The Lioness at the gates

8/9/2019 The Lioness at the gates

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The Lionessat the Gates

Short Stories by

Mae Siu-Wai Stroshane

Lulu Books 2009


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The Lioness at the Gates

You can find some of the best seafood in Boston in little

neighborhood restaurants that never get mentioned in any

guidebook. And one of the very best is Wongs' Fish Palace, a hole-in-

the-wall market and sit-down restaurant in a neighborhood teeming

with students and immigrants from all over.No fancy china and linen tablecloths at the Fish Palace. The

tender seafood comes on paper plates with plastic forks and little

packets of soy or tartar sauce. You grab your soda from the cooler

and if you don't want Mrs. Wong to yell at you, you leave the empty

can on the counter for a nickel back and a smile from the lady of the

house. If you ask for clams, that's what you get - lightly fried and hot,

bellies and all. They only serve the big sea scallops at Wongs', and

you know you've found the real thing, after eating little rubbererasers all your life.

You can eat a cooked meal at one of the small tables, or choose

a cook-your-own fish from a big glass case full of ice. Under the

bluish lights their glassy eyes stare up at you and their big lips pout

as if they wish they were still swimming in the icy blue waters off

Georges Bank. They had a long ride on the trawlers, then lay

patiently in huge barrels until the lucky ones were loaded onto Mr.

Wong's battered Datsun pickup just before sunrise.The dockworkers and fishermen all know Mr. Wong - his head

barely comes up to their broad chests as he swings their huge boxes

of fish onto his truck with the effortless grace of a wu-shu

swordsman. They rib him about his small size, but they'd be happy to

have him on their crew any day.

Rattling back into town on the turnpike in the pink dawn,

waving at the sleepy commuters grumping their way into the city,

Mr. Wong guns his groaning truck to just above the speed limit andcranks up the radio to Golden Oldies. He likes Elvis the best. At the

tolls he greets the toll taker. They all know him by name, and call out

a more-or-less cheery hello. He parks his truck in front of his store.


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As he hauls open the screechy metal security gate, he has to step

over the bubble gum and dog piles on the sidewalk.

One of the regulars in front of the bar next door sings out, "Hey

Mr. Wong, any good fish today?"

"So fresh they be jumping," chuckles Mr. Wong, showing his

gold front tooth. It is his standard reply.

The neighborhood begins to stir. Buses roar past, trailing fumesin their wake. A line forms at the bank across the street. Smells of

coffee and donuts waft down from the coffee shop on the corner. But

Mr. Wong has no time for breakfast. He has to arrange his fish on ice

and poke little signs into them. He winces at the price of haddock,

but what can he do?

Just as he has started the hot oil going in the cooking vats, Mrs.

Wong rushes in, her kerchief hanging loose. She has gotten the

children up and off to school and is ready to start her second job. Sheruns over to the bank to get change for the day, and jokes with Mary,

the teller, a daily customer at the Fish Palace.

"I'll be over for my porgy at one o'clock if the boss lets me outta

my cage," Mary says. "Don't forget, dunk that fishie, roll him til he

screams, and - "

"Burn him to a crisp!" Mrs. Wong finishes. They both laugh.

Mary is from Louisiana, and misses her Cajun food. She likes her fish

well done and drowned in tabasco sauce, to remind her of those lazy

summer days when she dangled her feet in the warm Mississipi river

and caught crayfish with a string and a stick.

Back at the store, Mrs. Wong puts on a red smock and a Red

Sox cap - ever since the last World Series, she's worn it with pride.

Now she chops vegetables for traditional Chinese dishes as well as

American ones, and peels shrimp with swift fingers. By opening

time, a small crowd of regulars is peering anxiously through the glass

door. Mr. Wong swipes the spotless counters with a cloth, ties on a

striped apron, and unlocks the door with a cheerful "Hello" that

deepens the wrinkles around his eyes. The day has begun.

Two elderly ladies carefully select a flounder from the whole

fish case. This is Mr. Wong's domain, while Mrs. Wong serves up


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plates of quick-fried food at the other end of the counter. Later, they

will work as a team during the lunchtime rush.

"Ooh, that looks lovely," says one of the ladies as Mr. Wong's

thin sharp knife deftly peels the fillets they've requested. "Aren't you

clever with that knife!"

"Lot of practice," he says briefly, wrapping the fish in neat

packages."I just love the way you people work with your hands."

Mr. Wong, his back turned, rolls his eyes, but he smiles politely

as he hands the ladies their fish.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Wong is bantering with a college student she

knows well.

"Where your girlfriend today, Bobby?" she shouts over the

popping, crackling oil.

He shifts his feet and grins sheepishly. "You mean Martha?She's, uh, out of town."

Mrs. Wong sets his plate of fried clams on the counter. "Big

ones today," she says. "Okay with you?"

"Yeah, sure." He blinks. "I, uh, like big bellies." He blushes as

soon as the words come out. Mrs. Wong winks.

"Better be careful. Get married first."

He chokes and nearly drops his money into the food.

The morning flies by. Suddenly the lunchtime crowd is pouring

in, and there is no time for conversation. Plate after plate of crispy

fish, stir-fry, and steamed rolls are wrapped swiftly and handed over

to the local office workers, storeowners, and even reporters from one

of the big TV stations. Mr. Wong takes all the orders in English, then

repeats them in low Cantonese to Mrs. Wong, who never looks up

from her cutting board and cooking vats.

Mary comes flying in for her well-done porgy. Several other

customers admire it and request theirs "Cajun-style" too.

Construction workers sit by the window wolfing their haddock

and fries.

One of the TV anchormen comes in for his rainbow trout

special. His familiar blow-dried hair and trench coat draw awed


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whispers from the people in line. He has praised the Fish Palace on

the evening news, and now he never has to wait in line for his lunch.

As he departs, smiling, one of the construction workers sings

out, "Hey Steve! Give us some good news tonight, willya?" Everyone

laughs.

At last the crowd thins out. Mr. and Mrs. Wong can finally sit

down to steamed redfish and rice. Mrs. Wong puts on tea. Herhusband studies a pink racing sheet.

"Fifty dollars on 'Buy My Love,'" he says disgustedly in

Cantonese. "I don't feel so lucky today."

Mrs. Wong isn't listening. "What are we going to do about Mei-

Ling?"

Mr. Wong doesn't answer. His wife goes on, "All she does is

pout. She won't listen to me. You should see how slow she moves

after school. The customers hate to be kept waiting - aiya!""She's a good girl." Mr. Wong finishes his tea. "You ask too

much of her."

"Too much? A little help in our business? When I was sixteen in

Guongdung - " she stops suddenly.

An elderly man shuffles into the store with a dachshund on a

leash. Mrs. Wong jumps up.

"Catfish special today, Mr. Bowen?" she says in English.

He looks down at the coins in his hand. "Well, maybe just a

piece of cake. And a cup of coffee, please, ma'am." The dog sniffs at a

smashed french fry on the floor.

Mrs. Wong waves her hand. "You want lunch, sir? Pay later,

okay?

"Oh no, no, I couldn't possibly - "

But she has already taken some pieces of their inexpensive

catfish and dipped them into the seasoned batter.

Mr. Bowen glances nervously at Mr. Wong, who shrugs.

"You're the nicest people in the whole neighborhood. God bless you."

When the food is ready, the old man carefully counts out

his coins.Mrs.Wong waves them away.


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"Don't worry, pay next time." Mr. Bowen wipes his eyes with a

handkerchief and sits down near the window to enjoy his meal. The

dog sniffs eagerly around the table.

