options, and it made me dizzy. Dizzy with the range and scope of what I could do with the rest of my life. Nearing sixty was not too terrible. Mama lived to well over eighty, and I could also have twenty good years left in me to take the place and renovate the guts out of it. Raise it to a reasonable condition, which would bring back something of the past. I wanted something of Mama’s enthusiasm, her ability in the garden, her instinctual style, her understanding of exactly how a room should be decorated and furnished.
Was it what I wanted? I could not have known it as I climbed the front steps. When I took in the wall gods, when I leaned against the kitchen table, when I counted visible drops forming and falling from my old bedroom ceiling, I thought I could work it out.
Nigel
Dull and dreary
There was something decidedly strange about Brod. He’d changed in some way. He would never age, of course – he simply did not have the worries that accompanied having a family. Harriet and I have been through thick, thin, and all sorts of depths and widths of scrapes financially – and I had to admit, emotionally – since our two were born.
Lori was not an easy child. They say having an exceptionally intelligent and talented child is as much a problem as having a slow one, which we supposed was true, when she was very young. Tad was very much an introvert, and preferred messing about in his room, similar to what I liked to do in the kitchen when caught up in something insurmountable like too many bills in the same fortnight.
A child of the background, Tad was always, doing mediocre things effortlessly and without fuss. Lori might have played the cello like an angel, but her brother blew a trumpet with quiet gusto in the school band and smiled his way around acquaintances and teachers in his vague mellow way. If he sniffed turbulence, he stayed away. We always wondered who he took after.
Come to think of it, there was something going on with Paola, as well. She was not as forthright and verbal as we remembered her. She found fault with the place, like a buyer ahead of an auction, enumerating negative aspects of the place, but more quietly. She watched us all, from the distance of the other side of the table, the entire time it took to have dinner the first night. I wondered how she would be the rest of the time; at the funeral, and when the will was read.
‘The notary said he will come to the funeral, and afterwards we can all come back here from the reception – which should only take about an hour. He will say a few words and read the will.’ I informed them all what had been arranged at breakfast on the second day. It was Harriet who organized it. I was not very good with timing things so they actually worked. From the expression in her eyes I could plainly see Paola would not have had the will read directly after the funeral. It could not be changed now.
My wife kept staring at my sisters. I thought she had decided for herself Brod would not make a fuss, and would agree the big house had to be sold, since anything else would be too complicated. It needed too much costly work to bring it to a state good enough to be rented out. Selling it was the only way.
I was still very uncomfortable about losing my job. The news would eventually filter out to everyone, I hoped, and I would not have to announce the information. At least – it was what I imagined would happen. I could always disappear to the kitchen to whip up a tiramisu or something. It was humiliating, to say the least.
‘My goodness, Nigel! I’ve heard Matilde is still active and lucid and living in her own place.’ It was Paola, who burst into the downstairs sitting room, wearing a bright shawl around her shoulders and holding a book.
I was surprised she did not know. ‘Of course. We saw her a couple of years ago down in Prato, where she’s living with a niece, I think. Deaf as a post.’
‘Oh? How sad. She … how old
Was it what I wanted? I could not have known it as I climbed the front steps. When I took in the wall gods, when I leaned against the kitchen table, when I counted visible drops forming and falling from my old bedroom ceiling, I thought I could work it out.
Nigel
Dull and dreary
There was something decidedly strange about Brod. He’d changed in some way. He would never age, of course – he simply did not have the worries that accompanied having a family. Harriet and I have been through thick, thin, and all sorts of depths and widths of scrapes financially – and I had to admit, emotionally – since our two were born.
Lori was not an easy child. They say having an exceptionally intelligent and talented child is as much a problem as having a slow one, which we supposed was true, when she was very young. Tad was very much an introvert, and preferred messing about in his room, similar to what I liked to do in the kitchen when caught up in something insurmountable like too many bills in the same fortnight.
A child of the background, Tad was always, doing mediocre things effortlessly and without fuss. Lori might have played the cello like an angel, but her brother blew a trumpet with quiet gusto in the school band and smiled his way around acquaintances and teachers in his vague mellow way. If he sniffed turbulence, he stayed away. We always wondered who he took after.
Come to think of it, there was something going on with Paola, as well. She was not as forthright and verbal as we remembered her. She found fault with the place, like a buyer ahead of an auction, enumerating negative aspects of the place, but more quietly. She watched us all, from the distance of the other side of the table, the entire time it took to have dinner the first night. I wondered how she would be the rest of the time; at the funeral, and when the will was read.
‘The notary said he will come to the funeral, and afterwards we can all come back here from the reception – which should only take about an hour. He will say a few words and read the will.’ I informed them all what had been arranged at breakfast on the second day. It was Harriet who organized it. I was not very good with timing things so they actually worked. From the expression in her eyes I could plainly see Paola would not have had the will read directly after the funeral. It could not be changed now.
My wife kept staring at my sisters. I thought she had decided for herself Brod would not make a fuss, and would agree the big house had to be sold, since anything else would be too complicated. It needed too much costly work to bring it to a state good enough to be rented out. Selling it was the only way.
I was still very uncomfortable about losing my job. The news would eventually filter out to everyone, I hoped, and I would not have to announce the information. At least – it was what I imagined would happen. I could always disappear to the kitchen to whip up a tiramisu or something. It was humiliating, to say the least.
‘My goodness, Nigel! I’ve heard Matilde is still active and lucid and living in her own place.’ It was Paola, who burst into the downstairs sitting room, wearing a bright shawl around her shoulders and holding a book.
I was surprised she did not know. ‘Of course. We saw her a couple of years ago down in Prato, where she’s living with a niece, I think. Deaf as a post.’
‘Oh? How sad. She … how old
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