Educating Simon (22 page)

“So you want a tutor who knows about art?”

“I want a tutor who knows how to find art. I want to go see art.”

“Like the Clyfford Still Museum,” I said, and she nodded. “What about other museums, here in Boston?”

“Yes.”

“My mother knows about art.”

“Yes.”

Mum had said she'd spent time with Persie. Part of that time must have involved art. Who could have guessed? “So what do you think I can do to help?”

“Tell him. Tell him I want art. Tell him I want to go see art. Tell him you'll come with me.”

“Mum can go with you.”

“Yes. I want you, too.”

Christ! What I don't need right now is more of someone else's need. “Why can't
you
tell him you want art?”

“I did. I told him about the Clyfford Still Museum.”

“That one time? That was all?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him again, Persie. That once was a big surprise to him, and it's not likely he's thinking of it in terms of what you need right now, right here. Tell him again, and tell him about going to museums here. Just the fact that you bring it up again will mean a lot. Tell him—tell him you want to start with the public library. That's right around the corner, practically. Look it up online, and tell him specific things there that you want to go and see. That will help you.”

“And you'll come?”

Think fast, Simon.
“Yes, I'll go with you to the library. Now I need to go upstairs.”

“All right.”

As I started to turn away from her another thought came to me. “How do you feel about having breakfast downstairs, not just doing it in your rooms all the time?”

Her eyes flicked towards mine briefly; then, “I need to think about that.”

I nodded. “If you decide you want to, tell your father. And the more carefully you say it, the more likely it is he'll say yes.”

“Carefully?”

“Yes. Don't just say, ‘I want breakfast downstairs.' Instead, say, ‘Is it all right if I start having breakfast downstairs with everyone else?' If you make it a question, it sounds like you care about his opinion.”

“What if he says no?”

“Well, I don't know why he would, but you wouldn't be any worse off than if you had just
told
him what you wanted and he said no. He's more likely to agree if you
ask
.”

“Because I asked for his opinion.”

“I tell you what, Persie. If you ask for his opinion, he'll be so startled and so amazed that he'll be likely to agree just because you asked. Trust me.”

“I'll try it. Should I do it now?”

“I don't see why not. I think he's in a good mood.” And it would interrupt the dancing.

“How can you tell?”

Patience. Think what it would be like not to have a clue about this sort of thing.
“When I saw him, he was dancing with my mother, and they were both smiling and relaxed. And they were in the music room, not in a room with a door closed, so they weren't trying to be private about it. Does that help?”

“I don't know. But I'll try.”

“Great. And now, good night.” And rather than turn immediately away, I kept looking at her, willing her to say the same to me.

She started to turn towards her rooms, perhaps to look up the public library online, and I felt a keen disappointment. I had thought maybe I'd actually taught her something she could use. Rather like handing someone fishing tackle rather than just tossing them a trout. I almost sighed. But then she turned just her head towards me. “Good night.”

If nothing else, I decided, I had gotten her to respond to a social greeting tonight.

I sat in the reading chair in my room with only the reading lamp on for maybe an hour, thinking over everything that had happened today, trying to sort out how I felt about all of it. Or any of it. There was the discussion with Brian about Persie, and then the fact that he actually listened to me—even if he really prefers the live-in tutor, as Persie suspects. Then there was the library, the beauty, the art, and Toby/Kay. . . . God! I need to remember to look for an e-mail from her. Then there was Michael's
nonna
practically dead on the floor. Then there was the picture of my mother dancing with someone who was not my father. And then Persie, acting almost like a person. That is, responding to life in a way I had been told she couldn't do.

A baby elephant can be kept in place by a rope around its ankle, tied to a stake stabbed deep in the ground. The baby isn't strong enough to pull the stake up. As the elephant grows, for some period of time it's still too weak to yank the stake up, but over time this is no longer true. But as long as that elephant has a rope around its ankle, it thinks it can't go anywhere, and only a sudden fright or something equally motivating would make the elephant forget the limitation of that rope and break free.

Maybe Persie is as much an elephant as a cat. And maybe the fright, or the motivation, of having to replace Anna has made her realise she's stronger than she thought. This is going to make fantastic material for my Theory of Knowledge course!

