Whom The Muses Love
by Deanne Kearns
Dillan
Malone had been trapped in the condemned warehouse with the serial rapist for
exactly two weeks, three days, sixteen hours and fifty-four minutes.
At fifty-five minutes, Tyler Kirkland kicked
her chair back from her desk and shut down the computer without saving.
”Crap!”
Tyler,
best-selling author of four Dillan Malone novels, was stuck. There was no way
out for Malone that she hadn’t already used. Malone’s partner (her fifth) was
dead, and Tyler had sent Malone in without backup. Tyler sighed. “That’s why I don’t like
partners. You get to depend on them then, BAM, they get themselves killed and
you’re falling from skylights and hanging from the rafters wondering how you
got there.”
Tyler
stretched in her chair and put her hand to her back. Another day wasted, killing her back in this
chair. She needed to get a new one, but she’d been locked in this wrestling
match with her manuscript and never thought of it. Her mind whirled constantly.
Where to go? What was Dillan’s next move? What was the rapist’s next move? What
was her next move?
She
sighed. Maybe a mocha would help; some fresh air and a good cup of coffee
always picked her up. She could feel herself relaxing already.
The phone
rang, shattering her precarious mood. ”Damn it!” She snatched it out of her
pocket and barked into it.
“Kirkland!”
“You’re
in rare form today,” a dry voice observed.
“Bill?
Please tell me Pratt agreed to the extension?”
“Pratt
is getting restless. I told him I’d call you, ask you if you couldn’t put a bit
more speed on it. A month is a long time.”
“I’m
serious, Bill, I need the time. He’s been
battering my door down for three more Malone outlines, too. I really need a
break here.”
“I don’t think he’ll be happy, but I’ll sell Pratt
on another month’s extension.” Bill hesitated a moment. “Try to get hold of
this thing. I know blocks are hard to handle; you just have to write through
it.”
“I know, Bill. Thanks.” Tyler sneered as she
closed her phone. “Jesus, trying to tell me
to ‘write through it.’” She smacked her fist into her palm, frustrated.
Her
eyes wandered to a bookcase and her feet followed. One book called out to her and she touched the
spine. ‘Reaching For The Muse: The
Classical Writers And Their Impact On Today’s Literature.’ Farther down,
she let her fingers follow the letters. They were worn and almost unreadable. ‘Tyler Kirkland.’
‘I need more time.’
Tyler
walked out her condo door into the lobby. She ignored the security guard as
usual and stepped out into a gorgeous fall day. She had been ready to call a
taxi, but the weather was so beautiful, she decided to walk.
She
took a deep breath of the crisp air. She already felt better. She’d go to her
favorite coffee shop and spend a few hours there. Hill of Beans Coffee Shop was
twelve blocks from Tyler’s condo. The walk was always invigorating and got her
mind working again. A raspberry mocha would help her feel more like herself. She
started down the sidewalk, appreciating the sights and sounds of the city in
autumn.
It
had never occurred to Tyler to question whether or not she was happy. Those
questions were for the feeble-minded. You took what came your way and you used
it, good or bad. She had a job that kept her in good style. Her friends were
intelligent; not like those clingy, needy fans that mobbed her at book signings
and conventions. She had the occasional woman to wear on her arm and enliven
her dark nights. She didn’t let herself think any deeper than that. She came
and went as she pleased; no one told her what to do or how to do it. Well,
except for editors and publishers.
Tyler
was pleased with her neighborhood. Nearly every other place in this suburb was
infested with homeless and indigent. They seemed to spontaneously spread like a
malaise through the city. Those people could wreck real estate value just
walking down the street.
Tyler
spent the afternoon with a large raspberry mocha, jotting in her notebook and
watching people. Real, live people were fodder for her novels; characters to
fill the gaps and die at their appointed time. ”I don’t even have to edit most of
them,” she told some groupies once at a cocktail party. ”Most of the slobs on
the street make better characters than I could think up.”
“Wow,
that’s so observant,” a willowy blond
said, slinking up against her. Tyler checked her ID and took her home after the
party.
