by John Searles
Yours,
Donnelly
P.S.
Next time you’re at Aggie’s, why not send over a couple of martinis to your potential writer friends? Alcohol always helped grease the wheels for me. In fact, it’s how I met Edward.
* * *
FROM: [email protected]
TO: PhlpChse@ mstc.com
DATE: April 19, 2000
Dear Donnelly,
It is a diner, and I see them there at breakfast, often with a young child. So I don’t think martinis would be appropriate. I am glad you are happy about Baby. Sweetie is fine too.
Sincerely,
Philip
* * *
FROM: [email protected]
TO: PhlpChse@ mstc.com
DATE: April 20, 2000
Dear Philip,
Good point. I’ll keep brainstorming on the matter.
Yours,
Donnelly
* * *
After that, there is a break in the dates. Before going onto the next e-mail, which is dated more than a year later, Charlene pauses to consider what she just read. Even though she is well aware of the answer, she cannot help but wonder how she had let a child she had raised, a child she loves, become such a stranger to her? She knew none of this business about snakes and mice and Donnelly Fiume and his ailing sister, never mind Philip’s loneliness. All these years, she had the image of him leading a busy life in New York full of friends and parties while she was rattling around in this big old house alone. Maybe she deserved such a lonely fate. After all, she had lived her life and had her share of good times early on. But it didn’t seem fair that Philip shouldn’t have his turn. Sitting there, Charlene is filled with a sense of sorrow at the thought of him alone in the city, lacking such confidence that he cannot even make a friend. Again, she takes a breath and begins reading:
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: November 17, 2002
Dear Donnelly,
I know you have been asking for a while, but the reason I have not sent you any of my poems is that I am very shy about showing people my work. In fact, after my first round of rejection letters, I have made the decision that I don’t ever actually want to publish anything. I just like to write for myself. I know that may sound strange, but it is the truth. However, since you have insisted for so long, I will send you this one poem I have been working on. Although I would never admit this to anyone but you, I actually think I may be improving after all these years. It is a poem about my mother, who I might have mentioned in these e-mails I have been estranged from now for quite some time. I was thinking a while back about the way she always seemed to rush life when I was growing up. Anyway, it is not really her in the end, but I used that idea and my disconnected relationship with her as a jumping-off point. Well, I’ll spoil it if I say much more, so you will just have to read below. If you hate it, you don’t have to ever mention it again. I won’t ask. I promise. Here goes:
“Hurry” by Philip Chase
You were always in such a rush, Mother
On Labor Day, you spoke of Christmas coming
In spring, you spoke of uncovering the pool
Living your life like the displays in the department stores
Where you escaped to on Saturday afternoons
To push a shaky-wheeled carriage up and down the aisles
And dream of all that you would have someday
I tried to slow you down, Mother
I told you to come look outside the window with me
At the leaves raining from the orange sky
Their bursts of color like paper money from faraway countries
Valuable to others, but not you
Because today was worthless in your eyes
It was tomorrow—the sweet glittery gold of tomorrow—that held promise
Now all but a handful of your tomorrows have arrived, Mother
I have not seen you but I imagine
Your hair is streaked with gray
Your bones are growing brittle beneath the creased sack of your skin
One of your children, my brother, took his last breath too soon
And I am a stranger to you now
Do you see that the promise you believed in,
the promise I tried to caution you against,
was as empty as the windowless coffins that wait for us too?
* * *
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: November 20, 2002
Dear Donnelly,
You have not written since I sent you my poem. I know I said I wouldn’t ask, but, well, I lied. Does that mean you hate it?
Philip
* * *
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: November 24, 2002
Dear Philip,
This is Donnelly’s baby sister Fauncine writing. I am sorry to deliver this sad news over the computer, however, my dear brother, and your dear friend, Donnelly, passed away two days ago. Forgive me for not writing sooner, but as you can imagine, I have been in a bit of a state. Even though Donnelly has been struggling with cancer for a number of years, and we all knew his time with us was limited, it does not take away the sadness I feel. I hope you don’t mind, but I have read over many of the e-mails the two of you have exchanged. I see that Donnelly created quite a colorful story around his sickness at my expense, which is just like my brother, since he always had a flair for drama and he never liked to talk about his failing health. I assure you I am not the monster he painted me to be. In fact, we have always been very close and that’s why he came here so I could care for him in his dying days, rather than face those indignities on his own in the city. I guess we are all guilty of telling lies to ourselves and to the world in order to make the truth, however sad, scary, or strange, more palatable. You should know that Donnelly spoke very highly of you. He believed in you as a poet and a friend. He left the name of a literary agent who was an acquaintance of Edward’s. Her name is Jean Pittelman, and her office is on Greenwich Avenue should you ever be in need of her services, although I read about your desire not to publish. Finally, Donnelly also requested that you be allowed to keep the studio as long as you like. You can continue to send the rent money to me here and I will forward it on one of Donnelly’s checks, since it is doubtful the landlord will read the death notice in the Commerce paper and evict you. If life ever brings me up to New York, I would love it if we could meet for tea, and if perhaps I could come by and see Donnelly’s old studio. Until then…
Fondly,
Fauncine Fiume
That is the last page of e-mails. Charlene reads the poem about herself a second time, then puts the packet back inside the duffel bag. She stands and goes to the kitchen, mulling over what she just read—especially that poem. What an odd detail of my personality for Philip to focus on, she thinks. Certainly, Charlene had looked forward to the holidays and the changing seasons, but she didn’t consider herself any more guilty of rushing through her time in this world than anyone else.
