“Can I light another candle?” he asked his mother.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” She was kneeling on the floor, going through Florence’s dresser.
Edgar began to snoop, as well, though not without trepidation. He sensed the mound of clothes on his grandmother’s bed watching him. He wondered if he should call the woman who’d helped him steal the diamond. It would be nice to hear more about the dresses and what his grandmother had been like when she was young and skinny. The woman had referred to her as Florie, and had said she was prettier than all of them. Edgar ran his fingers across the old woman’s pillow. It was all so sad it made you wonder why people were even born in the first place.
From drawers, Lucy pulled out lavender sachets and brand-new nightgowns still wrapped in tissue paper; a tiny pouch of French coins; neatly pressed handkerchiefs. There was a collection of unfamiliar baby clothes, possibly Frank’s, that made Lucy’s stomach rise. Edgar found a batch of unused postcards with pictures of Niagara Falls; a red lacquer box filled with dozens of derelict keys; an assortment of dried and flattened corsages in Ziploc bags. Under one of his grandmother’s housedresses, he uncovered a small but surprisingly heavy cast-iron crucifix.
Explorers in an abandoned city—archeologists, looters, desecrators—Edgar and Lucy understood the violation they were perpetrating, though neither could stop digging. Partners in crime, it seemed, though they were looking for very different things: Lucy was looking for money; Edgar was looking for the Ark of the Covenant.
“That’s not yours,” he said, when he saw his mother reach her hand into Florence’s black pocketbook.
“It’s not anybody’s now,” Lucy replied. “Do you know where your grandmother keeps her important papers?”
Edgar only stared at his mother as she pulled from the pocketbook tissues and eyeglasses—and then coupons and mints and money.
“I’m not stealing,” explained Lucy. “We have to do this.”
Edgar did know where Florence kept her bankbooks and her roll of money, but he didn’t say. He sat on the floor and went through the bottom drawer of another bureau. The only item of interest was a latched box upholstered in black silk, embroidered with a Chinese dragon. From inside it, he pulled a long length of braided black hair, tied at both ends with dark green ribbon.
“Eww,” Lucy said. “What is that?”
Edgar knew it was his grandmother’s. She’d shown him pictures of herself when she’d had long hair, though she’d never mentioned that she’d cut it all off in one fell swoop, and then had kept the evidence in a black silk box, like some voodoo princess. Edgar was astonished by how dark it was, so different from his own hair. He went to the mirror and held it behind his ear, letting the long braid fall across his shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“Did you know her when she had long hair?” Edgar asked his mother.
“No. Put that away—and wash your hands.”
“It’s not dirty,” said Edgar. “I’m keeping it.”
“It’s gross, Edgar.” Having worked for so many years in a salon, Lucy had no romance about other people’s hair.
“It’s not gross.”
“Honey, why don’t you go downstairs and watch TV, and let me finish in here, okay?”
“I’m helping you.”
“Yes, you are, but this is just upsetting you. It’ll be faster if I do it by myself.”
“Why does it have to be fast?”
“Edgar, please—this is grown-up stuff.”
“You’re not even related to her,” snapped Edgar.
It was as if the boy had kicked her in the gut. She and the old woman had had their differences, certainly. The last few years, especially, had not been good. But once they’d fought side by side, allies in the same war. Despite everything that had gone wrong, Florence was still her family. “I loved her, Edgar.”
“No you didn’t,” the boy said quietly.
Lucy took a deep, audible breath. “Go downstairs,” she said, in a voice even quieter than Edgar’s.
The boy pulled a chair over to the little shelf where Florence kept her collection of ornamental teacups. From his perch, he reached his hand into a blue cup with a faux-Dutch design and pulled out the roll of cash. After stepping carefully off the chair, he placed the bundle in front of his mother.
Lucy watched him go, shutting the door behind him like a warden.
