Love Ephemeral

Unpublished Work © 1996 Stephen Le Bel

Introduction

Love, though an emotion common to every person on Earth, can be experienced as differently as there are people on Earth. Some years ago, a truly unique experience in my life occurred which still leaves me utterly bewildered. As best as I can, I'll recount what happened, though skeptics could easily chalk my story up as merely the side effects of a fever's delirium.

As if it were an annual self-fulfilling prophecy, a head cold pounces upon me sometime right after Thanksgiving, but before Advent. For 51 weeks of the year, my health is perfectly fine. That OTHER week though, more than makes up for any sicknesses I mercifully escape. In the year alluded to earlier, I encountered an unforgettable love while in the throes of a miserable earache.

Year after year on either Thanksgiving, or the Friday afterwards, my younger brother and I play football with a couple of cousins of ours. Older brothers versus the younger brothers and it's all the older brothers can do just to stay in the game. Usually we resort to trickery and deceit to make up for (my) lack of athletic prowess. One year, our playing field may be a mud pit; the next year it's the tip of a brown iceberg. Regardless of the weather, we play ball. We come home bone-sore. We come home muddied and bloodied. We come home having had fun.

Well, as sure as the cuckoo comes out of Grandma's clock on the quarter-hour, my head cold made itself known on the Sunday following our football game. That morning, I felt like I had showed up at the church for my funeral because if I'd died, everyone I'd want to attend was already there and wouldn't need to make a special trip. Mom got my brother to lug me home where she left me in bed comatose until Tuesday.

Tuesday

Mom is of the "Mentholated Cold Cream & Chicken Soup School" and she gave me liberal doses of both. Despite the fact that I smelled like a pharmacy and was sprouting feathers, I needed to go for an afternoon walk. That and I was getting tired of listening to nothing but what sounded like continual strains of the "Anvil Chorus" on the radio.

For being the end of November, it was a beautiful day. Much unlike the day of our football match which brought so much rain we dubbed it "The Mud Bowl." The little red streak had climbed to well over the 55 mark, no wind blew to speak of, and even though the sun was low in the sky, it felt warm to be in it.

Not really having anywhere in mind to go, I merely ambled down the hill to Carriage Road which runs more or less parallel to the river. Some of the houses along Carriage Road are tall, stately mansions, mostly of the Federal period of construction. These were built by well-to-do businessmen of the sea-faring trade which flourished here in the last century. My favorite is open to the public as a museum and it's there that I met an ethereally beautiful woman.

I knew the museum to be normally closed by four o'clock, but sitting on the intricate wrought iron railing was an unfamiliar young lady who I guessed to be in her early twenties. I took her to be a new guide there as she was wearing what looked to be a dress customarily worn around the turn of the century. Overall, it was made of a shimmery blue taffeta that fell in three tiers from her (corseted?) waist nearly to the ground. The sleeves were form-fitted right to her wrist, where there was a small flare made by a ruffle of white lace. The same lace with the addition of a deep blue velvet ribbon around its edge formed a high collar around her shoulders. Later on, I noticed that she wore petite button-up shoes which were also made of the same deep blue velvet.

The dress aside, she was a stunning beauty in her own right. Shoulder length hair with corkscrew curls which was so blonde it was almost white, eyes the color of a summer's blue sky, a thin face with soft features, and her smile, oh, dare I say in retrospect, was bewitching?

Now, my reader can imagine I must have looked not just a little bit rough at the moment. My intentions were to continue down to the wharf after exchanging the customary "Hello, nice day" pleasantries, but when she asked, "Where are you going?" I replied, "Nowhere in particular."

"The museum is closed now and it's time for afternoon tea. Would you care to come in and have a cup?"

That truly appealed to my English/Scottish heritage. A romantic answer to her question might have sounded something like "A beautiful idea from an even more beautiful lady." Given the state I was in, all I could grunt out was a polite "Yes, please."

And so I followed her into the house to a back kitchen where the teapot was beginning to sing. I say back kitchen because the main kitchen is bigger than my last apartment and this one is no bigger than a closet. She pointed for me to seat myself in a bay window with russet colored, corduroy cushions. With a spectacular view of the river valley, the window faces southwest and receives the full extent of the afternoon sun's rays. The current curator is blessed with a seasoned green thumb and had turned this particular turret into a miniature conservatory. I wasn't looking for such tranquility; happily it found me.

With the serving tray placed between us, she gracefully sat back into the window and straightened her flowing skirt.

"Are you from this area?" I asked.

"Why yes, but I've been away for quite some time," she replied.

As easy on the eyes as she was, she was equally as easy to converse with. Her knowledge of the local history seemed prodigious to me and she knew the history of the house we were in better than any of the other tour guides I had met over the years. A reasonable guess was that the house was somewhat of importance to her as it used to belong to one of her family.

Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to call home fairly early on because the ancient grandfather clock in the hallway rang ten o'clock much sooner than I expected. The thought of going to work the next morning weighed heavy on my mind, and was assuaged only by the fact that we made a point to meet at four o'clock again the next day. I promised her I wouldn't smell like a walking medicine cabinet.

The moment my head hit the pillow, I was on my merry way to dreamland. The vibrancy of her aura was so alive, I felt both healed and energized just sitting by her. During that night and for the following nights, I'd awaken somewhat and thought I saw her sitting on the bed beside me. Infatuation is a powerful emotion, and she was the spark which set this episode ablaze.

Wednesday

The next day's weather wasn't quite as agreeable, but she waited for me again propped up against the wrought iron railing. Grandpa struck four times and the teakettle's whistle started to rise. I took my previous day's position in the turret after having my offer to help gather the tea utensils rebuffed. She had noted how I took my tea and brought it to me already prepared, with cream and two sugars. I was raised to drink tea in this manner and this little trait endeared me to my English neighbors during a stay in a village north of Oxford.

We didn't stay there long that day. Once the tea and biscuits were gone, she took me by the hand to a front parlor. In previous visits to this house, I always made a point to wistfully suggest they give chamber concerts there using the baby grand piano and harpsichord which criminally sat idle. This day, I finally got my wish in a big way. Her music skills were the result of 18 years of serious practice and recitals.

The smiling expression on her face transformed into one of determination as she closed her eyes and spread her fingers over the keyboard. Then she started with those enchanted arpeggios of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata,” with highly controlled waves of audible passion.

With Beethoven, plus Bach, Scarlatti and a touch of Shubert behind us, she pulled a hymnal down from the shelf and coaxed me to sing some duets with her. I assure you, I didn't need much encouragement. The rest of the evening was devoted to classical music: played, sung, and discussed. Grandpa once again announced ten o'clock and she bowed her head, sad that we absolutely had to part for another day.

While her head was bowed, I had the overwhelming urge to kiss her. Gently cradling her head just below the temples between my hands, I leaned forward and pursed my lips against her forehead. Instantly she looked down to the side and smiled while developing a crimson blush. She returned the kiss on my left cheek. Afterwards, she escorted me to the door. Whatever cares in the world I might have had at the time, they were far from me. Four o'clock the next day couldn't come soon enough.

Thursday

But as the saying goes, "time and tide wait for no man," and the appointed hour did finally arrive. This day, she met me at the door with an eggshell white gown made of a heavy cotton tied around the middle with a red velvet sash, with matching cloth ribbons in her curls. The brightness of the sash only emphasized her hourglass figure. And even though her necklines were close to her throat, there was no missing the fact that her bosom was of a pleasingly modest size.

Upon arrival, we again went to the turret for tea, but before we sat down, I took both of her hands in mine and asked to hug her. Consent given, hug given, and warmly returned. Then we sat hand in hand on the cushions barely giving any notice to the cooling tea. Again, the sun shone brightly and I couldn't tell if we were getting flushed from the heat of the rays or the growing fervor in our hearts.

The sun was long down behind the inland hills when the reflection of the rising moon was glimmering on the river. It only seemed appropriate to go for a walk along the riverbank, but only after I asked for an encore of the "Moonlight Sonata." With a slight chuckle at the quaintness of the situation, she indulged my request.

After the mini-recital, she went to a hall closet, pulled on a gray woolen cape, and tucked a furry hand muff under her arm, just in case. Offering my right arm, she wound hers around it and snuggled in close. Though the night air felt a bit damp and nippy, I hardly noticed and if she did, she didn't say. All I noticed was how stunningly beautiful she looked awash in the cool, silvery light of the moon, two days shy of full. Her eyes seemed to generate more light than they could've possibly reflected.

The muff was pressed into service a little later, and she showed me how three hands could be fit inside while still walking. When we came across a fallen log about a hundred or so yards later, we took seats (fairly close, mind you) facing each other. That's when all four hands went into the muff. Now, normally we were becoming a chit-chatty couple, but as soon as we settled there on the log all talking ceased and we simply read each other's faces for what seemed like an hour.

Now the grandfather clock in the hallway has a big brother who resides in the Congregational Church. He announced 9:00, which caused us to decide it was time to stroll on back to the museum. Due to the chill, we made better time getting back than we did leaving. As much as we enjoyed the walk, the night air wasn't doing my cold an ounce of good.

