The White Bicycle Page 10

  "No," he says. "No one gets it. No one really gets the picture, and that's the problem."

  I know he is not talking about pictures. I go over and stand beside him.

  "What are you talking about?" I ask.

  "No one gets me," he says.

  There are a lot of bright stars and this window seems to hold the whole sky. Down below, the yard light shines a pale yellow circle on the driveway. Suddenly I hear deep chesty barking coming from the end of the lane. Next comes the short, sharp, high-pitched yipping. Then there is the growling and snapping—the big black dog on its chain. Finally there are many barking sounds at once from the five dogs at the last house. When these five dogs bark, the first ones at the other end of the lane start up again, but in one minute and fifteen seconds all the barking stops. Then someone walks into the circle of light down below.

  "Oh!" says Luke Phoenix. "Julian!"

  "Who is that?" I ask, but he is already in the hallway heading for the stairs.

  "Just a friend I met at the doctor's when we took Martin," Luke Phoenix calls, and then I see him outside, beside this Julian person, and then they are gone. I don't know where they went, but when I look outside all I see are the little bats, swooping between the cherry trees.

  Later, when my mother comes back into my room, I am in bed pretending to be asleep. It is difficult to lie down with my eyes shut, but I force myself into stillness because the alternative is more fighting against each other.

  "Tomorrow afternoon, we could visit a fortified village," says my mother. "It's close by and it's a shame to let all this history go to waste. And it would be a fun thing to do together. We could have ice cream afterward."

  I do not answer. It is ridiculous to think of going to a fortified village when I might already be going on the 2 pm bus to Cassis and not be back until 9 or 10 pm. I do not know if my mother really wants to go to a fortified village with me, or if she is trying to find something to distract me from the idea of going to Cassis. It is exhausting to try and figure out what people mean with words that could represent any number of thoughts.

  "Or you could take a cooking class," my mother goes on. "If you're bored, they're giving a cooking class at one of the local hotels. It's important to take advantage of things that are close by, Taylor, so that we make the most of our trip."

  It's strange that my mother thinks of this as our trip, when it's really my trip. I found the trip first, and she basically invited herself along. Now she's trying to make the trip go all her way.

  "I don't want to take a cooking class," I say, my eyes still squeezed shut. "Grandma kept telling me that I should study commercial cooking, but now she's dead and I don't expect to keep hearing about it from you. If you think a cooking class is so interesting, you should take one."

  To Go or Not to Go

  All Friday morning, I think about Cassis and change my mind from planning to go there today to deciding not to go there today. For the first two hours, Martin Phoenix makes science experiments and I clean up the messes we create. The best experiment is when we light a match and drop it into a glass bottle and then watch as the shelled hardboiled egg I place on top of the bottle gets sucked in with a loud gulping sound.

  "It's all about atmosphere Rick pressure," says Martin Phoenix with his Tango. "That pushed the egg into the bottle."

  "Atmosphere Rick. Oh, you mean atmospheric!" I say.

  "You get the picture," he says.

  "I do," I say. Then I ask, "Do you want me to program the Tango to say 'atmospheric'?"

  "No," he says.

  Martin Phoenix shakes a little bit and makes some sounds and I know he is laughing. He is not laughing because something is funny, he is just proud of himself.

  Luke Phoenix comes into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. It is 11 am and he has missed his tennis lesson.

  "Do you want to see an experiment?" Martin Phoenix asks.

  "I am an experiment," says Luke Phoenix. I don't know what he means by that. He turns with his coffee cup and goes out of the kitchen.

  "We are 233 meters above sea level here near Lourmarin," I say to Martin Phoenix. "And Saskatoon is 450 meters above sea level. Does this make a difference to the atmospheric pressure?"

  "I don't know," says Martin Phoenix. "Google it."

  We spend the rest of the morning using my laptop to search for details about atmospheric pressure. When it is lunchtime, Luke Phoenix doesn't come out of his room.

