AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD (23 page)

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes, it would.”

“I would not have waged war.”

“You wage war now with society. As far as you’re concerned, you and Maya live alone in a cave in Connecticut, and everyone else is an outsider.”

Dinner that night was a subdued affair. The three of them were lost in their own thoughts. The fat blue candle had burned low on the table before Snooky came to with a start and muttered something about cleaning up the dishes. He stacked them with a clatter and went into the kitchen with Maya.

Bernard got up, stretched pleasantly, and heaved himself over to sit down on the sofa. He thought perhaps he could get some work done, for once. Surely nobody else would be inconsiderate enough to die any time in the immediate future, disrupting his work once more with this unrelenting round of hospitals, funerals and condolence calls. He put a sheet of paper in the typewriter, pulled the rickety stand closer to him, and settled down for the evening.

He worked happily for a while, the back of his mind soothed by the splashing noises and snatches of song coming from the kitchen, where Snooky was doing the dishes. Snooky often sang while he did the dishes. It was a pleasant sound, a light tenor that blended harmoniously with the sound of rattling dishes and running water. Unfortunately, Snooky sang only the songs he knew best, the ones that stuck in his head, which right now meant a medley of radio jingles.

A short while later Bernard ran into a snag. Mrs. Woolly was being difficult again. She had just taken a little boy by the ear and was dragging him down to the stream to wash behind his neck. He was screaming, and the other children were ashen-faced. This was unusual violence for one of Bernard’s books, and he couldn’t understand how it had crept
in, except that all of these recent deaths had made him angry. He also had a memory of himself as a little boy, held by his great-aunt by the ear and forced to wash in exactly the same way; except that it wasn’t a stream, it was the big old washtub in the kitchen that he was dunked into headfirst. He crossed out the section with a fat red pencil and began over again. Mrs. Woolly was telling a story …

An hour later he sat back and looked thoughtfully at the small pile of pages. Not bad. At his feet, Misty whined and lifted up her head to be scratched, craving a little attention. While Bernard worked, very little else existed for him.

He scratched Misty’s head and read over what he had done. This was better. Mrs. Woolly was safely back in her role of kindly leader. Bernard put it back on the pile, then picked up Misty and stroked her back. He looked at the fire, his thoughts drifting away from Mrs. Woolly. Snooky had said he often saw images in the fire, people and places and things from the past and the future. Bernard let his vision blur into a contented rosy haze, golden sparks leaping in the background. His thoughts drifted back to his home in Connecticut … he and Maya at Sunday brunch, sitting around their mahogany table, drinking coffee and doing the crossword puzzle … the two of them watching TV on a long winter’s evening … himself alone in his little study, at his massive wooden desk, working away for hours, undisturbed by the telephone or by callers, confident in the knowledge that Maya was guarding the door from all intruders … he and Maya alone, going about their lives, responsible to nobody but themselves. Bernard’s heart ached. How he longed to be home again. He felt like an exile in this strange, cold, northern land, with its brittle sunshine and its spiky, desolate woods. If only the police could unravel the truth behind these deaths, then maybe—just maybe—Snooky would let them go. Bernard knew his wife; she would not want to leave until the investigation had been thoroughly wrapped up. And now, with the recent spate of deaths, the situation had become even more difficult.

His mind drifted away on a gentle stream of speculation. Gertie … Irma … both dead now … Sarah, with her red hair, so much like Misty’s … Roger … Dwayne, a loser if ever Bernard had seen one … now, wasn’t there something Snooky had mentioned … something he had said recently, something a little odd …?

A few minutes later, when Maya and Snooky came out of the kitchen, they found Bernard sound asleep. His head was resting against the back of the sofa, his face was bathed in firelight, and his mouth was wide open. Misty, on his lap, was snoring.

“This is nice,” said Snooky. “I like to see a man working hard.”

“Sssshhh. You’ll wake him.”

“It’s only ten o’clock.”

“He’s had a hard day. He really does hate funerals.”

“Who loves them?” Snooky asked reasonably.

“I’ll wake him up in a little while and help him to bed. It’s peaceful here, Snooky.” Maya stretched out her long legs onto the coffee table, and dabbled a finger in her cup of hot chocolate. “Very peaceful. You know how to create an environment.”

“Thank you.”

“You should be a host more often, instead of a guest. Your considerable talents are wasted as a guest.”

