Book Read Free

Banishing Verona

Page 33

by Margot Livesey


  “Welcome, Ms. Taylor, and thank you for being with us today. Could you describe for our listeners what it is you offer parents and children?”

  Ms. Taylor leaned into the microphone and asserted that there had been a crisis of confidence among parents. “Mothers and fathers,” she said, “no longer see themselves as automatically in charge. They consult children about such major decisions as what kind of car to buy and where to go on holiday. At the same time, they no longer feel able to discipline their children in appropriate ways.”

  She had a surprisingly pleasant voice, firm, clear, well-modulated. No one listening, thought Verona, would guess at her grotesque appearance. “And how do you help?”

  Ms. Taylor explained that she retrained the parents, teaching them to adhere to clear rules and to administer fixed punishments and rewards. They telephoned her nightly for reinforcement.

  “So you don’t actually meet the children?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. The parents are the problem. My system, if followed, works for all save the most exceptional cases.”

  “And how,” asked Verona, “did you get into behavior modification? You don’t have children yourself and you don’t”—she hesitated—“have a degree in psychology or social work.”

  She had hesitated not because she was worried about upsetting Ms. Taylor but because suddenly, midsentence, it had occurred to her that Zeke might be listening. This was her chance, perhaps her only chance, to send him a different kind of message, one that came without demands or expectations. As Ms. Taylor explained her qualifications, she scribbled a couple of notes.

  “What you’re saying sounds awfully sensible,” she said, as soon as the woman paused, “but surely there has to be room for mistakes and forgiveness, not just punishments and rewards. At some point almost everyone, parent or child, does something they profoundly regret, something that can’t be undone.” Ignoring Henry’s theory of lost illusions, she argued for love and mercy.

  Ms. Taylor opened and shut her mouth several times during this speech. “I’m afraid that’s all a bit too cerebral for me,” she said, when Verona finished. “The kinds of problems I work with have to do with bedtime and homework and chores. You’d be amazed how one child refusing to go to bed can bring a whole family to a standstill. I aim to get the machinery running smoothly again.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes about her down-to-earth approach, her notions of suitable rewards and punishments; then an assistant led Ms. Taylor away and it was time for Verona to read the news and report on the traffic. Later, as she emerged after the second half of the show, she ran into Gary in the corridor.

  “Good interview,” he said, “though that Taylor woman seemed a little scary.”

  “She was a toad. I’m sure she does worthy work, but I couldn’t bear her.”

  “I liked what you said”—his dark ringlets swayed—“about mistakes and mercy. We grow up thinking everything can be fixed, but some stuff there’s just no way around except forgiveness.”

  So there was more to his not getting married, she thought, than his friend’s story. One of these days she would have to ask him. Now she nodded and said she had a meeting.

  Zeke had the table covered with tiny cogs—his eight-day clock had persisted in running slow since he returned from Boston—when the doorbell rang. His mother was on the doorstep, her face unusually pale but not, he could see at once, from sickness. She was vibrating with excitement, as if she had just sold an entire box of pineapples or successfully exhorted money from several delinquent customers. “I tried to phone,” she said, “but as usual you seem to be relying on telepathy.”

  Upstairs, she sat quietly across from him. No, she didn’t want tea or water. She just wanted to talk to him. He picked up the tiny screwdriver and, replacing the loupe—he always wore it in his right eye—began to fit one of the screws.

  “There’s no easy way to say this,” she said. “I’ve decided to leave your father, and I’ve told him so.”

  He finished inserting the screw and turned to look at her. Through the loupe she was large and fuzzy, which seemed oddly appropriate.

  “Could you take off that thing?” she said, pointing. “Do you understand what I just said?”

  Without the loupe, she at once became smaller and more distinct. “Yes,” he said.

  “Is that all you’re going to say?”

  He looked around his brain. He couldn’t see anything else he wanted to say. “I think so.”

  “Do you blame me?” The three little lines had appeared between her eyebrows.

