Day Tripper

Day Tripper

It was the summer of 1966. I was sixteen years old and leading a sheltered life – not by choice, I can tell you. Anyway, my uncle had been teaching in London on a year-long exchange program, and my parents thought it would be a good opportunity for me to, you know, “see something of the world.” My mother actually used that phrase. I had hardly been away from home except on family vacations, and I guess they figured this would give me a taste of independence, while still under watchful eyes. I was cool with it.
And so I spent six weeks in July and August in London. I mastered the tube system with a little help from my aunt and a damn good map and spent most weekdays on my own prowling around London from their Finchley Road flat. I discovered Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace (where Christopher Robin went down with Alice), St. Paul’s, where I climbed to the very top, the Burlington Arcade, Madame Tussaud’s and, most critically, Carnaby Street, where the Brit girls made me feel weird about my short hair and American accent.
On weekends we took trips to Oxford, Blenheim, Stratford, Hampton Court (the maze was amazing), and way too many cathedrals which my aunt felt necessary for my grand tour, but which seemed to blend together. Yeah, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all. We took an extended trip up to Scotland via the Flying Scot. I learned an important lesson in travel – it’s just as hard to sleep on a train as it is on an airplane, maybe harder. They serve warm Cokes without ice and call potato chips “crisps,” and the way they say it could serve as the example for onomatopoeia in the dictionary. We did Edinburgh, of course, Culloden and Bannockburn, my aunt on some sort of quest for Bonnie Prince Charlie. Then up along Loch Ness to Inverness, and saw as many castles in various states of disrepair as we had seen cathedrals in the south. We stayed in bed and breakfasts with ceilings that were too low. We had afternoon tea faithfully at four o’clock.
At the end of six weeks, I’d about had it. Don’t get me wrong; it was different, at least, but there’s a certain stress level when you’re, you know, out of your element, and I was way out of my freakin’ element.
My aunt and uncle are not fond of flying, preferring the more leisurely pace of ocean liners. And so here I am, wandering around the USS United States (which strikes me as a bit redundant) on the last evening out of Southampton of a five day passage home. I am dangerously bored, and nagged by a mild but persistent headache which my aunt attributes to the motion of the ship. I think the boredom and the rather cozy cabin-class accommodations are big contributors, and so I spend hours wandering around the ship, my guardians reasoning that I can’t go too far and then there is the very attentive crew in loco parentis. I watch the movie – To Sir with Love – three times (Pam Dare is hot!), play solo shuffleboard at length when it isn’t overrun by the blue-hairs, and decide that cruising the North Atlantic on the pride of American luxury liners is not all it was cracked up to be for a sixteen year old sheltered kid.
At about 10:30, having thoroughly chilled myself on deck (“Frozen in August, Jesus!”), not at all sleepy, and having nothing better to do, I decide to go into one of the bars for a Coke. It’s empty except for a group of college-age kids, British from their accents, dressed more or less in the mod style of the day, but a bit raggy. There are two guys and three girls.
I sit sideways to the bar, sipping my Coke and smoking a cigarette, mildly pleased that I had kept the fact that I smoke hidden from my aunt and uncle for six weeks. I am alternately examining a stubborn London Times crossword from a paper I picked up from under a deck chair and tuning in to the group of students. Apparently they are all attending college in the States, two of them acting like a couple returning to Columbia, and the other three just starting out. One of the girls, the prettier one, is going to Smith, and the others are giving her a hard time. It seems there is a certain rumor going around about Smith girls. I had heard it myself, since I’m going to be a junior and the hot topic is the whole college admissions scene.
One of the boys, the unattached one, has a guitar and is absentmindedly picking on it, and the conversation is interspersed with an informal sort of “name that tune.” I am enjoying trying to outdo them silently and soon realize that I am beating them to the punch about half the time. I have an ear for music, I guess, but I figure that they are more involved in their yakking and not concentrating on the music.
During the pauses, I am waiting expectedly for the next offering. The guitar player takes a swig of his beer and fumbles for a cigarette, finding none.
“Shit. All out. Anybody got a cig?” No one does. “Shit.” He goes back to the guitar.
“Day Tripper,” I say aloud, before the first measure is complete. The conversation stops abruptly, and they all look at me. I slide off the bar stool, pocket my London Times and toss my cigarettes to the guitar player, who catches the pack in mid-air. “Take the easy way out,” I say.
“See? Now there’s a bloke what knows his music!” I am immediately invited to join them, and the other guy gets up and pulls over a chair, placing it between the two apparently unattached girls. Seeing that my glass is nearly empty, the one to whom I gave the cigarettes asks what I’m drinking. “Coke,” I reply, and instantly regret it. “Jesus. I thought it was dark beer. You ever had dark beer?”
“No, but if you’re offering, I’ll try it.” I say this because I am pissed at myself, knowing full well that I won’t like it. But I figure I can probably get it down.
George, the guitar player by introduction, puts down the guitar, inquires around the table, and has a couple of takers. He goes over to the bar and returns with the dark beer, a fresh one for himself and the girl to my right, the pretty one, who had introduced herself as Melanie. After a few questions about my travels, the conversation drifts back to its disjointed flow about music, New York City, Boston and college life. I’m able to contribute to most of the topics and begin gradually to relax. Eventually I take the guitar and lead them through a couple of name-that-tune exercises, though I’m not as good as George. They all laugh when I give them a recognizable “This Land Is Your Land.” Melanie is particularly responsive. She had joined in with a casual humming harmony on a few of my songs and pouts at me when I give up the guitar.
She has long honey-colored hair that flows around her shoulders and frames a naturally pretty, if not elegant, face, the most resplendent feature of which is her green eyes. She has on a long, loose shift sort of dress that is reminiscent of the flower child. She seems casually self-assured, yet oozes softness. Everything about her is soft. She is slim but not bony, graceful, even in the act of sipping a beer. She reminds me of one of those calla lilies that only blooms once in the winter, tall and smooth, everything in its place. The lily that you want to touch, but somehow you don’t.
After perhaps an hour, and most of two glasses of dark beer, the group begins to give indications that it’s ready to move on. George asks if I’ll come to their stateroom for a little while. I’m still not sleepy and the beer has me feeling pretty good, so I agree. As we step out on deck, a cold wind hits us, and Melanie reaches for my arm and puts it around her waist, saying, “Christ it’s cold!” I am pleasantly surprised by this, to say the least, and I slide my arm up to her shoulders and pull her close. “Yeah, and it’s August. Christ!” I regret that we soon turn off the chilly open deck, but she doesn’t completely let go, so neither do I. I have my arm around a lily.
Their stateroom is not luxurious, but it’s larger than mine. It’s evident, with little examination, that they are all in it together. After some milling around Melanie bounces up to one of the two upper bunks and pulls me up beside her. I notice how her fingers feel in my hand. The two I have now decided are definitely a couple move onto the bunk below us, and the other guy and girl sit on the floor. Candles are lit and the lights turned out. Beer is handed out, and I’m offered one, or a Coke. I take the Coke, and there’s no reaction. There’s another guitar, and the music begins again. On a few of the tunes, there’s singing. Dylan figures heavily in the repertoire. The room is pretty thick with the candles, the beer, the music and the smoke from pot. A joint is handed around and when it is handed from the lower bunk to the upper by a detached hand, I don’t hesitate to take part after first passing it to Melanie. My first thought is that it’s like a sour-tasting cigarette, but I begin to feel its effects after a few rounds. “Well, this is a first,” I think.
Melanie has a beautiful voice when she chooses to sing softly on the quieter tunes. I hum with her and find some harmonies – “What Have They Done to the Rain,” “In My Life,” “Girl from the North Country.” She likes that. She tells me that she’s never been out of England before and wants to know where I live. I tell her in Pennsylvania, and she only knows about Philadelphia. She lives in Leeds and I know there’s a cathedral there, but I can’t see it in my mind. Her father is American and her mother is English and she has two younger brothers. She’s glad to get away, but she’s scared too. She’s going to Smith because her father likes the idea, and she wanted to go to the U.S. I tell her I’m thinking about Cornell and studying architecture, and she wants to know where Cornell is, but I haven’t even been there yet, so there’s not much I can tell her. She hasn’t seen Smith, either.
I’m melting in the heat and pull my sweater over my head, and she helps me, giggling, in the cramped headroom of the upper bunk. I lay back and she curls beside me, running her hand up underneath my shirt over my bare chest, her head on my shoulder and my arm around her back. We hum softly together on a few Donovan things that I can’t remember all the words to, perhaps because of the distraction of her hand on my chest. The spaces between the songs grow longer, and the conversation dies out gradually, and she kisses me, first once, then again, longer, and then pretty much continually. This is not a normal experience for me, but I feel pretty damn good. I discover that she’s wearing no bra, and not long after discover she has no underwear beneath her loose fitting cotton dress. She is soft all over. As I begin to explore, so does she, and she undoes my belt and slides her warm hand inside and finds my hard on. Her hand feels electric.
I have made out, but only briefly and not often; I have kissed girls good night; I have groped around in movie theaters. This is a quantum leap – the wet dream in real life. I have read about this. I am terrified I will blow it. But God, I want her so much. She squeezes me and I reach down between her legs. I find her and she sighs and kisses me deeply. She squeezes me again and I realize she’s pulling me toward her. I roll on top of her as gently as I can and she guides me. At first I think she’s just playing with herself using me, but then she wraps her arms and legs around me, squirms against me, and I feel myself go inside her. I hold as still as I can, because I am so afraid that it will be over too quickly. What “it” is I have no direct knowledge. She whispers, “Come on,” and begins to squirm again beneath me. She writhes passionately, watching my eyes, and whispers again, “Come on. Fuck me.” And I do. And it is not long, but perhaps long enough, before I feel the waves overcome me. I push again deep inside her once, twice, three more times and hear her whisper, “Oh, God. Yes.” And it’s over. I stay inside her for a long time, taking her head in my hands and looking down at her, her fingers at the back of my neck. She smiles up at me and we kiss lightly. I am head over heels. “Welcome to America,” I say, and she laughs, which pushes me out of her in short order. We laugh some more, quietly, and I’m thinking that I can hear a British accent in her laugh. There’s no sound from the others, and pretty soon, we fall asleep, wrapped around each other, my pants around my ankles.
The fog horn wakes me up. I start, remember where I am, realize I’m holding a girl in my arms, and nearly crack my head on the low ceiling. I lean over the edge of the bunk and catch a look at my watch in the dying candle – 3:15 a.m. Uh-oh.
I look down at Melanie and she’s sleeping. Then the fog horn goes off again and her eyes flutter. “Melanie,” I whisper, and she opens her eyes, looks at me blankly for a moment, then smiles. It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
“I’ve gotta go. If they realize I’m not there, they’ll panic.” I don’t know what else to say at that moment.
“Yes. Okay. Kiss me.” I do. And then I kiss her again. The fog horn again. I sit up, groping for my pants and sweater. She helps me, giggling sleepily the whole time. I lower myself quietly from the bunk. She’s rummaging around in the blankets, groping in the dark for something. “Wait,” she says, her back to me. “Okay, here you go.” She hands me the crumpled London Times, my pen clipped to the edge. “A souvenir,” she says, smiling. I just stand there looking at her resting her head on one elbow, her honey hair all disheveled and her lips open in a half smile as though she’s about to have a pleasant conversation. She’s at eye level, and I kiss her again, which she returns. We separate and look at each other. She sits up in the bunk, and I hold her around the waist, my head pressed into her stomach. She strokes my head, then leans back against the wall as I gently press my head between her legs, feeling her warmth on the other side of the soft cotton. She sighs, squirms a bit, then lifts my head to her eye level. “Be off with you, and remember me.”
I back away from her, still holding her hand. We are smiling. I do not ask how to reach her, nor if I’ll see her again. It seems inadequate, inappropriate somehow, or maybe I just don’t think about it. I turn and step over two bodies in a sleeping bag on the floor and one of the guitars, and let myself out of the room into the bare hall, glancing back briefly to see her wave to me, still smiling. I close the door.
“Hey sport, time for breakfast. Gotta get it now or we’ll miss the Statue of Liberty.”
I roll over groggily, rubbing my eyes, realize I am still in my yesterday clothes, and then remember everything else.
“What time did you come in last night? We didn’t hear a thing!”
“Oh, I dunno. It was real late. Ran into a group of college kids in the bar. They had a guitar and we were up singing to all hours. It was nice.”
“Well, let’s get a move on. Your aunt’s already up in the dining room. Gotta have the coffee first thing, ya know.”
“Okay. Lemme change. You go ahead, I’ll be up in a few.”
My uncle leaves, and I slowly get down from the bunk, stretch, and head for the john. I drop my pants and the newspaper drops out of my back pocket to the floor. After I pee, I pick it up. I had not finished the crossword. Written in the margin are the words, “Thanks Day Tripper. Melanie Keough, Smith College, USA. Peace.”

