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Stone Rose
by Feech
for Captain Webster
"Any other old business? New business?...
Hopes, Dreams, Aspirations?"
We all join Jordan on that last part. It has
become the chant of every meeting Professor Milner
leads for student productions. "Hopes, Dreams,
Aspirations?" Everybody now.
Juliet raises her hand. "Have we covered the
Park Play fundraising for this month?"
"Done that," Jordan tells her. "We have
separate meetings for Park Play."
"Thank you," she says and smiles a bit
sheepishly in my direction. I nod encouragingly.
I admire her for asking. Not everyone would admit
to a problem, not if they had her looks and
talent. She's been at the Park Play meetings.
She was there for this month's fundraising
discussion. Yet she is not certain that they have
taken place. If she were anyone else, she might
simply be silent, refuse to participate. Or she
could play the Prima Donna. It is, to me and
likely to many of the others in our Department,
Juliet's open vulnerability that gives her her
power.
If Juliet were not open to assistance, she
would not be so utterly astounding on stage. I
suppose that fact applies to all of us, but with
just a little push Juliet is able to reach
something the rest of us have never known. I am
not just saying that because I'm her boyfriend,
either. University audiences were adoring
Juliet's work before I ever came here. Last year,
as a Freshman, I was (naturally) as smitten as
everyone else, and by some miracle-- don't ask me
how it happened, I was too overwhelmed to notice--
Juliet and I began going out.
"If we can get three more painters for an
hour or two this afternoon, we'll have the seating
and floor done," _Blue Window_ Paint Crew Head
Feech hints hopefully.
Jordan gives the group his patented "I know
exactly which of you have class this afternoon"
stare and remarks casually, "Okay, anyone with the
time and inclination can report to Feech.
Anything else? No? All right, in that case,
report to your crew heads for individual
information. Then get the heck on with the show!"
We-- Juliet, Calico, and I-- report to Feech.
So do two other volunteers. Feech flashes me her
best grateful grin. I know what she's going
through. There are only so many aspiring Freshman
painters a Crew Head can handle at one time. It's
good to see some experienced faces among the
volunteers. On the other hand, Feech somehow has
the ability to paint like the dickens and still
make the newcomers feel welcome. We all know that
Freshmen need all the encouragement they can get.
While you'll never catch Feech on stage,
Juliet Kelly is one of the Department's more
versatile members.
In the black box we are assigned to our
paint-buckets. I bend over a bench, doing detail
work with a brush. Juliet uses a broom-length
paint-roller assembly to walk back and forth
across the floor of the black box theatre.
Calico doesn't paint, of course. Feech
scratches him behind the ears whenever she passes
the chair he has claimed. Otherwise he just
oversees us.
Do I feel threatened that my girlfriend has a
full-grown black leopard for a pet? Probably.
Sometimes. But you never saw a more sociable,
amiable cat. From the jungle to Minnesota. How
appropriate a mascot for a Department with so many
species swirling in and out of these minds in
Minnesota. I do believe a lot of my classmates
frequently reside (in their minds anyway) in
jungles, or ocean, or even the forests outside
Hayden Heath. It makes them all that more
beautiful to me. Disease or no disease. When the
color of an eye shifts, deeply, or an ear is
cocked in a silent direction, I am alert for the
signs of species-blending. For those who can
integrate it, the power of the virus is awful,
yet-- truthful. What do they say-- what doesn't
kill you makes you stronger? I wonder about that.
Strength of the survivors may be greater than
before their ordeal, no matter what that ordeal
might be. But is death the ultimate enemy? I
think of Gabriel, fighting, somehow, to avoid
survival-- to avoid the strength he had to accept
when he finally gave in to the transformation.
Hopes, Dreams, Aspirations...
I look at Juliet now with her nose touched in
pinky-beige paint and black latex tipping her
blonde hair. We met last year, when I first
registered, as I have said. Juliet was shaped outside
of my knowledge, by events in a contiuum parallel to
and yet very private from mine.
It never ceases to amaze me how two lives can
mesh, inextricably, with each other after
twenty-odd years of infinite, individual detail.
It should be impossible. Lovers often say, "I
feel as if I have known you forever," to explain
away adult love's impossibility. But for Juliet
it is much simpler than that. Simpler, and
sadder. For Juliet _has_ known me all her life.
