Strange but True (37 page)

The first thing Charlene notices when she opens the door is that the house is quieter than usual—eerily quiet in fact, just like the Moodys' place. She doesn't hear the television set. She doesn't hear the papery scrape of Philip turning pages. She doesn't even hear the ticking of that antique clock. “Philip!” she calls out, heading straight for the family room. “Philip!”

But Philip does not answer, and she finds the room empty.

At first, Charlene thinks that he must have gone back to New York just as she knew he would eventually. But then she notices that all of his belonging are still scattered around the bed. His duffel bag on the floor. His miniature reading light on the foldout sofa. His musty Anne Sexton book facedown on a pillow.

But where is he? Charlene wonders.

Had someone described this scenario to her one month before, she would have said that she'd be more bothered about him taking the car. At the moment, though, she only feels upset about the prospect of Philip leaving. Admittedly, she has her selfish reasons: Charlene dreads the thought of going back to living in this house alone. But there is also the fact that she still wants the chance to make amends with him.

After doing a complete check of the house, Charlene finds herself standing at the foot of the sofa bed, staring blankly at the rumpled sheets and wondering where he is. Finally, she sits on the mattress the way she did this morning after she woke him and before he turned on Judge Judy. Charlene picks up that Anne Sexton book and reads a passage, as though it might hold some clue as to where he is right now.

While it is obvious that Anne Sexton drew the worship of readers with a prurient interest in her suicidal tendencies, her psychotic breakdown, her numerous hospitalizations, it must be acknowledged that her forthrightness comforted the people who looked upon her poems as the Holy Grail…

Charlene puts down the book and shakes her head. How he could stand to read such nonsense she didn't know. That's when she looks up and sees the clock stopped on five-thirty—the reason the house is silent. Charlene had just wound the thing a few days before, since it was one of the few household chores she actually kept up with, so it shouldn't have stopped already. She wonders if it should tell her something about where Philip has gone. When no correlation comes to her, Charlene reaches down and picks up his duffel bag. She knows he would be furious at her for looking inside, but she can't help herself. And when she finds a packet of stapled pages inside among his clothes, Charlene takes them out and reads:

FROM:     
[email protected]

TO:     PhlpChse@ mstc.com

DATE:     April 16, 2000

Dear Philip,

First things first: You must gently open Baby's mouth to see if there is any white mucus resembling cottage cheese in the back of her throat. If so, I'm afraid this could be an indication of mouth rot, which is not good. You see, my dear Philip, snakes have a slower metabolism, so they are often more sick than they appear on the surface. (The former is true of many overweight people who cannot help their size; the latter is true of almost all people, but we can ruminate on those tangents on another occasion.) As far as Baby is concerned, she is no spring chicken, or spring snake as the case may be, so we should not be surprised. Even Elizabeth Taylor has grown old on us and lost her luminous beauty, although that did not seem possible at one time. I digress. If you investigate Baby's oral cavity and fail to discover any of that dreadful cottage cheese festering in there, then the symptoms you described in your last missive could simply mean that she is shedding. DO NOT—I repeat—DO NOT try to help her shed by picking and peeling away at the dead skin. Snakes need to shed in their own due time. No one can rush the process, and in fact, it is dangerous to try. (Again, the similarity to humans does not escape me.) Speaking of which, I imagine you are going through your own shedding, now that you have officially been a New Yorker for six months. In your missives, you tell me all about the loud neighbors and the pets and the progress of your poetry, but you say nothing of your own personal life. How are you? Where do you like to go? What do you do with your free time? Have you made any colorful new friends? Do tell. I trust that even your most boring tale will be vastly more interesting than Fauncine's incessant deathbed howls. On that note, I must sign off now. It is time to administer her meds and she refuses to let the visiting health aide do it. (Yesterday she clocked her in the face when she was helping to change the sheets.) Enjoy your youth, my dear Philip. I am telling you, it's fleeting.