My mind went next to what it would be like to wake up in hospital, not having done anything to yourself to get there as I nearly did, and not to be able to move or speak. Unimaginable. I wondered how Signora Vitale was doing, and how Michael was reacting to it.

Michael. What did I want, anyway? Was Ned right that I was going to get hurt? And was it already too late to stop it? He's gay; I'm sure of it. But who am I to try and force him to look in that mirror ? More responsibility for someone else; that's what it would be. But what about
my
feelings?

I decided I was going to have to pry this thing open. Which is to say, force Michael's hand in terms of what he does or doesn't feel for me. Because gay or not, he's attracted to me. And I want him to admit that and then say what he's willing to do about it, even if that's nothing. Then I can decide what I need to do.

I heaved a sigh and stood, giving up on the idea of coming to any conclusions on how to go about forcing Michael's anything.

At my desk, computer fired up, I checked for e-mails, and there was one from Kay. The subject was
Promise you won't be mad
. Inside, she confessed that she'd chickened out of saying anything tonight, because her parents were fighting about something and she didn't want to make things worse. I replied that she probably made the right decision (how would I know?). Even though I don't want this confession to interfere with her competition, I'm keenly aware that the longer she waits, the closer to puberty she'll get.

There was another e-mail, from Margaret, full of Tink pics. There was even a short video clip of Tink chasing a remote-controlled mouse around the kitchen floor. I would have thought this would make me cry, but instead I was laughing. Actually laughing.

I can't remember the last time that happened.

Later, I snuck downstairs to the kitchen, put some things together, added the remains of a bottle of pinot noir, threw a wet sponge and a hurricane lantern into the mix, and sent the whole thing upstairs on the dumbwaiter. On my own private rooftop deck, with Graeme in the chair across from me, I watched the moon make its way across the night sky. It was a little chilly, but I enjoyed it thoroughly.

I was nursing the last half-glass of wine when my phone rang.

Michael.

“Simon, I'm sorry about the way tonight turned out.”

“How's your
nonna?”

“She's a little better. She woke up maybe an hour ago, which was a huge relief. The left side of her face is saggy, and she can't move that arm or that leg. She can't talk yet, but she can make sounds, so if she can just get a little more access to that side of her face, she'll talk again. Or she might learn to be understood with only half her mouth. The only trouble is that until one of those things happens, we won't know whether she'll be able to find words, even if she could form them.”

“Wow. And that could take some time.”

“The good news is she recognised us. All of us. And she seemed to understand what was going on when we told her.”

“If you get a chance, please tell her I'm sorry I didn't get to meet her.”

“Ah. Yes, well, about that. Would you still like to?”

“She's in hospital, Michael. And she can't talk.”

“But I had an idea, and she nodded when she heard it. I know where she keeps a couple of shoe boxes full of letters that she received from family and friends back in Italy after she and my grandfather moved here. Now, I know you won't understand everything, but . . . they're in Italian, Simon. You could read them to her. Or, some of them, anyway. She would love that, so much! And you'd be able to get a little of the immigration picture.”

What this looked like was yet more responsibility, at a time when I was beginning to have to ration any time not spent on studies. I tried to pawn it off. “Michael, I'm sure someone else in your family can read Italian to her.”

“Not really, no. And when I heard you speak, your accent sounded really good. My dad can say a few things, but he can't read it and make it sound like Italian. And, besides, there might be some personal stuff in there that would be easier to hear read by a stranger.”

I tried to think about what was in it for me. I came up empty, and I was silent too long.

“Okay, I wasn't going to say this, because she's not your grandmother. But her doctor said it might be a really good thing for her, in terms of regaining mental capacity. What do you say, Simon? Will you do it? Just an hour or so tomorrow.”

His voice was so full of hope; he sounded so young. And again the tenderness he must feel for her came through powerfully. “Will you be there?”

“Wouldn't miss it! So you'll do it?”

“All right, for maybe an hour. But I might not be able to do a convincing job, you know. I won't understand everything, and I might massacre the meaning too much.”

