by Diane Wald
I thought she was being a little hard on him, but I told myself I didn’t know the whole story. After all, Eliza had told me once that Miles was still “half in love” with his old girlfriend. Maybe he’d hurt her too. God, they were so young.
Miles was valiantly fighting back tears. He pulled his face into his coat again, turtle-fashion. “Yeah,” he said.
Eliza was blushing. “I’m sorry that I hurt you,” she said again. “This is a very hard time for me, Miles. I know you don’t understand it—I barely do myself—but you must at least know I never set out to hurt you.” She reached out to him again and he took her hand, then she moved over and sat leaning against him. They looked like Hansel and Gretel in the forest of evil.
“No,” he said, “I never thought you set out to hurt me. It just does.”
They didn’t say anything for a long time then, and after a while the scene faded from me. This usually happened when the useful part of a vision was over. Most of the time I learned something, whether practical (like the fact that other people actually knew Eliza and I were lovers), or psychological (like the fact that, in spite of my monumental neediness when I knew Eliza, I was never her only lover). Sometimes my visions merely served to underscore what I already deeply realized, like the fact that the masses of things Eliza and I never knew about one another could have easily filled the pyramids of Egypt. This scene had unnerved me. Had I been alive, I would have recited a book to calm myself. I guess I always believed that a book could deflect a bullet.
14. Sarah, Lost and Found
Although it seemed quite endless at the time, my affair with Sarah Bowe really only lasted a few months. It did not begin beautifully, so I do not know why its supremely un-beautiful ending should have surprised me so.
It did, however. I was, for however brief a time, completely crushed. I thought I had found in Sarah the woman of my dreams: that blend of softness, toughness, intelligence, and pure intuition the pricelessness of which I had been too green to appreciate when I was courting Frances. I was careful with myself when I first fell for Sarah; I suspected, I think, that I was riding for a fall, but I never dreamed I would fall so hard or be so severely injured.
Let me return, briefly, to earlier days. For a time, after the mind-boggling Wally Mussel dinner party, I somehow lost touch with Sarah for a while. I did call her, of course, to tell her of the vile event that had taken place in my home, but, to my astonishment, this seemed to ignite her paranoia in a rather dramatic fashion. Perhaps she suspected me of being some kind of spy from his camp, or perhaps it was simply that my innocent proximity to him for one evening was enough to taint me irrevocably in her eyes. Whatever it was, I felt a cool breeze immediately. I was not able, as I had hoped, to discover anything more about Mussel that Sarah could use as armor against him, and when I suggested to her that she leave town for a while (even offering her the cabin and promising not to bother her there) she greeted my idea with something approaching hysteria. When she finally calmed down, she apologized to me, told me she was sorry she’d involved me in her problems, and begged that I not concern myself any further with the whole mess. It was appalling. She drew back from me as if I had waved an unsheathed sabre in her direction; I had no idea what had ignited such fear.
My family was moving house, however, at that time, and that project so engulfed me, physically and mentally, for so many weeks, that I was unable to dwell on Sarah’s predicament. Whenever it did come to mind, I pushed it away. I always ended up seeing the same horrendous picture: Mussel approaching Sarah and sliding his puffy, greasy palms over her finely sculpted shoulders and breasts. I knew I would see her again and try anew to help her, but I put it off and off, grateful for the distractions of the move and the mysteries of settling Frances and the boys into a new town and myself into a new job.
We had found a pleasant if somewhat humbler house (prices were so much higher in our new state), and the boys seemed to be adjusting nicely to the neighborhood. Frances was not thrilled with the place, but she tried to be cheerful and speak of the “possibilities.” This frightened me a little, but I ignored her for the most part. I knew that soon enough her “possibilities” would make me miserable: no need to hurry things along. When the fall semester began, I found my classes stimulating and the rest of the faculty agreeable if not exciting. Don Rath was, of course, right down the hall, and that arrangement was truly a boon to me. We began to visit one another’s lairs quite often, and I grew fond of him quickly. He was always up on things; his lively imagination never flagged; and he was very, very clever and funny. Little did I know in those early days at NSU how faithful and valuable a friend Don Rath would prove to be.