After we doffed our outer clothes, I opened my arms toward her and she stepped into them, circling her arms around my waist. As enjoyable a moment as it was, a cup of hot cider with a stick of cinnamon sounded good, too. A more gracious hostess would be hard to find. Or an affectionate one for that matter, because as she heated the cups of cider in the microwave for thirty seconds or so, she took a deep breath and kissed me square on the lips for the duration. I wasn't expecting that and when we separated (barely) my head was dizzy. Never before (or since) had I felt anything like I did when we touched. Merely holding her hand was a soothing balm to my soul. Kissing her was even more powerful.

The cider disappeared and grandpa gonged away. I told her to shut her eyes and I made a fast escape knowing Friday night would last as long as we wished. This relationship was getting serious and I began to muse about longer-term ideas.

Friday

Promptly at four, we were together again. Her kiss "hello" can be described only as something akin to being wrapped up in a down comforter on a cold winter night. Soft, warm, and womb-like. We had our tea, sang more duets she dug out, and went for another walk.

The new element was that she was a little freer talking about her childhood and family. Like his forebears, her father was in the merchant marine and was at sea for the better part of her life. When he returned home, he always brought gifts from the exotic places he visited. This accounted for why she knew so much about the museum's artifacts from India, Indo-China, and South America. Similar items had been a natural part of her childhood. She adored her father, but lived mainly with an aloof mother and even colder uncle. Music was her life and refuge and was our true common interest.

I stayed until one in the morning, when I inadvertently fell asleep in the settee. She thought it was cute to watch me sleeping and when I mentioned that I'd like to see her sleeping, her eyes got real wide. Inhaling sharply, she put her hand over her mouth and turned beet red. I definitely caught her off guard with my remark as she was too flustered to answer. The silly grin on her face told me she wasn't overly appalled at the idea.

The worst part of her warm embraces was stepping into the brisk chill of the night air afterwards.

Saturday

The first part of the day had to be spent doing all the chores I neglected in favor of my nightly visits to the museum. With all the errands and jobs I needed to do, I couldn't have gotten over to see her before four o'clock as it was.

      After the requisite tea amidst the forest of Grape Ivies and Wandering Jews, we walked over to the Congregational Church because a friend of mine said his string quartet was rehearsing for the church service the next day. Not to interrupt the musicians, we quietly crept in the side door and sat underneath the balcony they were on. They were making a valiant try at one of Mozart's works, but in the end a later period Hayden quartet was the one worthy of performance. As my friend was coming down the stairs, she pulled on my hand and nodded to the door.

We made a hasty exit on the graveyard side of the church and she made a sudden turn toward the street.

"It'd be shorter to cut through," I said, pointing to the path leading through an older part of the cemetery.

"No, please no!" with curls flying as she shook her head. I swear she had the look of terror in her eyes. Now granted, being in a cemetery during a full moon might give even the most levelheaded person a touch of anxiety, but her strong reaction surprised me.

So we walked back towards the museum via a side street somewhat quickly as the night was turning bitterly cold. Again, with the moon so full, her eyes sparkled like brilliant stars. Her blonde curls took on a color that made them look like they were made of highly polished sterling silver.

"If Venus is the goddess of Beauty, then you are her very image," I whispered in her ear.

"Is this love?" she asked. I could tell she was serious and a little bit afraid of hearing my answer. Her bottom lip was pulled in real tight.

At this point, I knew we were still very much in the infatuation phase of a relationship, but that's where even the longest of loves begin. I squeezed the arm she had intertwined with mine saying, "Yes, very much so. We might have only taken the first steps on what I hope is a long journey, but we are definitely on our way."

"I can't tell you how much I needed to hear that," she sighed, "and I'm all too familiar with long journeys."

We passed by a day-care center where cutouts of preschool size hands were decorated to look like turkeys in the window.

"I remember doing that," she said.

"So do I," I added.

By now I had discovered her face reflected her internal emotions all too well. As we moved on, she started to look sad and before I could inquire she volunteered, "I'll never be able have any children."

"Adoption, perhaps?" I asked softly. All she did was shrug her shoulders. She didn't continue the conversation to explain why and I didn't feel at ease to press her further on the topic. When we got back to the museum, she taught me "Advanced Charades."

I tried to invite her over for Sunday dinner with my folks, but she declined. She thought that my bringing her home to meet the folks was implying we were about to run off and get married. (Mind you, that very idea had already crossed my mind.) So we agreed, at her insistence, to the four o'clock pattern.

Sunday

By now, of course, I found it odd that she wore exclusively "Victorian" outfits. These ranged from the formal gown she gave tours in, to the more informal eveningwear she changed into for my visits. She appeared to have taken on her role as a docent there so personally that she adopted the customs and manners of the time. For whatever reason it was, it befitted her character

Due to prior commitments, I had only a few hours to spend with her that evening causing us to forego the moonlight walk for one in the sunset. Besides, it was warmer in the sun. As the moonbeams colored her curly locks a bright silver, the setting sun turned them a warm, golden yellow.

