Mickey knew few people here. In her sexy black taffeta dress and high-heeled shoes she drew eyes. No one knows what to make of death. Never did and never will. Mickey wondered if she should feel ashamed for having intruded upon private grief but someone was greeting her, making her welcome—“Hello! I think you are—Elena?”
“Mickey. I mean—Michelle.”
“Thank you for coming, Michelle. Beata is in the kitchen.”
It was a vast cluttered kitchen. A harried-looking little woman was scolding a sulky adolescent girl. Somehow, Mickey had picked up a glass of the dark red wine. The first sip was delicious, like a tap to the pleasure center of the brain with a felt-tipped mallet.
“Oh! Sorry.”
She’d collided with one of the Stephanos relatives. She was trying to approach Mrs. Stephanos, to offer condolences; she would speak quickly and quietly and retreat, for she needed to return home, and fall upon her bed. Too much was crowding into her head, she had to lie very still to process it. A girl, or was it a boy. That close-companionable familiarity.
Except: she’d imagined it. The man hadn’t been Cameron but someone who’d resembled Cameron who’d been at a faculty meeting at that very minute.
She’d been reckless, heedless. After chemo, she should have set an entire day aside for rest. Her imposture of healthy-Mickey was becoming a strain. Cameron tried to take no notice as one would take no notice of a forced theatrical performance.
There was no denying it, a sickly-yellow chemical malaise filled her being. Not wine but water, not cold water but tepid water, was prescribed so that her tender throat muscles wouldn’t spasm.
“Marta? Are you—”
“Michelle. We live over on Reardon Lane.”
“What a sad, sad occasion this is! I can’t believe it.”
“I—I can’t believe it, either. Stephanos was so . . .”
Could not bring herself to say alive.
Maybe she wouldn’t survive after all. Her almost cheery equanimity in the face of surgery, recovery, chemotherapy was a paltry performance, and Cameron had caught on. His once-lustful love had turned to pity. Pity has no (sexual) potency. He was looking for a new, younger, healthy sex-companion. You could not blame the man: it was nature.
On the dining room walls and on a wall beside the staircase were family photos. Many were of the deceased man, smiling with his wife, children. Several were of the deceased man smiling in academic garb—honorary doctorate hoods gaily colored as Hallowe’en costumes. In the living room, the Greek chorale music had ceased; someone was playing the piano, a lovely slow etude of Chopin executed with music-school precision.
There came Beata Stephanos into the dining room as if in search of someone. In such a gathering, in your very home, you would naturally seek out your husband. Beata was a short plump woman with black eyes fierce as a falcon’s eyes. She wore black—layers of black. Her mouth was a thick smear of red in a doughy-pale face that had been an attractive face once, not long ago. The widow was in her mid-forties. Yet seemed, in her grief, ageless. Mickey was reminded of those excruciating drawings and woodcuts of the German artist Käthe Kollwitz.
Mickey saw that Beata Stephanos was blinking and staring at her.
Advancing upon her with a look of fury. Not grief but hatred distorted the woman’s bulldog-face.
“You! Dare to come here! So he liked you—eh? His weakness. Pretty girls. ‘The blondes’—he called you. That’s why you’re here—is it?”
Mickey was too shaken to comprehend. It was difficult to hear even raised voices in the crowded dining room. Pretty girls? That’s why she was here?
“You and the others—‘blondes.’ You didn’t think you were the only one, did you?”
Mrs. Stephanos was furious, sneering. She appeared to be drunk. A dark-eyed adolescent girl with a look of utter mortification tried to restrain Mrs. Stephanos but she cast off the girl’s arm with a muttered curse.
Then, abruptly, Beata Stephanos turned away, as if Mickey’s expression of dismay had deterred her. Or so Mickey wished to believe. The widow pushed her way into an adjacent room, a small book-lined study off the dining room. Not knowing what she was doing but feeling that she must do something, if only murmur into the widow’s ear Excuse me, I hope you will accept my condolences for your loss Mickey followed after her. She wanted to explain, and to apologize; since childhood, she was in terror of being misunderstood, and wrongly/ harshly judged. She wanted Stephanos’s widow to look at her more closely to see that (1) Really, she was no one whom Stephanos or Mrs. Stephanos had known; (2) She wasn’t young/sexy. But Beata was shoving something at her.
