While Jason Petrov stirred his oatmeal in the boiling water, thinking about the new poem he was writing, saying the line in his head, sensing he was getting closer, the phone rang shattering his thoughts and forcing him to close his eyes at the disturbance. "Oh, fuck!" he muttered out loud, slamming the spoon down on the counter then barked, "Who the hell could that be?"
He walked over to the phone glancing at the bird feeder outside his kitchen window, noting it was empty then picked up the phone, "Hello," he said, mustering up the strength in an attempt to not sound grumpy. "Oh, Emily," he responded when he heard. "What? You say you're on your way here."
Jason nodded as he listened. "What do you mean you're on your way here?" he asked, stunned that the graduate student he had been emailing answers to was on his way to his cabin. "And you're lost," he continued, looking down at his dog, Oscar, whose whimpers indicated he wanted to go out. Jason put up one finger to Oscar as if saying, "one minute," then, "I'm surprised. I didn't know you were coming here," he spoke into the phone, running his fingers through his thinning white hair, closing his eyes, shaking his head, holding the phone to his ear as he listened.
"Well, you're not too far away," Jason said carrying the cordless phone to the kitchen door to let Oscar out, glancing up at the sunny sky, glad it wouldn't rain again for the third day in a row. He then stood at the counter looking down at the pot of oatmeal, giving it a stir, shutting off the flame, trying to remain calm. "Emily, I'm surprised to hear you're on your way. I don't know what to say."
Jason nodded, closing his eyes as he realized Emily was ten minutes away and just needed directions. He told her to watch out for the big rock on her left then turn into his lane and keep going through the woods and around a bend then she'd see the solar panels on the right and she'd be here. "See you soon," he added, glancing up at the apple shaped clock, seeing she would be arriving in ten minutes at eight thirty and he wouldn't have time to continue working on his new poem.
"Damn," he muttered, annoyed that Emily Rubin was going to show up, unexpected, uninvited, intruding on his quiet, simple life where all he wanted was to be left alone so he could work on the book of sonnets he was writing.
After sprinkling raisins on his oatmeal, he took the bowl to the round oak table where he had his laptop and his notebook and where he spent most of the morning writing before going out to garden. He looked out the window, again noting the bird feeders needed filling, read over the six lines of the new poem while he ate, trying to remember the line he was saying before the phone rang and again, feeling annoyed that someone he hardly knew was about to show up, shook his head, "I don't know about young people today. They just do what they want."
He knew he couldn't continue working, his mood and concentration had been intruded on by the imminent arrival of the graduate student who was doing her doctoral dissertation on his work. Though Jason felt flattered that anyone would want to do a study of his six books of poetry, the last one published over ten years ago to not much acclaim, he never expected she would just show up at his door. He remembered Emily saying she thought it was by far his best work and deserved much better reception than it received. Still their correspondence was all via email and now he didn't know what would be with her surprise visit.
Jason knew very little about Emily, had no idea what she looked like or how old she was. All he knew was she was a young woman getting her doctorate in literature from the University of Boston and had now made the uninvited five hour trip to his cabin in Maine. She had emailed him eight months earlier telling him that she had discovered his poetry in a used book store in Cambridge and knew instantly she had to do her doctorate on his work. She said she was "blown away" by his poetry. Surprised and delighted by her enthusiasm and desire to study his work for her PhD, he agreed to answer some questions and help her in anyway he could, but also how much he valued his privacy and time and he might not always be available.
All of their emails had been focused on the poems, the techniques he was experimenting with, what was going on in his life at the time in an attempt to put the poems in context and Jason was impressed with how serious Emily was, how probing and insightful, often pointing out things in the poetry that he had not been aware of. He thanked her when she shared her appreciation of a poem or a particular line and they often sent three or four emails back and forth in a day discussing a particular topic before Emily one day asked if he minded having a gmail chat, that it would be faster and easier and Jason agreed.
The chats were definitely more efficient and focused mostly on Jason's later books. Emily always had her questions prepared, took notes then typed a new question and waited for his response. One time she asked if he had skype which he didn't and had not intention in getting. "That's cool," Emily responded then asked a few more questions about his work, but more recently, just before signing off she'd ask him what was happening in his personal life, what has he been doing and their on-line conversations became friendlier and a little more casual. He told her he was working on a new poem and recently finished a short story but also that he baked some bread, what he had planted in the garden, that deer were browsing in front his cabin, but never revealed anything too personal.
Recently, towards the end of one of their chats, Emily mentioned she was having personal problems and difficulty concentrating but didn't say much more than that. After that, two weeks passed and he hadn't heard from her which surprised him because previously she had contacted him at least every two days with a question. Then a week ago, he received an email with two questions about a particular poem then wrote at the end of her message that she had broken up with her lover of two years, a young professor in the English Department, and though she was trying to work on her dissertation, she was in a bad way. She might have to take a break and added how much she appreciated the time Jason was giving her, how important she thought his work is, that he deserved to be better known and was determined to finish her dissertation.
Jason admitted he liked that someone was so interested in his work and his life, especially after having not published anything for ten years. Rarely was he invited to give a reading and he was now resigned to the fact that he was pretty much forgotten after being so acclaimed for his work and his influence on younger poets. It had been twenty years since winning the Pulitzer for his second book, The Hole in the Wall and fifteen since receiving the National Book Award for his fifth book, The Hills of Shangri la. But five years lapsed before his sixth and final book which was published ten years ago with little notice. He recognized he was being replaced by the next generation of poets who were now the darling of the literary magazines and the critics for the New York Review of Books and the New Yorker, where, for a time, his poetry appeared several times a year. No longer was he mentioned or published, nor invited for one or two year positions as Poet in Residence at various universities, and now here he was, a reclusive poet in the woods, writing everyday wondering what, if anything, would become of all the new poems he had written. Not many poets were writing sonnets these days or cared about traditional forms.
Now, Emily had shocked him by announcing she would be there in a few minutes. He finished his oatmeal and was rinsing out the bowl when he heard Oscar bark and saw her red Saab drive up and park next to his rusting pick up truck. He realized he knew so little about her or even what she looked like. He eventually learned she was thirty five, entered graduate school ten years after finishing second in her class at Dartmouth, had been married, divorced, no children but that was it. All of their conversations had been purely professional up until six or so weeks ago when the tone had changed slightly, becoming mildly personal. Then two weeks ago she told him she might have to take a break from her dissertation because of the problems with her lover had gotten worse and she would be in touch. And now she was suddenly showing up.
Jason opened the door and stood out on his small porch while Oscar ran towards her barking. Emily got out and waved over the roof of her car, then leaned back in to get her backpack, a black laptop case and a briefcase. He could see she was a small with dark hair, but that was all until she started walking up the winding path to his door. Now, he could see she was a slender woman wearing faded jeans, a long green flannel shirt, unbuttoned covering a black turtle neck shirt.
She waved again as she made her way up the path, stopping to kneel down and pet Oscar who was still barking. When she stepped up on the porch, she looked around at her surroundings, took a deep breath of relief that she had arrived then reached out to shake Jason's hand.
"Bet you're surprised to see me," she said, smiling and Jason was struck by her sparkling blue green eyes and the smallness of her hand as he took it in his.
