A Note from an Old Acquaintance
Page 4
When Brian reached the bed the nurses drew aside. Armen hovered nearby, his swarthy face etched with grief and concern.
Now that Penny’s face held no life, it appeared as though it were a replica fashioned from mottled gray wax. Her chest no longer rose and fell with that terrible robotic precision and his mind, rejecting that stillness, provided the illusion that it moved as before, but that hollow metallic sigh, the sound that had provided the accompaniment to their lives for the past two years was gone.
Armen grasped his shoulder and spoke gently into his ear. “We did everything we could, Brian. We think it was either a blood clot or an aneurysm. We won’t know for sure until we perform an autopsy.”
Brian nodded and remained silent, his puffy, red-rimmed eyes still riveted on her face. He reached out and took hold of one of her hands, caressing the soft roadmap of veins and feeling the delicate bones shifting beneath the cool, dry flesh. Tears threatened to overwhelm him again. A moment later he leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“Goodbye, Sweetheart.... Please give a kiss to Joey for me and tell him his daddy loves and misses him so very much.”
5
August 21, 2006
Dearest Brian:
I’ve been sitting here for the last hour, typing and retyping this e-mail, trying to figure out how to express the inexpressible. I’m so, so sorry about your wife, Brian. Please know that. When I read your e-mail, and then heard the news reports, I felt as if I’d lost a dear friend, and we’ve never even met. The only thing I can be sure of is that if she loved you, she must have been a wonderful person, too. And, of course, I understand that you need to postpone your trip. You need to take care of you. I wish I could be there to help you through this, but you know I’m here any time you want to talk or if you prefer e-mailing, that’s fine, too. I’m saying a prayer for you...and Penny.
All my best,
Joanna
September 2, 2006
Dear Joanna:
Thank you so much for your condolences. They meant a great deal to me. And please forgive me for not writing you sooner. There was so much to do, arrangements to make, the memorial service, etc. What was so amazing is how many people attended, people from all over the country, some who knew her from childhood and hadn’t seen her for over twenty years! The media was low-key, for once, something for which I’m very grateful. It was her wish to have her ashes scattered from a favorite hilltop in Malibu. The sunset was breathtaking that night. I take solace that she and Joey are finally together.
Thanks again for keeping me in your thoughts.
Brian
September 19, 2006
Dear Brian:
Now it’s my turn to ask your forgiveness. Ever since we instituted a Summer Session last year, it gives us basically no time to prepare for the Fall. It’s nuts! Student evaluations, new student orientations, faculty meetings, fire and hazmat inspections, blah, blah, blah. It seems the older I get, the busier I get with bureaucratic nonsense. Less and less time for the creative things I love. But you don’t want to hear me complain, do you?
The one bright spot is a prospective student I interviewed this week. Her portfolio was stunning and she shows so much promise. Without sounding like an ego-maniac, she reminds me of me when I was that age, so eager to take the art world by storm. I think she could really do it—go all the way. To have a student like this is something every teacher dreams about.
What’s happening with your work? Are you writing anything new? Got to go, someone just stuck their head in my office and told me there’s yet another faculty meeting. Yuck. Talk to you soon.
Best,
Joanna
October 3, 2006
Dear Joanna:
I really love reading your e-mails. They make me realize how normal life can be. Mine’s anything but normal; but I suppose it’s not too shabby having two studios fighting over you. It’s almost embarrassing, except for the money they keep offering.
The writing’s slogging along. It’s hard not having Penny as a sounding board. She was always great at telling me that I was too full of myself and then showing me the perfect solution to my literary conundrum. Now, there’s a ten-dollar word for you free of charge.
Oh, before I forget, I spoke to my publicist this morning and he’s bugging me to reschedule my little tour, he says that even though A Nest of Vipers is still hot, the flames won’t burn forever. He’s right, of course. So, I’m thinking of early November. Will that work for you? Let me know.
Brian
October 7, 2006
Dear Brian:
Early November would be perfect. Even though I’ll be in the midst of evaluations again, I should be able to break away for that dinner we talked about. You up for Tandoori again?
Seriously, I’m so looking forward to seeing you, though I have to confess I’m more than just a little bit nervous. You nervous, too?
As for your writing, I have every confidence you’ll be able to get through any momentary dry spells. You’re too good not to. Everything I’ve read of yours confirms that. And I would absolutely have no apologies concerning those two studios. Let them fight over you. So much the better for you.
Oh, by the way, just got word that I’m up for a “genius grant.” You know, those foundations that give out big fat checks with no strings attached, just because they think you’re cool? Well, I think I’ve finally got them all fooled. Hah! All kidding aside, it’s a great honor, and I still have you to thank for it, even after all these years.
Anyway, sorry for my blather. Let me know when you’ve firmed up your plans and we’ll do this mad thing.
Yours always,
Joanna
October 8, 2006
Dear Joanna:
CONGRATULATIONS! Wow, a genius grant? That’s something I’ll never have to worry about. Seriously, I always knew you had it in you. I’ll bet your family is very proud.
