Canticles of an Aging Creole: A Novel

By Blake Ashburner

Nearly fifty-nine-years-old, Henry Arbuthnot deeply mourns the death of his French Creole mother, Mathilde. On Good Friday, Henry manages to shower and ready himself for work, even though his mothers overbearing voice haunts him all the while. With his daily cup of coffee for Clancy, he boards and greets the streetcar driver, his old friend and son of the familys maid. Struggling with grief, guilt, and bitterness, Henry rides the streetcar down the streets of New Orleans and the avenues of his life.

He seeks a retrospective on his familys life and questions his relatives and acquaintances for their recollections. Through this reflection he hopes to understand his mothers stubborn obstruction of his desire to join the priesthood.

His mother bludgeons, connives, and steals his faitheven taking a train to Georgetown University to admonish the priest and guidance counselor to keep the church away from her son. All Mathilde wants is for Henry to be a normal boy who plays sports and has girlfriends from proper society. But as his Aunt Eugenie says, Henry is special. In the end, Henry must try to both salvage his faith and make peace with his mothers ghost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450246613

Blake Ashburner

Charles Blakiston Ashburner, also called Blake, grew up in New Orleans. He graduated from Louisiana State University and moved to Washington DC, where he became a noted antiques dealer and art collector specializing in period master paintings. He died at the age of sixty-four.

Book preview

You’re the Last, Henry

The morning light cut through the louvered shutters, shining into the tiny room and laying shafts of gold across the bed. As the sun grew stronger it cast a glare on the dark covers, revealing the lumpy shape of life beneath. There came a hint of movement, then another, until out from under the bedding stretched a hirsute arm grasping at the blanket and then tugging it away to reveal the sleepy face of a middle-aged man.

His lids quivered and then lifted. His bony torso righted itself as his arms stretched out through the echo of a yawn.

What time is it? Only the room heard him ask, but it didn’t matter. He had made it through another night on Walnut Street.

Our awakening figure reached for his robe and then rose, making his way to the bathroom. He stood over the toilet, startled by the image that shot back at him from the mirror. His beard was nearly white, and his hair—that thick head of hair—was now salt and pepper. Even the hair on his chest was turning gray.

Henry, you look like a madman! Clean yourself up. You’re not a boy anymore, son. Face it—you’re nearly fifty-nine!

He frowned at the sound of her voice in his head. He splashed water up from the basin until his brown eyes opened wider, the whites appearing whiter. He felt himself revive. As the Barbasol foamed out onto his palm, its bracing eucalyptus scent roused his nostrils. He spread it over the thick white stubble on his chin and then wielded the ancient razor, watching it clear paths that looked like felled trees in a snow-covered forest, revealing that strong, handsome jaw.

He patted his face with the towel, drying his long boney nose, and then stood, ready for her verdict.

Now, Henry. That’s better! A lot better!

Coffee! The word darted from his lips. A good cup of coffee! That will keep her silent for a while.

He made his way along the wide-open hall and past his parents’ bedroom. He paused, listening to the quiet. At the landing the eyes of Jean Baptiste and Sophronie Delavigne followed him down the winding stairway; their stern, framed faces watched his every step just as they had when he was a boy.

Down in the kitchen, he filled the iron kettle and set it on the stove. He reached for the white enamel drip, spooning in the rough grounds. The bubbling water seeped through the grind as he spooned it in, the familiar, pleasant aroma rising up. The milk foamed over the flame. Like a sleepy alchemist, he poured his elixirs together, smiling. It was just as he liked it, thick and strong. This would help keep her away.

He gazed out through the French doors at the large live oaks looming in over the wall from the park like ghosts. The garden was an overgrown jungle this morning, the roots of bananas and palmettos merging out from the soil like serpents rising up from the deep. He hadn’t cleaned it since Florence had died. Maybe he would tackle it later today. Maybe he wouldn’t.

He walked through the narrow pantry, entering his mother’s dining room, its bay, fresh and open, welcoming the light. His eye caught the dust-covered table and the silver candelabra, black from neglect. What would Mother say?

There it was again, the echo of those familiar voices. One of her dinner parties years ago? He moved through the double doors and entered the drawing room, the room she had cherished and cluttered with the fussy French furniture her grandmother had brought from Paris as a wedding present.

