Nathaniel's Got the Blues

By David L. Heaney

In the winter of his life, Nathaniel, a fruit rat, is bored, angry and depressed. Even his longsuffering wife, Birgit is becoming impatient with his litany of complaints and ailments. He has grown increasingly self-focused possessing little interest in his colorless world. Sometimes he wistfully recalls his adventures as a young rat in search of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Author David Heaney
• Release date: Sep 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9780960059331

David L. Heaney

David is the author of A YORKIE'S TALE: LESSONS FROM A LIFE WELL-LIVED and THE BLACK FOX OF BECKHAM. Publisher's Weekly wrote of A YORKIE'S TALE: "Heaney offers wisdom, poetry, and humor in his narrative. His distinctive animal characters-pictured in Tatu's expressive watercolors-will resonate with middle grade readers. A YORKIE'S TALE was a semi-finalist for the BookLife Prize Competition (2018). The Booklife Prize Reviewer writes, "Heaney's middle grade novel is a unique contemporary story that pays tribute to classic works of children's literature through its poignant and sophisticated approach to dealing with questions about death, purpose, and grief. He has enjoyed several careers all focused around assisting others with major life changes. After twenty years as a parish minister, he practiced as a marriage and family therapist. He then switched gears after being recruited to work as a senior executive with a large private company assisting governments around the world with the development and management of their social assistance programs. David earned a BA in Philosophy at SUNY, College at Purchase, a M.Div. from Yale University Divinity School and another M.A. from the University of San Diego in Marriage and Family Therapy. David lives with his wife Lynda and their three dogs in St. Louis, Missouri where he writes and Lynda is Vice Chancellor for Advancement at Washington University Medical School.

Book preview

1

Nathaniel stirred lazily. The rustling noise of leaves and newspaper scraps, of which his bed was constructed, was intended to signal Birgit that her husband was awake. As he lay there, he did what he did each morning after he woke: Nathaniel reviewed the growing inventory he was assembling of the reasons he was discontent. In the unlikely case Birgit was not aware that he was no longer sleeping, he indicated once again that he was up, only this time with a loud, deep sigh that devolved into an agonizing existential groan, rising up from that vault where he stored his litany of grievances and mounting despair.

He opened his eyes and surveyed the darkened loft where he and Birgit had made their home nearly two years ago. He studied her, silhouetted against the diffuse morning light, as she sat staring out the entrance to their nest. Nathaniel had created a home for them under the eaves of a house rented by an old Guatemalan widower named Salvador Ochoa.

Salvador, an immigrant from Central America, grew fruit with a green thumb. His orchard was prolific, making this an ideal location for the fruit-loving rat couple. Nathaniel never worried that their presence was upsetting to Salvador, because when caught in the act of munching on fallen fruit, the worst they heard from him was "Oye, Chico y Gordita! Not too much now, eh!"

Nathaniel noted that sometimes Salvador collected the fruit, plucking it from the trees, stuffing mangoes and peaches in baskets, which he displayed on a stand in front of the house. Over the course of the day, people came and went in their cars, helping themselves to a basket and tossing coins, which jingled in the glass jar sitting on the stand counter.

The thought of fresh fruit was making Nathaniel hungry, but he lay there searching for greater motivation to get out of bed. Finally, stretching first one way, then the other, he winced as a sharp pain shot down his back to his leg, causing his foot to twitch as if he had stepped on a live wire.

OW! Jeez! he yelled, loud enough to be sure his wife heard his cry, which, of course, would have been impossible to ignore unless she were stone-cold deaf. Argh! I feel worse every morning, he grumbled to himself. I am too damned old, he muttered, just loud enough for Birgit to hear. Then, in a loud voice, he hollered, How long are rats supposed to live, Birgit?

She did not respond. It had become something of a daily ritual for Nathaniel to complain about things only he could address. His wife, he noted, nimbly swatted away his gripes like so many pesky gnats.

Nathaniel, it seemed, had descended into a pit of chronic ailments and complaints, which, to be completely honest, both Birgit and he found wearisome. He went through the standard stipulations that supported the case for contentment. "I have a loving and faithful wife, Birgit, my partner since I was a young rat. We have many children, for which I am grateful. There are so many reasons why I should be content with my life, and yet … I am not. It’s not my wife, not my kids, not because I lack anything that someone else has. He paused to think for a moment about how to precisely articulate his problem. I’m all used up. That’s it. I’m all used up, and I am not happy, and I am OLD! And there is no escaping it!" Nathaniel bellowed.

Every morning was the same. He opened his imaginary ledger, where he tallied up the reasons to be miserable on one side and the reasons to be happy on the other. "There is no escaping it! Happiness loses day after day! he grumbled again, capping his feelings with the words I will die this way … used up and unhappy … and that is the unhappy truth of my life!"

No escaping what? Birgit called to him from the entrance to their nesting area. I know there’s apparently no escaping your morning announcement regarding every little ache or pain you may have suffered in the previous twenty-four hours.

Nathaniel limped over to join Birgit under the eaves, where they looked out over the property. From their vantage point, they towered over the peach, plum, mango, orange, and loquat trees that covered Salvador’s large backyard. And there were the avocado trees, which always reminded Nathaniel of his old buddy Niles, a Yorkshire terrier who loved avocados.

