The Problem with Murmur Lee

by Connie May Fowler

  “How about some tunes?” she yelled, and before I could respond, Marvin Gaye’s silk rope of a voice filled the house: “. . . That this ain’t the way love’s supposed to be.”

  I slipped off the stool and wandered through the dining area and into the living room. Murmur stood at the French doors, gazing at the Atlantic, her bluebird eyes framed in fresh mascara.

  “Marvin Gaye is dead,” I said as I walked over to her and put my arm around her tiny shoulders.

  “I know.” She kissed my cheek. “By the hand of his own daddy. How awful is that?”

  We stood there watching the waves rumble and recede, listening to Marvin sing about sex and love and all its possibilities, and for the next eight years, we pretended she was married to a good man.

  This is what I remember about Murmur’s daughter.

  Blossom Cordelia Charleston Nathanson was seven years old when she was diagnosed with leukemia.

  She had her mother’s bluebird eyes, her father’s outstanding hair, and was clearly her mother’s daughter in terms of goodness and smarts.

  She could count to a hundred when she was three and a half.

  By age four, she was protecting lizards and beached sea life from the hunter-destroyer ways of little boys.

  She loved to dance. She would bounce on chubby toddler legs whenever her mother cranked the stereo. With her face jam-smeared and her tiny hand clutching something—she was always grabbing—she’d squeal and grin and bounce almost in rhythm to the tunes. And later, about the time she hit five, the child could twist and shout better than her mother.

  I had big plans for Blossom. She was, after all, my goddaughter. And the way my life was going—since I had become more interested in racking up academic degrees than finding a husband—she might also have served as my surrogate daughter, one I could heap praise upon, offering the sort of insider advice that mothers sometimes can’t because they have no objectivity, and experiencing the wholly unreasonable pride that springs from watching a beloved child come into her own.

  This is what I remember about Blossom’s mother.

  Her love was not stagnant. It was active, purple, fierce. Illness didn’t change that. In fact, as Blossom grew sicker, Murmur’s mother love boiled with a rage that transcended what most people would call good sense. She became mythic, an earth mother who refused to back down from her insistence that the universe straighten up and heal her daughter.

  For six months, she did not sleep. With grace and power and haunted eyes, she demanded answers from doctors who were crazy enough to not return her phone calls when it looked like their tools weren’t capable of stopping the onslaught of Blossom’s disease. Murmur screamed at the moon, cursed the sky, begged the wind, wept bitter tears, which fell into the sand and oblivion, and then she cleaned herself up and was at Blossom’s bedside with teas and lotions and toys before the child had any notion of waking.

  I was in the hospital room and witnessed this:

  Blossom—bald and skeletal and surrounded by flowers and stuffed animals and finger paintings her classmates had drawn for her—reached for her mother’s face and asked like a straight shooter who knows no pity, “Mommy, am I going to die?”

  Murmur’s face softened into that transcendent place, the one where the ego isn’t allowed, where our own sadness and fear have been sacrificed to serve the higher need of someone in trouble. “No, baby, you’re not going to die. You’re going to live forever in so many ways. We have a lot to do, you and I.”

  And then the two of them broke into spontaneous laughter. The dying child and the shattered warrior-goddess mother, laughing in anticipation of a future they would never have.

  Yes, that’s what Murmur gave her daughter in the final days of her life: faith that there would be a future. All dying children should leave this earth believing, as Blossom did, that tomorrow is going to happen.

  I don’t know, maybe Murmur was a saint after all. Her granite-hard belief in nature’s capacity—but more importantly, willingness—to heal experienced stress fractures but never cracked. She got mad, desperate even, but her faith remained solid; she never stopped believing that the universe would not forsake her. Right up to the end, there in the house on St. Augustine Beach, while Blossom slipped into a coma she would never wake from, Murmur was offering prayers to whatever god might listen. She was frantic. She was broken. But she kept believing. Yes, she was a saint.

