September Ends
Page 18
I'm not ready to change anything, not yet, not today of all days.
So Diary and Jack, your desktop looks much as it did the last time you sat here, Jack my love. Your poems are everywhere. You threw nothing away and I've thrown nothing away. Your chaos lives on.
Malachy tells me we got ten thousand letters of condolence, actual letters, handwritten. People are still writing here, even now. They loved you, Jack. You were loved, yes you were. Still are. I knew you were famous. But I didn't know how loved you were. I suppose I only shared you. I was lucky. I miss you so much, Jack.
So does the rest of the world. You have letters sent from everyone, from heads of state to kitchen staff in Montana. Poetry lovers the world over. I do my very best to answer as many letters as I can. I try and do a hundred a day.
I still think you're going to walk in here on me, Jack. I know you are with me, in spirit.
I burnt your cane, though. I hated that walking stick. That's one thing I want to forget.
I prefer to remember how you sneaked up on me when I was sitting in your chair here, reading. You looked so alive in your eyes. You got onto your knees. I had no idea. We had only returned from France a few days before. You proposed to me! You were always so romantic! We didn’t know then that you were already getting sick. You were so alive that day. I had no idea what you were going to do. You reached into your pocket and pulled out that box. You opened it. I didn't need that fiery Kismet diamond to make me love you. I couldn't love you more than I did. But you made me smile, you did. Just like you always said I made you smile. God, we were so made for each other, Jack. We were so fortunate to find each other. How can I ever be unhappy having known you? One day with you. One hour with you. Memories for my lifetime.
You take the cognac-colored gem from its box and ask me to marry you. Once again, you take me by surprise.
We are married a few days later, in the garden.
We call Mrs. T and Malachy. They bring food, drink, and flowers. They thought we were joking. But we weren't, were we, Jack? No. You invite all our neighbors. Word gets out. Most of the village turns up. You make me wear my cowboy boots, the ones I was wearing when we met. You pick mistletoe from the ancient oak tree on our farm and place it in with the red roses to complete the bridal bouquet. The Justice of the Peace can't believe it, but still marries us. I swear I have never been happier in all my life. Well, maybe when Zelda was born. Or maybe just every minute of every hour since we met.
That day, the sun shone on us and we were golden as we kissed to seal our vows. I still remember hearing the soft chimes formed by the warm breeze that blew through the garden as you kissed me. You in your tailored Italian suit, that bowler hat, and that ridiculous paisley purple violet tie from a charity shop! My poet prince. And the local paper gets the scoop of its life. Thank you, Jack, for sticking with your promise that our life was going to be as private as you could make it. You kept your word. Yes, you'd done with performing before you met me. I caught you at just the right time, didn't I? Or, as you always said, you caught me and you caught me by surprise with a kiss at a pig farm! It was actually a county fair, but who was I to contradict The Poet and one of your stories?
So many shared moments of laughter and love. Where will I possibly begin, Diary? Maybe, last Christmas? It was the most magical Christmas of my life, the things you did for Zelda, the way you protected her from what was coming.
But who was going to protect you? I did my best, Jack.
I'm glad it was Spider who found you after your first hemorrhage, though. You didn’t want me or Zelda to be the ones to find you. I'm glad we didn't see you like that, although you know I love you more than life itself. Even Spider found it to be a difficult time, after all the wars and espionage of his career. He was in tears over you. Bless him. The things he has done for this family, our family.
I'm glad you never had to go into a hospice. It was hard sitting with you, in and out of comas, moments of lucidity. It was hard watching you go, Jack, so heart breaking. You tried to make it easy for us, but you couldn't help us. And we couldn't help you, not really. I remember toward the end, the sunny afternoon you woke up and had a rare lucid moment. I wish I could get better, you said. Maybe you are going to a better place, I responded. You glanced away, briefly, distantly thinking it over, attempting to grasp the thought. You looked me directly in the eyes and said, I can accept that. You then fell back into a deep sleep, slipping in and out of consciousness.
(She pauses to look over her shoulder. There's no one there. She has been hearing his voice. She returns to her journal. But there it is again, “Liz. Liz.” Or, is it just the crackling logs from the fireplace?)
Jack?
(She stands up and walks towards his chair.)
Jack?
(She shudders and presses a hand to her head as one of the three candles on the mantelpiece bursts into flame. She, Jack, and Zelda had each lit one of the candles on Christmas Day. The other two candles remain unlit.)
Jack!
(A second candle leaps into flame.)
Jack! Talk to me, Jack!
