The Stationery Box

By Janice Blessington Kenny

To come . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janice Blessington Kenny
• Release date: Feb 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311954671

Book preview

The Stationery Box

By Janice Blessington Kenny

This is a work of fiction. All characters, corporations, institutions, organizations and events in this novel are products of the author’s imagination, or if real are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2007 by Janice Kenny. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

For information contact:

Prentiss Street Press

Centerville, MA 02632

www.thestationerybox.com

ISBN 978-0-615-89277-1

First Edition, 2013

Cover Art by Sarah Kenny

Cover Design by Kathleen O’Keefe

Editing by Maria Collella

Page Design by Brian Kenny

This novel is dedicated

to my sister, Carol,

and our father, Dan,

whose examples of

filial love and devotion

inspired the telling

of this story.

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides.

Only when you drink from the river of silence, shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, you shall then begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

Kahlil Gibran

Preface

Carla, by nature, was an ebullient and humorous person who, nevertheless, had long held to the notion that lasting happiness could only be found in heaven -- that is, if there was a heaven. She maintained that should one find, on earth, the bliss of requited love, treasured possessions and serenity, it was only a matter of time before all would evaporate.

So when, at age 33, Carla, at last, sipped from the cup of good fortune, she embraced and savored her riches while, at the same time, awaited whatever fate had in store for her. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, she learned that all she held dear would soon be lost to her.

This is a novel based on the life of the author’s sister. The names have been changed. The dates and places have remained constant. The events are true to the best of the author’s knowledge.

Table of Contents

The Bedroom

The Parents

The Towne Line Bar & Grille

Rise and Shine

Lord Give Me the Serenity

A Memory

AA As A Way of Life

The Convent School

High School

A Son is Born

The Graduate

A Reception

A Message

Interrupted Honeymoon

Home to West Hartford

The Wind Chimes

Farewell

A Discovery

Month’s Mind Mass

Chapter 1: The Bedroom

~June 1970~

Carla glanced at the clock. It was 3:00 in the morning, the most desolate and lonely hour of the day. In a real dark night of the soul, it is always 3:00 o’clock in the morning, she reflected, recalling the line by F. Scott Fitzgerald. How well she knew, being alone so often with her thoughts and ruminations, night after night. Sleep eluded her, especially in the interval between sunset and sunrise. She dozed briefly on and off throughout the day, but was terrified to sleep during the hours of darkness, fearing that she might never wake again...that when she slept, it would be forever.

In the distance Carla heard traces of her father’s nocturnal sounds. She wondered how he could sleep through his own cacophonous snore. Loud enough to wake the dead, her mother was fond of saying. In perfect cadence came the snorting inhale followed by a piercing, extended whistle as he exhaled. A symphony of adenoids and tonsils combining to produce their discordant notes from the moment his head hit the pillow until he arose the next morning.

Alone in the darkness, Carla lay on her side deriving comfort and mild amusement from the distant noise. It reassured her that her father was there if she needed him. She had been anxious since the surgery. Her recovery was taking much longer than she’d been led to believe.

Her father, Hugh, helped her to keep things in perspective. Rome wasn’t built in a day, ya’ know honey. These things take time. She was always assuaged by his practicality. Her father was perceptive and wise. As such, he was acutely aware of her fragile condition, emotionally and physically, as well as her renewed dependence on him. He never neglected to mention when leaving her room Call me if you need me, honey. I’ll be here on the double.

There were moments when she was gripped by an inexplicable terror, but managed to calm herself down with deep breathing and self-preaching: time heals all things - this too shall pass away - nothing lasts forever.

Carla had been sick for so long, it was reasonable for her to conclude that she might not recover, despite everyone’s assurances to the contrary—besides, weren’t they each telling her what they knew she wanted to hear? Didn’t she practically write the script for them, put the words in their mouths? I’m going to get better, aren’t I? she asked each of them imploringly. What did she expect them to say for God’s sake, Nope, sorry kiddo—you’re a goner—no hope for you. She panicked when she thought about it.

She knew her father would come running if she called, but she was determined to take some control of her recovery. Just knowing he was there to catch her if she lost her footing helped to moderate her sense of dread.

Carla sat up and swung her emaciated legs over the side of the bed. Switching on the bedside lamp she examined the full length of her legs. Good God! They look like twigs. I hope I can stand on them.

