The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [126]
“JJ, put your phone away,” said Norval, with an indulgent half-smile. “Everything’s been taken care of.”
“Everything’s been taken of, operator,” JJ repeated into the line. “Sorry.” He snapped his phone shut, all atwitter, then fumbled it onto the floor. “Do you know who did it, Nor? Is everything OK? Are you OK?”
“Everything’s fine. We’ll talk about it in the morning, all right?”
“Any damage? Do you know who could’ve done it? You sure we shouldn’t report it? I really think—”
Here Norval got up and walked towards him, carrying the toss cushion. To Noel’s surprise, instead of stuffing it in JJ’s mouth, he tossed it back onto the sofa and stooped to pick up the cell phone. He slipped it into JJ’s breast pocket, put his hand on JJ’s shoulder. “I appreciate your concern, JJ. I’m just going to the bathroom now and then to bed. I’m dead. I’ll fill in the blanks tomorrow.”
“I’ll show you where the bathroom is,” said Mrs. Burun. “Then I’m off to bed myself.”
“Good night, guys!” said JJ as the two disappeared down the hall. “Oh, Noel, I almost forgot. The sun is square to Saturn. Mars and Jupiter in your fourth house. Buy no new footwear.”
“Got it,” said Noel.
Noel fixed his eyes on the multicoloured flames, which fluttered like a school of tropical fish. Orpiment, nacarat, aurora, cinnabar, ultramarine … He sipped his cranberry juice, not tasting a thing, wondering what he had just done. Norval and Sam here, together? My mother and Norval? Not good combinations, not good at all …
Norval settled back into his chair, reached for the Boingnères Folle Blanche 1994. “Nice bathroom, Noel.” He poured out the biggest glass of brandy Noel had ever seen or heard of. “Just what I always wanted when taking a crap—an instruction manual.”
“Yeah … it’s … I’m going to take all that stuff down … soon.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“About what?”
“About your mother.”
“Because … JJ already told you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Noel sighed, took another sip of juice. “Because … because you would’ve ridiculed the whole situation, said I was running a ‘mommy daycare’ or something, suggested I put her in a home, that I was wasting my time.”
“Yes, I would have. And you are.”
“Some things are private.”
“So that explains why you look so dug-up lately. And why your house is falling apart, like some decaying mansion out of Poe.”
“Should’ve seen it before Sam and JJ arrived.”
“And yet your mother seems … fine. I mean, in the few exchanges we’ve had.”
“She’s getting better.”
“Was it … is it Alzheimer’s?”
Noel nodded.
“At fifty-six? Shit. Wasn’t that the age that Claude—”55
“Yes.”
“So you feared … what? You thought that since I couldn’t stand my mother I wouldn’t understand your … your devotion to yours? Your martyrdom, sacrifices?”
“Martyrdom? Sacrifices? What am I sacrificing? I’ve nothing else. She spent practically her entire life caring for me. She used to drive thirty miles out of her way, daily, so I could go to a special school. And after Dad died it got even harder for her, to say the least. And she didn’t go out with other men—she didn’t have time, she said …” Here Noel flashed to a colleague of hers in the history department who was mad about her, whom he had stupidly objected to one evening, for no valid reason, whom she immediately stopped seeing. “So why wouldn’t I care for her? Helping her, on a small scale, as she helped me?”
Norval was surprised by this sudden outpouring. He was moved as well, on a small scale, but made sure not to show it. He undid a smokedpearl button on his shirt before covering his face with the brandy snifter. An intoxicating perfume of almonds, vanilla and poached pears.
Noel watched him, almost enviously. He would never be able to knock back an amount like that, not without retch and spasm.
Norval savoured the long spicy (clove and pepper?) finish. “I hear you’re working with JJ,” he said evenly, feeling a pleasant internal flush. “Down in the dungeon.”
“Correct.”
Norval gave a slight nod. “That sounds promising. To save time, why don’t you just tie a millstone