wife looked doubtful.

On Monday morning, Peter Davenport cut himself shaving and bled so much he had to hunt for a band aid. At the office, Stollery, a client called up demanding to know why his report was two weeks late. If he could not get better service, he would have to take his business elsewhere. In the afternoon, he met with the Wexler Corporation board members, only to find they were angry about the latest bill. They, too, threatened to leave. Before leaving the office, Peter stuck his head in John's office.

“You know, John, I've had the most god-awful day.”

“You look it, old man. Heard anything from Angus? I thought that was bothering you at lunch.”

Peter was surprised, but shook his head. “No. He'll call when he's had enough of his foolishness.” Then he said, a little less forcefully. “I'm sure of that.”

Whisking through the revolving doors to the outside, Peter caught and twisted his hand.

            “Shit!” he cried, seizing his wrist. He stopped to get the evening paper. Not until he tried to dig change from his pocket, did he realize his fingers were swelling up and blackening. It started to rain. 

 Underneath the awning of the corner newsstand, an old lady sat on a stool. Peter frowned. He had not seen her before. Beside her, in a cage, a white dove cooed. Peter picked up a paper and shoved a bill into her hand.

“You look so miserable, sir,” she said quietly, as she gave him his change. “And sir! Look at your hand.”

“What?” The kindness in her tone made him pause. “I just slammed my hand in that damned door.”

“It's more than that, isn't it?” She looked up at him shrewdly. “You cut yourself this morning.”

Peter's hand flew to his chin.

“You argued with clients who are turning against you.”

“What? How did you know?”

“And foolishly, you deny that your heart is aching.”

Peter set his paper down and tried to pull on his gloves. “I don't know what you're blathering on about.” He peered closely at her in the dark. “Who are you?”

The old woman smiled revealing her crooked teeth. “My name does not matter. But if you can answer a riddle, I may be able to help you.” The white dove hopped from its perch.

At first, Peter thought he should rush down the stairs to the subway and get rid of this stupid, meddlesome woman. How could she presume to know the first thing about him? He turned to go.

“Your heart is in pain because of your son,” she said softly.

“Jesus!” He breathed. “Who told you that?”

“You did,” she said and raised a finger. “But if you can answer my riddle, I will tell you how to mend your heart.” The white dove fluttered its wings.

Peter was amazed. Slowly he asked, “What is the riddle?”

The old woman chuckled. “You see, I am right. You have taken the first step by admitting your pain.”

Peter shook his head. He thought he had only wanted to play along. A bit like going to the fortune teller at the amusement park. The street seemed to darken.

“The riddle is this: How can a blind man learn to see again? If you can correctly answer my riddle in three attempts, you will be reunited with your son.”

“But he has to learn he can't just walk off and ...”

“Try to live his own life?” The old woman asked.

“No! Of course not. That's exactly what I want him to do. But he wants to ...”

“Do it his way?”

It was starting to rain more heavily. Peter's shoulders sank. “I suppose so.”

“Come back tomorrow night, sir, with the answer to the riddle. But, if you give three wrong answers, you and your son will be forever parted. If you give the right answer, the dove will fly to your son to open his heart.”

All the way home on the subway, Peter fought with himself. By the time he reached his stop, he was wretched. Of course, he loved his son with all his heart. Then why were they so miserable? And why should he keep thinking of the old woman's stupid question.

That night, he lay awake pondering the riddle. He even got up to consult sites on the internet for eye surgery.

By morning, he was sure he had the answer. He rushed to the newsstand, but the old woman was not there. At noon and then at three, he checked again. It was ridiculous, he thought. Why should he, an accountant by training, be bothering with some old woman who in all likelihood was completely bonkers.

His world was filled with endless columns, which always added up in a neat balance. His world made sense, at least most of the time. Why was he listening to such ridiculous nonsense? Yet something forced him to leave fifteen minutes early to find the woman. Giving a sigh of relief, he approached her at the kiosk.

“I have the answer,” he announced with pride ringing in his voice.

The woman only nodded.

