A cowboy and his team in eastern Wyoming dug up hundreds of fossilized bones, which turned out to belong to a sixty-eight-million-year-old T. rex. The bones, about 20 percent of the whole animal, have been sent to an auction house where they are expected to fetch almost a million bucks. However, there’s a dispute over their ownership. One of the cowboy’s partners is divorcing and his wife claims the bones in the disposition of their assets. Other investors have come forth with their own claim to a piece of the dinosaur pie. As a result, there’s no clear title. Lawyers warn of years of federal litigation and many boxes of documents filed in many different states. So far the court has ordered the bones to be sold at auction and the proceeds distributed among the various parties.
I read the article twice. What is Mary Agnes trying to tell me? That I should put the chamber pot up for auction before litigators are ringing my bell and boxes of legal documents are blocking my doorways and halls? I am starting to get mad. My Flush is no Tyrannosaurus rex. My chamber pot would never bring a million bucks.
And even if it did. What about sentimental value? What about honoring another’s wishes? I swear I will never sell.
I look at Mary Agnes’s note again. Maybe there’s no hidden agenda. Maybe it is truly FYI from somebody who lived on your corridor, who lent you her hair dryer, who told an unwelcome suitor you weren’t in. Thought this might interest you. Thought you’d get a kick out of this. Look how small potatoes your dispute is compared to this. Or I promise that compared to this, yours will be resolved so much more easily. Her attached Xerox bears no more significance than a clipped-out recipe or the engagement notice of someone you went to high school with. After all, Mary Agnes is not just my lawyer but also my friend.
I tuck the page into Antiques magazine. I gather up the rest of the mail. I lug it up my three flights. When I go into the living room, I see the light flickering on my answering machine. With a sudden any-news-is-bad-news instinct, I first pour myself a Diet Coke. I knock ice cubes out of the ice cube tray and into my glass. I go to refill the tray. I stop. I leave the tray in the sink. Perhaps because I’m sure that Lavinia, unlike me, would swish water back into those little compartments the second she emptied it.
I press Play.
“Hi, Abby, it’s me,” Clyde announces with typical arrogance. Never mind that I might have ten male callers leaving messages on my phone. Which, alas, I don’t. But of course I’d know Clyde’s voice anywhere; who could mistake those flattened midwestern syllables, that twang so close to a whine. His voice is staticky. I hear the whiz of traffic. He must be calling from the car he didn’t have or the cell phone he couldn’t afford back when we mixed our kitchen spatulas and our old depression glass.
“I need to see you,” he says. “I’m in my car. Heading for the Square. Hope we can meet. Call me back on my cell.” He rattles off some numbers. In the background, the radio spatters. A woman’s voice starts to sing.
My hand hovers over the phone. Should I or shouldn’t I? I dial.
I shouldn’t have because the first thing he says is, “Hey, I heard about the chamber pot.” I think of T. rex’s disputed bones. I know that Clyde has no bone to pick with me, no leg to stand on in relation to the possession of my chamber pot. Unlike the bed warmer, our quilt, a few kitchen tools, there’s no title here he could claim a portion of. Still, I clutch the receiver. My adrenaline is pumping both fright and flight. What is wrong with me?
“You looked real good. I liked what they did to your hair. You acted pretty surprised.”
“Because I was.”
“I’m happy for you. I really am. What with your mom’s death and all. On top of that, the dissolution of our business. And, then, me leaving…” He pauses. I listen to a drawn-out cranking of gears, the sudden toot of a horn. “The Pike is your next left,” I hear him yell.
“What do you want, Clyde? I’m busy. Very,” I stress.
“As I was saying. I’m glad for you. You deserve a break. I’ve got some things to tell you. Can we meet for coffee in the Square?”
“I figured you’d be at Brimfield. Like everyone else.”
“It was my week to babysit the kids. Why weren’t you there? Spending all that money from your chamber pot?”
I don’t answer. What does he need to know of my internecine wars?
Obviously nothing, since he doesn’t pursue it. “So where can we meet?” he presses on.
“What’s the point?”
