The Yellow Braid (2 page)

He read, “Three Poems by Caroline
Barrone,” and his face creased into a grin. How often had he heard
her daydream aloud of her name appearing in
Poetry
, one of the most prestigious magazines of its
kind?

After that, Caro wanted to maximize the
boost in her reputation that inclusion in
Poetry
created. She dedicated more and more hours to her
writing in order both to hone her craft and supplement the number
and diversity of her poems.

Consequently, when she pondered her recent
freedom without Zach, she understood better why she had never
questioned his death. She hadn’t asked why he had died at so early
an age or challenged the universe, asking Why him and not someone
else? In fact, her swift acceptance of his passing made her
consider that her initial grieving was, to some extent, almost a
knee-jerk reaction—society’s instruction on how she must respond to
her husband’s death.

Ultimately, she had to admit she hadn’t
loved Zach to the depth she’d been avowing all those years.
Selfish? Yes. She’d banked her love like gold bullion in a vault,
doling it out only when she saw fit, for fear that squandering her
feelings would compromise her art.

Abby’s reaction was so much more
appropriate, and for that, Caro was envious. Zach died in February.
In March, Caro traveled to London and stayed with Abby for three
weeks. She remembered several conversations with her daughter while
the girl was still trying to make sense of her father’s death. “I’m
mad, Mom. I know shit happens, but why to our family? Why
my
dad?”

“I don’t know,” was all Caro could reply.
Her inability to feel the same kind of anger that Abby experienced
had exasperated her daughter. Theirs was a relationship that for
the most part had moved forward because of Zach. He’d mediated many
disagreements between mother and daughter.

When Caro had returned to New York she’d
lamented to Marcie, “I feel you’re the only person I can talk to
who’s not out to criticize or judge, or tell me how I failed in the
mother department.”

And Marcie had listened as always, because
although Zach had been uncomplaining about taking care of many
household and parental duties, Caro went to Marcie for her
emotional needs. Zach liked to fix things. If Caro vented to him,
he’d feel compelled to find a solution when all she wanted was for
him to listen. Marcie would let Caro talk herself out. Whatever
comments Marcie might make, they were supportive even on the
occasions she disagreed.

Now without Marcie, Caro felt shattered and
alone.

Caro wasn’t normally a cathartic poet. She
believed diaries were nothing more than illusory narratives that
tethered a person to the past. But she needed to resurrect Marcie
on the page, and so she indulged herself an hour of journaling. She
began with her first impression of Marcie on the morning Ethan had
introduced them.

2 June I remember…Marcie behind her
desk—large hands for a woman—splayed on the rosewood surface…brash,
unforgiving voice dictating commands into the speakerphone.
Haunting eyes— memorable for their ability to rebuke with their
color alone—hard, dark mahogany. Same color hair— bottle-dyed—too
long for her age, especially the bangs. Brooks Brothers suit… The
high kick pleat showed off her legs. Zach would have been
impressed.

“
This is Caroline Barrone,” Ethan
said.

“
I normally welcome authors with
long-term intentions,” Marcie said. “But I know how I’d feel if a
new editor was being forced on me due to publishing power plays. We
own your contract for your current book. After that, it’s up to you
if you stay or go.”

Rigid in the overstuffed leather chair…she
buttonholed me with her gaze. My previous editor had been
warmhearted, a poet in her own right.

An hour later, Marcie ended the meeting
with, “My secretary will set up our appointment schedule.”

Then…in an unimagined gesture, she picked up
my manuscript… opened to a page she had bookmarked. When she read,
her voice undulated in meticulous rhythm.

you whose absence is an
everlasting presence—fallen to a higher crownfallen womancrowned in
conception—your bodymy soulyour milk is the inkof my
poems.

“‘
The Magdalene Poem.’ It’s so evocative.
A personal favorite,” Marcie said.

***

Caro stilled her fingers and rested them on
the keyboard. She remembered the mental readjustment that had taken
place after Marcie’s reading. “The Magdalene Poem” was a personal
favorite of Caro’s as well.

