“Was she-”
“The girl in the tent?” Simon finishes for her; Miss Taylor’s smile shrinking like her cheeks hurt with the effort. “The girl in question? the girl in trouble? the girl in my hair?” he continues, diffusing the tension, “…and now the girl not in my store, thank heavens - but what do you take in your coffee?”
“The blacker the better,” Minnie gushes - images of the man Miss Taylor was with in the tent coming instantly to Simon’s mind.
“Saw Melvin last night,” Simon making conversation about as clumsily as he pours the coffee, her saucer catching more than her cup – Miss Taylor unaware of either.
“Melvin?” she repeats wistfully, her blush becoming a permanent feature, her cheeks as red as her half-opened lips. “My Melvin?” she whispers, taking Simon’s offered chair, then leaning across his desk as though the very name requires intimacy.
“Your Melvin, my Melvin, his Melvin,” Simon rattles on, lost in the aroma of hazelnut-mocha. “Met him on the grave of his grandpa…his great-grandpa…had a nice little chat under the moon.”
“You and his great-grandpa?” Minnie drawing in her breath, sitting back in her chair, the revelation requiring a more formal distance.
“Funny you should put it that way,” Simon failing to satisfy her query. “His tombstone has an inscription very much like something you said in church the other night, his epitaph reading, ‘minister, husband, father - and in that order’; compared to your statement of, ‘minister, helpmate, mother – and in that order’. Very strange. Very strange, indeed. It’s like you had read his akashic record or something.”
“His…his what?” she falters, clasping her hands around her steaming cup, borrowing its warmth, “some sort of record, you say?”
“Edgar. Edgar Casey,” Simon explains, between sips of his morning magic, “America’s most documented mystic; and one I’m sure Little George will suggest for your study. At any rate, Edgar claimed to read - while in a trance, or sleep state - from the akashic records; this to the benefit of his clients, gleaning advice on everything from careers to health - or the lack thereof, as was usually the case.”
“And Melvin’s ancestor has access to this akah…this record thing, as well?” Minnie’s effort to hide a shiver unsuccessful.
“Maybe. I don’t know. How could I know?” Simon giving her a curious look. “Why do you ask?” he appends, wondering if she’s misunderstood him from the outset.
“For Melvin’s sake,” Minnie raising her cup as though taking the Sacrament, drips of hazelnut-mocha leaving a zippered trail between her lips and her brimming saucer.
“Sounds serious,” a comforting male voice announces, Little George making his hurried return through the back door. “Anything done on behalf of my brother must be grave indeed.”
“How close you shave the subject, my friend,” Simon shoving the last of his chairs in the direction of George. “An amazing feat, too, with no help from ourselves. We were on the subject of death, of graves - and of records both here and beyond.”
“Your family plot,” Minnie adds, accepting his handshake before he sits down.
“And which act are we in at the moment?” George queries, declining Simon’s offer of coffee. “Act one? Act two? Act three?” the drop of Miss Taylor’s chin signaling her state of wonderment.
“I-I guess I’m lost,” she stammers, reaching for Simon’s dust cloth, drops of coffee clinging like translucent pearls to the nap of her pink wool sweater.” I thought we were talking about Simon’s visitation,” she says hesitantly, “about Melvin’s great-grandfather reading from the ah-kah-chak records.”
“Which only proves what a poor communicator I am,” Simon apologizes “I was talking with Melvin up in the cemetery, last night; the happenstance of my granite seat the tomb of Melvin’s great-grandfather, the same tomb from which I read the inscription I recounted a moment ago. And as for akashic, allow me to spell that troublesome word, since it seems foreign to your religious persuasion-“
“She’ll see it soon enough,” George enjoins, easing her embarrassment with a disarming smile. “I’m here to supply a reading list, am I not? And if so, that word will be among the creeds in the list. It’s a theosophical term for a kind of universal filing system, one that records every thought, word and deed. The records are supposed to be on a substance called ‘akasha’ - hence the name ‘akashic records’ – a substance believed by the Hindus to be the primary principle of nature. In fact, it’s from this principle, they hold, that the other four were created - namely: earth, water, fire and air – these five, in toto, corresponding to our own five senses. And from this it follows naturally that the akashic records are akin to a cosmic, or collective consciousness; an ancient belief held long before our late and great Dr. Jung postulated his ‘collective unconscious’.”
