Depression Glass ...Part 5 ...Seeing Through a Mirror Darkly
borne back ceaselessly into the past.
—F. Scott Fitzgerald
It’s difficult being a writer who’s tied to the past, in love with the Thirties and its literature and culture, not to mention its architecture.
I suppose that’s why I became obsessed with the house I own—it’s an art deco masterpiece and when I’m in it I feel I’m connected to the era I love.
But Mae, my wife, feels I’m obsessed, caught up with my writing and the house to the point where I’m ignoring her, and maybe that’s true.
After all, here I am on a rainy afternoon, alone in my private little world, flirting with Blythe Summers, a 1930’s silver screen star and feeling I’m slowly going mad.
Blythe has been waiting for me to answer her question, but seeing I’m lost in my thoughts she patiently repeats it, trying to get to the bottom of why we're both connected to the past.
“And what happened to you, Dawes? Why are you tethered?”
I was indignant and took umbrage at her remark. “I’m not tethered.”
“Oh, but you are,” she whispered, “tethered by letters, tied to tiny black marks on a page.”
I hated her for saying that, but felt something within me snap.
My eyes welled up and throat constricted. I turned away in shame, trying to hide my burning eyes, the lump in my throat, the dryness of my mouth and tongue, now rough as bark.
She was gentle though, and encouraged me to open up.
“Take your time, Dawes. Talk to me. You’re a writer. I know you’re used to patiently waiting for an image. Go ahead. Feel it totally, completely—let yourself go, and then, tell me what you see.”
I flowed with her words, loosening my grip, closing my eyes, waiting for a picture—and it came to me unbidden through the soft soughing of the sea.
I was in Florida on the Gulf side and Mae and I had been flying a red kite. I tied it to the back of a reclining chair and let the stiff gulf breezes keep it steady in the clouds. I chased her down the beach and we fell laughing into the tide.
We returned in time to see the kite had become detached and was being carried out to sea, the long line dangling in the waves—the small diamond sail being swept toward the horizon, until it was just a red speck heading toward Mexico. And for all I know, it’s drifting still, in a quiet afternoon of clouds and waves.
“That’s lovely!”
How she knew, I don’t know. I thought it but certainly didn’t have to tell her—she saw it somehow in her mind’s eye. It was then knew I too was loosening my grip, being caught up in her wild beauty, wanting to be with her on that sunny coast, under the forever sky.
“Are you enchanted?”
“I am.”
“Good,” she beamed, her eyes shining, “it’s not good to be alone.”
My heart burned within me. I finally began to feel at home.
I reached to cup her chin and kiss her lips and she faded right away before my eyes.
There was a brief moment when the room darkened and then, brightened again. I looked round the room, at the rug warm with patches of sunlight. I felt a shadow had passed over my mind.
The trembling began again and I reached out to pour some rye and saw Blythe’s champagne flute, sitting half empty on the coffee table—a red smear of lipstick on the rim.
I touched it to my lips and tasted hers—drank a toast to us and to a life that never was.
Mae and I sat by the fire that night and planned our cruise. She suggested one month, but I insisted on two.
It was glorious at night beneath Caribbean stars.
By the time we arrived home, Mae was with child.
A few months later, we were furnishing a nursery and were taking a break, sitting in our front room.
It was a rainy, late April day and the world outside a blur—a lime green haze seen through silvery window panes.
“What’s that?” Mae said, pointing to the fireplace.
I followed her line of gaze and saw the corner of a piece of card stock sticking out from a crevice between the mantel and the wall.
I got up and gingerly pulled on it, and an old photo fell out. It was rare color portrait of Blythe taken in her light green jersey knit suit.
“Oh, how beautiful!” Mae exclaimed. “The girl looks like a movie star.”
Blythe was smiling—a faint wry grin curling the corners of her mouth.
“She looks happy—blissful,” Mae enthused.
“She does,” I whispered.
“You should write a story about her,” she suggested. “She looks like the way I picture your heroines.”
“Maybe I will, Love—maybe, I will.”
And I did.