The Laments (37 page)

She paused.

“Freezing to death like Scott of the Antarctic? Was that the idea?”

“Possibly.”

Julia held her breath as she considered the awful logic of her husband’s admission. Of course he had settled on this solution. The signs were all there, and she had ignored them. But indignation seemed to unravel in her throat for letting it come to this. And almost immediately, it found vent.

“Howard, I will
not
let you do this! Get out of the car right now!”

“I’m going to drive into a tree.”

“You are not!”

“I’m not a child.” He frowned at the injustice of her tone. “I’m a grown man! Stop telling me what to do. Just because you have a job doesn’t give you the right to boss me around!”

Julia held her reply for a moment, remembering Howard once declaring her ignorant because she did not have an occupation, and realized, now, that he feared that very judgment himself.

“Howard, of
course
you’re a grown man,” she replied. “You have three children and a wife. But you can’t walk away from us.”

“I’m a failure. Nothing I do comes to anything. I give up.”

“You can’t give up. What sort of a man deserts his family?”

“I’m not deserting my family. I’m ending my life.”

“You’re deserting
me,
Howard,” cried Julia. “How
dare
you desert me!”

Howard considered his wife’s trembling lower lip and fierce gaze, all this from a person almost half his size, and yet so defiant, her hands placed on her hips, hair tossed by the night’s breeze. How
could
he desert such a woman? She had followed him across three continents. And yet her resolve was the very thing that had stood in his way these last few years. Now she looked afraid of losing him, and Howard couldn’t help but marvel at her devotion.

“Howard, it’s twenty-five degrees out here, and I’m asking you to come inside the house, or we’ll both die of pneumonia!”

Howard swallowed and shook his head. “I’ve been ridiculed by Julius. He has no respect for me.”

“Good heavens, darling, the boy helped you dig out the cellar! Show some appreciation, some affection, some generosity of spirit! The boys don’t know how to have
fun
with you anymore!”

Howard sighed. “In other words, I
deserve
their contempt?”

“In other words, dote on them a bit and they might possibly dote on you. Now, can we please go inside? I have a letter for you to see; it’s rather important.”

Julia strode back to the house before he could reply. He saw her pause at the door, her breath billowing under the porch light. Howard stubbornly remained in the car. Then, as if to concur with his wife, the Buick’s engine shuddered and died.

The Letter

Julia made tea, and Howard cradled his mug until the feeling returned to his fingertips. The envelope waiting for him on the table had red and blue airmail slashes, and instructions along the edges written in Afrikaans. He recognized Rose’s curly scrawl.

“It’s open, Howard. Just read it,” said Julia, now shivering beneath an afghan shawl.

I’m writing to tell you of my intention to visit. I realize that this may seem sudden, but, as I am not getting any younger, it seems time for me to see America. The boys will be men soon; as you have denied me the pleasure of seeing them grow up, I feel entitled to a look at them before they go out into the world and succumb to all the idiocies and conceits of a society that has gone completely mad.

A visit? Howard reread the words. Yes, Rose was actually intending a visit, and she planned to stay with them.

By the way, I made the acquaintance, when I was last in Florence, of a Mrs. Pritchard, who, by some remarkable coincidence, was the nurse during Will’s birth. What she told me was shocking.

I shall be arriving on December 1 at Philadelphia Airport. Perhaps you can arrange to have a room ready for me at the house, as I expect to be exhausted by the trip and will require a great deal of sleep to recover.

The Laments stirred into action like Britons preparing for a Roman assault; instead of sharpening saplings and digging pits, they cleared out Howard’s office for an extra bedroom to accommodate Rose. It was a small room with wooden shutters and a white marble fireplace; it had charm, something Julia feared would be in short supply once her mother appeared.

Then Frieda announced that she had found an apartment several blocks down on Oak Street, above the barbershop, and would be leaving the very weekend that Rose arrived.

“Frieda, do stay another month. I cannot face this woman alone!” pleaded Julia.

“You have Howard,” said Frieda. “And to be honest, Julia, I don’t know if it has helped your marriage for us to be here for so long.”

“Frieda,” Julia confessed, “we were in trouble before you came, and I hoped your presence might help bring Howard out of his depression.”

“Depression?”

