Flowers and Girls

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A t the time of Babette, my grandfather was not yet

twenty. Although today, and perhaps even then, such

youth is not necessarily married to innocence, in his case

it was. There were boys his age who had already served in the

war and returned, but he was not among them, for the unro-

mantic reason that one of his feet was several sizes larger than

the other. Outfitting him with boots would have inconven-

ienced the United States Army enough that he was not selected,

and he passed the war years, as before, in the company of his

elderly great-aunt.

On this particular Wednesday night, he chose not to tell his

aunt where he was going. This was not out of deviousness, for

he was not by nature a liar. Rather, he believed that she would

not have understood or even heard him in the advanced stage of

her senility. He did ask the neighbor, a widow with bad knees,

to look in on his aunt throughout the evening, and she agreed

to. He had already been to a boxing match the month before,

and had briefly, late one Saturday, stood in the doorway of a

loud and dangerous local bar, so this was not his first attempt to

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observe a seediness he had never known. He learned little out of

those first two experiences, however, except that the smell of

tobacco smoke clings stubbornly to hair and clothing. He had

higher hopes for this evening.

The nightclub he found was considerably darker inside than

the street outside had been. It was an early show, a weekday

show, but the place had already filled with a shifting, smoking

audience of men. The few lights around the orchestra dimmed

just as he entered, and he was forced to feel his way to a seat,

stepping over feet and knees in the aisle. He tried not to touch

people, but brushed nonetheless against wool and skin with

every move until he found an empty seat and took it.

“Time? ” a voice beside him demanded. My grandfather

tensed, but did not answer.

“The time? ” the voice questioned again. My grandfather

asked quietly, “Are you talking to me? ”

There was a sudden spotlight on the stage, and the question

was forgotten. Babette began to sing, although at that time, of

course, he did not know her name. When his eyes adjusted to

the glaring white light, it was only the color of her dress that he

saw — a vivid green that today we call lime. It is a color decid-

edly not found in nature but is now manufactured artificially for

the dying of paint, clothing, and food. It cannot shock us any-

more; we are too familiar with it. In 1919, however, there were

not yet cars to be found in that shade, or small houses in the

suburbs, or, one would suspect, fabric.

Nonetheless, Babette wore it, sleeveless and short. My

grandfather did not at first even notice that she was singing, on

account of that vivid lime-green dress. She was not a gifted

singer, but it is almost petty to say so, as musical ability was

clearly not required for her job. What she did, and did well, was

move in swaying, dancing steps on very pleasant legs. Novelists

writing only a decade before that night still referred to beautiful

women as having “rounded, well-shaped arms.” By the end of

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The Names of Flowers and Girls

World War I, however, fashion had changed such that other

features were now visible, and arms got considerably less atten-

tion than they once had. This was unfortunate, for Babette’s

arms were lovely, perhaps even her best feature. My grandfather,

however, was not very modern, even as a young man, and he

noticed Babette’s arms appreciatively.

The lights at the back of the stage had risen, and there

were several dancing couples now behind Babette. They were

adequate, efficient dancers — the men slender and dark, the

women in short swinging dresses. The nature of the lighting

muted the shades of their clothing into uniform browns and

grays, and my grandfather could do little more than note their

presence and then resume staring at Babette.

He was not familiar enough with show business to know that

what he was watching was the insignificant opening act of what

would be a long bawdy night of performance. This particular

number was no more than an excuse to open the curtain on

something other than an empty stage, to warm up the small

orchestra, and to alert the audience that the evening was com-

mencing. There was nothing risqué about Babette except the

length of her hemline, and it is likely that my grandfather was

the only member of the audience who felt any excitement at

what he was watching. It is almost certain that none of the

other men around him were clutching at their trousers with

damp hands or moving their lips, silently searching for words to

describe that dress, those arms, that startling red hair and lip-

stick. Most of the audience had already heard the song on a

recording made by a prettier, more talented girl than Babette,

but my grandfather knew very little of popular music or of

pretty girls.

