Mortal Weather - Ch 18A: The Silence in Song

Stories, Friendship, and Humanity

I’m planning a couple of low-key discussion groups for writers next year, and I’d appreciate your feedback. Monthly sign-up. Here’s the rough brief (I will provide a syllabus for each later):

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CREATIVITY AND COMMERCE — Saturdays, 10-12 AM — 4-8 writers

Topics: Agents, publishers, day jobs, alternative career paths, staying sane, etc.

Text: The Heart Aroused by David Whyte

Cost: $80 per month ($20 per class) including text

FICTION FELLOWSHIP — Sundays, 10-12 AM — 4-8 writers

Topics: Theme, voice, point of view, scenes, balance, common maladies, etc.

Text: Mortal Weather by KP McCarthy

Cost: $80 per month ($20 per class) including text

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Please say in the comments or via email (18kpmc@gail.com):

• Which, if any, of these classes interest you?

• Would you attend in person (Denver/Boulder area) or Zoom?

• What topics are of particular interest?

• Does the timing work for you? Weekends seem best. If we meet mid-morning, we can occasionally meet for breakfast before or lunch afterward. Mid-afternoon could work similarly.

Any feedback is welcome, of course. Many thanks for your help.

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Next week will be the end of the book — the final text of MW. However, there will be many other posts to do with the first book and with the series. Stay tuned.

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We stay in Parnassus for another week, working long, lingering hours while paring down our belongings and making plans. For the first time since Oakland, Gaya is fully engaged. She talks about Uncle Bebo and Donna and asks me about my family. Mornings are golden. Jupiter, the griz, shimmers in the light. The lion roars roll out like Buddhist koans. Bianca and Greta, the tigers, paw each other and doze. The donkeys, Fred and Ginger, follow me job to job. Hazel, the black bear, does laps with her buds. Hector, the mountain lion, slinks and freezes and slinks. Gaya and Irene run a jolly kitchen, scooping out buckets of peanut butter and jelly.

Our last night, I find a Ruby Rocket concert on the Internet. There’s my old bandmate, Ruby Watson, and her female cohorts, pealing out tasty riffs. The band cooks so seriously that I can’t stop watching. Gaya, Irene, Lester, and Popeye join me on the couch with popcorn. The women razz me about Ruby, but I don’t care. Soon we’re dancing ridiculously— Irene showing me how to move my feet—while the critters tidy up the popcorn. Sure enough, after more than an hour of soulful reeling and rocking, a redhead slows, sits at a piano, and begins Pink Floyd’s “The Great Gig in the Sky.”

Dark and intense, Ruby swings her guitar onto her back and steps to the microphone. As the song builds, she’s as inspired as I remember— better, in fact, as her voice has a new timbre. This time the song doesn’t use her up. She burns brighter as she wails. Just when it can’t be more other-worldly, a natty bass player joins in. Her falsetto compliments Ruby’s throaty contralto perfectly. They face each other and trade interpretations of the melody like dueling guitarists. But there’s no competition. Love is the driver. Shifting tempo faultlessly together, they kill it and bring down the house. Hug joyfully and interact with the audience. The song is meant to be about death, and was nearly the death of Ruby, long ago. Now she feeds on it. Probably with the help of this friend, she found the beating heart of the song and unlocked its secret— that it’s about life.

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The lions roar magnificently on our last morning. As we load Stanhope’s Studebaker, we find a bra under the seat. It is not mine. We decide that it belongs to Window Wizard Bix’s girlfriend—I think her name is Erin. My listening lover says he is pleased with this artifact—pleased that his Champion harbors a little story of passion.

We still have room in the backseat for Irene, Lester, and Popeye. We take them to the refuge. Stanhope gives Irene a folder of paperwork for the Mini and explains how to transfer the car to Donna. At the kitchen, we make coffee and sit on the veranda to watch the restless lions. Irene sighs and waves an arm. “I wish Dennis and Pigeon could have seen all this.”

I embrace her from behind. “They see it.”

Clearing out Stanhope’s apartment in Dana Point is nothing— someone has boxed up his few possessions. At the marina, we walk along the boardwalk to Katy Sue, where we picnic and feed Skye’s stale ginger cookies to snow-white gulls. Stanhope describes his sailing escapade with the Spuds and the dogs, making me feel almost as if I were there.

