The novel was titled An American Tragedy.
“This is, without any doubt, the next great American novel,” said Peter Willoughby from FrontierBooks. “We are honored to publish An American Tragedy. I speak for everyone at FrontierBooks when I say we were blown away by it.”
65
DONNA
The café is located between the market and the office buildings, the aroma of coffee enticing. Shadow Garden now has a bookstore and a farmer’s market, and there’s talk of building a spa including a pool and a state-of-the-art gym.
The barista has dark eyes, a narrow nose, and a softly shaped jaw. Her hair is pulled into a bun. She changes the coffee flavor daily and I never know what I’m going to get. I’ve learned to be less picky about things.
Today, there’s a nutty scent in the air and it just might be a hazelnut day. I’ve read that there are over eight hundred known aromatics in coffee, but I could be mistaken. I come to the café daily but since Vera’s move I have yet to make friends.
People rush by the window, some enter, and every time the door opens, I look up expecting her to walk in. The interior of the café is warm and cheery, with bright lights and colorful walls.
I ask the barista for a croissant. “Would you warm it up for me, please? Sorry for being so particular.”
“That’s all right, dear, I don’t mind,” she says and her eyes light up.
“Thanks.”
“Have you found a place yet?” she asks and I must have a puzzled look on my face. “You were looking to move, remember? You were looking for a house?”
I laugh, though I don’t remember having told her of my plan.
“I found a place. I think it’s just perfect.”
“I’m glad,” she says and hands me a brown, warm paper bag. “Enjoy.”
* * *
• • •
I have indeed found a house online. With Marleen’s help and shortcuts that help me navigate, I have fallen in love with a house halfway between Santa Barbara and Ventura, in the small coastal town of Youngsport. The pictures of the moderately priced bungalow in short walking distance to upscale eateries and vintage stores looks like a dream to me. The bungalow sits on less than half an acre, a stark departure from Hawthorne Court and Shadow Garden, but it’s all I’ll need.
Youngsport is a picturesque Spanish-style town close to the beach and a cliff. I imagine standing on that cliff, listening to the layers of the sounds of the ocean; some waves come from afar, build up to a murmur, followed by a roaring surf when the waves crash against the cliffs, a sound I imagine to be closer, almost as if it took less time to reach the shore. Though Youngsport Beach has a moderate swell at best, it’ll be perfect for swimming. I’ll be able to watch sea lions flop around on the beach at the nearby sanctuary and I plan on making a sizeable donation to them. I imagine seagulls everywhere and their constant wailing and squawking, the chirping and the cawing in the distance nothing but white noise. It’ll be a nice change from the grackles at Shadow Garden and there’s a short uphill hike that culminates in some amazing ocean views.
With Marleen’s help I’ll make a life there. We’ll go for daily walks in town and the historic buildings make Youngsport an attractive filming location with numerous movie productions underway. What a thrill. I’d never admit it but I wonder how it would feel to be a former actress who has retired after a long and prosperous career and maybe I’ll pretend a camera is following me as I go about my daily life. But those are just games I play with myself.
* * *
• • •
I’ve got word Vera has passed. When the air gets thick, I tell myself she’s somewhere scribbling away on those yellow notepads she loved so much. It’s a lie I tell myself, but it makes mourning for her bearable. The bag on the chair next to me contains the book Vera published posthumously. I basically forced Marleen to buy a copy and eventually she gave in. I can be persuasive, I know that about myself. I’m proud of Vera and all she achieved, but mostly I’m proud of the friendship we had. Hearing her name makes me weepy and Marleen changes the subject.
I love the title. An American Tragedy. Marleen is critical of the book, maybe she’s concerned about my obsession with it. There’s an overall change going on with her. She, after the initial shock of Edward’s death, has come into her own, she no longer wears black skirts and drab blouses but has taken my suggested casualness to heart. On one hand she seems to have adapted, in her wardrobe as much as in her behavior, though lately she’s been up to her old tricks again. Unrest is the word that comes to mind, excessive attempts to keep me busy. I don’t know what that’s all about but I ignore it. The less said about that, the better.
I shut down the laptop and pull the book from my bag. It’s a hardback with an embossed sleeve, glossy black letters on a white background. A chandelier shattered in pieces on a black-and-white checkerboard floor.
A simple dedication on the first page, all by itself. For Donna. And then Vera quotes Thornton Wilder, we can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. I ponder that one a lot.
The story is rather tragic. It’s not the kind of book you consume in two sittings, it feels more like a true friend you return to at the end of each day. I form a quiet yet firm attachment to the characters and before I know it I’ve been sucked into the story. I finished the book quite a while ago but the moment I read the last sentence, I feel compelled to begin again. Some sort of loop I’m stuck in, as if I want to remind myself of something—I caught myself reading paragraphs over and over—and as the plot unfolds, it’s like plucking petals, and I cry and cry.
* * *
• • •
I’m looking forward to a change of scenery and I imagine I’ll be happier in California than I’ve been anywhere else. There is only one thing. Penelope. The images of her come and go as if I momentarily assume an alternate identity where I relive my memories of her. As they play out, there is always a sudden and unexpected fall from grace. The feeling reaches into my dreams, and my lungs fill with something crisp, cold, and sharp. Images are painted on my eyelids, images of falling, and a rush of fear shoots through my body, my lungs panic for air. My arms flail and desperately I’m reaching for something to hold on to, and then I feel Marleen touch my shoulder and I jerk awake.
I will forever remember Penelope with her hair blowing in the wind, a breeze catching her at a moment she wasn’t prepared for. I get lost in thoughts of her, though getting lost isn’t the right expression—it implies that one returns at some point to join the rest of the world—no, it’s more a state of being.
We called Penelope “Pea” when she was little. She was a darling child, independent and strong of will, though brooding at times. As she grew older she insisted we call her Penny, but I remember her most fondly as Pea. Sweet peas come in pink, yellow, red, purple, and white, and Pea came with just as many personalities.