When the performers bowed and the lights dimmed, he

jumped from his seat and moved quickly back over the men in

his row, stepping on feet, stumbling, apologizing for his clumsi-

ness in a low murmur. He felt his way up the center aisle and to

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the heavy doors, which threw quick triangles of light on the

floor behind him as he pushed them open. He ran into the

lobby and caught an usher by the arm.

“I need to speak with the singer, ” he said.

The usher, my grandfather’s age but a veteran of the war,

asked, “Who? ”

“The singer. The one with the red, the red — ” He pulled at

his own hair in frustration.

“The redhead, ” the usher finished.

“Yes.”

“She’s with the visiting troupe.”

“Yes, good, good, ” my grandfather said, nodding foolishly.

“Wonderful! ”

“What do you need with her? ”

“I need to speak with her, ” he repeated.

Perhaps the usher, seeing that my grandfather was sober and

young, thought that he was a messenger boy, or perhaps he only

wanted to be left alone. In any case, he led him to Babette’s room, which was under the stage in a dark, door-lined hall.

“Someone here to see you, miss, ” he said, knocking twice and

leaving before she answered.

Babette opened the door and looked down the hall at the

departing usher, and then at my grandfather. She wore a slip

and had a large pink towel wrapped around her shoulders like a

shawl.

“Yes? ” she asked, lifting her high, arched eyebrows even

higher.

“I need to speak with you, ” my grandfather said.

She looked him over. He was tall and pale, in a clean, inex-

pensive suit, and he carried his folded overcoat under one arm

as if it were a football. He had a bad habit of stooping, but now,

out of nervousness, was standing perfectly straight. This posture

helped his appearance somewhat, forcing his chin out and lend-

ing his shoulders a width they did not generally seem to have.

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There was nothing about him that would have compelled Ba-

bette to shut the door in his face, so she remained there before

him in her slip and towel.

“Yes? ” she asked again.

“I want to paint you, ” he said, and she frowned and took a

step back. My grandfather thought with alarm that she had

misunderstood him to mean that he wanted to apply paint to

her body, as one would paint a wall, and, horrified, he explained,

“I meant that I would like to paint a picture of you, a portrait

of you! ”

“Right now? ” she asked, and he answered quickly, “No, no,

not now. But I would like to, you see. I would love to.”

“You’re a painter? ” she asked.

“Oh, I’m terrible, ” my grandfather said. “I’m a terrible

painter, I’m ghastly.”

She laughed at him. “I’ve already had my picture painted by

several artists, ” she lied.

“Certainly you have, ” he said.

“You saw me sing? ” she asked, and he said that he had indeed.

“You aren’t staying for the rest of the show? ” she asked, and

he paused before answering, realizing only then that there was a

show other than what he had seen.

“No, ” he said. “I didn’t want to miss you. I was afraid you

might leave right away.”

She shrugged. “I don’t let men into my dressing room.”

“Of course you don’t! ” he said, hoping he had not insinuated

that he expected an invitation. “I had no intention of that.”

“But I’m not going to stand in this hallway and talk to you, ”

she continued.

My grandfather said, “I’m sorry that I disturbed you, ” and

unfolded his overcoat to put it on.

“What I mean is that if you want to talk to me, you’re just

going to have to come inside, ” Babette explained.

“I couldn’t; I didn’t mean to —”

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But she had already stepped back into the small, poorly lit

room and was holding the door open for him. He followed her

in, and when she shut the door, he leaned against it, anxious to

intrude as little as possible. Babette pulled an old piano stool

over to the sink and looked at herself in a silver hand mirror.

She ran the water until it was hot, dampened two fingers, and

pressed a curl just behind her ear back into shape. Then she

looked at my grandfather over her shoulder.

“Now why don’t you tell me just what it was that you

wanted.”

“I wanted to draw you, to paint you.”

“But you say you’re no good.”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t say that, ” Babette said. “If you’re going to be

something, if you’re going to be someone, you’ve got to start

telling people that you’re good.”

