MORTAL COILS (9 page)

Cecilia
had made them cards last year. Each had tiny silhouettes of their faces on the
outside, cut with exacting precision from black cardboard. Eliot couldn’t
imagine how Cee had done it with her trembling hands. It must have taken her
forever.

Grandmother,
however, had taken the cards and they’d never seen them again. She had said it
violated RULE 11.

   
RULE 11: No painting, sketching, drawing, doodling, sculpting, papiermâché, or
anything in any way attempting to re-create nature or abstract themes with
artistic methods (traditional, modern, electronic, or postmodern
“interpretive”).

That
was the “no arts and crafts” rule.

Didn’t
this banner count?

Beyond
the swinging door to the kitchen, Eliot heard humming and detected the odors of
baking bread, caramelized sugar, and citrus wafting into the room. Cee was
cooking.

He
glanced down the hallway. No one had yet seen him. He could dart back to his
room, pretend he’d overslept, then run off to work—before he had to eat
whatever “special treat” Cee had whipped up for them.

Fiona
set her hand on his arm and whispered, “Don’t. She tries so hard.”

He
exhaled. Cee did try . . . and he loved her for it. He wouldn’t disappoint her.

The
kitchen door swung inward and diminutive Cecilia backed into the room. Today
she wore her good white dress with lace cuffs and petticoats that rustled under
the wide skirt. She turned and they saw the triple-layer strawberry shortcake
in her withered hands. She beamed at them and set it unsteadily on the table.

Cee
was a sweet old lady, but her sense of smell and taste had dried up sometime
around the Second World War, and as a result the things she cooked could taste
like anything: limes, sea salt, or with equal probability Worcestershire sauce.

“Happy
birthday, my darlings.” She presented her culinary creation with a flourish. “I
found this recipe in the Ladies’ Journal and made it especially for you.”
Cecilia shuffled closer and hugged Fiona and Eliot together.

“Thanks,
Cee,” they said.

She
released them. “Oh, dear,” she whispered. “I forgot the pineapple and walnuts.
And the candles! Stay right there.” She trundled back into the kitchen.

Eliot
and Fiona stared at the cake. It was lopsided.

“You
try it,” he whispered.

“No
way. It’s your turn.”

Eliot
sighed and took a tiny step closer. Pink and purple icing oozed from the cake’s
layers. From the lower edge he scooped a fingerful.

The
icing was gritty. Strawberry seeds? The cake part had the spongy consistency of
cake . . . but you could never be too careful with Cecilia’s cooking. He
smelled it: citrus and something else his nose couldn’t identify.

He
braced himself and popped the bite into his mouth—quickly before he chickened
out.

Thankfully
the grittiness in the icing was strawberry seeds. It tasted good, tangy and
sugary the way it ought to be . . . but then the icing melted, and his face
involuntarily puckered. The cake was salty and sour: unmixed baking soda and a
chunk of orange peel.

Cecilia
pushed through the kitchen door with two bowls balanced on one arm, and a
fistful of birthday candles and a box of matches in the other.

Eliot
had no choice. He swallowed and smiled.

“Can
I give you a hand?” Fiona offered.

“No,
no, no.” Cecilia shook the box of matches at her. “Just stay there while I
finish. No cheating and eating.” She dealt slices of pineapple onto the cake
and sprinkled crushed walnuts over that. She then punctured the frosting skin
with candles, carefully counting out thirty. Fifteen for Eliot. Fifteen for
Fiona.

Cecilia
could have skimped and just put one set of candles on the cake, but she was
always trying to make them feel that they both got what they deserved.

“Thank
you,” Fiona said.

“Yeah,”
Eliot added, clearing his esophagus as best he could. “Thanks, Cee.”

“Now
fire.” She slid open the box of matches, fumbled one out, and struck it with a
shaking hand. The flame reflected in her dark eyes.

Eliot
said, “Maybe you better—”

“Let
me do it,” a voice behind them commanded.

Eliot
and Fiona turned together as Grandmother entered the room.

“Good
morning, Grandmother,” they said in unison.

Grandmother
looked different today. Her short silver hair had been brushed to a silk sheen.
She wore a red linen shirt with a button-down collar, khaki explorer pants, and
midcalf black boots that were a shade less severe than the combat boots she
usually favored.

She
smiled at Eliot and Fiona, then glanced at the banner over the window. She said
nothing and strode toward Cecilia, who shrank back, still holding her burning
match.

Grandmother
snatched it from her hand and quickly touched it to all thirty candles,
lighting them. The match burned perilously close to her fingers, until she
rolled it, squeezing the fire to a hissing ember.

“There,”
Grandmother said. “Now both of you wish for happy tidings.”

Eliot
mentally chalked off another year when there would be no singing “Happy
Birthday” thanks to RULE 34.

Eliot
and Fiona stepped up to the cake and leaned closer, inhaling at the same time.

They
shot a quick look at each other. He knew Fiona was wishing for more chocolate.

