by Sandra Moran
I shook my head and suddenly was aware of the lyrics to the song.
Whoa, whoa tender years . . . Won’t you wash away my tears . . . How I wish you were here . . . Please don’t go tender years.
“I haven’t cried,” I announced, though I wasn’t sure if I was telling Natalie, Grace, or myself. “I haven’t cried since that day.”
I pushed myself to my feet and walked unsteadily to the window. “I don’t think I know how to cry anymore. It’s like my . . . my crying mechanism is broken.” My pronunciation of “mechanism” was slurred. “I’m sorry, too, Grace. I let you down. Natalie and I let you down. The whole fucking town of Edenbridge let you down.”
I spun and looked anxiously around the room. “Do you hear me? Natalie? Grace? I’m sorry!”
Toby jumped up, the fur on the back of his neck bristled. He growled and looked around for the cause of my outburst. The room was silent aside from the music and the crackling of the fire. The song had changed.
Dark side’s calling now nothin’ is real . . . She’ll never know just how I feel . . . From out of the shadows she walks like a dream . . . Makes me feel crazy, makes me feel so mean.
Even in my state I could appreciate the irony.
“Ha!” I said.
Toby eyed me warily and then returned to his spot on the couch. I looked around the room. I was alone. “So, anyway, here’s to you, Natalie.” I raised my glass. “I’m sorry I let you down. And, here’s to me, too. May I have continued success at being a failure.”
The next day was painful—both because I was very hungover and because the previous night had left me unsettled. I blamed the wine and promised to be more cautious of my consumption. But deep down, I think I knew that the real culprit was my sense of guilt, loneliness, and desolation. My resolve to not drink was strong until about 6 p.m. Then with the night came my own personal darkness and my desire for a drink. I’m not sure if the wine helped or hurt, but it made everything easier to bear. Or, at least it did until I got the e-mail.
Hearing from Tommy Anderson was the last thing I could have expected to happen. It was late afternoon and I had poured myself a glass of red wine. I knew Adelle would be sending pictures of her trip to Florida, so I logged onto my e-mail. As I sat waiting for the internet to connect, it occurred to me that I also needed to send a message to Roger. I began to mentally compose it in my head as the AOL homepage appeared on my screen.
“You’ve got mail,” said the computerized voice as I logged into the system. I remembered Roger and his imitation and smiled. When the page finally loaded, I saw that I had four messages in my inbox—two from Roger, one from Adelle, and one from Thomas Anderson. The subject line of the last one read: “Your Paintings.”
Who is Thomas Anderson, I wondered, and how in the hell did he know about my paintings? My first inclination was anger that Roger had revealed my identity. I clicked on the message and waited for the computer to load the page.
Dear Birdie:
In all likelihood, you probably won’t remember me. But, I believe I would be remiss if I didn’t at least try to contact you. My name is Thomas Anderson. We met in 1981 in Edenbridge. I was the young man (boy) you befriended in the clearing near your tree house after Grace was murdered. I was spending the summer with my grandparents. Does this ring any bells?
The reason I’m writing is because I was at a restaurant in Chicago several weeks ago and was struck by a painting I saw there. It was of the back and upper body of a nude girl. The background was a green so dark it almost seemed black. The artist was identified as BEC. I was blown away by the work. I couldn’t stop staring at it. And so I approached the manager to find out where it came from. After much conversation and bribery, I learned the name of the man who designed the restaurant and installed the art. This was, of course, your friend Roger who, after much coercion on my part, eventually gave me your e-mail address. He said that your privacy and anonymity were sacred, which is why I hesitated to contact you. In the end, though, I really felt as if I had no choice.
Birdie (or Rebecca, whichever you prefer), your work is so evocative. It’s about Grace, isn’t it? I knew it the minute I saw it—or, at least, that’s what it triggered in me. I have been haunted by her death most of my adult life.