“I can’t, ” he said. “I’m not.”

“Well, it’s easy enough to say that you are. Go on, say it. Say,

‘I am a good artist.’ Go on.”

“I can’t, ” he repeated. “I’m not one.”

She picked up an eyebrow pencil off the edge of the sink and

tossed it to him.

“Draw something, ” she said.

“Where? ”

“Anywhere. On this wall, on that wall, anywhere. Doesn’t

matter to me.”

He hesitated.

“Go on, ” she said. “It’s not as if you could make this room

look any worse, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He found a spot next to the sink where the paint wasn’t too

badly chipped or marked with graffiti. Slowly, he began to draw

a hand holding a fork. Babette stood behind him, leaning for-

ward, watching over his shoulder.

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“It’s not a good angle for me, ” he said, but she did not answer,

so he continued. He added a man’s forearm and wristwatch.

“It’s smudging like that because the pencil is so soft, ” he

apologized, and she said, “Stop talking about it. Just finish it.”

“It is finished.” He stepped back. “It’s already finished.”

She looked at him, and then at the sketch. “But that’s just a

hand. There’s no person, no face.”

“See, I’m no good. I told you I was no good.”

“No.” Babette said. “I think you’re very good. I think this is

an excellent hand and fork. From just this I’d let you paint my

portrait. It’s just that it’s a queer thing to draw on a wall, don’t

you think? ”

“I don’t know, ” he said. “I never drew on a wall before.”

“Well, it’s a nice drawing, ” Babette decided. “I think you’re a

good artist.”

“Thank you.”

“You should tell me that I’m a good singer now.”

“But you are! ” he said. “You’re wonderful.”

“Aren’t you sweet to say so.” Babette smiled graciously. “But

I’m really not. There are no good singers in places like this.

There are some fine dancers, and I’m not a bad dancer, but I’m a

terrible singer.”

He didn’t know what to say to this, but she was looking at

him as if it was his turn to speak, so he asked, “What’s your

name? ”

“Babette, ” she said. “And when a girl criticizes herself, you

really should crawl to the ends of the earth to contradict her,

you know.”

“I’m sorry, ” he said. “I didn’t know.”

She looked at herself in the mirror again. “So do you want to

only paint my hand? ” she asked. “I haven’t got a fork with me.”

“No, ” he said. “I want to paint you, all of you, surrounded by

black, surrounded by a whole crowd of black. But there will be a

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white light, and you in the center” — he lifted his hands to

show placement in an imaginary frame — “in the center in

green and red.” He dropped his hands. “You should’ve seen that

green and that red.”

“Well, it’s just the dress you like, then, ” she said. “Just the

dress and the hair.”

And your arms, he thought, but only nodded.

“None of that is really me, though, ” Babette said. “Even my

hair is fake.”

“Fake? ”

“Yes. Fake. Dyed. Please don’t look so shocked. Really, you

can’t have ever seen this color hair before.”

“No! ” my grandfather almost shouted. “I never had. I think

that’s exciting, that you can make it that way if you like. I

wondered about it, but I didn’t think, of course, that it had been

dyed. I think that there are so many colors I’ve never seen —

could I touch it? ”

“No, ” Babette said. She reached for a comb from the sink and

pulled a single red hair from its teeth. She handed it to him.

“You can have this one piece. I’m sure that I don’t know you well

enough to let you drag your hands all over my head.”

He carried the strand to the lamp and stretched it taut under

the bulb, frowning in concentration.

“It’s brown at one end, ” he said.

“That’s the new growth, ” she explained.

“Your real hair? ”

“The whole thing is my real hair. That brown is my real

color.”

“Just like mine, ” he said in surprise. “But you’d never know it

to see you onstage. I tell you, you’d never imagine we two would

have the same sort of hair. Isn’t that remarkable? ”

Babette shrugged. “I wouldn’t say it was remarkable. But I

suppose I’m used to my hair.”

“Yes, I suppose you are.”

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“You’re not from New York City, are you? ” she asked.