  Alan Phoenix brings fresh bread, a new package of cheese, and some things that look like flaps of raw meat but which he says are honey ham. I eat some bread and cheese, and then my mother comes in, and she acts like she has pms or menopause or both.

  "Hammy lived to be four. Before Hammy I had Charlotte and before her I had June and before her I had Walnut and he was the first gerbil I ever had. And now I have Harold Pinter and Samuel Beckett but nobody will let me phone to see if they're okay," I say.

  My mother looks at me and doesn't talk. I press my thumbs into my palms and tell myself that just because there's a cloth on the counter doesn't mean I have to use it. I get to my feet and there is a whirly feeling, but I take a deep breath and go up to my room. I think about what I need and put things into my bag. I think about how riding the bus will be familiar because I have ridden many buses before. I make sure I have the map I printed from the Internet, showing me how to get to Adelaide's house. When I go downstairs again, Martin Phoenix is in the living room.

  "Have fun in Cast Seas," he says with his Tango.

  "Martin, stay out of it," warns Alan Phoenix. I suddenly see now how somebody can get between two other people even if they're not actually standing in the way. I smile at Martin Phoenix.

  My mother is doing the dishes and she does not turn around when I enter the kitchen. I feel my body shaking but I go right past her and out the door. I am nineteen years old and I should not be afraid of my mother, but I am. Stanley in Harold Pinter's play, The Birthday Party, is afraid of things he shouldn't be afraid of, too. But Stanley is stuck in his room eating cornflakes and I am not going to be like that.

  People who are nineteen are not supposed to be afraid of their mothers. They are not supposed to be afraid of delivery vans or envelopes or packages. They are not supposed to be afraid of playground slides. I am afraid of all these things. I am also afraid of opening the door to strangers; however, this might be a positive thing as strangers could be bad. When I think about my future, other fears rise to consciousness. I am afraid of never getting a permanent full-time job. If I don't get a job, I will be living with my mother until she dies of old age. I used to be afraid of finishing high school, but I'm glad I graduated because you're not supposed to be in high school forever.

  I think I know what happened to Stanley. Stanley is a person whose fears have beaten down his choices. More than anything, I am afraid of being like Stanley.

  When I leave the house to go to the bus stop, I feel afraid of everything. My hands are sweating and I can feel sweat dripping down the back of my neck. When I go down the driveway and into the lane, and I hear the dogs start to bark, I want to run back to the villa and change my plans. But then I would never get to Cassis or talk to Adelaide or see what they are having for aperitifs.

  An old man riding a bicycle turns into the lane ahead of me. From a distance he appears to be moving quickly, but as I get closer, I realize that, even though he pedals with vigor, in actuality the bicycle is barely moving.

  Soon I pass the old man on the bicycle. Stanley would never have done this. He would have been afraid of passing anyone. I keep putting one foot in front of the other and when I get to the bus stop, I put some gum into my mouth. Peppermint, for calming and organizing.

  I think Stanley has autism and he just doesn't know what to do about it.

  Adelaide's House

  I arrive at Cassis at 4:30 pm. When I get off the bus, I look at my map and then start walking. Adelaide's house is not far from the bus stop and I can get there in hal
f an hour, which means I won't be late.

  It is a hot afternoon. I can hear the cicadas that are sitting in bunches of olive trees on the boulevards. They sound like an electric current, buzzing and buzzing. I pass an apple tree in someone's front yard and I think about picking an apple for my mother, but then I remember that I am mad at her. I walk across a parking lot and a lady comes up to me and presses a fig leaf into my hand.

  "De l'argent pour les enfants," she says. Money for the children. I do not know what she is talking about. "Payé?" she says. I keep walking but she reaches out and makes the sign of the cross on my forehead. I jump back. She looks at me and then she grabs the fig leaf from my hand, turning away and muttering things in French that I cannot hear.

  When I get to Adelaide's house, I walk up the front steps and ring the doorbell. A woman opens the door. She is wearing a light blue dress with white sleeves and she looks like my blue-and-white clock.

  "Oui?" she says.

  "Um … hello, I'm Taylor Jane Simon," I say. "Is Adelaide here?"

