The Widower's Tale (38 page)

Snowbirds, Loud called them, the people who left their homes every winter to go somewhere warm: not Guatemala, nowhere so unpredictable or wild, but Florida, or the tamer islands in the Caribbean. They would leave their big, elegant houses in Matlock empty for months on end. (After dark, timers turned lights on and off, to give the illusion that bodies moved upstairs and down. Anyone who had criminal intentions would hardly be fooled by this.) After Celestino took care of Mrs. Bullard's plants while she went away for November, Loud got the idea that he would offer plant-sitting over the winter, maybe even tie it in with a "plowing package."

"You figure," said Loud, "that if they've got the greenhouse of orchids, or even the scrappy collection of geraniums and spider plants, they can't get someone to come in if the house is inaccessible due to snow. Right? And some of these people have somebody check the joint for frozen pipes, sudden leaks.... So if I'm plowing for the caretaker, why not
be
the friggin' caretaker, right? Mother, what do we think?"

"I'd say we have a new service to offer," said Mrs. Loud. "I'll have the flyers printed out this afternoon. How about that? Or how about an e-blast? I'm getting good at that." She winked at Celestino.

Celestino had grown to like Mrs. Loud, perhaps because she never addressed him as
hombre
or asked him anything about his personal life. He had shown up at the office every few days to fetch Mrs. Bullard's keys, then returned them on his way to the train. They would talk about the weather or stories in the news unconnected to politics or war (or ICE deportations, which were suddenly very much in the news). Still, he could not bring himself to call her Happy.

Celestino had just returned Mrs. Bullard's keys for the last time. Loud had accompanied him that day, to make sure everything was in its proper place for the woman's return. He had gone in with Celestino twice during her absence. "Just to make sure you're not hijacking the silver. No offense,
hombre,"
he'd said. "I know I'd be tempted!"

Celestino's contempt for Loud had increased, along with his dependence on the man. Why did it feel somehow wrong, immoral, this relationship? If the man wanted to give him greater responsibility, wasn't that a good thing? As he stood awkwardly beside the mother's desk, Celestino wondered if he could dare hope that Loud's "new service" might mean he could avoid the foot-numbing, face-freezing days spent entirely outdoors clearing the endless snow from the long drives, the patios, the rooftops and gutters, the paths to hot tubs and garden sheds. Loud had added firewood delivery, too, this fall. After one too many splinters, Celestino had broken down and bought a pair of thick leather gloves.

Finally, Loud looked at him. "So are you up for this,
hombre?
Indoor gardening? How's that for a softer mode of employment, hey?"

"I am certainly willing," Celestino said stiffly. If he seemed too eager, would Loud refuse to give him more money? Did he dare ask for more money?

"You hear that, Mother?" Loud laughed. "He's 'willing,' our
compadre
here. But in the meantime, the Pellinis are having a conniption about their leaves. That monster oak does it every year: drops a buttload of leaves all at once, right after Thanksgiving. Biological clockwork. Just like a woman."

The word
woman
pulled Celestino back to Isabelle. Not that his mind or his dreams had let go of her since Arturo had reported that he'd seen her.

After the meal at the Big Oven, the day Celestino had let himself be interviewed by Robert, Arturo had walked him home. Celestino had told him about Isabelle. He had told him too much, he knew, but this young man, Arturo, whom he would have despised in another version of his own life, had a way of making people talk. (Perhaps that's why Robert had invited him along to the interview, not just because of the language they shared.)

One evening two weeks later, Arturo had dropped by Mrs. Karp's house. He'd startled the woman, since Celestino never had visitors, but she, too, had been charmed.

He'd invited Celestino for a late dinner at a nearby bar. Arturo chattered confidently yet aimlessly in Spanish, skipping from one thing to another: the neighborhoods of Lothian, the Democratic political race, the climate. (Chicago had never quite hardened him to northern weather; was it the same for Celestino?)

Silently, Celestino wondered why Arturo wanted his company. They'd found a table and ordered beers when Arturo confessed that he was homesick for a home he no longer had. He talked about his half siblings, who had taken over his father's coffee business. "I could show up down there and they wouldn't sic the dogs on me--and there are dogs, literal dogs, believe me! But it would be weird," he said. "Which is too bad. They still resent my mother. Not the money, I think, but that my father loved her more than their mother. I'm the reminder. The love child."

