Blackberry Winter

by Maryanne Fischler

  The profound truth that was the basis of his question was inescapable. Emily felt as if she had been struck. She went into the great room and stood in the dark by the window. Brian followed her and stood silently beside her, leaning rather heavily on his crutches. Struggling to regain her composure, she finally said, “Brian, I’m really sorry. That was a terrible thing I said. I’m glad you don’t lose sleep worrying about the past. I’m glad that you can put it behind you.” A weak smile crossed her lips. “You’re a much better theologian than I am.”

  Brain returned her smile and spoke his litany, tracing the outline of her face with his hand. “I love Emily. I touch Emily. I like the way it makes me feel. This is happening because of the grace of God.” He pulled her close to him and kissed her as the moonlight shone through the window upon them in silent benediction.

  Chapter 3

  Halfway through the re-organization of the county library’s system, it was discovered that there were major flaws in the computer software that would be needed to implement the proposed changes. Officials within the county government were displeased with the grossly inadequate research that had been done in preparation for the changes. They blamed high level library personnel for failing to have all the necessary information before making the re-organization proposal. The library officials blamed the computer company for producing inferior software. The computer company said that it was the library staff’s fault for providing inaccurate data to the company’s software designers who, therefore, didn’t have an accurate picture of the library’s software needs. The library staff, Emily included, didn’t care whose fault it was, they just wanted to know where to put the copier, which computer system did the powers that be want installed, and how to organize the books (you remember books, they have them in libraries). In her heart of hearts, Emily was convinced that they were going to have to rake all the leaves back down to the original end of the park.

  The general consensus of her co-workers gathered in the employees’ restroom was that the whole thing was a big headache and that it was making everybody in the place crabby. Emily was glad to hear this, for she thought she was the only one who was crabby and had a headache all the time.

  Besides the difficulties at work, she had reached the stage in the moving preparations at her apartment where the smell of cardboard boxes filled the air and traffic through the rooms was slowed to a crawl. It was a constant process of asking herself, “Am I going to need this for the next month?” If the answer was no, she would package the item in a box with other similar items and label according to contents. It was a stretch to say that an eggbeater and a pair of candlesticks were similar, but they fit together nicely in the box with the colander. Of course, she knew that by the time May was over and she got back from Vermont, she would have forgotten what any of the labels meant, and wouldn’t be able to find a thing. It would never occur to her by then to look for a colander in a box with candlesticks in it.

  While all of this was going on, Emily was plagued by an annoying headache which she attributed to stress. She assumed that she was letting the tension of her situation get the best of her, but she was unsure what to do about it, other than to just get through it.

  By the first of May, her frustration level was reaching as yet unseen proportions. For several days, she was bothered by phone calls in the middle of the night. The phone would ring until she picked it up, even if that meant thirty rings, and as soon as she lifted the receiver, the caller would hang up. She suspected her brother was responsible, if only because it was the sort of childish thing that would occur to him. Finally she started leaving the phone unplugged when she went to bed. This worked for two days until Brian tried to call her at bed time and got no answer. He continued trying to reach her until two in the morning, when he was sure that she must have had some sort of accident and went to her apartment. She explained the situation and he was perturbed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this was going on?” he asked in an annoyed voice.

  “Brian, it’s two o’clock in the morning. Do we have to discuss this now?” If he was perturbed, she was more so. They agreed to have a long talk the following evening.

  As the next day went on, Emily found herself getting more and more irritated about the tone Brian had taken with her the night before. “Like it’s my fault some creep knows my telephone number,” she thought. “Like I can’t even manage a few annoying calls on my own.” At the same time, Brian was frustrated at her having kept the anonymous caller a secret from him. It was not a promising atmosphere for a pleasant evening of conversation.

  Over dinner they were unusually quiet. The food tasted flat and unsatisfying in the strained and tense silence. Finally, when they moved into the great room, Brian decided to go ahead and bring up how he felt, quite convinced that when she heard where he was coming from, she would understand completely.

  “I’m a little upset with you for not telling me that you were getting annoying phone calls. I would have liked to have had some input into helping with that situation.” He thought he had put it very diplomatically.

  Her response was more of an eruption than a calculated reply. “What you would really have liked was to take over that situation and tell me what to do. Once in a while, I actually do handle things by myself, you know.”

  “Is it really handling the situation to unplug your phone all night long?” There was a perceptible rise in the decibel level in his voice.

  “Well, what would you have suggested if I had told you what was going on?” she said in a quick, angry burst.

  His voice was now obviously being controlled by sheer force of will as he spoke crisply in reply, “I’d have suggested you get an answering machine to screen your calls so the phone wouldn’t ring all night.”

  Emily was quiet for several minutes and then said in a small voice, “I never thought of that. I’m sorry. I haven’t been very nice about this. There you were at two in the morning, out of your bed and all the way over to my place just to see if I was all right, and I was completely unappreciative.”