Conversations Among Paintings

Conversations among Paintings

Jonathan May looked around his new living room. It was Spartan. He had bought the place because he knew he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t, but not much money remained for furnishings. There was an old comfortable couch that the former owners had thrown into the deal and the big old chair and the stack of family portraits he had brought from his old place, but that was about it. Over the weekend, he’d bring a few loads from the old family homestead collection that had been stored in a rental storage place back in town ever since they had sold the place a decade ago, but tonight he’d sleep on the couch. Oh, my, he was tired.
It had been a long day, but he was satisfied. After his wife died, he had moved into an apartment, but he had felt trapped, subject to the noisy, and nosey, neighbors and someone else’s furniture. He wanted, needed, a place of his own. His daughter protested, at first, with oblique references to his age and the relative isolation of his new home, but she relented, being the understanding sort, and knowing that protesting was useless. So at the tender age of 72, he had dipped rather deeply into his pension and bought this place, away out in the hills.
It was a small log home, not much more than a large room that served as a living and dining room, a small kitchen, two bedrooms, one of which he planned to use as a study, and a bath room. The wrap-around porch that overlooked most of his ten acres to the mountains beyond had sold him. Built on the foundation of an old farmhouse by a well-to-do New York couple as a weekend getaway, the materials and workmanship were first rate, and the landscaping made a nice foreground to the fields and far hills. It had a garage and storage building that would serve him well as a workshop.
Jonathan thought of all these things as he nursed the bowl of canned soup he made for his dinner. Nothing wrong with soup. He looked around at the bare walls, noticing the picture hooks vacated by the hunting prints of the former owners. Then he looked at the stack of paintings propped against the wall.
Carefully extracting the painting of his mother as a little girl, he placed it on the substantial hook centered over the mantle, nodded approvingly, and proceeded to prepare for an early bed.
He slept soundly and did not hear the brief conversation, but then he wouldn’t have heard it had he been awake.
“You look fine up there.”
“Oh, Uncle Nat, the way you made me look I’d look fine anywhere.”
“Like the view?”
“Yes. It’s a nice place and I can see out the window a bit. Feels like home already.”
“I guess I’ll get a better look when he finds a spot for me. Can’t see much from down here on the floor.”
“No, I suppose not. I hope we’ll be able to see each other.”
“Me too, little flower. Me too.”
“Now stop that. You’ll make me blush.”
“I already did that, little girl. Remember, you’ll always be eight years old to me.”
“I hated sitting for this portrait, but you’ll always be my favorite uncle.”
“Your only uncle, you mean.”
“That too.”
“You little minx.”
And at that, the portrait of Jenny Jameson May, at the age of eight years, seemed to take on a glow from the moonlight coming through the window to her blushing cheeks and carefully crafted smile, and the hat on the man in the self-portrait of her uncle, artist Nathaniel Jameson, seemed to settle a bit lower and more comfortably on his brow.
Jonathan was awakened at a shamefully late hour by the ringing of the telephone, which he had not even realized had been connected. In fact, he did not know where it was. He followed the sound, counting the rings (allowing for two before becoming fully conscious, or relatively so). He spotted the phone in the kitchen on the eighth ring and picked it up. "May here."
"Hi Dad! It’s August here. Beastly hot. I wish it were May. How're the new digs?"
In spite of himself, he had to laugh.
"Hello, Peach! The new digs are great, I think. Haven't spent much time looking around yet."
"Oh jeez. I woke you up, didn't I? Dad, it's almost noon!"
"One of the joys of living alone."
"Sorry, Pop. Just wanted to make sure you were safely installed."
"No need to be sorry. I should be up and about. Got to get going and make this place feel like home. Can't wait for you to see it. I'll send you some pix when I get the computer going."
"You do that. Call me if you need any help with that. I'll let you go, but stay in touch. Why don't I hear any music?"
"Because I just woke up!"
"Oh, right. Well, get it going. Then it will seem like home.
"Right you are, Peach. Talk to you soon. Love you!"
"Backatcha. Lateron."
Jonathan hung up the phone and somewhat groggily reasoned that since he was in the kitchen, he'd make coffee. He wished he had something sweet to go with it. Sighing, he went into the bathroom, splashed his face with cold water and shaved. Then he went back into the big room, peeled the packing tape off one of the boxes stacked against the wall, and rooted around until he found the coffee mugs and shoebox full of flatware and utensils. Back in the kitchen, he spooned two scoops into the mug and began to mentally plan his day.
When the first wisps of steam appeared, he filled the cup, gave it a stir, and headed out to the porch. Sitting on the steps, he decided he could make two runs to the storage place and still have time to return the borrowed pick-up to Charles, back in town where he had left his car. Then a stop at the Wal-Mart for some essentials, home before dark.
This would be okay, he thought, looking out over his little domain from the porch steps. Enough work to keep him active, not so much that he'd need help. Should be fairly efficient during the winter hibernation, reasonably mild in these Virginia hills, delightfully airy in the summer, and rife with the natural miracles of spring and autumn. Yes, this would be okay.
He stood up, took a gulp of coffee, and stepped off the porch. Strolling around the corner of the house, he admired the stonework that formed the walls below floor level, gradually increasing in height as he descended the slope into which the house was set. "A strong foundation," he thought - the story of the Three Little Pigs coming to mind. Further down the slope, the less formal and more virulent vegetation that defined the stream marked the edge of his world, beyond which was an old hemlock forest that invited future exploration. He continued down the slope, rounded the corner of the house, and noted that there was at least a cord of firewood under the protection of the overhanging porch deck, but room for plenty more. He'd like to have at least three cords stored before winter. "He who chops his own firewood warms himself twice."
Around the next corner appeared the garage, or barn. He couldn’t quite decide what to call it. It clearly predated the log home, probably built at the same time as the old farmhouse. He realized he had not seen this approach to the rear of the structure when he noticed a beam protruding about four feet into the air above a second story door. Curious, he walked to the opposite side -- that of the large double doors - pulled them open and went inside. He had only glanced in before, noting that it had plenty of space for his Subaru, lawn tractor, and some workbenches. It would need more light. He had not even realized there was a second floor.
Looking around, he spied a ladder built against the back wall near the corner. It stopped at a trap door in the ceiling. Setting down his mug of coffee, he climbed the ladder with some difficulty, since it was perfectly vertical. Reaching the top, he pushed at the worn wood and it gave upward, heavily and groaning in protest, until he was able to put his head through the opening. Looking around in the dim light, he couldn't make out much, so he pushed the door until it clunked against the wall and he retreated down the ladder to find a flashlight.
Chuck’s pickup was well equipped, and he found a Maglite in the glove box. Returning to the ladder, he climbed through the hole and shined the light around. The roof was pitched from the ridge and there were no openings save the door on the back side that had piqued his curiosity. Walking carefully over the rough floor boards, he found a hasp and pulled back on the heavy door, unleashing a flurry of dust motes in the sunlight against the dim interior that reminded him fleetingly of a photograph from the Hubble Telescope.
Turning, he saw a goodly number of large objects, clearly furniture, covered by old sheets and plastic drop cloths. The effect was eerie, and he had the fleeting thought of being the first man in centuries to enter an Egyptian tomb. He made a cursory search for evidence of roof leaks and seeing none, he began pulling off the coverings, flinging them into a heap at one side.
He had unearthed a treasure trove of wicker furniture, perhaps twelve or fifteen pieces all painted a very long time ago a deep shade of forest green. Chairs with ottomans, two rocking chairs, a chaise, small love seat, three tables and a hanging porch swing. Marvelous! But how to get it all down?
Walking over to the open door, he looked out at the beam that had led him to explore the loft in the first place and noticed a stout hook near its end. Then, sure enough, hanging on the wall behind the open door was a block and tackle, complete with an assortment of hooks and canvass straps.
Okay. It would take him most of a day to get all of this down to the porch, but it would be worth it, and some of it would work in the great room as well. He hefted one of the chairs -– not too bad. He took it over to the door and in less than a minute had it wrapped in the straps, the business end of the block and tackle attached, and the other end hooked onto the beam, a bit of a stretch for him. Grabbing the free end of the rope tightly, he effortlessly hoisted the chair a few inches off the floor and pushed it through the door with his knee. It dangled in mid-air and when it stopped swinging, he carefully lowered it to the ground. A bit of a shake and the straps were free and he reeled them in.
With a certain sense of satisfaction, he hung the pulleys and straps back on the wall and turned back to the furniture, figuring to prioritize. The ottoman for the chair he had just downloaded, to be sure. The swing, if he could manage it. Both rocking chairs, one for the porch, one for inside. The two side tables… He poked around a bit. The chaise perhaps.
And what was this? Covered in burlap, tied with an old string, its top leaning against the sloping rafters. He pulled at the string, which broke easily. A frame, a painting! A dour looking portrait, dark. A man with black hair, curling nearly down to his chin. Black muttonchops and beard. Black jacket over dark brown waistcoat. Eyes piercing and as black as the hair, and a scowl that was blacker still. “Hello,” said Jonathan aloud, “Who are you?”
Jonathan was once again exhausted. “A fine damn thing,” he muttered aloud, “Two days in this place and I can barely stay awake!” He took a robust navel orange from the fridge, cut a neat incision with a paring knife from the stem end about sixty degrees down to the navel, and ripped a paper towel from the roll. He warmed it in his hands as he walked to the great room, put the Bach Goldberg Variations in the CD player, and plopped his tired body into the big old chair, simply because it seemed more inviting than the rocker he had brought down from the barn loft. His adventure on the second floor of the garage had convinced him that it was not merely a garage, nor storage building, nor workshop, but all of these, and thus the right label was “barn.”
As Bach’s magical intricacies (delivered mercifully by piano rather than the original harpsichord), unfolded, so did his orange and his day. Two truckloads from storage, a week’s worth of groceries, and three trips to the barn to download some of the furniture. He dug his fingernails into the incision and peeled it back, piece by piece, revealing the sweet expectation that lay within. Instead of indulging at the first opportunity, he separated each section, removed the sinuous detritus that would yield to his fingernail, and laid them one by one on the paper towel in a sort of ascending scale. Then, methodically, he enjoyed one section of the orange with each of the Variations. It took some discipline, but in eating an orange or listening to Bach or making love, anticipation was not a pleasure to be rushed.
Somewhat to his consternation, the orange ran out before the Bach. In reflection, he considered that this was better than the reverse. He laid the peel aside, wrapped up in the towel, used the remote to turn down the music and put it on auto-repeat, kicked off his shoes and kicked back into recline mode, and closed his eyes.
“Good evening, sir. May I have the pleasure of your acquaintance?” The artist seemed to tip his jaunty hat.
“Julian Graves, late of Philadelphia. And you, sir?”
“Nathaniel Jameson, artist and man about town. And I have the honor of presenting my niece, Jennifer Jameson May, the mother of our sleeping proprietor, Jonathan May, my grand nephew.” Jenny May giggled softly, inducing a scowl from Cousin Nat.
“How come you to be here, if I may ask?”
“Mr. May acquired the property as a desirable place to enjoy his remaining years.”
“From the look of him, they will be few,” replied Graves.
Jenny piped up, “He’s tired. We only just moved in yesterday and he’s been setting up house. He’s quite fit, actually.” Uncle Nat detected a note of pride mixed with resentment, but kept quiet.
“I see. What is that music? It’s a bit annoying.”
“Johann Sebastian Bach. But never fear, Mr. May’s choice of music is rather like the weather – if you don’t like it, it will change soon.”
“That’s for sure,” interjected Jenny, “We’re particularly fond of the Grateful Dead.”
“Jenny, please! Enough. May I ask, Mr. Graves, how you come to be here?”
“Damned if I know, actually. Your pardon, ma’am. I was painted around the turn of the century. President of a Philadelphia shipping company. Family fell on hard times in the early thirties and sold me to an antique store. Spent time in a variety of places in Old Town, ended up in a place called Sotheby’s in New York City, then out here in the middle of nowhere about ten years ago. Spent the last few years in that dreadful hayloft. Gentleman asleep on the chair retrieved me this morning, thanks be.”
“Well then, it is not my place to welcome you, but I do so nonetheless. May you have a place of honor among us.”
“I fear that is unlikely sir, as I am not of the family. But a dark hallway would be preferable to my recent posting. For that, I am grateful.”
Jenny May gave her uncle a look that seemed to suggest that she considered Julian Graves, late of Philadelphia and the old hayloft, a tiresome old bore, which was returned by a scowl from her Uncle Nat, followed by an almost certain smile and a wink.
Jonathan woke up as the old school clock on the kitchen wall chimed 4 a.m. He stood up slowly, stretched, walked out on the porch, and relieved himself over the rail, looking up at the stars. There was no moon, but there were so many stars he had no difficulty making out the horizon and the tree line at the edge of the meadow. Having thoroughly watered six square inches of an azalea below the rail, he zipped up and stood looking out into the night. Without any self-consciousness, he lifted his hands and clapped them once, sending what sounded like a gunshot reverberating through the hills. A deer snorted and bounded off unseen into the woods.
Wandering slowly around the porch, he reflected with a certain satisfaction that it must be five or more decades since he had peed under the stars. Life is good. He shuffled indoors and absent-mindedly began picking through the boxes stacked against the wall.