“Yes. He used to be a much happier man.”

Frieda was not persuaded to stay, but she insisted on cooking a welcome dinner for Rose. She and Minna would move out the following day.

IT WAS AMAZING
what could be accomplished under pressure. Howard patched the gaping hole in the living room ceiling—the hole that had been there for two years. Marcus and Julius helped Howard clear the remaining debris from the collapsed porch and constructed a sturdy ramp to the front door. Howard tried to talk to the boys evenly; the twins made a similar attempt (they had been spoken to by Julia), but it required considerable effort on both sides.

“What’s this for, Dad?” asked Julius. “We never use the front door.”

“We don’t want Granny to think we live in a shabby house.”

“Then maybe we should hire a carpenter,” quipped Julius.

Marcus shot his brother a warning glance.

“Sorry, Dad,” Julius said. “I didn’t mean that.”

Howard gave his son a faint smile.

“Of course you did, Julius. I can’t blame you.”

After the task was finished, the twins stamped on the ramp a few times and Julius offered his father praise on his handiwork. It was a rare moment, and Howard felt his affection rekindled.

“You know, if we have a deep snow this winter, there’s a terrific sled run along Pye Hollow Road. I’ll take you there.”

The twins accepted this offer with enthusiasm. Perhaps Julia was right, thought Howard. Perhaps if he showed the twins some generosity, they would treat him with more respect.

AT DAWN ON THE DAY
of Rose’s arrival, a cold front came from the north, whistling down Route 99 and bringing with it a frigid blast that glazed the tombstones at the cemetery and turned those withered boughs over Oak Street into a glittering tangle of ice.

Inside the Lament house, the weather was no less tumultuous. Minna woke that morning with a stomachache; she was pining over Will, and sad to be moving. That morning the boys carried the Greccos’ belongings over to their new apartment. Will noticed a copy of
Steal This Book
in Julius’s jacket pocket.

“Where’d you get that?” asked Will.

“From the rummage sale at the church,” said Julius. “You can have it when I’m done.”

Howard planned to fetch Rose from the airport with the Buick, which had run out of gas in the driveway a week before. But on this morning, it simply refused to start. Perhaps it was the sleet, or the cold, or, as Julia suggested, Rose’s very presence on American soil. Howard phoned the local garage and a mechanic came by to give him a jump, advising him to replace the battery and have the alternator checked.

IT WAS AROUND FOUR O’CLOCK
when Will saw the car reappear in the driveway. Howard emerged and, with extraordinary vigor, raced around the car to open the passenger door. Will was surprised at how handsome his grandmother was—all he remembered was the blue vein on the side of her face from the time when she had presented him with the paper and fountain pen. Though she seemed pale, her cheekbones were strong, her eyes a brilliant blue, her posture straight. Her linen skirt and blouse were utterly inappropriate for an American winter but a reminder that she had flown here from an African summer. She removed a straw hat to reveal a mane of perfectly white hair.

Julia, a few steps out of the door, was also awed by her mother’s appearance. How marvelous it would be to age so gracefully, and to have such presence in twenty-five years. But as she crossed the driveway she felt herself shrinking to schoolgirl proportions. She reminded herself to keep her arms from swinging like oars (as her mother used to tell her) by clutching the sides of a skirt she hadn’t worn in ten years and keeping her gaze level, not too eager, or too reticent.

“Mummy, you look
wonderful
,
” she said.

“Thank you, darling.” Rose gave her daughter a sharp scan. “You’re eating
well,
I see.”

Julia felt herself shrink again as she received a crisp hug and the faintest breath of a kiss.

“Good flight, Mummy?” Julia persevered.

“Perfectly awful.”

Julia turned for support. “Boys! Come here!
Meet Granny
!
”

“Plenty of time for that,” said Rose. “First someone must see to my bags.”

“Got the bags,” puffed Howard, staggering under the weight of three canvas suitcases from the back of the car. Julia assessed their size. This would not be a brief stay.

FOR ROSE’S WELCOME
, Frieda had prepared a simple dinner—an antipasto of olives, slivers of mozzarella, and artichoke hearts, then a subtle marinara sauce made from fresh plum tomatoes, a little seasoning, no garlic, no onion. The pasta was fresh and full of flavor. It was a homey, comforting dish.

