Adam's Peak (8 page)

“Rudy? I haven't seen you in ages.”

The Scottish accent is a surprise. He'd forgotten it, along with other quirky things about Mrs. Fraser that used to captivate him in a confusingly sexual way when he was a kid—the fiery hair, the makeup, the pretty clothes. Though he understood her relationship to Clare, it was always difficult to imagine Isobel Fraser as a mother.

He pulls his right hand from his pocket and waves. “Hi, Mrs. Fraser. It's been a few years at least.”The
Mrs. Fraser
sounds ridiculous; she can't be more than forty-five. But she doesn't correct him.

At the edge of the road he stops, while she, on her side, does the same. A sensible position, Rudy thinks. With Morgan Hill Road between them, it's easier to avoid the urn, not to mention the fact that
in almost twenty years of living across the street from each other, he and his neighbour have almost never spoken.

“Is your family together for Christmas?” she says.

He's forgotten about Christmas. “Oh. Yeah. My sister and her family are here, and my aunt's out for her visit.”

He wonders if she has any idea where his aunt is visiting
from
—if she even knows where the place is. Renée didn't, though she tried to hide it. But Mrs. Fraser, he sees, is smiling and nodding in a way that seems entirely genuine.

“Oh, that's lovely. I must say, I always envied your aunt every time she went back home. I've dreamed of going to that part of the world ever since I was a girl.”

“Really?”

“Oh, aye. I think it would be marvellous. The lovely beaches, the temples ...”

Touristy stuff, he thinks, but still. It seems to him suddenly preposterous that Mrs. Fraser has never been inside his house, never had a cup of tea with his aunt. He takes a small step forward.

“You should go sometime.”

“I should, shouldn't I. Well, maybe when things here are a bit more settled.” She shifts the urn in her arms.

Grateful for the opening, Rudy clears his throat. “I was really sorry to hear about your husband. Is everything all ... I mean, is there anything ...”

She shakes her head. “Thank you, pet. It was a terrible shock, but we're managing quite well. It just takes time, doesn't it.”

Pet
, he repeats to himself, nodding. She's speaking to him as if for all these years the Vantwests and the Frasers have been regular neigh-bours. He glances back at his own house. Through the living room window he can make out his brother, tossing Zoë up in the air. Adam's build is slender, but he's a swimmer, lean and strong.

“I shouldn't keep you,” Mrs. Fraser says. “I heard Mary calling you in.”

“Yeah. I should probably go.”

“Well, it was lovely chatting with you, Rudy.”

“You too.”

“You're still living in Toronto?”

“For a while anyway. I've got a teaching job in North York.”

“Oh, that's wonderful! Well, best of luck with it.”

“Thanks.”

He wonders if he should wish her a Merry Christmas, but a final glance at the urn dismisses the idea. He waves again then turns and retraces his steps through the snow and up the concrete stairs to the front door. With his hand on the latch he looks back to see Mrs. Fraser disappear behind her own door. His eyes travel to the upstairs windows of the Fraser house, and there, in the middle window, he catches Clare Fraser's pale, pretty face, turning away from him then vanishing altogether.
Odd duck
, he thinks. And yet he watches a few seconds longer to see if she'll return. He wants her to—wants her to come back and just be there. But she doesn't. One last time he meets the vacant stare of the house across the street, then he goes inside.

Christmas lunch is almost ready. The counter is crowded with Aunty's special dishes, and the air is heavy with the competing smells of curry spices and turkey. While Aunty and Susie fuss over last-minute details, Dad and Mark drink arrack and talk hockey. Down on the floor, Zoë struggles with the lid of an empty Tupperware container. Adam is rummaging through a drawer; Jim Reeves is still singing. Rudy hovers in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, staring out the front window. In all the noise and confusion of his own house, it seems suddenly impossible that across the street Mrs. Fraser has just disposed of her husband's ashes. But she did. He was there. He could even say that, in a way, he was part of it.

“Found them!” Adam suddenly calls out. “Christmas oven mitts! I told you they were in here, Aunty.”

“Very good, son. Now take the turkey out before it dries up.”

