A Gesture Life

3

HOW GOOD IT IS to see old friends and colleagues again. Even here, in the gray-green corridors of the adult ward of the county hospital, one finds that fellowship has not been forgotten in the shifting rush to efficiency and profits. There is Connie Kalajian, the head nurse of the adult unit, who seems to do all she can to make sure her young staff is attentive to me, and Ryka Murnow, the hospital administrator, whose father had terrible disc problems and came to my store quite often before he died. There is Johnny Barnes, the head pharmacist of the hospital and also a rising-in-the-ranks semiprofessional bowler, who has played in tournaments upstate and in Ontario and in the Midwest. And of course, there is Renny Banerjee, the hospital purchasing manager, who comes by my room every few hours to see if I need anything. He chain-smokes, so he stops by after his many breaks. He appears now at breakfast time, bearing a foil-wrapped plate containing a bacon-and-cheese omelette and toasted bagel from the neighboring diner. He looks severely at my hospital tray, which I have only begun to pick at.

“Don’t ever touch that stuff again,” he says without levity. “You have no idea what goes on in Food Services.” He peels off the foil and hands me a plastic fork. He pulls up a chair next to the bed while I eat. I’m not hungry, but I feel I’m able to eat because he’s brought it along, because he is with me. “I used to date someone who worked there, a Puerto Rican girl named Julia. She was very sweet, but she told me how they really operate. They call it ‘Jai Alai,’ because you can use any surface for preparing the food — the floor, the walls, whatever. For entertainment they form hamburger patties by flinging ground beef up against the ceiling, then catching it on the way down.”

Renny Banerjee, though East Indian of blood, is what I often think of as a very American sort of man — barrel-chested, tall, with an easy, directive way of gesturing. There is the feeling when he speaks to you in his lilting accent that he’s addressing others in the room, who must be listening intently. Except that Renny is also polite. “My secret word to you, Doc, is that you get out of this place as soon as you are able. Or even before. I’ll have a word with the attending, if you like. Better to be in your own home, in every respect. I’ve heard the damage wasn’t very severe.”

“Not at all,” I answer, my lungs itchy, heavy-feeling. “Some carpet was ruined, and curtains. The family room and the kitchen need repainting. There is general cleaning to be done. A realtor is taking care of things right now.”

“You’re selling the house?” Renny Banerjee asks, a note of concern in his voice.

“No,” I say. “She’s just looking after the repairs for me. She lets in the workers. She’s been a great help, really.”

“Liv Crawford,” he says, as if there could be no one else.

“You know her?”

“We dated,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Long time ago. And we’ll probably date one day again. I have a terrible weakness for that woman. It’s quite specific. Something in me wants to hand over all my money to her. I hate the feeling, but it’s true.”

“She has a strong presence,” I say, in way of support.

“You ought to be careful yourself, Doc. I mean with your house, of course. Make sure you know what you want. I know Liv’s the one who pulled you out. Her picture was all over the paper. But what if you didn’t live in such a pretty house? You have to wonder….”

We have a hearty laugh at this, and though I start coughing and hacking, it is a pleasant feeling, to be talking with someone like Renny Banerjee. The circumstances are not ideal, yet it seems to me that life’s moments don’t have to be so right or not right anymore, so fraught and weighted with “value,” but just of themselves, what they are, which in this case is myself and Renny once again sharing light times and jokes and notions. Since I retired from the medical business, neither of us has called the other (having nothing specific to call about), but none of that seems awkward or straining now, and lying here in this largish room (courtesy of Ryka Murnow), I feel as fortunate as a man my age should rightly be able to feel, who’s had smoke inhalation and a racing heart and a good part of his house badly damaged by smoke. Liv Crawford did, with danger to herself, pull me out, while her frightened clients called emergency services on her car phone, and yesterday she sent a large bouquet of white roses, which sit on the windowsill in the brassy autumn light. They are beautiful, and I’m very grateful for them, even though in the Japanese tradition white is the signal color of death. But I don’t mind even this, and perhaps it’s right that Liv Crawford should be the bearer of these tidings, the mercenary angel who has saved my life.

“Sometimes I actually find myself missing that damned woman’s company,” Renny Banerjee says, looking over at the flowers. “Can you believe that? And I was the one who broke things off, Doc. I practically had to throw her out of my apartment. I changed the locks, though it didn’t do any good.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely, Doc. The local locksmiths love her because she makes sure to send them business. She can get into any house in the county. Truly. But it doesn’t matter now. She doesn’t bother me anymore. I never find her in my bed when I get home.”

