said.nThe gray man nodded placidly, even a little smugly. “It isna gift that I have, allotted me graciously at my birth, as it wasngiven to you and you, freely offered to all.” He sipped hisnwater.n”To me?” Harry asked. “I don’t think I’ve got any healingnpowers. Business is my line; I own a little video rental shop.”n”Business too is good,” Wordmore said. “The accountantnweary, arranging his figures at end of day, his eyeshadenpulled over his furrowed brow and the lamplight golden onnthe clean-ruled page, and the manager of stores, the keepernof inventories, his bunched iron keys jangling on his manlynthigh — “n”Well, it’s not quite like that,” Harry said. “I can see whatnyou’re getting at, though. You think business is okay, the freenenterprise system and all.”n”All trades and occupations are equal and worthy, thenfisherman gathering in his nets fold on fold, and the hogndrover with his long staff and his boots caked with finendelicious muck, and the finder of broken sewer pipes and thenemptier of privies — “n”Yes, yes,” Harry interrupted. “You mean that it’s a goodnthing everybody has a job to do.”nWordmore smiled warmly and took another sip of water,ngendy shaking the glass to enjoy the jingle of the ice cubes.n”Maybe it’s time we thought about making dinner,”nHarry said. “I’m not a bad cook. I’m sure Lydie wouldnrather stay and talk to you while I rustle up something toneat.”n”Oh no!” she exclaimed. “That would never do. I feelnfine. I’ll go right in and start on it.”n”I wish you wouldn’t,” Harry said. “You ought to benresting.”n”Honey,” said Lydie with unmistakable determination,n”you’re going to be the one to stay here and talk to Mr.nWordmore. I don’t care how much I have to cook.”n”My food is ever of the plainest,” Wordmore intoned.n”The brown loaf hearty from the oven, its aromas, arising,nand the cool water from the mountain spring gushednforth — “n”Right,” Lydie said. “I think I understand.”nThey knew pretty well what to expect at dinner andnWordmore didn’t surprise them, drinking sparely andnnibbling vegetables and discoursing in voluminous rollingnperiods upon any subject that was brought up — except thatnhe never managed to light precisely upon the topic at hand,nonly somewhere in the scattered vicinity. Yet it was soothingnto listen to him: his sentences which at first were so warmnand sympathetic and filled with humane feeling and calmnloving-kindness lost their intimacy after a while. Theynseemed to become as impersonal and distant as some largensound of nature: the muffled roar of a far-off waterfall ornwind in the mountaintop balsams or sea waves lapping at anpebbled beach. His unpausing talk was not irritating becausenhis good will was unmistakable; neither was it boringnbecause the Beachams soon learned not to listen to it forncontent and took an absentminded pleasure in the merensound of it. Harry thought of it as a kind of verbal Muzaknand wondered how Wordmore had been perceived by hisncontemporaries. They must have found him as strange annexample of humankind as Harry and Lydie did.nOn the other hand they must have got on well with him.nHe’d make a good neighbor, surely, because he never had anbad word for anyone. He had no bad words at all, not ansmidgen of disapproval for anything, as far as they couldndiscern. If potatoes were mentioned Wordmore would go anlong way in praise of potatoes; if it was bunions they toonwere champion elements of the universe, indispensable.nHousefly or horsefly, rhododendron or rattlesnake, Messiahnor mosquito — they all seemed to hold a high place in thengray man’s esteem; to him the world was a better place forncontaining any and all of them.nHe went on so placidly in this vein that Harry couldn’tnresist testing the limits of his benignity. “Tell me, Mr.nWordmore — “n”Among each and every I am familiar, the old and thenyoung call me by my First-Name,” Wordmore said. “Thenchildren climb on my lap and push their hands into mynbeard, laughing.”n”Sure, all right. Wade. Tell me. Wade, what was the worstnthing you ever saw? The most terrible?”n”Equally terrible and awesome in every part is the world,nthe lightnings that jag the antipodes, the pismire in its — “n”I mean, personally,” Harry explained. “What’s thenworst thing that ever happened to you?”nHe fell silent and meditated. His voice when he spoke wasnheavy and sorrowful. “It was the Great Conflict,” he said,n”where I ministered to the spirits of the beautiful yoiingnmen who lay wounded and sick and dying, their chests allnbloody-broken and — “n”Harry!” Lydie cried. “I won’t listen to this.”n”That’s all right,” Harry said quickly. “We don’t need tonhear that part, Wade. I was just wondering what kinds ofnthings you might think were wrong. Bad, I mean.”n”Bad I will not say, though it was terrible, the young rnennso fair and handsome that I wished them hale again andnwhole that we might walk to the meadows together “andnthere show our love, the Divine Nimbus around our bodiesnplaying — ”^n”Whoa,” Harry said. “Wait a minute now.”n”Are you gay?” Lydie asked. She leaned forward, herninterest warmly aroused. “I didn’t think there used to be gaynpeople. In Civil War times, I mean.”n”My spirits are buoyant always, with the breeze lifting,nmy mind happy and at ease, a deep gaiety overtakes my soulnwhen I behold a bullfrog or termite — “nnnMARCH 1991/25n