Man With a Squirrel (32 page)

“The boy in trouble's Brooke Watson,” Molly announced. “You're going to think I'm being dramatic when I say that the gesture on the part of the African sailor—he's not helping. It's a gesture almost of mortal ambivalence, as if he's saying to himself, ‘If I save that man's life, how will he punish me later?'

“Brooke Watson, minus one leg, grew up to be a great success in England after the Revolution: a big merchant, Lord Mayor of London, and a member of Parliament; where, incidentally, he campaigned to preserve the institution of slavery in what remained of the British colonies.”

“Could be,” Fred said. “We'll check and see if that sailor has been identified. Meanwhile, the other plan you had…”

“I retain my red robe, symbol of my new virginity, until you explain this Mr. Pixie business.” Molly pointed at the signature, in black letters, not far from the left cheek of the portrait's subject. “There's no way I can read anything other than I. S. C. Pix.”

“You got a half-hour to spare, or do you want the miniversion?”

“The kids are going to wake up. Give me the mini.”

“Speaking of the kids—Molly, what you said, about appointing me their guardian, I'm…”

“It was a moment of mental aberration on my part. Don't mention it, all right?”

“It's just, I'm touched.…”

“Pix,” Molly said firmly. “That is all I care about.”

“By 1765 Copley's excited, thinks he's going to be a real artist. He gets the Latin bug. He often signs himself with his initials in monogram, J.S.C. But sometimes, since the Latin has no
J,
he goes with
I
for the first initial. Then the Latin
pinxit
means “painted,” which he occasionally shortened to
Pix.
I. S. C. Pix means John Singleton Copley painted this. That's the short version. That's all.”

“Unexciting but essential. If I don't make love with you now, I'm going into post-traumatic stress disorder syndrome in a big way,” Molly said, “and maybe try the multiple personality route instead. We'll do it therapeutically, like role-playing—one of the techniques they use to dredge up hidden, secret, repressed whathaveyous. You be Watson, and I'll be the shark. To quote another famous American dead person, ‘Watson, come here; I want you.'”

*   *   *

The morning brought heavy rain that seemed to rise out of the ground. Fred heard it as the background to Molly's scolding at the kids. He'd slept an hour but suspected she hadn't closed her eyes.

“But it's his birthday,” Terry's voice wailed from across the hall. “What do you mean let him sleep? He'll miss it!”

Molly's voice mumbled something incoherent. The bedroom door opened and Fred cracked one eye to see Sam standing in the doorway. “I didn't know if you are awake,” Sam said.

“Be down in two minutes. You got the time?”

“Seven. Make it five minutes, OK?”

Fred pushed himself through the new shower. It fell at the same rate of inches-per-hour as the rain on the bathroom window; but it was warm. Fred, under the sting of it, counted the players who were, at least for the moment, out of action: Manny, Ann Clarke, Sandy Blake, Eunice Cover-Hoover—the rat's nest of guilts and responsibilities for two deaths and how much else—that was someone else's problem. Martin Clarke was dead: an old man who may or may not have been some kind of grievous son of a bitch also. Oona Imry was dead. As he'd learned from Ann Clarke, Oona had given Sandy Clarke a ride back to the safe house after Sandy sold her the second fragment and some silver, whereupon the antique dealer had to be eliminated by Sandy's mouse-infested protective-hero former-victim lover, Boardman Templeton. And Marek had been unkindly plucked from one profession and dropped into another, at which he would be either excellent or a fast failure. You can't be a sort-of-good dealer in antiques for long.

Who else? Molly was fine. Fred was unscathed. Clayton was at the Ritz. And the painting was almost complete. He'd drive the last parts to New Bedford first thing, before Bookrajian started getting cute with search warrants. As far as making it right with the owner or owners of the fragments—the one Marek had given Fred, and the last two smuggled out by Molly—Fred and Clay would worry about that later. The first thing was to get the painting back together. Something was owed to Copley, and to the memory of Martin Clarke.

Fred clothed himself and went down to the kitchen, which was inhabited by three persons surrounding warmed-up platters of egg foo young and thrice-cooked shrimp. “You remembered my birthday!” Fred exclaimed.

“We have a present for you,” Molly said, after they all sat around the table and Fred had served everyone. Terry pulled the package from under the table. The hands of the kitchen clock reached seven-eleven. Fred tasted his egg foo young. “How on earth did you manage this?”

Sam turned crimson with pride. “We made Ophelia buy it for us last night, and Terry and I kept it all night under our beds. We remembered. Chinese for your birthday.”

“It's delicious. Perfect. Is the package for me? A present?”

“Open the goddamned package,” Molly said. “You don't know how hard three people worked to get it here.”

Fred tore paper. “It's a glove! It's a beauty!”

“Let's try it!” said Terry.

Fred ate a shrimp and looked at his companions. Terry and Sam were dressed and fed and fit. They had their gloves. Sam had a baseball ready. The rain poured down.

“Honey, it's raining,” Molly protested toward them all.

“Jesus, Mom,” Sam said, heading for the door, followed by Fred and Terry. “What do you want, snow?”

ALSO BY NICHOLAS KILMER

Harmony in Flesh and Black

 

Henry Holt and Company, Inc.

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Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, Inc.

Copyright © 1996 by Nicholas Kilmer

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Published in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside Ltd., 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8.

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ISBN 0-8050-3666-0

First Edition—1996

eISBN 9781466879485

First eBook edition: July 2014