Twice, My Hand To Inge's Breast
Had I known what would happen, would I… ? But I did and here I am all these years later telling you this story in the hope that you will enjoy it and that I will find final comfort in its telling by you bearing witness to it. I saw by the name tag on her white blouse that she was called Vivian. Thank you for giving me this time, Vivian. That was my mother's name and you have got me to smile. At this moment you are an angel to me, the ears for my story, a kindness I did not expect in my ninety-first year, in my last moments of time on this glorious earth.
The queue to the concert was longer than I had expected. I had planned to go fishing this day but the advertisement for the concert had caught my eye. Exerpts from symphonies followed by mournful ballads were an unusual venue, but I enjoyed unusual things; I was not of the mainstream. Therefore I was compelled to go and so I donned my favorite fedora, slipped into my soft Italian loafers and walked into the promising evening on this first day of Spring. I have always been one to notice small things, tiny flowers, swallows cavorting high in the sky, the cut and color of people's clothing, trout sipping midges on the surface of a creek. This made my life more rich, gave it a kind of fullness and texture that I enjoyed. Thus, my exploring gaze was drawn to a young lady who was standing in line just in front of me. She was quite tall and with short golden hair, the color of quaking aspen leaves in Fall. Her skin boasted the pale hue of a shell I had found years ago when Grace and I had vacationed to the West Coast and the Pacific Ocean. I stared at her with some dismay because although I was stunned by her beauty I was also embarrassed to focus on her almost entirely. She consumed my view as though she was the last meal of a dying man. She was no small thing although she was surely a flower and a lovely bird and many years younger than I. I supposed it was safe for an man of fifty-nine years to look appreciatively, if somewhat wistfully, at a beautiful young lady. I felt a charge in my heart and a bit of an ache in my belly and nothing short of a furious storm could cause me to avert my eyes. There was also a surge of energy in my loins that I suppressed with confusion.
I noticed that her hair was shorter on one side than the other and despite her dress I could see that her legs were long as befitting such a tall woman. When she turned slightly to look at some small distraction down the way I blinked in pleasure at the outline of her full bosom. I felt dizzy. Then, instead of turning to face the the entry of the concert hall she continued to turn her body and all but struck me to my knees when she looked at me directly with eyes the color of green on a swallow's wing. She smiled and greeted me politely and I stammered a greeting in return. And so began a simple conversation meant to pass the time as we awaited entry to our concert. I found myself hoping she would sit next to me, a silly notion for an gray-haired man to entertain. We talked of this and that, of music and weather and gradually, without either of us being aware of it, we drifted out of queue into the shade of an old beech tree and continued to talk as though we had known each other for some good while. I told her how I loved to fly fish and she shared with me her passion for long vigorous hikes. I vaguely remember hearing music as we chatted but I said nothing. I had not enjoyed such pleasure in some time and it seemed that we would miss our concert.
There was no doubt that I had fallen in love for the second time in my life. The first time was with my darling wife who had fallen ill to some horrid disease and who was taken from me in her prime. Thereafter I had poured myself into my writing and made a good living at it. Strong emotions can evoke powerful writing. I missed my Grace and even these twenty-three years later I would ache in the still of the night when I found myself reaching for her in our bed. It was in those dark hours that I tied flies seeking relief from the pain of my grief. Grace was a woman never to be replaced and she never had been. Over time, through the Summer and into Fall Ingeborg Undset and I met often. We drank gallons of tea and sipped fine wines that were perfect partners to our conversations. We would drive to Sharp Knife Creek and fish until the stars told us that day was now night. I never told Inge that I was in love with her. You see, I was fifty-nine years of age and she was only twenty-three. She insisted that I call her Inge and I must tell you that I was glad of that. Inge called me Lonetree which is my last name instead of using my first name which is Keene. She loved me and told me as much, but it was the love of a dearest friend and surely we were that. We were trust and confidence, pleasure and goodness. In my dreams I told Grace about Inge and felt some peace about that. Of course I continued to write and although my readers told me that my writing changed they remained faithful to me and my works.
