Unforgotten

by Kristen Heitzmann

  He shook his head. “That’s the first cut. I wanted your impression.” “My impression is go for it.” Rico would know he didn’t say that lightly. He’d been their biggest critic growing up and even more so when they got serious. If he thought it was bad, he’d say so.

  Rico frowned. “Don’t you miss it?”

  Lance dropped his gaze to his lap. Music had been a big part of their friendship, their lives. “I miss it.”

  “But you’re not coming back.”

  A slow shake of his head. “I might do something at the inn if Rese still wants it.” If they ever got back there. If Nonna … when Nonna was better.

  Rico set the bongos aside. “You could go solo, man.”

  “It’s not that.” Their harmonies and the energy they built between them was the best part of it all. “It was great working with you. I’m just not there anymore.” He wasn’t going to preach on the evils of the lifestyle. The truth was, he could do music with Rico and clean up his act. As Chaz had said, it was a choice to give in to the temptations or not.

  “Maybe you’re right, man.” Rico shrugged. “Star says a cosmic convergence brought us together to make this sound. I mean, she never even sang before.”

  Lance didn’t know about cosmic convergence, but Star had made a complete turnaround. “Do you know what she did before?”

  Rico shrugged. “Renaissance Festivals. Shakespeare stuff. She’s got all these lines in her head.”

  “I’ve heard. But what about her art?”

  Rico frowned. “What art?”

  “Painting.” Lance pictured the canvas, now hanging in the carriage house, that Star had worked on obsessively and presented to him. He hadn’t exaggerated his reaction to her technique when he called it mind-grabbing. “Seemed she was on the brink of something big before Maury messed things up. Messed her up.”

  Rico looked toward the bedroom door. “She doesn’t talk about that. This is what she wants.” He turned back. “What?”

  Lance shook his head.

  “What?” Rico demanded.

  “It seems she’s drawing her identity from you now. The way she took it artistically from Maury.” And tried to from him, sucking his praise like nectar and then, when that didn’t pan out, transferred to Rico. Instantaneously.

  Rico started to argue.

  Lance spread his hands. “I’m not trying to cause trouble.”

  “What do you mean, then?”

  “It’s all playing roles with Star, becoming someone else. She’s like a phoenix rising up from the ashes to remake herself over and over, but with someone else’s passion.”

  Rico stood up and paced. “I didn’t make her sing. She took the mic from you.”

  That jam session in the attic had surprised them all—Star’s great, throaty voice, her stage presence. But he wasn’t relinquishing his point. Music was Rico’s life, as intrinsic to him as breath. Star had attached to that with parasitic force. “It’s a big responsibility, Rico. I just hope you’re up for it.”

  Rico’s face darkened. “You know the trouble with you? You think too much.”

  Lance laughed. “Could you record that for Rese? She’s fairly convinced I lack that capacity.” The shot at himself defused Rico’s defensiveness.

  “You’ve got your hands full too, ’mano.”

  “I do.” It was different though. Rese didn’t question who she was; her uncertainty was for him. He stood up and stretched, then crept to the bathroom to wash and dress.

  When he emerged, Rico was still the only one awake, sitting on the couch with the headset on, eyes closed. Hands immobile for once, he softly repeated, “Possibility. Responsibility.”

  Lance left him there. He would slip out to church, then have a quick check on Nonna. He was going to have to face her sometime; he just didn’t want to risk upsetting her. But he stepped out to a hornets’ nest of aunts and sisters outside Nonna’s door. They all turned on him. Even though it was first thing in the morning, he said, “What did I do?”

  “Nonna wants you,” Monica told him.

  Probably to rail him up one side and down the other.

  “She won’t let anyone else in. Pitches a fit if we step one foot inside the door.”

  Dina added, “She’s beside herself. She’s gonna have another stroke.”

  His heart clutched.

  “Call the doctor,” Celestina ordered.

  “Wait.” Lance pushed through to the door.

  Momma scowled. “What’s going on with you two?”

