“I hear you’ve been talking to a publisher about putting together some kind of memoir on Papa.”
“Yes, something very personal, very warm.”
Quentin set the cup down. “Don’t do it,” he said quietly. “You’ll never make strangers understand what happened to him.”
“When I still don’t understand it myself? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Let him go, Mother.”
She slammed a hand on the table. “How can I? Have you?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Quentin pushed the acidic tea away. He felt sour inside. “His reputation as a man who killed himself is a fact we can’t change. You can’t redeem the way he died.”
Her lips tightened. “I’m not going to discuss this with you. As usual, you’ve attempted to divert the subject away from your own unhappy situations.” Angele stroked a fingertip over the fine frown lines between her brows. “I despise learning about your life through gossip.”
“I’m sorry. You only have to ask.” He looked at her sadly, wishing they still had the kind of camaraderie that encouraged long talks.
She pressed a spoon into the dark, fine leaves of Earl Grey, strained the last bit of liquid into one of a series of china teapots Alfonse had given her on her birthday over the years, then laid the silver strainer aside on a gaudy, bright-yellow spoon rest with mermaids painted around the rim. No matter how much china and silver she set out, she always used the mermaid spoon rest. His father had won it for her at a Coney Island carnival game, when they were dating.
“Was Alfonse correct about there being a problem?” she persisted. Quentin stirred lemon juice into his cup. “All right. Yes. Carla and I had a discussion. It’s over.”
“You mean ‘over’ as in temporarily, as usual?”
“No. Over for good, this time. She won’t be waiting anymore.”
His mother’s troubled scrutiny contained shock. “I can’t say I’ve ever thought that Carla was the perfect match for you, but I’ve never doubted she loves you, or that she would have been devoted to you as a wife. Are you sure you want to give up on her?”
He smiled. “You’d settle for a practical marriage and some grandchildren?”
She stiffened. “Have I ever settled for less than the best? Either from myself or from the people I love?”
Quentin lifted the delicate teacup into his thick, callused hands again, cradling it carefully inside his palms. He could barely fit his forefinger through the handle. He sometimes wondered if she looked at him and thought, His fingers would fit if he had become an architect. “Remember that you told me I had to stop ruining Carla’s life? That’s what I did.”
“She told Alfonse you have another woman. Someone you met on that buying trip you took through the South.” Angele paused, frowning. “Someone special, Carla said. Or at least particularly photogenic.”
Quentin silently filed away Carla’s small betrayal. Careful, now. No details. He didn’t want his mother to piece together any names or possibilities. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of trivia surrounding his father’s sculptures. The Tiber name, Tiberville — any mention of that or anything related to it would alert her. As long as there was a chance he could bring Bare Wisdom home to her as a surprise, he wouldn’t risk spoiling it.
“I met someone interesting on my trip. I’d rather not talk about her. It’s not what Carla thinks.”
“I see. You’re full of secrets lately. A friend saw you in Joe’s office last week. Is this something to do with your father? I could barely believe it, since you’ve never taken any interest in Joe’s work on his behalf before.”
“I’ve known Joe since I was a kid. It’s not that strange to have lunch with him. That’s all it was.”
“Quentin, what’s going on? This mysterious woman? The meeting with Joe? Tell me the truth.”
“It’s nothing sinister. Can’t you trust me?” He paused, then added quietly, “I think I’ve earned that right.”
“Can’t you trust me?” She gazed at him with tears glimmering in her eyes, then looked away. “Someday I hope you’ll even tell me what your father could have done to deserve the way you feel about him.”
Quentin sat back. He would not tread in this area, ever. “The woman I met?” he said abruptly. “She speaks a little Latin, she has a master’s in business, she used to own a bookstore. She runs her own small publishing company now. She has this sweet younger brother who’s autistic or a little mentally retarded, it’s hard to say which. There’s just the two of them, and she takes care of him. They live on a farm in the mountains — the most beautiful land I’ve ever seen in my life. She has some tenants there — artists, craftspeople. They’ve turned some old chicken houses into apartments. It’s an amazing place. She’s amazing.”