I nod at this, for lack of a better answer. Then we sit quietly for a moment, as I finish the breakfast he has brought me. One of the qualities I have always admired is Renny’s unflinching forthrightness, more intimate than emotional, which the long hiatus in our friendship doesn’t seem to have dulled. Of course I never knew that he and Liv Crawford were in a relationship, but even just the idea appeals to me; I know they say opposites attract, but in this case I imagine that their similarities in character made for an exciting and volatile mix, ready fuel for the fire.

“Who was that woman you used to spend time with, Doc?” he says, walking around the bed, to the window. “I remember you strolling around the village with a fine looker on your arm. Am I right?”

“I’m not sure if you are.”

“Come now, Doc, don’t play cute with me. She was quite tall, if I remember correctly. Statuesque, in fact. What was her name? You introduced us once, years ago, at a village festival. I’m not mistaken about this.”

“A woman?”

“Yes, yes,” he says, mirthfully annoyed. “A woman.”

“Perhaps then you are talking about Mary Burns.”

“That’s right! Exactly. The striking widow, Mary Burns. What ever came of her? I thought you two were very much the item.”

“We were always friendly.”

Renny laughs, almost a guffaw, as he plucks a rose from the vase. “Friendly, you say. Hmm. I recall seeing some cooing and nuzzling beneath the linden trees, when they turned on the string lights for the evening in the park.”

“Cooing and nuzzling?”

“Yes,” he says, “I’m sure that’s what it was.”

“Mr. Banerjee,” I say. “I’m not sure how to respond to these terms.”

“No responses needed. I have an excellent memory. I see it now, very clearly.” He casts his gaze past my shoulder, off and faraway. His brown face has the lustrous sheen of melted chocolate. “I see Doc Hata and Mrs. Burns, in silhouette, by the swan pond. How they stroll majestically. So very venerable. And look, here they are again, in a window booth at Jolene’s Diner, spooning cherry ice cream from a shared dish. Do I see them once more? Ah, at the July Fourth parade, standing outside Sunny Medical Supply, waving at the procession. Are they holding hands? I can’t see.”

“I’m sure they aren’t,” I say in mock defense, acknowledging the scenes he is calling up. Renny Banerjee is remembering correctly, of course; I was with Mary Burns in those places (if not exact times), and I was more than content to be with her, to spend the idle hours together, in the park or a restaurant or the local movie theater. And yet as much as I happily recall those moments, there is an unformed quality to them as well, as if they are someone else’s memories and reflections, though somehow available only to me, to keep and to hold. Their warmth is fleeting, like a winter sun passing through clouds, and what I have left is the nervous heat of my retorts. But Renny Banerjee pushes on.

“Mary Burns is a lovely woman, a lovely woman. If I could marry a woman who would look like that when she got older! If there were a guarantee! Amazing. Oh, Doc, I recall a striking figure as well. Firm, athletic. I’m sorry to say this, but that’s one well-built woman. You still see her from time to time?”

“I’m sorry to say I don’t.”

“What’s this?” he says, his face all clamor and disappointment.

I tell him, “She passed away last year.”

“How terrible,” he says, obviously stunned. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. I never heard anything.”

“Yes. It was liver cancer.”

“I imagine it must have been quite sudden,” he says, still with a funny look on his face. He sits down again in the bedside chair.

“Yes,” I answer. I wish to explain, but I realize there is nothing else to say. Owing to our health-related careers, we have come to know that with liver cancer, it can sometimes be a matter of months, which it was in Mary Burns’s case, from diagnosis to end.

“I’m sorry now I talked about her like that,” Renny Banerjee says. “I didn’t know her, but I mean for your sake. I’m a very stupid man sometimes. I hope you’ll forgive me, Doc. Maybe I ought to leave now, and let you rest.”

“Please, please,” I tell him, “there’s no need to go right now. I was very happy to hear your compliments. And I’m sure Mrs. Burns would have been as well. This is an unnecessary feeling. I must insist. You’ve done nothing but cheer me with your visit.”

“I’m a fool,” he grumbles, knocking on his own head. “A big fool.”

“Nonsense, I’m not upset, or offended. I’m very pleased, in fact, and look, you’ve even brought me a hot breakfast as well. Which is delicious.”

He nods weakly. “I see I neglected to bring you coffee.”

“You probably remembered that I don’t drink coffee.”

Renny Banerjee smiles. “I didn’t, but it’s nice of you to say. I actually do have to get back upstairs if I’m going to do some work today, but I’ll be content to stay longer, whatever you wish.”

“You know I’m not one to get in the way of someone and his work,” I say happily. “But perhaps I will see you tomorrow? Doctor Weil wants me to stay until Wednesday morning. My breathing feels good, but I guess he’s concerned about infection.”

“Weil’s overcautious. And he’s pretty much a horse’s ass.”

“He is new, isn’t he?” I ask.

