Wild Heart (12 page)

That was all he wrote. He didn't want to give her his paper at all, and when she insisted, she saw that he'd scribbled a little more, but blacked it out. She looked at him curiously. He met her gaze, embarrassed but defiant. "I don't want to write about that."

"All right. Don't, then. Write about something else." He wrote about the mother bear who let her cubs torment her all summer, biting her feet, ears, tail, endlessly wrestling with her, jumping on her stomach.

The most payshent animal of all is the mother bear.

His reading improved daily, and soon Sam's school primers were too easy for him. She went to the library and found more challenging books, on subjects she thought would interest "him: animals, forests, a story about a boy and his beloved dog, another about a boy and his beloved horse. Michael devoured these books; he read them again and again and didn't want to part with them, until she brought home another armload and he fell in love with those, too. Sydney began to understand what dedicated teachers were talking about when they spoke of the joys and satisfactions of their profession. It was like watching someone being born. He had a million questions, and on some days they got no reading work done at all while she tried to answer them.

She had questions, too.

She found a book about a little girl who fell off her rocking horse and lost her memory. Even though it was much too young for him by now, it was perfect for the kind of discussion she had in mind.

"What would it be like to lose your memory?" she wondered leadingfy. "Memories are part of what makes us the person we are, don't you think? What are your earliest memories, Michael? Write one down. Just for fun. Your earliest memory."

He didn't have to think about it. Without a second's hesitation, he wrote,
"My father taking me on a wauk. "

She was so excited, she forgot to correct his spelling. "You remember your father?"

He nodded.

"Who was he? What was his name?"

"Father." He smiled. "He smoked a pipe, like your father. But he wasn't old. He was strong. Tall—I thought he was a giant. Black hair, like mine. He gave me candy, I remember. Made me hunt for it in his pockets."

"Do you remember your mother?"

"I remember her laughing. I thought she was beautiful. Another time, I remember her painting pictures. In a room with high windows—all I could see was the sky. After that, she was sick. I had to be quiet."

"Where did you live?" she asked, breathless.

His eyes went out of focus, not seeing her. "A big house. It had a name."

"A name?"

"Yes, a title. But I can't remember it."

"What did it look like?"

"Stone. Long halls, dark. There was a lady who took care of me who wasn't my mother."

"A nanny? A nurse?"

He nodded uncertainly.

"Where was your house? In Canada? Was it here? Do you remember what state?"

He shook his head to all of those.

"How do you think you got lost?"

He pushed his chair back from the table and put his hands on his knees, staring at the floor between his feet. A lock of his hair fell over his forehead, obscuring his face.

"I think I did something wrong. Something bad. Because I was sent away."

"Oh, no, how could that be? You were only a child."

He lifted his head. "I'm sure of it," he said, and the pain in his light green eyes shocked her. "I was sent away across the water in a ship. With two people. Aunt and uncle."

"Your aunt and uncle?"

"I can't remember their names. But I knew them." He stood up. "I don't want to talk anymore."

"All right."

"I don't want to think about this."

"It doesn't matter. We'll do something else." And she asked him to write a paragraph about the seasons.

* * * * *

The next day, she took the train into the city. She had been to the Maritime Museum before, years ago when she and Philip were children, and again with Sam when he was about five. It was a big, dark, depressing building with a few interesting exhibits—lifesize models of Viking ships and Chinese sampans, a diorama of Columbus landing in the New World—but for the most part it was filled with dusty, glass-covered relics, like pieces of mast and sections of sail, and lifeless charts depicting the evolution of ships from the Phoenicians to modern times.

It also had a Great Lakes Room in which, among other things, the names of everyone who had perished in disastrous shipwrecks in the five lakes were inscribed in ledgers kept in a glass bookcase. To see the names one had only to ask one of the caretakers standing around in dark uniforms, looking bored and eager for a distraction, to unlock the case. On the train, Sydney had decided that to be on the safe side she needed to look at the whole decade of the seventies; that would allow plenty of leeway on either side of Michael's present age, as well as the age, approximately six years, at which he'd gotten lost.

Details of shipwrecks in the Great Lakes in the 1870s took up two books. They weren't thick, but the print was tiny, and the desk the custodian directed her to was dim, miles from the nearest window. For an hour and a half she pored over the names of steamers, schooners, excursion vessels, cargo barges, growing more and more appalled by the lists of names, names, names of the men and women who had gone down with them in the icy, gale-swept waters of Erie and Superior and Michigan. When a ship wrecked in winter, there were never any survivors; in the warmer months, there might be a few. She found some MacNeils, but the circumstances never seemed right. What would a little boy be doing on a coal barge or a navy motor launch? Or an iceboat? Her instincts told her to look for some sort of excursion ship or pleasure vessel, but there were no MacNeils among those lists. She wrote down anything that seemed remotely relevant, though, and went home feeling discouraged.