Dreadfully dark in the morning, yet by mid-afternoon the darkness moves on, and we have an abundance of sun. Florence brings me my tea here every afternoon.

The park peeked in through the French doors, revealing the mist that had risen like a vapor. His attention was drawn to a rider galloping across the horizon, a cloud of dust trailing behind.

He remembered the times he had spent in the quiet of this room, assured no one would interrupt, when he could be by himself in the darkness of the morning, the darkness she despised. He was a child then.

He glanced at the photographs in their tarnished silver frames set along the pair of consoles. His mother’s younger brother stood by the fireplace in his dapper white tie and tails. Please, Father, snap it faster! I’m going to be late for the ball! He had never met his dashing Uncle Henri, the one his mother had loved, the uncertain one who hadn’t come home from the war. Henri, the one everyone said he resembled.

He sat in a tiny armchair, extending his long legs. A young woman with her hair pulled up stared over at him from another table—a lifeless Edwardian beauty, her ornate dress, the mantle, ermine robes, all the glitter of an early Carnival queen. What was her name? Did it matter? Nothing much mattered anymore.

Peeking over his shoulder was Aunt Eugenie, his favorite, with her black pageboy and that seductive undercurrent in her restless smile, the file dress cut as low as it could go, its silver fringe barely concealing those famous dancing legs. Who would ever have believed those two were sisters?

Here, Henry, over here! Aunt Maggie and Uncle Philip! The familiar voice in his head began again.

He sighed. The coffee wasn’t working.

She was Maggie Delavigne, she continued, an early queen of Comus, and her husband, my Uncle Philip, a delightful New Yorker. He’s said to have invented the cocktail. Now that I think of it he probably invented many cocktails! Maggie was the first of our family to live uptown. You remember, dear, they had the old Henry Howard house on Third Street in the Garden District. Both their parents gave them that as a wedding present. Oh, were they rich! No one knew where it all came from. Old Yankee money, I suppose. Aunt Maggie had such exquisite taste! If you could have seen what she did with that house!

He let out a grin. She would be nearly weeping by this time.

Twenty-foot ceilings, thick, wonderful moldings, massive marble mantles, and the servants? Servants galore! Those were the days, Henry! Not a care in the world!

She paused.

Sad, though. Nothing lasts forever. They lost every cent in the crash in ’29. Everything! I have no idea how they lived after that. One didn’t ask. There were rumors they had a little shack on stilts out in Bucktown on the lake. Perhaps he took up fishing? Who knows? Whatever the case, they always made their appearance at Comus without fail.

She continued, tapping her cane.

Here on the end, Henry. Here are your father’s people.

He gazed at the old man pictured in front of a large, gabled house in his baggy wool suit and fedora.

Arthur Arbuthnot, Henry, your grandfather. He lived in Montgomery. She shook her head. Just what we lack in America today, the devoted country doctor. Your grandfather was really a very kind man.

He remembered how she would look away, a little grimace emerging from those dark, French features.

I suppose he always thought I was a little uppity. Who knows? Perhaps I was a little uppity. She turned to the next picture.

And here is your father’s mother, Gladys Arbuthnot. A jolly sort of woman, though perhaps a little corn-fed. I’ve forgotten her maiden name.

He noticed the long, plain dress that reached to the ground.

Mathilde coughed beneath her smirk.

My God, was that woman corn-fed!

By this time she was off and running, taking short, breathy steps to the next console.

Écoutez, Henry, écoutez! Here is Uncle Gervais Devereux, Mother’s brother, the cotton king! One of my favorites! She tapped on the large silver frame. And such a marvelous horseman! He married Cousin Clarisse’s mother, Aunt Celeste. She was a Bouligny.

Her eyes opened wide. Yes, they were cousins, but let’s not worry about that! Uncle Gervais was a wizard at making money—a real wizard! He would work to the bone on a big cotton contract, then suddenly disappear for days. No one ever knew where he went. She threw out her tiny arm. Into thin air! Then, miraculously, he would turn up like a tired old tomcat smelling of yesterday’s gin. Mother said he would hide off in one of the unused servant’s rooms. In a day or two he’d emerge, fresh and oh, so handsome, ready to tackle the world again!

There was always a silence at this point.

