“Here are my props,” Anita announced, bringing out a small
pen case and a folder when we’d finished our meal. “I’ll
start the story, and you can interrupt me when you’re ready for dessert.”
“When there’s cheesecake, I’m always ready for dessert,”
I announced. “But start your story anyway.”
Anita opened up the pen case and pulled out three fountain pens. She laid
them on the table. “These are the pens I was telling you about, the
ones Laurel came to through adversity.”
I raised my eyebrows and said nothing.
“This one,” Anita proclaimed, holding up along, fat pen with
marking on it that reminded me of a cow with a slight case of jaundice,
“is an oversize Balance in black and pearl. It’s slightly ebonized.
The pen belonged to Laurel’s grandfather, Nelson Halverson. This one,”
she continued, putting down the Balance and picking up something small as
a toy, “belonged to Laurel’s grandmother, Bella. It’s
a Conway Stewart Dinkie.” I snickered at the name, and she glared
at me reproachfully. “It came in a set with a mechanical pencil, but
the pencil is missing. And this,” she said, holding up a dark red
pen with stripes all around it, “is a burgundy pearl Vacumatic in
the standard size. It belonged to Bella’s friend Kristin who died
during the war.”
“Which war?”
“World War II. She served in the WAVES and was killed toward the end
of the war.”
I shook my head. “So how did Bella get the pen?”
“Kristin left it with her when she joined up. She said it wasn’t
the right pen to take out to the Pacific with her.”
“So?” I asked.
“So Laurel had no idea these pens still existed. When the Halversons
sold their house…”
“The house in which Laurel now lives,” I interrupted.”
Anita nodded and continued, “When they sold the house, the pens disappeared.
Laurel had a dim memory of them from her earliest childhood. Apparently
her grandmother used the Dinkie fountain pen on rare occasions, preferring
to write with the pencil. Laurel said that she had more vivid memories of
her grandfather writing with his Balance. The Vacumatic was kept behind
glass in a case. Apparently Bella only took it out on Kristin’s birthday
and on the anniversary of her death. Laurel told me that she had a dim memory
of her grandmother, Vacumatic in hand, staring out into space in a melancholy
way. I don’t know that Bella ever actually wrote with it. Of course,
the diaphragm was shot when Laurel found it.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Diaphragm?” I asked, perplexed.
“Yes,” Anita replied. “It’s the part of the filling
system that has to be replaced periodically.”
I shrugged again. “While you’re defining terms, would you explain
ebonized? Does that mean the color is like a jaundiced cow?”
Anita snorted. “Ebonized does refer to discoloration, Marian, but
must you make such ridiculous observations? Jaundiced cow indeed!”
I picked up the Balance and frowned at it. “Looks that way to me,
but do go on.”
She smiled. “With more details of pen terminology?”
I shook my head. “Anita! If you give me another lecture on fountain
pens, I’m going to throw the cheesecake at you!”
Anita chuckled. “You started it, but all right, I’ll refrain
if you refrain from sarcastic remarks.” She yawned. “Sorry,
I didn’t sleep much last night. Molly kept jumping on the bed and
attacking my feet.”
I laughed. “Maybe she needs her own bed.”
“She has her own bed. She sleeps in it during the day and stays awake
at night tormenting me, don’t you, Molly?” Anita said, leaning
over to scoop up the kitten gamboling around her feet. Molly flopped over
on her back and began to bat at Anita’s hand. “Oh, all right,
I’ll put you back on the floor.”
“In any case,” Anita took up her story again, “Laurel
had no idea the pens were in the house when she and Handsome bought it.”
Anita leaned back in her chair. “As you know, the house was moved
to its current site. But before that most of the furnishings were sold.
Laurel had asked Dennison to wait until she could get a good look at them
and see if she recognized any as having belonged to her grandparents, but
he refused. The only things he didn’t sell were a large oak desk and
a cedar chest, both of which he claimed he intended to have refinished.
They were stored in the attic of the house, and that is where Laurel found
them the day after she learned that Dennison planned to leave her for Paula.”