She comes to me on Thursday evening and says,
"You know, Beth, my parents are buried in Oak Hill
Cemetery, Iowa City, Iowa. Is there a weekend
upcoming?"
"Yes, there is."
"I want to be where my parents are buried.
They are buried at Oak Hill."
Her careful language is a giveaway. I know
she is unsteady, unsure in her memories. We have
agreed that I should help her to gain
clarification when needed. But on this subject?
On this subject. Yes. I have to push the
issue. We have an agreement, and backing out now
would only make her question herself more. Has
Bethuel already promised to help her, or is he
going to do that in the future... I ask, "Juliet,
why are your parents buried at Oak Hill?"
"They're dead."
"Correct. Very good," I say, softly. "And
why... why are they dead?"
She stares at me blankly for a moment. I
repeat the question. At last she opens her mouth.
"Bethuel, I..." Pause. Her face crumples. "I can't.
It doesn't make any sense. They're expecting me home..."
She trails off and simply comes and sits on
my lap. "I love you. Can we go to Iowa City?"
"Of course we can, Julie. We'll visit the
cemetery and get a nice hotel room. Maybe see
some movies or something. Your folks wouldn't
want you to spend all weekend at Oak Hill."
"Great!" She kisses me. "Thanks. I suppose
Calico ought to stay with one of my girlfriends.
Hotels usually don't accept him. If you can
believe that," she laughs.
"Good idea. I'll see what I can do about a
car."
Iowa City is a four-hour drive from Hayden
Heath. Upon hearing that Juliet has specifically
requested to go, Kent Dryer immediately offers me
the use of his car. Just like that. It gives you
an idea of the way Juliet affects people.
She stands with her back to a stone, the
white roses solemnly carved around its border now
framing her shoulders. The memorial imprinted in
the stone is obscured by her form, as if she were
placed there as an epitaph, on purpose, instead.
She is smiling in a sort of puzzled fashion.
"Mother and Dad aren't here," she notes,
carefully, checking my face for a reaction.
I return her gaze steadily. Surely she
understands the situation. She has comprehended
it, over and over, hundreds upon hundreds of
times. But for her the memories are in the future
and in the past. Ten years ago is today. There
is no time. In every present moment, Juliet knows
and understands. But is this a present moment?
Or is she ten years old, holding her uncle's hand
as the polished boxes are lowered... Does she
remember and mourn, or foresee and await?
I clear my throat and speak. "This is the
cemetery where they have been buried, Julie.
Remember what you told me? You wanted to come
here for the weekend."
"But Uncle Larry was bringing me, and
since..." She breaks off and her eyes brighten
with a shine of new tears.
It's then that I know that she understands
and I draw her close to me. She sobs into my
shirt for some time. The moisture of the tears
reassures me-- she is not in her panicked,
foreboding state, nor her confused one. The fire
was in the past, and she is mourning her parents.
For now. So here we stand, Juliet darkening the
red of my shirt with pain, and I begin to feel
good. There was no way of knowing whether Juliet
would accomplish her mission here. Visit her
parents, _mourn_ their passing. Their deaths gave
her a great power, born of fragility, but at a
great price... Her ability to mourn. To call
forth tears at a memory. To ever have a moment
separate, precious, compared to any other. All
times, to Juliet, are one and the same.
I suppose it was the only choice her young
mind embraced. Several therapists have attempted
to help Juliet regain a clear concept of
cause-and-effect. Her Uncle Larry, Lawrence
Kelly, has taken care of Juliet since the fire and
spared no expense in attempts to rehabilitate her.
His fortune brought them Calico. Despite the fact
that his ownership of the leopard was legal and
Juliet had never had any problem in controlling
the animal, it was quite natural that most schools
should reject the idea of Calico's accompanying
Juliet Kelly to college. Hayden Heath was the
exception.
Today I have all-too-frequent images of an
event I never witnessed. I am acquainted with
Larry, who currently lives abroad, and have heard
the story from him. But somehow much more vivid
to me is the picture I get, superimposed over
exquisite features, when I see Calico and Juliet
together.
Black ashes. Ashes in motion, as in a night
wind. Glowing yellow halos surrounding hungry
orange mouths of flame. Juliet's face, framed in
blonde hair. A dark center of ash where a house
used to be. Calico, her only constant guardian. I
see it in the two of them every day. Sometimes I
wonder, just briefly, whether they need or want me
at all.