  This is the awful truth: No matter the prayer or mode of delivery, no one was listening. Or if they were, they didn’t care. Evidence? The child died. Nothing Murmur or the doctors did worked. Not the lotions Murmur concocted from herbs sown by her own hand. Not the scraps of raw silk she dyed in soft tones from wildflowers sown by her own hand and then placed in Blossom’s palms, on her eyelids, in the painful crooks and crevices of her body. Not the soups brewed so lovingly and made with ingredients sown by her own hand. Not the prayers she made up, nor the old ones, the Catholic ones that she’d long ago abandoned. The universe would not listen to her on the subject of Blossom. Like one of those little hunter-destroyer boys who squash frogs, rip the tails off lizards, and stomp ghost crabs under a milky white moon, it was as if the universe saw Blossom’s beauty and potential and couldn’t bear it. So it snuffed her out. No amount of chemo or tinctures of organically grown herbs were going to change the jealous mind of the universal soul.

  But Murmur, Murmur, my dear friend Murmur, simply looked out at all creation and tried to will a miracle.

  This is what I remember about Blossom’s father.

  Erik Nathanson left the house two days after his daughter was diagnosed with leukemia. Openly, unapologetically, he shacked up with his girlfriend of three months. He never visited Blossom in the hospital. He never visited her at home. He didn’t phone her. He did not attend her memorial service. He did not hold Murmur’s hand and take on even one ounce of her grief, nor did he share his. He simply went away.

  Six months after Blossom’s death, he filed for divorce, citing abandonment. Erik Nathanson might never have read a book in his life, he probably didn’t know how to pronounce faux pas or understand the true meaning of son of a bitch when it was uttered by a woman, but he did know how the good ol’ boy legal system in St. John’s County operated. He was one of theirs. He drank and dined and played golf with them. He shared whores and stock tips with them. He watched their backs and they watched his. He could keep Murmur in court until the St. John’s River finally flowed the right way. He got the house, the cars, the silver, the furniture, the monogrammed towels, the china and rugs and wastebaskets and lamps and brooms and cleaning rags. And, as if this could get any worse, he walked away—in the eyes of the court and good Judge Cooksey—not owing his wife one dime of support.

  Murmur died believing in ghosts and hauntings. I hope she was right. I hope that she’ll rise from whatever netherworld she’s at and exact her pound of flesh from Erik Nathanson. She surely never got it in life. For God’s sake, if the universe cares one iota about balance and harmony, she’ll be given a chance to haunt the holy everlasting life out of him.

  And don’t you know that Murmur could whip his ass with some medieval hauntings. She could make his pecker shrivel up into a droopy little thing that would resemble a rotten baby tomato. Or she might throw down on him—all over him—the worst case of herpes the world has ever seen. Or she might—and this would be best of all—cast a spell that would force him out of his self-absorption and into an eternal wrestling match with the moral ghosts of his past.

  Murmur Lee Harp Sees Her Daughter

  This is the strangest sensation, to be scattered asunder by a steady wind and yet feel whole—indeed, unified—all the while. It’s just me and the whirling air and the picture show that flickers here and there, sudden and bright. I am loving this: the universe flowing through me like a river, offering glimpses of a beautiful and imperfect life.

  There she is, my baby!

  Blossom’s blond curls tickle her face and she giggles—t
he sound strikes like temple chimes—and I heft her into the cloud-whipped sky. “Wheeeee!” we both say, and I fold her into my arms, lift her tiny tie-dyed T-shirt, and deliver a squeal-rousing raspberry to her belly. This is why I got married, I think as I set my baby on the sand: to experience mama joy. Blossom had to be born. She was always there, waiting for the right time, scanning my world so she’d know when to leap. I run my fingers over her head and wonder if all mothers feel this way, that destiny tapped their shoulders and whispered, Hey, here’s the one you’ve been waiting for.

  Blossom reaches up and takes my hand. I gaze at her, and an absolute tidal wave of emotions—both gnarly and soft—wells inside me.

  “I love you, pumpkin.” I squeeze her fingers.

  Her face changes—it dances with an infusion of new light. She slips her hand from mine and toddles away, a fast little ghost crab steering through the sand. “Daddy! Daddy!”

  She is about to bust—that’s how in love she is with her father. I reach into my pocket and finger the old worn stone I keep there. Erik kneels like a catcher who’s waiting for a fastball. Blossom tumbles into his arms. I wave at him, laughing, but a strange unease tugs at my backbone. Blossom pats his face, her fingers wide. I rub the stone again.

