Authors: Renae Kelleigh
Seventh Wonder (30 page)
He wound his arm around Meg’s waist, pulling her flush against him. “I’m Sergeant John Stovall, from the 60th.”
Captain Alexander unlocked his office and pushed the door open, then waved them in as he flicked a light switch and strode to his desk. “Ninth ID?” he asked. Slow southern drawl: Texas, perhaps.
“Yes, sir.”
“Y’all are over in ‘Nam, aren’t ya?”
“Yes, sir, I’m on leave.”
Settling behind his desk: “And how can I be of help?”
“This is my fiancée, Margaret Lowry. We’re looking to get married.”
The chaplain raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “With all due respect, what’s the rush? Don’t y’all got any family back home?”
“We’ll have a reception once we’re home,” Meg volunteered, although truthfully that wasn’t something they’d discussed. “For now we’d just like to be married.”
Captain Alexander settled his meaty elbows against the surface of his desk. “I can see that. You got your orders, Sergeant?”
John withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his inner suit coat pocket and handed it to the chaplain. After giving it a cursory glance, he looked up at Meg. “And what about you, sugar? Got any ID?” She reached inside her bag and extracted her passport, passed it to Captain Alexander.
For several long moments, he pored over the documents, seemingly scrutinizing every letter as if attempting to confirm their authenticity. At long last, he returned Meg’s passport and tapped John’s orders against the desk before passing them back, too. “Well, come on. Let’s see if we can’t drum up a witness or two.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, they were married. Captain Alexander officiated of course, and Technical Sergeant Phil Byerly served as photographer and witness. Afterward, drunk with ecstasy, they drank champagne and ate teacake with coconut frosting at a lounge near their hotel. A number of locals, having learned from the bartender of their newlywed status, came to tie lengths of white string around their wrists, while a server explained in broken English that each was meant as a symbol of well wishes and good luck.
They’d never been happier.
* * *
Two hours left and counting. Curled in the bed, a husband and wife, and a threadbare sheet to cover them. Reliving a moment, a feeling, an ache, with which they are all too familiar.
“You have my mother’s phone number?” asked John, stroking lightly up and down Meg’s bare back.
“In my suitcase. I’ll call her tomorrow, introduce myself.”
“And you’re sure about not telling anyone? It won’t bother you?”
She turned her face to kiss his throat. “Not one bit. Will it bother you?”
“A little, maybe,” he admitted. “I’d like to shout it from the rooftops. Doubt anybody’d hear me from over here, though.”
“We’ll tell them together, as soon as you’re home.”
He lapsed into quiet, and Meg laid her ear against his chest, listened to the tumultuous thud of his heart.
“Meg.”
“Yes, my darling.”
“I know you’d rather not talk about it, but just...hear me out.” He waited a moment. Hearing no protest, he pushed forward. “If anything happens, will you please go there, to my mom’s house? Tell her in person?”
Blinding heat stabbed the backs of her eyes. “Yes,” she managed, barely loud enough to be heard.
He hugged her closer, and she squeezed him back in equal measure. “I’d want you to move on, you know. Fall in love again. Be happy. It’s important to me that you know that.”
She couldn’t respond, so she only nodded. Let the tears slide silently down her face, splashing against his chest.
“I’m not afraid, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You’ve already given me everything.”
She looked up at him then through the blur of water in her eyes. “I have so much more to give you, though. For the rest of our lives, I swear.” She gripped his face between her hands. “Please don’t give up, John. Promise me.”
His forehead creased, and he sat up abruptly, hauling her up against his chest. “Oh Meg, of course not.” His reply was stern. “Never. I promise.” He kissed her wet lips with renewed vim. “I love you. So fucking much.”
* * *
He was at the airport, handing over the ticket to reclaim his uniform and other personal items, when he found the piece of lined paper folded inside his pocket. Meg’s handwriting looped across the page in sure, steady strokes.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my [love], there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
- Dylan Thomas
I promise I’ll be brave for you.
Love, your wife,
Meg
He boarded his flight with a trembling peace, head held high and feet facing forward. Knowing, come what may, she would be all right.
WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM
814A PST MAY 19 70
THE SECRETARY OF THE ARMY DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND SERGEANT JOHN REGINALD STOVALL WAS KILLED IN ACTION IN THE PERFORMANCE OF HIS DUTY AND IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY. PLEASE ACCEPT MY HEARTFELT SYMPATHY FOR THIS GRAVEST OF LOSSES. THIS CONFIRMS PERSONAL NOTIFICATION MADE BY A REPRESENTATIVE OF THE SECRETARY OF THE ARMY.
KENNETH G WICKHAM MAJOR GENERAL USA
THE ADJUTANT GENERAL
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
- Mary Elizabeth Frye
Art Institute of Chicago
Present Day
The curator rounds out her carefully orchestrated tour with walkthroughs of the European Modern Art and Contemporary Sculpture galleries on the uppermost level. Her job complete, she then delivers the group of now-restless freshmen to the foot of the grand staircase in the Michigan Avenue entrance hall.
“We have twenty-five minutes until the bus gets here,” announces their art teacher. “Check out the gift shop or the library if you want - just make sure you’re back here by five till.”
The teenagers disperse, and the curator offers the teacher a tight smile before pivoting to walk back to her office.
“Excuse me.” A shy voice behind her.
It’s the girl from earlier, in the special exhibition gallery. A slim mouse of a girl: Emily.
