Foxglove
Page 32
Carmela, however, was made of sterner stuff. She plodded on. She wept, very late, when she thought no one could hear her. Claire knew she did because she would hear her as she made her own insomniac rounds around the quiet house, headed always towards the broad front window and the tree, that elderly peach tree that stood there still under the broken street lamp, grizzled and too old, waiting with life all the same in the dark. She would catch her breath. Claire laid a calming hand across her softening middle. Winter would pass and spring would come. There would be peaches on her peach tree. On her and Johnny’s peach tree.
Dharma sat down carefully now beside Carmela and took her hand in her own small one and held it. Carmela sniffed but Claire noticed that she didn’t pull away.
One good thing: Claire wouldn’t have to deal with Portia McTavish for a while. She’d up and decided “an actor’s life for me,” enrolled herself at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, and moved in with her older sister Juliet, who had a two-bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village.
“Zinnie and Michaelaen are late,” Claire complained.
“As usual,” said Mary.
Claire wanted to get them all out of here and the dishes done early, so she could take a ride down to that old synagogue by the beach. There would never be enough light, now. The days were so short. Never mind. She would drive down tomorrow. Grillo, the sculptor, had turned it into some sort of gallery and she wanted to go have a look. Maybe she would shoot it for her book.
A car door slammed. “Must be them.” Anthony ran to the door. Suddenly Floozie got up and charged the door, yapping and snarling.
“Must be Fred,” Stan said.
“Yup,” said Johnny.
“Mr. Dodd is with him, Mom,” Anthony warned. He knew better than to ruin the surprise and let on they’d brought Mr. Dodd’s old upright piano. And in an orange trolley.
“What else is new?” Mary made nonchalant eyes at Red Torneo and nudged her Stan with a hearty elbow.
Chairs scraped into place, Anthony ran down the stairs to go, quick, to get the ginger ale, and Tchaikovsky stopped the minute they all sat down and the Seaman’s Furniture ad began.
Up the block and over the woods, a lone red cardinal flew.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1992 by Mary Anne Kelly
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-4532-9374-4
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