  "Pardon?" The woman looks at me with a blank expression. Then she repeats, "Taylor? Ah, oui! Vous êtes la jeune fille anglaise qui a sauvé ma mère!"

  "Where is Adelaide?" I ask.

  "Ne pouvez-vous pas parler français?" asks the woman. Then she says very slowly, "I am sorry. I speak very little English."

  "Adelaide?" I ask.

  "Lorsque vous n'avez pas répondu à l'invitation, je pensais que vous ne pouviez pas venir," she says, turning and walking down the hallway and then motioning for me to follow. "Please. Come in. We will sit in the living room."

  "Is Adelaide your mother?" I ask.

  "Oui, yes. I am Francine. Please sit down," she says, waving at the white couch. She herself sits on a sturdy leather chair near the doorway.

  "I am here for aperitifs," I say, looking around. I do not see pigeon eggs. That is a good sign.

  "Très bien, très bien," she says. I look around. On the walls are large paintings. They are all of the sea. One of them looks just like the beach at Cassis, with swimmers and sailboats nearer the shore, then bigger boats out in the expanse of ocean. The colors are brilliant, as if somehow light has been captured inside them, bringing the images to life.

  "I like the paintings," I say.

  "Très bien. Very good. All Adelaide's," says the woman. "My mother was a painter. She uses … what is it … acrylic wash."

  "Was?" I ask. "Is—is Adelaide dead?"

  "Ah, non!" laughs the woman. "Depuis qu'elle a eu son attaque…" she begins, "since she had her—her stroke—no more painting. No more painting since last year."

  I rub my hands on the soft fur of the couch. The woman looks at me, and I look at her eyebrows. Silence hangs between us like a curtain.

  "You don't eat pigeon eggs," I blurt, finally. I should not have said that. The woman looks startled. Or possibly constipated. It's hard to tell the difference.

  "Pardon?" she asks.

  "Pigeon Eggs!" I say. "I hope we are not eating them. For the aperitifs."

  The woman jumps up.

  "I will go—and get—Adelaide," she says. "Please—wait here."

  "Fine," I say.

  After a little while the woman—I forget her name—is back and behind her Adelaide shuffles into the room. She is wearing the butterfly nightgown. Adelaide's daughter says something I can't quite understand and then disappears to somewhere else in the house. Adelaide sits down beside me on the couch and runs her hands over the white fur covering.

  "It's my birthday," she says rather inaudibly.

  "What?" I ask.

  "It's my birthday. Today is my birthday," she says.

  "Well," I say.

  "Aren't you going to say Happy Birthday? The rest of them have been saying it to me. All day I keep hearing it," she continues.

  "Is it?" I ask.

  "Is it what?"

  "Is it a happy birthday?"

  "No." she says. "I don't like birthdays. I've had quite a few of them. I've been having them since I was born, Saturday, July 25, 1908."

  "You're 95 years old," I say.

  She looks at me with milky blue eyes.

  "Rather enough, don't you think?"

  I look around the room. There is a fish tank on a stand against the wall. In it, angel fish hang as if suspended in the water.

  "That's what they gave me this year," she says. "That tank and those fish. It's a strange kind of amusement. What kind of a life do they have in there?"

  I say nothing and she goes on.

  "They also gave me a new hat, a purse, three or four little doodads for my dresser, and a large cake that no one has eaten yet. People get far too many gifts these days. One gift would suffice. One would certainly suffice."

  "We're not going to eat pigeon eggs, are we?" I ask.

  "I certainly hope not," she says. "Disgusting things, pigeons. They eat a lot of shit, you know. Francine likes pigeon eggs, but then she likes anything French."

  "Why … how is it that you speak English and your daughter is French?" I ask.

  "Good question. A very good question." Adelaide is breathing heavily now and she sits for a moment and catches her breath. "I was born and raised in Squirrel Hills, Saskatchewan. Nothing wrong with that. Became a teacher. Taught in one-room schoolhouses. Met a man and married him, came to France, had Francine, and then the goddamn bastard abandoned us here. The rest is history."

