Summertime

by Elizabeth Rigbey

  I get up and stand at the window and turn my back on Ralph and Mrs Joseph so they won’t see me cry.

  ‘Did Ricky know?’ I sob. ‘When I met him here as a kid? Did Robert know?’

  ‘No one knew except for me. And Ralph, of course.’

  ‘I know everything,’ says Ralph shamelessly. ‘I eavesdrop. But I don’t tell what I hear.’

  ‘When did Ricky find out?’

  ‘Oh…’ Mrs Joseph thinks. ‘Maybe he was eighteen or so. Barbara wanted him to understand and she thought she could trust him with the information. She told him on the condition that he had no contact with you.’

  He kept the bargain. Nobody could have tried harder to repulse me than Ricky. I remember how he hissed at me by the tow truck. I say: ‘I think he hates me.’ Involuntarily I cover my ear.

  ‘I don’t agree. It did take him a long time to come to terms with the situation. He was always a difficult boy. Barbara had a lot of trouble with him when he was an adolescent. But he’s married to a lovely girl called Martha now and they have the sweetest baby.’

  ‘Baby Jordan,’ Ralph tells me helpfully. He’s happier now the room’s emotional climate is more temperate but not happy enough to take off his hat.

  ‘Martha converted the barn into a gallery and she’s doing real well. Ricky has inherited his mother’s land and some capital and he can always earn money fixing things because he has gifted hands. He paints well too. I like him now, very much. He’s spent a lot of time here.’

  Ricky Marcello. He stole my father and then he stole the Josephs. All the years I was exiled, he was feeding off their laughter and comradeship.

  I haven’t even turned around but Mrs Joseph seems to know from my back what I’m thinking.

  ‘Don’t be bitter, Lucy. Your father was always there for you when you needed him.’

  Daddy, I thought you were the rock in my ocean but now I recall you as a series of absences. The father who wasn’t here when kids called at the house and Mother was psychotic. The father who couldn’t be found when Mrs Zacarro came looking for Lindy that evening. The father who took field trips. The father who betrayed us, not because he lied, but because he didn’t tell the truth.

  I feel an arm slip around me, tender but timid. It is Ralph. He has stood up and crossed the room without making a sound.

  ‘Are you going to forgive him, Lucy?’ he says.

  I sniff. ‘Maybe.’

  I feel the arm disengage itself and when I next turn around, Ralph has gone. Mrs Joseph is alone at the table. She is watching me, straight-backed, sharp-eyed.

  ‘There’s no reason to be jealous of Ricky,’ she says.

  ‘How can I not be? When they were together they were like a real family. Two parents who loved each other and their son. I’m jealous of that.’

  ‘You had a lot of love too. Your mother may not always have known how to express it or even show it but she loves you.’

  If Jane is right that Mother killed her baby, the consequences of her actions now seem even more immense. In one exhausted, desperate moment she lost her baby, her mind and her husband.

  ‘Poor Mother,’ I say softly. ‘Poor, poor Mother. It’s taken years, but recently I’ve stopped feeling mad at her and started to understand her.’

  Mrs Joseph beams at me. ‘Really, Lucy? I’m proud of you for that.’

  Ralph has reappeared outside the window, hovering across the lawn like a humming bird around some big flowers which seem to shout their magnificence.

  Mrs Joseph asks: ‘Will you go see her before you leave?’

  ‘My last visit wasn’t too successful.’

  ‘Will you try again?’

  So many visits have begun in hope and ended in disaster. I am cautious. ‘Mother’s completely unpredictable.’

  ‘If you feel differently about her now,’ Mrs Joseph says, ‘maybe you should tell her so. Maybe she’ll feel different too.’

  A warmth spreads over me when I think of the tiny figure dropping a rose into Daddy’s grave. She is a victim, a victim of circumstances and a victim of her own passionate nature. She lost Daddy years ago to Barbara but not all of him. He continued to visit her, to care for her needs, to support her and, who knows, maybe to love her. Now, apart from Jane and me, she is pitifully alone.

  ‘Will you go?’ asks Mrs Joseph.

