“I’m very good in math,” she said hopefully, but Emma’s clear disapproval — at Lucy’s boast, at her secret, deep hope, which shamefully Emma could see — made Lucy close her mouth, and Mrs. Cohn, who had been standing next to Lucy all this time without saying a word, appeared to be in some kind of shock, and the four of them stood around in a stunned sort of shyness for a moment until Emma asked Mrs. Cohn how Mr. Hirsch was doing and Mrs. Cohn answered that he was well. Actually — emerging from her daze — he was very well. He was walking again, not far but walking. He was up on the terrace, eager to meet Lucy. And to see Emma, she added. She took Mr. Cohn’s hand, as if for balance. At last Mr. Haven led Mrs. Haven back into the circle. Her eyes smudged with makeup, her hands trembling, she held out a blue velvet box to Lucy.
Lucy looked to Emma, who nodded.
Inside the box were three golden, sparkling rings.
“They’re lovely,” Lucy said. And they were. Janie or Anne or Maggie would gasp. They would flap their hands on their wrists, commanding everyone to ooh and aah. But Lucy’s thought was that the rings must be worth something — maybe a lot. “Thank you,” she said.
Mrs. Haven drew a ragged breath. “You…” She paused. Lucy waited. But her grandmother said nothing more. She handed Lucy another box, wrapped in a satiny, dark blue bow, then closed her mouth, swallowed audibly — a wet click — and, almost as if unbeknownst to her, began to smile. It was a tight smile at first, but soon her lips parted to reveal her teeth, and then her tongue, and then her obvious delight.
• • •
Lucy would wait to open the second gift. She was being ferried up to the terrace, where Mr. Hirsch sat, a lumpish man with a blanket on his lap. She felt tired suddenly, walking toward him. So many people to meet, and for what? She had wanted to come, but wasn’t sure, now that she was here, what was happening. Did they expect she would visit regularly? Be part of the family? She couldn’t tell what that would mean, or even what sort of family this was. There were no other children, as far as she could tell. Cousins had been mentioned, but weren’t to be seen. The brothers’ surnames didn’t match, nor did their appearance: Mr. Haven had a thatch of coal-colored hair, Mr. Hirsch one white wisp winging at his ear. They were rich. Richer than anyone Lucy had ever met. And they were Jews. Lucy had never met a Jew, though apparently, at least somewhat, she was one.
Ira stared at her with such wonder that she flinched at first. He reached for her and she bent, relieved when his kiss was dry, quick, and stubbly. “Ahhhh,” he said, holding her away again. “Henry’s granddaughter.”
What could Lucy say to that? The entire situation was strange enough — why did it need saying, and with such drama? She felt at once overimportant and tiny, as if the adults were playing a game whose rules she didn’t know, and she was their little checker.
• • •
Sometimes a change changes everything that came before it, too. For Ira, this was like that: it was as if a new color had been thrown across the past ten years, as if the energy he felt now, the optimism, was retroactively applied, so that when he looked back, his mood was better than it had in fact been. He felt expansive. The baby had not been drowned. Bea had not drowned it. She had left it in the care of the pear thieves! Henry was here, and Lillian, who for the first time since Ira had known her had nothing to say. And Emma, whom Ira had missed. She was drained of color, but of course.
Lucy Pear. What a name. Found amongst Ira’s Braffets, imagine that! How horrible he’d been, to think Bea capable of drowning her. She looked so like Bea Ira felt a chill run through him — but her character, he thought, her essence, the pit of her, was different: if Bea was made of compartments, separated by doors that rarely opened, the girl was all one piece. Yet Bea had been like that, too, at this age, when she was Bea-Bea, running around with Julian. Seeing Lucy made that time vivid again. But Lucy wasn’t Ira’s, and he felt surprisingly fine about this — he had no desire whatsoever to rescue her, or even to know her particularly, only to know that she was.
Ira had his own granddaughter now, and perhaps that made a difference. Marlene Aimée, born to Julian and Brigitte on September 15 in New York City. It seemed a very serious name for a baby, but that would sort itself out.
