Five Tuesdays in Winter(28)

Well, that was a bit of an exaggeration but she let it slide.

“I know the stories. I have a ton of photographs. I remember him.”

“Do you miss him still?”

“I guess.”

“Do you feel it was unfair that he died?”

“Of course. He only got half a life. Maybe less.”

“But unfair to you.”

“I guess so. But it’s not like I knew him all that well.”

“What do you mean?”

“He worked a lot.”

“He was home for dinner nearly every night. He helped you with your homework.”

“Once maybe.”

“Hanne, no. Many nights.”

“And on weekends he went to conferences.”

“A few times a year. And sometimes we went with him. To Barcelona, remember?” She had a memory of the three of them in a park near their hotel, but she also had a memory of buying Hanne a doll made out of palm fronds, because Hanne had stayed home with Fritz’s mother. Which was true? She wasn’t sure.

“Is this talking? Because it feels like you’re telling me what I should remember.”

Three days before she and Hanne left the island, Oda had her first real conversation with the Australians.

She’d come downstairs without Hanne, who’d told her the night before she wanted to sleep in. Oda took her seat at the table they always sat at, then wished she’d chosen the other chair instead. Without Hanne in front of her she faced the Australians without obstruction.

“Guten Morgen,” the husband said. He had a fine but exaggerated accent, too bouncy.

“How are you?” Oda said in English.

“Ah, as well as can be expected in the third week of vacation with these ankle biters.”

She understood the gist, if not every word. The oldest child was pouring a packet of sugar into his hair. His father grabbed it out of his hand and swiped away the sugar on the boy’s head. Some crystals pinged against Oda’s plate. “Sorry,” he said. “And you? How are you?”

Did he know? Of course he didn’t. But for so long now when someone asked how she was they loaded it with pity and braced themselves for her reply, as if she had the power to hurt them with the truth.

“I’m fine,” she said lightly, because for once she could. To him she was just a woman with her daughter, not a tragedy. “I sleep well by the sea.” Or was it at the sea? She could never keep the British and American prepositions straight, and who knew what the Australians did.

“I do as well.” He smiled at her, a charmer with his wild hair and flashing green eyes. And that long lean body. He reached over to take a slice of ham from his daughter’s plate and his torso stretched the length of the table, the ribs of his back in relief through his thin T-shirt.

“Does your daughter babysit?” his wife asked, getting most of the ham back for the daughter who had begun to scream.

“No, she doesn’t.”

Imagine Hanne trying to control this brood.

Her own breakfast came then and she tucked in, keeping her eyes down. When they left, the husband said, “Cheers.” His wife handed him the little girl. Oda wondered if one of them would die early and leave the other stunned for a time.

That evening, Hanne announced she was going to watch the Australian children the next day.

“Why did you tell them I don’t babysit?”

“Because you never have. And because you can hear them up there. They’re holy terrors. Plus, they don’t speak German.”

“I know English, Mother,” Hanne said, in English.

Oda laughed.

“What? That’s how you say it.”

“Your voice. It’s deeper in English.”

Hanne nearly laughed, too. “It’s because we’ve had Mr. Manfield for so many years and he can sing Osmin’s aria, which goes down to D-2.” When Oda didn’t respond, she added, “The lowest solo note in all of opera.”

Fritz’s father paid for piano lessons for Hanne, though he hadn’t visited since the funeral. He paid the music teacher directly by mail, as if Oda might try to skim off the top.

Hanne looked at her as if she should say something, but Oda was angry at Fritz’s father now and went down the hall to the bathroom.

The Australian couple had hired a boat to take them to some deep-sea caves. Oda had read about them. They sounded terrifying. It was an hour out and an hour back and they’d probably spend another hour splashing around, the husband told Hanne at breakfast.

They looked at the clock together. “So we’ll be back around eleven thirty, give or take a few,” he said. “The critters are a bit wild in the streets. Best to just keep them upstairs where they have their toys and their books.”

Oda chortled to herself. Those were not children who could sit down and listen to a book.

But she was wrong. Hanne took them up to the third floor and Oda, after waiting a few minutes, went quietly up the stairs and listened at the door.

“Which of this do you like?” Hanne said in her low English voice. “The ducks or . . . what one this called?”

“Ants!” one of the boys said.

“The ants? You choose the ants book?”

“No, the ducks,” the little girl said. The boys didn’t argue.