It was not until the day before the Christmas break that I had my next real encounter with Sarah Bowe. Oh I had run into her many times, but she had always made it clear that she was (a) in a big hurry to be somewhere else, and (b) unwilling to have any conversation with me more meaningful than one she might share with the UPS deliveryman. I was saddened by her attitude, but I did not press. There was, I think, an air of danger about her—the sort of thing one feels from certain patients on the edge of a shattering breakthrough—and I did not want to push her in any direction at all. I surmised that, like my pretty little Cybèle, she would come closer when she was ready. But Sarah, as it turned out, was really not the person in my life who would prove to be like Cybèle at all.
It was an oddly warm day for the twentieth of December in New Jersey, and I could see from my office window that the few students who had not yet left the campus for the holidays were frolicking about on the green in front of the student union building as if it were May. There was no snow on the ground (this amazed me, having spent so many years in Vermont, where December was always as white as a luxury liner from stem to stern), and they wore bright scarves, their long hair flying in the breeze like carefree flags. It looked, in fact, like a jolly sort of postcard, and I decided to chuck my reading and go outside. I felt fine, but a little lonely. Frances was, at that very moment, decorating the house for the holidays as if it were Rockefeller Plaza, and while I knew she wanted me to come directly home and do things like nail evergreen swags along the tops of the windows, I could not bear the idea. If I left the office, she would not be able to reach me. Her last phone call, when she demanded that I bring home more mistletoe, had left me somewhat depressed. I decided to go to the cafeteria, acquire a foamy hot chocolate, and bring it outside to one of the benches in the sun. That is where I found Sarah, and to my surprise she looked really glad to see me. She lifted her own paper cup to mine in a toast and smiled.
“Happy holidays, Jack,” she said.
“And to you, Dr. Bowe.”
She laughed. “Please sit down,” she said, “Unless you’ve got a better offer.”
I sat. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I wasn’t complaining. Fifteen minutes before I had been cold and lonesome and now there I was sitting in the sun sipping a delicious drink, accompanied by a friendly, beautiful woman. I did not speak; I thought she should set the ground rules. We sipped on silently for a few minutes, then a young student couple walked by, arm in arm. They looked blissful. Sarah sighed, and I looked at her. In spite of my decision not to talk, I had to ask her.
“How have you been, Sarah?” It was not a rhetorical question, nor did she take it as one.
She looked at me, hard. I noticed that her previously flawless complexion was marred slightly by a dry tightness around her mouth and a puffiness under her eyes that bespoke spiritual weariness more than physical fatigue. Her eyes were filling up with tears. And all I had done was ask her how she was.
“Okay,” she finally said, with a rueful smile. And then, “Not too hot, I’m afraid, if you want the truth.”
It was some kind of opening, however small. “I’ve wondered about you a lot, Sarah,” I said. I decided to be terse, to let her do most of talking. After all, I told myself, she had withdrawn from me after some startlingly personal confessions, much the w
ay a patient will, for a while, after a particularly revealing session. It was my training to wait.
“I’ll bet,” was all she said. We sipped our chocolates for a while longer.
“Sarah?”
“Oh, Jack,” she said, staring down into her cup. “I am so truly sorry.” I started to interrupt her, but she went on quickly. “I’ve been horrible to you. You were very, very kind to me, and I dropped you cold. I won’t ask you to forgive me, but I beg you to believe it was nothing personal.” She stared into her cup and said nothing for a moment, then went on.
“I’ve been a very screwed-up lady, as my students would say. I guess I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I just felt like I had to stay away from you for a while, not involve you any more in my sordid story.
“But,” she said shyly, reaching out a soft, gloved hand in my direction, “I did miss you a great deal.”