Her petite size made her seem so fragile, but I already knew she was anything but. Not with the ease she moved the furniture around when she showed me some dance steps. Dainty as a daisy, graceful as a swan, strong as an ox. Someone, I imagined, who could have successfully enjoyed life as either a Boston socialite or a prairie pioneer. When I mentioned that to her, she blushed a bit and took it as a compliment.

As "Victorian" as she appeared, her affectionate nature was anything unlike what I imagined women of that era were like. Our embraces were firm, but not frenetic. Our kisses were of growing passion, but not of sloppy obscenity. She confided that our privacy afforded us just that, privacy, with the freedom to lavish affection as we wished. And she wished, often.

Another day had gone by. I suggested a trip to the mountains or to Maine's rocky shores. She quietly smiled. Grandpa struck seven and away I went, after a fashion.

Monday

I arrived at the museum about five 'til the hour and noticed the curator's car parked in the driveway. He'd been on a trip to New York during the past week and was just locking the door as I approached.

"Good Afternoon," I said.

"And Good Afternoon to you as well," came the reply.

"Where is that enchanting young lady you've had as a substitute this past week?" I inquired.

"Who? I've not hired anyone recently," as a perplexed look crossed his face.

As I explained (in brief) the events of the past week, his countenance changed from one of curiosity to one of down right seriousness. He unlocked the door, and bid me to come in while I recounted my recent visits to that very house. He ushered me to the front parlor where she and I shared our love of music together and waltzed to our hearts' content. There, standing on wooden easels, were three new paintings he had bought on his recent trip away. I couldn't see what they were of as he still had them in protective canvas wrappings.

The curator patiently listened to me and asked me for more details about her manner, age, and what she wore. At the time, I couldn't understand why he shook his head with such an astounded look on his face. When he had heard enough, he asked me to step over to one of the paintings and help him uncover it. Just when the wrap was about untied, he stepped back and directed me to finish the unveiling.

My pulse was going faster than I've ever remembered it going. My breathing had virtually stopped. This wasn't looking good, what with her absence and the curator's reaction. Tears were already heating up my eyes as I gently pulled the canvas away from the easel.

There she was. A faithful rendition of her in her blue dress, complete with beribboned curly locks, done vibrantly in oils. Attached to the bottom of the frame was a brass plate with her name and the dates 1880-1902. The three paintings were of the family members that had died that year during an epidemic of scarlet fever. I could only sit back in the settee with wet streams on my cheeks.

Later in the evening, the old man took me to the cemetery to see the family plot. Given my fantastic story, he felt a personal tour was in order. Wouldn't you know it, her headstone wasn't but twenty yards in the direction she asked that we not take through the cemetery. Utterly stunned, I went home and straight to bed.

Around two-ish, I felt her hand on my shoulder. Even before my swollen eyes opened, I knew it was her. I knew right from the beginning I could tell when she was in the same room, even without seeing her. She sat next to me in her plain white dress and red ribbons and stroked the sides of my face.

"I do like watching you sleep," she said after a long while had passed. I smiled, but didn't answer.

"I knew you were about to find out the truth, but I couldn't bring myself to tell you. I was afraid you wouldn't believe me. This is a rather different situation than most people expect to encounter in life." It was obvious she was a bit ashamed and embarrassed.

I nodded for her to go on. The only way I could find to reassure her I wasn't mad was to hold her hand close to my wet cheeks and kiss it tenderly.

"I only wanted to know what love on Earth was like. And you seemed to understand that, without really knowing just how long-term a relationship you were dealing with."

"This much I can tell you. I'm going to rest easier now, so live long, have a peaceful end, and remember, when your time comes, I'll be waiting for you."

I pulled up out of bed a bit and laid my head in her lap. She continued to stroke my hair and softly sang to me. When the sun roused me the next morning, I was still in the same position, though she was long gone.

Coda

Mom tells me I had a worse cold than usual that year. She also says I disappeared every night for hours at a time, despite her efforts to keep me at home. It wasn't until the Tuesday morning that I woke curled up sideways on the bed that I acted more myself again.

The curator knew where to find the blue dress, and velvet shoes as they were in the museum's attic. The white dress was eventually found in a trunk in the basement. At first he was going to put them on mannequins, but displayed them on hangers instead. The idea one of the mannequins could come to life gave him goose bumps. And he isn't the superstitious sort.

If I said I never saw her again, that wouldn't exactly be true. We haven't (to date) shared tea together again, but every so often, she walks with me along the river and later in the night she'll sit by my bedside. Her kisses to me, shall I say, are Heavenly?

November 10-17, 1996

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