“How about three o'clock?” He gave me her hospital and room number. Then he asked, “So did you get any dinner?” I described the alfresco scene before me rather than the earlier dinner, and he said, “There, you see?
Alfresco;
Italian. And it sounded like it. Wish I were there, too.”

Ah. So did I. Sort of. I think. And then I had an idea of my own. “Well, if tomorrow's as nice as today, we could come back here after the hospital. Antipasto,
forse?
Perhaps? We could pick up something on the way.” I stopped; I didn't trust my voice not to give away that this was a plan. A plan to get him alone long enough to test him. To test myself.

“Sounds good.” His voice gave nothing away; if he gave even half a thought to what it might mean to be alone on a rooftop with me and some wine, I couldn't tell. And that was fine. “So I'll see you at three tomorrow.”

“
Si. Fino a domani.
Until tomorrow.
Buonanotte,
Michael.”

“I know that one!
Buonanotte,
Simon.”

Buonanotte.

This morning, knowing my afternoon would be busy, I got an early start so I could get some homework out of the way, with special attention to documenting some ideas inspired by Persie for my TOK course. I also needed to work on the applications to some other schools Dr. Metcalf is pestering me about, though I didn't quite finish today.

Speaking of Persie, I half expected to see her at breakfast, but it was just Mum and Brian, and Brian had only tea, no food. So I guessed he had eaten with Persie in her rooms.

After I let Mum know Michael would be joining me for antipasto on my roof deck this afternoon, Brian asked me a question in a very pointed tone of voice.

“Did you happen to speak with Persie last night?”

Based on the way he asked, he already knew the answer. I had nothing to hide. “She was waiting for me on the landing.”

“What did she want?”

“She asked for help figuring out how to tell you what she was thinking.”

“She knows how to talk to me.” There was definitely something accusatory there.

Deep breath; don't lose your temper, Simon
. “But she has a hard time figuring out what your mood is. I got the impression she wanted to make sure you were in a good mood before she spoke to you.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Gave her a few cues to look for, told her I thought your mood was pretty good at the moment.”

“And do you know what she wanted to tell me?”

“Yes.” Why was he turning this into an issue? What was wrong with what Persie had told me she wanted? I had been sure he'd be glad to hear all of it. I had even told Persie to trust me.

“Is that all you're going to say?”

“Look, she waylaid me on the landing, said she wanted more freedom, said she might like to take breakfast downstairs with everyone else, said she wanted to visit museums and to see more art, and that she wanted Mum and me to go with her. She also said it looked like you'd made up your mind about a tutor before asking her what she wanted.”

“None of that sounds like Persie.”

“So, what, am I lying through my teeth, then?”

“That's enough, young man.”

“You keep telling me that. And this time, I'm quite sure it isn't.” I set my fork down and glared at him, ignoring the tension coming from Mum in waves. “You know, I would have thought you'd be genuinely thrilled to have her express an interest in art—
and
in being part of the normal household routine, and even more delighted to have her approach you on her own to tell you that. Because it was
her
idea, not mine.”

“Both of you, quiet. She'll hear you.” Mum's voice was a hoarse whisper.

Brian lowered his voice. “It seems likely that someone has tried to influence her. I offered her the opportunity to meet both candidates, and immediately she said she wanted the one who wouldn't live here. She had already made up her mind.”

“Well, you can't blame me for that. I never said a word to her until she approached me.”

“And she had her mind even more made up after she spoke with you.”

Suddenly it hit me what the problem was. “You thought she'd prefer the live-in tutor, didn't you?”

“You seem to think you know her better than I do.”

Okay, that's another part of the problem. But—where did it come from? Careful, Simon.
“What I know is that she wants to expand her world badly enough to ask for my help on how to tell you that.” There were worlds between the words in that statement, beginning with the fact that she hadn't known how to talk to her own father about something very important to her.

“And what you don't know is what will happen when she fails.”

“
When
she fails?” Mum's voice nearly squeaked. “You're not giving her half a chance!”

I felt like Kay; the parental units are fighting, and I'm caught in the churn.