“What did I tell you? See how simple he makes it all seem?” an admiring Simon contributes, giving his guest a moment to recover; to ponder this new beast of thought, an idea poking holes in the thick old hide of tradition. “It’s the teacher in him,” he adds, stretching for his trusty pot.
“Really?” a modest Little George inquires, “then please forgive me if I seemed didactic. I was only-“
“No apology needed,” Miss Taylor braving another of Simon’s pours. “I’m the one who stands accused, my excessive moralizing too long my heart’s tyrant, my head and my heart in secret disagreement all along.”
“But your sermons are so sincere; so-so heart-felt, if you will,” a surprised George contends, “which is one of the reasons I shared with Simon my desire to have a talk with you.”
“And the other?” Minnie wiping the bottom of her cup before hazarding another sip.
“My brother Melvin,” George noting her telltale blush, the sudden light in her hazel eyes. “I want to be of any help possible in furthering your…your friendship with Melvin. He’s too happy of late to watch joy disappear – joy touching on the other reason I sought your ear.”
“Perhaps we can help each other on that ‘other reason’, as you so delicately phrase it,” she replies. “For as you probably know, I came up here to do battle for the cause of Christ; to rattle my righteous sabers on the capitol steps in defense of traditional marriage, in defense of the sacred duty of man and wife.”
“And I don’t take issue with that,” Little George soothes, “with the possible exception of your phrase, ‘the cause of Christ’. It’s my understanding that Saint Paul was the one who preached most radically against the sexual practices of his day, not Jesus; some scholars even postulating that his oft quoted ‘thorn in the side’ was nothing more than a shaded reference to his own suppressed homosexuality.”
“What Sunday School did you attend?” a laughing Simon asks. “My stepmother would have killed to have a student like you; if only to whip you into the fold!”
“So I’ve heard,” George acknowledges passively; a wink for Minnie signaling his shrug of Simon’s humor. “But tell me, Miss Taylor, what did you mean by us helping each other?”
“Well,” she begins, returning his wink, “you’re to help me with a reading list, I believe; and you’ve just offered to help me with Melvin - whatever that means-“
“He means with that screaming Neanderthal he dragged from my store this morning,” Simon interjects, earning a quick glance of disapproval from Little George, his idea of help excepting Simon’s graphic disclosures.
“It’s the coffee, Miss Taylor; you’ll have to excuse him,” George intervenes, avoiding mention of Dorothy.
“Minnie,” she says, becoming more at ease with this suave young man beside her, with his persona of unvarnished charm, “call me Minnie. Miss Taylor’s far too formal for the kind of help we’re about to exchange,” her cheeks once more a brilliant red for an inference she hasn’t intended.
“Okay, Minnie,” George agrees readily, “but before we continue, I think we should retire to my brother’s bar. There’s no
one there this time of morning; and our absence here will assist Mr. Farley in promoting his own business, instead of ours,” the remark prompting laughter. “We can return at your leisure,” he adds, “for if there’s one thing at which Simon is expert, it’s what I call ‘book battling’: the collecting of ‘authorities’ on a given subject until all sides are covered, all positions entrenched. That way, you can play God, looking down on the skirmish with a compassionate eye for the warring ill-informed.”
“Well, I don’t know much about your war of words,” Minnie following his lead and standing up, “but I do know this: you have a minister’s flair for the illustration.”
“Is that what they call it where you come from?” Simon jokes, shoving back his chair to follow them to the back door – George on the lookout for trouble. “Around here, we call it lying!”
“Like I said,” George parries, peering through the small square of glass in the door to confirm they’re still alone, “if there’s one thing at which Simon is expert…it isn’t flattery!”
