#86 LISA’S DRESS

Fashion trends are marketed relentlessly and then made obsolete by forces unknown to the average woman but markedly decisive within the fashion industry. They, the insiders, know exactly when to change the silhouette of a dress or a suit that will leave the fashion conscious dissatisfied with what is in the closet no matter how expensive or stylish it only recently was. Fashion designers are so quick to bring in the new, women are still digesting the trends of the previous year before something newer is on the horizon. All this makes for some unsettling bouts of shopping, erratic spending and preoccupation with minutiae.

Some women do not go in for fashion and are spared this encumbrance - obsessing over what to wear, when to wear it and whose opinion matters on what one wears. They are fortunate, but some would utter, clueless, and blithely peruse the latest catalog or online designer site.

Let me tell you about a very attractive Manhattan woman named Lisa who spent a good sum of money to own a dress by the designer heralded as the future of fashion. His designs were in all the magazines and he even appeared on a popular afternoon TV talk show because the host was in love, love, love with his sophisticated, pared-down sleek creations. Everyone wanted to get their hands on his dresses and suits. The prices were astronomical for a fairly new designer but he had no shortage of customers. All the most fashionable women, as well as the celebrated celebrities were seen in the front row of his runway shows.

Lisa spent nearly a year trying to buy one of his dresses; they were immediately snapped up in the stores by elite clientele and never made it to the floor. She was also plagued with a husband who was just not that convinced the sum needed to wear this particular designer was money well spent. “You’ll only wear it once, maybe twice before you'll be tired of it,” he said. He had some familiarity not only with Lisa’s closet but with her charge cards.

Lisa argued that this design star was here to stay and his clothing would be timeless. “I will wear this dress forever, it will never go out of style,” she said. “It is a classic, trust me. I do know something about fashion, after all.” This retort is one she often used to justify her clothing extravagances, if she happened to spend a little more on something her husband might question. With the argument considered won on her part, she began an aggressive campaign to find and purchase a dress bearing this prestigious label.

She went online to all the usual places the fashion-conscious trawl looking for designer bargains. She called everyone she knew to help track down one of his dresses at a price she could afford. She could not go over twenty-five hundred dollars, she lamented. Several personal shoppers told her to forget it. But Lisa was an experienced shopper; she knew she would find it eventually and at a price she would be willing to pay. She just had to persevere. It was early winter. She had until spring when the museum gala was scheduled. She was on the planning committee and no detail could be left to fate.

She visualized wearing the dress; she had some experience with visualization also. She drew a picture of herself in the dress and pasted it in her journal. She cut out pictures from magazines of the designer’s line and printed out online photos of his spring show. She made a little fantasy collage, certain it would soon be a reality. None of this she told her husband - he was a cold-hard-facts sort of man. Meanwhile she was saving money from the household expenses so she would have funds available when the time came. She did not want to have to plead with her husband over the cost. She usually got what she wanted in the end but had to fight for it and this upset her. More so, she resented it. She said she was doing him a favor as she represented him, and in turn, his firm, in their social circle. It was to his benefit that she look smashing although she could not exactly articulate it in a way that he understood. He just shook his head whenever she used this maneuver. Her husband’s high IQ and ability to argue a case could make her feel awkwardly susceptible to ridicule at times. The less said on these matters, the better, was her private decree.

As with all really tenacious desires, Lisa eventually got her dress, an evening gown that was so subtly chic and simple that it almost looked like athletic wear. It was white with an asymmetrical stripe of red going down the front. It cast a sheen - ever so subtle - unobtrusively eschewing glitz or splash in favor of the divine. It just quietly smoldered on her frame. Lisa had an athletic build so it was a perfect match. She could not wait to appear in this gown, showing off her tennis arms and winter tan. She thought she would be the coolest woman at the ball because of the way it caressed her buff body, emphasized her golden, but not too burnished skin and expertly applied highlights. That everyone would admire her style, that was something she expected, but this time it would be accompanied by genuine awe.

When she modeled it for her husband before they set off, he demonstrated the appropriate zeal for a dress he knew cost him a small fortune, but not wanting to spoil the evening, held off any further inquiry. He would learn soon enough. “Yooou loook marvelous,” he said in an imitation of Billy Crystal’s SNL character. She just tossed her flawless tresses, also expensive. (He did know the dollar amount on those sunny waves but let it be.)
“You will be so impressed tonight,” she said, “your wife will command all the attention and you will be the envy of the ball.” She laughed as she put her lipgloss that would not clash with her dress, into her evening bag. Someone more obvious, she thought, would match a red lipstick to the stripe in the dress but I never go for the obvious effect. That was her favorite fashion dictate and she was proud of it. “Let us be off, then, shall we? she tittered attempting to imitate Queen Elizabeth. The couple was in excellent spirits looking forward to the fine champagne they would drink.

But a funny thing happened that spring. The designers, for whatever reason they inexorably latch onto a new idea, decided that flouncy, floral rather English looking dresses but with an edge would be nice. It may have started in Hollywood where a certain stylishly presented actress was seen wearing this type of dress promoting her latest movie set in 1940s, the movie and the costumes a big hit. Who can say? A trend can crop up in any place or time and change the fashion world. In any case, it appeared the designers, and their haute clientele were tired of minimal chic and wanted a whole new look for spring. It could not have been a more startling about-face.

Our lovely Lisa appeared in her expensive dress she had been saving for all winter, without her husband’s knowledge, and what do you think she saw at the ball? The coolest women were in flowers and ruffles and full skirts, taffeta and chiffon and all things girlish. They also changed from straight blowouts to a more floaty feminine hairstyle and made up their glowing faces in brighter hues. In contrast, Lisa looked like she just hopped over from the YWCA after working out. Her dress was minimal, her makeup neutral and her hair just so everyday. When her picture was taken for a society magazine, she looked like an amazon amongst the foliage. Her face was grim, he jaws were clenched. She was more than a little confused and embarrassed. When had this happened?

Lisa went home early with a headache and for a time, hid her dress in her closet, out of sight, out of mind. Her husband, completely flummoxed over her abrupt mood change waited a month before mentioning the cost of the dress. By then, to Lisa, it was old news. She sold it for a fraction of the price on e-bay to some clueless rube in the heartland.

She could not look at the designer’s fall show without feeling queasy. But she gave him little thought - she was now in search of the newest style, so elusive, even she, an ardent student of fashion, had not quite caught its drift. This kept Lisa busy but something was lost that spring. She no longer trusted her judgment. She still pretended to be confidently fashion forward but there was a little furrow in her brow when she shopped. Could she be behind the trend? She could not rid herself of this looming uncertainty.

Moral of the story: While our lady was trying to make the fashion grade, she became obsessed and did not notice that fashion moves at the speed of light. She developed tunnel vision. Fashion, shopping and women are joined together in symmetry. But you have to be quick. Designers wait for no woman. You have to be able to see into the future. Lisa lay awake many nights thinking of all the variables involved in a style decision. Her husband knew nothing of any of it. He would not understand her personal crisis and she couldn’t make him.

# 85 WHO WAS ANNABEL FRASIER?

Annabel’s Friend Daniel Loomis

When Annabel Frasier found herself shipwrecked, washed up, trapped, (her words) she scarcely knew how to survey the sorry mess (again with the hyperbole) that was her life, and get on with the cleanup. After months of burdensome conjecture, a writhing displeasure over ever aspect of her daily life there was nothing she could do but read through her past and despite its self-absorption, a voice told her that she had reached this abyss through long hard effort, that in short, this was her life, conducted and lived in complete freedom. Never for a moment would she play victim - it had all been expressly created by her own movements, she had been following a prescribed path as easily as a speeding train rides the rail with no chance for untended meandering.

To put it in a less convoluted manner, Annabel, with nothing to do but think, began to ask a few too many whys and wherefores. I listened to her speculations and projections more nights than I had patience for. It was difficult for me to grasp that Annabel Frasier considered her life a failure. She had a lot going for her, always had.

Maybe you’re not interested in her background for your article, but as her old friend, going back to our second year in college at the University of Michigan, we had been great pals over the years and I think I may say without vanity that I was the friend she relied on the most, perhaps loved the most. She was with me when I came out of the closet, and with me five years later when I went home for my parents’ anniversary party and my sister outed me in front of my entire childhood milieu in Detroit. Annabel handled my father with what I can only describe as miracle-working subtlety and was able to stop my mother from breaking down completely while I dealt with my traitorous sister.

Annabel’s depression began when the magazine she worked for - nearly twenty years - told her they were not renewing the contract for her weekly column. The final kick in the teeth came when she was informed everything she had written for them belonged to them and she had no rights to it. They owned …with a twist in its entirety. They also owned the articles and reviews written under her byline. She was leaving with nothing but her memories. Her bosses were surprised at her surprise. How could she not know? they exclaimed when she slammed into their offices, wailing and flailing. It was standard procedure. “We are being generous with your severance,” they said in an attempt to comfort the overwrought writer.

At fifty-three, Annabel had une crise. She went through a phase of self-hatred that was pure pathos. Others had mishaps, falls from grace, bad luck, but no one was in such a sorry state as our Annabel. No one really knew what Annabel’s state of mind actually was as she often joked about her fate, while at other times refused to talk, to be around anyone or let anyone help. Annabel sometimes squirreled herself away. I believe she once referred to herself as a “deformity.” Those of us who were with her at this dinner winced when she said it. She who was anything but a deformity, had once been the most charming woman in our little crowd. We are all older now, we are not as charming or as easily charmed but we all remember when Annabel was at her best.

Recently, Annabel let down her defenses and told me she had discovered the reason for her failure, that it boiled down to one word: unworthy. She said it was whispered to her in the night. She knew she had been given a truth, a tool, if you will, to allow her to analyze her journey, her life as lived up until then. It gave her a definition of her prime motive or lack thereof. She seemed relieved to be able to impart this wisdom. After discussing this with her therapist, he told her, everyone’s truth was defined by one ingredient: that there was one facet of our being that colors every aspect of our life. He said Annabel's truth, unworthiness, was common and that she also had a secretive side that withheld, she was good at pretending, keeping distance between herself and others. More on that later.

She did have a cavalier attitude toward life but in all fairness to her, she never blamed others, or if she did was quick to dismiss the blame and reassign it to herself. For a woman so bright, it was distressing to see how low she was in her last year. I’ve many acquaintances without her sharp mind or blithe spirit who succeed with marginal talent or skills whereas Annabel faltered and failed while offering a far superior product. Her therapist referred to it as fear of success, a phrase with a certain populist buzz, but Annabel never let him forget the word unworthy which she said carried a different meaning. He was a little dissuaded by the “voice in the night,” he wanted her to discover her truth through his ministrations but went along with his patient.

Annabel could laugh at herself, make fun of the world and that was refreshing even though it was just another way of avoiding the deep wells of unhappiness she was swimming in, according to her therapist. She was aware of this also. She had undergone treatment in Jungian psychology but had more recently discovered the Maslow techniques and that is how she found her latest therapist; Dr. Miller advertised in her magazine. The ad, two words in an unusual font, white on a black ground, asked, Trouble Being? Annabel was intrigued by the simplicity and made an appointment. She now had no insurance coverage and confessed upfront she could not go on with the doctor’s regimen but did want to hear what he had to say for himself. He said just enough to get her interested but she truly did not have money for additional sessions and was perfectly honest about it. That the doctor didn’t believe her was because Annabel had the look of success about her. She dressed well, carried herself with aplomb and spoke decisively and to the point. She admitted she had been turned loose by her employer. He was the second person to learn of this - I was the first.

