Catching Genius

by Kristy Kiernan

  Fishing, shooting, hunting of any kind had never entered the play realm. Gib’s skills enabled him to fit in to the society of businessmen, weekend warriors, and the hierarchy of high school, while Tate’s skills were, or had been at one time, essential to live in a harsh environment.

  It had never crossed my mind that Gib might be missing out on anything. But if he enjoyed learning this side of life, I certainly wasn’t going to stand in his way.

  “Got another pole?” I asked, to Gib’s surprise.

  “No, but I’m ready for a beer,” Tate said. “You can use mine.”

  Gib reached into the bait bucket and held a live shrimp up as I pulled Tate’s pole out of the pipe. “Okay, Mom, here, I’ll show you.”

  Tate popped the top of his beer and laughed out loud. “Son, your mom could show you a thing or two about fishing. Don’t insult her or you’ll get a hook somewhere unpleasant.”

  “Really?” Gib asked, not entirely convinced.

  I rolled my eyes at Tate and stuck my hand in the bait bucket, pulling out a shrimp and threading it expertly onto the hook. It was a good thing I’d gotten some practice casting the other day on Little Dune, because my arm remembered the motion easily, and I made a graceful first cast, getting the lead out to the trough with an impressive whine of the reel.

  “No way,” Gib said, looking at me with his mouth hanging open.

  “Way,” I said, enjoying the feel of being something more than the woman who made sure his clothes were clean. “Go on,” I said, bringing my line in a little. “Bait up, boy, let’s see who catches the first fish.”

  Gib was quick to take the challenge and busied himself with the hook and shrimp. His cast fell just beyond the trough, landing on the sand bar, but he pulled it back quickly enough and wound up in the right spot. We walked slowly, allowing the current to take us, playing the line, reeling in; and then a fish hit his shrimp, his pole snapped down and he brought his wrist up quickly, hooking in.

  Almost immediately I got a hit too, and I snapped up. We reeled and played out, watching each other out of the corners of our eyes, but I was more experienced and got my pompano up first, swinging it close and netting it with the little hand net Tate had been waiting behind us with.

  I secured the pole and held the net up, crowing in victory as Gib pulled his catch in. Another pompano, but Tate took a quick look at it and declared it too small to keep. Gib watched and moved his hands in tandem with mine as we unhooked the fish. Mine went into the cooler, Gib’s went back into the Gulf.

  I quickly rebaited, and we fished the rest of the afternoon, occasionally allowing Tate a turn. By the time the sun began to lose its strength, I was wiped out. The three of us trudged home, Tate and Gib carrying the full cooler between them and me carrying the poles and bait bucket. Estella and Mother called to us from the widow’s walk, and we waved back, spying Vanessa with them.

  I started up the boardwalk, but Tate held Gib back.

  “We’re not even close to being done,” Tate said. “We need to dig the pit, we need good, dry driftwood . . .”

  I continued up to the house, allowing Tate’s instructions to fade away, chuckling to myself as I remembered the work involved in cooking on the beach. Gib had no idea what he was getting himself into, and Tate was a no-nonsense taskmaster.

  I washed up and joined everyone on the widow’s walk. Estella and Mother searched my face, but I had nothing to hide. I was sun-tight and tired. I invited Vanessa for a dinner of roasted pompano, which she happily agreed to.

  “Carson’s camp called,” Mother said, and my great mood disappeared.

  “I can’t believe I missed him,” I wailed. “Damn, did he say I could call back?”

  “Carson didn’t call,” she said. “The camp director did. He wouldn’t tell me what it was about, just that Carson was fine and he needed to speak to you. The number’s on the pad by the phone.”

  I hurried downstairs and called the camp. I wasn’t particularly worried, since Carson was okay, but I was nervous. I wasn’t ready to start the fight over my son that I knew was going to begin when people in charge, people like Dr. Pretus, decided that he might be a genius. I said a little prayer that Carson hadn’t done anything brilliant.

  I identified myself to the man who answered the phone, and poured myself a glass of wine while I waited on hold. Finally, the director picked up.

  “Mrs. Wilder, thank you for getting back to me so quickly. Carson is fine, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “Okay,” I said, confused.

  “We had a little fire last night—”

  “Oh my God,” I said, forgetting my wine. “Carson’s all right?”

  “Yes, he’s fine. Unfortunately, he and two other boys were the ones who started it. I’m afraid I have no choice but to ask that you pick Carson up immediately. We can’t allow him to complete his time here. Please understand, we’re not pressing charges. We feel that it was accidental. The boys seem very contrite, but I’m sure you understand that we do have to take this measure.”

  “Carson? Carson started a fire?” I could not accept it. Not from Carson. From Gib perhaps, but Carson? “How? What other boys?”

  “Two boys in his cabin. The three of them have become quite close, something of a Three Musketeers. You know how boys are. They were playing with fireworks one of the boys brought from home, and unfortunately one got lodged in the shakes of their roof. There’s minimal damage, but had they not immediately notified someone we could have had a terrible tragedy.”

  I sat down heavily on the barstool behind me, shaking my head, speechless for a moment.