  “No. I’m sorry for Dad but I don’t blame you.”

  “I do,” she said. “I thought I’d be married to the same person forever, but this is my one life, my one shot. The thing that threw me”—she was clasping her hands together; perhaps she was wringing them?—“was that Don didn’t get angry. He actually seemed to understand.”

  “Isn’t that good?”

  “Yes, of course, but it made me feel like I’d made a terrible mistake. You know I always wanted more children. I’m even sorrier now that you’re on your own.” Her cheeks turned pink; briefly she seemed to be holding her breath. He was about to remind her that he had never wanted a sibling when she launched into the practical details: her new address, what was happening at the shop. “I’ll be there for the next few weeks, until he finds a manager. You’ll keep an eye on Don, won’t you?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She stood up. “I hope—” she began, but she didn’t say what. For a few seconds her blue eyes tugged at him. Then she turned to examine the neatly displayed innards of the clock. Zeke stood up and put his arms around her.

  Verona was sitting on the sofa, studying one of her baby books, when the phone rang.

  “Hi,” said a familiar voice that she couldn’t quite place. “This is Emmanuel.”

  “Hello.” Her hand tightened around the phone. “How are you?”

  “I was wondering, would you like to get together, have a drink?”

  Her first instinct was to refuse—she wanted to work on her list for the baby—but after the reprimand of their last conversation, she didn’t have the nerve. She would go and apologize and take a proper interest in him and his tumultuous life with—what was her name, Tina? Gina? She wrote down the address of the pub and said she’d be there in an hour.

  She had hoped for the slight advantage of arriving early, but as she stepped through the door the first person she saw was Emmanuel with a half-empty pint before him. She walked over, acutely conscious of her bulk. “Sorry if I’m late,” she said, bending to kiss his cheek. “Can I get you another?”

  “I’m okay. Here, you sit down. What would you like, juice? Lemonade?”

  “Orange juice with sparkling water would be great.” While he went to the bar, she took off her coat and reminded herself that she was not here to ask a single question about Zeke. She was here to listen and talk about Emmanuel.

  He set a glass before her and resumed his seat. “Cheers,” he said, tilting his own glass in her direction. “When are you due?”

  “Early April. I’m hoping to keep working for another month so I can take all my maternity leave after the baby’s here.”

  “That makes sense. You’re mostly sitting down, aren’t you? Wouldn’t do in my line of work.”

  “How are things? How’s your back?”

  “My back?” He sounded startled. “My back is okay, touch wood. I have some exercises the doctor gave me, and they seem to help.”

  “And what about your girlfriend? Last time I came round you were expecting her.”

  “The only time,” he corrected. “Gina’s fine. She keeps me on my toes, which is no bad thing.” He took a long drink of beer. “She wants us to do what you’re doing.”

  What I’m doing, she wondered and then, seeing his glance, understood. “You mean have a baby?”

  He nodded. “The whole bit: live together, have a kid, maybe two.”

 
; “How do you feel about that?”

  “I say I’m not ready, but she claims I’ll be saying that when I’m eighty. This way the baby and I can grow up together.”

  “So you think you’ll do it?”

  The bartender had turned up the television, and around them the voices of the other customers rose in competition. Emmanuel flicked something—a crumb? a piece of lint?—off his sleeve. “Unless she changes her mind,” he said, “about being with an idiot she has to drag kicking and screaming every step of the way. How do you feel about it?”

  “It’s funny,” she said, “no one ever asks me that. I suppose it’s got beyond the stage when my personal preferences count. I’m meant to be a hundred percent radiant. I’m thrilled but scared. You know: the pain, will I be a good mother, all that stuff.”

  “Well, best of luck.” He drained his glass and, after asking if she wanted anything, went off to the bar. He returned with another pint and two bags of peanuts. “Not very healthy,” he said, handing her one, “but better than nothing. I had an idea about you and Zeke.”

