Unforgotten (14 page)

He pressed up from the couch and saw Rico soundlessly beating bongos to whatever he had on his headset. Lance checked his watch. Earlier than he’d thought, but still the first time in history he’d outslept his friend. Of course he’d tossed and worried most of the night. Should have had Sofie give him a relaxation technique.

He glanced toward the bedroom, wondering if Rese had slept. She’d been in no mood for aid or assistance last night, couldn’t wait to close the door between them. And who could blame her? He was a walking hazard. How to derail your life in one fell swoop.

Rico set one of the earphones behind his ear but didn’t pause his hands. “Want to add lyrics?”

Lance stretched and sat up, kicking the blanket free. He cleared his throat. “I’d have to hear it. See what comes.”

Rico pulled off the headset and walked it over. “You comfortable there?”

Lance looked down at the couch. “Never buy a couch without sleeping on it.” He put the earphones on, sat back, and let the sounds of steel drum, Star’s ethereal voice, and occasional bongo rhythm sink in. It was lovelier than he’d expected, with an energy and depth of tone that he hadn’t anticipated.

He let his mind wrap around the tones and rhythm, looking for rhyme and verse. But all that came were single words.
Sustenance.
Beckoning. Winsome. Lachrymose. Bereft. Mercurial. Possibility
. He spoke them as they came to mind, eyes closed, ears covered. Nothing that really went together. No specific emotion or thought he could attach, just a simple flow of yearning and hope. Was he hearing Star’s spirit? Or his own?

He opened his eyes to Rico’s face.

“Man, you gotta do it.”

Lance removed the headset. “Do what?”

“That. Stream of conscience, or whatever it was.”

Lance shook his head. “It’ll be different for everyone, Rico. Why should I tell them what to get out of it? Their own consciousness needs to speak.”

For once Rico didn’t argue immediately, even if it would mean having his participation in their project.

Lance handed back the headset. “It’s got power as it is. I think you’re onto something. Has Saul heard it?”

He shook his head. “That’s the first cut. I wanted your impression.” “My impression is go for it.” Rico would know he didn’t say that lightly. He’d been their biggest critic growing up and even more so when they got serious. If he thought it was bad, he’d say so.

Rico frowned. “Don’t you miss it?”

Lance dropped his gaze to his lap. Music had been a big part of their friendship, their lives. “I miss it.”

“But you’re not coming back.”

A slow shake of his head. “I might do something at the inn if Rese still wants it.” If they ever got back there. If Nonna … when Nonna was better.

Rico set the bongos aside. “You could go solo, man.”

“It’s not that.” Their harmonies and the energy they built between them was the best part of it all. “It was great working with you. I’m just not there anymore.” He wasn’t going to preach on the evils of the lifestyle. The truth was, he could do music with Rico
and
clean up his act. As Chaz had said, it was a choice to give in to the temptations or not.

“Maybe you’re right, man.” Rico shrugged. “Star says a cosmic convergence brought us together to make this sound. I mean, she never even sang before.”

Lance didn’t know about cosmic convergence, but Star had made a complete turnaround. “Do you know what she did before?”

Rico shrugged. “Renaissance Festivals. Shakespeare stuff. She’s got all these lines in her head.”

“I’ve heard. But what about her art?”

Rico frowned. “What art?”

“Painting.” Lance pictured the canvas, now hanging in the carriage house, that Star had worked on obsessively and presented to him. He hadn’t exaggerated his reaction to her technique when he called it mind-grabbing. “Seemed she was on the brink of something big before Maury messed things up. Messed her up.”

Rico looked toward the bedroom door. “She doesn’t talk about that. This is what she wants.” He turned back. “What?”

Lance shook his head.

“What?” Rico demanded.

“It seems she’s drawing her identity from you now. The way she took it artistically from Maury.” And tried to from him, sucking his praise like nectar and then, when that didn’t pan out, transferred to Rico. Instantaneously.

Rico started to argue.

Lance spread his hands. “I’m not trying to cause trouble.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“It’s all playing roles with Star, becoming someone else. She’s like a phoenix rising up from the ashes to remake herself over and over, but with someone else’s passion.”

