The synapses collapse; well, let them. She enlarges on the available material, extends, shrinks, reshapes what’s offered; this mixed potion is her life. She swirls it one way or the other, depending on — who knows what it depends on? — the fulcrum of desire, or of necessity. She might drop in a ripe plum from a library book she’s reading or something out of a soap opera or a dream.
Not often, but occasionally, she will make a bold subtraction, as when Fraidy Hoyt reported she had almost certainly glimpsed Maria Goodwill, widow of Cuyler Goodwill, in Indianapolis, walking down Ohio Street on the arm of an elderly gentleman — but this is impossible, laughable, since Maria has long since gone home to her Italian village and transformed herself into a black draped figure of mourning with a bowl of knitting in her lap.
If you were to ask Victoria’s Great-aunt Daisy the story of her life she would purse her lips for a moment — that ruby-red efflorescence — and stutter out an edited hybrid version, handing it to you somewhat shyly, but without apology, without equivocation that is: this is what happened, she would say from the unreachable recesses of her seventy-two years, and this is what happened next.
It’s hard to say whether she’s comfortable with her blend of distortion and omission, its willfulness, in fact; but she is accustomed to it. And it’s occurred to her that there are millions, billions, of other men and women in the world who wake up early in their separate beds, greedy for the substance of their own lives, but obliged every day to reinvent themselves.
In June of 1977, just two months after their Easter lunch at the Ringling Hotel, her grandniece, Victoria Flett, phoned from Toronto and said, “Hey, guess what? — I’m going to the Orkney Islands on a research project. Next week. Why don’t you come with me. It would be a terrific holiday, and we can”—for some reason Victoria’s voice carried a ribbon of laughter—”we can go put some flowers on Magnus Flett’s grave.”
“The Orkney Islands!” her daughter Joan said during their customary Sunday telephone call. “But I thought you said you were going to come up to Portland this year, you said you’d stay with the girls so Ross and I could get away for a couple of days, they were looking forward to seeing Grandma. It’s always Grandma this and Grandma that, and now you’re talking about the Orkneys.”
“Have you looked this place up on a map?” her son Warren said.
“Do you even know where the Orkney Islands are?”
“Why the hell not?” Alice said in her acquired English accent.
“About time you crossed the pond. As long as you stay with me and the kids for a few days coming and going.”
“Of course you’ll go,” Fraidy said. “I’ll do your volunteer afternoon for you, and we’ll cancel bridge for once.”
“Leave your passport to me,” Labina’s husband, Bud, said. “Just get your photos done, fill out the form, and I’ll drop it off at the federal building in Tampa where I just happen to have a few connections — a fellow there who owes me a favor. The whole thing’ll be over and out in ten minutes flat, take my word for it.”
“What you need,” Labina (Beans) said, “is a proper wool suit.
These Florida blends won’t do in that unholy climate, not at all. I almost froze my behind off that time I was in Scotland, and that was only Edinburgh, not way up north where you’re heading. A wool suit, a Perma-press blouse and a couple of very, very fine sweaters to switch off with, you won’t need another thing.”
“Walking shoes,” Victoria said on the telephone. “Never mind what they look like.”
“And an umbrella.” Fraidy said. “The folding kind.”
“Cancel the umbrella,” Victoria said. “See if you can get one of those plastic ponchos with a hood.”
“Sorry we can’t get you the package deal,” the travel agent in Bradenton said, “but the fact is, we need at least three weeks’ notice for that, and besides, we don’t have all that much information on the Orkney Islands.”
“Frankly,” said Marian McHenry, who lives in the condo across the hall, “I’d rather see my own country first instead of traipsing around over there. Have you seen Washington D.C.? I mean, really seen it?”
“No one needs inoculations any more for Europe,” Dr. Neerly told her, “But I’m going to write you a prescription for travelers’ trots. Also one for constipation. And you’ll want to take along your own anti-allergy pillow, they probably still use chicken feathers over there, or straw.”
“I hope to heaven you’ve made firm hotel reservations.”
“Personally, we wouldn’t dream of booking ahead, it takes all the fun out of it, we like to play it by ear, you know what I mean?
Will o’ the wisp, that’s us.”
“You honestly haven’t been to Europe since 1927? Honest? Oh boy, are you in for a surprise.”
“I didn’t know you’d been to Europe before.” (Joan, phoning from Portland on a Tuesday night.) “I mean, you never once mentioned it.”
“For God’s sake, don’t stay in hotels over there. Because, listen, they’ve got these darling little bed and breakfast thingies all over the place, they’re much more homey, and you get a real feel for the day-to-day life as it’s really lived kind-of-thing.”
“Take my advice and avoid two things. First, bed and breakfast establishments. Some of them actually stick you between those godawful nylon sheets, yech, and serve you mushy hot tomatoes for breakfast, I kid you not. Two, don’t drink the water out of the faucet. Haven’t you ever wondered why they drink all that tea over there? Because tea requires boiled water — boiled, get it?”
“Travelers’ checks.”
“Money belt.”
“Two small suitcases are better than one big one, that’s the smartest thing I’ve ever been told.”
“When we were in Canterbury—”
“The time I went up to the Lake District—”
“—fish and chips, wrapped in newspaper.”
“—a little plastic case with your own soap because—”
“My great-great grandmother came from the Isle of Wight. Is that anywhere near where—?”
“If you could just pick me up one of those cute little Wedgwood ashtrays, the green color though, not the blue.”
“—keep your valuables on your person at all times—”
“—these itty-bitty earplug thingamajigs, you can buy them at Winn Dixie.”
“The Orkney Islands? Never heard of them.”
Young Victoria, meeting her great-aunt at Mirabelle Airport in Montreal, was in a knot of nerves. “I’d like you to meet Lewis.
Lewis Roy. Lew, this is my Aunt Daisy.” Tonguing each word.
“How do you do, Mrs. Flett.”
“Lew’s going to the Orkneys too,” Victoria said, her voice rising. Her face as she said this was awful. So was her hair, lank, unevenly cut.
“Oh.”
“He’s kind of, you know, in charge of the project. He’s”—she performed a grotesque rolling shrug of nonchalance, “he’s my prof, sort of.”
“Really just a post-doc, Mrs. Flett. Victoria and I came up with this proposal together. It was mostly her idea.” His face appeared strong, his mouth eager, ready to be amused.
On the plane the three of them were seated side by side, Lewis Roy on the aisle, Victoria in the middle, her aunt by the window.
They drank some champagne and ate a dinner of chicken and sliced carrots, and in the daze and rumble of airline ritual became easy with each other. Then Lewis plunged into a long, complex account of a previous flight to Europe, and as the story progressed he fell, egregiously, into the present tense. “So the pilot makes an announcement. Hey, one of the motors is kaput. Right. We turn back.