Professor James Litmore was a man of few words, and yet, when he spoke, one could see that words were more than mere tools to him. They were a passion—sacred, living things with personalities and histories all their own. As a professor of literature, he was renowned for his eloquence, and, particularly within the last two decades of his career, his compassion. Early in his career, he had often displayed a certain superciliousness which had turned some of his students off. But, as fate would have it, Professor Litmore would learn humility, and he would learn it very suddenly.
When James’ wife, Peggy, gave birth to their son and only child, Michael, James had high hopes. There had been a long-standing tradition in James’ family of precociousness and excellence. James himself had already decided on his career by the age of seven. Before Michael was born, James purchased a brand-new Steinway grand piano and began studying music theory so that he might teach the basics to his new child. When Michael was two, James hired a piano teacher to come to the house and give lessons to the toddler. James would often watch these lessons, peering into his child’s face, searching for a hint of the prodigiousness he was certain would one day be self-evident. By the age of seven, Michael had mastered Chopin’s nocturnes and was winning national competitions. But something of a rebellious streak, as it seemed to James, developed in his son at this age. Often, he would staunchly refuse to practice at his designated practice times, and would lock himself in his room for hours, where, presumably, he would lie in his bed staring at the ceiling, before finally relenting to his father’s pressures and coming downstairs to practice at the piano. James never thought to ask his son why he was behaving in this manner. He shrugged it off as natural childhood obstinacy. Besides, the problem did not last.
While it was James who had such high aspirations for his son, it was his wife Peggy who served as a conduit to ensure that Michael would reach his fullest potential. Peggy, in fact, worshipped her husband, and would do anything to please him. Despite, and perhaps because of this, James held her in a very low regard. It was only through Peggy’s strict observance of Michael’s progress on the piano that she could redeem herself in her husband’s authoritarian eyes. Therefore, when Michael was obstinate, it was Peggy who took the brunt of the abuse. It was Peggy who organized Michael’s practice schedule. It was Peggy who stood at Michael’s side for encouragement. And it was Peggy who congratulated him whole-heartedly for his successes. This did not mean that James played no part in Michael’s development, however. In fact, he was the driving force behind it. Where Peggy served in her light-hearted, muse-like encouragement, James served as the strict disciplinarian who was always ready with words of admonishment if Michael was not giving it his all.
Peggy had not been without aspirations herself. She had once been a prolific painter. But she found the role of motherhood to be all-consuming, and she abandoned her art, mostly at the behest of her husband, who recognized before her that her duties as a mother would require one hundred percent of her concern.
Originally, Peggy had protested James’ strict regimentation, and even accused him of living vicariously through his son. But James was firm, and quashed the issue finally and absolutely. As a result, James repeatedly had to battle his wife’s pity and his son’s obstinacy, and often felt unjustly cast in the role of tyrant, but these fights, however intense, were few and far between.
Despite the tumult along the way, at the age of sixteen Michael was given a full scholarship to the Royal College of Music, where he began his career as a professional concert pianist. Fame and fortune soon followed. While in London, Michael met his wife, Sarah. They were married at twenty-four, and had a daughter two years later. “You see?” James said to Peggy one morning as she read over a review of a concert her son had given that week. “Didn’t I say it would be worth it?” Peggy could only relent with a sigh.
One February morning, as she was setting up to paint (she had begun painting again when her son left for college), Peggy received a phone call from Sarah. Right away Peggy sensed that something was off. Sarah informed her that Michael had been discovered dead in his hotel room in Prague. He had swallowed a bottle of Vicodin with a fifth of vodka, had asphyxiated on his vomit, and died. He had left a suicide note, the gist of which explained that the pressures of his career, his family, and his own homosexuality were too much to bear, and that there was no other way out for him which would not produce more pain in him than he already felt. Of course, it was obvious to everyone who loved him that this was not at all true.
