by Cindy Jones
"Just wondering." I folded my napkin, resting it on the table, pleased to have exceeded the forty-eight hours I'd calculated as the maximum effective attic abstention period.
* * *
Standing outside the door to the attic, I checked the hall to make sure no one watched me disappear myself into the attic stairwell. What if he wasn't up there? What if he was up there?
"Hello, Willis," I called. "It's me, Lily." I hoped my name would ring a bell. I clutched the copy of Shakespeare's comedies, as if the gift were a casual afterthought, as if I hadn't agonized all morning over which edition of the many falling off our shelf he'd like best, nor nursed a mild obsession since our last moment together, waking up in a world that held him, looking for him in every room, most thoughts related to resuming our conversation under his sensual gaze.
"Lily," he called back. "Come up."
The musty, damp smell, the choking dust, the table, and the orange cord all welcomed me back.
"You've brought your book," he said, closing his laptop. "Shall we have our own literary festival?"
"Actually," I said, handing him the book, "I brought this for you."
"Thank you." As he took the book, his face fell ever so slightly and it seemed he flipped the pages to avoid looking at me.
"There's a reading at the pub tonight," I said to cover my embarrassment.
"Oh?" He looked up.
"Students from the writing workshop." Omar said they need a gentle audience. "I thought you might like to come."
He scratched his head. "I'd love to but"—he gestured to his desk—"I've got so much work to do."
We both looked at the closed laptop. Among the many books on his table only one lay open, a large photo essay titled, America's National Parks. "Maybe another time," I said. Perhaps I'd read too much into our first meeting.
But he was still watching me.
"Yes," he said. "Another time."
I gave him something to watch. I pivoted the way I'd been taught in my department store charm school, arms floating gracefully at my sides, gently gliding into steps all the way to the window where I sat and slowly looked up at him. "You know"—I took a breath—"I've been thinking of all the fictional people who live in this house."
"Such as?" Willis asked, hooked.
"The Bertrams, the Crawfords, all the regulars."
"Ah." Willis nodded.
"They'll still be here, long after we're gone"—I shrugged—"moving the same plot forward century after century. If they wrote Christmas cards, they would never have anything new to report. Fanny would always win Edmund's love and Mary Crawford would always be hunting a husband."
"Literary afterlife."
"But what if"—I pointed—"I could take Maria Bertram back to Texas where she could start over with a clean slate in a place where no one knew her?"
"You'd have to guard your husband."
I smiled. After a pause, I said, "I'm planning a tea-theatre."
"A what?" he asked, leaning forward.
"A tea party where volunteers in period dress serve refreshments and Lily performs on a stage." I stood. "Will you take a part? You can have the lead."
He laughed. "Thank you for thinking of me." He shook his head. "I'm not an actor."
"I knew you'd say that." I took a deep breath. Who was left to play a male role, Gary? "Pity you can't make it to the reading," I said breezily, "or the tea." I walked past him toward the stairs. "Someday we'll all be famous and we'll be able to say we got our start at Literature Live."
"Good-bye, Lily," he said.
I floated away from him without a backward glance, hopeful that he appreciated the bounce in my step, wondering if I still had whatever it was he found interesting.
* * *
At the pub, I drank lukewarm ale and struggled to follow the heavily accented reading of an Indian woman's story about a long distance e-mail relationship. But I kept zoning out and returning to the attic. Maybe I should have waited one more day before returning. The fellow workshop writers took the reading very seriously so I followed their cue to know when to laugh, which was not often. Although we occupied a cozy back corner of the pub, people were coming and going, chairs scraping the wood floor just beyond our gathering.
I looked behind me once and my stomach jumped because Willis was there, standing at the edge of the group. Suddenly, the room was alive and breathing. Our eyes met and I gestured for him to bring a chair to our crowded table but he shook his head and squinted toward the reader. I understood him to mean he would wait for a break, not disrupt the reading. I turned back to the front but could not concentrate knowing Willis was watching me from behind. At the next break I would help him move a chair and we'd sit together. The idea of being a couple excited me. I loved the pub, loved the sound of the woman's voice reading, the smell of food cooking somewhere in the back.
