Estelle laughed at Sofía’s reference to Bill Gastner, Mr. Night Owl. “No, he went home. I think we wore him out. Either that, or he got hungry and went to find something to eat.”
“Ah, we have plenty here,” Sofía said.
“It smells wonderful.” Estelle closed the door and slipped off her coat, draping it over the back of the nearest chair. “But Padrino is more like the old tejón. He comes out for a while, but then he needs to find a dark corner somewhere, away from everybody.”
“Such an interesting fellow,” Sofía mused. “I am very fond of this old badger, as you call him. That’s most appropriate. But...,” and she waved her hands in a flourish to change the subject. “What can I fix you?”
“A cup of tea would be nice.”
Sofía looked askance at her nephew’s wife. “Tea? Just tea, after such a night? Don’t be ridiculous. Let me fix you a little something.”
“No, really,” Estelle said, holding up a hand. “I need to let my stomach settle a little. It’s too late to eat now.”
“Ah,” Sofía said. “An ugly night, no?”
“Just depressing,” Estelle said. She lowered herself into one of the straight chairs at the dining table with a sigh. “Sometimes I think that people lie awake nights thinking of stupid things to do.”
“Ah,” Sofía said again. “Well, we both know that to be true.” She half-filled a saucepan with water and set it on the stove, and Estelle watched as the older woman methodically double-checked that she was turning on the correct burner. “Do I know Mr. Martinez?”
Estelle rested her head on her hand with half-closed eyes. It felt good not to move. “I think you met him the night we had the big retirement banquet for Padrino a couple of years ago. Short, quite heavy, a very gentle man in every way.”
“His wife is Essie?”
“Yes. I wish I had your memory, Sofía.”
The older woman chuckled. “I remember only things that don’t really matter, querida. But I remember her. We had a nice talk that night, I remember. She was so glad that Arturo...is it Arturo?”
“Eduardo.”
“Ah. She was pleased that Eduardo had retired the year before.” She leaned her hip against the counter and watched the water. “I remember that she was a little bit worried about Padrino...that maybe he’d have a hard time with retirement.” A wistful expression touched her face. “That maybe he wouldn’t find enough to do.”
“Not likely,” Estelle said. “I think Padrino is every bit as busy now as he ever was.”
“I think so, too. But the good doctor doesn’t think it will go so well for Mr. Martinez now.” The “good doctor” was her standard reference to her nephew, Estelle’s husband.
“No.”
“Lo siento,” Sofía said. Estelle watched her husband’s aunt contemplate the steaming water. The lines in Sofía’s face were etched a little deeper, her square shoulders a little more rounded than Estelle remembered. She knew that Sofía Tournál had enjoyed a long and distinguished career in the complex legal and political world of Veracruz by being intelligent, tough, and cool under pressure. Sofía had buried two husbands and, childless herself, had focused her attention over the years on the myriad nieces and nephews in her extended family, in particular her favorite, Dr. Francis Guzman.
The quiet worry that Estelle saw now wasn’t because a man whom Sofía had met only once had suffered a heart attack...or even because she might be worried that retired sheriff William Gastner might not be finding enough to keep him busy.
“These things are always so sad,” Sofía said finally. She glanced at Estelle. “But we had a nice evening. You know...,” and she stopped in midsentence, busy with selecting just the right mug from a cabinet beside the refrigerator. With economy of motion, she filled the tea strainer with bulk green tea, then poured the boiling water. She turned off the burner and carried the cup to the table.
“There,” she said. “And nothing else?”
“No, thanks, tía. This is fine.” It was nice to be waited upon.
Sofía settled in the chair beside Estelle, folding her arms comfortably on the table. Estelle stirred the tea gently, waiting. The older woman’s lips had been pursed in concentration, but now her face relaxed. She took a deep breath, her patrician eyebrows rising with the inhalation.
“I should just go to bed,” she said. “Such a day.”
Estelle smiled and adjusted the mug carefully on the table, lining it up with the pattern of the placemat. “But that’s not what you want to do,” she said.
Sofía reached out and patted the back of Estelle’s left hand. “You’re most perceptive,” she said, and then leaned closer, her voice no more than a whisper. “Listen, querida, I tell myself that this is none of my business, but...”
She stopped, and Estelle took Sofía’s hand in both of her own for a quick squeeze, touched at the woman’s uncharacteristic reticence. Her aunt looked somehow older, more fragile. The skin of her hand felt paper thin, and Estelle felt a jolt at the realization that this amazing woman was actually aging. A quiet force who had simply always been, now for the first time that Estelle could remember Sofía Tournál appeared hesitant and unsure.
“We must talk about Francisco,” Sofía said abruptly.
Estelle’s heart jolted and she couldn’t keep the surprise out of her expression. She instinctively knew that Sofía was not referring to Dr. Francis—any concern she might have about her nephew and his clinic she handled mano a mano with “the good doctor.” That left little Francisco, and clearly, this was not a “boys must have a dog,” “baseball through the window,” or “chocolate smeared on the carpet” moment. Such things, Sofía would shrug off with an expressive roll of her green eyes. Few of life’s vicissitudes appeared to dent the gracious attorney’s serenity.