Rico stood up and paced. “I didn’t make her sing. She took the mic from you.”

That jam session in the attic had surprised them all—Star’s great, throaty voice, her stage presence. But he wasn’t relinquishing his point. Music was Rico’s life, as intrinsic to him as breath. Star had attached to that with parasitic force. “It’s a big responsibility, Rico. I just hope you’re up for it.”

Rico’s face darkened. “You know the trouble with you? You think too much.”

Lance laughed. “Could you record that for Rese? She’s fairly convinced I lack that capacity.” The shot at himself defused Rico’s defensiveness.

“You’ve got your hands full too, ’mano.”

“I do.” It was different though. Rese didn’t question who she was; her uncertainty was for him. He stood up and stretched, then crept to the bathroom to wash and dress.

When he emerged, Rico was still the only one awake, sitting on the couch with the headset on, eyes closed. Hands immobile for once, he softly repeated, “Possibility. Responsibility.”

Lance left him there. He would slip out to church, then have a quick check on Nonna. He was going to have to face her sometime; he just didn’t want to risk upsetting her. But he stepped out to a hornets’ nest of aunts and sisters outside Nonna’s door. They all turned on him. Even though it was first thing in the morning, he said, “What did I do?”

“Nonna wants you,” Monica told him.

Probably to rail him up one side and down the other.

“She won’t let anyone else in. Pitches a fit if we step one foot inside the door.”

Dina added, “She’s beside herself. She’s gonna have another stroke.”

His heart clutched.

“Call the doctor,” Celestina ordered.

“Wait.” Lance pushed through to the door.

Momma scowled. “What’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing. It’s over.” He pulled open the door and went inside where Nonna looked like a tempest in bed sheets. “Nonna, what’s wrong?”

The second he was close enough, she gripped his arm with her functional hand. The other was curled up against her chest, and the noise that came from her mouth was half moan, half snarl. He could feel her shaking.

He stroked the rippling silver hair back from her face, soothed the distorted features with his fingertips. “I’m sorry I upset you, Nonna, but it’s over now. No more.”

She let out a shriek, and he jumped in spite of himself. “What?” Her gesticulations were dangerous. “They’re going to call the doctor if you don’t calm down.” And he would order her into the hospital. Nonna had to know that.

Her grip softened. She blinked her understanding, one eyelid more effective than the other. She was far more cognizant than the last time. She might not be able to form words yet, but she was understanding. He squeezed her hand. “You know I’ll do whatever you want. But you have to be calm. Can you do that?”

She used a word as clear as day, a word that would have gotten his ears boxed. But she seemed unaware that she hadn’t simply responded in the affirmative.

“So you want to tell me something?”

She growled out a different word that he was certain had never left her lips before. Either she was cussing him out or communicating in a crazy way her brain had found. Two distinct words; maybe two opposite meanings.

“No?”

She growled it again.

“You want me to get something?” As he had the last time, going through her room for anything that might have meaning to her.

The first word again, clear and precise. Not that he doubted she knew these words, but hearing them from his nonna’s mouth, it was all he could do not to grin. And then she would slap him if it took her dying strength.

Last time it had been Conchessa’s letter that she wanted, so she could send him to Liguria for the information she couldn’t communicate. But she had told him to leave that alone. Nonno was buried; that was all she wanted—except for whatever she wanted now.

“Something in here?” He looked around the room.

She strained toward him, her hand crabbing toward her throat, to the chain holding medals and a cross and, he now saw, a key.

He took hold of the key. “This?”

She used the first word matter-of-factly.
Yes, of course. What do you think?
His relief was tangible. It had taken much longer the last time to learn what she wanted, but now God’s purpose stirred as he unfastened the chain from her neck and slid the key free. It was an unusual shape, long and flat with square notches and the head engraved with National Safe Corp and an identification number. Though he’d never had anything valuable enough to need one, he guessed it opened a safety-deposit box.

“You want something from the bank?”

The
yes
word. Had to be.

He guessed there were rules about getting into a box that wasn’t his own, but he would move heaven and earth to do it. “Okay.” Palming the key, he kissed her withered cheek, breathing the scent of her relief.

