by Lisa Samson
Yes, we must have a detached Creator who set the top aspinning and watches in fascination as it bumps around from corner to corner, sometimes crashing into a table leg, sometimes getting stuck in one of the cracks between the floor tiles.
It’s very late and I cannot sleep. So I wander this apartment that Hort inherited from his well-heeled parents. Too bad they couldn’t have taken these hideous antiques with them. Rococo. And who in her right mind thought more was, well, more?
I see the foot of his bed from the hallway and cannot help but wander inside our room.
I tuck the blanket further beneath his chin, the flesh still smooth from the shave I gave him earlier.
He is ageless inside, clear spirited. Always curious and bright. Before he was sick, when I was with him, I felt like I’d been dropped into a book about me where the author knew exactly what I needed, exactly what I loved, exactly who I was; who didn’t expect me to be fully developed and capable of great wisdom and perfection at the outset of the story.
I lied to him about my age, told him I just looked young but was really in my early thirties. I’ve always acted rather mature or, as my college roommate said, “stuffy and snobby.” Hort wasn’t angry so much as relieved when he found out after he’d closely examined our marriage certificate.
“I couldn’t get over how much older I looked and felt than you, Fairly.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, at least you weren’t underage. And at least the romance was whirlwind and you stuck to your principles. Egads, how appalling it would have been otherwise.”
We lived inside a happy little novella for three years until the diagnosis. Him the loving mentor, me the protagonist with far to go.
I click on the light by the couch, grab my book, and sit down.
So my little books allow me an escape, but between the death of my parents, the illness of my husband, and, wouldn’t you know it, my old cat dying four weeks ago, you can just keep your hideous memoirs. I’m living one. It’s hard enough to forget even on the best of days.
What will I do when he’s gone? I’ve already quit my job, and with what he leaves behind, I’ll have enough money to do whatever I want. But the heart has gone out of me. I couldn’t design a beautiful room for myself these days, let alone anybody else. And I was so good at it once. Really, really good.
Hort told me so all the time.
Georgia
I don’t know if I can visit her grave again. But I’m sitting here on the little stone bench nearby, and though she’s gone, something about being close to her remains comforts me. My mother was like that. Her presence was a delight, like finding yourself in the middle of the forest with your favorite food spread out on the softest blanket imaginable. And there were no ants, no rain, a perfect breeze, and nothing but time.
Perhaps I’ll come back again and again with both of them here.
Or perhaps I’ll finally move forward with both of them here.
The dirt on Gaylen Bishop’s grave is still fresh, and the aroma of the newly turned earth works its way into my nostrils. Maybe I’ll get along better with him now that he’s dead.
Part II
Purple
Two Years Later
Fairly
The alarm rang five minutes ago, and already I sit on the sofa in my apartment office, anticipating my espresso, sketching in my new journal, a sweet one covered in lime-green silk with a ribbon bookmark beaded with amber. Oh, this client, when they see the 1924 Gerrit Rietveld chair I located for their salon, well, they’ll kiss my feet. Forty thousand pounds opening bid at Christie’s! I am a miracle worker.
Solo knocked on the lintel and peeked around.
“Fairly?”
“Come on in, Solo.”
“That machine gave me much trouble again today. I say we schedule an exorcism.” He laughed, the bald spot at the back of his head reflecting the morning sun.
“You didn’t have to make me my coffee, Solo.”
“I was making myself one. Would be bad form not to fix one for you, too.”
He hands me the demitasse cup, and I sip. Oh my, yes.
“Good?”
“Oh yes, Solo. Perfect, devilish machine or not. How’s the book coming?”
“Good. Still on Gilgamesh. Your husband uncovered too much for me to do on Gilgamesh.”
I laugh. Not because I understand what he’s talking about, but because in Solo I still get a little bit of Hort.
With the money Hort left, I’ve kept Solo on the project. More for my sake than the project’s, truthfully.
I stand up. “I’m going to toast my bagel. Want one?”
