When You Never Said Goodbye

by Meg Kearney

  Can’t you see all

  its secrets tearing you apart?

  Toss me that silver key,

  let your life start

  again, let me set you free . . .” Now

  I am frozen on this

  bench—by her voice,

  by those words I know are a song

  by Fly, brought on by our

  conversation—

  so why is my head in a swirl

  like I’m in Penn Station

  at rush hour?

  Late Sunday Morning Surprise

  Nothing like a boy at the door

  to make a girl suddenly care

  what she looks like. Rhett’s

  still in her torn Ziggy T-Bone

  T-shirt and sweats; at least

  I’m wearing jeans and one

  of Dad’s flannel shirts. Rhett’s

  been teasing me about Tim,

  making me laugh ’til it hurts—

  since he and I agreed to see

  other people, she says, I should

  do it (starting with Calvin C.),

  stop acting like a nun, and nuns

  by the way shave their heads,

  and no way will I cut off this mess

  of curly locks, much less get out

  of bed at 3 a.m. each day to pray. . .

  then there’s the knock at our door,

  Sam Paris’s voice saying he’s

  the computer repair man. Like

  a cat, Rhett springs to her feet,

  pounces on her purse, flings some

  dirty socks under the bed, swishes

  on blush and lipstick, yelling

  “Wish you’d called first!” then

  unlocks the door with a flourish,

  practically taking a bow as Sam

  strolls in. This whole production

  has so wowed me I’ve forgotten

  to look in the mirror myself. Now

  it’s too late. “Morning, ladies,”

  Sam says, handing us each a mug

  of coffee. “You’re a prince,” Rhett

  says as Sam claims her desk chair.

  Sam does look like royalty to me,

  though his tarnished gold hair

  is mussed up. “Thank my roommate

  for leaving behind his French press

  over break,” says Sam. I take a sip—

  This’ll put hair on your chest, Dad

  would have joked. “We were just

  talking about Calvin,” Rhett tells

  Sam, sneaking a peek at me. Sam,

  half listening as he reads the spines

  of books piled on Rhett’s desk, just

  says, “Yeah?” Not to be discouraged,

  Rhett goes on, “He and Liz have

  a lot in common.” I feel my right

  eyebrow rise. “Like what?” I ask.

  Sam looks up, suddenly engaged.

  Rhett stares at me, red glasses almost

  twinkling. “Smoke’s rising from your

  ears, you’re thinking so hard,” I tease.

  Sam snickers. Rhett peers thoughtfully

  into her mug, says, “You both like old

  fogie music, for one. Like what that

  woman plays in the park. Our parents’

  music.” I lay my mug on the floor,

  sit on Rhett’s rug. “Right, or what?”

  she pushes. Sam comes to my rescue.

  “Speaking of music,” he says, “come

  hear Minds of Snow—tickets are

  cheap! Tonight. In Dumbo.” Rhett

  says yes as I rise to my feet and

  surprise, surprise, say thanks, but no.

  Taking Kate to Hear Guitar Woman

  Passing under the arch from Washington

  Square North is always sort of magical—

  I enter the park sensing something special

  will happen. Today, I’ve asked Kate to come

  see my dorm, listen to Guitar Woman

  if she’s here. “Is there some subliminal

  message—I sense this has the potential

  to be about something more than a social

  visit,” Kate says. Her thick brown hair is cut

  short now that she’s head chef at a bistro

  called Downtown. I explain I’m just a fan—

  then we’re close and Ms. R’s playing, so

  I shut up. I watch Kate’s face. “I know what

  you mean,” she says. “Her voice is like Gram’s.”

  Journal Entry #2176

  Kate’s as practical as an umbrella on a rainy day. She wouldn’t stay long to listen to Ms. R (who was singing THE song), but instead wanted to head to my room so she’d have time to meet Rhett and look around before heading to work.

  Still, some of the words to that song Ms. R was singing have now become an ear worm—can’t get them out of my head:

  Thought I saw you through a window

  one April—there by the gold trees—

  turned out you were me.

  The wind blows

  as though a mother-ghost.

  I was still sea-borne

  and you were my coast.

  “Mother-ghost.” Does that mean the mother is dead? Just missing? Kate wasn’t sure, but she did know it’s a song called “When You Never Said Goodbye” by Jessica Rose Hemley. It was a hit when Kate was a freshman in high school.

  Kate also said Goddard is one of the nicest dorms she’s ever been in—she could see now why I’m in heaven here.

  She and Rhett liked each other right away, especially once they realized they’re both “foodies.” Who knew Rhett watches as many cooking shows as my sister? If they went on about “R.W. Quinn, Master Chef” one more minute, I was going to have to order a pizza.

  Kate didn’t make a big deal out of Guitar Woman—I was just relieved that when we reached the park, Ms. R had a crowd around her. Kate could see it wasn’t just me—lots of people think she’s good. And I wasn’t implying anything beyond that. What did Kate mean by “subliminal”? She’s always reading underneath things; she’s an emotional metal detector. Maybe that’s why I didn’t mention that I plan to call The Foundling soon. She supports my search, but I didn’t want to get into another discussion about my reunion fantasies and how I’m always setting myself up for disappointment.

