by Julia Whelan
A sob rips through the cellar, echoing off the stone. I look to Antonia, but her eyes are closed. Jamie struggles for breath, for control. “Apologies,” he chokes out. “What you said. Was just . . . unexpected.”
When he speaks again, William sounds mystified. “What have I done, honestly, Jamie, what have I done to make you think I would ever wish—”
“Not that.” Jamie clears his throat. “I mean, yes, that. But no, it was the word ‘love’ what surprised me.”
“Oh, please,” William scoffs. “Don’t act as if you don’t know that.”
Eventually, the tinkling sound resumes, breaking the silence. Again. Jamie, voice more controlled now, speaks. “I’ve heard every other bloody thing. Your disappointment. Your anger. But love? No. That stays bottled up inside you like all these wines, just sitting here, waiting to be shared, enjoyed, but too valuable to open. You’re so afraid that once they’re drunk, there will be no more, it will all be gone. Well, one day, it’ll be gone anyway whether you drink it or not.”
“You’re quite the poet, I’ll give you that,” William drawls. Jamie sighs, defeated, muttering something that prompts William to counter, “Oh, come now, I’m joking. I . . . I do understand. What you’re saying, I do. But my father—”
“Dammit!” Jamie hisses. “Bugger it all to hell.” Antonia and I both look up, panicked.
“Christ, d’you cut yourself?”
“It’s fine.”
“Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“I have a handkerchief. I’ll wrap it.”
“It’ll stain.”
“I don’t give a mouse fart, give me your hand.”
Silence.
A long silence.
William speaks first. “I believe I may have made a bit of a mess of things.”
“It was a crap vintage anyway.”
William snorts.
Jamie sighs, all the heat seeming to have left him. As if, having volleyed those barbed words back and forth with William, having purged them, they’ve been dulled, rendered inert. “Dying is awful business.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s not true?”
“You’re not dying.”
Jamie scoffs. “We’re all dying.”
Silence.
“I can’t lose both of you, Jamie. I won’t allow it.” William’s voice breaks.
“You won’t allow it.”
“Sons do not die before fathers. It’s not the order of things. I’ve done what I’ve done, I do what I do, because I refuse to accept that this is my lot. Simply can’t fathom that I can’t fix it. I can’t buy the cancer out of you. I can’t pay it to go away, I can’t bully it away. What have I done in this life that I’m forced to watch both my sons die before me?”
When Jamie finally replies, his voice is strangled. “I’m sorry. I truly am. But there is no order to things. I can’t let you do to me what you did to Oliver, just so you feel like you’ve done everything you can. I won’t have ‘stop’ be my last word.”
“Live and let live, is that it?”
“Live and let die, more like.”
Antonia leans her head against the wall, turns into it.
William swallows, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth, betraying its dryness. Betraying his fear. “It all seems rather pointless. We fix and repair, fix and repair, only to have it break again. I don’t know what to do, Jamie. Tell me what to do.”
“Open the bottle. Open every damn bottle you can, while you can. Then let me go. In love. That’s what you can do.”
Unbidden, I think of “Dover Beach” and Jamie asking me what Matthew Arnold is saying, and me replying, In death, love is all there is. He asked me how that made me feel and I, stupidly, naively said, Lonely. But not Jamie. No, Jamie answered, Hopeful.
Because Jamie knew all of this already.
After a time, I hear them pulling away from each other and I realize that they were embracing. The sound of a hand pounding on a back as William says hoarsely, “Damn stiff upper lip. Everything comes out eventually, I suppose.”
“Try being with an American,” Jamie quips. They chuckle.
William clears his throat. “How’s your hand?”
“I’ll live.” They both snort at that. “I feel rather better, I must say.”
“If only feeling better made it easier.”
“Well,” Jamie argues, “at least it doesn’t make it harder.”
William groans slightly. “Ever the optimist.”
“Quoth the pessimist.”
They share a chuckle. William sighs. “We better get back up there. Your mother’s probably called the coroner. Here, we’ll take this one up for supper.”