But the reading went on and on. My Jane Austen yawned and left the room. I cautiously turned to check on Willis. He looked bored. Pages kept turning and I strained my eyes at each turn, looking for white space in the manuscript that would indicate the end. No one else seemed the least bit aware that this woman was going on way too long. I found a chair with my eyes and visually relocated it to my side. Better yet, Willis and I could sit at an outlying table by ourselves.
I was busy imagining all the reasons Willis might have decided to join me there when the woman's pace suddenly became halting. She read a few more words and then looked up, smiling shyly. She had reached the end. Everyone clapped and I immediately turned to join Willis. But he wasn't there. Searching the pub, he wasn't near the bar, didn't come out of the men's room. He wasn't anywhere. He'd vanished. I walked back to my dorm alone but instead of fretting about Willis, pondered how we would heat water to make tea.
Ten
The next day, I waited nervously for Nigel, mentally rehearsing my disclosure of Claire's plot to undermine the organization with her grant proposals. As I waited, I carefully tracked Claire's covert activities, noting each mission to the copier, watching as she loaded her stapler, determined not to miss anything. My Jane Austen sat in the corner oblivious, reading Jane Eyre. The memory of Willis standing at the back of the reading room interrupted my reconnaissance efforts at ten-second intervals. Why had he left the reading?
By the time I returned from my chore of planting a water bottle at the podium for the speaker lecturing on "Edmund's Multiple Incumbencies," Nigel's office door was open and Vera was leaning over his desk, dropping multicolored capsules into a pillbox. The pillbox doors for the various days of the week were open like baby bird beaks and Vera dropped pills, shutting each door as she went.
"It's Lily." She smiled.
"And how is our favorite reader today?" Nigel asked, looking especially tired.
Me? "I'm fine," I said, remembering how my mother's medicine all disappeared when Sue arrived.
"You look worried," Vera said. "Is everything okay with your tea party?"
I closed Nigel's door, cutting Claire off; then folded my hands and took a breath as they both watched me, concerned. "I heard yesterday that Magda is seeking university affiliation for this festival," I whispered.
Vera picked up another prescription container and Nigel leaned back in his chair.
"We know," Vera said, and then pointed at Nigel. "You see?" She shook her head and dumped pills into her palm. "I've been telling him," she said to me, shrugging. "He won't listen to anything I say. I think we need to act—now."
"I refuse to bother a sick woman," Nigel said, rubbing his eyes.
"She's not sick, she's dying," Vera said, passing him the refilled pillbox.
"All the more reason." Nigel shut the pillbox in his desk drawer.
"All the more reason." Vera stood. "If you won't go with me, I'll take Lily." Vera looked at me. "Lily understands business. Did you know Lily has a real estate license?"
"I don't have a license," I said, rolling my eyes.
"I'm sorry, Nigel," Vera said, fluttering a hand, "but I'm not
about to stand by and watch the ship go down with you in it. Lily, we'll need to prepare a new lease," Vera said. "Ask Claire for a fresh copy."
Right. I wasn't asking Claire for anything.
* * *
When everyone was gone for lunch I acted against my better judgment and began the impulsive walk that would end in the attic. I had second thoughts upon reaching the second floor. What was I doing? But as I stood outside the door to the attic stairwell, preparing to disappear myself, the click of a latch and the squeaky whine of door hinges resonated down the hall. I was nailed. Sixby called out to me from his room.
"Ah, 'tis the sun," he said. "Just the starlet I wanted to see. Come," he beckoned, reopening his door. "I have something for you."
I scurried down the hall. Fearing Willis would choose that moment to emerge from the attic stairwell, I entered Sixby's room more willingly than under normal circumstances. Costumes lounged on horizontal surfaces and his wardrobe stood open displaying a poster of the Royal Shakespeare Company's Romeo and Juliet.