  Please don’t let anything change, I pray.

  The wind switches direction, and just like that, Blossom and Erik fade to black. In their sudden absence, I feel as if a confession is in order: I didn’t know who I was praying to back then and I don’t know now. The wind gathers me in, hard and tight, and spins me like a well-shot marble. I am being pressed tighter and tighter, smaller and smaller.

  I am a spirit ball now, rolling through this vast blackness.

  A Letter Murmur Lee Harp Wrote to Blossom Cordelia Charleston Nathanson Harp and Tucked in the Pocket of the Dress the Child Was Cremated In

  My Dearest Bloom,

  Oh, Blossom, how I love you!

  No matter what happens or where death takes you, baby, you must never forget the many gifts you gave me. And I will not forget, either. I will remember each one every second of every day. They will be my catechism, guiding me through a life without you: the sweat that beads along your hairline and trickles down your neck in summer’s deep heat, the delight on your face when someone you love walks into the room, the way you pronounce dalmation (A Hundred and One Damnations!), the purity of your love for your daddy (he does love you, baby—he’s just going through a spell), your eyes moving under closed lids as you dream, the kindness you’ve always offered the universe—no wonder dogs and spiders alike are attracted to you—how your feet tap the earth with such wild joy when you dance, your endless stream of questions, the way your arm hairs gleam translucentlike in the sun, the very pretty shape of your nails, the way you sigh when you mull over a math problem, the ferociousness of your tears, the rebellion etching your voice when you sass me, the way you gaze into space, lost in thought, when you think no one is looking, your odd fear of lightning bugs and your obsession with mockingbirds, the excitement in your voice when you talk to me about this or that at school, the fact that you still seem to like lying on the beach with me at night and naming the stars, the many different things you want to be when you grow up (that’s a sign that you see the universe as a giant YES), your disdain for pancakes but your love of syrup, your old soul demeanor with Dr. Simon—your sweet and steady countenance demands respect and challenges him not to give up on you—your wholehearted generosity in putting up with my lotions and potions and talismans, all of you. Really, Bloom, absolutely all of you. There will be no forgetting on my end of things. You might think I’m weird, but even your sour breath in the morning is a scent I treasure.

  This is what I want you to remember above all else: You are my heart, Blossom—the reason I breathe.

  I don’t want you to be afraid, baby. This is new territory, don’t you know! But never doubt this: You will always be surrounded by love. I’m not far away. Ever. I wish this was different. I want to hang on to you all my days. I will never understand why the universe is taking you. It must be because you are so beautiful. And as much as that tears me up, we must believe that this is a good thing. Because only good things happen to you. Remember that, Blossom. You are charmed. In this life and the next.

  When you do go over, I pray that you will haunt me, that in the early-morning light, and eveningsong dusk, and the starry darkness, I will from time to time feel you near. And despite my deep-in-the-gut longing for you, I will glean joy from this idea: You are everywhere, Bloom. I will experience you in this world no matter what. In the sun I will see your smile. The moon? Your sweet blue eyes. And your laughter, that will unfurl for all time in the surf song.

  Go with God, baby. And do so with the happiest of hearts.

  I love you I love you I love you,

  Mommy

  Lucinda Smith

  The fucking problem is, I hate fucking seagulls. They’re fucking flying rats. They fucking eat rubbish. But it’s the only fucking series of fucking paintings I can sell to the fucking tourists. Assholes.

  Even Murmur, who acted like she loved everybody and everything, took potshots at the big fat ones who shit all over the rocks in front of her house.

  Just for the record, I am totally pissed at Queen Murmur. I mean, there is nothing more selfish than suicide. The sweet talkers around here are full of shit. I don’t believe for one minute she went out on that river drunk and fell overboard. That woman never made a sloshed false step. Loaded, she could walk a high wire in a full gale and never fall.

  I know exactly what happened. I’d bet my golden ovaries on it. Women in love: They’re real suckers.