Dear, sweet Papa. In the end he dragged old Gervais off to Chicago for the cure, poor wretch. I suspect that’s what drove Aunt Celeste mad.

Her demeanor changed as she arrived at the next photograph. And here we have Cousin Adelaide. Charming woman in her own pious way. Grandest wedding of the year! Nanu told me that. Married copper, that’s all I ever knew. A handsome man named Nichols who made a fortune in copper from those Anaconda mines up in Montana or some such place. We all got a kick out of … Mr. Nichols in copper or was it Mr. Copper in Nichols?

She shook her head. Whatever—it was amusing at the time! They set three huge tents up in the side garden of Grande Mama Delavigne’s house on Esplanade. Six hundred of their closest friends, Beluga caviar overflowing from huge repoussé silver bowls! She rolled her eyes.

"A little nouveau, if you ask me. They sailed off to Europe on the Carpathia for the wedding trip. The Nichols—or was it the Coppers?—paid for that."

She shrugged her shoulders.

Sad, the marriage just never took. He eventually returned up there to Montana.

Her tone turned to a whisper. They used to say Adelaide didn’t have what it took in the boudoir. Many women didn’t in those days, you know. Perhaps it wasn’t considered ladylike to enjoy such things—at least not too much. She walked to the end of the console, chortling under her breath.

But then that’s none of my affair.

She stopped.

Adelaide’s life didn’t end there, though. To everyone’s amazement she found her real station. The cane tapped the top of a plain wooden frame. Inside, a stern woman in a black habit stared back at them.

Yes, there she is, Henry. Mother Delavigne of the Madams of the Sacred Heart. That’s where Adelaide ended up, at that damn convent up near Alexandria. Poor woman never left for thirty years! Imagine that!

She lingered in silence at the next picture, the one with his handsome uncle in white tie and tails.

And this one, Mother, Henry said. You haven’t told me about your brother. What about Uncle Henri? What was he all about?

"Let’s talk of that later, Henri. Really, why must you quiz me? Enough of all this family nonsense. Shouldn’t you be working?"

He looked out over the sea of ancestors, recalling names Mathilde had drilled him on, names he would now forget. His mother would be part of them now, the newest member of this morbid menagerie.

On tables beyond were more members, each in ornate fur or spangled, sequined attire, holding crowns and scepters, mantles rising behind ancient, lifeless faces. The tired sepia daguerreotypes were frozen in time, exuding the essence of some forgotten principality; they were more than mere revelers from an indulgent past.

He pulled himself up from the chair, yet looming before him was his mother, Mathilde Delavigne, queen of Carnival in the year of her unforgettable debut, 1936.

A headstrong, bossy bitch, if you ask me. Always was a bitch; always will be. He took in a nervous breath. It was his Aunt Eugenie.

Come on now! he yelled into the silence. That’s not fair!

Admit it, darling, your mother is a headstrong, bossy bitch.

Eugenie was his mother’s younger sister, the former Broadway actress who lived downtown.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my sister—love her to death. But face it, Mathilde will always be a bitch! It’s not her fault, just her nature.

Bossy bitch? He repeated Eugenie’s words, recalling their many spats, yet stopped himself from picturing his tiny mother lying in the hospital bed upstairs those past few months.

He reached the upstairs landing and caught a glimpse of the black-framed photograph of her standing so proudly next to that strange little man in the late sixties. He noticed Florence off in the background in her new uniform with its white ruffled collar.

And just look, Henry. There she is again, pushy as ever, making our Florence wear a French maid’s uniform. Come on! And how she convinced me that Walnut Street was so much better suited for my party for Tennessee Williams—better than my decrepit old Bayou Road, downtown? Tommy didn’t care. We’d known each other since those days in New York. He was my friend! He didn’t even know her!

Henry eyed his aunt off in the background, jeering as his mother had stolen the show that night with her new friend, the most famous American playwright of the day.

And we can’t forget what she did to you, Henry. I don’t see how you ever forgave her, but then that’s you, isn’t it, dear? You, the forgiving one, you and your darling father, Hollis Arbuthnot, rest his soul!

He approached his bedroom, remembering his mother’s funeral. He had braced himself, expecting more of the same, but Eugenie was different.

We’re all we have left, Henry. You and I are it, simple as that.

They had stood in front of the huge Delavigne mausoleum with Father Donovan and a few friends.

