Becoming Mrs. Lewis(35)

“Tell me about your average day, Jack,” I said brightly.

He swung his walking stick in a circle and then popped it onto the ground. “It’s not so thrilling. Maybe you’d rather imagine.”

“No.” I shook my head and my hat fell over my eyes; I pushed it back with a laugh. “Bore me.”

“On the nights I stay here in my rooms, I’m awakened at seven fifteen by my page bringing me tea. Then I walk down here.” He tapped his walking stick on the green earth and looked directly at me. “To Addison’s Walk. I linger for as long as I can. I pray and allow nature to bring me to silence.”

“The beauty that brings us to peace and whispers that there’s something more.”

“And every square inch claimed by God.” He gave me that look I’d come to know—that we agreed and there was nothing more to say. It was just enough.

“Then at eight o’clock we have Dean’s Prayers in the chapel.” He pointed toward the quadrangle. “Then to breakfast in the Common Room, and by nine in the morning I’m in my rooms, reading correspondence and answering as bloody much as I can. My students then arrive until about one in the afternoon.”

“Since I’ve been here I’ve barely been up before nine,” I said. “And there you are with half your day done. And structured. I believe I need more of your order.”

“I’m quite sure your life has more excitement,” he said. “And variety.”

“Well, go on,” I urged, hungry for more of his everyday-ness.

“Some afternoons I give lectures on High Street. But usually after my students leave, I walk or catch a bus back to the Kilns, three miles from here. Once home, I sneak my way into the fourth dimension.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “My nap. Then I’m back here by five for more tutoring. It’s the evenings I enjoy most—full of readings and guests and conversation in the Common Room at Magdalen.”

“It sounds wonderful. A life full and stimulating.”

He drew a pipe from his breast pocket and filled it with dark leaves of tobacco from a small pouch, lighting it with a match that took four efforts to strike. He did this all in such a slow ritual that I wondered if he’d forgotten I stood next to him. Then he looked at me and puffed, his cheeks like small bellows, until the pipe lit and smoke plumed upward.

“Since I’ve handed over the pages of O.H.E.L. to you, I feel concerned about how you see the work.”

“Concerned?”

“To be found the fool.” He set a hand on the back of an iron bench and leaned forward, his pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth. The wind rustled his hair and the yellow tie that hung from his neck. “Yet all seems right from this angle, doesn’t it? One of those moments when bother fades away.”

“Yes.” We were standing so close that our shoulders almost brushed. “Being here right now, I feel that nothing in the world could be wrong.”

He turned to me then. “But it is, isn’t it.” His cheeks rose with his sly smile, patient and waiting for my honest answer.

“Yes.” I pulled my coat closer, buttoned the top button to stave off the chill I felt coming. “The letters from home feel off. Bill is being hedgy at best.”

“Hedgy? There’s something he’s not telling you?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“I’ve never been married, Joy. How can I give you advice? But I can say that letters don’t always give the full rounded truth of how someone might or might not feel.”

“Not between you and me,” I said. “I understood you.”

“Yes.” He nodded and tapped his pipe on the edge of the bench. “Not between us.”

I stood in the comfortable moment, its ease, and wondered if I could take it with me wherever I went. “I’m not asking you to say anything, Jack. Or give advice. But suffice it to say that it’s been a terrible few years and I’ve lost my steady sense of self in it all.”

“Why do you stay, Joy?”

“God’s will, I hope, but maybe safety. Not wanting to give up on my family. I want to do the right thing.” I wrapped my arms around myself, rubbed my arms to get warm as the wind above rustled the nearly naked trees.

“Sometimes it feels as if God’s demands are impossible, does it not?”

“Impossible.” I nodded. “Love. It’s a complicated endeavor, Jack.”

“I’ve attempted to write about it—over and over—drafts of a book about the subject, you know. We are the only ones who have but one word for it. In Greek we have storge for affection, philia for friendship, agape is God, and of course eros. But even words, Greek or otherwise, can’t hold the truth of what it is or isn’t.”

Jack’s smile was then replaced by a look of such caring warmth that I wanted to throw my arms around him.

“Your first love?” I asked, tentative and with a smile.

“Poetry.” He paused. “Or Little Lea, my childhood home.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” I jostled him slightly.

“I worked on the poetry for years until I realized that I would never be good enough.”

“Good enough?” I laughed so loudly that he startled. “I’ve read your poems. They are more than good enough.” I shook my head. “I left poetry for publication and money. And you left it because you believed you weren’t meant for it. Either way, we both left our first loves.”