Immediately, James felt that his wife blamed him, and he was not altogether mistaken. But she wouldn’t admit it to him, and stayed with him, albeit begrudgingly. James did not know what to think. He had always known the boy was sensitive, but that was what had made him such a great pianist. He probably blamed himself, but only partially. He could not possibly bear to recognize the full weight of his guilt. He became like a man split in half—two sides of a canyon slowly being worn away by the river of truth running in between them. His intent was to keep the river dry, to go on as before. Yet, the river made its mark. He became more withdrawn, more patient, more compassionate. He began to understand things about the poetry he taught that he never understood before. While he might have lost some of his verve, his lectures were all the more enlightening due to his newfound understanding.
Twenty years passed and James became more and more renowned for his work. He served two terms as dean of the English department, won numerous awards and published several books of criticism. He and Peggy grew more and more distant, however. They spent their nights apart, he either writing or reading in his office, and she painting in her studio. Peggy’s work grew more and more dark, often depicting scenes of awful carnage. She had also begun to drink a great deal.
The time finally came for James to retire. He was seventy-four and was losing the ability to focus for long periods of time. This in itself was enough reason for him to retire, though there was nothing else that he actually wanted to do. He had tried to think of things. He had vague notions of travelling the world, though there was nothing that he was very keen on seeing. There was Rome, where he had never been, and Istanbul and India—all places which he had heard that he must go before he died. But that fact alone did not seem reason enough to go to these places. He felt tired, weary of life. In all reality, he would probably spend his retirement as so many well-to-do, intellectual men of his time did: sleeping, eating, and going to the movies. He needn’t worry about entertaining his wife. She was completely engrossed in her work. He imagined his twilight years would be lonely years, and perhaps that was what he had earned.
His retirement party was being held at the Armada, an upscale restaurant where James and his wife had gone for their fortieth anniversary. Their menu was small, but diverse, specializing in American cuisine. The entire English department was there to celebrate. They were given their own private room, with a chandelier and a large rectangular oak table with high-backed chairs. Candles were lit. The table was covered in a burgundy cloth. There was champagne on ice. The food was exquisite, and there was just enough of it to feel satisfied.
After the meal, Damian Cross, the creative writing professor, and a dear friend to James, stood up and made a toast. “Friends, colleagues,” he began in his rich, textured voice. “Tonight marks the end of an era. As a poet, I am a firm believer in the value of the written word, and I don’t believe that value is measurable by any system of valuation that we mere mortals have at our disposal. No. It is just something that we know, something that we feel. As professors of English, it is our duty to hold that value up into the light. Some will recognize it. Most will not. But, in my own opinion, there is only one way in which we can succeed. When we read a great work of literature, we must first seek to understand, and in understanding, allow ourselves to be moved. And when we are moved, we must express, with all that passion, with all that understanding, what it was that so moved us, what it was that touched our souls. But it all begins with the persistence to understand, and James, I have never in my life come across a man who was so persistent in his desire to understand, and so willing to share his passion with his students. No one with more than an inkling of a desire to understand has come away from your teaching without being forever changed. I know, because I am a student of yours myself. But to my great honor I have been more than just your student. I have been your friend. May God grant you all happiness, my friend.”
James was moved. He wiped away a tear from his eye, and as he listened to the applause, he thought of his son.
In the parking lot on the way out, James told Peggy to wait for him in the car, as he wanted to speak with Damian.
“Thank you for the speech,” he told him. “I’m blessed to have you as a friend.”
“Ah, come here.” Damien embraced him and held him for a long time. “I’m sad I won’t be your colleague anymore, but I am happy that you now have some freedom. Have you thought of what you would like to do?”
“In all honesty,” James began, “I have thought about it, but there is nothing that I feel I really want to do. Or, rather, need to do.”
“Have you thought about taking up the pen?”
“Oh, well, my years of literary criticism are over. My last book took it out of me, I’m afraid.”
“No. I meant writing creatively. You wrote some in college if I’m not mistaking?”
This was true. James had dabbled in poetry in college. But he soon began to see it as a distraction from his true vocation of literary criticism.
“That’s true,” James replied. “I’m not sure I have the soul for it, though.”
Damian laughed good-naturedly. “My friend, we are all part of the same soul.”
James peered into his friend’s face. “You believe that?”
Damian nodded. “I do.”
