Chapter Text
Vincent decided he hated New Orleans before the car had fully come to a stop.
It was the heat, mostly.
New York became hot in summer, certainly. Heat gathered between buildings and rose from the pavement until the streets shimmered, but this was something else entirely. This heat had substance. It slipped through the narrow opening his mother had permitted in the window of the motorcar and settled beneath Vincent’s collar, dampened the hair at his temples, and made the leather seat cling unpleasantly to the backs of his knees.
Outside, everything was too green.
Trees crowded both sides of the street, their branches stretching overhead until they nearly touched. Vines climbed the iron fences. Flowers with broad, waxy petals hung over garden walls as though exhausted by their own weight. Somewhere outside, insects produced a shrill, ceaseless sound unlike anything Vincent had heard before.
He pressed one finger against the warm glass window.
“Are they always that loud?”
His mother did not look up from the folder balanced across her knees.
“Are what always loud, darling?”
“The insects.”
“I imagine one stops noticing them.”
She turned another page. Across the top, in carefully typed letters, were the words DUPRÉ & BELL ADVERTISING : AUTUMN CAMPAIGN PROPOSAL.
She had been studying the same folder since breakfast, though whether she was reading it or merely pretending to, Vincent could not tell.
His father slowed the car beside a pale two-storey house and looked at it with the satisfaction of a man inspecting something he had purchased rather than somewhere he intended to live.
“There we are.”
Vincent’s mother finally raised her head.
“The photographs made it look larger.”
“It is larger than the apartment.”
“The apartment had a lift.”
“It has stairs, Evelyn.”
“Yes, Harold. I can see that.”
His father pulled the brake.
A large moving van parked crookedly beside the pavement. Men in shirtsleeves carried furniture through the open front door while another attempted to guide the piano up the steps without striking the porch railing.
His father glanced at Vincent through the rear-view mirror.
“Well?”
Vincent looked from him to the house.
“Well what?”
“What do you think?”
It was the first time anyone had asked since they crossed the state line, but his father’s tone suggested there was only one suitable answer.
Vincent examined the shuttered windows, the narrow balcony above the porch, and the two stone urns standing empty beside the steps.
“It’s very hot,” he said.
His father’s mouth tightened.
His mother gave a faint, distracted laugh. “You’ll become accustomed to it.”
Vincent had been hearing that for weeks.
He would become accustomed to the heat. He would become accustomed to his new school. He would become accustomed to Southern food, Southern voices, Southern insects and a house that did not contain any of the familiar scratches or creaks of the one they had left behind.
Apparently, becoming accustomed to something was what adults called remaining unhappy quietly enough that they no longer had to discuss it.
His father stepped out of the car.
“Take your suitcase inside, Vincent. Stay clear of the movers, and don’t drag your feet.”
Vincent climbed out and was struck immediately by air so humid that breathing it felt like drinking bathwater.
His mother remained seated long enough to rearrange her papers. His father had already begun directing the men on the porch.
“The piano goes in the drawing room,” Harold called. “No, the front room. Mind the legs.”
“You said the drawing room would be my office,” Evelyn said as she emerged from the car.
“I said we would discuss it.”
“You said it was settled.”
“Not now, Evelyn.”
A mover passed between them carrying a rolled carpet.
And Their voices changed immediately.
His father stepped aside with a pleasant smile. His mother smoothed the front of her dress and thanked the man as though she and her husband had not been seconds from arguing.
Vincent retrieved his small blue suitcase from the boot himself.
Across the narrow strip of lawn, another house stood behind a low iron fence.
It was smaller than theirs and older, painted cream with dark red shutters. A broad porch stretched across the front, shaded by an enormous magnolia tree whose branches reached over part of the roof. Its garden was full without appearing unruly. Herbs grew in painted boxes beneath the kitchen windows. Red and yellow flowers bordered the path in deliberate rows.
The brass gate latch clicked.
A man stepped through the gate carrying two paper sacks against his chest.
He was much younger than Vincent’s father but still unquestionably grown. His tanned skin contrasted against Vincent's pale one. His dark hair was neatly curled stylishly, and the sleeves of his white shirt had been folded with perfect symmetry to his elbows. A dark red waistcoat lay across the top of one sack, carefully placed so that it would not crease.
He nudged the gate shut with the heel of one polished shoe and adjusted the groceries against his chest.
Then he noticed Vincent watching.
Vincent looked away so quickly that his neck hurt.
“Good afternoon,” the stranger called.
Vincent stared down at the brass fastenings of his suitcase as if it had suddenly become fascinating.
There was a pause long enough for him to become aware that he had failed to answer.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, straightening.
