Thanksgiving
That Thursday, Isaac Newton decided to repossess the colonies for their debts. He was a fair creditor, had read all of the sentences in the Bible about usury. He was a fair creditor, of generous but not infinite patience. He called the President into his office.
“Mr. President, what are you going to do about my money?”
The President had been called in halfway through a haircut and was being very strategic about angles. “I’ll tell ya, I’ll tell ya, Isaac. What do you know about God?”
“When you think of a room, He is the walls and the floor and the air and the space and the thought itself.”
“That’s interesting. That’s interesting, Isaac. I’ll tell you though, it’s a big country we’ve got ourselves here. Nothing like your England. Inspires big thoughts. Not to diminish the work you do.”
Newton shot back in annoyance. “And what do Americans know about the Lord?”
“Good. Great question. They don’t call him Mr. Gravity for no reason. Here’s how it goes. Once upon a time a washerwoman dropped maybe five packaging peanuts down a well. When she returned that night, the moon shone obliquely and she could see in its surface only a few shifting points. She could not say what they were: foam or water.”
Isaac Newton spied the President’s bald spot reflected in the bald spot of a bronze statue. “I’ll cut straight to the chase, to borrow a stateside expression. The number is thirty-six trillion dollars.”
The President walked to the window and put his hand atop an antique globe. “Some mornings I walk in a field sweet with magnolia and the distant mountaintops ring out with numbers.”