I met Sarah’s hand in midair and held it tightly with both of mine. My heart was thumping so hard I was sure it was audible inside the nearby buildings. The fact that my feelings for Sarah had leapt so immediately to the fore at her slightest bidding truly amazed me. She began to cry a little. I made a stupid joke, hoping it would distract her.
“I believe this is where I came in,” I said. She laughed; it was a good sign. I held her hand for a second or two more and then I asked her, “Does this mean we’re friends again, or is it simply a little Christmas cheer you’re spreading, Doctor?”
“Friends?” she said, a little, I thought, flirtatiously, and then, “Yes, absolutely—friends.”
“That’s wonderful. I always buy my friends a cup of holiday eggnog,” I told her. “If you wish to remain my friend, you will have to oblige me on this point.”
Sarah looked at her watch and made a face. Then she said, “The hell with it. Okay, yes, thank you, Jack. I could use a drink… I mean, you’re speaking of grownup eggnog, I hope.”
“Extremely grown up,” I told her. “Let’s go.”
On the way to the inn, Sarah suggested we buy the ingredients for our drink and go to her apartment instead. Grace Rinkette, she told me, was away for the holidays: we could enjoy the fireplace in Grace’s wonderful old rooms all by ourselves. I took a long breath, hesitating only long enough to fortify myself for the temptations I knew were coming.
Sarah took my hesitation as a question. “He’s out of town too,” she said.
“Good,” I said. “But actually, that isn’t what I was thinking.” I could tell she didn’t believe me, but she set about concocting our drinks, and after a couple of heftily laced glasses of nog, none of the past seemed to matter. Within an hour or so I felt I could lie happily in Sarah Bowe’s arms for the rest of my days. After a while we pulled ourselves reluctantly back into our clothes (out of respect to Grace Rinkette, I suppose, whose vintage sofa we had blessed with our modern-day lovemaking) and lay sprawled on cushions before the last of the roaring fire I had so hastily created. All the weariness had left Sarah’s face; she looked like a Christmas angel. I told her I wanted to put her on the top of a tree. It was a foolish thing to say, but she kissed me for it.
She kissed me for almost everything, in fact; she seemed truly starved for affection, and I suppose she was—starved for someone to whom she might give her affection even more than for someone to spend his affection on her. I teased her. I told her she’d have to keep her hands to herself in the hallways at school and not be mauling me all the time in front of the students. She laughed and kissed me for that too.
“I’m not sure I can,” she said.
“I don’t think I really want you to,” I said. She kissed me again. The next thing I knew it was very dark outside. I had to go home. It wasn’t at all easy.
15. Eliza’s Inheritance
I left nearly everything to Eliza in my will. The fact that I had not seen her, spoken to her, or even heard from or about her in years did not matter to me at all. Although I had no proof whatsoever, I knew in my heart of hearts that Eliza had been thinking of me all through that time.
I had had dreams in which we had spoken to each other, and they were as real to me as any everyday conversation. Perhaps I was simply an old, sick fool, but I didn’t think so. Just before I left NSU, I had the document drawn up by a local lawyer who had never seen me before and therefore had no reason to cross-examine my motives. I asked a friend to witness the thing for me and assure me that it did indeed say what I had intended it should. My priest son and my barber son were left a few personal mementos, of course, but neither of them really needed anything from me anymore. There was no one else. Except for a small bequest to my favorite animal-rights group in memory of Cybèle, the bulk of my estate was to go to Eliza Harder. Now I know, unfortunately, what a bleak and fruitless gesture that was. I did have some money when I died. In spite of the large chunks my illness had forced me to cull from my accounts, there was still quite a bit of money there, and I knew that if Eliza did not need it for herself she would find a good place for it. Maybe she even had children, (though I somehow felt I would have known if she did) and she could spend the money on them. At any rate, this bequest would let her know she was never forgotten.
I suppose it did do that, but recently I happened in on a strange scene in my lawyer’s office. At first, I could not understand what I was seeing, or why it had been brought to my attention; then Eliza came into the room. She looked very serious and was dressed up oddly in a long skirt and out-of-fashion blouse; I imagined she had hastily thrown the outfit together for this peculiar occasion. The lawyer, a nice-mannered fellow in his fifties, asked her to sit down.
