Part 22 (2/2)

The train began to slow. ”Ah, this is where I change for London.” He began gathering up his belongings.

If James were allowed to inherit, he would not only shut down the Inst.i.tute, he would also drink and gamble his way through all the money. And D'Artagnan and Heidi would almost certainly be s.h.i.+pped back to the jungle and the poachers, so it was really a form of self-defense. And even if it was murder, it would be cruel to try them for it when they had no legal standing in the courts.

And the old man had been little more than an animal in need of putting down. Less human than D'Artagnan and Heidi.

The train came to a stop, and Touffet opened the door of the compartment.

”Touffet-” I said.

”Well, what is it?” he said irritably, his hand on the compartment. ”I shall miss my stop.”

”Merry Christmas,” I said.

The conductor called out, and Touffet bustled off toward his train. I watched him from the door of the train, thinking of Lady Charlotte. Finding out the truth, that her beloved primates were far more human than even she had imagined, would kill her. She deserved a little happiness after what her father had done to her.

And my sister would be waiting for me at the station. She would have made eggnog.

I stood there in the door, thinking of what Touffet had said about my being incapable of murder. He was wrong. We are all capable of murder. It's in our genes.

NEWSLETTER.

by Connie Willis.

Later examination of weather reports and newspapers showed that it may have started as early as October nineteenth, but the first indication I had that something unusual was going on was at Thanksgiving.

I went to Mom's for dinner (as usual), and was feeding cranberries and cut-up oranges into Mom's old-fas.h.i.+oned meat grinder for the cranberry relish and listening to my sister-in-law Allison talk about her Christmas newsletter (also as usual).

”Which of Cheyenne's accomplishments do you think I should write about first, Nan?” she said, spreading cheese on celery sticks. ”Her playing lead snowflake in The Nutcracker or her hitting a home run in PeeWee Soccer?”

”I'd list the n.o.bel Peace Prize first,” I murmured, under cover of the crunch of an apple being put through the grinder.

”There just isn't room to put in all the girls' accomplishments,” she said, oblivious. ”Mitch insists I keep it to one page.”

”That's because of Aunt Lydia's newsletters,” I said. ”Eight pages single-s.p.a.ced.”

”I know,” she said. ”And in that tiny print you can barely read.” She waved a celery stick thoughtfully. ”That's an idea.”

”Eight pages single-s.p.a.ced?”

”No. I could get the computer to do a smaller font. That way I'd have room for Dakota's Suns.h.i.+ne Scout merit badges. I got the cutest paper for my newsletters this year. Little angels holding bunches of mistletoe.”

Christmas newsletters are very big in my family, in case you couldn't tell. Everybody-uncles, grandparents, second cousins, my sister Sueann-sends the Xeroxed monstrosities to family, coworkers, old friends from high school, and people they met on their cruise to the Caribbean (which they wrote about at length in their newsletter the year before). Even my Aunt Irene, who writes a handwritten letter on every one of her Christmas cards, sticks a newsletter in with it.

My second cousin Lucille's are the worst, although there are a lot of contenders. Last year hers started: ”Another year has hurried past And, here I am, asking, 'Where did the time go so fast?'A trip in February, a bladder operation in July, Too many activities, not enough time, no matter how hard I try.”

At least Allison doesn't put Dakota and Cheyenne's accomplishments into verse.

”I don't think I'm going to send a Christmas newsletter this year,” I said.

Allison stopped, cheese-filled knife in hand. ”Why not?” ”Because I don't have any news. I don't have a new job, I didn't go on a vacation to the Bahamas, I didn't win any awards. I don't have anything to tell.”

”Don't be ridiculous,” my mother said, sweeping in carrying a foil-covered ca.s.serole dish. ”Of course you do, Nan. What about that skydiving cla.s.s you took?”

”That was last year, Mom,” I said. And I had only taken it so I'd have something to write about in my Christmas newsletter.

”Well, then, tell about your social life. Have you met anybody lately at work?”

Mom asks me this every Thanksgiving. Also Christmas, the Fourth of July, and every time I see her.

”There's n.o.body to meet,” I said, grinding cranberries. ”n.o.body new ever gets hired, because n.o.body ever quits. Everybody who works there's been there for years. n.o.body even gets fired. Bob Hunziger hasn't been to work on time in eight years, and he's still there.”

”What about . . . what was his name?” Allison said, arranging the celery sticks in a cut-gla.s.s dish. ”The guy you liked who had just gotten divorced?”

”Gary,” I said. ”He's still hung up on his ex-wife.”

”I thought you said she was a real shrew.”

”She is,” I said. ”Marcie the Menace. She calls him twice a week complaining about how unfair the divorce settlement is, even though she got virtually everything. Last week it was the house. She claimed she'd been too upset by the divorce to get the mortgage refinanced and he owed her twenty thousand dollars because now interest rates have gone up. But it doesn't matter. Gary still keeps hoping they'll get back together. He almost didn't fly to Connecticut to his parents' for Thanksgiving because he thought she might change her mind about a reconciliation.”

”You could write about Sueann's new boyfriend,” Mom said, sticking marshmallows on the sweet potatoes.

”She's bringing him today.”

This was as usual, too. Sueann always brings a new boyfriend to Thanksgiving dinner. Last year it was a biker. And no, I don't mean one of those nice guys who wear a beard and black Harley T-s.h.i.+rt on weekends and work as accountants between trips to Sturgis. I mean a h.e.l.l's Angel.

My sister Sueann has the worst taste in men of anyone I have ever known. Before the biker, she dated a member of a militia group and, after the ATF arrested him, a bigamist wanted in three states.

”If this boyfriend spits on the floor, I'm leaving,” Allison said, counting out silverware. ”Have you met him?”

she asked Mom.

”No,” Mom said, ”but Sueann says he used to work where you do, Nan. So somebody must quit once in a while.”

I racked my brain, trying to think of any criminal types who'd worked in my company. ”What's his name?”

”David something,” Mom said, and Cheyenne and Dakota raced into the kitchen, screaming, ”Aunt Sueann's here, Aunt Sueann's here! Can we eat now?”

Allison leaned over the sink and pulled the curtains back to look out the window.

”What does he look like?” I asked, sprinkling sugar on the cranberry relish.

”Clean-cut,” she said, sounding surprised. ”Short blond hair, slacks, white s.h.i.+rt, tie.”

Oh, no, that meant he was a neo-n.a.z.i. Or married and planning to get a divorce as soon as the kids graduated from college- which would turn out to be in twenty-three years, since he'd just gotten his wife pregnant again.

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