Morgan's Passing - Anne Tyler [51]
Back in the workroom, he said, “What do you do with Gina while you’re giving your puppet shows?”
Emily turned away, refusing to answer, but Leon said, “We take her along.”
“And? Does she help with the productions?”
“Oh, no. She’s just barely turned four.”
“She knows the ropes, though,” Morgan suggested. “She was raised backstage, after all. She knows to stay quiet while a play is going on.”
“Gina?” Leon said. He laughed. “Gina’s never been quiet a full minute in her life. We have to keep hushing her all through the show, and if it’s a birthday party, it’s worse. She cries when someone else gets to blow out the candles. She hates it when Emily pays attention to other children.”
“Oh, you ought to see one of their shows,” said Mrs. Apple. She slid the king out of Morgan’s hand. Without noticing, he’d rucked up one corner of the colored paper. “They’re getting so well known! They’ve been all the way to Washington. And a man who runs an entertainment company wanted to just take them over, make them part of his troupe, like professionals. What did you ever tell that man, Leon? Did you ever answer his letter?”
“I threw it away,” Leon said.
“Threw it away!”
“It was some kind of Bible group. Gospel singers and things.”
“But—threw it away! You could at least have answered it.”
“And off in some poky town,” Leon said. “Tinville, Tindale …”
“I doubt you ever answer letters,” Morgan said. He felt suddenly pleased and excited.
Leon said, “Oh, well …”
“Really, what’s the point? Why complicate your lives? You go downstairs to clear out the mailbox every now and then, and you glance at what’s there and toss it all in the wastebasket and come back empty-handed.”
“Well, sometimes,” Leon said.
“When?” Emily asked him. Then she turned to Morgan and said, “We’re not who you believe we are.”
“Eh?”
“We’re not who you imagine.”
“Come look at Rip Van Winkle,” Mrs. Apple said.
“We live like anyone else. We manage fine. We like to be left alone,” said Emily. “Let me show you to the door.”
“Oh, but Emily!” Mrs. Apple said. “He hasn’t seen all the puppets!”
“He’s seen enough.”
“He wanted to buy a large number!”
“No, no, that’s all right … I really must be going,” Morgan said. “Thank you anyhow.”
Emily spun through the door, a swirl of black skirt, and he followed her. They went down the hallway single-file—Emily, Morgan, Leon. Mrs. Apple stayed behind, no doubt looking around at the puppets in bewilderment. “Maybe some other time?” she called after him.
“Yes, maybe so …”
He skidded on a Tinker Toy and said, “Oh, excuse me,” and lurched against the wall. He clapped a hand to his head. “I’d better go home and change,” he said.
“Change?” Leon asked.
“Yes, I … need another hat.”
His voice was echoing now; they’d reached the stairs. But instead of starting down, he looked at the door across the landing. “Who lives there?” he asked.
“Joe and Hannah Miles,” said Leon, but Emily said, “No one.”
“Miles? Are they craftsmen also?”
“We’ll see you to the street,” Emily told him. She pushed forward, edging him toward the stairs, and when he took his first step down, she followed so closely that he felt hounded. “I don’t understand you,” she said. (He should have known. She would not veil anything; she was as uncurtained as her windows.) “What do you want of us? What are you after? Why did you trail us all those months and lurk in doorways and peer around corners?”
“Oh? You noticed?” Morgan said. He staggered with embarrassment and grabbed the banister.
“You could have come straight up and said hello, like ordinary people.”
“Yes, but I was so … I’d built up this idea of you. I almost preferred watching, don’t you see. My own household is impossible. Very confusing, very tedious,” he said. He stopped, halfway down the last flight of stairs. “Oh, you think it’s all so romantic, I suppose,” he said. “Big-city doctor! Saving lives. But mostly it’s a treadmill. I work too far downtown; I attract a low class of patient. Twice I’ve had my office robbed by addicts looking for