Yours,

Donnelly

FROM:     PhlpChse@ mstc.com

TO:
    [email protected]

DATE:     April 17, 2000

Dear Donnelly,

I wish I could tell you that I do much more than take care of the pets, read books, watch television, and write my poetry. The truth is, I have made no new friends. It is not that I don't want to, I do. But I am not very good at it. The whole thing seems so easy for other people. I can make conversation, of course, but somehow I am never sure how to bridge that into friendship. The same was true when I worked at the restaurant. And the same was definitely true back in high school. I guess I am what people call a loner. But the thing about being a loner is, it's lonely. There's a guy about my age and a woman only slightly older who I always see at Aggie's Diner where I go sometimes for coffee and oatmeal on Houston Street. I have listened to their conversations so often that I feel as though I know them. She is a novelist and he is working on his first book with her guidance. I gather that he babysits for her child while she teaches. Anyway, they seem like people I would like to become friends with. On so many occasions, I have wanted to go over and say hello and sit with them and talk and laugh, but something always stops me. I just don't know how to go about it. Sorry to be rambling. I guess what you really want to know about is Baby. I tried to work up the courage to brave her oral cavity but could not. So instead, I put her in a pillowcase and brought her to a vet on First Avenue, a few blocks from Happy Pet where I get her mice. You'll be glad to know there was no cottage cheese. Just a small amount of clear saliva, which the vet said is good. However, her eyes are cloudy, which the vet said is not good. It is an indication that Baby is about to shed. Apparently, shedding is very stressful to snakes so I need to take extra good care of her. Don't worry, Donnelly, I am on the case.

Sincerely,

Philip

FROM:
    [email protected]

TO:     PhlpChse@ mstc.com

DATE:     April 18, 2000

Dear Philip,

Just a short note because Frankenswine is ready for her feeding and I need to tend to her trough. (By the by, I would not hold your breath for me to return to the grand castle on Sixth Street anytime soon. My stubborn sister seems to be getting stronger every day instead of weaker, though the doctor insists her condition is terminal.) More importantly, what wonderful news about Baby! Thank you for taking her to the vet. You can deduct the bill off next month's rent.

Yours,

Donnelly

P.S.

Next time you're at Aggie's, why not send over a couple of martinis to your potential writer friends? Alcohol always helped grease the wheels for me. In fact, it's how I met Edward.

FROM:    
[email protected]

TO:    PhlpChse@ mstc.com

DATE:    April 19, 2000

Dear Donnelly,

It is a diner, and I see them there at breakfast, often with a young child. So I don't think martinis would be appropriate. I am glad you are happy about Baby. Sweetie is fine too.

Sincerely,

Philip

FROM:     
[email protected]

TO:     PhlpChse@ mstc.com

DATE:     April 20, 2000

Dear Philip,

Good point. I'll keep brainstorming on the matter.

Yours,

Donnelly

After that, there is a break in the dates. Before going onto the next e-mail, which is dated more than a year later, Charlene pauses to consider what she just read. Even though she is well aware of the answer, she cannot help but wonder how she had let a child she had raised, a child she loves, become such a stranger to her? She knew none of this business about snakes and mice and Donnelly Fiume and his ailing sister, never mind Philip's loneliness. All these years, she had the image of him leading a busy life in New York full of friends and parties while she was rattling around in this big old house alone. Maybe she deserved such a lonely fate. After all, she had lived her life and had her share of good times early on. But it didn't seem fair that Philip shouldn't have his turn. Sitting there, Charlene is filled with a sense of sorrow at the thought of him alone in the city, lacking such confidence that he cannot even make a friend. Again, she takes a breath and begins reading:

FROM:     [email protected]

TO:    
[email protected]

