Free The House of Hawthorne by Erika Robuck Page B

haze, but I banish them. If I consume more, George will have less.
    I nod my head to indicate that my allowance has been met, and the candle nearest the book blows out from my sigh.
    “Curculios,” I say, relighting it and turning pages until I find my beetle sketch. “Cuban fireflies. They light up the night as strong as any candle, and are kept in little carved gourds. Enchanting, really.”
    “Such an exotic garden of strangeness,” he says. “Were the beetles poisonous? Any of the flowers? Was there anything that could have been used to help in your cure if the doctor had not been so consumed by his own ailments of body and situation?”
    Before I can reply, Elizabeth enters the room.
    “Pardon my interruption,” she says, “but I wish you both would come into the parlor. Mother is looking after George, and Mary is at a dinner, and I need assistance.”
    “Why?” says Father. He has a low tolerance for being directed by my sister.
    Elizabeth steps forward and closes the door until it is almost shut. “Because Mr. Hawthorne and his sisters are downstairs, and drawing conversation from them is like dropping a bucket in a well of unfathomable depths, and only getting little splashes of water.”
    “I do not believe you have ever been at a loss for words,” I say.
    My father exhales a small laugh.
    Elizabeth narrows her eyes. “No need for cheekiness, Sophy. I really do need your help. The sisters are as bad as, if not worse than, the awkward brother between them. They clutch his arms for dear life, as if they fear they will drown without hanging on. I can see him physically working up the courage to utter histhoughts, but I do not think he has the capacity for small talk. All I have been able to extract thus far is a short speech about how hard it is to really peer beneath the veil of the soul of one’s acquaintances to understand their true motives.”
    What a thing to say. I wonder if he has read Shelley, who also reflects on the veil of the soul. For a moment, I consider going down with Elizabeth.
    “I thought he might be questioning my motives in inviting him,” she continues, “but when I began to stammer about how I admire his work, and that I only ask him over to further understand his process, he became very red in the face and worried that he had insulted me. I assured him he did not, but it would be nice to have another soul to assist me in conversation.”
    I feel for Elizabeth, but not enough to disturb myself. The invisible vise that plagues my brain is beginning to tighten.
    “Why do you continue to invite him?” says Father.
    “Because I admire him.”
    “She loves him,” I say.
    “Enough impertinence,” says Elizabeth. “I do not love him—though he is a fascinating man.”
    “And by fascinating you mean handsomer than Byron,” I say. “Good looks make up for many deficits.”
    “His looks have no bearing on the potential I see in him as a writer, and how I might further his career and reputation through publication and review.”
    “Your motives sound very pure,” says Father, standing and giving me a pat on the hand. “I will assist you only until I feel uncomfortable, which will no doubt be very soon, and then youmust alone deal with the consequences of continuously inviting a man to our parlor who is so ill at ease in his own comely skin.”
    “Thank you,” says Elizabeth, hurrying him out of the room without giving me a backward glance.
    I stand and creep to the doorway, where I hear Father say, “Here is the writer of whom my daughter speaks so highly,” followed by an incoherent mumbling that must emanate from the writer himself. My curiosity is piqued, but not enough to lure me downstairs. Perhaps I will venture into the parlor on Mr. Hawthorne’s next visit, which will no doubt occur very soon.

    Elizabeth can scarcely go two sentences without mentioning Hawthorne’s latest story, the review she printed for him, the way she will help him publish future works.