Edna Mayfield (heavily Revised)

[note: this is a complete rewrite of the original]

Edna Mayfield

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Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

-- T.S. Eliot

28 August

The Mayfield house was unlike any other in the neighborhood; comfortable, perhaps, but hardly practical and certainly not in keeping with it's more typical suburban neighbors. The house's immaculate cypress siding, stained dark gray, hovered lightly under a copper roof, yet the sidewalk along the street had buckled in spots -- an old maple tree had sent strong roots shooting under the walk to the street -- lending an incongruous air to the approach. Across vast lawns, looking towards the house, linen curtains in their mullioned windows were beginning to show a certain age. Still, the house looked long and lean -- almost adrift on a sea of trees -- and four foot roof overhangs conspired with overarching leaves to create vast shadows in the noonday sun.

A light yellow Cadillac sat under the carport off the right side of the house; an observant neighbor might have told you that the car had not moved from that spot in weeks. If you, perhaps, stopped for a chat with this observant neighbor, you would have learned that Stanton Mayfield had passed away in May, after a short, fierce battle with pancreatic cancer. The Mayfield daughters -- Tracy and Claire -- had just left for college, for their second and forth years respectively, while Edna Mayfield, long considered the most beautiful woman in Springdale, lived -- alone -- in this, her comfortable, impractical house. Any of Edna's neighbors might have described her as comfortable -- in a way, as well as impractical -- and certainly out of step with her surroundings, and anyone describing her so would have demonstrated a monumental flair for understatement.

Edna Mayfield acted now as the curator of the Mayfield house, a caretaker of memories that lined the taupe grass-clothed walls, memories of a political career that stood in regimental perfection on the legions of Stickley tables and cabinets that dotted her dove gray carpets and slate entry halls. Grey cypress beams crossed lighter gray ceilings, while immaculately varnished mahogany doors stood guard over the private spaces of Senator Stanton Mayfield's personal library. The Senator's private papers -- and the less tangible accoutrement of 12 years in the senate -- were so guarded. The Mayfield girl's rooms remained ready to deploy on a moments notice, waiting for their return, yet they too remained under guard. Linen covers now guarded custom-made sofas and chairs that had for decades entertained Oregon's political establishment.

What life there was remaining in the Mayfield house now existed on life-support, remnants of the memories sheltered within provided the oxygen Edna Mayfield needed to survive.

The back yard of the Mayfield estate was criss-crossed with trellised red brick walkways; in the spaces between the walks stood vast explosions of late-Summer annuals. A brace of magnolia trees lined the eastern boundary of the property, while wrought-iron fencing adorned with geometric designs the color of weathered copper defined the boundaries of the property. To the rear of the grounds, at the end of a long stone driveway, stood a huge cypress-timbered garage, and above this vast unused space was an apartment that had been constructed to house a very select few women who attended the college located just a few blocks to the north. The apartment was comfortable, impractical -- and had not been occupied for years.

Early on this bright August morning, on this late summer's day, Edna Mayfield was in the kitchen looking over the backyard to pine covered mountains standing mute in the distance. She was dressed, as she almost always was, in a dark blue gabardine skirt and white cotton blouse, her legs were sheathed in the finest silk stockings, while her feet were adorned in navy blue pumps.

She was timelessly elegant and, for her age, still devastatingly attractive.

Edna Mayfield knelt over the polished slate floor, wiping up coffee grounds that had fallen to the floor while was cleaning up after a breakfast of toast, melon and coffee, black. There was an expression of silent resignation on her face -- when the telephone rang -- yet her first impulse was to ignore the call.

The telephone had been busy for weeks after her husband's passing; friends called to console Edna and, when the girls returned home for summer, a steady stream of young men called all hours of the day, and often well into the night. Still, the dreadful machine had been quiet the past few days; with the girls just off to school for the fall term the telephone had been blissfully silent.

And so, on this warm August morning, Edna Mayfield was startled by a ringing so out of time.

She walked to the desk that stood across from the island sink and picked up the olive-colored telephone's handset. Speaking with a warm western accent, she greeted the caller, asked who was calling.

"Mrs Mayfield? This is Dorothy Fisher, the new Dean of Academic Affairs at the college, and I wanted to ask how you and your daughters are doing."

