Tea with Henry Moore
an excerpt

Analeti emptied her little suitcase onto the shelves inside the alcove closet, and then went into the bathroom to “refresh” herself. I took advantage of her exit to place the envelope in the most obvious place possible. I was indecisive. I could not possibly move about too much without her noticing, since she was barely 5 feet away from me. I scanned the miniscule room and decided that against the pillow was the only real choice. I thought my heart would be rendered in half from the way it beat against my insides. The day was finally here. I was going to die from excitement before she even noticed The Gift.

Finally, after what seemed like seven eternities – I mean, how long does it actually take to become “refreshed” after a first class flight? – Analeti emerged from the tiny bathroom. I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to point out the envelope before she accidentally sat on it, but since there was so little to see in that room, that eventuality did not come to pass.

“What’s this?” she asked immediately upon reentering the room?

“It is a gift. For you. From me.”

“Whatever for?” she asked, approaching the tiny square with what seemed like veiled suspicion.

“For being you. To thank you. For everything. Happy Mother’s Day.” She turned to me with the most quizzical look on her face. Uncertain as to how sincere my wishes were, and hoping that some miracle had befallen me and I was now a normal human being, she turned toward the envelope and reached for it with her elegant long fingers. My heart almost stopped. She picked it up and looked at the return address.

“Hoglands. That’s--”

“--the home of Henry Moore!” I exclaimed in a high-pitched, excited squeak. “I wrote to him asking if we might come by for tea.”

“Henry Moore!? For tea?!” I had severely underestimated her reaction to The Gift. A sudden shaking spasm overtook her, and the little letter was suddenly being battered about like Sunday’s wash against a rock in the Ganges. She gazed at me in disbelief, eyes as wide as the mouth of the ewer on the stand.

After a moment I ventured to ask if she’d like to open it.

“You wrote him a letter?” was her answer.

“Yes,” I replied.

“And he wrote back?”

“Yyyyes…. That’s what you’re holding.”

“And what did he say?” She seemed frozen in space. The only thing moving were her lips, which even under her rich red lipstick looked slightly pale.

“We’ll lever know if you don’t open it! I’ve been waiting to know for almost two weeks, and it’s killing me!!! Open it already!” I had completely jumped out of my skin and my frantic aura was furiously battering over the head. Figuratively speaking, of course. But my little outburst seemed to interrupt her journey to Catatonia, and she gave the envelope one last glance before carefully tearing it open.

“I don’t want to ruin any part of it,” she lamented, heartbroken that the paper had to be torn at all. Very carefully she pulled the single sheet of paper from the envelope, and jumped from my bed to her side on her bed. We both held our breath as she unfolded the paper to read:

Hoglands
Perry Green
Much Hadham, Hertsfordshire

May 23, 1977

Dear Ms. Nadie,

Thank you for your letter.

I shall be pleased for you and your mother to come and look round the
studio. I think Thursday 23rd June about 3.30 p.m. would be all right for
you to come, if this is convenient for you.

I am enclosing directions how to get here by car or train from London.

Perhaps you will let me know if this date suits you.

Yours sincerely,
Henry Moore"

At the exact same moment, we both screamed “Henry Moore!!!” The shakes returned, to both of us this time, and I just jumped around the room like a kangaroo on a pogo stick. Analeti just sat there trembling, shaking her head.

“Incredible. After all these years. Do you think he’ll remember me?” As an answer, I gave her “The Look”.

“Nobody forgets Analeti.”

She resumed her exploration of the letter, marveling that he had written it himself. I suddenly realized that he had, indeed, remembered her, from my brief description of their Acapulco meeting in my letter to him. And it was probably as a result of this that he had penned the letter himself. How incredible, I thought, that such a great man would still take the time to undertake such a small gesture.

“Who is Ms. Nadie?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts. Uh oh. My secret alter ego. This was not how I’d envisioned her finding out. This was likewise not the moment to discuss it. But I knew the time had come when I would have to address her question.

“I will explain it all another time. Right now, I will kill you if you do not pick up the phone and call him.” And still, she sat there, musing over something that was clearly bothering her.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, clutching at her heart. And for a second I thought the excitement had been too much for her. “Oh no!!” she repeated, grabbing at her head. Was it an embolism? Should I pick up the phone and call for an ambulance?

“Oh Kendra!” she whined, still calling me by the name she had given me what seemed so many lifetimes ago, and which now seemed so foreign to me. I did not like the tone of her expression. “I can’t go!”

After a stunned silence, during which I felt the world imploding onto my head, I blurted out “Why the hell not!!?”

“I have an interview at the Pompidou Museum that same day!” Again I skewered her with The Look. Then breathing very deeply and exhaling even more slowly, I said, in very measured tones “The Pompidou will be there for a hundred decades. Mr. Moore, a lot less than that.”