  Brian saw the tears start in her eyes. For him, Emily’s tears were the universal solvent, dissolving whatever anger he had been feeling. He could do nothing but be comforting when she cried, and so got up and moved closer to her. “What else is bothering you, sweetheart?”

  “Oh, Brian, I don’t know. Nothing. Everything. My job is making me crazy, and packing is making me crazy, and I have a headache all the time. Being a bride-to-be is a lot better than this in the movies.” Her voice had started strong, but ended up sounding like the lament of a child who had found out that there isn’t any Easter bunny.

  Brian’s concern was evident in the patient way he spoke. “Let’s take that list one at a time. Your job. This is about the tenth time I’ve made the suggestion, and I’m not trying to tell you what to do; I’m asking you as a favor to a tired old man to give your notice. You spend the majority of your waking hours doing something you don’t like, and it’s just not necessary. As for your packing, why don’t you just leave it all and while we’re in Vermont, we can arrange to have the movers pack it all up and put it in storage until we have time to go through it. Now, what do you say? Aren’t these helpful suggestions?”

  Emily was forced to admit that everything he said made a lot of sense. She added, however, “That ‘tired old man’ routine is getting a little overdone. Don’t think you’re always going to get your way in this marriage just because you happen to be older and wiser than me and because you’ve got better sense.”

  “Agreed. Now, tell me about this headache of yours.”

  “It’s just your standard issue, fusspot headache.”

  “Well, that’s a very interesting diagnosis, Dr. Stone. Tell me, what are the symptoms of a fusspot headache?”

  Emily thought about it briefly, and responded, “It feels like the top of my head wants to secede from the union.”

  “How long has this been going on?” he asked more seriously.


  Emily caught the change of his tone, and said, “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, Brian, it’s just a headache. I guess it’s been about a month or so.”

  “So it started around the time you went on the Pill?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Hold on a minute,” he said and left the room. When he returned, he had a blood pressure cuff. “Roll up your sleeve, please.”

  “Oh, are we going to play doctor?” she said grinning as she complied with his request. “I shouldn’t think you’d do too much with blood pressure in pathology, do you?”

  Matching her grin, he answered as he pumped up the cuff, “Not too much, but I think I can remember how it’s done. Now be quiet.” After a pause while he completed the procedure, he said, “Call Dr. McGinnis tomorrow and tell her your blood pressure is elevated and you’re having headaches. She will probably either change your dosage or try some other prescription.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As they sat together Brian was running his finger up and down the course of Emily’s arm. It was not a mindless gesture; in fact, the nature of their physical relationship was such that there were no mindless gestures between them. There was an economy in all of their movements toward one another; each gesture, each touch was intended to convey a meaning, a thought, a feeling. It was impossible to translate any of those gestures into words. He did not stroke her arm because he wanted to say something specific, but rather the gesture was a language in itself, the language that functions where words fail. If Emily had been pressed to interpret the way Brian was touching her arm, she would have said he was concerned about her, and she would have been right.

  “What are you thinking, Emily?”

  “I’m noticing a tendency developing. I’m noticing that every time I have some sort of problem I come running to you. ‘I scraped my knee, Brian, kiss it and make it better.’ ‘I don’t like my job, Brian, make it go away.’ ‘I have a headache, Brian, fix it.’ It doesn’t seem like a very adult way of dealing with difficult situations, does it?”

  Brian considered her comments carefully before replying. “Isn’t that the way love is supposed to work? When you have a problem, isn’t it logical that I would try to help? If I have a problem you can help with, I can turn to you. Right?”

  “Yes, but you never seem to have any problems.”

  “You solved all the problems I had the day you agreed to marry me. I’m sure new things will come up in my life the way they have lately in yours, and then it will be your turn to kiss my scraped knee. Okay?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Only three more weeks and you can put all of the nuisances aside and everything will be fine.”

  It was a statement that Brian would look back on with a shudder.

  The work week that began on May tenth of that year was to be Emily’s last in the realm of the gainfully employed. Technically she would be on the County payroll until the first of June when her vacation time was used up, but she planned to be busy soaking up Vermont sunshine when the new month rolled around. It was difficult to keep her mind on her work throughout those last busy, hectic days. She was beginning to believe that it was really going to happen—the most confirmed of the world’s great old maids was actually going to marry the man of her dreams and live happily ever after. She had new checks printed up with her name-to-be on them, and she would occasionally take out the checkbook and just look at it as if to confirm that the whole thing wasn’t some sort of mirage.

