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Bit 12
There are none who flock to the island
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There are none who
flock to the island as they once did. |
The words looked up from
the page at Cynthia, still -- after all these years --
accusatorily. As though the young girl who wrote them
during a swoon that lasted nearly a decade was somehow
culpable for their triteness. Back then they seemed so
important to her. Almost as important as they seemed
ridiculous today.
But whenever Cynthia Wiles
Hemingway was feeling like beating herself (unmercifully)
up, she pulled out the manuscript. Then, torn between the
sense of achievement that she'd actually pulled herself
out of the mire of it all and the terrible sense of loss
that it all engendered, she'd pine. Pine for her loss of
innocence and pine for her youth that was fading fast.
"Well," said Maxwell, "I
don't suppose it's all that trite, really. I mean, you
did love the guy, right?"
Cynthia looked up at him
and smiled. "Sure, I suppose I did. I mean, as much as
you can love anybody when you're that young."
"Early twenties?" Max
asked.
"Twenty exactly. Still in
college, struggling to make some sense of it all."
"Well, it must have been
tough for you."
"Not much tougher than it
is for anybody else, I'd imagine."
Max looked at her and said,
"Don't beat yourself up so much. We've all been there you
know, in one way or another."
"I suppose --"
"No, really," Max said
ruefully, "Even I loved once, you know."
"Oh, Max," Cynthia said
sadly, "I'm sure you have. It's just that you'd think
after all these years I'd have gotten him out of my
system."
"Hey, actors have their
grease paint to contend with and you have your old lover."
"You know what he said to
me as he left my life forever, Max? You want to know what
his parting words to me were?"
"Sure."
"He said that nobody would
ever fill his shoes. Can you believe his audacity?"
"Well, certainly nobody
could replace his ego. What size were his shoes, anyway?"
Cynthia looked at him and
burst into laughter. "Max, you have a way of bring fun to
even the most critical of conversations."
"Hey, it's a talent."
"Yeah," she said, and then,
"He was about a size seven shoe, I guess. Who can
remember after all these years?"
"You seem to remember
everything else."
"In spite of trying to
forget."
"Well, I'm not so sure
you'll forget him until he's -- how do you say? -- out of
your system?"
"Great," Cynthia said, "And
how do I get the little fuck out of my system! Would you
mind telling me that?"
"Well, when I want to
absolve myself of something, or expunge it out of me, I
write about it."
"I've already written way
too many words about the beast," Cynthia said.
"Maybe you have, Cyn," Max
replied, "But I think you might want to consider writing a
few more."
Cynthia made a sound that
sounded a little bit like a death rattle.
"Finish the story,
Cynthia."
She looked up at her friend
and said weakly, "It was going to be a novel, Max. A
novel!"
"Yes, and it was going to
last a lifetime. Write it as a story, Cyn. You don't
want to dedicate too much time on a broken heart. People
will begin to talk."
Cynthia got up to close the
sliding door to the balcony. The Chinook winds were
whipping up colder than usual that night.
"Cold?" Max said.
"That," said Cynthia, "But
I'm also just not in the mood to hear old Stockin' going
on all night."
Next: Bit 13
One-eyed Jimmy |
