AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD

by Gloria Dank

  “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—”

  “And I wasn’t invited again?”

  “You were invited, dear. I told you about it yesterday. You said you were going to be on one of your nature walks …”

  The idea of this Gertie, whoever she was, on a nature walk was enough to give Bernard pause. He felt, uncharitably, that the mere sight of her would frighten away any wildlife and livestock within a hundred miles.

  “That’s right. So I was,” said the mysterious Gertie. She glanced around the table and said, with a nod, “Dwayne.”

  “Aunt Gertie,” replied the young man courteously.

  “Bobby.”

  “Gertrude, how are you?”

  “Fine. I found the most marvelous example of Hydrophyllum hiding out in the woods behind a tree. It’s not in very good shape, of course, but I brought some of it back with me. Have to catalog it in my journals. Have to be scientific, you know. No good being scatterbrained.” She delved into the voluminous pockets of her overcoat, then triumphantly produced what looked like a bit of grass. “There. You see?”

  Maya was interested. “Hydrophyllum? The waterleaf? Surely not at this time of year?”

  “Well, of course it’s all dried out, but still …”

  “May I see it?”

  The two women moved together and conferred briefly over the herb.

  “Fascinating,” said Maya. “Note the pinnate toothed leaves.”

  “Yes, yes. A good one, isn’t it?”

  “Definitely. I wrote an article about woodland herbs last summer …”

  “When did this suddenly become a botany seminar?” asked Snooky. “Are we excused from the table, Irma?”

  “Yes, dear. You may go now. Sarah, will you help me with the dishes?”

  “Of course, Aunt Irma.”

  Snooky came up to Bernard’s side as they left the room and said in a low voice, “That’s Gertie Ditmar. Hugo Ditmar’s younger sister. Gertie is Irma’s sister-in-law. She’s been here for years. You noticed the resemblance to the portraits?”

  Bernard nodded.

  “They’re all her relatives,” said Snooky. “Ghastly looking bunch, aren’t they? Gertie’s something else, though. She’s always trundling through the woods on her nature hunts. She and Irma are each determined to outlast the other, and gain control of this house. Hugo left it to both of them, with a life interest.”

  Bernard shrugged irritably. “I don’t care, Snooky. Can we leave soon?”

  “I’ll make up an excuse, and then we can go. Don’t say you haven’t enjoyed it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, the lunch, for one thing. I saw you asking for thirds on that lemon tart.”

  Snooky, faithful to his word, did make up an excuse a little while later (“It’s been wonderful, Irma, thank you so much, but Misty will be climbing the walls if we don’t get back soon. I’m sure she’s urinated on all the furniture already”), and the three of them left in Bernard’s car. Bernard, in the back seat, was silent most of the way home. Maya and Snooky were busy comparing notes about Sarah—“yes, she’s very nice, Snookers, I must say I was surprised”—and he felt too stuffed and logy to talk.

  “I saw you talking to Dwayne,” said Maya at last, turning around in the front seat. “What were the two of you so busy talking about?”

  “My writing.”

  “Mrs. Woolly?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  “You know, Maya. My nonfiction works on the history of nuclear power.”

  “You are terrible,” said his wife. “I suppose he believed you?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Why did you stop there, Bernard?” asked Snooky. “Why didn’t you also tell him you wrote War and Peace?”

  Bernard looked out the window at the passing village of Lyle and tried very hard to forget all the people he had met. He found it exhausting to talk to new people, and his philosophy was, if forced to do it, at least don’t brood about it. By the time they reached the cabin, the memory of the luncheon at Hugo’s Folly had receded to a dim pinprick in his brain, which was devoting the rest of its function to planning the remainder of his afternoon, in which a cup of hot cider and a nice long nap by the fire figured prominently.

  ———

  Life at the cabin progressed pleasantly. Bernard found it very comfortable to be a guest in Snooky’s household, instead of the other way around, and for his part Snooky was delighted to play host. He went out every afternoon with Maya to do the shopping, and came back loaded with mysterious packages, with which he would disappear into the kitchen for hours. When he reemerged, it was to announce that dinner was ready, and to present his dazzled sister and brother-in-law with one gourmet meal after another. He found a hundred and one things to do with cider, concealing it in stews, vegetable dishes and desserts.

  “I bought all this stuff, I have to use it before it goes bad,” he would say mournfully, looking at the rows of cider jugs in the back room, behind the kitchen. “I would put it outside, but it would freeze. Have you ever had pumpkin cooked in cider, Maya?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Yes, you did, I made it three days ago. You’re not even paying attention, Maya. My efforts are wasted on you.”

