A Failure

After it happened, if indeed it happened, I decided to consult Frank Brophy. He was the most accomplished and perceptive person I knew.

I went to see him in his office at the university. He suggested we take a walk through the campus and down to the sea.

As I described what had or hadn’t happened, he listened, nodding every now and then.

“A yellow house, you say.” He stopped and looked up at the mottled sky. “How interesting.”

When we reached the seafront, Brophy gestured to one of the benches that faced the brooding Atlantic.

“Now,” he said. “Tell me again.” He crossed his legs and folded his hands on one knee, head slightly tilted. “Just the critical details.”

I summoned my thoughts, feeling a terrible onus not to waste his time.

“I’m standing outside this yellow house. Everything is yellow—the façade, front door, and window frames. The door is open, and I go inside. Or at least I find myself inside, in the hallway. I have no memory of knocking or opening the door. On a table there’s a silver tray, and lying on the tray is an envelope. I open the envelope and remove a sheet of paper. It’s blank apart from two words in bold font: A Failure. Nothing else, just those two words. I’ve no recollection of going to or from the house, and have no idea who lives there or where it’s located. But I’m convinced I was there, and opened that envelope, and read those words. It wasn’t a dream. It happened. I’m sure it happened.”

“Very interesting.” Brophy shifted in his seat. “I had a similar experience when I was an undergraduate, thirty years ago. In my case, an old woman knocked on the door of my flat. She handed me an envelope with a page bearing the same two words: A Failure. She left without speaking, and I didn’t ask her any questions. Afterwards, I couldn’t find the page, but I was certain it happened, though I had no evidence. Nothing but my memory. Do you have your page?”

“No,” I said. Brophy’s question hardly seemed important. A minor detail, not as significant as his revelation. “So, the same thing happened to you? An envelope and those words. A Failure.”

“I still see that page, vividly. So vividly, I can convince myself.” Brophy adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. “But it didn’t happen. It’s in my head. And in your head, and in the heads of others.”

“Others? Do you mean this has happened to other people?”

“Quite a few.” Brophy pursed his lips. “There was a time when I asked colleagues, people I trusted, about this experience. I would mention the envelope, and they told me their versions. Different scenarios. A letter in the post, or handed by a messenger, or picked up at some unknown location, as in your case. Always a page with the same words. A Failure.”

“So, this isn’t unusual?”

“Maybe not usual, but still not unique.” Brophy smiled. “One of my colleagues, a brilliant mathematician, told me his event occurred when he was seven years old. He found his envelope in a library, or so he believed. Today, he’s regarded as one of the leading lights in number theory—winner of countless awards and envied by his peers. Not someone you’d consider a failure. If anything, he’s the embodiment of success.”

“Seven years old.” I looked across the water at the distant headland canted against the sunlight. “I seem to have arrived late to the party.”

“Perhaps you believed you still had untapped potential.” Brophy took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “There are many who are obvious failures and haven’t received the message. Or else they’re unwilling to admit it; I’ve stopped asking.” Brophy stole a glance at his watch. “Time to head back. I have a lecture in twenty minutes.”

As we retraced our steps back to the campus, I went over everything he had said.

“How did you feel at the time?” I asked. “When I read those words, I was overwhelmed by a crushing disappointment."

“That’s only to be expected, because it seemed so real. You know, I thought I saw the same old woman again. Six years later. At least, I had the strong impression of seeing her. She stood on a street corner and watched me pass. But she doesn’t exist in the actual world.” He waved his arm, taking in the sparse shrubbery and brutalist 1960s university architecture. “That’s not to say she didn’t seem very real to me. I haven’t seen or imagined her since, but I know she’s still with me.”

We continued in silence. Brophy greeted passing students with a nod and polite smile.

“It would suggest…” I started, struggling to express myself. “There is something external. A higher power, for want of a better term.” I paused, dismayed by how banal I sounded. “Something, at any rate, overseeing what we do and passing judgement.”

We had arrived at Brophy’s building.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” he said. “Alternatively, many of us simply share a common sense of failure.”

Mark Keane has taught in universities in North America and the UK. His recent short fiction has appeared in The Interpreter’s House, Paris Lit Up, For Page & Screen, Midsummer Dream House, Shooter, untethered, Night Picnic, and Into the Void. He lives in Edinburgh (Scotland).