Becoming Mrs. Lewis

by Patti Callahan

  He had captured my intellect, my mind, and my thoughts; I could not allow him to do the same to my heart.

  I turned away from his smile, those teasing eyes, and together we strolled back from where we’d come, passing trees with birds’ nests like tiny hats in the naked branches, till we were only a few paces from the entrance to Magdalen. When I first saw the college’s name in print, I had said it incorrectly. I thanked the heavens that I heard the correct pronunciation before I met Jack—“Maudlin” it is. Yet still we didn’t enter. Jack sat on a bench, crossed one leg over the other.

  He held his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, and the smoke circled upward. He spread his arms along the back length of the bench.

  “It’s not so much any souvenirs we want to take, it’s our hearts we need to carry,” he said. “They yearn for what I call the High Country, and we can’t get there without abandoning the belief that this is all there is, and that we must get the most out of it, and take something with us.” He looked at me then, silently, like a man in a debate who had just nailed his point.

  “Oh, Jack,” I said and sat beside him, twisting to face him. “Your High Country is my Fairyland. I’ve dreamt of it since I was a child. When I read Pilgrim’s Regress, I knew you meant the same place—’the Island,’ you called it.” This repartee with a man whose mind I had come to esteem and value felt like water to a parched soul.

  I continued. “You and I both had the same experience as children, that same thrill that nature brings, the knowing that sometimes the world evokes a feeling so full of longing that words can’t capture it. And that longing hints at a place where evil can’t exist and heartbreak can’t abide. Even when we weren’t believers, we still believed. It’s as though we took the same path, and the High Country called to us both.”

  He nodded, and I almost believed he blushed. “Pilgrim’s Regress was the first book I wrote after my conversion, wondering about yearning and what it might mean.” He smiled at me slowly. “With the yellow leaves and the happiness of this afternoon, I long even more for such a place,” he said. “Isn’t it odd? That we can be happy here and yet want to go . . . there?”

  “As if at our happiest, we want even more. Like this is the hint.” I took a breath. “Jack, I look back at my life, and I understand the lure of atheism, but it now seems almost impossible. How could I have not believed when my heart always knew?”

  “Maybe we were too simple.”

  I shook my head with remembrance. “I don’t know; I think I just wanted my soul to be my own.”

  “Indeed.” He nodded as if he remembered the same.

  “Have you ever . . .” I paused.

  “Ever what?”

  “Felt another presence? Felt like the veil lifted for a minute? And I don’t just mean in prayer.”

  “Tell me what you mean, Joy.” He leaned closer.

  “When my friend Stephen Vincent Benét passed away, I felt him. I think . . . no, I know I even saw his wraith pass by.” I cringed. “Is that crazy?”

  Jack drew nearer to me, and his tone lowered as he dropped the last of his cigarette. “Joy, I was devastated when Charles Williams passed; I was dazed and stunned. I went to the pub we frequented together—the King’s Arms—and ordered a pint. It was then that I felt my friend. He was with me, and he passed by. No one will ever convince me otherwise. Tollers believes I am quite absurd, but I know it to be true.”

  We stared at each other then—another thread that bound us.

  We strode through the archway to Magdalen, and the happiness I felt couldn’t be measured as Jack turned tour guide, his voice deepening.

  “You must know, of course, that Oxford is made of thirty-five colleges, and this is but one—Magdalen—and it is outside the gate of the medieval city.”

  “Nine hundred years old,” I said. “That’s what I’ve read. It feels humbling to be in the place of such deep history.”

  Magdalen’s glistening white stone tower shot toward the blue sky, her six spires secured to stone buildings that splayed in every direction, a master of geometric precision. I pointed at the tower as we drew closer. “It’s a phallic symbol for a male-dominated institution, ain’t it?”

  Jack paused, his eyebrows raised above his spectacles, then, with an exhale of laughter and cigarette smoke, he bellowed with delight. “You call them as you see them, don’t you, Joy?” he said in a brogue so beautiful that my heart fell to its knees.

  His voice, I thought, is like an ocean in a shell.

