In the living room, Marianne was cross-legged on the floor before an open box. Brandon’s box, Eleanor realized, its lid removed and lying flat on top of the table.
“What is this, Elly?” Marianne held up a folded sheet of yellowed paper. Inside the box, several more like it were plastered against the bottom, with spiral-bound notebooks and a leather journal piled atop them.
“Those are some of Brandon’s things,” said Eleanor, who was slightly annoyed at Marianne for rummaging through it without asking permission. “He wanted me to look at some of his war work before he decides what to do with all this stuff in storage.” She refrained from mentioning Brandon’s book.
“He sent me a baby present,” said Marianne. “The Colonel. A set of rubber ducks for a baby bathtub.”
“Did he?” said Eleanor, feeling surprised.
“It came the same day as Maggie’s. You know, she made a nightlight for the baby out of refuse stained glass. She did the lead soldering herself.” Marianne unfolded one of the yellow sheets of paper, studying it with a little frown that gradually melted to perplexity.
“I don’t think this is war correspondence, Elly,” she said. Her face restrained some unidentified motion as she read.
“What is it?” Eleanor snatched it away. Glancing over it as Marianne pulled another one from the bottom of the box, one with a circular water stain on the outside of the paper.
“A recollection of her lines ... a symmetry of grace and breath ...” Marianne snorted. “Was he in high school, do you think? Obsessing with some girl in love beads and a peace sign shirt?”
“If there were words. Not words, but feelings in those lines ... what would I say... I would…” The lines rambled on without point, scribbled in a blue pen with a series of numbers – locker combination, foreign phone number – scribbled in the opposite corner. Eleanor looked up from them to see Marianne’s wickedly amused expression.
“Do you suppose his actual poems are like this?” she asked, her lips twitching with laughter.
Eleanor snatched away the sheet of paper from her sister’s fingers and crammed it into the box again. “I doubt it,” she answered. “And you shouldn’t be so cruel, Marianne. Not everyone is a budding genius upon first try.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t good,” protested Marianne. “Only he was so ... sentimental. So very ‘un-Colonel’ in those lines. For the girl with the symmetry,” said Marianne. “I expected something with more of a military swell –”
“Enough, Marianne.” Eleanor reached for the lid to the box, although her lips twitched slightly as well. Brandon the lovelorn schoolboy was not a picture which came to her without a mixture of amusement and sympathy.
"There's more," Marianne crowed, sifting through another handful. "'She is not the unbending stone, the upright pillar, the unyielding post. She is the steadfast and the constant. Say she is the grounding rod ...'"
"Marianne, enough." Eleanor shifted the scattered papers together again. Despite knowing better, she could not help herself from laughing at Marianne's previous caricature.
"'... the rooted tree which bends and rises again...the ground alive beneath the waving grass...'" Marianne's smile was filled with laughter despite her dramatic reading voice. "It's you, Elly."
Eleanor's laughter suddenly died away. "What?" she asked, the traces of her previous mirth still faintly present.
"It's you. The bending tree and constant heart and all that," Marianne answered. "Can't you see it?" The poem in her hand, the lines on its paper seemed nonsense to Eleanor's eyes, even though it was close enough for her to read.
"No. I can't." Eleanor was stuffing the rest of the papers into the box again. Her cheeks felt hot. "I can't possibly imagine that's the case. Me, the subject of anyone's poems..."
"And why not?" Marianne asked. "Why shouldn't you be an object of desire, the subject of someone's poems? Even Brandon–such as he is– could see that. Is it so hard for you to believe?"
"It is," Eleanor answered, calmly. "Somehow I would have thought you'd agree rather than argue against it."
She couldn't laugh about it anymore, although she wished she could. The lines had changed for her, the suggestion of something between them having more power than the actual words written. Not because Marianne's perception was accurate–it was the thought of herself on those pages, embedded in someone's lines in a manner beyond her ability to define.
“Here,” said Marianne. “If you want something in return for laughing at him, then you can have these.” Digging through her bag, she pulled out a fabric-covered volume which Eleanor recognized. Marianne’s poetry journal, from which she pulled a handful of loose-leaf cards and pages slipped inside.
“What are they?” Eleanor asked, glancing at the unfamiliar writing on them – tiny fragments of painted paper and woodblock designs, torn napkins and letterhead, all marked with someone’s lines.
“... the droplets upon your skin ... the blaze of feeling within your eyes...”
“...a thought consumes me, riding the circuit of feeling from nerve to muscle. A pleasure and exquisite pain...”
“...into the depths I see within you. Lose myself within them and never return...”
“They’re Will’s,” said Marianne. “To me.”
Eleanor was quiet. In her hands, she recognized the small fragments of Marianne’s own artwork. The handwriting which resembled Will in some strange manner, with its bold lines and perfect curves.
“If you want to see what truly worthless lines look like, there you are,” she said. “Brandon’s are nothing to them. There’s nothing left in these that’s sincere or true. It’s all gone from them.”
Eleanor looked at Marianne. Crouched there before her, with a look of perfect calm and pain upon her face, her poetry journal tucked into her bag again.
