18
“Mrs. Flingett, this is Sarah Kelling Bittersohn speaking; I'm sorry that Mr. Bittersohn is not available just now.”
Exactly how sorry she was brought a tightness to Sarah's throat that made it hard for her to speak. Fortunately or not, depending on a persons point of view, the woman at the other end was quite ready to do all the talking herself and proceeded to do so for the next twenty minutes nonstop while Davy tugged at his mother's sleeve in the hope of getting her attention and went off pouting to Uncle Jem when Sarah couldn't drop the phone and go with him to watch the seagulls smashing clamshells on the rocks.
Dr. Colly had checked Davy over from his pink toes to the top of his curly blond head and had found nothing wrong. “Keep an eye on him for a couple of days,” he had advised. “He's sure not his usual rambunctious self. Could be somethings worrying him. I wouldn't badger him about running off, though, at least not yet. I don't hold with this business of interrogating kids about their worries until they get so nervous they start inventing stories they think the other person wants to hear. If he's not back to normal in a day or two, give me a call.”
Davy had perked up a bit when his buddy Charles C. Charles carried, complete with trench coat and fedora and a Humphrey Bogart accent, Charles was an actor manqué when he wasn't butling for Theonia or tracking down stolen art objects for Max, and he believed in living his roles. He managed to distract Davy long enough for Sarah to give Sergeant Jofferty her version of the shooting of Alister Zickery. Jofferty assured Sarah that Calpurnia seemed quite comfortable in the local lockup. She had a nice clean cell all to herself, and Miriam Rivkin had already stopped by with chicken sandwiches and salad.
“Bless her,” Sarah murmured.
“Well, we re all grateful to the lady for coming to your rescue,” Jofferty said. “No question but that she'll be out on bail before long. Jake Bittersohn has already made the arrangements and will represent her when the case comes to trial. She's a queer duck, though, isn't she? Asked me to get her some, paper and pens on account of she planned to start writing her memoirs.”
Sarah finally managed to get Mrs. Flingett to stop talking, reminding her that they'd been on the case for less than a week and that Max had warned her it would be several days before they could get to work on her missing Modigliani, what with a family wedding coming up and a large backlog of cases. He had added that he couldn't imagine why anybody would want a Modigliani back, though he hadn't said it to Mrs. Flingett.
Sarah wiped her eyes. The hole Max's absence made in the family circle was growing wider every hour. Jesse was out beating the bounds again, knowing it was probably futile but feeling a desperate need to do something, anything but sit still and wait. Brooks and Theonia had gone back to Boston to pursue other lines of inquiry. Sarah would have been doing the same thing, if she had been able to. Instead she was sacrificing herself to a client, to well-meaning relatives, to her child, to whoever had to be placated or comforted or indulged or paid before she could take the time even to brush her teeth, much less help look for Max.
Although Jem and Egbert wouldn't give up the ship, Sarah knew that Jem was hankering for Beacon Hill and the Comrades of the Convivial Codfish, and Egbert for his own little coterie of lady friends with whom he'd carried on a pleasant, tranquil relationship for many years, mostly playing Scrabble, occasionally making a daring foray into mah-jongg. She couldn't expect them to stay much longer; they'd be stricken with nostalgia for the Hill.
“Mummy, wake up.”
Somehow or other, Sarah had managed to drop off for a few seconds. “What's the matter, Davy?”
“You took my alligator.”
“No, I didn't. Look under your bed.”
“You come with me.”
“Davy, I'm very tired.”
“No. I want my alligator.”
“You didn't say ‘please.’”
“I don't have to. I'm the man.”
“Who told you that?”
“You did.”
Sarah couldn't believe she'd ever been fool enough to say such a thing, but there was no point in starting an argument with a three-year-old. She sighed from the bottoms of her sneakers to the top of her sorely aching head. “All right, Davy. I think you left the alligator in his den under my desk this morning. Why don't you look?”
“You look. You have to get down on your tummick.”
“No, I don't. I'm the woman. And it's stomach, not tummick.”
