Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

“There,” she said. “And nothing else?”

“No, thanks, tía . This is fine.” It was nice to be waited upon.

Sofía settled in the chair beside Estelle, folding her arms comfortably on the table. Estelle stirred the tea gently, waiting. The older woman’s lips had been pursed in concentration, but now her face relaxed. She took a deep breath, her patrician eyebrows rising with the inhalation.

“I should just go to bed,” she said. “Such a day.”

Estelle smiled and adjusted the mug carefully on the table, lining it up with the pattern of the placemat. “But that’s not what you want to do,” she said.

Sofía reached out and patted the back of Estelle’s left hand. “You’re most perceptive,” she said, and then leaned closer, her voice no more than a whisper. “Listen, querida , I tell myself that this is none of my business, but…”

She stopped, and Estelle took Sofía’s hand in both of her own for a quick squeeze, touched at the woman’s uncharacteristic reticence. Her aunt looked somehow older, more fragile. The skin of her hand felt paper thin, and Estelle felt a jolt at the realization that this amazing woman was actually aging . A quiet force who had simply always been , now for the first time that Estelle could remember Sofía Tournál appeared hesitant and unsure.

“We must talk about Francisco,” Sofía said abruptly.

Estelle’s heart jolted and she couldn’t keep the surprise out of her expression. She instinctively knew that Sofía was not referring to Dr. Francis-any concern she might have about her nephew and his clinic she handled mano a mano with “the good doctor.” That left little Francisco, and clearly, this was not a “boys must have a dog,” “baseball through the window,” or “chocolate smeared on the carpet” moment. Such things, Sofía would shrug off with an expressive roll of her green eyes. Few of life’s vicissitudes appeared to dent the gracious attorney’s serenity.

Giving herself time to think, Estelle turned the tea strainer around the cup, then lifted it out, holding it for a moment to catch the drips. She placed it carefully on the napkin. Sofía said nothing else, but waited as if it might be important that Estelle hold on to the table with both hands.

“It’s important for me to know what you think,” Estelle said.

Sofía’s face softened and it seemed as if some of the tension left her.

“That’s good,” she said, “because I have to speak my mind even if you should hate me for it.”

Estelle smiled at her aunt’s formality. “I think you know me better than that,” she said. “You’re talking about hijo ’s music?”

“Ah,” Sofía said, nodding. “Yes. That’s what we need to discuss, you and I. Your mother sat up with me until the good doctor came home. She and I talked this over.” She flashed a smile. “And listen to me now. This is what I mean. Two old ladies discussing what the boy’s mother and father should do. It’s none of our business, no?”

“You have an interest,” Estelle replied. “And you’re concerned. So am I.”

Sofía heaved an enormous sigh. “Tell me,” she started to say, then hesitated. “Tell me what you think about this little boy of yours.”

“He worries me,” Estelle replied. She pushed the mug of tea to one side. “It keeps me awake at night. Here he is, six years old, so drawn to the piano, so sucked into his own private world,” and Estelle collapsed an imaginary ball with both hands until her fists were clenched one over the other, “that I know exactly where he’s going to be when I come home.”

She nodded toward the living room. “Even Carlos…I see changes in him. He’s always been enchanted with books and stories-you’ve seen that. And now, with his older brother composing these…these soundtracks to go with them, it’s as if Carlos has become a permanent fixture on the end of the piano bench.” She paused, surprised at the gush of words she’d released. “All of that is wonderful, but I don’t know where it’s going, and I don’t know what to do about it, if anything.” She raised an eyebrow at her aunt. “So you see, querida , what you think is important to me.”

“Ah,” Sofía said, and she drew it out thoughtfully. “Let me just say it, then. I talked to Francisco’s piano teacher today.” She folded her hands, as if passively waiting for an explosion. “We spoke on the phone earlier, and she invited me to stop by. I did so, early this afternoon.”

“Mrs. Gracie is an interesting lady,” Estelle said.

“Yes, she is,” Sofía said slowly. “I was surprised when she agreed with me.”

“Agreed? About what?”

“Francisco is a prodigious talent, you know.”

“Yes.”

“But listen. I don’t mean simply gifted. He is so much more than that. The problem arises…,” and she paused. “The problem arises because in just a short time, there will be nothing for him here.”

“Nothing for him here? What does that mean?”

“Mrs. Gracie agrees that within the year, perhaps two at most, Francisco will grow beyond anything that she might be able to do for him. Maybe even sooner than that.”

“She’s such a wonderful musician,” Estelle said.

“Sofía tilted her head in agreement. “Yes, she is, querida . She plays beautifully. And you know,” and Estelle’s aunt leaned forward, a twinkle in her eyes that Estelle saw was tinged with something akin to regret, “so do I, when this arthritis allows it.” She thumped swollen knuckles gently on the tabletop. “But we are not Francisco.”

“That’s hard to believe, tía .”

“You must believe it, querida. ”

“Perhaps she can recommend someone else, then,” Estelle said.

“Oh, perhaps she can, perhaps she can. And so can I. But the truth we must face is a simple one: Posadas, dear little village that it is, is not the sort of place that will-” she paused, searching for the right words “-that will nurture the musical world of this remarkable little boy. His mind is so filled with it, you see. He thinks in musical terms, Estelle.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Music to Francisco is simply a private language that he speaks far more fluently than English, or Spanish, or whatever you choose.”

She spread her hands in front of her and waggled her fingers. “With all of that, he is also blessed with the magical coordination that allows him to speak this language of his.”

Estelle sat back, the tea forgotten.

“This is a serious question,” Sofía said. “And I will put it in the simplest terms. You have a son with an extraordinary gift…. It is beyond anything I have ever seen-and I have seen many gifted young musicians come and go.”

“He’s only six, tía .”

“I don’t care if he’s but three ,” Sofía said with surprising vehemence. “What faces you now is deciding how that gift should be bestowed on the world.”

She leaned forward again, again placing a hand on Estelle’s. “The twelve years between this moment and when we start thinking of him as a young man…those are vital to his growth as a creative genius. I’m sure you know that.”

The twelve years , Estelle thought, and found herself unable to imagine little Francisco as an eighteen-year-old. Worse yet, various faces of eighteen-year-olds that she’d had contact with through work paraded unbidden through her mind, like Macbeth’s ghosts.

“He is so…so dócil at this point, don’t you think?” Sofía asked.

“I know that he seems consumed ,” Estelle said carefully. “It’s as if the piano is a window for him, somehow.”