Smarty Pants Poet

SMARTY PANTS POET

Linda Dennis

The Smarty Pants Poet had it all wrong. Someone did cry. He said the old man was from New York, but he wasn’t. He was from Arizona and owned a mansion on Lake Tahoe. It was surrounded by clear water and stunning snowcapped mountains. Few people knew about that. At the age of 56, I suppose he could’ve been considered old by some standards. That, too, was an exaggeration in my mind. He had always looked far younger than his years.

The article in The New York Times is what led me to the poem on YouTube. Sitting in my hotel room and bristling slightly, I studied the poem again. The words were the writings of a Harvard freshman and had gained much attention about the man’s demise. I watched the screen as each line swished into view, stacking itself under the previous one:

There was an Old Man of New York

Who many considered a dork

There was an Old Man who was a wreck

And he put a fork in his very own neck

There was an Old Man of New York

Who pulled his own cork

And who too much liked pork

There was an Old Man of New York

Who murdered himself with a fork

But nobody cried

For that silly Old Man of New York

Oh! How stories get misconstrued! How tales go awry! All in the name of humor. My gut constricted. There was no neck, there was no wreck, and pork rarely touched his lips.

At the end of the clever slide show on YouTube, there was his picture. That was when I knew for sure that the Smarty Pants Poet, as I dubbed him, was talking about the Harvard educated physicist, Dr. Eric Jones. I knew him as Jonesy.

I read some of the comments other people had written. Most cheered the writer on but one or two had the grace to point out to Smarty Pants that his poem was in bad taste.

Sitting on the bed of the New York hotel, I slammed shut the lid of my laptop. Staring out the window, the outline of the New York skyline greeted me as dawn announced itself. The sky was etched in deep orange hues and dark purple clouds, with the sun sliding around a tall structure. I wiped at my eyes because the beauty of the scene touched me as deeply as did my memory of Jonesy.

I turned away and crawled into bed.

The shower helped a little to wash away my melancholy, as did the hustle and bustle of the New York sidewalks. The city was a good distraction.

Already having done some window shopping and then stopping at the Strand Bookstore on Broadway, I leaned against a building and glanced at the map on my phone. As I did so, I could feel New York flying past me. I touched my purse, reassuring myself that it was there; that the item was still there.

I was having lunch at the Lattanzi Ristorante on 46^th and was trying to orient myself. Later that same day, I was meeting with an attorney. My phone wobbled in my hand, which surprised me. Then I wondered why my distress over Jonesy would be so surprising.

He wouldn’t have been surprised.

I hailed a cab. “Lattanzi’s on 46^th,” I said as I situated myself in the backseat. It had only been five years ago. I remembered the place well. I remembered how Jonesy looked.

“Do you like Italian?” Jonesy had asked, grimacing as he loosened his tie. His auburn hair was spilling over his eyes, and he pushed it aside. I was to learn that it was a common habit of his.

When I said that I loved Italian, he took my hand and told me that he liked my dress.

It had been my first visit to New York, and I had run into Jonesy at the hotel where we were both staying. He was attending a physics conference, and I was touring the city. I was overwhelmed by the place. I loved how alive it was, how it didn’t apologize for its numerous distractions.

In the great scheme of things, I was nobody to Jonesy but somehow felt that I was everything. He didn’t hide the fact that he was going through a divorce. I told him of my husband of nine years who had died a few years before.

Jonesy’s cell phone rang while we were eating, and he glanced at it. He shook his head in irritation. “This guy is as persistent as DDT,” he said about a colleague of his.

“Isn’t DDT a poison of some kind that was made illegal?”

“It’s a synthetic pesticide,” he clarified. “But the unique thing about it is that it permeates the soil. Not just that it soaks into the soil, but it literally integrates itself with the cellular structure of the soil. Very scary stuff.”

“Hence the outlawing of it.”

His deep golden-colored eyes reflected the candlelight at the center of the table. “You should be outlawed, too. I’ll bet you’re kind of like DDT, yourself. In a good way.”