We leave the cemetery having forgotten to
ascertain which stone belonged to the Kellys.
Ever since, I have imagined it to be the tall,
white, solemn one, outlined in roses, that Juliet
paused in front of. I never did see the
inscription thereon.
In the black box, outside of memory, we
spread the night of latex over yards of floor
where our audience will later walk.
Juliet is cheerful, concentrating, pleased
with her work. I endeavor to catch her eye and in
doing so have that vision again. Yellow ambiance.
Devastation. Juliet did it herself, with a book
of matches she found in a bathroom cabinet.
She told Larry and the investigators of the
matches, and of the little flame she had played
with and left behind, but as they talked the rules
of the world began to fall away from Juliet Kelly.
It was not possible. No one action of any
sort, by anybody, could bring about the burning of
her own family. It became a vision, a burning
house before the eyes of a small girl. The
cemetery another vision, perhaps Calico's arrival
another. It was not possible that the match-game
had brought the house down. Therefore, all
cause-and-effect, all linear time will be forever
questionable.
And it is this, ironically, that gives
Juliet her power. A woman, intelligent, capable,
yet desperately separated from the agony of
regret, she moves freely through what to some
would be unbearable memories. For one moment,
sobbing in Oak Hill Cemetery, she suffered. For
her it will always remain a moment. Not the years
of suffering others have raged against, but a
picture in an album she pages through at whim.
One day we had a discussion in Playwriting
class on the topic of character voices.
"In order to hear and see to our best
ability," Melodie had said, "We must return in
our minds to a place we _have been_ but _are not_
now.
"When we physically occupy a space, the
people and events around us are the people and
events of our own experience. We can write about
them. But our vision will be limited to what we
ourselves know."
"Won't it always, anyway?" One of the
students asked.
"Not necessarily," Melodie answered. "If we
can think of a place we have been, especially one
to which we have a great desire to return, we may
return there mentally.
"The mental return relieves us of our desire
to occupy that space. We may then begin to see
the person, people, event or events involved.
Choose, as a writer, a place. Go there-- in your
mind. The characters will come forward.
"Some have stronger voices than others, but
all will speak who have a need. Make it known
that you are lonely. They will come forward in
your mind to tell the story. And then you write.
The character voices open to the mind are far
greater in number than those open to the ears.
"For next week, I want you each to imagine
being at home, or some other place that you miss.
Sense the versatility of this approach. See how
many voices speak from your chosen, observed
place, and write a description of at least one.
We'll discuss this further in the next class."
I tried using Oak Hill Cemetery. I had
been there, wanted to return for the feeling I had
when Juliet successfully wept.
The voices came slowly, tentatively.
Uncertain as to my intentions. But I quickly
realized how appropriate all of these voices were
to _my_ writing style.
Melodie had been right, it seemed, about
choosing a place we have a desire to go back to.
For it is in these mental spaces that the
characters most like ourselves arrive. In hearing
their voices we experience myriad lifetimes.
Hopes, Dreams, Apirations.
Juliet, painting the black box floor for
_Blue Window_, embodies the concept of the
travelling mind. As an actress, I realize, she
has taken Melodie's advice to the height of its
application.
Give Juliet a script. A time, a place, a
character. And this time, this place, this
personality will become hers. Juliet has no law,
in her mind, that says that she has never really
been that person, never actually lived that
experience. She channels the character completely
and flawlessly, never fighting back with her own
personality. For all she knows this _is_ her
personality, at some point in her own private
picture album of the world.
When the painting is done, as we disperse,
Juliet squeezes my arm happily. "I'm glad you're
here, Bethuel."
I turn to her, a bit playful, a bit shy.
I've asked her before, and the answer is always
the same. "Juliet?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember the day we met?"
"Of course," she replies cheerfully. "In
the production meeting for _Step Into the Light_"
"And when did that happen? Before or after
you went to Kindergarten in Mrs. Fulmore's class?"
She thinks briefly, then gives her head a
little shake. "I don't know."
She seems open to discussion. I touch on a
heavier topic. "When did your Mother and Dad
die?"
"I don't know."
"Are you sure?"
"Bethuel, please. I'm not in the mood to
concentrate so hard."
"One more."
"Okay."
"When did I first come to Hayden Heath?
Before, or after we painted the black box floor
today?"
"We painted the black box floor today?"
"Yes. We did."
"I don't think it matters when you came.
Does it? As long as you were there."