Songs without Words (11 page)

“How’s Roxie doing?” Joyce asked.

“Okay, I think. I worry about the boys, though. They’re so young to lose their father.”

“Yes, it’s still such a shock.”

“Well, this outing should cheer her up,” Harper said. “It’s always so much fun.”

“I’ll see you Saturday, then.”

As soon as Harper hung up, her phone rang. It was her mother.

“Hi, Mom. How are you?”

“We’re having a family crisis here.”

“Oh? What’s up?”

“Sarah has run away from home.”

“Oh, no! When?”

“Yesterday.” Harper listened as her mother recounted the events of the last twenty-four hours, during which Sarah and her parents had fought about her latest transgression, a nose piercing. Sarah had filled her backpack with clothes and stormed out. They’d checked the places they knew to check. They’d asked her friends for help. And now they had called in the police.

Listening to these details, Harper had trouble relating them to her niece who was, in her mind, a smart, innocent little girl with fanciful dreams and a powerful thirst for knowledge. Two years ago when Sarah was fourteen, Harper had promised her a visit to California, a prospect that had thrilled the girl, whipping her into a frenzy of fantasy. The visit had never actually come to pass. Sarah had reminded Harper a couple of times, and Harper had intended to follow through, but she hadn’t. She felt a little guilty about that.

“I just pray that she’s safe,” Alice said, “and hasn’t been picked up by some lunatic.”

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Harper said.“She’ll be fine. She’ll come back in a couple of days. She’s got a hideout, probably. Some friend is hiding her.”

“I hope so,” Alice replied, then laughed. “Remember the day you ran away, Harper? You got as far as the doghouse. You moved in with the dog.”

“Yes, I remember,” Harper said, recalling an afternoon spent cramped inside the wooden doghouse waiting for someone to notice that she’d disappeared, her dog Corky lying in front of the doorway because there was only room inside for one of them. After three hours, she’d given up and wandered back into the house, demanding to know why nobody had noticed her absence. She could have been murdered, hacked to pieces and buried already.

“But you were a lot younger than Sarah,” Alice said, serious again. “Running away at her age isn’t a joke.”

Although Harper was worried too, she didn’t want to amplify her mother’s fears, so she said, simply, “Call me when she turns up.”

After saying goodbye to her mother, Harper called Wilona to discuss their plans for next week’s trip.

“I finally managed to get a message to Carmen Silva,” Harper said, “telling her that we’d be there on Tuesday. She has no telephone. I get the impression that she lives very simply.”

“This is where again?” Wilona asked.

“Somewhere up by Downieville, fairly remote. It’s about a hundred miles from your place.”

“So two hours to get there. I’ll pack us some snacks. When can I expect you?”

“Monday around four or five.”

The last time Harper had seen Wilona was nearly two years ago, over Christmas break, when she had filmed her for her third documentary. The one they were about to film of Carmen Silva would be the fifth, but it was the first one for which Harper would have a professional photographer. Six was the right number to build a series around, she thought. She had earlier considered doing nine because of her private idea that these artists were her muses, but six would be better. At Chelsea’s suggestion, Harper had her eye out for a musician to round out the sextet. She could already imagine how the series would start, with square portrait-like stills of the artists tumbling across the screen in apparently random order while some lively music played, something like a Chopin violin concerto.

As she made her calls, her eyes returned often to the yellow sticky note beside the phone, the one on which she’d written Chelsea’s number six days ago. Since then, she had hovered near it on several occasions, trying to decide what to do. It was hard not to want to see Chelsea, even if it hurt. The last time they’d talked, last summer, Chelsea had told her that they couldn’t see one another again.
What happened to change her mind?
Harper wondered. Then she recalled the stranger who had occupied Chelsea’s seat at the symphony.

If Chelsea and Mary had broken up again, if Chelsea wanted to resume their romance, if Harper could consent, how long would they have before Mary called Chelsea back? And how could Harper bear to lose her a second time? Chelsea hadn’t even debated it two years ago. It was a foregone conclusion—if Mary wanted her back, she would go.

Another summer in Chelsea’s arms could be worth a great deal, if Harper’s heart could take it. But she had resolved to move on. And so she had orbited around that yellow note for a week, pondering it but doing nothing. Today, again, she turned away from it and moved on.

Sorting through the mail, Harper was happy to see a letter from her old friend Sister Josephina from Oaxaca. She and Sister Jo had corresponded sporadically, about twice a year, for the last thirteen years. She settled into her living room chair to read. The letter was long and satisfying, bringing to life the daily world of the small village and its inhabitants. Sister Jo described the activities of the school in fine detail, knowing how interested Harper was in it. She reported too on locals that Harper had met and would remember, like Jose Mendez, the crazy pig farmer, and Dr. Cuevas, and of course, Father Gabriel. She turned the final page over as Sister Jo continued the news of Father Gabriel.