I know my face turned bright pink. “Aw, I’ll bet you say that to all women.”

He sipped his wine then studied my face. “Hardly.”

The cab driver interrupted my thoughts. “We’re here,” he said when he realized that I hadn’t noticed.

I looked out the window and saw the sign, the street, the place where Jonesy and I had walked, where he had held my hand.

After I placed my order with the waitress, I asked her if the owner was in.

“I think so,” she said. “Is there a problem? Did I do something wrong?”

“Not at all. He’s expecting me.”

She seemed relieved. “I see. Yes, I’ll tell him you’re asking for him.” She started to leave and then turned back. “Who shall I say is asking for him?”

“Just tell him it’s Gracie.”

She smiled and disappeared.

Gracie and Jonesy. I had always liked the rhythm of that.

It was probably too early in the day for wine, but I wasn’t concerned. It was dark inside the restaurant, just like the night Jonesy and I had been there.

Ours wasn’t exactly a whirlwind romance but we connected very quickly. Jonesy was very pragmatic and cautious. I was the same way, but I also knew in my heart that we were right for one another.

It was the phone call about a month after we met that changed everything.

“I think I’m going to give my marriage another shot,” he told me, sounding defeated.

Something inside me gave way, cracked. “That’s surprising but I respect your choice. What’s this hold she has on you, Jonesy?”

“She’s talking about killing herself if I don’t come back,” he said. “How can I live with that, Gracie? Huh? What if she means it?”

I had to wonder what kind of woman wanted a man back so badly that she’d coerce him through such means.

Later in the conversation he asked if we could stay in touch. Thus began a long-distance connection that lasted for years. A couple of years in, Jonesy said his divorce was final, but he still feared his ex's reaction to him seeing someone else. He decided that science conferences were opportunities for us to be together until the problem with his ex played itself out. So, I joined him for a week of togetherness wherever the conferences were held throughout the year. Occasionally, we made it back to New York and the Italian restaurant we both loved.

Until it all stopped cold.

Then I found out why.

“Miss Gracie!”

I looked up. “Frank!”

Frank was the owner of the restaurant. He took a seat across from me. “So sad to hear of Mr. Jonesy,” he said in his thick Italian accent.

I nodded. “Yes. It’s very sad.”

He reached across the table and touched my hand. “And how are you, my old friend?”

I shrugged and forced back tears. “I’m getting by.”

He nodded sadly.

I turned and reached into my purse, pulling out the object. I handed it to Frank.

“Ah, yes,” he said, examining it. His eyes misted just a little. “The 1908 silverplated pickle fork. Only two of them are known to have survived. Yours and—” He stopped himself. After a moment, he added, “And the other one.”

It was a uniquely styled fork. The middle tong was straight, but the two outer ones were arched at the tip and pointed outward. At the base of the fork were two flower patterns that looked like daisies. In a way, the fork resembled a small Devil’s pitchfork. Jonesy loved the pair of forks that Frank owned and made a deal with him that night to buy them. He gave me one of them and kept one for himself.

“No matter what,” Jonesy had said to me then, “we’ll always have tonight.”

I came out of my daze and focused on Frank again. I couldn’t keep the forks. Not something that had caused Jonesy’s death. “You can have them both, Frank. I think Jonesy would understand.”

“Are you sure? What did the police say?”

“It’s being held as evidence, of course. They may release it eventually. They’re suspicious of the suicide theory.”

Frank pointed out that people don’t typically commit suicide by stabbing themselves over and over again.

“I’m sure they know that.”

Later that day, I entered an attorney’s office. It seemed that I was the only one there for the reading of the will.

“Jonesy’s wife won’t be here?” I asked as I took a seat at the conference table, thankful for her absence.

“She wasn’t his wife,” the attorney told me.

I nodded. “Right. He did tell me that. Still, I expected her to—.”

“They divorced about three years ago. He told me this in confidence and said that I was only to tell you.”

