The Resurrection Man (30 page)

“Good Lord, that’s George! Where did you get that photo, Max? I’ve never seen it before.” She fumbled a tissue out of her bathrobe pocket and blew her nose. “Very nice. Except that the eyes are wrong. Whatever possessed whoever took the picture to color them green?”

“That isn’t George, Anora.” Max handed her the letter. “You’d better read this.”

Now he had her full and undivided attention. “Max, this is George’s writing. Where did you find it?”

“Amadée Dubrec brought it with him. George wrote to you years ago in the hospital, when he was so sick and expecting to die. He gave the letter to Dubrec, who was supposed to hand it over to you after the funeral. As it turned out, Dubrec had to wait a lot longer than he’d bargained for. He was intending to give you this tonight, after the rest of us had cleared out.”

“Hand me my reading glasses, Sarah, they’re on the mantelpiece.”

Anora put them on and read through the yellowed pages, taking her time. At last she folded the sheets together, took off her glasses, laid them very carefully on the small table beside her.

“Well! All these years, and I never had a notion. What happened to the boy, I wonder?”

“I’m here.”

Bartolo Arbalest’s voice was low and shaky. He knelt down before the widow either in supplication or because he had no strength left to stand.

“I knew who he was as soon as I saw him, Mrs. Protheroe. I sensed it, just from being near him. And I had the feeling he knew me, and was glad to see me. I realize you’ll never want to see me again, I just want you to know how desperately sorry I am to have been the reason why he died. I’d far rather have died for him. Oh, God, if only I had!”

“There, there.” Anora was patting his shoulder, smoothing his grizzled hair. “Don’t cry, laddie, it wasn’t your fault. Let’s go and have some nice hot soup, just the two of us. You’ll forgive us, won’t you, Sarah? My stepson and I have some things to talk over. For one thing, George, I’m not sure Marcus is taking his medication regularly. You’ll have to lean on him about that. You don’t mind my calling you after your father, do you? You’re so like him, I’m bound to keep forgetting and saying George anyway. Before we eat, I want you to shave off that bush so I can see your face. And what are we to do with this chap in the red suit? Can he garden?”

“I’m sure he can do lots of things, once he gets the chance. His name is Cijay Cattahoochee. He says he knows how to drive a car, he can bring Marcus out to visit you on weekends. And me too, if you want me.”

“What do you mean, if? This is your home, George. And somebody’s got to keep the place from falling to pieces. You can’t expect me to do everything, not at my age. Does Cijay have anything to wear besides that silly red suit? You’ll have to get him fitted out. Where’s he been living?”

Arbalest said something in Tamil, the other smiled for the first time and said something back.

“Cijay’s been living in an apartment Carnaby rented across the alley from the atelier. I’ve seen him out there several times, he’s always upset me because he reminded me of so many things I’d rather forget. He says he has some other clothes that a kind lady gave him last week.”

“Anne,” exclaimed Sarah, “my Cousin Percy’s wife. Ask him what he did with the painting of the girl holding the parrot.”

“Oh yes, that nice little primitive.” More words were exchanged, Cijay looked worried. Arbalest didn’t.

“He says the painting’s in the apartment. He’s sorry he stole it but his master made him. His master took his clothes away and made him go naked down through the vent in the greenhouse. He handed the painting out the window to his master, then got stuck trying to get back up through the vent. He couldn’t get loose for a long time, his master got impatient and drove off without him and he had no clothes. Then the kind lady brought him some and he walked back to Boston. I’m afraid Carnaby hasn’t been treating him very well.”

“Phyllis,” said Anora, “take this man out to the kitchen and give him something to eat. His name’s Cijay and he’s going to be working for us till we find him something better. He can have the room over the garage. And this is my stepson George, whom Marcus works for. They’ll both be coming to Sunday dinner tomorrow. How are you going to manage without a chauffeur, George?”

“I can drive, mother. Oh, it feels so good to say that! Mrs. Bittersohn, Mr. Bittersohn, Mr.—I’m sorry, I don’t know this young man’s name.”

“He’s Jesse Kelling,” said Sarah. “And I’m Sarah and my husband is Max. And we’ll call you George too, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll be delighted. Quite frankly, I’ve never cared much for the name my mother gave me, though I suppose I’ll have to keep it for professional reasons. You’re off then?”

“Yes, we have things to do.”

“Tell Cijay I hope I didn’t hurt him too much when I jumped him,” said Jesse.

“It was in a good cause, Cijay will understand. I do want you all to understand how deeply I appreciate your good offices on my behalf. And Brooks’s too, of course. I must drop him a note. I’ll see that you get Mrs. Percy Kelling’s painting back tomorrow and I’d be delighted to entertain everyone at the atelier as soon as we can fix a date and mother feels up to traveling. I’m afraid all this has taken a lot out of you, mother. Perhaps we’d better go get that soup.”

“I thought you were going to shave first,” said Anora.

Over the newly christened George Protheroe’s face spread a smile of ineffable delight. “Isn’t she wonderful? She’s bullying me already.”

Max Bittersohn shrugged and grinned. “So what’s a mother for? Come on, Sarah, let’s take Jesse back to Tulip Street and go pick up our kid.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1992 by Charlotte MacLeod

cover design by Mauricio Diaz

978-1-4532-7733-1

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