Gabe mumbled something hostile. The music was still loud enough to block out his words, but not his meaning.
“Clean up and set the table, Gabriel. Perhaps nutrition will restore your manners.”
“I ate, Mom.”
“What did you have?”
“Chicken pie, the rest of the potatoes, the snap beans, the pumpkin bread.”
“All the pumpkin bread?”
Kid’s grin. “Yup.”
“And for dessert?”
“The ice cream.”
“Leave any for sweet-toothed Mom?”
The grin faded. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay, sweetie,” she said, tousling his hair. “I need to cut down- you did me a favor.”
He spread his hands over the pile of corn and gave her an imploring look. “Look how much I got done. Can I quit for tonight?”
She crossed her arms, tried to look stern. “All right. You’ll pick up with the rest tomorrow. What about homework?”
“Did it.”
“All of it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Fine. You’re free on bail.”
He stood, gave me a look that said, Don’t let me get you alone, and made a show of cracking his knuckles.
“I’ve told you not to do that, Gabriel. You’ll ruin your hands.”
“Sorry.”
She kissed him again. “Now, off with you.” He made it to the doorway, said, “Uh, Mom?”
“What is it?”
“Can I go into town?”
“That depends on what you’re going to do there.”
“Russell and Brad called. There’s a movie at the Sixplex in Redlands.”
“Which one?”
“Who’s driving?”
“Brad.”
“All right, just as long as it’s not Russell in that souped-up Jeep of his- one near-miss is enough. Do I make myself clear, young man?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All right. Don’t betray my trust, Gabe. And be home by eleven.”
“Thanks.” He lumbered out, so happy to be free that he forgot to glare at me.
The dining room was big and dark, and the smell of lavender permeated the papered walls. The furniture was old, carved black walnut. Heavy drapes masked the windows, and faded family portraits in antique frames hung in the empty spaces- a pictorial history of the Leidecker clan at various stages of development. Helen had once been beautiful, her looks enhanced by a generous smile that might never be resuscitated. Her four older sons were shaggy-haired beanpoles who resembled her. Their father was a yellow-bearded, barrel-chested precursor to Gabe- who’d started life as a bald, pink, squinting sphere of suet. Sharon was in none of the pictures.
I helped set the table with china and silver and linen napkins, noticed a guitar case on the floor, next to the china cabinet.
“Mr. Leidecker’s,” she said. “No matter how many times I told him to put it away, it always ended up there. He played so well, I really didn’t mind. Now I just leave it there. Sometimes I feel it’s the music I miss the most.”
She looked so low that I said, “I play.”
“Do you? Then by all means.”
I opened the case. Inside was an old Gibson L-5, vintage thirties, nestled in blue plush. Mint condition, the inlays undamaged, the wood freshly polished, the gold plating on the tailpiece and tuners gleaming as if new. It gave off that wet-cat odor that old instruments acquire. I lifted it, strummed the open strings, tuned.
She’d gone back into the kitchen and called out: “Come in here so I can listen.”
I brought the guitar in, sat down at the table, and fingered a few jazz chords while she fixed chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, beans, and fresh lemonade. The guitar had a warm, rich tone and I played “ La Mer,” using Django’s liquid gypsy arrangement.
“Very pretty,” she said, but I could tell that jazz- even warm jazz- wasn’t her thing. I switched to finger-picking, played something melodic and countrified in C-major, and her face got young.
She brought the food to the table- huge quantities of it. I put the guitar away. She seated me at the head, positioned herself to my right, and smiled nervously.
I was taking a dead man’s place, felt something was expected of me, some protocol that I could never hope to master. That and the ceremonious way she filled my plate put me in a melancholy mood.
She toyed with her food and watched me while I forced myself to eat. I got down as much as I could, paid compliments in between bites, and waited until she’d cleared the dishes and brought apple pie before saying:
“The graduation picture that the Ransoms lost. Did Sharon give one to you?”
“Oh, that,” she said. Her shoulders drooped and her eyes moistened. I felt as if I’d thrown a drowning survivor back into icy waters. Before I could say anything, she sprang up, disappeared down the hall.
She returned with an eight-by-ten photo in a maroon velvet stand-up frame, handed it to me as if passing the sacrament, and stood over me as I studied it.
Sharon, beaming, in crimson cap and gown with a gold tassel and shoulder braid, her black hair longer, flowing over her shoulders, her face radiant, without blemish. The epitome of all-American college womanhood, staring off into the distance with youthful optimism.
Envisioning a rosy future? Or just some campus photographer’s idea of what proud parents liked for their mantels?
In the bottom left-hand corner of the photo was gold-leaf lettering.
EPHEGIANS, CLASS OF ’74
FORSYTHE TEACHERS COLLEGE FOR WOMEN
LONG ISLAND, N.Y.
“Your alma mater?” I said.
“Yes.” She sat down, held the picture to her bosom. “She always wanted to be a teacher. I knew Forsythe was the right place for her. Rigorous and protective enough to cushion her from the shock of going out into the world- the seventies were a rough time and she’d led a sheltered life. She loved it there, got straight A’s, graduated
Better than Leland Belding… “She was very bright,” I said.
“She was a brilliant girl, Alex. Not that some things weren’t a struggle in the very beginning- toilet training, for one, and all the social things. But I just dug my heels in and stuck with it- good practice for when I had to train my boys. But anything intellectual she absorbed like a sponge.”
“How did your boys get along with her?”
“No sibling rivalry, if that’s what you mean. She was tender with them, loving, like some terrific