I know this may seem strange and I know my attention is completely unsolicited (and, according to Roger, likely unwanted), but I just wanted to let you know that I have never forgotten you. I remember our conversations and I have always wondered what happened to you.
I currently live in New York and can be reached at this e-mail address—or, if you would like to speak in person, at the number listed below. Please know that I understand if you don’t want any reminders of that time in your life. But if you would like to communicate, I would enjoy it very much. I feel it only right to admit to you that I have, since seeing the painting in the restaurant, purchased two of your pieces. I consider them some of my best investments.
Most sincerely yours,
Thomas Anderson
I stared at the message. Thomas Anderson. Tommy. The boy in the clearing. I remembered him vividly. His eyes. His dark hair. His connection to Grace. His intensity which had both scared me and drawn me in. I sat back in my seat, shaken, though something about his honesty and vulnerability struck a chord. He recognized my work for what it was. I felt lightheaded. I considered my response or even if I wanted to respond. My hand hovered over the computer mouse. To reply would open up a dialogue I wasn’t sure I was prepared for. I knew nothing about this man, I reminded myself. He was a stranger who had made me uncomfortable when I was young. Did I really want to begin a dialogue with him?
“Fucking Roger and his big mouth,” I said to Toby. “I should have known he couldn’t keep this to himself.”
I immediately opened a new message box and began to type.
Roger:
Let me be clear when I say that I DO NOT appreciate you giving my e-mail address to Thomas Anderson! Our agreement was that I would remain ANONYMOUS. In case you don’t have a dictionary handy, that means that no one knows who I am. Sharing my identity was NOT in our agreement, no matter how much you might think you’re helping me. There are certain things that are none of your business and this is one of them. If you cross this line again, not only is our deal off, but so is our friendship.
I am going to politely answer his e-mail and explain that I prefer not to communicate with him—or anyone for that matter. In the future, DO NOT PUT ME IN THIS SITUATION AGAIN!
Rebecca
I stood up and stomped over to the window. With the end of summer had come the cool, crisp air of autumn. The leaves had begun to change and I made a mental note to lay in plenty of supplies for the winter. In the past, it hadn’t been uncommon to be snowed in for weeks at a time. And although I had plenty of firewood in the event that the electricity went out, I needed to make sure that I had enough human and dog food.
“We’re going to need to run into town for supplies,” I announced to Toby, who looked up and grinned—or at least what I perceived to be a grin. “We’ll do that tomorrow, yeah? And we’ll chop up some more firewood.” I sighed and crossed my arms over my chest. “That still doesn’t solve the problem of what I should do about Tommy’s e-mail, though. What do you think?” Toby wagged his tail and gazed up at me with amber eyes. I reached down and he came over so I could rub his ears. “What should I do?”
I looked back at my computer and sighed. Toby’s eyes lolled back in his head as I rubbed and I wished that having my ears rubbed was enough to make me happy. Part of me wanted to ignore the e-mail. It was unsolicited and there was just something about Tommy—Thomas—that made me uneasy. But there was also something about him that intrigued me. I thought about our brief conversations in the Nest the summer after Grace’s murder. He had seemed so volatile—so dark. But at the same time, I was attracted to him. I blinked, startled at the word choice.
“Just a quick message,” I finally said. “Just to thank him an
d let him know that I am very private and would prefer not to correspond. What do you think?”
Toby grunted in response, though not to my question. I bent down, kissed him on the top of the head, and walked back to the computer. The cursor arrow was positioned over the reply button. I hesitated and then clicked the mouse. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, suddenly unsure where to start. Finally, I began to type.
Dear Thomas:
Thank you for your note. I usually try to keep a low profile and, as you know from your dealings with Roger, prefer to remain anonymous. But in this case, I wanted to respond. Yes, of course I remember you. And, unfortunately, I, too, think often about the circumstances that brought us together. You’re correct in that many of my paintings stem from that experience. I don’t think it’s the type of experience that anyone gets over.
