Ralph and Mrs Joseph hear my car and come outside. A couple of dogs stroll at their side, panting, tails wagging lazily. Mrs Joseph has changed into pale, loose clothes and swept her hair higher on to her head. Ralph is wearing overalls. He smiles while Mrs Joseph hugs me unreservedly. Then he evaporates into the yard.
‘Did you eat today?’ she asks as she leads me indoors.
‘No.’
‘Are you hungry now?’
I am astonished to find that I am hungry and that, when she places an interesting salad in front of me, I can eat all of it. The big dogs watch me, waiting for scraps of bread, thumping their tails on the ground occasionally.
‘Good,’ she says when she comes back into the room and sees my empty plate. She has been collecting pictures and she sits with them at my side.
‘This is the first thing we should do,’ she explains. ‘I mean, deal with your curiosity about Robert.’
One at a time, with a brief commentary, she hands me photos of Robert, some from his wedding or earlier but most of them recent.
‘He’s just the same,’ I say.
‘Not exactly. His personality deepened and changed after the car crash and I think that soon showed in his face.’
‘His wife’s beautiful.’
‘I think she looks a little like you. And, she’s a banker too. Isn’t that a coincidence? Or maybe not. Now here’s a very old one of you with all the boys.’
Three boys aged from about five to fifteen. They all have the same black curly hair and they are sprawling across a couch and each other. In their midst is a girl, aged maybe ten. She’s sprawling like one of the boys, grinning like one of the boys.
‘But… what was I doing here?’
‘Climbing trees, risking your life on the rope swing, building dens, all the things kids normally do.’
I look from the picture to Mrs Joseph and back to the picture. ‘I didn’t ever come here when I was a kid.’
‘Sure you did. Your mother wasn’t around and your father had to go away a lot so you used to stay here.’
‘Often?’
‘Some years it was often.’
‘Years? This went on for years?’
‘You don’t remember. That’s a shame, we had some good times.’ Her voice is even. Maybe I detect disappointment because she’d like me to remember those good times.
‘Oh Mrs Joseph, I had some great times here but I thought they were all in one summer, I mean, Robert’s summer.’
‘Robert was a pal to you long before he became a boyfriend. That’s probably why, when you both jumped, it was in at the deep end. You’d done the shallow end stuff for years.’
I sigh. Now I understand why this house feels like a home. I’ve contracted my memories and feelings about the place into one short summer.
‘But… where was Jane?’
Mrs Joseph is standing up now. ‘Your father left her with the Carmichaels, I think. Or the Spelmanns. I’m not sure where she went. Lucy, I have another picture of you. I’ll be right back.’
While she is out of the room I examine the photos more closely than seemed polite in front of Mrs Joseph. First, me and the Joseph boys, draped over the couch and each other. I seem relaxed and happy. I have a pigtail, which one of the boys, probably Step but maybe Robert, is holding up so it’s vertical.
Then I pull out a recent snapshot of Robert. I take it to the window and twist it in the light. I see that time’s truck has been kind to him. It has rearranged his face a little but the lines he has acquired give him a sort of cragginess.
When I look up, there is Ralph, standing by the kitchen window, grinning at me in his overalls like Rebecca of Sunny-brook Farm. I wonder if anyone here has any secrets that Ralph doesn’t know.
‘Hi, Ralph,’ I say with resignation.
‘Nice picture,’ he smiles, and then melts back into the green yard.
‘Recognize these two young folk?’ asks Mrs Joseph, returning with a small photo in her hand. A young Robert, hair curling over his face. His arm is tight around a green-eyed, dark-haired girl who smiles not at the camera but at Robert. I stare at the girl as though I’m staring at my own ghost.
Mrs Joseph waits while I study the picture. When I am silent she asks: ‘What’s intriguing you?’
‘Her smile. I mean, my smile.’
‘It feels that you’re looking at someone else?’
‘Oh yes. I can’t believe I ever was that girl.’
Mrs Joseph gently removes the picture and scrutinizes it herself.
