Twice Melvin

by James Pumpelly

  “You have, and happily so,” she avers; George trailing her up the granite steps as though invitations are out of vogue. “Would you care to come up?” she obliges, turning her key in the carved oak door, opening it for him to hold, “a cup of coffee, perhaps? An Irish…if I have the whiskey?”

  “My pleasure…if you have the whiskey,” he echoes, smiling with a memory, “for if you do, it will be from Melvin’s stock, would it not? I mean - you don’t-“

  “No, I don’t,” Melody accepting his assistance with an interior door to the foyer, “only wine. And a little champagne, on occasion,” she goes on, opting for the elevator instead of the stairs; the small, caged lift requiring George to fold in beside her like the intimate he hopes to be. “Vincent Tenklei is in town. Took me to dinner - only something made him violently ill. I had to rush him back to his hotel….

  “But here we are,” she ends abruptly, stopping the lift at her floor. “Let’s hope there’s nothing here to make you ill.”

  “Vincent was-was here?” he stutters, following her in, admiring the rich maple floors; the marble sculptures; the framed oils adorning the high, plastered walls; her eclectic, period furniture - the retro ambiance of a Back Bay home recalling his childhood years, “…I mean…I don’t know what I mean. But here, let me help you with your wrap,“ his big hands grasping her dark wool coat, the flash of her pendant catching his eye.

  “A gift from Vincent,” Melody turning, fingering the diamond. “A token of friendship, as Vincent put it; something I’d never accept from anyone else.”

  “And why not?” George astounded by the diamond’s size - and Vincent’s dubious intent. His own intent, had the diamond been his to give.

  “Well, because of Vincent’s wealth, that’s why,” she calls over her shoulder, leaving the room to hang her coat, then coming back for his, “…a diamond like this means nothing to Vince, in terms of money; only the thought has value. And that’s why I accepted it.”

  “Explain that to Faithful,” he thinks, taking in her arrangement of chairs as he hands her his overcoat, “or worse yet, to all the Plainfield wives who’ll envy you the gift and second-guess the circumstance in which it was given.”

  “I prefer the window seat,” Melody hanging his cashmere coat on a Victorian hall tree, “I know it’s probably old hat to you, but I enjoy the view at night…the lights of Cambridge shimmering across the Charles-”

  “Never,” he mutters, arranging pillows on the seat, “it’s never old hat to a Boston boy.”

  “So tell me,” she goes on cheerily, opening a rosewood cabinet to peruse Melvin’s stock, “do you miss your old haunts? I mean, our peasant village must seem quaint to a big city boy like yourself…to the dapper man-about-town Melvin told me you are. Ah! And here it is!” Melody displaying a fifth of Jamison Reserve as though the whiskey cast light on her question. “I’ll make the coffee. Be right back,” she prattles, the lightness in her voice, her spirit, lifting him higher than he’s been in months – in years, even; for to be perched in a Back Bay window recalls his youth; and not only his own, but Back Bay’s history, as well: Oliver Wendell Holmes once but a few doors down, and across the street, Julia Ward Howe; the Common a block away. The same Common where the residents of two centuries past grazed their cows. A park long refined for the crème de la crème, the likes of Webster, Everett, Parkman and Longfellow discoursing under the horse chestnut trees; or marveling at ducks parading across the pond; or garnering, on cool autumn afternoons, a nuance of transcendentalism from tombs at nearby Mount Auburn, some meaning only the dead could reveal.

  But then again, Vermont has contributed its own worthy chapters to the annals of New England life, George muses. Witness the conversation with Simon last night, his knowledge of Vermont illuminati, the aspiring poet of spangled Winooski trails taking his own kind of Mount Auburn stroll through a moonlit cemetery, his chaotic attire making him appear, in the frosty November night, as wild as old Daniel Webster, his mental peregrinations no less provoking, no less intriguing than any black-frocked parson promenading on Beacon Hill.

