how they share their innermost thoughts and feelings, I assure you.”
“Anybody with any grudges against you?” asked Bernard.
“No, Bernard. Nobody has any grudges against me. I am, as you may have noticed, an extremely nice person. Nobody dislikes me. Everybody likes me. I go out of my way to make other people happy. Now, can we discuss something else, or am I going to be grilled on this all night? How’s that carrot, Maya?”
“Fine. I feel better, thanks.”
“Is your phone number listed?” asked Bernard.
Weezy nodded.
“Perhaps you should consider getting an unlisted number.”
“Thank you, Bernard. That way nobody could get in touch with me—including gallery owners who want to show my work, or clients who want to commission a painting, or students who want to take my class. It wouldn’t exactly be a boost to my career if nobody knew how to find me, would it? And now, enough about all this. If the phone rings again, don’t answer it. I’ll put the machine on. I have to put the machine on, otherwise my mother calls and thinks I’m dead. All right, now we can all rest easy. Would anyone like some more coffee or tea?”
“Weezy’s worried,” Maya told her husband later that night, as they got ready for bed.
“I know.”
“I’m worried, too.”
“I know you are.”
“Are you worried?”
Bernard was brushing his teeth. “Yadonnowattoyink,” he said indistinctly.
“Pardon me?”
Bernard spat into the sink. “I don’t know what to think.”
“It’s strange, though, isn’t it?”
“It could be nothing. It could be somebody who’s playing around with phone numbers and likes the look of Weezy’s.”
“But you don’t think it is, do you?”
Bernard stared into the bathroom mirror. His reflection stared back at him with tired eyes. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t.”
Snooky knocked at Weezy’s front door a few days later, then let himself in. Nobody in Ridgewood—nobody except Bernard, that is, and then only occasionally—ever locked their doors. He was carrying a small package under his arm. He walked, whistling, down the hallway toward the studio.
“Weezy? It’s me.”
The studio door opened and he was confronted by a stranger: a heavyset young woman with a round moon face and brown hair which hung in strings down to her shoulders. She looked at him in surprise. “Yes?”
“I’m Snooky Randolph. A friend of Weezy’s. Is she around?”
“Oh … oh, yes. She’s in the garden.”
“Are you one of her students?”
She smiled shyly. “Yes. My name’s Nikki. Nikki Cooper.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
There was an awkward silence. She looked at him anxiously, as if begging him to say something.
“Do you come from around here?” asked Snooky at last.
“No … no. I live in New York City. I come up here for the classes, and sometimes in between to work with her on my own.”
“I heard that she was giving classes. What kind of a teacher is she?”
The girl looked slightly scandalized. “Oh, she’s wonderful,” she began, when Weezy swept in, freshly cut daffodils filling her arms, her hair bright with sticks of grass and weeds.
“Gossiping about me, are you?” she said cheerfully.
“Oh, no—”
“Yes,” said Snooky. “I was just asking what kind of teacher you are.”
“I am a brilliant teacher,” said Weezy. “Absolutely brilliant. My students are devoted to me. Aren’t you all, Nikki?”
“Oh, yes, of course we are, Weezy,” the girl said.
“Will one of you please find me a vase, so I can put these flowers down?”
Nikki vanished into the studio and came out with a wide-mouthed green glass jar. “Is this okay?”
“Perfect.” Weezy began to arrange the flowers. “Gorgeous, aren’t they? The first of the crop. King Alfred, large yellow trumpet. That’s how they were described in the bulb catalogue I ordered them from last fall. And look, here they are, blooming out back. A host of yellow daffodils. What is that you’re
“Anybody with any grudges against you?” asked Bernard.
“No, Bernard. Nobody has any grudges against me. I am, as you may have noticed, an extremely nice person. Nobody dislikes me. Everybody likes me. I go out of my way to make other people happy. Now, can we discuss something else, or am I going to be grilled on this all night? How’s that carrot, Maya?”
“Fine. I feel better, thanks.”
“Is your phone number listed?” asked Bernard.
Weezy nodded.
“Perhaps you should consider getting an unlisted number.”
“Thank you, Bernard. That way nobody could get in touch with me—including gallery owners who want to show my work, or clients who want to commission a painting, or students who want to take my class. It wouldn’t exactly be a boost to my career if nobody knew how to find me, would it? And now, enough about all this. If the phone rings again, don’t answer it. I’ll put the machine on. I have to put the machine on, otherwise my mother calls and thinks I’m dead. All right, now we can all rest easy. Would anyone like some more coffee or tea?”
“Weezy’s worried,” Maya told her husband later that night, as they got ready for bed.
“I know.”
“I’m worried, too.”
“I know you are.”
“Are you worried?”
Bernard was brushing his teeth. “Yadonnowattoyink,” he said indistinctly.
“Pardon me?”
Bernard spat into the sink. “I don’t know what to think.”
“It’s strange, though, isn’t it?”
“It could be nothing. It could be somebody who’s playing around with phone numbers and likes the look of Weezy’s.”
“But you don’t think it is, do you?”
Bernard stared into the bathroom mirror. His reflection stared back at him with tired eyes. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t.”
Snooky knocked at Weezy’s front door a few days later, then let himself in. Nobody in Ridgewood—nobody except Bernard, that is, and then only occasionally—ever locked their doors. He was carrying a small package under his arm. He walked, whistling, down the hallway toward the studio.
“Weezy? It’s me.”
The studio door opened and he was confronted by a stranger: a heavyset young woman with a round moon face and brown hair which hung in strings down to her shoulders. She looked at him in surprise. “Yes?”
“I’m Snooky Randolph. A friend of Weezy’s. Is she around?”
“Oh … oh, yes. She’s in the garden.”
“Are you one of her students?”
She smiled shyly. “Yes. My name’s Nikki. Nikki Cooper.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
There was an awkward silence. She looked at him anxiously, as if begging him to say something.
“Do you come from around here?” asked Snooky at last.
“No … no. I live in New York City. I come up here for the classes, and sometimes in between to work with her on my own.”
“I heard that she was giving classes. What kind of a teacher is she?”
The girl looked slightly scandalized. “Oh, she’s wonderful,” she began, when Weezy swept in, freshly cut daffodils filling her arms, her hair bright with sticks of grass and weeds.
“Gossiping about me, are you?” she said cheerfully.
“Oh, no—”
“Yes,” said Snooky. “I was just asking what kind of teacher you are.”
“I am a brilliant teacher,” said Weezy. “Absolutely brilliant. My students are devoted to me. Aren’t you all, Nikki?”
“Oh, yes, of course we are, Weezy,” the girl said.
“Will one of you please find me a vase, so I can put these flowers down?”
Nikki vanished into the studio and came out with a wide-mouthed green glass jar. “Is this okay?”
“Perfect.” Weezy began to arrange the flowers. “Gorgeous, aren’t they? The first of the crop. King Alfred, large yellow trumpet. That’s how they were described in the bulb catalogue I ordered them from last fall. And look, here they are, blooming out back. A host of yellow daffodils. What is that you’re
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