Books. Dozens of books. Where to put them? He looked around the great room and had a momentary vision of a single bookshelf around the entire perimeter of the room at ceiling height. Simple to build. And one of those marvelous Jeffersonian library ladders to reach them. He stacked a few armfuls against the wall, on the floor, in anticipation of their ascendance. Back to the boxes. File folders, old LPs, his complete set of Fine Woodworking magazine, photographs of his daughter, Annie, and his wife, Mary. With these he spent some time in the dim light.
Soon he sighed and stood, looking back at the wedding portrait of Mary smiling back at him. He wasn’t quite sure she’d approve of his being here. He gently placed the picture on the low window sill opposite the couch and fell into a deep sleep.
“Hello, Mary. It’s good to see you,” the portrait of Jenny said softly.
“Hello, Mother May. It’s good to see you too. Jon seems well. What is this place, my dear? Surely not the apartment.”
“No indeed. He has bought this place in the country and it appears that he’s settling in, intending to live out his life here.”
“Has he? Well, I am pleased to hear that. He was not happy in The Meadows, was he?”
“No. We both saw that, didn’t we?”
“Yes, Jon always felt better in a place of his own making. Is this a good place? It’s hard to tell in the dark.”
“It has a good feel about it, Mary, and I believe he is happy here. It’s a bit remote, which is worrisome, but then . . .”
“Yes. It would be. Everything in its time, Mother May. And hello to you, Uncle Nat. Surely you will not remain long there, leaning against the wall?”
“Hello, Mary. I trust I will find myself happily positioned when your husband settles in.”
“And who is that gentleman beside you, Uncle Nat?”
“I have the honor to present Mr. Julian Graves, late of Philadelphia. Mr. Graves was retrieved from the attic of the barn and aspires to be among us, should Mr. May oblige.”
“I am honored, Mrs. May.”
“As am I, Mr. Graves. I hope we shall have the pleasure of your company among us.”
“You are most gracious, Mrs. May. Nothing would give me more pleasure.”
Uncle Nat scowled at Jenny, who was suppressing a giggle.
“Please call me Mary, and, if I may, is it Julian?”
“At your service, Mary.” And Nathaniel Jameson thought he detected a softening of the man’s austere features.
In the waning weeks of August, Jonathan labored joyously to make the place more livable. He borrowed Charles’ truck to haul lumber from the sawmill and built his bookshelves and library steps. He arranged the books and music, wired a set of speakers to the porch, where he spent most of his evenings reading and smoking his pipe. He bought a bedroom set at an estate sale and arranged to have it brought around for a reasonable fee. He built a modest but elegant dining table and four chairs from walnut, as well as a side table for under the front window sill, where he placed the photographs of Mary and Annie. Jenny held the traditional place of honor over the mantle, with Uncle Nat on the opposite wall, and Julian Graves, late of Philadelphia, took up a spot in the dining area.
If Jonathan had any remaining doubts about buying the place, they were erased the warm night he sat on the porch counting the Perseid meteors as they lit up the sky, with Verdi in his ears, a pipe in his mouth, and a Wild Turkey on the rocks in his hand.
“How wonderful it is,” he thought, “to be serenaded by Callas and Bergonzi while watching the sky fall.”
On Labor Day weekend, Annie came to visit bringing her young man, Sean, and a cat with her. On Sunday, his sister Diana joined them. He understood that this was a sanity check, of sorts, and he took pains to make the place neat and tidy. Annie had traveled two hours from Washington, and Diana from North Carolina. With everyone pitching in, they grilled steaks, baked potatoes and tossed a huge salad, and they were enjoying the sunset from the porch with Irish coffee all around. They talked about politics, baseball, movies and books and the weather, and they had not talked about the things they came to talk about.
For a while they just sat watching the cat stalking moths that dared to settle too close. Jon lit up a pipe and the cat ambled over to his feet, watching him intently. He was particularly curious when Jon blew a perfect smoke ring in his direction.
“He’s a dignified cat, Peach. What’s his name?”
“Pita,” she replied. “Pita cat.”
“Pita cat? What the hell kind of a name is that for a cat?”
“Pita,” she repeated. “P.I.T.A. Pain-in-the-ass Cat.” He’s a real fur factory, and Sean’s a bit allergic to him.”
“Oh dear. That’s a problem. But he’s much too dignified for a name like that.” At this, the cat reached up with one paw and gently tapped Jonathan just below the knee. He leaned down and stroked the cat’s neck and was rewarded by a mechanical sounding purr. He leaned back in his chair to take a sip of coffee, with Pita watching indignantly. As he set the mug down, the cat leapt up onto his lap, nosed briefly at his pipe, then settled comfortably on Jon’s knees. Jon resumed his neck scratching; the cat resumed his purring with a look of satisfied triumph, and for a moment, the contented silence returned.
“Dad,” Annie began, but Jonathan interrupted her.
“George. George is a good name for a cat so magnificent.”
“Actually, Dad, that’s what I, or rather we, wanted to talk with you about. Everyone looked at Annie, including George. Sean reached over and took her hand, and it was he who spoke next.
“Sir. Mr. May, Annie and I would like to be married. With your blessing, of course.”
Diana stood up and kissed Annie on the cheek. “Well, it’s about time!” She sat down and all eyes turned to Jonathan, still stroking George, who was blithely uninterested.
Jonathan stared out into the darkness and spoke softly, as though to himself. “Aha! Yes, I see. It all fits. You have brought this magnificent creature out here because you want to get married, and he’s a bit of a problem. So you expect me to keep him. You’re throwing him over for Sean, allowed me to suggest a more fitting name, thus becoming attached to him. Well, George, you’re not the first heart she has broken, but you may be the last.” He looked down at the cat, who was staring back, wide-eyed, as if to say, “Who, me?”
“What do you think, George? Shall we let them get away with this chicanery?” George licked Jon’s hand, stood up, and jumped to the floor. Thus freed, Jon stood, stepped over to Sean, and held out his hand. “I’m proud and happy.” Sean stood and shook his hand and replied, “No more than I, sir.”
Jonathan turned to Annie, still seated. He knelt down in front of her and reached out to her and she embraced him. They held each other for a long time, and Jon wondered if he would ever hold his daughter like this again. After a few moments, he whispered into her ear, “I wish to God your mother were here.” They let go of the bear hug, and Jon dried his daughter’s tears. George came over to him and carefully raised one paw, tapping him on the leg. Jonathan reached down and scratched his neck.
Then he stood up. “Another round! And music!” A deer snorted somewhere out in the field. George looked bewildered, and everyone was laughing.
On Monday, Labor Day, they gathered for breakfast before the guests departed.
“This is a good place,” said Diana. “It suits you.”
“That it does,” agreed Jonathan. “I miss Mary intensely, but I am more content than I remember. It is a good place, and I am enjoying making it better.”
“Dad,” Annie began, then looked at Sean, who nodded, smiling. “Dad, it is a good place. Sean and I were talking last night. We’d like to be married here. Next spring. Would that be all right?”
“What, here? Out in the middle of nowhere?”
“Yes. In the field down there, with that view of the mountains.”
“And wild flowers in your hair, no doubt,” smiled Jonathan.
“Definitely,” interposed Sean.
“Well, George and I would be most proud. What do we need to do?”
“Not a thing, Dad, except put up with another disrupted weekend.”
“With bells on, Peach. With bells on.”
Before they left, Annie insisted on taking a picture of her father sitting on the porch steps, with George the cat sitting beside him. Just before she pressed the shutter, George reached up and delicately tapped Jonathan on the knee, and Jonathan absently began scratching him on the neck. Annie wondered which of the two looked more the master of this domain.
But doing nothing was not in Jonathan May’s nature. Over the next few months he built a grand gazebo on the rise overlooking the meadow, and laid a winding fieldstone path to it from the end of the porch, bordered with lilac and mountain laurel, and an arched trellis for climbing roses at the point where the path began a straight run to the gazebo. He had traded his old Subaru for an equally old pick-up truck, and hauled, cut, split and stacked enough good firewood from the surrounding woods to last the winter.
He bought a lathe and planer from an auction, adding to his workshop’s capabilities, and built a good workbench in the barn. He built a double bed of cherry with nicely turned finials for the spare room, still in need of a mattress, more shelves for the great room, and a hole in the front door with a flap for George to come and go as he pleased.
George caught mice, moths and voles, but did not succeed with the birds. He stared at the deer, who stared back. In the evening, he sat by Jonathan’s side, occasionally reaching up as if to shake hands, and received his hypnotic caress. He had trained Jonathan well.
Jonathan went to bed tired and happy every night, and woke up ready for the day. George, on the other hand, slept whenever he felt like it, which was mostly for short periods of time, but around the clock, and usually in the old recliner, which was now upholstered with a fine but irregular layer of cat fur. If Jon were up and about, George was usually nearby, except in the workshop. By Thanksgiving, it was still warm enough to sit on the porch until dark, and they kept each other good company, George seemingly becoming accustomed to Jonathan’s eclectic musical tastes, while he instinctively scratched George behind the ears when politely requested to do so.
