• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 619 0

earliest memory: the feel of her drum-tight belly against my brow, the color of her speckled eyes. I tell him of her stories, and of the light in her face when she told them. I tell him of the others: the ones that came to see her, the look of them as they entered, and the step of their gait when they took their leave. I tell him of the boy, her son, and of his appetite, and of his endless, gaping loyalty to her. I speak for what seems like hours, but contrary to his request, I do not tell him everything. That is my prerogative: I pick and choose from my memory as one might from a banquet table. I do not speak of the money hidden beneath her floorboards, nor of the tears of blood upon her death-dress, nor of the reach of the tiny arm from deep within her. These things I keep to myself, though they come to me frequently, hovering about my mind like moths worrying a flame.

At length I pause, regarding him, and eventually he lifts his eyes from the page.

“What do you draw?” I ask.

“Your words,” he says. “Your stories. It helps me to concentrate. And to remember.”

“May I see them?” I ask.

“If you wish,” he replies, his eyes meeting mine in a sort of challenge.

But something in me does not wish to see it.

“Perhaps later,” I reply.

If he is disappointed, he does not show it.

“Is there more you wish to tell me?” he asks. It is an innocent enough question, but it unsettles me, for I realize suddenly that what I have told him is not the story of her life, but the story of my life with her. And in that instant I am aware that my portion of her life was like a tiny crumb out of the whole—and the idea that I was not privy to it all leaves me with a deep feeling of resentment.

I cannot tell him that I do not mourn her death, but the lack of her in my life—a thought which strikes me as unbearably selfish. The painter peers at me.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

I look around and see that darkness has fallen outside. I feel as if I have been drained of her—and am tired from the effort of remembering. My head has begun to ache, and my throat is parched and sore.

He lays aside his charcoal with a sigh, and I sense that he too is tired.

“We will stop now,” he says. “Tomorrow we will begin in earnest.”

I watch him remove the pages from the easel, wondering what excuse my master has given to his mother. He carefully rolls them up, securing them with a string. Then he removes a blackened cloth from his satchel and wipes the charcoal from his hands.

“I suppose you find us rather curious,” I say.

He lifts his eyebrows and shrugs. “All people are curious,” he says. He does not even grant us the distinction of oddity.

“These past few days . . . my master has been greatly affected,” I say. “He is not himself.”

“I envy him,” he says with sudden intensity. “I envy his devotion.” His eyes have deepened somehow and his cheeks have filled with color. And then he coughs and looks away, his embarrassment evident. Though I have talked for hours, my words nearly filling up the room, he has said almost nothing, except this last, lone utterance. It has escaped him, like a loose page fallen from a book, and as I watch him cross the room, I can already read his regret.

When he reaches the door it dawns on me that I have forgotten about the portrait in her cottage. “Meet me at the tavern this evening,” I say. “There is something I must show you.”

He turns to me and nods, and then he is gone, leaving me to face the falling darkness.

* * *

That night I return to Long Boy’s house to collect the miniature. As always, my mother is there when I arrive, but she is bone-tired and needs little coercion from me to return home. Long Boy’s fever has abated but there is a glassiness in his eyes that I find disconcerting, as if the illness has left a residue behind. He does not speak, merely lies in bed and stares at the wall. I offer him food but for once he declines, though after a time he accepts a cup of warm broth.

I wait until he falls asleep, then remove the miniature from its wooden box and hide it under my kirtle. I hurry along to the alehouse,