Authors: Margot Livesey
Banishing Verona (4 page)
Only when they were seated and eating did she say, “You must be wondering to what you owe the honor. Your dad had a little attack last Monday.”
Discussing the Pattersons, he had momentarily forgotten the cause of her visit. Now her words conjured midget muggers, schoolboys barely up to his father's waist, rifling his pockets for chewing gum and change. “Did he lose much?”
“Zeke”âher voice spiraledâ“your father had a heart attack.”
He was on his feet. “Christ, where is he? Is he all right? What are we doing, eating, leaving him alone?”
Gwen took his arm and guided him back to the table. “Sit down. I didn't mean to scare you. I wouldn't be here if he weren't okay. He's in the hospital. You can come and see him when he gets home tomorrow.”
“Why didn't you tell me straightaway?” Not the question he meant to ask and one to which, anyway, he guessed the answer: his mother regarded her only son as broken beyond fixing.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “As soon as we got him to the hospital it was clear he was going to be fine and I didn't want to leave a message. That's why I came round. Then I got distracted by the Pattersons.”
“But how is he? Is he all right?”
“The doctor says there's every reason to expect he'll make a full recovery, but he's scared. You know what his first words were when he came round? âI've been waiting for this.' His father died of a heart attack at fifty-two. And his brother Stephen, of course. That's why he's always been so fussy about food, used to go bonkers when he caught you having a fag. Remember that time you figured out he'd lied about his age? It was the same thing, not vanity but some mad notion he could cheat death.”
She stabbed her fork into a piece of cauliflower.
“And me,” she added.
“You?”
“The younger wife, marrying late. He kept saying it was wrong for him to have a family, that he'd only end up letting us down. We were courting for two years before I talked him round.”
Which meant, he knew, getting knocked up. They'd made no secret of the fact that his birth, six months after the wedding, was not premature. Gwen had been sixteen. “I didn't know,” he said. “I mean, I knew about Grandpa and Uncle Steve but I just thought Dad was a health nut.”
She sat back, eyes flat on him. For a moment he pictured the poor trout's head, staring blindly in the dustbin. “You don't get it, do you?”
He didn't. “I wish you'd told me sooner,” he said cautiously. “I could have come to the hospital, helped cheer him up.”
“Your strong suit.” Her teeth appeared in bewildering fashion and, equally bewildering, disappeared. “Zeke, your father is fifty-seven. He can't go on working twelve hours a day, and I can't run the shop alone.”
“But you're not alone,” he managed.
“Right.” She began to tick them off on her fingers. “Rani, Jerome, Tom, Subhas, Jack, and now âno problem' Kevin. Each a disaster, in different ways.”
He felt as if he were in the presence of a champion bricklayer; the wall was rising around him with astonishing speed. He did his best to slow her down, steal a few bricks, let a batch of cement
harden. “Mum, I'll do whatever you need, you know that. But maybe if you can't cope with the shop, it's time to talk about selling. After all, Dad will be retiring soon.”
harden. “Mum, I'll do whatever you need, you know that. But maybe if you can't cope with the shop, it's time to talk about selling. After all, Dad will be retiring soon.”
“And then what? He'll sit around enjoying his hobbies. You'll support him?” She planted her elbows on the table. “I probably shouldn't tell you this, but unfortunately I know how you feel. I'm fed up with the shop too, and I was planning to leave your father. Well, that's on the back burner now. I've no idea if Maurice will wait. It's not as if I can promise anything.”
“Maurice?” She had said the name as if he were already acquainted with its owner. Then, seeing the way her eyes shone, he understood. This was the phenomenon he had read about so often: meeting someone else. In the waiting rooms of various doctors and clinics, he'd taken to studying women's magazines and discovered, amid the many articles about weight loss and hair management, the problem pages. He found the desperate little narratives both baffling and consoling. Who were these people who offered up the intimate details of their lives for any reader's cold-hearted gaze? And then someone else, a stranger in an office, wrote back claiming to know more about the letter writer's situation than they did themselves. Get rid of Dave; tell Nick no sex until he proves he loves you; your friend needs professional help. But this was his mother, his parents, and none of the advice seemed remotely useful. He held on to the edge of the table. “Maurice?” he said again. “But what about Roger, all those blokes?”
Gwen made a barking sound. “Roger? He's very happy with Nathan. Oh, I must tell him you thought we were an item. He'll be thrilled.”
She was still talking as he let go of the table, stood up, and carried the dishes to the sink. He washed the plates, the cutlery, the pots and pans, the grill, everything there was to wash. When at last he turned around, she was sitting, arms folded, legs crossed, waiting.
