One More Time

by Deborah Cooke

  Or maybe it had been Gregory the Great in his Moralia who had weighed in on the issue.

  Either way, Leslie knew that her reading this letter, which had never been intended to slide beneath her gaze, was plain wrong. There was no middle ground. The right choice, the only choice, was to replace the letter where she had found it, unread.

  Still, Leslie wanted to know. And under the circumstances, she could justify her desire to know, perhaps even her need to know.

  If not her right to know.

  People talk about having a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other: Leslie’s devil had always gotten short shrift. What else could be expected when the angel was a saint, none other than Bernard of Clairvaux, founder of the Cistercian Order? Leslie had written her doctoral thesis on Bernard’s interpretation of the Song of Solomon, and she knew far too much about how ol’ Bernie’s mind had worked.

  That’s what Matt had called him: ol’ Bernie. There had been three of them in the marriage for a while, but since one had been dead for a good eight centuries and the other two had been gloriously alive, it hadn’t been an issue.

  Leslie could feel the thick card inside the envelope. It was slippery, as if it was glossy on the outside. It would be rich with ink and shiny with foil, some splendid confection to celebrate the Yule.

  If nothing else, she reasoned, she deserved to know the woman’s taste.

  The devil in her managed to whisper that she should go for it before Bernard—in his hair shirt, no less—took a swipe at him with a bishop’s crosier and sent him scampering. Leslie could almost see the founding force of the Cistercian order smiling at her with beatific satisfaction at his success in saving her from herself.

  From her inevitable feminine weakness. Susceptibility to temptation was the price of being the lesser vessel, of being no more than a little woman, at least in terms of medieval theology.

  Maybe ol’ Bernie had been having a chat with Dinkelmann before he stopped by here.

  Come to think of it, Leslie had always thought that ol’ Bernie was a bit proud of himself. It’s not much of a tribute to your brilliance or even your piety to be successful when you’re born with a silver spoon in your mouth, is it? Bernard had been born noble, with every advantage, and it wasn’t so amazing in a feudal society that he had turned advantage to advantage.

  He’d had charisma in spades, too, which never hurt.

  And really, he had stunk at obedience and humility, two of the monastic big three, though he’d apparently been good with chastity. One for three doesn’t give a very compelling performance review. He hadn’t been much for retiring from the world to contemplate the glory of God, either. Nope, anytime there had been a dust-up over theology or pretty much anything else, ol’ Bernie had been right in the thick of it, slinging words around like arrows and having the time of his life.

  He’d been nothing if not articulate, as well as a prolific letter writer: it had taken multiple secretaries to keep up with him. Only an unappreciative skeptic would wonder how the great man had reconciled his active engagement in politics with the monastic ideal of retreat from the world of men to better contemplate the divine mysteries.

  Which was a long way of saying that maybe ol’ Bernie wasn’t the best possible source of advice in this situation.

  * * *

  Leslie pulled Sharan’s Christmas card out of the envelope before she could change her mind. There was a cartoon reindeer on the front, standing on its hinds, Christmas balls hanging from its antlers and a martini in its paw. A sprig of mistletoe hung over its head and it was winking, the other paw on its hip in an expectant pose. It had long eyelashes, so presumably was supposed to be female.

  She flipped the card open and blinked at the caption: “Wanna spread a little festive spirit, buckeroo?”

  That wasn’t encouraging. Mae West as a reindeer.

  On the other hand, Leslie needed only to glance at this to recall Sharan’s flirtatious sense of humor, or the fact that she was an artist.

  Or the fact that she was sexy and provocative.

  What did Leslie’s Christmas cards say about her own personality? They were usually embellished with holly or something equally predictable, red and green and white, always had a culturally-sensitive, non-denominational message like Happy Holidays or Seasons Greetings. They were safe and inoffensive and utterly boring.