‘Why not, Lucy?’ she asks, handing it back. ‘It looks like you.’
‘I can’t believe I ever was that happy.’
She gets up.
‘Oh, sure you were.’ She pushes the icemaker and the noise it makes, gurgling and scrunching, sounds as though there’s a crime going on inside.
I lift my feet to the rung of the chair and hug my knees. ‘I was happy here. I liked this house so much. The way lots of people came in and out and it was always full of talk and laughter and dogs. I liked the way you and Mr Joseph spoke with each other, polite and intimate at the same time. It was so respectful. I never realized before that respect is an important part of love.’
She smiles. ‘What did you think love was about? Control?’
I smile too. I feel strong now. Strong enough to ask: ‘Did you blame me for the car crash?’
Mrs Joseph turns to me in surprise.
‘Blame you? How could anyone blame you?’
‘Robert was driving with his arm around me.’
‘Then if I blamed anyone, and I don’t think I did, I guess I would have blamed Robert.’ She puts two iced drinks on the table and sits down behind one of them.
‘I didn’t ask him to drive that way,’ I add. ‘But maybe something I said, something I did, made him think he should. Then I would be technically responsible.’
She sips her drink in silence. And her silence compels me to continue.
‘I mean… I thought that was why Robert didn’t ever call me again. Why you didn’t try to contact me after the crash. Because you blamed me.’
Mrs Joseph looks away from me as she thinks. She sips more water. Finally she says: ‘It was all a very long time ago and probably it’s fruitless to discuss it. But let me ask you something.’
I wait.
‘Did you call Robert after the crash?’
‘Well… no.’
‘Did you call me?’
‘No. I mean… you didn’t phone and I thought you were mad at me and…’
‘Maybe we thought you blamed us. When you didn’t call.’
The sun is shining through the kitchen window right on my face, heating it.
‘Oh no, no,’ I stammer. ‘Of course I didn’t blame Robert or you or anyone.’
She looks at me closely. Her smile is understanding. I wonder what it is she understands: ‘Someone has to pick up the phone, Lucy. That’s all I have to say about this.’ She drinks some more. ‘I’m sure you’re not still the kind of person who sits around waiting for others to call you. Your father was real proud of how well you’ve done in corporate finance.’
‘Investment banking, actually, not that Daddy ever appreciated the difference.’
‘Maybe he was too busy suffering to think about it,’ she says, and she giggles the way I remember, like bubbles surfacing. ‘I’m sorry, Lucy, but your brother-in-law’s tribute to Eric really was too much, it’s been irritating me all afternoon. I mean, we all suffer from some degree of loneliness, we all feel like outsiders sometimes. I’m not sure those feelings necessarily have anything to do with living in a polygamous community as a child.’
I take secret pleasure in hearing Mrs Joseph disagree with Larry. His expertise is considered unassailable in our family. I say, with some enthusiasm: ‘I didn’t like that tribute either. It made me feel terrible, all that stuff about Daddy’s loneliness. When I think of the pain I must have caused him and how I wasn’t here to alleviate his loneliness…’<
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Mrs Joseph shakes her head. ‘Personally I don’t recall your father as a lonely man at all.’
I think of the tiny ring of white flesh around Daddy’s wrist. Daddy, sixteen years old and recently arrived in a fish truck, lying in a hostel and hearing the indifferent snores of the other occupants. Listening to traffic noise or voices out on the street he was unused to. Kept awake by the smells and lights of the city because he had grown up knowing the deep silence of the mountains where the only light was moon light. Missing his family, everyone and everything he loved.
‘But,’ I say quietly: ‘Daddy never laughed.’ It’s hard to admit that. It sounds like a criticism. Fathers are supposed to laugh.
‘Oh, sure he did!’ Mrs Joseph exclaims, opening her eyes wide.
‘Not really. Not from his belly, not from his heart.’
‘Sure he did! For heaven’s sake, he’s sat right where you’re sitting now and laughed himself into helplessness.’
I look hard at her in disbelief but she’s smiling privately. She’s amused just thinking about it. ‘It was Step who made him laugh so much. When Step was a little kid he was such a clown.’
