So Much Blue

by Percival Everett

  “You charge people money to look at these pictures,” I said.

  “It’s a living.” He heard his own words, laughed. “So to speak.” Perhaps it was that man’s face, perhaps it was the fatigue, perhaps it was everything piling up without promise of relief, perhaps it was the memory of that little girl and the secret shared by Luis and me, but I wanted to leap across that table and tear out that man’s throat.

  The Bummer must have seen it come over me and I think it even unsettled him a bit, a least to the extent that he didn’t want any trouble. He said, “What’s taking so long with that food? Mamacita!”

  Richard knew I was on the edge. “We’ll find Tad and then we’ll be on our way home.”

  I stared at Carlos for a few awkward seconds. “Fuck you,” I said. I stood up and walked outside.

  I sat on the hood of the Caddy. It was full light now. The lake was plain to see. I could just barely make out the far side of it. Richard came out with his plate and mine. He handed me a fork.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Tad and then we go,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I want to kill that man,” I said.

  “I can tell.”

  “I’m not a violent person.”

  “I know,” Richard said.

  I thought about telling Richard about the little boy and his sister’s hand, but I could not bring myself to do it. “We came to this country and dug a grave,” I said. “A fucking grave, Richard.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What the fuck, man?”

  “We’ll just get Tad and go.”

  “Both of those motherfuckers are crazy. We’re going to die here, you know that, don’t you?”

  “No, we’re not,” Richard said.

  “I don’t want to die in this fucking place. This is the first lake I’ve ever seen that I don’t like.”

  Richard looked at the water. “We’ll get home.”

  I could see his fear. I was actually speaking out of anger. I realized that that emotion was suppressing my fear. Looking at Richard, I became determined to make it back home, even if it was Baltimore Avenue in Philadelphia.

  “Food’s not bad,” Richard said.

  I tasted it. It was good. “Not bad,” I said.

  “Tad and go. That will be our mantra,” Richard said.

  “You got it.”

  “What color would you call that?” Richard pointed at the sky.

  “I would call that a very light manganese blue,” I said.

  Paris

  The rain became white noise, but I remained awake. I recalled how Will had needed white noise to put him to sleep, a machine that sounded a little like rain or static or a muffled heartbeat. Even the sound of the rain outside now itself was not the rain; it was a mere abstraction of the rain. I closed my eyes and saw a painting, a large painting. I saw it completely for just a second and then it was gone, a mere memory. Against all logic the painting was not abstract, as it was not drawn out of or away from form, from nature. When I awoke I would tell myself my dreams and those tellings would be abstractions, but that painting, that painting was real, real color, real shape, texture, light, and shadow.

  The rain wouldn’t let up. I sat on the bed of my hotel room looking down at rue Saint-Placide. A block away was Le Bon Marché and I thought about what I might find in there for the children and Linda. But really I was waiting for the rain to let up so that I could go meet Victoire. Today I would see not only Victoire, but also her mother. I was a little beside myself, wondering what to expect. Truthfully, I was afraid. The rain was a stall. Still, I waited for a break.

  The phone rang and startled me. I startled a second time at finding Victoire on the other end.

  “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” she asked, playfully. She was accusing me of chickening out and I paused before answering. “Darling,” she said. “Will I see you?”

  “I’ll be there. I’ve been sitting here waiting for the rain to let up.”

  “Let up?”

  “For the rain to stop.”

  “The rain will not stop,” she said. “C’est Paris.”

  “Aye,” I agreed.

  “My mother has changed our plan.”

  “Oh?”

  “She would like to shop and so we can meet you at Le Bon Marché, the restaurant there.”

  “That’s very easy for me,” I said. “What time? I will have to leave to be at the gallery around two.”

  “Will one o’clock be good for you? We will meet you at the restaurant on the second floor.”

  “I will be there.”

  I hung up. What was I thinking? I was about to go meet with my mistress’s mother. It occurred to me that I was no doubt older than the woman or at least her age. How would she regard me? I would not lie about my family, the fact that I was married with two children. And yet I was planning to be there. Such a situation called for a good stiff drink and yet I did not want one. In fact, I realized that since being with Victoire I had not had a drink. This new, accidentally discovered sobriety confused me. I certainly could not have gotten myself into any more trouble had I been drunk, but here I was, sober and not wanting a drink. What was Victoire for me? A drug? Some thrill that replaced a drug? I was using this young woman. For sex certainly, but perhaps in ways that I just didn’t comprehend. Of course she was also using me. I was for her some kind of fantasy or rite of passage, but I was hardly complaining. I was a forty-six-year-old living, breathing, and irrefutable proof that evolution is some slow shit.

  I arrived at the restaurant a little early, my shopping having gone smoother and more quickly than I had imagined. I’d managed to find and buy for April a soft doll that seemed suitably French and a couple of figures of mythological creatures for Will, in other words, dolls for them both. Will, even at two years, balked at my calling his figures dolls. I would simultaneously instruct and tease him by pointing out that they were indeed dolls. I had also found a necklace for Linda. I had bought it for her, would give it to her, she would thank me and coo over it genuinely and then never wear it. She had a wooden box of such gifts. And also in the bag was a necklace for which I had paid less, which I would later give to Victoire. I had no doubt but that she would wear it.

