by Robbi McCoy
It was always anybody’s guess what they’d say to one another whenever they met. The answer this time, apparently, was practically nothing.
“Well, have a nice summer,” Harper said, moving past her into the building. That was awkward, Harper thought. Thankfully, it didn’t happen very often. Mary never seemed to come to the library anymore, which wasn’t too surprising under the circumstances. Still, she was bound to be on campus now and then. And even when she wasn’t there incarnate like today, it was hard to avoid other reminders such as the Volkswagen-sized Tillotson in the lobby of the Administration Building. Harper stopped in front of the painting, an impressionistic portrait of a woman in blues and golds. It was typical of her work, bold, beautiful and suggestive, but not explicit. Harper sighed, then swung by the mailboxes for one last check. Peering through the glass door of her box, she saw that it was empty.
She headed across campus toward the parking lot, enjoying the warm spring evening. Preston Carlisle, a foreign language professor, was suddenly walking beside her. “Hey, Harper,” he said, “congratulations on another school year.”
“Oh, Preston, hi. You too. Any exciting travel destination for you this summer?”
“Oxford,” Preston enthused. “I can’t wait for a chance to work in the Bodleian Library, in those great halls of classical learning.”
He was sincere. And passionate. Sincerely passionate. Harper was moved by his passion. She could easily imagine him opening the dusty cover of an obscure book with the ecstasy of a young man unveiling for the first time the breasts of a lover. Here was a man lamenting the obsolescence of books. He probably assumed she shared his admiration for this most prestigious of libraries. She was a librarian, after all. Unlike most bibliophiles she knew, though, she valued the wisdom imparted by books, but the medium didn’t really matter to her. A library of the future, she imagined, would be a phenomenally rich electronic database of texts encompassing all of written history, from Sumerian hieroglyphics to the latest Spiderman comic book, where no one would preside over the value or ranking of the information. It would be freely available to everyone via some miniature device held in the hand or implanted in the brain. Libraries, in the sense of a building a person visited, would no longer exist. This process was already well underway. To Harper, these were cheerful concepts.
“How about you?” Preston asked as they stood at the fork in the cobbled path where they would separate.
“House maintenance I’ve been putting off,” she told him. “Visiting the folks in Cape Cod, as usual. And there’s a video series that I’ve been working on for several years. I’m hoping to spend some time on that.”
“You know,” he said, “I saw your video of Mary Tillotson. Someone told me about it and I checked it out of the library. I thought it was excellent.”
Mary again, Harper thought dejectedly. No escaping her around here. Well, she was a campus celebrity. That was the reason Harper had chosen her for the project, after all. Harper’s film biography of Mary had earned her not only an “A” in Lerner’s class, but also two cable TV broadcasts. Lerner, she remembered, had been impressed with the way she had captured the “artist’s inner spark.” Harper had been thrilled with the success of that attempt, contributing it in large part to Mary herself—dynamic, voluble and photogenic, not to mention exacting. It was Mary’s insistence on excellence, after all, that had motivated Harper to work so hard on perfecting every detail. The fact that the video had turned out so well had convinced Harper to continue the hobby. It fit perfectly with her lifelong admiration for women in the arts.
“Thank you,” she said to Preston. “That was my first one. It started as a class assignment.”
“Oh, well, then, even more impressive,” Preston said. “It managed to isolate her particular, distinguishing style, which seems to me essentially feminine, like Georgia O’Keeffe’s, not derived from the male tradition at all. And that’s what makes her interesting.”
Harper, hearing his description, thought that he was exactly right and was impressed with his assessment. That wasn’t the sort of summation that Harper could ever make herself.
“Yes,” she said, “you’re right. That is what makes her interesting. I guess that’s what appeals to me about all of these artists, the feminine perspective.”
“That’s an extremely valid criteria, Harper. It’s such a shame, isn’t it, all of the talent lost to history over the centuries because of the suppression or neglect of female artists. So anything we can do to promote that talent, or to rediscover those earlier talents, is important. Like that piece the symphony did last season by Mendelssohn’s sister, a piece of music to rival anything her brother wrote. What was her name?”
“Fanny,” Harper said. “Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel.”
“That’s the sort of thing I mean. If we can find them, let’s flush out these extraordinary women and let them have their day in the sun.”
“Preston, what a feminist you are!”
“My wife and daughters insist on it.”
She laughed. “Good for them!”
“See you in September,” Preston said, turning down his path.
Harper, turning the other way toward her car, recognized the title from an old song. She hummed the tune to herself as she walked through the parking lot. The song’s suggestion of a summer love prompted her to walk just a little faster. The summer had begun and there wasn’t a moment to waste.
Chapter 2
SUMMER, EIGHT YEARS AGO
Harper tucked a bulging folder of sheet music into her backpack and slung it over one shoulder, then locked her office. Summer school was in session, so the campus was only sparsely populated and the library was quiet, occupied by a few well-behaved students and a skeleton staff. As she crossed the main floor on her way out, she noticed Mary Tillotson at one of the computers, squinting at the monitor and looking frustrated. Pleased to see her, Harper detoured to the computer corral for a chat.