Those of us who knew her, were aware of her vulnerabilities, that she was barely in charge of herself at this point though it took us all some time to realize this. She built a firm façade. I knew she was almost broke, hadn’t been saving much; she’d spent a good deal on her mother’s care before she died. She wasn’t sure if or where she would be employed again. She was scared witless, her words again.

Do you want to hear more about the past year of her life or do you want to ask me questions? How much of these details are you interested in? Okay, yes, her state of mind. If she really killed herself, is that it? Well, I don’t know, but I can tell you what I do know.

Annabel began, without a therapist, to take a look back in time to find out when was the precise moment unworthiness had taken over and colored her life henceforth. She wanted to identify when it had been inserted, like a knife, sharply. She wasn’t sure when the wound had been inflicted. Listening to others in a group session she learned that childhood abandonment by one or both parents was often the case. Annabel had not been abandoned by her parents…okay, yes, her father did move to France, in a sense abandoning her to her mother but she was hardly a child. Others in the group said they were belittled as children. Annabel tried to remember being belittled by her parents but could only remember a cousin laughing at her knobby knees in the car on the way to a natural history museum when she was ten. Annabel didn’t think this had lasting impact as she modeled during college in the age of the miniskirt. I can attest that her legs were the least of her worries.

She didn’t remember any other disparaging remarks buried in her subconscious until a week after this conversation when she called me to ask if I thought a teacher she had when she was in the sixth grade, a male teacher, her first, who had questionable methods, in fact had been fired, ridiculed her one day on a field trip, referring to her as a wild animal. She said he sneered at her when he said this. She went home completely deflated that day and asked her mother to help her with her hair that night so she might look put-together the next day. She wondered if that one remark doomed her with out realizing it. I said it didn’t seem so but she was still trying to find out the source of unworthiness that had been her guiding light forever, as she described this new phenomenon. I thought she took her “voice in the night” and her therapist far too seriously, and especially a group session that may or may not have a bearing on her own situation. I never knew how much to say when it involved her therapy. How honest should a friend be? I didn’t really believe in the wisdom of therapy necessarily but hesitated to say so.

Annabel grew up in a small town south of Albany. Although she had food, shelter, nice clothing, friendships and went to a decent public school her parents had an unstable marriage that contributed to feelings of insecurity. Annabel had a prickly relationship with her mother and that is where a therapist might like to spend some time, in fact had. Did Mrs. Frasier cause her daughter’s feelings of unworthiness? If so, how? By what means? Annabel said her mother had extreme moods that caused a lot of dissension in the home and yes, her mother did find fault with her on occasion. Annabel said she was an awkward girl, she showed us pictures to prove it. She looked like the average girl in the late fifties. The pictures she showed us of a high school girl are much more revealing - in them we see an outright rebellion. We see her glaring at the camera and when I mentioned this, she said she was glaring at her mother with whom she’d had a fight in the car on the way to the photographer. In this photo she had the good looks she would become known for though she was positively fierce and if one were to speculate on this seventeen-year-old, you would say she will go far - her will positively jumped out of the photo, she would not be repressed.

A few years later, in college, the pictures show a happier, more docile young woman with lighter hair. The hippie era was in full-flowering and Annabel had mellowed. She said once she wasn’t around her mother she became the jolly person she had always been. “That and marijuana,” she added with a mischievous grin. Never did she look like a person suffering from a lack of esteem or unworthiness and I must admit I was a little disparaging of the whole unworthy diagnosis.

I was interested to see where Annabel would land next, whenever the tortured self-analysis ended. I certainly did not think it would end in her death. I’m sorry I can’t say anymore…I’m too close to her memory…

No, I knew nothing of A.W. Saunders and it hurts me - you can’t imagine how much. I listened to her every little twitching thought for the past year, some of them highly personal, some of them downright banal and somehow she couldn’t tell me she was a published poet? I’ll never get beyond it; that she could be so thoughtless…so indifferent. I thought she was my best friend.

Annabel’s Childhood Friend Pamela Cohen

Annabel Frasier was my best friend since we were twelve years old. We grew up in the same neighborhood, our families were related though a few generations removed. Annabel was always the more spirited of our little group that consisted of five girls living within a few streets of one another. Annabel could be moody in a noticeable way but when she was good she was very good. She had a high-pitched laugh that came from deep within her throat and blasted out of her open mouth with uproarious hilarity. The laugh of a much older woman privy to delicious witticisms. That was Annabel at twelve. She became my best friend after I heard it; I said something particularly wry, my brand of humor. Who wouldn’t immediately love her, rewarded with that laugh? When I went home I said to my brother that I had just met the person who would change my life. I had no idea what that change would be but it was a sharp recognition worth rejoicing over. Before Annabel, life was bland in our little town, as small towns can be. After Annabel, I was never bored, never lonely and could see that the world was a bigger place than I had thus far experienced.

Annabel’s family had traveled some and had even spent a year in France before they settled in our little town in upstate New York. Her mother decided to curb her father’s wild streak by settling him in a dull locale. They bought a fixer-upper in the hopes of interesting Mr. Frasier in the fixing up, in domestic duty instead of drinking, partying and living the life of an irresponsible bohemian. With four children, Mrs. Frasier wanted stability after fits and starts at domesticity. She said it was time to stop fooling around and get serious. She thought by decreeing this, it would be so. It took a bit more than a ram-shackled farmhouse to calm Mr. Frasier but that is another story, only incidentally about the one I am telling. Mr. and Mrs. Frasier are an interesting part of Annabel’s story: they were completely unlike other parents in the neighborhood. They had what could be called “edge” and this too was a part of the excitement brought about with the arrival of the Frasiers to our sleeping town.

Mrs. Frasier had ambition. That was what singled her out from our moms who were contented housewives married to stalwart working men. Annabel’s mother had a job in the administrative offices of the local college and you had the feeling she wished she could be the president instead of an accountant. Nervous ambition was how I would describe what drove Annabel’s mother. Her father was the opposite; he worked in his brother-in-law’s building company but you could tell he would rather have been on the ski slopes or hunting wild game. He could often be found in the local tavern at any or all hours of the day but no one wanted to take too much notice of this. Except Mrs. Frasier who ranted and raved like a banshee at Mr. Frasier and did not seem to care who heard her.

Annabel’s parents fought. Or at least her mother did. You could hear her yelling in the backyard while pulling weeks from her garden, while driving their old car into town or mopping floors if you were playing in the yard. She lost control over minor things like mud tracked in her kitchen or the toilet seat not down. With four kids it seemed futile to be so uptight about housework but it was one area that seemed to rattle her unduly. Annabel had a lot of chores assigned to her as the eldest child. She had to iron baskets of washing including sheets and towels - things my mother never ironed that seemed like a waste of effort but Annabel said it was because her grandmother ironed everything and Mrs. Frasier feared her judgment. Annabel said her grandmother Frasier and her aunts were meticulous housekeepers and judged women by the cleanliness of their home and children. Once Mrs. Frasier got a job, she lived in fear of not keeping up the standards and made long lists every morning delegating the household chores. Annabel balked at this and they fought over housework so much that Annabel forever after was somewhat lax in her housekeeping though not nearly as negligent as her mother was wont to point out.

Annabel and her mother had a contentious relationship and both had a strong will. Neither would give in. I suspected this was the cause of Annabel’s moods: they had some dilly fights. None of us, the other girls in the neighborhood, dared talk to our mother as Annabel did, but then our mothers were not hard on us as her mother was. Mrs. Frasier had a lot to contend with; a husband who could not be controlled, four children, a job and plenty of critical in-laws in the area watching it all. You could not help but hear Mrs. Frasier’s laments; she kept nothing in, and her one mistake she felt, was moving back to our town where there wasn’t enough opportunity for her and too much opportunity for Mr. Frasier to slack off.

Annabel loved my mother who was placid, kind and simple. She stayed at our house as much as possible and often joked that she would be moving her things in soon. With my mother she could relax and was in turn helpful, folding laundry, sweeping floors and washing dishes without being asked. When my mother told her to leave it, Annabel said she wanted to be useful since she was hoping they would eventually adopt her. Annabel marveled that my mother would watch her stories, the soaps, leaving dishes in the sink or the vacuum sitting in the middle of the floor. This would never be tolerated in Mrs. Frasier’s home and Annabel found it highly amusing.

I was sometimes embarrassed by my mother’s simple mind and especially by her television viewing. Each weekday she stopped everything she was doing and watched As The World Turns and The Guiding Light. This routine got on my nerves - the weepy dialogue, the maudlin music, the very premise of soap operas. I thought of myself as a writer, an intellectual, and seeing my mother in her house dresses, often with rollers still in her hair, immersed in mawkish daily drama irritated me. Not so with Annabel. She sat down with my mom and together they followed the storyline day in and day out. Annabel only watch ATWT, leaving my mother with the second soap while she washed the luncheon dishes. Then she served my mother tea. This was in the summer of course, when we weren’t in school but I remember Annabel sitting on our old floral sofa with my mother discussing the latest travails of Lisa Hughes over a cup of Lipton and leftover cake. I scoffed at this but Annabel said the stories were not inane but were a source of knowledge on how families work. She said it gave her insight.

I had more admiration for Mrs. Frasier with her subscriptions to Harper’s Bazaar and Cosmopolitan and her smart career clothes. That’s the sort of insight I was looking for. I thought she was held back by her circumstances; a feminist stuck with a large family and a useless husband. Of course I never said this. Annabel thought she could be monstrous and her father misunderstood.

I never saw Annabel and her mother sit on a couch together or talk about anything. What they did do was shop together - trying on clothes, having lunch and driving around to all the stores in the area. I envied these mother-daughter expeditions, my own mother wouldn’t know a twin-set from a pajama top, a pump from a loafer. Mrs. Frasier could be called a clotheshorse if such a term is still in use, but in all fairness, she worked and needed a wardrobe. None of the other mothers worked nor did much shopping. My mother ordered from the JCPenney or Sears catalogs anything she might need which was seldom. I coveted nice clothes so I babysat and later worked in my uncle’s dry-cleaning business to earn money.

So mother and daughter bonded over dresses and suits, a way for Annabel to connect with a mother she was so at odds with most of the time. I know they never bonded over those endless baskets of ironing. Is this the kind of material you’re looking for? I haven’t been in close touch with Annabel for the past five years. We last met at our thirty-year high-school reunion. She was beautifully dressed, successful. Fun. We are both writers but she is the more well-known. Was, excuse me.

I’m perhaps going on unnecessarily about Annabel and her mother but I believe this early relationship is the reason Annabel could never quite form lasting relationships. She once wrote me in a letter when we were in our thirties that she was having trouble with a boyfriend. She wrote, I told him I can’t do relationships but that if he were available on Saturday night for some fun, a bar, some dancing that I would be delighted to participate. Apparently the boyfriend was not satisfied with this and accused her of commitment phobia. In later life, Annabel never wanted to meet the parents or know the coworkers or friends. I believe she did not get that first relationship right and was never able to get any others right afterward. But what am I, an amateur psychiatrist? Annabel had enough of that, in my opinion.

