Seven Letters

by J. P. Monninger

  “I want to be the man you need, Kate, I don’t think I can be. Not yet. I have some things I need to examine. Some dark places. It was being with you, and with everything that happened … it put some light on things I’d rather not inspect too closely. But I need to. Things that occurred even before you. I can’t ask you to wait, Kate, but I can ask you to keep your heart open to me. If you want to.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t speak. He smiled and reached down to pet Gottfried.

  “The old sailors say there is a current out to the east of Ireland that is made of ice and gold. And if you sail in it, it won’t release you until you’ve gone so far north that the icebergs surround you, make you lose your bearings. The white bears come out then and point in different directions, and soon you’re lost and become a ghost ship sailing on a current of gold and white. It’s a matter of going too far out. We might have been lost, you and I. But I’ve brought you back to shore safely and I discharge you, Kate. Slán leat.”

  I had difficulty speaking. Part of me could not believe what we were doing. Was it over? Had we ended just like that?

  “Slán leat,” I repeated the Irish farewell.

  He climbed back on the dock to throw off his ropes. Then he jumped aboard. I watched every move he made. I watched for hesitation, for a change of mind, for anything. Could this really be happening? I wondered. Was this what I wanted? Was this the right thing after all?

  The Ferriter moved slowly around the piers, then bent to the incoming sea and headed back to the mainland. I did not cry to see him go. I was too numb for that, too shocked that it could end this simply. I walked to the end of the dock and watched the Ferriter go into the darkening night. I whispered the single line from Browning that I had learned in high school. O heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns. In all the years of knowing it, it was the first time I understood what the poet had tried to say to us.

  Part Three

  SUNFLOWER SEEDS, NOT MILLET

  FOURTH LETTER

  Eileen Silverman

  Provost

  Dartmouth College

  Dear Doctor Moreton:

  Your teaching assignment for the academic year is as follows. You will be teaching a 2-3 load in a combined English/Social Science appointment, with all the attendant responsibilities of a full-time faculty member. Your rank will be Assistant Professor. Please feel free to contact this office if you have questions about your appointment. Consult the faculty handbook for additional information regarding your position and the responsibilities therein.

  All best wishes for continued success in your academic career.

  Cheers,

  Eileen Silverman

  Dartmouth College

  26

  “So you’ve met someone?”

  “I wouldn’t say met someone.”

  “What would you call it, then?”

  “Okay, yes, I met someone.”

  “A man?”

  “Yes, a man.”

  “One doesn’t take such a thing for granted any longer. Genders match up in all sorts of ways.”

  I wondered, absurdly, where Dr. Kaufman had found the scarf that wound around her throat. It was a wonderful color, a mixture of russet red and a silver glimmer that heightened the gray tones of her hair. It was always a wonderful color with Dr. Kaufman. As my mother would have said, she was a woman who dressed to advantage. She was sixty-two. She had a trim figure, a former dancer’s body, with slim antelope ankles and shapely calves. She sat in her large, comfortable swivel chair and I sat in mine. Between us, a lovely French door opened onto a winter landscape. She had hung a cylindrical bird feeder from a garden trellis and the birds came and went, carrying off their black seed prizes or stopping for a moment to dive on the ground and peck at the treasure there. The garden itself was immaculately kept; all the strands of withered day lilies and tired peonies had been either bobbed back to a manageable length, or braided into a French twist. Everything about Dr. Kaufman, including the garden, seemed to reveal an inner tranquility, a sense of order and calm. She was French. She came from the Bordeaux region in France. She had read everything, seen everything, traveled everywhere. She was every woman’s dream “after” picture; if, finished scrambling through years in a whirl of confusion and missteps, the after photo of our own lives would have portrayed us as something like Dr. Kaufman, any woman would have accepted the terms of the contract and signed on. It felt like sinking into a warm bath to be in her company, to be her client, to talk, as I did once every other week, to her wise ear and stare into her pale blue eyes.

