Jumping (7 page)

“Sometimes you bring them out yourself, to remind yourself where you've found your strength. If you don't develop this kind of relationship with them, you just remain scared of them, and that's what you'd feel at the edge of the Void, scared. Because the Void strips you of all pretense, of anything that isn't the bare-bones, unadorned you. Titles, degrees, the color of your skin, the size of your bank account, how much you've suffered or how many you've made suffer—none of these things influence its accounting of you. Clearly, you can't fool it. And it doesn't want to fool you.”

But now, as the immediate emotions of the moment start to even out, Miles and I sit there in the grass, on my skirt, catching our breath. The Void is
more
to me now, I think, and
less
.
More
in the sense that it seems to be a thinking, feeling entity capable of recognizing the authentic when it sees it. It's on the side of the good because it's on the side of truth. And it's
less
in the sense that, while no less formidable—in its presence, its depth, its darkness—it's less fearsome. It seems, well, reasonable taking whoever stands at its edge into consideration. In this way, the Void takes on a personality of its own—different from and far beyond the limited one assigned to it by current media influences, trends, hearsay and speculation, and so on. It's too big for a name, I realize with a laugh. I can't think of one that could encompass it.

Miles, brought out of his own reverie by my laugh, tells me my editor, Henry, called him. That's why he came.

“Henry? What did he say?” I ask, startled at this news.

“It went something like this,” he says, trying to do a Henry Boston accent, “Holy Toledo! All of the talk of the Void—I knew where Babe was going to go. Yes, I suggested she hadda visit the Void, but I hadn't thought about her and jumping. Not right away. But it started to gnaw at me. So I had to call ya. I knew if
I
was thinking she might jump, the thought had crossed
her
mind. And I knew it would cross
your
mind, too, though maybe not soon enough. That meant it would cross the
reader's
mind, so we have a story to tell here!”

We're both laughing now—me, at his accent and his running of all the words together, in Henry's way. I think he's laughing because he's still feeling the relief of getting here and finding I hadn't jumped.

Miles says, “Henry said he knew you thought what you had so far was a non-story—so he thought you might jump, to find the rest of the story or create a story, like war correspondents wanting to go to Afghanistan or something.”

Miles looks at me. “I thought you might jump, too.” He smiles wryly. “So I come running over, to find you wobbling, hunched over on the edge.” He pauses and looks down a moment. “I felt a bit responsible, you know, since I know that talking about the Void for a period of time can unleash a kind of physical fascination with it. And I knew you already had an intense interest in it, to build on.” He looks up at me and smiles again, sheepishly this time. “That's why I grabbed a handful of your skirt, spread out behind there in the grass. It was the first thing I could reach.” He pauses again, smoothing my skirt, and I let him organize his feelings, knowing this has all been kind of traumatic for him, certainly triggering memories of that other jump.

“When you turned to look at me,” he says, and I remember looking directly into his eyes, and we were only inches apart, “the peace in your eyes released my fears, and that peace flooded me, and I felt at one with that peace and you.” He pauses again, a bit choked up. I am, too.

“I instantly knew you'd thought about jumping but had decided against it. I knew you had had the same realizations about the Void I've had. It isn't a place for that kind of jumping.” He studies my face. I calmly let him, not looking away from his gaze. It feels good to know him this way, through our knowing of the Void.

“That Henry's quite a talker,” he says, after a moment, looking at me with a smile.

“Yeah, and all the while, I might have been jumping!” I say with a laugh, poking his arm. Miles laughs, too, catching at my hand, but then says, “He really cares about you.”

“I know,” I say, letting him hold my hand. “He has daughters, and he seems to forget I'm not one of them.”

As we walk back to my car and his truck, Miles still has hold of my hand. I'm surprised Henry didn't ask about love interest, too, for the story, I think. He's asked me before, sure that women and men can't be in the close contact a good interview creates without some kind of spark being kindled. If Henry thought readers would want to follow a good love story—me pining after Duncan Robert, or Reggie and Duncan Robert, or Miles and me—well, Henry would be all for me taking that angle for the story. Maybe I'm a little in love with the Void, I think, laughing out loud. Hey, we can't ignore it. After all, it's what got us all together. Because I'm laughing, Miles laughs, too, and we swing our joined hands all the way back to the road.