“Zeke, this is nuts. It would be different if you had gone into
accounting, but basically you're a glorified handyman. What do you have to lose by managing the shop? You'll get a decent salary, and your father will be over the moon. He won't be breathing down your neck, I promise. The world's going to fall apart if we all start treating each other like dirt.”
accounting, but basically you're a glorified handyman. What do you have to lose by managing the shop? You'll get a decent salary, and your father will be over the moon. He won't be breathing down your neck, I promise. The world's going to fall apart if we all start treating each other like dirt.”
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Finallyâhe had lost count of how often he used the word
no
âhe pried her out of his kitchen. Gwen had her own indestructible carapace, the one she took everywhere, but for a moment, when he'd asked, for the third time, if he could walk her to her car, he had wondered whether she was reluctant to go home; he pictured the empty rooms spelling out his father's illness more clearly than any doctor, her lover banished to some dingy pub. She had even suggested calling on his recalcitrant customers, but he'd persuaded her that showing up at nine on a Friday night was a bad idea. Tomorrow after workâhe was putting in one of his rare Saturdaysâhe'd come round to see his father, then he and Gwen could make a plan about visiting the Pattersons and escorting them to the bank machine. “We'll phone first,” she said, “to make sure they're home.”
no
âhe pried her out of his kitchen. Gwen had her own indestructible carapace, the one she took everywhere, but for a moment, when he'd asked, for the third time, if he could walk her to her car, he had wondered whether she was reluctant to go home; he pictured the empty rooms spelling out his father's illness more clearly than any doctor, her lover banished to some dingy pub. She had even suggested calling on his recalcitrant customers, but he'd persuaded her that showing up at nine on a Friday night was a bad idea. Tomorrow after workâhe was putting in one of his rare Saturdaysâhe'd come round to see his father, then he and Gwen could make a plan about visiting the Pattersons and escorting them to the bank machine. “We'll phone first,” she said, “to make sure they're home.”
“But maybe,” he said unthinkingly, “they're like me.”
Got you, said Gwen's china-blue eyes, but she let it pass for now. “Don't worry. I'll tell them they won the lottery or their MP wants to chat.”
He walked her down the street, dodged her kiss, and loped back to the flat. She wrung him out, emptied him, and what was he left with? Scraps and shadows. As he reached for the light switch in the hall he recalled the five lightbulbs. They had been a sign after all, not about her but about his father. In the living room he took refuge with his clocks. Scanning their neat faces, he saw that the forties traveling clock had lost eleven minutes since yesterday. As he pressed it to his ear, he recalled the rest of the story she had told about Robert the Bruce. After he died, his body was buried in the usual way but his heart was sealed into a lead canister, which the
Black Douglas had carried on the Crusades and, at the height of the fighting, hurled into battle. But here's the truly amazing thing, she had said. Later the heart was found and brought back to Scotland to be buried.
Black Douglas had carried on the Crusades and, at the height of the fighting, hurled into battle. But here's the truly amazing thing, she had said. Later the heart was found and brought back to Scotland to be buried.
The clock sounded fine, as far as Zeke could tell. One afternoon in Brighton his Uncle Stephen had told him that clocks make only one sound,
tick-tick
, which the human ear splits into two:
tick-tock.
A few months later he had dropped dead, planting an apple tree. Zeke reset the clock, giving it another chance, and put it back on the table. Both his parents, he thought, had heart trouble: his father's no longer tick-tocking steadily but faltering; his mother's a gift given twice over. Through the ceiling came a thud and, just when he was beginning to get impatient, another.
tick-tick
, which the human ear splits into two:
tick-tock.
A few months later he had dropped dead, planting an apple tree. Zeke reset the clock, giving it another chance, and put it back on the table. Both his parents, he thought, had heart trouble: his father's no longer tick-tocking steadily but faltering; his mother's a gift given twice over. Through the ceiling came a thud and, just when he was beginning to get impatient, another.
The next morning, on the fifth attempt, he managed to close the door behind him and, by dint of counting each crack in the paving stones, make his way to his van, parked at the end of the street. Once he was seated behind the steering wheel, with the familiar knobs and levers, matters grew a little easier. I mustn't let this happen again, he thought. She needs me. Dad needs me. To his relief his new employer, a chef, was out for the day and he had the house to himself. He found the perfect hiding place, an alcove off the hall, and set to work without further delay. As he removed the old kitchen cabinets, he kept picturing his father, not the angry man who had strode into doctors' offices when Zeke fell ill but the one who had spent Sundays with him on the beach at Brighton, building castles out of pebbles, creating moats and waterways, and who later, in London, had taken him kite-flying on Parliament Hill and done with him the things a normal boy would have done with friends. As soon as the last of the cabinets was stacked in the chef's front garden, Zeke put away his tools and set off to visit him.
