49: Two Weeks Later, on a Friday Afternoon . . .

Sometimes, thought Madeline Prescott Moore in one of her romantic reveries often brought on by a cup of tea, sometimes life is just too exquisite.  She had reason to feel this way.  Not only had her husband survived a heart attack and been given a clean bill of health—cerebral hypoxia, notwithstanding—but she had also seen Alex’s entire demeanor change almost overnight.  No longer was he pale and tired and aging at an alarming speed; he had now regained at least 10 years with his full color olive complexion, lively eyes, and most of all, a renewed vivacity. 

She sat alone and dreamy at her favorite table in the shop, the Rilke table, sipping steamy Oolong in the waning hours of a cool fall afternoon.  Yes, she thought, Alex was a new man, thanks to the miraculous stent procedure.  And to something else—something profound and mysterious and life-changing, to say the least—that had happened to him during the heart attack.  His NDE (Near Death Experience) was something they were still processing.  They had kept it between them for now; it was almost too private, too personal—even sacred.  But Madeline had bought a couple of books on the subject and was urging Alex to write down everything that he had experienced during that ambiguous time between life and death. 

“Maybe not for public eyes,” she said, “not if you’re uncomfortable.  But just for yourself, Alex, so you can go back to it when you’re feeling low—you know.”

“I can’t imagine feeling low anymore,” he said with a laugh. “I just can’t.”

“Then write it down for me, she said. Please. My memory isn’t what it used to be. It’s just that it was all so . . . beautiful.”

She loved ruminating over beautiful words and images, and Alex had spoken so poetically about his experience. She wanted, in the privacy of her own heart, to mull it over. It was all so startling, puzzling, and yet invigorating to the mind and spirit. She realized that as a philosopher, an academic, and a spiritual person who had done her own share of philosophical theology, her own understanding of the ultimate aspects of life and death was about the size of a pea. There was always something new to challenge, and the NDE was one of them.

Oh yes, she was certainly intrigued; her curious mind was spinning into overdrive after hearing Alex’s story. And yet, she didn’t want to over-think it, that is, to make abstract philosophical conjectures, as her mind was so prone to do after years as an academic. That would be to take Alex’s experience and turn it into something impersonal and theoretical, requiring footnotes and cynics and counter-arguments. She needed—at least for now—to treat it as poetry, as a gift, as words and images on which to meditate with gratitude and mystery and hope.

She wished she could remember everything he had said in the hospital, and that’s why she wanted him to write it down before it got away.  The part that she could remember, vividly, was when Alex—or rather, his wise grandfather in the NDE—said:

But what is happiness, but to be creators of beauty in the world?

The poet Rilke would agree wholeheartedly, she said to herself, smiling down at the table where she sat sipping the last of the Oolong from an antique teacup.  She moved the delicate blue and white china cup and saucer to the side and studied the quotes winking back at her from underneath the glass.  She had not changed the quotes or poems since they had opened the shop, but somehow they were different now, infused with fresh meaning—like the Rilke quote she was meditating on now.

 I hold this to be the highest task for a bond between two people:

that each protects the solitude of the other.

 

She understood the words now, for she wanted to protect Alex’s “solitude”; that was more important than hovering over him like an intrusive, annoying, overprotective—and yes, nagging—wife.  She was learning to let go of her persistent fear of something happening to him.  Now she would protect his solitude, his inner spaces, his soul:  the person he was still becoming.  This new sense of her evolving love for Alex was actually returning full circle to their beginning as a couple. At their wedding ceremony in Heisler Park, back in 1970, their dear friend, a hospital chaplain named Henry Graham, had quoted Rilke’s most famous words:

Love consists in this,

that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.

Yes, she remembered Henry’s kind, sparkling eyes as he said it.  Oh, if only dear Henry were here now!  He would love a discussion on NDE.  Love it.  She remembered how, when she had been in the hospital, back in 1968, how Henry had inspired her with an “unorthodox” way of envisioning God, and how his influence still pervaded her life.  Oh, Henry! If only you were here now . . .

