Laura whispered, “Giles and I are going to the pond.”
Charlie said, “We’d better put in an hour at your parents’ so we can be properly congratulated.”
So we walked to the Zellers’, the four of us, arm in arm.
21
The last week, Corey Levenworth took photographs. He ran around with his Nikon, snapping madly. He got a shot of Giles and Laura under a tree, of Libby Hayes having her lunch, of Boris Dorfman wearing a straw hat, of Heinrich von Arnheim reading his Deutsche Allgemeine, of Laura and Giles performing the Schubert, of me and Charlie performing the Brahms. He surprised me in the library one sunny afternoon and clicked off four shots.
“What perfect light!” he shouted, exiting.
I said to Charlie, “Perhaps you’d like to invite him up to your room so he can get a shot of this year’s most illicit couple.”
I watched Corey scamper around, the caretaker’s dog at his feet and his camera bouncing against his chest. I hated the neatness with which he thought he could catalogue his life. He would pass his less crowded winter evenings pasting his summers into his scrapbook. I wondered if there was anything in his life that couldn’t be codified or stapled down, something he didn’t have a photo of, or document referring to, an event he had to summon up in painful memory. He squinted into the sun, and on the very brightest days he wore a pot hat. I expected him to have a whistle suspended from a string around his neck, but there was only his camera, that intrusive lavaliere.
But then I relented. Poor Corey was only hedging his bets. He loved the Conservatory, truly. It wasn’t entirely his fault he was a drip and innocent. I hated his innocence only because I felt so lost from my own, but those photos probably sustained him, and I knew that some October morning, I would find in my mailbox a manila envelope, and inside would be a set of Corey’s photos, for me to put in my scrapbook.
Charlie and I went shopping in Milford Haven, for our loved ones.
He said, “This is a photo entitled ‘The Errant Lovers Shop for Their Spouses.’”
We were standing in front of an old weathered barn outside of which were stacks and piles of junk, inside of which was the high-priced stuff: New England antiques. From the junk, I bought for Patrick a poker in the shape of a pitchfork, the handle of which was a crow with outstretched wings. Inside, Charlie bought a quilt for Mary Beth and I bought Patrick a school-house clock. Then we drove to the general store, where Charlie bought spruce gum and maple sugar for his children. We had our lunch at Wrights’, in Shortford. Charlie held my hand and smoked his cigar.
“Are you sorry?” he said.
“I’m not sorry about anything. I’m not sorry I’m going back. It’s right to be going back. But I’ll miss you.”
“What will you do?”
“Well, first of all, Patrick and I are going to announce ourselves to our parents. Then I’m going to apply to Juilliard. I’m tired of research. If I can’t be a performer, I’ll write about music, or I’ll find some sympathetic quintet to play with. And you?”
“My life is cut out pretty nicely. I’ve got Mary Beth and the kids, and the hospital and the symphony. A nice life. But I’ll think about you.”
“Charlie, can we write to each other once in a while?”
“It never occurred to me that we wouldn’t,” he said.
The last days sped by, as last days do. I felt that I had just arrived, and when I got to my unlived-in room I realized that I was ready to pack and say goodbye. I had an urge to press wildflowers into my book, to steal the score of the Brahms sonata, the pillow case from Charlie’s bed. I was much soupier than Corey Levenworth would ever hope to be. You have to commit experience to your heart and let it change you, I knew, but for all that, the first thing I packed was Charlie’s handkerchief. My open suitcase lay on my bed, but my room wasn’t melancholy—nothing had ever happened in it.
I kept a few minutes to myself and sat in my assigned room. I realized how bitter I had been, bitter that life gave you love and good times and then whisked them away. How bitter I had been that Sam was memory, had been made into memory. Now I was faced with Charlie, who would be memory too, but my bitterness had fallen away from me. I had put myself in the way of certain pain, but I was right to. Sam had marked me with my first sense of loss and I would always keep it with me, but it didn’t stand between me and the world, or between me and Patrick. Sam was my lark in the world, and I would never have known my own measure if it had not been for him. But Patrick tested my depth. He was the line I threw over the side to see how deep the water was, but Charlie tugged the line and then I knew how deep I ran.
The last meal at the Conservatory was formal. The dining hall was decked with branches of pine. There were white cloths on the table, candles, and vases of wildflowers. Corey Levenworth had ordered fifteen cases of champagne.
At dinner, Charlie and I sat with Theo and Anna, Laura and Giles. Laura’s eyes glowed and she dropped her head on Giles’ shoulder by the time dessert came around. After dinner, Theo made a speech and said this year had been the Conservatory’s finest.
“He says that every year,” Laura whispered.
“But this year it’s true,” Charlie said.
After dinner, it was ritual for the entire group to go to the round barn. Traditionally there was a fire in the fireplace if it was cold enough, and a great bowl of punch. For an hour you stood and socialized. Then Theo sat to the piano and the old regulars clustered around to sing “Come Ye Sons of Art.”
