Unit One
Writing research reports for college or work is often found far more difficult than it
needs to be. The following article offers some excellent advice on how to make the
task easier and the report more impressive and effective. Whether you write a research
report for a college professor or for a demanding boss in your profession, the author's
advice will put you well on your way to becoming a skillful report writer.
RESEARCH REPORTS FOR BUSINESS AND THECNICAL WRITING
Wayne Losano
A surprising amount of one's time as a student and professional is spent reporting the
results of one's research projects for presentation to teachers, managers, and clients.
Indeed, without basic research skills and the ability to present research results clearly
and completely, an individual will encounter many obstacles in school and on the job.
The need for some research-writing ability is felt nearly equally by college students in
all fields, engineering and science as well as business and the humanities. Graduate
study often makes great demands on the student's research-writing skills, and most
professions continue the demand; education, advertising and marketing, economics
and accounting, science and engineering, psychology, anthropology, the arts, and
agriculture may all require regular reporting of research data.
ELEMENTS OF THE RESEARCH PAPER
The standard research report, regardless of the field or the intended reader, contains
four major sections. These sections may be broken down into a variety of subsections,
and they may be arranged in a variety of ways, but they regularly make up the core of
the report.
Problem Section. The first required section of a research report is the statement of the
problem with which the research project is concerned. This section requires a precise
statement of the underlying question which the researcher has set out to answer. In
this same section there should be an explanation of the significance --- social,
economic, medical, psychological, educational, etc. --- of the question; in other words,
why the investigation was worth conducting. Thus, if we set out, for example, to
answer the question "What is the effect of regular consumption of fast foods on the
health of the American teenager?" we must explain that the question is thought to
have significant relevance to the health of this segment of the population and might
lead to some sort of regulations on such foods.
A frequent subsection of this problem section is a review of past research on the topic
being investigated. This would consist of summaries of the contributions of previous
researcher to the question under consideration with some assessment of the value of
these contributions. This subsection has rhetorical usefulness in that it enhances the
credibility of the researcher by indicating that the data presented is based on a
thorough knowledge of what has been done in the field and, possibly, grows out of
some investigative tradition.
Procedures Section. The second major section of the research report details, with as
much data as possible, exactly how the study was carried out. This section includes
description of any necessary equipment, how the subjects were selected if subjects
were used, what statistical technique was used to evaluate the significance of the
findings, how many observations were made and when, etc. An investigation of the
relative effectiveness of various swim-strokes would have to detail the number of
swimmers tested, the nature of the tests conducted, the experience of the swimmers,
the weather conditions at the time of the test, and any other factors that contributed to
the overall experiment. The goal of the procedures section is to allow the reader to
duplicate the experiment if such were desired to confirm, or refute, your findings.
Results Section. The third, and perhaps most important, section of the research report
is the presentation of the results obtained from the investigation. The basic rule in this
section is to give all data relevant to the research question initially asked. Although, of
course, one's natural tendency might be to suppress any findings which do not in some
way support one's hypothesis, such dishonesty is antithetical to good research
reporting in any field. If the experiments undertaken fail to prove anything, if the data
was inadequate or contrary to expectations, the report should be honestly written and
as complete as possible, just as it would be if the hypothesis were totally proven by
the research.
Discussion Section. The final required section of a research report is a discussion of
the results obtained and a statement of any conclusions which may be drawn from
those results. Of primary interest in business and technical research reports is the
validity of the results as the bases for company decisions: Will our planned
construction project meet federal environmental guidelines and be approved for
building? Will this new program attract skilled personnel to our company? Will this
new oil recovery technique be financially feasible? Thus, the discussion section of the
research report must evaluate the research results fully: were they validly obtained,
are they complete or limited, are they applicable over a wide range of circumstances?
The discussion section should also point out what question remain unanswered and
perhaps suggest directions for further research.
STYLE OF RESEARCH REPORTS
Research reports are considered formal professional communication. As such, there is
little emphasis on a lively style, although, of course, there is no objection to writing
that is pleasing and interesting. The primary goals of professional communication are
accuracy, clarity, and completeness. The rough draft of any research report should be
edited to ensure that all data is correctly presented, that all equipment is listed, that all
results are properly detailed. As an aid to the reader, headings indicating at least the
major section of the report should be used, and all data should be presented under the
proper headings. In addition to their function of suggesting to the reader the contents
of each section, headings enhance the formal appearance and professional quality of
the report, increase to some degree the writer's credibility by reflecting a logical and
methodical approach to the reporting process, and eliminate the need for wordy
transitional devices between sections.