By the time he finished, Angele was leaning toward him, enthralled. “You can’t . . . you can’t tell me about this wonderful-sounding woman and make me believe there’s nothing to hope for. I’ve never heard you talk about anyone like this before.”
“There’s nothing else to say.”
“Oh, Quentin. At least tell me her name. At least give me that much.”
He hesitated, thinking about that night in the bookstore, and the soft flower-print dress sliding down Ursula’s body. Then, very quietly, he said, “I called her Rose.”
CHAPTER 18
Forty-two rocks. Arthur and I stood atop the granite overhang, gazing forlornly at the large mound of pebbles, while a chilly September rain drizzled through the treetops and dampened us despite rain slickers and big straw hats. I felt as if my chest was being scraped from the inside. “Brother Bear must have died,” Arthur moaned in a small voice. “He would have come back by now.”
“No, sweetie, he’s fine, I’m sure. I’m sure. We’ve got a lot of rocks left.” I pointed to the ground all around.
“If he doesn’t come back, Mama Bear will never get anybody to love. I’ll never know if she wants to keep on living here. She’ll die.” He shuddered. “I’m afraid I’ll die, too. I’ll go be with Daddy and Mama. Do you think Mama will recognize me?”
“You won’t die. I promise. Come with me.” I led him to the edge of the huge, flat rock. “Let’s fill our pockets with pebbles. We’ll take them home and put them in a jar, and then we’ll take out one every day. And when the jar is empty, if Brother Bear still hasn’t come back, then I’ll go to New York and get him.”
Arthur gaped at me. “You can do that?”
“Yes, but only when the jar’s empty.”
Arthur absorbed this complex plan and hope sprang into his eyes. I’d bought him and myself just a little more time. I’d have to decide what to do when we took the last rock from the jar. Arthur spread his arms and flexed his fingers in wide arcs as we walked the soggy trail back to the house, loaded down with hard, stone faith. I looked at him anxiously. “What are you doing, sweetie?”
He shut his eyes. “I’m flying to New York,” he said.
* * *
It was a bright blue day, just a little crisp. The leaves had only started turning red on the dogwood at the edge of the front lawn, and everything else still looked like summer. “I hear somebody comin’ down the road,” Fannie Ledbetter called.
I ran to a living room window and gazed out the front of the house, my heart in my throat. But it wasn’t Quentin. Slowly, a golf cart trundled into sight around the curve in the dirt road. I got one glimpse of delicate blond hair and a piquant face, and I groaned.
Esme Tiber.
She had finally outsmarted the gate at Tiber Crest. The golf cart was packed with her luggage and the portrait of Bethina Grace. As she clambered out of the cart with her hair in disheveled streamers, Fannie, Liza, and I surrounded her. Her face was swollen from crying, and she looked terrified. “I never really ran away before,” she moaned, and began to shiver.
I put an arm around her. “It’ll be all right. You come inside and rest.” I introduced her to Liza and Fannie, as I tugged her toward the
house. Her gaze darted around. She began to perk up. By the time we reached the porch she spotted the Iron Bear in the pasture.
“The Bear,” she squealed. She shrugged out of my arms and burst across the yard, then into the pasture and up to the sculpture. I followed her quickly. She stood below the Bear’s abstract snout, petting it as if it were a large dog. “Oh, Bear, Bear,” she cooed in her funny, fairy-queen voice, smiling. “When I was a little girl I made up stories about you. Whenever I was lonely, there you were. Whenever people made fun of me, you ate them right up. Whenever I was scared, you sat down beside me and purred.” She looked at me, shivering, smiling, then hugging herself. Tears slid down her face. The traumatic five-mile trip from Tiber Crest to Bear Creek, on public roads at a top speed of fifteen miles per hour, had taken a toll on her. “Bears can purr,” she whispered.
I held out a hand. “I believe it if you say it’s so.”
“No one else believes me. I’m the family idiot. Everybody came over for a party the other day, and I heard somebody say, Esme’s a pretty little idiot. I know what an idiot is.”
I felt so bad for her, this beautiful, permanent child. “Well, this is a special place,” I said. “Bears do purr, here.”
She laughed. I took her to the house.
