Memory Tree
Page 30
“Which house is it?” Janey asked, pointing out the car window at the long row of houses lining both sides of the dimly lit street. This was Society Hill, where both Federal- and Colonial-style town houses prevailed, these classic, restored structures adorning each side of the tree-lined street. It was a sea of brick and white lattices. I didn’t blame Janey for being confused; all the houses looked the same. Still, I indicated the building on the far left corner. “With the porch light on.”
“Good thing they have that light, since it’s so dark. How else would we find it?”
“Well, Janey, I do have the address.”
“Oh,” she replied with a giggle that made me grin, a good thing right now. Settled my nerves to see how relaxed Janey was.
We had parked on a side street, left the suitcases behind for now. We had enough baggage with us already. So, with Janey’s hand in mine, our unlikely team made our way toward the upscale residence of Kevin and Didi Duncan. For years they had lived in the Philly suburbs (in the house I’d grown up in) and then had just this past summer done the opposite of all their friends. They had gone urban, selling the old house and instead buying this very nice home in this very nice section of the City of Brotherly Love. Some investments of Dad’s must have really paid off. I had yet to see it myself, thinking this was a good thing, there were no memories of past holidays awaiting me behind those doors. Neutral territory. Though you can never really escape your memories, no matter the walls you’ve built up, your mind can tear them down when it wants, prompted sometimes by the simplest of senses. As we reached the steps, I looked down at Janey’s freckled face and asked, “Ready?”
“You keep asking that,” she said. “I think the question is, are you ready?”
“And I think the answer is: Not really.”
“Silly—they’re your parents, Brian.”
As if Janey’s words were a magic key, the front door opened and a bath of light from inside illuminated us, sending our shadows retreating to the sidewalk. Yet we stepped forward to where my mother waited in the entranceway. She was dressed in a simple navy skirt and white blouse, a string of pearls dangling from her neck. Perfume wafted in the breeze. Her familiar scent. See what I mean about memories? I had the picture of my mother from years ago, tucking me into bed before she and my father went out to dinner. She smelled the same then, now. What had changed was her hair—she’d allowed it to go gray, and it was salon perfect. She wouldn’t be Didi Duncan if not properly attired, even at this hour.
“Well, who have we here?” she asked.
“Your son,” I replied, and then Janey said, “And me, I’m Janey.”
My mother moved off the top step and gave me an embrace that felt more like an air-kiss before bending down so her face was level with Janey’s. “Well, you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you, Jane?”
“Janey,” I corrected her.
She ignored me, keeping her focus on Janey. “That’s such a childish name, now, don’t you think?”
“I am a child,” Janey remarked.
“Nonsense, dear. You’ve grown tremendously the last few months, haven’t you? Come in, come in, the both of you.”
And we did, shutting out the encroaching cold behind us. We entered a hallway crafted lovingly with antique wood, and then were ushered down to the living room, where a warm fire was blazing in the large fireplace. My father, Kevin Duncan, sat beside the crackling fire in a wingback leather chair, still dressed in his business suit, the tie still on, the top button to his shirt still clasped. That was the thing about my father. Still was a word that described him perfectly. He never changed. He was reading the Wall Street Journal and on the table near him was a tumbler filled with his traditional dry Manhattan, the successful entrepreneur in relaxation mode. When he saw us enter, he gently set the paper down on a nearby matching ottoman.
“Hello, son, it’s good to see you,” he said, shaking my hand with his strong, firm grip. His greeting was as efficient and businesslike as ever; it was just his way, all he knew. He was a tall man, six four and built strongly, and I imagined in his office, even if he hadn’t been the boss he would still strike an intimidating pose. Yet a surprising feat happened on this evening. As Janey poked out from behind me, she craned her neck up high so she could see my father and that’s when she exclaimed with wide eyes, “Wow, you’re big.” The stern businessman’s face crumpled and a smile found its way to his ruddy face.
“What ho! Well, let’s get a look at you, young lady,” he said.
“You’d have to sit on the floor to do that.”
Kevin Duncan was a big, barrel-chested man, with thick gray hair and a pair of glasses upon his nose, and right now the figure of the man who had always intimidated me actually laughed—something he wasn’t exactly known for. Then, instead of bending down as Janey suggested, he lifted the little girl into those big arms of his and I realized that the impossible had been accomplished, Janey had softened the heart of a moneyed giant. I felt pent-up tension leave my shoulders and I realized then that maybe this Thanksgiving wouldn’t be so bad. My mother had followed behind us, witnessed the entire exchange between her husband and her . . . my goodness, I almost thought granddaughter. I would have to watch my words; Janey and I to this point had avoided all such labels, all such complications.
The four of us settled into the living room and talked genially, Janey enjoying a glass of apple juice and me a seltzer with ice, while my father and mother drank their Manhattans. Their attention remained focused mostly on Janey. They asked her questions about school and friends, nothing about her mother, Annie, or the difficult times this girl had already known in her life. There was no mention of the windmill that had brought us together. As they chatted, I sat on the edge of my seat, waiting anxiously for any misstep.
About ten o’clock, the excitement of the long trip and of Janey meeting my parents finally taking its toll, it was decided we had best get Janey to bed. I retrieved the suitcases from the car and attempted to get Janey settled into her room. She’d gotten her second wind apparently, so busy was she looking at the old photographs my parents had hung on the walls.
“Is that you, Brian?” Janey asked, pointing to a geeky teen posing for his high school graduation picture. I was seventeen. I looked twelve. When I told her it was, she laughed. “You look different now—better.” As I thanked her, she pointed to the other two similarly styled portraits that hung above mine, one of a dark-haired, handsome young man, the other a young woman with eyes that dominated the frame. Again, high school graduation pictures. “Who are they?” she asked.
“Well, one is Rebecca; she’s my sister.”
“She’s pretty. And who’s the other guy? He doesn’t look so . . .”
“Geeky? Like me?”
“Yeah,” she said, with an impish smile.
Before answering her question, I stared at the photograph that was up for discussion, thought of the memories his rugged good looks inspired. For a second I looked around for the trophies and awards, the ribbons and framed citations that adorned his walls, and then remembered this was no longer his room. Not even the house he’d grown up in, any of us, actually. Suddenly I was surprised that the photos had been placed on the walls here, not packed away like other memories. I wondered how my parents had felt packing up the old house, saying good-bye to a room that had remained fixed in time. Then I answered.
“That’s my brother, Philip.”
Our conversation was quickly interrupted as my mother came brushing through the doorway. She cleared her throat knowingly. Photographs were not something she wished to discuss. When she saw what little progress I’d made in getting Janey to sleep, she summarily tossed me out.
“Honestly, what do you know about caring for little girls, Brian?”
My mother liked to ask questions, but she seldom waited for answers. Tonight was one of those occasions, despite the fact I could have answered her with easy confidence. Because I knew a lot. Janey had helped me in figuring out the
curious mind of a growing child, oh she had helped me plenty. But I let my mother enjoy her fussing over Janey, said my good nights, receiving back a huge hug from Janey and a polite smile from my mother, and finally retreated to the other guest room. And as I fought to find sleep that night, I hoped that tomorrow and in the coming weeks I would be able to reciprocate the feelings behind Janey’s warm hug. She was in a strange house, meeting strange people, and even though they were my relatives, being here couldn’t have been the easiest thing. And it was only the beginning of the holiday season. How much she would need me nearly scared me. How much I would need her terrified me.
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Copyright © 2013 by Joseph Pittman
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First Kensington Trade Paperback Edition: October 2013
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