Questions

This is an ongoing and under-construction story I am writing. I am keeping it all together here so you can read it in order.

Part I

I can see him sitting in front of me. His hair is growing longer, his face darker. He’s getting older, I can see it. It’s in his eyes. His skin gives away more than he wants to offer. He shifts in his chair. His dark green corduroys gathering at his hips, he seems comfortable and easy. I don’t really know this man. Not really. But he’s sitting there, waiting for me to start asking him questions. Waiting for me to start the conversation. I pause, again, looking at his hands, folded across his chest. His black shirt tells me it’s had a full life, even hiding slightly under the jacket he’s wearing.

I lift my eyes to meet his and smile. He has the warmest eyes. He returns my gaze kindly and a flush enters his cheeks. Why, I have no idea. It’s almost as if suddenly he is nervous. This is not like him. He’s used to the stage, used to being watched. But right now, in this warm living room, he seems uneasy.

Question one.. He lets out a timid laugh, crosses his legs and starts answering.. I watch as he methodically twirls the ring on his finger. The wide silver band goes round and round. I almost become transfixed with the process until I realize he’s telling me a fantastic story. A story about a boy growing up with a strong sense of who he was and what he wanted. His eyes brighten at the mention of his mother, and equally darken. In one moment there’s joy, the next a divorce. He’s not so good at concealing his feelings.

Pausing only a moment, he returns to the story. He’s a boy traveling, working. He’s incredibly young and astoundingly gifted. He learns early on the value of giving everything you have for what you want, but also learns the pain of constant performance. I listen intently to his seemingly melodic response. His answer raises thousands of more questions for me. But I have to limit my curiosity.

Question two.. This time, he frowns, then closes his eyes. I wonder if he might not answer. His great pause captivates me. But he sighs deeply and gives the simplest answer. He doesn’t know. I can’t argue with that, so I go on. Before I ask another question I glance up to notice a slight pain in his face. I wonder if I have asked him something too personal. He’s gazing out the window. Suddenly he’s on edge.Question three. A relief. Something he can easily assign an answer for. He is glad to respond to something so easy and begins by leaning forward in a familiar way. I watch him fumble the buttons on his sleeve. He launches into a story about being 16, and sitting at an old piano. He’s telling me about writing, working, and loving. He reveals stories about lovers, inadvertently perhaps. He talks about foolish choices, and immaturity. He’s being far more honest than I expected. And offering me more of himself than I ever hoped.

I stop and ask him if he’d like some tea. I wonder if he’s in need of some fresh air. Remembering these things can be terribly exhausting. He accepts my offer for tea, rises from his chair, and walks towards the kitchen. He is more than comfortable in this house. Removing his jacket, he tosses it across a chair and walks over to the stove. He lights the stove, turns around, and looking out the back door he begins asking me questions..

Part II

Sun is spilling through the sheer shade covering the window on the back door. It highlights deep ruts in the plank wood floor. I notice his feet are bare, and for the first time I fall out of my character and giggle. He asks me what’s funny and I answer him. He tells me he’s always barefoot, except in the winter, and only if it’s snowing. I spare him my preferences for footwear and return to looking at the floor.

He asks again. Question one for me. I avoid looking at him, because I know my cheeks are red. He’s staring straight at me, insistent that I answer. I place my notebook on the cold tile countertop and return his gaze. I answer him, briefly, and with as few words as I can manage. His eyes never leave me as I speak and I suddenly feel like a little girl again. I am embarrassed to admit the answer, but I must. He asks in such a way that suggests he already knows the answer anyhow.

He turns to reach for a box of tea and I let out a sigh. But before I am finished he turns back toward me.

Question two for me. This one’s easy to answer. I tell him how much I love the mountains, and how I long to move back. I recall for him seasons of my life. I tell him about my family, falling in love, and wanting to stay young forever. I notice that he has turned off the stove and is now watching me. His arms are folded on his chest and again he is twirling the ring. I pull my sweater around me and lean on the counter, continuing on with my answer. I forget my own nervousness and tell him the story of how I came to do what I do. My journey to write, and what I really want to do. Before I know it, I have been talking for a long time. I realize this and suddenly stop, hands animated in mid air. This is his interview, I tell him. He doesn’t seem concerned and tells me to finish. I do so quickly as he unwraps tea bags.