  I saw Victoire and her mother before they spotted me. They came off the escalator next to housewares. Victoire was wearing a cerulean coat covered with white clouds, after Magritte but missing the overcoated men in bowler hats. She was in fact a bit of sky walking into the room. Her mother was no less pretty and sadly looked considerably younger than me. Her dark hair and strong features were nothing at all like her daughter’s but she carried herself in the same way, assured, with a slight but hardly detectable bounce in her step. Her mother wore a black leather trench coat and black boots. She looked prepared for the likes of me. I waved and they saw me. To my surprise both daughter and mother smiled.

  I stood up to greet them. Victoire kissed my cheeks. “That’s a beautiful coat,” I said.

  She actually twirled. “It’s new. Do you like it?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Kevin, I’d like you to meet my mother, Sylvie.”

  “Sylvie, enchanté,” I said.

  “Monsieur Pace.” She shook my hand. She looked me in the eye. “Ma fille m’a parlé de vous.”

  I believed I understood her. She was from Nice and I was not used to her accent. “Aussi,” I said, meaning likewise. I saw her smile and I became a bit embarrassed. “Pareillement?”

  “Like I said, your French is cute,” Victoire said.

  “Please, sit down,” I said. I helped Victoire with her coat and she sat beside me, her mother directly opposite. The waiter came and we ordered drinks. Sylvie asked for champagne. I, like Victoire, ordered water with gas.

  Sylvie asked me something in French. I looked to Victoire for help.

  “My mother wants to know if you do not drink.”

  “De temps en tem
ps,” I said.

  Sylvie smiled. “I am sorry that my English is not so good.”

  “Your English sounds better than my French,” I said.

  “My mother is a fan of your work,” Victoire said.

  “Oh, that’s really nice to hear,” I said. “I’m always amazed to hear that anyone pays attention to painting anymore.”

  Victoire translated. Sylvie nodded.

  “The gallery opening is Tuesday night. You are both welcome to come, as my guests.” I was talking and I understood what I was saying, but had no idea what I was doing.

  “Merci,” from Sylvie.

  “You have been shopping,” Victoire observed.

  “Gifts for my children.” As I said this I thought about the present for Victoire and wondered if she might be considered one of my children. She seemed, sitting next to me, at once an elegant woman and a beautiful child. I looked at her mother, perhaps with sadness in my eyes. “J’ai deux enfants. Une fille et un garçon.”

  “Nos enfants sont nos vies,” she said. She raised her just-delivered flute of champagne.

  “Tchin-tchin.”

  “How long will you be in France?” Sylvie asked.

  “I leave next week.”

  Victoire told her. Sylvie sent a question through her daughter. “Will you be back?” she asked.

  “I hope so,” I said, which was true enough, but hardly the answer that either of them wanted to hear.

  “Victoire should visit the United States,” Sylvie said.

  “It’s true,” Victoire said. “I need to do it for my studies.”

  “Of course you should,” I said. I was a little unnerved by this talk.

  “Do you think New York is a good place?” Victoire asked.

  “It’s a wonderful city,” I said. “I think you will like it there.”

  “Is not too big?” Sylvie asked.

  “It’s a big city,” I said. “I think she will be okay.”

  “You will come see me there?” Victoire asked.

  “I will try,” I said. I wanted to look Sylvie in the eye and ask her if she knew I was fucking her daughter, but I knew she knew. What I didn’t know was what that meant to her. I felt like the sort of man who might wear a smoking jacket. The fact that I never had must have shown.

  “My daughter is in control of her life,” Sylvie said. Her line seemed rehearsed, but no less sincere.

  I nodded.

  “You are too American,” she said.

  Whether it was meant as an insult I just didn’t know, but it stung nonetheless. As with most true accusations, I saw no reason to be defensive. “I suppose that is true,” I said.

  Sylvie spoke in French. “My mother wants to know if all the paintings in the show are recent.”

  “Oui.”

  The waiter came and we ordered food.

  “I understand that Victoire’s father does not know about me,” I said.

  Victoire did not need to translate this for her mother. Sylvie answered, “He is not an art lover.”

  I found this response intriguing, confusing, and terrifying. I looked to Victoire for help, but there was none there.

  I became bolder. “It’s okay with you that I am sleeping with your daughter?” I could tell that Sylvie did not quite comprehend, yet Victoire did not offer a translation.

  “Aimes-tu ma fille?” Sylvie asked.

  I understood her question. I looked at Victoire and then back at her mother. “Oui, beaucoup.” I surprised myself. I surprised Victoire.

  House

  Will was twelve, in the seventh grade. The snow had started on Monday late afternoon and fallen in earnest throughout the night. Even though the blanket of snow was considerable we sent the children off to school anyway. We did this because, being the sheep we were, we did not receive instructions from the school to do otherwise. Linda braved the treacherous road only to return and tell me that she thought she’d made a mistake.