  And besides, with three wars won and a century lost, between the Boston of yore and now, there is much to be said for the bucolic life; Vermont, in its simpler style, still fitting the mold of the golden days a bustling Boston has lost. Montpelier’s Judge Thompson didn’t write his Green Mountain Boys for nothing: high-hearted heroes like Ethan Allen and Seth Warner still funding the indomitable will to succeed; the difference, perhaps, being that success in Vermont is measured more by inclusion in the great Book of Life than in the ledger of a Boston counting-house.

  “Your Irish,” Melody placing a carved, Philippine tray on the tufted seat between them, “…and a little departure for me.”

  “Thank you!” George starts as though disturbed from a trance. “And what have you in that gorgeous stemware?”

  “Port,” she announces pertly, “Melvin was forever persuading me, going on about its convivial effect.”

  “As if you needed it,” George flashing his most winsome smile. “You are at once the most elegant and the most exhilarating lady I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

  “Elegant, I shall file away as a compliment,” Melody turning coyly to the mullioned window, “…but what to do with exhilarating?”

  “Leave that to me,” George cracks; though the slip appears appreciated. “Meanwhile, here’s to Harvard, your sheepskin, and…and our partnership,” he toasts, tossing in the last almost timidly.

  “Yes, to our partnership.” She surprises him, clinking crystal to cup. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Could be,” George glib once again, “for what I have to discuss with you could well be our first official act together.”

  “My dear George,” she chortles, “one would think most any act with you would eventually be ruled un-official, if only by your failure to appear.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” He seems at a loss.

  “Nothing, really,” Melody says, his velvety gray eyes arousing a certain caution, “I…I was just having a little fun at the expense of your reputation.”

  “Ah!” A sip of coffee, and a froth mustache lightens the moment. “Pleased to amuse; for my reputation indirectly pertains to what I wish to discuss: Artie’s will,” the mention of Artie erasing Melody’s coy smile.

  “Yes,” she replies, “I…Melvin’s death…it was so unexpected.”

  “Death, for all its certainty, is the most unexpected event in life, isn’t it?”

  “Irrefutably….”

  “Of course it is,” George muttering under his breath, regretting his morbid platitude. “But regarding Artie’s will, it’s a masterpiece of the improbable; Artie’s wish for his inventory to bring more than its legitimate worth is a desire I doubt I can fructify.”

  “Melvin prepared his will, didn’t he?” her tone suggesting discretion, should criticism be forthcoming.

  “He did,” George taking a moment to enjoy his coffee, to savor the bracing aroma of a warm Irish whiskey, “…though I must say he framed it more from benevolence than from any practical eye toward execution. Artie wanted to draw on the community chest - to force, in a moment of weakness, the purse of his peers, so to speak – to hold an auction of his books that would see each bid bettered by a village business or organization, thus increasing his charity.”

  “Charity?” Melody’s delayed sip of port giving the impression of contemplation, “you didn’t mention a charity.”

  “Right. I refrained so as not to sway your opinion, to allow Artie’s ends to justify his means,” George glancing back at the Charles to avoid her eyes.

  “Well? Go on…sway me.”

  “Artie wanted the proceeds to build school bus stops for the kids…something about protecting the next generation of readers, I think; an affable mix of generosity and amour-propre. The reason I say that is because of the brass plaques he wanted installed in each of the shelters, plaques
about the value of books, the secrets they hold for those willing to explore…with a promise of reward, as I recall, for the kids who accept his challenge.”

  “A worthwhile cause,” Melody observes, “and one he probably knew every parent would support.”

  “Maybe so; but Reverend Rolundo is childless - unless one grants a spiritual father the connotation of parent - and neither tavern owner has ever been married; nor has Thelma Peabody. At least, not yet.”

  “I don’t follow-“

  “Artie’s plan; his terms of sale. He wanted his collections sold to the highest bidder, as one would expect; but with an unusual caveat: all competitive bids must be bested by the aforementioned persons, thereby keeping both his books and his bankroll local.”

  “A clever idea indeed!” Melody exclaims, standing up with growing interest. “Artie may not have been educated; but he could never be accused of stupidity. What he’s left to be done in a few days is more than his entire life accomplished.”