They sat quietly together, taking in what they could of the orchard, since the fog was especially dense this morning. Nathaniel momentarily wondered if perhaps it was the weather that was getting him down. But just like every other day, the sun would be shining by noon, after it burned off the daily morning fog. He considered it was perhaps Birgit, again. But he could hardly blame his wife, since he loved her very much, even though he might sometimes think she could lose a little weight.

Birgit was considerably larger than he due to her Norwegian bloodline. Norwegian rats were larger than fruit rats, and she insisted that Nathaniel factor this into his thinking before he opened his mouth to make any comments about her. But lately she seemed to be expanding, requiring Nathaniel to gnaw back the edges of the entrance to their nest to accommodate her sizable girth. No matter, he loved her just the same. Yes, her auburn coat of soft fur had lost a bit of its sheen, her tail seemed to have shrunk somewhat, and she sagged here and there, but, c’mon, who didn’t?

Nathaniel knew Birgit had never been very skilled at climbing, which he knew explained why she had fiercely rejected his desire to take up residence in the roof of Salvador’s home. But he knew food was her greatest temptation, and so she had acquiesced after he promised to fetch her dinner and bring it to their nest from this day forward. He had not kept his promise, of course, and Birgit was forced to lumber up and down the branches of the tall shrubs that grew along the side of the house, reaching up to the eaves. Every time he watched her struggle up the branches to their nest, he averted his eyes from her own, since he felt her look communicated her disappointment at his broken promise. He felt especially guilty when he was alerted to her arrival home by the flap-flap-flap sound her bad foot made when it struck the surface on which she walked.

Birgit’s flapping foot had been caused by some sort of childhood injury, in which a large section of her foot was actually severed from the remainder. Nathaniel, however, could not recall the details of her story, and the disability itself, he regarded with indifference. Indeed, he found her distinctive walk rather endearing and useful as a vivid alert to her approaching presence.

Just to be clear though, while unwilling to be overly critical of any of his wife’s shortcomings, it was not out of kindness but more because his shortcomings were even more apparent than hers. Nathaniel’s aches, pains, and limitations reminded him daily that age had taken its toll on him too. His eyes had clouded with ripening cataracts. The skin around his eyes sagged at the outer corners, causing him to appear perpetually tired. His head angled to the right because of an annoying and apparently chronic condition in his right ear. His bones ached, and small patches of his silver, black, and brown fur had fallen out due to some sort of miserable skin condition that caused him to itch all the time. But he most keenly observed the impact aging had on how he felt emotionally. And these feelings were harder for him to endure than all of the aches and pains combined. Yet the physical problems were easier to articulate than the ambiguous and conflicting feelings that raged within. How did he feel? Depressed, useless, tired, bored. Yes, that was all true but not exactly precise. What was that word he had heard someone use recently? It was right on the tip of his tongue … He felt … mel … melan … melanchol …

No escaping what? Birgit’s face alarmingly appeared only inches from his own, causing him to lose the word he had been searching for.

Yes? Nathaniel backed up, looking at her after reclaiming the comfortable distance between their two faces he required for personal space.

You were complaining that there was no escaping something. What are you trying to escape, Nathaniel?

Oh … right. Smiling sheepishly, he paused briefly. Then, smiling triumphantly, he sat back on his haunches and jabbed his paw forward as he proclaimed, Melancholy. He punctuated the proclamation of the word with a definitive nod, stating the word once again. Melancholy!

Nathaniel, what are you talking about? There’s no escaping what? Melancholy? Birgit stared tentatively at Nathaniel.

"No. I just remembered the word. It was the word I was trying to remember when you stuck your face in mine. I was trying to find a word that captured exactly how I have been feeling. I think melancholy might be a good word. Or maybe it’s something else. I don’t know, he said, quickly growing bored with the conversation. Then suddenly his interest in the subject was revived as another word seemed to rest on his tongue. Wait, maybe, um … maybe blue is a better word. Yes, blue is quite accurate. I’m thinking of a dark blue. Oh, never mind. What was it you wanted, Birgit? Something about escaping?"

You said there is no escaping it. But you seem to be paying me no attention, so never—

"Ah! Escaping. As to no escaping … why, I know precisely what I’m speaking of. Regrettably, you were not listening! There’s no escaping … well, there’s no escaping that I am all used up! That’s it. Used up. Nothing left to give. Nothing left to learn. Nothing more to do but the same thing I did yesterday and the day before that and so on and so on. And it leaves me feeling, yes, melancholy. It leaves me feeling blue … very, very blue. This, Birgit, is how I would sum up the state of my soul. It’s blue. Like a big ugly bruise. There is no escaping this feeling of melancholy … this feeling of blue, blueness, uh … bluishness!"

Staring past his wife, he rambled on in a way that even he had to admit was as foggy as the weather outside their nest.

Oh, there are the children, he went on, and the grandchildren, and the great-grandchildren, and of course, their children, whose names I can’t remember. But that’s because I never see them.

"You don’t want to see them, Nathaniel. You seem to cherish your unhappy solitude."

"That’s because I’m all used up, Birgit. I feel as if I have nothing more to give … nothing more to learn, nothing more to contribute.