I lean in, startled that I can hear the mechanical noises of the clock so clearly. I don’t remember having noticed them in any previous visit. With my nose close enough to the clock’s face that the security guard clears his throat, making me jump back, it’s apparent that the sounds aren’t coming from there.
My mouth has gone dry and I can feel my pulse drumming. I force myself to move slowly. I don’t know what I’m looking for as I continue to listen. But instinct is commanding me not to make any sudden moves.
Besides the security guard, who continues to eye me with suspicion, there are four people in the Living Hall. A woman and her small child, a boy of three or four; a man in a business suit who looks like he’s taking in the museum while he’s waiting for a deal to close; and an elderly woman dressed in Chanel whose silver hair shines as if it was just polished by her butler. Nothing about this group strikes me as out of the ordinary.
Then the sudden flicker of a shadow draws my eye. A man is standing in the Garden Court, but he’s facing the Living Hall. His focus is on the mother and child. She’s crouched down beneath Bellini’s St. Francis in the Desert, chatting to her son. I guess he’s getting an art lesson or the promise of ice cream provided he behaves in the museum.
I quickly look back to the man at the edge of the hall. Something about his skin, or rather the outline of his frame, is off. I can see him against the light of the garden so starkly. When he moves a few steps closer, he leaves an imprint in the air—a shape that looks like a police-chalk body outline drawn in charcoal. Only the image isn’t still. The charcoal impression pulses as if it’s an electric current. Keeping my eyes averted, I start to make my way closer. Though having my suspicions confirmed makes my skin go even colder, I’m rewarded when the sounds grow more distinct as I approach him. I pretend to examine the vase that flanks the Garden Court door while sneaking glances at the man. Looking at him is hard, and not just because I’m trying to not draw his attention. My eyes slide over him, unable to find a focal point. It’s as though I can’t look at him, at least not closely. I draw a quick breath and focus, and as I concentrate, I have the sensation that I’ve pushed through something in order to really examine him. Frightened that whatever I just did might trigger a response, I stare at the vase until its floral facade swims before me. Finally I risk a glance. The man hasn’t moved, nor is he paying me notice. His attention remains fixed on the woman and child. The mother has taken up playing a subdued game of patty-cake with her son. The man smiles, but it’s a smile full of malice.
I don’t have to slide into the background to witness what happens next. The electric quality to the dark outline of his frame strengthens and sparks from within, like a thin cloud alive with lightning. Without breaking his gaze, the man mutters words I can’t make out. The black line explodes like a bright camera flash and begins to form a new shape that stretches from the doorway across the room. Small smoke-like ovals build their way towards the oblivious mother, each dark shape overlapping the next.
Links on a chain. A chain that will bind this woman in a curse. I can’t breathe.
The casting is so stark, so vivid that I can’t believe the other museumgoers wander idly past the chain that links the cursecaster to his victim. The man in the suit brushes against the caster as he pulls out his phone to take a call in the Garden Court. The security guard puffs up and goes after the phone rule breaker but doesn’t give the caster a second glance.
I don’t know what the curse is meant to do. But those black, ethereal chain links are making the hairs on my arms stand up. They’re filled with so much power. I can feel it like a static charge even at a distance. This is the kind of curse Millie was worried about me taking on. Even before it has reached the woman, I can tell it’s a curse that would take a greater toll on my body than the subway curse. But maybe all my secret curse drawing, all my inoculations have built up enough that I could take it on.
It doesn’t matter. I have to stop it now. I can’t let that chain touch her.
I run straight at the caster. He’s so pleased with whatever he’s about to do to the woman that he doesn’t move. Or else he, like most people, wouldn’t believe anyone would tackle them in the Garden Court of the Frick.
He’s got more bulk than I anticipated. Crashing into him is like hitting a brick wall. Fortunately this wall collapses. He hollers before he hits the ground. I land on top of him but roll away as if he was aflame. I know I have to get out of here. I scramble up, taking a second to make sure the chain isn’t there. It’s vanished.
