What's in a Name?

From “No More Thelma”

The summer we rented Al Burak’s house we realized there were two things wrong from the start. First, the structure itself- a modular contemporary cape with lots and lots of glass, great writer’s study and thick, rustling pines gently swaying beyond soaring “window walls”- had unluckily been placed at the low point of an incline. This sizable depression in the earth, which we sometimes joked about as being “the ditch the house was nestled in,” somehow had managed to play havoc with the plumbing, and so the sewage had to be pumped uphill in order for the system to work, and everything in the house stayed terminally damp.  Next, Burak- whom we had taken to calling solely by his last name as sometimes becomes the case with certain people for inexplicable reasons- a visiting professor in political science at a local college and regarded as quite brilliant in his field, was almost completely fluent in English, but somewhat shaky in the use of the idiom. The upshot of this small linguistic failing was that he had named his little castle “Happy Farm,” apparently in complete unawareness of the hilarious implications of these two words when used in tandem.

Burak did posses a first name of course- Ahmet- but people sometimes referred to him as "Al" although for some reason we just could not bring ourselves to address him as such. When we were first shown the house, Burak was on hand to meet us, if not exactly bright eyed and bushy tailed, then obviously trying hard to look his most cryptically esoteric and professorial, rumpled sweater, unkempt look and all. I was a bit surprised however at how young he appeared- was he even thirty?- particularly in view of the realtor’s description of his impressive academic credential- a certain supposedly scholarly mystique- and the fact that she insisted on referring to him as “Dr. Burak.”

I remember on that first visit we could not help noticing that the house virtually reeked of cigarette smoke and something else sweet, incense perhaps I thought. I am the kind of person to whom others sometimes refer with feigned surprise as “olfactory” as if this predilection for inhaling through one’s nose is unusual (“you’re olfactory, aren’t you?”). In truth, such observations are somewhat idiotic if not redundant as most people do possess a sense of smell, unless suffering from a miserable cold or allergy, and it’s just that I am always talking about what I sniff, you know, making a big deal over it, especially if the whiff is particularly pungent. In any event, after some discussion with my husband Gaw- short for Gawain and thus the nickname as the green knight would not have gone over well in the schoolyard, Arthurian legend notwithstanding- and as we continued mulling over the distinct fumes that wafted through the house, we soon realized Burak was an inveterate pot head, plain and simple. We visited one more time to make sure and found the air to be thicker and the prof’s eyes glassier than the first time. We began to wonder at that point- exchanging glances as he discussed with some passion his area of specialty in academia- how he managed to teach his classes coherently at the little private school where he spent half the year imparting his immense knowledge.

So after confirming our suspicions and solving the mystery of the strange “incense” scent, as well as zoning in on the recreational habits of Burak, we probably would have speedily moved on had we not met Mrs. Burak during that second visit. Evidently Burak’s wife, or Fatima- pronounced Fhat-mah as she carefully explained, differentiating between the traditional spelling and the pronunciation-  did not share the residence with her husband, but spent most of the year back home, caring for their two small children. Burak’s appointment at the school evidently entailed teaching each spring semester for three years with the possibility of an extension, and so he spent half the year in Massachusetts and the other half back in the homeland on the other side of the world. The realtor told us afterward that Burak and his wife had decided not to expose the children to complete culture shock by relocating them so drastically twice a year and thus had opted instead for occasional visits during the second semester by Fatima. We admired the couple’s sensitivity and caring in balancing home and career, putting the children first and all that, and decided to give it one more try as a possible rental. And so you can imagine our complete surprise on a third visit- this time to check out the sewage pump- to find Thelma emerging from the basement as we chatted with Burak, like a long legged, sleepy Persephone from some invisible underworld. . . .

Amid all the starry eyed possibilities that crop up while perusing a summer rental, along with the sheer energy required to tune into the feng shui, up to that point we had not even thought to inquire about a downstairs level. I suppose we just assumed there was a basement and as we were not in the market to buy there was no need for Gaw to go charging down any rickety flight of steps to see what lurked near the water heater. So the sudden appearance of a long legged blond in her late teens with short tousled locks- ascending as it were clad in sweat shirt and flannel pajama bottoms from what seemed a closet door- was a kind of double surprise- it made us aware that there was indeed both habitability and existent life beneath the floor boards. After a hasty introduction Burak quickly explained that what seemed to resemble a modernized apparition of Venus-on-the-half-shell was simply “a student in need of housing,” at which point Thelma threw us one last shy, sleepy-eyed smile and disappeared into the kitchen. And whatever doubts we had as to the veracity of the professor’s fatherly altruism disappeared down the hall with her, swept away by our need to get things settled. The house was large enough to accommodate our three children, ages five, seven and nine, during a fast approaching summer, it was cheerful and well-equipped enough to make us all comfortable and close enough for Gaw to commute to and from the city. The one thing that really stuck out though was the incongruity of the girl’s name- it seemed, well, just so staid and old fashioned. . . retro, really.