She did marry - it lasted about a year. Arnie something or other. She didn’t want children and has had two abortions that I know of. The poor husband lost it when she informed him she had the pregnancy terminated and saw no reason to continue the marriage. I admired her self-awareness - that she plucked herself loose from tricky situations with composure. Our generation, our friends, fell headfirst into everything that came their way and lived life regretting one hideous mistake after another. Annabel seemed more mature. I attributed it to her ability to look at herself without flinching. She admitted she had trouble loving and being loved - her first therapist unearthed this revelation that most of us found insulting to not only Annabel, but ourselves. What do you mean, you can’t love? Don’t you love me? Many people thought she was cold but she was one of the warmest people I’d ever known; the most self-actualized person I’d ever known, a popular term from those days when Transcendental Meditation and Abraham Maslow were in vogue.

Maybe Annabel was less actualized than I thought. Suicide is never ascribed to a healthy being. I’ll wonder about this for the rest of my life. Why would the lovely Annabel want to kill herself? It makes no sense and I am not at all convinced it was a suicide. I’m sure it could only have been an accident. So sad.

Annabel’s Therapist Dr. Reuben Miller

When a patient dies, if a suicide, it is a profoundly sad day for a psychologist. You tend to question your methods, beat yourself up a little. What went wrong? Why couldn’t you save her? In Annabel Frasier’s case, I could beat myself up forever but we’re not sure it was a suicide. There was no note, no real motive, no indication that she was in trouble. In fact, I thought she’d made a breakthrough in our last few sessions. I have trouble accepting she would kill herself - she wasn’t that depressed, on the contrary, she seemed more upbeat in our last session four days before her death.

I think I can speak about her as she is no longer with us. I don’t intend to breach patient confidentiality but will generalize if you don’t mind. Ms. Frasier was troubled by her perceived inability to love or to be loved. She thrashed this out thoroughly with a former therapist - the records show this is the subject of much of her work with her previous doctor whose name I’ll not mention except to say she is highly regarded in our field. I suspect you’ll be talking to her for your article.

Did I know Ms. Frasier was a relatively famous poet? No. No one did. It seems A.W. Saunders was in fact Annabel Frasier. She kept that secret pretty well. Of course, very few people read poetry - most would be hard pressed to name a living poet, Ginsberg perhaps while he was still living but then he was a shameless self-promoter, wasn’t he? The Beat poets have some renown but most poets are obscure. We do have a sitting Poet Laureate in this country but I think you would have to search high and low to find someone who could name the current holder of the office. Yes, yes, Maya Angelou is famous. What about Sylvia Plath? I hope you're not going to take a cheap shot by comparing them.

As you can tell, poetry is one of my passions and I know a bit about it. I’ve read some of the poems of Ms. Saunders/Frasier since the news broke. Her works have given me additional insight and one I particularly like, written in rhyme, I’ve learned by heart. I’ll recite it, it’s not long. It’s called Today:

Let us suppose
for those in repose
that all goes away
and we are left - disarray
that beauty and bounty
go way with the wind
that skies never darken
abyss never ends

And let us suppose
for those indispose
that dreams are all ashen
that time holds its court
that we are forsaken
and memories won’t
that this is the breaking
and some of us don’t

For this is the morning
for this is the day
when all that we’ve asked for
has led us astray
what we have gambled
and what we have prayed
resides in a mystery
ourselves have betrayed

Quite nice that, wouldn’t you say? She does have a certain eloquence. Even her magazine articles and her column had a soothing rhythm and I believe that’s why she was so popular. She expressed herself from a soul level, I know that may sound exalted to you, but Ms. Frasier was often exalted. You had to know her. I had respect for her commentary on the arts as well as politics. I wonder why she kept her poetic life a secret. Never once did she hint at it, her family didn’t know, even her employer hadn’t an inkling. I heard they reviewed her first book without knowing who she was. Wouldn’t it have been a scandal if Annabel Frasier herself reviewed the book of A.W. Saunders? Annabel was so secretive it could very easily have happened, I dare say. In any case, since her death, the little booklets of A.W. Saunders have been getting media attention. Well, of course you would know, probably the reason for your article that you’re hoping will expand into a book. I know how publishing works, I’ve written a book myself; I hope to publish one day.

What I can tell you about Ms. Frasier is that she felt like a failure after losing her column and had mother issues that resurfaced during Mrs. Frasier’s illness. She had financial worries on top of those. Apparently the sisters were battling over who would take care of the mother, who was negligent, not fulfilling his or her duty, that sort of thing. Annabel agreed to let he mother live with her when her sister threatened to have a nervous breakdown if someone didn’t take Mrs. Frasier off her hands. You know her brother Everett, I believe that was his name, passed away and her other brother, Patrick, wanted nothing to do with the mother, in any case, lived in Europe, a military man, I believe.

So with the ultimatum, Annabel brought her mother to New York to live with her and hired a nurse to stay with her during the day. Annabel had not been seeing me at the time. She told me her finances weren’t in great shape and her mother’s care was expensive. In fact, each week she told me it might be the last session she could afford. I didn’t really believe her but one day she phoned and said she could no longer afford treatment. She thanked me for the help I’d given her. She sounded terribly depressed during that call. I know what patients go through caring for elderly parents. I gather Mrs. Frasier was quite a pill. Ms. Saunders’s last book of poems, Anger, Dissension and Will, her most disturbing, says it all.

After Mrs. Frasier died, Annabel phoned me for a session to talk about her mother’s passing and the anger she felt in those months leading up to it. Three months, I believe. I can’t tell you much more, I don’t think I should. Perhaps you should look into the poetry of A.W. Saunders for insight.

Annabel’s Aunt Susan

My niece, Annabel, never was understood by anyone in the family but I suppose that isn’t all that unusual with gifted children. Families in those days, the fifties and sixties but not excluding other decades, could never conceive of anyone related to them as being anything special at all. I dare say some do not even subscribe to the concept of gifted or special. When I was young, that would have been considered a vanity no one could afford or want attributed to themselves. How things have changed. Parents now go to extreme lengths to prove their child gifted, special, talented, above average, so needful to make up for their own history, one in which special was a form of conceit. We now have a robust number of the population quite confident of their specialness, ignore it at your peril. What it amounts to is a serious bout of precociousness that we have yet to know what to do with, precocious and gifted not necessarily analogous.

I have already digressed into social studies when I set out to tell of my niece Annabel who recently passed away. Some are saying it was a suicide but no one is really sure of that if you ask me. I am not at all sure; it could just as easily have been an accident. The funeral was in some ways a complex, guilty, questioning event, mired in the unsaid, the unverified and the fear of unspoken defection. It was a crowded affair.

Annabel knew a lot of people. I suppose at age fifty-three one has a history and people make up this history. There were childhood friends from our town, college friends from Michigan, a few old lovers I suspect by their over-sentimental collective self-consciousness, various relatives living near enough to make the trip, myself included, coworkers from the magazine she worked at for nearly twenty years, members of her volunteer group where she mentored the young and many people who did not know her all that well but knew of her. There was a ragtag bunch of beatniks present; no one really knew who they were or why they were there. Well, she wrote a column in an established magazine so I suppose she had her followers. The elephant in the room was the unspoken question: Why would Annabel Frasier kill herself? It made no sense. That is why I think it was an accident. But then again…

Annabel was the eldest child of my sister Dora who passed away two or is it three? years ago. Dora and her eldest daughter had a thorny connection while Annabel was growing up but things settled down once Annabel went away to college, well, not right away, but once Annabel moved to Ann Arbor, away from her mother, they both settled into a grudging though distant respect for one another. In truth, Dora was jealous of Annabel. Always had been on one level or the other. Dora’s troubles began with her marriage to the charming irascible Robert Frasier. They were a mismatch anyone could see it but Dora was bound and determined to land the catch of the day. He was that: good-looking, from a well-to-do family, athletic, smart, he had it all. If I sound like I’m describing a character in a novel, almost a cliché, I’m not far from the truth. Robert was also a born bachelor, anyone could see that, but many women would say he has yet to settle down and I’m just the one to settle him. How many woman make that mistake? I did say all this to Dora before she got married but of course, she didn’t hear a word of it. Refused to. Robert’s father pushed the marriage with the same hope Dora had: get him married and settled, with a decent job, before he did any damage to the family name or its bank accounts. He was running on empty when Dora finally snagged him.

She became pregnant right away and Annabel was born, a pretty baby, bright, alert, the apple of Robert’s eye. I remember he carried her with him everywhere, played with her for hours, rocked her to sleep, fed her, read to her and bought her skis, a bicycle and built her a dollhouse complete with furniture before she knew what any of it was. Everyone was so impressed with his parenting skills Dora was encouraged to have more children by her in-laws. She ended up with four children before she was thirty. Unfortunately, Robert was enamored of his daughter Annabel because of what she intrinsically was, not because he was a splendid parent. No one registered this, it wasn’t something you looked closely at in those days. I was a school counselor and an amateur social scientist; none of the Frasier family-doings passed by me without analysis. My point is, Annabel, the poor thing, was born into this dysfunctional family and was cut from a different cloth. You had to feel sorry for her but she was the bright spot.

As time went on, Robert grew bored with the whole menagerie, and most especially his wife who had become sharp-tongued, unsatisfied and critical. Robert felt less inclined to humor her, did not care for the forty-hour work week so did not bring in enough money for a large family and had absolutely no ambition at all. For all of his charms and capabilities, he was amazingly lackluster. And he started to drink. This Dora could not abide and it was all downhill after the fourth child, Everett, was born.

The family moved to France shortly after Everett’s birth though it was confusing. Why France? It turns out Robert’s best friend Stewart had settled in the Languedoc region, owned a vineyard and invited Robert to come and work for him. This was exactly like Robert - pick up a family and move them overseas but it was not at all like Dora, a practical type, her wily marriage notwithstanding. I learned later Robert had started up with a barmaid and it was about to become known so Dora, seeing an oncoming train, removed herself from the track and bundled her brood off to France and a new start. They stayed there for two years approximately until Dora thought it safe to come home. It turned out France was not such a great getaway: the wine was plentiful, the hours erratic, cleanliness negligible and adultery considered normal. No place for an uptight, ambitious woman who knew what she was about. Back home they came with a job offer for Robert in his brother-in-law’s construction business just outside of Albany.

I give you the Frasier family background though how much it matters I’m not sure. Annabel, gifted with words, a keen sensibility, missed none of this and grew impatient with her mother. She adored her father and thought the lifestyle he wanted was not in the wrong, she understood what he wanted and wished her mother would open her mind to his ideas. And stop the yelling and bickering. This hurt all the kids. She made a fool of herself, Annabel said to me. She was embarrassing, following him around, trying to pick fights at inappropriate times. But Dora was not an open-minded woman, never had been and what she wanted was what she would settle for. She hated France, the decadence, the frivolity. She said the only thing she hated more than the French were the Italians. Bigotry was acceptable in those days but not for much longer.

I visited them in France, on a school trip while I was finishing up my master’s. Dora was harried and out of her element. Robert was charming to me, he always was, but I could see he had left Dora and her aspirations - left in the sense of mental distancing. The children were confused, often ill-behaved and frightened. All except Annabel. She delighted in France. She had a wonderful teacher who taught her to speak French,(the only one in the family who learned it)how to sew and grow vegetables and flowers. Annabel was thriving while the rest of the family was coming apart. Robert and Annabel wanted to stay, begged for more time to adjust, but Dora always ruled.

