Chapter 20
Ever since she was a girl Nell had gotten a kick out of the police blotter page in the local paper. This morning, the nineteenth of December, she learned that the guy who owned the Flipper had run a red light; that a twelve-year-old girl had been caught shoplifting a box of Hostess cupcakes at the convenience store; and that a local artist who went by the name of Nico had called the police to report a possible intruder that turned out to be his neighbor’s cat. Nell smiled. Running a red light, shoplifting, and breaking into someone’s home (if you were a human) might be wrong, but they were hardly the stuff of big-city crime. Life in Yorktide was pretty darn good.
Nell turned the page, and her eye was caught by an advertisement for a poetry course being offered at the community college. The course was geared for those with some academic background in poetry. The cost was reasonable, and the class would conveniently meet every Monday evening for six weeks starting in early January. It all sounded too good to be true. Nell reached for her phone to sign up online and then hesitated. When she had been reading and writing poetry seriously she had been so much more self-aware, so much more alive than she had been since succumbing to her parents’ pressure to end things with Eric, an act that had led to her abandoning her other great passion. Nell just wasn’t sure she had what it would take to return to poetry. Not quite yet. Not until she tested the waters further.
With a sense of determination Nell got up from the table, went into the living room, and stood before the floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases that stood at right angles to each other, creating a sort of book nook. Two shelves were packed with books Nell had collected in high school and college. There were several hefty Norton anthologies; collections of the work of poets she had binge read back before binging on anything but food was a thing, poets such as Emily Dickinson and John Donne, Frank O’Hara and Anne Sexton. There were volumes of poetry she had read in translation, like the work of Adam Zagajewski and Charles Baudelaire, as well as slim, self-published works by other young poetry students in whose company Nell had spent so much of her youth.
Nell removed several of the books from the shelves and settled into one of the comfortable armchairs nearby. All but one volume she stacked on the carpet at her feet. The volume she kept at hand was a collection of the poems of Wallace Stevens. Nell opened at random to find one of Stevens’s most well known works, “The Emperor of Ice Cream.”
Before she could read the first line, the girls came down the stairs one after the other. When they saw their mother in the book nook they halted.
“What’s up?” Molly asked curiously. “I haven’t seen you sit down to read in ages. Maybe ever.”
“You might need to get used to it,” Nell told them. “I’ve decided to get back to reading poetry. I used to live and breathe poetry. I wrote poems as well.”
“I never knew that,” Felicity said, sinking into the armchair across from Nell’s.
There’s so much about me you don’t know, Nell thought. That no one knows. No one but Eric.
“Did Dad know?” Molly asked, picking up a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets from the stack of books at her mother’s feet. “He’s not exactly a serious literature kind of guy.”
“He knew that I used to write,” Nell told her, “but honestly, I don’t think it much registered with him.”
“Why did you stop writing poetry when you liked it so much?” Felicity asked.
Nell closed the volume of Stevens’s poems. “It’s hard to explain,” she said. “I found that once I was married I couldn’t . . . I guess I couldn’t concentrate.” Couldn’t, she added silently, or wouldn’t? I wouldn’t give my work the attention it deserved. I wouldn’t give myself the attention I deserved.
“That’s too bad,” Felicity said. “Were you published?”
“Yes. A few of my poems were published in my college’s poetry journal and a few were published in literary journals with a wider readership. One of my professors encouraged me to apply to a prestigious graduate program but . . . but in the end I didn’t.”
“Because you were marrying Dad?” Molly asked, looking up from the book of sonnets with a frown.
“That was only partly why,” Nell said. The other part, she added silently, was because I was afraid and unsure.
“Can we read some of your stuff?” Felicity asked. “Not that I know much about poetry. I like Robert Frost, though, especially ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.’ ”
“Maybe some day.” Nell gestured to the books on the floor. “This all is . . . Well, it’s bringing up a lot of memories.”
“What kind of memories?” Molly asked, putting the volume of sonnets back on the stack.
“Bittersweet.” Memories of Eric and me, Nell thought. Memories of a time when options seemed limitless and the future seemed rosy.
“Why now, Mom?” Felicity asked. “Why are you suddenly interested in poetry again?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Nell prevaricated. “A whim I guess.”
“Whims come from somewhere,” Molly said quietly.
Felicity got up from her chair. “So what are you baking today, Mom?”
The question took Nell by surprise. “I haven’t thought about it yet. I’ll whip up something.”
“Or you could take the day off,” Felicity suggested. “We’ve still got about a pound of oatmeal raisin cookies and about six pounds of peanut butter bars. Slight exaggeration.”
