Part 6 (1/2)
Markers radiated unevenly to the cardinal points-rain-slick headstones of marble and granite, and a few of dull metal. Most were simple affairs, comprised of names and dates etched in rock. Gray plates lay half-sunken in the turf; hungry green moss filled the grooves and hollows of the most venerable carvings. Under these markers, in the wet, dark soil, nested the bones of pioneers and politicians, fishermen and fishwives, cowboys and bankers, immigrants and vagrants, ancient dowagers and newborn daughters, boys lost at war, girls lost in the cannery, atheists and paris.h.i.+oners alike.
Beyond the brief fields of colonial interment, he approached the cemetery's opposite flank, the newest portion. His grandfather's plaque was simple-a plate bolted to a flat wedge of stone. It said: LUTHER ANGSTROM MILLER.
CAPTAIN UNITED STATES ARMY.
BORN AUGUST 3RD 1882.
DIED JANUARY 14TH 1977.
They'd buried his wife in Bellingham in the family plot, so it was only Grandfather here.
”Brought you some flowers, Grandpa.” Don arranged the flowers in what he hoped was a decent presentation. The ground was too wet to sit.
1945 was the year the world raveled for Don, the year he'd gone to live with Luther in the old homestead cabin among the hills outside of town. Mom wrecked her car and Dad went off the deep end, volunteered for some kind of suicide mission on a remote and long since forgotten piece of island real estate in the Philippines-the true circ.u.mstances of his death buried in a government vault for forever plus a day. Don's older brothers, Colin and Robert, were out of the picture by then: Colin moved to Wallachia and became curator of the venerable museum of natural history ensconced in Castle Mishko; Robert ran away and did a tour with the Marines, then joined a commune in San Francisco in the latter '60s and disappeared completely except for a half-dozen bizarre letters he sent to 'Whom it may concern' across the next three decades. Younger brothers Stephen and Ralph spent the summer across the pond with Aunt Muriel, a London socialite. Don's long-lost sister Louise had also disappeared into the world, touring Eastern Europe in the company of rich, urbane men, although she too wrote occasionally; last anyone heard she'd emigrated to Central America in the 1980s and performed relief work on behalf of the archdiocese.
Luther had taught Don to smoke in the summer of '45 when the boy was fourteen. Luther was suffering through his third year of retirement from the military and picking at a book of poetry he'd been writing since WWI. The bra.s.s had sent him to pasture after a long run-the time was nigh for a fresh vision, younger, more ruthless men were needed; b.a.s.t.a.r.ds even sneakier and more b.l.o.o.d.y-minded who could face the intricacies of a rapidly changing intelligence-gathering model. His wife, Vera, died the winter previous and the big house on the hill seemed cavernous with just the old man and grandson for inhabitants.
Grandfather's bitterness was tempered by a keen black humor, a refined, yet earthy, knack for self-deprecation that, in the final a.n.a.lysis, bolstered more than condemned. We're ants. Not even ants. We're gnats, kiddo. Don't neglect your prayers. He'd chuckle his horrible, phlegmy chuckle and clap Don's shoulder as if they were junior officers sharing a wry joke.
They didn't discuss family. Instead, they debated where Don should go to college, what he'd do for a profession. At the time, Don had his eye on Rogers and Williams with a mind toward oceanography. The reality became four years at Western Was.h.i.+ngton State and two more in Stanford and getting hitched to sweet Mich.e.l.le in between. Luther footed what his three scholars.h.i.+ps didn't cover. Those summers with Granddad when school was out were from another life, but he recalled them with a clarity that frightened him.
The weather was apocalyptic. Sluggish days framed by metallic skies and brown gra.s.s. Dog days of heat and flies. Flies crawled everywhere, buzzed inside light fixtures, made mountains of their corpses in the porcelain coverlets, clung as blue-green tapestries upon the ancient screens; humming a death drone.
Luther sat on the porch during the worst, empty and half-empty gla.s.ses gleaming around his feet, the flowerbox above his head, scattered like tiers of candles in a medieval church. He slumped in the sweltering blue shade, chain-smoking and draining bottles of scotch without seeming effect, always dressed in a conservative suit, of which there were perhaps a dozen in his closet. He flipped his tie over his shoulder, eyes muddy behind thick-rimmed gla.s.ses. The Philco crackled from the living room, carrying fragments of baseball heroics through the screen door. He glowed in the dead light, a shade of himself, the dimming bell of a supernova. The steady fossilization had crept into his face, marbled the veins of his once delicate hands. Those hands had hardened into the knotty, blunt-fingered hands of the elderly, the spent.
