Do you think you could sit still for a bit?’
‘I suppose so. Why?’
‘I just want to do a quick sketch. That is, if you don’t mind.’
‘You already did the drawing of all of us.’
‘I know. But now I just want to sketch you. Is it all right or not?’
‘As long as you don’t draw my hands.’
He rolled up his shirtsleeves and shook his head. ‘Don’t start hating parts of yourself already, Alice; you’re too young. I won’t sketch your hands if you don’t want me to, but they’re lovely. Hold them up. See? Your fingers are perfectly tapered. You could hold a brush or play a musical instrument more easily than most people because of the distance from the middle joint of your finger to the tip. Ideal proportions.’
He picked up a pencil and sharpened it against a small square of sandpaper. ‘Why do we lack the capacity to celebrate small bits of perfection? Unless it’s obvious on a grand scale, it’s not worth acknowledging. I find that extremely tiresome.’
‘Birds are perfect. Yet most people completely overlook them.’
‘Well, if birds are perfect, then you are as well. And I can’t imagine anyone failing to notice you, Alice. Now, hold up your hand. I want you to study it.’
She was suddenly self-conscious, aware of her unruly hair, her dirty feet. She held up one hand and stared at the back of it, wondering what it was she was supposed to see, while Thomas went to the phonograph in the corner of the room and thumbed through a stack of albums before taking one from its sleeve. He set the needle down on the record, then poured himself a drink and lit a cigarette. The voice that filled the room was French and mournful, the singer entirely alone in the world.
‘Are you concentrating on your hand? Do you see that river of blue running just beneath your skin? It’s a path begging to be followed, or a stream running over a crest of bone before dipping into a valley. Now sit still and let me sketch you. I’ll be quick.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Edith Piaf.’
‘She doesn’t sound happy.’
He sighed. ‘You’re going to have to stop talking. Your expression keeps changing. She’s called the Little Sparrow—ah, something bird-related! If she doesn’t sound happy it’s because she hasn’t had reason to be. Married young. Got pregnant. Had to leave her child in the care of prostitutes while she worked.’ He paused and looked up from his easel. ‘Am I shocking you?’
She shook her head, secretly alarmed over the woman’s circumstances, but thrilled with the image that formed: an insignificant brown-gray bird with a stubby beak breaking forth into magnificent, sorrowful tones.
‘The little girl died when she was just two years old from meningitis. Piaf was injured in a car accident and became a morphine addict. Her one true love died in a plane crash. She’s quite a tragic figure. But her history flavors her music, don’t you think? She’s haunted. You hear it in her voice.’ He hummed along, apparently pleased with his macabre story.
‘You’re not happy. Are you haunted?’
He peered at her from the side of his sketch pad before setting the pencil down on the easel tray. He was scowling, but one corner of his mouth curved up, as if she’d amused him. ‘What makes you think I’m unhappy?’
It was a fault of hers, telling people exactly what was on her mind. You should practice the art of subtlety, Natalie had told her once.
‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘Alice.’
She bit the inside of her cheek before answering him. ‘Unhappiness is easy to see. People try so hard to hide it.’
‘Very astute. Continue.’
‘Maybe you hide it by the way you look at people. You only focus on their bits and pieces. Like you don’t want to get to know them as a whole person. Or maybe you just don’t want them to get to know you. Maybe you’re afraid they won’t like you very much.’
He stiffened at the last. ‘I’m finished. I told you I’d be quick. It’s an interesting theory, especially coming from a fourteen-year-old.’
‘You’re angry.’
‘With someone as precocious as you? That would be dangerous.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘You don’t like it? It’s meant as a compliment.’
‘It’s not a compliment.’ A flush of heat swept her cheeks and her eyes started to tear. She was miserable realizing she’d said the wrong thing. ‘It only means you know more than adults think you should, and that you make them uncomfortable. They’re not sure what they can and can’t say around you. Besides, it sounds too much like precious. I hate that word.’
He walked over to the sofa and offered her a handkerchief crusted with paint, but she pushed it back toward him, blinking in an effort not to cry. Thomas chuckled. The thought that he was laughing at her made her furious, and she started stammering until he put a finger under her chin and turned her face up to his.
The air in the room grew warm. The sound of her own heart startled her, the racing thump of it so obvious, so loud in her ears. How could he not hear? It drowned out the Little Sparrow, roaring over her words, her melancholy cry. The contents of the room twisted and Alice’s mouth went dry. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. Soon she’d be gasping to breathe, a fish flailing in shallow water. Her eyes darted from his feet, to the cuff of his sleeve, to the needle of the phonograph, gently bobbing along the surface of the record. Her skin tingled. There was no help for it. She had to look at him and, when she did, his expression changed from mock remorse, to concern, and then to understanding. Her face burned.
He dropped his hand and stepped back, studying the floor for a moment before looking at her again. ‘Fine. From this point forward, I will eliminate both precocious and precious from my vocabulary. Am I forgiven?’ He made a face and pressed his hands together, as if praying.
He was making fun of her in a kind way, or else trying to make her laugh. The world righted itself as quickly as it had been thrown off its axis. He was sorry he’d hurt her feelings. He wanted to be forgiven. A small current of power coursed through her.
‘Yes. I forgive you. Besides, I’ll bet if I asked your parents, they’d say you weren’t very mature yourself. You can’t be that much older than I am, Thomas.’
This time he didn’t smile. ‘Subterfuge doesn’t suit you, Alice, and I hope it’s not something you’ll grow into. If you want to know how old I am, just ask. Although I wouldn’t recommend it as a common practice. Most people would take offense. Fortunately, I am not most people.’ He bowed at the waist. ‘I’m twenty-eight. Worlds older than you. Ancient.’
‘You don’t seem ancient.’
‘Well, I am. I was born old. My mother told me once that I looked like a grumpy old man from the moment I was born—wrinkled, pruney face, rheumy eyes. You’ve heard the expression an old soul? I was born with a head full of someone else’s failed dreams and a heart full of someone else’s memories. There’s nothing to do for it, I suppose, although if I knew I was going to turn out this way, I would have preferred to choose whose memories and heartbreaks I’d be saddled with.’ He looked at her. ‘And you? I suppose, like most people your age, you’re anxious to be older.’
She ignored the pointed people your age. She didn’t want to admit that whatever serious plans she’d made for herself changed depending on the day of the week, or on the book she’d just read, or whether she felt strong from a full night of sleep or weak from a fevered one. The future was a dark cave yawning just ahead, beckoning her to