Seashell Season (23 page)

Chapter 64

V
erity had made spaghetti carbonara for dinner. You know that stupid old sexist saying, “The way to a man's heart is through his stomach”? Well, it's true in my case. The way to my
female
heart is through my stomach, only I never knew it until now. I mean, I've always loved to eat, but it was more to fill a hole than because I actually enjoyed what I was eating, like I do now. Do you know that carbonara sauce has some sort of bacon in it? How amazing is that?

“So, what new and exciting thing happened at work today?” I asked when Verity had taken her seat. She always sits in the same place, in the chair closest to the fridge. When I first came here, I used to sit wherever, but now I always sit in the chair directly across from her.

“Nothing all that new,” she said, “but something kind of exciting.”

“What?”

“I was tidying up the studio, and I came across these two sketches. They must have been done a few weeks ago when we were running that first summer drawing class for adults. I recognized the still life.”

I kind of choked a bit on my pasta. My sketches. “So,” I said when I'd finally swallowed, “what's so exciting about finding some old sketches?”

“What's so exciting is that they're really good, but the thing is, I don't quite recognize them as being from the hand of one of the adult summer students. Or any of the regular art students, for that matter. I asked around a bit in the department, but no one seems to know anything about them. And the hand is distinctive enough that if any of us had seen other work by this person, we'd remember.”

I had a distinctive hand? The sketches were really good? “So, what did you do with them?” I asked casually, pretending less interest than I actually felt.

“I put them aside in a folder. I certainly wouldn't throw them away; they're far too good and show so much promise. I just hope that the artist comes back for them. I might have a prodigy on my hands, if I can persuade him—or her—to take a class. Julia Einstein gives the basic drawing classes, and she does do some private classes if she thinks the person's got real talent and the dedication to develop it.”

Talent
and
dedication
. I'd never thought those words would be used in relation to me. Ever. “What if the person who did the sketches isn't a student at the college?”

Verity shrugged. “I don't see why that should matter one way or the other. But I do wonder how someone not associated with the college could be in my studio.... Anyway, it's a mystery for the moment.”

We went on to talk about other stuff, like how little rain we'd had since summer started (I hadn't noticed of course; East Coast weather is new to me) and how it would affect crop production (a serious thing). Later, when Verity had gone to bed and I had gone to my room, I really gave this question a thought: Why did I leave the sketches behind? Why hadn't I stuffed them into my pocket? Okay, I had heard Verity coming along the hall and I didn't want to be caught messing around with someone else's stuff, so maybe I panicked a bit. But maybe my subconscious mind had
wanted
Verity to find the sketches. I mean, who knows what goes on in the mind! Maybe a part of me realized that the sketches were good, though I don't know
how
I would have known. I mean, I'm no judge of art. Right? The only time I was ever in a museum was on a class trip in fifth grade, I think. We went to a small museum of Native American art. It's funny how clearly I can remember that day and all the things I saw, like the kachina dolls of the Zuni and the Hopi tribes, the painted pots and woven baskets, the intricately carved Navajo silver jewelry. I remember I thought it was all really cool, but no one told us how anything was made or why it was supposed to be “art.” I also remember there was this chunk of polished turquoise in the gift shop and I really wanted it, but I had no money for souvenirs. And no, I didn't for one minute consider stealing it. A small hand-printed cardboard sign by the stone said that turquoise is the stone of health, happiness, and good fortune. I think about that stone a lot.

And I thought again about what Verity told me at the Fourth of July party, how every year on my real birthday in March she goes down to the beach and sort of performs that ritual. Of course I hadn't said anything to her about how I felt hearing that. Like how for half a second I thought, “yeah, right” and then in the next half a second I believed her and wanted to cry. And I thought about the conversation I had with Marion afterward. It was nothing important like what Verity had told me about the birthday messages, but I had kind of enjoyed it anyway. I hadn't known Marion had once been a Boggle champion. Okay, only the champion of the county, but still.

What's up with all these tears?

Chapter 65

I
was stuffing dirty clothes into the washing machine, thinking that maybe I should suggest to Gemma that she do some of our laundry, help out a little around the house, when she appeared.

“Here,” she said. She was holding out a white seashell. “I found this when we were all at the beach on the Fourth. I kind of forgot about it. I think it might work for your collection in the bathroom.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking the offered seashell. “I think it's the perfect size.” I purposely didn't make a big deal out of the gift, but let me tell you, I deeply appreciate it.

“Did I tell you Tom said hi in his note?” Gemma asked.

I poured liquid laundry detergent into its little well and started the machine before answering. “Yes. You did.”

“Oh, okay. I couldn't remember. What did he do for a job?”

We went into the kitchen, Gemma right on my heels.

“He worked for the local power company. He was a lineman for a while and then, when he got older, he drove the trucks rather than climb the poles.”

“Did he go to college?” she asked.

“No.”

“Did your mother work? I mean, did she have a career?”

“No,” I told her. “She was a stay-at-home mom. She did some volunteer work at my grammar school, PTA stuff I think. And she had a friend who lived on the next block. They spent a fair amount of time together, until the woman had to move away because her husband's job got transferred. On the whole, my mother lived a pretty quiet life.”

I had surprised myself by saying so much, especially since Gemma hadn't asked for all that. But maybe Gemma needed to know her family's past, to place herself somewhere in the family history. It wasn't much of a heritage the Petersons or the Burnses had to offer, but it was hers.

Gemma dug into the front pocket of her jeans. “When you said volunteer work, that reminded me. You got a call earlier. Sorry I forgot to mention it. Here, I wrote down the message. Someone from Pine Hill Residence for the Elderly.”

I took the slip of paper Gemma handed me. The message was from another person on the committee to have a signalized crossing where there currently isn't one.

