Edna Mayfield (heavily revised)

"How're you feeling, Claire?"

"Peachy. You?"

"Tired. Early flight."

"Well, welcome back to Hotel Hell," Claire said as she held out her bag of chips.

"Anything good on?"

"Yeah," Claire said as she turned back to the TV. "The Love Boat."

"Ah. Well, I'll see you later..."

She walked back to her room, looked down at her mother in the backyard. Trimming roses, pulling weeds -- doing anything and everything other than watching over Claire. She'd raised dependent kids, children afraid to move away from her sphere of influence, all while telling everyone how she prized self-reliance, how she wanted her kids to follow in her footsteps.

Tracy could see all that now. How her mother said one thing and meant the other. And it had always been that way, hadn't it?

How Jordan had fallen into another one of her traps, how he'd come undone after she left him that day, hoping he'd fall apart. He was just getting it back together now, too. He was thinking of renting out his parent's house, of moving onto the boat, his siren's song, and how he was planning on taking off in July. Hawaii, Polynesia, then New Zealand, he had told her last week -- when she called him.

And she called him again, right now, and talked to him for a few minutes. When she rang off she called for a taxi, found her passport and some money and stuffed it in a little backpack, then went out front to wait for the cab.

◊◊◊◊◊

She looked out the window as the little regional jet taxied to a stop outside the tiny terminal building, and when the door opened and the stairs folded down she walked out into the cold misty fog that typically gripped the Monterrey peninsula at night. She walked into the building and saw him standing there -- just like she remembered him -- in shorts and a pressed white dress shirt, the same old Rolex on his wrist, the same crusty boat shoes on his feet.

She walked up to him, took his hand.

And he didn't know what to think of her, of what was happening.

Just seeing her brought it all back. The summary dismissal, Edna never once looking back or even calling him. She'd walked out of his life as quickly as she'd walked in, leaving all his questions unanswered. And now -- Tracy?

What the hell was going on?

He looked at her backpack. "Any luggage?"

"Nope."

"Really."

"You'll have to excuse me, Jordan, but I just ran away from home." He looked at her with those hard, squinting eyes of his, and she almost turned away from him.

"Do you need to call your mom?"

"I left my phone there, my clothes -- everything, I guess you could say. Are you parked close?"

"I am. You want to tell me what this is all about?"

"Could we go down to the boat?"

"I'm not sure."

"What?"

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Tracy."

"Why?"

"I don't know you, not really, and let's just forget for a moment that I'm old enough to be your father..."

"Like my mother...was old enough to be your mother? Forget about that?"

"I guess I deserve that..."

"You didn't deserve one thing she did to you, Jordan."

"So, you've come to set things right?"

She shook her head. "No. I just came to the realization that I couldn't stand to be around her one more minute. I realized I don't have one real friend in the world, and then I thought that's not true. I have you. You're my friend."

"Am I? I didn't know that...but thanks for filling me in." His phone chirped and he took it out of his pocket, looked at the screen. "It's your mother," he said as he handed the phone to her.

She declined the call and handed it back to him...then she looked at him and shook her head. "I want to go to the boat now."

He turned and walked to his car, an ancient Land Rover, and he got in the car without opening her door -- or unlocking it. He started the motor, began backing up -- then he saw her there, standing open-mouthed, almost in shock, starting to cry.

He stopped, went around and opened her door, then drove into town and stopped at a local pub that happened to still be open.

"Are you even 21 yet?"

"Yes."

"Okay. How about a burger?"

She nodded her head. "Sounds good."

He took her in and it was, thankfully, quiet inside. When they'd found a corner booth he handed her his phone and looked at her. "If you're grown up enough to run away from home, you're hopefully old enough to know your mother is frantic with worry. You need to call her, tell her what you've done, and why. If you can't do that, I'll take you to a hotel, then see that you get on a flight home first thing in the morning."

She took the phone, dialed the number.

"Mom?"

"Where are you?" The volume was so loud Jordan could hear every word.

"Monterrey. With Jordan."

"I see. How long have you two been planning this?"

"We haven't. When I got home and saw Claire, saw you in that stupid, goddamned garden, that was it. I had to get out of there, get away from you before you kill me, the way you've murdered Claire. I didn't have anywhere to go, anyone to call, but I called Jordan, told him I was coming. He met me at the airport, and I think he was just as surprised as you are mad. But I don't care, mom. I'm not coming back. I'm not going back to Boston. I'm done. Done with you, with your plans for me, with everything. I'll be here with Jordan 'til I'm not, but you'll never hear from me again."

She broke the connection and handed the phone back to him.

"Well said," he sighed, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice -- but failing. "Any five year old would have been proud of that speech. And rightly so."

"I know."

"So Tracy? What's the plan? Move onboard with me, sail off to see the world? Maybe have a few babies along the way? Live happily ever after -- somehow?"

She laughed. "Actually, that doesn't sound half as bad as you think it does."

