Creola's Moonbeam (16 page)

“Quite stunning.” I gently moved my fingers over the intricate features.

Beatrice selected a bowl from a grouping near a window. “This bowl was made by a gifted Native American potter from Santa Fe. One can almost sense her euphoria in the creation of such a marvelous piece. I’d think you might share a similar feeling as you fruitfully script a novel?”

I made no reply. She smiled wickedly.

An hour later, Beatrice and I were still touring the living room. Each painting, each sculpture told a story, a story of the artist and a story of Beatrice’s acquisition of the piece. I found myself to be as intrigued with the stories as I was awed by the beauty of the art. Beatrice’s face took on the most soulful expressions as she shared tales about her exceptional collection. The woman was a storyteller. Several times, she wept as she looked upon her possessions.

To my surprise, I wept along with her.

My spirit was coming to life in the art-filled cottage. I’d always flourished on emotional expression. Being in Beatrice’s home was like drinking from a cool mountain spring. Even as a young child, I would weep at the splendor of a finely done painting or from the sounds of beautifully performed music. I was once labeled “cry baby” by an insensitive classmate when I shed tears upon hearing the words of a stage actor’s perfect rendering of a line. I paid no attention to the silly boy. I was too engrossed in the play to be bothered. Nothing lifts me higher than the triumph of another’s soul reaching her artistic best.

It was as if Beatrice’s art collection were passing that power on to me. Beatrice was the conductor of a great, artistic, symphony orchestra, while I was seated as first violin.

Beatrice studied me gently. “I gather you are enjoying the tour?”

“I have no words to adequately express what I’m feeling.” I wiped a tear from my cheek. I closed my eyes, exhaled, and cleared my throat. “Some of this work, Beatrice, is
yours
, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps. A couple of my pen and ink drawings are stuck around here somewhere. There’s nothing spectacular to show you, however. Here, do take a look at this painting. Can you not taste the tartness of the crisp green apple?”

“A Granny Smith, no doubt!”

“Possibly.”

“Please confess, Beatrice. Tell me which works are yours.”

Beatrice would take no credit for anything. She only emphasized that the sculptures, the paintings, and the weavings were exceptional acquisitions from her ‘Dear Ones.’

“Jennings?” I pried.

“My son’s talent lies more in his prose and poetry. Sadly, one of the difficulties that holds back the boy is his humble reluctance to share his remarkable gifts with others.”

Like me, you mean
. I thought it but didn’t say so.

For a few minutes more, Beatrice showed off one piece then another. Often, the artist’s name was kept secret by her determined placement of a thumb or her reluctance to turn over the sculpture. The work itself became the focus of our conversation; its beauty, its line, and its form captivated her concentration. Yet Beatrice would passionately talk about the sometime nameless artist’s life, about his struggle, and, most emphatically about his triumph.

“Writing must bring its own challenges?” she asked.

“They call it ‘work’ for very good reasons,” I replied.

“Please assure me that the agony of your exercise is eradicated by an appreciative readership?”

“Most certainly. For me, one generous compliment can cushion hours of editing angst! Beatrice, are you being honest when you insist that you are not a writer? You are too well aware of creative trials to be a novice.”

“As I mentioned before, I’m a merely student of human nature, that’s all. Oh, perhaps I may have written a poem here and there, but nothing to match your charming novels.”

I smiled. “I don’t believe a word you say.”

I paused to admire a pen-and-ink sketch of an unusually handsome older man. On the bottom right, I was certain I saw the name “Beatrice.” On a second sketch I saw the letter “B,” and on several others, “Bea.” Again and again, a version of my friend’s name appeared. As if it were an unspoken rule, I intuitively knew not to push Beatrice for an explanation.

I clearly understood that I should take the woman just as she was with no questions asked and without coercing her to share her secrets. I’d simply appreciate Beatrice for the person she was willing to be. Anything that she wanted to reveal, I would cherish.

The mood was suddenly broken when Beatrice made a pronouncement. “This has been a lovely visit, but I realize you have other things to accomplish, as also is the case with me.”

I glanced at a clock. “Oh my goodness, I’ve stayed far longer than I intended! Thank you, Beatrice, thank you very much. I cannot tell you what this day has meant.”

“My joy, dear.”

We walked toward the door.

“Oh, one last thing, if I may. Tell me about Jennings’s visit.”

The enchantment washed from her face, Beatrice sighed. “Dreadful. In fact, he didn’t come at all.” She stood erect, and with a shake of her head, she gathered herself saying, “Jennings knows well that his mother understands. And forgives.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Beatrice threw back her head. “And what, pray tell, do
you
have to be sorry about now? Young lady, have you ever taken a count of all the ‘sorry’s’ you say in a given day?”

“No, ma’am. Maybe I should.”

“Well, it could do you some good. In truth, I relish my son’s absence, for it gives me extra time to anticipate his next appearance.”

