Spoils (3 page)

With a last look at the bay, all dark and mysterious, I clamber up the wall, fully expecting to be accosted again. Surely, the angel knows I'm leaving the beach clueless. Freaked out, bleeding, but essentially clueless. Yet nothing stops me as I unlock my bike and set off for home.

With my shaky legs at the pedals and trembling hands at the handlebars, I watch the sky finish its evening dance, turning from blue to lavender to indigo, and as the light fades, the temperature drops along with it, coming down from the mid-nineties. Only the sidewalks still pulse with heat, a testament to the earlier scorcher. The landscape gradually changes from high-rise condominiums, shops and restaurants to large mansions separated by rolling lawns and high fences. Our stupid house isn't the largest of these monsters, but it's big enough. Knowing all the sand dunes and turtle-nesting sites that were flattened and paved over to build it makes me hate it even more. It's unnatural. The periodic hurricanes, blowing through like the sheriff evicting people from their foreclosed homes, prove it.

I push my bike over the uneven pavers to the massive front doors, carved in Germany. I unlock them, push the left one open and wheel my bike in, parking it in the white marble foyer. There used to be fresh flowers on the circular table in the entryway, delivered every three days. That was one of the first things my parents cut when they realized that the money was running out. They didn't think that much money could ever disappear. They thought they would be rich forever.

Without bothering to turn on any lights, I climb up the marble staircase, my hand trailing on the wrought-iron banister, the sound of my steps echoing up to the high ceiling, bouncing against the empty walls.

I wash my bloody arm in the bathroom and carefully pat it dry.

Entering my hideous room, I flop on the canopied bed, stare at the dusty canopy and try to come to terms with what happened.

The archangel Michael spoke to me.

I allow the thought to repeat.
Michael, an archangel, came to me while I was meditating.

I wait to see what my mind will say about that.

Yes,
it says back.
I know.

I shiver as the downy hair on my arms and legs rises, a primordial reaction to appear bigger to a predator. I look at the blond, nearly invisible hair. Useless. Pathetic.

I press my feverish face into the cool pillows. Michael. The angel. Came to me while I was meditating and spoke to me. But the details are fuzzy. As time passes since the visit, the details fade. I scramble up and grab a sheet of paper out of the printer's paper tray on my desk, and scrawl the words that are still clear and ringing like a bell. The words that ripped out of my throat, the words that yanked me out of the meditation, out of the hellish place I'd landed in. Spoken out loud to the sand, the water, the salty air and to whatever, whoever was there with me that evening.

I'LL FIX IT.

I sit back and look at the words.
Okay,
I think.
Okay. I will.

I fire up my computer and begin filling the massive gaps in my knowledge. There are thousands of site hits for the archangel Michael, but I stick to the main ones, looking for some basic information, a crash course in angelology.

Field commander of the army of God,
says one site.

Guardian angel of Adam,
says another.

Patron of humanity,
insist several.

The goose egg on the back of my head and the throbbing from my right arm beg to differ.

The archangel Michael tried to protect the Jewish Temple from destruction, but the sins of the people were too great.
This entry gives me pause. It's hard to imagine anything being beyond the powers of this angel. Not good. This is not good. Natasha's face swims before me.
The sins of the people were too great.

For the first time since I meditated on the beach, I think back to my sister and our conversation in the tea shop. This can't be a coincidence. But seriously, an angel appearing because the lottery was rigged seven years ago? Doesn't make sense. Which is when I realize that whatever Natasha isn't telling me is big. And it's bad.

I come down for dinner later, feeling like a bell that has recently been rung; there's no sound anymore but if you touched it lightly, you'd feel the lingering vibrations tingle down your arm.

The Campbell-soup casserole fills the kitchen with a homey scent. The kitchen might be heavy with stainless steel, and professional-grade Viking appliances, but the cooking there hasn't changed much since the big win. Some things, even my parents felt, were fine to begin with. We might have eaten more steak and seafood than before, and even the sugar and the paper towels were organic for a little while, but my parents' basic tastes stayed the same. It was especially helpful when we started cutting back; cooking dinners at home was what we all preferred in the first place.

