Twice Melvin

by James Pumpelly

  You and I are akin to the sea:

  king and queen to a thousand streams

  because we lie beyond them.

  We wait for the silt to settle,

  the better to learn the water;

  we empty ourselves of all,

  the better to see our source.

  And so I wait, empty,

  athirst to be filled with you.

  The lines are vaguely familiar. Perhaps from an earlier rhyme, a loftier climb, a book he perused at Artie’s? Ah! Yes! Thelma was there! (Thelma whispering nervously to Artie, her suspicious eyes following his movements about the store.) And to the awareness of sin that drives her to chasten others, he plays the advocate, penning a path to redemption, a climb to his bed-yearning altar; his sacrificial loft a virginal vindication for all they’ve been denied:

  O maiden of Sin and Sybaris,

  My rhyme doth now disclose:

  The night-shaded lane of Hesperus

  That leads to our repose.

  Pray cease the point of a finger,

  And see where mercy leads;

  E’en now as we go to linger

  Where love funds all our needs

  Fear nothing of me or my musing;

  But that which would rescind,

  What Venus sends down for our using

  To aid our hearts’ amend.

  “A new world is dawning,” Simon observes, it seeming the sun has risen by the flourish of his pen. “I will play Mercury today! I will deliver what the gods have written!” he cries, forgetting his earphones and climbing nimbly down, from his laddered loft, to the familiar seat of his Schwinn. Refreshed as the Green Mountain air, he pedals furiously to Thelma’s farm.

  Alas! Thelma is not so inclined, the rising sun seeming to her more a warning than a wakening, her morning meditation finding biblical agreement, her finger pointing - even as she hears Simon’s knock - to a verse in the book of John, “…and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.”

  “Good morning, Thelma,” Simon chimes with alarming geniality, “and a really good morning it is, too, what with the news I have to share!” the mention of “news” sufficient to make him desirable, even had she not been scheming to accomplish the same.

  “News?” she repeats, dragging him through the door, “if it’s a scoop you came here for, See-MOAN, I’ll grant you won’t be disappointed. Sit down while I pour you some coffee,” Thelma shoving him into a newly varnished rocker perched perilously close to her own. “I was about to have some myself…just finishing my devotions when you knocked. Take sugar?” she asks, pausing to catch his reply.

  “If-if you do,” Simon’s entire confidence shot through, her pistol-black eyes reducing him to a mortal.

  “I do!” she shouts, warming to the sound of the phrase, “sit back and make yourself comfortable…be right back with your mug.”

  Fumbling for his poems, he almost overlooks the leather-bound Bible open on the seat of her rocker, Thelma’s blue-ruled notes, protruding from gilt-edged pages, boldly inscribed with his name: “Simon: Upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”

  “Your brew, See-MOAN,” Thelma approaching gingerly with two steaming mugs. “I see you’ve had a look at St. John there – one of my favorite passages.”

  “St. John? I hadn’t read that far-”

  “Yep,” she says deliciously, enjoying her moment of truth. “Third chapter, verse nineteen, it is; the one about men preferring darkness to light.” After handing him his mug, and moving the Bible to a tattered, cowhide ottoman, she takes her place beside him as naturally as a habit. “You know the one, See-MOAN; the one about men’s deeds being evil.”

  “Yes, Thelma,” Simon’s mug trembling ever so slightly in his upraised hand, “but I prefer a preceding verse, John 3:16: ‘For God so loved the world-‘”

  “Oh pshaw! Everybody knows that one,” Thelma glowing over her coffee, blowing a wreath of steam from her mug. “Those papers you have in your hand…are they for me?”

  “As a matter-of-fact,” Simon looking desperately about for a place to set his mug, “…they are.”

  “Then let me have them,” she directs, reaching for the crumpled sheets. “I presume these comprise the news you mentioned,” Thelma waving the poetry in his face as though what she holds condemns. “Well?” Leaning closer, she appears more intent on touching him than the subject.

