Acts of Love

by Judith Michael

  Isolation is a big part or what makes Lopez beautirul: the pine rorests wilder, the beaches more secluded, the clirrs more dramatic. And the island is very private, because most or the bouses are tucked away in pine lorests, invisible until you're practically at their rront door.

  My own house is rinished. It's not large, but so bright and open it seems to merge with sky and water, serene and selr-contained in its own world. I have an attached painting studio much like the one I had in Connecticut, and I've begun a garden. I've lert most or my land wild, but a landscaper graded around the house and set down stones lor walkways and helped me plant, so now I look rrom my windows upon overlapping circles or rhododendron, azaleas, blue blossom, rourteen kinds or iris, foxglove, roses . . . and a couple or

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  dozen more I can't recall orrhand. (By next year I'll nave learned tnem all ty neart.) My driveway and the road neyond it are lined witn Scotcn troom and wnen tne Dusnes are in nloom tney're a solid mass or yellow rlowers tnat are so vivid it's as ir tney've ansorned tne essence or yellow and lert tne rest or tne world a little paler. I can almost watcn everytning grow nere; tne climate is mild and tnere's plenty or rain and sun. I never had a garden and I like the feeling or heing connected to the earth when I work in it. I've planted a few vegetahles, nothing very ambitious, though I may venture into more exotic varieties soon. The first time I ate a snowpea off the vine I had the most extraordinary sensation, as if I'd just discovered the absoluteness of food, instead of getting it third or fourth hand in plastic bags at the supermarket.

  I hope you got the books I sent you: two novels I've enjoyed and my latest book for children, called The Secret Room. There's some talk of turning it into a movie or even a live musical, but none of that interests me. Anyway, it's such a long shot I'm not going to waste my time thinking about it.

  Baffled, Luke shook his head. She wrote as if Constance were a casual friend, as if they had no history going back twenty-four years, as if they had not been as close as two women could be. And not a word, so far, to explain her exile—because that's what it sounded like—on Lopez Island.

  And what about the man she'd met.''

  Dear Constance, I stayed awake last night, thinking about your letter. I'm sorry you think I sound remote and indifferent; you must know I never feel that way toward you. The truth is, I'm having a harder time adjusting to being here than I thought I would. Sometimes I sit in my garden, facing the beach and the blue-green water of this tiny cove, and it seems to me that I'm so far from everything and everyone that I hardly have any reality. (I know I said I liked the isolation, but my moods swing up and down with the wind or the hour or the angle of the sun.) All my connections to the people and places and things that once defined my lite are gone. There was so much joy in my life that it's hard now to look around and find nothing to remind me of that other Jessica except my memories and occasional

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  items aoout New York in trie Lopez or Seattle papers.

  So I reel disconnected. It's as ir tnat train in Canada tore tkrougn tne center or my lite, ripping a nuge cnasm tetween tnen and now, and it cnanged everytning so mucn tnat tnere's no way I can oridge tne cnasm and go tack to wnat I was. Wnen you ask now I reel, tnat's one or my answers: disconnected and truncated. Notn-ing lasts.

  Am I sounding maudlin? I do love it nere; I'm really tine. It's just tnat tnere's so much I nave to get used to and learn to take ror granted, now tnat it's my lire. I know you relt you were going into exile wnen you went to Italy but I'm not saying tnat it's tne same witn me; I'd never call tnis exile. It's a new neginning and I'm making a new lire.

  And tnat's one reason, dearest Constance, tnat I can't come to Italy. You know I'd love to see you, nut I don't want to leave tne islands until I've made my lire nere and accepted it. I'm still too angry—at gnosts, at amorpnous "maybes" and "wnat-its, " like a Doxer with only shadows to stand up against him—and I have to learn to deal with all or that.