She was not the sassy younger sister, wearing her usual tailored suit, the quietly relieved Eugenie, witnessing her difficult sister’s end and sporting the subtle smirk he might have expected. No, here was a disheveled, confused old lady, her dark silk blouse out from under her belt, a tired mantilla set atop a head of flyaway hair.

This is it, Henry. No one to look over our shoulders anymore. No one to keep me in line. No more Mathilde for me to bitch about.

He remembered the feeling of her tiny figure in his arms as she wept.

Later he would look out over the elaborate mausoleums rising up like tiny skyscrapers. Her words had caught him off guard. But this was not the time to break, not today, not at his mother’s funeral.

Eugenie pulled him back, her eyes nearly crazed as her Clara Bow lips exclaimed, "There goes another Creole family, Henry! Finis!"

Take Care of My Son, Mr. Hartstone

The tall case clock in the downstairs hall chimed nine. He would be late this morning. He jumped into the shower, lathering soap over his body and letting the water drown his thoughts. It felt good to be free of all that consumed him, if only for those few minutes under the cleansing warmth.

He dried himself in front of the mirror, catching a brief glimpse of his thin, hairy body, and then reached for his robe before returning to the bedroom. The morning sun had set the room ablaze, illuminating even the darkest space below the eaves. He smiled, looking back at that special corner where the ceiling slanted so low. This was where he had spent those many hours. The prie-dieu appeared tiny now, its proportions created for a child. Above it hung the crucifix, its ancient ivory blending with the pale hue of the walls.

He remembered the morning Aunt Eugenie had arrived with both pieces from her house downtown, just weeks before his first communion.

Angel of God, my guardian dear,

To Whom God’s love commits me here,

Forever this day be at my side

To light, to guard, to rule, to guide.

Angel of God. How much those words had meant at such an early age. He stooped down, feeling the tired threadbare velvet that covered the top of the prayer chair. He had loved the contemplative times of his youth, times spent in the quiet of this corner, reciting the prayers that calmed him.

But why such a religious present, Eugenie? I don’t understand.

His mothers voice had rung out with disapproval as he listened from the top of the stairs that morning.

Seriously, Eugenie, I don’t want some Holy Roller on my hands. Couldn’t it have been a baseball glove—or even a fishing rod? Why this?

Come now, Mathilde, be fair. Henry’s a special child; it doesn’t take much to see that. Florence and I thought it would be perfect for him, especially at this time in his life. That old crucifix has hung above the prie-dieu at Bayou Road long before Nanu was born. God knows it was just collecting dust in my guest room. Both were. She paused, her voice shaking. I thought he’d look adorable kneeling in that corner. Why, just the perfect little St. Jerome!

He could hear his mother’s nervous sigh.

Well, I guess it can’t hurt, although I still don’t believe it’s such a good influence, especially for a boy like Henry. There was a silence. Let this be the last, do you hear me?

I promise. It was just a thought, Mathilde, he could hear his aunt whimpering. Just a thought.

Now, Eugenie dear, I know you meant well. You and Florence are probably right. Henry is a … peculiar sort of child, maybe even a bit mystical. If you knew how much he keeps to himself … I was just worried this would add to it.

Her tone grew more positive. Thank God for Clancy. At least he gets my boy out of his room. Why, if it weren’t for Florence and Clancy living here with us, I don’t know what we’d do!

They were hugging now, both in tears.

God sent them to you, Mathilde. I just know he did.

Damn! Now you’re beginning to sound like one of those mystics!

Henry shook his head at the memory. A mystical child? So that’s what had worried her?

She had kept everything in his room as he had left it that September in 1961, the month he went up to Georgetown. The large brown teddy bear lay against the bed board, its right eye dangling dangerously from a thin thread, and there on top of his bureau were the dozen lead soldiers Mathilde had given him one Christmas, all so neatly arranged. He had never much cared for toy soldiers, not even then.

He eyed the books, each a gift from his mother and father.

The Complete Set of Hardy Boys’ Mysteries, A Boy Scout’s Handbook, Journey to the Center of the Earth, The Call of the Wild. Did they know he hadn’t read most of these? Had they hoped they would change him?

