MORTAL COILS (18 page)

“She
acquiesced, and they discovered they had much in common: their philosophies;
both had traveled the world and spoke many languages; and both, while being
loved by many, had never themselves been in love. They strolled cobblestone
streets, rode gondolas, and observed lovers, no longer ridiculing them as they
had earlier, but studying them and questioning why the human heart was so
easily captured . . . and then inevitably broken.

“They
rested at a little café overlooking the Canale Grande and sipped minted coffee
as the moon set and the stars wheeled overhead. There were lemon trees in planters
nearby scenting the air with their perfume. As the sun rose over the water,
your father gently removed her mask and she undid his.

“They
stared into one another’s eyes. All talk of the affairs of the heart, sharing
their loneliness, finding a like intellect, stopped in that moment. What would
have been impossible had they knowingly set out to do it had occurred by
accident: they had fallen in love.”

Fiona
rocked onto her heels, entranced by the tale. “What happened next? Where were
they married?”

“I believe
so, in Paris,” Henry said, looking past her, remembering. “I know not the
entire story.”

Fiona
looked to Eliot puzzled, then Eliot asked the question on both their minds:
“How could you not know?”

Uncle
Henry let out a long exhale. “That is where their story becomes complicated.
Your father’s family and our family were not on speaking terms then; in fact,
they made the Montagues and Capulets in Romeo and Juliet look like they were
throwing a friendly bar mitzvah. There was an agreement that one family would
never meddle in the affairs of the other, and this certainly qualified as—”

His
words died as if the air had been sucked from his chest.

A
shadow fell upon Uncle Henry’s face.

Fiona
and Eliot turned.

Standing
in the doorway, holding the knife that had cut their birthday cake . . . was
Grandmother.

12

FISH
IN THE SKY

Eliot
looked back and forth between Uncle Henry and Grandmother. Eliot had to have
gotten up too quickly. With the blood draining from his head, it seemed that
Uncle Henry and Grandmother cast shadows at each other. But the only light was
from the dining room window—to Uncle Henry’s right . . . so neither shadow was
cast at the correct angle.

Eliot
blinked, but the darkness remained. He stepped closer to Fiona until they
bumped elbows.

There
was something else between Grandmother and Henry—like clear glass, straining
under pressure. He felt it pinging and crackling in the air, about to snap.

He
had to do something.

“It’s—”
His voice broke, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s Uncle Henry,”
he told Grandmother.

Light
and shadow returned to their proper angles.

Grandmother
sighed. “So I see.” She half closed her eyes as if staring into a bright light.
“And, as usual, telling tall tales.”

“Simple
embellishments,” Henry replied.

“There
are no lemon trees along the Canale Grande,” Grandmother told him. “And their
father was no polo player.”

Henry
shrugged and looked like a boy caught with stolen cookies, but he quickly
sobered. He stood and his hands spread apart in conciliation. He tried a smile,
but decided against this, and it faded. “I’ve come to talk.”

“Something
you are exceedingly good at.” Grandmother’s words were dead, cold things that
made Eliot shiver. She held the knife, point down, gripped firmly.

“Just
talk,” Uncle Henry said.

“I
should have known you would show up,” she said. “Drivers never work alone.
While Mr. Welmann ‘talked’ to me, he sent his partner to you.” Grandmother
arched one eyebrow. “And no one is quicker than you, are they?”

Uncle
Henry’s gaze drifted to her knife. “Very few.”

The
hair on the back of Eliot’s neck stirred. The way Grandmother held that knife,
her arm tense, it looked dangerous even tip down. As building manager she
carried around hammers, pry bars, even knives to cut away old, moldering
wallpaper. This knife, however, was the one Cecilia had out to cut their
birthday cake. It looked different from this morning. Darker. Wrong.

Fiona
must have sensed something amiss as well because she moved away from Uncle
Henry to Cecilia.

Cee
encircled her protectively with one arm and beckoned to Eliot.

Eliot
moved to her side. He was apprehensive, but he stood just far enough away to
avoid her embrace. He didn’t want to look like a baby.

Uncle
Henry glanced at them, then said, “They are wonderful, Audrey. Smart. Polite.
Pristine. Everything I expected.”

Eliot
stood taller, taking great pride at this summation of his character; although
he was unsure what to make of pristine.

How
exactly did Uncle Henry fit into the family? Eliot had overheard him say that
he was half brother to their mother. So he wasn’t related to Grandmother?

That
didn’t look right, though. As they faced one another, it was easy to see Uncle
Henry and Grandmother had the same silky silver hair, smooth olive skin,
slender noses, wide eyes, and commanding presence.

“Are
you going to stab me?” Uncle Henry said. “Or shall we talk?”

Grandmother
said nothing.

Eliot
heard his own heartbeat. Surely Uncle Henry was kidding.