“A couple years,” Renny answers. “Young hotshot from the city. Everybody around here loves him. I don’t. He’s officious and arrogant. It seems they have to train them like that now.” He turns for the door. “I’ll bring breakfast again tomorrow. No, no, I will. No arguments. What do you want, omelette, pancakes, quiche lorraine?”

“I’ll leave it to you,” I tell him.

“Fine then. Rest well, Doc.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Will be done. And I’m so sorry, again.”

“No matter.”

“Goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye.”

* * *

THE FACT WAS, I didn’t see Mary Burns at the end. It was from mutual acquaintances that I learned she was ill, and by chance, this only a few weeks before she died. But I didn’t call on her at her house or here at the hospital, where she spent the final days of her life. At the time, it didn’t seem that I should, and the last thing I wished to do was to upset her or cause her distress in any way. But of course, I sometimes think that I should have visited her, sat by her bed and held her hand and said whatever words could have lent her comfort.

When I saw the newspaper notice, I didn’t quite believe that she had passed away. I read the small print many times over, reading her full name again and again, the address of her house on Mountview (the same street as mine), the name of her long-dead husband, and her survivors and where they were living. She had two children and five grandchildren, none of whom I’d ever met. I did learn several facts about her that I was surprised I hadn’t found out before. For example, she was a summa cum laude graduate of Mount Holyoke College, and served as a WAVE during the Second World War. There was a picture with the notice, but one taken from her early middle-age, which I supposed was how her children best wished to remember her, in the high glow and prime of her life.

We first met on our street, right in front of my house. I had lived there a number of years, but as it mostly is in towns like Bedley Run, and particularly on streets like ours, being neighbors means sharing the most limited kinds of intimacies, such as sewer lines and property boundaries and annual property tax valuations. Anything that falls into a more personal realm is only tentatively welcomed. I know certain families have enjoyed relationships because of their children, had carpools and holiday barbecues, and perhaps a shared weekend at a country house upstate or on the Long Island shore, but on the whole an unwritten covenant of conduct governs us, a signet of cordiality and decorum, in whose ethic, if it can be called such a thing, the worst wrong is to be drawn forth and disturbed.

From the time I moved here, I was very fortunate to understand the nature of these relations. Even when I received welcome cards and sweets baskets from my immediate neighbors, I judged the exact scale of what an appropriate response should be, that to reply with anything but the quiet simplicity of a gracious note would be to ruin the delicate and fragile balance. And so this is exactly what I did, in the form of expensive, heavy-stock cards, each of which I took great care to write in my best hand. Each brief thank-you was different, though saying the same thing, and I know that this helped me gain quick acceptance from my Mountview neighbors, especially given my being a foreigner and a Japanese. And as I’ve already intimated, they all seemed particularly surprised and pleased that I hadn’t run over to their houses with wrapped presents and invitations and hopeful, clinging embraces; in fact, I must have given them the reassuring thought of how safe they actually were, how shielded, that an interloper might immediately recognize and so heed the rules of their houses.

But Mary Burns, somehow, decided to breach that peace with me. I was planting pachysandra in fresh beds beside the driveway, when I heard someone say, “Do you always work so hard?”

I turned around and saw a woman in faded red slacks and a sleeveless white blouse, a white velvety band holding back her sliver-streaked flaxen hair. She stood where the drive met the street. She wore delicate suede loafers and no socks, and I recall noting the differences in skin tone between her arms and shoulders and neck, and the narrow white shock of her ankles.

“You’ve been working all weekend, I know,” she said, her hands locked behind her in an almost girlish pose. “And last weekend, too. Never anybody to help.”

I stood up and brushed the moist sod from my knees. For the last few weekends, I’d been digging up the grass along the driveway, turning it over, breaking it down, and was only now planting. I recognized her face, but of course I didn’t know who she was, and when she introduced herself by saying we were neighbors, I was immediately ashamed. I fumbled with my work gloves to shake her hand.

“Will you allow me to learn your name?” she asked with mirth.

“I’m very sorry,” I said, feeling completely disheveled. “I am Franklin Hata.”

“You’re the doctor,” she said knowingly, releasing her firm handshake.

“No, I’m not,” I told her. “People call me Doc, but I’m not a physician. I own the medical supply store in the village. Many years ago some customers and other merchants got to calling me that, and somehow it stuck. I wish sometimes it wasn’t so, but nobody seems to want to call me Franklin. I don’t mind, but I would never wish to mislead anyone.”

“You’re not a doctor?” she said, still somewhat confused. She had stepped onto the grass of the front lawn, right onto the property. She was casually surveying the house, which at that point appeared, at least on view from the street, to have been totally refurbished. “You know, I would have thought you were a doctor anyway.”

“Many doctors live in this neighborhood.”

