Esi Edugyan - The Second Life of Samuel Tyne

The story delighted his family, and each twin ventured a failed description of what the old rancher must have looked like. Samuel laughed harder than he had to, to atone for his behaviour that morning. Maud seemed pleased with his new attention. Things were going so amiably that Samuel left the table in the middle of the meal to avoid seeing it end badly.

In his study, Samuel ruminated over the last of Jacob’s palm wine. He’d kept the bottle in his desk drawer underneath a nest of wires, and when he drank from it, he thought the alcohol tasted of metal. He sank into the cracked chair. To his mind, the man of the last few days, that lecher sick on desire and blunt to all the chaos of life, had vanished. His second adolescence had finally come to an end, and he felt in full the weight of his problems, which, like gracious war brides, had waited for his trauma to be over before throwing themselves upon him again. Samuel, resigned, toasted this last drink to an age that no longer suited him.

There was an apprehensive knock at the door, and he hesitated before calling out an answer. Maud slipped in, clutching the sides of her mauve dress in an anxious way. Her eyes had a quiet determination that put Samuel on guard. He feared a reprisal of their earlier conversation, and felt too tired to be evasive.

She sat on a pile of boxes near the bookshelf, and when she spoke her voice wavered. “How long,” she said, “do you intend to ignore your family?”

Samuel was relieved. Having somewhat come to terms with his behaviour of the last week, he was even eager to talk about it.

“Because I really think that this family is on the edge of some minor collapse.”

Maud was burningly embarrassed, as though annoyed that her sophisticated feelings had been reduced to a cliché. Samuel found her vulnerability endearing, and let her go on.

“I hate this,” she said, biting her lip. “I hate having to talk about them like this, behind their backs, but you haven’t seen those girls, Samuel. With all their letters. I think they’re really hurting for our guidance, like we’ve been neglectful. And I think they’re really suffering for a friend right now — they’ve got each other so tied in knots that it’s not healthy. They need some air.” She frowned. “I really think we should ask Ama back.”

Samuel nearly choked. It was eons since he’d thought of the girl. “How long has she been gone?”

“Two weeks,” said Maud. “How easily men forget what isn’t right in their lap.”

It occurred to Samuel that though Ama might be a good influence on his daughters, his daughters would not be so good for Ama. He didn’t feel confident she would want to return, or even that she should. “They left her in the Athabasca. She might have died.”

“I know, and that’s terrible, Samuel, but they’re children. They’re troubled. And maybe we haven’t been much good as models lately.”

He accepted the slight in silence, brooding. Children, certainly, but unlike any children he’d known. He realized that their acumen and their advanced reading habits made him a more rigorous judge of their actions than he otherwise might have been. Still, he found it hard to reconcile the many accidents that seemed to happen in their presence. “They are children, but they are brighter than some adults.”

Maud nodded. “It’s this idleness and neglect that brings out the worst in them. They need companionship and guidance.”

“They have each other. And they have had you.”

“Maybe that’s not enough.” Maud’s lip trembled. For a time they sat in silence. When Maud spoke again her voice had lost its confidential tone. “Let’s call that Ouillet woman. Let’s get Ama back.”

Samuel frowned. As much as he disliked that grandmother, one did not have the right to take the child from her. “I do not know,” he said.

“If you only knew, Samuel, how much they need her now.” There was real pleading in Maud’s voice; she had set aside all of her pride.

Samuel exhaled. He tapped his fingernail on the glass before him, shifting in his chair.

“All right,” he said finally. “Just let me finish this drink.”

If, as Eudora believed, a house is the direct reflection of its owner, then Mrs. Ouillet was an eccentric but innately beautiful woman. Driving up her narrow gravel road, Samuel could not help but admire the gabled, towering house behind its veil of cedars. Painted a delicate blue, its turret was circled with damp, imported vines. Before it lay a stunning grove: glossy berries overhanging an elaborate trellis, rows of flowering cabbage.

Mrs. Ouillet had sounded curt, if not a little put out, on the telephone when Samuel called. It was all the same to her whether Ama stayed or not, she simply wanted them to choose one. “I can’t take these comings and goings,” she’d said. “At my age, you come to value your peace above all else.”

Samuel helped Ama pack her belongings and carried the bag out to the car as she followed behind him. Though she didn’t speak, Samuel could see she was apprehensive.

“You are certain you want to return?” he said.

“Oh yes,” she said, nodding. “I was getting so tired of being at Grandmère’s. She hates to speak in English and I only know a little French.”

As they drove off, Samuel continued to reassure her. “I understand the twins have written you a mountain of letters. They have missed you so much.”

Ama looked a little disbelieving.

“I must warn you, though,” Samuel continued. “You will find Maud a little altered from when you left. No, no, do not worry, she has only broken her leg. But she is housebound, and what, what is it … cranky.” He winked at her (it was catching, with all the winking in Aster). “So beware.”

Ama gave him a wry smile, which Samuel intuited to mean that Maud seemed born cranky. He laughed and patted Ama on the shoulder.

To Ama’s disappointment, the Tyne house was exactly as she’d left it. Not that it could change much in two weeks, that which had resisted true change for six decades.

The twins’ welcome depressed her even more. They stood with their arms at their sides, defying her affection with wary looks. Their stillness reminded Ama of those strange, vagrant deer that wander into the city and petrify at the sight of men. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Tyne noticed anything wrong.

But Ama was determined. Yvette, especially, seemed to be giving her pointed looks, convincing Ama she’d only to befriend Chloe to bring them both around. She followed them upstairs and, sitting on her bed to unpack, watched them with cautious eyes.

They seemed to have grown thinner, their angular cheeks giving them a severe, almost mean look. The thought occurred to her that perhaps their parents had starved them as punishment for trying to drown her, and Ama felt bad both on their behalf and for having such a thought in the first place.

The twins sat across from each other on Yvette’s cot, twining their fingers with string to play cat’s cradle. Chloe had her back to Ama, but Yvette’s face was visible, and she gave Ama nervous, inviting looks. Ama stopped unpacking and sat on the floor beside their bed.

“My grandmother’s crazy.” Ama flushed, not knowing why she’d said this. Her father had cautioned her to be discreet with family matters, and she’d always taken great pains to keep the truth from her friends. The twins didn’t acknowledge she’d spoken at all. Ashamed, Ama picked lint from the carpet. She stretched her long legs under the bed and, feeling paper with her feet, leaned over to see what it was. There were hundreds of letters.

So they did exist. Ama couldn’t keep from sounding grateful. “Your dad told me you wrote me a million letters. Why didn’t you send any? I was so lonely there.”