"There goes one free lunch," Mr. Wong snorts when Mr. Bowen

has left.

"Not true, Jian! He's an honest gentleman, he'll pay," his wife

says indignantly."He'll tell all his friends in the alley how generous we are."

Mrs. Wong tightens her lips. She likes to think the best of

people, even Americans. Mr. Wong, who has seen his dreams worn

down by years of grueling work, isn't so trusting. At least he is his

own boss, he thinks. Not like some of his friends whose lack of

English has kept them in the kitchens in Chinatown for going on

twenty years.

A fire engine screams by. "False alarm," says Mrs. Wong."Those kids at the university like to pull the plug for fun."

"And you want Vicky to go there?" Vicky is Mei-Ling's

American name.

"Hai-ah. It's still one of the best." She begins to peel a mountain

of shrimp. "As long as she doesn't fall in love with a jook-singa

Chinese boy with no proper upbringing. Or worse, a lo faan, an

American boy."

Mr. Wong merely grunts and puts more fish on display.

At three o'clock he removes his apron and combs back his

thinning hair. He will run errands and pick up their two boys from

elementary school, then bring them to the store to do their homework

and wait on tables at dinnertime. After warning Mrs. Wong to be on

her guard, he leaves the store in her hands. She enjoys the quiet

afternoons when there are few customers.

Today, the peace doesn't last long. A thin man in ragged blue

jeans comes in and asks for change to use the pay phone. Mrs. Wong

obliges and goes back to her work, but she strains to listen. Over the

humming

of the refrigerators, she can only catch a few words.

"Yeah...now. Okay, 'bye."


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He hangs up the receiver and, hands shoved in his pockets,

saunters past the fish display. The fish stare back at him.

"Can I help you?" Mrs. Wong's eyes glitter like the fish.

He grins lopsidedly. "Say, Mama-san, you sell fried chicken?"

"No," she says quietly. "Two blocks down, Kentucky Fried."

"No problem." He turns to go, then stops and points a long

greasy finger. "Say, what's this ugly dude?""That's a porgy."

"Like 'Porgy and Bess?'Hey, that's great!" He begins to croon, "

'Summerti-i-me, and the livin' is easy...' " Mrs. Wong wishes she

could cover her ears.

He peers at the neat rows of flounder, bluefish, redfish,

rainbow trout, then leans down for a closer look. "I kinda like fish

anyway. And I'm real hungry."

She doesn't answer. She wishes he would leave."Can you give me credit? Mike next door'll pay you back."

She knows Mike, the good-natured bartender. Maybe he

would, but who knows?

"C'mon," the stranger pleads. "You're a nice lady. I can tell." He

straightens up and gives her what he must think is a charming smile.

His teeth are dirty gray. Mrs. Wong bites her lip. She thinks of Mr.

Bowen,

whom she instinctively likes and trusts. She wants to think well of

people. But she has never seen this man before.

"Please?"

Slowly she reaches for her knife. Maybe she could fry up a bit

of cheap redfish to get rid of him.

The metal chimes on the door jingle. In burst two chattering

girls with glossy black hair and identical denim jackets. The shorter

one tries to hit her sister with her purse.

"C'mon, Vicky, you promised! You owe me fifty cents."

"M'hai-ah! I don't owe you a thing, Buddha-head." Vicky fends

off her sister and nearly bumps into the stranger. He turns slowly

and straightens up, his hands sliding back into his pockets. The girls

see their mother standing stiffly behind the counter, and their

laughter fades. Suddenly the store is very quiet.


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"Well, well, well." The man lounges against the cold fish case.

"A coupla real lotus buds. They yours, Mama-san?"

Mrs. Wong stops slicing fish and looks up with narrowed eyes.

Under the counter, she tightens her grip on the knife. The girls back

away from the stranger, but he follows them.

"Say, where ya goin'? We were just gettin' friendly." In a flash,

Mrs. Wong slides around the counter and glares up at the man fromher full five feet. All her generous feeling has disappeared.

"You leave now," she says quietly. But he doesn't move.

"Ma, be careful, " whispers Nancy, the younger girl, tugging at

her mother's smock.

Without turning her head, Mrs. Wong mutters, "Mei-Ling, Mui-

mui, cho dai."

"No," says Vicky defiantly.

"Cho-dai - SIT DOWN!" There's no arguing with that tone. Thegirls scramble behind the counter and huddle on an empty orange

crate. Through the thick glass, Vicky sees the flash of steel hidden in

her mother's hand. She claps her hand over her sister's mouth,

indicating it with her eyes. Nancy's eyes widen but she stays quiet.

"You leave now, mister," Mrs. Wong repeats in a deadly tone

her daughters have never heard before. The knife trembles in her

fingers.

"I'll leave when I'm good and ready. This is a business, ain't it?"

But the man edges towards the door.

"You buy fish, okay. You not buy, then get out!"

In the silence, the clock ticks loudly. The man glances up at it,

then ambles to the window. Suddenly he swings around and heads

rapidly for the cash register.

"Gimme all your money," he shouts, no longer pretending to be

friendly. "I've got a gun." He shoves his right hand into his bulging

pocket.

Mrs. Wong runs for the pay phone.

"Over here, Mama-san!" His hidden hand twitches. "Or I'll blow

those pretty little China dolls away!"


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Nancy screams and covers her head. Mrs. Wong slips behind

the counter. She squeezes past Nancy and pushes her head down, but

Vicky follows her mother, bending low.

"No tricks! Open this cash register NOW!" The man leans over

and bangs on the keys with his free hand.

"Money all in the bank," says Mrs. Wong with a shrug. "Not

here."The man scowls at her. "Open that drawer, lady." He towers

over her. As soon as the drawer flies open, his long arm reaches

down to scoop out a fistful of dollar bills. A few coins fall to the floor.

"Where's the rest?" he demands.

Mrs. Wong and Vicky come around to his side of the counter.

Vicky half-hides behind her mother but she is watching the man

closely.

"No more, I tell you," says Mrs. Wong, holding up her emptyhands.

"C'mon, there's gotta be more - " He never finishes his sentence.

A red blur rushes at him. His hand flies out of his pocket and

clutches his knee. Something clatters to the floor, and without

looking down, Mrs. Wong kicks it as hard as she can. Her fists

joined, she sends the man sprawling on the linoleum. Another well-

placed kick causes him to double up, moaning. The money spills

around him. Meanwhile, Vicky has dived for the object that flew

under the cooler.

"Look, Ma, it's a squirt gun!" And so it is.

Nancy crawls out of hiding and stares incredulously at her tiny

mother standing as fiercely as a lioness poised over her prey.

Mrs. Wong turns. "Silly girl, call the police! Quick!"

At the word "police," the man miraculously recovers. Eyes red

and streaming, he staggers to his feet and bolts out the door, nearly

colliding with a stoop-shouldered figure on the sidewalk. Mrs. Wong

runs after him, but he leaps into a beat-up brown Chevy idling at the

curb. The car roars off into traffic and disappears around the corner.

Mrs. Wong stands on the sidewalk, blinking in the bright

sunlight. She shades her eyes with her hand. A small crowd gathers.


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Vicky and Nancy join her outside, trembling and silent now. They

don't seem to hear the excited chatter around them.

"Damn! Didn't get number on plate," their mother says.

"Don't worry, ma'am," says a quavering voice. Mr. Bowen

shuffles forward with his faithful hound. He taps his head. "It's in

here. Six-three-six, AMT. I'll write it down for you."