I couldn’t get Mr. John on the phone, and left a message for Janine at the Tiber Poultry plant. In the meantime, I fixed Esme some hot tea and let her take a nap on my bed. Liza and I sat in the kitchen debating what to do with her. “Surely Mr. John will let her visit,” Liza said. “After all, Quentin’s no longer here.”
I looked at the jar of pebbles on the window sill. Only a few remained. I had enough trouble looming over me without a confrontation over the runaway Esme. Arthur burst into the house. He’d been on one of his woodland jaunts. Leaves clung to his long brown hair, and he dropped a flowered cloth tote bag on the table. It bulged with his daily collection — interesting pieces of bark, the bony white shells of long-dead tortoises, birds’ nests, and other nature mementos. But his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. He looked stunned. “There’s someone upstairs,” he whispered loudly. “I saw her from outside.”
“It’s a visitor,” I assured him. “She won’t hurt you. She’s a cousin of ours who moved here this summer from South Carolina. Her name’s Esme.”
“I saw her at the window! Looking at me!”
“She must be awake,” I said to Liza. “I’ll go check.”
I went through the house with Arthur traipsing right behind me. I halted. “Now, sweetie, Esme has had a bad day, and she’s a little sad and worried. We don’t want to startle her. You go back in the kitchen and wait — ”
“Mickey!” Esme’s twinkling voice called out the name. She stood on the bottom step of the staircase, staring at Arthur. Her cheeks were pink. Her eyes glowed. She pointed at the T-shirt he wore beneath a floppy blue jacket. Mickey Mouse smiled out in faded splendor. Esme was wearing a pullover sweater. She wriggled out of it, then pointed to herself. She wore the Minnie Mouse T-shirt I’d seen the day I met her. “Mickey!” she said, again, and pointed at Arthur.
With a look as sweet as her reflection in his eyes, he put one hand over his heart and pointed at Esme’s T-shirt with the other. “Minnie,” he answered softly. They had found each other.
• • •
“She could have been killed on the road,” Mr. John said angrily. “She could have been run over by a tractor trailer!”
Janine, who stood beside him on my back porch, made a shushing gesture with her hands. “Daddy, she got over here all right. Let’s not go hunting for trouble. Look at her. She’s fine. This is the happiest she’s been since she moved to Tiberville.”
Esme and Arthur lolled around the Bear, laughing, pointing at each other, circling the sculpture as if they were playing a game of hide-and-seek. I stared at Janine, amazed that she wasn’t ranting at me, too. “Esme told me how much she loves you,” I said.
Janine raised her chin. Dressed in a cool black jacket and tailored skirt, she looked very severe. “Don’t bother to hide your astonishment, please. I can see it quite clearly. Yes, Esme and I are very close. I’ve always been like a big sister to her. I’d have moved her into my house, but I’m away too much on company business.”
This was a side of Janine I’d never seen before. Actual compassion. Tenderness. Generosity. While I considered this startling revelation, Mr. John turned to me with no grace at all. “You encouraged her to come here,” he accused. “You put ideas into her head about the sculpture.”
“She grew up hearing about Miss Betty and the Bear.”
“Only because her Aunt Dotty encouraged it, too. Which was fine when Esme lived three hundred miles from here.” He waved a hand at me. “I’m not going to have her running away over here to worship that thing.”
“Daddy,” Janine sighed. “She has nothing else to occupy her time. She needs a friend. Look at her and Arthur. Arthur’s harmless. It wouldn’t hurt anything to have Tricky drive her over to visit.” Janine flashed a stony look at me. “For a supervised visit.”
“Daughter,” Mr. John said in a tight voice. “You’re not in charge of our family quite yet. I’d like to talk to you in private.” They walked to the edge of the yard. I made a pretense of not watching them, but watched anyway. From Janine’s exasperated expression and the considerable amount of hand-waving on Mr. John’s part, it was clear they still disagreed.
He won. “Daddy’s got a huge problem with this whole situation,” she told me as we walked out to the Bear. “And he’s just morose in general, these days. Getting old. Letting go of the family business. Afraid I’ll make changes he won’t like.”