“What can I help you with, Emily?”
She blushes, evidently pleased to have her name remembered. “That story you were telling us, about the artist? At the Grand Canyon?”
“Which artist?” asks the curator. “Do you mean John Stovall?”
“Yes, the one with the muse.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, appearing uncomfortable. “Do you know what happened to them?”
The curator’s mouth widens in a feline grin. Crossing her arms she says, “I take it you’re a romantic.”
The girl shrugs. “A little bit, I guess. It just made me sort of curious about whether they ended up together.”
“I can’t honestly say that I know. I can tell you, quite regrettably, that Stovall was killed in action during the conflict in Vietnam.” At this revelation, Emily’s wince is slight but unmistakable. “I do have some good news for you, though. If you’re interested in finding out more, there is a book available in the gift shop written by Margaret Lowry herself. You’ll find it in the section set aside for special exhibits, with all the National Park Service reads.”
“Thank you,” says Emily, squaring her shoulders. “And thank you for the tour.”
Adjusting the straps of her backpack, Emily turns in search of the Museum Shop. Inside, she locates the book display under a block letter sign: TASCHEN. It takes her a moment of scanning the books’ glossy covers to identify the volume she’s searching for:
Seventh Wonder: A Memoir
. By Meg Stovall-Dunham.
Emily lifts the book off the shelf and turns it over in her hands. Inside the back cover, printed on the dust jacket, is a photograph of a smiling, middle-aged woman who reminds her of her Great Aunt Dolores: beautiful in a dignified, dowager sort of way. Her eyes scan the print beneath the photo:
Margaret “Meg” Stovall-Dunham is a Professor emerita of comparative literature at Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut. She was introduced to Maurice Dunham by her former mother-in-law in 1973 and married him in 1975. Since her retirement in 2007, the couple have resided near Nashua, New Hampshire, where Dr. Stovall-Dunham writes and edits fulltime. She passes the majority of her free time enjoying the outdoors or in the company of her eight grandchildren.
As Emily wanders toward the cashier with her intended purchase in hand, she opens the book to Chapter 1 and begins to read:
“
I had folded myself into a chair in the dim back corner of the room, where I could largely escape the notice of others...”
THE END
I dreamt of this book and these characters while on an amazing tour of the Southwest in Summer 2013 and should therefore thank my husband first and foremost for going along with me on such an incomparable adventure, then allowing me the time and space to commit my ideas to “paper” almost immediately upon our return.
My deepest, heartfelt thanks to my father and fellow writer for his unswerving support and his many important contributions to the piecing together of the storyline, his assistance in lending historical perspective and in keeping the book (
hopefully
) free of gross anachronisms. I would not have come to this point, nor enjoyed the journey nearly to the extent that I did, without his continued encouragements.
To my mother, who was the same age as Meg in 1969, thank you as well for your patience and attention to detail in answering questions like “When were Ziploc bags invented?”
I am exceedingly grateful to Ebook Launch (
www.ebooklaunch.com
) for the formatting and beautiful cover design, and to Literati Author Services (
http://literatiauthorservices.com/
) for their crucial support in promoting this work so that it can reach more readers.
And of course, thanks to my legions of faithful friends and proofreaders - Alli, Kelsey, Martina and Megan - for your indispensable thoughts and wisdom, all of which make me a better writer.
Preview
Untitled: Coming in 2015
MORGAN
We’ve been here less than twenty minutes, and already I can tell there’s more to this thing between Hadley and her friend Levi than she originally let on. I don’t think they were ever in a relationship
per se
- she would’ve told me if they had been. We’ve always been perfectly upfront with each other about our pasts, after all. Or at least I thought we had. I guess I’m starting to have my doubts. This guy isn’t one she ever talked about at any great length, after all, even though it’s becoming increasingly clear they have some sort of history together. And not just
friends
history, either.
When we first walked up to the table, we performed this awkward shuffle where Levi and his girlfriend Bonnie both climbed out of the booth to greet us. First Hadley and Levi hugged - and by hugged I mean they practically throttled each other, although with a restrained fierceness, like they were both holding something back. It went on for about a beat too long, too. Understand, I’m not much for jealousy - it’s just that Bonnie and I were left standing there looking at each other like we weren’t sure whether we should hug, too, or maybe just shake hands. Eventually I went for the latter.
As the night progresses, from drinks to appetizers, to dinner and then more drinks, I can feel my curiosity about to get the better of me. On the surface I suppose it’s all been very ordinary - Bonnie, for her part, seems none the wiser. But one, I know Hadley - know her mannerisms and expressions and every nuance of her tone - and two, it certainly doesn’t take a genius to recognize the adoration in Levi’s eyes every time he looks at her: that smile, the brazen appreciation of her beauty. It’s not unlike the gleam I’ve noticed in other men’s eyes whenever they fall on Hadley, but from him it’s somehow different. There are times when it feels like perhaps, to them, they’re the only two in the room, and during those moments of brief but palpable intensity, Bonnie and I are nothing more than spectators, observing their conversation from beyond a space we’re not permitted to enter.
And yet still there are times when Hadley glances back at me with that warm smile I love so much, or gives my leg a squeeze beneath the table, and those instances are enough to make me question whether I’m simply imagining things. And when she talks about her new job, and her eyes twinkle and shine the way they always do when she discusses something she’s passionate about, forget Levi - because in those moments, all I can see is her.