The Problem with Murmur Lee Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  A Letter from Murmur Lee Harp to Charleston Rowena Mudd

  Murmur Lee Harp

  Charleston Rowena Mudd

  October 3, 2001 Murmur Lee Harp’s Last Will and Testament, Handwritten in Baroque Cursive Script on a Yellow Legal Pad in Purple Ink and Notarized by Lashandra P. Pacetti

  A Grocery List, Written in Murmur Lee Harp’s Excessive Cursive Script, Unread, Lost Amid the Cobwebs Behind Her Rusting Refrigerator

  Murmur Lee Harp

  Murmur Lee Harp Sees a Moment in the Life of Her Great-Great-Grandfather Oster Harp

  Billy Speare

  Edith Piaf

  Lucinda Smith

  Dr. Zachary Klein

  Murmur Lee Harp Sees a Moment in the Life of Her Mother, Lily Cordelia Harp

  William S. Speare

  Sainthood: Murmur Lee Harp Reveals the Zenith of Her Childhood

  Charleston Rowena Mudd

  A Letter Written by Father Matthew Jaeger to Bishop Haywood F. Carroll, which Father Jaeger Never Mailed, Opting to Hide It in a Secret Pocket He Whittled into the Cover of His Favorite Book,From Here to Eternity

  Disgrace: Murmur Lee Harp Reveals the Apex of Her Sainthood

  A Letter Written by Father Matthew Jaeger to God, Never Mailed, Just Balled Up and Then Burned in the Rectory’s Kitchen Sink

  Four Journal Entries Written by Murmur Lee Harp During the Time of Her Independent Scholastic Study of the Medical Phenomenon Known as Musicogenic Epilepsy

  Charleston Rowena Mudd

  Murmur Lee Harp Sees Her Daughter

  A Letter Murmur Lee Harp Wrote to Blossom Cordelia Charleston Nathanson Harp and Tucked in the Pocket of the Dress the Child Was Cremated In

  Lucinda Smith

  Dr. Zachary Klein

  Murmur Lee Harp Reflects on Her Life as a Catholic, a Witch, a Parent of a Dead Child, the Wife of a Bad Man, and the Friend of a Tragic Couple

  Charleston Rowena Mudd

  A Note Written by Murmur Lee Harp and Passed to Charlee Mudd in Their Eighth-Grade Homeroom, Written in Valentine Red Ink, Hearts Splattered Across the Page

  A Love Note from Murmur Lee Harp to Lawrence Fairhope Davis, Written Eight Months After Her Divorce and During Her Brief Employment at the Catholic Day School Located in St. Augustine’s Old City (It Should Be Noted That the Affair Ended Shortly After Murmur Sent This Epistolary Rumination on the Nature of Love)

  A Letter Murmur Lee Harpn Wrote to Her Husband, Erik Nathanson, Two Days After He Walked Out on Her

  An E-Mail from Murmur Lee Harp to Billy Speare

  Billy Speare

  Murmur Lee Harp Sees Her First Date with Billy Speare

  Edith Piaf

  Lucinda Smith

  Charleston Rowena Mudd

  Dr. Zachary Klein

  Edith Piaf

  Dr. Zachary Klein

  Charleston Rowena Mudd

  Murmur Lee Harp

  Lucinda Smith

  Charleston Rowena Mudd

  Billy Speare

  Murmur Lee Harp

  Edith Piaf

  Billy Speare

  Murmur Lee Harp

  Charleston Rowena Mudd

  Murmur Lee Harp

  Reading Group Guide

  Also by Connie May Fowler

  About the Author

  Praise for The Problem with Murmur Lee

  Copyright Page

  FOR Silas

  There is never a single approach

  to something remembered.

  —JOHN BERGER

  Acknowledgments

  This novel was written in solitude but whispered into existence with the help of countless friends.

  My agent, Joy Harris, and my editor, Deb Futter, are fierce warrior-angels, indeed. Their wit, intellect, and love guide, inspire, and sustain me.

  Stephanie Abou and Alexia Paul at the Joy Harris Literary Agency are brilliant women for whom I possess boundless gratitude.

  The Problem with Murmur Lee would have never been birthed without the patience and guidance of the dedicated, talented people at Doubleday. Thank you for believing. Anne Merrow, I owe you.