  She suspected only now that what they said to the recipient was not much at all. “Here’s another card from an unimaginative, dutiful person. Look inside for a deeply personal message: Best of the Season—Matt, Annette, and Leslie.

  ‘Boring’ was not the most reassuring adjective to be applying to herself right now. Impatient, Leslie read the letter written on the inside of the card.

  Matt—

  Great to hear from you, as always. You must be relieved that the trial (ha ha pun intended!) with your father is almost done. When you lose the case, that will call for a drink—or six! Let me know and I’ll have one for you, just to do my share.

  Or you could come here and drink with me.

  Hey, have you finished that book yet? I’m still waiting to read it. Sometimes fiction, like art, is the only way to present the truth. I know you’ll do a great job with it. Mr. Wordsmith, that’s always been you! Remember?

  Best to Leslie and Annette.

  love, Sharan

  Leslie had always loathed people who used a lot of exclamation marks, on principle alone. The enthusiasm lacked a certain dignity that she thought written notes should have. That Sharan had made a little heart for the ‘o’ in ‘love’ wasn’t exactly adult either.

  Those items, however, weren’t the most troubling things about this note. In several short sentences, Sharan had revealed that she knew a great deal more about Leslie’s husband than Leslie did.

  Like, just for example, the fact that Matt had intended to lose the case, something Leslie had learned only after he had done so and she’d seen his smile of satisfaction.

  (It had been, come to think of it, a very Bernard-like smile, a smug smile. It had been a smile that Leslie would never have expected to have seen on her husband’s face, and one that she would be happy to never see there again.

  She might get that wish, actually.)

  And there was another example. A book? Sounded like a novel. Leslie didn’t know anything about Matt writing a novel.

  He’d never said one word about it. She knew he liked to write, and he had worked for years on a compilation of anecdotes about Boston’s history, but a novel? That was news.

  It wasn’t welcome news, not by a long shot.

  Leslie had always believed that sharing secrets was the most powerful flavor of intimacy in the freezer case. It takes trust to share your most hidden thoughts and desires, more trust even than it takes to share your body.

  So, it shook her to learn that she hadn’t been the recipient of her husband’s trust. What else hadn’t he told her? What was the book about?

  And most importantly, where was it? Oh, that devil was back, all frisky from finally having one triumph. Leslie considered temptation for about three seconds before she shook her head.

  She shoved the card back into the envelope. She had her limits and they had already been surpassed by a long shot. She went downstairs and put the card back precisely where it had been before the Chief had called.

  Don’t ask how she knew its exact location, wedged between Matt’s books and invisible to the eye.

  Let’s leave her some pride.

  * * *

  Matt lay on the concrete against the mesh gate and closed his eyes against the pain. He could have done without that last kick to his gut. He wondered whether he had broken a rib—or had one broken for him—then jumped in shock as the metal grate abruptly slid back.

  “What happened to you?” The ferryman cussed under his breath when Matt looked up. “No, wait, I know. Those kids!”

  He helped Matt to his feet and gave him a critical look. “Jesus, don’t you have the
sense to not come down here alone so late?”

  Apparently, Matt was hale enough to get a lecture.

  “You’re going to have a helluva shiner, mister. You wanna call the cops?”

  “What’s the point? I can’t identify them.”

  “Well, there is that. And it’s late.”

  Matt forced himself to take a step and when he didn’t fall flat on his face, he walked slowly to the bobbing ferry. “Let’s just go to Algiers,” he suggested, wincing as he took a seat in the little interior lounge.

  The ferryman watched him with a frown, then shook his head. “Looks like you drank all your sense away.”

  “No, it was gone long before today.”

  He smiled ruefully, and the ferryman half-laughed. Matt shoved a hand through his hair and wondered if things could get worse. The ferryman bit back something he had been going to say, then shook his head and went to do his job.

  The ferry had a pleasant hum, a vibration that slid through Matt and soothed him in an unexpected way. All too soon, they were docked and Matt opened his eyes to find the ferryman beside him.

