The Rules of Magic (18 page)

At the chapel in Manhattan vases of orange and red gladiolus were set onto the polished tables. Aunt Isabelle sat with them in the front row. No one in the family cried. Although they were crushed, crying in public was unacceptable. Several of Dr. Burke-Owens's patients who were in attendance were inconsolable. After the service, Franny and Vincent shook the hands of those who had come to pay their respects, while Isabelle sat in the parlor with Jet. Hay was there, along with his parents, who were polite and distant and quick to suggest that Haylin hurry along. But he wasn't about to desert Franny, even though a limo was waiting to take the Owens siblings to the cemetery in Massachusetts for the interment.

“She has to leave,” Mr. Walker muttered. “Their car is here.”

“Fuck the car. I want to go with you,” Hay told Franny. “I should be there.”

Aunt Isabelle had come up behind them. “I like him. He should come with us.”

“Impossible,” Franny said. She wanted to keep Haylin away from her family's troubles. It was bad enough that she must now introduce her aunt to the Walkers.

“You're quite rich,” Isabelle said to Mr. Walker. “And yet you
seem to have so little.” Haylin grinned when he overheard her remark.

“You're quite rude,” Mr. Walker said.

“My niece and her husband are about to be buried. Who's the rude one?”

“I think we know the answer to that one, Dad,” Haylin said.

Franny took her aunt by the hand to lead her away. “Not here,” she urged. “Not now.”

“What do you think I would do to that horrid man?” Isabelle said. “Believe me, he'll bring on his own bad luck. His son, well, he's another story. He's the real thing.” She waved at Haylin and he waved back. Unlike most people, he was completely undaunted by Isabelle Owens.

Franny went to explain that there would be only family in Massachusetts, and all of the Owenses gathered in one place was far too much for any outsider to deal with.

“I don't mind,” Haylin said. “Especially if they're all like your aunt.”

“I'll phone as soon as I'm back,” Franny promised.

The burial was to be held in the small graveyard in Massachusetts, the one they'd once peered at through the mossy iron fence, not especially interested, not even when they realized the old headstones were all engraved with the name Owens. Now their parents would be there, even though their mother had spent her entire life trying her best to get away from her family. And yet this place had continued to have a hold over her. In the end she knew she belonged with her relations. Her will had stated that both she and her husband were to be buried there, side by side.

Driving along the Massachusetts Turnpike, Jet had to be
sedated. She took Valium on top of the painkillers she'd been given for her cracked ribs. Even then, she continued to shake. Vincent had discovered the limo had a bar. He gulped down scotch with the intention of getting good and drunk. Isabelle had insisted on sitting with the driver so she could give him directions. When she heard the clanking of bottles, she turned and gave Vincent a hard look.

“Let's not have a scene today,” she suggested. “There'll be trouble enough.”

“People are dead. To hell with good behavior,” Vincent muttered, low enough so that their aunt wouldn't hear, but of course she did anyway and she gestured to Franny.

Franny returned the bottle of scotch to its proper place. “We need to get through this without incident,” she said darkly.

“Franny, we're not getting through
anything
without incident,” Vincent said. “Isn't that obvious?”

“Try,” Franny urged. She nodded to Jet, who was not paying attention to anyone and seemed caught up in her own sad world. Jet stared out the window, tears flowing down her face. “Let's just get her through this,” Franny whispered to her brother.

Ever since the accident she had felt the burden of being the oldest. Overnight, and without warning, Franny no longer felt young. She was not going to get what she wanted or do as she pleased. She had come to understand that as she and Vincent sat together in the hospital. Today she had pinned up her straightened hair and had taken a black Dior cape from her mother's closet, which carried the scent of Chanel No. 5, Susanna's perfume. Franny knew that from now on she would be held hostage by her responsibilities.

When they reached the cemetery, the Boston Owenses,
most of whom they'd never met before, had already gathered. They were introduced to April Owens's disapproving parents, although April was nowhere in sight. Some cousins from Maine who had a farm known for its miraculous rhubarb, which could cure almost anything, from influenza to insomnia, were in attendance, and of course Aunt Isabelle sat in the front row, beside Franny. A heat wave had begun, but Isabelle wore her long black dress and a shawl she had knitted to keep evil at bay. All of the women had bunches of hyacinths, which Jet and Franny were given as well. The flowers were to remind them that life was precious and brief, like the hyacinth's bloom.

The minister was married to an Owens and led a congregation in Cambridge.

“I look forward to seeing you in the fall,” he told Franny. They all knew she'd been accepted to Radcliffe.

“Perhaps,” Franny demurred, not wanting to commit herself.

Franny assisted their aunt over the tufted grass when they left the burial site. They went into a small bleak hall where cakes and coffee were displayed on a lace-covered table. There were pots of hyacinths everywhere.

Isabelle's voice held real tenderness. “We never know the end of the story until we get there. Let me suggest a possibility for the immediate future. You three could move in with me.”

Franny shook her head. “It's not possible.”

“At least stay for the rest of the summer,” Isabelle urged. “Give yourself some time to decide what comes next.”

“Thank you, no,” Franny told her aunt. “We'll go back to New York.”

