Levon Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
“You can lose your way groping among the shadows of the past.”
— Louis-Ferdinand Céline
Day after day, the routine remained the same. School from 7:30–2, football practice from 2–5, Levon’s from 5:30–7, sometimes 8, then home for a late dinner, off to bed to do it all again the next day. Weekends brought an overwhelming depression that caused me to never leave my room. Some weekends I drank with the few friends I was able to collect over the year. The other option was going to Levon’s. Sometimes I thought it was because I enjoyed his company, sometimes it was because it felt like I was helping the old man, sometimes I felt bad about his loneliness, sometimes I was thinking about my loneliness. Either way, in the end, regardless of why it happened, we hung out quite a bit on the weekends. Levon was a different man on the weekends. The sensitive, moody, drill sergeant was gone, and a Jimmy Buffet clone was suddenly before me. It was crazy the difference between Monday Levon and Saturday evening Levon.
No writing happened on the weekends. Levon always said, “You must never work when you can play.” However, he considered every minute of the 5-day work week time when you should be working. He killed himself slaving over whatever it is he slaved over. There was never a single time I went over Levon’s on the weekend when he wasn’t already out on the porch, with drink in hand. There were Saturday mornings I showed up at 7 or 6 am and that son-of-a-bitch was out there, whiskey in hand. I eventually gave up trying to beat him. He lived for the weekend. There is a saying that you shouldn’t just live for Friday. If you ever told Levon this he would drink a bottle of whiskey without moving the bottle from his lips, only taking it away it to promptly smash the bottle over your head. Not that I ever saw him do this, I just assumed he would. I couldn’t imagine a statement getting him more irritated.
There was one Saturday during that first year when it was so putridly hot there was no way anyone was going to stay out in the cauldron of an earth. It was like standing in the devil’s ball sack. There was no way anyone could survive in that heat. It was a heat that melted ice cubes before you could bring them to your mouth. Levon sweat in the winter so this was stroke worthy weather for him. But sure enough, that day I showed up and Levon had his feet in two pots of ice water, with an umbrella hat equipped with a fan and water mister. He looked like a mix of Bill Murray in Caddy Shack with Bill Murray from Space Jam. He had on a bright red bathing suit that was easily 30 years old, now faded to burnt orange and 3 sizes too small. Gazing through his faded Wayfarer’s he said, “Soon you will be bitching that it’s too cold outside. Go grab a bucket.”
And like so many times before I obeyed without question.
On my way out the door I grabbed Thomas Wolfe’s, Look Homeward Angel. The two of us sat on the porch overlooking the corner of the marsh. Off in the distance you could see the lobster boats coming in and out of the harbor as the sun rose in the East. We didn’t say much to each other having over time become comfortable in each other’s presence. The book was, as usual, littered with Levon’s blue pen marks, underlines and annotations. Levon was reading Journey to The End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Celine. Whenever I was with Levon, things happened for a reason. It was as if serendipitous moments followed the man everywhere, he went. I was convinced I chose this book for a reason today, I met him for a reason and the marks in his books were for my eyes and no one else’s. It happened so often that I began to expect moments of revelation and inspiration whenever sitting with Levon. I wonder if anyone else felt that way around him?
I read in the blistering heat, soon forgetting the temperature and becoming lost in Wolfe’s mind.
She was buried in his flesh. She throbbed in the beat of his pulses. She was wine in his blood, music in his heart.
This was underlined, with an arrow that pointed to, “I’m sorry Phia, I still feel you, though, I lost the sound of music.”
Who was Phia? What type of name was Phia? Was it short for something? It was the first time I ever read or saw the name.
This was one of those moments when you unconsciously decide to solve a problem. If you didn’t solve the problem it followed you for the rest of your life like the comment you heard online at Walmart that sunk into your brain, never letting go of its grip on your sanity. When you heard the statement, you turned around to find the old lady who said, “My stockings are the reason I had 3 children.” Just when it sinks into your brain and you process the idiocracy of the statement and you go to ask what the hell she meant, she vanished, vanquished. You wonder was it even real? No one could say such a stupid thing. But you will never know for sure and all you can do for the next 72 hours of your life is ponder and think to yourself, what the fuck did that mean? Anyway, I digress…
I had never seen another reference to a Phia in any other annotations. Levon’s annotations were usually underlines of descriptions, circling of 10-dollar words, usually so he remembered to never use such ostentatious terms. Levon believed using such words was a disservice to all readers. Books should be accessible to everyone. He agreed, some books are meant for people with higher intelligence; however, he once said “large, 10-dollar words, such as the ones Faulkner litters in his writing turn people off.” Rarely did he actually write words in his annotations. He later told me this was out of respect, because he was already breaking literature decorum by marking books and dog-earing pages.
