She fell silent and blinked several times, re-agitating the air and sending a satsuma-scented squall in Charles’s direction. She’d been talking for so long and with such run-on patterned inflections that it took him a few moments to realize that some sort of query had been posed and she was awaiting a response.
“You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought,” he said, buying time by stating the obvious.
What had she asked? He looked down—Had her eyes always been this huge and luminous? Had she always looked so much like Emmy?—and shuffled through her proposal. “You said something about having a personal connection to your project …”
“Yes.” She swallowed hard and readjusted her position, sitting back, crossing an ankle over her thigh, a habitual posture that didn’t carry its former cockiness since she held her hands in a demure, meditative fashion: two small nested bowls, precisely placed in the center of her lap. “My grandma had Alzheimer’s. We used to be really close until she got sick. She died over the summer. Toward the end, she didn’t know any of us, not even my mom, and … well, I’m just sorry that I didn’t find out more about her, and about the disease, before it, well, took her away from us.”
Here then, Charles understood, was the deeper circumstance beneath Romy Bertleson’s transformation. Sometimes, he thought, they really do flower right before your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, recalling that blooms do not always emerge in sunlight but can be forced by prolonged darkness and isolation, by sorrow.
Charles paused, waiting to see if Romy had more to divulge. Or ask.
She didn’t, and—recognizing a fellow tortoise when he saw one—Charles made no further attempt to invite her confidence. In his opinion (one in opposition to the current trend), teenagers had just as much right to hide within a carapace of privacy as adults.
“I’d be happy to be your adviser,” he said, “along with Ms. Hamilton.”
Romy’s eyes widened briefly—a toddler on the playground swing getting pushed just a little too high—but then she frowned and stared down into her upturned palms with such intensity that Charles wondered for a moment if she’d been conducting the interview with the aid of crib notes.
“Just get on the paperwork,” Charles continued, rising from his desk and ushering her toward the door. “I know it’s a pain, but it’s the way we do things.”
“Thanks, Mr. Marlow.”
Suddenly shedding her diffidence, she stood up straight and readjusted her camera in a resolute manner that made Charles afraid she was about to shoot his picture at point-blank range.
But she merely added “See you tomorrow!” and then clumped away on those heavy clog-like shoes with the urgency of Dorothea Lange on a deadline. Teenagers could be such chameleons.
Charles checked the clock: seven minutes until the bell.
After closing the door, he crossed the room and sank back into his beanbag chair, intending to resume reading. But he found that he was too distracted by shafts of light and shadow bending and crisscrossing as they fell between the satsuma trees.
Homo Scriptor, Homo Factum
Once in a while you might notice an elderly person—or even someone of my father’s generation—doodling a long series of loops like this:
Try it. It’s harder than it looks.
I said doodling, but it’s the wrong word, implying as it does a kind of mindlessness, an absence of awareness and intent, a physical correlate, perhaps, to daydreaming. A more accurate verb would be producing.
This will serve as your introduction to the handwriting system known as the Palmer Method. We’ll begin with basic loop practice.
What you’re aiming for is threefold: a perfectly smooth line, uniformity of loop size, and evenness of pen pressure. (A superior writing implement—my father’s Montegrappa Italia, for example—is a great assist in this regard, by the way.)
All of this requires maintaining a balance between control and relaxation—a challenge in any endeavor—and to this end, finding the right speed is both a vital part of the process and a highly personalized one, since most human beings move through life in a predetermined metronomic comfort zone. Going too fast will lend a frantic quality to the experience; going too slow will make one feel clunky, impatient, stalled, uncalibrated—a cog out of whack, a set of misaligned zipper teeth. One person’s largo is another person’s allegro, so when it comes to tempo, do not expect to succeed by emulating someone else, not your penmanship teacher, not a fellow student, not even that amazingly proficient little woman sitting in the Madonna’s Home waiting room. Success in the execution of Palmer loops demands that you locate the beat of your inner drummer.