Puzzled why one of the college's deans would call this time of day, she hesitated before continuing, then: "Why thank you for asking, Ms Fisher, the girls are fine." Edna Mayfield thought it best to take the upper hand by calling this new Dean by a lesser salutation, and deliberately omitted any mention of herself. Few could play a more deliberative round of chess than Edna Mayfield.

"Claire is at Stanford this year, isn't she? I haven't heard where Tracy is," the voice continued.

"Tracy has gone back to Boston, Miss Fisher. To Harvard," Edna Mayfield replied.

"Didn't you and the Senator meet at Stanford?" continued the voice.

Well, she wants me to know she's done her homework, so I wonder how much money they want this year? "Why yes, we did," Edna Mayfield said, pondering her next move.

"Mrs Mayfield, excuse me, but may I call you Edna?"

"Why certainly," Edna Mayfield said pleasantly, noncommittally.

"Edna, I hate to ask, but we have a problem I hope you can help us with. I understand you have an apartment on your property that in the past has been leased to our students."

"We haven't leased it in years, Miss Fisher, and Stanton had no intention of ever doing so again. Aside from that, I'm afraid it's not in very good shape. And to speak bluntly, we had a great deal of trouble with our last student, and my husband told your predecessor we're not prepared to tolerate that kind of behavior on our property. I thought my husband made that very clear to your housing department?"

"Yes, he certainly did, Mrs Mayfield, and I've been through all the relevant files this morning. But please bare with me for a moment. As I said, it's a bit of a situation, and I do hope you'll appreciate that I fully understand your feelings. That being said, Dr Tomlinson of the History Department has taken ill, very ill actually, and we've found it necessary to find a replacement for the fall term, or perhaps longer if the situation requires. We've found a young man with impressive experience in government, and who just received his doctorate from Stanford. He has no family, and just arrived late yesterday afternoon. We met with him last night and have decided to take him on for the term, to evaluate him. As you know, classes have been going on for almost a week now, and we have no faculty housing whatsoever available, but we'd like to do everything we can to get him settled and prepared to assume his duties. He's told us he lives simply, and he wondered if a garage apartment might be available within walking distance of the college. The Housing Department, for some reason I'm sure I'll never understand, still had your information on file, as well as a summary of events concerning your last occupants, and your husband's letters to us about the matter. We were all very reluctant to involve you in this matter, but this young man's situation is pressing, and, I have to say Mrs Mayfield, he seems a remarkably professional and polite young man, if a bit unorthodox. I do wish you'd see him."

"Miss Fisher, I'd really like to help, but..."

"Edna, there is one other thing."

"And that would be?" Edna Mayfield replied.

"His government service. Edna, he left the C. I. A. not long ago, and he served under your husband for a few years, when he first started with the agency."

"I see." Edna Mayfield began to tremble, her eyes welled with tears.

"Edna, couldn't you at least talk to him. He doesn't have classes until tomorrow afternoon, and I could send him to your house straight away. Edna? Edna?"

Edna Mayfield's right fist was pulled up tightly to her face, she was biting the clinched index finger of her left hand, and trying unsuccessfully to hold back the racking sobs she knew were coming. She spoke into the telephone now in ragged breathless whispers. "All right. I'll see you both here in an hour."

Edna Mayfield gently replaced the handset in it's cradle, then turned towards the door that led to the backyard -- and to the sanctuary that was her trellised garden. She walked to the center of her secret space, to a sundial atop a short, geometric column. Stanton Mayfield's ashes lay undisturbed under the base of the column, a brass plaque with an inscription was set in stone on the ground just above the buried urn. She stood for a moment in embattled silence, not sure what to say -- or to do.

"A spy," she said to herself. She felt the blood flow out of her face, felt herself growing cold and pale as memories of his time there came flooding back. "Oh-please-my-God-in-Heaven -- not another goddamned spy..."

Edna Mayfield sank to her knees for the second time that August morning, and hung onto the stark, bronze column in sheer, breathless loneliness. An impossible wailing cry soon shook the comfortable, impractical air of her garden. She looked to the heavens for a moment, then her eyes fell reluctantly to the inscribed words below:

"the tide abides for, tarrieth for no man, stays no man, tide nor time tarrieth no man"

Gales of anguish overtook her. She curled up on the ground above her husband and felt the cold fury of a thousand tears scream for release. Her's had been a silent fury -- now grown vile and powerful, a force she could no longer contain.

