Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

  “Persie? Simon?”

  “Here!” Persie’s reply made me think it was one of their routines : He calls; she answers immediately and with just that word.

  “Simon?”

  I looked at Persie, who was looking at me. I called out, “Here!”

  There was a moment of silence, almost like BM didn’t know what to say next. Then I heard, “Dinner. Now.”

  Persie jumped, slammed her laptop. “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.” This went on as she ran back into her rooms with the laptop, back out, and down the stairs. “Oh no. Oh no.”

  I was halfway down, going more slowly than she went, before I saw on my watch that it was two minutes past dinnertime. I guess Persie doesn’t allow even herself a grace period.

  Mum, BM, and Persie were seated in the dining room, deep white soup bowls with pyramid piles of tiny, pea shapes of carrot at each place setting. I took my assigned chair. While Ned went around and ladled bright green chilled soup over everyone’s carrots, BM looked at Persie, then at me.

  “You weren’t in Persie’s rooms, were you?”

  “No. The love seat on the landing.”

  “I can’t wait to learn what on earth captured her attention so profoundly as to make her late for dinner.”

  “Late,” Persie said between spoonfuls of soup, but she was talking to herself, not shouting. “Late. Late. Late.”

  BM leaned towards her. “It’s all right, Persie. Don’t worry.”

  I said, “This soup is amazing.” The colours were striking, but the flavours were so well blended I couldn’t quite tell what they were, other than fresh peas making the soup so bright green swirling around the little orange “peas.”

  “So,” BM said, “what was so fascinating?”

  I looked at Persie, but she didn’t seem to want to explain. So I did. “I described my synaesthesia to her, and she ran upstairs for her laptop. We sat on the love seat, and she showed me Web pages with images of paintings by Clyfford Still. She seemed to think they represented something similar to how I see words.”

  “And did they?”

  I nodded. “She found one for her name right away. Then she found one for mine.”

  BM put his spoon down and stared at me. “She did what?”

  How would I know what he wanted? “What part didn’t you get?”

  “She found a painting for your name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask her to?”

  “No.”

  Now he was staring at Persie, who had about finished her soup. “Persie, you looked for Simon’s name?”

  “Blood red, bright yellow, brick red, terra cotta, coral. 1947-R-No. 1.”

  BM sat back like he’d forgotten his own name. Mum asked, “Brian, what is it?”

  “She looked for Simon’s name. She never takes that step, focusing on the other person. At least never so quickly, or without being asked.” Back to Persie: “What colour is your name, Persie?”

  “Black, lilac, bright red, blood red, bright yellow, lilac. Untitled, 1974.”

  He stared at me again, more like he didn’t know what else to do than for any other reason.

  Mum said, “Why Clyfford Still?”

  Persie answered as though she’d been asked who he was. She wouldn’t know that there weren’t very many contemporary artists Mum would not know about. “A leader in Abstract Expressionism. Contemporary with Rothko and Pollock. Born 1904, died 1980. Two daughters, one named Sandra Still Campbell, the driving force behind the Clyfford Still Museum in Denver, Colorado. I want to go there.”

  It was no surprise to anyone that Persie would have the information about Still’s life at her command, and would deliver it in an unmodulated tone. But that last sentence, in the same monotone, floored BM yet again. Watching his face, I was convinced he was trying desperately hard not to reveal an astonishment bordering on shock. Keeping his voice calm must have been an effort. “You want to visit the museum in Denver, Persie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though it’s in Denver?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though it’s abstract art?” She looked up at her father; I couldn’t tell whether she was confused about the question itself or about why he would ask it. He said, “It’s fine, Persie. I’m asking because you prefer art that’s more literally representative.”

  “Untitled, 1974.” And she polished off the last of her soup. “Done.”

  I suggested, “Maybe the fact that these works have titles that don’t try to represent the art itself helps?”

  BM sounded puzzled. “Perhaps.”

  After dinner, Persie asked me for a list of colours. “Your letter colours,” she called it. I told her I’d make up a chart tonight and leave it for her on the love seat outside her rooms. She nodded and said she was going to read upstairs. Mum helped Ned clean up despite his protests, and BM went out to the patio to clean the barbie. Grill. For want of anything else to do, I wandered out to take a look at said grill. BM saw me and nodded. “How’d your exams go, Simon?”

  “Fine, I think. History was a bit chauvinistic.”

  “How so?”

  “It was mostly US history. I asked about it, and they said it was because I’m not from the US and they wanted to know the extent of my knowledge. Something like that.”

  He grinned. “And did you know the answers?”

  I gave him an abridged version of an essay that had been required for one of the questions. If he was impressed, I couldn’t tell.

  “That was a fascinating wine selection tonight, that prosecco. I would never have gone there, but it worked very well.”

  There was that reluctant beam of pleasure again, both from this praise and also because I decided to believe it was Ned, not Mum, who’d told him it had been my idea.

  I wandered for a bit around the patio. It’s not very big, but from another angle I could see the entire grill. It looked formidable, dials and controls and different levels. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Thanks for the iPhone.”