We are not endowed with real life till the heart be touched. (Hawthorne)
XXXIV
My Plainfield food emporium hangs from a precipitous rock over our babbling river. Once a thriving gristmill, the unpainted, wooden structure was an enterprise, no doubt, prospering cartloads beyond what my restaurant and bar can aspire to, the gristmill’s great dripping buckets driving a veritable wheel of fortune compared to the squeaking turn of my spit. But with the natural occurrence of rapids attendant to such drops in the river, the waterside deck of my smokehouse bar can be spirited. Especially when Spring starts nursing the mother mountains, their snow-swollen slopes feeding the newborn stream its life-giving rivulets; the writhing, untrained river kicking up a maddening spray, dousing my alfresco imbibers with occasional sobering showers – the sousing effect of the river’s awakening effectively awaking the soused.
This September morn has other delights to share, my perch over the water like a painter’s palette to daub the forested hills: locust and maple, sumac and birch, all wet from the the artist’s brush – a work I would dally to admire were it not for the footsteps approaching my deck with increasing urgency.
“Melvin?”
From somewhere inside booms the voice of my brilliant sibling; that he would be here so soon, after his meeting with Minnie, damping my expectations.
“On the deck” I yell over the river’s music; reluctant to turn from the vibrant Van Gogh now fading to an Ansel Adams, the eerie emptiness of a Moon and Half Dome done up in silver-gelatin - nature, too, a spirit haunting swathed in the spectral past. “Out here on the deck!” I shout again; the weight in my heart becoming as heavy as the double, iron-hinged doors about to spill Little George from the bar.
“I take it you haven’t been here before,” I hear him say, alerting me to another’s presence - to my shock and immediate revival, Minnie breezing through the double doors, my delight overwhelming restraint.
“We meet again!” I cry, my arms outstretched as though to continue our dance, our embrace - our life changing kiss.
George’s unabashed smile forgiving my absurdity, his hand a guide on Minnie’s shoulder. “And the joy continues,” he mutters entre nous, a sunny secret with which Minnie concurs, her easy smile and quickened step to be in my arms so natural it seems she’s never left.
“You’ve missed your calling, Melvin,” she bubbles, her cheek a feather against mine. “You should be a performer, employ your talent for music.”
“Darling,” I whisper in her ear, emboldened by her nearness, “you are my music, my heart’s abiding refrain; any one else but a toneless, clashing cymbal.”
My arms reluctant to let her go; George giving them every opportunity not to:
“I have exams to write, essays to grade…a thousand other things to do besides be in your way,” he offers politely, stepping for the open doors.
“Nooo,” my hesitance but a small indication of the larger favor I’m granting. “I…we…I want you to stay-“
Minnie coming to my aid:
“That’s right, George. We’ve yet to address that ‘other reason’. Remember?”
“You mean his wanderlust?” I tease, “his daydreams of greener pastures? Simon told me, big brother,” I add, addressing George, “told me what you should’ve told me yourself.”
“Poppycock!” he chortles, shutting the old mill doors before joining us at the railing. “There’s no truth to that, Melvin. I was just planting seeds, irrigating the field; Simon relaying my feigned discontent to the Godhard dean as certain as the dean’s recurring visits. The old fellow’s a fixture in Simon’s store every Saturday.”
“And this for what gain?” I ask, relieved by his explanation.
“The same as any good farmer’s,” George’s eyes downcast with boyish mortification, “for a bumper crop; for a raise come next month’s meeting of the trustees,” his voice strengthening with conviction. “Somebody’s got to keep you from drowning in the river of debt you’ve dug for yourself. Even your peppercorns aren’t what they’re cracked up to be, your vision of Black-N-Blue Bar-B-Q more a nightmare than a-“
“Financial woes?” Minnie breaks in, her solicitous eyes worth more than the national debt. “Maybe what you need is a mission,” she suggests, glancing appreciatively at nature’s bounty surrounding us, “an agenda…an inspiration…one like Jesus gave Peter when He said, ‘Feed my sheep’.”