The pens were in the bottom drawer of the desk, and these letters,”
Anita said, placing her hand on a stained manila folder, were in the bottom
of the chest, under a pile of old blankets and comforters.”
“Obviously the letters meant something to her,” I observed,
“or else she wouldn’t have kept them.”
“They are Kristin’s letters to Bella,” Anita said, “most
of them written before Kristin went off to war and her untimely death. Laurel
was fascinated by the handwriting at first. It was ornamental, but, as she
told me, damned hard to read.”
Anita handed me a letter from the folder. The handwriting was elegant and
not at all hard to read, I thought. In it, Kristin advised Bella not to
marry Nelson because he was unreliable, whatever that meant. I handed the
letter back to Anita.
“Bossy, wasn’t she?” I said.
Anita smiled. “Well, she knew she didn’t want Bella to marry
Nelson. I’m not sure if that’s bossiness or conviction.”
I snorted. “Why not? Was she interested in him herself?”
Anita’s smile broadened into a grin. “Hardly. She wanted adventure,
exploration, and novelty. Not the usual trappings that come with marriage
and family. And Bella had promised to share a life of excitement with her.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “She and Bella planned
for a life of adventure and then she advises Bella not to marry the guy
because he’s not reliable? Doesn’t that seem dissonant to you?
Reliability is not exactly a word I’d pair with adventure.”
Anita smirked. “I don’t think an adventurous marriage is what
Kristin had in mind for her best friend and fellow conspirator against the
limitations of the female role of the time. Bella was in love, however,
and didn’t really care if Nelson was reliable or not.”
“Well, was he?” I interjected.
Anita shrugged. “Until he went into the service he seems to have been
a reliable enough husband. He left Bella pregnant with the baby that grew
up to be Laurel’s mother and went off to occupy Japan where he got
himself a second wife and had a son with her. When the American occupation
of Japan ended, he came back home and never said a word to Bella.”
“So how did she find out?” I asked.
“Oh, the boy came looking for him many years later.”
I raised my eyebrows. “And?”
“And Nelson sent him back to his mother in Japan with money and gifts
for both of them. From time to time he sent mother and child packages and
cash payments on the condition that neither of them ever seek him out here.”
I shuddered. “Well, I don’t think I’d call that reliable.
I’d call it mean.”
“What would you have wanted him to do, Marian?” Anita replied.
“Live out the rest of his life as a bigamist?”
I looked at her sharply to see if she was mocking me, but her expression
was quite serious.
“I didn’t say that,” I said.
Anita made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “No, you didn’t.
I think though that, given the time and the options available to him, he
did the best he could.”
“You knew Nelson?” I asked.
Anita shook her head. “No, but I met Bella a few times before she
became completely reclusive.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“You didn’t like her?”
“Not particularly. Laurel’s mother Alice married at seventeen
to get away from her. That was not a particularly fortunate marriage.”
“So you think Kristin was right?” I persisted. “Bella
should not have married Nelson?”
Anita shook her head. “That’s not for me to know,” she
replied. “They were happy enough in their way.”
“Except for the existence of the other wife,” I added.
“Bella minded and didn’t mind, “Anita said. “It
gave her something to hold over his head.”
I sighed. “How do you know so much about what happened in this town?”
I demanded, finding the story depressing and wanting to change the topic.
Anita shrugged. “I just do.”
I was about to ask her exactly, which of the fountain pens Laurel used when
Diva came hurtling into the room with Molly at her heels. The kittens began
rolling around on the floor, biting at each other’s paws. I observed
the pile of fluff that they presented to my eye with great enjoyment until
Diva suddenly broke loose and attacked my leg.
“Ow!” I grumbled, leaning over to detach kitten from skin, “that
hurts.” I picked her up and held her in the air, as she meowed in
protest.
“All right! All right!” I said, depositing her on my lap. “See,
I’ve put you down.”
She began to explore the edge table with her nose and before I knew it,
her front paws were heading towards the jaundiced cow pen that still lay
before me.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” I warned, picking up the pen and handing
it to Anita. “Pens are not for you to play with.”
“I can tell that you and Diva will have to work out the power dynamics
in your household, Marian,” she observed, laughing as she took the
pen from my hand. “I’ll bet the cat comes out on top.”
