Leaving Lucy Pear(81)

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.

She could not expect Emma to like her. So what was it she wanted, when she stood here trying to chase down Emma’s eyes? What was it Bea wanted her to acknowledge?