Dora again bundled her brood and came home, this time with a different agenda. She was going to get a job, and when the time came, as it surely would, blow off Robert and his ways. She could still make something of herself and she would waste no more energy on Robert Frasier, playboy drunk. They arrived back in the states in time for Annabel to start middle school. They settled in a small town where the houses were cheap and Dora did get a job. Robert went to work in the building trade but his heart wasn’t in it and he spent more time in the woods than on the work sites. He was exceptionally good at bricklaying so was kept on. He did what he had to but no more. He wanted to return to France and when they divorced when Annabel was in her senior year, he did go back. He remarried, died there about twelve years ago, still broke. Annabel went over with her sister Laurel to have his body sent back at their grandmother’s request. Annabel told me he lived just the way he’d always wanted to with a garden, a lot of animals, everything simplified, primitive and warm. “Mother would not in a million years have lived his lifestyle,” she told me. She couldn’t seem to grasp how different her parents were from each other. “What brought them together, Aunt?”
“Your mother saw a handsome guy from a good family and wanted him.”
“What did he find in her?”
“I don’t think he was looking to find anything - his family wanted him settled and your mother was in the right place.”
“What a waste of time.”
“Well they had you. That wasn’t a waste, my dear.”
“Yeah, I guess…”
But she wasn’t sure. All she could see was that two people misjudged horribly and her mother ended up alone and bitter and her father ended up in a foreign country without his children. I think it really bothered her. She said more than once she would never trust herself to marry. It was too gruesome. That was the exact word she used. Oh yes, she did make a slight error, youthful indiscretion if you will.

Annabel’s Ex-Husband Arnie Saunders

I was really tore up when I heard of Annabel’s death, whether it was a suicide as some people are saying, or not. I suppose it could have been a suicide, Annabel did have some black moods, I should know.

We were only married for about a year and for the record, she’s the one who filed for divorce. I wanted to work things out but after the abortion I did lose patience with her and may have said some pretty rough things. Well, it was my kid too. Why don’t a father have a say? I was pretty shook up when she told me what she’d done - who wouldn’t be? I married her in good faith, prepared to offer her a good life. I work hard. I’ve always been a family guy, got three kids now with my second wife June, but it was not to be with Annabel.

She was really great when I first met her. We just graduated from high school and were in our first year at the community college where I was getting a degree in law enforcement. Annabel didn’t think it was good enough for her but her mother thought it was more economical to get the first two years out of the way on the cheap since she got an employee discount for tuition. Annabel was studying all the airy fairy things like literature and art and philosophy. Once she enrolled in that philosophy course her troubles started. She began to question everything; she didn’t seem as easy going, would get gloomy after visiting my parents, who by the way, loved her. But not as gloomy as she was after visiting her mother - that bitch, excuse my language, made her crazy. Old Dora sure had the knack for pushing Annabel’s buttons. I got along with her okay, I would joke with her, but she could be a real downer to Annabel. Never satisfied, always complaining. You could tell she preferred her sons to her daughters, they could do no wrong and we all know Everett was no angel. I shouldn’t speak ill of him, he’s dead now. He was a troubled lad, I’d say but the dead cannot defend themselves. I don’t mind talking about Annabel because she was a little more sane than Everett but how sane is suicide, if you know what I mean?

We married at my parents’ church, Episcopalian we are - when we were twenty. I had my degree and started working for the sheriff’s department. Annabel was restless and wanted to see the world, she said. I paid for a trip to France to see her father before he died. I thought she would settle down after she got home, maybe start a family but you see where that got me? I don’t know what happened in France with her dad but she came back more unsettled than before she left. She just didn’t know what she wanted from life, I could see that but I couldn’t see how to help her. I’m no genius, I guess that’s what she needed. But she never remarried. She became one of those women’s libbers, you know, mad at men, but that wasn’t really Annabel. She was sweet and a lot of fun for the most part. That’s how I remember her.

I don’t know how her life played out after she left and went to Michigan to get her degree. We lost touch - well I remarried pretty soon after. I was sore about killing my kid but I never held a grudge, I got over it. Had three with June, I think I mentioned. I often wondered if Annabel found what she was looking for. Oh, I know she was a successful writer for that magazine, but was she happy? She was just too darn smart for her own good. That’s what my mom used to say. She was a good ol’ girl all the same. That’s all I got to say. Rest in peace, Annabel honey. I haven’t forgotten you.

Annabel’s Publisher David Fairfeld, Fairfeld Publishing of Boston

No, I did not know Annabel Frasier the columnist and A.W. Saunders were one and the same. Yes, I did meet with Ms. Saunders several times and yes, she would do an occasional reading in New York or Boston where she had a small fan base. No, no one seemed to have recognized her from her photograph in the magazine. She changed her hair frequently, wore spectacles and created quite easily, a second persona. It’s not as if magazine writers are recognized everywhere they go. No, Ms. Saunders seemed a recluse, poets often are. I think she enjoyed what fame she had, I know she enjoyed being a published poet, was proud of it. She sold the usual number of books poets sell and as I said, had a small fan base after she did a reading in New York backed up by two jazz musicians. It was quite a performance, stunning actually, I’ll never forget it. She sold books after that, was referred to as a jazz poet in the newspaper articles and literary magazines but she wasn’t really. She wrote free-verse, yes, but it had a nineteenth-century flavor, if you will, although her third book, the popular one, she referred to as her avant garde phase. But she often wrote in traditional poetic form, using fixed meters. Her last book is selling since her…oh, I’m sorry, it has not been determined it was a suicide. Nevertheless, the notoriety is selling books and it is in her favor that the public perceives…forgive me, that’s odious.

A.W. Saunders was a charming woman with a versatile style. We at Fairfeld Publishing shall miss her. Yes, we are doing another print run of all her titles. Yes, we are planning a compilation; a selection of her stronger poems. Yes, I’ve been in contact with her sister, Laurel, regarding royalties. No, it is not true my publishing house is being sold to a major New York firm. Yes, I’m told there is a video recording of her performance in St. Mark’s Church on YouTube. Yes, it very well could increase her book sales. No, I have not seen it - I was at the performance, it was riveting. She had a gift for oratory as well as verse. Some say she had the divine spark and that may be. Please excuse me now. I have nothing more to add. May she rest in peace, she was a very fine poet and that is no small feat.

Annabel’s Landlady Mrs. Chung

No, I was not aware of a gas leak in my building. No, I do not believe I was responsible for the death of Ms. Frasier. No, I do not know how the gas leaked into her apartment. I cannot, and will not speculate on how Ms. Frasier died. I’m very sorry, she was a lovely woman who always remembered my birthday, was always bringing me little treats from her office parties. She was a perfect tenant, and never a cross word. Well, except when her mother came to stay. That woman was no walk in the park: demanding, cantankerous. How she raised such a nice daughter is beyond me. I felt sorry for Annabel at that time. I’d see her leaving for work with an expression I’d never seen on her face before: absolutely riled up. When she came home, she looked sad, weighted down. If you had met her mother you would have no trouble figuring out the reason for the sad face. Course, I kept my distance. I don’t nose into my tenant's business.

For the last time, no I did not know of a gas leak. I’ve had the building inspected top to bottom, what more can I do? The city has been all over me. I’m terribly sorry about Ms. Frasier’s death especially if she did it to herself. We just don’t know at this time. I can’t even rent her apartment until the investigation is over. I’m losing money here. Yes, I’m aware of her sister’s pending lawsuit. I’ve got all the trouble in the world, that’s all I have to say. She was lovely and sad. If she had to die, I wish it hadn’t been in my building. Good day.

Annabel’s Former Boss, Interweave Magazine

Yes, we plan to publish some of Annabel Frasier’s better columns in a book format. No, we did not know she published poetry under the name of A.W. Saunders. Yes, we terminated her column. Yes, we are planning to replace her with a fresh voice, and yes, that will in all likelihood be someone younger. We are interested in social networking, that sort of thing for a columnist. What’s that? No, I certainly cannot speculate on whether or nor Ms. Frasier committed suicide. I believe it is still under investigation. No, I don’t believe her firing had anything to do with it, she was much more than just a columnist. She could have gone on to any number of other fruitful endeavors. A very talented woman. No, I have not read her poetry but the magazine has reviewed one or two titles. Yes, I have spoken to her sister regarding royalties but Interweave owns the rights to the columns. What’s that? No, I do not care to offer any insight. Thank you. No, that’s all we at Interweave have to say in an official capacity.

Annabel’s Sister Laurel

My sister Annabel was always more sensitive than was good for her. Things that would pass by others without notice, she could obsess over. Like our father, for instance: She was always worried about him after our parents divorced. She wanted to live with him in France. Mother wouldn’t allow it and they fought bitterly over it. I remember when Annabel was a junior or senior in high school, Annabel accused our mother of throwing him out with the trash, as if he weren’t a part of our lives. But let me tell you, it takes two to ruin a marriage. He was no saint and Mother had every right to do what she did.

Annabel and Mother were always fighting about something but accusing her of killing Everett, our brother, was beneath even Annabel. Mother just about died hearing that. She and Annabel never spoke to each other for nearly twenty years. For the record, Everett was high on cocaine when he was killed in the motorcycle accident. Everett was a daredevil. He was always in some trouble, often drunk and belligerent, a pain in the you know what, Annabel wanted to save him - her little brother. No one could save him and she took it hard. It was after his death that she started writing poetry. Just like Annabel to keep it a secret. She was always hiding things, writing in a diary with a lock and key. I’ll never forget the day Mother broke it open and read a few pages at the dinner table. I’ve never seen Annabel so wild. I thought she would strike Mother. Mother just laughed and accused Annabel of having no sense of humor. Annabel lunged at her, knocking over glasses and Mother slapped her hard. Dad hadn’t come home yet, was late and Mother was in a mood anyway. This was right before they separated. Annabel never forgave Mother for the “invasion of privacy.” A prima donna is what Mother called her. None of us knew what that meant. Mother said this was her house and there would be no secrets from her. Anyone who knew our mother could have told you that you couldn’t keep a diary, she’d read it. Annabel wasn’t facing reality with that one but then again, she hardly ever did. Mother ruled the roost and there was no getting around it.

Well, with such a slacker for a husband, she had to be on top of things, didn’t she? He was the limit. If anyone killed Everett it was him. A bad example with his drinking and reckless behavior. His playboy attitude. Both Everett and Annabel wanted to move to France with him. Eventually Everett did go over. Dad was remarried to a French woman named Adele. Everett didn’t care for her and came home after a month but Annabel seemed to get along with her okay. Annabel liked to speak French, one of her pretensions.

No, I’m not, nor have I ever been jealous of my sister. Aunt Susan accused Mother of being jealous of Annabel when she got that job at the magazine in New York. Social commentator: What’s that? Aunt Susan said Mother was a frustrated career woman who never got further than a low-level accounting job because she did not have a college degree. Aunt Susan went to college. This irritated Mother because she’d married Dad young and had a pack of unruly kids and spoiled her chances. Aunt Susan could be a pain herself. She thought she was so smart, so literate, read poetry, listened to high-brow music. She was just your typical old-maid aunt. A busybody if you ask me. I think she was secretly in love with Dad. They used to discuss art and politics. While Mother was slaving away in a crummy office, they plied their pretensions. Annabel gets her affectations from Aunt Susan.

No, I didn’t know she published five books of poetry. Who reads poetry? Why she needed to keep it a secret…well, that’s Annabel. Sneaky.

No, I do not know if she killed herself? No one does, really. Unless a note surfaces somewhere. She did have a boyfriend of sorts. Ask him. He was a secret too. Married no doubt. Annabel had a string of married lovers. Her shrink would probably tell you she sought out unavailable men because she herself was unavailable or some such rot. She couldn’t commit to anyone. I made her take in Mother when she became too much for me and Charlie, my husband. Serves Annabel right. Hadn’t so much as sent a card in nearly twenty years. She is our mother. Was. Annabel shirked her responsibilities long enough. It was time for forgiveness. Anyway she was only a few months with Annabel before she died. She wasn’t put out that much. I had her for two years and it wasn’t easy. My husband was quite put out, I can tell you. But she was my mother so what can you do? Annabel was…just so privileged.

