“That’s fine,” Darby said. “We’re all free to say what we need to. Life’s sparkle dimmed after that, didn’t it? A hurt beyond words?”
“Yes!” she muttered, sniffling back more tears. She shook her head in the affirmative, as she attempted to smile. “Yes, sir! It did!”
Darby looked away while she cried more.
“You never said much about yourself,” she sat erect. “We just all fell into blabbering about ourselves in there, didn’t we? Aren’t you married? Don’t you have a wife and children? A son or daughter? I’d love to meet them, if you do.”
“I’m afraid not. I’m what you see and nothing more.”
“I don’t believe that! You’re just trying to blow me off. I could die in this room and you wouldn’t care,” she retorted with a teary huff.
“Now that’s what I mean about choosing the way we feel. You could have said: ‘Hey! You’ve had it rough, too, I bet? No ring, no wife, no family, no kids. Just you, alone! There must be a story there.’ Or, ‘I don’t want to talk about myself anymore. Can we talk about something else? Like maybe your life? Huh?’”
Stephanie smiled. “You don’t have to rub it in. You’re as bad as my counselor. She’s into cognitive behavioral therapy, whatever that is, but if you ask me, it’s a pile of crap. Or it is with her.”
“She might care for you more than you know. It’s just that deep down she doesn’t connect with what’s happening to you. Is that possible?”
“Yes, sir! It’s like she’s hearing my voice, but not me. But I feel better now.” She dabbed the corners of her eyes with a handful of wadded up tissues. “I guess I look terrible,” she stated with one last sob.
“Tell you what! Why don’t we pursue this some more tomorrow, if you want? I’d love to explore those dreams you’ve had, especially about the strangers and the old houses falling in. I’ve had dreams like that, too. Is that a deal?”
“Yes, sir!” she clutched her hands together between her knees. She leaned her head sideways. Her mouth, face, her eyes, cheeks, and chin seemed to smile in unison.
Darby rose and walked her to the door. “Better turn up your collar. It’ll frost hard tonight. Here! Let me walk you to the Villa.” He accompanied her past the urns, to the first steps of the Inn’s back entrance. Warm light streamed through the French windows of the rear doors. The guests were seated about the fireplace. Darby could see them through the muslin veils that hung between the enormous gold drapes that framed the windowpanes. An air of long-ago opulence caressed the room.
“Good night!”
She turned to hug him. He caught her hand and pressed it. “You’re going to make it, Stephanie. Reach down inside your soul; you’ll find more courage than you realize!”
She hurried inside.
For some bizarre reason he thought of Ivan Ilych, the magistrate in Tolstoy’s story. Seeing the drapes must have aroused the association. Ivan had injured himself while hanging drapes, in nothing more than a simple fall—just a simple fall. But the persistent wound changed his life. Never was he the same again. Darby stared into the room, let his benumbed feelings float up and slip away, then turned and walked back to the cottage.
Chapter 3
Darby awakened cold, his right arm numb. He opened his eyes and stared at his watch: 5:00 a.m. It didn’t matter how early he retired or how late he stayed up, his internal alarm functioned with incredible regularity. He hated to get up. He’d rather return to his dream. The road had climbed through a rocky gorge over the crest of a vast ridge to fade into a grassy lane before ending near a field with a path that led into the distant woods. He had gotten out of his car, looked around, only to realize he had no idea where he was. Yet he recognized the path, the woods, the field, the lane, the ridge, and rocky gorge. He had traveled this road so many times, always to awaken in a state of disorientation. He pulled the sheet and blanket up over his shoulders and tried to fall asleep. He wanted to follow the path that led toward the woods. But it was no use. Whatever REM sleep he longed to reenter had expired. He rolled to his right and struggled out of bed.
With his feet still in slippers, he turned on the coffee pot; then wandered toward the fireplace to stir its white ashes with a poker. Not a single spark, not even a faint ember glowed in the gray fluff. After several minutes, he poured himself a cup of coffee, donned a woolen jacket, and stepped out into the morning cold. All was dark in the Villa. Jon Paul and Linda would be waking soon, along with Garnett. He didn’t envy the man’s drive to Atlanta, or the surgery that awaited him in the west.
Darby peered out into the dark quietness. Ever fresh, new, and different, each morning seemed to possess a mood, a mode, an elusive essence all its own. Instantly, the cold seized him and, shivering momentarily, he stared up into the night’s predawn vault. How its radiant stars burned bright! He clenched his cup tightly in both hands. Toward the west, the faint ridges of the Parkway’s mountains poked black through layers of morning fog. The cup of The Big Dipper tilted bright in the northeastern sky. Its neighboring stars twinkled in their blurred infinity of trembling light and distant galaxies.
When he turned back toward the house, lights had come on in Garnett’s room and the kitchen. Garnett would be leaving soon. Darby expelled a pensive sigh. He knew he needed to shave, shower, and prepare himself for whatever the day might offer.
* * *
“Well, it’s off to Atlanta!” Garnett stated, as he clattered his cup in its saucer at the sight of Darby. “What time is it, anyway?” he glanced out toward the hall’s clock.
“6:30!” said Darby. “It’s awfully foggy out there, especially down the mountain. When do you have to be at the airport?”
“Oh, that won’t be till later. First I have to meet with my own doc. I’ve plenty of time. Plus I need to stop by the post office. I’ll make it, I’m sure.”
Jon Paul poked his head into the dining room. He hadn’t shaved, and his face bristled with blond stubble. “What’ll you have?” he asked Darby. “Linda’s sleeping in. I’m scrambling eggs for Garnett, with a side of sausage links and wholegrain toast with rhubarb jelly. Same for you?”
“That’ll be fine! Thanks.”
“No problem!” the husky chef intoned.
“There’ll be a new group of guests arriving mid-week,” Garnett said. “Linda will fill you in. Relax and enjoy yourself. I’ll keep you posted once I’m done with the procedure,” he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. “Here,” he filled Darby’s cup as well. “Cream?”
“Thanks.”
“I never asked you if you’re working on anything new? Another novel? Essay? Or scholarly work?”
“The latter. My History of Philosophy never accomplished what I wanted it to. It was more a survey. You know, a summary of major timeframes and their philosophers’ views. Mainly for students, with selected readings.”
“And there’s more?” Nelson smiled.
Darby smiled with him. “You know the two volumes never touched on the real nuances that elude us. Like, what are philosophers for in a time such as ours? It wasn’t until I read Heidegger’s Poetry, Language, Thought, that I realized the value of philosophy. Up to that point, I treated the discipline more as a history of theories than a study of ourselves. Rorty’s Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature changed that, especially his essays on ‘the problem of personhood.’ That’s what I want to investigate now, and I’ve found a clue to it in a discourse I want to develop: From Wittenberg