Amanda hitched her butt on the railing and leaned back against the nearest post. “Probably as often as my mother. We knew to leave her be when she was here. I remember looking out my bedroom window and seeing this little red firefly glowing in the dark. Then she gave up smoking and I just knew she was here anyway, and it felt good—like you say, peaceful.”
For a few minutes the plup and gurgle of slow-moving water around a half sunken snag were the only sounds in the deepening dusk; then Amanda sensed Clancy’s eyes on her before she asked, “What was your dad like? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Amanda shifted on the railing and pulled up her feet and clasped her arms around her knees. She let out a long breath that wasn’t a sigh. “No, I don’t mind. I don’t really remember him that well. I was just ten and my brother was twelve. One day Dad was home, the next day he was gone. Mom sat us down and told us he had to go on a long trip and she didn’t know when he’d be back. I think it affected Andrew more than me, although neither of us really knew him well. He was always away a lot. He was an engineer: built bridges, fixed bridges, blew up bridges. The only bridges he didn’t build were with his family.” After a surprised silence, Amanda laughed and said sheepishly, “Wow. I suppose I mind more than I’m letting on.”
Clancy’s hand grasped Amanda’s ankle and squeezed gently; it was comforting. “As I said, resourceful women,” she said quietly.
“I guess.” Amanda continued to feel the gentle grip on her ankle, like a connection to a safer place. “I think I was angry for my mom. I didn’t like to see her sad and even back then I knew she was working harder than hard to keep everything together. Andrew got difficult for a while—not that you could blame him—but the stupid asshole has stayed difficult, so maybe he always was and we just didn’t know. Maybe he’s like my dad—funny, I’ve never asked Mom that question.”
“No photos?”
“There’s one, but she put it away years ago. It was of us all together at the Empire State Building, I must have been two—Mom is holding me. I look like a cartoon: chubby cheeks and great big eyes.”
Clancy’s laugh was almost inaudible. “Well, you’ve still got the great big eyes, but lucky for you the chubby cheeks didn’t last.” She squeezed Amanda’s ankle again and withdrew her hand, leaving a dual feeling of warmth and loss. “You and Eleanor are very alike—which is also lucky for you.”
Amanda frowned. “But Mom is really gorgeous.”
“Yes.”
The silence between them stretched and tingled and Amanda held her breath as she digested Clancy’s words. Somewhere in the woods beyond the water meadow across the river an owl hooted—once, twice. The soft sound both broke and enhanced the spell and Amanda had uncurled her legs and stood up, unsure what to say or do next.
* * *
So, if you were me, what would you do, God? Amanda didn’t speak aloud in the cathedral but figured that God being God and all, She could hear anyway. No answer came that Amanda could make out, so she added: You can answer too, St. John, if you have any advice. Please? Amanda listened to the friendly silence of the great cathedral and again found her mind wandering to the past. This time it was to the last occasion she had been in a church.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this, Mom,” Amanda had whispered in her mother’s ear. “This guy is a full-blown, fascist heathen and he’s got the nerve to think God hasn’t figured out his damned hypocrisy?”
“Hush up now, Amanda,” said her mother, stifling a giggle and slapping her daughter’s arm with a kid glove that was the color of pistachio ice cream. “This is your brother’s wedding and we have to behave.”
Amanda noted the “we” and said nothing, although her gusty sigh was eloquent. She took her mother’s gloved left hand in both her own and gave it a squeeze. They sat in silent pleasure, watching as the plume on the organist’s hat bobbed in time with her feet, pumping at the pedals to produce the wheezy holy groaning that filled the church. Amanda watched the pews fill with guests, who all seemed to know one another. The men shook hands heartily and the women exchanged careful air kisses before having a good look around to check out rival hats and outfits. She recognized some of the older couples but the rest were strangers.
“Who are these people, Mom?” she whispered. “I can’t believe Andrew has any friends, never mind this many.”
Eleanor gave her daughter’s hand a fond smack. “You are a very bad girl, Amanda. But actually, most of them are newcomers to town, and they are Sara-Mae Gentle’s friends and her family too, I think.”
