The Lyre and the Lambs

by Sydney Avey

  I stand in the doorway, watching Danny help David get settled. The difference in these two boys’ temperaments and experiences is striking. Danny is almost seven years older than David, a young man really. He has spent more time in the United States, whole summer vacations. Danny is a joker, full of charm and get-up-and-go.

  David has come over on short visits but he’s been more places, Connecticut, New York and the San Francisco Bay Area. David appears more introspective.

  The only thing they have in common as far as I know is their rural roots. Then David pulls a music case out of his duffel bag.

  “You play?” Danny reaches for the case. David nods permission and Danny opens the case and pulls out a pear-shaped stringed instrument. He whistles his appreciation, holding the short bent neck in one hand and rotating the bowl that resembles a walnut and mahogany-striped watermelon. “What is this?”

  “It’s an oud, a lyre harp, a very old instrument that’s sort of an ancestor to your guitar.”

  “Wow, will you teach me how to play this?”

  “If you’ll help me get my hands on a guitar.”

  David follows Danny out into the garage. It’s not long before sounds of amplifiers being tested and strings being tuned muffles into the kitchen. Danny’s guitar riffs are familiar. We have to strain to hear the soft haunting sound of the fretless oud. Its soulful song transports my untrained ear back to the Tales of the Arabian Nights.

  I join Roger in our suite. His scotch and soda sits companionably next to my amber-colored Manhattan with two cherries. We settle into our chairs and I spin scenarios of what I see in the future for these boys. Roger one-ups each projection. One runs a multi-national corporation that provides life-saving technology to hospitals, and one promotes humanitarian causes through his work with the United Nations. We heap honors and awards on them. Quite simply, they are our hope.

  The driving rhythm of a drum beats us back to reality. Scott is here. Mike will be here with the youth group in a half an hour. The boys haven’t been fed.

  We are too old for this.

  R

  Thank God for TV dinners. I have a freezer full. I sit all three boys down at the table in the family room. They barely scrape the last of the meatloaf, corn and apple crisp out of the metal trays before more boys pile through the front door. David eats dutifully, Danny rummages around in the refrigerator, looking for a second course, and Scott throws half of his dinner away. I’m going to have to do better.

  Why does God throw His parties in the houses of people who have no gift of hospitality? When the first of Mike’s ducklings raps his knuckles on the door and then walks right in, I flash to a box of brownies I should have picked up at the store. Then Laura comes through the door carrying a platter piled high with home-baked chocolate chip cookies. I don’t have time to hate her because the flood gate opens and boys pour in.

  Laura and Mike are setting up chairs in the living room. Strange young men are shoving cookies into their mouths and checking the refrigerator for milk. I hope the milk in our refrigerator is still good. David looks terrified and tired. I pull him aside and tell him I will explain this tomorrow, he is free to go to his room.

  “Where is my Dad?”

  Well isn’t that a good question.

  I can’t believe that Roger has just taken himself off to the The Echo with Andy, business as usual. And my gal, Val? She is holed up in her bedroom. She’s her mother’s daughter.

  Valerie approves this chaos in theory, but in fact she has not proved up to the challenge. Valerie I understand, but what is Roger thinking? He’s not thinking. Roger has no experience being a hands-on parent. I shoot up a prayer and Mike walks into the kitchen.

  “Boys, head on into the living room.” Mike taps one of them on the shoulder. “Ed, get them started, okay? I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Ed and Laura do a changing of the guard and now it’s Mike, Laura, me, David and Danny standing in the kitchen. I introduce David. Mike shakes his hand and Laura offers him a cookie.

  “David, how was your flight?”

  “It was long, sir.”

  “You must be past exhausted.”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Well, we will keep the noise level down, I promise you. Why don’t you boys turn in for the night?”

  “David,” I direct an encouraging smile toward his sleepy eyes, “Roger and I will have breakfast for you in the morning. The house will be quiet then. We’ll have time to catch you up on what’s going on here and help you settle in.”

  Tension begins to drain from David’s body and Danny takes the cue.

  “Yeah, I’ve had a day. Let’s bag it, okay?”

  I mouth a thank you to Mike as he heads to the living room and turn to Laura. “I can’t believe that Roger went out on David’s first night here.”

  “Men are creatures of habit. I’m sure he thought he was leaving David in your capable hands.” Laura takes the platter to the sink and washes it.

  “He should have talked to me first, don’t you think?” I take the platter from her hands and dry it.

  Laura turns to face me, leaning back against the sink. “You both have a lot to adjust to.”

  I step back and flick her with the dishtowel. “Not as much as you do. How are you doing, Laura?”

  She wraps her arms around her shoulders, hugs herself and then starts rubbing the back of her neck.

  “I have my ups and downs. Working with the kids is a great distraction. Truth be told, it’s a pure joy. Trying to make sense of the state of our finances? Not so good.”

  It’s odd to me that Laura talks as if Fred is still part of the equation. But then, I’m a person who never thought in terms of we, at least until we moved into this house.

  “Do you mean that you are having a hard time figuring out where the money is, or that it is less than you expected?”

