Читать книгу Jack’s Passion - Bill Kinsella - Страница 12

Uncle Browne took the Island Road out of Chimera and headed for Cythere. The road passed through forests and then back into a clearing before ascending a hill in a serpentine pattern above the water. The water below was silvery blue in the morning light and some small boats drifted at anchor, back and forth close to shore. Along the road, wisps of long, green grass bent with graceful suppleness blown by a gentle wind. The grass bending and boats drifting and car climbing to make the hill combined into one large movement—like some silent music played in perfect rhythm with the world.

Soon Uncle Browne and Aunt Millicent’s house came into view. Through a mist of light and haze of motion, Jack and Veronica saw the small cape emerge from the landscape. It was a house like in a dream with a hilly background, half-light and half-shadow. Uncle Browne stopped the car on a plateau and gazed toward his property to see if he could spot what he referred to as his mystery of affection.

“You might be able to see Millie,” he said, his hand shading his eyes, “she’s at her painting now, probably checking the morning light.”

Aunt Millicent was an artist who had recently attained a kind of local celebrity for her seascapes. Her current project was to paint the cove near their house at different times of day to see how the light changed it. Uncle Browne pointed toward the house and hill of land it sat upon and then lowered his focus, “The light’s brilliant over the cove, I’m sure she’s out there.”

In a moment, they drove onto the property. Jutting toward them at a bend in the driveway was a wooden placard mounted to a robust elm. It was a small, oval placard with black italicized letters that read Maison d’Etre.

“That’s a cool sign,” Veronica offered. “You like that?” Uncle Browne responded.

“Yes,” Veronica said.

“That’s one of Millie’s creations. What do you think it means?” Uncle Browne asked.

“Oh no, here comes my uncle the professor,” Jack said.

Veronica answered like she was asking a question, “That your home is your reason to be?”

“C’est bon,” Uncle Browne said. “Jack, your girl gets an A for life.” Veronica beamed with the complement.

Aunt Millicent approached the car as the others got out, coming up to them in a paint-smeared smock. She hugged Jack right away, a brush still in her hand.

“Oh dear, it’s so lovely to see you,” she said.

“Jack’s girl’s a keeper,” Uncle Browne reported.

“Is she?” Aunt Millicent asked pleasantly. Then she turned to Veronica with a welcoming smile.

“Aunt Millicent,” Jack said, “this is Veronica.”

“Hello, Veronica,” Aunt Millicent said, taking both Veronica’s hands in hers and squeezing them.

After pleasantries were completed and Jack and Veronica settled in, Aunt Millicent decided to go to the Up Island market for groceries. She invited Veronica to come along. Jack and his uncle stayed behind and Uncle Browne suggested a walk.

It was close to midday when they started walking and the sun was high, bright and strong. They dressed in swim suits and T shirts and Uncle Browne suggested they walk along the shoreline in the cove out toward Smith Point.

Smith Point was a large cliff that projected out into the sound and separated the sound from the ocean. It was the most prominent land mass on the island, renowned for its red clay cliffs; high, massive, wall-like bulk, and magnificent views. It was the island’s natural wonder, looming as it did above the water and holding back the land. Smith Point was two miles away and, according to Uncle Browne, perfect walking distance for stretching out his aching muscles.

Uncle Browne’s hair had gone gray when he was still in his forties. Now it was silver and sometimes in the light shone bluish. He kept his full head of hair long and combed it off his forehead to the side. The long silver strands completely covered his large ears which were only visible when the wind blew or the hair was wet, and which always made Jack laugh. Jack was his only nephew and Uncle Browne looked upon him fondly and proudly, the way he might have looked upon his own son if he had one.

Uncle Browne had a nickname for Jack that came about when Jack was just five years old. Young Jack had heard his Uncle calling to his wife for his jacket and thought he was calling him. So Jack became Jacket. It was a name Uncle Browne delighted in saying. As they walked, Uncle Browne inquired about Jack’s plans. “Jacket, where do you go from here?”

“I’m going home for a couple weeks, then to Montana with my parents,” Jack said.

“Isn’t that something you do every year?” Uncle Browne remembered.

“Yes it is,” Jack said, “we usually go there around my birthday.”

“Twenty-two, right?” Uncle Browne calculated. “It’s hard to believe, I remember you as a baby.” Uncle Browne patted Jack’s shoulder. “Long range plans?”

