Here's the second installment of Dust On Their Wings.
The book should be out by early December in hard-copy and Kindle.
Enjoy!
The book should be out by early December in hard-copy and Kindle.
Enjoy!
Public File: Client History: John Flyte
“The Boer War. Have you read Churchill’s account of the skirmish at the train?”
“Pardon me,” John says, startled by my intrusion.
Approaching strangers in this country and era is uncommon, and John Flyte regards me warily. I observe that the brown eyes are flecked with green. Another note: he’s missed a spot shaving that morning, right below his left nostril. I wonder if Emily Gordon will notice his negligence.
When he remains silent—perhaps he thinks I’m hitting on him for money or sex—I repeat, “Churchill. Have you read him?”
My voice, controlled, deep, with just a twist of that bored sophistication of a BBC commentator, pleases me. I hadn’t remarked its cool timbre at the drum circle. “During the Boer War, Churchill was captured during a fight at a train and hauled off to prison. Later he escaped, miraculously found refuge with the only English sympathizer within a hundred miles, spent several days hiding in a cave with albino rats, and eventually returned to England as a hero. The Brits needed a hero then—the war wasn’t going particularly well.”
As usual, radiating trust, empathy, and love through human flesh initially proves a challenge. I modulate my voice, smile, and look him in the eye with interest but not intensity.
“I’ve never heard that story,” John says. He has a firm voice himself, pleasant, a trifle flat with a slight low-country drawl. He wears caution like a buckler. He’s still sporting the baseball hat, which bears the logo of the Braves, and he looks like a big goofy kid. The self-doubt I had earlier witnessed in him, the questions, are not evident in that voice, but vestiges remain on his face, the chronic despondency of the unbeliever. “I don’t really know much about the Boer War.”
“I dabble a bit in military history. I’m actually more interested in the Civil War.”
“Hey, me too. That and World War II.”
“Four things greater than all things are: women and horses and power and war.”
He gapes at me like a yokel, his mouth hanging open.
“Kipling,” I explain.
“Oh, that English guy. The Jungle Book?”
I nod. “That English guy.”
He slips the book into its place on the shelf. “Have you read Foote’s trilogy on the Civil War?”
“I have. A fine piece of work. What did someone call it? The American Iliad?”
Two women and a man, carrying long-stemmed glasses and a bottle of champagne, push past us on their way to the stairs, and we move into one of the nearby sitting areas. This shop truly is extraordinary, with its high ceilings, the wine and champagne bar, shelves and shelves of secondhand books, the scattering of plump chairs and sofas.
“Yeah, I read that quote somewhere myself. I got hooked on Foote when I watched him on the Ken Burns Civil War documentary. Have you seen that?”
“No, I’ve only read the books.”
“All that Southern charm. I could have listened to him for hours. Heck, Foote could’ve made a living on television.”
“But then we might not have the books.”
“True.” A question poised itself on his face, and then he made his decision and stuck out his right hand. “I’m John, by the way. John Flyte.”
“Maximilian Lamb,” I say, shaking his hand. He has a good grip. “Please, call me Max.”
“You have an interesting accent. English?”
“A boyhood in London. My father died before I really knew him. Heart failure. My mother was a brilliant woman, much brighter than I, and she worked in corporate law in London for Debevoise and Plimpton. I was back in the States and in law school at the University of Virginia when she fell ill and died. Right now I’m living in Winston-Salem.”
Always my motto during manifestation: Keep the biography simple and get the details out of the box right from the start. That modus operandi has always worked for me.
“How about you? Are you native to Asheville?”
Of course I know he’s from the Coast. The files on him are quite complete.
“Wilmington.”
“You must miss the sand and surf.”
“Sometimes. But I get back home three or four times a year.”
That isn’t quite the truth. In the past two years, John has trotted down to the Coast quite a bit, not to Wilmington but to Emerald Isle, where his paramour, now his former paramour, works for a real-estate company. Their falling-out in January turned nasty, doubtless one more of the reasons his damaged soul lacks love. For almost a year this woman had filled some of the gap in his heart, a gap now yawning into a crevasse.
“What brought you to the mountains?”
“Well, I went to pharmaceutical school in Chapel Hill, but I did my undergraduate work at the university here, and even then I decided I wanted to come back to Asheville someday. It’s a great town with lots to do, and I sure don’t miss the summers in Wilmington. And you? What sort of law do you practice?”
“General. Some light criminal. A little real estate.” I gesture toward the shelves around us. “This is an absolutely magnificent bookstore. Is it always so crowded?”
“I think so, but I’m only here on the weekends.” John looks around the store. “I like coming here. It takes my mind off things.”
“Good wine and good books—I can see how it would.”
His face comes back to mine. “I’ve heard it’s tough finding work as an attorney these days.”
“I’m doing all right.”
“What brings you to Asheville?”
