Emma made a face. ‘He kisses me goodbye whenever he’s here.’ Adair looked at her sharply. ‘I don’t like it. I mean, it’s not like when you or Ev or Etienne kiss me.’
Adair’s voice had an edge. ‘Don’t let him kiss you.’
‘He’s bigger than I am. All brawn and no brain, as the kids at school say. I know he’s my brother, Adair, but I don’t much like him, and I think he uses Papa.’
‘He does,’ Adair agreed. ‘But that’s the way of the world. I’d probably try to use Papa, too, if I wanted to make it in the theater.’ He put on another record. ‘Okay. Now, who’s the composer?’
Emma sat with Bahama one afternoon after school, playing some special new records Adair had given her, Solomon’s interpretation of the Well Tempered Clavier. But her mind was not on the music, but on some gossip she had heard at school. She went at her subject in a roundabout way.
‘Bahama—’ Emma was fourteen, though she still had a child’s body.
The old woman let her mending rest in her lap as she looked up at Emma.
‘My godmother Abby—she still loves my father.’
‘Yes. And David loves her.’
‘Even though they’re divorced, and he’s been married to Myrlo and Marical and Harriet and my mother and Edith and now Sophie?’
Bahama picked up the school blazer she was mending for Emma, and carefully slid the needle in and out. ‘Your father is my son and I love him, but I do not understand him, and I do not applaud his behavior.’
‘You think it’s wrong?’
‘It has hurt many people. It has hurt David, himself. Certainly, it has hurt your godmother.’
‘But he loves Abby.’
‘Yes, he does. Abby was very young when they were married. She did not have the wisdom then that she has now.’
‘And Papa?’
‘My dear, your father’s charm is a wound as well as a blessing.’
‘How can it be a wound?’
‘When it causes pain, as it so frequently does, it is a wound. David does not turn on his charm, it is not a willful effort. It simply flows from him like his breath.’
‘So, what about Myrlo?’ Emma asked. Bahama was not often willing to discuss her son.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Some of the girls at school have shown me stuff about Papa in magazines.’
Bahama put down Emma’s blazer. ‘I should have known that would be inevitable. Did something happen today?’
‘There was a movie magazine with pictures of Papa and Myrlo.’
‘A new magazine?’
‘Last month. There was a feature article about Myrlo. And Papa.’
‘I see.’
‘Was it true? That Myrlo left Papa because he committed adultery on her?’
Bahama pricked her finger. ‘Your father did not commit adultery while he was married to Myrlo.’
‘Oh! Did you hurt yourself?’
Bahama sucked her finger. ‘Just a prick. Nothing.’
‘Bahama?’
Bahama sighed.
‘But Papa has—’
‘Has what, Emma?’
‘Committed adultery.’
‘Emma—’
‘I know about Harriet. Adair told me.’
‘Adair should not have—’
‘Adair knew if he didn’t tell me someone else would. And I’m not stupid, Bahama. I mean, how else do you explain Jarvis?’
Bahama put down her sewing with a sharp exclamation.
‘I’m sorry, but—’ Emma broke off as she saw a tear slip down her grandmother’s cheek. She knelt swiftly and put her head on Bahama’s lap. ‘Oh, Bahama, don’t—don’t—I’m sorry—’
Bahama stroked Emma’s head. ‘I’m sorry, too, Emma. Sorrier than I can say.’
One night, while Emma was alone in her room doing homework, Bahama knocked. Emma looked up and greeted her with a questioning smile.
Bahama sat on the foot of Emma’s bed. ‘Homework going all right?’
‘Sure. I’m almost finished.’
Bahama was silent for a long moment. Then, ‘Emma, how would you like to go to boarding school next year?’
‘Boarding school? Me? Why? I like it here.’
Bahama looked at Emma’s open notebook, then at her granddaughter. ‘Abby and I have been consulting, via the mail. Next season your father and Sophie are going on tour with Hamlet.’
‘But Sophie isn’t in Papa’s Hamlet!’
‘On tour she’ll play Ophelia.’ Bahama’s voice was carefully neutral.
