Black Chalk

XLVII(i)We pull up outside my apartment at five thirty. I dash up my steps eager to find Dee’s reply. I have been thinking about our meeting all the way home. And that’s when I have an idea. I have just enough time if I run. Casey’s on Eleventh for my surprise and after that a drugstore.

*

The afternoon’s clouds have slipped from the smooth dome of the sky and the park is lush and loud, the East Village out and enjoying the gifts of an early summer.

A loudspeaker plays salsa, trombone sliding beneath Spanish words, horns stabbing the air. A path to my left is crammed with people, a prayer meeting, a preacher waving sunrise hands. The congregation is rapt, their heads like apples in a box.

And soon I am there, the middle of the park, out of breath. I scan our meeting spot and see no Dee, only the sunbathers who crowd the grassy knoll, pale flesh like matchsticks. This is good, I have time to prepare my surprise.

I conceal the gift, it takes only seconds. I have bought a picnic blanket on the way to the park. I spread it out and sit down.

While I am considering the worthiness of my surprise, I feel a tapping on my shoulder.

Hello, Jolyon.

Dee’s voice, unmistakably Dee.

I look up and see her fringed with blue sky as she bends down and kisses me lightly on the forehead. Then quickly she sits and crosses her legs. Red lipstick, white shorts and a gauzy white shirt. She has a large tote with her, woven and straw-like.

Say something then, she says, rocking.

I look at Dee’s simple clothes. You’ve changed, I say, you’ve become . . .

Boring, she says, stretching the word.

No, I was going to say refined.

Refined? Like sugar, ugh.

I always imagined you’d become more bohemian the older you got, I say. Headscarves and kaftans, cigarette holders.

Dee laughs. You know, when we were at college, I always thought I was going to be someone. Maybe I was even rehearsing to be someone. But instead I became bland. And all because I realised the time had come for me to hide.

Hide from what?

From failure. Like I told you, writing and writing and failing. And now I just want to disappear into the crowd. Who wants to stand out if they’ve achieved nothing?

Well, I think you look good, Dee, I say. And I like you as a blonde.

Dee looks happy. And I like you hairless, Jolyon, she says, pointing at her dimple.

I rub the smooth pommel of my chin.

I’ve been reading about how you lost your beard, she says.

I have become exceedingly forgetful of late, I reply.

She laughs. Well, yes, I’ve been reading about that as well.

I’m pleased to have made her laugh but now I can’t think of anything witty to say. Instead I scratch awkwardly at the pattern of the blanket, palm trees splashed against pale blue sky.

So I have something for you, Dee says. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a large book as thick as a wedding album. It is old but well cared for, red leatherette. You haven’t forgotten your promise, Dee says.

Of course not, I say, taking the book, touching it softly. I promise to keep it safe, I say.

Dee smiles at me gratefully. There are four hundred and ninety-nine poems inside, she says. I wrote another one today. And don’t worry, I didn’t write it to get closer to five hundred. I wrote a poem for you, Jolyon.

If I am quiet it is not only because I feel awkward holding a conversation with a woman for the first time in years. It is also because I feel close to tears.

Dee touches me kindly on the knee. Life should have been so much better to us, Jolyon, she says.

Maybe, I reply. Or better to you. This is probably all I deserved.

No, Dee says sharply. None of this was your fault. It’s like you said, what happened was the result of misfortune.

I don’t tell Dee that she’s wrong. But I suppose if she keeps reading, she will have to find out eventually. Instead I say to her, I have something for you as well, Dee. Your present is under the Christmas tree.

Dee seems touched. Show me, she says, reaching out to me.

I pull her to her feet and lead her. On the lowest branch of the tree, attached with a piece of red ribbon, hangs a small gift bag. Dee opens the bag and removes the contents wrapped in tissue paper. Inside is an ink-pad and three rubber stamps. A silhouette of Jane Austen framed in laurel leaves, an illustration of Charles Dickens holding a quill and an ornate initial decorated with scrollwork and vines. The letter D.

Dee holds her hand to her chest and takes a single heavy breath. Oh how perfect, she says. And the way she looks at me I feel a forgotten warmth returning to my heart.