“I haven’t read Symposium, but Ami Mai has. The story she told me was completely different from yours. Aristophanes told it. Not Socrates.”
“There were several stories, I believe.”
“Aristophanes’s story was about the origin of love between humans, who were originally spherical. They looked like two people merged together back to back, forming a ball with four arms and four legs. They had one head with two faces pointing opposite directions. Did you read that part?”
“I don’t think so.” She remembered leafing through the book, drawn to the underlined parts. For some reason the philosopher had focused on Socrates. So she had, too. It wasn’t just the final stage that had struck her, but an earlier one, about seeing the beauty in more than one person. She had seen that for herself. When she stood back and looked, they were all beautiful. All of the children. But perhaps that wasn’t what Socrates meant. Another question for the philosopher.
“Well, there were three sorts: male-male, female-female, male-female. All equally natural. Get it?”
She paused a minute trying to capture what Pamela had just said when she hadn’t been fully listening. Oh. Of course. Being gay was natural. She smiled. “Got it.”
“And they were happy rolling about.”
She pictured their arms and legs flapping as they rolled. But then she saw them gathering speed, bumping down the stairways of Guanajuato. That could be dangerous.
“Until, in a fit at their indifference to him, Zeus took out a sword.” She raised her arm as if wielding Zeus’s sword, then brought it down quickly, snapping her wrist. “He sliced them in two.”
“Oh, dear.” Callie winced.
“Apollo sewed their wounds.” She wrapped her arms around her chest. “But still the halves clung to their other halves, trying to unite again. They stopped eating, and became too weak for tributes to Zeus …”
“I thought Aristophanes was a comic writer. This story is not funny.” But there was truth in it, wasn’t there, the way lovers clung to each other, as if their lives depended on it. Hadn’t she felt, when she parted from Jacob, as if she had lost a part of herself?
“It turned out all right.” She took another sip of tea. “Zeus decided to move their genitals to the front so that they could come into contact when they embraced. They could satisfy each other that way. Soon they were happily eating, drinking, working, playing—and giving tributes to Zeus.”
Happy. But for how long? Wouldn’t something else come along to part them? She shook herself. Why was she being so negative? But wasn’t that the deeper meaning? That loss follows from human love the way death follows from life. And wasn’t it true?
Pamela reached for her teacup again, then pulled back and looked at Callie. “Ami Mai told me that’s what love is. Feeling incomplete. Becoming whole with someone else.”
She thought back to her attraction to Noah. How she had imagined becoming confident through him. Would she have?
“I thought ‘This is it; she sees me as her other half.’”
She smiled. “Her media naranja.”
“What?”
“Half of an orange. A Spanish version of a lover’s other half.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t know that. But no, she hadn’t thought I was her media naranja. She said I was like one of those spheres, self-satisfied and without need. She said I didn’t know how to love.”
“Oh, my.” She hadn’t seen that coming. She should have been listening more closely. Self-satisfied and without need. It sounded like how Armando saw Pamela. He didn’t seem aware of her vulnerability. Could Ami Mai have missed that side of Pamela, too? She poured Pamela another cup of tea. “Did she think you prided yourself on self-sufficiency? Was that it?”
“I guess that’s how it seemed to her. Perhaps with reason. I admired her and enjoyed her. But I had never felt I would die without her by my side.” She smiled a wan smile. “Well, not until she left.” She took a sip of tea. “And then I got angry. I hated the idea of my happiness depending on her. Or on anyone, really.”
She nodded. She understood the risk of becoming close to someone incomplete, changeable, fickle. Someone who altered the rules midway through the game. Someone like Jacob.
“I flew home and raged at my mother. It seemed like her fault. Her fault I had desperately wanted to be self-sufficient. Her fault Ami Mai left. Her fault I then felt severed in two. I picked up her Bible and demanded that she swear on it that she would never lie to me again.”
Never lie? What did that have to do with it? Had Pamela sought self-sufficiency because of her mother’s lie? Or was something else behind that hopeless desire? Something Pamela had not recovered from, in spite of her mother’s love?
“She said no, she would not swear on the Bible. She told me she had waited many years to have a child. When she saw me for the first time, she wept, realizing that one day her baby would grow up and leave home. She would not leave me alone even with Dad for the first five years.”
She had left her own newborn with a stranger. Her palms began to sweat.
“My parents moved to Chicago shortly after they adopted me, and everyone assumed I was their own. Mom preferred it that way. She said she loved her baby as much as any other mother, and she did not want to be treated differently from the mothers whose babies came from their own wombs. She did not want me to be treated differently either.
“Mom told me her mother had warned against keeping the adoption secret. ‘You will be sorry one day,’ her mother had said. And Mom was sorry. As angry and hurt as I was, I could see that. But that wasn’t what made me feel safe again. It was something else, an admission she made. ‘It wasn’t just that I wanted us to be a normal family,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to share you with another mother. I wanted you to be mine alone.’”
Pamela lifted her teacup and held it in two hands. “I got it when she said that,” she said. “I never wanted siblings. Remember? I’d even get my dander up if my parents showed too much attention to my friends. Mom and I. We were like two peas in a pod!” She laughed again.