“An old friend from university days. She lives here now. I popped up for a visit and to look at some property. She’s here somewhere. Why don’t you come along and say hello? I’m sure Maggie would enjoy meeting you.”
Public File: Client History: Emily Hoffman
My approach is gentle. Emily is a shy soul, comfortable only around her students.
She shelves the Fitzgerald book and settles onto a chair near the front window. She chooses this spot deliberately, I suspect, as a bookcase hides her from customers coming from the bar. From her purse she pulls Susan Howatch’s The High Flyer. Literarily speaking, Howatch is a cut above the Christian books Emily normally reads, and I wonder if the tangle of theology and sex in these novels may not reflect Emily’s own inner turmoil.
I pretend to examine the shelves of fiction near her. Finally I am standing beside her. “Oh, you’re reading Howatch,” I remark, and the sound of my voice surprises both of us, Emily because I am speaking to her, me because I am startled, as I was when ordering my wine, by a sort of merry air this voice provides my words, as if, when I speak, I am suggesting a great adventure to my listener.
Emily turns her face to me. Again I notice the smattering of freckles on her nose and upper cheeks, and find them endearing. I wonder what John Flyte thinks of freckles. If only Emily would remove those glasses and try smiling, she would be lovely.
“Susan Howatch,” I say, pointing toward Emily’s book. “I’ve read all of her Church of England novels. What do you think so far?”
She lays the novel in her lap, keeping her eyes on me, and fumbles for her glass of wine, nearly spilling it. “I like the old priest best, Father Darrow. You know, the mystic? And the gruff priest. Lewis.”
“I remember Father Darrow well,” I say. Heavens, how could I forget him? I’ve heard tales of dozens like Darrow over the centuries, souls as in tune with the Creator as we are. “And his son Nicholas. I like him, too.”
“You’re one of the few people I’ve ever met who’s even heard of these books. Did you read her earlier ones? The big best-sellers?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“They’re good, too, but not as good as this Church series. I would love to talk to her and see what made her write them.”
“Well, she clearly has an interest in spiritual matters.”
“Yes, she does. And she really shows the reader how the Anglican Church is breaking apart. How it’s splintered, I mean.”
“Has it splintered?” Of course, I know that the poor old church has splintered, smashed by the shoals of heresy and the ugly desire to be perceived as nice rather than faithful, but I want to keep her talking.
“Oh, yes. It’s all broken up. And not just the Anglicans.” She looks away from me, as if frightened by any possible disagreement on my part. “Most churches are in the same fix. They try to please everyone and aim for inclusion, but they don’t always understand truth and love.”
“What do you mean?”
“That along with love you have to teach the truth.”
“And what is truth?”
Emily smiles. A tiny sad smile, but it relieved the tension of her face. “Someone else once asked that question.”
“Pontius Pilate. And he didn’t get an answer to the question.”
“Maybe because the answer was standing right in front of him.” She pauses, making sure once again that she hasn’t offended me. “Without that truth, love becomes meaningless.”
Her shyness and earnest words give her an unexpected sweetness. She is one of those souls whose gentle ways draw prayers of protection from beyond this veil of tears, and I find myself liking her very much. “With a statement like that, I’m betting you’re a teacher.”
“Yes, but I teach--
I hold up one hand. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Not college—I don’t think you could survive the faculty meetings. Not high school—you don’t, if you’ll pardon my saying so, seem hardened enough. I don’t see you teaching middle-school.” (Middle-school students would eat her alive). “That leaves elementary school. Kindergarten?”
“That’s amazing. You’ve guessed it exactly. I must be transparent.”
“Sheer luck. I’m Margaret, by the way. Mary Margaret Hart.”
She stands and shakes my outstretched hand. “Emily Hoffman.” When she releases my hand, she says, “You don’t hear Margaret much anymore.”
“I go by Maggie most of the time.”
“Well, how about you? What do you do? I won’t try to follow your performance—I’m no good at guessing games.”
“I’m a nurse,” I say, and leave it at that. Unnecessary details can bring questions, or so I was taught, and questions lead to connections, which can spell trouble. “This is a wonderful shop, isn’t it?”
She nods. “I come here a lot.”
“It’s my first time. I wanted to show Max around town.”
“Max?
“A friend from my college days.”
Between us falls an awkward pause. Emily’s interest is fading. She’s still smiling at me, but her eyes are wondering why I don’t make my farewell. Where is Mr. Lamb? If he doesn’t appear soon, I’ll need to break contact, which is unacceptable, or else go on blithering. “Max is his name,” I add. “He’s in town for a visit. He’s an attorney. Real-estate, wills, driving violations—he handles all that sort of stuff.”
Where are you, Mr. Lamb? I spark him, one tiny burst of energy to signal my anxiety, just as he appears at my elbow, smiling at my impatience. John Flyte stands awkwardly behind him in his goofy baseball cap.
“Maggie, I’d like you to meet John Flyte.”