That said, I need to get back to work. But thank you for your e-mail. It was nice to hear from you.
Rebecca (Birdie)
“There,” I said to Toby, who had wandered over to the fireplace and stretched out. “That should do it. I answered his e-mail and that’s the end of it.” Toby looked at me with a baleful expression. “I know what you’re thinking,” I continued. “But I was direct, polite, and un-encouraging.”
Toby regarded me for a minute longer and then put his head down on his front paws and uttered a deep, clearly uninterested sigh. The fire crackled invitingly and I weighed staying at the computer and responding to Roger and Adelle’s e-mails against curling up with Toby in front of the fire. I stared at the screen. I could read their e-mails and then craft my response in my head while lying in front of the fire. Not a bad idea, I decided. I clicked on the first of Roger’s two messages and scrolled down the text. I was still angry.
Dahling:
I’ve thought about our conversation at your place and I think it’s time for you to implement some of the changes you said you’d make. You need to get out more—spend more time with friends. I know you don’t want to go to Edenbridge, but what about Chicago? Nothing stressful, just a quick visit. You could stay here with me and Gus—we’ll make sure to sanitize the room.
So what do you say? Come visit. I have some great folks I’d like to have you meet—and one in particular. Think on it, figure out how you’re going to refuse, but know that I won’t take “no” for an answer.
Kisses, kisses, kisses,
Rog
I stared at the message. “No need to think about my response to this one,” I muttered as I clicked on the Reply button and began to type.
Roger:
Thanks, but no thanks. You’re an asshole (See my previous message.)
I next clicked on his second message which, according to the time stamp, was sent two minutes after the first.
Rebecca:
In anticipation of your negative response to my earlier e-mail invitation, I’m responding with my follow-up which is:
This is a great idea. You need to get out and be around people. And, I’ve recently encountered a couple of people I think you should meet. One, in particular, is handsome, successful and, as per your criteria, “not gay” and “disease-free.”
Gus has said he’ll fly you down on his private plane if you’re scared of germs from the common folk. Or, I’ll fly down and drive you back.
Roger has spoken.
I was considering my response to this latest missive when my inbox refreshed itself and a new message appeared. It was from Tommy. I realized he must have been online when I sent my note. I hesitated and looked absurdly from side to side before clicking on it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to read what he had to say. What if he asked something that required a response?
“This is silly,” I said to Toby. “Regardless of whether or not I read it, I don’t have to respond. I mean, seriously, I’m an adult woman. I make my own decisions.”
Toby glanced up, sighed deeply again, and closed his eyes. He gave the impression of being bored by my melodrama. I took a deep breath, clicked on the message and began to read.
Birdie (Rebecca):
Hi. I’m so glad you got back to me. I worried that you wouldn’t. Or that my being so forward would scare you off. I know you value your privacy—Roger was clear about that—and I want to respect that. But I also feel like we’re sort of kindred spirits, you and I, because we shared this horrible experience. I don’t know about you, but it has haunted me. And there is no one I can talk to about it because . . . I mean, what do you say? “Yeah, when I was 17, I had a friend who was murdered?” It’s kind of a conversation stopper.
I stopped reading. I knew what he was talking about. I understood how that was not something you could just blurt out.
I respect your desire for anonymity and for privacy. I do. And I’m not trying to bother you. I just wanted to reach out—to communicate. Your art . . . I don’t know . . . it was disturbing and upsetting, but it also made sense to me. It took me back to that summer when so much changed. It was like you expressed something with paint that I have struggled to figure out how to express in words all my life.
Sorry to get all intense. I’m starting to ramble, so it’s probably a good time to sign off. Thanks for responding. You’re welcome to write anytime.