Although not a religious person in the
traditional sense, Caro was devoted to the Blessed Mother. It was a
dedication that began in preparation for her confirmation into the
Catholic Church when she had to pick a patron saint to emulate and
be named after. Not one to cause hurt feelings, her juvenile logic
was to choose the head of all the saints, the mother Mary. Before
long, praying to her divine Mother became a nightly habit that
seemed to quell any disappointments from the day.

For inspiration, however, she turned to
Magdalene, a woman of literature and legend, politics and theology,
controversy and conflict. She was the woman from whom Jesus cast
out evil spirits, and then sent her on her way, redeemed. Caro took
comfort in Magdalene’s story because it showed God’s unquestionable
mercy no matter how grave the sin.

In spotting and savoring that brief poem,
Marcie had acknowledged Caro’s core connection to the infamous
Magdalene. Caro’s gratefulness for Marcie had begun at that moment
and never waned.

Caro stood and stretched, her back stiff in
objection to her prolonged and intense posture while typing. When
she was seated again she re-read the paragraphs of her labor, and
for the thousandth time asked, How could she be dead? From the
beginning, Marcie had seemed indestructible. Overwhelmed by the
depths of her love for her friend, Caro pushed away from the
computer and dropped her face into her upturned palms.

***

Whenever Caro had writer’s block and needed
inspiration, she headed to the New York Public Library, where on
several occasions within its iconic walls she’d come across an
artifact, quotation, or snippet of prose that had kindled her
imagination. Thus, after a restless night puzzling out the
different aspects of love she’d had with Zach and Marcie, she
headed downtown.

On the subway, she recalled a Sunday morning
after she and Zach had made love. Their pleasure in each other had
been unexpectedly satisfying; yet what marked the experience for
Caro was the connectedness she’d felt in the aftermath of their
sex, the ease that came with being with the same man for
twenty-five years.

Marcie had slept over that same weekend.
After breakfast on Sunday she and Caro, still wearing their
pajamas, had made themselves cozy on the wingback chairs in the den
with mugs of coffee. Marcie had recounted the particularly poignant
story of her parents’ meeting during the Second World War. She’d
wept a bit and in those moments of listening, as Caro wiped the
tears from her friend’s cheek, she’d felt an intimacy with Marcie
that rivaled what she’d felt with Zach just a couple of hours
before.

Caro recalled how pretty Marcie had looked
in the glow of the burgeoning sun, her skin damp from her tears.
She’d felt a sudden burst of love for Marcie, so much so that she
wanted to take her in her arms with a promise to be with her
forever.

Wasn’t this love as enduring and soulful as
the physical bond she shared with Zach? More so, perhaps, because
Caro connected with Marcie on an emotional level that she’d never
reached with him.

So what was the best kind of love: the
sexual one with Zach, or the platonic love she felt for Marcie,
which for her, seemed ever more lasting?

When Caro arrived at the library, she went
directly to the philosophy section and began cruising the stacks.
She browsed first through works by those men who came readily to
mind in the Eastern and Western traditions, from Confucius to
Nietzsche.

She’d been at her task for several hours
and was preparing to go home when she noticed Plato’s
Symposium
, a
text she hadn’t opened since a Philosophy 101 course in her
sophomore year at Vassar College. The professor hadn’t spent more
than two class periods on it, but the sight of the title now
sparked hazy recollections of an unfulfilled interest. She slid the
thin volume from the shelf.

Scrunched up in bed that night with the
book resting on her knees, her thoughts percolated with the rich
fabric of ancient Greek life. She remembered that the Greek word
for love—
paiderastia
—was
derived from
pais
, the word
for boy and
eran
, the verb
meaning to love. The Greek idea of beauty was embodied in the young
male.

Love, for the sagacious Greeks, had nothing
to do with sex, which was forbidden as being an unworthy
distraction, something to be performed with women only for the
purpose of procreation. Beauty in its purest form was the key to
Platonic love, and thus attained only between men—the lovers, and
their male students, the beloveds—in a joint pilgrimage of
knowledge.

