The Ruby Slippers (22 page)

‘I didn’t know about that.’

‘Right. And how was I to know you were never told?’

‘OK, so when you went, did you go to someone?’

‘No, Paolo was later. I was on my own for two years, and I was a mess. Remember, it wasn’t only Corinne. My father had a ball rejecting me, trashing me to my face, sending vile letters. He disinherited me – and that’s the other thing, he hated her as well, and she him, which is why you never got to see him. Honey, listen to me. None of this makes me proud. I wasn’t strong, and I guess I felt sorry for myself, but the memories I carried of you were loving ones; you were the happy, beautiful little girl I lost.’

‘And what about Paolo? What did he have to say? Did he know about me?’

‘He did, yes. He said I should do everything I could to see you. He never stopped saying it, and I never stopped giving him reasons not to. I was a fool; I was afraid of Corinne, always have been, and I suppose I took it for granted that she would’ve made you hate me. Which I would understand if you did . . .’ He stops mid-flow. This is the first time since she first arrived on his doorstep that he has genuinely sought her opinion of him.

Siobhan takes her time to seriously consider, then pronounces, ‘Mmm. Part of me does. But not all . . .’

Outside on the landing, Jack hears every word of this, because, having sprinted up the steps and assured himself that the neighbours are safely inside their apartments, he has his ear virtually pressed to James’s front door. So, James was once straight – a regular family guy, a dad bouncing a baby on his knee. He kind of likes that, though he doesn’t have any time to ponder on it, because suddenly, from below, sounds come echoing up the hallway – voices and boots scraping. He darts back along the landing and skips up the next flight.

■ ♦ ■

Inside the apartment, the conversation has taken on a calmer tone, as Siobhan sits curled in a chair, listening attentively, her tears dried, while James states the remainder of his case, explaining to her how he knows his failings but will make amends, and how he is going to move heaven and earth to be a father to her. But then, out of nothing, she jumps up from her chair, crosses the room and throws open the study door. He rushes after her, but it is too late. She is standing there staring into the room, held back from entering by the otherness of it. Inside the room is a desk and a chair and Japanese prints on the walls and things left in their place on the desk: a pile of books, pens and papers and, spread out in the centre, a sheaf of sumptuous sketches, designs for a grand opera. For this is Paolo’s study, and all of these things were of his choosing and have the effect he had intended them to have, which is one of balance and tranquillity and exoticism. The contrast with the rest of the apartment is quite startling, and Siobhan realizes, with a kind of wonder, that her father has kept these things just so – as if his lover has only just left the room.

‘You shouldn’ve done that,’ says James, meek but inwardly in a fury, pulling the door firmly to. An awkward silence descends on both of them, from which they are saved when the buzzer sounds, loud and insistent, sending James hurrying to the door. Outside are two police officers, and James is horrified when, without so much as an introduction, the male of the two flatly demands, ‘Is Siobhan McBride here?’

Admitted to the apartment, the officers take one look at the girl and right there, with James standing by looking foolish, they ring Corinne. The female officer confirms to her that they have located her daughter safe and sound, and asks what she wants them to do next. He can hear Corinne’s voice fuming and crackling out of the phone as the officer informs her that they are in no position to return her to Long Island. The officer presents her final judgement, like Portia to the court: ‘It’s up to the family to get it together here,’ even though, as it transpires, Corinne’s car has broken down and refuses to budge from her driveway. Siobhan suggests, helpfully, that she would be happy to stay with James, but is told in no uncertain terms that she should go home to her mother where she belongs.

As soon as the officers have departed and they are alone together again, James tries a little clumsily to take up where he left off: ‘Don’t worry, Siobhan. I am your dad and I will be your dad.’ He reaches out to her and she allows herself to be enfolded by him.

‘Please, please do that for me,’ she implores him.

‘OK, OK,’ he whispers back, though he can’t help thinking now about how he’s going to get her home 100 miles with no vehicle. He heads into the kitchen, nonetheless, with the intention of making something to eat, all the while thinking through the fix he is in.

In the middle of the scrambling of eggs, his cell rings. ‘Hi, James,’ says the wistful voice. ‘How’s it going?’ It doesn’t even occur to James to wonder how Jack might have acquired his number, he is so taken up with explaining how he is too busy dealing with ‘a situation’ to talk. And this provides Jack with the perfect opening: ‘Oh, can I help in any way?’ he enquires, as a good friend might.

