The Dragonfly

by Kate Dunn

  Michael ran his hands over his scalp, fingering his stubble. “Charlotte was leaving,” he said. “And I was very upset. That part of my statement was true.”

  Colin stared at the fringe of grass running down to the lake, wanting to hear and not wanting to know.

  “We were standing on the landing. There’s a little corridor that leads off it to Delphine’s room. I kept asking Charlotte if she would stay. I thought if we could give it one more chance…” he tailed off. “You told me once that she would ruin my life.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Both of us were upset I couldn’t let it drop and in the end she got angry. We were shouting and I was conscious that Delphine’s door was ajar and I knew that she’d be listening, that she couldn’t help but hear. I was shouting at Charlotte: What about your daughter?” I was playing dirty,” he said sadly. “I feel so guilty about that. She said it wasn’t about Delphine, that I should leave Delphine out of it; it was about the two of us. She turned to go and I gave one of those weird, animal cries – I called out her name – howled it.”

  Colin closed his eyes, seeking the retinal image of his boy standing vengefully at the top of stairs, but the picture had faded and gone.

  “Delphine’s door burst open and she came flying down the corridor at us. She was as wild as we were. She kept screaming, over and over again. She kept screaming No. She flung herself at Charlotte. She pushed her, very hard. And Charlotte looked so surprised, so taken aback. She lost her balance and then for a moment she almost recovered herself and I reached out to try and grab her. She was flailing. I couldn’t get hold of her. It was like watching someone drown.”

  Colin thought of Delphine ramming the potato into Tyler’s face, leaping into the lock to rescue Amandine, how swift she was to action. He thought of her doing her funny, lying down dance with her headphones on and the tender intentness of her dialogues with the little monkey. He remembered her arguing, sulking, playing, laughing, cajoling. He remembered everything.

  A cindery breeze stirred, he could feel its silk graze on his skin. “What you tried to do for Delphine, I thought I was doing for you,” he said haltingly. “Putting you first. Your best interests. I just got it wrong.”

  His son reached out to touch him on the shoulder: the brief silhouette of a gesture.

  “Who’s my boy?” asked Colin tentatively, gazing at Michael’s face, his familiar, perplexing, grown up face. They regarded one another searchingly for a moment.

  “I’m your boy,” said Michael.

  ~~~

  They walked back to the house and Colin followed him inside, aware of being in the interior of his son’s life. He looked around him: kilims, pictures, a circular table, a wooden staircase painted black. He was inland, at last.

  Frederique and a man he didn’t know, the psychologist he assumed, rose up from the table when they entered.

  “Is Delphine–?” said Michael.

  “She’s in her room,” answered Frederique. “She talks about you and your trip all the time,” she said to Colin.

  “Do you want to see her?” Michael asked, jerking his head at the stairs.

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” he thrust his hand into his pocket and then straightaway took it out again. They set off in the direction of the staircase at the same time, bumping into each other, then stepping back.

  “Sorry–”

  “No, no, you go first–”

  She must have heard their voices. A door opened, and Delphine came hurtling along the landing. “Colin!” she cried tumultuously, reaching the top of the stairs with her arms outstretched. The spectre of Charlotte flickered in the air as she came racing down the stairs and flung herself at them. Her father caught her, or perhaps it was her grandfather, the only thing certain was that the three of them were standing there clutching onto one another, holding on for dear life.

  “Lulu!” gulped Delphine, as the kitten wound her tortoiseshell wiles around them, little Libellule, with a whip and flick of her tail. Colin scooped the creature up and deposited her with his granddaughter, cradling them both and wrapping his arms around his son as well, and slanting through the shutters, the Paris sunshine lay upon them as lightly as a leaf.