We cast off and repeat our old routine: a lazy cruise all the way to sunset. Stanhope smokes a pipe, and I breathe in the aroma. He says his father’s pipe smoke always made the family feel safe. I take up that feeling, as if I am part of that family. We toast Anshu and everyone we have lost. We wish elephants on Irene, Donna, and the sanctuary.

On the boardwalk, we run into our sailor friends, Duncan and Skye. Skye is full of local news—as though she was mentored by Connie. “Wilma down at the machine shop is trying to buy Connie’s grill. Her husband up in Alaska gave her a big divorce settlement.”

Duncan tells us that the admiral is in a home on the coast. “We see him a lot, but he doesn’t always remember us.” They invite us to go along with them this afternoon to see the admiral. In the meantime, we walk to Mission San Juan Capistrano. Mark, the surfer, Caprice’s person, is working in the gift shop. He confirms what Connie had alluded to: swallows don’t flock to Capistrano anymore. We should not expect to see many. “We did a lot of work to lure them back—put up artificial nests, mostly. It helped, but I don’t think we’ll have irruptions of swallows here again.”

“Are they dying out?”

“Birds are in decline all over the world. But I don’t think it’s that so much as that the swallows are dispersed. A handful still nest in and around the mission, but that’s not what brings people here. We still have the history—the legend of Father O’Sullivan giving the swallows a place to stay. That story is still an attraction. The spectacle is history, but you can see swallows all over California in the spring. I see nests under bridges every day.”

We spend hours at the mission. It is quite large: archways bounding green courtyards, a cemetery, a magnificent church ruin, a chapel, and great bells forged centuries ago. I lose Stanhope but find myself unwilling to leave a courtyard garden full of intense colors—bougainvillea, hibiscus, bird of paradise. Stanhope finds me, as always, and we luncheon by deep red hollyhocks as tall as Anshu. Now and then, swallows appear. Stanhope says that darting is their verb: nimble, pivoting, shooting like streamers. They are jewels of the sky, I think. There are not many—just enough for today. In honor of Connie, I buy a swallow figurine and a dozen swallow necklaces. I can be generous, thanks to Anshu!

We rendezvous with Duncan and Skye and drive in the rain along the coast to see Admiral Spencer. These two are quieter now, and more pragmatic. They talk a lot, mostly with each other, about the costs and logistics of manufacturing and distribution. The solar awnings business is really absorbing them. Stanhope gives me a worried look—I think he wonders if their sailing dream will be postponed forever. As if in response, the storm suddenly builds, the wind rocks Stanhope’s ancient car, and waves crest the guardrails. Stanhope pulls into an overlook to wait out the storm. We discuss the sea level increase we can expect in our lifetimes because we cannot think of anything else. This is very depressing, but Skye comes to the rescue, showing us the admiral’s detailed sketches of graceful warships. He might have made a living as an artist. Duncan says his talent came with a disdain for authority that alarmed his parents. So he was pressured into enlisting. In the Gulf of Tonkin, he discovered that he had a genius for organization and could be cool under pressure. Who would appreciate those talents as much as the navy?

In twenty minutes, the worst is over, and we continue driving—a little sadder, it seems. Admiral Spencer is sitting up, sketching, when we arrive. Yes—he has been in decline. His eyes are hollow. He puts the drawing down and reaches for me—remembering our talk on the boat after Connie died, I’m sure. This is an honor, to be singled out by a strong man in time of need, but I have to remind myself to be strong—to be cheerful, warm, and encouraging. The old gentleman stares at Stanhope, trying to place him, I think. Stanhope gives him a crisp salute and the admiral responds in kind, relieved to see one of his sailors.

Skye hugs him and shows off his drawing. The work is skilled, but the composition is weak. He once drew sleek ships that seemed ready to steam right off of the page. Now his subjects are the window, its sill, and the parking lot beneath. Yet the Pacific Ocean, in clearing weather, is visible from where he sits. Duncan says that Admiral Spencer’s son paid extra for this room, so his father could watch the sea. But the great expanse, the stage upon which the admiral’s life played out, is falling away. I imagine him being excited about drawing a ship but being unable to remember properly. He clearly glimpses the water sometimes but cannot hold the scene—he can no longer see big ships slicing through the waves. So he sketches what is small and near.

Perhaps I can help with this problem. I find Connie’s swallow figurine in my purse and place it on the nightstand. The admiral’s eyes kindle. This is something of speed and movement that will stay within his field of view. It might fuel the memory of a ship—or the memory of a woman called Connemara who loved swallows and creatures of the sea. I leave him with this distraction and retreat to the hallway, trying to compose myself.