“That was unkind,” I said, feeling my face grow hot.
“It would have been insensitive if he were here to have heard it,” she said, “but I see no need for either of us to repeat it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Mr. Burton has been very kind to me.”
“And how is it that you came to Philadelphia?” she asked. “Where is your family?”
My heart began to pound. When I was a child and Grandmother’s hysteria frightened me, I learned to calm myself by quietly counting each finger before interlocking my hands. Now I did the same until, hands folded, I answered Mrs. Burton. “I am alone,” I said. “My mother—that is, my grandmother—died.”
“And your parents?”
I looked away. “They are both dead,” I lied. “My grandmother raised me.”
“I see,” she said. “And was your grandmother’s death recent?”
“Yes. There was a fire.”
“In her home?”
“Yes. In our home. We had a farm.”
“How unspeakably sad for you!” she said softly. My eyes stung from her unexpected words of empathy. How tempted I was to tell her the truth.
“And you were left destitute?”
“I have Grandmother’s jewelry,” I said. “But I don’t want to sell it.” I hung my head and mumbled, “It is all that I have left of her.”
“I understand, dear boy. I lost my only son seventeen years ago, but his room stands as he left it. Even now, the loss is difficult for me to talk about.”
Until this moment, no one had acknowledged my grief, and her words touched me deeply. Not only did she understand, but she had suffered the same. My attachment to Mrs. Burton began that day.
I WANTED TO see Mrs. Burton again. I had a plan. At work on Monday morning, I asked Nicholas for help in locating a paper and art supply store. He knew of such a place, and in the afternoon, with Mr. Burton’s approval and coins in my pocket, I went out to find it.
I had not imagined a shop as wonderful as this. I had never seen embossed paint cakes sold for watercolor; nor had I ever imagined such an assortment of brushes and paper. A clerk helped me select what I required, and I was so excited on my return to the silver shop that I found it difficult to focus on the silver polishing that Nicholas had set out for me to do.
That evening I ate quickly, then, as usual, went off to my room. I worked late into the night and did so every night throughout the week. By Saturday evening I was satisfied, and on Sunday morning, after Mr. Burton left for church, I rolled up the small watercolor of Malcolm and gave it to Robert, asking that he give it to Mrs. Burton.
He eyed the roll with some curiosity, but he acted on my request. Later, as I had hoped, Robert returned with an invitation for me to join Mrs. Burton in what was known as Malcolm’s room.
FROM THE KITCHEN I followed Robert up to a second flight of stairs to the third floor and there to a large and open landing. As we walked down the long hallway, past Mr. and Mrs. Burton’s bedrooms, I noted a handsome tall-case clock. I had never seen one but had read of the pendulum workings, and I paused at the shining black walnut case, intrigued by the loud click-clock sound it made. When the machine suddenly bonged, I yelped in surprise, startling Robert. He gave me a sour look, for he was already on edge, having earlier voiced his concern about Malcolm being safely ensconced in his cage.
After Robert knocked on one of the doors, he gave me a look of relief when I offered to enter before him.
“Hello again, young man.” Mrs. Burton welcomed me from a chair that sat next to the fireplace.
“Greetings!” Malcolm interrupted in a perfect imitation of Robert’s voice. “I say, greetings!”
Robert gave a nervous glance, but Malcolm was in his large white metal cage.
Malcolm grew louder: “Greetings! Greetings!”
“You had best say hello to him. He won’t stop until you do,” Mrs. Burton said to me. “Robert, you go ahead. I’ll ring if I need you,” she instructed.
I was as intrigued by the bird as before, but when I reached my hand in to stroke his feathers, he put his beak around one of my fingers. “Careful,” I said, lowering my tone. He held it, though he did not bite down. “Naughty bird,” I said, and when he released me to repeat the phrase, I laughed aloud.
“Bring him out if you like,” my hostess instructed.
Malcolm danced nervously while I worked to undo the enormous latch.
“Offer him your arm,” Mrs. Burton said, and when I did, the bird hopped on. As I made my way over to her, Malcolm climbed up my arm to sit on my shoulder and there took hold of my earlobe.
“Ehhh,” I warned in a low voice.
“Ehhh,” he repeated to me, and when I laughed, he mimicked that, too.
I glanced to see if Mrs. Burton was enjoying this as much as I, and though she smiled, she appeared to have something else on her mind. She pointed to a red velvet wingback. “Come sit with me,” she invited. When I did so, the bird flew up to a perch that swung in front of a window. “You have a remarkable understanding of him.”
“He is beautiful,” I said, settling myself into the chair.
“He belonged to my son,” she said.
“Did Malcolm miss him after he . . .” I stopped myself, wondering if I should have brought up such a painful topic.
“When Gerard passed, Malcolm was as upset as I was. He wouldn’t eat for days, and he didn’t speak for months. For me, it was almost a consolation to see him so lost—he was as devastated as I,” she said. As she spoke, the bird flew back and lit on my shoulder to nuzzle my ear with his beak.
She dabbed at tears. “Forgive me,” she said. “It touches me to see him respond to you in this way. He was never the same after we lost Gerard, and he has been something of a problem for us, but I couldn’t let go of him. Now, seeing him with you—well—this is how he behaved with Gerard.”
“I don’t want to make you cry,” I said. “Should I put him away?”
“No! No, I’ve finished with my tears,” she said, then blew her nose and gave me a tender look. “Thank you for being so thoughtful, though. Your grandmother certainly raised you well. May I call you James?” she asked.
“Or Jamie,” I suggested.
“Is it the name your grandmother used for you?”
I nodded, afraid to speak.
Her voice was soft. “Well, then, I will call you Jamie.” She studied me as though gauging my sensitivity about the upcoming subject. “Jamie, I have a personal question for you. It is about your eyes.”
“Yes?” I asked, looking at her warily. Recently, with others noting it, I had become sensitive to the subject.
“Does your good eye pain you when you paint? That is to say, do you feel that you put a strain on it?”
“No,” I said, “It doesn’t bother me.”
“Good,” she said, “I was hoping for that. Pertaining to your affected eye, might I have a suggestion?”
“Yes,” I said again.
“My husband has a friend, one who, in his youth, lost an eye. He wears a black patch to cover it, and I must say that all of the ladies considered it quite dashing. I was wondering if you would care to have something similar fashioned for you.”
“Well, yes. I would give it a try.”
“That is settled, then.” She looked down at my painting in her lap. “Jamie,” she said, “this is one of the best representations of a salmon-crested cockatoo that I have ever seen.”
“I did the best I could from memory.”
“It is so fine that I will have it framed. Have you ever considered attending some art classes?”
“Grandmother often spoke of it,” I said. “But now . . .”
She smiled. “Well, dear, your grandmother was right. You have a God-given talent. We must have it developed.”