Tigers in Red Weather (42 page)

“I’m sorry, Miss Derringer, but we normally wash Ed’s hair on Thursdays. After his mother leaves.”

“Oh,” Daisy says. “Well, sure. Maybe I can help.”

“I’m sure he’d love that. Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, I’m sure he would.” She winks at me.

There’s a whole production while they get me out of bed and into a wheelchair. I’m a little annoyed because it’s time I could be spending with Daisy. Then the nurse wheels me into the bathroom and Daisy follows behind. The nurse attaches a tray around my shoulders and neck, so the water can run off.

“So, I’m just going to get his hair damp and then we can shampoo him,” the nurse says.

I don’t know why I’ve never noticed the nurse’s wrists before, they’re so translucent they’re almost blue. I realize I don’t even know her name. I remind myself to pay more attention to her.

I feel the warm water running over my scalp. I look at Daisy. She smiles. She puts her hand out and the nurse squirts some of the pink soap into her palm. Then Daisy begins massaging my scalp. I can feel
her hands, warm, against my head, the tips of her fingers making my skin tingle all the way to my shoulders. Some of the soapsuds slide down my forehead and into my eye. It stings and my right index finger twitches. The doctor is right. I need to make more of an effort.

“I’m sorry,” Daisy says, laughing. “I’m not very good at this, am I? Maybe I’ll let you do it and I’ll read to him.”

She leaves us in the bathroom and returns with the book. “Wallace Stevens,” she says and shows me the cover. “All right, let’s see.” She flips through the book, smiling slightly at something on the page. “Oh, I love this one,” she says. She leans against the wall and begins speaking: “ ‘The houses are haunted / By white night-gowns.’ ”

I listen to the sound of her voice and think it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. So clear and true and steady. I want to say the words with her. I try to force air up through my throat. Nothing happens.

“ ‘None are green, / Or purple with green rings, / Or green with yellow rings,’ “ she says. “ ‘None of them are strange.’ ”

I try again and this time I manage to make a small gurgle, although no one can hear it because of the water running in the sink. But I can hear it.

“ ‘People are not going / To dream of baboons and periwinkles,’ “ Daisy says.

I look at her. I can hear her.

“ ‘Only, here and there, an old sailor, / Drunk and asleep in his boots, / Catches tigers / In red weather.’ ”

She looks at me. Her eyes are a little shiny, although it may be the steam from the water. I think about love and about all the nightgowns that are not white. I think about Aunt Nick, and Frank Wilcox, and even about Uncle Hughes. I think about Daisy and her book of poems. I think about tigers in red weather. I like that.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There are a number of people who have conspired with me, some unwittingly, on this novel. I am indebted to Wallace Stevens, whose poetry moved me to write this particular book, and to my grandfather, whose lovely memoir served as a starting point.

My editors: Kate Harvey at Picador, who has my eternal gratitude and troth of friendship for her immensely sensitive and ingenious editing; and the brilliant Judy Clain at Little, Brown, whose vision and commitment continue to blow me away. I owe them a lifetime of perfectly chilled martinis.

My publishers—Michael Pietsch at Little, Brown, and Paul Baggaley at Picador—and the whole band of talented people at both imprints are to be thanked profusely.

Caroline Wood, my agent at Felicity Bryan, is—in a word—incredible. She has also taught me that, sometimes, there can be too many dinner parties.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Andrew Motion, who tutored me in the way of avocado pears, among countless other things.

In terms of longevity and loyalty, my biggest thanks go to the
following writers: Emma Chapman, Tom Feltham, Liz Gifford, Carolina Gonzalez-Carvajal, Kat Gordon, and Rebecca Lloyd James.

Finally, I owe a debt I cannot repay to my crazy, amazing family, who, frankly, have put up with a lot: my mother and father, Betsy Chapin and Eric Klaussmann; my brother, Eric Klaussmann; and my other dad, John Grummon.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Liza Klaussmann has worked as a journalist for the
New York Times
for over a decade. She received a BA in creative writing from Barnard College and was awarded its Howard M. Teichmann Prize for Prose. She now resides in London, where she recently completed an MA with distinction in creative writing at Royal Holloway, University of London.