Somewhere Between Never and Now

Chapter 3: Somewhere Between Never and Now

I: Zane

“After Melinda's diagnosis, the book group switched to short stories, and, when around Melinda, her friends no longer said certain words, like 'yet.' Melinda relied on Faith.

Faith, at thirty, was the same age as Melinda. They had grown up together among the beaches and among the terns and among the lemonade trucks and the boats in the long maritime memory of the southern part of Rhode Island and, as with many from that state, had never ventured to leave. Only now would one of them leave.

Faith became Melinda's companion, advocate, nurse, confidante, priest, attorney, and bulldog. She fielded calls from physicians and clinics, harassed recalcitrant doctors, wrestled with agents from insurance companies, administered medications, and patrolled the harder margins of Melinda's life where Melinda no longer had the strength to tread.

She immediately prepared trips for herself and Melinda, to places Melinda had not traveled. Morocco, the bright wet north of Italy; Nice, Colombia. They visited Morocco during the west's autumn, Venice and Nice the following spring. And, fleeing the winter in the U.S. northeast, where they girded against the cold by wearing everything but wedding rings, they arrived in Cartagena, Colombia, somewhere between never and now.

Faith saw Luis first, but Melinda saw him more. If Luis had understood the choice before him, he could not possibly have made it."

On the first day at the retreat, we were assigned another person in the group to write a brief bit of fiction about. The authors of these exercises would be anonymous but some of the works would be read to the group by the facilitator, a mousy and peculiar young writer named Lauren. I was assigned Faith LaNuit.

“How did they know that? That must be you, Cooper, right?" Faith said after the story was read.

Miles Cooper was there as well. He was now Cooper Miles, Published Author.

“No, dear," he said. “It wasn't me. I had…someone else."

“I mean," Faith said to the group, “it's uncanny: Southern Rhode Island, that I never left, the book group, my age, the travel - those are mostly places I haven't been yet. And, I would like to think that I would do those things for a terminally ill friend. I really want to know the rest of this story."

It was easy to piece together some of Faith's background. She was not pale, but she was a warm cream, as with the complexions of many people who have great access to easy beaches but have become too used to them. She was overdressed for the Colombia heat so I expected that she had not come from the more even-tempered weather on the southern east coast or California, but from a spot in the northeast where hard cold is almost always a possibility. I heard her speak briefly and her voice had the shy lilt of a native Boston speaker trying not to reveal their accent. Bostonians don't trouble themselves about their accents, so that left Connecticut, Long Island, and Rhode Island. Long Islanders have an accent that cannot be concealed.

She had a tumble appearance: not graceless by any means, but not over-comforted. She looked as ready for a symphony as for a monster truck rally. It was a fine and cultivated appearance, however: that, and her attendance at this retreat revealed that she came from some wealth or culture or both. The apparent lack of inhibition in a person so well-groomed and fortunate is unlikely in a person from Connecticut, unless they had close ties with New York City, but she had too much warmth for that. Rhode Island. That she was thirty years old was a guess.

And she was seated beside and apparently supporting Miles Cooper, whom it is impossible for anyone to like or even tolerate, so she must have had a soul that was very generous to friends. I also could tell that she didn't consider herself a writer.

“I don't really consider myself a writer…"

We had started the most dreary element of any orientation: to “go around the room, say your name and where you're from, and a little bit about yourself."

“I guess you already know more than I would have said, from that short story," she chuckled. “But, well, I'm here to try to create some discipline for writing, see where it goes." She said “thank you" and sat down.

Later, as we mingled over coffee and bunuelos, before we dispersed to our writing, Faith approached me.

“Very nice story you wrote."

“Warmest thanks," I said. “And which story is this?"

“The one you wrote about me."

“Ah. And by what logic do you believe that I wrote this story?"

“Luis," she said. “Only a man would think highly enough of men to believe that Luis would struggle choosing between two women, in any context. A woman would know that Luis would have no trouble making such a decision."

