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Authors: Andrew Sean Greer
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puffs on either side of her head. A few presses of her experienced hand put things in place, and she stood slightly away from the door, embarrassed or signaling me that I was welcome. The sun pinkened her face. She was in unwidowlike green and wore an old-style bustle high at the back of her skirt. Mrs. Levy seemed conscious of her artificiality and straightened herself slightly. She made these small but profound adjustments in the first moments I saw her in the doorway, distracting me from her maneuvers by light, intelligent conversation:
“ …something about the evening positively Shakespearean, don’t you think? Something about being in a grove of trees, like Arden? I wonder if that feeling will ever change. I wonder if a hundred years from now people will be standing at their doorways looking at the trees with that comical sensation of being in love.”
She had transformed herself into the old Mrs. Levy again and gave a light rendition of her laugh—that descending string of pearls. “I’m being stupid. Please come in, Mr. Tivoli. I’m sure Alice would love to see you, too.”
“I’ve come to check the paint,” I began, but found I was already inside the house, inside my own old hallways repainted in dimmer colors and sectioned by various wallpapers, dadoes, and friezes so that it was like coming upon an old friend done up for some event—a state dinner or a chowder party—looking so unlike themselves that you blink awkwardly and turn away, kindly refusing to recognize this strange person attached to a beloved face. I found no scent of my childhood here. This was not like walking through a pyramid tomb of the past, knocking against my old relics; this felt very new; someone else had cracked and repaired that porcelain figure; it was a museum of Alice. For there she was.
“Alice, Mr. Tivoli is here to check … the paint you said? Say hello, dear girl, and maybe wipe your hands, thank you.”
Alice’s deep brown hair was up; she looked like a woman. She stood up from the settee and set down her book (From the Earth to the Moon, the distance between us in that room, my dear).
“Well, gee, hi there, Mr. Tivoli,” she said mockingly as she smiled and shook my hand. These were the most ordinary gestures, given to me as she gave them to all others. I searched desperately for some sign that something dear was hidden for me in this routine, but very quickly she was sitting back on the couch, lifting her book. She wore the strangest dress of gossamer satin, which had a sheen of age about it that had probably gone unnoticed in candlelight. Some hairs clung to the fabric, burnished gold hanging on a sleeve. The light was ribboned throughout her hair, which was parted and coiled elaborately around her head as it might be for a dinner party. These were not the costumes Mother and I had seen them wearing that morning on their way to temple. They had been playing in the closet, and they had done each other’s hair. So this was what lonely women did the whole Sabbath day long.
“You both look nice,” I said, and grimaced, trying to shake the burlap from my tongue.
Mrs. Levy smiled conspiratorially at Alice, who finally turned human in my presence: she blushed. She touched her hair, sighing and looking everywhere but at me and her mother, as if searching for some escape from the room in which she had been caught playing dress-up with her old mother. I had done this; I had made a little flame under her skin. I took the moment—snip—and coiled it in the enamel locket of my heart.
Mrs. Levy sat, motioning for me to sit as well. She turned to her burning daughter. “You know, Alice, a cup of tea would really hit the spot right now, wouldn’t it?”
Alice said, “Ugh,” then stared angrily at her book.
Mrs. Levy looked warmly at me. She sat perfectly motionless and lovely, knees to the side so that her dress could fit in the chair, and I saw she had already loosened her bustle so that it lay more naturally.
“ …something about the evening positively Shakespearean, don’t you think? Something about being in a grove of trees, like Arden? I wonder if that feeling will ever change. I wonder if a hundred years from now people will be standing at their doorways looking at the trees with that comical sensation of being in love.”
She had transformed herself into the old Mrs. Levy again and gave a light rendition of her laugh—that descending string of pearls. “I’m being stupid. Please come in, Mr. Tivoli. I’m sure Alice would love to see you, too.”
“I’ve come to check the paint,” I began, but found I was already inside the house, inside my own old hallways repainted in dimmer colors and sectioned by various wallpapers, dadoes, and friezes so that it was like coming upon an old friend done up for some event—a state dinner or a chowder party—looking so unlike themselves that you blink awkwardly and turn away, kindly refusing to recognize this strange person attached to a beloved face. I found no scent of my childhood here. This was not like walking through a pyramid tomb of the past, knocking against my old relics; this felt very new; someone else had cracked and repaired that porcelain figure; it was a museum of Alice. For there she was.
“Alice, Mr. Tivoli is here to check … the paint you said? Say hello, dear girl, and maybe wipe your hands, thank you.”
Alice’s deep brown hair was up; she looked like a woman. She stood up from the settee and set down her book (From the Earth to the Moon, the distance between us in that room, my dear).
“Well, gee, hi there, Mr. Tivoli,” she said mockingly as she smiled and shook my hand. These were the most ordinary gestures, given to me as she gave them to all others. I searched desperately for some sign that something dear was hidden for me in this routine, but very quickly she was sitting back on the couch, lifting her book. She wore the strangest dress of gossamer satin, which had a sheen of age about it that had probably gone unnoticed in candlelight. Some hairs clung to the fabric, burnished gold hanging on a sleeve. The light was ribboned throughout her hair, which was parted and coiled elaborately around her head as it might be for a dinner party. These were not the costumes Mother and I had seen them wearing that morning on their way to temple. They had been playing in the closet, and they had done each other’s hair. So this was what lonely women did the whole Sabbath day long.
“You both look nice,” I said, and grimaced, trying to shake the burlap from my tongue.
Mrs. Levy smiled conspiratorially at Alice, who finally turned human in my presence: she blushed. She touched her hair, sighing and looking everywhere but at me and her mother, as if searching for some escape from the room in which she had been caught playing dress-up with her old mother. I had done this; I had made a little flame under her skin. I took the moment—snip—and coiled it in the enamel locket of my heart.
Mrs. Levy sat, motioning for me to sit as well. She turned to her burning daughter. “You know, Alice, a cup of tea would really hit the spot right now, wouldn’t it?”
Alice said, “Ugh,” then stared angrily at her book.
Mrs. Levy looked warmly at me. She sat perfectly motionless and lovely, knees to the side so that her dress could fit in the chair, and I saw she had already loosened her bustle so that it lay more naturally.
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