No, I’m not happy she is dead, fuck off. I loved my sister. I’m just saying she wasn’t without her faults. She wasn’t as perfect as everyone thought, all those people at the funeral crying, gushing over how beautiful she was, how talented, how soulful. Just because she had a little fame. If you had heard the ridiculous things she wrote in her diary in high school you would not be all that impressed.

Annabel’s Current Boyfriend Alphonse Lurie

I loved her. That’s all I can say with certainty. Yes, I heard she was the poet A.W. Saunders, she wrote poetry all the time. I thought it was her hobby. That’s what she called it. She loved words, played all sorts of word games. She said poetry was like crossword puzzles; something she did while waiting. She would write haiku in public, you know, in cafes, bars, on the bus. I’ve got some of them around, I’ll show them to you later. She was a terrific writer, I’m glad her columns are being published in a collection. She had great insight into American culture. She was brilliant, much more so than anyone knows. She was shy, not a self-promoter. And extremely sensitive. She would have made a good mother. It’s too bad she never married or had children. Yes, I did know she had an early marriage - about a year - but who counts that? One year does not a marriage make.

Yes, I met her mother. She was a piece of work but she was ill when I met her so I don’t want to give the wrong impression. Anyone would be crabby housebound and feeling poorly. No, I’ve never met her sister. I did meet her brother Patrick in Germany when we went to Europe one year. He was okay but distant. They hardly seemed to know each other.

No, I am not an unavailable married man. I am long divorced. I did ask Annabel to marry me but she said it would spoil things. Said she didn’t like living with anyone. Annabel sometimes said she couldn’t love; had got off on the wrong foot, missed that first connection and was now doomed to a loveless life. Her goddamn therapist put that in her mind. She was just as capable, if not more so, of loving than anyone I’ve ever known. Are you kidding me? She didn’t have an unworthy bone in her body. You’re not writing some shitty tell-all, are you? She deserves much better than that. No, she did not kill herself. Absolutely not. She believed in God.

Here are a couple of the haiku poems she scribbled on a napkin in a restaurant just before she died:

a wild rose from you
soft pink on Sunday - breathing
Monday, brown - fleeting

She said, do not leave
He replied, but I must go
soon after, the rain

I know you are talking to a lot of people with different opinions: But let me tell you, Annabel Frasier was one hell of a woman. That’s how your article should begin. Do right by her, man. She was absolutely the best. What's that? No, man, I am not selling her "stray" poems to anyone. Why? Is someone buying?

#84 ISABEL'S RETURN (in six sentences)

These sentences are leftover bits from my sequel to "The Portrait of a Lady" by Henry James. At my blog theportraitofaladyrevisited.blogspot.com you will find the actual first chapter. See sixsentences.blogspot.com for the origins of writing a story in six sentences.

Arriving in Rome in the early morning hours, a musky, heavy-lidded hour when quietude is replaced by the first urban clangings, darkness dissipates and a new day dawns, for Isabel Osmond, it did not feel like a new day but a continuation of a thing damaged, a return not as the same woman nor she suspected, to the same husband--the terms of their marriage requiring modification--she was no longer taking orders nor accepting second-class treatment from her husband.

That the man, Gilbert Osmond, married her for her money, set up by his former mistress to marry a fortune, made Isabel feel dreary with defeat riding the train through the night over a cold distant Europe that did not play fair, did not give the former Isabel Archer her due but took from her much more than money: as Isabel Osmond, she would never again have an easy trust but perhaps at the age of twenty-seven it was just as well considering where it had gotten her.

Isabel telegraphed Osmond of her impending arrival--she received no response--was apprehensive not knowing what would be awaiting her return but fully realizing her husband did not take disobedience lightly and Isabel had greatly vexed her husband by traveling to England to sit with her cousin, Ralph Touchett, as he lay dying, (Gilbert Osmond did not communicate with mavericks, would be certain, could be depended upon to hammer into her psyche)she held no illusions or hopes of finding an improved disposition in her husband.

Osmond married her for her money and now disliked entirely what or who was Isabel herself in inverse proportion to how much he adored the money; he who had for years denounced all that came with position, possession and power succumbed to the disorderly base action of marrying a woman who not only controlled the purse strings but would, if Osmond wasn’t careful, control him--too piteous to comprehend--but he had lost leverage and was possibly to be put in the position of feigning forgiveness of which he had little stomach for--no, she would have to be made to kneel, only this would suffice.

Osmond, pacing intently about his study was not as confident as might be perceived; he did not know what were his wife’s plans, she exasperated him, he had no patience with her ideas and most especially her friends and disliked the uncertainty her absence had produced for himself and within his household, aware the servants were talking, speculating on whether she would return at all.

How they would carry on as husband and wife, he cared little for at this point; his wife ceased to interest him shortly after the death of their son though divorce was unthinkable, better she should die but that was unlikely--he had not yet stooped to murder despite escalating a power struggle that left him no choice but to win--and he would win, of this Osmond was certain; it would be a good month before his frost would yield to summer but a reconciliation was in his best interest, would unfortunately have to be, Dreadful woman! he spat, only to find her standing in the doorway of his study, a grim countenance indeed, once again failing to show respect with her refusal to knock first.

Henry James wrote long convoluted sentences and although I am not comparing my writing to the master, it is fun to run on my sentences for the sake of brevity in six sentences, pretending I am writing in the 19th century.

#83 W, X, Y and Z

County Jail
St. Petersburg, Florida

Dear W,
I’m so sorry that you are in your current circumstances, that life has let you down so, that what could and should be is not, that you are in trouble, that the past is haunting you, that you have no one to talk to, that you cry yourself to sleep.

It’s awful, isn’t it, that life hands you a wallop of misery just as you are finally learning how to live, how to be, have garnered a few secrets to the contented, efficient life? Only to be brought down by circumstances, it’s terrible isn’t it, to feel so much animosity toward innocent people all because of your own dumb luck?

I’m so sorry dear, you are one of my favorite people in the world, I have always looked up to you. I thought you may be a genius, maybe you are. Maybe that is why you are so troubled, you are not made for this mean world, you are the best in the world. Life for you should be sweet, you have all the attributes--looks, taste, brains, sense of humor, honesty, oh I know you say you’ve lost your sense of humor but you can’t lose it it’s just on a back burner somewhere because you do not find your present predicament all that amusing but don’t worry, it will come back to you. Perhaps you should practice laughing; watch some comedy on TV. You say you are physically unable to smile and that is not good you’ve a nice smile, everyone says so, don’t let those facial muscles turn into a permanent frown, practice smiling in the dark, at night when you are unhappy, alone, so that when all this is over, you will not have lost the ability as you say you have but I don’t believe it for a minute. You’ve always been the one who sees the absurdity in situations and it would be a shame to lose that trait as its not as prevalent as you think--most everyone taking their life and themselves oh so seriously. I’m sorry if that is the case with you presently, as you are a source of fun and have always made others laugh, pointing out all the funny little quirks of fate, of personalities, even those dire newspaper stories meant to instill fear left you pondering the irrationality of events and people, you could see the insanity for what it was and I’ve always valued that in you, I could express my fears over the state of the world and you would lessen them by just the right words, an outlook original and fresh. Journalism is truly your calling.

You say your life is nothing more than a corrupted file and you even go so far as to say that you might have to be deleted or if you cannot be deleted as some files cannot, your entire operating system might have to be purged and either rebuilt or recycled. I don’t know quite what you mean by this analogy--or is it a metaphor? But purging, deleting, recycling are not options for you dear, you are too fine and if your life is corrupted, well I can’t believe that. No, you are just having a phase of awfulness but if you were to really look at your problems in detail you would realize a) they’re unimportant in and of themselves, b) they are temporary, c) time heals all lousy situations, d) they are nothing in the long life you are sure to lead. I know you may not want to hear it, but look deeply into the path you have chosen; acknowledge where you chose wrong.

You say you have taken a look and know you made some wrong moves but that all the options were wrong. When you have only bad options there is no way around bad results. Yes, I agree with you there, it is a question of degrees, which option will be the least uncomfortable, which will allow you some leeway to leverage yourself, yes I agree, you had a difficult choice and you chose wrong it seems but we’ll never know will we? We can’t turn back the pages of your story and rewrite--all you can do is move the plot forward with a little bit of an idea that you choose even if you seem to be in limbo without options and I agree, you do seem to be in a bind.

It’s just that dear one, it does no good putting yourself down, judging so harshly, so what if someone irritates you, maybe they are an irritating person to begin with, yes I know you say you are the only one irritated but that doesn’t mean the irritating factors aren’t there in this person in relation to you, many people have trouble in this area, we aren’t all compatible, there are differences, human proclivities that are thorny. Don’t feel guilty for that, no one gets along with everyone and you my dear have the self-actualized persona that requires autonomy. You do not suffer fools gladly. It is who you are there is no use pretending you are an average person that can adapt to shit or even another’s way. You are a unique being in that you have taken your self into realms others are not even aware exits, we’ve always said that you of all people were not as troubled with the flotsam of the world, that you could see beyond it and not fret the small stuff as they say, you’ve always been above the trivial, the false, the misleading the vanity, that is what was so fresh about you when we first met you. “This person,” I told X, “is above the fray.”

Now I know you will say you are no longer “above” anything. That you are knee deep in shit but that cannot be accurate because you cannot sink that low or if you have, you will soon rise up to normal levels where shit cannot attach itself, I have faith in that as I haven’t in other things, that you will rise again, don’t worry doll, you are too good to stay mired in shit or corrupted beyond repair. You just need to breathe and reboot, please do not consider yourself finished it is not healthy and no one believes it anyway. You have fallen before, X always says that you fall as no one else does but cannot remain low for long, you have too many gifts and might possibly be a genius, don’t shirk that label, no one knows for sure who is a genius anymore. Fashion designers, interior decorators and television producers regularly receive the label, I know the word has been watered down to the point of meaninglessness, so you may not be comfortable with the label, what you are is, nevertheless, what you are and that remains, who you are intrinsically and though false winds do blow, you stand firm in the essential isness of your being, yes I know I’m getting esoteric again, X says “I go lofty” but it is my particular gift, if you will.

I don’t have any more advice because your problem is not inherent but circumstantial. That is both good and bad--good that it’s not who you are, bad that it will require resources you don’t have at present to rectify the deplorable situation you find yourself in. Jail is not anyone’s idea of a good time even if the stay is short. Eventually you will be free and yes, I know, life may never again be the same lark it appeared to be in your younger days, there will be consequences, I am sorry to say but then again, you never know where you will land or with whom, a roundabout way of saying, what the future shall be, shall be though I do not mean to make light of certain constraints you are presently facing, I’m sorry, X is sorry, we think of you, pray for you (I do, X doesn’t pray and wants me to make that clear, little Z is too young to pray) and will only reiterate, you are not a corrupted file, you just unexpectedly crashed and you have to believe someone will come along and reboot if you are unable to do it yourself. Perhaps you don’t have access to the right buttons or programs.