“We’re not drinking this.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s more expedient to ask what’s right with it.”
“You know,” William growls, “where I come from, we drink ale. All this fuss about wine, with the year and the vintage—”
“They’re the same thing, old man.”
Antonia and I look at each other, unable to contain our smiles as they bicker. I point up the stairs with a nod, indicating that we should leave them to it. But Antonia tugs my hand. I look at her. She tugs harder and pulls me into her, our hands unclasping and her arms enveloping me. She kisses the hair above my ear and croaks, “Thank you.”
I swallow. To be hugged by a mother and have nothing but gratitude and joy there; it’s heady stuff. I squeeze her and then, for some reason I don’t understand, nudge her back. We look at each other and she smiles again. She whispers, “Shall we join them?”
I’m about to go with her, but something inside me—for a reason I now understand—whispers back, “You go.”
She looks disappointed, but wipes her eyes, takes a breath, and turns away, stepping through the archway and to her left, into the wine cellar. “Ah, splendid!” she cries, sounding chipper. “You haven’t killed each other.”
They laugh. They speak easily. They tease, they prod, they poke.
I find I can’t take a step. I find I have to lean against the wall for a moment. Just a moment and then I’ll leave. I promise. I just want to appreciate this.
The three of them, on the other side of the wall, are a single unit now. Unseeable, unknowable, by me. I got what I wanted. I’m free to leave now.
So why don’t I want to?
I take a breath. I force my foot onto the next stair, and then the next, and the next. Leaving them behind.
“SO, PROFESSOR DAVENPORT,” Charlie says, holding his champagne flute up by his face and leaning across the table toward Jamie. “I should like to know your intentions.”
“Charlie, please,” Jamie replies. “My parents don’t know about us yet.”
Everyone chuckles, including Charlie, who huffs, “They’d have to be blind not to see the way you look at me.” We’re sitting in the grand dining room, the seven of us spread out around a table meant for twenty, Antonia and William at each head, Jamie and me on one side, Charlie, Maggie, and Tom on the other. We’ve gone through two bottles of bubbly and three bottles of wine. And that’s just since the start of dinner. Smithy’s delicious quintessential English roast dinner, of which she took only one considering bite from Jamie’s plate before declaring it edible, wished me happy birthday, slipped into her coat, and excused herself for the night.
Charlie has rested his elbows on the table, something he would never do sober. The avidity in his eyes makes me nervous. That, and the fact that he’s pouring himself more champagne.
“Seriously now,” Charlie continues. “Tell us your plans.”
Jamie is less comfortable with this question. “Don’t have any, really.” He holds his empty glass up to William, who wordlessly refills it.
“Sorry, but you’ll be teaching?” Maggie prods.
“Well, that remains to be seen—”
“Cease this prevaricating!” Charlie bangs his fist on the table fo
r effect. “What’s to become of Ella from Ohio, our dear Yankee orphan?”
I slide my glass to the right. “William?”
He turns with the bottle. “Pleasure.”
Charlie wobbles a hand at Jamie. “Will you move to Washington? Surely they need skinny-bejeaned, schoolgirl-fantasy liabilities in America as well.”
“Actually”—I jump in—“I’ll probably be traveling with the campaign, so there’s no point in Jamie moving—”
“You’re not breaking up!” Charlie shouts, this possibility just occurring to him. Jamie just drinks his wine. My eyes flash to his parents, whom I don’t really want to discuss this in front of and who are pretending they’ve gone deaf. “Take him with you! He can revise his sodding thesis from anywhere!”
Maggie taps his forearm. “Charlie—”
He’s unmoved. “What’s a year or two in America?” He turns glassy eyes on Jamie. “Go explore the colonies, then come home and take your rightful place as lord and heir of . . .” Unable to remember the name of the house he’s sitting in, he swirls his hand, “this, and then marry Fanny Brice over there”—he means Fanny Price—“and promulgate”—he means “propagate”—“the line as befits a man of your exalted birth!”
