Hey Harry, Hey Matilda

by Rachel Hulin

  Thomas continued to chug ouzo. One night he had too much and professed his love for me! I was very flattered. He then cried and said he was so embarrassed when his father arrived for eighth-grade graduation in a Hummer with armed guards. He was really drunk. Like really, really serious-alcohol-poisoning zombie drunk. The next morning he was due at the consulate because he had lost his visa and we were leaving in a day. He was so drunk still by his 11 a.m. appointment that he was detained in the country for his own safety and didn’t go to the airport with us. I never heard from him again.

  Anyway. Hope things are going well with your chat. I’m sure the prayer beads will help.

  .

  Matilda,

  Hi. It’s done. I’m incredibly enervated, but I think it went OK. I don’t know whether to be angry with you or just give in.

  .

  Harry,

  Wait, what?! Why are you angry? Tell me all of it.

  .

  Matilda,

  I am so tired, I just need to lie down.

  .

  Harry,

  In a minute, just write out what you said to her and what she said to you. Write it like a screenplay!

  .

  Matilda,

  I didn’t tape the damn conversation. Life is not a screenplay! It’s real and it’s messy and it’s exhausting.

  .

  Harry,

  One paragraph.

  .

  Matilda,

  Ugh.

  OK. So after class we met at our usual spot outside the cafeteria, under the Japanese maple. I had the magazine tucked under my arm, and I figured I’d just hand it to her and watch her reaction. Just get it all out there, you know? I mean, part of me thought she’d be pleased just to see the words in print. She’s a good person, Matilda, she believes in literature, and perhaps it would make her happy that she’d brought her words to people. Maybe she could think of Harrison Goodman as a pen name maybe? Or I could change my name? Perhaps crazy but it’s just a thought.

  But anyway, I didn’t even get there, because she’s all bubbly and happy and shoves this piece of paper at me. A paper with the Paris Review insignia at the top.

  And, essentially, it’s a letter inviting her to be in their internship program this summer, provided she finishes her sophomore year in good standing under the tutelage of Professor Goodman. We don’t usually solicit sophomores, rather juniors, but you show such promise that we have made an exception.

  And THEN it says it would love to publish a poem of hers in the September edition. And then it really lays it on, like:

  Paris Review internships are a great introduction to the literary world. Past graduates have gone on to find work at a wide range of literary agencies, publishing houses, magazines, and newspapers, among blah blah blah fancy yada yada you’ve heard of it, it’s famous. Others have gone on to enjoy successful freelance careers as editors and writers etc. etc. Internships at Paris Review are highly sought after and extremely competitive.

  And THEN there is a personal note at the bottom welcoming her to the Paris Review family, from Editor in Chief Alexis Loreda.

  The name sounded familiar to me, Matilda, even in my sleepless state. I had déjà vu, as though we’d just been talking about her, and then I realized we HAD. Alexis from your camp stories. Alexis, the brilliant, sexually precocious Harvard-matriculating camp friend with the glamorous political family. The one who could do her own French braid and who taught you how to kiss and what to wear.

  I could barely think at this point.

  But Matilda, she was so HAPPY!

  But I did it anyway, I pulled out the magazine and dropped to my knees and blubbered something like an incompetent, I’m not even sure what. And Vera was confused. But not angry.

  She went for a walk. She’s calling me this afternoon. Now I have to nap.

  Let me ask you something, Matilda. Why didn’t you ever pull this string for me? Why didn’t you ever get MY writing in the Paris Review, if you’d been in touch with Alexis all along? All it took was one email?

  Do you believe in my writing? Or is everything just a game?

  I don’t even know what to think anymore.

  .

  Harry,

  You’re welcome for saving your fucking life. I have a great thing going with the dermatologist, BTW, but I won’t bore you with that. I’m too busy HELPING YOU AND LOVING YOU.

  In any case, despite your ungrateful attitude, I am thrilled my first plan worked.

  We’re still quite close, Alexis and I. Haven’t you ever heard that maintaining friendships is one of the most essential components of a happy life?

  She is a STONE FOX, Harry. Those descriptions from our nubile escapades are probably still keeping you up late once a fortnight (or past 10 p.m., anyway).

  PS She dated Clooney AND Jeter.

  .

  Matilda,

  Please, you’re far too self-congratulatory lately.

  Anyway, we’ll see if it worked. I feel like an absolute, pathetic marionette of a failure, which is not my ideal outcome.

  .

  Harry,

  If it doesn’t work, I do not quite know how we are going to properly implement my second plan.

  .

  Harry,

  What’s the latest?

  .

  Harry,

  Are you talking to me?

  .

  Matilda,

  Vera’s forgiven me. But there’s something else.

  .

  Harry,

  What what?

  .

  Matilda,

  She’s pregnant.

  .

  Harry,

  What incredible luck! That was my second idea!!!!

