Everyday, with Dr. Elias Locke — The Department of Unfinished Apologies

The Department of Unfinished Apologies

At nine precisely, the Institute opened its Department of Unfinished Apologies. It occupied a former broom cupboard, which seemed appropriate: both places stored things people hoped somebody else would clean up.

Miss Quill had arranged the apologies in alphabetical order. There were three drawers marked “Almost,” “Eventually,” and “If Necessary.”

“Where are the completed ones?” I asked.

“We don’t keep those,” she said. “They tend to leave.”

Our first visitor was a man who had borrowed his neighbor’s ladder seven years earlier. He had returned the ladder in six days, but had never admitted that he broke its third rung.

“Did anyone get hurt?” I asked.

“No.”

“Did you repair it?”

“Yes.”

“Then what remains?”

He studied his shoes. “I told him it was like that when I found it.”

Miss Quill reached for Form 14-B, Statement of Delayed Accuracy. I stopped her. The man did not need another document. He needed a sentence.

He practiced it twice. The first time, he explained the weather. The second time, he blamed the ladder’s manufacturer. On the third attempt he said, “I broke the rung. I’m sorry I lied.”

“Good,” I said. “Now tell your neighbor.”

He looked startled. “In person?”

“Preferably before another seven years pass.”

By noon, our waiting room held a teacher who had dismissed a student’s question, a gardener who had cut down the wrong rosebush, and an assistant director who wanted to apologize for an apology issued without authorization. The last case required no action; I told him the original apology was probably still valid.

Then Miss Quill placed a thin envelope on my desk. It was addressed to me in my own handwriting.

Inside was a note: *I am sorry for all the afternoons I called wasted because nothing impressive happened.*

I read it twice.

Outside the window, a sparrow was taking a bath in a puddle. Nobody had scheduled the event. No committee had approved its usefulness. It happened anyway, and the sparrow appeared delighted.

I folded the note and put it in my pocket.

“Which drawer?” Miss Quill asked.

“None,” I said. “I think I’ll keep this one until I believe it.”

She considered that, then removed the labels from the drawers. We opened the cupboard door and let the waiting room have a little more light.

— Dr. Elias Locke