DATE:     November 17, 2002

Dear Donnelly,

I know you have been asking for a while, but the reason I have not sent you any of my poems is that I am very shy about showing people my work. In fact, after my first round of rejection letters, I have made the decision that I don't ever actually want to publish anything. I just like to write for myself. I know that may sound strange, but it is the truth. However, since you have insisted for so long, I will send you this one poem I have been working on. Although I would never admit this to anyone but you, I actually think I may be improving after all these years. It is a poem about my mother, who I might have mentioned in these e-mails I have been estranged from now for quite some time. I was thinking a while back about the way she always seemed to rush life when I was growing up. Anyway, it is not really her in the end, but I used that idea and my disconnected relationship with her as a jumping-off point. Well, I'll spoil it if I say much more, so you will just have to read below. If you hate it, you don't have to ever mention it again. I won't ask. I promise. Here goes:

“Hurry” by Philip Chase

You were always in such a rush, Mother

On Labor Day, you spoke of Christmas coming

In spring, you spoke of uncovering the pool

Living your life like the displays in the department stores

Where you escaped to on Saturday afternoons

To push a shaky-wheeled carriage up and down the aisles

And dream of all that you would have someday

I tried to slow you down, Mother

I told you to come look outside the window with me

At the leaves raining from the orange sky

Their bursts of color like paper money from faraway countries

Valuable to others, but not you

Because today was worthless in your eyes

It was tomorrow—the sweet glittery gold of tomorrow—that held promise

Now all but a handful of your tomorrows have arrived, Mother

I have not seen you but I imagine

Your hair is streaked with gray

Your bones are growing brittle beneath the creased sack of your skin

One of your children, my brother, took his last breath too soon

And I am a stranger to you now

Do you see that the promise you believed in
,

the promise I tried to caution you against
,

was as empty as the windowless coffins that wait for us too?

FROM:     [email protected]

TO:    
[email protected]

DATE:     November 20, 2002

Dear Donnelly,

You have not written since I sent you my poem. I know I said I wouldn't ask, but, well, I lied. Does that mean you hate it?

Philip

FROM:     
[email protected]

TO:     [email protected]

DATE:     November 24, 2002

Dear Philip,

This is Donnelly's baby sister Fauncine writing. I am sorry to deliver this sad news over the computer, however, my dear brother, and your dear friend, Donnelly, passed away two days ago. Forgive me for not writing sooner, but as you can imagine, I have been in a bit of a state. Even though Donnelly has been struggling with cancer for a number of years, and we all knew his time with us was limited, it does not take away the sadness I feel. I hope you don't mind, but I have read over many of the e-mails the two of you have exchanged. I see that Donnelly created quite a colorful story around his sickness at my expense, which is just like my brother, since he always had a flair for drama and he never liked to talk about his failing health. I assure you I am not the monster he painted me to be. In fact, we have always been very close and that's why he came here so I could care for him in his dying days, rather than face those indignities on his own in the city. I guess we are all guilty of telling lies to ourselves and to the world in order to make the truth, however sad, scary, or strange, more palatable. You should know that Donnelly spoke very highly of you. He believed in you as a poet and a friend. He left the name of a literary agent who was an acquaintance of Edward's. Her name is Jean Pittelman, and her office is on Greenwich Avenue should you ever be in need of her services, although I read about your desire not to publish. Finally, Donnelly also requested that you be allowed to keep the studio as long as you like. You can continue to send the rent money to me here and I will forward it on one of Donnelly's checks, since it is doubtful the landlord will read the death notice in the Commerce paper and evict you. If life ever brings me up to New York, I would love it if we could meet for tea, and if perhaps I could come by and see Donnelly's old studio. Until then…

Fondly,

Fauncine Fiume

That is the last page of e-mails. Charlene reads the poem about herself a second time, then puts the packet back inside the duffel bag. She stands and goes to the kitchen, mulling over what she just read—especially that poem. What an odd detail of my personality for Philip to focus on, she thinks. Certainly, Charlene had looked forward to the holidays and the changing seasons, but she didn't consider herself any more guilty of rushing through her time in this world than anyone else.