We drank our punch and said our goodbyes. It was to be an early night.
Giles said, “I hate goodbyes. Laura and I are going to split, unless you want to come to the pond with us.”
“They don’t want to, silly,” said Laura.
He shook Charlie’s hand gravely, but Charlie threw an arm around him and gave him a bear hug. We stood in a loving circle, then walked them to the door of the barn and watched them go off hand in hand toward the pond. I went to call Patrick and Charlie went to call Mary Beth. Then we met at the Zellers’ for a last drink and to write addresses into our notebooks. I stayed an hour and left, saying my courtly goodbyes. Out in the darkness, I looked toward Charlie’s room. It took all my courage to cross the road, to pass myself under the scrutiny of that porch lamp. Everyone, I thought, was up and watching, but it wasn’t paranoia, it was sadness. This was my last trot up those stairs.
When Charlie came back, I was sitting in his rocker. His suitcase and cello were packed. Only the bottle of whiskey and the vitamin pills were out.
“I’m set,” he said. “Tickets. Money. Keys. I remember my name and home address. Mary Beth is meeting me at the plane. You still want to lug this old bear to Kennedy Airport?”
“That was settled a long time ago,” I said. “Don’t you remember?”
“I can’t remember anything,” he said. “Except you sitting here. Did you get Patrick?”
“He’s going to Washington for the day, so we’ll get back at about the same time.”
Charlie sighed heavily, so heavily I laughed and hugged him.
“You heartless New York girls,” he said. “Laughing at a stricken man.”
“I’ve been sighing all day, but you can’t hear it since I’m so small.”
“You small, heartless New York girls. Come over here and put yourself in Good Time Charlie’s lap, before he dies of sorrow.”
I coiled my arms around him and we sat in the rocker without speaking.
“Do you want to leave before or after breakfast?” he said.
“Before. We can have breakfast on the road.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “The last face I want to see around here is yours.”
It was an early night only for us. All around were the sounds of bags being slammed shut, dragging luggage, giggles, and murmured conversations. From up the road came the sound of singing.
We lay in the quiet of our own last night, and fell asleep.
We were up with the light, and Charlie boi
led water for coffee. We were both intensely cheery until it was time to leave that room and pull the car around so we could load our bags. I balked at the doorway, weepy and swept with shame. He stroked my hair.
“Don’t be bashful,” he said. “It isn’t sentiment. Something happened to us.” When I looked up, there were tears in his eyes too.
“Come on, now,” he said. “Let’s hit it.”
We dragged his cello case and bag down to the porch and went to the parking lot to get the car. Everyone at my cottage was still asleep and we walked carefully up the steps to get my bag. We loaded the car and took off. Charlie drove with one hand on the wheel and one hand clamped to mine.
We decided to take not the Interstate but the scenic route instead, and we stopped at a little town to have our breakfast in the diner. In one booth a group of locals wearing jodhpurs were drinking beer with their scrambled eggs and hooting.
We ordered a massive breakfast. There was a sheen on everything, on that cheap Formica table, on the dented cream pitcher, on those horsey locals in their muddy boots. I thought I would keep it with me forever, the faint whiff of horse the place exuded, the faded design on the plates.
As I looked at Charlie, looming up on his side of the table, I felt something very close to gratitude, but it was only love and respect, mixed with something in me that he had freed and enlightened. If you can drink life in, I drank. I drank to love and death and friendship, to loss and complication, to deprivation and wisdom.
We polished off that breakfast like a pair of tigers and went through two pots of coffee. Charlie sat back in his chair, smoking a cigar. There was nothing specious in my happiness. It rang through me like a bell.
Charlie and I sat smoking with our legs entwined, and I knew what it would be like to leave him at the airport, that I would not watch him off, and that in the car, alone, I would not feel sadness, but an affirming calm, the result of any dignified decision of love and friendship. I could see him in my mind, walking to the checkout gate. I could see him on the stairs to the plane, ducking slightly as he made his way to his cramped seat. I saw him doze through takeoff and then wake up as the stewardess tapped his arm to see if he wanted coffee. I could see him watch the clouds part, and knew that he would see the plane casting on the green and yellow earth the wavering, moving shadow of itself.
A Biography of Laurie Colwin
Laurie Colwin (1944–1992) was an American novelist and short story author, most famous for her writings on cooking and upper-middle-class urban life.
Colwin was born on June 14 in Manhattan, New York, to Estelle and Peter Colwin. She spent her childhood in Lake Ronkonkoma, Long Island; Philadelphia; and Chicago. During her time in Philadelphia she attended Cheltenham High School and was inducted into its hall of fame in 1999. After graduation she continued her education at Bard College, the New School, and Columbia University.
In 1965 Colwin began her career working for Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, a literary agency in New York City. From there she went on to work at several leading book publishers, holding editorial positions at Viking Press, Pantheon Books, G.P. Putnam’s Sons, and E. P. Dutton. Most notably during this time, Colwin worked closely with Isaac Bashevis Singer, winner of the 1978 Nobel Prize in Literature, editing and translating his works.
