While Claude drove, Pierre told him the story of a pathetic fisherman from Cuba who hadn’t caught a fish in eighty-four days. He kept interrupting the plot with asides about what the fisherman wore and how he navigated the sea. Claude, of course, had no real interest in the unnecessary details or even the story. But he stayed quiet and feigned curiosity because he only wanted his son near him. Once Pierre finished with the recap, he began reading straight from the book. His voice, though still high, cracked now and then. This was something Claude hadn’t noticed before. He looked over and saw small but undeniably dark and coarse hairs on the boy’s calves. Innocence was almost over, and Claude pulled his son close. Pierre then began to yawn, and let the book drop from his hands. His head landed in Claude’s lap, and Pierre was asleep in a few seconds.
They were almost home now. He’d just passed the Kimbrough house on the right and began down the slope to his own home. Midway, he stopped the car and idled. The camp he’d forbidden Pierre to attend sat empty. Claude had attended one summer when he was fifteen, intent on playing baseball as much as possible. He was a talented athlete, a better-than-decent hitter, and dominated the first-base defensive position with his quick reflexes. The Red Sox were a big topic all summer, and late into the night while lying in their bunks, the boys debated endlessly about the season in nearby Boston. And there were other obsessions. Masturbation of course, which then naturally led to the topic of sex. Pierre squirmed in his sleep. Claude placed his hand on the boy’s forehead. It felt cool and dry. He looked at the open field on the opposite side of the road, with tall grasses and trees beyond. Not much had changed since that summer when a plan had been hatched. It seemed there was a girl, and she was willing.
On the last night of the camp session, in the middle of this very field, Claude drank until he could barely stand. He’d never swallowed even one drop of alcohol before. Nor had he held a girl’s hand, much less kissed one on the cheek. But he went first. And with the blessing of his first alcohol blackout, Claude woke the next morning not remembering what had happened or who the girl was. Not even her first name. Claude was still an innocent, like his boy who now slept so deeply.
He shifted into drive and continued down the hill. Pierre woke up when they turned into the driveway and parked. Celine and the Saint walked out of the house carrying boxes of shoes worth too much money. They stacked them on the floor of the porch, preparing for donation the next day.
“Jim just called,” Sandra announced. “Edna wants us all for dinner tonight.”
“It’s Feud night!” Pierre said, jumping up and down. “We can watch together. It’d be kind of cool. Luc would like that.”
Pierre sat next to Claude on the steps to the front porch as Celine re-examined each pair of shoes, displaying the outlandish styles and gaudy colors, marveling at the heels. Then she put on a pair she felt a particular fondness for and pranced around the front lawn. Pierre giggled at the spectacle and Celine, for the first time in what felt like forever, seemed truly happy. The wind blew across Claude’s face and he closed his eyes to its warmth. But really, he didn’t want to see the joy his family had finally located. Because Luc Sibley was his son.
RACHEL
MOSTLY, THINGS WERE BACK TO NORMAL. The house smelled both clean and delicious. Pierre’s mom had been cooking lots of meals—dinner and lunch. A good thing too, because he was tired of tuna-fish sandwiches four days a week and bologna and mustard the other three. And his parents seemed to like each other again. At least they weren’t arguing in his mom’s bedroom and acting as if he couldn’t hear every other sentence. In fact, that room was now being used for storage while his mom sorted out which fancy shoes and clothes (that she’d never worn) would go to Goodwill. She said she wanted to pare down her life—clarify things. Whatever that meant. But nothing at all, in any way, was clear. Because Luc was sick, and Pierre wasn’t sure with what. All week long he’d asked for details, but the adults did what they always do. Without explaining anything, they told him not to worry. That wasn’t fair, because Pierre liked Luc. He was funny on Feud night and could remember a million details about lots of old TV shows. But while Luc was in his coma no one was allowed to be funny, and it seemed like it was wrong to laugh or even smile. Then yesterday, there was good news.