Take care dear, you are valuable even though you don’t see it at this time. We see it clearly. I’m sorry for your low mood, moods are like the weather; constantly in flux. We await your return and continued good cheer, your own special band that we prefer to all others. Love, X, Y, and Z

P.S. We were at a party this past weekend and everyone was asking about you. We told them you were at a retreat, out of the country, destination unknown.

P.S. S. X says he knows you are innocent, that it could not be otherwise. (He’s always been a little in love with you. I’m not jealous, don’t worry, we both love you.)

#82 LOVE SQUARED: PART II

CAROLYN

My name is Carolyn Ryder, I’m sixty-six years old and bored out of my mind. I sound like a petulant teenager. I realize that’s not the most original statement, who isn’t at times? But I’ve been blasé in my marriage for well over...well, maybe forever. James Ryder, my husband, wasn’t my first choice. I’d been jilted by someone I felt more passion for but that is a long and very old story. In any case, choice number one is no longer living but I had the satisfaction of hearing him say he’d made a mistake marrying my good friend, Sharon Adams. Some days I resolve to find myself and put an end to the lethargy that I drag around with me everywhere, on other days, I determine to be a good sport, appreciate what I have and carry on.

I am married to a good though stodgy man. We live in a airy modern condo in San Francisco that we purchased after our children moved away. We have two children, Brooke, 34, and Brandon, 36. They live on the East coast. We don’t have grandchildren yet. I think Brandon might be gay. He hasn’t broken the news to us yet but I have my suspicions. His sister, in a pique, lobbed a few hints my way.

James and I thought we would travel after retirement, take up hobbies, and enjoy our so-called golden years similar to the ads in the AARP Magazine. We have enough money, good health, live in a lively city where we are a part of the community, but for some reason, we've reached the golden years and are fresh out of inspiration. There hasn’t been an idea put forth by either one of us that will take us out of our ennui. We just move through our days, barely talking, going about our separate pursuits and once a week have dinner in the same restaurant we have been frequenting for decades, usually ordering the same thing. James might like to try something new; he often mentions places he reads about in the newspaper but I have been on a constant diet since I turned fifty-five when I started to gain weight. Mother Nature’s little joke: just when we need all the comfort we can get, food is no longer an option. So I started fanatically dieting and have never so much as looked at a dish of pasta since then.

I took the onset of middle-age hard because…well, full disclosure, I had a love affair that ended badly (not to my liking) and my self-esteem plummeted but I’m being subtle. I really should say I wanted to die, but that sounds overly dramatic. I did not think I could live without love. It seems foolish now to have been so overwrought. But just when I think I’m over it, something pops into my mind and I feel completely stranded--like I’m on high alert watching and waiting for someone to find the raft on which I’ve floated to oblivion. Not death exactly, but just a dead weight. I did not take rejection well--still have not forgiven…

Yes, I’m an unfaithful spouse. I’m not particularly bothered by it from a moral standpoint. In fact, I had planned on asking James for a divorce to marry Blake so enraptured was I, a middle-aged married woman, mother of two, an accountant at a conservative firm, and friends with most of the high-heeled women of San Francisco. I don’t mean their shoe style, but their stature. Women who worked for the City; politicians, socialites, entrepreneurs. My husband was a partner in a prominent law firm. We knew everyone, I worked on numerous campaigns, did my share of fund-raising over the years and if you saw my desk, you would see me photographed with all the players including Mr. and Mrs. Clinton. James has a picture of himself with Dick Cheney but I don’t think it trumps my Clintons.

I retired five years ago and instead of doing all that volunteer work I was slated for, I got the real estate bug after selling our home in Forest Hill and purchasing our flat on Jackson Street. I got my license and started a new career. The housing bubble was in full swing at the time and I was taken on by a friend whose agency was signing foot soldiers like the army after 9/11. This allowed me to work in a new field, keep up my contacts and social life, help a friend and make some money to supplement my pension. Who knew retirement would be so much fun? Then the market tanked, my husband has retired and is home all day and I can’t for the life of me, find inspiration for anything. Sometimes I wish I had gotten divorced. I think I would feel free to explore. As it is, I’m as slumped as the economy.

And I miss Blake. That was the name of the man I was so enamored with. I use the past tense but in truth, in is probably safe to include the present tense. He was also married and we both took it for granted that neither of us would be changing our status at any time. I don’t know why we were so fixed on staying married. Okay, that is not true. Blake was fixed on staying married. As I said, I wanted to chuck it all and move in with him. He wouldn’t. He said he loved his wife Julia and that she would be lost without him. Right! What century was he living in? I was pretty miffed when he admitted he loved his wife. That is not something you tell your mistress even if it’s true. You are supposed to pretend you are misunderstood, haven’t slept together in years and are only staying in the marriage because of the children. Blake and Julia had no children so I couldn’t put the onus on them. My children were in college or about to be. No, Blake was always brutally honest.
“I never want to deceive you, Caro,” he would say. “I have no intention of ever divorcing. I hope you understand that. I don’t think you really want to divorce either. We have the freedom to see each other whenever we want. Let’s not spoil things.”
And in truth, I didn’t really want to divorce so much as I wanted him to want me above all others. It hurt my self-esteem that he was content to be with someone else. For a while there, we went at it hot and heavy, excuse the crude cliché, and I wanted all of him and thought he should feel the same way. I was a typical woman in this regard. Once I knew his feelings, that he was content with things the way they were, I wanted to break up his marriage, as well as my own, and it became of sort of obsession. I’m admitting things I shouldn’t. I'm really at loose ends…to be looking within like this. It’s not my style.

Then there was Julia, his wife. She was at least twelve years younger than he was and at least five or six years younger than me. This sort of irritated me. The mistress is not supposed to be older than the wife. And she was attractive in her own way, I guess. I mean, she was a natural type, you know, she didn’t touch up her hair, go out of her way to be fashionable, hardly wore makeup even though she was not flawless, for God’s sake, get a clue. We did not travel in the same circle, she was more arty although I could never figure out what her real game was.

The only reason I knew much about her at all is because I made a point of checking her out when I found out she worked in a certain gallery. I do not usually visit galleries but Blake let slip once where she worked and I took a couple lunch hours and did a little gallery hopping. Never once did I see her. Finally I made note of an opening reception scheduled and attended with one of my girlfriends. There she was, in her hippie-dippy outfit, long hair wearing a sort of Victorian pendant and earring set that really looked old-fashioned. She was attractive but definitely not au courant. She did not look younger than me; some consolation. At least if I couldn’t interest Blake in leaving her, I could be satisfied that she wasn’t better looking than me.
“She’ll age badly,” said my friend Linda. “She’s too serious. She should do something with that hair. It’s foreboding.”
It was good to have a more objective opinion.

We left without looking at the art. I didn’t think I could talk to Julia if she should happen to corner us. I know nothing about art nor care and was certainly not buying anything I saw hanging in that particular show. James likes art and used to haul me and the kids to museums when we traveled. Luckily for me, the kids groaned whenever he mentioned a museum and he usually went alone. When Brooke got older she developed an interest in art and would accompany him while Brandon and I went shopping. Now that James is retired he goes to museums in the afternoon to get out of the house. Thank God for that. I really hate having him underfoot all day. Right now I haven’t got anything to do; the agency laid me off until the recession is over and the housing market rebounds. No one is putting anything on the market in this economy. James says to be patient; it will all start up again eventually. “One day you will wake up and it will all be over,” he said, “like it never happened.” Really? What does he know?

But back to Blake; he is who I want to concentrate on. He and I had a nice thing going for about three and a half years. He was handsome, yes, but it was more than that. He was exciting and he smelled divine, a combination of truffles and cloves. He owned a restaurant where the power brokers used to lunch. That was before San Francisco was inundated with new restaurants opening every week. Then, we had our favorites and patronized them. We did not restaurant hop in those days, but were loyal to one or two. It’s not like that now. Everyone is reading reviews, looking at websites and running all over the Bay Area trying to be in the know; following certain chefs from place to place. It’s rather promiscuous. James and I go to the same two or three places we have always gone to. We know the maitre d, the wine steward, the waiters. That is what I enjoy in dining out; seeing the same faces, knowing what you order will be to your liking.

I met Blake in his restaurant one day while he was acting as host. Later I learned he was the owner. I kept going back for lunch and he invited me to have a drink with him in the bar one day. I started hanging out in his place after work. I’d bring a group of friends or coworkers. This led to a few cocktails alone with him. Then a few dinners together. He had a room above the restaurant where he sometimes stayed after a late closing. In those days, he catered a lot of parties. It became our little love nest. I even decorated it. After he sold the restaurant, we took weekend trips together and once we flew to New York for a week. I think Julia was in Italy or someplace, “soaking up the culture,” he said. At that time, he showed me his house in the outer Richmond. I couldn’t believe someone with his money and pizzazz lived in such a dump. “I expected you to live in a sumptuous home,” I said sort of shocked. “To match your personality…” He said it had been his parents house and had recently caught fire from faulty wiring. He admitted Julia didn’t like it either. It was too dark. I joked that his wife set it on fire hoping to burn it to the ground and get something new. For some reason he didn’t find that funny…it was just a silly joke. I noticed after that he became more serious and less user-friendly, you could say.

So we began drifting apart. Well no, that’s not the truth either. One day he announced he had bought a new flat for Julia. He said she had finally convinced him to sell the old place and buy something modern and closer to town. She wanted walkability, a new buzz word in San Francisco real estate jargon. When I found out what they bought I was seething. Mad with jealousy, really. It was a superb renovated flat in Pacific Heights. The thought of Julia getting it soured me on Blake for some reason. Why was he buying her this extravagant home at this time? I guess some part of me always thought he would eventually leave her and we would set up housekeeping in just such a place. It was exactly the sort of home I coveted. And I was unable to forget about it either. The developer had trouble with the City over restoration and the disputes were chronicled in the newspaper every day for about a month. I was not allowed to forget Julia and Blake’s dream flat.

We faltered on for another six months and then he said we had to stop seeing each other. He said his health was not so good but didn’t go into details. I knew it was his heart, I looked at his prescriptions and googled them. Those goddamn steps up to their flat proved to be a big mistake. They didn’t kill him but they didn’t help. I blame Julia. Just because.

Our finale was staged with a lavish lunch in the Financial District. Blake presented me with a lovely gold bracelet that was engraved with a parting message. I could do nothing but weep quietly; his reason for the busy restaurant in the middle of the day. Why are men so manipulating? He knew I wouldn’t make a fool of myself in that particular restaurant. I accepted the bracelet gracefully but I was not happy; I am not happy. Past and present tense.

I put our spacious family dwelling on the market and we moved a couple blocks away from them. Unplanned, I swear, but a fact nevertheless. Blake never knew. One day I saw him walking with Julia as they passed by our building. He had aged a lot since I’d last seen him. Julia looked the same but with shorter hair. This made her look younger; like the dutiful daughter walking the old man. My husband looked young compared to him but James never had Blake’s wit or energy. I’ve never felt about James the way I felt about Blake and that is why I’m musing over old times. I’m dissatisfied, cooped up and wishing for a way to find myself again. And by that I mean, my inner woman who feels as dried up as one of those hanging ducks in the Chinese markets. The juice squeezed out.

Blake died four years ago. I went to the funeral and saw Julia in her long black dress. I didn’t introduce myself. As far as I know, she never knew about my affair with her husband. When the tears came, I left. I really wanted to look at his body up close but was hesitant. I wanted to be alone to cry and say a few words of parting, to touch him. I did no such thing. No use making a spectacle or causing suspicion at that point. But I was most definitely resentful at being denied...bereavement.