If Jonathan slept soundly, George did not, and it was not unusual to find him wandering around the house at all hours, nosing about for whatever it is that cats can sense but humans can’t. George’s perambulations did not go unnoticed, however, nor did the continuing odd conversations that continued on most evenings, for George was distinctly aware of them. He would sit in his old chair and look from one to the other of the paintings as they spoke. Jenny, Mary, Uncle Nat and Julian Graves, late of Philadelphia, were quickly aware of this, and shared a mild amusement in the cat’s presence. It may not be too strong a case to suggest that they welcomed him, for it seemed that he participated, in a feline sort of way, in their chats. They occasionally asked his opinion on a certain point, and always seemed to receive it, though not through any means of communication that even they, whose mode was indeed eerie, quite understood.
Shortly before Christmas, a package from Annie arrived. She had commissioned a painting from her photo of Jonathan and George sitting on the front steps, which Jonathan had quite forgotten until seeing the painting.
In her note, Annie had written that she had wanted to find something truly special as a housewarming gift, and Sean had suggested the idea. It was truly magnificent, Jonathan thought. Signed by the artist, the well known Beth Holland, it was very detailed, but with subdued colors, it reminded him of an Andrew Wyeth. It captured the beauty of the setting, the comfort of the home, and the contented companionship of the man and the beast. Jonathan sat looking directly into the viewer’s eyes, his hand resting on George, who in turn had one paw resting on Jonathan’s knee, his magnificent profile rendered to a good advantage. Jonathan wondered if that was how the photograph was or if Annie had suggested the editing to the artist.
He marveled at his daughter’s eye for color, for Annie must have had the frame custom made. The painting itself was bordered with a cloth liner about an inch wide, the same gray as the fireplace fieldstone. The frame was about three inches wide, in antiqued gold with a wide cove of deep forest green at the center – the very same green of Jonathan’s bookshelves and the trim on the house, reflected in the painting. The whole thing was about three feet wide and two high, and without much hesitation, he decided that it had to go over the mantle, and Jenny would take up a position beside her favorite Uncle Nat, who would be moved a few feet to the left. This was accomplished by late afternoon, and that evening, being a bit chilly, Jonathan enjoyed his pipe and nightcap indoors, with a new read and an occasional satisfied glance at the new addition. George seemed to enjoy the Joni Mitchell mix, and Jon most surely did.
“Well,” said the portrait of Jenny, “This is different.”
“Not sure I like it,” replied Uncle Nat.
“But you’re in the same place!”
“Yes, my dear, but now I can’t see you.”
“Aha, yes, I see. Is it me you miss, Uncle Nat, or the fact that you can’t see any of your fine work?”
“Well, either way, I’m not sure I like it, but I have to admit, that is a damn fine painting.”
“It is indeed, don’t you think, Mother May?”
“It nearly makes me weep. It is exactly as Jon would want to be seen. Julian, can you see it well from where you are?”
“I can, Mary, although from a sharp angle. It seems to go quite well there, I believe.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Jenny. “George, do you have an opinion about it?”
George looked over at the portrait of Jenny, stood up, stretched, wandered casually to the front of the hearth, looked up at the new addition over the mantle, strolled to his recliner, jumped up, turned around twice, and sat down. There was no doubt from any of the other occupants of the room that George was pleased, perhaps a little too pleased, with his place of honor next to Jonathan, over the mantle. The quiet of the night seemed to grow deeper as the room’s occupants entertained their own thoughts in the dim moonlight.
Jonathan woke up refreshed, but feeling a bit achy. He got out of bed, stretched, and did his five minute routine of calisthenics, determined to start the day as usual. “As usual” meant a cup of coffee and a piece of cinnamon toast, while reading the news of the day on his computer. George always joined him and requested his morning dose of affection in his dignified but persistent fashion.
It was a fine day. He dressed, lit up a pipe, and stepped out onto the porch, stopping briefly to admire his new painting. George joined him on the porch and together, they walked to the barn. Jonathan was going to get a Christmas tree today. He had thought of just not going to the trouble, but Diana was going to come for a visit during the holiday, and Jonathan felt he’d get a dose of pity if he had nothing to show for Christmas decorations. So he was going out into the woods to find a good tree and some evergreen boughs, and maybe even some mistletoe, if he was lucky. He’d add a sprig of holly from the bushes around the house to each of the paintings and over the doors. He had no ornaments, but he could find plenty of pine cones, and maybe he’d get ambitious and make a few ornaments in the shop and do a popcorn string. He was feeling cheerful and resourceful as he gassed up the chain saw and gave it a test start. As soon as he pulled the cord, George lit out for the safety of the house. He did not like the chain saw. Jonathan found a canvass sack and coil of rope, and he set off toward the woods with the rope and the chain saw in the sack.
Evergreens were plentiful, and he filled the sack in short order. Mistletoe was nowhere to be found, but pine cones were plentiful. They’d do fine with a bit of spray paint and red ribbon. Finding just the right tree was another matter. He’d expected he’d have to look a while, because trees in the woods were never quite as obviously Christmas trees as those in the lots where they were sold, but he was not one for spending ten or twelve dollars a foot for someone else’s tree, no matter how full or symmetrical.
He walked for perhaps an hour, generally in a widening circle, carrying the sack over his shoulder and the chain saw in alternating hands. Finally he came on a nice little grove of new growth fir trees, and eventually selected one that he thought would do nicely. Trimming off the lower branches and twigs with the chain saw, the tree was felled in a matter of moments.
He was tired, but the hard part remained. He figured he was about a half mile from home, and had to drag the tree through the woods. He set the saw among the branches of the tree, tied a good knot with the rope around the base of the trunk, passed a loop through the handle of the chain saw, another loop on the trunks, then a big hitch loop for around his shoulder. Slinging the sack over his other shoulder, he took a deep breath and set out back the way he came, but in a more direct route, towards his home.
At the edge of the woods, his house still perhaps two hundred yards distant, but now blessedly in sight, he was thoroughly winded, and both his arms ached. He thought for a moment about leaving everything here and trying to drive out over the field and loading it on the truck, but rejected the option, figuring that he had made it this far and could make it the rest of the way. My, he would sleep well tonight. He hurt all over and was short of breath, but what could you expect? Perhaps he was overdoing it, but he knew that if he gave in to lethargy, he’d never forgive himself. On he went, one difficult step at a time. Hungry, too. He decided to stop for a rest, sat down in the tall meadow grass, now quite dead and dry, and shucked off the rope and the sack. He looked at his watch and realized that he’d been out for nearly four hours, and it was beginning on dusk. He lay back in the grass, just for a few minutes, closed his eyes and felt the beating of his heart.
As night fell, George stepped gingerly through the flap in the door and stood on the porch looking out over the field. He stood there for a long while, then slowly turned and walked back into the great room, jumped up in his chair, and went to sleep.
Most nights, the chiming of the old school clock on the kitchen wall did not enter George’s consciousness, but on this night, at the tenth stroke of twelve, the cat came awake. At the eleventh stroke, he stood up and stretched, and at the twelfth, he bounded off the chair, fully alert, as only a cat can be so quickly. Looking around at the portraits, they returned his look with questioning eyes. He walked onto the porch once again, and stood looking out into the field for a long time. He went slowly down the steps and walked around the house, then out to the barn, through the open doors, and roamed around its interior, undistracted by the mice he frightened. He returned to the house, up the porch steps and into the great room. He wandered into Jonathan’s bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, then returned to the great room. He walked to the hearth, looked up at the painting for a few moments, then over at the couch. He gazed at the couch thoughtfully, then back at the mantle. Making up his mind, he jumped up onto the couch, then to its back, turned and looked at the mantle and leapt up to it, letting out an alarming meow as he skidded to a halt and regained his equilibrium. This seemed to bring Jenny, Uncle Nat, Mary, and Mr. Julian Graves, late of Philadelphia, to a state of alert, all watching George, perched on the mantle. For a moment, he looked around at them, returning their stares in turn. Then he walked carefully to the center of the mantle and looked up at himself and Jonathan sitting on the front steps.
He gently reached up with one paw and touched the image of Jonathan.
“Hello, George. Please don’t worry about me.”
George looked at him for a moment and turned his head to look at the portrait of Jennifer Jamison May, mother of Jonathan May.
“Hello, Jon,” she said.
George looked back at Jonathan and raised his paw tentatively. John said, quite gently, “One day, George, I will scratch your neck again.” George turned and vaulted off the mantle onto the couch, then to the floor, then up to his chair, where he turned around twice, settled into his comfortable position, briefly surveyed the room, and settled down to sleep.