“There are great advances in science everyday. I read about surgery on the optic nerve. The blind man will be cured with an operation.” He exhaled sharply. “Then he will see.”

The old woman sadly shook her head. “That is not the right answer, sir. It has nothing to do with science. Think more deeply, because you have only two more chances.”

Peter spent another night tossing and turning. In the morning, he was sure he knew the answer. At five o'clock next evening, he approached the old woman.

“If you believe enough,” Peter began stiffly, “some people say that a faith healer can work miracles.”

Again the old woman smiled, but shook her head. “You are just a tiny bit closer, sir, to the correct answer. But I warn you, you have only one chance left.”

“But you can't let us be parted forever. Please!” For the first time, Peter realized how caught up he was in her spell. It was ridiculous, wasn't it? He, a successful businessman, had just admitted that he believed in her power. To his surprise, he continued, “But I love my son, more than life itself.”

Passers-by on the street looked at him strangely. What did they see, he wondered? An old man railing against fate?

The old woman reached down into a box behind her and drew out an old paper. With curiosity, Peter watched as she unfolded it and took out a photograph and held it up to him.

“Oh my God!” Peter whispered reaching out for the picture. “How did you get this?”

“Look closely, sir. He is very beautiful, but concentrate on the love and trust shining in his eyes.”

In wonder, Peter gazed upon the photograph he had not seen in at least twenty years. Angus, aged twelve months, sat before the camera, in a sailor suit, with a wooden toy grasped in his hand. Indeed a most beautiful child with eyes filled with love, trust and happiness. Instantly, joy coursed through Peter as he remembered rocking his son to sleep.

“This is your son?” the old woman asked.

“Yes, this is Angus,” said Peter quietly.

“Good. Keep that picture to help you find your way back to him.”

Peter put the photograph in his pocket but could not take his hand from it. He had to walk. Lost in thought, he wandered for many blocks past store windows. Sometimes he took out the picture of Angus and held it in the light of a shop window. Tired, he stopped and stared into a candy store. Thousands of red candy hearts were brimming out of decorative vases. Heart-shaped boxes of chocolates were displayed. He paused to listen to the beautiful music coming from within the shop, which stirred his heart. “Please let me find the answer to the riddle,” he whispered.

Suddenly, he turned on his heel and started back toward the old woman. He grinned as he hurried.

“Thank you!” he nearly shouted. The whole street seemed to glow back at him, “You're welcome”

At last he stood before the old woman. “I have the answer.”

“Yes? Are you sure?”

Peter took out the photograph and said. “I think so.” Biting his lip, he prayed once more, that he was right. 

“A blind man can learn to see by listening with his heart. Now I understand. I loved him so much, I couldn't let him go. I thought I knew better. I wanted to protect him. I still do.”

The old woman nodded wisely. “Yes. That is the answer. It is the only answer. I can see you have learned much, sir. Both of you have hurt each other. Now it is time to heal.” She turned to the empty birdcage. “The dove has already flown.”

By the time he reached home, Peter was out of breath. Martha greeted him at the door with a smile. “Guess who called, dear?”

“Angus?”

“Yes, Peter. He did.”

 With that Peter sank into the chair and said a silent thank you.

“You know, I found a picture today I haven't seen in years. Why don't we put it in that frame over there?” He took the photograph from his pocket and held it up.

Martha was amazed to see Angus at twelve months. “Where did you find it? I thought it was gone forever.”

Peter smiled and shrugged. “You would never believe me if I told you.”

Martha held the photograph up to the light. “But what are these marks on the picture?”

“What marks?” Peter squinted over her shoulder.

“See? They look a bit like a rainbow or wings.”

Peter studied the photograph and smiled. “Yes, my dear. They do look like fluttering wings.” He shook his head. He could not begin to understand and so, he would just have to learn something else. To accept.

“How very strange,” said Martha as she tucked the picture into its frame. “Such a beautiful child.” she sighed.

“Can we see Angus?”

“Of course, dear, he's coming for dinner Saturday night.”