  “Nothing. It’s over.” He pulled open the door and went inside where Nonna looked like a tempest in bed sheets. “Nonna, what’s wrong?”

  The second he was close enough, she gripped his arm with her functional hand. The other was curled up against her chest, and the noise that came from her mouth was half moan, half snarl. He could feel her shaking.

  He stroked the rippling silver hair back from her face, soothed the distorted features with his fingertips. “I’m sorry I upset you, Nonna, but it’s over now. No more.”

  She let out a shriek, and he jumped in spite of himself. “What?” Her gesticulations were dangerous. “They’re going to call the doctor if you don’t calm down.” And he would order her into the hospital. Nonna had to know that.

  Her grip softened. She blinked her understanding, one eyelid more effective than the other. She was far more cognizant than the last time. She might not be able to form words yet, but she was understanding. He squeezed her hand. “You know I’ll do whatever you want. But you have to be calm. Can you do that?”

  She used a word as clear as day, a word that would have gotten his ears boxed. But she seemed unaware that she hadn’t simply responded in the affirmative.

  “So you want to tell me something?”

  She growled out a different word that he was certain had never left her lips before. Either she was cussing him out or communicating in a crazy way her brain had found. Two distinct words; maybe two opposite meanings.

  “No?”

  She growled it again.

  “You want me to get something?” As he had the last time, going through her room for anything that might have meaning to her.

  The first word again, clear and precise. Not that he doubted she knew these words, but hearing them from his nonna’s mouth, it was all he could do not to grin. And then she would slap him if it took her dying strength.

  Last time it had been Conchessa’s letter that she wanted, so she could send him to Liguria for the information she couldn’t communicate. But she had told him to leave that alone. Nonno was buried; that was all she wanted—except for whatever she wanted now.

  “Something in here?” He looked around the room.

  She strained toward him, her hand crabbing toward her throat, to the chain holding medals and a cross and, he now saw, a key.

  He took hold of the key. “This?”

  She used the first word matter-of-factly. Yes, of course. What do you think? His relief was tangible. It had taken much longer the last time to learn what she wanted, but now God’s purpose stirred as he unfastened the chain from her neck and slid the key free. It was an unusual shape, long and flat with square notches and the head engraved with National Safe Corp and an identification number. Though he’d never had anything valuable enough to need one, he guessed it opened a safety-deposit box.

  “You want something from the bank?”

  The yes word. Had to be.

  He guessed there were rules about getting into a box that wasn’t his own, but he would move heaven and earth to do it. “Okay.” Palming the key, he kissed her withered cheek, breathing the scent of her relief.

  She gripped his hand, squeezing the key inside it, then looked to the door where the others crowded and whispered the no word. She wanted it kept between them … again.

  “Okay,” he whispered back. “But you behave.”

  She blinked, and he could swear that was a smile her face tried to make. He didn’t want it to be pain or fury or fea
r.

  “T’amo.” He kissed her other cheek with reverence.

  She closed her eyes.

  Now she would rest. Now she would heal. Please, God.

  ————

  Banks and bankers. Distrust and fear. Box. Key. Bank. Bankers. Fear.

  I don’t believe Papa went to work at the bank to prove Nonno Quillan wrong, but he certainly tries to change his mind. Nonno will not budge. He doesn’t believe in borrowing or lending, though he gives with a free hand. And he doesn’t believe in putting someone else in charge of his money.

  Though he once lost his fortune in a flood and again when his freight wagon burned with all the paper money he had hidden above the axle, he has not changed his mind about banks. He’s known too many bankers, he says, and winks at his son. Papa tries again and again to point out the benefits of putting that money to work through investments. As a loan officer in Arthur Jackson’s bank, he offers Nonno all the reasons to borrow and pay back over time.

