Young Writers Society

"... And lest you forget —"

He deepened his voice:

"Methuselah's middle name will always keep you young."

There came a peep from a mound of comforter and afghan on a bed against the wall. "What was his middle name, Dad?"

He smiled, felt his eyes crinkling and dimples deepening, and sighed.

"You've forgotten? My, how you've gotten old."

The mound rustled and emitted a groan.

"Dad! Please?"

He waited. Slowly, a head and hands emerged from the bottom of the bed. It shook lightly.

"Hey—! No kicking, Samuel. And why are you sleeping upside down, you foolish boy?"

A voice piped up from the other side of the room.

"Daddy, I'm sleeping right-side-up."

He looked to his daughter, and smiled again. "You are. You're a good girl, Clara."

He turned, and sat down on his son's bed. 

"I'm not going to be able to remember Methuselah's name if you don't lay with your head right, Samuel."

He paused. He put his hands down, pursed his lips, and gazed thoughtfully away.

"Or... maybe I'm remembering backwards? Oh - everything's jumbled—!"

He hopped up and down, shaking the bed lightly, and shouted:

"Hurry, Samuel! Before I start to remember everything backwards! Oh no, it's starting! Leumas, pleh! Leumas!"

Light brown eyes flitted beneath the covers, then surfaced at the head of the bed. Samuel sat up, leaning toward his father.

"Look, Daddy! I moved! Please talk normal again!"

"Oh, Samuel!" He clutched his chest. "I thought I was a goner that time."

He smiled again, for the third time that night. He gave the boy a quiet kiss on the forehead, stood, and said "goodnight."

"... But Daddy," a tiny voice (somewhat desperately) asked, "what was Methuselah's middle name? I don't want to get old—" 

A girl's silhouette arose, and turned to look; and, for a moment, her auburn strands of hair glinted in the lamplight.

"... like Samuel," she finished.

Standing in the doorway, he chuckled and turned around.

"Very well, Clara. I don't want you getting any older, either."

He paused for a long while in the doorway, breathing deeply.

"Methuselah's middle name... the secret to his many, many years... was..."

He breathed out. And in. And then he breathed, in a loud whisper:

"Jim-Bob."

The room rang with his children's laughter. He smiled for the final time; turned out the lamp; and said:

"Goodnight. I love you both."

.

...

.

Many years passed since the children last enjoyed their father's bedtime stories. They lived separate lives, in separate rooms... And grew apart, as children do.

But still, from time to time, he came to Samuel's room, smiled at his son, and whispered:

"What was Methuselah's middle name?"

And he would hear a loud breath, and then - quiet as a mouse - 

"Jim-Bob."

He would smile. 

"Goodnight son." 

And, after a moment, he'd hear: "Goodnight."

And, some mornings, he would wake his daughter with his hand on her shoulder, and ask her the same question.

She would reach up, put her hand against his cheek, and say:

"Jim-Bob... can I go back to sleep now?"

.

...

.

Samuel graduated. And then so did Clara. Samuel married, and then did Clara. 

Clara had the first child.

He came to the hospital room, shook his son-in-law's hand, and smiled: his eyes crinkling, and dimples deepening.

Clara looked up at him.

"We still haven't picked a name."

She looked at the bundle in her arms, and up again, smiling.

"What do you think?"

He tilted his head, bunched his lips to the side, and paused.

"...

"Jim-Bob?"

Clara laughed. 

"No, seriously, Daddy..."

"I am serious," he laughed back.

.

...

.

Every year, Samuel and his daughter and wife would fly down; and Clara and her husband, and their two sons, would drive up; and the family would all spend Christmas Eve together.

That night, he stooped in the doorway, and he breathed in and out slowly.

Clara whispered to her husband, "He used to do this when we were kids..." 

And she smiled.

He breathed in one large breath, and whispered loudly: "Jim-Bob."

The children erupted in laughter. He smiled, and turned, and Clara kissed him on the forehead and said: "Goodnight, Dad."

.

...

.

His grandchildren, when they visited, sometimes asked: "Grandpa, do you remember that story you used to tell? About Methuselah's middle name? What was it again?"

And he would smile, and, without looking up from his workbench or stove, he'd say "Oh, you remember, don't you?"

When they didn't respond, he'd sigh:

"Why, Jim-Bob, of course!"

.

...

.

He laid in bed more than he used to. 

He was always tired; but still, every day, he slipped into a pair of slippers, and walked softly through the garden.

When Samuel visited this year, he asked his father: 

"Do you remember that bedtime story you used to tell us?

"We used to love it so... the one about Methuselah?"

He smiled, felt his eyes crinkling and dimples deepening, and looked up from his chair.

"Of course I do, Jim-Bob."