Seventh Wonder

by Renae Kelleigh

“You have my mother’s phone number?” asked John, stroking lightly up and down Meg’s bare back.

  “In my suitcase. I’ll call her tomorrow, introduce myself.”

  “And you’re sure about not telling anyone? It won’t bother you?”

  She turned her face to kiss his throat. “Not one bit. Will it bother you?”

  “A little, maybe,” he admitted. “I’d like to shout it from the rooftops. Doubt anybody’d hear me from over here, though.”

  “We’ll tell them together, as soon as you’re home.”

  He lapsed into quiet, and Meg laid her ear against his chest, listened to the tumultuous thud of his heart.

  “Meg.”

  “Yes, my darling.”

  “I know you’d rather not talk about it, but just...hear me out.” He waited a moment. Hearing no protest, he pushed forward. “If anything happens, will you please go there, to my mom’s house? Tell her in person?”

  Blinding heat stabbed the backs of her eyes. “Yes,” she managed, barely loud enough to be heard.

  He hugged her closer, and she squeezed him back in equal measure. “I’d want you to move on, you know. Fall in love again. Be happy. It’s important to me that you know that.”

  She couldn’t respond, so she only nodded. Let the tears slide silently down her face, splashing against his chest.

  “I’m not afraid, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You’ve already given me everything.”

  She looked up at him then through the blur of water in her eyes. “I have so much more to give you, though. For the rest of our lives, I swear.” She gripped his face between her hands. “Please don’t give up, John. Promise me.”

  His forehead creased, and he sat up abruptly, hauling her up against his chest. “Oh Meg, of course not.” His reply was stern. “Never. I promise.” He kissed her wet lips with renewed vim. “I love you. So fucking much.”

  * * *

  He was at the airport, handing over the ticket to reclaim his uniform and other personal items, when he found the piece of lined paper folded inside his pocket. Meg’s handwriting looped across the page in sure, steady strokes.

  Do not go gentle into that good night,

  Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

  Because their words had forked no lightning they

  Do not go gentle into that good night.

  Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

  Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

  And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

  Do not go gentle into that good night.

  Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

  Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  And you, my [love], there on the sad height,

  Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

  Do not go gentle into that good night.

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  - Dylan Thomas

  I promise I’ll be brave for you.

  Love, your wife,

  Meg

  He boarded his flight with a trembling peace, head held high and feet facing forward. Knowing, come what may, she would be all right.

  Chapter 17

  WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM

  814A PST MAY 19 70

  THE SECRETARY OF THE ARMY DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND SERGEANT JOHN REGINALD STOVALL WAS KILLED IN ACTION IN THE PERFORMANCE OF HIS DUTY AND IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY. PLEASE ACCEPT MY HEARTFELT SYMPATHY FOR THIS GRAVEST OF LOSSES. THIS CONFIRMS PERSONAL NOTIFICATION MADE BY A REPRESENTATIVE OF THE SECRETARY OF THE ARMY.

  KENNETH G WICKHAM MAJOR GENERAL USA

  THE ADJUTANT GENERAL

  Do not stand at my grave and weep;

  I am not there. I do not sleep.

  I am a thousand winds that blow.

  I am the diamond glints on snow.

  I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

  I am the gentle autumn rain.

  When you awaken in the morning’s hush

  I am the swift uplifting rush

  Of quiet birds in circled flight.

  I am the soft stars that shine at night.

  Do not stand at my grave and cry;

  I am not there. I did not die.

  - Mary Elizabeth Frye

  Epilogue

  Art Institute of Chicago

  Present Day

  The curator rounds out her carefully orchestrated tour with walkthroughs of the European Modern Art and Contemporary Sculpture galleries on the uppermost level. Her job complete, she then delivers the group of now-restless freshmen to the foot of the grand staircase in the Michigan Avenue entrance hall.

  “We have twenty-five minutes until the bus gets here,” announces their art teacher. “Check out the gift shop or the library if you want - just make sure you’re back here by five till.”

  The teenagers disperse, and the curator offers the teacher a tight smile before pivoting to walk back to her office.

  “Excuse me.” A shy voice behind her.

  It’s the girl from earlier, in the special exhibition gallery. A slim mouse of a girl: Emily.

  “What can I help you with, Emily?”

  She blushes, evidently pleased to have her name remembered. “That story you were telling us, about the artist? At the Grand Canyon?”

  “Which artist?” asks the curator. “Do you mean John Stovall?”

  “Yes, the one with the muse.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, appearing uncomfortable. “Do you know what happened to them?”

  The curator’s mouth widens in a feline grin. Crossing her arms she says, “I take it you’re a romantic.”

  The girl shrugs. “A little bit, I guess. It just made me sort of curious about whether they ended up together.”

  “I can’t honestly say that I know. I can tell you, quite regrettably, that Stovall was killed in action during the conflict in Vietnam.” At this revelation, Emily’s wince is slight but unmistakable. “I do have some good news for you, though. If you’re interested in finding out more, there is a book available in the gift shop written by Margaret Lowry herself. You’ll find it in the section set aside for special exhibits, with all the National Park Service reads.”

