SIX

By Joan Stephens

Second Meeting

Catherine leaned against the terrace wall, waiting for Vincent to arrive.  It had been six months since that night in the park, and she had seen him exactly five times.  This would be the sixth.  She wanted to see him, needed to see him.  There was something that she had to tell him even if it meant that she would never see him again.  She was going to tell him that she loved him and hoped and prayed that he would confess the same for her.  Looking back, she tried to decide just when it was that she fell in love with him.  The second time that she had met him? . . .   

It had happened much as tonight: she was leaning against the balcony half-wall when she became aware of someone else on the balcony.

 Soundlessly, Vincent had dropped onto her balcony.  With cat-quiet feet, he stepped into the shadows, blending into the darkness.  Now, would she sense that he was here?

 Strangely she felt no fear.  It was he; she was sure of it.  Turning slowly, she searched the balcony and found him standing in the shadows, hiding from her again.

 “Vincent,” she greeted him.

 “Catherine,” that beautiful voice caressed her name. 

“How did you know that this was my balcony?”  Her curiosity was overpowering her happiness at  having him on her balcony.

 Shifting guiltily, he hung his head.  His hair, long and heavy, fell forward, and she was able to catch a glimpse of gold, silvered in the moonlight.  “I waited until I saw a light come on.  I’ve been here since then to see that you were all right.”

 “You have?”

 “Yes,” he guiltily agreed.  He had never thought until now how she might feel about his violation of her privacy.

It warmed her heart to realize that he had been watching over her.  “Thank you.”

 Startled, he almost stepped out of the shadows.  “You don’t mind?  You don’t think that I was spying on you?” he asked, dumbfounded.

 “No.  I don’t think you would do anything like that.  You’re too much of a gentleman.” 

After heaving a deep sigh–it had scared him when he had made that confession–he said, “You are most understanding, Catherine.”

 “Not at all.  I trust you.  You would do nothing to hurt me.  Have you been well, Vincent?”

 “Yes.”  He didn’t know what to say to her.  Her life was so different from his; they had nothing in common.  Although he was intensely interested in her daily life, he would never presume to intrude on her privacy.  “Do you read?” he asked, without thinking.  He turned away from her, embarrassed down to his toes.  Of course, she read.  What a stupid question. 

Sensing how nervous he was, she smiled, “Shall I get a book; we can read it together?” 

“Please,” was all he could mumble. 

“Any particular one?”  She paused in the open French doors.

“No.  Whatever you like.”  She was a woman of uncommon sensitivity he thought, and she didn’t realize it. 

Returning with a small, thin volume in her hand, she asked him if poetry was all right.  He had regained his equilibrium and told her how much he enjoyed poetry.

 Smiling reminiscently, she gazed at the book in her hand and asked, “Have you ever heard of Edgar A. Guest?” 

“Yes, I believe that he was called ‘the poet of the people.’  He wrote about everyday family life.”  He settled his long body on the floor still in the shadows.

 “I just received this little book in the mail today.  It belonged to my grandmother.  My father was going through her things, preparing to close the house until he decided what to do with it and came upon this in her desk.  Guest is not well known, and he’s not found in many anthologies.  Too sentimental for academia, but my grandmother loved his poetry and would read to me from this book.  She told me I could have the book after she died.  I had forgotten about it until it came in the mail.”

 “Then it is all the more a great treasure, bringing fond memories along with it.”  He leaned comfortably against the wall.  “Pick out a poem and read it for me, please,” he asked with old-fashioned courtesy.

 She rifled through the pages and came upon one that was dog-eared.  “‘Burning Candle.’” Holding her place in the book with her index finger, she settled into the patio chair that was the closest to Vincent.  When she was comfortable, she began:

“I watched a candle burning at a banquet table spread,
Adding just a touch of beauty by the mellow light it shed,
But strangely in the center was the tallest of the lot,
Which was purposely unlighted or by chance forgot.

The burning candles glistened; every lovely beam they threw
Brought them nearer to their death beds when they’d die as candles do,
But the one they’d left unlighted stayed a golden taper tall,
Still retaining all its freshness, giving out no light at all. 

Then I wondered as I watched them, are we all like candles made,
With the gift of light within us, but to use it up afraid?
Do we hope that life may miss us and, forgetful, pass us by
While our fellows burn in service for the joy they can supply?” 

As she read the words, she could hear her grandmother’s soft voice reciting with her.  This was a poem she had often read to her, and it was only now that Cathy knew what it meant.  Her grandmother had been trying to teach her how to live a worthy life.  She hoped that Grandmother Hilton approved of her life, and she thought how she would never really lose her as long as she had her memories.  When she finished, she handed the book to Vincent.  “You pick one.” 

Vincent chose ‘Woman and Her Mirror.’  With great flair, he read:

“Woman is that peculiar class
Which stops before a looking glass,
And in herself sees every flaw.
Would man his faults as clearly saw!” 

Both of them dissolved in laughter over the next one he read: ‘The Absentee.’

“The man was old; the maiden young
And gifted with a flattering tongue.
Dan Cupid on their wedding day
Deliberately stayed away.” 

They spent a pleasant evening reading and discussing Guests’ homespun poetry.  Catherine thought  of him as a forerunner to Garrison Keillor who had a program on PBS: The Prairie Home Companion.  He wrote about life in Lake Wobegone, Minnesota.  She found a book of his poetry for them to compare.  She related how her mother would sit and listen with Grandma Hilton to ‘Edgar Guest in Welcome Valley,’ which aired from Chicago. 

“These are wonderful memories, Catherine.  Treasure them.” 

“Reading them again with you adds more memories, Vincent.  Thank you.” 

“No need to thank me.  I have enjoyed myself, but it is time for me to go.”  She had tried valiantly to smother a yawn but had failed miserably.  “You are tired,” he continued.  “I have kept you up long enough.” 

“I am tired,” she conceded, “but I have enjoyed this night so much that I hate to see it end.” 

Standing up, she watched him rise gracefully from a sitting position.  Hoping to catch a glimpse of his face, she was disappointed when he kept it carefully hidden in the voluminous hood of his cloak. 

“May I visit you again?” he asked. 

Trying not to sound too eager, she replied, “I would like that very much.” 

Nodding solemnly, he faded into the night.  “Good night, Catherine.” 

“Good night, Vincent.”  She lingered on the balcony for several minutes, reliving the evening.  As she walked into the living room, her phone rang.  Picking it up, she heard Tom Gunther’s self-assured voice begin to tell her to be ready at 8:oo P. M. tomorrow night.  He needed her to accompany him to another cocktail party.  She wondered why she had never noticed how condescendingly he treated her.  After the pleasant evening she had just spent with Vincent, Tom’s attitude grated on her nerves, prompting her to say no.  But with sudden insight, she realized that she didn’t love him, had never really loved him, and that tomorrow night was the perfect time to end the relationship, and she agreed.  Her father would question her decision but would accept it.  In his own way, he wanted her to be happy.  She knew the decisions she had made this last year were puzzling to him, but he loved her and would not interfere in her life.  That night she slept deeply and soundly, dreaming of a faceless man with a soul-soothing voice.

BACK