Jean-Paul’s expression freezes, then he speaks quietly to the assembled group. “I apologize for the manners of my stepdaughter.”
“Don’t apologize for me.”
Jean-Paul’s face blanches. Or rather it loses its colour and white is what remains.
“Come.” Portia seizes Manuel’s hand. “Now’s our chance.”
They retreat to the room behind the kitchen where coats hang next to a stack of neatly tied newspapers. Daisies wilt in a pair of window boxes, the petals brown so late in the season. Beyond the window is the fire escape decorated with a compost bucket.
“Tell me why you’re not supporting my initiative,” Portia demands, pressing her hip against the ledge. “It’s not my nature to twist arms, yet I’m fully prepared to do so, for the sake of the organization.”
“I understand,” Manuel says.
“And yet you claim not to be in favour of the virtual conservatory.”
“It is so.”
She can’t bear his bland tone. “It’s the only way we can grow into a global organization.”
He thinks of Guillermo and Mónica back home, content to live their lives staring at a computer monitor, never setting foot outside the country, hardly moving beyond the confines of the decaying capital city, lulled into a hypnotic trance they mistake for life.
More stormy words issue from the front room, followed by Jean-Paul’s measured tones. The man is a paragon of self-control. After this exchange, they hear a stomping noise as the girl makes her way upstairs, then the bone-rattling slam of a door and the rumble of a bass beat — the universal language of adolescence. Even his beloved Gabi exhibited such behaviour once or twice.
“I will return to the meeting now,” Manuel says, not about to be bullied by this woman who sweeps her hair behind her ear, a woman who thinks she is still beautiful.
She ignores his small threat. “Do you really think Aaron Whatshisface from Tel Aviv is a possible leader? The man can’t be bothered to show up for meetings. And Harry from the Florida Panhandle? Nicest guy on earth but —” She raises her palms. Words fail her. “I’ve led Berkeley Integrative Strings to its present stature, sat on every committee in the federation.” She stops. “Why am I working so hard to sell myself?”
“I don’t know,” Manuel says.
Her expression shifts, all trace of pleading gone. “If you don’t sign on, your indiscretion of last night will become public knowledge. How many more competitions do you think you’ll be invited to judge?”
The woman is a warrior, and Manuel likes warriors. He is one himself.
“Perhaps I will support this plan,” he muses aloud, “but first I have one favour to ask.”
“What?” she asks, already suspicious.
“Can you create an artist’s position for me in California?”
As soon as he speaks, he feels a surge of excitement. Lucia will whoop for joy at the news. He’ll send home envelopes, via Western Union, full of crisp money orders that she’ll dangle in front of her family. Morning fog rolls into Berkeley, California, the city where Nobel Prize winners meet over coffee to discuss the birth of the universe or urban ecology, and where he, Manuel, might finally cease the daily struggle.
Nineteen
So it’s over. No need to make a fuss. It’s a miracle she made it this far.
Lucy plants herself in the middle of the dorm room, open suitcase on the bed, train ticket in hand. She could make the 2:10 to Toronto and be back in time for dinner. Wadding up soiled underwear and socks, she stuffs them into a plastic bag, which she tucks into the bottom of the suitcase. Hope springs eternal, as her mother would say, but now she is merely tired and wants to be home. She’ll phone the empty house and leave a message, hint that Mark stick a roast in the oven. The boys could help — peel carrots and wash lettuce for salad and thaw the berries for dessert.
Here she goes, planning her own welcome-back meal.
“What are you doing at home?” she demands when, to her surprise, someone picks up the phone.
It’s Mike, mid-morning on a school day.
“Who’s this?” he asks groggily.
“Your mother.”
“Oh, right,” he says. “Hi, Mom.”
“Is this a PD day?”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what it is.”
“Charlie’s home, too?”
“Charlie’s wherever Charlie is.”
“And where is your father?”
A long pause with the sound of feet padding to the window. “Car’s gone, so he must be at work.”
“Does he know you’re home?”
“I can’t be expected to intuit what Dad knows or doesn’t know.”
She recalls how the boys looked lying side by side in the dresser drawer when she first brought them back from the hospital before Mark assembled the crib. Charlie had cradle cap, scaly skin on his bald head, while Mike was pink and clear from the start.
“Did you win?” Mike remembers to ask.
“God, no.”
“Hey, that’s too bad.” Mike seems to come alive. “How come?”
“I’m not good enough.” This is a useful lesson for the boys, Lucy thinks. It’s not always enough to work hard and to want something badly. “I didn’t make the finals.”
“No way!” Mike is indignant. “Who do I have to come and kill?”
She laughs, feeling oddly pleased by his impassioned response. “I’m headed home now.”
“Don’t you have other stuff to do there?” he asks quickly.
He refers to the schedule of workshops, recitals, presentations.
“I guess I’ve lost heart.”
“Don’t utter such words,” Mike says. “Don’t be a quitter.”
He sounds so firm and mature.
“You really think so?” she asks, pretending to defer.
“You’ve been looking forward to this event for months. Live it out, Mum. We’re counting on you to set an example. Charlie and me, we could use some uplift.”
She slips the phone into its case, her eyes shamelessly red, and picks up the program. If she hustles, she can still make Manuel Juerta’s Baroque Ornamentation workshop.
As she splashes water on her face, other thoughts elbow in: why doesn’t Mike want her to come home? And what’s this hedging around Charlie’s whereabouts? PD day, my foot. Isn’t Mike supposed to be at band practice this morning, allegedly playing saxophone?
I am becoming mentally ill, Lucy thinks.
Uncle Philip, neatly pressed clothes soaked in sweat, pulls the two boys close to his body. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, as if he could draw them inside himself. They are lying on a bed in the room at the back of the hut, dirt floor and no glass on the window, just a sheet of newspaper taped up, and through it he can hear the sound of the street, the put-put of a motor scooter, mothers calling to children — though not these children.
He props himself on one elbow and gazes at the boys, whose eyes remain closed as they pretend to sleep. Their narrow chests rise and fall in perfect synch. He doesn’t hear the grinding of a car as it pulls up, nor