Chapter Seven
At Willet College in Massachusetts, Eleanor was the keynote speaker for a psychology panel presentation on self-healing and self-esteem. A ten-minute speech on how we help ourselves by listening to others, a suggestion by her agent to increase “face time” in the public as her third book entered the final editing stages.
“There is no greater release for us than human sympathy – or empathy,” she said. “Even if it seems the opposite of what we wanted to hear, it’s the affirmation of knowing someone heard us that matters. That’s what we respond to as humans, whether it’s in a newspaper column or from a counselor in their office.”
The applause at the close of her remarks was not the wild enthusiasm as in her dream a week ago on the plane, but was a welcome sound to Eleanor’s ears. The sound of appreciation – not one which writers generally heard after making their case. An excellent change, she decided.
That afternoon, she had an interview with Thinking Out Loud, a Boston-based talk show nationally syndicated for public and educational television, where she sat on a peach-colored sofa with a microphone fastened indiscreetly to the lapel of her grey business jacket, trying to look professional and relaxed despite the pressure of televised conversations.
Across from her, the hostess Dinah Shaw was seated also, legs crossed beneath an ankle-length velvet skirt which matched her tunic blouse and chunky necklace of purple stones. “We’ve been speaking this hour with Eleanor Darbish – best known for her weekly column “Ask Eleanor,” now in its eighth year of syndication, and the author of the upcoming advice book Tell Me the Truth.”
She turned her attention from her unseen audience, rejoining after a hypothetical commercial break, to the author in question. “So tell us the truth, Eleanor. How do you find new challenges and new advice for a third self-help novel?”
Eleanor smiled. Cameras made her nervous, as did the glare of televisions spotlights, but these were things her agent had informed her would become second nature in time. “I think it’s really the influence of readers,” she answered. “Problems may be universal, but the individual response to those problems isn’t, Dinah. We all have different reactions and different feelings – and we work through them differently as a response.”
Lucy Deane would like part of this answer, she thought, the reminder of the readers’ power.
“But what does that mean for us as humans?” pursued Dinah. “Does that mean we all have our own answer to each crisis? That would make it challenging to give anyone advice, I suspect.” Her dark head was a sleek helmet of hair, its ends curved slightly inwards in a uniform wave like a flapper’s bob.
“It’s not that we have our own answers,” explained Eleanor. “Just different feelings regarding the same problems and answers. Even if most of us come to the same solution in the end, we struggle to get there. It’s the journey that’s different for each of us.”
“Really,” said Dinah. “That’s fascinating. And the kinds of journeys in your new book – romantic? Career? Self-esteem?”
“All of these subjects,” said Eleanor. “And others. But romantic relationships in particular play a bigger role in this book than the past two volumes.”
“And why is that?” asked the hostess. “Is a facet of your own life influencing that change?”
Eleanor’s cheeks flushed hot. “Well, no,” she answered. “No, it’s only the – the volume of mail and emails I receive on the subject of love outnumber those on finances or career, for example. The book, of course, comes from the same source as my column, which is reader’s letters –”
“So it’s the readers shaping your life instead of you shaping theirs, in this case,” suggested Dinah.
“Yes. I suppose so.” Eleanor paused, a split-second too long to consider the rest of this answer, apparently, for the hostess had turned her attention to the second camera again.
“Tell Me the Truth will be released from Gillion Books this coming November. Our author’s column, “Ask Eleanor” is also published online for readers who miss it in their weekly editions.”
“And that’s a wrap.” This, from the show’s director, the cue that the microphones were now turned off. With the conclusion of this statement, Dinah Shaw’s smile became slightly less frozen as she glanced towards Eleanor. “Well, I think that went well. Thanks so much for coming on.”
“Thank you for having me,” said Eleanor, who kept smiling, aware that this chatty moment would be visible during the show’s credits. “It’s always an honor. I was surprised that you even asked me, given how many months it is before the book’s release.”
“Oh, well, you’re one of our most popular guests,” said Dinah. “We always get mail requesting you back after an appearance. People love those little stories about your mother and your family.”
“Really,” said Eleanor. Who found this fact somewhat surprising. “I didn’t realize that.”
“We’ve thought about doing an on-the-spot question segment with viewers writing in beforehand,” said Dinah. “Give it some thought – we’d love to have you back in November.”
It was flattering, this fact of being popular and being invited back for the book’s release; but it did not linger in Eleanor’s thoughts for very long but dissipated like a cloud of perfume wafting away in the air of an open room. It was her third day in Boston, the day of departure, and she was in the airport terminal with another novel open before her. The depressed painter and his creations had long ago been finished. Now it was a novel about a woman displaced in 19th-century Russian society. A slow middle which was constituted by a series of dreary, rainy afternoons and a great deal of lukewarm tea being consumed by the character.