Emma looked at her. ‘But Sophie’s a soubrette! She isn’t a classical actress.’
‘She’s never had a chance to be,’ Bahama said. ‘She wants to try. They’ll take Louis with them, with a nurse. And I would like to go back to Seattle.’
‘With me?’
‘No, Emma. Alone. My heart has not been behaving well, and the doctor wants me to have a time of real peace and quiet.’
‘Bahama!’ Emma’s voice rose in a wail, and she flung herself on her knees at her grandmother’s feet. ‘I’ll take care of you. I can cook and everything, you know that. And I love Seattle.’
‘No, Emma, darling.’ Bahama took the girl’s face in her hands. ‘Abby writes that she was very happy in her boarding school in New England, and she thinks it would be a good place for you.’
Tears began to flow down Emma’s cheeks. ‘You’re just sending me off, like a parcel.’
Bahama caressed Emma’s fine hair. ‘Never. Everything has been happening at once, and I—oh, Emma, it’s not the end of the world. You’ll come to me for holidays, and your father and Sophie and Louis will be back in the spring. And if the school doesn’t work out for you, we can discuss that later.’
‘I could stay with Marical,’ Emma suggested.
‘Darling, Chantal’s in college. Marical’s children are grown. She’s living in a very small house in Connecticut. You know that.’
‘But she’d take me.’
‘Yes, Emma, I know she would. We have even discussed it.’
‘Behind my back—’
‘Hush. You are not being sent to prison. If you do not like the school, we can make other arrangements. But, darling, I want you to try to like it.’
‘Sure.’
‘I want you really to try.’
‘Okay.’
‘That’s my good Emma.’
‘But suppose—suppose something comes up for me in the theater?’
‘There are not that many roles for you at this point. Your Celia was enchanting. There is no question that you can act. But now you need to wait until you grow up into yourself.’
Emma had completely stopped thinking about her father’s wives and was thinking of herself. She nodded. ‘I’m not sure Sophie can play Ophelia, but I’m sure I can’t. What’s the matter?’ She stopped as Bahama began to laugh.
‘You did play Ophelia once,’ Bahama wiped her eyes.
‘Me? I? When?’
‘When you were six. You found an old straw hat that had a wreath of flowers on it, and you took the wreath off and put it on, and you wore a white summer nightgown and filled the tub with a couple of inches of water and lay back in it. Your father and I couldn’t find you anywhere, and when we looked in the bathroom and saw you lying there in the tub as though you’d been drowned—’
Emma giggled. ‘I’d completely forgotten that!’
‘I never have. You almost gave me a heart attack right then and there. When your father yelled at you and asked you what the hell you thought you were doing, you sat up, dripping water, and told us you were Ophelia.’
Emma reached out and took her grandmother’s hand. ‘Is there any theater in Abby’s school?’
‘She says they have an excellent drama department.’
‘I hate it,’ Emma said. ‘I hate it. I don’t want everybody to go away. Bahama, are you sure you’ll be all right?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Bahama said. ‘But I do need to get away from this city to where I
can get some peace and quiet.’
Rather to her surprise, Emma was happy in Abby’s school. She made friends, was appreciated by the teachers; there were at least two productions each year, and Emma played good roles.
She went to Bahama for Christmas and Easter, and she loved the water and the great snow-capped mountains that ringed Seattle. She enjoyed being alone with Bahama in the comfortable old house that overlooked the Sound and the Cascades.
Her sophomore year in boarding school, with David and Sophie and Louis back in New York, she spent Christmas at the Riverside Drive apartment, because Sophie would have been devastated without her, and was with Bahama for Easter. She saw with a pang that her grandmother was older, was, indeed, frail, with an odd little cough. She tried not to hear it. She could not imagine life without Bahama.
One evening they were sitting on the porch watching the last rosy rays of sun touching the snow on the mountains. Emma was relaxed in the moment. ‘Bahama?’
‘Yes, lamb.’
‘Right after your husband died, I was born, wasn’t I?’
‘Shortly after.’
‘And you came to take care of me.’
‘You were my greatest joy.’
‘Why didn’t you ever marry again?’
‘I had other things on my hands. You, for one.’
