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Novelo Rectangle

An unexpected gift from a secret Santa arrived.The package was wrapped in brown paper. Her address had been hand written, in a slanting script.There was no return address. It had been mailed from Syracuse, NY. She didn’t know anybody who lived there.She could tell by the weight and feel of the package, that it contained a book. Passionate reader that she was, she was thrilled at the prospect of a new book. She only hoped that it was nothing she already owned.She brought the package inside and set it on the kitchen counter. She made herself a curry for dinner, washed the pan and the plate, brewed some tea, and checked her email.Then it was time to open the book. She planned to indulge in some pre-bedtime reading. The cat jumped into her lap – he knew her schedule as well as she did.Balancing the package on her knee, so as not to disturb the cat, she ripped the paper open. It was a compilation of Rilke’s poetry.A swell of emotion subsumed her. The last time she’d owned this book, she’d been twenty years old. She’d bought it at the B.U. bookshop, and each night before bed, Herrick had read a sonnet out loud to her, in his deep, resonant voice. They both loved the book so much that they bought a backup copy, though they had very little money. The thought of being without the book was intolerable.She opened the volume to a random page, and read:Put out my eyes, and I can see you stillShe sighed deeply, and closed the book, and let the tears come flooding out.How, she wondered, had that girl she had been, turned into the woman she was now?She could remember exactly how it felt to be twenty. She had believed that the world was a fascinating place, full of people that she might be able to love. She’d had such an appetite for experiences, and she wanted to know everything, go everywhere. She had no compunction about loving Herrick without reservation, because she had no idea how deeply she could be hurt. She’d never yet been betrayed.Now, she was fifty. She lived a very small, circumscribed life. She lived in a tiny rural town and worked at a library. She kept to her routines and never deviated from them. She interacted with the same fifteen people, and kept everyone else at arm’s length. She lived alone, and told herself that she liked it. When her friends tried to set her up with eligible widowers, she declined. Who has the time? she would say, rhetorically.But, in fact, she had a surfeit of time. And time was in the habit of stretching itself out thin. To keep time from warping and distorting everything, she filled every minute of her day with activity.It was time to read. She re-opened the book.On the first blank page, the page that is called the “dedication” page, was written:To Marie, my first and last love. HerrickUnderneath, he had written his phone number.They’d not spoken in thirty years. Not since she saw him in front of the Middle East, kissing another woman. A redhead. She remembered vividly, how the woman’s red hair and Herrick’s blond hair complimented each other.She had been so furious, so devastated, that she’d packed her all things and boarded a bus back to her hometown, that very afternoon. She’d left him and their apartment and their band and her job and college.In Utica, her father had picked her up from the terminal. He hadn’t asked her what happened. She cried, and he let her cry. When finally, her sobs subsided, he said, “You want to think about what you’re doing. You tend to let your emotions get the better of you.”“He cheated on me.”“People cheat, honey. People are just stupid animals in heat.”“Did you ever cheat on Mom?”“No,” he said, “but look where we live. There’s only twenty women to choose from, and I know all of there husbands.”“I can’t believe you’re on his side.”“I’m not. I’m on your side. I don’t give a rat’s ass about him. Except he’s somebody you love.”“I can’t love a cheater.”“I think that’s where you’re wrong. I think you could forgive him.”“But why should I?”“Because you’re going to wish you did.”And that was all he has to say on the subject, they never talked about it again. Not then, not in all the years that followed.And her father was right: she did miss Herrick, every day. So often, she’d read something or see something on the internet that she knew he would find funny, and she wished she could tell him about it .They shared the same dark sense of humor and love of absurdity. When she went to concerts, she wished that he was with her so they could critique the performance afterwards. Often, when they heard good music, they would become inspired and write a song in an attempt to beat the band they’d heard at their own game. When she suffered a loss or a humiliation, she wished she could cry on his shoulder. He’d always known how to comfort her, and when she was wrought up and bitter, he