“Yes, I am. I’ve always lived here.”

“Well, you don’t act like it. You act just like a little boy from

the country. Don’t be put off by that, now. It’s not a bad thing.”

“I think it is. I think it’s awful. It comes of not talking to

enough people.”

“What do you do all day, then? ”

“I work in the back of a print shop sometimes. And I live

with my great-aunt.”

“And she’s very old, ” Babette said.

“Yes. And senile. All she can remember anymore are the

names of flowers and girls.”

“What? ”

“The names of flowers and girls. I don’t know why, but that’s

how it’s become. If I ask her a question, she thinks and thinks,

but then finally she’ll say something like, ‘Queen Anne’s Lace,

Daisy, Emily, Iris, Violet...’”

“No! ” Babette said. “I think that’s remarkable. She must be

very pretty to listen to.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s just sad, because I can see how

frustrated she is. Other times she just lets herself talk and

strings them all together: ‘Ivy-Buttercup-Catherine-Pearl-

Poppy-Lily-Rose.’ Then it’s pretty to listen to.”

“I’m sure that it is, ” Babette said. “You forget how many

flowers’ names are girls’ names, too.”

“Yes.” My grandfather nodded. “I’ve noticed that.”

“She used to take care of you, didn’t she? ”

“Yes, ” he said. “When I was young.”

“You still are young.” Babette laughed. “I’m even young, and

I think I’m much older than you.”

“I couldn’t imagine how old you are. I hadn’t even thought

about it.”

“I can see why you wouldn’t.” Babette lifted her mirror again

and looked at herself. “All this makeup covers everything. It’s

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hard to tell what I look like at all. I think I’m pretty, anyway, but I only realized this week that I’m not going to age well. Some

women I know look like girls their whole lives, and I suspect

that it’s on account of their skin. From a distance I still look

fine, and onstage I’ll look wonderful for years, but if you come

close to me, you’ll see the change already.”

She jumped up and ran in two steps to the opposite corner of

the room from my grandfather.

“You see, I’m just heavenly from here, ” she said, and then

leaped right up to him so that their noses almost touched. “But

now look at me. See the little lines here and here? ” She pointed

to the outer corner of each eye. My grandfather saw nothing

like lines, only quickly blinking lashes and makeup. He noticed

that her breath smelled of cigarettes and oranges, and then he

stopped breathing, afraid that he might touch her somehow, or

do something wrong. She took a step back, and he exhaled.

“But it’s like that with everything you look at too closely, ”

Babette continued. The green dress that she had worn earlier

was hanging over a low ceiling pipe. She pulled the dress down

and backed into the far corner again, holding it up against

herself. “Just look at this lovely green thing, ” she said. “Onstage

it’ll turn a man’s head, won’t it? And I looked so swish in it,

didn’t you think? ”

My grandfather said that he had thought just that. She ap-

proached him again, although, to his relief, she did not stand so

close this time.

“But you can see what a cheap thing it really is, ” she said,

turning the dress inside out. “It looks just like a child sewed

those seams, and it’s all kept together with pins. And feel it.

Go on.”

My grandfather lifted a bit of the skirt in one hand, although

he did not really feel the material as he had been told to.

“You can tell right away that it’s not really silk, that there isn’t

actually anything nice about it at all. If I wore this to someone’s

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home, I would look just like some kind of street girl. It’s pa-

thetic.” She turned from him, and, over her shoulder, she added,

“I will spare you the smell of the thing. I’m certain that you can

imagine it.”

Actually, he couldn’t begin to imagine what it smelled like.

Cigarettes and oranges, he suspected, but he had no way of

knowing. Babette let her pink towel slide to the floor, and then

turned and faced my grandfather in only her slip and stockings.

“I would guess that I look very nice this way, ” she said,

“although I don’t have a large mirror, so I’m not sure. But if I

were to take this slip off, and if you were to come over here next

to me, you’d see that I have all sorts of bumps and hairs and

freckles, and you might be very disappointed. You’ve never seen

a naked woman, have you? ”

“Yes, I have, ” he said, and Babette looked at him in quick surprise.

