Chapter 48
From my Ballard burrow on a quiet summer afternoon
7/6/93
Dear Frida,
I want to spread joy, I do, but just when things are feeling steady, life pokes the beehive. Sven’s parents didn’t have time to celebrate his birthday this year, so I got some decorations at Pay ’n Save and made tomato pie and a well-intentioned but truly disgusting sugar-free cake. I used tinsel to turn my desk chair into a throne and presented his gift like the prince with Cinderella, but instead of the glass slipper, it was a pair of brown leather loafers he admired a few months ago at Kinney Shoes up at Northgate Mall. He stared at them for the longest time. Then he sobbed like there was no tomorrow. When I finally calmed him down, he told me how he came home from college one Christmas, and when the cab pulled up, his dad was standing in the living room window with his wrists slashed.
I froze. What do you say when someone tells you something like that? Sven called an ambulance, and they took his dad to Harborview. That’s not even the worst part. His parents blamed him for his dad being committed to the psychiatric ward. They said he never should have called 911. He should have found another way to deal with it. Frida, his dad knew exactly what time he was getting in from the airport. The whole time Sven told me this, he kept thanking me for remembering how much he liked those shoes.
Did I tell you about last Valentine’s Day? He gave me The Oxford Companion to English Literature because Margaret Drabble edited it, and he knows how much I love her. He gives the most thoughtful gifts, but somehow he can’t begin to imagine anyone wanting to do anything thoughtful for him. It was just a pair of shoes, but he couldn’t stop crying. I held him until he finally wore himself out. His whole body went limp. He whispered, “I expected them to behave like parents. Don’t you see?” I asked him what he meant, and he said “disappointment” in the most forlorn voice I’ve ever heard.
When I woke up later, I looked down from the loft. He was sitting in the birthday throne reading Flaubert with a haze of lamplight around his golden curls. I used to spy on him reading like this and think he looked so peaceful, savoring a book in the quiet middle of the night. Now I know he’s trying to read everything he can before he goes blind. He’s trying to read his way out of his own reality.
This got me thinking. When I started reading authors I’d never heard of, I was sort of doing the same thing. I was trying to escape from myself and figure out how to be the next Anita Brookner or Penelope Lively or Muriel Spark because it’s not like I have brainiac ideas or a screwy childhood to milk for inspiration. I didn’t (still don’t) fit in with the literary darlings like Mona Simpson and Donna Tartt, and I’ll probably never have the faintest idea how to write something important like A Lesson Before Dying or The Shipping News . But I feel like something’s changed lately.
Now with every book I read, I can feel myself figuring out how I can write in the way you describe. A way that’s natural to me. I didn’t tell you MFK died because there was so much else going on, but it makes sense you brought her up now. The store has a quarterly newsletter called “Book Bites,” and for the anniversary of her death, I wrote an article about her legacy and how she captures the essence of human emotions through her reverence for daily pleasures (especially food) that most people take for granted. I know it’s not fiction, but Emmett Watson praised my “splendid insight” in The Seattle Times . How totally awesome is that. He’s one of the leading newspaper columnists in Seattle. A few people saw his mention and came into the store to talk to me like I’m an MFK expert or something. One of the times I was at the front counter with Kids Books Josephine and Caftan Dawn. Josephine said, “You captured old Mary Frances’s spirit. Cheers to you, Perky.” Now Dawn’s not talking to her. Confession: Mr. Watson complimented me for my ideas about MFK, and I know it’s not nice, especially after what I just told you about Sven’s dad. I’m not taking that lightly, Frida, I’m really not, but part of me is selfishly pleased Sven had nothing to do with my article.
Love,
Kate