I did feel a pang of sadness then. But I wanted to know Mr. Heidelman too, and I wanted to look at all the paintings and prints and sketches on the wall. I wanted to hear him play the violin, the piano, any one of all those instruments that the movers filed in that first day we met.
Salix pulled out her violin and tuned a few strings and Mr. Heidelman put the kettle on for tea. Salix and Mr. Heidelman chatted while the kettle heated up. When the kettle whistled, it sounded just like Mrs. Patel’s. I didn’t feel panic or sadness as Mr. Heidelman lifted the kettle off the stove. I just missed Mrs. Patel.
I went back to the art, to clear my head.
From floor to ceiling, frames of all sizes. Watercolors, oil, pencil sketches, paintings that looked hundreds of years old, others that were very modern. I had never seen a wall so crowded with art. Another wall displayed photographs, mostly black-and-white, all of people, mostly musicians, and several of Mr. Heidelman playing in the orchestra.
Salix started to play.
Simply put, it was the most beautiful piece of music that I had ever heard. Haunting and sweet at the same time, both uncomplicated and intricately urgent.
Mr. Heidelman shuffled out of the kitchen, rubbing his hands together, his face bright with joy. “Nigel Kennedy. ‘Fallen Forest.’ Yes!”
Salix lifted her eyes in acknowledgment and kept playing.
For a moment I felt as if we’d slipped through a door and into another world, where everything looked the same but was covered in a fine dusting of glitter.
I stared at Salix as she played. How could she know each note by heart? How could she keep so much music tidy and organized and ready to pull out at any time? It was a kind of miracle, really.
—
At eleven o’clock, the drumming in the park stopped.
“You see?” Mr. Heidelman grinned. “They were happy to help an old man. And now it’s time for me to go to bed.”
“Thank you for the tea and cookies,” I said.
“Thank you,” Salix said.
“You must play for me again.” He pumped her hand. “No, even better. I have an idea. You wait. It will help with Juilliard. I’ll be in touch.”
He said good night and shut the door.
“It’ll help with Juilliard?” Salix laughed. “Is that what he just said?”
“He did.”
Salix’s cheeks shone red and her green eyes sparkled. “You know what?”
“What?”
“This.” She slid a hand around my waist and pulled me close. She kissed me. Her lips were soft and lingered warm against mine before she pulled away. “I’ve wanted to do that since before those little shits showed up at the park.”
“Me too.” And on tippy-toe I kissed her back.
Kissing was a height.
The anticipation was the ride up, up, up, so high. To where the air was thin and there were clouds all around, and far below, everything was still going on without you, without the two of you.
And on tippy-toe I kissed her back. Again and again and again.
Salix tasted like the jasmine tea and almond cookies Mr. Heidelman had served us in china teacups with iridescent peacocks painted on the saucers. Her lips were soft. She knew what she was doing. Her hands were firm on my hips, and then on the small of my back. When we pulled apart to say good night, I could hardly believe that we were standing on concrete. Everything was so soft and pliable. The air was warm and smelled of roses. And then she was walking away, and even though I never, ever wanted her to leave, not ever, I knew that of course she had to. It was so late. And a moment had to end to become one.
The house was dark and quiet. I floated to the couch and actually swooned as I sat down. And then I was giggling, and then I was yawning, and then I was falling asleep with a smile so big that when I woke with a start a couple of hours later, my face actually hurt. It was the front door, slamming open. My dad stumbled in and flicked on the hall light, but he didn’t notice me. He kicked off one shoe and then wrestled the other one off, lurching backward until he was braced against the wall, where he let out a very loud belch.
“Dad?” I sat up.
“Maevey. Maevey Gravy. Groovy Maevey Gravy.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Sure.”
“Where have you been?”
“Here and there. Sometimes here. Sometimes there.”
He groped the wall until he found the switch for the living room. All of a sudden everything was illuminated in that hot, bright light that happens after the darkest dark. His face glistened with sweat. His T-shirt was soaked under each arm. His hair was flattened. There was a stain down the front of his shirt.
“Did you puke on yourself?”
“Maybe just a little.” He held his thumb and finger apart about an inch.
“Where’s your truck?”
“Friend.”
“A friend drove? A friend has your truck?”
“She drove. She has the truck.”
“Who is she?”
“There is no she,” he growled. “I’m not so drunk that I don’t get what you’re implying. Besides, it’s none of your business.”
“Not my business?”
“Nope.”
“Where the fuck are you, Dad?”
“Here, baby.”
He yanked me into a hug. He reeked of vomit and booze and sweat. I tried to pull away, and he held me tighter, the damp from his armpit wetting the back of my neck.
“You’re not here.” I twisted out of his grip. “You’re totally gone!”
He let out a long, boozy sigh. “You want to talk existentialism?”
“No.”
“Existentialism. The study of existence. That painting.” He flung his arm, gesturing at the painting of us in the meadow. “Did that moment exist?”
“Why are we talking about the painting?”
“Do you, Maeve Glover, believe in the existence of that moment?”
“I remember it. I remember the smell of flowers everywhere. I remember we drove up there in the truck. You brought apples.”
“Now, see.” He wagged a finger in my face. “That’s where you’re wrong. I made that moment up. It never happened. It never existed. Because your mom never let me see you when you were that old.”
“Because you were drunk then. Just like now.”
“Sure, if you want to simplify it.”
I swallowed against the lump in my throat. Tears welled up, but I was not going to cry. I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut. “This is so—”
“So what?” He opened his arms, his empty palms face up, part appeal, part surrender. “So what, Maeve?”
“The painting is a lie.”
“But it’s not. I made it up. Now it exists. And you have all those wonderful memories. That is magic.”
It wasn’t magic. He had just destroyed one of my best memories. It was mean and cruel, and he could never take it back.
What now?
The baby was due in fifty-eight days.
The boys were killing off the kings in Gnomenville.
Claire kept pacing the house. Upstairs, downstairs, in each room, as if maybe if she looked often enough, she would find him.