  “I’m giving you a ride home, so’s I can be sure you make it,” he said gruffly, covering solicitous concern with a tough crust.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  And so it was only moments until Matt found himself in front of the house that must be Sharan’s. The address matched the one he knew. Even now, he could see that the clapboard house was painted a bright color, maybe yellow, and that there were plants crowded in the windows and in pots on the veranda. The lights were out though and he hesitated to knock on the door and awaken her.

  That was when he saw the wicker settee in the sheltered corner of the porch. Perfect. He went straight to it, took off his shoes and placed them neatly beneath the settee. He sat down and let exhaustion roll through him.

  Matt felt like ten miles of rough road.

  Maybe twenty.

  Maybe a gravel road with potholes big enough to swallow a small truck.

  He rubbed his face, knowing he’d trade his soul for a mint candy or even a cough drop, knowing too that there was no chance of anyone making him that offer anytime soon. He took a deep breath and let the silence soak into his skin. He could hear crickets and bullfrogs and not much else. The air was lush here, a little damp and cool but filled with the scent of plants.

  He rubbed the leaf of whatever was drooping over the railing and smelled its pungency. It was minty almost, which would do. He rubbed it between his fingers and beneath his nose, was reminded of the shampoo Leslie used. He wondered what she was thinking or doing, and easily imagined her sleeping, her long dark hair strewn across the white pillowcase like the pennant of a medieval knight.

  That made him smile.

  He didn’t think anyone would see him here in this shadowed corner, and if they did, well, there wasn’t much more anyone could take from him. Matt Coxwell loosened his tie, folded his arms across his chest, hunkered down and went to sleep.

  * * *

  Runt dunt dada dadala dunt da.

  The tinkle of circus music fills Leslie’s dream, then the barker starts his spiel. “Come on down to the Big Top. Step right this way…”

  Leslie fights the recurring dream, but knows she has already lost. There she is, up on the tightrope. Here’s her father, insisting that she needs to carry something to make her feat “look good.”

  She still expects a pink parasol, even after all the years she’s had this dream. She’s still shocked at the box he gives her.

  This time, she sees that it says Good Daughter on one side. Leslie accepts the burden without complaint, good daughter that she is, but is surprised to find the box as heavy as it is.

  Then the dream takes a new twist, each box turned so that she can read the text on their sides. Previously, she only saw the colors of their wrapping paper and bows.

  The next one, the red one, is Academic Excellence. Huh. It’s followed by University Scholarship.

  Well-groomed.

  Polite.

  Respectful of Elders.

  Thoughtful of Others.

  The boxes add up quickly into a towering pile.

  At the same time, Leslie is growing with alarming speed. The wire slips away from her gaze as she grows. Her arms become longer and better able to bear more boxes.

  Dutiful Spouse.

  Organized Housewife.

  Passionate Partner. Did her father really add that one?

  Attentive Mother.

  Patient Griselda.

  Conscientious Worker, Team Player, Responsible Homeowner, Family Adjudicator, Bill Payer, Mortgage Negotiator, Quartermaster, Cleaning Lady, Ms. Reliable in a Crisis.

  Then come more boxes with just adjectives on them: Nice, Dependable, Discrete, Ladylike. Leslie loses track of them. Finally, the last little box, the one that always threatens to fall, a little glittering gold confection.

  Labeled Success.

  “Do it for all of us,” her father whispers, reminding her with painful vigor of the stories of his own past, of his lack of opportunities, of her splendid good fortune, of the sacrifices he made to make it possible for her to bring home—to bring to him—the proverbial brass ring.

  “Go on,” he urges, eyes shining with hope. “You can do it.”

  Leslie has to do it.

  And maybe she can. The pile of boxes is precariously balanced and it obscures her vision. Would her father really stack the odds against her?