He’s not been feeling too well. I don’t think he will ever retire, but the good Lord is going to take him anyway one of these days. He has a bit of the shaking palsy. It’s not called that now, I know, but that’s all I can think of. I have to say that my own brain isn’t as reliable as it once was. But that doesn’t slow me down much. I’m still doing the same as always. Lots of work just to keep up the church and the garden, but I have no complaints. I get along okay. I got a new box of really fine cigars from Colombia the other day and so of course I smoked one right away on the eastern balcony just like we did when you were here. So, you see, things haven’t changed that much for us. You would still recognize the place, that’s for sure! Poor Sailor has finally given up the ghost. The last thing that old bird said was “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” And then he was gone. Never be another one like him. It’s a lot quieter without him around.

We received the books and music you sent. Much appreciated, as always. If you are moved to do the same again in the future, I have a couple of requests for Dean Martin. Okay, I admit it. That’s for me. When I was a child, my mother used to play Dean Martin records hour after hour. For several years after I left home, I couldn’t stand the sound of him, but things have a way of getting under your skin and into your heart. It’s a small, forgivable indulgence, don’t you think? God bless you, Harper, you’ve been a good friend to us all these years. I hope you’ll come visit us again someday. I know this is no resort, but you seemed to like it here.

Love and peace to you always,

Sister Jo

Harper folded the pages back into the envelope and smiled, picturing Sister Josephina with her feet propped up on the railing of the balcony, blowing cigar smoke into the still evening air. She should go back to visit some day. It would be nice to see the place back on its feet.

For the rest of the day, she worked at the tedium of life— balancing her checkbook, tossing junk mail, making, eating and cleaning up after dinner, taking out the trash—all with a persistent unease. The calendar on the pantry wall revealed a rush of appointments for the end of June. A full calendar. A full life?

She noted the fortune cookie fortune she had taped on June

29. “Do not shut the door to your heart when true love comes knocking.” The only person knocking on her heart right now was Chelsea. She dialed her voice mail and listened to the week-old message again. Chelsea sounded unsure of herself, unsure of how Harper would respond to her request. Understandable. Her voice brought to mind her face. Her face brought to mind her mouth. Harper felt herself caving in.

Chapter 9

SUMMER, SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

Harper’s twenty-third birthday party was shared with Neil’s baby daughter Sarah, who was turning one. The party was held on the day between the two official birth dates. Harper spent her actual birthday fishing with her father, just the two of them, a peaceful, satisfying day. The next day, Neil and family descended on the household, bringing ice cream, toys and laughter into it. Sarah was a darling, happy child who, understandably, stole the day, her big shining eyes moving rapidly from cake to grandparents to the presents that they lavished on her.

Harper was content because she had secured the approval of her father by successfully completing her master’s degree. That’s the milestone she was celebrating.

“Excellent work,” he told her. “We never had any doubt, of course. Any idea where you go from here, then?”

“Yes,” she told him. “I’ve got a job at Morrison University, starting in September. It’s a small liberal arts college.”

“In California?”

“Yes. Not far from where I am now. It’s a good job. Full-time position in the university library.”

He nodded approvingly and squeezed her tight. “That’s my girl. Although we thought you might come back here after college. You know we’d love to have you back. I could put a word in for you. I don’t see why you couldn’t get on here.”

“Morrison is a good school,” she said.

He looked at her for a moment, smiling calmly. “Well, then, congratulations,” he said. “I’m proud of you, Harper, I hope you know that. Doing it all on your own like you did, that’s impressive. It wasn’t necessary, but it is impressive.”

This sentiment was more important to Harper than practically anything else she could have wished for. The pressure was finally off. She might not have garnered the accolades of her older brother, but she had done okay, good enough. And now it was finished. She was done with studying and ready to get on with her life, with her real life. To travel and have adventures. To make herself into a colorful, enigmatic character, someone who might surprise you at any moment with her derring-do. To lead a life so full of interesting activities that she would never be bored, nor would anyone around her. She wasn’t sure, however, how to obtain that kind of life.

It was for that reason that Harper borrowed her mother’s car the day after the birthday celebration and took off for Connecticut and a scheduled appointment with Hilda Perry. The postcard she’d received a month ago was on the seat next to her, its contents memorized.

“I’ll be happy to meet with you, Harper,” Hilda had written. “We can have tea.”

The invitation was the result of a long, flattering letter to Hilda and a follow-up phone call which, Harper assumed, was to find out if she was a lunatic or just a harmless admirer. On the passenger seat beside her sat a canvas bag stuffed with books that she hoped to have autographed. For the last twenty years, Hilda Perry had lived in a small cottage on the Atlantic Coast, giving almost no interviews and producing no new material. She was eighty-one now, a celebrated author who could afford to rest on her laurels.

Harper found the cottage without difficulty and parked in front of it.As she stepped out of the car and shouldered her bag of books, she felt that she was touching down on hallowed ground. Hilda Perry was legendary. Harper had read every one of her books, as well as several biographies. The woman’s life was as entertaining and inspirational as her writing, a splendid example of how to live like an artist, creatively and passionately.

She rang the bell, noticing a faint smell of the sea. The ocean was out of sight, still a couple of miles away. When the door opened, she recognized, from decades-old photos in the books, the features of a younger Hilda Perry in the tiny, stooped old woman standing there. Her hair was pure white, wispy and boldly disarrayed. Blue veins displayed themselves in the pale, thin skin of her arms and temples. She narrowed her eyes, peering intently at her visitor.