Between Two Ends Read Free Page A

hall. The fresh scent of the kitchen gave way to the odor of old books, leather, and mothballs. While the outside of the house appeared to be rotting, the inside was full of treasures. Brightly painted tribal masks stared at him as he passed through a sitting room, while opposite them, knights grimaced from a floor-to-ceiling painting. There were carvings and colored stones on every table. The floor creaked beneath his feet and he wondered if he should have removed his shoes. No one had said anything about that.
    Odysseus waited at the bottom stair. A stained glass window provided kaleidoscopic illumination to the yawning darkness above. It was a narrowpassage, each step worn by countless footfalls. Natural light caught the edge of the top. Odysseus padded up.
    The first stair creaked horribly. Yeats cringed and a drop of tea splashed his leg. Still warm. His steps turned into a cacophony of squeaks and squawks. “Come on, Yeats!” he scolded himself. He took a deep breath and scowled.
    A resounding silence followed the last squawk at the top of the stairs and the air stopped moving. It felt as if the room had been closed for many years. An old man sat near the window with Odysseus at his feet. His hair was whiter than Gran’s and came down past his shoulders. He stirred and his eyes widened.
    â€œWilliam!” he exclaimed. His knuckles whitened on the chair arm. “I knew it! I knew you would come back. Good boy! And where is Shaharazad? Is my granddaughter with you?”
    â€œI’m Yeats.”
    â€œYeats?” Mr. Sutcliff stood stiffly. He searched Yeats’s face, his disappointment obvious. “No, you’re not Yeats. I did think at one time that youshould have been Auden or Milton. But your grandmother told me to mind my own poets. Your father, now
he
was Yeats.”
    â€œThat was my grandfather,” Yeats said. “Yeats William Trafford.”
    The old man regarded the cat. Odysseus rubbed against his legs. Mr. Sutcliff sighed and leaned down to scratch the animal’s ears again. Then he did something even more alarming.
    â€œIs he there, Odysseus?” he asked. “Is there a boy standing, holding my tea? Or have I imagined him?”
    For an answer, Odysseus trotted over and rolled his tail along Yeats’s legs. Mr. Sutcliff nodded. He sighed again, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pair of spectacles. He smoothed the front of his shirt and straightened his back. “I see. So, you are Yeats and you look the spitting image of William. Well, come here, boy!”
    Startled, Yeats stumbled forward, spilling more tea down his leg. He desperately wanted his arms free for protection, but they were holding the tray. The old man stood, peering into his face. Mr.Sutcliff suddenly reached out and took his chin and Yeats stifled a gasp. His grip was as sure as Gran’s. His eyebrows were horrifically bushy.
    â€œHmmm,” he murmured. “Intelligent. Curious. Reliable.” He shifted Yeats’s chin to look at his profile. “Burgeoning courage as well.”
    Yeats turned his head aside. “I brought your tea,” he said. Mr. Sutcliff did not seem to notice. Instead, he tapped his lips thoughtfully with his fingers. Yeats considered laying the tea and cookies on the floor and bolting for the stairs. He had met many quirky people at the university, but Mr. Sutcliff was rapidly rising to the top of the list.
    â€œIs William downstairs?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd he is a man?”
    Yeats lowered the tea to the floor. “He is my father.”
    The old man grunted. “I see. And your mother?”
    â€œHer name is Faith.”
    â€œFaith?” Mr. Sutcliff felt for a pipe on the table without releasing Yeats from his gaze. “Nowthere’s a good name. Plain, mind you, but solid—versatile, even. The stuff of all good poetry. Yes, indeed!” His last words were muffled as his lips took the pipe. Yeats waited