Mary, a literature professor and successful artist, was older than Harper, around fifty, she guessed. Her brown hair was just beginning to lighten with the first hint of gray. She was attractive, aging well, with a willowy figure and a thin face that frequently held an expression of delight, as if she found everything going on around her pleasantly interesting. Her light eyes sparkled with intelligence and intensity. Mary was the real thing, a successful artist living an artist’s life. She used to be a teacher at Morrison and did still teach from time to time, not out of financial necessity, Harper assumed, although even artists who had “made it” didn’t always make it that way. Harper regarded her as she did all artists, with awe and a touch of envy.
“Can I help you find something, Mary?” she asked.
Mary turned to her with a startled expression. Her expressive gray eyes focused. “Oh, Harper, thank God! Why did you have to remove the card catalogue? Couldn’t it have peacefully coexisted with the computer database? I’m lost without those cards.”
Harper smiled. “Too difficult to maintain both systems.”
“What a bother! By the way, what are you doing here? You have summers off, don’t you?”
“Yes. I just stopped by to pick up some sheet music.”
“That reminds me,” Mary said, “I heard that you’ve joined the symphony orchestra. Is that right?”
Harper nodded. “I’m very excited about it.”
“Well, congratulations. I didn’t realize you were a musician. What do you play?”
“Cello.”
“Oh, I love the cello!” Mary exclaimed. “I’ll be there, you know. I’ve subscribed to the symphony for ages. It’s one of the few things that I always look forward to. Modern life fragments a person so. For those couple of hours a month, I’m doing nothing but listening to music. So relaxing.”
“Then I guess I’ll see you there this fall.” Harper glanced at the computer screen. “So what are you looking for anyway?”
“Elsa Gidlow’s autobiography,” Mary answered. “I want to
recommend it to a student. So I was checking to see if there’s a copy here in our library. This computer thinks I want to check the entire universe. Why would I care to do that? Why would anyone care to do that? If there’s a copy on Neptune, how is that of any value to me?”
Mary had an air of melodrama about her, a sort of childlike petulance that Harper found entertaining. Although she was scowling, she also seemed amused. One of Mary’s most common expressions, in fact, was a peculiar frown-smile. It was only in her eyes that you could discern which reaction was relevant to the situation. Harper had learned, however, that they both were often appropriate because, even when Mary was unhappy with the situation around her, most of the time she was also highly entertained by her own response to it.
“We do have a copy,” Harper said. “Two, actually. I keep one in my office.”
“Well, then,” Mary said, rising from the little plastic chair, “that’s okay, then. What a coincidence.”
What did it mean, if anything, Harper wondered, that Mary was recommending the autobiography of a pioneering lesbian poet to a student? Mary was a lesbian herself, she was fairly certain, though they had never spoken about their personal lives. There were occasional, malicious stories about Mary and this or that female student. Such stories were inevitable, Harper thought, in the case of a woman who had achieved success without the help of a man. She had no way of knowing if any of the rumors were true.
Mary looked purposefully into Harper’s eyes for a moment. “Is Gidlow of some particular interest to you?” she asked.
“I’m always interested in revolutionary female artists,” Harper said.
“Yes, so I’ve noticed.”
“She was a remarkable poet, don’t you think?”
“Yes, of course. A fearless bushwhacker.” Mary hooted as she recognized her own unintended pun. Harper got the joke a second later and laughed as well.
“My favorite,” Harper said, recalling one of Gidlow’s poems, “is that one about the garden.”
Mary’s eyes sparkled with recognition. “You mean, ‘For the Goddess Too Well Known.’ Yes, that’s one of my favorites too.” Mary eyed Harper with one raised eyebrow.
Harper felt herself flush with embarrassment as she realized that the poem in question was about two women making love.
Shit, she thought, I’m discussing a poem about lesbian sex with a lesbian!
“Now, that,” Mary said, with an exaggerated sigh, “is a poem! If any of my students ever write a poem like that, I will count myself among the immortals.”
“Your student, the one you want the book for, is she a poet?”
“She aspires to be. She has the heart of a poet, a fresh, unsullied poet, all tenderness and deep feeling. She’s taking my summer workshop—My Mother, My Muse. Intense, artistic young women flock to that sort of thing.”
“A poetry class?” Harper asked.
“No. More generalized. It doesn’t matter what medium they use. It can be paint, yarn, ceramic, words. Excrement, if they so choose, which I sincerely hope they do not!” Mary laughed. “The point is to channel the soul of your mother, or your matriarchal lineage anyway, into art, to allow that ancestral creative energy to express itself through you. It’s sort of a gimmick to get the creative juices flowing.”
Harper thought of her own mother, of how she might be an artistic muse. Her imagination fell short. “Ancestral creative energy,” she repeated. “Sounds interesting.”
“Well, it can be, given the right mix of students. Most of them are so-so. But this one, she’s a standout. Very good. Needs a little guidance, of course. But she’s talented. She’s a reader. The best part is, she even knows how to spell and punctuate. Most of them consider those skills irrelevant to poetry. They think free verse means that you’re free to do whatever you damn well please with no regard for pleasing the ear or...oh, well, you know what I mean, Harper, because it’s the same as in music. What’s music without tempo, harmony, meter?”