  I will deal with it, I will get used to this, I know I will, but, oh, Constance, I miss what I ve lost. There s such an emptiness that wipes out the world when I stop being busy and suddenly rind myself staring into space, longing for . . . everything. You're the one person in the world who can truly understand that, and understand my anger, because I know you had it, too (and probably you'll have it your whole lire; I think I will), even though you've always tried to hide it.

  Anyway, when I can be positive, I feel that I'm getting acquainted with myself again and I have to do that full time in the place I've decided to call home, so I can't leave it to go to Italy. I've already made friends—the island is so small I've gotten to know almost everyone—and I have my work. And I've got something else to think about. The Seattle Children's Theater is opening a new resident theater and they're commissioning plays for it now. After all the children s books I've illustrated I think I could write a play for children. I don't know, because I've never tried to write, but I may give it a whirl. It would be a way to touch the theater again.

  So you see how much is going on in my life. In fact, I think I'll

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  describe my day to you so you can share it. Every day is tne same nere, witn minor variations, wnicn is one or tne cnarms or Lopez.

  Luke skimmed the rest of the letter and the one that followed it. He was looking for a specific topic.

  . . . usually ride very early, neiore nreakrast, and tnen I garden, and as I work tne sun climns nigner in tne sky and slowly tne plants turn pale green and tnen gold . . .

  . . . paint in tne arternoons wnen tne lignt turns so clear it s as nard as a diamond witn no sort edges or shadows . . .

  . . . discovered Lopez Island Vineyards, a very good wine and they gave me a tour . . .

  . . . ferry to San Juan, the largest island, and found myself heing asked hy their theater committee to help direct ...

  . . . lunch with Rita Elliott, who designs jewelry and has

  ler own . .

  Suddenly the earlier words registered and Luke went back to the line about San Juan Island.

  . . . asked hy their theater committee to help direct their production oi Pygmalion. At first I refused, hut they're quite impressive in their amhitions—it's a small company and none of them has seen Pygmalion, though they've all seen the movie My Fair Lady —and they were so excited ahout my heing here that finally I said I d do it, just this once. Do you rememher that time in Chicago when you and I talked ahout how every actor dreams of directing? I've even thought that someday I'd combine acting and directing. But that's over and done with. I'm not part of the theater anymore. What I'll he doing at the San Juan Community Theater and Arts Center is a small diversion, a variation in my daily schedule. The play will run for three nights, and that will he plenty.

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  Luke shook his head. There was something odd about the way she wrote. It was too dehberate. Too careful. As if she didn't want to give anything away. The only time he found the liveliness of her earlier letters was when she wrote about riding or gardening. He skimmed a few more pages, until he found the topic he was looking for, and some of her old vitality as well.

  His name is Ricnard; ne's a sculptor living year-rouna on Lopez. I'd Dougnt two or nis pieces terore I met nim, a oronze norse's nead wnicn I've put in tne garden, and a motner and two cnildren in mar-nie, an abstract or rlowing lines and great tenderness tnat makes me tnink or my parents and or you. I met nim one day digging clams in a tiny cove on tne other side or tne island. Picture tnis remarkaDly romantic meeting: two people at tne edge or tne water witn large battered buckets beside tnem. They're using trowels to burrow beneath the wet sand, Hinging water and sand in all directions, so that they have rlecks or sand stuck in their eyelashes and pasted by seawater to cheeks and roreheads. Everything is shiny and dank with mist, and sand is under their ringernails and in the crevices or their shorts and T-
shirts, as well. He's extremely handsome, medium height, blond, with dark brown eyes, a trim blond beard and an odd sort or lope when he walks. And we laugh together. I've missed that; I'd rorgot-ten how much I need it.

  Luke slammed the letter on the table. Why am I wasting my time doing this? I should have been at wor a long time ago, or at least reading the Sunday paper. He took his tray to the kitchen, aware of the smothering silence of his apartment. It felt unlived in. Martin was away, no one was telephoning, and Luke had not spent much time there in the past few weeks, and when he was there he'd been mostly in the library. He stopped to pull up the roman shades in the living room, but at the first blast of sunlight, he lowered them again. Give the air conditioners a fighting chance, he thought; especially since no one is here to admire the view.

