Fin & Lady: A Novel by Cathleen Schine

lighter landing in the palm of his hand filled the room. Lady stared at the carpet. Fin had written his name twice. Finfin. Like Tintin.
    “It’s history, I know,” Mr. Morrison said. “Ancient history.”
    Cows , Fin wrote, dragging his finger heavily through the carpet. He began chanting, “Cows, cows, cows, cows…”
    “Lavender Jesus,” Lady said. Then, suddenly, her arm on Tyler’s, she said, very gently, “Do it for now. Do it for me.”
    Tyler laughed an odd laugh that Fin would come to know so well, a laugh that was carefree and forced at the same time. Then he smiled at Lady and said, “As always,” holding up his hands in a cloud of exhaled smoke, “I surrender.”
    Fin knew something had happened in that moment, do it for now, do it for me , something he did not understand, something he did not want to understand. Still, he had won. Tyler Morrison had surrendered. Victory! He ran around the living room, shouting it out: “Victory!” Gus followed him, barking.
    “At least this devastating bovine defeat has brought me one victory of my own,” Tyler said to Lady. “I got to see you again, if only for a moment.” He looked around the living room. “Brought me back to the Hadley residence. Brought me back, that’s for sure.”
    Lady looked around the room, too. “Oh, I won’t be here long,” she said lightly. “No, no. I have to get out of here, have to get away from this gilded cage.”
    “Ah yes,” said Tyler. “So you’ve always said.”
    Lady came into Fin’s room at bedtime that night and read more poetry by Walt Whitman.
    “‘ And the cow crunching with depress’d head surpasses any statue ,’” she read softly, smiling at him in the dim room. “‘ And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels .’” And it sounded like a prayer.
    Sextillions of infidels. That’s what Fin decided to call Tyler, after he looked the words up in the dictionary. If he ever saw him again.
    Which he did.
    Why? Why did Sextillions of Infidels keep showing up when there was no more business to discuss?
    “Why are you here?” Fin asked him the first time he appeared.
    “Pyrrhic victory,” said Sextillions of Infidels. “Look it up.”
    Lady insisted Fin call Sextillions of Infidels Uncle Ty.
    “But he’s not my uncle. If he was my uncle, he’d be your uncle, too, you know.”
    She thought that one over, then said, “I’ll call him Uncle Ty, too!”
    “Here I am again,” Uncle Ty said to Fin at the door.
    Fin stood in the doorway, not moving.
    “You’re in my way, young fella.”
    “Did you sell my farm?”
    Uncle Ty picked Fin up, pinning his arms to his sides, and moved him out of the way. “No,” he said. “Not yet, anyway.”
    “Then why are you here?” Fin said to him.
    “Go polish your overalls or something, kid. I’m here to see Lady.”
    Fin watched him leave with Lady, his arm around her shoulders.
    “Why does he keep coming here?” Fin asked Lady the next morning.
    “Why do any of them?”
    “Any of who?”
    “Ty is an old friend. I told you.”
    “Uncle Ty.”
    “Him, too.” She laughed and ruffled Fin’s hair. “When in Rome,” she said. Then she looked sad. “Or Denmark.” Then she said, “The past is never where you thought you left it, Fin.” Then: “I forget where I read that.” Then she kissed Fin and said, “Fear not,” and they made ham-and-cheese sandwiches and had a picnic in the park on a white damask tablecloth.
    But Uncle Ty kept returning. He brought Lady flowers, he rushed to light her innumerable cigarettes with a click of his gold lighter, he took her to the theater. Victory? This was more like an occupation. He wore cuff links and a tie clip that matched the lighter. Fin loathed him in feverish, fervid silence, and he watched Lady and Uncle Ty when they were together. There were places you could watch without being seen, sometimes just curled on the sofa in the same room, but reading a comic book, being quiet. They