I watch as he pours hot water into two round white mugs. The smell of peppermint rises in the kitchen. He offers me honey, and I decline.Question three for me. I tell him this is the last one for me, until his questions are finished. He laughs out loud. I am such a stickler for rules, he comments. But before I can answer I notice a watercolor on the wall beside the pantry. I comment on the beautiful greens and oranges. I ask him who painted it, and what it means. He doesn’t answer. Instead he walks back to the chair with the tea and sits down.

I never answer question three and he never answers me about the painting.

Part III
I suddenly realize we have been talking for nearly an hour. He sips his tea, and recrosses his legs. Placing the mug on the mahogany table beside him, he rests his head on the high back of the chair. As he does this I notice a necklace he’s wearing. I stare at it for a few moments before I realize what I am doing. He lifts his head, and I ask him about his necklace. Immediately I regret asking, knowing it’s none of my business. Just like the painting, and the bare feet, these items aren’t really up for discussion. But he answers me anyway. It was a gift, and he never takes it off. The answer is so bland I almost think he’s lying. But I doubt that he would.

I ask him if he wants to continue on with my questions or if he has anything he wants to discuss. He tells me that I am here to interview him and so I go on..

Question four. At this point, I am nervous to continue on the track of questions I have prepared. I feel an odd intimacy with this man. He’s my age, we are the same, really. The fact of who he is makes me slightly shy. I have spoken with many people like him over the years. It’s not a nervous feeling, more a strange connection. Sitting in his living room, sipping tea from his mug, it’s almost friendly.

But before I can ponder it too deeply, he begins his answer. At first he offers short sentences. One or two words and then seemingly - as if he’s constructing a song right in front of me - he moves to a more constant narrative. He is talking about his father. Instead of offering the typical answers most people give about their fathers, he is giving me insights and observation. He speaks about him as if he is writing a story. He offers vivid detail, mixing in memories, dates, names.. It comes together slowly. Ultimately he tells me he feels let down. He’s ashamed to admit it, and says he rarely speaks to him anymore. They’ve grown apart and he has no idea why.

Question five is a follow up of the latter. I never intended to ask it, but it falls out of my mouth. I ask him about his regrets. He says he doesn’t believe in them. Everything is for a reason, nothing is by chance. I find myself nodding my head and forgetting to write down what he’s saying. My pen is lying carelessly on top of my lap. But I have no reason to write down these words. I know exactly that I will remember them. I will remember these stories, these words. Mostly because they are eerily similar to my own.

Part IV

I hear the phone ring, and it startles me. I feel my face flush. I was so caught up in his story and his words. I must have somehow forgotten that there was a real world around us. It rings again, but he does not move to answer it. After the fourth ring it goes silent. I turn to reach for my tea, pausing from the discourse and feel that I have run out of questions for him. There are eight more questions on my page, but none of them are worth asking.

I sip the tea, taking in the warmth into my throat. He’s watching me, and suddenly he starts asking me about why I am here. Why I do what I do. Why, really? I have answered this question a million times. I have offered the same response over and over. But this time I offer him a totally different, and far more honest answer. I tell him about the tortured writer inside and the desire I have to observe people, especially artists. I tell him that I am fascinated with him, and the way his career has come together and that is why I do what I do. Because people are intriguing, and I love to meet them.

He lets out a laugh, but it’s an honest relief kind of laugh. He tells me this is not at all what he expected me to say.

He asks me another question; what do I do with the things I don’t put in my stories? Where does all of that go? It’s a very good question. I come back at him telling him that perhaps he should be doing the interview, his questions are great. He laughs and I tell him the truth. I keep them to myself. Each time I meet someone like him, I gather a novel’s worth of words, stories and observations. But I can only publish tiny bits of what I have. So I keep the rest. It’s like a private voyeurism, something that’s mine. Or at least I think.