O
NE NIGHT, ONLY A
few days later, I get a call.

I've just been working at typing up a summary of my experience with the Void. I'd spent half the evening on the phone with Henry, who still wants reassurance that I won't go anywhere near the Void again without telling him, and who is intensely curious about what I'm writing. After our years of working together, he knows better than to ask. I never know what I'm writing until I'm through. I've had more contact from Henry in the last few days than I've had in a month, so I know the calls are really his means of expressing his affection and concern for me. So, I'm distracted by Henry and trying to get back into my Void experience, when a voice reaches out from the Void itself. On the telephone.

“Hello? Is this Babe Bennett? This is Duncan Robert. I'm not disturbing you, am I?”

I drop the phone, then scrabble to pick it up.

“What?” I say, wondering if any of the town folk are engaged enough for a gag like this. The voice is calm, serious without being cold, and
respectful
, I think, after groping for the right word to capture what comes across the line.

“It's Duncan Robert,” he repeats. “I'd like to talk to you about your recent experience with the Void and about my experience.”

“What?” I say again, like an idiot, taken off guard by what he says. “How do you know about that?”

“Would you like an interview?” he asks, not answering my question. “There are some things I'd like to say, and I think you and Miles are ready to hear them now.”

“Miles?” I say, seemingly only capable of monosyllables at the moment.

“Yes. We were waiting for you. Now that you're here, we can talk about it.”

“It?” I say, continuing true to my new concise form of interacting, unable to break out of it.

“I don't want to become anybody's idol or guru, or even their reason. I don't want to be the reason anybody jumps,” he says. “As you know, it's such a personal decision, a person has to arrive at it on his or her own. It's complicated, depending on what you're carrying.” He pauses, waiting to see if I'll actually join the conversation. When I don't, he says, “The Void is always there. People will feel its call or not. They will make themselves ready or not. They cannot do it through me. I want to make that clear. But we can talk about that when you two get here.”

That last part gets through to me, and I'm finally able to ask where and when he would like to meet. We agree that I'm to go to a place that's not far, the next day. Yes, I'm to bring Miles with me, he says, before I can double check. He seems to know that Miles doesn't have classes that day.

“What about Silvia?” I ask, suddenly remembering his mother and not wanting to leave her out of this.

“You don't need to worry about my mother,” he tells me gently when I ask. “I've always been in touch with her.” So that's why Silvia was able to talk about him with some ease and light heartedness, I think. She's known this whole time that he is okay. He gives a little chuckle. “I know, like any mother, she wants me to come back to life as it was, with her, and she hopes talking about me to others will help keep that possibility alive. She's saving my place. I don't begrudge her that.”

Clearly, he's ready for the call to end, so I make sure he has my cell phone number and verify the time again, and we hang up, having wished each other a good evening.

I sit there, at my little desk in front of the window, staring out at the night street in front of the bank. Not a soul in sight. I feel completely alone with this news, and just about bursting with it. But before I can call Miles, I need to sort myself out and get centered. This call will have much more effect on him. Miles doesn't need hysterical babbling. He needs someone who can do for him what Duncan Robert just did for me—provide an anchor and a calm focus. I make myself a cup of peppermint tea, am calmed by the process, and sit down to make the call.

The first thing Miles says is, “Why didn't he call
me
?” The news hasn't made him speechless, as it did me.

“He said you two were waiting for me,” I tell him, saying the first thing that comes to mind.

“He said we were . . . ?” That stops him for a while. He doesn't say any more.

I sit quietly for a few minutes, feeling my embarrassment, sipping my tea. I don't know what that statement means either, and I do not want to hazard a guess.

Finally, I speak into his silence, telling him the details of where and when. Apparently, he is silenced now, as I was. When he still doesn't respond, I ask, “Do you want to go?” I'm afraid for a moment that he doesn't.