Try again. Don’t lose heart.
When executed correctly—to the exacting standards imposed by the Palmer Method of business writing—the loops start to take on a three-dimensional look.
No worries. You’ll get it.
Trust me: practicing Palmer loops with dedication and sincerity is a worthy pursuit. Potentially beneficial side effects extend well beyond improved penmanship and include the following:
Loop practice lights up little-used or even failing connections within the brain.
It offers a low-cost, minimal-effort option for stress reduction, engendering the same kind of meditative tranquility that some people find from other kinds of repetitive physical actions: swimming laps, shooting hoops, kneading bread, knitting. No need for special equipment, fancy footwear, innate agility, or a gym membership; one need summon only enough energy to pick up a pen.
In rare cases, among the ascended masters, Palmer loops can open up traversable wormholes, portals through which the space-time traveler may access the distant past.
•♦•
Sister Giorgia Maria Fiducia D’Amati finds herself sitting alone at a wooden table in a large room with big windows. These surroundings—they are familiar, aren’t they?
She must be in one of the church-school classrooms.
Yes, that’s it.
Two of her sisters are over there, across the room, talking to a third person—perhaps the mother of a new student, for she is dressed in a modest and attractive manner, as mothers often are: skirt, cardigan, blouse. Or maybe she is a newly arrived novitiate. God knows they could use some new blood. She’s a bit old to be entering the convent, but then, one answers when one is called.
Their voices are quiet, indistinct; occasionally, they all turn to look at her.
There is no sign of the students, which is puzzling. Maybe they are still sleeping, or at recess, or at Mass.
To pass the time and to prepare for their arrival, Giorgia begins doing some loop practice. Her hands are all but useless now for anything but this:
Up, down, around … Up, down, around …
She feels the eyes of her sisters and the other woman upon her.
It might be best if you say goodbye now, the unknown woman says, before we take her to her room. It usually makes the transition easier. Giorgia’s sisters nod. Sister Martha brings a handkerchief to her face and dabs at her eyes, her cheeks. Please don’t worry, the woman adds. We’ll get her settled after you leave …
Their conversation continues. Giorgia has no idea who they are talking about or why this woman, this stranger, is speaking with such authority—and such composure! Why are they not, all of them, worried, as she is, about the whereabouts of the students?
Maybe the classroom location has been changed and Father forgot to tell her. (That would make sense. She has never been one of his favorites.)
Construction, renovation, fortification: could it be under way at last? Giorgia squints at the ceiling. The parish school roof has been in need of repair for so long. A disgrace, really. They’ve been teaching among buckets, paint cans, soup pots, and frying pans for months, maybe years, their voices all but drowned out by the incessant, tinny plinkaplinkaplink of falling water so that sometimes there’s nothing to do but abandon whatever lesson was planned, declare recess, hand out the Noah’s Ark bath toys, and rea
d from Genesis (and the waters prevailed upon the earth one hundred and fifty days), hoping by such actions to reassure their God that they understand and preserve in their hearts the lesson of this weather: they are to pray as the rain falls, without surcease. The occasional sun break, dear Lord, would not cause them to forget.
It is holy water falling on the heads of God’s unanointed children! some of her sisters joke when the roof leaks, but to Giorgia it is no laughing matter. An unbaptized child deserves all their prayers, and she makes of her sisters’ levity a weighty plea:
Lo, how He directs even the rain to bless them!
Giorgia slides off the chair seat and kneels.
O Lord, grant these unfortunates entry into Thy eternal kingdom, these, the mute, the broken, discarded as chaff upon the earth. And yet does not the chaff provide nourishment for the birds of winter—the quail, the cardinal, the sparrow? Surely, dear Father, Thou has prepared a kinder place for them in the life to come, and for these special ones it shall not be in heaven as it is on earth—where they are labeled imbecilic, defective, idiotic, retarded.
Where are they?
