Murmur Lee Harp Sees Her First Date with Billy Speare

Here I am, still dead as rain, floating along, scattered one moment, gathered the next. Sometimes I’m hard and tight and fast-moving. But there are other moments when I feel as if the universe has tossed me like a handful of salt just to see how far I’ll fly.

I’m a little scared. I mean, can this be all there is for all of eternity? Is this what spirits do? Forever? Blow about like pollen in a dimension composed solely of wind, watching from time to time film clips of their lives? Where’s God? Where’s a little band of angels trumpeting golden horns and shaking silver-dollar tambourines? Where are the legions of those who have come before me? Where is Blossom? Where the hell am I?

The wind folds me up, kneads me like dough, and there, at my new center, is Billy Speare. He is knocking on my opened door, a bouquet of store-bought daisies in his fist.

I say, “Welcome!” and float over to the door—radiant in my yellow strapless sundress, which shows off my trim figure. He kisses me on the cheek. “Come in, come in. What can I get you? What beautiful flowers!”

I fuss in the refrigerator, searching out the coldest beer. I fuss at the sink, trying to arrange the daisies quickly but with flair as I stick them in a blue vase. I fuss with my hair. I fuss with the marinara sauce on the stove. I fuss with the silver beads around my neck. I fuss with everything my hands touch. I am a mess.

He walks through my one-room house (that’s a lie—my bathroom is its own space) and says, “Wow! What a view, what a great place!”

“Why, thank you. I built it myself, you know. After my daughter died and my husband left me. I had to do something. Here. Here’s a picture of my little girl.” I grab a framed image of Blossom off the bookcase. She is five and is dressed like a mouse for Halloween.

“She . . . she died,” I say stupidly, trying to figure out if I’m repeating myself.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That must be really hard.”

“It is.” I put the photo back and curse myself because old grief tears suddenly threaten to spill down my face. I manage in a steady voice to ask, “Do you have children?”

“Yeah, I do. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

I look at him real hard, trying to divine the problem. I get nothing.

Next thing I know, I see us in bed. He pleasures me. He seems unconcerned with his own needs. I am so impressed. I think, Here is a man who might actually love women. Right then, naked, in my bed, doing it with a man who—if you really, really think about it—is a stranger, I decide to give him all of me in every way. It’s time, I say to myself; it’s time. You’ve got to get over being scared to commit. This guy is loving you up. Walk out of the pain of Erik Nathanson. Walk out of the pain of Bloom’s death. Walk out of the sorrow of fucking a man just to know you still can. Walk into life.

His head is between my legs. He is loving me there. Yes, right there. I say, “Stop. Baby, please, stop. I want to talk to you.”

He licks me all the way up to my forehead and then pulls me tight. “What is it, girl? You have such a crazy name. Murmur Lee,” and he begins to laugh, and I interpret this as joy.

“Do you love your mother?” This is a serious question. I run my finger along the outer curve of his ear. I stare past his shoulder and into the black, star-torched night. Erik hated his mother, accused her of many crimes, including stupidity, clumsiness, and forgetfulness.

“What kind of question is that?” he asks. “Here we are, making love, and you ask me about my mother?”

I squeeze him tighter. “Yes. Tell me.”

He doesn’t respond right away—there is maybe a five-second pause—and I’m determined not to fill it with anything except for a silent expectation that he will answer. “I suppose you can say I loved my mother. That’s what we do. We love our parents no matter what. It’s obligatory.” He cups my breast. “But it’s not like we had a good relationship. She was a bitch, Miss Murmur Lee. A grade-A jagged thorn of a bitch. I was happy when she died.”

I close my eyes three times, pretending it’s the stars, not me, blinking. Grateful for the darkness, I spin around in his arms, giving him my back. For a few moments, I ponder the possibility that I am a cursed woman. How could I have met and immediately flipped for yet another man who doesn’t love his mother? I fight back tears and panic. I hold on, wrapping my arms around his. But he seems so nice, I tell myself. So very, very nice.

“Murmur Lee, you okay?” he asks.

“Oh, yes, Billy,” I say, knowing it’s a lie but trying to please, fully throwing myself into the familiar comfort of old patterns, “I’m just about the happiest woman you’ve ever seen.”

         

Oh no. This is bad. I spin round and round, shot full of holes. The truth stings. For all my bravado, all my independence, all my spell casting, all my book reading, all my talk about the Universe and what she wanted, I see now that when it came to men, I never knew how to behave.

I hate this place. I hate this knowledge. I want to go home. Where is Bloom? I want my daughter.

The wind slams me high into this eternal night. Up, up, up—I am encased in light and moving fast. My life scatters all about, splintering like shattered glass.