The Writer and The Word (01)

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Sumner sat back down in 2b, and did his best to be quiet about it. The woman sat with her forehead against the window, appeared to be transfixed on the sea below. The Steward came around and handed him a Customs form, and another for Sumner to pass on to the woman in 2a. He held the form a moment, turned over in his mind what he wanted, what he needed to say. Then he tapped her forearm lightly.

She turned around slowly, almost gently, and looked at him. Her sunglasses were gone now, and her eyes were tear-streaked wrecks of mascara and puffy red splotches. She smiled uneasily, but said nothing.

"I have your Customs form, you know, the things you bought abroad form."

She looked down briefly at the little narrow piece of paper, then back at Sumner.

"I'm sorry, Miss Westhoven, I really am. That was an inexcusably foul way to talk to a lady, and you really didn't deserve that . . . I should have been mature enough to handle that differently. I am truly, truly sorry."

"You . . ." Her face reddened, a single tear formed under her right eye, then slowly began to run down her cheek. Clearly, she couldn't speak right now. ". . . Sorry?"

Sumner reached across and took her hand in his; with that simple gesture she burst into tears. He held her hand in his and looked her in the eye. After a moment she grew quiet, then in a shuddering disjointed voice managed to convey sorrow at her deceptiveness, the manipulative courses of action that had ruled her life, perhaps ruined her life.

As she talked, she came to grips with her feelings, and she she calmed a bit, then resumed in a steadier voice. She laid bare her feelings to Sumner: that she had always felt she was repulsive to men, and through that feeling she had attracted darkness and loneliness into her life - and never honest relationships - never love. With that die cast, she had led a psuedo-life through her fictional characters. What he, Sumner, had said made perfect sense, galvanized these thoughts and feelings into a single, loathsome reality . . .

"I have never truly loved anyone in my life," she said. "And I now know that I have never been truly loved."

He looked at her sitting there, and wanted to reach out to her lost soul, but he could not. He felt she looked like an animal, bleeding and desperate, and caught in a trap. Perhaps a trap of her own making, but a trap none-the-less. He did not believe in feeling pity on or for another human being, but some shred of humanity tore at him as he looked at her.

"I'm so sorry I've done this to you, Diane."

"Oh, Sumner, that's so sweet, but honestly, I've done this to myself." She drew in a deep breath, seemed to shake off her tears, come to a decision. "But Sumner, I think I have a bigger problem than all that other stuff."

She paused, unsure of herself.

"I desperately want to know you better than I do."

Sumner Welles was shocked, at a loss for words.

"I just want to have lunch with you, perhaps, from time to time. Truly, Sumner, I want to know you better . . . I don't want to walk off this plane today and never see you again. I don't think I could bare that, so, please don't say no right away, please, just think about it. Would you?"

"Alright, Diane. I promise I'll think about it."

"Now, dear thing, would you help me fill out this dreadful form?"

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BA flight 481 landed uneventfully in Boston a little after three that afternoon. Sumner and Diane sat in their seats as the rest of the passengers deplaned, though they talked to each other hardly at all. Finally, he took out his passport case and handed the woman his card.

"Diane . . . When things have settled down for you, perhaps in a day or two, give me a call. I won't be available this coming week or weekend, however, to meet with you. But, please call if you think I can help you in some way. But, Diane. Please think about what you're doing, question what is truly in your heart, before you decide to call me. I don't know where you'll find answers to your questions, but I do doubt that you'll find them with me." He took her hand and bid her a good evening, and walked hastily out of the now empty jet.

Diane Westhoven sat there in silence for a moment. She looked like a hollow reed bowing to the pressure of a cold northern wind.

"No love," she said quietly. "Lost."

She walked unsteadily from the jet.

'Why so alone?' she thought as she watched the little clots of people walking ahead of her into the concourse.

She watched Sumner Welles' form recede into the distance, then disappear into the shifting form of the crowd.

'Why do I feel so small?'

"Lost," she said, quietly. As if in prayer.

Part II coming in a couple of days. Comments appreciated.