• • •
HÉLÈNE PRINGLE. Eight o’clock in the evening. Hélène never called in the evening.
‘Hélène!’
‘Yes, Father. Are you and Cynthia well?’
‘We are. And you?’
‘Very well, thank you. I was wondering if we might arrange to have a . . . conversation privée?’
A private talk, he knew that much French. ‘Would this be a good time?’
‘Oui, if you can be spared at home.’
‘I’ll pop over now if that works.’
‘Come to the rear porch—would you mind coming in by the rear porch?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘We’ll have tea in your pleasant old kitchen. I’ll put the kettle on.’
They sat at the same table, in the same chairs he’d used all those years in another life.
There was the stove where he made dinner for his new neighbor with the great legs; where he’d fried bologna for Dooley and baked a Christmas casserole on the morning Dooley found a red bicycle beneath the tree.
This was where Miss Sadie’s letter about Dooley’s inheritance of a million-plus had been read with such grave astonishment, where his brand-new wife had travailed over the first Primrose Tea, and where Barnabas and Violet had at last made their peace and lay down together, lion and lamb. The rectory on Wisteria Lane was a museum of memories.
She filled their cups with Earl Grey and passed him a small plate of lemon slices. ‘I’ve been thinking, Father. Quite a lot.
‘Teaching piano is the only great thing I have ever done for anyone. But I’m paid to do that. I want very much to do something I’m not paid to do. I wish to do something from the heart, Father. Ever since he came out from behind the curtain . . .’
She gave him a shy look. ‘Comprenez-vous?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘A few of my pupils have grown up and moved on to other interests and I have a bit more time. Time is something that must be managed, tu vois ce que je veux dire? One must get it firmly by the neck!’
She leaned toward him, confiding. ‘I believe he has asked me to give a day to the bookstore.’
‘Formidable!’ he said in the French way.
‘I’ll take . . . Tuesday!’ she said, as if choosing a chocolate. ‘I’d like to begin right away, if that would be opportun.’
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the ropes tomorrow.’
‘I shall be the first to read the Sunday Times! After Hope and Scott, of course.’ His neighbor had a very agreeable laugh. ‘And Tuesday gives us an unbroken succession of days—Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Good for business, I should think.’
‘Wonderful news. Hope will be thrilled, as am I. Thank you, Hélène.’
‘There is, however, a problem of some concern.’
He sipped his tea.
‘I have no idea how to sell a book.’
‘Books sell themselves, I’ve found.’
‘And you would have to show me how to use the . . . machine á carte de credit.’
‘I can certainly show you that. Trés simple!’ He was quickly exhausting his French. ‘There’s only one true requirement in this job. Can you make coffee?’
‘Oui, oui! Since childhood. And very strong!’
He doubted he could show her how to unlock the door, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it.
She fidgeted with her napkin, her chin trembled.
‘And now, Father, may I bring before you a most unpleasant subject?’
‘Please.’ The other shoe was falling.
‘I am a romantique, Father, I do not deny it. I had thought we might all live together under one roof as a type of family, each with their own strict privacy, of course. Having someone down there has been so . . . satisfaisant until . . . until things began going wrong with Sammy.
‘I teach innocent children, Father, many of them young women, and word is getting round that he lives downstairs. He has a very, shall I say, sale bouche, and some very indelicate habits. You take Mr. Welch, Father—an uneducated man, but with delicate habits—clean, a fine cook, very courteous and thoughtful always. But Sammy—he smokes, you see. He leaves the house to do it, but there he stands beneath my cherry tree, smoking like a cheminée as people go by, and throwing his . . . um, mégot de cigarette into the grass.
‘And if he isn’t smoking, he is spitting. I have never seen such a lot of spitting. We got through the business of Mr. Welch being a former . . . prisonnier . . . and then there was Mr. Gaynor, and now here’s another piece of business to go through—but I don’t wish to go through it.’
‘You’d like him to leave.’
‘It would break Mr. Welch’s heart, I’m sure of it, and with young Kenny going away the first of the year, Mr. Welch would be, how do you say, an empty nester. But I don’t know what else to do. This is my livelihood, Father, my livelihood, and I am no longer young. Mother’s estate is useful, but it does not solve the day-to-day issues of keeping body and soul together.
‘Mr. Welch assures me that he frequently speaks to Sammy about such behavior, but . . . en vain, Father, en vain.
‘I saw the authorities parked at your curb the other evening. I thought something may have gone wrong in your household, and asked Mr. Welch about it. Being an honest man, he told me the terrible truth.’
He didn’t know what to say. He had never developed a Plan B for Sammy. He didn’t remind Hélène that it was she who had found Sammy. She had seen him coming out of a drugstore in Holding and thought it was Dooley. When he heard this, he knew at once what was up. They had taken off in her aging car with the very bad brakes, and gone searching. It had been the ride of his life.
‘Would you be willing to . . . give us a bit of time to settle things?’
‘But only a bit, Father. I’m so sorry. I would do anything to please you and Cynthia, but this . . .’
She looked done in. ‘. . . this is frightful.’
Frightful.
A truer word was seldom spoken.
• • •
‘IT HASN’T BEEN CALLED the little yellow house for nothing,’ said Cynthia. ‘It can’t contain the very big issues of a hurting boy. I simply can’t do it, Timothy. If you feel you must, then I will comply in whatever way I can. But no, I cannot volunteer for this.
‘I’m sorry for many reasons, not the least of which is that I may look mean-spirited to others, and only you will know that I am not.’
The talk had been stressful for both. He put on a heavy jacket and a wool hat and walked with Barnabas to the bench under the maple. A nearly full moon was setting over the mountain. Its light silvered the trees, the lawn, the fence.
He sat until the chill overtook him, and walked his silvered dog back to their silvered house.
• • •
HE LAY ON THE SOFA in front of a fire gone to coals, Violet at his side. He was wiped, as Dooley would say. An emotionally rousing day, at the very least, albeit with happy consequences for Irene and Kim. Today’s meeting was beyond any joy he’d witnessed in years. He had bawled like a baby, as had his wife; his handkerchiefs were two too few.
He stroked Violet’s head, listening to the thrumming in her throat. ‘What a good job you’re doing. Just wanted to say thanks.’
He felt an unexpected peace but for one thing—something was nagging him, he couldn’t put his finger on it.
• • •
‘HEY, DAD.’
‘Hey, yourself.’
‘Just checkin’ in. I know it’s late.’
‘Never too late to hear from you.’
Dooley wanted him to do something about Sammy’s behavior, he could feel the pressure, but he would avoid that subject at all costs. Nor would he mention the talk with Hélène Pringle. Not tonight.
‘I’ve been thinking about a vehicle,’ he said.
‘Great!’
‘I don’t want a car. I want a truck. A man needs a truck.’
Dooley laughed. ‘You’re full of surprises. What kind of truck?’
‘Stick shift. Long bed. Two or three years old.’ He had never been so sure of himself in the automotive realm. ‘Red.’