Longtime Companions

Yesterday, I had breakfast with one of my dearest friends from our university days.

Some seventeen or more years ago, she moved to the San Francisco Bay Area. Our lives took different paths, but in many ways we remain similar, in worldview, and for me, that's one of the things that counts. For example, we may not be in touch for years, but when we do reconnect, the years strip away, and it seems as though we pick up our conversation from where it left off.

The last time, I was in San Francisco on business. She had driven in from across the Golden Gate for a meeting, and we had coffee. I don't remember how many years ago that was. I don't want to. It doesn't matter.

She was in town now, because her eldest daughter is touring colleges "back east," from Connecticut to Philadelphia - and New York City, right in the choicest middle. Natch.

When her younger daughter starts college - most likely "back east," my college friend may move back to the city. And I would like that.

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This evening, I walked home from a meeting with a longtime friend and literary agent. We met at the Noho Star, not half a block from her offices. We caught up, discussed our respective cats' nine lives and deaths. She gave me sound advice, reiterating what other NYC-based, woman literary agents have recommended of late: Write the first draft of your novel.

Aha, first mention here, now. The novel. In pieces: thirty percent written, plus a thirty-page plot outline, plus synopses for books two and three, plus a film treatment. That and a MetroCard will put me on the Subway, even with all the goodwill I have established in the book business. Gotta get it right. Roger that. Will do.

The whole story sits in my head. I need to make the time to go back, change some stuff, and write the thing.

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Last week was derailed in many ways owing to a shocking and sad piece of news. Liz Maguire. I got the call last Monday morning. The words were simple. "Liz Maguire died."

"Liz Maguire? Our Liz Maguire? Of Basic Books? Dead? What?"

I hadn't had my usual four cups of coffee.

"Yes. Last weekend. I wanted you to hear it before you read it in the trades."

"But how?" My mind reeled. Liz - my age, maybe six months older, that was all.

"Ovarian cancer. She was diagnosed ten weeks ago."

Ten fucking weeks. That sentence hung in the air over my head. Like a plasma, I thought I could touch it, poke it, and it would reform like Jell-O.

I was cashed. I needed time. To be quiet, to let my thoughts roam, to remember my former colleague, the conversations in her office, her dry, quick wit, how our eyebrows rose in tandem over ridiculous corporate politics. She had glorious, thick, red hair, and an amazing laugh. This did not make sense. But the facts were immutable.

I couldn't muster the courage to attend the wake.

The next day, the funeral was at one of those hulking Catholic churches on the northern reach of Park Avenue. Two famous authors gave eulogies, one heartfelt and memoir-like, the other an exhortation. Salt stained my face. I saw many former colleagues, two favorite ex-bosses, in the sunlight, outside, after. Bagpipes.

It was too much. When I returned home, I collapsed mid-afternoon and slept. That night I got good and silly. My way of honoring the Irish. The New York Girl.   

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This week and a Frenchtuesday(s) later, I was chatting with the very gorgeous Frenchman from the previous week, when Jean Phillipe approached. I introduced the two of them, but not before they both arched back, yelled something inchoate, and embraced. Turns out they've known each other for over thirteen years - each unaware that the other resides in New York. Astonishing. Jean Phillipe brought me to the coven, the lair of Frenchtuesdays for the first time some nineteen months ago. And now, I re-introduced him to an old friend. Voila.

Comments

[Marcela Davison Aviles]

Liz Maguire is, was, (hard to believe I am in the past tense here) as they say in Spanish, muy simpatica. She is the reason I have a career in the arts and theatre, and harbor the illusion that someday I'll write the great American mariachi musical theatre piece.

Liz was my comadre at Harvard -- we produced many a show together -- drank many tequila shots and pints, rejoiced in the discovery of our partners...I learned of her passing from a friend -- same thing -- the disbelief, googling her name, staring at the computer monitor in shock.

So I am here in the San Francisco Bay Area mourning from a distance and came across your blog ... it provided a connection to the community of Liz -- thanks...

HH responds: Community is important, sometimes more so in times of grief. Many thanks for your kind words.