Read Online Duet for Three Hands by Tess Thompson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tess Thompson
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understanding that one didn’t have to shout to be heard through the wires. He imagined her long neck stretched like an ostrich’s, eyes fixated at the mouthpiece while pressing the earpiece into her poor ear hard enough to make a dent.
Lou’s store was probably packed with locals, playing checkers, talking about the day’s catch, sipping bootleg booze from coffee cups. Everyone listening. He cringed as he spoke. “Ma, I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to repeat it. In case there’s anyone listening.”
She didn’t say anything, but he knew she was probably bobbing her head in agreement, one arm crossed over her spare chest.
“I’m getting married.”
“You’re doing what?”
“I’m getting married. To a girl from Georgia. Her name’s Frances Bellmont.”
The line crackled.
“Are you there, Ma?”
“Yep, I’m here. When?”
“In a couple of weeks,” Nathaniel said.
Silence for a moment. “How long have you known her?” She no longer shouted. He knew what she looked like: mouth clenched, the little muscle below her cheek flexed, her eyes unblinking. She’d given him the same look when he’d been caught at the back of school smoking a cigarette with Billy Bradshaw, or the time he’d lost one of his schoolbooks on the way home. During the entire week he’d been home to bury his father, she had never once loosened her face to betray her grief. The woman could hold her emotions inside better than anyone he’d ever met. Who knew what storms raged within? Her face was like ice covering a lake in deep winter. One knew many things lurked underneath the glittering surface, revealed when spring came in a rush of life. For his mother, spring never came.
“Couple of months.” This was true, he thought, if you counted the time he was away in California. He didn’t share the fact that he’d spent only part of a day and a night with her. Some things could not be told to one’s mother, especially his.
Silence for another moment, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded hollow with disappointment. “Only one reason you’d be rushing into a marriage.”
He leaned his forehead against the phone’s bell-shaped receiver. “Ma, she comes from a good family. They’re part of Atlanta society. It’s a good marriage.”
“You’ll have to make your peace with God, not me.”
He let that sit for a moment, feeling the familiar blackness of guilt and shame, like a hole he couldn’t escape from. “Ma, maybe you could come down for the wedding? I’ll send money for a train.” Even as he said it he knew it was impossible. Not only did he know she would refuse on her principles, there was no way she could get there in time, given how quickly everything must be done.
“Impossible to make that kind of trip without your father.”
“I’ll bring her to see you. Later.” He almost said, after the baby comes , but he held back, some part of him hopeful that she didn’t know the truth.
“Write to me, son, and let me know how you’re doing.” The line went silent.
T he hotel restaurant bustled with life. Well-dressed patrons ate and drank and toasted one another. Ladies in short dresses of every color wore cloche hats, some beaded, some with ribbons, perched deftly over bobbed hair. Men wore gray, brown, or black suits and striped ties in shades of wheat, their hair slicked back with pomade. Optimism, he thought, a sense that life could and should go on like this forever. Silver and glasses clinked above the low hum of laughter and voices. Servers moved about efficiently in black pants and crisp white shirts as the scent of baking bread, cigarettes, coffee, and roasted meat mingled. Nathaniel spotted Mrs. Bellmont at a table toward the back. She sat alone, tracing a circle with her finger on the white tablecloth. As he wove his way between tables he felt like a young performer before a concert, nauseous and sweaty. What could he say to this intelligent and trusting woman
Lou’s store was probably packed with locals, playing checkers, talking about the day’s catch, sipping bootleg booze from coffee cups. Everyone listening. He cringed as he spoke. “Ma, I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to repeat it. In case there’s anyone listening.”
She didn’t say anything, but he knew she was probably bobbing her head in agreement, one arm crossed over her spare chest.
“I’m getting married.”
“You’re doing what?”
“I’m getting married. To a girl from Georgia. Her name’s Frances Bellmont.”
The line crackled.
“Are you there, Ma?”
“Yep, I’m here. When?”
“In a couple of weeks,” Nathaniel said.
Silence for a moment. “How long have you known her?” She no longer shouted. He knew what she looked like: mouth clenched, the little muscle below her cheek flexed, her eyes unblinking. She’d given him the same look when he’d been caught at the back of school smoking a cigarette with Billy Bradshaw, or the time he’d lost one of his schoolbooks on the way home. During the entire week he’d been home to bury his father, she had never once loosened her face to betray her grief. The woman could hold her emotions inside better than anyone he’d ever met. Who knew what storms raged within? Her face was like ice covering a lake in deep winter. One knew many things lurked underneath the glittering surface, revealed when spring came in a rush of life. For his mother, spring never came.
“Couple of months.” This was true, he thought, if you counted the time he was away in California. He didn’t share the fact that he’d spent only part of a day and a night with her. Some things could not be told to one’s mother, especially his.
Silence for another moment, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded hollow with disappointment. “Only one reason you’d be rushing into a marriage.”
He leaned his forehead against the phone’s bell-shaped receiver. “Ma, she comes from a good family. They’re part of Atlanta society. It’s a good marriage.”
“You’ll have to make your peace with God, not me.”
He let that sit for a moment, feeling the familiar blackness of guilt and shame, like a hole he couldn’t escape from. “Ma, maybe you could come down for the wedding? I’ll send money for a train.” Even as he said it he knew it was impossible. Not only did he know she would refuse on her principles, there was no way she could get there in time, given how quickly everything must be done.
“Impossible to make that kind of trip without your father.”
“I’ll bring her to see you. Later.” He almost said, after the baby comes , but he held back, some part of him hopeful that she didn’t know the truth.
“Write to me, son, and let me know how you’re doing.” The line went silent.
T he hotel restaurant bustled with life. Well-dressed patrons ate and drank and toasted one another. Ladies in short dresses of every color wore cloche hats, some beaded, some with ribbons, perched deftly over bobbed hair. Men wore gray, brown, or black suits and striped ties in shades of wheat, their hair slicked back with pomade. Optimism, he thought, a sense that life could and should go on like this forever. Silver and glasses clinked above the low hum of laughter and voices. Servers moved about efficiently in black pants and crisp white shirts as the scent of baking bread, cigarettes, coffee, and roasted meat mingled. Nathaniel spotted Mrs. Bellmont at a table toward the back. She sat alone, tracing a circle with her finger on the white tablecloth. As he wove his way between tables he felt like a young performer before a concert, nauseous and sweaty. What could he say to this intelligent and trusting woman
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