“Yes, they do,” she answered ruefully. “Many, many doctors. I used to know most all of them. Since my children left home, I don’t know them anymore, especially the younger ones. My husband was a doctor. He’s dead now.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied. Then I said, “May I ask, was he at Deacon or County?”

“At Deacon. He was also consulting to County, just after it opened. That’s when he died. Dr. Bradley Burns. He was a cardiologist. Actually, he was chief of the unit.”

I told her, “I’m sorry I never met him. I don’t really meet the doctors through my business. There’s certainly no reason for them to concern themselves with people like me. He must have been very impressive, to be head of cardiology.”

“He certainly was,” she said plainly. And then: “You could say impressive was his middle name.”

I didn’t immediately reply, for I was somewhat surprised by her tone, which seemed without a hint of longing or pride.

“I was saying,” she went on, “that I would have thought you were a doctor, nickname or not. You do live in a doctor’s kind of house.”

“Perhaps, yes.”

“But I think it’s more that you have the movements and gestures of one. I haven’t been spying on you, but I have noticed that you work like someone assured, confident, even as you put in your ground cover. You have that doctor’s way, beyond any further questioning.”

“Lately I’ve had much practice in this field,” I said to her, toeing at the dirt.

She liked this and laughed. “I never see people here working in their yards. It would be nice if they did. But I often see that you do, at least whenever I’m walking by.”

“I enjoy it,” I told her, which was mostly the truth. I did find the work pleasing, basic and honest, but I didn’t have any extra money for gardeners and groundskeepers back then, and so there were compelling reasons to find myself in the yard, kneeling and digging and rooting.

“My late husband would never do anything,” she said, her arms crossed in front of her now. “He hated both the fact and the idea of working outside. That was fine, of course. But he always tried to argue about people having a certain expertise. He was a heart doctor, and he was good at that. Others did bookkeeping well, or they made a good doughnut or French bread, or they knew how to dig a ditch. It was when you tried doing someone else’s specialty, in his opinion, that you courted real trouble. But I must admit I always thought he was just being lazy.”

She smiled deeply, if not fondly, and she touched my arm as if to make a last, silent point. The contact surprised me. And then I realized at that moment how unusual it was that we were standing there at the head of the driveway, talking and joking and going on. In this area of expansive two- and three-acre lots, there is no such thing as gabbing over a hedge. There is too much buffer of fine landscaping and natural vegetation, of whitewashed horse fence and antiqued stone walls, that it’s rare to see anyone outside, much less two people on the perimeter of a property, talking or socializing. But you could have driven by and seen us, these two neighborhood folks on a late spring day, a man and a woman conversing with leisure and calm, and it didn’t seem that Mary Burns held any cares of being sighted, pointing down the street to her house and asking me for a tour of my front garden, doing nothing to camouflage herself or otherwise hide. Of course, why should she have? She was a widow, I a bachelor (if a father), both of us well into our middle years, and to step together among the drooping peonies was as innocent as any Sunday excursion in a botanical park. And yet I felt the burden of justification, of having a necessary reason for being with her, besides simply enjoying the newfound company.

Which I was. As she examined the foliage and flowers on either side of the front entrance, I found myself regarding her. She was quite easy to look at, her coloring pale and soft and falling in a certain range, her light hair and her light skin and the milky, faded color of her eyes. While moving steadily through my plants, inspecting, commenting, she described her own garden and the troubles she was having with caterpillars and leaf-eating beetles, wishing aloud that her plants were as vigorous, and I suddenly realized I was trailing quite closely behind her, as if drawn in by the air of her wake. It wasn’t so much that I found her so pretty or attractive, which I would often come to hear about her from acquaintances like Renny Banerjee or the fellows at Murasan’s, for at the time I didn’t fully know how to look at a Western woman and immediately appreciate what should be beautiful and prized. They all seemed generally tall, and with narrow faces, sharp and high about the nose, which seemed to lead them all about. I know that I had my own conceptions of female comeliness, those naturally developed in the years of my young manhood. But ever since my decision to leave Japan for good, I hadn’t wished to think at length about women and intimate relations and companionship, for I knew there would be myriad difficulties ahead of me, in setting up my small bit of commerce, and other things in life. This may sound like an excuse, and perhaps even a little sad, but it’s hard for others to know how consuming one’s arrival in a new land can be, how it will take up every last resource of spirit, which too often can lead to the detriment of most everything else.

