—Really? V says. Mean?
—Awful. It damaged her forever.
—Physical attacks?
—Verbal.
—This was when? V asks. During the great Negro revolt of 1885?
Laura stifles a laugh and then coughs.
—It’s not funny, Mrs. Scott says. Laura’s sister is very sensitive, and they were so sarcastic toward her.
—I see, V says. People can be so cruel.
Lunch arrives. Mrs. Scott talks while she eats, and the cavity of her mouth as she works her food makes sounds like a rubber plunger opening a sink drain. Chicken salad and lettuce at various stages of liquidation make repeat appearances between lips and teeth. She holds her fork as if her finger joints hardly articulate, a limp reluctance, as if other people’s hands usually do that job for her. She talks without letup, complaining of Laura’s expenses. The brother breaks in and goes over the figures exact to the dollar, to the extent that V worries she’ll dream of nothing during the night but murmuring voices rising out of a dark fog saying numbers over and over. One thousand, five thousand, ten thousand, hundreds of thousands. Mumbles of millions rolling over and over like a rising tide until dawn.
Mrs. Scott obliquely suggests that Laura has derailed her life by developing inconveniently strong attractions to men she hardly knows.
—I suppose I should have been a harsher disciplinarian, Mrs. Scott says.
—You housebroke me by tying me to the potty and whipping me, Laura says.
—She’s so dramatic, Blount says. I was seven or eight and remember how it was. Mother only striped her legs with a willow switch when she was willful. And if she’d just complied, Mother wouldn’t have tied her.
The longer she stays among them, the more V believes Laura’s family would gladly commission a hole to be drilled through her forehead and a long red-hot needle plunged into her brain if it would put her under their control.
—Are you taking care to see that she doesn’t run off with some boy? Mrs. Scott asks V.
—Laura’s a woman, so I’d advise her against a boy. I’d been married nearly three years at her age. Anyway, I’m her friend, not her caretaker. And I’m certainly not applying for the position of mother.
Mrs. Scott plows ahead and says, I worry about this little play you all are putting on. She’ll fall in love with Hamlet if he’s younger than sixty.
—He is, and maybe she will, V says. But I can guarantee he won’t fall in love with her. His interests lie elsewhere.
—Another girl?
—He’s a confirmed bachelor. Very resolute.
Mrs. Scott shakes her head all weary, like the world has gone too far wrong to comment.
Laura endures the conversation by pretending to occupy a whole other scene. She picks through her salad and eats the pecan halves and raisins and crescent moons of celery, leaving behind a plate of lettuce and tomatoes and croutons.
—At any rate, I plan to attend the rehearsal this afternoon, Mrs. Scott declares.
—Little to see today, V says. Only the boring parts—figuring out who stands where. And besides, the rehearsal isn’t until late afternoon, almost dinner.
—I’ll just say this, and you need to know it, Mrs. Scott says, leaning forward toward V. Laura never took blame for anything. That is the source of her difficulty. Failure of personal responsibility.
After delivering her mighty revelation, Mrs. Scott sits back justified and sanctified, stuffed sausage-tight inside her charcoal dress.
Laura says, Family trait.
THE DISHES HAVE ALREADY been taken away and they’re drinking coffee when James arrives. He carries the blue book under his arm and V’s note in his hand like a traveler at a border crossing holding a passport ready to present.
—Oh, James, V says. I’d like to introduce my friend here at the hotel, Laura. And her mother, Mrs. Scott, and her brother, Mr. Scott.
To the table she says, This is Mr. Blake. We’ve recently reunited. Long ago he was a son to me.
James says all the correct formulas of words.
Laura says, So, the mysterious Mr. Blake I’ve heard V talk about so much.
She holds out her hand for a touch of greeting.
Mrs. Scott looks at James and then at V. She stays quiet. Blount doesn’t stand to shake hands.
V looks at James with a slight eye roll, and says, Mrs. Scott and young Blount are shy folks and sometimes find themselves at a loss for words in polite society. But I’m sure they’re pleased to meet you too.
Laura laughs aloud.
James looks a question at V and she nods toward the empty chair. He takes his seat and says to Laura, You were playing the piano a couple of Sundays ago. “Sunflower Slow Drag.”
—I can’t play Joplin fast enough.
—The title of the song has the word slow in it, but people always play it too fast, showing off. Your version was beautiful.
Mrs. Scott lifts her hand a couple of inches off the table and levels her forefinger at V. She whispers, You keep them away from each other. I mean it. One time, she ran off for a week with a middle-aged saxophone player.
V looks directly at the finger—not a trace of smile on her face—until Mrs. Scott withdraws it.
ON THE TERRACE, V and James regard the long blue and green view stretching hazy to the west. Between them on a low table, a silver tea tray, and a smaller tray with a dozen tiny triangular sandwiches, and the blue book.
—Was that awkward? James says.
—Not for me it wasn’t. I like Laura very much, and care about her well-being. I tried to distract her family, a feint at the flank to entice them to aim their artillery my direction, since I’m well fortified.
—And toward me too? James asks.
—A little. And only because I knew you could stand it because you’re fortified too—even when you were tiny you were. Laura isn’t at all, and her mother and brother are predators and will eat her alive if they can.
V drifts into talking about generations. How grandparents and grandchildren so often get along very well. Remove one generation—twenty-five years at least—and the anger