I explained this to Gemma. “The Pine Hill bus takes residents into Yorktide each afternoon so they can shop or simply meet a friend. But closer to the home there's a cute little café where a lot of the residents like to go. The problem is, they have to cross a busy road at their own risk in order to get there. So a bunch of us locals have formed a committee to petition the town council to have a push-button activated stoplight installed.”

“Why do you need a committee?” Gemma asked. “What's the big deal about there being a stoplight?”

“Some people—and I won't name names—who use that road frequently don't want to have to stop to let a person cross the road.”

Gemma laughed. “So they'd rather run down some harmless old person on his way to get a cup of coffee?”

“You and I see that sort of attitude as selfish. The opponents of the stoplight would argue they're protecting their right to get where they're going without delay.”

“That's so totally ridiculous!”

“Yeah, well, that's the way it is.”

“Do you know anyone who lives there?” Gemma asked. “At the home?”

“No,” I said, “but that doesn't matter. These people have been part of the community their entire lives. Just because they live in an assisted living residence doesn't mean they don't matter and doesn't mean they don't want to remain involved in the social life of the town. Everyone needs to feel, well, needed and necessary.”

“So, there's nothing personal in it for you?” Gemma asked, not belligerently.

“To be honest,” I said, “it does feel good to do good. So in that sense, yeah, I get some personal satisfaction from offering my time and energy. But in a practical sense, no, there's nothing personal in it for me, if by that you mean money or public adulation.”

Gemma nodded and then she said, “Cool.”

Huh,
I thought. Did I just gain a small victory in my quest to get my daughter to like me? Maybe even to admire me?

Maybe. But I'm not letting it go to my head. The quest is far from over.

Chapter 66

“D
o you remember Verity's father?” I asked Dad. Until then we'd been talking about the usual, by which I mean, nothing much. They were getting mac 'n' cheese for dinner. He loves mac 'n' cheese.

There was a moment of silence before he answered. “Why are you asking that?”

“Because I'm in touch with him. He seems okay.”

“I wish you wouldn't . . .”

“Wouldn't what, Dad?” I pressed. I hate when people don't finish what they start to say.

“He's telling you lies about me.”

“He doesn't mention you at all.”

Dad snorted. “Figures. He never had any use for me, that arrogant bas—”

“Dad. Stop.”
What the hell?
I thought. First he doesn't want anyone to talk about him, and then he's pissed when they don't? Frankly, I couldn't get off the phone fast enough, though I felt a little bad about cutting the call short. Usually it's the guard who says when we have to stop talking. “I've got to go,” I said. “There's someone at the door. We're expecting a package so . . .”

Did he buy my lame excuse? Who knows? Only when I'd hung up did I realize I'd referred to Verity and me as “we.”

I flopped down on the couch in my room, and here's what I thought about: life with Dad. Everyone wonders how much kids know about what goes on in their parents' private lives. The answer is a lot but not everything. Sometimes too much. Sometimes not enough. In other words, it depends, I think, on a bunch of factors, like how attuned the kid is to emotional nuances and how good the parents are at hiding shit (faking smiles when what they really want to do is throw insults and maybe plates at each other), and very important, I think, how much the kid
wants
to know what's really going on. Kids, I think, the emotionally smart ones, anyway, sense when they've gotten a handle on about all that they can tolerate knowing, and then they look the other way. At least, that's how it was with me. In retrospect, I mean. I think I must have known that something
else
was wrong or odd or just not right about my father and me, other than our wandering existence and Dad's not ever keeping a job for long, and his refusing to have the news stations on in the house (though I knew he pored over the papers at the grocery store and in neighbors' apartments and spent way too many hours reading headlines on the Internet), and the ghost of my evil mother hovering over us, someone I was told never, ever to mention to anyone, ever, though I was given no reason for my required silence. I
must
have known at some point—and I must have chosen not to look any further. Dad was fooling me. He was lying about something, maybe about a lot of things, and for a time that made me mad, and I wanted to confront him and demand to know what was really going on with us. But I didn't. I kept my mouth shut, and I looked the other way until I no longer could do either. And that was because Dad had gotten himself arrested for stealing that car. And it wasn't even a great car, at that. I mean, if your father is going to screw up your life and his by breaking into and then driving away with someone else's car, the least he could do is make it a Jaguar or a Mercedes or something. But no, Dad chose a fifteen-year-old Subaru, probably the most boring car you'll ever see on the road.

Verity knocked (even though the door was open). I got up from the couch.

“The lamb,” she said, stepping inside.

She meant my baby toy. It was sitting on top of the desk. “I didn't think you'd mind if I kept it in here,” I said a bit defensively. “You said it once belonged to me.”

She smiled. “It still belongs to you.”

“I saw it again when I put that sweater I borrowed back in your room yesterday.” I picked up the lamb and wiggled its tiny tail. “It's funny, but growing up I never had stuffed toys. I don't remember ever wanting them. I kind of liked action figures.”

Verity laughed. “I was insane for stuffed toys. I still have one of my old teddy bears and a rabbit that was once big and pink and fluffy. Now, I'm sorry to say, he's entirely bald.”

“What's his name?” I asked, kind of surprised I wanted to know.

Verity laughed again. “Bunny, of course.”

When she had gone—again without asking what Dad and I had talked about—I thought about the conversation we'd had about her campaign to get a stoplight installed by the old people's home and how Dad had never ever gotten involved in any cause or club or anything other than his job at the moment. Now I know why. It's because he's the most self-centered, selfish person in the world. All he cares about is himself, and yet I don't think he's a very happy person. Anyway, he never got involved with doing good deeds for anyone else, because he didn't want to be found out as a kidnapper. All that's ever mattered to him are his own weird needs.

How does a person get like that?

I hope it doesn't happen to me.