you all right?”
She blinked as the pustule at her neck began to swell. “I’ve never been stung before,” was what she said.
“You’ll be all right,” Hughie told her. “Lie down.”
She refused, sitting there and looking at the poisoner in her palm. “It hurts.”
“Well …”
“More than I expected. Mother got stung once and I thought she was making too big a deal of it, but … oh, it hurts.”
“It’s swelling, too.”
Now she turned those soft brown eyes, those ageless eyes, on me. “Sir, your son is very kind.”
I tried to speak but nothing happened. I was a mute old man and she looked away.
“Mother!” she yelled, then looked again at the wasp. “Poor little thing.”
“Hmm,” Hughie said, getting up.
“You’re going to leave me here?” she said.
At that moment, I was opening my mouth to say the words I’d
been trying to speak for almost a minute. She seemed to notice and looked right at me. I blinked. There, they came out at last:
“He’s …he’s not my son.”
But the words were drowned out by a shout from the side of the house. I looked and it was merely a woman, a mother. Alice, you turned away and never heard me.
I would like to call it fate, but I should call it chance, that put you in my yard at the time my heart was at its most tender. I suppose I’m lucky it was you and not someone crueler. Still, if it had been anyone but you, Alice, I would have loved again, and plenty, before this ripe age. Cursed by your eyes, however, I never have.
“Mr. Tivoli!”
Her mother rushed out of the house and kneeled at her daughter’s feet. She held a cloth against the girl’s taut neck, pressing against that tender skin with the casual efficiency of a nurse. She was a fine woman, moving so naturally with her sticks-and-bones daughter as the girl hissed and struggled. Mrs. Levy wore clothes from the final years of widowhood, and she had the careful beauty of an older woman. She dressed for her face, with a collar of pearls, and for the things that do not age: a discreet folding bustle for her womanly silhouette, and a creased shirtwaist for her impressive bust. I am not good at age; what was she, Alice? Forty-five or -six? She had a dark-complected face shaped like a hazelnut, with a bow hairline and uncolored lips. She smiled and scolded as, she daubed the girl, but she was not looking at her. She was looking, with those deep brown feminine eyes, straight at me: “Mr. Tivoli, it’s wonderful to meet you at last, don’t flinch, Alice, it’s not that cold.”
Alice! I had her name, and now she was twice the girl I’d known before.
“I hope you’re happy with your brother’s old home, we just love it here, don’t we, what were you doing, you foolish girl? You slap them, they sting you, ah well, I hope it won’t swell, and if it does it will remind you, won’t it? Alice, sit still. Now you’ve got your dress wet, and we’ll have to air it. I met your sister-in-law, Mr. Tivoli, and she’s a charming lady, so sad, so sad.”
Hughie snickered. “That’s right, Mr. Tivoli, your lovely sister-in-law.”
It was all a scene that Alice’s mother was directing. Every moment that I stood there, seeing Alice, the girl was growing ever clearer to me, ever larger; I watched her blinking her tears away, red with anger, and sighing as her mother held her hair. Yet Mrs. Levy was pulling me in the opposite direction, taking away my right to have a schoolboy’s heart, replacing it with the leather flaps of an old man, someone whom stung-Alice could never love.
“Alice, be quiet, this is your landlord, Mr. Tivoli. He is old South Park, aren’t you, Mr. Tivoli?”
She was crumbling me before her daughter’s eyes. My hat felt far too tight and it occurred to me that it wasn’t mine; I must have picked up the wrong one at some party.
“Not old at all, Mrs. Levy,” I said, then, “Hello, Alice,” which had no effect on the girl, who was staring elsewhere with a riveted
She blinked as the pustule at her neck began to swell. “I’ve never been stung before,” was what she said.
“You’ll be all right,” Hughie told her. “Lie down.”
She refused, sitting there and looking at the poisoner in her palm. “It hurts.”
“Well …”
“More than I expected. Mother got stung once and I thought she was making too big a deal of it, but … oh, it hurts.”
“It’s swelling, too.”
Now she turned those soft brown eyes, those ageless eyes, on me. “Sir, your son is very kind.”
I tried to speak but nothing happened. I was a mute old man and she looked away.
“Mother!” she yelled, then looked again at the wasp. “Poor little thing.”
“Hmm,” Hughie said, getting up.
“You’re going to leave me here?” she said.
At that moment, I was opening my mouth to say the words I’d
been trying to speak for almost a minute. She seemed to notice and looked right at me. I blinked. There, they came out at last:
“He’s …he’s not my son.”
But the words were drowned out by a shout from the side of the house. I looked and it was merely a woman, a mother. Alice, you turned away and never heard me.
I would like to call it fate, but I should call it chance, that put you in my yard at the time my heart was at its most tender. I suppose I’m lucky it was you and not someone crueler. Still, if it had been anyone but you, Alice, I would have loved again, and plenty, before this ripe age. Cursed by your eyes, however, I never have.
“Mr. Tivoli!”
Her mother rushed out of the house and kneeled at her daughter’s feet. She held a cloth against the girl’s taut neck, pressing against that tender skin with the casual efficiency of a nurse. She was a fine woman, moving so naturally with her sticks-and-bones daughter as the girl hissed and struggled. Mrs. Levy wore clothes from the final years of widowhood, and she had the careful beauty of an older woman. She dressed for her face, with a collar of pearls, and for the things that do not age: a discreet folding bustle for her womanly silhouette, and a creased shirtwaist for her impressive bust. I am not good at age; what was she, Alice? Forty-five or -six? She had a dark-complected face shaped like a hazelnut, with a bow hairline and uncolored lips. She smiled and scolded as, she daubed the girl, but she was not looking at her. She was looking, with those deep brown feminine eyes, straight at me: “Mr. Tivoli, it’s wonderful to meet you at last, don’t flinch, Alice, it’s not that cold.”
Alice! I had her name, and now she was twice the girl I’d known before.
“I hope you’re happy with your brother’s old home, we just love it here, don’t we, what were you doing, you foolish girl? You slap them, they sting you, ah well, I hope it won’t swell, and if it does it will remind you, won’t it? Alice, sit still. Now you’ve got your dress wet, and we’ll have to air it. I met your sister-in-law, Mr. Tivoli, and she’s a charming lady, so sad, so sad.”
Hughie snickered. “That’s right, Mr. Tivoli, your lovely sister-in-law.”
It was all a scene that Alice’s mother was directing. Every moment that I stood there, seeing Alice, the girl was growing ever clearer to me, ever larger; I watched her blinking her tears away, red with anger, and sighing as her mother held her hair. Yet Mrs. Levy was pulling me in the opposite direction, taking away my right to have a schoolboy’s heart, replacing it with the leather flaps of an old man, someone whom stung-Alice could never love.
“Alice, be quiet, this is your landlord, Mr. Tivoli. He is old South Park, aren’t you, Mr. Tivoli?”
She was crumbling me before her daughter’s eyes. My hat felt far too tight and it occurred to me that it wasn’t mine; I must have picked up the wrong one at some party.
“Not old at all, Mrs. Levy,” I said, then, “Hello, Alice,” which had no effect on the girl, who was staring elsewhere with a riveted
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