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| The Marys of New Milford, NJ |
Having made a New Year's resolution here to post more original writing on this blog in 2018, I realize I've fallen short.
So, in a desperate attempt to make up ground, the other day I began my marathon of words, attempting to reach NaNoWriMo's goal of writing 50,000 words within the month.
I got off to a good start the other day, blazing through the first chapter of a book I've had in my head for several years.
When I looked up, I realized I had written about 1,400 words. Then, when I did the math, I realized I'd have to write 1,667 words a day to reach 50,000 by the end of the month.
So I don't know if I can really do this, but in the spirit of this Marathon Weekend in New York, I'm going to give it a try.
What follows is my initial 1,400-word sprint out of the gate. You're not supposed to edit this as you write, so consider this a rough first draft -- and I promise to post an update here in two weeks. Then edit and post a finished version at the end of the year.
I don't know if the center will hold -- and I'm praying to the gods of Charles Dickens and Jules Verne, who were able to serialize novels. But here goes. A first installment.
"The Third Secret" (working title)
“Belief in an afterlife is just wishful thinking” — Stephen Hawking
I don’t believe in ghosts, but I want to.
I want to believe so badly that there’s something more to life than this.
When my wife Emma and I were young, it’s why I agreed to live in an historic old house. Emma fell in love with it, even though we both know I’m the least handy guy in the universe. So I’ve put myself at the mercy of a slew of carpenters and plumbers and electricians in the intervening years.
Besides, I thought the trade-off would be worth it.
We’ve lived here for more than 18 years now, and I’ve only once experienced anything remotely paranormal. Emma insists our house has been haunted by “ghost cats,” but I never heard or saw any evidence of this sort – only random squirrels who managed to burrow behind our walls and small mice who scurried in the darkness. Our living, breathing cat is useless.
No, the only time I thought I saw a ghost was once, when I was getting off the bus after another commute from the city. We live in suburban New Jersey, and part of the charm of an old house was its proximity to the main road through town, and the NJ Transit bus routes.
It was just a few weeks ago, after a long day at work. I managed to catch a glimpse of Emma through the big bay window that used to look out over our backyard (it’s since been replaced by French doors leading to a patio deck and above-ground swimming pool).
I saw her reaching to hang something from the top sill… a flower pot, I thought. Emma is always adding homey touches to our home. I love that about her; it’s as if she were Donna Reed in “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
So I literally ran to the front of the house and through the front door to surprise her at the window.
Instead, to my surprise, I discovered that Emma wasn’t home.
To this day, I don’t know what I saw at the window. When I relayed the story to my young daughter, Beatrice – my Bee -- later that night, she had a surprising response:
“It was Mary,” she said.
“Mary who?”
“Mary, the mother of Jesus,” she replied, without a hint of embarrassment or guile or irony.
———
That’s how it all began.I don’t know how this will end, but I know that there’s more to this story.
Yesterday afternoon, Emma and I hosted a wedding reception in our backyard. It was a small wedding, for Emma’s brother. His second marriage. Still, we rented a tent, and a dancefloor and a band. Even a bag-piper.
I remember the feeling of pressing my right eye tight against the view finder of my video camera.
Yes, I still use a video camera. I can’t stand new technology. If it works for me, I don’t understand why I have to change just because it’s something new. Don’t even start with me about my cell phone. It’s ancient, I know. Like me. Me and my ancient 50-year-old body, living in my ancient house, with my younger wife, and our only child, our 7-year-old daughter.
I liked the way the rubber padding of my camera fit perfectly over my eye socket. It felt like a suction cup. At one point, a ghoulish image of my eye plucked like a grape from its nerve endings flashed through my mind. But that image quickly dissolved as the camera automatically refocused on what was right in front of me.
It was Beatrice, dancing.
Through my electronic, suburban peephole -- as I stood on a green, freshly mown lawn that smelled faintly of wild onions -- I was astonished by the sight of the woman she was destined to become.
In my viewfinder, she was dressed in pink and skipping across the dance floor in perfect rhythm to a popular song from the mid-90s -- "Shining, Happy People" by REM. She was dragging her friend Cindy by one hand and waved her other arm to and fro above her head in playful abandon, as if the song had been written especially for her.
Or maybe she told Cindy it had been written for her, the way, in pre-school, she told me about the song her class sang to begin every day: "It's a beautiful morning! It's a beautiful morning! Yes, indeed! Yes, indeed!" Bee always sang the last words, "Yes, Cindy! Yes, Cindy!"
Bee wasn’t playing; she was dancing. I can’t dance. Emma and I didn’t do anything except pretend to slow dance, as we desperately clung to each other at our own wedding reception. Yet our daughter was dancing with an abandon that made her look mature and girlish at the same time. I knew that the young boys standing on the sidelines -- with their disinterested white shirts untucked and unbuttoned -- would someday find this irresistible.
Even more beguiling, as the song suddenly shifted temp… slowing down precipitously in the middle… Beatrice kept dancing to her own beat.
———
I’m going to bed now. Tomorrow’s just another working day, and I’ve got to get some rest.That’s actually the last line of “American Tune,” my favorite Paul Simon song, released 37 years ago, this being the Year of Our Lord 2010. When did I get so old?
I especially like the song’s bridge, a sudden evocative break from the song’s main melody – which is taken from the hymn “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded.” Bach had also stolen the same melody to use in his St. Matthew Passion. The part I like in the Paul Simon song begins, “And I dreamed I was dying…”
Just a little while ago, I was looking at the video of the wedding reception. How wonderful to see everyone dancing. How wonderful to see the easy smiles and laughter, the celebration of life and the remembrance of the dead.
That last part was probably just in my own mind, because I wanted to see everyone who wasn’t there in the faces of everyone who was. I didn’t expect to see ghosts, exactly. I’ve practically given up on that hope. I just wanted evidence that our dead were just … there… somehow, watching over us, looking through our eyes, laughing at our jokes. Protecting us.
At the end of the evening, I hoped that they would guide us to a better home, to something more than this.
At one point, Emma took control of the camera, focusing on me and Bee.
I look very fat, and she looks very happy. I need a haircut too. I always think I need a haircut, but then I don’t ever want it cut short because it only reveals my receding hairline.
Bee, of course, looks beautiful. She always looks beautiful. She was just laughing her heart out with me… at me… for me.
I didn’t understand why at the time, but now I saw what she was doing. In the background, the bag-piper was playing “Amazing Grace” for tips, and in the frame Bee was playfully holding her arm behind my head, giving me devil’s horns.
I try to be good; I really do. Maybe that’s why she thought it was so funny.
But I know the truth of what’s in my heart, and I fear that my sweet, beautiful Bee doesn’t.
No one really knows what’s in my heart; only what I reveal in real life.
In real life, I was distracted by the lampshade on a light stand next to the TV, where I was viewing the video feed. While everyone else was laughing and dancing on screen, I kept being distracted by the angle of the shade. I got up from my easy chair at least a half dozen times in a half hour to readjust the lampshade.
It was never quite right, either. Even though, I know, to someone entering the room the shade would have appeared perfectly balanced.
I was annoyed with myself as I turned off the TV.
“This is what my life has come to,” I said aloud, to no one, before adjusting the shade once more before turning out the light.
I’m in bed now, scribbling away, with Emma snoring beside me. I find that comforting, because I think she’s content. But sometimes I wonder if what I hear is really just the sound of settling. Death Cab for Cutie, right?
So here’s goodnight. I’m going to say a “Hail Mary” before I go to sleep. Just like Fredo in “The Godfather: Part II.”
(To be continued...)
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