Inge and I fished for wild trout in Sharp Knife Creek when we both wanted time away from the city and conversation. She proved to be a masterful pupil and I fished less often, preferring to watch her cast flies and play fish. Inge would shout that she had caught a brook trout or a chub and her smile was like the sun on my back. She even attempted to tie a fly or three but eventually she left that task to me and I tied something special using a lock from her hair and I named it the Golden Aspen.
On what proved to be the last fair day of Fall, although we did not know it at the time, we decided to picnic in a grove of trees on a knoll overlooking our city. I had only been there on the knoll years ago with Grace and my feelings were a pleasured confusion. It seems that Inge had something to tell me and so we packed our wicker basket with plums and figs and provelone cheese and a yeasty baguette. We wrapped a cold bottle of chenin blanc in a pretty cloth from Siam, to keep it cool of course, and placed it in the basket as well. Although I owned a motorcar we chose to hike to our picnic spot and wore sturdy boots and pants appropriate to the task of a two and a half mile walk. As chance would have it the trees on the knoll were quaking aspens and I marveled that I had forgotten. Inge and I ate and talked. In the far distance we could see a curve of Sharp Knife Creek and we both smiled. We had forgotten the smoked trout! I fed her a plum and she fed me a sweet fig. She called me Lonetree and then at the end our our meal when our conversation had gained a long pause she looked at me and called me Keene for the first time. Yes, she had something to tell me. I was sitting with my back resting on a tree and Inge had her long legs tucked under her as women often do. She stood, came to me and sat on my lap. Then with misty eyes she took my right hand and placed it directly upon her right breast. It was firm and soft at the same time and if the feel of a breast can name it perfect then I did so. She told me that she loved me and knew that I was in love with her. She understood that I was perplexed about our age difference as was she. Inge wanted a family and when she said this she removed my hand from her breast to her heart. I know now that this was her way of telling me that she would always love me but that we would not be lovers. Inge was leaving for a promising job in another city, a distant place and she insisted that I not contact her, that our time together had been the most pleasure she had enjoyed in all of her life. She wanted this memory onto death and did not wish for longing or sadness to dilute the strength of it. To my amazement I agreed. We kissed and I tasted plum juice and wine, tears (both hers and mine) and joy, and a fair portion of pain and sorrow. Then we wordlessly gathered our picnic things and walked hand in hand back to our city. It is a remarkable thing to hold someone's hand for whatever time is required to saunter two and a half miles. A leaf from one of the aspens had fallen into her hair and I had removed it and placed it in my breast pocket close to my heart. I kept it there wrapped in one of Inge's silk handkerchiefs all my life. I motioned to nurse Vivian and she saw it there on my bedside table. Also on the table was the bamboo fly rod that Inge had fished with and which had been kept in good repair. There was a Golden Aspen hooked firmly into the cork handle. I had scrawled a dated note which stated "To ?" and affixed it to the rod. I did not want that rod to be lost or destroyed. Vivian smiled but I saw a tear slowly ease down her cheek onto her chin. She did not wipe it away. Vivian had a puzzled look on her kind face and she excused herself.
I dozed somewhat fitfully and was startled awake to something that took my breath away. It seems that Vivian and her husband owned some land near the city and it was the very land of that last picnic, the last time I saw Ingeborg Undset. Vivian had listened to my story and as I had talked something had stirred in her and that is why she excused herself. Now she had returned, I was awake, and a lovely tall golden haired woman of some fifty and more years stood before me weeping. As chance or fate or karma would direct, Vivian had also known Inge and Inge had recently come back to the city of her youth. She was almost as old as I had been when we met. Now, now here she was before me and if I was not already dying I surely would have died from the shock. Yes, I was dying and I was ready and Inge was here, my darling and beloved Inge. "Keene Lonetree I love you", she sang through smiles and tears and she lay pressed to me on the bed and draped one long leg over mine. Then she placed my right hand on her right breast and put her hand over mine and gently pressed. Twice, my hand to Inge's breast. We kissed and I tasted plum juice and wine and as I passed over I thought I saw a golden quaking aspen leaf in her hair and a green swallow perched upon her shoulder.
Vivian made an X through the question mark on the note and printed "Ingeborg Undset"on it, signed her name as witness. She stroked the hair of the Golden Aspen and gently eased her way from the room and the holy scene to which she was also witness.
copyright 2009 Paul Keenan Smith
