Miranda’s hand started to tremble. She set the money on the desk, smoothing it out flat with her palm.
“What do you want?”
She nodded. “That’s more like it. ‘ If it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly .’”
“I see you remember your Shakespeare.”
“Surprisingly, yes. Shakespeare, Tennyson, Coleridge, Blake, Keats … I even majored in English. Not that I expect you to recall that sad little fact.”
He drummed his fingers on the desk and closed his eyes. “‘ How sharper than a serpent’s tooth …’”
“Christ, don’t you know anything but Lear ? No wonder they haven’t made you full professor.”
He moved a stack of papers to his left, making sure the edges were neat and aligned. Sat back in the desk chair, eyes pink around the rims, thin lips pinched tight.
“You are the reason I haven’t received my promotion. You—and your life, such as it is—have cost me dearly. Such was my sacrifice, such was my shame, such was—”
She recited it singsong. “‘ O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. ’”
Miranda shook her head. “Don’t talk to me about shame, old man. You’ll lose the battle. Not when you cross the Bay once or twice a year and hit me up to pay for your bar tab and a few days of dry living at Nielsen’s country clinic. Or maybe you really believe it. Maybe you need a real doctor, the kind that’ll give you a private room and a barred window. I’ve met a few. I’d be happy to introduce you.”
He opened his mouth, shut it again. Pulled a yellowed handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead. Veins mapped his nose, spit was starting to fleck his lips. Retreat, withdrawal, and the stench of fear.
Round one, thought Miranda.
She stroked the bill on the desk.
“I don’t give a damn if you use it to pay for a bender and an armful from Nielsen or buy a new Oxford Classical Dictionary. I just want information.”
He picked up the fountain pen. “What sort of information?”
“Answers. You used up your annual tithe back in February, so I figured a C-note would make us even. I always pay my way, remember?”
He sat up in the chair, eyes aimed at the wall of books, English, Greek, and Latin, lining the tiny office, warm smell of decaying leaves as thick as the dust on the shelves. Voice dripped with acid, last attempt to rally.
“What knowledge, pray, might I possess? Surely, I cannot have any information in common with the sordid habitués of your office, the pool room hustlers and the jaded faded women of no virtue, your sisters in sin. In fact, I fail to see the purpose of your presence here … unless it was to flaunt your filthy lucre and taunt me with my own greatest mistake. That you have achieved, certainly.”
Miranda slowly clapped her hands, not taking her eyes from his face.
“Bravo, Pops. John Barrymore by way of Henry Irving. Your eloquence is still impressive, especially for a lush. But we’re not playing Lear or Macbeth or Othello, so save it for your class, for the freshmen who don’t know the difference between a don and a drunkard. You want a hundred dollars or not?”
His eyes kept drifting to the C-note and finally rested there.
Round two.
His voice was thick, heavier, and his body seemed to shrink. “What do you want to know?”
Miranda placed both palms flat on the bill and searched his face.
“Why did my mother leave and where did she go?”
He twisted like a newborn rodent in a torn-paper nest, the starched, old-fashioned collars of his shirt beginning to wilt with perspiration.
“I told you a long time ago. She died.”
“You’re a fucking liar. She’s alive.”
He blinked at her. “I’ve answered your question. Your mother, such as she was, is dead.” He made a gesture with his hand. “‘ Dry up in her the organs of increase…’ ”
She stood up and strode around the desk, standing over him until she was close
“What do you want?”
She nodded. “That’s more like it. ‘ If it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly .’”
“I see you remember your Shakespeare.”
“Surprisingly, yes. Shakespeare, Tennyson, Coleridge, Blake, Keats … I even majored in English. Not that I expect you to recall that sad little fact.”
He drummed his fingers on the desk and closed his eyes. “‘ How sharper than a serpent’s tooth …’”
“Christ, don’t you know anything but Lear ? No wonder they haven’t made you full professor.”
He moved a stack of papers to his left, making sure the edges were neat and aligned. Sat back in the desk chair, eyes pink around the rims, thin lips pinched tight.
“You are the reason I haven’t received my promotion. You—and your life, such as it is—have cost me dearly. Such was my sacrifice, such was my shame, such was—”
She recited it singsong. “‘ O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. ’”
Miranda shook her head. “Don’t talk to me about shame, old man. You’ll lose the battle. Not when you cross the Bay once or twice a year and hit me up to pay for your bar tab and a few days of dry living at Nielsen’s country clinic. Or maybe you really believe it. Maybe you need a real doctor, the kind that’ll give you a private room and a barred window. I’ve met a few. I’d be happy to introduce you.”
He opened his mouth, shut it again. Pulled a yellowed handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead. Veins mapped his nose, spit was starting to fleck his lips. Retreat, withdrawal, and the stench of fear.
Round one, thought Miranda.
She stroked the bill on the desk.
“I don’t give a damn if you use it to pay for a bender and an armful from Nielsen or buy a new Oxford Classical Dictionary. I just want information.”
He picked up the fountain pen. “What sort of information?”
“Answers. You used up your annual tithe back in February, so I figured a C-note would make us even. I always pay my way, remember?”
He sat up in the chair, eyes aimed at the wall of books, English, Greek, and Latin, lining the tiny office, warm smell of decaying leaves as thick as the dust on the shelves. Voice dripped with acid, last attempt to rally.
“What knowledge, pray, might I possess? Surely, I cannot have any information in common with the sordid habitués of your office, the pool room hustlers and the jaded faded women of no virtue, your sisters in sin. In fact, I fail to see the purpose of your presence here … unless it was to flaunt your filthy lucre and taunt me with my own greatest mistake. That you have achieved, certainly.”
Miranda slowly clapped her hands, not taking her eyes from his face.
“Bravo, Pops. John Barrymore by way of Henry Irving. Your eloquence is still impressive, especially for a lush. But we’re not playing Lear or Macbeth or Othello, so save it for your class, for the freshmen who don’t know the difference between a don and a drunkard. You want a hundred dollars or not?”
His eyes kept drifting to the C-note and finally rested there.
Round two.
His voice was thick, heavier, and his body seemed to shrink. “What do you want to know?”
Miranda placed both palms flat on the bill and searched his face.
“Why did my mother leave and where did she go?”
He twisted like a newborn rodent in a torn-paper nest, the starched, old-fashioned collars of his shirt beginning to wilt with perspiration.
“I told you a long time ago. She died.”
“You’re a fucking liar. She’s alive.”
He blinked at her. “I’ve answered your question. Your mother, such as she was, is dead.” He made a gesture with his hand. “‘ Dry up in her the organs of increase…’ ”
She stood up and strode around the desk, standing over him until she was close
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