But with Mary Burns I seemed to forget the place where I was. In the shade of the eaves, amid the fresh blooms of the lilies, a cool, tropical lilt seemed to unfold in the air. It was an almost memorial sweetness, rising beneath me like a lifting wave, as if it were intent on transporting me, sending me to a place across oceans. And for that moment I would have gladly gone there, or anywhere, for there was nothing but an immaculate calm in my heart. I wish to say this now, that it truly was a sensation of calm, and not the other thing, some pulsing, breakneck thump, a coursing furious and wild. I think it was because she seemed so perfectly at ease with me, as if our meeting was the most ordinary thing. And I the most ordinary man. She didn’t seem to speak more slowly or loudly than she might otherwise, she didn’t gaze at me too attentively, but paid as much attention as she appropriately should, all of which, at least for me, was the most unlikely kind of flattery.

“Mr. Hata,” she said warmly. “You must have a family for this big house.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen your wife outside.”

“No, no, you wouldn’t have,” I told her, thinking immediately that I should say something about that. But the need had not arisen, at least in such a situation, and all I could do was speak with expedience. Later on, I did remark to her on once having a wife, this many years in the past, but I made clear by my tone that it wasn’t a subject that was very pleasing to me.

I said, “I’ve been alone for some time. But you may have seen my daughter. Sometimes she comes out with me, to garden.” My gaze naturally wandered to the far first-floor window of the study, where I thought I saw a movement behind the lace curtain.

Mary Burns went on nodding, smiling. “How I wish my daughters would visit me more on the weekends. What’s her name?”

“Sunny.”

“Tell me, Mr. Hata, is she a mother or is she working? My youngest just finished her last year of college, and she’s talking about working for ten years and then having children. Don’t you think that seems awfully late to start having children?”

“No, no,” I answered. “My daughter will be entering middle school in the fall.”

“Middle school?”

“Yes,” I said. “She’s eleven.”

Mary Burns was clearly confused, for it was obvious how near in age we were, in our fifties, and I quickly realized what an awkward situation I had placed her in. So I explained, “My daughter came to me four years ago, through a Christian adoption agency. I was very lucky to get her, being without a wife, and also because I’m somewhat older than is preferred. But I was able to convince the agency of my qualifications, and now I’m a happy father.”

“Oh, I see,” she said softly, brushing back loose ends of her wispy hair, which was fetchingly unkempt. “How wonderful for her, and for you. Truly. I sometimes wish that my children were as young as that again. What a rumpus they could cause. But it was worth every minute, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yes. It’s been very rewarding.”

I decided to invite her to inspect the more extensive garden behind the house, and she was plainly happy to follow me there, to walk among the perennials that I’d recently planted in what used to be a small croquet lawn, adjacent to the pool.

She bent to smell the lavender-colored flowers of the blooming rosemary bushes, and then moved on to the other ornamental and fragrant plants, and as she did I excused myself to go into the house. When I returned, I took the pair of snips I’d retrieved from the kitchen and quickly cut a small bundle of the rosemary and thyme for her to take home, wrapping it neatly with a stripped branch. She clasped the bunch gratefully and thanked me, and though it seemed I should invite her inside for a soft drink or tea (as she herself seemed to anticipate), I remembered it was near the hour for Sunny to begin her afternoon practicing, and I feared it might be a disturbance for her to have an unfamiliar woman in the house.

For it was around the same time that I began speaking to Sunny about the possibility of her having a mother; I suggested that with a woman living with us, perhaps she would be happier, or at least less inexplicably agitated and anxious-feeling than she was, which it seemed was becoming an increasingly everyday condition. I had aimed to learn of a suitable woman through old friends back in Japan, depending on a small network of comrades from the war for a reputable contact, but so few Japanese of good background and means wished to leave their country, especially in those boom days. My only real chance was to locate a childless widow who might consider an opportunity for motherhood reason enough to leave her homeland, and I hoped, too, that a congenial understanding and companionship would at some point arise between us, as it is never ideal for a child to sense ill-feeling between her parents. I had tried to convince Sunny of all this, for it seemed certainly wrong for a young girl to know only a single adult, especially so if it was a man, but always she was vehemently against the idea, crying and going on whenever I persisted. And though I didn’t do anything that day with Mary Burns to go against her wishes, it would be wrong to recall something other than a renewed lightness suffusing my spirit, a part of me which seemed, I was certain, to have been long ago dissipated, and lost.

Mary Burns, I know, was also surprised by the pleasantness of our meeting. She would later say I was gentle-seeming, and charming, and “exceedingly handsome,” if I remember her words correctly. I don’t know much about this; I’ve never thought — or even thought to think — of myself in such terms. And when she was even more comfortable with me, she confided how odd a recognition it was for her, at least at first, to find herself deeply attracted to an Oriental man. She laughed at herself and said there was no reason she shouldn’t have been, that there was no good reason at all, but the feeling was there and she ought to be truthful, and whether it was shameful or not probably didn’t matter in the end.