  “I-I dreamed it,” he falters, his mug shaking violently, “a kind of cosmic communication.”

  “You mean like those bugs everyone’s finding?” she suggests - Simon spilling his coffee.

  “No!” the hot coffee, soaking through his plaid flannel shirt, requiring her care. “No, not at all!” he continues, allowing, enjoying, her handkerchief daubs at his chest. “What’s written there came to me in a dream last night – the free verse part, that is. The lines that don’t rhyme.”

  Satisfied Simon boasts a hairy chest, she pokes her coffee-soiled hanky into a hole in the cowhide ottoman; then, sits back to peruse what this imagined he-man has brought her. “No need to explain,” she says peremptorily, stretching to set her coffee on the hardwood floor, “I know free verse when I see it, See-MOAN.”

  But as she begins to read, her tone becomes butter-soft:

  Beautiful words are not truthful.

  Truthful words are not beautiful.

  …Yet you are both.

  His verse like golden pears from Odin’s feast, Thelma’s black eyes are sparkling-moist with sudden tears.

  Like the wise, you tarry –

  and are thus ahead.

  You and I are akin to the sea:

  king and queen to a thousand streams

  because we lie beyond them…

  she reads breathily,

  We wait for the silt to settle,

  the better to learn the water;

  we empty ourselves of all,

  the better to know our source.

  And so I wait…

  she whispers, pausing to take him in,

  And so I wait, empty,

  athirst to be filled…to be filled…

  She cannot finish, the tears in her voice denying speech as she points, first at the words “with you”, then at her heart, and finally at Simon, erupting from her rocker to surprise him with a kiss.

  Certain the gods have spoken, he reaches furtively for the poem unread, judging its timbre too harsh, its tone unlike its sibling. Unpracticed as a lover, he’s enough of a poet to know two peaks require a valley; and with Thelma eager to mine what gems his heart may hide, he dare not risk her disappointment.

  O maiden of sin…

  She begins, the three letter word pinning her back as he rips the sheet from her hand.

  “S-Sin?” she asks huskily, “SIN, See-MOAN? Tell me more,” she implores, “or let me read it for myself.”

  “Too risky,” he mumbles, “too-“

  “But risqué is nigh unto righteous when couched in love, isn’t it?” Thelma shamelessly eager.

  “What I meant was,” Simon sloshing his coffee in hopes of distraction, “…what I meant by my reference to sin was to suggest the mercy it begs, that’s all.”

  Abruptly stuffing the poem in his coffee-soaked pocket, he improvises:

  “I’ve got news to tell that’ll make my poetry read like one of your Sunday-school lessons.”

  “Well?” Thelma rising like the biscuits baking in her oven, “don’t keep me waiting, See-MOAN.”

  “Its very private, you know,” Simon regaining his earlier enthusiasm, the lingering memory of her kiss – and the savory smell of her biscuits - producing a Titan’s confidence. “From one lonely heart to another, I invite you to share my secrets,” such invitation spelling the death of what mannered decorum yet staggers between them; Thelma reaching for his hands to press them hard about her thighs, her yearning black eyes wanton pools of
invitation.

  “Rolundo,” he whispers, “the reverend and his organist…they-they duet in his study; though Helen complains he steals the solos.”

  “Our minister?” she gasps, letting go of his hands to cover her blushing cheeks, “Reverend Rolundo?”

  “Not my minister,” Simon quips, “but I thought you would want to know; especially since he’s critical of your Sunday-school lessons. Gives you ammunition to fire back. And anyway, the reverend should know better - should know that blindness to desirable things prevents the heart’s confusion.”

  On tiptoes, her hands seeking his, Thelma is anything but confused, her heart knowing exactly what it wants.

  “It’s paradoxical,” she coos, “a spiritual dichotomy; for to win one must yield, to be straight one must bend, to be sated one must be empty, to be fresh one must be exhausted. These are higher truths, See-MOAN, which, like the higher notes we cannot hear, are there whether we accept them or not. But how did you come to know this truth on Rolundo?” Thelma inching closer to his cricket knees.