On the car ride home James thought deeply about what his friend had said. If it was true that everyone was part of the same soul, did that mean that Michael’s soul was not gone, that it was actually in him? And his wife, who sat broodingly looking out the window, was her soul connected to his own? Was everyone just part of an interconnected web of souls that was somehow connected to everything else, from the earth below to the stars above? All of this, of course, was already well thought-over by him. He had come across these ideas in the great works of literature. But, whereas before these things were abstract ideas to be speculated upon for the sake of intellectual profit, they were now being thought of in a different way. He was applying these ideas to his own existence. He was questioning his own relationship to God.
That night, James could not get to sleep. He thought about the party: the clinking of the wine glasses, the mechanical motion of shoveling pasta into his mouth, the laughter. But mostly he thought of Rita Johansen, the wife of Ted Johansen, a fellow colleague. He remembered the glint in her brown eyes as someone made a joke, the smoky sound of her laughter, her lips and straight blonde hair. He remembered what Damian had suggested, about writing creatively. “Could it be that I am infatuated with this woman?” he asked himself. “And so what if I am? It is only natural. And what if Damian is right? What if we all share the same soul? That means I could share the soul of Keats or Shelley. Is that possible?” He turned and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was past two. He looked at his wife. She was sleeping peacefully. Her face had grown old. Wrinkles had formed around her lips and eyes. Her lips sagged and her chin was loose with fat. He sighed.
“And why couldn’t I write poetry?” he asked himself. “I did so in the past, however badly. It’s as it is with everything. It takes work, passion, desire. What do I desire?” And again he thought of Rita Johansen.
He stood up, put on his bathrobe, and went down the stairs to the office. He took a few pieces of loose leaf paper and a pen from his desk, and went into the kitchen. He lay the paper on the bare table, sat the pen on top of it, and sat down. With the image of Rita Johansen in his mind, he wrote these lines:
Her hair was golden, like the sun.
Her dark eyes, like coffee, steamed.
Roses blossomed in my heart
And I clenched my hand into a fist
And waited for her to see.
When he was finished writing, his heart leapt in his chest. He had given birth to something, as it seemed to him, without any pangs. It was as if it had been waiting on the edge of his tongue for decades, building up hope, preparing for the day it would see the light. And now it had. He reread the work several times, noticing its flaws, but still with a feeling of pride and vindication. Perhaps it could be improved, but he was afraid to touch it. He thought of his friend Damian, and decided, the next day he would bring him the poem. He went back to bed, and fell asleep almost immediately.
James called Damian the next morning, and Damian invited him over for lunch. They sat on the back patio, eating sandwiches at a small wooden table. It was a beautiful day. Sparrows were darting about from the trees, searching for bugs in the grass. Flowers were blooming along the edge of the yard—soft-colored tulips and radiant daffodils. Damian wore a wide brimmed sun hat and a loose-fitting shirt that was unbuttoned at the chest. James had mentioned over the phone that he had a surprise for Damian, but Damian, being a good host, felt it would be improper to ask him about it before they had eaten. They ate mostly in silence, relishing their food, and when they were done, Damian finally asked him what it was.
James reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Damian, who unfolded it and, realizing what it was, smiled. “You took my advice!” he said.
“I was so wound up from the party that I couldn’t sleep last night,” said James. “What you said really got me thinking.”
“What was it that I said?”
“About the universal soul. It made me think of Michael.”
Damian was quiet. He nodded solemnly. James looked off pensively into the distance.
“I made so many mistakes.”
After a long silence, Damian sat up straight in his chair, and said: “To err is human; to forgive, divine.”
James’ eyes welled up with tears. Catching his grief, he forced a laugh. “You shouldn’t quote Pope to me now, before you read my poem! How can I possibly live up to those expectations?”
Damian smiled. “I’m sure I’ll love it. Let me give it a gander.” He pulled out his bifocals from his shirt pocket, put them on, and began to read. James noted carefully the expression on his face as he read, but his face betrayed nothing. When he was finished, he smiled warmly to himself, looked up at James over his glasses and said, “It’s wonderful!”
“Really?” cried James, genuinely surprised. “Please be honest with me.”