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Dorothy Fisher sat in the black leather passenger seat of a 1973 Porsche 911 S Targa, her hair streaming wildly in the open air, trying her very best not to look at the man in the driver's seat. A man who had shown up for his first and only pre-job interview yesterday afternoon dressed in oil-stained khaki shorts and an immaculately pressed white buttoned-down dress shirt. Yet his sleeves were rolled-up, for God's sake, and the man had not worn socks under his salt-caked boat-shoes -- and the stainless-steel Rolex on his left wrist was spattered with dark-red paint. The man wore the same clothing this morning, yet she was sure the shirt was freshly laundered. Looking straight ahead now, Fisher occasionally looked down and moaned at the sight of his lean, muscled legs. She more than once caught herself wanting to know this man better.

Dorothy Fisher gave the man directions to FoxWood Lane, to Edna Mayfield's house. She felt somewhat at odds with herself: guilty at having manipulated the woman; angry at having been pulled into Edna Mayfield's one act drama. She had voided her own best counsel, played her trump card right away. Desperate to find a home for this man, in a way -- desperate to know him better, to marry him, to bare his children!

She found her way back to reality, desperate to not appear the addled fool as she guided the man through the final turns to FoxWood Lane.

They pulled into the gated drive at number Forty Three, and slowly made their way down the rather long, tree-lined driveway to the house. The man stopped the car behind a pale yellow Cadillac coupe, admiring the grey Prairie School architecture of the sprawling house. He thought the house looked vaguely familiar, like he'd seen it before somewhere.

He unfastened his seatbelt and hopped out of the car, walked around the back and opened Fisher's door. He held out his hand and helped her out, then walked off toward the front door; she walked briskly to keep up with the man's vigorous stride.

The front door was open wide, and Edna Mayfield stood just inside, her right hand outstretched and a bright smile on her face.

"Good morning. I'm Edna Mayfield." the woman said, shaking the man's hand.

"Yes, it is a beautiful day. I'm Jordan Douglas. And this is Dorothy Fisher," the man said, moving aside, letting her come forward. He wondered if she recognized him...

"Mrs Mayfield. It's such an honor to finally meet you." The two women shook hands. "I'm Dorothy Fisher. I think I've read every book and article you've ever written," she gushed. And Dorothy Fisher was shocked by the woman she saw. Mayfield was almost certainly in her 60s now, yet she looked at least twenty years younger. Her figure was perfect, and the woman's legs would turn any other woman green with envy -- and the way she was dressed? A timeless elegance that was at once understated and yet, well, frankly sexy -- in an understated way all the woman's own. As they walked into the house, Dorothy Fisher looked past the entry hall and into the living room beyond -- and all at once understood what it meant to be richer than hell. She saw two Monet's and a Picasso, and she knew from comments on campus they weren't prints.

Edna Mayfield led her visitors through the house to her kitchen, where she turned and offered them coffee. As she passed sugar cubes and a sterling pitcher of cream, the three continued to chat aimlessly about the weather and the coming semester's academic highlights.

Still...without any change in apparent emotion or cadence in her speaking, Edna Mayfield came to her decision.

"Well, Dr Douglas, perhaps we'd better go out back so you can look over the apartment," she said, standing up. Concealing her hopeful confusion, Fisher stood and followed her as she made her way to the door that led out into the vast garden; Jordan followed at a slower pace, his eyes linger on Edna Mayfield. He stepped into the sunshine and followed the woman through the maze of trellised walkways that led to the garage, his eyes fixed ahead.

Edna Mayfield unlocked the door and walked up the steps just inside the door, leading them up to the apartment. She flipped on a light switch at the top of the stairs and stood aside.