“Ah. Perhaps I don't know men well enough, despite my decades of close research. Or perhaps you don't know women well enough. But I'm sorry: I only wish I had written the story."

“You did write the story. There's strong evidence it was written by a man and there are only three men here. Cooper--"

“--Miles. I know him a little. He used to be Miles Cooper. It is strange to my ears for him to be called 'Cooper:' it's like the way they call each other by their last names on American cop shows."

“I don't disagree. But now I'm certain that you wrote the story."

“It wouldn't be the first time someone is certain about something that is wrong, but I would be delighted to hear your theories."

“I am delighted to share them. As I said, there are only three men here and I'm certain that Miles didn't write it, which leaves you and Walter."

Walter, yes. Walter looked like a dachshund, in the way that that breed of dog seems always to look frightened or anxious. There was a deep crease about the breast pocket of his shirt as though he had only just recently removed a pocket protector, perhaps for fear of being judged by other attendees. Heavy squinting, similarly, betrayed that he had lately eschewed corrective lenses. The story about him written by another attendee was, Walter confessed, as precise as a Swiss watch.

“And you don't think Walter has it in him?" I said.

“Poor Walter, no," she said. “It's a bit barbaric, this exercise. To make up a story based on how someone looks."

“I don't disagree. But you liked your story."

“I did, and I know you wrote it."

“You do, because you think Walter did not. And?"

“And because just now you referred to 'American cop shows.'"

“Ah. What I wrote, was it the plot to an episode of 'CSI: South Kingstown' or something?"

“I don't know you at all, really, but I'm pretty sure you don't lift material from TV shows. No. Making that distinction, 'American cop shows,' informs me that you were either born or have lived away from the U.S. And only someone who has traveled and seen much of the world would be able to identify where someone is from with so little evidence."

“A sound theory," I said. “I admit nothing."

“How does it end?"

“How does what end?"

“You have a thing for being obtuse, don't you."

“It has many unheralded benefits."

“The story. With Melinda and Luis."

“Melinda dies."

“I had anticipated that."

“You talk like a Rhode Islander, did you know that?"

“Too much, or in a certain manner?"

“'In a certain manner!'" I chortled. “'I anticipated that!' That's what I mean. Why not say, 'in a way,' or, 'I figured that,' or even 'I knew that?' Inferiority complex. Everyone from Rhode Island seems to have one. But you have nothing to prove. No one cares your state is so small. No one cares that most of the country believes you're part of New York."

“Well! Haven't I been told."

What a temperate red raided the soft hills of her cheeks, and how her eyes trained wide and rigid on me, every atom-fleck of gold and cinder and blue mixed there, fired, drove into me like I was a sunset at the end of a long straight highway.

“Told?"

“Told," she repeated. “You're telling me."

“I am only saying you are using words unnecessarily."

“Oh!" she started, shifting and nearly flinching. “You're telling me how to use words, now? Are you going to tell me how to write?"

“See?" I said.

“See what?"

“Inferiority complex: Just minutes after swearing that you're not a writer, you rage at me for making suggestions about writing."

“I'm not raging!"

“A little."

“So what if I am? Who died and made you king of writers?"

“But, no one had to die for this."

“Quite an ego you have on you."

“Muhammad Ali, he said 'it ain't bragging if you can do it.'"

She searched for something to say in response to that, and I searched for something to say and for some reason we each believed we would find the words we were looking for in the other's eyes and in this regard I was at a substantive disadvantage because looking in her eyes words failed me and the world was nothing but whale song and sunflowers whispering out psalms and the long brass sinews that were carried over a horizon by the departing sun.

“You're an ass," she said, and walked away. I called after her.

“Faith despises Luis," I said. “Of course, because she loves him. Melinda and Luis fall in love and Melinda dies. Luis and Faith fall in love. Luis betrays Faith. There's a storm, it destroys Cartagena. Faith rescues Luis, forgives him, and they live happily ever after."

“What will you call this fairy tale?" she said, after a moment.

“It's in the story: 'Somewhere Between Never and Now.'"