Carmen kicked the door down. And then he stopped.
“What’s with the hedgehog?” he asked.
The female voice sang in reply: “Lily-white and clean, oh! With little frills between, oh! Smooth and hot – red rusty spot … Never here be seen, oh!”
I gasped. “It couldn’t be -”
“It is,” Alex said, shoving Carmen aside.
“Oh, yes, if you please ‘m,” the female voice said. “My name is Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle; I’m an excellent clear starcher!”
“What’s with the hedgehog?” Carmen asked, kicking a chair over.
“It’s all right, Car; he was just having his shirt starched,” I said, fumbling in my handbag for my notepad.
Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle waddled out into the darkness.
I cleared my throat. “Would you mind terribly – I mean, if it’s not too much trouble – I’ve been a fan for, God, a THOUSAND years – could I have your -”
“No little dicky shirt-fronts belonging to Tom Tit-mouse?” she enquired, her little black nose sniffing. “Why, he’s most terrible particular!”
“No little dickies around here!” Carmen said. And then, to Alex: “I don’t know about you.”
Alex took my hand. “I’ve missed you.”
Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle flared her prickles. “Anyone seen a pair of mittens belonging to Tabby Kitten?”
Turning away, I burst into tears. “I never wanted this for you!”
“What?” Alex implored. “What?”
“Now that my father has passed, God bless his soul, the boys …” I stifled a sob. “They want you to be the new Don, Alex.”
“Don Gambotto-Burke?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Even with the -”
“Don’t mention the Irish thing; you know it will just cause trouble.”
“Don Gambotto-Burke,” Alex whispered.
Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle clapped her little hands. “Now I’ve finished my clear starching, so I’m going to soap the curtains!”
“I wanted other things for you,” I said.
“Handkersniffs?” Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle asked. “Little dicky shirt-fronts?”
“I’m talking to him,” I said.
“You are like me,” Alex murmured, his mouth against my ear. “We refuse to be fools, to be puppets dancing on a string pulled by other men. I hoped the time for guns and killing and massacres was over. That was my misfortune. That was your misfortune. I was hunted on the streets of Glebe when I was twelve years old because of who my uncle was. I had no choice.”
“A man has to choose what he will be,” I said. “I believe that.”
“What else do you believe in?” Alex asked.
I handed Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle my Montblanc writing instrument and my notebook. She signed. Her autograph was beautiful.
“I don’t get it,” Carmen said. “What’s with the hedgehog??”
“I believe in Beatrix Potter,” I said. “I believe in Harry Potter. I believe in Joris-Karl Huysmans. But most of all, I believe in you.”
We watched as Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle curtsied before Alex. “Don Gambotto-Burke, if you please ‘m. Your scarlet waist-coat is ready!”
Carmen reverently kissed Alex’s pinkie ring. “Don Gambotto-Burke,” he said.
I squeezed Alex’s hand. “Let’s go. The water dragons will be getting hungry.”