  “Dee, I don’t think there is enough money for me to keep the house. It looks like Fred cashed in some life insurance policies that would have helped me pay the mortgage down. I don’t know why he did that and then killed himself. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Oh Laura.” I want to fix this. “Listen, Roger is very good with finances. Would you let him look things over and see if he can figure something out?”

  Laura is quiet. She probably feels like she’s said too much. We can talk about feelings, but finances are something we never discuss.

  “I appreciate the offer, Dee, but Mike is going to help me out.”

  Does she mean that he’s going to look into the situation and give her advice, or does she mean he’s going to give her money?

  Laura sees my frown and knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “Oh no, I don’t mean he’s going to pay my mortgage. I would never let him do that. I mean we’re going to come up with a plan.”

  “A plan to keep you in your house?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  There’s no time to pursue my inquest any further. Roger and Andy come through the kitchen door from the garage.

  “There are a lot of cars on the street, Dee. Have you talked to Mike about asking the boys to carpool yet?” I bristle at Roger. I guess I’m responsible for everything. Laura seizes the opportunity to escape.

  “Dee, don’t you worry about it.” She gives my hand a quick squeeze as she makes her exit. “Roger, I’ll talk to Mike about the traffic problem.” She flashes her big smile at him. “I know your attention is all filled up with your son now. I just met him. What a darling boy!”

  Oh, these wily Southern women.

  Rhythm and Blues

  Rhythm and Blues

  True to her word, Laura warned Mike that he needs to keep a low profile in the neighborhood. The boys arrive for their weekly meetings in groups of four or five, instead of individually. That’s fewer cars parked on the street, but teenage boys who travel in packs cause consternation. I know because around six o’clock on meeting nights Carlo walks his pit bull up and down in front of
our house. I don’t notice that Petey gets walked much any other time of the day.

  Gunther comes out and joins Carlo and they patrol together. We got off on a bad foot with these people at the very beginning, and it seems like nothing we do or say will change that. Carlo and Gunther are like archers with quivers full of sharp arrows they are itching to let fly, and we have presented ourselves as a target. Apparently it’s a spectator sport. Neighbors who are less vocal about what they think goes on at the Glass House are nonetheless interested in listening to the speculation.

  As popular as Father Mike has been in the neighborhood, his association with us was not the smartest move he could have made. People wonder why he didn’t take another church after Saint Matthew’s closed. Carlo goes so far as to accost him early one evening as Mike parks his car on the street. I can’t see the two from where I stand in the open doorway, but their voices broadcast through the dusky air.

  “Father, why you hangin’ around this neighborhood so much? You’re good with the widows, but this one’s married now, and the one up the street, well...”

  If a suggestive wink made noise I’d swear I hear one of Carlo’s saggy eyelids clap shut and open like an old brownie camera taking a picture. Mike’s response is mild and direct.

  “Carlo, you have a dirty mind, my friend.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Carlo laughs.

  “Carlo, did you ever play football?”

  “I sure did! I was quarterback at Saint Mary’s.”

  “Tell you what. In the spring I’m going to get the boys together for a scrimmage in the park. Why don’t you come out and play with us? Get to know some of these guys.”

  “Yeah, thanks, but I hate kids.”

  “Don’t you have kids of your own?”

  “Well, yeah, I did. They’re grown and gone. Besides, its other people’s kids I hate. They’re noisy. They leave trash on the street. They got no respect. Mrs. Ibarra and Mrs. Russell, what are they doin’ over there? Fillin’ up that ugly house with a bunch of kids that got nothin’ better to do than...”

  “Study the Bible? Try to figure out who they are?” Mike is losing patience.

  Carlo’s spit hits the ground. “I can tell them who they are. They’re mop-haired freaks, that’s who they are! They’re druggies. And Scott Schwartz is the worst of ‘em.”

  Even though Carlo and Gunther are in thick with Walter Schwartz, Carlo doesn’t hesitate to brand Walter’s son as an addict. Scott is the only one who comes to the meetings by himself. He comes early to hang out with Danny and David, or he comes late. The other boys seem to tolerate him, but they don’t seek him out. If there is any truth to Carlo’s accusations, the trouble likely does start and end with the councilman’s son. I haven’t had the heart to do anything about this, though. Scott is a needy kid.

  Carloads of kids start arriving. Carlo growls and goes back into the house, leaving Petey to whine at the end of his leash. That poor dog is staked by a rotting doghouse that sits exposed to the weather all year long.

  R

  Despite how toxic the environment around us is growing, our patched-together family seems to be working well. Valerie has decided to abandon her quest for tenure at Stanford in favor of teaching Spanish classes at the new junior college that has just opened in Los Altos Hills. Foothill has managed to steal academic talent from the four-year colleges and universities. The location and beauty of its campus, the high salaries they pay, and the flexibility they offer to professors who want to pursue interests outside teaching make the campus an attractive employer. I suppose she’s decided to devote more of her energy to writing novels. A risky business in my opinion.

  Andy is trying to interest Danny in law school. Danny has been an invaluable assistant to Andy, but he’s not sure he’s ready to make a decision that will cost his family money when they need to put their resources toward Domeka’s defense. He has found a small computer operation that will hire him as soon as his work permit comes through.