“Yes,” he says. “I'll drive.” We agree he will pick me up the next morning, a little before 7:00. We hang up, without wishing each other a good evening.

I spend a pretty much sleepless night, after laying out what I'm going to wear, packing a snack bag, printing a MapQuest map, taking a shower, making sure I have my interview materials, wondering whether to take my miniature tape recorder, deciding to take it, trying to think of questions to ask, and writing in my journal. Mostly, worrying about Miles's state of mind is what keeps me awake.

The next morning, he picks me up in his old pick-up, with cups of hot tea and muffins from the café. I note that the pick-up looks just washed. He reminds me of my older sister, Marla, who always begins a trip by washing even an already-clean car. He notes how much stuff I've brought with me and smiles as he makes room for it behind the seats. I get in, and we look at each other for a moment.

“Hard to believe,” he says.

“Yes,” I agree.

He has tears in his eyes, which, unexpectedly, brings tears to mine. He extends his right hand to me. I put my right hand in his, and we shake, solemnly. I feel the warmth and strength of his hand before I let it go.

“Let's go,” he says, and we pull away from the curb, the morning breeze freshening through the windows as we drive into it, the light spattering the seat between us as the sun travels through the trees. I can't help but feel good. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, with anyone else, at this moment. That's a feeling I often have in his presence, I note. I wonder if Miles feels the same.

The town is about two hours north of our village, the appointed location is an attractive old hotel on the original town square. The town square is appealing, with grass, flowers, and a gazebo large enough for a band. It's ringed by huge, beautiful old beech trees that shade the square and the street.

We park diagonally in front of the hotel and stare up at it. It's eight stories high and a good example of Federalist architecture, I notice, with its fanlight over the door, narrow, symmetrical windows with shutters, and elliptical window in the gable at the top of a roof complete with balustrade. I recognize this from yet another article I researched on colonial architectural style and the hold it has on this part of the country. The hotel is a bit shabby, making its style a little less imposing and a little more welcoming. There's no cadre of well-pressed staff to greet us as we walk in, only a slightly worn down older woman behind the ornately carved mahogany and marble registration desk. She points us to the old-fashioned elevator, complete with wrought-iron gate.

We go up to his room, which is on the seventh floor, facing the square. The hall carpet is plush, but worn down the middle. The wallpaper is burgundy and grey broad stripes. The lighting is provided by old converted gaslight lamps on the walls, so it's dim. I realize that I'm cataloguing everything as I see it, an old habit to distract myself from my nervousness. We arrive at his door and stand there a moment, looking at each other. Miles smiles at me, takes a breath and lifts his hand to knock. The door opens before he can knock, and there Duncan Robert stands, looking larger than life—robust, fit, glowing with health. Light streams out into the hall from the large bank of windows that overlooks the square behind him. He and Miles look at each other a moment and then grip each other in a bear hug. Miles has tears in his eyes again, and in his voice. When they move away from each other, the tension has left Miles's face and a smile has taken over. He can't seem to stop smiling. His eyes don't leave Duncan Robert's face. Miles is just so glad to see him.

Duncan Robert greets me with a hug, too, and ushers us into the room, offering tea and muffins as we settle in. Miles sits on one end of the couch and I take the other. Duncan Robert sits in one of the two large, wing-back chairs across from us, sharing the coffee table between us. “Welcome,” he says, with real warmth in his voice. “I thank you for coming.”

I've put my notebook and freshly sharpened pencils on the table and I look at them, caught between starting to take notes and staring at him. This is something that will plague me the rest of the day. I'm mesmerized by him. I mean, he looks as everyone and his pictures described him—medium height, medium coloring, a medium sort of man—but he doesn't
feel
medium. He felt different. I don't know if I can put it into words, but he felt light and clean and clear. He felt happy and at peace. He felt strong and certain of himself. Even
loving
and
joyous
, though I'm afraid of how those words might sound if I put them in a story—unnatural or phony. Or at least they would have felt that way to me if I'd heard anyone else use them.