Twain's End Read Free Page B

careful steps, ran to The King and threw her arms around his neck. Her voice was curiously hollow when she spoke.
    â€œMark.”
    Isabel suppressed a sigh as The King kissed her on both cheeks. She wished people would not call him Mark, not even Helen Keller. Mark Twain was not a real person. The person they were addressing was Samuel Clemens. But The King never corrected anyone on this. Instead, something inside him seemed to shift when he heard it, as if the mortal Sam Clemens were stepping aside for his slow-moving doppelgänger, Twain.
    Miss Keller let go of The King, then felt his hair. “You still have it.”
    â€œMy mane? Thank the Lord. I’d be like Samson without it—weak as a hatchling.”
    â€œNo, I mean your halo.”
    He held Miss Keller at arm’s length to inspect her beaming face, then reeled her back in slowly. “And they say this girl is blind.” He kissed her on the temple, then reached out to the other woman. “Miss Sullivan—excuse me, Mrs. Macy. If Helen is the Eighth Wonder of the World, then her genius of a teacher is the Ninth. Glad to see you again, dear.”
    Mrs. Macy trundled forward with a flap of coat hem, her round face growing florid. Short-necked, stout, and tense, Anne Sullivan Macy was the very opposite of the ever popular languid and lithe Gibson Girl. She almost quivered with barely suppressed anxiety, which seemed to center in her finely cut pursed lips. Yet at The King’s greeting, her face unclenched, giving her the doe-eyed smile of a dreamy child. Isabel thought how beautiful she must have been when she was young.
    Her companion leaned in front of her, thrusting forward his large chin as he offered his hand to The King. “John Macy, at your service.” When The King switched gears to accept the handshake, Mrs. Macy’s smile dissolved, returning her to her frumpy state.
    â€œGood to finally meet you, Macy. You’ve got a nice little harem here.”
    An uncomfortable snort served as Mr. Macy’s laugh. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m your great admirer.”
    â€œTell me that at the end of your visit.”
    Another snort. “This is quite a spectacular place,” Mr. Macy said, looking around. He had a nice mouth, Isabel noticed, with firm expressive lips, white teeth, and that Ivy League jaw. One sleek brow insisted upon arching over his wire spectacles and into his sheaf of hair, making him appear both skeptical and bemused. Isabel had met Miss Keller and Mrs. Macy last year when they’d come to dinner at The King’s house in New York, but not Mr. Macy. He was not what she expected of Mrs. Macy’s spouse. She’d imagined a kindly, thickening gentleman with a gold dental bridge that flashed when he smiled.She found herself wondering if Miss Keller knew how attractive her teacher’s husband was.
    â€œYou like it?” The King reached into his wool suit coat, the same white as his nimbus of hair, and pulled out a cigar. “It’s my Tuscan villa, here on American soil. I expect to go pick grapes at any minute, or find Michelangelo’s cradle in the attic.”
    Mr. Macy’s beautiful jaw hardly moved when he spoke. Perhaps it was limited by its weight. “I can see how authentic a villa it is. Although the snow does hamper the effect.”
    A shadow of displeasure passed over The King’s brow.
    â€œThe Tuscans only wish they had snow to make their villas look this beautiful,” Mr. Macy added quickly.
    The King considered him a moment, then nodded, the diplomatic crisis averted. “The only detail missing from this setup is a foul-tempered donkey to chase down my guests.” He spread out his arm and then waggled his fingers, beckoning Isabel, now exhaling, from behind him.
    â€œThis young lady,” he said as she stepped forward, “oversaw the building of this pile—she and my daughter Clara. Forgive her for not