Excalibur

Four and a half chapters, filled with intrigue and adventure lay square and sullen beneath a stone paperweight on the oak desktop. A half-sentence of the last paragraph trails into invisible indentations between college-ruled lines. Next to the abandoned pages of escapades, a polished mahogany-wrapped, fine point pen lay coffined in its box, drained of its black blood, no redeeming vial of fluids in sight.

“Jenny, are you finished with the manuscript? Book club starts in 45 minutes, and we need copies for everyone before they get here,” Miranda shouted from the stairwell.

“Nooooooooo. I ran out of ink, and I can’t find any refills anywhere!”

“Oh, come on, Jen, you have eight thousand writing utensils in this house. Find another one and get it done! Or use your blessed laptop, for Pete’s sake.”

Miranda doesn’t understand. Eight nor eight thousand other pens or pencils cannot complete the novella I started last week for this high stakes, read-in-the-round book club. Miranda took it upon herself to invite Esther Miller, the new acquisition editor for Barnum books, to sit in on our little soiree, in hopes of landing me a spot on her roster, or at least a nod in the right direction.

Not everyone has a roommate determined to be both agent and promoter. Miranda spent the entire week cleaning and re-arranging the furniture in the apartment, scouring Bon Apetite recipes for the perfect hors d’oeuvres, and bartering with street market vendors for the freshest, most tasteful arrangement of non-allergenic flowers to accent the presentation with her grandmother’s Tiffany vase.

Ms. Miller accepted the invitation two weeks ago. Since then, I’ve been ordered to my writing quarters each evening, two and a half minutes past arriving home from work, only let out for a light meal after penning a minimum of 500 words. Granted, Miranda took it upon herself to fix finger foods and keep me in hot tea and honey, but seriously, you would think it is her career at stake, not mine. She even curated my outfit for the evening: a shimmery pantsuit in starless night blue-black silk. I’m surprised she let me do my own hair.

“37 minutes, Jenny…you have 31 of those minutes to get yourself to the copier and freshen your lip gloss.”

“Ok, ok, I’ll do what I can!”

My promise convinces neither of us. I pull out every drawer of my grandfather’s roll top, begging for a cartridge of black gold to fall out of an errant envelope or a stray staple box. I cannot complete the sentence dangling on the precipice of the last paragraph without ink flowing from the tip of my enchanted pen. It’s the only way I write.

It was my 14^th birthday. My parents dropped me off on the doorstep of my grandparents’ brick house in the older section of town on their way to a festive something-or-other for their company’s anniversary celebration. Mother kissed me on the cheek and wished me a happy birthday, while in the same breath admonishing me to behave for her parents and chew my food with my mouth closed. They drove away. I knocked the brass ring against the thick wood and Grandmother Ada opened the heavy door and shooed me in like a fly.

“Go ahead and put your things in the blue room, then wash up and join us for supper.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Gramps intercepted me in the hallway from the bathroom and scooped me up in a big bear hug.

“Well, if our little rugrat isn’t turning into the little lady of the house! I think you’ve grown at least three inches since we saw you last!”

“Aw, Gramps, it hasn’t been that long. And I am hardly a lady. Just a typical troublesome teenager these days.”

“Well, we better get to the table before we’re both in trouble. I want to hear about the boys whose hearts are breaking these days since you can’t date until you’re 25.”

“Harold, your dumplings are getting cold!”

He winks at me. “See, what’d I tell you?”

Grandmother Ada’s chicken and dumplings were the most heartwarming thing about her. A little salty on the surface, but her cooking was all comfort food. I let the heavy broth work its way into my system and calm me from the inside out. I took my time grazing on the sweet dumplings, making sure to mind Mother’s warning to keep my lips wrapped around my food instead of talking while I eat. I fingered the cloth napkin on my lap to keep the hand not ladling my food off the table.

“This is really good, Grandma. Thank you for supper.”

“Well, of course, young lady. I won’t have you starving at my house. And when your bowl is cleaned up, we might have a little ice cream for dessert.”

Ice cream, accompanied by a petite frosted, layered cake with a single lit candle. My grandparents remembered! The warm light from the quickly shrinking candle flicked against my cheek.

“Well, make your wish and blow it out before we have wax frosting!” Gramps could never wait for dessert. Grandmother Ada retrieved the cake and headed back to the kitchen to portion out the servings and dish the ice cream.

Gramps slid a drawstring velvet bag over to the spot where my bowl had warmed the tablecloth. I met his gaze with a question mark in mine.

“It’s a rite of passage. Or should I say…’Write of passage?’” emphasizing his ‘W’ with twisted lips. His eyes twinkled as he laughed at his own pun.

I pulled a narrow box from the soft cloth bag, opening it gently. My first encounter with the beauty of mahogany and the tip of silver. Smooth and sharp. Heavy and rich. I was mesmerized by its beauty.

“Think of it as your Excalibur, your sword from the stone. The pen is even mightier than the sword, so wield its power with care.” 

Grandmother returned from the kitchen with bowls of cake and ice cream. “Harold, you just couldn’t wait, could you? Well, my stars, how is she supposed to use that thing without anything to write on?” She turned to the china buffet behind her and slid a small package out from the napkin drawer.

Wrapped in tissue, the package was criss-crossed with a thin twine string and tied in a bow. “I don’t have the gift of words like you and your Grandfather, but here’s a place to keep all those stories and poems rolling around in your head.” Inside the tissue paper, soft tanned leather wrapped around a stack of handmade paper. A trio of wildflowers and sweetgrass embedded in the cover page accented the script: Jenny’s Musings.

“Oh…thank you both so much. I know I usually talk your ear off, but I don’t have any words right now!”

Gramps chuckle. “Ah, the irony! It’s all in the pen, my dear. Now, that ice cream is about to get our cake all soggy, can we please dig in?”

--

“Twenty-three minutes and counting,” Miranda’s pitch currently escalating to panic mode. “Get it done or I’m writing it for you!” I’ve looked in every hidden cranny for spare ink. I pull the last page from the stack and re-read from the top line to the half-sentence where the words gasped for ink and were left dying.

I close my eyes and breathe as deeply as I can, grabbing the pen box and uttering as close to a penitent prayer as I know. An inkling of how to shrink-wrap this ending tickles the edges of my brain. I open the box and retrieve my Excalibur. Something rattles. I shake the box again. A small knock against the edge. I carefully squeeze the felted cardboard lining from the box, unearthing a long, skinny vial with “In Case of Emergency” taped on the bottom of the box in my Grandfather’s handwriting.

“Oh Gramps, your timing is impeccable!”

I load the cartridge and coax the ink to the edge of the paper. Fourteen minutes later, I stand at the printer, copy and collate six copies of five full chapters, double-sided, double-spaced. My thumb and index finger bear the inky imprint of the hopes pressing through the words on these pages.

“Jenny?”

“Stapling!”

Three minutes. I check my stack of copies. I check my hair. I retrieve my lip gloss from the jeans pocket I abandoned for this fancy pantsuit. I wipe the smudges from my glasses.

Thirty seconds to spare. I carefully polish my sword, slip it back into its box and slip it into the velvet case and draw the string closed. I blow a grateful kiss to my Gramps, my Merlin, and head down the stairs.