Spark: You! You goose! Are you crazy! What did you mean putting your arm around my shoulders that way? Are you so thick that you don’t know how human creatures interpret that gesture? I may be new to this game, but—
Spark: Manners, my dear Ms. Hart, manners. To assess a situation and to change tactics according to that assessment is Standard Operating Procedure.
Within seconds of the introductions, I sensed John Flyte being torn in his attractions between the two of you. Your client was his initial magnet—her hair color and shape fit his preconceptions of beauty—but his attention then seemed drawn to you, especially after you spoke. I must say the controller gave you an enchanting voice. And after all, your client, Emily, was wearing those horrid spectacles, and her eyes and her body language—she leaned away from him with her arms folded—dropped a portcullis clearly intended to deflect his further interest.
You, on the other hand: you have that melodious voice filled with—there is no other way to say it—sex. (What was your designer thinking?) Your dress was superior to Emily’s, and seductive in its low-cut décolletage, and that gold necklace against your throat brought to mind the jeweled baubles women wear to emphasize naked vulnerability. It’s too late now, of course, but your designer might do better during future manifestations to ditch the jewelry and fashion a dress less alluring.
And so I made a command decision and put my arm around you to indicate possession.
My gesture immediately marked off the territory available to him. John’s interest turned again to Emily.
Surely you noticed?
With that explanation, let me suggest that you write our Post-Action Report. You need the practice. You may submit it to me first, if you like, and I shall comment if necessary.
Spark: Mr. Lamb, please forgive my outburst. You are correct. I failed to realize the effect of my appearance on John Flyte. As you also note, I am unused to dealing with matters of dress and jewelry. Your touch startled me, but now I realize your apprehensions regarding John. Please accept my deepest apologies.
I shall be glad to submit the Post-Action Report and will look forward to your critique.
Post-Action Report: M. Hart: The Meeting of Emily Hoffman and John Flyte
In our manifestations as Maximilian Lamb and Mary Margaret Hart, we introduced the clients at approximately 7:47 Eastern Standard time/United States/Earth.
Mr. Lamb introduced client John Flyte to me and then asked me to introduce him and John Flyte to Emily Hoffman. I introduced Emily as a kindergarten teacher and a reader; Mr. Lamb introduced his client as a pharmacist and lover of history. At this point John removed the baseball cap from his head, which demonstrates some propriety of upbringing. To dissuade John that I might be available to his affections, Mr. Lamb then put his right arm around my shoulders and said, “Maggie is the fiction lover. I pick up some histories and biographies from time to time, but I can’t compare to her when it comes to reading. You know, I believe she has read every word F. Scott Fitzgerald ever wrote.”
“I was just looking at Tender Is The Night a few minutes ago,” Emily said. She turned to me. “I love Fitzgerald’s writing.” Then she blushed. “That sounds awfully banal, doesn’t it? But I really do. Partly it’s his writing and the way he expresses himself—he puts together such odd adjectives with nouns—and partly it’s his romance with Zelda and their lives together. Once I visited their graves in Rockville.”
“Really?” I said. That visit was not a part of her file. Maybe Emily was more a romantic than I had suspected.
“We had to read Gatsby in college,” John remarked. “I’m not much on fiction, but I still remember that book. The ending—‘beating against the current’ and all that—stuck with me.”
“And I,” said Mr. Lamb, ruefully, “am outnumbered. I have never read Gatsby or anything else by Fitzgerald. I did read some of the work of Asheville’s native son, Thomas Wolfe, before driving into the mountains.”
John shook his head. “I tried Wolfe. Too many words.”
Emily disagreed. “He was trying to capture it all. He failed, just the way Faulkner said, but he really wanted to put everything he had experienced on paper so that his readers could feel and think everything he’d seen and done.”
“Faulkner,” Mr. Lamb said. “I have read him. The Sound and the Fury—not for everyone, but brilliant. I don’t know how the man ever kept the story together.”
“And Absalom, Absalom,” Emily said.
“Agreed,” said Mr. Lamb.
“Have you read everything?” John was smiling at her when he asked the question. His smile noticeably widened when Emily removed those awful glasses and looked him directly in the face.
For the second time that evening her mouth flickered briefly into a smile, and she glowed a little, as if someone had turned on a lamp behind her face. “Not everything. But I do love the writers of the twenties and the thirties. I’ve read a lot of them.”
“Hemingway?” John asked her.
“Love him.”
“A woman after my own heart.”
She smiled again. I wondered if anyone other than me noticed the tiny blush at the base of her throat. “He was sometimes hard on women, but he made me fall in love with Paris.”
“You’ve gone to Paris?” Mr. Lamb asked. Like me, he at once realized this fact was missing from her file.
“Oh, no. No,” she added, more firmly. “A Moveable Feast made me fall in love with Paris. Someday I want to go.”
“You’ll love it,” John said.
“You’ve been there?”