Caro flattened the book on her lap and
passed her finger along the inside seam. The more she read, the
more the message appealed to her.

It was true that she had searched for
everlasting love with Zach and came up short since Marcie’s death
made a greater impact on her psyche. In addition to the demands she
put on him for her career, she and Zach had been complacent,
relying on their common habits and Abby’s comings and goings to
keep equilibrium in their marriage.

Caro adored Marcie. But even when she was
still alive, Caro felt that she was missing something along the way
with her, as well. At one point after Zach died, Caro had even
discussed the possibility with Marcie of the two of them living
together. She’d said to Marcie, “We get along, are both alone, and
we already refer to the guest bedroom as M’s room. You probably
have half your wardrobe over here already.”

Marcie had begun shaking her head even
before her words came out. “I can’t do that. I’d feel like I was
taking Zach’s place somehow.”

“How can you think that? He was my husband.
Of course, I’m not going to argue the point.”

“No, it’s fine,” Marcie had said. “It’s a
gracious offer. But I think we both need our own separate
spaces.”

“It was just an idea,” Caro had said.
Nothing was ever mentioned again about Marcie moving in.

Caro looked at the clock: five-thirty. Her
daughter would be just waking up.

Abby picked up on the second ring. “Mom,
you’re calling so early.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I…I was thinking
about Marcie, and then Dad, and that got me thinking to call and
say good morning before you started getting ready for work.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Abby said. “I’m
glad you did. Nice way to start my day.”

“So how was your date with Phillip the other
night?” Phillip was her daughter’s latest boyfriend.

“He’s giving me all kinds of grief about
turning thirty. Did I tell you that I’m older than him by eight
months?”

Caro chuckled. “No, you didn’t. But that’s
not exactly a disastrous amount of time. Besides, from the photos
you e-mailed, you look adorable together.”

“I’m anxious for you to meet him,” Abby
said.

“That’s a hopeful sign since I’m not coming
until the end of August.”

“I know, but we’ve been on more dates in two
months than I’ve had with any other guy. I think he’s very
special.”

“And the feeling is mutual?” Caro asked.

“Yes,” Abby said. “Sounds strange, but it’s
as if we feel driven to be with each other. And then there’s the
constant coincidences.”

“Like?” Caro asked.

“Like him calling at the same moment I have
my hand on the phone to dial him. Or having the same thought at the
same time. Or showing up at the same place unplanned.”

By the tenor of her voice Caro could tell
that her daughter must have been smiling. “I’m so happy for you,
Abby, and I look forward to meeting him. He will make your birthday
extra wonderful this year.”

“Get your airline reservations yet?” Abby
asked. “We’re already planning the party. Going to be a big
bash.”

“Not yet.” Caro squeezed her eyes shut and
waited for her daughter’s reproach.

“Mom, you know what you’re like. Don’t
disappoint me, okay?”

“Promise, I won’t. I’ll make them
today.”

Caro heard the BBC news commentator in the
background.

“Got to get going, Mom.”

“Sure, Hon. Have a good day.”

“You too. I mean night.”

Caro fell back on her pillows, suddenly
tired. She was envious in a way. Pleased for her daughter but, yes,
envious. “Abby and Phillip,” she said aloud. How wonderful new love
was!

And then just at the moment Caro decided
not to think anymore, the answer to her previous questions about
love came to her. The solution was that one couldn’t come to love
casually or with reservation. As with Abby in her relationship with
Phillip, underneath the giddy excitement she sounded driven, her
voice seemed to carry purpose and direction. Love didn’t just come
to her; she came to
it
.

Caro sighed. “Perfect love.” Next time she’d
make it work. Another sigh transformed into a yawn. And then,
sleep.

Friends can be said to “fall in
like” with as profound a thud as romantic partners fall in love.
~
Letty Cottin
Pogrebin