Don knew things about Grandfather, there were many things to know. Luther Miller was, in some murky era of prehistory, a minor legend. The ma.s.sive house his own grandfather, Augustus, had built in the spring of 1878 was a repository and a testament of the rich mythology steeping the Miller lineage. Don had many occasions to examine the artifacts cluttering the study. Diplomas from Columbia and Princeton; yellowed certificates and dusty ribbons awarded by the U.S. Army. Besides the requisite family snapshots and wedding pictures, there were galleries of black and white photos of Luther as a whip-thin young man in an officer's uniform set against exotic backdrops-ruined cathedrals and monasteries, crumbling plazas and pyramids, Old World markets, desert encampments and jungle fortifications, destroyers and camel trains. In these pictures everyone was burned by the sun, everyone smoked cigarettes, everyone was armed and smiling like movie stars between takes in a historical production. And a hundred more, until the photos merged into a camouflage pattern that gave him a headache and a profound sense of inferiority. Grandfather had done things, and in the doing the man himself was shaped and scarred, his blood thinned, his emotions rarefied.
Luther didn't say much about that part of his life either. He didn't talk about his year in China as a liaison to the Shanghai Munic.i.p.al Police, his affiliation with the likes of Fairbairn and Applegate who became close friends. Nor his missions in France during the First Great War, never spoke of the papers he had auth.o.r.ed, the congressional reports he had partic.i.p.ated in. If asked, he shrugged and told the curiosity seeker that his life was archived in the Army record-look it up. And that particular statement was a fitting summation, in Don's mind. Luther Miller was a ponderous, open book with some of the pages carefully removed, others encoded.
That filthy, humid summer of '45 was the summer of the b.l.o.o.d.y war in the Pacific that would end in the bloom of two new suns, the annihilation of innocence, even in savagery. Luther taught him to smoke by example. And once, when the old man was so drunk his speech became deadly precise, his movements the functions of an automaton, he instructed Don to dress sharp and they drove the Studebaker into Olympia. Luther gave him a tour of the State Capitol, introduced him to a smattering of men in Brooks Brothers suits and Rolexes and smelling of expensive after-shave. Important men who smiled and shook hands with Luther, addressed him almost reverently, turned beaming eyes and shark teeth bared in shark grins upon Don.
Through it all, Luther smiled a windup smile Don found alien as the ice in dark canyons of the Antarctic, and called everyone by his or her first name. This ordeal lasted minutes, it lasted hours. When it was over and they were driving back into the hills, Luther, both hands locked on the wheel, asked what Don thought of the esteemed representatives of the people. After his grandson muttered whatever answer, Luther nodded without removing his eyes from the road and said, There is not enough rope on this wobbling ball of s.h.i.+t to hang those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. The conversation ended there.
Don trudged back to the entrance. Night fastened upon the cemetery; lamps fizzed alight, mapping the perimeter. Again the breeze freshened, damp in his mouth. Branches groaned as if to promise, Go to your warm house and leave us here in the dark. Do not worry, friend, you will be back for a much longer visit one day.
CHAPTER FOUR.
The Seance (Now) It grew late.
Holly nipped out to chauffeur ”Uncle” Argyle as his license had been revoked going on ten years. He lived at the Arden House located in an historic neighborhood on Olympia's eastside. The morning deluge resumed, driven by more powerful gusts of wind and the lane melted into a quagmire and her Rover was the most reliable all-weather vehicle. Argyle's arrival set the household on its ear again. He lumbered through the front door cursing the G.o.ds and the weather in a baritone that was the trademark of Arden men.
Argyle was large, bluff, and commanding in his cla.s.sic gray suit, a Brooks Brothers inherited from his great-grandfather, which rendered the ensemble unspeakably ancient, practically an historical artifact that might've interested a museum or two. He'd pursued an extravagant and fruitful life-soldier, dilettante, author, historian, scientist, and professional ne'er do well just a hair this side of royalty. He'd certainly inherited a fortune sufficient to make a run at the Prince of Monte Carlo, much of it, as the whispers went, from his grandfather's criminal empire during the Roaring Twenties.