  Before she could tell him it was no longer relevant, he was outlining his plan. He and Zeke were painting an empty flat in Camden. On Monday morning he would phone and say he was under the weather; then Verona could go to the flat. “You can call in sick, can’t you? I don’t feel comfortable giving you his address, but this way you’d get to talk to him face-to-face.”

  All her resolutions vanished. Wasn’t this what people claimed? You just had to stop struggling and the door would open. If she hadn’t felt so unwieldy, she would have jumped up and hugged Emmanuel. “Or better still,” she said, “I know this isn’t so convenient, but maybe you could go to work with him, and then you could let me in and leave.” She looked at him, hoping he wouldn’t force her to spell out her fear that Zeke might, quite literally, shut the newly opened door in her face.

  “Okay, we’ll do it that way. I did try to talk to him about this whole business and he’s dead set against seeing you. Gina reckons he’s protecting himself.” He wrote down the address of the house for her; they agreed on a time.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” said Verona, “but why did you change your mind?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “I was in the newsagent’s the other day, buying fags, and they had the radio on. I heard what you said about mistakes, you know”—he lowered his voice—“forgiveness. This thing between you and Zeke is beyond me. I don’t get why you like each other. I don’t get why you stood him up. But I’ve screwed up plenty of times.” He raised his glass. “This may be one more.”

  She began, once again, to offer her thanks. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you—”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Emmanuel. Haltingly, he explained that Gina had a small business, making cakes. “She has a whole special line for Valentine’s Day, stag parties, that kind of thing. And she’ll copy any photograph in icing.”

  Verona listened, bewildered. Should she be asking Gina to bake her a cake? She’d happily order a dozen. Finally he got to the point.

  “It would be a big boost for her if she could be on your show.”

  How distracted she must be to have missed this familiar request. She got out her notebook and wrote down Gina’s details. “She sounds perfect,” she said. “I’ll talk to my producers about her at our next meeting. Just so you know, though, I’m not the only person involved in the decision. I can’t promise it will work out.”

  “So that’s two things,” said Emmanuel, “we have to keep our fingers crossed for.”

  On Saturday, after helping Gwen with the morning rush, Zeke went to a couple of rummage sales and returned with two new clocks. The one from the fifties, which he had thought just needed adjusting, proved on closer inspection to be hopeless. But the other, a lovely Edwardian traveling clock, looked as if it could be fixed. He would work on it later. For now he laid out the vegetables he had brought from the shop and set to work, making minestrone soup. This isn’t forever, he told himself as he chopped an onion. I’m still on the train, going forward; we’ve just paused for repairs. Soon we’ll be chugging along.

  He was glad when Monday came and he could rise purposefully at his normal hour, eat a bowl of cereal, and head off through the morning mist to collect Emmanuel. Here too things were back to normal; there was no sign of his friend. Zeke had to double-park and jump out to ring the bell. After eight minutes Emmanuel appeared. He was uncharacteristically quiet during the drive to the house, a hangover perhaps, and for once Zeke caught every word of the morning news. At the house, they carried up the paint and headed to the nearest café. They both read the newspaper while they ate.

  Back at the flat, Emmanuel announced he would start on the bedroom. Zeke wanted to object—it would be more efficient if they finished the living room together and then separated to work on the smaller rooms—but Emmanuel’s eyes were so bright, his jaw so taut, he didn’t dare. Not a hangover, Zeke thought, perhaps a row with Gina.

  He had just started on the edge of the ceiling when Emmanuel called out that he was going for cigarettes. As the door closed behind him, one of his favorite songs came on the radio and for a few seconds Zeke thought of going after him. But it was too much trouble to come down from the ladder. They would play the song again. He finished the section he was working on. As he climbed down to move the ladder, he felt that peculiar prickling sensation: someone’s eyes were touching him. He turned around and there, standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of pristine coveralls, was Verona. He recognized her instantly.

  Very carefully he set down the paint and fastened his own gaze on the wrinkled drop cloth.

