The Door into the Rose Garden

This project began in May of 2004. Lee and I were living a thousand miles apart when we discovered this story which we felt we needed to tell. We began by deciding that Lee would primarily write the character of Roddy, I would primarily write the character of Linda, and we would work together on everything else. We did this in many ways over the next two years, the most immediate, effective, and rewarding method was writing using Instant Messenger. This enabled our characters’ reactions to each other and their surroundings to be authentic—plus it was a lot of fun!

This is a melding of documented historical fact and creations out of our own minds. Real people and events are included in the story-line, and we have done a great deal of research to get the details and feel of the time. I’ve always referred to it as Historical Fiction or Alternative History, but I recently heard the term ‘fact-fiction,’ which seems perfect.

I’ve been writing on my own for almost the last year and the novel is currently just over 350 pages long. Right now I’m trying to tie up loose ends to finish, and then hopefully publish. I have great dreams for Roddy and Linda—I want them to be nothing less than cultural icons. Dream big, right? The plan is for this to be the first in a series of books telling Linda and Roddy’s story, and the life that surrounds them in New York City during the 1950s.

Julie Carriker – Savannah, Georgia

“Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose garden”

TS Eliot, Four Quartets

 

 

Saturday, November 15, 1952

 Linda awoke suddenly and glanced at her bedside clock.  It was only three AM, so the alarm hadn’t wakened her, but what had?  A noise somewhere else in the building, probably.  Perhaps one of her neighbors was having a very early morning, or had just had a very late night.  This thought made Linda grin as she settled back under the quilt and tried to catch a few more hours of sleep.
 She didn’t fall asleep right away, so she started to think about how she had gotten to this place in her life, a single woman living alone in New York City.  She was living the kind of life she had always dreamt of and was very happy.  Well, I am, aren’t I? Linda wondered.  I am independent and don’t have to answer to anyone but myself.  I have a job that pays the bills, good friends, satisfying creative outlets…  What else do I need?  Nothing!  Still even though she could barely admit it to herself, something was missing.  Linda realized that even with the friendships she had made since coming here there was no one truly special in her life.  Linda realized that she was just a little lonely.
She shrugged these feelings off and thought about the transformation she had made.  What a long way she had come from that headstrong girl in Iowa.  Was that less than two and a half years ago?  It was hard to believe.  That ‘other’ Linda seemed like a different person, in a different lifetime, but Linda knew that the seeds of who she was now were planted back then, in small-town Iowa.   Those seeds had only really begun to grow once she began her journey to New York that May morning, shortly after high school graduation.  So many memories…

She remembered that bus ride out of Omaha and her tears.  They were mostly tears of relief and expectation, but also a few tears of loneliness and fear .  She knew that leaving town now was the only way she could truly have the life she wanted, the life she NEEDED.  She knew that if she had stayed in Council Bluffs she would have succumbed to the constant pressure, especially from her mother, and married Sam.  She knew that she would have tried her best to be a good wife, but she would have grown resentful, bitter, and unhappy.  What a waste!
As the bus rolled toward Des Moines she looked down and realized that the journal Jean had given her was resting in her lap.  She took a pen out of her purse and began to write.

 May 26, 1950 (Friday)
  Well, I finally did it.  I’m on a bus headed for New York City and
freedom!  After months of planning with Jean and Eva, and saving every
penny I made at Papa’s furniture store, I’m on my way.  I left a note for
Mother and Papa, so hopefully they won’t worry too much.  I’ll call them
when I get to Anna’s.  I’m out of high school and seventeen, so there’s
not much they can do.  They will miss me, but if I had stayed I would be
gone with Sam soon anyway.
I mailed two letters from the bus station, one to Sam and another
to Lisa.  I tried to explain my feelings to Sam, and told him I could never
be the wife he wants or deserves.  I reminded him that he is going off to
college in the fall, and he will meet plenty of girls who are trying to get their
“MRS. Degree.”  I told him that he will always have a special place in my
heart.  He is a good man, and I’m sure he will find someone who is right
for him, someone he will be truly happy with.
I know Lisa will be hurt that I didn’t confide in her, but she will
have to understand.  She is my best friend, but she is also Sam’s cousin,
so I just couldn’t risk it.  Now she can honestly tell her family that she
knew nothing about my plans.  I assured her that I would keep in touch,
and suggested that maybe she can come visit me once I’m settled.  I
hope she will.
I am sad, in a way, and I will miss everyone, but I also feel so
free!  The whole world has suddenly opened up to me.  I can do anything
or be anything I want.
 It is a little frightening though, I must admit.

 Linda closed the book and leaned her head back against the back of the seat.  She would rest a moment, maybe even take a nap.  It had been a hectic few days, and this would be a long journey.
 The bus ride turned out to be very tedious, and all the towns, Davenport, Bloomington, and even Indianapolis, seemed to look alike.  Linda tried to sleep, read, or write, but there was always someone ready to interrupt her by checking to see if she was all right.  Several older ladies seemed to think that she needed their attention, apparently because she was young and alone.  She tried to politely discourage them, but was drawn into many unwanted conversations.  There were also occasionally men who tried to get her attention, but she had even less patience with them, and wasn’t even always polite when refusing their advances.  She had to switch seats twice, and ended up sitting next to one of the well-meaning matrons she had previously avoided, in order to get away from a middle-aged salesman from Davenport who kept telling her that with her red hair and green eyes she looked like the actress Maureen O'Hara. 
By the time the bus had reached Columbus, Ohio, Linda had had her fill.  She got off, collected her bags, cashed in the remainder of her ticket, and made the decision to hitchhike the rest of the way.  It might be a bit dangerous, she knew, but Linda was up for the adventure, and she would be careful.
 As luck would have it, the first car that stopped after Linda put her thumb out along the side of Highway 40 was a family from Duluth headed for Philadelphia.  They were driving the rest of the way straight through, so Linda could find another ride or take the train into New York from Philly.
 When Linda heard their destination, she was overjoyed.  They looked like a very nice family, a young couple who appeared to be in their late twenties, with two small sons.
 “Hop in!  I’m Eddie Swansen,” the driver said, in a friendly, slightly accented voice, “and this is my wife Sharon.”  He got out of the car, and put Linda’s bags in the nearly full trunk.  “As for those monsters in the back, I’m sure they’ll tell you more than you ever wanted to know.”
Linda laughed and climbed into the back seat between the two boys.  She smiled at them, and said, “Hi, my name is Linda.  Is it okay if I sit back here with you?” 
“Sure!” the older boy said.  “We wanted Mommy to sit back here, but she wants to sit with Daddy.  My name’s Adam and this is Paul.  I’ll be six real soon and Paul is four.  How old are you?”
“Adam, that’s rude!  You never ask a lady her age!” Sharon Swansen reminded her son.
“But Mommy, she’s not a lady!  She’s just a girl!” Adam exclaimed.
The Swansens and Linda laughed at this, and even little Paul joined in, just to be in on the joke.  Adam’s grin grew even wider.
“I don’t mind telling you how old I am, Adam.  I’m seventeen,” Linda answered, still giggling.
“Seventeen?” Eddie gasped.  “And out here all alone?  Do you have any idea…?”
“Eddie,” Sharon cautioned, as she put her hand on his arm.  “Remember me at seventeen?  I was just as fearless.  I’m sure Linda is being careful.  It was a pretty safe bet getting in the car with us, I guess.  We don’t look very dangerous, unless of course you consider noise dangerous.”  She turned from her husband to face the back seat, and continued, “Where do you come from, Linda, and why are you going to New York?”
“I’m from Council Bluffs, Iowa.  I’m going to New York to live with my Aunt Anna.”  She smiled, “Anna is really more like a cousin since she’s only seven years older than I am.  She lives right in Manhattan.  Her husband is a dentist, and she runs his office.”
She didn’t tell them that she left her parents with only a goodbye note, and that she had dreams of becoming a writer. 
“That sounds very exciting.  Good luck!” Sharon responded warmly.
Linda entertained the boys with songs and stories as they rode across the rest of Ohio and Pennsylvania, and whenever they slept, she chatted amicably with Sharon and Eddie.
Shortly after the car crossed into Pennsylvania, Linda pulled out her journal.  Before she could write anything, Adam asked, “What’s that?  Will you read it to me, Linda?”
Linda smiled at the boy, “I’m, sorry, Adam, but this is my journal, and I don’t read it to anyone.  I write things in it.”
“What’s a jurral?” he asked
“A JOURNAL is a book where you write your most secret thoughts and feelings.  A very special friend of mine gave me this journal when I left home.  She said I should write about everything that happens to me.”
“Secrets!”  Adam said in amazement.  “Are you going to write secrets about me and Paul and Mommy and Daddy?”
Linda laughed and tousled his hair.  “Not exactly secrets Adam, but I am going to write about all of you so I will never forget you.”
“Adam,” Sharon called from the front seat.  “Give Linda some time for her writing, please.  Why don’t you look out the window and see how many cows you can see, okay?  And try to be a little quiet, Paul is asleep.”
As Adam looked out the window, and began softly counting cows, Linda began to write.

 May 28, 1952 (Sunday)
  I’m in Pennsylvania now, that’s five states so far since I left Iowa
the day before yesterday.  I have two more to go, then NEW YORK!  I can
hardly believe that I’m almost there!
 I’m so glad I got off that bus!  I felt like I could walk that fast, and
some of those people!  Ugh!  One thing’s for sure: I have plenty of ideas
for interesting characters now.
 I’ve been riding with a wonderful family from Minnesota ever
since I left Columbus.  They have two adorable blond-haired boys, and
Sharon is a fascinating woman.  She even seems to understand what
I’m feeling and why its so important for me to get away and be on my
own.  She’s a strong woman, and a lot like Jean, although I can’t see
Jean as a wife and mother.
 Sharon and her husband Eddie have a kind of marriage like
I’ve never seen up close.  Sharon handles the money, and Eddie helps
care for the boys, something that Papa has always called ‘women’s
work.’  He doesn’t make any decisions without consulting her.  They are
truly partners.  Sharon doesn’t ‘obey’ Eddie, the way Mother always
obeys Papa.  Perhaps there is hope for marriage after all, but I still don’t
think it will ever be for me.  It would be nice to have someone to love, of
course, but I don’t see why a woman has to give up her life and her
name for a man.

 As the car approached Philadelphia, Eddie invited Linda to stop by his mother’s house to freshen up and get a bite to eat before going on.  Linda had greatly enjoyed the Swansens’ company, so she accepted the offer, but was eager to get to her destination, so as soon as she had finished the meatloaf sandwich Mrs. Swansen prepared for her she was on her way.  As Sharon drove Linda out to the highway she gave her their address in Duluth, and Linda gave her Anna’s address.  Sharon asked Linda to let them know how she was doing in New York.
 “I will, Sharon.  You and Eddie have been wonderful to me, and the boys are great.  I’ll send you a card as soon as I get settled.”
 As Linda moved to open the door, Sharon said, “Linda, be careful.  Not everyone will be like us, you know.”
 “I know, Sharon, and I will be careful.  Thank you for everything.”
Sharon was barely out of sight when a car stopped.  This vehicle contained a man who looked to be in his mid thirties, and although Linda was apprehensive, she opened the door and leaned in to talk to the driver. 
“How far are you going?” she asked.
“As far as you want, chicky,” the man grinned, winking at her.
Linda stepped back, and slammed the door.  She shouted, “I don’t think so.  I don’t want to go nearly that far.”
As she turned to walk away she was shaking a little and somewhat concerned that the man might get out of his car and try to follow her, but another car was pulling along the shoulder and he sped off.
A young man who looked about Linda’s age called out, “Is everything all right, Miss?  Do you need some help?”
Linda smiled cautiously, and answered, “I’m fine, thanks.  I was trying to get a ride, and that guy who just drove off was a little bit scary.”
“Where are you going?  I can give you a lift.  I’m going as far as Princeton.”
Linda’s eyes brightened, “Oh, do you go to school there?  I’d love to go to college someday!” she exclaimed.  “I’m going to New York City.”
 “Yes, I go to school there.  I can probably find someone on campus who is heading into the city, so I can probably get you a ride the rest of the way.  My name is Ben, Ben Goldman.  What’s yours?”
 “Linda Jacobs.  It’s nice to meet you. Ben.”
 Linda got into the car, and threw her bags in the back seat.  She and Ben had a pleasant conversation, laughing together when they realized how alike their fathers were.
 “You’re Jewish, aren’t you?” Ben asked.
 “Half, I guess,” Linda answered.  “Papa was raised Jewish, but Mother’s family is Irish Catholic.  My parents were rather bitter toward religion, because their marriage was not supported by their churches or their families, so my sister and I were raised basically without either one.”
 “That’s kind of sad,” Ben replied.  “My faith is very important to me.  It’s a comfort also.”
 Linda looked at him as he drove, “I didn’t say I don’t have a faith, because I do.  I’ve done a lot of reading the past few years, and I’ve kind of combined the best of both, plus I’ve thrown in a few other things that just feel right to me.”  She continued, a bit more thoughtfully, “I know it isn’t traditional, but my faith is a great comfort to me also.”  
 “Um…I didn’t mean any disrespect, or anything.  I apologize,” Ben said, quietly.
 “I’m not offended, so don’t worry about it,” Linda said good-naturedly.  “How will you know, unless you ask, right?”
 “Do you have family in New York?” he asked, watching the road.  “Is that why you’re going there?”
 Linda didn’t go into much detail, and simply answered, “Yes, I’m going to stay with my aunt.”
As they rode on, they continued to make small talk.  The conversation was light and easy and Ben was charming,  pointing out some of the sights and telling funny anecdotes about many of them as they traveled through central New Jersey.  Once they arrived at Ben’s dorm, he was true to his word, and found Linda a ride the rest of the way to New York. 
She thanked him, and as he stood by his friend Steve’s passenger window, Ben asked, “I’ve had a great time getting to know you, Linda, can I see you again?  I come into the city every few weeks, and I could call you at your aunt’s.  We could go for coffee or see a movie if you would like.”
“That would be nice, Ben,” Linda smiled, and gave him Anna’s address and phone number.  “Give me a couple weeks to get settled though, okay?  Thanks for everything.”