In the kitchen, Charlene finds that a few of the pots and bowls from the pea soup have finally been scrubbed. She wonders if this is another clue that might tell her something about what Philip was thinking before he left, though it does not help her at all. She walks to the telephone with the thought of calling him on his cell. And that’s when she sees the number 5 blinking on the answering machine. When she presses the button, her recorded voice plays back, “Philip. It’s me. Are you there? Pick up. Okay, well—” Charlene hits Erase and the next voice to come through the machine is Richard’s. “Charlene. It’s me. I need to talk to you. If you get—” Again, she hits Erase. The next voice is a young woman’s. “This is Jennifer from Dr. Kulvilkin’s office. We are calling to remind you that Philip has an appointment tomorrow morning at nine A.M. Please let us know if he has to cancel for any reason. Thank you.” After that, there are two more message
s from Richard, which is odd to say the least. Charlene erases them both without listening.
The bastard, she thinks, then pushes the thought of him out of her mind and looks up Philip’s cell phone number in her address book. When she calls, his voice mail answers. Charlene leaves a message, trying to sound unconcerned about where he is and why he has taken the car. After she hangs up, she hunts around for the directions to her cell so she can figure out how to retrieve those messages he left. But she cannot find them anywhere, so at last she gives up and decides to simply sit tight and wait for him to return. She grabs a Diet Coke from the fridge and goes back to the family room, settling into the bed where he has slept this last month. Charlene doesn’t know why exactly, but she has a terrible feeling of dread that she cannot shake. She tells herself it is just that news about Richard and Melissa still haunting her, but she can’t help feel that it is something more than that. She is worried about Philip out there on those slick winter roads with that old car. She is worried about his abrupt departure. For a moment, she considers taking a sleeping pill to put her mind at ease. But Charlene wants to be wide-awake when he returns.
It is only a short while later that she hears a car pull into the driveway. Philip, Charlene thinks and gets out of bed. She goes to the foyer, where she presses her face to the glass just as she had the night before. Outside, she does not see Ronnie’s old car, but a taxi stopped at the edge of the driveway. Whoever it is pays the driver then gets out. When the dark figure comes closer up the walkway toward the house, Charlene recalls a scrap of conversation with Richard on the phone this morning:
Do you want me to come there? Is that what you want?
No, I don’t want you to come here!
Whether she wanted him here or not, she sees that it is Richard outside right now. He has come home after all.
chapter 14
BEFORE RICHARD CAN EVEN RING THE BELL, THE FRONT DOOR swings open. Charlene is standing before him dressed in beige pants and a cowl-neck sweater. Even though he saw her at St. Vincent’s hospital in New York City just one month ago when they were visiting Philip, he cannot help but be freshly taken aback by all the weight she has put on over the years, not to mention the way she has let her hair go gray and frizzy. Looking at her, though, it is still possible to see through to the pretty, smart-mouthed girl he first met at a party back in college when one of his drunken friends spilled a glass of wine on her and Richard went over to apologize.
Let me get you a towel…
Thanks, but I’d prefer a new outfit instead…
“Hello, Charlene,” Richard says now as he stands in the center of the moonlit porch and braces himself for her to begin screaming.
Much to his surprise, she keeps her voice perfectly composed when she asks, “What are you doing here?”
Ever since Holly dropped him off at the airport in West Palm Beach this afternoon, he has been rehearsing the multitude of answers to that question. He considers telling her that after seeing Philip lying in that hospital bed he has not been able to focus on his life in Florida, because it made him realize how much he had failed his family. He considers telling her that all these years he has carried around the unshakable feeling that he fled the scene of a crime when he left his life in Pennsylvania behind. Most of all, he considers telling her that after her phone call this morning he made up his mind to come here and explain what went on that summer between him and Melissa, before someone else did. Despite all the time Richard spent constructing those responses in his mind, he finds himself abandoning every last one and saying just three words, “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Just what I said. I don’t know.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, Richard. You haven’t been here in ages, and suddenly you show up unannounced. You must have a good reason.”
“It’s not unannounced. I asked you this morning if you wanted me to come here.”
“And I told you no.”
“Well, I left you all those messages saying that I was coming anyway.”
That statement causes Charlene to drop the more modulated tone she’s been using. In a rushed voice, she asks, “Did you leave any messages on my cell phone or just here at home?”
