Rites of Spring (19 page)

The Cavador Key tomb was decidedly not wow-worthy. There was a simple table in the center, sporting a scratched surface despite the layers of finish meant to spiff it up, and the chairs surrounding it included a few hardwoods, a mildewed wicker rocker, and three folding chairs. There was some art on the walls, grimy with smoke, and the upholstery on the armchairs and couches around the perimeter was faded.

I reminded myself that however unimpressive this building was, it represented a second property belonging to my society. The whole island, the free food, the fact that we employed this man to take care of it all—all spoke of a more-than-ample income. So we used folding chairs instead of the fine carved teak I was used to in New Haven! So what? We used it, as Clarissa had pointed out, on our
own private island
. Dragon’s Head couldn’t hold a cricket to that.

I began to grow very nervous about my future earning potential. What could I do for a living that would provide the type of spare cash that Rose & Grave no doubt expected out of their patriarchs? Jenny was already a millionaire, Clarissa an heiress, Odile a movie star. What could I do to make myself half as worthwhile?

“You haven’t even seen the best part,” he said, tossing his machete casually to the table. (Well, that would explain the scratches.) He crossed the room to a large hutch on the opposite side and flung the doors wide. “Look at this!”

I’d blown my wad on the first “wow.” But this was the one that actually deserved it.

“Those are swastikas,” I said, my voice flat. I was shocked the china had survived Demetria taking a look at them.

“Word is, one of our boys swiped them right from Adolf’s compound when they invaded Berlin.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say. That we had Hitler’s dishes sitting in a hutch seemed perverse to the extreme. “Why?” I finally managed.

“Why else?” Saltzman asked. “Because we beat him!”

Battle spoils. I nodded. I remembered Malcolm telling me about this one time. Still, I had no intention of ever eating off them. Gross.

The caretaker closed the hutch doors again, locking them with a tiny gold key. “Yep. There are lots of people who would do anything to see what we have hidden away here on Cavador Key. So you can see why I have to be so careful about who I let go sneaking around the place. I didn’t know you were a knight this morning.”

“Right.” Was it a little stuffy in here?

“I’m dead serious. You’ve got to keep constant vigilance around here. I catch trespassers all the time. I’ve made a proposal to the board about a couple of guard dogs.”

I pictured packs of pit bulls roaming the beach, with the machete-wielding Saltzman close behind. “That would be…”

“Especially recently.” He nodded. “What with all the troubles our poor Barebones has been going through.”

Barebones. Kurt Gehry.

“Too many people saw the family arriving at the airport down here, and it’s well known in town what we are. Ever since they got here we’ve been fending off boats loaded with photojournalists. There were even a couple of news helicopters.”

“Really?” Demetria had clearly been barking up the wrong tree last night. She should have been nicer to the caretaker. He seemed more than ready to talk about the Gehrys’ presence on the island.

“Vultures. Parasites.” He picked up the machete again, hefted it in his hands. “I’m sure our man’s got an excellent reason for his sabbatical.”

Our man.
I began to wonder what Saltzman’s deal was. Not even Hale was this devoted an employee of the Trust. The caretaker of the New Haven tomb regularly called us on our bullshit. If we were too loud, or left a mess in the kitchen, or dared to skimp on coaster usage in the library, we were sure to get an earful in the next memo sent to our private Phimalarlico e-mail accounts.

“Have you been getting it bad up at the school?” he asked me.

I furrowed my brow. “What do you mean?”

“You know. For jumping to his defense and all. You’re the newspaper girl, right? Any backlash in the letters column?”

Um…
“Backlash?”

“For your articles.”

Oh.
My theoretical articles defending him. Of course. Well, this one didn’t require a lie. “I actually worked on the literary journal. We…stay out of politics, for the most part.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “Literary journal? That’s a new one for us, isn’t it?”

He had no idea.

“You might think about doing something, though. I’m sure the
Eli Daily
would take a guest editorial.”

“I’m sure,” I agreed, turning toward the door. Get me out of here. “I’m going to go check out the library. Thanks so much for showing me the tomb, sir.”

“Anytime, young lady,” he waved at me with his knife. “I’m going to get back to trimming those weeds.”