Maybe she is to teach outside today, in the meadow or on the beach. The students enjoy being outside when it is fine.
Giorgia looks out the picture window, the one facing the courtyard. The light is pale, the day is gray as usual, but the rain has stopped, at least for the moment, so perhaps …
Of course, even the picnic tables are soggy, but she could bring the parachutes.
No, wait. Not parachutes. Something else. Large and billowing, just the thing that is called for at a picnic …
Then it occurs to her—Oh no, please, no!—that perhaps Father has ordered that the students be reassigned, to Sister Frieda or (God forbid) Sister Elspeth. Maybe Giorgia has been deemed unfit and relieved of her responsibilities.
But to what place has she been sent and for what reason? What sin did she commit to be separated from her pupils in this manner?
Ah! There is one other explanation, the most likely yet.
She is being tested.
This would not be unprecedented; her life since girlhood has been replete with tests, trials, and sufferings, and God knows, she has passed them all. She has kept her faith. She has never doubted or relented, not once.
Getting up off her knees and resuming her place at the table, she begins again.
Up, down, around … Up, down, around …
She looks up. Her sisters stand before her, their expressions strangely pitying; the woman stands behind them, and now, a few feet behind her, another stranger has appeared: a man, huge, dressed in white, his expression austere. One of God’s fallen? All that’s missing are his wings.
Sister Martha gathers Giorgia into a lengthy, firm embrace; she is crying, that’s obvious now, but why?
Sister Frances hugs her as well. Her mustache and chin whiskers need tending. She too—is it possible?—has tears in her eyes.
Goodbye, Sister, they are saying. Goodbye, God bless, we will see you again soon.
Giorgia is irritated. Of course they’ll see one another again soon—at supper, at evening prayer, at vespers. How can they leave when there is still no sign of the children? Why do they not answer her questions?
Giorgia waves them off brusquely, adding, “Bene! Fuori,” causing Sister Martha to produce a new storm system of tears. “Risolvo il problema da sola! Dio mi aiuterà!”
Her sisters depart, arm in arm, their heads bent. Giorgia is still angry with them, although she cannot help but feel a twinge of sadness and regret as well. Her temper has always been a problem; temper, pride, recklessness, foolhardiness. It’s been thus since she was a girl.
But now, she has work to do, and she strides off in search of her pupils.
The woman intercepts her, blocking her path. The tall man takes her by the arm, his grip firm. Giorgia struggles, but she cannot get away. Even Giorgia’s strength—and she is strong, forte, like a man—is no match for a fallen angel. Is he taking her away? No. No!
“Devo rimanere qui e aspettare per gli studenti!”
They wrestle her down the hall, past other rooms with open doors—
Who are those blank-eyed people? Giorgia wonders, growing more and more fearful. All old, all alone. Is this hell? Where are the children?
—and into an unfamiliar, smaller room with a bed, a table, a bureau, a chair, and a window; the view is of a sunflower field.
The fallen angel releases his grip. The woman speaks in a calm voice. This is your new room, Giorgia. See? All your things are here.
At least there is a desk, small but serviceable. She sits at once and begins to comfort herself in the best way she knows, shaping her hand around what only she can see, beginning again: practice and prayer, prayer and practice. God knows. God sees. God understands. It is but another way of saying the rosary.
If only the students would come. Even one would be enough. Just one …
O Raphael, Angel of Happy Meetings, lead us toward those we are waiting for, those who wait for us, those dear ones we seek!
Until then, she waits. She works. She holds fast to her faith and remains diligent in her industry.
Up, down, around …
God or His angels will send someone. Sooner or later. Here or elsewhere.
Till then, she goes on.
•♦•
They are watching a Thomas the Tank Engine video in the big room after lunch—all except Big Mal, who always goes outside after they eat to smoke a cigarette and talk on the phone—when there’s the sound of the front door opening.