  “Emmanuel let me in,” she said, and her voice was all the colors he’d imagined. “But it’s not his fault. I begged and begged.”

  Her feet—she was wearing rather dirty tennis shoes—stepped forward and stopped. He pressed his fingers to his forehead. He could feel the thoughts beating against his skull, trying to get out. She was here at last. He was trapped. She was as tall as he remembered. Emmanuel had betrayed him. He was terrified she would beg, or cry, or shout. One clear thought rose above the others: I don’t want to feel this way.

  “Please,” she said. “Let me at least try to explain.”

  “No,” he said, raising both hands. “I don’t believe in explanations.”

  She stopped again. Her voice grew pale and watery. “I’ve come to take Emmanuel’s place for the day. He said to start on the white wall by the window.”

  He raised his eyes a few inches and discovered Ms. F even more prominent than when they first met; her mother was already holding a paint tray and roller. Without another word she moved toward the corner by the window and began to paint. He didn’t know what to do. He could feel the key of the van in his pocket against his thigh but even as his hand reached toward it, he remembered the ceiling, barely begun, and the carpet fitters were due on Wednesday. If she just stays quiet, he thought, I can manage.

  She had spent all weekend thinking of what to say, going over and over her apology as if it were the most important script of her life, but as soon as she laid eyes on Zeke in his ragged sweater and jeans, saw the tender hollow between his collarbones, saw the way he pressed his hands to his temples, she knew she must bide her time. He was on the edge of flight. She did the only thing she could think of to keep him there. She kept quiet and painted.

  For two minutes and ten seconds he remained rooted to the spot. Then at last, finally, he retrieved the can of paint and climbed back up the ladder. He dipped his brush into the paint. After eleven minutes, during which he had moved the ladder three times, she came to a small hole in the plaster.

  “Do you have any spackle?” she said.

  “Emmanuel has it in the bedroom. I’ll get it for you.”

  He descended, left the room, and returned with a can. As he started across the room, she could feel him hesitating. She stepped back, well out of his path, and pointed out the hole, to the left of the window. While
he stood there, meticulously pressing spackle into the wall, it was all she could do not to fling her arms around him. She stared at his fair hair curling over the neck of his sweater. One thing he didn’t do in America, she thought, was get a haircut.

  He stepped back, still not looking at her. “I’ll put it over here,” he said, “in case you find more holes.”

  “Thank you.”

  When he was safely back up the ladder and they had both resumed their painting, she said, “Growing up, one of my favorite stories was about a princess who’s immune to gravity. If she isn’t tied down, she keeps floating away and she finds everything funny. The only time she’s like other people is when she goes swimming in the palace lake.”

  “How can that be?” he said. “Gravity isn’t something you can shut out, like weather or light.”

  “I think it’s a metaphor,” she said. “Emmanuel told me your parents had both been ill. I’m sorry.”

  “My father had a heart attack and my mother found a lump in her breast, but they’re better, mostly.”

  She moved to the next stretch of wall and let the silence grow. If she waited, might he say something else? She fetched more paint and took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. He moved his ladder and continued his careful painting. Just as she was losing hope, he said, “A woman on the plane had a heart attack too.”

  “That must have been awful.” She dipped the roller and spread the paint as high as she could reach. “Was she all right?”

  “There was a nurse, Jill. We did CPR together; then she used a defibrillator. Everyone had to stand back and you could see the woman’s body jump with the electricity, not like anything you could do on your own. But her heart started beating again.” He paused to wipe away a smear. “It’s what they used to do to people whose brains were out of order. Maybe she woke up feeling completely different. I need to paint the ceiling where you’re standing.”

  She stepped back while he moved the ladder into place; for just a second his blue eyes rested on her face. Oh, please, she thought. He turned back to his brush. “I’m not positive,” she said, “but I think the current they use in electric shock treatment is quite a lot less.”

 

‹ Prev