His presence among the proletariat Millers was often remarked upon as slumming; this whispered by his presumed equals. The Arden clan extant comprised the inner circle of local old money families, the creme de la creme, the very royalty of three counties, and included such luminaries as the Redfields, Rourkes, Wilsons and Smiths and in roughly descending order. The middle sibling of eight Arden brothers, and the lone scientist from a brood of lawyers and playboys, he was the last standing and the least likely to consider peerage when making a.s.sociations. His brothers had fallen by the wayside due to wars, duels, disappearances, and in one notable instance, natural causes. Not that he'd escaped unscathed; a confirmed bachelor who'd stepped out of character once and married a lovely girl from Nice, a nurse who died young and made an embittered widower of him. Sometime during his seriously squandered youth, he'd gotten his nose lopped in an accident-no one knew precisely the circ.u.mstances of the mishap-and wore a gold-plated prosthetic to conceal the damage.
Mich.e.l.le's inexhaustible fascination with the arcane was responsible for their friend's inimitable fas.h.i.+on statement. A popular form of punishment in the Byzantine court involved severing an offending n.o.ble's nose, followed by the wretch's permanent exile; a fate periodically visited upon even the high and mighty emperors and their luckless consorts. One such emperor fled to a neighboring kingdom and had a golden nosepiece made to salvage some meager shred of his dignity. The emperor returned to court at the fore of an army of disaffected citizenry and slaughtered the would-be usurpers-after hacking off their noses, naturally. The notion appealed to Argyle and he commissioned Llewellyn Malloy himself to craft a number of the ostentatious prosthetics in gold, silver and platinum. When the kids were in elementary school, he gave each of them a fake nose; ivory for Holly, and bronze for Kurt. They wore them with embarra.s.sing regularity and tried to emulate Argyle's distinctive accent.
Dinner was roast pork, Don's specialty. He put the end leaves on the dining table and the seven of them enjoyed a lengthy banquet characterized by great quant.i.ties of champagne and rowdy banter that spared none. There were revelations: Winnie was nine weeks pregnant; she and Kurt delayed their announcement to ascertain the tests were correct, complications could've arisen since she had entered her forties, but the prenatal signs were rea.s.suring. The latter breaking news concerned Holly's last-minute decision to accompany Mich.e.l.le and a.s.sociates to Turkey. Holly was free to partake of such an excursion because she had secured a one-year leave of absence to pursue a masters in education, the prerequisite for a transition to an administrative career. It developed that Mich.e.l.le campaigned long and hard to convince her daughter that a vacation prior to the fall semester was just the ticket.
Between a dessert of orange sorbet and sponge cake, the lights brightened, then died. For several moments all conversation suspended as they sat in the darkness, surrounded by the roaring gale, the rattle of rain against the shutters. Don had prepared for this eventuality. Via penlight, he fumbled out a box of wooden matches and lighted kerosene lamps placed strategically around the house. Originally the property of Aunt Yvonne, the Millers had cause to use them frequently over the years-blackouts were part and parcel of living in the country.
Everyone eventually relocated as a herd to the parlor, amid much stumbling and nervous repartee, and sat near the crackling orange blaze of the fireplace, which Kurt had stocked with seasoned birch. Wind shrilled in the flue, and sparks showered the screen. Don brought out a battered camp stove and boiled water for hot toddies.
Waiting in the darkened kitchen for the kettle to heat, he felt isolated. Hushed conversation echoed down the hall and seemed to issue from a far more remote locale than the parlor. Thule slunk from under the table, a large, black shadow, and growled his fear-growl. He crouched, nose pointed at the cellar door. Not only was the door narrow, but also seemingly designed for midgets. Mich.e.l.le at five-foot-three ducked whenever she pa.s.sed through. The creaky wooden stairs descended some fifteen steps and made a ninety-degree left-hand turn. Fractured, sunken flagstone gave way to hardpack dirt about two-thirds of the way in and the enclosure smelled of wet earth and rotting wood. Don minimized his excursions down there, had pared it to once or twice during each summer visit.
Thule whined. Don shooed him into the hallway. He fixed the drinks, standing in an awkward way at the counter so he didn't put his back to the cellar. Which was worse than silly; it bordered paranoia. He ferried the refreshments from the kitchen and pa.s.sed them among the a.s.sembly. He experienced a short-lived fright upon realizing Mich.e.l.le had disappeared. He nearly panicked, nearly went tearing through the house searching for her. Such an overreaction could've proved disastrous as he was blind as a bat in low light, gla.s.ses or not. Fortunately, his wife materialized from the gloom, a trifle confused why her excursion to the bathroom to powder her nose was suddenly a federal issue. Don mumbled an apology about being jumpy and gave her a conciliatory peck on the cheek.