Nell smiled. “I’ll consider taking a break.” Then she turned to Molly. “Has Mick come by yet?” she asked.
“First thing. Six geese a-laying. He brought a dozen goose eggs.”
Felicity laughed. “At least he’s not bringing you real birds! I’m going to grab one of those peanut butter bars and be off. See you guys later.”
“I’ll make a quiche with the eggs tonight if you’d like,” Nell offered when Felicity had gone.
“I don’t really care what happens to the eggs,” Molly said roughly. “I’m half tempted to break them down the kitchen sink.”
“Molly.” Nell sighed. “You need to talk to him.”
“I can’t, Mom. I just can’t. Not yet. I’ll see you later. I’m meeting Andrea at the library.”
When Molly had gone, Nell again opened the volume of Wallace Stevens’s poetry. “The Anecdote of the Jar.” Not an easy work to fathom. For a moment her eyes swept over the lines and her brain refused to focus. And then, quite suddenly, something changed and Nell began to read and to listen and to experience the poem in the way she once had so long ago.
When she had read through the poem three times Nell realized that she was crying. She smiled. I’ve done it, she thought. I’ve done it.
* * *
“Is there anything about this part of Maine that isn’t charming?” Eric asked. “This cafe, this road . . . Everything just feels so, well, charming.”
Nell smiled. “Even mud season has its moments, like when you spot the first brave little yellow crocus that’s popped up in the far corner of your garden.”
They were meeting at another family-owned café on a quiet little road in Kennebunk. Directly across from the Butter Churn was a cemetery with graves dating back to the seventeenth century. Like similar cemeteries throughout New England it had a strangely comforting appeal for Nell, who found the efforts of the living to memorialize their loved ones gone ahead deeply moving. Old cemeteries reinforced her belief in love and kindness.
Though the café was toasty thanks to a wood-burning stove in one corner, Eric kept his puffer coat on and his scarf wrapped around his neck and revealed a pair of fingerless gloves under a pair of battered suede mittens. “Funny thing is,” he said, as a waitress brought their coffees to the table, “I actually like the cold, even though I feel it so acutely.”
“I know,” Nell told him. “I remember when a bunch of us built a snowman in front of the science building. You were as excited as a little kid. When the rest of us felt frostbitten and decided to quit, you declared you’d finish the snowman on your own. And you did.”
“That was a wonderful day, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Nell said. “It was.”
Eric took a sip of his coffee and carefully placed the mug back on the table. “We haven’t talked about the elephant in the room,” he said quietly.
Nell’s heart began to race and she folded her hands to steady them. “Oh,” she said.
Eric leaned forward across the small round table. “It’s just that I’ve always wondered . . . Well, I guess I never entirely believed the reason you gave for ending our relationship.”
Nell looked into his dear and familiar eyes. “You were right not to believe me when I told you I didn’t love you anymore,” she said. “It was a lie, one I’d half convinced myself to believe. I’m not proud of my behavior. I bought into my parents’ opinion that I needed protection. I bought into their message about what marriage should be for a young woman. Safety. Security. Stability.” Nell shook her head. “You’d think I was a sheltered Victorian maiden the way they went on. And yet, I listened.”
Eric sighed. “I had a feeling your parents were behind it. Of course they wouldn’t have regarded me as a good bet for safety or security or stability.”
“But why should it have been your job to take care of me as if I had no will of my own?” Nell asked. “Why should you have been anyone other than who you were? And that should have been enough for me. I never believed in you the way I should have. I did you a grave disservice assuming that you would fail us both. I’m sorry.”
Eric smiled kindly. “I’m glad I finally know the truth.”
“And look where turning against my own instincts and being a dutiful daughter got me,” Nell said ruefully. “Left for a younger woman, one child refusing to have anything to do with her father, the other worshipping the ground he walks on. And both daughters desperate to get away from good old mom.”
“Desperate?” Eric asked with a smile. “Really?”
“Maybe I’m exaggerating,” Nell admitted. “In reality they just want to move on with their lives.”
“Then you’ve done your job as a parent.”
“There should be some consolation in that, I suppose.”
“Were you in love with Joel?” Eric asked suddenly. “I know it’s a pushy question.”
“That’s all right,” Nell said. “No, I was never in love with him, but I did care for him. After the initial shock of his leaving wore off, sure, I felt angry and humiliated, but honestly, not for very long. The divorce didn’t break me as it might have had I really loved Joel.” Nell paused. “Mostly I loved my big house and my sure status in the community. I loved that my parents were proud of me. I loved my nice clothes and my swimming pool and my ridiculously expensive hair stylist. I loved that things like plumbing problems and electric bills were taken care of without my having to lift a finger.” Nell shuddered. “I find it hard to believe I could have been so . . . so shallow.”
