Part One

The bedside clock glowed 4:23 AM. I was instantly conscious, and in a frenzy of inspiration had 27 perfect pages written by 6:17. It was time for a break. I pulled a rumpled sweat-set over my nightie and headed out for a pre-dawn indulgence: a trip to the convenience store where I purchased a fresh TV Guide and a white-chocolate cappachino.

I yanked open the car door and slid behind the wheel. I was rehearsing dialog to myself, adjusting the mirror, nesting the steamy styrofoam cup in its holder, fishing for my keys. So it was a full minute before I spotted him, crouched between my dash and the front passenger seat, pistol drawn. “Omigod!” my blood was ice; I had no breath to scream. I shoved my purse across the seat at him. “There’s $8.73—please leave my ID and house key. The car has a cracked manifold I can’t afford to fix, so you can have it. Please let me out—“ I begged my blond carjacker-kidnapper-rapist.

“I need you to drive.” He has an accent, I noticed.

“Please, please, just let me out here. The keys are in the ignition, I just gassed up—“

“You cannot be hysterical now, our lives depend on you. Drive.” He ordered shortly.

I was shaking so badly the keys jangled in tintinnabulation. “Where--?” “Where were you going?”

“Home.”

He shook his head .”No good. It’s almost 7. Don’t you need to go to work somewhere, an office, a factory?”

“I work at home. I write.” Stupid, stupid. I had just told this armed stranger that no one would notice if I didn’t show up at a certain time at a certain place.

“No, I can’t lead them to your home,” he growled. “We need someplace crowded, public. You have errands?”

As the sun began to peer through the night shadows, I could see my abductor more clearly. He was blond, pale, and looked dangerous even as he was bleeding.

“I—I could pick up some groceries,” I suggested weakly. “Drive to the biggest, busiest store you can find. Shop for 30 minutes. I’ll be gone and you can drive home safely.”

“I don’t understand…”

“That’s best,” he said briefly, then added, “Thank you for the ride.”

A courteous carjacker? I could not resist whispering “ There’s a first aid kit in the glove box.”

I browsed for 45 minutes, just to be safe, then returned to my car, dangling a small bag on my wrist. I had not been exaggerating when I declared my current personal worth as $8.73. I unlocked the car door cautiously, having learned my lesson.

Before I glanced down to shift gears, I knew. His body was still there, still and silent. The abduction was on the other foot.

Part 2

He startled awake and grabbed for his gun.

“I put it away,” I said disapprovingly.

He struggled to sit up but sank back against the pillow with a groan.

“You’d better move more slowly,” I cautioned. “How about some soup?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I turned to the crockpot. “You were passed out. I didn’t think you’d want to go to the ER. I couldn’t find any ID or a number to call in case of emergency.”

He sighed. “I thought I made it clear—“

“No one saw you stagger in . Everybody in the building has left for work.”

His thought began to unscramble. “I’ll leave right after the soup.” He felt the bandage I had wrapped around his head. “And an aspirin. This is very good,” he dunked a chunk of crusty pumpernickel into the thick mixture. “I hope you are not in the habit of bringing strange men home,” he warned solemnly. “It’s a dangerous world.”

“Well, I’ve learned to lock my car doors, thank you very much. But strange men are the only kind I seem to be meeting lately. I’m Olivia.”

“Illya.”

He pretended to concentrate on the soup, but I caught him studying me. It was obvious I had cleaned up since our unorthodox introduction. I had brushed the long, curling hair out of my face and bound it back with my blue silk. My ego demanded I shed my stained, saggy sweats for a long, dark skirt, flowered blouse, and a spritz of White Diamonds. I did stop short of applying makeup for my captive guest.

“This is really good,” he nodded over his second bowl.

“Sour cream potato soup, with dill. Hearty and flavorful.” God, I gushed like a deli menu. I’d been summa cum laude 11 years ago. I should be able to conduct an intelligent conversation with a carjacker—even one with an exotic accent.

He gazed around my apartment, eyes narrowing. Was he casing the place, gauging an escape route, or trying to discern me from my environment? No, not casing. He was a pro. Surely he had ascertained that I possessed nothing of tangible value.

His eye—those beautiful, deep sea eyes—lit up at the sight of my ancient stereo. He was on his knees fingering through my albums. A newborn smile crossed his face when he found the Gagnye ballet suite.”May I?”

I nodded mutely and he cued the needle to the adagio movement, just as I knew he would. I cleared the table, I rinsed our bowls, but to no avail. The dark melancholy theme floated to every corner of my little loft and there was no escape from music or memory.

