by Robbi McCoy
If Chelsea and Mary had broken up again, if Chelsea wanted to resume their romance, if Harper could consent, how long would they have before Mary called Chelsea back? And how could Harper bear to lose her a second time? Chelsea hadn’t even debated it two years ago. It was a foregone conclusion—if Mary wanted her back, she would go.
Another summer in Chelsea’s arms could be worth a great deal, if Harper’s heart could take it. But she had resolved to move on. And so she had orbited around that yellow note for a week, pondering it but doing nothing. Today, again, she turned away from it and moved on.
Sorting through the mail, Harper was happy to see a letter from her old friend Sister Josephina from Oaxaca. She and Sister Jo had corresponded sporadically, about twice a year, for the last thirteen years. She settled into her living room chair to read. The letter was long and satisfying, bringing to life the daily world of the small village and its inhabitants. Sister Jo described the activities of the school in fine detail, knowing how interested Harper was in it. She reported too on locals that Harper had met and would remember, like Jose Mendez, the crazy pig farmer, and Dr. Cuevas, and of course, Father Gabriel. She turned the final page over as Sister Jo continued the news of Father Gabriel.
He’s not been feeling too well. I don’t think he will ever retire, but the good Lord is going to take him anyway one of these days. He has a bit of the shaking palsy. It’s not called that now, I know, but that’s all I can think of. I have to say that my own brain isn’t as reliable as it once was. But that doesn’t slow me down much. I’m still doing the same as always. Lots of work just to keep up the church and the garden, but I have no complaints. I get along okay. I got a new box of really fine cigars from Colombia the other day and so of course I smoked one right away on the eastern balcony just like we did when you were here. So, you see, things haven’t changed that much for us. You would still recognize the place, that’s for sure! Poor Sailor has finally given up the ghost. The last thing that old bird said was “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” And then he was gone. Never be another one like him. It’s a lot quieter without him around.
We received the books and music you sent. Much appreciated, as always. If you are moved to do the same again in the future, I have a couple of requests for Dean Martin. Okay, I admit it. That’s for me. When I was a child, my mother used to play Dean Martin records hour after hour. For several years after I left home, I couldn’t stand the sound of him, but things have a way of getting under your skin and into your heart. It’s a small, forgivable indulgence, don’t you think? God bless you, Harper, you’ve been a good friend to us all these years. I hope you’ll come visit us again someday. I know this is no resort, but you seemed to like it here.
Love and peace to you always,
Sister Jo
Harper folded the pages back into the envelope and smiled, picturing Sister Josephina with her feet propped up on the railing of the balcony, blowing cigar smoke into the still evening air. She should go back to visit some day. It would be nice to see the place back on its feet.
For the rest of the day, she worked at the tedium of life— balancing her checkbook, tossing junk mail, making, eating and cleaning up after dinner, taking out the trash—all with a persistent unease. The calendar on the pantry wall revealed a rush of appointments for the end of June. A full calendar. A full life?
She noted the fortune cookie fortune she had taped on June
29. “Do not shut the door to your heart when true love comes knocking.” The only person knocking on her heart right now was Chelsea. She dialed her voice mail and listened to the week-old message again. Chelsea sounded unsure of herself, unsure of how Harper would respond to her request. Understandable. Her voice brought to mind her face. Her face brought to mind her mouth. Harper felt herself caving in.
Chapter 9
SUMMER, SIXTEEN YEARS AGO
Harper’s twenty-third birthday party was shared with Neil’s baby daughter Sarah, who was turning one. The party was held on the day between the two official birth dates. Harper spent her actual birthday fishing with her father, just the two of them, a peaceful, satisfying day. The next day, Neil and family descended on the household, bringing ice cream, toys and laughter into it. Sarah was a darling, happy child who, understandably, stole the day, her big shining eyes moving rapidly from cake to grandparents to the presents that they lavished on her.
Harper was content because she had secured the approval of her father by successfully completing her master’s degree. That’s the milestone she was celebrating.
“Excellent work,” he told her. “We never had any doubt, of course. Any idea where you go from here, then?”
“Yes,” she told him. “I’ve got a job at Morrison University, starting in September. It’s a small liberal arts college.”
“In California?”
“Yes. Not far from where I am now. It’s a good job. Full-time position in the university library.”
He nodded approvingly and squeezed her tight. “That’s my girl. Although we thought you might come back here after college. You know we’d love to have you back. I could put a word in for you. I don’t see why you couldn’t get on here.”
“Morrison is a good school,” she said.
He looked at her for a moment, smiling calmly. “Well, then, congratulations,” he said. “I’m proud of you, Harper, I hope you know that. Doing it all on your own like you did, that’s impressive. It wasn’t necessary, but it is impressive.”
This sentiment was more important to Harper than practically anything else she could have wished for. The pressure was finally off. She might not have garnered the accolades of her older brother, but she had done okay, good enough. And now it was finished. She was done with studying and ready to get on with her life, with her real life. To travel and have adventures. To make herself into a colorful, enigmatic character, someone who might surprise you at any moment with her derring-do. To lead a life so full of interesting activities that she would never be bored, nor would anyone around her. She wasn’t sure, however, how to obtain that kind of life.