Research data should be presented in a way that places proper emphasis on major
aspect of the project. For different readers different aspects will take on different
degrees of importance, and some consideration should be given to structuring research
reports differently for different audiences. Management, for example, will be most
concerned with the results of a research project, and thus the results section should be
emphasized, probably by presenting it immediately after the problem section and
before the procedures section. Other researchers would be most interested in the
procedures section, and this should be highlighted in writing up research projects for
publication in professional journals or for presentation at professional conferences.
For non-technical readers and federal agencies, the implications of the results might
be the most important consideration, and emphasis should be placed on the discussion
of the report for this readership.
For additional clarity and emphasis, major results should be presented in a visual
format --- tables, charts, graphs, diagrams --- as well as in a verbal one.
Beyond checking the report for clarity and accuracy in the presentation of technical
data, the author of a research report should review for basic grammatical and
mechanical accuracy. Short sentences are preferable to long in the presentation of
complex information. Listings should be used to break up long passages of prose and
to emphasize information. The research writer should try to use the simplest possible
language without sacrificing the professional quality of the report. Although
specialized terms can be used, pretentious jargon should be avoided. A finished
research report should be readable and useful document prepared with the reader in
mind.
CONCLUSION
Although we struggle with research reports in high school, dread them in college, and
are often burdened by them in our professional live, learning to live comfortably with
them is a relatively easy task. A positive attitude (i.e. one that seem the oral or written
presentation of research results as of equal importance to the data-gathering process);
an orderly approach which includes prewriting (i.e., before any actual research is done,
the researcher should try to get down on paper as much about the subject under
investigation as possible) and a formal research report structure as the framework for
the investigation; and a reasonable approach to the actual writing process including
editing for accuracy and clarity, will help one to produce effective research reports
efficiently.
Unit Two
As a black boy growing up in America in the early 1900s, Richard Wright knew well the meaning
of racial prejudice. He was not allowed to play in a park or borrow books from a library. While
working as an office boy in a bank, though, he found a way into the library and discovered the
power of the written word. In the following story, Richard Wright tells us how his thirst for books
grew with each passing day and what changes took place in him as he did more and more reading.
THE LIBRARY CARD
Richard Wright
One morning I arrived early at work and went into the bank lobby where the Negro
porter was mopping. I stood at a counter and picked up the Memphis Commercial
Appeal and began my free reading of the press. I came finally to the editorial page and
saw an article dealing with one H. L. Mencken. I knew by hearsay that he was the
editor of the American Mercury, but aside from that I knew nothing about him. The
article was a furious denunciation of Mencken, concluding with one, hot, short
sentence: Mencken is a fool.
I wondered what on earth this Mencken had done to call down upon him the scorn of
the South. The only people I had ever heard denounced in the South were Negroes,
and this man was not a Negro. Then what ideas did Mencken hold that made a
newspaper like the Commercial Appeal castigate him publicly? Undoubtedly he must
be advocating ideas that the South did not like.
Now, how could I find out about this Mencken? There was a huge library near the
riverfront, but I knew that Negroes were not allowed to patronize its shelves any more
than they were the parks and playgrounds of the city. I had gone into the library
several times to get books for the white men on the job. Which of them would now
help me to get books?
I weighed the personalities of the men on the job. There was Don, a Jew; but I
distrusted him. His position was not much better than mine and I knew that he was
uneasy and insecure; he had always treated me in an offhand, bantering way that
barely concealed his contempt. I was afraid to ask him to help me to get books; his
frantic desire to demonstrate a racial solidarity with the whites against Negroes might
make him betray me.
Then how about the boss? No, he was a Baptist and I had the suspicion that he would
not be quite able to comprehend why a black boy would want to read Mencken. There
were other white men on the job whose attitudes showed clearly that they were
Kluxers or sympathizers, and they were out of the question.