“What are you going to do with them?” Eleanor asked, softly.
“Throw them away,” said Marianne. “I won’t read them anymore. I can’t.”
From Eleanor’s hand, she took the remaining sheet of yellow paper with its scribbles about feelings and lines and folded it in half again. She tucked it in the bottom of the box again with the rest. A gesture gentle, almost respectful, in its movements.
Will’s poems were burned in a wastebasket in Eleanor’s kitchen. Afterwards, they ate pasta and sauce and a loaf of garlic bread which tasted a little freezer burnt to Eleanor’s imagination, but Marianne ate half of its slices without complaint. She laughed during dinner, a sound which Eleanor had missed without realizing it.
Afterwards, seated on her sofa alone, Eleanor pictured those papers going up in flames. The curling ends of paper turning black beneath her match. Will’s words flying apart, flying away in bits of ash and particles beyond the sight of the human eye. Lost in the same manner as his love, she supposed.
How strange to think of it now. All the proof of Will's devotion was destroyed, while a handful of random scribbling tucked in a box still had the possibility of truth in them, a moment of meaning.
Those words in Marianne's possession, the words crafted so carefully in those notes and cards, had been worthless in comparison to Brandon's random scribbling for whoever he had imagined. It would not have seemed possible to her weeks ago, even months ago, that this could be true. She meant this with or without herself as the poem's subject–a possibility that brought a deep and burning blush to her face despite her usual safeguards against such reactions.
On her lap was the leather journal from Brandon’s box. One he apparently kept during his war correspondence years, the two spiral notebooks containing a variety of writings from his years in the military. Essays, patriotic themes, short stories of military and everyday nature, and journal entries which were both ordinary and heart-wrenching in between their lines. Plain lines, much like the rest of Brandon’s writing, she noticed. The eloquence was in the statement as a whole, never in the individual words.
His war correspondence journal was a more polished piece. It carr
ied the strong flavor of his column, a familiarity which stirred an emotion for Eleanor akin to homesickness, for some strange reason. The open page was a description of a badly-burned square in Tibet, where there had been a violent protest only two days before.
“I touched the side of a building and it crumbled away in my hand. A moment before it looked whole, as if covered in black satin paint. But it was nothing more than ashes, somehow still holding together in a solid shape. It was a ghost. A memory the eye could still see but the hand couldn’t touch. I could see through its remains to the opposite side, which was still intact and untouched by the victim’s fire...”
She wondered if he had put that in an article for a newspaper somewhere. Or if he had kept that to himself and only put the bare essentials. A protest, a fire, a government story suspecting rebels or dissenters of stirring up the populace in a border village.
She closed the book and gazed out at the patio instead. Bare earth and brown-grey tendrils were all that remained of the plants in her pots. One chair had been pushed against the rail, carried there by the motion of herself and Edward engaged in an embrace, she remembered.
Marianne was right in saying that she should tell him everything. Their relationship couldn’t remain like this for long. Emotion, passion, personal electricity – it would give way to something more stable, like the clouds dissolving to reveal the solid ground of earth below.
But it was the electricity that she wanted. The feeling of longing when she was seated in the theater, searching for him among the crowd, or imagining him while she was alone with her thoughts somewhere. The exhilaration – when it faded, something would come afterwards, she knew, although it came with a feeling of disappointment instead of relief.
But wasn’t what came afterwards what she knew best?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The changes to “Ask Eleanor” were before her. New formatting requirements, a new author photo, a space for her Twitter account or social media page at the bottom of the column.
It was a mock-up created with one of her old columns and a public relations photo used for the third book, printed with the new font and byline of the revamped Herald awaiting future unveiling for the public.
A fake column, merely a suggestion of future ones, but Eleanor stared at it with disappointment. For what reason, she couldn’t fathom. After all, it was mostly the same as before. The same sort of advice would be given out in almost the same number of lines and paragraphs.
“You won’t be making these changes right away, of course,” said Bitterman. “But we want all the staff writers and columnists to get used to the idea early. By December, we’ll start moving towards the big January unveiling.”
“I see,” said Eleanor.
“You’ll have time to play around with the social media resources in advance,” said Bitterman. “We’ll get a Twitter account for each staff member, let them practice sending out some standard messages – ‘read the sports column 4A,’ ‘what a great headline today!’ until everyone gets used to it.”
He patted her on the shoulder. “Big day for the book tomorrow, right?”
The book? Oh, the book. Her book. “Yes,” she answered. “Of course. Thank you.”
Her book debut was tomorrow. Pre-sale copies were performing nicely, Nelson had informed her – she was already number fifteen on the nonfiction bestseller’s list and number five in self-help/reference. He had scheduled her appearance on Thinking Out Loud and a book signing at Barlett’s again in Vermont, among other things.
He told Eleanor these things himself, now that Lucy was no longer here to answer the phone. Eleanor made the notations in her calendar, which had been turned several pages away from the handwriting of her former assistant. Which she did not glimpse even now without feeling a sense of guilt.