But when he opened the door of his parents' house it was as if a large hand were pressing against his sternum. The very air was altered,
and the temptation to flee was so strong that he had to seize hold of the doorknob. Gone was the nose-tickling embrace of fruit and Gwen's perfume and in its place was something synthetic and slightly tangy which, after a few cautious breaths, Zeke identified as approximating the smell of a freshly opened bag of elastic bands. Everything is changing, he thought. Slowly, reluctantly, he edged along the hall and, in the few inches between the door and the jamb, discovered his father.
and the temptation to flee was so strong that he had to seize hold of the doorknob. Gone was the nose-tickling embrace of fruit and Gwen's perfume and in its place was something synthetic and slightly tangy which, after a few cautious breaths, Zeke identified as approximating the smell of a freshly opened bag of elastic bands. Everything is changing, he thought. Slowly, reluctantly, he edged along the hall and, in the few inches between the door and the jamb, discovered his father.
Or whoever the hospital had sent home in his place. There were always stories in the newspapers about babies being switched; why not fathers? He had last seen Don in late December, when they had gone to a performance of
Iolanthe.
He had been dressed to the nines in the shirt Gwen had given him for Christmas and the new suit he had bought himself in the Boxing Day sales. Give me a nudge, he had told Zeke, if I start singing along. He had joined his first Gilbert and Sullivan Society at the age of sixteen and been a robust member ever since. Now, a man with hair the color of dishwater, wearing pale blue pajamas and a tartan dressing-gown, sat in his father's chair, staring blankly in the direction of the television. Beside the chair stood an odd metal contraption, like half a cage.
Iolanthe.
He had been dressed to the nines in the shirt Gwen had given him for Christmas and the new suit he had bought himself in the Boxing Day sales. Give me a nudge, he had told Zeke, if I start singing along. He had joined his first Gilbert and Sullivan Society at the age of sixteen and been a robust member ever since. Now, a man with hair the color of dishwater, wearing pale blue pajamas and a tartan dressing-gown, sat in his father's chair, staring blankly in the direction of the television. Beside the chair stood an odd metal contraption, like half a cage.
“Cat got your tongue?”
Even the voice was different. Zeke glanced uncertainly over his shoulder. Was it possible that somehow he had come into the wrong house? But there was his father's piano with the bust of Beethoven. While he continued to hesitate in the doorway, the man levered himself out of the chair, seized the metal contraption, and began to push his slippered feet across the floor. Six inches, six inches, six inches. Just past the sofa he stalled, clinging to the frame.
“So, you've come to see your future,” the man said. “The doctors couldn't find one thing to tell me to do differently: exerciseâyes; low saltâyes; low fatâyes; smokingâno; drinkingâmoderate; reasons to liveâplenty. Not one thing, except take the pills, take the pills.”
He shuffled backward, plucked a bottle from among the phalanx on the table, and rattled it in Zeke's direction. And with that gesture Zeke finally, unmistakably, recognized his father.
“Dad, I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. Mumâ” He was about to explain that he hadn't known about the attack when he caught sight of a bandage bisecting his father's neck. Rusty spots, blood perhaps, were seeping through the folds. This was worse, much worse than he'd imagined. “How are you?” he said lamely.
“Weren't you listening? I feel like shit warmed over. I feel like Lazarus before Christ hauled him out of his coffin. I've worked all my life, winter, summer, rain, shine, a fortnight's holiday a year, I looked after my mum and dad, I've never been in debt, owed no man favors, and here I am, at fifty-two, a wreck.”
Fifty-seven, Zeke wanted to say.
“And”âhis father glaredâ“here you'll be one day.”
He sensed his own heart pumping in steady contradiction, the valves deftly opening and closing. “You're bound to feel rotten at the moment. You'll soon be back on your feet.”
“For fucking what? For how fucking long?”
The words followed Zeke through the door. In the hall he rested his forehead against the wall, seeking comfort in the cool pressure of the plaster. I wish you were dead, he thought, swinging his fists against the wall. What's the use of not being dead if you're going to be like this? Then, between one fist fall and the next, he understood that, yet again, he had things back to front. Life had failed his father in several significant respectsâhis struggling shop, his pathetic son, his unreliable healthâbut that did not mean he was ready to die. In fact, the reverse. Christ, if he ever found out about Maurice.