Adam pulls on the mitts—ridiculous, ruffled things with reindeer on them—opens the oven door with a flourish, and slides out the rack on which the turkey pan sits. The bird is greeted with noisy enthusiasm. Adam lifts the pan and stands with it while Aunty Mary clears a patch of counter space and the others shuffle aside. Then, from the archway, Rudy sees Zoë race toward the oven on hands and
knees. He guesses what she's going to do, but he's a kitchen's length away from her. His father is closest.

“Dad!” he shouts. “Get Zoë!”

Alec looks down, and as the baby's arms stretch upward, her eyes fixed on the oven rack, he calls to her.

“Zoë! Don't touch!”

Zoë's hands grasp the rack, and the kitchen is shaken by her scream. She topples over and strikes her head on the linoleum. Rudy winces.

Susie cries, “Oh my God!” and shoves past Aunty Mary to get to her wailing daughter. She gathers Zoë in her arms and struggles to open the child's clenched hands—calmly at first, but as Zoë's screams become more and more desperate, she snaps. “Dada, what were you thinking? She can't hear! She's—Oh God, never mind. Mark! Do something, for God's sake. Don't just stand there!”

Mark flounders. Aunty says, “Butter” and goes to the fridge.

Rudy is staring at the far kitchen door, through which his father has just disappeared, silently, unnoticed by the others. Startled back by his aunt's suggestion, he calls “No!” and heads for the sink. But his brother is way ahead of him. Throwing off the reindeer mitts, Adam crouches next to Susie with a bowl of water, into which he plunges the baby's hands. Zoë's screams taper off to sobs.

“Somebody get the bag of peas out of the freezer,” Adam says. “She's getting a bump on her head.”

Mark gets the peas and drops to his daughter's level, nudging Adam out of the way. Adam doesn't seem to mind. He offers to search for some first aid spray in the bathroom.

“Thanks, Addy,” Susie calls after him. “And turn off the damn music, would you? It's driving me crazy.”

Rudy steps aside to let his brother pass. Dad, he notices, hasn't reappeared. He knows where he is, of course, and as the commotion in the kitchen dies down he goes there, ambivalently.

From the trophy room, a shaft of lamplight cuts across the dim hallway. The small room is the place that houses Alec Vantwest's past—the cricket trophies and English literature classics from his days at Trinity College Kandy, the old black and white photos taken at Grandpa's tea estate, even a wooden tea chest, once used to ship
family belongings from Colombo to Montreal. A puzzling room, Rudy thinks, given his father's aversion to the past, but on the other hand everything in the room is neatly shelved or framed, kept in its place, and it's possible to imagine that this museum-like containment is a comfort. At the moment, Alec, curator of the trophy room's artifacts, is sitting in the armchair next to the tea chest reading table, staring at the wall of photographs.

Rudy raises his hand to the half-open door then lowers it. He knows what will happen if he enters the trophy room with words of consolation. His father will rise from the chair and put a hand on his shoulder. He'll say, “Thank you, son,” all the while looking not directly at Rudy but somewhere just off to the side, as if he were blind, or Rudy were invisible. Then he'll pour himself a drink, maybe offer Rudy one as well, and go to the bookshelves, where he'll examine the spines of his books with a show of great interest. And that will be that.

Seeing Aunty and Mark carrying dishes to the dining room, Rudy steps away from the door. He suspects it isn't sympathy or understanding his father wants—not his, anyway—and with this in mind he returns sullenly to the kitchen to help with the food.

At Christmas lunch he sits next to Mark. Dad has appeared, thankfully, though he had to be called to the table three times. Zoë seems fine. Seated in her high chair, she clutches a wet cloth in her hands and sucks on it. The turkey has been carved, the curries uncovered. The dining room is so cramped and the food so plentiful that the windows of the china cabinet are steamed up. In the living room, Jim Reeves has been replaced by Andy Williams.

“We should have a toast,” says Aunty, last to take her place. “Who would like to do that? Adam?”

Adam nods and raises his glass of rosé. “I'd like to propose a toast to Aunty Mary, for carrying on the old traditions and for keeping our stomachs satisfied over the holidays. Merry Christmas!”