"What happened to you?" he asked, gracing my hand with a theatrical kiss—didn't mean anything. "I haven't seen you around." My Jane Austen flipped through the little black date book on his table.
"I've been working in the office," I said. Claire was probably looking for me now, hands on her ample hips, wondering how her work would get done with me running around the festival like Fanny Price on Prozac. "And I'm organizing a tea-theatre." I described the plan, knowing I needed him to play a part, working up to the request, keeping my back to his unmade bed. "Since Magda won't allow me in her production, I'll just have to produce my own."
"Lily, let go of what happened on the stage," he said.
"Magda says she's not paid to teach me to act."
"The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo." Sixby looked down at me, dark roots visible along his hairline. "So I'll help you." Willis would never highlight his hair. "First thing is: the Book." He pointed.
Books had piled up in here just like in every other room in the great house. I lifted one from the stack on the floor. "Where did all the books come from? I've never seen so many outside of a library."
"Nigel's dead friends."
"That's nice."
"AIDS, you know."
I dropped the book back on the pile.
"Mostly English teachers and writers, some theatre people. Great collection of books but some of it's getting a bit dated. Ah, but not this one," he said, pulling the very small book from a pile on the shelf. "Acting." He handed it to me. "Thank me no thankings."
Ancient and frayed, the cellophane cover disintegrating, the book fell open and stayed flat in my hand, no resistance left in its binding. A previous reader had underlined the soft yellowed pages in pencil, and its smell reminded me of my lost childhood books. "Isn't it funny," I said, "how old books smell the same?"
Sixby took the book and sniffed. "A rose by any other name."
"It doesn't matter what library they come from," I said. "They all smell the same."
"Lily, you may be on to something." Sixby handed the book back. "But after you finish smelling it, give this book a proper read."
Gripping the book in both hands, I looked Sixby square in the eye. "Sixby," I said carefully, "will you play the lead in my production?" His expression lost all trace of theatrics; my request obviously triggered stress. At last, the real Sixby stood before me.
"I don't think that's a good idea," he said, squinting. "Magda and all."
"Yeah." I nodded, slipping the book under my arm. "I guess you're right."
"But I'll be there for your opening. When is it?"
"Next Wednesday at four. I hope," I said.
"Fantastic," he said, much brighter. "And don't forget we have an act to plan for the follies."
"The follies." I hugged the book.
"We need a good idea," he said. "So think of something: music, dancing, a little Shakespeare."
"Parting is such sweet sorrow," I said, deadpan. "That's all the Shakespeare I know."
"O, speak again, bright angel!" Sixby's rich voice captivated me, just as it had at the orientation meeting. He stepped toward me and took my arms as if his messy bedroom were a stage and I his leading lady. "For thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven." The artful way he said thou and glorious lifted me out of myself. "Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes," he said as I felt myself airborne, soaring on the beauty of his modulation. "Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air." I closed my eyes and imagined exercising my diaphragm to respond in kind. The words spun in my head, reverberating, sound falling on me like dazzling snowflakes as I raised my arms and touched fingers with Sixby, the power of his delivery endowing me with the belief that if I opened my mouth, words would come out to match his in depth and timbre. I was Juliet. I felt the emotion; if I knew the lines I could speak. But then Sixby's lips touched mine. I opened my eyes; footsteps approached in the hall. Before I could move my mouth away from Sixby's, Omar stood at the door with an armload of paper.
"From Magda," he said, handing the stack to Sixby.
Sixby groaned.
"Do you have time for lunch?" Omar asked me.
* * *
"What's up with you and Sixby?" Omar asked, sitting across from me, waiting for our sandwiches, the pub especially noisy, thanks to a group of men drinking their lunch.
"He's helping me," I said, the acting book tucked in my JASNA bag.
"Helping himself." Omar laughed. "Must be smitten with your inexperience."
"Acting lessons," I said, wondering if Omar might be jealous. I'd caught him watching Sixby at odd moments.
"Acting Lesson Number One." Omar's index finger stabbed the air. "Teach Only Naive American Girls."
