Tatjana Soli - The Forgetting Tree

Their family had a long habit of silence. Hush. Not now. The pain is too much. Now she had a new secret. She had been loath to tell what the oncologist had diagnosed: her lymph nodes had been affected; the chance of the cancer’s having metastasized (ugly, foreboding word she had been unfamiliar with) was high. The survival rate equal to flipping a coin. Make this time count, he counseled, and she would, by making sure her daughters were away and protected from new pain. Her gift to them.

Exactly what this girl, Minna, was about, Claire didn’t guess, but she liked the girl’s mixture of bravado and timidity. Claire’s mind, fleeing the reality of upcoming chemo treatments, found refuge in the mystery of Minna. Claire created her glamorous and mysterious, and perhaps just the slightest bit spiritually wise, while not being overbearing, and that was exactly how she found her to be.

* * *

They met in the kitchen at six for the short drive over to Mrs. Girbaldi’s. Minna walked in wearing a silk, spaghetti-strapped dress that draped to her ankles. The dress’s background was black, the foreground filled with the most spectacular flowers. From a distance, the singular effect was that Minna stood naked, huge flowers in red and gold twined around her body. On her feet were the strappy, golden sandals. Claire stood breathless, in awe, before an ancient Mesopotamian queen.

Minna, confused by Claire’s stare, shrugged down at her dress. “Too much?”

“No.”

“It’s a handoff from my sister. The model. After the babies it was too tight around the arse, you know.”

“The hips.”

“Yes.” Minna smiled. “The hips. I appreciate the correction. I always try to improve myself. Be a lady like your daughters.”

“The dogs will howl at your beauty.”

They both laughed.

“In Dominica, the rich white people, the blans , have guard dogs that go crazy howling when they see a black person. But it’s not because they hate us, it’s because they smell their owners’ fear of us. They try to show off and earn their keep.”

Claire stood, not able to say a word. The girl took the words out of her mouth.

“Should we have a drink before we leave?” Minna asked. “I make a smooth martini. Your last chance to have alcohol for a while.”

“Was your mother as beautiful as you?” Claire asked.

Minna looked at her. It was as if she comprehended Claire’s desire for escape. “ Maman had the most beautiful face you will ever see.”

“Make that martini. I’ll go get my wrap.”

The phone rang — Gwen calling. Claire told her how attentive Minna was, how she was feeding her a special diet. “She even wants me to take up yoga and meditation. Can you imagine?”

“You sound good,” Gwen said.

“Call me Monday night after my treatment, okay?” When she returned to the living room, Minna was standing stranded in the middle of the floor.

“Where are the drinks?”

“I couldn’t find where you keep the alcohol. It’s not in the bar.”

“Locked kitchen cabinet. Old habit from when the girls were young.”

“Everything is hidden away here,” Minna said. “Why do you people hide everything away? Who was that on the phone?”

“Gwen.”

“Checking on us, nuh?”

Claire paused. “I told her what good care you were giving me. Like another daughter.”

“Oh, I don’t want to compete with your daughters. I’ll be like a son. Responsible, protective.”

Claire was quiet, watching as Minna expertly chilled the glasses, then coated them in vermouth. She hammered the ice into small pieces before putting it in a shaker. Cut a long curl of lemon peel. “You’re good.”

“You guessed another secret. I worked as a bartender also.”

They clinked glasses.

“To…” Claire floundered.

“To new life,” Minna said. The martini was flawless, so smooth it went down like water.

By the time they arrived, late and slightly buzzed, Mrs. Girbaldi’s house was full, people queuing at the tufted-leather bar (built by her now-deceased husband decades ago when that was the style). Others strolled the long tables filled with pet-related items for the silent auction: oil paintings of stiff-legged Labradors and setters; ceramic statues and coffee mugs of poodles; pawprint-embossed picture frames; pet-photography gift certificates; plush-covered down beds; plated bowls; GPS-signal dog collars. Claire would donate money but was determined to collect no more clutter in her life. It was time to discard, lighten her load. Her new perspective made every object, mug or diamond earrings, look like junk.

Mrs. Girbaldi regularly hosted blue-chip charity functions and country-club gatherings; tonight there was a holdover from a benefit for Pendleton veterans — in attendance was a disabled marine in a wheelchair, whom she was determined to help find a job. The young soldier had been wheeled next to a serving table in the corner, ostensibly to avoid his being knocked into, but the effect was to isolate him in his cagelike chair. He sat, his horsey, handsome face alert, uniform pressed into knifed ridges, his chest covered in ribbons, while his big hands fumbled with a dainty-handled cup of punch. People passed and nodded in his direction — they were a conservative, patriotic, flag-waving crowd — but the wheelchair, or rather the woundedness that it connoted, made them shy. There was no denying a discomfort with his presence — it felt awkward to congratulate him on his service or to thank him for it. Afraid that it would beg the question of the price he had paid. Was he bitter? Would that bitterness explode against a luckless well-wisher? They were there collectively for simple pleasures. Claire was there to forget, even if only temporarily, and none of them wished to be faced with the moral vagaries of the harsh, larger world outside. So, cruelly, they kept at a remove from the young man.

The crowd was more casual than usual at Mrs. Girbaldi’s affairs — older women with gray poking through their undyed hair; soft-voiced men; surfer types; youngish couples with toddlers in plush, reinforced strollers. Not the typical well-maintained, affluent, older crowd that financed local philanthropic undertakings. Amid this gathering, Minna stood out all the more.

A ripple of attention went through the room as they entered, and Claire enjoyed the vicarious glamour. Did Minna mind being the only black person to enter a crowded room? Did the double takes bother her? Claire watched and thought that if anything Minna thrived on the attention. Because, of course, her beauty trumped all. A couple passing leaned together and one said, “Probably down slumming from Hollywood.”

Minna looked away as Claire tapped the man on his shoulder and whispered, “She’s the great-granddaughter of Jean Rhys.”

He nodded, satisfied.

After they moved off, Minna laughed. “Shame on you. Name-dropping. As if they even knew who she was. Do you want another drink?”

“Why not?”

Claire moved off to the edge of the living room, surveying the scene for anyone she knew. Conversely, she wished for no attention, no one to notice her compromised self.

As Minna passed the young marine, she bent down to him. “You can’t possibly be interested in that punch. Would you like me to get you a Scotch?”

“That would be outstanding.” He laughed, his face lit up, suddenly a young man again, not simply the object of pity. Minna knelt, and he looked at her with delight. All the others who talked to him had remained standing. Of course her attentions would be every bit as recuperative as any job. Minna talked, laying her hand on his knee for emphasis. Someone took a picture of them for the local paper, mistaking her for an actress.