Starting in September, Amina’s mentor has been coming to stay for three nights every week. The Newburgh Theatre Company is adapting one of his books, and there will be two months of rehearsals. He arrives at dusk on Tuesdays and takes the van from the station to Thorndon Two. He uses the spare key to enter Tonia and Amina’s cabin, then stands looking around as if he’s never been there before. Or perhaps he’s just continually surprised at a family of four living in this neat little house.
The mentor wears his grey hair in a pageboy. His lapels are flecked with tobacco from rollup cigarettes. He speaks in an accent Tonia calls EuroBrit. The children, grasping pieces of conversation, refer to the mentor as The Dementor. This makes Amina shake her head. He’s not evil, she says. But when they press her, she admits that he could be part of the Harry Potter Content Universe, but more of a minor character. A bemused ghost. A forgetful warlock.
Amina always offers the mentor a beverage when he appears. He walks around their home, looking and sipping. He examines the photographs, the spines of the books, the kids’ stuff tidied away on the shelves. Everything makes him gasp with delight, even the groaning noise that emanates from their power monitoring unit when he plugs in his lapbook. Sometimes his delight seems genuine, sometimes there’s a touch of condescension. Now aren’t these graphic novels interesting. Oh, I adore these clever old toys. And, looking out across the communal vegetable patch, how marvelous to think that you grow all your own food here. Does everyone help? Well, my goodness.
~
During the mentor’s first visit, they send the kids off to the neighbors and take him to adult dining hours in the Refectory. He and Amina haven’t seen each other for several years, so there’s a lot of catching up to do. So many careers to pick apart, he says with a smile as they seat themselves.
I wonder what you’ll think of this, Amina says, producing a wine bottle. It’s Cabernet Franc, she tells him, from the Thorn Group vineyard in Long Island.
She pours a small amount into his glass. He sniffs, swishes, and swallows.
Delicious!
Enjoy it while it lasts, Tonia says, then adds for the sake of politeness: sorry to be a downer.
They’re shutting down operations, Amina explains. The wetlands are encroaching on the vineyard. She pours for everyone. Glasses clink.
How did today go, Tonia asks, a little self-conscious about performing a couple check-in in front of an audience.
It was exhausting, Amina says. Tonia does volunteer work in the community on Tuesdays, she explains to the mentor. I’m here all day with the kids.
Oh, he says, politely disinterested. And what does your volunteer work involve, he asks Tonia.
I’m a communications coach, Tonia says.
He purses his lips, turns to Amina and says: it gives rather green for a Cab Franc. High yield?
Amina, understanding this code, says: I think they’re overcropping for the sake of volume now they’re abandoning the vines.
Tonia rises from the table; their food is ready. She realizes she’s been gulping the rather green Cab Franc rather quickly and places a rather large carafe of water on their tray. As she unloads it, the mentor gets up to help.
Now tell me, please, what exactly does a communications coach do?
Tonia loves that question, says Amina, helping herself to braised pea casserole.
I don’t mean to pry.
It’s okay, says Tonia. We provide support. Like, when people have to write an email they don’t want to write.
Heavens, I’d love someone to do that for me. Respond to requests, decline invitations…
Oh, we don’t do the writing. Most of the time we don’t even look at the computer.
You just sit there?
I bring something to read, says Tonia. Or socks to darn. Usually I’ll make us a cup of tea.
Amina’s face has remained ostentatiously neutral during this exchange. She and Tonia have argued over the value of Tonia’s voluntary, unpaid labor. Is it of sufficient importance to warrant Amina taking on primary parenting duty every Tuesday? Fearing a discourse on this matter, Tonia finds herself talking about her clients.
It was intense today, she says. This time I really did need to take an active role.
They look at her, expectantly sipping.
The clients, Tonia tells them, were an elderly British couple. Ted and Mimi. Their dog had died; they’d just returned from the vet. Billy lived to the grand old age of seventeen, Ted said. Mimi was weeping. They sat for half an hour trying to compose an email breaking the news to their adult children and grandchildren. Ted typed, Mimi dictated. Then, after he hit send, Mimi said, It’s done. Now we go into assisted living.
Oh dear, says the mentor. That took a grim turn.
Amina: What did you say to that? What can you say?
Nothing. I made them a cup of tea and let myself out.