"That would be me," I said, over the din of laughter from the men at the next table.
"Acting Lesson Number Two," Omar said. "The Importance of Rehearsing Love Scenes."
"Not in Austen," I pointed out. "No danger there."
"Well," he said, "revisionism is rampant at Literature Live. Just be careful." Omar pulled a folder from his satchel. "Here's your script," he said.
"Thank you, Omar. That was quick." I opened the folder and scanned the first page. Lovers' Vows, Condensed for Lily's Tea-Theatre. Seven characters: two women and five men. "Where will I ever find five men to play these roles?" I looked up at Omar, who was watching the table of noisy men. "Omar."
"No."
"Please?"
"I cannot act."
"That doesn't matter. I'll teach you."
"No." Omar stood. "I'm going to get our sandwiches now."
"You can have the smallest part. Oh please. If you say no, I'll have to beg Sixby and who knows what will come of that."
Omar laughed. "You'll be good as Agatha."
"I'm Amelia or nothing. I'm in charge, remember? You can play Anhalt." I took his hand and pressed it to my cheek. "Please?"
Omar rolled his eyes. "Maintain your dignity." He took his hand back. "I'll do it—only if—you can't find anyone else."
"Oh, thank you! Thank you!"
As Omar brought our sandwiches from the bar, I brought up the subject of Magda's funding initiative. "It seems that Nigel's in denial."
"Yes, Nigel is in denial on many fronts."
"What do you mean?" I asked, speaking over the din.
Omar looked at his watch. "How much time do you have; I'm not sure where to start."
"Approach it alphabetically."
Omar ticked off on his fingers. "A," he said. "Austen's global, Actors are expensive, Attention spans are shorter."
"Okay, okay."
"Banks family bails out, Cash flow dries up, Death claims Nigel."
"Death?" I asked. The table behind Omar shouted a toast.
Omar put his hands down. "Surely you know he's sick."
"No." They clinked glasses and
drank.
"HIV positive as long as I've known him. And he's going downhill this summer."
My hand flew to my mouth. How could I not know this?
"I'm surprised Vera didn't tell you."
"No, she didn't." But now I knew what she carefully sorted and lovingly dropped into his days of the week, hunched over the pillbox, the desk littered with prescription bottles. How sick was he and how much time did he have? One of the men at the next table slammed his empty mug.
* * *
At my request, John Owen, the conservationist in charge of maintenance, accompanied Mrs. Russell and me to the kitchen for the purpose of turning on the water. According to my calculations, we needed twenty gallons of tea, and none of our volunteers would haul that much water into the house dressed as Regency ladies. We had no servants, other than me, and I had pressing responsibilities elsewhere. "We need to fire up the stove as well," I said to John Owen, who crouched below the surface, grimacing as he applied his wrench.
"Blow us all up, won't you?" he said.
"Oh no." Mrs. Russell clutched her fringed shawl, she hadn't figured on explosions. She lowered tools to John Owen and his helper, a shirtless grad student by the name of Stephen Jervis, Caribbean judging by his caramel skin and Rastafarian plaits lining his scalp. Perhaps he had roots in Antigua. Stephen and Mrs. Russell, who carried the wrench, went outside; we could see and hear them through the big hole in the wall. Mrs. Russell giggled from a place deep in her chest right before Stephen gave the go ahead to turn the faucet. Globs of water spit and spurt into the sink before easing into a smooth rush.
"Hooray!" I said. "Can you try the stove now?"
* * *
While my helpers continued working, I ran back and forth between kitchen and office. Sorting through files, I found the expired agreement. A napkin-quality document, I marveled they'd kept it. While they tested the gas, I typed up a new version using the same casual language but adding the title "Lease Extension" and a line for Lord Weston's signature. No telling how much longer Nigel would be around to use his IBM Selectric. Desperate to beat both Magda's grant applications and Nigel's terminal illness, I rushed around, filling the copier, hunting paper clips, the thought of Willis in the attic beeping like a private snooze alarm.
