Authors: Michelle Huneven
Is that what I said?
Yeah, that time you pierced my ears. I never forgot. It could be that he likes boys, you said.
I guess I said that a lot, Patsy said. Have you met Gilles?
Like when I was born. His mom and mine were friends.
Through the kitchen window, Patsy saw Cal lugging a saddle to the tack room. I better go help him, she said.
What’s going on with you two, anyway? said Joey.
Cal? We went for a ride up the arroyo.
Anything else? Joey grew still and intent.
What? Oh, come on, Joey. And besides, I have a boyfriend, Patsy added, fully aware that Ian would never accept the designation.
Okay, then, said Joey.
Patsy was amused by Joey’s sternness. What do you care?
March doesn’t want a new person around. Riding her mom’s horse and stuff.
I know, said Patsy. My dad’s already seeing someone—this woman who crashed my mom’s funeral.
God, doesn’t that make you want to claw her face off? said Joey.
Oh, if she hadn’t snagged him, someone else probably would’ve. He was so lost. Didn’t know where the sheets were kept, or the toilet paper. But mostly, Patsy added, I’m grateful I don’t have to take care of him.
Yeah, but he should take care of you. He’s your dad.
I can take care of myself, said Patsy. Through the window she saw Cal brush his jeans, look up at the house.
I should go finish up down there, she said.
Yeah, and tell Cal he should put Cinder down. Chicken her out. Before she puts someone in the hospital. Joey tossed her head, and something glinted.
Hey, said Patsy. Stepping forward, she pushed back a dark blond hank of hair. There, in Joey’s earlobe, a small gold hoop.
I had them done again. Joey showed off both ears. Even-steven this time.
•
You did what? said Binx. Riding with Cal? When?
I told him to ask you next. I said you were a great rider.
I’ve been on a horse twice in my life.
Anyway, I put in a good word for you.
Did he ask you out again?
It was nothing like that, said Patsy. His dead wife’s horse needs exercise.
But he asked you. He singled you out.
Yeah, like he singles out all newcomers—to be of service.
You’re hardly a newcomer, said Binx, with two-plus years of sobriety.
Yeah, but I am fresh from the pokey.
Patsy, with Gilles behind her, pushed through the turnstile in Prebles’ Market and spotted in the checkout line the long face, high forehead, and soft chin that could only be Mark Parnham. Beside him stood a miniature, darker version of himself. Before Mark saw her, Patsy dashed deep into the store, pulling Gilles with her. That’s him, the father and husband of the people—the people I, you know,
hit
, Patsy whispered. His son too. They look regular. So normal. They didn’t look so unhappy. Do you think they looked unhappy?
I didn’t see them, said Gilles. Let me go back and look.
No! she said, seizing his arm again.
She had told Mark Parnham that she would get in touch with him when she got out of prison, but so far, she’d only sent a change-of-address card. To bump into him like this was embarrassing—and, given the boy, even harmful.
You should’ve said hi, said Gilles. Now you have to call him.
I do? said Patsy.
As soon as we get home, he said.
Why? she said.
You can’t be hiding from people in grocery stores.
I can’t?
Back at the Lyster, Gilles got out of the elevator on her floor. Let’s get it over with, he said.
Mark Parnham was kind. Of course you could’ve come up and talked to us. I’d like you to meet Martin. I’ve been wondering how you’re doing. How are you?
Okay, said Patsy. I’m glad to be out.
We’re doing well over here too, Mark said, and thanked her for calling. Next time, say hi.
There, Gilles said. That took care of that.
At the morning meeting, she talked about Mark Parnham, how willing he’d been to forgive her yet how hard it was to see him, when mostly, she just wanted to forget what had thrown them together. Afterward, a woman came up, a regular at the meeting who was a reporter for the
Times
. She wanted to interview Patsy and Mark together. I see it as a feature on forgiveness, she said, with sidebars on the legal and mental health issues. It could inspire a lot of people.
Patsy said, Let me call him first and see what he says.
The article ran two weeks later. Patsy was afraid she came across as wordy and overintellectual. Gilles said no, smart.
. . . The two are calm and respectful with each other. When asked if they are friends, they both start to answer at the same time; then each gestures for the other to go first.