  “Now I don’t follow you,” George flummoxed, twisting in his seat the better to observe her pacing.

  “Knowledge should be planted…like seeds,” she declaims, “like plants in the hothouse minds of children. For once the bus stops are built, the plaques will be seen every school day - every school day translating into a habit, a subconscious suggestion to read.”

  “Then you support-“

  “Of course, I do,” she interrupts, “but with one exception: we must be the winning bidders.”

  “We?” George cries, getting up from the window seat to face her, “we…as in the firm?”

  “Why not?” Melody aglow with inspiration, “why shouldn’t we become the gardeners? Artie’s hands from beyond the grave?”

  “No! You don’t understand!” George reaching to take her hand, “I’m in total agreement! What you’re suggesting is the very thing I was going to implore you to do!”

  “Then, we’re partners?” she asks sweetly, allowing her hand to be held a little too long.

  “Partners,” he whispers, blushing with the innocence of a boy, the innocence in the blue of her eyes. “Partners in a newfound venture,” he adds, searching those eyes for support, “for what I was going to ask-”

  “Ask?” she ventures.

  “Yes…I…well,” he flounders, letting go of her hand to reclaim his thoughts, “I was going to ask your opinion of keeping the books right where they are; continuing Artie’s business – perhaps under a more auspicious name, but under the management of none other than Simon Farley and Thelma Peabody; assuming marriage to be in their future.”

  “A splendid idea,” Melody backing away from his eyes, his presence, for the implied protection of the window seat. “But what’s this about marriage? And how would we accomplish the preservation of Artie’s business and still meet the terms of his will?”

  “Gossip has it Thelma is about to propose…she’s won herself a man; notwithstanding the paradox of Simon not being man enough to refuse!” he chuckles. “As to Artie’s will, we can meet its provisions, even exceed them, by hiring an expert to give the collection a bona fide estimate. With that in hand, we can advertise the auction locally, then make our winning bids in honor of the ‘donors’ he specified. For there is one other provision I haven’t shared with you as yet: Simon Farley is to play auctioneer.”

  “No!” Melody cries, placing her crystal on the carved wood tray to prevent spilling her port from laughter. “Our Artie has progressed from philanthropist to comedian? But do go on. Tell me how we can do this-this commendable thing you suggest.”

  “Right,” George sitting down beside her, warming to the cover of mirth, the subject of death transmogrifying into one of amusement. “By playing the locals along – I mean, by not letting them know of Artie’s wishes.”

  “Why? Because they wouldn’t attend?”

  “That, and the enmity engendered if someone attended in hopes of leaving with one of his collections.”

  “I see your point. But the same would be the case if we followed Artie’s wishes to the letter, right?”

  “Right, so it’s up to you, or me – or, for that matter, Charlene – to bid at the appropriate time on each of his several categories. There’ll still be the odds and ends the public can buy; children’s’ fairy tales, cookbooks-”

  “I understand. And we mustn’t exclude your fiancée from our charitable endeavor…that is, if she’s to remain with the firm.”

  “You steal my thunder again,” George cracks; though the lightening is far from evident, “coming upon a subject before I can introduce it. I was going to ask if you would make that decision without me - as to whether Charlene should stay with the firm, I mean.”

  “Why, George!” Melody reaching for her port, “do I detect another ‘no-show’ developing?”

  “’Barred from the premises’ would be more like it. Yes, I’m having second thoughts. No, let me restate that: I’m having third, fourth…even fifth thoughts - a fifth of aged single malt much more to my liking.”

  “And would Judge Whitaker have any part to play in this?” she asks mischievously.

  “You know about her” he gasps - blushing as a culpable adult rather than a bashful boy.

  “Not to worry,” she counters, amused by his rumored affair. “Your friendly relations with a local judge can only improve our win record.”

  “And I thought I was the naughty one,” George grinning his way out of embarrassment, “but no, any decision on the matter of my marriage is strictly mine, not the court’s. Oh…and Charlene’s, of course.”

