Read The Goodbye Summer Online
Authors: Patricia Gaffney
The Goodbye Summer (22 page)
A band. A bluegrass band. All the things Caddie wanted to say sounded unkind or insulting—she should never have said “shortsighted and immature.”
“I—I just feel this is a mistake. I’m so afraid you’ll regret it. You know I just want what’s best for you, and I can’t help thinking this is—frivolous. I’m sorry, but I don’t see how you could’ve considered all the—”
“I have, too!” She relaxed the fists she’d made out of her hands and brought her voice down to a calm, grown-up level. “I have. Considered all the consequences, ramifications. Whatever.”
“But it’s too dangerous, it’s too—I honestly think you’ll be sorry if you do this.”
“What do you mean, too dangerous? What does that mean?”
Caddie had no idea what it meant.
“Just because
you’re
afraid to play in public—” She turned away, pressing her lips together. “Anyway, that’s what I’m doing.”
“Doesn’t it matter, don’t you care that you’re throwing away your wonderful talent? That you’ve wasted the last four years of your time and hard work? And mine? And your parents’ money? What does your mother think about this?”
“I can’t believe you’d say that to me.” She threw open her violin case. “You’re the one who said I should have
passion.
I’m not coming here anymore.”
“I guess I don’t have anything to teach you anymore.”
She left the room rather than watch Angie pack away her instrument. Was this really happening?
Angie came out to the hall, red-eyed. “Well,” she said, with a wavery smile, and Caddie melted.
“We don’t have to fight. Oh, Angie, this is silly. After all these years.”
“It is silly. I know.”
Relief flooded her. “Go home, I think you should, but I’ll see you on Thursday and we can talk more. I didn’t say
anything
right today.”
Angie flushed bright pink. “Um, I think it’s better not. I feel like we need a break. I appreciate all you’ve done, I really do. You’re a fantastic teacher, I’ve learned so much. Well, everything. But maybe it’s time to, you know…”
It was like Christopher all over again. “No, you’re right, you can get stale with the same teacher. It’s good sometimes to shake things up, get a new, a fresh—”
“My mom says she’ll send this week’s check for both lessons, even though…sort of like giving notice.”
Caddie nodded and smiled, but that was a stake to the heart. Angie had known before she came that this was going to be her last lesson.
“Well, Caddie—we’ll stay in touch.”
“Sure. Of course we will.”
They faced each other, awkward and miserable. Caddie was the first to reach out. They shared a stiff embrace, bumping cheeks. “Okay, bye.”
“Bye.”
And that was that. In disbelief, Caddie went back in the living room and listened to the whir of the ugly, inadequate fan. The piano looked inert to her, a black, hulking thing, incapable of anything consoling or beautiful, least of all music. In fact, the whole room looked like the enemy. How quickly things could change. She looked at her watch to confirm it. Yes: in twenty-five minutes, Angie had come and gone. Her favorite student, her sweet, funny friend. Caddie hadn’t even had a chance to compromise. Or capitulate! She’d have given in if she’d had time, told Angie she could become a rap artist if she wanted. It made her sick, literally nauseated, to think that wouldn’t have done any good. Angie’s mind had been made up before she came.
A bluegrass band. “Revolting,” she said out loud, holding her stomach.
Too dangerous,
she’d told Angie. What
did
that mean? Perilous; more than just risky. Something bad.
She was so tired, she had to lie down on the couch. Everything was falling apart, everthing all at once. What else could go wrong? She leaned over the edge of the sofa and rapped her knuckles on the wooden leg.
Never
ask what else could go wrong—Nana had taught her that. Anyway, she could be having quintuplets, Nana could break her other leg—just stay far, far away from rhetorical questions. Superstitious, yes, but in bad times, why tempt fate? She closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind of dangerous thoughts.
The phone ringing woke her up from a dream, something about Finney having a litter of puppies in the piano, they started crawling out on the keys like worms during Mrs. Patterson’s lesson—it took a few seconds to register what Brenda was saying to her. Nana had put something in the washing machine—it smelled like vinegar—and now everybody’s clothes were coming out green.
“Should I come over?” Caddie asked fearfully. This day couldn’t end fast enough. If she went outside, left home and went back into the real world, who knew what might happen next?
“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it now.” Brenda, normally the soul of patience, sounded exasperated. “I’m running empty loads with just soap and bleach, so it’s bound to clear up eventually.”