  “Thank you,” says Emily, squaring her shoulders. “And thank you for the tour.”

  Adjusting the straps of her backpack, Emily turns in search of the Museum Shop. Inside, she locates the book display under a block letter sign: TASCHEN. It takes her a moment of scanning the books’ glossy covers to identify the volume she’s searching for: Seventh Wonder: A Memoir. By Meg Stovall-Dunham.

  Emily lifts the book off the shelf and turns it over in her hands. Inside the back cover, printed on the dust jacket, is a photograph of a smiling, middle-aged woman who reminds her of her Great Aunt Dolores: beautiful in a dignified, dowager sort of way. Her eyes scan the print beneath the photo:

  Margaret “Meg” Stovall-Dunham is a Professor emerita of comparative literature at Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut. She was introduced to Maurice Dunham by her former mother-in-law in 1973 and married him in 1975. Since her retirement in 2007, the couple have resided near Nashua, New Hampshire, where Dr. Stovall-Dunham writes and edits fulltime. She passes the majority of her free time enjoying the outdoors or in the company of her eight grandchildren.

  As Emily wanders toward the cashier with her intended purchase in hand, she opens the book to Chapter 1 and begins to read:

  “I had folded myself into a chair in the dim back corner of the room, where I could largely escape the notice of others...”

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  I dreamt of this book and
these characters while on an amazing tour of the Southwest in Summer 2013 and should therefore thank my husband first and foremost for going along with me on such an incomparable adventure, then allowing me the time and space to commit my ideas to “paper” almost immediately upon our return.

  My deepest, heartfelt thanks to my father and fellow writer for his unswerving support and his many important contributions to the piecing together of the storyline, his assistance in lending historical perspective and in keeping the book (hopefully) free of gross anachronisms. I would not have come to this point, nor enjoyed the journey nearly to the extent that I did, without his continued encouragements.

  To my mother, who was the same age as Meg in 1969, thank you as well for your patience and attention to detail in answering questions like “When were Ziploc bags invented?”

  I am exceedingly grateful to Ebook Launch (www.ebooklaunch.com) for the formatting and beautiful cover design, and to Literati Author Services (http://literatiauthorservices.com/) for their crucial support in promoting this work so that it can reach more readers.

  And of course, thanks to my legions of faithful friends and proofreaders - Alli, Kelsey, Martina and Megan - for your indispensable thoughts and wisdom, all of which make me a better writer.

  Preview

  Untitled: Coming in 2015

  MORGAN

  We’ve been here less than twenty minutes, and already I can tell there’s more to this thing between Hadley and her friend Levi than she originally let on. I don’t think they were ever in a relationship per se - she would’ve told me if they had been. We’ve always been perfectly upfront with each other about our pasts, after all. Or at least I thought we had. I guess I’m starting to have my doubts. This guy isn’t one she ever talked about at any great length, after all, even though it’s becoming increasingly clear they have some sort of history together. And not just friends history, either.

  When we first walked up to the table, we performed this awkward shuffle where Levi and his girlfriend Bonnie both climbed out of the booth to greet us. First Hadley and Levi hugged - and by hugged I mean they practically throttled each other, although with a restrained fierceness, like they were both holding something back. It went on for about a beat too long, too. Understand, I’m not much for jealousy - it’s just that Bonnie and I were left standing there looking at each other like we weren’t sure whether we should hug, too, or maybe just shake hands. Eventually I went for the latter.

  As the night progresses, from drinks to appetizers, to dinner and then more drinks, I can feel my curiosity about to get the better of me. On the surface I suppose it’s all been very ordinary - Bonnie, for her part, seems none the wiser. But one, I know Hadley - know her mannerisms and expressions and every nuance of her tone - and two, it certainly doesn’t take a genius to recognize the adoration in Levi’s eyes every time he looks at her: that smile, the brazen appreciation of her beauty. It’s not unlike the gleam I’ve noticed in other men’s eyes whenever they fall on Hadley, but from him it’s somehow different. There are times when it feels like perhaps, to them, they’re the only two in the room, and during those moments of brief but palpable intensity, Bonnie and I are nothing more than spectators, observing their conversation from beyond a space we’re not permitted to enter.

  And yet still there are times when Hadley glances back at me with that warm smile I love so much, or gives my leg a squeeze beneath the table, and those instances are enough to make me question whether I’m simply imagining things. And when she talks about her new job, and her eyes twinkle and shine the way they always do when she discusses something she’s passionate about, forget Levi - because in those moments, all I can see is her.

  LEVI

  It’s unreal. So much has happened in both our lives since we last saw each other, and yet not a single one of those seemingly significant turning points has detracted even a little from that reckless, heady feeling I get just from looking at her. Every time she smiles at me, it’s like Heaven blows in, warm and bright and scented like honey.

  She’s cut her hair. It’s sort of long and soft on top, but it’s trimmed around her ears and off the back of her neck. I never thought I liked short hair on girls, but that was before I saw it on Hadley. She pushes her hands through it a lot, making parts of it stick straight up, but instead of scruffy or unkempt she just looks chaotically beautiful. I try not to stare at her too much, but what can I say? It’s a losing battle.