Rudy clinks his glass against Mark's, while underneath the table his right heel taps and his left hand forms a tight, aimless fist.

“And God bless us all,” Aunty adds. “Now, eat, eat. The food will get cold.”

Rudy drinks down half his glass. As he piles his plate, conversations begin around the table and the useless tension in his arm gradually subsides. He glances at his father and clears his throat.

“So, Dad, I hear Australia's set to wallop England in the test match.”

“What's that? Oh, yes.”

“Are you gonna watch?”

“Mmm? No, no.”

“Do you think the English have had it in the cricketing world?”

“I suppose so.”

Rudy catches his aunt's eye and shrugs. Aunty turns to her brother.

“Alec, you must tell me what you think of the beef. They didn't have all the proper spices at the supermarket. No mustard seed, only the powder. And no green chilis.”

“I'm sure it's fine, Mary.”

“Ah, but just fine isn't good enough. Try it and tell me.”

“It's delicious. Same as always.”

Suddenly, across the table from Rudy, Adam clinks his fork against his glass.

“I'd like to say something,” he announces, “so that we can all enjoy our lunch more.”

Turning to Dad, he continues. “About Zoë's accident. Dada, it wasn't your fault. I think you're feeling badly about what happened, but no one is blaming you. You didn't have time to grab her. It was an accident. Right, Susie?”

Susie nods. “Everything's fine, Dada. Little ones fall and burn themselves all the time.”

Rudy watches his father uneasily. A public announcement isn't what he'd have wanted. He would feel trapped. But Adam has never understood how to deal with Dad.

His expression unchanged, Alec swallows then sets his fork on his plate. “I appreciate your concern, Adam. But I think the root of the accident was that the child was left unsupervised. She should have been with Susie.”

At this, Susie's eyes widen. “Dada, I can't watch her every second! I was helping Aunty with dinner.”

“And besides,” Adam adds, “I was the one watching Zoë. Susie asked me to.”

Rudy stares into his plate, willing his brother to shut up.

“It's just as I said,” Dad answers. “Zoë should have been with
Susie
.”

The reply—the particular emphasis on Susie—hangs over the table like the heavy clouds looming outside.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Adam says, his voice level.

Rudy shuts his eyes. If he had his brother's nerve, he'd speak up. “You know exactly what it means,” he'd say. “You know precisely where this conversation is likely to end up, and you're going there anyway.” Instead, he listens while Adam carries on.

“I don't get it, Dad. Are you saying I'm not capable of looking after Zoë? It's true I wasn't right with her when the accident happened, but I was holding the turkey for Aunty. I don't think it was any more my fault than it was yours.”

Here it comes
, Rudy thinks. He looks at his father, whose face is now set in an expression of solemn concern.

“I take full responsibility for not intercepting the child sooner, and I apologize to Susie for that.” Dad nods in Susie's direction. “But we are talking about a handicapped child who needs to be watched at all times, and I am simply suggesting that her mother—or her father—is a better person for that role than a boy who—”

“Alec!” Aunty Mary cuts him off. “Don't spoil the lunch. You're feeling upset about Zoë's accident and you're blaming everyone else. The thing is over now. Don't think about it.”

“Who what?” Adam insists.

Rudy catches the faint sound of a skating needle. His father does-n't answer. What could he say, really? That Zoë shouldn't be left in the care of a young man who blows off a biology scholarship in order to take up history? That a young man who goes for long motorcycle rides with another young man shouldn't be allowed to babysit? No. Observing the slight tremor in his father's hands as he runs his fingers along the edge of the table, Rudy detects an uneasiness. Dad would rather call it quits, go back to small talk. But Adam doesn't see this.

“What's this really about, Dad? Is it about my babysitting abilities, or the rest of my life?” When Dad fails to answer, he presses
stubbornly on. “I know you're upset about my new plans, but I can't change them. I know I made the right decision. Biology just wasn't my thing. It's not what I'm meant to do.” He pauses. “And if you're talking about my sexual orientation, that's not a choice. It's like Zoë's deafness.”

The word
sexual
sends Aunty Mary into a panic. “Adam! Such talk! You and your father are spoiling the lunch. Look—everyone has stopped eating.”