  For Brian, the mundane thing that made the big truth hit him was when he emptied out drawers in the bureau in his bedroom to make room for Emily’s things. It was like a review of his life to go through the catch-all drawer and see the souvenirs and debris of his life to date. Many photographs of himself in various Vermont locales were stuck in paper folders. There was a college yearbook signed by a disproportionately high number of women, none of whom he could remember. The ones with I’s in their names invariably dotted them with little hearts. Brian was left to wonder what happened to those women and if any of them had ever grown up. There was a bundle of letters written to an army officer with an FPO address in his mother’s hand, chronicling the events of his home town in minute detail, as if to give him a vested interest in coming home. There was a flat, rectangular black box which contained a Purple Heart. He had moved it from one home to the next until he settled in North Carolina, always throwing it into his junk drawer, but never quite wanting to get rid of it. And now all of these items had to be stashed away somewhere else to make room for Emily’s things.

  Chapter 4

  The last Wednesday that Emily worked as a librarian dawned unseasonably cool. Despite what the calendar says, in North Carolina May is definitely a summer month. This cool snap was a rare occurrence, and Emily found herself ill prepared for it. As she surveyed the contents of her closet, she realized that she had already packed up all of her cool weather clothes. Humming to herself as she dressed, she ran through her plans for the day, thinking about the tasks that remained before giving up her job. The worst of the work was behind her, and she was at the stage of tying up loose ends. After work, there would be dinner at Paul’s house, which she knew would be enjoyable. Paul was an affable host.

  Parking in her designated spot in the underground parking garage, she noticed that there were already several cars in their allotted spaces. “Usually,” she thought, “I’m the first or second one here.” She made her way through the darkened building to her office, and was astonished to find a party waiting. It was the first time in her life Emily had been the guest of honor at a social function, and she was touched by the kindness of her co-workers.

  Weddings may or may not be, as Brian thought, “women’s things,” but there is no doubt that wedding showers are. White paper honeycomb bells, cakes with tiny frosting umbrellas on them, and little cups of fruity punch are only the accoutrements to the main event of the party, opening presents. Emily made the appropriate noises for each gift. For the practical kitchen things she made impressed exclamations on how useful the item would be. For the lingerie, she entertained the ladies by blushing and making small giggles. After the third or fourth one, she fanned herself a little and commented, “Is it warm in here, or is it just me?” and brought down the house. What amazed Emily when it was all over was how much she had enjoyed it.

  The rest of the work day went by quickly. When five o’clock finally arrived, she packed her gifts neatly into two shopping bags and made her way to the parking garage.

  At about that time, Brian was also finishing up the last of his chores for the day. One of the other pathologists came in and asked for his opinion on an unusual toxicology result he had gotten during a routine autopsy. Brian became engrossed in the slides he was looking at, and finally suggested that the other doctor repeat the test. He wanted to be present for the procedure and so phoned and left a message on Emily’s answering machine that he would meet her at Paul’s because he was running late.

  Paul Lawrence’s house was very modern in its architectural style. There were curved white walls in the living room accented by unusual niches with works of modern sculpture. The color scheme was very stark white against jet black. Emily always said it looked like a psychiatrist’s house because the whole living room was like a huge ink blot.

  Paul was planning a very special evening. He had a bottle of champagne on ice, a roast of prime rib in the oven, and a chafing dish for cherries jubilee set up in the dining room. Since it would probably be his last chance to entertain them as single people, he wanted it to be a memorable time.

  Brian arrived punctually at six thirty. Local custom prevailed in their social engagements—most Southerners eat early. They chatted amiably waiting for Emily. At about seven, Brian decided to call and see if there was some problem, if perhaps she hadn’t checked her answering machine and was waiting for him to come pick her up. There was no answer at her apartment. There was no answer at his house either, and there were no messages from her on h
is answering machine when he checked it from Paul’s phone. The wait resumed for a while, this time punctuated by less conversation. At seven thirty, he said aloud what had been obvious for some time. “I’m worried. She wouldn’t be this late without calling.”

  “Maybe there’s something wrong with her phone. Why don’t we run by her place and see if she’s there?” Paul suggested.

  Brian had a key to Emily’s apartment which she had given him at his insistence in case of emergencies. He let himself in and saw immediately that she wasn’t there and hadn’t been there. Her mail was still on the floor behind the door where it had fallen through the slot. There was no sign of her car. Paul suggested they go by the library and see if anyone there knew if Emily had had car trouble or any other problems. Going directly to the garage, Brian saw Emily’s car still parked in its allotted space. The two front tires were both flat. He made his way into the building as quickly as his limp would permit, and went straight to the front desk.

  “I’m looking for Emily Stone,” he said to the young lady working behind the counter.

  “She left at five o’clock, sir. Her department doesn’t work in the evenings.”

  “Yes, I know, but her car is still in the garage and it has two flat tires, so she probably came back in. Could you page her, please?” Brian’s voice had an element of authority not easy to dismiss.

  The young lady repeated the page several times, but there was no response. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Brian returned to the car in which Paul was waiting, reporting his negative findings. He was baffled about what to do next. Perhaps go by her house directly along the route she would have taken from the library, but she wouldn’t have tried to walk all that way. He was still trying to sort things out when Paul spoke.