enough to smell stale rye and the sickeningly sweet odor of unwashed skin.
“Listen, old man. I’ve taken all I’m ever taking from you. I’ve bought you your bottles and I’ve paid for Nielsen to keep blood in your fucking veins. I even buried Hatchett, my oh so devoted nurse. And guess what, Pops? I’m what stands between you and the goddamn gutter, another bum drowning in piss and shit and rye in front of a two-bit hooch house, mourned by no one, including the hallowed halls of hell you’ve made out of this place. Don’t lie to me. Catherine Corbie may be dead to you but she’s alive, goddamn it, and you’re going to tell me what you know.”
Panic filled his eyes, large and brown, flat with no depth. She unclenched her fists and took a few steps backward, unsteady, sinking into the wooden seat, breath hard and uneven. He lay propped in his chair, shrunken and old and so much smaller than she remembered. His eyes were unfocused, still aimed at the desk and the hundred-dollar bill.
She said it slowly. “I received a postcard from England. From a woman who says she’s my mother.”
He groped for a key in the small desk drawer and unlocked the drawer below. Lifted out a bottle of Mount Vernon straight rye whiskey, three-fifths gone. Took a long swig from the bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and raised his face to hers.
“I did what I could. How do you think it felt, to be stained with illegitimacy? The Harpers are an old family, distinguished, and in a moment of fear I yielded to—to your mother—and you were the price I paid. She wouldn’t—so no choice—though, yes, I did have a choice, Daughter.”
He spat the word suddenly, spray flying across the desk. “I honored you, gave you a name you’ve since rejected, gave you a home. No orphanage, not even for the bastard girl, no, you were fed and clothed and sheltered, not left on an Attic slope like the Greeks would have done. I taught you, showed you the immortality of words, the light of poetry, the only God I’ve ever known, and still you turned, as worms always will, reverting to your natural state of indecency. Her indecency.”
He finished up the bottle in one long pull. Cradled it in his right hand, close to his chest.
“Your mother left me. Became an ‘actress,’ they said. Just another name for whore. She was dead to me then, dead and buried. Sins of the mother, sins of the daughter.” He shook his head. “‘ To keep thee from the evil woman ’ … would that I had heeded that proverb. But I was young.”
Miranda leaned forward, voice sharp. “Where did she go?”
He nodded in a rhythm, still cradling the bottle. “She took you with her. Then a note came. She had to leave the country, suddenly, quietly. Would I take you in? And you were a wee child, like the mouse Burns turned over in his plow, big dark brown eyes, more like mine than hers, and I thought—foolishly, of course—that I could mold you, save you. Make you into someone to be proud of. I tried, God knows I tried, teaching you poetry, even taking you to New York, but it did no good. You’re a crooked woman, Miranda. You are your mother’s daughter.”
She stared at him, controlling her breathing, while he rocked his chair back and forth, his face turned toward the small, dusty window.
“You never married her.” Statement, not question.
He raised an eyebrow. “There could never be a question of marriage. I wouldn’t sully the names of my ancestors by marrying an Irish whore. But I would have helped her. We could have grown a better life together.”
“‘ And I watered it in fears, night and morning with my tears. ’ I know what kind of life you grow, old man.”
“You owe me yours, inconsequential and debased as it is.”
Her voice was a rasp. “Any debt I’ve paid and repaid and I’ve got the scars to prove it. Tell me where she went and why she left!”
He straightened up in the chair and for the first time his lips turned
“Listen, old man. I’ve taken all I’m ever taking from you. I’ve bought you your bottles and I’ve paid for Nielsen to keep blood in your fucking veins. I even buried Hatchett, my oh so devoted nurse. And guess what, Pops? I’m what stands between you and the goddamn gutter, another bum drowning in piss and shit and rye in front of a two-bit hooch house, mourned by no one, including the hallowed halls of hell you’ve made out of this place. Don’t lie to me. Catherine Corbie may be dead to you but she’s alive, goddamn it, and you’re going to tell me what you know.”
Panic filled his eyes, large and brown, flat with no depth. She unclenched her fists and took a few steps backward, unsteady, sinking into the wooden seat, breath hard and uneven. He lay propped in his chair, shrunken and old and so much smaller than she remembered. His eyes were unfocused, still aimed at the desk and the hundred-dollar bill.
She said it slowly. “I received a postcard from England. From a woman who says she’s my mother.”
He groped for a key in the small desk drawer and unlocked the drawer below. Lifted out a bottle of Mount Vernon straight rye whiskey, three-fifths gone. Took a long swig from the bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and raised his face to hers.
“I did what I could. How do you think it felt, to be stained with illegitimacy? The Harpers are an old family, distinguished, and in a moment of fear I yielded to—to your mother—and you were the price I paid. She wouldn’t—so no choice—though, yes, I did have a choice, Daughter.”
He spat the word suddenly, spray flying across the desk. “I honored you, gave you a name you’ve since rejected, gave you a home. No orphanage, not even for the bastard girl, no, you were fed and clothed and sheltered, not left on an Attic slope like the Greeks would have done. I taught you, showed you the immortality of words, the light of poetry, the only God I’ve ever known, and still you turned, as worms always will, reverting to your natural state of indecency. Her indecency.”
He finished up the bottle in one long pull. Cradled it in his right hand, close to his chest.
“Your mother left me. Became an ‘actress,’ they said. Just another name for whore. She was dead to me then, dead and buried. Sins of the mother, sins of the daughter.” He shook his head. “‘ To keep thee from the evil woman ’ … would that I had heeded that proverb. But I was young.”
Miranda leaned forward, voice sharp. “Where did she go?”
He nodded in a rhythm, still cradling the bottle. “She took you with her. Then a note came. She had to leave the country, suddenly, quietly. Would I take you in? And you were a wee child, like the mouse Burns turned over in his plow, big dark brown eyes, more like mine than hers, and I thought—foolishly, of course—that I could mold you, save you. Make you into someone to be proud of. I tried, God knows I tried, teaching you poetry, even taking you to New York, but it did no good. You’re a crooked woman, Miranda. You are your mother’s daughter.”
She stared at him, controlling her breathing, while he rocked his chair back and forth, his face turned toward the small, dusty window.
“You never married her.” Statement, not question.
He raised an eyebrow. “There could never be a question of marriage. I wouldn’t sully the names of my ancestors by marrying an Irish whore. But I would have helped her. We could have grown a better life together.”
“‘ And I watered it in fears, night and morning with my tears. ’ I know what kind of life you grow, old man.”
“You owe me yours, inconsequential and debased as it is.”
Her voice was a rasp. “Any debt I’ve paid and repaid and I’ve got the scars to prove it. Tell me where she went and why she left!”
He straightened up in the chair and for the first time his lips turned
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