* * *
Edgar went around the house and got the rest of it. Into a Savers shopping sack, he poured the change from the bowl in the kitchen cupboard, and then he found the small fold of singles tucked into Florence’s sewing kit. Finally, he topped it off with the fifty-dollar bill his grandmother had taped, along with the number of the cab service, to the inside of the broom-closet door. “If your mother’s not home and we need to get to the hospital,” she’d always instructed him. When he’d mentioned that there were ambulances for such situations, Florence had replied something about the sirens, how it wasn’t anyone’s business if they had to make a trip to the hospital. Why announce it to the whole neighborhood? There’d been enough gossip in the past, she’d said, cryptically.
After all of Florence’s secret stashes had been collected, the boy emptied his pockets and added an additional forty-nine cents to the Savers sack. He set the bag outside of Florence’s room—inside of which he could hear his mother crying. “Stop with the waterworks,” he should have shouted. She’d often said it to him. When he walked into his own room, he locked the door—something he’d never done before.
From his desktop, he picked up the prayer card—a small laminated rectangle with a picture of a fat baby Jesus reclining on a marshmallow cloud. The other side contained an incomprehensible poem, as well as the dates. The day his grandmother was born, and the day she died. At the cemetery, he knew it would be even worse: the dates would be carved in stone.
* * *
Four hundred and fifteen dollars. Lucy looked down at the bills—curled from having been rolled up inside a teacup for who knows how long. She recalled the wad of bills she’d stolen years ago from Pio, the day she and Frank had fled with the baby. Those bills had been rolled up, too—in a Chock full o’Nuts can in the basement.
Soon, Lucy will find Edgar’s little gift bag outside the door; she’ll find the bankbooks, too—the grand total of Florence’s savings coming to fourteen thousand, eight hundred, sixty-seven dollars, and fifty-two cents. Not a fortune, but it’ll be enough for Lucy to catch her breath. No need to rush around town yet, filling out job applications.
As she lay back on the carpet, the curled bills strewn around her like tiny cabbages, she reached her hand toward the bed and pulled down one of the dresses: a delicate, pink silk number whose narrow skirt flared into a flirtatious ruffle. Florence had been skinny once—part of a past that Lucy could barely imagine. She turned her head to look at the damaged wedding portrait on the wall.
Suddenly she sat up, remembering the black metal box. She’d seen it in Florence’s underwear drawer, the day of the fire. It was still there—a dented lockbox wrapped excessively in twine. When her fingers failed to undo the riddle of knots, she took up the fabric shears and snipped the twine in several places. From the collection of keys Edgar had discovered earlier, Lucy found the one that fit the lock.
The disappointment of finding the box nearly empty—two thin envelopes and no cash—was relieved by the fact that the first envelope she opened contained the will.
It took Lucy’s breath away to see it, handwritten in pencil like one of the old woman’s semi-literate grocery lists. It seemed to be the work of a child—the words printed, the letters uneven, tilting variously to the left and to the right. Though barely half a page, Lucy could see the effort, the time it must have taken for Florence to write it. Here and there, a forgotten letter was inserted tightly between two others. Even with all the misspellings and peculiar grammar, there was nothing to be misunderstood.
I am the Florence Fini.
I live in 21 Cressida Drive in Ferryfield, New Jersey.
I say this now while I am well.
I give house to the boy Edgar and to his mother Lucille.
I give the money in my bank to the boy Edgar. For ejucate.
I give the jewlry and what she wants to Lucille.
All house things go with the house to the both remaning.
Clothes can donate to Saint Margaret (NOT SALVASHON ARMY!!!)
There is nothing else. If ther is it go to the boy Edgar.
The letter go to the boy Edgar when Lucille wants.
The letter she gonna find in the box too.
And then, in blue ink, as if added later—and with a shakier hand:
If the Lucille remary, the house go all of it to the boy Edgar.
This is Florence Fini.
Lucy shuddered as she set down the will. In her head, she could hear the old woman’s voice, the little bell of it, the breathlessness. The bequest was more than she’d expected.
