Part 1 (1/2)
The Prodigy.
by Charles Atkins.
To Steve.
Acknowledgments.
The author wishes to thank the following for their help and encouragement: Al Zuckerman, Barbara Moore, Elizabeth Fitzgerald, Gary Jayson, his family, Lisa Hoffman, Stacey Rubin, Doreen Elnitsky, Colette Anderson, Maya Rock, and Elissa Velez.
ONE.
Jimmy startled from a dream; something was wrong. He sniffed, expecting smoke and charred flesh, but smelled only pine-scented polish and the tang of soured milk, like baby vomit floating across a forgotten cup of tea in a Dresden cup.
The phone rang-that's what had pulled him from sleep. Kicking off the mohair throw entangling in his long legs, he belted his robe and stumbled barefoot across the silk Sarouk. The Siamese kitten, who'd been lying in wait, tackled his ankle and wrapped his mewling body around his foot. Jimmy cradled the tiny blue-eyed animal in one hand, hugging him to his chest, as he picked up the receiver.
”h.e.l.lo?”
It was Ellen, his twin. ”What's up, Jimmy? Carrie said you called, said it was urgent.”
Fear pulsed, ”Something bad happened.” He remembered a fragment of his dream, there was a bird, no ... two, ma.s.sive vultures, and a golden-haired child running through a rocky canyon.
”What?”
He glanced at his ankle as the red light on his security bracelet pulsed. ”Kravitz is dead.”
”Oh my G.o.d! When?”
”Yesterday, I guess. I got a call from his secretary this morning. I left you a message as soon as I heard. I need another psychiatrist.”
”How did he die, Jimmy?”
”I don't know,” he heard suspicion in her voice. ”I need you to take care of this. I can't wait,” anxiety fueled his speech. ”You know it's part of the agreement, I need to see a psychiatrist once a week. They have to report to the board monthly. I know who I want.” Like an eager child, words blurted out.
”He wasn't that old,” Ellen responded slowly, ignoring her brother's urgency. ”How did it happen?”
”I don't know ... Look, I know who I want. I saw her once, and then she didn't come back; you wouldn't let her. That's who I want. You know I never wanted Kravitz.”
He could hear her slow exhalation. ”I know ... And if I refuse?”
Silence.
”Are you there?” she repeated. ”Are you sure? This is how it starts. You need to be sure.”
”It's not like that,” he said, letting the kitten suckle the tip of his baby finger. ”If I don't see a shrink this week they can send me back.”
”I know,” she said. ”I spent three years of my life, and a quarter mil in legal fees, working on your release. There are other shrinks. I'll find someone else.”
”No. Her. Do this, Ellen.”
”Too risky.”
Why was she doing this? Anger bubbled, he had to think. ”You know,” he said, switching tactics, and glancing toward the mahogany doors that led to the foyer with its sweeping staircase that spiraled up the six-story townhouse. ”How when we were kids we played Hansel and Gretel. Do you remember?” His voice s.h.i.+fted, the vowels wide, and the S's like the hissing of a snake.
”Of course.”
”Do you remember what Hansel and Gretel did?”
”Stop this.”
”You do remember ... It's interesting how they never found any trace of our dear parents and their poor Latino driver. You'd think after dragging the lake they'd have come up with something.”
”They did,” she corrected him.
”That's right, I read it in the paper, an Hermes scarf and one of father's shoes. A couple of fas.h.i.+on accessories, Ellen, but no flesh and blood. You know, I'm curious, did mother dig up the rose garden before she died ... or did that come after?”
”Jimmy, this is for your own good. You have to know that.”
He tried to be patient. ”I know that's what you believe ... but she's the one, Chicky. You need to get her. Pay her whatever it takes.”
She hesitated. ”I'm not making promises ... I'll let you know.”
”Thanks.” He blinked, and sensed her uncertainty, her unhappiness. His voice softened, sounding younger, sweeter. ”Ellen ...”
”Yes.”
”I love you.”
”I love you too, Jimmy.”