There remained only one man whose attitude did not fit into an anti-Negro category,
for I had heard the white men refer to him as "Pope lover". He was an Irish Catholic
and was hated by the white Southerners. I knew that he read books, because I had got
him volumes from the library several times. Since he, too, was an object of hatred, I
felt that he might refuse me but would hardly betray me. I hesitated, weighing and
balancing the imponderable realities.
One morning I paused before the Catholic fellow's desk.
"I want to ask you a favor," I whispered to him.
"What is it?"
"I want to read. I can't get books from the library. I wonder if you'd let me use your
card?"
He looked at me suspiciously.
"My card is full most of the time," he said.
"I see," I said and waited, posing my question silently.
"You're not trying to get me into trouble, are you, boy?" he asked, staring at me.
"Oh, no, sir."
"What book do you want?"
"A book by H. L. Mencken."
"Which one?"
"I don't know. Has he written more than one?"
"He has written several."
"I didn't know that."
"What makes you want to read Mencken?"
"Oh, I just saw his name in the newspaper," I said.
"It's good of you to want to read," he said. "But you ought to read the right things."
I said nothing. Would he want to supervise my reading?
"Let me think," he said. "I'll figure out something."
I turned from him and he called me back. He stared at me quizzically.
"Richard, don't mention this to the other white men," he said.
"I understand," I said. "I won't say a word."
A few days later he called me to him.
"I've got a card in my wife's name," he said. "Here's mine."
"Thank you, sir."
"Do you think you can manage it?"
"I'll manage fine," I said.
"If they suspect you, you'll get in trouble," he said.
"I'll write the same kind of notes to the library that you wrote when you sent me for
books," I told him. "I'll sign your name."
He laughed.
"Go ahead. Let me see what you get," he said.
That afternoon I addressed myself to forging a note. Now, what were the names of
books written by H. L. Mencken? I did not know any of them. I finally wrote what I
thought would be a foolproof note: Dear Madam: Will you please let this nigger boy
--- I used the word "nigger" to make the librarian feel that I could not possibly be the
author of the note --- have some books by H.L. Mencken? I forged the white man's
name.
I entered the library as I had always done when on errands for whites, but I felt that I
would somehow slip up and betray myself. I doffed my hat, stood a respectful
distance from the desk, looked as unbookish as possible, and waited for the white
patrons to be taken care of. When the desk was clear of people, I still waited.
The white librarian looked at me.
"What do you want, boy?"
As though I did not possess the power of speech, I stepped forward and simply
handed her the forged note, not parting my lips.
"What books by Mencken does he want?" She asked.
"I don't know, ma'am," I said, avoiding her eyes.
"Who gave you this card?"
"Mr. Falk," I said.
"Where is he?"
"He's at work, at M --- Optical Company," I said. "I've been in here for him before."
"I remember," the woman said. "But he never wrote notes like this."
Oh, God, she's suspicious. Perhaps she would not let me have the books? If she had
turned her back at that moment, I would have ducked out the door and never gone
back. Then I thought of a bold idea.
"You can call him up, ma'am," I said, my heart pounding.
"You're not using these books, are you?" she asked pointedly.
"Oh, no, ma'am. I can't read."
"I don't know what he wants by Mencken," she said under her breath.
I knew now that I had won; she was thinking of other things and the race question had
gone out of her mind. She went to the shelves. Once or twice she looked over her
shoulder at me, as though she was still doubtful. Finally she came forward with two
books in her hand.
"I'm sending him two books," she said. "But tell Mr. Falk to come in next time, or
send me the names of the books he wants. I don't know what he wants to read."
I said nothing. She stamped the card and handed me the books. Not daring to glance at
them. I went out of the library, fearing that the woman would call me back for further
questioning. A block away from the library I opened one of the books and read a title:
A Book of Prefaces. I was nearing my nineteenth birthday and I did not know how to
pronounce the word "preface". I thumbed the pages and saw strange words and
strange names. I shook my head, disappointed. I looked at the other book; it was
called Prejudices, I knew what that word meant; I had heard it all my life. And right
off I was on guard against Mencken's books. Why would a man want to call a book
Prejudices? The word was so stained with all my memories of racial hate that I could
not conceive of anybody using it for a title. Perhaps I had made a mistake about
Mencken? A man who had prejudices must be wrong.
