Seventh Wonder (20 page)

Before meeting you, it could be said that I was simply meandering through my existence, more or less waiting for the next obstacle to endure. I had thought that I was in love with my wife - but time and circumstance led me to believe I was mistaken about that. I failed at my marriage, and I was left questioning my self worth. It seemed entirely possible that I had very little to offer anyone or anything.

That all changed at the beginning of this summer. In being accepted as a resident artist, I began to feel as if I did have something to offer after all, that I had some intrinsic value to share with the world. This discovery of self-respect is precisely the sort of thing that cannot be taught; it can only be learned. Sometimes painfully. Sometimes, unfortunately, not at all. But however arduous and however lonesome that path may be, it
must
be traveled alone.

In discovering art, I think I also discovered love. True love. Love of self and love of Earth and love of the symbiosis between the two. My focus shifted from exploitation of our planet for profit, to love of its infinite gifts - gifts for now, and if we’re wise, gifts for eternity.

It was at this time that I stumbled (quite literally) upon someone else with a passion for living I could scarcely credit to exist. This was you, Meg. And you should know: I don’t believe in coincidence.

Your beauty is beyond description, made all the more brilliant by your ignorance of it, but this was not all that drew me to you. There was also your
balance
(for I know little else what to call it): your centeredness in the life behind you and in front of you, and on the planet beneath your feet.

I miss you, Meg. Totally, completely, and wholeheartedly. It is a double-edged sword, this anxiety over our separation. On one hand, it impresses me further with the appreciation I have for you, but on the other hand, I am left with an aching sense of loss. Even so, it’s a testament to our bond that, not only do you make me feel like a better man when I am with you, but a more worthy man when I am not.

My intent is to accomplish this task I’ve been set, monumental though it may be. I will see it through for
us
should I survive, and for
you
if I should not. In the end, I have every confidence that what I feel for you will make this hellish journey not only endurable, but actually worthwhile.

Know that I am not asking for any commitment from you in return. Truthfully, I would rather not hear such a promise. You are so young and have so much of your life in front of you. For now, simply rest in the knowledge that you are cared for, admired, and respected by someone whose life you affected deeply.

From Joseph von Eichendorff—

We have passed through sorrow and joy,

walking hand in hand.

Now we need not seek the way:

we have settled in a peaceful land.

The dark comes early to our valley,

and the night mist rises.

Two dreamy larks sally

forth - our souls’ disguises.

We let their soaring flight delight

us, then, overcome by sleep

at close of day, we must alight

before we fly too far, or dive too deep.

The great peace here is wide and still

and rich with glowing sunsets:

If this is death, having had our fill

of getting lost, we find beauty, - No regrets.

Truly,

John

The letter both soothed and unsettled Meg. Certainly there was a tenderness to his words, all of which he seemed to have chosen with care, and this warmth was a salve to her throbbing heart. Yet also there were the sobering allusions to the hell that stood before them, references to the possibility they wouldn’t emerge unscathed.

It was the final paragraph she found most disquieting. In spite of everything, she considered this an onus they bore together, a struggle they stood considerably greater chances of overcoming if they shared the fight against it. It was difficult for her to read, and even more difficult for her to understand, his request that she not bind herself to him - not least because, in truth, it was already too late. It was her sense of connectedness that saved her from the worst of her despair, because their union (of a kind) was an anchor from which she drew her strength. Asking her not to feel of or acknowledge that kinship was a little like asking her to give up her greatest source of fortitude.

* * *

The day was gorgeous, even by southern California standards. The sand was warm, and the indigo hue of the frothing ocean reminded Meg of the Delftware plates on display in her mother’s china cabinet. Meanwhile, seagulls soared aimlessly on invisible drafts of air, and fleecy white clouds drifted sedately overhead.

“Aren’t you going to get in the water with me?” asked Virginia. “It’s nice and warm.”

Meg looked up at her aunt from the circle of shade cast by her beach umbrella. Her arms and legs were coated with droplets of water, and she’d donned her pair of flashy, rhinestone-studded sunglasses.

