Postscript: The vision declines. Do you think my penmanship is worsening?
Sybil Van Antwerp
17 Farney Rd.
Arnold, MD 21012
August 20, 2017
Oh, Sybil. I have plenty to say to you and I plan to say every bit of it with the understanding that once you’ve read it I won’t expect to hear from you for a while. July and August have been very full for me, which is partially why I haven’t replied to your (ugly) note, but the fact is that I also needed time to think about what I wanted to be sure to say.
It was obvious you were still angry Fiona had visited me even though you said you were fine, and I tried to give you space to let it go, but clearly you didn’t. I have apologized to you once already for keeping it from you and I meant that apology, but I’m not going to apologize again. What is more, I am not going to apologize for things I would do over again without a second thought.
When Fiona came to see me the Christmas after Daan died she was very upset. She arrived at the house and her face was gaunt, her eyes were gray, her hair flat and the roots growing in. She looked totally unlike herself, and when she saw me, Sybil, she fell apart. I thought something horrible had happened, like Walt had cheated on her or she’d embezzled money or something truly capable of destroying her life, that is how bad she seemed when she came to my house. As I’ve explained already, I didn’t know she was coming until she showed up. It isn’t as if Fiona and I regularly chat on the phone or meet up. I’m irritated that I feel the need to report to you on this, but at this point it’s obviously necessary. Fiona emails me or texts me every so often, and I her, and of course I send cards on holidays and birthdays, and every once in a while we’ll catch up on the phone, but it’d been a while. I think we had texted around Daan’s funeral, andthat was all, so I was shocked at her sudden appearance (I had not seen her in person in more than five years I don’t think) and in such a bad state. I’m not sure if you are aware of how Daan’s death shook Fiona, and of course after your last letter I am hesitant to inform you of anything you don’t know, but she was deeply, disturbingly grieved. As a matter of fact, the intensity of her grief reminded me of you when Gilbert died. It was wild grief. As she started to talk through her sadness a lot of what she told me pertained to her relationship with you or, frankly, Sybil, the lack thereof.
Even though it is not my place to tell you this, I’m going to. Fiona was hurt that you had not attended Daan’s funeral, yes, but over the course of her visit she seemed to be digging down and uncovering deeper stores of anger toward you from throughout her life. I want you to know that most of what I did was listen, and when I did speak it was mostly in defense of you, but I was not, I am not, able to speak on your behalf. Of course I defended you, you’re my best friend, but I did not feel it was my place toexplaincertain things, specifically things about Gilbert’s death, even though I found myself recalling vivid memories of that horrible day and the days that followed, and thinking over and over again how you just needed to have an honest conversation with each other, for her to lay out her feelings and give you time to respond, to help her understand. She is selfish—of course she is! We were all selfish at that age, weren’t we? And she has no idea what losing Gilbert did to you, what the divorce did to you becauseyou have never told her! For reasons I don’t fully understand, you have pushed Fiona away from yourself, Sybil. Why have you? What is clear to me, what you are somehow blind to see, is that if you would step toward Fiona you could fix this. Fiona does not need me, she needs you! Step toward Fiona and be the mother she needs. You are a wonderful, interesting woman, full of love and kindness, but you are so damn stubborn anddetermined you know exactly what is right in every situation. I am willing to sacrifice all that I have with you, my dearest friend, if it means opening your eyes to salvage what you can have with Fiona. Fix it, Sybil. Fix what is broken.
Now, like I said, I won’t expect to hear from you after this, but I want to end by reminding you that I love you. I wish I had not been the one to tell you about Fiona’s miscarriages; I’m sure that was a painful thing to swallow. And Paul’s surgery did not go smoothly, it was about six weeks of pure hell, but I do feel that we have turned a corner.
Rosalie
D. Martinelli
138 South Carrington St.
Hasbrouck Heights, NJ 07604
September 6, 2017
To Dezi,
Whatever it is you feel the need to say to me, I invite you to go ahead and say it. You can write me at this address, or by e-mail. My hope is that by offering you the chance to say your piece, you will do so and then you will leave me alone.
Regards,
Sybil Van Antwerp
Felix Stone
7 Rue de la Papillon
84220 Gordes
FRANCE
October 3, 2017
Dear Felix,
I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. My head has been off somewhere else, I guess. Things have been a bit busy lately, but it was lovely to hear from you, as always, and I can’t believe I haven’t filled you in about the latest development with the UMDCP English fiasco. You will think I’ve completely lost my mind.
