Downstairs in the pantry, I stop in front of the door to Frank’s old hamster room. A yellowing sign in faded Magic Marker is still tacked to the door: do not enter on pain of death. I turn the knob, step into the forbidden, windowless room. My eyes take a little while to adjust. It’s a storage room now, the walls stacked high with crates. Frank’s hamster cages are gone. But in the far corner, illuminated by the pale glow of neon, is a glass aquarium. It is five times larger than the one I remember. As I walk toward it, I see a subtle shift, a movement, sinuous, reptilian. I back out of the room.
Nancy is sitting at the kitchen table, slicing apples. “Well hello, dear,” she says brightly. “There you are.”
I feel caught in the spotlight of her benign smile.
She puts down an apple core and wipes her hands on her apron. “Hasn’t Waldo gotten big?”
“We knocked.” I say. “Dad said it would be okay to start moving his things.”
“Of course, dear. I lay down for a quick catnap. You’ve certainly blossomed into a lovely young woman. You must be fifteen by now.”
“Thirteen—I’ll be fourteen in September.”
“I imagine you’re thirsty after that drive. I made iced tea. Dwight should be back any minute now. He drove down the hill to return a book to his friend Carter Ashe.” She goes to the refrigerator and stands there without opening it, gives her head a little shake as if she’s trying to get rid of a passing thought. “He missed luncheon,” she says. “You must be thirsty. I made iced tea.”
* * *
—
I find my father in the attic surrounded by boxes and piles of old photographs. The air is hot, stuffy. It smells of the past.
“Have a look at these.” He passes me a thick manila envelope. “All my old contact sheets and negatives. There are some wonderful ones of your mother.”
I pull out the black-and-white contact sheets and look through them. Endless photos of my mother in a cocktail dress and pearls, lying on a sofa, smiling into the camera. Anna in the bathtub, covered in soapsuds, with a colander on her head. Me and Mum in the playground. Mum is pushing me on the baby swings; one of my red buckle-up shoes has fallen off. At the bottom of the stack, I find a series of photos of the four of us. We are on the steps of the Natural History Museum, Anna and I in matching smocked dresses and Mary Janes. Dad is carrying me on his shoulders. I have no memory of any of it.
In the shadows of an eave, pushed up against the crawl space, are three open boxes with my father’s name scrawled across them in black marker. They are filled with record albums. His collection of 78s in brown paper envelopes, LPs in worn cardboard covers. I run my finger across their spines. I like the sound it makes. I remember these.
My father picks up a faded color photograph from the pile in front of him. “Come look at this one.”
It is a photo of Dad with Mum. They look so young. They are in a field. My mother is lying in the grass, her head resting on my father’s lap. She’s wearing sailor shorts and a frilly white blouse, its top three buttons unbuttoned. Her eyes are closed. He is staring down at her. He looks happy in a way I do not recognize. Behind them, in the distance, a volcano rises up into a faded sky.
“Acatenango.” He points to the volcano. “Your mother and I flew to Guatemala so I could meet your grandmother Nanette and your uncle Austin. What a disaster that was. You never met her, did you?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. When I was a few months old.”
My father nods. “Of course. It was while you were still in the hospital. After your operation. She came for Christmas. Brought me an embroidered folkloric tapestry of Mary and Joseph riding a donkey. She tried to claim it was a valuable Mayan relic,” he laughs. “Matter of fact, it’s probably at the bottom of one of these boxes. She was a force of nature, that woman. Couldn’t stand me. Said your mother was marrying down.” He puts the photo back on the pile. “She was right, of course. Your mother was way out of my league.” He pauses. “Wallace and Leo seem very happy.”
“I guess.”
He takes the photo from me. Stares at it for a long time. “I was so in love with your mother.”
“So, what happened? I mean, you’re the one who left.”
“Believe me, that was the last thing in the world I wanted.”
“Then why did you get divorced?”
“I suppose your mother finally realized Nanette was right about me.” He laughs, but I can tell there’s a part of him that believes it’s true.