I help my mom finish the salad, full with my thoughts, turning them this way and that way, trying to see how they fit together. I set out the plates and silverware on the granite counter at the kitchen island, where we always eat. There's a massive oak table that can seat twenty in the dining room. We've used it twice in the last five years. Turns out that buying a big table doesn't mean you'll have the friends (or the grand parties) to fill it.

My mom looks at me inquiringly like she's been trying to get my attention for a while. My mom is the only one in the family with blue eyes and blond hair. As always, she's put together in a tidy, conservative way, Florida-style; today she's wearing sky-blue capris and a lime-green collared shirt, her hair in a neat pageboy.

“Natasha's back from Tennessee,” I tell her. It's as good an excuse as any to explain my distraction. And of course, Natasha's return really must be responsible for the afternoon's events.

My mom grimaces comically. “How many cups did she break?”

Natasha keeps the chipped and cracked mugs from Steeped in her office so that she can smash them in fits of temper. It's that weirdly practical, crazy side of her that charms some people and drives others nuts.

I pause, not sure how much to tell my mom. “She didn't break anything.” Something in my tone causes my mom to stop fixing the salad and look at me. “She just cried.”

My mom's mouth forms an O of surprise.

“It was kind of pathetic,” I say, “and creepy coming from Natasha.”

“Maybe it means there was finally some sort of closure there. I always said Emmett wasn't doing her any kindness not cutting her off.” My mom sighs. “I'll try to talk to her tonight.”

I shake my head. “I think…I think she needs some alone time.”

My mom and Natasha often use me as a sort of neutral intermediary. So now, when I give my mom advice on dealing with Natasha, she accepts that I speak as Natasha's representative.

“I had something really weird happen to me on the way home,” I start. I feel a real pang of fear for my sister at the thought that what happened to me this afternoon is because of something she did. Belatedly I also realize that the rest of us are implicated in this mess too. We've all used the money. I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat.

My mom returns to chopping tomatoes for the salad, her quick knife skills a testament to the expensive knife she uses. My parents hired a personal chef when we first moved here, but that lasted less than a month. It wasn't as great as it sounds, having a stranger in the kitchen do all your cooking. Nothing ever turned out the way we thought it would. Nothing tasted quite right.

I hesitate now, thinking of all the money my family has spent the last seven years. How badly it's been wasted, the implications of that.

My mom makes a sort of
mmm
sound, encouraging me to continue. As I take a breath to try and explain what happened to me this afternoon, maybe even figure it out for myself, the phone rings, shrill and loud. My mother's hand slips.

“Damn it!” She clutches her thumb and looks at it in astonishment. The cut is so fine that at first there isn't any blood. “It doesn't even hurt.”

By the time I wet a paper towel and hand it to her, the phone ringing insistently in the background, the blood has started gushing. She wraps the towel around her finger and hisses as the pain finally kicks in. Within a minute, the towel's soaked through with bright red blood.

“Squeeze harder.” My heart speeds up at the sight of all that blood. “You need to use a lot of pressure to stop the bleeding.”

“Will someone please answer the fucking phone?” Eddie shuffles into the kitchen, eyes half-closed against what is clearly a massive hangover. The phone stops ringing, and in the quiet, my brother finally notices the blood-soaked paper towel. “Holy crap, Mom,” he says. “Who'd ya kill?”

The phone starts ringing again and my mother glares at it.

“I'll get it,” I say, heading over.

“No!” My mom grabs my arm with her good hand and for the second time that day, nails dig into my skin. “Ignore the phone,” she says harshly as I yelp in pain. Without the pressure on the cut, blood starts to run down her arm, dripping off her elbow, landing with moist plops on the stone tile.

“You're going to need stitches,” my brother says, looking a little queasy. “It's bleeding too hard.” The blood flows like a leaky faucet,
plink, plink, plink,
and we all stand there for a moment, frozen at the sight, before my mom curses under her breath. I hand her a new towel while she calls on the intercom for my dad to come from his workshop in the garage.

