Morgan's Passing - Anne Tyler [49]
She said, “Oh?”
“I am solitary man. I know other artistes.”
“But I don’t think you understand,” she said. “Emily and her husband, they just give puppet shows to children, mainly. They only sell puppets when they have a few extras. They’re not exactly—”
“Steel,” he said, “I like to meet zem. I like you to introduce me. You know so many people! I see zat. A friend to ze artistes. What your name is, please?”
“Well … Mrs. Apple,” she said. She thought a moment. “Oh, all right. I don’t suppose they would mind.” She called to someone at the rear, “Hannah, will you watch for customers?” Then she turned to lead Morgan out the side door.
He followed her up the staircase. There was a smell of fried onions and disinfectant. Mrs. Apple’s hips looked very broad from this angle. She became, by extension, someone fascinating: she must speak to the Merediths every day, know intimately their schedules and their habits, water their plants when they went on tour. He restrained the urge to set a friendly palm on her backside. She glanced at him over her shoulder, and he gave her a reassuring smile.
At the top of the stairs she turned to the right and knocked on a tall oak door. “Emily?” she called.
But when the door opened, it was Leon who stood there. He was holding a newspaper. When he saw Morgan, he drew the paper sharply to his chest. “Dr. Morgan!” he said.
Mrs. Apple said, “Doctor?”
She looked at Morgan and then at Leon. “Why,” she said, “is this the doctor you told me about? The one who delivered Gina?”
Leon nodded.
“But I thought you were an artist!” Mrs. Apple said. “You said you were an artist!”
Morgan hung his head. He shuffled his feet. “I was embarrassed about my hat,” he said. “I’ve just recently come from a wedding; I know I look ridiculous. I said I was an artist so you wouldn’t laugh at me.”
“Oh, you poor man,” Mrs. Apple said. Then she did laugh. “You and your ‘zis and zat.’ Your ‘zese and zose.’ ”
He risked a glance at Leon. Leon wasn’t laughing. He was glaring at Morgan, and he kept the newspaper clamped to his chest as if guarding secrets.
“I do want to see your workroom,” Morgan told him. “I may buy a large number of puppets.”
“We don’t have a large number,” Leon said.
“Oh, come on, Leon,” Mrs. Apple said. “Why not show him? What’s the harm?” She nudged Morgan in the side. “You and your ‘artistes.’ Your ‘poppets.’ ” She started laughing again. Her eyes grew rays of wrinkles at the corners.
Leon stood scowling at Mrs. Apple. Then, “Well,” he said ungraciously, and he stepped back and turned to lead them down the hall.
Morgan peered swiftly into the room on his right—a flash of sunken sofa and a half-empty bookcase. On his left was the kitchen; he had an impression of cold, gleaming whiteness. The next door on the left led to the workroom. There was no real furniture at all—just a sewing machine beneath the window, and a stubby aluminum stepladder on which Emily sat snipping paper. Her black skirt drooped around her, nearly obscuring the ladder. The braids on top of her head picked up light from somewhere and glinted like flying sparks. “Emily,” Leon said.
She looked up. Then she jumped off the stepladder and hid whatever she was doing behind her back. “What do you want?” she asked Morgan.
“Why, Emily. Goodness,” Mrs. Apple said. “This is Dr. Morgan. Don’t you recognize him? He’s come to buy some puppets. A large number of puppets, Emily.”
“Buy them downstairs,” said Emily, white-faced.
You would think she had something against him.
Morgan tried not to feel hurt. He smiled at her. He said, “I like to see the process of things. Actually.