A Note From an Old Acquaintance (4 page)

“Right.” Brian continued staring at his wife.

Armen checked all the gauges and glanced at the chart before speaking. “I asked you this already, but are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself. To tell you the truth, I’ve also been thinking about taking a little trip, doing some signings. Just not sure I should.”

“I think it’s a
great
idea.”

Brian looked up from his wife’s bed. “You do?”

“Absolutely. I know what I said at the restaurant sounded a little harsh—oh, hell, I sounded like a jerk—but I really do think you need to change your routine. Anything’s better than seeing you like this.”

“But, Penny—”

“—will be fine. I’m worried about
your
health, too.”

Brian nodded, his eyes returning to his wife’s prostrate form.

“Are you staying the night?” Armen asked. “I can have the cot brought back in. No trouble.”

Brian looked over at his wife, a gentle frown creasing his brow. “Thanks, I think I’ll take you up on that.”

“Sure, no problem. And like I said, Penny will be fine, as always. I’ll talk to you in a couple of days, when I’ve had a chance to get some more information about that facility in Westwood, if you’re still interested.”

Brian stared out the window. The sun had set and the lights of Santa Monica twinkled in the dark. The ocean loomed like a black hole. “Yeah, why don’t you look into it? Can’t hurt.”

Armen looked past his friend, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. Brian followed his gaze to the broken vase on the floor. “Sorry, I got a little carried away with something I was trying to write.”

The doctor smiled. “At least you’re trying.” He came around the bed and grasped Brian by his shoulders. “Do yourself the favor and
take
that trip. It’ll do you a world of good.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“I am. Go. Doc’s orders, Hoss.”

Brian cracked a grin in spite of his dour mood. “Okay,” he said. “If you’re putting it that way.”

Armen left a few moments later and Brian went back to his computer, his eyes straying to the white rose on the floor, the delicate petals torn and crushed by his fit of anger. He felt guilty about lying to his friend, but Armen was right. He turned and looked over at his wife. “I’m sorry, Pen, but I think I really need to do this.”

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah...

...was her only reply.

Pulling out his cell phone, he put in a call to his publicist, but only succeeded in reaching his voice mail. He ended the call without leaving a message. Kevin would get in touch when everything was set. He’d just have to be patient, which was not his strong suit at the moment.

Sighing, he turned off his MacBook, gave Penny a tender kiss on her forehead, and walked down to the hospital’s commissary, where he had a chef salad and an iced tea laced with too much lemon.

Back in the room, the cot in which he’d slept for so many nights had returned, the white cotton sheets taut and crisp, the pillows plumped. He also noticed they’d cleaned up the broken vase and the waterlogged mess he’d left behind. An identical vase stood in its place containing an arrangement of red & white carnations. It was as if the rose had never existed.

All during his solitary meal, he kept seeing those photos of Joanna in his mind and that look of sorrow and loneliness in her eyes. That look tore at his soul. It was never there all those years ago, and he blamed Erik Ruby for that.

The problem was, in his heart of hearts, Brian knew he was just as guilty....

“Please tell me why you’re doing this, Brian! Please!”

Brian started awake, squinting against the harsh fluorescent light dazzling his eyes. It took a moment for his vision to clear and to realize he and Penny were not alone. A team of nurses and doctors huddled around her bed, their voices low and urgent. One of them was Armen.

Brian bolted from the cot and staggered to his feet, his eyes darting to the monitors. They were silent—flatlined.

“What’s going on?” he asked, throat croaky from sleep.

Armen turned and met his gaze with tear-glistened eyes.

“Are you going to call it, doctor?” a nurse asked.

Armen glanced at the clock and sighed. “Time of death...3:05
AM
.”

“No....” Brian whispered, his lips trembling.

He turned and faced the wall, so the nurses wouldn’t see his tears.

Penny was gone, and even though he’d been expecting this—God, he’d even prayed for it during those times of deepest pain and grief—the reality of that thought knocked out the underpinnings of his life, casting him adrift on a dark and foreboding sea.