My thoughts return immediately to Peter’s vision - to Otis Redding; George’s agreement with Minnie so ready and rash he stumbles over his words:
“Maybe…maybe you can talk some sense into his stubborn head, Minnie; succeed where another woman failed,” Minnie leaving his blunder unaddressed.
“I’ve been thinking of selling,” I venture, “putting my finger to the wind.”
“With your family’s Harvard polish, and my evangelical bent,” Minnie exclaims, “we could revive the Yankee’s appetite for southern spoils, host a gala event; a Plantation Party, maybe; a Savannah Soiree, or a Richmond Roast; one where carpetbaggers will have the rugs pulled out from under them!”
“Selling, and selling out, are two different things,” my brother notes, perplexity creasing his brow. “Why would we want to hark back to such unsettling times? why regress from minister to minstrel? from nabbing souls to tapping soles-?“
“That’s it!” a jubilant Minnie cries. “That’s it! You’ve smitten the rock! Parted the waters!”
“What do you mean?” I query - George too astonished to respond.
“The harking back!” she rhapsodizes. “The unsettling times! Your Onion River gristmill could be the ferryman’s dock on the River Styx! Charon’s dock! Think about it - the veritable prow from which to hail the dead!”
“The most enchanting idea I’ve ever heard!” my excitement building, “…assuming you’re willing to hazard your ministry by berating our deviltry here; to broadcast our goings-on like we’re the very keepers of hell’s gates. You know, stir up a backlash, get Black-N-Blue some national attention, some hungry protestors to order sandwiches while they’re picketing.”
George is thunderstruck, his furrowed brow putting Rodin to shame, TheThinker cogitating, choosing, from among the furniture of his mind, a sturdy bench from our New England past:
“’The quality of the imagination is to flow and not to freeze’,” George’s scholarly Emerson quote halting our errant imagination. “You can take any trip you wish, so long as its name isn’t guilt,” he lectures, “you can even hope for the surprise of success. Why? Because, ‘All men live by truth, and stand in need of expression’…yet another Emerson adage.”
“Your kind monition notwithstanding,” I retort, “we’re only toying with ideas, George. Sometimes a bad idea can lead to a good one, you know.”
“Granted,” George nodding furtively at Minnie, “but when a good idea is also a beauty, one had best claim it before Fate has time to measu
re it untenable-“
“Fate?” I interrupt, Minnie shooting a glance from me to George, then back again. “Should there be such a measurement, George, I dare say it would be by one of your swingers of philosophical yardsticks, by one or your long dead but oft quoted authors-“
Minnie taking both of my hands in hers, peering into my eyes for the truth she presumes I’m avoiding. “Which is not to imply that George is anything but your touchstone, Melvin; your brother in more than the literal sense. He cares for you…loves you, in fact; the very word bringing to bear my own heart’s cry for expression!” her eyes closing for my expected kiss.
“Aaaah,” George’s restrained tone a gesture of respect, “for some of us, a library isn’t big enough to hold what our hearts wish to expound; your kiss expressing with ease what no author could hope to phrase. And yet…well, yes,” he goes on, after a pause, “yes, I deem it proper to bring this up in Miss Taylor’s presence-”
“Bring what up?” I ask, any subject other than Minnie unwelcome.
“Your dream, Melvin…your ideal life…your-“ Minnie murmuring:
“Is it a dream with room for me?”
“You are my dream,” I promise, turning my brother’s comment to benefit.
“I agree,” George too near to miss our exchange. “Minnie could well be the unseen wind in your sails, the inspiration she was alluding to earlier.”
“I’ve been called a lot of things,” Minnie coos, cuddling close in my arms, “but never ‘the unseen wind’.”
“That’s because ‘unseen’ is not applicable to you, my sweet,” I say, hoping my dream forgotten – George unrelenting:
“Nor is failure, if I read her right. No, Minnie could be the magic that turns the dream to reality, the faith that inspires its achievement; all this but a metaphor for Melvin’s wish to be an artist.”
Twice Melvin Page 28