Tim Wynne-Jones - The Uninvited

“Yes,” she said timidly, for her father did sound like a father now, and she was unaccustomed to it.

He sipped from his drink again. “Are you all right up there?” he asked. “You and Jackson hitting it off?”

Was this his way of getting back at her for sniping at him? No. Her father just didn’t get such things. “We are,” she said. “He’s really nice. I like knowing him.” It was no use saying more. Not at this time of night.

“Well, good.”

This might have been the place that a real father would have chided her about not getting in contact, not even letting him know she had arrived safely. But Marc wouldn’t do that. She was a tiny bit glad; she didn’t need chiding right now, considering everything else that was going on.

“You still there, Mimi?”

“I was thinking,” she said. Could she tell him what was going on? No. She was too strung out, too tired. “I’m okay,” she said.

“When you didn’t call, I guessed you must be.”

She swallowed. She had been too angry with him to call-to even let him know she had arrived. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I was here.”

“Lou called. I suppose she told you. And your mother had the courtesy to e-mail me with an update. I wasn’t worried.”

And she knew that much was true. Her father hadn’t developed the parental skill of worrying about his children. He’d missed all of that. Wasn’t it, strangely, part of her attraction to him? Or it had been when she first started to visit him. Now she wasn’t sure.

“So, it has been good for you?” he asked, to fill the silence of all that she was not saying.

“It’s been… educational,” she said. “And thanks for what you did.”

“Hmmm,” he said. As if thanks from an offspring was new to him and he was uncertain what to think of it. He drank something. She heard ice cubes, so it was Scotch. She imagined him in his studio. Alone? Yes, she suspected he was, somehow, or he wouldn’t have talked to her for so long. And she suddenly realized that Marc would probably end up alone, which was sad, even if it was as much as he deserved.

“I imagine we’ll both be hearing from the professor,” he said.

“What if this backfires? Aren’t you afraid he’ll kick your ass?”

Her father laughed. “If he’s smart, he’ll thank me. But I’m not holding out for it.”

Mimi yawned, tried to stifle it, but her father heard.

“Get some sleep,” he said. “Call me sometime.”

“I will,” she said. “Thank you, Daddy.”

There was a pause, a low chuckle, then he hung up. No “Love you, sweetie.” As if. But she was glad she had called him Daddy.

And Mimi walked back to her bed on the floor over the trapdoor and fell into something like sleep. Though at some point in the night she dreamed of earthquakes, a low rumbling coming from deep beneath the quiet, little moon-drenched house.

Thursday morning Mimi sat at her desk staring at the phone numbers of people her father had known before he was even her father. When he was Jay’s father. No, that wasn’t right, either. He had left before Jay was born. How many of these people laced together by elaborate doodles had known of Marc Soto’s departure? It was sudden, she guessed. Had he packed, left a note, sent flowers?

Through the window she watched Jay glide into view, the yellow of his kayak almost blinding in the green veil. She saw him lie back flat as he disappeared through the arch of the bridge and then reappear on her side. Peekaboo. She smiled. Seeing him was a tonic. And there was a lot to talk about, although she had already given him a blow-by-blow description of Wednesday Night Fever. He had phoned from Montreal, of all places. One thing had led to another, and he and Iris had ended up driving down to see a new band, the Bell Orchestre. A rock band with French horns. Fabulous. Brilliant. They had stayed over at a friend’s apartment.

“Everything okay where you are?” he had asked.

“Funny you should ask,” Mimi had said. He had been worried, but she assured him she was okay and not to hurry back on her account.

But he was here now, and she would have him all to herself for a bit. There was still this strange pleasure of a boy you got to have all to yourself sometimes without any fuss or muss. It was confusing, when your heart wasn’t quite sure where it wanted to be. Sometimes when she was alone with him, her heart was in her throat. She had the feeling he felt the same way about her. She was glad that Iris was in his life. And hers, too, for that matter.

And, as it turned out, it was Iris she was going to get to hang with that day, if only for an hour or so. It was clear pretty well from the moment Jay arrived that his mind was elsewhere. He was excited about writing something. And, reluctantly, she was glad. He had become so quiet lately, as if, apart from the guitars, the robber had taken his voice. But he was bubbling over today. He did ask whether Lazar had phoned back yet.

“No.”

“Weird.”

She agreed. “Maybe he threw himself in the ocean. No, he’d never do anything that convenient.”

She expected-wanted-Jay’s righteous indignation to flare up again and make her feel less guilty about Lazar’s fateful journey to the east coast. But he was itching to get to work, to start something new-a new composition.

“That is so good.”

He nodded, a little nervously. “The Bell Orchestre really inspired me,” he said.

“But?”

“What do you mean, ‘but’?”

“Well, you look as if you’ve got a big but just waiting to pop out of you.”

He smiled. “I’m nervous,” he said. “I’m always like this when I start something. Like I won’t remember how.”

“Oh, that kind of nervous,” she said.

“The first thing I’m going to do is erase Simple. ”

“Really? Isn’t that a bit excessive?”

He shook his head vehemently. His jaw was clenched. “Got to. Got to move on.”

And he wanted the place to himself. Apparently, Iris was free for lunch, at twelve, if she was interested. The invitation was pretty transparent. But Mimi wasn’t put out. He had been so glum lately; it was good to see him excited again.

She showered and put on a flippy skirt and a loose cotton lavender-colored top and headed into town. She was supposed to meet Iris at a place called the Hungry Planet and went looking for it early, figuring she’d check her e-mail at the coffee shop first. But as she approached the place, a figure appeared before her, stepping out of a grotty-looking Ford and gathering some things from the backseat before slamming the door.

“Hey there, stranger,” she said.

Cramer turned to see her and got this flustered look on his face. “Hi,” he said, recovering somewhat. He wiped his head as if to push the hair out of his eyes had there been any hair. His other arm was full of electronic doodads, which he cradled against his chest.

“Heading to work?”

He nodded. “Any trouble with the computer?” he asked, bobbing his head at the case swinging from her shoulder.

“Have you ever heard of this theater game where you can only talk in questions?”

“Pardon?”

She laughed. “Forget it. Hey, do you have time for a coffee?” It was clearly the right thing to say. Mimi experienced the rare delight of watching his whole face seem to open up before her very eyes.

“I would really like that,” he said.

“Cool.”

“I’ll just put this stuff back in the car?”

“Or you can bring it along,” she said. She tugged at a cable hanging from one of the doodads. “You know, in case we can’t think of anything to talk about.”

He grinned. “We’d have to be pretty bored,” he said. And she laughed, which made his smile widen even more. His teeth weren’t great, but you can’t have everything.