She skimmed over the future version of her column once more, attempting to identify what it was that made her feel lackluster for its debut. Then gave up at the sight of Edward standing in the staff writer’s room, talking to one of the writers, as was visible through her office windows.
She rose from her seat and stepped outside the office doors. He caught sight of her and broke free from his conversation, coming towards her with a smile.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello.”
One of the staff members was staring at them. Jeanine, she realized, whose face was developing a gradual expression of recognition.
“Why are you here?” Eleanor asked. “I hope you didn’t come to see my office.” The joke of this question died away with the memory that he might have seen it, perhaps briefly, when Lucy was still working here.
“No, actually,” he said. “I’m free. And I wondered if you were, too.”
“I am,” she answered.
“For lunch, I mean,” he said. With a teasing grin.
“Lunch,” she said. “Yes, that sounds nice.” They were standing closer now; several more staffers had taken notice of them, she imagined. “Anyplace in particular?”
“I thought we’d start walking and see what we find,” he answered.
“I’ll get my bag,” she said. And went back to her office, retrieving it from the desk without giving a second glance to her column’s imaginary proof.
Edward was still standing in the same spot as before, although now he had been joined by someone else. Brandon, holding a cardboard box which was evidently piled with things from his office. Clearing out, Eleanor realized, to leave the paper for good.
He glanced towards her as she approached. His smile of greeting changed slightly in response to what he saw in Edward’s face. The look of eagerness, of shy affection, so easily sliding into place as Edward watched her.
“You’re leaving, Brandon?” She looked at the contents of his box, which, in addition to his hat, held his desk nameplate and a large, electric pencil sharpener.
“Going home early,” he said. “It’s my last day on staff.”
“That’s right,” said Eleanor, faintly. “I remember. I didn’t realize you were leaving so early.”
“Well, it was nice seeing you again,” Edward said to Brandon. He looked at Eleanor. “I’ll go on down and check my messages, if that’s all right?” He held up his cell phone.
“Yes, that’s fine,” she answered. As he turned away, she glanced at Brandon. He didn’t say anything as he stood there, watching Edward disappear into the elevator.
He looked at her. “Edward,” he said, flatly.
“Yes,” she answered. Attempting to say it lightly.
“He’s not here to see Lucy. Obviously.”
Eleanor did not have an answer prepared for this statement. In Brandon’s voice, she heard something unhappy. Something beneath its stiffness which was not quite identifiable.
“Leaving early, Brandon?” Marguerite asked, in passing.
“I turned in my final column,” he answered. “Not much reason to stay, is there?”
“There’s a farewell party for the retiring writers in the staff break room – cake and punch,” she suggested.
“No thanks.”
There was something in his tone which made Eleanor decide not to linger any longer. She crossed to the elevator and pushed the button, waiting for the doors to open. As she stepped inside, Brandon entered also, balancing his box in his arms.
She pressed the button for the lobby. In the elevator, silence was between them as it begin descending to the main floor. Eleanor glanced at Brandon and saw him staring straight ahead into the hazy reflection of the doors.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s none of my business,” he answered.
She glanced towards the empty side of the elevator. “He’s not seeing her anymore, Brandon. I didn’t ... steal him away.” This part, she mentioned uncomfortably.
“I didn’t accuse you of that.” Brandon’s tone was even.
“Then what’s wrong?” she asked. “Is it Edward? Is that what you disapprove of? Because you obviously disapprove
of something in this relationship.”
“I just never thought of you doing something this ... this senseless,” he answered. There was frustration in his voice, building as he spoke.
“Senseless?” she repeated.
“You know what I mean. Falling for someone who’s barely got a foot out of one relationship –”
“It hasn’t been as sudden as you make it seem,” she answered. “This is not a rebound, Brandon.”
“Did he leave her because of you?” Brandon asked.
“No,” Eleanor answered, indignantly. “Not exactly.” It was true that he hadn’t, although it was possible that without her presence, Edward might have continued trudging along in Lucy’s shadow. Easily persuaded, as he put it. Steered by a stronger will than his own.
“Then what is it?” Brandon asked. “Honestly, Eleanor, what would you say to someone who was in your place? This isn’t the advice you’d give them, is it?”
“This is not an advice column,” she snapped. “This is my life, Brandon. My personal, private life, in which I am entitled to be happy as I see fit.”
“Exactly.” He looked at her, his gaze meeting hers with something which seemed hurt, embittered beneath the surface. She looked away from his eyes, finding it painful to meet them for long.
They both fell silent for a moment. He resumed staring ahead. “It’s none of my business what you do,” he repeated, stiffly “I’m only disappointed. I thought I knew you better. I thought you deserved better.”
What he meant by that, he didn’t bother to explain. The elevator doors opened to the lobby and Brandon exited, marching through the doors of the lobby without looking back, cramming the hat from the box on his head as he left.
She emerged behind him. Outside, on the sidewalk, she glanced after him, then ahead, where the figure of Edward could be seen across the street. He was waiting for her, his glance following the traffic until he caught sight of her and waved.
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