“Yes. Good. You are here. Good! Take it. I don’t want it. No more! You left it in our bedroom—you, or someone like you. He would say—‘It is nothing, it is just’”—Beata made an airy contemptuous gesture, or tried to, snapping her fingers—“but now, you will—please—leave—me—alone.” She was thrusting at Mickey what appeared to be a silk shawl—Japanese?—very beautiful, aquamarine, visibly soiled.
“A gift from him. I don’t doubt. So take it with you—go.”
Mickey opened her mouth to protest, to explain—but there were no words. And the widow had turned away, in disgust. Shouting at someone in the kitchen, who shouted back, in Greek.
Mickey departed. Mickey staggered from the house, clutching the silk shawl that was aquamarine silk embroidered with cream-colored threads, tiny gardenia-blossoms. The shawl, though soiled, was yet beautiful. She had never seen anything so beautiful close up, let alone held it in her hand. She could see that the shawl had been selected by an individual of impeccable taste.
Quickly she walked to her car, parked some distance away. Both her feet were aching in the absurd high-heeled shoes of another, innocent era. Her breath came short, with a little stab of pain in the region of the heart. Stephanos! A light rain had begun, again. The air was wet and cold. She drew the shawl about her shoulders. She began to shiver, to quake. She drew the shawl tighter.
THE HUNTER
IN PRIVATE, A NERVOUS COLLAPSE IS AN ILLNESS. IN PUBLIC, it can be a career.
On the evening of my arrival, there was a dinner in my honor at the small Midwestern college on the Mississippi River where, as my father was dying, in a longitude/latitude approximately one thousand miles to the east and north, I’d agreed to be Caldwalder Poet-in-Residence for two weeks. The dinner was held at the President’s House which was a small Georgian mansion atop a hill overlooking the leafy college campus in one direction and, in the other, in the near distance, the Mississippi River and the “border state” (Missouri) beyond. The President’s House was a national historic landmark, I was informed. The president’s wife took me on a brief tour of the older part of the house, which dated to the early nineteenth century; these were called the “historic rooms.” The president’s wife told me that the President’s House had played a significant role in the Underground Railway, as Illinois had been bordered by several slave states. I felt something sharp in the region of my chest hearing such casual words—slave states. I considered the phenomenon of a house playing a role. I said, it must be a very interesting experience to live in a national landmark and the president’s wife assured me yes, it was. I’d hoped to be shown the entrance at least to the Underground Railway but the president’s wife led me back to the party where my presence was eagerly awaited as an actor crucial to a scene is eagerly awaited by her fellow actors. And during the course of the lengthy dinner I became restless, though I’d been seated in a place of honor to the right of the president and to the left of the wealthy donor elderly Mrs. Caldwalder, and excused myself to slip from the table; a uniformed server escorted me to an old-fashioned bathroom in another part of the house, all brass fixtures and gleaming mirrors, and afterward, instead of returning to my place of honor at the table, I made my way back to the “historic” part of the house that smelled of its stone foundation and of the dark earth beneath. Here it was cooler and damper. The hardwood floor was atilt
and ceilings were lower. I switched on a light in the back hall, which the president’s wife had switched off when we’d ended our tour. At a little distance I heard the murmurs and quiet laughter of the dinner guests; there were perhaps twenty guests, all strangers to me. I found myself at the threshold of a long tunnel-like room which the president’s wife had not shown me. Furnishings in this room were covered in sheets that glimmered in shadow like hunched-over ghosts. I groped in the dark to switch on an overhead light—an antiquated crystal-chip chandelier with transparent flame-shaped bulbs. There was a cavernous fireplace of stone, mortar, and brick. There was a massive mahogany table covered in glass figurines, porcelain and carved-wooden clocks of all sizes, ornamental paperweights, elaborate candlestick holders and other household items as in a museum display. A smell of dust assailed my nostrils. Everywhere were cobwebs—broken remnants of webs, and freshly-spun, perfectly executed webs. The Oriental carpet beneath my feet was faded and frayed yet still beautiful. On my heels I squatted to peer into the cavernous fireplace, that had the look of a shadowy entrance; I wondered if the Underground Railway opened out of it. With the soft palms of my hands I pushed at the bricks, rapped my knuckles—but nothing gave. There were no logs in the fireplace, and a light dusting of ashes.