Madeline’s rush into nostalgia was abruptly halted by the entrance of George and Socrates.  They hovered over her at the tea table, George and Socrates—together.  As one.  Talk about miracles, she thought.  George held the one-eyed Cornish Rex like a baby, teasing it with a shoe-string, its little paws grabbing and whipping the air as George pulled the shoe-string away.   Evidently, in the few days they were in Phoenix, George and Socrates had bonded.  Yes, there were Great Mysteries she simply could never explain.

“I think I’m going to get a cat,” said George, as if he had never called Socrates “that creature” and had not been sent to the hospital on account of the cat running under his feet and tripping him.  George had evidently forgiven the cat, and possibly become his best friend.  

 “Felipe wants a dog,” he said, “but I want a cat.  I suppose we could have one of each.  Hey, do think they’ll have another cat like Socrates at the animal shelter?”

 Madeline withheld a laugh.  “Probably not.  He’s one of kind, George.  But you’ll find just the right cat at the shelter.”

 “How will I know which one?  They’ve got millions of cats there.”

“Just go and visit.  Take your time.  Let the cat pick you.”

 George nodded distractedly as he went on whipping the shoestring in front of a wildly happy cat, teasing the poor creature silly.

 “Ouch!  Crikey, he’s got sharp teeth.  Man, I’d hate to be mouse.  Or a bug.  Can you imagine what this cat would look like if you were a bug?  Man, I’d hate to be a bug.” 

 “It would be hard to be a bug,” she said.

 “Man, wouldn’t it?  A cricket maybe.  Wouldn’t it be weird to look up and see those fangs coming down on you?”

They continued along this line, discussing what it might be like to be a bug under the shadow of a cat.  The mood was light and expectant, for they waited for the arrival of their friends.  Today, Fat Soul Friday had a special task ahead:  reporting on the happiness experiment.

*   *   *

Madeline did her best to “call to order” her chatty little group of friends—which now, she realized looking around, were more like family.  Geraldine, eccentric and gifted in some psychic way—another challenge to Madeline’s thinking—was like a sister, an older sister, that is.  The rest of the group, George, Darcy, Lucy, and Elena were like children, grown children on the cusp of something wonderful.  Love, adventure.  Life.  And she and Alex were part of it.

Alex, listening patiently while Lucy soapboxed the evils of salt after a heart attack, sat at the other end of the table.  Darcy was next to her on her left, while Elena sat next to Alex on her right, as if they had chosen to be as far apart as possible.  Madeline wasn’t sure what this meant, but she did wonder if Darcy had bothered to take a closer look at Elena.

While Darcy looked too eager to stay in conversation with Geraldine and Madeline during the pre-meeting chat, Madeline had strived to bring Elena into their conversation, hoping the beautiful young woman might, at least, use some hand gestures.  What Madeline wanted desperately for Darcy to see was simply this:  Elena’s diamond ring was no more; at least it was not on her finger.  While nothing was said—and should not be said unless Elena brought up the subject—it appeared that she had broken off her engagement to Rob, the cellist, who had broken her heart.

But one broken heart may lead to the mending of another, Madeline thought, with an inward leap of hope.  Who knew?  

And on that note, just as George was about to serve the oatmeal scones and refresh the tea, Andrea Ballentine arrived—her usual late entrance, her usual skin-tight dress.  This time she wore royal blue spandex, the brash color matching her heavy eye-shadow.  And with a fresh rinse of platinum blonde hair color and extremely whitened teeth, the overall image smacked of an Andy Warhol painting:  crude, over the top, trendy, and yet, annoyingly enduring.

“I always forget about Fridays,” she said, chewing her gum with gusto, flipping her hair, and hanging her designer purse over the chair Madeline had offered.  “Like, hey, Andrea, it’s Friday.  Duh! Time for free tea and scones.  Just kidding,” she giggled. 