I guess that was indeed the proper purpose of a machete. Oddly enough, it was the least sketchy thing about the man. At the door, we went our separate ways, and I walked a little more quickly than necessary up to the main house, hoping that someone else had woken early.

Turns out, someone had. I entered the rec room and found Darren Gehry idly racking up the balls at the billiard table.

“Hey,” I said, stopping short just inside the room.

“Hey,” he replied.

“How you doing?”

He shrugged. “You okay?”

“Are you kidding?” I smiled. “I’m totally a celebrity. No one could stop talking about my little adventure yesterday.”

“Oh.” He looked down at the cue ball. “That’s…cool.”

I pointed at the table. “Want to play?”

“Do you think we’ll be too loud?”

“Good point.” I imagined the crack of the balls shattering the stillness of the Florida morning. “Darts, then?”

As Darren set up the board, I sifted around for topics of conversation that didn’t start off “So, sucks about your dad, huh?”

“Didn’t see you at dinner last night,” I finally said.

“We eat as a family,” he said. “We’ve got our own kitchen and all.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Mom doesn’t wake up till late, though, so I usually get breakfast down here when the kitchen is serving. It’s much nicer. French toast and stuff.” He flicked a dart at the board, and it landed in double twenty. I had a ringer on my hands. “They’re supposed to do pancakes today.”

“Ooh, pancakes. Sounds great.” I watched him throw two more darts in quick succession, all closer to the center than I’d have predicted, then took my place at the line. My first throw went wide. “You’re much better than me,” I admitted.

“Nothing to do here,” he said. “I practice a lot.”

“What are you doing about school?” Oh, crap. I shouldn’t let on that I knew he’d been taken out of his school back in D.C. My second dart bounced off the board and landed in the carpet. I suck.

He frowned. “I’m not really supposed to talk about personal stuff.”

If I were his age, would my parents trust me with the kind of truth the Gehrys were facing? And regardless of the adults’ wishes, would I have the right to know? “Sorry, I don’t mean to—”

“Whatever. I’m homeschooled for now. But it’s pretty much a joke. I’m not doing anything. It’s not like we have a chemistry lab in the house. I do some math problems, read a couple of books.”

“What are you reading?” My third shot hit the mark underneath the three. Woo-hoo!

He gestured to the shelves around us. “You’re looking at it. Actually, I’m supposed to be picking something new right now.”

So I was contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Though I doubted this was the first time he’d played darts rather than reading. “Do you want any recommendations? I’m a Literature major, so I’ve pretty much read it all.” I retrieved my darts and wrote down my pathetic score.

“Sure.” Darren took his place at the line and I wandered over to the bookshelves. “Not now, though.”

“Why?”

He gestured with the dart. “I wouldn’t want to hit you.”

Right. I backed away and watched Darren hit two more doubles and one in the outer ring of the bull’s-eye. This was going to be a massacre.

“Are you going on the snorkeling trip today?” I asked him as he retrieved his darts and made marks on the scoreboard.

“There’s a snorkeling trip?” he asked.

Well, that answered that. God, this kid had to be going stir-crazy. He wandered over to the bookshelves and I took it as a cue to delay my turn at the board, since if he was worried about hitting me, he had to be terrified, given my wild aim.

“So what do you suggest?”

Go with the obvious.
“Catcher in the Rye?”

He snorted. “Everyone says that. I read it, like, three years ago.”

Oh, a challenge. I smiled. “Did you like it?”

“It was okay. I’m reading Nietzsche right now.”

Like good disaffected fourteen-year-old boys everywhere. “Which one?”

“Genealogy of Morals.”

“How are you liking that?”

“Easier going than Kant.”

I laughed, and, as he’d moved away from the board, risked making a toss with the dart. It landed right outside the outer bull’s-eye ring.

“Good throw!” Darren said.

My next shot hit right above the “4” in fourteen. “I had a German Lit prof who said it was easier to learn German,
then
read Kant, than it was to read him in English.”

“Well, I’m not going to learn German on this island.”

Especially if he didn’t make it into the tomb here. “I specialize in fiction anyway. I mostly only read philosophy for background material. My Aristotle is less morals and more poetics.”

“I hate Aristotle. I find his tone to be remarkably jejune.” He looked at me as if I was supposed to contradict him. To act shocked. Yeah, this was the kid of an Eli student. A Digger, too. I don’t think I’d even seen that word since I took the SATs.

