A Light in the Window (28 page)

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Authors: Jan Karon

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Dearest Cynthia,
At the library today, Hessie Mayhew announced that Latin American dance classes will be held at the Community Club, sometime in February. I told her I have my own private Latin dance instructor, which she found to be astonishing.
Then I popped into the children’s section and talked to Avette about reading Miss Coppersmith.
“Violet Goes to School
and
Violet Plays the Piano
are my two personal favorites, ”she said, “although
Violet Goes to France
is hilariously funny. What will it be?”
“The complete works!” I said.
I must tell you that Hessie Mayhew is no dummy. When she saw my selection, she approved. “The Proust of juvenile authors!” were her exact words.
Now I have innumerable photographs of you, though they are all on the backs of book jackets. I am currently displaying the backside of
Violet Goes to the Country
on my desk in the study, where I meet your winsome gaze as I sit and write this letter. I’m afraid the author herself looks exceedingly juvenile, and if that’s what writing children’s books can do, then I’m willing to have a go at it.
I shall begin this evening at the top of the pile and plunge straight through to the bottom. Never think that I dismiss lightly the hard work and devotion that go into each small volume. I feel privileged to see behind the scenes, if only a little.
Uncle Billy asks about you and says they’d like to have us over when you come home. You and Dooley can go along for the homemade banana pudding he mentioned as a refreshment, and I’ll meet you there later.
He was telling me about the money he keeps hidden between his mattress and box spring. He says Miss Rose usually asks him for ten or fifteen dollars on Monday. On Wednesday, she wants twenty, and every Friday she asks for twenty-five.
When I asked him what she does with all that money, he says he doesn’t know; he never gives her any.
I believe that’s his newest joke, though he didn’t say so.
Your letter spoke of victory, and I hesitate to end on a note that is less than uplifting. Yet I can’t ignore your allusion to the hidden lake.
Your analogy was extraordinary to me and made me feel at once that I should surely disappoint you. The lake you discovered in Guatemala was tropical and warm. The lake you say you have found in me suffers a climate entirely of my own making—and there is the rub.
Please pray for me in this, my dearest Cynthia. I am well along in years to have such a terrific case of measles. In truth, I am broken out all over and no help for it.
You are ever in my prayers.
Dooley asks after you, as do Emma and Puny. A candle flame has gone out in this winter village, and we count the days until you are safely home.
Love,
Timothy
 
Dearest Timothy,
It was lovely that you called tonight after reading
Violet Goes to the Country.
That is my personal favorite, and I’m so happy it made you smile.
I’m happy, too, that you read it to Barnabas and that he approved. For one as steeped in Wordsworth as he, I’m not surprised that he could appreciate the pastoral setting, though I’m sorry he was upset when you showed him the picture of Violet chasing the sheepdog.
Violet receives a great swarm of attention wherever we go. I put her in the little carrying case with the top undone, and there she rides, licking her paws. The ladies behind the cosmetic counter at Bergdorf’s come crowding into the aisles to give her lots of free samples—both salts for her toilette and mascara for her lashes. They like to spray her with French perfume so that I can hardly bear to be in the taxi with her on the way home!
When James was here, he asked me to do
Violet Goes to New York.
He took me to such a vastly expensive restaurant and gave such a persuasive argument that I was fairly undone. I did not tell him I would do it, though I did say I’d think about it. The advance would be the largest amount I’ve ever received. I will appreciate it if you’d pray for me in this. It’s confounding to be asked to do something I said I’d never do again!
Thank you for liking my work and finding the fun in it. I look forward to having the letter you wrote tonight before you called—altogether an embarrassment of riches!
Here are those ridiculous pictures taken in a booth on the street.
In the spring, you could tack them on a post in your garden to keep the crows away!
I’ve taken stems of lavender from the vase, dried them a wee bit in the toaster oven, and put them under my pillow. Lavender is said to give one sweet dreams, which is what I wish for you tonight.
You are always in my prayers.
With fondest love from—
Your neighbor
 
