“I need to find out the truth about the book. Astrolabe had something to say. He deserves for people to know he existed.”
“My dad is coming,” he whispered. “I’ll call you later.”
I ended the call. In my mind, I saw three women: Heloise, Miriam, and my mother. All nearly silenced.
I wasn’t going to let that happen. I was going to find out what was really said in the Book of Hours, in the palimpsest. In the whispered writings beneath the illuminated paintings. In the words of A., who knew what it was like to be the child of parents whose love nearly destroyed each other.
A. was me. Maybe not me, exactly, but a lot like me.
And I would go to Paris to learn more.
Even if it meant getting into a whole lot of trouble.
13
My father . . . destroyer, creator.
—A.
“
C
alliope, you haven’t touched your lobster.” My father sat across from me, sipping his favorite 2001 Bordeaux wine.
“I’m not hungry.” I moved my fork around the plump lobster flesh, dripping in butter, and bit my lip.
“You sound like a petulant child.”
“And you sound like an overbearing father.”
A violinist in a long black gown played at the far end of the dining room. Periodically, our waiter hovered, clearing away plates, bringing fresh bread, and otherwise fussing unobtrusively. The restaurant was one of my father’s favorites, a place where he could easily spend five hundred dollars on dinner for the two of us. He always said he was paying for the view, which stretched out from the window by our table, affording us the sight of all of Central Park.
“Calliope . . .” Dad sighed in his usual impatient way.
“You should have told me. About my mother. About what you did to her when she was sick.”
I saw the anger flash in his eyes, even after all that time. Like Harry said.
Napalm.
“What about what she did to
me
?”
“It’s been how many years? I still deserved to know the whole story.”
“You were too young.” He said it in this offhand way, as if he was telling me that I was too young to learn where babies came from, or that Santa Claus was a lie.
“I’m not too young now. You
lied
to me. You told me nothing about her. Not the real story of the two of you. She’s my
mother
.”
“The sin of omission is not the same as a lie.”
“Right,” I snapped. “The way you don’t want to know if a client is doing something illegal, right? That way you can pretend what you do isn’t immoral.”
“I’m a lawyer.
I’m
not a criminal. And when
you’re
a lawyer, someday, you’ll understand.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Of course you will.”
“No, I won’t.” I took a sip of my water. “Because I’m never going to
be
a lawyer.”
“That’s ridiculous. You have a perfect GPA. You’ve been planning on pre-law since middle school. Harvard. That’s been your plan.”
“No, Dad, that’s been
your
plan.”
“Calliope.” He set down his linen napkin. “Just because you’re upset with me is no reason to derail your entire life.”
“I’m going to major in history.” I blurted it out. Even
my
eyes widened. I hadn’t known I was going to say that. I hadn’t even really thought it. But now that I said it, it felt so right.
“What the hell,” he hissed, “are you going to do with a degree in history? It’s useless. What? Be a teacher?”
“Maybe I’ll be like Uncle Harry.”
I could see the heat rising off of him. “No. And another thing, young lady, two months before the start of your senior year is no time to be getting involved in a serious relationship. So whoever this boy is who Harry mentioned, I say move on. Forget him and concentrate on your studies.”
I looked across the table at him. When I was very young, I had nannies, and then when I got older, Uncle Harry stepped in when my father traveled in summer, which was constantly. The neighbor across the hall. Sofia’s family. Even occasional girlfriends of my dad would watch over me, foolishly believing that if we bonded, my dad would finally propose. Or they’d get a proposal and then hope he’d actually go through with a wedding.
Like a Gouldian finch, I’d been raised by everyone but my dad. Dinners together were rare. It seemed like the only way he kept tabs on me at all was my report card. Somehow, bringing home straight As every semester was his sign that I was perfect, that my life plan, my world, was unfolding just as he wanted.
But he was a stranger.
I was tired of hating him. “You know, Dad . . . you don’t even know me.”
“Don’t even know my own daughter? I think that’s a bit ridiculous, don’t you? A bit over the top,
even for you
.”
We looked alike. Something about our noses was similar. The way, when I turned, my profile was like his. His hair was graying at the temples, but was still thick. He weighed the same—as he was happy to tell anyone who would listen—as when he’d rowed crew at Harvard. He could still run five miles on the treadmill without losing his breath. Everywhere we went, women looked at him. He reminded me of a soap opera actor—all perfect teeth and perfect hair and perfect suits. But hollow, as if it was all a scripted, vapid performance.
“No, Dad. I’m not being ridiculous. You don’t know
me.
You know my
achievements
.”
“We are what we achieve.”
I rolled my eyes. “What? Is that Lawyer Zen?”
He smiled at me. “You were always very quick-witted, Calliope. I know that about you. I”—I saw him struggle to say it—“like that about you.”
“If you know me so well, what’s my favorite color?”
“Pink.”
“Why? Because I painted my room that color in third grade? It hasn’t been my favorite color since I was nine. Then I went through a purple phase. But no, since junior high it’s been green.”
“Just because—”
“I’m not done. What’s my favorite movie?”
“You like lots of movies.”
“There’s
one
favorite, though, Dad.”
“I have no idea.
The Godfather?”
I rolled my eyes. “No. That’s
your
favorite movie. Though you like
Godfather II
almost as much. My favorite movie is
Breakfast at Tiffany’s. ”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. And what’s my favorite place in the whole world?”
“You love Hawaii.”
“Nope.”
