Clearly, Old Man is seeking something in her, even if Soon is incapable—at least for now—of giving it to him. Don’t you like any other animals, or other singers? Soon had asked her father if he knew who Nina Simone was, and he’d said yes, of course, though when it came to that era he preferred Aretha … Holliday or Billie … Franklin—she’d tried hard to memorize the names, but when she says them she knows she’s gotten them wrong, and her voice trails off as she speaks. Anyway, if there are other singers just as good or even better, and lots of other animals in the world, why focus only on Nina Simone or only on birds? Old Man thinks for a few seconds before answering, only to finally admit that he doesn’t know. He’s always been like that, he says, stubborn and obsessive. If he likes a thing, he really likes it! And if you look at something—anything—up close, you always end up loving it. Soon is not very convinced by his argument. Some things, she says, looked at so closely, turn out to be awful. When she’s put an insect, or even her own skin, under the microscope, what she saw was monstrous, straight out of a nightmare. She laughs when she says it, but Old Man isn’t following the conversation now: he’s gone quiet, tapping his fingers on a knee, with a slight tic at the corner of his mouth, as if he were trying to hold back a nervous laugh. After a bit he asks if she’d told her father about him. She rushes to reassure him: no, of course not, I just asked if he liked Nina Simone, that’s all. It’s true that her father was a little surprised at her knowledge, though. That she knew so many details about Nina’s life, that is, because Soon had told him all she remembered. So she’d bluffed by saying she’d learned it all at school. And not only did he swallow her lie, but he was very pleased. Congratulate your music teacher for me, he’d said.

Old Man closes his eyes, rubs a thumb between his eyebrows. He starts to talk just like that, with his eyes still squeezed shut, forehead creased, his thumb moving up and down, and his voice rougher and more metallic than usual. Always, everyone, hides it, he says. Always, everyone, he repeats. Soon doesn’t understand; she stammers out a question. Hides what? What is he talking about? Old Man’s voice starts to rise: No one thinks about me, not ever! Everyone, always, is ashamed of me! He was the one who told her about Nina Simone’s life, not some music teacher! Why is she leaving him out like everyone else does? Soon defends herself: Old Man, I couldn’t tell my dad about you, or my mom either. They would never understand. Old Man’s eyes widen, and they’re damp now. What is it that your parents have to understand?, he asks. There’s nothing strange about him, there’s nothing bad! Isn’t that right? Or does Soon, too, think he’s bad and strange?