But it wasn’t just the babies. It was Bea, too, who had started playing again, who as she watched the girl now seemed to have slipped from her fortress, forgotten all self-censorship: her mouth hung open, her eyes were clear. And it was Vera, who had at last — quite abruptly — lost her solidity inside Ira, meandered into something else, a gentle, scintillating wind through his limbs, waking him up, pushing him on. A staggering relief. A blessing. Finally, he was giving them back.
• • •
Bea knew Henry’s speech would fail from the start. She had never seen him so nervous, picking at his sleeves, shifting from one shiny Haven shoe to the other. “On this lovely autumn day… I must confess I never imagined… a pleasure and an honor… befitting, to overlook such a prosperous harbor…” He was trying to welcome everyone but was uncertain of his terms — it wasn’t his house, after all, and what was he welcoming them to ? He was used to speaking, but about matters he’d already pronounced upon, meetings he’d already run in some other incarnation, versions of versions of the same speech. He ended abruptly, with a perhaps involuntary bow: “We are so very pleased to meet you.” But he forgot to address this to Emma or Lucy — instead he looked at Bea, who looked back, aware suddenly that her father had aged. His large hands shook at his sides. The shaking was drastic. It appeared oddly celebratory, almost musical, like his fingers were sending off little fireworks. He looked happier, she thought, worn to a soft patina.
“Anyone for tea?” asked Lillian. She had stopped crying and stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do with her hands now that she had given up her gifts. When no one answered, she said brightly, “I do. I need a cup of tea. I’ll just say it. I’m saying it. Henry, come. Help. We don’t want to protrude.”
Bea saw Emma bite back a grin. She smiled, trying to catch Emma’s eye, to tamp down the thumping at her clavicle: Please, look at me! It was so childish yet powerful, her longing for Emma’s attention, for some sort of acknowledgment. Each Saturday Bea went to Leverett Street to play piano with the children, but Emma barely looked at her. She stayed out on the porch with Lucy, acknowledging Bea only to say a curt “Good morning” and “We’ll see you next week.” Even when Bea had brought Cousin Rose to look at Emma’s wrist, Emma had thanked Rose heartily yet said little to Bea. She had spoken to her plenty back when she was working in the house, but Emma had had her secret then, Bea supposed — it had been a thing she held over Bea. She had pretended to be kind but now she could not.
Still, Bea liked the visits to Mrs. Greely’s house. She liked the disorder, and that no one ever remarked on it, liked that Mrs. Greely was so straightforwardly batty, which somehow did more for Bea than any treatment ever had to convince her of her own basic sanity. She liked teaching, too. It had been far simpler than she had imagined, to begin to play again: with Janie sitting beside her and the other children waiting, she had had to do it, to set her thumb upon the middle C and feel the ivory give as easily as water, and then it was done and she was doing it, just as she had begun speaking again, once upon a time, after her muteness. It was surprisingly easy, to make a different choice. It was easy to remember. She liked teaching the Murphy children. She liked seeing Lucy Pear, even if the girl shied from her and didn’t want her lessons. Bea brought a check each week, enough to cover groceries and more, which she handed to Emma inside a bag of something else, bread or sometimes chocolates, and Emma was cashing the checks now — so there was that. Bea had not managed to raise the issue of Lucy’s wound, or Mr. Murphy, though each time she passed the house on her way up the road a slickness rose at her neck. He didn’t want to meet her, clearly, and Bea didn’t especially want to meet him. She couldn’t imagine what she would do with her eyes — look at where his leg had been? Not look? Would she apologize? Would she ask him what he had to do with Lucy’s leg? And if she didn’t, wouldn’t she fail again, as she had failed from the beginning, to protect her? But Lucy’s injury was hard to categorize, and relatively minor — you could not go leaping to conclusions about such things or even asking questions without seeming hysterical. She could raise it with Emma but feared Emma would take it badly, as if Bea were accusing her, if not of inflicting the wound then of turning the other way. So she’d said nothing, only handed Emma the bag with the check tucked discreetly inside. She behaved in the most appropriate way possible, she thought, given the circumstance. She tried not to intrude. Protrude.
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