Sonata for Violin

Sonata for Violin

I watched the violin soar across the room in slow motion, as though in its last adagio, twisting around, having been released from the hand by the neck. It wasn’t so much thrown as flung. Flung in anger, frustration or fear, maybe insanity, I didn’t know.
For some odd reason, I thought about cakes. I think the phrase, “This takes the cake” occurred to me fleetingly, and I thought that a cake is not complete until it’s iced. You don’t know whether it’s a birthday cake, a holiday cake, or whatever, until the packaging is applied. But that’s what I thought about the violin flying through the air – the icing on the cake.
It was a pretty good violin, too. The man who had given it to me was quite accomplished. He was first violin and then concertmaster for the orchestra and taught for many years at one of the colleges. When I first started seeing him as a Home Health Visitor, he’d bring the violin out and play for a bit while I was fixing him up a week’s worth of decent meals. I didn’t know anything that he played, but then I didn’t know much about violin music. Later on I found out that they were all his own compositions.
He was best when improvising. He closed his eyes and caressed that thing with the bow and made silk come out of it. When he did that, improvised, I mean, I could pick up on his repetitions and sing along – no words or anything, just adding satin or velvet on top of the silk. I could tell that he liked when I did this because he played to my voice. We’d switch back and forth between soloist and accompanist.
I’d been visiting him weekly for almost two years, fixing meals, checking his meds and blood pressure, giving him a sponge bath and sometimes washing his hair. We’d finish off with a coffee and cigarette, both against the rules of the Home Health Service, but we didn’t care. I liked being with someone who seemed to enjoy my company.
Sometimes he tried to teach me the violin. I could get a sweet tone out of it, but that was more the violin than me, and I couldn’t anything like a melody. But he loved to try and always told me how well I was doing.
He was in his eighties and, seeing him only once a week, I could see him decline. There was nothing specifically wrong with him. He was a lonely old man.
One day when I was packing up to leave, he asked me to bring him the case for the violin. I was a bit surprised because it was usually not far from his side, ready to pick up and play. I did as he asked, laid the case across his knees and watched him gently place the violin and bow inside, and snap it closed.
He held it up to me with both hands and said, “Take it.”
I looked at him dumbly and he repeated, “Take it. I want you to have my friend – my voice.” He was smiling.
I protested, but he would not hear me.
“Take the violin. You love the old thing. I know that. And I can’t play any more. It just frustrates me. Let her music keep you company. That would make me happy. Who knows? Maybe you’ll learn to play.”
In the end, I took the treasure, but I told him I’d bring it back with me every week. He smiled again.
When I went back a week later, he had died. I got there and the door was locked. I couldn’t see anyone inside. I drove to a store a few miles away and called the service. They told me he had died in the night a week ago and they didn’t know why I hadn’t been notified.
I was crying when my husband came home. Just sitting on the couch, plinking the strings of the violin which was resting cross-wise on my knees. I couldn’t talk to him and the rage started. I tried to shut him out as I had so many times.
Finally he grabbed the violin off my knees by the neck and threw it across the room. It hit the opposite wall and snapped apart, the tension on the strings pulling it all into itself in one final, triumphant dissonance.
The audience sat in stunned silence, and there was no encore, for the violinist had left the hall.

The Purple Scissors

The Purple Scissors

I. The Present
She put down the New York Times with a deep sense of emptiness and frustration, no closer to understanding what had happened than after hearing the NPR report on her way to work at the New York Public Library. The headline read, “Nobel Winner Commits Suicide.” The story laid out in print what she had heard on the radio. “James MacPherson, PhD., 55, was found dead in his Stockholm hotel room, two hours after receiving the 2025 Nobel Prize for Literature, in an apparent suicide. Details remain sketchy, but Professor MacPherson left a cryptic handwritten note, ‘Thank you, but it is not what I sought.’”
The Times story went on with a review of the respected academic’s career at Columbia and Oxford, a description of his prize-winning work, and comments from his colleagues, who were unanimous in their dismay at his mysterious demise. “Dr. MacPherson had no known living relatives.”
Dr. Henry Zygmunt, who succeeded MacPherson as holder of the Corliss Lamont Chair in Civil Liberties at Columbia after the latter assumed his position at Oxford, had this to say about his friend and colleague, ‘He was a gentle, quiet man with a wonderful sense of humor that was sometimes hard to find. It came through in his work, but subtly. He did not seem distraught when we last talked after the prize announcement, but he was by nature somewhat enigmatic and aloof. It is a great mystery and an even greater tragedy.
The Nobel medallion was found in the hotel room, but neither the monetary award check, amounting to just under one million American dollars, nor the prize diploma had been located at press time. The medal bears the inscription from Virgil: Inventas vitam juvat excoluisse per artes, ‘And they who bettered life on earth by new found mastery.’ A spokesman for the Prize Committee said that no current action regarding the award was contemplated. ‘As far as the foundation is concerned, our work is concluded at the award ceremonies. We deeply regret the loss of this distinguished writer and philosopher.’ MacPherson’s obituary appears on page B12.”
Lisa Anderson folded the paper and fought back the tears. Now was not the time; she had work to do. What could have possibly made this sweet and gentle man take his own life? She had not seen James in a decade and had lost all track of him when he left Columbia five years ago.
But she had thought of him nearly every day of those last ten years. He was the only man she ever really loved, and in the depth of her love, even today, she was overwhelmed with his loss . . . again.
It seems so long ago.

II. The Past
“Hello. Excuse me,” said a male voice in a tentative tone.
She looked up from the pile of new accessions she was cataloging at a slightly scruffy-looking man in perhaps his mid-forties.
The man went on, “Do you by any chance have a pair of left-handed scissors?”
“No, I’m sure not. We don’t often have requests for left-handed scissors.” She instantly regretted her characteristic sarcasm. “We have right-handed scissors, though, and you’re welcome to them, provided, of course, that you don’t intend on slicing up our collections.” Again a reflexive twinge of regret. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but people are always tearing things out of our periodicals and even bound volumes sometimes.”
Her apology was perhaps a result of her unconscious softening of her attitude as she looked at him more closely. He had a pleasant face creased with what might be lines of good humor, already graying but plentiful hair, and a charcoal turtleneck under a tweed jacket. For a moment she was tempted to lean over the counter and check for elbow-patches, but she resisted the urge as she met his eyes, which peered over the upper rims of his reading glasses, perched half way down his nose.
“Oh, I quite understand. It’s terrible what some people will do. No shame at all! No, I just need to do some old-fashioned cut and paste. I write in a rather stream of consciousness fashion, then I have to cut things up and put them in the proper order. And I’ve forgotten to bring my scissors.” He looked positively crestfallen, whether embarrassed by his own ineptitude or from frustration at having to put up with right-handed scissors, she could not tell.
“Well, here you are,” she said as she retrieved a pair of blue-handled Fiskars from a drawer. “If you can make do with these, you’re more than welcome. But mind you, bring them back.”
“And you’re more than gracious. Thank you; I will. Thank you so much.”
She watched him walk back to his table, noticing with some disappointment the absence of elbow-patches, and smiled inwardly at the absurdity of the brief conversation. What an odd and polite gentleman!
A little over an hour later, just before closing time, he returned to her post at the counter carrying a well-used brief case, a volume of Jefferson Papers, and the blue-handled scissors.
“Here are your scissors, as promised. Thank you again. And would you mind seeing that this is returned to its proper location? I’m afraid I might misshelf it.”
She smiled at him, “Of course, sir. I’d be happy to.”
“You’ve been most kind. Next time I’ll try to remember my southpaw scissors.” She thought she noticed a twinkle in his eye as he turned to leave.
“Good night, sir. Have a pleasant evening.”
He turned back toward her, and the twinkle had grown into an engaging smile. “Now that we’re friends, could you lose the ‘sir’? It’s so tiresome. I get ‘sir’ and ‘Professor’ all day long. Let’s go with ‘James’ – dignified and easy to remember.”
She laughed as freely as the library would permit and held out her hand. “Very well, my name is Allysia, but they call me ‘Lisa.’”
He took her hand and held it, not in the manner of a handshake, but rather as if he was expecting her to curtsey. “How wonderful! Che gelida manina,” as he bowed slightly. “Good night then, Lisa.” He released her hand and turned to go.
“Good night, Sir James.”
He looked over his shoulder with a surprised and delighted smile that lit up his whole face, which she returned as she restored the scissors to their proper place.

III.
That had been their first encounter, and she remembered it as though it had happened last night instead of ten years ago. She had missed the reference to La Bohème, but she recognized the fact that he was quoting something. She knew enough Italian to get the gist of it and the spelling right after a few tries, and it did not take her long to turn up the libretto in a search online. Rudolfo’s line, which her introduction had unwittingly elicited. Che gelida manina. “What a cold little hand!” And then, “My name is Lucia, but they call me Mimi.”
Now the brief little scene made sense, and even before she read Mimi and Rudolfo’s tête-à-tête to its amorous Act I conclusion, she had the slightly euphoric sense that she had just experienced the most romantic thing to happen to her in all her thirty years.
She had been curious about the combination of the sources he was using. What was he working on? She felt sure she could find out more about him, yet she did not even know his last name. How foolish she had felt.
To her disappointment, he had not returned the next night, nor the following, but, on arriving for work late on a Thursday afternoon, she had been surprised to find him deep in his work, surrounded by books and periodicals, writing away on sheaves of unlined paper with a fountain pen.
As closing time neared, the piles of work on his table gradually diminished until he at last collected his papers into his briefcase and stood to leave. Her momentary regret turned to delight as he headed in her direction, and she smiled at him as he approached.
“Ah, Miss Lisa! How delightful -- I hadn’t noticed!”
“Lost in your work, Sir James –- productive, I hope?”
“Perhaps,” he sighed ruefully. “Too soon to tell. I wonder if I might prevail upon you to keep these here for me?” He handed her a pair of scissors, red-handled. “Left-handed,” he said, unnecessarily, but with a sheepish smile.
“Of course,” she replied, “I’ll put your name on them, only . . .”
He looked at her questioningly for a moment, then, “Oh! Yes, of course. MacPherson. James MacPherson.”
She laughed. “Very good. Consider it done. And it’s Lisa Anderson. Not ‘Mimi’, to my infinite regret.”
Delighted that she had picked up on his allusion to Puccini, he laughed freely, and a bit too loudly. “Outstanding!”
“Sir James,” she said softly, looking about her for accusing eyes, “forgive me for being curious, but what are you working on so intently? Do you mind telling me?”
He looked thoughtful and mildly uneasy –- enough to make her again regret her curiosity. Then he took a deep breath and said, “I’d be delighted to tell you. In fact, if you’ve no objection, I rather need someone to talk with about it. Would it be awfully improper to ask you to join me for a cup of coffee at your convenience?”
She understood rationally her delight at receiving this invitation, so tentatively proffered, but she decidedly did not understand the vague feeling of schoolgirl excitement that briefly overcame her. She hoped her eyes conveyed only the delight as she replied, “I’d be glad to! If you can putter about here for perhaps ten minutes, I’ll be through here? There’s a nice little place over on Madison and just a block down –- Café Encore?”
“Yes, I know it. Well, why don’t I go secure us a table and collect my thoughts and you join me when you can?”
“I’ll see you there then.”
“Good heavens, Jimmie Mac! What have you gotten yourself into?” he said aloud as he walked along to the café. That was the nice thing about New York on a warm night. No one took notice of men who talked to themselves. Yes, she was very pleasant and quite attractive. Light, longish hair that she did not wrap up in a librarian’s bun, but instead let cascade gracefully around her shoulders. Bluish eyes, perhaps. He was not good at noticing such things. But her smile was somehow compelling –- like turning on a light . . .
He entered the café, which, he was pleased to note, was sparsely attended.
At that moment, Lisa had completed a cursory research. She had quickly put away her things and turned to Marquis’ Who’s Who Online - This had to be Sir James . . .