When I showed the books to Mr. Falk, he looked at me and frowned.
"That librarian might telephone you," I warned him.
"That's all right," he said. "But when you're through reading those books, I want you
to tell me what you get out of them."
That night in my rented room, while letting the hot water run over my can of pork and
beans in the sink, I opened A Book of Preface and began to read. I was jarred and
shocked by the style, the clear, clean, sweeping sentences. Why did he write like that?
And how did one write like that? I pictured the man as a raging demon, slashing with
his pen, consumed with hate, denouncing everything American, extolling everything
European or German, laughing at the weaknesses of people, mocking God, authority.
What was this? I stood up, trying to realize what reality lay behind the meaning of the
words … Yes, this man was fighting, fighting with words. He was using words as a
weapon, using them as one would use a club. Could words be weapons? Well, yes, for
there they were. Then, maybe, perhaps, I could use them as a weapon? No. It
frightened me. I read on and what amazed me was not what he said, but how on earth
anybody had the courage to say it.
I ran across many words whose meanings I did not know, and either looked them up
in a dictionary or, before I had a chance to do that, encountered the word in a context
that made its meaning clear. But what strange world was this? I concluded the book
with the conviction that I had somehow overlooked something terribly important in
life. I had once tried to write, had once reveled in feeling, had let my crude
imagination roam, but the impulse to dream had been slowly beaten out of me by
experience. Now it surged up again and I hungered for books, new ways of looking
and seeing. It was not a matter of believing or disbelieving what I read, but of feeling
something new, of being affected by something that made the look of the world
different.
I forged more notes and my trips to the library became frequent. Reading grew into a
passion. My first serious novel was Sinclair Lewis's Main Street. It made me see my
boss, Mr. Gerald, and identify him as an American type. I would smile when I saw
him lugging his golf bags into the office. I had always felt a vast distance separating
me from the boss, and now I felt closer to him, though still distant. I felt now that I
knew him, that I could feel the very limits of his narrow life. And this had happened
because I had read a novel about a mythical man called George F. Babbitt.
I read Dreiser's Jennie Gerhardt and Sister Carrie and they revived in me a vivid
sense of my mother's suffering; I was overwhelmed. I grew silent, wondering about
the life around me. It would have been impossible for me to have told anyone what I
derived from these novels, for it was nothing less than a sense of life itself. All my life
had shaped me for the realism, the naturalism of the modern novel, and I could not
read enough of them.
Steeped in new moods and ideas, I bought a ream of paper and tried to write; but
nothing would come, or what did come was flat beyond telling. I discovered that more
than desire and feeling were necessary to write and I dropped the idea. Yet I still
wondered how it was possible to know people sufficiently to write about them? Could
I ever learn about life and people? To me, with my vast ignorance, my Jim Crow
station in life, it seemed a task impossible of achievement. I now knew what being a
Negro meant. I could endure the hunger. I had learned to live with hate. But to feel
that there were feelings denied me, that the very breath of life itself was beyond my
reach, that more than anything else hurt, wounded me. I had a new hunger.
Unit Three
It is often said that cats have nine lives, that they are lucky enough to escape from
danger again and again. Here is a science fiction tale about how one such lucky
escape by a cat led to a discovery that was able to change the course of people's lives.
The problems stemming from the discovery also make interesting reading.
ZERITSKY'S LAW
Ann Griffith
Somebody someday will make a study of the influence of animals on history. Among
them, Mrs. Graham's cat should certainly be included in any such study. It has now
been definitely established that the experiences of this cat led to the idea of
quick-frozen people, which, in turn, led to the passage of Zeritsky's Law.
We must go back to the files of the Los Angeles newspapers for 1950 to find the story.
In brief, a Mrs. Fred C. Graham missed her pet cat on the same day that she put a
good deal of food down in her home deep-freeze unit. She suspected no connection
between the two events. The cat was not to be found until six days later, when its
owner went to fetch something from the deepfreeze. Much as she loved her pet, we
may imagine that she was more horror-than grief-stricken at her discovery. She lifted
the little ice-encased body out of the deep--freeze and set it on the floor. Then she
managed to run as far as the next door neighbor's house before fainting.
