Red Jacket (33 page)

“Yes, Grandma.”

“Keep looking. See where it goes.”

Jeremiah resumes gazing out of the window and shortly is asleep again.

“Jimmy, you said you arranged for us to come because you knew something was wrong with Grace. How did you know?”

“You won't believe me if I tell you.”

“Try me.”

“I had a dream about Grace receiving her award at the ceremony. She was reaching out and — ” The image of Grace's exploding arm makes him pause. Also, he isn't accustomed to the fact of a mere dream telling him what is to come. He usually has an epileptic seizure, followed by something like a vision. The fact that it's a plain old dream is less harassing but it leaves him in doubt. Ironically, the violence of the fits or of some accompanying illness stands as a perverse guarantee, underwriting the reliability of what he foresees. That isn't the case this time. Still, his instincts say the dream is the real thing.

“And what?” Phyllis urges.

“Something was wrong with her arm, so she dropped the award. I could see she was seriously ill.”

“What was wrong with her?”

“I'm not sure, but I know it's bad.”

“Why didn't you tell me right away? Why wait? I've a right to know.”

“It was a dream, Phyllis. This has a long history that I can't go into now. It explains why I'm less confident in the present case than I might otherwise be. I didn't say anything primarily because

… ” He thinks again of the seizures, the absent warranty. “I worried about upsetting you, only to get here and find Grace perfectly fine.”

“But you seem so certain.”

“I am sure — and I'm not!”

“What are we going to do?”

“We can pray.”

They join hands and close their eyes. The child's breaths, a gentle tide, go in and out. Phyllis opens her eyes and speaks first. “How did you arrange for us to come? Can you give instructions for Grace?”

“I have her power of attorney. I've had it since Jeremiah was born.”

“Isn't that untoward, you being a priest and all?”

“It's unusual, yes, but not untoward. I have it
because
I am a priest.”

“You're speaking in parables now, Jimmy. She gave you power of attorney because you are a priest?”

“Want to listen to some more hard-to-believe stuff?”

“You know my life. Want anything harder to believe?”

“Okay. When I was a novice, I made a thirty-day retreat with a priest named J.J. — for John Jeremiah — Kelly.”

“Is that where the child's name comes from?”

“Yes. J.J. was murdered before the retreat ended.”

“Where? In Mabuli?”

“Yes, but in all likelihood, not by any Mabulian. He and I got very close, just talking twice a day over two weeks.”

“Mmmm. It can happen. I know.”

“Well, this tale takes a lot of knowing. I'd been married as a young man, very happily. I lost my wife in an accident not long before I entered the priesthood. She was pregnant. I was so broken up, that, awful as it sounds, I was glad to be giving my life this time around to someone who couldn't die.”

“Never thought of it that way.”

“Nor had I, till then. I was very concerned on that retreat about being able to live a life of celibacy, having been married and all that.”

“Hard, eh?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Anyway, J.J. gave me an assignment. There's a big stained glass window depicting the Annunciation in the chapel, with St. Joseph in the background. We call it the Angelus window. I spent most of my meditation time there. John said to ask Joseph if he wanted Mary the way a man wants a woman.”

“That's never occurred to me either. And what did Joseph say when you asked him?”

“He gave me a puzzle. I couldn't figure it out for a long time. When I met Grace, the pieces began to fall into place.”

“How?”

“Joseph said I'd lost a woman with a baby, but God would give me another, also with a baby, to take care of.”

“And Grace and Jeremiah are who he promised?”

“For sure.”

“The sea's done,” Jeremiah turns from the window, wide awake, and announces precisely. “And I have a secret.”

“What's the secret, Jeremiah?” they ask together.

“Is not a secret if I tell you. Is a secret for Mama.”

“Is it a story?” Jimmy knows his secrets are often stories.

“No, Tules, is not a story.”

“Make sure you keep it in a safe place. All right?”

“Kidoki.”

Showtime

Mona suggests it.

“Why don't we ask Grace to join us for a glass of sherry before we go downstairs to lunch?”

What is the woman thinking? If she and Grace meet in public, neither will risk unpleasantness. St. Chris is too small. In private is another matter! Mark hopes they will be cordial, but if they aren't, his insurance is the presence of others. Time will pass, it will eventually be over, lunch, graduation, the award ceremony. The curfew will mercifully have them indoors early, and that will be that.