We wound up renting for the entire season and had use of the place from Memorial Day weekend right on through Labor Day; Burak apparently had arranged some sort of temporary housing for himself at the college, and we chose not to dwell on the lurid details. The glistening mornings and sun baked afternoons of those bucolic New England summers began to slip along in exactly the same relaxed and uneventful manner we had so hoped for- warm, honeysuckle days and mushroomy cool evenings, nary a disturbance more intense than a squirrel trying frantically to get into the bird feeder. Gaw managed as many extended weekends as he could muster, though it did get a tad lonely by Thursdays, and downright insufferable if he had to miss a day. However I usually was too busy chasing after the kids, planning activities, or researching a long overdue kitchen renovation to obsess about his absence. The hours flew by so quickly in fact that I barely had time to do my daily workout, the hair definitely wandered out of control at some point and was crying out for a good restyling, and as a result of an incredible farmer’s market just down the road, I also had put on a few pounds- the country fresh jams, cobblers and peach tarts were simply too fantastic to resist.  It was just about the end of July early on a Saturday when we received a call from Al Burak asking if he could stop by with Fatima; she was in for one of her visits and excited about a redecorating project planned for the downstairs- they would be so grateful if they could just take a few quick measurements. Naturally we agreed, and in fact I was curious to get a better handle on Mrs. Burak, as our first meeting had been rather brief and I had been more interested in rooms and beds at the time than people. Was this a surprise visit? Did she suspect something and want to check the place over for clues, in the guise of getting specs? Once again I found myself enmeshed in their tawdry melodrama.

Burak and his wife arrived within the hour, and upon closer inspection it seemed that Fatima was a couple of years older than her husband, or possibly the same age but decidedly more weathered. She obviously was not nor had ever been a gym aficionado. Her style was casual to the point of frumpy, and she was not a great conversationalist. In fact, she tended to defer to Burak, even in small talk. And I know now that the observation I made at that very moment, during our second meeting, could be construed as somewhat silly and off the mark- Fatima did seem as far from Thelma as a body could get- but really, had she been taller, younger, blonder, more Lolita-ish and swathed in PJs and a creased hoodie, she would have been interchangeable with the Teen Queen from Hades- in some weird way they were soul sisters, right down to their seriously glamour-free names from times gone by. After a few minutes of strained chit chat, she smiled demurely and headed for the basement, tape measure in hand. . . .

As Fatima headed to the basement, no doubt various scenarios popped up in your mind as to the possible outcome of such a story. Before I continue the narrative however, I have a confession to make. You see, I started writing this several years ago for one of those idiotic contests which center around a theme. This particular competition offered three "titles" from which to choose, all equally uninspiring, as a kind of test no doubt to the participant's creative powers, or perhaps simply the inane brainchild of some bored contest deviser; "No More Thelma" seemed the least ridiculous of the three choices. After weaving a tale around the selected theme however, I simply could not come up with a neatly packaged plot and finally abandoned the project altogether. I came across the notes the other week while going through the files and decided to post what I'd written and leave the rest up to the reader. If more authors chose to do this in fact, book clubs around the world would have far more interesting things to talk about than whether or not they "like" a novel and in this way the entire process of reading would become a truly democratic endeavor, if not a literary one. Why should the author have the last say?

So in essence there are several ways to end the saga of Happy Farm. The obvious conclusion, as hinted at in the title, entails Fatima just doing away with Thelma (pleading with her, threatening her, killing her, calling her parents, all and any of the above), then presenting the deed to Burak in her halting English to indicate that his girlfriend simply is "no more," but I'm sure you would agree this solution seems way too obvious and predictable. In a less melodramatic more nuanced version, we could start with the fact that both of Burak's women have rather serious names to match their similar nurturing, submissive roles, although their outward persona seem totally opposite in terms of physical appearance, age, and style. In truth, they badly need to break out of their assigned gender roles. Thus it is plausible that a name and lifestyle change is in the offing for each of these characters: Thelma could easily become Tootsy, thus giving her a less traditional, more confident edge, while Fatima, after discovering the betrayal, might very well prefer to be called Fanny perhaps, as a first step toward liberation in conjunction with her new knowledge. As an added twist, even though Burak continues seeing Thelma and deigns to hide her in various places in the large house at times, the two women secretly have become friends and are planning their shared man's psychological demise before changing their actual names and roles- this scenario could be comical or suspenseful. And then of course there is the nameless narrator herself, who amid all this relationship voyeurism has dropped hints about her own marital situation.

Really, it's an open door to fiction.

Stories need endings, no doubt, though often readers are displeased with how things turn out. So you can well imagine what writers go through! Honestly, the long and the short of it is I still deeply regret entering that contest. .