  “And what about the baby? Mother phoned me with the news, you know; the news I presumed you were here to tell me.”

  Downing the last of his coffee, he turns the subject. “Perhaps I should call on Vincent…see if he needs a doctor, medication, some friendly advice.”

  “A doctor, yes,” Melody shooting him a sidelong glance, “advice, no. Any advice you have to spare, you’d best reserve for your own counsel, your decision on what you’re going to do before I come home.”

  “Meaning?” George getting abruptly to his feet.

  “Whether you’ll be a married man when I return, or-”

  “Or what?” he bates, stepping closer to catch her reply.

  “Or…or not,” she whispers to the window, as if the Charles alone should hear.

  The only competition worthy of a wise

  man is with himself. (Washington Allston)

  XIX

  The cruelty of anger is minuscule compared to the cruelty of thought; but my indignation with Vincent has cooled to sympathetic regard. I refuse to leave him alone in his woeful condition, Aunt Martha’s dubious tinctures of dish soaps and herbs manifesting with rhythmic regularity – i.e., irregularity. Vincent’s confinement to the loo symbolic of my own pernicious evening: the inscribed card, the diamond, the suspicious intent of my erstwhile friend, all poisons I need to discharge.

  “How long will this continue?” I quiz A.M., Vincent retching her hasty potion once again, “and please tell me your doctored dish isn’t life-threatening.”

  “The only thing in jeopardy tonight is George’s marriage,” she retorts, her cocky assurance alerting me to things unknown. “He’s admitted as much to Melody; and what’s more, he’s-”

  “So that’s why you did this!” I remonstrate, venting a new frustration, “you brought me here so Melody can be alone with George! Unprotected!”

  “Wrong, wrong, wrong,” A.M. chirps captiously. “Your dearth of gratitude is fast depleting my well of kindness. What I’ve arranged is for your own good. For the good of your future-“

  “For the good of yours, too, let’s not forget,” I quip. “You’ve admitted your patronage is self-serving, remember?”

  “In as much as we’re all God’s children, it’s in our mutual best interest to improve Her brood,” my aunt’s fire-blue eyes a flash of warning, “that bit of wisdom summed up in the Golden Rule; s
omething I’m trying hard to practice, despite your incessant bickering, jealous fits, and-“

  “Sounds golden to me,” I interrupt, reducing her biased diatribe to playful provocation.

  “Touché!” she chimes, her fists relaxing into hands on my willing shoulders, “it’s about time you lighten up. We’ve a lot to do and but little time to accomplish it.”

  “I don’t think I can be any lighter,” I banter, wincing at Vincent’s pained expression, “but since when did time apply to us; or, for that matter, this list of ‘to-dos’ you’re touting?”

  “Time is soon to be our dimension again,” she reminds, “and my list pertains to the people and events in our next incarnations - first yours, then mine.”

  “No one has ever called you a neophyte in the art of fault-finding,” I tease, “and rightly so, for now you make me feel… well…at fault. I attack your motives, labeling them expedient and opportunistic; and the next thing I know, you claim I’m first on your list of duties. What can I do but apologize?”

  “Quite unnecessary,” A.M. smiling for having induced my apology, “and besides, we haven’t time for all this maudlin, mutual admiration. Vincent’s telephone is ringing…George is calling from down in the lobby.”

  “Good work!” I reply, presuming Melody to be alone and safe, “and a timely call, too. Vincent’s on the verge of a blackout…or maybe a whiteout.”

  “It’s the same, regardless of pigmentation,” she chortles. “That pink stuff pales a face no matter what-” Vincent straining to reach the phone.

  “It’s me, old fellow,” a booming voice resounds, “George. George O’Malley. Melody told me you were in need of a friend tonight. Sick.”

  “Sick’s not the word for it,” Vincent groans, “I haven’t been this ill since the time in Rhodesia when our well went bad.”

  “I’ve brought you a treatment,” George confides, “something to doctor the waters a bit. The pink stuff. The little bottle you shake and shake, then gulp to halt the shakes - but you know the routine. May I come up?”