was tender and affectionate.Thinking about Herrick, she wondered why, when she left, he’d never tried to contact her. He could have driven to her hometown and knocked on her father’s door. He could have begged her forgiveness. Why hadn’t he?She’d always assumed that either his love for her was false, or that his love for the redhead was stronger.But what had he meant when he wrote in the book that she was his “first and last love”?The idea of calling him was terrifying. What if he said that he just wanted to “catch up”? Would she have to pretend that his infidelity was just “water under the bridge”?He still had the power to wound her. Why risk it?She went to bed, and before submerging into a Niquil induced sleep, she resolved to forget all about the book and its sender.But that night she dreamed she was running through a house that was about to be sold, looking for something. She discovered room after room that she had never been in, despite having lived in the house for years. And her sense of waste and regret was crushing.When she awoke, she knew that she had to call Herrick, regardless of the outcome.It was nine am on a Sunday. She was aware that it was a bit early to be phoning him – he was likely still asleep, if he was anything like he was before. But she had to call before she lost her nerve. Herrick woke up with a sense of well-being. For a moment, he was happy to be alive. Then, a feeling of dread washed over him, and he remembered that he was divorced, in debt, periodically impotent, and quite possibly an alcoholic. He opened his eyes, and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Ten-thirty. The events of the night before came back to him, piece-meal. He’d gone to a fundraiser at the art museum. He’d spent a lot of time drinking wine with a curator who was named Jennifer, or maybe Terri. They’d gone to her office and tried to have sex, but he’d lost his erection. She was nice about it. She’d suggested that he get a prescription for Viagra and then call her. But Herrick had no intention of taking her advice, or ever darkening the doorstep of the museum again. He regretted having made a donation of $500 – he couldn’t really afford it. There seemed to be no good reason to get out of bed. He had no place to be, and nothing he cared to accomplish. He considered (not for the first time) getting a real job. At a liquor store, or a Wal-Mart. Something that would give his existance structure. But if he got a job, it would be like admitting defeat. When he was young, he believed that working a 9-5 job was soul-destroying, mind numbing. It was society’s way of neutralizing people. But most people were willing to give up the majority of their time and energy to perform meaningless tasks, in order to make a little money. He loathed people who were willing to participate in this system. He was sure that he never wanted to be a drone. Old Herrick wasn’t sure he could betray young Herrick that way. He knew he ought to get up and write some songs – he had no moral objection to writing songs. But he had writer’s block. His recent divorce ought to have provided him with a wealth of miserable inspiration. But, in truth, his heart wasn’t broken. He’d stopped loving his ex-wife years ago. His phone rang. He couldn’t quite reach it whilst lying down. So he got up and answered the phone. “Hello?”His voice was rough, more shopworn, than it used to be. But it was unmistakably him.“Hey,” she said, softly. She didn’t know what to say. Fear had completely cleared her mind of words.“Is that you, Marie?” he asked.“Yeah.”“Oh, my God,” he said, and there was a long pause. It sounded as though he was crying.She never interrupted when someone was crying. She had learned from her father, that if somebody was crying, they had a good reason to, and a right to. So she stayed silent.Eventually he said, “I was hoping you’d call, but I really didn’t expect it.”“Thank you for the book.”“Do you still respond to Rilke? A lot of the poets we used to like, don’t do anything for me now, but I still love Rilke.”“I’m not sure, I haven’t started reading it yet.”Herrick was silent for a moment, and then said, “I want to apologize. For cheating on you, all those years ago. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I guess I figured you’d never find out. I never meant to hurt you. I always thought you and I would get married and have kids and move to Ireland together.”Marie said, “Why am I getting this apology now, as opposed to thirty years ago?”“Well. I got her pregnant. I knew I had to do the right thing and marry her. And I knew there was no way I could be a good husband if I was still hung up on you.”“It was really hard for me to get over you,” she said.“I never got over you,” he said, “and that’s the truth. Have you ever heard any of my music?”“Yeah. I figured “Kenmore Square” was about me.”