“Don’t be absurd, Anita! I’m not about to be dominated
by a cat.”
She laughed. “Famous last words.”
Diva returned to the floor and began to chase Molly as Molly chased hers.
“Where were we?” I asked.
“We were about to have cheesecake and coffee,” Anita replied.
“Assuming, that is, that you’re satisfied I’ve told you
the story you wanted to hear.”
“Well, it really wasn’t all that much of a story,” I replied
superciliously, I fear, “but it will have to do, I suppose.”
“I’m quite sure Laurel herself could have told it better,”
Anita said, as she stood up, “but then you’d have had to wait
a lot longer to hear it. Now tell me, do you want coffee or tea?”
“Coffee, please! And a large slice of cheesecake.”
After dessert Anita let me try out a number of vintage pens she had recently
obtained. I’d hoped she’d let me try Laurel’s pens, especially
the jaundiced cow Balance, but she didn’t. She had a much prettier
one with gray stripes that she called a senior Balance. For a moment I misheard
and thought she was calling it Mr. Balance in Spanish or Italian, which
misperception led to a great deal of hilarity on her part.
“You know, Marian,” she said, “I’d have expected
you to be most attracted by the Vacumatic. I’m surprised it’s
the Balance that is getting most of your attention.”
I smirked at her and resisted the obvious remark about my being well balanced.
“The whatchamacallit,” I said, pointing to the burgundy-colored
pen, “really is very pretty, but you don’t see a pen like that
Balance everyday.”
“That’s true,” Anita acknowledged, “but neither
does one see burgundy pearl Vacumatics everyday.”
“Really?”
“Really!”
I shrugged. “Do you have one?”
Anita chuckled. “An oversized one, not a standard.”
“May I see it?”
“Why? It looks very much like the one I just showed you, only larger.”
I insisted and she complied. She was right, of course. The pens did resemble
each other, but I liked the larger one better and told her so. Anita laughed.
“It is in very good condition,” she said, admiring her pen.
“Look, you can see right through the barrel.”
“Good transparency,” I mumbled, and she looked at me in surprise.
“Now where did you learn that?”
I chuckled. “Me to know…”
Anita shook her head. You never cease to surprise me, Marian. How about
another slice of cheesecake?”
Anita was kind enough to lend me a wicker basket for the transportation
of Diva, who otherwise would have gotten underfoot in the car. “How
did Laurel get her here?” I wondered aloud, struggling to load the
squirming kitten into the basket while Anita held the top at the ready.
“Oh, she had one of those plastic carriers,” Anita explained.
“She said it wasn’t hard at all.” Anita grinned. “She
had a few visible scratches on her arm though.”
Finally Diva was secured in her basket, and I headed out the door. “If
she starts meowing on the way home,” Anita suggested facetiously,
“just find a radio station that plays opera and drown her out.”
As if there were a radio station that played opera! I grunted, “Very
funny!” and loaded the basket onto the back seat of my car.
The drive home was noisy. Diva didn’t meow, she screeched as if
she were being tortured. When I finally got home and released her, she
turned and bit my hand, then disappeared under the sofa. I left her there,
hoping she wouldn’t do too much damage, and went down into the basement
to find the litter box and leftover cat litter I’d stowed away after
my last cat had died five years earlier.
When I returned to the first floor, Diva was in the kitchen, trying to
climb into the garbage can. I didn’t have any cat food for her,
so I opened a can of tuna and put a little on a flat dish. She looked
at me and purred loudly, then came over and wound herself around my leg.
Only after that did she go over to the dish and enjoy her meal. Then she
returned to the living room, curled up on the sofa, and proceeded to clean
her face with great thoroughness.
I sat down next to her, too awake to sleep and too restless to read. Once
she’d finished her grooming, Diva crawled up onto my lap and began
to knead the lightweight afghan I’d thrown over myself for protection
against the chilly nighttime air.
“Well, Diva,” I said, “we now know how Laurel came to
find and use fountain pens. Aren’t you delighted?”
The kitten just kept on kneading and purring until it was finally time
for me to go to bed.
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