In the hallway closet, I found my husband’s work shoes, the soles still caked with dirt, the gray slippers he wore around the house, and his hiking boots with the frayed laces. In the bedroom, I pushed open the accordion doors of the closet, ran my hand along the row of clothes hanging from the rod, and examined each jacket, each shirt and pair of pants, as if it could imprint itself in my memory under an intense enough gaze.
I set aside any items that might interest my daughters, put the clothes and shoes that could be donated to charity in Hefty bags, and then sat on the sofa with my hands in my lap, watching the cat groom itself in a patch of sunlight. The house was quieter than I had ever known it. Memories of long-gone years kept visiting me, bringing with them joy and pain all at once, and several moments passed before I got up to wash myself and unroll my prayer mat. I don’t know how I managed that difficult day, but I did, which made having to do it all over again, a few weeks later, and in a place I despised, almost unendurable.
I had tried talking Nora out of living in the cabin in Joshua Tree where Driss brought the other woman, but my daughter was deaf to all the hints I dropped. My poor, gullible daughter. What would she have said if I had told her that her father had betrayed the trust I had placed in him? Maybe she wouldn’t have believed me. To her, he could only be a hero, he could never be a man of flesh and blood, full of the same weaknesses and capable of the same mistakes as other men.
The sound of my tires as I pulled up to the cabin chased a family of desert quail from the front yard, and they ran to hide under the creosote bush. I dragged the trash bins that had been left near the mailbox to the kitchen door before I went inside. It surprised me to find that everything looked as if my daughter had just stepped out and might return at any moment, because she had left a half-empty glass of water on the counter, a pair of socks under the coffee table, sheet music on the piano. The piano! I had forgotten it was here, and now I realized I would have to call the movers from Riverside to have it returned to the house. What about the wooden chandelier? And this new rug? I called her on her cell phone to ask her, but she brushed me off. “Do whatever you like,” she said. She was in Boston, she was too busy to talk to me.
I pulled a trash bag from the kitchen drawer and furiously emptied the fridge of milk, expired eggs, bread that had turned green. I found myself imagining the two of them at the kitchen table, or sitting on the sofa, or listening to the record player. When I asked Nora about the young man she’d brought here, to this place I wanted so desperately to forget, she didn’t even try to deny it. But why him? I asked. Look at Salma, I told her, she’s married, has two children, and lives a respectable life. But my younger daughter had lost her way. As I cleared out the rest of her things from the cabin, I murmured a prayer for her, as I had so many times in the past, only this time I prayed for more than her health, more than her safety, more than her happiness. I prayed for her greedily, for the thing I had given up years ago and never found again.
Home.
Nora
The pleasure of my company was requested, the invitation in my welcome packet said, at a cocktail reception held in honor of the featured composers. The party was funded by wealthy donors, and from all available evidence it was mostly donors who were milling about the ballroom that night, in designer tuxedos and satin gowns. My plane had arrived two hours late and I hadn’t had anything to eat, but by the time I made it to the buffet the only offerings left were a few shrimp swimming in an unidentifiable sauce and asparagus drying under the bright lights of the chandeliers. Disappointed, I picked up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and stepped outside. The terrace was less crowded, it turned out, and I found myself standing next to an elderly couple. “It’s much cooler out here, isn’t it?” the wife said.
“Mercifully,” I said. It was also more humid than I expected, the air threatening a thunderstorm, and I wished I had remembered to pack an umbrella. I would have to see if any of the stores near my hotel carried any. Again, I searched the crowd, looking for one of the other five composers, or at least someone from the festival staff, but I saw only unfamiliar faces.
“First time at Silverwood?” the wife asked.
“Yes,” I said, relieved to have some company. “How about you?”
“Oh, we’re old-timers.” She smiled warmly at me. Pinned to the neckline of her evening dress was a white ribbon, presumably a charitable cause she supported. “My husband and I have been coming here since 1989. It’s one of our favorite things to do; we look forward to it all year long. We’ve made a lot of friends here.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“And who are you with?” her husband asked.
“Sorry?”
“You must be one of the composers’ guests?”
“I am one of the composers.”
“Oh.” He glanced at his wife as if he needed help in coping with this odd situation, then pulled out a folded program from his pocket and looked through it. “You must be, uh, how do you say your name?”
“Guerraoui.”
“And what does the N. stand for?”
“Nora.”
“I’m David Ford,” he said, shaking my hand vigorously. “This is my wife, Liz.”
The Fords made small talk for a few minutes before moving away, but my experience with them left a bad taste in my mouth. So it was with a great deal of trepidation that, the following morning, I met with Geri Turner and Roy Gilmore, the bass player and drummer who would be performing with me at the end of the week. Each of us worked in different styles, but Geri and Roy were so easy to work with that by the end of our first rehearsal I felt as though I had played with them many times before. I remember looking up from the piano and catching Geri’s eye as she was about to start her solo, or the little nod that Roy gave as I started mine.
Still, the pleasure I derived from playing with these musicians was too often overshadowed by my experiences outside of rehearsal. A security guard stopped me as I tried to go into the venue on my first morning, asking me to show my ID and tell him what business I had in the building. Standing in the middle of the café one day, trying to decide on lunch, I was handed a tray of dirty dishes by an attendee who assumed I was part of the help staff. Another time, a music critic talked to me for a good fifteen minutes before I realized that he thought I was Tahira Khan, one of the publicists at the festival, a woman with whom the only thing I had in common was the color of my skin. Everything else about us was different: she was taller, heavier, prettier, and she even spoke with a British accent. For years, I had wanted to be included in one of these prestigious venues, and now that I had finally been admitted into one, I felt out of place.
I was caught between the contradictory urges of running away from Silverwood and proving myself to all the David Fords in attendance. My rehearsal week brought about an anxiety the like of which I had never known before, and by the time the day of my performance arrived I was seriously contemplating calling in sick. I had been out and about every day, so I knew I couldn’t claim to have the flu, but I could easily have complained of food poisoning. Maybe from shellfish. Or deviled eggs. I was in my hotel room, frantically searching for the festival director’s phone number, when my mother called. She wanted to tell me that she was clearing out the cabin and locking it up until probate closed in October, at which time it would be sold along with the restaurant. She would take care of moving my old piano back, she said, but did I want to keep the antique chandelier I’d bought? Or could she just leave it there for whoever bought the place?
“I can’t really talk right now, Mom. I’m in Boston.”
“What are you doing in Boston?”
“I’m featured at Silverwood.”
“Silver-what?”
“Silverwood. It’s a very big deal.”
“So you want to leave the chandelier here?”
“Whatever you like.”