Upstaged

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  I stopped the car to allow a swarm of students to cross, recognizing Nelson Santos among the group. He walked with a crowd of brightly clad young men who laughed and cavorted around the fountain centering the intersection of Main and Elm. An older boy, tall and blond, wrapped his arm around Nelson’s waist. He leaned down, nuzzled Nelson’s neck, and then pulled him closer. Nelson looked up at him with stars in his eyes. The boy lifted Nelson, stood him on the ledge of the fountain, and then boosted him to his shoulders, dancing across the street, surrounded by his romping friends.

  Camille and I exchanged a surprised look. With a start, I realized the voice I’d heard whispering about the kiss and frat parties last week might well have belonged to Nelson.

  “Be careful, Nelson, honey,” Camille whispered.

  I accelerated slowly past the boys, saying a little prayer for his safety.

  Chapter Thirty

  T he next morning, I picked up Camille at her house. Next door, an old gentleman was burning leaves in the gutter. The scent whisked me back to my childhood. I inhaled the frosty air, reveling in the cool sensation. Images of Halloween flashed across my mind. Spooky-faced pumpkins, mulled cider, sourdough donuts dangling on a string, tumbling with pals through mountains of crunchy leaves—the images bubbled up from deeply-rooted childhood memories.

  After taking Boris for one last walk in the back yard, we locked him safely back into her house. Siegfried had promised to stop by in the afternoon to let him out and check his water, so we knew he’d be fine.

  “You ready for this?” I asked, opening the car door for her. “Do you think you can handle one day without teenagers?”

  She snorted a laugh and slid inside. “Heck, yeah. I’m really ready for a break.”

  We buckled up and headed down Twin Bridge Road toward the valley, snaking smoothly through the winding, hilly roads. Flanked by fields of golden straw, the trees flashed occasional patches of cranberry, orange, and saffron, hinting of changes to come. Purple asters, goldenrod, and red sumacs clustered together in the roadside gullies and along stonewalls, creating a vibrant palate of color.

  In just a few minutes, we reached the Interstate onramp. A cobalt blue horizon beckoned and we flew south on Route 390 toward Hammondsport.

  Anticipation charged the air between us. I leaned over to squeeze her hand and was rewarded with an excited smile. “We’re gonna have so much fun.”

  “I can’t wait, Gus. Especially for those antique shops.”

  I chuckled. No one in the world was a more zealous shopper than my girl .

  The sun poured through the windows, making red highlights glisten in her hair. She brushed back a lock, exposing the cut from her fall off the stage. It was healing well, according to Doc Mattson, and shouldn't scar.

  She reached over to turn up the volume of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue . I detected the faint scent of vanilla. Glancing at her, I found her watching me with a sweet, contented expression.

  My spirit soared. I steered through the open road stretching before us, flanked on either side by the pastoral hills of the Genesee Valley.

  Isolated bits of red flamed on the hillsides. By mid-October, the trees would blaze in fiery colors, attracting hordes of foliage tourists to the region. In contrast, newly-sprouted winter wheat coated the undulating fields in a rich, green fuzz.

  In forty-five minutes, we reached the turnoff for the town of Bath. Following the Keuka Lake road signs, we worked our way toward the small village of Hammondsport at the south end of the lake. Reminiscent of a New England town, the village square was a broad expanse of grass anchored with a white-steepled church on one side of the square. A Victorian gazebo promised endless evenings of band music.

  Tourists jammed the sidewalks, quaint restaurants, gift shops, and antique stores lining the main street. I was pleased to see a bustling art fair underway on the square. Dozens of booths boasted paintings from local artists.

  We finally found an open parking spot beside a small grocery store, and walked back up the hill. Wandering through the displays, my attention was quickly drawn to an elderly woman who had set up several easels around the tailgate of an old wood-paneled station wagon. She sketched quietly in a lawn chair. Her pure white hair shone in the sunshine and she bent low over her work. I wandered over and was captivated by a trio of winter watercolors, including frozen streams, white-blanketed forests, and tumbling stonewalls. Behind the winter scenes was another stunning watercolor depicting a silver fox. He raised his intelligent face above a field of waving bluebells, as if sniffing the air. The sense of place was strong.