  I say: ‘Yes.’

  36

  I plan to go to Redbush clinic at the end of the afternoon. Before that I’ll go to the beach house and before that to the San Strana valley. I have a small gift for Ricky Marcello waiting back at Daddy’s house.

  The gift is lying right on the desk.

  Larry appears at the door of the den. He looks hot and tired.

  I tuck the file under my arm and pick up the folder of letters for Scott.

  ‘I have to go out again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The file that’s been worrying me. I’ve found out where it belongs. Then I’m going to give some stuff to Scott. Then I’m going to say goodbye to Mother.’

  ‘Well, I’ve made you a sandwich. French cheese in real French bread. Aren’t you going to eat it before you go?’ He looks grumpy at the prospect of the uneaten sandwich.

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  I follow him into the kitchen. He slides the sandwich towards me and pours us water.

  ‘It’s too hot in that barn now we have the lights,’ he complains. ‘I don’t know how those guys stand it, it’s worse than the heatwave. They don’t even eat any lunch. I guess they’re a lot younger than me.’

  I ask: ‘Is that man still hanging around outside your apartment?’

  ‘Yes. I wish I could get Kirsty more worked up about it.’

  We eat silently. Whenever I’m alone with Larry I don’t know what to say to him. We talk about the heatwave, how it is not only ending but forecasters are predicting rain tomorrow. Then we fall silent again.

  ‘So where are you going with that file, Lucy?’ he asks at last. ‘Into town?’

  ‘To the San Strana valley.’

  He nods and tears at his sandwich. ‘I haven’t been out there in a few years. Last time was with you guys. We met you for lunch at some place by the river.’

  By that time Stevie had been born. The white, wooden restaurant was the same, the river was the same, we ordered eggs Benedict, but it was different with a baby. Stevie’s ceaseless demands and complaints turned the whole experience into an ordeal.

  ‘Who are you seeing in San Strana?’ he asks.

  I hadn’t planned on telling anyone but Jane about Ricky Marcello but I guess Larry has to know sooner or later. I say: ‘My brother. My half-brother, to be precise.’

  It’s nice to shock Larry. He has trained himself to control his reactions but now he freezes, sandwich in his mouth, his eyes wide and I enjoy my brief power over him. As I tell him about Daddy’s other life my words are punctuated by his incredulity.

  ‘And we never guessed. We never even suspected… Have you ever seen the guy? Have you met him?’

  I do not plan to reveal any of my recent encounters with Ricky, here or at San Strana or Big Brim or outside Larry’s own apartment. Not until I understand them better. I say: ‘I might have glimpsed him at the cemetery when we were burying Daddy.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ says Larry. ‘Real sad. He should have been a leading participant at his father’s funeral, not skulking around in the graveyard trying to catch a glimpse of the coffin.’

  For the first time it occurs to me that maybe Ricky hangs around Jane’s apartment because he shares something of the Schaffers’ loneliness. Suddenly he seems no longer like a large, dark, threatening man but an isolated figure, seeking sisters then running away from them whenever he gets too close.

  I stand up to go. Larry says: ‘I don’t know how Jane is going to react to this news. I’d like to phone her and talk to her about it right now.’ Maybe Larry is hungry for the same power he gave me a few minutes ago, the power to shock.

  When I
get to San Strana the garage looks closed again but the Marcello Gallery is open. I pull right in like a regular customer. There is parking in a large gravel lot near the barn. The lot is ringed by bright garden flowers. Beyond are the immense, scaly trunks of old trees. High in one is the remains of a treehouse.

  The gallery has the large windows of a modern space but the rough timber and high roof of a barn. Inside, the sun fills it. There is a woman working at a desk in one corner. She brushes her long hair over her shoulder and smiles when I walk in.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Feel free to wander around. Ask me about anything that interests you.’

  I recognize her as the woman who picked up the baby and held it over her head. And sure enough there is movement at her feet and a baby, fat and dribbling, emerges from under the desk. He waves a brightly painted wooden toy. Probably it’s one of Gregory Hifeld’s.