I threw my last shot (wide) and went to collect my darts. “Let’s see, what should you read?” I wandered over to the shelves. Who stocked these things? The bulk of the titles were your usual paperback thrillers of the Clancy and Grisham variety. Stephen King. Heinlein. Krakauer. Beach reads for boys on vacation. No romance, but I didn’t expect it, what with the usual demographics of the island’s visitors. Farther along were a few hardcovers of the classics.
Tristram Shandy,
of course. I’d have to show it to Harun. A dusty copy of
Pilgrim’s Progress
. Gag.
War and Peace,
my old nemesis. Several Dickenses,
Tom Jones, Robinson Crusoe
(natch!)—

I caught sight of a dart whizzing past from the corner of my eye. “Hey!” I cried, turning around.

He lifted his shoulders. “Oops. Sorry. I forgot.”

I looked back at the board. He’d hit the bull’s-eye. “Good shot.” I held up a thick paperback. “What about
Catch-22
?

He looked down at the darts in his hand. “Do you think—?”

The door opened. “Amy!” Demetria called. “There you are.” Half my club trooped in, looking famished and beachy. Everyone wore bathing suits and the appropriate cover-ups (except for Clarissa, whose itsy-bitsy pink bikini and white mesh cover-up were hardly G-rated), sunglasses, and hats, and smelled strongly of suntan lotion. Ben even had zinc smeared on his nose.

I suddenly felt way overdressed in my shorts, sports bra, tank top, and sneakers.

“Clarissa figured you were hiding so we wouldn’t force you on the boat,” Jenny said. “Do you know when breakfast is?”

Darren checked his watch. “About fifteen minutes.” He walked over to me and looked at the book in my hands. “I read Heller last year. Try again.”

This was trickier than I’d thought. Darts forgotten, we traveled down the length of Cavador Key’s collection, which I noticed was pretty much devoid of women writers (with the exception of Ayn Rand, who was present in an almost unhealthy abundance). No Austen, no Alcott, no Ahrendt. And that was just the As. No Brontë, no Behn. Somebody needed to shake up these shelves. Mary Shelley was there, thank goodness, along with a slim volume of Emily Dickinson. But all in all, a pathetic turnout for femalekind.

Figured.

Darren vetoed
Animal Farm
and
1984
(“I mean, it obviously
didn’t
happen, right? So what’s the point?”), looked skeptical about Kafka (and who could blame him?), made a face at Flaubert (“So, she’s a madam? Like a hooker?”), and seemed only moderately intrigued by
Crime and Punishment
(which I thought, but didn’t say, was too old for him).

“You’ll love it in about five years,” I said, placing Dostoyevsky back on the shelf. Nearby was a volume of the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, which only made me think of the one Digger who hadn’t yet come by for breakfast.

It’s fine, Amy. It’s not a date.

“Okay, last suggestion, and then I’m out.” I pulled down a hefty volume.
“The Count of Monte Cristo.”

“What’s it about?”

Had he not seen any of the movies? “It’s about a guy who is betrayed by his friends and winds up in this island prison for ages, until he escapes, finds a buried treasure, and gets revenge on everyone.”

“Hmmm…”

“Lots of swordfights. Swordfights and opium and lesbians.”

“I’m in.”

“Good lad.” I handed him the book and patted him on the shoulder. Yep, the old lesbian ace in the hole. Better than Nietzsche for the teenaged boy. Demetria would
not
approve.

Soon after, breakfast was served, but still Poe failed to appear. I tried to concentrate on my pancakes, which should have been easy, given how delicious they were, but my eyes kept sliding to the door of the dining room, waiting for my date to arrive.

No. Not my date. My, uh, appointment. My eleven o’clock appointment.

Breakfast ended and the others started to gather their things together for the walk to the yacht.

“Are you sure, Amy?” Clarissa asked.

I patted my bag. “Absolutely.” Where was Poe? “I have all kinds of reading to catch up on.” I wasn’t about to tell Clarissa I’d made a non-date with everyone’s second-least-favorite patriarch on the island.

She peeked into the mesh sack. “Longinus? Hell no. If you spend your Spring Break reading literary criticism, I’m going to have to kill you.”