AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD (4 page)

“Come meet my aunt,” she said. “She’s waiting inside, with a friend of hers.”

“Bobby?” said Snooky.

The girl gave a slight, involuntary grimace. “I’m afraid
so. He’s around all the time now. She invited him, of course. And Dwayne is here, too.”

“Quite a crowd,” murmured Snooky, following her up the steps.

“I hate crowds,” said Bernard to Maya.

“I know you do, dear. And after this, you won’t have to meet anybody new the entire time you’re here. Isn’t that right, Snooky?”

As Bernard entered the house, the huge wooden door swinging open before him, he had the same dizzying, mind-reeling sensation he had had once on an ill-fated trip to the Manhattan Bloomingdale’s store. The inside was dark, with mirrors everywhere, reflecting the dim overhead light in garish patterns. There seemed to be too many objects crammed into one space; Bernard had a confused impression of a stone statuary in dismal shapes, heavy carpets, miniature stone lions glaring at him from either side (replicas of the ones on the front steps), and dark, angry-looking portraits crowded at random onto the walls. They passed through a small foyer into what must, Bernard reasoned, be the living room, a vast space crowded with tiny objects. There were small silver frames, clustered in companionable groups, the photographs inside (mostly black and white) looking at each other blankly, with no sign of recognition. There were floor lamps and table lamps, fringed in scarlet; there was a large blue-and-white Persian rug on the floor; the draperies were red velvet; and there seemed to be mirrors everywhere: on the walls, on the wooden cabinet in the corner. This room was flooded with light from the tall floor-to-ceiling windows. Bernard felt like squeezing his eyes shut and screaming. The room looked like someone’s nightmare of nineteenth-century Victorian interior design.

“Where’s the mausoleum?” he murmured to Maya.

“What?”

“Didn’t the Victorians all have mausoleums out back? Didn’t they have kind of a fascination with death?”

An elderly woman rose from a chair and came forward. “So pleased to meet you. I’m Irma Ditmar, Sarah’s aunt. Snooky speaks about you so often; it’s wonderful to get to meet you at last. This is Bobby Fuller, and this is my nephew Dwayne Costa. He and Sarah are cousins. Oh, all these family relationships, it’s so confusing, isn’t it? Please sit down, lunch is almost ready, isn’t it, Sarah dear?”

“Yes, Aunt Irma.”

Bernard reached out for a fringed chair. There were so many tiny fragile-looking objects in the room that he did not trust himself to move. He eased himself into the chair with a sigh of relief.

Sarah’s aunt Irma was still chattering away. She was a tiny, bright-eyed woman with a face like a little bird. She had neatly styled curly gray hair and bright green eyes. Her face was, under the makeup she wore, plainly weather-beaten and creased. She wore an expensive green silk dress and far too much makeup. There were gold earrings in her ears and a heavy gold bracelet on her wizened hand. “Oh, yes,” she was saying now to Maya, “I know the house is a monstrosity, inside and out, but it’s the way Hugo liked it—my husband, you know—and even though it’s been nearly fifteen years, why, I can’t think of changing anything, you understand …”

Maya was murmuring something suitably sympathetic.

Bernard squinted around the room. The bright light and the mirrors made it difficult to open his eyes. The man who had been introduced as Bobby Fuller—the one who, Bernard did not doubt, was Irma Ditmar’s “friend”—was at least thirty years younger than she. He was a few years older than Bernard, which would place him in his mid-thirties. He had pale blond hair, so pale as to be almost silver, and a narrow, aesthetic-looking face. He was dressed in a natty gray tweed outfit, something that Ralph Lauren would advertise as suitably “country,” and looked as if it had taken him a long time to choose it and put it on. He gazed languidly back at Bernard. “Here for long?”

Bernard had already decided that he did not like him. “Vermont or this room?”

Bobby Fuller brushed a tiny piece of lint off his trousers with a snap of his fingers and shrugged in a slow, catlike manner. “This room.”

“I hope not.”

“I wouldn’t worry. This room is the worst. It’s dedicated to Irma’s former husband and his lack of taste. The rest of the house is better.”

“I hope so.”

Fuller nodded. He glanced at Irma, who was still chattering away to Maya. “Sarah tells me you write children’s books?” The slight inflection at the end made it a question, almost a point of disbelief.

“That’s right.”

