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But the address, if it ever existed, never was sent, which made me sad, there was so much I wanted to write her: that I’d sold two stories, had read where the Trawlers were countersuing for divorce, was moving out of the brownstone because it was haunted.
I had kept my promise; I had found him. It took weeks of after-work roaming through those Spanish Harlem streets, and there were many false alarms—flashes of tiger-striped fur that, upon inspection, were not him. But one day, one cold sunshiny Sunday winter afternoon, it was. Flanked by potted plants and framed by clean lace curtains, he was seated in the window of a warm-looking room: I wondered what his name was, for I was certain he had one now, certain he’d arrived somewhere he belonged. African hut or whatever, I hope Holly has, too.
Isn’t it a pretty house? she said, leading them toward it. It’s like you picked a wagon of flowers and built a house with them: that is what I think. Come in out of the sun. It’s cool inside and smells so sweet. Rosita sniffed as though what she smelled was nothing sweet, and in her well-bottom voice declared that yes, it was better that they stay out of the sun, as it seemed to be affecting Ottilie’s head.
Mr. Jamison, he doesn’t even look at us other girls, just comes and sits on the porch drinking by himself. Yes, said Ottilie wistfully. He was always sweet to me, Mr. Jamison.
A thunderburst of rain had for a moment drenched the hills that now, seen through the windows, shimmered like dragonfly wings, and a breeze, rich with the scent of rained-on flowers, roamed the room rustling the green and pink papers on the walls.
