Free September Song by William Humphrey

zoning variance cost you? Under the table.”
    What the man meant to express was his cynicism, his inborn suspicion and mistrust of his elected representatives. It never occurred to him that he was implicating his neighbor in bribery and corruption.
    Tom Watkins was saying, “Well, Seth, I guess you did the only thing you could. It’s not for me to judge you,” when his wife Lois burst in with, “Well, I will! You’ve ruined us all, Seth Bennett. Take a nice rural community and turn it into a country slum.”
    â€œSlum?” he said, though he said it softly, not aggressively, not indignantly. “The minimum lots are three acres. And buyers must agree to spend no less than a hundred thousand dollars on their homes.” He was not excusing himself. For his part he accepted their fullest reprehension. He just wanted to do what he could to lessen the sorrow they felt for themselves.
    â€œThree acres!” she said with the hauteur of a duchess, and with this scorn too he concurred. Not that her plot was much, if at all, bigger than that, but it was, or had been, bounded on all sides by large holdings, including his, and she had been there long enough to feel a common cause for preservation with those owners of the estates neighboring hers.
    â€œOur life savings are invested in this place,” she said, comprehending with a sweep of her hand her two-bedroom bungalow and the one-car garage with its long-outgrown basketball hoop over the door. The humbleness of it accused him as no mansion could have done. He was the spoiler of the American Dream.
    â€œNow?” she said. “Poof! Gone with the wind.”
    He felt like General Sherman marching through Georgia, or like General Sherman might have felt if confronted by Scarlett on the doorsteps of Tara.
    It was while returning home from that encounter that he had his accident. Molly had always said he was going to kill himself on that motorcycle.
    He had intended on that afternoon of his accident to make one more stop. This was to have been at the home of people whom he knew well. Thus he knew there had been no death in the family, no divorce, no loss of income. He knew that the “For Sale by Owner” sign in the front yard had been put there by none other than himself. He did not stop, nor even slow down. In fact, he sped up, hoping that he had not been spotted.
    He had not been watching the road. He was distracted by an insight into himself. These rounds of his neighbors in which he sought to explain and excuse what he had done and win their forgiveness were not for that purpose at all. Rather the opposite. It was their disapproval he wanted. He would have welcomed being ordered off the property that he had spoiled. He wanted to be blamed so he could blame Janet.
    He went off the shoulder of the road at a sharp curve, was thrown from his motorcycle, struck a tree and broke his left arm, the good one.
    Now, impatient rather than satisfied with the job he had done, he put down the razor. He loosened the drawstring of his pajamas, dropped his pants and squatted on the toilet seat. Accompanying himself, he sang:
    I’ll be with you in apple blossom time.
    I’ll be with you to change your name to mine.
    What a wonderful wedding there will be!
    What a wonderful day for you and me!
    Church bells will chime.
    You will be mine.
    In apple blossom time.
    He drew from the roll a length of the paper.
    With that right hand of his he was clumsy at everything.
    II
    â€œRemember, she’s your daughter,” said Molly.
    â€œShe’s yours too. I’m not the only one to blame.”
    She was helping him dress. Although the wedding party would not begin arriving until late morning, he was putting on his good clothes already rather than go through the struggle twice. With that left arm in a cast bent at a right angle, getting him into a shirt required a contortionist’s act for them both. She had to button it for him just as