  “I never knew Snooky was such a cook,” remarked Bernard to his wife one night as they were getting into bed. Misty had discovered that once the fire burned low it was warmer to hide under the quilt, so she had gotten into their bed an hour ago and now greeted them sleepily with a thumping tail.

  “Snooky was always a great cook, but he never cooks unless he’s in his own home, or whatever passes for that at the time. Anywhere else, he lets people wait on him hand and foot.”

  “We should always visit him.”

  “I agree absolutely.”

  “Misty has drooled all over my pillow,” Bernard said sadly, holding it up for examination. “At least—oh, God—I hope it’s drool.”

  “Just turn it over and don’t think about it. That was some dinner tonight, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Snooky said there was cider in the pineapple upside-down cake. Did you taste it?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t either. By the way, sweetheart, how is your work going? Are you getting anything done?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t seem to get off of food. I decided to make it a holiday story. Mrs. Woolly is on vacation and is eating until she suddenly explodes.”

  “Oh. How is your pillow now? Can you go to sleep?”

  “It’s fine. G’night, Maya.”
<
br />   “Good night.”

  A few days later Bernard, contrary to his usual habit, was taking a walk with Misty in the woods. He had gotten frustrated with his writing, since Mrs. Woolly showed no signs of halting her sudden attack of gluttony, so he had gotten out the leash and announced that he was taking a walk. Maya, understanding his mood, had not offered to join him, but had stood at the door reminding him to look human and not get shot.

  “And watch out for Misty, too,” called Snooky from the kitchen. “Small game season.”

  The day was bright and lucidly clear, one of those November days where the air seems as brittle as glass. It was so cold that it hurt to breathe. Bernard lumbered morosely through the forest, trying to remember where he was going, since he could imagine nothing worse than getting lost, far from hearth and table and home. Misty, shivering with excitement, bounded ahead of him. On her daily walks with Maya and Snooky she had learned their usual route, and now she picked her way confidently through the trees.

  “Misty.” Bernard tugged on the leash. “Misty. Come back here. Don’t wander away.” The leash was a long one that could be wound in like a fishing reel. Shortly after they started, Misty managed to get herself tied securely around a tree. Bernard was cursing and walking in irritable circles, winding in the leash as he went, when there was a snapping and a crackling in the underbrush. A figure came into sight among the trees.

  “Ho!” it said.

  Bernard looked up. The newcomer was a large man, taller than Bernard, with graying reddish hair and a rugged, thickset face. He was wearing a red-checked flannel shirt, a down vest and khaki-colored trousers and boots. Over his right shoulder was a rifle.

  “Ho!” he repeated.

  Bernard was not sure how to reply to this. “Hello.”

  “Lost your beast, eh?”

  Bernard disliked him more and more every second. “I haven’t lost her. She’s gotten tangled up in this tree. I’ll have her loose in a minute.”

  “Ah!” said the hunter. He took his rifle off his shoulder, played with it absently for a minute, slung it back on and said heartily, “Shouldn’t let your dog run in the woods, eh? Small game season and all that, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Could be mistaken for a fox.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Of course her hair is too long for a fox. But a lot of people out here, they just shoot anything that moves. You’ve heard about that, have you?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Roger Halberstam,” said the stranger, shooting out a meaty hand. “I know you.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, I know of you. You met my stepson the other day. Dwayne, remember? Dwayne Costa? At Irma’s? Irma is my sister.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Bernard, reflecting that he had had no choice about meeting Dwayne and family. It seemed too cruel for him to have to meet Dwayne’s stepfather as well. “Dwayne. Yes.”

  “He’s out here somewhere, shooting pictures. I hunt with a gun, he hunts with a camera. He’s always telling me to stop, but I figure, he never brings home anything for dinner, does he now? Does he now?” The man laughed heartily.

  “Just don’t shoot Misty.”

  “Oh, no. Wouldn’t dream of it. Was that a rabbit? Oh, damn. Never mind. You’re Snooky’s brother-in-law, are you?”

  “Yes. Bernard Woodruff.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bernard. As I said, be careful in these woods. I’m always telling Dwayne that, too. Can’t be too careful these days. Too many crazy people wandering about.”

  Bernard ground his teeth silently. This was his greatest fear, being played upon by this moronic stranger.

  “I’m always telling Dwayne that,” repeated Roger Halberstam. Bernard, having freed Misty, began to edge away. “You can’t be too careful these days. I keep telling Dwayne to keep his eyes open or he’ll get shot. It’s happened, you know. Accidents like that do happen.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Good. Well, nice running into you. Give my best to Snooky. Strange name, isn’t it? Snooky. But he seems like a decent young man. Aren’t too many of them around these days. Dwayne’s another one. As good-hearted as they come. Not much of a wage-earner, of course, but that can’t be helped. I think he has some talent, myself. He just hasn’t found what it is, exactly.”