‘Bahama! I wouldn’t have stopped you from marrying!’
‘Who would you have wanted me to marry?’
Emma swallowed, then answered boldly, ‘Grandpa.’
Bahama laughed.
‘Why is it funny?’
Bahama continued to laugh, rocking backwards and forwards, finally gasping, ‘One of us would have murdered the other.’
‘But—’
‘And our backgrounds are so different we might as well come from different planets.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Yes, lamb, it does. Marriage is hard enough at best. Your other grandfather—my husband—and I came from the same world. He was a banker, but he was also a great lover of music, and played the cello quite creditably.’
‘And Grandpa—Grandpa Bowman?’
‘He grew up in the Georgia backwoods. As far as I know, he’s never been properly ordained. He’s self-educated, and well educated, I grant you, but we have no roots in common. We can be friends, delightful friends. I’ve missed my trips to Georgia these past two years.’
‘Grandpa has missed you, too.’
‘But as much as were friends, good friends, we wouldn’t be good companions, day in and day out. There are too many differences.’ She turned the subject. ‘I’m glad you’re doing well in school. Your report cards have been marvelous.’
Emma laughed. ‘School’s good, really good. I like the work, the teachers, the kids. I know I fought going, but I do love it. I get to play roles I’ll never have another chance to do. I wish you could have seen my Prospero.’
‘I wish I could have, too.’
‘I’m a good actress, Bahama. I’m lucky to know what I want to do. I’m a classical actress. Sophie didn’t get very good reviews as Ophelia. They didn’t demolish her, but she says she’s through with Shakespeare. I’d like to play Kate, and maybe Beatrice and Portia. You know who I’m going to play next term?’
‘Who?’
‘Oedipus. Don’t you think you could possibly come?’
‘Isn’t Oedipus a little ambitious for high school?’
‘Where else could I do it? Don’t you want to see me?’
‘Of course I do, lamb. But New England is far, far away from Seattle.’
‘Well, you and Abby chose the school for me. And I do love it.’
‘Good. I’m glad Abby chose well.’
When Emma was a sophomore in college, Bahama’s heart gave out. It was in December, just a week before the beginning of vacation. Emma took the train to New York, to Chicago, to Seattle. David and Sophie joined her there, with Louis. Emma did not cry until, unannounced, Grandpa Bowman arrived. Grandpa Bowman hated travel, but he came. Emma buried her face in his beard and sobbed, while her grandfather held her close.
The small Episcopal church, which for years had been Bahama’s church home in Seattle, was full for the funeral. Grandpa Bowman and David Wheaton flanked Emma, each one gently touching her with hand or knee. Louis pressed up against Sophie, almost in her lap, and she enfolded him with her arms, making no effort to hide her own tears. The funeral service was strong, affirming, the words of Cranmer and Coverdale promising that Bahama would be one of the mighty cloud of witnesses, that she would go from strength to strength. There was an enormous spread of food in the parish house afterwards, provided by Bahama’s many friends.
‘No eulogy.’ Grandpa Bowman scowled. ‘I understand that your funeral service is the same for the Queen of England and the lowest street cleaner, but I would have liked to have said something about my friendship with a great woman.’
Bahama was dead. Grandpa Bowman was no longer young. Emma felt an aching in her physical heart so strong that she thought it would break.
Then came the long journey back to New York, and Christmas, which they tried to keep merry for Louis. Marical, Etienne, Everard, Adair, Chantal, all came. Jarvis was there; Harriet was dancing that day, but Jarvis brought Inez with him. Myrlo sent a telegram that she was sorry but she and Billy were going to Florida with Billy’s father.
She was referring to the insurance executive she had married. David handed Emma the yellow Western Union paper. She read it, scowled furiously, then put her arms tightly around her father, trying to hold his hurt.
The rest of the vacation was cold, with heavy snow. She took Louis to the park with his sled, and they slid down the hills, and rolled into the snow, and laughed, and Louis hugged her and begged her not to go back to college.
‘I have to, Louis, dear, I have to finish school.’
‘But you’re an actress.’
‘Yes, but I have to wait for the roles that are right for me.’