They'd been in the bar for an hour, finished their burgers, when Arturo mentioned Isabelle. He had gone to that seminar at Harvard, the psychology seminar that showed up on his fancy phone. He'd invited Celestino to go--but of course he'd been working, as he did nearly every day of every week save Sundays. It shocked him to find out that Arturo had gone on his own.

"I was curious, you know?" he said. "About what kind of a woman holds a guy's fascination for years on end. Was she a siren, was she a vixen, was she an angel?"

Celestino's sudden, fearful jealousy must have shown on his face.

"Wow, man, don't chop my balls off. I said I was curious," said Arturo. "That is all. I am an inquiring kind of guy, Celestino. A student, not a schemer."
No soy un maquinador
.

Celestino tried to relax. "You spoke with her."

"No, no. Nothing like that. I just checked her out--she had to be the one you remembered. The name, the context ... You can't turn your back on a coincidence like that. And sure thing, she talked about having had this famous archaeologist as a father, how it influenced who she is now, more than if he'd been an ordinary guy. She talked about what it's like seeing people react when they find out who your dad was. How you're tempted to flee to the opposite side of the world, just because no one there would know his name, but that's still letting him steer your life." Arturo paused. He stared at Celestino for a moment. "You're the silent one, man. Aren't you burning with questions?"

Celestino could not imagine what to ask. But there was so much he had to know!

"She's very stylish, your Isabelle."

"Yes. In that way, she was like her mother."

"That French thing."

Celestino felt miserable when he should have felt elated. Shouldn't he? He had dreamed of finding her,
intended
to find her--had he actually thought he would?--but on his own. A private search, at the right time.
When the time is ripe
, as he'd heard Loud say about this or that enterprise. He had not meant to involve someone else. He was no
maquinador
, either.

Arturo played with his empty beer bottle, printing rings of moisture on the table, the links of a chain. "So I have to confess, I followed her. After the symposium broke up, she went off alone. I know where she lives." He looked gleeful in a way that made Celestino feel ill. "Don't you want to know where?"

Celestino wished he had not eaten the burger. It was too large, obscenely large, more than he generally ate for any meal. "Why do you tell me all this?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Arturo shot back. "I thought ... Oh. You think I've condescended to help you. Is that it? Robert does this, too. Accuses me of acting like I'm some kind of benefactor." He made a noise of disgust.

Couldn't the boy's efforts be sincere? He was obviously a romantic. And what was Celestino if not a romantic? His mother told him so again and again. In her mouth, it was an accusation.

"I want to see her," he said. "But I thought it would come at a time when I was ... ready."

"Ready how? Who's ever ready for anything this important? I mean sure, it's totally risky. But next week she could up and move to California. Right? Or meet some guy. I'll tell you this, too, for what it's worth." Arturo leaned toward Celestino and grinned. He raised his left hand and spread his fingers. "No wedding ring, man. And only
her
name on the buzzer at her building."

Aware that he was blushing, Celestino thought about the girl he'd known: old for her age, yes, but still a girl; not a full-grown woman with style and money and ... advantages that were matched by nothing he had to show. Celestino laughed.

"What?" said Arturo. "What's so funny?"

"I am thinking of how my mother believes in destiny. Destiny over choices that you make. As if it doesn't matter what you plan for. In the end, it's all written. It always was."

"Excuse me, but that is crap," said Arturo. "All that Catholic, God's-will stuff? I outgrew that by age five." He looked at his watch. "Sorry, but I have to make the last train in. So here." He handed Celestino a piece of paper, folded. "Her address. Also, my phone number in case you lost it."

When the radio news carried stories about the raids and the deportations, they were almost always somewhere distant--Illinois or Oklahoma, maybe California. They were in communities where poor white people, "legal" people, hated Latinos for having jobs when they had none. Not that they would have wanted those other jobs, the jobs killing pigs or cleaning sewers or climbing trees to pick fruit. Though sometimes the people who were deported had businesses, modest businesses like tailor shops or souvenir stands. But always, these things went on in distant parts of the country.

Celestino knew his geography, better than some Americans, but he also knew it was dangerous to feel safe just because these people were being persecuted somewhere else.