  “He’s a visiting professor. His name is Lawrence Barthelmes. Dr. Barthelmes. You might have seen him on television.”

  She inclined her head. I knew that gesture. It meant, no, no she hadn’t seen him on television, she rarely watched television, modern pop references to American television were never going to interest her. The only reason I had risked such a reference was due to the fact that Lawrence Barthelmes was a well-known economist who might have appeared on a show sufficiently weighty to have interested her.

  “Where did you meet him?” she asked.

  “At a faculty tea. A wine-and-cheese affair.”

  She smiled. She glanced at the birds, then returned her eyes to me.

  “We were introduced,” I continued. “Nothing much to it.”

  “And you like him?”

  “Maybe. Yes, I guess. As a person, I suppose. He has a lot of energy. He’s a bit full of himself. He’s kind of a star right now in that world.”

  “In what world?”

  “Economics.”

  She inclined her head again. It meant go on if I liked, otherwise she would watch the birds.

  “He’s divorced. We talked a little about that.”

  “About divorce? Or about your situation?”

  “Both. Both of our situations.”

  “Does he know you are not divorced?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t dwell on it.”

  “I imagine you wouldn’t.”

  She had said many times that divorce was not separation. Divorce was its own category. I saw the calculation in her eyes. She found my open-ended situation with Ozzie unnecessarily messy. She would not come out and condemn my murky status, but she had made me understand that the nebulous quality of my arrangement with Ozzie—or my lack of arrangement—might cause me and others pain. She had wondered several times why I did not file papers and close the books between us. It was a fair question. It had been two years.

  “You had a date?” she continued.

  “We met for a drink. We’ve gone out twice since then. You could say we hit it off.”

  She nodded. That also meant go on.

  “He has a child. A little girl named Sylvie. She stays mostly with her mother. They live in New York City.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “In Brooklyn. His appointment is at Columbia, but he has been a visiting professor here at Dartmouth for the last year and a half. He spent a semester at the University of Texas. Then he came here.”

  She nodded. I knew what the nod meant.

  “You’re wondering where he finds time to be with Sylvie,” I said, proud that I could anticipate her question.

  She kept her eyes on mine.

  “I admit, I wondered, too. But he flies in a lot. We’re going down this weekend, actually. It’s a little early, a little soon to do that kind of trip together, but he has to be there. Wants to be there. He’s been invited to speak on one of the Sunday morning talk shows. You know those, don’t you? No? Well, Sunday mornings a bunch of experts talk about the issues of the day. He’ll be on Meet the Press. I know you don’t follow those things, but it’s a big deal. Not just anyone is asked. We’ll fly back Monday morning. I have to teach that evening.”

  She shifted her position in her chair. I knew that meant one of two things. Either we approached the end of our hour, or she was not entirely comfortable with my assessment of the situation. It might have been both things. It
felt strange to hear myself describe my new relationship with Lawrence aloud. I was aware I was making it sound more permanent, more solid, than it merited. I wondered what that meant or indicated about my psychological landscape. Dr. Kaufman had told me more than once that we had all the answers already; the trick was to listen to ourselves carefully. What was I trying to say about Lawrence?

  “Do you think I’m making a mistake to go to New York with him?”

  “Do you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I hope not. He’s very talented.”

  She nodded.

  “And after Ozzie, well, you know.”

  “What should I know?”

  “It hasn’t been easy for me to … trust new people.”

  “Because?”

  “Because of what happened. How it happened.”

  “Have you heard from him?”

  “No.”

  “Why, then, does Ozzie have anything to do with your decision to go to New York with Lawrence?”

  “He doesn’t. I didn’t say he did.”

  “You brought him into the conversation.”

  “As a reference point.”

  She nodded and raised her eyebrows.

  “Okay, maybe I didn’t need to reference him. Maybe he has nothing whatsoever to do with my decision to go to New York with Lawrence. Is that your point?”

