Catching Genius (32 page)

I hung up the phone and took a swallow of wine. For the first time since my early twenties, I didn't know whether I should call Luke or not. I supposed I should start getting used to making these calls, informing Luke of our children's misdeeds and achievements by phone. I finally dialed his work number.

His secretary, sounding hushed and reverent, told me that he wasn't in and she didn't expect him back. I would have to get used to that too. Being the ex-wife. I dialed home next. I didn't expect that Luke would be there, and I assumed I would be leaving a message on the machine. I assumed wrong.

A woman answered the phone.

“Deanna?” I said in shock. There was a brief silence at the other end, and then she hung up. I pulled the receiver away from my ear and looked at it in disbelief. I quickly redialed. The phone rang until the machine picked up.

“Luke, this is your wife. Your son, Carson, has been expelled from camp. I'll be picking him up tomorrow. I suggest that you and Deanna find somewhere else to go. That is my house, I paid for it, and I expect you both out
immediately
.”

I hung up, shaking, furious beyond measure. I suddenly thought of a thousand biting comments I could have made, a thousand threats and promises I could have left on the machine. I picked apart my five measly sentences and found them weak and pathetic.

I heard my mother laughing up on the widow's walk. I looked out the sliders and saw Tate and Gib happily digging a pit in the sand. My own house in Verona had been taken over; only this middle ground was mine, and it was filled with boxes and soon to be sold.

 
 
The pompano was probably delicious, but I could barely taste it. Everyone was having a good time, and I tried to pretend I was too. Vanessa went home soon after dinner, sensing that things were off. Once she was out of earshot Mother asked me about my call to the camp.

I downplayed Carson's expulsion and glossed over the fact that he'd actually started a fire. Carson didn't need Gib teasing him about it—the unfortunate
Carson
and
arson
rhyme was already going through my own head—and I didn't want Mother giving me advice about appropriate punishments either. Carson was going to feel punished enough on the way home when I broke the news to him that his parents were splitting up.

“I'll go get him,” Gib offered. “It's only a few hours away.”

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“Why not? I drove Gram all the way up here and was fine,” he argued.

“He drove very well,” Mother agreed, and I gave her a warning look.

“For one thing, you never asked me if you could drive my car, and I would have said no if you had. For another, a parent has to pick him up, and since I can't get ahold of your father—”

“Would you stop calling him that?” Gib said, unmasked anger in his voice.

“No. He is your father, he will remain your father, and he's Carson's father too, no matter what my relationship with him is,” I said, raising my voice. Tate and Estella edged away from the fire and I turned on them.

“Look, you both know exactly what's happening, so stop dancing away every time it's brought up.” They stared at me in surprised silence, and I continued with Gib. “I know you're angry and upset, but I'm going to have to tell Carson about your father and me. He's much younger than you, and you need to be careful of what you say to him. There's no need to discuss what happened; he doesn't need to know any details. Understood?”

“I'm not stupid, Mom,” he said, his face flushing crimson.

“Well, I know you're not stupid, Gib, but you're not always particularly kind to your little brother. He's going to be going through a hard time too, so maybe you could actually act glad to see him tomorrow?”

Gib rolled his eyes.

“I could go with you if you wanted some—” Estella began hesitantly, but I cut her off.

“Could you just try to keep Gib out of trouble? I don't want him to go in swimming too deep without me here.”

I knew it was a cheap shot and Estella looked as if someone had hit her. I knew that Gib's bloody nose had been an accident, but the thought of them both in the water together without me there filled me with dread. I didn't want to explore it, I didn't want to work through it, I just wanted them to follow my wishes.

“He'll be fine,” she finally said evenly. I gave her a curt nod and then marched past my disapproving mother and an embarrassed Tate and went straight up to the library. Luke never called me back, and I left a message for Angie about Deanna being in the house and asked her to call on my cell phone before noon so that I didn't have to talk with Carson in the car. I spent a fitful night tossing and turning on the mattress in the library.

I left before anyone rose in the morning and was on the interstate by seven.

I creep up the stairs to the library just after seven. I want to tell Connie about my decision before she leaves so that she can feel more comfortable on her way back, knowing that I won't be here. I've left everything too late. We all have.

I will leave the books. I will ask Mother to drive me into town. I will rent a car. I will drive back to Atlanta. I have it all planned.

It is Tuesday, so Paul will be turning new pieces. I will shoo the girls out for the night, give them money if I have to. I will prepare a surprise dinner, will wear the long black dress he likes though it is still too big on me, and will greet Paul at the door with a glass of wine. I've seen the look on his face in my mind and it makes me feel like myself again.

I am desperate to be me again.

I knock lightly. There's no answer. I crack the door just a bit, just a little more . . . she's not there. I can't believe that she left so early, but when I check beneath the house, the Escalade is gone.

I wanted to talk to her in person.

I will write her a note. It will be easier on both of us. Relieved, I wave good morning to Vanessa stretching in front of her dune, and plunge into the Gulf. Within a few moments, Gib is beside me. There is no horseplay this time. He turns when I do, changes his tempo when I do, and hauls himself out of the water when I do.

“Your mom doesn't want you swimming with me,” I remind him as I ease myself down onto the sand to catch my breath.

“She's already gone,” he says with a shrug, barely winded.

“Still,” I say. “You should do what she wants right now. She's going through a hard time.”

He blows water off his lips in lieu of an answer, and it is eloquent enough.

“Tell me about algebra,” I say, searching for firmer ground.

“It's stupid,” he says, and then follows with the age-old argument: “Besides, when am I ever going to use that stuff?”

I know by now that there is no answer that will satisfy him, except, “You have to pass it to graduate.”

“Whatever.”