“Yes, of c-course,” I stammered. “I should go now.”

Beatrice nodded.

I waved sheepishly, turned, and walked slowly down the beach. I deeply regretted the negative end to an otherwise perfect morning. Not only had I overstayed my welcome, but I’d also brought up a painful subject which destroyed the day’s magical mood. I hurled a broken shell as far as I could. It landed with a splash. “Honey, you should have had enough sense to realize Beatrice would have told you
if
she wanted you to know.”

We all have our sad secrets
, Creola whispered.

The phone was ringing
as I entered the condo.

“Beatrice, here!”

My spirits lifted at the sound of my friend’s upbeat tone. “Hello! I’m so sorry we ... that is, I’m not ‘sorry,’ but —”

“Young woman, just so you understand. I’ll expect a short story from you by week’s end.”

I didn’t bat an eye at her demand. “Consider it done!”

I put the phone down and gaped at thin air.

I could hear Creola chuckling.

I turned on the computer. The logo came up.
Ball and chain
. Beatrice’s challenge weighed heavily. No! Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute, actually Beatrice’s challenge weighed
lightly.
This day,
lightly
was the more fitting adverb for my rejuvenated outlook.

Had the morning provided such an intense aesthetic experience that the fog finally lifted?
Creola, what do you think
? Had I just been depressed all this time
,
as Beau suggested? Who knew? Not me. I could only compare my improved mood to watching the mist on a mountain lake as it gives way to brilliant sunshine.

The screen saver came into focus. A close-up shot of Nestle’s face greeted me. I could almost hear our dog’s tail beating against the study’s floor. For nearly fourteen years that faithful dog had curled up next to me as I wrote.

I had to give credit to Beatrice for her encouragement and for sharing her magnificent art collection with me.
And Creola, I have you to thank, too. As always, your spirit plays a role in all that I do
.

I looked at the screen saver once again.

“Nestle, I
am
getting back to work.”

The first thing I pulled up were a few random notes I’d made a long time back concerning Creola. Her face focused clearly in my mind’s eye. I could almost feel her touch, hear the whisperings of her voice. Creola’s laughter would fill a room as her energy flourished seemingly without limit. Yet there was something in her carriage that spoke of pain and suffering, courage, faith, and strength. Those were the traits I later learned to appreciate.

When I was a child she was the ideal playmate, one with endless stories, a source of games and ideas of things to do, but also a source of strength, who cared for and cherished our whole family. As I grew up and met challenges in own life, Creola became a fountain of wisdom for me.

Music had always played an important role in our family’s life. I could remember many nights when Mary Pearle and I were young and we spent evenings together listening to dance bands on the radio. As they often did, our parents would get up and whirl in one another’s arms around the living room. Naturally, we joined in as the four of us spun about in circles!

“Dear, just take a look at your daughters,” beamed Daddy. “With your good example, these two girls will soon outshine their old man!”

A picture of myself, Mary Pearle, and Creola came before me. Many an afternoon after school, the three of us would roll back the living room rug, turn on the record player with a stack of 45’s, and dance around to the music of every recording artist from Elvis to the stars of Motown. By the time Mary Pearle and I enrolled in dance class, we could have taught every step.

How such a chubby lady as Creola could move around so gracefully, I would never understand! Clapping and lifting her feet, turning and strutting, Creola taught us everything she knew about dancing. All the time, she encouraged us to make Mother and Daddy believe that they were our skilled instructors.

I stretched my arms and leaned back in my chair.
Creola, you had to have been well into your forties in those dancing days
. I could almost hear her chuckling. Now I was so much older than she had been when I judged her to be downright decrepit!

Yes, she was definitely laughing.

What a difference the visit with Beatrice had made. Thinking about my age didn’t depress me nearly as much as it had only one day before. I was beginning to appreciate the wisdom that comes with passage of time.
Thank you, Creola. You’re accomplishing your mission. You, too, Beatrice
.

I cannot count the number of discussions Mary Pearle and I had concerning our nanny. As little children, we only knew that Creola shared every day with us. She simply appeared from the bus stop and, other than telling us funny stories about her parents, never mentioned anything about herself. We were adults before we even saw where she lived.

Our childish theories of her origin ran the gamut from a runaway nun to a former striptease dancer, and from an earthbound angel to an actress who, bored with stardom, escaped from Hollywood to live in Humphrey.

Mary Pearle once suggested that Creola’s surname of Moon was made-up.

“Moon is all about magic spells. It’s obvious to me, little sister!”

I disagreed. I believed that Creola’s last name had a heavenly connotation. “Mary Pearle, you’re wrong about spells. I know that the moon is filled with angels, angels just like Crellie. For some reason, she wanted to leave the moon, so she hitched a ride on a falling star.”

“Sure, and landed right here in Humphrey?”

“Yes, to be here with me.”

“With
us
.”

“Okay, with us.”