Mrs. Graham became hysterical after she was revived, and it was several hours before
she could be quieted enough to persuade anybody that she hadn't made up the whole
thing. She prevailed upon her neighbor to go back to the house with her. In front of
the deep-freeze they found a small pool of water, and a wet cat, busily licking itself.
The neighbor subsequently told reporters that the cat was concentrating its licking on
one of its hind legs, where some ice still remained, so that she, for one, believed the
story.
A follow-up dispatch, published a week later, reported that the cat was unharmed by
the adventure. Further, Mrs. Graham was quoted as saying that the cat had had a large
meal just before its disappearance; that as soon after its rescue as it had dried itself off,
it took a long nap, precisely as it always did after a meal; and that it was not hungry
again until evening. It was clear from the accounts that the life processes had been
stopped dead in their tracks, and had, after defrosting, resumed at exactly the point
where they left off.
Perhaps it is unfair to put all the responsibility on one luckless cat. Had such a thing
happened anywhere else in the country, it would have been talked about, believed by a
few, disbelieved by most, and forgotten. But it happened in Los Angeles. There, and
probably only there, the event was anything but forgotten; the principles it revealed
became the basis of a hugely successful business.
How shall we regard the Zeritsky Brothers? As archvillains or pioneers? In support of
the latter view, it must be admitted that the spirit of inquiry and the willingness to risk
the unknown were indisputably theirs. However, their pioneering --- if we agree to
call it that --- was, equally indisputably, bound up with the quest for a fast buck.
Some of their first clients paid as high as $15,000 for the initial freezing, and the
exorbitant rate of $1,000 per year as a storage charge. The Zeritsky Brothers owned
and managed one of the largest quick-freezing plants in the world, and it was their
claim that converting the freezing equipment and storage facilities to accommodate
humans was extremely expensive, hence the high rates.
When the early clients who paid these rates were defrosted years later, and found
other clients receiving the same services for as little as $3,000, they threatened a row
and the Zeritskys made substantial refunds. By that time they could easily afford it,
and since any publicity about their enterprise was unwelcome to them, all refunds
were made without a whimper. $3,000 became the standard rate, with $100 per year
the storage charge, and no charge for defrosting.
The Zeritskys were businessmen, first and last. Anyone who had the fee could put
himself away for whatever period of time he wished, and no questions asked. The
ironclad rule was that full payment had to be made in advance.
Criminals were the first to apply for quick-freezing, and formed the mainstay of the
Zeritskys' business through the years. What’s more easy than to rob, hide the loot
(except for that all-important advance payment), present yourself to the Zeritskys and
remain in their admirable chambers for five or ten years, emerge to find the hue and
cry long since died down and the crime forgotten, recover your haul and live out your
life in luxury?
Due to the shady character of most of their patrons, the Zeritskys kept all records by a
system of numbers. Name never appeared on the books, and anonymity was
guaranteed.
Law enforcement agents, looking for fugitives from justice, found no way to break
down this system, nor any law which they could interpret as making it illegal to
quick-freeze. Perhaps the truth is that they did not search too diligently for a law that
could be made to apply. As long as the Zeritskys kept things quiet and did not
advertise or attract public attention, they could safely continue their bizarre business.
City officials of Los Angeles, and particularly members of the police force, enjoyed a
period of unparalleled prosperity. Lawyers and other experts who thought they were
on the track of legal means by which to liquidate the Zeritsky empire found
themselves suddenly able to buy a ranch or a yacht or both, and retire forever from the
arduous task of earning a living.
Even with a goodly part of the population of Los Angeles as permanent pensioners,
the Zeritsky fortune grew to incredible proportions. By the time the Zeritsky Brothers
died and left the business to their sons, it was a gold mine, and an inexhaustible one at
that.
Next to criminals, the majority of people who applied for quick-freezing seem to have
been husbands or wives caught in insupportable marital situations. Their experiences
were subsequently written up in the confession magazines. It was usually the husband
who fled to Los Angeles and incarcerated himself for an appropriate number of years,
at the end of which time his unamiable spouse would have died or made other
arrangements. If we can believe the magazines, this scheme worked out very well in
most cases.
