murmur—
that poor woman, her head cut off even
. We got back into the rental car and drove to Nadeau in silence. I yearned, all at once, to get back to Chicago, and decided I would forget about meeting Mary Swann’s publisher, Frederic Cruzzi, in Kingston. I would leave as soon as I got my gear together.
As a parting gift, to say thank you, I gave Rose a small bottle of French perfume. (It was unopened, still in its box, a gift from Olaf that I fortunately had brought along in my suitcase.) She held out her hand, then hesitated. Her eyes watered with sentimental tears. It was too much, she said. She couldn’t imagine wearing such extravagant perfume. She’d seen the adverts in
Woman’s Day
. But if I insisted .… I
did
insist. I was firm. I pressed it into her hand. Well, then, she would treasure it, save it for special occasions, for her bridge nights, or her trips to Kingston. She shook her head, promising me that every single time she dabbed a little behind her ears she would think of me and remember my visit.
Effusiveness embarrasses me, especially when it’s sincere. The gift of perfume was little thanks for the help and insight Rose had been able to give me, but it was hard to convince her that this was true. Her mouth worked; the little hair on her chin vibrated in the breeze. We stood beside the rental car, which I had parked in front of her house, and I wondered if we would presently shake hands or embrace. A good woman. A courageous woman.
“Wait a minute,” she said suddenly. “I’ll be right back.” She dashed into the house and returned a minute later with two objects, which she insisted I take with me. Both had belonged to Mary Swann and had been given to Rose, along with two overdue library books, by the real-estate agent for the Swann farm.
The first was a small spiral notebook, the kind sometimes described as a pocket scribbler. I opened it and saw its little ruled pages covered with dated headings and markings in blue ink. “A diary!” I breathed, unable to believe this piece of luck.
“Just jottings,” Rose Hindmarch said. “Odds and ends.I couldn’t make heads or tails of it myself, it was such a mishmash. But
here’s
something you’ll find really interesting.”
She held out a cheap paperback book, a rhyming dictionary. It was titled, if I remember,
Spratt’s New Improved Rhyming Dictionary for Practising Poets
. Rose’s face glowed as she handed it over, suffused with her own sense of generosity. “Here you are. It would only be wasted on me. What does someone like me know about real poetry?”
I think I thanked her. I
hope
I thanked her. We collided stiffly, I remember. A tentative self-protective hug. The top of her head struck hard on the side of my jaw. My shoulder bag banged on her hip. After that I got into the car and drove slowly away. I drove out of town under a cool lace of leaves with the dictionary and notebook beside me on the seat. Soon I was on the open highway heading west.
A lake flashed by with one or two outboards on its calm surface. Then there were fenced pastures, barns, and long sloping groves of birch. I thought of Sylvia Plath, how someone had told me she used a thesaurus when writing her poems. I was surprised I even remembered this. And sorry to be thinking of Sylvia Plath’s thesaurus on such a fine day.
Mary Swann’s rhyming dictionary and notebook rested on the seat. I could reach and touch them as I drove along. My thoughts were riveted on the notebook and what its contents would soon reveal to me, but the dictionary kept drawing my eye, distracting me with its overly bright cover. It began after a few miles to seem ominous and to lend a certain unreality to the notebook beside it.
I stopped at the first roadside litter box and dropped it in. Then I headed straight for the border.
13
Standing up in a lurching subway car, clutching a plastic loop and looking healthy, young, amiable, and strong is Stephen Stanhope, my former lover. His
that poor woman, her head cut off even
. We got back into the rental car and drove to Nadeau in silence. I yearned, all at once, to get back to Chicago, and decided I would forget about meeting Mary Swann’s publisher, Frederic Cruzzi, in Kingston. I would leave as soon as I got my gear together.
As a parting gift, to say thank you, I gave Rose a small bottle of French perfume. (It was unopened, still in its box, a gift from Olaf that I fortunately had brought along in my suitcase.) She held out her hand, then hesitated. Her eyes watered with sentimental tears. It was too much, she said. She couldn’t imagine wearing such extravagant perfume. She’d seen the adverts in
Woman’s Day
. But if I insisted .… I
did
insist. I was firm. I pressed it into her hand. Well, then, she would treasure it, save it for special occasions, for her bridge nights, or her trips to Kingston. She shook her head, promising me that every single time she dabbed a little behind her ears she would think of me and remember my visit.
Effusiveness embarrasses me, especially when it’s sincere. The gift of perfume was little thanks for the help and insight Rose had been able to give me, but it was hard to convince her that this was true. Her mouth worked; the little hair on her chin vibrated in the breeze. We stood beside the rental car, which I had parked in front of her house, and I wondered if we would presently shake hands or embrace. A good woman. A courageous woman.
“Wait a minute,” she said suddenly. “I’ll be right back.” She dashed into the house and returned a minute later with two objects, which she insisted I take with me. Both had belonged to Mary Swann and had been given to Rose, along with two overdue library books, by the real-estate agent for the Swann farm.
The first was a small spiral notebook, the kind sometimes described as a pocket scribbler. I opened it and saw its little ruled pages covered with dated headings and markings in blue ink. “A diary!” I breathed, unable to believe this piece of luck.
“Just jottings,” Rose Hindmarch said. “Odds and ends.I couldn’t make heads or tails of it myself, it was such a mishmash. But
here’s
something you’ll find really interesting.”
She held out a cheap paperback book, a rhyming dictionary. It was titled, if I remember,
Spratt’s New Improved Rhyming Dictionary for Practising Poets
. Rose’s face glowed as she handed it over, suffused with her own sense of generosity. “Here you are. It would only be wasted on me. What does someone like me know about real poetry?”
I think I thanked her. I
hope
I thanked her. We collided stiffly, I remember. A tentative self-protective hug. The top of her head struck hard on the side of my jaw. My shoulder bag banged on her hip. After that I got into the car and drove slowly away. I drove out of town under a cool lace of leaves with the dictionary and notebook beside me on the seat. Soon I was on the open highway heading west.
A lake flashed by with one or two outboards on its calm surface. Then there were fenced pastures, barns, and long sloping groves of birch. I thought of Sylvia Plath, how someone had told me she used a thesaurus when writing her poems. I was surprised I even remembered this. And sorry to be thinking of Sylvia Plath’s thesaurus on such a fine day.
Mary Swann’s rhyming dictionary and notebook rested on the seat. I could reach and touch them as I drove along. My thoughts were riveted on the notebook and what its contents would soon reveal to me, but the dictionary kept drawing my eye, distracting me with its overly bright cover. It began after a few miles to seem ominous and to lend a certain unreality to the notebook beside it.
I stopped at the first roadside litter box and dropped it in. Then I headed straight for the border.
13
Standing up in a lurching subway car, clutching a plastic loop and looking healthy, young, amiable, and strong is Stephen Stanhope, my former lover. His
Similar Books