You know, the mentor says, the part about assisted living terrifies me. I lose my university housing when I retire, and I can’t afford the private market. My biggest fear is that I’ll end up going straight into an old people’s home.
That’s a cheerful thought, says Amina. She pours herself a glass of water. Sips. Says, My biggest fear is that my girlfriend is going to disappear with a band of hunter-gatherers.
Tonia’s eyes meet Amina’s. Is this fight flaring up? Again? She looks away as Amina explains their news to the query-faced mentor, using the same voice with which she earlier described their older child’s enthusiasm for cultivating medical leeches.
Our cook, Patríc, is an expert forager, Amina tells him. She’s put together a team to start an experimental hunter-gatherer community off the coast of Wales. They’ve applied for startup funds through a Facebook Reparations Grant. Tonia’s going with them.
If we get the funding, says Tonia with a frown.
What an adventure, he says, raising his glass. But will you be catching fish and grinding acorns and all that sort of thing? I somehow don’t think–
It’s not literal, says Tonia. It’s just about trying ways of living that are sustainable. And non-extractive.
But it’s extracting you from us, says Amina.
For one year, Tonia says. Not even one year. With video calls every day.
I won’t get any writing done, Amina says to the mentor.
He smiles at this but doesn’t reply. He empties the second wine bottle into his glass, finishing a week’s allowance.
~
That night, in the bedroom.
Did you ever fuck him?
What? What did you just say?
Did you ever fuck him?
Charles? Of course not!
Did he ever try to fuck you?
Of course not!
But later, as a post-sex amusement, Amina tells Tonia that there is one time she can remember when the mentor had done something she could probably call sexually weird. It was when he was living in Paris, and she was doing a two-week workshop there. He’d taken her to La Coupole for dinner. Amina had grasped the opportunity to tell him that she was really serious about joining her girlfriend’s intentional community and having a baby. She’d wanted to make sure that he understood that this was a leave of absence, and she was planning to finish her degree—which, at the time, was something that still mattered.
And he tried to change your mind, Tonia says, but Amina shakes her head no. He had simply refused to believe this was really Amina’s plan. Seemingly confident in his assumption that she was making a joke, he had turned the conversation to some dogmatic Paris art debate in which he was enmeshed.
But I wondered whether there was something he wasn’t saying. I thought I heard injury, or something like embarrassment, under the chit-chat. But who would he be feeling embarrassed for? That was ten years ago, and I still haven’t figured it out.
So what did he do that was sexually weird?
It happened after dinner, Amina said.
They’d agreed to share a taxi across the river, and there had been a moment as he leaned over to help dig out the seatbelt, placing an arm across her body. It was like he was testing her queerness by doing some intense male energy thing. He’d pulled the belt over and fastened it, and as the buckle clicked he’d looked her in the eye and grunted.
Grunted like a pig?
No, quieter, like a noise you would make if you saw something you liked or had an appetite for.
Damn.
I know right? I just held my breath and stared. He didn’t try anything, and he never did anything weird like that again. I mean, he was pretty devoted to his girlfriend, they were together for decades. He took care of her when she was dying. That night was just…weird.
Tonia falls asleep imagining scenarios: Amina headbutting the mentor in the taxi, Amina saying, What the hell do you think you’re doing? Amina saying, This is very disappointing and more than a little inappropriate. The mentor apologizing. The mentor weeping. The mentor begging…
~
The mentor sleeps on the sofa. He retires early, so the family is obliged to retreat to their bedrooms with portable electronics and LED headlamps. Once the seasons change and the windows stay closed the children start complaining about his backpack. It smells like a concentrated version of him. So does his sleeping bag. Rrose, the oldest child, takes a photo of him sleeping in it. She draws antennae on his head, like a caterpillar, and shows him the picture.
How intensely creative, he says. I do not sleep. I pupate.
It’s not just his smell. The children dislike his habits too, and this is saying something, given that they are kids and eat snot. They are especially offended when he washes his scarlet long johns in their only bathroom, leaving clot-like slubs of lint in the sink and tub.
Why does he have to stay here every week, they want to know.
Ask your other mother, Tonia will always reply.
I owe him. He got me my first writing gig. He writes letters when I apply for grants.
As Amina says this she is hurrying around, tidying before he arrives, exasperating everyone with her eagerness to cater to a red thermal caterpillar that sloughs its layers.
