The Book of Jonas (24 page)

Somewhere over a distant sea he realizes that this is all a fantasy. He will not be greeted by his family. He will recognize little. Perhaps nothing will feel familiar. He will step once again into the unknown.

And so, in the end, he does not change his name. The plane has begun its descent, and the attendants wander the aisles. A bell dings. He feels the sinking sensation in his stomach. He makes a decision. He knows it will cause trouble, but he does it anyway. He glances again at the landing card, at the name printed in black ink, printed in his own handwriting.

And then he tears it up.

The parcel arrives unexpectedly in the spring.

It’s the first truly warm day of the year, the young leaves and buds only just emerging from the long winter. Rose works in her backyard, spading a hole in the ground large enough to accommodate the sapling that leans on burlap-wrapped roots against the stone wall. Rose thinks that perhaps she is being overly optimistic, planting an oak at her age. She pulls off her gloves and smoothes her graying hair away from her face. Her breath is quickened by her labor, and the earth under her spade looks wounded. She looks around at the new spring leaves’ fresh pastels. She hears the mail truck rattle to a halt out front. Reluctant to stop working, she hesitates before she leans the spade against the wall next to the waiting tree, and goes to get the mail.

The parcel is wrapped in brown paper and plastered with green-and-blue stamps and exotic writing. It feels dense and heavy in her hands, the thick paper wrapper crisp and new. Curious, she takes the package inside, sits down at the kitchen table, and begins to remove the wrapping.

She recognizes it instantly.

The book’s leather cover is heavily worn at the edges, scuffed and scratched, creased at the spine, and a thin leather tie holds it closed, tied in a precise knot.

It looks, she thinks, like it has been through a war.

Her hand trembles a little as she gently tugs at the knot and opens the front cover. There, beside the compass rose inscribed on the frontispiece, is a brief dedication written in her own flowing script:

Rose sits at the kitchen table, her head in her hand, the book open before her. The thin spring sunlight filters in through the window. In the backyard, a young tree leans against an old stone wall, ready to heal the wounded earth. The season is young, the fragile new foliage painting the world pastel. Rose turns the page, begins to read, and is free.

The creation of this book has removed any notion I might have held of its being a solo endeavor. I am grateful to so many.

I owe tremendous debts of gratitude to both the world’s greatest agent, Henry Dunow, for recognizing what this story could be in its better form, for his unfailing advocacy, and for his willingness to take a chance, and to the world’s greatest editor, Sarah Hochman, for her confidence, enthusiasm, and nearly perfect editorial guidance. Tremendous thanks go as well to everyone else at Blue Rider Press and Penguin who have made this book what it is: David Rosenthal, Aileen Boyle, Kate Guadagnino, and Jaya Miceli. Never has an author felt in better hands.

Before there was a book, there was manuscript, and an author thereof, both of which benefited tremendously from merely being in the presence of Bret Anthony Johnston, Amy Hempel, Nick Montemorano, Rachel Pastan, and Brian Morton.

Like many teachers, Judith Vollmer probably had no idea what kind of impact she was making at the time she was making it, but I count her among the reasons I never stopped writing. I am particularly grateful for another of those reasons, my family: Paul Dau, Susan Reed, Michelle Dupuis, and Matthew Dau, for whom the simple fact that I wanted to do something was always reason enough to support it unconditionally, and to my father-in-law, Dr. Zackariya-Marikar, who routinely seems to make anything possible. Special thanks go as well to Tod Goldberg, for offering solid advice, both practical and metaphysical; to my talented and generous Bennington classmates, for their encouragement, enthusiasm, support, and for repeatedly reminding me what can be done with words; and, of course, to Jon Lyons.

And I am always grateful to my daughter, Seraphina, for giving me everything in the world to smile about, and for forgiving Papa the hours spent away, and to my wife, Claudia, who asked me, right after we met, what I wanted to do with my life. I told her that I had wanted to write since I was eight years old, and she said simply, “Then do it.” She has not wavered once.