Brian said, “Excuse me,” and left the table.

Mum stared after him, looking as though she were considering following him.

I said, “It was just a smoke screen, then, asking for her opinion. Do you suppose he's jealous? Is he mad that she asked you and me to show her art, and not him?”

“I don't know.” She stood. “But I'm going to find out. This can't go on.”

Finally, alone. Breakfast in peace. And later, I avoided everyone at lunchtime, sending a few things up on the dumbwaiter late in the morning, leaving a note that said I had lots of homework. Which was true enough.

 

Michael was already in the hospital room when I got there, which was a relief; I'd been prepared to hang out in the hall and wait, otherwise.

The dear lady was slightly propped up on the bed, tubes and wires attached in various places. Her face was badly disfigured by the sag on the left, but her eyes were bright and attentive. Michael introduced me as though there were nothing wrong with her. Not only did this impress me, but also it set the stage for my interaction with her. She actually held out her right hand for me to shake, and instead of shaking it, I kissed it, which caused her to make an odd sound that I interpreted as laughter. So did Michael, to judge by the smile on his face.

It seemed cruel to try and engage in small talk with her, so in halting Italian I apologised for my unacceptable version of the language and told her in English that I would do my best to read anything she cared to give me. She looked at Michael, who had a canvas shopping bag printed with big red and blue flowers—without a doubt one of his grandmother's. He pulled out a shoe box that had once held a pair of dark-red high-heeled shoes. Italian shoes.

“I made sure these were in date order this morning,” he said. “Nonna, do you want to start at the beginning?”

She made some gesture with her right hand, which Michael interpreted as asking him to sort through them; maybe she had a favourite. He stopped when she grunted and handed the envelope to me. I accepted it reverently, careful not to damage the envelope or what it contained. I read the addressee information aloud, but the return address was not legible. I'm not good with dates and numbers, so I read the date in English. It was 20 September 1954.

Carissima sorella,
it opened.
Dearest sister
. I made my way through it as best I could, which I think wasn't too bad, recounting the sadness the abandoned sister felt when Michael's grandmother and her husband, Victor Vitale (whom the sister evidently held in fairly low esteem), left everyone and everything—
tutti e tutto
—behind, abandoning tradition and everyone who loved her for the hope of material gain in the US. There was mention of many children, evidently nieces and nephews, as though sister Bianca were doing her best to assail her sister Sofia (Nonna) with guilt that would bring her home. At some points whilst I read, Signora Vitale would roll her head and wave her right hand, which Michael interpreted for me as an editorial on her sister's naked attempts to manipulate. Signora Vitale even seemed to chuckle once or twice.

The next letter was from a school friend who supported the move and who complained about her own husband, Rocco, for his old-fashioned ideas about gender roles.

Most of the letters were newsy, full of family doings and misdoings, but occasionally they were more intimate, sometimes evidently in response to something Signora Vitale had written. It was a little like reading some of St. Paul's Epistles and trying to construct what letters or conversations he might have been responding to.

Around quarter past four, Signora Vitale's face began to sag more noticeably, and she wasn't responding to what I read with chuckles or groans or grunts any longer. Michael made leaving noises, and I kissed the signora's hand again and told her it had been a great honour to be allowed to read her letters to her.

Before we could exit she grabbed Michael's arm with her right hand. The right side of her face seemed to be trying to smile. She pulled on his arm a little, then released him and pointed at me, and then held her right hand up, staring at it as though willing it to do something. Finally she managed to fold her middle finger over the first, as though crossing them for luck. But then she pointed the entwined digits at Michael, at me, at Michael again, and smiled as best she could.

I couldn't see Michael's face as he bent over to kiss her good-bye. “No, Nonna. We're just friends. See you tomorrow.”

So the signora knew the truth about Michael. Had she perceived this on her own? Had he confided in her when he was looking for an escape from himself? Neither of us spoke as we walked through the halls. Michael seemed embarrassed, which made me worried and annoyed that his grandmother had stolen my thunder before my lightning was ready.

Outside on the street, holding tight to the flowered shopping bag, Michael gazed about rather than look at me. He said, “Listen, can we not do this antipasto thing today?”