There is no other way to put this, Felix, but something got into me. I took Harry and I showed up at the College of English in College Park. It was a Thursday, and I knew she would be there that morning because Harry, with his internet savvy, had discovered a calendar of the department and there was to be a department meeting at 10:30 am, ninety minutes. You know the way I can be when I get my mind on something, so I left Harry under a tree by the car and I planted myself outside of the room where the meeting was being held.
They all came filing out of the room chattering away and carrying little styrofoam cups of coffee and nobody noticed me. (This is the trouble with being only five foot one inch, and it has always been the trouble, butyouknow I am tall on the inside.) I did see two professors I’ve audited in the past, but I kept my gaze averted and I didn’t see Melissa. I knew what she looked like because Harry had shown me her photo on the website as well as the press release from when she’d been hired, and I was looking for her, no luck, but you know, this thing had gotten into me. I went into the conference room when the trickle of English department staff or what have you had slowed to nothing and I saw her. Felix, she is shorter than me! I couldn’t believe it. The tiniestlittle woman in black slacks and a gorgeous yellow wool cardigan sized for a twelve-year-old, I’m telling you. (I guess she was wearing the heavy sweater because it was absolutely freezing in the building, something men do in summer, turning women to popsicles.) Anyway, I stood in the back and waited for her to finish the conversation she was having with a man (a monstrous man in his fifties, large gut, red face, and Melissa is this tiny and absolutely gorgeous black woman maybe forty years old with long braids I don’t know how she could stand under the weight of them! Amazing, and this man was speaking down to her both literally and figuratively and I could see there was that quality in her eyes—you know what I mean. Defeat.). She didn’t see me there, and even when this man left she didn’t notice me. I had marched my way into the building ready for a fight, but I could see that she was upset or weary, this very small woman, and my hackles went right down.
I said excuse me, and she was surprised the room wasn’t empty, I could see. She was wearing these lovely earrings. They were feathers. As I mentioned, she is a very pretty woman, but she looked positively haggard. Wilted as a rotten peach. A bit of lipstick would have done wonders. I told her who I was, and rather still prepared for a duel, I stood up as tall as I could and it was one of those auditorium seating theaters so I had that advantage of being at the top, and it took her a moment to place me, so I told her I was the woman who’d been fighting to audit courses for two years. She looked positively surprised and we faced off for another moment, but then all the air went out of it, and it seemed very funny to me all of a sudden. I don’t know what on earth was happening, but I found myself trying not to smile, or rather, trying not to laugh, but my face must have broken and then we were both laughing, these two short women standing thirty feet apart, it was really very funny. And so I asked her if she wanted to have a coffee, and she said she would prefer wine, so Isaid that was fine, I would go for a glass of wine (it was noon, after all) but then I remembered that young Harry was at the car, so I told her I had this friend with me, and she said she didn’t mind, she’d be glad to have this friend along, so we walked to her office (which was absolutely littered with papers and books and only has this one small window—she’s the DEAN, for the love of the world) and she took her sunglasses and dropped off her sweater. She was wearing a green t-shirt and she had these thin little arms, she is very fit, but thin, and I had the thought I should bring her home with me, feed her, let her sleep off some of the misery I saw in her face. We went for the wine at a patio near the campus (Harry had a Coke). In the end she told me she didn’t care a shred. I could audit every class if I wanted to, that she was trying to establish her authority, but it wasn’t going easily. She’s had a hell of a time, at her age, and she is treated poorly—you know, Felix, people are downright racist and sexist—and she said that being a poet, she isn’t taken seriously. She said that’s what it was that first put her off me—I’d mentioned a disinterest in poetry (and I really do dislike most poetry, but I could see why she might be defensive), but I told her she was going to have to grow some thicker skin, and I told her about my time working for Donnelly, the fortifications I had to learn being an alien (female) in a world of men, though of course for me, a white woman, it was not nearly so large a mountain as the one she is endeavoring to climb, and it was all in all a very good conversation. So that was that, and I’m sitting in a class on the Brontës this term. It meets Wednesdays at 1pm. It’s wonderful. We are readingWuthering Heightsnow.
