Landscape: Memory (13 page)

Duncan came into the kitchen, clothed and cleaned and wet behind his ears. He pecked Mother on the cheek, got hugged by his dad and bumped me down the counter with a hip. Mother looked at me from under a lowered brow and gestured toward the bath with a flick of her eyes.

"Yes?" I asked to be a pest.

"Yes?" Duncan asked me, unaware of Mother's signals.

"Mother's making faces," I explained. He looked to see, but she huffed and turned her attention to the little boxes Mr.. Taqdir had set there on the tabletop, and I rushed off to wash.

* * *  
 

The boxes had matching sets: a collar, plaid bow tie and lovely gray cap, a soft fuzzy felt snap-brim cap. We modeled them to oohs and ahs and polite clapping. They looked quite smart, that perky tie and sophisticated cap, so we wore them both and dark knickers to boot. Today we'd be motoring, and this would be our motoring costume.

"Can I drive?" Duncan called predictably from the backseat, as we settled in. "I'm very safe."

"And can I drive?" I echoed. "I'm much safer."

"Now pumpkin, you know you don't drive," Mother scolded.

"I do too," I answered, forgetting my vow to secrecy. We rattled a bit there in the carriage as Mr. Taqdir cranked it to life. Mother manipulating the controls to keep its spark burning.

"You do, do you?" she tooted. "With whom?" Duncan hit me on the leg and scowled a reminder.

"No one," I answered cautiously. "I meant I'd like to and that I
would
be much safer, if I
did
drive." Mr. Taqdir climbed into the driver's seat.

"Is it Flora?" Mother persisted. "Has she been letting you drive that horrible motorcar of hers?" I smirked at Duncan and pulled the motoring rug up on our laps.

"No, Mother," I answered truthfully. "I've not been motoring with Flora. You're so untrusting." I huffed a little, trying to be indignant. Mother turned around in her seat and engaged me as best she could with a firm direct stare.

"To be clear with you now, pumpkin.
If
you ever
are
out driving.
If.
I must insist you maintain a safe speed and never, ever drive in darkness. And never on busy roads or near horses. Am I clear?"

"Oh, yes, very clear," I agreed, nodding impatiently.

"Need I speak to Miss Profuso?" she continued.

"No, Mummy," I answered. "I really see no need."

Mother turned back to the front as the rear tires dug into the dirt and we sped away to our breakfast engagement. Duncan and I bounced and bundled in the back, the wind whipping past our smartly shaped caps and fluttering our little bow ties. I felt Duncan's hand come in under the rug and onto my leg, just reaching around on the inside of my thigh, making my stomach rise inside me and a big push in my pants. I smirked and squinted into the wind, doing the same to him. Mother and Mr. Taqdir yelled polite conversation in the front seat as Mother held her hat firmly down, the adulterous couple out motoring with their offspring.

Breakfast was to be had at the Cliff House. We ascended into a thick fog coming out of the park and up the last steep climb to Sutro Heights and the overlook. Nothing could be seen of the famous Seal Rocks. Some assorted grotesque noises came bellowing out from the impenetrable mists. Awful, flatulent honks and long rasping barks, that and the wild splashing of the surf against Land's End, a short plunge down.

I was a bit concerned about my appearance as we all climbed down out of the car and Mr. Taqdir handed the keys over to an attendant who motored away into the fog. But I watched Duncan who, as I'd hoped, had an easy solution, removing his cap and holding it in folded hands neatly below his belt. I did the same, no doubt impressing Mother with my politeness.

Our table looked out into the dense fog. All manner of sea birds swooped close by, calling into the cold morning. Outside the mist was full with ocean brine and gray salty seaweed smell, roaring up with the winds, off the rocks where the waves came pounding in. But where we sat was warm and toasty. A simple little gas flame flickered in its glass chimney, screwed tight to the wall, looking vaguely nautical.

The tables were set with white linen and heavy silver of many shapes and sizes, all fit for some mysterious use. The teacup I understood, and the sugar jar. I offered sugar all around, to be polite, before taking a lump of my own. I sat and sucked happily, careful not to slurp or let slip the dissolving cube out through my sticky lips. A sweet little drip dribbled out my mouth, but I caught it smartly on the cuff of my sleeve, wiping my chin clean on the follow-through.