The alarm startled Linda out of her sleep, and she realized that she had been dreaming about her trip cross-country, and also about Ben.  She hadn’t seen Ben in over a year, and had barely even thought about him. She wondered how he was doing now as she fixed her coffee and dressed in her blue and white uniform for work. She wondered if he was enjoying law school, and if he had a girlfriend.  Although they had parted on good terms, she still sometimes felt guilty about the way she had handled the relationship, and that she had unintentionally led him on.
She had liked Ben a great deal, and enjoyed the weekends he came to visit her, but he was too much like her papa, too authoritarian.  He seemed to think that just because Linda had agreed to sleep with him that she ‘belonged’ to him somehow, and that the next logical step was marriage.  They dated on and off for nearly a year before Ben finally got too possessive, and everything fell apart.  The whole reason she had moved to New York in the first place was so she could belong only to herself, and she certainly didn’t want to get married, not to Ben, or to anyone.  She had too many other plans, and a husband of any kind simply didn’t fit into those plans.     
Linda looked out her third-floor window as she brushed her long red hair, and prepared to put it into the bun required for work.  She should be hurrying, since she had to leave in less than fifteen minutes, but she was in a thoughtful mood, and for some reason she was drawn to the window.
 She could feel the cold autumn wind coming through the old window frame, as she gazed down at the cracked front steps of the brownstone she had lived in for just over two years, practically since she came to New York as a naïve seventeen year old.  This was HER apartment, filled with HER things, and she was getting ready to go to HER job.  She had made it.  She had gotten what she came to New York for.  Still, her thoughts of the pre-dawn hours came back to her and she felt like she was waiting for something, or maybe even someone?, but what?  Who?
The man ran down the stairs, but Linda couldn’t get a good look at him since his back was to her.  She did notice his trim build, and his neatly cut brown hair.  He was only wearing a light jacket, and Linda couldn’t stifle the sudden and surprising maternal thought, I hope he won’t be out long, or he will be cold. 
I wonder who he is… Linda thought.  She had seen him coming and going from the building for a couple weeks now, but only at a distance, yet something about him reached into her soul and seemed familiar.  She felt like she knew him somehow, but that didn’t make sense, did it?
The man below turned and looked up, as if he was checking for something, and Linda saw his face clearly for the first time.  He had a very handsome face, and he looked very young, no older than she was surely, and winsome, but he also looked somehow sad, like a lost little boy.  Her heart caught in her throat and she gasped a little as she looked at him.  Was he looking at her too?  And what was causing her to have these unexpected feelings of tenderness and longing?
As suddenly as he had looked up, the handsome, sad stranger turned and hurried down the sidewalk toward the subway, and soon he was out of Linda’s sight, although he remained on her mind, and she looked after him for several moments.
Linda was left with these thoughts as she continued to get ready for work.  Who is this man, and why has he caught my attention like this?  Why do I find myself thinking about someone I’ve barely even seen clearly?  I’ve never had this kind of immediate reaction to anyone.  I’ve never felt this kind of… connection to someone I’ve never met, or to anyone I have met, for that matte). 

All day at the coffee shop, Linda continued to think about her mystery neighbor.  She poured coffee, placed plates of hot food in front of hungry customers, and chatted with her ‘regulars.’  She tried to make Marge, the other waitress, who was obviously having a bad day, smile a little, but all the while she kept watch, just in case he might come in.  It was possible, because the coffee shop was only a block from the apartment building.  Some of her neighbors, especially the single men, like Stan from upstairs, ate nearly every meal there.  I hope he IS single, Linda mused.  It would be just my luck though if he is married…
As Linda carried slices of apple pie to Stan and Billy, two of her regulars, she was thinking, If I only knew his name, then I could ask someone in the building about him.  I need to find out who he is.  Maybe Stan’s seen him.
Patty and Maureen, Linda’s best friends in New York, came by just before 3:00 p.m. to pick her up.  They were going to a movie, then out for the evening.  Linda knew she should do something to get this man out of her thoughts, but she wasn’t looking forward to spending the rest of the day with Maureen and Patty.  She loved them, but she wasn’t in the mood for one of Maureen’s frequent lectures about how she should start doing something with her life, or Patty’s constant matchmaking.  She had already gone out with six of the single men at Patty’s office, and she’d had her fill.  They both meant well, of course, but she enjoyed her job, and the opportunities to watch so many different people every day, and if she wanted to find someone to have a relationship with, she could find him herself.
Now that Linda thought about it, maybe she had found a man she wanted to have a relationship with, if she could just find out WHO he is.
“You ready, Linda?” Patty called from across the room.
“Just a sec, let me change,” Linda answered, as she sat the coffeepot down, and headed for the back of the coffee shop.
First, Linda took her hair down, and brushed it out.  It was curly, and a bit wild, but she liked it that way, and it suited her.  Her clothes smelled like grease and onions, so she took them off, and got a long gray skirt and a dark green blouse out of her bag.  Once she was dressed, she added big hoop earrings, two necklaces, a bangle bracelet, and three rings.  Trudy, the coffee shop owner frowned on her waitresses wearing excessive jewelry, so Linda looked more conservative while at work.
This was the ‘real’ Linda, the one she had always secretly been, even back in Iowa—untamed, unconventional, uninhibited.
As Linda put on her coat and the three friends prepared to leave the coffee shop, Linda noticed Marge scowling over the head of one of her customers.
“I’m glad I’m leaving now,” she whispered to Maureen and Patty.  “Marge is pulling a double shift today, and is in a foul mood.  I feel sorry for anyone she waits on tonight.”
This sent them all into a fit of giggling, and the three women went out the door.