  “Mrs. Wilder?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m here. The other boys, are they being sent home too?”

  “Of course. Rick has already been picked up and Pat’s parents will be arriving tomorrow. We’re not placing sole blame on Carson, we’re trying to be as fair as possible. And Mrs. Wilder? For what it’s worth, I am sorry to see Carson go. He’s a very talented young man. Aside from this incident, he’s been a joy, and I think he’s benefited from being here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “When can we expect you?” he asked.

  “I suppose I’ll come tomorrow,” I said, thinking hard.

  “We’ll have Carson ready for you. Just come to my office.”

  “I’d like to speak with him now if he’s there,” I said.

  “May I suggest that you wait until tomorrow? He’s rather upset and obviously worried about your reaction. I believe he’s hiding out in the boys’ room right now.”

  Now that sounded like Carson. I suddenly felt sorry for him. “Okay,” I said. “Please tell him that Mom said everything is going to be all right. I’ll be there by noon to pick him up.”

  I hung up the phone and took a swallow of wine. For the first time since my early twenties, I didn’t know whether I should call Luke or not. I supposed I should start getting used to making these calls, informing Luke of our children’s misdeeds and achievements by phone. I finally dialed his work number.

  His secretary, sounding hushed and reverent, told me that he wasn’t in and she didn’t expect him back. I would have to get used to that too. Being the ex-wife. I dialed home next. I didn’t expect that Luke would be there, and I assumed I would be leaving a message on the machine. I assumed wrong.

  A woman answered the phone.

  “Deanna?” I said in shock. There was a brief silence at the other end, and then she hung up. I pulled the receiver away from my ear and looked at it in disbelief. I quickly redialed. The phone rang until the machine picked up.

  “Luke, this is your wife. Your son, Carson, has been expelled from camp. I’ll be picking him up tomorrow. I suggest that you and Deanna find somewhere else to go. That is my house, I paid for it, and I expect you both out immediately.”

  I hung up, shaking, furious beyond measure. I suddenly thought of a thousand biting comments I could have made, a thousand threats and promises I could have left on the machin
e. I picked apart my five measly sentences and found them weak and pathetic.

  I heard my mother laughing up on the widow’s walk. I looked out the sliders and saw Tate and Gib happily digging a pit in the sand. My own house in Verona had been taken over; only this middle ground was mine, and it was filled with boxes and soon to be sold.

  The pompano was probably delicious, but I could barely taste it. Everyone was having a good time, and I tried to pretend I was too. Vanessa went home soon after dinner, sensing that things were off. Once she was out of earshot Mother asked me about my call to the camp.

  I downplayed Carson’s expulsion and glossed over the fact that he’d actually started a fire. Carson didn’t need Gib teasing him about it—the unfortunate Carson and arson rhyme was already going through my own head—and I didn’t want Mother giving me advice about appropriate punishments either. Carson was going to feel punished enough on the way home when I broke the news to him that his parents were splitting up.

  “I’ll go get him,” Gib offered. “It’s only a few hours away.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said.

  “Why not? I drove Gram all the way up here and was fine,” he argued.

  “He drove very well,” Mother agreed, and I gave her a warning look.

  “For one thing, you never asked me if you could drive my car, and I would have said no if you had. For another, a parent has to pick him up, and since I can’t get ahold of your father—”

  “Would you stop calling him that?” Gib said, unmasked anger in his voice.

  “No. He is your father, he will remain your father, and he’s Carson’s father too, no matter what my relationship with him is,” I said, raising my voice. Tate and Estella edged away from the fire and I turned on them.

  “Look, you both know exactly what’s happening, so stop dancing away every time it’s brought up.” They stared at me in surprised silence, and I continued with Gib. “I know you’re angry and upset, but I’m going to have to tell Carson about your father and me. He’s much younger than you, and you need to be careful of what you say to him. There’s no need to discuss what happened; he doesn’t need to know any details. Understood?”

  “I’m not stupid, Mom,” he said, his face flushing crimson.

  “Well, I know you’re not stupid, Gib, but you’re not always particularly kind to your little brother. He’s going to be going through a hard time too, so maybe you could actually act glad to see him tomorrow?”

  Gib rolled his eyes.

  “I could go with you if you wanted some—” Estella began hesitantly, but I cut her off.

  “Could you just try to keep Gib out of trouble? I don’t want him to go in swimming too deep without me here.”

  I knew it was a cheap shot and Estella looked as if someone had hit her. I knew that Gib’s bloody nose had been an accident, but the thought of them both in the water together without me there filled me with dread. I didn’t want to explore it, I didn’t want to work through it, I just wanted them to follow my wishes.

  “He’ll be fine,” she finally said evenly. I gave her a curt nod and then marched past my disapproving mother and an embarrassed Tate and went straight up to the library. Luke never called me back, and I left a message for Angie about Deanna being in the house and asked her to call on my cell phone before noon so that I didn’t have to talk with Carson in the car. I spent a fitful night tossing and turning on the mattress in the library.

  I left before anyone rose in the morning and was on the interstate by seven.

  Estella

  I creep up the stairs to the library just after seven. I want to tell Connie about my decision before she leaves so that she can feel more comfortable on her way back, knowing that I won’t be here. I’ve left everything too late. We all have.

