Everyone but my brother, who never leaves his room, and Pen. Basil offers to tell everyone what’s happened, freeing me to look for Pen so that I might speak to her alone. I find her upstairs on her bed, staring at one of Birdie’s old catalogs. “These drawings are magnificent,” Pen says without looking up. She traces the outline of a plumed hat. “They could almost be images. I’m envious of the realism.” “I much prefer your drawings,” I say. “Pen?” She turns the page. “Pen, there’s something I need to speak to you about.” “I will say I don’t understand all the plaids,” she says. “It’s all the men wear. It gets boring. Do they not see that? Back home I always thought Thomas looked more handsome in pinstripes. Well, not handsome, but, you know—acceptable.” I sit on the edge of her bed, and she winces. “Pen.” She closes the catalog and places her hands down on the cover, as though she is trying to keep something trapped within the pages. With difficulty, she says, “What is it?”