He is immediately ashamed of himself for thinking in these terms about these two women for whom he cares. Neither of them is a shrew, though Grace has a viper's tongue on her when she is ready, and Mona, in her element, can hold strong men at bay. But who knows women? Who can predict what they will do, when?

“Mark? Are you dozing?”

“Not just dozing, dear. I'm soundly asleep.”

“Listen, outside this door you is chancellor, but you is no chancellor in this bed. Didn't you hear what I said?”

He rolls over, lies on his back, and opens his eyes. The sun is conducting an inspection through clerestory windows along the top of the east-facing wall, focusing families of motes and a pair of tiny twin spiders suspended on invisible threads. In a move he strongly encouraged, the refurbishment committee had asked the architects to preserve aspects of the original building — cedar floors, coolers on the windows, fretwork along the eaves. The light troops at an angle down the wall and masses on the floor, warming the old wood. The last bit of night shrouds the corner of the room where the bed is, for the windows on the adjacent walls are shut tight. Mona didn't want any lizards wriggling in. One has come anyway: a yellow-brown curry lizard is standing guard at the foot of a pot containing a prosperous croton, its leaves a fiery green, the tracery of veins outlined in orange.

The trick would be to have some kind of collapse and stay holed up here for the day. He pulls his feet back under the sheet. Maybe he will. “I don't really think it's necessary, Mona. We'll see her at twelve for lunch, and she probably has any number of things to do between now and then.”

“She'll be ready long before twelve, Mark, and twiddling her thumbs till it's time to go down. She's right here in The Xooana. Why don't we just ask her?”

“Fine. Are you going to ask her?”

“I don't know her. You can just run down to her room.”

“I should think the phone would be fine.”

“Don't you think a friendly rap on her door would be nice?”

What is she doing? Does she know? And if so, is she encouraging a tryst minutes before lunch? Planning to barge into the room seconds after he enters and catch him with Grace in his arms?

“If chancellor's wives don't do that, for sure chancellors don't.”

“I thought you were a different kind of chancellor.”

“Dear, we wouldn't want to catch the lady en déshabillé, and the only way to avoid that is to call and ask if she'd receive us, in which case you might as well issue the invitation on the phone.”

He hears Mona answer a rap on the door.

“Dr. Carpenter. Do come in. You look lovely.”

“Thank you. So do you. That sari is exquisite.”

“Originally my mother's. She'd thank you for the compliment. Do sit. Mark will be out in a minute. What can I get you to drink? Sherry, perhaps?”

“Sherry is fine, thanks. It's six o'clock somewhere.”

“Mark always says that. I tell him it's six o'clock in two places, actually.”

Grace is sitting directly in his line of vision as he enters the room. She has on an embroidered and beaded white m'bubu against which her skin flares. Her reddish hair, with more gray strands than he remembers, is twisted into a chessboard of small bumps with cowrie beads threaded through them. He studies her face, the slope of the gown on her shoulders, the peaks of her breasts.

“Hi, Mark. I'm pouring Dr. Carpenter a glass of sherry. Will you join us?”

What to do now? Kiss Grace? Shake hands? Do nothing?

“Allow me,” he says. He takes the glass of sherry from Mona, picks up a small side table, and walks it over to Grace, who is biting her lip, worrying what looks like a large blister on her hand. Pleased at resolving the problem, he sets the glass on the table. Neither kiss nor handshake needed!

“Grace, how nice to see you after so long, and in such magnificent circumstances.” He is being a bit over the top, but never mind; the idea is to keep going. He doesn't look at Grace long, though he hopes he has done so warmly, then he is swiftly back at the bar, taking the glass of sherry Mona offers — she already has hers — and raising it.

“I think a toast is in order. Congratulations! You honour us by being the first person from St. Chris to receive the university's Distinguished International Service Award. May your work prosper so that the health of our region and the world may prosper!” More overkill, but he is going to roll along like an army tank.

They lift their glasses. Sip. Mona speaks. “How's Jeremiah, Dr. Carpenter?”

“Please call me Grace. He's very well, thank you.”

“Is he here?” Mona goes on. “Has he come with his grandma?”

“No, not this time. We thought it would be hard for him to make two long journeys in so short a time.”

“Who's Jeremiah, if I may ask?” Mark inquires, pleased that things are going well between the two women.

“Jeremiah is my son,” Grace says, eyes meeting his.

“Oh, really! I didn't know you were married.”

“I'm not.”

