[ Jac calms him, considerably, but he has to be honest. He can't have accepted her invitation to come without at least giving hints to the full extent of his mother's damage. To him. His persona is built on being a homeless drifter; he is terrified by that trusting Jac so much, enough to let her in, to let her know he actually has a past that he's lied about and that is full of money, privilege and family, that she'll bail. But he has to be honest. He thinks about the things he'd said to her earlier:
I debated whether to phone her first and decided against it three blocks from home. It was too late to call, too much misguided courtesy. Once you’ve crossed state lines, you don’t phone to ask if you can drop in. My mother’s massive house is at the southernmost point of Wind Gap, the wealthy section, if you can count approximately three square blocks of town as a section. She lives in—and I once did too—an elaborate Victorian replete with a widow’s walk, a wraparound veranda, a summer porch jutting toward the back, and a cupola arrowing out of the top. It’s full of cubbyholes and nooks, curiously circuitous. The Victorians, especially southern Victorians, needed a lot of room to stray away from each other, to duck tuberculosis and flu, to avoid rapacious lust, to wall themselves away from sticky emotions. Extra space is always good.
The house is at the very top of a very steep hill. In first gear, you can drive up the cracked old driveway to the top, where a carriage porch keeps cars from getting wet. Or you can park at the bottom of the hill and walk the sixty-three stairs to the top, clutching the cigar-thin rail to the left. When I was a child, I always walked the stairs up, ran the driveway down. I assumed the rail was on the left side going up because I’m left-handed, and someone thought I might like that. Odd to think I ever indulged in such presumptions.
If Jac wanted to know him, then she would know him. And to do so, he has to bring her here. He rings the doorbell again, which had been a cat-calling screech when he was very young, now subdued and truncated, like the bing! you hear on children's records when it's time to turn the page. It's 8:15, just late enough they may have gone to bed. ]
Who is it, please? [ His mother's reedy voice behind the door. ]
Hi, mum. It's Anath. [ He tries to keep his voice even. ]
Anath. [ She opens the door and stands in the doorway, doesn't seem surprised, and doesn't offer a hug at all, not even the limp one he'd expected. ] I know I invited you, but it's courtesy to RSVP. You never did. I assumed you weren't coming. Well, goodness, I'm sorry, sweetheart, come in, come in. The house is not up to par for.. visitors, I'm afraid. [ Stressing the plural. But the house is perfect as they're led inside, down to the dozens of cut tulips in vases at the entry hall. The air is so easy with pollen his eyes water. His mother rarely asks questions of any potency. It's either an exaggerated concern for others' privacy or she simply doesn't care much about much. ] Jacqueline, I presume. Can I get you something to drink? Alan and I were just having amaretto sours. [ She motions to the glass in her hand. ] I put just a little bit of Sprite in it, sharpens the sweet. But I also have mango juice, wine, and sweet tea, or ice water. Or soda water. Are you staying with us as well? With Anath nothing is ever officially confirmed until he decides to show up. [ Spoken gently, in every facet of a well-learned hostess. ] Jacqueline, my dear, he's said so much about you. How wonderful it is to finally meet you.
no subject
I debated whether to phone her first and decided against it three blocks from home. It was too late to call, too much misguided courtesy. Once you’ve crossed state lines, you don’t phone to ask if you can drop in. My mother’s massive house is at the southernmost point of Wind Gap, the wealthy section, if you can count approximately three square blocks of town as a section. She lives in—and I once did too—an elaborate Victorian replete with a widow’s walk, a wraparound veranda, a summer porch jutting toward the back, and a cupola arrowing out of the top. It’s full of cubbyholes and nooks, curiously circuitous. The Victorians, especially southern Victorians, needed a lot of room to stray away from each other, to duck tuberculosis and flu, to avoid rapacious lust, to wall themselves away from sticky emotions. Extra space is always good.
The house is at the very top of a very steep hill. In first gear, you can drive up the cracked old driveway to the top, where a carriage porch keeps cars from getting wet. Or you can park at the bottom of the hill and walk the sixty-three stairs to the top, clutching the cigar-thin rail to the left. When I was a child, I always walked the stairs up, ran the driveway down. I assumed the rail was on the left side going up because I’m left-handed, and someone thought I might like that. Odd to think I ever indulged in such presumptions.
If Jac wanted to know him, then she would know him. And to do so, he has to bring her here. He rings the doorbell again, which had been a cat-calling screech when he was very young, now subdued and truncated, like the bing! you hear on children's records when it's time to turn the page. It's 8:15, just late enough they may have gone to bed. ]
Who is it, please? [ His mother's reedy voice behind the door. ]
Hi, mum. It's Anath. [ He tries to keep his voice even. ]
Anath. [ She opens the door and stands in the doorway, doesn't seem surprised, and doesn't offer a hug at all, not even the limp one he'd expected. ] I know I invited you, but it's courtesy to RSVP. You never did. I assumed you weren't coming. Well, goodness, I'm sorry, sweetheart, come in, come in. The house is not up to par for.. visitors, I'm afraid. [ Stressing the plural. But the house is perfect as they're led inside, down to the dozens of cut tulips in vases at the entry hall. The air is so easy with pollen his eyes water. His mother rarely asks questions of any potency. It's either an exaggerated concern for others' privacy or she simply doesn't care much about much. ] Jacqueline, I presume. Can I get you something to drink? Alan and I were just having amaretto sours. [ She motions to the glass in her hand. ] I put just a little bit of Sprite in it, sharpens the sweet. But I also have mango juice, wine, and sweet tea, or ice water. Or soda water. Are you staying with us as well? With Anath nothing is ever officially confirmed until he decides to show up. [ Spoken gently, in every facet of a well-learned hostess. ] Jacqueline, my dear, he's said so much about you. How wonderful it is to finally meet you.