“You write?”

I wasn’t sure he’d recall any of my babbling before he’d passed out. “Well, my standard career plans had stalled so I decided to give myself one year to scribble to my heart’s content. And you?”

He merely stared at me steadily until I blushed.

“Sorry. Of course I’m not supposed to ask. And even if I did, how would I know if you were telling the truth?”

“Why should strangers bother to lie?”

Strangers. The word stung. Of course that’s what we were, despite any fantasies I’d been spinning.

“Self-preservation?” I replied lightly. “The phone’s over there, if there’s someone you need to contact.”

“Eh, no thank you.”

“She must be very understanding—more than I would be.”

He looked at me curiously.

“You wear a ring.” I observed flatly.

He twisted the gold band guiltily. “It’s a—an heirloom from my uncle,” he attempted to explain the homing device.He melted me with those eyes. “And strangers don’t lie, right?”

“Doesn’t matter.” I was trying hopelessly to control the tremor in my voice. Here, finally, was familiar territory: Love denied, Love betrayed.

“You matter,” he insisted quietly. He took my hands and my skin burned where he touched me. “You have been brave,” he kissed the back of one hand, “ and kind,” he kissed the other, “and you have fine taste in music,” he cupped my face and his thumb smeared the tear trail across my cheek.

I leaned forward and tucked myself beside him and was not at all surprised to discover how perfectly we fit together. My head nestled against his chest and I was holding my breath and marveling at the music of his heart beat when the high pitched , two-toned beep emitted from his pocket.

Part 3

He straightened and drew out a slender silver pen and looked at me. I rose wordlessly and retreated behind a door to grant him some privacy. The conversation was low and urgent. After a few minutes, he poked his head in. “My partner. He was supposed to meet me this morning but was unavoidably detained. That’s why I needed to engage your assistance.”

“Ah,” I remarked wisely, as if I understood everything now.

“May I prevail on your good will for a few more hours until he can fetch me? I’m sorry to have involved you, but this really is the safest place now.”

“Of course.”

“I hope this hasn’t been too disconcerting.”

Disconcerting?!

“I probably ought to get some work done,” I announced abruptly. “You’re welcome to read or play some music…”

“What are you working on?”

Oh, the sweetest, most irresistible words to a writer’s heart….

“It’s a screenplay about the tragic romance of two American poets, Sara Teasdale and Vachel Lindsay in the 1920’s.”The Spring Came on Forever”

He began to recite. “I remember, I remember, the spring came on forever,

The spring came on forever, said the Chinese nightingale…”

“Yes, that’s what Lindsay wrote for her. It took a goodly amount of research, but its such a tender and passionate and little-known story…” I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow. “Of course you realize that unless you yawn in self-defense I’m going to torture you by enacting the entire text while your eyes glaze over,” I threatened.

“I have time.”

“No,” suddenly shy and flustered, “I can’t. It’s not ready.”

“I’ll read Lindsay,” he lifted the manuscript from my desk and cleared his throat.

“Seraphim, I want our life together to be one roof, one pillow, one worksong, one sadness, one glory,” he paused, waiting for my line, holding the script open to me.

“ The crowds may love the noisy shell of you, but your quiet self belongs to me.”

“Everyone wants to live in your heart. But not me. I want to live in your nightdreaming eyes.”

I could not speak any more. I could not listen any more.

I wrested the paper from his hands and tossed it across my desk. “Needs editing,” I muttered. Then I turned and confronted him as coldly and deliberately as possible.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No,” he admitted gently.

“And I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

He shook his head slowly, regretfully, as I chose to interpret it.

“Then may I invite you to join me in a hot tub of bubbles?”

I asked softly, handing him a dishrag. “The crockpot doesn’t clean itself.”

Epilogue

My interlude with the blue-eyed blond with no last name haunted me. As my writing style subtlety changed to reflect that mystery, I attributed it to maturity, not admitting the truth even to myself.

While happy endings are temporarily satisfying , they are also forgettable. It is the “might-have-beens” that linger with lovers, and readers; that unconquerable yearning that burns into their blood and breast and bone and brain.

“The Spring Came on Forever” was eventually produced , and remains an annual highlight of Vachel Lindsay Week, a celebration at his alma mater Hiram College.

I spent my first royalties to buy a fur—a calico kitten named Isabelle, who shares my life to this day.

At the conclusion of my one year of scribbling, I secured steady, responsible, respectable employment as a court reporter. It is engaging, independent work, and a constant supply of strong story lines. He was honest; we never met again.

But I never turn a corner without delicious anticipation.

finis

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