Her feet touched the floor tentatively. She supported herself by inching alongside the mattress to the foot of the bed. The early June night air was chilly. She reached for her ivory silk robe and struggled into it, momentarily losing her balance as she half teetered, half limped in barefoot silence to the bureau on the other side of the room, to retrieve her journal. She ran a comb through her jet-black hair, avoiding her reflection in the mirror, certain she would be upset by her appearance. Yesterday’s daunting encounter of her image in the bathroom mirror had left her shaken with revulsion—the sunken eyes and cheeks, receding lips, unsmiling teeth, gray pallor, scrawny neck. She looked so old—so unrecognizable. Carla averted her gaze and vowed not to look at herself again until she was well.

She picked up her journal and settled herself in the chair by the window. The white ruffled curtains swayed softly in the night breeze. Inhaling the spring air, she felt momentarily exhilarated. In another few hours, her mother and father would be up and looking in on her. While these were lonely hours, they were also a welcome opportunity for her to think and write without interruption.

Her eyes swept over the room—the bedroom of her adolescent years, unchanged from the time she left it over a dozen years ago. The walls were splashed with a dizzying array of forsythia blooms, their brown stems and yellow buds arranged in an asymmetrical pattern from floor to ceiling, prolonging spring indefinitely. The room was comfortable, although not decorated to her taste. White curtains adorned the east and south exposed windows. The oak floor was partially covered with a soft-yellow, plush carpet that coordinated with the wallpaper. The furnishings, a dark mahogany set consisting of double bed, bureau, and highboy, had been used by Carla and her sisters for as long as she could remember. A night table on either side of the bed held matching brass lamps, and since Carla’s stay there, a number of her personal items and treasured possessions. The room was essentially the same as when she left home. Now she was merely a visitor here—for the time being.

No, the room did not reflect her decorating taste, but it was warm and inviting. She was grateful to be here until she could get back on her feet.       

Carla was less than enthused about staying in her parents’ home. But her husband, Paul, knew it was the best option. As President and CEO of his firm, he worked hours that extended well into the evening. You know I’d rather have you here, honey, and I know this is where you want to be, but you enjoy your parents’ company and they’re anxious to dote on you. It’ll only be for a few weeks. The change will do you good. It sure will put my mind at ease.

I know all that Paul, Carla answered defensively. Everybody means well. And I don’t want to complain, but I’ve been through a lot. I want to be in my own place, develop my own routine.

Paul reminded her good-naturedly. You know full well, my sweet, you do what you ‘want’ no matter where you are.

Carla’s own place was a stylish townhouse she and Paul had leased when he landed the plum job as head of the Hartford-based munitions company. The townhouse was located on Prospect Street, in a tony residential neighborhood on the outskirts of West Hartford. Carla was captivated by the quality workmanship and smooth flow of the spacious seven-room unit. It had all the features and amenities she could have hoped for: 24-hour concierge service, heated underground garage, central air-conditioning and an indoor swimming pool. The walls of the apartment foyer were paneled gumwood. Polished oak floors led from there to a beamed-ceiling living room. The view, from the Palladian window was of formal, terraced gardens sloping gracefully to meld with neatly pruned shrubs bordering the lush green lawn.

As the realtor led them from room to room, Carla was certain this would become their home. The master bedroom suite at the far end of the unit was luxuriously spacious. Its walls, covered in ivory moire, rose to meet the vaulted ceiling. A French door led to a small, enclosed terrace, private as a room within a garden. On one end of the stone-wall surround was a climbing jasmine and burgeoning wisteria vine, and, in the center, a trellis of muted pink roses.

This is divine, Paul. It reminds me of Louisburg Square on Beacon Hill. Can’t you just picture us sipping mint juleps, lying naked and making love under the sun and stars? Carla asked, coquettishly, as she nuzzled his neck.

Paul was never quite prepared for his wife’s freethinking comments. Ten years her senior, he felt that sex was not something to be discussed openly, and he was more than a little embarrassed in front of the realtor. At the same time, he found his young wife amusing and exciting for just that quality. Paul rose to the occasion, You mean all day, into the night?

That’s just what I mean, she said pressing her torso against him. 

Well, that’s it then. We’ll take it. Above all, Paul wanted to please his beautiful, young bride. The rent was steep − 2400 dollars a month but easily within the means of a man in his position. They signed a two-year lease and moved in ten days later.