  It’s so strange, though: I didn’t remember how Gram used to sing to us until Kate mentioned it. Gram did have a great voice. That was so long ago! Gram and Mom often sang together. I can remember them harmonizing “New York, New York,” kicking up their feet in our living room like the Radio City Music Hall Rockettes.

  I haven’t heard Mom sing since Dad died, except in church. And that was more of a whisper.

  Winter Collage of Days in

  Washington Square Park

  Man wearing a moose suit tells me I’m cute;

  jazz band lifts its brass to the smudge of sun, plays

  “Nobody Knows Me Better than You”

  Troupe of hip-hoppers somersault and flip

  for tips to the beat of “Mr. Incognito”

  (they’ve cleared a square of snow for this)

  Cocker Spaniel takes its woman for a walk

  while she chatters like a squirrel on her phone

  (I should talk, the way I can blabber)

  Two brown boys run toward the fountain (winter

  still, like a painting), pull off their coats. Their mother

  shouts, “William! Ephraim! Bill!”

  (Savory smell wafts from the roasted cashew cart)

  A couple kiss under the arch. “Miss!” they call, “Take our picture?”

  “That squirrel lady’s whacked,” says a man walking by to the woman

  clutching his arm. “Too warm, but it smells like snow,” she replies.

  Two squirrels eye her as if she’s a snack

  In her long, black wool coat, black boots, and black skull cap

  R Woman rests a gu
itar on her lap. Cup of coffee steams

  on the bench beside her

  A middle-aged guy in an old Army jacket sets a square of cardboard

  on a marble bench, then sits on it to read the Daily News. He crosses

  his legs, reveals snake-skin shoes

  Little girl, hair in cornrows with blue and white beads

  clutches a thick stump of electric-pink chalk. “Chalk is

  for summertime,” her father coos

  Journal Entry #2177

  People think poems that are funny either dishonor the art of poetry (“like posing for a photo next to Michaelangelo’s ‘David’ statue,” says Prof. R, “holding your hat over his private parts”) or they’re just fluff. Professor R’s idea seems to be that there are plenty of good, funny poems out there that at the same time are serious and/or say something important. They can make us think, mostly through irony and satire.

  There is this old (dead) poet named Theodore Roethke, whose poems I really like. His poem called “Dinky” is hysterical, especially as Prof. R reads it. Sort of a fairy tale, the poem is perfect for little kids. “Dirty Dinky” is a trickster figure, like a leprechaun who casts spells. I thought it was just a nonsense poem, but it turns out it could also be making a dark political statement. Who knew?

  Speaking of spells, in class today I mentioned Lucille Clifton’s “homage to my hips.” My face burned, voice shook, but I recited: “these hips are mighty hips. / these hips are magic hips. / I have known them / to put a spell on a man and / spin him like a top!”

  I’ve been trying to write a funny poem myself. It’s harder than I thought. But all this poetry stuff is difficult. That’s part of the draw—how I lose myself, lose track of time, lose the sense of where I’m sitting, even—as I try to put “best words in the best order,” as poet Stephen Dobyns says in his craft book. I keep thinking, keep believing, that if I work hard enough . . . someday, I’ll write the kind of poems students study in school.

  As Winter Term Nears Its End . . .

  “Look who he’s with,” whispers Rhett

  as we wander into the cafeteria. “That

  Louise is a leech.” She’s not my favorite

  person, either, but I’m not bummed

  when Rhett leads us over to Louise

  and Sam’s table since it’s by the window,

  meaning views of the park and beyond.

  Sam looks relieved to see us, but Louise

  looks like she just drank sour milk.

  “We’re already finished,” says Louise

  as we sit down. Rhett ignores her, looks

  at Sam. “I’m famished.” Louise grabs

  her empty mug, flits away for more tea

  (no way is she not staying). “Well, she’s

  a snot, as usual,” says Rhett. How can

  they all sit here and not stare at the park,

  all dusted in white from last night’s

  snow? “Calvin’s back,” says Sam, who

  seems to have noticed me gazing out

  the window. “Oh!” Rhett exclaims,

  “We’ll have to throw a party!”

  Did Louise miss the “P” word? Nope.

  Already back with her tea, she fakes

  enthusiasm. “Good idea!” Rhett’s

  cheeks match Sam’s tomato soup.

  “You three spread the word,” he says.

  “I’ll make sure the lounge is free.”

  Journal Entry #2178

  “The term ‘famous poet’ is a misnomer,” said Prof. R, “like ‘jumbo shrimp’.” It seemed right to end class with everyone laughing. Still, that quote keeps bumping around in my head like a bee caught on a screened-in porch. Really—how many people can name a single poet besides Robert Frost? Okay, so maybe I won’t be famous. I just want my poems to be read by more than my family and best friends. [Prof. R was quoting a poet named William Mathews; must look up his work. And oh! How surprised and happy he looked when I asked him to sign my copy of Redemption Arcade!]