“Oh no. Ate at home at break of day.”
“How were the boys this morning?”
The smile consumes his ebony face. “Aw, Fairly. Andrew come home from school yesterday with a … what do you call them?” He circled his eye with his finger.
“A black eye?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Oh, my heavens. What happened?”
Solo laughed. “Some big boy picking on a little boy. Andrew decided to balance the scales.” He leaned forward. “My religious tradition tells me that violence isn’t the way. But my father’s heart rejoices that he took up for the lesser.”
“You have good boys.”
“Yes. I’m very blessed. Must commence the day!”
He left the room then. Hard to believe he was almost done with his MDiv and then some lucky church would get him. Probably a Wesleyan church or a Methodist church, as Solo is of that ilk. I’m surprised he doesn’t do more preaching at me.
My parents, also Wesleyan, thought of John Wesley, with all his talk of good works and hearts burning within, as almost another incarnation. Our little church down in Essex drove me crazy. Sister This. Brother That.
Oh wait, it was Wesleyan Holiness. Did that make a difference?
But where did all their Holy Roller ways leave Mom and Dad? Just as dead as anybody else. So much for all of that. I believe if God “calls home” those who loved Him so much, and right on a set of train tracks in Highlandtown for crying out loud, maybe God and love really aren’t one and the same. And maybe He’s not so creative as people say. I mean, please! Hit by a train? How could such devastation be mixed with such unoriginality?
I expected a bolt of lightning for that, or at least a shock when I plugged in my blow-dryer. It’s not really that I’m mad at God. I just think maybe we’ve made Him a little too earthy, as if Someone capable of setting this world in motion is fretting over the fits and starts we call our days, arranging them like tiles on the celestial bathroom floor as if we honestly and truly believe our lives even register when dropped on the scales of infinity.
As far as I’m concerned, the deists had it right.
Hort would have strongly disagreed. As would Solo, I’m sure.
Georgia
Uncle Geoffrey calls at 7:00 a.m. as I stand before my window watching and listening to the day’s prelude. And good night, my head hurts! I know better than to mix my alcohols, but Mr. Beam gave out before I did, and all that was left was some of that Wild Turkey, curse that gobbler.
Who knows where UG is? London? Bangladesh?
“Twenty-two years ago today, Georgie.”
He never says hi first. No need with Uncle Geoffrey, truly the only steady man in my life now and maybe ever.
“Where are you?”
“My house.”
So he’s home in Lexington, Kentucky.
“Are you doing all right, hon?”
“Yeah. I have a hate-hate relationship with April 26.”
“Me too.” He takes a long drag on his cigarette. Uncle Geoffrey smokes like a barbecue grill and somehow manages to not smell like an ashtray. Don’t know how he does it. And he’s so granola otherwise. “So let’s talk about her. I’ll start.”
Uncle Geoffrey tells me a new story every year.
“Good. I haven’t made my coffee yet.”
“If
I was there I’d make it for you Moroccan style.”
“And I’d drink it.”
“Well, then go ahead and brew away while I tell you about the time Polly and I put on a concert in the neighborhood to make money to buy a guitar. Have I told you that one?”
“Nope.”
UG played a beautiful guitar. Classical mostly, but he could jive when the desire struck. Mom always said I was like her baby brother in many ways, a hybrid able to straddle two worlds at once.
“Well. Mother decided she’d buy no more musical instruments for us. Polly went through clarinet, flute, and trombone before she finally settled on the piano—an instrument, I might add, we’d always had around the house. I tried out violin, trumpet, and oboe—oh yes, and the French horn. Wasn’t bad on the horn, but somehow, inside me, I knew the guitar would usher me right to the Promised Land. So your mother, the consummate benevolent big sister, decided to take matters into her own hands.”
Everybody loved Polly because Polly cheered everybody on, all the while dancing to her own tune.