A lovely murmur of conversation rose from the busy room full of breakfasters. Our table said "Reserved" and that was nice. "Reserved." I imagined it preserved in formaldehyde, like the wrinkled black frogs dangling head down in Miss Gillian's many glass jars. "Preserved," the little cardboard sign would say, the horrible squat table, shriveled and limp, stinking of sharp vinegar, peeling chairs collapsing under us like squishy piles of frog flesh.

"Your mother has many friends here," Mr. Taqdir informed me, speaking more to Mother than to me. "Reservations are given only for the very few."

I looked quickly round the bright, noisy room, noting the smart clothes and patient service. One waiter had been standing set to scoot a chair a good half minute now, waiting with a grave smile for his ancient patron to lower herself carefully down to rest on the stuffed brocade seat. She was slow as an oak tree, but still he stood.

"What's that?" Duncan asked, disgusted, as a plateful of pig's eyes floated past.

"Pig's eyes," I said because it was true.

"Maxwell," Mother sighed, "what sort of nonsense is this?" She drew back and stared at me. "Don't be disgusting."

I didn't understand. Father told me all about pig's eyes. "You never had pig's eyes?" I asked, plainly curious.

"Maxwell," she objected simply. "Enough."

"I don't understand," Duncan put in. Mr. Taqdir was talking to our waiter.

"Do we get whatever we want?" I asked Mother, eager to think of something more appetizing.

"We've ordered ahead, pumpkin. Everything's taken care of today."

"Do we get pig's eyes?" Duncan asked, thinking it was still funny. Mother covered her eyes and shook her head.

"The Cliff House doesn't serve 'pig's eyes,' dearest. The Cliff House serves Brussels sprouts which Maxwell thinks it would be amusing to call 'pig's eyes.' "

"I thought it was
disgusting"
 I objected. "
Father
said those were pig's eyes." Another illusion had been swept aside. Really they didn't look at all like pig's eyes when you knew, but if you didn't there'd be nothing to give you a clue. It all seemed so plausible and horrifying, of course I'd believed him.

"Oh, please," Duncan whimpered, begging Mother. "Please let's do have them. Sprouts are so very good for you." Mr. Taqdir caught this tail end of our little scene and tapped the waiter's sleeve to indicate yes, bring the sprouts for the young man.

The sprouts arrived along with the rest of it, sweaty pink rounds of ham and a white china platter shingled neatly with broiled turkey breast, sliced paper thin and piping hot. There were light brown crumble biscuits shaped like dung which mother called scones. That and many jams and jellies, red jam and purple jam and even some green jelly which turned out to be mint. Duncan was busy carving and arranging, crowding over his plate like a blind seamstress. Mother poured the pitcher of pulpy orange juice, filling my glass to the tip-top.

"The yellow jelly is lemon curd," Mother said brightly. "It's British. You're to have it with your scone," and she showed us how, slicing neatly across the flat of the scone and splitting it open so it looked like one of Father's rocks, but fresh and steaming. And she lathered its face with gobs of yellow curd. I followed her lead, but found my scone was filled with horrible black bugs, steaming black fly flesh speckling its lovely white freshness. I flipped my little muffin closed before anyone could see, not wanting to raise a fuss.

"Soon," Mr. Taqdir announced, raising his juice glass up, "you will be going on to other things." Mother patted my shoulder and smiled. I thought he meant breakfast was ending.

"Where are we going next?" I asked, scoffing my ham as quick as I could before we rushed away.

"Exactly, Max," Mr. Taqdir nodded, bobbing his glass up and down in time with his chin, "exactly. Where will we be going next? I hope you'll both be thinking of this." Duncan remained transfixed by his food, pushing it about his plate and tilting his head this way and that to get a better view.

"I thought everything was planned out," I objected, turning to Mother, who had assured me that indeed it was. A dirty sea gull flew in through a window some wag had opened, scattering a few feathers in panic and skittering in under a table somewhere behind me.

"Whatever do you mean, pumpkin?" Mother seemed puzzled, as though suffering from amnesia or purposefully trying to make me crazy.

A big fat man bursting the buttons of his vest stood and stomped madly about the floor in the vicinity of the gull, yelling out orders to the poor bird. It ducked in under a chair and took flight out the other side of his table. A waiter followed after it holding a tray in one hand and a round glass top in the other.