“He said that?” My palms had gone wet, and I could feel myself getting lightheaded, my heart pounding.

“He went ahead with the divorce but did whatever he could to appease his ex-wife in whatever way he could,” the attorney said. “He was certain that someday she’d get bored with the whole thing and find someone new. Then he’d be able to be with you.”

“Which never happened, apparently.” I didn't mention our plans to marry in secret. I looked down at the engagement ring Jonesy had given me.

“It never happened. On the day he died, she was at his house and took a liking to a silver fork of some kind and planned to put it up for auction. This set Jonesy off in a big way and he took it from her.”

The attorney proceeded to tell me of how an argument ensued and, while Jonesy was holding the fork tightly in his hand, his wife realized that there was more to the fork than she initially understood. She deduced that it involved the woman he had met in New York. So, she grabbed his hand and plunged the fork into his chest repeatedly.

“He survived for a time, and I was able to talk to him at the hospital,” the attorney said. “He called me. She claimed that she found him that way.”

“We both know that Jonesy wouldn’t have taken his life.”

He gave me a sad look.

“Where do we go from here? I mean, why am I here?”

The attorney slid some papers toward me. “Because Jonesy left you everything.”

I stared at the papers, at Jonesy’s signature. “But what about common law? Even if they were divorced, couldn’t she claim that?”

“They didn’t live together. Jonesy made sure of it.”

I had never been sure about that one detail. Relieved, I turned my attention toward the window and stared at the moody sky for a few moments. Jonesy had been completely honest with me over the years and that knowledge gave me a great deal of peace. Turning back to the attorney, I asked, “Why haven’t you gone to the police about what Jonesy told you in the hospital?”

“We have no proof, and he didn’t want her going to jail. He said that her hell was right here on Earth, living without him and without his money.”

I grinned. “That sounds like something he’d say, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed.” He fiddled with his pen and then said, “Jonesy loved you, Gracie. He wanted you to know that. He wanted to be with you.”

I nodded. “That’s something to hold on to, then.”

When I arrived in Nevada the next day, I drove to Jonesy’s mansion on the lake. I half suspected the entry gate remote would not work and was surprised when it did. I watched as the gate closed behind me as I drove up the stone driveway. I was equally surprised when the key fit the door and it opened.

After wandering around the house, I stepped out the back door. I took in a deep breath as I stared out at the lake. The mountains that surrounded the area were just as striking as the beauty of the lake itself.

How could this be mine? It was a massive manor house, beautiful and elegant. Tears suddenly spilled from my eyes as I thought of Jonesy and how I’d never be able to share it with him.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do – if I should keep it or sell it. He gave it to me for a reason, I knew.

A voice coming from behind startled me.

“Why did that bastard give you this house?”

I had never met her but instantly knew who she was.

“How did you get in here?”

She extended her hand which held a remote. I walked over to her quickly and slapped the back of her hand, causing the remote to fall onto the stone deck.

She backed away, startled by my reaction. “If you don’t give me this house and all his money, I’m going to kill myself!” she shouted.

I stared at her. “Be my guest.”

In a show of anger, she stomped away toward her vehicle. I watched and she turned to look at me several times, probably expecting me to stop her.

When her car was out of the driveway, I picked up the remote and closed the gates.

It wasn’t long before I heard the sirens. That evening, sitting in the house that Jonesy had given me, I saw his ex-wife’s picture on the news. She had killed herself by driving off the cliff just a couple of miles from the mansion.

I turned the sound down on the television and stared at the floor. Jonesy had been right. She would’ve gone through with it, and he wouldn’t have been able to live with that.

I walked outside carrying a glass of wine. The lake was inky and still. I watched as a red-tailed hawk glided across the expanse of the water. It landed atop a nearby Jeffrey Pine, its searing, golden eyes staring down at me. I wondered about my brief encounter with a man years ago that brought me to this pristine place.

I lifted my glass toward the hawk. “We’ll always have that night, Jonesy.”

The Smarty Pants Poet had it all wrong. Someone did cry.