When he risked another glance, the man had already reached his porch. He opened the front door, disappeared inside, and shut it neatly behind him.
“Vincent.”
His mother stood in the doorway of their new house, her work folder tucked beneath one arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Then bring your things inside, darling. You’re in everyone’s way.”
+++
Vincent’s bedroom was at the rear of the second floor.
His mother called this fortunate because its windows overlooked the gardens rather than the road. Vincent could not understand what was fortunate about unfamiliar trees instead of unfamiliar houses, but he did not argue.
A navy wool blanket had been folded across the foot of his bed. Three cardboard boxes stood beneath the windows.
One contained clothes. One contained books. The third had been labelled VINCENT-PERSONAL in his mother’s handwriting.
He opened it using the pointed end of a comb.
On top lay his illustrated book about ocean predators, its blue cloth cover faded along the spine. Beneath it were his notebooks, a fountain pen, several radio valves wrapped individually in newspaper, a small box containing a shark tooth his uncle had brought back from Florida, and a pile of clippings about broadcasting, experimental television sets, and machines he did not yet entirely understand.
At the bottom of the box lay a stuffed shark.
It had once been dark blue but had faded to the colour of worn denim. One fin bent permanently inward, and the stitching near its mouth had been repaired twice.
Vincent lifted it out.
His father had told him before the move that ten was too old to carry toys between cities.
Vincent had agreed.
Then he had hidden the shark beneath his shirts while his mother packed.
He placed it at the head of the bed, reconsidered, and pushed it beneath the pillow instead.
He was taking out his radio notebook when music drifted through the window.
Vincent stopped.
A piano was being played somewhere nearby.
The melody moved lightly beneath the shrill chorus of insects, smooth and unhurried. Whoever sat at the instrument knew it well enough not to hesitate between notes. For a few moments, the unfamiliar street seemed to quiet around it.
Vincent crossed to the window.
Through the branches of the magnolia tree, he could see that the neighbouring house’s front windows had been opened. The pale curtains shifted with the breeze.
The man with the groceries was nowhere in sight.
The piano continued.
Vincent remained at the window until his mother called his name from the corridor and the melody stopped.
A mover entered his room carrying a tall brass lamp.
“That belongs downstairs,” Vincent said, looking confused.
The man shifted it against his shoulder. “Your mother said this room.”
“It was beside the piano in New York.”
“Your mother told me upstairs.”
“She may not remember where it goes.”
The mover stared at him.
Vincent realized belatedly that this sounded impolite.
“I only mean- perhaps she was mistaken.”
“Vincent.”
His mother appeared behind the mover.
Her hat had been removed, and the careful waves around her forehead had begun to loosen in the heat. She looked tired.
“The gentleman has work to do.”
“I was trying to help.”
“I know, darling.”
She said it in the tone that meant precisely the opposite.
She directed the mover toward the corner, then entered the room and adjusted the lamp’s shade herself.
“You mustn’t correct adults like that.”
“But it doesn’t belong here.”
“It does now.”
“Why?”
“Because I chose it for your room.”
Vincent looked at the brass base. “It doesn’t match anything.”
“That hardly matters.”
“You always say everything in a room should look intentional.”
His mother paused.
For the briefest moment, he thought she might smile. Instead, she crossed to him and smoothed the front of his shirt.
“I also say that a clever boy knows when to stop arguing.”
“I wasn’t arguing.”
Her hand passed over his hair.
It was a familiar gesture. It almost felt comforting.
“I’ll help you arrange everything once I have settled my own things,” she said. “I begin at the agency on Monday, and Mr. Bell expects me to have reviewed the autumn accounts before then.”
“You said we would finish my room together.”
“And we will.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Vincent had already learned that soon meant the subject was closed.
His mother noticed the shark book on the bed.
“You still have that old thing?”
“It isn’t old.”
“You’ve read it dozens of times.”
“Thirty-seven.”
She laughed and kissed the top of his head.
“You do remember the strangest details.”
A moment later she was gone.
Vincent stood alone among the boxes, listening to her heels move briskly down the hall.
+++
The house slowly filled with furniture but did not become any more familiar.
Vincent spent the afternoon carrying smaller objects until his father told him he was creating confusion. When he tried arranging his books, his mother asked him to fetch her writing case. When he brought it, she told him not to hover.
Eventually, both parents instructed him to occupy himself. So he explored instead.
The kitchen was larger than the one in New York, with a long wooden table near the windows and green cabinets that smelled freshly painted. Most of the shelves were bare. In the icebox he found milk, butter and a paper-wrapped wedge of cheese. A loaf of bread sat on the counter beside a jar of mustard.