"Look-sahm-look - " Mrs. Wong turns. "Mr. Bowen, you comeback!"

"Yes, ma'am. Came back to pay my bill after you treated me like

a Christian. Then I saw this old car in front of your place, and a guy

all hunkered down at the wheel." The crowd listens eagerly. The old

man, clearly enjoying his audience, gestures grandly.

"I been around a long time, and you get a feel for these things. I

said to myself, 'Fred, that guy's trouble. And maybe he's trouble for

those nice folks in the fish market. I better lay low.' So I took a goodlong look at the license plate and hid over by the laundromat." Heads

followed his pointing finger. "Just when I figured nothing was

wrong, out comes that tall skinny fellow lickety-split, like a lion's

chasing his tail."

Vicky turns and looks at her mother for a long time. They all go

inside and over a free cup of coffee, Mr. Bowen writes the number on

a paper napkin. A few neighbors linger, murmuring in excited

whispers. "Did you see - ?" "Had no idea - " "Nobody's safe anymore -

"

After everyone leaves, it is quiet once more. Vicky Mei-Ling

begins peeling shrimp without being asked, glancing up at her

mother from time to time. Her mouth trembles, but she doesn't say

anything. Nancy stacks soda cans in the cooler, but they keep

slipping from her hands and rolling on the floor. Mrs. Wong doesn't

notice. She stands by the door, gazing into the distance. There are

deep creases in her forehead.

A police car arrives, and soon after that, Mr. Wong's truck. The

boys spill out. After they hear what has happened, they groan,

disappointed at having missed all the action. Mr. Wong decides he

will stay at the store all day from now on. The boys can take the bus

from school.


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Mrs. Wong shrugs. "We were fine," she says. "I had my girls

with me." She sits down quite suddenly at a table and draws a few

deep shuddering breaths. She seems herself again, not a lioness, not a

warrior. But her daughters know better.


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Winter Sonata

A package has arrived in the post from Vienna today. That's not

unusual. What is unusual is the way my mother Antonia thrusts it at

me impatiently and says in a trembling voice, "It's for you, Maxie

hurry and open it."

I shrug off my snowy wraps and rub my chilly hands together.

"Another art book? Mother, we still have plenty from

Grandfather's house!"

She winces as she always does when reminded of

Grandfather Birkenstock, who had been a renowned art dealer and

had a vast and valuable collection in his mansion in Vienna. After his

death twelve years ago, it had fallen to Mother, as his adored only

daughter, to sort through and dispose of a lifetime's worth of

possessions. He had summoned her to be with him during his final

days, and in our family, his word was law. Mother took all four of us

children with her, while Father stayed behind in Frankfurt.

I, only seven at the time, had dreaded having to visit his

bedside each day. I remember a glowering face with white bushyeyebrows that reminded me of engravings of King Lear, with breath

so horrible I nearly fainted. I would shut my eyes tightly for the

perfunctory kiss and flee the sickroom as soon as Mother gave me

permission. But my older brother Georg and I loved wandering


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through the forty-room house with its marvelous oddities from all

over the worldhere an ebony walking-stick topped by a lion's head

with fierce golden eyes, there a porcelain vase adorned with

deliciously indecent scenes of ladies bathing among lily pads. There

were collections of strange salty-smelling sea insects, musty ancient

maps of lost lands, and to my brother's great delight, even the sword

of a Roman emperor. We had no trouble hiding from our nanny inthe shadows of those forbidden delights.

The autumn passed. Grandfather grew weaker but stubbornly

held on. Father finally turned over his business to Uncle Georg and

joined us in Vienna. After Grandfather died in November, Mother

found it so difficult to relinquish any reminders of her childhood that

she often collapsed in tears and took to her bed.

"Where could I possibly put any of this in Frankfurt?" she

wailed. She began to find excuses for lingering, often claiming she

was too ill to see prospective buyers. Father was anxious to go home,

but dared not complain. We had all learned to tread lightly around

our beautiful, volatile, unpredictable mother, knowing we'd risk

near-decapitation from a hurled vase, or tongue-lashings that

scorched our souls. Her weeping penitence the next day seldom

assuaged our hurt. It was better not to cross her will at all.

Father adores Mother, but back then, he seldom showed it.

Nor did he show much interest in us when we were small, though we

always had private tutors and fine clothes. Still, he has always been

gentle and kind, and it hurt me to see how indifferent Mother was

toward him in those days. But I was secretly glad our stay in Vienna

lasted so long. Our nanny amused us at first with trips to the bustling

marketplace, pony rides in the Prater and puppet shows. These

diversions wore thin as the months stretched to years, but our tutor

kept us busy with French, geography, and music. Vienna began to

feel like home to me, away from dear old quiet Frankfurt. I loved to

watch the magnificent carriages clattering through the city streets

and wake up to the daily clamor of bells from all the churches. And I

still miss those glorious pastries!


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"Maxie, stop daydreaming!" Mother is quivering

impatiently. I hastily take the flat brown parcel and tilt it toward the

late afternoon light. "It's from Uncle B! Mother, have you written to

him lately?"

Mother bends over her embroidery and jerks the thread taut.

"No, dear, not since that fiasco with the Mass he promised to Father

and never sent. I've stayed out of matters since then." Her face ishidden from me, and somehow I don't believe her. After a moment

she glances up. "Maxie, for heaven's sake, open the package! I've been

waiting all afternoon."

I settle myself on the green velvet footstool and carefully tear

away the outer wrapping. A folded sheet of cream-colored vellum

falls onto the floor and I scoop it up before Mother can move from

her chair. We both recognize those bold loops and dashesover the

years, many such letters have arrived for my parents, or for mymother alone. She reads hers quickly and gives us only a few

tantalizing bits of information"Uncle B is hoping to rescue his

nephew Karl from that evil mother," or "Uncle B writes that he has

begun working on a new symphony" then locks the letters away in

her oaken jewelry chest, not even showing them to my father.

This letter is clearly addressed to me. I read it aloud

wonderingly.

A dedication! Well, this is not one of those dedications which are

used and abused by thousands of people. It is the spirit which unites the

nobler and finer people of this earth and which time can never

destroy...which calls you to mind and makes me see you still as a child,

and likewise your beloved parents...So at this very moment I am in the

Landstrasse...and I see you all before me..."

He comes back to me so clearly, the stocky, black-haired man

with the ruddy face and flashing eyes, whose loud laughter rang

through our house so often he seemed part of the family. "Uncle B,"

as we children liked to call him, would toss us little ones in the air

and call us melschoberldumplingand other nonsensical names.

His pockets were always full of bonbons and pennies for us, and


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until we knew better, we thought he was a magician. And in a way,

he was. He would improvise on the pianoforte in the evenings, and

though he was hard of hearing and sometimes hit wrong notes, he

cast a spell over all of us. Sometimes he would play parts of his latest

works, singing along in a hoarse voice that made me giggle. But if he

asked me to play for him, I was petrified. After all, he was already

vastly famous and I was a mere student. When he sat down next tome, I was overwhelmed. He wasn't large, but his clothes smelled of

tobacco and cologne, and his hands were very broad and hairy. Still,

his touch was always gentle as he corrected my fingering, and if I

played well, he would exclaim, "Brava, little one!" and kiss my cheeks

heartily. He even wrote a little trio for me as a farewell present the

last summer we saw him. That made my brother terribly jealous.

Sometimes when Father was away and Mother was ill, Uncle

B came and played for her alone. We children would press our ears tothe door, listening breathlessly to the glorious sounds from within.