“As you know, Miss Harder, from our phone conversation, Dr. John Tilford MacLeod has bequeathed almost his entire estate to you. Before I read you the parts of his will that pertain to your situation, I’m afraid I have some unsettling news.”
Eliza gave him a sarcastic look. “What could be more unsettling than his death?” she said. I had to chuckle. She was being a naughty girl.
Lawyers rarely reveal imbalance. “As you say,” he assented. “I regret, as I told you on the telephone, that I had to be the one to deliver that sad news. But the unfortunate fact is, Miss Harder, that although you were named beneficiary to what Dr. MacLeod no doubt believed to be a rather sizable estate at the time he signed his will, it now appears that your inheritance really amounts to very little—next to nothing, in fact, except for some books, papers, and photographs found in the late doctor’s apartment.”
Eliza said nothing.
“And,” the lawyer went on, “I must tell you that Dr. MacLeod’s sons, Father Mark MacLeod and Mr. Harry MacLeod, have asked me to inquire if you might be kind enough to share with them some of the family photographs their father left behind.”
“Of course,” said Eliza. She said nothing more. The good lawyer was obviously baffled.
“Do you have any questions, Miss Harder?”
“What kind of books did Jack leave me?” she asked him.
“I am sure we can supply you with an inventory very soon,” he told her. “But what I meant was, do you have any questions regarding the disposition of the funds that were to have made up the bequest?”
“Not really,” Eliza said. “Money gets used up. I suppose there must have been a great many bills to pay after Jack died. Was that it? Never mind, I don’t really need to know. I don’t have any right to any of his money anyway; that should have gone to his family. Please tell his sons I will send them, through your office, if I may, almost all the photographs. I’ll only want to keep a few, I think. I will keep his papers. And the books—or as many as I can make room for. I’d appreciate that inventory as soon as possible.”
She had begun speaking slowly but had sped up towards the end until her last words were something of a blur. She was quietly crying.
The nice lawyer fellow slid a box of tissues across his desk. She thanked him. “This is still all very surprising to me,” she told him. “I’m sorry.”
“No need
, no need,” he said kindly. “I don’t have to know your story to see how this death has upset you. I will send you Dr. MacLeod’s papers and photographs as soon as his rooms are formally closed, and an inventory of his books as well. Until you decide about them, I think we can probably store them here. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Oh, yes,” Eliza said, smiling at last. “And thank you so much for your help. You’ve been very kind.”
They shook hands. “Do call me if you think of any questions later,” he said. “People often do, you know, and that’s what I’m here for.”
Eliza left his office and started slowly down the street, weeping quietly as she walked. The fact that my money had somehow been eaten away after my death shocked me, but it did not upset me as much as the fact that Eliza had been told of my demise by a stranger. I should have thought of that. At least she would have all my Patchen books now, and all the poems and letters I’d written to her those last years that she had never seen. Maybe it would make up a little for my going. Maybe she would know—even more fully than she already must have known—that I would always be available to her, even after my death. Maybe she would understand my death a little better; maybe it would help her somehow, sometime.
16. I Listen to Eliza’s Dream
Even more amazing than the fact that I am able to eavesdrop (if one can use that word without the restrictions of time—meaning that I eavesdrop on the present and the past with equal clarity), is the fact that I have been able, a few unforgettable times, to see what a person has dreamed. I should say to see what Eliza has dreamed, because so far her dreams have been the only ones accessible to me. My still-extant, still insufferable ego allows me to imagine that this gift has been given to me because of the unusual, extrasensory bond that Eliza and I shared—that little mystical pull our spirits exerted on one another—but it may simply be true that these dreams, like the more normal scenes I have witnessed, are meant to teach me things I ought to learn. I wish I could say I am always certain of the particular meaning I am supposed to discover.