Majorca brings me a bit of bread and a small bowl of soup. I take a sip, being careful to
first blow a few puffs across the spoon to cool it down. Chicken and
rice. Majorca’s slender brown hand lingers, first near my own hand as I
blow on the soup, and then on her hip. She has all the patience in the
world. Not like her mother. Is that going to be enough to hold you? She
asks. I steady the bowl and shake my head. It will do. The bowl is
ceramic with a glaze in earthy tones of brown and green—so delicate in
its execution and finish. Simi turned it by hand and then fired it in
the kiln she had built herself. Majorca knows it is one of my favorites.
Our house is filled with the beauty of Simi’s artistry, every piece an
event, each one an offering, but none more so than Majorca herself. Her
eyes have not left my face. I can see her mind working, wondering
if she should bring me more, even though this is exactly what I asked
for: bread and soup; bread crusty, please, and soup not too hot. Simi,
her mother, was the same way in this regard. Always looking for some
deeper sign of meaning in a gesture or expression. Maddening sometimes,
really. If you have lived with someone for over thirty years, sharing
everything (even though sometimes forced out of you against your will)
you perhaps understand what I mean. But don’t get me wrong. I still
have a few secrets of my own.
Although
of an entirely different temperament, Majorca has all her mother’s
features and none of mine—which for a woman is a good thing. Simi and I
teased one another about it before Majorca was born. You’re a handsome
man in your own way, Val, she’d said, but, my god, our daughter better
take after me. Don’t you think? She held a photo in her hand. Well,
not a photo really, but a sonogram showing a small curled figure in
black and grays, there inside her stomach. A miracle. I kissed the
picture, then pulled Simi tightly up against me. She threw her head
back and laughed, her long black curls tickling my naked arm as it
rested across the nape of her neck. My arm itches at the thought. I
think for a moment that I am scratching the spot with my left hand, but
when I look down I see that I have not moved a muscle. The mind can
play such tricks. Majorca has the same hair. She has her mother’s
green eyes and the long, slender hands of an artist—which she has
applied not to clay, but rather to music and her cello. And although of
a more relaxed nature than her mother, she has the same intensity of
expression in her face. She can hide nothing.
When I finish lunch, Majorca sweeps in and carries off the bowl and
napkin. I never tire of watching her move, all the easiness of youth in
every stride. Papa, she says, what are you reading today? Her
question sends my mind off on a tangent, to a sheaf of papers I received
recently, stapled together and stuck into a manila envelope. It was
addressed in neat handwriting to “the family of S. Castillo.” It
arrived more or less out of nowhere. The return address said only, H.
M. and carried a Denver address.
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