“Charlie’s a bit of a monarchist,” Maggie murmurs.
“I’m only saying—”
That’s it. I’m done. “This isn’t just a job, Charlie. It’s my life. If she gets elected, I hopefully get a position in the administration, where I can have some impact. Best case, she gets two terms. Then we get our next guy in and the cycle starts over. I can’t put in for a transfer. There’s no London office in American politics.” Why am I so defensive? Why am I justifying this? Why do I sound bitter when I say, “Decade after decade after decade, keeping my country going in the right direction, that’s my life.”
Charlie, impervious to fact, just looks bewildered. “Surely, someone else can do that!” I open my mouth, but he keeps going. “What, you think you’re alone on this mythical hill with your magical education sword raised against the advancing illiterate hordes? That the issue of education in America can only be fixed by you and your merry band of arts teachers—”
“I care, Charlie, I care about what happens to my country—”
He rolls his eyes. “For someone who loves her country so much, you seem rather keen to change it. Now listen, you silly tart. I love you, I do, but you are a class-A idiot if you think that’s life. This . . .” He gestures between Jamie and me. “What you two have, that’s life.”
The table goes silent. I open my mouth to try, once again, to explain this (or at the very least end it), but he stands. He winks at Jamie and looks back at me. “You have a think.” Then adds, inspired, “While I have a tink!” He staggers out, laughing to himself.
I open my mouth, but Tom—good, ol’ reliable Tom—steps right into the fray. “Might you devise a suitable travel schedule? Whereby an equal amount of time is spent at key intervals traveling to see one another? I could help you devise the algorithm—”
“I’m not disposed to travel, I’m afraid,” Jamie pipes up, finally setting his glass down. He gazes steadily at Tom. “I’m ill.”
Tom looks down at his plate, scrutinizing his food. “I feel fine.”
I lean in to Jamie. “You don’t have to do this.”
He just keeps looking at Tom. “I’ve terminal blood cancer.”
Maggie’s fork drops to her plate with a clatter, her hand finding her mouth. Tom cocks his head like a puppy. “Is it serious?”
“He said ‘terminal,’” Maggie whispers, looking to me for confirmation. I try to nod, but can’t meet her eye.
“I’ve been in treatment for quite some time—” Jamie begins to explain, but Maggie’s sob interrupts him. Her loud, gasping wreck of a sob.
We all stare at her.
She cries harder, gasping for breath. Tom, little boy lost, drops his head to his chest. Jamie glances at me and sardonically lifts his glass.
Charlie, of course, reenters the room at this moment, staggers back to his seat, takes one look at Maggie and Tom, and mutters, “Jesus, who died?”
William abruptly stands, barking, “A toast!” He turns to me and raises his glass. Everyone follows suit, even Maggie, who covers her mouth with one hand while holding her trembling glass aloft with the other. William grimaces at her. “No need to cry about it, my dear, I’ll be brief.” This elicits a relieved chuckle from everyone. Except for Maggie, who sniffles. And Charlie, who peers at her, flummoxed.
“What the hell is going—”
“Eleanor . . .” William’s tone stops even Charlie from continuing. He regards me and his eyes soften. “Ella,” he revises. “I wish to thank you. For being . . .” He pauses, seems to change tack. “Happy birthday. May we all celebrate many more around this table.”
My eyes fill.
Maggie releases a fresh sob.
William raises his glass again. “To Ella from Iowa.”
“Ohio,” Jamie whispers.
“Oh, bugger, to Ella from Ohio, then!”
Laughing, everyone choruses, “To Ella from Ohio!” and clinks glasses.
I nod at William. He nods back.
It’s a start.
Before he regains his seat, Maggie jumps up like a jack-in-the-box, blurting, “Sorry, can I just say—” She draws a shaky breath. She turns and looks down at Tom. “You’re an idiot.”
Tom’s still looking at me.
“Tom!”
He jumps. “Here!” Now he looks up at her.