He hurries in, wiping greasy hands on a shop towel. Short and built like a brick, wide and solid, he isn't much taller than me, but is very strong. “Built like a tank,” he likes to boast. He's always been good with his hands, and even after he retired, he couldn't bring himself to stop tinkering. His hair is dark and matted with sweat, his face florid and red. The workshop is part of the oversized, unair-conditioned garage, and even with a small window unit, it gets scorching hot. Still, it's his favorite place in the house. As he enters the kitchen, his eyes are immediately drawn to the blood-soaked towel my mom is clutching. A soft expletive of surprise escapes him. His eyes flick from one of us to the next to make sure this is the only emergency.

“What did the other guy look like?” he says.

It's enough to bring a wan smile to my mom's lips.

“My knife slipped,” she says apologetically. “And I sharpened them yesterday. Sliced my finger but good.”

He eyes the tomatoes as if looking for the tip of her finger among them.

“I'm fine,” she says, her voice high.

“Do you need stitches?”

“No, no, I'm fine, it's only a cut.” She acts like this isn't a big deal because she's always calm and in control in front of us, but her eyes are too wide and her face is too pale.

“Mom,” I say, “it's bleeding really hard. You need to go to a doctor.”

“I'm fine. Tell her,” she orders my dad.

He looks uneasily between the two of us, then stares at the blood.

“Maybe we should have someone look at this,” he says, putting an arm around her. “Just to be safe.”

“I don't know why you're all making such a fuss.”

My dad puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. It's the most I've seen them interact in a week. “Let's go, Linda. Can't hurt to have them take a look.”

My mom's shoulders slump in defeat. As my dad leads her to the door, she looks back.

“You kids eat,” she instructs me. “Everything's ready to go.”

“Good luck, Mom.”

She nods grimly and the two of them head out to the ER, my mom clutching her hand, the cut still bleeding. Wetting another paper towel, I wipe the blood off the floor. The edges of each drop have already started to dry and I need to scrub them off the travertine tiles.

I dump the salad and pick up the offending knife, a six-inch Shun Ken Onion with a curved blade, and carefully place it in the sink to wash later. Its wicked edge glints like a malevolent eye.

Eddie and I sit side by side at the massive island in the suddenly quiet kitchen like two strangers at a bar. The sound of our silverware clanking on our plates doesn't fill the silence.

“Jesus,” my brother says, rubbing a hand through his shaggy hair. “That was crazy.” Then he belches.

“Gross,” I say.

He grins.

Nothing pisses my brother off, nothing hurts his feelings. He's a solid wooden block of a person, close to six feet tall and very broad, my dad's build with height from my mom's side of the family. Lately though, he's been more of a sodden, alcoholic wooden block that is about seventy pounds overweight. He has the same basic coloring that my sister and I have: fair skin, dark hair with reddish glints, and sea-colored eyes. But unlike Natasha's creamy complexion or my tanned one, Eddie's skin is blotchy, and he has red veiny cheeks, puffy eyes and hair in a permanent state of greasy dishevelment.

I study him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if I should tell him what Natasha said about the money.

“Natasha's back,” I tell him. “It didn't go well.”

“It never does,” he says, shrugging. He takes a huge scoop of the broccoli-chicken casserole.

“I'm worried about her—”

“Did I ever tell you about Berlin?” he asks at the same time.

“Yes.”

He ignores me and continues. “I was there with these five guys and then these crazy hot girls came up to us and said there was this private party and did we want to go?” I tune out the rest. I've heard versions of this story that take place in France, Thailand, Peru and New York. Everywhere my brother went, people seemed to sense that he had money and was happy to spend it. One million dollars bought Eddie two years of being the life of the party, of being the guy everyone wanted to hang out with. When the money was gone, the party ended and all he had left was a bunch of stories that sound remarkably similar, once you take out geography.