“Noise,” Harper suggested.
“Exactly! They’re so self-congratulatory, these students. Before I can teach them anything, I have to disabuse them of the notion, drummed into them by their parents, that they’re gifted and interesting.” Mary was worked up, gesturing flamboyantly.
“Look at e. e. cummings, they say. Crazy grammatical structure and not a punctuation mark anywhere and he’s famous. Well, yes, he’s famous! That’s an excellent point. And when you’re famous, I tell them, you’re free to make your own rules.”
Harper laughed. “What’s your student’s name?”
“Chelsea Nichols. She’s full-time here. Do you know her?”
Harper shook her head. The name wasn’t familiar.
“She’s really exceptional, full of potential. And only twenty-one. I love to get hold of these promising young minds with all of that enthusiasm and optimism. They’re just sponges. They can’t get enough.” Mary’s eyes flashed excitedly. “And she isn’t all full of herself either, which is refreshing. She actually thinks I can teach her something. It makes it all worth it when you get a student like that.”
“I’m sure,” Harper agreed.
“You’ll probably see her around,” Mary said brightly. “I suspect she spends a lot of time in the library.”
“Come on back to the office and I’ll get that book for you.”
As Harper led Mary to the staff area, she thought about how an intense young woman of an artistic temperament would thrive under her tutelage. Even if none of the scandalous rumors were true, Mary must inspire a tremendous amount of adoration among her students, including the occasional case of adolescent love. Harper had no difficulty imagining such a thing.
Chapter 3
JUNE 5
The din of the patrons as they moved throughout the music hall created an air of excitement for the musicians backstage. Harper stood in the wings with the others, tense and invigorated as she always was before a performance. The crowd, all in motion in the rows and aisles, was growing and becoming louder. As Harper turned away from the audience, she saw Roxie coming toward her. At five foot ten, she was hard to miss.
“Hi, Harper,” Roxie said, sounding a little breathless, then hugged her with one arm, holding her violin case in the other hand. Roxie, a high school music teacher and Harper’s closest friend, was second violin. They had their usual jokes about second fiddle, but she was unquestionably a first-rate musician. Roxie swept her straight brown hair off her forehead, then pulled at the back of her black slacks with a grimace.
“Full house tonight?” Roxie asked.
“That’s what I heard. Lots of excitement about our guest soloist.”
“People love classical guitar.”
Harper nodded, thinking back to rehearsal and the young woman who had played Rodrigo with a smooth, unforced style and unbelievable confidence. The woman had achieved success at an early age and looked like she thought she deserved it. Which she did. Her talent was immense.
“I ran into Joyce yesterday,” Harper said.“We were wondering if you’d be up to the Renaissance Faire this year.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Good. It’s no fun without you.”
Roxie had missed one year when one of her sons was sick, and the experience just wasn’t the same. Harper had been prepared to cancel this year, thinking Roxie might not feel up to this kind of frivolity yet. Her husband Dave had died of a heart attack in March, quite unexpectedly, and she and her children, David and Kevin, were understandably struggling. Harper had taken the boys to the Monterey Aquarium in early May. It had been okay. They had forgotten for a while, watching jellyfish float, that they were fatherless.
“Let’s get together weekend after next, then,” Harper suggested. “Choose our songs.”
“Okay. I can probably manage that. I’ll check my schedule and give you a call.” Roxie smiled reassuringly.
Dave had been Harper’s age, far too young to die. It had been a shock to everyon
e, including Harper, who was forced to think about the fact that she too could die before she ever hit forty and that whatever she was going to accomplish in her life might be nearly finished. She didn’t feel that she had accomplished much so far and nothing of lasting value. She knew that most people’s lives were like that. Not everyone could be Mother Teresa or Emily Dickinson. She didn’t aspire to those heights, but she would like to do something that she could be proud of before she died.
Chelsea had said something very like that last summer when she explained her decision to become a teacher. What she had done so far felt self-indulgent, she said. Living for yourself, just for yourself, could only sustain you for so long. Harper had done her share of volunteer work for charitable causes, but these were fillers, often summer fillers, and weren’t what her life was essentially about. This was partly why she felt restless. She had always felt a little like that, like there was something she needed to do, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. The feeling was stronger now, as if her time were growing short, which, of course, it was. Shorter, anyway, with each passing year.
It had always seemed to Harper that everybody else just knew what to do, as if they saw road signs along the course of their lives—turn left here, go straight at the next intersection. Her friend Peggy, for instance, declared in high school that she was going to be an engineer, and that’s exactly what she did. How did she know that? Harper wondered. How did she know she should be an engineer instead of a biologist, for instance? Did she have some kind of dream or vision of herself in the future with an engineering degree in her hand?
Even if it was chance that had led Harper to become a librarian, she wasn’t unhappy with her career. She was unhappy with the rest of her life, the part where her drive and deeper needs resided. She wanted to be fully absorbed in something, like Sophie with her sculpture or this guitarist who seemed to have known what she would be from the age of four. Harper longed for such a passion to seize and possess her like a demon.