Roddy trudged home, carrying a Fender Precision Bass in a case, toward his simple flat on East 66th Street after yet another dull, routine day. Upon leaving the photo lab where he had been working now for four months, he and his band mates, Dick Moore and Colin McCallister, had gone to audition at a little club near Times Square.  Club—ha!  It’s a crowded, smoky dive! Roddy thought.  Not exactly a dream gig, but they had to get work somewhere, and that’s about all this possible two-afternoon-per-week job offered—work, although Roddy tried not to be cynical about it, but rather think of it as the ‘dues’ he and the fellows had to pay before they found success.  No word yet on whether they would get the gig or not, but the owner assured them he would let them know in a day or two, and Roddy thought their chances were slim.  After that Roddy had made the rounds to almost every theatre and TV studio in town seeking acting work, but everywhere, yet again, they told him he was not the right type.  At least he had saved as much money as possible during the last few years, and he had also earned a comfortable sum a few weeks ago for his appearance on the Broadway Television Theatre and from the bar where he and the band had performed for three months.  He was then by no means very low on funds, but he was about to go crazy over his inability to get acting or band jobs.  He had never gone this long before, since his professional life had begun, between roles, and he could not get the words of his one-time agent out of his mind ---that he would not work again as an actor until he was at least 28 years old.  Well, he had four years yet to go then—to prove her wrong!
Brrrr!  He shivered, as a cold wind shook him.  It boded ill-tidings from the upcoming winter.  He pulled his light jacket tighter around his thin frame.  How dreary a prospect it was to contemplate going home to his lonely little apartment.  He walked slowly, considering visiting some friends.  Being with them would help, but he was tired and discouraged and did not feel up to going to the trouble.  What he really felt like doing was going home and hiding out for a few days, if it were possible—until he had succeeded in recharging himself from the ‘slings and arrows’ of the last several weeks.  It was apt to be a cold night too, he was reminded, as another blast of chilly wind hit him.
Now, with a disquieting and irksome sense of déjà vu, Roddy continued wending his way slowly down the sidewalk; night had come on fully, and the lights of East Manhattan glittered all around him as usual.  As he shuffled his cheerless way home, he recalled the first time he had seen all those millions of bright lights, little more than twelve years earlier.  How frightened he had felt then, having just left his ravaged, blacked-out London.  He had thought it foolhardy and unwise that so vast a city as New York was lit up so—as if offering itself as a beacon for the Nazis to bomb.  It had taken some getting used to, that was for sure.
The aromas of a variety of ethnic cuisines assaulted him; his stomach grumbled, and he suddenly realized he had not eaten anything since breakfast, and even then he had eaten only a bowl of corn flakes.  On the corner was a snug coffee shop, he remembered.  Its yellow lights beckoned, and the fog on the windows promised that it would be warm inside too.  He pushed open the glass door, inhaled the inviting odours of french fries and steaks, and took a booth by the far wall---propping the bass in the corner nearby.
A brusque matronly waitress took his order.  As Roddy lit a cigarette he guessed she had had a long day and her feet were hurting.  He slid further into the booth and rested his back against the side-wall, putting his legs up on the seat.  As he looked around at the other restaurant patrons, he felt more alone than ever.  There were only two others who were by themselves: a greasy-haired young man who looked as if he had a heavy chip on his shoulder, and a middle-aged woman who kept glancing around her hopefully, and periodically checking and retouching her make up in her compact mirror.  Everyone else was with a friend, lover, or spouse and kids.
Roddy sat there enveloped in a cloud of smoke and lost himself in his thoughts until the grumpy waitress returned with his burger.  He ate it disconsolately, sipped his Coke, and looked over several contact sheets he had brought with him from the photo lab.  With a grease pencil, he made some preliminary crop markings, and thought back to that day in early July when he had begun work there.
The way he came about the job had been encouraging, he had to admit.  He had taken several rolls of film by a drug store just down the street from the Algonquin, and after the fifth or sixth roll, he got a call one day from Daniel, who owned the lab that processed the drug store’s film..He told Roddy that his pictures were too good for such assembly line development, and that he ought to consider more customizable service.  Roddy, sincerely touched by Daniel’s kindness in taking the time to call him, had then accepted Daniel’s invitation to come by and see the lab. 
The following day Roddy took the subway down to 26th Street and 3rd Avenue where, as Daniel had told him, the lab was located, and before he had left two and a half hours later, he had a job.  Four months ago!  Was that all it had been?  Had he only been living in New York five months?  He shook his head, and took another bite of his burger.
Daniel had cheerfully greeted Roddy that bright summer morning on his first day of work, and then introduced him to each of the four other employees.  As he had learned during the tour the previous Thursday, there was a black and white photography darkroom, and another for colour.
 “Here, slip this on,” Daniel had said, handing Roddy a rubberized lab coat.  “It’ll protect your clothes from the developing chemicals.  They can leave horrible stains, and they’re very difficult to get out.  You don’t really need to dress nicely to work here,” Daniel added, noting the fine tailoring of Roddy’s attire.
 “Um, thanks,” Roddy had said, and slipped the garment on. 
 “Go on in,” Daniel said, and pointed for Roddy to get into the revolving door that led into the black and white darkroom. 
 Roddy went inside, and could not see anything at first.
 Soon Daniel was beside him.  “Come on, I’ll show you the magic,” he said, but it was soon clear that Roddy’s eyes had not adjusted yet to the dimness of the room.  Daniel laughed.  “Ah, you’ll get used to that soon enough.” 
 Daniel gave him a few minutes, and then they got to work.  He proceeded to show Roddy, step by step, the process of projecting a negative onto photographic paper, running a test strip to see how long of an exposure it needed, and then setting the timer again for the best one indicated.  Then the really exciting magic began when Daniel slid the seemingly blank paper into the Dektol in the first developing tray.  Within thirty seconds a strong image had begun to form, and after one minute and a half, the smiling face of a lovely girl looked up at them from the tray. 
 “Wow!”  Roddy said. 
 “Next you put it into this solution.  It’s called Stop bath, but some folks use plain water.  Stop bath works faster.”
 “What does it do?”  Roddy asked.
 “It stops the work of the Dektol.  Leave it in the Stop bath for fifteen to twenty seconds, and afterwards let it drain off.  Then put it into this third tray.  It has the Fixer in it.  This chemical fixes the image onto the paper, prevents all further development, as well as keeps the image from fading.  Leave it in the Fixer for from five to ten minutes, but you can turn the lights on after two or three if you want.  We hardly ever turn the lights on in here, though, since there are usually more than one of us working at a time.  Of course, we must clean up at the close of each shift, and then the lights come on.”
 Daniel was very patient, and a good teacher.  He again explained how long a print should be submerged in each chemical, and how important each step was.  It all seemed like a lot to remember at first, but Roddy vowed that on his way home later, he would pop into a book store and pick up a few manuals on darkroom techniques. 
 Next Daniel let Roddy expose a few prints, including test strips, and then to develop them.  “If all the negatives on a roll of film have about the same density of exposure, you can get by without running a test strip for each one,” Daniel explained. 
 “After the Fixer, you let it rinse in this running water for about an hour.  If you don’t, all the Fixer might not be washed off, and then the print might yellow.  Anyway, we’ll let those wash for a while.  I’ve got others ready that I can show you how to dry.  Go on back out into the other room.”
 Roddy had gone through the revolving door, and was at once blinded by the white light on the other side.  Daniel had followed, and had laughed good-naturedly again.  “You’ll get used to that too before long.  Come on,” he had added, and led Roddy into a nearby room.  “This is where we dry the prints.  There are several methods, but we usually use this electric dryer, or we use the old standards—blotting or air drying.”
 “Now, I’m going to set you to work making a few prints.  Kathy will be in there working too.  If you need help, just ask her.  She knows her stuff.  Think you can handle it?”
 “Yes, I think I can.  I’ll give it my best shot—but I’m glad Kathy will be nearby,” he added, with a sheepish grin. 
 “Here,” Daniel said, handing Roddy three rolls of 135 mm film, sleeved in separate envelopes.  “Make a 4” by 6” print of each negative.  You can hang them to dry or blot them.  It’s up to you.  See which you like best.”
 “All right.  I’ll get to work,” Roddy said, and returned to the darkroom.
 Of course, it took him almost his entire shift to do all the rolls of film, he thought back, and smiled, but when he had taken his work to show Daniel later, Daniel had been very pleased with his new employee’s performance.  He had complimented Roddy on his quick grasp of the techniques, and the care he put into the work.
 When Roddy had got off at four that first day, he had been a lot more tired than he had expected to be; his feet hurt especially from standing so long on the hard cement floor, and he had also felt slightly dizzy.  Assuming the dizziness was due to hunger, for he had been so eager to please that he had not taken a lunch break, he had stopped at a deli and had a sandwich.  After eating, he had felt somewhat revived, and the dizziness soon passed, so he had continued up the street until he came to a Scribner’s bookstore he frequented.  In there, he had bought three excellent manuals of photography.  They told everything he needed to know about darkroom procedures, as well as about composing photographs with a camera.  Roddy had hardly been able to wait to get back to his room at the hotel to call Elizabeth, Jane and his father, and tell them about his first day at his new job.
 On the third day, however, Roddy had begun to notice that the skin on the tips of his fingers was peeling, and although he had been sure to grab something for lunch each day, he had still been experiencing the dizziness.  Since there was no pain, he had chosen to ignore it all. After three more days, though, the peeling had given way to a rash.  It was with the next Monday’s event that Roddy had no longer been able to ignore what had been happening.
 He had been lying in bed asleep, when at about six AM, Roddy was shocked into wakefulness by a sudden inability to breathe.  It was as if his breaths were shutting on and off like a light switch that someone was toying with.  He had gasped, and had tried to take in more air by opening his mouth, but it had not seemed to help.  Rolling onto his right side, he had gasped and cried in tandem.  Calm down!  Crying will only make it worse! he had kept saying to himself, but it had been very difficult to think rationally. 
 “Sit up!” a disembodied voice had shouted at him, and advised him to readjust his position.  Even now he could not explain whose the voice had been, or even if it had been real, but…
 He had done what it had charged, and the change of posture had helped to some extent.  His involuntary wails also came in jumps and starts, and Roddy had thought, even as it was happening, that maybe this was somehow related to why a doctor slapped a newborn.  Did he smack the infant to cause him to squall and take in more air?
 Am I drowning too?  He had felt as if he might be, as if he were overboard in the middle of the vast sea, struggling to stay afloat in the dark, cold water.  He had flayed his arms, trying to find something to take hold of, but there was nothing there.  The undertow tugged at him, determined to draw him under, and into a murky, trench-like tunnel.  It would take him deep into the earth, all the way to the molten core.  Sulphurous fumes wafted up from the depths and surrounded him, and he gave up, too tired to fight anymore, lapsing into unconsciousness. 
 But then an arm grabbed him by the hair, and pulled him above the water.  “Sit up!  It’ll help!” that unidentifiable voice had once more urged him, as if from far away.
 He looked toward the calm but concerned voice, but it was all around him and nowhere all at once, and he was never able to see the source of the voice.  He had sat up as soon as he was finally able to again merge his intentions with his voluntary capacities.
 Although it had seemed to go on forever, it was all over with within fifteen minutes, and Roddy had felt totally exhausted by the ordeal.  Nothing like that had ever happened to him before, although it had happened several times since.  Despite his fatigue, he had not been able to go back to sleep in those early morning hours half a lifetime ago, but had lain in bed pondering everything until it was time to get up and start readying himself for work.
 Later that morning, when he had arrived at the lab, the first thing he did was tell Daniel what had happened.  Daniel explained that it was very likely an allergic reaction to the photographic chemicals.  “Do you think you should quit working here?”  Daniel had asked, and his concern had been sincere.
 “No!” Roddy said.  “No, I don’t want to quit.  I’m enjoying the work, and want to learn everything about it.  I’m not the type who lets a little thing like this deter me.”
 “Then you should see your doctor, and ask him to give you some cream to put on the rash, and maybe something to stave off the asthma attacks.  It could be just a matter of time, and you’ll adjust, but you need to find out for sure.   Why don’t you do that today?  We can handle things here for one day.”
 “I don’t even have a doctor,” Roddy confessed.
 Daniel smiled.  “Oh, well, I’ll give mine a call, and maybe he can fit you in.”
 While Daniel attended to this task, Roddy went and got started on making prints from a customer’s roll of film.  He was more careful than usual, and wore gloves whenever he got near the developing chemicals.  An hour later, Daniel found him at work in the darkroom, and told him his doctor could see him at 11:15, and handed him a note with the doctor’s address jotted on in Daniel’s bold hand.
 “He’s my brother, by the way,” Daniel added, as Roddy was slipping into his coat, preparing to leave.
 “Your brother?  Really?  Is that how you got me an appointment so soon?”
 “Didn’t hurt,” Daniel said with a smile. 
 “Thank you.  I hope I won’t be gone too long,” Roddy said, just as he was about to go out the door.
 Daniel shook his head.  “Get out of here.  I told you we have it covered for today.”
 Roddy found Dr. Benjamin Williams’s office easily enough. It was only a few streets over, near the start of Madison Avenue, and he did not have long to sit waiting in the lobby.  Once inside the doctor’s examining room, Roddy patiently answered all the questions he was asked, and Dr. Williams made notes in a chart. 
 “I’d say that you are having allergic reactions to the developing chemicals.  Dan had the same trouble at first.  I’ll give you a prescription for some salve to rub on the rash, and also for an inhaler that should prevent the asthma attacks, or it will get you breathing again quickly should you suffer another one.”
 “Daniel said I would probably adjust to the chemicals before long, and that they would cease bothering me.  Do you think I will?”
 “Chances are you will, unless you’re especially sensitive to them.  Be sure to wear gloves whenever you come into contact with the solutions, and take frequent breaks from the darkroom.  No matter how well-ventilated it may be, the fumes can sometimes be strong.  If this rash hasn’t healed in a week, come back to see me, or if you continue to have asthma attacks, let me know.”
 It had been about 12:30 when Roddy came back out into the street on that warm July day.  As he had headed back toward the photo lab, he had dropped off his prescription at the Imperial Pharmacy on East 28th Street, and as he waited for the medications to be filled, he had a grilled cheese sandwich at the drug store’s lunch counter.  As he had sat eating his sandwich, he had browsed through a Photoplay magazine, and saw recent pictures of some of his friends arriving at Hollywood premieres, or dining in the Coconut Grove, at Perino’s, or at one of the other popular venues.  He did not envy them, he had suddenly realized.  He could see through the ‘prop’ smiles most of them wore, and knew that despite their glamour and poise, they were quaking with nervousness and wishing that they could do simple, ordinary activities—like maybe having a cheese sandwich at a lunch counter—without having cameras shoved in their faces all the time.  Though Roddy had long ago gotten used to ‘that part of the job description,’ he had never enjoyed it or needed such constant reminders that he was “someone important,” as some of the sadder Hollywood cases seemed to need. 
 When he had finished his cheese sandwich, he had picked up his prescriptions, and headed back to the lab.  He returned at about 1:15, and since Daniel was busy elsewhere, Roddy had gone straight back to work. 
Over the next few weeks and months, Roddy and Daniel had become rather good friends, and they got into a pattern there for a while of going over to the nearby Finnegan’s Irish Pub after work and having a pint or two.  In the course of their leisurely conversations, Roddy had learned something of Daniel’s history.  He had served in a photographic unit during the war, and had been on hand in March and April 1945 when the Allied forces made the grisly discoveries of the death camps in Germany.

“I’ve TOLD you three time, Mikey, to stop throwing beans at your sister!” a harried mother screeched from across the room, and shatteringly brought Roddy out of his reverie.  Since he now noticed that he had unmindfully finished his sandwich, he paid his meager bill, left a more than generous tip for the undeserving waitress, and gathered up his things.  As he walked back out onto the street, he was reminded that it was no longer a sunny, warm day in July, but a chilly, dreary night in mid November, and that he had developed a lot of pictures since that earlier day, and beat unaccounted miles on New York City’s endless sidewalks. 
A hooker on the corner approached him; her cheap flowery perfume sickened him.  Roddy shook his head and continued on his way.  He was lonely, and it had been a while, but he was not THAT lonely

Three hours after they left the coffee shop, Linda and her friends were going up the steps of her building.  They had just seen Singin’ In the Rain, and all three were singing the title song, as they danced up the stairs.  They had been singing and laughing all the way home, and were looking forward to getting up to Linda’s apartment, where they could sit and catch their breaths, before finalizing their plans for the remainder of the evening.
Once they all got inside, Linda stopped at her mailbox.  She found a letter from her little sister, her utility bill, and various ads.  As she shut the small metal door, she looked at the other mailboxes, trying to see if there were any new names she didn’t recognize.  She saw two unfamiliar names, ‘C. Harris’ in 1-D, and ‘R. McDowall’ in 2-B, just below her.  Could one of them be the mysterious man who had invaded her thoughts?