But now my curiosity was perked. Behind every great man is a tragedy. Was Phia his tragedy? This could be a death, or the losing of a loved one, an accident, anything… But no man leaves life unscathed. Some scars are visible, some are hidden. The fact I knew so little about this man after a year, I needed to find out the story of Phia even if it was just an old high school love. I was determined to break down the walls of Levon. To this point I didn’t even know Levon’s first name.
I looked up at Levon sitting above me like a king in a thrown, humming to himself. I was nervous he would remember what he wrote in the book. Despite my good-hearted intentions and innocently stumbling on the annotation, I knew Levon would be pissed I saw a piece of his past.
I quickly took out my phone and snapped a picture of the page with the quote, to use as a possible reference. My mind was swimming with possible love stories, scenarios about Phia and Levon. I was getting that spine-tingling feeling that I needed to write. The creative juices were bubbling at my very core. I had an epic love story of Levon traveling in Italy and falling in love with a Phia, only to be forced apart by an angry dad who loathed the thought that his perfect daughter would fall for a ruffian, aspiring author who never showed anyone his work. Boom…there was my Pulitzer and I wasn’t even 18 yet. The images of grandeur flooded my brain, the parade, the praises, the underwear that would be thrown at me. All of the sapiosexuals unloading their every fantasy and desire onto me.
As I took the picture, a blue Dodge Caravan pulled down the driveway. Never having seen the car before, I tapped Levon’s elbow to alert him of the possible intruder. He did not look up. The van stopped, but no one got out for about 5-minutes. Then an elderly woman climbed out of the driver seat, maneuvering her way to the side door where she unloaded spades, shovels, loppers, lavender, hydrangeas, lilies, and mulch. She did not look familiar. (One universal truth about women…they all take forever to get out of a car. Why? No one will ever know). She was not a neighbor and had a hint of Spanish that led me to believe she was not related to Levon. Was it Phia? Did she show up now as I just read that line? The universe could not be so serendipitous.
The sweat was pouring down my face like I was standing in a shower, but a hot, salty shower. Despite my pit stains reaching my waistline, my only focus was on the first person I ever saw visit Levon. She was a tall woman, wearing stained khaki clam diggers, royal blue crocs, a green floral blouse unbuttoned a tad low for an older lady. From first glance she appeared to be roughly Levon’s age, maybe older. She walked gracefully from the driveway to the garden, not even acknowledging the two males on the porch, and Levon did not budge, still entrenched in his book, which he already read multiple times.
Finally, I received an answer to some of my many questions about Levon. How the hell did his garden and yard stay so meticulous? The woman went straight to work. It was a garden worthy of Versailles. She had the skill of a surgeon. She was a botanical surgeon. I wondered how I never saw her before today. She quickly went ever to the hostas and began digging out the roots. I knew this plant because my mother always referred to them as the “devil plant.” Our yard had a row of hostas when we moved in. My mother and I spent an entire weekend trying to dig them up, but the root system was so deep it was like digging up a casket.
Levon still did not move, so I decided to take my feet out of the water buckets and go over to the woman and see if she needed help. Despite being an ass hole self-righteous teenager, I still believed in chivalry. When I saw her embarking on this task, I knew she would need help.
I put the book down and strolled off the porch back into the heat. Before my right foot stepped off the pathway, the woman turned and saw me.
“Don’t you come over here empty-handed Jake.” she said, startling me. She had a thick Spanish accent.
“How do you know my…” She cut me off in Levon fashion.
“I know all about you Jake. Bring that shovel over here.”
“I hope you heard all good things.”
“That depends on your definition of good.”
Is she the Spanish female version of Levon?
I skipped over the blazing walkway to the car and grabbed an extra shovel. It had a short handle. It was a shovel you used to dig up small plants. I knew it was going to be insufficient.
Without any direction I jogged over to the old lady standing next to the hostas and went to work. She quickly realized I knew what she was doing and instead of dictating to me, she started working herself. At first there was no dialogue as the sun hammered the back of our necks and sweat showered off our brows. Neither of us put suntan lotion on, classic mistake. (The only other spot you always forget is the back of your knees and the tops of your feet).