“The term friends makes it sound as if we chat on the phone and have lunch,” says MacLemoore. “And we don’t. We’re something else—if you want to be technical, we’re forgiver and forgiven. Which is its own powerful bond.”
Parnham nods as she speaks, and then it’s his turn to answer the question. Does he consider them friends?
“Yes,” he says. “I think we are.”
For days, people who saw the article phoned, wrote notes, and came up to Patsy at meetings. She was asked to speak at
six
other AA meetings. Cal Sharp said, It’s a beautiful story, Patsy. Of her ESL students, only Nadia, the Italian-speaking Eritrean woman, mentioned it. I am so impress with your candor, she said.
•
Mother has asked to meet you, said Gilles.
He drove Patsy to the house on a Saturday evening. Father died of a headache, he said. Brain aneurysm. I was eight. Mother’s been through a lot. But she’s a lovely bird.
Audrey Sanger was tall and impeccable in white slacks and a crisp ironed blue shirt. Glossy brown hair in a smooth chin-length bob. Pearls at home.
At last, she said, an East Coast flatness to her speech. I’ve heard
about you, read about you—for weeks it’s been nothing but Patsy this, Patsy that. Stepping closer yet, Audrey kissed her cheek.
Like Gilles, Patsy thought: loving.
Audrey led them to a garden room off the kitchen. She and Patsy sat on a small sofa while Gilles paced in front of them. Beyond the French doors grew a ficus tree with a trunk so wide a person could live in it.
I hear you’ve been riding with my brother. He says you know your way around a horse.
A couple times, and only trail riding. Not dressage or anything.
He’s a dirty old man, Gilles put in. He’s got his hairy eyeball on Pats.
Don’t even say that, Gilles, Patsy said. You’re trying to embarrass me.
Yes, go away, Gilles. Make a beverage and let us talk. Audrey batted at him, her fingers freighted with gold rings, one large ruby. Tea or coffee, Patsy?
She likes tea, Mother.
Gilles went into the kitchen, and Audrey leaned in. I’m so glad he’s found Brice. What I’ve gone through, chasing that child all over the globe. I hear you used to go with him?
Patsy didn’t follow her at first. Oh, Brice, she said. I tried.
Yes, well, haven’t we all tried that sort of thing at one time or another. There’s something off, you can’t put your finger on it, it’s . . .
Mother, don’t whisper, Gilles called from the kitchen. And let Patsy say something once in a while.
Audrey kept her voice low. I never had to wonder about Gilles, though. He arrived as is. When every other boy at his nursery school was mad about trains, Gilles was organizing my lipsticks by shade.
Gilles coughed in the kitchen.
Audrey sat back and raised her voice. But god. When he ran away from Hotchkiss—oh! Then—Paris! That took years off my life.
I couldn’t tell you where I was. Gilles appeared with a tray holding teacups and spoons, sugar, milk. Mother had to come around, he said to Patsy. She wasn’t always so open-minded.
I came around, yes. But you should’ve seen him when I got to Paris. He was supposed to meet me at Roissy, but I had to take a cab to his apartment.
I was nervous, said Gilles.
Nervous! He was so drunk, he was like one of those characters stuck in glue, couldn’t pull himself up off the ground. And the apartment’s
all Louis Quatorze, gilt this, gilt that, boiserie for miles, John and Messieurs Hangers-On sprawled on petit point sofas like lizards, all of them smoking, drinking champagne. I wanted to arrest the whole crew.
Now, Mother, Patsy’s heard my story, you needn’t give it warmed over and slanted. Nobody was pouring wine down my throat. John hardly drank. I was thoroughly, genetically alcoholic.
True, true, said Audrey. All the men in this family! My father—and you know my big brother, Cal. He was the worst. He’d come into this house—he and my husband were great friends, you know, that’s how Fred and I met, through Cal, they were in law school together at Boalt Hall. Anyway, Cal would come in and—see those big ice tea tumblers over there?—he’d take one and fill it with gin. No ice, no soda. It looked like tap water, only heavy and clear. Ten, twelve ounces. I would say, Cal dear, at least let me get you a little juice.
A little juice! cried Gilles, delighted. Like that would help!
Of course we all drank like fish back then. We didn’t know alcoholic from tipsy. Even so, Cal distinguished himself. It was the heyday of the Mojave, dances every Saturday, and you’d see him curled up in the lobby, right on the carpet, snoring away. Or sleeping at the bar. Marjorie—his first wife—got to where she couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t blame her.
