The Paper Palace(19)

She told me the photo was taken by the handsome gardener, that the little boy was his son; that seconds after the picture was taken, the boy nicked the horse with his cart and the horse bolted, galloped across the field and threw her, breaking her arm and two ribs. She never got back on a horse. The following fall, my mother left Guatemala for a posh New England boarding school, where she played in tennis whites and had chapel every morning. She never looked back.

I have always loved that photo. It reminds me of Michelangelo’s David: a split second carved in eternal time, the instant before the throw—right before everything changes; the randomness of the things that lead us to turn left, or right, or simply sit down on a dusty road and never move forward again. That boy, that cart, that horse, that fall, my mother’s choice to leave Guatemala, come back to the woods—gave me the pond.



* * *



—

    From the porch, I watch Finn and Maddy flopping about in the shallows. Maddy points to something moving near the lily pads. Finn takes a step backward, but Maddy takes his hand, maternal. “It’s okay. Water snakes are harmless,” I hear her say. They watch its little black head making its ticktack S curves through the reeds. “Look! Minnows,” Finn says, and they disappear under the water together. The bright yellow tips of their snorkels plow figure eights on the surface.

“Has anyone seen my dark glasses?” My mother wanders out to the porch from the kitchen. “I know I left them on the bookshelf. Someone must have moved them.”

“They’re right here. On the table,” I say. “Exactly where you left them.”

“I’m going next door. I promised Pamela I’d bring over a jar of milk and two eggs.”

“You should have asked Peter to pick up groceries for her.”

“Hardly. Anyone with sense knows to avoid your husband like the plague when smoke starts coming out of his ears. But you, Eleanor, insist on wading in with a match and setting everyone’s hair on fire. I am removing myself, with my jar of milk and my parcel of eggs. I’ll be back when you and your husband have stopped acting like infants in front of your children. You should try not to be so impossible, dear. He’s a good man. A reasonable man. You’re lucky to have him.”

“I know.”

“And take something for that hangover,” Mum says. “You’re positively green around the gills. There’s ginger ale in the icebox.”

My mother has always had a mini-crush on Peter. She’s not wrong. He’s a wonderful man. A towering hickory. Gentle but never weak. The strength of rivers. Opinionated, thoughtful, thought-provoking. A sexy English accent. He makes us laugh. He adores me. He adores his children. And I adore him right back, with a love as deep and strong as tree roots. There are times when I want to tear him limb from limb, but that’s probably the definition of marriage. Toilet paper can lead to World War III.

My mother disappears into the trees at the far end of our beach, egg basket in one hand, jar of milk in the other. Three minutes later, I can hear her calling “Yoo-hoo!” as she emerges from the woods onto my grandfather’s property. He has been dead for many years, but it will always be his house. A screen door opens, shuts, a garbled laugh, Pamela saying, “Oh my!” Although Pamela is a decade older, she and my mother are close friends. “She’s practically the only person I can bear in these woods anymore,” Mum says. “Though it would be restful if she ever wore a color other than purple. And you’d think she invented botulism, the way she cooks. I found a piece of blue cheese in her icebox that turned out to be butter. Everyone says Daddy died from old age, but I suspect she may have poisoned him by mistake.”

There’s the sound of gravel and sand, Peter’s car pulling in. I brace myself for whatever is coming. Everything? Nothing? Something in between? This powerless moment. Not knowing what to expect. I hear him walking down the path toward me and my stomach does a slight free fall. I turn my back to the screen door, settle my body into a neutral position on the sofa, and pick up my book so he won’t be able to read me, either. It’s all judo. But he heads past the porch and walks down toward the cabins.

“Jack, open up!” He bangs on the cabin door. “Out. Now.”

I turn around and try to read Peter’s face from where I’m sitting. Jack emerges and sits down beside his father on the steps. I can’t hear them, but I see Peter talking emphatically, Jack listening with a sullen glare, then bursting into laughter. My entire body unclenches in relief. My husband and my tall, lanky son get up and walk toward me. They are both smiling.

“Have you calmed down a bit, missus?” Peter reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes, pats down his pockets for a lighter. “I’ve brought you your sheepish son. He understands that he behaved like a little shit and must never, ever speak to his mother that way again. Apologize to your mother.” He ruffles Jack’s hair.

“Sorry, Mom.”

“And . . .” Peter prompts.

“And I will never, ever speak to you like that again,” Jack says.

Peter takes me by both hands and pulls me up off the sofa. “Cheer up, grumpy. See? Your son loves you. Now—beach-ward?” He goes to the porch door and yells to Maddy and Finn. “Oi! Out of the pond. We’re leaving in five minutes.”

They splash each other and duck under the water, ignoring him.