strings of his considerable guilt. I suppose she didn’t need to; in a constant mode of making reparations to her, he danced to tunes she never had to play.
My memories of her change every day: her tears of helplessness when laughing, bent double and breathless, often at something my father had said; her urgency to bring baskets of food and fresh linen handkerchiefs to an ill friend; her tact at a frail bedside; her unreachable concentration as she scrubbed her pigs with a long-handled, heavy-bristled broom.
She had little vanity that I saw, yet when she died I found in her possessions more than a dozen kinds of hand cream and as many eyebrow pencils, though my memory holds no recollection of ever having seen a trace of makeup anywhere on that face, with its high cheekbones and ivory skin. Now, as the house appeared around the bend in the avenue, it was her face that rose like the moon in my mind.
33
My father had a way of scurrying that said, “Embarrassed.” As I climbed out of the car, I saw him do it. In the opposite direction. He crossed the stableyard and went into the house by the scullery door. Not a good sign; he usually hallooed me and came forward, talking already, in full spate, with some story: “Well, do-do-do you know what just happened?” or “Well, we were just-just-just talking about you.”
Now he ran away from me, and I knew he hoped that I hadn’t seen him. I also knew what would happen next: he and my mother would materialize on the front porch and walk out to my car together. When something difficult had to be said, she rode shotgun for him.
As she did now—and my heart plummeted. She embraced me—unusual in itself; this was not a demonstrative woman—while he hung back a little and said nothing.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’d say that ‘wrong’ isn’t the right-right-right word.” He beat her to it. “In fact, ‘right’ may very well be the right-right-right word. Heh-heh.”
Her face and eyes offered calm. “Come on in, Ben. When did you eat?” But she stopped in the hallway, put her hand on my arm, and said, “We’ve sold up.” He walked on.
“You what?”
He turned back. “We-we-we got a great price,” he said.
“Here?” I asked. “Not Ballycarron?” We had a second farm run by a manager.
“Both,” she said. “We sold both.”
They knew that I had no interest in carrying on the farm. The place would have given me too much pain. My memories of Goldenfields remained too imbued with recollections of Venetia, and our meeting in the woods, and my young husbandhood. Yet when they told me, the breath left my body, and tears surprised my eyes.
My father walked away, embarrassment daubing his face red. Mother stood in front of me, anxious and waiting.
“He can’t do it anymore, Ben. He’s not up to it.”
My first words, as I look back, still appall me. “But where will I stay?” I wailed. “Where will I go? I have nowhere else.”
Unbeknownst to myself, I had defined the word “home.”
Mother gave me a timeline. I agreed to come back for the auction of the effects and contents. The house still contained many of my childhood treasures. And their new abode had a small guest room. “Anytime, Ben. For as often and as long as you ever need.”
But that old and sometimes gilded life of mine was over, and I knew it.
My father never raised the subject with me. I stayed for two nights, the three of us ate our meals together, and the sale details never fell from his lips. I, perhaps sadistically, didn’t mention it either. Or perhaps the weight around my heart felt too heavy.
I left in the middle of a bright morning, promising to come back in good time for the auction. As Mother walked me to the car, she said in the tone of a confidante, “Do you know that she’s back?”
“Who told you?”
“Everybody around here went to see the show. Except your father.” She half-chuckled. I said nothing. We walked on.
By the car door, Mother took my arm, her
My memories of her change every day: her tears of helplessness when laughing, bent double and breathless, often at something my father had said; her urgency to bring baskets of food and fresh linen handkerchiefs to an ill friend; her tact at a frail bedside; her unreachable concentration as she scrubbed her pigs with a long-handled, heavy-bristled broom.
She had little vanity that I saw, yet when she died I found in her possessions more than a dozen kinds of hand cream and as many eyebrow pencils, though my memory holds no recollection of ever having seen a trace of makeup anywhere on that face, with its high cheekbones and ivory skin. Now, as the house appeared around the bend in the avenue, it was her face that rose like the moon in my mind.
33
My father had a way of scurrying that said, “Embarrassed.” As I climbed out of the car, I saw him do it. In the opposite direction. He crossed the stableyard and went into the house by the scullery door. Not a good sign; he usually hallooed me and came forward, talking already, in full spate, with some story: “Well, do-do-do you know what just happened?” or “Well, we were just-just-just talking about you.”
Now he ran away from me, and I knew he hoped that I hadn’t seen him. I also knew what would happen next: he and my mother would materialize on the front porch and walk out to my car together. When something difficult had to be said, she rode shotgun for him.
As she did now—and my heart plummeted. She embraced me—unusual in itself; this was not a demonstrative woman—while he hung back a little and said nothing.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’d say that ‘wrong’ isn’t the right-right-right word.” He beat her to it. “In fact, ‘right’ may very well be the right-right-right word. Heh-heh.”
Her face and eyes offered calm. “Come on in, Ben. When did you eat?” But she stopped in the hallway, put her hand on my arm, and said, “We’ve sold up.” He walked on.
“You what?”
He turned back. “We-we-we got a great price,” he said.
“Here?” I asked. “Not Ballycarron?” We had a second farm run by a manager.
“Both,” she said. “We sold both.”
They knew that I had no interest in carrying on the farm. The place would have given me too much pain. My memories of Goldenfields remained too imbued with recollections of Venetia, and our meeting in the woods, and my young husbandhood. Yet when they told me, the breath left my body, and tears surprised my eyes.
My father walked away, embarrassment daubing his face red. Mother stood in front of me, anxious and waiting.
“He can’t do it anymore, Ben. He’s not up to it.”
My first words, as I look back, still appall me. “But where will I stay?” I wailed. “Where will I go? I have nowhere else.”
Unbeknownst to myself, I had defined the word “home.”
Mother gave me a timeline. I agreed to come back for the auction of the effects and contents. The house still contained many of my childhood treasures. And their new abode had a small guest room. “Anytime, Ben. For as often and as long as you ever need.”
But that old and sometimes gilded life of mine was over, and I knew it.
My father never raised the subject with me. I stayed for two nights, the three of us ate our meals together, and the sale details never fell from his lips. I, perhaps sadistically, didn’t mention it either. Or perhaps the weight around my heart felt too heavy.
I left in the middle of a bright morning, promising to come back in good time for the auction. As Mother walked me to the car, she said in the tone of a confidante, “Do you know that she’s back?”
“Who told you?”
“Everybody around here went to see the show. Except your father.” She half-chuckled. I said nothing. We walked on.
By the car door, Mother took my arm, her
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