MacPherson, James Douglas - b. 1970, Radnor, PA.
Holder of the Corliss Lamont endowed chair in Civil Liberties, Columbia University, 2010–2015.
BA Haverford College, Pol. Sci.; MA William and Mary College, Cultural Studies; PhD. Princeton University, Philosophy.
Author of numerous papers and articles in philosophy, literature, ethics and society, world culture. Books: Ethics and the American Dream, Culture and Psychology.
Parents: James May MacPherson, Marion Pratt MacPherson. Both deceased. Single.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, what have I gotten myself into? A decade older than me, more degrees than a thermometer, and undoubtedly the quintessential Main Line WASP. Still, he had a sense of humor and was a gentleman (so far).
She switched off the computer, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door, detouring briefly to the ladies room to . . . well, to check her hair and put on just a hint of lipstick! I’ll have to pretend I don’t know.
He rose and waved from a back table as she entered the café. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” she said as she breathlessly seated herself opposite him, as he drew back her chair.
“Not at all. I often stop somewhere before heading back north. It’s nice to have company. I opted for wine instead of coffee; it’s too hot for coffee, I think. But please, have whatever you’d like. Are you hungry?”
“Not really. Wine sounds great –- Chablis, I think.”
“Done,” he said and signaled the waiter by holding up his glass. “Bring us a bottle of this. It’s nice. And perhaps a plate of crackers and cheese. No Swiss.”
That settled, he leaned back in his chair and looked at her. “So, Allysia Anderson who is called Lisa, tell me about yourself. Chi siete? Vi piaccia dir!”
“Me? Oh, I’m just a girl from Queens who tried life in Manhattan and liked it. American Studies at CCNY and almost through a Masters in Library and Information Sciences at NYU. I’ve been working at the library part time for about five years and I do believe they intend to take me on full time when I graduate. I live a block from Washington Square, and when I’m not studying or working I go to shows when convenient and affordable, read quite a lot, listen to music. Not a very exciting life, but a contented one . . .”
“What do you read?”
What was this? I’m getting the third degree here and I thought we were going to talk about what he was working on.
She laughed in spite of herself. “Everything I can get my hands on, which is one of the reasons I like working at NYPL. Fiction mostly –- a balance between the old and the new. And the Times every day.”
“And the music?”
“Everything but country and jazz, nothing up to and including the Renaissance, and nothing that resembles rap, hip-hop, or anything else whose labels I don’t even pretend to understand.”
“Clearly a lady of refinement.” He smiled that gentle, winning smile. “And one of curiosity, I surmise. Why else would you enquire about my project!”
“Well then, what about you?” Time to play dumb. “A history teacher perhaps?”
“Close enough,” he replied happily. “Philosophy faculty at Columbia.” At least he was a truth-teller. I rather like looking at how the world changes and how those changes are influenced by, and reflected in, ideas in writing and the fine arts. The old ‘chicken and egg’ thing. Not very exciting, as you say, but I enjoy it.”
“How fascinating.” she said with a sincere and encouraging smile.
“Mmmm . . . Well, I doubt most people would agree with you. But I put more value on being fascinated than being fascinating.”
Again a pause, and he watched he as she considered this, taking a sip of wine, watched as her face turned into that remarkable smile.
“Of course. You put it perfectly!”
“So . . .,” she continued hesitantly, “What’s the current project?”
He leaned back in his chair and for a few moments, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in the manner she had observed when he was working. She tried not to smile.
“Well,” he began as he emerged from his trance with pursed lips and squinting eyes as though he were trying to see something clearly, “It’s the same ideas, really, with a few twists perhaps, but all my work to date has been expository in nature. Now I’m trying to wrap the package up in fiction, and I’m struggling with the realization that I don’t know how to write fiction.”
“Oh, my. Jumping into fiction and taking on the Great Themes all at once! It’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it, James?”
“Yes, I’m finding that it is. But I think it’s worth the effort because, well, no one picks up anything I’ve written except critics, professors, and their students who are forced into it. I have great faith in humanity – perhaps too great – and if I want to reach them, I have to get off campus.”
“So that’s why you come to my library, to come down to the level of the Great Unwashed.”
He laughed. “Where’s Oprah when you need her? It’s partly that, I suppose, but there’s more to it. Fiction requires something more than academic writing. The objective of the latter is that the reader understands. The objective of fiction is that the reader feels, and that goes deeper and lasts much longer. I know from my own work that fiction has done more to influence thought, the course of humanity through time, than all the other literary forms, including even poetry, perhaps with a few notable exceptions and which I wouldn’t attempt in any case. War and Peace, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Romeo and Juliet transformed into West Side Story -- There are so many examples. In a way, I’m trying to apply what I’ve learned to my own work –- take my own advice, so to speak.”
“I suppose what you say is true,” she mused. “But what of the other art forms – drama, painting, architecture perhaps, and certainly music?”
“Of those you’ve mentioned, only music comes close, and the effect is not as obvious, though perhaps more powerful, I’ll admit. Do you understand what I mean by that?”
“Yes professor,” she smiled slyly, “do you want examples?”
He laughed, “That was not intended as a test, but sure!”
She paused to think for a moment reflecting that all worries about a stilted conversation with a learned man had somehow vanished. “Well, I think it’s because music gets inside of you in a way that written words can’t. Once you’ve come to know Beethoven’s Ode to Joy or Wagner’s Siegfried Idyll or even Dylan’s Blowin’ in the Wind, it’s impossible not to be changed by them. Subtly as you suggest, perhaps, but deeply.”
“Yes, and do you know why?” he smiled again, “Sorry, I can’t help myself.”
“Not in a way I can put into words, but yes, I think so.”
“But that’s it exactly, don’t you see? Music takes up where words leave off. Victor Hugo said, ‘Music expresses that which cannot be said, but on which it is impossible to remain silent.’”
“Oh, James, yes! That is it, isn’t it? How wonderful!”
Perhaps content to bask in the glow of this mutual understanding, they did not speak for a minute or so, and busied themselves with the snacks. Had they thought about it, which they may well have done in their reverie, it may have occurred to them that a happy silence, as music, expresses that which must be said better than words – at least at that very moment.
“Have you ever been to the opera?” he asked.
“No. Well, Gilbert and Sullivan and plenty of Andrew Lloyd Webber, but not real opera. I have a few excerpt CDs of some Verdi and Wagner, and Carmen, I think, but no complete works. I’d love to go sometime. I just haven’t got around to it yet.” She smiled at him.
“How about Saturday night?”
What had he been thinking? He steeled himself for her polite excuse.
“Why I’d be delighted! Which one?” How exciting! Am I crazy?
“Madame Butterfly, at the City Opera. Not the Met, nor La Bohème, but ‘twill suffice. I share season tickets with a friend, but he’s on sabbatical this term, so I have them to myself.”
“How nice!” . . . a friend, but he’s on sabbatical . . . She hadn’t missed the “he,” just as he hadn’t missed the odd fact of the availability of this gradually more beautiful and delightful lady on a Saturday evening. She went on, “I’ll do my homework -- bring it home from the library and study the libretto while I listen . . .”
“No, please don’t. Do that after if you like, but not before. There will be subtitles if you need them. But you’ll feel the music better if it’s new to you. Later you’ll come to love it. But for my purposes, I’d rather you got the music, the lyrics, and the drama all at once.”
“Okay . . . Just what are your purposes, Sir James?”
To her dismay, he blushed deeply and lowered his eyes. Oh, jeez. I really must learn to think before I speak. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I was just teasing. I’m awful, really I am.”
He brightened a bit. “No, it’s all right. You just caught me by surprise, and you’re perfectly right to ask. Let me think out loud . . .”
She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile, without really understanding why.
“Oddly enough, what we’ve talked about tonight, although we’ve gone off on a tangent or two, has given me some things to think about. That’s a good thing.” He smiled lightly. “And I’d like to watch you experience your first opera, to observe you as a research subject, frankly. I hope we can continue what we’ve begun tonight, because I think it will help me to think about what I’m trying to do. To convey how literature or music changes people, and how they, being somehow different, change the world around them. You’ve already been most helpful, and in a way that I couldn’t possibly find from any of my stodgy colleagues. But . . . there’s more to it than that.”
He lowered his eyes again, speaking softly to the wine glass he held with both hands. “Quite honestly, and I know this sounds ridiculous and it’s a bit embarrassing, I find I enjoy your company tremendously. I’m sorry if that’s out of order, but there you have it.”
There was a potentially uncomfortable silence as she waited to hear if there would be more to come. When he looked up at her somewhat ruefully, she realized there was not. She leaned toward him across the table and lightly placed her hands on his – four hands holding one wine glass.
“James . . . Sir James,” she smiled at him, “Would it help if I told you that I much prefer to be called ‘good company’ than a laboratory mouse? I’m fascinated by your work. Really I am. We’ve barely scratched the surface, but I’m caught up in it, and I’m delighted to help you in any way I can. You’ve made me think about things tonight that I didn’t even know that I could think about. But I too enjoy good company. So relax, you dear, gentle man, and enjoy yourself, because I most certainly am.”
And so, in this odd fashion that might have been lifted from the pages of Jane Austen, James and Lisa acknowledged, if they did not outright declare, their love. There is little more that needs be known about the remainder of the night, save for the manner in which the wine bottle was drained.
“To music.”
“To Puccini.”
“To fiction.”
“To the Great Themes.”
“To laboratory mice.”
“And good company”
“To love” was left unspoken.

