Esi Edugyan - The Second Life of Samuel Tyne

Ray scoffed. “Anywhere but here. Whenever I see him, he goes on and on about how he hates Alberta — makes me wish he would just move. But he was one of Aster’s founders, which, I guess, would make him from Oklahoma, I think. Oklahoma, by way of the South.” Ray smiled. “A little history for you.”

Oliver Orange sprawled on his back. Samuel inched away from him, pensive again.

“Sam, I’ve been thinking. I brought this cat with us for a reason, and I didn’t know what that was till now.” He patted the cat’s stomach. “Why don’t you take Oliver Orange home for your girls? They’d like him.”

Samuel protested. “He’s filthy.”

Ray laughed. “Both man and beast were made for cleaning. He’s all right. He’s not sick and he’s calm as a log most of the time. A cat’s an acceptable family pet. It’s clean, well behaved, it’s even said to be good for your health. They’re kept as pets be—”

“We have cats back home,” Samuel said.

“No doubt you do.” The familiar roads they approached were abbreviated by oily puddles, and as the truck cut through, water rose in great waves against the window. “Eudora said your girls aren’t very social — maybe they’re just in need of a friend. Just wash Oliver Orange up and he’s what I’d call a family pet. But, whatever, I’ve learned my lesson not to force anything on you. It’s just a gift.” He lit a cigarette, contemplating his face in the rear-view mirror. “Do me one thing, though. When you see Porter, and you will, you tell him I’m looking for him. And I respect his privacy, I do, but I might get it in mind to make a visit one of these days. Tell him, will you?”

Samuel nodded. The uncertain roads made him nervous, but the instinct to giggle had left him. He considered Porter’s absence, his business with the will, this blatant mischief over property lines, and felt almost remorseful, for he knew this era, when Porter was simply another ghost in a dim list, was coming to a close.

“What sort of man is he?” said Samuel.

Ray slowed the car to idle in front of Samuel’s house. “He’s older than water, but he’s really very clever.” He both frowned and smiled at Samuel. “Now, listen, will you take this cat? I know those twins will love it.” And in the cab, filled with a darkness that tricked the eye, Samuel and Ray argued over the fate of a worm-bowelled cat. Ray made several cases for the cat as a New World family pet, and Samuel began to suspect that perhaps Ray thought he’d eaten them back in Gold Coast. It was a heated debate, one undercut by a lot of forced laughter, and twenty minutes later Samuel found himself alone on his property, clutching the sleazy cat in his arms. Perhaps Ray had been right in some sense, that the twins and Ama would love a cat of their own.

Samuel walked through the low foliage, below the trees that veiled his yard, in the direction of the porch light. He could feel Oliver Orange’s eyes on him all the time, and in a strand of light, he watched them blaze from the bloody face. For such a look the world had no answers. Samuel stalled. He remembered his earlier move to impress his girls, the rebuke in Maud’s eyes over those depraved-looking dolls. And now he’d brought home a vulgar cat too old, even, to be trained to do his business in the appropriate bins. Samuel stooped and flung Oliver Orange into the bushes. At first the decrepit cat sat there, its eyes like crags of amber. But Samuel began to kick at it, to hiss it away, and slowly it obeyed. Arthritic and irritated, it walked to the farthest part of the yard and vanished into the foliage. Samuel wiped his hands on his pantlegs and entered the sleeping house.

Maud and Eudora drank iced tea in the Tyne kitchen. The heat seemed to suspend time, the hours endless. When Eudora spoke, Maud found herself staring at the sweat on her hairline. The ceiling fan failed to cool the room.

“God, this heat,” Eudora said, touching a napkin to the hollows behind her ears. She looked flushed, but the blush was oddly contained to her face and hands, throwing her pale arms and neck into greater relief. “I envy you,” she said.

Maud shifted to avoid sticking to her seat. “Why?”

“Being used to this heat. Days like this paralyze me.”

“Honey, no one functions in this kind of heat. Even people in hot countries.”

Eudora said nothing.

“Can you believe that fire?” said Maud. “I pray they catch those jokers before someone gets hurt. What a time to move to Aster. Oh, and I’m so glad you saved me from that Chodzicki woman — who knows what would have come of it?” As if remembering Chloe’s unsettling piano playing, which she still hadn’t mentioned to Samuel, Maud fell quiet.

“Chloe certainly has a gift for the ivories,” said Eudora, evidently sensing Maud’s thoughts. “Did you and Sam teach her, or was that all instinct?”

“Chloe took lessons for years in Calgary.” Maud’s face became impassive. Fixing cold eyes on Eudora, she sipped her tea. “You know, the Porters cut our lawn last week. Just like that, without asking.”

Eudora snorted. “Well, at least you know you got the professional touch. The old fool gets a new John Deere and field after field goes down. I’m surprised your house is still standing.”

Maud tapped a listless finger on the oak table. “He never came, he never called, and when Samuel went over there, he didn’t answer the door. You know, they have not even come to complain about the weathervane.”

“What kind of world do we live in that we want criticism? Porter’s a bit of a crab, so even when he’s home he’s not home. And she—”

“Oh, she,” said Maud, rolling her eyes.

“—she’s a hermit in her own right.” Eudora frowned, her white eyebrows pronounced against her red skin. “What’s it said about Mohammed and the mountain? Let’s go.”

Maud balked. “Without invitation?”

“What a memory you have. How do you suppose we met?”

Dragging themselves from their chairs, Maud and Eudora approached Porter’s house from the backyard. Trying to find it from the front had proved useless — it was so overgrown with foliage that it would have been difficult to convince an outsider the house actually existed. The backyard, though, seemed cleared for this purpose. The house was run-down, its weathered paint like some gruesome, human rash. One could almost hear the decay: the roof’s mismatched shingles clicking in the wind, its joints creaking, a phantom sound of glass shattering. An old laundry pipe broke grey wind. Only the stuttering windowpanes betrayed its inner activity. Both women hesitated on the steps, which were so logged with mildew Maud feared their collapse, especially under Eudora’s weight. The whole porch shook.

Eudora knocked on the weathered door. A sudden movement, followed by an implausibly drawn-out pause, made the presence of people obvious to all. Maud and Eudora were willing to be fooled — what kind of people, after all, would take their privacy to such perverse extremes? — but then someone inside dropped a heavy object and ended the game.

Maud glanced uneasily at Eudora, who, seeing Maud’s discomfort, set her lips. The door shuddered off a film of dust as it opened.

A sway-backed child stood before them, no more than seven years old. He wore a pair of cut-off shorts, and through his threadbare T-shirt they could see his skin. His face had a pained, almost claustrophobic look, like a chronic worrier’s, so baffled that his lips moved without sound.

Eudora narrowed her eyes at him. “Get on your best behaviour and go call your mother.”

A woman appeared behind the boy, the woman Maud had seen at town hall, though it was difficult now to recognize her. With her hair in loose tufts, with her skeptical expression, she seemed entirely childlike, and not at all pretty. Gold amulets adorned her neck, and she wore the impoverished clothes of Maud’s early years. But she wore them with crisp dignity. Two tribal incisions stood out on each cheek. She flinched with recognition when she saw Maud.