Blake is my past but I wish the present would hold some of his zip, his vigor. That is what I miss when I think of Blake. He loved to laugh and entertain people. He loved a crowd. His wife, so passive, so wallflowery, seemed a mismatch. And yet, he was devoted to her. I never quite accepted this fact. What did she have that I didn’t? I could not compete with her because we were not playing the same game. She was other-worldly and provoked me by her hold on Blake for reasons I have not ever understood. How I wished she would just blow away.

JULIA

Ryder and I spent a good deal of time together after that first dinner on Union Street. He would leave his home in the morning and be with me by eleven. We would lunch in my flat, something similar to the afternoon tea the English partake of: small cakes, tarts, scones, watercress or cucumber sandwiches and deviled eggs. James is English, born in London. His parents immigrated to the states shortly after World War II. His younger sister was killed in a bombing raid and his mother wanted nothing to do with Europe from then on. When they had a chance to leave, they left. James was only seven years old. Occasionally I detect a slight English accent and it is charming. He makes an excellent pot of tea; he orders it from a shop in Mayfair. You see we are still in present tense. Am I giving away the ending?

My husband, Blake, had a rambunctious Massachusetts accent. Blake was wildly extroverted and Ryder is quiet. I find him consoling at this time in my life. He says his wife Carolyn finds him boring. I can see that might be the case if you were married to him for forty-seven years and had run out of things to talk about. His wit does not sparkle, his opinions are measured, his bearing is conservative. But that is only the surface: He has an abiding love for painting, genuinely appreciates classical music and likes to walk all over the City, pointing out its history and development. I am never bored in his company. He does not need to fill space with his presence as so many men do. My husband was a hand-grabber, a back-slapper, a gregarious socializer. I often felt older even though I was twelve years younger. Before he had his restaurant downtown, he used to drag me to endless parties, sporting events, boating excursions and wine tastings where I always melted into the background, the perpetual wallflower. He used to laugh and say, You’d probably be content to sit on the couch and read those dang books every night if I didn’t make you come out. He was probably right. He called me his Bohemian rhapsody. His sister once referred to me as an old hippie. I was offended: I wasn’t old nor had I ever been a hippie. The best thing about Blake was his love of music, all different kinds. He liked opera and symphonic music as well as Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett.

Once he opened the restaurant, he had a playing field every night and we no longer had to socialize at all. Everyone came to him. He worked long hours and I saw less of him than before and spent more time alone. I was forlorn in the dark flat so I volunteered in a museum and that was the start of my career in art. Eventually I worked for a small gallery, then another small gallery and then a major gallery. It did not happen overnight; it took quite a few years to find my place and learn the ropes of selling a product that is expensive and not necessarily one’s daily bread. I had to learn about investment quality whereas before my attention was strictly for aesthetics. My best years were those spent selling aesthetic value to those looking to invest. It gets tricky but if the quality is not there, it is no investment; it will eventually fall flat. I never tried to fool anyone. So many artists had their day, made a splash but there wasn’t enough there for the long haul. I won’t name names.

Speaking of names, there is one name that still eludes me. My husband had a mistress though details are scant. She may not have been the only one for all I know. I never presented him with my evidence, did not care to disturb the tranquility that was necessary after he developed a heart condition. One day he asked me to sort through some old papers; he was looking for a missing invoice that he needed for the IRS who audited him once again the year before he died. While searching for the missing invoice I came across another invoice, from a jewelry store that is no longer in business. It was for a gold bracelet, engraved with the words, To lovely C. for our golden moments. B. There is was. Not to be denied. But I did. It was too late for confrontations and I hadn’t the heart for it anyway: my darling husband was fading. I never spoke of this to anyone until one day I mentioned it to Ryder. He said something about his wife possibly having an affair, but that he never confronted her nor sought any details. He asked me if I thought this was the normal way a man would act in such a circumstance. I told him about finding the invoice for the bracelet and not letting on. His reply was, “We are alike in so many ways, Julia. How did I live without you?”

Ryder called me early on a sunny, vibrant Thursday that sizzled with possibility. I was going to suggest that we go out somewhere when he phoned.
“Julia, do you want to meet me in the Fillmore this afternoon? I’ve got an errand to run and we might as well have lunch.”
“I’d love to. The usual place?”
“I’ll see you there around one-thirty.”

I meandered around Fillmore Street and bought a pair of shoes. It had been some time since I’d treated myself to anything. I scraped the money together for the roof repairs and with that worry banished, I felt like celebrating. Spring was in the air and I had been contacted by a former client in L.A. who wanted to sell a few pieces in his collection and I happened to know the DeYoung might be interested in them. This felt like the start of my career as an independent dealer. The first step after the heavy blanket had been lifted from the atmosphere and we were once again free to think of things besides depleted stock portfolios, sinking home prices and the questionable recovery. Maybe I would recover my own initiative and fly after all.

We were seated at a table in a corner, Ryder looking over the wine list. Ever since that first day in the cab when he introduced himself as Ryder, I stuck with that name. He often referred to himself by his last name. He said his wife calls him James so he prefers that I call him Ryder.
“You don’t know how glad I am to have the roof repair behind me,” I said. The roof itself is not actually repaired but I’ve handed over the money and can now be relieved of the burden. But it leaves me pretty depleted.”
“Would you like to borrow some money, Julia?”
“No, no, no…that’s not what I meant. I’m okay.”
“If you ever need anything, just ask.”
“Thank you, dear. I would not like to borrow money from you.”
“Well then, just ask to have it.”
“And you will fork it over, like your last bite of cheesecake?”
“I will give you whatever you need or want. Just so you know that.”
“Thank you, my dear. So, what brings you out today?”
“Oh, I had to see my doctor.”
“Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“No. Nothing so far.”
“That’s a relief.
“What would you like to order?”
“Salad Nicoise, white wine, no bread.”
“Not dieting, I hope?”
“Just a light lunch for me today.”
“That’s what I’ll have too.”

We were merrily munching our salads commenting on how much longer it took to eat salad than pasta. “My jaw is tried of crunching up those vegetables,” I said.
“Gives us time to savor the atmosphere and drink more wine,” he said.
We were on our third glass when I noticed a woman sitting across the restaurant looking my way. She was staring at me and I wondered if I should know her from somewhere. She seemed vaguely familiar but it did not come to me so I forgot about her and kept on grazing in my salad bowl, the size of a basketball.

As the woman was preparing to leave, putting on lipstick, signing the bill, she kept an eye on our table. She was not visible to Ryder so I didn’t mention that someone was staring at me. I thought maybe she had been a former client in the gallery and hoped I wouldn’t be put in the awkward position of speaking to her, not knowing her name. As she was coming our way, she looked at me but kept on walking. That is until she did a double take, turned back, having recognized her own husband.
“James. What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” she sputtered.
“Just having a little lunch. How about you?” What finesse he displayed. He was a marvel of sanguinity.
“Lunching, obviously,” she said in a terse voice making an effort at control
“Carolyn, this is Mrs. Durham. Julia Durham. Julia, this is my wife Carolyn.”
“How do you do,” I said. That was all I could get out. I sounded cold when I should have, for appearance's sake, projected a friendly attitude. I was downright suspicious acting.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “ I’ll see you at home James. Enjoy your lunch.” The sarcasm heavy with innuendo and antagonism almost froze my blood.
Off she went, her friend gaping as they trotted out on their high heels. James looked a little red in the face but regained his composure and only met my eyes with a bemused look.
“Don’t worry Julia. I’m actually glad she saw us. I very much enjoyed the look of shock on her face. She underestimates me. For the past two years she hasn’t said a word to me about my whereabouts. Every day I get up, take a cup of coffee and leave. Every day she ignores me, focuses on her own day, relieved to have me out of the house. Hasn’t she ever wondered where I go? Do I just walk the streets all day? She has never displayed the slightest curiosity. It’s insulting, really.”
He paid the bill and we walked to my place. He didn’t mention her again. I said, “She’s an attractive woman, isn’t she?”
“Yes, I believe she is considered so,” was his curt reply.
“Ryder, you are going to be in a heaping pile of trouble tonight?”
“I don’t see how I can be. I am my own man. As she is her own woman.”
“But she looked really upset. And confused. I felt sorry for her, with that friend pretending outrage behind a barely concealed smirk.”
“Good. Let her be confused. Let’s take a nap in your comfortably plush bed for the rest of the afternoon and listen to Vivaldi. I don’t want to go home just yet.”

Ryder was especially passionate that afternoon during our nap. He wanted to devour me and it felt delicious. It was six before we got up. I made us a cup of tea and he reluctantly left. Afterward I tried to imagine what would happen when he arrived home. I could not stop thinking of the look on Carolyn’s face. She would not be ignoring his whereabouts now, Ryder would have some explaining to do. Did I mention that he was holding my hand at the table when she spotted him? Poor Ryder. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where I knew her from. Somewhere in the past, I’d encountered her.

For the record, she was more than attractive; she looked a little like Jane Fonda. She wore perfectly tailored slacks with high heels, an ivory silk blouse with a gray cashmere sweater draped around her neck. Her makeup was applied with professional artistry, her hair was expertly highlighted and cut. Her jewelry was gold but subtle. She had that polished, pulled-together look I'd always hoped to emulate but could never quite pull off. I felt like a rag doll in her presence. Somehow I never pictured Ryder with a glamorous wife.

I spent the night wondering if Ryder would give me up now. We were in love but what did that mean? We never talked of the future. We played like children without fear of consequences. What were we thinking? What did I want? I found no answers that night. I thought I might need some distance and began planning a trip. Then felt cowardly, running away from trouble.

JAMES

It was bound to happen, I suppose. San Francisco is a small city. Yes, I was a little rattled at seeing my wife in the restaurant. I kept cool for Julia’s sake. It was unfortunate that I was holding her hand or I could easily explain it away as an old colleague, a member of my wine appreciation group, someone from my accountant’s office. Now I would have some accounting of another kind when I got home. I was sorry Carolyn had to see us in that unexpected way. She would hate most that the friend was witness to the spectacle of her husband canoodling with a woman in public in the afternoon without a care in the world. She would be unforgiving about that.

I entered our flat with a feeling of weariness. The day had been long and Julia and I didn’t really have a proper nap. For some reason, I had to make her aware of my ardor. It was apprehension I felt. Not because of Carolyn, but fear Julia would want to call things off now that we were outed, as they say. I would have rather stayed at Julia’s and made a simple dinner, an omelet or a steak sandwich. Julia was a good cook and had a lot of professional equipment from her husband’s restaurant. She had a Italian espresso machine and the sort of high-end cookware you find in Europe. It was a pleasure to sit on a stool and watch her prepare meals. At these times I felt I was waking from a deep sleep wondering why I had slept so long moving about in a life not especially fortifying.