“I’ll explain when I see you.” Who’s sorry now rises to a screech on the radio. I can just about make out You had your way. Now you must pay. “Look, don’t worry. This has nothing to do with antiques. Or with money. I have no agenda here.”
I get to the Pamplona early. It’s warm enough that tables are set up in the little courtyard. I order gazpacho and a coffee ice cream parfait from one of the young, slim, white-shirted, black-trousered waiters who seem to have stayed the same since I was a kid coming here with my parents for flan and almond syrup poured over ice. That’s the trouble with living in a college town. Every four years there’s a fountain-of-new-youth turnover while you do nothing but unfashionably age.
A man at the next table is reading the Harvard Law Review. Two women under the tree toward the back talk animatedly in a Slavic-sounding language, Czech maybe, or Hungarian. Typical Cambridge scene.
Which is destroyed when Clyde pulls up in his sleek, atypical Cambridge BMW, no residential parking permit marring its atypically bumper-stickerless, atypically sparkling rearwindow glass. He parks right in front, wheels teetering on the curb, in the NO PARKING loading zone. He’s not dressed in his usual Cambridge-cum-Midwest jeans and tattered denim shirt either. Country-club-like, he sports North Shore pressed khakis and a blue blazer, anchors shining on its brass buttons. At least he’s not wearing pink pants printed with spouting whales.
“Abby!” he exclaims. His prematurely tanned face is suffused with glee. His hair sparkles with mousse. He leans in toward my cheek.
I smell too much cologne. I turn my head away.
He backs off. He holds up his hands in an I-surrender pose. “You’re right. You’re right. No way should I have approached your personal space without your explicit permission.” He points to the chair opposite. “May I?” he asks.
Do I have a choice? I nod.
“Great to see you,” he says. “It’s been a while.” The waiter slinks by. A small Spanish flag sticks out of his lapel. “Let’s see. I’ll have a cappuccino, s’il vous plaît.” He points to my bowl. “And a cup of that tomato soup.”
What did I ever see in him? I wonder. How could an antique bed warmer and the prospect of a warm body in bed—his body—have so blinded me? “Why did you want to meet me?” I ask.
He reaches into his breast pocket. He pulls out a folded paper. His wedding ring, a thick gold band embossed with entwined hearts and a Celtic cross, catches the light. Some sort of rope bracelet clasped with an ankh circles one wrist. “I’m on a journey,” he says.
“To where?”
“Not that kind,” he says. He makes the embarrassing eye contact of a crazy man ordered by invisible voices to stare at you. “Mine’s a journey of self-evaluation. Of self-discovery. Of self-knowledge. Of meditation. Of contemplation. Of spirituality. Of redemption.” He lowers his voice. “Of making amends.”
“Oh, yeah?” I say. His eyes look so tired from gluing themselves onto mine that I add, more gently, “That’s quite a list.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” He unfolds his sheet of paper. He sets it on the table. He smooths it out. Some of the gazpacho drips onto it. “I’ve written down all the ways I’ve wronged you.”
“Believe me, I know them. I don’t need to hear them.”
“But I need to recite them. It’s part of the plan.”
“What plan?”
He lifts his spoon across to my coffee ice cream parfait. “Do you mind?” He excavates the whole scoop. A melting mustache smears across his upper lip. “According to my
spiritual director, I must get back in touch with those I have wronged and make amends before I reach the next level.”
“Of beatification? Are you planning to become a saint?”
“It’s not funny, Abby. I knew you wouldn’t appreciate it.” He stops himself. “Not that you haven’t a God-given right to your personal opinion.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Lately. Ever since the twins, I’ve been doing a lot of meditation. Been going on a lot of meditation retreats.”
“Having twins must make you want to get away.”
“Not how you mean it. You don’t have to be so sarcastic. Not that—”
“Not that I don’t have a right to be sarcastic,” I fill in.
“In fact, the miracle of Edda and Rune’s birth did just the opposite, propelled me into my personal journey of making amends. Remember, we are all our own people. We arrive at enlightenment as a matter of our own individual choice, at our own time.”
