property of the First King of France. “Oops,” did not seem appropriate,
and neither did “Jesus Christ!” because they thought they had adopted a
good Catholic girl not a foulmouthed heathen (sorry, God), and neither
did “somebody pushed me,” because that was a lie, and lying bought you a
ticket to Hell, though she suspected she was going to wind up in Hell
anyway, considering how she couldn’t stop thinking the Lord’s name in
vain and using vulgarities.
No balloon full of glowing golden gas for her.
Throughout the house, the walls were adorned with art, and Regin: noted
that the most wonderful pieces all had the same signature at the bottom
right corner: Lindsey Sparling. Even as much of a screwup as she was,
she was smart enough to figure that the name Lindsey was no coincidence
and that Sparling must be Mrs. Harrison’s maiden name. They were the
strangest and most beautiful paintings Regina had ever seen, some of
them so bright and full of good feeling that you had to smile, some of
them dark and brooding. She wanted to spend a long time in front of
each of them, sort of soaking them up, but she was afraid Mr. and Mrs.
Harrison would think she was a brown-nosing phony, pretending interest
as a way of apologizing for the wisecracks she had made in Mr. Gujilio’s
office about paintings on velvet.
Somehow she got through the entire house without destroying anything,
and the last room was hers. It was bigger than any room at the
orphanage, and she didn’t have to share it with anyone. The windows
were covered with white plantation shutters. Furnishings included a
corner desk and chair, a bookcase, an armchair with footstool,
nightstands with matching lamp and an amazing bed.
“It’s from about 1850,” Mrs. Harrison said, as Regina let her hand
glide slowly over the beautiful bed.
“English,” Mr. Harrison said. “Mahogany with hand-painted decoration
under several coats of laLAuer.”
On the footboard, side rails, and headboard, the dark-red and dark
yellow roses and emerald-green leaves seemed alive, not bright against
the deeply colored wood but so lustrous and dewy-looking that she was
sure she would be able to smell them if she put her nose to their
petals.
Mrs. Harrison said, “It might seem a little old for a young girl, a
little stuffy “Yes, of course,” Mr. Harrison said, “we can send it over
to the store, sell it, let you choose something you’d like, something
modern. This was just furnished as a guest room.”
“No,” Regina said hastily. “I like it, I really do. Could I keep it, I
mean even though it’s so expensive?”
“It’s not that expensive,” Mr. Harrison said, “and of course you can
keep anything you want.”
“Or get rid of anything you want,” Mrs. Harrison said.
“Except us, of course,” Mr. Harrison said.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Harrison said, “I’m afraid we come with the
house.” egina’s heart was pounding so hard she could barely get her
breath.
Happiness. And fear. Everything was so wonderful-but surely it
couldn’t last. Nothing so good could last very long.
Sliding, loovered doors covered one wall of the bedroom, and Mrs.
Harrison showed Regina a closet behind the mirrors. The hugest closet
in the world. Maybe you needed a closet that size if you were a movie
star, or if you were one of those men she had read about, who liked to
dress up in women’s clothes sometimes, cause then you’d need both a
girls and boy’s wardrobe. But it was much bigger than she needed; it
would hold ten times the clothes that she possessed.
With some embarrassment, she looked at the two cardboard suitcases she
had brought with her from St. Thomas’s. They held everything she owned
in the world. For the first time in her life, she realized she was
poor.
Which was peculiar, really, not to have understood her poverty before,
since she was an orphan who had inherited nothing. Well, nothing other
than a bum leg and a twisted right hand with two fingers missing.
As if reading Regina’s mind, Mrs. Harrison said, “Let’s go shopping.”
They went to South Coast Plaza Mall. They bought her too many clothes,