Of course I do not know what goes on in the Birdcage, those nights before the fire, when my father, rather than going upstairs, goes straight through the kitchen and out, taking away with him a cold slice of ham on bread, or some other scrap, some poor leftover rind of whatever those two, upstairs, have had for dinner. I am not sure, really, what my mother and Thomas Argument could talk about up there in the parlor, what they could possibly have in common. He is, after all, nearly twice her age. But he has his fads—his glass, his gas lighting, his gas furnaces, the excise tax (which he opposes, because, he says, it stifles innovation); the obnoxious behavior of the duty collectors, who hang around his shop on tax day, harassing the men; the union (which he also opposes, apparently because of the financial costs to him, but really, although he cannot say this aloud, even to my mother, because it makes him nervous to think of the men who work for him meeting together, grumbling, talking about him, complaining about him, making up stories, and especially, telling tall tales about the batch); the likelihood of communication by electrical cable (which he expects to happen soon, within the decade); or his latest trinket, obtained by him for his collection from—. It is always from a far-flung place, somewhere exotic.
He is not an attractive man. He is long, thin, spidery, angular, uncomfortable, with long, thin, probing fingers like spider’s legs, coarse, ill-cut black hair, and dense opaque black eyes, like Hyalith glass from the von Buquoy glassworks in Gratzen—reflecting much, expressing little, other than anger or impatience, neither of which he shows to my mother, not, at least, at this stage. He acts pleasantly, dresses well, is gentlemanlike. And yet there is, at the same time, something about his demeanor that is off-putting. An edge of something, carefully disguised.
He says, bitterly, it is the fault of the knacker’s yard that he never found a wife. Nobody wants to marry into bones and corpses. Maybe it is true.
• • •
He admires my mother. This is certainly true.
He picked her up, after all, when she fainted, carried her, set her down on a couch covered with rugs and tapestries; first loosened, then removed her boots. Having lifted her in his arms, he knows how light she is, how fragile, how slender and pale her neck, her arms, her legs.
And he is a shrewd man. He has seen how easily he can drive my father into retreat. He is a calculating man, this Thomas Argument, and he has made his calculations.
• • •
As for my mother, she is a beautiful woman, young, sad, and lonely. She misses her Papa terribly. She spends her days alone in the Birdcage, listening to the River Esk rushing beneath her feet. She avoids the windows, so she will not have to see the sea. She batters herself about, trying not to think of her Papa, the same way her Papa’s last remaining hummingbird batters itself along the moldings at the tops of the walls, above the windows and doors, looking for a way out, even though what is outside is the cold, the killing cold. The hummingbird does not know what it is seeking; it merely acts and reacts, instinctively responds. My mother, alone in a room with Thomas Argument, noticing that my father comes in through the kitchen and goes directly out again, and missing her dear Papa so much, does the same. Acts and reacts. Responds.
As he produces a gift from a pocket, Argument’s hand brushes hers. This, it is clear, is an accident. To this no response is necessary, other than the usual thank you, the usual teasing smile. She caresses the gift gratefully: this time, it is a lacquered music box from China, decorated with a pattern of swallows. She turns the delicate winding mechanism, listens with an attitude of appreciation. But when he reaches out, as they sit before the fire, to touch her, taking between his fingers a strand of her hair, or laying his palm upon her arm, all in the excitement of some discussion—about the inferiority of press molding versus cut glass, for example—this is not an accident, this requires a response. Perhaps not much of a response, but a response. My mother rises, moves away from Thomas Argument, stands with her back to one of the five corners of the pentagonal room or, going to the window, parts the curtains so that she can see my father’s studio below, the hesitant pinprick of light in the inky darkness that is my father’s lamp. What is Leopold doing out there? Why isn’t he here? But my mother is all right. She has made a response, and she feels secure in it. She has moved away from Thomas Argument. This, certainly, is enough. Thomas Argument will not pursue her. He will lean forward in his chair before the fire, sit awkwardly, elbows on knees. He will not take offense. The black opacity of his eyes will remain undisturbed. For all I know, for all my mother knows, he, like my father, thinks of nothing but glass.