  “Did you find something you like, Gus?” Camille slipped an arm around my waist.

  I kissed the top of her head and showed her the watercolors I’d discovered. “Look at these. They’re unbelievable.”

  The tiny woman seated in the folding chair looked up from her sketchpad, eyes twinkling. “Your husband has good taste. Those pieces are some of my best work.”

  Camille laughed. “Well, he won’t be my husband ‘til next spring, but you are right, he does have exquisite taste. I must say,” she said, focusing on a set of pen and ink studies, “I have to agree with him. Your work is gorgeous.”

  “Do you take Visa?” I asked.

  She chuckled. “You bet, sonny.”

  On a wild impulse, I bought all four watercolors from Miss Lillian Watson for her asking price. I didn’t even try to bargain with her. Camille snapped up a pair of diminutive pen and ink drawings of loons gliding side by side in a cove. The detail was intricate. I wondered if the artist had drawn the scene live and wondered where the beautiful cove was located. Miss Lillian handed us her card and issued an invitation for a visit to her studio, so we could see the rest of her collection someday.

  Happy with our finds, and much lighter in the wallet, Camille and I walked back to the car to safely store them. The temperature had risen to sixty-five degrees. I slipped out of my tweed blazer and wrapped it around the watercolors, sliding them carefully onto the floor of the backseat.

  We wandered in and out of several antique stores, digging among the potpourri of items. Camille pounced on a hand-colored children’s picture book, dated 1835. She blew the dust from its cover and opened it reverently, studying each illustration with delight. She bought it after bargaining with the storeowner. She was much better at that than I was .

  In the fourth store, she found three glass paperweights. She carefully picked each one up and turned it around in the light, admiring and pointing out its dazzling colors. The first was sapphire blue filled with small air bubbles that created a pinpoint pattern reminiscent of stars in the sky. The second featured a green, brown, and orange design set in the bottom of the globe resembling a hilly landscape. The last was a clear amethyst, with swirling white patterns that rose from the bottom in decreasing circles.

  After another hour of looking around, I discovered a bundle of sterling silver soupspoons with smooth, deep bowls. Buried in a box of old doorknobs and hinges, they were fastened together with a ragged rubber band. None matched, but each had lovely designs on its handle. I bought the whole lot for eight dollars.

  I was hungry by the time we’d covered both sides of the street. Camille looked longingly into the last antique shop in the row.

  “Oh, this looks like a good one, honey. Are you sure you want to eat now?”

  My stomach growled in response. I tilted her chin up to mine and locked eyes with her. “Sweetheart, I’m starving. Can we please find a spot to eat?” I leaned down and kissed her.

  My sweet shopaholic slipped her arm through mine after gazing with longing at the store window. Suddenly, she brightened and ushered me toward the car. “Okay, Gus. I’m a little hungry, too. Maybe we can stop back on the way home?”

  I gave a noncommittal little nod, groaning inside. I enjoyed poking around in a store or two, but after five or six I felt as if I’d lose my mind. The love of my life was just getting warmed up when I was ready to call it a day.

&n
bsp; Chapter Thirty-One

  W e walked back to the car, carefully packed our finds, and started up the west side of Keuka Lake. I headed left for the Bully Hill Winery and Restaurant. We maneuvered up the steep hill and followed the narrow dirt roads until we reached the summit of the west ridge.

  Neat vineyards blanketed the hills. Row upon row of grapes hung heavy from the vines, bursting with juice, and ready for harvest.

  We parked in the gravel visitors’ lot at the base of the establishment, with the car facing the lake sparkling in the sunlight four hundred feet below. The warm breeze freshened, making whitecaps dance over the water and multicolored sails flutter across the blue-green surface.

  We got out and stood still for a moment, soaking in the atmosphere. The sumptuous scent of grapes was intoxicating.

