out of the kitchen, running after my father, in her anguish not noticing Elvira and me as she races past the open door of the pantry.
Again, she is shouting loudly. ‘I hate you! I hate you! I’ll never give you a divorce. Never. Not as long as I live. Mercedes will never have the pleasure of being your wife, Edward Jordan. I swear to you she won’t. And if you leave me, you’ll never see Mallory again. Not ever again. I’ll make sure of that. I have my father’s money behind me. It will build a barrier, Edward. A barrier to keep you away from Mallory.’
I hear her running upstairs after my father, railing on at him remorselessly, her voice shrill and bitter and condemning.
Elvira is stroking my hair, soothing me. ‘Pay no mind,’ she is whispering, her plump black arms encircling me, keeping me safe. ‘Pay no mind, chile. The big folks is always mouthing the stupidest things … things they doan never mean … things no chile needs hear. Pay no mind, honeychile mine. Your Momma doan mean not a word she ses.’
My father is here.
He does not leave. An armed truce is struck between them; it lasts only through the fourth of July. The following morning he kisses me goodbye. He drives back to Manhattan and flies off to Egypt to his dig.
He does not come back for five months.
I closed my eyes, squeezing back the tears, pressing down the pain this unexpected memory, so long concealed, has evoked in me.
Slowly, I lifted my lids and stared at the kitchen wall. With infinite care, I placed the lettuce leaves in the colander to drain, covering them with a large piece of paper towel. My hands felt heavy, like dead weights, and nausea fluttered in my stomach. Holding onto the edge of the sink, I calmed myself and endeavoured to regain my equilibrium before I walked across the kitchen.
Eventually, I was able to move.
I paused at the kitchen table and looked down at my mother.
It struck me, with a rush of clarity and something akin to shock, that she had probably suffered greatly as a young wife. I should stop my silent condemnation of her. All of my father’s long absences must have been difficult to endure, unimaginably lonely and painful for her. Had there been a mistress? Had a woman called Mercedes really existed? Had there been many other women over the years? Most probably, I thought, with a sinking feeling. My father was a good-looking, normal, healthy man, and when he was younger he must have sought out female company. For as long as I could recall, he and my mother had had separate bedrooms, and this situation had existed long before he had left for good, when I was eighteen. He had stayed in that terrible marriage for me. I had long believed this, had long accepted it. Somehow, today, I knew it to be true.
Perhaps my mother had experienced humiliation and despair and more heartache than I ever realized. But I would never get the real truth from her. She never talked about the past, never confided in me. It was as if she wanted to bury those years, forget them, perhaps even pretend they never happened. Maybe that was why she was so remote with me at times. Maybe I reminded her of things she wanted to expunge from her memory.
My mother was looking up at me.
She caught my eye and smiled uncertainly, and for the first time in my adult life I asked myself if I had been unfair, if I had done her a terrible injustice all these years.
‘What is it, Mal?’ she asked, her blonde brows puckering, a spark of concern flickering in her hazel eyes.
I cleared my throat, took a moment to answer. At last I said in a carefully modulated voice, ‘Nothing, Mom. I’m fine. Listen, I’ve just washed all the lettuce. It’s draining. Could you put it in the fridge in a few minutes, please?’ It seemed important to me at this moment to speak of mundane things.
‘Of course,’ she answered.
‘What can I do to help, Mal? Should I fix the salad dressing?’ Diana asked.
‘Yes, please, and then perhaps the two of you could take out the hamburger meat and start making the patties.’
‘Done,’ Diana said and immediately jumped up, went into the pantry.
Looking at my mother again, I said, ‘I’m going to go and set the tables.’
She nodded, smiled at me and this time her smile was more sure. She turned back to her potato salad, mixing in the mayonnaise.
Pushing open the kitchen door, I went outside into the garden with Trixy at my heels, leaving the two women alone.
I paused near the door and took several deep breaths. I felt shaken inside, not only by the memory but by the sudden knowledge that all the years I was growing up I had been terrified my father would leave us for ever, my mother and I, terrified that one day he would never come back.
It was very hot and airless in the garden, and within seconds my T-shirt was damp and clinging to me. Even Trixy, trotting along next to me, looked slightly wilted and she wisely flopped down under one of the trestle tables when we reached them.
Late last night Andrew and I had placed the tables under the trees, and I was suddenly glad that we had.
The maples and oaks which formed a semicircle near my studio were old, huge and extravagant, with thick, gnarled trunks and widely spreading branches abundant with leaves. The branches arched up to form a wonderful, giant parasol of leafy green that was cool and inviting and offered plenty of protection from the sun. And we were going to need such a shady spot; by one o’clock it would be a real scorcher of a day, just as Nora had predicted to me on Friday.
Early this morning I had carried red-and-white checked cloths and a big basket of flatware out here, and now I began to set the tables. I had almost finished the largest table, where the adults would sit, when I heard someone calling, ‘Coo-ee!’
I recognized Sarah’s voice at once, and looked up. I waved; she waved back.
She was wearing a white terry cloth robe and dark glasses. Her jet-black hair was piled up on top of her head and there was a mug in her hand. As she drew closer I could see that her face was woebegone.
‘God, I feel awful,’ she moaned, lowering herself gingerly onto the bench in front of the smaller table.
‘I’m not surprised,’ I said, ‘and good morning to you, Miss Parfait.’ This was one of my affectionate nicknames for her.
‘Good morning, Little Mother,’ she answered, using one of her pet names for me.
I grinned and tipped the remainder of the knives and forks out onto the table.
‘Oh please, Mal,’ she groaned, ‘have a heart. Hold the noise down. My head’s splitting, I feel positively ill.’
‘It’s your own fault, you know, you really did tie one on last night.’
‘Thanks a lot, friend, for all your sympathy.’
Realizing that she wasn’t over-dramatizing for once, I went and put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t tease you. Do you want me to get something for you? Headache pills? Alka-Seltzer?’
‘No, I’ve already taken enough aspirin to sink a battleship. I’ll be okay. Just move around me very, very carefully please, tiptoe on the grass, don’t clatter the tableware and talk in a whisper.’
I shook my head. ‘Oh, Sarah darling, you do punish yourself, don’t you? Thomas Preston III isn’t worth it.’
Sarah paid no attention to my last comment. She said, ‘I guess it must be the Jewish half of me, the Charles Finkelstein half … that’s what I inherited from good old Dad … a penchant for punishing myself, a tendency to treat everything like an ethnic drama, lots of Jewish guilt and dark looks.’
‘Dark good looks,’ I said.