  He cleaned up the kitchen, putting his dishes in the dishwasher and wiping the counters. Everything was spotless; Martin and the housekeeper took excellent care of everything and Luke was hardly a presence there. Invisible, he thought. Irrelevant. But it's a home, it's my home, and I ought to make it feel like one. He looked through the

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  kitchen door at the dining room table that had been used only three times in the past year. I should make this place feel lived in. Entertain, host some benefits, invite friends and their kids to play billiards. Or I could put up the Ping-Pong table and plug in the pinball machine Monte gave me for Christmas a couple of years ago, as a joke. It would be nice to have kids around.

  Am I sounding maudlin? I do love it here; I'm really fme. It's just that there's so much that I have to get used to and learn to ta^e for granted, now that it's my life.

  But I am used to it, Luke thought; I do take it for granted. This has been my life for a long time.

  Except that Jessica wasn't in it, and now she is.

  He went back to the library and was unfolding the next letter when the telephone rang. "Luke," Claudia said, "can you have dinner with me tomorrow night.''"

  There was something in her voice that told him he could not put her off. "Yes, but we'll be rehearsing late. Is nine o'clock all right.^*"

  "Any time. Will you come here? I'd like you to."

  "I don't think so. I'll meet you at Bernardin. If I'm a little late, ask Maguy to give you a wonderful appetizer and a bottle of the Guenoc Chardonnay."

  "But you won't be late."

  "Not if I can help it."

  Hanging up, he thought wryly that he might never be off the hook with Claudia; she would never go away and he would never fmd a way to shut her out of his life. He went back to Jessica's letter. It was a description of her work on Pygmalion, oddly detached, he thought, as if she were writing not from pleasure or excitement, but from duty. But he did not linger over it; he was looking for a name. And then he found it.

  Richard has nis own nign-speea launcn, wnicn is a great luxury now that I'm commuting for rehearsals. He delivers me to San Juan and then returns to Lopez to work in nis studio ratner than sitting anout watching tne cast stumLle around the stage. Well, that's too cruel. But tne truth is, tney don't nave much experience (some nave none), so this is all going to take some time. Fortunately we have ten weeks. (Ten weeks, when we always thought anything more than rour or rive was a great luxury.)

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  That's all about the handsome sculptor? Luke thought. He riffled through letters and read more bits of paragraphs.

  Well you were right, dear Constance, the play got tetter to a point ana then got stuck there. We're working hard, but what we have now is proDahly the nest we can do. I do like the people in the cast . . .

  I new to Seattle ror the day and visited Elliott Bay Book Company to sign hooks and meet some schoolchildren who were visiting the store.

  Two days to opening night and everyone is so wound up with excitement and nerves that I've hecome a kind or nanny . . .

  . . . sold out ror the three-night run and we've extended it to a lourth night. Opening night was wildly successrul and 1 was the only one who thought it was dreadrul. But everyone else was so alive with happiness . . . and isn't that what the theater is all ahout? To make

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  . . . they asked me ir I'd go hack to New York now, and I said or course not. I'm perfectly happy here; I have everything I want.

  Reading as he walked, Luke went to the kitchen. He put water to boil and scooped coffee grounds into the French press. Waiting for the water, he leaned against the granite countertop and read on. And found no mention of Richard.

  What happened to him?

  The teakettle whistled. He poured the hot water into the coffeemaker and inserted the lid with its plunger, then went to the library, took another letter from the box, and returned to the kitchen, once more leaning against the counter, waiting for the coffee to steep.

  Dear, dear Constance, you sounded so alarmed on the telephone. I wonder ir you really helieved me when I said I was line. I m never sure whether you do or not, ever since you pointed out, a long time

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  ago, that two rine actresses can rool anytody, even each other. Well, I'm not trying to rool you; I really am rine. I wasn't sure why you asKed me, hut the answer is no: I've come to the conclusion that I won't ever marry. It could he that I'm just not ready—although, ir I'm not ready at thirty-seven I prohahly never will he—hut more likely it's that I just wouldn't be good at it.

