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Jack and Mary failed to respond. Judy said it was fantastic and that I should go for it! (Whenever Judy says the word fantastic, or excellent, or wonderful, I picture them in italics.)
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‘Fiction or fact?’ Mom ventured cautiously.
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Hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. ‘Fiction,’ I said, deciding on the spot.
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‘Hobby or career?’ Dad ventured in a mildly inquisitive tone.
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Hadn’t thought that far yet, either. ‘Career,’ I said,
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And with that for the next few months I wrote like a greedy man getting paid by the word: the more I put down in a stint, the richer I felt. The fact that I hadn’t the faintest notion of what I was doing did not deter me. The sheer excitement of the idea was enough to keep me going. Without preparation, consideration or aforethought, ink flowed free and easy and I dived in from a great height headfirst.
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I’m writing with that same pen now. The ‘good-luck’ gift Judy gave me later on that very night. A wonderful gesture, really, one I’ll never forget. Brings a smile to my face whenever I think of it. The fact that it wasn’t just something she’d gone out and bought – that it was her own pen, her most cherished pen of all in fact, taken from her impressive collection of varied writing implements she keeps on the desk in her room – was what made the gesture resonate so sweetly.
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We bump into each other in the hall that links our bedrooms. She’s coming out of the bathroom as I’m going in.
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‘Well,’ she says, leaning in close to let me in on a minty secret, ‘I just thought, now that you’re becoming a writer...’ She holds the sparkling instrument out to me, bidding me take it, and when I do, she doesn’t let go at first.
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‘I want you to have this pen, Leo,’ she whispers. ‘To help you. Guide you like a compass to the inspiration you’ll need along the way, on your odyssey.’
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‘What?’ I ask, wondering if she’s kidding. She likes kidding me.
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‘No, wait – you’re odd odyssey!’
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‘My odd oddity of an odyssey!’
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‘Yes. For those barren times in the Waiting Room when you find yourself drawing a blank. Sitting solitary, staring at the ceiling. Waiting for the Time that’s known to all the artists gazing at walls, anticipating inspiration’s lightning-strike, the flash of creativity… inviting a visit from the Muse, willing words to come and ink to spill again.’ She smiles then, bold and broad, fully aware she’s just done her older brother’s brain in, and winks whimsically.
‘I’m giving this fountain-pen to you, Leo. From time to time the ink will run dry. You’ll run dry, too. Don’t forget to put in a new cartridge.’ A sharp elbow in the ribs draws a wince and an out-loud laugh from me.
‘Emptiness always precedes the Muse, little brother.’ Her grin turns into a big smile and her mouth opens wide as she joins me in giddy laughter.
Whenever Judy shares a profound gem of insight (an almost daily occurrence) she knows she comes off sounding like an older sister setting her younger brother straight. It’s become one of our private jokes. In a way, I guess, at certain times perhaps, she probably does feel like an older sister, but she’s 2-years my junior - and a decade more mature. It’s weird. She’s also a whole lot prettier and smarter than me, I’ll gladly ‘fess up. Where I look older than my years, she looks younger than hers. Also in sharp contrast, she wields an intellect fast as a bullet, sharp as a razor - has a memory like a big-headed elephant, whereas I have trouble remembering what day it is.
.
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Reading my thoughts as only she can, Judy lets go of the pen and places her hand on my shoulder. ‘Make a date with Tolstoy, kiddo. Read what he wrote about writing, then you’ll understand.’ Then, on bare feet she pads down the hall and quietly closes her door, leaving me stunned and rooted to the spot, holding the shiny black and silver good luck charm she’d pressed into my hand, pondering her peculiar disposition, wondering where she got her ideas from, her funny little flashes of brilliance, marvelling at what an interesting little humanoid she’d become over the past year, ever since tossing off childhood’s pinkpyjamas and slipping into teendom’s shortsummerskirt. .
I couldn’t help but watch as some unseen force, strange and awesome, began reshaping her body and sharpening her mind.
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Thinking’s dangerous, like drugs – one thing leads to another. Like playing Barrel O’ Monkey’s. Thinking about Rachel F’s got me to thinking about Judy. Shaking my head now in the noticing of how I’d been growing more and more fond of her. Judy, I mean. I remember how it exasperated me no end at the time, and how I tried in vain to rationalise it away. Since when does an older brother feel anything but contempt and embarrassment for his younger sister? I thought of the kids from the neighborhood and at school who had younger sisters - and I had my answer: Never. It was wuss. But, back then, it just wasn’t a factor. Something about the way she was, I don’t know. Trying to put it into words is like trying to swat a fly with a string of overcooked spaghetti. Funny and futile.
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Judy’s just easy to like or something, to respect and admire. She has a way of making you feel good, making you feel like someone significant. Like a hero, maybe. I read in one of Dad’s self-help books one time: The secret of being interesting? Be interested! Judy seemed to understand this intrinsically, to know it without being aware of it. You could talk to her about anything. She was interested in everything.
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