Drinks with Kathy
A slim shiver shook the elderly woman’s shoulders a little as I expelled the cold ear-mold cream into both ears. She relaxed, as I told her it would only last a moment. We were seated together in her impressive and lustrous penthouse apartment decorated in what today would, I suppose, be called shabby chic. The sofa and easy chairs appeared mixed and matched in light brown and rust tones that gave it a comfortable, lived-in look. The air inside had a slight scent of night-blooming jasmine that had me wondering about its origin as no candles, incense, or plants were visible.
Several weeks prior, I had driven to this very building in my capacity as a hearing aid consultant for Beltone Hearing Aid Company, marched into the lobby, and approached the receptionist. I asked if K. A. Porter—my future elderly client—was in and said that I had a package she had requested. Presently, I was met by a rather portly middle aged man with a stern and curt manner who introduced himself as Katherine Anne’s personal secretary. Using her first name, he told me Katherine Anne did not take visitors in the morning and that only in the afternoon would she entertain them. I told him why I was there and that Katherine had requested a tiny plastic aid. After first telling me that he would deliver the package to her, I impressed upon him that I was tasked with giving it only to her and that a free hearing test was part of the arrangement. More deliberation followed, and he finally acquiesced. An appointment was scheduled for two o’clock two weeks hence. By now, due to my keen interest in literature, I had surmised that this Katherine Anne Porter was the famous author of Ship of Fools and Pale Horse, Pale Rider. She had also penned a number of collections of short stories, The Old Order, Stories of the South, and notably, the Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter, for which she won the Pulitzer. Her works were dark and dealt with such themes as death and betrayal. I was keen to meet this august lady, as I had read both novels, though Pudgey had instructed me the meetings must be kept short, as Katherine Anne was now 85 years of age.
I was in my early thirties when I had landed this position with Beltone, a commission-based job. The task was to take the leads gleaned by the company or folks who wrote in, go to their home or apartment unannounced, and talk our way in by way of a free hearing test to see if they were a suitable candidate for an aid and, if so, sell them one, or two called Bi-Neurals. Each sales consultant had an audiometer for testing purposes. We’d sit the prospect down and pump high to low frequency tones into their ears by way of headphones and adjust the meter up or down until they heard the sound. They were to raise their finger when the tone was heard at that particular frequency. Hearing the tone would indicate the extent of any hearing loss they may have.
Turns out I was a natural at this, as the seniors thought of me as a nice young man who seemed rather son-like to them, and they took to me easily. In six months, I ditched my ‘69 VW bug for a ‘75 eight-cylinder snow-white mustang, got my first color TV, and brightened up my apartment in Mt. Rainier, fifty feet from the D.C. line. In my second year, I got a lead from someone who had written in asking for our sample product, a small, plastic, non-functional hearing aid Beltone would provide so the customer could see what a hearing aid’s size and shape was like. I was to deliver this to the prospective client, talk my way in, pitch, test, and sell. The name on the lead was K.A. Porter, and this individual lived in a high-end high-rise in Greenbelt, MD, just twelve miles from our office.
Two weeks later, I showed up on time in the lobby for our appointment, got the go ahead from Pudge, and went up to see the grand lady. Katherine Anne sported a shock of all-white hair, and was diminutive and cordial, if a bit distant. She spoke with a slight southern accent as she ushered me into her jasmine scented apartment. Without preliminaries, she told me of her hearing difficulties and eagerness to be tested. The exam showed she had significant loss in both ears. I suggested she get what was then Beltone’s strongest aid called Etudes and told her I could have them ready for delivery in two weeks.
With only a few moments before it was time for me to leave, I tried to compose myself to say a few words about her body of work. I told her I had read Ship of Fools, a novel published in 1962, based on her memoir of a cruise she had taken from Vera Cruz, Mexico to Germany. At that point it seemed she couldn’t stop herself blurting out how much she hated Lee Marvin who had starred in the movie. What an insufferable bore he was. She went on to tell me how she felt he had overacted in the film and once appeared on set with his fly down.
How sui generis I thought, thinking of the unbidden nature of the remark, and by the time I got to the door, I was already looking forward to the delivery. Before leaving, I asked Katherine Anne (I was actually not on a first name basis with her and respectfully called her Miss Porter during the occasions of my visits) if I could find a hardback copy of Ship of Fools would she autograph it for me.
She nodded affirmatively.
Now, what to do about Pudge. I knew he wasn’t available at night, so bringing them to her in the evening seemed the best. I wanted to maximize my time with her and had her number from the contract. When the aids came in, I called her and arranged a time for the fitting the following evening.
At eight p.m. the next night, I tooled over in my white V8, slipped by the receptionist, and went straight for the penthouse on the top floor. Katherine Anne opened the door just enough for me to step in. She was quite ready for the fitting and we got right to it.