  I am forever grateful to my dear sister, Deidre, and her husband, Phil, for their unflagging support. You saw me through the darkest days. Thank you.

  Marcie Cramer and my Wednesday afternoon posse, your grace and wisdom inform every word of this novel.

  Jerome Novey, you rock.

  To my wonderful colleagues in the Rollins College Department of English and to Rita Bornstein, Roger Casey, and Lorrie Kyle, thank you for so freely sharing your talents and for the many opportunities you have given me and this book. Without your words of encouragement, the novel would still be stewing on a back burner. And to my students at Rollins, you inspire me. Indeed, you helped breathe magic into these pages.

  Thank you to my friends—faculty, staff, and students—in the Spalding University MFA program. In you I discovered a community of writers whose generosity and brilliance gave me the confidence to push harder, to take greater chances, to believe with renewed fervor in the process.

  And to my many friends who read pages, who offered advice, who listened to my fears and frustrations and dreams, who laughed with me, who broke bread with me, who never gave up on me, my gratitude and love transcend the devout simplicity inherent in the words thank you. Mitch and Melissa Alderman, Robyn Allers, Per Astrand, Barbara Carson, Ed Cohen, Dale Copans-Astrand, Mike Croley, Philip F. Deaver, Troy Ehlers, Annie Ferran, Kaye Gibbons, Jeni Hatter, Rhonda and Bob Heins, Paul Hiers, Silas House, Matthew Jaeger, Jill Jones, David Kahn, Lezlie Laws, Sam Leininger, Robin Lippincott, Cate McGowan, Kevin Miller, Sena Jeter Naslund, Sue and Socky O’Sullivan, Twila Papay, Kelly Parisi, Diana Raab, Gail Sinclair, Dimitri Smith, Cissie Spang, George Tucker, Mike and Zilpha Underwood, Laura van den Berg, Brad Watson, and Crystal Wilkinson: You are my heart.

  A Letter from Murmur Lee Harp to Charleston Rowena Mudd

  July 21, 2001

  Dear Charlee,

  Here is the swan feather I promised. Be forewarned: This really works. An old celibate man in Jacksonville Beach clued me in. He blames the feather for his incessant faithfulness. By his own admission, he cheated on his wife with all the consistency of a serial killer until his wife threw the feather spell on him. He spent the first decade of his marriage as a philanderer and the last two as a model husband. In fact, he buried her three years ago and remains true. It’s sad, really, that this works so well. I mean, the old guy is never going to get laid again in his life.

  Anyway, you have to sew the feather into his pillowcase. You can’t simply stick it in there. Do you know how to sew anymore? You’ve been up there so long, I suspect you’ve forgotten everything our mothers tried to teach us. I can see how that is both helpful and not. For instance, your mother, who was truly a dear woman—you know I loved her—was always insisting that you wear your hair short. That was wrongheaded. You’re a knockout when you let those curls kiss your shoulders.

  Also, when do I get to meet this Nigerian? Like I said in this morning’s E-mail, you CANNOT marry until I have approved. I would give you the same courtesy. Bring him down here and let me meet him while the summer storms still rage. Don’t let this get past you. I know you. Once school kicks in, you’ll be too busy to even respond to E-mail. So book your flights and I’ll pick you up, and you two can have the house all to yourselves.

  We’re having a bang-up summer, Charlee. Last evening, Dr. Z was still running around Hastings in his Roadmaster (I don’t believe he has cleaned it out, only added to the pile of crap, since you left h
ere however many years ago), treating the migrants, and I took the liberty, as is my wont and his pleasure, to sit on his dock and sip my beer and watch the end-of-day glory unfold and settle. I was glad I did, because last night’s sunset turned out to be a rare breed of awesome. The magnolia leaves quivered in the waning light. The river glowed. The sky bloomed. The anvil clouds towering in the west over the hammock appeared to be lit from within. It was enough to make my heart break and put itself back together out of sheer joy: lilac, purple, orange, sage. This old world, I’m telling you, pulsed with the sun’s last gasp—ba bap, ba bap, ba bap—and then both sea and sky took on a golden glaze.

  Just when I was thinking life couldn’t get any better, it did. A flock of terns rose from the river, spiraling up up up, a ribbon of black and white unfurling along a thermal. And then they disappeared. It was as if God had called them home.

