father was headed with this conversation but dreading it.
"Washington's hard," Axel said. "We all know each other so damned well and everyone has a past with everyone else. You either fit in right away or you don't, and if you don't you never will."
"She said she missed London," Alec said. "But I don't know what the great difference is. They both have a river and a legislature and the men wear hats."
"The difference is." Axel paused. "Heat."
"I like Washington," Alec said loyally.
"Maybe your taste in cities will change."
"Not mine."
"Well, you're young. You can keep your powder dry."
"She used to say that Washington was dry. She said it was a dry bath. What did she mean by that?"
"She thought that Washington was old. London was young. Sylvia always took a contrary view. She liked to turn things inside out. We Behls are attracted to women who turn things inside out. Trouble is, it's not a quality that wears well, long term. It's tiresome." Axel took another sip of whiskey, holding the glass to the candlelight and looking through it.
They were silent again. The boy was not certain what his father meant about turning things inside out. At that moment he was certain he would never live anywhere but Washington. He could not imagine living anywhere else, certainly not bombedout London, with its frightening memories. Echo House was home for him, as it had been home for his grandfather and his father.
"Son." The boy looked up. His father was staring into the middle distance, as if what he had to say could only be thrown into neutral territory. "I have a number for her, if you want to call. She's in London. At least she was in London last week."
"Did you speak to her?"
"No. But I have a number."
The boy was watching his father in the oval mirror, the older man in a soft tweed suit, blue shirt, and regimental tie. It was an old bespoke suit and it fit him badly, loose around the shoulders and waist; but of course it had been made for a larger man. It was the suit he always wore at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Now, as usual when he was speaking of personal matters, his hand moved to the deep scar that ran from his hairline to his jaw. He took another swallow of whiskey and the boy knew that the pain must be very bad, because his father seldom drank. He had not touched his wine.
"It might be a good idea if you called her."
"I'll think about it,' the boy said.
His father reached into his pocket and put a file card on the table. The boy took it and put it away without reading it, though he noticed that there was an address along with a telephone number. He had assumed that his mother was in London, her favorite city in the world, where she had many friends and fine wartime memories and no family. "Five hours time difference," his father said.
"I remember," the boy said.
"Do you miss London?"
"I hated the school"
His father nodded; that was old ground.
"And then you went away."
Axel smiled wryly. 'No question. That was a big mistake."
He had gone away and returned a casualty of war, so broken and torn up that he was unrecognizable. Their London house, which had been so full of life before the war, was suddenly silent and blue, his father upstairs in the wide hospital bed, his mother below. Nothing had seemed beyond Axel Behl's reach, a ticket to Wimbledon or a box of Belgian chocolates or an American convertible or an introduction to Glenn Miller; suddenly he was helpless, unable even to speak coherently, assisted by nurses every day and night. Alec said, "Where did you get the number?"
"Son," his father said. "Please. I have friends and they have friends. It wasn't very hard to do."
Then why did it take so long? "Okay," the boy said.
"Well." His father sighed heavily, smiling slowly. "What are your plans for the evening?"
"There's a double feature at the Circle."
"What's playing?"
The boy hesitated. "I forget."
Axel looked at him sharply. "The morning paper's in the library. You can check the listings."
"It's
"Washington's hard," Axel said. "We all know each other so damned well and everyone has a past with everyone else. You either fit in right away or you don't, and if you don't you never will."
"She said she missed London," Alec said. "But I don't know what the great difference is. They both have a river and a legislature and the men wear hats."
"The difference is." Axel paused. "Heat."
"I like Washington," Alec said loyally.
"Maybe your taste in cities will change."
"Not mine."
"Well, you're young. You can keep your powder dry."
"She used to say that Washington was dry. She said it was a dry bath. What did she mean by that?"
"She thought that Washington was old. London was young. Sylvia always took a contrary view. She liked to turn things inside out. We Behls are attracted to women who turn things inside out. Trouble is, it's not a quality that wears well, long term. It's tiresome." Axel took another sip of whiskey, holding the glass to the candlelight and looking through it.
They were silent again. The boy was not certain what his father meant about turning things inside out. At that moment he was certain he would never live anywhere but Washington. He could not imagine living anywhere else, certainly not bombedout London, with its frightening memories. Echo House was home for him, as it had been home for his grandfather and his father.
"Son." The boy looked up. His father was staring into the middle distance, as if what he had to say could only be thrown into neutral territory. "I have a number for her, if you want to call. She's in London. At least she was in London last week."
"Did you speak to her?"
"No. But I have a number."
The boy was watching his father in the oval mirror, the older man in a soft tweed suit, blue shirt, and regimental tie. It was an old bespoke suit and it fit him badly, loose around the shoulders and waist; but of course it had been made for a larger man. It was the suit he always wore at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Now, as usual when he was speaking of personal matters, his hand moved to the deep scar that ran from his hairline to his jaw. He took another swallow of whiskey and the boy knew that the pain must be very bad, because his father seldom drank. He had not touched his wine.
"It might be a good idea if you called her."
"I'll think about it,' the boy said.
His father reached into his pocket and put a file card on the table. The boy took it and put it away without reading it, though he noticed that there was an address along with a telephone number. He had assumed that his mother was in London, her favorite city in the world, where she had many friends and fine wartime memories and no family. "Five hours time difference," his father said.
"I remember," the boy said.
"Do you miss London?"
"I hated the school"
His father nodded; that was old ground.
"And then you went away."
Axel smiled wryly. 'No question. That was a big mistake."
He had gone away and returned a casualty of war, so broken and torn up that he was unrecognizable. Their London house, which had been so full of life before the war, was suddenly silent and blue, his father upstairs in the wide hospital bed, his mother below. Nothing had seemed beyond Axel Behl's reach, a ticket to Wimbledon or a box of Belgian chocolates or an American convertible or an introduction to Glenn Miller; suddenly he was helpless, unable even to speak coherently, assisted by nurses every day and night. Alec said, "Where did you get the number?"
"Son," his father said. "Please. I have friends and they have friends. It wasn't very hard to do."
Then why did it take so long? "Okay," the boy said.
"Well." His father sighed heavily, smiling slowly. "What are your plans for the evening?"
"There's a double feature at the Circle."
"What's playing?"
The boy hesitated. "I forget."
Axel looked at him sharply. "The morning paper's in the library. You can check the listings."
"It's