The Goldfinch

He was imitating his father; the impression was so dead-on, I laughed. “Fabelhaft,” I replied, in Mr. Barbour’s voice. “Very fu

He shrugged. “The main branch is open tonight until seven,” he said, in his own bland and faint-ish voice. “But I don’t have to know which branch you went to, if you forget to tell me.”

vii.

THE DOOR OPENED QUICKER than I’d expected, while I was staring down the street and thinking of something else. This time, he was clean-shaven, smelling of soap, with his long gray hair neatly combed back and tucked behind his ears; and he was just as impressively dressed as Mr. Blackwell had been when I’d seen him.

His eyebrows came up; clearly he was surprised to see me. “Hello!”

“Have I come at a bad time?” I said, eyeing the snowy cuff of his shirt, which was embroidered with a tiny cypher in Chinese red, block letters so small and stylized they were nearly invisible.

“Not at all. As a matter of fact I was hoping you’d stop by.” He was wearing a red tie with a pale yellow figure; black oxford brogues; a beautifully tailored navy suit. “Come in! Please.”

“Are you going somewhere?” I said, regarding him timidly. The suit made him seem a different person, less melancholy and distracted, more capable—unlike the Hobie of my first visit, with his bedraggled aspect of an elegant but mistreated polar bear.

“Well—yes. But not now. Quite frankly, we’re in a bit of a tip. But no matter.”

What did that mean? I followed him inside—through the forest of the workshop, table legs and unsprung chairs—and up through the gloomy parlor into the kitchen, where Cosmo the terrier was pacing fretfully back and forth and whimpering, his toenails clicking on the slate. When we came in, he took a few steps backwards and glared up at us aggressively.

“Why’s he in here?” I asked, kneeling to stroke his head, and then pulling my hand back when he shied away.

“Hmn?” said Hobie. He seemed preoccupied.

“Cosmo. Doesn’t he like to be with her?”

“Oh. Her aunt. She doesn’t want him in there.” He was filling the teakettle at the sink; and—I noticed—the kettle shook in his hands as he did it.

“Aunt?”

“Yes,” he said, putting the kettle on to boil, then stooping to scratch the dog’s chin. “Poor little toad, you don’t know what to make of it, do you? Margaret’s got very strong opinions on the subject of dogs in the sickroom. No doubt she’s right. And here you are,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with an odd bright look. “Washing up on the strand again. Pippa’s been talking of you ever since you were here.”

“Really?” I said, delighted.

“ ‘Where’s that boy.’ ‘There was a boy here.’ She told me yesterday that you were coming back and presto,” he said, with a warm and young-sounding laugh, “here you are.” He stood, knees creaking, and wiped the back of his wrist against his knobbly white brow. “If you wait a bit, you can go in and see her.”

“How is she doing?”

“Much better,” he said, crisply, without looking at me. “Lots of goings-on. Her aunt is taking her to Texas.”

“Texas?” I said, after a stu

“Afraid so.”

“When?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“No!”

He grimaced—a twinge that vanished the moment I saw it. “Yes, I’ve been packing her up to go,” he said, in a cheerful voice that did not match the flash of unhappiness that he’d let slip. “People have been in and out. Friends from school—in fact, this is the first quiet moment we’ve had in a while. It’s been quite a busy week.”

“When is she coming back?”

“Well—not for a while, actually. Margaret’s taking her down there to live.”

“Forever?”

“Oh no! Not forever,” he said, in a voice that made me realize that forever was exactly what he meant. “It’s not as if anyone’s leaving the planet,” he added, when he saw my face. “Certainly I’ll be going down to see her. And certainly she’ll be back for visits.”

“But—” I felt like the ceiling had collapsed on top of me. “I thought she lived here. With you.”

“Well, she did. Until now. Although I’m sure she’ll be much better off down there,” he added, without conviction. “It’s a big change for us all, but in the long run I’m sure it’s all for the best.”

I could tell he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. “But why can’t she stay here?”

He sighed. “Margaret is Welty’s half sister,” he said. “His other half sister. Pippa’s nearest relative. Blood, in any case, which I am not. She thinks that Pippa will be better off in Texas, now that she’s well enough to move.”

“I wouldn’t want to live in Texas,” I said, taken aback. “It’s too hot.”

“I don’t think the doctors are as good there either,” said Hobie, dusting his hands off. “Although Margaret and I disagree about that.”

He sat down, and looked at me. “Your glasses,” he said. “I like them.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t want to talk about my new eyeglasses, an unwelcome development, although they did actually help me to see better. Mrs. Barbour had picked out the frames for me at E. B. Meyrowitz after I’d failed an eye test with the school nurse. They were round tortoiseshell, a little too grown-up and expensive-looking, and adults had been going a little too far out of their way to assure me how great they looked.

“How are things uptown?” said Hobie. “You can’t imagine the stir your visit has caused. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of coming uptown to see you myself. The only reason I didn’t was that I hated to leave Pippa since she’s going away so soon. This has all happened very fast, you see. The business with Margaret. She’s like their father, old Mr. Blackwell—she gets something in her head and off she goes, it’s done.”

“Is he going to Texas too? Cosmo?”

“Oh no—he’ll be fine here. He’s lived here in this house since he was twelve weeks old.”

“Won’t he be unhappy?”

“I hope not. Well—quite honestly—he’ll miss her. Cosmo and I get on fairly well, though he’s been in a terrible slump since Welty died. He was Welty’s dog really, he’s only taken up with Pippa quite recently. These little terriers like Welty always had aren’t always so crazy about children, you understand—Cosmo’s mother Chessie was a holy terror.”

“But why does Pippa have to move down there?”

“Well,” he said, rubbing his eye, “it’s really the only thing that makes sense. Margaret is the technical nearest of kin. Though Margaret and Welty scarcely spoke while Welty was alive—not in recent years, anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Well—” I could tell he didn’t want to explain it. “It’s all very complicated. Margaret was quite against Pippa’s mother, you see.”

Just as he said this, a tall, sharp-nosed, capable-looking woman walked into the room, the age of a young-ish grandmother, with a thin, patrician-harpy face and iron-rust hair going gray. Her suit and shoes reminded me of Mrs. Barbour, only they were a color that Mrs. Barbour would never have worn: lime green.

She looked at me; she looked at Hobie. “What is this?” she said coldly.

Hobie exhaled audibly; he looked exasperated. “Never mind, Margaret. This is the boy who was with Welty when he died.”

She peered over her half-glasses at me—and then laughed sharply, a high self-conscious laugh.

“But hello,” she said—all charm all of a sudden, holding out to me her thin red hands covered with diamonds. “I’m Margaret Blackwell Pierce. Welty’s sister. Half sister,” she corrected herself, with a glance over my shoulder at Hobie, when she saw my eyebrows go down. “Welty and I had the same father, you see. My mother was Susie Delafield.”

She said the name as if it ought to mean something. I looked at Hobie to see what he thought about it. She saw me doing it, and glanced at him sharply before she returned her attention—all sparkle—to me.