‘I’ve never known Daddy laugh himself into helplessness,’ I say.
‘Does it reassure you to know that he did?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Well, he laughed long and hard and often. And he had a good sense of humour and could make others laugh too.’
Daddy at the Joseph farmstead amid the noise, the people, the laughter. Sitting here in the kitchen, roaring like one of the family at Step’s little kid antics. Knowing the Josephs well enough to leave me here while he went off on field trips.
Mrs Joseph can see me thinking all this. She’s watching my thoughts like someone who’s standing at the station and watching the train slowly approach. She’s waiting at my destination.
I say: ‘How come you knew Daddy so well? I’d like to ask you about that. And your friend, Barbara Marcello. Can you tell me whether Daddy had any connection with her or her son?’
‘Did he tell you of any connection?’
‘No.’
‘Then it was either non-existent, insignificant or private.’
‘Daddy paid money annually into something called the Marcello Trust. I’m sure it has something to do with Ricky Marcello. Ricky certainly knew Daddy. When I tried to ask him about it he got real mad. He attacked me.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Did he hurt you?’
‘Well, no actually. But he held me and threatened me.’
‘I’m glad he didn’t hurt you. Did you hurt him?’
I am too ashamed to admit how hard I tried to break Ricky’s foot. When, at her request, I demonstrate my stamping action, I grind my heel daintily into his imaginary toes and act the whole manoeuvre without malice. Mrs Joseph laughs out loud, her sudden, bubbling giggle. She says: ‘Lucy, it sounds like he came off worse in that encounter.’
‘But I had to do something,’ I protest. ‘I really thought he was trying to kill me.’
‘Sure you did. I can imagine Ricky’s real scary when he wants to be. He’s always had a terrible temper, you must remember that. Barbara used to worry about it but even she had to admit that he’d never hurt a fly. And he’s been a kind friend to Ralph.’
She’s not describing the Ricky Marcello I’ve been encountering lately.
‘I mean,’ she adds, ‘he takes Ralph out driving in the automobiles which he fixes up in San Strana. And occasionally, he sits up in the tow truck with Ralph and lets him drive it around the farm. Now that’s heroic. None of us ever lets Ralph drive anything.’
I shake my head. ‘I think Ricky Marcello has another side to him which you don’t know about, Mrs Joseph.’
‘Probably. Most people have.’
‘It’s a mean side. Real mean. To be honest, I suspect that he was involved in Daddy’s death.’
She pours some more water. A big slice of lemon from the jug falls into my drink and small drops of water explode on to the table.
‘Now, Lucy,’ she says. Her face has retained its strength and, when her brown eyes shine this way, her beauty. I wonder if her eyes are sparkling with amusement or curiosity. But when she speaks her voice cautions me. ‘Lucy, what evidence do you have to say a thing like that?’
It is late when I return to Aunt Zina’s apartment. Sasha is reading the newspaper, small glasses perched on his broad face. Aunt Zina, who learns a little Pushkin each day, has her nose buried in her battered and disintegrating old copy and not, disappointingly, in the pristine edition I gave her.
They are pleased by my arrival. They have been waiting for me, hoping to discuss the funeral, the tributes, the mourners.
I sink into Uncle Pavel’s chair. He sat here daily smoking his pipe and the chair carries evidence of both activities.
‘Thank you for bringing Mother. And thank you for everything,’ I say and they know from my tone that I am about to announce my departure. Their faces fall.
‘I haven’t booked my flight yet but I’m intending to leave on Saturday,’ I tell them.
They urge me to stay longer.
‘I really have to get back to work or I won’t have a job,’ I insist.
‘Then,’ says Aunt Zina, already on her feet and heading for the kitchen, ‘take another. Here in California.’
I tell her I’ve eaten and beg her not to feed me but she reappears anyway with plates of home-made cookies. We discuss the funeral, agreeing that Mother behaved impeccably today and that she brought a dignity to the occasion which was reminiscent of Grandma. They tell me Larry has aged and Scott is handsome.
