by Matt Dean
But no. He won't emerge from the willows. I won't see him again. He is gone, except in my memory.
Whatever it was that changed him-something I said or did, some feeling of guilt or shame that he discovered in himself, some random alteration of his brain chemistry-whatever it was that made him unhappy-.
Whatever it was-and I will never know what it was-I can do nothing more than forgive him for leaving, and go on missing him, and know that some part of me, at least, will never stop missing him, even if I think of him less and less each day.
Lately, we've all been going to Jonquil's church. I still can't get the name straight-Word of the Spirit? Spirit of the Word? It doesn't matter.
Last Sunday, Jonquil buttonholed me on my way out. She said, "Someday you'll have it again." She swung her hips, shaking out the folds of her pearly robes. She blinked. Kohl flecked her sleeves.
"Have what?" I asked her.
"Love. Marriage. Someone you love, someone who loves you, someone to share your life with. You'll have that again."
I felt my mouth curve into a big, open smile. My jaws ached from it. "I suppose I will."
"God loves you whether you're celibate or not," she told me. "He told me so himself."
I love Jonquil, but I've gradually come to conclude that she's slightly mad. This, more than anything, explains how it came to pass that, every Sunday at noon, Christa sets foot in an actual church.
The air is sharp and cold. Around me the river smells of mud and peat. I miss Tom.
The music is beautiful, jubilant, rapturous. The whole world is contained in this music. Work, play, dance. Rise, fall. Life, death. Departure, return.
Everything and everyone is forgiven. Whatever I've done-everything I've done-I am forgiven. I've learned to forgive myself. Every day, I forgive myself. Every day, I decide to forgive myself.
Must it be?
In chaos there is the promise of peace. In descent there is the promise of ascent. As Eve was hidden in Adam's rib, the spring is hidden in the gut of winter. In estrangement there is the promise of reconciliation. To be human is to be holy. It is all the same thing. In winter, the promise of summer's green is hidden under the white snow, under the blue ice.
Everything. Everyone. I decide to forgive.
My cheeks are wet. I am crying. Tears of joy, tears of sorrow-they are the same thing.
The strings play an obsessive figure. They climb the scale, tenaciously, as if slogging up a muddy hill. The horns pound away at their cretic rhythm, their horses' gallop. And then here is the melody again, in the strings. They have crested the muddy hill.
Everything in the world is contained in this music. Birth, life, death. Canticle, ballad, elegy. The ebb of the tide, the flood. Departure, return. The descent to hell, the ascent to heaven.
Everything stops. The entryway is the barrier.
The flutes, again-tremulous, tentative-take the melody. They play the brave tune that a frightened man might whistle as he wraps the palm of his hand around a candle flame, shielding it against the wind and dark.
It must be.
The wind is still. The river is still, as if on the brink of icing over, as if at any second it might congeal and freeze solid.
Feeling muscular, loose, strong, I pull the oars harder, rowing at full pressure.
The strings have the melody again, singing it loud, a full-throated cry of joy. The music is merry, ebullient, ravishing. The air is sharp and cold, smelling of mud and peat.
I pull the oars harder.
It must be.
I forgive.
The current draws me southward, downstream.
* * *
Acknowledgments
I suspect that writing a novel is an act of such unsurpassed folly that anyone who attempts it is either quite mad or has a lot of help. I admit reluctantly to the former, and gladly to the latter.
For wholehearted encouragement and practical advice when I was hopelessly and haplessly stuck at the threshold of chapter three, I owe all praise and thanks to Carol Bly and David Leavitt. I learned much from each of them, and the book never could have been completed without their help.
For a clean, well-lighted place to write, and a fair amount of free coffee, I'm grateful to George and Michele and the staff of Muddy Waters Coffee on James Island, where I completed about ninety percent of my final draft.
For a deeply respectful reading of each chapter and countless percipient suggestions, I am grateful to Clif Mason, my good friend and compassionate reader. I'd always assumed that writing and revising were an entirely solitary pursuits, followed by the end product's release into the world. But Clif's comments inspired many new ideas and shaped the book-in-progress very much to the better. I'm particularly thankful, on Jonah's behalf, for the gift of the sporty yellow Walkman.
For their enthusiastic reception of the book and helpful feedback, I'm also grateful to other readers, including Linda Scott, Meg Scott-Copses, Kristeen Broussard, Vina McAllister, Ethel Frech, and Dee Miller.
For much-needed help with the intricacies of German case endings, ein recht herzliches Dankesch?n to Doro Schwolgin.
Finally-last but not least, as they say-for listening with seemingly endless patience as I talked through one idea or another, for having faith in me even when I've had no faith in myself, for loving me even when I can't quite manage to like myself, for being my champion and my partner and my best friend, I thank my "immortal beloved," Todd Frech. Without him, I am entirely certain that this book would not exist.