Roddy ambled along again toward his apartment building, pulling his thin jacket tighter around himself and shifting the bass from one hand to the other, as he gazed blankly into the store windows he passed on his way.  This time a week ago he would have been getting ready to go down to the club on 14th Street, but when that contract had ended, the management had not renewed it.  What was wrong?  He and Dick and Colin were good, he knew it.  Sure, everyone can always learn more and improve, but they were quite as competent as many of the most popular artists, and better than some. 
 It was only a block to his apartment, an old brownstone, so he soon reached it.  As he opened the door, he heard girlish giggling, and saw three young ladies going up the stairs.  Their sweetly clean scents lingered in the dusty air of the hallway.  He watched them longingly, wishing he could join them. They seemed oblivious to everything else except whatever their private little amusement was about.
As the girls were about to reach the landing on the second floor, still singing and giggling, they felt the chill of the heavy front door below being opened.  They hurried up the remaining steps so they would be out of the path of the cold draft.
One of the girls, a willowy redhead, drew Roddy’s special attention.  Something about her called out to him, and the lithe, feline curves of her body and the way she moved spoke in other ways.  He watched as she and her friends continued up the stairs and reached the landing; then, briefly, he caught a glimpse of her face.  He staggered.  Her eyes, a luscious, iridescent green, like the colour of new leaves in spring, pierced something deep in his soul.  They reminded him of someone else’s eyes too, but whose? Of his first love’s, of Maureen O’Hara’s!  He almost called out to her, but stopped himself.  The girls went on their way around the corner, and he lost sight of them.
They were turning to go up the next flight of stairs, when Linda looked down for a moment, and saw him.  The collar of that thin jacket of his was turned up to protect him from the cold, and he looked completely defeated and alone.  She felt a strong urge to run to him right then, and would have done so, but Maureen and Patty were pushing her along, and all she got was that one quick glance.  She didn’t even think that she had begun to smile until she was out of his line of vision.
The girls’ jubilance and chatter could play a large part toward mending his broken spirit, Roddy knew, as he recalled how often just being with Elizabeth, Jane, or Amanda had done just that for him.  How he had missed them too, especially during the last few months.  How much he would like to lean his head on their shoulders and let them soothe away his troubles.
Linda resolved as she was ascending the flight of stairs, that she would get Patty and Maureen to leave as soon as possible and that she would think of a way to meet this man tonight.   She just needed to figure out how…
Roddy turned to check his mailbox, hoping there might be a card from someone back home. But, there was nothing of the kind.  Instead, he drew out a few advertising circulars, and a utility bill, but no friendly letters.  He slammed the door shut, and went upstairs to his room.  Dark and depressing it seemed too as he unlocked the door and pushed it open.  He placed the bass on the floor against the wall, and took his jacket off and draped it across a chair.  Although no lights were burning, he could easily pick his way through the dim, sparse room; the beacons of the busy, noisy city highlighted his way. 
How different he had felt a month ago when he moved in.  Then, all was exciting.  His first apartment!  Since settling in New York in June, Roddy had stayed first at the Algonquin Hotel, but after a few months, he had decided he needed to cut his expenses.  After all, he was not earning a $100,000 a year any longer, and it was hardly likely that he would be again anytime soon.  Perhaps he and the others would someday get some attention. God knows they were working hard enough.  Surely hard work eventually paid off!  That was the American way, wasn’t it?  It was the American Dream. 
Laughing gently, and grabbing a green apple from a bowl on his kitchen countertop, he recalled how he had been so eager to feel settled in his new flat that the first three nights he had spent there had been with undraped windows.  Though he had hung sheets over them, he had still felt he was onstage, and since he was NOT onstage, it had made him rather uncomfortable—for he hated feeling he was being watched when he was not performing.  He had never got used to it.  All through his clumsy teen years, he had hated the feeling that he could not go anywhere or do anything without someone gawking at him.  It was a wonder he was not a neurotic wreck! 
Still, finally getting his own place had been grand!  No more of Mother’s well-meaning, but snoopy vigilance, or her frequent soft taps on his door every fifteen minutes to ask him if he needed something.  No more restrictions over the people he might invite over, or when he might invite them.  He could stay out all night too, if he chose, and he would not have to explain every little thing he did.  And, he could have a beer as he sat in his living room and listened to the radio, or read, and not have Mother whining about how he was picking up bad habits from Farley or Dick or from all the other musicians he was consorting with.  God!  How had Dad stood it for so long!  Yet, he seemed to dote on such coddling.  Maybe service in two World Wars explained it, but Roddy did not think he himself could ever pick up an overabundant appreciation for “domesticity.”
But yes, coddling did have its virtues, he mused, discarding the uneaten apple he’d been tossing hand-to-hand and reaching for his pipe.  He filled it with apple scented tobacco, lit it, and then walked into the bedroom, smiling at how his mind had apparently been on apples all along.  Roddy’s father had given him this pipe on his seventeenth birthday.  Mother had, of course, derided the gift, considering it a nasty male habit, but Roddy had been very pleased with the pipe.  It had made him feel that finally his father saw him as a peer.  Not that it had been easy to learn to smoke it!  Roddy recollected, smiling, but he had persisted, and his dad had been an ever-patient teacher and advisor.  He always had been, even when, many years ago, they had often gone sailing together in Grandfather’s two-masted schooner off the coast of Burnham-on-Crouch in Essex.  And there were all the times he and Tom had sat in the den discussing philosophy and theology, or poring over navigation charts, atlases, and books on British history.  They had also made some forays into tracing the branches of the McDowall family tree.  It was a very thrilling discovery when they learned that they were descended from the notorious highwayman, Logan McDowall.  How that had set Roddy’s imagination off and running!  Although he had already been fascinated and deeply moved by Noyes’ poem, “The Highwayman,” Roddy had, since learning of his ancestor, never been able to read the poem in the same way as before. 
But where does the red-haired girl live, he wondered now, thinking of “The Highwayman’s” noble, self-sacrificing lady, Bess.  Does she have an apartment in this building, or does one of the other girls?  He turned on the lamp on the table, slipped out of his shoes, and plopped onto the bed.  Reaching for the book he had been browsing through, he put his glasses on, stuck his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and began to read..
Yeats was probably not a poet who was apt to improve Roddy’s current mood, but the wistful, fantastical tone of Yeat’s “The Song of Wandering Aengus” seemed most appropriate.

“…and caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:

“It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossoms in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air…”

He smiled, delighting in the images, but ruing their ephemeral nature, as he puffed his pipe and its aroma permeated the small room.  How I wish I could write poetry or lyrics even half as beautiful and meaningful!   Is the red-haired girl a charmed sprite too?  Was she only a vision?  Will she vanish like Aengus’s phantom lass?
 He had never felt such a strong reaction to anyone in his life—except toward the seemingly always out-of-reach Elizabeth.  How ca I meet the girl?  What if she doesn’t live here?  I might never see her again!
 
Linda was quiet once they got into her flat, and Patty asked, “What’s wrong, Linda?  All the life seems to have drained out of you all the sudden.  I thought we were going out tonight.”
“I guess I’m just tired.  I worked today, you know,” she said, covering her mouth to yawn.
“At that dead end waitress job,” Maureen quickly added.
“Not tonight, Maureen,” Linda sighed,  “I don’t have the energy.  “Why don’t you two go ahead without me tonight?  I need to read and answer Tracy’s letter, and I think I’ll turn in early, since I’m working the breakfast shift again tomorrow.”
“You spend too much time alone, Linda.  It isn’t good for you,” Patty said.  “Maybe I could call John, from work, or maybe Todd’s friend Kenneth?  They’ve both been dying to meet you.”
“Another time, okay?  Anyway, I like being alone sometimes.  You two go have fun, and don’t worry about me.” Linda said, as she literally pushed her friends out the door.  “You can tell me all about it tomorrow.  I’ll be at work until four, so drop by sometime.”
They reluctantly agreed, and Linda sighed as the two of them walked down the hallway to the stairs, giggling and chatting as before.

 Roddy jumped up and paced aimlessly in the center of the room.  What to do? he asked himself for the umpteenth time since entering his flat.   Go knock on every door until I find her?  Probably not a wise idea!  Setting his pipe in an ashtray, he went to the window by the fire escape, and pushed up the sash.  The night chill was much colder than it was only a little while ago, but he drank it in as he tried to slow his heart rate.  Hearing giggles passing by in the hallway, Roddy rushed to his apartment door and looked out.  Two of the girls he had seen earlier were walking down the corridor.
.
Linda watched her friends as they moved away.  She could hear them giggling while walking down the stairs as she leaned against the door-frame, and tried to think of a viable plan.
Okay, she told herself, he’s here in the building right now...surely he’s still here!  If I’m going to meet him, this is my chance.  Which one is he, C. Harris or R. McDowall?  R. McDowall is directly below me, so maybe I can hear…

 “Hey!” Roddy shouted.  “That girl…”
 The young women turned back to see who owned the voice, and then eyed him curiously.
 Roddy smiled, and walked toward them.  “That girl you were with earlier: does she live here somewhere?”
 “Linda?” the brunette asked, and cocked her eye glasses to look at him more closely,
noting that he had forgot his shoes and he had a foreign accent.  “Yeah, she lives here.”
 “So that’s her name, Linda,” Roddy said, smiled, and pondered the information. 
 The blonde grinned and nudged her friend.  “Yeah, Linda Jacobs,” she said, popping her chewing gum, then adding.  “She’s in 3-B.”
 “Why you wanna know?” the brunette asked, with the tone of a mistrustful big sister.
 Roddy laughed gently, shrugged, and tried to give her his best smile.  “Oh, I just hope I can meet her, and get to know her.”

Linda’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of muffled voices coming from the floor below.  She couldn’t make out words, but she thought she could hear Patty, and she thought she could hear a man’s voice.  Could it be him?  What could Patty and Maureen possibly be saying to him?

 “You’re new around here, aren’t you?” the blonde asked Roddy.
 “Yes, I’ve only been here a few weeks,” he answered.
 “What sort of work do you do?” Maureen, the brunette demanded.
 “I’m an actor and musician…” Roddy began, but upon seeing Maureen’s negative expression quickly added, “and perhaps a photographer too.”
 “You aren’t sure if you’re one or not!”  Maureen said, rolling her eyes.  She grabbed at her friend’s hand, and they walked away.  Patty, the other, friendlier one, looked back at Roddy and winked.
 He gave a little wave, and returned to his room.

Linda heard a door close, then more giggling, fading into silence, and finally the heavy front door of the building opened and closed.
This was it.  She would go down to see him.  How?  She suddenly asked herself.  He might think I’m way too forward, and that would get us off to a bad start.  She hesitated, and paced around in the hallway just outside her apartment door.  That’s ridiculous, Linda! she told herself.  That sounds like Mother!  If I want to meet him I should just go down and MEET him!

 Roddy was in his room no more than five minutes before the compulsion to go upstairs and introduce himself to Miss Linda Jacobs grew too strong to ignore.  Cursing himself, questioning his sanity, he still tried to ignore the inner voice that was urging him into action.  Eventually, he answered it.  What could it hurt?  She could only slam the door in my face, or tell me to get lost.  Either of those responses would surely hurt his pride, but if he did not do something, he would find no peace of any kind.  He would forever feel that he had let something very momentous pass him by through his own timorous hesitancy. 
 Roddy went into his bedroom and combed his hair, changed his shirt, slipped into his loafers, and hoped he would not make too bad an impression.  For some reason he felt he needed to make a gift to her of something, but what?  There was nothing suitable, and it seemed too pushy a gesture to make to someone he had not yet met.  He took a deep breath, and told himself that he would just have to wing it, do his best, and hope she would not think him crazy.