“Sara-Mae Gentle!” Amanda’s snort was mulish. “Sara-Mae Gentle! You cannot expect me to call her Sara-Mae Gentle. Spare me, Mom. If she wasn’t christened Priscilla Mary Piranha then I am definitely Rita Hayworth.”
Eleanor stifled a giggle and squeezed Amanda’s hand. “You are my lovely girl, Amanda, but you are definitely not Rita Hayworth. Now hush, here comes your brother. Try to smile when he catches your eye.”
The groom and his best man headed up the aisle flashing broad grins at the pews on either side. Somehow Andrew managed to miss seeing his sister although he did incline his head graciously toward his mother. He was a shorter, less handsome version of Amanda, with an almost porcine nose. Yet it was as if the colors that had gathered so vividly in Amanda had been leached from his skin and hair, which he wore long to his collar with sideburns that were close to muttonchop. These side-whiskers and a pale gray morning coat and vest, with an even paler violet jacquard silk cravat at his throat, gave him the look of a faded photograph of a 19th century worthy. His best man was a head taller, but identically dressed.
“Omigod, he looks like Wyatt Earp without the six-shooter,” Amanda whispered to her mother as the two men slow-marched toward the altar.
“Shush,” whispered Eleanor. “It’s very romantic.” But she coughed on a stifled giggle.
“Pah! Horsefeathers,” hissed Amanda, loudly enough for her brother to glance sharply over his shoulder and glare at her.
Eleanor’s warning pinch caused her retaliatory glower at her brother to soften to a simpering smile. It was the only communication between the siblings during the wedding service or the reception that followed, during which Amanda dutifully danced with her first and last high school boyfriend, now a local lawyer with a shingle on Main Street and married and the proud father of Darren, Warren and Ward.
“Warren and Darren are twins,” her ex-beau explained as they two-stepped around the overdecorated hall. “They’re named for Melanie’s granddaddy.”
“Lovely,” Amanda murmured. “He must be rich?”
“You don’t change, do you Amanda?” Her old boyfriend’s face instantly suffused with bright pink annoyance from his tight collar up to his already receding hairline.
Yep, Amanda thought as she watched the color rise, granddaddy is rich.
Much later that night, back at Heron Creek, she settled herself in the swing seat and kicked off her shoes. She could hear her mother busy in the kitchen and she lay back, pushed at the floor with her foot and started the swing gently rocking back and forth.
“How long do you give it, Ma?” she called softly and was rewarded by a clatter of glass and china and a muffled guffaw.
“Evil child,” her mother’s voice answered her, then the screen door squeaked open and Eleanor appeared carrying a laden tray. “Although I have to say I do think, these days, expensive wedding gifts should be given with the proviso that they must be returned to the giver or donated to charity if the marriage doesn’t last two years.” She laid the tray on the low table and kicked off her shoes. “It’s darned expensive and then one party takes off with the loot. Darned irritating.”
“Darned irritating,” Amanda agreed. She drew up her legs and made space for her mother.
Eleanor sat and leaned back with a happy groan, stretched her legs and wiggled her toes. “Oh, this is good,” she sighed. “I hope you’re not expecting me to get dressed up like this for you one day, my girl.”
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Amanda took a deep breath and set down her champagne flute, looked her mother in the eye and smiled as she took her hand.
“Mom, we’ve never really talked about this but I don’t think I’ll ever get married,” she said. Eleanor smiled back at her; she shook her head. Amanda waited and watched the bubbles rising up the flute. She held it up to the light of the candle burning straight and steadily in a storm lantern set on the low table.
“No, I don’t suppose you will, my darling,” Eleanor said, her tone matter of fact, sipping on her own champagne. “Not until the law is changed and you can marry some nice woman.”
Amanda choked on an oyster and coughed violently. Eleanor patted her back gently and continued calmly sipping on the chilled Veuve Cliquot until Amanda recovered herself.
“Better now, honey? Would you like a glass of water?” she inquired serenely.