“Suit yourself. That tall boy will be happy, but will you?”

They could hear a siren. On the street a police car led a long line of cars, including a hearse. Levi Willard's funeral procession was passing by.

“It's a shame,” Isabelle said sadly.

“Because he's a member of our family?” Franny asked. She very much wanted to know the secret April had spoken of.

“Because this could have been avoided if his father had learned not to hate. I think we should refrain from telling Jet that his funeral is taking place today. It's too much for her to bear.”

“So you're not going to tell me anything,” Franny said.

“Yes, if you must know, we're related to the Willards.”

“Why is that a secret?”

“Why is anything a secret? People want to protect themselves from the past. Not that it works.”

Franny left her aunt to search for Vincent and Jet, whom she found in a corner.

“Let's get out of here,” Vincent said. He was half-drunk, never a good state to be in.

“There's April.” Jet pointed to the opposite corner, where April was sitting on an overstuffed chair, a baby girl on her lap. They approached with caution.

“Seriously?” Franny said, in quite a state of shock. “A baby?”

“I'm sorry about your parents.” April turned to Jet. “And I'm sorry about Levi. I heard he's being buried today.”

Franny gave April a look that was so harsh and foreboding April felt smacked. She understood what she was being told and
quickly backtracked, surprised by how much more powerful Franny now seemed.

“Or maybe it's tomorrow,” April hedged. “Don't ask me. I don't have a moment to think straight.”

“Hello, baby.” Vincent sat on the edge of a coffee table and offered his hand, which the baby grabbed and held on to. No female wanted to let him go. This one's name was Regina. Her eyes, of course, were gray.

“I suppose you can fight fate, but I'm glad I didn't fight this,” April said of her daughter.

“You wouldn't have wanted to,” Jet remarked with real emotion. “She's a gorgeous baby,” she added when Franny looked puzzled.

Now Franny's curiosity was piqued. “What happened to Regina's father?”

“Drowned,” April said. “Wouldn't that be my luck? Flash flood. What are the scientific odds of that?”

“Not a very high probability,” Franny remarked. April's lie had fallen to the floor, heavy as lead, but Franny didn't dare kick it, for fear of what other disturbing information might spring out at them.

“Well, congratulations are in order,” Vincent said, itching to have a drink. He stood and saluted, then found his way to the bar, where whiskey sours, their parents' favorite cocktails, were being served.

Jet bent to tickle the baby. For a moment she seemed to have forgotten the tragic circumstances of the day. “Adorable,” she said. “Look at those big eyes.”

April seemed a bit softer than she used to be. “I really am sorry for your loss,” she told Jet. By now her daughter was whimpering.
“Hold her for a minute,” April said to Franny, as she went to retrieve a bottle of formula from her bag. Franny begged off, saying she'd never had much to do with children and hoped to keep it that way. But a baby cannot be denied, and April grimaced and deposited the infant in Franny's arms anyway. “Nonsense,” she said.

Regina instantly stopped fussing as she stared up at Franny.

“See!” April said, when she returned. “You're not who you think you are.”

Franny was stung. “I'm exactly who I think I am!” She quickly gave the baby back and gazed at their new relation, her heart softening, as the baby sucked on her bottle.

They went back to Aunt Isabelle's for supper, mostly homey casseroles that the Owenses from Maine had left. Creamed spinach and macaroni with pearl onions and for dessert their famous rhubarb pie. None of the siblings could eat. Jet went out to the garden. Vincent and Franny sat in the parlor and played gin rummy, which was difficult since each could guess the other's cards a hundred percent of the time. Franny eased off her insistence on good behavior and didn't say a word when Vincent poured himself a tall glass of their aunt's scotch, hidden in a bureau, which they'd found in the first days of the summer when they'd come to visit.

After the guests departed, Isabelle went to lie down for a while, fully dressed, with her boots on. Her drapes were not drawn, and she spied Jet sneaking out the gate, clearly in a hurry. It was a two-mile walk, so once Jet got to town, she looked for the cab that was usually parked at the bus station. Luckily one
was there, idling at the curb. She got in and asked to be taken to the big cemetery at the edge of town, where the four boys had been buried the previous summer. They were about to pull out when the taxi's door opened and Isabelle got in. The driver watched her in his rearview mirror, in a panic. Isabelle Owens on her way to a cemetery was a passenger no one wanted.

“Do you have business at the cemetery, Miss Owens?” the driver asked in a nervous tone.

“We all will have business there sooner or later,” she answered brightly.

“I'm going alone,” Jet said.

“I think it's a bad idea for you to go, but if you insist, I'm going with you.” Isabelle tapped the back of the driver's seat. “Hurry up. And I'll need you to wait for us.”

Levi's funeral was over, but as they walked the path they spied the newly turned earth. The Reverend was still there. He did not have any intention of leaving his son. Jet turned pale when she spied him in his black jacket, sitting on a folding chair that had been left from the service.

Isabelle linked her arm through Jet's and they walked forward over the grass. Birds were calling in the treetops and everything was emerald green. The grass had recently been mowed and the scent was midsummer sweet. The Reverend was looking down, and therefore saw their shadows before he saw them.

“Do not come any closer,” he said.