Grimm's Last Fairy Tale (6 page)

“Cats are extremely intuitive. They have senses we can’t even imagine. Yes, they will definitely be able to sense my presence. They may actually get a little wild briefly. Hemingway did. He knew I was there before you did. Because of that, they may not really be a good litmus test.”

“I know everything about you I need to know. You have nothing to fear.”

As Maggie spoke these words, she shuddered with the realization that she had spoken them before, about nearly every man she had ever been with. Was she being foolish again? Would she ever learn to use discretion?

“A franc for your thoughts,” Jacob inquired, seeing her troubled face.

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking how many people I’ve put my total trust in long before I should have—long before I really knew them.”

“I realize that. I know you’ve been put through the wringer. I hope you will be able to trust just one more time. I promise it will be the last time you will have to.”

“No, Jacob, I’m sorry. I need to work through this, but I recognize it as my problem and not yours. Please, let’s sit and read something. Have you been reading during your visits here? I’m sure authors are much more plentiful now than in your day. Have you read anything current or do you stick with the classics and your contemporaries?”

“First of all, I do read. Second, I have read a few modern books, as you call them. The world is flooded with them. It astonishes me how much people pay for books. But if I am to be honest, and I won’t be less with you, I prefer the classics.”

“Who are your favorites?”

“Dickens, Shakespeare, the Bronte sisters, Hugo, and of course Austen. Do you remember the first thing I left you? It was a poem.”

“How could I possibly forget? It was my favorite poem by my favorite poet.”

“That is precisely why I left it. Because I knew it was your favorite. It has become mine as well. I don’t believe his last line is entirely accurate. I think death is a parenthesis. There is more to follow—not that I’m trying to de-romanticize it! I’m sorry for being analytical. It is a fault of mine. But the rest of the poem perfectly expresses what I feel when I watch you live.”

“Wow, Jacob. That is about the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. I’m touched. I will try to believe it. What would you like to read tonight? Is there anything in particular you have in mind? I have many of the authors you mentioned.”

Jacob wrapped his arms around Maggie and she melted into him. It was a surrender she didn’t think herself capable of with the battle scars she carried. But it was somehow different with him. If someone cared enough to transcend time and space to be with her, that said something. She surmised that he was probably not the type to hop between his fans willy-nilly. The moment seemed to last an eternity and when the time came to release; it carried with it a sort of melancholy.

Maggie took a step back and looked into Jacob’s eyes and what she saw took her breath away. It was forever. She saw eternity in those beautiful eyes. Maggie was in love. More importantly, Maggie knew that she was loved, just as Jane Eyre had known it when she looked into Mr. Rochester’s eyes. She was loved for who she was, with all the bumps and bruises and shortcomings. She was loved for the sum total of her experiences and the sweetness that still existed in her ravaged body, much like a daisy springing up inexplicably from a crack in cement. She marveled at this new revelation.

They sat down and read sonnets to one another and that evening set the pattern for many evenings thereafter. Time stood still when Jacob was around. Maggie was enjoying life. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. History had taught her well that nothing lasts forever, particularly if it was something she found as amazing and wonderful as this. Still, she forged on as if she believed in it.

in which Maggie has to subdue her inner-gypsy once more, is encouraged

to follow her dream, and has a particular curiosity satisfied

Spring arrived, and with it, the annual visit from the gypsy that lie dormant in her throughout the rest of the year. Every spring, on no particular day, this inner transient would emerge and whisper in Maggie’s ear, “It’s time.”

This signaled a yearly battle that nearly wore Maggie out. She would scream out loud that she had a job and responsibilities like all adults should. But the gypsy was relentless. She would put thoughts of travel and concerts, wild red hair dye and bandanas, motorcycles and Greyhound buses into her brain and it took every ounce of strength to overcome the voice of the gypsy.

When Maggie was 18, it was a different story. The quandary existed in the fact that she had grown up; the gypsy, however, had not.

This particular spring night, Maggie spent her slumber beating her duvet into submission. She could not for the life of her achieve a peaceful sleep. She was as restless as a polecat. When the sun broke through, she gave up and arose and then slogged through her routine blankly. Between the lack of sleep, the dizzying effects of her new-found love and the tormenting ways of the gypsy, she was going to be of little worth to anyone.

Then it came to her. It was the weekend.

This realization gave her a little burst of energy and she put on her face and got dressed, had her oats and whispered for her friend.

“Jacob?”

“I’m here.”

“Just how long have you been here? Are you ever here when I’m unaware of it? Do you watch me cry at silly movies or sappy song or when I laugh at myself for something I’ve done wrong?”

