Morgan's Passing - Anne Tyler [93]
“Well, I for one have work to do,” Leon said, rising.
But Emily told Morgan, “I know what you mean.”
I wish I knew, was what she should have said.
His manners were atrocious (she often thought); he smoked too much and suffered from a chronic cough that would surely be the death of him, ate too many sweets (and exposed a garble of black fillings whenever he opened his mouth), scattered ashes down his front, chewed his cuticles, picked his teeth, meddled with his beard, fidgeted, paced, scratched his stomach, hummed distractingly whenever it was someone else’s turn to speak; he was not a temperate person. He wore rich men’s hand-me-downs, stained and crumpled and poorly kept, and over them an olive-drab, bunchy nylon parka, its hood trimmed with something matted that might be monkey fur. He smelled permanently of stale tobacco. When he wore glasses, they were so fingerprinted and greasy you couldn’t read his eyes. He was excitable and unpredictable, sometimes nearly manic, and while it was kind of him to manage their affairs, the fact was that he could often become … well, presumptuous was the word—pushy, managerial, bending the Merediths to his conception of them, which was not remotely rooted in reality, taking too much for granted, assuming what he should not have assumed. He talked too much and too erratically, or grew stuffy and bored them with lengthy accounts of human-interest items from the paper, grandchildren’s clever remarks, and Consumer Reports ratings; while at moments when he should have been sociable—when the Merediths had other guests, at their Halloween party, for instance—he would as likely as not clam up completely and stand around in some corner with his hands jammed deep in his pockets and a glum expression on his face. And his parties! Well, the less said, the better. Combining garbage men with philosophy professors, seating small children next to priests with hearing aids …
But once, passing a bookstore, Emily happened to notice a blown-up photo of the first successful powered flight, and the sight of Wilbur Wright poised on the sand at Kitty Hawk—capped and suited, strangely stylish, suspended forever in that tense, elated, ready position—reminded her for some reason of Morgan, and she suddenly felt that she had never given him full credit. And another time, when she switched on a cassette tape to see if it were the music for “Hansel and Gretel,” she found that Morgan must have been playing with it, for his gruff, bearded voice leaped forth, disguised in a German accent. “Nu? Vhere is de button?” he said, and then she heard a Japanese “Ah so!” and two clicks, where he must have pressed the button off and on again. “Tum, te-tum,” he said, singing tunelessly, rustling cellophane. There was the sound of a match being struck. He blew a long puff of air. “Naughty boy, Pinocchio!” he said in a chirping voice. “I see you’ve been untruthful again. Your nose has grown seven inches!” Then he gave his smoker’s laugh, breathy and wheezing, “Heh, heh,” descending into a cough. But Emily didn’t laugh with him. She listened intently, with her forehead creased. She bent very close to the machine, unsmiling, trying to figure him out.
6
She and Leon were invited to the Percy School’s Thanksgiving Festival, where they’d never been before. She wasn’t sure what show they should put on. “Rapunzel”? “Thumbelina”? Late one afternoon, just a few days before the Festival, she took Rapunzel from her muslin bag and propped her on the kitchen table. Rapunzel had not been used for a while and had an unkempt, neglected look. Her long, long