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Charles saw them both at the same time: a small white bird and the girl
wheeling down the walk. The bird glided downward and rested in the grass; the
girl directed the chair smoothly along the sunlit, shadowy1 walk. She stopped to
watch the ducks on the pond and when she shoved2 the wheels again, Charles stood
up. “May I push you?” he called, running across the grass to her. The white bird
flew to the top of a tree.
It was mostly he who talked and he seemed afraid to stop for fear she'd ask
him to leave her by herself. Nothing in her face had supported the idea of
helplessness conveyed by the wheelchair, and he knew that his assistance was not
viewed as a favor. He asked the cause of her handicap3 .
“It was an automobile accident when I was twelve,” Amy explained.
They went for lunch, and he would have felt awkward4 except that she knew
completely how to take care of herself.
“Do you live with someone?” he asked the next day when they met.
“Just myself,” she answered. Asking the question made him feel uneasy
because of his own loneliness even though he was hoping for this answer.
He came to like to feel the white handles in his grasp, to walk between the
two white-rimmed metal wheels. And he grew almost more familiar with the slight
wave at the back of her hair than with her eyes or her mouth. Once, he said to
the wave at the back of her hair,“I hope I'm the only chair-pusher in your
life,” but she had only smiled a little and her eyes had admitted nothing.
She cooked dinner for him once in June. He expected her to be proud of her
ability to do everything from her seat in the wheelchair—and was faintly5
disappointed to see that she would not feel pride at what was, for her, simply a
matter of course6. He watched his own hand pick up the salt shaker7 and place it
on one of the higher unused shelves, and awaited her plea8 for assistance. He
didn't know why he'd done it, but the look in her eyes made him realize how
cruel his prank9 was. To make her forget what he'd done, he told her about the
little white bird in the park.
“I've seen it, too,” she said. “I read a poem once about a little white
bird that came to rest on a windowsill10 and the lady who lived in the house
began to put out food for it. Soon the lady fell in love, but it was a
mismatched11 love. Every day the little bird came to the window and the lady put
out food. When the love affair was over, the little white bird never returned,
but the woman went on putting out the crumbs12 every day for years and the wind
just blew them away."
In July he took her boating frequently. The most awkward event, she felt,
was getting in and out of the boat. For Charles, however, these “freight
handlings,” as she came to call it, seemed to be the highlight13 of the outings.
In the boat she felt helpless, unable to move around, sitting in one spot. Also,
she was unable to swim, should the boat turn over. Charles didn't observe her
discomfort; she did note how much he enjoyed being in control. When he called
for her one day in early August, she refused to.
They would, instead, she said, go for a walk in which she would move
herself by the strength of her own arms and he would walk beside her.
“Why don't you just rest your arms and let me push you?”
“No.”
“Your arms will get sore14. I've been helping you do it for three months
now.”
“I wheeled myself for twelve years before you came along.”
“But I don't like having to walk beside you while you push yourself!”
“Do you think I liked sitting helpless in your boat every weekend for the
past two months?”
He never considered this and was shocked into silence. Finally he said
quietly, “I never realized that, Amy. You're in a wheelchair all the time—I
never thought you'd mind sitting in the boat. It's the same thing.”
“It is not the same thing. In this chair, I can move by myself; I can go
anywhere I need to go. That boat traps me so I can't do anything—I couldn't even
save myself if something happened and I fell out.”
“But I'm there. Don't you think I could save you or help you move or
whatever it is you want?”
“Yes, but Charles—the point is I've spent twelve years learning to manage
by myself. I even live in a city that's miles from my family so I'll have to be
independent and do things for myself. Being placed in the boat takes all that
I've won away from me. Can't you see why I object to it? I don't want to feel
helpless.”
As they went down the path Charles selfishly only thought of his own needs,
finally he lost control and said，“Amy, I need to have you dependent upon me.” He
grabbed the wheelchair and pushed her along. She had to let go of the wheels or
injure herself. He could not see the anger in her eyes, and it was just as well
for it was an anger he would not have understood.
She would not answer her telephone the next morning but in his mail that
afternoon came an envelope that he knew had come from Amy. The handwriting was
not beautiful, but it was without question hers. Inside was only a card on which
she had written:
If you want something badly enough，
You must let it go free.
If it comes back to you,
It's yours.
If it doesn't,
You really never had it anyway.
(Anonymous15)
He ran out of his apartment, refusing to believe that Amy might no longer
be in her home. As he was running towards her apartment, he kept hearing a roar
in his ears: “You must let it go free; you must let it go free.”
But he thought: I can't risk it, she is mine, can't give her a chance not
to belong to me, can't let her think she doesn't need me, she must need me. Oh
God, I have to have her.
But her apartment was empty. Somehow in the hours overnight, she had
packed—by herself—and moved by herself. The rooms were now impersonal16; their
cold stillness could not respond when he fell to the floor and sobbed.
By the middle of August he had heard nothing from Amy. He went often to the
park but avoided looking for the white bird.
September came and had almost gone before he finally received a letter. The
handwriting was without question hers. The postmark was that of a city many
miles distant. He tore open the envelope and at first thought it was empty. Then
he noticed a single white feather had fallen from it. In his mind, the white
bird rose in flight and its wings let fly one feather. Were it not for the
feather, no one would have known that the white bird had ever been. Thus he knew
Amy would not be back, and it was many hours before he let the feather drop out
of his hand.
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发表于 2016-7-10 11:35:00