  “I-I heard,” he stutters - Thelma directing his hands to excitement, “I-I…let’s overlook that part-“

  “But See-MOAN,” she whispers, settling seductively into his lap to bring her lips near his, “he who overlooks, like she who stands on tiptoes, is not steady.”

  The biscuits burn.

  Happiest am I when I forget not anything but self.

  XI

  Star View Station is tumultuous, new arrivals milling about in the impertinent rush of a super bowl half-time. As A.M. points out, their anxiety is short-lived, quelling palpably when they discover the trains don’t run on time. But time or no time, we’re having trouble connecting with Melody’s dad. Aunt Martha is supposed to meet him in the Galaxy Lounge, a fruit and nectar bar set up as a planetarium, the waitstaff doubling as guidance counselors for travelers stunned to be in transit.

  We try the usual - Aunt Martha’s expertise in mind control about the best to be found in our realm - and after missing him in the lounge, A.M. projects a beacon of thoughts to guide him to where we are. His lack of response, she explains, is due to interference, the crowd jostling ideas with such frenzy they’re ricocheting off the billboards; the ubiquitous, highflying crystal panels advertising everything from rose-colored glasses and un-sin-a-man brainwash, to Prophet John’s rapture insurance (a favorite among returnees to Earth). As a last resort, we’re obliged to page him over the outer-com. Following my advice, A.M. pages “Geezer” instead of his given name “Caesar”. (Melody’s baby-talk name for her father.) “Geezer will get a response if he’s anywhere near the station,” I assure her, my memories aplenty of family fun with Old Geezer and Old Faithful. My suggestion works, Caesar showing down just as we’re ordering our nectars.

  “Make that three specter nectars,” Aunt Martha barks, elated to see an old friend. “So how have you been, Caesar?” A.M. telekinetically positioning a chair back stool. “How are things in ever-everland?”

  “Ever better,” Caesar glows, alighting on the proffered stool. “And that’s why I’m here; though I didn’t expect the pleasure of seeing you, Melvin.”

  “Let’s be honest, Caesar,” Aunt Martha gibes, “you didn’t expect to see Melvin ever!”

  “Well,” the kind old gentleman obliges, “but that’s not to say I didn’t expect him to improve, to at least strive to make the grade.”

  “Thank you,” I smile, shaking his hand with soul-felt respect, “and thank you for being the exemplary father and husband you were back on Earth,” I add, “my frenetic, self-consumed life never allowed me time to express how I valued your example.”

  “Oh, you’re going to have all the time you need for that,” Aunt Martha quips, Old Geezer giving me a bright-eyed wink.

  “Which is why I called this meeting, Martha,” our illumined guest explains, “I’ve come to make arrangements for your trip back to Earth.”

  Outshining me in every way, Aunt Martha now puts me to shame, her glow approaching nuclear fission. “We did it, Melvin! We did it, my love! I’m going back for another run!”

  “Not so fast, Martha,” Caesar advises. “I said I’m here to arrange your trip, not insure it.”

  “What’s the difference?” A.M. too excited to care.

  “You are the difference,” he states soberly. “I’ve come down to present the facts. It’s up to you to take the case.”

  “This sounds like something I should be handling,” I throw in, “something with more than two sides: maybe a right one, definitely a wrong one, and the obfuscated one that wins.”

  “It’s of more gravitas than a legal case, my son,” Caesar hoisting a friendly toast, “and more delicate than a whim. It’s life and death…and life-ever-after. The trouble is, the current choice can affect the life-ever-after part, too.”

  “I got it,” A.M. calming to his gentle reminder. “I’m familiar with the way things work up here, Caesar. I was in Mr. Gandhi’s history class - one of his star pupils, I might add.”

  “That you were,” Caesar acknowledges. “I know because Mahatma related his experiences while visiting our agronomy research center on planet Zenar. I’ll never forget his comic stories about his students - about one Martha Morrison who made him see stars.”