Fuller gazed at him out of his pale, pale blue eyes. “You don’t look to me like a children’s book author.”

“And what does that look like?”

“Oh, you know.” He waved a languid hand expressively. “Tiny women babbling about mice, that kind of thing. Although I must say that when I was younger I was devoted to the Miss Bianca books. She could do no wrong, to me. And the Borrowers, of course. And Robin Hood. And, of course, Winnie-the-Pooh.”

Bernard felt himself thawing slightly. He, too, when he was younger, had been a fan of Miss Bianca, mainly because her most devoted admirer in the books was named Bernard: the faithful, the loyal, the true Bernard.

“Lunch is served, everyone,” said Sarah.

The dining room, Bernard discovered to his vast relief, looked almost normal. There were French windows with a view out over the sloping lawn and the leafless trees, and the walls were covered with a muted cream-colored silk wallpaper. The heavy draperies were a matching cream, almost an earth tone, and the Persian carpet under the long mahogany table was gold, blue, and brown. The effect was pleasing, and (Bernard felt) easy on the eyes. The portraits
on the walls looked down on them in an irritated way, as if annoyed to see the room used by the living, but in this setting they did not appear quite as malignant as in the foyer. Bernard looked around for his wife but found to his distress that she was being directed to the other end of the table. He found himself seated between Sarah and Sarah’s cousin Dwayne Costa. Dwayne was a handsome young man in his early twenties with blue-black hair, strong features, and a rather vacuous, mobile face. He smiled at Bernard and said, “So you’re Snooky’s brother-in-law.”

Bernard remained silent. This was something that he liked to admit only under duress.

“Your wife is very striking-looking.”

Bernard nodded. This was true, but he did not see why a total stranger would see fit to comment on it.

“Snooky’s told us a lot about you,” said Dwayne, flailing about for something to say.

“Really? What?”

“Oh, you know … your work, and stuff like that.”

“I see.”

“You write about sheep?”

“No,” said Bernard. “I write nonfiction books about the history of nuclear power. My latest book is entitled
Peaceful Uses of Atomic Energy in a Nuclear Age.
”

“How fascinating,” Dwayne said warmly. “Snooky didn’t mention anything about that.”

“When I’m not writing about nuclear power, I do research on eleventh-century Japanese novelists. Have you ever read
The Pillow Book of Lady Murasaki
?”

“Lady Murasaki … no, no, I’m afraid not.”

Bernard nodded and sighed. “So few people have.”

“Here’s the soup,” said Dwayne. “Have some?”

“Thank you.”

Bernard tried the soup, a pale cream-colored liquid that mysteriously matched the draperies and wallpaper of the room. It was very good. He slurped it up happily, thinking he had discouraged further conversation; but after a pause,
his companion said cheerfully, “I hope to be a writer myself.”

“How fascinating.”

“A poet, actually. I’ve had some stuff published in a Manhattan poetry review. It’s so exciting to see your work in print, isn’t it? I’m sure you feel that way about your books.”

“Yes.”

“The only problem is, it’s damn hard to make a living. Did your nuclear power book sell?”

“It’s in its eighth printing,” said Bernard modestly.

Dwayne stared at him, his mouth open. “Eighth printing … why, that’s wonderful! Just wonderful. I don’t know if I’ll ever have that kind of success. I’m living here in Lyle right now, sponging off my stepfather. He’s Irma’s brother. Terrible to be dependent, isn’t it? But he never seems to mind. And it gives me time for my poetry. I also dabble in photography a bit—just a bit—I’ve had some pictures displayed locally, but nothing professional, of course …”

Bernard switched his mind off. While Dwayne droned on happily about his nascent careers, Bernard tuned in to the other conversations around him. In particular, he stared hard at Maya, at the other end of the long rectangular table, willing her to look his way. After a moment, she looked up. Their eyes met in a look of complete understanding. She smiled brightly at something Bobby Fuller had just said, and murmured a response. Bernard looked around the table. Snooky, he noted, was (as usual) doing three things at once, all with his usual flair. He was talking animatedly with Irma Ditmar, stuffing his face with food, and keeping an eye on everyone’s reactions around the table. That was something he excelled at: being the soul of charm and amiability, and at the same time taking in what everyone around him was doing. Bernard finished his soup and reached for the bread basket. Sociability was for the Snookys of this world, he thought, smearing a large chunk of butter on a whole-wheat roll.