“Well, then Manhattan. You’ve always loved coming here with your mother’s brother.”
“Be more specific.”
“Where then?”
I could see him clench his jaw a little. He didn’t like not knowing the answer to everything.
“I think it’s August’s garden. Down in Greenwich Village. It’s the most peaceful place I’ve ever been to.”
“That boy.”
“Yes, Dad. That boy.”
“It’s a mistake, Calliope. Love at your age can only distract you from school, from college, from accomplishing all your goals.”
“What if instead it made me happy?”
My father narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“You know . . . this crazy thing called emotions? Happiness. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”
“There’s no need to be rude, Calliope.”
“I’m not her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you afraid I’ll take after her? Is that why you don’t want me to have a boyfriend? To have a life? Because you made her so unhappy, so utterly miserable? Is that it? You have to make sure everyone around you is unhappy. I’m not like her.”
“I know you’re not her. Your mother was . . .”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“No.
What
? That’s the thing, Dad. You never tell me who she was. Did you even know? I mean, the way Harry tells it, you were nothing alike. So why did you even marry her?”
My father sipped his wine. A
big
sip. I watched him blink a couple of times. Like he was gathering his thoughts. My father
never
gathers his thoughts. He launches into two-hour closing arguments without notes.
“To be honest? It’s funny that you say your favorite movie is
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Because she was my Holly Golightly.”
“Mom wasn’t interested in being a socialite. In money.”
“No. But she was madcap and eccentric, and she was gorgeous. I saw her . . . and I guess, I didn’t stop to think. All my life, I’ve made the hard decisions. I really have. I’ve set aside what I
wanted
for what was the right thing to do.”
“What do you mean?” I played with my lobster, looking at my father just partway. I didn’t know what I wanted to hear.
“When I was a boy, I followed my father’s footsteps. Into the law. My younger brother, your uncle Anthony, he got off easy.”
“What do you mean?” I’d met my uncle Tony only three times, and even then, it had been years.
“He was a screwup. They expected nothing from him. And he was only too happy to oblige. But me? My father’s hopes were pinned on me.”
“Couldn’t you have told him? Told your parents that you might want to do something else?”
He shook his head. “We’re talking about a legal and financial
dynasty.
My father intended to hand over the law firm to me. Anthony got a free pass to join a fraternity, spend his trust fund, and be a drunkard.”
“Well, what would you have studied if you hadn’t become a lawyer?”
“I don’t know. It was so long ago, Calliope. I guess I don’t remember a time when the expectation wasn’t there. I know, for a while, I daydreamed of owning a restaurant. But now I just eat in the best of the best and collect wine. So in a way, I suppose it all worked out.”
“Do you hate your brother because he got to do what he wanted? And you had to follow the rules?”
“No. It’s not like that. But after law school, after your grandfather died, you know, I just kept doing the right thing. And then the next right thing. I put in, on a good day, fourteen hours at the office. I was on a plane fifteen or twenty days out of every month—New York, L.A., Miami. I lived with a bottle of Mylanta in my briefcase. And then, I will never forget . . . I got invited to the unveiling of a new exhibit at the Whitney. Not the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where it would be the same crowd of snobs. But an avant-garde exhibit. It was backed by a rather insane client of mine, a German industrialist who just loved to fund these crazy, expensive installations. He invited me. I showed up. To this day, I don’t know why.” “Fate.” By now I had dropped all pretense of playing with my food. This was the most my father had ever talked to me at one time in my entire life.
“I don’t believe in fate, Calliope. But if you want to call it that, then fine. I walked in. And there she was.”
“At the party?”
He laughed. “No.
In
the exhibit.”
I laughed. “What? What are you talking about?”
He nodded. “In the exhibit. She was
in
the exhibit. It was about the soullessness of the modern world, and she was supposed to be this wraith, this ghost, inside of a computer or a machine. I can’t even tell you what the hell the damn thing was supposed to mean.” He started laughing. Not a quiet laugh, but this laugh that came from a place I didn’t think my dad went to that often. He looked lighter than he had in a long time.
“Okaaaaaaaaaaaaay,” I said, drawing the word out. “So you met my mother while she was pretending to be inside a computer in a museum exhibit.”
“Exactly. But it was this amazing opportunity. You see, everyone was
supposed
to be staring at her. So I could look and look, and it was completely . . . what was supposed to be happening. I could stare all I wanted. And then, at this one moment, even though she was supposed to be this wraith, this dead woman or whatever the heck she was, she suddenly dropped her act. She dropped the persona . . . and looked at me. Right at me. And at that moment, I decided I had to meet her, had to have her.”
“Does Harry know how you met?”
Dad shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t think anyone did. I couldn’t really imagine how I would explain to my family that the woman I was crazy about was this wild child, free spirit from inside a piece of art.”
“So how did my mother fall in love with you? You weren’t her type, right?”
“Not at all. At first we sort of amused each other, I think. She was spontaneous. She’d call me at the office and demand that I take a dinner break—which would turn out to be hot dogs at a Yankees game. She would wake up on a Sunday and decide we should rent a car and drive to Maryland to eat soft-shell crab. She would walk ten blocks without stepping on a crack because it would break her mother’s back . . . She collected found pennies and kept them in a lucky jar. For my part, I think she really did enjoy shaking me out of my routine, but it was a kick to her getting front-row theater tickets and going to different restaurants, and traveling to Paris, and. . . . ” “Paris?”