She made her way back up the driveway, knees thudding against the plastic bin, which she left at the side of the house. Her mother was waiting at the front door with the suitcase. Reaching for it, Clare glanced back across the street.
“How well did you know Mrs. Vantwest?” she said.
Isobel’s eyes followed. “Oh, not very well at all. She wasn’t even here a full year, poor woman. Why do you ask, pet?”
“No reason. I was just thinking about the day Adam was born.”
“Good lord, he must be finished high school by now.”
“He’s doing his M.A. at Concordia.”
She blurted the information awkwardly, as if she’d had no right to be in possession of it. Adam had told her about his studies one morning on the train platform, after spotting her and coming over. Catching her off guard. A minute or so into the conversation, she’d lied about needing to pick up some bus tickets then hid around the station wall until the train came.
“Master’s degree! I had no idea he was that sort,” Isobel said. She unlocked the front door and swung it open. “Well, it’s nice to know he’s managed so well in spite of everything.”
Inside the vestibule, the pattern of Clare’s existence closed in tighter, more familiar, a little more oppressive. She sat on the clothing bench, a small, hinged church pew her father had salvaged, and as she yanked off her shoes, the Vantwests and their troubles disappeared under the weight of Alastair Fraser’s presence. Inside the house, that presence was impossible to escape. Most of the furnishings came from the store Alastair had managed for twenty-odd years, and he was in those objects still, held there by an inertia that even death had been unable to challenge completely. In vain Clare kept her eyes on the vestibule floor, willing something to have changed in her absence. But when at last she peered into the living room, it was the old pattern, perfectly intact, that greeted her: blue floral print chesterfield, arms jacketed in plastic sleeves; polished oak coffee table, never touched by coffee cups; record player cabinet, weighted shut by a lead crystal bowl, gigantic and empty; grey recliner; dormant fireplace. And under it all, an unchanging sea of Wedgwood blue carpeting, the best Alastair Fraser’s store had to offer, stretching from wall to wall.
She lobbed her shoes across the vestibule, onto the rubber mat where her mother’s boots were already neatly stowed. Isobel was off checking the answering machine. When she returned, she placed her hand lightly on Clare’s shoulder.
“I meant to tell you, pet. I’m planning on doing some redecorating in there.”
Clare’s eyes shot up. It was like that long-ago summer day—Mr. Vantwest’s car roaring down Morgan Hill Road.
“You’re changing the living room?”
“Aye. I’m tired of the colour scheme. The carpet’s awful. It’s going next week. And the furniture’s really dated. There’s a lovely yellow set in the Ikea catalogue I’d like to have a look at tomorrow. You’re welcome to come along, if you like.”
“Oh. That’s okay,” Clare said distractedly. “Whatever you choose is fine.”
Once more she took in the living room, imagining naked floors and sofas the colour of bananas. Then she picked up her suitcase and started up the stairs with a vague, vexing sense that these renovations, like the goings-on of the family across the street, weren’t likely to make much difference in the long run.
“There was a message from Emma,” her mother called after her. “Two, actually. She wants you to ring.”
Clare left the suitcase on her bed and went straight through to her studio. The piano and the bookshelves were dusty; the March issue of National Geographic was still open on the loveseat, another relic from Alastair’s store. She sat at the piano, the same tired upright with spinning stool she’d been playing for years, and conjured a voice with which to escape. What she came up with was a fuzzy combination of the Jazz Studies Director and Rudy Vantwest, whose real voice she’d never actually heard.
I hear you’re quite the pianist, he said.
She rested her fingers lightly on the keys and held them there a moment, letting the urgency of the touch, the desire of the one for the other, build. Then, taking hold of the signatures like a crutch—four-four time, key of E flat; precise, mathematical—she played.
I’m flattered. She’s a great musician.
Have you ever done any performing?
Not really. I work at a music store. Waste of a degree, perhaps. I went into it thinking I’d be a music teacher, but that was a bad idea. Her notes meandered, like conversation over coffee. Sometimes Emma and I played duets at her church, if you could call that a performance.
Do you go to church?
No ... the duets just gave us an excuse to practise there whenever we wanted. Well, whenever Emma wanted. I liked it, though ... the church with no one in it.
She played the empty sanctuary, arranging details for this listener with Rudy Vantwest’s face and a borrowed voice to appreciate—a chirpy phrase for the blond wood of the pews, something richer, more harmonic, for the thick burgundy carpet that flowed down the centre aisle. She played the glorious emptiness, the echoes.
Sometimes we’d just fool around. Pretend we were stars. Emma would give me a key, and I’d play ... whatever I felt like. She’d sing along, following me. I guess that’s how I learned to improvise.
As in jazz? You don’t seem like a typical jazz person.
He would have to say this. Clare struck single notes, considering her response.
Not cool enough? Not passionate enough?
Well ...
I don’t love my music; I need it. We don’t have to call it jazz. Actually, I’d prefer we didn’t.
She changed key, embarking on a new progression, the notes agitated, uncertain.
The church was a completely different place on a Sunday morning, of course. I remember the first time Emma took me there. I was twelve or so. I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t know how to refuse. Everyone was so unbearably nice. They shook my hand and told me how happy they were to have me there, sharing the joy of life in Christ. Even Emma’s brothers were nice. I hated it.
Was it one of those born-again, tongue-speaking places?
No ... nothing that weird. The actual service wasn’t so bad; I didn’t mind it at all ... except for the part when the pastor asked us to share the Light of God.
What happened?
Everyone started milling around aimlessly, hugging and shaking hands. Emma hugged me, then she wandered off. I stared at the floor and prayed that I’d be magically transported back to my own bedroom. Then this young woman tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I’d accept the Light of God.
What’d you say?
Here the music became low, sheepish.
I said yes. I was mortified—and furious. Then I wondered if there was something wrong with me.
But if you don’t share their beliefs ...
She paused.
I’m not sure I don’t. I think there’s a God out there. Or something. Fate maybe. I’m like my father, I guess. He thought all our dealings with God should be conducted in private. Even the Presbyterians were too demonstrative for him.
So whatever inspired you to play at that church?