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Sometimes a change changes everything that came before it, too. For Ira, this was like that: it was as if a new color had been thrown across the past ten years, as if the energy he felt now, the optimism, was retroactively applied, so that when he looked back, his mood was better than it had in fact been. He felt expansive. The baby had not been drowned. Bea had not drowned it. She had left it in the care of the pear thieves! Henry was here, and Lillian, who for the first time since Ira had known her had nothing to say. And Emma, whom Ira had missed. She was drained of color, but of course.
Lucy Pear. What a name. Found amongst Ira’s Braffets, imagine that! How horrible he’d been, to think Bea capable of drowning her. She looked so like Bea Ira felt a chill run through him—but her character, he thought, her essence, the pit of her, was different: if Bea was made of compartments, separated by doors that rarely opened, the girl was all one piece. Yet Bea had been like that, too, at this age, when she was Bea-Bea, running around with Julian. Seeing Lucy made that time vivid again. But Lucy wasn’t Ira’s, and he felt surprisingly fine about this—he had no desire whatsoever to rescue her, or even to know her particularly, only to know that she was.
Ira had his own granddaughter now, and perhaps that made a difference. Marlene Aimée, born to Julian and Brigitte on September 15 in New York City. It seemed a very serious name for a baby, but that would sort itself out.
But it wasn’t just the babies. It was Bea, too, who had started playing again, who as she watched the girl now seemed to have slipped from her fortress, forgotten all self-censorship: her mouth hung open, her eyes were clear. And it was Vera, who had at last—quite abruptly—lost her solidity inside Ira, meandered into something else, a gentle, scintillating wind through his limbs, waking him up, pushing him on. A staggering relief. A blessing. Finally, he was giving them back.
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Bea knew Henry’s speech would fail from the start. She had never seen him so nervous, picking at his sleeves, shifting from one shiny Haven shoe to the other. “On this lovely autumn day . . . I must confess I never imagined . . . a pleasure and an honor . . . befitting, to overlook such a prosperous harbor . . .” He was trying to welcome everyone but was uncertain of his terms—it wasn’t his house, after all, and what was he welcoming them to? He was used to speaking, but about matters he’d already pronounced upon, meetings he’d already run in some other incarnation, versions of versions of the same speech. He ended abruptly, with a perhaps involuntary bow: “We are so very pleased to meet you.” But he forgot to address this to Emma or Lucy—instead he looked at Bea, who looked back, aware suddenly that her father had aged. His large hands shook at his sides. The shaking was drastic. It appeared oddly celebratory, almost musical, like his fingers were sending off little fireworks. He looked happier, she thought, worn to a soft patina.
“Anyone for tea?” asked Lillian. She had stopped crying and stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do with her hands now that she had given up her gifts. When no one answered, she said brightly, “I do. I need a cup of tea. I’ll just say it. I’m saying it. Henry, come. Help. We don’t want to protrude.”