Child of My Heart (23 page)

Then I used the towel to dry Flora’s and Daisy’s hair and scooted them out the door.

He was a short, thin young man, with dark hair slicked back from his high forehead and dark eyes and a long, elegant nose. He was standing by the plate-glass window, looking out into the trees, with one hand in the pocket of his slouchy pants and a cigarette he looked too young for in the other. He turned when we entered and a kind of astonishment came into his face.

“Look at this,” he said; taking in the three of us, and then turning his full attention to Flora when her father said, “This one’s my daughter.”

The man bent, as if to shake her hand, but instead waved at her, just a diddle of his fingertips, and Flora smiled from behind my leg and did the same. He then straightened up and looked at me. He had large eyes and pale skin and a slight shadow of a beard. He was the type of guy the girls at the academy would have called cute, dreamy. I was introduced as the babysitter, and he took my hand and shook it and then raised it to his lips and kissed my knuckles. He looked up at Flora’s father.

“Fortunate babies,” he said, still holding my hand, and then his eyes took in the damp shirt I wore and whatever was under it. Daisy was introduced as “the faithful companion.” He shook her hand, too, saying, “Will you look at this hair.”

He turned to Flora’s father.

“This is a riot,” he said.

“You among all these females.” And Flora’s father smiled and shrugged. There was something both fond and tolerant in his manner. As Ana swung in with the tray of caviar, the young man took a small notepad and pencil from his back pocket and Flora’s father said, good-naturedly, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Bill,” but he waved the pencil and then jotted something down. He closed the book with a grin, returned it to his pants.

“Just a note,” he said.

Over her shoulder, Ana told me that Flora’s dinner was ready in the kitchen.

Once again, he raised his hand and wiggled his fingers at us.

“Bon appetit,” he said. On a plate on the table there were some crackers, some carrot and celery sticks, and a mashed hard-boiled egg. I had a feeling that Ana had just put it all together, perhaps when she’d heard us out in the living room.

She didn’t return to the kitchen the whole time we were there, coaxing Flora to eat (I finally made her a cream-cheese-and jelly sandwich, the fail-safe), and it was only after we had gone outside to look for fireflies that I heard the water running in the sink and the clink of ice and glass.

A little while later, I heard the screen door slam, and the young man came down the steps and into the yard. I had a firefly in my palm, but I let it go as I saw him approach, suddenly feeling a little foolish to be playing such games. It was still warm, but a breeze had begun to stir.

“Oh, it escaped,” he said. He stood beside me and watched it rise into the air. Then he kept his chin raised and said, “How old are you?”

I told him and he nodded, his eyes still on the sky.

“Are you too young,” he said, “to know what’s going on here? I mean, what the arrangement is.” I paused for a moment. He had a long neck and a jaw and cheekbones that might have been carved. I still couldn’t guess how old he was. Twenties, perhaps.

“I just take care of Flora,” I said.

He looked down at me, his chin still raised.

“I guess that means you are,” he said. Then he lowered his chin.

“When does Mommy get back?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

He put his hands in his pockets, raised his shoulders, and gave a great sigh. For a minute we both watched Daisy and Flora crossing the lawn.

“Someone told me she’s in
Europe
,” he said, and I felt my heart sink, for Flora.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I thought she was in the city.”

“She is,” he said.

“Some city. Somewhere or other.” He looked at me again.

“This may turn into a permanent position for you,” he said. We were nearly the same height and he was standing very close to me, our arms nearly touching. I’d had very little experience with boys my own age, but somehow I understood that he was not flirting. The admiration that occasionally showed in his eyes—that familiar prelude to being told I was pretty—seemed entirely incidental.

“I mean,” he said, as if we were old friends, “the French lady is fine and all.

He has a taste for such things. But I’ve never known him to want a steady diet of middle-aged and plump. There’s always got to be something young and lively”—he motioned toward Flora—“child-bearing, for dessert.” He swept his gaze over me again.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“It’s a blood-of-a-virgin kind of thing, I guess.” I looked at his dark eyes and his handsome face. He had straight white teeth, thin lips. I blinked twice, and then he suddenly touched my arm and laughed as if there were a pit caught in his throat.

“Oh no,” he said, still holding my arm.

“Now you’re going to quit. Oh God, he’ll murder me. I’ve lost him his beautiful teenage babysitter. Oh God.” He leaned closer, moving his hand to my back.

“Don’t quit,” he said, and I felt his fingertips along my spine.

“Tell me you’re not going to quit,” he said.

“Forget what I said. He’s a perfectly harmless guy. He’ll probably have to marry that maid in there if you quit.”

I saw that Daisy and Flora had turned their attention to him, drawn by his spluttering laughter.

“I wouldn’t quit,” I said softly, trying to smile.

“Why should I quit?”

He suddenly waved a hand in front of his lips, as if he’d just taken a mouthful of something hot.

“I talk too much,” he said.

“It’s what he likes about me.” He put his hands into his pockets once again.

“Of course, there’s no reason for you to quit and no reason he shouldn’t stay out here in this perfectly lovely place with all of you perfectly lovely little females.” He waited a beat. I heard the screen door open behind us, and then felt his hand on my back again, his nails scratching my spine.

“And if you’ve got nothing on at all under that big white shirt,” he said softly, into my ear, “well, that’s perfectly lovely, too.”

Flora went to her father with her hands cupped around a lightning bug and we both turned to watch them. He bent over her, placed his hand on her head, and then looked at the two of us.

The young man suddenly slipped his arm under mine, laughing.

“I just asked your babysitter out on a date. Completely innocent. A movie and an ice cream soda. Do you mind?”

He drew closer to us.

“I don’t mind,” he said.

“She should be going out for movies and ice cream sodas,” he said. He plucked at the young man’s shirtsleeve, moving him away.

