The Goldfinch

Chapter 7 | part 6

"WELL WELL," SAID Mr. Bracegirdle as he shook Hobie's hand and then mine. "Theodore—I do have to say—you're growing up to look a great deal like your mother. I wish she could see you now."
I tried to meet his eye and not seem embarrassed. The truth was: though I had my mother's straight hair, and something of her light-and-dark coloring, I looked a whole lot more like my father, a likeness so strong that no chatty bystander, no waitress in any coffee shop had allowed it to pass unremarked—not that I'd ever been happy about it, resembling the parent I couldn't stand, but to see a younger version of his sulky, drunk-driving face in the mirror was particularly upsetting now that he was dead.
Hobie and Mr. Bracegirdle were chatting in a subdued way—Mr. Bracegirdle was telling Hobie how he'd met my mother, dawning remembrance from Hobie: "Yes! I remember—a foot in less than an hour! My God, I came out of my auction and nothing was moving, I was uptown at the old Parke-Bernet—"
"On Madison across from the Carlyle?"
"Yes—quite a long hoof home."
"You deal antiques? Down in the Village, Theo says?"
Politely, I sat and listened to their conversation: friends in common,
gallery owners and art collectors, the Rakers and the Rehnbergs, the Fawcetts and the Vogels and the Mildebergers and Depews, on to vanished New York landmarks, the closing of Lutèce, La Caravelle, Café des Artistes, what would your mother have thought, Theodore, she loved Café des Artistes. (How did he know that? I wondered.) While I didn't for an

instant believe some of the things my dad, in moments of meanness, had insinuated about my mother, it did appear that Mr. Bracegirdle had known my mother a good deal better than I would have thought. Even the non- legal books on his shelf seemed to suggest a correspondence, an echo of interests between them. Art books: Agnes Martin, Edwin Dickinson. Poetry too, first editions: Ted Berrigan. Frank O'Hara, Meditations in an Emergency. I remembered the day she'd turned up flushed and happy with the exact same edition of Frank O'Hara—which I assumed she'd found at the Strand, since we didn't have the money for something like that. But when I thought about it, I realized she hadn't told me where she'd got it.
"Well, Theodore," said Mr. Bracegirdle, calling me back to myself. Though elderly, he had the calm, well-tanned look of someone who spent a lot of his spare time on the tennis court; the dark pouches under his eyes gave him a genial panda-bear aspect. "You're old enough that a judge would consider your wishes above all in this matter," he was saying. "Especially since your guardianship would be uncontested—of course," he said to Hobie, "we could seek a temporary guardianship for the upcoming interlude, but I don't think that will be necessary. Clearly this arrangement is in the minor's best interests, as long as it's all right with you?"
"That and more," said Hobie. "I'm happy if he's happy."
"You're fully prepared to act in an informal capacity as Theodore's adult custodian for the time being?"
"Informal, black tie, whatever's called for."
"There's your schooling to look after as well. We'd spoken of boarding school, as I recall. But that seems a lot to think of now, doesn't it?" he said, noting the stricken look on my face. "Shipping out as you've just arrived, and with the holidays coming up? No need to make any decisions at all at the moment, I shouldn't think," he said, with a glance at Hobie. "I should think it would be fine if you just sat out the rest of this term and we can sort it out later. And you know that you can of course call upon me at any time. Day or night." He was writing a phone number on a business card. "This is my home number, and this is my cell—my, my, that's a nasty cough you have there!" he said, glancing up—"quite a cough, are you having that looked after, yes? and this is my number out in Bridgehampton. I hope you won't hesitate to call me for any reason, if you need anything."
Trying hard, doing my best, to swallow another cough. "Thank you—"

"This is definitely what you want?" He was looking at me keenly with an expression that made me feel like I was on the witness stand. "To be at Mr. Hobart's for the next few weeks?"
I didn't like the sound of the next few weeks. "Yes," I said into my fist, "but—"
"Because—boarding school." He folded his hands and leaned back in his chair and regarded me. "Almost certainly the best thing for you in the long term but quite frankly, given the situation, I believe I could telephone my friend Sam Ungerer at Buckfield and we could get you up there right now. Something could be arranged. It's an excellent school. And I think it would be possible to arrange for you to stay in the home of the headmaster or one of the teachers rather than the dormitory, so you could be in more of a family setting, if you thought that would be something you'd like."
He and Hobie were both looking at me, encouragingly as I thought. I stared at my shoes, not wanting to seem ungrateful but wishing that this line of suggestion would go away.
"Well." Mr. Bracegirdle and Hobie exchanged a glance—was I wrong to see a hint of resignation and/or disappointment in Hobie's expression? "As long as this is what you want, and Mr. Hobart's amenable, I see nothing wrong with this arrangement for the time being. But I do urge you to think about where you'd like to be, Theodore, so we can go ahead and work out something for the next school term or maybe even summer school, if you'd like."