Finally, quivering with anticipation and nervous energy, Linda stepped back into her apartment, and sought the place where she had laid her keys.  Then she heard footsteps in the hallway.  She spun around, and there he was, standing in her doorway.
 “Linda?”  Roddy asked tentatively, afraid she would be suspicious of his motives.
 “Yes…” she said with a smile, as she felt her heart pounding, It’s HIM!  He’s HERE!  Has he been watching me, trying to meet me too?  “I’m Linda, Linda Jacobs.”
 “I’m….my name is Roddy McDowall.  I live on the second floor.  I saw you earlier when you and your friends were going up the stairs.  I hope this won’t sound too weird, but I just had to come here to say hello and to introduce myself.”
 Oh my God!  He has been trying to meet me!  How did he find me?  How does he know my name?  She smiled to herself, Of course, I know his, so I guess him discovering mine isn’t so far fetched, and I did just hear Patty talking with someone downstairs.  Linda inhaled deeply, and stepped back into her apartment.  Gesturing, “Yes…I’ve seen you around the building lately.  Won’t you come in?”
 Roddy fought back a wave of timidity and went inside.
 “Could I offer you something?  Tea or soda?” she said.  He noticed that she had not shut the door.
 “Sure,” he answered, “whatever you have would be great.”
 “Well, sit down.  I’ll be right back,” Linda said, and went toward her kitchenette.
 Roddy sat on the plaid sofa and glanced around the room.  It was much homier than his.  Some stuffed animals were in a little red rocking chair, and a four-shelf bookcase sagged from age and the numerous volumes filling its entire space---and spilling onto the nearby floor.  He wished he could read the titles, but he could not see well enough from where he was sitting.
 He tore his gaze from the books and saw that Linda also had a portable phonograph on a wooden crate across from the sofa, and a great many records—older 78s, and the newer 33 1/3 LPs and the smaller 45 rpm vinyls.  He wondered if she liked any of the same artists he liked, so he got up and walked over to browse through Linda’s collection. Doing this reminded of how much he had missed listening to recorded music since moving to New York.  Although he had an excellent collection of records, it was, as of yet, still in his room at his parents’ house.  He had been listening to the radio since arriving in New York or to records while visiting friends, but that was not the same as being able to hear whatever piece of music he wanted to hear at any one time.  Of course, there were numerous nightspots, concert halls, and opera companies in the city, but he had not felt he could yet really afford many such luxuries—though he and Dick and Colin, and others had certainly gone to any and all nightspots their frugality permitted.  It was part of the business—you had to know what your competition was. There had been many times, though, since moving here, that he had wanted, even needed, to hear one of his records so that he could gets its rhythm down in order for them to be able to do their own performance of it.  Yes, he would have to send for his phonograph and records as soon as possible, and his recorder.  They had needed it many times since coming to the East Coast.  He had been intending to send for all of these things, and others, for months now, but life always kept getting in the way—too busy, not enough funds, and the like.
 Linda returned bearing two glasses of ice and two bottles of 7 UP on a tray.  “Here we are,” she said brightly as she set them on the little round table in front of the sofa, and poured the soda.
 “Thank you very much, “ Roddy said, as he took the glass Linda offered and sat back down.  He was too conscious of his own nervousness to be aware of hers.
 “It looks as if you’re quite a reader,” he said after taking a sip of his soda.
 “Oh yes, “ Linda agreed, as she walked over to close the apartment door, and then sat in the nearby wicker peacock chair.  “I’m hoping that one day I’ll be able to take some classes at Columbia.  Right now I can’t afford it, but I’ve always read a lot and I read to prepare myself for when I can go to college.”
 “What do you want to study?”  Roddy asked.
 Linda pulled her legs up into the chair, and seemed to relax all over.  “I’m not sure yet.  I’m interested in too many things, something involving language or literature, probably.  Are you  a college student?”
 Roddy laughed gently, and pulled a cigarette questioningly.  Linda nodded and gestured toward the ceramic ashtray on the table in front  of him.  Once he’d lit up, he said, “No, though I’d also like to go someday.  Right now I can’t afford it either.  Trying to find employment takes up most of my energy.  I’m an actor, you see, and I work part-time in a photography lab, and…  Well, I’m also in the Organized Reserve Corps, so I go once a month to serve; in summer I go for two weeks.”
 “Wow!  How do you find time for all of that?  Have you been in many plays yet?”  Linda asked.
 “Quite a few, actually.  I’ve also done some television and some movies.  I like keeping busy.”
 She smiled broadly and nodded, as recognition dawned on her, and nodded.  “Oh, yes, you’re Roddy McDowall!”  She blushed, since that is who he had just said he was, so of course he was Roddy McDowall, but she hadn’t associated that name with the person sitting there until then.  She giggled self-consciously and continued, “I mean, you were the little boy from the Flicka movies and How Green Was My Valley.  I thought you looked familiar somehow, but I hadn’t made the connection until now.  I’ve seen quite a few of your movies, though it’s been a while since you made any, hasn’t it?”
 “I made one earlier this year,” he said hesitatingly, a little embarrassed, “but it didn’t amount to much.  I’m sick of Hollywood…  Well, kind of.  I was bored with the parts I was getting.  No one wanted me to grow up, but I couldn’t help it.”
 “They wanted to keep on treating you like a child, didn’t they?  They wanted to shove you into their categories and imprison you there forever.  I can certainly relate to that.  Is that why you ran away too?”
 Roddy nodded and took a long drag from his cigarette.  “But I didn’t run away exactly; it’s more like they ran me out of town!  I did finally have to decide that I absolutely had to strike out on my own, get away from home, you know.  My mother didn’t want me to leave, but she couldn’t stop me either.  So, you ran away, huh?  Where from?  Did you really run away?  Did your folks wake up one morning to find you gone?”
 Linda laughed.  “I left a note so they’d not send the cavalry after me, but yeah, that was about how it happened.  I left Council Bluffs, Iowa over two years ago.  I rode the Greyhound half the way, got sick of it in Columbus, Ohio, and hitchhiked the rest of the way.”
 “You’ve shown a lot more spunk than I have, “ Roddy said, much impressed.  “I didn’t even know how to buy a train ticket until a few months ago.  Everything had always been done for me.”
 “I would’ve thought you child stars were old well beyond your years, living in ‘Sin City’ and all.”
 “In some ways that may be true, but in other ways most of us are more naïve than most twelve year olds.  We know how to work, to take on responsibility in that way, but not much else.  We weren’t allowed to go anywhere alone much; forget about having a normal date.  Even if we did manage to get away from our keepers for a few minutes, there’d soon be photographers or autograph hunters in our faces.  I always feel someone is watching me, even when I’m alone in my room.  I hope that will pass; at least I can get around in New York more anonymously than I’ve been able to do in Los Angeles.  I’ve really been enjoying it too.”
 “Hmmm,” Linda murmured as she drank some soda.  “I hadn’t ever thought of that aspect of fame.  It must have been awful for you!”
Roddy shrugged, “Well…  But I want to know more about you.  Do you play guitar?” he asked, indicating the battered Martin acoustic leaning against the corner wall.
 “Yes,” Linda said with a sunny smile.  “I play a bit.  Do you?”
 Roddy grinned.  “A bit.  Why don’t you play something for me?”
 “Maybe later,“ Linda conceded, “after we’ve gotten to know each other a little more.  For now let’s just sit and talk, okay?”
 “”Okay, later then,” Roddy agreed.  He continued, “I’ll be sure to remind you.  You have a lot of records…I was looking at them a bit ago.  I had to leave my collection in Los Angeles.  I hope I can have it sent to me before long.  How about playing a record for me then—since you’re too modest to play your guitar?”
 “What shall I play?” Linda asked, unfolding her legs and hopping out of her chair.
 Roddy shrugged and grinned.  “I don’t really know what all you have, I only barely looked.  From what I had time to see, you have very eclectic tastes.  Choose something you love.”
 Linda considered for a moment, flipped through her record stack, and chose an LP.  Thirty seconds later J.S. Bach’s “Arioso” came through the speaker.  Roddy smiled; it had long been a favourite.
 Outside a gentle rain began to fall, but neither noticed.
 “So, what do you do, until you can afford to go to college?” Roddy asked, leaning back on the sofa for the first time.
 “I’m a waitress at the coffee shop on the corner,” Linda said, and perched in the peacock chair again.
 “You’re kidding!  I was just there a while ago.  I had a hamburger.  A woman who didn’t seem to be feeling well waited on my table,” he added with a smile.
 Linda returned his smile, and laughed: “That was Marge.  She was having to pull a double shift, and she wasn’t too happy about it.”
 “That much was clear.  What hours do you work?”
 “They vary.  I’m usually there during the day, but we have to fill in for each other sometimes.”   
She took a sip of soda and looked at him carefully, “How did you know my name anyway?  Have you been watching me, or something?” she asked, with a twinkle in her eyes and a giggle in her voice.
Roddy didn’t notice that she was teasing him, and he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  She probably thinks I’m a nut now.  I suppose it won’t be any worse if I tell her the whole story.  He lit another cigarette, cleared his throat once, and began, “No, I would never do anything like that, please believe me, Linda.  I just saw you a while ago going up the stairs with your girlfriends…I…I felt like I had to meet you.  I heard your friends going by my door, so I went into the hall to see if you were with them.  You weren’t, so I asked them about you. The blonde-haired girl told me your name, then I went down and checked the mailboxes.”  He paused and looked at her, “Do you think I’m completely crazy?”
Linda laughed musically, easing his mind, “If so then I’m crazy too!  I HAVE been watching you, ever since you moved here.  I watched you leave for work this morning, and I’ve been thinking of you all day.  I checked the mailboxes too.  I was ready to come down to your apartment when you came up here.  We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”
“I guess we are,” Roddy agreed, relieved, “and apparently destined to meet.”
“Yes, that must be,” Linda added.
 Referring to a nice souvenir book from the Metropolitan Museum on the table in front of him, “You like art, huh?”  Roddy asked.
 “Oh, yes!  Do you?”
 Roddy nodded, set his glass down on the floor, and picked up the book.  “Come and show me what your favourite works are,” he said, gesturing for Linda to sit by him on the sofa.  Linda didn’t hesitate to join him, and they leafed through the volume.
 Linda stopped on a page with some paintings by Monet, “Oh, look at these!” she exclaimed.  “I love his water lilies paintings, they look like they are seen through a dream, or something.  This one is called Bridge Over A Pool of Water Lilies.  Oh, and this other painting,” she added, “they just got it last year.  It is Vetheuil in Summer, isn’t it beautiful?”
 “Yes,” Roddy said reflectively, as he studied the pictures.  “They do look like they were seen in dreams.  How poetic a notion that is too!  How challenging it must be to translate dream images into paintings, or words too, for that matter….as Proust tried to do in Remembrance of Things Past, or De Quincey, in Confessions of an English Opium Eater.  I’ve done some painting, by the way, but I know I am not very good.  I just did it for the joy of it.”  
“Really?  I paint too, also just for fun.  I would love to learn enough to get that kind of effect.  Maybe someday…” Linda replied, and turned a few more pages, then stopped again, a thoughtful expression on her face.  The painting she was looking at showed a rural landscape with various colored clouds looming above it.  “This is by a Dutch painter named Von Ruisdael,” she explained, “but it reminds me of Iowa.  It is called Wheat Fields.  Look at the clouds!  You can see the sun shining through parts of them and the gray of moisture stored in others.”
Roddy gazed admiringly at her, “You are a poet,” he said.
Linda smiled, blushing.  “Well…”
As they relaxed, they inched closer and closer to one another, and Roddy became drunk with her fragrance.  It almost made him dizzy, and he had to concentrate especially hard to keep his mind on the conversation at hand.  He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he knew he had best put that thought quickly out of his mind for the time being.
 Why?  He thought to himself, is she affecting me this way?  Only one other person had made a similar immediate impression upon him during his entire life.  Despite all the beautiful actresses and fans he had met, despite all the handsome young men, only that one other person had drawn such a powerful, immediate reaction. 
Linda continued flipping through the book, “Here is a nice Van Gogh, Cypresses, but it isn’t as vibrant as some of his other paintings.  I love his paintings that use bright colors!”
“I love Van Gogh’s paintings too.  I don’t know what it’s called, but there’s one of an almond tree in bloom.  It’s simple and not very colourful, but beautiful to me.  I think Vincent was fascinated by Japanese art at the time he painted it—the way the Japanese depict everything so naturally, and without much clutter.  Humanity is little more than an autumn leaf blown about by the wind, soon to crumble into dust.  Or individuals are, anyway; life as a whole is possibly as eternal, but compared to the mountains, trees and rivers, each of us is momentary.”
 “Well, yes, I suppose so,” Linda said thoughtfully.  She looked at him and smiled, “I think you’re a bit of a poet too.  Oh, and here’s a Picasso, of Gertrude Stein, no less, and it actually sort of looks like her.  Her eyes and nose are even in the right places!”  She giggled as she turned a few more pages.  “I hear they have a new Georgia O’Keefe, they got it a few months ago, but I haven’t been to see it yet.”
“Maybe we could go see it together, if you’d like.  I’d like to see it too.  I love her paintings of flowers.  They are so sensual!  Ansel Adams has done similar things in his photographs of flowers, but O’Keefe’s paintings are so colourful that they startle and delight all the senses.  Adams’ photos are black and white, and seem much more sedate in comparison.”
“Yes, that would be wonderful!  Thank you.  I haven’t really had anyone to go such places with lately…”  I used to go with Ben, she thought, in fact he is the one who introduced me to the Met.  Aloud she said, “My friends Patty and Maureen—the ones you talked with—aren’t very interested in art museums.”
Roddy struggled to pay attention, and to maintain coherence in his remarks, but he found himself drawn time and again to an examination of Linda’s body.  He shook his head, and forced himself to divert his scrutinies to the OTHER art works instead.
 The music ended, providing a change in the angle of Roddy’s scrutinies.  Linda got up to put on another record, and Roddy studied her lithe figure as she walked to the phonograph and back.  Soon the bittersweet strains of Rodgers’ and Hammerstein’s “If I Loved You” from Carousel began.  “I just got this a few weeks ago.  Isn’t it lovely?”
 Roddy, focusing on the lyrics, nodded.  “Yes, very,” he said.  “Did you see the musical when it was on Broadway a few years back?” he asked.
 Linda shook her head.  “No, I hadn’t come here yet, but my friend Maureen did.  She got me the record because she knew I’d love it.  I see as many musicals as I can though, I love them!” she said, and perched in her peacock chair again.
 “Perhaps we can go see something like that together soon too.  There has been talk in Hollywood about making a movie of it, but it hasn’t got off the ground yet,” Roddy explained. 
 Linda blossomed with excitement.  “Really?”
 “Sure, I read about it in an issue of Daily Variety.  But we could go see some musical together, or a movie, anyway.  I wouldn’t really care what—if I were with you.”  Roddy ventured, looking straight into Linda’s eyes.
Linda blushed.  Noticing that Roddy’s glass was empty, Linda hopped up, “Can I get you something more to drink?” she asked.
 “No, thanks.” he answered, gazing at her admiringly. 
Linda still felt a bit nervous, and still overwhelmed by the whole situation.  She needed to burn off a little of her nervous energy, and clear her head a bit, so she went into the kitchenette, and called behind her, “I’m going to get us a little snack.  I’m sure I have some fruit in the fridge.”
 She returned in a few moments, carrying a wooden bowl, full of seedless green grapes.  She set the bowl on the table, next to the tray, and gestured for Roddy to help himself.  Their fingers touched as they each picked up a cluster of grapes, and they drew back, embarrassed.  Linda returned to her peacock chair. 
“Tell me more about yourself,” Roddy said, hoping to get the conversation moving again.  “You must like New York since you’ve been here for two years now.” 
 “Oh, yes!  I love the city!  I thrive in the city!  It’s the home I’ve been looking for my whole life—even when I wasn’t looking,” Linda beamed.  “I felt out of place in Council Bluffs.  There was no one there, well, almost no one, I really related to, however nice most folks were.  We just didn’t understand one another; it was as if we were from different planets.  I’ve made some like-minded friends here.”
 “Have you lived here the whole time you’ve been in New York?” 
 “No, I stayed at first with my aunt, she’s more like a cousin though, really, since she’s only a little older,” Linda said.  She was becoming a bit more comfortable, so she moved to the floor.  She sat cross-legged, and pulled her skirt down over her legs.  “She just lives over on East 64th Street, and is married to a dentist.  I lived with them until I’d gotten a job and had saved up enough money to get my own apartment.”
 “How fortunate it was that you had someone you could stay with for a while.   It would be a bit scary to come to such a large city if you didn’t know anyone at all.  Not that you seem the type of girl who’s afraid of much—if anything.”
 “Yes, that’s what everyone says,” Linda grinned, “and that I don’t know the proper place for a girl.  That’s one of the reasons I came here.” 
 Roddy grinned, got up, now that it would not be embarrassing to do so, and walked over to examine Linda’s Brigadoon poster, and her print of Benton’s Persephone.  “What do you like about this painting?” he asked, referring to the Benton painting.  It depicted a nude young woman lying by a stream, her clothes and a basket of flowers beside her, and a man, or perhaps the god of the underworld, Hades, peering at her from around a tree.  The colours were vivid and vibrant; it looked as if it had been painted by a Renaissance master, except that the girl was not fleshy enough to suit them, probably, than by a modern American. 
 “Why?  Don’t you like it?” Linda asked.
 “Yes, I do, but I want to know why you do.”
 Linda thought about it for a moment, taking another cluster of grapes from the bowl.  “Well, I like it for many reasons.  For one thing, it’s just so…alive.  The colors just jump right out at you.  Also I’ve always been fascinated by the myth of Persephone, and the journey she took to maturity.  She has to travel far away from home, and learn to cope in an unfamiliar environment.  It’s such a rite of passage.  Sometimes I see myself as Persephone.  Of course, most people can’t get over the nudity, so they don’t even think about what the painting means.  Some people are so shallow and closed-minded.”
 He nodded then knelt down to look at the books on Linda’s shelves.   “Eliot!  You have Eliot!  I’ve been reading The Four Quartets lately.  Powerful images there,” he said reflectively.  “Heavily metaphysical stuff!  ‘But to apprehend the point of intersection of the timeless with time, is an occupation for the saint—No occupation either, but something given and taken, in a lifetime’s death in love, ardour and selflessness and self-surrender,’ “ he quoted. 
 “You’ve memorised that?”  Linda asked.
 “Yes, I memorise things fairly quickly, but that was easier than many things because it spoke so powerfully to me.  Much in The Four Quartets did.  Like this, ‘Sin is behovely, but all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well…’  Eliot took that from a Medieval mystical memoir written by an English nun named Dame Julian of Norwich.  She believed that we learn most through our mistakes, and that we should not worry about them excessively.  To worry about our sins unduly is to lack faith in God’s promise of forgiveness.  And how about this one, ‘We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.’  Isn’t that awesome?”
 Linda nodded.  “How did you know about Dame Julian of Norwich?” she asked.
 Roddy plopped down on the floor too.  “I went to a school run by monks before I came to America.  During our mealtimes at the school the lector would read to us from the lives of the saints, or from other spiritual texts.  One day he read from Dame Julian’s book.  It made quite an impression upon me.”
 “How old were you then?”
 He thought a moment.  “I’m not sure.  Probably about ten or eleven.”
 “Did you like going to a school run by monks?”
 “Yes, I liked it very much.  It was very peaceful there.  I mean, the monks all seemed so peaceful somehow.  I considered becoming one of them for a time, or a priest, anyway.”
 “Really?” Linda asked, somewhat surprised.  “Why did you change your mind?”
 “I’m not sure I have changed my mind.  It’s just that life got in the way.  It wasn’t in my control really, and I just did what I was told.  I enjoyed it most of the time, for the most part, but I never had much opportunity to consider other options.  I love being an actor, too; I don’t know why.  I just have a compelling need to express myself in that way.  I can see now that being a priest or monk had something attractive about it to me because of its theatricality—you know, priest at the altar saying mass and all, and the colourful vestments and ancient rituals.  I don’t know really; I’ve not thought too much about it.  When you were a little girl, what did you want to be when you grew up?”
 “Unfortunately, I wasn’t supposed to want to be anything, except maybe a wife, mother, and upstanding member of the community; that was the problem,” Linda answered with a grimace.  “That’s the main reason I left when I did.  I knew that was the only future I could ever have in Iowa.  I would marry a nice boy, and raise nice children.  I was just so tired of nice!”
 She sighed heavily, and continued, “As far back as I can remember, I’ve written poetry and short stories.”  She giggled, “And sometimes not-so-short stories.  No one at home really understood me, except my Granny Kathleen.  She came to live with us when Tracy, my sister, was a baby, and I was about six.  She encouraged me, and would always let me read whatever I had written to her.  She would talk with me about it, ask questions, and give suggestions.  I think she could have been a writer, if she hadn't married so young, and had so many children, if she had been given some options.  She was a wonderful storyteller.  It may sound silly, but I came here to be a writer.  I write every day, and the coffee shop is a great place to observe people to get ideas for characters and stories.  I also write songs, and I’ve even performed at amateur nights at coffeehouses in the Village.”
 Roddy expressed even more interest and excitement upon hearing about Linda’s songwriting and performing, but he did not say anything—not wishing to interrupt her flow.
“I don’t know if anything will ever come of it, but I have to at least try,” she added.  She paused and smiled, “I’m sure you didn’t want to hear my whole life story.  I don’t know why I’ve told you all of this.  It’s very easy to talk to you, for some reason, but you are probably bored to tears by now.  I’m sorry for babbling on like that.”
 “I asked to hear it.  I want to learn anything you have to tell me,” he said, gazing intently into her eyes, and not quite sure himself the entire meaning of what he’d just said.  Linda looked away, and Roddy was sure he must have embarrassed her.  He bit his lip, and reached over to draw out another of Linda’s books: her volume of William Blake’s complete works.
 “Do you know what the hell Blake is talking about more than half the time?” he asked with a grin.  “The only poems I really understand are his ‘Songs of Innocence’ and ‘Songs of Experience,’ and I absolutely love the hymn ‘Jerusalem,’ from his poem on Milton.  It’s sort of the unofficial English national anthem nowadays, and Parry’s music sets if off beautifully.”
 “How does it go?” Linda asked.
 Grinning, hoping he could remember all the words now that he had shot his mouth off, he good-naturedly acquiesced:

“And did those feet,”

he began singing in a pleasant tenor voice,

“in ancient times,
Walk upon England’s mountains green;
And was the Holy Lamb of God,
On England’s pleasant pastures seen!

“And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

“Bring me my Bow of burning gold,
Bring me my Arrows of desire;
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

“I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England’s green & pleasant land.”

“Very nice!  You have a lovely voice.  I didn’t know you sang.  I’m impressed.”  Linda said, smiling. 
Roddy smiled, “Thank you.  I have sung a few songs in my time, you know.  When I was a boy and even more often recently—as when I did some vaudeville a few years back.  I’ve sung quite a lot actually.”
As Roddy was flipping through the book of Blake, a small sheet of paper fell out.  He picked it up and looked at it.  On it he saw a handwritten poem, and a little triangular shaped drawing. 

“ Times Three “

he read.

“We three
Often apart, but always together
Making many journeys
Through space and time
You and I,
You and He,
He and I,
Countless combinations,
In countless families
Living, laughing,
Loving, dying,
Being born again
Guiding each other,
Finding each other
Eternal love,
Times three.“

“Did you do this?”  he asked.
Linda blushed, looked at the floor, and nodded.
Roddy crawled closer to her, and put his arms around her to hold her.  “Why are you blushing?  It’s lovely,” he said, rocking her gently.  “Truly it is!  Who’s it about?  Do you believe in reincarnation?”
Linda looked up, and into his eyes.  “Um…I’m not quite sure who it’s about…me, and…some others…” she trailed off, not quite sure how to express the thoughts she was trying to convey, thoughts that were buried deep in the back of her mind, of her soul.  “And yes, I do,” she admitted.  “Do you?”
He nodded. 
“That isn’t Catholic doctrine, is it?” she asked.
“Not really.  Not officially, anyway.  I don’t care whether it is or not,” he answered nonchalantly.
Linda broke away from him, and scooted over to the phonograph.  She flipped through her stack of records again, and then chose one to put on the turntable—this time, Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons.”
Again Roddy was tempted to grab her and pull her into his arms, but he resisted the urge once more.  He sensed that he had already dared too much with her, and feared that he had made her uncomfortable.  He bowed his head, sighed heavily, and regarded her furtively.  His head had begun to mildly ache, and he rubbed his temples.  Now he was afraid to say or do anything else, and after he moved to get another cigarette they sat in silence, listening to the music and the soft rain outside.
“How old are you?” he asked a while later.
Linda looked at him thoughtfully,  “Nineteen.  I’ll be twenty in March.  How old are you?”
“I just turned twenty-four two months ago.  You said you have a younger sister.  Any brothers?”
“Yes, I have a little sister, Tracy.  No brother, though I always wanted one. I miss Tracy very much.  Those are her stuffed animals,” she said, indicating a Teddy Bear and a rabbit siting in the little red rocking chair.  “She gave them to me so I’d not miss being away from home so badly.  Do you have brothers or sisters?”
He nodded, “I have a sister also, Virginia.  She’s going to come to New York eventually.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Yes.  We’ve always been very close.  There’s only a year’s difference in our ages.  Our mother used to treat us almost like twins, though we don’t really look alike.  Vee looks more like Mother, while I favour Dad’s side of the family.  Do you miss your parents?”
“Yes…although I don’t know if we have ever been what could be called close.  Papa has always seemed distant, and he is very commanding, he is the unquestioned head of the house, and is very strict about some things.  He has a fun side too though, even if he doesn’t show it often enough.  About the only thing we have ever deeply shared is a love of all types of music.  He has all these great records, and we would sit together and listen to them for hours.  Mother has always been a little more approachable, but she is domineering also, even more than Papa in some ways.  We have never connected on a very deep level.  She is always so worried about appearances, and being ‘proper’—what everyone will think.  If I had stayed at home, she would have had me married off before the year was out.  Her life and her worth have always revolved around Papa…She is like an extension of him—not a person in her own right.  I don’t think that she can imagine a single woman being happy.  We are all mysteries to each other, but I do love them, and I know they love me.  We write often, and Tracy has been able to come for a visit; that helps.  Do you miss your parents?” Linda asked.
“I do, but I’m glad to be out on my own too.  My mother is a very imposing woman also.  I couldn’t live my own life around her.  She never liked any girl I dated, or any boy my sister went out with.  She probably wouldn’t approve of the nicest girl in the world,” he added, looking her straight on.   “I don’t care anymore.  It’s none of her business.”
Linda nodded, “No, it’s not!  I know all about parents who don’t approve of choices”
 A few minutes later, after the record finished, Linda turned the phonograph off, went over to pick up her guitar, and perched on the edge of the wicker chair again, very near to where Roddy was sitting on the floor, and began to play.
 She played in silence for awhile.   Roddy couldn’t quite place the haunting melody, but it seemed familiar somehow.  He leaned back against the side of Linda’s chair, stretching out a little, and closed his eyes, listening to the soothing music, and feeling his headache begin to slip away.
 His eyes remained closed as Linda began to sing words that fit the melody perfectly.
 
