“Shay.”
“Hi, Shay. Where’s your brother?”
The boy looked at him shyly. “I don’t know,” he said.
Anton tossed off the covers. “Let’s go find out, shall we?” He slipped out of bed, glanced at his watch, and groaned when he realized the time. So much for good intentions. He was obviously going to get off to a later start than he’d planned, and would have to deal with Bradley’s wrath. But first he had to turn his attention back to the boy, who was asking him something. “What’s that, buddy?” he said.
“Are you Santa Claus?” the boy repeated.
“Am I—what?” Anton let out a guffaw. “Why . . . what makes you think that?”
The boy cocked his head. “Ralph said you came down the chimney.”
“Ralph’s your brother?”
“Yeah.”
Anton tousled Shay’s hair. “Let’s go ask him, then.”
They found Ralph in the kitchen with Carine, who was making pancakes. “Ho, ho, ho,” Anton said as he walked in, and Carine raised her eyebrows.
He shook his head. “Never mind. It’s an inside joke.” He bent from the waist to shake hands with Ralph, who hid behind Carine. “You been a good boy, Ralph?”
Carine shot him a puzzled look and then gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Good morning. I didn’t know whether to wake you up or not. You were sleeping so soundly that I didn’t have the heart.”
He made a rueful face. “Can’t remember the last time I slept in. The weather here is messing with me.”
“This place is in your blood, boy, it’s in your blood.” Carine smiled as she brushed past him to open the refrigerator. “You hungry?” she asked.
He was. Ravenously hungry. The two boys watched in fascination as he ate the two fried eggs and three pancakes on his plate and then drank a tall glass of orange juice. Carine nibbled on some toast, a bemused look on her face. “You’re right,” she said. “Georgia agrees with you.”
“I figured since I’m Santa, I got to be fat,” he said, winking at the boys.
Carine looked from one to the other. “What’re you talking about?”
“Oh, it’s our secret,” he said. “Right?”
The twins shuffled in their seats and giggled. “You’re not Santa,” Ralph drawled. “You’re Uncle Anton. And you’re nice.”
Anton laughed, but he felt a sting in his heart. Uncle Anton sounded so distant. Carine looked up. “So you gotta leave soon?”
He nodded and Shay squealed. “I don’t want him to,” he cried.
“Yeah. Me, neither. I want him to stay,” Ralph said.
“Hey, hey. Behave,” Carine said, wagging her finger at them. She turned toward him. “Sorry. They don’t usually act like this. I think they just miss their dad.”
“Don’t be. I’m flattered. They’re . . . they’re beautiful boys.”
“Thanks.” Carine spoke gently to the twins. “Uncle Anton lives far away. He needs to get home, kids. Maybe next summer we can go see him . . .”
“I want him to come see my play,” Shay screamed.
“Me, too,” Ralph wailed.
Anton frowned, looking at Carine. “What play?”
She shrugged dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a local theater group they’re in. They have a performance this evening.”
“I’m a lollipop,” Shay yelled.
“And I’m a cheese.”
Anton had never felt the joy of having children fight over him; even the knowledge that they simply saw him as a substitute for their father didn’t diminish his pleasure. He wanted to spend some more time with these kids. Carine’s children.
“I’ll go to their play with you,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay an extra day. If you’ll have me.”
Carine’s eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked like she would argue with him. But her face softened, as if she’d read something in his eyes. “If you won’t get into trouble, we’d love to have you. The concert is at five.”
Shay did a cartwheel on the tiled kitchen floor in celebration, while Ralph simply high-fived Anton. “You’ve obviously wormed your way into my children’s hearts,” Carine said wryly, and although he replied with a self-deprecating “Yeah, I’m a one-day wonder,” Anton glowed with pleasure.
She eyed him critically. “Tell you what. Either we go out and buy you some clothes this afternoon, or you slip into Mike’s bathrobe after your shower and let me wash what you have on.”
