Mayur should have whined to his mother that I was to blame, but he didn’t. He told her he tripped into the pool and she sent him to change his clothes. Mrs. Bindas followed close behind him like a sheepdog, reminding him he should be careful. “You could have hit your head. And your suit, Mayur. It is ruined.”
I retreated to the door, where Mother was speaking to Dr. Bindas. He handed her a book he said had been Dad’s, something he’d left by the pool one day. Mother took the book without looking at it.
That was the last visit. Mother and I left Curaçao the next day, stuffing clothes and unread books into suitcases and a few of Mother’s most precious paints into her carry-on bag instead of toothpaste and cosmetics. She left the watersplotched book Dr. Bindas had given her on the coffee table when she took her luggage to the door, where Jinco waited with the taxi. Dad’s The History of Language. I slipped it into my suitcase without saying anything to Mother about it. We rode to the airport in a silence we have clung to ever since.
Mrs. Bindas is talking, describing the landscaping, how many gardeners had to be hired to make it work. Mayur is still eating, and is tapping his bare foot against the chair leg. Mrs. Bindas turns to me.
“The garden is so perfect this year. I am hoping Mrs. Walters will come here and teach an afternoon workshop. I have a few friends who like to paint.”
The gelato gives me a chill. Mother never likes to teach groups of women, the ones who are middle-aged, too rich, with no talent. Those with money enough to buy the best supplies and the best instructors.
Kammi looks at me to answer, but when I don’t speak, she says: “Oh, I’m sure she would be happy to have a class. Though she’s so busy, you know. An artist must concentrate on her own work first.”
Kammi sounds like a recording. I hear Mother’s inflection when Kammi says “concentrate on her own work.” Mother takes on students here and there—but only those who are young, talented, and hungry, very hungry to learn. Catrione quit three winters ago, a month or two after Mother scolded her for spending an afternoon a week after high school art class to tutor other students who were behind. For giving me hints when she thought Mother wasn’t listening. I overheard Mother lecturing Catrione in the studio, where I was no longer welcome. Because I did not follow her directions. Because I was not serious.
Someone touches my arm. It’s Kammi. She frowns at me. “I’m sure she would. Right, Cyan?”
I look at Mrs. Bindas’s expectant face. Maybe she’s thinking that this is the least Mother could do. After the incident at the pool, after Dr. Bindas went down to the beach that night to identify my father. And though the Bindases have been our neighbors here for years, Mrs. Bindas has never asked for anything from my mother.
“I don’t know. I’ll mention it to her.” Even though I know she won’t want to do it.
Inside, a chime rings. Mrs. Bindas flits away, calling over her shoulder about the phone, winking at Mayur and reminding him to ask us about next week.
The houseboy follows Mrs. Bindas, though he turns briefly to look again at Kammi just before he enters the shadow of the house. Mayur waits until the houseboy disappears before he scoots over and scoops out more gelato for himself. A scoop for Kammi, too. Then the gelato is gone, a melted yellow pool in the bottom of the dish, a sprinkling of stray coconut.
Mayur clinks his spoon against his teeth as he rushes to finish the gelato in his bowl before his mother returns.
“Next week we’re having bonfires on the beach.” He stretches his arms out wide. “With a big cookout. Another family, the Garcas, will come, too. And my cousins will be here. You’re all invited.” He looks at Kammi. He’s ignoring me on purpose. “Mother hires a girl to write the envelopes, a calligrapher,” he says. “She uses real gold dust in her inks.” He says this to impress Kammi.
Kammi oohs and aahs in the right places.
Mayur finally looks at me. “And bonfires,” he says to me. “Huge bonfires up and down the beach. To toast marshmallows. You do that in America, right?”
Memories of bonfires make me shiver.
Kammi answers for me. “Yes, marshmallows and bonfires. Our town does a picnic once a summer.”
“But on the beach. Late into the night?” Mayur is taunting me, and Kammi has no clue. She doesn’t know what happened last year. Mother hasn’t told her. Neither has Howard.
I clink the spoon into my bowl. I squint at the lowering sun.
“It’s time to go.”
Kammi looks sideways at me, but she doesn’t argue. I’m in charge.
Like Mayur, I take pleasure in small victories.