Morgan's Passing - Anne Tyler [123]
The shine on his forehead gave him a desperate, determined look. She thought he couldn’t be more than eighteen. She wondered if the flowers were for her. But then he said, “I brought these to give your husband.”
“My husband?”
“Mr. Meredith,” he said, pressing farther inward. She took another step back and bumped into a china barrel. “My father was Reverend R. Jonas Linthicum,” he said. “He’s passed now. Passed in June.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Mr. Linthicum, my husband isn’t here just now—”
“I see the name don’t strike a chord,” he said.
“Um …”
“Never mind, your husband will know it.”
“Well, but, um …”
“My father and Mr. Meredith used to correspond. Or at least, my father corresponded. My father ran the Holy Word Entertainment Troupe.”
“Oh, yes,” Emily said.
“You’ve heard of it.”
“I remember your father wanted us to come … give Bible shows, wasn’t it?”
“Now you got it.”
“Well, you see, Mr. Linthicum—”
“Durwood.”
“See, Durwood …”
Behind him, the door opened wider and Morgan stepped in, carrying a twenty-five-pound keg of powdered skim milk with a water stain at one edge. “Mr. Meredith!” said Durwood. “These are for you.”
“Eh?” said Morgan. He set down the keg and took the carnations. He was wearing his tropical outfit—white Panama hat and white suit. Next to all that white, the carnations were startling, too bright to be real, like a liquor ad in an expensive magazine. Morgan buried his beard in them and took a long, thoughtful sniff.
“I been wanting to meet you since I was thirteen, fourteen years of age,” Durwood said. “Any time we came near Baltimore, I begged and pestered my father to let me see one of your shows. Durwood Linthicum,” he said, producing the name with a flair. He held out a large, soft hand. Emerald and ruby (or colored glass) rings were embedded in his fingers. “I know you know me, all those letters you received.”
“Ah. Linthicum,” said Morgan. He shook the hand, looking past Durwood to Emily.
“Holy Word Entertainment Troupe,” Emily said.
“?h, yes.”
“Not to speak ill of the dead,” said Durwood, “but my father didn’t always have such very good business sense. Like, he saw one of your shows and thought right much of it, saw those articles about you in the papers, but all he thought was, ‘That fellow could put on some fine, fine Bible stories. Daniel in the lions’ den and Ruth and Naomi.’ Right? Why, I knew that you would say no! You do other things besides, you do ‘Red Riding Hood’ and ‘Beauty and the Beast.’ I’m aware of that!”
Morgan stroked his beard.
“Could we maybe take a seat?” Durwood asked. “I got something to lay out before you.”
“Why, surely,” said Morgan.
He went down the hall to the living room, and Durwood followed. Emily came last, unwillingly. Some moment had slipped past her, here. She’d intended to clear all this up, but now it seemed too late.
In the living room Louisa was rocking and knitting. She glanced at Durwood and cast her yarn busily over her needle. “Mother,” Morgan said, “this is Durwood Linthicum.”
“It’s a pleasure,” said Durwood. He sat down on the couch and leaned toward her, lacing his fingers in front of him. “Ma’am, I guess you know what kind of son you got here.”
Louisa looked over at Morgan, her shaggy black eyebrows like two sharp roofs.
“I been telling my father for years,” Durwood said. “ ‘Daddy, you take that fellow however you can obtain him. We want to branch out, anyhow; nobody cares for this Bible stuff these days. With all our connections—schools, clubs, churches—we got a sure thing!’ I said. ‘We got everything we need!’ There’s this other group I like too—the Glass Accordion. I’m just crazy for their music. But he said no, we’re only booking gospel music here. Wouldn’t give them the time of day. Wouldn’t even come hear them. Well, that’s another story. I plan to pay them a visit right after I leave you folks. But it’s you I feel this special interest in. Mr. Meredith,