I am deeply pained to recall how some of our most cherished and enormously missed employees perished, but I have committed myself to revealing the inside story, the unvarnished truth, and the full poop about Counted Sorrows; consequently, it seems to me that I absolutely must relate to you how these adored and grievously missed staffers died, although at the moment I see no connection whatsoever between the circumstances of their deaths and this book. Perhaps we will achieve enlightenment together. One died in a cataclysmic rickshaw collision, two in separate incidents of spontaneous human combustion, one while spiritedly arguing the fine points of creative napkin-folding with Martha Stewart, one in a gorilla suit that had been manufactured from toxic fabric, and three in the panic and turmoil that arose at a Dali Lama look-alike contest. One died by flaming arrow, one by the excess fizz in an irresponsibly over-carbonated sparkling beverage, one by catapult, two by parakeet. Two bought the farm when they fell off the high wire at a circus while tap dancing to “Mr. Bojangles,” and another bought the farm after literally buying a farm, only to discover too late that the cows that came with that particular property were ill-mannered and vindictive. And Basil, of course, pinned beneath a deadly weight of assorted nuts.
This recitation of misfortune has left me unable to go on. I must pause to brood on the fragility of life, on our powerlessness in the face of great cosmic forces, and on the meaning of these untimely deaths, not one of which occurred precisely on the hour, on the half hour, or even on the quarter hour, but always at odd minutes.
Fortunately, a glass of fine sherry has appeared at my side as if by magic, offering me the consolation of its nutty flavor and alcoholic content. Although lacking any corroborating evidence, I am morally certain that the sherry placed on the table beside my armchair was put there by Mrs. Scuttlesby, whose sense of what is required at any given moment is so uncanny as to suggest divine omniscience, although serving sherry is not, as far as I am mare, any more a part of her job description than crocodile wrestling, at which she is also more than merely proficient.
Now I shall raise a sherry to toast the dear departed, brood deeply as we novelists are frequently wont to do, and continue with the story of Counted Sorrows once I have come to terms with all these losses and with the madness of existence.
Cheers.
2
After the Glass of Sherry.
Where was I?
Oh, yes, we are at Basil Keenly’s handsomely framed photograph on the Wall of Honorable Service in the receiving room of the Koontz manor. Under this long row of former employees’ photos stands an equally long and richly carved rosewood altar table: Chinese, from the Tang Dynasty. Neither the table’s country of origin nor its period have any significance, as relates to the photographs. We just think it looks pretty here.
From time to time, on the table, under the various photographs, members of our family, many friends, and our surviving employees -once, even a burglar – place items in memory of those who have passed on to other employment or who have simply passed on. Flowers are popular memorial leavings. Ribbons, candles, inexpensive jewelry, sticks of chewing gum, and on-the-anniversary-of-your-death greeting cards. Under Basil Keenly’s photo, one often sees acorns, walnuts, and dried legumes, quiet and touching reminders that he died in the practice of his faith. A few times, road-kill squirrels have been left for him – and once a rabbit, offered by the same type of well-intentioned but ignorant person who might mistake a High Episcopalian for a Catholic; discreetly, but with characteristic efficiency, Mrs. Scuttlesby removed the rabbit minutes after it was deposited, whereas our practice is to leave the squirrels on display for twenty-four hours.
Librarians in particular, when visiting the Koontz manor as invited guests or as members of a tour group, or in kamikaze assaults in the black of night, inevitably gravitate toward Basil’s photo on the Wall of Honorable Service. Basil, you surely remember – unless you have guzzled two sherries while I enjoyed a single serving – was at one time responsible for answering reader inquiries about The Book of Counted Sorrows. (You knew we’d come back to that eventually.) Among those 3,000 letters a year, a few hundred were from librarians, who had often spent ten or twenty hours – or, in the case of several dangerously obsessive types, even a hundred or two hundred hours – searching for this rare book without success, at the request of their patrons. In his inimitable and gracious way, Basil explained to each that (1) Counted Sorrows is the rarest book on the planet, with only one known copy extant, (2) this copy is in our possession, (3) we decline to lend it or to photocopy it, and (4) in any event, it is inadvisable for anyone to read the entire contents of the book, because everyone who absorbs every word of the text is driven mad by the terrible burden of the knowledge thus acquired – or he explodes.