Carla and Paul spent the next several weeks on a decorating spree, selecting fabrics, furniture and carpets, reflecting their elegant, eclectic tastes. Carla had acquired a fondness for antique furnishings. She loved the patina that came with careful aging and the craftsmanship of their construction. Paul deferred to Carla’s ability to coordinate colors and materials. The home became her canvas, to which she applied soft, subtle shadings and shapes. With dramatic, artistic flourish she displayed such fine pieces of art as an alabaster Tang-period dynasty horse and a bronze sculpture of Nefertiti, in strategic locations throughout the home. In her wildest dreams, she never imagined possessing such treasures. She delighted in their beauty and felt fortunate to be in a position of such affluence. More importantly, she was very much in love with her husband of nine months.

Only a year and a half ago Carla was single and struggling to make ends meet by working two jobs. She’d been hopelessly involved in a ten-year relationship with Jim, a married man who she finally realized had no intention of leaving his wife. She was generally frustrated, without direction and frequently depressed. She had tried to break off the affair, how many, a dozen or more times? She’d lost count. What difference did it make? The point was that now she believed she finally had the courage to go through with it. She’d had enough.

Jim wasn’t going to make it easy for her to end their affair−he never had. She refused to answer the phone if it was not by the pre-arranged signal she’d set up with friends−nine out of ten calls were his.

He sent flowers with passionate love messages, in his handwriting. Darling, I miss you. Please be patient a little longer.

The bouquets were abundant arrays of fragrant, pastel-colored carnations, with sprigs of eucalyptus. Carnations were Carla’s least favorite flower, she found them indelicate and without character. She figured the reason Jim sent carnations, and nothing but carnations, was because they were so affordable. Jim was economical to a fault. More accurately, he was cheap. Now that she was recovering from her fevered need of him, she could freely articulate the one quality in him she had found so distasteful, from the outset: his frugality.

But, the flowers’ soft shades, which Jim had carefully selected, did compliment the décor of her cozy one-bedroom flat. She and Jim had decorated the apartment together. She chose the paper and paint, he applied it. Since Carla had changed the locks and refused to open the door for him, he no longer had access to the apartment he considered to be his home away from home. Still, he continued to be a presence, within the four walls, by way of the floral arrangements. They arrived every other day, some in baskets others in tall glass vases. By week’s end, Carla was nearly tripping over them. She felt it would be wasteful to just throw them in the trash, but she did not want to weaken her resolve by keeping them fanning the flame as it were.

She removed and shredded the cards, then distributed the arrangements, giving several to her elderly neighbor, Ida Mae, who claimed she hadn’t received fresh flowers since her husband’s death twenty years ago. I always knew you were a sweet girl. Ida Mae said when Carla presented her with the vases of flowers. You come visit me anytime. Hear? Carla said she would stop by soon.

Carla’s new friend, Juanita, who lived a few doors down from Ida Mae, had recently moved in with her aunt and uncle who confided to Carla that Juanita was mildly retarded and had no friends or social life. Carla, who found Juanita’s innocence quite endearing, made it a point to have her over for dinner occasionally. Carla read stories to Juanita who could not read or write. Juanita listened with interest, her brow furrowed, her body leaning in to hear every word Carla uttered. She asked questions that conveyed she understood the essence of the narrative. Carla was gratified. She had become quite fond of her Cuban friend. The feeling was mutual. When Carla handed Juanita the vase of flowers, she exclaimed Gracias, mi amiga. I be so proud you make me your friend. Carla placed the largest of the arrangements in the unadorned foyer of her apartment building. Quite a nice addition, the woman from the fifth floor said as she was leaving the building. Thank you for your thoughtfulness.

Carla, who had always believed that it was it was better to give than to receive, hummed all the way back to her apartment. As she opened the apartment door, she could still detect the pleasing scent of eucalyptus. She turned on the ceiling fan and left the windows open to eliminate the last vestiges of Jim’s efforts to reclaim her. Fortunately, she was leaving for Chicago in the morning to attend a retraining seminar.

A Chance Meeting

Carla’s meeting Paul was either serendipity or divine intervention. How else could one explain their encounter in Chicago, a city where neither one of them had ever been before?

Paul was on his way to O’Hare Airport to catch a flight back to Connecticut. He was stepping away from the telephone in the hotel lobby as Carla walked up to use it. She was dressed in a black wool suit, its cut accentuating her slender, contoured shape.

Paul wasn’t sure what first drew his attention to her. Perhaps it was her legs exposed by the fashionably short length of the skirt, or was it the shiny black hair with the Fifth Avenue hair cut? Her back was to him as she spoke on the phone. He had just confirmed that his flight was departing on schedule. Paul glanced at his watch. He still had time. With a start, he realized she was talking to him and smiling. Her teeth were straight and white, the pleasing result of years of unsightly, uncomfortable braces to correct an overbite.