I choose the strongest coffee in my cupboard. Knowing what the morning’s bringing with it, is it any wonder I was mixing my alcohol last night? Twenty-two years later and the day she died still feels like stepping on a nail, only this year it’s more rusty than last. I need to get a job, to think beyond this, to weave some sort of purpose from these strips of people who compose me. But old Gaylen left me enough cash to live this simple lifestyle just fine.
Fine, fine, fine.
I don’t know whether to thank him or curse him. If I were hungry I’d find a job. If I had no bed, I’d be filling out applications. If I were naked … well, if I were naked, I guess I’d be beyond anything remotely constructive. Unless I were taking a shower, and I barely need to do that anymore with Sean still in Richmond. Sean, who hasn’t knocked on my door for years now, not since Dad’s funeral.
“We decided to go all out, utilize every instrument we had some measure of proficiency with. Polly invited the entire neighborhood as well as our school teachers, fellow students, and the parishioners at church. We even worked up Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’ for the occasion.”
Another big drag. Another long exhale.
“Mother just shook her head and said, ‘Do what you want, but don’t expect any help from me.’ We wanted to do it all on our own anyway.
“We charged a dollar a ticket, and as the day grew near, we realized our living room wouldn’t hold all the people who said they’d attend. Polly made an appointment with the principal at a nearby church school and asked if we could use their hall and that we’d be willing to pay a fee if necessary.”
Sounded like Mom, who never relented when something was important to her.
I press the button on the espresso machine, the grating sound of the grinding beans flinging away any remainders of sleep. I smell the essential, strong yet bright aroma, watch the stream of black liquid flow into my cup. Mom loved a good cup of coffee. And crisp bacon. I begin to root through the fridge. A stupid activity, as the frigid, fallow cube only advertises that yes, Georgia Bishop has nothing to live for.
Oh, sorry. A hard chunk of sharp cheddar hulks jacketless, shivering in the corner of the veggie drawer. I have no idea where it came from, but I’m sure I bought it with the best of intentions.
I slide some Chunky Monkey ice cream out of the freezer instead. My stomach lurches, but oh well. I’ll dodge the chocolate slabs for now.
“We pulled it off. Well, Polly pulled it off. Even then her talent evidenced itself in a way mine never would.
“Afterward, she was hired by several people to play at their parties, and her weekends were full from that day forward. Sometimes I joined her, on the guitar, of course.” A melancholy drag this time. “I miss her, Georgia Ella.”
Georgia Ella Bishop.
See? Mom liked Ella too. She even accompanied the great lady once when Ella showed up at the Ten O’Clock Club unannounced on a humid night in June 1968. June sixth to be precise. Upon recalling that day, Mom would hug me tight and say, “Next to you, baby, that was the highlight of my life.”
“I miss her too. I wonder what she would be like now?”
“Just the same. With some wrinkles.”
“Sort of like you.” My uncle and my mother looked like the perfect couple.
“Have you been playing your organ, Georgie?”
“Some.” Lie.
“Piano?”
“Some.” ’Nother lie.
“Did you take the job at that church on Charles Street I found out about?”
“No.” I’m a liar, not an imbecile. At least not until two in the afternoon.
“Georgia …”
“It’s gone, Uncle Geoffrey. The music’s just gone.”
“No doubt you feel that way. But I know better. It’s on a little hiatus.”
“And now the fingers aren’t what they were.”
“Oh please, Georgie. You could get that back easily enough.”
He’s right. “I don’t know …”
“Well, anyway. I’m trying to convince Fairly to come visit me.”
“As in Fairly Superficial?”
“Not nice, dear. Funny, but not nice. Have you heard from your cousin recently?”
“No. And that’s just fine. I only call her if I need decorating advice.”
He laughed. “Too true. I wish I could have convinced her to come down. Despite the perceived glamour of her life, I think she’s as lonely as you get.”
“I doubt she has one free night a week.”
“Busy doesn’t mean warmly loved and cared for.”
“Good luck convincing her, nevertheless.”