“I think it’s great. Other than the cliché in the first line I think it shows terrific promise.”
James blushed with pride. The fact that he was seventy-four years old, and that which in his youth had only felt like a dalliance to him now felt like a true calling, tickled him and gave him new found vitality. That he had spent his life appreciating and analyzing the great works of literature and was now venturing into the same territory of so many of his heroes was thrilling, despite the fact that he knew he would never be a great poet. He suddenly saw himself in a whole new light. A part of him that was wild and fresh had come to the fore. It seemed like the beginning of a whole new adventure.
“Are you going to keep at it?” asked Damian.
“I will, if you’ll keep reading them.”
Damian smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”
James went to a bookstore and bought a leather-bound journal. When he got home, Peggy was in her studio. He sat down on the sofa with his journal and began to think. He debated with himself whether to share his new venture with his wife. Part of him felt that it would bring them closer together, but it had been so long since either of them had shared anything, and he was reticent. He knew he couldn’t share the poem he had written last night. Perhaps in the future he would write something that he would feel like sharing, but for now, he would keep it a secret. Again he thought of Rita. He opened his journal and took up his pen and began writing. He found it much more difficult than the night before. Everything he wrote seemed paltry and overly sentimental. At one point he looked over at the glass door of Peggy’s studio, and watched her paint. She seemed in a trance, and the canvas was coming alive with her bold, expressive strokes. He wrote:
I watch you painting your hate for me.
The canvas is filled with terrible shades.
Why don’t you use a knife instead?
Paint my body in red?
I’m here, but I am also dead.
Only you can end this misery.
While this poem struck him as painfully honest, he also recognized that, as a work of art,
it was atrociously bad. Rereading the poem, he suddenly realized that his best days were behind him. Was this whole venture not the desperate and futile act of a man on the brink of death? What did he expect? Had he not already proven himself an honorable, respectable man? Yet, he did not feel honorable. He did not feel respectable, and he had no idea why. He took his journal and went to his bedroom to take a nap.
James lay down in his bed, closed his eyes, and drifted off. As he slept, he had a dream. He was sitting in a dark, damp place, like the inside of a cave. From somewhere, he heard the sound of a piano. It sounded sad and mournful. He thought it was one of Chopin’s nocturnes. He wanted to get up and find the pianist, and tell him he loved him. He tried to shout, but he could not. He was as if frozen. Then, over the sound of the music, he heard a low rumbling. He knew what it was. The cave was collapsing. Soon he would be crushed. Then, suddenly, a light appeared before him. Just a small light through a chink in the cave. In that light, he saw a blue bird. In its beak was a worm it was carrying to its nest. He awoke in a flash. The image of the blue bird shone like a beacon in his mind. He sat up, took up his journal, and began writing these lines:
Oh, happy blue bird!
You have flown past the window
Of my dismal house
And shone, like a chink in a cave,
To reveal to me my own life.
Fly! Fly to your nest, oh blue bird!
Your chicks are hungry
And long for their mother.
Blue bird, oh blue bird
Won’t you sing them a song from me?
As he read the words he had written, James again felt the same lightness of heart that he had felt the night before. So that’s how it was really done! One must feel truly inspired before putting pen to paper. One must be open to all the possibilities that the universe has to offer. How can one write anything of any substance while ruminating on death?
While thinking these thoughts, the door of his bedroom opened. James quickly closed his journal and hid it under the sheets.
“You’re up,” said Peggy, surprised.
“Yes,” said James. “I just woke up.”
“I see you’re getting your retirement off to a lively start.”
“I have to prepare for death somehow,” said James, bitterly. “Sleeping seems the closest thing.” He said it with a wry smile. He knew when he said it that it was a mean, vindictive thing to say, and he regretted it immediately.
“Well,” Peggy replied. “Keep at it and it won’t be long.”
She turned and walked down the hall. James sat, feeling his heart sink. How had it gotten to this point between them? It was worse than living with a stranger. It was living with his worst enemy. And yet, when he asked himself what she had ever done to harm him, he couldn’t find an answer. The fact was, he had never really respected her. Despite this, she had been loyal, and even, at one point, loving towards him. So why was he so terrible towards her? Certainly it wasn’t because he blamed her for Michael’s suicide. If anyone was to blame…
It didn’t matter. He would bring his poem to Damian tomorrow. Perhaps he was already improving.