I ignore the sermon. “So I gather you’ve been on the road?” I encourage.
“Not totally. Some of my wrongees, if you will, high school friends, family back home, I had to e-mail my amends. It was just too far, unfortunately. If it hadn’t been for the twins, I would definitely have made the effort, though.” He points to his car illegally hugging the curb. He smiles. “It would be a gas to press that pedal to the metal on the open highway.” His face turns serious. “Naturally, the recommended way to right wrongs is face-to-face. Like us. Like now.”
“I see.”
“You sound skeptical. That’s okay. Many people are at first. But when I’m done, you’ll really see.”
“I’m all ears.”
“In that case, then, why don’t I just get to the business at hand.”
“Good idea.” I order another coffee ice cream parfait. A girl needs her strength to face being amended to.
Clyde clears his throat. “In no particular order…”
“You mean you don’t go from the least to the worst?”
“It’s all relative. What I personally find the most egregious, to the other party may, in the catalogue of sins, be hardly worth mentioning.” He looks at his watch.
“You have another wrongee scheduled after me?”
He nods. “In Cambridge. Near Porter Square. I just may be able to fit her in if I get through this fast…”
I don’t tell him you can’t hurry repentance. I don’t exclaim, Another her in the city of my birth? Instead, I say, “Shoot.”
Clyde looks me in the eye. He studies his list. He looks me in the eye again. His head is bobbing up and down like one of those spring-necked figures on the dashboards of pothole-seeking taxicabs. “In no particular order,” he repeats. “Here goes:
“I should never have grabbed that bed warmer. You got there first. You had first dibs. I apologize.
“I should never have moved into your apartment without paying my half of the rent. I apologize.
“I should never have complained about your cooking when I wasn’t willing to do it myself. Ditto your cleaning. Ditto your laundry and ironing. Ditto the way you made the bed. I apologize.
“I should never have slept in our bed with somebody else. I apologize.
“I should never have borrowed and not returned and then subsequently sold some of your smaller, not jointly owned antiques. I apologize.
“I should never have fallen asleep those two times—well, maybe more—in the middle of sex. I apologize.
“I should never have been more attracted to your family background, your family’s house than I was to you. I apologize.
“I should never have bad-mouthed your antiques acumen to other members of our profession and in the place of our business. I apologize.
“I should never have hidden away invitations to parties for the two of us and gone myself. I apologize.
“I should never have picked up other women at those parties. I apologize.
“I should never have thrown into the trash letters addressed to you from other men who weren’t your relatives. I apologize.
“I should never have told you something looked good on you when it didn’t. I apologize.
“I should never have complained about your small breasts. I apologize.
“I should never have forgotten to give you certain telephone messages. I apologize.
“I should never have joked about your mother’s lesbian relationship behind your back. I apologize.
“I should never have lied that I read all of Ulysses. I apologize.
“I should never have implied to others that you inherited your mother’s sexual proclivities. I apologize.
“I should never have pretended at restaurants that I left my credit card at home. I apologize—”
I hold up my hand. “Stop!” I start to yell. “I’ve heard quite enough.”
“But there’s more.”
“I get the gist.”
He checks his watch again. “Well, maybe if I leave you the list, you can go over the rest. In fact, you can study the whole thing at your leisure. And realize how humbly and profusely and honestly I need to apologize.”
I take the list. Its gazpacho drips make it look as if someone has bled all over it. Probably me. Except for the stains, it could be an official document, computer-generated. Laser-printed. And bulleted. “I’ll save it for a rainy day. I’ll save it for when I’m really depressed.”
All irony is lost on him. He looks relieved. He jumps up from the table. Behind us a meter maid is slapping a ticket on his windshield. “Thank you. Thank you.” He genuflects. “I feel so much better.”
At least one of us does. I order my third ice cream parfait. Maybe I should have sent in for that Lourdes water after all.
Obviously he’s reached the next level because he thanks me four more times. He pumps my hand. “You can see how much of a changed man I am!” he exclaims.
He smiles at the meter maid, grabs the ticket from behind the windshield wiper, then thanks her. He jumps into his car. Rolls down the window. Turns on the radio. Zooms away.
