Arkwright (2 page)

Although Nathan Arkwright had been an atheist, the funeral was held in a Congregational church. Kate would later learn that the pastor was big fan of Nathan's and had practically begged for the honor of hosting the memorial service. Thanks to GPS, Kate had little trouble locating the church; parking was another matter entirely. She wished that she'd left home earlier; both sides of the street were lined with cars for three blocks, with local police officers directing traffic.

The church was a big Gothic edifice built sometime in the 1800s, but by the time Kate got there, its oak pews were packed tightly, and people were standing against the walls. Nathan Arkwright may not have had much in the way of an immediate family, but he made up for it with fans, some of whom were apparently unaware of the proper way of dressing for a funeral; amid the dark suits and dresses, she spotted a few dress uniforms of the Galaxy Patrol, mainly worn by people who wouldn't have lasted a week in the Galactic Academy. Many had brought copies of the Patrol novels as if expecting the author to rise from his casket and give one last signing before he went off to the crematorium.

The casket itself rested in front of the nave, surrounded by so many wreaths and bouquets that every florist in town had probably been cleaned out. Its lid was closed, for which Kate was quietly grateful—she'd never been able to stand the sight of a dead body, even one tastefully arranged by a mortician—and instead a portrait photo of her grandfather was propped up on an easel. It was the same picture that had appeared on the dust jacket of every book Grandpapa published since 1972: Nathan Arkwright, a thick-set, red-haired man in his early fifties, smiling slightly as he regarded the prospective readers from behind wire-rimmed glasses with eyes both kindly and wise. Not the annoyed glare he'd given his granddaughter when she'd come to visit him.

The ushers were beginning to turn people away when Kate arrived, but when she quietly explained that she was a family member, she was escorted down the center aisle to the two front pews, which had been roped off with a red velvet cord. A few people were already seated in this section, older folks whom Kate recognized as distant cousins whom she barely knew; they nodded to her, not really recognizing her, either. She sat down by herself in the first pew and looked around. As she'd expected, Sylvia Morressy had made good her promise not to attend her father's funeral.

Once again, Kate wondered what her grandfather had done to earn his daughter's hatred. She'd never said what it was that had caused her to avoid her father or to keep Kate away from him as much as possible. Even Kate's father didn't know why; Kate's mother filed for divorce before she ever gave him a satisfactory explanation.

The pastor had just emerged through a side door and was preparing to step up to the pulpit when four people approached the front pew. The youngest was a middle-aged man Kate recognized as Grandpapa's housekeeper; she remembered that his name was Mr. Sterling, and he looked very nearly the same as he had when she'd met him years earlier. The other three were two men and a woman, Grandpapa's age or thereabouts; one of the men sat in a wheelchair pushed by Mr. Sterling.

The usher who'd escorted Kate to her seat hurried up to meet them. As she watched, he quietly explained that the section was being reserved for family members. The woman—thin, petite, and silver haired but nonetheless bearing an inarguable presence—looked him straight in the eye and said something that Kate couldn't hear but which caused the younger man to hastily apologize. He pulled aside the cord and helped Mr. Sterling assist the woman and the taller of the two men into the pew; the man in the wheelchair remained seated in the aisle.

Kate didn't have the foggiest notion who they were, but it seemed as if the woman immediately recognized her; when she turned to glance at Kate, there was a look of surprise on an otherwise stoical face. The tall man—gaunt and gray, with jug ears and a nose like a beak—barely noticed her, but the man in the wheelchair, who'd lost most of his hair but still sported a trim white mustache, studied Kate as if trying to place her.

The woman stared at Kate so intently that it made her uncomfortable. Kate nervously looked away, but she could feel the old lady's eyes upon her. Kate was about to introduce herself when the pastor mounted the steps to the pulpit. An expectant hush fell upon the church, and Kate decided that any conversation would have to wait until later.