We moved in synchrony around the large leafy bushes. She began yapping, without prompt. Most people above the age of 50 always have something to say. You would think they are talked out by that advanced age, but anyone who has been caught on the phone with grandma around a holiday, knows I speak the truth. She told me her name was Evelyn Lopez, mother of 5 children. She had twin boys 30 years old, two daughters 32 and 33 and another son 27 years old. She openly claimed he was a mistake. Evelyn said, “we didn’t have birth control, we had rhythm.” Obviously, that rhythm was not as effective as birth control. Evelyn moved to the States from Columbia when she was 17, learning English through random odd jobs she was able to pick up. Her story was like many you see on Dateline specials and Oprah. She was the American dream working her way up, supporting her family through her natural ability and skills passed down to her from generations to generation. Evelyn, who went by Evie, said she was about 10 years older than Levon and has been doing his yard and garden for 36 years, since he moved into the area. However, she’d known Levon much longer. She did not tell her story chronologically, instead skipping around giving bits and pieces from childhood to present day. Her mind was quick despite her body being old. It became tiresome attempting to follow the skipping allegories while battling the heat and the devil plant at the same time. If I didn’t chime in soon, I knew I was going to drop right into the cedar mulch.
“Evie, slow down a little. First off, how the heck do you know so much about me and what do you know?”
“Levon of course.” she said forgetting to mention what she knows. Or at least neglecting to mention… a way out of lying…solid tactic…
“But I have never seen you here.”
“Just because you have never seen me doesn’t mean I was never here.”
“True, but that doesn’t answer when you come to work on the garden. I have been here many other Saturdays and you weren’t here.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“When do you come to garden?”
“When the yard needs work.”
“This yard is always spotless.”
“See, I come at the right times.”
She was quick for a woman speaking in a second language.
“So, what has Levon told you?”
“A lot.”
“Couldn’t be more descriptive?”
“He said you remind him of him.”
“I hope not.”
“Don’t you dare say that child.”
“I am not a child.”
“Don’t be so sensitive… Levon would have reacted the same way,” she mumbled under her breath.
“If you have known Levon for over 30 years you must know all about him.”
“I know more than you know.”
“I am sure, I know nothing.”
“I know you know nothing…that is how Levon works.”
“Evelyn…”
“Don’t use my formal name.”
“Come on Evie, tell me something, I am dying here. You know all about me and I know about you now, how come Levon gets a pass?”
“It’s not my place.”
“Can you at least tell me how you met him?”
“We knew each other in graduate school, in the city.”
“What city? Wait you have a masters?”
“You can’t learn everything about a person in a lifetime,
what makes you think in 15 minutes of gardening with someone you would know all about me?”
“I can see why you two get along.”
“We hated each other.”
“Past tense?…though you still do his gardening.”
“Look at the man…how can I not come over? A garden is good for your soul. It’s the least I can do for him. His soul needs all the help it can get, to keep it at rest.”
“You are a better person than me.”
“You still have many years to learn the person you are.”
“Why here?” I shot in changing the subject.
“Excuse me?”
“How did you both end up here in Branford?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Do you know how long it is going to take to transplant these devil bushes?”
“Devil bushes?”
“It is what my mother calls them.”
“Mother?….that’s pretty formal.”
“Formality is a way of life in my house of facades.”
“Levon was right.”
“About?…What did he tell you!?”
“Do you want to help or not?”
It was obvious I was not getting anything out of her, but she intrigued me the same way Levon intrigued me. They both had this dialogue, like an Aaron Sorkin film, it was fast, faster than fast, your brain needed all of its capacity to fire back at them. I had so many other questions, but they remained unanswered. I wanted to ask, but the defenses these two people shared were like the walls of Troy and I needed to find my Trojan horse. (I apologize for the cliché).
We continued to work into the late hours of the day. Levon never got up from his chair other than to pee and make nachos…a personal favorite of his. He only used Santitas tortilla chips with Sargento shredded sharp cheddar cheese and splash of Frank’s Hot Sauce. Place on high in the microwave for 30 seconds. It was a “28 Lotus Lane Special” as Levon referred to it. The simple snack was like his whiskey, a home base for the lonely man.