Who’s sorry now. Whose heart is aching for breaking each vow.
He’s a changed man, all right. But not so changed he hasn’t left me with the bill.
Seven
I’m back in my apartment. I’ve drawn the shades. Unplugged the phone. Although it’s a warm May afternoon, I’m in my bed piled with every coverlet I can find. The minute I got home, I gulped down three aspirin. I brewed a pot of herbal tea. Right now my wrist feels too weak to lift the translucent (early) Haviland cup from my night table to my parched and cracking lips.
If this domestic interior—woman with the vapors in darkened room—reminds you of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I’m not surprised. She took to her bed because of bad lungs, a frail spine, and a domineering father. Okay, my lungs are healthy—knock wood—and my father’s far enough away to give my healthy lungs some breathing room. Plus, as I’ve already told you, I’m building up my once-wobbly backbone with serious reinforcements of just-say-no grit. Still, doesn’t my current prognosis sound glum?
I wouldn’t want you to assume that EBB and I are in competition for the most impressive reason to stay in bed for the rest of our lives. Or that we’re one-upping each other over who’s got the hardest situation to deal with in a situation room full of them. Nevertheless, a frail poetess in a Florentine villa is bound to beat out a flea-market fiend in a third-floor Cambridge walk-up, particularly if you take the historical, more literary view. Just let me point out that EBB benefited from the mitigating circumstances of a great and lasting love. Don’t I deserve a little affirmative action here? Wasn’t what Clyde just did to me no less an affliction than the torment that forced Elizabeth to barricade herself inside her own four walls? Except for our nightwear—hers, I imagine, a gossamer silk gown edged in Alençon lace; mine, a T-shirt advocating out of iraq—we could be twins.
For a long time I was sure she was a fellow Sagittarian. You only have to read her sonnet
s, or see her through Flush’s eyes, or take in a revival of The Barretts of Wimpole Street to recognize those Sagittarian adjectives: Loyal. Generous. Original thinker. Optimistic even though hopes are dashed. When I found out she was born in March, I was hardly fazed. I didn’t need a Carol from Antiques Roadshow to tell me what I already knew—however different our signs, they were fated to be complementary ones. Anyway, just because we’re not twins of the Edda and Rune sort doesn’t mean we’re not twins in suffering.
I roll over onto my stomach. I bury my face in my pillow. My brow burns as feverish as that of any delicate English poetess confined to the shades-drawn mausoleum of a boudoir. I am never going to leave this room. I will call friends to bring round bowls of nourishing bouillon; I will fill in with takeout menus and bicycle deliverers. I will stack newspapers and magazines up to the stained and flaking ceiling until my subscriptions expire.
Outside my darkened window, traffic hums. The skateboards of kids just released from school spin and clank. Women call to each other in Portuguese. A dog—cocker spaniel?—barks. Squirrels scrabble under the eaves. Life goes on. Inman Square, Cambridge, New England, America, the world, the universe, is oblivious to the agony of Abigail Elizabeth Randolph. Clyde? my father once asked. How could you take up with a boy with a name like that? Sounds like a criminal.
Little did he know. I groan. I moan. I touch my forehead. I’m not kidding, I’m really sick. I will concede, however, that three coffee ice cream parfaits might account for a portion of the nausea now keeping me pinned to my mattress and swearing off nourishment. I clutch my stomach. Just in case, I’ve slid a wastebasket underneath my bed the way Elizabeth once kept her chamber pot. At least she couldn’t blame a lover—or ex-lover—for making her ill. Don’t you agree that Clyde’s twelve-step program of righting wrongs face-to-face is far worse than the behind-my-back wrongs he needed to right?
Under my pillow lies Clyde the Criminal’s list. Compulsively I’ve been reading it. Masochistically I’ve been scrolling though the litany of apologies. From top to bottom. From bottom to top. And what stands out, like the one suppurating sore in a pockmarked brow, like the most decayed apple in a crate of rotten Granny Smiths, worse than infidelity, worse than theft, is this:
How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved My Life Page 8