  “Yes,” said Bernard. “How interesting. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye. If you run into Dwayne lurking around here with his camera, tell him to be home before dark. I worry about him, you know. I worry about that boy. He’s like my own son.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” said Roger Halberstam. He stared for a moment after the rapidly retreating figures of Bernard and Misty, then hefted his gun in his hands and started back the other way through the woods.

  2

  “I have some bad news for you, Bernard,” said Snooky. “Steel yourself.”

  “What is it?”

  Snooky sat down on the sofa opposite him. “I’ve invited Sarah and her family over here for dinner tomorrow night.”

  Bernard lifted up his red pencil and made a mark on the page in the typewriter before him.

  “I know you’re not happy about it, but I wanted to reciprocate for that lunch the other day. Just say you won’t leave.”

  Bernard took the page out of the typewriter and looked at it thoughtfully.

  “I discussed it with Maya, and she says you’ll probably stick around for the food. She said the best way was just to tell you straight out, so that’s what I’m doing. I know that deep down, inside that gruff and silent exterior, you appreciate my honesty.”

  Bernard grunted.

  “They’ll be here around six-thirty. I wanted you to know. I know that cuts into your predinner snack, but remember: it’s just one evening.”

  Bernard shrugged and picked irritably at the remains of last night’s peach cobbler, which was sitting next to him in a battered pie tin.

  “Well, that wasn’t so bad,” said Snooky cheerfully, rising to his feet.

  “What are you going to cook?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Beef stew.”

  “Beef stew? Bernard, I’ve made beef stew practically every night since you and Maya arrived. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

  “No.”

  “All that red meat. It’s bad for you, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “All right. Beef stew it is. Beef stew with my secret ingredient.”

  “That would be cider,” said Bernard.

  “Yes.”

  “Slightly rancid cider.”

  “Yes.”

  “How bad does it have to be before you finally throw it away?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is, it’s not there yet. I’m going to send in Maya to talk to you now. Kind of a pre-party therapy session. Thank you again for your time and attention.”

  He went back into the kitchen, and shortly thereafter Maya came out, holding two cups of steaming cider. She handed one to Bernard and sat down next to him, entwining her fingers in his. “How’re you doing?”

  “Well, for one thing, if I have to drink any more of this cider, I’m going to throw up.”

  “There are only two jugs left.”

  “Didn’t Snooky make any coffee?”

  “No. You’re in a good mood.”

  Bernard snarled at her.

  “You’ll survive this party,” said Maya absently. She sipped her drink and gazed around the room. “It’s just one evening.”

  “That’s what your brother said.”

  “Snooky is knocking himself out to make your favorite meal for everybody.”

  “So what?”

  “So he’s making an effort.”

  “Fine.” Bernard drank his cider and lapsed into a gloomy silence. Maya regarded him, a smile playing around the corners of her lips.

  “How’re things with Mrs. Woolly?”

  “I can’t work with all these int
erruptions.” Bernard got up, dislodging Misty, who was asleep on his feet. Misty’s tail thumped once, then she crept closer to the fire and fell asleep again. Bernard paced irritably up and down the room. “I don’t find Sarah and her family particularly interesting. I never do find Snooky’s girlfriends interesting. I don’t see why I have to socialize with them. I don’t see why they have to come here, where I happen to be living right now. I don’t know how I’m going to get any work done between now and then. You know it throws me off for days if I have to see anyone.”

  “I know.”

  Bernard sat back down and slurped his cider angrily. “Can we go home soon? Misty is homesick.”

  Maya glanced at Misty, who was snoring happily, curled up into a little ball. “Yes. Misty looks homesick. We’d better get her back to Connecticut before she keels over. Have you ever thought that maybe you would get more work done if you had less time to do it in?”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “One more thing. Snooky would like to make your favorite dessert tomorrow. He asked me what it was, and I couldn’t think.”

  “No, Maya. No. Tell him I can’t be bribed.”

  “But I’ve already told him you could.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Bernard. “In that case, tell him I’d like that apple walnut pie he makes. The one with the crumbly topping.”

  “Now you’re making sense. Did I ever tell you that you are the most rotten traveler in the world?” She leaned over, gave him a kiss, then vanished into the kitchen, from which Bernard could soon hear the sounds of muffled laughter. He turned back to his work. Mrs. Woolly was being particularly difficult. Right now she was eating peach cobbler and spitting the crumbs all over the devoted cadre of children who followed her around. He read over what he had written, sighed deeply and picked up his red pencil.