~
He is on the couch, arguing on video with someone named Ian. Tonia texts Amina from across the room.
I started a list.
A shopping list?
No, a list of stuff he does.
Amina looks over. Tonia beams her winningest smile. Amina looks back at her phone and reads:
- Today he explained to me how jet lag works. It was like he was talking to a small, impoverished child or a person with no concept of air travel or time zones.
- When he hears the kettle in the morning he peers over the back of the couch to see who’s making coffee. If he sees you, or you and me together, he smiles and says good morning. If he sees me alone, his head disappears and he pretends to be asleep.
- Twice he has asked me to buy weed for him. He seemed not to remember that I said no the first time. Or maybe he just thought he should ask again? Because that’s what you do when you’re dealing with the help?
Amina shakes her head, taps a reply,
He won’t go into a weed store because he’s concerned about his image. He thinks he’s a celebrity.
Tonia is frowning. She shakes her head, rolls her eyes, and thumbs back: got any more excuses?
There’s a shutter-snapping noise as Amina takes a screenshot of their conversation. The Mentor looks over from his video call; he thinks someone has taken his picture.
Preserving the moment, says Amina, giving Tonia a smile that says: expect to be discussing this in couples’ therapy.
~
Samhain, the pagan New Year, is a big holiday at Thorndon Two. Every family decorates their pod with straw dolls and homemade charms. There’s good stuff to eat, like raisin pie and soymeal cutlets. The grown-ups drink Smeh, a fermented wineberry cordial invented by Patríc. This year, because Samhain coincides with the opening night of the mentor’s play, Amina and Tonia don’t take part. Instead, they send the kids to a sleepover, put on clean clothes and nice jewelry, and leave with enough time to have a drink in a bar before the show.
The production runs almost three hours, with no intermission. It’s past midnight when the ThornCar service brings them back home. The cottage feels gigantic, and creepy silent.
We’re never home alone anymore, Amina says.
But even though the mentor is at the cast party, drinking and probably dancing, his presence is still here, personified in the backpack on the couch. Standing in the center of the living room, they stare at his stuff as they wolf down rice cakes and peanut butter, knowing that the time for assessment has arrived. Amina is the one who speaks first:
There were some good moments. I liked the casting—
—It was utter, utter shit, says Tonia.
You fell asleep!
There’s no oxygen in that theater! And it’s incredibly hot in the balcony, and come on, the first forty-five minutes was basically silent… Of course, I did wake up when the animals started screaming.
Tonia shudders and closes her eyes.
The whole thing, she says. I just—at the end I was like, what was that? What the fuck was that?
Well, I was surprised I liked it as much as I did, says Amina. Especially with it being so long.
I imagine they’ve taken some liberties with the book?
Instead of replying, Amina walks over to the electric kettle, turns it on—click—gets a mug from the cabinet, opens the teabag drawer.
Should I read it, Tonia asks.
Amina selects a teabag, checks that the string is secure, puts it in the mug. Pours the hot water.
Amina turns from the mug, looks Tonia in the eye.
Confession time, she says.
In the pause, the silence of the house becomes very loud. Tonia rubs her face, turning away from Amina, the giant neon sign in her brain screaming, THEY DID HAVE SEX!
Damn, says Tonia, turning back.
With a tiny smile, Amina raises and lowers her teabag, the liquid dripping back into the mug.
Okay. You want to hear something terrible? I’ve never actually read Charles’s stuff. I mean, yes, I read the piece from his first book that’s in all the anthologies. But after that…nothing.
The small smile again.
So he, you never… Tonia, recovering, blinks and begins again: So you just pretend you’ve read them?
I don’t even have to. Every time he sends me something new he says, I hope you enjoy it but please don’t try and talk to me about it because I hate discussing my work.
Well, that’s good to know, says Tonia. We won’t have to talk about the play.
Oh, don’t be so sure about that. It’s not his work, it’s someone else’s interpretation.
What do you do when other people talk to you about his writing? I mean, people know you were his student…
I just say, I haven’t read it yet, or, that’s one I keep meaning to read. Amina sips her tea, smiles, adds: It’s the truth, strictly speaking.
~
Tonia is out of bed at six the next morning, too plagued and ruminating to sleep beside Amina. As she fills the kettle, she replays Amina’s confession, sees again her small smile. When the power monitoring unit begins to groan, she presses the kettle down on its hot plate, as if this might speed things up. As she waits she feels the familiar dismay-despair feeling that always follows a close encounter with Amina’s feral moral system. Tonia lifts the kettle and bangs it down—she loses all patience with objects when she feels this way—and the monitoring unit barks.