  "History?" I ask.

  "The sort of thing that goes on and on, no need to talk about it," she says.

  We sit in silence until Francine comes back carrying a hanger. On the hanger is a blue dress the same color as her own.

  "Viens te changer, maman," she says. I think she wants her mother to change out of the butterfly nightgown. Adelaide shakes her head and pushes the outfit away. Francine makes a strange sound with her mouth and then leaves the room. Adelaide and I sit in silence. In a few minutes, Francine comes back with a tray containing a pitcher and glasses which she puts on the piano bench.

  "Du citron pressé?" she asks.

  "No whisky?" says Adelaide.

  "Taylor, would you—would you like anything to eat?" Francine continues.

  "Aperitifs would be fine," I say.

  Francine looks at me, then darts back out of the room.

  "It's strange that you and your daughter don't speak the same language," I tell Adelaide.

  "Yes," she answers.

  I think about this. "My mother and I both speak English but we don't understand each other very well, either," I say.

  "Have I met you before?" asks Adelaide.

  "On the beach at Cassis," I say, remembering how she walked into the ocean.

  "Oh. I wasn't born here, you know," she goes on.

  "Squirrel Hills," I say, pouring some of the juice into a glass and drinking it.

  "Do you know where that is?" she asks.

  "In Saskatchewan. I'm from there too. From Saskatoon," I say.

  "I used to have them all sitting in rows," she says. "And even when one of the little blighters spelled something incorrectly, I never used the strap. We had the Orange Home near there, lots of kids with no parents coming to school. Needed an extra dose of kindness, those ones."

  "Oh," I say.

  "Took care of each other, though, I remember. Two sisters, always holding hands at recess. You have to stick together if your parents are gone."

  "Oh," I say again.

  "One time I was riding home—we all rode horseback in those days—and one of the farm boys rode with me. Grade six, I think he was. I had a bad headache that day, and the students knew it. A migraine. Instead of turning off at his road, he went with me right to the gate of my farm. 'In case you might fall off,' he said. That was a real little gentleman."

  I drink the rest of my juice—it tastes like lemonade—and pour myself another glass.

  "A real gentleman," I say, repeating part of her statement.

  "Not like that bastard husband," she says and I'm not s
ure if she is swearing or not.

  "Left us here in France," she goes on, "with no way to get back. Do you like my paintings?"

  "What?" I ask.

  "My paintings. Do you like them?"

  I look at the paintings on the walls.

  "Are these all yours?" I ask. "All ten of them?"

  "I used to have students here," she says. "We would work indoors—or outdoors when it was fine. They had to learn to look because that is something you don't learn in school."

  "What?" I say.

  "To paint. You have to learn to look," she says.

  "Alan Phoenix told me that," I say. "He says in order to learn to draw you have to really look at something."

  "Smart man," she says.

  "But I think it's about seeing," I say. "You can look all you want, but if you don't really see what you're looking at then it won't help you paint it."

  "Looking. Seeing. You can say it however you want, as long as you know what you're talking about. People from the north come here all year round for the sun. The light. Come and tour my studio."

  "Francine said you haven't painted since your stroke," I say.

  "She doesn't know," responds Adelaide. "She doesn't know everything."

  We go carefully up the stairs and through a door that leads into a large airy room. I wonder why people have to learn to see and learn to listen. Why aren't we born knowing how to use the senses we have? I remember finding out that people learn to speak naturally, with the connections we already have in our brains, but in order to learn to read, the brain must reinvent itself. That is amazing.

  At one side of the room a big window opens toward the ocean, and from here I can see the big ships, although they look tiny. This is how I am looking with my brain—really seeing—remembering that ships are actually big even though they look small right now. I wonder if Adelaide stared out this window before she left the house, that day she walked into the sea. Now Adelaide removes a cloth from the easel and shows me a sketch of clouds.

  "I like clouds. They make an interesting subject," she says, looking out the window.

  "Oh," I say. "Clouds make me uncomfortable because they are always changing. I try not to look at them much."