call & claim

bound in time and space

Raymond Murphy is quite a common name. In fact, if one were to type the name into a search engine one would find an American politician, an American medal of honor recipient, a British linguist, and an Irish apparel designer from Tokyo. What you would not find is a writer of literary fiction. What you would not find is this particular Raymond Murphy.

Every month, this particular Raymond Murphy would spend approximately ninety to a hundred hours holed up in his office chipping away at one story after another so that he could — how should I put it? — alleviate the symptoms of his condition.

He told me he was seven when he started writing. And so, I asked him, “writing what?! You definitely weren’t writing literary fiction, were you?” To which he responded, “of course not literary fiction. Not YA or any serious literature but fiction nonetheless.”

“Then,” I thought, “where’s your name?” All this I kept in my head because as he sipped on his coffee, I watched the answer live and breathe all around him.

Ryan Murphy would soon be six. About to start elementary school and his dad, Raymond, was in the process of teaching him how to walk to and from school all by himself. Even as we talked Raymond would, every now and then, blurt out, “raise that hand up as you cross a street. NO RUNNING! NO RUNNING!” Ryan would frustratingly say, “dad, I know!”

Stumbling behind Ryan was the three year old Mary Murphy. There she was chasing after her brother who was mapping out the far reaches of the known world. And even further down the chain of command was Sara Murphy who lay on the sheet spread upon the knoll with her eyes fixated on her hands, fingers, toes and every appendage that, as far as she was concerned, might have belonged to her.

“It’s not easy — what you’re asking. It’s obvious to me that you want this. But it could be that you simply don’t want it enough,” I said as I raised Sara off the ground.

“Why?! I’ve given so much to this. Since I was a child I’ve given something to this. I haven’t looked back, haven’t changed my mind... Same vision, same action every single day since I was seven. How can you say I don’t want it enough?”

Sara’s hazel eyes peered into mine. Her smile was unhinged. A pang of envy washed over me.

“Here’s why,” I said with eyes locked on Sara. “You can’t have it all, Ray. Here you are with these children. I can feel the immense love and concern you have for them. Ray, you’re a father first and it’s very difficult for a man that’s a father first to also be a great man.”

Raymond Murphy reached for Sara. She spread her arms to meet her father’s embrace fleeing mine.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” he put her close to his chest.

After a sigh, I said, “think of men you would consider great. Do you know these men to be great fathers on top of being great at what they do? What I see are men giving families as collateral for greatness. Or men who sacrificed society at large to be insulated by obsession. Tell me, Ray, what makes you think you can have it all?”

“Ryan!” He yelled out. “Your sister! She’s eating bugs again!”
There he was. Being a father.

“It could be that this is where your greatness lies, Ray. You’re a father, aren’t you? You love these children, don’t you? Why would you want anything else? I have known many a man who would sacrifice greatness to be where you are. And indeed, some have. Yet I know that means nothing to you, or them, because we simply want what we want, don’t we? Why, Ray? Why?”

While his eyes followed Ryan who smacked something out of Mary’s palm, he said, “because it’s all I’ve ever really wanted.”

“Mmmh! You live in a strange time, Ray. An abundance of choice. People believe their lives are directly impacted by the choices they make. It is fascinating to me that people put off having children until they feel ready. Despite that, you never once thought to wait?! Why is that?”

Sara took Raymond’s index finger and nibbled at it with her newly erupted teeth. Her father did not pull his hand away.

“I guess…” he paused and turned to Sara as though hiding behind her presence. “Come on. I don’t want to have to talk about this.”

“Ray, I understand that. But it is no mere coincidence that you stumbled upon my work or possessed, not only the tools, but the commitment to summon me. The least you can do is help me understand why it is I need to help you.”

Sara started writhing in his arms. Raymond Murphy placed her back on the sheet and muttered, “she needs her bottle.”

Raymond Murphy reached for his backpack, pulled out two water bottles and one baby bottle that had formula in it. He opened the baby bottle, placed it on the ground and opened a water bottle that was filled with hot water that he then poured onto the formula. He closed it. Shook. Opened it again to add water from the second water bottle. He closed it again. Shook. And brought Sara onto his lap.

“Here you go, baby,” he whispered before feeding her.

“It’s very challenging for me to comprehend what is happening before me, Ray. What you’re asking me for… I don’t understand why it is you ask for what you ask.”

With Sara taking gulp after gulp, Raymond said, “you said it yourself: people want what they want. I didn’t choose to want any of this. I didn’t choose to be interested in literature or whatever the hell goes on with me when I’m locked up in that room writing. None of these things came from me. All I know is that I want it. I want it at its highest capacity. I want it all.”

That same controlled intensity he used to prepare his daughter’s milk was directed at me.

“Dad!” came a scream from the other end of the park. “She’s throwing sand at the other kids.”

With Sara in his arm and a bottle still in her mouth, Raymond Murphy stood up and went running across the park. He returned with Sara still against his chest as he dragged Mary, kicking and screaming, by her arm.

“No more running for you, young lady. You’re done for the day,” out of the bag came an apple juice box. “Have this right here.” He pushed the straw into the juice box and handed it to his daughter.

“I don’t think you need me at all. I cannot help with the problem you have, Ray,” I said.

“I don’t get it. You promised that you’d help me get exactly what I wanted. Don’t tell me you’re just going to leave me here. With this.”

“You’re right, Ray. The one thing you want. I don’t think you know what it is you want.”

Mary drank from her straw as her eyes scoured all around eternity for another source of excitement. And then, her eyes met mine. With an almost choreographed cadence she dropped her eyes to the red sheet below her and vanished into herself.

“I think I know very well what it is I want,” Raymond Murphy muttered.

“Very few people do, Ray.”