Duncan looked up smiling, unaware, I believe, of the bird. He carefully pushed his plate to me with his elbow, sneaking it over, unobserved by our distracted companions. Two slimy green sprouts sat on either side of a little round ham of pig's nose, set amidst a carefully rendered lemon pig's face. The ugly leering animal had a big broad potato grin and two little toast ears. A furious beating of wings rushed up from behind and the panicked sea gull sailed across the tabletop to perch safely on a wall sconce.

"Please pay it no attention," an older woman called out in a loud but calming voice. I turned to look and saw she was standing on her chair, her arms up like a conductor's.

"It is a bird," she assured us. "Allow it time and it shall leave of its own accord." Everyone in the room listened in silence. "Thank you," she concluded and stepped down. The waiters continued on their mission despite her wise words. I popped a pig's eye off Duncan's plate and into my mouth, pushing the other into his.

"We were speaking of your graduation, dearies," Mother began again, though I could recall no such conversation. She ruffled her bustle and settled back into her seat. "Your father," and she nodded smartly at Mr. Taqdir, "has asked after your plans. What do you intend for next year?"

Duncan looked at me, chewing on the tough little sprout.

"I intend," he began, musing. "I intend, good things. Good fun, lots of adventure. That sort of thing."

"Let's go to college," I suggested. "We'll be college boys."

"Let's be soldiers," Duncan said. "We can live in a tent and go on marches and maneuvers."

"Let's
not
be soldiers," I answered.

"Of course you're going to college," Mother put in. "There's no question, pumpkin. You mustn't waste your intelligence on anything else. Soldiering, business, any of that." I looked at Duncan. He'd slid the little pig nose onto his stuck-out tongue. It lay there like the blessed wafer, him flopping his tongue about as though to flip it like a pancake.

"Wonderful," I put in. "We're off to college then. Will we need gowns and flat hats, or letter sweaters?" Things still seemed a bit unresolved. "I'll sharpen the pencils," I offered brightly. Duncan washed his pig nose down with a gulp of juice, and wiped his mouth clean on his sleeve.

"Don't we have to apply?" he asked. "What if they don't want us?"

Mother started in but I cut her short.

"We'll go to Berkeley. Anyone from Lowell can go to Berkeley." I didn't want to have this conversation. "We'll plan it all out on Sunday. Don't you think?" I looked around, fishing for agreement. "I'll make calls. We'll explore options."

Everyone kept quiet, pushing at their various foods. "Well, then," I concluded. "It's settled."

I grew distracted by a mix of inexplicable melancholy and nervous wondering. All the things I thought to say became unreasonably complicated in my head and I gave in to sitting silently near Duncan, who was dozing, and just looking out over the open ocean, just looking across the bright rippling water to its edge and feeling how big it is.

I felt a mood coming on. Not a bad mood really. A quiet, deep-thinking sort of mood. Each and every separate thing was coming to seem so simple and perfect, as though the entirety was shifting into its proper place and order. The curve of Duncan's neck, for instance, where he'd curled his sleepy head into his hands, started a feeling in my heart and stomach that was as intensely joyful as it was sad. And it wasn't just that I wanted to touch him. I got the same heady feeling from the shape and weight of the pewter sugar bowl. It was so simple and sturdy and it held sugar. The windows framed the perfect sky, each degree of gray suffusing into the next with a kind of grace that I could feel but not describe. The breaking waves marked the rhythm and I was content to remain silent and breathing.

That river came to mind, the one I'd thought must have gone wrong somewhere and entered into me so that I was its mouth. I felt now as if I'd finally accommodated it, as if the barriers that made for its violence, the bits and pieces in me that had resisted the flow, were now washed away, eroded by the flood, and I was an empty vessel, a surrounding through which the river flowed freely. It felt like that, like I'd given up completely.

Mother, I'm sure, could have explained it all away and I'm happy she didn't get the chance. I had a simple smile for her anytime she turned her attentions my way. That and the satisfied calm that seemed to emanate from my very bones were enough to assure her my relative silence was not a sign of distress. She was, truth be told, so enthralled by her own brilliant plans that she noticed little else. Her perky narrative filled all the empty silences, glossing the day's events with historical information and provocative anecdotes: the train south along the Ocean Shore Pleasure Route; lunch and a swim at Half Moon Bay; a visit to the artichoke fields; Nob Hill; drinks at sunset on the terrace; a long stroll through the Latin Quarter.