In the hall, I step gingerly around the broken glass. Zelda would probably just leave it there, waiting for someone to come tidy it up, or for the glass to be ground into fine sand between boards and soles. Zelda revels in entropy. But I obviously can’t leave the shattered wineglass lying on the ground, so I stoop to pick up the larger shards. I walk them to the upstairs bathroom, where I find a broom and a dustpan. I slice my foot open in a tiny, raw gash as I kneel to sweep up the rest of the remains, but I let the wound bleed onto the cool floor, ignoring it.
Standing in front of my mother’s door, I open the envelope, feeling nervous. Even though I’ve been receiving emails from Zelda, this feels strangely intimate, physical. I can’t remember the last time I got a real letter from anyone. Something about a person’s writing is immediate and corporeal, present. Could she have been in the house while I was out? Could she have planted the note for me earlier today? Or did she do it before the barn burned?
Inside the envelope, there is no letter, though. Just a scrap of paper with the name Jason scrawled across it. I flip the paper over, and on the back is a short P.S.: Surely there’s some photographic evidence somewhere, eh, Ava?
11
Kitchen-bound, I escape downstairs. At the sink, with a cold washcloth fixed to the back of my neck and my wineglass spruced up with a refill, I stare out the window toward the barn, thinking. I’m so distracted that I barely hear Marlon and Opal coming inside, and I jump when Opal touches my shoulder.
“Ava, doll, are you hot?” Her hands reach for the washcloth on my neck, and she takes it away, runs it under the cold tap, wrings it out, and puts it back on my neck, her gnarled and bejeweled fingers rubbing my nape with circular motions. I grit my teeth, trying not to scoot away. I can feel the heat of her body close behind me. She’s smaller than I am, and she peers out the window over my shoulder. “Oh, sweetheart. I know.” She grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. I flinch visibly, but Opal doesn’t seem to notice or care. I take a big swallow from my glass and glance toward Marlon, who is slumped in one of the chairs in the living room.
“Glass of wine, Pops?” I ask cheerily. He gazes at me blankly for a second before trying for a smile. It’s an appalling attempt. He looks haggard, old, the skin beneath his eyes puffed and bruised. My elegant, dapper father, who until recently looked like a man of forty, now hunched and wizened. Deflated.
“When I wanted one earlier, we didn’t seem to have any fucking corkscrews,” he complains. “Had to go to the Dandy Mart to buy one.”
I go to the fridge and fill a glass for him in pity.
“I’ll take one, too, Ava—thanks for asking,” Opal says testily. I pour her a third of a glass, a little passive-aggressively, and she accepts it with a roll of her eyes, perching on a stool at the kitchen counter. “Come here, sit, dear. I’d like to talk to you.” I desperately don’t want this, but I sit nonetheless. “Now, Ava. What are you doing with yourself, over there in Paris? No, no,” she cuts me off as I open my mouth. “I understand youthful experimentation and the desire to define yourself. Believe me. I spent a semester in Spain when I was your age. It was the best thing for me. Which is why I didn’t raise an eyebrow when Marlon asked for the money to send you to do your little degree in France…” She smiles indulgently at Marlon, who is looking pointedly out the window.
“I didn’t realize you were bankrolling it, Grandma,” I say, looking directly at Marlon. He has definitely implied that his successes in California were financing my “youthful experimentation.” Opal raises her eyebrows and looks over at Marlon too.
“Oh, well. Not entirely, but yes. And I’m not saying that gives me any right to comment on your choices or to help make those choices but…” Yes, it does, I think sourly. You’ve bought me, Grandma. Let’s see what it costs.
“No, no, I’d love to hear your opinion,” I say obligingly, and she smiles, patting my hand again. She holds on to it this time.
“Well, dear, I was very impressed when you finished your first degree, studying something that would be truly useful to you and your family. Silenus is such a complicated investment, and it really needs someone with skill and training. But you’re very young, and I know you want to go out and sow your wild oats and all. When I was young, only boys were allowed to sow their oats, and I think it’s amazing that your generation is able to give women the same privilege,” Opal says with a judgy smirk.
“We’re making all kinds of headway in gender equity,” I agree, with only the barest note of sarcasm. She doesn’t really hear me; I’ve always spoken too quickly, and I suspect Opal catches only half of the words I say.
“But I wonder about this little…undertaking. What is it you’re doing? French literature?”
“I’m actually looking at a French literary movement, OuLiPo, and the American author Edgar Allan Poe. Particularly in how they think about constraint. Both Poe and the OuLiPo authors place formal restrictions on how they write, believing that these imposed rules actually produce more creative insight. Being limited forces you to become more creative. I’m interested in possible intersections—”
“I mean, I’m sure it’s very interesting, but what practical use is it?” Opal interrupts. “I know we all tolerated Zelda’s adventures, her experiments in the humanities, but Zelda was…artistic and, frankly…not all that practical. Without her, it’s especially important that you be realistic. I mean, what sort of job are you going to be able to get?”
“Probably none at all. I was hoping to marry some French count.”
She frowns. “Well, I’m just not sure that’s reasonable. You’ve been in France for, what, twenty-one months?” She says this casually enough, but I realize that she’s been counting quite closely. I wonder if the coffers aren’t quite as deep as we’ve always assumed. But Opal has always been parsimonious with her cash.
“About that long.”
“I just think maybe with Zelda…gone, it’s time to think about the future. Really consider your options.” Her fingers are stroking my knuckles. I want to scream.
“I have been, a bit. I’m just…not in a good place to make decisions right now. The shock,” I say.
Marlon finally speaks: “Ma, let her be for a minute.” He sounds tired. “None of us can really make much of a plan right now. I’m sure Ava will be here for a few weeks, taking care of business, and you’ll have plenty of time to consider…”
I wince. I don’t want to be here for a few weeks. I want out.
“Yes, I’m sure after you’ve gone back to Napa,” Opal says, “we’ll have lots of girl time to really talk about what’s important. And I’m sure Ava has some stories about French men to share when her father’s not around.” Opal winks at me, giving my hand another squeeze.
“When are you going back to California?” I say, trying to keep the note of panic out of my voice.