He began to visit us so often our cook put out an extra plate for him

at every dinner. I was not too young to notice the secret glances that

passed between him and my mother at table. Her eyes sparkled, her

cheeks turned pink, and she laughed at nearly everything that was

said. It puzzled me that she never seemed this happy when Father

was home. Our Uncle B was far from elegant, and so awkward he

often dropped things and bumped into the furniture. Yet Mother's

gaze followed him everywhere as if he were some god descended

from Olympus for the evening.

Sometimes Mother took Georg and me to visit Uncle B in his

rooms, where he had a breathtaking view of the mountains. We'd

climb and climb and climb, and finally arrive at his door gasping for

breath. A stout old woman would answer our knock and admit us to

a scene of perpetual confusion and disordershirts, socks, books,

and dirty dishes decorated every table and chair, while manuscripts

tumbled from the open pianoforte by the window. Whenever the

servant tried to straighten up, Uncle B chased her from the room. We

were awed that an adult was allowed to be so slovenly. At our

mansion in the Landstrasse, Nanny would scold us for spilling so

much as a crumb of cake on the polished floors. But Mother never


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seemed to mind the mess in Uncle B's room. She would shrug and

say smilingly, "Genius need not be troubled with such trifling

matters."

At the end of the visit, Georg and I were allowed to choose a

small presenta quill from the silver inkpot on the piano, or a flower

from the Vienna Woods where Uncle B loved to roam. Then we

would wait restlessly in the musty hallway while Mother and UncleB lingered at the door saying endless good-byes. It was always a big

relief to run back down those stairs and escape into the fresh air

again. In the carriage, Mother often seemed lost in another world. If

we spoke to her, she barely heard us.

"Maxie, let me have the letter!" I am brought back to the

present. Mother is holding out her hand eagerly. I look down at her

and a strange feeling comes over me, as if I am seeing her through

adult eyes for the first time. Slowly I hand her the letter. She takes itfrom me reverently and pores over Uncle B's almost unreadable

scrawl.

I turn back to the package, wondering why he has dedicated

something to me and not to her. What could it be? A rondo perhaps?

Or some variations? I draw out a freshly engraved score of some

twenty pages. I can hardly believe my eyes. "Mother, it's a new

sonata!"

I have barely read the title when she snatches it from my

hands.

'Respectfully dedicated to Fraulein Maximiliane Brentano, December 6,

1821. From her friend and admirer, Ludwig van Beethoven.'

She stares at me with wide eyes. "A sonata? For you?"

"What's wrong with that?" I exclaim.

She collapses in her chair, half-laughing, half-sobbing. Her

head lolls back and I spring from my stool, afraid she might faint.

"Shall I fetch your smelling salts, Mother?" I feel that

familiar mixture of exasperation and concern whenever Mother has

one of her "spells." But she straightens up and brushes her graying

auburn hair from her eyes.


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"Here. Here. Take your fine Opus 109 and play it for me,

Fraulein Maximiliane Euphrosyne Kunigunde Brentano." I wish she

wouldn't mock my fantastic string of names. After all, it was she who

chose them all.

I seat myself at the Erard and take a long look at my new

sonata. The music is not difficult, but rather strange, unlike his usual

big bravura works. It opens with delicate broken arpeggios andquestioning cadences, a melody that wanders all over the keyboard.

Then comes a short fiery tarantella, and I try to do justice to its mad

spirit, even on this first reading. As I begin the final movement, a

small sound catches my ear and I whirl around. Mother is fervently

pressing the letter to her lips, her eyes closed. After an instant's

denial, the truth flashes through me. I have been no more than a go-

between, a lightning rod grounding the sparks of an illicit passion.

For a moment, I am singed by its heat. And then the moment passes,and anger wells up in me. I spring up from my seat and snatch the

sonata from the rack.

Mother opens her eyes and gasps. "Why, Maxie, what's

wrong?" She hastily puts down the letter and picks up her

embroidery with trembling hands, but I wordlessly thrust the open

score onto her lap. Two or three pages spill onto the floor.

"Youyou'd better take this after all, Mother," I stammer.

"Maxie"

"It's really meant for you, isn't it?" Tears well up in my eyes

and suddenly I run from the room. In the dark foyer I lean against

the wall, trembling, not knowing whether to rage or weep for my

shattered illusions.

"Maxie!" Mother calls from the drawing room. I hear her

getting up from her chair. I turn frantically and dash up the thickly

carpeted stairs. On the landing, I stop for breath and find myself face

to face with Beethoven himself. Or rather, the portrait he sent last

year. I stare in horror at those deep-set eyes, that familiar uncombed

mane now turning steely gray.

"How could you?" I hiss. "You and my mother"

"Please come back!" Mother's voice echoes from below. My

knees are trembling so violently that I sit down on the steps and


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clutch my belly, feeling sick. In the silence, I hear the ticking of the

grandfather clock and my own pounding heart. Carriage wheels

rumble past the house, and the wind whistles through the bare

lindens, rattling their branches like bones.

Mother appears on the bottom step. She looks tiny and

vulnerable, and I feel an instant's remorse as she climbs painfully

towards me. Then I see that she is still cradling the sonata, andsuddenly I leap to my feet and run down the long hall to my

bedroom. I slam the door and lean against it. After a moment my

knees give way and I slide onto the icy floor.

"Please listen to me." She is outside the door now.

"No!"

"It isn't what you think."

"How do you know what I think?" I shout. "I saw you with

that letter!" And suddenly all the memories come pouring out, yearsof half-knowledge hardening into conviction. "All those visits when

Father was awayall those letters you've hidden from us, and the

gifts for 'my beloved Toni'and now this filthy sonata"

"Maxie!" She gasps. "How can you say such a thing about

Uncle B's music?"

"Don't call him that! He's not my uncle." I grit my teeth and

pound my fists silently on my knees.

After a moment she rattles the doorknob. "Let me in."

"Does Father know? Or do you hide your feelings better when

he's home?"

"Maxie, stop it!" She is close to tears, and I hear the echo of my

ugly accusations. Slowly I get to my feet and open the door. She looks

like a stranger, with her thin trembling shoulders, red-rimmed eyes,

and lines in her face I have never noticed before. I stumble to my bed

and fall against the pillows. Mother follows, and sits beside me. She

takes my hand but I pull away, unable to meet her eyes.

"Try to understand. I love and honor your father. I have

sworn to remain his wife until death parts us. But..." she gropes for

words. "Goethe says...'In this life, there can exist between people a

spiritual and emotional community which need not be prepared.

They understand each other in an instant. Their lives contain related


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points of contact even before they know each other.' Do you

understand me, Maxie?"

"No," I say stubbornly. She sighs.

"From the moment your aunt Bettina took me to meet

Beethoven, I felt as if I had known him since time began. It was not

idle flirtation or just an evening's diversion that drew us together."

"Why?" I burst out. "Why him?""Because he embodied all the good and noble things I longed

for in my life. We shared the same dreams and understood one

another's suffering. And his music! Do you remember how he used to

come and play for me when I was sick?"

I laugh bitterly. "How can I forget? He always came when

Father was away."

Her eyes flash at me. "He understood me more than your

father ever has. Maxie, listen to me. I was only seventeen whenGrandfather betrothed me to Franz. I had to leave my home and all

that was familiar, and come here to Frankfurt. I had to be a

stepmother to all of your aunts and uncles, and run this big

household, and be a good and faithful wife to a man I hardly knew.

Do you wonder that I was so unhappy?"

"Weren't we any consolation?" I burst out, unable to bear her

self-pity. Now she laughs with the same bitterness.