I agreed with her. Of course I didn’t say anything about my own particular attractions. My initial concern was about the exact nature of our relationship, what we might do, share — what might, in fact, eventually occur in the more private moments. Soon enough, my thoughts were focused on these notions, these heightened wonderings, and I fear I lost some perspective along the way for what my daughter Sunny may have needed, which was not necessarily a woman or a mother or anyone else.

Mary Burns, I want to say now, tried her best to connect with Sunny. She made great efforts toward building a friendship, when there was no expectation for her to do so. How many afternoons did she await Sunny at the bus stop, so that they might walk home together, climb the steady hill of Mountview Street? How many evenings did she come over to the house to visit with Sunny upstairs in her room, to chat and “hang out” with her, and then later help with her homework? How many Sunday afternoons did they spend together, at the children’s hour at Mary Burns’s country club, or at Jolene’s in the village for a treat of ice cream?

I remember when they would return from these outings, the front door creaking open, and Mary Burns would call out to say they were home. Her voice was always sprightly, aloft, but when I’d meet them in the foyer Sunny would be quickly ascending the stairs. I’d ask her if she had had fun, and she would answer, “Yes, Poppa, I did,” and then continue on her way up. I’d remind her to say thank you, but of course she had already, without fail, having made offerings to Mary Burns in the car and at the door, and she’d even curtly bow at the top of the stairs before disappearing down the hall to her room.

Afterward, Mary Burns and I would sit in the family room or the kitchen, sharing a snack or a pot of tea I’d prepared, and though she wouldn’t say anything I could see the disappointment ever settling in the fine lines of her face, her jaw perfectly steady. There was a sheerness, the smoothest rigor to her cheek, as if it were the keen wall of a canyon. And it was in these moments, strangely enough, that I believe I found her most arresting and lovely, that she appeared to me exquisitely composed in character, her bearing deliberate and unrelenting.

Only once did she break. After what she thought had been a particularly enjoyable day for them, full of shared gossip and even laughter, though with Sunny excusing herself as usual, Mary Burns began to cry. We were sitting on the family-room sofa. She cried very quietly, not covering her face, and at the very moment I thought she would come closer and lean on me, she rose and said she would be leaving.

“You’re not going to stay?” I asked.

“No, Franklin, I don’t think so.”

“Not even for dinner?”

“Not tonight.”

I followed her to the foyer. “I’m sorry about Sunny,” I said. “She can be rude sometimes. I’ll speak to her.”

“I don’t want you to do that,” she answered, her voice strained and rising. “Please, Franklin. She’s not rude. Not in any way. Never have I known a girl of eleven to be as polite as she is. She’s never said an unkind word, and she’s never complained. I truly thought she was happy today, to be together with me. She seemed happy. But the second we got home, the day was over. All at once, it was over. Just like that.”

“Did Sunny say something?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. She was perfectly fine. But it was as though she was serving her sentence with me for the afternoon hours, and when we got home, she was released. It’s not her fault. You’ve raised her impeccably. She doesn’t have to have a deep feeling for me. There’s no law.” She lifted her purse from the hall table, curling the strap over her shoulder. They had been at the club, and she was still wearing her white tennis clothes, a short pleated skirt and blouse and a light sweater.

“I feel so unbelievably tired all of a sudden,” she said, exhaling deeply. She touched my forearm and squeezed it gently. “Let’s say good night now, Franklin, okay?”

“I’m very sorry.”

“It’s no one’s fault. Least of all yours.”

“Yes,” I replied, though not intending to agree. I tried to think of an explanation, a way to tell her that Sunny was in fact a good-hearted girl who would never mean to upset or offend. But already I sensed the lateness of my providing any reasons, at least for Mary Burns’s sake. For Mary Burns, it seemed, I was often too late. And the other truth was that even after several years, Sunny felt no more at home in this town, or in this house of mine, or perhaps even with me, than when she very first arrived at Kennedy Airport, accompanied by a woman from the agency. I noticed something even then. She was clutching a rough canvas bag of her things, the zipper flapping loose at one end, torn from the plain, soiled fabric. When I tried to coax it from her she crossed her small arms tightly around it, carrying it all the way to the car herself, the whole small picture of her both endearing and pathetic. She followed behind me and the woman, who was talking excitedly about the various projects the agency was developing for the benefit of Asian orphans. Whenever I looked around to acknowledge my new daughter, to try to catch her eye, she neatly tucked in her chin and pushed on, as if she were headed into a long and driving rain.

Mary Burns, I’m afraid, did not soon give up with Sunny. I saw how it was affecting her and tried to suggest that she cease, that she simply make an accommodation and not attempt to be intimate with the girl, who seemed to be growing more and more untouchable, becoming more and more distanced from her and myself and everything else.