The mentor sits up. He beams from behind the couch cushions when he sees Tonia alone.
Good morning!
He doesn’t say anything more. She’s aware he’s watching her gathering mugs and spoons, sifting coffee grounds into the filter.
I imagine you want coffee, she says. It sounds more churlish than she intends so she adds a softening comment about how he must have had a late night.
Yes to both, he says, now on his feet and wearing a zippered grey cardigan over his red long johns. Holding out his phone, he declares, Oh! I have a text message. Squints, puts glasses on.
It’s from the producer, he says, pressing the screen with a long index finger, raising the phone to his ear.
Ian. Good morning.
The mentor mouths thank you as Tonia hands him his mug. He takes a swig before talking.
Thank you, Ian, but no interviews for me. I really don’t think so. Let the next generation have all the glory–
Now he is mostly listening, only occasionally saying oh dear, or exhaling a sigh. Tonia would rather not overhear, but there’s nowhere to go. Amina is sleeping and the kids are in their room doing morning reading. She curls up in the armchair with her phone.
I’m appalled, he says, but no, Ian, I am not surprised.
He listens, shaking his head vigorously, and says, No. I don’t want to read any of that stuff. Please don’t send it to me.
After he hangs up, he looks at Tonia.
The reviews are calling me a legacy content creator. Do thoughtful people use that phrase?
Probably not good to read the reviews, says Tonia, searching for them on her phone.
I have a question for you, he says.
Okay, says Tonia, putting the phone aside.
It concerns your charitable work, he says. Your coaching thing.
He hesitates, then screws up his eyes in mirth. I’m nervous! I’m actually nervous asking about this! He sits down on the dining bench, collecting the words.
Here’s the thing, he says abruptly. I’ve been teaching for almost forty years. I’m getting old. But as you know my housing situation changes when I retire. After a lot of thought, and much internal cringing, I’ve decided to apply to a cohousing community.
A Thorn Community? Like this one?
Tonia’s are you kidding? is unspoken, but it’s there. The mentor looks amused.
Oh goodness no. He makes a quote in the air with his fingers. Easy living for difficult people. The application process alone would kill me. No, the place I have in mind is the Carnegie Bluffs Corporation.
Oh, the place for older artists. That’s perfect.
Yes, I’ll fit right in, I’m a legacy content creator. But the thing is, you have to request permission to apply. It’s just a formality, an email to the admissions office with my CV attached, but I’m finding it remarkably easy to avoid sitting down and getting it done.
He leans forward in his chair.
If I fetch my lapbook, Tonia, will you sit with me, and drink your coffee, so I can write this stupid email and send it off before the deadline passes?
His glasses are crooked. He looks quite serious. Or rather, he looks his age, and a little sad.
I would be happy to sit with you. Go get your computer, says Tonia, not giving herself time to refuse. As he rummages in the backpack for his charger, making bright remarks, she runs a quick mental assessment and imagines that he will probably be a write-alouder: dear… admissions… officer… attached… please… find… [Backspace….backspace]
Then, before she can stop them, her thoughts return once again to Amina and last night’s conversation. The mentor opens his worn and filthy lapbook, the screen’s glow lighting his face, and she thinks of all the letters of support he’s written for Amina over the years. It’s not exactly deception that Amina has engaged in, but it’s certainly bad faith. It borders on betrayal. Is this how Amina handles all the people in her life?
This is not what Tonia wants to be obsessing on right now. She would much rather be thinking about the grey water recycling system she designed as part of her Facebook Reparations Grant application. There’s at least one good water source on Ynys Bach. The system as she envisions it works entirely with gravity, using ancient principles. She’s going to build a version of it here, with the kids. As much as she wants this grant, she can’t bear the idea of leaving them. Rrose’s first year in the big kid classroom. A year of school, entirely missed. A year of video calls over an antiquated broadband dongle. She might as well be on the International Space Station.
Will Amina love them enough? Can she?
Her coffee mug is empty, and dangling. Seeing this, the mentor puts aside his lapbook, takes the mug from her and shuffles over to the coffee pot. Let me get it, he says. It’s the least I can do.