Pouting, Davy retrieved his toy. Sarah said with false enthusiasm, “Good boy. Now show me how the alligator wiggles.”
“I know how the alligator wiggles. He doesn't like you.”
“I don't blame him a bit. Alligators don't like boys who don't like their mothers.”
“Yes, they do.”
“Never mind.” Sarah sighed again. “Let's go see the seagulls.”
Sarah made sure the answering machine was working and that there'd be room enough to leave a long message in case the miracle happened. Then she took Davy by the hand and went with him to see the seagulls. It was something to do, at any rate.
But Davy wasn't satisfied. These were different seagulls from the ones he'd wanted to play with, and why couldn't Daddy come home so that they could feed the seagulls together? It was a relief when Miriam came by asking for news, even though she knew there wasn't any, and wondering whether Sarah had enough food in the house. She had brought with her a tossed salad and a casserole just in case.
The day wore on. If it hadn't been for Davy, Sarah could have managed, but he wouldn't leave her alone, not for a single minute. Charles's costume changes failed to interest him; Egbert's noble offer to play camel produced only a scowl and a shake of the head; even Jem's offer to sing all forty verses of “Old Jem Kelling” was rejected.
And the telephone never stopped ringing, and the voice on the other end was never the voice she wanted to hear. Uncle Jem was of some help with the phone, he enjoyed chatting even if he didn't know what he was talking about most of the time.
By late afternoon Sarah was tempted to smack Davy's bottom and make him stand in the corner of his bedroom with his face to the wall, the way Great-Aunt Matilda had chastised Cousin Dolph when he was a boy. She didn't approve of that punishment, even though it didn't seem to have hurt Cousin Dolph, and God willing she wouldn't do such a thing to her dearly beloved child. She knew why Davy was behaving so abominably. He was just old enough to have learned that parents could be manipulated; he was turning his grief at his father's absence into rancor at his mother's failure to get double duty out of every demand he made on her. She'd tried coaxing, she'd tried pretending that he was the father and dressing him up in Max's beachcombing shorts and jersey. She'd tried to make him understand that parents had to go out and work so that little boys could eat. Nothing worked. He'd never behaved like this before, even when Max had been gone for a much longer time. Was he going through one of those stages more experienced parents had warned her about, or did he know, somehow, some way, that this time was different?
Miriam had seen the way things were going at Ireson's Landing. She turned up again around suppertime with a feeble excuse about being alone because Ira had gone off to some kind of wheel greasers' symposium, plunked herself down in the living room, and suggested gently that while she herself was no great drinker, she just might indulge in a small aperitif, if anyone else cared to join her.
Jem was always ready to join in an aperitif or possibly two. Between them they persuaded Sarah to have a glass of white wine, and Davy, who was sagging with exhaustion because he had refused to take a nap, snuggled up to his mother on the sofa and fell asleep. Every time Sarah made a move, though, he roused himself in case she might be having any notions about leaving him alone on the couch. She rested her head against the pillows and let the others do the talking.
“What is it with that kid?” Miriam asked softly. “Is he coming down with something, do you think?”
“No, it's Max. Davy's become so fra
ntic since his father disappeared that he won't even let me take a bath unless I wear my swimsuit so that hell have something to hang on to. I can't understand why he's behaving this way, Miriam. Max has been gone for long periods before this.”
“But you weren't scared stiff about him,” Miriam said shrewdly. “A little worried, maybe, as who wouldn't be, knowing he was chasing criminals, but not plain out of your mind the way you are now. No matter how stiff you keep that upper lip, kids sense your feelings. And the rest of us aren't much better.”
“Have you told Mother Bittersohn?”
Miriam always seemed to get stuck with the tidings of no great joy. Sarah had felt guilty about accepting her offer to break the news to Max's parents, but she hadn't wanted to talk about it with Davy listening, and he'd been hanging on to his mother's shirttails all day. At least that was her excuse.
