Fortune's rocks_ a novel - Anita Shreve [186]
The abrupt change in Philbrick’s tone takes Olympia by surprise. “Yes?” she asks.
“Albertine Bolduc has passed away.”
The handle of Olympia’s teacup slips from her fingers, and the cup rattles into its saucer. She sets it down on the marble table for fear of dropping it altogether.
“She died six months ago,” Philbrick says. “From the white lung. One might have anticipated it.”
Olympia looks away. She seldom allows herself to think of the boy, to imagine him. She has, over the years, tried to put such thoughts away. She has tried not to think: He is nine now. And now he is ten.
“Telesphore Bolduc has been caring for the boy,” Philbrick says, “but he is ill himself. Tuberculosis. The boy is eleven.”
Olympia says nothing.
“A tender age, as you know,” Philbrick says, eyeing her carefully. “It was Telesphore who asked me to come to you.”
“Was it?” she asks, scarcely believing what she is hearing.
“As you know, you are, by decree of the court, still his legal guardian.”
“I surrendered that responsibility,” she says.
“Yes, I know. And it was an extraordinary thing you did.”
“I have sent money from time to time,” she says, “but I have felt it necessary to keep myself at a remove.”
“Of course,” Philbrick says. “But it is not only money that the boy is needing right now.”
“Then I do not understand.”
“I know that this is neither here nor there in terms of your responsibility to the child, considering past events, but it would be necessary for you to approve any decision to place the boy back with the orphanage.”
“He must go to the orphanage?” she asks.
“I am afraid so. He is still a minor. And I would guess that he would not have much success at being placed out from there, since parents looking for children are rarely if ever interested in eleven-year-old boys.”
“What about the rest of the family?”
“Most are gone now. The family has been hard hit by the closing of the mills. Many have already had to move farther south.”
“Yes, I see.”
“I have taken an interest in the boy from the very beginning,” Philbrick says. “Well, I felt bound to, didn’t I? I visit him from time to time. I would take him in myself, but it is not me whom the boy needs. He is still sad. But you will find that he is quick. He has an untutored intelligence.”
“I will find . . . ?”
“He is here,” Philbrick says quickly.
“He is here? In this house?”
“I have brought him with me. The boy does not know anything about you,” he adds. “I have merely told him I needed to pay a visit to a friend. Forgive me for this intrusion upon your privacy, Olympia, but I did think it best. I felt it important for you at least to set eyes upon the boy before you decide his future.”
“Mr. Philbrick, you have given me a shock.”
“No greater than you can bear, or have I gravely misjudged the woman?”
“Where is he?” she asks.
“On your porch. I rather think he has taken a fancy to your telescope.”
• • •
With an unsteady gait, she walks from the study to the front room, overstuffed now with furniture to accommodate all of the girls and their infants when the entire household gathers in the parlor after the evening meal. Through the windows, she can see the boy on the porch. He is tall, his hair badly cut. He has on a sweater that perhaps once was ivory. She watches as he circles the telescope, bending to peer through it, moving it back and forth, seemingly searching the sea for something important.
She takes a shawl from the back of a chair and walks out onto the porch.
“Hello,” she says.
“Oh, hello,” the boy says, looking up from the telescope. He takes a step forward and holds out his hand.
Polite, she thinks. Well mannered. His fingers are cold from having been so long outside.
“You must be freezing,” she says.
“Oh no,” he says quickly, snatching his hand away, clearly not wanting to be told to go back into the house. “You live here?”
“Yes,” she says. “I am Olympia Haskell.”
He is spindly, at an age when the bones grow too fast for the rest of the body. And spindly, he does not resemble Haskell as much as he used to. Though