Passage

“Your mother?” Joanna said blankly. “No, as I said, I had Mr. Briarley as a teacher. I went to the school to find out if he was still teaching, and one of the librarians told me where he lived. I do have the right house, don’t I? The Mr. Briarley I’m looking for taught English at Dry Creek High School?”

“Yes,” the girl said, “but I’m afraid he can’t—”

“Is there somebody at the door?” a man’s voice called from the depths of the house.

“Yes, Uncle Pat,” the girl shouted back, and Joanna thought, This can’t possibly be the right Mr. Briarley. She couldn’t imagine his being anyone’s uncle, let alone Uncle Pat.

“Who is it?” the voice said, and this time she recognized the voice. It was Mr. Briarley. Uncle Pat.

“Is it Kevin?” Mr. Briarley called.

“No, Uncle Pat. It’s not Kevin,” the girl said, and to Joanna, “I’m afraid this isn’t a good—”

“Tell him to come in,” he said, and Mr. Briarley appeared in the door. He looked exactly the same, his hair still dark with a little gray at the temples, his eyebrows still arched sardonically. Joanna would have sworn he was wearing the exact same gray tweed vest.

The girl opened the door farther. “Uncle Pat, this is—”

“Joanna Lander. I’m an ex-student of yours,” Joanna said, sticking out her hand. “I don’t expect you to remember me. I had you for senior English twelve years ago. Second period,” she added irrelevantly.

“I have an excellent memory,” he said. “Kit, where are your manners? Don’t make Ms. Lander stand out in the cold. Open the door.”

Kit opened the door all the way, and Joanna stepped into the narrow hallway. “Come into my library,” Mr. Briarley said, and led the way into a room that looked exactly like Joanna would have expected. Three entire walls were covered with books from floor to ceiling, and on the fourth, between the windows, hung engravings of Westminster Abbey and the Globe Theater. There was a mahogany desk and two dark red leather chairs, both piled with books, and there were books stacked on the end tables, on the wide windowsill, on the floor.

Kit scurried to move the books off one of the chairs and motioned Joanna to sit down. She did, and he sat down opposite her. Kit stood next to his chair, still looking wary.

Now that Joanna had had a chance to look at Kit, she wondered if she were as young as she’d first thought. There were faint bluish shadows under her eyes, and unhappy lines around her mouth. Behind her, on one of the bookcases, was a picture of her carrying a stack of books and standing in front of University Hall at DU, and one of her and a young man. The Kevin Mr. Briarley had thought was at the door? Kit looked twenty pounds healthier in both photos and considerably happier. What had happened since they were taken? Anorexia? Drugs? And was that why she was living here? Somehow she couldn’t see Mr. Briarley as a rehab counselor, but then again, she couldn’t imagine him as being anyone’s uncle, and there had been her odd, sharp reaction when Joanna had said she worked at Mercy General.

“I really appreciate this,” Joanna began. “I would have called but I didn’t have your phone number. I went over to the high school, hoping you still taught there, and they told me you’d retired. When did you retire?”

“Five years ago,” Kit volunteered.

He glared at her. “Kit,” he said, “don’t just stand there. Offer our guest some—”

“Tea,” Kit said, too eagerly. “Ms. Lander, can I get you a cup of tea? Or coffee?”

“Oh, no, nothing,” Joanna said.

“Tea,” Mr. Briarley said firmly. “ ‘And sometimes counsel take,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘and sometimes tea.’ ”

“The Rape of the Lock,” Joanna said, delighted that she remembered. “Alexander Pope. I remember your reading him out loud to us,” Joanna said. “And ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ by Coleridge. That was my favorite. ‘Water, water everywhere, and all the boards did shrink—’ ” she said and paused, expecting him to say the next two lines.

“Coleridge,” he muttered, “overrated Romantic,” and then turned abruptly to Kit and snapped, “Where’s my tea?”

It was the tone used to a servant. Joanna looked at him, and then at Kit, in surprise, but Kit merely said, “I’ll get it right away,” and started for the door.

“And I want the water boiled,” Mr. Briarley snapped, “not heated to lukewarm in that ridiculous—”

“Microwave,” Kit said. “Yes, Uncle Pat.”

“And don’t take all day, Kit. Kit,” he repeated contemptuously, turning to Joanna. “What sort of a name is that? It’s a label for a box full of first-aid bandages, not a name for a person.”

What was going on here? Joanna wondered. Had she walked in on an argument? She remembered Kit’s reluctance to let her in. She glanced up at her, expecting her to look sullen or angry, but she looked wary, or worried, the way she had when she opened the door, her reactions all wrong for the situation.

“Go on, Kit,” Mr. Briarley said, emphasizing the name nastily. “I want to speak with my student.”

“I’ll only be a minute,” Kit said with a last worried glance at Joanna and disappeared.