Free Mr. Timothy: A Novel by Louis Bayard Page B

bad pun.
    I reach for the shears. Working with great method now, as metronomically as a carpenter planing a table, I scissor away the cloth from the girl's right shoulder. And as the scissors round the last corner, I wait for the sounds of Gully's protest, for "What in God's name are you a thinkin' of," but I think the calmness of my demeanour must be disarming him. And it may be the calmness is no pretense, for when I pull away the swath of cloth, my fingers show not the slightest sign of trembling. And my eyes refuse even to blink when they behold the letter G rising from the purplish-white skin, glaring outward with raptorial eyes.
    Behind me, I hear Gully's piercing, irascible voice.
    --Christ almighty, has you ever seen such a botched tattoo in your life? It'd been our mother, we would've got what for, take our word, gettin' ourselves all carved up as that. You all right, Tim? Lookin' a bit green roun' the...if you don't mind us...well, never fear, there's bound to be some inquest money, 'less she's a foreigner, and hospitals is always a-wantin' bodies, ain't they, and tomorrow we'll have us another go downriver. So keep the chin up, that's the spir-- oh, it's that , is it? Not to worry, boy, just lean the head over the water. No, downwind, down wind, there's a good lad.
    Chapter 6
    I WAS SIX THE FIRST TIME I CAME TO THIS HOUSE. It was a Sunday in March, a volatile day, variously spitting and smiling, and I remember thinking as we arrived that the Maker had not yet decided what sort of day he wanted to make. But it was the rooms inside that I was most struck by. Three months into the new year, and they were still decorated for Christmas. A half-eaten Yule log in the grate, a brace of empty stockings on the mantel. Sprigs of holly dangling like aged coquettes from the door lintels; the wattled remains of a bough of mistletoe swinging disconsolately from the hall lamp; and all round us, overwatered poinsettias, sapped of their red and collapsed like Bedouin tents.
    The candles, at least, were new, and the air was quick with oranges and cloves, and there on the hearth, beneath a garland of bay leaves, stood a half-sized Father Christmas, almost sinfully hearty in his purple ermine. But much as he glowed, he could not compete with the efflorescence of our host, who, as soon as we arrived, informed us with a cackle that he had given his housekeeper the day off so that he might personally minister to his guests. It was with some trepidation that we realised we were the guests in question. Mute we sat, in our starched Sunday finery, while this twiggy, animated man in slack breeches danced attendance on us.
    --Come now, Martha, more eggnog, don't be bashful. And if I'm not mistaken, there's a boy who needs another helping of wassail, is that not so, Sam? And behold yon Master Tim! Not a crumb left on his plate. Oh, it can not continue, it cannot. He must have plum cake.
    Some consciousness of our situation, of the strangeness of being served wassail in March, made me resist initially, but not too long, for the cake proved delicious, very much like Mother's but with a new flavour that my tongue tried in vain to isolate. Not so chewy as currants, not so pungent as grapes. Pulpy and sweet and very slightly bitter, giving up its juice reluctantly at first, yielding only after additional acquaintance. A sultana , I later learned, and something of that name's exoticism must have come through even then, for I found myself suffused with an equatorial warmth, and tingling with gratitude towards the man who had, in one stroke, so altered our climate. I said:
    --Thank you very much, Mr. Ogre.
    I am to be faulted, I know. But in my defense, we were just a few months into The Change (as Mother called it), and we had been so long in the habit of referring to him as Ogre that it seemed only natural to attach a business address to it. I didn't recognise my error until I saw Mother's face crumple and dive from view, and then I noticed Father