The rest of that day, James spent his time rereading some of his favorite poems. But he read them differently than he had before. He didn’t search for meaning—besides, the meaning was already there—rather, he inspected them like a detective inspecting a crime scene for clues, asking himself: Why did he choose this word? Why did he break the line here? And why did he choose to rhyme with these two words? He tried to get himself in the mindset of the poet, to understand the craftsmanship. At night, he ate dinner alone, and then called Damian to tell him he’d written another poem. They decided to meet for breakfast. Damian’s wife would be home, but Damian assured James that he would keep his poetry a secret.
That morning, James got up, showered, and dressed all in a flurry of excitement. He was anxious to see if his new poem would impress Damian even more than the first one. He left a note for Peggy on the kitchen table and drove to Damian’s.
When James arrived, Damian’s wife, Eva, was preparing breakfast on the stove. The two men sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and making small talk. Breakfast was served and Eva went into the living room to give them privacy. Before James showed Damian the poem, he told him about the dream he had had. “It was one of the most vivid dreams I’ve ever had,” he said. “I felt so cold, so terrified in the beginning. But by the end, it was like everything had lifted. I felt enraptured.”
Damian nodded solemnly. He seemed to be in a state of deep pensiveness and introspection. James handed him the poem. “I wrote this when I woke up.” Damian put on his bifocals, and read. James observed Damian’s face closely. As he began to read, Damian wore an aspect of detached seriousness, but soon his face began to change. A warm smile—the kind of which a man adopts while observing a small child at play—came over his face. When he was finished reading, Damian looked up at James with smiling, shimmering eyes and said: “It’s wonderful.” Again, James smiled bashfully with subdued pride.
“Thank you,” he said.
Damian, still smiling warmly, handed James back the poem.
“I have a question for you,” Damian said suddenly with bravado. “Why are you keeping this a secret?”
James shifted in his chair. For a moment, he considered trying to think of a lie. But he looked at his friend and realized there was no need. “I don’t want Peggy to find out,” he said.
“Why?”
“We aren’t on good terms. We haven’t been for a long time. Ever since…”
James looked down dejectedly at his poem, which sat on the table in front of him. “If she found out, she’d find a way to use it against me.”
“You might be wrong, James,” said Damian. “You might find that she’d be supportive.”
“I don’t think so.”
James and Damian sat for a while in silence, listening to the birds, before James decided it was time to leave.
When James got home, he heard the sound of weeping coming from Peggy’s studio. He peaked in, and saw her, on her knees in front of her canvas, her hands over her eyes, bawling uncontrollably. James sighed and went up to his room. He took up his journal and sat on the edge of his bed, looking into the mirror on the wall in front of him. The sound of his wife’s sobbing could be heard through the wooden floorboards. He began to think depressing thoughts. “I should have ended this marriage a long time ago,” he thought. “This relationship is haunted. The only reason she hasn’t proposed a divorce herself is that she wants to pay me back for Michael’s death by torturing me. And the only reason I haven’t is because I’ve been afraid of the truth. But what is the truth?” He looked at himself long and hard in the mirror, but no matter how hard and long he looked, he could not see the truth. All he could see was his son.
Suddenly, James decided to go for a walk. He took his journal, went down the stairs, and went out, with no destination in mind. Only, as he began walking, it occurred to him that he knew where he was going, though he dare not ask himself why. He walked brusquely, with a growing sense of anxiety. Several times he thought of turning back, but something was drawing him along, something beyond his own power to control. When he reached the cemetery gate, he stopped, as if surprised that his feet had brought him here. It had been nearly five years since he had visited his son’s grave. He did not consider himself a sentimental, or even a spiritual man, but over the last few days, he felt that that was beginning to change. As he walked through the cemetery, he remembered what Damian had said the night of his retirement party, that all of us were a part of the same soul. As he scanned the hundreds of graves, he could feel the interconnectivity of the souls of the dead—the great web in constant communique, expressing that overriding mystery that the living are so ignorant of and so aware of, and which stretches for an eternity. They seemed to be sending him a warning, but of what, he could not say.