Excuse me, sir, would you have a dime? I’ve run out of change, Carla asked him. Of course, he did—five to be exact. He placed the coins in her cupped palm. 

Looking at the number of coins, Carla, commented to the stranger, I doubt I’ll need all of these. Please, will you wait, so I can repay you?

Paul wasn’t going anywhere. She was lovely. He had never seen hair so black with large almond shaped eyes to match, on a Caucasian woman. Her tawny complexion, sculpted nose, high cheekbones and full, slightly parted lips combined to produce a strikingly beautiful woman. He wasn’t very good at estimating the ages of women, but she looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties.

In the time it took Carla to get the coins from the tall, attractive stranger, she was contemplating how she could get to know him. Confident she would, she cancelled her dinner date with the friend on the phone. She handed him the remaining change. Thank you, Mr...? 

The name is Paul.

Thank you, Mr. Paul.

Actually, Paul is my first name. My last name is Walters.

Well—then thank you Mr. Paul Walters, she said letting the name roll deliciously over her tongue. Could I buy you a drink, to repay you for helping me out?

Believe me, I’m only too happy to have been able to oblige, and yes, thank you for offering. A drink would be very nice.

They had several drinks and dinner in the hotel dining room. Paul paid. Carla objected. He insisted. She demurred. He missed his flight to Connecticut. They talked into the early hours of the morning. When the dining room closed, they retired to the lounge. When the lounge closed they found a secluded spot in the lobby. Paul invited her to spend the night with him. Carla declined.

The next morning, two dozen long stemmed red roses were delivered to Carla’s room. She was elated. She’d read and heard about such chance meetings but never dreamed this would happen to her. Paul was single now, but had been married a number of years ago. He had two children in their twenties. Although he was ten years Carla’s senior and his hair had begun to gray at the temples, his skin was taut and flawless. His fit and toned physique was no doubt the result of exercise, diet and good family genes. He told her that he had just been named president of an ammunitions company. She was certain his qualifications got him the job, but his good looks must have been one of the deciding factors. She imagined how his face would grace the pages of the stockholder’s annual report.

They met for breakfast that lasted till lunch. When he left her to return to Connecticut, they both knew this was only the beginning. Jim had never been further from her thoughts.

The turbulence of the past was behind her. Now, she was blessed to be in a marriage of mutual love and respect, to bask in the comfort of financial security and to look forward to the day when she would become a mother. The future never looked brighter.

The dark sky was beginning to show signs of early dawn and Carla had not yet made her journal entry. She reviewed her notes of yesterday, which she rearranged and edited, again.

It seemed the piece she was working on would never get past the drafting stage. For her to feel happy with the final results, she would have to revise it further. She was beginning to wonder when, or even if, the time would come that she’d be satisfied with the text. A warm breeze stirred the curtains, as daylight peeked in the window. She was tired. Now she could sleep for a while. She carefully detached the page from the journal, folded it in half, and concealed it behind the envelopes and notepaper in her stationery box. Now that her thoughts were taking form on paper, it was crucial to keep them from being seen.

Carla was happy she had taken the stationery box along on the trip. She knew that seeing it the first thing in the morning, as she was accustomed to doing, would make the adjustment away from home easier. She had instantly fallen in love with it when she discovered it while looking for antiques in the Adirondacks. As she had so often done before, Carla lovingly ran the tips of her fingers over the decoupage-textured surface, tracing the outline of the gold filigree border, delicate muted pink roses and elegant lace doily. The box’s motif evoked the lavish beauty and romance of the Victorian era. It had long been one of Carla’s most treasured possessions, hopeless romantic—by her own admission—that she was.

The journal note now safely out of sight, Carla secured the brass clasp and returned the stationery box to the bureau. Seeking the solace of sleep, she returned to the rumpled bed, and pulled the covers up over her bony shoulders.

Carla’s last thought, before drifting off to sleep, was to call Paul and tell him he was right about her coming here. It was, after all, good to be with her father and mother. It amazed her that her parents had managed to stay married, considering their tumultuous relationship when she was growing up. There seemed to be no end to the bitter battles they had over her father’s drinking and the unpaid bills. Raised voices and slamming of doors were followed by long periods of silence between them. The silence was thunderous and threatening to Carla and her siblings, who felt no adult was available to them during these blackout hours. Carla had long ago filed those unpleasant memories away, but now being back in her parents’ home, the recollections came rushing back. Since her arrival, though, Carla had noticed how civilly her parents treated each other—like