  Besides investing in opportunities, they could improve the house, take out the vines and plant other crops. Nonna Carina’s brothers and their sons have all sold out or lost their property with the wine market disintegrating, and only Nonno’s plot remains. Some of Papa’s plans sound good to me, and I wouldn’t mind new drapes and carpets. Why not earn some interest on the money if the Sonoma bank is as safe as Papa claims? Wouldn’t he know?

  The opportunities are now, Papa says, to buy when things are down. His own earnings he carefully invests—except what we need for taxes and expenses. We are much better off than people in the cities. I could hardly look at the men standing in line in San Francisco when Papa had to meet with someone there and took me along. It seemed every face had been weighed down at the chin.

  At least Papa has a job, even if Nonno doesn’t respect his profession. Papa doesn’t think much of poetry. They love each other, but they’re so different. I love them both to splitting, but I can’t make them see eye to eye. It’s better when Papa doesn’t push, but when he hears of a great opportunity he tries to persuade Nonno to pitch in his savings. He even quotes the Scripture about the servant who buried his talent in the sand, and that makes me think Nonno has money buried somewhere, but I don’t know where.

  Nonno says, “All things in time.” And Papa hollers, “The time is now.” They are too hardheaded. I slip away to the vineyard, thankful Nonno will not tear out the vines. These vines he says are his inheritance, his responsibility. He has explained to me how the root stock proved resistant to the bugs in the soil that were destroying the other varieties, how my great-grandfather Dr. Angelo DiGratia experimented until he found and planted this plot.

  I sink down between the rows. I used to imagine they were trees and I was like Alice in Wonderland grown into a giant. Some of the vines are younger, but most are old and produce a potent grape for a rich vintage. I try to imagine corn in their place and fail. Nonno is right about the vines. Is he right about the banks?

  Papa says the closings are over, but what I saw in the city makes me wonder. If so many have no work, how can they put money in the bank for the bank to loan out? But Papa insists Arthur Jackson has important depositors. I do not like Arthur Jackson, though I can’t say why. A chill crawls my neck, and I shake my head, dropping it back to let the rosy sunshine warm my skin as it sinks to the west.

  Warm, red glow …

  Antonia shuddered with the image in her mind of Arthur Jackson’s face aglow with match light. Lurking in the shadows. To watch her papa’s murder? Her own? What if Marco had not found her? If Arthur Jackson had? All this …

  She looked over her room, empty for the moment, but not for long. Her family would be back. Her family … She swallowed painfully. She had to face it for them. Lance needed to know. He was still trying to understand. And perhaps God would have the last laugh; for though she had practiced and passed on the faith, she could not quite believe in a just God.

  ————

  Rese woke with Star’s hand across her throat, her shoulder covered with Star’s red spirals that were showing blond at the roots, and experienced dja vu. So many nights Star had climbed into her window and squeezed into her bed, shaking and crying, “I can’t do this life thing.” And Rese had told her she could go on, they would go on together.

  It was a strange closeness, based on nothing but raw need. Two little girls with an ache to be loved; Star’s need to be safe, Rese to be needed. The responsible one. Solid.

  Yawning, she rubbed her eyes and looked at her watch. After ten. She had actually managed to sleep, but it was strange to wake up again to Lance’s room, Lance’s world—and Lance.

  Yesterday had changed things. There would be no simple solution, no immediate return to Sonoma. Even though she had blocked out a week of reservations, she had assumed they might stay only a few days, as long as it took to bring closure, then back again to the inn. Antonia had blessed their business—the purpose of their trip—but Lance could hardly leave now, even if he didn’t hold himself responsible. He cared too deeply.

  That much had been obvious in his voice last night. Everything Lance felt was obvious in his voice. When he’d walked out of the room, she had wanted to close him into her arms and tell him it would be okay. But that was different than holding onto him for dear life as he sped them down the highway. He would have taken that gesture and run, and she was not prepared for a sprint. She knew what it felt like at the finish line.

  So here she was. His grandmother was ill, his family concerned. At least their thoughts would no longer be on her. She’d be irrelevant, thanks to … Antonia’s stroke? Something flawed in that thought, and she didn’t mean it. If she could undo those moments that upset Antonia she would.