The mother in the living hall has scooped up her son. She’s staring at me in openmouthed shock. With her son in her arms, she rushes from the room.
I hear a barking voice and see the security guard coming at me. I hop up and bolt for the entrance, forcing my legs to run though my muscles are racked with trembling.
I run and run. I don’t know how I’m running because my mind is frozen, stuck in the Frick.
I know who he is.
When I slammed into him, when my arms and legs were tangled with his, I could feel that charcoal line pass through me and I saw him. A lonely, angry man. A man who eats food like any other man but whose nourishment is the anguish of others. A man who wants others to fear him. A man who lives to control. A man who shares the blood of an invisible boy.
I knew, beyond a doubt, that I’d just tackled Maxwell Arbus.
I collapse at the angel fountain like a supplicant. Tourists gawk at me, and a man wearing an I NY visor comments loudly that New Yorkers are all crazy. I ignore the stares and sit down with my back against the fountain’s base. Part of me wonders if Arbus got beyond the shock of someone plowing him over in time to memorize my face. I can’t help but be terrified that he might have followed me and will appear from between the columns of the terrace to wreak vengeance on me.
But the terrace remains peaceful, if busy with sightseers and park regulars, and the angel benevolent as she looks down on me.
When I manage to catch my breath, I’m surprised at my first clear thought.
He wasn’t what I was expecting.
Then I laugh out loud when I realize that Stephen’s grandfather wouldn’t be Lord Voldemort’s identical twin. My sudden high-strung giggles earn me more wary looks from the tourists.
I lever myself against the fountain until I’m standing. My legs tremble like jelly, but I have to get home. Millie’s face and reproving frown flit through my mind, but I can’t go to her. Not first.
Stephen deserves to know first. He needs to know.
* * *
Maxwell Arbus is here. In Manhattan. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence. Maybe he’s somehow learned of his daughter’s death and has come to look at her final place of residence. He might even be searching for an invisible grandchild. If he even knows that Stephen was born.
The implications of Arbus’s appearance in New York rain down on me in a torrent. I may not be ready to face him, but it doesn’t matter. I have to hope that I’m strong enough, that I’ve built up enough of a curse immunity to survive his.
Though the steamy air and scorching concrete proclaim it’s still summer, I know that these days of freedom are numbered. Mom has begun peppering me with back–to-school questions. I have to pick my classes for the fall. When I’m confined in class, Stephen will be alone. Vulnerable. What if Arbus finds him and I’m not there? I can’t wait. We have to find Stephen’s grandfather before he finds us. I have to tell Stephen that the man who made him invisible has returned, that, despite the risk and Millie’s warnings, we’re out of time.
I’m running a race where winning means losing, and I’ve just spotted the finish line.
Chapter 21
MY ENEMY.
My grandfather.
I don’t know how to think of him.
If I am the invisible boy, is he the invisible man?
But not invisible. Only invisible to me. To the boy he cursed.
He is visible to Elizabeth.
He
is visible, and he is here, and he has done something to her.
* * *
I make Elizabeth tell me the story again and again. I devour every detail, hoping that once I consume them, I will know more. I want a picture to emerge. I want to put a face to the name, so I can blame it for everything.
“We have to tell Millie,” I say. It seems obvious to me. But Elizabeth is hesitant.
“She’s going to say I’m not ready. She’s going to say I was foolish to interfere.”
“What you did was brave. She’ll know that.”
I say it, and then I realize: if Millie is in fact going to see Elizabeth as brave, Elizabeth’s going to have to be much more convincing than she is now. She doesn’t look brave at all. She looks guilty.
“Is there something else?” I ask gently. “Something you’re not telling me?”
We are in our usual position, next to each other on the couch. Our comfort zone, she called it one night as we nestled in to watch a movie. But right now, she doesn’t curl into me. She doesn’t smile. She’s heard my words and she’s trying to rearrange them into an answer, but it’s not working.