I draw a simple equation in the sand. He looks down and runs his foot through it. I laugh and he grins at me. I draw another one. He studies it for a moment, and then hesitantly says, “
X
equals four, right?”

“That's right. See? That wasn't so hard.”

“Those aren't the kind of problems on my tests,” he says, kicking sand across the equation.

“I know,” I say. “But if you can do that, I guarantee that I can show you how to solve the problems on your tests.”

“What, is there a trick or something?”

“Well, maybe not a trick, but just a way of understanding. I think you might be making it a little harder than it is. If you break it down, algebra can be as easy as that equation was.”

“No way. My teacher tried all kinds of ways to get me to figure it out.”

“Maybe you could give me a chance? Come on. We don't even have to leave the beach.”

He turns his head over his shoulder and squints up at the house. I have no idea what he's thinking, but I take a stab at it.

“Your mom won't be back until late this afternoon,” I say, the prospect of playing with numbers with this child making me forget all about my plans to leave. He looks back at me and licks the salt water from his lips. “If you really don't think you understand more by lunch I'll never say another word,” I say.

“Yeah, all right,” he says, and I feel a surge of triumph. It feels like teaching again.

We begin.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When I finally arrived at Camp Scherzando I had managed to compose myself into a concerned mother again. I wanted to be stern, wanted Carson to understand the severity of his actions and how disappointed I was in him. But as I got out of the car I heard him yell, “Mom,” and my heart leapt.

He came pounding down the stairs of the office building, and I scooped him against me as though it had been years. His little body—thinner than I remembered, I could feel his backbone—was like a security blanket in my arms. I inhaled the scent of him.
My boy.

I realized I had lifted him up and he was struggling to stay on his toes, and I released him. He turned his face up to mine and it pained me to see that he was trying hard not to cry. I rubbed my hand over the top of his head.

“Hey, it's going to be all right,” I said, and he nodded, pushing the backs of his fists against his eyes.

“Mrs. Wilder, I'm Marshall Black, the camp director.”

I hadn't even noticed the man waiting behind Carson until he stuck his hand out and introduced himself. He had Carson's bags and clarinet case ready and helped us load them before he said good-bye to Carson.

“I'm sorry to see you go, Carson.”

Carson hung his head.

“No more fireworks, right?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

“Okay then, hop in, buckle up.” He closed the car door for Carson and then came around to the driver's side. “Mrs. Wilder, I'm sorry about all this. I had hoped to speak with you during the parents' weekend. I feel you should know that Dan Hailey sent me an e-mail regarding Carson a few weeks ago.”

“He did? That's interesting. He failed to mention it to me,” I said, taking a deep breath. I knew I should have taken Carson to Big Dune. I railed at myself inside. And Dan Hailey was going to be sorry he hadn't listened to me.

“Yes, and then a week ago he e-mailed me again and told me about your meeting. I can assure you, he was very respectful of your wishes. And I have been also. I've kept Carson and his instructors focused on his playing, but it hasn't been easy. He can't help himself—I've had two instructors approach me with pieces he's written. He's very gifted, Mrs. Wilder.”

“Where are they?” I asked.

“The pieces? I made sure they were returned to Carson. They should be with his other music. I would like to give you my e-mail address, and perhaps when you've had a chance to consider Carson's options—”

“Carson's options are none of your concern.” I ignored the business card he held out. He nodded, but kept the card stretched toward me.

“I do understand,” he said, his voice patient and formal. “I was in a similar situation myself as a child. Perhaps you might do a bit of research; there is plenty of information about me online. Part of the reason I run this camp is not to find children like Carson, but to make sure that when I do find them, they're protected. I'll be happy to send you copies of the e-mail exchange I had with Dan so that you're comfortable that no boundaries have been crossed. Please, take the card.”

I tucked it in my pocket without looking at it. “I'll give it some thought,” I said, though I had no intention of ever getting in touch with him. I climbed into the Escalade without another word and he held the door for me, tilting his head around me to smile at Carson.

“Take it easy, Carson. Be good on the ride home,” he said.

“'Bye,” Carson said, waving as I pulled the door out of Marshall Black's hand and thumped it closed.

As we drove away Carson looked out the window, following a formation of drummers on one of the fields and waving to a group of horn players setting up on a small outdoor stage. They didn't see him and he finally let his hand drop.

“You liked this place, didn't you?” I asked.

“Yeah, it was really cool,” he said, slumping in his seat. “Maybe I could come next summer? I'd be really good. I'm really sorry, Mom.”

I looked over at him, so small in the Escalade, and wondered how he would feel next summer. He was in for a difficult year. I could keep him sheltered from the adults who wanted to use him, but I couldn't protect him from the fallout of his own parents divorcing. “I know, buddy,” I said. “I think you've been punished enough. But you have to remember that you can't just go along with your friends if they're doing something dangerous. People could have been hurt, even killed. Do you understand how serious this was?”

He nodded, his eyes wide. “Did you tell Dad?”

“I did,” I said carefully, taking a deep breath as we turned onto the interstate. “Sweetie, we need to talk about your dad. Things are going to be a little different when we get home.”

“How?” he asked.

“Well, your daddy and I haven't been very happy with each other—” I began, and then stopped. I couldn't believe I was saying these things. I wanted to know when each step was going to stop being so painful. It wasn't something my lawyer could answer for me.

“Mommy?” Carson asked, his voice wavering.

“Oh, honey,” I said, my voice shaking too. Gib's anger had been better than this.

“We're getting divorced?” he asked.

“It looks that way, Car,” I said. I pulled into the slow lane so that I could concentrate more fully on Carson, could say all the lame things that parents said when they ripped their children's lives apart, about how it didn't mean that we didn't love him and his brother, about how it wasn't his fault, that sometimes mommies and daddies just couldn't live together anymore.