Dreamology(53)

“Never keep bananas in the fridge; they go bad faster that way,” I tease.

“The other thing,” my dad says, not taking the bait.

“Always answer every question, and always follow through,” I say.

“Exactly. Good girl.” He bops some frosting on my nose with the spatula, and I roll my eyes before scooping it off with a finger and sticking it in my mouth.

“The frosting isn’t bad, you know,” I say.

“It’s just butter and sugar,” he says. “If I somehow managed to make those two ingredients taste bad, I’d really be in trouble.”

I trudge upstairs to try and make a dent in my homework, some reading and a short work sheet for Levy. But even though it’s my favorite class, I can’t seem to sit still, and I find myself being drawn to one of the tall, built-in bookshelves with beautiful half-moon moldings at the top. I’ve explored the items on these shelves dozens of times before. There are carved boxes, silver ring trays, and old postcards with nothing written on the back, showing they were purchased as souvenirs instead of as a means of communication. I pull a chair up and stand on it to see what’s on the top shelf, where I discover a small canvas box. Inside are rows and rows of slides, and a small antique wooden slide viewer. I pull the box down and sit on my bed.

I suppose I was thinking that maybe just one baby shot of me couldn’t hurt. Something to show she recognized my existence, something to hint that maybe she still does. Instead there are photos of exotic places, seascapes and windy plains, and animals, animals, and more animals. Giraffes and birds and turtles. No people whatsoever, in fact, not even a shot of my dad. Except one at the end, of her. Looking windswept in an old Harvard T-shirt and straw hat, sunburned and grinning as she sits in the bow of a small fishing boat that is taking her to wherever she was going.

“On to the next adventure, huh, Mom?” I tell the slide. “The next unanswered question.”

Then I hear my father’s voice in my head again. Always answer every question, and always follow through. I repeat it a couple times in my head, still gazing at my mother. She certainly always did, and this time, I was going to. I had a ways to go before I was done with this experiment.





25


It’s Called a Gi




WHEN GUSTAVE PETERMANN answers the door of his quaint, mansard-roofed home just off of Porter Square, I should be more surprised to find him dressed head to toe in a karate outfit, but I am not. I also can’t help but notice the large black cuff attached to his left ankle.

“Alice,” he says, looking alarmed, adjusting the piece of cloth tied around his forehead. “How did you find me?”

“The internet,” I say, before getting right to it. “Were you even planning on telling us? And why are you wearing a kimono?”

Petermann looks uncomfortable. “It’s called a gi. Listen, this really isn’t a good time,” he says, not inviting me in. “My sensei is here, and Yoshi doesn’t like interruptions.”

“What happened?” I ask, ignoring him.

“I am not legally able to discuss it,” Petermann says. “Per Yoshi’s advisement.”

“Yoshi your sensei?” I ask.

“He’s also my lawyer,” Petermann replies, as though I am too slow to keep up. “Two birds with one stone, pardon the expression under the circumstances.”

I feel the sudden urge to take his headscarf and strangle him with it. Why isn’t he taking this more seriously? “But what about me and Max?” I demand. “We need you. You told us yourself we are at risk of losing our sanity, and then you just abandoned us!”

“Alice, this is all just a silly misunderstanding,” Petermann says, glancing behind him nervously. “It will be handled in no time and we can get back to the business as usual, I promise. I think we are very close to an amazing discovery.”

“Dr. Petermann, the papers say you had over twenty species of rare birds lining the walls of your attic in cages!” I push.

“Yoshi Yamamura is one of the top criminal lawyers in Massachusetts,” Petermann says. “If he can’t get the charges dropped, I don’t know who can. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my lesson. I’ll see you in a few weeks, Alice. There’s no way you’ll have gone crazy by then. Trust me.”

Petermann shuts the door in my face and I hear the sound of somber flute music resume in the house. I stand there a second, thinking. Petermann’s reassurances are not comforting.

“No way,” I say out loud. And then I start banging on the door again. I bang louder and louder, but the flute music only increases in volume. Eventually my hand starts to hurt and a few people on the sidewalk are staring, so I have no choice but to give up. I am almost all the way down the driveway when I hear the front door open again and a woman wrapped in a green cashmere cardigan and black leggings comes dashing out after me.

“Wait!” she cries. “Wait, please.” When I stop, confused, she speaks first. “It’s Alice, right? Alice Rowe?”

In response I am only able to nod my head. I feel a specific hopelessness building within me and am certain that the tears will come any minute.

“I’m Virginia Petermann,” she says. “Gustave’s wife.” She extends a hand and I shake it slowly.