Miriam nodded soberly. “I had to, it's going to be on the news tonight. I wasn't crazy about the publicity, but the cops pointed out we couldn't overlook the possibility that someone might have seen him. Poppa agreed, and Momma gave them that picture of Max Brooks took at his birthday party. They wanted to come over or call you, Sarah, but I told them to leave you alone, that you had enough on your plate without them asking questions you couldn't answer and dumping their worries on you when you've got enough of your own”
Sarah couldn't throw her arms around Miriam without disturbing Davy, so she had to content herself with a pat and a watery smile. “Miriam, you're wonderful I don't know how to thank you.”
“For what? Acting like a person?” Max'ssister didn't go in for emotional displays. “Do you think we can risk turning on the TV if we keep the volume down? I'll keep my finger on the off button and use it if Davy so much as stirs.”
Sarah could have predicted what the opening sentence of the story would be. “Foul play is feared. …” How they love disasters, she thought, glaring at the announcer's studiously grave face. There was a picture of Max standing beside the car and then a close-up of the photograph that was Sarah's favorite. She gazed hungrily at it until tears blurred the ruggedly handsome features and thick dark hair and familiar smile. The story ended with an appeal to viewers to call the police if they had any information.
Miriam switched off. “Better wake that kid up or he'll never go to bed tonight,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “I'll see what I can scrape up for supper. How many are we expecting?”
“I don't know where Jesse and Charles have got to,” Sarah answered. “I suppose they'll be joining us.”
“They're patrolling,” Jem said. “And if I know those two, praying they run into an intruder. Jesse is armed with a Malay kris he borrowed from Anora, and Charles has my sword stick. I wanted to join the defense, but Egbert wouldn't let me, so I gave Charles the stick. Did I ever tell you about the time I …”
Sarah let her uncle ramble on. She didn't bother asking where he'd obtained a sword stick. It was the sort of thing he would have. Or if he didn't, some other Kelling would. Anora Protheroe's husband, George, had collected Oriental art and antiquities, including a few lethal weapons. She was only surprised Jesse hadn't borrowed a morning star or a few poisoned darts.
The news broadcasts had informed all the family members who hadn't already known. The phone started ringing almost at once and never let up. Jem dealt with some of them while Egbert and Miriam performed their usual miracles in the kitchen. After Charles and Jesse had been summoned by Egbert's energetic performance on the penny whistle, Charles took over the phone. His role of a proper English butler, à la Mr. Hudson, was one of his best. Hearing him intone “I really could not say, moddom” got rid of several importunate callers.
Percy Kelling went so far as to telephone, after the rates had gone down. He was, of course, concerned about how this would reflect on the family, especially the family finances. Between trying to coax a few bites into Davy and taking a few herself, Sarah let him know in the circuitous way Percy favored that this was not a propitious time for family chats. They'd be in touch with Percy and/or Anne as soon as they had any definite information.
“Interfering old ice cube,” Jem grumbled.
“No, Uncle Jem, I think he was really concerned. He said if there was anything he and Anne could do, anything, anytime, just let them know. He even asked if I needed money!”
“That's an offer I never expected to hear from Percy,” Jem admitted. “He's not so bad, I guess, except for being so damned honest. Did I ever tell you about the quarter?”
“Yes,” Sarah said. “Davy, just one more bite of Aunt Mimi's wonderful casserole.”
“Miriam hasn't heard it, though,” Jem said triumphantly.
Only once in his whole career as a certified public accountant had Percy run into a situation that might have left a black spot on the name of Kelling, Kelling, and Kelling. It was a matter of twenty-five cents. Percy had gone over the books—big old ledgers back then, not computers—over and over and over again. He had forgone the supper that he didn't feel he deserved, he'd racked his brain, he'd gone back in the ledgers as far as he could go. Finally he'd collapsed from overwork and inanition and slept facedown on the ledgers until his father came in punctually at half-past five A.M. Trembling with weakness and the odium of failure, he'd confessed his ineptitude.
His father had taken one look at Percy's careworn face and stooped over. “Here” he'd said, handing his son the shiny silver twenty-five-cent piece that had rolled under Percy's desk. “Go buy yourself some breakfast. And next time, make damned good and sure that you know what you re looking at.”