When she thought of Boston, it was of the watery punch and post-luncheon conversation of faculty and students after the panel discussion at the college. The sight of all those eager young students, in which she caught glimpses of herself. Shy and interested, eager under the surface and afraid of making a mistake in asking a question – saying something banal, or stupid, or, else, offensive.
Dr. Rooker, whom, Eleanor had gathered from their introduction, was the head of the college Psychology Department, had sought her out first for conversation after the questions were at an end.
“We were so pleased you agreed to come,” she said. “It’s so hard to get professionals who have a name in journalism to actually show up for these sorts of things. Most of them always give us the pat line about being ‘too busy.’ I think we all know that they just don’t take a small academic panel seriously.”
Another one spoke up. “I remember reading in a magazine somewhere that you do quite a few panels and speeches. My last class speaker did a webcam Q&A. Very efficient, but not very human, I felt.”
“I still find the age of the internet a little daunting,” said Eleanor. “So I’m afraid webcams are still beyond me.” She had tried it once when her mother was still alive and found it strange to see her mother’s face pixilated and reassembled in a jumbled fashion as a result of her slow internet connection.
“Well, there you have it. Not everybody has gone into the brave new world yet,” said Dr. Rooker. “It always makes me feel better to know somebody established in the media still struggles with those devices.” She took a sip from her cup of punch and moved aside a little to allow one of the half-shy, half-eager students to move closer with a question.
The student’s question, something on discipline and social media, had not stuck in Eleanor’s memory firmly in the manner of his professor’s remarks. No, it was something about the “established in media” part that lingered for her. Stately and professional-sounding. Dignified and mature, yes, in the manner which Haldon Media implied made her a valuable acquisition, but something else. Something Marianne would define as “stodgy.”
She wasn’t, was she? Compared to Marianne, yes, but not in general. There was nothing antiquated or stiff-necked about liking box seats at the opera or symphony, or a dislike for theatrical performances which involved nothing but food and profanities slung at the audience. Or spending a quiet evening at home and eating food which was not consumed directly from a cardboard box or a deli’s wax wrapper, no matter how ethnic or chic the deli. It was normal enough, common enough; thousands of people did the same every day. Maybe millions.
The book on the unhappy Russian woman lay open and abandoned on Eleanor’s lap. She gazed out the plane window on the flight home, watching the clouds like white cliffs and low plains. A vast and surreal landscape which looked soft as cotton and as solid as snow drifts.
Eleanor had once pondered on her first flight the idea that one could somehow walk upon them. Climb them, feel them as an actual surface and not as misty vapors; the air and water which a human form would dispel immediately with a touch. She couldn’t believe in such things, of course; she wasn’t sure she had ever believed in such things, even as a child. A sensible, albeit wistful child.
Upon arrival, her bag did not tumble immediately down the luggage chute as she waited at the Pittsburgh airport’s luggage carousel. The silver rack was turning emptily despite the straggling number of passengers who gathered around it.
She shifted the strap of her carryall. She could pull out the dreary Russian novel and continue on, she supposed, or check her email once again. Another passenger a few yards away was doing the same, scanning their email on their cell phone. The man standing a few feet away from her, however, was not.
He appeared to be studying a guidebook: one for Pittsburgh, a scene of the city superimposed on the front. When he lifted his gaze from its pages to look at the empty carousel, she saw a pair of light grey eyes. His straight brown hair was cut short in the back with longer bangs towards the front, parted neatly over a smooth forehead.
Over thirty, she thought. Closer to thirty-five, maybe. His face was thin and angular, but handsome, somewhere between serious and earnest. There were traces of youth around the edges of his mouth and the smoothness of his cheekbones. She wondered if the same was visible in her own – that of a healthy, attractive woman near the new middle age, for instance. Barring ‘stodginess’, she supposed.
He had noticed her looking at him, his eyes no longer fixed by the empty, turning slats. Embarrassed, she moved her gaze to make it seem she had been looking for someone in the airport crowd moving behind him.
There was still no sign of the luggage. The stranger in the navy wool coat shifted a shoulder bag of black vinyl into a more comfortable position, it seemed, as he waited.
He was looking at her now, she realized. She blushed slightly, keeping her eyes fixed forwards on the empty carousel. A minute passed, then another, until it felt ridiculous to stare directly forward like this.
Her gaze flickered briefly in his direction again; unable to resist under the prick of feeling someone else’s eyes on her. Now it was his turn to look interested in something else, it seemed, possibly at the sliding doors in the distance.