“No, Maya. No. I fear that you are wrong. I am also the perfect guest. Anyone who can stay with Bernard for more than two days has to be the perfect guest, someone highly skilled in the art of imposing on people.”

“You are that.”

“Thank you.”

In the middle of the night, Bernard sat up with a start. Where was he? Oh … right. He had somehow, in a befuddled daze of sleep, managed to throw off his clothes and climb into bed. He remembered getting up off the couch at Maya’s urging and staggering toward the bedroom. After that, oblivion had come quickly.

His mind was racing. He pulled up the pillows, hunching them behind his head. Yes … yes … that was it, all right. He had it!

His heart began to beat loudly, so loudly that he thought Maya could hear it and would awaken and tell him to go back to sleep. He could see the outline of her cheek in the moonlight, her dark hair falling over her face, her chest slowly rising and falling to her peaceful breathing. She did not seem aware of his heart. She was buried in her dreams. After a moment, he moved aside the thick covers and got stealthily out of bed.

He put on slippers and a robe and, closing his bedroom door silently behind him, padded down the hallway to Snooky’s room. The fire had burned low and the cabin was freezing. He shivered miserably in his thin robe. Opening Snooky’s door, he crept inside.

Snooky’s window was wide open, the curtains flung back to let in the pale blue streaks of moonlight. The room was at least thirty degrees colder than the rest of the cabin. Snooky was sprawled across the bed, his head hanging off the side, one arm flung over the edge, the covers mangled in a pile on top of him. He had a pillow scrunched over his face and another one behind his back. He barely seemed to be breathing. Bernard minced unhappily across the cold floor. He shook his brother-in-law’s arm.

“Snooky—Snooky!”

Nothing happened. Snooky’s chest, Bernard noticed in a detached manner, was fluttering gently up and down. He seemed to be comfortable in this unorthodox sleeping position. The moonlight streamed in, outlining his rangy form under the pile of twisted blankets.

Bernard wobbled his arm again. “Snooky!”

The pillows moved, the blankets moved, and the arm moved. The pillow slipped aside, and an eye regarded him reproachfully from near the floor.

“Bernard?”

“Yes?”

“Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m asleep. I assume you didn’t notice?”

“I have to talk to you, Snooky.”

“Talk to me?”

“That’s right.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

The eye regarded him more reproachfully than ever. Snooky heaved himself up on the bed, switched on the bedside light, grabbed the pillows and adjusted them behind him.

“Of course,” he said. “Sit down. Please. So you have to talk to me now? God knows you never want to say a word to me when the sun is up. Have a seat.”

Bernard sat down on the edge of the bed. “I have to talk to you,” he repeated woodenly.

“Of course you do. It’s—” Snooky checked the clock on the stand by his bed, “it’s four o’clock in the morning. I’m pleased, actually. I was hoping someone would come and engage me in conversation right around now.”

“It’s about Bobby’s murder.”

Snooky’s eyes narrowed with interest. “Yes?”

“I don’t know who killed him.”

“Neither do I. Thank you for waking me up to tell me that.”

“But I think I know how to find out.”

“How?”

Bernard told him.

In the darkness, Snooky’s face shone with a ghostly pattern of light and shadows, like a clown’s face inexpertly applied. “You’re right,” he said slowly. “You’re absolutely right. That’s what she was hinting about. Damn it. Why didn’t I see that?”

“You’ve had a few other things on your mind.”

“We’ll have to go over to Hugo’s Folly first thing in the morning. I’ll find out when Sarah’s not going to be there.”

“Good. Are the police still sniffing around at the Folly?”

“Not that I know of. Bentley has talked to everyone several
times, and he doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere. This case has him confused.”

“It has everybody confused. One more question, Snooky. Why is your window wide open?”

“Fresh air,” said Snooky. “Fresh air, Bernard. Wild air. Raw, natural air. Air as it was meant to be. It’s good for you.”

“I see. Good night.”

“Good night.”