Dearest Cynthia,
It is Friday evening, and I’ve just come from a late meeting. This is only to say hello and that I’ve switched on the lights in your bushes.
The fog is as thick as lentil soup, and they give a cheering glow. As they were not turned on during the holy days, I hope you won’t mind a few hours now, as a send-up of my thoughts of you on this wretched but beautiful winter evening.
God bless you and give you wings for your work. Nay, use them to fly to me here in Mitford. I shall watch for you to glide over the rooftop of your little house and eagerly open my window to let you in.
With loving thoughts,
Timothy
 
Timothy, dearest,
Violet has been invited out to dinner this evening by Miss Addison, who lives down the hall.
The invitation was delivered by the lady’s footman or something—this is a very swanky place—and was for six o’clock, which is when her elderly cat, Palestrina, likes to dine.
Can you imagine?
I have met Miss Addison several times in the hallway or in the foyer, and she is rather old and quite adorable, wrapped from head to toe in furs.
The footman, or whoever he is, came for Violet on the stroke of six, after I’d brushed her until she shone.
But oh, she is wicked
!
What did she do five minutes before the bell sounded? I was bringing a flowerpot inside when she dashed to the terrace that is forty stories above the street, leapt onto the railing, and stood looking with absorption at the lights of the Chrysler Building.
She will stay until eight, because they are all watching a video after dinner (surely not
101 Dalmatians?).
I went to dinner the other evening, quite alone, and confess it was a bit pricey. The waiter finally came over and asked, “And how did you find your steak, Madame?”
“Purely by accident, ” I said. “I moved the potatoes and the peas, and there it was!”
Oh, Timothy, I’m trying so hard to bloom where God planted me. But I am very homesick. I look forward to our talk on Sunday.
Much love to you and to Barnabas. Do tell Dooley hey for me. I should like to see his frank expression and hear his wonderful way of speaking. When I come home, let’s all do something together—like—well, you think of something!
I pray for you.
Warmest regards to Emma and my love to Miss Sadie and Louella.
 
Sunday eve
Dearest Cynthia,
We’ve just hung up and it seemed so many things went unsaid. Now that I’m sitting down to write, however, I have no idea at all what they were.
I’m delighted that Violet has made a friend, even though her fancy dinner sent her to the litter box throughout the night. Sautéed quail livers with Madeira sauce are notorious in this regard.
As for us, we had our usual Sunday evening banquet. Fried bologna for Dooley with double mustard, and no sermons about a balanced diet, please. This case is beyond me. Unless I’m mistaken, he has not eaten a vegetable in four or five months, and I’m dashed if I know what to do about it. Any ideas?
I forgot to mention that we had a mild, almost balmy day on Saturday. Miss Rose pulled on galoshes and spent the noon hour directing traffic. After a long confinement, it put the bloom back in her cheeks, Uncle Billy says.
Fancy Skinner has nailed me again about my hair and insists I let her give me a haircut. I hesitate to do this to Joe, who, I’m told, may go with his sister to Tennessee for a week. Possibly I could use his extended absence as an excuse. What do you think?
I’ve seen Andrew Gregory, who looked smart as all get-out in a cashmere topcoat, and he asked about you. He seems to think that because you’re my neighbor, I know all there is to know about you. Yet it occurs to me that I don’t even know where you were born.
Well, there you have it. All the urgent things I left unsaid. Clearly, there’s nothing of importance to tell a famous author and illustrator living in New York, whose cat has a more interesting life than most people.
Cynthia, Cynthia—my face grows red when I think of what you said. I hope you will seriously reconsider that outrageous idea, lest I take you up on it.
With something like amazed laughter, and, of course, love,
Timothy
 