Her warm, full laugh filled Callie’s heart. So Pamela had recovered. She could love. Of course. She had married Ami Mai, after all. They were having a baby. She smiled. A baby she, herself, would hold.
“Mom said she would help me search for my biological mother. She admitted being afraid. But she would do it. That she would swear to.” She shook her head. “She needn’t have worried. I didn’t want to know my biological mother then. What if she had been white?”
What if she had been white? She felt her stomach drop. But, of course, Pamela wouldn’t have wanted a white mother. “No,” she whispered. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t want a white mother.” And neither would Gwendolyn. That certainty turned her sweat cold. If she wasn’t careful, she would throw up. She steadied herself by putting a hand on the table and stood up.
“Oh. Don’t take offense.” Pamela’s voice softened. “I wouldn’t mind now. You’re going to be my baby’s honorary grandmother, and you’re as white as they come.” She paused. “But then. When I was just beginning to feel like I belonged again, then I wanted my biological mother to look like me.”
SHE had gone to the safe as soon as Pamela left. It hadn’t been a year. But there were exceptions to every rule, weren’t there? And she would put the photo back right away.
She leaned the photo against the mirror on her bureau. “I wanted a mother who looked like me.” That’s what Pamela had said. She looked at herself and Gwendolyn together. Gwendolyn’s skin was darker than hers, but was that all that mattered? Gwendolyn had her jaw, her nose, her hands. She put a finger to Gwendolyn’s hand as if to caress it. Those similarities must mean something. So what if Gwendolyn was slim, not round like her, and her eyes were brown, not green like hers? Gwendolyn’s hair formed soft curls like hers. Anyway, no child looks exactly like her mother.
She picked up the photo of her own mother and held the two photos side by side. If anything, there was more of
a resemblance between Gwendolyn and Callie than between her dark-haired, rail-thin mother and her. But she was unmistakably her mother’s daughter, with her mother’s brow and ears and those hands that Gwendolyn inherited. Surely Gwendolyn would see herself in her, the way she saw herself in her mother.
But what if Gwendolyn could not accept being born of a woman “as white as they come?” What if she had never searched for her because she was afraid of what she might find— a pasty-white woman?
She felt her stomach lurch again and leaned her head against the mirror. She imagined Pamela telling her to breathe, and so she did. Three slow deep breaths. She straightened up and looked at herself again. She had been imagining the worst, hadn’t she? And for no reason. Hadn’t Pamela said the color of her biological mom no longer mattered to her? Perhaps Gwendolyn wouldn’t care either.
She went to the bathroom, dampened a washcloth, and held it against her face. She wasn’t so white anyway. What about her freckles? She pulled the cloth away and looked at herself again. But there, under the florescent light, her face looked more pale than ever.
She shrugged. She could not stare at herself all afternoon. She had to get the translation done. She went upstairs and started up her computer. Its clock said six p.m. She had missed her personal deadline.
Thirty-Three
CALLIE HAD A PAGE TO GO WHEN THE PHONE RANG again. She saved the document and turned off the computer. She would have to finish when she got back from dinner.
“Bueno?”
“Callie?”
Ah, her mother. “So you’re going on a little trip.” She smiled. “Aunt Ida’s doing, I suppose.”
“Ida?”
“She’s been wanting you to join her on a trip for ages.”
“Yes, but … Callie, haven’t you read my letter?”
“Letter?” Then she remembered. “Oh, it got lost. Juanito brought it to me today. It’s in a pocket somewhere.” She patted her pockets until she felt it. She took it out. “I’ve got it. But can’t you just tell me?”
“I wanted to give you time to think.”
“It’s not your health?”
Her mother laughed. “No, Callie. I’m fine, though I was worried when you didn’t call about the letter. But now I understand. Read it. Give yourself some time to think and then call me. Okay?”
She poured herself a glass of water, and then took the envelope to the patio, where she could read away from the jaguar’s watchful eye. She sat at the table under the shade of the avocado tree, opened the envelope, and took out the letter.
Dearest Callie,
You know I loved your father. I hope you will understand.
She frowned. Was this to be about her father? No wonder her mother wanted her to take time to think first. She considered tossing the letter, but she had promised to read it. She sighed and read on.
John Miller asked me to marry him.
She gasped and reread the previous line. “I hope you will understand.” She laughed and noticed the leaves above her rustling, as if they too enjoyed the news. Well, why not! John Miller—Steve’s favorite uncle—in love with her mother. How lovely. And she had assumed her mother was going to go on about her father. She found herself glancing up to the dining room where the jaguar lay in wait. She smoothed the letter against the patio table and then picked it up again.
His proposal must come as a surprise to you. It did to me. I had begun to suspect he was sweet on Aunt Ida because he always seemed to turn up when she was around. Then, when she was away and he offered me a ride to Wednesday evening service, I thought he was just being nice, not wanting me to have to go on my own. Afterward, when he said he wanted to talk with me about a personal matter, I said yes, of course, thinking he wanted to gather courage for talking to Ida. Then he told me he loved me, and all I could think of was how disappointed your aunt would be. But it turned out that she knew all along. I wondered then how I could have mistaken the many signals of his special regard for me. We laughed over that when Ida got back. All three of us.
