“We always ate with you kids. And always at home.”
“I know.”
“And no cellphones.”
But the surprising thing is that she herself eats in those same upscale places now, and she’s bought herself a phone. A nice one, too. She plays Scrabble on it with Paulie on the other side of the country. If you send her a text you get an answer before your phone’s back in your pocket, and her Facebook page has overwhelmed my capacity to follow it. I don’t think there’s a man in her life, but I’ve never actually asked.
As I mentioned, she surprises us. Last fall, she spent Labor Day up here. The weather was chilly in Lasserville, and when we went out to a movie together, she put on her new sweater, a luxurious-looking cardigan with what appeared to be ermine-fur edging. On the ride out to the theater, I could tell that Audra was eyeing it.
Later in bed, Audra said, “That was a Loro Piana.”
“What was?”
“The sweater your mom had on. It was a Loro Piana. I’m sure of it. Your mother’s wearing Loro Piana cashmere.”
“I’m sure it’s imitation.”
“It’s not.”
“Well, then I’m sure she got it secondhand.”
“There was a Neiman Marcus tag in the pocket. A clean one, with the little plastic thingie still on it.”
“How do you know?”
“She hung it in the front closet.”
We were silent.
“That’s a three-thousand-dollar sweater,” she said. Then she added, “At least.”
The next morning, at the breakfast table, I mentioned it to Mom. She set down her coffee and looked across at me. “You want to know if it’s real, don’t you?”
“Well, I guess I do, Mom.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Wow.”
She buttered a slice of toast. “And you want to know if I bought it at a thrift store.”
“Have you been talking to Audra?”
“Of course.”
“Well,” I said. “I’m sure you got a deal on it.”
“I didn’t. I bought it new. But yes, at least it was a little bit on sale.” She smiled. “People change, Hans.”
“I know they do.”
“And you can, too.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome.” She slid a piece of buttered toast across the table.
“I was just wondering,” I said, “about the sweater.”
“I know. I know you were. It was your money, if that’s something else you were wondering. Mostly, anyway.”
“Of course, Mom. It’s fine. That’s why I earned it.”
For a time, then, we ate in silence. When I finished the toast, she buttered another slice for me.
“By the way,” I said. “What did you mean by I can change, too?”
“Just because your father couldn’t — that doesn’t mean that you can’t. You’ve got me in you, too, you know.” She smiled again. “That’s another reason I did it. To show you that it can be done.”
“Really?”
“Sort of, really.”
“Well,” I said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, again.”
“But Mom, what about the things you used to tell us? About thrift and discipline? About being frugal? I believed you.”
“And now you’re all grown, aren’t you?”
—
ONE LAST THING: it happened a few weeks ago, at the Wides. A warm mid-September afternoon when we were out there for another picnic. There was a steady wind from the south, and the moths and butterflies were bumping around on it. We’d been aiming the slingshot at a stump of a beech, probably 125 yards to the north, and letting the balloons ride the wind for the extra distance. The high sun was heating the day, which added to our reach.
It was Emmy’s turn to shoot. On the round before, Niels had come within four or five yards of the target, and he was eager to go again. But Emmy took her time. In these types of affairs, she knows how to agitate her competition. She tossed a blade of sedge into the air, checking the wind. She looked across the water into the trees, which were rustling at their crowns. She looked up into the sky, doing whatever she does. She’s always been an efficient calculator, but there’s something in her character that also relies on intuition, especially at moments like these. I don’t know exactly what she sees when she looks out into the world, or even what she’s looking for; but she always appears to gather some inscrutable shade of information to which the rest of us aren’t privy. The same way my father used to.
When she finally did let it fly, the water balloon vaulted out of its sheath like a missile from its launchpad, instantly transforming its trigonometric fate into a glinting leftward-canted ellipse that elongated obliquely in the breeze. I knew, the moment it peaked, that it would hit the target.
But that’s not why I mention it.
Both kids can get off impressive shots — I hardly even remark on them anymore. But on this particular afternoon, as Emmy’s balloon climbed swiftly to the river’s midpoint and transcended its own apex, I saw it explode into a thousand glittering pieces that shot off in every direction into the sky.
The strange thing is that a moment later I heard it hit the tree on the far side. When I turned, the leaves of the beech were rustling. A few of them floated down. I blinked. I looked back into the air above the river. In my eye, the fireworks continued. Shimmering translucencies of white ember arcing within an oscilloptic polygon, still poised at the apogee. Then they began organizing themselves into a wavering, sinusoidal curve — first dully, then brightly — like an old TV coming on. Finally they peaked. For those who wish it described mathematically — and I still remember it mathematically — I then observed, for perhaps a second and a half, a mobile Lissajous figure continually transforming itself, first homotopically, then homeomorphically, then entirely, into a strange, scattering set of flaming runes, the entire white-hot conflagration sparkling and growing brighter as it fell.
It persisted until I turned my head.
—
WE CALL IT intuition because we don’t have a better word for it.
A few days after I quit Physico, when I was still wandering Manhattan during the daylight hours like a man let out of prison, Audra suggested I go back to see my father. At that point, I’d been home from my second visit for less than a week. I couldn’t decide whether I felt the way I did because of Dad or because I didn’t have a job anymore.
“Well,” she said, “why don’t you just go out there again and find out?”
Two days later, when I pulled into the cove, I could see Cle and Paulie and Mom inside the cabin, preparing the feast they’d promised me if I came back. All three of them were in the kitchen, sidestepping one another as they gathered the dishes. Dad was outside, standing in a haze of smoke at the end of the dock, waving a pair of barbecue tongs at the car. When I walked down to him, he raised his glass. “The prodigal son returns.”
“Yes he does.”
He took a polite-sized swallow of bourbon. “Here’s to you, then.”
“And to you, Dad.”
A longer swallow. “And here’s to our singularities!”
“Which singularities would those be?”
“Well,” he said. “You quit your job, didn’t you? And your old man still feels like a million bucks.”
In mathematics, singularities are reversals — the points at which the graph makes a sharp turn.
“To our health,” he said. One more gulp. “And to our new freedom.”
Not a half hour later, as I was loading silverware into the picnic basket in the kitchen, I watched him hurry along the dock to help Cle and my mother, who were walking down with their platters. At the stairs, he reached forward and guided them up. (Mom first, then Cle — the order all of them always acknowledged.) He didn’t know I was watching — or maybe he did — and as they moved out toward the grill, he stayed at the top of the steps, gazing after them. I have to say, he did look well again, eyeing the women who’d just waltzed him back into his life.