‘Well, put it this way,’ says James, ‘right now I have the small problem of having to get my daughter back to the middle of nowhere on Long Island, and I can’t just put her on a train.’

Naturally, he is taken aback when Jack replies perfectly matter-of-factly, ‘Oh, you should’ve said – I have a car.’

And upon learning that Jack is kind and crazy enough to offer to drive his daughter all the way home, James is grateful beyond measure. He hasn’t a clue that Jack is at this moment in time right down there in the street, pocketing his cell and starting to run as fast as he can the two miles home to collect his car and get back just as soon as he can.

■ ♦ ■

Forty minutes later, father and daughter are standing at the roadside, looking at a big old beast of a car: a Sixties Thunderbird, two-tone powder-blue and cream. Sitting there, devil-may-care in the driver’s seat with the engine thrumming and the sun glinting on the roof, Jack looks ludicrously small, more like a pilot in an airliner cockpit than a man in an automobile. Guiding Siobhan into the back seat, James couldn’t be more indebted to Jack and thanks him for being a lifesaver. ‘Least I could do,’ says the reluctant hero, fresh-faced and smiling. ‘You woulda done the same.’

By the time they are clear of the Brooklyn Bridge, the weather has changed. James sits up front alongside Jack, while in the back Siobhan drifts in and out of sleep. The wipers rise and fall hypnotically, scything and scattering a harvest of raindrops as the three sit in their spaces, separate yet bound together in silence.

A few miles from Upton, James calls Corinne to let her know they are near. As they pull up outside the house, he sees her standing in the rain, by the misbehaving station wagon. Soaked through, she is holding up an umbrella to shield an older man, a neighbour, who is scrabbling under the hood, trying to get the thing started. James wonders if this is just another performance, another act of martyrdom among the many. He gets out of the car slowly, wary of that which cannot be foreseen. Siobhan closes the door behind her, shivering as a sneaky bead of rain zips cold down the gully of her spine. Only now does it come back to her that she had argued violently with her mother that morning before running off to the city. So now she hangs back a little, with James leading the way, his eyes fixed on Corinne, who remains contained, her head unmoving and her gaze held by the unfathomable mysteries stored within the gaping hood.

‘Hi, Mom,’ ventures Siobhan, but Corinne just flicks her head – a quick, hard glance – and goes back to staring at the lifeless engine. James greets her, too, but receives not the slightest acknowledgement. The neighbour sighs, oblivious of the new arrivals, shaking his head in frustration. Corinne declares to no one in particular but for the benefit of all: ‘We don’t get this going, I am dead tomorrow!’ Standing there in the rain, hair tumbling, cheekbones carved, her bearing upright and defiant, she looks, for all her misery, kind of magnificent.

‘Can I help?’ James offers, trying to be big about it. ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ she snaps acerbically, remembering only too well his ineptitude with things technical.

‘I know something about automobiles,’ says Jack, reminding the world of his existence.

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ comes the flat riposte, as Corinne wonders just what this absurdly young person has to do with her pathetic ex. ‘What did you do so far?’ Jack enquires of the neighbour, regardless. ‘Checked the plugs, distributor; set the points. All good.’

‘Coil?’

‘Spark’s good.’

‘Right . . . Would you mind spinning her over a little, please?’

The neighbour gets in the car and turns the engine, which coughs and splutters in a losing battle for life. ‘Timing,’ pronounces Jack.

‘Possible,’ the neighbour perks up.

‘Do you have spanners?’

‘Sure.’

And Jack goes to, leaning into the hood, dramatic under the flashlight, the others all ranged around, their attitudes and positions suspended, lending their empty presence to the task. Jack wrenches here, ratchets there, twists things this way and that, and gets the man to try again. Nothing. Corinne raises a sceptical eyebrow – James’s young friend is a dud by association. But then, amid fumbles and fiddles, Jack calls out again and the car judders into life.

‘Wow!’ says Corinne, her surprise not quite extending to gratitude.

James can’t resist getting the edge on her. ‘Not bad for a gay guy.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ she spits, and holds up the umbrella for Siobhan to join her beneath it. ‘Come on, you,’ she says. ‘School in the morning.’