The morning had dragged on forever, what with his dad’s donation taking extra long due to his bloody nose. Luckily, Pierre’s book passed the time and was a good distraction from Edna crying on and off and Mrs. Kimbrough trying to calm her with about twenty cups of tea. Which Pierre didn’t get, because wasn’t tea full of caffeine? His mom spent the entire time consulting with Mr. Kimbrough about sales on gardening tools, which also made no sense because his mom didn’t even like plants. But then they got the news about Luc’s blood, so Pierre hoped things might finally go back to normal.
But there was always something. Very early this morning his dad woke him before it was light out to say they were going to get breakfast at the diner with Edna. Pierre couldn’t see his dad’s face very well, because he’d not turned on the light. But he did notice his dad wore sunglasses. Which was strange, because not only was the room pretty dark, but his dad always said that people who wore sunglasses were probably liars. He kept adjusting the frames up and down his nose with his thumb and had to clamp his hand shut to keep his fingers from shaking. That’s when Pierre realized things might not be as normal as he’d wished.
After the sun came up, they stood by the door getting ready to leave, and his mom asked him for the millionth time if he’d be okay alone in the house while they went for breakfast with Edna. And Pierre answered for the billionth time, yes, he’d be fine. She’d never been concerned the other times he’d stayed home alone. Not like this, anyway. Pierre watched them walk to the car. His dad got in on the passenger side, his mom in the driver seat. His dad always, always drove. And for the first time ever, Pierre felt more worried for his dad than for his mom.
As his memory had continued to improve, everyone assured him this was positive. But Pierre didn’t like that he couldn’t control what memories popped up. Some were fine. Like the Ringleader’s real name was Rachel, and she also studied violin with Mrs. Kimbrough. Others weren’t so good. Like remembering that late last night when he’d peeked into the kitchen he saw his parents hovering over his mom’s computer. His mom was saying, it’s okay, it’s okay, over and over. And then again at three a.m. His mom was sitting in his dad’s lap with her arms around him. This time they didn’t talk. And Pierre now understood the sunglasses because he also remembered that his dad was crying but trying to not make any sounds. His dad wasn’t a liar—he’d just wanted to hide his puffy eyes.
Pierre had spent the morning lying on his bed thinking about all these things when the phone in the kitchen rang. He usually let it go, but he was worried it might be his mom calling to see if he was okay.
“Is Claude Roy at home?” a woman with a high voice asked.
“He’s out.”
“Can you give him a message?”
“Sure.”
“I’m calling from Franklin County General, the hematology department. Dr. Litvak needs to schedule another blood donation from Mr. Roy. Please have him call as soon as he gets this message.”
“Um, okay.”
“You’ll give him the message? It’s important,” the woman squeaked.
“He’ll be home soon. I think.”
Pierre hung up the phone. He pushed an ashtray overflowing with stubs to the side. That Litvak guy said the donor with the correct blood for Luc was anonymous. His dad wasn’t anonymous. Pierre decided to check the exact meaning of that word. He opened his mom’s laptop, still on the kitchen table from the night before, and googled.
A·non·y·mous—A person not identified by name. As in an anonymous donor. Secret. Incognito.
No. It couldn’t be his dad. He wasn’t a secret. His dad was practically famous in Oslo … but what was incognito?
In·cog·ni·to—Having one’s true identity concealed.
If his dad’s blood was good for Luc, why were they hiding it? Pierre sipped on a Coke, trying to make sense of the words and what they meant about his dad. Then his stomach growled from hunger and he realized he’d not eaten breakfast yet, so he grabbed two bananas from the fruit bowl and spent another minute munching and thinking. The computer screen saver suddenly appeared—an embarrassing picture of him as an infant. Pierre quickly rubbed the trackpad to get rid of it. Then on impulse, he hovered the arrow over the history tab. His finger froze. He’d never been snoopy like some of his friends, searching through closets and drawers and then discovering creepy things they’d rather not know about their parents. His mom inspected his laptop history all the time, but that’s just what all the moms did. And anyway, Pierre’s history only showed YouTube videos of the great violinists. Lots of book browsing. And wiki searches of people like Aristotle and Camus and Shostakovich and Hemingway and Neil deGrasse Tyson. Nothing bad. What he’d been careful to delete every single day were searches for boarding schools with good music departments, which Pierre was curious about but knew they could never afford. And summer music festivals that Mrs. Kimbrough said were actually possible the next year because he’d improved so quickly and could get a scholarship. Then, music conservatories for after high school, an idea he didn’t dare share with anyone, not even Mrs. Kimbrough. If his mom knew he wanted to leave home, that would hurt her feelings and she might go all sloppy again.