  There were lots of things she’d undo, but how could she see in advance what might happen? She pressed a hand to her eyes, gripped by should haves. If she’d known the socket was bad she would not have plugged in the work light that exploded, not startled Dad with her cry. The whir of the saw blade; the blood-spattered wall.

  Grief punched her in the stomach. Her breath came raggedly. Not now! She conquered the thoughts and images. At least she was gaining some control. She was not helpless against it. Not anymore. Star whistled through her nose as Rese slipped from the covers and went into the bathroom.

  Someone had already been in the shower. Droplets clung to the walls, moisture hung in the air, and the floor was damp. She breathed in Lance’s scent. She had no idea what cologne or aftershave he used, only that she would forever connect the smell to him. She’d never been to a perfume counter, never intended to. Clean was good enough for her. But she had to admit his scent was pleasant.

  The tile—laid before lawsuits suggested the non-glazed variety— was slick beneath her moist feet. She loved the slippery feel of it, the smooth flawless surface. She remembered her small fingers guided by Dad’s thick hand over the beam she had sanded.

  “How does it feel?”

  “Soft. No, wait. There’s a snag, and a bump.”

  “Keep sanding, Rese. Make that oak soft as velvet.”

  A good memory. They were there, not completely overshadowed by everything since. She toweled her hair—a short process thanks to its two-inch length—draped the towel, and dressed in jeans and an olive green knit top. She slipped her feet into the sandals Lance had bought the day he’d had her ears pierced. Nothing but a thin strap of white leather between her toes. No protection against falling chunks of wood or pipe or electrical sparks. But in them her feet looked slender and delicate.

  Delicate? She held out her hands, spread the fingers and watched the tendons move under the skin, studied her wrist, the ropey forearm. Her arms had worked, yet they were still feminine. No manicured nails, no rings or bracelets, but most definitely a woman’s arms.

  It didn’t disappoint her as it once might have. She had proved what she needed to. She could perform in her field as well as Dad had expected. It just didn’t matter without him. She was no longer Barrett
Renovation. She was … still deciding.

  She went into the living room past Rico, silently drumming to the music on his headphones, to join Chaz in the kitchenette—his university. Lance had put faith into words she understood. The world was under renovation. She pictured a gutted frame, painstakingly refurbished, but not perfect because the original had been so badly damaged. To take the metaphor one step further, even though things didn’t look right yet, that was okay; the work was in progress. It was just that her future was so uncertain.

  She’d dreamed of her mother last night, watched as she tried to find her way out of a labyrinth of stainless steel walls as tall as skyscrapers, and the trapped feeling lingered. It was not even two months since she’d learned Mom was alive, and decisions needed to be made for her care. Dad had found her the best facility available, and his life insurance covered its cost. But the desire nagged to bring Mom home.

  Could she be a competent caregiver? Time would tell—and other things. “Any psychotic episodes?” The doctor at the mental health center had not been joking when he asked. She had collapsed at Dad’s death, hardly functioned for weeks. Shock, they called it. But catatonia was a symptom of schizophrenia. Would it have looked different if they’d known her mother’s history?

  She sat down and got a soft “Good morning” in Chaz’s resonant baritone.

  “Chaz, do you know about my mother?”

  He raised his chin. “A little.”

  “Would God want me to be like that? Schizophrenic?”

  Chaz scrunched his brow. “What God wants is beyond me. But if I know who He is, then I can accept whatever He wants as right and good.”

  “What good would I be, seeing people who aren’t there and doing stupid, dangerous things to people who are?”

  “God chooses the foolish things of the world to confound the wise, the weak to shame the strong.”

  She had wanted Chaz to tell her God would not allow it to happen, that, because she now believed, there were some magic words or ceremony to ward off the disease. Wouldn’t He rather have her willing and functional? She was a hard worker and a skilled perfectionist. She could do a lot if she had the chance.