“I have an opportunity to work in Durham,” Jack said.

“What about Wall Street, isn’t that the family plan?” Uncle Browne asked, gazing ahead toward Smith Point.

“No interviews yet,” Jack said.

“That’s surprising,” said Uncle Browne.

Jack viewed the water off in the distance. He felt uneasy not telling his uncle about Sanders Brown and was relieved by the next question.

“How do your folks like Veronica?” Uncle Browne asked.

“Oh, I think Mom’s just a little jealous. Dad doesn’t say much.

He seems to like her. But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want me to get seriously involved. I know Mom doesn’t.”

“Oh, I see. They’re practicing parental blindness. I see it among my friends with their children. But your parents are more astute than that. They must know what’s what.”

“Is it that obvious?” Jack smiled.

“Abundantly so, and from what I can glean, with good reason. She’s charming and lovely, Jacket. I’m happy for you. How does she get on with them?” Uncle Browne asked.

“Veronica likes them. But she doesn’t share their conviction about what’s right for me and what I should do now,” Jack said.

“Explain, Jacket.”

“Well, she’s not keen on me going to Wall Street. She thinks I should do what I really want to. She would like me to stay in Durham.”

“What’s the Durham offer?” Uncle Browne asked.

“To work for the Durham Nursery,” Jack said.

“Interesting. Of course you’d be closer to Veronica that way,” Uncle Browne said considerately.

“I’m sure that’s a big part of it, but it’s more than that, Uncle.”

“Tell me.” Uncle Browne leaned a little toward Jack so as to better hear him.

“I have a chance to work as a landscaping consultant. I’ve worked at the Nursery through college and the owner likes me, thinks I’m good at landscape design. He’s offered me a full time job doing that.”

“What kind of business is it?” Uncle Browne inquired.

“Oh, it’s big in the area, doing a lot of commercial design, and high-end residential design, doing municipal planning too. It’s growing all the time-three locations now and will expand,” Jack said.

“And you’re qualified for that?” Uncle Browne followed.

“I took courses in landscape design at Duke. My minor, I guess you could say.”

“So you like it,” Uncle Browne said, turning to Jack to catch his expression.

“Love it!” Jack lit up.

“So why finance?” Uncle Browne’s voice rose with the question.

“Realistic, I guess. I could make a lot more money in finance than landscape design,” Jack said, sounding as if he were reading a script.

“That doesn’t sound entirely like you, Jacket,” Uncle Browne said, peering at his nephew.

“I guess I’ve grown up, know my responsibilities.” Jack’s voice lacked the conviction it had when he’d spoken about the Durham Nursery.

“Being grown up is overrated if you ask me. Besides, Jacket, you were born grown up,” Uncle Browne said. “Will you take the Durham offer?”

“I’m not sure,” Jack said.”

“Why not?” Uncle Browne prodded.

“It’s not Wall Street!” Jack said soberly.

“No, it’s not. Sounds more like Main Street. What’s wrong with that?”

“It doesn’t present the opportunity Wall Street does,” Jack recited.

“Jack, excuse me, but you sound like your father. In a minute you’re going to tell me it takes a lot of money to float the boat,” Uncle Browne said, his voice sounding in gentle reproach.

“It’s true, Uncle.” Jack spoke as if with allegiance to a cause.

“But is it true for you, Jacket? Is Wall Street true for you?” There was a provocative tone to Uncle Browne’s question. Jack thought it might be the same tone his uncle used when challenging his students to think.

“I am my father’s son,” Jack said, still going by the script that had directed his life until now.

“Indeed. And from the time you were young, you’ve been made into his image. And through it all, you’ve excelled. You are a testament to your father. You have his drive and pluck. Now you speak with his sense of responsibility. You’re admirable in every way a young man can be. But Jacket, this idea that only by going to Wall Street, as your father did, will you be fulfilling your responsibility to yourself and the country is, perhaps, specious as it applies to you.” Uncle Browne faced Jack with an earnest expression.

“What do you mean, Uncle Browne?” Jack said.

“I mean there is no rush. I mean you are not exactly your father,” Uncle Browne returned.

“I’m enough like him that going to Wall Street would not be a mistake.” Again, Jack’s answer sounded in self-debate.

“Perhaps, Jacket, but what’s the rush? You should take time to explore your options. Wall Street is not going anywhere. Ever since you were a young boy, you loved being outdoors. You thrive in the open air. Now I hear about your talent in landscape, a talent that’s worth considering before you plunge into your father’s dream.”