She stood and looked out the window. The frost was gone, the sun shining on the lawn as if nothing had happened. The boy was standing by the curb. The boy Edgar. He peered to the right and then to the left, as if looking for someone. Lucy opened the window.
“You have your sunscreen on?” she yelled down.
Edgar turned and said, “Yes.”
“I’ll be down soon. You okay?”
“We have to change my bandage,” the boy said.
“Five minutes. Don’t wander.” Lucy closed the window and sat on the bed among Florence’s dresses. Perfume, mothballs, dust. A ray of light touched the skeletal ficus.
The letter she gonna find in the box too.
Lucy went back to the bureau. She knelt before the lockbox and pulled out the second envelope. On the front, written in a different hand: Edgar, I want you to have this. Lucy immediately dropped the envelope, as if it were covered with worms. The handwriting was Frank’s.
She felt hot, unable to stand—a sudden pain in her leg from when she’d fallen onto the rocks, the day of Frank’s death. She looked at the letter and saw that the top of the envelope was torn. Someone—no doubt Florence—had already opened it. Lucy’s hands were shaking so violently that they played a drum roll against the metal box. Why had she never been told about this?
As she picked up the envelope again, she moaned. Her thumb rested against the name of her son, as written by her husband. Suddenly, though nothing was visible there, she thrust her other hand into the metal box, scratching against the interior. She felt for a flap or a latch, a false bottom—a desperate pawing, like a starving animal digging for a bone. Why would Frank have left something for Edgar but not for her? Where was her letter?
She opened the envelope and pulled out the folded paper. The first thing she saw was the date: just three days before the accident. Lucy felt something waking inside of her, a chaos of old questions.
Had Frank known what he was going to do? Had he planned it? And did she finally hold in her hand the official note that everyone, even the police, had asked about?
There’s nothing, he left nothing, Lucy would always say to people—as would Florence. Lucy’s jaw tightened. The old woman had lied. All these years, she had lied.
Lucy took a deep breath, and read.
Dear Edgar. Your mother and I are gone now, I’m sorry. We went together. If this is a happy thought, I don’t know. You don’t remember us, I suppose. But we were your parents, Frank and Lucy Fini.
Lucy stopped. She read the lines again—the shaking that had started in her hands now taking over her entire body.
We loved each other and we loved you, Edgar Allan Fini. That is a good name. Don’t let anyone take it from you. They will try. They have hooks and ladders and even mirrors. It can be very confusing. Your mother and I are free, but you are not.
Lucy could barely breathe. What did this mean? That Frank had planned to take her with him? That he planned to …
Now that we’re gone, you have to be careful.
When they come, if they come to hurt you, they will look like anyone, you will think you know them. Some of them are yours but some of them are not. For the most part you can trust my mother, your grandmother, but it is not 100% clean. Be more careful around the other one, my father. He’s spent a lot of time in the tunnels. If he wants to take you for a drive to show you the yellow lights and the city on the other side, refuse. The tunnel doesn’t go to where he says. Most people are liars, even the ones you come from. I’m telling you the truth but you cannot believe me.
If someone wants to take you away, make sure you understand what you’re dealing with. I went away once in a red car and another time in a green car and it made a big difference. But don’t try to find us. If you find us, it will be by accident. Your mother and I are not where you think we are, not where Nana tells you. You were born with almost no hair on your head, which means you’ll be smart. And you were so white the doctor called you a cunt. But I’m not worried about you.
They fucked us, don’t let them fuck you. It’s not against the law to carry a gun. It’s not my way, I decided. You can make up your own mind. Your mother and I are not to be hated, almost the opposite. You would have liked your mother, she is was unbroken. She ate out of my hand, though.
I’ve left some holes in the yard. If a door opens, go in. If it’s locked, be clever. When they used to keep me from you, I climbed in your window.
I love you and your mother loves you and it’s not over.