Madeline made room for Andrea between herself and Lucy.  “Good to see you, Andrea.”  She forced a smile, the one she kept in reserve for Andrea.

She kept forgetting that Andrea was part of the group and felt ashamed for it; she was the one member Madeline couldn’t quite feel comfortable with—the thorn -in-the-side member. . . . Yet wasn’ t that good?  To be challenged by someone else’s presence was like being challenged by an uncomfortable idea; it kept one from becoming cliquish and closed minded and shallow—a shallow kind of harmony.  Wasn’t that what Alex had said when recounting his NDE?  We have to avoid shallow harmony, devoid of all dissonance and novelty.  Well, Andrea certainly qualified for the dissonant part.  Yes, the giggly, gum-smacking, platinum blonde who excelled at throwing wet blankets over shining ideas, was part of her Fat Soul Friday family, too, like it or not.

Madeline cleared her throat. “Let’s not wait until we’ve eaten to get down to business.  We have a lot to discuss.  We haven’t met for a several weeks, and I know you’ve each been working on your happiness experiment.  Today would be—

“Hold on, Madeline,” said Darcy, holding up an index finger.  “Before we get down to that”—he glanced at Alex—“I think we need to just say something about how thankful we all are that Alex is alive and well and”—he laughed—“as British as ever.”

“Quite so,” said Alex in his most exaggerated British accent, sending ripples of laughter around the table.  “And I’m jolly grateful for all your thoughts and prayers and good wishes and psychic visions and such.”  He touched Geraldine’s arm.  “But let’s not focus on me.  I’ve had quite enough attention lately, and I’m getting pretty bored with it.  Let’s talk about the Happiness Experiment.”

“But what about your experiment?” said George, placing two oatmeal scones in front of Alex.  (Madeline noted that everyone else was only given one scone.)  “What did you do, Alex?” George persisted.  “Oh, and by the way, I’m serving you guys pu-erh tea with the scones.”  He glanced around and back at Alex.  “You need to start drinking pu-erh, Alex.  It’s really rad—my favorite tea.  But I didn’t know how good it was for the heart ’til I read about it on the internet.  It lowers cholesterol just like the oatmeal in the scones.  No kiddin’.”

“But it tastes—and smells—like, ick!,” said Andrea, cup in hand (Madeline had given hers to Andrea until George could get another).  Andrea, unable to move her botoxed brow, did offer an attempt at a scrunched nose—a nose which had been reduced and perked up by a local plastic surgeon, according to George.  “I mean, it smells like a barnyard—yuck!”

“Does not!” retorted George.  “It’s an acquired taste,” he said, stretching out the word “acquired,” as if it was a word he had just, in fact, acquired. 

“Enough, you two,” said Madeline, wondering if this important meeting was already beginning to degenerate.

George gathered himself and topped off Alex’s tea out of a large oriental clay pot.  “Anyway, like I was saying, we all want you to be healthy, Alex, so drink this tea every day.  Maybe four or five cups.  It’ll keep your cholesterol way down.”

Alex’s eyebrows shot up with a polite show that he was duly impressed with George’s research. “Thanks, George.  I’ll try it.”

“And no salt,” reminded Lucy.

“That, I can’t promise,” said Alex, “but I appreciate your concern, Lucy.  And you, too, George.  And could we please get off the topic of my health?”

George said, “Yeah, well, before I was so rudely interrupted”—he shot a glance at Andrea—“I was asking you about your own happiness experiment.  Since we’re all so glad you’re okay and all, why don’t you start us off.  And why were you in Phoenix anyway?  I never got that.  Was it something to do with your happiness experiment?”

Alex did not answer immediately.  Madeline looked discretely at Darcy and saw his look of fleeting panic.  How long could it be kept secret?  Madeline felt a tug of empathy for Alex, a man who hated to tell a lie.