Part 13 (1/2)
”How surprising.”
”What's Anthony's life like down there? Does he like it?”
”I wouldn't know. We don't talk much either.”
”How come? How come you don't talk?”
”Not much in common, I guess.”
”You guess, you guess-don't you know anything?”
Rosie returned before he could respond. She sat down next to me and her navy skirt climbed upward. The skirt from another planet, with a will of its own. A skirmish ensued as Rosie tugged it down, human versus apparel.
”I'm sorry, Patrick,” she said. ”Daddy's too tired to see anyone. And you came all this way. He appreciates it, really-and I do too.”
Patrick rose from his chair. ”Guess I'll get going,” he said.
”Can I come over?” I asked. I wanted to see the house again, I wanted to see Dr. Moore. They were all more shadowy now, the Moores, and at the same time more exposed. I knew things that possibly Patrick himself didn't know. I wondered whether the key was still in the jade cigarette box.
”Why?” Patrick asked, genuinely puzzled.
”So gracious,” I said.
”Yeah, sure, if you want.”
I tried to persuade Rosie to join us, but she wasn't ready to desert her post. ”I have to stay with Daddy,” she said. ”Have fun!”
There was limited parking at St. Mary's, and Patrick had left his car, a white Mercedes, a long way from the hospital. It was a cold October day, and I was s.h.i.+vering by the time I let myself in on the pa.s.senger side.
”Are you cold?” Patrick asked, inserting a key in the ignition. ”I can turn on the heat.”
”Aren't you cold?”
”I don't get cold,” he said.
”Lucky you. Remember the cold spell last year?”
”Was there a cold spell?”
”Why do you do that?” I snapped. ”Why do you duck like that?”
”I'm insecure?”
”Oh, forget it! There's no point trying to talk to you.”
”I like winter,” he said, suddenly in a good mood. It was the driving-I could tell he liked navigating his vehicle, like a Hardy character perched aloft a village cart, pulling at the reins.
Dr. Moore didn't come to the door when we entered her house, but we pa.s.sed Mr. Davies, the cook, in the kitchen, patting dough into a baking dish. He was tall and gaunt, with thinning hair and vampire eyebrows. I couldn't decide whether he was strange and forbidding or merely felt out of place.
Patrick and Mr. Davies ignored each other, but I said, ”Hi there, Mr. Davies.” He looked up from his food preparations, nodded briefly.
Patrick didn't seem to notice this small exchange. He dodged into the pantry and began climbing up the d.i.c.kensian staircase.
”Isn't there any other way of getting to your part of the house?” I grumbled.
”I can get you a flashlight.”
”No, it's okay. I'll just risk breaking my neck. Where did your mother find Mr. Davies? He's kind of weird.”
Patrick didn't answer. He opened the door to his loft and said, ”Do you want coffee, or tea-or anything?”
”Maybe later. I wouldn't mind some music. I'm so p.i.s.sed off!” I added, the words rus.h.i.+ng out of me.
”Why is that?” he asked, but his good mood had vanished and his voice was unfriendly.
”You're not really interested,” I said. I selected a few novels and settled in one of the living-room chairs. Patrick drank vodka and leafed through the latest issue of Logos Logos, our local underground newsweekly, printed in various hard-to-read colour combinations: pink on orange, orange on lime green.
But I was too jittery to read. I set aside my book and interrupted him. ”What's Anthony doing? Does he have a job?”
”Yeah,” Patrick yawned. ”He works for a magazine. He writes about money.”
”Money?”
”Economics.”
”Why economics?”
”I have no idea.”
”How does he know about that sort of thing?”
”Just picked it up, I guess. It's not that complicated.”
”Is he a Marxist too?”
”I wouldn't know. The magazine he writes for certainly isn't.”
”Do you have any photographs of yourselves as kids?” I asked, suddenly craving that entry into their lives. Photos of Anthony and Patrick as little boys, of their parents, their grandparents-a feast of revelations.
”I don't know where they are.”
”Can't you ask your mother?”
”I'd really rather not,” he said wearily; it was a kind of deep, all-consuming weariness, and it reminded me of my own breakdown the previous winter, when I couldn't pull myself out of bed, out of nightmares.
The phone rang and Patrick said, ”That's my mother. She wants to play chess.” He picked up the receiver. ”I can't right now, I'm busy-”
”No, no, go ahead!” I swung my arm emphatically, then caught myself. If I turned into my mother, I'd have no choice but to join a convent.
Patrick told his mother he'd be there in a few minutes. ”No, no, it's no one. I mean ... yes, Maya is here. No, she says it's okay. We're coming down.” He hung up.