  What do you think of that? I’d really like to know. Also, if any of your professors would like to comment, I welcome their thoughts.

  If the description of the sunset doesn’t do it, then perhaps this will entice you home: The dragonflies are in peak form. And you know what they say . . . a bountiful season of dragonflies makes for a healthy uterus. Picture you and your beloved sitting on Z’s dock—or my porch—quiet and beautiful and still—watching the dragons fly. Take right now, for instance. I’m on my back patio, writing this letter and am surrounded. They collide into one another—winged bumper cars—as they gorge on the mosquitoes, and with each collision, a faintly metallic whir strikes the air. I bet ants and cockroaches consider it to be a form of music, something akin to calypso.

  So what do you think of my news about this guy I met? I mean, I’m a bit wary, yet ever so willing to throw every shred of caution to the wind.

  My tendency toward behaving with abandon is fueled by my very real and reasonable desire for sex. I mean, it has been three months. I’ve done all sorts of spell casting. I even burned my pubes in a bird’s nest. That should have brought me major boom-boom action. But no! I’m still walking about like a nun!

  So for no other reason than carnal desire, I’m tempted to go forward with this. He’s cute as hell. My pubes have grown back in. As good old Father Beaver used to say, “Perhaps this would make Jesus happy.” I’ll keep you posted. Love on the river should be very hot. I guess I ought to buy a new razor or get waxed. Or something.

  I miss you, Charlee. Z misses you. Edith misses you. Lucinda misses you. The whole damn bunch of us do. So come visit before you get involved in all your books and God again. Besides, you know as well as I do, God isn’t up there. She left Boston ages ago.

  Love you lots,

  Murmur

  P.S. I forgot to tell you, that poor swan! And poor me! The spell doesn’t work if you pick up a feather off the ground. You have to pluck it out of the poor bird’s butt. You’d better be sure you really want this guy.

  Murmur Lee Harp

  The pearl-faced moon dipped behind a cloud, darkening the night, as I sped upriver to meet my lover. We’d had many such river trysts. In fact, it was how we’d met five months prior: he on his way to check his crab traps and me anchored in the Matanzas, listening to Gillian Welch softly wail on my boom box. But tonight, it was the Iris Haven River, not the Matanzas, and it was New Year’s Eve—a time that made me melancholy, because who among us could live up to the expectations born of fresh beginnings?

  My skiff bounced along the swift chop, and as I brought her into the channel, I could see that Billy was already there. He owned a twenty-four-foot Wellcraft Fisherman, and if the tide had been low, he wouldn’t have been in this river, as it ran shallow. But the New Year and broad, waning moon had given us a high tide, which made the river doable. I eased back on the throttle, my skin and hair wet with salt spray, not believing that I’d been with Billy for nearly half a year. As I churned doggedly on, closing the gap between us, I reminded myself that I deserved this happiness. My life was like most people’s: a series of challenges made bearable by the sanctified gifts of friends and strangers. I wasn’t going to sabatoge things this time. I was going to love a man and allow him to love me back and simply accept that life could be this way. And if, on occasion, I needed to slip a pinch of cayenne into his coffee to keep him focused, or sweeten his table salt with a dusting of snipped egret feathers to make him want me more, well, I was up for that. Upon my approach, I heard John Lee Hooker on Billy’s boom box: “One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer.” What a fine way to bring in the New Year: with the blues.

  I anchored off his leeward bow, and as I watched the line uncoil and disappear into the river, I yelled, “Hello!”

  Billy poked his head out of the cabin, all smiles, his eyes polished by liquor. “Hey there.” He stepped onto the deck and raised his Budweiser in greeting. Dressed in well-saddled jeans, a red cable-knit sweater, and a University of Florida baseball cap, he looked younger than his forty-five years. “What took you so long?” He shot me that gap-toothed Scots-Irish grin.

  “I ran over to the hammock. Wanted to see if I could spot the owl we heard last night.”

  He didn’t say anything. He just stared. I fiddled with my hair and felt myself blush. His gaze was direct and all about sex. Even though I was halfway through my third decade on this planet, I wobbled under the weight of his hazel eyes. I brought my slicker tighter about me. “Permission to come aboard, sir.”

  He held open his arms: a welcoming gesture. “Permission granted.”

  As he took my line in his big hands and pulled my skiff toward him, I felt light and happy, almost home.