My father gave me a book on my birthday. It is called Now I Am a Man. He said read it and learn the lessons and when I see him again I will be a man. Then he sent me away.

"What was the book about?" Sydney asked. "What sort of lessons did it have?"

Rainwater in rivulets snaked down the long glass doors that led to the terrace. The dining room was dark and dreary today, and Sydney debated lighting the lamp. But she liked the watery, greenish light, the cosy mood it imparted to their sanctum.

Michael hesitated, then reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out something wrapped in a handkerchief. The object, once he had unwrapped it, bore no resemblance to a book any longer; it was a blackened, mottled, shapeless lump of pulp. But his hands were gentle when he touched it, and he laid it on the table in front of her with something close to reverence.

"It tells how to be a gentleman," he said simply, and if he was aware of the irony in that, he had accepted it so long ago that it didn't need mentioning. "It tells about honor and truthfulness. And fair play. Good manners."

"Ah." That explained so many things.

“I know it by heart."

Of course he did. She nodded, taken unawares by the lump in her throat. "You were a good student. You are a gentleman, Michael."

"No."

"You don't think so?"

"I know I'm not." He scooped up his book, carefully rewrapped it in the handkerchief, and stuck it back in his pocket as if it embarrassed him.

"Why do you say that?"

He shook his head at her. She heard exasperation in his sigh.
Are you really that thick?
he could have been asking.

"Why?" she repeated. "Tell me."

"Because I'm .. ." He waved his hands, as if he didn't know where to begin. "I can't even eat in this room," he finally exploded. "I know
words
about forks and napkins and glasses, but I don't know what to do. I can't make a necktie. O'Fallon taught me shoelaces, or I couldn't do that. I have a clock, but I don't know how to tell time. What does 'How do you do' mean? It's not a real question. 'How are you?'—no one wants a real answer. What do these words mean? What is the secret? I don't know who I am, I don't understand who I could be, or what I want to be, or what you want me to be. I'm—" He put his palms on his forehead and pressed. "I only know what I'm not. A gentleman."

"No, you're wrong." She was nonplussed, but she kept talking, to minimize the momentousness of what he had just told her. It was too big to face right now, with no preparation. "Some of that is hard—I don't know who I am, either," she confessed hastily, "and some of it's easy. I can teach you the easy things. I didn't even know you
wanted
to eat with us. Stupid—I should've known—I'm sorry. Manners, that's all that is. There's nothing to it. We'll practice."

"But the aunt won't like it. She doesn't want me here."

"Then we'll change her mind. These things that baffle you, Michael, they're just tricks, things I know because I've always known them. But they're not important, they're—"

"They are if you don't know them."

"You're right. Of course they are. So we'll start right now. And I know the first thing we're going to do."

"What?"

"We're going to cut your hair."

* * * * *

She decided to do it in the day parlor, where Sam was playing with his toy soldiers and Philip was stretched out on the sofa with the newspaper over his head, dozing. She wanted company, witnesses, lighthearted banter going on while she performed this intimate service for Michael. There was already tension under the surface of their quiet mornings together; no need to tighten that strain, she reasoned, with unsupervised physical contact.

"I love cutting men's hair," she said, unfurling a towel around his shoulders. He sat in a straight-backed chair in the middle of the room, stiff and stoical, nervously eyeing the scissors. "I should've been a barber. I'm good at it, aren't I, Philip? I used to cut your hair all the time."

"She cuts mine," Sam chimed in. He was trying to balance two of his soldiers on Michael's thighs, to "entertain" him while he got his hair cut. "Are you going to cut Michael's hair like mine?"

"Not exactly."

"Why not?"

"Because he's older."

"So what?"

"So he gets an older haircut." She smiled at Michael, who did his best to smile back. He had thick, straight hair, soft as black satin. She watched his eyes lose that alert, worried look and turn dreamy. His shoulders began to relax as she took the comb over his scalp slowly and gently. "Tell Michael about the barbershop at the Palmer House," she said, glancing at Philip.

He sat up, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. "The Palmer House barbershop? It looks like a church. No, a Roman bath. It's got eighteen-foot ceilings, mirrors everywhere. It's got about twenty barbers, all dressed up in tailcoats and studded shirts. Marble lavatories. If you want a shave you have to lie down in a sedan chair."

"Tell him about the floor," Sam urged, then blurted Out, "It's got silver dollars all over it!" before Philip could speak.

Michael frowned, perplexed. "Why?"