The sins of the fathers may be visited on the sons, but how often we see repeated the
old familiar pattern of the sons destroying the lifework of the fathers! The Zeritsky
Brothers were fanatically meticulous. They supervised every detail of their operations,
and kept their records with an elaborate system of checks and doublechecks. They
were shrewd enough to realize that complete dependability was essential to their
business. A satisfied Zeritsky client was a silent client. One dissatisfied client would
be enough to blow the business apart.
The sons, in their greed, over-expanded to the point where they could not, even
among the four of them, personally supervise each and every detail. A fatal mistake
was bound to occur sooner or later. When it did, the victim broadcast his grievance to
the world.
The story appeared in a national magazine, every copy of which was sold an hour
after it appeared on the stands. Under the title They Put the Freeze on Me! John A.
Monahan told his tragic tale. At the age of 37, he had fallen desperately in love with a
girl of 16. She was immature and frivolous and wanted to "play around" a little more
before she settled down.
"She told me," he wrote,” to come back in five years, and that stared me thinking. In
five year I'd be 42, and what would a girl of 21 want with a man twice as old as her?"
John Monahan moved in circles where the work of the Zeritskys was well known. Not
only did he see an opportunity of being still only 37 when his darling reached 21, but
he foresaw a painless way of passing the years which he must endure without her.
Accordingly, he presented himself for the deep-freeze, paid his $3000 and the $500
storage charge in advance, and left, he claimed, "written instructions to let me out in
five years, so there'd be no mistakes."
Nobody knows how the slip happened, but somehow John A. Monahan, or rather the
number assigned to him, was entered on the books for 25 years instead of five years.
Upon being defrosted, and discovering that a quarter of a century had elapsed, his
rage was awesome. Along with everything else, his love for his sweetheart had been
perfectly preserved, but she had given up waiting for him and was a happy mother of
two boys and six girls.
Monahan's accusation that the Zeritskys had "ruined his life" may be taken with a
grain of salt. He was still a young man, and the rumor that he got a hundred thousand
for the magazine rights to his story was true.
As most readers are aware, what has come to be known as "Zeritsky's law" was
passed by Congress and signed by the President three days after Monahan's story
broke.
Seventy-five years after Mrs. Graham's cat fell into the freezer, it became the law of
the land that the mandatory penalty for anyone applying quick-freezing methods to
any living thing, human or animal, was death. Also, all quick-frozen people were to be
defrosted immediately.
Los Angeles papers reported that beginning on the day Monahan's story appeared,
men by the thousands poured into the city. They continued to come, choking every
available means of transport, for the next two days --- until, that is, Zeritsky's Law
went through.
When we consider the date, and remember that due to the gravity of the international
situation, a bill had just been passed drafting all men from 16 to 60, we realize why
Congress had to act.
The Zeritskys, of course, were among the first to be taken. Because of their
experience, they were put in charge of a military warehouse for dehydrated foods, and
warned not to get any ideas for a new business.
Unit Four
Charles is a lonely young man and Amy is a crippled girl on a wheelchair. They meet,
get to know each other and begin going out together. Charles falls in love with Amy
and hopes to be "the only chairpusher" in her life. But Amy prefers independence to
being taken care of all the time. She leaves in pursuit of her goal in life.
IF IT COMES BACK
Jean Gilbertson
Charles saw them both at the same time: the small white bird floating from among the
park trees 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, shadowy walk. Her
collapsible metal chair might have been motorized; it carried her along so smoothly.
She stopped to watch the ducks on the pond and when she shoved the wheels again,
Charles sprang to his feet. "May I push you?" he called, running across the grass to
her. The white bird flew to the top of 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 handicap; not because it was so important for him to
know, but because it was something to keep the conversation going.
"It was an automobile accident when I was twelve," Amy explained. "I was reading to
my younger brother in the back seat and suddenly my mother screamed and tried
frantically to miss the truck that had pulled out in front of us. When I woke up in
hospital, my mother was screaming again outside the door. This time she was trying to
escape the fact that I would never walk again."
"Pretty rough on both of you. What about your brother?"
"He came out of it a little better than I did; at least he was dismissed from the hospital
before I was. It took us all a long time to accept and adjust."
They went for lunch, and he would have felt awkward except that she knew
completely how to take care of herself. It was he who seemed clumsy and bumped
into a table; she who moved competently through the aisle.
