Part 10 (1/2)
His thoughts jumped to Mich.e.l.le. Oh, no! What if they were after her too? There'd be another door in the back, surely. The light in the gallery changed subtly and he whirled and saw someone approaching him from between the exhibit cases. The individual moved with alarming speed, bent low to the floor, but straightening as he or she drew nearer. Unfolding...
”I guess you'd best come with me,” Bronson Ford said. It sounded like Bronson Ford, at least. The voice quavered on the edge of diabolical laughter. The figure was too tall-it loomed over Don. He yelled, albeit a cry that was silenced in an instant. This figure reached for him with a splayed hand both spindly and large. All Don could smell as it snuffed his consciousness was the whiff of his own puke.
He was shambling along a hallway and the realization he couldn't remember getting there was jarring as a broken reel in a film.
There'd been a surreal conversation with Bronson Ford about art, or anthropology, and prior to that, an even more fanciful exchange with the two feds who'd seemed intent on convincing him his granddad was a super-villain, Mich.e.l.le was a double agent, and that the moon landings were faked and half the aristocracy of Olympia partic.i.p.ated in Black Ma.s.s or worse. A wave of dizziness and disorientation swept over him, and for a few seconds he swooned, nearly overcome by the sensation he'd wandered these gloomy halls for an eternity. He also recalled fragments of voices, the rustle of fabric, of being smothered, and then these impressions were swallowed by the mists of amnesia.
The other guests had retired and the houselights were dim. He groped his way back to the guestroom, praying Mich.e.l.le awaited him there. The interior was mostly dark except for a pocket of light in the living room. He found Mich.e.l.le curled on the couch near the mammoth rattan floor lamp very similar to one back in San Francisco they'd bought at a bazaar in Hong Kong nearly a decade ago when their relations.h.i.+p was in the final legs of a second honeymoon phase. He'd attended a geophysics conference, and she, being on sabbatical to write a book about multiculturalism, traveled with him for research purposes. They skipped the conference and spent a week sightseeing, losing themselves amongst the mazes, and gambling and partying at the nightclubs where Mandarin-speaking locals whined American pop cla.s.sics in pa.s.sable English.
There were a few tense moments upon returning safely stateside when it seemed possible a brand-new baby might be on the way-but one wasn't; thank G.o.d for a weak sperm count for once and crisis averted! The twins, G.o.d bless 'em, were plenty. These many years later, neither of Don nor Mich.e.l.le was sufficiently comfortable to examine his or her feelings in light of current events and the benefit of hindsight.
Mich.e.l.le had been crying; her blotchy face shone pale as an egg. For a queasy moment seeing her camped beneath the tall lamp as if posed by a photographer, memories of the Hong Kong excursion and the resultant baby scare caused Don's pulse rate to accelerate again, precipitated the looming disorientation and sickness.
”Honey, sorry it's so late. Whatsa matter?” he said. ”Sweetie...”
She had wrapped herself in a raggedy quilt her grandmother sewed at parochial school. She pulled the quilt tight under her chin and stared at him. ”Tell me a secret. One only you and I know.”
Don sat on the edge of the couch. He awkwardly took her hand; it was cold. ”Honey, what are you doing out here?” It occurred to him that this might be a ploy to deflect his natural peevishness at being abandoned earlier during the reception. He squashed that line of conjecture and put on a brave smile.
She left her hand in his, limp as a dead fish. She stared at him with that queer, drugged expression and said nothing.
”Okay. What kind of secret?”
”Anything,” she said. ”As long as it's ours.”
”Um. That was kind of b.i.t.c.hy abandoning me to the wolves, this evening. Er, I guess that's no secret since everybody saw the dust cloud, right?”
She stared at him and he guessed then that she too had been drinking and more heavily than he first presumed.
Don swallowed and forced a smile. ”I can't match my socks and, uh, I wear 'em inside out. Oh, oh, and I forget to change 'em more often than two or three times a month. How's that?”
She squeezed his hand and seemed relieved. ”It's you.”
”Yeah, babe. Hope to G.o.d you weren't expecting Don Juan.” He stroked her wrist.
She nodded. Her expression slackened, became heavy with exhaustion. Don coaxed her from the couch, and together they swayed and stumbled into the bedroom.
Don clicked off the light and was instantly weightless upon the king-sized bed, coc.o.o.ned by the blankets and the swaddling darkness and had almost fallen into the well of sleep when Mich.e.l.le mumbled at him across the swells and swales, the inland sea. ”Huh, whazzat?” he said.
”I thought you came in earlier,” she said, her voice m.u.f.fled by a pillow. ”A while ago. I was reading and...I went to sleep and something woke me.”
”Yeh? What did.”
”You.”