Why hadn’t Armen awakened him?

Brian already knew the answer, of course, though his heart rejected it. Armen wanted to spare him the agony of watching them work on Penny. He knew they’d done their best, could see the floor littered with the detritus of their valiant though fruitless efforts.

He sighed and wiped the tears from his face with a swipe of his sleeve, then turned and approached the bed. His legs still resisted normal movement, feeling stiff and mechanical. A part of him hoped this was all a dream, an elaborate construct of his subconscious mind designed to prepare him for the worst, and from which he would awaken into a sundrenched morning, the quiet horror of it fading from his mind. In his heart he knew better.

When Brian reached the bed the nurses drew aside. Armen hovered nearby, his swarthy face etched with grief and concern.

Now that Penny’s face held no life, it appeared as though it were a replica fashioned from mottled gray wax. Her chest no longer rose and fell with that terrible robotic precision and his mind, rejecting that stillness, provided the illusion that it moved as before, but that hollow metallic sigh, the sound that had provided the accompaniment to their lives for the past two years was gone.

Armen grasped his shoulder and spoke gently into his ear. “We did everything we could, Brian. We think it was either a blood clot or an aneurysm. We won’t know for sure until we perform an autopsy.”

Brian nodded and remained silent, his puffy, red-rimmed eyes still riveted on her face. He reached out and took hold of one of her hands, caressing the soft roadmap of veins and feeling the delicate bones shifting beneath the cool, dry flesh. Tears threatened to overwhelm him again. A moment later he leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“Goodbye, Sweetheart.... Please give a kiss to Joey for me and tell him his daddy loves and misses him so very much.”

5

August 21, 2006

Dearest Brian:

I’ve been sitting here for the last hour, typing and retyping this e-mail, trying to figure out how to express the inexpressible. I’m so, so sorry about your wife, Brian. Please know that. When I read your e-mail, and then heard the news reports, I felt as if I’d lost a dear friend, and we’ve never even met. The only thing I can be sure of is that if she loved you, she must have been a wonderful person, too. And, of course, I understand that you need to postpone your trip. You need to take care of you. I wish I could be there to help you through this, but you know I’m here any time you want to talk or if you prefer e-mailing, that’s fine, too. I’m saying a prayer for you...and Penny.

All my best,

Joanna

September 2, 2006

Dear Joanna:

Thank you so much for your condolences. They meant a great deal to me. And please forgive me for not writing you sooner. There was so much to do, arrangements to make, the memorial service, etc. What was so amazing is how many people attended, people from all over the country, some who knew her from childhood and hadn’t seen her for over twenty years! The media was low-key, for once, something for which I’m very grateful. It was her wish to have her ashes scattered from a favorite hilltop in Malibu. The sunset was breathtaking that night. I take solace that she and Joey are finally together.

Thanks again for keeping me in your thoughts.

Brian

September 19, 2006

Dear Brian:

Now it’s my turn to ask your forgiveness. Ever since we instituted a Summer Session last year, it gives us basically no time to prepare for the Fall. It’s nuts! Student evaluations, new student orientations, faculty meetings, fire and hazmat inspections, blah, blah, blah. It seems the older I get, the busier I get with bureaucratic nonsense. Less and less time for the creative things I love. But you don’t want to hear me complain, do you?

The one bright spot is a prospective student I interviewed this week. Her portfolio was stunning and she shows so much promise. Without sounding like an ego-maniac, she reminds me of me when I was that age, so eager to take the art world by storm. I think she could really do it—go all the way. To have a student like this is something every teacher dreams about.

What’s happening with your work? Are you writing anything new? Got to go, someone just stuck their head in my office and told me there’s yet another faculty meeting. Yuck. Talk to you soon.

Best,

Joanna

October 3, 2006

Dear Joanna:

I really love reading your e-mails. They make me realize how normal life can be. Mine’s anything but normal; but I suppose it’s not too shabby having two studios fighting over you. It’s almost embarrassing, except for the money they keep offering.

