The Giant's House by Elizabeth McCracken Page A

took the page from his hand. “Her husband. Will they settle down and live happily ever after?”
    â€œLord, no.” He looked over my shoulder at Rocket Bride, put a finger on the crown of her head. I saw by the careful signature in the corner that he was the one who’d written my dinner invitation. He stretched his arm around me, set his hand on my shoulder. Then he frowned, and with his other hand carefully whisked away a few pink-and-gray eraser leavings from the edge of Rocket Bride’s veil. “Never. Rocket Bride’s not the forgiving kind. No,” he said. “I think that husband should just pray he never gets found.”
    His hand was still on my shoulder.
    I am not a person who likes to be touched casually, which means of course that I like it a great deal. Every little touch takes on great meaning—oh, I could catalog them all for you: the bus driver who offered his hand as I stepped down from his bus, his other hand hovering near but not touching the small of my back. My flirtatious college friend who could not keep her hands off of anyone, who flicked one restless finger on the back of my wrist, on my forearm. Handshakes. Because I am short, certain tall people cannot resist palming my head; one college boyfriend stroked my hair so often in the early days of our courtship that, crackling with static, I could have clung to the wall like a child’s balloon.
    My list would go on forever, and still it would be shorter than other people’s, because those tentative friendly fingers make mestiffen, and by the time I realize I’ve done it and try to relax, the hands are gone. People get the idea. The better they know me, the less they touch me.
    But Oscar did not know me at all. Did not notice the way I quietly jumped as his hand touched my shoulder blade. Did not take his hand away until he was ready to set Rocket Bride down again.
    â€œI have lots of ideas,” he said. “She’s just the first. There’s Fancy Boy, and the Mighty Midget, and, let’s see, Radio Dog—”
    Caroline shook her head. “Oscar dreams big.”
    â€œWhy not?” said Oscar. “Doesn’t cost anything. Here’s another idea. Record players for cars. I can’t get anybody to invest, but it’s what the American public wants.”
    â€œIt is?” I said.
    â€œWell,” said Caroline, “it’s what Oscar wants.”
    I said, “But is this a nation of Oscars?”
    He got a happy, planning look in his eyes. “A nation of Oscars,” he said, as if he were wondering how to swing it.
    â€œ
There’s
an idea,” said Caroline.
    â€œA nation of Oscars,” he repeated, smiling fondly.
    He would have loved that, I think. Some people like to think they are unique; I saw immediately Oscar did not. What better than walking into a crowd of himself, brillantined, back-slapping men who would congratulate themselves on the good fortune of being who they were. “I commend you on your taste,” Oscar would say to Oscar. “You’re my kind of man.”
    When we went back upstairs, Mrs. Sweatt was simultaneously smoking a cigarette and trying to put on a duffel coat. She was apparently unwilling to put down the cigarette and kept switching it from one hand to her mouth to the other hand, trying to avoid the cloth.
    â€œWhere you going, Missus?” Caroline asked.
    She looked a little panicked, as if she’d been caught doing something she’d been warned against. “Just going for a walk.”
    â€œMissus,” said Oscar. “You think that’s a good idea?”
    â€œAround the block,” she said.
    â€œWhy don’t you have dessert with us,” said Caroline.
    â€œA short walk,” said Mrs. Sweatt. She had the cigarette in her mouth now, buttoning her coat, her eyes shut to avoid the smoke. She slipped the last toggle through the loop by her neck.
    â€œAlice,”
said