“Oh, the summer time is comin’
And the trees are sweetly bloomin’
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows among the bloomin’ heather.
Will ye go, lassie, go?

“And we’ll all go together,
To pluck wild mountain thyme
All along the bloomin’ heather.
Will ye go, lassie, go?

“I will build my love a bower
Near yon clear crystal fountain,
And on it I will pile,
All the flowers of the mountain.
Will ye go, lassie, go?

“If my true love she should leave me
I will surely find another
Where the wild mountain thyme
Grows along the bloomin’ heather.
Will ye go, lassie go?

“And we’ll all go together,
To pluck wild mountain thyme
All along the bloomin’ heather.
Will ye go, lassie, go?”

There was silence for a moment as the final note faded.
Roddy slowly opened his eyes and felt he was coming back into this world from another more wistful.  Where he had been, as in the song, was warm and sunny, and flowers of varied and electically vivid hue were in bloom all around him.  He looked up at Linda.  She was looking at him and smiling slightly, yet there were traces of tears in the corners of her eyes.
 Roddy turned a little so he was facing her, “You sing and play beautifully, Linda.  Why ever are you crying?  It’s a very moving song, I know, and it makes me feel like weeping too as I contemplate its images, but they are lovely images nonetheless.  I see visions of my own too, but I don’t really know where they’re coming from.”
 Linda wiped a hand over her eyes, “Oh, I’m not really crying…well, only a little.  This song has always been very powerful to me.  I know part of the reason—my Granny Kathleen taught it to me when I was a little girl, but the rest has always been a bit of a mystery.  It is like I see someone in this song, someone I know, but don’t know.  Do you know at all what I mean?”
 Roddy nodded, and looked off into the distance briefly.   Then, staring into Linda’s eyes, said, “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.  That is how I feel too, but you put it into words better than I was able to do.”
 “I’ve never met anyone like you, Roddy.  You seem to understand me, to know me, to see me more clearly than people who’ve known me for years.”   She gazed down at her old guitar; caressing its surface and feeling comforted by the familiarity of it.  “It’s a little frightening, but also very exciting.”
Roddy blushed and looked down momentarily, then back at Linda.  “I feel that way too… Won’t you sing another song for me, please?”
Linda adjusted her position a bit and began to play again.
 Roddy recognized this song before she began to sing, and before she said, “You probably know this one, but not some of these verses.  There are hundreds, I think, but I’ll just do a few.

“Lavender blue, diddle, diddle, lavender green,
If you were king, diddle, diddle, you’d need a queen
Lavender green, diddle, diddle, lavender blue
You must love me, diddle, diddle, ‘cause I love you

“Call up your men, diddle, diddle, set them to work
Some with a rake, diddle, diddle, some with a fork
Some to make hay, diddle, diddle, some to thresh corn
While you and I, diddle, diddle, keep ourselves warm

“A brisk young man, diddle, diddle, met with a maid
And laid her down, diddle, diddle, under the shade
There they did play, diddle, diddle, and kiss and court
All the fine day, diddle, diddle, making great sport

“I’ve heard them say, diddle, diddle, since I came hither
That you and I, diddle, diddle, should lie together
For you and I, diddle, diddle, we are now one
And we will lie, diddle, diddle, no more alone”

She grinned down at him, “Not quite the children’s song you thought, eh?  I guess it will live now as an innocent Disney song.  It’s a shame too…”
 Roddy smiled and nodded, a mischievous glint in his eyes,  “My mother never sang THOSE verses to me either, nor did our Welsh nurse, or if either of them did they went right over my childish head at the time.  That’s true about a lot of old folk songs, that they illustrate very mature themes, yet do it in a poetic, lyrical way.”
 Linda nodded, her eyes shining, “My mother or Granny Kathleen didn’t sing all those verses either…well, at least not when children were around.  I’ll bet Granny knew them all though!  Yes, those were songs of the common people, and they dealt with all the important issues in their daily lives—these would include lovemaking, of course.”
.”Maybe you could teach me a few chords.  Will you?” Roddy asked, a curious grin on his face.
“Sure, I’d love to sometime,” Linda answered happily, “although I’ve never given any lessons so I’m not certain how to go about it.”  She smiled at him brightly, “We’ll muddle through together, okay?”
 Roddy reached over and ran his fingertips over the smooth surface of the guitar.  “Teach me a few now?” he asked.  “How long have you been playing?  I have tried to play guitar a few times, but you have to twist your fingers into all those uncomfortable positions to make chords…” he added, smiling.
 Linda smiled, nodding and remembering, “This is about the only positive thing I really got from being a Girl Scout,” she said, patting the guitar.  “Mother got me into Brownies when I was six because that is what nice little girls did.  It was okay, fun even, the first few years, being with the other girls, helping people, doing craft projects, and going on occasional campouts.  As I got older though I guess I became more disillusioned, or perhaps just bored.  Maybe it was our troop leader, but things seemed to gradually change, as we grew older.  Most of the emphasis was put on manners, setting a perfect table, making a nice home for your husband and children…” 
She felt a little embarrassed over her strong feelings, and tried to explain, “Don’t get me wrong, I know those things are important, but we were still young girls.  We still needed to be outside and to get dirty.  Also, I saw what the Boy Scouts got to do, and it looked much more fun.  I did stay in a few more years, since it was so important to Mother.  I started fooling around with a guitar as part of a music merit badge.”  She giggled, “I couldn’t really play, but I played around at it for awhile.  The last summer I was in Scouts, the year I was twelve, I took the guitar Papa had gotten for me…did I tell you he loves all types of music?  Well, I took this cheap guitar to a weekend campout and played the few songs I could pick out around the fire each night.  It was magical!  The flames flickering, the smells of hot dogs and charred marshmallows in the air.  Tired, but happy girls sitting around me in a circle, singing the songs I was playing.  I was hooked!  That fall I found someone to give me lessons.  I guess I’ve been seriously playing for seven years now.”
“You got bitten by the footlights bug, didn’t you?” Roddy asked, grinning.
“Maybe a little, but not exactly.  I didn’t want to be separated from the people while I was playing.  I wanted us all to be part of something bigger…together.  It is somewhat dark around the campfire, so even the girls who were usually too self-conscious to sing would join in.  We were all one.  Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I understand.  It is a very special feeling when the performer and the audience manage to arouse that togetherness feeling.  It happens even if one person starts out being in the spotlight.  I’ve felt it occasionally when I’ve been on a stage, but usually I’ve experienced it when I’ve gone to see someone perform, someone who invites the audience to join in.” Roddy said, and his face took on a beatified expression as he relived those rare and very special occasions when the player and the audience did become as one.
“Yes,” Linda breathed, “that is exactly what I mean.  It is amazing that we understand each other so easily when we barely even know each other.”
“Well I meant it,” Roddy insisted.  “I sincerely meant it earlier when I said I felt drawn to you in a strange, but very unique way.  I do feel I know you, although I realize that makes no logical sense”
Linda set the guitar down beside the chair, and moved next to Roddy on the floor.  “I know.  I feel the same way too.  I’ve never felt anything like this about anyone in my whole life.  I don’t really understand it, but somehow I DO know you.  I know you as well as I know myself, better maybe.’’
“Maybe you will help me get to know myself better then.  I’m not sure if I really know.  All that you said about being a Girl Scout, I was struck by how…vehemently you are opposed to being…assigned to traditional female roles.  I’ve not met many girls who felt about such things as you do.  Most of the girls I’ve known don’t even seem to question the roles society has set for them to play—though there have been one or two who felt similar to how you feel.  If the others do too, they haven’t let on anyway.  They so often seem fascinated by table settings, or homemaking, even most of the young actresses I’ve known.”
Linda looked thoughtful, “Maybe we can help each other.  I’m sure there are sides of me I’m too stubborn, or maybe afraid, to look at.  I’ll help you all I can, of course.”
She sat silently for a moment, then continued slowly, “It isn’t that I don’t like being a woman, or that I’m ashamed of it.  I’m proud of who and what I am, but my whole life I’ve had restrictions put on what I could or couldn’t do, simply because I was a girl.  I think my mother was the worst!  ‘Linda, nice girls don’t do this…or that…or whatever.’  I don’t know if all women feel this way, but I don’t think so. I don’t think they struggle or feel confined the way I so often do.  Maybe they accept themselves more graciously.  I don’t know.  I guess I am a bit odd.”
Roddy couldn’t help but smile.  “Yes, maybe you are odd, but that is a positive, as I think you know very well.  I know what you mean about how mothers sometimes especially seem to browbeat their daughters into being ‘proper and nice.’  My mother has always done that to my sister and Virginia does find it sometimes annoying, but she also seems to buy into it.  I know that Mother’s brought us up differently, even though she’s made a big deal of how she’s treated us almost like twins—dressing us like we really were even though Vee is a year older than I am and we don’t look at all alike.  Mother encouraged,” he said, with a laugh, “us both to become involved in drama, but I was always the one she seemed to place her bigger bets on.  I honestly don’t think this is because I was the most talented.  It was because I was the boy.  My sister is a very fine actress but Mother never 'sold’ her as much as she sold me.”
“Yes, I’ve seen similar things in other families, but I have only a sister, so I haven’t experienced it firsthand.  I’m sure Mother would have treated a son much differently than she did Tracy and me.  For example, a boy with my grades would have been encouraged to go to college, but my parents never even considered it for me.  I didn’t need college, just a husband with a college education.  He would ‘take care’ of me,” Linda grimaced.
“I’m sorry,” Roddy said gently.  “You are very bitter about the way your mother has treated you.  I hope you get to go to college someday.”
Linda considered this a moment, “Yes, I suppose I am bitter still, which will never solve anything, so I should try to get over it.  I guess I am still bitter because it is still happening.  Every time I hear from my mother, I get the same questions, the same lectures.  She never wants to hear anything about ME, what I’m doing, what I’m feeling, what my dreams are.  She only wants to know if I am seeing a suitable young man and if it is ‘serious,’ meaning has he asked me to marry him.  I’ll never be much of anything in her eyes if I’m not a wife, and then a mother.”
Roddy giggled, “Not the other way round first!”
“Oh, no!  Never!  That would positively mortify mother!  She would have to move away, to change her name.”
“Well, of course, so would mine!  You know what I think, Linda?  I think you should stop caring what your mother thinks.  You probably think you’ve already stopped caring, but you haven’t.  Not really, not as much as you need to do.”
“You’re right, of course, but it is hard to stop caring.  I don’t care nearly as much as I used to, and I don’t let her opinions dictate the choices I make for my life.  It is much easier since I left home and she isn’t a daily influence.  Have you really stopped caring what your mother thinks?”
Roddy stared off toward the far wall.  “I know it is difficult, and no, I haven’t stopped, but I’m also less concerned than I was.  To be completely and baldly honest, one of the reasons I moved to New York was to get away from my mother also.  I did come here so I could study and pursue my chosen professions, but getting away from my mother was a major reason too.  She was literally driving me insane,” he sighed.  “She would feign heart attacks whenever any of us felt we needed to do something she didn’t agree was the right thing to do.  She would behave almost that badly simply if we had an opinion that differed from her own.”
Linda couldn’t help but laugh, and abruptly covered her mouth with her hand.  “I’m sorry, Roddy, but your mother sounds even worse than mine!  Why do some mothers do this to their children?  I would never presume to know the right path for my child.  I mean, if he or she was six, or even thirteen, but not my grown child.  Of course, I’ve never really thought about having children, so it is purely academic.”  She looked into his eyes, and touched his hand gently.  “I do think we each deserve credit for getting away, for getting out.”
Roddy’s gaze ran across Linda’s eyes, and then to where her hand touched his.  “Maybe you do, but I had to be pushed and prodded by well-meaning friends for several years before I actually got the nerve to leave.  I don’t know what I was thinking—that maybe she really would drop dead if I left!  Well, I’ve been here now for several months and the last I heard, she was still pretty much going strong.  She’s a real case, my dear mother!  I love her, but I swear, I can’t imagine how my father has stood her for 28 years!”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Roddy,” Linda said, giving his hand a squeeze.  “You friends didn’t break away and leave, YOU did, and you should be proud of that.  Some people never get away from their parents, you know.”
“It was either leave, or be hauled off to the California State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.  I chose what I hoped would be the lesser of two evils.”
Linda grinned, “Well, you’ve met me now, and if you spend too much time with me, being carted off to the State hospital is still a possibility?”
“Would you go with me?” he laughed.
“Go with you?  They would be carting you off BECAUSE you’re with me, so I think it’s a given!”
“Oh, okay, I was afraid you might duck out on me, leave me the scapegoat, and get carried off to Bellevue all by my lonesome.  So, you are a loyal soul too!  Marvellous!”
Linda’s first thought was, Maybe we would be locked up together, but even she was not yet bold enough to say such a thing out loud.  Instead she merely smiled, and said, “Abandoning you wouldn’t be right.  I’d never do that.”
“Ah, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” Roddy sighed.  “I don’t know why I’m whining about it now.  I’m sorry.  You’ve been very indulgent.”
“No more than you’ve been, and I did ask.  I guess these are still things we’re each carrying around, and we need to talk through a little more.  I’m glad I could be here for you, and I appreciate your trust in me.”
Upon hearing Linda voice the word ‘trust,’ Roddy smiled, turning his hand over, so their palms were touching.  “I DO trust you, but I can’t understand why…I mean I am a trusting person generally.  I don’t go around suspecting people of being unworthy of trust, in other words, but I don’t go around spilling my guts to someone I just met a few hours earlier.”
“I don’t either,” Linda agreed.  “I guess that demonstrates that there really is something special between us, although I don’t think I needed such a demonstration.”
Roddy gazed at her for almost thirty seconds, and so intently that Linda eventually looked away momentarily, then returned his gaze.  However, she never moved her hand away from his.  The feeling of his skin against hers, the feeling of physical contact with him, calmed, yet also energized her.  They sat there a few moments in silence, looking into each other’s eyes, their hands together, not moving.
“Come on, teach me a few chords and then I guess I should let you get some sleep,” Roddy said finally.  “I hope I’ve not overstayed my welcome.”
“Oh no, you haven’t!” Linda said, almost too quickly.  “I’ve loved spending time with you tonight, and I hope we will be able to spend a lot more time together.  As I said before, I’ve never met anyone like you before.”
“Thank you, I’ve enjoyed myself very much too, but please, teach me a chord or two, and then I’ll go.”
Linda smiled shyly, and then nodded, “Okay, if you insist, but I’ve told you, I’m not a teacher and I’ve never had more than a few real lessons myself.”
“That doesn’t matter.  You play very well regardless.”
She blushed, “Well,” she said, and put her fingers into position on her fretboard so that she would make a D major chord.  “This is a D,” she explained, and strummed.  “It’s one of the basic chords.  And this,” she added, “is a F chord,” demonstrating. 
“Show me how to make a C and an A.”
“All right.  “Here’s a C,” she said, showing him.  “And here’s an A.  Have you had enough yet?”
“No, but it does look difficult.  Your fingers have to be little contortionists, don’t they?”
She laughed, “Well, yes, though with practice it does seem to get easier.”
“Yes, as most things do, I suppose.  Did you fingertips get all raw and cut at first?”
“Yes, it can’t be helped.”
“No, I guess not, since the strings, especially these two,“ he said, indicating the high E and the B strings, “are so thin.”
Linda nodded, and embarrassed herself a bit by having to stifle a yawn—which she did not quite succeed in doing.  In fact, she totally failed in her attempt!
Roddy grinned and got to his feet, tottering a little, as his muscles complained about him sitting for so long in a cross-legged position on a chilly, hard floor.  “Thank you,” he said softly.  “I’ve enjoyed every moment we’ve had together this evening.  I too hope for, YEARN for, more time with you,” he continued, stretched, and headed for the front door.  “Thanks for teaching me those chords.  I hope you’ll show me more of them soon. Will you?  Will you promise?”
Linda rose and nodded a promise, then followed him to the door.
After Roddy had turned the knob and opened the door, he turned back toward Linda.  He took her hand once more.  “Goodnight, Miss Linda.  I hope I’ve not too seriously disrupted your bedtime.  May you sleep well and have a wonderful day tomorrow.”
Linda smiled at him, “Goodnight, Roddy.  It was well worth any disruption to my bedtime, honestly.  I don’t keep very regular hours anyway.  If I didn’t have to work in the morning, I’d keep you here even longer, but I guess we should both get some sleep.  I hope you sleep well also, and have a beautiful Sunday.”
Roddy slowly released her hand, nodded, smiled once more, and started down the hall.  He turned before he got to the stairs, to grab one last look at Linda, and gave her a tiny wave.
She smiled and waved at him, then stood in her doorway until he was out of sight.