“But not with you.” He looked at me.

“He is, you know, what some of your schoolmates might refer to as a Macduff.”

The young man laughed, a deep laugh in the back of his throat, and said, “That’s a new one.” And then Flora was at my knees, reaching up. I stepped away from them both and bent down and lifted her. She immediately put her head on my shoulder.

I looked at her father from over her head, and as if in response he took the young man’s arm again and said, “Let’s go eat.” The man stumbled a bit over the grass, calling, “Good night, girls,” as they made their way to the car. He got into the driver’s seat, and then Flora’s father shut the car door and turned back to us. Passing her, he touched Daisy’s head gently, in a kind of benediction, and then he put his arm across my shoulder and leaned to kiss his daughter’s hair.

“Good night, sweetheart,” he said, as if this were a nightly routine. I could smell the drinks on his breath. Flora snuggled shyly against my shoulder. Straightening, he turned to kiss me lightly on the forehead, my own lips just inches from the fragile skin of his throat. The faint odor of aftershave, of bay rum. He touched the back of my hair, still damp from my shower, and lifted a handful of it off my neck. Suddenly it was all I could do not to lean my head into his palm. It was all I wanted to do. But I was aware of Macduff watching, perhaps scribbling something in his little notebook. I was aware of Daisy, too, and Flora in my arms.

“I apologize,” he whispered. He lifted a handful of my hair and then let it fall through his fingers, catching just the last bit of it and raising it to his lips. Then he turned back toward the car.

Flora, her head tucked into my shoulder, suddenly reached out and put her hand over my heart, as if she had felt the change in its rhythm. Daisy turned to watch the car pull out, returning Macduff’s little fingertip wave as he passed. Then she turned back to me. I put my hand out for her.

“Let’s get Flora to bed.” And was grateful for the steadying effect of her grip.

We met Ana just inside the door. She had her black skirt and the sleeveless top on again, now with one of Flora’s mother’s scarves tied jauntily around her neck. She had her purse over her arm and said, “Bonsoir,” and I had to put my hand out and touch her in order to make her pause. Her flesh was cool.

“You’re leaving?” I asked. She was wearing more lipstick, more makeup, than I was used to seeing, and I could smell Flora’s mother’s Chanel.

“I have a dinner appointment,” she said, without a pause in her forward momentum.

“I will be back later on.” She had the car keys in her hand and she raised them a bit, let them jingle.

“You are the babysitter,” she said as she pushed through the screen door.

“Goodbye, Ana,” Flora said to the scented air. And then to me, “Ana’s gone.”

“Vanished,” I said.

I called my parents to tell them I’d be here a while longer, and they suggested they come over and pick up Daisy if we were out much later than ten. Daisy grimaced when I told her this, but I put my arm around her and said not to worry about it. How late could they be?

We read to Flora for a while and then played with her a while longer on the rug. When she was finally asleep, Daisy and I went into the kitchen and snacked on crackers and celery and hard-boiled eggs, little sweet pickles and Spanish olives and bright red maraschino cherries. We washed what dishes there were and put everything away, and then I made us both grilled cheese sandwiches. The television was in the guest room and we carried our dinner in there. But Macduff had a thick leather overnight bag opened on the bed—a pair of trousers hung over the back of the chair—and although I spread a towel out on the floor in front of the TV and we put our plates on it and ate our sandwiches there, neither one of us felt comfortable enough to linger. Instead, I took a blanket from Flora’s closet and spread it over the white leather couch in the living room and told Daisy to lie down awhile. I sat on the floor beside her and let her braid and unbraid my hair until her responses grew shorter and her hands grew still. I crossed my arms over my raised knees and bent my head into them, waiting.

I imagined a thousand different scenes. Ana would come home first and

I would simply call my father to come and get us. Macduff’s car would pull into the drive and he and Flora’s father would come in and I would tell them, “I’ll just call home,” and wake Daisy and wait out on the front porch. Mac duff would disappear and Ana would disappear, and with Daisy and Flora asleep, we would sit together, he and I, and he would put his hand under my hair and I would lean my head back into his palm. His artist’s fingers on the buttons of my shirt. How many more years will this earn me, he would ask, and Daisy would say, I don’t know. How many more do you want, and he and Daisy, in collusion, would simply say, More, breaking aspirin between their teeth. More, more years, years thick as paint laid on with a putty knife. More.

I heard the car first, the wheels against the gravel, and then saw the headlights change the shadows in the darkened kitchen. I got off the floor and sat on the couch at Daisy’s feet.

I covered her pink shoes with my hand. Then I heard the two men’s voices. I was grateful it wasn’t Ana. But then they were silent, and only Macduff came in through the screen door. He had one hand in his pocket and he made a casual expression of surprise when he saw me, and Daisy asleep beside me, as if he hadn’t expected to see us but probably should have. He walked into the room and sat in one of the white chairs opposite us as if he had just left it.

“He’s gone off to his studio,” he whispered.

“I’m supposed to tell Ana he’s there.”

I told him Ana had gone out for dinner. I didn’t know when she would be back.

“Oh dear.” He frowned and pursed his lips. Then he leaned toward me.

“You could go out there instead,” he whispered, his dark eyebrows raised.

“That might give him a thrill.” He was both coy and devilish, smiling at me as if he saw on my face some remnant of my own recent dreams. His own face as dark and handsome as one would expect of some comic-book Satan.

I lowered my head. The point was, I knew, that I could. I could go out there, nearly wanted to, cross the dark path, and the threshold and the paint-spattered floor, Daisy and Flora asleep, Macduff in here with his little notebook, find him on that bed or that bier in the corner of the studio. Rearrange the world to my own liking, out of my own dreams, my own head—better at it even than he was.