Eric put his hands over hers, still folded on the table before her. “The Nell I know could never be shallow. We all seek comfort and security. Sometimes we make mistakes in our pursuit of both. That’s all.”
The feel of Eric’s hands embracing hers made Nell feel something she hadn’t felt since long before the divorce: comforted. “Then maybe the word is afraid,” she said finally.
“Being afraid is not a crime or a sin,” Eric countered. “Sometimes it’s even the smart thing to be. The world can be a scary place.”
“You’re being too nice to me. But thank you.”
“So, you did love me at the end?” Eric asked softly.
“Yes,” Nell said. “I lied to the both of us when I said that I didn’t and walked away. I lied to myself when I decided to marry Joel. The up and coming man, as my father used to say.”
“I want to ask another pushy question,” Eric said, letting go of her hands and sitting back in his chair. “What about your writing? I’m kind of surprised you haven’t mentioned it.”
Nell laughed a bit awkwardly. “I’ve been hoping you wouldn’t ask,” she admitted.
Eric frowned. “Why?”
“Because I haven’t written a word of poetry in more than twenty years.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Eric said promptly. “I’ve kept an eye out for your name in poetry circles. I assumed I missed it because there are so many fairly obscure publications out there. What happened, Nell?”
“I’ll try to explain. Do you remember Professor Ferrari?” she asked.
“Your biggest fan next to me. She was a fantastic teacher. She urged you to apply for that prestigious graduate program at the University of Chicago.”
“She did, and she was so disappointed when I told her I wasn’t going on to graduate school. She asked me why, and I just babbled a bunch of lame excuses. The truth was that I was scared of failing—and of achieving, though that part didn’t dawn on me until much, much later. My parents said they wouldn’t pay for grad school, and the thought of somehow managing it on my own didn’t seem possible. Add to that the fact that I’d ended our relationship and I suddenly realized I was totally unsupported.” Nell sighed. “And then I started to date Joel and the next thing I knew we were married and I’d had the children and there didn’t seem to be time or space for . . . for me. At least I didn’t allow there to be.”
“I’m sorry,” Eric said. “Really sorry. But surely things can be different now. What’s to stop you from being open to inspiration?”
Nell finally took a sip of her coffee, now almost cold. “You can’t compel the Muse to take up residence,” she said.
“No, but you can adopt an attitude of receptivity.”
“Yes,” Nell agreed. “After we met the other day I dug out my old notebooks. I remembered what it was like to read to you my work in progress. I remembered what it was like to talk with you about what I was trying to achieve.”
“The remembering sounds like a step toward writing,” Eric noted.
“I’m not so sure I can write again,” Nell said. “It might be enough that I relearn how to read poetry seriously and joyfully.”
“And have you begun that journey?”
“I’ve very barely begun,” Nell told him. “We’ll see if I get on.”
“Why wouldn’t you get on, if it’s something you really want to do?”
Nell laughed, though she didn’t find the question at all amusing. “Laziness?” she suggested. “A lack of belief in my ability to see and hear and understand?”
“It sounds as if you’re deliberately putting stumbling blocks in your way.” Eric leaned forward again. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you angry. But I do mean to provoke you, because I believe in you, Nell.”
Nell shook her head. “Why? What have I done to earn your belief in me?”
“You don’t have to earn my belief in you. It’s just there. It always has been.” Eric smiled. “Don’t ask me to explain why I feel what I feel. It’s hard enough to get my characters to explain themselves to the reader—and to me.”
“Novels are odd things, aren’t they?” Nell said with a laugh.
“Tell me about it.”
“My coffee is cold.”
“Mine’s gone. Maybe we should head out,” Eric suggested. “There’s a chapter that’s giving me serious grief. I’m hoping to wrestle it into some sort of shape before tomorrow.”
When they had paid and left the café, Eric reached for Nell and embraced her.
“Thank you for being honest with me about what happened between us,” he said softly before releasing her.
Nell looked into his beautiful, soulful eyes. “The least I owe you is honesty.”
“See you again?”
“Yes,” Nell said. “Of course.”
Nell watched as Eric walked to his car. When he had gotten behind the wheel she slid into her own car and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The secrets had been told; the air had been cleared; the lies had been exposed. And Eric hadn’t walked away in disgust when she had admitted her weaknesses. Instead he had told her that he believed in her.
Someone still believed in her.