“You have never, ” she said sharply. “You have never in your

life.”

“I have. It’s been three years now that my aunt can’t care for

herself. I keep her clean, change her clothes, give her baths.”

Babette winced. “I think that must be disgusting.” She

picked up the towel from the floor and wrapped it around her

shoulders again. “She probably can’t even control herself any-

more. She’s probably all covered with nasty messes.”

“I keep her very clean, ” he said. “I make sure that she —”

“No.” Babette held up her hands. “I can’t listen to that, any of

that. I’ll be sick, really I will.”

“I’m sorry, ” my grandfather said. “I didn’t mean —”

“That doesn’t disgust you? To do those things? ” she inter-

rupted.

“No, ” he said honestly. “I think it must be just like taking care

of a baby, don’t you? ”

“No. Absolutely not. Isn’t that funny, though, that I would be

so disgusted by what you just told me? I’m sure there are things

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in my life that would shock you, but I didn’t think that you

could shock me.”

“I didn’t mean to shock you, ” he apologized. “I was only

answering your question.”

“Now I’ll tell you something shocking, ” she said. “When I

was a little girl in Elmira, we lived next to a very old man, a

Civil War veteran. He’d had his arm amputated during a battle,

but he wouldn’t let the surgeon throw it away. Instead, he kept

it, let all the skin rot off, dried it in the sun, and took it home. A souvenir. He kept it until he died. He used to chase his grand-children around the yard with it, and then beat them with his

own arm bone. And one time he sat me down and showed me

the tiny crack from where he’d broken it when he was a boy. So

do you think that’s disgusting? ”

“No, ” my grandfather said. “It’s interesting. I never met any-

one from the Civil War.”

“Now that’s funny, ” Babette said, “because everyone I ever

told that to was shocked, but it never shocked me. So why can’t

I listen to you talk about cleaning up your old aunt? ”

“I don’t know, ” he said. “Except that your story was a lot more

interesting.”

“I didn’t think I still could be disgusted, ” she said. “I’ll tell you another story. The church in my hometown used to have ice

cream socials for the children, and we would eat so much that

we would get sick. But it was such a treat that we wanted more,

so we used to go outside, vomit what we’d eaten, and run back in

for more. Pretty soon all the dogs in town would be at the

church, eating up that melting ice cream as fast as we could

throw it up. Do you think that’s disgusting? ”

“No, ” my grandfather said. “I think that’s funny.”

“So do I. I did then, and I still do.” She was quiet for a

moment. “Still, there are things that I’ve seen in the last few

years that would make you sick to hear. I could shock you. I’ve

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done things that are so awful, I wouldn’t tell you about them if

you begged me to.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I don’t want to know, ” he said, although

when he had left his home that evening, he had wanted just that

sort of information, desperately.

“It’s not important, anyhow. We won’t talk about it at all.

You’re a funny one, though, aren’t you? I feel just like an old

whore saying that. There are so many old whores in this busi-

ness, and they all look at young men and say, ‘You’re a funny

one, aren’t you? ’ It’s true, though, with you. Most men get a sniff

of a girl’s past and want to know every single thing she’s ever

done. And you keep looking at me, but not like I’m used to.”

My grandfather blushed. “I’m sorry if I stared, ” he said.

“But not just at me! You’ve been staring at the whole room.

I’ll bet you’ve memorized every crack on these walls, the rungs

on the bed frame, and what I’ve got in the bottom of my

suitcases, too.”

“No.”

“Yes, you have. And you’ve been memorizing me. I’m sure

of it.”

He did not answer her, because, of course, she was absolutely

right. Instead, he nervously shifted his weight back and forth,

suddenly acutely aware of the different sizes of his feet. Not for

the first time in his life, he felt unbalanced from the ground up

because of this deformity, almost dizzy from it.