"Silver dollars, right inside it, so you can see them. You can walk right on top of money!"

"They're embedded in the tiles," Philip explained.

"But why?"

Nobody spoke for a moment; everybody was thinking.

"Just for..."

"It's to . . ."

"It makes it..."

Baffled silence.

Philip sat back and stuck his feet up on the ottoman, rattling his newspaper. "Hell if I know."

"Hell if I know," echoed Sam. He picked up his soldiers and carried them back to the corner, pointedly avoiding Sydney's scowl.

Michael glanced at her. "You've stumped us," she told him, shrugged, and got on with her work.

"Are you going to cut off his beard?" Sam wondered presently.

Sydney had just been asking herself that question. "What do you think?" she said to Michael. Since O'Fallon's departure, no one had shaved him, and he had a glossy black beard she found very attractive. Still, she liked him even better clean-shaven. He had such handsome cheekbones, why cover them up?

He stroked his chin doubtfully and looked at Philips— the men's fashion expert. "What do you think?"

"Shave it," Philip answered promptly.

"Not even a mustache?" asked Sydney. Philip's dark, dashing mustache drooped down and framed his mouth on either side like two commas.

"Nope. Shave it all off."

"Sure?"

"Sure. That way nobody will ever be tempted to call him the
wild
man."

Sydney winced. Michael only looked thoughtful, though, anything but hurt by Philip's lack of tact. "Yes." He nodded positively. "Let's shave it all off. It's cooler without it. Also easier to eat."

"Philip, will you help him shave? The first time, anyway?"

"Delighted."

"Thank you," Michael said formally.

"Don't mention it."

Sydney let a little time pass before her next suggestion. Michael's haircut was proceeding beautifully, if she said so herself. A little wildness wasn't a bad thing, she considered, deciding to let the ends curl just a bit around his shirt collar. On the matter of sideburns, she struck a happy medium: mid-ear, neither too long and exuberant nor too short and skimpy. Really, she would've made an excellent barber.

Leaning over him, blowing at the stray hairs on his neck, she accidentally blew in his ear. He drew in his breath with a gasp she hoped no one else heard, and gripped the sides of his chair with both hands. A muscle in his jaw jumped. He slanted her a glance, quick and frank, and the message in his light green eyes couldn't have been clearer.

Shaken, she stepped behind him and began to slap lightly, impersonally, at his shoulders.

"Philip, do you know what I was thinking?" she said, shaking the towel out.

"What?"

"I was thinking, Michael's been cooped up for ages; in fact, he hasn't
left
here since he
got
here. It must be getting awfully dull for him. Isn't it, Michael? So I was
thinking, he'd probably like to get out, see something of the world, you know, see some faces besides ours."

Philip looked dubious. "I don't know, Syd. I'm not sure that's such a—"

"The problem is, there are a few little things he doesn't know yet. Things Papa would never think of teaching him, but, um, the sorts of things only a man can tell another man about."

Now Philip looked alarmed. "Like what?"

"Oh, you know." She shrugged, pretending to think. "Tying a tie, for instance."

"Oh,
that
sort of thing."

"Or things about clothes, you know, what goes with what. How to meet people, what a gentleman says when he's introduced—just simple things you take for granted. How to order a meal in a restaurant, how to pay for it."

"I see." Philip eyed Michael thoughtfully, then interestedly. "Sure, I could do that."

Michael's face broke into a smile of pure delight. "Thank you. You'll be a good teacher."

Philip grinned back. "We'll see."

"And meanwhile," Sydney went on casually, "I'll be passing on a few things about, oh, table manners and so forth, just drawing room etiquette he probably—"

"Now that his hair looks nice, maybe Aunt Estelle won't hate it if he eats dinner with us," Sam broke in.

She sighed, almost past embarrassment on Michael's behalf by now. "Maybe," she agreed. "Anyway, before that happens, we'll need to go over a few small—"

"And
I
can teach him arithmetic. Because I'm really, really good at numbers. I can teach you how money works, what a half dollar is and a dime and everything. And games, I can teach you how to play checkers and chess, and dominoes, and card games harder than Flinch. Rummy, you could learn that. Oh, oh—and clocks! I know how to tell time and you don't! I could teach you, Michael, and someday you could get a watch, and you'd always know what time it is. And croquet, that's not numbers or anything but I could teach you . . ."

He rattled on. Philip chuckled and went back to his newspaper. With the towel tucked under her chin while she folded it, Sydney darted a glance at Michael. He caught the look and thanked her with his eyes. Smiling back, she only hoped she deserved his gratitude, and that he'd still feel grateful in a day or two. No going back now, though; the die was cast. The Winter family had just taken on Michael MacNeil as their summer project.