Yours,
Tommy
I stared at the screen. So much of his note resonated with me. I knew what it was like to carry an experience—that experience—around all day, every day. I understood how it felt to have been monumentally and inherently changed in the blink of an eye. I understood. But more to the point, so did he. I reread the e-mail. I wanted to reply. Despite my usual fears of strangers, of danger, of the unknown, I wanted to reply—to have a connection with this man. I thought back to our conversations in the clearing—our time together in the weeks following Grace’s murder. I thought about the way he paced and talked, about his sadness, about his seemingly similar sense of loss. I fought the urge to hit Reply.
“What are you doing?”
It was Grace. I flushed and looked away from the computer screen. Over the years, I had learned that Grace relied on my eyes to see what was going on. She could read my thoughts, but only if my guard was down and I allowed her in.
“Nothing.”
“I felt your confusion and anxiety.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “I was just thinking about Natalie.”
I could tell she wasn’t quite buying it, but she didn’t press. It wasn’t until later, when she was gone, that I thought again about Tommy’s note. He seemed nice enough, but there was still something about him that made me uneasy. Perhaps it was his aggressiveness—although that seemed to be too strong of a word. Maybe “assertiveness” was a better choice. Or self-confidence. He said what he thought—unlike me, who monitored every word, both externally and now, internally, to thwart Grace’s nosiness.
I made myself a sandwich and searched my mind for Grace’s presence. She wasn’t there. I took the sandwich to the computer, sat down, and quickly began to type.
Dear Thomas:
You’re right. Our experience is indeed a conversation stopper—which is why I just don’t talk about it. My close friends know, but that’s about it. It’s hard when something like that changes you so deeply, but you’re unable to discuss it. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I understand.
Birdie
His reply was almost immediate.
Birdie—
I know you do—understand, I mean. I knew it when we were kids. You had a sad, haunted sense about you when you would come to the clearing. I see that same sadness, that same haunted quality in your work. Is that why you paint?
I considered my response. One or two e-mails were one thing. But this was turning into a correspondence. Was that something I was ready for? Was it something I wanted? The answer to both questions was that I didn’t know. Of course, I could always end the conversation, couldn’t I? He didn’t know where I lived or how to contact me aside from e-mail. I didn’t think even Roger would have let that slip. I took
a bite of my sandwich, a bracing swallow of wine, and then hit Reply.
Tommy—
Is it okay if I call you Tommy? Thomas sounds so stuffy and formal.
You asked why I paint. That’s a question with a very long, very complicated answer. The short answer is that it helps me clear my head and sleep at night. How’s that for honesty? I didn’t set out to be an artist. I just sort of fell into it. And I really don’t like to talk about my work—in part because no one knows my real identity and partially because it’s, as you’ve guessed, quite personal. I’m not saying I won’t discuss it with you, but not yet. I don’t know you well enough.
Birdie
Again, he responded quickly.
Birdie—
Yes, of course you can call me Tommy. I’m comfortable with whatever you want to share about your work. However, as the owner of two of your pieces, I should admit that it lends value—solely personal—to the work to know the impetus and the circumstances. But I won’t press. Some things are meant to be kept private and I respect that. We all have secrets, Birdie.
Tommy
I stared at the last sentence. “We all have secrets.” I felt my skin tingle. Was he trying to reassure me or tell me something? I felt Grace begin to stir and quickly logged off AOL.
I fought the urge to revisit Tommy’s e-mail. Even as I stood in front of my easel late that night, I considered the meaning of those words. “We all have secrets.” I halfheartedly dabbed paint onto the canvas. Usually the process of mixing the colors onto the palette was cathartic. As I brushed and stroked paint onto the canvas, I usually lost track of time. Minutes would disappear into hours in the blink of an eye. Exhausted, I would suddenly stop, clean up the mess, and go to bed. But not tonight.
“We all have secrets.”
After more than an hour of standing in front of the easel, I sighed and put away my equipment. I wouldn’t paint tonight—couldn’t paint—until I found out what Tommy meant. Carefully, I washed out the brushes, tidied my studio, and went downstairs. If nothing else, I needed to respond to Adelle and her pictures. As I waited for the computer to boot up, I contemplated how to ask what he meant.