  She takes three steps, feeling the location of the wire with her toe before settling her weight upon that foot, then sees suddenly that the ground beneath her is no longer a mere fifteen feet away.

  It has dropped into an abyss of such overwhelming darkness that Leslie can’t see the bottom, though her tightrope spans it.

  Worse, someone has smeared the tightrope with Vaseline.

  A wind rises from the canyon, a hot wind that leaves Leslie no doubt of this canyon’s awesome depth, a hot wind that ruffles her tutu and makes the wire vibrate.

  Maybe it’s actually Hell down there. Maybe that’s what happens to people who don’t fulfill expectations. She’s not sure she wants to find out.

  Leslie looks back and her father waves encouragement from his safe stance at the lip of the chasm. She trembles. She looks down again and this time sees fires light far, far below her.

  The fires are in rows, she thinks at first, then sees that they are the outlines of letters, burning orange against the blackness.

  The letters spell “FAILURE”.

  So, that’s what happens when you fall. These letters are the truth of Dante’s circles of hell, and they are waiting for Leslie, their flames hot and hungry.

  She squares her shoulders, then takes a step. The boxes jiggle, their weight shifting, but then they settle in place. Leslie takes another step, cautiously feeling her way along the tightrope, carefully settling her weight.

  And that’s when she sees the tiny box perched on the top, the precious little gold one, start to slip.

  Oh no…

  Leslie awakened in a cold sweat, breathing hard. She flicked on the light on the nightstand and shuddered to her toes. It was 2:39 AM and her nightmare was so vivid that she might still have been trapped in it. She thought she could still smell the fires.

  She sniffed, but nothing was really burning. Leslie rubbed her eyes and hoped she hadn’t cried out, but the house was still silent

  Certainly, no one rushed to console her.

  Maybe she should have cried out. Leslie wrapped her arms around herself and shook silently, willing her heart to slow as she considered the dream while it was still clear in her thoughts.

  There was truth in its metaphor, that’s for sure.

  She was on the tightrope and had been on it long enough to know that once you get on the tightrope, you run out of choices. Suddenly everyone around you is commenting on how well you walk the line, how easily you carry burdens across that great divide. They express admiration of how organ
ized you are.

  Organized. How Leslie hated that word.

  Then they hand off their loads to you. You must really like it on the tightrope if you get on there, if you can walk it with ease—that seems to be the logic.

  But what if you hate it? What if you just want to chuck all that crap down, lose all those expectations forever? What if you want to tell everyone to learn to do something for themselves.

  What if you don’t want to be the one obliged to make the money and do the budget and pay the bills? What if you don’t want to mark the papers and give the lectures and prepare the reports and sit through the interminable staff meetings and be the living proof that Dinkelmann’s new scheme can work?

  What if you want to do something else?

  What if you don’t even know what you want?

  Well, if there are no other volunteers, you lose. That had been Leslie’s experience. You keep walking that tightrope because you have responsibilities and a sense of obligation to fulfill them—no, a burden of obligation. It’s duty that gets you up there every morning, and it’s sheer survival instinct that keeps you watching your footing.

  On your toes, so to speak.

  But if your heart isn’t in it, then every day out there, your footing feels a little more tenuous, every night that you go without sex or intelligent conversation or just anyone noticing a what this is costing you, makes the great chasm below look pretty damn appealing.

  Leslie wasn’t suicidal, but she could admit—in the darkness of her bedroom in the solitude of the night—that there had been days when she had thought about not taking the turn that would take her home, or the one that will deliver her safely into the arms of her alma mater. There had been days that she wanted to just drive, maybe all the way to Nevada to play the slots.

  Why not?

  But that was impossible. Leslie was the responsible one, the delivery team for parental ambitions, the person who saved the day and could be relied upon. She was Kirk’s Ms. Spock—not Dr. Spock because she’d never known nearly that much about kids, and not Mr. Spock because she’d almost failed science—the dispassionate one, the one who never slipped up on the logic front.