Tyler’s
pleasant escape was interrupted by two older women asking for autographs. She
resented the interruption, but they were two paying, repeat customers. She
supposed that was worth a couple of signatures. They cackled and cooed over
Tyler while she signed a couple of napkins. As they continued to pour out their
adoration, Tyler reflected the two biddies merited a page or two in her
notebook. She had an idea these two ladies would end up being the first victims
of a…strangler. Yeah.
Pleased
she’d come up with the antagonist for the next Malone adventure, Tyler finished
her notes then gathered her notebook, pen and half-full coffee and headed for
the door. She dropped a quarter in the tip jar on her way past, turned to rush
out and nearly ran down an old woman.
She
looked at Tyler with faded, watery blue eyes. Tattered cuffs and elbows on her
sweater, grubby and stained, marked her as a homeless woman. Her blouse still
had a bit of lace clinging determinedly to the collar. A skirt with pastel
flowers on a dark blue background clashed badly with white support stockings
and a pair of bright red sneakers.
Tyler
backed up fast to avoid colliding with her, then stopped. Her face captured Tyler’s imagination. Like a
wrinkled and petrified apple, it was stamped and seamed by the ravages of time
and indigence. Even so, it was clear; free of blemishes; its color smooth and
even. The woman’s gray hair was thinning but still silky; Tyler could see its
natural shine in the sunlight streaming through the window. Her cheeks were
ruddy and there was a twinkle in her eyes as she watched Tyler. What the hell
was she doing here? The homeless never ventured this far south.
‘This old gal must have been
a looker in her day.’
She burned the old woman’s features into her memory while a new scene formed in
her mind. Somehow, this woman was going to get Malone out of that warehouse.
She could almost see the scene…
“—young
lady?”
“Hmm?
What?” Tyler blinked.
"I
wonder if you might spare the cost of a cup of coffee, young lady?” The woman’s
voice was scratchy and hoarse but mellow, oddly alluring; Kathleen Turner with
a cold.
"Uh.
. .” Almost in a trance, Tyler looked in her wallet. All she had were twenties.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the manager bearing down on the old woman,
ready to pitch her out the door on Tyler’s word. She waved a hand. ”Hold on,
Walter,” Tyler said. ”If you stick with a small house blend, you should get
five or six cups out of this.” She gave Walter a twenty. The fog she’d felt
come over her when she’d looked into the woman’s eyes was beginning to lift,
but not before she said, “Keep count for her, Walt, and give her the change.”
She
paused. Walter and the old woman watched her; Walter with his jaw hanging. ‘Did I
just set up an old homeless woman with a week’s worth of coffee? The old gal
sure has expensive taste. Why doesn’t she hang around Joe’s on Sixth Street?’
‘When you say you’re going to
do something, Ty, you’d better keep your word,’ her mother’s voice droned in
her head.
Walter
stared at her. ”Ms. Kirkland, are you—"
“I
said it, didn’t I?” Tyler snapped. She turned to leave, but the old woman
hadn’t moved.
“Bless
you, young lady,” She gathered Tyler’s hands in hers. ”You’re a generous soul.”
Her hands were soft when she folded them over Tyler’s.
The
old woman’s eyes burned into her. Tyler almost lost herself in those eyes. For
a moment they were sparkling sapphire blue and they held her captive. The
weight of years shone from them, and a love and compassion Tyler never saw in
all the people she met or called friends. She shook herself and quickly pulled
her hands away and dodged around the old woman to escape without saying goodbye.
As
she walked back home, she saw the old woman again; she was across the street on
a bus stop bench. No—that wasn’t the woman she’d seen. It wasn’t possible for
the woman to have gotten here before her. And this old gal was dressed in a
track suit with a jacket pulled over the top. She raised a cup of coffee and
Tyler almost tripped over a fireplug. No, she had to be…a sister. ‘Yeah, twins. That’s it.’
When
she got back to her condo, she grabbed a legal pad and fleshed out four
characters and scenarios. Then she booted her computer and began writing. She
wrote through dinner, past Letterman and Ferguson, until the moon sank behind
the cityscape and her eyes began to burn.
“Man,”
she whispered when she read the final scene. The old woman (she’d named her
Callie Cooper) had opened the floodgates for her somehow. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Maybe she’d provided
some inspiration, but the work was all Tyler. She saved it and pushed her chair
back.