  “I feel that I could never get enough of this place.” I paused and ran my sight over the buildings and the ivy-covered walls, the thick pristine lawns with well-groomed pathways. “And that entranceway . . .” We were nearing the massive wooden door that was decorated with thick brass and sat protected under a stone archway. “It looks as though one of your magical beings should saunter out.”

  “The grand entranceway to the quad,” he said. “Or the Ancient Door. It’s fascinating seeing the familiar through your eyes.”

  The stone wall, Jack informed me, was called the Longwall, enclosing Magdalen—the dining hall, the Cloisters, the classrooms, the chapel, student rooms, dining room, library, and more. We entered, and the stone hallways and limestone alleyways were as numinous as any I’d seen, echoing with the past. Lichen grew along the pathways and in the cracks between the Headington stones. I joked about private and hidden rooms—a dungeon, perhaps. The Middle Ages clung to the air and seemed concealed in the hallways and thin stone stairwells.

  In a perfect square, the hallways of the Cloister surrounded a green lawn. These walkways were pale-yellow plaster, the open archways to the quad garnished with corbels and carvings. We walked together, turning left and left and left to end up where we began, talking as though we’d never stop. After the second round we paused, both facing the green quad. Gargoyles peered down from the buildings that hovered over the Cloisters. “I can’t decide if they are watching us or guarding us,” I said and pointed up.

  “Hieroglyphics.” He pretended to cower beneath them with a feigned fright. “Now this way.” He motioned forward. “Let’s walk by the river.”

  I followed him out the hallway opening to a wide-open field. “A hundred and twenty acres,” he said. And then we walked through a wrought iron gate and archway onto a smaller stone bridge, under which ran a tributary of the Cherwell. “And this is Addison’s Walk.” The dirt pathway was strewn with leaves of all hues, the trees so densely gathered as to crowd the pathway yet leave enough room to feel free and protected both.

  “The whole of this was first built in 1458,” he told me, standing with his arms spread out. “And this meadow”—he pointed ahead—“in the spring, it is full of flowers of a purplish-green color that fills the senses.”

  “Fritillaria meleagris,” I said.

  He laughed in that already familiar bellow.

  “And are you a walking Latin nomenclature appendix?” he asked.

  “My sons think so,” I said. “I survived many a childhood day by wandering the botanical gardens in the Bronx and memorizing the genus and species for all the plants and flowers.”

  We stood together on that pathway, and I wondered if my eyes would ever be able to see all the glory of that place; it was too much for one visit. The architecture and the natural world melded together into something so sublime it would take years or decades to see it rightly.

  I turned back to him. “Jack, there’s something I’ve been wondering.”

  “And what is that? What questions have I not answered as of yet?”

  “Why are you called Jack when your name is Clive?”

  “Ah!” He swung his walking stick up and then stuck it into the ground. “Well, it’s a bit of a story.”

  “Then tell.” I set my hands on my hips and planted my feet. “I’m ready, sir.”

  “All right then. When I was a young boy we had a dog named Jacksie. On a warm summer day, when the world was good and right, Warnie and I were wal
king to town when a car came roaring around the bend and hit our dog. Killed him right there in front of us.” Jack shook his head. “If I could make a request of God it would be that no young boy ever see his beloved dog killed.” He shuddered and then continued. “Therefore I announced my name was Jack and vowed never to drive a car.”

  “You named yourself after a dog, and you don’t drive.” I laughed, and he took a step forward with his stick, glancing over his shoulder to see if I was following.

  “Now maybe you know all there is to know.”

  “I doubt that,” I said as we caught up with Phyl and George.

  “Darling,” she called out and came to us. “I must be going if I’m going to catch the last train.”

  “And I,” George said, “must return to Malvern. Today has been a pleasure.” He bowed his head and tipped his hat before walking away.

  I thanked Phyl, and once again Jack and I were alone. We talked and strolled through Magdalen’s grounds until the afternoon sky’s pink hues hinted toward evening.

