Small Silent Things Read online

  6

  “SHE IS MIXED,” CONRAD SAYS, POUTING. “BIRACIAL.”

  They are filling in beginning-of-the-school-year paperwork. Conrad is home early. Lucy is in bed. Jocelyn has made small stacks on the living room coffee table. They are necessary for admission statistics, the principal of Lucy’s private school explains. Important for demographics.

  “Do not write ‘black’ on that form,” Conrad demands.

  “She’s not mixed,” Jocelyn says. “She’s black.”

  “How do you figure?” he says. “How do you figure that?”

  “Period,” Jocelyn says, as if it’s an answer.

  “She’s more white than black,” he says assertively. “Your father was white. My parents are both white. I’m white, for God’s sake. That makes her like three-quarters white.”

  “Not in America,” Jocelyn says, marking the “African American” box with a strange sort of satisfaction.

  She looks up at her husband. He has a sour face. She laughs, almost hysterically. “The three-quarters-white category,” she says with more sass than she means. “What the hell is that?”

  Conrad walks out of the room. He is angry.

  Jocelyn does not understand her need to hold on to it, her loyalty, her urge to pass this inheritance along. What has it given her, after all?

  7

  “DO YOU HAVE ANY FAMILY LEFT?” DR. BRUCE ASKS. “NOW THAT YOUR mother has died?”

  It is their ninth session together. She goes and she goes, but there is always the feeling of being on display, a need to lower the eyes. She keeps things hidden.

  “Yes,” Jocelyn says quietly. “Well, no. I guess not really. Not anymore.”

  “Not anymore?” the therapist asks.

  A pen, a pad. Hot-pink reading glasses. Eyes waiting.

  “My brother died in 1994. My sister in 1990.”

  The therapist writes something in her notepad. Jocelyn watches her pen move and then looks away. There is a botanical print on the wall—“Native California Flowers.” Jocelyn reads: California Poppy, Eschscholzia californica.

  “Any family besides?”

  “Uncle Al is still alive. Bad people seem to never die,” Jocelyn says, focusing hard on the print. “My mother is finally dead, but you know that. My grandfather is ninety. They’ve never been family to me.”

  Jocelyn looks at the poster again, and the therapist looks where Jocelyn looks. She is on to golden yarrow, or Eriophyllum confertiflorum. The impossible pronunciation is distracting.

  “Can we speak of something specific?” the therapist asks.

  “Like what?” Jocelyn says, feeling as petulant as a teenager.

  “Like anything,” the therapist says. “We could start with your brother. How did he die?”

  “AIDS,” Jocelyn says simply.

  When she doesn’t continue, the therapist asks, “What was he like?”

  “Nice,” she says. “He was a musician. A pianist.”

  “What about your sister? What was she like?” the therapist asks, and Jocelyn hesitates.

  In truth, Jocelyn barely remembers what either of them was like, what she herself was like. They are both ideas now, not really people. She remembers parts of them, mostly parts from the apartment in Winton Terrace. She remembers the beatings, the degradation, the hopelessness, but who would want to remember that? She doesn’t want to say that though. She doesn’t want to seem cold. She still has a plaid Ralph Lauren shirt that her brother had saved for. It’s in an airtight bag in her closet. In the early years after his death, she would take it out and smell it. She has her sister’s watch—a Timex. Conrad would die if she wore it.

  “How did your sister die?” Dr. Bruce asks, pushing, interrupting.

  “Drugs,” she says. “An overdose. We were all pretty miserable.”

  “Did you do drugs?”

  Jocelyn thinks of the ecstasy dealer. Her boyfriend from Florida who dealt cocaine.

  High-strung sex that felt as if they would never reach orgasm. Doing it again and again. There were endless lines on a Formica table at the house on Mulberry Street. And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, she thinks, and then there is Lucy and Dr. Seuss—one memory switched for something new. Two girls and yet somehow one girl too.

  “Jocelyn?” her therapist says.

  Jocelyn feels brought out of a daze. “It seemed like everybody did drugs,” she says, simply.