On the kitchen table sat a brown-paper parcel.
Its original address had been crossed out. Beneath it, someone had written:
[MR. ALASTOR HARTFELT
NEXT RESIDENCE EAST ]
Vincent looked through the open window.
The house next door was partly hidden behind the magnolia tree. Its kitchen curtains were white and pressed into tidy folds. He could see the occasional movement of a shadow beyond them.
Something smelled good. Onion, perhaps. And spices. Something smoky.
He could hear someone moving around inside.
“Vincent!”
His father’s voice boomed from the front hall.
Vincent left the parcel where it was.
+++
By half past five, the movers had gone.
The house looked less empty but no more like theirs. Paintings leaned against walls. Chairs stood several inches away from where they would eventually remain. Boxes occupied the edges of every room.
His father came downstairs in an evening suit.
His mother appeared soon after wearing a dark green dress Vincent has not seen since Christmas. She fastened one earring as she walked. She had changed more quickly than Harold but looked as polished as though she had spent hours preparing.
“You’re wearing the black tie?” she asked.
“It is a business dinner.”
“You said Mr. Laplace’s wife would be present.”
“She will.”
“Then the burgundy would be more appropriate.”
His father turned towards the hall mirror.
“Does it matter?”
“You asked me.”
“I did not.”
“You looked at me.”
Their eyes met in the mirror. Neither smiled.
Then his father noticed Vincent watching.
“Stand straight.”
Vincent corrected his posture at once.
His mother approached and adjusted Harold’s tie. Her fingers were careful, her expression neutral.
They looked, Vincent thought, exactly like the married couples in department-store advertisements.
He had rarely seen them touch when no one was watching.
His father collected his hat from the entry table.
“Where are you going?” Vincent asked.
“To dine with Mr. Laplace and his wife,” his mother said.
“Am I coming?”
Her hand paused over her handbag.
“Oh.”
Vincent waited.
His father answered instead.
“The invitation is for adults.”
“You said yesterday I needed to wear my grey jacket.”
“The arrangements changed.”
“When?”
“Vincent.”
His father did not raise his voice. He did not need to. Vincent lowered his own.
“I only asked.”
His mother moved beside him and straightened his collar, though it was already straight.
“You must be exhausted after the journey, darling.”
“I’m not.”
“There is bread in the kitchen.”
“And milk,” his father added.
“I thought we were eating together.”
“We ate together at luncheon,” Harold said.
“That was at the station.”
“It was still luncheon.”
His mother’s fingers rested briefly at the back of Vincent’s neck.
“We had arranged for a woman from the agency to sit with you, but there was some confusion over the date.”
“You forgot?”
“No one forgot,” his father said.
Evelyn withdrew her hand.
“My secretary was meant to confirm.”
“You told me it was arranged,” Harold said.
“And you changed the dinner from Friday to Thursday.”
“Because Laplace was unavailable tomorrow.”
“You might have informed me before this afternoon.”
“You were at the agency.”
“I was working.”
“So was I.”
They were no longer speaking to Vincent.
He remained between them while they assigned responsibility for leaving him alone.
His mother eventually looked down and seemed mildly surprised to find him still there.
“You will be all right for a few hours, won’t you?”
Vincent glanced toward his father before answering.
“I suppose.”
“There,” she said, almost with relief. “You see?”
His father put on his hat.
“Lock the door after us. Do not answer it for anyone you don’t know. Don’t use the stove.”
“I know how to use it.”
“Then you know enough to leave it alone.”
His mother touched his cheek.
“Be good.”
His father opened the door. Neither of them said goodbye. Vincent locked it after them because he had been instructed to.
He watched through the glass until the motorcar disappeared at the end of the street. Then the house became quiet. Not truly quiet.
The ceiling fan in the drawing room clicked with every rotation. Pipes shuddered in the walls. Insects cried outside, and somewhere a dog began barking as though it had only just remembered it was able to.
But it had the particular silence of a place containing no one who might answer if Vincent spoke.
He went to the kitchen.
The bread was dry at the edges. He poured himself a glass of milk and drank part of it standing beside the sink. He cut a piece of cheese using a butter knife because the sharper ones had not yet been unpacked.
The parcel still sat on the table.
Through the window came the faint sound of someone humming.
It was not the melody Vincent had heard earlier. This one moved lightly between notes, interrupted by the clatter of a lid and the careful rhythm of chopping. The smell from next door had grown stronger.
Vincent’s stomach tightened. He looked at the parcel again.
His father had told him not to leave the house.
His parents had also taught him that failing to return someone’s property was irresponsible.
Vincent considered both instructions. The second one appeared more relevant to the present situation.