Eliot
wished for a stereo, guitar lessons, and rock-concert tickets. This was more
like “praying for a miracle” than a “birthday wish,” but what the heck; it was
worth a shot.

They
both closed their eyes, blew for all they were worth, and extinguished every
flame.

“Very
good,” Grandmother said.

They
turned just in time to get a flash in their faces from Grandmother’s antique
windup film camera.

“One
next to the cake, please,” she told them. “Together.”

Eliot
and Fiona scooted closer—even though this violated their mutually agreed-on
one-foot minimum distance from each other.

Cecilia
sidled next to Eliot and put her arm around him.

Grandmother
frowned. “Not you, Cecilia. I only have two shots left on this roll of film. We
can’t waste any.”

“I’m
sorry.” Cecilia backed into the corner.

Eliot
forced a smile as Grandmother snapped the shot.

As
if she could manufacture the perfect family if she got enough photos and stuck
them in an album. Funny, now that Eliot thought about it: Grandmother’s assertion
that all the pictures of their parents had sunk on that ocean liner didn’t ring
true. She was always taking pictures of them. Why didn’t she have any pictures
of her own daughter?

Cecilia
reached for the cake platter.

“Presents
first,” Grandmother said. She went to the china cabinet, whose shelves were
filled with volumes of St. Hawthorn’s Collected Reference of Horticulture, and
pulled out four paper bags.5

This
was different. Usually Fiona and Eliot got a single present each.

Grandmother
set the bags on the table. They had been stapled shut. Her wrapping wasn’t much
in the way of festive, but it was effective.

If
Eliot didn’t already know they contained clothes (what they got every year),
he’d never have been able to guess.

She
handed one bag to Eliot and one to Fiona.

5.
St. Hawthorn’s Collected Reference of Horticulture (complete title on the
inside page reads St. Hawthorn’s Collected Reference of Horticulture in the New
World and Beyond). This nineteenth-century manuscript catalogs many plant
species not found in the modern world. Many scholars claim such entries as the
“Venom Creepvine of Louisiana” are pure invention. Others speculate these might
now be extinct species. The last of these volumes were seen at auction in 1939,
where they sold for £40,000. Victor Golden, Golden’s Guide to Extraordinary
Books (Oxford: 1958).

He
hefted his: heavier than he expected, too dense to be a new shirt or slacks.
Fiona held hers up, and one brow rose in puzzlement.

“Go
ahead,” Grandmother said, the slightest enthusiasm creeping into her voice.
“Open them.”

Eliot
tore into the bag.

Inside,
wrapped in a plastic sleeve, was an old book.

He
hid his disappointment as best he could. When you lived in an apartment filled
with thousands of books, the only thing less wanted than hand-me-down clothes
was another book.

This
one had a scuffed green leather cover and three ridges across the spine. As
Eliot turned it over, he saw in faded gilt letters The Time Machine by H. G.
Wells.

He
glanced at Fiona, and she stared with mouth agape at the book in her hands:
From the Earth to the Moon by Jules Verne.

Eliot
was speechless.

While
the apartment was full of books, they were moldy century-old plays, desiccated
histories, thick science textbooks, and biographies of people no one had ever
cared about.

The
book in his hand was . . . forbidden.

There
was RULE 55, the no-made-up rule.

“These
are classics,” Grandmother explained. She set one slender hand on each of their
shoulders to reassure them. “Not first editions, but still printed in the
nineteenth century, so take good care of them.”

Eliot
marveled at his book. He’d seen this novel referenced in commentaries on great
literature. He knew the basic premise. It was something he’d never had before:
a science-fiction story he could escape into.

And
if H. G. Wells was considered a “classic,” did that mean Mary Shelley and Edgar
Allan Poe were up for grabs, too?

Eliot
looked into Grandmother’s eyes to see if she was serious, that this was for
real. There was no heart-stopping, fathomless gaze there. She looked pleased
that he liked her gift . . . and oddly a little worried, too.

“This
is great,” he said. “Super. Thanks a lot.”

“Thank
you, Grandmother,” Fiona said. She held her Jules Verne to her chest.

Grandmother’s
thin lips parted in a restrained smile. “You’re quite welcome. This is a
special year for you two. You’re growing up faster than I ever imagined.”

“Cake
anyone?” Cecilia said.

Grandmother
turned to her and narrowed her eyes.

“I
. . . I just thought,” Cecilia whispered, “it might be a good time to eat?”

Grandmother
considered, then said, “Yes, go get a knife, please.”

Cecilia
nodded and ambled into the kitchen.

“Now,”
Grandmother said, “you should open your other present before you go to work.”

Eliot
exchanged a glance with his sister. This was weird. Grandmother giving them a
gift they’d actually enjoy, and now two gifts?

He
wasn’t going to ask questions. Too many questions irritated Grandmother, and
her good moods were as fleeting as a rainbow in a hurricane.