“Here at home,” Richard tells her. “Why?”
She looks past him toward the driveway, where her Lexus is parked half-in and half-out of the garage. Richard tries to guess what she is thinking, but it’s no use. Finally, she looks back at him. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I didn’t bother listening to your messages. In fact, I erased them just a short while ago. So you’ll have to tell me again why you’re here.”
“You erased them without even listening?” He shouldn’t be surprised, nevertheless, he is.
“That’s right.” She sounds proud of the fact. “So get to the point.”
A heavy wind gusts across the yard then, stinging Richard’s face. All these years in Florida have left him sensitive to the cold. It doesn’t help that he is wearing nothing more than a windbreaker, jeans and a T-shirt. He crosses his arms and tries one of the other answers he rehearsed. “Haven’t you ever done something just because you felt like you had to?”
Charlene removes her hand from the doorknob and cups her chin in an exaggerated I’m thinking pose. In an equally exaggerated voice, she says, “Hmm. Let’s see now. Oh, wait. I know.” And here, at last, her voice escalates to an angry pitch. “I divorced you because I felt like I had to. And because you were a dishonest, cheating jerk of a husband. Little did I know I should have added ‘pedophile’ to the list too.”
“Pedophile? What are you talking about?”
“Last time I checked that’s what they call men who mess around with underaged girls.”
Now he knows what she is getting at. So what I was afraid of has already happened, Richard thinks. She knows. “Charlene, I’m not sure what Melissa told you, but—”
“Melissa didn’t tell me anything. I happened to pay a visit to Joseph and Margaret this afternoon.”
“Joseph and Margaret who?”
“Moody!” Charlene shouts. “Melissa’s parents!”
The wind blows harder still, and Richard shivers against it. His mind fills with the memory of that final afternoon at the cemetery when he held Melissa in his arms, the way he did so many afternoons as she cried, and sometimes he cried too. He remembers looking up to see a car coming toward them on the dirt driveway, which was unusual, because there was never anyone else there since the place had so few graves for people to visit. When the car stopped, Melissa’s father got out. He didn’t bother to close the door, and as he walked toward them, the vehicle released a steady succession of chimes, reminding Richard of the tonal emergency codes over the loudspeaker at the hospital. Even though he and Melissa had broken their embrace, it was too late. He knew what her father was thinking: they were doing something they shouldn’t be.
“Dad,” Melissa said over that incessant chiming.
“Shut up,” her father told her. “Shut your mouth, young lady, and get in the car.”
Richard shakes that memory from his mind the way he has dozens of times today, hundreds of times over the years. A shiver moves through his entire body. “Can I at least come inside so we can talk about this?”
Charlene stares at him, blinking, biting her bottom lip, as she debates the question. Finally, she steps aside and lets him in. After Richard walks through the door and closes it behind him, he glances up the staircase at the same pictures that hung on the wall when he lived here. There is Ronnie and Philip with both sets of grandparents at Pat’s King of Steaks in Philly. There is Charlene and Richard standing in a white gazebo at their wedding. There is Philip, wearing a cap and gown at his high school graduation, a forced smile on his face. “Is Philip home?” Richard asks, realizing suddenly how quiet the house is, as quiet as it was that summer after Ronnie died, when they each retreated to separate areas of the house and shut down any semblance of family life.
Charlene does not answer him. “I was nice enough to let you inside. Now let’s finish the conversation.”
“Can’t we go into the family room? Do we have to do this here in the foyer?”
“I’d prefer to stay right where we are. That way it will be easier to kick you out once you’re done lying to me. So go ahead. I’m waiting. Let the bullshit begin.”
“It’s not bullshit, Charlene.”
“Call it whatever you want, Richard. Just tell me what went on with that girl.”
“I—” He stops. For all his planning on the two-and-a-half-hour flight up from Florida, Richard never did come up with the right way to explain the brief, unexpected attachment he formed with Melissa Moody all those years ago. As he tries to figure out a way now, he hears a replay of his voice attempting to make Holly understand this morning. It was more than a friendship, but it was not an affair. I never so much as kissed the girl, Holly. Still, I knew meeting at the cemetery all those afternoons blurred the lines of what was appropriate. But everything was so complicated that summer that I let it continue—even though Melissa got worse instead of better, talking endlessly about her desire to have Ronnie’s child long after she’d gotten her period…
“Since you seem to be at a loss for words,” Charlene says, interrupting his thoughts, “let me help you. You know something, Richard, I knew you were a fucker but I had no idea how big a fucker you were. I mean, the girl was a child when this happened. For Christ’s sakes, it was your son’s girlfriend! Your dead son’s girlfriend! No wonder she lost her mind! Ronnie’s death didn’t make her go crazy, you did!”
“Keep it down,” Richard says. “I don’t want Philip to hear you, because what you’re saying is not true. I’d rather tell him myself.”