"It does to me. But does that matter?"

"Why bad, I wonder?"

"Why?" he sighed. "Let's see. I don't know you, for openers. You're probably here to get back at your mother. You've run into a dead end, and you think I'm the easy way out?"

"You forgotten a few, Jordan. Like my mother has programmed me to be her replacement after she's gone. Like I was raised by nannies and dormitory house mothers my whole life. Like no where along this journey has anyone ever asked me what I wanted. What I might want to do with my life?"

"And did you ever bother to tell anyone? Besides your nannies and dorm mothers? Did you ever tell your father, for instance?"

"No. No, I didn't."

"Why not?"

"Because he was never there."

He looked at her then, saw between the bluff and the bravado, saw into the truth of the matter. "Okay. Well, I'm here, and I'm listening. Tell me, what does Tracy Mayfield want to do with her life?"

"I do not want to go into politics. I do not want to work for the CIA, or the NSA." She hesitated then -- and looked away, began picking at her fingers.

"Okay. That much I get. What about something you want to do."

"You won't laugh?"

"I promise."

"I want to paint."

"Paint? Houses? Monet, or perhaps Gauguin?"

"Please don't make fun of me."

"Okay. You're correct and I'm sorry, but you know something? I've always thought artists in general, whether writers or painters, need to experience life a little before they try to record their observations. Without that, I'm not sure what's presented beyond mere talent."

She pulled out her iPhone and opened a file, then handed it to him. "Push play. Tell me what you think."

He did, and a series of paintings filled the screen. Immense talent and a pure, visceral emotion pierced each image. Surreal anger, heart pounding energy, soaring beauty -- everything came through inside each image. When he'd seen the twenty or so images he paused the show, handed the phone back to her.

"Impressive. You're taking classes at Harvard?"

"You like them? Really?"

"From what I can see on that tiny screen? Yes Tracy, it's impressive work. You have a talent."

She nodded, leaned back in satisfaction.

"So, why don't you go to Paris. Someplace like that?"

"Because that's not where I want to go."

"Okay. Where do you want to go?"

"Wherever you are. That's where I want to be."

Now he leaned back in his seat while he looked at her, at the seriousness in her eyes. "You don't even know the first thing about me. Where I've been, what I've done. It strikes me as the height of immaturity to say something like that."

"Yet I've been drawn to you since the first day I met you. The time I spent with you on the boat, just those few hours, was all it took. I can't fall asleep without thinking about you, I can hardly study, or paint -- without thinking of you. I don't want to be with anyone else. I know what I want, now all I need to do is convince you I'm not an addled, simple-minded idiot."

There was a waitress standing by the table looking at Tracy as she spoke, then she looked at Douglas. "I think she means it, mister. Now, the kitchen closes in ten minutes. Are y'all going to order something?"

They looked up and laughed, ordered a couple of burgers and onion rings, and two beers, then the woman walked away.

He looked at his phone...Edna had called three times in the last ten minutes and it was buzzing away right now. He answered it this time.

"Edna?"

"Jordan? Where's my daughter?"

"She's talking. I'm listening. Hope that's not a problem."

"She's confused."

"She sure the hell is."

"May I talk with her?"

"You'd better let me handle this one tonight, Edna. I'll call you in the morning, let you know what's happening."

"Jordan? Are you sure you want to get involved?"

"I am involved. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Jordan."

He put this phone on the table as their burgers arrived.

"Where are your paintings, Tracy?"

"Boston. At a friend's house. Why?"

"I'd like to go there in the morning and pick them up. I'm going to have a friend of mine up in the city take a look at them."

"Go where...you mean Boston?"

"Yes -- Boston," he said in deepest professorial tones. "I want to see for myself, see if I'm correct about something. If I am, well then, you and I have some real thinking to do."

◊◊◊◊◊

May 21st

He turned onto 17 Mile Drive, on this last stretch to his parent's summer house, with Tracy beside him now. Firmly, as it turned out. It had been a heady two days for the girl, and she was puffed-up with self-importance, even pride, and now they looked at one another quite differently.

Yesterday had been the real turning point. On the recommendation of a friend of his in Boston, they'd carried her best works down to a gallery on Newbury Street. The proprietress had seen years and years of work come and go, had handled major works of the French Impressionists more than once, and even she was startled by Tracy's gift. The woman had called a local collector, who'd luckily been able to come to the gallery that afternoon. When the old woman found out the artist was Stanton Mayfield's granddaughter she'd simply pulled out her checkbook and dashed off a check with so many zeroes on it that Tracy literally swooned.

He'd gone back to Tracy's friend's place and called a freight company to the scene. The rest of the paintings were crated and taken to Logan, and they were on hand in San Francisco when the paintings arrived early the next morning. The same thing happened in North Beach: his friend and gallery owner was staggered by what he saw. He called two collectors he knew and four more of her works were sold that morning -- and Tracy now had enough money to do whatever she wanted, for several years, anyway.

