Fire And Spice

Had any of this to do with his wife, Paul’s mother? But she’d looked through all the records from Paul’s school in Argentina and there’d been no mention of a mother-no name, no address, nothing.

‘If you know,’ she said gently, ‘then you should be able to help him deal with it.’

He crossed his arms. ‘I’m trying. We’re having long father-son talks and I tell him it’s important not to give in to these feelings, not to dwell on them, which is what he’s doing. We eat huge bowls of ice-cream while I try to explain to him that what matters is the present and the future and that it takes courage to move forward without dwelling on the past.’

‘It sounds easy, but it’s a lot to ask of a boy of twelve. Maybe it would help if you acknowledged his feelings instead of telling him he shouldn’t have them. He has the right to his feelings, you know. He’s not miserable because it’s so much fun.’

He stiffened. ‘He is not miserable. I’ve been too busy lately, but the work is easing up and I’ll be spending more time with him.’

She nodded. ‘That’s good.’

He came to his feet and stood in front of a water-color painting of an African market scene. After a moment he turned and glanced around. ‘You have a nice place. Very personal, very cozy.’

‘Thanks.’ The tension had lessened, the atmosphere changed subtly. ‘Can I get you a drink? I have Scotch, rum, dry sherry and white wine.’

‘Scotch on the rocks, thanks.’

She went into the kitchen and he followed her in. When she took the Scotch bottle, he took it from her

hand and set it on the counter. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes and her heart began to thump.

‘I wish you were just my upstairs neighbor,’ he said, his mouth curving in an ironic smile.

‘Yes,’ she said. She did not avert her gaze. ‘But I’m not.’ She was his son’s school counselor and she didn’t like the way he dealt with his son.

‘No, you’re not. But could we for now pretend you are?’

Yes, said one part of her. No, said another. Pretending is dangerous.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said with difficulty, ‘I can’t just pretend.’ She slipped out from under his hands and took a glass from the cabinet

‘You’re angry.’

‘I’m frustrated.’

‘Why? Why does Paul matter so much to you? There must be all kinds of kids with problems much more serious than his. Alcoholic parents, drug problems, whatever.’

True enough. She sighed, pushing the hair from her forehead. ‘I’m frustrated because I know Paul is unhappy and I don’t think your attitude is right.’ She picked up the bottle of Scotch and poured out a measure into the glass.

‘You don’t think my attitude is right?’ he repeated, a note of warning in his voice.

‘Correct.’ She looked straight into his eyes as she handed him the glass. ‘You seem too casual about it. You don’t seem to take it seriously.’

Silence. She felt a distinct chill in the air. He stood very still as he observed her.

‘Are you saying,’ he said slowly, ‘that I don’t care about my own son?’

Her heart pounded wildly. ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. What I’m trying to say is that you give the impression of not taking his unhappiness seriously. You think all he has to do is be tough.’

‘It’s a tough life,’ he said quietly, and there was nothing casual about his tone.

‘So it is. And a little tender loving care and some understanding will help.’

He gave a humorless little laugh. ‘You know it all, don’t you, Counselor?’ His voice mocked her. He tipped his glass back, finished the whisky in one go and with a forceful thump deposited the glass on the counter.