The opening prayer was ecumenical, and the hymnals remained untouched in their pew pockets, with the congregation instead invited to stand and sing the
Galaxy Patrol
theme song from the original TV series, the lyrics of which were conveniently printed in the program everyone had been handed upon walking in. Kate felt silly singing a song once popular on grade-school playgrounds, but apparently it was a bittersweet moment for many of the people seated behind her; she heard quiet sobs and choked voices when they reached the line “We boldly set forth for the stars,” and she glanced back to see people dabbing tears from their eyes.
Whose idea was this?
Still, she had to admit, it was more suitable than “Amazing Grace” or “Shall We Gather at the River.” Grandpapa was famously nonreligious.

The pastor's sermon was much like
The Boston Globe
obit, both respectful and impersonal. While it was clear that the pastor had met Nathan Arkwright and admired him, he didn't know him well enough to say anything reflecting anything more than a passing acquaintance. Instead, the pastor spoke of his novels and stories and how they'd entertained and inspired generations of readers. He said that Nathan had preferred solitude, particularly after his wife, Judith's, death, but he added that his correspondents had included scientists, authors, astronauts, and celebrities who'd been inspired by his books. He read bits from messages he'd received from famous people: a former NASA chief administrator, an
Apollo
moonwalker, the actor who'd portrayed Hak Tallus in the
Galaxy Patrol
movies. He ended the service by reading a passage from Grandpapa's last novel,
Through the Event Horizon
—a book that had made the
New York Times
Best Seller List and stayed there for nearly three months—which once again provoked sighs and tears from the congregation.

Before the service ended, the pastor announced that a private reception—“for family members and close friends only, please”—would be held at the deceased's residence. Only those who'd received invitations would be allowed to attend; another reception for members of the public would be held that afternoon at the local library.

Kate hadn't received an invitation, so it appeared that she'd be having fruit punch and cookies with Hak Tallus look-alikes if she decided not to drive home at once. The prospect wasn't particularly appealing. She'd just risen from her seat, though, when Mr. Sterling handed her an engraved invitation. Directions were printed on the back, just in case she'd forgotten how to get there.

Kate was still indecisive about going to the private reception; it was a three-hour drive from Lenox to Cambridge, probably longer now that it was leaf-peeping season and the Mass Pike was jammed with tour buses. But as she followed Mr. Sterling and the three old people up the aisle, the woman stopped and turned to her.

“You're Kate, yes?” She offered a hand. “I'm Margaret Krough, your grandfather's literary agent.”

“Oh, yes.” Kate recognized her name from the acknowledgments pages of Grandpapa's books. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Krough.”

“Maggie.” A faint, almost enigmatic smile. “This is Harry”—she gestured to the man in the wheelchair—“and George.” The tall man nodded, favoring her with an elfin grin. “Will you be at the reception?”

“Umm…”

“Please come. I'd like to have a little chat with you.” Maggie turned back to Harry and George, who waited for her with the polite impatience of the elderly. “All right, gentlemen,” she said, “let's be off.”

Mr. Sterling continued pushing the wheelchair, but not before Harry raised a gnarled fist. “Forward the Legion!” he exclaimed.

The others laughed out loud. Kate had no idea what was so funny.

 

3

Nathan Arkwright's home was located just outside Lenox on a twenty-acre spread at the foot of the mountains. It was a sprawling, single-story manor built in a '70s-modernistic style that was sort of a cross between traditional New England saltbox and midwestern ranch house, with cedar siding and a steep, slate-shingle roof. Once past a front gate marked with a No Trespassing—Private Property sign, Kate followed the gravel driveway as it wound through maple-shaded meadows glowing with autumn wildflowers until she reached a circular turnaround surrounding an abstract iron sculpture.

Several cars were already parked off to the side of the driveway, and she'd barely pulled into the turnaround when a valet in a black windbreaker walked out to open the door for her and ask for the keys. She watched her eight-year-old Subaru with missing hubcaps go away to be parked next to a Lexus and a BMW and knew at once that she was the poor relation both literally and figuratively.

Mr. Sterling had already returned from the services. He met her in the front hall just as he had many years ago, yet this time he was friendlier, addressing her as Kate instead of Ms. Morressy as he hung up her overcoat in the foyer. He led her to the living room and had a tuxedoed caterer offer her a champagne flute and then excused himself.