That matter settled, they waited there in the parlor, sipping their toddies and reminiscing, voices subdued as if the loss of electricity had sunk them into the Dark Ages when peasants scurried into their cottages before dusk and barred their doors and made signs to ward evil.
It was Argyle who suggested a round of ghost stories. How could they in good conscience waste such a perfect alignment of inclement weather, candlelight and agreeable company? No one leaped to second the prospect, but it hardly mattered. Once Argyle seized upon an idea, he proceeded inexorably and heedlessly along his charted course. He launched into a travelogue account of his infamous journey to the interior of China to doc.u.ment migratory patterns of a particular tribe that hunted near the Gobi Desert; incidentally his work netted some obscure, albeit immensely satisfying award. His oratory was punctuated by knowing asides to Mich.e.l.le who smiled indulgently and certified the veracity of his observations through her very silence.
Don conceded that Argyle spun an excellent yarn. It possessed the proper elements-star-crossed lovers, cruel fate, revenge from beyond the grave, a rare flower that bloomed precisely where the lovers were stoned to death, the haunting legend that echoed down through the generations as a cautionary fable. Everyone clapped at the denouement, whereupon Argyle, who had likely recited this exact tale in a hundred seedy cantinas across the globe and twice as many lecture halls full of drooling grad students, half rose to execute a gallant bow.
”Well done, Argyle, well done,” Don toasted his old friend. ”Too bad you're full of bull chips. Who's next?”
After an uproar of laughter that served to cut the tension, Kurt said, ”Well, how about it, Holly? Spin us a haunted house yarn, will you? The thing with poor, hapless Boris-”
”n.o.body wants to hear about Boris. They've heard all my stories.” Holly had long resented Kurt's opportunistic mockery, the insult doubly painful by her mother's collusion. She'd first confided this to Don when they were moderately toasted at Kurt's wedding reception and the conversation turned to the subject of the afterlife and whether Grandma and Grandpa might be floating about as ethereal presences.
”Ah, right, it's true.” Kurt grinned. ”But you tell them so well. As for Boris, I think you came up with that humdinger because you're allergic to cats. You had it in for puss from day one-admit it.” He ducked the mug she chucked in the general direction of his head. ”Or maybe you just wanted to help Mom prove her Hollow Earth theory...”
Don cast a sharp glance at his wife to gauge her reaction, but she continued to smile and he suspected she'd had more than enough to drink at that juncture. Or, miracle of miracles. maybe the wounds had actually healed.
Then, quick as a serpent her eyes changed and she stared at Kurt with great intensity. ”My hollow whatsis?” she said with the sugary inflection that emerged only when her mood was wrathful, the tone she'd adopted before flexing her claws to shred a hundred hapless colleagues in a hundred debates.
”Uh, the, well, you know what I mean.” Kurt coughed and looked around for rescue.
”Oh, sweetie, everybody knows there's no such thing as little people,” Mich.e.l.le said. Her grin was feral. She showed too many teeth, still perfect after all these years. ”But there are better stories. I ever tell you about the time Dr. Plimpton took me to a wh.o.r.ehouse in Spain to meet his sister? She was highly placed. Ran the all the other wh.o.r.es ragged. Just a happy coincidence as Louis was pursuing rumors of a community dwelling in an uncharted cave system. Don, too bad you were done with caving by then. The stalact.i.tes! The stalagmites!” She tossed her drink back with that same awful grin plastered on.
”Linda?” Don said quickly to Holly's girlfriend. ”Do you have an anecdote you'd care to share with our humble gathering?”
Linda declined, citing the fact she couldn't watch a horror movie unless she covered her eyes during the scary parts. Don waved off an opportunity to join the fun. The conversation lost momentum and he thought perhaps everyone would call it quits, which suited him. It had been a h.e.l.l of a long day.
Winnie looked at Kurt. ”Tell them about the witch.”
”Uh, that's not interesting, Win. Trust me, Holly's are whoppers.” He wasn't laughing now. His mouth tightened. Don noted him clenching and unclenching his fist.
”Your story is very frightening. I s.h.i.+vered when you told it to me.” She smiled innocently, her tiny hand pale against his arm, her face tilted upward so their eyes met. Don stifled a chuckle because he knew feminine revenge when he saw it in action-d.a.m.ned if she wasn't inflicting reprisals for her husband's overbearing behavior. He made a note to avoid crossing the demure woman from Hong Kong.