She leaned back and looked up at the tree. That must have been the news Aunt Ida had suspected. She smiled and returned to the letter.
And so there it is. John loves me. And I love him, Callie. It came to me the moment I learned that Ida insisted John “get some gumption and propose.”
Her eyes filled with tears. She put the letter down and leaned back in the chair. So her mother had found her other half. Someone as kind as she. As thoughtful. And, by the sound of it, as humble, neither presuming to be loved by the other. She smiled. Such a dear man, Steve’s Uncle John. She remembered him taking her and Steve to the city to see a Molière play though he knew no French. So unlike her father.
She dried her tears and smiled. Her mother married to Steve’s Uncle John. She would be happy, truly happy. Callie could hardly wait to see them together. She read on.
I thought I might one day accept Aunt Ida’s invitation to live with her, but it would be different living with John, being married to him. What would I do with the rings your father gave me? I want to talk with you about that and about some other things.
I am coming to Guanajuato, Callie, so we can talk in person. I would have checked with you first about the flight, but there weren’t many flights and the seats were going fast. Ida encouraged me to go ahead and buy the ticket. I arrive at five p.m., August 13.
Callie looked at the calendar. It was only a week away. She turned back to the letter. There was nothing else other than “Love, Mother.”
SHE stood so quickly, she bumped the table and winced at the grate of iron against tile. What had her aunt been thinking? A flight to Mexico was no baby step. She crossed the patio to the terrace stairs, the letter in her hand. How would her mother negotiate the change of planes in Dallas? She crossed the patio. Not to mention the change in altitude—and Guanajuato’s steep footpaths? Even Aunt Ida had trouble, and she was in good shape for her age. Her mother’s idea of exercise was crocheting.
She ran up the stairs. Why would her mother, after all these years, become peripatetic now? If she were so intent on traveling, why not let John escort her? Why come alone when, given their ages, their time together would be short in any case? She cringed, picturing the spheres sliced in two. Her mother and John’s parting now was completely unnecessary. She would be going there in a few months or sooner. In plenty of time to help her mother decide what to do with her rings. And, as for other things, the furniture her father made, for example, it would be easier to decide about those things there.
She paused at the top of the stairs to catch her breath. And, besides, now was not a good time for her to have visitors. She had her hands full with Armando. Strange. Her mother getting a ticket without asking her. It wasn’t like her to be so inconsiderate. She shuddered. That was unfair. She hadn’t told her mother any of her worries.
She walked across the terrace and through the dining room door. She would call her mother right away. Offer to go home soon to help her dispose of things. She would take her doll of course. And her father’s trumpet, if her mother insisted. Why not? She could always give it away. And she could take her mother’s rings, temporarily, to give her time to decide what to do with them.
She stood by the phone. Her mother had the chance for a happy life with John. Of course, she would do whatever she could to support that. “And I would, too,” she said, turning to look at the jaguar.
But the time was so short. When did her mother say she was coming? She looked at the letter again. August 13. Well, no problem, it could be canceled or rescheduled for a time when John could accompany her mother.
She dialed her mother. There was no answer. An answering machine came on. Strange. Her mother always said she had no use for them. She listened to the prerecorded message, “Please leave a message after the beep,” and then she hung up.
Aunt Ida would understand. Her mother’s flight must be canceled. She started to dial the number, then checked her watch. No time. She had to meet Armando.
On the way to the door, she noticed the trumpet in the bag behind the pot. She had forgotten all about it. She pulled it out from behind the pot and left it by the door so she would remember to put it away.
Thirty-Four
CALLIE WAS PANTING BY THE TIME SHE GOT TO THE Santa Fe, but she relaxed when she saw Armando happily occupied holding the Gardners’ Yorkie and insisting Jorge pick them up for their morning flight.
When he saw Callie, he handed Skippy back to the Gardners and stood to pull her chair out.
Callie nodded to the Gardners as they passed by to leave. When she sat down, she noticed the mineral water with lime Armando had ordered for her. Her throat was dry from rushing. She took a drink.
“I’ve ordered our usual,” Armando said. He sat down, put his elbows on the table, and clasped his hands under his chin. “I want to explain.” He paused. “About Claude.” He looked around. With the Gardners now gone, there was no one nearby. “He was the first, and only. I assure you.”
She felt her underarms grow damp. “There’s no need …”
“I want you to understand.”
“I think I do,” she said.
“What does that mean?” Armando sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.
She wanted to say, “You love Claude.” But should she? Her aunt’s voice came to her. Listen. Just listen. She leaned toward Armando. “Nothing. Nothing. Go on. Please.”
“There are some things you don’t share.” He paused to look at her. “I thought you of all people would understand.”
Me, why me? She opened her mouth and then shut it.
“But now … well, I want you to know.” He looked away. “I’m not that way.”
Not … gay? Could that be what he meant?
“I mean, here, in Mexico, I’m not …”
Not in Mexico? She wanted to be sympathetic, but instead she felt confused.
“In Veracruz, I reserved separate rooms. Claude didn’t understand.”
The Trumpet Lesson Page 19