+++
The walk from one front door to the other took less than a minute.
Vincent carried the parcel beneath his arm and rehearsed what he would say.
Good evening, sir. This was mistakenly delivered to our residence.
That sounded appropriately formal.
He climbed the neighbouring porch and knocked three times.
Footsteps approached almost immediately. The door opened.
The man from earlier stood on the other side wearing a white shirt, dark trousers and a spotless apron tied neatly around his waist. The apron was pale yellow, embroidered near the hem with small red flowers. His sleeves remained folded to precisely the same height. His hair, despite the heat of the kitchen, was still in place.
Behind him, Vincent could see a sitting room arranged with near-perfect order.
Books stood straight on their shelves. Records had been sorted into narrow wooden cases. A vase of fresh flowers occupied the centre of a polished table, and an upright piano stood against the far wall with several sheets of music aligned above its closed keys.
The house looked warm without appearing disorderly.
The man’s eyes lowered to the parcel.
“Well,” he said. “Unless the postal service has become remarkably young, I assume that belongs to me.”
Vincent held it out.
“Good evening, sir. This was mistakenly delivered to our residence.”
The man accepted it with both hands.
“Thank you.”
Vincent nodded. He ought to leave now. Instead, he remained where he was.
The man studied the label and then Vincent.
“You are the new neighbour.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your name is?”
“Vincent Whitman.”
He said it clearly, his shoulders straight.
The man shifted the parcel beneath one arm and offered his hand.
“Alastor Hartfelt.”
Vincent shook it the way his father had taught him- firm, brief, eye contact maintained.
One of Alastor’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“That is a very serious handshake.”
“My father says one can tell a great deal about a man by his handshake.”
“Does he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what have you learned about me?”
Vincent had not expected a question.
He looked at Alastor’s hand.
Long fingers. Clean nails. A faint burn near the base of his thumb. Then at the apron.
“That you cook,” he said.
Alastor stared at him for one suspended moment.
Then he laughed.
It was not the restrained chuckle adults usually offered children. The sound escaped him brightly and without warning.
Vincent’s stomach gave an unfamiliar little turn.
He had not intended to be funny, exactly, but he liked that Alastor thought he was.
“A flawless deduction,” Alastor said. “Your father’s lessons have served you well.”
Something bubbled sharply inside the house. Alastor glanced toward the kitchen, then back at Vincent.
“Are your parents at home, Mr. Whittman?”
“No, sir.”
“Who is looking after you?”
“No one needs to.”
Alastor’s expression did not change, but his attention sharpened.
“That was not quite what I asked.”
“They went to dinner.”
“And left you alone?”
“There was meant to be someone, but the date was confused.”
“I see.”
Vincent wished suddenly that he had said less.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“I’m ten.”
“A formidable age.”
Vincent could not tell whether he was being teased.
Alastor glanced beyond him toward the Whittman house.
“Do your parents know you came here?”
Vincent hesitated.
“I was returning your parcel.”
“That is another question altogether.”
“No.”
Alastor nodded once.
“Then before anything else, we shall inform them.”
“They aren’t home.”
“A note will survive until their return.”
Vincent looked towards the kitchen.
The scent drifting from it had become almost unbearable. As though responding to the thought, his stomach made a low sound.
Alastor politely looked at Vincent’s face rather than at the source of the noise.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“What did you have?”
“Bread.”
“With?”
“Milk.”
“A feast.”
“There was cheese.”
“Then I withdraw my concern entirely.”
Vincent knew now that he was being teased. Oddly, he did not mind it.
Alastor removed the apron and hung it carefully on a hook inside the door.
“Come along.”
“Where?”
“To your house. You will leave a note. Then, provided you have no objection to red beans, you may have a proper supper before I leave for work.”
Vincent remained on the porch.
“My father said I mustn’t bother the neighbours.”
Alastor picked up his jacket from a stand beside the door and laid it neatly over the back of a chair.
“That is sensible advice.”
Vincent’s face warmed.
“I did not mean- ”
“But,” Alastor continued, “you have returned my property, answered my questions honestly after only minor evasion, and appear to be in danger of subsisting entirely on dairy products. I am willing to overlook the inconvenience.”
Vincent tried not to smile. He did not entirely succeed.
Alastor accompanied him across the lawn.
He waited on the porch of the Whittman's house while Vincent unlocked the door, then instructed him to write the note himself.
“What should I say?”
“The truth is generally easiest.”
Vincent took a sheet of his mother’s stationery from the entry desk.
He wrote:
[Mother and Father,
I have gone next door to return Mr. Hartfelt’s parcel. He has invited me to supper. I will be home before he leaves for work.
