Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet 29

by Edited by Kelly Link

  He roamed the halls, feet whispering over the thick, densely patterned rugs. They weren’t in the rear parlor or the ceramics studio or Mother’s bird gallery, which Montal thought might appeal to a hummingbird aficionado. As he passed the smithy, its fires banked to a barely discernable pink glow, he heard the sound of muted voices. Up ahead, the door to the wine cellar was closed. Montal eased it open and crept down the stairs.

  Eve and Rondelé were twenty racks away, but their words carried clearly in the low-ceilinged brick room. A small pedestal table beside them was cluttered with open bottles, pulled corks, and crystal glasses. He was showing her Montal’s design sheets for Côtes 45, a label he’d conceived for oenophiles who fancied themselves a touch ghetto.

  She laughed. “He’s like a volcano! Does he ever do anything with all these ideas?”

  “We used to pass some of them along to the company’s patent division,” Rondelé said, “but that stopped a long while back, I guess after Herbink left. Our Uncle Herbink, Father’s brother, was just like Montal. Have you seen those carpets with randomly changing vacuum cleaner tracks, for neat freaks who don’t have enough cleaning time in their day? He invented those.”

  “Is that where your family got all its money?”

  “Who says we have a lot of money?”

  She laughed, spreading her arms. “Are you kidding? Look at this house!”

  “Oh, the house.” Rondelé shrugged. “It’s always been this way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.” He paused, considering. “I never really thought about it. Things just seem to be there when you need them.”

  “Except me,” Eve said—practically cooed—and Montal curled his lip.

  “That’s right,” Rondelé said. He looped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “I had to go find you.”

  Montal rolled his eyes and waited. He expected more questions about the house, but when Eve spoke again, she said, “Where’s Uncle Herbink now?”

  “We don’t know. He left a year or so after Father died. He and Mother mostly got along, but they butted heads over the littlest things. They were always needling each other, kind of tit for tat. Anyway, one morning he just packed a bag and told us he was leaving. He said it was time for his great adventure. We haven’t seen him since.” Rondelé took a sip of wine. “I think Herbink leaving was harder on Montal than Father dying.”

  “Mmm,” Eve said, looking thoughtful. Then she drained her glass and thunked it on the table. “Well, I think Montal should start passing his ideas along again. Let others benefit from them, you know?”

  “You’re right,” Rondelé said. “But Montal says invention for its own sake is what matters, not application. He doesn’t care about the company or the things it makes.”

  “Easy for him to say when he’s got anything he could ever want. It’s not like that for most people.”

  “Yeah,” Rondelé said. “I guess you’re right. No. You’re definitely right. But there are a few things you have to know about Montal. The first is—” But Montal went quietly up the stairs and closed the door. He was afraid to hear what Rondelé might say.

  From the wine cellar he followed them to the library, where they lay intertwined on the giant couch and read poetry to each other. Montal sat in the hallway, back to the wall, hands covering his face, and listened to the familiar cadences of his brother’s reading-aloud voice. Just before midnight they walked hand-in-hand to the observatory and climbed the ladder to the viewing platform. Montal stood in the darkness below as they whispered about the beauty of Cygus, the swan, and the Corona Borealis. When the whispers turned to sighs he left, knocking a tray of lens-cleaning tools to the floor on his way out.

  Soon after that evening, Rondelé started going to Eve’s place after work. He was around in the mornings and a few evenings a week, but he and Montal interacted mostly in silence. Montal gave up on the diet, but Rondelé was like some maniacal, unrelenting soldier. He left traps all over the house, made rubber mock-ups of various food items, injected candy bars with liquid soap. But he was away more than he was home, and Montal continued to put on weight.

  During the first week of July, Rondelé came to Montal’s bedroom just after he had taken a shower. He was standing before the full-length mirror in a towel, wondering how his sagging flesh would look in zero gravity. Rondelé brought a tray of crackers and a crock of Mother’s favorite spreadable cheese. He placed it on the dresser like a peace offering. “I need your help, ’cardo.”

  “I’m listening,” Montal said, through a mouthful of crackers.

  “It’s Eve’s birthday soon. What should I get her?”

  Montal stared at his brother, studying the broad, guileless planes of his face. Slowly, he raised one finger. “Stay right here,” he said, and began rummaging through his walk-in closet. A minute later he presented a flat box to Rondelé with a flourish. “These should be perfect.”

  Rondelé took the top off and removed a pair of jeans. He ran his fingers over the stitching. “Are these Punishers?”

  A while back Montal had come up with an idea for a line of stretchy jeans with an embedded microchip. When they detected an ass that had grown since last wearing, they would scream out derisive comments about the owner to random passersby.

  Rondelé dropped the jeans back into the box. “Why are you being such a jerk?”

  “What do you mean?” Montal cinched his towel tighter around his waist. “I’m giving her her own diet.”

  “Is that what this is about?” Rondelé said. “The diet? Look, this thing is actually working! I spend more time thinking about how to disrupt you and Eve than about eating my own meals. Who cares if other people join us?”