  ‘Oh, he won’t bother you,’ says the woman, following my stare. The baby smiles. He crawls towards me. I back off. I haven’t held a baby for three years.

  The paintings are mostly big and bright. There are a couple by Barbara Marcello. They contain a hundred shades of green. When the woman sees me studying them she approaches me. She is so tall she seems to sway a little when she walks.

  ‘Are you familiar with the work of Barbara Marcello?’ she asks.

  ‘No. But these are nice.’

  ‘This is where Barbara Marcello lived and worked all her life: her family farmed in the San Strana valley. Her son has quite a few of her pieces but the rest are out there and they’re rising in value fast. I buy back when I can. I’m trying to turn this gallery into a showplace for her work, but…’ She grimaces. ‘They sell too quickly.’

  Another picture attracts me. When I’ve looked at it for long enough I realize the attraction is recognition. It shows the view from Daddy’s house. The valley, the orchards, the intersection.

  I point to it and the woman says: ‘That’s by her son, Eric Marcello. You can see there’s a similarity of style.’

  ‘Is he here?’ I ask.

  She looks at me uncertainly.

  ‘You want to meet Ricky?’

  ‘I’ve already met him a few times.’

  The baby approaches and tries to pull himself to his feet on the long skirt of his mother. She stoops and picks him up.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asks me as the baby curves against her, the way babies do, tucking its soft head into her shoulder and peering at me from behind the safety of her arm.

  ‘Lucy Schaffer.’

  Her face has the beauty of perfect symmetry but I see it harden against me now as though she just slammed a door.

  She sighs. ‘Why did you come here?’

  ‘I have to talk to him.’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  ‘There are a lot of questions. He can answer them.’

  ‘You don’t need them answered. Go back to New York and get on with your banking.’

  ‘I can’t do that. It’s like there’s a row of tin soldiers and when Daddy died, maybe before Daddy died, the first one fell over and now they’re all falling and there’s nothing anyone can do.’

  The gallery door opens with a quaint squeak and Ricky walks in. When he sees me he glares and lingers in the doorway.

  ‘I thought I recognized your car. Would you just get the hell out of here?’ He is aggressive but his tone is milder today, maybe because he has noticed the baby clinging nervously to its mother.

  I hold out a thick green file.

  ‘I’m leaving California. I brought you something you wanted.’

  He takes it gingerly.

  ‘It’s Daddy’s oil royalties. That’s what you were looking for, right? The first time the guys towing back the Oldsmobile disturbed you. The second time you couldn’t find it. You figured that I had it with me but, the third time, when you tried to sneak into the den, I was sitting right there so you ran. You want it, so here it is.’

  He glances down at the file but only for a moment. His stare is fixed on me.

  I say: ‘I know you’re my brother.’

  The silence which falls in the room is brief and penetrating.

  Eventually Ricky looks at the woman for guidance but her face is still closed and she turns away from him. The baby holds out his hands and whines for his father. Ricky takes him, tenderly, into his arms. Satisfied, the baby smiles at me broadly.

  ‘Listen,’ says Ricky. ‘Dad didn’t want you here. He didn’t ever bring you here. He didn’t ever tell you about us. That’s because he didn’t want you to know. And he made me promise never to make contact. I like to keep my goddamn promises but God knows he didn’t tell me what to do if you kept sneaking around here.’

  ‘You kept your promise as well as you could,’ I say. ‘Now you have to let me in.’

  He looks to the woman again but she has turned her back and walked right away from us, shaking her head a little. She sits down at the desk and tries to look busy.

  A car pulls into the lot outside.

  ‘You better come into the house,’ he instructs me brusquely. ‘This kind of thing has to be bad for business.’

  When the barn door has closed behind us he says: ‘Look, go away, for Chrissake.’

  ‘Somehow,’ I say, ‘I never imagined a brother talking to me the way you do.’

  He sighs and, with the baby still in his arms, walks back into the house. And, although he doesn’t invite me in, he leaves the door open and I follow him.

  I recognize the particular disorder of the kitchen right away. Baby mess. Drawers open and their contents pulled on to the floor, toys, food all around the high chair, bottles, crusts.