Now he turned into the driveway of his father's hideaway. A small jewel penned by Frank Lloyd Wright, it's airy stone and copper form perched on a rocky outcropping overlooking the sea; this was Jordan's favorite place in the world -- and he could see Tracy's appreciation of the setting in her eyes. He took her inside, carried her little suitcase and put her stuff in one of the bedrooms well away from his own, then went back up to the kitchen. He looked at the bare cupboards and the empty 'fridge -- and groaned.

Then he felt her walk up from behind -- and he turned to face her.

And she was as naked as they day she was born.

She draped her arms around his neck, pulled him close -- yet he kissed her lightly on the forehead and pulled away, walked out to the living room and stood -- looked out over the sea and the breaking waves below...

"It's too cold to just sit around," Tracy said as she walked up behind him again -- and he turned to her, looked her in the eye.

"You know, for almost ten years your father was my best, my closest friend. I've been intimate with your mother, and those few months were the happiest of my life. And now here you are, yet what I don't understand is this. Am I to have no close relationships with anyone but a Mayfield?"

"Jordan, are you crying?"

"Me? Oh, hell no -- not me!"

She walked into his arms, placed the side of her face against his shirt -- and she smiled when she felt his arms encircle her...

And here it was, he thought, all his life coming down to this one moment in time, every hope and dream he'd ever had being pulled into the frenzied orbit of this young woman, this younger version of the woman he loved. When he saw her breasts, he saw Edna's...Tracy's legs and arms were Edna's...only the eyes were different...and Tracy's were magnificent. He saw a warmth and playfulness there he'd never seen in Edna's...

"Jordan, I love you. You. Can you understand that?"

He shook his head. "And can you understand? When I look at you I see your father, I feel your mother...and a hundred different emotions piling on top of me -- like those waves down there, and not one of which has the slightest thing to do with you. It's so unfair, Tracy. Unfair to you. Confusing, to me. And I'm afraid in the end that's all there'll be left of us."

"I'm willing to take that chance, Jordan. You asked a few days ago what I wanted, and yet not one thing's changed since then. I want you, I want to get on that boat and get as far away as we can from all this confusion. I want your life and mine to grow into one, and I don't ever want to be away from you, not even for a minute. Whatever you might have wanted from my mother was always an impossibility -- because she had nothing to offer you but the past. Jordan...I can give you a future. A future with little of the weight of our past to burden us, a future we can make our own."

He looked at her, into her eyes. Who was she? Who's soul did he see in those smokey blue pools. Stanton's? Edna? This new creature, one so straight and tall and pure?

He kissed her on the forehead once again, then looked at her lips for a moment -- before he fell into her warm embrace.

◊◊◊◊◊

June 21^st

Edna Mayfield waited for them outside the arrivals concourse, waited a little nervously, perhaps even impatiently as she rubbed a little spiking anxiety behind her eyes. And she was regal in her imperiousness, standing like an iceberg ready to loom out of the mist and claim another passing ship.

Dressed all in pale yellow, her suit, her stockings and pumps, she seemed a part of the morning sky -- and passing men by stared at her, women paused with sidelong envy written all over their hearts. She turned, looked at the arrivals board and saw Tracy's flight had arrived, and she turned away, walked over to window that looked out over the town to the mountains beyond. This was Stanton's town, she told herself once again. He'd brought her here one summer day to meet his parents, to tell them of his plans to get married, to make a career in Washington with her by his side.

And she remembered how he had, with hard work and good fortune, succeeded. How he'd built his resumé over the years, built his political empire after he reached the senate.

And now she thought of the cost, in purely human terms, they had paid. How neither had seen Claire or Tracy come alive on terms of their own, how they'd outsourced parenthood -- and their one last chance to build a lasting love between them all. Now she saw Claire as she really was: broken, a shattered vessel born of emotional want and neglect. Schizophrenia, her psychiatrist told her, and the disease would only get worse, Edna Mayfield knew. She would spend the rest of her life tending a barren garden, spending every waking moment of her life caring for a young woman lost within kaleidoscopes of despair and delusion. And a mother's neglect.

She saw Tracy's reflection in the glass and turned to see --

Tracy and Jordan. Holding hands.

Then Tracy coming to her side, coming to hug her mother.

Tracy, with a wedding ring on her left hand, and there, on Jordan's hand too.

She felt herself falling, falling apart as uncontrollable trembling came for her.

Then the pain...behind her eye now, arcing through her head like a vast summer's thunderstorm...

She felt dizzy, light-headed as she fell to the floor, aware in these last moments of her life that nothing was as it was supposed to be, and yet, suddenly -- and smiling at this last thought -- everything was now just as she'd hoped it might one day become.

©2005-2016 | Adrian Leverkühn | abw | this is a work of fiction, and no characters herein should be construed as anything other than fictitious.