He knelt at the corner of his bed, allowing his hand to reach deep under his mattress, a grin covering his face as he felt the familiar shape. He pulled out a small leather-bound volume. The binding was held together by masking tape, the embossed title worn.

"The Life and Times of Thomas Aquinas," he whispered, smiling. She thought she had destroyed that little book, but she hadn’t—not that one, at least. He took in a deep breath. What a terror she had been in those days! Perhaps both of them had been terrors.

He lifted a small orange volume at the other end of the shelf.

"Italian Made Easy?" He thumbed through the pages, stopping to read the inscription in the front.

Thought this might come in handy, even though Franco will be there as your perfect interpreter. Wish I could be with you two. I know you’ll have a great time, Henry. You deserve it, son.

Dad

July 1960

He glanced across the bureau at the framed snapshot, allowing his eyes to rest on the two of them in front of the ancient abbey, such young men, so cocky standing there together, his handsome Italian in that black cassock, resting his arm so comfortably on Henry’s shoulder, the duffel bag at their feet, a bottle of Chianti sticking out of the top of it. That was his last day at the abbey, the last day before he headed to Naples and flew home.

Franco will be there as your perfect interpreter.

His father had been so trusting to let him go. She had opposed it. And Franco Cantarelli? Had he been the perfect interpreter? He took a breath. Father Franco. Where was his priest now?

He placed the book back on the shelf. Another snapshot caught his eye. He lifted it, holding it closer, smiling. They had been no more than five when they had sat on the back of that palomino, each wearing a huge cowboy hat. He noticed Clancy’s unmistakable grin, that never-ending optimism in his eyes even then, such a contrast to his own look of utter bewilderment.

He felt suddenly stifled by these memories, each pulling him deeper into the past. He had had enough. He would stop, yet there she was again.

Henry, I know you love your privacy over there. Forgive me for calling so late, dear.

That’s okay, Mother. He had been sipping Frascati, feeling its effect with the third glass.

You’ll have had that apartment now for over twenty years. I know how you cherish it.

Thirty-five, to be exact, Mother. There was a silence. Mother, are you still there?

Yes, Henry, your mother is still here. He heard her voice grow weary. I don’t know how to say this …

He braced himself. I’m listening. Tell me.

Henry, your mother is beginning to feel uncomfortable being here by herself, what with these little spells she’s been having.

She was using the third person. She only used the third person when she begged to make a point.

Mother, I’ll come visit you tomorrow, right after work.

That’s nice of you, dear. I appreciate your visits. You were just here Sunday. She paused. I’m calling about something a little more permanent, Henry.

He held his breath.

Your mother needs you to come home, son. She knows it’s a lot to ask, but … He could hear her mumble through her tears, Henry, I’m very frightened.

Her words had confused him. She was so frightened, and there he was, listening coldly, more concerned for his own stolen privacy than the health of his mother last summer.

He felt the perspiration trickle down his forehead as he reached into his closet and pulled out the white shirt he had worn Wednesday. It was too early to be recalling that evening, too early to be so serious.

Her voice drowned him again.

It will just be a few weeks that you’ll have to stay here with me, dear, just until the medication takes effect. Maybe a month at the most, the doctor says. That’s all. Then you can go on back to that apartment and your own private world.

His own private world? She had said it. After thirty-five years she had finally grasped what it was he cherished—just being alone.

He picked out a tie, the one with blue and ivory stripes, and made sure the knot was tight and elongated. He had learned that up East. He slipped into his Haspel suit, so old yet so soft and comfortable.

Like pajamas, Kate used to say. Those uptown boys look so comfortable in their pee-stained seersucker suits. It’s almost like wearing pajamas, Henry.

Downstairs, he grabbed the raincoat from the hall closet and then pressed his Panama firmly on top of his head.

He rolled his eyes. Mathilde was back.

We can hire someone from the service. She’ll watch out for things while you’re at the office during the day. Won’t be much of a burden on you, Henry, just a bit of security during the night. That’s when I’m needing you, dear, at night, when the house gets so quiet, when I’m feeling so alone.

He noticed the unopened manila envelope on the hall table and threw it into his leather briefcase.

Just ’til I get my bearings, dear, that’s all. Until I get my bearings. Henry, please, come on home! Your mother needs you!

Enough! he yelled, slamming the front door behind him.

