have a question for you, my dear. It’s about Teddy.”
I stiffened. “Yes, Uncle?”
“You see, John, here, thinks that you might know something about Teddy, something important. Something he might have done before he, well. You understand.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Here it was. The reason for my quick expulsion from home.
Uncle Bert rubbed his chin. His face was flushed, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. Fear: I could smell it. “We should like to know, that is, we would—”
“Did your brother tell you anything, Miss Winter?” Rushton asked without turning, his voice pressing through my uncle’s stammer. “Any information? Did he say anything about his activities in the months before he…so tragically…disappeared?”
I remained silent. This was nearly the same question Danny Connor had asked. Yes, I had a secret to keep, the one Teddy had sworn me to. But he’d told me nothing—I didn’t even know why I’d helped him disappear.
“Josephine.” My uncle’s voice trembled. “You have to understand that with Teddy gone, any information you may have regarding some of his experiences—”
“I can’t help you, Uncle. I’m sorry.” No, not with this, I couldn’t.
“You see, there are some people who might need information, or want information about Teddy’s last days, and if you have access to anything, anything at all, letters, perhaps…”
“I really don’t, Uncle.” My fists were clenched behind my back. Teddy didn’t have last days, was what I thought. He’d said he’d be back, and when he returned, he could answer for himself.
“Ah. Well.” Uncle Bert rubbed his chin again, not meeting my eyes. “That’s that, then. Yes. That’s it.” He looked up and smiled broadly, clapping his hands together. “I think it’s time for a drink. I’ll be right back, John.”
Uncle Bert left the room before I could move out ahead of him. I was left alone with Rushton and his uneasiness and the shadow of my uncle’s fear and that inquiry about Teddy. I had to try to make an escape. I started to slip toward the door.
“Why are they heroes to you?” Rushton asked, his back toward me.
“What?” I froze in my tracks.
“Those people you saw at the Algonquin. You use the word hero so lightly. Why do you think they are heroes?”
“Oh!” I wondered how to answer; I settled on the plain truth. “I’d like to become a writer myself.”
He turned until his eyes met mine. “Really. So that makes them heroes.”
I was speechless.
He went on. “And what would you write?”
“Stories,” I stammered. This man Rushton made me feel foolish. I could feel the blush creep over my cheeks. “I’ve written a couple of things that have been printed. Locally.” In a high school paper, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
He turned his back on me again. “I’m sure you could paint quitethe portrait of a flapper. Like that fellow Fitzgerald.” I heard his mocking tone.
He thought I was a flapper? I covered my lips with my fingertips; I must not have erased all of that Killer Red. “I happen to like his work.” My voice came out a near whisper.
He didn’t respond, and I fidgeted. He turned back to face me, and the cloud of his despair was so dark I sucked in air. His eyes were wells of sorrow. In spite of his mocking manner, he was a man suffering. He opened his mouth to speak again when a commotion erupted in the hallway, the clang of the elevator, loud laughter, stumbling footsteps.
Melody came in, her arm looped through the arm of a young man wearing a broad smile and a sharp suit, with another couple tagging behind them, all giggles and feints. Rushton drew up, pulling himself inward. I watched Rushton as he looked at Melody, then at her beau, Rushton’s expression pained and something else—condescending?—before he turned away.
I took him for a snob, passing judgment on my cousin the flapper just as he’d passed judgment on me. I couldn’t wait to be out of
I stiffened. “Yes, Uncle?”
“You see, John, here, thinks that you might know something about Teddy, something important. Something he might have done before he, well. You understand.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Here it was. The reason for my quick expulsion from home.
Uncle Bert rubbed his chin. His face was flushed, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. Fear: I could smell it. “We should like to know, that is, we would—”
“Did your brother tell you anything, Miss Winter?” Rushton asked without turning, his voice pressing through my uncle’s stammer. “Any information? Did he say anything about his activities in the months before he…so tragically…disappeared?”
I remained silent. This was nearly the same question Danny Connor had asked. Yes, I had a secret to keep, the one Teddy had sworn me to. But he’d told me nothing—I didn’t even know why I’d helped him disappear.
“Josephine.” My uncle’s voice trembled. “You have to understand that with Teddy gone, any information you may have regarding some of his experiences—”
“I can’t help you, Uncle. I’m sorry.” No, not with this, I couldn’t.
“You see, there are some people who might need information, or want information about Teddy’s last days, and if you have access to anything, anything at all, letters, perhaps…”
“I really don’t, Uncle.” My fists were clenched behind my back. Teddy didn’t have last days, was what I thought. He’d said he’d be back, and when he returned, he could answer for himself.
“Ah. Well.” Uncle Bert rubbed his chin again, not meeting my eyes. “That’s that, then. Yes. That’s it.” He looked up and smiled broadly, clapping his hands together. “I think it’s time for a drink. I’ll be right back, John.”
Uncle Bert left the room before I could move out ahead of him. I was left alone with Rushton and his uneasiness and the shadow of my uncle’s fear and that inquiry about Teddy. I had to try to make an escape. I started to slip toward the door.
“Why are they heroes to you?” Rushton asked, his back toward me.
“What?” I froze in my tracks.
“Those people you saw at the Algonquin. You use the word hero so lightly. Why do you think they are heroes?”
“Oh!” I wondered how to answer; I settled on the plain truth. “I’d like to become a writer myself.”
He turned until his eyes met mine. “Really. So that makes them heroes.”
I was speechless.
He went on. “And what would you write?”
“Stories,” I stammered. This man Rushton made me feel foolish. I could feel the blush creep over my cheeks. “I’ve written a couple of things that have been printed. Locally.” In a high school paper, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
He turned his back on me again. “I’m sure you could paint quitethe portrait of a flapper. Like that fellow Fitzgerald.” I heard his mocking tone.
He thought I was a flapper? I covered my lips with my fingertips; I must not have erased all of that Killer Red. “I happen to like his work.” My voice came out a near whisper.
He didn’t respond, and I fidgeted. He turned back to face me, and the cloud of his despair was so dark I sucked in air. His eyes were wells of sorrow. In spite of his mocking manner, he was a man suffering. He opened his mouth to speak again when a commotion erupted in the hallway, the clang of the elevator, loud laughter, stumbling footsteps.
Melody came in, her arm looped through the arm of a young man wearing a broad smile and a sharp suit, with another couple tagging behind them, all giggles and feints. Rushton drew up, pulling himself inward. I watched Rushton as he looked at Melody, then at her beau, Rushton’s expression pained and something else—condescending?—before he turned away.
I took him for a snob, passing judgment on my cousin the flapper just as he’d passed judgment on me. I couldn’t wait to be out of
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