"Do you live with someone?" he asked the next day for he'd made a point of asking to
meet her again.
"Just myself," she answered. He felt a qualm in his stomach, and it was more in
memory of his own loneliness than anticipation of hers.
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. The chair was a moveable
wonder; he loved the feeling of power and strength it gave him for so little exertion.
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. When
he looked up, he noticed a white bird flying from one tree to another, tracing their
route with them.
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 faintly disappointed to see
that she would not feel pride at what was, for her, simply a matter of course. He
watched his own hand pick up the salt shaker and place it on one of the higher, unused
cabinet shelves, then awaited her plea for assistance. He didn't know why he'd done it,
but the look in her eyes a moment later gave him a shock in his easy joy. He felt as
though he were playing poker and he had just accidentally revealed his hand to the
opponent. 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 window sill 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 mismatched love. Everyday 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 crumbs every day
for years and the wind just blew them away."
In July he took her boating frequently. She prepared a picnic lunch each time, and he
manned the sails. The most awkward event of this, she felt, was the loading and
unloading of herself. For Charles, however, these "freight handlings," as she came to
call it, seemed to be the highlight of the outings. He appeared to take great delight in
wheeling her to the end of the pier, picking her up out of the chair, balancing himself
to set her into the boat, then collapsing the chair and setting it on its side on board. On
the first few outings, she had felt distinctly ill at ease at having been placed helplessly
in a spot from which she could not move herself. It occurred to her, too, that she was
unable to swim, should the boat turn over. Charles, who adapted himself marvelously
to the captain's role, was completely oblivious to her discomfort; she noted with a
returning sense of helplessness how much he enjoyed being in control. When he
called for her one day in early August with a brand new captain's hat cocked atop his
soft brown hair, all her emotions revolted at the idea of another day trapped on the
wooden seat over the water — and she refused to go.
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. He finally agreed, but his
displeasure grew with each step; this was a role he didn't want to play.
"Why don't you just rest your arms and let me push you?"
"No."
"Your arms'll get sore; I've been helping you do it for three months now."
"I wheeled myself for twelve years before you came along — I doubt that my arms
have forgotten how."
"But I don't like having to walk beside you while you push yourself!"
"Do you think I've liked having to sit helpless in your boat every weekend for the past
two months?"
For a moment he was stunned into silence by this new learning. 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 can't let myself be at anyone's mercy — not even
yours."
They continued down the path in silence as his feelings boiled within him and finally
ran over the edge of his control: "Amy, I need to have you dependent upon me. I need
your dependence upon me." And, as if to punctuate his desire, he took the familiar
white bars in hand and pushed her rapidly along so that her own hands came off the
wheels and rested in her lap. The wave at the back of her hair did not show 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.
(Anonymous)
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 just let go, 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 impersonal; 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 lay often on his bed
with her letter on his chest and counted the minute cracks in his ceiling; he went often
to the park but scrupulously avoided looking for the white bird. Sometimes he would
sit for hours there in the wind under a tree and not even notice that he was outside,
that life went on around him.
September came and had almost gone before he finally received an envelope of
familiar stationery. The handwriting was not beautiful but it was without question hers.
The postmark was that of a city many miles distant. With a shock of feeling returning
to his heart, he tore open the envelope and at first thought it was empty. Then he
noticed on his desk a single white feather that 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
lost in departure, 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.
Unit Five
THE CHASER
John Collier
Alan Austen, as nervous as a kitten, went up certain dark and creaky stairs in the
neighborhood of Pell Street, and peered about for a long time on the dim landing before
he found the name he wanted written obscurely on one of the doors.
He pushed open this door, as he had been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room,
which contained no furniture but a plain kitchen table, a rocking-chair, and an ordinary
chair. On one of the dirty buff-colored walls were a couple of shelves, containing in all
perhaps a dozen bottles and jars. An old man sat in the rocking-chair, reading a
newspaper. Alan, without a word, handed him the card he had been given.
"Sit down, Mr. Austen," said the old man very politely.
"I am glad to make your acquaintance."
"Is it true," asked Alan, "that you have a certain mixture that has-er-quite extraordinary
effects?"