I bet I know who that is, Cody, Esther says from her chair. I bet that’s your dad.
It is. It is Dad. He is carrying a grocery bag.
Hello, Cody. How are you, son? I brought you something …
Dad reaches into the bag: Here you go, buddy. Have fun.
He pulls out two large blocks of packaged ramen noodles, sets them on the floor, and then steps back several feet.
Cody rushes across the room and snatches up the blocks. Securing them against the side of his torso, he gallops to the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room: this is where he is allowed to do this work, here and nowhere else.
Dad follows, coming around to the kitchen side of the counter. Raisa is leaning against the sink, looking at a magazine.
How you doin’ today, Mr. Marlow? Esther asks from her chair.
I’m okay, Esther, how about you?
Fine. Just fine, thank you.
Dad sets a small white plastic tub on the counter directly in front of Cody. This is a tool Cody needs. Soon the work will begin.
How about you, Raisa? Dad says.
Not bad.
Do you mind if I make a fresh pot of coffee?
Not a bit.
And could I trouble you for some aspirin?
You bet.
Raisa’s hands unlock and open one of the drawers and give Dad a bottle—Here you go—Dad pours three pills into his hand, the bottle goes away, Raisa locks the drawer, all this while Cody stands and watches and waits. He needs to get to work.
Cody starts tapping his hand on a block of noodles so that it makes a noise. Raisa reads; she doesn’t look up. Dad pours a glass of water, puts the pills in his mouth, takes a drink, swallows.
Cody grabs Raisa’s magazine.
Hey! Raisa says.
Cody! Dad says. Give that back to Raisa. Right now!
Cody holds out the magazine, Raisa takes it and moves out of reach.
Cody grabs both blocks of noodles and starts banging them together.
Okay, Cody, I get it. Dad rubs his head. Just give me a minute …
He brings out the other needed tools: Cody’s mortar-and-pestle collection. Cody is not permitted to keep these in his bedroom.
Dad places the mortar-and-pestle sets on the kitchen counter: marble, wood, clay, stone, granite; little, medium, big, bigger, biggest.
There you go. Everything okay now?
<
br /> Cody smiles; he enjoys seeing all his tools—but he does not enjoy Dad leaning on the counter and looking at him, too close, even though he is on the other side. Cody reaches across the counter and pushes Dad’s face away.
Cody! Raisa says. Too rough! You hurt your father? After he bring those noodles for you?
Cody looks down and crosses his arms, wedging his fists into his armpits.
It’s okay, Raisa, Dad says, backing away. My fault.
I’m sorry, Mr. Marlow. You have your coffee.
Raisa puts the other tools away.
Cody waits.
I set timer now. Raisa’s voice is quiet but mad. She points a finger. Ten minutes. No more.
That’s right, Esther says from her chair. You want a sticker, you have to put those noodles away the second that timer goes off. No fussing.
Finally, he begins. This is how the work is done:
First, he rips the wrapping off one of the big blocks and tosses it into the plastic tub.
How has he been today? Dad asks Raisa.
Inside are twelve smaller packages.
Rough at start, but things better since after lunch …
He stacks these smaller packages in four piles of three.
Look at him go! Esther says. He sure does love playing with those noodles …
He takes a package from one of the stacks, tears away the wrapping, and locates the small silver square package inside; this too goes into the bin.
Hey, Mr. Marlow. Big Mal comes back inside, smelling of smoke. Cody hunches over; his head is so low that his nose almost touches the mortar’s rim.
Hi, Mal, Dad says.
After Cody places the block of noodles in the mortar, he takes up the pestle and begins, setting up a rhythm:
Down-up, down-up, down-up, down-up …
He smashes for a while, and then he changes to grinding:
Twist-twist-twist-turn, twist-twist-twist-turn …
It can take a long time to grind the noodles until they are just right: small and fine, like sand. The timer almost always goes off before then, and sometimes he can’t help making a fuss. On those days, no sticker.
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