  The first hint of Murmur in love occurred July 28, 2001, during the weekly yoga class I taught at her house. Me, Murmur, crazy twat-confused Edith, and Dr. Z. What a crew.

  I was standing by the sink—Murmur’s house was mainly one large room—lighting my fourth cigarette of the day, and Z walked in wearing pink tights and a Miami Hurricanes jersey.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said, blowing smoke at him. “You look like a fucking fag on acid.”

  “What?” he asked, feigning ignorance and tossing me a bottle of orange juice. “Here, drink this. It’ll help stave off that cancer you’re working on.”

  I popped the lid. Z bopped about the room, picking up one knickknack after another: shells, framed snapshots, cobalt vases (Murmur favored cobalt; she said it possessed special powers), all the while carrying on a stream of conscious dialogue, which I refused to follow. Just as he tucked a remarkably lifelike rubber coral snake beneath one of Murmur’s throw pillows on her bed, she walked out of the bathroom, dressed all in purple, her brunette straw hair piled atop her head.

  “Oh, look, an elf,” Z said as he zipped over and kissed her on the cheek.

  She looked him up and down. “Well, aren’t you something! What are you supposed to be—the Easter bunny? I swear to God, Zach, you crack me up.” She straightened the neck of his jersey with all the gravity of a housewife adjusting her husband’s tie. “I’m so glad you’re in my life.”

  He squeezed her waist and nuzzled her neck. Poor bastard. He was totally hot for her. It was utterly and fucking hopelessly obvious.

  I stamped out my cigarette in the sink. “You people are fucking crazy.”

  “And you’re not?” Murmur laughed. She broke off a tip from an aloe plant that she kept on her kitchen counter, along with a dozen other cobalt planters filled with herbs. “Something is wrong with my stomach,” she said before sucking on the aloe. “You are gorgeous today, Lucinda. I wish my skin was as clear as yours.”

  I turned away. Picked my butt out of the sink. Tossed it in the trash. It embarrassed the shit out of me when she talked that way.

  Murmur walked over to her fridge, which the salt air had turned into a standing rust box. “Where’s Edith?” she asked. Then she opened the door, bent over, peered in. “Anybody want a Co-Cola?”

  Z was nearly drooling as he took in Murmur�
��s ass. “Freak.” I hit him in the chest.

  “Those things will kill you,” Z said.

  I lit another cigarette, inhaled hard and deep. “You think every fucking thing will kill you.”

  “Cokes, cigarettes, and aloe. That’s all,” Z said as he adjusted his balls. “Murmur Lee, I don’t think you ought to be ingesting that stuff. I know you’re the witch and I’m just a doctor but—”

  “Nonsense.” She stuck out her tongue, squeezed the aloe, and a silvery droplet made its mark. “What I want to know is,” said Murmur, closing the fridge door, a Coke bottle in hand—she favored the small bottles, said they tasted better—“what do your Mennonite friends, Lucinda, think about your smoking?”

  “They’re pacifists. They can’t complain about anything.”

  “That is not true!” Z shook his head and his thick black hair bobbled.

  “Look, who’s the fucking pacifist here? You or me?”

  “Quit fussing and help me move the couch against the wall,” Murmur said, her slash-of-blue eyes shining.

  As Z waved her away and manhandled the couch by himself, Edith called from the bottom of the stairs, “C’est moi! Ici!”

  She ascended. That’s what Edith does. She doesn’t walk or climb or enter. The bony old man who thinks he’s a woman ascends stage left, stage right, even from the fucking rafters.

  “Bonjour!” She fluttered into the house, wearing peacock blue silk pajamas and a matching head scarf. Her matching slippers were hand-beaded. “Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour!” She kissed each of us on the cheek.

  I studied my pathetic trio of students and thought, I’m twenty-four fucking years old, and what do I have to show for it? I paint fucking pictures of fucking birds and wander into Mennonite meetings once a fucking week, and live in a shack on a nearly deserted fucking island with only a few fucking lunatics to keep me fucking company. Well, it beats living at home with my fucking psychiatrist parents. Talk about fucking quacks. I started another cigarette with the ember of the one I’d just lit. A nervous habit. I blew the smoke through my nose and then said, “All right, you weirdos, let’s get started.”