“Oh, I think I’ll get her here eventually. I’ll pull the Hort card. He really would have loved coming to Lexington. It’s a nice little town, Georgie. You’d know that if you deigned to visit.”
“And lose my stool at the Ten O’Clock Club?” I mean, without my showing up every afternoon, they’d lose half their profits.
“Well, who can compete with that?”
I add some sugar to the brew. “So tell me what you’re working on these days.”
“Mountain-top-removal mining awareness.”
“What? What’s that?”
“Precisely.”
So here’s my uncle in a nutshell: Something’s wrong. I’ll fix it. I am the Atom Ant of societal ills.
Fairly
When Krakatau, or Krakatoa as I always called it, erupted back in 1883, the fine ash and aerosol cultivated such vividly crimson sunsets, the afterglows were mistaken as fires. Fire engines rushed out, clanging their bells, spotted dogs barking, in New York City, Poughkeepsie, and New Haven.
Did they just keep driving toward the scarlet light? And was it like keeping pace with the sun as they sped along the highway? Oh yes, I suppose they would be driving horse-drawn fire engines. Hardly the same thing.
Over thirty-six thousand people died after Krakatoa blew, mostly from the resulting tidal waves, but impossibly beautiful sunsets delighted people for three years following. Hardly a fair setup.
Funny how life works like that. Funny and sad, and for some reason it angers me that beauty is almost always birthed from pain. Many’s the day I wonder if God realizes just how silly that plan really is.
Oh no, not again! This note from Solo sat on the counter, and it was only three o’clock. How long he left before that was anyone’s guess.
Dear Fairly,
Andrew is sick, and I must go pick him up at school and take him to the clinic. Tavern on the Green will seat you at 8:30 for that business dinner—I figured you forgot to make the reservation.
He was right about that.
The coffee company called and left a message. They cannot come to repair the machine until next Tuesday.
Just lovely. Another thing to do.
I need to work out or these abs will be flabs.
Why not simply order a new espresso machine directly from the supplier?
Great thought.
But first, I need to find out who murdered the director of the tea museum in my latest book. Too bad the Le Corbusier lounger I ordered for myself isn’t being delivered until tomorrow! That would make for a comfy read.
Cost a pretty penny, yes. But I deserve it.
I dial my boyfriend, Braden. The fifth in the string of men since Hort died. They’re always pretty. Always smart. Always talkative. Hopefully he’ll agree to meet me for dinner, because I forgot to schedule that client. Good. Another night out of the apartment, and I found the cutest shoes to wear with the vintage cocktail dress I picked out this morning.
Clarissa
1994
The father leans down on his haunches and takes the little girl’s arm, gently rubbing her hand.
“Clarissa? Will you be all right here on the sofa? I won’t be out long.”
He remembers the day he and his wife brought her home from the foster parents who cared for her before the adoption. He couldn’t have imagined this scenario. But his wife changed one day. He honestly didn’t mean to get so angry at Phyllis, and he hadn’t touched her since. Why couldn’t she forgive him?
The little girl looks at her father with her dark, colorless eyes, blinking her bangs out of the way.
She likes the TV, the little girl. The happy people who get mad or sad but always get happy again. The pretty clothes and the way the mothers and the fathers smile when their children enter the room.
The little girl watches them for hours and hours. Inside of her, when the nice TV father puts a sandwich in front of the son or the daughter, or when the nice TV mother sits on the edge of the son’s or daughter’s bed, the little girl makes a place for them to do that for her as well, and she sometimes believes that they do, that maybe someone nice just dropped her off here and left to go shop for brightly colored groceries in crisp brown sacks, and that maybe they’ll wake her up in the middle of the night, gather her in their arms, and take her back where she belongs.
After the show she runs to the window, the big curved window in the kitchen. She can see the next-door neighbor’s driveway from there. They’re like the TV family, they are. And the next-door mom has just shut her own car door and is walking around the car to help the man sitting in the other seat.