He straightened and let himself out of the house. All day, while he wasn't reminiscing about his father, he had wrestled with the question of an appropriate gift. When he had had his breakdown, people had brought flowers and grapes, grapes and flowers. The flowers, for the most part, he didn't mind. The grapes, however a fruit he'd always enjoyed filching in the shop, he had come to hate,
rotting little spheres of sweetness, their slippery seeds poised to take root in stomach and intestine. Neither had seemed suitable for his father. Books, except for ones about Italy, he despised; he already had all of Gilbert and Sullivan. Zeke was still agonizing as, leaving the chef's house, he spotted a pet shop with a parking space in front. Now, opening the back of the van, he thought, I hope this isn't another of my blunders. He lifted out the cage from where he'd wedged it, between two buckets of emulsion paint, and hurried toward the house. Drafts, the salesman at Fur, Fin and Feathers had said, were, along with cats, the big danger.
rotting little spheres of sweetness, their slippery seeds poised to take root in stomach and intestine. Neither had seemed suitable for his father. Books, except for ones about Italy, he despised; he already had all of Gilbert and Sullivan. Zeke was still agonizing as, leaving the chef's house, he spotted a pet shop with a parking space in front. Now, opening the back of the van, he thought, I hope this isn't another of my blunders. He lifted out the cage from where he'd wedged it, between two buckets of emulsion paint, and hurried toward the house. Drafts, the salesman at Fur, Fin and Feathers had said, were, along with cats, the big danger.
“Dad, I brought you this, for company.”
His father was back in his chair. Without looking at Zeke, he shook a little cup and dropped two dice on the table. He picked them up, shook them again, dropped them again. Zeke set the cage on the floor. For a moment, as he reached to remove the towel, he pictured the parrot magically flown, but there it was, its plumage a mix of mango and avocado, a red blaze on each wing, blinking on its perch. In the shop it had seemed the ideal gift, clean, companiable, possibly conversational: what could be better? My health, his father's posture declared. Your obedience.
“Good boy,” said Zeke. Best not even to consider this from the parrot's point of view. Happily, however, the bird seemed oblivious to its chilly reception; it hopped from foot to foot and clicked its remarkable beak. The clicking, at last, roused his father.
“What the hell is that?”
“A parrot.” He began to explain the advantages, including that he could return it at any time during the next three days.
“Not enough,” his father interrupted, “that
you're
sure to outlive me. You got me the one pet that will too. Twenty years from now”âhe spat the words faster and fasterâ“you and Gwen will be having your tea and the parrot will start yammering, and one of you will look up from your baked beans and say doesn't it remind you of someone? And the other will say, maybe that old geezerâRon, John, used to be your husband, used to be your father.”
you're
sure to outlive me. You got me the one pet that will too. Twenty years from now”âhe spat the words faster and fasterâ“you and Gwen will be having your tea and the parrot will start yammering, and one of you will look up from your baked beans and say doesn't it remind you of someone? And the other will say, maybe that old geezerâRon, John, used to be your husband, used to be your father.”
“You don't have to keep it.”
The parrot unfurled a long purple tongue and flicked up a sunflower seed. Zeke lifted a pile of newspapers off a small table and set the cage there. Then he backed out of the room again, muttering that he was going to give a hand at the shop.
His father made some unintelligible sound.
In Tibetan temples, the niece had told him, they placed gargoyles at the entrances to scare worshippers out of their mundane concerns. He closed the door of the house and, hoping that the chilly air would do the same for him, opened his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and set off down the street. Where had she gone in such haste that she could leave only a one-line note? Tomorrow the Barrows would give him the answer.
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His mother, hair shining, face pale beneath the fluorescent lights, was tipping potatoes into a canvas bag held by a skinny androgynous figure dressed in flared jeans and a duffel coat.
“Carrots, onions, parsnips?” Gwen asked. “Lovely cabbage?”
As soon as she spoke, he guessed the shopper's gender, a hypothesis that was confirmed when the figure said, “Just a bit of salad. A cucumber. Lettuce,” and, from beneath long dark lashes, shot him a sideways glance. Did he know her from somewhere? He turned determinedly to study the beetroot.
“Well?” said Gwen, as soon as the wraithlike girl had paid and left the shop.