The old man never came over to visit us for most of the day. Just as the sun was disappearing over the pine trees across the street giving the blue backdrop of the ocean a violet glow, Levon appeared behind Evelyn and I with two glasses of whiskey. Most would expect lemonade, water, maybe some pigs in a blanket or bruschetta. No, Levon had one thing and one thing only to serve…whiskey. We each picked up our glass and tipped towards the center of our triumvirate, and without hesitation Levon said, “To the crazy for they make the rest sane. To the liquid sunshine,[1] may it burn on the way down.”
I watched Levon and Evelyn ferociously shoot their drinks back not letting the brown liquid grace their mouths, going straight down their throats. I was surprised by Evie taking the drink for a lack of better terms, “like a man,” despite the fact the best drinkers I know are women. At the time, I never saw a woman drink like Evelyn. Levon walked away with a little more pep in his strut. Evie and I went back to work, trying to transplant the devil hostas. The sun was still molten lava hot but was slowly starting to set. About 30 minutes later, Levon came with another shot. I tried to take it like the two vets but failed, pouring a good portion of the liquid gold down my face. Taking a shot is an acquired skill and I was an underage rookie. After a third shot I could tell Evie was starting to loosen up. Her accent was thicker as she lost focus on her speech. I gave up trying to pry more into Levon’s past. I figured I would have my time and place for such inquiries. However, she began to tell me all she knew about the plants in the yard, and even a little bit about what Levon told her of me. She said, Levon told her a couple months ago he had been teaching a kid who moved into 16 Lotus Lane about writing. She said, I was the first person in 15 years, other than her, to go in the house. I said very little. A lot of subtle chuckles and well timed, “you don’t say,” “That’s so interesting,” “How do you feel about that?” I came to learn it doesn’t matter who you are talking to, or what about, but there are a few little tricks in all conversations that can be lifesavers.
By the time the last hosta was moved from the cedar mulch and transplanted across the road into the woods, the sun was gone over the pine trees across the driveway. Evelyn and I were soaked from our toes to our nose in sweat. We were also about seven or eight shots in, I lost track after 5, between the gardening and Evelyn’s consistent stories. Levon was still sipping his drink on the porch completely unfazed. In hindsight it’s extremely odd for a 17-year-old boy to be drinking with an old man and his elderly Colombian gardener, but at the time, it was what it was.
“So, I see you guys hit it off,” Levon yelled from the porch, even though it was only 30 feet away.
“You should be nicer to him,” Evelyn shouted back. Again, I still didn’t understand why they were shouting. I would come to find out this was how they communicated. They constantly yelled like middle school children on the playground.
“I am always nice, what the hell did you tell her Jake?”
“I didn’t say anything… Evelyn…”
“Calm down Jake, I am joking,” she said to me, walking towards the house. “You never mentioned he is as sensitive as a chick!”
“Don’t compare people to your insensitive self, Hitler, Stalin and Columbus had more sensitivity in their fingernails than you have in your entire body Evie,” Levon shot back.
“Don’t be a dick.”
“I was born an ass hole Evie, I haven’t been working at it.”
I stood in amazement and watched the exchange of banter. It felt like I was watching Animal Planet exploring some newly discovered species. My only experience with the elderly was visiting my two grandmothers in their nursing homes. Both of my grandfathers were dead by the time I was born. Both died from heart problems. My mother’s father had a massive heart attack at 73 and my dad’s father, Papa, passed away during a valve transplant. Apparently, the pig heart didn’t agree with his body. I just think they got tired of living and left the rest up to us. But Evie and Levon bickered like brother and sister, if she wasn’t Columbian, I would have bet money they were brother and sister.
Were they lovers? Inappropriate again…I was missing a plethora of puzzle pieces in order to complete the jigsaw. Between the note to Phia, and a chance meeting with the self-proclaimed master of the garden, my mind spun in circles as to what the missing pieces could possibly be. So far, I knew they met at grad school in the city. Levon moved to Branford 36 years ago. Evie has 5 kids, all of whom were older than 27, one of which was a mistake, nothing about her babies’ padre. I knew nothing of why Evie gardened for Levon, why he is in Branford, why she is in Branford, nothing about Levon’s family, or where he used to live, if he had kids or not, nothing about Phia… It was like watching a TV show that never tied up the loose ends and only leaves you with more questions, but the show is so well done and entertaining you come back each week to watch a new episode, only leaving you with more questions as you curse at the television yelling, “What the fuck is going on?”