Her face falls, suddenly sad, deflated. “I don’t have it in me. I simply cannot endure it, waiting for you to go through yet another one of your infatuations. I’m done.”
“But—but it’s you!” Tom stammers.
“I know, yes, it’s me,” she hisses, “never-good-enough, never-pretty-enough, never-one-of-your-propositions—” Tom opens his mouth to interrupt, but she keeps going. “No, I’m going to finish, because I’m done, I’m done always being patient, always there! Don’t you see, we could die tomorrow and we’d never—” Poor Maggie, realizing what she has just said, spins to Jamie and me. “Sorry! I just meant—”
“Keep going!” I cry.
She spins back to Tom, but before she can speak, Tom says, “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“What?”
“Why are you saying ‘what’?”
“Because I said yes and then you said ‘what.’”
“Why?!”
I catch Jamie’s eye and mutter, “Third base!” He gets the Abbott and Costello reference and we bite back a much-needed laugh.
Tom is sputtering. “Why? Because, okay, okay, here it is: Maggie?”
“What!”
Tom’s hand shoots out. “That wasn’t Maggie question mark. Well, it was, but it was meant to be Maggie full stop.”
“All right, yes?”
Tom squeezes his eyes closed like he’s doing calculus in his head. “Shh! Don’t speak! I really must concentrate.”
“Tom, this is—”
He completely melts down. “No! Stop!” He’s beginning to hyperventilate. “Just let me—gather all of my—it’s just, you see . . . All right, going back, just a bit, you know, to what you just said, the thing about never-pretty-enough, and never-whatever-enough and never—what was it? Propositioned!—don’t you see, Mags? From the beginning it was . . . it was you, wasn’t it? It was always you, but I couldn’t have, I wouldn’t have, I mean, I would have, if you’d wanted, of course I would have, but if you hadn’t wanted to, with me, I would have—well, I couldn’t have taken it, I couldn’t, I wouldn’t . . . oh, bugger and blast!” Tom stands. He takes her face in his hands, leans down, and kisses her. Just lays one on her. Arms hanging at her sides, Maggie melts, Tom holds her up by her head for a moment. Then she springs to life, grabbing his shoulders and leaping up, wrapping her legs around his waist.
We stare at them.
Antonia stands, smooths
her dress, folds her napkin. “Cake in the library?”
AFTER ANOTHER HOUR of festivities, of cake and coffee and Charlie opening my present of Scotch for another toast, we stumble (some of us more than others) upstairs for the night. I kiss both Antonia’s and William’s cheeks and thank them, without reservation, for the best birthday I’ve ever had. As we walk down the hallway, we peel off into our traditional, separate rooms. I take the opportunity to shower quickly and brush my teeth. There’s a robe in the bathroom and I slip it on. I toe into the slippers Antonia provided.
I can’t do anything about the smile that seems etched on my face.
I crack the door open. The coast is clear. I slip out into the hallway, closing the door behind me as quietly as I can. When I turn around, I see the door next to Jamie’s room open. Maggie shuffles out. I smile. She turns, sees me, startles, and smiles guiltily back.
We meet in the middle of the hall, our shared look like two knowing sorority girls. Then her brow furrows, her smile turns sad, and she pulls me into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
I manage to whisper back, “Not tonight. We have nothing to be sorry about tonight. Okay?” I take her hands in mine, pull back, and look into her swimming eyes. “I couldn’t be happier. For both of us.”
I can tell she’s excited but nervous. Possibly even worried. As she probably should be. Time for some sisterly advice. “Remember,” I whisper. “It’s Tom. Be literal and explicit. And patient. Also, don’t make any sudden moves.” She chuckles and takes a breath, dropping my hands. When she walks past me, I slap her ass. Stifling a laugh, she slips into the room.
My turn. I quietly open Jamie’s door and close it behind me.
It’s dark. The light from the hallway creeps through the bottom of the door, only illuminating about three feet in front of me. I have no idea where the bed is.
“Jamie?” I whisper, taking tiny steps forward.
“Who goes there?” he growls playfully, his voice coming from the left.