  A narrow paved path led up to the restaurant and winery, rising at a steep angle. We wound through beautifully tended patches of perennials and rough-fashioned stockade fences. Golden rudbeckia, shasta daisies, purple asters, and patches of nasturtiums adorned the walkways. Purple and white butterfly bushes and trumpet vines festooned the doorway. We ducked under the dripping flowers and walked past the porch rockers at the entrance.

  A plump brunette in her late twenties approached us, menus in hand. “Would you like to sit inside or out?”

  Camille and I answered at the same time. “Outside, please.”

  She led us to the deck, where white and yellow umbrellas fluttered over each table. Almost every spot was taken. We followed the waitress to the southeast corner of the deck, pleased to see that our table had a view of the lake .

  After ordering lemonade, we studied the menu. Gorgonzola and pecan chicken salad, dill encrusted salmon with pan fried red potatoes, turkey with cranberry mousse, grilled eggplant on sourdough, marinated lamb chops with wild rice—each entrée looked more tempting than the last. Camille finally settled on the chicken salad and I ordered the salmon.

  The lemonade arrived in chunky quart-sized mason jars. Square ice cubes clinked against the sides when the waitress set them down.

  I took a long drink and cleared my throat to get Camille’s attention. “Honey?”

  “Mmm?” She swiveled around, pulling herself from the panoramic view.

  The palms of my hands began to sweat. I wiped them with a linen napkin and took a deep breath. “I’d like to ask you something. Something important.”

  She smiled candidly at me. “Ask away, Gus. What is it?”

  A honeybee nosed around red trumpet flowers adorning the deck railings. He disappeared into a blossom. The buzzing was softly muted when he went in to gather the nectar.

  “I want to ask you about children.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Children?”

  “Yes.” I took her hand. “I already have a daughter, a grandson, and another grandchild on the way. But you’re young and have never had any children...and you still could. I mean, when we’re married, we could—” I finally stopped stammering and blurted out what I had been trying to ask her for weeks. “Camille, would you like to have a child with me? Should we start a new family when we’re married?”

  Her eyes widened slightly and a pink flush rose across her cheeks. She breathed in deeply and didn’t speak for a long, uncomfortable moment. Finally, she squeezed my hand once and pulled hers away. “We never discussed children, did we?” She looked out over the lake. “Do you really want to start all over again, sweetheart?”

  I leaned back in my seat. What did I want? I cherished my grandson Johnny and enjoyed helping Freddie raise him. Nevertheless, sometimes I felt a sense of relief when I returned the little monkey to his mother’s arms. On top of that, Freddie was conspicuously pregnant with my second grandchild. The house would soon be ringing with two young voices.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure. I was thinking of you. You love kids, and you’ve never had the chance to have a child. I really think I could be happy either way.”

  The waitress approached with plates balanced in both hands. “Here we go, folks. Enjoy. Make sure you leave room for dessert, now. We’re offering a seven-layer lemon chiffon cake today that’s to die for!”

  Camille smiled and thanked the waitress, but I sensed a veiled sadness beneath her polite façade. I wondered what had upset her about the topic of children, and hoped I hadn’t stumbled onto an undisclosed medical condition.

  What if she can’t have children? What if I opened up a painful wound?

  She took a bite of her salad and buttered her bread. Her face had tightened and her chin trembled.

  I thought she might break down if I kept going. “You know what? We can talk about this subject any old time. Why don’t we just enjoy our meal?”

  She smiled at me with moist eyes, deliberately chewing her bread.

  I broached new topics, and Camille gradually came back to her old self. She laughed and shared humorous stories about Boris and Ginger. We discussed our honeymoon in Vienna and dreamed together about the Spanish Riding School and the Vienna Woods. By the time we split a piece of the lemon layer cake, things seemed to have gone back to normal.

  After two commercialized wine tastings, we happened upon a modest white farmhouse and barn on the northeast side of Keuka Lake. A wooden sign read “Springwater Winery” in unpretentious black and white letters. The cool white barn was pleasant and inviting. Rather than being subjected to a show, we were simply given a list to pick from. We enjoyed our no-pressure tasting outdoors, sitting on white Adirondack chairs.