Vincent]
He showed it to Alastor through the open doorway.
Alastor read it.
“Excellent penmanship.”
“My mother insists upon it.”
“Then she has performed a public service.”
Vincent placed the note in the centre of the entry table where it could not be missed, locked the door again and followed Alastor back next door.
This time, when Alastor opened the gate for him, Vincent entered without being asked twice.
Alastor’s house smelled of spices, furniture polish and something faintly sweet.
The sitting room was smaller than the Whittmans’ but felt larger because everything in it seemed to belong exactly where it had been placed. Framed photographs stood atop the piano. The records were labelled. Books had been arranged by height within their subjects, though several well-worn volumes lay in a deliberate stack beside an armchair.
Vincent slowed near the piano.
The wood had been polished to a dark shine. The brass pedals showed faint signs of use.
“You were playing earlier,” he said.
“I was.”
“You play well.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you a musician?”
“Not professionally.”
Alastor continued toward the kitchen as Vincent followed.
“You could sing, too.”
Alastor glanced back.
“You heard me?”
“The windows were open.”
“Then I shall have to choose my material more carefully.”
The kitchen was as orderly as the rest of the house.
Vegetables had been washed and arranged in a bowl. The cutting board was already clean. A pot simmered on the stove beside a pan of cornbread cooling on a wire rack. Even the towels had been folded evenly across their rail.
Alastor indicated the small table near the window.
“You may sit.”
Vincent did.
Alastor checked the clock above the stove before returning to the pot.
“You're leaving for work soon?”
“In slightly less than an hour.”
“What kind of work begins at night?”
“The kind best suited to it.”
“That is not very specific.”
“No. It is not.”
Vincent watched Alastor stir the beans.
“Thank you for allowing me to dine with you, Mr. Hartfelt.”
“Alastor will suffice.”
“My father says children should address adults properly.”
“Then we shall take great care not to tell your father.”
Vincent blinked.
Alastor opened a cupboard and removed two bowls as though he had not said anything unusual.
Adults sometimes broke rules, of course. Vincent’s father exceeded the speed limit when late for meetings. His mother smoked near open windows despite saying the smell gave her headaches.
But they rarely admitted that rules could be set aside deliberately.
“Would that not be dishonest?” Vincent asked.
“Only if he asks.”
Vincent considered this.
“I think omission still counts.”
“Good heavens. A moral philosopher as well as an engineer.”
“I am not an engineer.”
“Not yet.”
Alastor placed a bowl in front of him.
Red beans covered a mound of white rice, thick and fragrant. A square of cornbread rested beside it.
Vincent studied the meal.
“What is in it?”
“Red beans and rice.”
“I can see that.”
“Excellent. I was beginning to worry about your eyesight.”
Vincent looked up.
Alastor’s expression remained perfectly composed, though amusement gathered around his eyes.
“I meant what else is in it.”
“If I recite every ingredient, you will select one to dislike before tasting it.”
“I would not.”
“You asked suspiciously.”
“I prefer to know what I am eating.”
“A respectable policy. Today, however, you shall have to be brave.”
Vincent picked up his spoon. He took a cautious bite.
The food was hotter than he expected. He nearly reacted, stopped himself, and chewed slowly instead.
The beans were soft and smoky. The sauce carried a warmth that spread across his tongue without hurting it. The rice absorbed the flavour, and the cornbread was slightly sweet beneath its crisp edge.
Alastor sat opposite him.
“Well?”
Vincent swallowed.
“It is very good.”
The words emerged before he could replace them with something more restrained.
Alastor smiled.
“Thank you.”
Vincent took another bite. Then another.
Alastor did not comment on how quickly he ate. He simply tore his own cornbread in half and began his meal.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
The ceiling fan turned steadily overhead. The pale curtains lifted and settled against the window screens. From somewhere down the street came the distant sound of a car horn.
It was a comfortable silence. Vincent was not accustomed to those.
“Do you dislike New Orleans already,” Alastor asked, “or are you reserving judgment?”
Vincent paused.
“My mother says I should allow it time.”
“A skilful non-answer.”
“I don’t know it well enough.”
“That is fair.”
“It is very hot.”
“Also fair.”
“And loud.”
“The insects are enthusiastic.”
“And everyone speaks differently.”
“Including me?”
Vincent looked at him.
“Your voice is different from theirs.”
“In what way?”
“It is more precise.”
Alastor’s head tipped slightly.
Vincent worried the comment had sounded rude.
“I do not mean strangely,” he added. “Only that you say every word as though you put thoughts into it first.”
“That may be the kindest criticism I have received.”