  “You’re welcome. Glad you like it.” And he turned back to his chore. I half expected him to say more about it, which I didn’t want him to do. But he didn’t. Did he know he’d make more points with me by keeping quiet?

  Back in the kitchen, I saw Mum had left, and Ned was still working. The dishwasher was churning away. I pulled a chair out from the table and sat, trying to think of something to talk with him about. My opening was weak. “Where’s Mum?”

  He was finishing up the last of the hand-wash items. “Gone to the other room to read, or watch TV, or something. I shooed her out. She’s done more than her share for today.”

  I got up and reached for a drying towel. “I haven’t.” He grinned at me as I took things out of the drying rack. I didn’t know where anything went, so I set dried items on the forest green granite of the island, which Ned had already cleaned.

  “When do you eat dinner?” I asked.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me. It varies. Depends on the meal and the degree of fussing between courses. Sometimes I eat first, sometimes after, and tonight I ate pretty much while you all did. It takes me less time than you. No conversation.”

  “Why don’t you eat with us?”

  He laughed. “This is my job, Simon. And I get paid to eat while I work; pretty good deal.”

  I set a dried grill fork on the island. “But we’re all friends here. That’s what you said.”

  He dumped the last of the dishwater and ran the disposal. “It would be pretty awkward, always jumping up from the table for one thing and another. Besides, like I said, this is my job.” Towelling his hands off, leaning a hip against the sink, he said, “What on earth did you do to Miss Persie tonight?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well”—he slapped the towel on a counter and picked up a glass I hadn’t noticed, which appeared to contain sauterne—“first of all, she’s never late for dinner. Or anything else, for that matter. That was the first clue.” He took a
sip. “Would you like a little more of this?”

  “Sure.”

  “Help yourself. Glasses are there”—and he pointed—“and the wine is in the stone cooler over there. Next, she’s upstairs with you. She barely knows you. This just doesn’t happen. It takes her a long time to get to know someone well enough to be alone with them.”

  “She came into the music room. I was already there, and she came in behind me, silently, and just sat down. Scared the willies out of me.”

  He laughed. “That’s Persie. Doesn’t see the need to announce herself. Still, it’s surprising, since you were the only one in there. So you were talking about colours?”

  “When I see a letter, it has a colour. The same colour every time. It’s called synaesthesia. My father had it like I do, only the colours were different. My Aunt Phillippa once said that when she listens to the third movement of the sixth Brandenburg, she sees green lines and pink bubbles.”

  Ned had to set his glass down, he was laughing that hard. “Oh, that’s amazing! Wouldn’t that be great? Let’s see, what about something like “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”? That’s got colours already. Might be too much of a muchness.”

  I considered telling Ned about my conquest in vocabulary during the test today, but before I could begin, BM’s voice behind us startled me.

  “Simon, how did Persie go from—wherever she started, to Denver?”

  BM had sneaked in and sat in the chair I’d vacated. I was irritated that he’d horned in on my conversation with Ned, but I couldn’t ignore him.

  “I was talking about the spelling portion of the exams today, and I mentioned my synaesthesia. She got it immediately.”

  “She . . . she doesn’t have it, though.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t think so. What I mean is, she understood it. Translated it into something important to her. She’s deep into this artist.”

  “So it would seem. But how did you get her to show you the images ?”

  “It was her idea. I’d never heard of Clyfford Still.”

  He looked at me a minute, assessing. “She trusts you, somehow.”

  “She’s a cat.”

  “What?”

  They were both staring at me like I was bonkers. But I knew I was right. “Cats live by rules they make based on their environment and experiences. If you can tell what a cat’s rules are, you can fit into the picture it has of its world, or at least you can convince it to give you a chance. Respect the rules, ask when you don’t know what they are, and it works. Once you’re in, you might be able to influence a few changes.”

  Ned wanted to know, “How do you ask a cat what the rules are?”

  “You just assume there’s a rule for everything, and you tread carefully. If the cat starts to react badly, back off and see if you can figure out what would fit into its world better. Just wait and observe.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” BM shook his head. “Simon, if you find yourself casting about for a career choice, you could consider working with autistic individuals. You’d be fantastic.” He chuckled. “That must be why she asked you about your name. You did something to fit into her world picture, so you became part of it.” He pointed at me. “And I’m putting you on official notice. If and when we go to that museum in Denver, you are coming with us.”

  Actually, I wouldn’t mind seeing the museum. I really liked the images I saw of Still’s works. But going with BM and Persie would not be my first choice. I told myself this trip was beyond unlikely, so I didn’t have to reply. Instead I drained the end of my sauterne. I held the glass out. “Will I wash this, Ned?”

  “Nah. Give it here.”

  “I’m going upstairs, then. See you tomorrow.” And I headed out before BM could interrogate me any more about his daughter’s metamorphosis.

  Upstairs, after making up my colour chart for Persie, I curled into the reading chair with the course catalogue from St. Bony. About time to decide on a course from the arts and humanities category. Going through the options, my eye fell on one that surprised and intrigued me. Beginning Schenkerian Analysis. Perfect.