"Oh yes, you babies gave me diversion and something to call

my own. You know I am proud of you, Maxie. You're so

accomplished, and bold, and forthright. So much stronger than the

other girls. But in those days, you children were too young to give me

what I needed most."

"And Father was too old?" I am shocked by my impudence,

but she only sighs.

"I welcomed the chance to return to Vienna when Grandfather

died, even though I mourned his passing." She gets up and lights the

candle on my dressing table. Her face glows. "Oh, Maxie, there is no

other city like it in the world! The opera and the theatre, all those

languages and cultures flowing togetherI still miss it terribly. I

remember those early morning strolls in the Prater"


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"With Beethoven?" I interrupt somewhat nastily, unable to

use the old affectionate nickname.

Mother sits down again and answers patiently, "No, I went

alone. I needed time to collect my thoughts. I was so frightened by

what was happening. The power and the passion of it all! Maxie, I

hope someday you find such a love. You don't know how fortunate

you are to have a choice."I am silent. That strange blundering man, a Launcelot to my

mother's Guinevere? The image is too painfully absurd to grasp.

She twists the ends of her shawl between her hands, her face

contorted with anguish. "Believe me, Maxie, I had to wrestle with my

conscience and my faithwhy, after I had been pledged in holy

wedlock to your father, did God show me the face of my true love?"

"How did youwhat finally" I stammer, hardly knowing

what I am trying to ask.She glances at me and draws a deep breath. "We were happy at

first, in spite of our doubts. I had turned to him for companionship,

you see, and escape from all those dreary domestic chores. And he

loved the mother in me, and the devoted wife. But as the months

wore on, we realized we were trapped in a hopeless situation. I

could never be wholly his, no matter how great our love. It became a

living hell for both of us."

Her voice is barely more than a whisper. "That final summer,

when we went to Prague and you stayed with Nanny in ViennaI

doubt if you remember"

"Of course I do! When you went away, I was so angry I locked

myself in my room for almost two whole days."

"Oh, Maxie, you never told me that!"

"It doesn't matter." I shrug. "Nanny bribed me not to tell, she

spoiled me so much, I was sorry when you came home. What

happened in Prague, Mother?"

Mother nervously twists the gold wedding band on her

finger. "He came to Prague too, and we...met. I wish...I could have

stayed in his arms forever. He needed me so much! It was terribly

wrenching when we had to part."


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A hot tingle of embarrassment goes through me. She has

never talked about a man in such intimate terms before. I sense that

she is turning to me as a woman for the first time, seeking

understanding after living with her secret for so many years. Her

trust is an oppressive weight. What am I to do, caught between her

and my gentle, inarticulate father, whose love is no less real? Does he

know they still love each other?"What happened after that?" I croak.

She leans her head on my shoulder and sighs. "He went on to

the baths at Teplitz and our family went to Karlsbad. We had come to

a dead end. I could not break my marriage vows, nor could he betray

your father, whom he loves dearly. Then, too, Beethoven was and

always will be wedded to his art. No mortal woman can take its

place." Her fingers stroke the score in her lap.

"By the end of the month, the decision was out of our hands.And in a way, it was a tremendous relief, despite the pain. Something

had to break."

Mother discovered she was with childbut not his. She tells

me now that she had no choice but to return to us. (Not inspiring

news to me.) Vienna had become a graveyard of broken dreams. The

Birkenstock goods had been auctioned off before their trip to

Bohemia, and she could no longer see her beloved. And so she

resigned herself to returning to Frankfurt with her new burden.

There was no question of her leaving the family, as if indeed there

ever had been. Father tried to understand the reasons for her near-

flight and treated her with a generosity worthy of King Arthur. He

must have felt very much like that betrayed English king!

In due time, the young pride of Brentano "lions" left home to

pursue their literary careers, and Mother was able to choose her own

art and company, and make the Frankfurt house hers. It was almost

enough.

Now she grips my hand so tightly I wince. "Always be true to

yourself, Maxie," she says, her voice trembling. "Never sacrifice your

dreams for the sake of convention. Love can grow from a barren soil

but it blooms at great cost. Better to live alone than to marry for the

wrong reasons. Don't suffer as I have, and your father, and most of


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all, our beloved friend. He has sacrificed the most, but his music

will make him immortal. The rest of us must do our best with the

gifts we have."

We sit in silence for a long time. The chilly afternoon light

fades from the window. At last Mother says softly, "Forgive me,

Maxie. I never meant to hurt you." She looks down at the sonata in

her hands. Then she holds it towards me, smiling. "Will you play itfor me again?" And suddenly I feel as if she is passing to me a secret

torch of hopes and dreams, her own small spark of Promethean fire. I

hesitate to take it even now, fearful of such power. But I accept the

charge. I am her daughter.

Together we go back into the hall. The sconces have been

lighted, and they cast a warm glow on the face of our friend. For the

first time I see the haunting sadness in his dark eyes, the firmly

closed lips suppressing pain and desire. And I try to forgive himtooafter all, my father did so long ago.


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The Strongest Love

One weekend when Joanna Fans best friend Noelle went

away to the Cape with her son,, her husband invited Joanna to a

party to celebrate a friends new job with the National Theater for

the Deaf.

Im not sure I should, Victor, she said. Not withoutNoelle.

Nobody will care, he answered in his rusty voice. If they

think Im having an affair, they dont know me. I was lucky to find

one woman, let alone two. He touched her arm. Please come,

youll like it.

As usual, she had a little trouble understanding his speech.

Years ago, he had worked with a speech pathologist, but his hearing

had gotten worse since then. Sometimes he wore a hearing aid, butonly grudgingly. He often complained that it was practically useless

in most situations.

Joanna had never been to a Deaf party before. Their

community was very tight-knit, with their own culture. Among

themselves, they could speak freely in ASL, using not only their

hands but their bodies as well, moving freely to emphasize their

feelings. As a Hearing person, it wasnt easy to join their midst if

they didnt trust you. She hoped they would accept her as Victorsfriend.

The night of the party, Victor showed up in front of her house

promptly at eight, driving a midnight blue Volkwagen Jetta. It was

several years old but immaculate, a far cry from his uncles battered

pickup back home. As Joanna went down the porch steps to meet

him, she marveled at how far he had come from his humble church

sexton days.

They had met when she took a job as organist at the FirstChurch of Heavens Door, a small town in Vermont. That was over

ten years ago. Victor, the church sexton, was known as the town

dummy because of his deafness and clumsy gait. He never did

anything to change their opinion, even when boys taunted him and

called him the Ape Man and worse.


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Then the church had been set on fire by an unknown arsonist.

Victor had rescued Joanna, pushing her outside before the building

collapsed in flames. The shocked townspeople mourned him as one

of their own. Amidst her guilt and grieving, Joanna felt angry and

cynical. Why couldnt they have accepted him as one of their own

when he was alive?

Joanna eventually moved back to Boston and was astonishedto find Victor alive and living in Cambridge with a wife and her

young son, Sam. Noelle, who had been Deaf since birth, could read

lips fluently and welcomed Joanna like a sister. Victor had told

Noelle how Joanna had warmly befriended him when no one else

would come near him. The three of them formed a deep bond of

friendship, and Sam was a bright, cheerful boy, delighted to have a

new aunt.

Now she climbed into Victors car, feeling like a kid on a date.She kissed his cheek and he squeezed her hand, smiling. They

drove to his friends house in Jamaica Plain, fondly nicknamed JP

by the locals.