The living room was large and broad, with a high ceiling and tall cathedral windows looking out upon the Berkshires. Modernist butcher-block furniture surrounded a circular central fireplace; upon oak-paneled walls were framed cover paintings from Grandpapa's books—the better ones by Emshwiller, Freas, and Whelan. The obligatory vanity bookcase contained multiple editions of his novels and collections in several languages, crowned by an acrylic cube: the Grand Master Nebula he'd received from the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America a few years after he'd unofficially retired from the field.

The house looked like a million bucks. Kate had little doubt that it had probably cost that much too. The Galaxy Patrol had made its creator a wealthy man.

Drink in hand, Kate strolled through the room, surrounded by people and yet alone. Aside from the distant cousins she'd briefly met at the funeral, she knew no one. It was likely that many of those here were editors and publishing executives who'd come up from New York, while others might be fellow authors; she wasn't part of that world, though, so none of their faces were familiar. Kate was Nathan Arkwright's granddaughter, but the truth of the matter was that—aside from all his books and stories—she'd barely known him at all.

Drink your champagne and go home,
she said to herself.
You've fulfilled your family obligation. No one will even notice that you've left.

“Kate?”

Turning around, she found Margaret Krough standing beside her. The old lady had approached her so quietly that she hadn't seen her grandfather's agent until she spoke her name. “Ms. Krough.”

“As I said, it's Maggie.” Again, the same direct gaze, with emerald eyes unfaded by age. “So glad you made it. I've been expecting you.”

“Yes, well…” Kate fiddled with the glass in her hand, her drink still untasted. “Just dropping by, really. I've got a long drive home and—”

“Oh no! Not yet. I'd really like to have a word with you, and so would George and Harry.” Maggie took her by the hand. “Come this way, please … where we can talk in private.”

For a woman in her eighties, Maggie was surprisingly spry. Walking quickly, she led Kate across the room, and as she did, Kate noticed how many eyes turned their way. Margaret Krough was plainly a figure of respect among this crowd. A small, birdlike man whose suit that probably cost more than Kate made in a month swooped in upon them, but Maggie frosted him with a tight, drop-dead-thank-you smile and moved on before he could do more than open his mouth.

“Who was that?” Kate murmured.

“One of Nat's publishers. Probably wants to renegotiate. I'll deal with him later.” Maggie opened a door beside a baby grand piano and ushered Kate inside. “Come, dear.”

Maggie closed the door behind them and turned the deadbolt lock. Kate hadn't been in this room since she was a little girl. It was her grandfather's office. Amid oak bookcases, a glass display shelf holding globes of Earth, the Moon, and Mars, and an antique brass telescope stood an L-shaped desk, the older-model IBM computer resting upon it surrounded by untidy stacks of paper. The windows faced the mountains, but the curtains were shut; the only light came from floor lamps beside the frayed leather armchairs and a couch that looked as if he'd regularly used it for naps. The magician's den.

George stood before the shelf, idly inspecting the Mars globe. Harry sat in his wheelchair, leafing through the papers on the desk. Kate had once been spanked for doing just that, during the only Christmas get-together she and her parents had ever attended, but Harry didn't seem the slightest bit embarrassed to be caught in the act.

“Looking for an idea to steal?” Maggie asked, her tone playfully scolding.

Harry made a rude sound with his lips. “You kidding? He stole his best ideas from me.”

“So you've always said.” George turned away from the globes and picked up the drink he'd left on an end table. “You're just jealous he … well, never mind. Hello, Ms. Morressy. So happy you've come. I'm just sorry we haven't met until now.”

“No, we haven't. But I've never met any of Grandpapa's friends, so I guess that figures.” The two men were strangers to her but obviously old acquaintances of her grandfather's. “Maggie told me your names, but I don't—”

“Harry Skinner,” Harry said. “One of Nat's colleagues. We got started at the same time.” A wry smile as he carefully returned some typewritten pages to their place on the desk. “I seldom wrote under my own name, though. Most readers know me as Matt Brown.”