Something about this struck her as childish. Not offensive, but silly – in a way which made her want to laugh, for some reason. Her lips had already formed a slight smile. She pressed them to hold it back, but in vain as they pulled free of her resistance.
She glanced towards him – at this moment, he had been looking in her direction and had not time to escape. Their eyes had met equally now. There was no reason, she thought, impulsively, why they should not meet the rest of the way.
“Is it your first time?” she asked. “In Pittsburgh?” She indicated the guidebook in his hand.
“Yes,” he answered. “It is. But I’ll be seeing a lot of it in the future so –” he flipped the cover upright for her viewing perspective, “– I bought the most recommended guide to getting lost in the city that was available in the airport gift shop.”
His voice was warm, a baritone. His smile was warm also, she noticed, in rather crooked lines that seemed open and slightly embarrassed at the same time. An apologetic duck of his head followed as he flipped the book closed before him.
They had lapsed into silence. That of shyness or hesitation, but not entirely awkward. She waited a moment before she spoke again.
“Elliot Hills,” she said. “If you’re looking for an apartment, I would start there. It’s in a decent part of the city and less expensive than most people realize.”
She had no idea if he was moving here and the boldness of making this suggestion surprised even herself. He, however, seemed genuinely interested.
“Elliot Hills,” he repeated. “I’ll remember that. I was thinking of a hotel until I could find a place to rent. Holiday Inn has its limitations for a home, I think.”
Her smile stretched wider, although she attempted to suppress this movement. It wasn’t terribly funny, his statement; it was really something in his voice, the way he said it more than anything else which struck her as humorous.
He coughed slightly. “What about coffee?” he asked. She glanced at him.
“Coffee?” she repeated. Her mind had drawn a blank in a rush of emotions, apprehensive and strangely thrilling between the thought of an invitation of some sort or an undefined query.
“Where do you get it? Besides Starbucks, I mean, for a good cup, I mean. If you’re one of Pittsburgh’s morning commuters.”
“East side or west?”
“East, I think,” he answered, after considering this for a moment. Eleanor was from the east side. She heard this mention distinctly, with an unusual tingle of anticipation foreign to her nature.
“Bitty’s. On Fourth,” she said. “Go there for your coffee – but never The Beanery, just so you know in advance. Unless you want to be taken for a tourist, that is.” Her coffee choice was always Bitty’s, where the smell of spices and steam lulled one into momentary nirvana in the rush hour.
“Good danishes?” he queried.
“Do you put all your stock in the quality of a danish?” she countered.
Was she – flirting with him? She was. She was distinctly doing so. An exhilaration with this notion – no blush, only an awareness that her cheeks were flush with heat.
“I do,” he answered, pretending to be grave. “It’s possibly the most important question I’ve asked yet.”
“Then they’re excellent,” she answered. She looked into his eyes, a clear, grey pair which met hers with equal interest and frankness, and she wondered vaguely what he saw. In her own eyes, for instance. Or in general, at this moment.
No speaking. They were merely looking now. A fraction of a second longer than necessary for a post-exchange glance.
“Anything else I should know?” he asked.
She hesitated. “For dry cleaning – use Sullivan’s on Central. They never lose buttons and leave them without replacement. Ever, to my knowledge.”
“I really don’t know why I bothered to buy this,” he said, waving the guide book lightly before he tucked it in his coat pocket. “You’ve provided all the answers I needed in five minutes of conversation.”
“Perhaps the shop will give you a refund,” she suggested.
“Not likely,” he answered, with a grimace. “Too late for that since I chucked the receipt. Still, it'll come in handy since I can’t carry you around with me, can I?”
Eleanor’s gaze flickered away momentarily until the heat passed from her cheeks. A slight toss of her head, almost, this motion: a curl drifting across her face in its sideways grace.
“You don’t come in a pocket-sized edition that would tuck into my bag, do you?” he said.
“Afraid not,” she answered. Something else clever came to mind, but she didn’t say it aloud. There were still some limitations which she held within herself.
The first bag tumbled down from the luggage chute. Others followed, including Eleanor’s suitcase. She craned for it on its high slope.
“Allow me.” The stranger leaned past her, several inches of additional height giving him the advantage in snaring its handle. He drew it downwards and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said. She had taken hold of it. His hand was now extended before her, sideways. She took hold of it.
“Edward,” he said.
“Eleanor,” she answered. “Welcome to Pittsburgh, Edward.” There was a brief pause of interlinked hands before he released her and took hold of another piece of luggage, a leather bag which had rolled along the edge of the carousel.