The apartment overlooked nearby Jamaica Pond, shimmering

in the reflected streetlights. As Victor led her up the stairs, Joanna

immediately noticed the extraordinary difference of a Deaf party.

All the lights were on. People faced each other directly,

signing with animated expressions. In the living room, more people

sat around holding colorful balloons as a stereo played John

Mellencamps America. Joanna assumed the balloons were part of

the celebration. They were, but Victor explained that mainly they

transmitted vibrations to help Deaf people enjoy the music.

Victors friends swarmed around him at the door, clapping his

back in affectionate greeting, presumably asking after Noelle and

Sam. Joanna stood to one side, feeling like a child that no one had

picked for dodge ball.

At the same time, she loved seeing Victor among his own at

last, fluently signing, laughing his rusty laughthat hadnt

changed!and sharing his dazzling smile with everyone in his

orbit. In the bright lights, his black hair gleamed and his casual blue

polo shirt displayed his broad shoulders and muscular arms.


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Now there were attractive women hugging him freely and

affectionately, even flirting with him without the slightest hint of

the disgust that used to be his daily portion. She had played her

part in that as well, until she discovered by accident that he was a

brilliant artist and gentle, caring person. They had become fast

friends, but she had been too caught up in her affair with Brian, the

town rebel, to realize Victor had fallen in love with her.That was all in the past--or so she thought. Now he was

happily married to one of the prettiest women Joanna had ever met.

The Ape Man of Heavens Door was gone for good.

But Victors considerate nature hadnt changed. He brought

Joanna into the circle and introduced her. A vivacious blonde

woman with bright blue eyes and a friendly, open face playfully

punched his arm and signed until he pushed her away, grinning.

Jessie Vaughn, my annoying friend. Jessie got in his wayand kept signing until he signed back and said aloud, Enough,

Jessie.

He told Joanna, She says you must be crazy to like me.

Joanna laughed, and her nervousness began to ease.

She met Mark Somers, the host of the party, and his roommate

Scott, who had just landed an acting job with the National Theater

for the Deaf. He was a tall young man with movie-star looks, and

Joanna congratulated him warmly.

Annie and Rob Sanders, a fortyish couple, ran a small art

gallery where Noelle did the books. Their ten-year-old son, Gabe,

was Sams best friend.

Annie said, Robs a Deafie but Im HOH like Victor. She

saw Joannas puzzled look and explained, That means hard of

hearing, not totally deaf. We can get along in both worlds. She

sighed. Some Deaf people think were traitors if we talk aloud.

Her speech was clearer than Victors and Joanna hoped she would

talk to her often.

Rob tapped her shoulder and signed. Annie said, Were

showing Victors paintings next month. We hope you can come.

Joanna nodded, smiling. Rob said through Annie, I hear

youre a wonderful musician.


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Thanks, Joanna said, a bit startled by the word hear, but

guessed that to them it was just a figure of speech.

Signing as she spoke, Annie said, Victor tells us you used to

play the organ in the church. It was the most beautiful thing he ever

heard. Like angels.

Hes an angel himself, Joanna said with emotion.

Annie grinned and signed to Rob, who cracked up. Wait til youbeat him at poker! Hes no angel!

Joanna laughed at this new glimpse of Victor. Still, she longed

for those serene afternoons in the sun-drenched sanctuary when she

filled the room with mighty Bach fugues and hymns about joyfully

adoring Thee. In the shadows, Victor would put down his tools and

lean against the organ, letting its deep tones fill his soul. Her music

had become a silk rope drawing him from his dark prison. Now

those days were gone forever.Rob signed, Wed love to have you come to the opening.

Annie added, Just give Victor your e-mail address. Well let you

know the date.

Thanks very much.

Throughout the rest of the evening, Annie took it upon herself

to speak aloud to Joanna or interpret when called upon. Joanna was

immensely grateful.

As it was, she felt uncomfortable and awkward most of the

time. Conversations and jokes flew past her, fingers chattered, bits

of words and laughter filled the air. A few people eyed her with

suspicion or even coldness. It gave Joanna the merest inkling of

how they must feel in the Hearing world, where they were treated

as freaks or pitied for their impairment.

Annie explained to her that some Deaf people had tried

cochlear implants, thinking it would be a miracle to regain their

hearing. The implants had some success but mainly with people

who had once been Hearing. Those who had been born Deaf could

not make sense of the noise flooding their brains. Sometimes people

even begged to have the implants removed, preferring the silent

Deaf world which was so visually vibrant, not silent at all.

Now Joanna sat alone with a blank smile, wishing she hadnt


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come. Then Jessie spotted her and brought her a glass of fruit

punch. Joanna thanked her and gulped it thirstily. Instantly she

coughed, her throat burning like fire. Jessie pointed at a bottle of

vodka, grinning mischievously. No wonder Victor had called her

annoying, but you couldnt really stay mad at her for long.

As Joanna picked up a can of soda instead, Jessie waved

Annie over to interpret for her.Through Annie she said, I hear you take Sam to the movies

every week.

We have a lot of fun, Joanna replied. He wants to see every

new movie that comes out. Even the R-rated ones! They all

laughed.

Annie said, Its good for Hearing kids to mingle with Deaf

kids. They pick up Sign pretty fast. As she was translating for

Jessie, a disheveled man who would put Stanley Kowalski to shamepushed between them and started signing vehemently.

He jabbed his finger at Joanna, and Annie said reluctantly,

Ben wants to know why youre here.

Wasnt it obvious? Joanna thought. After all, she wasnt some

kind of spy. But manners won out and she merely said, Victor

invited me. Im his friend.

Bens eyes flashed. He signed, Victor doesnt need your pity.

I dont pity him! Joanna protested. I like him!

Annie patted her shoulder reassuringly and signed to Ben,

trying to pacify him. That only made him angrier. He glared at

Joanna, signing so fast the women couldnt keep up.

By now, others noticed the disturbance and edged closer, not

quite eavesdropping but definitely watching. Jessie went to fetch

Victor from the living room, signing to everyone she passed.

Ben took a gulp of punch and spat on Joannas shoes. People

gasped. Victor pushed through the crowd and shoved Ben against

the wall, signing vehemently in the mans face.

Annie said to Joanna, Victors ordering him to apologize to

you. She added, Sorry about this. Everyone thinks Ben is a pain

in the ass. She handed Joanna a napkin to dry off her shoes.


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Thanks, Joanna said gratefully. Clearly the guy had had too

much to drink. At least he hadnt thrown up on her.

Victors friends crowded close with concern on their faces,

and Annie said, Theyre asking if youre okay. Were glad youre

here.

Joanna nodded shakily and smiled. Victor filled a plate with

food, brought it to her and sat down beside her. With Annie on theother side, she didnt feel quite so alone anymore.

Someone put on some hip-hop music with a loud thumping

bass, and people got up to dance in crazy rhythms. Jessie grabbed

Victors hand and made him dance with her, an entertaining sight

for everybody. He was as clumsy as ever, stepping all over on his

partners feet. People teased him mercilessly but with open

affection. They ruffled his hair, hung on his shoulder and laughed

uproariously, but with none of the cruelty he had endured for years.Joanna could see the difference without needing to know ASL. They

had all suffered the taunts and disgust, the looks of hatred and

disgust. This was just good-natured needling among friends.

The room grew hot and stuffy. After awhile, Victor nudged

Joanna and pointed towards a porch door. Gratefully she nodded

and followed him outside.