Pierre clicked. The tab dropped down. As soon as the list appeared, he drew his hands back as if the keyboard had caught fire. Dozens and dozens of searches appeared from the night before on just two subjects. First, AB negative blood. They’d been talking about this all week long and Pierre understood it was rare, which was why Luc wasn’t getting better. Second, paternity. Pierre didn’t have to look that word up. He already knew the meaning because at the end of the school year his class had learned about family trees and tracing ancestry through DNA. Pierre slammed the computer shut, ran to his bedroom, and dove onto the bed.
Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. Repeating the word out loud didn’t work. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. Don’t cry. He drew his knees to his chest and squeezed. Don’t remember. He rocked back and forth. Don’t wish. He clenched his fists and toes. Don’t even think. About anything. His head began to pound and he felt slightly sick to his stomach. Pierre rolled to his side and landed with his nose about five inches from the scroll of his violin, the smell of the varnish woody and oily. He drew its human shape into the crook of his body. Trust only this.
Tires crunched over the gravel outside. Pierre ignored his physical discomfort and quickly grabbed his violin. He stood in the middle of the room and began to draw his bow across the strings. Back and forth, over and over. He tried to remember every single thing Mrs. Kimbrough had taught him, all at once. He concentrated on pitch and smoothness of sound and his bow arm. He thought of how a beautiful melody could stay in his head for days. Then he imagined the sound entering his body and hoped it would stay there forever. Just then, the door opened and they rustled into the room. He felt their bodies taking up space, their eyes on his back as they waited for him to turn around. But Pierre kept his eyes shut and played louder, forcing the bow hard onto the string. He even made an ugly sound Mrs. Kimbrough wouldn’t like, but he didn’t care. He would play and play and play for as long as it took. Because Pierre ached for the now.
Then, he sensed a set of hands on his shoulders, the touch light, like a bird. And somehow, he knew it was Edna. “Dear boy,” she said, and kissed the back of his head. Those two words and the sound of her voice and the feeling of her lips brushing against his hair made Pierre shiver. It was a pleasurable spasm, so much so that he stopped playing his violin. When he opened his eyes and turned around, he saw his dad kneeling on the floor by the door, his mom standing behind. Edna squeezed him tight, her arms now strong in a way that Pierre knew was safe. He closed his eyes again and breathed in her sweater, which smelled of roses. He saw pink and laughed. Then he tasted sweetness. Now, he could finally cry. Pierre rubbed his tears against Edna’s chest, needing, needing, needing her smell. There they were. The roses.
Then, there it was.
The now.
EPILOGUE
EDNA SIBLEY DIES WITHIN THE YEAR. IT turns out she was, as everyone in Oslo suspected, filthy rich, and her will sustains her grandson comfortably. Luc quits his job at the March and continues to live in the house on the lake, though formal dining never graces the Sibley table again. He occupies his time on all the social-media platforms as a way to communicate in his odd manner. Eventually, he moves exclusively to Twitter with the handle @whatmygramsaid. Luc’s daily tweets about what his gram said garner millions of likes and retweets. He, and Gram, trend regularly.
Jim quits the symphony and Sandra sells his cello to pay off all their debts. Now without an instrument, Jim devotes himself to his real passion in life: solar panels. Within a year, he develops a system that revolutionizes the solar-panel industry. He sells the invention to a startup, netting a hefty sum. As Jim settles in as full-time househusband and fixer-upper, Sandra uses some of the solar money to buy the land across from their house, where the campground once stood. She starts a music camp for underprivileged children in Maine. And though she and Jim are now fairly well-off, Sandra continues teaching violin to the kids of Oslo. Her students, year after year, attend conservatories throughout the country and populate orchestras around the world.
