Don’t look at me that way, Tubby.
Mam’s rabbit gazes in my direction, his eyes all starry-blind. Even so there is a sadness in his look. He sits on the bookshelf . . . well, no, he can no longer “sit” at all, he just occupies space in a lumpy sort of way. When my mother was a little girl, Tubby was quite a fine, soft thing to hold, all puffed up in rich brown plush, but now you have to look very hard to find any of his old self—the faded bits of fur hidden among the folds of worn cotton. Mam said his eyes were once black and snappy, polished bright as Daddy’s boots. Now they’re broken buttons, mother-of-pearl, cross-stitched with white thread. That’s my handiwork. A poor job, I’m afraid. No wonder he can’t seem to focus.
I managed to rescue Tubby, but the bookshelves were a mess, all that tea dripping down, and as I cleaned I pulled out the row of my mother’s books. A Street of Little Shops, Poor Cecco, The Candlestick. Then her first book for children, The Velveteen Rabbit. How long had it been since I’d read that book? Thirty years? More? Once, though, I had it almost memorized, and the words of her story burned in my brain. All that wisdom parceled out with love and humor and simplicity.
Not that any of it did me any good. I didn’t understand a thing.
I took the book over to the chair, held it unopened in my lap. In the pool of light, the glassine cover shone like a glaze of water. I ran my hand over William’s simple drawing of the bunny who knows nothing of the world, all alert and eager and innocent.
I read The Velveteen Rabbit ever so slowly.
In my mind I was back at Old House, and I could hear the warm, clear tones of my mother’s voice as she read her story to us the very first time. It’s impossible to read the book without hearing her—the story is my mother’s voice.
My reading was really more remembering, though, because every paragraph, every drawing, made me stop and think of how, long ago, I yearned just to understand, to be part of the world of men and women together. But I was not one of them, I was pieced together differently, and I never could run with the other rabbits in the meadow.
“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”
I’d no idea what she meant when she wrote about being Real. My mother’s wisdom was wasted on me.
Now her words prick me with shame.
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real, you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. . . .”
I shattered so easily . . . my edges were like glass.
I am so sorry, Mam, I’d like to tell her now.
If Mam really were here, I know what she would say about this letter of Robert’s. She would be thinking of Lorenzo, she would suggest, ever so gently, that I should do this for my son. And perhaps even for myself.
Forgiving Robert might release a burden of your own, Pamela.
My mother knew all about forgiveness. She was an expert.
II
God—the telephone!
The loud ringing of the phone startles me so that I almost jump off the chair.
Robert? My God, could it really be Robert? So soon? I’m not ready. . . .
I walk over to the phone, so flustered that all I can think is this: It can’t be Robert, but if it is, well I can just hang up.
The receiver is heavy. Cold. I don’t want to put it to my ear. I hold it away a bit as I answer.
“Hello?”
“Hi Mom, glad I caught you.”
The relief is immense, but I’ve been so tense that I can hear that my voice sounds thin, constricted.
“Oh, Lorenzo, how are you darling?”
“Fine, Mom. Look, I was wondering if I could drop by? I wanted to chat with you about something if you have some time.”
Something catches inside me. He wants to chat about something. Well, ask him what it is. But no, it’s probably nothing at all, don’t be ridiculous. I think these thoughts even as I answer him and they make me hold back.
“Oh, well. Lorenzo. Of course I’d love to talk to you, darling, it’s just that I’m . . . just a bit under the weather today. Would tomorrow do just as well?
“Oh, okay, sure. That’s fine, Mom. You didn’t sound so hot when you answered the phone. When should I come over?”
“Come for tea, why don’t you. Around four?”
Saturday January 15
I
I’m looking forward to seeing Lorenzo now. When I put down the phone yesterday I was all nerves, full of dread. I knew that it didn’t really matter what was on Lorenzo’s mind—the fact is that when I see him I will have to bring up this business about his father. I simply can’t avoid it any longer. The man is coming to New York, and who knows what he might do, what he might say?
But now I’ve worked it all out. I feel almost calm. I’ve thought about Robert’s letter until I can think no more. Last night, I made up my mind. Just tell Lorenzo the truth. This letter from your father came out of the blue. Here it is. What do you think we should do?
I’m still a bit nervous, I can’t help it, but I’m pleased with this plan. I like the idea of including Lorenzo in this turn of events. I like the simplicity of it—no need to overexplain. No awkward apologizing, not at this point. God knows that now, when it all seems to be catching up with me, I regret that I’ve avoided talking of Robert over the years. But I never thought any good could come of it. Lorenzo knows that. And I know that he forgave me for this long ago. I’m sure of it. He’s always been such a devoted son.
I feel almost happy.
And now, there’s an errand to run. I’ll go pick up some sort of treat for Lorenzo’s visit. The day is cold, overcast, a promise of snow in the steely sky. I dress carefully. The old winter silk chemise, dotted with holes along the seams, but it still keeps me warm. The heavy Irish sweater. Two pairs of socks. The no-nonsense boots I got years ago on sale at Saks—quilted black fabric outside, lined with fake gray fur.
At Balducci’s I decide to splurge. Four éclairs instead of two. Might as well have plenty. Lorenzo might want two. I grow more lighthearted with every moment. The ruddy, middle-aged man behind the counter is so friendly! He ties a strawlike ribbon twice around the white box with great care. Gently, he nestles the small rectangular box into a nice bag, one with handles, and hands it to me with a smile.
“Always my favorite, those éclairs. Hope you enjoy them!”
Outside, the wind has picked up. I can feel the cold right through my coat. Maybe it was looking at all that lovely food in Balducci’s, but I haven’t gone far before I realize I’m not just cold but also very hungry. I remember that there’s a diner I like on 12th Street. I’ll get some coffee. Maybe a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato.