The Boiling Season by Christopher Hebert Page B

oriented his life in anticipation of disappointment. I believe this had not been a conscious decision on his part, but a consequence of things having worked out the way they did—the loss of his father’s land, the early death of his wife, the venality of politicians, the failings of his son.
    â€œI’ll be working in the countryside,” I said. “Just as you always wanted.”
    His eyes narrowed in on me. “Doing what?”
    â€œThere’s a forest preserve. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
    â€œWhat about your studies?”
    â€œThis is better.”
    â€œA forest preserve?” He laid down his dust rag and looked at me with consternation.
    â€œIt’s a sanctuary for trees and plants,” I said nervously. “And there’s a house—”
    â€œBut what’s it for?”
    â€œIt’s an enormous garden,” I said. “It reminds me of Mother. It’s the sort of place she would have loved. You would like it, too. When you’re there, you forget about everything else. All the chaos.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I want to forget?”
    â€œWouldn’t you love to get away from all of this?”
    He suddenly looked exhausted. “You only hear the things you want to hear.”
    â€œThat’s not true. All my life you’ve told me how much you hate all of this: the politics, the violence.”
    â€œYou’ve never understood,” he said with a shake of his head. “Being disgusted is not the same as being indifferent. I never taught you not to care.”
    How could he so quickly change his mind? It was as if he were willing to say anything in order to find a way to disapprove, even if it meant contradicting himself.
    I said, “But I won’t have to work for the hill people anymore. I thought that was what you wanted.” He could not possibly deny that it was.
    â€œTrees can take care of themselves,” he said.
    â€œPeople will destroy them.”
    â€œPeople are just trying to survive.” My father got up from his stool and pushed past the curtain separating the shop from his bed. He returned a moment later, wearing his hat.
    â€œAnd I suppose you’ll be too far away to come back for church?” He opened the door and stepped outside, not bothering to wait for an answer.
    T hroughout the service, my father would not meet my eye. But for once he seemed scarcely aware of the priest either, failing to respond with the rest of the congregation to any of his usual flourishes. It seemed my father had not come for the mass, but to have a moment alone—even amongst this crowd—with the one authority he believed could show him the way forward. By now my father must have understood the impossibility of changing my mind with any kind of appeal to a higher power, but perhaps he still hoped he might be able to beg some kind of favor. Maybe a fire rained down upon Madame’s preserve. Or even locusts, if all else failed. It was difficult to watch, knowing he would only be adding to his disappointment. It was harder still to sit silently, unable to plead my case.
    Looking for distraction, I allowed my thoughts to wander, and soon I was back again in the marble foyer of Habitation Louvois, straining my neck to gaze at the crystal chandelier hanging dustily overhead, like a jeweled cocoon. I could hardly believe it was real, that in just a few days I would be calling it home.
    The service was almost over when we heard the clamor out on the street. It started with shouting, and then there was the thud of feet running on the hard-packed dirt. Outside, a woman screamed and the priest fell silent, cutting himself off mid-sentence. The shouting grew louder, and I could hear it getting closer. The gunshots, when they came, were not especially loud, but still everyone started at the sound. We all knew what it was. A couple here, a couple there. And then two more in quick