Becoming Mrs. Lewis(38)

“Your views about fairy stories,” I said.

“And how do you know my views on fairy stories?”

“I was fortunate to befriend Michal Williams in London. She’s been a bright light in that city that seemed enchanting until I found Oxford, which is a million times more so. But anyway, she loaned me the volume of essays that should have been presented to her husband. It was a lecture you gave—”

“I know what it was,” Tolkien said.

“How you began your essay ‘On Fairy-Stories,’” I said, “about the perilous land and stars uncounted and how a fairy cannot be caught in a net of words.”

“Well, well,” he said. “You must have the most photographic memory.”

“I confess I do,” I said. “It’s helped me through the worst of schooldays. But with your essay, I didn’t just memorize. I digested it. And it seems your views have rubbed off on Jack here.” My hand lifted without thought, and I touched Jack’s shirt sleeve in what must have seemed a gesture of ownership. I withdrew my hand quickly.

Tolkien sipped the last of his beer and pushed back on his chair. I could see he was ready to leave, and the fear that I’d sent him away made me try one more time.

“What is it about fairy tales that we all love so much?” I asked.

“You’ve said you read my opinion.”

“It is the consolation we want,” I said. “When you wrote of the sudden joyous turn of events, the grace, the happy ending. I think we love our fairies and their stories and their lands because through all the hardship, there is the consolation of a happy ending.”

Tolkien slipped his coat on and settled his tweed hat onto his head before looking at me. “There you have it.” He nodded at Jack and at Warnie. “I’m late for supper at home. See you chaps tomorrow.”

The pork pie, usually comforting, tasted like cardboard in my mouth. Had I offended Jack’s best friend? Warnie excused himself to greet a friend across the room and left Jack and me alone with the fire burning bright behind us.

Jack watched Tollers until the pub door closed and he was gone. Then he leaned back to light a cigarette and smile at me. “He can be a bit gruff, I fear.”

I nodded, but directed my attention to Warnie, who stumbled and grasped on to the back of a chair, laughed it off, and strolled to the bar. “Is he all right?”

“I think so, yes. But if he’s not, this won’t be the first time I’ve had to pour him into a taxi. I’m sorry you must witness it.”

I held up my hand to stay his words. “Jack, I’ve lived through this. Not with someone nearly as wonderful as your brother, but still the same. If you should ever want to talk more about it, I hope you know that you can.”

Jack nodded, and a sadness he usually kept cloaked beneath his smile overshadowed his face for a moment. Then, just as quickly, he turned his attention back to me. “Did you enjoy Tollers?”

“I can’t yet tell,” I said. “I do want your friends to like me.”

“Ah, but Mrs. Williams likes you bloody well—blinding, I think she said.”

“We’ve gotten on quite well and laughed so much, which is important, don’t you think?”

“To get on well or to laugh?” That twinkle in his eye, and it was a twinkle.

“Isn’t it the same?” I asked.

“Yes, it is.” He leaned forward. “What draws people together is when they see the same truth. As we do.”

“But your Tollers does not approve of me. He set his eye on me as if I were here to steal you into the night and never let you return. He bristled.”

Jack laughed with that merry bellow. “I don’t think Tollers is quite worried about me running off. But he is married with children and maybe doesn’t understand the friendship that can grow between a man and a woman.” He stared off for a moment. “Tollers separates family life, academic life, and pub life each into its own sequestered box. And what matters of it anyway? I don’t bristle.”

“If you did, I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” I said. “We all have two faces. I wrote about it—”

He interrupted me. “In ‘The Longest Way Around.’”

I smiled. Toller’s apparent rejection was losing its energy. “Yes. My false face. It can get in the way. I don’t see God as magic; you know that. I wanted my conversion to escort some change into my life, but sadly I think I’m essentially the same. Only with God. My masks remain. Anger still bursts out before I can stop it. I built my masks readily and with such skill that I believe they lock into place when I’m unaware and nervous. It can be blisteringly difficult to show one’s real face.”

“Perhaps it’s a lifetime’s work.” He covered his face with both hands and then peeked around them to make me laugh.

“What do you see?” I braved the question.

“A brilliant mind,” he said with force and slapped his hand on the table. “Take a gander around, Joy. There’s none like yours. Maybe some men can’t admire you for your manly virtues the way I can. Your intelligence and forthrightness.”

His words were concrete on my chest. “My manly virtues?” Tears sprang to my eyes, and there wasn’t anything I could do to stop them. “Jack, how would you like me to extol you for your womanly virtues?”