The Conversation
This time, over bookstore coffee, we do not sit in silence across an ever-expanding table, hidden behind shields of reading material. She has too many questions and I, too many answers. This time the table length decreases as our conversation lengthens drawing Jamie and I so close that I can hear her heart beat increasing.
“So mom said you and she are old friends. How long is old?”
“About 20-some-odd years I suppose. Ever since she was your age.”
“Wow. How come I’ve never met you before?”
“Distance is probably the closest answer. Besides, personally I don’t think your father would have agreed with my interaction with you or your mother. Mike and I never really got along.”
“That’s because he’s a drunk.”
“Actually, we used to have that in common.”
She sips her coffee.
“But he and mom have been divorced for years now. And she seems calm, peaceful…almost happy around you. She’s never looked at anyone the way that she looks at you. What took you so long?”
“I suppose I was just waiting for the perfect time.”
“Well, what have you been doing for all these years?”
I have no answer for her question. Honesty? “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
The look on her face is a mix of perplexion and annoyance. She’s not buying it.
“You don’t know. That’s bullshit.”
Again I have no response.
“So how did you and mom meet?”
“One of my book signings.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Was. I was a writer. I haven’t written anything since long before you were born.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a very long story.”
“I thought that was why we were here.”
This was true.
“Something very sad happened to me and I haven’t been able to express myself properly since.”
“So you gave up?”
“I gave up completely.”
I am unsure of the boundaries that encumber our conversation, unsure as to how much information Jamie wants me to reveal about our past together. I feel it best to gloss over the details about our love affair, keeping the spotlight completely focused on me and my own personal fall from grace.
“So have I read anything you’ve written?”
“I doubt it.”
“You might be surprised. Were you any worth reading?”
Was I? Twenty years ago I would have known the answer. Today I am unsure.
“For a while, yes.”
“Then maybe I’ve heard of you. I’m a lit major you know, so there’s a slight possibility.”
“Ok,” I relent. But instead of simply telling her my name, or explaining that I’ve written one of her favorite books, I decide to physically show her the evidence in order to suspend disbelief. “Ok, follow me.”
We leave the table and enter the stacks, winding through the aisles of cookbooks, biographies and self-help books. Finally, entering the fiction area, we find ourselves in front of the B’s.
I grab the three-volume set containing, “So The Wine Won’t Blow It All Away”, and pull it from the shelf. I quickly loathe the fact that the publisher has opted to lump it together with two of my other works, but acknowledge that, at least people are still reading me.
Handing her the novel I explain, “This was written for your mother. I hear that it’s one of your favorites.”
She slowly takes the book from my hand and holds it limply as she stares back at my face. “But…” she begins.
“But what?”
“But you’re dead.”
“Yes. I thought that too.”
“You killed yourself in 1983. We studied you in my class last semester.”
“Once again, we’re in agreement.”
“But how can you be here?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“You and mom were in love?”
“Very much so.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill yourself.”
“I believe that’s a conversation your mother should be involved in.”
She puts the book back onto the shelf, cautiously, being careful not to bend the front or back covers as it slides back into position between my other works. Then she turns to face me with a longing look that reminds me of her mother’s.
“So, how long are you going to stay?”
Another impossible question. Another impossible answer.
“That, my dear, has yet to be determined.”
“So mom said you and she are old friends. How long is old?”
“About 20-some-odd years I suppose. Ever since she was your age.”
“Wow. How come I’ve never met you before?”
“Distance is probably the closest answer. Besides, personally I don’t think your father would have agreed with my interaction with you or your mother. Mike and I never really got along.”
“That’s because he’s a drunk.”
“Actually, we used to have that in common.”
She sips her coffee.
“But he and mom have been divorced for years now. And she seems calm, peaceful…almost happy around you. She’s never looked at anyone the way that she looks at you. What took you so long?”
“I suppose I was just waiting for the perfect time.”
“Well, what have you been doing for all these years?”
I have no answer for her question. Honesty? “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
The look on her face is a mix of perplexion and annoyance. She’s not buying it.
“You don’t know. That’s bullshit.”
Again I have no response.
“So how did you and mom meet?”
“One of my book signings.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Was. I was a writer. I haven’t written anything since long before you were born.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a very long story.”
“I thought that was why we were here.”
This was true.
“Something very sad happened to me and I haven’t been able to express myself properly since.”
“So you gave up?”
“I gave up completely.”
I am unsure of the boundaries that encumber our conversation, unsure as to how much information Jamie wants me to reveal about our past together. I feel it best to gloss over the details about our love affair, keeping the spotlight completely focused on me and my own personal fall from grace.
“So have I read anything you’ve written?”
“I doubt it.”
“You might be surprised. Were you any worth reading?”
Was I? Twenty years ago I would have known the answer. Today I am unsure.
“For a while, yes.”
“Then maybe I’ve heard of you. I’m a lit major you know, so there’s a slight possibility.”
“Ok,” I relent. But instead of simply telling her my name, or explaining that I’ve written one of her favorite books, I decide to physically show her the evidence in order to suspend disbelief. “Ok, follow me.”
We leave the table and enter the stacks, winding through the aisles of cookbooks, biographies and self-help books. Finally, entering the fiction area, we find ourselves in front of the B’s.
I grab the three-volume set containing, “So The Wine Won’t Blow It All Away”, and pull it from the shelf. I quickly loathe the fact that the publisher has opted to lump it together with two of my other works, but acknowledge that, at least people are still reading me.
Handing her the novel I explain, “This was written for your mother. I hear that it’s one of your favorites.”
She slowly takes the book from my hand and holds it limply as she stares back at my face. “But…” she begins.
“But what?”
“But you’re dead.”
“Yes. I thought that too.”
“You killed yourself in 1983. We studied you in my class last semester.”
“Once again, we’re in agreement.”
“But how can you be here?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“You and mom were in love?”
“Very much so.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill yourself.”
“I believe that’s a conversation your mother should be involved in.”
She puts the book back onto the shelf, cautiously, being careful not to bend the front or back covers as it slides back into position between my other works. Then she turns to face me with a longing look that reminds me of her mother’s.
“So, how long are you going to stay?”
Another impossible question. Another impossible answer.
“That, my dear, has yet to be determined.”
posted by B at 3:45 PM
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