Tyler
went to the bookcase again on her way to her bedroom. This time she pulled the
volume from the shelf and ran her hand over the cover. A photograph of a bust
of Hesiod, and a foil-stamp: Best
Literary Non-Fiction; Educator’s Literary Council. “New York Times Bestseller” above the title. She put the book back
and headed up the hall to her bedroom.
‘I need time.’
*****
Even
after her epiphany at the coffee shop, she wrestled with Callie Cooper, the
device that made closure for Malone possible.
She’d had to rewrite a bit of her manuscript here and there to fit
Callie into the role, but she fit beautifully. So much so that in the end, Callie
refused to die. The final scene in the warehouse was fraught with action and
wrenching emotion. Tyler accepted the old woman’s will to live and finished the
book, leaving her and Malone alive at the end.
*****
‘Malone’s
Price’ was released to rave reviews and hailed as the best yet in the series.
Her publisher celebrated the release of the fifth Dillan Malone novel with a
party at a Manhattan club. Sam Pratt
invited corporate big-wigs from nearly every publishing house in New York and
their husbands/wives/lovers. The only people there that Tyler really knew was
Sam Pratt, Bill Moore and her agent, Dave Brooks. There were at least a dozen
women looking like heart attacks in dresses.
“I
know how you love the ladies, Ty,” Sam nudged and winked like Eric Idle, then made
a fast break to fawn over a Passageway executive.
Tyler
desperately wanted to pass on the party. Still, she understood the game and she
endured questions and congratulations; women in glittering cocktail dresses moved
close and exclaimed over her skill, mini-celebrities wanted to press the flesh
and brag they’d met Tyler Kirkland. Two or three executives slipped her
business cards. Agents followed her
around like puppies. Nearly every one of the ‘cocktail women,’ as she’d come to
call the single women floating about the club, had pursued her until she wanted
to hide in the bathroom. She was getting tired and ready to leave.
In a
brief lull in the crowd’s noise, Tyler heard a lyrical voice blending with
mellow piano. The crowd turned toward the sound. She pushed her way to the
front and was stunned.
A
woman in a black off the shoulder evening dress stood on a low stage next to a
Steinway, pouring her voice into an old-fashioned microphone. Black hair
cascaded over her shoulders and disappeared into the folds and shadows of her
dress. She was a siren pulling Tyler closer into her aura.
Tyler
approached the stage through the parting crowd, and when the singer’s eyes locked
into hers, her heart jerked in her chest, making her breathless. The woman sang
for her alone. When the song ended and the music faded, Tyler’s feet took her
to the stage and she held out her hand. Her hand in Tyler’s was a blessing, her
smile a benediction.
She
heard whispers behind them about “flavor of the month,” but Tyler ignored them;
there was nothing in the club for her but the raven haired woman who held her hand.
Without
a word between them, Tyler took the woman’s wrap and her jacket from the
cloakroom. She placed the wrap around the woman’s shoulders and put her jacket
on. The woman took Tyler’s arm and they left the club. Tyler did not hail a
taxi; she wanted to enjoy the night air with the woman beside her. it never
occurred to Tyler to ask her name; she felt almost as if she knew her in her
heart. Names became a burden that held you back.
They
walked to Tyler’s condo while the normally busy and jittery boulevard emptied
itself as they passed. Ahead and behind, she heard horns blare and cabbies
curse. As they passed the park, the late
buskers drew a last tune from their instruments, looking for one more dollar.
But Tyler and the woman walked in a place of silence hollowed out from the
rumble of the city.
Occasionally
Tyler would look sideways at the woman on her arm. She was a beauty with her flashing
sapphire eyes and black hair. She had high cheekbones, a smooth forehead and
full lips. The dress she wore revealed creamy throat and shoulders. She was
nearly as tall as Tyler and walked with a confident step that was in synch with
Tyler’s own gait.
They
reached her condo after an unhurried stroll. Tyler held the door for the woman
and took her wrap while she turned about in the middle of her living room,
looking around Tyler’s home. She walked slowly to the bookcase and studied the
volumes lining the shelves; Dillan Malone first editions, compilations of
Twain, Shakespeare, Vonnegut, and Steinbeck. There were nonfiction titles Tyler
had written on modern literature and ancient culture’s influence on modern
writing; all published before she began the Dillan Malone series. She took ‘Reaching For the Muse’ down and browsed
through the pages, smiling to herself here and there.