Audrey paused because Gilles was having a coughing fit.
I don’t like the sound of that, she said when he stopped.
I know. I cannot shake this stupid cold, he said. It’s not even like I’m congested—it’s a reflex, a dry tickle, so annoying.
Go call Edie Rose right now, said Audrey.
The pediatrician?
Yes, but she’ll give you a prescription over the phone.
Gilles went into the kitchen.
Her number’s right there in my phone book, Audrey called, and turned back to Patsy. Where was I?
Patsy said, I didn’t know Cal was married before.
Oh yes, first to Marjorie. She was a Gillette, you know, razors. Very beautiful, smart, a wonderful mother. They had two kids, Andrew and Roberta, and she had two more with her second marriage. Nobody blamed her for leaving Cal. But it shocked the hell out of him. Shocked him sober. But too late. She’d already found someone else.
I had no idea, said Patsy. I thought the one who passed away . . .
Peggy? That’s a whole nother story. Cal met her downtown. She was demonstrating for civil rights on the steps of the courthouse, and the police were trying to arrest her. She was also very beautiful, blond, and so smart, like you, but I’d have to say plump. This was the early sixties, when people were marching, having rallies. Here she was, failing to disperse, and here comes Cal, fresh from court. He looked like Gilles back then, just a superbly handsome man. He sees what’s going on and starts in on the cop. Don’t you dare talk to her like that! Don’t you dare lay a finger on her!
And then he followed them to the police station, bailed her out! He was smitten, gone, like he’d fallen into a hole. Her father ran a print shop in San Pedro. She didn’t even know enough to be dazzled by Cal and what kind of life he was offering her. She refused to marry him till he was a registered Democrat.
She sounds kind of great, said Patsy.
Peggy? I loved her. Everybody did. You couldn’t not. But Cal must have had some kind of unconscious radar, because she was more like him than you’d think. Just a terrible alcoholic. Here he’d given up drinking, and who does he go and find for himself? He got her into AA, but it never took, and the rest of her life she was in and out of treatment; she had hepatitis and chronic liver problems, and still she couldn’t stop. She got cirrhosis at forty-four, liver cancer at fifty, was dead at fifty-one.
Gilles carried in the teapot in a cozy. Now, Mother, he said. You must give Patsy a chance to talk.
•
Cal asked Patsy to ride on another Saturday, but she was throwing an end-of-term barbecue—already!—for her students and had to get ready. The party was to be in the small backyard area behind the Lyster where Brice had put in new sod, nursed an old rose garden into blooming, and set two salvaged picnic tables on the grass.
Patsy had hired Gilles’s Meals to cater, and in the last few days Gilles had made tubs of potato salad and a pasta salad with tortellini, pesto, and sun-dried tomatoes. (Sun-dried tomatoes had come to California while she was in prison, and Patsy found their salty, oily intensity alarming, but Gilles assured her they’d be a hit.) That morning, he barbecued chicken and made a mauve-colored fruit punch whose secret ingredient was black tea.
Patsy’s Urdu speaker was the first to arrive; she brought Patsy a
small, heavy lump wrapped in tissue: a pot metal statue of the elephant god, Ganesh.
Our god of new endeavors, she said. May he bring you success.
The Vietnamese pharmacist showed up with a box of See’s chocolates. Patsy had told the students to bring whatever beer or wine they wanted, and a couple of six-packs and a jug of inexpensive rosé appeared. She was amazed, not for the first time, by how little alcohol other people drank.
All her favorite students and a few surprises came, maybe thirty people in all. Gilles, terrified of running out of food at his first paid gig, had made enough for eighty, and Patsy had bought a sheet cake for fifty. People ate at the tables and on blankets spread on the lawn. Patsy walked around making sure everyone had enough to eat and someone to talk to. After the cake was cut and served, one of the Korean women clapped her hands and proposed a toast.
Patsy tells us many times the best place to learn new language is between the sheets, she said. But I say best place is class, with Patsy for professor.
Punch cups and beer cans were raised and clacked, and afterward people began trickling out. Patsy talked for a long time to Nadia, the Eritrean, and joked amiably about the Dodgers’ losing streak with the Nigerian rake, who had come despite her refusal to change his B minus to an A.