“Now I’ve made you flustered, ” Babette said. “I think that’s

easy enough to do, so I won’t be proud.” After a pause, she

added, “I believe you really are an artist because of how you’ve

been staring. You’re a watcher, not a listener. Am I right? ”

“I don’t know what you mean, ” he said.

“Hum me a bar from my song tonight, or even tell me a line

from the chorus. Go on.”

He thought back quickly, and at first could only come up

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with the sound of the faceless man beside him demanding the

time. Then he said, “You sang something about being blue

because someone left, a man, I think...” He trailed off, then

added weakly, “It was a pretty song. You sang it well.”

She laughed. “It’s just as well that you didn’t listen. It’s a

stupid song. But tell me, how many couples were dancing be-

hind me? ”

“Four, ” he answered without hesitation.

“And who was the smallest girl onstage? ”

“You were.”

“And how big was the orchestra? ”

“I couldn’t see, except the conductor, and the bass player, of

course, because he was standing.”

“Yes, of course.” Babette walked to the sink, and spent a few

moments doing something with the toiletries there. Then she

turned and approached him with one arm outstretched. She

had striped the white underside of her forearm with five short

strokes of lipstick, each shade only slightly different from the

one beside it. She covered her mouth with her other hand and

asked, “Which color do I have on my lips right now? ”

My grandfather looked down at her arm, unexpectedly

alarmed at the slashes of red across the white skin. He paused

before answering, because something else had caught his eye, a

faint, bluish vein that ran diagonally across the inside bend of

her elbow. Then he pointed to the second lipstick stripe from

her wrist and said assuredly, almost absently, “This one.”

He looked up at her face only after she had let her arm drop,

and the intriguing blue vein vanished from view. She was still

holding her other hand to her mouth and staring at him with

eyes so wide and spooked that it seemed as if her hand belonged

to a stranger, an attacker. He slowly pulled her arm down away

from her face and looked at her in silence. He looked at her lips

and confirmed that he had chosen correctly. Without thinking

about what he was beginning to do, he lifted her chin so that

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her face was out of shadow and studied the shape of her fore-

head, nose, and jaw. Babette watched him.

“Look, ” she said. “If you’re going to kiss me, just —”

She stopped talking as he released her chin and took hold of

her wrist, turning it over and exposing where she had marked

herself with the lipsticks. He stared for a long while, and she

finally began to rub at the smearing red lines with the corner of

her towel, as if embarrassed now by what she had done. But my

grandfather wasn’t looking at that. He was studying that faint

blue vein again, examining its short path across its cradle, the

soft fold of her arm. After some time, he lifted her other arm

and compared the twin vein there, holding her wrists gently, but

with a thorough self-absorption that negated the lightness of

his touch. She pulled away, and he released his hold without

speaking.

He crossed the room and looked once more at the dress,

carefully noting the alarming green again, frowning. Then he

returned to Babette to confirm the color of her hair. He reached

up to touch it, but she caught his arm.

“Please, ” she said. “That’s enough.”

My grandfather blinked as if she had just woken him from a

nap or delivered a piece of unexpected bad news. He glanced

around the room as though searching for someone else, some-

one more familiar, and then frowned and looked back at Ba-

bette.

“You should know that there are ways to act, ” she said evenly.

“There are things to say so that a girl doesn’t have to feel used.”

Her face was empty of expression, but she had lifted the hand

mirror and was holding it tightly, as one might hold a tennis

racket or a weapon.

He blushed. “I’m sorry, ” he stammered. “I didn’t mean... I

get that way sometimes, looking, staring like that —”

Babette cut him off with a sharp, irritated glance that crossed

her face as fast and dark as a shadow.

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“You can’t do that to people, ” she said. He started to apolo-

gize again, but she shook her head. Finally she continued, “It’s

going to be a very good painting, but not very flattering to me.

Which is fine, ” she added, shrugging cavalierly, “because I’ll

never see it.”

“I’m sorry, ” he repeated, feeling and sounding like a stranger,

as if he was once more standing outside her door in the dark

cobwebbed hall beneath the stage.