  The breeze from the lake was warm and infused with the aroma of grapes. Camille and I selected a Chardonnay, a Riesling, and a Pinot Noir. We purchased a case of each and loaded them into the back of the Outback. I tried to ignore the money I was blowing, but realized it was the first time I was able to really show Camille a good time, and let the concern go. I’d tighten the belt again next month.

  I closed the back door to the wagon, and gazed into the hills that stretched above us. “Honey? Do your ribs hurt a lot today? Could you handle a walk? There’s a hiking trail over there.”

  “Good idea.” She looked at me and smiled, but the sad expression had returned to her eyes. “Anyway, they don’t hurt too much. And I really need to walk off that huge meal.”

  She headed briskly across the parking lot and kept to the trail, leading the way. We wound through woods and along rows of grapevines without saying much. After an hour of steady hiking, we stopped at a weathered bench. It faced the lake view with an attached wooden crucifix rising high above the seat back. A plaque with the Lord’s Prayer was mounted to the base of the cross.

  We sat in silence, soaking in the peaceful vista spreading before us. A goldfinch chirped from a wooden fencepost nearby laden with white grapes.

  Camille let out a long sigh and turned toward me. “Gus? I have to tell you something. It’s time. Actually, it’s long overdue.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I sat up and looked intently at Camille. “Whenever you’re ready, hon. What’s this all about?”

  She lowered her eyes, bit her lower lip, and began. “At lunch, you said I’d never had a child.”

  I wondered where the conversation was leading. “Right.”

  “Well, it’s not true. I did have a baby. Fifteen years ago. A little girl. We named her Shelby.”

  My heart sank. I sensed bottomless sorrow in her voice. “Was she yours and Greg’s?”

  “Yes. It was early in our marriage. We had Shelby when I was twenty-three. She was such a beautiful baby.”

  She reached into her sweater pocket and drew out her wallet. Flipping it open, she pulled out a worn photo. She sat silently, gazing forlornly at the picture. After a moment, she held it out to me.

  The toddler was dressed in a blue-and-white flowered sundress. Dark curls covered her head. Shelby reached with chubby hands to pick a purple verbena from a garden bursting with flowers. Her lips pursed in concentration. The photo was a profile in innocence. A lump formed in my throat.


  “She’s two and a half in this picture. It happened when she was six.” She closed her eyes for a moment and took a long, deep breath. “It was a Monday morning. Greg was late for work, and rushed out of the house, leaving the door ajar. I jumped out of the shower and was toweling my hair dry when I heard Shelby call to her kitten, who slipped out the door behind Greg. I shouted to her and told her to stay inside, saying I’d find Mittens for her. Seconds later, I heard the door shut. I ran into the kitchen and out the door into the yard. Mittens was running full speed across the street, with Shelby close behind.”

  Camille paused again, barely able to maintain her composure. Her voice trembled. “A delivery truck backed out of the neighbor’s driveway. He didn’t see her. I screamed at him to stop, but he didn’t hear me. The kitten made it, but Shelby was hit.”

  I reached for her. She leaned into me, sobbing quietly against my shoulder. Murmuring soothing, meaningless words, I stroked her hair and rocked her.

  She slowly collected herself and finally sat up, digging a Kleenex from her pocket. She blew her nose and breathed a long sigh of relief.

  “I’m so sorry, Camille. I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s more. I need to tell you the rest.”

  “Was Shelby—?”

  “Killed?” she asked. “No. She wasn’t killed. She was badly injured, but not killed. She fell into a coma and never woke up.”

  “What did you do?” I asked, wondering when the poor child had died.

  “Do? I waited by her side, day after day, year after year, as my husband turned into a hateful, abusive drunk. After two years, the doctors advised us to ‘let her go.’ But, Gus, she still had brain activity. That’s what kept me going. Her brain kept on dreaming inside her little head. I couldn’t allow them to shut off the machines while she still had active brainwaves, could I?”

  I shook my head. “Of course not.”

  “I know I told you about Greg last winter, but I didn’t quite give you the whole story. Remember I said he got laid off and started drinking?”