Jordan Douglas and Dorothy Fisher arrived and both seemed to stagger to a halt, their eye's moving about slowly, taking in the grandeur of Wright's creation. The 'apartment' was a vast open space composed entirely of smoke-colored cypress -- there was not a single expanse of sheetrock or plaster in evidence. A gently vaulted ceiling dappled with stained-glass skylights gave the air a soaring spirit; it felt almost like a cathedral -- only on a slightly more human scale. The southern exposure of the room was an uninterrupted expanse of geometrically mullioned glass; beyond lay a small lake, and in the distance a range of grey-green mountains stood mutely, as if placed there to define the limits of the Mayfield's landscape. The room was furnished sparsely with Japanese and Mission style furniture and flowed into a compact, yet perfectly equipped kitchen space. Behind them, translucent shoji screens separated the main space from the sleeping and bathing spaces. Edna Mayfield beckoned the two to make themselves at home and wander about at will, then sat down lightly in a simple cherry-wood rocking chair looking out at her mountains. Her gaze seemed focused but detached, lost to the wonder of the space even after so many years.

Jordan Douglas spoke at once. "Mrs Mayfield, this is simply an overwhelming space. It's hardly an apartment, it's more a museum. I hesitate to ask, but who was the architect?"

"Frank Lloyd Wright, Dr Douglas," Mrs Mayfield said.

The man paused, then put out his hand as if to commune with the very fabric of creation. He closed his eyes, and his head listed a bit to his right. "I see," he said. "The main house is as well, I seem to recall?" He opened his eyes and looked at Edna Mayfield, who simply gave the faintest smile -- a gently nodding assent. He looked at Edna Mayfield for a long time, and she in turn did not break away from his direct gaze.

"Well, Mr Douglas, I assume it meets with your approval. Now, could you tell me, please, is this manner of attire you've so graciously blessed us with in any way representative of your character?"

Jordan Douglas walked over and sat next to Edna Mayfield. He paused and nodded his head. "Mrs Mayfield, I understand what you mean, and perhaps someday if we know one another better I might explain my appearance to you. But let's be clear about two things. First, I appreciate what you have created here; I'd be honored to live here, and I would treat the space accordingly. Second, I care not a bit about the conventions of society. I wear what I choose to wear, and I will not apologize to you, or to anyone else for that matter, for the choices I make."

Dorothy Fisher turned away to hide her surprise and dismay, then shook her head in both wonder and disapproval.

Edna Mayfield continued to look directly at Jordan Douglas, her faint smile an open question that revealed nothing of the thoughts behind the facade. Presently she stood up, moved to pat Jordan Douglas on his shoulder and said "Good for you, Jordan. And here I was, given to believe men no longer have balls."

With that, Edna Mayfield strode to the stairwell and proceeded down. As she neared the bottom she called out for the two of them to take their time.

Edna Mayfield walked over through a gate and onto the stone drive, then walked down toward her Cadillac, and just then saw the dark green Porsche in the drive. She looked at it, then back at the garage, a million emotions colliding in her mind's eye. She looked at the car for a moment, checked the license plate if for no other reason than to reassure herself, then fought back the tears that seemed to be an integral part of this day. She turned and walked quickly back to the main house.

Jordan Douglas and Dorothy Fisher came back into the sunlight in time to see Edna Mayfield step back into the kitchen; they walked back through the garden towards the kitchen door to catch up, but as they grew near he turned and spoke quietly to Fisher: "Perhaps I'd better talk to her alone," he said.

"Okay."

"I'll see you back at the car in a minute." He continued on to the house, alone but for his own conflicted thoughts.

He entered the kitchen to find Edna Mayfield hastily wiping tears from her face. 'Oh, God, what have I done to this woman,' he said to himself.

Edna Mayfield made no effort to conceal her grief any longer. She turned to the young man and said, "I'm sorry. This has been very difficult for me."

"I understand, Mrs Mayfield. The country lost a great voice when your husband left us."

The opaque smile returned. "Well," she said, "the place is yours if you want it."

"Thank you. I hate to be so crude, but could I ask how much rent I should expect to pay, with utilities and such?"

"Well, let me see, Mr Douglas," she said, acting as though she were sizing him up. "How about you take me out to dinner once a month in that green monster out there."

She smiled at the surprise on the young man's face, then led him to the front door.

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September 7th

Jordan Douglas pulled his car up to the garage, turned off the ancient cassette player, then the ignition as he gathered his books and papers to carry up to his room. As he shut the door he heard Edna Mayfield call out: "Hey there, stranger!" and he turned to see her waving at him as she worked away in her garden. He hadn't seen her since that first day, but had heard that she'd been off to London to give a talk at the Institute For Strategic Studies at Cambridge.