Yet
Grandmother didn’t move; her face was a stone mask; her eyes were two shards of
broken razor-edged mirror.

Eliot
kept his mouth shut, listened, and watched.

Next
to him, Fiona trembled but kept silent as well.

“Will
you do to me what you did to Welmann?” Uncle Henry made a throat-slitting
motion.

Mr.
Welmann was dead? Killed by Grandmother? The thought horrified Eliot.

“I
am no easily replaced Driver, though,” Henry continued. “In fact . . .” His
face split into a devilish grin. “I am utterly irreplaceable, loved by the
entire family.”

Grandmother
snorted. “As a jester.”

“Perhaps.”
Henry made a flourish with one hand. “But should anything happen to my handsome
fool head, the League would act. They would find you and the children.” His
smooth voice cooled to ice. “Then, there would be no talking.”

Eliot
felt sensation draining from his arms and legs. He took a numb step back,
closer to Fiona and Cee.

“Well
played,” Grandmother said deadpan to Henry. “Of course you would not appear
without other pieces on the board to protect you.”

He
tilted his head, acknowledging the compliment. “You must come with me. Tonight.
They want to see you . . . and them. That’s what I came to say.” Uncle Henry
held up both hands. “Kill not the messenger, my dear.”

The
knife in Grandmother’s hand shuddered as her grip tightened.

Eliot
no longer heard the clock in the hallway ticking. There was only silence and
the palpable tension of Grandmother and Uncle Henry staring at each other.

Then
Grandmother exhaled and nodded.

“Good,”
Uncle Henry said.

Grandmother
dropped the knife and it clattered onto the floor. She moved to Fiona and
Eliot.

Uncle
Henry plucked up the knife and set it high atop a bookshelf. “My car is
waiting.”

Grandmother
knelt before them and took their hands. Her fingers were ice-cold. “We are
going on a trip. Right now.”

Eliot
had never before seen Grandmother give in to anyone. She looked older than she
had a moment ago. It felt as if she held his and Fiona’s hands to draw strength
from them, as if she might never get up.

He
wanted to comfort her, hold her, but was afraid she would pull away. It was the
only time that she had touched them this way or seemed the slightest bit
vulnerable.

“Where
are we going?” he asked.

Grandmother
ignored him and asked Cecilia, “They are packed?”

“For
a weekend trip,” Cecilia replied. “I thought we . . . but what does it matter
what I thought? I will get a few of my things.” She gathered herself as tall as
her frail frame permitted.

Grandmother
stood as well. Her strength returned; Eliot felt it flow back into her limbs as
she dropped his hand.

She
glanced down at Eliot and Fiona. “Say good-bye to your great-grandmother,
children.” Then to Cecilia she said, “You will not be coming. There is no room
in Henry’s car.”

Cecilia’s
face fell.

Eliot
and Fiona went to their great-grandmother and hugged her.

She
hugged them back so tightly that Eliot thought she might break bones. She
gently pushed them away. Tears were in her old eyes. “Be brave,” she whispered.
“Do no let them separate you. You are stronger together.”

Eliot
saw an intensity he had never before seen in Cee’s gaze—as if she had so much
to tell him . . . but no time left to do so.

Grandmother
ushered them to the front door, which Uncle Henry held open.

“This
is the right thing to do,” Henry said to Grandmother as they passed into the
outer hallway.

“Do
not patronize me,” she replied. “It is the only thing to do without spilling a
river of blood. And that has yet to be seen.”

Eliot
looked back once at Cee. She waved at him with shaking hands.

Uncle
Henry closed the door and asked them, “Bathroom? This might take an hour or
so.”

They
both shook their heads.

Eliot
was quiet as they marched downstairs. Fiona wasn’t even trying to get ahead of
him as she usually did. He was dying to talk to her and find out everything
Uncle Henry had said before he started to listen, but he dared not say anything
in front of Grandmother while she was in this mood.

Once
on the sidewalk, Uncle Henry motioned for the sleek black limousine-racing-car
amalgam parked in front of the building. It rolled silently toward them.

He
opened the back door for Fiona and waved for Eliot to follow her inside.

Grandmother
nodded, confirming this was okay.

Still,
Eliot had the feeling once he got inside he might not ever come back here. He
glanced up at the sky; clouds obscured the setting sun and it looked like a
bank of smoldering coals.

Eliot
reluctantly ducked into the car.

Inside
it was larger than he thought possible. Two sets of seats faced each other. He
slid in next to Fiona so they both looked forward.

Grandmother
and Henry eased in, opposite them.

Henry
closed the door.

A
partition between the back and front section slid down. The driver craned
around. “Where to Mr. Mimes?”

This
driver was only a year or two older than Eliot. He wore a black leather jacket,
gloves, and cap. His hair fell into his face as he gave Fiona a quick once-over,
glanced at Eliot, then warily focused on Grandmother.