He stayed alone in the house with the kids for a couple of hours while she drove to Penney’s to buy him a pair of jeans and a shirt. After the boys went to take their afternoon nap, he wandered around the house, feeling more at home in this warm, sunlit house with the African wall hangings and paintings than he ever had in his minimalist condo with its strange blend of expensive artwork and IKEA furnishings. He looked for things to fix, his way of thanking Carine for giving him this respite from his life. He would pay a heavy price for the callous disregard of his responsibilities back home, but each time he remembered David’s treachery, he felt a fresh outrage that threatened to destroy everything associated with his father. And so he paced, making a mental list of chores he could perform, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t turned on his phone, dreading the assault of voicemails and texts that he knew awaited him.
He was fixing a leaky faucet in the guest bathroom when Carine returned home. He met her in his bedroom, the wrench still in his hand. He gasped when she entered the bedroom with boxes piled high. “I only gave you, like, sixty bucks. What’s all this?”
She set the boxes down on his bed. “They had a great sale. I got a little carried away,” she said. “I’m sure you can use the shirts on the campaign trail or something.”
He smiled ruefully. “I wish,” he said.
“Huh?”
“We have this guy on the payroll. He’s some sartorial expert. He decides what I wear on the trail.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He shook his head. “I wish.”
Carine opened her mouth and then shut it. She stared at him, those dark eyes probing his face. Then she smiled and pointed to the wrench. “I didn’t know you were handy.”
He knew she was changing the subject, and he let her. He didn’t really want to explain the state of modern campaigning to Carine. He smiled back. “I’ve picked up a few skills over the years,” he said vaguely.
An hour before they were to leave for the concert, he texted Brad. “Coming home tomorrow,” he wrote. “Sorry. I just need a few days away to think. Will explain everything when I return. Can you let Katherine know?” He knew what he was doing was cowardly, unfair, and potentially fatal to his campaign and to his relationship with Katherine, but at the moment, going to a concert to see two little boys dressed as a lollipop and a piece of cheese seemed like the most important thing in the world.
So that when Carine said to him on the drive, “What if someone recognizes you?,” he could smile broadly and say, “I really don’t care.” And mean it.
MIKE CALLED FROM Afghanistan on Sunday morning, and Carine excused herself to take the call in the bedroom. A few minutes later, she called for the boys to join her, and Anton could hear them squealing with joy, jumping up and down as they told him all about their play. Hearing their chatter interrupted by “I love you, Daddy,” Anton felt like an intruder, a man with his nose pressed against the window of someone else’s happiness. The contentment that he had felt during the play and the ride back here vanished completely. Carine’s home was a borrowed sanctuary, he knew, but was his real life back home anything more than that? Out of the blue, Anton remembered an evening at the Cape when he was a teenager. The sun had set, and he and Pappy were out on the front deck, watching the dark, stormy waves, when a lone gull flew across the water. “The ocean looks lonely tonight,” Pappy had murmured, but Anton had thought: At least the waves have each other for company; the poor seagull is truly alone, and his heart had ached with a reciprocal loneline
ss. Standing by himself in Carine’s kitchen, Anton remembered that seagull. In order to block out the happy murmur of their conversation, he began to rinse the dishes in the sink from last night’s pasta dinner.
Carine was glowing when she reentered the kitchen ten minutes later. “Everything all right?” he asked politely.
She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Yes. Mike says hi.”
“You told him. About my being here.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
He heard what she was saying—that he was no threat to her marriage. And that she had reassured her husband of the same by not keeping the visit a secret. He felt his cheeks flushing as the differences in their approaches became obvious to him. “He sounds like a good guy,” he said vaguely, aware that Carine was still looking at him.
Her eyes were bright. “He is. The best.”
Anton nodded, and as the silence stretched awkwardly between them, he went back to rinsing the dishes. Carine began to chop the spinach for the omelets she was making. After a few moments she said, “So what’s the plan for today? You need to head back?”
