be.’
‘Sir?’
‘Just an idea my grandfather thought he had. But you.’
‘I. Um, I’m looking for . . .’ Whatever he’s looking for, he isn’t ready to say. Instead he jerks his head at the house. ‘Do you know who lives there?’
‘I do. Temporarily,’ Bobby adds, but not fast enough.
Who are you kidding?
‘I mean, for as long as it takes.’
The stranger looks disappointed. Bobby isn’t exactly doddering but the kid says, the way you do to an old person who gets confused, ‘You’re sure.’
‘Hell yes I’m sure.’
Oh, don’t dismiss me like that
! ‘What are you really here about?’
He has a hard time getting it out. ‘Do you know who owned it before?’
‘I told you, my father.’ Bobby isn’t sure why this makes him so angry. ‘And his father before that. And tell whoever you’re representing that we don’t intend to sell.’
‘I’m not here to buy anything!’ Wounded, the kid thrusts a picture at him. ‘Look, I just. I’m looking for this lady’s house?’
Everything in Bobby stops. All he hears is the rush of his own blood. It takes him a while to drag a response out of the dead silence in his heart. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Did you know her?’
Shaken, Bobby is glad that he, and not this
young guy
, is the old person here.
He is too young to know how carefully we are taught to dissemble
. ‘I don’t think so. No. No. It’s not the only Spanish castle in Florida.’
Too much, probably, but the outsider carrying Lucy’s picture is in no shape to read the fine print in Bobby’s face. Every line in his body sags. He shoves the snapshot back into his pocket. ‘I see.’
He looks so messed up that Bobby says kindly, ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
The young man thinks before he answers. When he does it’s nothing Bobby expects. ‘Did you ever hear of a woman named Muriel Keesler, got on fire?’
‘Keesler. Oh,’ Bobby says, relieved. ‘That. Moms used it to scare us. This is what happens when you play with matches, kids . . .’
‘And two others.’
Bobby says sharply, ‘What are you really here about?’
The answer is so careful that it may not be an answer. ‘Going up in flames. I’m down here on a story.’
‘Reporter!’ This makes Bobby feel better. ‘You never said your name.’
‘Dan. I’m looking for the house?’
Bobby does not say,
Dan what
. They can’t be out here in the road much longer. He needs to be alone so he can think. ‘Where it happened? The last one standing is over on 57th.’
‘You mean the one where Mrs Archambault.’ Changing expressions race across his face. ‘I saw the photos.’
Bobby says, ‘Pretty bad. If Lorna’d seen herself like that, she would have died.’
The wind in the pines doesn’t stop, but the air around the newcomer’s head is still. There is an odd moment before he says, ‘You mean the foot and the chair.’
‘My point. In her day, she was quite the lady. If you’re researching the family . . .’
Bad idea, Chaplin. Stop your mouth.
He doesn’t have to. The kid cuts him off. ‘I need to see the house.’
For a frantic half-second, Bobby thinks he means this house. Maggie, doing a Mrs Rochester in the window. Al watching QVC. ‘This is not the best day.’
‘No. Her house.’
‘Of course.’ Make a smile for him, Bobby. Make it good. ‘It’s back that way, one block in from the corner of Fourth and 57th. Where you made the left at the Publix? If you see the water, you’ve gone too far. Look for the banyan, it’s . . .’
‘Thanks.’ The kid is halfway to his car.
Bobby says anyway, ‘The oldest one in town.’ Then he goes inside to do what he has to do.
Maggie’s fussing over her African violets. The sunlight playing on those white, white hands is just sad. After her 9/11 meltdown, it’s the best she can do. Younger than he is, and she has Little Old Lady written all over her.
His big brother is kicked back in front of the Shopping Channel with a beer. If
‘Sir?’
‘Just an idea my grandfather thought he had. But you.’
‘I. Um, I’m looking for . . .’ Whatever he’s looking for, he isn’t ready to say. Instead he jerks his head at the house. ‘Do you know who lives there?’
‘I do. Temporarily,’ Bobby adds, but not fast enough.
Who are you kidding?
‘I mean, for as long as it takes.’
The stranger looks disappointed. Bobby isn’t exactly doddering but the kid says, the way you do to an old person who gets confused, ‘You’re sure.’
‘Hell yes I’m sure.’
Oh, don’t dismiss me like that
! ‘What are you really here about?’
He has a hard time getting it out. ‘Do you know who owned it before?’
‘I told you, my father.’ Bobby isn’t sure why this makes him so angry. ‘And his father before that. And tell whoever you’re representing that we don’t intend to sell.’
‘I’m not here to buy anything!’ Wounded, the kid thrusts a picture at him. ‘Look, I just. I’m looking for this lady’s house?’
Everything in Bobby stops. All he hears is the rush of his own blood. It takes him a while to drag a response out of the dead silence in his heart. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Did you know her?’
Shaken, Bobby is glad that he, and not this
young guy
, is the old person here.
He is too young to know how carefully we are taught to dissemble
. ‘I don’t think so. No. No. It’s not the only Spanish castle in Florida.’
Too much, probably, but the outsider carrying Lucy’s picture is in no shape to read the fine print in Bobby’s face. Every line in his body sags. He shoves the snapshot back into his pocket. ‘I see.’
He looks so messed up that Bobby says kindly, ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
The young man thinks before he answers. When he does it’s nothing Bobby expects. ‘Did you ever hear of a woman named Muriel Keesler, got on fire?’
‘Keesler. Oh,’ Bobby says, relieved. ‘That. Moms used it to scare us. This is what happens when you play with matches, kids . . .’
‘And two others.’
Bobby says sharply, ‘What are you really here about?’
The answer is so careful that it may not be an answer. ‘Going up in flames. I’m down here on a story.’
‘Reporter!’ This makes Bobby feel better. ‘You never said your name.’
‘Dan. I’m looking for the house?’
Bobby does not say,
Dan what
. They can’t be out here in the road much longer. He needs to be alone so he can think. ‘Where it happened? The last one standing is over on 57th.’
‘You mean the one where Mrs Archambault.’ Changing expressions race across his face. ‘I saw the photos.’
Bobby says, ‘Pretty bad. If Lorna’d seen herself like that, she would have died.’
The wind in the pines doesn’t stop, but the air around the newcomer’s head is still. There is an odd moment before he says, ‘You mean the foot and the chair.’
‘My point. In her day, she was quite the lady. If you’re researching the family . . .’
Bad idea, Chaplin. Stop your mouth.
He doesn’t have to. The kid cuts him off. ‘I need to see the house.’
For a frantic half-second, Bobby thinks he means this house. Maggie, doing a Mrs Rochester in the window. Al watching QVC. ‘This is not the best day.’
‘No. Her house.’
‘Of course.’ Make a smile for him, Bobby. Make it good. ‘It’s back that way, one block in from the corner of Fourth and 57th. Where you made the left at the Publix? If you see the water, you’ve gone too far. Look for the banyan, it’s . . .’
‘Thanks.’ The kid is halfway to his car.
Bobby says anyway, ‘The oldest one in town.’ Then he goes inside to do what he has to do.
Maggie’s fussing over her African violets. The sunlight playing on those white, white hands is just sad. After her 9/11 meltdown, it’s the best she can do. Younger than he is, and she has Little Old Lady written all over her.
His big brother is kicked back in front of the Shopping Channel with a beer. If
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