  “I’m not making a point, Kate. You are. And we are out of time, I’m afraid.”

  “So the fact that I brought Ozzie into the conversation when discussing my feelings for a new man is telling?”

  She smiled. We were done. A red cardinal landed on the ground beneath the feeder. Of course she had a red cardinal visit, I thought as I stood. Of course Dr. Kaufman didn’t settle for common sparrows or chickadees. I slowly swung into my coat and took a deep breath.

  * * *

  The Dartmouth campus in early winter looked beautiful. By the time I left Dr. Kaufman’s office and walked the half mile to the Dartmouth Green, the lights around Hanover, the town that supported and surrounded Dartmouth College, had come on to chase away the first darkness. I had an hour and a half before my class, and I had planned to spend it in the library, prepping, but I found myself walking slower and slower. Something felt broken inside me. My internal compass had lost its bearing. When I reached the Dartmouth Green, a wide grass swath that stretched from the Baker Library to the lip of Hanover’s Main Street, I felt light-headed and empty. I tried to remember when I had last eaten, but that was a dodge. It wasn’t food I needed. I stood for a moment beneath a street light. Was this a panic attack? I wondered. I had never experienced one before, but if this wasn’t a panic attack, it certainly was doing an estimable job in approximating it. My breath came in short, desperate pants. I stuck my hand in my pocket, thinking I should call Milly or the police or someone. I even drew my phone out and began to dial Milly’s number when I stopped at the sight of an old dog approaching me. It was a Golden Retriever, an ancient fellow, with a white muzzle, and I squatted and invited him into my arms. He came slowly and softly, tired with his walk, maybe tired of life, but he placed his gray head against my chest and I put my face in his fur and began to weep. I hadn’t known I had such feeling inside me a moment before, but the smell of his fur, the sweetness of his aged body against mine, evoked something in me that I couldn’t control. I touched his warm ears, petted him gently, aware that I was making a small scene. A few people passed by; a young woman in leggings jogged past and seemed ready to pause if I needed help. I held up my hand and nodded to say I was all right. But I wasn’t, and I cried against the old dog’s kind head, unable to stop.

  “Are you okay, lady?” a young boy asked me.

  I looked up. A boy of about ten stood staring at me, a leash in his hand. He was obviously the guardian of this old dog. I nodded that I was okay and wiped my sleeve across my eyes.

  “What’s his name? Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “His name is Clobber.”

  “Clobber? He doesn’t seem like he can clobber much anymore.”

  “He’s fourteen. He’s older than I am.”

  “He’s a sweet dog.”

  “He sleeps in my bed every night. He always has. I have to lift him up onto the bed now, though. Mom sometimes has to help.”

  “I’m sorry I’m crying like this. I’ve just had a funny kind of day.”

  “My mom says that’s why they invented wine.”

  He smiled. He knew it was a joke and that maybe he shouldn’t be ratting out his mom by telling me she drank wine. He was beyond cute.

  “Did you ever have a dog?” he asked.

  “I had one once. His name was Gottfried.”

  “What kind of dog was he?”

  “A Golden like Clobber, I guess. I miss him. I miss him every day.”

  “My mom says the way to prepare yourself for when a dog has to leave is to be as good as you can be to the dog today. Like, you shouldn’t be lazy about taking him out for his afternoon walk because, well, you never know.”

  “Your mom is very smart.”

  “Clobber has a good life.”

  “I bet he does.”

  I bent quickly to Clobber’s ear and whispered that he should say hello to Gottfried. I told him that petting him meant some love went off into the world to Gottfried. Then I kissed the top of his old head and stood.

  “Thanks for giving me a minute with Clobber.”

  “That’s okay. Clobber likes meeting new people.”

  “You’re a good kid, too, you know?”

  He smiled. He bent forward and hooked his leash onto Clobber. A little snow began to fall, and I watched them walk away, boy and dog, the boy matching his steps to the sweet slowness of his friend.

