The Goldfinch

And yet, with this Lucius Reeve, I had screwed up badly. What he wanted I didn’t know. In fact he was so relentless in sidestepping my apologies and directing his anger full-bore on Hobie that I was starting to think that I had stumbled into some preexisting grudge or hatred. I didn’t want to tip my hand with Hobie by bringing up Reeve’s name, though who could bear such a fierce grudge against Hobie, most well-intentioned and unworldly of persons? My Internet research had turned up nothing on Lucius Reeve apart from a few i

I was standing with my fists in the pockets of my overcoat, glasses fogged from the spring damp, staring unhappily into the muddy waters of the Pond: a few sad brown ducks, plastic bags washing in the reeds. Most of the benches bore the names of benefactors—in memory of Mrs. Ruth Klein or whatever—but my mother’s bench, the Rendezvous Point, alone of all the benches in that part of the park had been given by its anonymous donor a more mysterious and welcoming message: EVERYTHING OF POSSIBILITY. It had been Her Bench since before I was born; in her early days in the city, she had sat there with her library book on her afternoons off, going without lunch when she needed the price of a museum pass at MoMA or a movie ticket at the Paris Theatre. Further along, past the Pond, where the path turned empty and dark, was the unkempt and desolate patch of ground where Andy and I had scattered her ashes. It was Andy who had talked me into sneaking over and scattering them in defiance of the city rule, scattering them moreover in that particular spot: well, I mean, it’s where she used to meet us.

Yeah, but rat poison, look, these signs.

Go on. You can do it now. No one’s coming.

She loved the sea lions, too. We always had to walk over and look at them.

Yeah but you definitely don’t want to dump her over there, it smells like fish. Besides it creeps me out having that jar or whatever in my room.

vi.

“MY GOD,” SAID HOBIE when he got a good look at me under the lights. “You’re white as a sheet. You’re not coming down with something?”

“Um—” He was just going out, coat over his arm; behind him stood Mr. and Mrs. Vogel, buttoned-up and smiling poisonously. My relations with the Vogels (or “the Vultures,” as Grisha called them) had cooled, significantly, since I’d taken over the shop; mindful of the many, many pieces they’d in my view as good as stolen from Hobie, I now tacked on a premium to anything I even vaguely suspected they were interested in; and though Mrs. Vogel—no fool—had taken to telephoning Hobie directly, I usually managed to thwart her by (among other means) claiming to Hobie that I’d already sold the piece in question and forgotten to tag it.

“Have you eaten?” Hobie, in his gentle woolly-mindedness and unwisdom, remained completely unaware that the Vogels and I no longer held each other in anything but the very highest regard. “We’re just ru

“No thanks,” I said, conscious of Mrs. Vogel’s gaze boring into me, cold fraudulent smile, eyes like agate chips in her smooth, aging-milkmaid face. As a rule I took pleasure in stepping up and smiling back in her teeth—but in the stern hall lights I felt clammy and used-up, demoted somehow. “I think, um, I’ll eat in tonight, thanks.”

“Not feeling well?” said Mr. Vogel blandly—balding midwesterner in rimless glasses, prim in his reefer coat, tough luck to you if he was the banker and you were late with the mortgage. “What a shame.”

“Lovely to see you,” Mrs. Vogel said, stepping forward and putting her plump hand on my sleeve. “Did you enjoy Pippa’s visit? I wish I’d got to see her but she was so busy with the boyfriend. What did you think of him—what was his name—?” turning back to Hobie. “Elliot?”

“Everett,” said Hobie neutrally. “Nice boy.”

“Yeah,” I said, turning to shoulder my coat off. The appearance of Pippa fresh off the plane from London with this “Everett” had been one of the uglier shocks of my life. Counting the days, the hours, shaky from sleeplessness and excitement, unable to stop myself looking at my watch every five minutes, leaping at the doorbell and literally ru

“And what does he do? A musician too?”

“Music librarian actually,” said Hobie. “Don’t know what that entails nowadays with computers and all.”

“Oh, I’m sure Theo knows all about it,” said Mrs. Vogel.

“No, not really.”

“Cybrarian?” said Mr. Vogel, with an uncharacteristically loud and merry chuckle. Addressing me: “Is it true what they say, that young people today can make it through school without once setting foot in a library?”

“I wouldn’t know.” A music librarian! It had taken every ounce of possession I had to keep my face empty (guts crumbling, end of everything) to accept his moist English hand, Hullo, Everett, you must be Theo, heard so much about you, blah blah blah, while I stood frozen in the doorway like a bayoneted Yank staring at the stranger who’d run me through to death. He was a slight, wide-eyed bounce of a guy, i

Every moment of their visit had been torture. Somehow I’d stumbled through it. Though I’d tried to stay away from them as much as I could (as skilled a dissembler as I was, I could barely be civil to him; everything about him, his pinkish skin, his nervous laugh, the hair sprouting out the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, made me want to jump on him and knock his horsey English teeth out; and wouldn’t that be a surprise, I thought grimly, glaring at him across the table, if old antique-dealing Specs hauled off and busted his eggs for him?) still, as hard as I’d tried, I hadn’t been able to stay away from Pippa, I’d hovered obtrusively and hated myself for it, so painfully excited had I been by her nearness: her bare feet at breakfast, bare legs, her voice. Unexpected glimpse of her white armpits when she pulled her sweater over her head. The agony of her hand on my sleeve. “Hi, lovey. Hi, darling.” Coming up behind me, cupping my eyes with her hands: surprise! She wanted to know everything about me, everything I was doing. Wedging in beside me on the Queen A