  Part Five: June

  Hi Harry,

  I trust you’ve had a pleasant spring, despite the terrible beauty of the magnolia blossoms. Almost nothing interesting has happened to me since winter, believe it or not. I think temperate weather does not push us to be our best. Searing heat or freezing cold is far preferable for the neurotic, don’t you think?

  I saw your story in Ploughshares and I liked it very much. I suppose you’ve joined the in crowd. Publishing in The New Yorker, my friend—that will make you the most popular girl at the ball! I’m glad we can still depend on elite social constructs; it’s comforting the internet hasn’t ruined absolutely everything.

  .

  Hey Matilda,

  I was wondering when I might hear from you. I have definitely been busy with writing and seeing Vera off to the city for her summer gig—it’s all a lot to take in, honestly.

  .

  Hey Harry,

  So you were just waiting for me to write? What if I called your bluff and you never heard from me again? Would you come after me? What if I had early onset dementia by then and didn’t even remember you?

  .

  Hey Matilda,

  Considering how things went this winter, I felt I needed some space from your meddling.

  I suppose I was gambling on the dementia thing not materializing. Are your genetic test results back? Is this still worrying you?

  .

  Hey Harry,

  Not yet. Taking forever. And “meddling” is a strong word. I prefer “assisting.”

  I’ve actually been thinking about your impending fatherdom quite a bit—how is that gestational project progressing?

  I do find it strange that there’s a tiny replica of you and all your parts burrowing inside of some stranger’s abdomen. Your fingers! Toes! Miniature penis?! (The famous scrotum.) God, creation is unreal. How is Vera feeling? I tried to invite her to coffee, since she’s in the city, but she hasn’t returned my emails, which I have to say doesn’t feel the absolute best. I mean, we may be family someday, and I got her a job, whether she knows it or not. I guess I’ll blame it on her youth. I’m trying not to get gossip from Alexis, but I might need to scratch the itch.

  I’ve got brides the next five weekends in a row. It’s
almost too hot here to stand. Though I am trying, standing on the train platform at Union Square is a feat of strength; you have to tell your brain you’re in the Arctic, unless you want to faint and fall on the tracks to die, which two people have actually done. Have you seen that platform? Too narrow for humans. It feels a bit like an adventure game. Like a gladiator game show Fox TV would run. New York, man. It had better not kill me before I kill it.

  Give me some country news. Include for me some hollers and quarries. Anyone die in the quarry lately? Seems like we’re due for one. I’m heading out now; hopefully no air-conditioning units will fall on my head. (It’s an epidemic—no one correctly installs them these days, Jesus F. Christ, this place.)

  .

  Hi Matilda,

  I don’t have news of hollers, because I’ve been stuck in my office the last three weeks. Believe it or not, there’s been a strange turn of events that has left me interim director of the English department. I feel solidly unprepared for this battle, and a little sheepish and guilty for the reasons I’ve landed here. They are two.

  1. The New Yorker

  2. An unfortunate illness that has befallen my predecessor. I have never wished ill health and ruin on anyone except this one time…

  In any case, things are well with me. The jury is still out on tenure, however. They’re enjoying watching me work for it, I think. I’ve been running (half marathon next month) and reading and preparing to be a father, which is still unreal but really fantastic. I will be in your neck of the woods in about ten days to see Vera, who’s doing wonderfully at Paris Review, and who is loving Bushwick, and is handling the heat and her pregnant status on top of it. She’s not showing yet, but I’m sure she will be soon. Her poise belies her age. I think it’s because she was at boarding school so young; a lot has always been expected of her. Things are good, though the occasional panic still creeps in now and then. Although now perhaps for different reasons—will I be a good dad? Should I buy life insurance?

  .

  Harry,

  Wow. Congrats on all! Your life is unfolding suddenly with great speed and ease, like a carefully calibrated novel. I’m so happy for you and Vera. What’s your favorite line of a story or novel? I have a new one:

  “We could hardly bear it when she arrived home unhurt.”

  From “Careful,” by Diane Williams.

  .

  Matilda,

  I like:

  “You’ve got to lie to stay halfway interested in yourself.”

  —Barry Hannah

  .

  Harry,

  Did you choose that for me, Harry? Or for you? Either way, thank you.

  How old is she, can I ask? Nineteen? I suppose that makes her an actual teen mom. Though that’s probably good news for your fetus and her summer in the city. She has the strength of youth. If I had a baby now, I’d be on the verge of Advanced Maternal Age on my medical chart. Remember when Mom had her tonsils out at thirty-five? What a disaster. And they told her the two weeks of torturous recovery was due much in part to her elderly status.

  We were already eight.

  I’m glad you were not disbarred from your job for banging your protégée.

  Speaking of: How is Mother handling pregnancy news? Grandmother?