They gazed down at the shimmering pond, savoring the cool

night breeze, comfortable in their silence. He looped one arm

around her waist and she rested against him. In only a few months,

he had become a rock she leaned on for encouragement and

friendship. He had become the stronger one, whereas in Heavens

Door, she had been the one who guided him to society.

Inside, the music had changed to a slow love song. She saw

couples swaying together like willows in a gently breeze, a picture

of closeness and promise.

Impulsively she turned and wrapped her arms around

Victors neck. Somehow it felt like the right thing to do. He jumped

slightly, then glanced over at the dancers. Smiling, he began to

move with her, trying not to crush her toes with his heavy shoes.

The fragrant night filled their senses with peace and contentment.

She rested her head on his shoulder, savoring his warmth. Friends


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forever, he had said to her on that first day when shed found him

again.

She could see why Noelle had fallen in love with him, despite

his awkwardness and shyness. She was very pregnant with Sam by

a boyfriend who had run out on her, so Victor helped her move into

the apartment in East Boston. The day was sweltering and she lived

upstairs then, but he stayed late until everything was taken care of,fixing a broken light switch here, hamming tight a loose board

there.

Though Victor had learned ASL at school years ago, hed

forgotten most of it except finger spelling. It was tedious but they

got by, and scribbled notes to each other as well, as hed done with

Joanna. They talked almost the whole night through, discovering

the dreams they shared. He told her he would be Father Victor to

her Mary. Victor kept his word, and often babysat Sam and tookhim for stroller rides, playing the proud papa.

Noelle had helped him in turn, tutoring him in ASL and

cooking fantastic meals. By the time hed started his carpentry class,

she had stolen his virginity. Within the year, they were married by

a minister friend who was also Deaf, and Victor had adopted Sam

as his son.

Joanna had learned all this over the course of several weeks,

torn between envy and awe. He had found love at last, when before

it had seemed impossibly beyond his reach. Not through elaborate

schemes or trying to become something he wasnt. He had simply

offered himself and his gifts. As she had told her jealous boyfriend

at the time, Victor knew how to be a friend. He was one of the

purest souls she had ever known.

But something was still unresolved between him and Joanna.

His last words before the fire had been to beg her to marry him.

When she had found him living with Noelle and Sam so many

years later, he told her how much hed loved her back in Heavens

Door. She had lived with the guilt of spurning his love. More than

once, she had wished she could rewrite history and marry him after

all. These days she was half in love with him anyway, seeing how

attractive hed become in his new life.


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Now, as they held each other in the July moonlight, she felt a

subtle change beneath her feet, like the shifting of continents, like

ice breaking up in the river that flowed down from the mountains.

He began to run his fingers through the shining fall of her hair. His

touch made her shiver. He wasnt much taller than she was, so she

looked directly into his dark eyes. There was no mistaking the

hunger she saw there, and her knees almost buckled.Victor moved closer until their lips were almost touching,

hovering like butterflies but not quite landing. God, she wanted to

kiss him! At the same time, she was wildly baffled. Was he trying to

please her, knowing how lonely she was now? Or had they both

had too much to drink?

She felt his heart pounding beneath his shirt and he buried his

hands in her hair. Their lips met and it was like coming home,

putting a name to years of memories and longing. Softness, meltingsweetness, and sheer pleasure. Slowly he slid his hands down her

back as if stripping bark from a tree. The sensuality of it sent heat

through her whole body. Was this her old friend who used to clump

around town like Quasimodo and mop the dirty floors at First

Church?

The kiss went on and on. They couldnt seem to let go of each

other. She knew they were playing with fire, moving into a

dangerous land and almost powerless to turn back.

She had to pull them back to reason and reality. It was now or

never. Joanna forced herself to pull free of his embrace, shaking all

over. It was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life.

Victor reeled back as if hed been shot. The stricken look on

his face told her this had been no joke. It was too much like those

agonizing times when women screwed up their faces in disgust at

the sight of him. But it couldnt be the same, could it? He had found

a loving wife and an adopted son who adored him. Wasnt it

enough?

She whispered, Im sorry, Victor, but he couldnt read her

lips in the dark. He turned his back on her, leaning over the railing,

and for a horrible moment she thought he would fall. At last he

turned and strode indoors without looking back. Joanna stared at


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the water for a long time. She knew she had made the right

decision, but the pain was unbearable.

Back inside, she looked around for him but couldnt see past

everyones talking hands. Where had he gone? Scott herded the

half-drunk revelers back into the dining room where the last plates

of pie and cheesecake lay haphazardly on the table. But Victor was

nowhere in sight.When he finally reappeared, looking tired and troubled, they

got through the good-byes and thank-yous and fled into the

darkness. Neither spoke the entire way back to Joannas house.

Their silence and grief filled the car like a dense fog.

The streets were quiet at this hour as Victor drove back to

Joannas house and parked in front. He turned on the inside light so

they could see each others faces.

Joanna, he said hoarsely. I am so sorry.She looked down at her lap, then smiled at him sadly. We

couldnt help it.

Victor leaned against the steering wheel and buried his face in

his arms. She heard his muffled voice. I still love you, Joanna.

She tried to speak but the words stuck in her throat, feeling as

if they had come to a path that split in two directions. She saw now

that she was Victors first love and always would be. Sometimes

first love was the most indelible and you could never let it go. All

through the years of settling into a new life and a happy marriage,

he had never stopped wanting her. She had burst into his life like a

dazzling rainbow, lighting up the path that led him from his dark

prison.

But she had to get out of his life. They couldnt go back to

their sweet platonic friendship now as if nothing had changed. And

they couldnt betray the people they loved most.

He drew a deep raspy breath. Can Ican we see you again?

Joanna caught the slip and knew she was making the right

decision, but the pain was almost unbearable. She shook her head,

fighting back tears.

Suddenly they leaned in close and hugged fiercely. Victor

swallowed hard and croaked,Ill miss you.


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Ill miss you too, she whispered. In the streetlight she saw

his glistening eyes, and pulled a Kleenex from her purse. As she

gently dried his tears, they laughed shakily, recognizing the way he

had always comforted her so long ago.

Tell Noelle and Sam I love them, she whispered into his ear,

and felt him nod. She buried her face in his thick soft hair, breathing

him in until he gently moved her away. They stared at each otherwide-eyed, teetering on the brink of hunger again. But this couldnt

go on. For one searing moment, they had lost their way in the

thickets of the past. If only she had known her own heart back then!

He did not look at her as she climbed out of the car, and she

did not wave as he slowly drove away and disappeared around a

corner. As she went up the steps, the light in her parents window

went off. She shook her head, exasperated. Time to move out and

start a new life.

* * * * * *

Love can be expressed in words, or in a silence more beautiful

than words. Sometimes the strongest love means giving it up before

you destroy each other, even if the healing takes forever.


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Leilas Smile

The first time I met Mr. Joseph Merrick, known in the papers as the

elephant man, I shook his hand politely and said I was pleased to

meet him. He started to answer, then went to pieces and sobbed hisheart out. Clearly, I was of no further use that day. As we left, he was

still weeping, quite unable to speak, his enormous misshapen head

buried on his knees.

I felt a bit foolish and a failure. Riding to my cousin Amandas flat in

a hansom cab, I conversed with my dead husband, as I was wont to

do in those early years after losing him quite suddenly to scarlet

fever.

Dear Leslie, what did I do wrong? You always had a special gift

with your patients and put them at ease with your jovial manner, no

matter how much pain you had to inflict on them. All I did was smile

at an unfortunate man and wish him a good day.

The carriage jolted over a pothole and I had to grab for the handle. I

continued my one-sided dialogue.