She shrugged one shoulder and lifted a hand to touch a red

curl that was already in place. My grandfather watched, silent.

“Don’t you think you should leave now? ” Babette asked at

last.

He nodded, disgusted by the futility of apology, and left. He

found his way through the dark hall and out of the nightclub

alone, not needing, or even remembering, the young usher who

had led him to Babette. Outside it had stopped raining. His

overcoat had dried in her room, and he had already forgotten

that it had ever been wet.

The widow with the bad knees was waiting for him when he

got home. She did not question where he had been, but said

only that his aunt was asleep in her chair and had been quiet all

night.

“I gave her some soup, ” she whispered as he unlocked the

door.

“Thank you, ” he said. “You’re very kind.”

My grandfather closed the door quietly behind him and took

off his shoes so that he wouldn’t wake his aunt when he passed

through the sitting room. In his own bedroom, he began work-

ing on what would be the first important painting of his ca-

reer. He filled several pages with the charcoal-smudged, faceless

crowd of the nightclub audience, leaving an empty white space

in each sketch, always in the same spot. After several hours, he

examined his work, irritated to see that all the pictures were

identical: uniformly solid and dark, with a gaping opening in

144 ✦

The Names of Flowers and Girls

the center for a singer he didn’t know how to begin to draw.

He laid his head down on his sleeve and shut his eyes. He

breathed in the tobacco smell of his shirt, at first inadvertently

and then with great purpose, as if his skill would be enhanced if

he deeply inhaled that dank odor. After some time, he opened

his small box of oil paints and began trying to mix the green of

Babette’s dress.

Although later in his life his mastery of color would be consid-

ered unrivaled, that night, as a young man with a limited collec-

tion of oils, he was overwhelmed by the task of recalling the

shade. He worked carefully and several times felt that he was

close to success, but found that, as the paint dried, the effect was

lost, the color dulled. He was struck by the inevitability of his

own limitations.

His desk was covered already with torn pieces of paper and

patches of sticky, inadequate green. He looked at the charcoal

sketches again and thought about what Babette had said. She

was correct to say that it would be a good painting, but wrong to

think that it would not flatter her. My grandfather visualized

the figure that he knew would eventually fill the empty white

space, and he was certain that it would be a very appealing

character. Nonetheless, the painting was destined, in his mind,

to remain a clumsy rendition of a transient, fantastic moment. It

was he, ultimately, who would not be flattered by this work. It

was his misfortune to realize this so young.

He heard a sound and set his sketchbook down on the floor.

His aunt was talking, and he wondered how long she had been

awake. He went into the sitting room, where he turned on a

small reading lamp. She was rocking slowly, and he listened for

a while to her mumbling.

“Black-eyed Susan, ” she said, “Grace, Anna, Marigold,

Pansy, Sarah...”

She had become smaller with age. In this lighting, how-

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p i l g r i m s

ever, with dark blankets over her legs and embroidered pillows

around her, she appeared stately if not strong. My grandfather

sat at her feet like a child waiting for a story.

“Lady’s slipper, Rosehip, Faith, Zinnia, Cowbell, ” she said.

He rested his head on her knee, and she stopped talking. She

laid her hand on his head and kept it there, where it trembled

with the constant palsy of old age. He began to fall asleep and,

in fact, had dozed off when she woke him by saying, “Baby.” He

half-opened his eyes without lifting his head, not sure what he

had heard.

She repeated the word, again and again, in the same low tone

as her strange, rambling lists.

“Baby, baby, baby, ” she said, and in his distracted exhaustion,

he misunderstood her. He believed that she was saying “Ba-

bette, ” over and over. Of all the flowers and girls, he thought, it

was this rich, painful name that she had finally settled on to

repeat and repeat and repeat.

He closed his eyes. Even shut, they ached, as if somehow

they had been forced to look on himself in sixty years: elderly

and dying, calling to his daughters and his granddaughters,

calling them all to him, calling them all Babette.

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