  27

  I heard Milly’s Jeep chugging its way up the steep dirt road that led to my cabin. She was coming over to help me pack, to dress, to talk. I peeked out to make sure it wasn’t Lawrence. He was due at three. It was only one o’clock now, but I had to be certain. Our flight left Manchester at 5:10. It was only an hour and a half down to New York City.

  Milly backed the Jeep around until she had it facing downhill. Her Jeep Wrangler was perennially unreliable and more than once she had used the hill to jump-start it back to life. She banged out of the door a moment later, a huge purse over her shoulder. She wore enormous mukluks on her feet and a long, colorful kaftan over everything. She was on her way home from jazzercise, her latest craze, and I could not quite match the hermit Milly with the spandex Milly. But she was full of contradictions and it did no good to try to fit her into a slot.

  “Getting ready to shack up with Lawrence?” she called as soon as she pushed through the door, her voice making it into a musical line. “Ready to go, girl? Ready to get your freak on?”

  “No one says freak on anymore, Milly. You sound ridiculous.”

  “I said it. I said it just now, so surely someone says freak on, right?”

  She dumped her purse, her car keys, her cell phone onto my kitchen table. Then she went right to the range and put on a teapot. I stood in the doorway leading back to my bedroom. I couldn’t help smiling. When Milly was up and in good spirits, no one was more fun to be around.

  She made a little grinding motion with her hips and bit her bottom lip. She wiggled her eyebrows at me.

  “Gross,” I said.

  “You’re getting laid.”

  She said it in the singsong voice we used as kids when one of us taunted the other.

  “Do not torture me, Milly. I am in no mood. Come and help me decide some things to wear.”

  “Do you have to go to the TV thing with him?”

  “You mean Meet the Press? It’s not a TV thing, Milly.”

  “What do you call it, then?”

  She followed me into my bedroom and flopped down on my bed. Some cold air still clung to her. She kicked off her mukluks and pulled the comforter over her legs. She resembled a young Elizabeth Taylor, a little unkempt, a little prone to letting her garden
go wild, but her eyes captured anyone who came into their line of vision. Every man she had ever dated had bent over backward trying to describe her eyes. They were green and sharp and thrilling. Bartenders bought her drinks and older men asked her to dance at weddings.

  She fluffed the pillows behind her. She punched one to make it just right.

  “I still can’t believe you do Jazzercise,” I said.

  “Got to keep the body moving and beautiful.”

  “But Jazzercise?”

  “Old-school, kitten. I like dancing to corny old tunes, so sue me. Get started now. Give me a little fashion show.”

  I did. I pulled out things, paired them together, put them back. I held up different outfits to my chest, looked in the mirror, looked at Milly, then put them back again. It wasn’t easy. What made it difficult was not knowing precisely what we would be doing. I knew we would go to the studio, wherever that was, and I knew we had plans to take Sylvie to see the tree in Rockefeller Center, but otherwise the itinerary was wide open. Being ready for everything meant you were never quite right for anything. The eternal dilemma.

  The tea kettle went off about halfway through the process. I made us both tea and brought a cup to Milly. She sipped and watched.

  “Did you buy new underwear at least?” she asked when I began folding things and stuffing them in my overnight bag.

  “Maybe.”

  “New man, new underwear. That’s the rule.”

  “I don’t know him very well.”

  “Well, you’re about to.”

  “You have a one-track mind, Milly.”

  “What’s he actually talking about on the show?”

  “Tax policy.”

  “Ugh. That’s dry.”

  “Not when he does it, I guess. He says tax money is the tributary stream of democratic life. It fills the public lake.”

  “Oh, jeez. Where did he get that? Off a bottle cap somewhere?”

  “I guess people like what he has to say. Or how he says it. I looked at a few of his talks on YouTube. He’s pretty engaging.”