“Foolish of me. Of course you needn't be. But I certainly didn't know that you had a son. Wonderful. Congratulations on that too. How old is he?” It flies straight into his head. Their bodies had rolled over each other for three hours one morning, with no prior or subsequent contact. But any number of other men might have done exactly that, days before or after. The child needn't be his.

“He was four on the twenty-ninth of July.” With math and the calendar he is quick, has to be for the sake of his work. With the cycles that women's bodies ride, he is familiar. It is a way of being doubly cautious. It was almost exactly nine months. Jesus, Grace, what fine fellow followed me? Then again, you were probably already pregnant. Maybe you don't even know whose child it is!

He finds himself gazing at her tummy, a delightful African tummy, a motherly prominence, like the dome of a miniscule hut or a tiny mosque. In a second he is back in Cambridge, regarding tummy, breasts, legs, all of her stark naked, stretched out under him. He loses his grip and spills the sherry. Mona catches the glass in time, but her sari collects the escaping drops, which mark the red silk.

Grace stands, comes quickly towards Mona. “Oh, no! Do you have salt? Seltzer water?”

“It'll be fine. I'll be out of it and into another in two seconds. Do keep Mark company. I'll be right back.” She vanishes down the corridor leading from the sitting room to the bedroom.

Grace goes back to her chair, collects her glass, comes over to the bar, and sets it down. “Thanks very much for the drink and good wishes. I should go. I'll see you both in the dining room at twelve.”

She turns towards the door. He is about to say goodbye, when to his horror, he hears himself asking, “Is he mine?”

“I beg your pardon?” She spins around to face him.

“I said, is he mine?”

“I'm not sure what you're talking about.” Her voice is controlled, but her fury fans the redness in her skin, makes her nostrils flare, forces her shoulders back, her head up and her chest forward. He's sure he sees her nipples harden under the white cotton. As he becomes aroused, he's aware of the damn cataplexy kicking in again. He curses how it works: any strong feeling makes his knees buckle and his muscles go weak. He holds on to the bar for support.

“Gracie, don't —”

“Don't under any circumstances call me ‘Gracie.' ”

She has every right, but it still hurts. “But … ”

“As Prince Hal said, ‘But me no buts.' ”

“I'm sorry. I'd no idea that I was offending you.” He doesn't tell her that it isn't Hal. “This is important.”

“
You
are telling me what's important?”

“I want you to answer me.”

“You've no right to an answer.”

“I may have no right, but the child has a right.” His quick wits surprise him; the child has snuck in on his own.

“That child is as fine and happy as a child can be.”

“That's now. Now is changing into tomorrow as we speak.” He is struggling. “I wrote again and again. You never answered, not even a postcard.”

”I don't know about any letters. I do know you lied.”

“I didn't lie.”

“You said your marriage had broken down, that you hadn't slept with your wife in years.”

“I said I hadn't slept with her, and that was true.”

“Don't bring your sophistry to me. Have you any idea of the grief you caused me, caused us?”

“And what about the grief you caused me? You simply expunged any possibility of communication between us.”

“I called your office from Mabuli when I found out I was pregnant. I was worried sick I might have AIDS.”

“You thought I might have a sexually transmitted disease?”

“Arthur Ashe died from AIDS. Better men than you have had it. What did I know about your sleeping habits?”

“Watch yourself, Grace.”

“Don't you bring any of your testosterone into this, Chancellor. It's already caused enough trouble.”

“And which of your hormones do I indict?”

“Indict any of them, all of them. I don't care. I call halfway across the world and get your secretary who says, ‘He's at home. This is the number.' ”

“Which I left precisely in case you called.”

“Precisely? Could I have supposed you'd have done that with a wife commanding centre stage? And guess who answered? Some woman saying she was your wife — unless, of course, the person changing her sari in the room next door isn't your wife? Maybe she's a figment of both our imaginations?”

The figment joins them. This sari is blue-green, trimmed with gold braid, and she's altered her jewelry and eye shadow, shoes, and purse.

He feels the skin of sweat on his face, sees the sheen on Grace's.

Mona observes them, a cat studying mice. “It's ten to. I think we should all go down. Thanks so much for spending this time with us, Grace.” Mona waves Grace before them as they go towards the door and smiles up at him. The bindi on her forehead is a bright third eye peering at him from the face of some enigmatic creature out of the
Ramayana
.

In the foyer downstairs Mona goes over to greet the principal and his wife. As he and Grace stand together, he asks again, “Is he mine?”

She looks up at him and mouths a prolonged and exaggerated “No.”