“You don’t understand, Franklin,” she finally told me one evening, at the end of yet another day. “She’s just a girl, and a girl needs a woman. To be there, if nothing else. I don’t care if she doesn’t love me. One day she’ll have a feeling for me, perhaps, but that doesn’t matter. I’m going to spend time with her, and that’s that.”

She continued scheduling their weekend outings, and attended the after-school activities that I could never go to because of the store, the soccer matches and the Brownie meetings and, of course, the piano lessons and recitals. Indeed, she was there, and always there, and had they looked remotely like each other, had they anything physical in common, I’m sure they would have seemed like all the other mothers and daughters, but even more so, arriving and departing together hand in hand, with hardly a sign of rancor. In fact, some of the mothers who came by my store would make sure to mention how delightful the two of them were, how gracious with each other, how wonderful it was that a woman like Mary Burns and my daughter could be so “good” together. It was wonderful, yes, yes indeed, how all girls and ladies had things in common. Of course I always thanked them, was appropriately pleased and proud, not saying otherwise, but I also wished secretly that for once I’d hear about Sunny speaking insolently, that they had had a terrible row in front of everyone, that once and finally Mary Burns had been most cross and vehement and had scolded her with great wrath.

But I never did hear that. Or ever would. And I remember vividly one of the last times Mary Burns and I spent together, this in the weeks before we drifted apart, when our relationship finally came to an end. She was sitting poolside while I swam in the August heat, her long fingers wrapped around a tall glass of iced tea. It was toward dusk but the air was still downy and insufferable and she was waiting for Sunny to come out. The two of them were going to a teen dance at the tennis club, Mary Burns having been asked to be one of the chaperons. She was of course dutiful that way. She looked pretty that evening, in a shimmering linen dress without sleeves and matching silken shoes. Her legs and arms had a glowing tan from all the tennis she played, and I thought she was the warm picture of goodness and health. She had been quiet on arriving, however, and as she didn’t seem particularly interested in talking, I suggested she come outside and keep me company while I did my laps, for in the warmer weather I swam extra lengths in the evenings as well. I had originally planned to attend the dance myself, as Mary Burns’s escort, but that afternoon Sunny had come to the store and asked me if I would be kind enough to stay at home.

“It’s obvious you’re not going to dance anyway,” she had said right off. As she grew older, Sunny had a way of speaking unusually crisply, and with gravity, as if she were somehow in charge. Her English was of course impeccable, and had for a long time been much better than mine. “I don’t see why you’d want to go. It’s silly. You’ll just sit at a back table and sip punch and watch the whole night go by.”

She was right, certainly, as that was just what I’d probably do. There were no good reasons for my presence, except to be there for Mary Burns, as all the other chaperons would certainly have the company of their partners. And yet it was not for Mary Burns’s sake that I pushed Sunny to explain her wishes.

Still, I said, “But who will accompany Mrs. Burns?”

“Mrs. Burns? She doesn’t need anyone. It’s her country club. She knows everybody there. She’ll be busy all night with her club friends. In fact, she’ll have a better time without you.”

“But she’s asked me to come.”

“I know,” she said, quite serious. “But I’m asking you not to come.”

Her tone wasn’t petulant, or fretful, for she was possessed of a remarkable equanimity, more the way one thinks distinguished, older people to be than young teenage girls. The way Mary Burns would no doubt conduct herself were she living now. But then Sunny displayed a ferocity as well, a flinty, coal-like hardness that should have been beyond the ken of her years.

I then asked her: “Are you afraid you’ll be embarrassed by me?”

“Of course not,” she replied. She was idly binding her wrist with a roll of sterile gauze. Whenever she came to the store, she played with some item or another. “Why should I be embarrassed? You know very well how much everyone likes you. Even my friends. In fact, they like you better than they like me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It is true. And it’s the same with everyone I meet. But I don’t care about that. I would like to be there by myself, on my own. I know Mary has to be there at this point, and I wish she weren’t going to be, but if you come, too, I’ll be the only one with my whole family there. I think that’s a little strange, don’t you, to be with your family at a dance just for kids?”

I nodded, for what she was saying seemed reasonable enough. I could understand the potential awkwardness of having the two of us present. Mary Burns and I went out together in public quite regularly, but rarely was it the three of us, the “whole family,” as Sunny had put it, a phrase which stuck out, unfortunately, because it seemed amazing that she should say such a thing. Certainly, I wanted us to be as much of a unit as any, a “whole family” in whatever sense was possible. But I knew Sunny had no feelings of the kind. I had done as Mary Burns had requested, never bringing up to Sunny her ill use and her selfishness and her cold spirit; and my silence, I will say now, was hurtful to me, for I did have a genuine feeling for Mary Burns, as genuine a feeling as I’d had for a long time, and to stand by and witness their relations caused me severe distress. I was simply angry at Sunny, and so, finally, I think, was Mary Burns, deeply angry and hurt, and though she never said a word to the girl, it seemed to happen that she was addressing me at the end, looking to me for the reasons why my daughter, after nearly four years, could still be so profoundly unmoved.