(The third candle begins to burn. She stares in rapt astonishment, her smile captured in the mantle mirror behind the candles. And then Spot pads into the room, as if to see what's going on. He whines and she reaches down to rub his head. His tail knocks over one of Zelda's old toys from a low side table, a Germany musical carousel in a small box. The toy falls to the floor and begins to play the tune of “Happy Birthday.” Tears of happiness roll down her cheeks. She sits in Jack's red-leather wing chair and watches the candles until they burn down, one by one. Nothing will get her away. She feels at peace and as one with Jack again. Zelda comes in and curls up in her lap. Liz has never felt closer to her. Spot finally decides he is hungry and the three of them leave for the kitchen.)
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She can't sleep. Visions of Jack surrounded by poems assail her mind. She paces the ancient Cornish manor house, now hers. Zelda is asleep. All is well. Nothing is well. She goes out into the garden and brushes her hands through the lavender. It's all about Zelda now, not Jack, not her, only Zelda. She looks up. There's a full moon. And another vision. She sinks to her knees on the lawn. Jack's words fill the sky, verse after verse, all he has written. Only to crumble line by line until they are nothing more than a jumble of letters, which then go their separate ways, back into the universe from whence they came. And then it's done and the sky is empty. She goes back into the house and sleeps the deepest sleep of her life.
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It is three days before she goes back into the library. And when she does, she has Jack's advice to “make things right” in mind. His last words to her as he squeezed her hand and whispered, “Liz, make things right. Whatever it is, you now know what to do.” At no point in their life together had he ever asked her why she was so upset when they first met, or why she had fled to London. And she had not felt any need to tell him. Nor had she ever asked him about Indie. Both had drawn the same line under their pasts. “Make things right.”
Liz revisits the bundle of unanswered letters and writes the one letter she had avoided writing for months. “Make things right.” It is time to reply to Pete. Just the thought of him makes her cringe. Had Jack known?
She picks up Jack’s red, letter-writing pen and writes:
Dear Pete,
She balls up the sheet of paper. She starts again.
Dear Pete,
Thank you for the communications with Jack over the last few years. Jack greatly enjoyed receiving your letters and believed you had a talent for writing poems and wished me to convey this to you. He was so ill in the last few months of his life.
As you certainly know by now, the world lost Jack to that dreaded, evil disease, cancer. We all grieve as one for the loss of The Poet. The world only sees a few artists in each generation that are the caliber of Jack O. Savage.
However, no one will miss him or ever love him more than his
daughter Zelda and I.
Pete, you will recognize my name and know me as Jack’s life partner and wife, Liz. But, I am someone you know. You will remember me by the name Elizabeth Snow, Liz Snow from Atlanta.
There is something else you need to know...
She grows emotional, attempting to find just the right words to communicate what she feels to Pete Hendrix. Before she can go on, Zelda enters the library, tiptoes up behind her mother's back, and tugs gently on her shirtsleeve. Liz jumps.
“Mummy, let’s go for a walk. Just you and me around the farm.”
“Sure, sugar. Let's do just that.”
Liz carefully places Jack's pen back in its compartment in the desk bureau and closes the antique desk.
“Come here, Zelda.” She hugs her daughter, heart to heart. “I know things have been very hard for you, losing your father. I know you are hurt and upset, but I will do everything I can to make things right for you, baby. All that matters now is our future.”
“May I share a secret with you, Mummy?” whispers Zelda.
“Sure baby. What is it?”
“I'm going to be a writer, like Daddy.”
“Course you are, sugar, just like Daddy. Daddy would be so proud and pleased to hear you say that. Come here!”
She pulls Zelda to her and hugs her tighter than ever, her eyes closed to hold back her fears for the future.
“Daddy always told me I was brilliant.”
“You are, love, very, very brilliant,” says her mother, tears rolling down her cheeks, as somewhere deep within her she instinctively knows that everything will be all right.
“You're going to sing like a bird, little Zelda. And the world will love the songs you sing.”
“I said I'm going to be a writer, Mummy, not a singer. There is a difference, you know. I think I'm beginning to feel a little better about having to go back to school now.”
“My, oh my! You are so your father's daughter!”
“Of course I am, Mummy.”
“Come on, you; we're going walking around our old farm.”
Liz watches with intense pride as Zelda pulls on her coat, sure in the knowledge that Zelda Savage will never suffer the insularity and depression she had suffered until she met Jack.
“Which is your favourite color in the rainbow, Mummy?”
“Violet, because it was your Daddy's favorite color.”
“What was your favourite thing Daddy ever said?”
“‘I love you.’ I always loved to hear him say that.”
“So did I, Mummy.”
“Let’s go, baby girl,” Liz whispers, running her fingers through her daughter's dark, uncombed hair. “Where's Spot? SPOT! Let’s go for a walk!”
Her letter to Pete Hendrix remains unfinished in an unaddressed envelope in one of the desk's many small drawers, just one more sheet of lost words among a poet's inconsequential musings.