I feel like a jerk. She’s just confronted my grandfather, my enemy, and I am not giving her the space to recover. I want her to relive the moment over and over again so I can somehow be there with her. So I can encounter this man, this mystery, who has haunted my life in ways I can’t even begin to understand. But however much I desire that insight, that connection, it’s not fair to her, because it isn’t letting her step outside of it, to see it for what it might be once the heat of the moment cools into perspective.
I think, not for the first time, What have I done to your life?
I wish I could simply be her boyfriend. I wish we didn’t have all of these shadows swirling around us. But even if they weren’t there, I’d still face the everyday, extraordinary challenge of being a boyfriend. A good boyfriend. There are times—times like now—when I wonder if being invisible is the only thing I’m good at. It feels like there’s too much to catch up on, too much that everyone else already knows. If we build our current relationships from the relics of old relationships, I am starting without any material.
I see that something in her has been twisted, that something in her was touched by his poison. My grandfather. My enemy. He tore my mother’s world apart. He doomed my parents’ marriage. He determined my life. And even now, he’s dictating the moment. He is standing in the way of me and Elizabeth, just as he’s stood in the way of everything else.
There’s a knock on the door, followed closely by Laurie shouting out, “Hey, lovebirds—are you mating?”
Elizabeth looks relieved by the interruption, which I take as a rebuke of my relentless curiosity.
“I’ll get it,” she says.
As soon as the door is opened, Laurie bounds in. He takes one look at her and says, “Definitely not mating. What’s going on?”
Elizabeth doesn’t answer.
“Your sister had something of a run-in today,” I say.
“Anyone I know?” Laurie asks flippantly. Then, when he really looks at Elizabeth, he gets serious. “Was it someone from home?”
She shakes her head. “No. Not that.”
“Oh God. For a second, I thought . . .”
“It was Stephen’s grandfather. Maxwell Arbus.”
Laurie stays serious. “That’s not good.”
“We needed to find him,” I point out.
“Was he nasty?” Laurie asks.
Elizabeth nods. I expect her to launch into the full story, but she stays silent.
“I think I’ve exhausted her,” I tell Laurie.
“It’s fine,” Elizabeth says, but there’s a testiness in her tone that isn’t fine at all. “I just need to think.”
“We all need to think,” I say. “Together.”
The words feel worthless. I’m not certain why. I look hard at her face. She is pale, preoccupied. There’s a traffic jam of thoughts going on in her head, but I’m not in the car with her.
He’s done something to her. Seeing him—fighting him—has done something to her.
And by not telling me what it is, she is making me feel like she wants it to happen again.
I want to stop it. Right now, I want to turn it all back. Forward feels dangerous, and I’m no longer the one who’s most at risk.
“Elizabeth,” I say. I want the understanding to be there in my voice, for her to hear it.
She looks at me. Straight at me, taking everything in. Even now, it’s still unsettling, to be seen that much.
“Who wants pizza?” Laurie asks. “I know I want pizza.”
“At least now I’m sure,” Elizabeth says. “If he’s anywhere near us, I’ll know.”
“And then you’ll kick his butt,” Laurie tells her.
“My dear brother,” she replies, “it’s not going to be that easy. It’s not going to be easy at all.”
* * *
Millie is horrified. She is horrified that Maxwell Arbus is so close. She is horrified that Elizabeth saw him. She is horrified that Elizabeth didn’t run the moment she knew who he was.
“Have I taught you anything?” she cries, sitting down in her usual chair in the hexatorium. It’s the first time we’ve been here so late at night, but the circumstances seemed to call for an immediate visit, a banging on the door. “Your lack of caution will destroy everything.”
I don’t think this is fair.
“What else was she supposed to do?” I ask. “Just let him hurt people?”