Amanda shook her head, coughed and sniffed. “No, Mom, I’m fine, but jeez.” She coughed again convulsively and took a long swig of champagne. “How long have you known?”
Eleanor shrugged and narrowed her eyes in thought. “Not sure, honey. I always knew you were different. I called it being a tomboy—it suited your father to think that anyway. And when he took off it didn’t matter about labels just so long as you were happy and got through that time with minimum damage.”
“You mean you could tell when I was ten?” Amanda’s eyebrows were perfect bows of astonishment.
Eleanor shrugged. “Well, it could have been just a tomboy phase, but you did look and behave more like Huck Finn than Becky Thatcher, put it that way. You were far more boyish than your brother.”
“That would not be difficult,” Amanda said tartly. “He’s such a big old sour milk pudding.” She suddenly sat up. “Actually I bet he’s a closet queen. Only he doesn’t know it yet!”
Eleanor snorted. “You’re being very stereotypical, darling.”
“Well, let’s wait and see.” Amanda lay back into the cushions and sipped her champagne, watching her mother’s elegant profile and enjoying the glint of light on her still-blond but silver-streaked hair. Then she had a thought. She looked at Eleanor curiously, her head on one side, trying to see her eyes in the shadows.
“You’ve never asked me about it.”
“Well, you never told.” Eleanor shrugged and smiled. “And I thought you would when you wanted to. Or needed to—when it was important enough to tell me, I mean.”
They continued to sit in companionable silence, with just the steady creak of the swing and occasional sounds from the surrounding woods. On this night the only guests at Heron Creek were regulars: a party of deadly serious bird-watchers who went to bed early and rose before the first lark. Amanda and Eleanor were alone in the peaceful night.
“You don’t mind, Mom?” Amanda eventually asked, reaching for her mother’s hand.
Eleanor gave her daughter’s hand a squeeze and sighed. “I want you to be happy, Amanda. I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy. To do whatever it is that makes you happy. If I were being honest, it would have been fun to think about a nice boy—man—and grandchildren. But these days grandchildren aren’t out of the question anyway, whereas a nice man is very hard to come by. So, as long as you’re happy and you don’t get hurt I’ve had enough time to think about it and know that I really don’t mind.”
Her mother’s speech confirmed to Amanda that Eleanor had thought through her feelings long before this conversation, and she swallowed the lump that rose in her throat and blinked back tears. Then her mother took a deep breath and what she said next told Amanda that she’d been considering these thoughts a long time too.
“Are you going to continue on Wall Street forever though, my darling? You seem so tired and stressed all the time and to be frank, I can’t see the point. The only thing you do is make money and that never made anyone happy. And the kind of money you make seems to come from causing trouble for millions of people, unless I’ve got the wrong end of it. I don’t want to offend you, but as long as we’re talking turkey, I have to tell you that if there’s anything about your life I don’t like and never will, it’s your choice of career.”
Amanda was shocked into silence while she contemplated the understated vehemence of Eleanor’s words. Finally she gave her mother’s hand a squeeze. Eleanor continued, “You are beautiful, very smart, and I hope I brought you up to have decent values, and someday I’d like to see you doing something worthy of you. Something worthwhile.”
Amanda was about to make a quip about going off to the Third World to save the poor starving millions, but thought better of it. It was the first time Eleanor had ever criticized her choices and she was astonished. And also abashed at the unexpectedly unattractive picture her mother was painting of her only daughter.
“You’ve never said anything, Mom,” she murmured, scooping up another succulent oyster onto a crumbly cracker. “I thought you were proud of me.”
“My darling, I am proud of you. But I can’t be proud of what you do. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I want to see something good come out of what you do. What do you give the world at the end of your working week? What’s worthwhile about it? As far as I can see, globalized corporate business is about exploitation of the people who can least afford it and never benefit from it.”
“Mom! You sound like a socialist!” Amanda regretted the flippant remark the moment it left her lips.
Eleanor withdrew her hand from Amanda’s and made a sound that was part hiss and part snort. “That is a silly thing to say and well you know it!” she said tartly. “If we can’t have a sensible conversation there’s no point.”
