Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [94]
But William's death changed that.
She admitted that the widowlike mourning was a pose, one that helped her think of William as a character and not a genuine person. But then the reality of his death set in and she got wrapped up in a heavy mantle of sadness.
“He died, J,” she said. “He was alive, and now he's dead. Who's to say that the same can't happen to me tomorrow?”
“It won't . . .”
“You don't know that,” she said with finality. “And the only way to solve the problem about uncertain death is to put matters into my own hands. Suicide started making a lot of sense again . . .”
“This is all happening so fast,” I cut in, breathless with tears. “You were fine . . .”
She smiled wanly. “That's why it's called bipolar.”
“Why didn't you tell me this before?” I asked. “I would've looked out for you . . .”
“You were looking out for me, J.” She rested her head on my shoulder. “As much as I'd allow it.”
That's what all love comes down to, doesn't it? We help others only as much as they let us.
Fortunately, Dexy had the presence of mind to help herself. She called her shrink, who called her parents, who were already on their way from their home in Bucks County when I arrived. I sat with her until they showed up and they were exactly like Dexy had described—two polite, nondescript people as plain as Dexy was flamboyant. In the waiting hours, I encouraged her to sing every song that popped into her head, as loudly as she wanted to.
And I'd never heard such a beautiful noise.
the twenty-ninth
The whole city has been paralyzed by the stampede of elephants and those who protest them. Aka the Republican National Convention. Any strange public behavior can be interpreted by the police as red alert terrorist activity, so we've been advised to temporarily suspend the Storytelling Project until the GOP is G-O-N-E. This is absolutely absurd. I would go off on fascism masquerading as national security but out of respect for William, I'll stop myself.
Besides, I've got something more important to write about.
Because today was the last day of the Storytelling Project for the summer until it resumes a few weeks into the fall semester, Bastian and I commemorated the occasion by returning to our very first spot: the corner of 110th and Amsterdam. About two hours into our final shift, we were revisited by one of our most colorful characters.
“You hippies came back!” gurgled the old man, still in his fedora. “Lights, camera, action! I've got a doozy of a story for you!”
What brought on this change of heart, I'll never know. But this unlikely source provided us with the most poignant story I've ever heard, in or out of the Storytelling Project. I wish I could tell it the way he did, and I almost kept the tape for myself but I thought the Project would suffer for my selfishness. So here's my version of the story, with as few embellishments as possible.
Henry's Story
When Henry McGlinchy was a young boy growing up in the 1920s, he had a huge crush on a silent movie actress named Lulu Livingstone. A delicate wisp of a girl, Lulu was every black-caped villain's favorite victim in the Westerns Henry loved. She was a raven-haired lovely, prized for her delicate heart-shaped mouth and swanlike neck, rhapsodized over for her flawless porcelain skin and pleasing bosom. But despite her many virtues, it was Lulu's eyes that drew Henry in, eyes that sparkled with hope and wonder even when she was tied to a train track or barreling toward a cliff in a runaway stagecoach.
Henry was so smitten with Lulu he was inspired to write a letter professing his undying love in the way that only six-year-old boys can: Your verry prety. I love you. He sent it to the address he found in the back of his mother's PhotoPlay magazine, c/o Columbia Pictures, hoping against hope that he would hear from his beloved. Every day little Henry ran to meet the mailman, eager to see if today