Claude never publicly acknowledges Luc as his son, something that Celine, Sandra, and Jim respect and accommodate. A codicil attached to Edna’s will, written a week before she dies, provides a modest income for Claude and Celine if and when the March goes belly up, which it does within a few years. Claude continues to add to the footprint of his house, with challenging logic. Celine stays off the pills for the most part, slipping only twice. She passes away in her sleep at the age of fifty-one, of heart disease. Sandra remains her best friend till the end. Claude, bereft, never remarries.
Of course, Pierre marries Rachel the Ringleader, who was Sandra’s other prize student. They attend conservatory together, thanks to financial help from Edna’s will, and then move to Boston to begin their performing careers. Pierre soon abandons the ambition because tremors induced by the kick from the moose continue to plague him and ultimately interfere with his ability to perform consistently. Instead, Pierre builds a teaching studio in Boston and becomes one of the most important pedagogues in the country. He’s known as “the bow-arm fixer.” Professional violinists from around the world run to Pierre when their bow arms are in trouble, all thanks to the fundamentals Sandra developed in him when he was young. Rachel tours as first violinist with a well-established and successful string quartet. Sandra is named godmother to their two children, Luc and Edie. When Pierre and Rachel are able to purchase a two-family brownstone in Back Bay, Boston, they move Claude into the bottom residence. He co-parents the kids with Pierre while Rachel is away on tour and manages to tolerate the Saint when she visits, which is, to his mind, too often.
When his children are still small, Pierre tells them fantastical stories about the people who live in a Maine town called Oslo. He tells them their Uncle Luc is brilliant and can recite verbatim all 198 episodes of Family Feud, the Richard Dawson years. He tells them their Grandma Celine was a quiet and kind beauty, who all her life bought and donated shoes to the poorest of Oslo. He tells them they must listen to their Grandpa Claude, but not too much. He tells them their Auntie Sandra taught him and Mommy how to play the violin and that she actually is a saint, just as Grandpa Claude calls her. And, he tells them about an old lady named Edna who smelled like a pink rose and is the reason they always use cloth napkins at the dinner table. Pierre promises that one day in the future, he’ll tell them all about a moose and how she brought him to understand the beauty of now. But when they say, “Daddy, tell us about the moose. Tell us now about the now,” Pierre cannot, for the life of him, find th
e words.
END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am honored to be published, once again, by Michelle Halket. Her continued belief in my work is a writer’s dream. I’m grateful for her confidence and strategic thinking, particularly in very trying times. Many thanks to the sales team at IPG who distributed my novel with imagination and enthusiasm. My exceptional publicist, Sheryl Johnston, guided me with sensitivity throughout.
The Virginia Center for the Creative Arts generously provided two residencies in one calendar year where I was able to complete a first draft. Céleste-Marie Roy lent me her studio in Switzerland for the better part of a summer. What a joy to write in seclusion with Lake Geneva just down the block.
Early chapters of Oslo, Maine were workshopped with Zeeva Bukai, Julia Hirsch and Rosanne Limoncelli. Ralph Olsen, my forever go-to, read multiple versions throughout. Beta readers Patty Dann, Amy Kathleen Ryan and Don Shaw reviewed a later draft. I am indebted to all these wonderful friends and writers who took time and trouble to read my words and give invaluable feedback and encouragement. A writer can’t do it alone. I am very lucky.
Photo: Matt Dine
Marcia Butler, a former professional oboist and interior designer, is the author of the memoir, The Skin Above My Knee, and debut novel, Pickle’s Progress. With her second novel, Oslo, Maine, Marcia draws on indelible memories of performing for fifteen years at a chamber music festival in central Maine. While there, she came to love the people, the diverse topography, and especially the majestic and endlessly fascinating moose who roam, at their perpetual peril, among the humans. After many decades in New York City, Marcia now makes her home in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
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