“Isn’t Frieda a wonderful cook?” said Julia.

Rose nodded. “My compliments,” she said. When no one spoke, Rose steered the conversation into new territory. “It must be all the warm weather in Italy that fostered the Italian cooking tradition. Italians have nothing better to do than cook and drink.”

“Excuse me?” said Frieda.

“Hedonists,” Rose said. “It’s part of the Italian character. Don’t you think?”

Julia was preparing an apology when Frieda replied:

“I disagree. What about Leonardo, Galileo, Columbus?”

“There are exceptions to every rule,” Rose said.

“Certainly,” agreed Frieda softly. “Exceptions who changed the face of Western civilization.”

Julia allowed herself a brief smile.

Rose smiled, too. She took another drink from her wine and reappraised Frieda, as if taking the measure not of Frieda’s convictions but of her capacity to take a little ribbing.

“My dear,” replied Rose, “you must admit, you yourself are a fine example of a classic Italian. Clearly, you belong in the kitchen!”

Without flinching, Frieda laughed. “Actually, my mother was Jewish. As for my Italian father, he couldn’t boil an egg to save his life.”

“Nevertheless, it’s obviously in your blood,” said Rose.

“My mother loves these generalizations,” Julia apologized. “You’ll never talk her out of them.”

“Yes,” agreed Rose. “I’ve been all over Europe, and there are unmistakable national traits.”

As Julia cringed, Frieda took these comments in stride. She guessed that over the years Rose had kept herself in the spotlight with these provocative remarks. “Rose,” she asked, “what are the national traits of South Africans?”

“I can answer that one,” said Julia. “Obliviousness to misery, bloody-mindedness, and resistance to change!”

There was a fearful silence as everyone watched for Rose’s reaction.

But Rose merely smiled. “We seem to be lurching into politics, Julia, and I make it a rule never to spoil a good meal that way.”

AFTER DINNER, ROSE OBSERVED
that everybody looked tired, which Julia took as a sign that her mother was exhausted. She led her up to her room, which Rose pronounced “pleasant,” to Julia’s immense relief.

“Poor Howard,” Rose sighed. “We chatted quite a bit on the way back from the airport; he sounds quite disillusioned, Julia. I think it’s America that’s wearing him down.”

“You think so?” Julia replied.

“Yes,” said Rose. “You need to build up his ego. That’s a wife’s first responsibility. . . .”

“Good idea, Mummy. When I’m finished making a living and taking care of the children, I’ll see what I can do about his ego.”

“It’s the moving, I suspect.” Rose frowned. “He needs stability.”

“Stability? Mummy, Howard would give
anything
if we’d just pack and move to New Zealand, or Australia, or Canada. Howard is a wanderer. He can’t settle. He’s incredibly unhappy.
You
can’t expect to solve his problems after one
chat
in the car.”

Rose folded her arms, adjusting her sights. “You’ve tried, I imagine.”

Julia shrugged. “Tried and failed. Now I’m doing my best to keep the boys fed and clothed.”

“They seem very healthy; though the boy with one hand . . .”

“You mean Marcus.”

“He’s a little unfriendly. In fact, he looks at me with suspicion. Then again, I suppose he’s never been encouraged to get to know his own grandmother.”

“I’ve invited you to visit.”

“Once.”

Julia drew in a breath. “Marcus is a very sweet boy. You’ll like him—he’s passionate about Shakespeare and he likes to perform, and as for Julius . . .”

“He argues with Howard, I noticed,” said Rose.

“He’s full of opinions—
like you,
Mummy,” Julia continued. “He has lots of energy, loves television, and happens to be crazy about girls.”

Now Rose appeared dismayed. “It saddens me that I know so little about these boys. Why couldn’t you have told me about them before?”

For the first time that evening, Julia felt genuine sympathy for her mother.

“Forgive me,” she said. “But I’m so glad you’re here now.”

Her mother’s eyebrows rose dubiously.

Julia noted with astonishment that this expression, which had landed her in so much trouble with Mrs. Urquhart, was a gift from her mother.

“If it hadn’t been for Will’s letters to me I wouldn’t have had a clue whether you were alive or dead. Was it your intention to isolate me? What have I ever done to deserve such treatment?”