Louis reached for her hand. ‘I miss Bahama.’
‘I know, Louis. We’ll miss her forever.’
‘Do you think I could go with you to Georgia to see Grandpa Bowman?’
‘Why not? I’d like you to get to know him.’ Emma brushed snow off Louis, wiped his face. ‘We should start walking home.’
‘I love you, Emma.’
‘I love you, baby brother.’
‘I’m not a baby. I’m nearly eight.’
‘You’ll always be a baby to me, Louis, you’re stuck with it. And I’ll always be your big sister.’
Yes, Louis was special to Emma, though not as Adair was; her feeling for Louis was protective, whereas Adair was protector.
David Wheaton tried, after Bahama’s death, to go to church with Emma when she was home, to St. John the Divine, where he enjoyed the music, the great organ, and the choir of men and boys. He went to church, Emma thought, much as he went to the theater. Except that he did not receive communion, because he believed himself to be unworthy.
‘Pride,’ Grandpa Bowman had bellowed. ‘No one is worthy.’
‘You’re a Baptist!’ David Wheaton had shouted. ‘Baptists don’t go in for communion.’
‘Wrong!’ Grandpa Bowman’s voice matched David Wheaton’s, decibel for decibel. ‘Every meal I eat is a Eucharist. If you don’t believe me, ask—well, you can no longer ask Bahama, alas, but she would have understood. Did understand. It is pride on your part, pride.’
David’s voice dropped. ‘Perhaps.’ He hit himself on the chest. ‘Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.’
‘What play is that from?’ Grandpa Bowman demanded.
David bellowed with laughter. ‘You old fox. Don’t tell me you have no pride yourself.’
‘I have plenty,’ Grandpa Bowman said. ‘It’s just different from yours.’
‘Oh, God,’ David had said, ‘I miss my mother.’
‘I miss her, too,’ Grandpa Bowman said. ‘She was a great lady.’
Emma would always m
iss Bahama. Grandpa Bowman talked about her with loving remembrance, somehow always managing to get Emma laughing.
She took Louis down South with her to see him, not really wanting to share her grandfather but simultaneously wanting Louis to have a chance to know the old man.
On Sunday, Grandpa preached about Samuel and his anger when Saul, after a successful battle against the Amalekites, did not kill all the enemy, as the Lord—and Samuel—had commanded him to do.
She and Louis walked home to Grandpa’s house through the heat of a Georgia summer.
‘I didn’t understand,’ Louis said. ‘I mean, I like the way Grandpa preached, it was really terrific, but there’s this guy, Saul, and he’s king of the place, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And then there’s Samuel, and he’s a prophet, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And he tells this king, Saul, he has to kill all the Amalekites, and all their animals, too. Why did Saul have to kill everybody?’
Emma dropped Louis’s hand. It was so hot that their hands were slippery with sweat, and she wiped her palm on her cotton skirt. Louis reached for her hand again, and she pressed his fingers lightly. ‘It does seem pretty blood-minded of Samuel,’ she told Louis, ‘wanting Saul to slaughter everybody, women and children and old people.’
‘Yeah, but Grandpa said Saul didn’t kill them all,’ Louis argued. ‘Saul spared Agag, the king of the Amalekites, and the best of the sheep, and all the best animals.’
‘Right,’ Emma agreed. ‘This made Samuel angry, and Saul said he’d spared the animals so they could be used as a sacrifice to the Lord. But Samuel said that Saul had rejected God’s word, and therefore God rejected Saul from being king of Israel.’ They had reached the old frame house now, and Louis let go Emma’s hand and ran up the steps to the porch.
Emma pondered while she and Louis and Grandpa Bowman were sitting out on the porch eating their midday meal. ‘What kind of a god washes people’s feet in the blood of the enemy?’
‘A local, tribal god,’ Grandpa Bowman replied calmly. ‘Remember, children, these were still a primitive people. Samuel served the tribal god who wanted everybody except his own people demolished in order to keep them from worshipping other gods. But there were also occasions when Samuel had a vision of a God of the universe, who created the stars, and it was this vision he passed on to David, who was ready to receive it.’
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