Clock Winder - Anne Tyler [75]
“All right,” she said. There was no telling who Abigail was. She bent close to his ear, so that a wisp of his silvery hair feathered her lips. “Mr. Cunningham,” she whispered, careful of his dignity. “Would you like to go to the—”
“Later, later,” he said, with his eyes on Matthew. “I can hold out. I have a guest. Hand me my teeth.”
She passed him the glass. He dabbled in the water a minute with shaky fingers, but he didn’t take the teeth out. Maybe he thought he did; he rearranged his lips and gave her back the glass. “Now then,” he said. “Just imagine, a relation I didn’t even know about. How’s your family, boy?”
“Mr. Cunningham,” said Matthew, “I’m not—”
“Family all right?”
“Yes, fine,” Matthew said.
“Parents okay?”
“Oh, yes.”
Mr. Cunningham looked at him a minute, and then he gave a cross little laugh. “You ain’t exactly colorful, are you?” he said. “Are you shy? What grade you in, anyhow?”
Matthew threw a quick glance at Elizabeth—asking for help, maybe, or wondering how soon he could get out of this.
“Matthew is a grownup, Mr. Cunningham,” she said.
“Is that so. Why? How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight,” said Matthew.
“That all you are? Call that grown up? The real growing up is between twenty and thirty. That’s what I meant. I knew you weren’t no child.” He hugged himself suddenly, as if he were cold. “How’s that pretty aunt of yours doing?” he asked.
“Uh, fine.”
“She should take better care of herself,” Mr. Cunningham said.
“I’ll tell her that.”
“Summer or no summer. Those skimpy little bathing suits are ruining the nation’s health. You can get pneumonia in August, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t,” Matthew said.
“Quick summer pneumonia, they call it. Now who did I—? Yes. Took my little brother when he was two. Not a thing they knew could save him. How old would he be today, I wonder? What was his name?”
He was about to start fretting over his memory again, Elizabeth thought. She leaned forward, but before she could change the subject he shook his head. “It don’t matter anyway,” he said. “He’d be an old man. What’s the difference? I want a piece of whole-wheat toast, Elizabeth.”
She had been hoping he would go on forever, wearing Matthew down till he left without saying what he had come for. So she tried not answering (he might forget) but Mr. Cunningham gave her a sharp look from beneath his pleated lids. “Toast,” he said.
“Buttered?”
“Dry, just dry. I want things back to simple.”
She nodded and left, and Matthew followed just as she had known he would. “You could stay here, if you like,” she told him.
He didn’t bothering answering that.
. . .
In the kitchen he said, “Where are your blue jeans?”
“Mr. Cunningham doesn’t like women in pants,” she told him. She heaved a cat off the breadbox.
“You look so different.”
She concentrated on making toast, plugging the toaster in and emptying its crumb tray and carefully rolling the cellophane bag after she had taken out a slice of bread. Matthew sat down in a kitchen chair. “Would you like something to eat?” she asked him.
“Everything about you has changed. I don’t understand it. There’s something muffled about you.”
“Oh well, I’m taking care of a very old man,” she said.
“Elizabeth.”
She jammed the toaster lever down.
“Look, this is such a waste,” Matthew said. “What are you doing in this hot little house?”
“I like being here,” Elizabeth said. “I like Mr. Cunningham. I’m going to miss him when I leave for school.”
“For school. You’re not coming back with me, then.”
“No,” said Elizabeth.
“Well, I knew that when I came, I guess. But I thought—and I never expected to see you like this.”
“Like what?”
“You’re so changed.”
“You said that,” Elizabeth told him.
He was quiet a moment, looking down at his hands. “Well, I didn’t want to fight about it,” he said finally.
“Who’s fighting?”
“I came to get things straightened out. I didn’t know what to think, way off in Baltimore. You weren’t much help. You don’t say what you feel, you never say what you feel.