Henry Arbuthnot made his way up Walnut Street, past the Audubon Golf Club to St. Charles Avenue. It was a clear morning, less humid than yesterday. He felt invigorated among the huge palms lining the neutral ground. His arms stretched out as he balanced himself on the streetcar track. He could still do it, just as he had when he was a boy.

It felt good to be out of that house! He stopped at Hartstone’s Drugstore on the corner at Broadway. A round-faced older man looked up at Henry over the top of his glasses, putting his newspaper down on the counter.

Well, what do you know? Here’s our Henry. How you doin’ this fine morning, son?

Good morning, Mr. Hartstone.

"Perfect morning, Henry, just a perfect morning!"

Hartstone looked over at the heavyset black woman behind the soda fountain.

Edith, fix Mr. Arbuthnot his usual: two coffees to go, one with cream, one with skim, both with sugar. Right, Henry?

No need to tell me, Edith responded. I know what he be wantin’, been fixin’ these coffees for thirty years. She put her hands on her hips. "And what’s with this ‘Mr. Arbuthnot’? We livin’ in the fifties or somethin’? For your information, I been knowin’ Mr. Arbuthnot, she said as she cocked her head, since he was a youngster. But then, you don’t need to be told that, do you?"

Hartstone smiled back at Henry.

"There she goes. One of these mornings, I’ll be working for her behind that counter."

Edith raised her eyebrows. There’s still hope in the valley, now. Don’t you forget it, mister.

She turned to Henry, that knowing look in her eyes, her voice lowered to a whisper as she leaned against the counter.

How you doin’ today, my friend?

He hesitated, shrugging his shoulders.

I guess I’m doing okay, Edith.

She noticed his eyes, tired, bloodshot, his thick, healthy head of hair now turning silver. Such a handsome man he’d become, so masculine, so manly. Who would ever have known this was that same little boy with the squeaky voice who had come to see her day after day, sitting at her counter, drinking her nectar sodas, asking her so many damn questions?

She looked into those dark, familiar eyes. What would it be like to love him? Many women had had the chance; she was certain they had, what with a handsome face like that. She tried to change her thoughts, pouring the steaming coffee into the paper cups.

Sure do miss that mother of yours, Henry. Seems so quiet here without her.

She liked you, Edith. She mentioned you … often.

Edith placed the pot back on the burner, gazing out onto the avenue.

Oh, that Miss Mathilde! If you only knew! She was the one who would speak to me—the only one! Others just sit at my counter, reading, keeping to their selves, never a smile ’til they want something! Sure is different from those friendlier times, isn’t it, Henry? She paused. You remember my counter, don’t you? She watched him blush as she reached for the milk and cream and then leaned forward again.

She was my buddy, Miss Mathilde. Every morning she’d come in with that cane. ‘Edith, you ole devil,’ she’d say. ‘How’s life treating you?’

Would she make my day! And the things she told me about those fancy uptown lady friends of hers? I swear, she left me in stitches! I used to say, ‘Miss Mathilde, why don’t you write yourself a book?’ Your mother would look up at me with that sassy little smile and say. ‘They’d throw me in the bayou if they knew the secrets I’ve been telling you, girl!’

Edith was breathing heavily now, her huge bosom heaving under the white uniform as she laughed. Then she looked away, her eyes welling with tears.

Yes, sir, I’m gonna miss that lady—won’t be the same without her, I tell you. It just won’t be the same! She stopped herself and handed him the bag.

Out on the street he thought back to that rainy afternoon a few months earlier. Edith and Mr. Hartstone had appeared at their door, water dripping off their faces.

Just thought we’d come by and pay our respects, Henry. Hartstone leaned forward, whispering, If we came at a wrong time, we’ll understand.

He hadn’t the heart to tell them Mathilde was asleep as he led them up the stairs, meeting Rachel’s look of disapproval at the door.

Just following the doctor’s instructions, Mr. Arbuthnot, that’s all. These visits tire my patient!

Mathilde had taken a turn for the worse that week, yet he knew how important it was for her to see the people she loved.

It’s all right, Rachel. You know best. We won’t be long, I promise.

Mathilde lay still in the hospital bed as they entered the dark room, her tiny head deep in a pillow. As they neared she looked up and said, There she is. How’s life been treating you, my old friend?