Sunday evening
Timothy!
You rake in a collar! I positively blush like a sophomore when I think of what you said!
You may want to reconsider that outlandish proposal. What if I should take you up on it?
Or was it my idea?
Oh, well, when two hearts beat as one, who knows? And who cares? I do love you to pieces. You are so funny and wonderful I knew it the minute I saw that barbecue sauce on your chin, when I came to borrow sugar after just moving in.
Violet has gone down the hall to play with an electronic mouse while Palestrina, who is too old for such nonsense, looks on.
I shall be happy to be home again with people who are ordinary. Well almost ordinary.
Much love,
Cynthia
 
My dear neighbor, it was your outlandish idea, not mine, and please do not forget it! I certainly haven’t forgotten it. Good grief, I can barely keep my thoughts on my duties. And there’s the rub.
I struggle with what old men with measles fear most: not being able to think straight, forgetting their Christian names, wandering in a daze on the street, being late for meetings and early for luncheons, dwelling everlastingly on some woman who only professes to have measles but in truth possesses a case so mild that she can go about her duties as cool and elegant as you please, while the other chap stumbles around trying to locate his shoes or even the very house where he lives.
Cynthia, Cynthia. Be kind.
yrs,
Timothy
 
Dearest Funny Person,
Your wake-up call this morning—how wonderful it was! It was coffee with brandy, it was eggs Benedict, it was a hot shower and a walk in the park! Words fail me, but not entirely!
So glad you liked the pictures, though I’m sure you were being kind. I can be terribly grave in front of a camera, and that fur-lined hood made me look exactly like an Eskimo woman who has spent the morning chewing a piece of reindeer hide.
Dearest, I really and truly can’t come home. I must work some part of each day in order to reach the deadline. If I were to pull up stakes at this point and move home, I should do nothing more than lose time and gain confusion.
Thus far, I’ve been given God’s speed. Now, if I keep going and nevah, nevah give up, I shall come to the finish line on schedule.
And so, I have a question that will make your heart fairly leap into your throat-Why don’t you come to New York?
You could stay here, and while I’m working, you could read or visit the bookshops or pop over to my little café where they’ve not only adopted me but would take the fondest care of you.
You would have lots of privacy, for this is a very large apartment—and I promise I will not seduce you. Since we’ve never discussed it, I want to say that I really do believe in doing things the old-fashioned way when it comes to love. I do love you very dearly and want everything to be right and simple and good, and yes, pleasing to God. This is why I’m willing to wait for the kind of intimacy that most people favor having as soon as they’ve shaken hands.
But enough of what I shall not do, and on to what I shall!
I shall buy fresh bread and fresh fish and vegetables and all the things you love and cook for you right here, and you will save hundreds of dollars on pricey restaurants, which you can give to the children’s hospital!
I shall take you to a play with the tickets from my publisher and to the shop with the lighted antique globe, not to mention the Metropolitan Museum and the New York Public Library.
Last but not least, I shall give you as much love and affection and happiness as I am capable of giving. Which, I believe, dearest Timothy, is quite a lot.
There. How can you resist?
Your loving Cynthia
 
from the office
dearest cynthia,
but i am a rustic, a country bumpkin, a bucolic rube of the worst sort—in a word, a hick.
I can see why you didn’t mention this on sunday when we talked—you wanted me to have time to think it over. That indeed is one of the grandest benefits of a letter. it gives one time to reflect, so that one doesn’t shout some impulsive, spur-of-the-moment nonsense like yes i’ll come to new york and fly in a plane and be stranded in an airport and get lost or maimed, or even killed, not to mention buffeted by throngs on every corner.
Nope. i can’t do it. you think i’m kidding, but i am dead serious. I am infamous for my fear of flying—which is chiefly why I hemmed and hawed for twenty years over the trip to Ireland. Large cities are another of my rustic phobias—they literally make me sick—which is the sole reason Kthrn and Wltr and I lodged in the countryside when we went to sligo.
I am willing to take any flailing you dish out—but i cannot come to new york. you’re right, the very thought makes my heart leap into my throat. blast, i am sorry,
with love
,
Timothy

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