Horace has the only key.”
“Maybe I’ll give him a call.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “He’s awfully busy. I’d hate to bother him when he’s got so much to do.”
I felt my face flush. “Then what do you suggest?”
Clyde brushed salt and crumbs off the table into her hand. She wiped the plastic fruit and pushed in the chairs. “He’ll call when he’s ready. He knows you’re here. You just take a day or so to get situated and look around town a little bit. That old place isn’t going anywhere.”
Taking a deep breath, I turned toward the window. I considered phoning Horace anyway.
“I’ve got some pictures that might interest you,” she said to my back.
I didn’t respond.
She started down the hall. “Maybe some other time.”
“No, wait,” I said, resigned. “Photographs?”
“Back here.”
I followed her to her bedroom, and we knelt on the wide space of carpet between the dresser and the bed. Clyde opened the bottom drawer of the dresser. It was full of brown albums stacked on top of each other and a blue box of snapshots. She pulled out the albums and started to shut the drawer.
“What about that box?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s just odds and ends.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d love to see them.”
She took out the box too, then handed me the top album. I blew on the cover and wiped the dust off with my hand. I looked at her.
“Go ahead,” she said.
The first few pages contained sepia-toned portraits in different sizes, people alone and together, expressionless in stiff clothing. I didn’t recognize any of them. I turned the pages, not wanting to ask, and Clyde, sitting beside me, didn’t volunteer. On the third page I found her features in the face of a young girl.
“This is you?”
She pointed to the woman holding her. “My mother. Elvira Whitfield. I was five.” She tapped another photograph lightly with a ridged yellow fingernail. “My brother Thomas. He was seven years older than me. Died of asthma at the age of twenty-one.” She squinted at the picture for a moment. “I had a twin, you know,” she said abruptly. “Died at birth.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Apparently they’re hereditary. My mother was a twin. I always thought I might have some of my own.”
“And none of your children had twins either.”
“No, none of my children,” she said. “
You
might.”
I laughed. “If I ever have children.”
“You will,” she said, turning the pages of the album. “You’re not the type not to.”
I nodded. Then, suddenly wanting to know, I asked, “What do you mean?”
She tucked the scalloped edge of a photograph back into itsblack, wedge-shaped sleeve. “Some people think, no matter what happens, that the world is a good place and folks are basically decent. If something isn’t right, they think they can fix it. You’re like that, I can tell.”
“You think so?” I said doubtfully.
“Your mother was that way too.”
“Are you?”
“No.” I watched her fingers bend the thick cardboard corner of a page. “I should never have had children.”
I looked down, strangely uneasy. Her breath was loud and uneven.
“Maybe you’re wrong about yourself,” I said. “Maybe you only started feeling this way after everything that happened.”
Clyde studied me for a long time. “I was never what you’d call an optimist,” she said. “I never thought I could change the world.”
“Where did my mother get it from, then?”
She shut the album. “Not from me,” she said. “Not from me and not from Amory. It was something she was born with.” She was very still for a moment. Then she hoisted herself to her feet, the album sliding off her lap onto the floor, spilling photographs. “You want all the answers,” she blurted. “Well, I don’t have any answers. Ask somebody else, because I don’t know.”
“Clyde—” I started to get up, but she’d already left the room, closing the door behind her. I sank back on my heels.
“Maybe I’ll give him a call.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “He’s awfully busy. I’d hate to bother him when he’s got so much to do.”
I felt my face flush. “Then what do you suggest?”
Clyde brushed salt and crumbs off the table into her hand. She wiped the plastic fruit and pushed in the chairs. “He’ll call when he’s ready. He knows you’re here. You just take a day or so to get situated and look around town a little bit. That old place isn’t going anywhere.”
Taking a deep breath, I turned toward the window. I considered phoning Horace anyway.
“I’ve got some pictures that might interest you,” she said to my back.
I didn’t respond.
She started down the hall. “Maybe some other time.”
“No, wait,” I said, resigned. “Photographs?”
“Back here.”
I followed her to her bedroom, and we knelt on the wide space of carpet between the dresser and the bed. Clyde opened the bottom drawer of the dresser. It was full of brown albums stacked on top of each other and a blue box of snapshots. She pulled out the albums and started to shut the drawer.
“What about that box?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s just odds and ends.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d love to see them.”
She took out the box too, then handed me the top album. I blew on the cover and wiped the dust off with my hand. I looked at her.
“Go ahead,” she said.
The first few pages contained sepia-toned portraits in different sizes, people alone and together, expressionless in stiff clothing. I didn’t recognize any of them. I turned the pages, not wanting to ask, and Clyde, sitting beside me, didn’t volunteer. On the third page I found her features in the face of a young girl.
“This is you?”
She pointed to the woman holding her. “My mother. Elvira Whitfield. I was five.” She tapped another photograph lightly with a ridged yellow fingernail. “My brother Thomas. He was seven years older than me. Died of asthma at the age of twenty-one.” She squinted at the picture for a moment. “I had a twin, you know,” she said abruptly. “Died at birth.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Apparently they’re hereditary. My mother was a twin. I always thought I might have some of my own.”
“And none of your children had twins either.”
“No, none of my children,” she said. “
You
might.”
I laughed. “If I ever have children.”
“You will,” she said, turning the pages of the album. “You’re not the type not to.”
I nodded. Then, suddenly wanting to know, I asked, “What do you mean?”
She tucked the scalloped edge of a photograph back into itsblack, wedge-shaped sleeve. “Some people think, no matter what happens, that the world is a good place and folks are basically decent. If something isn’t right, they think they can fix it. You’re like that, I can tell.”
“You think so?” I said doubtfully.
“Your mother was that way too.”
“Are you?”
“No.” I watched her fingers bend the thick cardboard corner of a page. “I should never have had children.”
I looked down, strangely uneasy. Her breath was loud and uneven.
“Maybe you’re wrong about yourself,” I said. “Maybe you only started feeling this way after everything that happened.”
Clyde studied me for a long time. “I was never what you’d call an optimist,” she said. “I never thought I could change the world.”
“Where did my mother get it from, then?”
She shut the album. “Not from me,” she said. “Not from me and not from Amory. It was something she was born with.” She was very still for a moment. Then she hoisted herself to her feet, the album sliding off her lap onto the floor, spilling photographs. “You want all the answers,” she blurted. “Well, I don’t have any answers. Ask somebody else, because I don’t know.”
“Clyde—” I started to get up, but she’d already left the room, closing the door behind her. I sank back on my heels.
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