Becoming Mrs. Lewis(33)
“Indeed.” I crossed and uncrossed my legs in some attempt to find a comfortable position.
“Magdalen gave me a sabbatical to finish, but I’m covering over two hundred books—no sabbatical will do the trick.” He moved back behind his desk, crushed his cigarette in an ashtray, and immediately, in the same smooth motion, lifted a pipe from his breast pocket and a bag of tobacco from his desk drawer. “I’m also working on a college edition of Spenser and finishing the seventh, and final, Narnian adventure.”
“How do you work on so many things at once?” I asked. “My mind runs like a train with whatever project I’m working on, and I can’t jump from track to track.”
“What are you working on?”
“Seeing England,” I said with a smile.
“Of course you are. But I know you have something brewing. Your mind and pen won’t be stayed. How are those articles coming along?” As he spoke I swore his eyes glittered, the deep brown of them almost changing to dark green, the lushness of Oxford seeping into his spirit.
I glanced away to the window. “Right now I’m polishing the Fourth Commandment.”
“The Sabbath,” he said without hesitation.
“Yes. I’m calling it ‘Day of Rejoicing.’”
“I’d like to read it when you’re ready.”
“Really?” I held my hand over my heart. “My goodness. I’m happy to have you read it, yet feel tremulous with fear to even think of it,” I said in a splurge of honesty.
“Joy.” He uttered just my name. And it was so simple that a warm rush of happiness flowed over me. “I’ve read some of your poetry, and of course your conversion essay. Why would you fear anyone reading your writing?”
“Sometimes I believe I’m a better editor and helper than I am a writer. I have two novels out in the world, and neither seems to have dented many souls.” I paused in that truth. “But if you’d like me to read pages of O.H.E.L. or anything else, I’d be honored. When I’m not with you and Warnie, I’m quite bored at night in that little room, and I’ll be traveling later this week.” I took off my black grosgrain plate hat and set it on the side table, and as I did a pin fell from my hair and a lock fell over my shoulder.
Jack looked away as if my shirt had fallen off and was quiet as I pinned it back in place. When he turned back to me, he smiled. “Well, that is quite the offer, and I’ll indulge if you allow me.”
The dominating grandfather clock with three pointed bevels above it rang the hour in a sound of clashing gongs. We both startled, and Jack stood. “My, the time has flown from us, has it not?”
I glanced at the clock, a single-eyed monitor of the room, and wanted to tell its black hands to stop moving, to please allow Jack and me to sit longer, extend time.
He spoke as he tapped his pipe against his palm. “That happens between us, doesn’t it? Time takes on a different measure when friends gather, I believe.”
I donned my hat again, tilted it to the right. “Yes.”
“Well, it is a Tuesday, and I must be off to the Inklings.” He paused as he removed his robe to hang it on a hook next to the bookcase. “I have hesitated to ask, Joy, but I feel I must. Your eyes give away some sadness. Has your marriage healed at all? Are things at home improving?”
It was a subject that had to be addressed. I had written to him about the awful mess, and we couldn’t sidetrack it anymore.
“My eyes?” I asked, blinking with a meager attempt at humor.
He didn’t smile but kept his own sight steady on mine. He would not allow me to wiggle free of his question.
“No, Jack. It is not any better. I’m praying for healing and peace on this journey. What is it that King David asks?”
“‘Create in me a new heart.’” Jack stated the prayer with reverence. He took another step closer to me. “What do you say to your husband during these troubled times? When he comes home from another woman or erupts?”
“He can’t hear me, Jack. When I get upset, he asks if I’m on my period or if my shoes hurt. And then he launches into his ten million excuses.”
“Joy, I’m sorry for your troubles.”
“There’s this gap, Jack. This opening between the story it is and the story I had wanted it to be—that’s where the pain is, and that’s where God came in and where I now hope transformation can happen.”
“For too long we avoided that gap, didn’t we?”
“Yes. I turned away from it with every preoccupation known to man. But no more.” My heart opened. When had there ever been anyone I could talk to like this?
Jack donned his tattered gray fisherman’s hat, retrieved his coat from the rack by the door, and placed his hand on the doorknob. “Whenever you’d like to talk about it, you know our friendship is big enough for even the sorrow.” He opened his office door to the stone hallway.
“Thank you.” I stepped into the hall. “Please give Warnie my regards.”
I walked away, and as with each time I departed, I felt I left a piece of my heart in his hands.
Back at Victoria’s, I tweaked the poem “Ballade of Blistered Feet” (merely a way to relive that glorious day on Shotover), organized a folder of King Charles research, wrote another letter to Bill, wondering why he hadn’t written back in so long, and drank a long hot cup of tea. My mind circled back again and again to Jack’s rooms, to his bright eyes and easy manner, to his laugh and his wit, to each subtle compliment or connection. I lifted the book he’d given me and ran my finger over the inscription of my name in his handwriting.