  I will leave the books. I will ask Mother to drive me into town. I will rent a car. I will drive back to Atlanta. I have it all planned.

  It is Tuesday, so Paul will be turning new pieces. I will shoo the girls out for the night, give them money if I have to. I will prepare a surprise dinner, will wear the long black dress he likes though it is still too big on me, and will greet Paul at the door with a glass of wine. I’ve seen the look on his face in my mind and it makes me feel like myself again.

  I am desperate to be me again.

  I knock lightly. There’s no answer. I crack the door just a bit, just a little more . . . she’s not there. I can’t believe that she left so early, but when I check beneath the house, the Escalade is gone.

  I wanted to talk to her in person.

  I will write her a note. It will be easier on both of us. Relieved, I wave good morning to Vanessa stretching in front of her dune, and plunge into the Gulf. Within a few moments, Gib is beside me. There is no horseplay this time. He turns when I do, changes his tempo when I do, and hauls himself out of the water when I do.

  “Your mom doesn’t want you swimming with me,” I remind him as I ease myself down onto the sand to catch my breath.

  “She’s already gone,” he says with a shrug, barely winded.

  “Still,” I say. “You should do what she wants right now. She’s going through a hard time.”

  He blows water off his lips in lieu of an answer, and it is eloquent enough.

  “Tell me about algebra,” I say, searching for firmer ground.

  “It’s stupid,” he says, and then follows with the age-old argument: “Besides, when am I ever going to use that stuff?”

  I know by now that there is no answer that will satisfy him, except, “You have to pass it to graduate.”

  “Whatever.”

  I draw a simple equation in the sand. He looks down and runs his foot through it. I laugh and he grins at me. I draw another one. He studies it for a moment, and then hesitantly says, “X equals four, right?”

  “That’s right. See? That wasn’t so hard.”

  “Those aren’t the kind of problems on my tests,” he says, kicking sand across the equation.

  “I know,” I say. “But if you can do that, I guarantee that I can show you how to solve the problems on your tests.”

  “What, is there a trick or something?”

  “Well, maybe not a trick, but just a way of understanding. I think you might be making it a little harder than it is. If you break it down, algebra can be as easy as that equation was.”

  “No way. My teacher tried all kinds of ways to get me to figure it out.”

  “Maybe you could give me a chance? Come on. We don’t even have to leave the beach.”

  He turns his head over his shoulder and squints up at the house. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but I take a stab at it.

  “Your mom won’t be back until late this afternoon,” I say, the prospect of playing with numbers with this child making me forget all about my plans to leave. He looks back at me and licks the salt water from his lips. “If you really don’t think you understand more by lunch I’ll never say another word,” I say.

  “Yeah, all right,” he says, and I feel a surge of triumph. It feels like teaching again.

  We begin.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When I finally arrived at Camp Scherzando I had managed to compose myself into a concerned mother again. I wanted to be stern, wanted Carson to understand the severity of his actions and how disappointed I was in him. But as I got out of the car I heard him yell, “Mom,” and my heart leapt.

  He came pounding down the stairs of the office building, and I scooped him against me as though it had been years. His little body—thinner than I remembered, I could feel his backbone—was like a security blanket in my arms. I inhaled the scent of him. My boy.

  I realized I had lifted him up and he was struggling to stay on his toes, and I released him. He turned his face up to mine and it pained me to see that he was trying hard not to cry. I rubbed my hand over the top of his head.

  “Hey, it’s going to be all right,” I said, and he nodded, pushing the backs of his fists against his eyes.

&nbs
p; “Mrs. Wilder, I’m Marshall Black, the camp director.”

  I hadn’t even noticed the man waiting behind Carson until he stuck his hand out and introduced himself. He had Carson’s bags and clarinet case ready and helped us load them before he said good-bye to Carson.

  “I’m sorry to see you go, Carson.”

  Carson hung his head.

  “No more fireworks, right?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

  “Okay then, hop in, buckle up.” He closed the car door for Carson and then came around to the driver’s side. “Mrs. Wilder, I’m sorry about all this. I had hoped to speak with you during the parents’ weekend. I feel you should know that Dan Hailey sent me an e-mail regarding Carson a few weeks ago.”

  “He did? That’s interesting. He failed to mention it to me,” I said, taking a deep breath. I knew I should have taken Carson to Big Dune. I railed at myself inside. And Dan Hailey was going to be sorry he hadn’t listened to me.

  “Yes, and then a week ago he e-mailed me again and told me about your meeting. I can assure you, he was very respectful of your wishes. And I have been also. I’ve kept Carson and his instructors focused on his playing, but it hasn’t been easy. He can’t help himself—I’ve had two instructors approach me with pieces he’s written. He’s very gifted, Mrs. Wilder.”

  “Where are they?” I asked.

  “The pieces? I made sure they were returned to Carson. They should be with his other music. I would like to give you my e-mail address, and perhaps when you’ve had a chance to consider Carson’s options—”

  “Carson’s options are none of your concern.” I ignored the business card he held out. He nodded, but kept the card stretched toward me.