“It’s not just his dream,” Jack said. “It’s what I’ve talked about forever.”

“Then it can wait a little longer, it will be there if it’s real,” Uncle Browne said. Uncle Browne walked over to the shoreline and bent down and dipped his hands into the water. With both hands he wet his face then returned to Jack. He gazed at Jack with as accepting a look as any man could give another.

“Jack,” he said warmly, “it’s okay to be confused.” In Uncle Browne’s tone was a kind of permission, conveyed to his nephew like a release. Then, as though something had just occurred to him, Uncle Browne added, “But I’m putting the cart before the horse. You don’t have an interview anyway.”

Jack wanted to open up. He was acutely aware of being dishonest. He blurted out, “But I know I’ll get one.” The force of his remark caused Uncle Browne to raise an eyebrow. Uncle Browne addressed Jack with an expression of serious consideration, “When it comes down to it, Jacket, do what makes you happy.”

Jack’s eyes filled with gratitude. But then he paused, reflecting about Sanders Brown, Wall Street, and the Durham Nursery. He became subdued. He needed to air his dilemma but couldn’t, so he put into words the heavy question he’d lugged around too long without help.

“Uncle, what if I don’t really know what I should do?”

“Give yourself some time, you’ll figure it out.”

“Uncle Browne,” Jack inquired, “do you think it’d be wrong if l didn’t go to Wall Street?”

Uncle Browne’s answer rang with the clarity of a bell at midnight. “No! You must be true to yourself, Jacket. That’s what the Greeks said: Know thyself and nothing in excess.” Jack needed to hear that but had more to get off his chest. He was thinking about Duke and Phil Dayton, and about his parents.

“You don’t think I’d be shirking my responsibility by not going?” he asked timidly.

“Absolutely not,” Uncle Browne insisted.

“You see, Uncle, I’ve always been responsible.” Jack said, questioning himself out loud.

“I know your qualities, Jacket,” Uncle Browne said, “they won’t change.”

“But shouldn’t I do what I have to first. I can do the rest later?”

“Jacket, you’d be no less a man for adding local color to a region’s growing possibilities, than you’d be by launching a business in the markets and seeing to it that the yearly yield beats the averages.”

Jack looked at his Uncle, his eyes nearly closed in a squint from the bright sun.

“It’s important.”

“What?”

“Beating the average.”

“Whatever you decide to do, Jacket, you’ll beat the average.

All I’m saying is take your time-don’t let it take you.”

They were at the summit of their walk now, at the top of Smith Point. They walked up to a railing positioned on the cliff side and looked out and down. Below the cliff on the eastern side was a long stretch of smooth white sand. The beach there faced the Atlantic and at that moment the water was exceptionally calm.

“That’s inviting,” Jack said.

“Liberating too,” Uncle Brown said wryly. “Is it, really?” Jack grinned in understanding.

“Oh, certainly, that’s probably the most liberating beach on the island.”

“Do you and Aunt Millicent ever go there?”

“We’re liberated at least once a week,” Uncle Browne said, casting a mischievous stare down at the beach.

“God, Uncle, you crack me up. You and Aunt Millicent have always been so . . . I don’t know what the word is . . . Liberated!”

“Should we have a go at liberation?” Uncle Brown queried with a double jump of his eyebrows.

Jack paused at his uncle’s suggestion, but loved it. That’s always how it was with his uncle. It was like being with a close friend who knew you better than you did yourself and with whom you always enjoyed doing things you’d never thought of trying.

“What the hell, Uncle, you only live once!” Jack said.

They descended a weather bleached set of wooden steps down the side of the cliff to the soft sand of the shore. In a flash, Uncle Browne was out on the sand as naked as a newborn, running like a teenager toward the water, his silver hair waving in the light breeze like a freedom flag and his big ears clearly visible in the sunlight. In an instant, he dove into the water.

Jack followed, laughing hysterically at his Uncle’s boldness, smiling at the other sun-worshippers on the beach whom he passed going out to his Uncle. Then at the edge of the sand and the sea, he stopped and stood tall. His golden hair shone. The only thing he had on was his Duke ring. He heard Uncle Browne calling him to jump in. He waved, laughed, and all at once, dove in. Into the ebb and flow he shot yelling at the top of his lungs: “Liberation!”