Edith smiled with surprise as she stood over the tiny figure. Mathilde stretched her arm out from under the woolen blanket, clutching Edith’s brown hand with hers.

You’re an angel to visit, just an angel.

We’re just wantin’ our pretty lady to come back and see us, Miss Mathilde. Edith caught herself, her voice breaking. We … miss you.

His mother smiled, her eyes sparkling. I know what you miss. You’re not going to tell any of our secrets now, are you?

Edith put her hand over her mouth.

My lips are sealed, you know that. She tried not to giggle. No one but you and me know those stories, I swear. No one, Miss Mathilde.

His mother grinned. I think you might be the only one to know about Cuzzie Moffat’s nose job. She looked up at Henry. Plastic surgery at eighty-three! Can you imagine?

He would never forget Mr. Hartstone that afternoon, off in the corner, concealing his embarrassment at being overlooked, until Mathilde turned, beckoning him forward.

Now, look who’s here! she said. What a surprise!

Hartstone neared her bed, nodding nervously as he stood next to Henry.

And what would we have ever done without you, Hartstone? She reached out her shriveled hand for his. Don’t think I didn’t know it was you who personally delivered our prescriptions over these many years; first for Hollis, and now for me. She pulled him close and kissed his cheek.

You have been a godsend, my dear friend, a true godsend.

She looked up to Henry. Pursing her lips, she placed a hand on each of their heads.

Take care of my son, will you, Hartstone? She pulled Henry’s earlobe. You see, he’s a little peculiar.

Mr. Hartstone caught his breath, shooting a confused glance at Henry. Well, I’ll do my best, Mrs. Arbuthnot. I’ll do my very best.

Just Two Buckaroos

Take care of my son, will you, Hartstone? You see, he’s a little peculiar.

Had Hartstone understood that his mother would have said anything as she lay in her bed that rainy afternoon? Anything! He let out a nervous sigh and suddenly felt something brush against his leg. He looked down to see a golden retriever gazing happily up at him.

Well, what have we here? How’s my boy? Yes, he’s a good dog. He could feel his muscles relax as he knelt to rub the dog’s ears.

Lost? Wish I could stay here with you. But I’ve got to walk over there and catch that streetcar, or I’ll be late. I’ll bet someone’s missing you right now.

A voice came out of the distance.

Flaubert! Sir, could you hold him?

A young blonde ran toward them, a leash dangling from her hand. She collapsed to her knees at Henry’s feet, placing the collar over the animal’s head.

My bad Flaubert! Why so suddenly independent? She buried her face in his fur, nearly crying. Damn you, dog, I thought I’d lost you!

Henry looked away, feeling his face flush.

Forgive us, she said, raising her eyes. It’s just that we’ve been together so long—since he was a puppy. I thought I’d never catch him! She gazed back down at that repentant snout. What’s come over you, Flaubert?

She shuddered at the grinding sound the streetcar made as it approached.

Maybe Flaubert has a little case of spring fever. Don’t you, ole boy?

Henry looked at the young woman curiously now. Her dark eyes, the brows, her pretty face, even the way she moved her hands reminded him of someone he once knew. He continued gazing until her voice interrupted his thoughts.

Thank you so much. By the way, I’m Sarah Miller.

Oh, he replied, embarrassed by his silence. Hello, Sarah Miller, I’m Henry. Henry Arbuthnot.

Her eyes lit up. Henry Arbuthnot? I know that name—but from where? She gazed at him intently, oblivious to the difference in their ages, her intensity catching him off guard. He returned to petting her dog.

Well, I’m just glad you’re okay, Flaubert. You stay out of trouble now, you hear? Do what Mother says. The dog seemed to understand, wagging his tail and licking Henry for the last time.

Henry made his way to the corner and then stopped, turning back.

Good-bye, Sarah Miller.

The sound of the grinding wheels overpowered her voice as she mouthed, Flaubert thanks you, Henry.

The boarding platform folded down as the streetcar came to a screeching halt. He waited behind the others and after stepping on board edged his way into the crowded front section of the car. As it moved forward, a well-dressed man pushed against him, spilling some of the hot coffee from his paper bag. Henry looked down to see a large brown stain on the front of his raincoat.

I am so sorry, the man lamented, brushing some of the warm liquid off with his hand.

Don’t worry about it, Henry