“All that I am hangs by a thread tonight as I wait for her whom no one can command. Whatever I cherish most – youth, freedom, glory – fades before her who bears the flute in her hand….”
-The Muse, Anna Akhmatova
She insisted on the blue dress. It was quite long and immense on her withering frame. Once she filled the dress with carefree and voluptuous curves. The dress ended above her thin ankles, where the skin was nearly translucent and a network of purplish veins looked like a city map with sharp turns, winding roads, and branching boulevards. The doorman helped Mrs. Helga Heidel out of the elevator. There was really no need. Her husband, Mr. Frank Heidel, was behind her pushing the wheelchair. Frank was reedy, narrow, with very long, thin, bird-like legs. If he was cloaked in pink he might pass for a flamingo. But Frank was decked in autumn colors. Dark brown pants, leather shoes to match, and a soft pumpkin-colored sweater.
“Thank you, Nathan,” said Helga to the doorman.
“Can I flag a cab for you?” Nathan was smart looking in his uniform. His jacket buttons had a high sheen.
“Oh, please.” Helga self-consciously patted the turban that ensconced her head. It was black and shot through with glittery threads.
“Where to?” asked Nathan.
“The Russian Tea Room,” said Frank.
The cab was secured but it took several minutes to get Helga situated and the cab driver disliked having to open the trunk for the wheelchair.
The ride took thirty minutes. Go and stop. Go and stop. Traffic was unforgiving.
“Traffic always jams around Carnegie Hall,” said the taxi driver. He was African. Thick French accent deepened by another language or perhaps it was mere patois.
The restaurant was very welcoming to the couple. Helga stood unsteadily and the hostess stored the wheelchair behind the desk. Frank walked her slowly to the table.
“I’m so happy to be here, Frank. Do you remember? We had our first-anniversary dinner here nearly twenty years ago.” Helga wiped a tear.
Frank appraised her. He didn’t remember the anniversary dinner. Frank had married Helga because she had gotten pregnant but then she miscarried the baby. She miscarried eight times. Frank and Helga were in their forties. Not so old. Not so young. Helga had been ravaged by cancer. Three times. It would go into remission and then flare back up. Frank wanted to leave Helga long ago. He didn’t believe he loved her. Not enough. However, every time he went to declare his intention to end the marriage she got pregnant or sick and so he stayed silent. He endured. Frank was a vaguely religious man. He spoke to a priest about the situation. The priest wasn’t very sympathetic.
“Of course you love her,” said the priest. “You know her. You really know her.”
That was true. Helga dumped her soul like a bulging purse nearly every day and it was clear she loved Frank but he wasn’t convinced she was a good woman. Too self-pitying. She always talked about herself. She told him yesterday that she had started a prayer journal. She was going to dive even deeper into her soul. Frank doubted she would discover a pearl but she would surface with endless irritants only she would think they were gems. Beauties. Buried deep inside her.
Frank ordered their meal and Helga set calmly gazing at the restaurant and the diners.
“Did you know the Duchess of York’s daughter ate here yesterday?”
Frank said he didn’t know. He wasn’t surprised Helga knew this. She knew a great deal about royalty. She had traced her lineage to the aristocracy of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Frank doubted this.
Frank sighed and patted his thinning hair. “You are my spiritual muse. My penance. I was not kind to my mother or sister. I was an angry man. And now you are my punishment.”
“What are you talking about Frank?” Helga’s eyes were glistening. “Don’t you love me?”
“I love the idea of you.”
Helga said nothing for the rest of the dinner. Frank believed it was comfortable silence. Helga was seething though. She only chose Frank because the man she loved didn’t want a family. The baby she was pregnant with wasn’t even Frank’s. She frequently thought of leaving him but he was such a good caregiver. Attentive. And he had money. A trust fund. When things were very bad he hired a nurse.
Helga reached into her purse and pulled out the small prayer journal.
“Dear God, I do not love my husband. He doesn’t love me. I will pray that love will grow or…perhaps he will die and I will have the trust fund, the condo…” Helga stopped writing when dessert arrived.
Frank ate a spoonful of vanilla ice cream. He thought. “Dear God, make me love this woman. Give me the strength to do my time.”
Frank and Helga Heidel bundled in a cab and Frank grasped her hand. “I do love you.” He was very close to believing it. “You are my spiritual muse. Don’t forget.”
Helga sighed. “Of course.” She wondered how many years she had to live with Frank. Ha. The cancer was back. She might die soon. She would have to be careful to hide the prayer journal. Her thoughts might devastate him.
THE END