“I’m really sorry. I don’t know what she was thinking. If anybody’s lost anything valuable, I’ll be happy to pay for it.”
Brenda made a sound like a suppressed sigh. “You know what kind of house this is, Caddie,” she said, lowering her voice to that sympathetic tone Caddie had always dreaded. “We’re not quite a nursing home, not quite assisted living.”
“Elder care,” Caddie said, while pinpricks of premonition made the hair on her arms stand up.
“What we don’t have the facilities for, unfortunately, or the expertise, or the
credentials,
is caring for people with Alzheimer’s disease or dementia.”
“Oh, but—”
“I’m not saying Frances has either of those conditions—anyway, I’m not a doctor, I’m just the landlady.”
“I know she can be forgetful at times, but don’t you think—”
“It goes a little bit beyond forgetfulness. There’ve been other things.”
“Oh, God.”
“Nothing really serious, I don’t mean to alarm you.”
“What did she do?”
“Well, there was an incident on the porch last week. With a slingshot. Don’t ask me how Frances got hold of a slingshot, and no one actually saw her
shoot
it, but apparently she made a gesture at some passersby—”
“Kids, little boys…she never did it, she
never
did, but she used to say she was going to bing somebody if she caught them defacing her art…she had…sculptures out in the yard, but they’re gone now. I really think she must’ve been teasing, Nana’s not violent, never—”
“Caddie—”
“But see, that’s the point, this is nothing new, she’s
always
been like this. She’s an
artist,
she’s…peculiar. It’s not dementia, it’s not.”
Brenda’s sigh was audible this time. “Well, I don’t know, I just don’t know.”
“She loves it there so much. And anyway, it’s
temporary.
Till her leg heals.” That sounded unconvincing even to Caddie: Nana got around fine on a walker these days.
“I have to go, sorry,” Brenda said quickly; she had an old-fashioned phone, and Caddie could hear the other line ringing. “We’ll talk about this again. Bye. Wait! I forgot—Cornel says he’ll give you fifteen minutes, so have your questions ready.”
“What? For what?”
“His interview. For the memory book.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“And he can only fit you in between now and dinner.”
“Today?”
“Today.” Brenda hung up.
I
NTERVIEW WITH
C
ORNEL
M
ONTGOMERY
Q: What is your name?
A: Cornel Windermere Montgomery.
Q: When and where were you born?
A: August 3, 1925, Michaelstown, Maryland.
Q: How did you get the name “Windermere”?
A: Is that on your list of prepared questions?
Q: No.
A: Move on, then.
Q: I can’t add questions?
A: No.
Q: What were your parents like?
A: Nice folks.
Q: Could you be more specific?
A: Is that on your list?
Q: Cornel!
A: If you have to know, my father came over from Scotland in the 1890s and worked all his life for the railroads. He was strict. Presbyterian. The only person who could make him laugh was
my mother. Whose name was Alice Windermere, to answer your other snoopy question, and she came from Mount Airy.
Q: Did you have a happy childhood?
A: That on the list?
Q: Yes.
A: It was happy, it was fine. For a while.
Q: And you had a brother? Frank? Who died?
A: If you know everything, why bother asking? I had a brother. Two years younger than me.
Q: You don’t have to say anything else if you don’t want to.
A: Hell, I know that. It’s a short story. We used to go swimming in a creek down back of where we lived. Course it’s all built up now, creek’s not even there anymore. We’d swing on these long vines across it, playing Tarzan. I’d gone home, I wasn’t there when it happened. A vine busted and he fell on the rocks, split his head open. One of the kids ran and got somebody’s father and they carried Frank to the house, our house. Too late to do anything for him. So that’s that, go on to your next question. Go on. Is that it?
Q: What was your best subject in school?
A: Arithmetic and geography. I liked memorizing poems, too. They quit making kids do that, another mistake. “Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred.” I still know that by heart. Want to hear it?
Q: Sure.
A: [Recites “The Charge of the Light Brigade”]
Q: What sports did you enjoy?
A: Baseball. Oh, man, I loved baseball. But it’s all money now, I don’t bother to watch, not since Ripken’s gone. It’s just a show, they ruined it.
Q: Tell me about your first date. Or your first girlfriend, either one. These are both on the list.
A: My first date and my first girlfriend were both Erma McDormond. You want more?
Q: Much more.