  ‘Here, Jordan,’ says Ricky, putting the baby down on the floor amid his toys. Jordan ignores the toys and starts to examine a pair of shoes. I peer at him jealously. Daddy’s second grandson. I hope Daddy didn’t love him more than he loved his first.

  Ricky is busy in one corner. He still doesn’t say anything. When he turns around I see he has made us both coffee. He pushes mine across the table to me and gestures for me to sit down.

  ‘It’s okay, it doesn’t have arsenic in it,’ he says. He sits back and almost smiles. ‘The police interviewed me last week.’

  ‘How did they know about you?’

  ‘My fingerprints were all over Dad’s house. And you have to give your prints to get your tow truck certificate. When that patrolman said he saw Dad in the tow truck he pretty well led them right to me.’

  ‘They knew all about you?’

  ‘Yup. And they knew I was there Sunday afternoon and that you were there too. I told them everything.’

  I redden.

  ‘So,’ he says, stretching his long body. ‘So, who told you about me? The Zac? Adam Holler never would.’

  ‘I worked it out. You were right to go looking for that file, it was the only link between us. There was no reference to you anywhere in the house, no pictures, nothing, but the file showed that, around about the time you were born, Daddy stopped receiving his oil royalties. When I was tracing them, I found you.’

  Expressionless, he reaches out for the file. He opens it.

  ‘Simms-Roeder,’ he mutters, pulling out one sheet at random. ‘Simms-Roeder put me through college and a lot else besides.’

  Jordan has crawled over to my feet now. I can feel his small hands on me. I move my legs back under my chair.

  ‘You probably hated us,’ I say. ‘I mean, Jane and me.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agrees amicably. ‘When I learned that you were Dad’s first family and that he’d fitted us in around your glee club gatherings and your summer camp, yes, I guess I hated you for that.’ He pauses. ‘But, I had this terrific mother. I caused her a lot of worry and I feel bad about that now. But she was terrific and yours was locked-up crazy. So I think I didn’t draw such a bad ticket in the big raffle.’

  He is relaxed. His tone is lazy. His long legs rest on a chair. I am irritated that he has access to my family history without
any of its burdens and I watch my coffee as though it might do something remarkable. When Ricky speaks again, his voice is kinder.

  ‘I guess it was real tough on you having that kind of a mom. When did she go crazy?’

  ‘Right after her baby died. I was four.’

  Jordan crawls over to him and he bends down and gently hands the baby some keys. Jordan grabs them and puts as many into his mouth as he can. Ricky strokes his son’s hair. Something in the gesture, an affection, a gentleness, touches me. He looks up, waiting for me to say more.

  ‘I was in a canyon in Arizona. Daddy and Jane and I went into the canyon to look for rocks and as usual Daddy got way ahead. I fell and hurt my arm and Jane went on to get help and eventually I made my own way out and there they were, Mother and Daddy and Jane. They were standing on the blacktop and it was so gooey with the heat I thought it was going to evaporate, Mother and Daddy and Jane along with it. And Mother was yelling. Crazy yelling.’

  I try to remember her words. I close my eyes and I’m stumbling towards the canyon’s mouth, my arm throbbing, the heat clogging whatever mechanism makes you walk, whatever makes you think, and there’s a voice, so loud and high-pitched that it seems to have been drawn from the fierceness of the sun. I look for her words. I try to intercept them, I reach for them but they wound me and then escape.

  ‘You mean… that was it?’ Ricky asks. ‘Just that?’

  I send myself back to Arizona one more time, the blacktop sizzles again, heat ricochets off the rocks once more but her words still evade me.

  ‘I don’t remember what she was saying. But the tone of her voice wasn’t like any tone I’d heard before.’

  Ricky rearranges himself a little. ‘So, you went into this canyon and she was okay. And you came out and she was insane?’

  ‘That’s the way it seemed to me.’

  ‘Something must have happened.’

  ‘Her baby had died just a few weeks earlier. I guess her grief must have reached boiling point right out there in the sun.’