  “Were you with your sister when she died? Were you using together?”

  She looks out the window, rubs a nail. A eucalyptus tree taps its branch on the pane. Using makes it sound more serious than Jocelyn remembers. She wasn’t like Ycidra. For Ycidra everything was always extreme.

  “No. No. She was with her boyfriend. He didn’t call 911. She’d be alive if he had called 911, but well . . .”

  “How does that make you feel?” the therapist asks.

  “Awful,” Jocelyn says. “Just awful.” And then she starts laughing, because it seems like the dumbest question in the world.

  The therapist waits, neutral as Switzerland. Jocelyn assumes it’s a part of the job.

  “I don’t think about it,” she says, continuing. “I just sort of leave it back there.”

  “Back where?” the therapist asks. She doesn’t mention the laughter.

  “I don’t know,” Jocelyn says, and realizes she doesn’t know. “It’s just not here.”

  They sit in silence for a few moments. She thinks she should tell the therapist about Kate: the thoughts she has. About wanting to hold her down. Wanting to possess her. She talks herself out of it though. It is nothing, she tells herself. If it’s something next week, I will tell her.

  “Were you close to your sister? Let’s not talk about the abuse right now. I’m not asking you to talk about that. When you’re ready, you can talk about that.”

  “She was always for me, you know? She was like my running mate.”

  The office is suddenly cold. The sun has fallen behind a cloud. One of her mother’s boyfriends would take them to UDF, after, for ice cream. It was a bribe, so the two of them wouldn’t tell.

  There are tissues on a television tray in front of her. She looks out to the new gray sky, but she does not cry.

  Chapter Four

  Simon

  1

  THE DOORBELL RINGS AT DINNERTIME. THE PYGMY IS SITTING IN THE recliner. He often sits there in the evening. His legs are crossed, this time with webbed feet. When the doorbell sounds, the pygmy gets up and walks to the door. Simon is aware of the slap, slap sound of his steps. The doorbell rings again. He wonders who it is. No one visits him. No family is left. Then the one comes to mind, and he hushes the possibility, not wanting to repeat the hallway scene from weeks before, not wanting to think of his “maybe” daughter and her letter. I would like to meet you, she writes. I believe I am your daughter. Are you my daughter? He wonders this, and the Twa disappears.

  He makes his way to the door, just as the bell sounds again. This time over and over. He hears a woman’s voice admonishing: Stop it, honey. Stop that. He hears giggling. He smiles, looks out the peephole. It is the little girl from down the hall—Lucy. He remembers the wonderful name! The Barbie doll has done the trick.

  He opens the door.

  “Hello,” he says. “What a pleasure! Come in please.”

  “No, that’s all right,” his neighbor says. She is not dressed in tennis clothes this time, but is casual in a cashmere sweater and jeans. “We’re just here to thank you for . . .” but then Lucy runs past her, and past him, and is in his living room, and neither of them can grab her.

  “I’m so sorry,” the mother says, all exasperation.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, gently. He waves her inside. “Come in. I am happy you are here.”

  She steps into the light of the entry. He shuts the door and looks at her closely. There is a glow to her skin. She has softly highlighted hair; the color is like the color of caramels he ate once in Brussels, in a small café
. Two on a silver plate. It matches her daughter’s hair. Their eyes are different though. Hers are almost green. The child’s are dark brown, as his own daughter’s were.

  He watches to see if the mother likes his home. She glances about, stopping at the view. She turns to see the kitchen, the white marble island. The child makes her way to his worktable, looks with interest at the architectural model of the huge city park he is planning for the Natural History Museum.

  “Is it the same floor plan as yours?” he asks.

  “Yes. The setup is the same, but you have much better taste. This is like a retreat.”

  He smiles at that, and she smiles too. He sees her white teeth. Her lips are the color of crushed berries. The contrast between the two is dramatic.

  “It’s so spare,” she says. “I love it. I . . . well . . . we have so much stuff.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” he says. “Sit. Please. Anywhere.”