An aspiring writer all her life, Colwin sold her first short story to the New Yorker in 1969 at the age of twenty-five—an auspicious start. Over the course of the next few years, her work appeared in Harper’s Magazine, Allure, Redbook, Mademoiselle, and Playboy. Many of these early stories were included in a collection, Passion and Affect, which was published in 1974.
Food and the act of cooking played an influential role in Colwin’s life from early on. During the Columbia University campus uprisings of 1968, she famously cooked for student protestors occupying various buildings. “Someone put a piece of adhesive on the sleeve of my sweatshirt that read: KITCHEN/COLWIN,” she wrote in Home Cooking, published in 1988. “This, I feel, marked me for life.”
As Colwin began crafting her short stories, she also became a regular food columnist for Gourmet magazine, and many of her columns were anthologized in Home Cooking. The release of this work secured a fan base of up-and-coming casual gourmands who loved Colwin’s unfussy, personal style and who remain devoted to her long after her death. Later in her life, even as she wrote about privileged Manhattanites, Colwin continued to volunteer and cook for homeless shelters in New York.
By the late seventies, Laurie Colwin was writing full time. Her first novel, Shine On, Bright & Dangerous Object, was published in 1975, and in 1977 Colwin received the prestigious O. Henry Award for short fiction. Her second novel, Happy All the Time, was received with much critical acclaim in 1978. By the time The Lone Pilgrim—a short story collection—and the novel Family Happiness were published in 1981 and 1982, respectively, Colwin had solidified her reputation as a writer to watch. She became known for her entertaining wit and wonderfully complex protagonists, whom readers understood immediately.
Colwin’s story collection Another Marvelous Thing was published in 1986, and the next year, she was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship. In 1990 she published Goodbye Without Leaving, the last novel that would go to press before her untimely death.
Laurie Colwin died of an aortic aneurysm in her Manhattan home on October 24, 1992, at the age of forty-eight. She was survived by her husband, Juris Jurjevics, a founder of Soho Press, and their daughter, Rosa.
In 1993 A Big Storm Knocked It Over and More Home Cooking were published posthumously, serving as final invocations of Colwin’s distinct voice and the New York characters she loved.
The author’s parents, Estelle Colwin (née Wolfson) and Peter Colwin.
The Wolfsons, Colwin’s mother’s family, lived in Philadelphia and congregated there for the holidays. Colwin (at front), her older sister, Leslie (at upper left), and their father, Peter, pose by a statue in Rittenhouse Square, Thanksgiving, c. 1950.
Colwin at age seven or eight. As a child and teen, she did print modeling work at her mother’s urging.
Colwin receiving an award at Ronkonkoma Grade School.
Colwin as a teenager. Childhood friend Willard Spiegelman, a writer and professor, recalls that Colwin often held “salons” in her bedroom.
By the time she was a teenager, Colwin had developed a keen interest in art. Here, she sketches with charcoal, obviously impressing her companion.
Colwin as a counselor at Camp Burr Oaks in Wisconsin. She had also attended as a camper in earlier years.
Colwin’s Cheltenham High School graduation photo, 1962.
After graduating from high school, Colwin traveled to Europe by boat. Her mother (at right), saw her off at the dock.
A rare moment as a dinner guest rather than host.
Cats and fancy dinnerware were two of Colwin’s favorite things. Chloe, her beloved Maine coon, sits atop a shelf that displays some of Colwin’s prized pieces.
These objects, sketched by Colwin herself, were prominent fixtures on her desk for years and years. Several, including the Callard & Bowser tin of pencils, patterned cup and saucer, and champagne lamp base, remain family treasures.
Colwin used her wit not only in her writing, but also in her drawings and paintings. Here, “MacLehose” refers to publisher Christopher MacLehose, who was a friend of Colwin and her husband, Juris Jurjevics.
Colwin was known for making her own baby food for her daughter, Rosa, pictured here in 1985.
For many years Colwin and her husband lived in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan, where their daughter was born and raised.
As a writer, Colwin was able to leave office life behind and become a work-from-home mom. Ice-skating with her daughter, Rosa, age six in this photograph, was a favorite winter activity.
A soup recipe Colwin created for Rosa.
This gingerbread recipe was “a hit” according to Colwin—words of high praise she used throughout her food writing.
A
crowd-pleaser from More Home Cooking.
Colwin loved to tinker with baking recipes and routinely combined elements and flavors not cited in the original versions.
Summer food delighted Colwin, and she loved to eat outside, especially in the evening.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgments:
Insel verlag: “O Leben Leben wunderliche Zeit” by Rainer Maria Rilke.
Mary Hill Publishers: From “That’s How Strong My Love Is.”
Copyright © 1975 by Laurie Colwin
Cover design by Mimi Bark
ISBN: 978-1-4976-7374-8
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
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EBOOKS BY LAURIE COLWIN
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
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