13. Eye of the Hurricane
13
EYE OF THE HURRICANE
MAL
She took my hand as I crossed the room. Behind us, Johnston was trying to figure out how to handle the situation, but I didn’t care.
About him.
Or about my father standing in the musicians’ balcony, looking down on us. On the son he loved, and the son he ignored.
They could rot in hell. All I knew was that I needed to get out of that snake pit, and I needed to take my mother with me.
And Prentice, if she’d come.
Mama was in the hall, Oliver on one side of her and Ormonde on the other, up from the kitchens to comfort his friend.
Oliver saw me moving, and he put an arm around my mother to match my speed. “Downstairs,” he said.
The door under the stairs got us into the basement—the very servants’ quarters Johnston had pointed out that I came from. I couldn’t make it any further than the landing before I had to pull my mother to me.
She hugged me, and I felt her tears. Again, my mother was crying.
“It was so beautiful,” she said. “Thank you for playing again after so long.”
My huff of amusement was almost lost underneath my rage. “That’s not what I do now,” I said. “Are you okay?”
She pulled back and wiped her eyes. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“Mama, you can’t imagine how much I worry about you. But not for much longer, I promise. We get paid union scale to be on Milt McAllister , but it will lead to better things and big paydays. And the network is sending a private jet for us. You’re coming with us to California. Prentice too.” I reached out to Prentice, who took my hand. “If you want to come.”
She nodded, her eyes liquid. “I’d love to.”
“Mama, I’m going to put every penny of the money we earn in the bank for you.”
“Good,” Oliver murmured. I’d forgotten he and Ormonde were still with us, but they were staying by their friend loyally.
“No,” my mother said. “Don’t waste your money on me, Liebchen . You keep that. You’ve earned it.”
“I’m getting you out of here, and right now too. Come on, let’s get you home.”
“I can’t leave. There are guests in the house.”
“You can,” Oliver said sternly, “and you will. Let your boy take you home.”
She was caught in indecision, trapped between her sense of duty and her longing to be done with the fucking Furneaus. “I’m sorry, Miss Luce,” she said. “I’m making quite a scene.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Prentice said. “They were pigs to you. And you’ve been nothing but sweet to me in all the years I’ve been coming here.”
“Well, you and your family are so important to the Furneaus.”
“Yeah, great,” I said, impatient to be gone. “Can we go?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . .”
Oliver decided things. “I have to get back to let the old-timers out before the young ones trash the house in drunken debauchery. May I suggest, Miss Prentice? Take Mal and Gerta to the gatehouse in your car. Then Ormonde and I won’t have to worry about you, Gerta. Mr. Johnston—that little shit—has it in for you and Mal both tonight. Get out.”
Mama froze and then heaved a sigh. She nodded. “Come with me. This way.”
Restored to her calm capability again, she sent Oliver back upstairs and Ormonde to the kitchens. Prentice and I followed her through the basement, past the indoor pool and the room set aside entirely for the luggage of guests and the laundry, and at last, out a gardener’s door and up a half flight of mossy stairs to the parking area.
In Prentice’s car, we managed to get away unseen before the party broke up.
“Come in, won’t you?” my mother asked when we got to the gatehouse. “I’d be grateful for some company tonight, even if it’s just for a little while.”
She was all alone in that gothic wreck of a house. I was wracked with feelings of guilt and anger. I needed—I needed —to get her out. Away.
“Of course you need some company,” Prentice said. “We’d be delighted, wouldn’t we, Mal? Besides, I’ve driven past this house a million times and always wanted to see the inside. Will you give me a tour?”
Prentice cooed over my mother’s reading nook, with its fireplace and windows onto the Sound. She thought my childhood bedroom was wonderful and especially liked the fact that I could no longer stand up straight under the eaves.
But it was the kitchen she was most drawn to. “This room is wonderful,” she said. “Can we sit here for a bit?”
Her instincts were good. Mama felt particularly at home in her kitchen, and she bustled around, busily making tea and setting out a platter of cookies.
“There,” Prentice said when we were all seated, hands cupping the warmth of the mugs. “Let’s explore this evening a little, shall we? Because I have questions.”
Mama glanced at me, and I shook my head a fraction. Prentice did not know my heritage. “I’m sure you do, Miss Prentice.”
“Can it just be Prentice? I’m not a Furneau guest now. Right?”
Mama smiled. “Call me Gerta.”
“Thank you. Now, can one of you explain to me what the hell is wrong with Johnston Furneau?”
Her question surprised me, and I laughed out loud. “I guess that is the only question.”
