itâs Howard â please. Hello â Iâm so sorry about all of ââ
Howard looked about him. The person he now assumed to beVictoria (though the sex was not at all clear from the scalp) was still frozen at the table. Jerome had slid all the way down the wall like a stain and now sat on the floor, looking at his feet.
âYoung people, Howard,â said Mrs Kipps, as if beginning a Caribbean childrenâs story Howard had no interest in hearing, âthey got their own way of doing things â itâs not always our way, but itâs a way.â She smiled a purple gummy smile, and shook her head several times with what appeared to be a slight palsy. âThese two are sensible enough, thank the Lord. Did you know Victoria just turned eighteen? Can you remember eighteen? I know I canât, itâs like another universe. Now . . . Howard, you staying in a hotel, yes? I would offer you to stay here but ââ
Howard confirmed the existence of his hotel and his enthusiasm for leaving for it immediately.
âThatâs a good idea. And I think you should take Jerome ââ
At this point Jerome put his head in his hands; at the same moment, in a perfect inversion, the young lady at the table sprang out of that exact position, and Howard registered in his peripheral vision a gamine type with spidery-lashed wet eyes, and arms of sinew and bone like a ballet dancerâs.
âDonât worry, Jerome â you can get your things in the morning when Montague is at work. You can write to Victoria when you get home. Letâs not have any more scenes today, please.â
âCan I just ââ offered the daughter, but stopped when Mrs Kipps closed her eyes and with unsteady fingers touched her own lips.
âVictoria, go and see on the stew, please. Go.â
Victoria stood up and slammed her chair into the table. As she left the room, Howard watched her nimble shoulder blades from the back, shifting up and down like pistons driving the engine of her sulk.
Mrs Kipps smiled again. âWeâve loved having him, Howard. Heâs such a good, honest, upright young man. You should be very proud of him, truly.â
All this time she had been holding Howardâs hands; now she gave them a final squeeze and released him.
âI should probably stay and talk to your husband?â mumbled Howard, hearing approaching voices from the garden and praying that this would not be necessary.
âI donât think thatâs a good idea, do you?â said Mrs Kipps, turning, and, with a fugitive breeze lifting her skirt a little, she drifted down the patio steps and vanished into the gloom.
5
We must now jump nine months forward, and back across the Atlantic Ocean. It is the third sultry weekend of August, during which the town of Wellington, Mass, holds an annual outdoor festival for families. Kiki had intended to bring her family, but, by the time she returned from her Saturday-morning yoga class, they had already dispersed, off in search of shade. Outside, the pool stagnated under a shifting layer of maple leaves. Inside, the AC whirred for no one. Only Murdoch was left, she found him flat out in the bedroom, his head on his paws, tongue as dry as chamois leather. Kiki rolled down her leggings and wriggled out of her vest. She threw them across the room into an overflowing wicker basket. She stood naked for a while before her closet, making some astute decisions regarding her weight as it might be placed on an axis against the heat and the distance she would be covering, making her way through Wellingtonâs celebrations alone. On a shelf here she kept a chaotic pile of multipurpose scarves, like something a magician might pull from his pocket. Now she picked out a brown cotton one with a fringe, and wrapped her hair in this. Then an orange square of silk that could be fashioned into a top, tied beneath the shoulder blades. A deep red scarf, of
Howard looked about him. The person he now assumed to beVictoria (though the sex was not at all clear from the scalp) was still frozen at the table. Jerome had slid all the way down the wall like a stain and now sat on the floor, looking at his feet.
âYoung people, Howard,â said Mrs Kipps, as if beginning a Caribbean childrenâs story Howard had no interest in hearing, âthey got their own way of doing things â itâs not always our way, but itâs a way.â She smiled a purple gummy smile, and shook her head several times with what appeared to be a slight palsy. âThese two are sensible enough, thank the Lord. Did you know Victoria just turned eighteen? Can you remember eighteen? I know I canât, itâs like another universe. Now . . . Howard, you staying in a hotel, yes? I would offer you to stay here but ââ
Howard confirmed the existence of his hotel and his enthusiasm for leaving for it immediately.
âThatâs a good idea. And I think you should take Jerome ââ
At this point Jerome put his head in his hands; at the same moment, in a perfect inversion, the young lady at the table sprang out of that exact position, and Howard registered in his peripheral vision a gamine type with spidery-lashed wet eyes, and arms of sinew and bone like a ballet dancerâs.
âDonât worry, Jerome â you can get your things in the morning when Montague is at work. You can write to Victoria when you get home. Letâs not have any more scenes today, please.â
âCan I just ââ offered the daughter, but stopped when Mrs Kipps closed her eyes and with unsteady fingers touched her own lips.
âVictoria, go and see on the stew, please. Go.â
Victoria stood up and slammed her chair into the table. As she left the room, Howard watched her nimble shoulder blades from the back, shifting up and down like pistons driving the engine of her sulk.
Mrs Kipps smiled again. âWeâve loved having him, Howard. Heâs such a good, honest, upright young man. You should be very proud of him, truly.â
All this time she had been holding Howardâs hands; now she gave them a final squeeze and released him.
âI should probably stay and talk to your husband?â mumbled Howard, hearing approaching voices from the garden and praying that this would not be necessary.
âI donât think thatâs a good idea, do you?â said Mrs Kipps, turning, and, with a fugitive breeze lifting her skirt a little, she drifted down the patio steps and vanished into the gloom.
5
We must now jump nine months forward, and back across the Atlantic Ocean. It is the third sultry weekend of August, during which the town of Wellington, Mass, holds an annual outdoor festival for families. Kiki had intended to bring her family, but, by the time she returned from her Saturday-morning yoga class, they had already dispersed, off in search of shade. Outside, the pool stagnated under a shifting layer of maple leaves. Inside, the AC whirred for no one. Only Murdoch was left, she found him flat out in the bedroom, his head on his paws, tongue as dry as chamois leather. Kiki rolled down her leggings and wriggled out of her vest. She threw them across the room into an overflowing wicker basket. She stood naked for a while before her closet, making some astute decisions regarding her weight as it might be placed on an axis against the heat and the distance she would be covering, making her way through Wellingtonâs celebrations alone. On a shelf here she kept a chaotic pile of multipurpose scarves, like something a magician might pull from his pocket. Now she picked out a brown cotton one with a fringe, and wrapped her hair in this. Then an orange square of silk that could be fashioned into a top, tied beneath the shoulder blades. A deep red scarf, of
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
