The Glass Ocean(111)
She says, Find yourself something to do.
Then she goes up, round the spiral. I do not follow. I am left alone in the parlor, with the ticking of the clock, the soft hiss and spark of embers in the grate.
Recalling the bitterness of the day before, I decide I will not go out. I will find myself something to do.
This is easy, in the Birdcage. The general deterioration, the softening of order, the laxity—the boxes half unpacked, overspilling with Felix Girard’s creatures, the papers scattered everywhere, the books, the journals, the crumb-laden plates, the discarded clothes, on the dining table, on the chairs, on the floor—there is opportunity in this. There is a box I’ve had my eye on. Inside it I find a collection of sea fans, their brittle labyrinthine branches separated and preserved between thin sheets of crumbling paper on which someone (my grandfather?) has written:
Gorgonians. Holoxonia.
They release, as they emerge, a shower of sand, broken fragments of fragile coralline limbs, scent of brine, of rot, of sea. I spread them carefully on the floor. They form a delicate two-dimensional forest, a fading peacock’s tail of pink and red, violet, yellow, orange. Some are very tall; all are very flat, rigid, skeletal; the hard, dry bones of something once vibrant and alive. Gently I trace a path with my finger along their tangling, interwoven copse, then walk it in my mind: a path along a seafloor dense with shrouded things, hidden detours, forbidden turnings, movements sensed rather than seen; scuttle of claws, flash of fierce, cold eyes . . .
• • •
I am awakened, abruptly, by the slamming of a door: tumult, footsteps on the stairs, a man’s unfamiliar voice roaring, Are you ready, Tildy? Then: Oh, hello. Who are you?
He stands and stares at me, long-legged gangling thing that I am, sprawled out half-asleep on the floor: a yellow-haired man, young, leonine, with a large, proud mustache, ruddy, ripe, almost womanly lips, camel overcoat bearing the raw, snowy scent of outdoors, long, pale, womanly hands. On his left pinkie he wears a gold ring set with a tawny flashing stone.
My mother says, Oh, that’s just Carlotta.
She has come downstairs in her traveling suit, the short, sharp jacket of grey velvet lined with red, the trim, gunmetal-grey skirt, the petite black boots, the soft, narrow, calfskin gloves, which she adjusts over her slender hands; her hair is bound up tight beneath a blue hat trimmed with a trailing black feather.
Really? Is she yours?
He stares at me more intently now, with a fierce, hard, pale stare, interested, yet devoid of feeling, as if I am one more specimen among my grandfather’s variously arrayed exotica.
She’s a big girl. Awfully damned red, ain’t she? Ain’t she?
My mother ignores this. She says, Carlotta, this is Mr. Treanor. He is an explorer. He is coming with me to the Gulf of Mexico to look for my Papa.
Mr. Treanor says, God, Tildy, ain’t you got any luggage? It’s a frightful long journey, you know. You might want to change out of those things.
He smiles a wicked smile, revealing strong bright teeth among the golden hedge of his mustache.
My trunk is upstairs. It’s terribly heavy.
Not to worry. I’ll send Samuel up for it. From among the folds of his overcoat he produces a watch, which he examines critically. By God! We’ll be late if we don’t look out! Samuel! Get up here and shift Mrs. Dell’oro’s trunk! Come on, Tildy. Don’t want to miss the damn boat after all this.
My mother doesn’t look at me. She has never looked; she isn’t going to start now. She stands at the center of the room, carefully pressing her fingers into the fingers of her calfskin gloves. Then she says, I’ve left your father a note, Carlotta, and I see that it’s true; there’s an envelope on the mantel, leaning against the terra-cotta head of a goddess.