  Prof. James spent our final class comparing Alice Munro with Flannery O’Connor, saying Munro was inspired by O’Connor. Everyone seemed to be nodding as Prof. James said things like, “Where O’Connor’s characters seek ‘grace’ as a gift from God, Munro’s characters have a secular vision . . . ” Am I the only ignorant one in the room who hasn’t read Flannery O’Connor?! Have I spent too much time reading poetry, not enough reading fiction?!

  Anyway, Alice Munro’s stories aren’t what I’d call “action-packed,” even though there are murders and near-murders, drownings and near-drownings. It’s all done so quietly. But somehow she pulls you in . . . and there’s usually a spooky sense that things aren’t going to end well. How does she do that? That’s what we writers need to study, need to figure out so we can use similar techniques in our own work, says Prof. James. Got to learn how to “read like a writer.”

  REMINDER: my story’s not written by Alice Munro. No more waiting around, hoping to hear from a registry that they’ve found a “match.” This is the time for action. Going to the NYPL was like walking into a brick wall. Time to make the call. (Please, God, let my story have a happy ending . . .)

  Journal Entry #2179

  Appt. with Sophie Fedorowicz

  The New York Foundling

  Friday, 2 p.m.

  So, I did it. I called The Foundling. The social worker who sent me my non-identifying information, Sophie Fedorowicz, seemed to remember me, my “case.” She was super nice. My stomach cramps pretty much disappeared as we talked.

  Tim thinks Jan and Jade should go with me, but my instincts tell me this time I need to go alone. He finally agreed—“You’ll wear your charm, as always . . . I guess that’s enough.”

  I’ll tell Kate before I go on Friday. Mom and Bob. . . not sure.

  I feel as if I’m about to go skydiving—the plane is in the air; I’m standing at the threshold of an open door, and now I have to jump. Now I have to trust my parachute will open when I do.

  Lounge Party to Celebrate

  End of Winter Term, Start of Spring

  Snowflakes and daisies dangle

  from the ceiling; little white

  lights frame the room. Aroma

  of brownies and sugar cookies

  soon wafts past my nose as Henri

  slips by with a plate. “Those

  don’t look like Fig Newtons,”

  a boy with an afro jokes. Henri

  blows a kiss his way. I’m glad

  she doesn’t hear him say, “She’s

  a little fortune cookie! So good

  to be back.” The party’s in full

  swing. I should be mingling

  like Rhett, who looks stunning

  in her gray suede boots, black

  tights, short black skirt and gray

  sweater. I should be laughing

  like Louise, who I admit looks

  hot in her tight purple dress,

  red hair falling past her hips.

  I should be flirting with Calvin,

  who is handsome, African

  American with stylish gold-

  framed glasses and GQ clothes.

  I should be meeting all these

  people now back for spring

  term—Rhett introduced me

  to Josh and Fern; through them

  I met a girl whose name I forget.

  I learn the boy with the afro

  is Daryl but goes by Dizzy, turn

  to see Sam put his arm around

  Rhett. I should take a picture

  with my phone, should do so

  many things besides drone on

  and on in my head, Lizzie, act

  happy. . . stop thinking about

  The Foundling. “Liz!” I hear

  Rhett call as I side-step toward

  the door. “Come have a drink!”

  But I ignore her, slide into the

  too-bright light of the hall.

  Journal
Entry #2180

  Snow on the first day of spring term apparently means everyone heads to Bobst, the nicest and biggest library I’ve ever seen next to the NYPL. If the NYPL is a marble palace from the 19th century, then Bobst is a shining glass and brick tower of the 20th. My idea was to head straight from my first class (creative writing workshop) and grab a seat near a window so I could spend some time getting my head around this semester’s workload and look out at the park at the same time. Fifty other people had the same idea. But it’s warm, and Goddard is close—getting back won’t be so hard, though I might be wishing I’d brought my snowshoes.

  Spring courses: Writing 2; Cultural Foundations 2 (liberal studies—literature); Social Foundations 2 (philosophy); Creative Writing Workshop: Intro to Fiction & Poetry. Also: Intermediate Spanish.

  It felt as if someone had pricked me with a pin when I sat down in workshop. The desk-chairs were arranged in a circle. Louise was right across from me. We spent a lot of energy not looking at each other. I’m much more talkative than she is, and have no idea what to expect from her poems or stories.

  Professor Aguero with her wild gray curls is easy-going but totally focused. She has us reading like crazy—“Writers read,” she says, pacing around the outer circle of our desks as if she’s playing Duck Duck Goose. Thanks to her, today I “discovered” Major Jackson and Aracelis Girmay. WOW WOW.

  Next week we start bringing in our own work, too. I’m curious about writing some fiction, but Professor Aguero says I can mainly focus on poems if that’s my “inclination.”

  “Focus.” It’s hard to focus on anything for long, except Friday and The Foundling.

  _______

  My idea of heaven: the spring reading series. I’m so psyched, I could kiss my student ID card.

  Rhett’s Post-Party Blues,