He found Michael’s grave. It looked the same as it always had—a square, gray granite stone with his name, life-span, and mention of relations. The truth was, he hadn’t spoken to his son once since he had died. He had only visited his grave with Peggy, and always it had been her who had grieved as he had stood by idly watching. James stood silently before Michael’s grave, trying to will himself to speak. “Michael,” he finally said. “I just want to let you know that…I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.” Emotion was filling him, so that he felt he could barely breathe. “Forgive me!” Tears began to flow. His lungs expanded and his breath came out in heavy sobs. “Forgive me!” He fell to his knees and began pounding the earth. “Please!” He wept for a long time. Finally, when he was spent, he looked at Michael’s grave. He did not feel forgiven. But the grave seemed to be telling him something, that there was something James owed his son, that there was something he must do. He stood up and looked around at the expanse of gravestones. He felt something enter him, something like the truth, but a truth which he could not quite understand…
For the next six months, James went every day to his son’s grave. His wife thought that he had finally lost his mind. He was withdrawn, even more withdrawn than before. He always seemed preoccupied, though he seemingly did nothing. He did not read. He did not watch TV. He did not visit with friends. He just kept going to Michael’s grave. Peggy did not bother asking him what he did there. She was certain he would not tell her the truth. And yet, there also seemed to be changes in him that were for the better. He was kinder to Peggy, more considerate. He was still not affectionate with her, but there was something in his tone of voice when he spoke to her that was gentler, more endearing than before.
One snow covered day in February, James got back from the cemetery earlier than usual. When he walked through the door, he saw Peggy in the living room, reading. She looked up at him without saying a word. That had been their routine for the last six months. James would get home, go up to their bedroom and take a nap. But today, James did not go upstairs. He took his journal out of his jacket pocket, and went to the kitchen. His heart was thumping, and not merely because he had been out walking in the snow. No, his heart was thumping for another reason. He was nervous. It felt like his heart was trying to leave his chest, and he was lightheaded, almost dizzy. His palms were wet, and his hand made a mark of perspiration on the leather binding of his journal. He leaned against the counter, staring blankly at the mass of keys, post-it-notes, envelopes and coins. “If I don’t do this now, it will never happen.” He walked from the kitchen to the living room, muttering self-reproaches under his breath. “What do you expect? That some miracle is going to happen? You are a joke, James. Everyone can see it but you.” He stood in front of Peggy, his journal behind his back. She looked up at him.
“Peggy,” he began, and spoke falteringly. “There is something I need to tell you. For the past six months or so, I have been writing poetry. That’s what I’ve been doing in the cemetery every day. I have something I would like to read to you.” Peggy stared at him keenly. He opened his journal and turned to a page near the back. “It’s entitled, ‘Elegy for My Son’.” Peggy set down her book, crossed her legs, and put her hands on her knee, waiting to hear what her husband had written. James began reading.
Your blood is the echo of my blood.
Your blood has returned to the earth.
The earth echoes my blood.
Lonely boy, I drove you away from me,
Fearful as I was.
I drove you to the edge of a precipice,
And commanded you to jump,
Thinking that you could fly,
Not knowing that long ago
I had clipped your wings
In a sleepwalker’s trance.
Now all I can see is the look on your face,
The look of hopeless longing,
The look of a man whose only desire
Is to be embraced.
What would I not give to embrace you now?
I cannot, so I embrace the earth.
Soon, my son, it will embrace me back,
And then again, our blood will merge.
Tears were streaming down his face. He looked up at Peggy. Her eyes were glistening, welling up with tears. James was on the verge of saying: “I know it’s not very good,” when Peggy rose from her chair and embraced her husband and burst into sobs. “I love you,” James said softly into her ear. She wept for a long time. As they embraced, both felt that a new chapter had begun in both their lives. They both felt that Michael had somehow returned to them, in a new form, a divine form. They knew that, for the rest of their lives, Michael would be between them and within them, kindling the love they had for each other.