After Bernard had left, shuffling away on frozen feet, Snooky switched off the light and sat for a long time looking out the window. The moon had sunk low and could be clearly seen, its brilliant white orb surrounded by witch’s clouds. A branch from the great oak tree outside the cabin scratched forlornly on the glass, making a distant creaking sound, like someone trying to communicate in an alien language. Usually Snooky found the oak tree’s speech reassuring, but now it seemed vaguely ominous. He felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. He knew himself well enough to know that sleep would be elusive for the rest of the night. He threw aside the covers and went barefoot out to the kitchen, where he made himself a cup of boiling hot milk and honey. Carrying it back to his room, he climbed into bed and huddled comfortably underneath the quilt, cradling the mug in his hands and breathing in the sweet hot vapor gratefully. His mind was racing. Sarah … Gertie … he hoped very much that Bobby’s murderer would turn out to be Gertie, as she was dead already and the knowledge could not touch her. Roger … Dwayne … well, perhaps it was Roger, with his gun and his hunting habits. Although God knows Sarah had said he couldn’t hit an elephant at a distance of three paces. Apparently he never hit anything. He just talked a big show.

Snooky sighed, his head drooping. The milk drink made a warm soft spot in his stomach. He lay down, burying his head under the pillows. Fifteen minutes later he was sound asleep, sprawled in his favorite position crossways on the bed, the blankets twisted around his legs.

———

The next morning, Snooky’s little red car crunched up the long gravel driveway to the Folly. Snooky and Bernard got out.

“You’re sure Sarah’s not here?”

“Positive. She said she’d be out all morning.”

Snooky opened the door, which was, as always, unlocked. They went into the foyer, where the mirrors and brightly polished gewgaws winkled solemnly at them. He led the way upstairs and down the long hallway to Gertie’s bedroom.

The room was as neat and clean, as rigidly organized, as it had been when its denizen was alive. Gertie had been scrupulous about keeping her nest clean. There was a small bed with brass knobs on the corners, one narrow window, a long wall taken up entirely by bookshelves, and an antique desk, piled high with papers and books. Gertie’s collection of woodland specimens was proudly displayed on several shelves, the trophies of thirty years of forest scavenging. Snooky moved over to the bookcase. Nearly all the books were nature directories and encyclopedias, thick red books with titles like
Wildlife of North America
and
Wildflowers of New England
. They were arranged, with Gertie’s meticulous sense of order, by subject and by size. On another shelf were several rows of paperback books, again organized by size. Bernard knelt down to look through them. They were mainly children’s books having to do with animals. He saw
The Rescuers
and
The Wind in the Willows
, as well as a well-thumbed copy of
Black Beauty
. This was Gertie’s leisure reading. Something about it touched him: the image of Gertie sitting alone in her dark room, rereading
Black Beauty
for the hundredth time. Gertie had had an inner sensibility, he thought, of which most people were unaware. Who knows what fantasies she had constructed around her life and these books.

“Over here.” Snooky was looking at the row of notebooks that marched in hairline precision along the length of a shelf. “Gertie’s journals.” He took one out at random. The
thick looseleaf paper was yellowed with age. “August 4, 1972,” he read out loud. “Found an excellent example of the yellow monkey flower
(Mimulus guttatus)
in the woods behind the Folly. Note smooth stem and yellow flowers with closed throats. Sample enclosed.” Glued to the page was a brown, dried-out flower. “Saw two raccoons, a hermit thrush and an ovenbird today. Fed the squirrels. There is a family of rabbits in the old burrow near the road. One of them came out and looked at me.”

He closed the journal, put it back on the shelf, and drew out another one.

“Found a patch of shinleaf
(Pyrola elliptica)
today. Note greenish-white, waxy flower and reddish stalk.”

“Fascinating,” said Bernard.

“The most recent one must be at this end,” said Snooky. He took it out and thumbed through it. “June … July … August … September … nope, this one ends a couple of months ago. ‘September 30th—smooth aster
(Aster laevis)
—beautiful sample—note lavender-blue flowers.’ That’s the last entry. There must be one more journal—the one she was working on when she died.”

“Look through her desk.”

They moved over to the desk, switched on the green accountant’s lamp and began to go through the papers. There were specimens, bits of bark, feathers, leaves, all neatly wrapped in tiny plastic bags and labeled; there were piles of paper with drawings of plants and animals on them in Gertie’s tiny, meticulous hand; there was an
Encyclopedia of the Flora and Fauna of the United States
, a thick burgundy-colored book with tissue-thin pages; and there was an assortment of pens, pencils, colored pencils and Magic Markers, all scattered about in confusion. However, there was no journal to be seen. Snooky went through the drawers, one by one. “No. It’s not there. Where could she have left it?”