“Sometimes there is a greater safety than the one at hand,” Millie replies, turning back to Elizabeth. “Do you understand what you’ve done? He knows you now. He knows you can see. And if you think for a second that he’ll forget that, then you are thoroughly unworthy of your gifts.”
“It happened so fast,” Elizabeth argues. “I’m not even sure he got a chance to really look at me.”
“Do you remember what he looks like? Do you remember every aspect of what you saw?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you must assume he remembers everything just as clearly. Probably more so. You are a pawn and he is a king in this game. For all we know, it was a trap.”
Elizabeth doesn’t respond to this, so Laurie asks, “What kind of trap?”
Millie sighs. My presence and Laurie’s presence are clearly an imposition, but from her tone, we were right to have come along.
“You have no idea what Arbus has been up to,” Millie says. “Even if he doesn’t see Stephen, he may still be drawn to him. It might be irresistible. He wants the power that will come when the curse is done.”
“What do you mean, ‘the curse is done’?” I ask.
“She means that he wants to check on his handiwork,” Elizabeth tells me. “Every curse is a story, and every cursecaster is naturally curious about how the story turns out.”
Millie gives her a hard look. “That’s one way of looking at it,” she says.
“Are you saying that he knows where Stephen is?” Laurie asks.
“I am saying it’s possible. And I am saying it is also possible that he would know that Elizabeth is a spellseeker who is close to Stephen. It is, in fact, possible that everything Elizabeth witnessed was meant to draw her out. And that’s exactly what he’s done. Arbus might not know of Elizabeth’s connection to his grandson, but he certainly knows there is a girl in Manhattan who can see—what did you call it? Oh, yes. His handiwork.”
“You think it was a setup?” Elizabeth asks. It’s clear this option is not one she’s considered until now, and she feels stupid for it.
“I think that a man as experienced as Arbus would need a reason to make such a public display,” Millie says. “And how convenient that you should be there to witness it. But what do I know? Maybe he’s too old to care anymore. That’s possible. The question is whether it’s probable.”
I look around the hexatorium for answers. But Millie is saying she doesn’t know, and
neither do we. I look at all the volumes on the shelves. We are surrounded by so many books, so many words, so many thoughts . . . and not a single one can help us. I think, What’s the point of all this magic, if no one really knows how to use it? But I guess the same could be said about life. Which is another form of magic, only less showy.
Millie starts asking very pointed questions about my grandfather, and I wonder if my inquisition sounded as fierce to Elizabeth. She answers dully—maybe because she’s already been through it with me, or maybe because the idea of a trap has sprung full force in her head, and suddenly she’s regretting some of her bravery. I don’t want her to do that. No matter what Millie says, saving others is always more important than saving yourself. It has to be, or none of us would do any good.
As Elizabeth explains further, I look around the hexatorium again. This fortress of books. And I think, perversely, of the Three Little Pigs. I wonder if we are the pig who built his house out of books and words and thoughts. What happens when the Big Bad Wolf arrives there? Does the house hold up? Or does it all fall down?
“It was so . . . powerful,” Elizabeth says. “Intense. You can talk as much as you like about it, but when it’s there, there’s no way to explain it. It just is. And you have to respond.”
“You’re not ready,” Millie says.
“But what does ready matter, when it’s happening?” Elizabeth counters.
“You can’t do anything like this again,” Millie insists. “You must promise you won’t.”
“I promise,” Elizabeth says.
I look at Millie’s reaction, then Laurie’s. I gauge my own.
We all know she’s lying.
* * *
Laurie does most of the talking on the way home, fantasizing out loud about giving Millie a makeover and getting her a reality show on Bravo. It’s a verbal blowing of bubbles—weightless words to make us smile despite ourselves. I admire the attempt. Elizabeth doesn’t appear to be listening.
When we get back to our floor, there’s a tense moment when we each realize that we don’t know what Elizabeth’s next step will be. Is she coming back to my apartment or going home with Laurie?
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