The ear molds fit perfectly, nice and snug, assuring me the hearing aids would restore her hearing. Oh she said wondrously, as a child might upon seeing their first Christmas tree done up with lights and angel hair. She was delighted as I adjusted her volume control. Sublime! she exclaimed as the long silence lifted and sound filled her ears, sharpening all her senses. Sit down, she said with a smile, let’s talk. Her face shone with a highly pleasing cast as we engaged in light conversation for some minutes. I’d like a drink, she suddenly said, would you like one too? Well, in those days my answer was always the same. Yes, I offered. Katherine Anne disappeared for a second and brought out a bottle of Kentucky Branch whiskey, a bourbon with water that has been steeped in a fresh young branch from a Douglas fir. I admit my tasting apparatus was not sophisticated, but the whiskey was smooth with a resinous flavor and had a fine aftertaste.
We drank in silence for 10 minutes or so, and as I was enjoying the ambiance, I began to wonder if the stillness was Katherine Anne’s style of drinking. Finally, feeling I had only a limited time with her, I began to ask her about her life and work.
When did you first realize you were a writer? I asked. A frail smile played across her face as she said, At about age three, I wrote about the little town in which I lived and about the beautiful spareness of the Texas countryside around me. Believe me, if I had had anything to say about it, I wouldn’t have picked it as a career. I feel like it picked me. In fact, I would’ve liked to do almost anything else. Writing dogged me and compelled me to write. In a matter-of-fact tone, she went on, At sixteen I married a terribly abusive man who threw me down the stairs and broke my ankle. Without a segue she went on, I would have liked to be an actress, and it turns out I did a bit of it. At this point, Katherine Anne paused for a sip and seemed quite loosened up and eager to talk. It struck me then that she was a lonely woman and this may have been the first time in a quite a while that she had had the chance to converse with another. She soon picked up, My mother died when I was two and my daddy took my two brothers and sister to live with my grandmother in another part of the state. Her name was Catherine Ann Porter, and when she passed, I took her name out of appreciation and Love.
We were barely into our third drink when Katherine Anne interrupted her monologue to ask about me. She wanted to know how I had come to be selling hearing aids and if it was gratifying work? Her question foreshadowed her interest in what people choose to do in their lives and informed the inscription she wrote for me in her book. Scouring used bookstores in D.C., I had come upon a second edition of Ship of Fools. It had a weathered orange cover and was bare except for the title on the binding. I was still hoping she would sign it for me, and in my lightheadedness at this time I realized I felt quite optimistic that she would. I answered her query that yes, it was gratifying to bring sound and voices to seniors long deprived of that sense and that satisfaction and the upgrade in my finances had been very helpful to me at that time.
The whisky and time has dulled my memory since the middle of that third drink, but we did get back to her adventures in short order. She told me she’d been in France in the 30’s and had hung some with Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Gertrude Stein. Thomas Wolfe was so verbose, she said because he had a tiny lesion on his brain that had caused that torrent of words he used in novels such as Look Homeward Angel and You Can’t Go Home Again. At this point, I noted Katherine Anne’s lightheadedness as well and was delighted not only with her seeming eccentricity but sensed she was an accomplished raconteur to boot.
She told me the story of Mozart’s pet starling, who sat on a perch by the master’s piano. Once Mozart played a phrase he had composed and the starling sang it back changing all the sharps to flats. Marvelous! Beautiful! said Mozart and left it in. When it died, Mozart held its funereal, at which he sang and recited a poem. Katherine Anne recited this anecdote to me with some feeling and intensity revealing her deep attachment to it. I neglected to dig further, however, so I don’t know what exact resonance it held for her or if she may have had an animal friendship with an intelligent, sensual being at some point. It did not seem though, in my brief meeting with her, that a relationship of this type quite fit her when sober, as she presented a rather reserved, distant, slightly nippy nature.
At this point in my visit, I had been with Katherine Anne nearing an hour and a half and I sensed her getting fatigued. There was one more subject I wanted to bring up however, so I asked rather quickly if during her well-lived life if she had any religious preferences, wondering actually if she believed in God. I was raised Catholic, she said, but I held no beliefs at all during my adult life. However, as I’ve aged, I’ve gradually embraced my earlier views of Catholicism. Here she brushed her heart with her hand and said, But who knows what we truly believe, it is here, buried in the heart. Soon after Katherine Anne’s last words, I took my leave and drove slowly home, confident the visit would always be safely stored in my heart. Before getting to the door, however, I had presented my worn second edition copy of Ship of Fools to her in hopes she was still willing to inscribe it. She wrote: To Mr. Anderson, who brought sound through the silent air, it makes a difference what a man does.