  But she doesn’t. They both stand, as if permanently affixed to the floor, eyes on the child, who is intrigued by the contents of his table—the tiny oranges on the tiny orange trees, miniature aluminum slides, pearl-size soccer balls. The little fingers lift and feel and then follow the turning path of a man-made creek he’s decided on.

  “Is she okay over there?” the mother asks.

  “Yes.”

  “She can’t break it, can she?”

  “I won’t, Mama.”

  “She won’t,” he says, loving the child’s voice.

  “I’m Jocelyn Morrow,” the mother says, extending her hand. Her fingernails are painted a deep red, almost black. “I noticed when you bought the place, but we’ve never really formally introduced ourselves.”

  “I’m Simon,” he says. “Bonaventure.”

  “That’s Lucy,” the mother says, pointing at the child.

  “I remember,” he says. “From when we met in the hall.”

  “Oh God.” A grin lights up her face. “I apologize for that and thank you for the Barbie. She loves it. I should have come by sooner. I’ve lost my manners living in Los Angeles.”

  “Where are you from?” he asks.

  “Cincinnati,” she says.

  “Where is that?”

  “Ohio,” she says. “The Midwest. It’s on the river. There’s a beautiful bridge. The landscape is very green. There’s nothing much to tell besides that. Just a Midwest city.”

  She walks to the sliding glass doors. He walks with her. They both look out. The surf is rough today. The sea is dark blue.

  “I grew up near a river too,” he says. “In Rwanda. The Nyabarongo.” They belong to Ethiopia, he remembers. The memory is like a camera flash in a dark room. “A bit green too,” he says. “A brown river.” With bodies, he almost says.

  “How nice,” she says. She turns back into the room, takes a large breath as if she’s finishing a workout. “We didn’t want to disturb you. We—Lucy—just wanted to thank you for the Barbie. Right, Lucy?”

  “Thanks,” the child says, without looking up.

  “You are welcome for the doll,” he says. “You have a lovely name, Lucy.”

  “It’s short for Lucinda,” the mother says, but the child says nothing. It is as if she can’t hear anything they say. She is intent on the details of the miniature park. She pushes the swing sets into the middle of the green synthetic lawn. She moves the water fountains to the left edge. He watches her infiltrate his space like a mad architect, not thinking twice. Just moving and then looking, changing what doesn’t please her, and then changing it again.

  “What do you do?” the mother asks. “I mean, what is all of that?”

  “I am an architect. I design open spaces for public consumption. City parks or state parks. This is a project I’m doing for the Natural History Museum, but I work all over the world. That’s my most recent version. Your daughter seems to like it. Although she is editing it a bit.”

  “She thinks she knows everything.”

  “Yes,” he says. “Girls do.”

  Sadness pokes him like a strong finger in his chest. My girl knew everything, he wants to say.

  “And where is your daughter today?” Jocelyn asks, as if she has read his thoughts. “Is she home?” she asks, looking around the room as if his daughter might be hiding somewhere. “It was nice of her to give us the doll. Lucy ought to thank her too.”

  “Oh,” he says. “She doesn’t live with me.”

  “Is she still in Rwanda?”

  He feels the question, what it provokes. He worries that he has gone red. He does not know how to answer. He never knows. Lie, he thinks. Always lie.

  “Well,” he says.

  She waits. His neighbor is patient. He watches her watch him.

  “I lost her twenty years ago. Twenty-two years ago, actually. In the genocide,” he says.

  “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.”

  “She isn’t dead,” he says. “Well, she might be.” Never to me, he wants to say. He feels unable to stop his blathering. “Some of the children were taken.”

  “Oh my gosh,” she says. “I can’t imagine.”

  “She was taken from me.” The words come from outside him. The truth, he realizes. Why have I told the truth?

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” she says. She reaches to touch him, but he does not allow it. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have . . . the doll then . . . Lucy, we have to return the doll.”

  “No,” he says. “It’s nothing. It’s nothing but a doll.”

  He has raised his voice without meaning to. She steps away from him. He watches her move from foot to foot. It is a small gesture. He has made her uncomfortable. He is angry at himself. He wants them to stay.