It was for that reason that Harper borrowed her mother’s car the day after the birthday celebration and took off for Connecticut and a scheduled appointment with Hilda Perry. The postcard she’d received a month ago was on the seat next to her, its contents memorized.
“I’ll be happy to meet with you, Harper,” Hilda had written. “We can have tea.”
The invitation was the result of a long, flattering letter to Hilda and a follow-up phone call which, Harper assumed, was to find out if she was a lunatic or just a harmless admirer. On the passenger seat beside her sat a canvas bag stuffed with books that she hoped to have autographed. For the last twenty years, Hilda Perry had lived in a small cottage on the Atlantic Coast, giving almost no interviews and producing no new material. She was eighty-one now, a celebrated author who could afford to rest on her laurels.
Harper found the cottage without difficulty and parked in front of it.As she stepped out of the car and shouldered her bag of books, she felt that she was touching down on hallowed ground. Hilda Perry was legendary. Harper had read every one of her books, as well as several biographies. The woman’s life was as entertaining and inspirational as her writing, a splendid example of how to live like an artist, creatively and passionately.
She rang the bell, noticing a faint smell of the sea. The ocean was out of sight, still a couple of miles away. When the door opened, she recognized, from decades-old photos in the books, the features of a younger Hilda Perry in the tiny, stooped old woman standing there. Her hair was pure white, wispy and boldly disarrayed. Blue veins displayed themselves in the pale, thin skin of her arms and temples. She narrowed her eyes, peering intently at her visitor.
“Hello,” Harper said, holding out her hand. “I’m Harper Sheridan.”
“Come in,” Hilda said, taking her hand briefly. Her skin was dry and papery. “I’ve made us tea and scones. I thought you’d like that.”
H
arper pulled the door shut behind her and followed, noticing how the delicate pink of the old woman’s scalp showed through the sparse field of her hair. The cottage was dark, musty and extremely cluttered with books, magazines and newspapers, stacks of them in and around bookcases that had long ago reached their capacity and, judging by the dust, hadn’t been touched in decades. She could donate these books to some library, Harper thought, realizing almost immediately that they weren’t really there for reading. They were companions, reminders of journeys of the mind and perhaps, in some cases, journeys of the body as well.
Books were like that to people who really love them, she thought. A book that you read once becomes a part of you. The physical entity on the shelf becomes a symbol of how it has lived in your mind, given itself to you and merged with your story like an ex-lover, as part of your experience for the rest of your life. The book may go on to have other adventures, to caress the imaginations of other readers, but what it means to you remains yours alone.
Harper sidled past a stack of books capped by a hardcover edition of Canterbury Tales. It was much better, she decided, for an old woman to surround herself with beloved books than with cats.
Hilda’s laboring gait took them through the main room, through the kitchen and into a small, sunny nook with two overstuffed chairs and a coffee table. It occurred to Harper that Hilda probably lived mainly here and in the kitchen, that the dark, cluttered main rooms of her house had become nothing more than storerooms.
“Let’s sit in here,” Hilda suggested. She poured the tea and offered Harper milk and sugar and then a blueberry scone.
“So,” said Hilda, letting herself drop into her chair, “tell me why you’ve come.”
“Well, as I told you, I’m a big fan of yours. I just wanted to meet you in person. Your books have been so inspirational to me.”
“Really? In what way?”
Harper didn’t know how to answer that. She hesitated. “Just as the voice of wisdom, you know? The things you say, they’re just so true. There’s a revelation on every page.”
“Oh, my dear!” Hilda laughed. “What an exaggeration.”
“No, really, that’s how it feels for me. I’m sure others have told you that.”
“Yes, I suppose. Other young women like you. Nobody comes around much anymore, though. My life here has gotten narrower and narrower.”
“You don’t write anymore?”
“I’ve tried to write but can’t really. Between the bad eyesight and the deteriorating mental state, it’s about all I can do to sign an autograph now and then. No creativity left up there.” She thumped her head with her forefinger. “Do you write, then?”
“No, I’m not a writer. I’m more of a musician.”
“That’s unusual. Most of the young women who come calling like you are writers or would-be writers. They’re looking for the magic words or something, as if I can bestow creative imagination on them with a touch, like knighthood. What is it you’re expecting to get then, from this visit?”
Again, Harper balked. “I just wanted to meet you. You’ve given me so much pleasure with your work. I don’t expect to get anything, particularly.”
It was hard to imagine this squinting old woman as the Hilda Perry of Harper’s imagination, the eccentric who traveled the world with a colorful entourage of fascinating characters, who took and cast off lovers of both sexes with alarming frequency, many of them renowned artists like herself. Her love affair with the poet Catherine Gardiner, at least as reported by biographers, had been nearly epic in its ferocity.
The legendary Hilda Perry was a rollicking spirit. Harper had been enthralled with her ever since reading an article about her several years earlier. The list of her lovers, or her alleged lovers, had captivated Harper’s imagination. Since then, she had thought of Hilda Perry as the model of the free spirit, as a woman leading the kind of life that Harper herself would have liked to lead—rich, full and devil-may-care.