“I wasn’t criticizing you.”
Vincent returned to his supper.
Alastor asked, “What do you miss most?”
The question was so direct that Vincent initially suspected some hidden purpose.
“New York,” he said.
“What in New York?”
“My school.”
Alastor waited.
“And the aquarium,” Vincent added.
“The aquarium?”
“They have sharks.”
“Ah.”
Vincent looked up quickly.
Most adults responded to the subject of sharks with either mild alarm or indulgent amusement.
Alastor only rested his chin lightly against one hand.
“What kind?”
Vincent set down his spoon.
“Sand tiger sharks, mostly. Their teeth stick out even when their mouths are closed. They look very dangerous, but they are not as aggressive as people think. The nurse sharks are slower. They spend more time near the bottom. Once, they had a young hammerhead, but it did not remain long.”
“Why do hammerheads have such peculiar heads?”
Vincent stared.
“You genuinely want to know?”
“I would not have asked otherwise.”
Vincent began explaining.
He spoke about the placement of their eyes, the increased sensory range of the head, and the tiny organs that allowed sharks to detect electrical signals in the water. He did not remember the proper name for those organs, which irritated him, but Alastor did not correct or rush him.
Instead, he asked whether sharks could sense prey beneath sand.
Vincent told him they could.
This led somehow to electricity, which led their conversation to radio signals.
“My father’s company manufactures receivers,” Vincent said. “And transmitters. He says radio waves are converted into electrical impulses, but when I ask what makes the speaker produce the sound exactly, he says I will understand when I am older.”
“That is a deeply unsatisfying explanation.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how an electromagnet works?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly is promising.”
Vincent used his fork to move three grains of rice into a line.
He explained what he knew about current and magnets, then admitted where his understanding stopped. Alastor fetched a pencil and turned one of his neatly stacked grocery lists over so Vincent could draw on the back.
Alastor corrected him only twice.
He did it without saying that Vincent ought to have known better.
By the time Vincent finished, his food was gone and the back of the paper had been covered with arrows, circles and a crude drawing of a speaker cone.
Alastor studied it.
“You have quite a mind.”
Vincent’s fingers tightened faintly around the pencil.
His father sometimes called him intelligent. Usually after report cards or when Vincent repeated a piece of technical information in front of company guests.
No one had ever said it as though they had simply noticed.
“My father says I ask questions before I have learned enough to understand the answers.”
“Your father may have forgotten that questions are how one learns.”
Vincent looked down at the drawing.
“May I have more rice?”
“Certainly.”
Alastor took his bowl.
While he served another portion, Vincent examined the kitchen more closely.
A silver microphone stood inside a narrow wooden case on the sideboard. Beside it lay several sheets of typed paper held together with a black clip. Certain sentences had been marked in red pencil.
“What is that?”
Alastor glanced over.
“Work.”
“The microphone?”
“Yes.”
“Do you sing professionally?”
“Occasionally, though not usually into that.”
Vincent could read one of the headings from his seat.
EVENING MUSIC HOUR - THURSDAY
“Are those speeches?”
“Scripts.”
“For what?”
“You are remarkably persistent.”
“I only want to know.”
“Im aware.”
Alastor returned the bowl to him. Vincent ate more slowly this time.
“You do not have to tell me,” he said after a moment.
Alastor looked mildly surprised.
“My father says curiosity becomes impertinence when directed at matters that are not one’s concern.”
“A useful distinction.”
Vincent waited for him to agree.
Instead, Alastor added, “Though adults often invoke it when they would rather avoid explaining themselves.”
Vincent glanced toward the scripts again. Alastor’s smile became faintly conspiratorial.
“You may discover the answer soon enough.”
After supper, Alastor washed both bowls immediately.
Vincent offered to help.
“You are a guest.”
“My mother says guests should offer.”
“And now you have.”
“She says the offer should be accepted.”
“Your mother has developed an alarming number of household policies.”
Vincent dried the bowls while Alastor washed them.
Alastor handed each one over carefully, not once telling him to be cautious or treating him as though he might drop it.
When they finished, Alastor checked his watch.
“I must change.”
Vincent followed him into the sitting room.
“You may wait here,” Alastor said. “The records are not to be handled without permission, and neither is the microphone.”
“I know.”
“I suspect you do.”
Alastor disappeared down the hall while Vincent now stood alone in the room.
The piano occupied most of his attention. He moved closer without touching it.
Above the keys rested an open page of sheet music covered in pencil markings. A framed photograph stood on one corner: Alastor as a boy beside a dark-skinned woman in a light dress. Both were smiling. Another photograph had been turned slightly toward the wall, making its subject difficult to see.