“Twice. Once in college for a semester abroad program and again after graduation from pharmaceutical school.”
“Was it everything you wanted?”
“Whatever you’ve imagined Paris to be, you’ll find it there.”
“Did you visit Shakespeare and Company?”
“I did. The first time I went, George Whitman was still alive and running the place.”
“Oh.” For a moment I thought Emily might actually put her hand over her heart.
Mr. Lamb removed his arm from my shoulder. “I could use a bite to eat. They offer cheese and bread platters here. Anyone else hungry? My treat.”
“It’s crowded,” John said. “I didn’t see any empty tables.”
“Then we’ll set up camp right here,” Mr. Lamb said. “You two ladies take the chairs. John, you keep everyone entertained while I fetch a cheese-board and a bottle of cabernet.”
“I can pay for the wine.”
“No, no, my treat,” Mr. Lamb said. Though I could see we might have to square this expenditure later with accounting, Mr. Lamb was justified in the gesture. It would leave Emily and John that much more time to become acquainted.
Off he went to purchase the food and drink while the three of us chatted. His trip to the bar seemed to take forever, and I had to keep reminding myself that the pace of this world is much slower than our own. Eventually he returned, balancing the cheese-board in one hand, the bottle of cabernet in the other, napkins and cheese knife tucked into his shirt pocket.
“In case you’re worried, the waitress says we needn’t finish the wine. We can take the bottle with us.” He put the plate and the wine on the low table and sat on the floor beside my chair. He was very cheerful. “Come on, John. Best seat in the house.”
John sat awkwardly on the floor beside Emily’s chair. Mr. Lamb sliced the cheese and took some bread. “Reminds me of a meal I once ate in Casablanca.”
“You were in Casablanca?”
“Just for a short time.” He poured wine for himself and John—Emily and I were still working on our drinks—and raised his glass for clicks all around. “To Asheville and new friendships.”
I thought he was laying it on a little thick, but both Emily and John murmured the toast back at him, looked at each other, and drank.
“What else do you like to do besides reading?” John asked Emily.
“I volunteer at Hearts for Hands. I like contra dancing, but don’t go very much. And walking.”
“Hiking?”
Emily laughed. Her laughter surprised me. It was less guarded than her voice, light and musical. “I wouldn’t call it that. More like strolling. You know, through town. How about you?”
“Racquetball at the Y. Lifting. Hiking. Movies. Video games.” (Note for future reference: John Flyte’s video games may indicate extended adolescence).
“Lifting?”
“Weights.”
“Ah,” Emily said.
“So. Are you originally from Asheville?”
“No, I grew up in Florida. Gainesville. But when I was in high school, our church youth group came on a mission trip here, and I fell in love with the mountains. I still remember how everything felt that week—so green and cool.”
And so it went. Mr. Lamb and I tried, of course, to converse as little as possible, leaving to them the available precious minutes to become acquainted. John Flyte became more animated, and did more of the talking than Emily Hoffman. Unfortunately, much of his dialogue was directed at himself. He explained why he had become a pharmacist—“the hours, the money, an interest in science, and a fascination with the effects of pharmaceuticals on the human body.” He then discussed, to an annoying degree, the movies of Bruce Willis, and went on far too long about his favorite video game, Call of Duty. Had I been Emily, John would have bored me out of my wits.
But she leaned toward him, her knees nearly touching his shoulders, smiling and nodding at his enthusiasms. Is she so lonely that she finds even an adolescent narcissist fascinating? John is handsome, his voice contains an animated timbre, and he did in fact focus his attention on her. His despair regarding the eternal, more easily spotted by us than by his fellow creatures, lay hidden behind his smile and words. But if the goal of future meetings is romance and love, then Mr. Flyte will need to mend his ways. Emily can only nod so many times before her stiffened neck will require medical treatment.
The evening ended when Mr. Lamb covered a yawn and made mention of the long day. We were running another test, of course, seeking to determine whether Emily and John might wish to be left alone. But both of them stood when Mr. Lamb rose to his feet.
“This was fun,” John said. “I’m glad to have met you all.”
“Me, too,” Emily said.
There was a brief pause in which I sensed that John wanted to ask Emily for her number, but in spite of his bluff personality, he is clearly a stick when it comes to women. He needs to put away his Gameboy, X-Box, or whatever he plays at home, and find out more about the opposite sex.
“This was fun,” I said, and suppressed a sigh for what I was about to say next. “Tomorrow evening I’m taking Max to the Sky Bar. Do you know it?”
Both of them nodded. “I’ve never been there,” Emily said, while John put in: “I’ve gone there a couple of times. It’s super-nice at twilight.”
Super-nice? John Flyte also needs lessons in elocution.
“Why don’t you two come along?” Mr. Lamb said. “We could meet in the lobby by the elevator around eight.”
The two of them looked at each other, obviously wanting to spend the next evening together but frightened to be first to accept Max’s invitation.