“You’ve lived such a fascinating life,” Harper said. “So exciting.”
“Do you think so?” Hilda asked, sipping her tea. “And, yet, here I am—old, alone, sick and forgotten.”
“Hardly forgotten,” Harper objected.
“You know, these days, I am just as likely to hear someone say, ‘I thought you were dead,’ as anything else.” Hilda refilled Harper’s teacup.“Since you don’t write, I guess you aren’t looking for advice on how to become a published author. And you aren’t going to toss me a manuscript to read, thank God! So you’re just a very enthusiastic admirer of writers?”
“Not just writers. All artists.”
“I see. You’re an art groupie.” Hilda smiled thinly.
Harper recognized that she was being mocked, but she didn’t think it was malicious.
“Art has become my religion,” she replied. “The relationship between the artist and her art is where I think you can find the best lesson for how to live a meaningful life.”
“Ah, well, better than being a Baptist, I guess.”
“I was raised Catholic.”
“So was I.” Hilda raised her cup in a salute. “My condolences.”
Amused, Harper said, “Thanks.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you, though. How can an artist teach you to live a meaningful life?”
“I think artists are the only people living authentic lives,” Harper said sincerely. “I think art is the only way you can be in touch with your true self. There are truths that can only be experienced through stories, images or music. All of the other ways we interact with one another, like conversation or work or even sex, are imperfect and inevitably removed from the reality of our souls.”
“What do you mean by ‘soul,’ exactly?” Hilda asked.
Harper smiled. “Of course you wouldn’t let that go without a challenge. I used the wrong word. I should have said ‘mind’ or ‘self.’ ‘Soul’ is an artifact left over from my days of religious brainwashing.”
“No, no,” Hilda said, putting down her cup. “It was the word you chose without overthinking it, so, following your own train of thought, it’s the right word, isn’t it?”
“Oh, sure, I see your point. Well, then, the soul that I’m referring to would be the part of you that is you and not someone else. It’s the part of you that is so difficult to show someone else, for all sorts of reasons, but primarily because it’s unique, so no one else can really experience it. They don’t know how to look at it. They usually see you in the context of their own reality, how they see the world, and that distorts you to fit the expected model.” Harper stopped to take a breath. Hilda waited patiently, so she continued. “So art allows a person to strip away conscious thought and create something that expresses that authentic identity. Does any of this make sense? Am I rambling?”
“You are sort of rambling, but I think I understand. So that’s what you think I’m doing when I write, expressing my authentic self, revealing my soul, so to speak?”
Harper nodded.
Hilda raised one eyebrow. “The irony is that ‘art’ is the same word as ‘artifice,’ and that’s what poetry and prose and painting and music are. One of the definitions of art, in fact, is ‘that which is not nature,’ something not found in the natural world. Works of art are inventions, and so one has to question whether they can ever possibly express this authentic self that you’re talking about.”
Harper sighed admiringly. “Then what am I trying to say?”
“I can’t tell you that! But I think the non-verbal arts, like fine art and music, are better at expressing actual emotion than the written or spoken word, so in that sense, I agree. As a musician, you must know that music is a more natural expression of feeling than speaking. It doesn’t get filtered through language, which is inherently flawed, being an arbitrary system of symbols. I love words. I love the English language, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a dimension removed from actual thought. It’s unnatural. Even a master at stream of consciousness like James Joyce
can’t do more than hint at what our minds are doing. There is no way to create a sentence that properly displays the process of thinking, feeling and remembering several things at once.”
“Music can’t do that either,” Harper observed.
“No, it can’t. And it doesn’t try to. Art, any type of art, creates order out of a naturally chaotic reality. That’s the point of art, isn’t it? It doesn’t show you the ugly, twisted, complicated stuff as it really is. It tames it into something else, something we can look at dead-on without horror.” Hilda paused and smiled, a benign expression that seemed out of place in her emphatic speech.
“For my money, though,” she continued, “the only way to reveal yourself honestly to another person is to be unconditionally in love.” Hilda studied her for a moment, then asked, “Have you ever been in love, Harper?”
Harper thought briefly of Eliot, dismissed that thought and shook her head.
“Too bad. Someday, when you are, you won’t need any art or artifice to share your soul with another person. I spent my life falling in and out of love. All of those books there in your bag aren’t my attempt to share my authentic self with the rest of the world. They’re my inability to keep all of the rantings, ravings and exultations of my heart to myself.”
Harper would have liked to write that down, but it seemed rude to actually do so. She hoped she could commit it to memory.
“Haven’t you ever noticed,” Hilda said, her voice low but clear, “that a poet writes her first poem when she falls in love for the first time? It doesn’t have to be with another person. It can be with a puppy or life or a flower. But it’s love, that overwhelming joy or pain that can’t be contained. It requires expression. It bubbles over like a boiling pot, and then you have art. Art, in its purest form, doesn’t give a damn if there’s anyone out there looking or listening. If it were alone in the universe, it would still express itself just the same, howling into the dark cold emptiness of space.”