  But you mustn't worry ahout me. It's not good ror you and this is the truth: I love my house and my garden, I'm truly happy when I'm illustrating hoohs and riding, and I've made wonderrul rriends here, writers, innkeepers, restaurant owners, shopkeepers, rarmers, and yes, Richard, too. And—my hig news ror today—I'm getting a dog! My neighbor has a litter or hlack Lahs and he gave me my choice and I chose the most heautirul and hy rar the smartest. He s delivering her Saturday, and I'll send pictures as soon as I have them. I've named her Hope.

  Luke took a mug of coffee back to the library and ran his thumb over the letters behind the marker he used to show where he left off each time he stopped reading. There still were dozens he had not read: the ones that had filled the three years from Pygmalion to the time Constance died. He remembered that he had wondered, when he was in Italy, whether Jessica had known of Constance's death. She must have known. Because the letters stopped.

  He sipped his coffee and gazed at the jumble on the table. Why did she name her dog Hope? What was she doing now? Did she change her mind and marry someone? Was she living with someone?

  And he knew that he could not wait any longer, spending time with Jessica only through her letters. He had to see her.

  He reached for the telephone. His hand hovered above it. The Magician was opening in Philadelphia in eleven days. But there was no reason now that he could not take a weekend off. It had been one of the smoothest rehearsals on record and everyone knew it, even Cort, who had become an excellent Daniel as soon as Kent admitted that some of the changes Cort had demanded had made the play stronger. They would continue to rehearse; there still would be problems to deal with; but a weekend off would be good for all of them.

  Besides, Luke thought, I have an obligation. I was supposed to deliver

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  Constance's collection of plays. I should have done it long before this. She wanted Jessica to have it.

  He felt a surge of anticipation as he picked up the telephone, the excitement of something new, something that had been building for a long time. He looked up the number for the airline. His travel agent would not be at work on Sunday, but airline desks would be open and it would not be difficult for the agent on duty to get him tickets to Seattle and Lopez Island on Friday evening, and back to New York late Sunday night.

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  laudia wore black, a lace blouse beneath a silk suit that made her seem taller, her beauty more formal, and people turned to watch as Maguy led her to Luke's table. "Luk
e, dear, don't get up." She bent and swiftly kissed him, then sat in the chair Maguy held for her. "Were you waiting long?"

  "A few minutes."

  "I'm so sorry. But you know I hate sitting at a table alone."

  "So you made sure I'd be here first. Were you watching for me?"

  She smiled gaily. "Of course. From Palio. I saw you walk across the plaza. Have you ordered wine?"

  "Yes." The sommelier arrived, and Luke waited for the ritual of opening and pouring before turning back to Claudia. "You're looking very well. That's a wonderful suit."

  "Why, Luke, how sweet. And how lovely that you noticed. I bought it just for tonight." She raised her glass. "To us."

  "You know I won't drink to that. I don't even know what it means," He felt the familiar stirrings of impatience and frustration that always came to him when she behaved like a child, believing that if she repeated something often enough it would be an indisputable fact. "To you," he said, touching her glass. "Now tell me what's wrong."

  "Nothing's wrong."

  "Last night you sounded as if you needed help."

  "Tell me about the play. Are you ready for previews in Philadelphia?"

  "Claudia."

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  128 ~ Judith Michael

  She studied the menu, then set it aside. "I heard your advance ticket sales are fabulous. You must be so pleased. Of course, it's because of your name. And I suppose Abby Deming's; but everyone knows it's mainly you."

  "Is it about Ed Peruggia.^"

  "Luke, why can't we just have dinner and be happy together without all this probing?"

  He contemplated her for a moment. "Did you ever call Gladys about volunteer work?"