Getting out of the car, two vertebrae grinding together through a
disintegrating disc reminded me, without mercy, that I was four short
digits away from the half-century mark. Me, of all people –
and still only 21 in my head.
Loretta was waiting in the driveway when I drove up. Tall and erect,
she stood like a state dignitary awaiting a V.I.P. At 92, she was twice
my age. If I hadn't known it, I would never have suspected. Her
rose-colored dress hung loosely on her lean frame, concave where
breasts had been. Such a sense of herself she had that it was obvious
she felt no need for camouflage.
"Welcome, my dear." Her voice was rich, thick as honey, an Ethel
Barrymore voice. Smiling widely, she took my hand in her firm clasp.
Meeting her eyes so clear and alert – and admiring the bright
rose chiffon scarf rolled to hold her thinning hair in place -- I said,
"You're looking wonderful, Loretta."
Her eyes twinkled and she linked her arm in mine. "We women have to
keep ourselves up, don't we?"
We do, and you're doing a topnotch job of it."
The meeting vertebrae twinged again as she led me up the curved walk
with care, as though she might be having twinges of her own. The walk
was overhung with giant oleander bushes and fringed with ivy and
pink-blooming Lily of the Nile.
Her little house nestled in deep shade. Vines surged up its walls, then
plunged from the porch roof in a cascade of green. A statue of St.
Francis of Assisi in the midst of ivy pools gave me the feeling I was
discovering a secret garden.
"Come see my cottage." Loretta opened the screen door. With living room
drapes nearly closed, the effect was that of entering a peaceful cavern.
"Which is your favorite chair?" I asked.
"That little baby." She pointed to a wicker occasional chair with a fan
back.
I chose the deep wing backed chair covered with an afghan crocheted in
gay colors.
Seating herself, she leaned toward me, measuring me intently with her
eyes.
I had met Loretta a couple months before at a dinner arranged by a
group of mutual friends. Loretta had been married to a writer and,
knowing my aspirations in that direction, our friends insisted that we
meet.
Last night she had called. We had a houseful of company, so I promised
to call her back. This morning, when I answered the phone's insistent
ring, I had already forgotten the promise.
"I have an inspiration for your career, my dear. When can you come?"
Finding no graceful exit and knowing inspiration comes from the most
unlikely places, I agreed to come this afternoon. Now, in the Spartan
simplicity of her tiny home, I was glad.
Her scrutiny informed me she wanted to know who I was, what I was. "You
must think it strange that I've abandoned a career in social work to
begin writing at my age," I said.
"No such thing. Why, if you don't mind my saying so, you're still wet
behind the ears, my dear. You've only just begun to live long enough to
have something worth writing about." She looked at me as If I were a
toddler in training pants.
She sat so erectly that she dignified and dwarfed the wicker chair like
royalty a toadstool. An intricate network of wrinkles draped her face
like a veil, yet she was as straight-forward as an equation.
"Ah, but I wish Lucius were here to help you with your career. He was a
splendid man. A marvelous writer."
"How long have you been without him?"
"Ten years."
"And how long were you married?"
"Fourteen magnificent years. He was bedridden when we married. But it
was a privilege to care for him. He was my first, you know." Her voice
softened and her face glowed away the furrows. She could have been a
bride. "I didn't marry until I found Lucius. But he was worth waiting
for. Lucius had the distinction of not being cowed by a strong woman,
even though he was physically dependent on me. And I received from him
far more than I gave."
I doubted that.
"But he was unfortunate with women, you see. Our marriage was his
fourth." Pausing, she leaned forward again, squinting into space, as
though peering through mist. "He wasn't one to say all those things
women expect men to say when you're in love. But once he looked at me
and said, ‘Loretta, don't ever change.'" The smile lit her
face again, as if he'd said the words yesterday. "I promised him I
wouldn't."
For Lucius the fourth time had been the charm, I thought, watching her.
There was a brisk knock on the door. Although it startled me, Loretta
wasn't surprised.
"Yes. Well, I've invited Mr. Oliver over. I want to get you two
together. ‘Twill help both your careers." She spoke with
unswerving authority. "Together you can give something momentous to the
world."
I had no idea what she was talking about.
Rising, she went to the door. "Welcome, lad. Welcome."
The lad was about my age and looked as baffled as I felt, but he took a
seat and said, "It's good to see you, Loretta. It's been at least ten
years."
"Oh my no. It isn't yet a year," she replied tartly, totally sure of
herself. She smiled in confidence, pleased at the coup of getting us
together. |
His eyes widened at
her remark, but he
held his silence as she made quick, graceful introductions. "What do
you have in mind?" he asked when she was finished.
"I feel it is my duty to bring your knowledge and this young lady's
splendid narrative ability together."
She had never met my narrative ability. I couldn't help but cringe.