Yup; lightning fizzled. My best move at this point would be to seem not to care. “Of course. You taking the T back?” I knew there was a station not far away.

He shrugged and looked vacantly around him. “Yeah. Guess so.”

“I'm going to locate a taxi. See you.” And I turned back towards the hospital entrance, where the occasional taxi would no doubt drop off a passenger. I didn't turn around or look back, so I don't know how long he stood there. But before I reached the entrance I decided to take the T myself. I didn't want to get back to Marlborough Street as fast as a taxi would take me. Truth be told, I didn't really want to go back there at all. But I had so much homework to do. So I waited just long enough to be sure that Michael would already be on a train and that I wouldn't see him on the platform.

 

Dinner was a fairly silent affair. Everyone seemed to be angry with Brian, including Persie, who wouldn't speak. I took this to mean Brian must have denied one or more of her requests. She shook her head violently several times in answer to questions he asked her, which seemed to indicate that she wasn't responding. He didn't even try to ask me anything, and he and Mum acted like people who didn't know each other and didn't want to. I left as soon as possible to get back to my homework—a welcome escape.

I was at my desk, deep into work on my biology project about Scottish fold cats, when I heard someone coming up the stairs. It was Mum.

She sat in the reading chair. “I thought you might like to know what Brian has decided.”

“Brian decided,” I echoed. “Not Persie.”

“Correct. He's planning to contact Maxine Leary tomorrow and offer her the job as Persie's tutor. Maxine will have the same schedule Anna did, with weekends off unless other arrangements are made. She'll live in Anna's room, so you'll have a neighbour again.”

I'd never seen much of Anna, so I wasn't alarmed at the idea of Maxine's being up here. “You know, he's so afraid of Persie's reaction to—well, to anything she's not happy with. And yet he goes this route instead of doing it her way. What does he expect will happen? I mean, even I can see that Persie is likely to make Maxine's life miserable.”

“I know. And I pointed that out to him.”

“Has he said anything about Persie's request to go and look at art?”

She let a few beats go by. “He doesn't like the idea. Says Persie doesn't handle uncontrolled environments like that very well.”

“Really. So . . .
is
he jealous, do you think?”

She exhaled loudly. “That wasn't a question I felt I could ask.”

“Well, thanks for the update. When do you think she'll start?”

“Brian thinks it will be right away. She could be here as soon as Wednesday.”

I nodded. “Thanks for telling me. I need to get back to my homework now.”

But she didn't seem to want to leave. Maybe she just didn't want to go downstairs where Brian was. “How is your schoolwork going, Simon? What are you working on there?”

Trying to control my impatience, I explained as briefly as possible about the genetic aspects of folded ears in cats. She looked as though she'd like to say something, but didn't know how I might take it; this was cats, after all, and the ear fold began in a British shorthair like Tink. I considered showing her Margaret's photos, but decided against it; it would take too long, and I had no intention of forgiving my mother for tearing me away from Tink.

“Sounds fascinating,” was all she said about the ear fold. And then, “I also wanted to ask about getting you a piano teacher. It would be a shame to let that drop. What do you think?”

I shook my head. “I don't have the focus for that right now. Between the coursework, and coaching Toby, and just being in a totally unfamiliar place—”

“How is that going? Coaching Toby?”

“Mostly we practise. I create word lists; I read a word; he spells it.”

“Where do you meet with him?”

I'm sure I've told her all this before. “At his house. Condominium. Longwood Towers; it's very nice.”

“Are you taking taxis, then?”

“No. The subway.”

She sat up straight. “Simon, I don't want you doing that.”

Little does she know I have to take mass transit everywhere I go for the City course. “Mum, I use it at home all the time. This system is nothing compared to that. And it's only a few stops, to a very nice area.” It looked like she was about to protest, so I added, “Look, I really need to work now. There's stuff I have to hand in tomorrow.” I stood and moved towards the door.

Mum sat in the chair for a few seconds, looking at me as though she weren't sure who I was. Then she got up, came to me, and laid her hand gently on the side of my face. She left without another word.