He considered the question. Even if he left soon, it would be late afternoon to early evening before he got home. He imagined walking into his modern, sterile condo, and his heart sank at the thought. Katherine would probably come over, but then there’d be the inevitable questions about where he’d been and what his mother was like. And he knew he wasn’t ready for the questions. He needed time, time and a healthy distance to process what Georgia had done to him. And Brad would do what any good campaign manager would—he’d ask Anton to compartmentalize, to put aside all of the turmoil, until after the election. A week ago, he would’ve agreed with his friend, would have considered it the professional, responsible, adult thing to do. But now he knew the truth—there were no adults. There were just tall children stumbling around the world, walking pools of unfinished hopes, unmet needs, and seething desires. The unsuccessful ones ended up in asylums. The ones who learned to masquerade those needs became politicians. No, his reluctance to return home today was so strong, it felt oppressive, like an overcoat two sizes too small. He wasn’t ready to move from the detonation in his life to figuring out with Katherine whether they should order Thai or Indian for dinner.
He kept his eyes on the soapy water in the sink. “I was thinking of staying another day,” he mumbled. “Unless you want me gone?”
She reached over and turned off the kitchen faucet. “Anton,” she said, her eyes searching his face, “you can stay as long as you want. You know that. But what’s really going on? Are you simply avoiding your dad?”
He bit his lower lip. “I’m tired, Carine. I’ve been working really long hours. This is a good break, that’s all.”
She nodded. “Of course. Well, honey, as you can see, the boys love having you here. Stay as long as you want.” She reached for a pod of garlic from a jar to his right. “The boys have a playdate at a neighbor’s house at four o’clock. I’ll be gone for less than ten minutes to drop them off. Think you can stay out of trouble that long?”
He smiled his gratitude. “I think so.”
“Good,” she said. “Now get me six eggs from the fridge and beat them for me, would you?”
“Yes’m.”
ANTON WAS LYING in the lounge chair in the backyard, a newspaper draped over his face to protect it from the sun, when Carine got home from dropping off the boys. She came up to him and removed the newspaper, and the light from the sun was so fierce that he squinted as he looked up at her. She had on a white cotton dress, and her dark skin glinted in the sunlight. “You look gorgeous,” he said before he could stop himself.
“Why, thank you,” she said lightly. “You, on the other hand, will look like a boiled tomato unless you get out of this heat.”
He laughed and allowed her to pull him out of the chair. She led him into the kitchen, still holding his hand, and let go only to open the refrigerator. She poured two tall glasses of lemonade and handed him one.
“Wow,” he said, smacking his lips. “How’d you learn to make that?”
“How’d I learn to make lemonade?” Carine fixed him with a baleful look. “Shit, Anton, even my kids know how. Didn’t your mama teach you?” Her hand flew to her mouth as soon as the words had left her mouth.
He grinned to show her he wasn’t offended. “No. She didn’t. Though ask me how to fill a crack pipe and I’ll show you.”
He had meant the words jokingly, but they came out bitter, and his voice, harsh. Carine stared at him for a moment and then turned away.
“Hey,” he said, reaching for her wrist. “That was a joke.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. You have the most expressive face.” He waited for her to respond, but she simply made her way into the sunroom. He stood dumbly in the kitchen for a second, sensing her disapproval but unsure what had caused it. Then he followed her and sat on the couch beside her. “What time do the kids come home?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Around eight, I guess. They’re eating dinner at Mary’s.”
He lifted up her wrist with his index finger and then let it drop onto her lap. “You wanna go out for dinner? I’ll buy.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, shook her head as if having an argument with herself, glanced at him, and then opened her mouth again.
“Good God, Carine.” He laughed. “What is it? Spit it out.” Despite his laugh, there was a tightness at the base of his throat.
“Nothing. It’s just that . . . I was thinking. I mean, being a mom myself.” She turned to him, her dark eyes filled with a light he could not name. “Are you still angry with her, Anton? Even after knowing what really happened? Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive her? I know there’s nothing my kids could do that would make me disown them. But is the opposite not always true? Is it possible for you to walk away from her forever? Anton?”
