also a cardboard carton.
Opal squatted down, her heart racing as she reached for the box. Is this where Terry had stored early drafts of the book? But as Opal pulled the box toward her, its weight and its clanking gave her the bad news. She opened it to find nothing more than empty cans and bottles, ready for recycling, that was all.
Opal looked again at the room. She felt so very tired, it was as if she could not stand up for another minute. For her whole life, it seemed. Opal had stood for something. She had stood for education, she had stood for the idea that one could better oneself, she had stood for single women getting a place in the world and for individuality in a place that preferred conformity. She had stood up for her daughter’s dream, her talent and creativity, and believed that Terry could become a writer. Now Opal could stand no longer. She sank onto the daybed as if she, like Terry, would never rise again. She looked at the fireplace and the ashes in it. That was what her life was reduced to—ashes. There was no point in going back to Bloomington, to go on cataloging books, to go on reading. Terry was dead, and she had left nothing behind her.
Opal knew she was neither pretty, nor well dressed, nor well educated, but she was not so naive that she couldn’t see the message in the lack of a message. Terry was—had been—furious, not just at those publishers who had rejected her work, but also at Opal herself, who had encouraged her in the first place. Otherwise she would have left a word of comfort.
From all she had read, Opal knew that the writer’s life was a lonely one. But surely Terry had the muscle to live with that. As Opal had told Terry over and over during her childhood, you can never be lonely if you have a good book. And in this dingy apartment, on the bookshelves flanking the fireplace, there were plenty of those. But Terry must have been lonely, and desperate enough not to care. Lonely and desperate and angry.
At last, Opal began to weep. There was nothing that Terry had left behind—no message, no manuscript, no nothing. Just these rejection letters the policewoman had given Opal. They’d come from the ignorant, stupid, shallow publishers who had helped to kill Terry. Those were the key to this death scene. That is all that Terry meant for me to receive, Opal thought. That and my guilt. The hardness of it was shocking.
Opal cried as she hadn’t cried for thirty years. And while she wept, she cursed herself for encouraging Terry in a life so difficult. She carried my hopes with her, and the burden was too heavy. It’s my fault. Opal told herself. But what else could I have done? Terry was talented. Terry was an artist. It wasn’t just that she was my daughter. She was brilliant. Did she blame me because nobody else agreed? Did she lose faith in herself because mine was the only voice that supported her? Did she come to hate me? Opal looked around the grim room that accused her. She must have. She did. Opal moaned and nearly choked. She felt as if she’d go on crying forever.
The knock on the door startled her. She wiped her eyes with her hand and looked for a tissue. Before she could fumble for her purse, the rapping at the door began again. “I’m coming,” Opal said, and managed to get to the door. But she didn’t open it. She wasn’t stupid, after all, and she read the newspapers. In fact, she read the NewYork Times every day at the library. She knew what trouble could lurk outside a New York City door. “Who is it?” she asked, her voice wet and deep from her tears.
“It’s me.”
Well, that was the least helpful response she’d ever heard. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Me, Aiello, the super.”
Opal rolled her eyes and then wiped them again. Just what she needed! Some stranger’s condolences and morbid curiosity. If she wanted that, she’d have brought Terry’s body back to Bloomington, where all the townspeople could gape. She opened the door. “Yes?” she asked.
“I’ll need the keys back,” the man said. No “excuse me” or “I’m terribly sorry” or “Can I help you in your moment of need,” but a baldfaced demand for the keys! Opal was outraged. This city was heartless. No wonder Terry hadn’t been able to face it.
“I believe the rent is paid till the end of the month,” Opal informed him, “so I believe that gives me a legal right to the keys until then.”
The grizzled man’s face reflected his surprise. Then he shrugged. “Yeah. If ya want to stay in there.” He shook his head. “If I was you, I’d just want to clear out.” Opal did want to clear out—more than anything—but there was the cremation and the memorial service tomorrow.
“If you were me, which is unimaginable, you would be polite and helpful.”
Aiello stood there and blinked. Opal watched while his Neanderthal mind processed what she had just said. Light dawned on Marblehead.
“Oh, well, if you need anything … you know, boxes or something …” His voice trailed off.
It seemed the man did know shame. Good. Opal nodded to him. “I’ll be just fine,” she lied and firmly shut the door.
You have to sink way down to a level of hopelessness and desperation to find the book that you can write.
—Susan Sontag
Camilla spent her single day of holiday doing what she liked to do best—simply looking. But first she slept in, and after a breakfast of delicious hot chocolate and biscotti, she further indulged herself by sitting in the sunny hotel courtyard and reading a few chapters of Forster’s A Room with a View. It was fun to read another British writer’s send-up of tourists in Italy. Camilla, of course, didn’t put herself in Forster’s league. But she had just finished writing her own novel about the subject.
The pots of evergreens and homely violas, the beautiful stonework all around her, the blue of the sky, all were improved by the piquancy of anticipation. It was delightful to have the evening dinner with her new acquaintances to look forward to. It made this time alone seem splendid, and the coming company a nice contrast.
But from time to time, as she read about Lucy Honey-church and her meddling, silly aunt, Camilla had to stop. Her attention would wander until she found herself reading a whole page without taking in a word. Instead she felt a vague shadow, as if the brilliant sky had clouded over. It was because of what Frederick Ashton had brought up. How shall I ever get my book published, she thought, and a chill ran through her. Who did I think I was, to write it? Who will ever look at a book about a coachload of middle-aged ladies in Italy and want to give me money for it?
Funny, really, how she had words to write for her characters and words for artists dead for hundreds of years but no words for herself. She blushed at how tongue-tied she’d been with Frederick Ashton. Her shyness—self-consciousness really—embarrassed her.
Camilla believed that for some reason her fate was to always be an outsider. She had felt different—had been different—from the rest of her family. Then, as a scholarship student from a working-class background, she’d been singular, distinct from the other girls at the convent school. Afterward, at college in America, she had felt unlike the Americans—who seemed somehow younger and more carefree than she. Now, living in Italy, although she’d made a few Italian friends and had certainly been passionate about her Italian lover, Gianfranco, she knew that, once again, she was different, an outsider. They all had the strong ties of family, of homes they had lived in for generations, of allegiances to the city in which they were born. Being an outsider had made her self-conscious and had helped her to write. In a way, it cleared her vision. But it certainly didn’t make for