IV.
Midway through Puccini’s Madama Butterfly there is a short scene, exquisitely scored, in which the American Consul to Japan reads a letter from an American naval officer to Cio-Cio San - “Butterfly,” the teenage girl he married several years before. Unfortunately and unknown to Butterfly, Captain Pinkerton already has an American wife. The letter is intended to break this news and that he must forsake his young bride. But she misunderstands and hears only that he is returning. When she learns the truth, she will commit hari-kiri, leaving their infant son, of whom he is unaware, as a reminder of their love, and of his remorse. But at this moment, she is the only one in the opera house who is ecstatic, and Puccini captures both her rapture and her impending doom in the delicate repartee.
Lisa Anderson only partly understood this. She was alternately absorbed in the beauty of the music, which she enjoyed more on first hearing than she had expected, and the evolving story. She had occasionally glanced at James, who had been totally engrossed from the first downbeat. She did so at this decisive moment and saw a tear making its way slowly down his cheek toward his jaw.
This is what he meant. He is feeling the music, and has been changed by it. Not now, not tonight, but before. Tonight it merely grows deeper.
She knew well enough that this was a tear responding not merely for the tragic Butterfly, but to a depth of feeling that she had rarely witnessed, and even more rarely experienced. This was a revelation to her, and she was mildly jealous.
And yet she felt compelled to tell him she understood, and with the knuckle of her forefinger, she touched his cheek and took the tear from it.
He took a deep breath, wiped his other cheek briefly, and took her hand in his, with the dampness of his tears between their entwined fingers, and so remained until the final curtain.
When the lights came up after the last curtain call, they made their way through the lobby to Lincoln Center’s plaza, with its magnificently lit fountain. They stood watching it for a minute, arm in arm, until he turned to her with a radiant smile. “Well, my little laboratory mouse, a little wine?”
“Of course, and, if you don’t mind, I’ve done the honors. Would you like to see my little place?
“I would indeed.” And they advanced to the waiting line of taxis.
They said very little in the taxi, each lost in their own thoughts.
For his part, James realized that he was enchanted by her. She seemed to understand him, sometimes anticipating his thoughts, accepting his subdued intensity, and yet she was not afraid to poke fun at him, a fact that he found delightfully refreshing. As they rode south through Manhattan, he thought with delight that the music of Puccini was replaying in his mind, accompanying his musings on a heroine of his own – an oddly confusing amalgam of the girl in his fledgling work and the young woman beside him.
Lisa’s curiosity had grown into a sense that she had somehow connected with someone who was interested in her for the right reasons, although she could not figure out what they might be, and that feeling was new to her. The prospect of a relationship that grew out of gentleness, colloquy, and mutual admiration engendered a wonderfully warm feeling, and in her characteristic fashion she enjoyed the moment, and the prospect of many more to come.
Emerging at the north side of Washington Square, they walked under the arch, across the square and the short distance to a tall, narrow brownstone on Mercer Street with a brass knocker on a black front door.
“The last affordable apartment in the Village,” she said as she opened the outer door and unlocked the inner one with a key. “Fourth floor, I’m afraid,” giving him a rueful look.
“No mountain too high,” he grinned. “After you.”
There was only 4A and 4B, and she chose B, unlocked it with another key, reached in, and turned on the light. They entered a room clearly designed to be everything but the bathroom and bedroom. He quickly took in a couch and two generous chairs with a small oak coffee table in the middle of a dhurrie rug between them. To the left was a small kitchenette and in the corner a small table with four chairs for dining. To the right was a desk with a computer, and the wall was bookcases floor to ceiling, save for a section holding a TV and compact sound system. Opposite the entry was a window overlooking the street, and a hallway to the rear was evident to the right of the bookcases. The walls were painted white and appointed with posters, prints and black and white photographs.
“Chez Lisa,” she said, removing her light jacket and draping it over the back of a the chair.
“It’s exquisite. Perfect. It suits you!”
“That it does. Make yourself comfortable, please! I’ll dredge up some goodies.”
He removed his suit jacket, placing it on the chair next to hers, and headed for the bookshelves while she went to the fridge, took out the wine, rummaged in the drawer for a corkscrew, and took them to him. “Make yourself useful.”
“What a wonderful wall of bookcases! How lucky you are to have found an apartment with them,” he said as he went to work on the wine bottle.
“My brother built them for me. The landlord paid for the materials, believe it or not. I figured I was going to be here for a while, and, as you can see, I need bookshelves.” She turned on a track light that lit the wall beautifully and turned off the overhead light, casting the room in a warm glow. Absorbed in his explorations, he heard her opening and closing drawers and cupboards in the kitchenette. Presently she returned carrying a tray with two glasses and a bowl of peeled shrimp with a smaller one for sauce, an assortment of crackers, and two blocks of cheese –- no Swiss. “Find anything interesting?” she said as she placed the tray on the coffee table.
“Get to know a person by the books she keeps,” he said, turning to her with a smile and holding the bottle and corkscrew, with the cork cleanly impaled on it. “None of mine, alas!”
“Oh, dear! If only I’d known!”
He laughed, and set the wine beside the tray. “My, how elegant!”
She sat on the sofa as he poured the wine. He handed her a glass and raised his. “To Puccini! What did you think of it?”
She reached up and touched her glass to his. “To Puccini indeed. And thank you.” She kicked off her shoes and drew her feet up under her on the couch as he seated himself in the comfortable chair without the jackets.
“I thoroughly enjoyed it. But not as much as you. I may learn to, I think. Give me time.”
“I know. You need to become familiar with the music, and that will come. It’s like meeting someone who will later become a good friend – you don’t know it at the time, but perhaps you have a good feeling about it, and with each encounter, you become closer. And then later, you marvel at the whole thing. How dull life must have been . . . before. It’s hard to explain how I feel about opera – hard to put into words. But I think by now you understand that.”
“Yes. Oddly enough, I used to think that the idea of people singing their way through dialog was a bit silly. I don’t think that any more. I can understand how the combination of the music and the words is so much more powerful.” How dull life must have been . . . before!
“And so tragic . . . Poor Butterfly . . . and that Pinkerton – what a bastard.”
“No,” she said. “There I don’t entirely agree with you.” She paused, waiting for his reaction. He looked at her with raised eyebrows.
“Cio-Cio San, ‘Butterfly,’ is a geisha. She dances, and who knows what else, for men, right?”
“Right, but . . .”
“But nothing. Now, please understand, it’s my first hearing, but I think I followed it pretty well. Those subtitles are great, by the way.”
“Go on,” he said, leaning back to face her. “May I take off my shoes?”
“Of course!” she laughed. “Pretend we’re in that little house with the paper walls, overlooking the harbor. Shall we sit on the floor?”
“That won’t be necessary, though it’s tempting,” he replied, removing his shoes and gingerly rubbing his toes before leaning back. “Please continue.”
“Well, think about it. She’s basically a teenage hooker, right?” He winced, but nodded.
Not waiting for him to comment, she went on. “She’s used to wielding power over men. That’s what it’s all about. Sure, she’s sad. She’s remorseful, but more than that, she’s pissed. She realizes she’s the tragic victim here. She can’t handle that, and, besides, she doesn’t want to go back to her old line of work, so she turns the tables. By committing suicide, she reasserts her control – her power over Pinkerton and her own destiny. And she does so with such drama, such finality, and with a perfect sense of timing. She wins and he loses, because he really does love her. And her death makes him realize that. And now, for the rest of his life, he has to live with the son, the blue-eyed Oriental boy, the constant reminder of her. She’s the victor, he the tragic victim – the Returning Hero. You can hear it in his last remorseful cry – ‘Butterfly! Butterfly!’ It’s not remorse for the loss of her. He had already made that decision. It’s a protest. It’s remorse for his own future. Puccini knew that. It’s in the music.”
He sat in stunned silence. So did she, nearly out of breath. “Oh dear. I’ve destroyed your illusions.”
“No,” he said, without opening his eyes. “You’ve . . . redefined them.”
He leaned forward, took a gulp of wine, and refilled his glass. He took her glass from the table and held it up for her. Instead of taking it from him, she guided his hand until she was able to take a sip as he held the glass to her lips. “You see?” she licked her lips, smiling at him. “It’s all about power, Sir James. Power and freedom.”
After a pause, James said ruefully, but with enough of a smile that suggested he was teasing, “I’m reconsidering my thought to invite you to La Bohème.”
“Why thank you! I’d love to!” and they both laughed.
They prattled on happily, much in the manner of the conversations that were occurring many places at the same time within a few blocks in this old section of Manhattan. They went off on tangents about Kondratieff waves, the Golden Mean, 60‘s music, Persian poets, and Melville. At something like 2 a.m., he glanced at his watch and was startled to see the lateness of the hour.
“Oh dear . . .”
“Yes,” she replied sadly, “I don’t want the night to end either, but I suppose it must.”
He retrieved his shoes and struggled a bit putting them on, then stood and picked up his jacket. She stood and faced him. “James, it’s so late. With good judgment I should ask you to stay, but somehow I think you wouldn’t want me to.”
“No. Quite right. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes of course. Thank you.”
She took his jacket from him and held it for him to put on. As he turned toward her, she dusted his shoulders lightly, and he reached up and took her hands.
“I wish I could sing,” he said, looking at her upturned face, her long, radiant hair framing her features in the soft light, her eyes now most decidedly blue.
“Why?” she smiled.
“Because the words, ‘Thank you for a most delightful evening’ aren’t enough. They need help from Puccini. Without music, you won’t really know how I feel.”
“Mmmm . . . right.” She paused for a moment, looking at the smile in his eyes and on his lips. “There are other art forms, though. Remember?”
And she kissed him, softly, lingering for a few moments to indicate that, perhaps, it was intended as somewhat more than just the polite au revoir. She drew back, but not away, and sensed that he was a bit startled. He stared at her for a moment, and their second kiss was all the music they needed. Finally, they held each other for a few moments and then he turned to go. She opened the door for him and whispered, “Thank you, James. Do be careful.”
“I will . . .” He paused and turned back to her after stepping into the hallway. “Would you like to take a walk in the park tomorrow afternoon?”
“MmmHmm. What time?”
“Two-ish, perhaps? Meet you at Hans Christian Andersen?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Until then,” he said, with the smile that had captivated her, which he saw reflected in hers.

V.
He reached the street and walked to the corner, mildly surprised at how warm it still was. He hailed a cab and, as it pulled up, he opened the door, paused, and said to the driver, “I’ve changed my mind – sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Hey, No prob, Mon. Have a nice night.”
Then he turned and started walking, back through Washington Square Park and up Fifth Avenue, for despite feeling euphoric, elated, and aroused, James MacPherson was deeply unsettled, and he needed to think, and therefore he needed to walk.
James MacPherson did not believe in one-night stands, nor affairs of the heart, nor marriage. He had never reached that terminal stage, but he had been hurt - badly hurt – and he did not want that particular experience again. He had gained wisdom, he supposed, from the aching emptiness of love gone wrong, and he knew he didn’t want to go there again. But James MacPherson was a lonely man. He had read, where was it . . . I like being alone, but occasionally it crosses over into loneliness, and that I decidedly do not like . . . He couldn’t remember. He longed for the company of someone like Lisa - longed for the conversations, the smiles, the teasing, the kisses, and . . . more.
James MacPherson was in a fix, and he was smart enough to know it. He could, perhaps already did, love this woman, but could he give her what she wanted?
He walked quickly, not because he was virtually alone on Fifth Avenue, but because it was his habit. He was surprised at how soon the Empire State Building came upon him, and he walked on without pausing.
He paused briefly in front of Patience and Fortitude - the two lions at the entrance to the New York Public Library, her library.
He eventually reached his apartment at nearly 4 a.m. and was too tired to think any more. Too tired, or perhaps he felt that he had, as always, worked it through and need think no more about it. Sleep would ease the dreadful specter of doubt, even remorse, which pressed in on him.
Lisa Anderson, for her part, did not think quite so much that night, but neither did she sleep well, for she was no less troubled than James MacPherson. She had not been in love before, although more than once thought she might be, and did not recognize what was happening to her. She only knew that she wanted to be with this person who had made her feel better about herself than she ever remembered feeling, and that surprised her because she had never felt small or insignificant in any way.
Yet she did not regret taking the initiative with the good night kiss, nor agreeing to see him yet again. Lisa Anderson had trouble acting in any way false to her feelings. She recognized that, and recognized as well that it occasionally got her in trouble, but she made no effort to change her approach to life. She was who she was, take it or leave it, and something in her was at the same time terrified and ecstatic that James MacPherson was taking it.

