anyone except those calling on my mother. Presently there was a
knock at the parlor door: Maggie, telling me there was urgent news. I waved my hand and poured a glass of whiskey for myself and one for Hughie. I steadied myself, looked out the window to where two squirrels were at war. I heard a wretched voice:
“Mr. Tivoli, I need your advice.”
It was Alice.
We have no heart at seventeen. We think we do; we think we have been cursed with a holy, bloated thing that twitches at the name we adore, but it is not a heart because though it will forfeit anything in the world—the mind, the body, the future, even the last lonely hour it has—it will not sacrifice itself. It is not a heart, at seventeen. It is a fat queen murmuring in her hive. I wish I’d had it in me, when Alice stepped into the room looking so drowned and desperate, when she fell to her knees and sobbed so hotly into the wool of my pants, to send her back to Hughie. To stroke her hair (though I did that) and cup her chin in my rough hand (that too) and tell her he would kiss her in an instant; he was a boy, after all, and she was a thicket of beauty. To say “He’ll love you” and “There are ways” and turn into the tilted light of the room as she wiped her face and blinked and readied herself for another battle. To let her go. But there was no heart in me. When do we grow one? Twenty, thirty years after we need it?
Instead, I looked at the head shuddering on my knees; I stared at the pale furrow between her braids as if searching for the source of a lost river. I waited until it was time to touch her, and then I did, and she did not shake my arm from her shoulder or my hand from her head but emptied herself even more into my lap. Without knowing it, she and I were conjuring her father, and we each played our parts—Alice weeping unashamedly, Mr. Tivoli hushing and shushing her—until her sniffs and gasps meant it was almost over.
She began to speak: “It’s Hughie, Mr. Tivoli.” I slipped my finger into the loop of her hair ribbon.
“I know,” I said, then added too silently for her to hear: “Call me Max.”
“He was a monster, a monster, he said …”
“What did he say?” With a tug from my finger, her ribbon fell out of its knot; I shivered; she did not notice.
“He said …he said he wanted us to be friendly. Idiot. He said he didn’t want to spoil a sweet moment.”
I sipped my whiskey nervously. Hughie had improvised from the script; he had treated my Alice like any girl he met on the street. “Where were you?” I asked quietly, wondering what else he had added.
She sniffed and sat back, letting my hand fall from her; the spell was undone. “It was at the Victoria Regina, like always. I always meet him there. He can usually get away for a minute and it’s quiet there and you can just stare at the lilies. I was …I thought I’d be brave and ask him when he was going to take me out. And he said …oh, he said I was just fourteen. And that he wasn’t interested in girls like me. At fourteen. Not that way. Girls like me? Are there really other girls like me?”
This was a little off the script, but close. I imagined Hughie getting a little stage fright, there in his uniform beside the enormous lily pads, and whispering whatever came into his head; possibly, he was truer than I’d intended. “What else?”
Some memory cut her and she winced in grief. “He said he loved me like a sister. I’m not an idiot, Mr. Tivoli.”
“Max. You’re not, no, no, Alice …”
“I know what he was saying. He was saying he can’t ever love me. Wasn’t he? Or … was he maybe …”
“No, no, Alice, sit here beside me …”
“I don’t understand,” she murmured.
I touched her shoulder again. Then I made a mistake: “Just forget him, Alice.”
She pulled away and I saw that she hated me. It happened so quickly; one minute I was an understanding friend, a father almost, and then the next I was an old man who knew
knock at the parlor door: Maggie, telling me there was urgent news. I waved my hand and poured a glass of whiskey for myself and one for Hughie. I steadied myself, looked out the window to where two squirrels were at war. I heard a wretched voice:
“Mr. Tivoli, I need your advice.”
It was Alice.
We have no heart at seventeen. We think we do; we think we have been cursed with a holy, bloated thing that twitches at the name we adore, but it is not a heart because though it will forfeit anything in the world—the mind, the body, the future, even the last lonely hour it has—it will not sacrifice itself. It is not a heart, at seventeen. It is a fat queen murmuring in her hive. I wish I’d had it in me, when Alice stepped into the room looking so drowned and desperate, when she fell to her knees and sobbed so hotly into the wool of my pants, to send her back to Hughie. To stroke her hair (though I did that) and cup her chin in my rough hand (that too) and tell her he would kiss her in an instant; he was a boy, after all, and she was a thicket of beauty. To say “He’ll love you” and “There are ways” and turn into the tilted light of the room as she wiped her face and blinked and readied herself for another battle. To let her go. But there was no heart in me. When do we grow one? Twenty, thirty years after we need it?
Instead, I looked at the head shuddering on my knees; I stared at the pale furrow between her braids as if searching for the source of a lost river. I waited until it was time to touch her, and then I did, and she did not shake my arm from her shoulder or my hand from her head but emptied herself even more into my lap. Without knowing it, she and I were conjuring her father, and we each played our parts—Alice weeping unashamedly, Mr. Tivoli hushing and shushing her—until her sniffs and gasps meant it was almost over.
She began to speak: “It’s Hughie, Mr. Tivoli.” I slipped my finger into the loop of her hair ribbon.
“I know,” I said, then added too silently for her to hear: “Call me Max.”
“He was a monster, a monster, he said …”
“What did he say?” With a tug from my finger, her ribbon fell out of its knot; I shivered; she did not notice.
“He said …he said he wanted us to be friendly. Idiot. He said he didn’t want to spoil a sweet moment.”
I sipped my whiskey nervously. Hughie had improvised from the script; he had treated my Alice like any girl he met on the street. “Where were you?” I asked quietly, wondering what else he had added.
She sniffed and sat back, letting my hand fall from her; the spell was undone. “It was at the Victoria Regina, like always. I always meet him there. He can usually get away for a minute and it’s quiet there and you can just stare at the lilies. I was …I thought I’d be brave and ask him when he was going to take me out. And he said …oh, he said I was just fourteen. And that he wasn’t interested in girls like me. At fourteen. Not that way. Girls like me? Are there really other girls like me?”
This was a little off the script, but close. I imagined Hughie getting a little stage fright, there in his uniform beside the enormous lily pads, and whispering whatever came into his head; possibly, he was truer than I’d intended. “What else?”
Some memory cut her and she winced in grief. “He said he loved me like a sister. I’m not an idiot, Mr. Tivoli.”
“Max. You’re not, no, no, Alice …”
“I know what he was saying. He was saying he can’t ever love me. Wasn’t he? Or … was he maybe …”
“No, no, Alice, sit here beside me …”
“I don’t understand,” she murmured.
I touched her shoulder again. Then I made a mistake: “Just forget him, Alice.”
She pulled away and I saw that she hated me. It happened so quickly; one minute I was an understanding friend, a father almost, and then the next I was an old man who knew
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