  “Why didn’t they cancel?” I said. “It’s going to be a real mess later.”

  “At least the plows are running,” she said. “Maybe it will let up.”

  “Maybe. I’ll be out in the shed.”

  “How’s it coming?” she asked.

  “It’s coming.”

  “Will I ever get to see this thing?”

  To this I had no answer. Actually, I did have an answer, but it was not one I could say out loud. “When it’s done,” I lied.

  “I’ve heard that before,” she said, perhaps playfully.

  I put on my jacket and walked out through the snow. It was possible that it was not falling as hard. I locked myself inside and put on water for tea while I paced in front of the painting. I checked my supplies and noted that I needed linseed oil and rags. I always needed rags. I turned on the radio and learned that the snow was supposed to continue through the next day.

  At around noon there was a banging on my door. It was of course Linda. I stepped outside and closed the door.

  She looked at the door, up into the falling snow, and then settled on my eyes. “Really?”

  “What is it?”

  “I promise I won’t peek,” she said, annoyed.

  “What is it?”

  “The school called.”

  “I’ll go pick them up,” I said.

  “I never should have taken them in the first place.” She was always talking about what shouldn’t have been done. She would say it five or six more times before the day was over.

  “Never mind that,” I said. “They’re there and that’s what we have to deal with. I’ll get my keys.”

  “The weatherman on the radio say it’s going to snow through tomorrow,” Linda said.

  “I heard. Should I take some snacks for them?”

  “I’ll put something together. I never should have taken them.”

  The plows had been busy, but so had nature and they worked together to make icy and bone-shaking roads that only became smooth at intersections and on hills. It took me considerably longer than usual to make the trip. When I did arrive I was one of many parents in a queue of cars waiting to be spotted by offspring.

  April trotted, shoulders hunched, through the snow and climbed in the front seat next to me.

  “Get in here and warm up,” I said.

  “It’s so cold,” she said. She stomped on the floor.

  I looked at the building, at the doors. “Where’s your brother?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I assumed you were both standing in there looking out for me. You might not talk to him, but you know what he looks like.”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  We sat there for a while, maybe ten minutes that felt like thirty. Cars came and left, became fewer.

  April sighed. No one could sigh like April.

  “Jesus,” I said, an uncharacteristic interjection for me. “Wait here.”

  “Like I can go someplace.”

  I left the car running and walked into the school. I looked around the front hall. I saw Will’s Latin teacher, a wispy woman with smoker’s cough. I asked her if she had seen Will.

  “Not today,” she said. “I have him in the afternoon.”

  “He didn’t come out to the car,” I said.

  “Maybe he’s in the library,” she said.

  I followed her. Her coughing made me want to cough. The library was dark and empty. I thanked her and went to the main office. The tall secretary who I thought had never liked me stood behind the counter.

  “I’m trying to find Will,” I told her.

  “Did you try the library?”

  “Yes.”

  She called over the PA system. “Will Pace to the main office. Will Pace to the main office.”

  We waited a couple of minutes.

  “Maybe he caught a ride with someone else,” she said.

  “And why would he do that?” I said, rather curtly. I put my hand to my pocket and realized that I had left my mobile phone on the kitchen table. “May I use y
our phone?”

  “Of course.”

  I came through the gate and around to the phone. As I was calling Linda, the principal came out of her office.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Can’t locate Will Pace,” the tall woman said. “Not in the library.”

  “Evelyn, go check the gym,” the principal said to the tall woman.

  Linda answered.

  “Has Will called?” I asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “We can’t find him.”

  “What do you mean you can’t find him?”

  “I mean I’m here looking and I cannot find Will.”

  “Where is he?” Linda asked.

  “I don’t know. I left my phone at home, so I’m in the office. Is there anyone he might have hitched a ride with?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll make some calls. April’s with you, though.”

  “She’s in the car.” That sounded bad as I said it. “The car’s running and the heat is on. Make those calls. I’ll look some more.”

  I hung up and looked at the principal. “Is there anyplace else he might be here?” I asked.

  Evelyn came back. “Not in the gym.”

  “Let’s look around,” the principal said.

  We walked the campus with no luck. I asked if it was time to consider a call to the police.

  “That seems premature,” she said. “I’m sure he’s fine. Probably caught a ride with a friend.”

  I walked back out to the car. The snow was falling harder, hard enough that I had to sweep flakes from the windshield. I fell in behind the wheel.

  “Where’s Will?” April asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, god,” she said. “Where is he?”

  “Can you think of anyone he might have decided to catch a ride with?”

  April shook her head. She was frightened.

  I blew out a breath. “Okay. He’s not in the school and if he is, they’ll call your mother. If he caught a ride with a friend, then he’ll get home before us. So, we’ll drive home and keep our eyes open. Will you help me do that?”

  She said nothing.

  “April, can you watch out for people walking?”

  She nodded.