Just as Vincent leaned closer, he heard footsteps approaching. He straightened immediately.
Alastor returned wearing his red waistcoat beneath a dark jacket. His hair had been smoothed again, though Vincent had not thought it was untidy before. He fastened one cuff as he entered.
“You resisted temptation,” he observed.
“I wasn’t going to touch anything.”
“I believe you.”
Alastor crossed to the piano and sat.
Vincent remained standing beside it.
“I thought you had to leave.”
“I do soon.”
Alastor adjusted the sheet music. Then he played. Only a brief passage, no more than half a minute.
The melody was slow and warm, each note set down with the same precision Alastor used when arranging his kitchen. He hummed beneath it at first, then sang one line so softly that Vincent could not make out all the words.
His singing voice was lower than Vincent expected. Not louder. More private.
The final chord faded.
Alastor made a small correction on the page with his pencil, closed the piano lid and stood.
“What was that?” Vincent asked.
“Something I am considering.”
“For the microphone?”
The corner of Alastor's mouth raised.
“Perhaps.”
He collected the wooden case and the clipped scripts.
“Come along, young Mr. Whitman. Your evening of delinquency has concluded.”
Alastor walked him home.
The sky had darkened to a deep violet. Lamps glowed behind windows along the street, and the magnolia leaves had become broad black shapes above them. They stopped beneath the huge tree.
Several pale magnolia petals lay on the ground, browning at their edges.
“Did you plant it?” Vincent asked.
Alastor looked up.
“No. It was here long before I arrived.”
“How old is it?”
“I couldn’t say. Older than either house, I expect.”
“Will it still be here when we leave?”
Alastor’s gaze lowered to him.
“When will you leave?”
“My father says we may stay a year.”
“And your mother?”
“Eighteen months.”
“And what do you say?”
Vincent shrugged.
“No one knows.”
Alastor nodded.
“That is likely the most accurate answer.”
Vincent pressed the edge of his shoe against a fallen petal.
“I do not intend to become attached to anything here.”
“A wise defence.”
Vincent looked up suspiciously.
“You think it won’t work?”
“I think people and places rarely request our permission before becoming important.”
“I don’t know anyone.”
“You know me now.”
“I met you this evening.”
“And already you have inspected my cooking, evaluated my profession, covered my grocery list in electrical diagrams and interrogated me about the contents of my home.”
“I did not interrogate you.”
“No? Then you possess a naturally investigative manner.”
Vincent looked toward his front porch.
“May I visit again?”
The question came out quieter than he intended.
Alastor regarded him for a moment.
“You may knock,” he said. “Provided your parents know where you are, and provided I am home.”
“How will I know?”
“If the curtains are open during the afternoon, you may try.”
“And if they are closed?”
“I am sleeping, absent or avoiding society. All three should be respected.”
Vincent nodded.
Alastor handed him the paper-wrapped pieces of cornbread.
“For tomorrow.”
“I shouldn’t take them.”
“Why?”
“My mother may think I asked.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then you have nothing to confess.”
Vincent accepted the parcel.
Alastor opened the Whittmans’ gate.
“What time do you finish work?”
“Late.”
“What kind of work is better after dark?”
“The kind one listens to.”
Vincent frowned.
“That is another non-answer.”
“So it is.”
Alastor checked his watch.
“Goodnight, young Mr. Whitman.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Hartfelt.”
“Alastor.”
Vincent hesitated.
“Goodnight, Alastor.”
The name felt strange in his mouth. Too familiar
Alastor smiled, turned and walked toward the street. Vincent remained at the gate until he disappeared around the corner.
+++
His parents returned after ten.
Vincent was sitting in the drawing room beneath the brass lamp, attempting to read his shark book for the thirty-eighth time.
His mother entered first, holding her shoes in one hand.
She looked tired but pleased in the way she did after a successful meeting. His father followed, removing his hat and gloves.
“Oh,” Evelyn said when she saw Vincent. “You’re still awake.”
“You said you would be gone a few hours.”
“It is only ten fifteen,” Harold said.
Vincent closed the book.
His mother noticed the note on the entry table.
“What is this?”
She read it silently. His father looked over her shoulder.
“You went into the neighbour’s house?”
“I returned his parcel.”
“And then remained there.”
“He invited me to supper.”
His mother looked toward the kitchen.
“You ate with him?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Vincent.”
“What?”
“How embarrassing.”
“He said it wasn’t.”
“That is hardly the point,” his father said.
“He knew I was alone.”
The room became still.
His parents looked at one another.
“You were not meant to tell strangers our private arrangements,” Harold said.