He asks me if I’d like to go for a walk. We both rise and he slips on a pair of shoes, grabs his jacket, a hat, and opens the back door. I pull my sweater around me, tie it, and wrap my scarf around my neck.

As I step out onto the back deck, I see a thick greenbelt of pine. The yard is minimally kept but still tidy. Leaves collect in patches around the large open space. There is a small shed in the corner and a garden obviously dormant in the cool weather.

We walk out of a tall gate onto the driveway. I follow him down a sidewalk and into a park area. It’s quiet, and there’s nobody around. We walk for about three or four minutes side by side along the park’s edge before either of us says anything.

He has his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He is very tall, and I feel dwarfed standing beside him in my flat shoes. I am thankful for the scarf and the sweater, and my decision to wear pants. The wind cuts across a pond ahead of us and reminds me of a time when I lived not far from here.

Without thinking I start telling him about my family. I tell him about my husband, my children. I tell him about traveling and being apart. I tell him about meeting so many new people, but still feeling lonely. He agrees and shares in my feelings. He says when he is away he feels the same hollowness. Every place he visits takes him further from the ones he loves.

We walk on this way for a while, until the sun begins to droop. It’s getting colder fast and I know without a glance of my watch that my time is long passed. I tell him I should go, and that I am grateful for his time. We approach the house again and walk back through the gate.

He opens the back door and we enter. I walk towards the den to gather my things. But before I go, I have one more question for him.

Part V

He closes the door behind him, takes off his hat, and places his jacket on the knob next to the window. I gather my notebook, recorder, bag, and pick up my tea cup from off of the table. I begin putting things into my bag and turn back towards him. He’s standing beside the counter, watching me. I smile, nervously, and tell him how thankful I am for his time. His warm eyes meet mine and he tells me he’s happy to do it.

Despite my better judgment and the fact that I have long overstayed my visit, I ask him my last question. I worry it will upset him, or offend him. At first he doesn’t respond. Instead he crosses his arms at his chest, and closes his eyes. Resting his lean frame against the wall, he seems to be daydreaming, or praying. I look at his face, with no hesitation. I put my bag down on the chair again and watch him. He seems lost in a deep meditation.

A minute passes, then his dark brows furrow. I hesitate, about to dismiss the question. But he begins speaking, and I am caught listening. All at once, he’s speaking quickly, as if he were confessing a secret. He turns again to look out the back door and in his profile, I see the shape of his jaw. The same as his father’s. His eyes look full of tears, and I feel embarrassed. I apologize immediately, when he pauses. But when he turns his face back to me, he is smiling. No, he says. There’s no apology. I let out a deep sigh, and feel awkward. I have never asked these kinds of questions before. I feel like I’ve intruded. But he seems completely at ease again.

I pick up my bag and wrap my scarf around my neck again. Reaching into my bag to find the keys to my rental car, I look up to see him standing right in front of me. He hands me a small book. He tells me to take it, read it, and send it back to him. No, I say, I can’t possibly. But he insists. It explains more of what he wants me to know.

I thank him and tuck the worn book into my bag. I have no idea what the book is, the cover is too faded to see. I put my bag over my shoulder and look up. I thank him again. I tell him I look forward to writing his story. He laughs and asks me what I will do with the rest. I smile, and remind him that he’s already asked that question.

He walks me to the front door, turns on the outside lights, and unlocks the door. A brisk wind rushes through the doorway as he opens the old carved oak door. I put out my hand to his but he instead hugs me. He thanks me for coming, and tells me to send him the story as soon as its written. I promise I will.

Walking down the steps I feel incredible gratitude. I turn back, certain he’s still standing there, and he is. I look up at him. I tell him this, taking a risk I never intended to take.

“I’ve never met someone like you. So transparent and honest. Thank you for every single honest answer. I can’t wait to write your story. But beyond that, I feel honored to have all of the answers to all of the questions.. And I love knowing the story that will never be written..”

With that I turn to my car and get in. As I reverse out of the driveway he is standing on the porch, twirling the band on his finger. I wave, and drive off into the cold evening.