  Meanwhile, Danny and David spend all their spare time tinkering with electronics in the garage. Danny tries to explain to me the frustration musicians feel when they have to spend so much time messing with their equipment to get the perfect sound.

  “We have to adjust our sound levels depending on if we set up in the garage, out on the patio, or over at the community center. It takes a lot of time to get it right.”

  “Yes,” I nod my head politely. “I’ve noticed that musicians fiddle around a lot before they actually start playing.”

  David steps up, removing the horn-rimmed glasses Roger bought him when he realized his son was farsighted. He starts talking about variables until I can no longer pretend interest. The boys are trying to invent a device that detects objects in a performance space and makes automatic adjustments to sound levels and reverb settings. This makes sense to Roger, but not to me.

  Roger has adjusted surprisingly well to retirement. He doesn’t seem to mind that the kids have taken over his space. He spends more time reading. On the advice of his cardiac doctor he’s taken up jogging. He’s tried to interest David in going with him on a run or to the golf course to hit balls, but David cannot pretend interest in physical activity. That seems strange to me, since he was raised in a farming community, but I’ve learned that he actually spent most of his time with Dara in the classroom.

  I thought once we were settled I would want to jump back into the business of art, jurying shows and arranging my own showings. Invitations pile up, but I’m enjoying a season of contentment. I wake up with the sunrise instead of an alarm clock.

  Roger is usually awake first. Under the covers, he reaches for my hand when he hears me stirring. Sometimes he reaches for other parts of my body. I always felt tense and unsettled in our rental apartment. It smelled of stale cigarettes after it lost its fresh paint smell. Here I respond more easily when Roger turns over slowly to protect my naked body from any invasion of cold air. He blankets my hip with the pressure of his warm thigh. As I roll over and fit myself to him, I inhale his scent. He smells like freshly turned soil kissed by morning sun. He smells spicy, like geraniums and whole black pepper. He smells sweet, like fresh baked rolls. I will not waste this luxury of time.

  R

  My coffee cools on the window ledge while I stare at the objects I unearthed on my walk down to the creek to inspect the new deck taking shape. What does a bit of blue eggshell, a dragonfly wing, and a few links of thin gold chain tell me? I arrange the piece of chain over the image of a swan’s neck, a photograph I took at Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park. Roger taps on the door and pushes it open to drop a letter on my worktable.

  This is the first letter I’ve received from Alaya since Danny arrived about four months ago. She has written to him, but not to me. I pry open the envelope with a letter opener, trying not to tear the fragile paper. I shake out a single sheet of stationery and feel comforted at the sight of her graceful handwriting, evenly slanted letters with perfectly formed loops. The content of her letter has the opposite effect.

  Dear Dolores,

  Forgive me for waiting so long to write. I tried to wait until I had some good news to share, but there is no good news. The attorney we’ve hired to defend Domeka says there is no way he will avoid prison. He has confessed to making the explosives that were used in a street riot a student group organized and led. While he didn’t participate in the riot, he will be held responsible for a death that occurred as a result of the explosion. I go to Mass every day now and light a candle for the man who died.

  The only bright light is that Domeka has no direct ties to the ETA. That may reduce the time he has to spend in prison, but the government is taking a hard line. He will be in prison for years. He won’t talk to us about how he got involved with the Ekin student movement. His attorney has advised us not to press him for answers. Elazar looks like he’s aged ten years and I’m afraid for his health. The only joy I have is when I think of Danel and all the opportunities he has because he’s with you. I miss my
boys so much! I miss you too.

  I think it’s best if you don’t come for a visit until after the trial. I will need your company after the sentencing. Maybe you can come for the summer? I know it’s selfish of me to ask that. You are married now!

  I can’t write anymore. I can’t even think. Dear sister, thank you for giving my son a home. It’s a good thing he isn’t here to see the anger people in our town feel against Domeka, and the shame his father feels. How can two people who love their country express their love in such different ways?

  Alaya’s signature is smudged with tears. I add my own. How will we ever recover from this?

  R

  Signs and Wonders

  Signs and Wonders

  A “For Sale” sign is up in front of Laura’s house. Roger and I are dining early with Mike and Laura out on her patio, largely because Mike always leaves Laura’s house before sundown so the neighbor’s will see him go. A beautiful widow who has secured the attentions of an unmarried priest is just too juicy.

  Since Fred died, this house has taken on a life that his illness suppressed. His moods chased Laura’s natural joy into the corners of the house; now her high spirits run all over the place. Windows that were curtained now look to the hills. The girls in her Bible Study group have introduced her to The Beach Boys and The Dixie Cups. Upbeat tunes play on the radio in the kitchen.

  Even though big sweaters defend our bodies against the chill, the bright sun sparkling through the trees lights up the pink dogwoods and fires our hearts with the promise of spring. Goldie turns circles around her mistress as Laura comes out of the house balancing a tray with four glasses of Champagne. Mike looks up at her from where he is stationed at the barbecue, tending New York steaks. I widen my eyes at Roger. Is there going to be an announcement?