I’ll leave this under the cushion in your crib, where Nana will find it. If she doesn’t give it to you, I will get in touch through other means. Remain calm.
Your father, Francesco Lorenzo Fini
Lucy looked up from the letter. When she lifted her arm toward a slant of illuminated dust, her hand passed right through it, as if she didn’t exist.
* * *
Downstairs, Edgar’s finger was throbbing. He sat on the couch with Florence’s boo-boo bag beside him, waiting for his mother. By now, his grandmother would have changed the bandage three times. Lucy hadn’t changed it once.
Edgar worried the tape on the gauze until it came undone. Slowly, he began to unwind the bandage—but then stopped, not wanting to see the damage. Besides, it was only right that someone else should take care of his finger—tell him that everything was going to be okay. Whenever Florence had cleaned a cut, she’d always told him to turn his head away and think of pickles. Edgar didn’t even like pickles, but it was a funny word and saying it somehow lessened the pain.
Edgar winced. It felt like his whole heart was in the tip of his finger. It hurt more than before. Probably it was time to take another pill. He uncapped the bottle and fished one out. In the kitchen, he swallowed it with a glass of milk. Maybe, after his mother changed his bandage, she could drive him to the cemetery. He’d make her stop at Sylvan’s to get some flowers. It wouldn’t be fun, but going there was important. If you don’t visit them, his grandmother always said, they forget you. There were rules when it came to dead people. Edgar would have to explain all this to his mother.
A half hour later, though, she still hadn’t come down, and Edgar was too dizzy to climb the stairs. As soon as he put his foot on the first step, the staircase began to move like an escalator—though, strangely, Edgar stayed in the same place. He sniffed. It seemed that something was burning again.
“Ma,” he said—though why was he whispering? He said the word again, repeating it over and over with increasing speed until it became something abstract—the end of each Ma blurring into the beginning of the next: mamamamamama. A quiet, droning chant. Then he slowed it down, like a robot losing power. He uttered one last, long maaaaaa, and let his head droop, as if kapooped. He laughed. His body felt limp.
Sliding his feet across the carpet, he made his way to the broken front door. The duct tape had come undone again, and the door had blown open. A few yellowed leaves littered the hallway, confusing inside with outside. Plus, it seemed too early f
or the leaves to have turned color. Was it autumn already?
In the sunlight, Edgar squinted. Across the street was the green truck. The boy moved closer until he could see the man inside, sitting there with his eyes shut. Had he been watching the house? But what was there to see? Edgar turned, taking a few steps backwards to better consider 21 Cressida Drive.
It was nothing special, a white house surrounded by trees. But maybe other people saw something different when they looked at it. Edgar tried to imagine being someone else, someone who didn’t live there. It wasn’t possible, of course, to believe this entirely; but in his present state of mind he was able to inhabit a doubleness that was not completely implausible. Edgar regarded the house as if he were both the boy on the lawn as well as the boy inside—the main difference being that the boy inside was a child, and the one on the lawn was bigger. Inside-Edgar was doing the same things he’d always done, but outside-Edgar was unpredictable.
He looked at the house as the aliens might, if they were to pass overhead or land on the lawn. The aliens would see everything that had ever happened. They’d see Florence with long black hair and a fox around her neck; a man with an eagle on his arm smoking cigars in the bathtub; a redheaded woman bringing home a baby the size of a dinner roll. They’d see the man hiding in the closet. Outside-Edgar told inside-Edgar not to be afraid.
When he turned, he saw that the door of the spaceship was open. The man leaned over toward the passenger seat and asked Edgar if he wanted to take a ride.
“Is that a real beard?” Edgar said softly.
The man smiled. “I dare you to pull it off.”
Edgar shook his head and looked down.
“We could just sit,” the man said quickly. “We don’t have to go anywhere.”
Edgar glanced back at his house.
“Are you home by yourself?”
Edgar and Lucy Page 21