John Hawkes - The Blood Oranges

But why deny the humor, I asked myself, why give way to pity for Catherine and contempt for Hugh? Was there any conventional privacy that might not yield up its unique embarrassment? While the morning-glories were straining to unfurl, while Hugh lay floundering in constricted speech, while Catherine struggled to interrupt his persistency and I stood listening — why not concentrate, I asked myself, on the consolations? At least Hugh still wanted to assume his sentimental bestial shape. At least the mode of his approach was nothing new for Catherine. At least their rituals and formulas of marriage were still in force. And whatever else might happen, I told myself, my insight of the moment and Fiona’s elegance would consort together to safeguard her from all the means of self-betrayal Hugh might devise.

But Hugh was winding down at last, Catherine was beginning to give in to habit, or perhaps more than habit. I noted the first light in the sky, I moved one step closer to the window and assured myself that they would have a few minutes yet before all three children arose and came leaping into that shocked and harried bed. Yes, I thought, Hugh had slipped off one schedule but gained another. Their house was in order, so to speak, the roles had changed.

I turned away, calmly I tied the ends of my forgotten sash. And straightening shoulders and spectacles alike, I returned along the empty path that stretched endlessly from villa to villa. It amused me to discover that I was walking slowly but with a step reflecting nonetheless the rhythms of the central phrase in Hugh’s proposal, as if an old drummer were beating a brief and muffled paradiddle in my head, my inner ear, my heart. Would he find my tennis shoes? Would he begin to understand that there could be no limits on our exchange and that in the circumscribed country of Illyria a grassy wind was bound to blow away the last shreds of possessiveness? I hoped he would.

In all this darkness and silence I smelled the dead roses, saw the open door and warm rows of tiles, heard the clear but sleepy voice of Fiona calling to me from deep within our thick white walls and timeless collection of vases, earthen pots, artistic tokens of harmonious life. Her soft clear voice was coming as close at it ever did to peevishness, she might have been lying in the dew at my feet. I yawned, I approached the door, I noticed that our morning-glories were doing better than Hugh’s.

“Cyril? Is that you?”

“Expecting someone else?” I murmured, and entered the darkness, listened for another brief volley from her hard sweet sleep-ridden mind.

“Just you, baby. You.”

“WHERE’S MY MOTHER?”

“I told you, Meredith. They’re bringing the wine. You can’t have an idyl without wine.”

“I’m sick of your old idyls.”

“You’re lucky to be here. If it weren’t for me, you and your little sisters would be back at the villa where Hugh, for one, thinks you belong.”

“It’s not my father who doesn’t want us around. It’s you.”

“Look, Meredith. We need flowers, lots of flowers. You can’t have crowns without lots of flowers.”

“I don’t want any old flower crowns.”

“Your sisters do.”

“How do you know? They can’t say anything.”

“Of course they can. They speak the language of children. But take my word for it, Meredith. All little girls like flower crowns in their hair.”

“I know what you’re doing. You’re just trying to impress my parents. That’s all. You’re just trying to fool them again.”

“I’m simply going to bedeck their daughters with flowers, Meredith. It’s a nice idea.”

“It’s dumb.”

“That’s enough. I want you to gather all the flowers you can. Understand?”

“God, you’re mean.”

“To work, Meredith, to work.”

She turned, she hiked up her baggy shorts, she tried to shake some kind of curl into the chopped-off hair now wet and dark and stuck midway to her ears, she attempted to appear undaunted. But she knew I was watching her, had once more felt the weight of my interested wisdom bearing down on the brittle sticks of her suspicion, and as if my gentle insistence on obedience were not enough, had already begun to respond reluctantly to my idea of the crowns. Even Meredith was not above the idea of a little self-beautification, not exempt from the hope of one day becoming glamorized, idealized, in the eyes of preoccupied parents. Already the green shoots were popping up in that small dark brain of hers, she was trapped in my smile.

“Come on,” I said. “Dolores and Eveline and I are waiting.”

She glanced at me over her shoulder and then muttered something, stopped, and yanked up a fistful of Cyclamen persicum without regard for the pink petals scattering, bleeding, or the soft heads clutched in her hand.

“Not so hard,” I murmured. “And leave longer stems.”

“I want my mother. I don’t like your silly games.”

“Put the flowers over here. We’ll make a lot of piles and then we’ll start weaving.”

Without turning she flung her poor crushed offering toward my feet. But she had heard my voice, she was drenched in my patience, she could not deny the laughter of Dolores (or was it Eveline?), and her fingers were stained with the juice of the torn Cyclamen persicum . She could hardly help but see that our glen, our golden glen, was filled with clumps of pink flowers, and red and yellow and white flowers, and already she must have envisioned all those helpless buds entwined in little Eveline’s hair and in her own. She could not resist. She squatted. She began to pick.

But Cyril among the children? Alone, absolutely alone, with Catherine’s two identical female twins and one hostile girl? And only the old black sleeping dog to share my guardianship? It was not a typical situation for me. To serve as liaison between the adults and children, now and again to break off from the four-pointed constellation of our adulthood and sail away, as it were, in order to intercept the small three-pointed heavenly figure of the children and stall its approach, contributing to the freedom of the adults I left behind and creating unenthusiastic coherence among the children I took in hand — all this was one thing and understandable. But to propose separation at the outset and before it was necessary, to make the suggestion casually yet willingly that it might be fun for the children were I to lead them on ahead to the glen — this was quite another thing, and had prompted surprise from Fiona and Catherine, scorn from Hugh, sullenness from Meredith, and mere acquiescence from the little twins. Then why the halfhearted magnanimity, the atypical gesture? Why this minor sacrifice, this exposure to boredom? Meredith was partially right, of course, but I was a better judge of motives than Meredith, and perhaps there was something more to my plan than deception, selfishness, showmanship. Perhaps I wanted to spare Catherine a moment or two, perhaps I wanted to ensure Hugh some time alone with my wife and his, perhaps I was simply inclined to amuse the twins for once and to appease Meredith in the process, show her my other side, give her a half-hour of my attention. Perhaps I wanted to share my capacity for different games, for love on another plane. Who knows?

“I thought you were going to help.”

“I am, I am.”

“Then why are you just standing there like that?”

“You need more of the Echium diffusum.”

“Huh?”

“Those little red flowers, Meredith. Over there.”

The boredom was not exactly boredom, the distance between myself and the children was not intolerable. I was enjoying myself. The soft green dusty tumors were hanging from the branches of the fig trees just above my head and within easy reach, the infinitely soft and idle grass pillowed the sitting twins and the sleeping dog, a denser species of brushy pine ringed our glen, the fragile flowers were embedded in remarkable variety in the tissue of the ash-blond grass, the sunlight was descending through the green leaves and speckling all four of us. I heard Meredith crawling about this gentle place intent on my work, I saw the polka dots dancing, so to speak, on the ruffled jumpers of the two smaller girls seated side by side in the warm grass and holding hands, blowing chubby laughter in my direction as if they had never seen me before. And the peace, the warmth, the stasis, the smell of it — in such circumstances how could I help but enjoy my own immensity of size or the range of my interests, how help but appreciate the adaptibility of certain natural scenes which, like this one, allow for the play of children one minute and the seclusion of adults the next? I felt a coolness between my porous thin white shirt and the skin of my chest. In linen slacks and alligator belt and hard low-cut shoes the color of amber, I sensed the consciousness of someone carefully dressed for taking care of children. The children themselves were decked out for the occasion in ruffled jumpers, and in baggy but laundered shorts and sleeveless top.