nags.”
“Oh?” I said. “Do you know Timothy Cussack?”
“Tim? Sure, I know him. Nice guy.”
“Seems to be,” I said. “I met him for the first time today. Was he a good polo player?”
Bledsoe laughed. “When he wasn’t hung over. Our Timmy likes the sauce.”
“Don’t we all,” I said, tempted to add that bordelaise was my favorite. “Is Lucy home?” I asked him.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “The school van dropped her off about fifteen minutes ago. She’s out back somewhere.”
I nodded and went into the library, thinking I really should do a spot of cataloging. But the dreary chamber depressed me and I fled. I went hunting for Lucy, that lorn child who seemed like an outsider in the disordered Forsythe household.
10
I FINALLY FOUND HER in the secret place. She was sitting on the ground, a small pad on her lap. She was chewing the stub of a pencil and her face was twisted with concentration.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said.
She started, then looked up and smiled. Sunlight glinted off the bands on her teeth.
“Am I really your sweetheart?” she asked.
“Of course you are,” I told her. “I have several but you are definitely Numero Uno. What are you doing?”
“I’m writing a poem,” she said timidly.
“Good for you,” I said. “Will you read it to me?”
“It’s not finished yet.”
“Well, when it’s finished may I read it?”
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “It’s very private.”
“I thought we were friends, Lucy. Friends can show each other their private poems.”
“They can? Do you have any private poems?”
“Many,” I assured her.
“Tell me one.”
I thought she was a bit immature for “There was a young man from Nantucket,” so I recited “I never saw a purple cow.” It was an immediate success; she laughed and clapped her hands.
“That’s a nice poem,” she said. “I like it when they rhyme. My poem rhymes.”
“Grand,” I said. “Did you go to school today?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And what did you teach the teacher?”
She laughed again. “You’re silly,” she said. “The teacher teaches us. Everyone knows that. Today we learned about George Washington.”
“Splendid chap. Never lied.”
“Yes, he did,” she corrected me. “But only when he had to. He didn’t like to lie. Some people do, you know.”
Her wisdom was breathtaking.
“I can’t believe anyone lies to you, Lucy.”
“Oh, yes they do,” she said sadly. “My mother, my father—lots of people. They’re supposed to love me but they really don’t. Leastwise they never say they do and so they’re lying, aren’t they?”
This was becoming murky and I didn’t quite know how to handle it. “I’m sure your parents love you, Lucy,” I said, “but sometimes people find it hard to express their love. They just assume you know it.”
“Well, if they both love me,” she said with the illogic of the very young, “then why are they always fighting?”
“Darling,” I said, “perhaps it has nothing to do with you. They may disagree about other things but I’m certain they agree about their love for you.”
“I don’t know,” she said gloomily. “I heard mom say to dad, ‘If it wasn’t for Lucy I’d be out of here tomorrow.’ And he said, ‘Don’t let the kid stop you.’ That doesn’t sound like they love me, does it?”
I felt like weeping. She was disclosing things I really didn’t want to know. I was acutely uncomfortable listening to these distressing revelations. Most of all I was anguished by the intensity of her unhappiness. No child should be a shuttlecock between gaming parents and, even worse, be aware of it.
“Lucy,” I said, “I love you,” and the moment I said it I knew it was true. I leaned down to stroke her silken hair. “So don’t ever believe no one loves you. Many people do, I’m sure, and I’m one of them.”
“That’s okay,” she said bravely. “I’m not going to cry. I decided I’m never going to cry
“Oh?” I said. “Do you know Timothy Cussack?”
“Tim? Sure, I know him. Nice guy.”
“Seems to be,” I said. “I met him for the first time today. Was he a good polo player?”
Bledsoe laughed. “When he wasn’t hung over. Our Timmy likes the sauce.”
“Don’t we all,” I said, tempted to add that bordelaise was my favorite. “Is Lucy home?” I asked him.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “The school van dropped her off about fifteen minutes ago. She’s out back somewhere.”
I nodded and went into the library, thinking I really should do a spot of cataloging. But the dreary chamber depressed me and I fled. I went hunting for Lucy, that lorn child who seemed like an outsider in the disordered Forsythe household.
10
I FINALLY FOUND HER in the secret place. She was sitting on the ground, a small pad on her lap. She was chewing the stub of a pencil and her face was twisted with concentration.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said.
She started, then looked up and smiled. Sunlight glinted off the bands on her teeth.
“Am I really your sweetheart?” she asked.
“Of course you are,” I told her. “I have several but you are definitely Numero Uno. What are you doing?”
“I’m writing a poem,” she said timidly.
“Good for you,” I said. “Will you read it to me?”
“It’s not finished yet.”
“Well, when it’s finished may I read it?”
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “It’s very private.”
“I thought we were friends, Lucy. Friends can show each other their private poems.”
“They can? Do you have any private poems?”
“Many,” I assured her.
“Tell me one.”
I thought she was a bit immature for “There was a young man from Nantucket,” so I recited “I never saw a purple cow.” It was an immediate success; she laughed and clapped her hands.
“That’s a nice poem,” she said. “I like it when they rhyme. My poem rhymes.”
“Grand,” I said. “Did you go to school today?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And what did you teach the teacher?”
She laughed again. “You’re silly,” she said. “The teacher teaches us. Everyone knows that. Today we learned about George Washington.”
“Splendid chap. Never lied.”
“Yes, he did,” she corrected me. “But only when he had to. He didn’t like to lie. Some people do, you know.”
Her wisdom was breathtaking.
“I can’t believe anyone lies to you, Lucy.”
“Oh, yes they do,” she said sadly. “My mother, my father—lots of people. They’re supposed to love me but they really don’t. Leastwise they never say they do and so they’re lying, aren’t they?”
This was becoming murky and I didn’t quite know how to handle it. “I’m sure your parents love you, Lucy,” I said, “but sometimes people find it hard to express their love. They just assume you know it.”
“Well, if they both love me,” she said with the illogic of the very young, “then why are they always fighting?”
“Darling,” I said, “perhaps it has nothing to do with you. They may disagree about other things but I’m certain they agree about their love for you.”
“I don’t know,” she said gloomily. “I heard mom say to dad, ‘If it wasn’t for Lucy I’d be out of here tomorrow.’ And he said, ‘Don’t let the kid stop you.’ That doesn’t sound like they love me, does it?”
I felt like weeping. She was disclosing things I really didn’t want to know. I was acutely uncomfortable listening to these distressing revelations. Most of all I was anguished by the intensity of her unhappiness. No child should be a shuttlecock between gaming parents and, even worse, be aware of it.
“Lucy,” I said, “I love you,” and the moment I said it I knew it was true. I leaned down to stroke her silken hair. “So don’t ever believe no one loves you. Many people do, I’m sure, and I’m one of them.”
“That’s okay,” she said bravely. “I’m not going to cry. I decided I’m never going to cry
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