Anne Korkeakivi - An Unexpected Guest

The elevator stopped on the third floor with a thud that rocked Clare forward on her feet. She would have preferred to take the stairs, but walking up instead of riding the elevator might seem indecorous, more suitable to a schoolgirl than a diplomat’s wife, the sort of thing only an American woman would do. Not on the same level as wearing galoshes, but still. When they moved on from the minister’s residence, she didn’t plan to leave any gossip behind her. She pushed on the cage, and the door clicked open with a big clank and a thud. She thought it all too noisy, but that was how elevators were in Paris. If no one else minded it, why should she?

“The men are on their way up with the plate,” she told Amélie, finding the housekeeper in the dining room giving a last polish to the heavy mahogany table. It would soon be set with delicate china trimmed with the golden standard of the British Crown. A few hours later, she and their guests would all be lined up around it, the P.U.S. to her right, Edward facing her from the other end of the table, everyone in their evening finery, expectant. “Are we okay with the liquor?”

“Oui, Madame.” Amélie made one last concentric circle on the table with her cloth and looked up. “Ze table, she is rea-dy.” She hesitated. “Madame?” She pointed towards the hall, in the direction of the bedrooms. She raised one hand to chin level and shook it.

Clare handed her basket over to Amélie, taking the homeopathic drops out of her pocket and stacking them on top. “Please tell Mathilde the chemist said to put three drops in a glass of juice, twice daily.” She made a squeezing motion with her hand to demonstrate. “Three drops in juice. Two times a day.”

The service doorbell rang. This would be the men with the plate.

“I open the door,” Amélie said.

“Thank you.”

She turned towards the bedrooms.

A few rays of electric light squeezed out from under the door to Jamie’s room. Clare knocked and pushed the door open. Sprawled the length of the bed was her oversized fifteen-year-old, reading, she noted, a Philip Roth novel. Jamie pushed the book under an arm as she entered.

She took one fast step forward, then stopped herself. Instead, she said, “Jamie! How did you get here so quickly?”

“That’s nice, Mom. I mean, hi and everything.”

She sat down on the edge of his bed and tried to kiss him. He shrugged off her embrace but, as she straightened away from him, continued to hold on to her, grabbing one of her arms. With her free hand, she ruffled his hair. There was a faint scar still visible along his hairline from the time he’d woken from a nap in the London town house where they’d lived after the Cairo posting, heard her voice downstairs, and tried to join her while clutching on to a stuffed bunny. They’d had a nanny back then named Nia, a young woman from Wales, who was supposed to be watching him. Edward had dismissed her as soon as they’d returned from the hospital, maybe the only time he’d ever taken on a staff decision. “The point is that she wasn’t doing her job. It’s not an act of vengeance,” he’d said. She’d nodded, relieved. She hadn’t wanted to see the woman again herself, not even long enough to fire her.

Jamie released her arm and shook his hair back over his forehead.

“I was already in Paris when I called,” he said. “I was at the airport.”

Her young son, alone in an airport. Had he taken a bus in? A taxi? She folded her hands over each other. “How did you leave school grounds without first getting my permission?”

“I just left.”

Clare heard the front door to the Residence open and shut. That could mean only one thing. Edward. What could he be doing home for lunch on a day this busy? She gently closed the door to the room. She had better warn Edward first about Jamie’s latest troubles; he had a lot of other things on his plate today. “You can’t just leave school, Jamie.”

“I didn’t. I sent them an e-mail in your name first.”

“Jamie!” She lowered her voice. “ Jamie. You can’t do that.”

There was no further sound from the foyer. Edward had gone either into the study or through the dining room into the kitchen.

“Yes, I could. You gave me permission.”

“No, not for that. To visit the science lab after hours.”

Jamie shrugged.

Clare frowned. “You may not leave the school grounds without my knowing, and you may not go sending e-mails in my name either, without my express permission. The science lab thing was just that one time. And you certainly may not go around hopping on planes.” She heard more sounds from down the hall and lowered her voice again. “Jamie, I’ve talked to the school. They’re really angry.”

Jamie rolled his eyes.

“Tell me.” When Jamie didn’t respond, she added, “The science lab? Did you do it?”

“They didn’t let me hand it in. A-holes.”

“No? Although you did do it? And though you did go to the lab after hours?”

The hint of a grin flitted across his face. “Yeah, well. I did that. ”

She sighed. “Do you think this is funny? ’Cause I don’t think this is funny.”

The smile disappeared. “I was just trying…” His voice trailed off.

She stood up. He did the homework, but they wouldn’t accept it. She could think of one sole explanation. She could only hope there was another. “What exactly happened?”

“I thought you just said you talked to Barrow.”

“I did. But they didn’t tell me the details. I’m giving you a chance to tell your side first.”

He shrugged. “A prefect saw. The fascist. He didn’t have to go and tell on us.”

“Oh, Jamie.”

He looked towards her suddenly, his face searching hers. “Mom,” he said. But nothing followed. Finally he said, “Whatever.”

She surveyed him, a heap of adolescence. He didn’t need to spell it out. He had been caught cheating again. “How many days?”

“A week.”

A week. Jamie was lucky the school wasn’t kicking him out altogether; still, a week was a major suspension. He’d get F’s on every test or assignment he missed and not be allowed to make them up. The offense would go down on his permanent school record. She sighed again.

“Okay, well. Stay here for now. If we’re going to have a week, there’s no point getting your father involved when he’s so busy. You and he can talk once we’ve gotten through tonight’s dinner.” Jamie would understand she meant he wasn’t to let on to his father he was there, not before tomorrow. He could be naughty, but he would never interfere with his father’s work. “But you know you’re in trouble. Have you had any lunch?”

“I’m not hungry.”

She turned to go, when Jamie bolted up and snagged on to the hem of her sweater. “But you don’t understand, Mommy! It’s just mean what they did. They wouldn’t even listen!”

Clare smoothed her sweater and took his hands firmly into hers. Where had things gone wrong with this wonderful son of hers? She wished it would all go away: the dinner, Ireland. Here was Jamie. She didn’t want to go tussle with Mathilde and fill out names on place markers. She wanted to hug her son and rock him and make every mistake he’d ever made — and they were piling up so fast now — vanish.

“James, I don’t know what is going on in your head.” She held up her fingers and started counting. “Forging my signature? Flying from London to Paris without telling me first? It’s all just crazy. You know this. How did you even get started on this? What were you thinking? Your father and I made it very clear: better you flunk honorably than get into this sort of trouble again.”

Jamie drew back. He examined her as though there was something viscous between them. When he answered, his tone was soft and almost dreamy. “You didn’t really speak to anyone at Barrow, did you?”