  Our parting was polite, and when I told him that I’d be there for ten more days, he smiled. And that man, when he smiled . . . it was the only thing you wanted to see. His face was so serious in photos, yet in person both animated and buoyant. He seemed continually prepared to burst into laughter if given the chance. I wanted to give him every chance.

  I didn’t know whether to embrace him or shake his hand. In the end I did neither, as he wrapped both his hands around the top of his walking stick. “My brother, Warnie, will be available tomorrow. Would you like to meet us here for lunch?”

  “I would very much like that,” I said.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “With a friend of a friend, Victoria Ruffer. Meanwhile I’ll be taking full advantage of the city, walking and admiring. The autumn here might be the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

  “Yes, it’s glorious. Autumn makes all things seem possible.”

  “It is spring that does that.” I swept my palms open like a flower blossoming. “All that life coming back from frozen earth.”

  He gave a sly smile.

  “What? Did I say something awful?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “But you certainly have your own opinion about everything. I knew this from your letters, but now I can see it’s true all the time, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I’m awful that way. I know.”

  “I’m not yet sure it’s awful.” He looked at me closely then, as if seeing me for the first time.

  We parted ways, and I headed along the storyland sidewalks of Oxford, back to Victoria’s. I knew what I would do the minute I shut the door to my little guest room: write a poem. What else was one to do with these emotions that seemed to say, like springtime, that the world was about to begin anew?

  CHAPTER 12

  Even the bells in Magdalen tower were ringing

  Death to the drooping afternoon

  “SONNET VI,” JOY DAVIDMAN

  The second day in Oxford arrived, luminescent, the honey-hues of sunlight falling from the leaves to settle on the grass like spilled paint. The air was as clear as glass and soft as cotton. I rolled out of bed and into the day, expectant.

  Lazily, I started a letter to home and also set my eyes for a quick read-through of my Second Commandment article before leaving to wander toward Magdalen for lunch. Fifteen minutes later, when I reached the college gate, I paused, the old fatigue threatening at the edge of my bones.

  “No,” I said out loud. “We are here in Oxford and healthy and well. We are going to see Jack and meet Warnie.”

  Something in the trees and the river breathed of holiness, and I said a silent prayer—You’ve brought us together. Please be with us—and then I eased under the ancient stone archway of Magdalen into the quadrangle. Men rushed past in black robes, open and flapping in the wind, like so many crows. The students wore their suits—boys dressed as men with their buttoned sweaters and rumpled suit jackets with only the top two buttons fastened. And the cigarette smoke—it seemed a fag sprouted from every mouth. This was a man’s domain if I’d ever seen one. It reeked of leather and pipe smoke. I made it to the dining hall door with timid steps, my mask of bravado slowly cracking.

  What was I doing?

  Women of course weren’t prohibited (except as students, fellows, or tutors), but I could feel in every nerve ending that here we were most welcome as appendages or footnotes. Pleasant company at best.

  I wore a prim sheath dress fashioned of taupe tweed, and the double strand of pearls hung around my neck. My new nylons rubbed pleasantly against my thighs. A silk pale-blue Liberty scarf, one I’d purchased in London, was tied artfully around my neck as if I’d casually thrown it on, and yet I’d had to try the knots more times than I would admit.

  I stood at the entranceway of the dining hall and waited, trembling. Doorways in this fortress were small and unmarked, almost hidden except for those who knew what they were. I entered slowly, blinking in the dim light. Dark paneled and cavernous, the room seemed built for men of knowledge, for fine literature and discourse of philosophy. Great oil paintings hung from the walls, portraits of men in robes with striped stoles around their necks, unsmiling and serious men. The tables were long and rectangular, set for lunch with white napkins tented at each place setting and sparkling crystal glassware awaiting the sherry. Dark brass chandeliers hung low, casting circles of light. At the end of the room a long table was set up on a foot-high platform, and there sat the dons in their black robes. The high table. Stained glass windows watched over the room, and a carved stone fireplace dominated the left wall.

  I wanted this room to be mine.