  Boston, Day Four, Tuesday, 28 August

  After being awakened by the cleaning crew, who evidently start on the top floor and work their way down, I spent most of the day scoping out the house and watching for an e-mail from St. Bony to tell me what classes I have. One thing I was looking for was BM’s office, and eventually I figured out where it is. There’s a door off to the side of the front entrance with a small nameplate: BRIAN MORGAN, AIA. Must be some architectural credential. There was a buzzer to the side, which led me to believe that the door would be locked. I didn’t know whether BM was in his inner sanctum. Back in the house, I located the office’s interior access door behind the front stairs, very inconspicuous. It was closed.

  Finally, around half three, that e-mail arrived. And I hit the ceiling.

  Carrying the printout I stormed about the house, looking for someone who might be able to fix things, until I located Mum on a chaise longue out on the brick patio, reading. Ned looked at me oddly as I stormed through the kitchen. I didn’t dare say anything to him.

  I slapped the paper down on the table beside Mum, next to a glass of something I didn’t recognise. She marked her place in her book with a finger and looked up at me. “Something upset you, Simon?”

  “This is unacceptable.” I pointed to the paper.

  “Why don’t you summarise for me?”

  I crossed my arms. “There are at least two things on the schedule they’ve given me that can’t stand,” I opened. “For one thing, they’ve given me a history class that’s intended for their junior year, not senior. It’s History of the Americas. Second, they’ve sent a list of arts and humanities classes that I’m to choose from, and the one I want the most isn’t on it.”

  “What is it you want to take?”

  “Schenkerian Analysis.”

  “I see.” Her voice sounded rather tongue-in-cheek. “Do they say why it’s not on the list?”

  “It says these are the elective classes in which there are still openings.”

  “Well, I feel I must point out that if you had made your selection early in the summer—”

  “Yes, Mother, I realise that. But the problem is happening now. We need to do something.”

  She looked at me for a few seconds. “I think what we need to do is that you need to select something from the list of classes with openings.”

  My teeth ground together, and I nearly bit a hole in the side of my tongue. “Are you telling me you won’t do anything? You won’t help me?”

  “Simon, I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

  “You could talk to your husband. He’s the one with strings at the school, yes?”

  She sat up and swung her legs so her feet were on the bricks. Her voice was quiet, but there was finality in it. “Brian pulled an enormous number of strings to get you into this school. If you have no idea how much weight he threw around, it’s because no one told you. That’s not your fault. So I’m telling you now: There are no more strings. You’ve put yourself in this position, Simon. Don’t expect someone else to get you out of it.”

  I stood there like a stunned fish, mouth opening and closing.

  “I think the best thing you can do now is to assess the electives on that list and choose the one most geared towards Oxford’s admission requirements. Would you like me to help you?”

  Through gritted teeth I said, “No, thank you.” I stormed back through the kitchen and up to my room. I don’t swear often, but when it’s called for, for example at times like this one, I do: I felt so fucking helpless! I had been forced to uproot my life, make this poor exchange—London for Boston, Swithin for St. Boniface—and now I can’t even get into the classes that will get me home again!

  I threw the paper on my desk and nearly fell into the chair. If anything would catch Oxford’s attention, it’s Schenkerian Analysis. It’s unusual and very advanced. It requires the student to be intellig
ent, independent, analytical, and musical all at once. It was nearly yelling at me, This is the perfect course. And I can’t take it.

  I was just contemplating picking up my pillow and screaming into it when I heard an unfamiliar sound. Someone was calling my name. But who was it, and where were they? Then I realised it was coming from the intercom beside the dumbwaiter. It wasn’t Mum. Maybe it was BM, and he’d decided to help me. I dashed into the hall and pressed the Speak button. “Yes?”

  “Simon, it’s Ned. Do you have a few minutes for me?”

  I had no idea what he meant. “I have all the time in the world.” I knew my voice sounded angry, but I couldn’t help it.

  “May I come up? I’m sending gifts.”

  There were strange noises coming from the dumbwaiter. When it got to my level I saw that Ned had sent up a tray with tea butter biscuits, a pitcher of that stuff Mum had been drinking, and a wet sponge. I took the tray out to the roof garden and headed down to open the door to my level for Ned.

  He used the sponge to wipe down the chairs and the table and then settled in like it was his own house. I sat also, not sure what he wanted, and not inclined to ask.

  “You’re planning on Oxford, I gather. That’s ambitious.” I shrugged, not sure where he was going, or how he even knew this. He smiled at me and, as though he’d read my thoughts, he said, “It’s the perennial servant-master relationship. We hear everything that goes on in the house. In this case, I believe you need to talk about this impasse, and I think you’re comfortable talking to me. Am I wrong? Say the word, and I’ll take my dollies and tea set and go home.”

  I couldn’t help smiling back. “I doubt anyone here thinks of you as a servant.”

  “Good thing. I’d disabuse them in rather unpleasant ways. Listen, Simon, am I right that you feel let down by the school and by your mother?”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “May I see the list?”

  Another shrug, and I fetched it. Ned had poured our glasses full of something pale-tea-coloured with lemon slices and ice cubes. And it dawned on me that it was iced tea. I saw it occasionally in London, but really it’s for tourists. I’d never had it. I handed him the list.