"It's time the world was informed of the advances you've made in
aquaculture." It was a pronouncement made in full gravity.
Mr. Oliver's face flushed. He shifted weight and fidgeted for seemed
like a full minute before he said softly, "Loretta, I've never been in
aquaculture. That was Matt Henson. "Remember?"
Disbelief fluttered across her face and, for a moment, she sagged in
the chair, studying the carpet. Then, as though she'd found the answer
there, she straightened. "Of course," she said. "How forgetful of me.
You're in landscape design. No matter. I'm sure there's something in
that field worth telling the world, too."
Mr. Oliver's face acquired a look obviously pained by the admission he
was about to make. "Dear lady, I haven't been in landscape design for
fourteen years."
Acute discomfort shifted me in my seat. Loretta's eyes took on a
there-must-be-a-mistake- and-it's-not-mine look before darting and
going out of focus again. That splendid mind of hers appeared to be
drifting back and forth between this world and the next.
She focused and brightened again. Drawing herself up, she leaned toward
Mr. Oliver like a teacher instructing a willful child. "Now see here.
This young lady is one of the best read Americans in the country today."
Although I appreciated her interest and efforts in my behalf, I could
have slipped through the floorboards beneath the rug.
"I'm sure Mr. Oliver's work is fascinating, but the truth is I have a
book in the works and I really don't have time to get involved in any
collaborative ventures."
Mr. Oliver threw me a grateful glance and looked at his watch.
"Ohhhh." Loretta was clearly disappointed.
Rising, Mr. Oliver went to her side. Like a flag of truce, he dropped
an awkward hand on her shoulder. "Nice of you to invite me, Loretta,
but I have another appointment." And smiling at me with something
between mild embarrassment and vast relief, he said, "So nice to meet
you." Out the door he fled.
Loretta sat still for a while, a quizzical expression tugging at her
brow. Then, abruptly and with force, she spoke. "Now my dear, when can
we leave for San Juan? There you can study and write about oyster
beds." Again her face became animated and alive.
I smiled. "Loretta, I wouldn't know an oyster bed from a flower bed.
Besides, I don't think my husband would appreciate my taking off on an
extensive jaunt without him."
"Of course. How foolish of me. But then, you can come with me to
Berkeley. There I will introduce you to Mrs. Micklejohn. She's widow of
the former president of Amhurst, you know."
The truth was I didn't.
"JFK named him one of the thirty Americans who most contributed to the
cause of peace in America."
To bring her back to matters at hand, I said, "I would like to see some
of your husband's work."
"Well, of course you would." Her eyes sparkled and she hurried into the
bedroom, returning with one thin volume.
I turned it over, weighing the delight and pride with which she gave it
to me. Inside I saw the copyright date was 1935, the year of my birth.
For a moment I turned that over in my mind, too, concluding that the
universe has quite a sense of humor.
"Lucius had this friend. Poor fellow. He had a wolf of a wife. Why, she
wouldn't even let him bring a friend home for a drink now and then.
Isn't that the damndest thing?"
I agreed that it was. What a soul she is, I thought. Gallant. Noble.
Brilliant. Still, I teetered precariously trying to follow the twining
thread of her thought.
Again she sank into a tenuous silence. Her squinting gaze seemed to be
groping through shadows toward past events. A week ago? A month? A
year? A decade? A score or more?
My eyes wandered around the room. A Greek sculpture sat on a table.
Roman prints brightened the walls. Lily of the Nile bloomed pink on the
coffee table. Shadows rippled on the walls like water in an underground
grotto. It was lovely.
Unexpectedly, Loretta bent forward again. "They're right about Diablo,
you know." It was almost a whisper. From the illusive shadows she
visited, she had laid hold on a hard, cold fact.
Again I had the distinct impression that before my eyes she straddled a
fence between the world I knew and another, equally close, but
invisible to me. Alternately, she bent toward me in this one, then
withdrew to the other.
At last I rose. "I must go now."
She, too, rose and we met in the center of the room. Taking her gnarled
hands in mine, I looked directly into those incredible multi-visioned
eyes.
"Thank you for inviting me. It's been a grand afternoon. Thank you for
sharing so much. Seeing your life through your eyes has been like
looking into a rare kaleidoscope. Its patterns are so abundant,
beautiful, many-hued."
The look in her eyes told me she knew I meant it and for a brief moment
I glimpsed the other side of the veil.
Driving home through a landscape of concrete, wood, and stucco, I
stretched my lethargic body, anticipating more back twinges. There were
none.
Then I recalled something I had read that morning. "The body is a
wholly neutral thing." I didn't understand it at the time.
But after the hours with Loretta, watching that lady's invincible
spirit – so powerfully present behind her probing, perceptive
eyes – then seeing it take flight to a place where I could
not follow only to return as life-filled and vibrant as ever, slowly
but beyond mistake, a glimmer of understanding dawned.
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