When I was about to tell Levon that I was heading home for dinner, he looked at me like a red headed step child, and said, “Come on man, how are you going to leave Evie like that, I just ordered some food to thank you guys for your work.”
“You ordered food? You never order food Levon.”
“I gotta pay the bitch somehow.”
“That’s how you lose the last piece of chicken you ass,” Evie shot back at Levon.
“I don’t have a choice in the matter, do I?” I asked.
“Nope.” He ushered towards the door.
The three of us went in and Levon opened a bottle of wine. It was the first time I saw him drink anything other than whiskey, water and coffee. We all walked into the library, unconsciously knowing there was no other room to go into, no other room we were allowed to venture. I never saw Levon in the dining room or the family room. It was either kitchen or library.
His personality shifted with Evie there. The Gestapo, Trunchbull, and crotchety old man I have grown accustomed to shed his hard exterior. He was cracking jokes, smiling and leaning back in his chair. Levon was usually so wound up he sat up straight clutching his body at all times. It made him look smaller than his 5,5” stature already did. One of the many masks I would learn Levon wore, shed away in the cool Saturday evening air. I forgot about all my questions and loose ends. The moment was overwhelmingly enjoyable. It was my first family dinner. Levon was getting much drunker than the rest of us because he hadn’t put a drink down since the sun rose. He began these epic rants. They were personal soliloquies, external monologues, or manifestos. Alcohol amplified Levon’s personality. He usually preached when he spoke, but when he was drunk, he transformed into a literary, life philosophizing, Das Fuhrer. He wasn’t speaking with us, just at us. He wasn’t being rude, but he was not looking for a response. Evie and I sat there and soaked it in. If you are too sensitive it could definitely rub you the wrong way, but to me, it was intoxicating. He demanded attention and you couldn’t look away, hanging on every word. I am sure Evie has dealt with this more than I. Later in life I learned that much of his long rants was him combining original thought with that of his favorite authors. He never shared his verbal plagiarism, but as my own book collection grew and the more I read, many obscure lines from the most random books sounded familiar.
“You have to love alcohol; it makes the world more beautiful, like seeing it through rose colored glasses.[2]It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you’re allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It’s like killing yourself, and then you’re reborn. I guess I’ve lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.”[3] Levon said, sounding like a proud alcoholic.
He talked about topics ranging from cuisines, existentialism, Buddhism, politics, sex, the education system, other cultures, utilitarianism, the missteps of our forefathers, and of course, literature. He would mention his travels, but that was all we heard about his past while we chowed down our well deserve Chinese food. But it was never what we wanted to hear. I guess those rants were his way of telling beautiful lies about the world he left behind when he moved into his old white home.
Kurt and Ernest were sleeping by Levon’s feet when the alcohol finally took full control and Levon passed out. By that time, it was just Evie and I discussing my time in New York. She knew the city well having lived there from her mid 20’s to early 30’s after she had her children. We both visited the same restaurants and bars. If Evie were my age, we would have been very good friends. She made me feel comfortable without making me feel young. Something that always drove me crazy about the older generation is when they made me feel young. I hated when people made me feel young, or like I couldn’t understand, it was a complex of mine. I guess that’s why I forced myself to always grow up faster than I needed to.
I mentioned my ex-girlfriend to Evie when I slipped. I usually don’t talk about relationships with anyone, but Evie had me on a roll and my alcohol induce filter no longer existed. The masks were gone and all that was left was Jake Roberts, a drunken boy, who thought he knew the world, but will wake up the next day and be just as scared as the day before. I digress… I was explaining how Rose, my ex, and I didn’t last because of my insecurities and impatience, but how strongly I believed if we met during another time, we were perfect for each other. Then I said, “I bet it was the same with Phia…” I don’t know why I said it, it just happened.
Her reaction was unmistakable, it was anger, fear, and the wrath of Hades mixed up with unstableness of the Hulk. She shifted like a therapist who just heard a mob boss confess to a murder during a session. Her weathered hands clenched as her whole body stiffened. Dark clouds crowded over the coffered ceiling, thunder roared as if the very mentioning of the name unleashed the dogs of hell.
“Did you say…?” Evie questioned…leaving it open ended, making sure she did not put words in my mouth.
“I…I…”
“Did you say Phia?” She said impatiently, but calmly, with slight hesitation to make sure she heard the correct name, as if saying it out loud helped her double check what I said.