“I’m not even wearing a suit,” Meg reminded her. “I’ll stick my toes in before we leave.”

“Suit yourself.” Virginia knelt on the towel she’d spread on the sand next to Meg. “Good book?”

Meg removed John’s letter from between the first pages of Joan Didion’s
Slouching Towards Bethlehem
and used it to mark her spot before setting the book aside. “It’s certainly interesting,” she replied.

Virginia hugged her knees to her chest and, for a long while, simply gazed at her niece as if in an attempt to divine the very secrets of the universe. Meg tensed under her scrutiny; Virginia had always been so much more perceptive than either of her parents, especially where Meg’s moods were concerned.

“You’ve always been quiet,” she said at last, “but you’ve been even quieter than usual these past few weeks. Why is that?”

Meg shrugged. “No reason. Just feeling a little...stuck, I suppose.”

“Stuck?”

“You know, in a rut. It’s fall - I’m still getting used to the idea that I’m no longer in school.”

She was lying. The fact that she was no longer a student had very little to do with her protracted state of brooding. It was easier than explaining the truth, however, and it seemed to placate her aunt. For whatever reason, she’d opted to keep John a secret. On rare occasions, she felt near to bursting with her desire to share his existence. The vast majority of the time, though, she reveled in the secrecy. She liked having the ability to withdraw into her thoughts and imaginings without the added annoyance of having others lift a knowing brow at her meditative expression.

“Don’t worry,” said Virginia, patting her arm. “You’ll find something soon. Try and enjoy this time while you’ve got it.”

They left the beach shortly thereafter. Meg walked along the shoreline while Virginia stooped to gather shells for her collection. She felt the sand squish between her toes and the tepid water whoosh over the tops of her feet as the sun spattered freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

They drove with the top down on Meg’s brand new Volkswagen Karmann Ghia, a graduation gift from her parents she’d accepted in quiet dismay. Back in Rustic Canyon, they entered her childhood home through the kitchen door and were greeted by the dissonant din of inexpertly struck piano keys drifting from the front parlor: a maladroit rendition of “Rondo Alla Turca.”

“Sounds like Irene’s discovered the next Mozart,” joked Virginia.

“At least the tune is recognizable,” Meg replied. “That’s a feat I could only aspire to.” Irene’s multiple attempts to impart her musical genius had fallen disappointingly flat when it came to her own progeny. Evidently Meg had inherited her tone deafness from her father. Virginia, meanwhile, was an accomplished flautist in her own right.

Meg made her way toward the refrigerator but stopped when she noticed a message posted next to the phone with her name scrawled at the top in her mother’s atrocious handwriting:

2:15 - call from “John,” will try back later (?)

She could feel the blood rush from her head to pool in the soles her feet. In her peripheral vision, Virginia stood stock-still. “What’s the matter?” she asked, an edge of panic to her voice.

Meg shook her head. “It’s nothing. Just a note.” She ripped the message off the pad of paper and waved it in the air as proof before slipping it in the back pocket of her denim skirt.

Two hours later, Meg and her parents, plus Virginia, were seated around the dining room table. Irene, tired after another trying lesson, had suggested going out to eat, which had resulted in minor panic on Meg’s part: she’d never forgive herself if the phone rang while they were away. Her offer to cook instead of dining out had prompted a raised eyebrow from Virginia, but mercifully she’d kept her mouth shut. Meg had no doubt that she’d shrewdly connected her strange behavior over the phone message with this sudden urge to make herself useful in the kitchen.

Halfway through dinner, the phone rang and Meg bolted from her seat.

“Margaret!” Irene’s tone was reproachful.

Meg knew how her mother felt about answering the phone during dinner, which is why she strode quickly from the room before she could be told very explicitly not to; Irene was unused to frank defiance. She rounded the corner in the front hall and snatched the ringing phone off its cradle on the side table.

“Hello?”

“Margaret, dear, I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

The air left her lungs in an audible sigh as she sagged against the wall. “We were just at dinner, Mrs. Ingram. Could I take a message?”