But return home I did. What else could I do? Carolyn was pacing the living room when I entered.
“So he deigns to return to his own home after an afternoon of God only knows what. James, really. You could have given me some kind of warning?”
“What would you have said if I had?”
“Any number of things but at least Jan wouldn’t have had to witness my humiliation. Thank you. It’s all over town by this time. Where may I ask did you meet Mrs. Durham? How long have you two known each other?”
“I met her at the museum two years ago, approximately. It was right after I retired and you banished me from our kingdom on a rainy day. We happened to meet in the café and shared a taxi home.”
“I see. And you never knew her before that?”
“No, why would I?”
“No reason. And I suppose you have been spending your days in her flat, less than two blocks from here. All this time I thought you went to the Mechanics Institute Library every day, playing chess, writing your memoirs. Instead you were creating memories.”
“You have never, by the way, asked where I spend my days. A complete lack of curiosity in a wife, wouldn’t you say? And by the way, how do you know where Mrs. Durham lives? You weren’t having me followed now were you, Carolyn?”
Carolyn had to stall before answering that question. How could she explain how she knew where Julia lived? She let down her guard and now would have to dissemble like mad.
“I’ve seen her around the neighborhood. I’m in real estate; I know something about the neighborhood. I remember when her building went co-op after that big remodel. All the hassles the City gave the builders over restoration and codes. It was always in the paper at that time.”
“Yes but how do you know Mrs. Durham lives there?”
“I see her around. She walks past our building…little did I know what she was up to.”
“She is not up to anything, Carolyn. She has been keeping me company, has been a good friend since I retired. You did not want the position, had better things to do with your time than sit around with me…I think that’s what you said. I was underfoot. In your way.”
“Look James, I’m not going to play word games with you. What do you plan on doing?”
“Doing?
“Yes James, doing. As in carrying on with one woman while married to another. Usually people do something when it comes to light. You end things with her, you separate from the wife, you take a trip together and let the other thing fall off…I mean, James, come on.”
“I should think you might have something to say about this doing, as you put it. What would you like to do, Carolyn?”
“I’d like to murder that detestable woman! Her serenity, her stupid long trailing skirts as if she’s about to step into her carriage, her conceit!” Her voice was shrill, her hands were flapping about the air looking for something to swat.
“Come now Carolyn, she’s not that much of a threat to you. Why the drama? I can’t believe a three-minute encounter filled you with such bile. Are you jealous? I must say I find that a little difficult to swallow.”

Carolyn did not, for once, have an answer. She bit her lip but I could tell she didn’t have it in her to shed tears. Our marriage, I think I explained, was not one of passion and she would have had to do some acting to make me believe she was wretched on my account. As I predicted, she was mad at being taken unawares in her friend’s company. But even in this regard, she was mildly indifferent. Something was bothering her that went beyond that afternoon‘s encounter but Carolyn would not give up any information easily. Secretive had always been her formula. After her outburst, she left the room, said she had a headache and ordered me to sleep in the spare room. Her last words were, “…and this Mrs. Durham, Julia, is she really so wonderful as all that? What do men see in her?”

I didn’t know what men she was referring to. I sat on the sofa until three in the morning. I thought of our life together, our children. Then I thought of Julia and how much she meant to me. Would I, could I, propose to her? Would she accept? Could I leave Carolyn? For some reason none of the answers came. When you are old, things that might have been paramount in younger years, lose their impact. In truth, I did not believe Julia wanted to change her life to accommodate me. Or would she? I fell asleep on the couch and woke up early with Carolyn standing over me.
“I’d still like to know what you plan on doing, James. Think about it. I’d like to discuss our future but be forewarned: never mention that woman to me again.”
She slammed the door and I was left with my rambling, incoherent thinking, unable to comprehend why I had to do anything but vaguely excited at the prospect.

CAROLYN

Oh, how much bile there was within me. James was right about that. I could not stand the thought of that woman once again showing up in my life. Why? Why was I being tormented again by Julia Durham? I could not bear thinking of her. Seeing her sitting in that restaurant with my husband gazing rapturously into her eyes made me nauseated. Who was this woman sent to torment me forever; never to be done with her? I really did not know quite how much animosity toward her I still carried around. I tried to analyze it rationally: if James had been with another woman, would I have felt so much rancor? I tried to picture another woman sitting across from him and I couldn’t. James is not what you would call a ladies’ man. He’s bumbling, unimaginative, dull. How it God’s name did he introduce himself to Julia? How did she take an interest in him after a dynamic husband like Blake? He’s an old man, for heaven’s sake. She’s no ingénue but she still has that youthful appearance that makes me want to throttle her. She doesn’t even dye her bloody awful gray hair and still she has the air of someone who wakes up everyday with something to sing about. How I despise her! Yes, I disliked her intensely when Blake was alive, I had reasons, I think I mentioned them. But now this! Why is she poaching on my territory again? I could not sleep all night thinking these terrible thoughts and then I had to consider what I would do if James decides he wants to separate. Would he dare? I suppose he would if Julia wanted it. Doesn’t she always get what she wants? Would she want James? I don’t know her well enough. What I do know is not objective; a vile twisted jealousy. I despise that woman, that is all I keep thinking. Why? Because her husband would not leave her for me. I thought I was over it. I thought the past was dead. Now I’m filled with the same rage I once suffered. Would James leave me for her? Would my kids have to know her, have her in their lives? Oh, such intolerable circumstances, can I be forced to endure them? I have to prevent James from leaving, if only to spite Julia. I have to stop that wretched woman from taking any more from me than she already has. I will thwart her finally. It’s too late for Blake but I will stop her from taking James from me somehow. I thought I wanted to leave James and I might have, but I will not let Julia take from me again. I have do something…to stop her. Thank God I kept that bottle of sleeping pills. I’ve got to sleep and forget.

JAMES

I’m going to level with you upfront: No, Carolyn did not take too many sleeping pills and wind up in the hospital or the morgue. Nor did she “murder that woman” or play out any other jealous, destructive scenarios that a writer of fiction might have us end with. It's tempting to add some real conflict at this point but I’m staying with reality as I write this. It's not exciting and I'm sorry if you've read this far only to be let down with events that lack dramatic appeal.

Carolyn, after the incident in the restaurant, remained taciturn and petulant. She slammed doors, threw things, virulently attacked me in conversations with our children. She berated me, accused me of being unable to take care of things around the house like a clogged drain, a jammed window. She implied I was getting too old to be useful and hoped she wouldn’t be stuck with an old man, an invalid just as she’s re-launching her career. I would listen to her on the phone and then call Brooke and Brandon to reassure them I was not about to be committed to a nursing home. They didn’t have to worry about their old Dad yet. “Your mother is a little testy these days. It’s between us so don’t get involved if you can help it,” I said to my daughter.
“Why is she so upset, Dad?”
“She wants to go back to work and the real estate market is in the doldrums.”
“So she’s taking it out on you, huh?”
“There are other things…between us. They’ll work themselves out eventually.”

But would they? Julia was in Europe for three weeks so time was without structure once again. I tried to stay out of Carolyn’s way as much as possible. She was either eerily silent or went the opposite way and tried to pick fights over small matters. She talked her boss into letting her back in the office two days a week. She was more aggressive than ever, something that worked in her favor in a tight market. I was glad she had an outlet. I looked forward to Julia’s e-mails and eventual return. I resolved to ask her to marry me and then had second thoughts. It is not something we ever discussed and I had no idea how she felt. This tormented me: I was in love. I saw her everywhere I went, I talked to her as I meandered around town, used to our chatty afternoons together. I did not want to be without her. Why had we never talked about these things?

I also felt guilty about living with one woman while contemplating marriage with another one. I’m old-fashioned, too old to be rustling through the ravages of a broken home. I thought I should settle things with Carolyn before Julia returned. That way, whatever came to pass, I would be separated. I tried to bring it up with Carolyn but she shunned me. She has always had the upper hand and I think she was afraid to hear me out. Carolyn did not like the defensive position but she could not seem to regain the offensive. Technically, she should have had it. But my nonchalance threw her and she kept a tight control on her temper. Until...

One morning I broached the subject, warily to be sure. “Carolyn, you haven’t asked me again what I am going to do.”
“I don’t care what you do. I just hope you’ve settled down and ended things with that odious woman.”
Just hearing Julia described as odious set me off. “Why do you keep calling her names?” You do not know her. She isn’t at all odious.”
“Are you finished with her, Mrs. Durham? You’ve been hanging around more lately. Did she give you the heave ho?”
“She’s in Europe.”
“Oh yes, those European trips, those cultural jaunts.”
“Really Carolyn, you seem to know Mrs. Durham? Have you had her investigated?” I was only half serious but with Carolyn, you never knew what she was capable of.
“I know the type, let’s say.”
“I’m thinking of joining her in Europe.”
“Oh please! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous about it?”
“You’re married, remember?”
“I hardly do remember. You haven’t been my wife for many years and you know it. Your choice, by the way.”
“We are married nevertheless so forget about your little European getaway.”
“Perhaps I should. But just the same, I may move out of here. Into a small studio somewhere.”
“You’re joking! Oh, don’t tell me you’ve resurrected your old dream of being a painter. Please don’t tell me anything so ludicrous at your age though really, who knows what influence Mrs. Durham might have? Julia.”
“No, I’m not. Joking or painting. I think we need to end this…whatever it is… once and for all.”
“Why? Are you planning to marry that woman?”
“We need to separate. You said yourself, I’m in the way.”
“I’m going back to work full-time soon.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“You can’t leave. I won’t allow you to make a fool of yourself over that…Julia Durham.”
“You have no say. You gave that up.”
“I won’t have it!” she screeched. “I will not let her take…from me.”
“She’s not taking anything from you that you haven’t already discarded,” I yelled back, “that you relinquished long ago.”
“What an ass you’ve become. You are too dull for her…how can she stand you after…”
“After what?”
“Nothing. Forget it. I despise you both! she spat out.”

As she hurled herself toward the door, her anger a brackish aura floating about her, she grabbed at the slender handle on the French-door latch and a gold bracelet she had been wearing for years caught itself, snapped apart and flickered across the room landing at my feet.
“Don’t you dare touch my bracelet,” she howled. “I will kill you if you touch it!”
It was too late. I had picked it up and because I happened to be looking over my coin collection, wearing my magnified glasses, saw an inscription: To lovely C. for our golden moments. B.

I must say, my heart almost stopped as I handed it to her but I did not say a word. She fluffed out of the room mewling about her broken bracelet as if I had ripped it from her arm. I packed a suitcase that afternoon and went to a hotel. There was no need to wrangle over anything again but I would give her a good fight if she asked for it. You might say I snapped along with the bracelet.

Julia returned ten days later; I carried on like a long lost lover, embarrassing myself but she only teased me about leaving town more often if she was so missed. She was, I assured her. We resumed our luncheon routine, our music appreciation afternoons, our walks in Lafayette Park and ate in several new restaurants--as fast as they opened. It was a warm summer for San Francisco, the morning mist vanished quickly leaving the timeless golden afternoon light streaming through her windows. We both discovered we rather liked Stockhausen, couldn’t say why exactly but kept on dissembling his compositions long into the azure evenings.

Carolyn eventually calmed down, accepted what was inevitable and divorced me without a great deal of drama. Of course she tried to take all she could and I was liberal up to a point but I was not the same old pushover I once was. She sensed I had something on her and backed off, just a little. She sold our condo at some loss in a bad market and moved to a smaller place on Potrero Hill. She wanted a new neighborhood for a new life. She was surprisingly benign through it all but railed mightily to our Brooke.

Julia still lives in her Victorian mansion. We both manage the endless stairs and joke about who will cave in first. She said she plans to sell it at the end of the year and move to a building with an elevator lest our hearts give out. We are not married though it is discussed during our lingering talks over dinner. I hope to bring her around to it; I’m too old for shacking up and young enough to want to share her bed. No, I never told her about Carolyn’s bracelet. I’m not sure how she would take it but I didn't want to make her feel sad or confused, retrospectively. To me, it’s one of those funny coincidences in life. Maybe someday I’ll tell her--when we’re older, we’ve exhausted our conversation and in need of a good story. I bet she’ll laugh. Julia travels lightly.

THE END