He stiffened, not liking the judgment he heard in Carine’s voice. Most of all, he didn’t appreciate the intrusion of reality on this brief idyll, with the endless moral and ethical questions that he was made to confront each time he thought about the woman he’d left alone in the yellow cottage. He was tired of atoning for other people’s mistakes, he really was.
“It’s complicated, Carine,” he said, unable to keep the patronizing note out of his voice.
But she was having none of it. “What’s complicated? Whether you love your birth mom or not? That seems like the easiest question in the world.”
The easiest question in the world. That was the whole problem, the dilemma he had grappled with his entire life. His analytical mind was an asset when it came to figuring out the constitutional questions that came before him, but the easy questions about love and commitment rendered him mute. This was why he hadn’t proposed yet to Katherine. Why he had left behind an impoverished woman to whom he was the sun and moon and stars. His public record on women’s rights was impeccable. His personal record, not so much.
Something tore in Anton’s chest then. He stared at the tiled floor, unable to look up, feeling his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He sensed that Carine was looking at him, but his gaze felt rooted to that spot on the floor.
Carine took his hand in hers and held it. “You know what I don’t get?” she said softly.
“What?” he whispered, his voice hoarse with shame.
“How you bear it.”
He forced himself to raise his head and look at her. “Bear what?”
“You. How you bear being you.” Carine bit down on her lower lip, and for a second, her eyes looked apologetic. Then they were bright again. “How do you do it, Anton? This . . . self-control. This weird composure. Don’t you ever want to just let it all out? I don’t get it.”
His mouth went dry, but he managed to croak out a laugh he didn’t feel. “What’re you talking about, Carine?”
“I’m talking about the fact that you met your birth mom for the f
irst time in God knows how long, and what did you do? You just left her. Hello and goodbye. You walked away after spending a few hours with her. Even after you found out the truth about her and your . . . dad, you left her, like this was some dinner party you’d attended and you didn’t want to overstay your welcome. And now you’re getting ready to go back—to what? A job you seem to dread? A woman whose phone calls you’ve been ducking for two days? What are you going back to, Anton? But most of all, I want to know this: How do you keep up the facade? Why are you not falling apart, man?”
He was vaguely aware that behind the rhetorical question there lay an insult, a damnation of his entire way of being, but he couldn’t muster up the outrage that he knew he ought to be feeling. He felt pinned, speared into place, by Carine’s eyes. And he was rattled by what he saw in those eyes—not insult, not a desire to injure, but concern. And genuine puzzlement. And so the moment dragged on as he tried to constitute a response, a flippant comeback, maybe, that would lighten the suddenly serious mood in the room, but his mind felt sluggish. The next second his focus shifted from Carine, and he became aware of a thin cord of pain that wrapped around his heart, his throbbing, breaking, splintered heart. For two days he had fought to cover up the memory of the devastation on his mother’s face as he’d taken his leave, a devastation that he was responsible for. He had scuttled out of her house and into Carine’s home, Carine, who had been blissfully welcoming. He had covered up his own pain at the abrupt rending of his time with his mother by his anger at David, by his stealthy avoidance of Katherine and Brad, by his horseplay with Carine’s boys. The last two days, as furtive as they had been, had been a throwback, as if he were still that innocent Harvard boy in love with his fiery, impetuous girlfriend. But to cling to that privileged innocence now was to crawl back into his pristine white world, back to a time when the forces of betrayal and corruption lay on the outside and not within his own family. His entire life had been called into question by the arrival of Juanita’s fateful letter, and yet here he was, sitting in Carine’s home, pretending otherwise. How could he blame David for taking what didn’t belong to him when he, Anton, didn’t have the sense to hold on to what was his for the taking? Why was it that the two times in his life when he had been offered the love of a black woman, he had spurned them both? What was he running away from? More to the point, what was he running toward? A political office that would make him the most powerful man in the state? Hadn’t he already seen—experienced—what that kind of power did to a man? Wasn’t it high time to really figure out how much of his life was his choosing?
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