”Oh.” Don lay face down, engrossed by intestinal gurgles, the womb-noises of his guts rebelling at their contents. ”I did? When?”
Mich.e.l.le remained silent. Then, even as Don decided she'd fallen asleep, she said dreamily, ”I dunno. Earlier. I opened my eyes and there you were, watching me sleep. You used to do that, 'member?”
”Sure do, mm-hm.”
”Why would you be standing in the closet? Just standing there between my dresses. Couldn't figure that out.”
”Honey?” Don rolled over. ”This is crazy, I know. Do you happen to know a physicist named Nelson Cooye? These two weirdoes claimed you're an evil, evil woman. A mistress of skullduggery. Our taxes in action, eh?” He reached toward her, but she was too far away across the water and he fell back. He stared into the gloom and listened to her breathe and after a bit she began to snore.
He dreamed of walking naked across a savanna toward a stand of Eucalyptus trees. Agents Frick and Frack stood to his left in the tall gra.s.s. The men were naked but for loincloths and sungla.s.ses. Both were shouting at him; their voices didn't carry and he walked onward.
A piece of the earth rose between the trees and pushed one over with a series of low cracks. The thing was a sloth, or an elephant. It watched him and as he approached, legs propelling him against his yammering instinct, he soon saw that it was neither of those animals. Then he was in its shadow.
In the morning he recalled a fragment of his vision with a small scream. Five seconds later it had evaporated from his mind and was lost.
CHAPTER SIX.
Bluebeard's Husband (Now) Though his days were busy after Mich.e.l.le departed, Don initiated further measures to minimize the solitude of the empty house. He invited Argyle Arden and Turk Standish for a barbeque over the weekend, and inveigled Harris Camby, the former Pierce County Sheriff, to attend as well-promising ale and horseshoes. Harris was a formidable presence in the pits; even when the sheriff was dead-drunk none of his friends or colleagues could hope to match his prowess.
Sat.u.r.day proved lovely; a bright, warm afternoon hinted at the possibility of a prolonged summer. Don grilled ribs and served steins of Irish stout to his friends. As midday slowly ceded to a soft, hazy twilight, he lounged on the porch with Argyle. Harris and his grandson Lewis were methodically drubbing Turk and Argyle's companion for the day, a preppy grad student named Hank. Hank, a beefy kid in a heavy Norwegian sweater and fancy slacks, sweated and scowled, apparently displeased at Harris's wry commentary regarding the boy's game, and possibly even more so with Turk's complacency about being thoroughly sh.e.l.led. His face flushed red as a fired brick and he drank too many rum and c.o.kes for Don's comfort.
The conversation meandered, being of no consequence beyond a pleasant diversion, when Argyle took his pipe stem from between his teeth and said, ”Has Mich.e.l.le gotten anywhere with her survey?” He meant, of course, the genealogical research and translations she'd chipped away at for decades. It had once been a hobby, a method of easing her tensions and frustrations during the inevitable setbacks and disappointments in discovering the Lost Tribe.
”I gather yes. She's in there, going great guns.”
Argyle chuckled. ”She's a terrier with a bone. Always been that way when it comes to her pa.s.sions.”
”We don't discuss it, really. Over my head.”
”Hrmm. You've got rocks for brains, is why. I hope she publishes her findings. The work is quite intricate. Her piece regarding the demographical data of her ancestors' princ.i.p.al migratory trajectories is remarkable. Admittedly, I did collaborate on particular bits of procedural doc.u.mentation-”
”If you look closely, you'll note my eyes are glazing.”
”Bah. How's Kurt doing?”
”Fine, fine. I called him yesterday. He's laid up at home. Says Winnie's rubbing his feet and feeding him grapes.”
”Hah! I hope she doesn't hear him running at the mouth or I'd bet good money he's a dead man.” Argyle sucked on his pipe. ”If Kurt's okay, then what's the matter?”
”Nothing. I'm happy as a clam at high tide. The weather is marvelous, yeah? The house is all mine for a while-”
”About that.”
Don waited and when it seemed as if his friend wouldn't continue his thought, he said, ”What about it? Afraid I'll go stir crazy? No chance of that, not with tending Mich.e.l.le's vegetables and puttering about.”
”Yes, it sounds swell. But that's not what I meant. What I mean is, it's a shame you two inherited this place.” Argyle swallowed some beer and gestured vaguely with his pipe. ”Let's face it, with the exception of Mich.e.l.le, the Mocks are seriously strange. You've never even met any of them, thus there's absolutely zero familial attachment. Must be like living in a cheap, bizarre museum. You're more curator than owner.”
”Not true. I met Babette, once.”
”For about thirty seconds, sure. Didn't that dame stay at the Samovar instead of here? There you go. Anyway, back to you and your lovely wife. I'm thinking you two are looking like a couple of silver foxes-”