VI.
And so they slept and dreamed fitfully on that night – the night which evolved into a glorious year together, with many nights when they did not sleep separately. And then one day the defining moment came without warning and quite innocently. A long walk to their usual meeting place in Central Park.
“Buy me an ice-cream. I walked all the way.”
“Of course. Did you now? What possessed you?”
“Nice day, and I was thinking about this book of yours.”
“Ah! Good! Any recommendations?”
“Yes, I’m thinking you should drop the Jefferson and Locke and Thomas Aquinas and . . .”
“No, I mean about the ice-cream.” And he was smiling that smile of his and she was so exasperated she punched his shoulder.
“One of those prefab Cherry Garcia’s on a stick,” she said.
He turned to the attendant. “You heard the lady, and I’ll have a Mystyk – strawberry, I think.”
They took their sweets to a table for two overlooking the boat pond, where a handful of radio-controlled crafts were mostly successful at avoiding each other.
“You were saying?” he said as he extracted a pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket.
She was attacking the ice-cream cone with relish, in an unconsciously sensuous manner that was mildly unsettling as he watched her. “Well, I was thinking you should write this thing out of your own head. If it’s fiction, it’s a story, and no amount of research will give you the story. So leave it until later. Write the story and make the characters real, and then come back to it later for historical accuracy or whatever it is that’s been holding you back.”
“Hmmm . . . I’m not sure I can do it that way. I told you, I’m not used to writing fiction.”
“Tell me, James, when does the story start, in time? What’s happening and who are the first characters you introduce?”
After a pause, he began. “Middle of the nineteenth century, on a farm in central Europe. A father and his daughter. They’re talking outside their house . . .”
“Daytime or night time?”
“Ummm . . . End of the day. After the evening meal, I suppose.”
“Warm night then?”
“Yes, I guess it would be.”
“What’s her name? What does she look like?”
“Milena, I think. Mila for short. It means ‘Love of the people.’ Slavic. High forehead, long, light brown hair. Like yours. Pretty . . . Like you.”
She smiled. “And Papa? What does she call him? What does he look like? And where’s Mama?”
He leaned back, closed his eyes, pinched his nose, puffed on his pipe. “Poppy. She calls him ‘Poppy.’ He’s dark. Looks like a farmer. Dirty hands, streaked face. Dark hair, beard and mustache. Fifty maybe. Looks older. Mama died in childbirth, having her – Mila.”
“What are they talking about?”
“She wants to go to school. He doesn’t want her to leave him . . .”
That was enough to make her point. “James, why aren’t you writing this down?”
He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I have been. I’ve been developing the setting, the historical context. Europe was in turmoil, people were losing their land, their livelihood . . .”
“James… Sir James. How many times have you written the word ‘Mila’ or ‘Poppy’?”
After a long pause, he lowered his eyes. “None,” he admitted, “but I’ve got them in my head.”
“Exactly! James, dear James. Go home and write the story. Write about Mila and her Poppy. Write about what she learns at school and how it changes her and how she in turn changes others. What happens to Poppy? Does he lose the farm? Does she give him grandchildren? Does one of them write music which energizes a revolution, or does a revolution motivate her poetry? It’s all in your head, James, and in your abundant heart. Leave the damn research until later. Feel what Milena feels, and write it down. Write it with beautiful words. Laugh with her. Cry with her. Sing with her. Make love to her. Make her real! Then put her in your freakin’ historical context. Jefferson and all the others will be here when you need them. But if you want to write fiction, James, you sure as hell don’t need them now!”
“You don’t think? . . . ”
“No James, I don’t. They’re distractions.” It had just occurred to her, but she only thought and did not voice it. “So am I.”
“Try it, James. You’ve nothing to lose.”
At that moment, a group of children at the edge of the pond made a small commotion. She was watching them intently. It may have been his imagination, but he perceived a deep longing in her eyes – the “I want a husband and children look.”
While a hundred thoughts passed through his mind, he rose and took his empty bottle back to the counter as she devoured the last of her ice cream.
“Let’s walk. Can we walk?” He could not face her; he did not trust himself.
“Yes. Thanks for the ice-cream!”
He did not take her hand, which was his custom, and they wandered off around the boat pond, passing by the noisy children, mothers and fathers, nannies pushing strollers . . . and other lovers. At the corner of 59th and 5th, they stopped, and that was when she knew.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll call you soon.”
“Not before you’re ready,” she replied, looking at him steadily. He leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek and turned north, wordlessly.
As he faded into the distance, her tears came. This would not be good for either of us. It’s all well and good to enjoy the moment, but our moments have turned into months, and months turn into years, and the unavoidable result could be a future that neither of us wants.
James was distraught, but he knew, knew down to his very soul, that he did not want to give up his freedom. It was not his freedom to go about with other women or not be home on time for dinner, but his freedom to stay up late and smoke his pipe or come and go as he pleased, without knowing that someone might be wondering where he was or wishing he’d get around to fixing the drains or wondering where the money for this or that was going to come from; and he was certainly not prepared for what children would do to his life.
Could I walk though the City at 2:30 a.m. if I had someone waiting for me? Not that I make a habit of walking around at that hour, but suppose I did? What of it? And even in broad daylight. Damn, I can hear it. ‘James, slow down. Please, Jimmie can’t keep up with you.’ No. I need friendship, perhaps even companionship. But I need freedom more. I know that’s selfish, but, well, we are the product of our experiences . . . it’s unavoidable. And if that’s selfishness, so be it.
And then James rationalized that he was contemplating walking away from something that, if he did, would be a supremely unselfish act. Because, although he was considering his own needs in his thoughts, the source of his discomfort was out of consideration for Lisa. Even when he voiced that very thought in his mind, it was only himself that he blamed.
I cannot do this to her. I cannot deny this delightful creature the life she could have, should have. And I can never give her that.


VII.
She cried every day for a week, and occasionally long after - sometimes at night, listening to Madame Butterfly and her expanding library of music that was somehow now dominated by Puccini, sometimes when she opened the drawer at the library and saw the two pairs of scissors lying side-by-side.
And she cried the night six weeks later when she had still not heard from him and her brother came and took her for a late dinner and she poured her heart out to him because he knew her well enough to know and to care and she needed to talk with someone.
“Let me stay the night, Sis. You shouldn’t be alone now. Things will look brighter in the morning.”
“Yes. That would be nice. Thank you, Michael.”
James did not cry, not at first, but only because he really didn’t know how, but he nearly did on that evening when he and his opera ticket partner were walking up the west side of Central Park after the La Bohème – the La Bohème to which, after all, he had not invited Lisa.
“What’s wrong with you, James?”
That’s what triggered it. The combined effect of his favorite, heart-rending Act III when the lovers struggle with their love, and the question that Henry asked was just too much to bear, and in the last half hour, he had told Henry Zigmunt everything there was to tell.
“Go to her, man. Call her. Go to her – don’t walk away from this, James.”
And James had wavered. He called her that night and received no answer. And at eleven o’clock he hailed a taxi and went to Mercer Street. Her apartment was dark, and he stood in a doorway on the opposite side of the street and down a bit, smoking his pipe and wondering what to do. Presently he saw a taxi pull up and saw Lisa get out with a nice looking young man about her age, perhaps a bit older. He saw him put his arm around her shoulder and her put her arm around his waist as they climbed the steps to the black door with the brass knocker, and he saw the light go on in her window. He was still standing there when the light went out a half-hour later. The young man had not come out, and after about fifteen minutes James began to walk. As he made his way north, he thought about the changing historical context of The Returning Hero, but it did not stem the flow of his tears.

VIII. The Present
“Come in,” she called in response to the knock at her office of the Head Librarian of the New York Public Library.
“Sorry to disturb you, Miss Anderson, but there’s a rather large FedEx package for you.”
“Thank you, Jean. Leave it on the sideboard, please. I’ll get to it.”
“Okay. Funny . . . It’s from Sweden. Maybe it’s Swiss cheese.”
Sweden. Oh God! “Then it would be from Switzerland, Jean, and it would probably smell.”
“Oh, right,” replied Jean, reluctantly departing.
Wearily, she rose from her chair and went over to the package; it was about the size of a small suitcase. “Hotel Stockholm,” read the return address on the label. She carried the box to her desk and worked at it until she managed to get one end opened. Tipping it up, she shook it until it yielded a bundle wrapped in layers of newspapers. She set the box aside and gingerly unwrapped the paper to reveal a tattered old briefcase which she instantly recognized as belonging to James. She snapped open the clasps and looked at the contents.
She saw a large envelope, a book-sized rectangular package, a small, business-size envelope and a small, irregularly shaped package wrapped in tissue paper.
In the large envelope was a beautiful illuminated declaration that was the Nobel Laureate Diploma for Literature in the name of James Douglas MacPherson. She set that aside and unwrapped the rectangular package, which was a copy of The Returning Hero. She knew of it, of course, but seemed to see it anew. She opened the cover and leafed through the first few pages. There was a dedication page . . .
This story is dedicated to the staff of the New York Public Library, without whom it would be merely historically accurate.
It was hand-signed, “James.”
Oh, James. Dearest James . . .
Then she opened the small envelope. There was a note wrapping a loose piece of paper – a check in the amount of $980,000, endorsed Payable to Allysia Anderson, James D. MacPherson.
Dearest Allysia who is called Lisa,
I read of your appointment as Head Librarian, and you will forgive me if I feel proud. Thus I trust this package will find you. Other than that, I know little of the person I fell in love with so long ago, and love still today. I hope she has found happiness. I don’t know whether this confession shocks you, but it must be made, for my hour has come.
I have begun to notice the onset of a dementia, and, although I’m still quite capable, the prognosis is confirmed, the progression is inevitable. I suspect you know me well enough, despite our separation of so many years, to understand what I am about to do, and I believe I know you well enough that you will not mourn, as others may.
Please see that this signed volume and the diploma are added to the collection of your wonderful library. It is, after all, their origin, in so many ways, my love! As for the award, it is intended for your personal use. It is my hope that you use it as you wish, knowing that you will find a way to enrich others with your wealth. It is so inadequate as an expression of the happiness you brought to me, from the day I borrowed your scissors, and every day of my life thereafter.
As for me, it is my only wish that the happiness with which I remember you will now, in some odd way, be transferred to you as you think of your
Sir James

With the weight of lost years cascading in tears down her face, Lisa Anderson opened the small package to find a child’s size pair of scissors, ambidextrous, with purple handles. She held them for a moment, then opened the center drawer of her desk, placed them with the scissors of the blue handles and those of the red, and closed the drawer.