Am I no longer beautiful? You used to call me the flower of

Edinburgh, and bring me real flowers after those little dramatic

evenings with Louis Stevenson and our little troupe of players.

I took a small mirror from my handbag and inspected my face. My

brown eyes, somewhat almond-shaped, looked back at me fretfully.

Perhaps there were a few new lines around them, but otherwise theywere unchanged. My wavy auburn locks had no gray, and I knew my

figure was as slim as ever.

I had often longed for it to be otherwise, full and enceinte, but my

dear husband passed away only two months after our nuptials. I


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could have been the mother of a cheerful, bouncing toddler by

now. Instead, I was left with empty arms. That caused me almost as

much pain as the loss of my handsome husband.

The next day, as I sat in my sewing room with cousin Amanda,

stitching a sampler of St. Philips, Mr. Treves was ushered in. He

nearly bumped his head on the door frame, as he was wont to do inmoments of excitement, and came in beaming.

I set down my workhow I hate embroidery--and rose to greet him.

Its a pleasure to see you as always, Frederick. How is Anne today?

He waved his hand casually. Fine, fine. The girls drive her to

distraction sometimes, but then, so do I. But I didnt come here foridle chat.

I pretended to take offense. Since when is our discourse idle chat,

sir? I like to think I am capable of intelligent conversation.

The tall physician bowed his head. Touche, Mrs. Maturin.

Dear Frederick, I was jesting. And enough Mrs. Maturin, it makes

me feel old. Ive been Leila to you for months now. I gestured to

the chair by the window. Please, sit down and make yourself

comfortable. Shall I ring for tea?

Frederick declined politely. He didnt so much sit as perch on the

chair, barely settling in. He was an active, restless man, sometimes

impatient with the rest of us more phlegmatic souls. I found that a bit

annoying sometimes, but one could never deny his generous heart

and boundless devotion to his patients.

I rushed to say, Frederick, I am so sorry for what happened

yesterday. Im sure I let you down terribly.


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He had been about to say something, then paused, his brow

furrowed. What do you mean, Leila?

You had hoped to raise Mr. Merricks spirits by bringing a lady to

see him, did you not? Instead, I seem to have upset him greatly. I

picked up my embroidery again and jabbed the needle in as a form of

self-punishment.

Treves gave a great roar of laughter, startling me. I looked up, and

Amanda giggled. I think she secretly fancied the handsome doctor.

Many women did, knowing at the same time that he was firmly

married to one of the prettiest women in London.

Indeed, Leila, it was quite the opposite! You were a resounding

success!

I am ashamed to relate that my mouth fell open like that of a fish

hooked on a line. Frederick smiled.

I stopped by Josephs rooms this morning to make sure he was all

right. I would have checked in on him after your visit, but the

surgery schedule was especially full. Treves paused for effect. Mr.

Merrick sends you his sincerest apologies for not greeting you

properly. He told me you were the first woman ever to smile at him,

let alone shake his hand. He was quite stunned and overcome with

disbelief.

Now Iwas overcome with disbelief. But surely the nursing sisters

have been kind to him. I couldnt resist needling the doctor a bit.

Theyare women, are they not?

Treves waved his hand again as if batting away gnats. Of course, of

course. Some are gentler with him than others. But they are

performing their duties. I had to recruit volunteers to take on the

sometimes unpleasant tasks of caring for Joseph. No, this was

altogether different, Leila. You are the first woman to visit him of her


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own free will.Even though I asked you as a favor to me and showed

you his picture, yet still you consented to go. Not only that, you are a

lady and a beautiful, well-bred one at that.

I had to laugh. My mother certainly wouldnt think so. She used to

call me down from trees so many times I lost count! Then I grew

serious, considering Fredericks words. Do you mean to say Mr.Merrick was moved by such a simple act as a smile and a friendly

handshake?

Well, yes. You do recall this was all intended to help him overcome

his feeling that he is the vilest creature on earth and deserves only

scorn. That showing him human warmth and kindness could melt his

fear?

An excitement took hold of me and a bit of vanity as well. Then I

did help him! Oh, Frederick, it does me so much good to hear it. I

was afraid I was a terrible failure.

Not at all. Treves smiled at me again. Theres no underestimating

the power of human touch. Joseph might have withstood a smile, but

your handshake did him in. He hopes you wont judge him as

helplessly emotional, and thanks you from the bottom of his heart for

the kindness you showed him.

Tears came to my eyes and my throat tightened. At first all I saw

was his frightful countenance and warped frame. Then I looked into

his eyesthey are brown, are they not? I saw such fear in them, my

heart went out to him. He seemed like a lost child, and I felt it quite

easy to reach out my hand to him. If only I had been able to speak

with him! I understand he is very well-read.

Treves rose to leave. Indeed he is. Already his bookshelf is filling

with gifts from his visitors. He has a taste for romance novels in

particular.


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I stood up as well. Impulsively I asked, Frederick, may I see him

again?

Treves looked astonished. I went on, That is, if he could tolerate my

company for an hour. I think we could have a most enjoyable

conversation.

Why, LeilaI am speechless. Well, almost. Yes, by all means.

I went to my own bookshelf and selected Jane Austens Emma, one of

my personal favorites.Until then, would you be so kind as to give

this to Mr. Merrick, with my compliments?

Treves took the book from my hands, still in a daze. You see, Joseph

gets quite a few visitors, but very few come back a second time. Theycome to wish him well, but that is all. Once theyve satisfied their

curiosity and done their duty, they feel no need to repeat it.

I thought of that shocking face with its contorted lines, the lumpy

head and twisted body, and felt a shiver of empathy for those

benighted visitors, but determination and genuine desire for a new

friend taken hold of me. Well, I am not one of those, Frederick. I

wish to visit him regularly. He sounds so veryinteresting to talk to.

And so began a warm and profound friendship with one of the most

extraordinary souls I have ever known. I returned to visit Joseph

Merrick many times and learned to understand his thick speech well

enough to carry on the most satisfying conversations.

Unable to laugh or even smile because of his constrictive facial

disfigurement, he had become adept at conveying his thoughts

through his expressive eyes and gestures with his one good hand.

Occasionally I would see tears in his eyes after a particular remark or

smile on my part--he was a fragile man and his emotions often

seemed just below the surface--but he never wept in my presence

again.


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I in turn received from him a greater tolerance for my fellow man and

many hours of companionship to light my days. We both had lonely

hearts, and I am not exaggerating when I say I harbored tender

feelings for him that nearly approached what I had felt for my

departed Leslie. When I had to return unexpectedly to Edinburgh

upon my fathers death, I shed not a few tears on the long train ridehome.

I never saw Joseph Merrick again, though we wrote to one another to

the end of his short tortured life.

May you rest forever in peace, my dear friend.


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Josephs Lullaby

Mother, do you wonder why I am the way I am?

When you look into my eyes, do you see Gods plan?

Do you see a reason for my daily suffering?

Stronger with each passing season and the pain it brings.

I wish I knew the answers, child,

Youre every mothers dream

I can see your beauty in your eyes.

If I could ease your every moment with my healing hands

I would make you whole again, my Joseph, if God grants.

Mother, what will happen to me in my time on earth?

Some say I should never have been brought to birth

Do you see a reason why I was meant to be?

Do you still believe in God when you look at me?

Yes, I will always love you, child

Youre every mothers dream

I can see your courage in your eyes.

If I could ease your every moment with my healing hands

I would make you whole again, my Joseph, if God grants.

The Lioness at the gates

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Transcript of The Lioness at the gates