Amanda grabbed for her mother’s hand. “Mom! I’m sorry, I really am. You’re right, that was a ridiculous thing to say. I know that. But I’m a bit shocked, to be honest. I never knew you felt like this. You should have said.”
“I have never wanted to interfere, but lately I’ve been thinking about you a lot and watching what’s going on in your world and I just don’t think it’s worthy of your talent.” Eleanor thumped her glass down on the table for emphasis. “There, that’s it. I’ve said it.”
After another long but not uncomfortable silence Amanda lifted her mother’s hand and kissed it. “I love you, Mom,” she murmured. “You are a great woman. I am very lucky. Maybe I’ll come home and help you run Heron Creek.”
“You need to learn to love making beds.” Amanda had heard rather than saw her mother’s smile. “Or at least pretend you do.”
* * *
“Madam? Are you in need of assistance?”
In the cathedral Amanda opened her eyes to see a young black woman sitting beside her in the pew. She was wearing a prominent crucifix over a black shirtfront, along with blue jeans and a navy blue cable-knit cardigan; and her hair was teased out in something like a 70s-style Afro.
Amanda realized there were tears on her cheeks and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said to the young woman. “Thank you for asking, and caring. I was just thinking through some stuff and asking for a bit of advice.”
The young woman’s face split into a wide smile of large white teeth with a gap between the front two. “That is most excellent,” she said and Amanda heard an unusual accent.
“You’re not American?” she asked, curious.
“I am from Uganda,” said the young woman. “I am working at Saint John’s for one year. I am most very fortunate.” Her words were perfectly enunciated and each r was rolled with relish and precision.
“Wow, that’s great,” said Amanda. “Well, I hope you’re enjoying your time in New York City.”
“And I hope you enjoy whatever it is you have decided you must do,” said the young woman. She looked closely into Amanda’s eyes and smiled again. “I think you may be traveling on a long journey quite soon and you will be leaving some unhappiness behind. You are changing your life for the betterment of mankind.”
Amanda’s eyes widened and she looked a
bout and shivered. The young African was either a messenger from St. John or God, or she was some kind of obeah woman.
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure about mankind. It’s hard enough looking after myself.”
The young woman frowned and shook her head. “You are quite wrong, madam,” she said firmly. “When we are helping others we are always helping ourselves. You will see.”
Amanda smiled. “Okay, whatever you think.” She held out a hand and the two women shook warmly. “Thanks,” Amanda said. “This is a great place for thinking things out.”
“The good Lord must be doing his work in the mysterious way that is often spoken of,” said the young woman seriously and hugged Amanda in farewell.
* * *
When Amanda walked into the apartment she was immediately aware of two things: the deep silence of an empty apartment and the acrid smell of paint. Then she noticed the cause of the paint smell. On each of the living room’s four walls—and right across the paintings as if they weren’t there—was sprayed hugely in bright, dripping graffiti red, the letters c, u, n and t. Amanda stared, turning around slowly to take it all in. Then she saw the coffee table: a now ruined slab of glass split in two and splintered in a star pattern at its centre where something heavy had struck it.
Amanda let out a long deep breath. The small abstract sculpture by Jellica Frakes, a twenty-first birthday present from her grandmother, now lay in the center of the ex-coffee table. Both were irreparably smashed. On the floor, beside the marble shards was Clancy’s book. It had been ripped in two.
“What next?” Amanda said aloud and, with a fast beating heart, tiptoed to the corridor leading to her bedroom. She pushed open the door with one finger and stepped inside. It looked as if a hurricane had ripped through the room: the sheets and mattress and drapes were shredded, the walls decorated with more red aerosol paint—although Natalie seemed to have quickly run out of inspiration and simply sprayed the walls and pictures at random. The bureau drawers were on the floor and the contents scattered amid the wreckage of the bed. Amanda hardly dared look in her closet but knew she must; and the destruction of her clothes was as thorough as she had anticipated it might be.
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