  “It’s not just that,” Montal said. “You’re never around. It’s . . . boring.” He felt as if he were standing on a high cliff made of crumbling earth. “Is it just about sex?” he said. “Is that it?”

  “No.” Rondelé reddened, then smiled. “Not completely.” His expression became earnest, almost pleading. “She’s really smart, ’Cardo. She’s got thoughts about everything.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like everything. The company, for example. She says it’s changed. It used to make good stuff, useful stuff, but since Father died, it’s like a rudderless ship. Moody is incompetent, and maybe even a little nuts. Manufacturing makes useless junk. The publishing division puts out trash. Not just bad novels and sensational magazines, but political screeds and nutball manifestos and who knows what else. Crazy things, crazy ideas.”

  Montal scoffed. “What does she know? She’s a secretary. Besides, who cares about politics and manifestos? Ideas are just ideas.”

  “Maybe.” Rondelé said. “But maybe not. I think we should pay more attention, one of us at least.”

  “I think it’s all about sex,” Montal said. He picked up the crock of cheese and stuck his finger in up to the second knuckle. He slid it back and forth, making wet squelching sounds. “Why else would you spend so much time at her house?”

  Rondelé snatched the crock away from him. “I go to her house because she’s got a seven year-old son and it’s hard to get people to watch him. She came over those few times to try to get to know you, but you acted like a freak.”

  “A son?” Montal said stupidly. “You never told me that.” He licked the cheese from his finger and wiped his hand on his towel.

  “You never asked. His name’s Elmer.”

  “So she’s a single mother,” Montal said. “Nice.” He pictured some ginger-haired nightmare swinging from a chandelier and leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.

  “Her husband died when Elmer was a baby,” Rondelé said. “A heart attack, just like Father.”

  Montal said nothing.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” Rondelé said. He drew in a deep breath. “I want Eve and Elmer to come live with us.”

  The cliff was sliding, coming apart beneath his feet and spillin
g him toward some unknown sea. Before Montal could marshal any words, Rondelé rushed ahead. Eve and Elmer were poor, practically broke. She didn’t make much as a secretary, and they lived in a rough area on the south side of town. He was a smart boy—Montal would like him, really—but the neighborhood kids were starting to give him trouble. If they came and stayed at the house, Elmer could get a good education.

  Montal said, “What does that mean? I’m supposed to be his tutor or something?”

  “Uncle Herbink did it for you when you and Mother came to live here.”

  “So?”

  “So this is the same thing! Don’t you see it? It’s like—”

  “You want me to just smile and go along,” Montal said. “Is that it?”

  Rondelé stared at his hands. “No. I don’t know. I just know it’s right. Because if they come to live here . . . I won’t have to leave.”

  Montal gazed out the window, which overlooked Mother’s neglected rose garden. Birds flitted between the branches, now grown green and wild. Terms and seasons, he thought. Times and time.

  Rondelé sighed and sat on the bed. In a quiet voice, he said, “The house is empty, ’Cardo.”

  Montal listened to the silence around them, feeling the still air in the long, winding corridors. He thought about searching for the lab with the giant Tesla coil the other day and being simply unable to find it.

  “Things have to change,” Rondelé said.

  “What if I don’t want change?”

  Rondelé sighed again. “You can’t stay who you were, but you can become who you’re supposed to be.”

  “What kind of nonsense is that?”

  “I think you know what I mean.”

  Montal went into the closet and got dressed, slamming drawers and yanking things off hangers. He took his time, but when he came out Rondelé was still on the bed staring at the ceiling, fingers laced behind his neck. “Just give them a chance,” his brother said.

  The next evening Eve and Elmer came for dinner. The doorbell, a hammer-and-chimes affair cobbled together from spare parts for the pipe organ, rang three times before Montal realized Rondelé was conspicuously absent. He opened the door and nearly mistook mother and son for a single, two-headed creature. Eve’s yellow raincoat was unbuttoned but wrapped around Elmer, hiding his body so that his long, serious face seemed to emerge from her midsection. Then the boy stepped forward and the illusion was broken.

  “Hi, Montal,” Eve said. “Wow, that was some walk. For a while there I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find the place without Rondelé.”

  Montal swept his arm grandly. “Welcome.”

  He led them to the front parlor, a museum room of sorts, and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He asked Eve how work was going. And the diet? Yes, she looked a little thinner in the jowls. Oh, did he, as well? She was too kind. As they talked, Elmer slowly walked the perimeter of the room, leaning in to inspect several displays, though never touching them. A little black backpack clung to his shoulders and waist like four-legged spider. Montal hoped he wasn’t casing the place. He fidgeted and waited for Rondelé to show up.

  “Hey, is this a difference engine?” Elmer called. He was standing before a long glass cabinet halfway down the length of the room. Inside it was a metal machine composed of long, delicate levers and intricately stacked gears. “It is, right? Babbage’s design, or Schuetz’s?” He craned his neck and then tapped himself lightly on the forehead. “Schuetz, of course. No double arm.”

  Montal walked over and squatted next to the boy. “You like stuff like this? I built it with my uncle when I was a little older than you.” He pointed to a tall glass cylinder filled with water and colored spheres floating at different levels. “Know what that is?”

