maudlin songs, full of tremolos and cadenzas .
And Lord help me, how I smiled. Which came in handy, Father, because I soon learned that, going out in public as often as we did, we could no longer keep our text private; we would have to contend with rival interpreters. They had no compunction about calling after us .
--Lookit! It's the two-headed beast! And the top un's the ugliest!
--Sir, you got a wart comin' out your hat!
Critics.
You never heard them, Father, I'm convinced of that. Faith was your stanchion, and more power to you.
The mistake I made in those days--pardonable, I hope, in one so young--lay in thinking that by occupying your narrative, I might exert some authorial power over it. But in fact, the more thoroughly I inhabited it, the more completely it became your story. It took me many years to scribble out my own, which, I shouldn't have been surprised to learn, was rather different from the one you and I created. (I claim coauthorship only on corporeal grounds.) This boy...this newboy...well, he was much angrier, for one thing, terribly angry. And funnier, too: that was a surprise. I remember sitting in the British Museum and telling Mr. McReady about the religious enthusiast Uncle N sicced on us one summer, that Welsh Congregationalist with the walleye and pitted nose and the extraordinary breath .
--Like rotten ham soaked in turpentine, I said.--I think I shall have to get well so as never to inhale him again.
And Mr. McReady got that look on his face, that strange halfway condition between laughter and outrage. And over time, such remarks created in us a state of mild but chronic alarm, as though I had daggers secreted in places neither of us knew about. And I came to realise that those daggers were nothing but the proddings of me , desperate to emerge .
But I never made amusing remarks around you, Father; I couldn't. They would have been out of character.
Mother, though, might have appreciated them. I've always suspected she was closer to me in spirit than she ever let on. The week before she died, she said:
--You know, Tim, I wish we hadn't got rid of that crutch of yours.
I asked her why, thinking perhaps she'd gone a bit soft on the old artifacts. She said:
--It was the best back scratcher I ever had, wasn't it?
There was a wag for you. I wish I'd known it sooner.
Do you remember what you told Mother right after The Change?
--I think, my dear--no, I am absolutely sure of it. Things will never be the same.
And on this occasion, you were right, Father. They weren't.
Chapter 7
--MR. TIMOTHY?
Timid and sore flustered, Mary Catherine twines her head round my bedroom door. --Mr. Timothy, there's a...there's a Colin the Melodious here to see you.
--You're jesting.
--No, sir, he's...I left him in the--
She is cut off by the sound of her own squeal. The visitor in question has followed her up the stairs, crept up behind her, and made his presence unequivocally felt. And even as she reaches back to swat the offending hand, he ducks under her arm, darts into the center of the room, and stands there in diamonds of morning light, his shoulders thrown back like a barnyard cock.
--Filthy little...
--It's all right, Mary Catherine. Leave him to me.
She retreats with all the pride she can muster, but he ogles her all the way back down the hall. Very serious about his work. Robed in abstraction by the time he turns back to me.
--Nice rollickin' bum on that one. Spoken for?
--I'm afraid I can't say.
--Not that I got me room for any more. You can guess, my line of work, I'm always a-havin' to beat 'em off like rats. Someday, though, a cove's got to settle down, eh? What then, I ask you? What then, Mr. Tim-o-thee?
There's only one chair, which he quickly seizes for his own, swinging it round so that his chest presses against the chair's back. From my perch on the bed, I have the precarious sense of being a visitor in my own room.
--How did you find me, Colin?
--Followed you straight home the
And Lord help me, how I smiled. Which came in handy, Father, because I soon learned that, going out in public as often as we did, we could no longer keep our text private; we would have to contend with rival interpreters. They had no compunction about calling after us .
--Lookit! It's the two-headed beast! And the top un's the ugliest!
--Sir, you got a wart comin' out your hat!
Critics.
You never heard them, Father, I'm convinced of that. Faith was your stanchion, and more power to you.
The mistake I made in those days--pardonable, I hope, in one so young--lay in thinking that by occupying your narrative, I might exert some authorial power over it. But in fact, the more thoroughly I inhabited it, the more completely it became your story. It took me many years to scribble out my own, which, I shouldn't have been surprised to learn, was rather different from the one you and I created. (I claim coauthorship only on corporeal grounds.) This boy...this newboy...well, he was much angrier, for one thing, terribly angry. And funnier, too: that was a surprise. I remember sitting in the British Museum and telling Mr. McReady about the religious enthusiast Uncle N sicced on us one summer, that Welsh Congregationalist with the walleye and pitted nose and the extraordinary breath .
--Like rotten ham soaked in turpentine, I said.--I think I shall have to get well so as never to inhale him again.
And Mr. McReady got that look on his face, that strange halfway condition between laughter and outrage. And over time, such remarks created in us a state of mild but chronic alarm, as though I had daggers secreted in places neither of us knew about. And I came to realise that those daggers were nothing but the proddings of me , desperate to emerge .
But I never made amusing remarks around you, Father; I couldn't. They would have been out of character.
Mother, though, might have appreciated them. I've always suspected she was closer to me in spirit than she ever let on. The week before she died, she said:
--You know, Tim, I wish we hadn't got rid of that crutch of yours.
I asked her why, thinking perhaps she'd gone a bit soft on the old artifacts. She said:
--It was the best back scratcher I ever had, wasn't it?
There was a wag for you. I wish I'd known it sooner.
Do you remember what you told Mother right after The Change?
--I think, my dear--no, I am absolutely sure of it. Things will never be the same.
And on this occasion, you were right, Father. They weren't.
Chapter 7
--MR. TIMOTHY?
Timid and sore flustered, Mary Catherine twines her head round my bedroom door. --Mr. Timothy, there's a...there's a Colin the Melodious here to see you.
--You're jesting.
--No, sir, he's...I left him in the--
She is cut off by the sound of her own squeal. The visitor in question has followed her up the stairs, crept up behind her, and made his presence unequivocally felt. And even as she reaches back to swat the offending hand, he ducks under her arm, darts into the center of the room, and stands there in diamonds of morning light, his shoulders thrown back like a barnyard cock.
--Filthy little...
--It's all right, Mary Catherine. Leave him to me.
She retreats with all the pride she can muster, but he ogles her all the way back down the hall. Very serious about his work. Robed in abstraction by the time he turns back to me.
--Nice rollickin' bum on that one. Spoken for?
--I'm afraid I can't say.
--Not that I got me room for any more. You can guess, my line of work, I'm always a-havin' to beat 'em off like rats. Someday, though, a cove's got to settle down, eh? What then, I ask you? What then, Mr. Tim-o-thee?
There's only one chair, which he quickly seizes for his own, swinging it round so that his chest presses against the chair's back. From my perch on the bed, I have the precarious sense of being a visitor in my own room.
--How did you find me, Colin?
--Followed you straight home the
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