Foreign Affairs - Alison Lurie [144]
“I guess Dad thought if he went back far enough he might find somebody he could be proud of too. Professor Gilson told me he was looking for months, all over the country; but all he ever came up with was a lot of farm workers and a blacksmith and this old hermit . . . At least I guess that’s what he was doing down there, besides helping Professor Gilson out sometimes. Mom wondered if maybe he’d got involved with . . . uh, you know, a woman.” Barbie blinks at Vinnie, but inquiringly rather than suspiciously. It is clear that in her mind Professor Miner is not “a woman” and probably never has been one. “I mean, do you think there coulda been anything like that?”
“I have no idea,” Vinnie says frostily, thanking heaven for the existence of British Telecom. Because of it, there will be no incriminating and distressing letters from her for Barbie or her mother to find later among Chuck’s effects. And she too has nothing of Chuck’s, not even a note—only a few of his winter clothes.
“I sorta don’t believe it. Dad wasn’t like that. He was a very loyal person, y’know.” Barbie blinks.
“Mm.” Vinnie glances involuntarily in the direction of the hall closet, where she seems to see Chuck’s sheepskin-lined winter coat glowing with a guilty fluorescence. “More tea?” She holds up the pot, aware that tea is all she can offer now: Barbie, in spite or perhaps because of her grief, has eaten all the watercress sandwiches and walnut cake.
Chuck’s daughter shakes her head, causing her long sun-bleached hair to flop about. “No, thanks very much. I guess I oughta be going.” She gets up clumsily.
“Well, thanks for everything, Professor Miner,” she says, moving into the hall. “It was real nice to meet you. Oh, hey. I almost forgot to give you Dad’s picture. Boy, am I stupid. Here.”
“Thank you.” Vinnie places the portfolio on the hall table and unties the worn black cotton tapes.
“Oh,” she gasps, drawing her breath in as she lifts a creased sheet of tissue to reveal a large hand-colored eighteenth-century engraving of a forest scene with a grotto and a waterfall. A figure dressed in rags and bits of fur and leather stands before the grotto, leaning on a staff. “Your father told me about this picture. It’s his ancestor, The Hermit of South Leigh; ‘Old Mumpson’ they called him.”
“Yeh; that’s what Professor Gilson said.”
“You don’t want it yourself,” Vinnie says rather than asks, hoping for the answer No.
“I d’know.” Barbie looks larger and more helpless than before. “I guess not.”
“Or perhaps your brother might like it,” says Vinnie, realizing at the same time that Old Mumpson, in spite of his honorary title, looks no older than Chuck and a good deal like him (if Chuck had grown an untidy beard), and also that she wants the picture so badly it frightens her.
“Aw, no.” Barbie almost recoils. “Greg? You gotta be kidding. That guy looks like some kinda hippie weirdo; Greg wouldn’t have him in the house. Anyways, Dad said if anything happened to him, Professor Gilson was s’posed to give the picture to you.” She smiles awkwardly. “You could throw it out, I guess, if you want to.”
“Of course not,” Vinnie says, taking hold of the portfolio as if it might be snatched from her. “1 like it very much.” She looks from the engraving to Barbie, who is standing there dumbly.
“You must have had rather a hard time of it these last few days,” Vinnie says, suddenly realizing this. “It’s too bad your mother or your brother wasn’t able to come to England with you.” Or instead of you, she adds silently to herself. Because surely either one of them would have been able to manage things better, and not had to lay it all on Professor Gilson. But perhaps that was the point: Barbie had been sent because she was helpless.
“Uh, well. Mom woulda come, only she was closing an important sale, a big condo deal she’s been putting together for months. And Greg’s always awful busy. Besides, his wife’s expecting a baby next month.