Bonds of Earth (14 page)

Reaching into her pocket, she produced a small key and used it; the door creaked on its hinges, and then she was beckoning him to follow her. He suspected that she had acquired the key through less than honest means, but he wasn’t inclined to question her about it.

The attic was predictably dusty and dark, not to mention hot from the June sun beating against the roof. Unlike Michael’s room, this space was completely windowless. Sarah flicked a switch, and the darkness was banished by the yellow light of a half dozen bare Mazda lamps attached at regular intervals to the roof beams. There were steamer trunks from the more sedate European adventures of a previous century and old wooden chairs with the seats torn or the legs broken. For the most part, the attic was littered with the relics from a lost childhood, though Michael noted absently that the hobbyhorse’s mane was carefully groomed and the seat was free of dust, and over in one corner a set of tin soldiers stretched in a neat line, saluting at nothing.

Sarah continued until they had almost reached the far end of the house, passing another set of stairs that doubtless led to the bedrooms below. His thoughts strayed to Parrish and Seward and the examination that was still going on. He was both desperate to know the results and afraid of the verdict, like a prisoner waiting in the dock for his sentence.

He and Seward had not spoken of the incident in the garden. In fact, over the past few days, they had hardly spoken at all. Their sessions together had been productive but mechanical affairs, like recitations of the multiplication tables by talented schoolchildren, and Michael had grown more restless and impatient with the polite silence that hung between them.

As much as he hated to admit it even to himself, he could no longer deny that he was curious about Seward. He wanted to understand the nature of the horrors he had endured. He wanted to know how he could look on Sarah with such warmth one moment and snap like a dry twig the next. He wanted to know far more about Seward than Seward was ever likely to tell him, and for that reason and a hundred others, he knew it would be best to stifle his newfound interest as quickly as possible.

“Here they are!” Sarah exclaimed with hushed delight, smiling as she flung herself on the floor without regard to the layer of dust and began flipping through a stack of oil paintings leaning on their edges against the wall.

“Look at this one,” she instructed, lifting one of the smaller paintings, and Michael reached to pluck it from her hands. He could tell it was one of Seward’s pieces from the signature, but apart from that it bore virtually no resemblance to the dark, brooding work that had been all he’d seen of Seward’s art until now.

“That’s my grandfather,” Sarah said, unnecessarily, because the resemblance was clear and striking. Abbott’s features were faithfully rendered in oils, but there was more to the work than that, for Michael could feel the presence of the old man in the direct, unflinching gaze staring back at him from the portrait. Sadly, he also felt the presence of a much younger man, not so much in years but in burdens. The painting must have been executed several years ago, before the losses and worries that had done their best to crush him.

Sarah handed him another painting, then another, each one more accomplished than the last. Seward’s strength was portraiture, though there were also fine examples of still lifes and landscapes, obviously inspired by local scenery. He had rendered a few scenes of New York City as well. Michael was startled to recognize familiar streets in the Bowery and the Lower East Side, particularly the garment district. There was a series of portraits of young women, presumably some of the garment workers, dressed in shawls and long dresses, dark eyes huge in faces that were old before their time. Somehow Seward had managed to avoid condescension or melodrama in the tone of these works, infusing his subjects with a dignity and power he wouldn’t have believed a rich man would be able to see in such faces, let alone convey.

“There are more over here,” Sarah said, running over to another grouping a few feet away. Reluctantly drawn in by Sarah’s enthusiasm and the striking artwork, Michael moved to get a better look at this batch.

These paintings were all portraits of one particular subject, and Michael presumed that was the reason they’d been stored separately. They depicted a handsome young man with blond hair and blue eyes who seemed strangely familiar to him. He was no more attractive than any of a hundred men Michael had known, but he was extraordinary in that the painter obviously saw him as some sort of ideal, the way Pygmalion had placed his Galatea on a pedestal. There was an aloof air to the subject, as though he had not been a man but a marble statue, untouchable and perfect. Looking at him made Michael strangely, inexplicably angry.

“I wish I knew who he was,” Sarah said quietly, her gaze fixed on one of the paintings.

“His brother?” Michael offered.

Sarah shook her head. “He doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. Just like me.”

“A friend, then.”

“He looks so sad,” Sarah said. “Don’t you think he looks sad?”

It was an odd observation, but after studying the painting, Michael realized it was possible to interpret it that way. “A little,” he admitted finally.

Sarah shook her head, a frown creasing her brow. “Why do people have to be sad all the time?”

Michael stroked her hair. “Are you sad all the time, m’dearie?”

Still frowning, she cocked her head, thinking about it. “No. I used to be, though.”

Feeling an unexpected buoyancy lighten his soul, Michael smiled. “Me neither,” he murmured, leaning in like a conspirator. “And me too.” Gently, he took the canvas from her hands and turned it to the wall, then took her hand and walked back with her the way they had come.

9

D
OCTOR
P
ARRISH
did indeed pronounce Seward’s rehabilitation to be progressing even beyond his high expectations. Together, he and Michael spent some time planning out the next phase of Seward’s treatment, which involved more work outside the gymnasium and more emphasis on encouraging his independence.

“The painting is a good sign,” Parrish said. “You need to do everything you can to promote that.”

Michael thought about the portraits lying in the attic, remnants of another life; aloud, he sighed. “I’m not an alienist,” he said curtly.

“Occupational therapy, my boy,” Parrish rejoined, lifting an eyebrow. “Surely you’ve heard of it?”

Michael gripped his knees under the tabletop. “I’ll do what I can,” he murmured.

Parrish smiled. “And his social reintegration? How’s that proceeding?”

