The Days of Summer

“Let the child have dessert.” Julia dropped her linen napkin on her plate and slid a bowl of ice cream in front of her granddaughter.

Kathryn sat down again and stared at the heavy gold draperies on the windows. Underneath them were pale sheers covering the glass panes. She felt as invisible as those sheers.

“Johnny Ace’s family gave his records to a museum,” Julia said.

“The records should go to Laurel someday.”

“Laurel will know they’re important if they’re hanging in the entry.” Julia’s voice was clipped. “I took down a Picasso and the Matisse.”

Later that night, Kathryn rehung the records, then walked to her bedroom, closed the door, and lay there staring at nothing and feeling everything. From then on, she came in the house through a side door or the kitchen.

Between the time she had agreed to let their downtown apartment go and their actual move, Julia had redone Jimmy’s bedroom for Laurel, but the adjoining playroom remained untouched from Jimmy’s childhood. A few nights later, Kathryn walked in on Julia with Laurel in her lap while they looked at old slides through a viewfinder.

“Come sit with us, Kathryn. I don’t believe you’ve ever seen these photos.”

“Come, Mama. Come here. Daddy had a red tricycle just like mine.”

Already Laurel sounded like Julia. Come here. Come with me. Come there. Come. Come. Come.

So Kathryn looked at photo after photo, each one drawing a little more of the life from her. She didn’t tell Evie when they talked on the phone that night, because she didn’t want any more stress. These days she folded so easily under pressure. But she slipped the rental section of the Sunday morning paper under her arm and in the quiet of her bedroom began to circle the ads.

On the sly the next week, she looked at a small house in Magnolia with a backyard and a view of the sound, and she came home later than she’d planned and rushed right to the kitchen to make Laurel lunch. On her way to find her daughter, Julia stopped her. Kathryn tried to escape. “I’m taking Laurel a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

“It’s one o’clock. She’s already eaten. I gave her a ham salad sandwich.”

“Laurel doesn’t like ham.”

“Of course she does. It was Jimmy’s favorite.” Julia took the plate from Kathryn and set it on a nearby table. “Come. I have something to show you.” She led her out through the back of the house, past the new swing set and jungle gym, to a break of cedars that bordered the back lawn. Julia stopped. “Look, Kathryn.”

Between those trees was a small building, a miniature of the big house. Julia handed her a key. “Go inside.”

What Kathryn had assumed was a playhouse for Laurel was a large open room with shelves along the walls and a deep work sink and tiled counter under a wide front window.

Julia leaned against the counter, her hands resting on the rim. “You can see Laurel’s play area from here. And from that long window. I thought we could put your wheel there. The kiln is around the corner so this room won’t get too hot. And that refrigerator is for the clay.”

“I don’t know what to say.” And Kathryn didn’t. “This is wonderful.”

“Good.” Julia cupped a hand around a match, held it to the cigarette hanging from her lips, then tossed back her head and exhaled smoke. “I know coming here wasn’t easy for you. I wanted you to know I’m glad you’re here.” For a raw instant, Julia stared at her with the expression of an animal caught high in a tree, staring down at the hunter and his gun. “Enjoy it.” Julia turned and left.

The studio of Kathryn’s dreams couldn’t have been any better. Light and warmth came through the window; the tiles were gleaming, the room pristine, new still, no earthy smell of damp or baking clay. The walls were white, stark, and clean, without a trace of life. As she stood there, her past was wiped out, her future hauntingly empty.

But something else haunted her. She looked back to where Julia had just stood and realized she understood her mother-in-law’s terrified look. Only that morning Kathryn had seen it in the mirror.

Over the next few days, Kathryn stopped reading the rental ads and Julia stopped telling her what to do and how to feel. Kathryn was dressing after a shower when she heard Laurel singing. It sounded like she was jumping on the bed next door.

Kathryn ran into the hallway. “Laurel! Tell me you are not jumping on your grandmother’s bed.” She entered Julia’s suite for the first time.

Laurel was bouncing jubilantly on her grandmother’s silk-dressed bed and chanting, “I love coffee, I love tea …”

“Stop it!”

Laurel looked at her midbounce.

“She’s fine, Kathryn.” Julia came out of her bathroom rubbing cold cream on her face. “I told her she could jump on it.” Her robe matched the room, which was a clean soft white. Even the furniture, including a dressing table in one corner and a hi-fi in the other, were painted white, and the suite was luxuriously decorated from the carpet and the bed linens to the silk draperies on two long mullioned windows that looked out over the water. Between those long windows was a five-by-eight-foot canvas of bold colors, contemporary like most of Julia’s art. Kathryn felt the blood drain to her feet.

“It’s impressive, isn’t it?” Julia used a tissue to wipe the cream off. “There’s another over the bed.”

Kathryn faced the bed where Laurel was still jumping.

“The artist is Espinosa. I bought them a while back. Their value must be rising, although Lord knows I paid enough for them to begin with. The gallery called a week ago. The artist died recently and her family has been trying to track down all her pieces. The canvases fit so perfectly in here I don’t think I want to sell them. I decorated the whole room around them.”

Kathryn found her voice. “Do you know who that artist is?”

“Rachel Espinosa. A Spanish artist.”

“She was married to Rudy Banning.”

“Banning?” Julia sat down. “Banning?” There was a hollowness to her voice and her skin was gray. She looked up at Kathryn. “He killed Jimmy. Rudy Banning killed my son.”

“Rachel Espinosa Banning died in the same accident. She had an art show that night. Didn’t you see the newspapers?”

Julia shook her head. “I couldn’t read them. I didn’t want to read them. I was afraid to read them.”

“She and her husband left the show arguing. He lost control of the car.”

“My God.” Julia stood. “My God …” She walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

Kathryn was left to stare at the paintings, first one and then the other, until they all blurred together and she couldn’t see them anymore.

Later that night, Kathryn awoke from the throes of a nightmare and sat up, startled at the sound of Jimmy’s music playing so loudly from the next room.

Laurel came to her bed. “Mama. The music’s too loud. Make it stop.”

Kathryn tucked her in. “Stay here. I’ll ask Grandmama to turn it off.” What the hell was Julia thinking? She rapped on the door. “Julia?” Inside, she froze. Her mother-in-law stood on the bed, a long kitchen knife in her hand, the painting slashed from one corner to the other. “Julia!”

Calmly, she sliced down the other side and faced Kathryn, then stepped down to the carpet. “I don’t want them in this room. In this house.” Julia started toward the other painting.

“Wait! Don’t.”

“I need to destroy it. They destroyed my life. They killed my son.”

“You said the family wants the paintings.”

“They do.” Julia looked so small and lost and confused, not like someone capable of setting your teeth on edge. She merely looked half there.

“Then don’t destroy them. To never sell them back is the best revenge.” Wicked words, she knew, but that made saying them all the better. “Never sell them.”

Julia looked from the knife in her hand to the other painting on the wall. She took deep breaths and wiped at her tears with the sleeve of her silk robe, then handed Kathryn the knife. Kathryn put her arm around her. “It’s okay.”