Giving herself time to think, Estelle turned the tea strainer around the cup, then lifted it out, holding it for a moment to catch the drips. She placed it carefully on the napkin. Sofía said nothing else, but waited as if it might be important that Estelle hold on to the table with both hands.
“It’s important for me to know what you think,” Estelle said.
Sofía’s face softened and it seemed as if some of the tension left her.
“That’s good,” she said, “because I have to speak my mind even if you should hate me for it.”
Estelle smiled at her aunt’s formality. “I think you know me better than that,” she said. “You’re talking about hijo’s music?”
“Ah,” Sofía said, nodding. “Yes. That’s what we need to discuss, you and I. Your mother sat up with me until the good doctor came home. She and I talked this over.” She flashed a smile. “And listen to me now. This is what I mean. Two old ladies discussing what the boy’s mother and father should do. It’s none of our business, no?”
“You have an interest,” Estelle replied. “And you’re concerned. So am I.”
Sofía heaved an enormous sigh. “Tell me,” she started to say, then hesitated. “Tell me what you think about this little boy of yours.”
“He worries me,” Estelle replied. She pushed the mug of tea to one side. “It keeps me awake at night. Here he is, six years old, so drawn to the piano, so sucked into his own private world,” and Estelle collapsed an imaginary ball with both hands until her fists were clenched one over the other, “that I know exactly where he’s going to be when I come home.”
She nodded toward the living room. “Even Carlos...I see changes in him. He’s always been enchanted with books and stories—you’ve seen that. And now, with his older brother composing these...these soundtracks to go with them, it’s as if Carlos has become a permanent fixture on the end of the piano bench.” She paused, surprised at the gush of words she’d released. “All of that is wonderful, but I don’t know where it’s going, and I don’t know what to do abou
t it, if anything.” She raised an eyebrow at her aunt. “So you see, querida, what you think is important to me.”
“Ah,” Sofía said, and she drew it out thoughtfully. “Let me just say it, then. I talked to Francisco’s piano teacher today.” She folded her hands, as if passively waiting for an explosion. “We spoke on the phone earlier, and she invited me to stop by. I did so, early this afternoon.”
“Mrs. Gracie is an interesting lady,” Estelle said.
“Yes, she is,” Sofía said slowly. “I was surprised when she agreed with me.”
“Agreed? About what?”
“Francisco is a prodigious talent, you know.”
“Yes.”
“But listen. I don’t mean simply gifted. He is so much more than that. The problem arises...,” and she paused. “The problem arises because in just a short time, there will be nothing for him here.”
“Nothing for him here? What does that mean?”
“Mrs. Gracie agrees that within the year, perhaps two at most, Francisco will grow beyond anything that she might be able to do for him. Maybe even sooner than that.”
“She’s such a wonderful musician,” Estelle said.
“Sofía tilted her head in agreement. “Yes, she is, querida. She plays beautifully. And you know,” and Estelle’s aunt leaned forward, a twinkle in her eyes that Estelle saw was tinged with something akin to regret, “so do I, when this arthritis allows it.” She thumped swollen knuckles gently on the tabletop. “But we are not Francisco.”
“That’s hard to believe, tía.”
“You must believe it, querida.”
“Perhaps she can recommend someone else, then,” Estelle said.
“Oh, perhaps she can, perhaps she can. And so can I. But the truth we must face is a simple one: Posadas, dear little village that it is, is not the sort of place that will—” she paused, searching for the right words “—that will nurture the musical world of this remarkable little boy. His mind is so filled with it, you see. He thinks in musical terms, Estelle.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Music to Francisco is simply a private language that he speaks far more fluently than English, or Spanish, or whatever you choose.”
She spread her hands in front of her and waggled her fingers. “With all of that, he is also blessed with the magical coordination that allows him to speak this language of his.”
Estelle sat back, the tea forgotten.
“This is a serious question,” Sofía said. “And I will put it in the simplest terms. You have a son with an extraordinary gift.... It is beyond anything I have ever seen—and I have seen many gifted young musicians come and go.”
“He’s only six, tía.”
“I don’t care if he’s but three,” Sofía said with surprising vehemence. “What faces you now is deciding how that gift should be bestowed on the world.”
She leaned forward again, again placing a hand on Estelle’s. “The twelve years between this moment and when we start thinking of him as a young man...those are vital to his growth as a creative genius. I’m sure you know that.”
The twelve years, Estelle thought, and found herself unable to imagine little Francisco as an eighteen-year-old. Worse yet, various faces of eighteen-year-olds that she’d had contact with through work paraded unbidden through her mind, like Macbeth’s ghosts.
“He is so...so dócil at this point, don’t you think?” Sofía asked.
“I know that he seems consumed,” Estelle said carefully. “It’s as if the piano is a window for him, somehow.”
Sofía nodded. “It is a rare thing, this combination. The gift up here”—she touched her own temple—“and the gift here.” she extended her hands palms up, the fingers playing silent arpeggios in the air. “And I see...” Once more she hesitated, searching for just the right words in English. “I see a kind of concentration, a kind of ambition with no concern for time, that is most unusual in a mere child.” She shrugged expressively. “But he is no mere child. Do you agree?”