Set in the wall close by was a pantry with a tall, narrow door, and into this pantry I peered also, but my way was blocked by shelves. I could not find any suggestion of a tunnel here.
Through a square-cut window in this wall I could see, so dimly it might have been an illusion, one of those hypnagogic images that flash at us with sickening vigor as we sink into sleep, the shimmering Mississippi River at sunset; the mythic river that confounds the eye, it is so wide, and bears the illusion of being shallow.
The thought came to me, as if it were waiting for me here—(for thoughts await us unexpectedly, in places that are new to us)—Well, I am here! Now I must discover why. The realization was both liberating and frightening.
Where was the historic Underground Railway in this house? I was eager to see this remnant of our shameful American past. (Though not mine, precisely: my parents’ parents had emigrated from Europe in the early twentieth century.) I’d ceased hearing the murmur of voices and laughter in the other part of the house—possibly, I’d forgotten the lavish dinner party in my honor. With the curiosity of a heedless child I lifted one of the dust-sheets to discover a cushioned couch with intricately carved cherrywood arms and legs, and an impression in the plush fabric that suggested the outline of a body. I quickly lowered the sheet. From a jumble of cushions and pillows I lifted a strikingly designed needlepoint pillow to my face, and inhaled deeply a scent of dust and a faded, flowery perfume. I examined the mahogany table. Here was a treasure trove of useless, antique items! Each of the clock faces “told” a different time. This did not suggest chaos as you would think, but a kind of graveyard calm that is past time. One of the smaller clocks was ticking—or so I thought. A cream-colored (German? eighteenth-century?) porcelain clock with exquisite floral ornamentation, about the size of a grapefruit. In my clutching hand it felt warm, and had the “feel” of a clock that has been ticking until just a moment before, though the slender ivory hands were pointing to “three” and to “five”—twenty-five minutes after three o’clock.
The bizarre thought came to me—This will be the time of my father’s death, or of my own. That is why I have been brought here.
Something moved in a corner of my eye. Strands of cobwebs wafted overhead as if stirred by my breath. I thought—The fireplace! Of course, it is the entrance to the underworld.
At the oversized fireplace I squatted on my heels, in my dark-wool jersey dress, and in my high-heeled shoes, that were not ideal for such exertions; I thumped methodically at the interior of the fireplace, which was badly smoke-scorched brick. By this time there were ashes on my clothing. Cobwebs brushed against my face, caught in my eyelashes. My heartbeat quickened in anticipation for I believed that the secret passageway that was the Underground Railway had to open out of this fireplace and if I could open it, I would crawl inside . . .
“Excuse me? Are you looking for something?”
Awkwardly I turned to look up. It was the president of the college to whom I had been introduced less than an hour ago. He was a man of vigorous middle-age, very straight-backed, and he was staring frankly at me as if not knowing how he should react—with embarrassment? amusement? concern? The president’s eyes were particularly striking, so dark as to appear black, and his eyelids were blinking rapidly as if to keep pace with the rapidity of his thoughts.
Had I forgotten that I was a guest of honor in his “historic” house and among these strangers?
I was not accustomed to being a guest of honor. Maybe that was it. Or maybe—I’d dismissed the distinction for such distinctions are like paper hats to be worn, or removed, with equal aplomb.
Sang-froid too. I’ve always liked the sound—sang-froid.
“Miss N___? I hope there is nothing wrong . . .” The president pronounced my surname carefully for it was a name that had acquired an unexpectedly somber and quasi-exalted tone in its association with contemporary American poetry by women not unlike the sound of a crystal glass delicately struck by a fork. If there was disapproval and incredulity in the man’s deep-baritone voice, it was well disguised.
Quickly I straightened, and brushed ashes from my clothing. I assured the president that nothing was wrong. But I did not smile for the first instinct in such an awkward circumstance is to smile, apologetically or in chagrin.