  I adjusted my dark-blue plate hat and smiled as widely as I knew how, but my thoughts were preoccupied with one thing: I needed to find a ladies’ room. It had been a lovely but long walk from Victoria’s guesthouse, and I shouldn’t have had the last two cuppas before I left.

  Jack spotted me before I did him.

  “Good afternoon, Joy.” He approached me with a smile that settled on me with warmth, as if we met for lunch every day. He wore the same tie as he had yesterday, and his black robe hung unbuttoned over his gray suit, his spectacles poking above the pocket of his jacket as if to spy what was happening.

  “Thank you so much for having me here.”

  It was my accent that made the men turn from their plates to stare. Another man drew near. “Well, good afternoon. You must be Mrs. Gresham. How very much I’ve enjoyed your letters.” The man was shorter than Jack, but I knew who he was immediately, his sincere smile and earnest eyes the giveaway.

  “And you must be Warnie.” I smiled. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to meet you.”

  Warnie’s face was much rounder than Jack’s, and his chin seemed to fade into his neck, but his smile lit his features. He wore a similarly drab suit but without the robe. His tie was askew, as was his smile, and he was charming in his rumpled way.

  “We’re pleased you’ve come to visit,” he said from under the hood of a bushy moustache.

  And with that greeting, Jack guided us out of the main room and through the arched hallways to a private dining area where lunch was set for us. We settled into the warm stone room, the dark wood and towering bookshelves nearly making me forget the press of my bladder. The deep plush furniture seemed made for men to sit and light their pipes and read to their hearts’ content. What did it say of me that I felt more comfortable there than in any ladies’ sitting parlor?

  Jack turned to greet another man, and I turned to Warnie. “Is there anywhere in this man’s enclave that a woman might relieve herself?” I asked, slightly desperate by then.

  Thank goodness Jack and his acquaintance didn’t hear. As it was, Warnie blushed and averted his eyes. Women must not talk about the bathroom in this country.

  He pointed me in the right direction and off I went. My low heels clicked against the cobblestones. Instead of feeling embarrassed, I experienced a flash of en
vy: I wanted to be a part of a place like this—a tutor, an academic, a writer of great import. I wanted so much. But I’d start with lunch.

  In the wavy and dusty mirror over the sink in the lavatory, I stared into my own wide eyes, surrounded by horn-rimmed glasses. What did Jack and Warnie see? I swiped on red lipstick and smoothed my hair. Not bad at all.

  I returned to have sherry poured into cut-glass goblets, and I drank mine too quickly, feeling the soft buzz that came with it. Far-off bells rang and then more, echoing upon one another’s cymbal-sounding peals.

  “It seems that bells never stop ringing around here,” I said. “From your high pinnacled towers.” I feigned covering my ears.

  “Yes, our bells in the various colleges are off a few minutes here and there,” Jack said and waved his hand toward the window. “Not as congruent as we’d like.”

  I allowed my attention to wander as I glanced around, pausing at the words etched on the Magdalen crest. “Floreat Magdalena,” I murmured. “‘Let flourish . . .’”

  “You read Latin?” Jack asked me.

  “Excuse me?”

  He pointed to the crest.

  “Oh. Yes. Latin, German, and French. I’ve taught myself Greek, but I’m a bit rusty. The Latin and Greek tend to flip over into each other sometimes.” I paused, embarrassed, afraid that I sounded like a braggart. “My college roommate, Belle, spoke Russian, but I never could quite get the hang of it. But you know more languages than I do, Jack. Latin, Greek, French, and Italian. Probably some others as well.”

  Warnie’s laughter echoed through the room as we sat to eat. “It seems there isn’t much our American friend can’t do.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty,” I said. With that I turned my attention to him. “Tell me, Warnie, what are you working on? What are you writing now?”

  “I’m toiling away on a book about Louis XIV, the Sun King. Probably not of much interest to you, but an exceeding obsession to me.” He sounded so like Jack that I felt a kinship I was not due.

  “Not of interest to me?” I asked. “Well lordy! I’m working on a book about Charles II, and my Lord Orrery, whom I wrote my thesis about for Columbia, sat in the House of Commons at the very same time as your king.”