I owned up to it, “Yes.”
“Before I say anything else… Please tell me how you know about her and what you know? I need the truth Jake. This is serious. Because I know it was not from Levon.”
I never heard that tone in Evie’s voice. It felt like being questioned in an episode of Law and Order. The dim lit room was searing hot and the lights shone down on my face, my cheeks were flushed, palms damp with sweat. Hell, waterboarding had to be more pleasurable than the inquisition about to come down on me.
“I saw it in one of his annotations, in one of his books, I really don’t know anything…”
“Whatever it said, forget it. Just erase it from your mind like a bad memory. Take it and lock it away, for your own good, for my own good and especially for Levon.”
“What’s the big deal? I don’t get why so much of Levon’s past has to be locked away as if it were the Sorcerer’s Stone. Who is she?” I was now frustrated and becoming defensive.
“Do you like spending time here? I know Levon enjoys your company, you challenge him kid, you remind him of his childhood and have been a blessing to him, but don’t ever mention that name again.”
“So, that’s it…?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t accept that.” I was determined to learn something.
“You have to.”
“Why do I have to?” I questioned in a very typical adolescent way.
“Because, you can lose your way groping among the shadows of the past.[4] Phia was extremely important to Levon. In due time Levon will let you know more about his story, but Phia is his, that’s his story, sometimes it’s okay to keep things to yourself.”
“Did you know her?”
“Yes, we all did.”
“Was Phia her real name?”
“If I tell you her real name, will you promise me you will never mention we had this conversation, or her name, to Levon, ever? You must promise me.”
“I promise.” It was a promise I knew I would break.
“Her name was Ophelia.”
“I will leave it alone now.”
“Please do Jake.”
The moment was somber. The name Ophelia rang in my head. Originally from the Greek Ophelos meaning to help, Ophelia was first used as a name in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. She was Hamlet’s lover. Ophelia struggled with her duality in life, she wanted to please all around, but didn’t know how. She went insane by Hamlet’s irrational behavior. But she was a lover of all that was beautiful and had a strong desire to express herself in anyway necessary. Not to ruin Hamlet for anyone who hasn’t read the story, but Ophelia eventually drowned herself because of the madness she was driven too by Hamlet.
I gracefully changed the subject to travel and the night continued.
Levon peacefully slept off the booze on the couch, dogs by his feet, fire still crackling in the corner. Levon’s slumber gave the room a subdued feeling, causing us to relax as the cool air of the night crept in. We were like a small family from the start. The fire gave a tranquil glow throughout the wood lined house. Our hearts comfortable and my mind for the first time ever, at ease.
Evie spoke to me like my mother never could, like my mother never tried to do. She was interested and concerned about my life and emotions. I wasn’t sure if this was because of what Levon told her, or if she was someone who would always be a mother. Some women are maternal at their core, and Evie was one of those people. The hours ticked away without us ever acknowledging the time. Once we both yawned at the same time realizing it was 1 am, Evie and I began to shuffle out of the house, turning off the lights and putting the glasses in the sink.
“I hope to see you again Jake,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“No reason, I just enjoyed myself. It has been a while since I have spoken to anyone under the age of 60. It has been refreshing. You have a good heart; it is pleasant to be around.”
What about her kids?
“Thanks Evie, I enjoyed it too. You are much less moody than Levon.”
“Leave the sleeping man alone. He has a good heart; it is just tired.”
“Goodnight Jake, get home safe.” She said ushering me to the door.
“Goodnight Evie.”
As I left, she said, “Remember, Dream of the Angels.”
While leaving I saw Evie lean in to Levon and whisper something in his ear. They weren’t words for me, and I didn’t ask or try to guess. She took a beige afghan and draped it over the silent, resting man.
That night, alone in my room, I pulled out my older sister’s version of Hamlet. The name Ophelia still buzzed in my head, unable to escape, like a fly trapped inside a jar. The name trapped in the bell jar of my brain. The book was still stuffed in the bottom of a box in the attic crawl space. My sisters never visited our home in Branford. I wasn’t reading looking for an answer to anything, but more because I found the name serendipitous. It meant something to me as well.
“Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
Never doubt I love.”[5]
[1] Shaw, George Bernard
[2] Fitzgerald, F. Scott
[3] Bukowski, Charles.
[5] Shakespeare, William. Act 2, Scene 2; Hamlet.