Jesse's expression showed what he thought of that sterling example of rectitude. “If he was determined to be that honest, why didn't he just contribute a quarter of his own?”
“Your generation doesn't understand these things,” Jem retorted.
“Darn right.” Jesse always watched his language when Davy was around. “I haven't got time to set you straight, Uncle Jem. What do you say we go back on duty, Charles?”
“You aren't going to stay out there all night, I hope,” Sarah exclaimed.
“They're just trying to get out of helping with the dishes.” Miriam had begun clearing the table.
“A vile canard, moddom, if I may say so,” Charles said. “We will tidy up in our usual efficient fashion before we return to our posts. Would you like me or Jesse to drive you home?”
“No thanks, Charles, I think I can make it, even though it's all of five miles. I'll be on my way, then, Sarah, unless you'll let me put Davy to bed. He's asleep on your lap.”
“I'll carry him, he's too heavy for Sarah.” Jesse scooped the boy up. Davy roused long enough to demand his mama but accepted Sarah'sassurance that she would be up soon and would stay with him all night.
Egbert insisted on escorting Miriam to her car. Leaving Charles to swathe himself in a ruffled print apron before tackling the cleanup, Sarah went to the living room and called the Tulip Street house.
“I tried to telephone earlier, but the house line has been busy all evening” Brooks said. “No, Sarah dear, I'm sorry; there's nothing new about Max, but Theonia wants to speak with you.”
Theonia knew what Sarah wanted before she spoke.
“Yes, dear, I've been trying. Have you?”
“What, tea leaves or tarot cards? I don't have your talent, Theonia.”
“You have something else going for you, Sarah. It doesn't need props, and it's stronger than any poor talent I might have. Don't worry, it's going to be all right. Go to bed, go to sleep, and dream about Max.”
Jem had the same idea. “Come on, Sarah, you need your rest.”
“All right, Uncle Jem, I'll be a good little niece and toddle upstairs, to my beddy-bye the minute the Sandman shows up with his pail and shovel. What was it you used to say when we children were crammed into cots at the old summer place? Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite.”
Jem produced a chuckle. “I'd forgotten about that. It was just a moronic s
natch of doggerel I picked up in the army.”
Jem looked a bit moist about the eyes. He kissed her on the forehead and made a quick exit. “You know where to find me if you want me. Just holler.”
I wish I could holler for Max, Sarah thought. Where in God's name could he be?
19
Another beautiful morning in a less than beautiful spot. Max greeted the dawn with a growl. He hated to wake up. There was nothing to wake up for, and he'd been having wonderful dreams. Sarah had seemed so real; he'd heard her voice as clearly as if she were standing next to him, seen her so distinctly that he felt as if he could reach up and touch her.
If he hoped to see her again, and he did, he'd better be up and doing. Doing what? For starters, there was breakfast. A scant cupful of brackish water in the plastic cup and a nice cud of seaweed. What should it be this morning, Irish moss or kelp or maybe a tasty morsel of laver?
Bare rock didn't make for a comfortable bed. He'd wrapped the good old red bathrobe around him, over his wrinkled filthy clothes. It provided an extra layer of warmth, but not much padding.
After he'd slurped up the water he shed the bathrobe and spread it out on the highest point of his estate, anchoring it with a few pieces of rock. A swim would get the kinks out, but why rush it, when it might be his sole means of entertainment for the day? He perched on the ledge and stared out across the water.
So far he hadn't seen any living creature except those daintily streamlined shiners that kept darting in and out among the seaweeds and the big birds overhead, such as the fulmars and the albatrosses. These appeared to be pelagic, however, scorning to rest on his ridiculous apology for an island. For all he knew, there might be seals or walruses or sea lions or hippogriffs or heffalumps on other, larger islands. The briny Atlantic was teeming with aquatic mammals and other wonders of the deep; but so far they hadn't come to call, and who could blame them? He wouldn't be here either if he could help it.
The Balloon Man Page 16