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He hesitated giving this stranger the house’s name, the address at which he lived. “I cannot remember.”
“Ah, I see. So you’re clumsy and forgetful?” He laughed, but the way he turned away from him, as though he could be dismissed at once, made the insult sting.
Bron couldn’t control himself: “Greenwood.”
The man halted in his tracks.
“Greenwood?” he heard him repeat.
“Yes. Do you know it?”
“Know it?” The man turned to face him again. A pause later, he said, “No, I don’t know it. Not well enough, anyway. And how long have you been in Cambridge, did you say?”
He suspected this question, quick as it was to be asked, to be an absentminded gesture posed not with any desire of hearing an answer, but as one lobbed for the sake of enabling him to ask another. He kept his answer vague. “A couple of weeks, give or take.”
“And how is it that you’ve come to reside in such a place?”
“I’m employed by the owner. Not like a housekeeper or anything. I tutor his child. Well, I’m sort of like a governess.”
“A governess?” he said, lips curling upward into an almost smile, perhaps not because of the answer he’d given, but because of the seriousness of its delivery.
“Yes, but I’m not sure she needs much of my help.” He offered this bit of information as a gesture of goodwill.
“Well, howutterlyamusing.” The man’s face broke into a grin, his tongue furling over a neat set of white teeth. The way he tossed his head aside was surely an attempt to hide it. Bron felt suddenly like the biggest joke in the world. “Intriguing even … So what do you call this?” The man prodded his finger at him, into one of the holes of his patterned shawl. “It’s awfully garish.”
He was used to these sort of comments, had even expected it from this man—the nose told all—but still he felt a chill run through him as he took in this stranger’s words, words which jammed in his sternum. This was the thing about people—they always had opinions to share, and when it came to him and his clothes, they felt all the more convinced of their right to air them. It is inherent to our species to comment on people’s appearances, some going so far as to advise what one could or should not wear.A trifle though it may seem, everybody, at some point, is interested in fabrics and plays the role of the tailor.
He flung the man’s hand away. “I’d prefer it if you kept your thoughts to yourself.”
“Well, I beg your pardon,” the man said, shocked at the outburst. “I was only—”
“What? Did you think you were being polite?” He spoke with confidence; closed his remark with a breathy and sarcastically consideratesir.
“Oh, I have touched a nerve.” The man paused, looked him up and down once more. “Perhaps it’d be best if we forget this little episode ever happened and say our goodbyes for now.”
“Goodbye,” Bron said, refusing to shake his outstretched hand. “I’m sorry to have tripped you over.” And with a click of his heels, he walked away out of the college grounds, feeling the tears prick at his eyes, and cursed himself for ever having thought that a collision could result in a meet-cute. In reality, men continue to be assholes.
He would definitely be late getting back for the party now.
When he finally reached the house, he made his apologies to Madame Clarence, who had been waiting for him at the door. Mr. Edwards soon bellowed, “There you are, Bron!” and pulled him toward the kitchen for a quick chat, but it was Ada who noticed he’d been crying as he handed over the contents of his bag. He couldn’t find the party poppers anywhere. “I’m afraid I must have dropped them,” he said, quickly explaining that he had fallen, but withholding certain crucial details.
“No worries, no worries—it’s time to get dressed!”
Bron climbed the stairs quickly to his room and shut the door behind him.
4
MR.EDWARDS WALKED INTOBron’s room without knocking, carrying several hangers draped in plastic, which he soon laid down onto the bed.
“Take your pick of suit, son, take your pick!”
Son.Bron rose from the ruffled bedspread to consider the suits and rested his palm on one of the plastic coverings, smiling at Mr. Edwards to show his appreciation.Sonwas not a word he could carry, nor was it a word he’d ever had to associate with.Boyhe was used to.Boywas thrown around at St. Mary’s all the time and could mean any number of things or could address any number of persons. Butson… it was for other things entirely—shoved down his throat, a word sandwiched between words that meant nothing and everything. A daily ritual, said in the morning at assembly, between each lesson, and at night. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. He was nobody’s son, nobody’s male anything, and certainly nobody’s child. No one had ever calledhimson.
“Well, what do you think?” said Mr. Edwards, taking one from the hook and holding it up for him to inspect. “I rather like this one, myself.”
Bron felt an overwhelming heat flush his cheek. “I thought I’d just wear my own clothes, sir.” He looked over to his wardrobe,then peered down at the clothes he was wearing. He looped a finger into the knitted shawl, but it hung limp and ridiculous at his neck. “Is this not appropriate?”
“Well, I wouldn’t wear it myself. Not to a party.” Mr. Edwards led him with a kind hand toward the freestanding mirror and unzipped the bags from their hangers, passing the suits along one by one. Like a good son, Bron inspected the detail on each cuff, the fabric of each lapel. He recognized how expensive and delicate they were, these brands he’d never thought he’d wear. When he carefully set one aside, Mr. Edwards would bring it back again for reconsideration, scrutinizing and then pointing out the feature that made each piece unique.