  It was cold on the river, even though we were buffered from the easterly breeze by the dunes. Billy insisted I remove my slicker, because he “couldn’t get to me through all that waterproofing.” He wrapped me in an old gray sweater of his. It fit Billy snugly, but on me, it resembled a coat.

  Overhead, clouds moved quickly and the moon’s light wavered. We stayed on deck, both of us wanting to bring in the New Year in the wide, cold goodness of this river. Billy kissed the tip of my nose. Mr. Hooker howled, “Think twice before you go . . .”

  “Happy New Year, baby.” I touched Billy’s face.

  He rested his hands in my damp hair. “We’re getting socked in,” he said.

  I followed his gaze. Fog billowed westward from the sea. Soon both the river and shore would be enveloped. “I love fog. Especially the way it tumbles in without warning.” I wrapped my arms around him and spun a half turn—the perfect curl of a knot—resting the back of my head against his chest. “Fog is all about surprise, whereas rain is about, I don’t know, enduring the moment.”

  He spun me back around—undoing the knot—leaned in, kissed me. He tasted like drawn butter and beer. “That makes no sense, you crazy woman, you.”

  “Yes, it does.” I extricated myself and reached for my beer. I took a long swig and considered if I should try to convince him that rain is all about endurance, but he was on to something else.

  “Listen to this.” He popped out John Lee Hooker and fiddled with a plastic bag filled with CDs.

  “No, Billy. Not again. I don’t like this game. Listen, I’m better on music than you. Get used to it. It’s a”—I breathed in the wet air, searched for a suitable word—“gift.”

  He wasn’t deterred. He hit the play button and looked at me smugly. He thought he had me stumped—it was written all over his wide face.

  “Easy. Prokofiev. Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Damn it!” He crushed his empty Budweiser with one hand, tossed it in a plastic bucket, opened the cooler, reached for another. “How do you know?”

  “I saw the ballet on PBS.” Actually, anyone with half a brain would know. That cubist, break-down-the-walls, big-as-a-bull physicality was owned by Prokofiev. I ran my hand lightly over my fog-frizzed hair. “I mean it, Billy, I really hate this game.”

  “Damn it all to hell.” He pulled the CD bag up to his face and stared in. He was determined to prove to me that I didn’t k
now as much about music as I thought I did. For a moment, I hated him.

  “Just a couple of more, Murmur Lee.” He slammed in a different CD, hit play, and smiled triumphantly.

  “Raga. A form of classical Indian music.” I spoke in a monotone. “But you’ve got the wrong season. That raga is to be played only in the summer. Listen to the F-sharp. It’s called a Dipak, Billy.” I admit, I pushed his buttons with this one, showing off just enough to make him wish he’d never started down this path. “But you’ve got the time of day right. Hear that tonality of the four-note scale, all of it way down deep? Definitely a nighttime melody.”

  His mouth pinched up—a sign that I tweaked his gallbladder into producing a squirt or two of poison. He took off his cap, repositioned it, and then searched the CD bag like a dog clawing sand.

  I emptied my beer and got a fresh one. If this goes on much longer, I thought, I’m out of here. I popped the top and looked toward Zachary’s dock, which, through the fog, appeared smudged. I could barely make out the plastic owl he’d nailed on the rail to keep away the seagulls and all their poop. Dumb idea. Right then, the voice of Egypt blossomed through the thick, liquored air.

  “Umm Kulthum.” I turned away from Billy, scooted past the cooler, and took three steps to the stern. “Nobody on the planet has a voice like hers. You know, she’s like Piaf. And Orbison. Billie Holiday. Ella. Definitely Ella. Some might even say Sinatra. With chanteuses, it’s not about tonal structure. It’s all about the voice. And phrasing.” He was not listening. He was already on to the next CD. I stared into the silk wall of mist, annoyed, thinking, I want to eat the fog; I want it to taste like melted vanilla ice cream.

  He pressed the play button. As I zeroed in on the first fat chord, the wind hit us with something awful, something rotting, maybe an animal carcass soiling the evergreen promise of this New Year.

  I started to say, Billy, baby, what’s that smell? but I didn’t get the chance. Everything—the river, the shore, the big dark sky—collapsed in a single bright flash. Right before I lost consciousness, I thought, Oh dear God, there is a lightning storm in my brain.