“I think I can tell you, Miss—I can tell you, Prentice.” Mama looked reassuringly at me. Message received. “You know Mal grew up with Johnston,” she said.
“Yes, he told me. I went to school with both of them but never realized why they were so prone to violence back then.”
Mama made a face. “A lot of violence. They fought often, and for years, my Mal was the loser. Johnston was older and bigger and the son of the great man. No one challenged him. It was . . . hard on Mal.”
I shrugged. Water under the bridge. Least of my worries.
“Mr. Jack,” Mama went on, “was—was kind.” She darted a look at me; I saw it out of the corner of my eye but refused to acknowledge it. “He let me leave Mal with Johnston’s nanny when I was working. And Mr. Jack loves music. Particularly opera. When Johnston was six, Mr. Jack brought in a piano teacher to give Johnston lessons. When Mal paid as much attention as Johnston did, Mr. Jack let Mal take lessons too.”
I’d spent my childhood wondering what I could do to make my father love me. Or even like me.
Hell, if he’d ever spoken to me, that would have been something.
Instead, I had those piano lessons.
“That’s the reason there are two pianos in the music room. One for Johnston, one for my Mal.” She reached out and caressed my cheek.
I couldn’t look her in the eye. She sounded so sad that it broke my heart. She wanted more from me than I was able to give.
She wanted too much, my father too little.
What a mess.
“Sometimes Mr. Jack would come home early from the city. He would always go into his study right away, but I know he did it because he wanted to listen to the lessons. As Mal got better, the music was more and more likely to draw him out. I don’t think the boys knew how often he stood on the balcony over them.”
The evening sunlight fell from his study across the music room. I always knew when he was there because I could see his shadow, twenty feet tall, on the far wall.
“And the terrible thing happened.” Mama sounded sad. She reached out to take my hand and I let her, still staring into my tea. “The piano teacher said Mal was gifted. And Johnston wasn’t.”
Prentice uttered a soft little “ooh” of empathy. Why couldn’t she and I just leave? Get in her car and drive until we ran out of road?
“And that was the beginning of a horrible rivalry.” Mama sat back, fatigued. “Mal was a year younger and the child of a servant. Johnston wasn’t used to being bested in anything. He didn’t like it, and he made Mal’s life miserable from then on. Didn’t he?”
I waggled my head. “Not just mine. He made Prentice’s life pretty miserable for a while there, too, huh?” She nodded and took my other hand. I smiled. “The two women who matter most to me, one in either hand. I am a lucky man.”
“You’re a good man,” Mama said. She stood to kiss my head and faced Prentice, her hand on my shoulder. “When Mal went to the Manhattan School of Music, Mr. Jack paid his tuition. He hoped he’d become a concert pianist.”
“Well, that didn’t work out,” I said shortly.
“But you play so beautifully,” Prentice said. “You can’t tell me you don’t love it.”
I raised an eyebrow, considering. How many hours had I sat in that room, practicing? Swinging my legs until they ached, too small to reach the floor until I grew? How often had I cursed the fingers still too little to reach the chords I struggled to play? How often had I wondered if he was listening, when it would be good enough for him to say something? To say anything ?
“How much do I love the piano?” I sighed. “Not as much as I love playing in Aftermath.”
Mama stroked my hair, and I could hear the pride in her voice. “He made his own way. He’s good. And he takes care of anyone who is being treated unfairly, don’t you? Because you know what it’s like.”
I shrugged. “That’s enough about how fabulous I am. Let’s change the subject. Um, Prentice, what do you think our chances are in this sailing race?”
They let me look away from the nasty mess of emotions that underpinned my feelings about the Furneau family. Mama poured more tea (she and Prentice were actually drinking it, not just looking at it), and Prentice told us how she knew Johnston was a crappy sailor, which was a conversation I very much enjoyed.
“Mama, Prentice and I are going to dinner. Come with us.”
“Certainly not! You young people don’t need me with you!”
“Yes we do,” Prentice insisted. “And I’ll tell you what else—Mal wants me to bring you into the city when Aftermath is recording. He wants us to see the process.”
“That’s right,” I insisted. “Come see what an awesome drummer I am.”
“ Ach , like I have any doubts!”
“We’ll work out the timing when I know more about if we’re recording on weekends or what.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d love to go.” She clapped her hands like a girl. I lunged at my mother and scooped her up.
“Good. And you’re coming to dinner with us tonight. Come on, Prentice.”
“No, wait, I can’t! Oh, Prentice, turn off the kettle, Schatz ! Oh, Malcolm, you put me down!”
Never. I could—I would —hold on to her forever.
The Furneaus were not going to win everything.
Not this time.