Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

Sofía nodded. “It is a rare thing, this combination. The gift up here ”-she touched her own temple-“and the gift here .” she extended her hands palms up, the fingers playing silent arpeggios in the air. “And I see…” Once more she hesitated, searching for just the right words in English. “I see a kind of concentration, a kind of ambition with no concern for time, that is most unusual in a mere child.” She shrugged expressively. “But he is no mere child. Do you agree?”

Estelle laughed quietly. “He has no sense of the time of day, that’s for sure. If he wasn’t interrupted, I don’t know how long he would sit at the piano.”

“Just so. And every moment he spends there, it is as if another door opens for him. I hope you see that. The challenge is that he must work with someone who recognizes those doorways, those opportunities, and directs Francisco on this path he has discovered.”

“He’s only six,” Estelle said again, and surprised herself with the defensive edge in her voice.

“ Only six,” Sofía replied. “You keep saying that. To him, it is an eternity since his fifth birthday. He does more in a single hour than the average child who is forced to plod through piano lessons does in a year. Let me tell you what we did this evening.” She leaned forward with relish, both hands clasped tightly, pressed between table and bosom. “I played for him a small piece, a trifle, by Debussy. Maybe you know it.” She hummed a lilting series of notes. “It is his ‘Reverie,’ and everyone who takes lessons on the piano plays it sooner or later. I had played no more than ten measures when Francisco dissolved in giggles…pure six-year-old, you know. He leans against my arm and says, ‘He has his feet in the water.’ And he swings his legs back and forth under the bench, like so.” Sofía paddled her hands.

“His feet in the water?”

“That’s what happens, you see,” Sofía said. “When Francisco hears music, it instantly paints a picture in his little head. And then he uses the piano to extend that picture, to paint the whole image…the whole gallery, if you like. That”-Sofía leaned back in satisfaction-“ that is his genius. And for him, I see no limitations.”

Estelle sat silently for a long time. “My husband needs to invent a potion to keep hijo six years old forever.”

“Ah, that would be a tragedy for Francisco,” Sofía said, unamused. “He must grow into himself, and we must help him do that.”

“What are you suggesting?” Estelle asked, feeling as if she’d drunk a bag of cement rather than a quarter-cup of tea.

“There is so much to discuss, querida , but Mrs. Gracie and I agreed, and maybe we are out of place. But I must say it. Posadas is a wonderful little village, and you and Doctor Francis have done wonderful things here…commendable things. But it is not the place for Francisco. Not now.”

“Did you two solve all the world’s problems?” Even though her husband’s voice was no more than a breathy whisper, it startled Estelle. So lost was she in her own thoughts that she had never felt him shift his position in bed, never sensed his waking. Her eyes ached from staring into the dark void overhead, the inky depths broken only by the single red eye of the smoke alarm on the opposite bedroom wall.

“Not even close,” she murmured. She and Sofía had talked for another hour, and afterward, when she’d made her way into bed, she had fallen instantly asleep…for an hour. She turned now and squinted at the clock on the dresser. In another few minutes, the boys would be awake, excited about whatever might await them out under the Christmas tree.

Francis shifted and Estelle could feel his breath on her neck. “I don’t think we’re big-city people,” he whispered.

“She talked to you, too?”

“‘Cornered’ might be more accurate,” Francis said. “She’s worried.”

“Y yo también,” Estelle said, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe nothing is the appropriate thing right now,” her husband whispered.

She twisted onto her side so that she faced him, then reached up and found the side of his face, stroking the silky beard that he now kept clipped short, just enough to soften his square jaw line. “Is that the right thing, oso? ”

A long moment of silence followed, but she knew that Francis had heard the question. She felt his touch, light and delicate, as his wrist crossed hers. With a single finger, he traced the outline of her lips.

“The right thing is for them to grow up healthy and happy,” he said finally. “Anything else is gravy.”

Estelle drew in a long, deep breath that trembled when she exhaled. “When she talked about Veracruz, it made me remember Andy Browers. That’s not fair, but that’s what it made me think of. I didn’t tell Sofía that, of course.”

Her husband’s finger hesitated, then moved from her lips and tapped the end of her nose, his only comment.

“I know,” she replied to the unspoken comment. “I know it’s not the same.” She knew that there was no logic to the emotions that tied her stomach in knots. Andy Browers had been an opportunistic punk who three years before had tried to kidnap two area children-his own stepchild and little Francisco Guzman, then three years old-with the notion of selling the children in Mexico. The memory of those moments had lost some sharpness around the edges, but they still haunted her.

“I couldn’t send Francisco away, even if it was to live with Sofía,” Estelle said. Her husband didn’t respond. “Could you do that?”

He tapped the end of her nose again, and then she felt his heavy arm settle around her shoulders, drawing her closer. “Nope,” he said. “And all we can do is hope that it’s that simple, querida .”

“Tell me why it isn’t that simple,” she said.

“Because,” Francis said, as if that was that.

“Oh, sí .” She managed to grip a few beard hairs and twisted, wagging them from side to side.

“Because Sofía would argue that a genius belongs to the world,” he said, and the words came out with such finality, such measured conviction, that it startled Estelle. When she had assumed that he was sound asleep, perhaps in truth he had been staring at the ceiling, too, wrestling with his own thoughts.

“Do you believe that, too?”

“In a way, sure. That’s just the way it works. I think that’s what Sofía is trying to say.”

“What’s that mean?” she whispered, knowing perfectly well what it meant.

Francis drew in a deep breath. “It means that we’re responsible for helping him find his way,” he said. “Whatever that takes.”

“You think this is his way, then?”

“I don’t know, querida . I’m not exactly practiced in this.”

“ Ni yo . But he’s only six, oso . Tomorrow he might decide that he’s going to collect toys out of cereal boxes. The world’s largest collection.”

“Don’t we wish life was that simple,” Francis whispered. “But I don’t think that’s going to happen. He’s been consumed with that piano since the moment the store delivered it. Anybody can see that. And before that, he sneaked off and practiced on the piano at school. I don’t think this is a passing fancy.”

“I don’t think so either.”

“All I know is what Sofía says,” Francis said. “And what I see and hear myself…not that I’m much of a judge. My musical ability is limited to playing about four chords. I think Francisco inherited it all from you.”

“Ay,” Estelle said. “Two musical duds, and look what we produce.”