“Of course. Will you just ask your mother to call me when she has a moment?”

“Sure. Have a good night, Mrs. Ingram.”

She hung up the phone with a sigh and returned to the dining room; Virginia’s discerning eyes were fixed on the doorway when she entered.

“Mrs. Ingram would like for you to call her back,” Meg said to no one in particular. She made a point of ignoring her aunt’s smirk as she resumed her seat.

“Is this about that phone call you got earlier?” asked Irene, evidently having put two and two together. She didn’t wait for an answer, however. “Who is this ‘John’ anyway? Is he a friend of yours from school?”

Meg twirled fettuccine around her fork. Without looking up, she replied, “He’s just someone I met this summer.”

“Someone you met?” Her father’s voice surprised them all; it was the first time he’d spoken since they sat down to dinner, except to remark on how flavorful the pasta sauce was.

“Yes.” Meg sat up straighter and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “He was the resident artist at the Grand Canyon when we were there.”

The range of facial expressions in the room could have been almost comical if she hadn’t been already on edge just imagining the questions they’d soon fire her way. For Irene, a lifted eyebrow; for Virginia, a smug smile; and for her father, a dubious frown.

Virginia was first to break the silence. Leaning forward to place her forearms on the table: “Do tell.”

“There’s nothing to tell exactly,” Meg said. “His name is John, and he’s an artist. He’s very good, and so he was offered the artist-in-residence position - only he had to cut it short because he was drafted. So now he’s in the Army instead.” Inwardly, she cringed at this rather blasé synopsis.

“And why is he calling you?” asked her mother. She wasn’t being impertinent; she was merely curious.

“Because he’s my friend, I suppose.” It was the only answer she had, and therefore it was the best one. “I haven’t spoken to him directly since June. He’s been in basic training.”

Silence drifted down and settled like dust. No one needed to ask what came next for him.

* * *

Virginia helped with the supper dishes before kissing them all goodbye and driving home to West Los Angeles. Her parents retired for the evening shortly thereafter, leaving Meg in the quiet, dimly lit study to stamp and address her latest round of resumes and cover letters. She was overqualified for the vast majority of the jobs, but she was also growing desperate. Continuing to live here under the auspices of her parents seemed less and less appealing with each passing day. (In their defense, this had more to do with Meg’s thirst for independence than any deficiency on their part.)

The clock on the mantle read just minutes before ten when the phone rang. It made the noise of a shrill siren, echoing throughout the quiet house. Meg leapt, startled, before snatching the phone off its base.

“Hello?”

She frowned at the silence that greeted her. Finally: “You have no idea how good it feels to hear your voice.”

He sounded thousands of miles away, and yet the warmth that trickled through her made it feel as though pure, glowing sunlight had replaced the blood in her vessels. “John?” she whispered.

“Yeah, sweetheart. It’s me.”

Her first instinctive response was to laugh. She laughed her glee and her giddiness and her disbelief - then clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress the sudden cacophony. To her everlasting gratification, John laughed along with her.

“Listen, Meg, I’ve only got a couple of minutes, but I wanted you to know I’m finished with my training here, and they’re giving us three weeks’ leave. I want to see you.”

She pressed her eyes shut to keep the room from spinning. “Yes.
Yes.
Where? When?”

“Well, I’m flying home to visit my family for a couple of weeks first, but what are your plans around the first of November?”

“No plans,” she replied quickly.

She could hear a muffled voice in the background, followed by John cupping his hand around the mouthpiece to speak to someone nearby. A moment later he came back on the line. “God dammit,” he muttered. He sounded anguished, yet resigned. “I want to talk to you so badly, but I have to go, OK, love? I promise we’ll talk more soon.”

She could feel her throat clamping down as she fought to choke back tears - not of sadness, but of a melty, all-consuming tenderness. “OK,” she whispered.

“Just keep some time open for me in November, all right? I don’t care what we do or where we go.” His speech was pressured now; she could imagine some hulking leviathan of a GI breathing down his neck, waiting impatiently for him to wrap it up.