The writing’s slogging along. It’s hard not having Penny as a sounding board. She was always great at telling me that I was too full of myself and then showing me the perfect solution to my literary conundrum. Now, there’s a ten-dollar word for you free of charge.

Oh, before I forget, I spoke to my publicist this morning and he’s bugging me to reschedule my little tour, he says that even though
A Nest of Vipers
is still hot, the flames won’t burn forever. He’s right, of course. So, I’m thinking of early November. Will that work for you? Let me know.

Brian

October 7, 2006

Dear Brian:

Early November would be perfect. Even though I’ll be in the midst of evaluations again, I should be able to break away for that dinner we talked about. You up for Tandoori again?

Seriously, I’m so looking forward to seeing you, though I have to confess I’m more than just a little bit nervous. You nervous, too?

As for your writing, I have every confidence you’ll be able to get through any momentary dry spells. You’re too good not to. Everything I’ve read of yours confirms that. And I would absolutely have no apologies concerning those two studios. Let them fight over you. So much the better for you.

Oh, by the way, just got word that I’m up for a “genius grant.” You know, those foundations that give out big fat checks with no strings attached, just because they think you’re cool? Well, I think I’ve finally got them all fooled. Hah! All kidding aside, it’s a great honor, and I still have you to thank for it, even after all these years.

Anyway, sorry for my blather. Let me know when you’ve firmed up your plans and we’ll do this mad thing.

Yours always,

Joanna

October 8, 2006

Dear Joanna:

CONGRATULATIONS! Wow, a genius grant? That’s something I’ll never have to worry about. Seriously, I always knew you had it in you. I’ll bet your family is very proud.

Oh, not to toot my own horn too much, but I’m going to be on Jay Leno tomorrow night. Should be fun, as they want me to sit in with the band and trade licks with Kevin Eubanks. Should be more interesting than listening to me try to one-up Jay.

Congratulations again. Now you can treat me to that Tandoori!

Brian

October 11, 2006

Dear Brian:

It’s all your fault! I stayed up and watched you on Leno the other night and ended up not falling asleep until one o’clock. You’re bad! No, actually you were terrific, especially with the band. I really love that old Cream tune and you and Kevin really “cut heads.”

And thank you for your kind words about my grant. My son, Zack, is about as proud for his mom as a boy can be, though he tends to be rather quiet about it. But isn’t that typical of teenagers? As for Erik...well, he was certainly happy to hear about the money, though it’s not as if we need it. When I told him I was thinking of donating it to charity, he just about blew a gasket, until I asked him why he was allowed to be the only philanthropist in the family. We seem to be at odds all the time, Brian. But there I go complaining again. Anyway, I can’t wait to see you. And you’re on for that Tandoori.

Fondly,

Joanna

BRIAN STARED AT HIS
bedroom ceiling, waves of emotion racing through him. Memories were such precious, fragile things, remaining hidden in the recesses of one’s brain for years until a troubled night’s sleep and a wandering mind coaxed them back into conscious light. Lying there, in the dark, he clearly recalled sights and sounds comprising moments both heartbreaking and sublime.

One such image nearly brought him to tears, and yet there was nothing about it that connoted sadness. It was simply the memory of Joanna smiling at him while they sat together at a sidewalk café one unseasonably warm day, the sun shining through her fiery curls and her eyes shining with love—a Kodak moment frozen forever in the convolutions of his brain.

He’d loved Joanna, deeply and without reservation, and he’d wanted to remain in her arms forever.

What about now? What did he feel now with everything that had happened?

A part of him didn’t want to give substance to that thought, though it would seem his subconscious had other ideas. Brian sat up and shook off the last remaining tendrils of slumber’s grip from his mind, not wanting to ponder that question either.

Downstairs beside the front door, the alarm pad gave up its hourly “beep.” That told him it was now 5:00
AM
. He’d been awake for over two hours, and there wasn’t a prayer of him going back to sleep, now. Might as well face the day. He staggered into the bathroom and showered, grateful for the hot spiky spray sluicing down his body.