Oh, not to toot my own horn too much, but I’m going to be on Jay Leno tomorrow night. Should be fun, as they want me to sit in with the band and trade licks with Kevin Eubanks. Should be more interesting than listening to me try to one-up Jay.
Congratulations again. Now you can treat me to that Tandoori!
Brian
October 11, 2006
Dear Brian:
It’s all your fault! I stayed up and watched you on Leno the other night and ended up not falling asleep until one o’clock. You’re bad! No, actually you were terrific, especially with the band. I really love that old Cream tune and you and Kevin really “cut heads.”
And thank you for your kind words about my grant. My son, Zack, is about as proud for his mom as a boy can be, though he tends to be rather quiet about it. But isn’t that typical of teenagers? As for Erik...well, he was certainly happy to hear about the money, though it’s not as if we need it. When I told him I was thinking of donating it to charity, he just about blew a gasket, until I asked him why he was allowed to be the only philanthropist in the family. We seem to be at odds all the time, Brian. But there I go complaining again. Anyway, I can’t wait to see you. And you’re on for that Tandoori.
Fondly,
Joanna
BRIAN STARED AT HIS bedroom ceiling, waves of emotion racing through him. Memories were such precious, fragile things, remaining hidden in the recesses of one’s brain for years until a troubled night’s sleep and a wandering mind coaxed them back into conscious light. Lying there, in the dark, he clearly recalled sights and sounds comprising moments both heartbreaking and sublime.
One such image nearly brought him to tears, and yet there was nothing about it that connoted sadness. It was simply the memory of Joanna smiling at him while they sat together at a sidewalk café one unseasonably warm day, the sun shining through her fiery curls and her eyes shining with love—a Kodak moment frozen forever in the convolutions of his brain.
He’d loved Joanna, deeply and without reservation, and he’d wanted to remain in her arms forever.
A part of him didn’t want to give substance to that thought, though it would seem his subconscious had other ideas. Brian sat up and shook off the last remaining tendrils of slumber’s grip from his mind, not wanting to ponder that question either.
Downstairs beside the front door, the alarm pad gave up its hourly “beep.” That told him it was now 5:00 AM. He’d been awake for over two hours, and there wasn’t a prayer of him going back to sleep, now. Might as well face the day. He staggered into the bathroom and showered, grateful for the hot spiky spray sluicing down his body.
Fifteen minutes later he sat at his desk holding a steaming mug of Starbucks French Roast, re-reading Joanna’s e-mails. The warmth and contentment he’d felt from his earlier reminiscence spread through him once again, warmth far greater than the coffee could provide.
There were no new e-mails from her, but he hadn’t really expected anything, since the ball was in his court.
So, why was he afraid to call her? After all, she’d been the one to contact him out of the blue after fifteen years, and they’d been corresponding now for nearly three months.
She’s given you her phone number, you dope! Why don’t you use it?
If there had been any bad feelings on her part it was obvious from the tone of her e-mails they were long gone. As for his feelings, that was another story. All that remained were regrets.
Too damned many of those.
So, what the hell was he waiting for? It was just after eight on the East Coast, she’d be there in her office—right now—getting ready for her first class. Call her now, Weller, before it’s too late—before you chicken out again!
Shaking his head, he picked up the phone and dialed, fumbling the number twice, his stomach fluttering. “Jesus Christ, you’d think I was a teenager calling a girl for a first date,” he mumbled.
“Good morning, Boston Art School.”
“Yes. Professor Richman, please.”
“Please hold.”
The phone switched to bland hold music for a few agonizing moments then someone picked up.
“This is Joanna.”
Brian swallowed the lump in his throat.
“Hello? Anyone there?”
“So...how’s my favorite Professor?” he said, managing to keep his voice smooth and steady.
“What? W—who is this?” she said, annoyed.
“Hi, Joanna, it’s Brian.”
He heard a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, my God, I’m sorry. How are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“Feeling like a ditz, for one thing. I thought you were some kind of weirdo making a crank call. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize your voice. Forgive me?”
“Of course, I do. Besides, I’ve been called a lot worse, especially by some of the critics.”
They both laughed.
“Got to tell you, though,” he said, “your first e-mail really caught me by surprise.”
“I can imagine.” She laughed again. “It’s so great to finally speak to you.”
In spite of his vivid memories of her, he’d forgotten the unique timbre of her voice: a soft huskiness with a hint of her Long Island roots. The sound of it sent a delicious shiver up his spine.
“It’s my pleasure,” he said, swallowing that lump again. “I’ve wan-ted to call you a few dozen times. Guess I was just chicken ’til now.”
Joanna laughed. “That makes two of us.”
It was funny. He’d thought about Joanna every now and then for years, imagining a moment just like this, and all the things he’d say—needed to say. And now, when that moment had arrived he was turning into a tongue-tied schoolboy.
“There’s so much I want to say to you—” Brian began.
“I know, me too.”
He wanted to say something witty right then, something that would make her laugh. He’d forgotten that, too, how musical it sounded, and how much he’d adored it.