“No, ma’am, I honestly don’t generally come unless you either call me or pick up one of my books to read. Incidentally, have I ever mentioned how glad I am that you like my books? It is because you loved them so well that I was able to really get to know you all those years ago.”

“Your fairy tales—they reflect the way people feel. They are timeless. There have been times when I felt like Cinderella or that I wished I could just kiss a frog and have my prince. They have been such a source of comfort and hope to me for a long time. I think every woman dreams of having a prince come and rescue her from her dreary life and make her a princess.”

“You honor me with your words.”

“They are not flattery, Jacob. I mean it. You have kept the dreams of millions of disillusioned women alive. Just look at how many other books and movies have been based on Cinderella alone.”

“Let’s talk about your writing. You don’t work today. Why don’t you forgo the usual housework and do some writing. I’ll help you by listening and giving you feedback. What genre do you favor today?”

“Oh, Jacob, I don’t know. I’m not that good, really. I just enjoy writing for myself. It’s just a silly dream.”

“Stuff and nonsense! What do you write?”

“I write about the relationships I’ve never had. I write wonderful men and the women who appreciate them. I write about marriages that last forever with no secrets. I write what I dreamed of attaining but never quite achieved.”

“How does writing those things make you feel?”

“I don’t know, really. I usually write a bit and then my heart feels like it’s going to break for not having what I write, and then I put it away in frustration and swear I’ll never go back to it. Other times, it gives me hope that there might still be a love out there for me.”

“And now how do you feel?”

“And now I have love, albeit with a dead man. How is that for living under a bad sign?”

“Love cannot be confined to time and space. It transcends all rationale and reason. It blooms when and where it should and the other—the physical manifestation of love that people often equate with love itself—is just that—a manifestation. It is not love’s essence, despite the rubbish you see in those horrible movies and TV shows that show people jumping into bed and doing sacred things with another with no thought to what it really means. We have a love. It makes no difference that we are not in the same life. It will endure. Do you believe that?”

“What is all this, then?”
“Well, Jacob, it is my writing. I’ve started so many books, but never quite finished any of them. Would you do me the honor of reading through them and telling me what you think is worth working on?”

“Oh, Margaret, thank you for asking. I would be honored.”

They sat silently for hours going through them, with him critiquing and her trying to convince him that she didn’t know what she was doing. He chose several of them that he felt were the more deserving of completion. She went to the computer and heaved a great sigh.

“You can do this. I believe in you and I’ll be with you every step of the way if you’ll have me.”

Maggie smiled winsomely and began to hit the keys. She wrote until her wrists went numb and the journey became painful and more than once brought her to tears, but Jacob’s urging meant the world to her. She had never known such support and genuine love. Even so, she felt much depleted from the writing and felt the need to stop for the day.

“I think I need to be finished. I don’t know if I have any more in me, but this feels so good. I love words. I love their secrets and their power and their impact. I just want to have a voice and I feel like the books will give me that. I can say things in them that I can’t always utter in my real life.”

“Margaret, this is beautiful. For as helpless as you have felt throughout your life, you certainly have command over the language. These words are the helpless ones. They have no choice but to act under your direction with the utmost submission. You have such eloquence. I think you are going to be a great writer and you are going to not only find your own voice, you are going to give a voice to many who feel without hope in their own lives. There is an ‘overcoming adversity with grace’ in your tone.”

“I have always loved the act of creation. When I sew, I take this one-dimensional piece of limp fabric and I make a few cuts and stitch here and there and suddenly it is this functional and beautiful garment. I take some wood and some hand tools and take away the parts that don’t belong and it becomes this lovely object of art. I take a pencil and a piece of blank paper and create someone’s portrait. There is something so amazing about this process and it is so empowering, the manipulation of raw materials into this ethereal or useful thing. I don’t know if you grasp what I’m saying. You must. You’ve done it so often.”

Jacob could feel her growing enthusiasm. She had come to life in the last few hours.

“Oh, Margaret, you put that so well. Creation is essential to people like us. It is when we don’t use those gifts that we become stagnant and feel helpless.”

“It is only night here where you are. It is morning elsewhere. That is where I will be—somewhere watching someone read and waiting for you to call my name.”

Maggie enjoyed sleep like she had never before enjoyed it. And her dreams were of a man from another time.

in which Maggie engages in an altercation with her phantoms and is touched by something not tangible

Sunday came shining in through Maggie’s bedroom curtains and carried her into the day. She could hardly wait to call Jacob and when she was finally washed and dressed, she beckoned him.