delicious dinner,Miss Romeyn.” She stood, clutching her napkin against her dress, her face glistening in the dull yellow light.
“We have breakfast at seven,” Jottie said. “I hope that’s convenient for you?”
“Oh! Yes. Seven,” repeated Layla. “Yes, of course.”
“Now I’m done,” said Bird, licking her fingers.
“I should think so. Good night, Miss Beck. Come along, girls.” Jottie nodded with what she hoped looked like friendly detachment and led the procession to the porch.
“Good night, Miss Layla Beck,” simpered Bird as she went.
“Good night,” Layla said flatly.
Felix stayed behind, his arms crossed over the back of his chair, his eyes on the table. “Good night, Miss Beck,” he said after a moment. He turned his head to look at her and added gently, “You’ll get used to it.”
Layla nodded, hard, and walked stiffly toward the stairs.
5
The screen door slammed behind them as they came out onto the porch, exhaling the final labored breath of day, taking in the first calming draft of night. Up and down Academy Street, supper was drawing to a close, the last brittle ping of spoons sounding on coffee cups, the collective woody rumble of chairs moving away from tables. The houses that lined the street looked alike in the thickening light, their massive horizontal bulk broken by golden rectangles of windows and doors. And now, as one, they began to disgorge their inhabitants, pouring them out into screened porches to lower themselves into wicker divans and decrepit rockers. Voices, high and low, wheeled like bats over the wide lawns.
Same as ever, same as ever, Jottie thought, sinking into her shredding seat. She watched her nieces commence their nightly rite of selecting chairs. They were young and they didn’t understand. They believed that one chair was better than another. They believed that it was important to make distinctions, to choose, to discern particulars. Like crows, they picked out bits from each evening and lugged them around, thinking that they were hoarding treasure. They remembered the jokes, or the games, or the stories, not knowing that it was all one, that each tiny vibration of difference would be sanded, over the courseof years, into sameness. It doesn’t matter, Jottie assured herself. They’ll get to it. Later, they’ll know that the sameness is the important part.
After deliberation, Willa picked a desk chair that had migrated on an unknown current from the parlor, and Bird arranged herself across a rocker, lolling her head over the arm to better accommodate her full stomach.
“I’m stuffed,” she announced. No one said anything. “I ate too much,” she explained. “My stomach is distended.”
“Oh, hush,” said Mae.
The night was no different from any other. Soft-edged in the gathering shadows, the adults talked and drank coffee. The children waited for something interesting to happen. Idly, Bird rubbed her stomach and half-listened as her aunts talked about the price of something or other. Her eyes moved to her father, his dark head bent over a cigarette. “Daddy?” she inquired, for the pleasure of seeing him look up.
“Hm?”
A second ticked by while she searched for something impressive to ask. “Was Jottie ever bad when she was little?”
“Never,” Jottie said at once. “I was good as gold. A model child, virtuous and pious and kind to the little animals. And clean! So clean!”
“Jottie.” Felix shook his head reprovingly. “You’ll fry for such lies.” He smiled at Bird. “Jottie did so many terrible things that it’s hard to pick just one.”
“Felix! You were far worse than she was,” cried Minerva. “Than anyone was.”
“Slander. Base slander and calumny,” Felix said, dismissing her words with a flip of his fingers. “Did you know Jottie almost drowned a man once?” he asked his daughters. “On purpose, too.”
“You helped!” Jottie protested.
“Tell!” Willa looked between her father and her
“We have breakfast at seven,” Jottie said. “I hope that’s convenient for you?”
“Oh! Yes. Seven,” repeated Layla. “Yes, of course.”
“Now I’m done,” said Bird, licking her fingers.
“I should think so. Good night, Miss Beck. Come along, girls.” Jottie nodded with what she hoped looked like friendly detachment and led the procession to the porch.
“Good night, Miss Layla Beck,” simpered Bird as she went.
“Good night,” Layla said flatly.
Felix stayed behind, his arms crossed over the back of his chair, his eyes on the table. “Good night, Miss Beck,” he said after a moment. He turned his head to look at her and added gently, “You’ll get used to it.”
Layla nodded, hard, and walked stiffly toward the stairs.
5
The screen door slammed behind them as they came out onto the porch, exhaling the final labored breath of day, taking in the first calming draft of night. Up and down Academy Street, supper was drawing to a close, the last brittle ping of spoons sounding on coffee cups, the collective woody rumble of chairs moving away from tables. The houses that lined the street looked alike in the thickening light, their massive horizontal bulk broken by golden rectangles of windows and doors. And now, as one, they began to disgorge their inhabitants, pouring them out into screened porches to lower themselves into wicker divans and decrepit rockers. Voices, high and low, wheeled like bats over the wide lawns.
Same as ever, same as ever, Jottie thought, sinking into her shredding seat. She watched her nieces commence their nightly rite of selecting chairs. They were young and they didn’t understand. They believed that one chair was better than another. They believed that it was important to make distinctions, to choose, to discern particulars. Like crows, they picked out bits from each evening and lugged them around, thinking that they were hoarding treasure. They remembered the jokes, or the games, or the stories, not knowing that it was all one, that each tiny vibration of difference would be sanded, over the courseof years, into sameness. It doesn’t matter, Jottie assured herself. They’ll get to it. Later, they’ll know that the sameness is the important part.
After deliberation, Willa picked a desk chair that had migrated on an unknown current from the parlor, and Bird arranged herself across a rocker, lolling her head over the arm to better accommodate her full stomach.
“I’m stuffed,” she announced. No one said anything. “I ate too much,” she explained. “My stomach is distended.”
“Oh, hush,” said Mae.
The night was no different from any other. Soft-edged in the gathering shadows, the adults talked and drank coffee. The children waited for something interesting to happen. Idly, Bird rubbed her stomach and half-listened as her aunts talked about the price of something or other. Her eyes moved to her father, his dark head bent over a cigarette. “Daddy?” she inquired, for the pleasure of seeing him look up.
“Hm?”
A second ticked by while she searched for something impressive to ask. “Was Jottie ever bad when she was little?”
“Never,” Jottie said at once. “I was good as gold. A model child, virtuous and pious and kind to the little animals. And clean! So clean!”
“Jottie.” Felix shook his head reprovingly. “You’ll fry for such lies.” He smiled at Bird. “Jottie did so many terrible things that it’s hard to pick just one.”
“Felix! You were far worse than she was,” cried Minerva. “Than anyone was.”
“Slander. Base slander and calumny,” Felix said, dismissing her words with a flip of his fingers. “Did you know Jottie almost drowned a man once?” he asked his daughters. “On purpose, too.”
“You helped!” Jottie protested.
“Tell!” Willa looked between her father and her
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