As
she fixed drinks, Tyler glanced at her often, wondering what was making the
black haired beauty smile.
Tyler
approached the woman with a drink; she took it with a smile and let Tyler guide
her to a sofa in front of the fake fireplace. When she was seated on the sofa,
Tyler placed her own drink on the table and turned to her with her hands in her
pockets. Back in her home, she felt less bespelled, but still felt the force of
her beauty and mystery.
As
they watched each other, Tyler became certain she knew her. Without thinking
she said, “Haven’t we met before?”
The
woman laughed; a low, sensuous sound. ”Look out. She’s winding the watch of her
wit; by and by it will strike.”
Tyler
felt a flush rise from her neck, but covered by saying, “I didn’t think anyone
attending one of Sam’s parties would be quoting Shakespeare.”
The
woman’s face glowed in the light of the simulated fire. It became youthful and
the lines of her lips and cheeks became full and round. Tyler wondered how
those lips would taste. Her heart pounded a little faster.
“You
may find I am not just anyone. I like Shakespeare. But tell me, do you often
bring nameless women home to your loft, Ms. Kirkland?”
Tyler
went to the couch and sat casually beside the woman. “They don’t stay nameless long,” she said
lightly. She smiled, but Tyler felt her disappointment. She felt as if she were stumbling through a
high school dance. None of her lines were working and the woman made her feel
like a gawky teenager. How had she come to value this woman’s opinion of her
more than anyone in her life, in mere minutes? More seriously, she said, “I’ve
been accused of doing so; but that’s not what this is. What is your name?”
The
woman touched her wrist lightly. ”You
named me Callie Cooper.”
Tyler
stared. ”Callie Cooper—" She couldn’t process what the woman said. ”What?” She
tried to understand her words.”You—she—you’re Callie?” Tyler pinched the bridge
of her nose, remembering each detail he’d memorized about the old woman in the
coffee shop. “That’s impossible!”
“In
truth, my name is Calliope. My sister, whom you saw on the street, is Thalia.
She saw all of our encounter, and encouraged me to pursue you.”
Shock
gave way to anger. Pursue? Tyler
Kirkland was not pursued. She was the one who hunted and claimed the trophy.
She shook Calliope’s hand off her arm and stood up. “This has Sam’s stink all over it. How much
did he pay you for a joke and a tumble?”
“I
don’t know this Sam; no one has paid me for anything. I give and I take what I
will.” She stood and in the dim light of Tyler’s living room she seemed to
transform into a goddess.”Suspend your disbelief and listen to what I have to
say.”
Tyler
backed into her reading chair and carefully lowered herself into the seat.
“You’re Calliope. The old woman. The woman in the bus stop was Thalia.” She
took a gulp of her drink. “You’re Muses.” Calliope nodded, her blue eyes locked
on Tyler’s own shocked ones.
“I
met you and realized your potential. Thalia and I watched your treatment of
Callie Cooper. You showed compassion for a stranger, and one whom you would
normally scorn.
“But
you’ve grown hard over the years, and that hardness found its way not only into
your writing, but into your heart. You have taken indiscriminately and given
nothing back.” Calliope’s words stung Tyler and made her want to hide from the
beautiful woman in front of her. Before tyler could sink any further, calliope
changed her words to compassion and encouragement.
“You
have only forgotten how to give and receive compassion, and the art of writing
is not lost in some vague past. It still resides in you.” Calliope’s eyes flashed with the joy of
creation and discovery that Tyler realized she had lost years ago. “You must
only reach out, open your heart, and take hold.”
Tyler
looked up the ceiling, her eyes welling. She tried to get a full breath but her
heart was beating too fast. ”I wanted to be a great writer. Not another
Shakespeare or Faulkner or Plath, but I wanted to at least leave a sentence or
a paragraph that would…live after me.” She rubbed her jaw. ”Then on a whim I
sent a hacked-together manuscript to Bill at Passageway, and I was locked in. I
tried to hold some back for myself, but the deadlines were ungodly…and the
money was good.”