"My dear sir," replied the old man, "my stock in trade is not very large; but such as it is,
it is varied. I think nothing I sell has effects which could be precisely described as
ordinary."
"Well, the fact is. . ." began Alan.
"Here, for example," interrupted the old man, reaching for a bottle from the shelf. "Here
is a liquid as colorless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in coffee, wine, or
any other beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any known method of autopsy."
"Do you mean it is a poison?" cried Alan, very much horrified.
"Call it a glove-cleaner if you like," said the old man indifferently. "Maybe it will clean
gloves. I have never tried. One might call it a life-cleaner. Lives need cleaning
sometimes."
"I want nothing of that sort," said Alan.
"Probably it is just as well," said the old man. "Do you know the price of this? For one
teaspoonful, which is sufficient, I ask five thousand dollars. Never less. Not a penny
less."
"I hope all your mixtures are not as expensive," said Alan apprehensively.
"Oh dear, no," said the old man. "It would be no good charging that sort of price for a
love potion, for example. Young people who need a love potion very seldom have five
thousand dollars. Otherwise they would not need a love potion."
"I am glad to hear that," said Alan.
"I look at it like this," said the old man. "Please a customer with one article, and he will
come back when he needs another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it, if
necessary."
"So," said Alan, "you really do sell love potions?"
"If I did not sell love potions," said the old man, reaching for another bottle, "I should
not have mentioned the other matter to you. It is only when one is in a position to oblige
that one can afford to be so confidential."
"And these potions," said Alan. "They are not just-just-er-"
"Oh, no," said the old man. "Their effects are permanent, and extend far beyond the
mere casual impulse. But they include it. Oh, yes they include it. Bountifully,
insistently. Everlastingly."
"Dear me!" said Alan, attempting a look of scientific detachment. "How very
interesting!"
"But consider the spiritual side," said the old man.
"I do, indeed," said Alan.
"For indifference," said the old man, they substitute devotion. For scorn, adoration.
Give one tiny measure of this to the young lady --- its flavour is imperceptible in orange
juice, soup, or cocktails --- and however gay and giddy she is, she will change
altogether. She will want nothing but solitude and you."
"I can hardly believe it," said Alan. "She is so fond of parties."
"She will not like them any more," said the old man. "She will be afraid of the pretty
girls you may meet."
"She will actually be jealous?" cried Alan in a rapture. "Of me?"
"Yes, she will want to be everything to you."
"She is, already. Only she doesn't care about it."
"She will, when she has taken this. She will care intensely. You will be her sole interest
in life."
"Wonderful!" cried Alan.
"She will want to know all you do," said the old man. "All that has happened to you
during the day. Every word of it. She will want to know what you are thinking about,
why you smile suddenly, why you are looking sad."
"That is love!" cried Alan.
"Yes," said the old man. "How carefully she will look after you! She will never allow
you to be tired, to sit in a draught, to neglect your food. If you are an hour late, she will
be terrified. She will think you are killed, or that some siren has caught you."
"I can hardly imagine Diana like that!" cried Alan, overwhelmed with joy.
"You will not have to use your imagination," said the old man. "And, by the way, since
there are always sirens, if by any chance you should, later on, slip a little, you need not
worry. She will forgive you, in the end. She will be terribly hurt, of course, but she will
forgive you-in the end."
"That will not happen," said Alan fervently.
"Of course not," said the old man. "But, if it did, you need not worry. She would never
divorce you. Oh, no! And, of course, she will never give you the least, the very least,
grounds for uneasiness."
"And how much," said Alan, "is this wonderful mixture?"
"It is not as dear," said the old man, "as the glove-cleaner, or life-cleaner, as I
sometimes call it. No. That is five thousand dollars, never a penny less. One has to be
older than you are, to indulge in that sort of thing. One has to save up for it."
"But the love potion?" said Alan.
"Oh, that," said the old man, opening the drawer in the kitchen table, and taking out a
tiny, rather dirty-looking phial. "That is just a dollar."
"I can't tell you how grateful I am," said Alan, watching him fill it.
"I like to oblige," said the old man. "Then customers come back, later in life, when they
are better off, and want more expensive things. Here you are. You will find it very
effective."
"Thank you again," said Alan. "Good-bye."
"Au revoir," said the man.