  I told Dad. So expect a long, vaguely legible handwritten letter that indirectly references his own libido and leads to drinking.

  .

  Matilda,

  I already got it. It wasn’t that bad, actually.

  Here’s what he wrote:

  Thinking of you now that you are so old, despite looking so young. I sent you a card, but mailed it yesterday—rather late.

  Every day I feel happy that you were born—you, not somebody else. Ever do gratitude prayers? I do. I pray by giving thanks for the wonderful things in my life. Your existence is often the first thing I think of then. You’re at the top of the list. Don’t forget.—D.

  .

  Harry,

  Really? I’ve barely heard from him this summer at all. That letter makes me feel a bit…second best. Red ribbon.

  .

  Matilda,

  So…I just checked the local news (Storrs Scribe!), which I never do, and there’s news of two undergrads drowning in the Milford Quarry. That’s really weird. How did you know?

  .

  Harry,

  Huh. I didn’t. But maybe somehow I did.

  I gotta say, I do often know it when things are going to happen. The morning Michael Jackson died, I woke up and said, “Something big is going to happen today.” I went into work and announced it. At the time I was working at Rolling Stone, so you know—the right crowd for this news. I told the editor in chief in the elevator; I said, “Get ready for today!” and he looked right through me as usual, almost like he was blind or one-eyed. Like when someone appears to be talking to you, but is looking over your shoulder?

  I told my editor “Big news will happen today!” and got a coffee and then two hours later, BAM!! My editor cried a little when he heard the news. I guess he actually knew Michael in the ’80s or something.

  There was also that time that I predicted Mom would come home with a black Cabbage Patch doll. This was unpredictable and completely random because (1) I had never asked for a black Cabbage Patch doll and (b) I was fourteen. She said she just came across it and felt I should have it.

  That’s a great thing about Mom—she’d get you any doll, as long as it was multicultural. I loved my Hawaiian Barbie.

  How could I have known about the Cabbage Patch doll!?!? I think time is not linear, and we have therefore already experienced everything before. Sometimes there is a crack in the timeline and you feel things from before.

  .

  Matilda,

  You were always overly fond of stuffed animals and such. You were much less cynical as a child and early teen. I’d forgotten you worked at Rolling Stone.

  .

  Harry,

  I have a long and storied past. I’m like Forrest Gump, minus the war part. I have a fucking Webby, Harry, did you know that? Is it “Webby” or “Webbie”? Either way, I have one.

  .

  Matilda,

  I have a brown belt in karate.

  .

  Harry,

  I was a National Merit Scholar.

  .

  Matilda,

  So was I.

  .

  Harry,

  Well, I shot Meat Loaf’s daughter’s wedding a few weeks ago. Soon I’m going to be the wedding photographer to the stars. The one they all must have. But I won’t bow to their demands, they will bow to MINE! And then I will write a book about it, so you won’t be the only famous writer in the family.

  .

  Matilda,

  Really?

  .

  Harry,

  I know! I kept it to myself and it was torture. Except, not entirely, as it has inspired the beginning of my wedding photography book, which will be a compendium of charming stories and illustrations—light enough to read quickly, but not without gravity. Perfect for film rights. It shall be entitled:

  THE WEDDING PHOTOGRAPHER’S HANDBOOK

  (Handbooks in literature are all the rage.)

  There will be cheeky little swallows on the cover:

  Are they doing a bird dance of love, or is one bird fleeing the other?

  Meat Loaf cried at his daughter’s wedding. He stood to her side at the top of the aisle in rimless glasses with a pink alstroemeria in his buttonhole, and allowed tears to stream down his face while the vows were recited. They were hippie vows. Rich hippies getting married, moneyed by her father’s strange taste and proclamations about love, and what he will and won’t do for it.

  I was at that wedding. Standing in the back, appearing to belong, slipping grilled marigolds and peaches that resembled tiny golden nuggets off of trays that floated past, bound for the mouths of the beautiful and the vegan and the lumpy, cloying uncles that no wedding escapes.

  Wedding
s compose much of my work life. But I’m not going to go into it yet. You don’t know enough about me; you’ll judge. Admit it: You hear “weddings” and you hear “vocation,” and you want to make a judgment. I’ll decide first what you think of me, and you can decide after that. I’m not a florist, for crying out loud.

  (Meat Loaf did not tell me, when I asked, what it is he will not do for love. He just looked over my head and quietly removed a flute of rosé from the passing vintage silver platter before turning away, gentle in his reproach.)

  Meat Loaf’s daughter was married in the Hudson Valley.*

  *The Hudson Valley is convenient to New Jersey, Connecticut, and of course New York. Its picturesque landscape delights the bride who considers herself “a simple country girl at heart.”

  .

  Harry,

  See, I’m also going to have definitions and footnotes and an index, and all sorts of fun stuff—informative things.