“I'll be seeing you around, I hope,” he said. “In this city of yours – ours, now, I should say.”
“Perhaps so,” she answered. “Good luck. Until then.”
She could give him the rest of her name – a card, in fact, from the business stack in her bag’s pocket – but something about that seemed too formal to her. Would Marianne say it was foolish of her to leave without securing an acquaintance or applaud its impulse?
He was looking at her when she glanced over her shoulder. Watching her with interest, which might well be what he saw in her own face in that brief moment before she turned away.
He did not move towards the doors, but in the direction of the car rental zone. As for Eleanor, she continued on towards the airport exit, keeping her shoulders upright and her form as graceful as possible while carrying two pieces of luggage.
There had been no hope of Marianne picking her up at the airport, since she had still not heard from her. She had phoned her twice from Boston and found that Marianne’s cell went straight to its message box at this moment. Tannis hadn’t seen her, except to say that someone had apparently read the note and taken the key from the bedside table.
She would be worried – she ought to be – but it seemed pointless now. Hopeless to fret and fear for someone who was doing this deliberately and without any concern equal to Eleanor’s own. Marianne wouldn’t understand why a lack of courtesy communication offended, not in the way she would regret the failure to communicate a monumental event or a momentary epiphany, for instance.
It irked Eleanor. She had once collected Marianne from an airport at two a.m. Upon request, she had also once driven in haste to a gallery in Harrisburg on a rainy Sunday afternoon to collect a painting which Marianne had accidentally left in the possession of a closing art exhibit.
There was no cab pulled up to the curb outside. Another woman was waiting near the doors, her little suitcase on wheels momentarily halted. She was gazing expectantly through the glass at the world outside, offering Eleanor a polite smile of greeting. After a moment, she looked at Eleanor again – a sideways, sneaking glance which was trying to decide something, it seemed.
“Aren’t you Eleanor Darbish – the columnist who writes that advice column?” she ventured.
Inwardly, Eleanor cringed. “Yes, actually, I am.” She was seldom recognized, of course, but now and then it happened. She dreaded such moments, which forced pat replies and a seeming polite agreement which was contrary to her sense of modesty in the face of compliments.
The woman’s smile became earnest. “I just can’t believe this is real. I’m such a fan of your column and I read it almost every day.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor answered, with a polite smile. A standard reply of discomfort. “I’m glad you enjoy it.”
“Well, I do. Your column saved my life.”
“Saved your life?” Eleanor repeated. The bluntness of this remark in its off-hand tone rendered her slightly shocked. The woman across from her seemed not to notice.
“Yes – you answered my letter. I wrote you about my elderly mother who refused to go to her doctor’s appointment because she said she hated them. And you said she was probably afraid – that she was feeling mortality and all that – and that I should make both of us appointments for the same time and be kind of an inadvertent moral support.”
“And?” said Eleanor.
“And the doctor found my cancer.” The woman’s eyes had grown slightly teary with these words. A brief well of water wavering beneath her gaze. “But I wouldn’t have made the appointment otherwise. And my mom became my support the whole time and she kept her appointments, too.”
This story had taken Eleanor’s power of speech momentarily. She gazed at the woman before her, whose face and eyes had become placid again, as if this were a story about buying a loaf of bread and milk at the store.
“Oh,” said Eleanor, softly. “Oh, well ... I’m glad. I’m glad that it helped you. Thank you for telling me.”
“Thank you,” said the woman. “Well, I see my son outside – it’s been an honor to meet you.” She shook Eleanor’s hand, her grip firm in comparison to Eleanor’s numb fingers. “I’ll be reading you.” With a humorous little smile, she lifted her bag and exited the airport through the sliding doors, where a middle-aged man could be seen opening a passenger car door for her at the curb.
Eleanor was alone on the other side of the doors. The sound of the airport around her had become a momentary buzz. Her mind had pictured these circumstances in a brief flurry of images, which dissolved again in the reality of the airport.
She had not truly saved that woman’s life, of course. No, not at all; yet, the story had been strangely comforting from a personal perspective. Perhaps it was something to do with the tide of suggestions from the intern Lucy Deane and the cloud of Haldon Media’s vagaries.
She could claim no credit in this case, of course. Yet, she felt a warm glow at the thought of this particular reader believing her words had such profound influence and power. The lull of flattery, she supposed, was this feeling.
She might have thought of the woman’s story all the way back to her apartment in the cab. But in the warmth of the sunset and the sleepiness of travel, she found herself dozing off with the notion of coffee and donuts and Pittsburgh as a maze of streets in which one might get entirely lost.