Between us was a strained silence. More words were expected from V___ N___ as the honored guest at this small, distinguished liberal arts college on the Mississippi River, and as a poet of some (minor, recent) distinction, but no words were forthcoming. In his gentlemanly way the president had extended a hand to mine, to lift me to my feet, but his touch was cautious and fleeting.
“We can take you on a more extensive tour of the President’s House tomorrow, if you like. D’you have an interest in border-state history? Slavery?”
“Yes. But no—I don’t really need a private tour.”
“It would be no trouble, Miss N____.”
I should have known the president’s name of course—but had forgotten it. Almost, I could not have said where I was, except for the president’s remark about border-states.
Graciously the president managed to re-introduce himself, sensing that I’d forgotten his name: “Rob Flint.”
Something about the name stirred hairs at the nape of my neck—Rob Flint!
You could see that Rob Flint was deciding to interpret his poet-guest’s behavior as “eccentric”—perhaps, “charmingly eccentric.” As an administrator he was also a skilled raconteur; he knew how to entertain, to make people laugh, as he knew how to manipulate and coerce when required; he would tell this story afterward, in a tone to inspire wonder in his listeners, and possibly laughter. Rob Flint was one not easily thrown off balance, quick to laugh and even, in his way, to forgive—so long as an offense was mild.
He’d been president of Garrison College for just three years. In those years, he told me, not boastfully so much as matter-of-factly, he’d led a campaign to increase the college’s endowment by twenty-two million dollars; there’d been further pledges by prominent donors in the tri-state area. And then, as if impulsively, Rob Flint added, “But I’ve been lonely, too. This isn’t my home.”
He wanted me to know this. As I was a stranger in this place, and alone, Rob Flint too was something of a stranger, and did not feel at home.
“Will you come back to our dinner, Miss N___”—(pronouncing my name as if it were a privilege)—“you’ll be missed.” As Rob Flint led me out of the historic part of the house, and back to the dining room, he told me in his casual expansive way that he’d graduated from the University of West Virginia with a degree in engineering but soon after he’d gone to graduate school at Vanderbilt, and had a Ph.D. in economics. He had an additional degree
in economics and history from Oxford—he’d been a Fulbright fellow. He’d received other fellowships, numerous grants. He’d taught at UVW, Drexel (Philadelphia), Bevell State (Nashville); he’d been a dean—a “very young dean, only twenty-nine”—a provost, and now a president. He’d been brought to Garrison College from Bevell State to succeed a president whose tenure had prevailed for seventeen years—the Garrison trustees had thought it was time for a “radical change.” Rob Flint was boasting to his poet-guest in an almost boyish manner—as if making a reluctant statement of fact.
Oddly then he said, as he led me back to the party, “I’m a deer hunter who hasn’t touched a rifle in years—almost twenty years.” Adding, “You’re a poet, you see into the heart. You understand.” Gently, yes and firmly, Rob Flint touched the small of my back.
I understood: a hunter is a hunter for life.
I understood: you never give up that good feeling of knowing that you can pick up a rifle, aim it, pull the trigger and some living, breathing creature oblivious to you will die suddenly—stricken, bleeding, utterly surprised and utterly dead. That good feeling.
“Please. Be seated.”
Rob Flint pulled out my chair at the elegant, candlelit dining room table. Eyes moved onto us, and expectant smiles. I had to suppose that in my absence there had been some mild concern about me, which my re-appearance assuaged. It was a beautiful setting—I wondered who might have been here in my place, if I were not the Caldwalder Poet-in-Residence; and, if not, where I would be at this moment.
The dinner continued, with a stiff sort of festivity. More ice water poured tinkling into goblets, more wineglasses refilled. There were briskly efficient dark-skinned servants in attendance, whose thoughts you would not want to decode. There was a sparkly crystal chandelier not unlike the chandelier in the historic part of the house, and this too was cleverly lighted by transparent flame-shaped bulbs. On the dark-silken walls were portraits of the president’s predecessors at the small liberal arts college on the Mississippi River—faces indistinct but uniformly male, and gravely putty-colored. The president’s wife, Elvira Flint, smiled at me with thin lips, eager and distressed. Yet the woman’s eyes were not friendly, for she had seen Rob Flint escort me into the dining room, and she’d perceived something in the hunter’s face no one else might have perceived.