“A lot of people make that mistake.”
“It’s a funny name.”
“You should visit it while you’re here. It’s a beautiful place.”
“I’d like to,” she said. “I saw pictures online.” She hesitated. “Is that where my mother lives? In Sewanee?”
“No, your mother lives where I do, between here and Sewanee. We’re neighbors of a kind.”
She nodded.
“Do you want me to show you your mother’s house?”
“Now?”
“Or whenever you want.”
“Maybe in a little while.” But she didn’t say this with any confidence.
“Do you have a place to stay?”
She shook her head. Her solemn eyes. She was like an orphan in a basket at my door.
“Well, why don’t you come back to my house then. I have a nice guest room. You can take a nap. After you’re rested we can make a plan.”
“That’s very nice of you, but . . .”
“It would be no trouble. I’d be happy to have you.”
“Oh, thank you, but it’s not that. I just . . . you said . . . how close is your house to my mom’s?”
“Oh! Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s a big pond between us.”
After that she agreed to come. I asked for the check, waving off her attempt to pay. As we went down the stairs leaving the restaurant, she offered me her arm and I took it. A considerate girl. I was impressed. I can manage on my own, of course, but it’s easier not to. She drives a pickup truck. She followed me back to my house. I drove slowly, checking the rearview mirror to make sure she was still there.
All she had with her was a backpack. She carried it by a strap instead of on her back. I said, “Backpacks used to be just for soldiers,” and she said, “How did students carry their books?” I couldn’t think of the answer.
I led her into the guest room and waved at the two beds. The beds seemed to perk up at our presence, coming to attention. I’d been using this room for massage, of course, but when was the last time someone slept here? “You can have whichever one you like,” I said, and I had the fanciful notion that both beds said, Choose me!
She came over and touched each one, then picked the one nearest the door. We made the bed together. “Now, why don’t you nap?” I said. I made to leave so she could get undressed, but she just climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her. I had a silly urge to tuck them closer, to kiss her on the forehead. I contented myself with turning out the light and telling her to sleep well.
She slept and slept and slept. I thought she might sleep a hundred years. I hoped I was the fairy godmother and not the witch. It was nearly five o’clock when she emerged yawning with a pillow-creased face and said, “I slept a long time.”
“You were tired,” I said. “You needed it.”
She rubbed her face. “Is there a toy store around here? I missed Milo’s birthday. And Christmas.”
“Well, what are you looking for?”
“A toy? A book?”
I didn’t know what to tell her. In Sewanee there’s an overstuffed home-décor shop a Victorian might enjoy. It has a heavy smell of potpourri. There are places where you can buy pottery mugs. I don’t know where you shop for a child. The Walmart in Winchester is half an hour away, down the steep side of the Mountain. I don’t like to drive that road. “It’s late in the day, sweetheart. I don’t know if anything will still be open.”
She absorbed this news, looking worried. “I really think I should get something.”
“You don’t have to go to your mother’s today. You can wait until tomorrow. You can stay as long as you want.”
I was surprised how quickly she agreed to this. “Tomorrow, then. Is that okay? Maybe the campus bookstore will have something? And then I can go over there.”
“That’s a good plan,” I said.
She looked around, like she was only now coming awake to her surroundings, and said, “I like your house.” I thanked her. She walked around asking me questions about this and that. She studied the portraits of my ancestors while I told her all about them, the general with his beard and the wife with the white cap and the severe expression. She sat down on my couch and put her hand on the scrapbook, still on the coffee table. “What’s this?”
“Oh, don’t look at that,” I said. “It’s my scrapbook from the war. It’s full of sad stories.”
“Which war?” she asked, and I told her, and then I told her about my service, a mild and cheering version, with all the horror ignored. She listened, turning the pages slowly. She stopped before we reached Germany, for which I was glad.
“Margaret,” she said, and I waited for a question about the war. “Do you know about my father?”