“You didn't tell me he was in such a state. He called me a coward, said I'd been running away all my life. If he ever finds outâ”
“It'll kill him?” she suggested, with what he called an anti-laugh, a sound that approximated normal laughter while signaling its opposite. “I do have that in mind. But it's odd that you should. If Don had to choose between a faithful wife and a son to take over the business, I bet a pint of bloodâ”
Saved by a woman with a French accent asking if she was too late for a pound of mushrooms. At once Gwen was urging
aubergines, offering half price on the peppers. He had witnessed this phenomenon before, on thousands of occasions; still, he couldn't understand how a person could be grimly belligerent one minute, praising vegetables the next. Feelings don't stay constant, his nurse had said. Mine do, he had insisted, constant as cathedrals. He began to carry in the crates of apples and oranges from the sidewalk, a job he had done so often that his body needed no instructions. Now, with every crate, he felt the weight of a possible future. It was one thing to help out for a few days or a few weeks, another to see himself here year in, year out. Two more late customers appeared, one asking for okra, and then Gwen had the till emptied and the deposit organized, and he had everything stowed for the night and the grill down.
aubergines, offering half price on the peppers. He had witnessed this phenomenon before, on thousands of occasions; still, he couldn't understand how a person could be grimly belligerent one minute, praising vegetables the next. Feelings don't stay constant, his nurse had said. Mine do, he had insisted, constant as cathedrals. He began to carry in the crates of apples and oranges from the sidewalk, a job he had done so often that his body needed no instructions. Now, with every crate, he felt the weight of a possible future. It was one thing to help out for a few days or a few weeks, another to see himself here year in, year out. Two more late customers appeared, one asking for okra, and then Gwen had the till emptied and the deposit organized, and he had everything stowed for the night and the grill down.
As they walked home, she resorted to another of her old tricks, talking not about what concerned them both most closely, his father or the shop, but Zeke's recalcitrant customers.
“Any kids?” she said.
“None that I noticed.”
“Burglar alarms? Weight-lifting equipment?”
“Why are you asking this stuff?” he said. “You're not going to make a scene, are you?”
“A scene may occur,” his mother said, opening their front door, “but I won't be making it.” In her presence the new rubbery smell of the house was less noticeable. His father's voice could be heard from the living room. “Oh, God,” she said, “now he's off with the fairies.”
“No, I forgot to tell you. I did something daft.” He explained about the bird.
To his surprise, she was nodding. “You say we've got three days, so let's wait and see. Don can't say thanks for anything these days. A parrot may be just the ticket.”
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Priscilla, the nervous divorcee next door, was asked to keep an ear out for Don and they were off. Sitting beside Gwen in her car as
she darted through the local streets, Zeke realized that she was not merely unafraid of the Pattersons but looking forward to this encounter. She had changed into a tight red top and put on fresh makeup. How can I be her child, he thought, knowing that she often asked the same question.
she darted through the local streets, Zeke realized that she was not merely unafraid of the Pattersons but looking forward to this encounter. She had changed into a tight red top and put on fresh makeup. How can I be her child, he thought, knowing that she often asked the same question.
“Here we go.” She tucked the car into a space as deftly as a pie into the oven. “Leave the talking to me, and whatever you do don't apologize.”
He began to propose alternatives: a letter, the small claims court, those rabbis in the East End who solved people's quarrels using the Talmud.
“Shush. Stand out of sight, and when they open the door follow me inside.”
Feeling worse by the second, he lurked in the shadow of the wall. Gwen knocked once, then stood waiting, shoulders straight, heels together, the model of a demure library campaigner. “Mrs. Patterson?” she said, when the door opened. “I phoned about the library. If I could come in, just for a moment, to explain our petition.”
The affirmative noises were still sounding, when, with a quick glance in Zeke's direction, she stepped smartly over the threshold. He followed. In the dreary hallway he resisted the temptation to crouch behind her. The light oozing from the overhead bulb was the color of weak tea, and everything but Gwen seemed diminished. Certainly the woman backing down the hall offered no particular threat. With her white hair and plump cheeks, she reminded Zeke of a sheep in a children's story.
The smell of paint was gone, and briefly he wondered if the whole thing were a dream. Perhaps, after giving them an estimate, he had never actually done the work. Then he saw the barometer in its wooden case, hanging on the wall beside the coat stand, and remembered tapping it, day after day, as he came and went, waiting for its pronouncements: dry, fair, unsettled, rain, stormy.
“Let me start again,” Gwen said. She was holding out a piece
of paper, not the promised petition but a copy of Zeke's bill. “Is there some problem with my son's work?”
of paper, not the promised petition but a copy of Zeke's bill. “Is there some problem with my son's work?”
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