  “So, what are the assignments?” Aunt Martha opting to leave her galactic report card undisputed, “or do I have a choice?”

  “And what’s this about research?” I break in. “Are you still tending orchards?”

  “No, yes and yes,” he replies. “You have only one assignment, Martha, meaning: no, you don’t have a choice; or yes, you can still refuse it. And yes, Melvin, I’m back into apples and loving every eon of it.”

  “Let’s have the facts,” Martha blurts, signaling for another nectar, “…and Caesar, charge this round to your Master’s Card.”

  “Why not?” Caesar agrees, “it qualifies as a travel expense. And concerning your facts, here they are:

  “A young farm couple in Kansas lost their first child in a miscarriage. And if that weren’t bad enough, they lost their farm, as well. However, as we all know, our Master doesn’t allow us to suffer beyond what we can bear, providing us a way out of our difficulties, a way we may not recognize as heaven-sent until long after we’ve made our escape. The Kansas couple has been given such an escape, the young man receiving an inheritance from a New England uncle: a dairy farm on the outskirts of Plainfield.”

  “Who died?” Martha interrupts, “I must have known the uncle.”

  “You did. Bachelor Compton. Died of a stroke.”

  “And he had kin out west?” Martha incredulous. “I never thought of Fred Compton as having a family, quiet and aloof as the old codger was. But I guess we all do, don’t we?”

  “That we do; and that’s what I’m here to offer you, Martha: you can be the first surviving child of the Compton couple in their new Vermont farmhouse.”

  “New?” My aunt’s colorless face signaling she would choke on her nectar had she the ability. “Bachelor Compton’s old place? You’re asking me to start over in poverty?”

  “Not asking, Martha,” he corrects, “offering. Offering an opportunity, should you want it. And as to poverty, the old house will soon be rich in love…something Melvin can tell you a little about, isn’t it, son?”

  “Why, yes,” I reply guiltily, wondering if my father-in-law is aware of my philandering; then hastily chasing the thought away before he reads it. “Yes, Melody’s love can’t be measured, can’t be compared to the material. If given the chance, I’d go back as the family hound just to be near her again.”

  “B-but I thought…I thought I heard-“ Caesar stammers, asking Martha, “doesn’t he know?”

  “Know what?” I interject, the idea of becoming my own wife’s child an oddity of which her father may disapprove.

  “He knows,” Aunt Martha growls, vexed over her own impoverished prospects, “and he’s committed, to
o; made a vow at Melody’s bedside.”

  “Well, congratulations!” Caesar exclaims, offering another toast, “welcome back in the family! And now that we have that little enigma solved, you can help me with your aunt,” Caesar giving her a censuring glance. “She seems to be overlooking the core value here, the opportunity a little apple-polishing can produce.”

  “Easy as apple pie for you to say,” A.M. rejoins, “what with you and Faithful spending your autumn afternoons sipping applejack on your back-porch swing. I happen to have aspirations this time. I want to go places. Do things. Be somebody - not just rot on the ground I’m born to.”

  “The choice is yours,” Old Geezer says kindly, a silent flap of his wings standing him tall. “I’ve accomplished my mission by giving you first bid on the babe. The stork event’s up to you to attend. And you, my son,” he adds, turning to me, “you will be happier than before.”

  “I will?” I mumble, thinking no happiness can exceed conjugal love when that love is complete and forgiving.

  “You will,” he affirms, reaching for the check, “for there’s no love like that of a mother for her son.” And so saying, he’s off in a flurry of wings, leaving us both to ponder - Aunt Martha coming slowly round, warming to his offer.

  “Plainfield, eh?” she muses, sipping the last of her nectar. “Well, at least I’ll be able to give you some grief, nephew…for apparently, I’ll have plenty to give.”

  “Remind me to play the stranger,” I tease, “or perhaps a wealthy suitor.”

  “As if!” she chortles, slamming her empty glass on the bar table. “This time…this time I’m going to be somebody!”

  The latest find kills prior things and

  spoils them in our mind. (Lucretius)

  XII