That night of the dance, Mary Burns quietly watched me swim. She waited to speak until I was done and had pulled on my robe. I sat down with her at the outdoor table. The automatic lights on the stone paths had gone on, and there was a coppery glow rising against the early evening sky.

“I wish we could have talked before you decided on your own not to come tonight.”

“I called this afternoon,” I said to her. “But you were out.”

“You know I was at the club, helping with the decorations.” She looked upset, though her voice was steady and low. “Though I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered, whether we talked or not.”

“Sunny isn’t feeling so comfortable at the moment. You must understand that I wish to support her.”

“Of course you do,” she said, exasperated. She brushed her hair with her hand. She had recently changed the color, from its silvery tones to a very pale golden color, and though it was handsome, I wasn’t certain it best suited her. She appeared much younger, and then not, and sometimes I was unsure how to think of her. “Listen to me, Franklin. She’s your daughter, and so you ought to do everything you can for her. If you have eyes, you’ve seen that I’ve tried to do my part.”

“I know you have, and I thank you.”

“That’s not why I bring it up,” she said sharply. She paused and took a breath. “I didn’t spend time with Sunny so you’d be grateful to me. I didn’t do it because of you, or even so much to help you. She seemed to need guidance, the kind of company a mother or aunt or grandmother can give, and I wanted to try to offer that. I guess I was terribly wrong. I was naive. But I’m also not sorry. I would do it again, without hesitation.

“The reason I’m angry tonight is that I think you treat her wrongly. Perhaps you don’t know it, but you do. I’ve thought it from time to time, and I’m sorry I’m such a coward that I can only say this to you now.”

I cleared my throat and said, surprising myself, “I understand that I’ve not dealt with Sunny’s jealousy of you very effectively.”

This seemed to irritate her. “That’s not what I’m talking about. That’s not it at all.”

“I try my best to treat her with respect,” I said.

“Yes,” Mary Burns answered earnestly. “Yes, you do. You treat her like a grown woman, which I guess is understandable because she’s very mature for her age.”

“You know how much I want her to be independent.”

“Yes, she is,” she replied. “But it’s as if she’s a woman to whom you’re beholden, which I can’t understand. I don’t see the reason. You’re the one who wanted her. You adopted her. But you act almost guilty, as if she’s someone you hurt once, or betrayed, and now you’re obliged to do whatever she wishes, which is never good for anyone, much less a child.”

“This is quite unusual, Mary, to hear, but I’ll think about what you say.”

“For goodness sake, Franklin, you don’t always have to assent!” she said, her voice suddenly rising. I thought she would speak most sharply to me then. But she seemed to hear herself, and I could see the control she was exercising over her face. She took a sip of her iced tea. “I might be completely wrong, Franklin. I hope I am.”

“I have always trusted your judgment, Mary.”

“Yes. I know you have.”

We sat in silence after that, the night fast approaching, the crickets just beginning to arise in song. Mary Burns glanced at the house, to Sunny’s bedroom window, which was still lighted. Shadows moved along a wall. They were already late for the dance, but it didn’t seem to matter. It was one of those moments that appear to take forever, though somehow everything was the better for it. I didn’t wish to go further in the conversation, nor did she, and if there was one true thing that we shared during our relations, it was that neither of us, for better or worse, had much stomach for these engagements, for taking certain issues to the necessary lengths. We rather floated the deep waters, just barely treading, although now I see how my friend Mary Burns held onto things more gravely than I, certain notions staying with her longer, more tightly clasped, so that in the end we were much farther apart in our feelings than I had ever imagined.

Sunny finally came out the patio doors, dressed in a resplendent swath of white. She and Mary Burns had decided on the outfit together the weekend before, on a shopping junket down to the city. It was a very handsome choice. The dress came just up to her darkly suntanned shoulders, the delicate material clinging to her torso but not so tightly as to be indecent, the handsome drape conveying only the suggestion of the young woman beneath. But the young woman was certainly there, too, the near adultness of her, and the sight of that shape made me realize why she had asked me to remain at home. It wasn’t at all what Sunny had said in the store, about people liking me too much, or (as I had imagined it) her jealousy of Mary Burns, or even what was ventured of how I treated her, which was probably true enough. It was her bodily presence, the sheer, becoming whiteness of her limbs and skin and face and eyes. She was beautiful, yes. Exceptionally so. But it was also the other character of her beauty, its dark and willful visage, and with it, the growing measure of independence she would exercise over her world and over me, that she had hoped to keep hidden a little longer.