“It was. So was, “The Damage Done.” Do you know that one?”She did. Everyone knew it – it had been his one big hit. At one point in time, the song had been inescapable. It was played on the radio constantly.“I didn’t guess that it was about me.”The lyrics were about a lost love, a woman with fathomless eyes who had disappeared. He searched for her but could never catch up with her.“My wife guessed. We fought about it for years. She forbid me to sing the song, but I had to, it was our hit. It was the song everybody came to hear. So I've sung it every single show, a hundred times a year, for years, and even still.“You’re still touring?”“Only in the summer. We do field days, Celtic festivals. Small theaters. Do you still play the piano?"“Yes. I give piano lessons," she said.She had a flashback to when she played piano in Herrick's band. It had been terrifying, and thrilling, to play in front of crowds. She could cast her memory back and feel the amplified bass shaking her heart, hear the violin's piercing shriek. It was something she missed. But she shook off her nostalgia - it was pointless to think about what she'd given up. At the time, she'd felt that she had no choice.“How is your dad?” Herrick asked.“He passed away a couple of years ago.”“I’m really sorry to hear that. He was a great guy. I really looked up to him. What happened?”“He had a heart attack. It was a complete shock, because he never had any symptoms, never complained of any pain. He was so fit! He hiked and swam and chopped wood...he seemed like the healthiest guy. He was actually working on his roof when he died."“You know heart disease can be congenital?""Yeah.""Did you have your heart checked out?”“No. I should, I know.”“Let me guess: you have absolutely no intention of going to the doctor,” he said.“Correct,” she said, “How’s your dad?”“He’s good. Back when I was making money, I bought him a boat, and he lives on it six months a year.”“I take it he broke up with your stepmom?”“No, they’re still together.”“It’s kind of hard to picture her living on a boat.”“Um, yeah,” Herrick said, “She still does her hair every day, and she’s always got full makeup on, long pointy nails that look like daggers. I don’t think she loves the boat. But to her credit, she doesn’t complain, not when I’m around, anyway.”“I always liked her. I'm sure she thought of me as a heathen.""She told me on the eve of my wedding that she wished I was marrying you.""Oh."She didn't know what to say, and the silence felt very awkward.Fortunately, Herrick broke it, asking, "How is Belinda?”At one point in time, Marie and Belinda had been the best of friends.“We don’t really talk anymore," she admitted.“What happened?“She got addicted to fentynal and social services took her kid away. She asked me to take care of her daughter until she could get her act together. And I agreed. But she never got her act together. So. I raised Lindsey from the time she was four until she graduated from high school. Belinda occasionally calls me up to rant and rave about how I stole her kid. Then sometimes she calls to say thank you for taking care of Lindsey, you’re a way better mother than I could ever be.”“That’s really sad.”“Yeah, it is.”“You never had any kids of your own?”“No. I guess I feel like N---- is my own.”“Pardon me, I meant, do you have any biological children.”“No.”"But you married?""Yeah," she said, "sore subject.""But are you married currently?" he persisted.“No," she said, shortly, "so, out of curiosity, how did you find me?"“I stalked you on Facebook.""My address isn't on Facebook.""No, but your workplace is. I called the library and talked to your boss. I just turned on the charm and pretty soon she was malleable. Putty in my hands.""My boss gave you my address?" she said, in disbelief."Yes, aren't you glad I'm not a Nigerian prince?"She wasn't quite sure she was glad.There was a pause. She knew that he was gathering up his courage.“Marie? Why did you never call me, all these years?”“I thought about it. Especially when I was going through my divorce. I wished sometimes that I had you to talk to. I don’t know – I guess it was my pride that prevented me. I did miss you.”"Would you be willing to meet up sometime?""I don't know if it's a good idea."He said, "It probably isn't. I'm still a bottomless pit of need. An attention seeker, a lost soul."She realized that the things he was saying about himself, she'd said about him, once upon a time. She wished her insults weren't scarred into his psyche."But I know this," Herrick said, "Put out my eyes, and I can see you still."Tears welled up in her eyes. She had to breathe in and out, deeply, before she could manage to say, “How soon can you get here?”

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Clover

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Anne Nassar

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