Estelle laughed quietly. “He has no sense of the time of day, that’s for sure. If he wasn’t interrupted, I don’t know how long he would sit at the piano.”
“Just so. And every moment he spends there, it is as if another door opens for him. I hope you see that. The challenge is that he must work with someone who recognizes those doorways, those opportunities, and directs Francisco on this path he has discovered.”
“He’s only six,” Estelle said again, and surprised herself with the defensive edge in her voice.
“Only six,” Sofía replied. “You keep saying that. To him, it is an eternity since his fifth birthday. He does more in a single hour than the average child who is forced to plod through piano lessons does in a year. Let me tell you what we did this evening.” She leaned forward with relish, both hands clasped tightly, pressed between table and bosom. “I played for him a small piece, a trifle, by Debussy. Maybe you know it.” She hummed a lilting series of notes. “It is his ‘Reverie,’ and everyone who takes lessons on the piano plays it sooner or later. I had played no more than ten measures when Francisco dissolved in giggles...pure six-year-old, you know. He leans against my arm and says, ‘He has his feet in the water.’ And he swings his legs back and forth under the bench, like so.” Sofía paddled her hands.
“His feet in the water?”
“That’s what happens, you see,” Sofía said. “When Francisco hears music, it instantly paints a picture in his little head. And then he uses the piano to extend that picture, to paint the whole image...the whole gallery, if you like. That”—Sofía leaned back in satisfaction—“that is his genius. And for him, I see no limitations.”
Estelle sat silently for a long time. “My husband needs to invent a potion to keep hijo six years old forever.”
“Ah, that would be a tragedy for Francisco,” Sofía said, unamused. “He must grow into himself, and we must help him do that.”
“What are you suggesting?” Estelle asked, feeling as if she’d drunk a bag of cement rather than a quarter-cup of tea.
“There is so much to discuss, querida, but Mrs. Gracie and I agreed, and maybe we are out of place. But I must say it. Posadas is a wonderful little village, and you and Doctor Francis have done wonderful things here...commendable things. But it is not the place for Francisco. Not now.”
Chapter Seven
“Did you two solve all the world’s problems?” Even though her husband’s voice was no more than a breathy whisper, it startled Estelle. So lost was she in her own thoughts that she had never felt him shift his position in bed, never sensed his waking. Her eyes ached from staring into the dark void overhead, the inky depths broken only by the single red eye of the smoke alarm on the opposite bedroom wall.
“Not even close,” she murmured. She and Sofía had talked for another hour, and afterward, when she’d made her way into bed, she had fallen instantly asleep...for an hour. She turned now and squinted at the clock on the dresser. In another few minutes, the boys would be awake, excited about whatever might await them out under the Christmas tree.
Francis shifted and Estelle could feel his breath on her neck. “I don’t think we’re big-city people,” he whispered.
“She talked to you, too?”
“‘Cornered’ might be more accurate,” Francis said. “She’s worried.”
“Y yo también,” Estelle said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“Maybe nothing is the appropriate thing right now,” her husband whispered.
She twisted onto her side so that she faced him, then reached up and found the side of his face, stroking the silky beard that he now kept clipped short, just enough to soften his square jaw line. “Is that the right thing, oso?”
A long moment of silence followed, but she knew that Francis had heard the question. She felt his touch, light and delicate, as his wrist cro
ssed hers. With a single finger, he traced the outline of her lips.
“The right thing is for them to grow up healthy and happy,” he said finally. “Anything else is gravy.”
Estelle drew in a long, deep breath that trembled when she exhaled. “When she talked about Veracruz, it made me remember Andy Browers. That’s not fair, but that’s what it made me think of. I didn’t tell Sofía that, of course.”
Her husband’s finger hesitated, then moved from her lips and tapped the end of her nose, his only comment.
“I know,” she replied to the unspoken comment. “I know it’s not the same.” She knew that there was no logic to the emotions that tied her stomach in knots. Andy Browers had been an opportunistic punk who three years before had tried to kidnap two area children—his own stepchild and little Francisco Guzman, then three years old—with the notion of selling the children in Mexico. The memory of those moments had lost some sharpness around the edges, but they still haunted her.
“I couldn’t send Francisco away, even if it was to live with Sofía,” Estelle said. Her husband didn’t respond. “Could you do that?”
He tapped the end of her nose again, and then she felt his heavy arm settle around her shoulders, drawing her closer. “Nope,” he said. “And all we can do is hope that it’s that simple, querida.”
“Tell me why it isn’t that simple,” she said.
“Because,” Francis said, as if that was that.
“Oh, sí.” She managed to grip a few beard hairs and twisted, wagging them from side to side.
“Because Sofía would argue that a genius belongs to the world,” he said, and the words came out with such finality, such measured conviction, that it startled Estelle. When she had assumed that he was sound asleep, perhaps in truth he had been staring at the ceiling, too, wrestling with his own thoughts.
“Do you believe that, too?”
“In a way, sure. That’s just the way it works. I think that’s what Sofía is trying to say.”
Statute of Limitations Page 7