Fifteen minutes later he sat at his desk holding a steaming mug of Starbucks French Roast, re-reading Joanna’s e-mails. The warmth and contentment he’d felt from his earlier reminiscence spread through him once again, warmth far greater than the coffee could provide.

There were no new e-mails from her, but he hadn’t really expected anything, since the ball was in his court.

So, why was he afraid to call her? After all, she’d been the one to contact him out of the blue after fifteen years, and they’d been corresponding now for nearly three months.

She’s given you her phone number, you dope! Why don’t you use it?

If there had been any bad feelings on her part it was obvious from the tone of her e-mails they were long gone. As for
his
feelings, that was another story. All that remained were regrets.

Too damned many of those.

So, what the hell was he waiting for? It was just after eight on the East Coast, she’d be there in her office—right now—getting ready for her first class.
Call her now, Weller, before it’s too late—before you chicken out again!

Shaking his head, he picked up the phone and dialed, fumbling the number twice, his stomach fluttering. “Jesus Christ, you’d think I was a teenager calling a girl for a first date,” he mumbled.

“Good morning, Boston Art School.”

“Yes. Professor Richman, please.”

“Please hold.”

The phone switched to bland hold music for a few agonizing moments then someone picked up.

“This is Joanna.”

Brian swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

“So...how’s my favorite Professor?” he said, managing to keep his voice smooth and steady.

“What? W—who
is
this?” she said, annoyed.

“Hi, Joanna, it’s Brian.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, my God, I’m sorry. How
are
you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Feeling like a ditz, for one thing. I thought you were some kind of weirdo making a crank call. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize your voice. Forgive me?”

“Of course, I do. Besides, I’ve been called a lot worse, especially by some of the critics.”

They both laughed.

“Got to tell you, though,” he said, “your first e-mail really caught me by surprise.”

“I can imagine.” She laughed again. “It’s so
great
to finally speak to you.”

In spite of his vivid memories of her, he’d forgotten the unique timbre of her voice: a soft huskiness with a hint of her Long Island roots. The sound of it sent a delicious shiver up his spine.

“It’s my pleasure,” he said, swallowing that lump again. “I’ve wan-ted to call you a few dozen times. Guess I was just chicken ’til now.”

Joanna laughed. “That makes two of us.”

It was funny. He’d thought about Joanna every now and then for years, imagining a moment just like this, and all the things he’d say—needed to say. And now, when that moment had arrived he was turning into a tongue-tied schoolboy.

“There’s so much I want to say to you—” Brian began.

“I know, me too.”

He wanted to say something witty right then, something that would make her laugh. He’d forgotten that, too, how musical it sounded, and how much he’d adored it.

“So, are we still on for November?” she asked, breaking yet another uncomfortable silence.

“I should know more in a day, or so. My publicist is working out the details. What’s your schedule like?”

“I’m pretty free in the evenings. Erik’s still busy with his building, Zack is doing set design for his school play, and I’ve got another show opening in a week. I’m ready, but to tell you the truth, I’m a little bit nervous about it.”

“You shouldn’t be. They don’t give genius grants for nothing, you know. And I have to confess I couldn’t resist
Googling
you. Your art’s wonderful, Joanna, even better than I remember. You’ve grown.”

There was another silence, but Brian sensed this one was different, that she was absorbing the tenor of his words, measuring them. “Coming from you that means a lot,” she said, finally.

“Well, I’m not exactly an art connoisseur—”

“And that’s exactly why it means so much. You’re not trying to read anything into my work, like some of the critics and the phonies do. You were never a phony.”

Now it was his turn to measure her words. They sent an electric charge through him.

“Listen,” she said, her voice pitching lower, “you actually caught me right before a meeting with one of my students.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve made my day. Give me a call when you know what you’re doing and we’ll set something up. It’ll be so good to see you.”

He hung up a moment later, feeling aglow. “You’ve made my day, too, Joanna.”