Michael cast a glance at Mary, who was trying to appear as though she were not eavesdropping and failing miserably. “Poorly,” he said. “Sarah is the only one who can put up with him for extended periods.”

“Well, I’m sure that once he regains more of his strength, he will feel more inclined to renew old friendships,” Parrish said brightly.

Michael conjured an image of Seward crumpled on the lawn, tears streaming down his dirt-smudged face. “Let’s hope so,” he said dully.

Parrish remained silent for a few moments, and when Michael turned to look at him, he was confronted by that warrior’s gaze, perceptive and knife-sharp. “He spoke well of you, you know.”

And that was so startling that Michael could think of nothing to say.

Parrish only smiled and patted his arm. “There, that’s better. I was beginning to think you had all the mysteries solved, and what a dull world that would be, hm?”

C
ONTRARY
to all of Michael’s expectations, Seward did indeed show some inclination to “renew old friendships” over the next few days. Michael noticed that he and Abbott actually spoke to one another now when the old man came out to share the sun on the terrace. There was a tentative, halting quality to their interactions, but it was a beginning, at least. It was clear from the way Sarah watched them both that she was interested in the outcome, and both men seemed more at ease when she was with them, so Michael made a point of releasing her from her commitments in the garden whenever he saw them together.

His work with Seward occupied more and more of his days, since Seward’s exercise routine was growing in both variety and duration. The August heat meant that Seward could spend more time outdoors engaged in walking and calisthenics. At first he balked at wearing his athletic gear, but Michael only folded his arms and informed him that since there were no ladies in the vicinity who were interested in ogling his skinny ass, there was no need for modesty.

Seward glared at him darkly but eventually obeyed. All insults aside, Michael noticed that Seward was beginning to gain some muscle mass, though there was no chance he would be mistaken for a prize fighter in the near future. Still, the exposure of his limbs to the sun increased the benefits to his health. Soon he was tanned and looking heartier than he had since Michael had known him.

Seven weeks into his rehabilitation, Seward made an entire circuit of the grounds without the aid of his cane, Michael and Sarah walking on either side of him, bearing silent witness. By the time they reached the house, the sweat had plastered Seward’s shirt to his back, and his legs were so unsteady Michael was sure he would topple at any moment.

And then Michael looked up and saw Mary standing at the kitchen door, tears brimming in her eyes. His own throat tightening, he cast a glance at Seward, who propelled himself forward with a new reserve of energy, his gaze never wavering from her.

When he finally stood trembling before her, Mary reached up and stroked his cheek tenderly, her action stealing the breath from his lungs with a sound like a sob. As if by instinct, they moved into one another’s arms, Seward crushing her to him with a strength Michael would not have believed the other man possessed.

“We’re so glad to have you back with us, Johnny dear,” Mary whispered, and Seward hugged her a little harder, his shoulder blades jutting out like the broken stumps of wings.

M
ICHAEL
was never sure how the change had come, but after that Seward took all his meals with the Abbotts, which meant that Michael saw even more of him. Seward was no longer snappish with Mary, Abbott, or Sarah, conducting himself as a well-behaved guest might. He was clearly not entirely at ease with them yet, but he was also just as clearly not the man he had been two months ago. Whether this was due more to Michael’s ministrations, Sarah’s quiet camaraderie, Abbott’s approval, or Mary’s welcoming arms, Michael couldn’t say; doubtless it was an ineffable mixture of all four factors.

As for Seward’s treatment of Michael, Michael noticed that while his interactions with Seward at the dinner table were civil, if not warm, his interactions with him in the exercise room or during massage still remained adversarial at best and hostile at worst. Michael was finding it more and more difficult to reconcile the man who helped Sarah so patiently with her reading and the man who battled with him daily in the gymnasium.

“Push harder.”

“I am… pushing,” Seward said testily, his calf muscles bulging with the effort to raise his leg as Michael applied a downward pressure. Seward lay on his stomach on the mat, his head pillowed on his folded arms. Looking back over his shoulder, he glared at Michael as best he could.

“This isn’t as much as you gave me yesterday,” Michael snapped back.

Seward’s leg shuddered against the palm of Michael’s hand. “You hadn’t tortured me for an hour with those—damned—pulley weights yesterday.”

Michael only kept up the pressure, hearing Seward grunt low in his throat as he struggled. For a span of a few heartbeats, Michael could feel Seward’s muscles straining to overcome the downward force before the leg collapsed under his hand.

“God damn it!” Seward swore, fists slamming uselessly against the mat.

“Try it again,” Michael said tightly.

“I can’t!”

“You can,” Michael insisted, as mildly as he could considering that his blood was pounding in his ears and he was suddenly, inexplicably furious.

Slowly, painfully, Seward turned himself over. Michael watched a bead of sweat roll from Seward’s temple into his hair as he lay panting up at him. Something of Michael’s rage must have shown on his face, because Seward’s eyes widened. He pushed himself up on his elbows.

“Don’t get up,” Michael murmured, voice deceptively calm. “We’re not done.”

Seward blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“You can rest for a minute or two, but we’re going to try it again. And this time you’re going to show some effort.”

Seward’s gaze hardened. “You’re insane.”

Again, it was not the first time Seward had leveled a similar epithet at him, but it was the first time it made Michael’s palms itch to hear it. Seward made to sit up, and the next thing Michael knew his hand was splayed out across Seward’s ribs, preventing him from rising.

“What do you think you’re—” Seward began, his eyes growing round.

“Try. It. Again,” Michael growled, leaning closer until he was mere inches from Seward’s reddened face.