  “May I make you some coffee?” he tries. “Please?”

  “I wouldn’t want to bother you,” she says. She looks at her daughter again. This time very anxiously. “Don’t be so rough with that, honey.”

  “She is okay,” he says. “I want to see what works. What doesn’t.” And then to the child: “I’d be honored if you’d help me with it, Lucy. Can you figure out the best setup for me? If you were playing at a park—a dream park. How would you want it to look?”

  The girl says nothing.

  “If you help me figure it out, I will hide your name at the finished site. We will hunt for Lucy’s name at the Natural History Museum. I could do many different versions—Lucinda, Cinda, Lucy, Lulu. I could put it on a brick, or a stone, or at the bottom of a clear pond. How does that sound?”

  A devilish grin settles over the girl’s face, then seriousness. She reaches her hand toward a slide, she changes her mind and then moves a climbing wall. She looks up at him. He feels pricked, as if her eyes are darts.

  “The pond,” she says.

  “I won’t tell where it is,” he says, being very serious. “You must spy it. Hot chocolate for her?” he asks the mother.

  “I’ll never get her out of here,” Jocelyn says, but he can tell she is pleased.

  “Well then, you must stay for a very long time.”

  She seems to relax at this, and he is happy. He has fixed it. Through the child.

  He watches her set her purse down. The purse is beautiful. It is a python bag. He has never seen one before. He lifts his eyes from the bag to her face. He sees that she is blushing.

  “My husband bought it for me,” she says, as if apologizing. “It’s absurd.”

  “It’s lovely,” he says. “I don’t like snakes. They are best on bags.”

  She laughs. “May I sit anywhere?”

  “Anywhere,” he says. “Make yourself at home. We should get to know one another. I believe that’s what neighbors do.”

  He watches her make herself comfortable on the couch.

  “I am very sorry about your daughter,” she says. “I would die if something happened to Lucy. I really couldn’t go on.”

  “Thank you,” he says, simply.

  There is quiet after that. It is not uncomfortable though. She is the kind of woman who m
akes silence easy. He can already tell. She is someone to be stared at, to be sat with.

  The smell of coffee is in the room. The sweet, thick scent of Lucy’s hot chocolate. The sun is setting over the sea now. A blinding disk showing through his window. It will be dark in moments, he knows. He prays the pygmy will not come back while she is here. It seems a fragile space to keep intact. It’s been a long time since he’s had a friend, and he knows he must contain the illusions, lasso them in. Trust, he thinks, but the meaning of the word eludes him. The tail of Habyarimana’s python flicks prescient from the purse, taunting him. He ignores it.

  “Tell me about you,” he says, placing the coffee service out on the light wood table.

  “There’s not much to tell about me. I’m a housewife. I used to be a librarian, but now I’m just a full-time mother.”

  “Don’t say ‘just,’” he says, starting to pour. “That’s a big deal.”

  He sees Vestine pregnant, toddling around. “What else do you do or like?”

  “I like to read,” she says. And then as if it is an afterthought, “I recently started playing tennis again,” she says.

  “Oh, that sounds fun,” he says. “I used to play as a boy.”

  She smiles at him, and through the decades, instead of the pygmy, Abrahm’s wooden racquet clatters to the floor. The sound startles him and he flinches, spilling a bit of coffee. He looks at her to see if she has noticed, or if little Lucy has heard, but the sound is for him alone.

  “Yeah?” she says. “I really sort of love it.”

  2

  WHEN SHE LEAVES, HE WONDERS WHY HE HAS TOLD HER ABOUT HIS daughter: She was taken from me. Why did he say that?

  He does not like to say or think the words kidnapped or stolen, although that is what it was. He has never shared the story. Why didn’t he lie? The comfort of strangers, he thinks, but there have been so many strangers before.

  Maybe it is because of Lucy. Lucinda. He would rather call her that.

  The name, he thinks, is like a soft whisper, a hush. A little girl—a girl with eyes like his own girl’s. She is in his house again. Lucy has made him feel reborn.