with the blank paper of
his Smith-Corona but only the fluid wonders of his mind, his story soared,
characters infused with insight moved through miraculous complications. They
laughed and cried and loved and suffered. But the soaring ceased after a half
page's typing. It wasn't writer's block exactly, more like a fear of flying.
Carol's call came as sweet balm. Seeing her, he truly believed, would replenish
him, set the fictional world in his head going again.
"If I called, would you have stopped in the middle of
a pirouette?" he asked.
"What? And sprain my other ankle?"
She lifted her leg again as if that were the way she
expressed real laughter, stretched it out, and touched his shoulder. He lifted
his hand and touched her ankle. It was his first caress. Let us keep in touch,
he told himself, hoping she might hear.
They talked through the afternoon. Mostly he remembered how
the light had changed on her face, which went from ivory to pink alabaster in
the lowering winter sun. By the time he left, he had surrendered to the
certainty of knowing he loved her, had always loved her, would always love her.
At that point the memory compressed, abiding by the mind's
real time, which was not chronological. She had vowed "no dating" and
they hadn't, but they managed to "see each other." She was, of
course, less a master of her time than he.
Nonetheless, after that first reunion when he sat with her
beside the couch, he felt himself back on track again. His characters
resurrected themselves. His imagination resumed its acrobatic intensity, his
story moved forward, and the stack of neatly typed, completed pages mounted. He
could barely remember the story now, although then it was biblical in
importance, especially the great death scene, the mother's dying. The son was
reading Proust to her.
Carol was on her back for a week, and he took full
advantage of the opportunity. He made himself indispensable, bringing her
meals, cleaning the apartment, offering conversation, and generally keeping her
from boredom.
"You've been great, Ken," she told him. "I
don't know what I would have done without you."
She hadn't told her parents about her injury, explaining
that it would have panicked them.
"Everything's going great guns, Mother," she told
Mrs. Stein, sometimes in his presence. Invariably when she hung up, she felt
guilty.
"It's just a temporary thing. You haven't let them
down," Ken admonished her. "You couldn't help yourself."
"Any letup, whether it's my fault or not, lets them
down."
"Why do you flog yourself over it?"
Slowly, he sensed that their intimacy had grown, not that
it was obvious. He scrupulously eschewed any hint that there was more here than
friendship, certainly not at first. Then, suddenly, he got a reaction.
She had been lying in bed, her foot on the bolster,
watching her image on the mirrored wall. He was sitting on a chair near the
bed. Outside it was raining.
"You still think I'm beautiful, Ken?" she had
asked.
"You remembered."
"Of course I remembered. I'm a performer. You can't
accuse me of having no vanity."
"No," he replied. "I won't accuse you of
that. But I can make quite a case for indifference."
She thought about that for a while.
"I'm afraid you can," she agreed. "It's not
really indifference. It's a matter of focus. I wear blinders."
"Always?"
"I'm not sure."
"Would it be imposing if I asked you take them off
around me?" It seemed as if he had been waiting for this moment since he
had first laid eyes on her. "I want you to see me."
"I see you." She seemed puzzled.
"I mean really see me," he told her, moving
toward the bed. He sat beside her and looked deeply into her eyes. "Like I
see you."
"I do see you."
"Do you see what I feel?"
"Maybe," she said.
He bent closer to her, pressed his lips on hers, held them
there for a long moment, and then increased the pressure. Her lips parted and
he prolonged the kiss. He felt his heart pounding against his chest.
"I adore you," he said. He had
his Smith-Corona but only the fluid wonders of his mind, his story soared,
characters infused with insight moved through miraculous complications. They
laughed and cried and loved and suffered. But the soaring ceased after a half
page's typing. It wasn't writer's block exactly, more like a fear of flying.
Carol's call came as sweet balm. Seeing her, he truly believed, would replenish
him, set the fictional world in his head going again.
"If I called, would you have stopped in the middle of
a pirouette?" he asked.
"What? And sprain my other ankle?"
She lifted her leg again as if that were the way she
expressed real laughter, stretched it out, and touched his shoulder. He lifted
his hand and touched her ankle. It was his first caress. Let us keep in touch,
he told himself, hoping she might hear.
They talked through the afternoon. Mostly he remembered how
the light had changed on her face, which went from ivory to pink alabaster in
the lowering winter sun. By the time he left, he had surrendered to the
certainty of knowing he loved her, had always loved her, would always love her.
At that point the memory compressed, abiding by the mind's
real time, which was not chronological. She had vowed "no dating" and
they hadn't, but they managed to "see each other." She was, of
course, less a master of her time than he.
Nonetheless, after that first reunion when he sat with her
beside the couch, he felt himself back on track again. His characters
resurrected themselves. His imagination resumed its acrobatic intensity, his
story moved forward, and the stack of neatly typed, completed pages mounted. He
could barely remember the story now, although then it was biblical in
importance, especially the great death scene, the mother's dying. The son was
reading Proust to her.
Carol was on her back for a week, and he took full
advantage of the opportunity. He made himself indispensable, bringing her
meals, cleaning the apartment, offering conversation, and generally keeping her
from boredom.
"You've been great, Ken," she told him. "I
don't know what I would have done without you."
She hadn't told her parents about her injury, explaining
that it would have panicked them.
"Everything's going great guns, Mother," she told
Mrs. Stein, sometimes in his presence. Invariably when she hung up, she felt
guilty.
"It's just a temporary thing. You haven't let them
down," Ken admonished her. "You couldn't help yourself."
"Any letup, whether it's my fault or not, lets them
down."
"Why do you flog yourself over it?"
Slowly, he sensed that their intimacy had grown, not that
it was obvious. He scrupulously eschewed any hint that there was more here than
friendship, certainly not at first. Then, suddenly, he got a reaction.
She had been lying in bed, her foot on the bolster,
watching her image on the mirrored wall. He was sitting on a chair near the
bed. Outside it was raining.
"You still think I'm beautiful, Ken?" she had
asked.
"You remembered."
"Of course I remembered. I'm a performer. You can't
accuse me of having no vanity."
"No," he replied. "I won't accuse you of
that. But I can make quite a case for indifference."
She thought about that for a while.
"I'm afraid you can," she agreed. "It's not
really indifference. It's a matter of focus. I wear blinders."
"Always?"
"I'm not sure."
"Would it be imposing if I asked you take them off
around me?" It seemed as if he had been waiting for this moment since he
had first laid eyes on her. "I want you to see me."
"I see you." She seemed puzzled.
"I mean really see me," he told her, moving
toward the bed. He sat beside her and looked deeply into her eyes. "Like I
see you."
"I do see you."
"Do you see what I feel?"
"Maybe," she said.
He bent closer to her, pressed his lips on hers, held them
there for a long moment, and then increased the pressure. Her lips parted and
he prolonged the kiss. He felt his heart pounding against his chest.
"I adore you," he said. He had
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