The Tin Can Tree by Anne Tyler

Author:Anne Tyler [Tyler, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780307788351
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2011-01-25T13:00:00+00:00

9

All Tuesday morning, Ansel had visitors. The first one was Joan. She mustn’t have stayed long because she came and went while James was emptying the garbage, which only took a minute. When he returned Ansel said, “Joan’s been here,” and then dumped a cupped handful of sunflower hulls into an ashtray and sat down to read the paper.

“What’d she want?” James asked.

“Oh, nothing,” said Ansel. He opened the paper out and stayed hidden behind it, and with just one tuft of pale hair on the top of his head exposed to view. “You won’t have to work tobacco today,” he added as an afterthought.

“How’s that?”

But Ansel didn’t answer. Ever since he had awakened he had been angry; James could tell by his long silences, but he knew there was no point asking what was wrong. So he went on fixing breakfast, and while he was doing that he figured out that Joan must have come to say her uncle was working today. He flipped over a fried egg that was burning and called, “Ansel?”

“Hmmm.”

“Is Roy Pike working today?”

But that was another question he never got the answer to. All he heard was the steady thumping of Ansel’s foot (Ansel kept time to everything he read, as if it were a poem) and the crackling of newspaper pages. He didn’t try asking again.

The second visitor was Maisie Hammond. She came while Ansel was eating breakfast off the Japanese tray, and when she walked in Ansel said, “Um. Maisie,” and went on munching on his fried egg. (It was one of those days when James had brought a tray without being asked, simply because it was more comfortable to eat in the kitchen alone. Ansel had said, “Well. I see you’ve taken up cooking again,” which hadn’t even made sense.) Maisie was wearing a white summer dress with a full skirt, and she stood over his couch like Florence Nightingale and bent down to inspect Ansel’s egg. “What’s that?” she asked.

“Fried egg, of course.”

“It looks kind of funny.”

“It’s James’s,” said Ansel.

“Ah.” And she turned around, so that now she could see James where he sat eating in the kitchen. “Hey, James,” she said.

“Hello, Maisie.”

“Taken any pictures lately?”

“No.”

That seemed to end the conversation; she turned back to Ansel. “You mind if I sit on your couch?” she asked.

“I’d prefer the armchair.”

“Well.”

She settled on the very edge of the armchair, spreading her skirt around her. When she bent her head toward Ansel, with the tow-white hair falling over her face, the morning sun seemed to pass right through her hair. She looked like glass. James studied her through the doorway as he munched on a piece of toast, but she didn’t look his way again. “I came to ask you to a picnic,” she told Ansel.

“Oh, no. Thank you anyway.”

“Aunt Connie’s giving it.”

“Well, it’s nice of you to ask,” Ansel said.

“Don’t you want to come?”

“Oh, I can’t. James, I’m through with my tray.”

“Put it on the table,” said James.

“There’s too much other stuff there.

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