“Tomorrow works for me,” John said. “I’m free.”
“I’ll be there,” Emily said.
And so the evening ended.
“The Boer War. Have you read Churchill’s account of the skirmish at the train?”
“Pardon me,” John says, startled by my intrusion.
Approaching strangers in this country and era is uncommon, and John Flyte regards me warily. I observe that the brown eyes are flecked with green. Another note: he’s missed a spot shaving that morning, right below his left nostril. I wonder if Emily Gordon will notice his negligence.
When he remains silent—perhaps he thinks I’m hitting on him for money or sex—I repeat, “Churchill. Have you read him?”
My voice, controlled, deep, with just a twist of that bored sophistication of a BBC commentator, pleases me. I hadn’t remarked its cool timbre at the drum circle. “During the Boer War, Churchill was captured during a fight at a train and hauled off to prison. Later he escaped, miraculously found refuge with the only English sympathizer within a hundred miles, spent several days hiding in a cave with albino rats, and eventually returned to England as a hero. The Brits needed a hero then—the war wasn’t going particularly well.”
As usual, radiating trust, empathy, and love through human flesh initially proves a challenge. I modulate my voice, smile, and look him in the eye with interest but not intensity.
“I’ve never heard that story,” John says. He has a firm voice himself, pleasant, a trifle flat with a slight low-country drawl. He wears caution like a buckler. He’s still sporting the baseball hat, which bears the logo of the Braves, and he looks like a big goofy kid. The self-doubt I had earlier witnessed in him, the questions, are not evident in that voice, but vestiges remain on his face, the chronic despondency of the unbeliever. “I don’t really know much about the Boer War.”
“I dabble a bit in military history. I’m actually more interested in the Civil War.”
“Hey, me too. That and World War II.”
“Four things greater than all things are: women and horses and power and war.”
He gapes at me like a yokel, his mouth hanging open.
“Kipling,” I explain.
“Oh, that English guy. The Jungle Book?”
I nod. “That English guy.”
He slips the book into its place on the shelf. “Have you read Foote’s trilogy on the Civil War?”
“I have. A fine piece of work. What did someone call it? The American Iliad?”
Two women and a man, carrying long-stemmed glasses and a bottle of champagne, push past us on their way to the stairs, and we move into one of the nearby sitting areas. This shop truly is extraordinary, with its high ceilings, the wine and champagne bar, shelves and shelves of secondhand books, the scattering of plump chairs and sofas.
“Yeah, I read that quote somewhere myself. I got hooked on Foote when I watched him on the Ken Burns Civil War documentary. Have you seen that?”
“No, I’ve only read the books.”
“All that Southern charm. I could have listened to him for hours. Heck, Foote could’ve made a living on television.”
“But then we might not have the books.”
“True.” A question poised itself on his face, and then he made his decision and stuck out his right hand. “I’m John, by the way. John Flyte.”
“Maximilian Lamb,” I say, shaking his hand. He has a good grip. “Please, call me Max.”
“You have an interesting accent. English?”
“A boyhood in London. My father died before I really knew him. Heart failure. My mother was a brilliant woman, much brighter than I, and she worked in corporate law in London for Debevoise and Plimpton. I was back in the States and in law school at the University of Virginia when she fell ill and died. Right now I’m living in Winston-Salem.”
Always my motto during manifestation: Keep the biography simple and get the details out of the box right from the start. That modus operandi has always worked for me.
“How about you? Are you native to Asheville?”
Of course I know he’s from the Coast. The files on him are quite complete.
“Wilmington.”
“You must miss the sand and surf.”
“Sometimes. But I get back home three or four times a year.”
That isn’t quite the truth. In the past two years, John has trotted down to the Coast quite a bit, not to Wilmington but to Emerald Isle, where his paramour, now his former paramour, works for a real-estate company. Their falling-out in January turned nasty, doubtless one more of the reasons his damaged soul lacks love. For almost a year this woman had filled some of the gap in his heart, a gap now yawning into a crevasse.
“What brought you to the mountains?”
“Well, I went to pharmaceutical school in Chapel Hill, but I did my undergraduate work at the university here, and even then I decided I wanted to come back to Asheville someday. It’s a great town with lots to do, and I sure don’t miss the summers in Wilmington. And you? What sort of law do you practice?”
“General. Some light criminal. A little real estate.” I gesture toward the shelves around us. “This is an absolutely magnificent bookstore. Is it always so crowded?”
“I think so, but I’m only here on the weekends.” John looks around the store. “I like coming here. It takes my mind off things.”
“Good wine and good books—I can see how it would.”
His face comes back to mine. “I’ve heard it’s tough finding work as an attorney these days.”
“I’m doing all right.”
“What brings you to Asheville?”
“An old friend from university days. She lives here now. I popped up for a visit and to look at some property. She’s here somewhere. Why don’t you come along and say hello? I’m sure Maggie would enjoy meeting you.”