She gripped his hand, squeezing the key inside it, then looked to the door where the others crowded and whispered the
no
word. She wanted it kept between them … again.

“Okay,” he whispered back. “But you behave.”

She blinked, and he could swear that was a smile her face tried to make. He didn’t want it to be pain or fury or fear.

“T’amo.”
He kissed her other cheek with reverence.

She closed her eyes.

Now she would rest. Now she would heal.
Please, God
.

————

Banks and bankers. Distrust and fear. Box. Key. Bank. Bankers. Fear.

I don’t believe Papa went to work at the bank to prove Nonno Quillan wrong, but he certainly tries to change his mind. Nonno will not budge. He doesn’t believe in borrowing or lending, though he gives with a free hand. And he doesn’t believe in putting someone else in charge of his money.

Though he once lost his fortune in a flood and again when his freight wagon burned with all the paper money he had hidden above the axle, he has not changed his mind about banks. He’s known too many bankers, he says, and winks at his son. Papa tries again and again to point out the benefits of putting that money to work through investments. As a loan officer in Arthur Jackson’s bank, he offers Nonno all the reasons to borrow and pay back over time.

Besides investing in opportunities, they could improve the house, take out the vines and plant other crops. Nonna Carina’s brothers and their sons have all sold out or lost their property with the wine market disintegrating, and only Nonno’s plot remains. Some of Papa’s plans sound good to me, and I wouldn’t mind new drapes and carpets. Why not earn some interest on the money if the Sonoma bank is as safe as Papa claims? Wouldn’t he know?

The opportunities are now, Papa says, to buy when things are down. His own earnings he carefully invests—except what we need for taxes and expenses. We are much better off than people in the cities. I could hardly look at the men standing in line in San Francisco when Papa had to meet with someone there and took me along. It seemed every face had been weighed down at the chin.

At least Papa has a job, even if Nonno doesn’t respect his profession. Papa doesn’t think much of poetry. They love each other, but they’re so different. I love them both to splitting, but I can’t make them see eye to eye. It’s better when Papa doesn’t push, but when he hears of a great opportunity he tries to persuade Nonno to pitch in his savings. He even quotes the Scripture about the servant who buried his talent in the sand, and that makes me think Nonno has money buried somewhere, but I don’t know where.

Nonno says, “All things in time.” And Papa hollers, “The time is now.” They are too hardheaded. I slip away to the vineyard, thankful Nonno will not tear out the vines. These vines he says are his inheritance, his responsibility. He has explained to me how the root stock proved resistant to the bugs in the soil that were destroying the other varieties, how my great-grandfather Dr. Angelo DiGratia experimented until he found and planted this plot.

I sink down between the rows. I used to imagine they were trees and I was like Alice in Wonderland grown into a giant. Some of the vines are younger, but most are old and produce a potent grape for a rich vintage. I try to imagine corn in their place and fail. Nonno is right about the vines. Is he right about the banks?

Papa says the closings are over, but what I saw in the city makes me wonder. If so many have no work, how can they put money in the bank for the bank to loan out? But Papa insists Arthur Jackson has important depositors. I do not like Arthur Jackson, though I can’t say why. A chill crawls my neck, and I shake my head, dropping it back to let the rosy sunshine warm my skin as it sinks to the west.

Warm, red glow …

Antonia shuddered with the image in her mind of Arthur Jackson’s face aglow with match light. Lurking in the shadows. To watch her papa’s murder? Her own? What if Marco had not found her? If Arthur Jackson had? All this …

She looked over her room, empty for the moment, but not for long. Her family would be back. Her family … She swallowed painfully. She had to face it for them. Lance needed to know. He was still trying to understand. And perhaps God would have the last laugh; for though she had practiced and passed on the faith, she could not quite believe in a just God.

————

Rese woke with Star’s hand across her throat, her shoulder covered with Star’s red spirals that were showing blond at the roots, and experienced d
ja vu. So many nights Star had climbed into her window and squeezed into her bed, shaking and crying,
“I can’t do this life thing.”
And Rese had told her she could go on, they would go on together.