“I could suggest some changes neither one of you would like.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Look, Esme’s welcome here. If you can work things out, have Tricky bring her back. She may run away again, otherwise.”
“I’m afraid she was born to wander and think up strange ideas. Must be the Powell in her.”
“I saw the gun she carries. She was born to shoot at people, too. That would be the Tiber in her.”
Janine and I traded acerbic looks. She spoke gently to Esme, and Esme’s shoulders slumped. Esme turned to my brother and, trembling, touched a fingertip to his T-shirt. “See you later, Mickey.”
He stood there gazing at her sadly. “Don’t forget what I told you about the Tweens.”
She nodded. “I’ll be on the lookout.”
As they were preparing to drive away in a luxury towncar with a Tiber Poultry vanity plate on the front, Mr. John paused long enough to say, “Quentin Riconni’s deserted you for good, I take it?”
The humiliation burned me to the bone. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“No, you wouldn’t, but everybody else in the county is wondering. Honey, it’s for the best. The man was a rough character, and obviously not the kind who sticks.”
After they drove away, I turned around and met the embarrassed gazes of Liza, Fannie, Bartow, Juanita, and Oswald. “He’ll be back,” I swore.
But I didn’t believe it, either.
• • •
Two days later, Esme escaped again, this time in Tricky’s old hatchback, which Tricky left parked with the keys in it. She made it two miles down a back road before she crossed an intersection without looking. A Tiber Poultry truck, delivering a load of new chicks to a contract farmer, clipped the hatchback’s rear bumper and spun the little car into a ditch. Esme ended up with a fractured wrist, a mild concussion, and numerous bruises.
“Don’t tell Arthur,” I warned everyone at the farm, and hurried to Tiberville’s recently inaugurated hospital. Esme was resting in the Betty Tiber Habersham Memorial Wing. Mr. John confronted me in the hall. “You will not go in to see her. I forbid it! All she’s talked about is Arthur this and Bear that, something about air fairies or elves or such nonsense — ”
“Tweens,” I supplied.
“Tweens. The Bear is held up by Tween
s, she says, and now she’s decided that she’s a Tween, and that she has to come over and do her part to hold the damned thing up! I won’t have that damned sculpture ruin my family!” He was yelling at me, now, yelling while nurses and Tibers ran up to him with their hands out. Be quiet, please, calm down. Mr. John ignored them all. “No one ever gave me the opportunity to laze around believing in Tweens! A man has to protect what he’s been given! And I will make certain my niece stays away from that sculpture!”
“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong,” I said. Then I turned and left. I heard him sputtering at me even as I walked down the hall. I left a spray of golden mums, cut by Liza from Daddy’s garden, on the desk of the front lobby.
• • •
“I bet Esme would like ice cream,” Arthur noted, as he licked a tall chocolate cone. “When she’s coming back?”
“I’m working on it,” I said. One more small lie. Esme would come back. Quentin would come back. Or I’d go get him. Mama Bear would stop feeling so lonely. Arthur would be safe and happy, his sense of security restored. We’d prosper at Bear Creek. I knew how to accomplish every bit of that.
Lies. All lies.
On that cool autumn afternoon we sat around a wooden picnic table with Dr. Washington and all the tenants. A Saturday excursion for ice cream had become our habit. I spooned vanilla from a paper cup. The tiny, moss-tinged concrete building behind us sported a rusted yellow sign saying Big Mountain Sweets. It sat in an oak grove near the proprietor’s home and ten-cow dairy barn. Big Mountain Sweets had provided homemade ice cream to Tibervillians for fifty years. This particular outing was my treat, to distract Arthur from asking me when Esme Tiber was coming back.
“Ah, paradise,” Dr. Washington sighed, dipping into a scoop of strawberry-laced ice cream. “Brings back childhood memories.”
Oswald eyed him with redneck diplomacy. “They let Coloreds eat here when you was a boy?” It was not said unkindly.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. There was a special table.” Dr. Washington nodded to a spot along the wall of the building. “It was only for us. My brother Fred and I thought we were royalty. We were too young to know the difference.”
On Bear Mountain Page 25