‘Wait, Mommy,’ says Siobhan, and she turns to James, whispering, ‘Go on, ask her now; tell her how I can come and stay with you.’

It hurts him to disappoint her: ‘Honey, this isn’t the right time.’ There is reason in this. Corinne has blanked James throughout all of this, making it clear that he remains nothing to her and – by extension – should have nothing to do with her daughter. He gives Siobhan a long hug and gently edges her over to her momma. ‘Come on, Jack, let’s go get a coffee somewhere,’ he says pointedly. At this, a knowing smirk arrives on Corinne’s face and she makes sure he can see her looking Jack up and down, curious to know exactly what their relationship is. James can hear the unspoken word in his own head – cradle-snatcher – and he’s damned if he will hang around here a moment longer to disabuse her of her ignorance. With a rueful smile, he heads back to the car, waving again to his sad-eyed daughter.

A
WHOLE
day has gone by and still Michael’s mind is on the boy. He peers out past the deli’s solitary customer and sees an orange pinpoint of fire quicken, drawing the darkness into itself. So, he is out there again. Crazy. He hurries to serve his customer and see her out. He rolls down the shutter and locks the doors. So many worries, he thinks. Apart from the crazy kid, the showdown with the family has left a bad taste in his mouth, and things are no better with Grace. It is all too much, and Michael has started to mistrust the people he loves and to feel a fool for ever having placed faith in them. After all, if you can’t respect your elders for what they have been through, what
can
you respect them for? He will not just roll over and say that the experiences and the understandings that took root in him and brought him to America are suddenly of no value. On the other hand, he is not so mean and dictatorial that he cannot see their side of the coin. It is certainly true that trade has dwindled, and he is painfully aware of how he and Grace have both slowed down; how sometimes he has struggled to keep a grip on the routines and the particulars. He knows, too, from what she has said once or twice, that Grace sometimes goes to sleep wondering if she will wake up again, and that occasionally he is woken in the middle of the night by his own heart racing towards something terrible he can’t even name. What if one day it raced away and never returned to rest? But these things are strictly between the two of them. By what right did Grace share them with others? And what right did they have sticking their noses in? It is starting to look more and more like naked self-interest.

Regardless of all this, he knows he has not been the same since the tussle with Harrison, and he has started to wonder if the things we imagine to be meaningful really count for much at the end of the day. Is it not, after all, the small things in life that get us through: tokens of warmth, simple kindnesses, a loved one there to put an arm around you at night or cook you a nice meal? Lately, of course, these have all dried up and Grace has been going over to Jenny’s more frequently than he can remember her ever doing over the years – tonight being a case in point. Funny how the big philosophical questions in life can add up to so little if the person you love is no longer there to smooth your brow or plant a kiss on your cheek.

So now he starts to feel lonely, and creeping on the heels of loneliness comes guilt, for who is he to stand in the way of decent people and snub out their bright hopes? It would be so easy to just call them now and tell them to sell the shoes, sell the damn things and everybody would be over the moon. He goes to the safe for one last look, to set eyes on them once more and see if the sight of them will stir again the slumbering parts of him that once were so alive. Cold of thumb and finger, he turns the dial, hearing the tumblers fall in soft spindling clicks, a clock turning back. The door gapes open, iron empty. They are gone! The Harrison boy – how did he do it, for it must be him? As soon as Michael is calm enough to bring back together his scattered thoughts, he knows it cannot be so – the safe was never forced, the store never entered by stealth. Grace. She alone knows the combination; she alone would be in a position to do this! He pieces it together, sees how she must have bided her time quietly, calmly waited until he went to the cellar to bring up stock – that must have been the moment. He pictures her in her prim, careful way, turning her hand this way and that to the numbers, inching open the door so it wouldn’t creak, and removing the shoes without a sound. What must have been in her mind as she then trudged up the stairs and hid them inside her overnight bag? What was she thinking when she came back down and kissed him and went off so completely casual, as if it was just another Wednesday evening? And in those few seconds, when she walked with shuffling steps to the door and climbed into the taxi, had it occurred to her that in her smiling goodbye there was such betrayal? Straightaway, he calls Jenny, who answers in a flash. It becomes a monumental effort just to keep his cool and sound calm and unflappable. ‘It’s me . . .’