  “Sure.” Elmer smiled, buck teeth dimpling his lower lip. “It’s a Galileo thermometer.”

  “That’s right,” Montal said. “But take a closer look. Watch the blue one.” A moment later, dim light flared in the floating sphere. “It’s better in the dark.”

  “An integrated lightning detector? Neat. How does it work?”

  From behind them, Rondelé boomed, “So what do you think, El?” He stood with his arm draped loosely around Eve’s shoulders.

  “It’s great,” Elmer said, excitement evident in his voice.

  “Wait ’til you see the rest of the house,” Rondelé said. “In fact, Montal, why don’t you take Elmer on a little tour while Eve and I get started on dinner?”

  On the way to the front hall staircase, Eve thanked Montal for his birthday gift. He glanced at his brother, but Rondelé seemed absorbed in straightening the paintings hung on the wall. The glass globe was beautiful, she said. Like a tiny, perfect planet. From farther down the hallway, Elmer called for them to hurry up.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Montal said.

  She smiled. “Does it mean I can be part of your world?”

  He didn’t turn, but from the corner of his eye he saw Rondelé watching. “Something like that,” he said.

  He meandered through the house with Elmer, stopping briefly in various rooms and simply pointing out others. Elmer was fascinated by the radio room. He wanted to know if they could get places as far away as China, and Montal told him he wouldn’t believe how just far they could hear. At the staircase leading down into the caves, the boy tried on a spelunker’s helmet and shone the headlamp into the darkness to check for bats. His excitement reminded Montal of his own when he’d first encountered the house so many years ago.

  In the planetarium, they sat side-by-side in recliners. Montal switched on the projector, which loomed in the dimness like a double-ended ice-cream cone on a gymnastics high bar, and on the domed ceiling summer constellations slowly revolved. Elmer said sometimes he and his mother lay on the little concrete patio behind their apartment building and watched the stars. Montal hesitated, and then said that some night when it wasn’t raining they could go up to the observatory.

  “Can I show you something?” Elmer asked. His voice was shy. “I make stuff, too.” He took a small, shiny object out of his backpack.

  Montal expected paper clips and popsicle sticks or at best a modified toy, but what Elmer gave him was a hinged stainless steel ball that fit neatly into his palm. A series of grooved dials protruded at thumb-level. He snapped the ball open and saw several layers of finely cut, neatly meshing gears. Was it a calculating machine, Montal asked, or an elaborate timepiece? Neither, Elmer said. It was a remote control. He’d made it for his mother to use on her old TV, but it worked with lots of stuff. He spun one of the dials and star maps flickered in quick succession across the ceiling.

  “I could have done it without gears,” Elmer said, “but I like gears.”

  “Me, too,” Montal said.

  When they were finished in the planetarium they headed back downstairs, though Montal wasn’t hungry. A pot of soup simmered on the stove, filling the air with the delicious odor of garlic and fresh vegetables, but the room was empty, as was the rear parlor. Where would they have gone, Elmer wondered aloud. Montal wondered, too. He led them back upstairs and they roamed the halls, but all the doors stood open and the rooms were quiet. As they passed Montal’s bedroom, he stopped.

  “This is my room,” he said. “When I was a teenager, I built a secret passage behind a bookshelf.”

  “Where does it go?” Elmer said.

  “I don’t really remember. I haven’t used it in a long time.”

  Montal pointed to the next doorway. That was his parents’ room, he said. There was a talking toilet in their bathroom that Uncle Herbink had rigged up for one of Father’s birthdays. There had been a long running family joke about how much time he spent on the throne, and Herbink didn’t want him to get lonely. The toilet was a good conversationalist, too; it could darn near pass the Turing test. Mother had thought it was just about the funniest thing she’d ever seen.

  “I do the diet for my mom,” Elmer said. “In school they told us people who get too
fat can die early. I don’t want her to die.”

  Montal laid his hand on the boy’s head. “You love her, huh?”

  “Yeah. A lot. I don’t know if she understands me, really, but she takes care of me.”

  Not the Earth, Montal thought, but the sun. “I loved my mother, too.”

  They went into his parents’ room, and Montal showed Elmer their portrait, hung on the wall across from the bed. The painting was of them in this very room, smiling, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Were they standing before the canvas, it would have been like a reflection in a mirror. The boy exclaimed over how closely Rondelé resembled Father, but Montal’s eyes were fixed on the image of his mother in her youth, her pale skin unwrinkled and her hair still dark.

  Before leaving, they stopped briefly to chat with the toilet.

  The next door down the hall, Rondelé’s bedroom, was closed. “I think they’re in there,” Montal whispered.

  “But the light’s off,” Elmer said, pointing to the stripe of black underlining the door.

  Montal grinned slyly. “Maybe they’re trying to sneak a snack before dinner. Wait here.” He dashed around the corner to a supply closet and returned carrying two water balloons filled nearly to bursting. He gave one to Elmer and held a finger to his lips, but both had to cover their mouths to hold in hysterical giggles. When they’d gotten control, Montal put a hand lightly on the doorknob. On the count of four, he said.

  Good Keith!

  J. Brundage