He replaced the handset and stroked the purring cat. He looked out at the clutter of sheet music, and bound collections, piled high across the surface of the carved Chippendale secretary. The scores were the piano accompaniments that Dr. Morris Kravitz preferred. There were the Romberg and the Beethoven duos for cello and piano, some easy Vivaldi and books of short pieces in which Kravitz would identify a bit of Teleman or Handel that his clumsy fingers could negotiate on the Bosendorfer concert grand that stood facing an equally spectacular eighteenth-century Italian harpsichord. Jimmy's lip curled as he recalled Kravitz's attempts to conceal his musical mediocrity. ”This looks interesting,” he'd say, identifying a largo or lento movement with few notes, easy chords, and a minimum of flats and sharps to tax his limited abilities. It had been agony, but now ... now it would be different. So why was he frightened? He could still turn back. One call to Ellen, ”get someone else.” He inhaled deeply, and looked across the expanse of the library. Two stories high, it was lined with gla.s.s-fronted mahogany bookcases. The parquet floors, glimpsed between intricate carpets, were deeply patinated from generations of Martin men with pipes and cigars. The French windows leaked filtered light through claret-colored drapes faded to a light rose at their sun-kissed edges. The paintings, bronzes, and marble sculptures were English, French, and Italian, purchased by great-great-grandfather James Cyrus Martin on his art-grab tours through cash-hungry, turn-of-the century Europe.
Yes, Jimmy thought, with Kravitz finally out of the way, things would be different. This would be the first step toward a new life; the life he'd always wanted. Dressed only in his plush robe-a present from Ellen-he put down the protesting kitten and picked up Allegra, his darkly varnished Amati cello, and nestled it between his hairless legs. His mind drifted as he resined his bow and plucked the strings, finding them still in tune from last night. His fingers, trained by a lifetime of daily practice, moved effortlessly through the arpeggios of the first movement of the Bach Unaccompanied Suites. Even the years he'd been forbidden from playing had not dulled his talent; if anything his artistry was sharpened. Once the calluses had reformed on the pads of his fingers, the pain of those years locked away ... tortured ... had given birth to a pa.s.sion and urgency in the music. His mind floated. Graceful pa.s.sages soared through the air as he remembered his dream. He was standing over the kitchen sink and through the window saw two ma.s.sive birds circling the sky over Mother's rose garden. At first he'd been excited, thinking, the vultures have returned, and then he saw a golden-haired child running below them. Only they were no longer in Manhattan, but in a vast canyon. One of the birds-a black-and-white one with a huge wingspan-swooped down upon the fleeing toddler and sank his talons into the flesh of his back. Horrified, Jimmy ran after the bird, only to see its mate dive toward the dangling child as he was carried into the sky. Just as a mid-air collision seemed inevitable, the black-and-white vulture dropped the boy. Jimmy raced toward the toddler, certain that the fall meant death. He did not want to find a dead child; how would he explain it? They'd blame him. Still, he had to see.
The boy was alive. He was quiet, almost calm. He couldn't have been more than three, with apple-blush cheeks, liquid blue eyes, and a shock of thatch-gold hair. He had the face of the perfect American toddler, the one that got plastered on baby food jars, or on milk cartons that carried the tragic whiff of abduction and murder.
The boy looked at him, ”I want to go home,” he said.
”Where do you live?” Jimmy asked, wondering how it was that a child so young could speak so clearly.
”You know.”
As he pa.s.sed seamlessly into the second movement of the Bach, Jimmy focused on the child's face. He saw something familiar, something he couldn't place. As the connection crystallized, the moon-faced grandfather-clock chimed. Halfway through its p.r.o.nouncement, the doorbell rang.
Jimmy blinked and stared at the clock as it struck ten. An hour had pa.s.sed, sometimes much more than that would slip away, sometimes days, and sometimes weeks. Getting up, he let the folds of his robe cover his legs as he placed the priceless cello into its rosewood cradle. He loosened the strings of his gold-and-ivory-tipped bow, picked up the kitten and went to the front door. He knew who it was, but peered through the fisheye anyway, affording him a distorted vision of Gramercy Park and the hundred-fifty-year-old Gingko tree out front. A caramel-colored face smiled up at him; the man lifted a brown-paper shopping bag.