  Hadley is delighting us all with an entertaining account of her Skype interview for her new job when our waiter approaches. “You folks interested in dessert?”

  “God, no,” Bonnie groans.

  The waiter looks to the rest of us. “I think I’m good,” says Morgan. “You can get something if you want though, babe.”

  Hadley, biting her lip, looks at me. “You wanna split something? I’ll buy.”

  “Hell no you’re not buying,” I tell her. Then, glancing at the waiter: “We’ll take a dessert menu, please.”

  Hadley folds her napkin on the table and gives Morgan a nudge. “I need to use the ladies’ room,” she announces. To me she says, “Order whatever you want. I’m sure it’s all incredible.”

  Morgan slides out of the booth and allows her to file out past him. “I think I’ll go, too, actually,” says Bonnie, rising to walk with Hadley.

  The two girls disappear, leaving Morgan and me very much alone. As I glance up at him I realize that, in some ways, it’s like I’m noticing him for the first time. He’s built like a linebacker, with crew cut hair and hands that look like they could easily palm a basketball apiece; a curl of chest hair is visible above the collar of his shirt. As I look at him, he seems to be sizing me up, looking at me like he wants to ask me something but hasn’t yet made up his mind about whether he should.

  “So,” I say to break the silence, “police academy, huh?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Orlando or Sanford?” I ask. “Or somewhere else?”

  “Not sure yet,” he replies. “Eventually I’d like to get on with the state troopers.”

  I nod. “My uncle’s a trooper - or I should say, he used to be. He’s retired now. Maybe he’d know somebody you could talk to, though. I could ask him if you want.”

  Maybe it’s my imagination, but his expression seems to become slightly less guarded. “Yeah? That’d be great, man. I’ll take all the help I can get.”

  I shrug. “Hey, that’s how it works, right? ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.’ I’m happy to put you in touch with him.”

  “Yeah, right. Thanks. I, uh... I guess I can just get your number from Hadley.”

  “Sure,” I say, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.

  The waiter comes back with a dessert menu, and I order the chocolate cake, having guessed it’s what Hadley might like best (it’s a point of foolish pride that I don’t ask her boyfriend). As he walks away, Morgan clears his throat. “So. How long have you and Bonnie been together?”

  “Oh, on and off, for about a year.” (It’s a good thing Bonnie isn’t here. She hates when I describe our relationship as “on and off,” even though there really isn’t any other accurate way to characterize the first six months we dated.)

  “Do you live together?”

  I almost laugh. “Um, no. Separate places.” I take a sip of my Guinness. “How about you? How long have you and Hadley been dating?”

  “Nine months.”

  I raise my eyebrows but bite my tongue. Nine months doesn’t seem like long enough for him to have followed her all the way down here. Then again, you never know. If I hadn’t been in school when Hadley left two years ago, I might’ve followed her, too - and we were “together” for substantially less time.

  Inevitably I find myself wondering: if Bonnie moved four states away, would I feel inclined to go with her?

  HADLEY

  I feel like I’m in a daze. Actually, I am in a daze. Plus, I’m exhausted. It takes a surprising amount of e
nergy to try not to be obsessed with someone, especially while your loving boyfriend is sitting right there. Just, you know, playing it off and trying hard not to over-analyze every single sidelong glance that’s passed between the people at our table, and is it hot in here? I think it’s hot in here...

  Let me be clear: this infatuation with Levi? I don’t want it. It’s uncomfortable and inconvenient, and it makes me feel like I’m about to break out in hives. But hey, at least I’m smart enough to know it’s a crush. Just a stupid, immature crush...

  “So Hadley,” says Bonnie, smiling at me in the mirror as we both wash our hands, “since you’re from the Midwest, how do you feel about the beach?”

  “I love the beach,” I say and immediately wonder whether my voice sounds too loud.

  “Well, then we should go sometime. I know all the good spots.”

  “Definitely. I’d love that.” I comb my damp hands back through my hair in an effort to tame it a bit. “By the way, can you recommend a good salon?”

  “Oh my god, of course. In fact...” She opens her little beaded clutch and rifles through it before extracting a card. “Here. Salon Red. Ask for Lindsey.”

  “Lindsey,” I repeat, taking the card from her and turning it over in my palm. “Got it.”

  “I have to say, your hair is just adorable,” Bonnie says, taking me by complete and utter surprise. “You’re one of those rare people who can just really pull off a cut like that. And tell me those aren’t natural highlights.”

  “Er, well no,” I mutter, bewildered. “I mean, I’ve never colored my hair.”

  “Wow, girl. You must have some wicked genes. Well done.”

  “Gosh, thank you,” I tell her. Self-consciously I touch my hair. “Yours is gorgeous, too. And I swear I’m not just saying that.”

  “Thanks,” says Bonnie, flashing me a smile that says she’s well-accustomed to receiving compliments and is a regular pro at handling them. “It’s not without effort though, trust me. I mean...monthly keratin treatments, bi-monthly highlights - you know the drill.”

  I nod even though, really, that’s not a drill I’m familiar with at all.