“I didn’t.”
“You told him we had left you here.”
“He asked who was looking after me.”
“And you might have said it was none of his concern.”
Vincent’s heart began beating harder.
“He gave me dinner.”
“Because you presented yourself at his door as though we had failed to provide for you.”
“There was bread.”
His father stepped closer.
Vincent stood automatically. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. Hands still.
Harold looked down at him.
“You will not make a habit of imposing upon strangers. Do you understand?”
“I wasn’t imposing.”
“Vincent.”
His father’s hand closed around his shoulder. Not violently yet, but firmly enough that Vincent knew better than to move.
“I asked whether you understood.”
“Yes, sir.”
His mother touched Harold’s sleeve.
“He did leave a note.”
Harold released Vincent.
“You were responsible for the sitter,” he said to her.
“And you were responsible for informing me that the dinner had moved.”
“My business obligations do not depend upon your office calendar.”
“No, apparently only the rest of us do.”
“Not in front of the boy.”
“You began this in front of him.”
They turned away from Vincent.
His mother lowered her voice, but not enough to prevent him from hearing. His father replied through clenched teeth.
Within seconds, the argument was no longer about Vincent. It rarely remained about him for long.
He picked up his book.
“May I go to bed?”
His mother looked over. Her expression softened.
“Of course, darling.”
She approached and touched his cheek.
“You mustn’t upset your father over something so small.”
Vincent looked at her. Her thumb passed gently beneath his eye. It almost felt like comfort.
Then she said, “Go on,” and turned back to her husband.
Vincent carried his book upstairs.
Neither of them noticed the cornbread hidden between its pages.
+++
His room remained unfamiliar in the dark.
The curtains had not yet been hung properly, and moonlight entered through the uncovered window in a pale strip. Boxes stood against the walls. The brass lamp created shadows that belonged to no room Vincent knew.
He changed into his nightclothes and climbed into bed.
The house creaked around him. At the far end of the hall, his parents’ voices rose and fell behind their closed door.
Vincent pulled the shark from beneath his pillow. He tucked it beneath one arm, pressing its bent fin against his chest.
Outside, the insects screamed.
He tried to sleep. he couldn't. He laid awake.
After several minutes, he noticed the small radio sitting on top of one of his boxes.
His father had given it to him two birthdays ago after promising they would build a receiver together but never did and purchasing one instead.
Vincent got out of bed, placed it on the bedside table and plugged it in.
The valves warmed slowly. A dim orange light appeared behind the cloth grille.
He turned the dial. Static filled the room.
He passed a station playing dance music, an advertisement for soap, a preacher warning listeners about modern temptation, and the ending of a baseball report.
He adjusted the dial more carefully.
A burst of orchestral music emerged. Then vanished.
Vincent turned the knob back.
The music returned, clear beneath a faint crackle. It ended on a sweep of strings.
A voice followed.
“Well, dear listeners, that was Mr. Artie Shaw reminding us that even the most sensible among us are occasionally persuaded into dancing.”
Vincent froze. His fingers remained against the dial.
The voice sounded different through the radio.
Larger. Smoother. Every word polished until it seemed to carry its own private amusement.
But Vincent knew the cadence. The deliberate pronunciation. The warmth hidden beneath the formality.
Alastor.
“For those joining us late,” the voice continued, “you are listening to the evening music hour on WDSU. The night is warm, the records are warmer, and your host remains tragically underappreciated.”
Vincent smiled.
So that was the microphone. The scripts. The strange working hours. The kind of work one listened to.
Vincent climbed back into bed and pulled the shark beneath his arm. He placed the radio as near to the pillow as its cord allowed.
Alastor introduced another record. Then another.
Between songs, he spoke about the weather, a concert opening the following week, and a listener who had requested a song for her husband stationed abroad. He made small jokes Vincent did not always understand. Once, a record began at the wrong speed, and Alastor’s surprised laugh slipped through before the music was corrected.
It was the same laugh Vincent had heard at the front door.
The room did not become more familiar. The boxes remained unpacked. The insects continued screeching beyond the glass. His parents were still behind a closed door at the end of the hall.
But Alastor’s voice crossed the dark street, passed invisibly through walls and windows, and found him anyway.
Near midnight, the music softened.
“And that concludes our evening together,” Alastor said. “Wherever you happen to be listening, I hope the night has treated you kindly. Until tomorrow, take care of yourselves- and, when possible, one another.”
The closing music began.
Vincent’s eyes had become heavy.
“Goodnight, Alastor,” he whispered.
The radio hummed beside him.
For the first time since leaving New York, Vincent fell asleep without wondering how long it would be before he could go home.