On his left, Dwayne had finally lapsed into contented, well-fed silence. On his right, Sarah Tucker turned to him. “I hear you have a dog.”

“Yes.”

“Misty, right?”

“Yes. A small red animal. Looks like a mop.”

“I like dogs,” said Sarah. She smiled, crinkling the pale freckled skin over the bridge of her nose. “Sometimes I think I like dogs better than people.”

Bernard looked at her thoughtfully. This was a sentiment with which he could thoroughly agree.

“I suppose a lot of people feel that way,” she was saying.

“Not really.”

“I’m in mourning, actually. I had a Saint Bernard–German shepherd mixed breed dog who died last summer. I know that sounds like a stupid combination, but she was beautiful. All dark shaggy hair and a big face. She was stupid, but she had a great personality. Most people want their dogs to be smart. I think it’s more important that they be good-natured, don’t you?”

“Misty is not bright,” said Bernard, “but she is loyal.”

Sarah nodded. She brushed back a tendril of red hair. “Yes. You know what I mean. Loyalty is so important. So few people are loyal. And companionable. My dog’s name was Brandy. That sounds a little bit like Misty, doesn’t it? Although, not to hurt your feelings, Brandy could have stepped on your dog and never even noticed it. She was huge, and she wasn’t well coordinated.”

Bernard nodded.

“I like cats, too, but not as much as dogs.”

Bernard repressed a shudder. He helped himself to some of the cold cuts that were going around on a large blue-and-white china platter. “I hate cats.”

“No—really?”

“Yes. I loathe them.”

“Really? And Snooky is so fond of them.”

“Yes.”

“How does your wife feel about them?”

“She knows I hate them.”

“But how does she feel about them?”

“Maya? She loves cats.”

Sarah gave him a sly sideways smile, almost feline. “Then one day you’ll probably own one.”

Bernard chewed thoughtfully. “Yes. You’re probably right.” He mused sadly on this for a while. “Do you mind if I give you a little advice?”

“No, of course not. What is it?”

“You seem like a decent person. Why are you going out with Snooky?”

“He told me you would say that,” said Sarah, laughing. “He knows you very well. You don’t actually dislike him as much as he says, do you?”

“I like Snooky as much as I like cats. Maybe a little bit less.”

Sarah laughed again.

Bernard buried himself in his oversized sandwich and looked covertly around the room. Sarah’s aunt Irma, he noted, was making a fool of herself over her young paramour, if that was the right word for it. She was listening to the conversation between Bobby and Maya, and hanging on Bobby’s every word. Her wizened hands were constantly in motion, fluttering like leaves, stroking his shoulder, straightening his collar, smoothing down his already overly smooth hair. Bernard scowled to himself. He had nothing against an older woman and a younger man, but the woman was making a fool of herself, fawning on him like that in public. And Bobby Fuller seemed to be just as affectionate in return. He turned to her, including her in the conversation, and put his arm around her. Snooky had his eye on them; so, Bernard thought, did everyone else at the table. Maya was trying to look remote and uninvolved.

“Amazing about Aunt Irma and Bobby, isn’t it?” a dry voice asked to his left. He turned to find Dwayne Costa smiling at him mischievously. “They met a few months ago, and apparently it was love at first sight. Hard to believe, eh?”

Bernard maintained a cautious silence.

“Oh, well,” said Dwayne, noticing his reserve. “Not one for gossip, are you? I guess not. Well, good for you. Could you pass the cold cuts, please?”

After the main course came a lemon tart, which Bernard devoured greedily, passing his plate back for seconds and thirds. He was just sitting back with a satisfied grunt, stirring his coffee and cream, when the dining room door flew open and a middle-aged woman came charging in. She was in her late fifties, grotesquely fat, with curly blue hair and an alert, sparkling eye. She was wearing a shapeless gray overcoat over rubber boots. Bernard thought she looked vaguely familiar. Now where had he seen …? Oh, yes, he thought. There was a strong resemblance to several of the dark portraits staring down at them from the walls. There was a heavyset woman over there, for instance, on the wall near the French windows, who despite the portrait’s old-fashioned dress could have been her sister. The intruder took up a stance near the head of the table—an almost royal stance—and boomed, “Irma, who the hell are all these people?”

Irma Ditmar rose, her hands fluttering in the air. “Gertie, dear, I told you I was having some people over for lunch—”