10

Jonathan stayed away for two days, the first day drunk in a ditch, the second fighting a hangover in a boarding house in Seattle. On the third day he returned home, determined to work harder. No matter what, he would force himself to work an hour more every day. He could plant strawberries the following year. There was still hope. Sarah must have a piano. Of course she must. They must have curtains, too, and a carpet and wallpaper – even that damned pelmet. To signal that a new life was beginning, he bought a Christmas cactus in a pot.

But there was nobody in the house when he got back. He ran upstairs, opened the doors, slammed them and ran back down to the silence of the kitchen where plates stood in piles on the shelves next to preserves in rows and knives hanging from hooks. On the kitchen table lay the note in Rayner’s neat, firm hand.

Dear Father:

We are going to visit grandfather in Sweetbrier. Mother says she is going to take tests to become a teacher and maybe we will live there and you can come and see us at grandfather’s house.

Your loving son,

Rayner

Jonathan picked up the cactus and hurled it at the wall, where its pot shattered and fell to the ground in shards much like the shards he’d found Sarah crouching among, eyes agape with terror, when Rayner was about to be born.

By the time the Youngbloods arrived for Claire’s French dinner party, Atlas was bathed, clean-shirted, ascot-tied; he even smelled of talcum power instead of liquor. I suppose it isn’t surprising that a man who runs an old age ghetto and calls himself Dr Youngblood – I don’t for a moment believe that anybody could have been born with such a name – should turn out to be an ascot-tie kind of man, too, and more than a little oily into the bargain. What is surprising – and irritating – is that I didn’t dislike him. Also, his wife was not near as dopey as Atlas made her out to be. She kept an amused eye on him – on Atlas, that is – as he mixed drinks: short on the whiskey, long on the soda for the guests; in his own glass, whiskey topped up with gin. Claire was safely in the kitchen. The Youngbloods said they didn’t know the Murphys, but when the Murphys arrived Mrs Youngblood said, ‘You know, I think I made a mistake, Dr Murphy. I think I do know you. I recognize the voice.’

‘But not the man, eh?’ Dr Murphy said. Almost all the men Atlas entertained to dinner were doctors. Dr Murphy had a shuffly walk and an unexpectedly sweet smile. ‘Can’t say as I blame you,’ he went on. ‘Just the other day I was out at the mall, and I saw this poor old duffer coming towards me – he was talking to himself, can you imagine, in a shopping mall? – and I said to myself, “Look at that fumbling old fool. He ought to be dead.” And you know what? It was me: in one of those reflecting windows.’ Claire came in from the kitchen, and he made a little bow in her direction. ‘So this is to be the famous French dinner, is it? I’m not much on foreign foods, my dear. I hope I won’t disappoint you.’