Calliope
nodded in understanding. ”I have seen it with so many wordsmiths. The pressure
is enormous to please others. But you
are different, Tyler. I can guide you back to your joy and passion to write.
The critics heaped laurels upon you for this last book, but they don’t
understand why.
“Tyler
Kirkland, you let yourself into your writing for the first time since you
began.”
“Was
it an accident?” Tyler felt her hopes fall even as they had begun to
climb. “Did you do something I won’t be
able to do again on my own?”
Calliope
moved forward until she was standing before Tyler. ”It is inside you. I only
unlocked the doors that had been sealed by the fear of failure, ruin and
judgment.
“These
modern literati understand very little of what it means to move the world with
words. I’m here to give you guidance.” She played her fingers across Taylor’s
face, and drew her close. She bent over and softly pressed her lips to Tyler’s,
taking her breath away. There was promise there; promise of companionship and
comfort in the nights. There was also promise of hard work ahead. But the muse
had found her, and she wouldn’t resist.
She
felt herself, her whole being, surrendering to this Muse who had chosen her.
Calliope
stood and held out her hand. Tyler took it. The thrill of Calliope’s touch made
her tremble and Calliope caressed her face. As she led Tyler through the hall
to her bedroom and touched her tenderly in the dark, a passage from Hesiod came
to mind:
He
is happy whom the Muses love.
*****
Sam
and Bill stood outside Tyler’s door, waiting for the superintendent to unlock
her condo. ”I haven’t heard a word from her since the party. She’s not
returning my calls or emails,” Sam said.
“She
was acting strange at the party,” Bill said. ”If I didn’t know her, I would’ve
said she had the first book jitters.”
“There
ya go gents. Lock up when you’re done. If you find something…I don’t wanna know
about it, right? I’m just the super.” He walked to the elevator and left Bill
and Sam alone outside Tyler’s door.
At
first look, the condo looked normal; no signs of burglary or attack. They
walked through the living room to Tyler’s office. Sam pointed to Tyler’s desk.
”Bill.”
Tyler’s
desk was cleared out; all the drawers of the desk and file cabinet were open
and empty.
“Jesus,”
Bill said, and ran for the bedroom. ”She wouldn’t!” The closet and most of the
dresser drawers were half-empty. He smacked his fist on top of the dresser.
”Damn it!”
"Look
here, Bill,” Sam said. He held a half-sheet of legal paper. Bill snatched it,
and they read: “Hey, guys, I wondered how
long it would take you to realize I was gone. Well, with Malone’s Price done,
my contract is finished. Sorry, Sam, I never did any of those outlines you
wanted. Maybe I knew I wouldn’t be around to finish them. Send the royalty
checks to the same place. It’s been great— Ty.”
They
looked at each other. ”That bitch!” Bill shouted.
“Ungrateful
ass,” Sam agreed.
*****
Thalia talked about poets and
writers she had known throughout her life. She no longer had the aspect of an
old woman; she had auburn hair falling in waves over tanned shoulders. She was dressed in a
shirt and pants of lime green and pink that stuck to every curve and line.
Every man who passed their table kept his eyes on her as long as he could,
hoping for a glance from those emerald eyes; a smile from those lips.
But Tyler only had eyes for the
woman beside her. Calliope sat next to
Tyler, her fingers running through her hair as Tyler gazed at her between sips
of coffee. ”We should probably go or we’ll miss our flight.” The three gathered their coats and headed for
the door; Tyler and Calliope holding hands and whispering and laughing
together. Thalia rolled her eyes.
Tyler stopped at the counter. The
manager came out of the back room and did a double-take. ”Ms. Kirkland!
Where’ve you been? It was all over the news, how you disappeared.”
“We’ll I’m here in plain sight,
Walt; so I guess I haven’t disappeared, have I?” Tyler smiled. ”I’m just back
in town to take care of some business. We’re on the way out again.
“By the way, here are a few bucks.
Next time one of the homeless folks comes in, treat them to a cup of coffee.”
She laid down a small wad of twenties and Walter stuttered. His eyes were wide
as he looked at the two gorgeous women accompanying Tyler.
"Where have you been? Where’re you going, Ms. Kirkland?”
Tyler smiled at Calliope and gave
her a soft kiss. ”Wherever the muse leads me.”