After returning Mrs. Bullard's keys, he spent a day clearing and shredding a truckload of oak leaves from the Pellinis' lawn. After Gil dropped him off at the station, Celestino went directly to Loud's office.

Loud's mother looked up from the desk she never seemed to leave. "Celestino! Did you miss me already? How nice to see your face."

Her enthusiasm was daunting. He hoped his smile looked genuine. "Will Mr. Loud return soon?"

"My grandson has a basketball tryout, so no. Not this evening," she said. "I'm just staying late to catch up on the books."

Celestino tried to imagine his mother, who was a good deal younger than Happy Loud, putting such energy, such uncomplaining efforts, into the business of one of her children. (Or would she have done this, something like this, if Celestino went back? Then he remembered that she could not do sums, would never learn to use a computer.)

"I wished to speak with Mr. Loud about the idea he spoke of yesterday."

She thought for a moment before she remembered. She pointed to a stack of envelopes on the corner of her desk. "Yes! The flyers go into the mail tomorrow.
Let us tend your winter gardens. Leave home without a care!
Is that what I cooked up?"

"I would like to do that."

"Well, yes, I think Tommy assumes as much, dear." She winked.

"Yes," said Celestino. "Good."

She patted him on the back as she saw him out the door. His usual train was pulling away. He walked along the platform to the box that held free newspapers about the goings-on in Boston. It was empty.

He sat on the bench and thought about the only thing he could these days: Isabelle. Her ringless hands. Her address--an unfamiliar street in Cambridge. Irving. He could, if he wanted, take the train right past Lothian and all the way to Cambridge. He could find that street. He looked down at himself; a peppering of shredded leaves clung to everything he wore.

It had been dark for over an hour; the long cold nights of December felt like a penance you paid in order to celebrate Christmas. Of all the very different, American versions of rituals he knew from his childhood, those surrounding Christmas were his favorite ones. He liked the colored lights: outside against the snow, inside among the branches of an evergreen tree. He liked the sound of carols, the way the singers' voices ballooned in the crisp, dry air. But most of all, Celestino loved the churches: how people filled a tall chilly space with candlelight, with song, with clothing that was suddenly bright (the men in jackets of red or brilliant green, holly pinned to lapels or woolen caps). Children became important, too, reminding him of home. Children acted out the scenes of the Nativity; babies, with their restlessness and crying, were no longer a nuisance.

Christmas was less than two weeks away. Would he spend it alone this year as well, join Mrs. Karp for breakfast if, yet again, her son did not come home from California? (Yet how could Celestino think ill of the man, of any man who, like him, stayed away from his family on such holy days?)

Celestino had spent three Christmases with the Lartigues: the first when he was fifteen, the others when he returned for college. Christmas had been a very social time for the professor and his wife. Dr. Lartigue stood on a ladder to string white lights through the branches of two spruce trees separating their house from the sidewalk, and he moved the furniture in their living room to make way for an indoor tree as well. He put electric candles in every window facing the street, and Celestino had helped him drape garlands of pine and holly along banisters, mantels, and doorways. The house became a visual fiesta. Senora Lartigue spent several days cooking for two separate parties. One was for colleagues from Harvard, along with their families. The adults gathered for civilized conversation in the living room, while the children (who did not know one another well, if at all) wound up watching a Disney movie on the VCR machine, down in the basement room that was filled with games and puzzles.

The second party was smaller but livelier, the guests a dozen French families who, like the Lartigues, had chosen to live in the States (though anyone, even Celestino, could tell that they saw in this choice a significant sacrifice). At this party, the grown-ups laughed and shouted together in their first, preferred language while the youngest of their children ran happily up and down the stairs, easy and playful with one another. The older children went to the basement and took turns playing Ping-Pong. Those who waited their turns would gossip and flirt, in English as often as French. The TV was on, but they barely watched it. That first year, Isabelle's brother, Etienne, smuggled a bottle from the kitchen, pouring slugs of rum into glasses of ginger ale and "virgin" eggnog. That was also the year when Isabelle welcomed him into this group. ("Don't follow Georges outside if he lures you," she warned him. "The guy is barely in lycee and high as a cloud like ninety percent of his waking life. Put 'waking' in quotes.")