Public File: Client History: Emily Hoffman
My approach is gentle. Emily is a shy soul, comfortable only around her students.
She shelves the Fitzgerald book and settles onto a chair near the front window. She chooses this spot deliberately, I suspect, as a bookcase hides her from customers coming from the bar. From her purse she pulls Susan Howatch’s The High Flyer. Literarily speaking, Howatch is a cut above the Christian books Emily normally reads, and I wonder if the tangle of theology and sex in these novels may not reflect Emily’s own inner turmoil.
I pretend to examine the shelves of fiction near her. Finally I am standing beside her. “Oh, you’re reading Howatch,” I remark, and the sound of my voice surprises both of us, Emily because I am speaking to her, me because I am startled, as I was when ordering my wine, by a sort of merry air this voice provides my words, as if, when I speak, I am suggesting a great adventure to my listener.
Emily turns her face to me. Again I notice the smattering of freckles on her nose and upper cheeks, and find them endearing. I wonder what John Flyte thinks of freckles. If only Emily would remove those glasses and try smiling, she would be lovely.
“Susan Howatch,” I say, pointing toward Emily’s book. “I’ve read all of her Church of England novels. What do you think so far?”
She lays the novel in her lap, keeping her eyes on me, and fumbles for her glass of wine, nearly spilling it. “I like the old priest best, Father Darrow. You know, the mystic? And the gruff priest. Lewis.”
“I remember Father Darrow well,” I say. Heavens, how could I forget him? I’ve heard tales of dozens like Darrow over the centuries, souls as in tune with the Creator as we are. “And his son Nicholas. I like him, too.”
“You’re one of the few people I’ve ever met who’s even heard of these books. Did you read her earlier ones? The big best-sellers?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“They’re good, too, but not as good as this Church series. I would love to talk to her and see what made her write them.”
“Well, she clearly has an interest in spiritual matters.”
“Yes, she does. And she really shows the reader how the Anglican Church is breaking apart. How it’s splintered, I mean.”
“Has it splintered?” Of course, I know that the poor old church has splintered, smashed by the shoals of heresy and the ugly desire to be perceived as nice rather than faithful, but I want to keep her talking.
“Oh, yes. It’s all broken up. And not just the Anglicans.” She looks away from me, as if frightened by any possible disagreement on my part. “Most churches are in the same fix. They try to please everyone and aim for inclusion, but they don’t always understand truth and love.”
“What do you mean?”
“That along with love you have to teach the truth.”
“And what is truth?”
Emily smiles. A tiny sad smile, but it relieved the tension of her face. “Someone else once asked that question.”
“Pontius Pilate. And he didn’t get an answer to the question.”
“Maybe because the answer was standing right in front of him.” She pauses, making sure once again that she hasn’t offended me. “Without that truth, love becomes meaningless.”
Her shyness and earnest words give her an unexpected sweetness. She is one of those souls whose gentle ways draw prayers of protection from beyond this veil of tears, and I find myself liking her very much. “With a statement like that, I’m betting you’re a teacher.”
“Yes, but I teach--
I hold up one hand. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Not college—I don’t think you could survive the faculty meetings. Not high school—you don’t, if you’ll pardon my saying so, seem hardened enough. I don’t see you teaching middle-school.” (Middle-school students would eat her alive). “That leaves elementary school. Kindergarten?”
“That’s amazing. You’ve guessed it exactly. I must be transparent.”
“Sheer luck. I’m Margaret, by the way. Mary Margaret Hart.”
She stands and shakes my outstretched hand. “Emily Hoffman.” When she releases my hand, she says, “You don’t hear Margaret much anymore.”
“I go by Maggie most of the time.”
“Well, how about you? What do you do? I won’t try to follow your performance—I’m no good at guessing games.”
“I’m a nurse,” I say, and leave it at that. Unnecessary details can bring questions, or so I was taught, and questions lead to connections, which can spell trouble. “This is a wonderful shop, isn’t it?”
She nods. “I come here a lot.”
“It’s my first time. I wanted to show Max around town.”
“Max?
“A friend from my college days.”
Between us falls an awkward pause. Emily’s interest is fading. She’s still smiling at me, but her eyes are wondering why I don’t make my farewell. Where is Mr. Lamb? If he doesn’t appear soon, I’ll need to break contact, which is unacceptable, or else go on blithering. “Max is his name,” I add. “He’s in town for a visit. He’s an attorney. Real-estate, wills, driving violations—he handles all that sort of stuff.”
Where are you, Mr. Lamb? I spark him, one tiny burst of energy to signal my anxiety, just as he appears at my elbow, smiling at my impatience. John Flyte stands awkwardly behind him in his goofy baseball cap.
“Maggie, I’d like you to meet John Flyte.”