 After Roddy left, Linda went to her bedroom, and took her journal out of the drawer beside her bed, and went back to sit in her peacock chair.  She knew that she should probably get to bed, but her thoughts were moving too fast.  She had to make some sense of the evening, of the day, before she could rest.  She curled her legs under her, and began to write.

  November 15/16 1952 (Saturday/Sunday)
  This has been an amazing day!  I finally met that mysterious
new man in the building, the one I have been trying to bump into for a
week.  It turns out that he is the one who bumped into me!  He saw me
coming home with Maureen and Patty, and came to my door after they
had gone.
 All this time, barely seeing him, he looked familiar, but I couldn’t
figure it out, and now I know why, or at least part of why.  He is an actor,
and I have seen many of his movies.  In fact, I had a crush on him when
I was eleven, and I saw him in “My Friend Flicka.”  His name is Roddy
McDowall, and he lives right below me.
 Somehow there’s more to this feeling of familiarity though…
 We talked for hours, and I never wanted the evening to end!  I
was very nervous at first, and he probably thought I was an idiot, but he
was very kind, and tried to put me at ease.  Unfortunately, whenever he
got very close to me, I had trouble thinking, and I’m sure he could hear
my heart pounding.  He had been affecting me in a similar way all day,
and I hadn’t even met him yet.
 He saw one of my poems, “Times Three,” and I was very upset
at first.  That poem is so personal to me, even though I’m not sure exactly
what I’m trying to say, and I’ve always been afraid no one would under-
stand it, (even though I don’t understand it, I only feel it, so what is the
big deal?).  He could tell that I was overcome by emotion, so he came
right over, held  me, and comforted me.  Can you believe it?  
 There is just something about him, and I don’t know what it is. 
I’ve never felt like this about anyone before.  We’ve only just met, but
I feel like we’ve known each other forever.  I feel like I can tell him
anything, and I can’t stop thinking about him.
 There is also something intensely physical between us, I can
tell that already, something I’ve also never felt with anyone before.  The
touch of his hand on mine was…was, oh I don’t even know what to call
it, but it was powerful.  It was so familiar, yet new and exciting.  How can
it be both?
 I feel like I have been waiting for him, for Roddy, my whole life,
but didn’t realize it until now.  I feel that somehow, some way, he is the
answer to the questions of my life—and hopefully I’m the answers to his
also.  I feel like we are meant to be together, that we couldn’t fight it,
even if we wanted to, (which I DON’T).  Is this crazy?
 I wonder if I’ll see him tomorrow/today.  I wonder if I’ve scared
him off.  I wonder how he really feels about me.  I wonder what I should
do.
 This makes absolutely no sense, I just met him! but I think I love
him.  I think I love Roddy McDowall.

 After Linda finished writing in her journal, she took out a piece of stationary to write one more thing before getting ready for bed.

 Roddy walked to his flat; it was well after midnight. He chided himself for all of his imagined errors, and tried to rid himself of the fear that he had perhaps overstayed his welcome.  He felt especially bad thinking that Linda would not get enough sleep because of him.  Nevertheless, his worries could not upset his jubilant mood.  As he entered his apartment, he was comforted by the knowledge that Linda was directly above him.  He could occasionally hear her upstairs, and knew she was preparing for bed.  It made him feel closer to her.  As he got ready to turn in too, he realized that the gloomy “Waste Land” of Eliot, another book from his current reading stack, no longer suited his mood.  He put the volume back on the shelf, and took up a cloth bound octavo of Shelley instead.  Why Shelley?  He did not know, but as he opened the book and began reading “To a Skylark,” the answer gradually crystallized into view.
 Now was not a time for lamentation, but a time for joy.  No matter what happened, all WOULD be well. She likes me!  I just know it somehow.  He felt he had found a long lost friend again, but more than a friend too.  He could not begin to explain it. He knew somehow that Linda would change his life.  He intuited that she was the fount of wisdom for which he had been thirsting—even more than Lorelei had been a few years earlier.  In all his lives as a questing monk or adventurer, pining for God, but denying himself the intimate love of another human being—except for lapses which he then considered grave sins, he saw now how blind he had been.  Just as St. Thomas of Aquinas, late in his life, had come to feel that his great magnum opus, the Summa Theologica, and his other epic dissertations, were little more than straw. 
 Roddy saw the face of God, felt God’s love and mollifying embrace, while he was with Linda.  He knew this was the case already, even though they had not yet spent very much time together; he knew it somehow, but could not explain it.  She would unveil for him those secrets he had struggled in vain to uncover on his own.  It did not seem that women ever felt this way about men, or men about other men, he now understood.  It could not be so, for women were more intrinsically connected to the universe and the rhythms of creation.  Man was only a helpmate, and a work beast, and proud to be too, if he would only overcome his jealousy that nature truly favoured the female. 
 He knew her tendrils reached far back into the primordial ages, all the way back to the era before that one which mankind naively has naively called “the beginning.”  She was there; he had not yet been even a thought in her mind.
 Near Craughwell they wandered once, alongside the sea or a ril ambling toward it.  Hand in hand, they roved and wandered, without home, without a worry, though their lives were in no wise secure.  They had no store, no reticule; they were as free as the gulls soaring overhead in the gray, clouded sky.  At night they sheltered in abandoned stone or sod cottages, beneath overhanging rocks, in cells long forgotten by the Dark Age monks who once dwelt in the forsaken, windswept waste.  They had no other society, and needed none, but they did count the mule deer, the rabbits, and the swift foxes among their community.  And they were one with them, accepted by all, and none of the furry minions feared them.
Roddy adjusted his glasses, and turned to another poem, “Mont Blanc.”  Some music they had heard earlier still danced in his mind on tiny, ballet slippered feet.  Linda was a Chopin piano etude, he thought.  She was a Colette-like bohemian lark.  She was a rose in fresh bloom. 
The rain fell gently, soothingly on the window ledge outside; vibrant, chaotic life still bounced in the bars and late night restaurants.  But up here, all was peace.  It took Roddy a long time to fall asleep, and even after putting out the light, he lay in bed thinking of the beautiful, fascinating Linda.  The smell of bread fresh out of the oven, of French Vanilla cocoa, of new mown grass in early spring, and a warm, insulated nest somewhere caused him to smile.  Be it piano, cello, French horn, or swallow chatter to serenade them, he knew they would be in harmony. 
 When he did fall asleep, around two a.m., he dreamt of her. 
She was dancing wildly, as at an ancient pagan ritual.  Her red hair fanned out around her face, and her green eyes gleamed like translucent emeralds, or jade crystals lit from within.  Drums beat a rhythm that seemed to ever be increasing in tempo, but he soon recognized it was his own heart that was accelerating.  The relentless poundings roused powerful emotions, reached a crescendo, and then soared away into the night sky in their pas de deux (de trois, de quatre, etc) with the sparks from the great bonfire.  He knew her now for who she was; he recognized her from the profound abyss of time and experience.  She was the earth goddess, the green lady, the she wolf.  She it was who would make him whole; from whom he would drink his fill of the wisdom of the ages, that perennial lore that knows all things because it has seen and lived all things. 
 He wanted to join her in the dance, but felt too clumsy.  He would try anyway; it was his destiny.  Woman smell, I want to bury myself in your secret recesses; he intoned.  I want to lap up your sweetness, to swim in it, so that I might be complete.  I want to enclose you in my arms because you are precious, and must be protected from those who would pillage you and then discard you---the fools!  They are low; they are boors.  I may be no better, but I do at least have this much awareness.  But how can I touch you now?  How can I sully your ermine with my workman’s hands? What can I offer you in return for all of your gifts to me? What do I have that you lack?  What?  I am no prince; not even a courtier.  I dream too big.
 Roddy woke with a start.  Tears beaded in the corners of his eyes, overflowed, and ran down his cheeks.  The sheets were wet with perspiration, despite the chilly night, and there was something else.  He grimaced as he realized what it was, what had happened. 
 “Damn it!” he said, getting up.  That this had happened made him ashamed. His thoughts and feelings for Linda went far beyond mere sexual longing, and that he had had such a bestial reaction to her made him angry.  The common boor had asserted himself!
 Outside New York was waking.  Roddy shed his briefs and got clean ones.  He went into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on his face.  Once back in bed, by the growing morning light, he wrote the dream in his journal, and then tried to get back to sleep.

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