A: Well, there isn’t much more, unfortunately. She had long blonde
hair and brown eyes. Her little brother was born deaf, I remember. She went to my church but not my school, so I only saw her on Sundays. One day I got up the nerve to ask her if she’d go to the church bazaar with me.
Q: How old were you?
A: Thirteen, fourteen. We went on a Saturday afternoon. I had two dollars and sixty cents, a fortune, and blew it all on the dart game trying to win her a stuffed bear. Never did win a damn thing. She paid for a couple of lemonades, and that was our first date.
Q: How many more were there?
A: Not many.
Q: Did you ever kiss her?
A: None of your business. No.
Q: Who was the first girl you kissed?
A: What is this, the
Playboy
questionnaire?
Q: You won’t tell?
A: No.
Q: Okay, what did you do after you got out of high school?
A: Joined the air force. I wanted to join up after Pearl Harbor, but my folks wouldn’t let me.
Q: Did you fight in the war?
A: Long story, but I ended up a gunnery sergeant in the 306th Bombardment Group. I flew B-17s as turret gunner on nine bombing missions.
Q: Wow. But you never talk about it.
A: Nobody wants to hear old war stories.
Q: Did you win medals?
A: Some.
Q: What? Say what they were, Cornel, this is your
history.
A: Air Medal with Oak Leaf Cluster, Bronze Star, Theater Medal with Combat Star. Next question.
Q: Then what?
A: College on the GI bill. Engineering degree. Surveying job. Started a little locksmith business on the side. Got married. Locksmith business got bigger, I quit the surveying job—
Q: Wait! Back up!
A: This is going to take forever. I’m an old man, my time is precious.
Q: You got married. To whom?
A: Peggy Craddock.
Q: How old were you? How did you meet? Why did you fall in love? A: What makes you so nosy?
Q: It’s interesting. It’s your life!
A: We met on a double date.
Q: A blind date?
A: No, a double date. We liked each other better than our dates, so we switched.
Q: That
night
?
A: No, not that night, the next date. She was twenty-four, I was twenty-eight. She worked for the phone company. Smart as a whip. We just hit it off. She was easy to talk to, and pretty, lots of fun. We courted for about eight months, then tied the knot.
Q: How long were you married?
A: Thirty-five years. I lost her in 1989.
Q: And you had a son.
A: We named him Frank after my brother. Called him Junior till he was grown. They didn’t look alike, Junior was a big, strapping boy with blue eyes and curly hair like his mother, but they had a lot in common. The way they laughed, the things they thought were funny. Mischief they got up to. When Peg and I had Junior, it was the closest thing to getting Frank back. But of course it never lasts long because that’s not how life works. For everything you get, you have to give up something else. First Peggy, then Frank six years later. He stopped to help a woman change a flat tire. Good Samaritan. A truck hit him, he was killed instantly. Thirty-eight, with a two-year-old son and a wife. So you want to know my philosophy? Keep your helmet on and your head down. It won’t do you any good, but neither will anything else, and meanwhile you got something to occupy your mind.
Q: What about your grandson? Zack?
A: What about him?
Q: Don’t you miss seeing him?
A: You’re not listening. Anyway, I’m done with all that, I’m too old.
Q: Too old for what?
A: You got any more questions? I can’t waste the whole day on this.
Q: You were one of the earliest residents of Wake House. Do you remember your first impression?
A: Yes: “Christ almighty, these women all look like my mother.”
Q: What is your proudest accomplishment and your biggest regret?
A: My son.
Q: What are you thankful for?
A: My health. If you don’t count thyroid, my arthritis, cataracts, and hiatal hernia. I’m thankful Bernie’s using those nose strips at night; he only sounds like a freight train now instead of a B-52. I never knew anybody who could make so much noise just turning the pages of a newspaper. Or sucking on his false teeth. He makes this loud sighing sound when he sits down, like he’s doing something important and satisfying. Cuts his nose hairs with a little pair of scissors and leaves ’em in the sink. Thinks nothing of letting go a long fart in bed at night—although he controls himself during the day in public, which is more than you can say for some of ’em.
Q: Anything else you’re thankful for?
A: I’m thankful this is almost over.
Q: Were you ever a cheerful, optimistic person?
A: Not as I recall.
Q: When you look back on it, do you feel as though your life mattered?
A: Oh, hell, no.
Q: What is your biggest fear?
A: That I’ll live forever.
Q: Thanks, Cornel. I guess that’s it.
A: Say, what’s the matter with you?
Q: Nothing, I’m just a little depressed.