‘And Jane,’ adds Aunt Zina, ‘still has great beauty. More so, perhaps, than ever.’
‘Mama, she always did look like Greta Garbo,’ insists Sasha, who spent more of his youth than Aunt Zina considered healthy watching old movies.
Aunt Zina shyly produces a small parcel, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a ribbon, the sort of ribbon that was saved from a chocolate box years ago and has been used and re-used ever since. It is still pink in places. The rest has faded to colourlessness.
She says: ‘I have undertaken a small work for you, Lucia. It will be completed by Saturday. I only hope I have been equal to my task.’
She hands me the package and I pull at the ribbon and it falls silently away. I peel the tissue paper. It crunches as softly as meringue. Inside are letters.
‘These are the letters of a mother to a daughter. They were written from Grandma to your dear mama. When Grandma died, your papa gave them to me, a thoughtful, generous gesture, so very typical of that good man. It is a humble project of mine to translate them for you. I hope you approve.’
I pull a thin, crisp sheet from its envelope. Across one side is bold Cyrillic script. Aunt Zina is milking these dry pages for something that a mother should give a daughter because, whatever it is, she knows my mother could not give it to me. The paper crackles a little between my fingers and the sound seems to resonate painfully in some soft place inside me. Nothing written here can replace a loving maternal touch.
‘Thanks,’ I say quietly. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘The translation will be completed before your departure,’ she assures me. She gestures to her battered Pushkin. ‘I began by translating a little of our greatest Russian poet for you but it soon became clear that my poor English is inadequate.’
Sasha has taken the bundle of letters and is surveying them through his tiny glasses.
‘Is the content interesting?’ he asks.
‘The letters are full of maternal advice which is of the utmost relevance to a young woman.’
Sasha peels away an envelope at random and glances through the letter it contains. ‘Mama, Lucia hardly needs to learn how much flour to put in a piroc,’ he says.
‘Oh, I’d like to learn to make piroc,’ I assure them quickly.
‘The advice takes many different forms,’ Aunt Zina says. ‘Grandma did not like
to use the telephone and preferred to write and it is good that she did so.’
I peer at the impenetrable Cyrillic of another letter as though it’s a code.
‘Let’s see,’ Sasha says. ‘This one is dated June first. My dearest Tanechka… hmmmmm.’ His eyes scan the page. ‘Okay. My dearest little Tanya, there are no words to express my sadness, sadness for myself and for your family and for the poor darling little Nicolai…’
‘Ah, I haven’t yet translated that one. It is the last letter she wrote and it relates to the death of your brother, Lucia. After that Grandma went to stay with your family for a long time.’
‘… But most of all my little one, for you. Only a mother who has lost a son can understand your grief and…’ Sasha shrugs and pauses. ‘Oh I don’t know. Toska.’
‘Unhappiness?’ suggests Aunt Zina.
‘Not strong enough. Anguish? You get the gist, Lucia.’
‘Yup.’ Inexplicably my throat is lumpen.
‘Now you will watch other children, even trees, grow to maturity and as you watch them you will think with grief of the great man your Nicolai might have become… Good God, Lucia, what prose style the babushka had. Now, let’s see… I will come and when you can talk you can tell me how this terrible… catastrophe, accident, occurred and when you have told me you can… tell me again. Because you see, when I lost my beloved Pasha I will never forget my horror. The expression on the face of the railway official who said the baby was dead and he must remove his body from my arms. I cannot now think of the emptiness of my hands when he had taken my son’s perfect small body away. I wanted to walk up and down the train wailing and telling everyone of my loss and again on the boat and then the same when I arrived in this America. I wanted to tell everyone in America about my son and how he had died…’
Sasha breaks off and looks at me mischievously. ‘To tell you the truth, Lucia, I think she did. We certainly had to hear about it often enough.’
‘My mother suffered much at the loss of Tanya’s son,’ says Aunt Zina. ‘She behaved as though her own son had died all over again. Frankly, we were glad when she left to join your family. There is no doubt that Tanya needed her.’
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