The Pundit of Coolidge Corner: A Novella

By Sandor Blum

It is a sunlit morning in May when Andrew Miller arrives from rural Kansas to Coolidge Corner, an iconic urban village on the edge of Boston. Although he has been warned by his aunt that Bostonians are not very welcoming to outsiders, Andrew still has high hopes that his new home and job at the Brookline Library will be exactly what he is looking for--change.

Andrew, who possesses amazing talents as well as equally troublesome emotional handicaps, hopes to forget everything that has happened back home in Kansas as he secures a room in a boarding house and begins navigating life in the busy city. While his journey leads him through both adventures and misadventures, Andrew makes an unlikely friend with a homeless veteran and searches for love and acceptance. But as obstacles and challenges stand in his way, Andrew wonders if he will he ever be able to find where he belongs.

The Pundit of Coolidge Corner shares the poignant tale of a young mans journey from rural Kansas to Boston as he determinedly pursues change, tolerance of differences, and most of all, unconditional love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jul 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480833685

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Copyright © 2016 Sandor Blum.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-3367-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-3368-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016910582

Archway Publishing rev. date: 07/08/2016

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 A New Life

Chapter 2 By Your Work Ye Shall Be Known

Chapter 3 Love Will Prevail

Chapter 4 I Am Andrew

About the Author

This book is

dedicated to my children, Hannah, Aaron, Michelle, Jon, Arielle, and Adrienne; my grandchildren, Bella, Brianna, and Alana; and my wife, Gail, who left us too soon. I wish to thank my friends Lois and Joel Eichler, Nancy and Steve Tharler, and Ellen and Norton Greenfeld for their love and support. For their encouragement to write, I thank Gloria Burkin and Irving Schwartz.

And how am I to face the odds

Of man’s bedevilment and God’s?

I, a stranger and afraid

In a world I never made.

                        —A.E. Housman

The setting for this work of fiction is the Brookline Public Library. I have nothing but respect for our library and its dedicated and friendly staff. The characters and events created for the purpose of this novel are narrated as background for the story. It is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to current staff at the library is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

A New Life

O N A SUNLIT MORNING IN May, Andrew Miller arrived at Coolidge Corner in Brookline, Massachusetts, an urban village on the edge of Boston. He pulled behind him a rolling duffel with a few belongings. A married couple waiting to join their friends observed him standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

Puzzled by his appearance, the husband turned to his wife. He looks like some guy from the Bible Belt, he said.

His wife reacted with invectiveness. She was an unrepentant atheist. Yeah, well that’s the last thing we need around here is a proselytizer! I hope he doesn’t start handing out pamphlets. Let’s turn the other way.

Andrew wore a white, short-sleeved shirt with raised-patterned squares, a style popular in the fifties. Knotted in the Windsor style was a funereal-looking black tie. His pants were black, as were his shoes. His reddish-brown hair was cut short and parted on the left side. The large tattoo on his left arm read: Love Will Prevail. He was tall and skinny, with sparkling green eyes, a lightly freckled complexion, a high brow, and an eager look.

The husband glanced at him again. I can’t believe some missionaries would send a kid like that to Boston. Who do they think he could convert around here?

The racket on Beacon Street that morning was deafening. Fast-moving trolley cars joined in packs of three, screeching over worn rails heading the short distance into downtown Boston. A shrieking ambulance raced to a nearby hospital, its accompanying counterpoint coming from a pile driver breaking up the ground to replace worn gas lines. Coolidge Corner, a village nestled within a city that itself was in a city, was the noisy, urbane, iconic, and unique home to academics, students, and medical residents; home to Irish and Jewish people, as well as a recent influx of Chinese; and the place where Andrew’s Aunt Ruth had suggested that he find a new life.

The clamor on the streets was the remedy recommended to Andrew by the doctors who had treated him at the Menninger Clinic in Kansas. That type of healing approach would not be easy to achieve in the Kansas town he came from, a haven of quietude for the modest and gentle farming people who lived there.

Noise had been recommended to stimulate Andrew’s senses—to keep him from going inside himself, as he was prone to do. With the clinic’s recommendations, his mother had taken him to Chicago for a week. The racket on the Loop as he rode the L from the airport to downtown improved his disposition. He was dazzled by the sights—bewitched by the hammering throb of the city. Alone in Coolidge Corner now, he was more confused than roused.

A jogger bumped into Andrew and shouted, Look out, jerk!

Alarmed, Andrew searched for a safer spot. Looking around, he spied a vacant portion of a bench. An eccentric-looking man occupied one side of the bench. Andrew took a seat on the other side, avoiding eye contact. The man took his measure and snarled, eyeing him suspiciously. Looking obliquely to the man’s left, Andrew turned to face him.

A very nice day here in Coolidge Corner, wouldn’t you agree? Andrew probed.

The man glared at Andrew over the top of his aviator sunglasses. He hissed like a snake, popped some tobacco between his cheek and gums, grunted some epithets under his breath, and gave Andrew a look that any Bostonian would have deemed threatening.

It might be a nice day where you’re sitting, kid, the man proffered. "But this is where I do me business, so screw! Okay? Screw!" The, man who looked to be in his fifties, said me with a faux Irish accent. As if to ensure that Andrew understood the word business, the man pulled a blackboard from his backpack, looked around him to make certain there were no policemen in sight, and then held it up to catch Andrew’s attention. Scrawled in a large, multicolored, elegant chalk were the words: HOMELESS! WOUNDED VIETNAM VET. In smaller letters, it read: Murphy Thanks You.

The man, whose full name was J. Millington Synge Murphy, wore an old baseball hat with infantry badges pinned erratically in front and back. His pitted face and bulbous nose protruded from a long, lantern-shaped head sitting atop slender shoulders. Spindly legs, one of which was pinioned with a metal brace, peeped out of thrift-shop cargo shorts. A braided African walking stick was now pointed at Andrew.

Did you heah me? Murphy said, curling his lower lip while stabbing at the air with the stick. "You need to screw! Screw! No loitering on my turf. You’re blocking the view."

Sir, I’m just resting here, Andrew explained. I won’t be long.

Murphy leaned forward. Oh. So you’re just resting, huh? A young shit like you needs to rest? This is my area. Go fuckin’ rest somewhere else!

I see. Then I will leave you, sir, and I am sorry to have troubled you. It’s just that I see from your sign that you were in Vietnam.

Murphy put down the stick. Yeah, I was in Nam! You got something to say about that?

Andrew looked thoughtful. Well, sir, you should be very proud. My uncle Harold was in Vietnam. He died there.

Murphy adjusted the wad in his cheek. Yeah … well, he began in a slightly more avuncular tone. I’m sorry about your Uncle Harold, but I have a business to run.

Andrew stood up awkwardly, trying to figure out what to do. I am very sorry that I made you upset, Mr. Murphy. It was good meeting a veteran like yourself. Have a nice day.

Murphy waved his stick and pointed it at the bench.

All right. Sit down, kid. Sit down! I won’t bite you.

Andrew hesitated and then slowly lowered himself onto the bench. He stared at the sidewalk.

Your Uncle … where was he in Nam when he got it?

Tet, I believe. A soldier came to our farm and told my Aunt Ruth.

"Yeah, well, let me tell you something. Your Uncle Harold must have been honored when they brought him home. Coffin