The Evolution of Bruno Littlemore - Benjamin Hale [199]
“We are preparing to stage a production of The Tempest,” Leon began. “The Bard’s swan song, in which he breaks his staff and frees his magic to the four winds.”
The woman pensively sipped her coffee.
“Upon having the pleasure to see little Emily’s purely genius—”
“Dazzling,” I said.
“Yes, dazzling, genius, dazzling performance in Little Orphan Annie, we have determined that no other actress would be as well suited for our female lead.”
“Why were you watching a high school musical?” said Mrs. Goyette. “How did you find us? Why did you come in person instead of calling? I don’t know how I feel about—”
Leon raised a judicious hand to silence her, which gesture was accompanied by a friendly smile to indicate that all would soon be explained.
“Excuse me,” I said, “may I use your bathroom?”
“It’s down the hall, second door on your right,” and she pointed.
I rose and left the room, and behind me I heard Leon hoisting the sails of his rhetoric in preparation for a long and possibly stormy voyage. The request to use her bathroom was, of course, a ruse. I stole down the hallway and crept up the stairs to little Emily’s bedroom, and softly knocked on her door.
“What!” she said, much, much too loudly. I quickly opened the door.
“You can’t come in unless I SAY so, you stupid bitch!” she began to scream, as she wheeled around in her chair, away from the pile of homework spread before her on her desk, before she saw who it was who stood at the threshold of her bedroom. I put a finger to my pursed lips to beg her silence. It is remarkable how quickly a person in the throes of adolescence can change. It had been, I think, about seven months since I had last seen little Emily—and lo, she had very nearly become a woman in that time. I wondered if she remembered that evening we had spent together, and if so, if she remembered it fondly. Her bedroom had now been mostly cleansed of its childish affects: the dollhouse, the rubber women, etc., were gone. The stuffed animals, however, were still present, and all else looked the same as it had when last I saw it. The stuffed animals—among the few remnants of little Emily’s childhood that steadfastly remained—seemed to have shifted meanings: they had fallen totally from innocence into experience, and they no longer represented childhood but now represented a consciously ironic retrograde sexualization of the childlike.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she hissed.
Briefly, I explained the situation to her.
“That’s so stupid,” she said, when I had brought her up to speed. “It won’t work.”
“Please help us!” I blubbered. “Think of the glory of starring, at such a tender age, in a major stage production of Shakespeare! Just come downstairs and play along.”
Then I fled the room to rejoin Leon and little Emily’s mother downstairs. When I found them, they had switched from the living room to the kitchen and from coffee to white wine, and little Emily’s mother was laughing buoyantly and feeding Leon squishy pastries with her fingers. Leon’s coat was off and his tie was loosened.
“Why hello, Bruno,” said Leon, with a touch of derision in his voice. “We thought you’d fallen in!”
I cleared my throat.
“I’m just charming Mrs. Goyette into submission,” said Leon, and opened his mouth to accept a cube of chocolate that the woman had been trying to push past his lips. Her arm was around Leon’s gargantuan waist. She lit up the room with a spell of half-drunken laughter. “Vivian has invited us to stay for dinner!”
“Well,” I muttered, testing the waters. “We wouldn’t want to inconvenience you—”
“Please stay!” she squealed to Leon.
“But of course,” said Leon.
We stayed. Dinner was Cornish game hen. Mr. Goyette, little Emily’s father and Mrs. Goyette’s husband, was out of town on business.
“As usual,” added Vivian—little Emily’s mother—with the rolled