polysyllabic.) Typically, she’d wander off into conversational detours, looping back to establish necessary preconditions, or would leap into parentheses that failed to close. Ronny—impressively—spoke as if dictating to a secretary.
He had mesmerizing eyes. They were mostly green, but mixed with a tempered gold, almost amber. It was a little hard to concentrate when those eyes were upon you.
He called her Bianca, the name she, letter by letter, affixed to her artwork. “Bea,” she corrected him, but when he did it a second time, she let it pass. He talked mostly about art. Some of his observations had the pitch and polish of true epigrams. (You had the feeling he mighthave said them before.) He talked about the Impressionists, whom he didn’t much admire (“Human vision is muddy enough without deliberate muddying”) and Albert Bierstadt, also unworthy (“I’m afraid I can only deride anyone who would insert a moose into a painting”), and Whistler, whom Ronny applauded somewhat (“He encourages us to examine only parts of his canvas—but usually the right parts”), and Sargent, of whom he mostly approved (“Though you get the feeling, since he really could draw , he’s often too easy on himself; he trivializes his gift”).
No one in Professor Manhardt’s class talked this way; indeed, Bea had never heard anyone of roughly her own age talk this way. Dazzling in themselves, the words were also welcome for reasons Ronald Olsson had no way of knowing: at home, on Inquiry Street, things were far, far worse than Bea could ever remember. Sitting anxiously across from Ronny Olsson, Bea felt her heart lift—lift and lighten—as it hadn’t in weeks.
In retrospect, everything at home had started unraveling nearly three weeks ago, with the trip to Lady Lake and Aunt Grace’s little accident. (Though you might say it began the day before, really—the afternoon of the bandaged soldier on the Woodward streetcar, when Bea came home to find Mamma staring blackly at the kitchen calendar.) The mishap at Lady Lake had shaken everybody, but Mamma most: it seemed to fix the hovering darkness over her head.
And then came the night—a Wednesday night, four days after the lake—when everything altered with such swift violence it seemed the family’s old peace and happiness might never be revived.
Bea had been lying in bed, nearly asleep, when she heard something peculiar. Her father was raising his voice. He was a man who steadfastly refused to argue. When he became angry, which he did rarely but terribly, his practice was to make forcible, irreversible pronouncements and storm from the room. (At work, a couple of times, he’d resorted to fisticuffs, but that was different. He had to maintain discipline on his watch —a favorite phrase of his.) Now, though, he was arguing.
In the darkness Bea crept from bed and noiselessly twisted the doorknob. She stepped out onto the landing. Her parents were downstairs, in the kitchen. Papa’s voice dropped away on a peculiar phrase (“Sylvia, you have to clean your mind”) and then Mamma, voice honed like a razor, spoke the saddest words Bea had ever heard. When a dark mood was upon her, Mamma had a penchant for hopeless pronouncements,but these were words to rip the heart right out of a person’s chest: “But it isn’t in my mind—it’s in yours . It’s in yours , Vico. It’s in yours . It’s true. It’s true, it’s true. Deep in your soul, Vico, it’s Grace you’ve always loved!”
Once, back in grade school, Bea had seen a boy, Glenn Coney, fall spectacularly out of a tree. This was at Chandler Park. He must have dropped thirty feet, straight down. You could actually hear the leg bone splintering when he crashed to earth. Afterward, Bea had replayed that scene over and over. Far stranger even than hearing a boy’s leg—Glenn Coney’s leg—cracking into useless fragments was the moment just before impact, while his body was plummeting. Over and over she
He had mesmerizing eyes. They were mostly green, but mixed with a tempered gold, almost amber. It was a little hard to concentrate when those eyes were upon you.
He called her Bianca, the name she, letter by letter, affixed to her artwork. “Bea,” she corrected him, but when he did it a second time, she let it pass. He talked mostly about art. Some of his observations had the pitch and polish of true epigrams. (You had the feeling he mighthave said them before.) He talked about the Impressionists, whom he didn’t much admire (“Human vision is muddy enough without deliberate muddying”) and Albert Bierstadt, also unworthy (“I’m afraid I can only deride anyone who would insert a moose into a painting”), and Whistler, whom Ronny applauded somewhat (“He encourages us to examine only parts of his canvas—but usually the right parts”), and Sargent, of whom he mostly approved (“Though you get the feeling, since he really could draw , he’s often too easy on himself; he trivializes his gift”).
No one in Professor Manhardt’s class talked this way; indeed, Bea had never heard anyone of roughly her own age talk this way. Dazzling in themselves, the words were also welcome for reasons Ronald Olsson had no way of knowing: at home, on Inquiry Street, things were far, far worse than Bea could ever remember. Sitting anxiously across from Ronny Olsson, Bea felt her heart lift—lift and lighten—as it hadn’t in weeks.
In retrospect, everything at home had started unraveling nearly three weeks ago, with the trip to Lady Lake and Aunt Grace’s little accident. (Though you might say it began the day before, really—the afternoon of the bandaged soldier on the Woodward streetcar, when Bea came home to find Mamma staring blackly at the kitchen calendar.) The mishap at Lady Lake had shaken everybody, but Mamma most: it seemed to fix the hovering darkness over her head.
And then came the night—a Wednesday night, four days after the lake—when everything altered with such swift violence it seemed the family’s old peace and happiness might never be revived.
Bea had been lying in bed, nearly asleep, when she heard something peculiar. Her father was raising his voice. He was a man who steadfastly refused to argue. When he became angry, which he did rarely but terribly, his practice was to make forcible, irreversible pronouncements and storm from the room. (At work, a couple of times, he’d resorted to fisticuffs, but that was different. He had to maintain discipline on his watch —a favorite phrase of his.) Now, though, he was arguing.
In the darkness Bea crept from bed and noiselessly twisted the doorknob. She stepped out onto the landing. Her parents were downstairs, in the kitchen. Papa’s voice dropped away on a peculiar phrase (“Sylvia, you have to clean your mind”) and then Mamma, voice honed like a razor, spoke the saddest words Bea had ever heard. When a dark mood was upon her, Mamma had a penchant for hopeless pronouncements,but these were words to rip the heart right out of a person’s chest: “But it isn’t in my mind—it’s in yours . It’s in yours , Vico. It’s in yours . It’s true. It’s true, it’s true. Deep in your soul, Vico, it’s Grace you’ve always loved!”
Once, back in grade school, Bea had seen a boy, Glenn Coney, fall spectacularly out of a tree. This was at Chandler Park. He must have dropped thirty feet, straight down. You could actually hear the leg bone splintering when he crashed to earth. Afterward, Bea had replayed that scene over and over. Far stranger even than hearing a boy’s leg—Glenn Coney’s leg—cracking into useless fragments was the moment just before impact, while his body was plummeting. Over and over she
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