Spark: You! You goose! Are you crazy! What did you mean putting your arm around my shoulders that way? Are you so thick that you don’t know how human creatures interpret that gesture? I may be new to this game, but—
Spark: Manners, my dear Ms. Hart, manners. To assess a situation and to change tactics according to that assessment is Standard Operating Procedure.
Within seconds of the introductions, I sensed John Flyte being torn in his attractions between the two of you. Your client was his initial magnet—her hair color and shape fit his preconceptions of beauty—but his attention then seemed drawn to you, especially after you spoke. I must say the controller gave you an enchanting voice. And after all, your client, Emily, was wearing those horrid spectacles, and her eyes and her body language—she leaned away from him with her arms folded—dropped a portcullis clearly intended to deflect his further interest.
You, on the other hand: you have that melodious voice filled with—there is no other way to say it—sex. (What was your designer thinking?) Your dress was superior to Emily’s, and seductive in its low-cut décolletage, and that gold necklace against your throat brought to mind the jeweled baubles women wear to emphasize naked vulnerability. It’s too late now, of course, but your designer might do better during future manifestations to ditch the jewelry and fashion a dress less alluring.
And so I made a command decision and put my arm around you to indicate possession.
My gesture immediately marked off the territory available to him. John’s interest turned again to Emily.
Surely you noticed?
With that explanation, let me suggest that you write our Post-Action Report. You need the practice. You may submit it to me first, if you like, and I shall comment if necessary.
Spark: Mr. Lamb, please forgive my outburst. You are correct. I failed to realize the effect of my appearance on John Flyte. As you also note, I am unused to dealing with matters of dress and jewelry. Your touch startled me, but now I realize your apprehensions regarding John. Please accept my deepest apologies.
I shall be glad to submit the Post-Action Report and will look forward to your critique.
Post-Action Report: M. Hart: The Meeting of Emily Hoffman and John Flyte
In our manifestations as Maximilian Lamb and Mary Margaret Hart, we introduced the clients at approximately 7:47 Eastern Standard time/United States/Earth.
Mr. Lamb introduced client John Flyte to me and then asked me to introduce him and John Flyte to Emily Hoffman. I introduced Emily as a kindergarten teacher and a reader; Mr. Lamb introduced his client as a pharmacist and lover of history. At this point John removed the baseball cap from his head, which demonstrates some propriety of upbringing. To dissuade John that I might be available to his affections, Mr. Lamb then put his right arm around my shoulders and said, “Maggie is the fiction lover. I pick up some histories and biographies from time to time, but I can’t compare to her when it comes to reading. You know, I believe she has read every word F. Scott Fitzgerald ever wrote.”
“I was just looking at Tender Is The Night a few minutes ago,” Emily said. She turned to me. “I love Fitzgerald’s writing.” Then she blushed. “That sounds awfully banal, doesn’t it? But I really do. Partly it’s his writing and the way he expresses himself—he puts together such odd adjectives with nouns—and partly it’s his romance with Zelda and their lives together. Once I visited their graves in Rockville.”
“Really?” I said. That visit was not a part of her file. Maybe Emily was more a romantic than I had suspected.
“We had to read Gatsby in college,” John remarked. “I’m not much on fiction, but I still remember that book. The ending—‘beating against the current’ and all that—stuck with me.”
“And I,” said Mr. Lamb, ruefully, “am outnumbered. I have never read Gatsby or anything else by Fitzgerald. I did read some of the work of Asheville’s native son, Thomas Wolfe, before driving into the mountains.”
John shook his head. “I tried Wolfe. Too many words.”
Emily disagreed. “He was trying to capture it all. He failed, just the way Faulkner said, but he really wanted to put everything he had experienced on paper so that his readers could feel and think everything he’d seen and done.”
“Faulkner,” Mr. Lamb said. “I have read him. The Sound and the Fury—not for everyone, but brilliant. I don’t know how the man ever kept the story together.”
“And Absalom, Absalom,” Emily said.
“Agreed,” said Mr. Lamb.
“Have you read everything?” John was smiling at her when he asked the question. His smile noticeably widened when Emily removed those awful glasses and looked him directly in the face.
For the second time that evening her mouth flickered briefly into a smile, and she glowed a little, as if someone had turned on a lamp behind her face. “Not everything. But I do love the writers of the twenties and the thirties. I’ve read a lot of them.”
“Hemingway?” John asked her.
“Love him.”
“A woman after my own heart.”
She smiled again. I wondered if anyone other than me noticed the tiny blush at the base of her throat. “He was sometimes hard on women, but he made me fall in love with Paris.”
“You’ve gone to Paris?” Mr. Lamb asked. Like me, he at once realized this fact was missing from her file.
“Oh, no. No,” she added, more firmly. “A Moveable Feast made me fall in love with Paris. Someday I want to go.”
“You’ll love it,” John said.
“You’ve been there?”
“Twice. Once in college for a semester abroad program and again after graduation from pharmaceutical school.”
“Was it everything you wanted?”
