Her mother’s hair was blond, touched with strands of white. Her face was long and thin, her eyes blue. They followed the darting motion of the jays unflickeringly, emotionlessly.
“You’ll be going back to school soon, Amanda,” she said. Her voice was flat, as flat as the Midwest plains that had bred her.
“Yes,” Amanda answered. She heard her father’s fingers falter on a difficult passage, and she smiled and thought, No, Dad, that’s a B-flat, and she tilted her face to the sun, happy that Kate had stopped crying, wondering where Penny had gone and how soon she would return.
“This is your junior year, isn’t it, Amanda?”
“Yes,” Amanda said.
“What do you expect to do, daughter?”
“What?”
“What do you expect to do?”
“I don’t understand.”
“With your life.”
“Oh, I...” Amanda paused. She had never once thought of what she expected to do with her life. She had always considered it a foregone conclusion that she would write music. Somewhat inspired by Gillian’s enthusiasm, she rather imagined she would eventually end up writing musical comedy for Broadway. But she had never given it any definite thought, had never sat down to ask herself what she would do when she was graduated from Talmadge. In her mind’s eye, she imagined things would simply happen to her without any conscious direction or will. She would leave Talmadge eventually, and things would simply happen. She turned to look at her mother, but Priscilla’s eyes were still on the frolicking jays.
“I guess I’ll write music,” she said.
“I see,” Priscilla answered.
“I thought you knew that.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well...” Again Amanda paused. “That’s what I’m studying, you know. Composition.”
“Oh, yes, I know that,” Priscilla said.
“Well...” Amanda frowned. “Well, that’s why I’m studying it. So I can write music.” She hesitated because she didn’t wish to seem solicitous, and yet she suddenly felt that perhaps she’d overestimated her mother’s intelligence. Perhaps her mother truly did not understand what she meant; perhaps it needed translation. “Composition is writing music, you know,” she said hesitantly.
“Yes, I know,” Priscilla said. She dropped a stitch, and her eyes moved momentarily from the jays as her hands recovered the stitch, and then shifted back to the maple again.
“Well,” Amanda said, and she shrugged, but the frown remained on her forehead. She listened to the annoying click of the knitting needles, and she suddenly wished that Gillian were there with her to explain to her mother, to tell her about seeing things and doing things, the way she had done that night several months ago. And yet she knew Gillian could not help her now, Gillian was out of her life, they had said their goodbyes at the end of June, she probably would never see Gillian again as long as she lived. She sat in silence and she thought, Well, what did you think I was going to do with my life? I’m going to write music, what did you think? Why do you suppose I’m going to school?
“What kind of music did you plan to write?” Priscilla asked, as if she had read her mind.
“You know.” Amanda shrugged.
“Serious music? Like Bach? Or Beethoven? Like that?”
“Well, nothing that ambitious, I guess,” Amanda said and she shrugged again.
“Then what sort, Amanda?”
“I thought... maybe musical comedy.”
“I see. For the stage, do you mean?”
“Yes. That’s right. For the stage.”
“I see.”
Again the knitting needles clicked, filling the silence of summer.
“Amanda,” her mother said simply, “what makes you think you have any talent?”
She wasn’t quite sure she had heard her mother correctly; it sounded as if her mother had said...
“What?” she asked.
“What makes you think you have any talent?” her mother repeated.
“I... I don’t know.” She paused. “I got into Talmadge, didn’t I? And I...”
“Yes, of course you did, darling. You play piano beautifully.”
“Well, then...”
“Do you have the talent, Amanda?”
“Mother, I don’t think I understand you,” Amanda said, hearing the infuriating words reverberating inside her head, and wondering why they infuriated her so, but sitting tightly controlled on the front porch as her mother’s chair rocked back and forth and the jays chattered in the maple and the knitting needles clacked like subdued machine-gun fire.
“You play piano beautifully,” Priscilla said, “and it’s wonderful for a young girl to get an education at a fine school like Talmadge, but if you don’t mind my saying so, Amanda, I’m being perfectly frank with you, dear, the way only a mother can be frank with her daughter, I really don’t think you’re a genius or anything, do you?”
“Well, no, I... I guess I don’t. But...”
“And it does seem a little presumptuous to me... not impossible, mind you, but a little presumptuous for a young girl to consider... I just wonder, Amanda, if you have the talent necessary for something like that, that’s all, dear. I simply wonder about it. And naturally, I’m concerned, because I wouldn’t want to see you wasting your life in pursuit of something elusive. Or, more than elusive, impossible. Though I’m not saying it is impossible. I’m just concerned, that’s all, Amanda. I was hoping you’d meet a nice boy and—”
“Yes, but I’m studying composition,” Amanda said, somewhat dazed.
“Yes, I know, dear.”
“Don’t you see? That’s so I can—”
“Yes, I know, dear, and you’ll find your education wasn’t wasted. I can assure you of that. Any husband would be delighted to have a wife who can—”
“But, Mother, I’m studying so I can—”
“I think you should ask yourself, Amanda, if you have the talent.”
“I...”
“You’re old enough now to be frank with yourself, daughter.”
Amanda nodded and said nothing.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Priscilla asked.
“Yes,” Amanda answered. There was an edge of sharpness to her voice. Priscilla’s eyes suddenly moved from the jays and rested on her daughter.
“Good,” she said. “I’m glad you understand.”
“Yes,” Amanda said. “I understand.”
They stared at each other and Amanda thought, I’m going to hit her, and then instantly thought, God forgive me, and lowered her eyes. Inside the house, the baby began crying again.
“It’s Katherine,” Priscilla said. “She’s awake again.”
“I’ll pick her up,” Amanda said, and she rose from the steps and smoothed her skirt and started for the front door.
“No,” Priscilla said. “Leave her be.”
“I’ll pick her up,” Amanda said without looking back at her mother. The screen door clattered shut behind her. She went through the cool dim house and upstairs to Penny’s bedroom. Kate was sitting in the middle of her crib, bawling loudly, her face red, her cheeks stained with tears.
“Oh, what’s the matter, snookums?” Amanda said, and she held out her arms and picked up the child and put her over her shoulder. “Do you have a little gas, honey? Is that what’s the matter? Here, baby. That’s a good baby. That’s a sweet honey-child. See? All gone now. No more crying, all right? That’s a good honey.” She rubbed the palm of her hand gently on the baby’s back, holding her blond head cradled against her own and thinking, Do I have the talent? and hating her mother for making her wonder about it, and then shrugging the hatred aside and thinking, Mother only means well. “There, that’s a good baby. Come on now, smile for your Aunt Mandy, give your Aunt Mandy a great big smile, there you are, that’s my baby, oh that’s my sweet baby.” And she suddenly hugged Kate to her fiercely, wondering again, Do I have the talent?