“So, are we still on for November?” she asked, breaking yet another uncomfortable silence.
“I should know more in a day, or so. My publicist is working out the details. What’s your schedule like?”
“I’m pretty free in the evenings. Erik’s still busy with his building, Zack is doing set design for his school play, and I’ve got another show opening in a week. I’m ready, but to tell you the truth, I’m a little bit nervous about it.”
“You shouldn’t be. They don’t give genius grants for nothing, you know. And I have to confess I couldn’t resist Googling you. Your art’s wonderful, Joanna, even better than I remember. You’ve grown.”
There was another silence, but Brian sensed this one was different, that she was absorbing the tenor of his words, measuring them. “Coming from you that means a lot,” she said, finally.
“Well, I’m not exactly an art connoisseur—”
“And that’s exactly why it means so much. You’re not trying to read anything into my work, like some of the critics and the phonies do. You were never a phony.”
Now it was his turn to measure her words. They sent an electric charge through him.
“Listen,” she said, her voice pitching lower, “you actually caught me right before a meeting with one of my students.”
“Jeez, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’ve made my day. Give me a call when you know what you’re doing and we’ll set something up. It’ll be so good to see you.”
He hung up a moment later, feeling aglow. “You’ve made my day, too, Joanna.”
The next several days were a whirlwind of activity. There were two print interviews, one with Writer’s Digest and another for Esquire. He’d enjoyed doing them both, but while the Esquire article would reach a wider audience, it was the WD piece that had fired him up, the young journalist reminding him of his own enthusiasm in wanting to become a writer. It also made him feel guilty as hell.
Then there were the mundane aspects of being a published writer, such as poring over cryptic royalty statements and checking through the galleys on a new paperback edition for one of his earlier books, a little potboiler called, Extreme Makeover. There’d been a minor legal flap over the title with the producers of the popular TV shows. Their trademark attorney wanted Brian to change the title, claiming that re-publication of such an old title was an obvious, transparent ploy to capitalize on the show’s popularity; but his publisher was adamant. No way.
Clearly, since he’d written the book nearly ten years ago, and had been published under that title, the issue of prior use was moot, at least that’s what his own lawyer had said. They were in the clear. But Brian felt the producers had a point. In his opinion, it was a transparent ploy, albeit a clever one. Deciding to take the proactive approach, he called the executive producer and smoothed everything over. It helped that the man was a fan of his books, and Brian was able to persuade him that keeping the present title was good for both of them, although he did promise to have his publisher avoid using a similar typeface.
Once that was out of the way, he gave the new introduction a quick look, found no errors, and initialed the pages with his okay. He placed them into the outgoing pile for his messenger service.
After a quick lunch, he picked up the phone and called Kevin.
“Anything new with the Boston trip?” he asked.
“You’re cookin’,” Kevin said. “I’ve got five stores lined up, and it looks like another two will come on board in the next few days. Good mix, too, like you asked for. You were right about those little Mom and Pops, they practically crapped themselves.”
Brian grinned. “When are the dates?”
“Your first signing is at eleven AM on November 11th at the Prudential Center Barnes & Noble. How long did you want to stay in the area, anyway? Looks like I can keep you busy for a bit.” He laughed.
Brian chewed his lip, mulling this over. Realistically, he couldn’t stay there for longer than a we
ek, maybe two if he really stretched it. He needed to be back in L.A. for a meeting with a producer looking to purchase A Nest of Vipers out from under the current option holders, when it came up for renewal next month. He stood to make a small fortune, and his agent had insisted he be present. And what about Joanna? What did he really expect when he saw her again? Pleasant conversation over an intimate meal—nothing more. Did he really want anything more than that? And what if their little reunion went badly (in spite of their friendly correspondence), descending into awkward silences peppered with agonizing realizations that they had nothing in common? How awful that would be. Then again, what if it didn’t go badly?
Get a grip, Weller. Make the trip short and sweet.
“You know, Kev, maybe we should keep it to the five you’ve got. I do too many of those and every Tom, Dick and Harry will be hawking autographed copies of Vipers on the street for pennies on the dollar.”
Kevin’s goofy laughter exploded from the phone’s earpiece. “I told you, you should have been a freaking publicist! Hah! When you’re right, you’re right. Okay, you got the Barnes & Noble on the eleventh, two Mom and Pops, one in Cambridge and another in Arlington, plus the B. Dalton in Chestnut Hill. I can’t remember the last one.” He coughed. “’scuse me, getting a cold, I think. Anyway, I’ll spread ’em over the course of a week. How’s that?”
“Perfect.”
“All right, Captain, keep your powder dry.”
They hung up and Brian checked the clock. Nearly two hours before he needed to head over to The Polo Lounge for breakfast with his agent. Might as well try and get some writing done, for all the good it would do.
In the study, Brian took the MAC out of sleep mode and spotted the blinking mailbox icon. Only one e-mail, this time, from someone called RedJewel@hotmail.com. The subject line read: A WORD OF ADVICE.