“Whatever you’ve imagined Paris to be, you’ll find it there.”
“Did you visit Shakespeare and Company?”
“I did. The first time I went, George Whitman was still alive and running the place.”
“Oh.” For a moment I thought Emily might actually put her hand over her heart.
Mr. Lamb removed his arm from my shoulder. “I could use a bite to eat. They offer cheese and bread platters here. Anyone else hungry? My treat.”
“It’s crowded,” John said. “I didn’t see any empty tables.”
“Then we’ll set up camp right here,” Mr. Lamb said. “You two ladies take the chairs. John, you keep everyone entertained while I fetch a cheese-board and a bottle of cabernet.”
“I can pay for the wine.”
“No, no, my treat,” Mr. Lamb said. Though I could see we might have to square this expenditure later with accounting, Mr. Lamb was justified in the gesture. It would leave Emily and John that much more time to become acquainted.
Off he went to purchase the food and drink while the three of us chatted. His trip to the bar seemed to take forever, and I had to keep reminding myself that the pace of this world is much slower than our own. Eventually he returned, balancing the cheese-board in one hand, the bottle of cabernet in the other, napkins and cheese knife tucked into his shirt pocket.
“In case you’re worried, the waitress says we needn’t finish the wine. We can take the bottle with us.” He put the plate and the wine on the low table and sat on the floor beside my chair. He was very cheerful. “Come on, John. Best seat in the house.”
John sat awkwardly on the floor beside Emily’s chair. Mr. Lamb sliced the cheese and took some bread. “Reminds me of a meal I once ate in Casablanca.”
“You were in Casablanca?”
“Just for a short time.” He poured wine for himself and John—Emily and I were still working on our drinks—and raised his glass for clicks all around. “To Asheville and new friendships.”
I thought he was laying it on a little thick, but both Emily and John murmured the toast back at him, looked at each other, and drank.
“What else do you like to do besides reading?” John asked Emily.
“I volunteer at Hearts for Hands. I like contra dancing, but don’t go very much. And walking.”
“Hiking?”
Emily laughed. Her laughter surprised me. It was less guarded than her voice, light and musical. “I wouldn’t call it that. More like strolling. You know, through town. How about you?”
“Racquetball at the Y. Lifting. Hiking. Movies. Video games.” (Note for future reference: John Flyte’s video games may indicate extended adolescence).
“Lifting?”
“Weights.”
“Ah,” Emily said.
“So. Are you originally from Asheville?”
“No, I grew up in Florida. Gainesville. But when I was in high school, our church youth group came on a mission trip here, and I fell in love with the mountains. I still remember how everything felt that week—so green and cool.”
And so it went. Mr. Lamb and I tried, of course, to converse as little as possible, leaving to them the available precious minutes to become acquainted. John Flyte became more animated, and did more of the talking than Emily Hoffman. Unfortunately, much of his dialogue was directed at himself. He explained why he had become a pharmacist—“the hours, the money, an interest in science, and a fascination with the effects of pharmaceuticals on the human body.” He then discussed, to an annoying degree, the movies of Bruce Willis, and went on far too long about his favorite video game, Call of Duty. Had I been Emily, John would have bored me out of my wits.
But she leaned toward him, her knees nearly touching his shoulders, smiling and nodding at his enthusiasms. Is she so lonely that she finds even an adolescent narcissist fascinating? John is handsome, his voice contains an animated timbre, and he did in fact focus his attention on her. His despair regarding the eternal, more easily spotted by us than by his fellow creatures, lay hidden behind his smile and words. But if the goal of future meetings is romance and love, then Mr. Flyte will need to mend his ways. Emily can only nod so many times before her stiffened neck will require medical treatment.
The evening ended when Mr. Lamb covered a yawn and made mention of the long day. We were running another test, of course, seeking to determine whether Emily and John might wish to be left alone. But both of them stood when Mr. Lamb rose to his feet.
“This was fun,” John said. “I’m glad to have met you all.”
“Me, too,” Emily said.
There was a brief pause in which I sensed that John wanted to ask Emily for her number, but in spite of his bluff personality, he is clearly a stick when it comes to women. He needs to put away his Gameboy, X-Box, or whatever he plays at home, and find out more about the opposite sex.
“This was fun,” I said, and suppressed a sigh for what I was about to say next. “Tomorrow evening I’m taking Max to the Sky Bar. Do you know it?”
Both of them nodded. “I’ve never been there,” Emily said, while John put in: “I’ve gone there a couple of times. It’s super-nice at twilight.”
Super-nice? John Flyte also needs lessons in elocution.
“Why don’t you two come along?” Mr. Lamb said. “We could meet in the lobby by the elevator around eight.”
The two of them looked at each other, obviously wanting to spend the next evening together but frightened to be first to accept Max’s invitation.
“Tomorrow works for me,” John said. “I’m free.”
“I’ll be there,” Emily said.
And so the evening ended.